#this chapter is a lot of Plot so it took some wrangling

[froizetta]

Hey, so you know last chapter when I said the remaining chapters would be up quicker? Well, 3 months later, I'm back to report that I was wrong. Mb lol

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Fandom: DCU Pairing(s): Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne Length: 80.5k Chapters: 11/13

Clark was sitting slumped in one of the Fortress of Solitude’s crystalline chairs, staring at the slow crawl of the progress bar on the computer's large monitor, and very carefully, very deliberately, trying not to freak out. Despite his best efforts, he was freaking out anyway. Just a little. Here was the problem he was having – or rather the problem he’d been having, ever since about a minute before he’d left Wayne at the restaurant. The moment when he’d let instinct take over and looked through Wayne’s shirt to check his stomach for injury, and his gaze had snagged on the days-old bruising over his ribs. The moment his whole world had suddenly tipped on its axis when he realized, in a sudden moment of pure, unadulterated shock, that he’d seen that injury before. He’d been absolutely sure of that, on only a second glance. He was no radiologist, but fractures were a little like snowflakes to a man with x-ray vision and an eidetic memory: no two ever looked the same. Clark had recognized them on sight, even though he'd last seen them a week ago. Twin buckle fractures on the right 6th and 7th ribs. The same fractures he’d glimpsed in the batcave, sitting on that gurney in Batman’s little lead box of a medical suite, peering beneath layers of leather and Kevlar to assess the damage from that security guard’s bullet. Batman’s injury. On Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne was Batman. He’d gotten stuck there for a long time, mentally. Because, just… Bruce Wayne was Batman. Bruce Wayne. Was Batman. And Batman was Bruce Wayne. That meant that—that he’d been saved from kryptonite poisoning by Bruce Wayne. Heck, he had a one night stand with Batman – Batman! – and, and he’d gone on a date with him, and tried to seduce him oh god— …Okay. Clark was maybe freaking out a lot, actually.

[devilfic]

❝right place, right time❞

IX. I'm the well they're gonna drag you down.

parts: previously / next plot: and they were rooommates. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: surgeon!reader, secret identities, slow burn, mentions of blood and stitches and drugs and alcohol, this chapter is fluffier because reader deserves a break, reader and bruce discussing their one-night stands, bruce thinks he's funny but he just can't hide how much he likes you okay, jealousy thy name is "disturbed". words: 6.9k. a/n: shoutout to allnurses.com contributing to at least 8 hours of research on how medications are stored in hospitals for one scene. any nurses in chat please do not stone me, I took creative liberties. also, in case there is any confusion, this chapter and the vignette take place all in (mostly) the same day.

The car gets about halfway down the street before Bruce observes out loud, "Something's bothering you."

You're clean and changed, but your hands are shoved between your thighs as you try to control their shake. Knowing what you know now, you have no reason to keep this from him. He is, by all means, the one person you should tell.

But you struggle to work up the courage without a mask looking back at you. The character of Batman you'd created in your head clashes violently with the character of Bruce. You'd written your own Jekyll and Hyde and tripped yourself up in the final act when it turned out they were one and the same, "You have a lot on your plate right now."

"So do you."

You resist the urge to grit your teeth, "It's about Judith."

Bruce thinks for a moment, "The old lady who doesn't like me."

"The very same. I... wasn't there for her last night, when I should have been. She was mugged on her way home."

Bruce doesn't make a big show of a reaction, though you notice he sits straighter, taking a break from gazing out of the window to glance at you every once in a while, "Is she badly hurt?"

"It could've been worse but... she's more shaken up than she wants me to believe."

"And her family?"

"Murdered." Bruce's car rolls by a street corner where a young mother wrangles her child back from the crosswalk, "I tried to convince her to have one of the deacons from church ride home with her from now on but she wouldn't listen. She doesn't want to be babied." Her stubbornness isn't at all unfamiliar.

"Did she see who did it?"

"She said some guys at the liquor store down the way. They hang out there every night," your eyes trail from the window down to the floor before finding Bruce's face. His profile is sharp and clean, the dark neck of his sweater stops just before the hair at his nape begins to cluster. Your eyes follow the bridge of his nose and it mirrors Batman's profile, a mix of pointed and blunt edges, "There's a... an heirloom in her purse. A lighter. She keeps it with her all the time. Her husband had it on him when he... well, he had an awful habit. She'd really like it back."

Bruce turns his head to you and you steel yourself. In the bright early morning, he is annoyingly resplendent. In the unfair way that all pretty people tended to be. It feels wrong to be asking him this. This is a stranger. You're begging for help from a stranger. You force down the sickness rising in your belly, "Please, will you-"

"I'll take care of it." He answers and it is final. He seemed to have made up his mind before you'd even asked.

The resolve in him is enough to slow your shake to nothing. There's a part of you that still doesn't quite believe what you'd seen last night, and so the certainty of Judith's well-being does not deluge you. It trickles down, dripping over your eyelashes, sprinkling off your fingertips.

You let yourself get caught up in his eyes the way you used to. You let the familiarity of them ground you and, though not with a sweeping acceptance, sigh in relief.

It's a small win in the grand scheme of steaming hot bullshit going on in your life.

You’ve taken things from General for Bruce’s sake before. Bandages and needles and disinfectants. This, however… this was a schedule II drug that could land you in prison if you got caught with it. And you were going to walk out of here with it like you were none the wiser.

A hand on your elbow forces you to slow down, drawing you back to your companion’s side. You don’t need to hear it so he doesn’t say it, but you’re embarrassed anyway. How Bruce maintains himself is enviable. “You’re a good actor.” Bruce peeks at you as you guide him through the first floor, “The thing with Gordon. You took it on the chin like a champ. You turned into a whole new person.”

“I avoid implicating myself when I can.”

“The party too. You diffused the tension, like, perfectly.”

Bruce hovers beside you as you call the elevator, a few patients and nurses lingering further behind. You can feel him probing your words for your natural line of thinking, “Couldn’t pull one over on you, though.”

No, you think, you just creeped me out while every bat-shaped clue flew right under my nose.

The elevator door slides open and the two of you squeeze into the back as the rest file in. You find yourself in a corner, braced against Bruce’s side as his hand reaches around your back to hold the railing. One of the nurses catches sight of him and swoons, the other trying (and failing) to look uninterested.

“Coming to see the new wing?” The swooning nurse asks, turning around to grin at Bruce. “Sounds like it’s coming along great. They make lots of helpful noise all day long.”

Bruce laughs good-naturedly, “Hopefully it’ll make up for all the trouble once it’s finished.”

The “uninterested” nurse nods, eyes frantically flashing from Bruce’s eyes to the floor and back over and over, “For sure! It’s really great you give back to General like this. Your dad would be proud.”

His face has no distinct reaction to it, nothing immediately telling that that comment hit too close to home. He smiles as he always does and thanks them as he always should do, and as they get off on the second floor, it’s just you two and an old man waiting for the next stop.

Bruce, to you, had long lived in his father’s shadow. The great Thomas Wayne who, despite his briefly smeared reputation, had been the face of the Wayne family for you. Even the some-twenty years after his passing had yet to shake that image from your brain.

It was his father’s legacy he was tending to here. All of the good and ugly that came with it. You couldn’t imagine how many times he’d heard his father would be proud. Did it comfort him? Frustrate him? Did he do this to make his father proud, or because it was expected of him?

Before the flood, you’d heard gossip about Wayne Enterprises going under, the reclusive in the tower giving no sign if he was alive or dead. Knowing what you know now, you wonder how much he truly wants to be a Wayne… with all the baggage that comes with it.

He’s wound tight. You can feel him against you.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you find his hand on the railing beside you and cover It with your own. He’s shocked, judging by the way he jolts under your touch for a second. You think you’ve overstepped but when you go to apologize, he is already staring wide-eyed at you. Like when you’d caught him on the stairs.

The tension is still there, and his face has fallen in its warmth and friendliness. His hand had only partially slipped out from underneath yours, but as the seconds pass you feel it rest once more, not bothering to shake you away any further.

You both force yourselves to stare ahead until the elevator dings to let you out, but through the reflection on the door, Bruce is still looking at you.

You break first, distracting you both this time as you walk out, “You kept hitting me with your knee.”

Bruce, in a daze, asks, “What?”

“At the party. While me and Roberts were arguing, you’d nudge me with your knee like it was an accident.”

Bruce seems to remember who he is and where you are, because he quickly gets back to himself, “Guess I’m not that good of an actor.”

“Why’d you do it?”

“I knew where the conversation was going. I could feel you thinking.”

You remembered holding your breath as the mayor prepared herself for confrontation back then, “And the second time?”

“I was trying not to laugh.”

You flush. You’d been so impassioned that night, defending your hero who, unbeknownst to you at the time, was hiding a snicker behind his glass. You feared you’d be remembering a lot of moments like that over the next few days.

As soon as you both get into your office, you shut the door behind you, “I need you to wait here for me.” Bruce’s face tightens, “Don’t… argue. They keep extra vials of the antivenom down in the ER. I can grab one from the med room, but I can’t have you following me down there. It’s off limits for anyone without ID, let alone a patient and a donor.”

Bruce doesn’t look comfortable. Since last night, you hadn’t been anywhere Bruce or your police detail couldn’t follow. You hadn’t even been allowed to enter your apartment until the latter had deemed the place safe. A med room not much bigger than your office—locked behind an ID scanner—posed less of a threat than your two-bedroom ten minutes away.

But it was two stories down, and anything could happen in the time you were away from Bruce.

You can see the wheels turning in his head, trying to think up some plan that allowed him to remain by your side. You have to restrain yourself from feeling… flattered.

Flattery turns to bewilderment as Bruce reaches into his pocket and drops something into your hand. It’s a gadget the size of an AirPods case, shining in the light of the fluorescents. It looked perfectly unassuming and hid—lightweight as it was—a marvel of expensive technology. You could tell just by looking at it. “The hell is this?”

“It’s an EMP generator. Put it in your pocket and I can disable any communications within your vicinity, including cameras.”

“Okay, no. This is a hospital, and I’d be going into the ER with this thing. That’s too dangerous.”

Bruce looks offended. You can practically hear him say “You don’t think I’ve thought of that?” with his eyes. He silently holds his phone up to your face and you shouldn’t be as shocked as you are that it’s got live camera feed of the entire hospital. “I can control the radius. You said you trust me. So trust me.”

You swallow back your retort. You did say you were going to trust him on this. Whether or not it would be your doom had yet to be seen. You nod once, dropping the device in your pocket. “I’ll meet you back here in ten minutes. Fifteen at the most.”

Bruce’s lips purse together. He still doesn’t look settled with letting you go alone, but he has very little room to argue, “Ten minutes.”

You don’t waste time. You skip the elevator for the emergency stairwell, taking two steps at a time until you’re back on the first floor and walking to the ER. The med room at the very end of the hall would—if you were lucky—be as empty as the waiting room. All you needed to do was get in, grab what you needed and very quickly get the hell out of there. Without raising suspicion. You can feel the phantom pull of Bruce’s hand on your arm, begging you to slow down before you draw unwanted attention.

You round the corner to the med room, scan your ID, and head in.

The two nurses waiting inside greet you, analyzing you curiously, “Hey doc, need something?”

Words rattle in your brain like a d20 on a deception roll. You pray for something good, “I just wanted to grab some meds for my patient.”

One nurse sits at a computer, head titled in confusion, “Did you put in a prescription? You could’ve sent a nurse to grab it for you.”

Your eye catches the camera on the ceiling, its dark glass glinting at you, mocking you. A scrying glass recording your every move. And Bruce on the other side of it, hopefully buying you an alibi. “It’s a… special case. My patient needs it soon, so I thought I’d speed up the process and grab it myself.” You force a lightness into your tone, trying your best to appear apologetic and not at all suspicious.

The nurse hums. Then, she jabs the pen she’d holding over her shoulder, “Cart’s over there. Help yourself.”

You maneuver through the shelves separating either half of the room, keeping your head straight and eyes from wandering.

Your biggest hurdle was at the back of the room.

It’s a clunky cabinet on wheels with a monitor on top and an ID scanner on the side. In one of its many drawers, your golden ticket awaited, but these things kept logs of who checked out what, and if someone were to go through them later and find out you’d stolen a highly addictive drug without prescription…

You swallow. The generator in your pocket suddenly hangs heavy against your thigh. You glance at your phone for the time and note that four minutes have passed. You need to move quickly.

You approach the cart, fingers twitching at your sides, and right as you step up to the monitor, it flickers and goes dark. You give the power button a push for good measure but nothing happens.

Well, not nothing. You hear the cart drawers all click at once, like they’d unlocked by themselves. Tentatively, you try the top drawer and it slides out without issue. Glancing behind you, you check to make sure no nurses have wandered over, but you are the only one on this side of the room.

Your fingers drift down to the right drawer next and that one slips open too—by the grace of some god—and there you see it. It has an alien glow to it, a more subdued blue to its adversary’s green. The top of the tray holding the vials pops open with just as much ease as the drawer, allowing you to sneak one into your pocket. You shut the drawers, slowly backing away from the cart, but the monitor does not turn back on.

“What? This thing too?” You’re startled when the nurse from before suddenly jogs up from behind you, grumbling under her breath as she smacks the monitor.

You rush to cover, “It just went kaput on me.”

“Yeah, so did mine.” She maneuvers around the shelves and back to her desk where you see the other nurse at the desk scratching his head. Their monitor is glitching, having some gory digital stroke, “Here. You can sign out what you take for now and I’ll bother IT about this.”

You write down “Ibuprofen” and your name next to it, “Never seen that happen before.”

“Yeah. Thing froze up on me a minute ago. Guessing around the same time this thing died on you.”

Your stomach is still nervously fluttering, but you do feel a little smug. “Weird.” You hand her back the clipboard and go to grab a bottle out of a different drawer. “Good luck.”

You try not to sprint past the nurses as they fuss with the computer. You’re out and back upstairs before your ten minutes are up.

Bruce is sat leisurely on your couch, no doubt watching you scurry into the office on his phone. He looks from the pill bottle in your hand and back to you.

You toss the bottle into his lap, plopping down on the couch beside him. He frowns at the label. “For you,” you poke his injured leg and his eyes follow your every movement, “you’re favoring the other leg today.”

He can’t bring himself to deny that, even if the look he gives you from beneath his eyelashes says otherwise. You flash the antivenom at him as a peace offering. “How’d I look?”

His gaze flutters slowly from the vial to you before he shows you his phone. The screen is a recording of the medication room. It shows you greeting the nurses, walking up to the med cart, and then… nothing. Black screen for forty-five seconds. When it flickers back on, you're signing the clipboard and walking away. Your body sags into the couch with relief.

“You did good.” Bruce praises you.

“I thought I was going to go into cardiac arrest.”

“There are worse places to do it.” You look at him and he’s smiling just a little. You’re aware, though, that he’s aware of the toll this has taken on you. He takes the vial out of your hands and puts it in his own pocket, holding his hand out to you. “We should get going.”

Bruce follows dutifully behind you as you lead him back down to the first floor. You feel much better than when you'd arrived, but your heart stutters each time a security guard passes you by. Years ago, stealing and getting away with it was second nature to you. You were also arrogant back then, uncaring of what happened to you. How quickly the tides had changed.

You feel Bruce nudge you with his arm. He isn't looking at you, but you know what he's trying to tell you: you've got a few more hallways to turn down before the exit. You just have to-

Someone calls your name.

You spin around, nerves electrified, only to find Em running to catch up with you, "What are you doing back at work already? Is your arm okay?"

The adrenaline rush had done wonders for your pain tolerance. You didn't even think about it until she brought it up, "I'm fine, it's fine. It's-" You go to rush out some sort of explanation but at that moment, Bruce turns around.

You can see the moment of impact across Em's face as soon as she realizes who you're with, her back straightening and hand pressing down flyaways. In an instant, she has forgotten all about you. For better or for worse. She rubs her palm on her leg before holding it out to shake his hand, "Mr. Wayne! Hi! I'm surprised to see you here." Her eyes are twinkling, "Everything alright?"

"Just some leg pain, nothing painkiller can't fix." He flashes the pill bottle for good measure. You're honestly impressed he admitted to being in pain at all, "It's good to see you again, Dr. Madison."

Em's face droops into a frown, "Well, you look fantastic, but you've got a mirror," she pats your arm, "and I'm sure you're being well taken care of."

"Only by the best."

You smile (borderline pleadingly), preparing to dismiss yourselves while you still have your wits about you, but then Em asks Bruce a question and, to your surprise, Bruce is happy to entertain her.

It strikes you that you had landed in your situation with no prior interest in who Bruce was, and it shows in how you barely keep up with the topic of conversation.

It's like watching a tennis match between the two. The topic in Em's court, then Bruce's, then Em's, back and forth without issue. No awkward pauses or uncomfortable looks. She recalls details about him out of thin air, your knowledge in comparison merely fringes of what Em knew.

The longer it goes on, the more it weighs on you that aside from the strange man who'd circled around you like a frightened kitten, you really didn't know anything about Bruce.

You knew Batman. You felt you knew him. Even when his identity was still a secret, you had felt comfortable with him. Vulnerable, even. He'd let you touch him in your home, fixing him up and helping you with this mess and... outside of that, what did you really know?

You feel an odd twist in your chest.

Em's voice floats back in, disrupting your retrospection, "I've always wanted to go to Italy. You must get so sick of these places after having been so many times."

"They still have their magic," Bruce grins, "but I don't like being far from home."

"Really? You could go anywhere in the world and you'd still miss Gotham?" Em's tone is teasing, but curious. Something flickers in her eyes as if she'd just remembered something.

Bruce takes in the hallway, chest swelling with pride, "Lots of things to miss about it."

"Name one."

Bruce's eyes cut to the side as he thinks, "The noise."

"You can get noise anywhere. LA, Chicago-"

"It's special here."

"No, try again."

His smile turns sheepish, "The rain."

"Now you're lying. Come on, pretty boy. I know you've got something. Penthouse, nightlife- heck, I'd even understand the freaks and clowns giving everyone PTSD."

Bruce exhales, purses his lips. His eyes flit around the white walls, "Okay. I'd miss you."

What the hell?

You straighten up. The absurdity (blatant sweet-talk) of the line shouldn't work—seriously, it wouldn't work on you—but Em goes pink in the cheeks. A strand of dark hair falls from her bun and frames her smile just so, "Well," she snorts, "aren't you just a flirt?"

To your utter dismay, they are both eating this up. "You light up the room, Dr. Madison. Your patients are very lucky."

"My patients are usually seven and way more interested in the candy I bring them."

"Candy?" Bruce finally looks at you, all humor and charm, "I never get candy. I just get yelled at."

Something in you is disturbed when Em grabs onto Bruce's arm, hanging off him as she pouts at you, "Oh! You're heartless!"

"Very much so." Bruce is somber.

"I don't-" Your voice comes out strained, a little too defensive right off the bat, "I don't yell." But you'd gotten close, and you got closer everyday, "But if I did, you'd deserve it."

Bruce is amused. You watch as he pretends to cower into Em, even as he dwarfs her in size. They start joking back and forth, more teases at your expense, and you notice that the persona he puts on around others is practically nonexistent here. You'd watched it dissolve within minutes. It's refreshing, you realize, that he seems to really be enjoying himself right now.

You catch Bruce insisting that he ought to get going, sharing pleasantries and desires to visit once more. Em looks genuinely saddened to let him go. The second Bruce's back turns, Em reaches out and squeezes your hand, whispering, "Please tell me he's single."

You fluster. You imagine yourself in the car ride back to the tower asking Bruce what he thinks about Em, offering to exchange numbers between them, and you're disturbed again.

Twenty-four hours ago, you would've been warning her to run for the hills. Twenty-four hours ago, he was only Bruce Wayne. Now he was Batman and all that came with it and, well... once upon a time, you would've wanted nothing more than for Bruce Wayne to sweep Em off her feet. Batman had always been more your style.

Then, you realize, you don't actually know the answer to her question.

Em looks expectant. You shrug. She exaggerates her disappointment but releases you all the same, "Keep me posted."

"I'm comparing the samples from the crime scene to the antivenom. I should have something in a few hours." Bruce taps the antivenom vial, watching the remaining blue liquid slosh against the glass, before handing it off to Alfred.

You're mesmerized by this backyard (or, more aptly put, garage) chemistry lab. Beakers and flasks spread out on the long table as you watch from a stool a few feet away, "How'd you get so good at this?"

"College," after a few seconds of silence from you, he adds on begrudgingly, "I started messing around with stuff down here when I was 13."

"You had all this when you were 13?"

"Some of it, whatever I could get my hands on. I liked to see how things worked."

You have a unique opportunity to learn about Bruce here, so you take it with both hands, "You majored in chem, then."

"And biology, and physics."

Your eyes blow wide. "You had three majors?"

"I bounced from one to another, sometimes double majored if I liked the professors. I followed my interests and they took me everywhere," Bruce picks up the venom test tube, little drops of green pooling at the bottom of the glass, "I've enrolled in more universities than I have degrees."

Your eye twitches, just a little annoyed, "Must've been nice going wherever you wanted, whenever you wanted."

Bruce senses your tone of voice. He peers at you from the side, elbows resting on the table, "I spent a lot of time away from home. It must've been enough because I don't miss it."

"You said the same thing to Em earlier." You recall.

"I didn't think about it as much while I was gone, but when I came home for good... I just couldn't imagine myself leaving like that again."

"He barely liked boarding school," Alfred chimes in from the other side of the room, lazily reading a book at Bruce's desk. Boarding school was posh. You imagined little Bruce in a school uniform like the British boys in movies, "I should bring out the scrapbooks once we have a moment."

Bruce sets the test tube back on its rack with a bit of aggression, "Thank you, Alfred. You can go now."

Alfred chortles. He skims one more page of his book and then shoves it under his arm on the way back up. The elevator clinks and rattles up the tower until it stops some sixty stories up.

It's quiet now. You sort of appreciate the silence- the relative silence. There is the steady drip, drip, drip coming from here and there in the cave. The whirring of the machines, the humming of the lights, the very faint sound of a news anchor forecasting snowy skies this weekend. Bruce's breathing.

It's harder to hear unless you focus on it. His mountainous build hunched over the table—staring into the venom as it stares back—rises and falls in slow rhythm. You watch him being and it captivates you. For the umpteenth time since last night, you are struck with the reminder that this was Batman. In all his broody glory, an arm's length away from you, about a hundred feet under the city.

It's funny; you paid so little attention to the man before, and now you wanted to take him apart and examine his terrible insides. You have accidentally become obsessed with the man.

"I want to take you to Blackgate."

"Sorry?"

"Lucien is there," the name makes your blood run cold, "he was with the Vipers the longest. He could answer a few things for us."

You do your best not to immediately say no. Not because you think he'll force you, but because you know—somehow—that he won't, "What about Detective Gordon? Shouldn't that be his job?"

"I think he'll talk to you." Bruce turns slowly until his back is pressed against the desk, arms crossed over his chest and pulling his shirt completely taut. "He knows you."

You hadn't seen Lucien since the night Alex died. For once, you're kind of grateful Bruce can read you. He turns fully toward you, "I can go alone."

"You just said you think he'll talk to me."

"I can make him talk." His head droops a little to meet your eyes, expression impossibly understanding. You have no doubt he can. Your throat feels like it's on the verge of closing up. Somehow, sending Bruce alone to handle him felt worse.

"But you think I can..." You have to pause to force in a breath, feeling yourself go lightheaded, "You think I can get more out of him." Bruce doesn't respond to that. He's still watching you like you might start stress-sobbing. "Okay."

"You sure?"

"Mm."

Bruce calls your name. You'd been tracing the lines of his arms with your eyes to distract yourself, not processing how much closer he'd gotten until you feel his breath against your eyelashes.

His arms are uncrossed now, one hand pressing into the table beside you, the other hovering by his hip. His fingers twitch. Does he want to touch you? You were about to go three for three with the crying in his arms thing.

You force yourself off the stool and the speed at which you stand gives Bruce very little time to react. Your chest bumps against him, but you're already slipping behind him, "Lemme see your stitches," you rasp, hand ghosting over his shoulder, "need to... redress them, probably."

Bruce tries looking over his shoulder at you but you hide behind him and after a moment, he relents. His shoulders drop in defeat. You watch him drag your stool into the light and sit.

The dismal mood did you a favor. He looked like he'd be submissive today.

You're halfway through clearing away his dried blood when you ask, "Are you single?"

Bruce's shoulder jolts just the tiniest bit, almost driving your finger into the stitch. "What?"

"Em asked," you quickly explain, "and I realized I didn't know."

You don't know exactly what he's thinking, but his answer is as straightforward as you could hope for, "Yes."

"Oh."

"You sound surprised."

"I mean... I sort of assumed..." What did you assume, exactly? You couldn't see him with a long term partner, definitely not like this, but the idea that there wasn't anybody didn't sit right with you, "no flings? Situationships, even?"

"Why? Is Dr. Madison interested?"

Your jaw clenches. You force the muscles in your face to relax, "I just don't want any secret lovers of yours adding me to their shitlist if I go through with your plan. I can't stress how little I want to fake-fight over you right now."

Bruce huffs. You finish cleaning around his wound when he pipes up again, "I had something... someone. It didn't last."

"Oh. Are you... tender about it?"

"Not anymore. I don't have time for that kind of thing anyway."

He says it like it doesn't bother him, but in the way someone might brush off a scrape on the knee or a paper cut. Like it stung, but you had to be a big boy about it. The pain would go away eventually.

You press new gauze over the stitches, taping it down as gently as you could, "I assumed someone like you would have a whole lot of someones, a revolving door even," your eyes flit over his other bruises and healed cuts, "I never made time for relationships either. I was kind of just going through the motions."

"No one interested you?" Bruce rolls his shoulders once you peel away from him. He doesn't look at you when he asks that.

"Just... childish crushes here and there. Sometimes I'd let someone take me home..." Your voice catches in your throat for a moment. You recall a stamped down memory, one of you standing blindfolded in your apartment imagining the Batman with his mouth on your throat. That wasn't very long ago. Your breath shudders as you fit Bruce into the memory instead. You don't... know how to feel about it.

"Never back to yours? And here I thought Judith was just hard on me." You belatedly register Bruce standing, rolling his shirt up his arms before pulling the neck over his hair. His question hangs lightheartedly.

Your shoulders sag, "You're not gonna believe me if I tell you I was paranoid about letting one-night stands into my home."

"Why? 'Cause you let me in?"

The back of your neck grows hot. "What about you? You ever bring yours back to the cave?"

After he's done tucking his shirt into his pants, Bruce shakes his head at you, "No. Just you."

That was the second time he'd said that to you. You were starting to feel special.

You step out of the shower and you think, almost as soon as your foot touches heated floors, that you really despise Bruce Wayne.

The towels are warm too, waiting for you as you preen yourself in the mirror, a clean you staring back. You kept your toiletries bag on the bathroom counter, afraid to unpack anything as you rustled around for deodorant. It was massive and quiet. The water pressure alone had you swearing at the marble lining of the shower.

Bruce eventually lured you downstairs with the promise of making dinner. Alfred was skeptical, but had backed off and allowed Bruce full range of the kitchen, still possessed by his book next to the fire.

He'd asked you what you had the stomach for. Eventually he was copying something out of a celebrity recipe book with you beside him.

You argued that he hadn't really made you dinner given that you had helped him do half of everything, but it was his ingredients and it was his kitchen and the food tasted good so you didn't argue long.

After Alfred offered his stamp of approval, he'd retired for the night and left you and Bruce in the kitchen to clean up. Bruce had left the pots and pans to you when you proved too nervous to handle the porcelain, "Alfred won't kill you if it breaks."

"Alfred would kill me for less, I think."

Bruce gives a short laugh, drying off the last pot. He's pouring you a glass of the wine you'd opened last night when you slide his little gadget across the counter, "I forgot to give that back to you." You swirl your glass, admiring the color as Bruce packs away the leftovers. "You looked like you were enjoying yourself with Em earlier."

"I was. Your friend is funny."

"I... also noticed something you said. When she asked you what you would miss about Gotham, you mentioned the noise and the rain. Would you really miss all that?"

Bruce glances at you, popping a top onto a glass bowl, "Of course. It's part of what makes the city."

Your eyes narrow, searching for the lie, but there isn't one. He's being sincere. "Is that why you became Batman? Because you love this city that much?"

You can feel the mood getting doused with ice water. It forces you upright in your chair, makes your hand clench around the stem of your glass. Anyone with eyes could tell you'd just touched a nerve.

But he answers you, intense as it comes out, "I hated it." The loathing is a mere shell of what it used to be, you can tell, "I hated what it took from me." His eyes cast down to the countertop. "At first, I was aimless. Everyone was worried about the future of the company but Alfred and I were just trying to make it through the day. Over the years, I boiled up with this... restlessness. I still didn’t know where I was going but I was full of something for once. I studied, I traveled, I learned from all manner of teacher. And when I came home, I was... determined."

His words sit heavily on you. You can see flecks of that restlessness in his eyes, the slight tremble of his hands as he rests them against the countertop. "Why a bat?" You whisper.

"They're what I feared the most."

Past tense. "Feared?"

"I got over it. I won't let them close enough to bite, but..." The humor in his voice breaks the intensity of his expression.

You mull that over, "You became what you feared to strike fear."

"Not anymore," his head shakes, "fear is a tool, but... there's enough fear in this city. I wasn't making a change, I was making it worse."

You remembered the first time you'd ever heard of the Batman. Back then, he was just "Vengeance". In the grand scheme of fucked up things this city had to offer, someone running around dressed as a bat didn't register as abnormal. Another Tuesday, maybe. You awaited what they'd say about his crimes: a mugger beaten and strung up on the street, a gang felled and dropped at the GCPD's door. You remembered something stirring in you when he put away the Joker.

"I remember when you became a hero. Like really, to everyone. When you took shape… they were flying in people. I was rushing in patients while you stood on top of the Garden and pulled people out of the flood. I hadn’t felt hope like that since… yeah."

Your admission moves something in Bruce. His eyes find yours, "I was just doing what you'd been doing for years."

"But I never left that hospital. You transcend boroughs, the gangs, everything. I used to think you couldn’t possibly be one guy. I still can’t believe it. How are you not dead on your feet by now?" Bruce smiles knowingly at you and you feel yourself flush, "Besides that. You’ve been doing this for longer than I've been around to patch you up."

"That would be Alfred."

"You should tell him, you know. That you appreciate him. I think he'd like to hear how much he means to you more often." Bruce's eyes soften. He doesn't debate you. "Anyway. How's that sedative going?"

"I'll take another look before I leave tonight."

Oh, yeah. This guy is Batman.

You don't know when next you'll get this chance, "Can I ask a favor? Can I... watch you put it on?" Bruce wobbles to the side, genuinely confused. "The suit?"

He examines you, mouth almost curling up into a shocked smile. He hadn't expected you to ask that, that's for sure. "All of it?"

You grip your glass so hard you think it might shatter, "No." And then, when he has the audacity to snicker, "Asshole."

He stays true to your request.

You watch with your back pressed up against the wall. His under suit hangs undone at his hips while he leans over his desk, digging his fingers into a can of black paint. He uses the reflection of his computer screen to smear it over his eyelids and under his eyelashes until the white skin beneath disappears.

Next is zipping up the under suit. You barely resist rushing over to hold his bandage steady as the suit catches on it, but he manages to get it up and over without pulling it off. Then come the plates of armor. Each piece clips into place, clinging to his waist and chest and arms. You've seen it up close enough times to know the quality of it, a wonder how he'd gotten his hands on that kind of stuff until now.

You don't ask him to, but when it's time to put his cowl on, he turns sideways so you can see.

His gloved hand combs through his hair, pushing back the longer strands so he could fit the cowl over it.

It's kind of embarrassing how it takes your breath away. Bruce had quite literally transformed before your eyes, and now there was no denying it.

Bruce stands still as your eyes bore into him.

After a few seconds of admiring every piece of the suit, your eyes flit up to his face. He's not looking at you, almost shy. Apart from Alfred and, perhaps, his someone, Bruce has probably never put on the suit in front of anyone else. Is it weird you missed seeing him shy? "It fits perfectly." Your voice is barely above a whisper.

Of course it does. You know it's dumb to say. Bruce doesn't say that, though.

He waits a beat before turning away from you, his cape sending a breeze of cool air up against your legs. His car awaits on the train tracks, headlights beaming into the near endless darkness as he approaches and you follow.

The car thrums eagerly with life at the push of a button, sending vibrations through the ground, all the way up to the ceiling where you hear a sudden flurry of wings and chirping. Bowing your head close to Bruce, you watch about a hundred bats scurry about above you, disturbed by the sudden rumble of the engine. Bruce holds his cape over your shoulder, though none of the bats fly low enough to concern him. "They don't freak you out a little bit?"

"They haven't bothered me."

"Well, when you dress like them I guess they get confused."

"I'll be back before sunrise," Bruce promises, "and I'll look into Judith for you. Maybe you should... call first."

You're tickled by the discomfort he's so desperately trying to hide, "Scared of a little old lady?"

He pointedly ignores you. You step back as he throws open the door and settles into his car, but before he can pull off into the darkness, you shout his name to get his attention over the roaring engine, "Hey! Be safe."

Bruce looks at you and... you don't know what he's thinking, only that the muscles in his jaw relax a bit. Was he used to that? Did Alfred often stand on the cold, empty train tracks before every patrol and wish him luck on another night of beating criminals to a pulp? Was he used to the worrying? Annoyed by it, even?

He doesn't say anything. The car leaves in a spray of dust and you hide your face in your shirt to shield yourself from it. By the time the dust settles, you can only see two red lights blurring into the distance.

[iaus]

okay I think it might skirt a bit past the 500 word limit but for the ask meme: the temple of the fallen sun scene from chapter 6 of epilogue fic, because it HAUNTS me and it's so excellently done. plz share and and all of your authorial thoughts/takes/secrets/truths!

CHAPTER 6 MY BELOVED.

I feel like I could probably talk for hours about this entire chapter because it's such a Huge Thing in my mind.

I wish I could say it was one of the driving scenes for writing this fic but it's just... not. It was almost an afterthought when I wrote it but now it's so. Central.

I almost even gave the chapter a name. Which is not something I wanted to do for this fic. But. Okay I digress. (I'm so long-winded all the time help.) Let's get into the The Scene.

(Oh my god I typed so much. I typed so much. I can't shut up. HUGE Wall of text under the read more.)

So, to preface I actually had some difficulty wrangling Jace and Porter to where they needed to be. There were some diversions I was going to do before this scene (including expanding on Jace's flashback to his... storied past).

But after some screaming and crying I realized that bridging the "sweet" scene of Jace and Porter hiking through the woods would be best bridged with "actual" Porter interacting with Jace. To add to the foreboding tone.

But this comes to this line:

To Ankarna, he thinks, the god he should worship. The god he won’t.

At this point, we know Jace is dreaming so it's time for his "meta" knowledge to come in. He knows he's about to die. He knows why (?) and he knows the goddess. (Also, this line is totally foreshadowing some upcoming choices and some choices already made.) I love this line. Jace has all this knowledge about his past and could so easily apply it to the present and he's kind of evasive about it when he's awake to this point. But here in the dream, where he has Porter again he can be so direct. He won't worship her. He is with the man who is about to kill him, but in this space he can be so truthful.

Then we cut into Jace speaking, saying these snarky little quips to Porter that we and Jace have context for:

“Romantic,” Jace says flatly. “Why are we here, Porter?”

And this little exchange

“Tragedies happened here,” Porter says, voice quiet, like an impending storm. “Took a lifelong bond and sundered it because their wife couldn’t handle the costs of conquest. Of war.” “Alarming; again, tell me why you decided here was a good idea to take me for… what did you call it? Oh, right. A date?”

All of us witnessing this moment have such horrible context for this. Including Jace! But we also know that the Jace of the past ignored these warning signs. Porter briefly mentions Cassandra's divorce as a warning: You are not doing that to me. I'm going to become this awful raging God, but you are not leaving me.

And Jace hand-waves it. I purposefully did not describe Jace's physical reaction to it, because it takes away some of his agency in a sense. We do not see if he rolls his eyes, if he shifts away from Porter, or if he moves closer. Jace, despite his knowledge, despite that this is his dream, does not get to say no to Porter wanting him to stay in this moment. That steel trap of devotion? It's already snapped shut. You are the tragic lover.

Then, we immediately set into the follow through. Jace does not get action, but Porter does. And what does he do after the acknowledgement that this romantic getaway is alarming?

He grabs Jace. He walks them to the altar: Both marriage altar and sacrificial altar. I have Porter move a lot in this chapter and Jace is mostly experiencing this standing still. Porter's moving the plot, he's got the tempo, Jace is just caught in the storm (in the story).

Then we get to some more Menacing Porter dialogue which. I will admit, I get a lot of how I write Porter from Hannibal Lecter himself from NBC Hannibal. He is deliberate, he is creepy. I actually do picture Porter as having high charisma, he just doesn't think of how he uses it so he just sounds like, well:

“Told you,” Porter says, he presses Jace onto the stone, hands grasping hard enough to bruise. He reaches one hand up, to grab Jace’s jaw. He pants into the touch, wriggles on the stone. “You can’t leave me again, sweetheart. Everything,” he drawls against Jace’s throat, “hinges on this. Plan like this has to have vows.”

This paragraph haunts me. I love it. It is everything I want Porter to be in this fic: Menacing, dangerous, but also... maybe a bit enticing? You can see this for the red flag it is, but if you've been lonely for so long and haven't been able to make connections... it's almost flattering? Here's this man that you perceive as someone who could have anyone (he makes sure you know that) but he chooses you? It's bad, it's scary, it's not something you should want but. BUT.

Also, I need to shout out this line:

Porter had kissed him that day as if he never quite believed Jace was giving him everything.

Because we don't get insight into Porter, but I think this line is damning for Porter. He is obsessed with Jace, he is sure that Jace is as obsessed with him; but there's that... doubt. I've established by now that Jace has left Porter multiple times. We never know why. But I think this line gives you a little taste, maybe, of what this horrible egomaniac feels underneath his toxic masculinity bravado. He has feelings for Jace and this murder he is going to commit comes back to this: He doesn't believe Jace. There is no trust in what he cannot control here.

But okay, back on track. We see Jace give into this and Jace also sees himself give into it:

As the memory washes over him, the heaviness of Porter’s tongue in his mouth, his palm on his arching spine, he remembers loving it. (He misses it.) After the cold loneliness that had gripped him for months as he researched and did everything Porter wouldn’t—to be greeted with such heat. With such longing. Jace loved it.

Jace even calls himself stupid for it. He gave himself to this dangerous man and he's like. I didn't stop it. (I enjoyed it.) He has this feeling that maybe he could have stopped the motion of things, but now that he's resurrected and watching it happen he has two distinct feelings on it: You are absolutely stupid for falling for this AND I miss him and everything horrible (and everything good) that came with it. He misses that unhealthiness, the danger. But he also just misses Porter (but we don't get to reconcile that right now).

And then we get to see into Jace's own view on things. For whatever reason, he likes this attention. He can see how unhealthy it is, but he likes that Porter (in his perception) is just as sick for this relationship as he is:

He had basked in the knowledge that he was the only one Porter was like this with. Others may have had him in their bed; known the devastating, delicious way Porter could make someone beg. But Jace was the one he kept coming back to. The one he growled at, grabbed, marked, and bruised—pursued. That was for Jace alone.

This whole thing is a culmination of a lonely, desperate man finding a toxic, possessive man that scratches all those deep down itches he has. We'll get more into Jace's own issues in further chapters (that flashback we saw was important), but this is just a little peek.

And now. We get to the scene that defines this whole fucked up tragic chapter:

“It’s always been leading here,” Porter growls against his mouth. The grin is back—that same curve of wild growing wider and crueler as he presses Jace fully back onto the altar: Spread out, gasping, chest exposed to the slowly sinking sun. Now, he knows the threat of Porter’s last harsh, needy kiss before he steps away, voice soft and heated, "'Til death do us part, sweetheart."

I have a very early draft of this chapter where there were no wedding vows. My first thought was to have Jace's death be so ordinary that it was insulting, but that ordinary death did not line up with as yet unpublished chapters. I was standing in another room doing something so mundane when this idea hit me. I like lunged at my phone to add in the vows. Originally, the only thing Porter was going to say was "It's always been leading here," which I felt was apt. It felt right. But I realized. Porter's obsession with Jace would not just end with that.

He would want to say something that left Jace as shattered as he was physically. So. He marries them in the worst way possible. He is now God and husband. They are bound in unholy, horrible matrimony.

In the past? Jace didn't think anything of it. Porter says creepy shit all the time, right? But. Now:

Now? Jace would lay upon the altar for Him willingly this time if given the chance. (Anything; anything to not be alone again.)

Porter has this perfect isolating control over Jace which is honestly horrifying. But all Jace can think about now is how he wants that back. A kind god has extended their hand to him, but no he wants the man who manipulated him. Who pulped his heart. The God who made him acolyte, saint, right hand, husband... Porter is the center of Jace's universe.

And now he's gone.

So, now, all he can do is remember that question: Do you want this life?

[karasbroken]

Ok, there is zero reason for this story to be 34,000 words. I need a beta! And to outline my fics so I don't wander around for three chapters trying to decide what to do. I actually wrote the ending first, and then had to throw it away because it didn't fit. Probably it would also help to write the whole thing first and then post it.

But will I do any of those sensible things? Odds are low.

Unlike last time, this fic suffers from too much plot. John and Aeryn wrangling over attraction and loneliness mostly gets overridden by asteroids strikes and commerce stations. I wrote action! And lots of unnecessary slice-of-life space stuff. I was trying to explore Aeryn feeling more able to invest in John because she starts to believe he isn't about to leave at any moment. Then half way through she decides to leave instead. I cannot control these people. Lucky Pilot and guilt get me back in the direction of canon.

I don't know, I actually like some of this. So read it if you want. It's ok.

Rating: T    |   Word Count: 34,321 | Chapters: 6/6

Tags: Post-"Rhapsody in Blue", Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Slice of Life, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violent Thoughts, Loneliness, Angst

“It was hard, Livy, seeing her like that.”

Aeryn heard John's voice in enough time to stop before the sound of her footsteps could carry to him. The name meant he was talking to his magnetic recorder again, not any of the Moyans. O’livy’a was the name of his younger female sibling—sister— Aeryn made herself think the colonial word. There was always a warmth in how John talked about his family that felt incompatible with the precise terms of galactic Sebacean. In English, it sounded inappropriately like a hiss, sisistr. She wondered whether the word for brother was similarly sibilant. The only time they’d talked of brothers, she had been too distracted to pay attention.

”I mean, what a mind frell��” Crichton stopped himself with a bitter laugh, “They’re getting to me. A mind frell,” he emphasized the word, one of the few profanities that had a perfect translation, though his English version was harsher to her ear, more violent.

“I thought I was going crazy, I mean, of course I did! But the worst part— is that it felt so right. So good. The idea of having someone else with me, dealing with this crazed frelled-up situation together— of just… not being alone…” John’s voice dipped and fractured, and he lapsed into silence.

Aeryn heard the click of the recorder being stopped. Was he talking about her? She hadn't thought he was there for any part of her humiliating collapse. To be rendered completely ineffective by mere hallucinations was bad enough when witnessed by Pilot and D'Argo. It was somehow worse to have the habitually incompetent human see it too.

But no, his words didn't seem to match that. They had not been together facing the rogue Delvians; that had been the problem. He'd been on his own.

The button clicked again. “It took me arns to figure out that Alex wasn’t real. Actually, I never figured it out. The priestess just let me go. Until then, I believed it all. That Alex joined Ayahsa with me instead of going to stanferd. That she was on the Farscayp project with me. That she had been my copilot when I got sucked down the wormhole….”

Alex. That wasn't a name she remembered from John’s many many stories. Someone he knew from his past, but didn't talk about. Until now, when he was clearly upset. That made her eavesdropping seem uncomfortably invasive.

Crichton was probably tucked into a niche just around the bend of the corridor. This hall, like many others, had begun to narrow and curve more dramatically in the last few weekens. But it still gave access to a window sheltered by an arching column where John liked to sit and watch space. Aeryn could continue on, greet him, ask him to help with the survey she was starting again, as she’d intended when she first went looking for him. It felt as if she'd just completed a full tier review, but Moya's internal structures seemingly changed every day. The work might be a distraction for him.

Or she could go back the other way, down a tier, or up, to find a new path around the apparently growing hangar that sheltered the ship’s child. She could leave Crichton to talk to his ghosts alone....

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

Into the Breach

Here’s something I’ve had sitting around for a long time. It’s kind of a fic but in a lot of ways it’s more like an extended Théodred HC. I’ve always wanted to know more about what he was doing in the lead-up to LOTR events (he was in a position where he would have been pivotal to some major stuff!), and I’ve always wanted to give him the real life that he doesn’t get because of the way Tolkien handled his death…to have someone who loves him desperately and vice versa. His own hopes and resentments and interests. A big dumb dog that makes him happy. But all of that without breaking canon.

So that’s what this was—part plot but part little tangents/notes on his history, feelings and personality. I meant to work from this to expand into a more complete thing someday, but since even this is really long (I’m gonna break it into 4 parts) and I just don’t do hugely epic, 20+ chapter fics, I don’t know if I ever will. So, here is part 1. As a reminder, I always start from Book Théodred, who at the time of his death is unmarried, in his 40s (13 years older than Éomer), and holds the rank of Second Marshal based in the West-mark.

The first two tentative knocks at the door failed to rouse anyone in the darkened chamber, but the third brought Storbar from his place at the foot of the bed and over to sniff at the threshold. Catching a scent he recognized, he huffed out a short, deep bark that finally succeeded in waking one of the room’s inhabitants. Eadlin raised herself on an elbow, squinted in the direction of the bark, and then looked back to the still figure by her side.

“Théodred, there is someone at the door.”

He grimaced and rolled over, burying his face in his pillow. It felt like only seconds ago that he had crawled into bed, exhausted in body and mind. “What time is it?” His muffled voice barely escaped the soft down that he spoke into.

“It’s early,” answered Eadlin, skimming her hand along the smooth scar that ran up his back to his shoulder, where she gave him a gentle prod. “Very early. But if someone is knocking at an hour like this, it must be important.”

He sighed and took one last moment to savor the comfort of his bed, allowing his feet to linger in the residual warmth left behind by Storbar, before hoisting himself up and giving his head a light shake to clear the fog of sleep from his mind.

Another tap at the door followed, more insistent this time, and he stepped hurriedly into the trousers that he had left on the floor barely three hours ago. He stumbled across the darkened room, shivering in the early morning chill, and carefully opened the door a few inches. Éomer’s face, bearing a somber expression and a furrowed brow, appeared in the small sliver of light coming in from the hallway.

“I’m sorry, cousin. I know it’s unbearably early and you only arrived very late last night. But I’m due to ride to the Eastemnet with a scouting patrol at first light, and I need to speak with you before I leave. May I come in?”

Théodred looked back over his shoulder at his bride-to-be, who had risen and wrapped herself in a blanket as a more expedient solution than wrangling in the dark with the many ties and buttons of her dress. She nodded, and he pulled the door open a little wider.

At the sight of her, Éomer blushed and quickly turned his gaze. “My apologies to you, too, Eadlin.” His words were now directed to the ceiling. “I should have realized that I’d be disturbing both of you. I hope I haven’t interrupted a…delicate moment.”

Théodred raised an eyebrow and smiled at Éomer’s embarrassment. “You’ve interrupted nothing more delicate than sleep, though that is crime enough right now. But unless you’ve somehow made it this far in life without ever seeing a woman’s shoulders or legs, there is no cause for blushing.” He pulled Éomer into the room so that he could close the door. “Now, come and tell me what you need to say.”

Storbar followed Éomer to a seat by the window and rested his head on Éomer’s leg in a shameless bid for scratches while Théodred lit a lamp and pulled on a shirt.

“I’ll give you two some privacy,” said Eadlin, brushing a quick kiss across Théodred’s lips and planting another on Éomer’s still reddened cheek before slipping through an adjoining door into her own chamber.

Perched now on the edge of the bed, Théodred took a deep breath and waited for Éomer to speak. The troubled look that had been on his cousin’s face when he first appeared at the door had returned as soon as Eadlin left, and his knee now bounced up and down nervously, much to Storbar’s frustration. Théodred had seen that jogging knee enough times in the past to know that bad news was coming, and he steeled himself to receive it even as a part of him longed instead to ask for just a few minutes more in the comfort of not knowing.

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen your father since you returned?”

Théodred winced. Of all the possible concerns Éomer could raise, this was the one Théodred most dreaded. “No. We got in so late last night that he was already asleep. Everyone was. But I assume that you’re not asking because things have improved since last I heard.”

“I wish I could say they have, but, in truth, things are worse than ever. His exhaustion and infirmity continue to advance, and now things seem to be progressing much faster. You’ve been gone only for three weeks, but the man you see later today will look years older than he did when you left.”

“Years older?” Théodred’s shoulders slumped. This malady that was afflicting his father, so unrelenting and unexplained, both baffled and terrified him. It had started with small changes. A decrease in appetite. A slower, stiffer gait when walking. A grey pallor in the face. But those changes had steadily multiplied and accumulated, and not one of the healers in Edoras seemed able to identify a cause or solution to Théoden’s increasing woes. As treatment after treatment proved futile, the king had slowly lost the strength and stamina to carry out his full schedule of regular duties, many of which then fell to Théodred in his place. As a result, he and Eadlin now always seemed to be traveling between the royal household in Edoras and his own busy command in the Westfold.

The burden of extra responsibilities was heavy, and Théodred had taken up that burden with the expectation that this illness would pass and the king would return to his normal, vital self before long. But as month after month of slow decline continued, it had become much harder to sustain that notion. And now, if Théoden’s deterioration was accelerating, time was running out to find a cure for his father. Time had perhaps already run out. The vague sense of uneasy tension that had followed Théodred for weeks crystallized suddenly into an icy chill that seized his heart and stopped his breath. “I just don’t understand,” he muttered, as much to himself as to Éomer.

“It pains me to say it, cousin, but it gets worse. While his body continues to grow unnaturally old, his mind now also seems to be weakening. It’s more than just occasional behavior and choices that seem out of character–we’ve been seeing that for months. But now he sometimes gets confused. He fails to recognize advisers and attendants that have served him for years. At times, he now calls Éowyn ‘Théodwyn’ and speaks to her as though she were his sister. It comes and goes, but it can be frightening to watch.” Éomer paused and ran a nervous hand through his hair. “Yesterday he couldn’t seem to remember your mother’s name.”

A strangled noise escaped Théodred’s throat before he could choke it back. He jumped to his feet and began to pace, trailed intently by Storbar, who had been roused by the unexpected movement and whimpered quietly at the distress in the room that even he could feel.

Théodred heard neither those whimpers nor the words that Éomer continued to speak. His own pulse pounded in his ears, and his mind raced unsteadily through a flood of muddled thoughts and questions. How was any of this possible? A man of seventy could be expected to lose a little of his sharpness over time, but not this quickly or to this degree. And surely not when it came to Théoden’s memories of Elfhild, the person his father loved most in the world. For him to forget anything of her was simply unthinkable, or so Théodred had always believed. Yet now the unthinkable had happened. What worse would happen next while they sat by, unable to stop it?

“Théodred, do you hear me?”

Éomer’s voice pulled Théodred out of his thoughts. He was standing now in front of the windowsill where he kept his most treasured flowers and small plants, those that were nursed along in the protection of the indoors because they couldn’t withstand the harsh winters in the garden he had kept at Meduseld since boyhood. His hand rested next to a delicate burgundy orchid from the southern regions of Gondor, a gift given to him many years ago by a great friend of that land, one he trusted implicitly. An idea leapt to his mind, and he whirled around to face Éomer.

“We must send word to Boromir. We’ve tried and failed for months now to address this on our own, and we need to accept that there is no knowledge in Rohan that can cure my father’s illness. But maybe in Gondor, with their vast lore and their old healing craft from the western lands…maybe they’ll recognize what afflicts him and know how to treat it. Maybe they can restore him to his old self. I can think of no better option.”

Éomer considered this suggestion for a moment. “Is it wise to share news of this crisis with outsiders? Boromir is the best of men, but the king doesn’t want others to know of his condition. And if word gets out that he is sickened, who else may try to capitalize on the opportunity? The Dunlendings have tried more for less in the past.”

“What choice do we have? We can’t hide this forever, and when it comes out eventually we’ll have gained nothing by waiting. And Boromir will understand the sensitivity. He’ll ensure our secret goes no further than absolutely necessary, and if it’s within his power to help us, he will. He takes his duty to his friends and allies as seriously as any man in Middle Earth.”

The more Théodred spoke of the idea, the better he felt about it. He had known Boromir for most of his life, and, despite being radically different by temperament, they understood one another as no one else could. Among their many friends, each had only one that knew the unique challenges and pressures of being an heir to power. Only one that knew the terror of carrying the welfare of an entire people on your shoulders. Only one who knew what it was to be marked for greatness from birth and to labor your whole life to deliver on that expectation.

They had first met as young boys on one of Théodred’s many trips to Gondor to visit his grandmother’s family. His Aunt Théodwyn invited the steward’s son to keep her nephew company while they were in Minas Tirith, and though Théodred generally preferred reading and drawing to the hunting and fishing that Boromir favored, they had a shared sense of mischief that quickly drew them together. They could often be found pilfering treats from Denethor’s kitchens, scheming to find ways into locked rooms that drew their interest, or plotting elaborate pranks on the guards that were assigned to keep an eye on the two little heirs as they romped around the White City. At times, Théodwyn almost regretted having matched them up–particularly when Boromir began showing a sudden aptitude for especially florid Rohirric profanity or Théodred turned up in possession of a priceless Númenórean scroll that only the steward’s son could have swiped from the library–but the boys had endless fun causing trouble as a pair.

Later they would learn to appreciate other things in one another. Two years after they met, Boromir’s mother passed away, and Théodred proved to be a gentle and thoughtful listener whenever Boromir needed to unburden his grief. And Boromir was a constant source of counsel, always willing to offer strong but considered opinions on any topic where Théodred craved the advice of a brother. They saw each other frequently and exchanged letters when apart, though admittedly Théodred’s letters tended to multi-page missives full of musings and emotions while Boromir’s were short notes that cut right to his point. But the flow of advice, assistance and consolation between them never ceased. All these years later, Théodred could still be counted on to provide a sympathetic ear as Boromir fretted about the relationship between his father and brother and Boromir to provide prudent guidance when Théodred expressed his occasional ambivalence to the idea of inheriting the crown.

Now the sight of that fragile orchid, sent by Boromir as a birthday gift in the year they had both turned thirty nine, sent a strengthening jolt through Théodred’s wearied frame. Boromir’s counsel had served him well in every phase of his life, giving him confidence, perspective and wisdom. Perhaps he could come through again, even as the stakes were higher than ever before.

“I’ll spend today observing my father so that I can give Boromir as detailed an account of his condition as possible, and I’ll give thought to how we can best get a letter to Minas Tirith. If others find out that we have shared this information outside of Meduseld, it may cause problems for us. But I am certain that we can find a way to get this message to Boromir discreetly.” Having a plan, even a modest one that was far from guaranteed, made Théodred feel a little calmer.

Éomer nodded his agreement and stood to leave. “One last piece of business. These few weeks while you have been in the Westfold, I have often been called out to my own command in the east. And in that time, someone has taken advantage of our absence to work his way even deeper into the king’s confidence.

Théodred sighed. His problems never seemed to come alone when they could come in plentiful company instead. “I don’t need to ask who you mean.”

Éomer nodded again. “Éowyn reports that Gríma has been with Uncle Théoden nearly every day, often for long hours. He’s had ample time to continue pushing the strategies and policies that you and I have been counseling against.”

“Does Éowyn know what has been said between them when they meet?”

“Not all. Gríma takes care to speak so that she can’t hear him, and I wouldn’t ask her to try to monitor him more closely.” The muscles in his jaw tensed and flexed. “It isn’t safe for her to be in his presence so often.”

“I agree. I have no doubt your sister can take care of herself, but it doesn’t feel right to put her in that position. And I cannot ask Eadlin to keep an eye on him either.” A ghost of a smile crossed Théodred’s face. “She would be willing to try on my behalf, but you know her–she has little use for subtlety. She makes no secret of her loathing for Gríma, and he would be immediately suspicious of her motives if she should try to spend time near him now.” He thought for a moment. “No, I’ll talk to Háma instead. He is always at the door, so he knows all who come and go and hears much of what happens in the great hall. And he is loyal to my father above all others. If anyone can find out what Gríma is up to, it will be Háma.”

Théodred pushed back the curtains to see the first faint hints of pinkish-red light just beginning to appear over the distant horizon. Éomer would be expected at the stables any moment. They walked together to the door, and Théodred put a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. Even through the layers of leather and mail he could feel the tension in Éomer’s body, and he wished they had a few more minutes together to talk or even just to sit in the solace of each other’s company. Éomer was no longer the little boy that Théodred had taken under his wing–indeed, Théodred considered him now every bit his equal in strength, capability and canniness–but it was hard to let go of the old instinct to protect and comfort. And, in truth, he felt that Éomer still longed for that protection and care at times, no matter how much older and more capable he had become. He still looked for reassurance that some guiding hand was in control, one that would make all of his hardships and losses worth enduring for the blessings of a happier future. Théodred turned Éomer to face him.

“Don’t let any of this distract you while you’re out there. Be safe, do your job, and come back again. And then we’ll sort all this out. We have many challenges but also many allies. Don’t forget that.”

Éomer smiled, a look of quiet relief on his face. “I’ll come as soon as I can, cousin.” He clapped a hand on Théodred’s shoulder and then turned down the hall, striding off out of sight.

Théodred closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, his eyes closed and jaw tightly set. He desperately hoped that what he had just said to Éomer would prove to be true, but in his heart he wasn’t certain. He fought back the instinct to go immediately to his father, to seek his own reassurance that everything was under control. To hear a comfortingly authoritative voice tell him that everything would turn out in the end. But as much as he ached for that paternal consolation, he knew that he wouldn’t find it now. He would be lucky to ever find it again.

He heard the side door open as Eadlin came back into the room, wearing a long robe now. Taking in the look on his face, she opened her arms and he walked gratefully into them. They stood quietly for several long minutes with his head nestled in the crook of her neck and her arms tightly around his waist.

“You should go back to bed,” he murmured into her ear. “There’s no reason to spoil your own rest on my account.”

She shook her head. “There is so little I can do to ease your burdens, but at least I can help get you ready to face them.” She moved him into the seat that Éomer had vacated and placed herself behind him, running her fingers through his hair and all across his scalp in the way that she knew he liked. Then, taking up a comb and deftly dividing the hair on one side into sections, she began to weave a small, tight braid that ran above his ear from his temple back into the loose waves that sat on his shoulders.

“Was Éomer here about your father?” she ventured at last. Her hands continued their work, but she watched his face in the reflection that glimmered in the window pane in front of them.

He nodded. “His health is always my main concern of late, but there are other problems here as well. Not to mention those problems that we left back in the Westfold. Problems are one thing we have in overabundance.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “It’s enough to make a person want to run and hide himself away. To find a small, comfortable spot somewhere in a far off country and just lead a quiet, normal life, away from all of this. Riding, reading, time in the fresh air, a hard day’s work with my hands and a good night’s sleep at the end. I could find myself very happy in a life like that.”

Their eyes met in the reflection, and she smiled softly at him. This wasn’t the first time he had spooled out a similar fantasy to her in the privacy of their own rooms, and the image of him content and at peace was one that always made her happy. But they both knew there was never any real intention behind his words, no actual willingness to abandon his responsibilities or leave behind the family and friends he cherished. His wishes for a simpler, more modest existence were just dreams that he liked to speak of and that he counted on her to gently redirect, as she always did.

She tied off the braid and walked around to face him, admiring her own handiwork before leaning down to give his arm an affectionate squeeze. “But if you left, of course I would go with you. And then who would water your plants?”

He laughed, as she knew he would, and he pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head as he stood. “You’re right, of course. As always.”

She handed his boots to him and no sooner had he slipped one on than Storbar was at his side, wagging a hopeful tail and looking in the direction of the door. “Alright, old friend. You’re right, too.” He pulled on his second boot and reached for Storbar’s leash. “No more rest for any of us today. There is much to do.”

Part Two is here.

Quick notes:

“Eadlin” glosses as “princess,” which seemed fitting for someone engaged to a prince.

“Storbar” means “great boar” in tribute to the Great Boar of Everholt, the legendary beast that fought Théodred’s 3x-great grandfather in T.A. 2864.

If you like Théodred, there’s a whole section for him on my master list where you can see some of what I did with a few of the elements of his history and personality that originated here.

[not-a-space-alien]

Savage Sunset Chapter 24S

Story masterpost

Complementary chapter

Warnings for this chapter: Transphobia, near-death experience, blood and cuts

Surprise! Valen’s POV is in Savage Sunset this chapter!  Gotta keep you on your toes :)

***

Valen watched with amazement as the four vampire hunters pivoted from comforting him to very quickly plotting how to cover up his murder.  It turned out that the two problems they had—a fresh corpse and an angry vampire in their van–were the answer to each other.

Because the pieces all fit together perfectly.  The corpse was of a man recently killed by a vampire.  Who was known to skirt around safety rules to go taunt vampires alone, playing with fire.

And the vampire was his most recent victim, last seen improperly secured and growling at him savagely threatening to kill him.

“More,” Jerome said.

Bailey squeezed his cut, more rivulets of blood pulsing out and into the container.

Jerome palmed his mouth.  “Valen, man, how much blood is in the human body?”

“About a gallon,” Valen answered.  He was sitting curled up on the couch, under a fortress of pillows, as though to ward off the grisly scene he’d caused.

“I ain’t got a gallon, man,” Bailey said.  “I got a lot of blood but you can’t have all of it.”

“We don’t need a whole gallon,” Ari said.  “They’re not gonna get suspicious just because there’s not a whole damn gallon.”

“Looks like we’ve got a quarter of a gallon, maybe,” Lex said, peering at the jug they’d been filling up.

“Won’t they be able to tell it’s not his blood?” Valen said, and then got embarrassed when all eyes fell on him.

“How would they be able to tell?” Lex asked.

“By…by the s…  I forgot humans wouldn’t be able to smell the difference.”

“Here, I think I can give some more,” Lex said.  She came over and took her bandage off, adding more blood into the jug.

“I think that’s enough,” Ari said.  She paced the room nervously.  “Okay.  Tarp.  Okay, we need to get the shithead kid out of the van first.  We can’t bring him back there in case we get caught.”

Lex retrieved a tarp from the basement.  All four of them went down, opening the van and swarming on the coffin.  The new vampire’s eyes wheeled around, too intimidated by being hauled around by four vampire hunters to even posture and growl.

They secured the tarp over him just in case any nosy neighbors were nearby.  Not perfect, but it’d have to do for now.  They had to do this as fast as they could.

They set the coffin down on the living room floor with a heavy thud.

“Valen, get in your box,” Ari said.  “Don’t get out of it till we’re back.  Both of you just sit tight.  You hear?  Sit tight.  Don’t move until we’re back.”

Valen complied, folding himself up and pulling the wooden lid of the coffin over himself.  After a moment, the lid slid to the side and his hand could be seen reaching out to grab some more of the pillows off the couch, pulling them in like a predator dragging prey back into its lair.

“Okay.”  Ari huffed, still pacing around.  “Second tarp.”

Lex went down and retrieved a second tarp.  “Now the hard part?”

They wrangled Nick’s corpse into the tarp, rolling it up.  As quick as they could, hoping to God none of the neighbors were watching, they ferried it down into the van.

They came back into the living room.  “Okay,” Ari said.  “Uhhhh.  Cover the blood.  Cover the couch.”

They dragged the couch over the biggest stain on the floor, then unfolded a blanket over it to hide the grisly scene.  There, if anyone peered in the window, they’d just see a wooden box and a tarp over a mysterious object.

“Okay.”  Ari’s keys jingled as she locked the door behind her.  “Sorry, kid, just hang in there for like an hour.”

***

It was a good thing Valen had fed from Nick, because they were pouring all four of his rations onto the basement floor.

They poured it from a few inches away, and slowly, so it would form a creeping puddle.  Then, they dumped Nick’s corpse on top of it, so his throat was positioned over the puddle, to make it look like he’d had his throat ripped and then bled out.

They took the restraints that had been on the new capture and laid them out in the room, empty, so that the natural thought would be “Why did Nick take the restraints off?” or “How did it get the restraints off?”

They trashed the room, throwing things on the floor to make it look like there had been a fight.  Bailey smashed into the door to make it look like it’d been knocked off its hinges in the escape.

They left the front door open and drove away.

"Burn in Hell, you rotten piece of shit," Ari said.

***

They got back just before sunrise, which was when they realized they were now stuck with this second vampire until sunset.

Well, more time with Valen too.

“Valen?” Lex called out as they came home.  “We’re back now.  You can come out.”

The coffin creaked open, and Valen shuffled over for more hugs.  “How did it go?” he asked nervously.

“Just fine,” Jerome said.  “The next person who finds him is gonna think your new friend here killed him and then ran off.  So now all we have to do is wait until sunset and you two can get over the border to safety."

Valen looked relieved.  “Thank you,” he whispered.

“Of course,” Lex said.  She sat him down on the couch, sitting next to him and putting a comforting arm around him.  “Are you doing okay?”

He nodded.  “Thank you.  Are all four of you going to stay?”

“We might need to take turns taking naps,” Bailey said.  “Since we were out all night.  But yeah, we’re all gonna make sure you get home safely.”

“Thank you,” Valen said bashfully.  “Thank you so much.”

Ari let out a breath.  “So…  Now we wait.”

There came a disgruntled sound from the metal cage under the tarp.

“...Right,” Ari said.  She was half-tempted to just leave the kid locked in the coffin and give the whole thing to Valen to take care of.  But no, they had to do this properly.  “I guess it wouldn’t be right to keep that kid locked in there all day if we don’t have to.  There’s four of us here, plus Valen, so I’m sure we can keep him under control.”  She looked to Valen.  “I’m trusting you to keep an eye on him, got it?  We’re vampire hunters, so if we let this kid go, anybody he hurts is on us.  You need to make sure he gets back over the border without taking anyone, or we failed to do our job.”

“Yes,” Valen said very seriously.  “I’ll make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone else.”

“Okay.”  Ari withdrew her keys and knelt, peeling the tarp back.  The vampire inside glared daggers at her, teeth peeled back in a snarl around the bit in his mouth.  “Hey, listen.  We’re gonna let you out.  We’re gonna all be civil, no fighting, no persuasion, no hurting, and then at nightfall, you’re going home.  You don’t need to try to get away.  It’s daytime now, so you got nowhere to go anyway.  Sound good?”

The vampire growled at her.  “Hey,” she said, like talking to a naughty dog.  “Come on, kid.  I know you’re tough and scary.  I know, all right?  I’m saying I’m going to let you out.  Literally all you have to do is nothing.  Just sit there and let us take you home.  Easy as pie.”

The vampire fell silent, glaring at her.  Ari undid the tarp and pulled it all the way back.

Valen approached tentatively.  He let out a gasp.  “Sebastian?” he exclaimed.

“What, do you know him?” Ari said.

Valen nodded, looking tearful.  “He’s my husband’s cousin.  So my cousin-in-law, if that’s a thing.  Oh, Sebastian, I’m so sorry.”  Valen felt his heart breaking.  He’d watched Sebastian grow up before he’d left Priscus.  He hadn’t seen him in a while.  He looked so much more grown up–but still so small and scared in the coffin, the nightmare device Valen was eager to get him out of.  “I forgot he was old enough to be coming of age soon.  Don’t worry, Sebastian, I’m here, I’ll help you.”

Sebastian was clearly trying to hide how relieved seeing Valen made him feel.  He stopped posturing and looked at Valen with big, wet eyes.

“Here,” Ari said, holding the keys out.  “Why don’t you handle this?”

“Thank you.”  Valen slipped on a pair of gloves so he could handle the silver, then took the keys and unlocked the coffin.  He unwrapped all the chains securing Sebastian inside it, lifting him out.  “I’m so sorry this happened to you, Sebastian….. I suppose I should say happy birthday?”

Sebastian glared at him.

“Sorry…”  Valen undid the muzzle, pulling it out of his mouth.  

The four human hunters fidgeted nervously, hands moving to their weapons, as Sebastian licked his lips.  “Valen, what on earth are you doing here?” Sebastian demanded.  “You ruined everything!”

Valen was taken aback.  “What?  How did I ruin it?”

“I came here to catch my first human and make my family proud, and now I’m stuck here overday!  Again!”

Valen waited for him to elaborate, but nothing further came.  “And how is that my fault?”

“Erm.”  Sebastian looked caught off-guard.  “Well, I don’t know.  You’re the only vampire around, so I just assumed you were running things.”

Valen let out a laugh.  “No, no.  Here.”  He undid the cuffs around Sebastian’s wrists and ankles, freeing him from the last of the restraints.  Sebastian stood and rolled his shoulders, prompting another round of nervous fidgets from the humans.

“Thank you,” Sebastian said brusquely.  “I need a shirt.”

“Oh, uh…”  Valen went over to his wardrobe and pulled out the biggest shirt he had.  “Here.”

Sebastian eyed the shirt with disdain, as though judging it not fine enough.  But he put it on without complaint.  His eyes swept over the humans.  “Can I drink from one of your thralls?”

“Oh, ah…”  Valen turned back to look at them.  “They aren’t my thralls.”

“Oh.  Whose thralls are they, then?”

“Nobody’s.”

“Oh, so they’re fair game, then?”

The four hunters all backed up, drawing weapons defensively as Sebastian eyed them.  Valen very quickly stepped in front of Sebastian.  “No, no, you misunderstand.”

Sebastian stared at him with hackles raised.  “Well I’m not leaving without a thrall.”

This was going to be a hard sell.  “Yes, you are, unfortunately.”

“Come on, you don’t need four, surely.  Can I have one?  Mother and Father aren’t going to be pleased with me for coming back so late, let alone empty-handed.”

“Sesbastian,” Valen said, exasperated.  “You have no idea what horrible fate you narrowly escaped.  You are going home unscathed and empty-handed, and you will learn to appreciate that as a victory.”

Sebastian scoffed.  “Why, because I was told so by my cousin’s commoner-born sex-pervert wife?”

Valen’s shoulders stiffened, and he went bright red.  “Sebastian, you-”

“My name is Sebastian Vorigan Kithrara, son of Mordecai Asmodeus Kithrara, secondborn of Viscardi Maxwell Talon Kithrara, third in line to control the blood harvest web.  My family feeds the entire nation.  I’m an apex predator.  I’m not going hungry, ever.  And I’m not leaving without a human.  This is my time to prove I’m worthy of my heritage, to fully step into my role as-”

“Sebastian!” Valen interrupted.  “I was there when you threw a fit about not getting the right number of ponies or whatever on your eleventh birthday!  You're not a fearsome predator!  You're a spoiled child!"

It was Sebastian’s turn to flush bright red.  “There needed to be a dozen of them and there were only ten!  Those last two missing ponies were crucial for the whole event!"

“God above, you’ve never been told no in your life, have you?”

“So can I feed on one of them or not?  I haven’t eaten in two days.  I’m starving.”

“You do not know the meaning of the word starving,” Valen snarled, with such ferocity that Sebastian’s eyebrows shot up and he stepped back.  “You impudent whelp.”

“You can’t speak to me this way,” Sebastian said.  “You have to show me proper respect.”

“Sebastian, listen to me.  You need to stop being foolish and value your life over your pride.  You were caught by vampire hunters.  They already proved they can beat you.  Please, if-”

Sebastian looked away from Valen and eyed Bailey.  “You, come over here and bare your neck.”

Bailey’s face went slack and he shuffled forward.

Valen seethed, letting out a serpentine hiss, and stepped forward, slapping Sebastian across the face and raking his claws over his cheek.  The persuasion broke, and Bailey fled back to the other side of the room.  

Sebastian reeled back, black blood seeping through the fingers clamped over his cheek.  “You-you struck me!”

“I’ll do much worse than that if you harm any of these humans.”

Sebastian seethed.  “What is wrong with you?”

“I could ask the same of you, but I already know the answer!”

Sebastian lunged at Valen with a growl, and Valen rolled back, head slamming into the ground.  He kicked Sebastian off of him, shocked at his recently returned strength and overshooting to pummel Sebastian all the way into the ceiling.  Sebastian fell back down with the sound of splintering wood, snarling and seizing Valen by the neck.

Valen kicked again, raking his talons over Sebastian’s arms to shred the shirt he’d just been given.  This time, he couldn’t get him off, and Sebastian squeezed, cutting off his air.  Valen flailed and tried to gasp in breaths that didn’t come.

Well, this was embarrassing.  Was Valen really not stronger than an 18-year-old boy?

Ari appeared behind Sebastian, plunging a silver knife into his back.

Ah.  Right.  There were four vampire hunters in the room.

Sebastian screeched, getting off Valen and clawing at his back to remove the knife.  Lex appeared on the other side, plunging a second knife into his exposed belly as he lifted his arms up.  Jerome was third, sweeping Sebastian’s leg.  Sebastian stumbled back and into the arms of Bailey, who had the muzzle.

It went back on.  Sebastian let out a muffled wail, perhaps realizing he was in over his head, and tried to pull it back off.  Jerome and Ari pulled his arms away to cuff them together while Bailey stifled his wriggling.

“Feet next,” Lex said.

Bailey let go of Sebastian, who fell flat to the ground.  He started crying again as Jerome secured the second pair of cuffs onto his ankles.  “Sorry, kid.”

Valen got up, coughing.

“You okay?” Ari said.

He nodded.  He was…. very uncomfortable watching another vampire be overpowered and rendered helpless the same way he had been at the start of this whole ordeal.  It’s not the same.  He’ll be set free in a bit.  It’s just for safety.  It’s strictly necessary.

Valen pulled his glove back on and approached.  Sebastian was standing now, held by Bailey under the elbows.  He eyed Valen angrily.

“I’m sorry, Sebastian,” Valen said.  “This is for the humans’ safety.  I promise it’ll be okay.  I’m sorry they had to hurt you.”  He reached forward and took out the knife in his stomach, prompting a muffled scream from Sebastian.  “I’m sorry.”

Valen’s heart nearly stopped.  He hadn’t noticed until now, but when they’d been fighting earlier, they’d cracked the wood ceiling.  Part of which was now lodged in Sebastian’s chest, off-center from his heart.

Sebastian seemed to notice it at this point too, going very still and breathing in rapid, panicked breaths.  The wood fragment wasn’t very large, but it was certainly large enough to kill him had it gone into his heart instead of a shoulder.

“You’re okay,” Valen placated, holding his hands out.  He vaguely noticed they were shaking.  “I’ll–I’ll just–I’ll pull this out.  You’re okay.”

Sebastian was crying in genuine fear now, too scared to move.  Valen could hear his heartbeat thudding wildly in his ribcage, and Bailey’s support was clearly the only thing keeping him from collapsing on weak knees.

Valen gingerly took the piece of wood and slid it out slowly.  Sebastian didn’t dare move or breathe until it clattered to the floor, at which point he sagged with relief into Baileys’ arms, shaking.

“You’re okay, lil guy,” Bailey said.  “Valen is gonna take you home tonight.”

Sebastian didn’t even struggle this time as Bailey laid him down into the coffin and locked it.

Valen had stepped into the next room, face in the wall, hands on his chest.  His own heart was pounding.

“You okay?”  It was Lex, appearing at his elbow.

He shook his head.  He tried to speak, found words escaped him, tried again.  “I almost killed him,” he said in a horrified whisper.

“But you didn’t,” Lex said.  “He’s okay.”

“But I could have.”  He hid his face in his hands, tears leaking out.  If he’d accidentally killed Sebastian so close on the heels of killing Nick, he wasn’t sure if he could have taken that.  He couldn’t take being a murderer twice in one day.  “I-I don’t want—I don’t like–I don’t want this.  I don’t want this.  I don’t want to kill.”

Ari came up from behind him, wrapping him in a bear hug.  “We know you don’t, big guy.”  His feet left the floor as she picked him all the way up, sandwiching him between her and Lex.  “Come on.  Honest mistake.  You were defending us.  You did the right thing.”

Soothing his conscience was always a surefire way to calm him down.  He swallowed.  “Okay.  Thank you.”

***

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[hualianisms]

✦ what was your easiest fic to write & your hardest?

☉ what do you do when you get stuck writing?

✄ what’s your editing process?

✎ how do you think readers would guess a fic was yours if you posted anonymously?

tysm for the ask!! 🩵🩵 be prepared for a lot of yapping

✦ what was your easiest fic to write & your hardest?

easiest fic: this is a bit of a hard qn bc ive written 58 fics so far through the years and i forgot half the things i wrote kfjjfj but id say, the easiest was probably my first ever real fic, i.e. this hualian hurt/comfort fic where hc has a nightmare of the 100 swords scene. it was the first thing i wrote right after finishing reading tgcf and i wrote it all in one go and the dialogue & actions & characterization flowed so easily, i could picture the scene so easily in my head (which doesn't always happen for me). and writing hualian felt like the easiest thing in the world bc back in 2020 every little detail about them as characters and as a ship was imprinted in my mind so vividly... i miss those days 😔 my memory abilities have deteriorated since then

otherwise, iirc my first ever fengqing fic and my fenglian poem were also very easy to write

hardest fic: 😭😭 this could be so many of my fics tbh, there's so many i struggle so much with.. especially the unfinished wips, bc everything i actually posted means it wasn't the hardest, since i actually managed to finish them

but among my posted wips, i definitely struggled with the earlier chapters of my hualian fake dating au very badly at the earlier chapters and almost gave up on it which was why there was a 1-2 year gap btwn updates 😭😭 i actually went into a 1-2 year long burnout right after posting chap 1. luckily though, the most recent chapters got much better for me, finally reached a part of the story that's much easier and more fun to write (except that i wrote myself into a bit of a corner so ive been brainstorming how to get out of it). i just struggle a lot with multichaps bc my executive dysfunction issues make it very overwhelming for me to plot things. but im very determined to see this fic through to the end and finish my first ever multichap!

there's a lot more i struggled with - usually longer fics, fics for a new fandom (especially visual media fandoms. book/text-based fandoms are much easier bc you already have a canon peek into their character voice and narration style), non-canon ships that need a lot of wrangling to be believable, fics where i worry a lot about being ooc, fics that need action scenes or a real plot

the rest of the qns answered under the cut:

☉ what do you do when you get stuck writing?:

😭 it depends on why im stuck. i might ask someone for help w characterization. sometimes i just go for a jog/walk to clear my head and it works, otherwise if im rly stuck, especially plot-wise, I'll procrastinate and put the fic off for weeks/months

✄ what’s your editing process?

just rereading my own draft and rewriting or filling in the blanks where i feel like it can be better or is missing smth. i don't cut scenes often unless they're really bad. sometimes i rearrange entire paragraphs around to make them flow better

✎ how do you think readers would guess a fic was yours if you posted anonymously?

this is an apt question bc i have 2 anon fics rn and had a few in the past that i took off anon a couple of years later.. i think the easiest way to tell is my authors' notes. in both start & end notes i tend to yap + i usually apologize a lot in the start notes

besides that maybe fic titles (mitski). i think the genres and writing tone/vibe through my 50+ fics have varied a lot so i don't think that would be distinctive.. id be interested to hear if my writing style is distinctive bc i have no idea myself 🤔 i know i have some phrases i reuse across fics though (trying to work on that issue), and a bad habit of having long sentences sometimes (ive really been working on reducing this issue)

(send me an ask from the fic ask game part 1 or the fic ask game part 2)

[misslavenderlady]

A Little Bit Country, A Little Bit Rock ‘N Roll - Chapter 7

Summary: David and Michael have some time to hang out together, just the two of them. Music is playing and sparks are flying. How close will they get~?

Music from chapter HERE

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Days passed by. Then they stretched into weeks. The time was just melting away as David fell deeper and deeper into his infatuation with Michael. He was quite stubborn though, as he swore up and down at any given chance that the human boy was just a friend. If one of his friends asked what he was smiling about or why he was in such a good mood, he quickly brushed it off. He didn’t want to deal with their antics. He knew whatever focus he put on Michael was just a plot to build trust. 

Yet, every night he got to see the charming cowboy, it felt like his heart was trying its best to start up again. Michael was incredibly hospitable, never hesitating to make everyone feel welcome when they came by the Emerson house. After a while, it became a semi-regular thing for the gang to sit down for some dinner with the family. Lucy’s cooking always left them feeling full and quite satisfied. Not to mention the company was rather nice.

A bond was growing more and more with each passing day, and David truly felt like things were falling into place. Michael was perfect for their pack. After a good meal he was always ready to go out and play, may it be wrangling cattle with his trusty steed or going off for a ride on their bikes. There was never a dull moment with that boy. It was only a matter of time before Max’s plan was put into action.

Though David had to admit, he wasn’t sure when the right time to strike was. Every time the boys and Michael got together, the bottle of blood to use for the transformation completely slipped his mind. He was swiftly running out of excuses for his Sire as an explanation for the delay. It had gotten to a point where David found it best to just avoid the head vampire and hope for the best. 

Perhaps it was time to stop delaying things. David had to be a good leader and take some action. All he had to do was to get Michael in a good mood and offer a drink between friends. It would be easy. 

The perfect night to do it came along, as each member of the pack was busy doing their own thing. Marko wanted to go scavenging for some new patches to add to his beloved jacket, Dwayne was taking Laddie to see The Brave Little Toaster at the movies, and Paul was finally taking Star out on a date after wooing her for ages now. David was a vampire that preferred company rather than being alone, so he decided it couldn’t hurt to see Michael on his own.

He swiped the bottle of blood from the cave, hiding it in the inner pocket of his coat. Tonight would be the night he’d become one of them. David was all ready to leave.

At least, he thought he was. Just before he took off into the air, he stopped himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the case that held his newest electric guitar; a shiny, black Fender Stratocaster. It had been a little while since he last played something. With all the time and the others going out, he didn’t have a lot of days where he’d just stay in and play some songs.

Michael had been very open about his love of music. The way he played acoustic was truly amazing. Perhaps if he wanted to butter up his human friend some more, he could offer to play some music of his own. 

David grabbed the handle of the case and took off running for a proper start on his flight. Everything was going to work out just fine tonight. It just had to.

After getting into a routine of seeing the Emerson family for dinner, David had built up enough familiarity with them to be able to walk through the front door with a simple “Hey, I’m here!” rather than waiting outside after knocking. It was as comforting as it was odd. David couldn’t recall a time when he’d be able to just waltz into a house without permission. It was a weird change, especially for a vampire.

Still, any worries he had subsided when a wonderous scent caught his nose. He followed the trail, practically sniffing like a dog. It led him straight to the kitchen, where Lucy was hard at work over a hot stove yet again and her youngest son was hunched over the kitchen table. He was reading through a comic book with sheer, unbroken focus. 

Destroy All Vampires. It really was the joke that kept on giving. 

“Well howdy there, sweetie pie!” Lucy greeted David after turning around. She was stirring a pot of homemade chili while baked potatoes were cooked in the oven. The hunts he and the boys went on had gotten a lot less frequent thanks to her.

“Evening, Ms. Emerson,” David said politely. He gave Sam a small wave too, knowing well he wouldn’t get more than a nod in return.

“Now I’m gonna tell you for the umpteenth time, David. You can call me Lucy,” she insisted. “Y’all are kin to us now. Don’t you worry about that stuff, ya hear?”

David smiled and shook his head. It was still so funny to be scolded by such a tiny lady. Maybe in his previous life, he had a mother like her, but if he had been so willing to give it all up, then this was probably more likely a very new experience for him. It was all too amusing.

“Yes, ma’am. I understand,” he replied. “Is Michael home?”

Lucy nodded while trying a spoonful of her food to make sure it tasted okay. After pondering for a few seconds, she added a dash of cayenne pepper before giving it a hearty stir. She treated cooking like an art. Always so focused and creative.

“He’s upstairs in his room, honey. If ya’ll get hungry I’ll have some plates set up for you”

David nodded before taking off for the staircase. He could swear Sam had been glaring at him out of the corner of his eye. The kid certainly didn’t intimidate him, especially since having permission to come and go as he pleased made it easier to masquerade as a human. Sam was just an annoying little brother, that was all.

The blond gave a few taps on the door for Michael’s room once he had gotten to the upper floor. A muffled “come in” came from the other side, granting him access. 

Just as he usually did, Michael was lounging on his bed, lazily plucking at the strings of his guitar. He perked up at the sight of David, a cheery grin on his face. He was like a big puppy, always giddy when he saw his friends.

“Howdy, David!” he smiled, sitting up straight.

Being in such a position showed off his outfit a little better. It was only then that David realized Michael wasn’t wearing anything under his open, red flannel. He already knew the human boy was quite muscular from all the hours of work he did, but it was still a shock to see him so….rugged. David already found men attractive, but something about the boyish smile with that kind of body got him feeling quite warm.

Stop staring, you creep! That’s your friend! David shook out any thoughts he had in his head before returning the greeting.

“Evening, Michael. Thought I’d come by to hang out a bit”

It was cute how excited Michael was to always spend time with his friends. The more they spent time together, the more their bond grew. 

“It’s just me tonight though. The others are all busy, and I thought we could just chill together,” David explained. Never in a million years would he admit to hating the idea of being alone. Even if Michael didn’t judge him for feeling such a way, it was best to keep it a secret. Best not to remove the image of confidence he had.

“Aww hell, y’know I don’t mind seein’ ya. It’s always mighty nice to spend some time together,” the human boy assured him.

Michael leaned to the side ever so slightly to get a better look at what his friend held behind his back. His baby blues lit up when he realized it was a guitar of his own. 

“Hoooo wee!! You wanna have a jam session, David?” he drawled. The accent always charmed the hell out of David, turning his grins from smug to sweet. He sat down on the other end of the bed, getting comfortable before swinging the electric guitar over his knee. Leaving his gloves in his coat pockets granted him full use of his fingers to strum some chords. 

“You got an amp I can use, Cowboy?”

“Sure do, Huckleberry~”

A few hours passed on as the two of them traded enthusiastic conversations about music. David was a true lover of all things rock n’ roll, and Michael was so perfectly country. They both had so much to say and so much to share.

Before they knew it, the two boys were trading songs with one another. It all started with David humming a bit to himself, and with some encouragement from Michael, he ended up playing some of his favorite songs by Motley Crue, Alice Cooper, and Billy Idol. Years and years of practice had done him well, and the way he skillfully riffed had Michael in pure awe at his abilities.

He did the same with his acoustic guitar, but with a slower, smoother style. Michael was a true sucker for the classics, playing Dolly Parton, Loretta Lynn, and George Strait. His voice was so velvety, acting as a contrast to the raspiness David had. Their talents fit their personalities quite well.

“So,” David started. “How long have you been playing guitar, Michael?”

“For as long as I can remember,” the brunet said, playing the last few notes of You’re Lookin’ At Country. “My daddy taught it to me before I could even talk. When Sammy came along he picked the fiddle. Probably wanted us to be a famous family band someday”

The idea of Michael and Sam dressed up in flashed outfits and touring the states certainly amused David. But then again, Michael seemed too humble for the life of the rich and famous. 

“I gotta say, I never realized how deep country music could be,” David admitted. He had been around so long that he had forgotten the roots of the genre, gravitating more towards hard rock and metal. It helped keep the energy he and his boys had going hot all night long. 

“Shoot, country was born from heartache, David,” Michael exclaimed. “All the broken hearts and the hardships in the world have a country song equivalent that perfectly describes what kind of pain it has. It helps the soul to sing your woes, and someone else out there can relate to it”

Michael leaned forward, tapping the edge of David’s electric guitar with his finger.

“It’s no different than you with your rock music. Whether you’re angry at someone high and mighty tryin’ to keep ya down or ya wanna just celebrate and have fun, it’s the perfect way to get all those feelings out. It’s just somethin’ real special”

David had to admit, he was quite taken aback at how wise Michael sounded talking about music. It truly came from the heart, and it felt so special to hear him be so dedicated to his passion. The best part of it was getting to enjoy it while it was just the two of them. In a way, it was quite an intimate experience.

He wanted to show Michael how much it meant to him. So he made an offer.

“How about we make it extra special and play something together?” 

Michael was already feeling quite happy, but now it was as if he was glowing from the pure joy he felt at such an idea. His smile was shining and he was jittery with excitement. It was adorable in David’s eyes.

“Yeah! I like the way you think, David!” he complimented the blond. “Let’s play something that has a good mix of the two genres!”

It took the two of them a little while to decide on what to play. They both pondered over bands they liked, albums they loved, and what they’d be willing to try. Finding something was a bit trickier than they originally thought. Then, Michael had an epiphany. He straightened up with his guitar and tuned it for a moment. 

“I got just the thing! Follow my lead, David!”

Follow the leader. That was usually something David had others do. He wouldn’t have given anyone else the slightest chance at doing something like that. But that wasn’t the case for Michael. Especially when he recognized the song his friend began to play.

Peaceful Easy Feeling by the Eagles. David definitely knew that one. Guitars in hand and picks ready to go, Michael was the one to kick things off.

“I like the way your sparkling earrings lay

Against your skin so brown

And I want to sleep with you in the desert night

With a billion stars all around”

David bit his lip to hold back the excitement building up inside. It really was such a treat to hear the human boy sing. His entire body was buzzing by the time he was ready to join in.

“'Cause I got a peaceful easy feelin'

And I know you won't let me down

'Cause I'm already standin'

On the ground”

Feeling just as giddy to hear his friend sing, Michael nodded, silently giving him the go to take on the next part of the song.

“And I found out a long time ago

What a woman can do to your soul

Aw but she can't take you any way

You don't already know how to go”

David was truly feeling like himself. His most authentic self. Fun-loving and enjoying every moment with someone he could call a friend. Their eyes met as they brought their voices together again.

“And I got a peaceful easy feelin'

And I know you won't let me down

'Cause I'm already standin'

On the ground”

It all blended so well together. He could have made a joke about “making sweet music together”. God knows Paul would certainly do that. But this wasn’t a time for that. David was just lost in the bliss of their song.

“I get this feelin' I may know you

As a lover and a friend

This voice keeps whisperin' in my other ear

Tells me I may never see you again”

It all got him thinking. Maybe….just maybe….there was a little something extra he felt for Michael. 

Something a bit more than friendship.

“'Cause I get a peaceful easy feelin'

And I know you won't let me down

'Cause I'm already standin'

I'm already standin'

Yes, I'm already standin'

On the ground”

The sound was done, and the spell was broken. Now just friends again, the two boys relaxed and enjoyed the high of a fantastic duet.

"Wow, David," Michael crooned. "You sing as purdy as a mockingbird!" 

"Coming from you, Michael, that means a lot to me," David said honestly. 

The two of them were completely relaxed. All the good tunes had washed away any worries or care they might have been holding onto. So while Michael was distracted with putting away his guitar, David started to reach for the bottle tucked away in his coat. 

It’ll be easy, he thought to himself. One small drink and Max will have what he wants. All the others went through it just fine. This is no different.

He had just barely touched the cork of the bottle when a noise took his attention. 

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

David’s hand stopped and he peered at the window in Michael’s room with confusion. The brunet boy took notice of the sound too. Curious, he slipped off the bed and motioned for David to follow him. They stood side-by-side while gazing out into the space outside. 

Sam was walking by on the dirt road. He was carrying a crate full of empty bottles. Root Beer bottles to be exact. Michael had mentioned their grandfather had quite the sweet tooth, especially for old-fashioned sodas. He must have asked Sam to take them out for proper recycling. By the look on his face, he was incredibly annoyed with having to do such a chore. Probably wanted to keep reading about monsters and superheroes instead. 

Michael turned to David, a mischievous grin on his face. 

“You wanna help me mess with him?”

David couldn’t hold back his own eager smile at such an idea. 

“Oh absolutely”

It was a good thing David could sneak around in the dark so easily because he was about to get the jump on Michael’s little brother. The two of them quietly snuck out through Michael’s window and down the tree in front of it to quickly get out of the house. They moved carefully in the shadows, staying low and not making a sound. When they were close enough, they stopped to watch the youngest Emerson boy clean off some of the bottles before moving them into a nearby bin.

“Here. Use these,” Michael whispered, handing him two bits of plastic. “I got ‘em at one of the shops on the boardwalk”

David took a closer look before grinning wickedly. Vampire fangs. 

“He and his friends are scared shitless about vampires, so why don’t we remind him he’s gotta stay on his toes?” Michael said, sticking his pair over his real teeth. He gave David a toothy grin, showing off how they looked. David gave a thumbs-up of approval, loving the idea already. 

Of course, he had an advantage to make it better. 

When Michael wasn’t looking, he pocketed the fake fangs before allowing his real ones to come out. He ran his tongue over the razor-sharp incisors, eager to give Sammy a good, old-fashioned scare. 

With both of them ready, they each snuck off in a different direction. Michael was pretty average with hiding, but David was a creature that was made for this kind of thing. He had to keep his regular hunting instincts settled so he didn’t feel any urge to turn the kid into a snack. It was just a good joke. 

Sam still had his back turned but was nearing the end of the bottles in the crate. David glanced Michael’s way across the area, waiting for the signal. When Sam finally turned around to bring the empty crate back inside, that’s when they jumped out.

“RAARRRRHHHH!!”

Oh, Sam’s reaction was PRICELESS. The moment they lept in front of him they bared their fangs and shouted as loud as they could with their arms held up high. In a panic, Sam screeched and flung the empty crate to the side. He frantically backed up before losing his balance and falling flat on his ass. 

“YOU ASSHOLES! I’M GONNA GET YOU FOR THAT,” Sam yelled at them, scrambling back to his feet and kicking up dirt.

“RUN!” Michael shouted at David, taking off in the opposite direction. The blond quickly followed him. 

They were already howling with laughter before they started running, but it got even stronger the more they ran. Michael tossed his fake fangs away and when he wasn’t looking, David did the same with the ones in his pocket. He let his true fangs return to their human appearance, and Michael was none the wiser. 

All they could focus on what running side by side, moving past farm equipment and sculptures in the yard. Sam was left far behind, cussing loudly at them for their prank. 

Michael and David ended up further out on the lot, coming across a ditch hidden in the grass. Not wanting to get caught, Michael grabbed David’s arm, pulling him down into the area so they would be hidden. Though they covered their mouths to silence any noises, their bodies still shook with hearty laughter. Sam wouldn’t find them.

A moment passed. Then another. 

SLAM!

The front door of the Emerson house shut loudly, signaling that Sam had gone inside. It granted the two of them permission to finally start laughing again. 

“Oh my LORD, that was amazing!!” Michael snickered loudly. “Kid nearly pissed himself!”

David was caught in his own fits of laughter, his cheeks aching and his body shaking with deep, belly-laughs. He lived for this kind of stuff. It never got old giving others a good scare. Especially if it was with someone special. And Michael was definitely special. 

The two lay side-by-side in the grass, letting themselves calm down and catch their breath. Even as the laughter died down, they both had warm smiles on their handsome faces. 

“Y’know something, Michael?” David spoke up once he had settled down more. “When we first met, I wasn’t sure we’d get along”

“Whatcha mean by that?” Michael asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“Well, you certainly stick out in a place like Santa Carla. I thought we’d be total opposites, but you’ve fit in perfectly with me and the boys,” David explained. 

He hesitated for a moment. Then added on.

“I….We really like you”

The smile on Michael’s face could have melted the iciest hearts. David was struggling so much being more vulnerable, but Michael made it easier the more time they spent together. The brunet tucked his arms behind his head, relaxing in the summer grass.

“Well shucks, I feel the same way, David,” he drawled, not a care in the world on his mind. “Hell, you shoulda seen me back home in Texas. I was REAL wild there”

David certainly didn’t doubt that for a second. Michael truly could be reckless and crazy with the fun he had around the boys, and that was just at nighttime. He could have raised quite a bit of hell in school, at home, or with other friends he had.

“Yeah? Tell me, Michael, did you steal from your parent's liquor cabinet?” David asked.

“You kiddin’ me? We use whiskey as medicine in Texas. Don’t have to steal nothin’”

That certainly amused the vampire. He tried another.

“Did you sneak out for wild parties on school nights?”

“If by ‘party’ ya mean servin’ beer outta someone’s truck bed by a bonfire? Hell yeah, I did!”

David shook his head, smiling in amusement.

“I’ll bet you were hooking up with the pastor’s daughter for some time, weren’t ya?”

Michael surprisingly didn’t answer right away. A moment of silence passed, and David carefully examined the human’s face to see if he hadn’t said the wrong thing. To his surprise, Michael was still smiling without care. But there was a newfound intensity in his eyes.

“Pastor’s son, actually”

Oh.

OH.

If David wasn’t already dead, he would have had a heart attack right then and there. All this time he had assumed Michael had some feelings for Star. They had hit it off so well that first night after all. Yet looking at him, he could see that Michael was telling the truth with this bit of information. 

David and the others were so casual and open, but hearing Michael come out to him was like a rush. It felt like his blood was running hot again. He could practically feel it in his veins.

“Is that right, Michael?”

If he hadn’t known better, he could have sworn Michael was moving closer to him. It made him nervous, and David was NOT one to get nervous. 

“You better believe it, Huckleberry~”

There it was again. That nickname made David feel so mushy inside. Fluttery feelings in his stomach and his head spinning. It truly was special. It made him feel special.

It made him want to kiss Michael. 

His brain was practically shouting for him to do it. Until he heard actual shouting from the Emerson house.

“MICHAEL!! YOU GET HERE RIGHT NOW, YOUNG MAN!”

It was Lucy hollering from the front porch. Sam must have found her and blabbed about them scaring him. Michael groaned in annoyance, pulling himself off the ground. He dusted off his jeans before reaching out to David.

“Well shit, I’m gonna get scolded for the next three hours now,” he sighed. David didn’t regret what they did, but he did feel bad about getting his friend in trouble.

“Listen, I’ll take the heat for this one. Ain’t gonna let you get on my mama’s bad side over an idea I had,” Michael said. “I’ll bring your guitar to the cave tomorrow night. Just get outta here while you still can”

David felt his lips pull down in a pout. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to leave Michael’s side. After everything that had happened, he felt the pull to be with the human boy more. 

But he knew deep down they would hang out again. No matter what, he had a real, true bond with Michael. Nothing was going to keep them apart. It was silly to worry over things like that. So when he held out a hand to shake, David eagerly took it. 

“Good luck to you, Michael. Thanks again for the jam session” 

Michael was the one to leave first, running off to the house so that his mother’s anger did increase from the wait. The whole time, David watched closely, making certain Michael got home alright. Even if it was such a small distance, it put his mind at ease. When he took off, all he could think about was how much more different things would be.

That was until a different voice took over in his head. A very familiar, very sinister voice.

“David.”

Max.

“Come home, son. We have a lot to talk about.”

[urmindisastreamofcolors]

Fuck Around, Find Out (Series)

Series description: After your five year relationship comes to a blazing end, you seek comfort in your friend group as you try to pick up the pieces of your shattered life. When the night of your breakup with your psycho ex takes a wild and unexpected turn, you begin to question the nature of your relationship with your lifelong best friend, Jake. As the boundaries of your friendship begin to blur, Jake struggles with an internal battle to tell you a secret he’s been keeping for years as you begin a journey of self growth to always be your own first-choice.

Warnings: talk of toxic ex, cursing, and physical fighting so read with caution

Word Count: 2k+

Taglist: @katie-gvf @theweightofstardust @maverick-rose @weightofdreams-gvf @doodle417 @milkgemini

A/n: Here’s chapter two! I did leave the original one shot up and they are pretty similar. This is just a lot more detailed for plot purposes :) I’ve absolutely been MIA for awhile because I was dealing with some personal stuff (and still am), so I hope you guys enjoy!

Chapter Two: He Found Out

“Hell yeah!”

“Beat his ass, Jakey!” 

“Fuck you, Thomas!”

The yelling from the three other boys was causing your head to swim as you watched the fight in front of you. Suddenly, you felt the urge to laugh as you realized that a group of four young men who went out of their way to create and share peace were all up to witness a good ass whooping. You were about to elbow Sam to make fun of the irony of the situation when Thomas landed a cheap shot and a gasp escaped your mouth instead. A thin stream of blood trickled out of Jake’s nose as his knuckles audibly smacked against the other young man’s cheekbone before grabbing Thomas by his shirt collar and flinging him against the patio railing. 

“Oooooooh,” you and the other boys chorused at the resounding crack that could only be your ex boyfriend’s spine. 

The wind was clearly knocked from Thomas’s lungs as Jake let out a laugh that sounded absolutely unhinged as he took a step back, effectively putting distance between them. In a last ditch effort to back Jake into a corner, Thomas let out a snarl that sounded pathetic to everyone who heard it. In fact, Josh let out a cackle at the debacle he had just witnessed. 

“Wow, you really are a bitch, Tommy,” Jake laughed maniacally as he fought to catch his breath, clearly not intimidated in the least. Thomas’s chest heaved as a bead of sweat trailed down his forehead and for the second time that night, you felt like he resembled an angry bull. You could tell by the way that your ex’s chest was heaving that he was about to do something stupid again, so you weren’t shocked when he lunged for Jake and sparked the fight once again. 

At this point, Thomas didn’t stand any kind of a chance. After that punch was thrown, Jake wrapped his arms around Thomas’s waist effectively bringing them both to the ground while giving Jake the official upper hand. Your ex boyfriend writhed on the ground managing to free his left hand and used it to get a white knuckle grip on Jake’s hair. The younger Kiszka twin didn’t miss a beat as he continued to wail on Thomas' face. 

Thomas clearly wasn’t going to win the fight and once he realized that, he tried his best to shield his face to no avail as Jake continued to kick his ass. Nearly ten minutes had passed leaving Jake with bloody knuckles and Thomas’s face was so bruised and swollen, it was hard to tell the true extent of the damage. Guilt wracked your body as you watched Jake finally begin to lose momentum as the adrenaline began to leave his body even if the rage was still present. 

“Please, make him stop,” you said quietly as you grabbed Josh’s elbow and gave him a pleading look. He simply nodded his head as he took cautious steps towards his twin, trying his best to not get his shit rocked as he found the best angle to wrangle Jake in. Seeing what Josh was trying to do, Sam and Danny followed behind them and pulled Jake away while Thomas laid on the small wooden deck outside the apartment’s front door. You simply raised an eyebrow as you watched your friends take careful steps towards Jake, clearly having done this kind of thing before. Blood droplets littered the weathered wooden planks under Thomas as he rolled to his stomach with a groan, cradling his face in his hands. 

“Alright, Jacob, don’t kill him,” Josh whispered quietly in his twin’s ear as he held him firmly by his shoulders. Jake’s hair had fallen out of its bun and looked disheveled as several long strands framed his face. His cheeks were flushed, sweat coating his hairline and a thin stream of blood made a path from his nose to his chin. His hands remained clenched in tight fists and his lips were twisted into a Joker-like grin. His body was vibrating as Josh and Sam held Jake in place the best they could and Danny yanked Thomas up by his collar. You stood in the doorframe with your arms crossed against your chest to give yourself some form of comfort. You felt as if you were trembling from your sternum and your body was having a hard time regulating your temperature. 

A heavy silence seemed to settle in the air and the tension thickened when Thomas made eye contact with you. His nose and mouth were both bloody and the area around his left eye was turning a deep shade of blue and swelling shut. You smirked as you took him in. Even though you hated violence, it was hard to admit that he didn’t deserve the ass beating he had just gotten.  

“What are you fucking laughing at, bitch,” Thomas snarled out, but his voice lacked luster. You scoffed at the audacity of his words as Jake tried to lunge for him again, but was effectively held back by the other three boys. 

“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you,” Jake snarled as he fought against his brothers, but you had reached your limit. A laugh began to ripple through your body and if you weren’t convinced that you sounded unhinged before, the boys’ faces confirmed it. 

“I’m laughing at you, Thomas. You’re absolutely pathetic. I don’t know what you thought this little display of toxic masculinity was going to do…win me back? Suddenly make you a man? The only thing it did was solidify my decision to break up with you. I deserve better and you’re literally the worst thing to have ever happened to me. You need to leave,”  you spat at him as you closed the distance between the two of you. When you stopped, you were nearly nose to nose with him and his face was curled up in what could only be disgust, but you could care less. Seeing your friends support you, defend you, seemed to remind you of who you were. There was a time in your life when you wouldn’t have allowed anyone, let alone a man, to walk all over you, but you were so sure you were in love with Thomas. Whatever this was, it wasn’t love and being surrounded by those who cared about you gave you the courage to be able to defend yourself. 

You shook your head as you turned on your heel to go back into Jake’s apartment when Thomas lashed out and yanked you back by the hair at the nape of your neck. You didn’t even have a chance to scream as you clawed at his wrist and hoped he would release the death grip he had on you. The boys simply let Jake go. He moved so fast the you barely aware of the hold Thomas had being broken as Jake landed a strong punch to his jaw.

Thomas crumpled to the ground barely conscious and you were hyper-aware of the cool night air filling your lungs as Jake’s warm palm was placed right over the middle of your torso. You could feel his calloused fingertips through the thin material of your shirt as he gently pushed you back. Your scalp was on fire and you rubbed it gently with one hand as you tried to process what had just happened. Thomas had said some pretty mean things to you over the course of your relationship, but you never expected him to snap and lay his hands on you. Your thoughts continued to race and you barely noticed the red and blue lights that were dancing over Jake’s face as a police siren pierced your ears. You looked over your shoulder quickly to see Sam shifting his weight nervously while Danny had his arms crossed over his chest. Josh was scrolling rapidly through his phone as if his life depended on it. 

“Mother fucker,” Sam whispered under his breathe as he shoved his hands in his pockets. 

“What’s going on here,” one of the police officers questioned as she looked directly at you and Jake. Her eyes bore into yours as you tried to figure out what to even say. 

The other officer dropped to his knees as he began to assess Thomas’s condition with two fingers pressed into the unconscious man’s neck. He sucked a breath in through his teeth before slightly cocking his head. With his free hand, he pushed a button on the mic attached to his uniform requesting an extra officer and an ambulance. Jake rolled his eyes as you fought to keep from vomiting. 

“Ma’am, if I may,” Danny started as he took a hesitant step forward with both hands in the air,” We would love to tell you what happened, but Y/n doesn’t look so good. Could we possibly have this conversation inside, so she can sit down?” 

After taking in your pale and shaking frame, the female officer agreed with a curt nod before ushering all of you inside. It didn’t take long for your group to situate comfortably in the living room and you found yourself squished between Jake and Danny on the small couch while the officer stood in front of the TV. 

“I’m Officer Fall. So,  I need to know what happened here tonight. I see this is Mr. Jacob Kiszka’s place of residence, correct,” she asked politely and professionally. 

“Yes, ma’am. That’s me. Y/n showed up earlier tonight upset because she had found Thomas, the guy with the broken face on my front porch, screwing a random chick. She was just upset and wanted to be with her friends,” Jake explained as calmly as he could as he flexed his fingers. The officer nodded as she scribbled down some notes in a small notebook. 

“Miss Y/n, if it’s okay, may I speak with you in the kitchen privately before we continue,” Officer Fall asked as you held out her hand to help you off the couch. Knowing you didn’t really have a choice, you grasped her fingers in your sweaty palm as you led the way out of the living room. 

“Okay, so I need you to tell me what’s going on here. I know you’ve had an awful night, but I need your statement,” she said kindly as she leaned against Jake’s island in the middle of the kitchen. Her brown eyes were filled with kindness and patience as you started to cry for what felt like the millionth time that night. After taking a few moments to calm down and collect your thoughts, you told the officer everything from beginning to end including the ugly details of your relationship with Thomas. 

Before a new set of tears could crash into you, Officer Fall patted you on the shoulder before asking you to rejoin the others. Seeing that you had clearly been crying, Jake scooted over to make sure you had plenty of room before throwing his arm around your trembling shoulders. 

“Alright, boys. You’re up to bat. Tell me what happened tonight, “ the officer simply stated and looked around the room as she waited to see who would speak first. 

“Well, Y/n showed up and she was crying, so she came in and told us everything that had happened,” Jake said flatly. 

“Then, Thomas decided to call Y/n and show his ass. He said he was gonna come over here and make her leave with him whether she wanted to or not and we all heard Jake tell him very plainly he wasn’t welcome here,” Sam said with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. Officer Fall glanced up, making eye contact with the youngest Kiszka as she assessed whether he was trustworthy. When she deemed his story fit, she continued writing down notes.

“But he showed up anyway. He was told by Y/n on the phone when he called to have his things out of her apartment, so Jake said that again and told him to leave,” Danny said, supporting the story. 

“Then, when it became clear that the fight he was looking for wasn’t going to happen, he spit in Jake’s face, so that ass beating was warranted. After that, Y/n said her peace and told him he needed to leave. He grabbed her by the back her fucking hair! Here! Look! It’s all recorded from the doorbell camera,” Josh said as he handed his phone over to the police officer. She clicked play and rewatched all the events from the night, including the fight, occasionally flitting her eyes to Jake and you. When it got to the part where Thomas grabbed you and Jake broke his nose, you all winced at the sound and Officer Fall pressed pause. 

“Well, would you like to press charges? I would honestly recommend getting a restraining order, ma’am,” she explained patiently. 

“I-I don’t know,” you stuttered out clearly overwhelmed. 

Officer Fall simply nodded her head before explaining that you had some time to make that decision before having Josh email that video to her work email. She left you with instructions on how to follow up before leaving you with her card, including her work number should there be another incident, before telling you goodnight and leaving. 

You watched from the kitchen window as Thomas was placed into the back of the cop car with his hands handcuffed behind his back. He seemed to pause, as if he could feel you staring, and the anger in his eyes seemed to cut right through you. You were so unsettled that you jumped when you heard Jake enter the kitchen, grabbing two beers from the fridge. He handed one to you as he jumped to sit on the marble countertop before chugging. 

“I’m really sorry about all this, Jake. I didn’t think he was…literally insane,” you said you ran your finger over the edge of the tab on your beer. 

“Don’t be. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m glad you trusted me enough to come here and…I’m sorry I lost my cool. I know you had to already be freaked out and I’m sure me trying to break his face didn’t help much,” he scoffed as he fiddled with the beer cap from his drink. A light laugh left your lips before you took a swig of your own drink.

“I could never be afraid of you,” you whispered, almost to yourself, but just loud enough that it reached Jake’s ears. His face turned a light shade of pink, but you didn’t notice as you stared out the window again lost in thought. “But Thomas deserved everything he got tonight.” 

“Damn straight he did,” Danny said as the rest of the boys made their way into the kitchen. Sam quickly grabbed a small baggie full of limes while Josh poured five shots of tequila for everyone. 

“Tonight was a whole lotta bullshit,” Josh said as he focused on the task at hand,” but that’s why we have tequila. So, a toast! Jakey, the white knight in shining armor! Give us a toast, brother!” 

“Okay, okay…let me think,” Jake said a bit flustered as he shifted uncomfortably, but laughed when he couldn’t think of one. 

“Oh! I’ve got it,” Sam exclaimed as he joined what he always called the ‘toasting circle’ with a smirk. “Thomas fucked around, so he found out! Tonight, we drink for Y/n’s poor sheets, Jake’s bruised knuckles and the fact that Jakey never fails to do it.” 

“And fuck you, Thomas,” you added on sarcastically earning laughs from everyone as they echoed you before downing their shot. Your chest felt lighter as you laughed with your friends and joked for the rest of the night. Eventually, you all skipped the shot glasses and started passing the fifth of tequila around. It was nearly two in the morning when you stumbled to bed with an arm thrown drunkenly around Jake’s shoulders as you two tried to giggle quietly and failed epically. Sam was asleep on the floor in the living room while Danny had claimed the couch. Josh was sprawled out in the recliner as soft snores left his mouth causing the two of you to laugh even harder. 

You didn’t think much of it as you changed quickly into the random shirt and sweats Jake had given you before crawling into bed next to him. This wasn’t the first time you two had shared a bed, or a couch for that matter, so neither of you felt awkward as you fought over the blanket and shimmied around trying to get comfortable. Once the laughter finally stopped, your eyes felt incredibly heavy as you snuggled into the pillow and let sleep begin to take over your senses. Right before you completely fell asleep, a quick kiss was placed on the back of your head, right where Thomas had grabbed you as Jake mumbled a drunk goodnight. 

You felt your cheeks flush at the gesture and in your sleepy, drunk haze, you were grateful for the darkness.

[theashemarie]

First of all, I’m in LOVE with Aftershocks! It’s everything I’ve been looking for in a post-movie fic. Buf I’m super curious about how Aftershocks came to be and how you guys manage to create a cohesive story with such a large group of writers!! How did you even find each other? How does this all work?

omg I'm so glad you're enjoying so much!! :DDD!! Thank you for reaching out to let me/us know! (This got long, so I'm putting part of it behind a read more.)

Okay so for a bit of history the five of us have been friends for years and @katiemonz basically dragged me kicking and screaming into watching Rise a few weeks before the movie came out because she wanted to rewatch it and she knew I would like it. And, basically, I latched onto it super hard super quickly. When this happens, I do the typical special interest thing where I talk about it nonstop and make my other friends watch the stuff I'm obsessed with. First my brother in autism (Ben) @dunkalfredo fell into my trap and soon enough we were off to the races. @octolingkiera and @mcbethins followed shortly thereafter.

The five of us have always been writers in some form or another, so, after we all watched the movie together on premier night, it felt natural to float the idea of a giant collab fic where we each take a POV and run through the aftermath of the movie. I volunteered to post first because I'm the fastest writer out of all of us, with a promised post-date of the next Saturday (a week after the movie dropped) and I got to work. Originally, the fic was supposed to just be five chapters--one from each of us--but the plot line we agreed on turned out to be a lot bigger than we intended, so I got to the end of the first day in my first chapter, looked at the projected two weeks we were supposed to cover, and consulted the council with my worries. I was already 5k words in and there was no way I was going to finish in a timely or concise manner, so we agreed to bump it out to 10 chapters (2 each).

While writing my second chapters, I cracked 10k words and realized that we would need 15 chapters. Everyone agreed.

As to how we wrangle this thing: what I wanted to happen was for everyone to write simultaneously, but that didn't exactly happen. What ended up going down was I did the initial exploratory writing with Mikey's chapters, established a timeline, and wrote the whole thing, and then everyone else kinda used my chapters as a skeleton to hang theirs off of. There's nothing wrong with this and it ended up working out, but it did/does require a lot of cross-referencing from my collaborators, while I was allowed to kinda just write what I wanted. It's a fair tradeoff, I suppose; I had to do a lot of the legwork, so I got to set up the timeline and write to my heart's content.

We brainstormed a lot on Discord, but a lot of it actually happened between Katie and me because we live together. Emotional Trauma Uno actually started as a sort of joke, but then I took it and spun it into a serious recovery ritual. I'm glad that it came into the fic, but it wasn't something we discussed ahead of time and I'm grateful to my collaborators for running with it. I remember the moment when I introduced the poker chips, because originally the Uno games were supposed to be a lot like the one that happens at the beginning of Mikey's third chapter: no chips, just raw vulnerability.

For cohesion: everyone was really good at latching onto small details that were mentioned in other chapters, and we tried to run major character beats past each other. (For example, when Ben wanted to have Mikey use a poker chip on Donnie in his chapter, he made sure to okay it with me so that I could slip a reference to it into my chapter). I also edit every chapter (except Ben's because he's a good noodle) and read everything as a sort of final continuity check.

Even now, as we pump out the final chapters, we're cross-referencing and running things past each other. Kiera's working on a Splinter POV scene and McBethins has made sure to remind her that Raph already had a talk with Splinter; Ben made sure to ask me how many days occurred between events because Donnie is very attuned to the passage of time while the days blended together for Mikey; Katie is closely counting the blue chips the rest of the family has to use on Leo and running checks to make sure she hasn't missed any; when I was writing my chapters, I made sure to explain my thought process for non-Mikey character actions so everyone knew both how Mikey was perceiving their actions and how I was actually picturing them reacting to things.

Quite honestly, I've always wanted to do a giant collab like this, so it's been a LOT of fun! I didn't expect this story to balloon this much, and I certainly didn't expect it to be this fun and easy! Even with the few hiccups we experienced, it was a blast, and I can't wait to collaborate with my friends again!

[feather-dancer]

Tales of Arcadia Fanfic Recommendations - Part 6

I do admittedly have things left to read in my tabs I’d normally prefer to clear out before posting one of these but when you sail past the 30 mark I think it’s about time to get it out my drafts, yeah? Most importantly means this will be out before Rise of the Titans comes and emotionally destroys us all.

Needless to say soon as this is posted I give it 24 hours before 7 starts, we’ve got some amazing writers in this fandom and there’s a couple I juuust want one more chapter before I feel I can recommend it. Hope you find something you enjoy :)

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5

If at all interested in my own writing you can find it here!

General Trollhunters

Romeo, Question Mark - Jim is figuring himself out and has a question for Toby though nervous of how he might react. Honestly the support Aromantic’s need when they’re either questioning or coming out, Toby is a gem.

By The Book - After his dad left changing his world Jim had moments in his life where he needed to wrangle things in a way he could understand them with some moral support along the way that wasn’t there to do it for him, just give a light nudge the right direction. Comes with light Jilaire fluff.

That I Could Fear a Door - Jim was pulled from the Darklands whole but you cannot escape the trauma of your experiences quite so easily. It will take a little time, a lot of patience and perhaps the right ear to listen but with it can come hope.

Lest Back the Awful Door Should Spring - Sequel to the above, Jim’s capture to be sentenced by the tribunal echoes his experiences in the Darklands a little too closely sending all his careful progress hurtling back in one fell swoop. Is it any wonder he chose a false freedom that Unkar offered?

Façade - The confirmation that Mr. Strickler is not the man you thought he was probably was not going to be an easy one, Jim’s thoughts sit ill after that dinner.

Fashion - All changelings take root somewhere in a human life before their changeling one succeeds it and Nomura is no different. She felt love she could not understand and the ache of loss will follow for as she meanders through this world by the Whisper Man’s orders and her own volition of needing to belong somewhere. She will try her hand with the humans and the trolls, paint the road with blood as much as indulging herself with the arts and even risking her heart until everything leads her to Arcadia’s doorstep.

In Deep Trouble - What happened in the Deep during Season 2?

Aftermath - Just after the finale of Season 2 the Market trolls are forced to run leaving their homes behind and follow the Trollhunter they had dismissed so many times into the great unknown before them.

Don’t think - Jim weighs up his options and attempts to settle his thoughts before making the final decision whether or not to go through with using Merlin’s potion.

Nocturne for a Trollhunter - Jim learns a new hobby that gives him another way to relax that doesn’t involve cooking, one that follows him beyond Arcadia.

The Asteroid - A rare 3Below fic for my lists if centered on a certain hedge witch and Wizard. The end of the world is coming but not by Morgana’s hand and Merlin certainly never warned Douxie about it so if this truly is the end then it’s the best time to bring your loved ones close so you won’t be going out alone. Yes it’s Zouxie.

A bright future so it seemed (but that light grew a little less bright) - Claire’s parents (Or more specifically Ophelia) set her on the perfectionist’s path early, even a little slip can feel like the end of the world

Rest, Master Jim - You might be able to escape the Darklands but you cannot escape the consequences of being trapped there for so long as easily.

General Wizards

Not Found - So why did neither Douxie or Archie find the two remaining changelings in Arcadia or bring back the sole Akiridion when Merlin asked?

Place of Power - A lovely bit of shameless Zouxie fluff in that brief period the gang was at Hex Tech before the plot came to get them.

Bitter Water - Only two of the old team remain in Arcadia and those were Jim and Krel, the rest having left to pursue educational pursuits and in one particular case kept away for Nari’s safety. For the Akiridion he is still here with reminders of his heritage and what it took to have this life on earth chasing him all the way. It’s always good to have friends with a listening ear and hot chocolate.

Together, Dearest - The very act of resting is a potential invitation for nightmares and Nari is no different but when once more in the waking world you will find you’re not alone, there are hugs available.

The Night Belongs To Us - Lovingly described Skraelroc fluff during their long hunt for Merlin and the strangeness that can be observed on clearer nights.

Nineteen Plus Nine Hundred, Give Or Take - 900 years is a long time by anyone’s standards but perhaps during that Douxie can figure out how to truly live.

Twelfth Century Wizard, Twenty-First Century Witch - The follow up to the above, when you’ve lived a long and interesting life things can still pop up in odd ways... Even if you haven’t quite mastered the sacred art of texting yet.

ERAS TÚ (It was you). | Tales of Arcadia One-Shot - Would you want to live forever if it meant leaving everyone behind? Jilaire.

the only way for us to go - From his rescue from the streets of Camelot to the eventual guardian of this realm, Douxie has come a very, very long way. Through the frustrations of trying to learn magic, the belittling of others, the faith of Morgana and the power of music his experiences throughout 900 years truly make him what he is.

lay down your head - Even the mightiest can be plagued with the not so humble migraine. Skraelroc fluff.

Stricklake

Merry Christmas, Doctor Lake - Some Christmas gifts are worth going all out for and getting your friends and family to help out to make it extra special.

Grocery Run - After the incident where Merlin dismissed Strickler for being a changeling it is time for an excuse to get out the house for a bit and have a frank discussion about their relationship, the future beyond the incoming battle and lingering insecurities of two worlds colliding.

Alternate Universe

Fashionista, How Do You Look? - An AU that very much takes the term very literally here where everyone is human, Skrael, Bellroc and Nari are fashion designers plus many other ToA characters we know and love are either in the industry in some way themselves or on the fringes because of their jobs/who they know. Sometimes you work with catty bitches and want to kick back and watch the fireworks you know? Contains friends to almost to enemies to friends to maybe we’ll get our shit together this time but the odds aren’t great Skraelroc. There’s also a Zouxie oneshot in this collection that was a gift for meee because of the corner I dug in the AU.

Atlas, Fallen - When a star falls from the sky it is a punishment so when Atlas suddenly finds himself amongst the humans he had observed from above for countless ages in a flesh body like theirs he fears his Mother is punishing him and unable understand what he did wrong. While trying to find his way back home he gets a crash course in what it’s like to be human making friends along the way. Slow burn Jilaire.

she once was a true love of mine - I put this under the AU section even though it wavers between that and not, a mixture of classical Arthurian mythos and the glimpses of the Camelot in Tales of Arcadia where one kingdom collapses from war another strengthens by taking their princess as queen. While Arthur might have turned her head once it is the sibling that seems to be catching Gwen’s eye of late as much as her thoughts. Morgwen but in the department of pining.

Pulled From The Ocean - AU doesn’t quite fit this one but it feels a bit more fitting than general. A little oneshot snapshot of Jim living with deafness and the contrast of one world that falls easily into supporting that whereas the other tries their best but it makes the slip ups sting even more.

you are a stranger here, why have you come? - Fate is a funny old thing, something happens a little bit differently such as a father not leaving alone and everything can change so drastically. Nari’s fondness for children strikes again and this time it involves a 5-year old Jim Lake Jr. ending in the Order’s care and their foray into found family. Somehow Jim is even more of a disaster and as likely surmised from the fact I write this trope myself I am very weak for it.

go into your local forest and you will find a friend and a boy - Toby was unlucky in the friend department and by the time he is ten he still feels miserable and lonely having to endure Steve’s increasing bullying all the while. This is of course until he finds a blue half-troll hiding out the daylight hours munching cans in the local woods...

[marlynnofmany]

Accidentally Human — Chapter 1

If you like:

* “humans are weird” + fantasy worlds

* shapeshifting

* witty banter

* worldbuilding that involves orcs evolved from orca whales

…Then you might just like Accidentally Human! Here’s the blurb:

I’ll be sharing it as I write, just like with The First Time Traveler to Survive. The only difference is, this time the high-tier patrons can vote on which direction the plot goes.

This is gonna be bonkers and I love it already. Here we go!

CHAPTER ONE 4416 words

Windmane had just sold one of the larger tapestries to a human who could barely carry it when a dryad popped up from the hardwood floor. The human kept to a courteous distance as the dryad announced that the festival was ending, and the marketplace stalls should begin their breakdown process. Windmane heard other dryads make similar announcements farther along. Punctual as ever, they left nothing to chance.

“Overhead performances will start soon, to make departure more pleasant,” the dryad said. Her voice was as smooth as the others from this vast grove, and her skin as dark as the wood she had formed from. She’d taken the humanlike shape that the dryads favored, which Windmane privately had opinions about. Centaur form would clearly have been a better choice. The dryad finished her announcement with “Thank you for making this festival one we can all enjoy! See you next year.” She then disappeared into the root system that made up the sprawling wooden floor of the festival grounds.

The marketplace instantly turned loud and chaotic. Windmane hurried to roll up the other tapestries hung at her portion of the stall, while staying out of the way of her herdmates tasked with gathering the money and disassembling the stall itself. She had been to the annual Dryad Forest Festival before, and she knew the dance. If there were no interruptions, the eight of them would have the stall reassembled into their personal pull-carts and be ready to go before the worst of the traffic blocked the lanes.

I wonder if the dryads will open more lanes through the forest this year, Windmane thought. Probably not. The plants are more important than the impatience of some outsiders. She covered the tapestry bundles and strapped them together firmly while her thoughts wandered to the fool newcomers who’d braved a shortcut off the wooden paths last year. Dryad law was strict, and their branches sharp. And aside from the painful death, you don’t want to get the rest of your herd banned from selling here next year.

Something brushed her ear, causing it to flick in irritation.

“Oh, catch it!” exclaimed a tiny voice.

Windmane leaned back to see a floating blue fruit bobbing skyward. She grabbed it and looked around for the voice, unsurprised to see one of the pixies from the next stall over.

“Thank you!” the tiny fellow said, taking it from her hand. It was bigger than he was, but he carried it easily enough, his wings an iridescent blur behind him. “These things get away so easily!”

“I bet,” Windmane said, going back to work. “At least they won’t get stepped on.”

“Very true!” the pixie agreed. He made no move to rejoin his own swarm, who were wrangling a variety of skymelons and airberries. “I’d hoped we would have sold all of them, but at least we’ll have a snack for the flight home! How’d you folks make out?”

“Pretty well,” Windmane said with a glance at the remaining sculptures and paintings that were being packed away with the sketchbooks. “A lot of artistic types this year.”

“That’s good! Hey, nice charcoal sticks. Trade one for a skyfruit?”

Windmane started to do the mental math, then gave up and grabbed one while her herdmate’s back was turned. Faster than having a proper conversation about it. “Sure,” she said. “Why not.”

The pixie happily traded one oversized item for another, and zipped off to pack the charcoal stick. “Thank you!”

“No problem,” Windmane said. She gave the skyfruit a quick once-over, then took a bite. It wasn’t bad. Good enough to eat one-handed while she worked, which was fortunate. She’d had a passing thought about chucking it into the sky if it tasted foul, but she realized now that that could possibly get the pixies in trouble for littering.

A many-voiced “Ooh” told Windmane that the performances had started. She glanced up to see whorls of color glowing against the blue of the late-afternoon sky. It was nice enough to be worth a pause in the stall breakdown, before unanimously getting back to it. Windmane’s portion was properly bundled just before her cart was made ready, which made her quietly proud. The others hadn’t had a chatty pixie interrupting them, brief though that was.

“Hey, got any more of those charcoal sticks?” asked a voice.

Windmane sighed. There he was, holding a cluster of yellow airberries this time. “Gimme a sec,” she said as she lifted her bundle of tapestries to press it snugly into its designated corner of the cart. The charcoal sticks were gone from the flat surface that was now a cart side, but she was reasonably sure she knew where they’d been stored.

With a glance at the flow of passersby that was increasing with every passing moment, Windmane stepped out past her two closest herdmates who were busy with a stuck hinge. The pixie followed her, a glittery presence that whirred faintly.

As Windmane was reaching up to undo the laces of the pack that should hold charcoal sticks, she heard new exclamations from the crowd. She didn’t bother to look until the pixie commented on it.

“That’s weird. I thought all the entertainment was supposed to be up in the sky.”

Ears flat, Windmane whirled. Thoughts of malfunctioning magic filled her head. But instead of some dire calamity, all she saw was a handful of golden trails wandering through the air.

“Yes, strange,” was all she managed to get out before one of them picked up speed in her direction. Windmane ducked, bending all four knees and leaning forward in the hopes that it would miss her. But instead it dipped lower too. She flinched as golden light blasted her in the face, turning the world into starshine and the feeling of poor circulation. She was distantly aware of her legs collapsing underneath her.

Only a moment passed before her vision cleared to show the concerned faces of her herdmates, with no glowy magic to be seen.

“Are you okay?”

“What happened?”

“I saw something bright; what was that?”

Windmane got to her hooves unsteadily, doing her best to explain what had happened when she herself had no idea. Whatever it had been, it didn’t seem to have done any damage.

“Let us know if anything feels out of the ordinary,” said Stormteeth, the sub-alpha in charge of the trip. “We’ll declare it to the dryads on our way out.”

Windmane nodded. She opened her mouth to say something, but was distracted by the cluster of pixies on the floor next to her. They were gathered around the one who’d been holding the berries earlier.

She pushed between herdmates. “Hey, did it get you too?” she asked.

The pixie zipped up to her head height, looking cheerful enough. The others rose in a cloud around him. “Yeah, weirdest thing!” he said. “Pretty, though. One for each of us. I wonder who else was lucky enough to get a faceful of color!”

The dread in Windmane’s core only grew. “You don’t feel any effects?” Pixies were highly attuned to magic; it could have affected him either more or less.

He waved a hand that had the same faint glow as usual. “Nah, all good now. Well, back to it I guess! Oh hey, where did my berries go? Did you find that charcoal stick?”

Windmane reluctantly put the experience from her mind, asking the herdmate whose cart it was to kindly retrieve a charcoal stick for the pixie. The other centaurs were all clearly on edge, judging by ear position and the terse tone to everyone’s voice, but no one spoke further of it. The pixies as a whole seemed to have forgotten it entirely.

“Thanks a bunch! Enjoy your berries!”

The pixie fluttered off. Still feeling an unsteadiness that could have been caused by nerves as much as anything, Windmane stood out of everyone’s way and began eating the berries. No one objected. Stormteeth made sure that her cart was prepared for her.

Some minutes later, when the last cart was nearly ready, Windmane found herself heading bonelessly for the wooden floor again. She managed a short squeal of alarm, but didn’t even see the ground hit.

* * * * *

When she opened her eyes this time, the colors were wrong. Sharper, and … hotter somehow. Windmane blinked, but the view of the treetops didn’t change. She tried to roll to her feet. It didn’t work.

What is… Windmane thought vaguely as she braced her hands on the ground and bent to look down at what appeared to be two outsized arms instead of proper forelegs. Her hind legs, tail, and everything between were gone. Where is the rest of me??

She looked up, trying not to hyperventilate, and saw her herdmates standing a few steps back. “What happened?” Windmane asked. “Where’s — What happened??”

Stormteeth shook herself and stepped forward, directing the others to keep the crowds back. “Change of plan,” she said to Windmane. “We’re contacting the dryads right now.”

“Okay,” Windmane said weakly. She realized that her ears weren’t responding when she tried to move them, and tentative fingertips found them similarly missing. But there were other, smaller ears lower on her head, and that was when she realized the obvious. “Human? Am I human somehow?” That explained the arm-legs.

Stormteeth snorted. “It appears so,” she said. While the others formed a protective wall that made Windmane feel marginally better, Stormteeth held out both hands. “Can you stand?”

Windmane took her hands, and attempted the most difficult balancing act since she’d learned to walk the first time. Her clothes got in the way. The tunic still fit, though it draped to nearly her knees, but the caparison was a flowing mess behind her. Her shoes lay empty on the floor, still laced. Stormteeth helped her remove the caparison, then supported her weight while Windmane swayed like a sapling.

“These feet are so soft!” she exclaimed, shifting her weight further. “The floor is cold. And hard. How do humans keep their balance like this? And the colors! What is wrong with the colors??” The treetops had been solid green before, but they were full of scattered yellows and oranges now. And some of the passersby that she caught glimpses of wore clothes that were shockingly vibrant.

“We’ll get this straightened out,” Stormteeth said. “If you lean on me, can you walk?”

The herdmates parted to let her try. It was decidedly iffy. Windmane clutched Stormteeth’s caparison and apologized for pulling it sideways when she almost fell.

Then she saw something that the others hadn’t noticed yet: a naked human sitting on the ground, surrounded by pixies.

“Oh no,” Windmane said.

Stormteeth followed her look, and clicked her tongue in disapproval. “I guess we’d better bring him along. The dryads will want to know.”

“Give him my cape,” Windmane suggested, nodding toward the discarded caparison. “The pixies won’t have anything big enough to cover him.”

Stormteeth snorted agreement, and directed the closest herdmate to do so. The former pixie was still looking at his hands in confusion when the large blue cloth appeared before him.

“Here. Wrap this around yourself, and come with us to see the dryads.”

“Oh,” he said, blinking. “Thanks!” He took the offered hand up, and managed to stand on his own with a minimum of wobbling.

Windmane was distinctly bitter about that.

With help from the many pixies, he got the caparison tied roughly about his midsection in the ugliest fashion statement Windmane had ever seen her clothes put towards. But it covered him enough for human decency rules.

“Wow, everything looks so tiny!” he said. “Color’s a little weird, though.”

Windmane snorted, still leaning on Stormteeth. “Tell me about it.”

It was only now that the former pixie noticed her, and put two and two together. “Oh hey, you too?”

Windmane sighed. “Yes.”

“This is pretty wild, huh?”

“Yes.”

Stormteeth motioned for the pixie to move forward. “Can you walk, or will you need assistance?”

“I think I’ve got it. Everything’s heavier, and moves really slowly, but it’s not too bad.” To demonstrate, he took several steps, only to step on something unpleasant, flail about, and fall. “Ew ew ew! What was that — Aww, the airberries!”

Windmane stared at the bright splotch on the wood, and thought that there was no possible way it could be the last few she hadn’t eaten. True, the stems had weighed them down enough that they’d probably fallen when she did, but these weren’t the right color. The berries had been yellow. This was the brightest, hottest color she’d ever seen.

She squinted. “What color is that?” she asked.

The former pixie was wiping his foot on the wood. “Red?” he asked, his confusion evident. “Does it look different to you too? Seems more purple than before.”

“That’s red?” Windmane leaned forward until Stormteeth had to catch her. “It can’t be. I’ve seen red. It’s just a darker yellow. This is — I don’t know, the color of some magical fire that breaks reality.”

“Nope, definitely red,” the pixie said, getting unsteadily to his feet. “I guess your horsey-pupil eyes don’t see the full spectrum? Sorry; that’s got to be boring.”

Windmane opened and closed her mouth in outrage. “Humans can see more colors than we can? How come no one ever told me??”

The pixie shrugged. “Guess it never came up. Oh, my name’s Twig, by the way. Hey, we can even shake hands now! I’ve never gotten to do that with a big person!”

Windmane freed one hand to shake his, to his clear delight. “I’m Windmane,” she said.

“I am Stormteeth,” the sub-alpha broke in. “Let’s be going before the crowds get worse. Stay close, Twig.”

“Sure thing!” the former pixie said, taking deliberate steps until he stood at Windmane’s side. He looked much the same as before: spiky blonde hair, blue eyes, golden-tan skin, just no longer glowing. Human ears. A grating sense of optimism. “Things smell a little different, but I can’t put my finger on it,” he said. “And wow, this floor is hard!”

Windmane snorted again. “Right?” Then Stormteeth urged them to move, and all her attention was spent on trying not to fall. She just couldn’t figure out how to move herself forward without clinging to Stormteeth’s clothes. After some rearrangement, several herdmates stayed behind to mind the carts, while two walked on either side, holding Windmane up by the arms. Stormteeth led the group. Windmane’s feet barely rested on the ground. It was incredibly embarrassing, but it was clearly the only way they would get anywhere.

Twig walked behind her, resting a hand on each back for balance and providing a running commentary. A handful of pixies flitted through the air around them, but none introduced themselves.

“The depth perception is screwy somehow,” Twig said. “Things move at a different speed than I’d expect. And I can’t get over how heavy everything is! Wow, I think my heart’s beating slower. Wild.”

Windmane kept her mouth shut and her eyes forward. Everyone was staring; she wasn’t imagining it. And red things were everywhere! That sign, those dresses, that apple — surely someone should have told her. This was unfair.

She kept her mind on righteous indignation instead of the creeping fear that this wouldn’t be fixable. Eventually they arrived. There was, of course, a line of people ahead of them. Windmane’s escorts set her down to wait. She decided that she didn’t like the cold of the wooden floor. Was this why humans wore shoes all the time? How terrible.

When they finally reached the front of the line, Stormteeth explained the problem to the dryad representative. To Windmane’s mild surprise, the dryad appeared to already know about the incident.

“Is there anyone else in line,” she asked loudly, “Who has just been transformed into human shape against their will?”

“Yes,” said a sour male voice. Windmane craned her neck to see a pale man with dark hair going gray at the temples, piercing green eyes, and what might have been a flying carpet wrapped around him like a fashionable drape.

“Me too,” said a woman farther down the line, waving a muscular arm that was darker than the wooden floor. She wore proper clothes, though they were clearly loose on her, an impressive feat given her height. Her dark hair was cropped close to her skull; her eyes were brown and full of worry.

When the two minotaurs behind her put comforting hands on her shoulders, Windmane figured out why the clothes were so big.

“Please come forward,” the dryad said.

The two humans did, bringing the minotaurs and a deer-sized silver dragon with them. That explained the man.

No wonder he looks grumpy, Windmane thought as the former dragon crossed his arms in front of the dryad. At least it looks like he’s been on two legs before. Dragons are supposed to be good at all kinds of magic. I guess not good enough to turn himself back.

The dryad wasted no time. She explained what the dryads as a whole had observed — which, given their presence in the woodwork, was always a lot — and told the four victims what they had to do.

“The people who activated this spell were selling decorative illusions, and they have been detained outside the festival wall,” she said. “My sisters will make sure that no one interferes while you who were victimized settle your business with them.”

Twig spoke up from behind Windmane. “What if they refuse to fix it? How do we settle then?”

The dryad spread her hands. “That is up to you.”

Twig looked like he wanted to object, but the former dragon hissed at him to be silent. “Dryad law, boy. They’re impartial when it doesn’t affect them. Don’t get yourself in worse trouble.”

“That is correct,” the dryad said serenely. “You will need to collect the fifth victim of this spell on your way out. We observed there to be five impacts, and the fifth is not here.”

“Where, then?” asked the dragon.

“We will escort you to her, and then to the detainment site,” the dryad said. Two other dryads appeared out of the floor behind her, looking nearly identical. “Please step aside to settle with your associates, then prepare to be escorted.”

“Wait, settle with our what?” Twig asked as the centaurs ushered him along with Windmane. Pixies fluttered about him anxiously. “Do we have to go alone?”

“Yes,” said the former dragon.

“Oh,” Twig said in a small voice.

Windmane hoped that the dragon knew how to convince the people to reverse the spell, since the rest of them surely didn’t. She gritted her teeth and kept silent.

Once out of the way of the line, the group fell into multiple conversations at once. Windmane discovered that it was harder to keep track with ears that couldn’t swivel.

“We’ll wait for you at the gate we entered by,” Stormteeth told her. “Your cart and responsibilities will be portioned between the others in case you aren’t prepared to pull it afterward.”

Windmane agreed, heart in her throat. The carts were made for this sort of thing, easily disassembled and shared in case someone twisted an ankle on the trip. Windmane dearly hoped that it wouldn’t be necessary.

Stormteeth put a comforting hand on her head, which helped a bit. Windmane leaned against her herdmates, making fists in their clothes and trying to put on a brave smile.

She watched the other humans say their temporary goodbyes: Twig speaking quickly to the pixies, the former minotaur getting hugged tightly by her kin, and the former dragon giving instructions to his apprentice before demanding that the dryads provide clothes.

To Windmane’s surprise, they did. There was a lost-and-found maintained from previous festivals, with more than enough two-legger clothes left unclaimed. Windmane knew that she herself would be hesitant to bother the dryads about something left behind unless it was truly important.

As she picked through the selection, which held a large amount of complete outfits, Windmane started to suspect that some of these had actually come from outsiders who had violated the laws. Bodies go to fertilizer; clothes go to… here. Oh dear.

She decided not to say anything about it. Instead she picked a loose set of leg-coverings that looked like they wouldn’t add to her mobility problems. They were clearly made for a bigger person, but the drawstring at the top cinched close enough. And they were brown, which felt enough like the legs she was missing that she had to blink a tear from one eye.

Shoes, though…

“These all hurt,” she complained. “Are human shoes supposed to hurt?” Everyone nearby had hooves, and couldn’t tell her. Finally Twig surfaced from digging through the shirts to help her out.

“Shoes should be comfortable, just like any clothes,” he asserted. “Though these all have far more… armor on the bottom than any pixie shoe I’ve ever worn. I’ve never seen a human block a sword with their foot, but I guess they must. Or they walk over a lot of rough things.”

“Just pick something,” exclaimed the dragon man, already dressed in a silky black outfit patterned with flowers. He’d found boots that reached halfway to his knee and appeared to fit him perfectly. The carpet was rolled up under his arm. The young dragon was hurrying off with words about how fast he would be.

Twig helped Windmane find shoes that were comfortable enough: flat slabs of leather with a bunch of straps that were adjustable to any foot. He claimed some of the armor-soled heavy boots for himself, visibly delighted by the idea of breaking things by stepping on them. Windmane thought they looked silly with the puffy-sleeved pink shirt and fuzzy green pants, but that was his problem.

The minotaur woman had kept her oversized shirt, but added a belt over it along with another pair of the drawstring pants and some of her own heavy boots. Windmane had considered boots herself, since she missed her hooves fiercely, but uncomfortable hooves were worse than fake hooves. At least the minotaur’s boots fit.

When the awkward foursome were dressed, the two dryads selected another outfit from the pile before leading the way to where the last “victim” apparently was.

The silver dragon caught up with them before they got far, handing a cloth bag to the elder. Windmane was curious, but busy trying to walk. She was no better at it this time, and still had to be half-carried.

When they approached the location of the fifth victim of the spell, it was clear where they were headed. This avenue of the festival ground had nearly emptied except for a tent, its stall front taken down but otherwise not prepared for departure. Several harpies hopped about anxiously outside. Swearing was audible from within.

“Wait here, please,” said one dryad, stopping on the pathway. The other glided forward with the clothes to greet the harpies. Then she vanished inside the tent.

After a lengthy wait, a scrawny human woman stepped out, wearing an off-white shirt, brown pants, loose slippers, and body language that said she would much rather be a bird right now, thank you. Her arms were held close like wings, and she stood hunched over.

“Great!” said the former dragon. “Let’s be off.”

The dryad ushered the harpy over to join the others. “Bid your companions farewell for now,” she said, “And we will guide you to those you quarrel with. It is a fair distance.”

“Wait!” Windmane exclaimed. “I can’t walk on my own!” To demonstrate the point, she stepped forward and overcalculated, pitching sideways against her herdmate.

Before the dryads could respond, the dragon made an exasperated noise and strode forward, unrolling the carpet with a snap. He said a word that was difficult to hear, then set it down in midair.

“Get on,” he instructed. “You guide it by leaning.”

Twig thought this was the best thing, and wanted to ride it with her. The dragon confirmed that it was strong enough for two, and in moments the pair of them were perched on the flying carpet, with Twig in front and far too enthusiastic for Windmane’s peace of mind.

“May the luck of the herd be with you,” Stormteeth said, clasping Windmane’s forearm.

“Thank you. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Windmane bid her other herdmates farewell, and watched as the minotaur woman said similar goodbyes.

“I’ll be there in spirit,” the biggest minotaur was saying. “Just let me know when I can punch them for messing with my herd.” She smacked fist to palm to demonstrate, her hoof-tipped fingers curled into something that could do serious damage. Windmane reflected that this female bull was more imposing than some of the male bulls she’d met before. It was a shame was wasn’t allowed to protect her herd properly.

“I’ll be okay,” the former minotaur promised. “The worst part is the way I can’t see behind me now!” She shook her head, searching for a better range of vision. “It’s terrible!” The bull gave her another hug, and the other cow joined in.

Windmane called out to them. “We’ll watch her back! Herd solidarity!” When the minotaurs separated to look, she waved an arm. “Come walk with us. You can help keep this thing from tipping over. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

The former minotaur laughed weakly and gave a farewell caress, then took up a place beside the carpet. She moved reasonably well on two feet, though she kept trying to stand on her toes.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m Stomp.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Windmane, and this is Twig.”

The dragon spoke up from next to the dryads. “Can we go now?”

The two dryads moved together, gliding along the wood without ever manifesting proper feet. The dragon followed with a wave to his apprentice and a hiss at the carpet to follow him.

“I guess we’ll learn his name later,” Windmane said as the carpet moved under her. She clutched at the sides, then freed one hand to wave goodbye-for-now. Twig and Stomp did the same, while the harpy bounced along grumpily behind the dragon.

The bushes that lined the wooden path held the brightest red flowers Windmane had ever seen.

~~~~

Chapter two is here, and the patrons have voted to make it from the dragon’s point of view.  The latest chapter is up on Patreon.

[clichejoe]

9, 14, and 18 for the writing ask! <3<3

oh dayum these are some brain-time questions I've got to actually analyse my own stuff now! I love it! Amazing questions!

9. What are you best and worst at when writing?

Oooof okay so hear me out - personally I love writing dialogue. I love witty, funny character interactions and man I could spend hours writing them. It's what I think (hope) I'm best at.

What I'm worst at are descriptions - more specifically scene descriptions. I feel like I can never get a hang of trying to make the characters feel like they're standing in more than a blank, bland room. It's difficult, because it's like I'm trying to shove the image in my head on to the page and into someone else's head. But I know for a fact that they'll never imagine it the same way as me - and that's fine because everyone's brain is different. But trying to find the right words, the right things to focus on when showing a setting, is just ugh. Makes me overthink lol.

14. What is your speed when writing?

This is a mixed bag. And again, something that changed when I started Candlelight. Before then, it took me nearly 3 years to wrangle 80k words of a story I thought was seriously going to be my *pride and joy*. The thing that motivated me. It had depth, it had characters I loved, it was stupidly overcomplicated.

Then Candlelight came along. It's nearly at 200k words in just over 5 months. That's longer than anything I've written before. The closest I've ever come to finishing a story. And - fun fact - none of it is prewritten. Every chapter is written as I go. I post Saturday. I put down a one/two sentence plan Sunday, then Monday to Saturday I write it out. I have about 1-2 hours a day free and I spend them cranking out words. (I have an addiction, seriously. Jaysus) So I'd say I write pretty fast, but only when I have the right motivation.

If you mean literal writing speed: about 105 words per minute (typing tests are fun, sue me).

18. how does what you look for in your own writing vs someone else's coincide? How does your writing influence your reading?

Ooooh these overlap a lot. I'm one of those basic writers who just likes to write what they want to read. I love easy romance, dramatic plots. Sprinklings of ANGST. What I'm writing really influences my reading - I have the attention span of a gnat and to combat this I try and read stuff that is related to what I want to be writing or what I want to be finishing. Otherwise I WILL wander off to write something else. My brain is like a unicycle and the devil rides its pedals.

[imnotcameraready]

more than beliefs (5: mother knows best)

A/N: still trying at this ! i still don't own any tables so honestly, writing has been kinda hard :') but i'm still up to a polished chapter 7 and know VERY well what is happening in chapter 8, so we're looking pretty good. i wrote all of chivalry chapter by chapter so.....hoping this goes well :'D

WARNINGS: manipulation, plotting a murder, paranoia description, blunt force trauma, assault, amnesia, blood, graphic description of violence — this chapter’s the first doozy! if i missed anything, please let me know!

Words: 4378

AO3 link!

enjoy!! <3

“Now, this might be a controversial opinion, but the second Little Mermaid movie is a top-tier Disney sequel,” the Director said, idly mixing a teaspoon around in his hot chocolate.

Roman scoffed. He was sitting on the Director’s couch, wrapped in a blanket while they watched 2005’s Just Like Heaven starring Mark Ruffalo and Reese Witherspoon. The Director had suggested they watch something from Disney, but while Roman loved the whole library of Disney movies lining his shelf, he couldn’t choose which one he wanted. To his surprise, the Director didn’t have a favorite, either. He’d said he was fond of the cookie-cutter damsel in distress narrative of older Disney stories, which Roman tried (and failed) to take offense to, but did agree that many modern movies like Big Hero 6 had interestingly complex and developed stories.

“I just prefer the expansion on oceanic lore. And I’m a sucker for a good parental storyline, when the former protag takes on the motherly role.” The Director took a sip of his coffee.

“And here I thought you weren’t one of my creative advisors,” Roman said with a smirk, crossing his arms upon his pillowy throne.

The Director scoffed, and as he rolled his eyes Roman could have sworn that he was blushing. Maybe he was embarrassed. “Just because I’m not David doesn’t mean I can’t have opinions on works of art,” he sounded dejected—Roman guessed that was fair. The Dragon and Damsel and Child, most obviously, had strong opinions on art yet no artistic inclinations.

It was still up in the air if the Thief did. It didn’t seem like he had many opinions on things that weren’t consequential to Roman’s direct safety, but he was very quiet. Roman didn’t rule out the possibility of the Thief just not wanting to share that information with him, which was….well. Unfortunate.

Roman wished he got to know his advisors better. Ever since they were separated from him, Roman feels like he’s been at the grinding stone with them all. The Thief had spent the whole wedding either swearing or screaming suggestions angrily, and when he wasn’t, he was comforting an incredibly distraught Bard. The Damsel and Playwright tried to help the most but... He had barely even seen the Artist outside of their creative sessions. He had barely seen the Dragon or Child, period.

The Director was an interesting one. Roman had everyone’s phone numbers, because, well, he wasn’t about to use carrier pigeons. Though that might be super cool to try one day. But the Director was just about the only advisor to casually reach out to him. He would send Roman memes. How did he even get memes? Roman and Remus had created an Imagination-version of the internet, so it was likely from their co-sponsored Imagination Tumblr or something. The Director putting in the effort and time to think of Roman during such small instances was what made Roman feel more comfortable here, though. That’s what made him trust the Director with these sorts of situations. Almost made them closer...

Was that selfish? To favor one part of oneself over others? Surely not. It was similar to recognizing flaws, or pimples and blemishes. Not to say any of the others were blemishes. Drats, even Roman’s internal monologue was demeaning to himself.

“Do you want any more coffee? I’m going to go refill,” the Director’s voice jolted Roman out of his stupor, and he looked up with wide eyes.

“No, I’m okay,” and after a small beat, he added, “Thank you again for housing me. I can’t imagine what Phillip would want to say after yesterday’s debacle.”

The Director scoffed. Roman snuggled into his blanket more, listening to the Director pour himself another mug and reply. “Anytime, Roman,” he chuckled, then put on one of the most outlandishly fake accents Roman’s ever heard. “I live to serve~”

“Sto-op,” Roman groaned, throwing his head back and shooting the Director a glare—well, glaring at the kitchen door. There were walls around all of the rooms here, unlike the Mind Palace.

The Director laughed even more when he returned, sitting on the couch with his legs crossed on the cushion. He held his mug in his hands for a few seconds before talking, tone much more sober.

“I do have to say. I’m surprised I was the one you came to.” The Director’s voice is a little more quiet. “I thought for sure you would have sought comfort with Cadence or Gavin before me.”

Roman blinks. “I guess….I didn’t want to be judged again.” He looked back down at his lap, at the blankets piled up there and his own coziness. “Every time I come back after an argument, or after making a fool of myself, it seems everyone has an opinion on how poorly I handled a situation. None of them really acknowledge….It must have been….”

He’d been a little confused about it, too. The trust issue.

“Janus has strung my emotions along enough for it to be fair that I don’t trust him,” Roman said, voice soft as he tried to put how he’d been feeling into words. “Right?”

That was as close an explanation as he could get to. Because it all boiled down to the trust issue, in his understanding of the situation. As much as Patton wanted him to let go of the situation, Patton was focusing on the mustache quip rather than the whole trust thing. Janus knew Roman had wanted to go to the callback. But Roman also wanted to be a good person, if that’s what Thomas wanted. Thomas wanted to be a good person so Roman also wanted to be a good person.

But when being a good person directly went against Thomas’ dreams, Janus stepped in. And sure, he argued that they weren’t supposed to be self-sacrificial, but wasn’t that a hero’s job? When did a hero ever get to keep anything before sacrificing everything? Isn’t that what made sense?

Janus didn’t even do a good job at explaining it, not until all the damage had already been done. This was different from just giving Roman the perfect set up for a theater display, this was Janus pretending that he wanted what Roman wanted. This was Janus pretending to be his friend but wanting Thomas to...be a bad person?

He didn’t understand. Maybe Patton was right. Maybe Roman just didn’t understand. And that’s what made his disgruntlement so confusing, because in his heart, Roman knew Janus was trying to help, he knew that, he understood. But then why did it hurt so much?

“Oh, honey, he’s gone way past that. Don’t gaslight yourself into thinking he’s been helpful,” Macbeth’s icy voice cut through the thoughts wrangling Roman’s mind.

The Director was so self-assured. It was comforting. He was sitting on the couch, arms crossed as he explained.

“And Patton, Logan, turning around just to say you should let it go and listen to him after he’s lied nine times out of ten?” the Director threw his head back and let out a sharp “Hah! No, your anger is rational. And defensible.”

“Why won’t any of the others agree with that?”

The Director starred at Roman for a minute. Just a little too long. His eyes seemed to press Roman into a corner, under a box. Scrutinized.

They both knew that “others” wasn’t a reference to the other Sides. The Director kept his distance from Roman’s other advisors, he knew that, but Roman didn’t know how far. The Director wasn’t the kind to just watch them, was he?

“They all have their opinions. About Disney and otherwise.” He took another drink of his coffee then shook his head, standing up, motioning for Roman to follow, “May I show you….something. Without you thinking I’m crazy?”

Now, that’s always a fairly worrying question to hear. “No, no, I trust you,” Roman said with a slight grin.

The Director must have been able to see how it waned, because he chuckled, smiled back. “I think we’re all a little zany. But that’s the charm. Phillip is undoubtedly the scariest, as much as Draco tries. The Prince, Damsel, whichever you want, has a noticeable villain complex.”

Wait, what?

The Director raised his hands in mock defeat. Showing his hands, like he were trying to assure Roman that he wasn’t being suspicious. But the hairs on Roman’s neck rose. He led Roman to the door just besides Roman’s room. When he first started visiting the Director, he explained that this was his study. Roman had never gone in. Because, you know, when you respect someone you also respect their privacy.

“I’ve only ever spoken to Marlowe, but, you know. I’m the Director of players I can never meet. I had to take notes,” he added the final part quietly.

He glanced over the combination button pad on the door. Roman hadn’t noticed that. What room would require a combination lock? And who would be….Was it to keep him out? Or someone else? Maybe the Playwright, the Director mentioned he’d been over before. Keep anyone out, it seemed.

“I….notes?” he was flabbergasted. What the fuck was happening?

“Yeah.” The Director opened the door slowly and motioned for Roman to follow.

Inside were papers. One wall was a large tackboard, photos and sticky notes and papers pinned up, connected with lines of colored yarn. Roman felt his mouth fall open as he inspected it. There were notes on all of his advisors, all seven of the others, even some of people Roman didn’t know. There was someone with four eyes. Someone with antlers. Who were they? How did this all fit together?

Why in Athena’s name did the Director have corkboard notes on the other advisors? That was a lot more than a little weird.

“I...You’re wonderful, Roman. So productive and pristine and princely, as you deserve to be. But there are some areas where you can stand to improve.” Roman was probably only processing some of the Director’s words as he rolled up his sleeves and pulled out a metal stick, one that looked oddly like a wand.

He held it in one hand, and suddenly it extended, until it was a pointer. The Director held both ends of it and watched Roman for a reaction, a response, something.

“I would have to agree,” Roman stumbled over his words a little, eyes still glued to the notes—there were some by the Child that read ‘Naive/Trusting/Problem?’—before he slowly turned back to the Director with a weak grin once again. “I mean, I might be pristinely princely, but those P alliterations don’t include perfect. No one’s perfect.”

“It may be an unattainable dream, but we’re well familiar with those. We can only strive for improvement! And when improving you and yourself, that means making changes to them,” the Director gestured up at the wall of photos, of the parts of Roman’s self, and smacked the Child’s photo with his pointer. “I actually only thought I would be reading these notes, so forgive me for any, er. Sharp language.”

Roman knew that self-improvement meant adopting new mindsets, but he had no idea that putting parts of himself into characters involved changing them as well, though it did make sense. Self-insert characters had to change if you were changing the self that was being inserted. Right?

If he wanted to improve….it made sense. He had to change himself, including the facets of himself.

“That’s fair,” Roman murmured, “Okay. These….You could take these notes to the other advisors. Surely they’d accept it?”

“At this point, I don’t know who would kill me faster,” the Director scoffed, then gestured at the Damsel’s notes, a cluster of sticky notes and drawings and photos of the Damsel at a well enough distance that it was closer to stalker-ish. “Phillip wouldn’t want competition. Marlowe agrees that he can be quite standoffish when threatened, and a newcomer claiming to be one of Roman’s advisors? Someone who doesn’t have his respect in a royal manner?”

The Director pointed to the Thief now, a even more grave expression adorning his face. “And Eric. Tell me you think he would accept a newcomer of any kind. Just tell me. Especially near Gavin. And the Child himself probably wouldn’t like me.”

Well, that sounded off. Roman leaned on the wall besides the door, back against his hands as he continued to inspect the wall. There were notes on the other advisors’ behaviors, their antics.

For some reason, Roman could almost imagine Janus or Logan doing this. It was something close to weird and something else close to endearing. Was that weird?

“Why not? Gavin’s pretty trusting.” Roman didn’t look away from the wall as he replied.

“In fairness, he might like me, but I don’t know if I could ever come around to liking him. He’s the root source of all our issues, especially our present issue with Janus, Patton, Logan. Even past issues with Remus, if I’m remembering them properly. What Gavin represents allows us to be easily swayed.”

That got Roman to look away, look down at the Director. He was glaring up at the Child’s photo with something fierce, which startled Roman enough. I mean, that was a whole child there. What would inspire this much hatred?

“Really now?” Roman wanted to know.

“He gets us to let our guard down. It’s at Gavin’s behest we take chances, but it’s that same honesty that leads us to broken promises, taking in lies like they’re candy. I don’t know what I would do with him,” the Director sounded disappointed.

That was a fair analysis. All of the advisors—the Playwright, the Thief, the Child, Bard, Artist, Dragon, Damsel, Director—they all represented different parts of Roman, similar to how the Sides represented parts of Thomas. In theory, they worked together. In practice, that was far from the truth, but Roman knew for his sake that they were trying their best.

They all oversaw different parts of Roman’s psyche, too. The Playwright, for example, was most similar to Logan in that he represented Roman’s research and organization, on a creative and egotistical level. The Playwright—Marlowe—could be trusted with knowing how many liters of blood were in the human body as well as every one of the Sides’ favorite karaoke songs, even the exact time and date they met Nico.

The Child was Roman’s belief, his ability to dream. It was fair to assume that that made him the most naïve part. Perhaps it was even a fair conclusion that the debacles with Janus were caused by what the Child represented.

Roman hadn’t thought of it like that. The last time he’d talked to the Child, Gavin, about the situation, he had seem incredibly disappointed.

He’d never stopped to ask what the Child was disappointed in, though. Was he disappointed in Roman? Or in himself? Did the Child know he was the one who had pushed Roman to trust Janus? Did….There was no way that this was….the Child’s fault. Was it?

“Huh.” Roman’s voice echoed emptily to himself. A pit opened in his stomach, something difficult to grasp. The root cause of his burdens couldn’t be his ability to dream. His dreams themselves, his hopes, his beliefs. He….he was the daydreamer, the creator. That couldn’t be a flaw, could it?

The Director watched him, but Roman hardly noticed. It was only for a few seconds, too, of stoic silence before the Director interrupted his thoughts with a huff, looked across the board. “This is quite a bit of insight at once. Maybe we should finish the movie.”

“Director?”

Roman and the Director both turned to the open doorway, the later slapping a hand over his own mouth immediately. With a flick of his wrist, the door closed quietly, clicking just loud enough for the both of them to hear. They also heard the Playwright in the living room, footsteps echoing faintly on the stone floor.

“Director?” the Playwright called out again.

“Fuck,” the Director whispered. This must have been an unplanned visit.

“What? We can just go out and say hello,” Roman said back, though his demeanor and body language spoke of worry, almost fear.

The Playwright was well known to be a pacifist. And the Playwright knew about the Director, knew about Roman knowing the Director. He was a little surprised to find that the Playwright didn’t know the Director’s name was Macbeth, but Roman knew the Director to be a man of secrets.

“He doesn’t know I….He doesn’t know you’re here. He barely knows we talk,” the Director looked around the room and pressed a hand to one of the walls, “Fuck. How are we going to get him out?”

The rock beneath the Director’s hand morphs into a doorway and he opens it. The Playwright was standing in the living room, close to the front door to the home. He looked up at them both, eyes widening when he met Roman’s. Before Roman could say anything, even think of something to say, the Playwright spoke with ease.

“Roman’s here? Thank goodness. Virgil’s come looking for him,” he gave Roman a small smile, strained but caring all the same.

“Ah.” Roman stiffened. Virgil came looking for him? In the Imagination? Why? How? He didn’t have his own passage into this space yet, how’d he get here?

He didn’t want to talk to Virgil. As supportive as he’d been, especially when it came to taking care of Thomas, there were still some areas where Roman wanted to be alone, wanted to process his thoughts alone. Virgil was...vindictive. Which was a strong word to use, but an apt one. Virgil’s distaste in Janus made it hard for Roman to form his own thoughts, which was why he often tried away from Virgil as much as Patton.

He wasn’t ready for that kind of confrontation, and the Director must have been able to tell, because he physically looked like he didn’t want Roman to go.

“I actually didn’t expect to find you here, though I’m not entirely surprised,” the Playwright must not have been privy to these feelings, glancing between the Director and Roman, shock still gracing his features.

“Really now,” the Director said, tilting his head, “Why not?”

“I just didn’t know Roman had met you, but of course, even I’m not as omniscient as Creativity himself,” the Playwright stepped closer, reaching toward Roman. “You have to come up, though. Virgil said everyone’s worried.”

Roman starred at the Playwright’s hand, unsure of what to do with the gesture. He knew everyone would be worried, on a baseline. Closed doors didn’t do well around the Mind Palace, especially his, especially after his splitting incident, but that didn’t mean he had to cater to everyone else’s worry. He was allowed privacy.

Before he formulated a response, though, the Director placed a hand in front of Roman. His smile toward the Playwright turned sour, lips pursed in a mix of thought and anger.

“He doesn’t have to go see Virgil if he doesn’t want to.” Roman felt some of the tension in his shoulder alleviate at the Director’s statement, as basic as it was.

The Playwright, on the other hand, didn’t seem to understand. He looked between Roman and the Director again, surprised even further by how familiar they seemed. There had been a fair amount of transparency in Roman’s relationships with all of the other advisors that there must be some dissonance to see him be so familiar with someone he hadn’t even expected Roman to know. Something about that surprise, the bait and switch, the lie, felt fulfilling.

“It wouldn’t be difficult to alleviate Virgil’s worried and tell him to leave again,” the Playwright explained slowly. “I’m sure, if Roman told him he wanted privacy, he would understand.”

“I’m sure, if Virgil could understand that, then he wouldn’t have tread where he shouldn’t. You can’t make him do anything.” The Director’s voice grew darker, hand unwavering.

“Make him?” the Playwright sounded so confused.

Roman was also confused where the Director’s notion came from, but it was validating to hear reminders that Roman’s decisions were his to make. But nothing in the Playwright’s tone was forceful.

For a moment, it seemed as though the Playwright would drop his confusion.

Until he took a step forward, toward the Director and Roman, with one hand outstretched. Roman didn’t know what he’d been planning, but he knew the Playwright wasn’t a sporadic man. He hated adding physicality to situations where debate and discussion could suffice. So, in hindsight, it was likely the Playwright was reaching out to make peace.

The moment passed in mere seconds.

He was taller than the Director by a noticeable few inches, so the Director bent his knees. He pushed Roman behind him with his outstretched arm, acting faster than either Roman or the Playwright could react to. The Director stuck his leg out and grabbed the Playwright by the fabric of his shirt, behind his neck. The Playwright, surprised by the sudden movements, tripped on his leg and let out a sharp gasp of surprise.

Besides them was the living room coffee table. As the Playwright fell, the Director redirected his head toward the table, shoving him away from Roman.

It felt very spur of the moment, and it happened in a true moment. The Playwright let out a scream, sharp and fearful, before his forehead collided with the edge of the metal table. He fell beneath it unconscious. Blood pooled at the Director’s feet as he stood back up.

Roman’s hands shot to his face immediately, as soon as the Playwright started falling, and he could only stare in horror at the scene. The Director, too, seemed shocked at his own reaction. He starred at his blood-stained socks for a little while, breathing heavy enough for Roman to hear. It must be the adrenaline.

“I,” the Director’s voice caught in his throat.

Roman watched. Just watched. The Director swallowed, turning around to face Roman with a mirroring horrified expression, eyes wide with surprise. “You have to make him forget.”

“What?” Roman’s voice was strained, almost a whisper, and he cleared his throat to repeat. “Excuse me?”

What kind of request….?

“If Marlowe remembers this, we’re fucked. He knows you’re here. He’s going to think I attacked him. I-I did attack him,” The Director took a slow breath, turning to look at the body on the ground before shaking his head—unable to look. “David is going to kill me.

“Make him forget. He can stay here. For a bit. We can figure this out,” he put his hands up towards Roman. “We-The other Sides’re gonna follow Virgil. We both know that. And, uh. Only Marlowe knew I was here. So we’ve got time to figure out how to, uh. Play this off.”

Roman starred at him with wide eyes. The past two days had been such a long mess, he didn’t know what to do. Physically, he could remove the Playwright memories. He’d be a blank slate of a character, only backstory. What would that do? The Playwright’s backstory was that he was the Playwright. He didn’t have some elaborate parent-death or chosen-one-esque story that he could fall back on. Poor bastard wasn’t even the one who had Roman’s memories prior.

But the Director was right, in a way. If they wanted more time to think about everything—the other Sides were looking for him? How did Virgil get in here? Why would he be looking for Roman, it wasn’t uncommon for him to stomp away from a verbal duel, why now?—then they couldn’t have the Playwright ratting them out.

When he manipulated the Imagination directly, his powers were red. Remus’ were green. It was distinctive. So when Roman sank down, put a hand on the back of the Playwright’s head, his hand turned red.

It blended in with the blood.

Roman felt vile. He had to do this, or else the others would find him. A quiet, dull part of his mind told him that didn’t matter but….he didn’t want to be found. He didn’t.

He pulled gently, as though tugging the thoughts out, and something glistened red and gold as he did. Then, Roman let it go, and it disappeared. It reminded him a little of Dumbledore pulling his own memories out in Harry Potter. Roman didn’t feel much the chosen one, either, though.

“There,” he said quietly.

The Director let out a soft breath. It didn’t sound like either of them knew what to do, to be fair. Maybe the Director hadn’t even expected this.

“I’ll….here.” The Director looked up and pointed at the wall behind the couch.

The couch scooted forward a little, enough for there to be a walkway behind it, and the room simultaneously pulled away from the couch. Then, a door formed on the wall. It clicked once, then swung open. Another room.

Roman stood still, staring at his hands—was that magic or blood?—while the Director leaned down to pick the Playwright up. The man hadn’t moved since being bludgeoned by the table.

“Under the sink in the bathroom is a first aid kit,” the Director said, voice stoic, taking the reins on the situation, “I’ll make him a bedroom and bandage his head. Then he can stay for a day or two. We must figure out what to do, about the other Sides and about Marlowe.”

That was fair. He’d only stay a little.

Dimly, Roman remembered that this was the Imagination, he mastered this world, so he could technically get rid of the Playwright’s wound. He could get rid of his memory and the wound and send him right back to his home, right back to the Artist, good as normal and none the wiser.

But….something in the back of his head stopped him. And the Director pulled him into the other room faster than Roman could overcome whatever clouded thoughts were plaguing him.

[veliseraptor]

2020 Fanfiction Round-Up

I do one of these every year! And have since I think 2016. Can’t break a tradition even if it’s been a clusterfuck of a time and filling this out was in some ways an exercise in remembering the ways I have failed myself as a writer this year. 

But oh well!

Total Year-Long Wordcount: I’ll post the final final number tonight after I finish the writing I want to do this afternoon (and plan to do this afternoon), but it’s currently 451,803 words written this year. Guessing I’m going to land somewhere around 453,000ish. (AO3 claims a higher number than that but that’s because it is counting the entirety of fics where I posted chapters this year.

This year I wrote and posted: I wrote a fair number more than I posted (there are five fics finished but for various reasons unposted on my hard drive) but based on Tumblr I posted 78 posts in my fic tag, which, not including chapter specific updates and three sentence meme answers (but including at least two Tumblr-only longer fics), probably comes out to about 60 or so “full length” fics that saw the light of day in 2020.

Overall Thoughts

Looking back, did you write more fic than you thought you would this year, less, or about what you’d predicted? 

Well, I wrote more than I did last year, which is sort of a surprise to me (all things considered) but also maybe not, because I was doing a lot less of most other things that could’ve been occupying my time, including two hours daily of commuting. 

But still less than I did in 2018. Which is fine.

What’s your own favorite story of the year? 

Lord, I don’t know. It depends on when you ask me. Lately I’ve been in a bit of a “I hate everything I’ve written ever” state of mind, so that makes it sort of hard to do any kind of...reasonable assessment. 

I know I’m proud of With Absolute Splendor but I have all these reservations about it and I can’t reread it for the most part because I always notice new things I wish I’d done differently. I feel pretty good about efforts in a common cause but something about it still makes me cringe, which I suspect has to do with my general self-consciousness. I have a hard time feeling unreservedly proud about...anything I wrote this year, really. 

I feel like the closest I get is maybe nor autumn falter which I am pretty pleased with and also which does hurt me a lot personally. Or I did end up overall pretty pleased with what came out of By Proxy.

But also the more I look at this question the more I start hating all my own work, so...guess this is kind of coming at a bad time.

Did you take any writing risks this year? What did you learn from them?

I mean, I started writing in my first non-English fandom in many years, and specifically one where I was trying to engage more with the cultural background of the setting (in a way I wasn’t with, say, Death Note, when I was writing Death Note fic). So that was a risk. And I learned that it’s very stressful and there’s so many ways to make mistakes and I am, in many ways, a coward. But also I think I’ve learned a fair amount thanks to a lot of very patient people on the internet, so...there’s that.

Otherwise...I mean, I got ambitious with a few projects this year (the Big Bang fic and With Absolute Splendor stand out), but I’m not sure how much I really tried new things. 

I feel like I had to fight myself a little on writing straight up bad sex for By Proxy - I planned on it being hot, and it really wasn’t. It was mostly just miserable. Which made for a better fic, but was a new experience for me as far as ‘I thought I was going to write porn and that isn’t what I wrote.’

From my past year of writing, what was….

My most popular story of this year: 

By far, With Absolute Splendor. In fact, it has now become my second most kudosed fic of all time, behind only fuckin Life in Reverse. So like. That’s a thing.

(It is still less than half as many as Life in Reverse, but for context Life in Reverse has been around for going on eight years.)

Most fun story to write: 

Most fics where I feel like “I’m having so much fun writing this!” also go through a “oh god I hate this it’s terrible” phase which makes this sort of hard to assess. But I did have overall a lot of fun writing Mutual Friends despite all my frustration with the canon-wrangling I had to do to make it work in my head. 

But also I feel like both Retributive Justice and Embedded were in different ways deeply iddy fics that were just fun to write. That actually goes for a lot of the Whumptober fics. That was a very self-indulgent month. Excited to do it again in February (hopefully, if I can write things in a timely manner at all).

Story with the single sexiest moment: 

I feel like the beauty of your repair might be my personal favorite smut I posted this year, but I think my personal favorite that I wrote is in the big bang fic nobody will see until January. 

I feel like most of the sexiest moments I’ve written this year are in the porn fics I’m going to start posting in January also. But just generally I feel like the beauty of your repair is the sexiest thing I wrote and posted.

Most “Holy crap, that’s wrong, even for you” story: 

I mean, I Come With Knives is definitely up there. It’s not that wrong or anything, but it got pretty intense in some ways I wasn’t expecting. Mostly in how much blood got involved, which was actually more than I’d had it involved in a sex thing before! Kind of surprises me that I haven’t previously done more with bloodplay stuff but. Well. First time for everything!

I don’t think this was a year that really had any “wow, what the fuck, Lise” things in it. Nothing on the level of last year’s winner. I’m almost disappointed in myself.

Abattoir was definitely the story that generated the weirdest conversation and creepiest search questions, though, so it does get points for that. 

Story that shifted my own perceptions of the characters: 

I feel like the writing of everyone else is spring bound was a lot of...me thinking through my Jiang Cheng feelings and specifically my Jiang Cheng post-canon feelings. 

the martyr, the victim was pretty formative in shaping how I think about both Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji and their relationship with each other. It was the first fic I wrote that really dug into them in any way, I think, and definitely one that informed how I thought about writing Lan Xichen later.

Hardest story to write: 

I was thinking it was the one that I haven’t posted yet but I did technically finish, aka my Big Bang fic, the terrible threesome fic, the massive “I’m gonna keep everyone in the Yi City arc alive” AU that I started shortly after finishing The Untamed and finished in December. So I spent most of the year writing it.

But then I was like - no, I’m going to have to go with we live until we die even though it’s technically been ‘in progress’ for five years and really kicked into gear in 2019 and I just finished it and posted it this year, because that fic was like. The culmination of a big arc in an enormous verse dealing with a whole lot of balls in the air and trying to tie up a whole lot of threads. It was ambitious and the stakes were high and it was full of plot and action which are not two of my strengths...frankly I’m still amazed I pulled the damn thing off.

Biggest Disappointment: 

I think it is better if I refrain from going too in depth on this because it would just end up as me listing a bunch of my perceived failings. But I think off the top of my head I’m frustrated by the fact that I still haven’t really managed to write a XueXiao smut fic that quite hits the spot for me, myself. I’ve written two and for various reasons I don’t really like either of them. 

Biggest Surprise: 

The fact that my Jiang Cheng fic took off the way it did. Legitimately did not see that coming! At all! I mean, I’m delighted by it but it wasn’t what I saw happening as far as “niche I’d find in this fandom” or “thing I’d write that people would really enjoy reading.”

Particularly with By Proxy. That fic got a lot more attention than I would’ve expected. 

Most Unintentionally Telling Story: 

I feel like every fic I write with Xue Yang in it tells you something about me and most of those things are things that make me, on some level, deeply self-conscious, but I try not to think about that too much.  

I feel like the most telling story is maybe we all drift sometimes because I literally wrote it out of a depressive episode about a bad brain day but that wasn’t unintentional.

Favorite Opening Line(s):

1. So it turned out that if you touched the tendons of a dead person’s wrist and channeled a little bit of spiritual energy just right, it made the fingers twitch and curl like they were still alive. (Abattoir)

2. Here’s the thing: your Daozhang is glorious when he kills. (tear out all your tenderness)

3. Turned out that a sect leader’s head came off like anyone else’s. (Unnatural Selection)

4. The first hint that anything had gone awry was the letter from Lan Wangji (His Excellency Hanguang-jun, pardon me) that simply said have you heard from Wei Ying? (some good mistakes)

5. What Jiang Cheng wanted to do, more than anything, was to go home and take a nap. (everyone else is spring bound)

Favorite Line(s) from Anywhere:

I usually keep this to 10 but because I’ve been in such a :| place about my own writing I indulged myself this once.

1. Sometimes it felt like all he had done since descending the mountain was shatter his own dreams and accumulate regrets. (nor autumn falter)

**

2. It felt like she was holding all the components of a bomb in her hands, half assembled. If she moved the right way they would stay just that: components. But if she moved the wrong way… (til my judgment day)

**

3. He should have killed him. Should have been the one to strike that blow, in revenge for Jin Zixuan and their sister and everyone else dead for Wei Wuxian’s pride. Maybe then there would not be this gnawing, aching thing embedded in his chest; this itching, unfinished feeling. Maybe then he would not feel torn in two, sometimes like he should have reached out with his other hand and sometimes like he should have struck truer and sometimes both, in the same moment. (Interstitial)

**

4. He owed Wei Wuxian more than he could ever give back in this lifetime. Forgiving him felt like betraying his sister’s memory. Not forgiving him felt like trying to walk with a thorn in his foot. He was just - stuck, caught like a demon in a spiritual net.

Jiang Cheng thought of the way Wei Wuxian looked at Lan Wangji, with warmth and trust and love, and the aching, sick jealousy he had no right to feel returned. He felt a little like a child watching someone pick up a toy he’d abandoned and suddenly realizing that he wanted it back. (everyone else is spring bound)

**

5. You close your eyes and think about how he looked back in that town, Shuanghua slicing clean through a man’s neck, opening it to the spine, and think dizzily that he could open you like that and it’d be good, as long as it lasted. (tear out all your tenderness)

**

6. When Wangji loved, he loved with his whole being, without reserve. And now he had been placed between the rock of his convictions and the hard place of his devotion to Wei Wuxian. (the martyr, the victim)

**

7. He spent a week turning the idea over in his head. Studying it like a corpse he was going to dissect, poking at it, cutting it open and examining its insides. (dead reckoning)

**

8. When the world hurt you, that was the only thing to do, after all. Hurt it back, harder, worse. Spill rivers of blood for every drop it squeezed from you.

And when the end came, never go quietly. (the blood in your mouth)

**

9. I would stand with you through the end of the world, said Loki’s voice in his head, and Steve’s heart wasn’t in his chest anymore, was somewhere off on another planet where Loki was lying dead in a ruined city. (we live until we die)

**

10. Was it always going to be like this? Stumbling into traps, tripping over familiar skeletons, slicing himself open on the edges of old hurts. Was there really such a thing as leaving the past behind? He still felt stuck in it, unable to move, and every time he thought he might be finally dragging himself free something pulled him back. (With Absolute Splendor)

**

11. His chest was full of poison. His throat was full of grief. And he was still a little drunk.

Jiang Cheng went to his room, sat down on his bed, put his face in his hands, and cried until he couldn’t breathe. (By Proxy)

Top 5 Scenes from Anywhere You Would Choose to Have Illustrated:

I think the scene from nor autumn falter of Xiao Xingchen just crying his heart out over Xue Yang’s dead body would be up there.

The Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian hug from the end of With Absolute Splendor.

Okay, just gonna say it: Xue Yang and Jin Guangyao having sex by the table with Nie Mingjue’s headless corpse on it. So sue me.

The scene in the blood in your mouth where Song Lan has stabbed Xue Yang and Xiao Xingchen is following the line of Fuxue to the latter. I have a very clear visual of it in my head and if I could art I’d art it.

Xue Yang with the hallucinatory Xiao Xingchen from liberate spirits, liberate souls.

Fic-writing goals for 2021:

Finish Walking Far From Home.

Maybe I’ll finish some of these MCU WIPs? I’d kind of like to, on an abstract level if nothing else.

Become a more well-adjusted human being about the relationship between my productivity and my self-worth.

[flyinghome-againstthewind]

Holly, Ivy, Mistletoe

Part of the 12 Days of OL Ficmas. Read on ao3.

Set in the TBBFIY ‘verse, between chapters 4 and 5. Can function as a standalone if you’ve never read TBBFIY! Taking a break from the current plot and looking back, this is pure unadulterated holiday fluff. Please enjoy!  

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

Holly, ivy, mistletoe, 

and the gently falling snow

Truth and love and hope abide

This Christmastide

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

December 1744

“I want Christmas,” she told him one day.  

“What?” 

“Christmas.” Her eyes were alight with a sudden urgency and hope, and he couldn’t for the life of him conjure up any sort of response. 

“I know it’s not a big holiday here ‒ I know we’ll have Hogmanay in a few weeks, but… it’s Faith’s first Christmas and Fergus’s first one with our family and I didn’t realize… I haven’t‒” She shook her head suddenly and those bright eyes turned wistful. “I didn’t think it mattered, but I haven’t had a family Christmas since I was very small and now that we have the children with us,” she shrugged one shoulder and gave him a wobbly little smile that had his heart tumbling in his chest. 

“Now that we’re a family of our own… I want Christmas,” she leaned up on her toes to kiss him, soft and quick, like the brush of a wing. “With you. With our family.” 

“Christmas,” he echoed the word gently against her lips before sealing it with a kiss. “Aye, Sassenach,” he sighed with mock graveness, struggling to hide his smile. “I suppose we can have yer pagan holiday if it’ll make ye happy. That is, if Jenny doesna run us out of here for suggesting it.”  

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

“Celebrate Christmas?” Jenny pulled a face, which drew a sigh from Jamie. Ian didn’t outright object but even he looked uneasy at the suggestion. Though it hadn’t been outlawed since well before any of them were born, most in the Highlands still frowned upon celebrating Yuletide. “Whatever for?” 

“They dinna celebrate Hogmanay where Claire grew up. Instead, she had Christmas.” Jamie straightened up a little. “And ye ken how it is once there’s little ones, Janet‒” 

“Oh don’t ‘Janet’ me‒” 

“Claire wants us to start our own traditions here.” 

“I dinna think the tenants would think well about it,” Ian said cautiously. 

“The tenants dinna need to ken how we spend our day. Claire wants it just to be our family here.” 

Ian absorbed this while Jenny’s brows furrowed together. “Ye ken that doesna give us much time between then and Hogmanay, and I’m already preparing for that.” 

“I will help Claire with any preparation for Christmas. I’m no’ asking ye to give time where ye dinna have any to give. I’m only telling ye both so ye ken ye’re expected to participate, and give ye well enough time to come around to the idea.” 

Jenny cocked her head at him. “Never thought I’d see the day,” she teased. “What’s next? Converting to the Church of England?” 

Jamie let out a bark of laugh at that. He hadn’t missed the brief twitch of Jenny’s mouth, wanting to smile but stubbornly refusing. “My wife is Catholic. And I’ll remind ye that you said yerself ye didna mind Claire’s Englishness so much.” 

“Och aye, when we were being invaded by the Watch and them about to blow a hole through yer head, aye, I said that.” 

Jamie chuckled, clocking the faint smile from Jenny before she sighed. “It’s one day,” he said softly, his gaze shifting between Jenny and Ian. “And it would mean the world to yer sister-in-law if ye embraced it. And it willna take away from Hogmanay. Claire only wants Christmas as a family.” 

Jenny and Ian shared a look, having long since developed a way of having an entire conversation conveyed in just one glance. “If it makes ye happy, mo bhràthair…” Jenny shook her head at him, but a soft smile played at her lips. “I suppose my niece is half-English, and it’s only fair.”

Jamie grinned broadly. “Claire will be verra happy to hear that.” 

“But for heaven’s sake,” Jenny hollered after him as he turned to leave. “Not a word of this to anyone else!” 

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

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” Claire muttered under her breath. 

“What’s wrong?” Jamie asked. 

Fergus’s head poked out from the other side of Jamie where they all sat on the sofa. “Did you mess up your stitches, Milady?” 

She frowned at the boy, which only drew an impish smile out of him. When Fergus had noticed Jamie giving Claire her first lesson in knitting, he had decided that if Jamie could do it, so could he. Claire was admittedly getting the hang of it but Fergus had outpaced her as he took to it immediately. 

“It’s just this one part…” She grumbled. She had also, admittedly, taken on perhaps more than she should have with her newly-learned skill. But with Christmas only a few weeks away, she wanted to make something for a gift. The product of her own two hands, born out of love. So she had started working on a simple frock for Faith, throwing herself headlong into a project beyond her level of skill.      

Jamie’s hands came over hers, helping her hold the needles. “Ye almost have it, Sassenach…” He leaned in close, pressing a kiss to her temple when he released her. She felt a warm, fluttery feeling in her stomach. 

“I have faith in you, Milady,” Fergus offered up, his head now bent over his own work. She glanced over at his progress ‒ the first in a pair of wrist warmers. He’d already finished a set previously.  

“That looks wonderful! How are you so quick?” 

He looked positively proud, especially when Jamie ruffled his hair. “Aye, well done, laddie.” 

“Who is that for, Fergus?” Claire teased. They had told him he didn’t need to give gifts on Christmas unless he wanted to, that they would have gifts for him either way, but Fergus had taken to the idea quite quickly. 

He turned away from them slightly, trying to hide his work. “Never you mind, Milady,” he said in a sing-song voice that drew chuckles from both of them.  

-------------------------------   

A heavy snow came one day, forcing them all inside except when tending to the animals. Claire stood by the window in their bedroom with Faith, looking out at the snow covered hills and trees, before she turned and settled in a chair by the fire to feed Faith. Jamie came and found them a short time later. 

“We should get a tree,” she said softly by way of greeting. “Something to put up in the parlor. And the boys can help us decorate it.” She paused long enough to kiss Jamie when he bent down to silently ask for one. His hand gently cupped the back of Faith’s head where she was situated at her mother’s breast to feed before he sat down in the chair opposite Claire. 

“A tree, hmm?” He leaned back in his seat, feet stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. 

“Yes,” she exhaled a smile, her gaze dropping to the baby in her arms. “I was just thinking it would be lovely to have one when we’re cooped up inside on a day like today. Something festive to brighten up the place.”  

“We can get ye a tree,” he agreed easily.

“Thank you.” 

“What’s it like in yer time?” he asked after a moment of quiet. “Christmas, that is. How did ye celebrate?”

“Well,” Claire took a deep breath, not sure where to begin. “It’s not unlike Hogmanay in that there’s usually a Christmas feast, lots of holiday cheer and the sort. But we hang stockings by the fire on Christmas Eve, telling children that Father Christmas will fill their stockings with presents for them while they sleep.” 

“Father Christmas?” 

“A legendary bringer of gifts.” She smiled broadly at his confusion. “It was just a tale, Jamie. It was the parents who placed the gifts under the tree and filled their stockings. Which means you’ll be helping me on Christmas Eve after the children go to bed.” 

“Oh, so I’m Father Christmas, aye?” 

She laughed so hard at this, she startled poor Faith. “Something like that.” 

“And what else, Sassenach?” 

“Hmm, well… I went to Mass on Christmas Eve, except for some of the years I was with Uncle Lamb. I do miss the Christmas carols sometimes, actually…” 

“Sing one for me.’ 

“No.” Claire shook her head adamantly, but a smile played at her lips. “Oh! And we would read A Christmas Carol every year, Uncle Lamb and I. It’s a story about a wealthy old man who… well he’s downright cantankerous and mean in the beginning. His heart is closed off to people, even his family. And so he’s visited by three ghosts on Christmas Eve ‒ the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future ‒ to show him what truly mattered in this life. How people were worth living for and wealth didn’t truly enrich us. How there was always a chance to change, to be kinder and generous… I always liked that story. Uncle Lamb wasn’t one for making a fuss at Christmas, but that was our one tradition, wherever we were in the world.”  

“Sounds lovely that ye had that with him.”

Claire made a soft sound of agreement. “I miss that. I miss him, especially at Christmas.”   

Jamie sighed and if she weren’t feeding Faith at that moment, she was sure he would’ve tried to comfort her in some way. 

“It’s alright. I’ll always miss my uncle, but I’m grateful for the years I had with him.” 

“I feel similarly when it’s Hogmanay,” Jamie admitted. “I canna help but remember what it was like with my mam, my brother Willie… or even after we lost them but we still had our da…” His gaze settled on Faith and he smiled sadly. “There’s so many folks I wish she could’ve met. But we have our memories of them that we can share with her as she grows. And our traditions that we can give to her as well.”       

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

It was a cold and clear day when Jamie and Claire wrangled a few of the children for the tree hunt. The snow had lingered on the ground, about ankle-deep, and they trudged through it as they headed for the woods. 

Fergus, Rabbie, and wee Jamie took the task of selecting their tree with grave responsibility. Murtagh joined them, an axe slung over one shoulder while he pondered how they had ended up in this mess, preparing for Yuletide. 

Jamie led them to a patch of evergreen trees and then it was up to Claire and the boys to find the right one. 

And that was how a seven foot Scots pine came to be Lallybroch’s first Christmas tree. It was a marvelous tree, Jamie thought. Once set up in a corner of the parlor, Claire and the boys decorated it with ribbons, berries, and candles.  

Other bits of greenery made their way into the house after that ‒  evergreen trappings along the mantels and around windows, holly wreaths on doors, sprigs of ivy twined together with holly berries and pine cones to adorn their tables. 

“And you can keep them up through Hogmanay, if you’d like,” Claire added helpfully to Jenny. 

It hadn’t taken much time at all for Claire to bring a little Christmas cheer, as she’d say, into the Lallybroch farmhouse. And she had been right ‒ the Christmas tree was a thing of pride for the children, who marveled at it daily whenever they entered the parlor. On dreary December days, it made the house feel warmer somehow. 

But when Jamie caught Claire standing precariously on a chair trying to hang a bit of greenery from the entryway to the dining room, he thought perhaps the decorating could be reigned in a little ‒ it wasn’t anything worth risking injury over. 

“What are ye doing, Sassenach?” He held her firmly by the waist to keep her anchored.

“Perfect. Thank you, love. Almost finished.”

He huffed loudly, but she seemed to miss it. 

“There!” She declared triumphantly before stepping down from the chair and pushing it out of the way. 

“Is it really necessary‒” he was in the process of speaking when suddenly it was she who held him by the hips and was busy arranging him in some particular spot. “What are ye doing?” He asked again with a little more exasperation than before. 

Claire only grinned and looked up at the sprig above their heads. “Making sure we’re both standing perfectly under the mistletoe.” 

She had him around his waist now, their bodies flush together, and she swayed with him slightly. 

“Why do we need tae stand perfectly under the mistletoe?” He had his own responding smile now, too enamored with the feel of her in his arms to care about why they had arrived here. 

“Because…” her hands came around his shoulders and settled at the back of his neck, tugging him down to her. “Now we can do this.” 

She smiled into their kiss, slow and lingering as they swayed again in the entryway. 

“I see,” Jamie said brightly once they’d parted. “Ye didna tell me about this Christmas tradition, Sassenach.” He leaned in to kiss her once more, a little less chaste than before. “Ye ken, I think I like this one best.” 

-------------------------------  

On the day of Christmas Eve, Claire instructed each of the children to fetch one of their stockings to hang by the fire. They tore through the house together like a pack of wild dogs with Maggie on Claire’s hip and the boys excitedly at her side. 

Jamie watched them up in the hallway from his seat in the parlor as Faith curled up on his chest. He heard the moment the last stocking had been fetched for they all poured back into the hallway with a shout and Fergus raced ahead in his excitement. Wee Jamie tried to catch up with his much shorter legs but had to slow down on the stairs, holding tight to the banister. Claire followed patiently behind with Maggie and soon their raucous tribe was standing in front of the fireplace, stockings in hand. 

Faith lifted her head and watched them curiously.  

Claire began to explain why they hung their stockings by the fire on Christmas Eve as Fergus put his up, and she helped Maggie with hers. Jamie watched as Fergus then lifted Wee Jamie to hang up his, while Claire pulled Faith’s stocking from her pocket and let Maggie help with that one as well. 

They stood back and admired their work ‒ four wee stockings all in a row. Jamie felt his heart swell with gratitude and great joy that this family had Claire and she had them. Oblivious to the way he watched her, Claire shifted Maggie higher in her arms and pressed a kiss to the girl’s round cheek. Christ, he loved them, his wife and the niece that she brought into the world.  

Fergus leaned over then and murmured to Claire that he knew that Père Noël wasn’t real but he wouldn’t tell the little ones. Jamie caught Claire’s sad sigh as she put her arm around Fergus’s shoulders and bent her head closer to his, but whatever she whispered to him was kept between Fergus and Claire. 

Wee Jamie leaned suddenly against his uncle’s knee, pulling Jamie’s focus from his wife. “Gonna have presents in our stockings tomorrow, Unca Jamie!” 

“Aye, I heard. Isna it wonderful ye have yer Auntie Claire here? Otherwise we wouldna ken to hang up our stockings.”

“Aye.” Wee Jamie nodded, glancing over along with his uncle to the woman in mention. 

“What?” Claire’s gaze shifted between both Jamies. “Why are you both staring at me?” 

“Because ye’re wonderful, Auntie Claire!” Wee Jamie grinned, earnest in his words and also in his excitement to use such a long word.  

Her face flushed a faint pink at the boy’s words, visibly pleased to have his approval.     

Later that night, after the children had been put to bed, Jamie helped Claire fill the children’s stockings with fruit and treats and small gifts. 

“Faith’s is so small,” Claire giggled as she tucked a wooden rattle in there that took up most of the space. Jamie grinned, too. 

“Aye and Fergus’s looks as though it belongs to a giant next to these wee ones.” 

“Try and stuff a few more of those smaller candies into Jamie’s, I’m worried he’ll be jealous of Fergus getting more simply because his stocking can hold more.” 

Jamie chuckled and did as Claire suggested. “Do ye remember hanging yer stocking by fire when ye were a lass, mo chridhe?” he asked, genuinely curious. 

She smiled faintly, her gaze turning soft as she filled Maggie’s stocking. “I do. I remember coming down the stairs in the morning and seeing my stocking filled to the brim when it had been empty the night before and...” she shrugged one shoulder. “It’s a silly thing. I know now it was my parents. But it felt… it felt like magic.” Her gaze flicked over to his and she smiled softly. “Of course I’ve had Christmases since then and good ones at that, but this year with the children… I want them to have those memories. And I feel like I’ve been chasing that feeling of the last Christmas I had with my parents.” 

“And have ye found it?” 

“Well,” she stepped into the circle of his arms and her hand came to rest on his shoulder. He was all too happy to hold her, pressing a kiss to her hair. “It’s not Christmas just yet. I guess we’ll have to see what tomorrow brings,” she said coyly. Her expression turned tender just before she kissed him. “But I think there’s a good chance that I have found it, Jamie,” she whispered against his lips. 

“Good,” he murmured when she pulled back before chasing her lips again. “Ye ken ye make those bairns so happy, aye? They all look at ye like ye hung the stars in the sky.” She seemed to melt under his gaze and ducked her head to rest on his shoulder, but the sigh that escaped her was happily reassuring that she did, indeed, know. “The babes may no’ remember this year’s Christmas, but Fergus will and mebbe wee Jamie, too. Ye’re giving them their own memories and starting traditions that they’ll have for years to come, Sassenach.” 

She kissed him softly then, her hands framing his face, and murmured a quiet “thank you” against his lips. 

“For what?” 

“Oh, for letting me throw the whole house into a tizzy preparing for a holiday your family would rather not celebrate,” she laughed. Her fingers traced the lines of his jaw and he waited, sensing there was more. “For giving me your family wholeheartedly from the time we wed and for…” she shrugged her shoulders. “For everything, Jamie. I’ve loved these last few weeks. More than I can say.” 

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

“Sassenach.”

Claire grunted at the heavy rumble of Jamie’s voice in her ear, pulling her from sleep. “Not yet.” 

“Claire.” There was laughter in his voice that she didn’t care for. She refused to open her eyes, though she could feel the likelihood of falling back to sleep slipping away from her. 

“What?” She could hear how thoroughly British that one syllable sounded once it escaped her. 

Jamie’s lips tickled her skin just below her ear at the same time that she registered the feel of Faith’s little hands grasping fistfuls of her nightgown right by her hip. “Ye have to wake up. It’s Christmas.” 

She rolled over at that, finding Jamie’s beaming face and Faith in his arms, her little hands waving wildly. 

“Thought we should get up soon if we want tae see the weans with their stockings.” 

“Of course,” she agreed, shaking her head to try and clear the fog of sleep. “Here, I’ll take Faith. She’s probably hungry.”

He passed her over as Claire pushed herself up against the headboard. “And I’ll go down and make sure Fergus doesna tear into his stocking before we’re ready.” 

“Sounds like a plan,” she smiled. 

With Jamie slipping out of the room, it was only Claire and Faith and a few moments of stillness. “Merry Christmas, lovey,” she murmured to a bright-eyed Faith, bringing the baby up to her face for a loud, smacking kiss to the girl’s cheek and then pretending to nibble on her ear. Faith burst into a fit of giggles, and the sound made Claire positively melt.

“Oh my darling girl.” She cupped Faith’s head in her hand and pressed a soft kiss to her temple. Then with practiced ease, she shoved her nightgown down from her shoulder and out of the way, and settled Faith in her lap to feed her.    

Claire’s fingers smoothed over the short, silky hairs on Faith’s head and then gently traced the shell of her ear. She hummed softly as she did, catching Faith’s eye eventually as the baby followed the sound. “That is from a song called Angels We Have Heard on High. I’ll teach it to you someday.” She tickled Faith’s cheek lightly. “I’ll teach you all the Christmas songs, my girl.”

Claire and Faith joined Jamie downstairs in the parlor where he stood by the fireplace, and the sight was completely warm and inviting. The work of Claire and Jamie last night was now on proud display in the light of morning ‒ four small stockings filled with treats and small gifts, and presents from them to the family tucked under the tree. 

“No Fergus yet?” 

“Nae. Heard him stirring about in his room afore I came down, though.” 

“I guess it’s early still.” 

Jamie tugged her forward into his arms and she went without resistance, the baby bracketed between them. Claire hummed a contented sound and kissed the top of Faith’s head. 

“Merry Christmas, Auntie Claire an’ Unca Jamie!” Wee Jamie’s voice bellowed from the top of the stairs. Claire and Jamie looked up to see the boy beaming as he came down the stairs. Jenny was with him and had Maggie in one arm, practically perched on top of her mother’s rounded belly. 

“Merry Christmas, darling,” Claire warmly returned his greeting  ‒ the one she’d taught him last week in preparation for this day. She and Jamie were situated perfectly by the hearth in order to see wee Jamie’s face when he rounded the corner of the stairs and noticed the stockings. 

His mouth dropped open in surprised delight, but no sound came out. The boy practically danced on hurried steps to his aunt and threw his small arms around her knees through her layers of skirts. “He did come here, Auntie!” 

Wee Jamie’s excitement was infectious, bringing smiles to everyone’s faces. 

Jamie plucked Maggie from her mother, giving Jenny a kiss on the cheek as he did. “Merry Christmas, Jenny.” 

She patted his arm as she moved past him to Claire. “Merry Christmas, sister.” 

Claire squeezed her sister-in-law back and swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. The warm embrace they shared was so much more than just that; Claire was keenly aware of and understood why they wouldn’t celebrate the holiday here, but it touched her to see Jenny embracing it and encouraging her children to embrace it as well. 

“Can I look in my stocking?” Wee Jamie strained up on his tippy toes to try and reach his stocking, but his fingertips swiped at only air.  

“Where’s Ian?” Jamie asked, bouncing Maggie in his arms. 

“He’ll be down in a moment. The bairns couldna wait.” As if to prove her point, Jenny gestured to her son still trying desperately to reach his stocking. 

“Jamie, love, not yet. Wait for Fergus,” Claire said gently.  

“Where is the lad?” 

“Still up in his room. Perhaps I should‒” 

Fergus appeared then at the top of the stairs, his arms filled with bundles that he looked to have a precarious hold on. His head leaned around them to watch his steps as he went. 

“What’ve ye got there?” Jenny asked him. 

“My gifts for everyone!” He beamed at them as he rounded the stairs and made a beeline for the tree, though Claire caught the way his gaze sought out his stocking first. He dropped them carefully onto the floor and then stood. Claire was already reaching for him, settling an arm around his slim shoulders to draw him to her side. 

“Merry Christmas, Fergus.” She kissed the top of his head.  

“Joyeux Noël,” he answered softly. “When will we open presents?” 

“I thought we could do that later in the day, but since all the children are here now, why don’t you all look in your stockings and see what Father Christmas brought you?” 

There was a flurry of movement as stockings were passed to the children. Wee Jamie sat down promptly on the floor and upended his stocking so that the contents spilled out into his lap. The babies were far less riotous in their joy and took their first Christmas morning in stride. Claire watched all of them, heart simply brimming with happiness. 

Fergus appeared at her side, his stocking in hand after having been carefully refilled once he’d sorted through the fruit, treats, and small gifts. The tender look on his face had her drawing him back in under her arm. 

“Thank you, Milady,” he whispered, mindful of not wanting wee Jamie to overhear. 

She smiled through the inexplicable urge to cry and kissed his hair. “Of course, love. Merry Christmas.” 

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

Murtagh joined them, then Ian, and they made their way into the dining room for their breakfast. A few winter chores were unavoidable even on Christmas so the rest of the day passed as it normally would at Lallybroch, with the exception that there was something special to look forward to when the work was done.  

When it was time for gifts, their family reconvened in the parlor and Claire took the lead on distributing the gifts she and Jamie had for everyone. She knew Fergus had made his gifts for everyone as well, and he excitedly joined her by the tree to start handing out presents. But throughout the day, without Claire’s notice, more gifts had found their way under the tree, and she suddenly realized that Jenny, Ian, and Murtagh hadn’t only showed up today, but came with presents of their own to give out. 

Not for the first time that day, she felt swarmed by gratitude for these wonderful souls. There was thought and care put into each gift, from Fergus’s handknit hats and wrist warmers to the matching dolls Jenny gave to Maggie and Faith. 

“Here ye go, lad.” Jamie placed a long, narrow bundle in Fergus’s lap, grinning broadly at the boy’s curious stare. “Go on, open it.” 

Fergus unfolded the cloth wrappings to reveal the hilt of a wooden sword, hand-carved and sturdy. He pulled it free and held it up in one hand. Wee Jamie’s jaw dropped when he noticed. “Is this for…”

“So ye can practice yer swordfighting, aye.” 

Fergus looked down at the bundle still in his lap. “There’s two of them, Milord.” 

“Weel, when ye’re learning, ye need someone to practice with.” 

 Fergus launched himself out of his seat, wooden swords clattering to the floor, and threw his arms around Jamie’s neck. “Thank you, Milord! I love it.” 

“I’m glad tae hear it, lad.” 

“You’ll teach me? We can practice together?” 

“Aye, I will. Figured ye could practice with Rabbie as weel, so long as you two dinna cause a stramash at the same time. And never in the house, mind.”

“Oui, I understand.”   

From her spot next to Jamie, Claire reached over and caressed the boy’s curly mop of hair. He was so dear to them and seeing his happiness and gratitude, his love for everyone here through the gifts he’d made… Claire could hardly reconcile the fact that they hadn’t even known him a year ago. He seemed so permanently rooted in their lives already and she wouldn’t want it any other way. 

The Christmas feast followed presents. With the help of Jenny and Mrs. Crook, they’d decided on a menu of wild game that had been recently caught and potatoes from their first harvest. A few other dishes had been prepared as well as desserts ‒ and it wouldn’t detract from the plans Jenny had for Hogmanay next week. 

Supper was a lively time. Stories spilled out around the table and the laughter flowed easily. They basked in the comfort of each other’s company, the joy of being all together.   

And with full bellies, their small clan retired to the parlor afterwards, soaking in the warmth of the fire as most of them reclined in chairs and on sofas. The candles along the wall had been lit as well, and from the glow of the fire, the room was cast in a warm light.  

The wonder and the joy of the holiday… the togetherness… Claire had wanted this more than she could say, having felt for many years a tender ache for family at this time of year. First it had been a yearning for her parents, but then as she grew into an adult, it had shifted into a different kind of ache… a sharper pain for something that felt out of reach for her.

Of course she’d had her Uncle Lamb growing up. And she’d never truly been alone on Christmas ‒ even during the years stationed throughout war-torn Europe, she’d had the hope of reuniting with Frank when the war was over.

But she had still always felt the keen sense of loss this time of year.   

Her gaze dropped to the baby and she brought one dimpled fist up to her mouth for a kiss. Her miracle girl. And it wasn’t just this year made special by Faith’s arrival in their lives. Claire was acutely aware that she held in her arms a lifetime of hope and promise. For this year and every year to follow, for as long as Claire lived, she’d never spend another Christmas with that feeling. That yearning which had become a yearly dark companion ‒ first to have her parents back and then to be a parent ‒ would no longer haunt her.     

Her eyes sought out Jamie and found him stretched out on his back on the rug. Fergus was there, sitting up beside him, and wee Jamie reclined with his head on his uncle’s chest. Their voices were hushed but the easy smiles between the three of them shone brightly for all to see. Maggie was shuffling around them on her slightly unsteady legs and Jamie’s hand hovered at her back, already bracing for a tumble. The children always gravitated to him wherever he was, but it was also common on quiet winter evenings like this to find him at their level, engaged in some sort of play or discussion. 

In all her wildest imaginings, she never saw this. She never saw him coming, but oh, was she ever grateful that he was hers. He’d given her not just Faith, but a home with him and a loud, wonderful family. She’d never been alone on Christmas all those years before, but she’d never in her life had something quite like this before. 

Faith began to squirm in her arms, no longer content to simply be held. She shifted the baby to face her and set Faith’s feet on top of her thighs, letting her bounce her legs and flail her arms to her heart’s content.  

“We are lucky, aren’t we?” She bounced Faith up and then brought her close to kiss her cheek. “You have the best Da in the whole world.”      

At some point in the evening, he made his way back to her side on the sofa. Murtagh had stolen Faith and sat across from them, bouncing her on his knee and having Faith’s dolly pretend to kiss her cheek. 

Claire wound her arm through Jamie’s, their hands linking together, and rested her head on his shoulder. “He’s so funny with her now. When she was born, I would’ve sworn he hated babies. Recently, he steals her every chance he gets.” 

“Nae,” Jamie chuckled quietly. “He doesna hate them. He’s only afraid they’ll break when they’re sae small. Especially Faith.”

Claire hummed softly, caught up in the notion of rough-around-the-edges Murtagh being scared to hold newborn babies for how fragile they looked. “Well, I’m glad he came around.” She exhaled a smile, watching Jamie’s godfather as he pretended to scold Faith for trying to chew on her dolly’s face.

She felt more than heard Jamie’s quick exhale of a laugh, no doubt equally amused and endeared by those two as she was. Her hand squeezed his in a sudden swell of affection for him, and he raised their clasped hands to kiss the back of hers in response. She looked up at him then, catching the slopes and strong lines of his profile before he turned to her, drawn by the feeling of her gaze. 

God, he was so beautiful, and when he looked at her like that, all soft and content and in love, it felt as though her bones were turned to putty. But in the moment, what sprang to mind was something more astounding to her; she had forever with him. 

Warmth bloomed in her chest. She had a lifetime yet with him of Christmases and birthdays, Hogmanays and quarter days, and every mundane or monumental day in between. And it thrilled her to the very marrow of her bones that they would do that together, building traditions as a family, just as they’d done with Christmas. 

“What’s on yer mind, Sassenach?” 

She shook her head, throat swelling with emotion at just the thought of trying to get those words out. She’d be blubbering in front of their whole family. “Later,” she promised and leaned up to kiss him instead. 

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

When they retired to their room for the night, Faith had already lost her battle to sleep and was carried up to her crib in her father’s arms. Claire began readying for bed, shedding layers of clothing and letting out her curls from their tight confines. 

She hadn’t been watching Jamie so she was surprised when he appeared suddenly by her side. 

“Here, I didna want to give this to ye in front of the family.” He held out a small rock to her. “It’s amber, ye see. Like Munro gave ye as a wedding present. I thought ye could fashion a bit of jewelry out of it perhaps. Merry Christmas, Sassenach.”  

She accepted the bit of amber, touched by the thought behind it. The dragonfly in amber that Hugh had given her was a treasured gift. “It’s perfect, I‒” Claire’s eyes went wide with a sudden realization. “Jamie, I didn’t get you anything!” Her hand flew to her mouth as the shock of it set it. “You did all this work to make Christmas happen and I‒ Oh, I’m so sorry!” 

“Tis alright, mo ghraidh.” He kissed her forehead.

“No, it’s not. I can’t believe I didn’t even realize.” She blinked back the sting of tears. 

“Tis alright,” Jamie repeated, giving her a half-smile. “Ye did this all for the bairns, aye? And they had a wonderful time.”

“But you were right there with me. I couldn’t have pulled this off without you. I feel so foolish.” 

“Don’t. Claire…” The way he said her name had her heart tumbling in her chest. He so rarely called her by her name and when he did, his voice was usually laced with emotion. He captured her chin in his hand and looked at her with so much love, she felt like clay in his hands, completely soft and pliable. “I dinna need anything, truly. Today was a gift of its own and I’ll never forget it.”

“I’m glad,” she murmured. “You still deserved something. I’ll‒ I’ll make you‒”

“Christ, I dinna need anything else, Sassenach.” 

He kissed her then, though whether in reassurance or to change the subject, Claire wasn’t sure ‒ he kissed her hungrily and she found she didn’t care what the reason was. 

He hoisted her up and her legs anchored her around his hips. Her fingers were tangled in his curls and she kissed him back fervently, pouring every ounce of affection she felt for him into that act. 

Though as he began to walk them toward their bed, she pulled back abruptly and he froze in his trek. “What is it?”

Her fingers traced the lines of his jaw, biding time as the feeling slowly framed into words in her head. 

“I’m no’ upset, mo ghraidh.” 

“I know, but…” Her vision clouded with tears, thinking of how she had sat in the parlor tonight feeling so infinitely grateful for and desperately in love with him, and the entire time, it hadn’t occurred to her that she had no gift to give him. “I love you,” she rasped. “And I’m worried I don’t tell you enough or show you enough. For Christ’s sake, I forgot your Christmas gift and… what does that say to you?”  

“Dinna need a trinket or token to ken ye love me. I know it in my bones, Claire. And as for telling me… weel,” he kissed the tip of her nose, a soft act of reassurance that melted away some of her fears. “Ye stayed with me when I gave ye the chance to go home. Ye gave me a bairn and took in another one wi’out question. Ye’re here wi’ me now, loving my family as your own. Ye didna‒ ye didna give up on me after all that happened since last year. A Dhia... ye tell me a thousand ways wi’out ever saying the words, mo nighean donn. I dinna have any doubts.”  

Her fingers carded through his curls and a heavy sigh escaped her.

“And I meant it,” he continued. “Today was a gift. Ye were so radiant wi’ joy, Claire. I wish ye could have seen you as I did.”     

She swallowed back the lump in her throat and breathed in sharply. “You make me happy, Jamie,” she murmured. “So happy, I could burst.” She captured his lips then, too overcome for any more words and needing desperately for the feelings to be expressed some other way ‒ a way that felt more natural to her than speaking.

 She squealed in surprise when he flung her backwards onto the bed. “Jamie!”

“Shhhh!” He crawled over her in an instant, covering her body with his own. Both were still clad in a layer of clothing each, but that problem could be easily resolved. “Ye’ll wake the bairn, Sassenach. And that would ruin how I plan to spend the rest o’ this night with ye.”

“Hmm,” her hands smoothed over the broad expanse of his back, pressing him down on her. “And what exactly would those plans include, I wonder?” 

He rolled his hips then, drawing a gasp out of her at the sudden contact with the evidence of his arousal through the fabric of her shift. He grinned at her. “Weel, it was yer idea, ye see. Just a little bit o’ togetherness.”