#this image was beamed into my head and refused to leave until i drew it out

[oneshotgremlin]

"The twelfth Major Arcana card. Suggests ultimate surrender, sacrifice, or being suspended in time."

Anyways check out Dead Man Walking AU by @pizzabox-box right fucking now 🫵👁👁

[teamxdark]

Mirror, Mirror

Based off of this little interaction between @damnitd and @silvermun a long time ago. It’s basically unedited, but the story I’ll end up putting on AO3/FFnet another day won’t be much different from this one here.

What can one do, when the heart is split in two? Where does one end, and the other begin? Where is the line drawn? 

Or should it be drawn at all…?

Sonic stared at the twisted heap of metal on the kitchen counter, bisected by a sword, and tried his hardest not to scream.

“Lancelot,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even, “that was a toaster.”

The knight in question wrenched his sword from the mess, causing sparks to fly and little bits and bobs, both mechanical and breadlike, to scatter across the counter and fall to the floor. “It was burning up,” he explained gravely, “achieving heats far too intense for today’s weather. I could not trust it, and when it let out a scream, I had to act.”

“That ‘scream’ was an alarm,” Sonic snapped, too tired and hungry to deal with this nonsense. “That means that the toast is done and we can eat. Which we can’t now. Because you attacked the toaster.”

The dark hedgehog turned his sword over in his hands, and Sonic braced himself for his rebuttal, and then they would argue over who was in the right, but the knight uttered a soft, “I simply wished to protect you. I am still getting used to the complex machines of this era, and I cannot bring myself to trust them. I realize that this is… unbecoming of me, and an irritation to you. I apologize, and I will try my best to keep my impulses under control.”

Sonic let out his breath in a loud exhale. It was so easy to forget, still, that this wasn’t Shadow in front of him.

No one could quite explain how the switch had come to pass; one day, Shadow and he had parted ways, the sensation that there were still words left unspoken between them that would be better saved for another time, and the next day, Lancelot had been found in his place. 

The knight was having trouble adjusting, to put it lightly. It had been weeks, but the advanced technology of contemporary times drove him to paranoia, and Sonic had seen many a monitor, vehicle, and appliance fall victim to Arondight’s wrath, much to Tails’ chagrin.

Worse, still, was that Lancelot refused to stay anywhere aside from Sonic’s home. The knight graciously declined Shadow’s place, leaving Rouge and Omega down one roommate, staying instead in any spare room he could find, so long as it was where Sonic was staying as well. Rouge had laughed it off, waving the knight away with a taunt that he was ‘Sonic’s problem now’, but the hero had seen the flash of hurt and worry in her eyes.

No one knew where Shadow was, or if he was ever coming back.

And now incidents such as these, with another appliance in pieces, were commonplace.

Sonic rubbed at his forehead, trying to put his buzzing thoughts together in his head before he spoke. “Lance, I get that you’re trying to protect me from my evil cookware and all that, but I don’t get why.”

The knight started, one ear tilting to the side in confusion. “Why would I not? I swore to do so, did I not?”

“No,” Sonic deadpanned. “You didn’t.”

That seemed to offend Lancelot, who let go of his sword for a moment to cross his arms. “I do not wish to speak out of line,” he said, sounding like he was struggling to remain calm, “but you are mistaken. A knight is loyal to the sovereign who knights him, until the last of his days.”

“But I didn’t knight you!” Sonic protested, at the end of his rope. “I’m not your king!”

In response, Lancelot pushed up his visor, and Sonic took in the set jaw, the way his pointed white teeth bared themselves in a snarl, by all means, the spitting image of Shadow, with just the smallest thing here and there that harshly reminded Sonic that the one standing before him was not the one he had spent so many years with. He saw it in the same set jaw, as it trembled with the effort to keep everything held back. He saw it in the snarl, which was more dismayed than hostile. Most of all, he saw it in Lancelot’s eyes, red and wide and so very expressive without the visor to shield them away.

Sonic was so used to seeing those eyes guarded, cut off from him, with only the smallest of opportunities to peek inside before they closed him out again.

Lancelot reached out, holding one of Sonic’s hands in both of his, delicately, like he was something infinitely valuable and the knight was afraid of sullying him with his hands. Sonic had only blinked when Lancelot dropped to his knees, his head bowed forward, and he heard him clear his throat before he spoke.

“You are him. You may not believe me, but I know it to be true. You are Arthur, my king, in this life and all others.”

Sonic sighed, unwilling to let this go but also not wanting to keep on this path of conversation, especially on an empty stomach. He tried to wrench away his hand, but Lancelot held tight, lifting his head, eyes ablaze with passionate certainty that made Sonic freeze in place.

He had never been looked at like that before…

"Every piece of you is the same,” Lancelot declared, his eyes unwavering, drawing in the hero and refusing to release him. “It is not only in image, either. I see it, I hear it, I feel it... It's more than just the body, the vision I see before me. You have his soul, free and unbound and hungry for adventure. You have his heart, strong and kind and noble. I see it in your eyes, you are him, you are who he would be if he were not burdened by his destiny! Don't you understand, Sonic? The only difference between you and Arthur are the memories you keep! You are him! You are him, and that's why I will follow you and protect you with my life. I gave you my vow, and I will not break it. No matter the time, no matter the life... I will stand by you until any and every version of us ceases to exist. That is my promise to you, as your knight!"

He said it so resolutely, so earnestly, that Sonic couldn’t find the words, nor the will to argue against him. In all his life, in all his wildest fantasies, Sonic could never have imagined those words, coming from that mouth, spoken in that voice… It was enough to get his heart pounding, that was for sure.

Sonic closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, but Lancelot’s hands clasped around his kept him anchored in this strange reality he was in. He didn’t like it; it had taken so long to get to where he had gotten with Shadow, so much time and effort and tenacity to get every last crumb from him, but Sonic had been adamant. He had wanted to break Shadow’s walls, to reach through, to understand him and be someone trusted and cared for. He had tried so hard, made so much progress… and now Shadow was gone, and in his place, Lancelot knelt before him, eagerly baring his soul for him without so much as a command.

Sonic would have been a liar if he said he didn’t like what he saw in Lancelot, either, but after all he had done for Shadow… it felt… wrong? Bad? In poor taste? Off, to be feeling similar flutters in the chest for a man who shared his face but not his past, nor his experiences.

Yet, as he opened his eyes and saw Lancelot still staring resolutely at him, as though desperate for him to understand, Sonic had to wonder if the knight had a point; Shadow had had amnesia twice, now. His memories had reset, but he had still been Shadow at his core. Sonic had never doubted that.

Did memories truly make a person who they were? And if so… were Lancelot and Shadow truly two different people?

Are you him? Sonic wanted to ask as he was burned alive by those eyes, crimson and intense, focused on him and him alone. Are you who he could have been if things had been different?

He wasn’t sure, but at least he could kind of understand where Lancelot was coming from.

Sonic heaved out an exhale, using both hands to pull Lancelot to his feet. “Okay,” he conceded. “Okay… but no more protecting me from my house or my friends. I’ll let you know when we’re in danger, okay?”

And Lancelot beamed, overjoyed, his teeth poking out through his lips and his eyes crinkling with happiness, and Sonic would be an even bigger liar if he denied that it was one of the most gorgeous sights he had ever seen.

Lancelot… I think I want to know you, too.

...

The sound of his pen scratching along the page was the only sound in the room. King Arthur sat back in his chair, stretching out his fingers, his eyes seeking out the room’s only other occupant, who was standing by with his back against the wall, looking displeased.

Shadow was silent, as always.

Arthur let out a breath, drumming a couple of fingers against his desk. “I cannot solve anything if you do not speak,” he finally remarked, much to the displeasure of the other.

“I don’t want to be out there with the others. This is the only room where no one barges in. That’s all.”

“Hm. Quite.”

It was mostly true, he supposed. Sometimes an advisor would poke their head in, but usually those weren’t the people Shadow was hiding from.

Arthur had started hearing the rumors a while ago; Sir Lancelot, his greatest and closest knight, and his longtime friend, was deeply in love with him. The rumors had followed him every day, and plagued him by night, as he wondered if they could be real, and wondered what he would do if they were real.

He had started to see and feel it, too. Lancelot’s habit of looking his way, his gaze, hidden behind his visor, lingering just a moment too long before he looked away again. The way his knight’s hand would remain on his person, his touch still warming him even after he drew his hand away. These moments had grown in number in the latest months, though their time together had remained fleeting, as the life of a king and the life of a knight were wrought with busy schedules and hardly enough time for a ‘hello’ to be exchanged.

For a while, Arthur had felt that something unsaid but reciprocated was between them, but Lancelot was gone, now, and Shadow had taken his place, and now the knights and the maids and the servants all looked at Shadow in the same way they had done to Lancelot, and the whispers and giggles followed the dark hedgehog until he ran into Arthur’s study and shut them all out behind him.

He made for some rather unsettling company, this sullen, tense man who shared his face with that of his closest friend.

Arthur missed him. Arthur missed him so much it hurt, and every day that passed he wished for the man who had stood by him from the very beginning to still be there, by his side, in a world that demanded the most he would be able to give as the bare minimum, but that didn’t mean he was allowed to take it out on Shadow. Nor was he about to dismiss the fact that Shadow was in a strange new world, and likely every bit as confused, disturbed, and frightened as he was.

“Would you like me to speak with them?” Arthur offered, figuring it was worth a try.

Yet Shadow huffed in response, the proposal seeming to offend him, and Arthur wondered why. “Don’t bother, I can handle my own problems.”

That was the other thing about Shadow: he had never, at any point, treated Arthur like he was royalty.

“It’s considered bad form to refuse the offer of a king,” Arthur pointed out, partly as a piece of advice; though he didn’t mind it himself, he knew Sir Gawain would throw a fit upon hearing that Shadow had shown such dismissal.

And the other part of him wanted to push Shadow just a little more. To get more of that strangely satisfying feeling of being treated like a man instead of a crown.

“I don’t care,” came the instant reply, and Arthur had to fight back a smile. “There are no kings where I come from, so your title means nothing to me, and even if it did, I won’t bow to you, or to anyone.”

The ‘not again’ went unsaid, but Arthur could hear it in Shadow’s voice, could read it in his body language. Arthur was always rather adept at deciphering Lancelot’s small cues and gestures, though Lancelot kept many of them hidden behind a wall of steel, but with Shadow, who bared his face and his body for the world to see, nothing could be hidden from Arthur’s discerning gaze. It was fascinating, truly, to be able to read someone new so well and so easily. Shadow was a puzzle with clear edges, but with many, many pieces that Arthur still had to search for.

All in all… a refreshing individual, despite the circumstances.

“Okay,” Arthur relented, and the sight of Shadow’s eyes narrowing in confusion only served to make fighting back his smile impossible. “In that case, I shall leave it to you.”

With that, he picked back up his pen, continuing to draft the latest ordinance on adjusting the limits of imported goods past Avalonian borders. The work was tedious, boring, dull, and even though he had just taken a break, Arthur felt his hand start to cramp with just a few words jotted down. The king sighed, rolling his wrist a few times, before getting back to work.

Just grin and bear it, he thought to himself as an involuntary noise of discomfort escaped him as his hand twinged again. You’ve done it before and you will always be able to do it. A king cannot show weakness. A king may not make excuses for poor judgement. Everyone is counting on me to do the best I can.

The thoughts only served to worsen the sense of anxiety that always seemed to cloud his mind, and Arthur grimaced, dropping his pen, holding his head in his hands and wishing for comfort for a man who was no longer with him.

His ears perked up as he heard a noise, something akin to a footstep taken in his direction, and when the king lifted his head, he noticed that Shadow no longer had his back flush against the wall. The dark hedgehog was doing his best to mask his emotions, but Arthur could still peel back every layer he put up, seeing the concern and the discomfort in the smallest things, from the slight narrowing of his eyes to the light raising of his spines. Shadow’s body language was silently screaming in empathy, something Arthur wasn’t used to receiving from others, and it intrigued him more than it should have.

“I’ll be fine,” he assured Shadow, not waiting to be prompted; he doubted the other would have asked, anyhow. “It’s simply sobering, sometimes, to remember that I have a kingdom’s worth of expectations to meet.” The king looked back down at the piles of papers on his desk; it was the same work, day in and day out, with decisions ranging from laughably easy to crushingly difficult. Yet, he had to make them all. Without thinking, he murmured aloud, “A single mistake could cost me everything I’ve done up to this moment. All the good I’ve done, all the efforts I’ve made, all the reputation that I’ve struggled to build up… it could all go up in smoke in a second, and I would be back at the beginning, needing to prove myself over and over again to people who expect everything from me.”

It was a moment of weakness, of cowardice, wherein Arthur was so tired from years of work and the loss of his most precious ally, for whom he still had almost no time to mourn. His eyes flicked back up to Shadow, and he prepared to apologize and ask that he forget all that he had just divulged 一 it was hardly fair on his guest, after all 一 but then he saw Shadow’s face, stunned and amazed, his red eyes wide and fixed on him, welling with a look that Arthur almost never saw on another person; understanding.

Shadow was looking at him with such mind-blowingly clear understanding and empathy that Arthur’s breath was taken away.

For a few more charged, heart-pounding moments, all they could do was stare, the sensation of something new connecting them becoming stronger and stronger with every passing second.

Then Shadow tore his gaze away and flung open the door, stepping outside and closing it behind him, leaving Arthur alone in his study.

As the king sat back in his chair, he stared into space as he tried to make sense of what had just happened, and what that might have meant for Shadow.

He was certain that, even though his dear friend’s face was too often hidden from view, that Lancelot had never once looked at him like that.

Shadow… what is your story, I wonder?

…

Just when Lancelot thought he couldn’t hate the odd technology of Sonic’s world any more, it came to a sudden and violent peak as the blue hero was called into action as a swarm of machines called ‘robots’ began invading Station Square. To make matters worse, they were created by some sort of mad doctor, and upon seeing an image of the man in question, Lancelot had to restrain himself from running the monitor through with his sword.

This mad doctor held a horrible resemblance to a certain ‘emperor’ that had caused Arthur far too much trouble, back at home in Avalon, and it made Lancelot desire nothing less than for this man’s complete and utter demise at his hands.

According to Sonic, these attacks weren’t anything new to him and his team, and though he knew it was a distraction or a trap, they didn’t have any options aside from stopping them quickly and efficiently, for the sake of everyone who lived in the city. He rallied his team effortlessly, leading the chase down to the battle, not bothering to bark orders because of the trust he carried in his followers…

Lancelot’s heart swam with affection. Sonic truly was Arthur, whether he believed it or not, and it showed in everything he did. He was a leader who cared not for the title, a man who cared for even the smallest life under his protection, and his bravery was unmatched, inspiring, and absolute. Someone of such immeasurable importance that needed to be protected at all costs.

So what else could Lancelot do but run to shield him when, during the battle, he saw a robot take aim at Sonic’s back?

His ears registered the sound of Sonic moving, then stumbling, but he only paid attention to the blast that came his way, soaking up the impact with his legendary strength, but he was not indestructible. Blood began dripping from a wound on his arm, and the scent of singed hair prickled in his nose in the most unpleasant way. Lancelot hissed in pain, his mind threatening to cloud with this new kind of pain, like fire but so much more unnatural, but he took pride in knowing that he had done his job. Sonic was safe. Sonic was safe and…

And he was dragging Lancelot to the side?

“What the hell was that, Lance?” Sonic demanded, panic and fury coloring his tone, and Lancelot’s feet almost froze in shock. Why was Sonic so frightened? Why did he sound so angry?

Had he done something wrong?

In a space several yards away from the battle zone, Sonic sat Lancelot down, and swore under his breath when he saw his battle wound. “Damn it Lance, I knew that robot was there! Why didn’t you just let me dodge? Oh Chaos, you’re bleeding, why did you run in like that?!”

Lancelot only gaped at him, his mind struggling to make sense of his leader’s words as Sonic inspected his arm and fretted over how it wasn’t healing.

Was he supposed to heal quicker than the average being? Lancelot supposed that maybe, with the help of his mother or Merlina, that could be possible, but the young girl who appeared to be his mother’s counterpart appeared more of a fighter than a healer, and he had not yet seen a counterpart to the royal wizard.

Lancelot wanted to ask these questions, to get some answers, but the near furious look on Sonic’s face made him hold his tongue. Such a look on someone he admired and loved so strongly… it was enough to make him feel like the scum of the earth.

The knight sat out the rest of the battle, staying in place even as Sonic left to finish the job, and the humiliating feeling of utter shame managed to overpower even his need to ensure his leader’s safety. Every time he felt the urge to stand up regardless, to charge into the battle even while wounded, and fight by his leader’s side as his sword and shield, the image of Sonic’s distraught face would flash before his eyes again, and he would remember his words, sharper and more painful than any sword, demanding why he had interfered.

Why had he failed his job as a knight?

What good was he, if he couldn’t even fulfil his one objective?

Lancelot’s head remained bowed in shame, even as he heard rapid footsteps coming his way. It remained bowed, even as he felt steady hands clean his wound and wrap a bandage around it.

It was only when Sonic lifted his chin and forced his visor up did Lancelot finally manage to look him in the eye.

“Why did you step in front of me like that?” Sonic asked, his voice calm again, though it did nothing to soothe Lancelot’s inner turmoil. The knight wanted nothing more than to no longer speak, to be swallowed by the ground and forgotten, the pathetic knight who couldn’t do his job when it mattered.

But he couldn’t refuse his leader, and so he forced himself to talk.

“It was the promise I made to you,” he said, and he struggled to keep his dismay in check as Sonic immediately looked displeased at his answer. “I am… protective by nature, and even moreso as a knight. I swore to protect Arthur, and I must protect you, too, even if that comes with my own life as a cost. That is something I must do, for I--”

“Oh stop it!” Sonic interrupted, once again looking angry and upset, and Lancelot bit back his speech, both ashamed and relieved. Had he gone even further, he might have lost control of his emotions and revealed just how deeply his affections for the blue hedgehog lied.

And then, Sonic asked something very, very strange.

“Isn’t there more to being a knight than serving a king?”

Lancelot, who up to that point had felt so certain of his standing, of his mission, of who Sonic was and what he represented, felt his heart break in two as cold reality settled over him.

“No,” he whispered in response, having never felt further away from the other than he did in that moment.

Sonic was not his king. Sonic was Arthur, but he was not his king. Sonic had no want for a knight, no desire to act as a king.

But if that were the case, what was Lancelot to do?

“Lancelot.”

Sonic’s voice was firm, and Lancelot braced himself for some hard truths.

“I’m not a king, Lance. I’m a hero, I guess. That’s what people call me, anyways. But the point is, I’m a free hedgehog. I’m not here to give orders or have people die for me, I’m just around to have a good time, to go where the wind takes me, and if I have to save a few people from some robots in the meantime, I will. I just gotta do what I gotta do… and I can’t do that if all you can do is try to protect me.”

Even with his face raised, chin still supported by his leader-- no, by Sonic’s hand, Lancelot tried his best to look away. His eyes watered treacherously, threatening to spill over. Being a knight was Lancelot’s life, his identity, the air that he breathed, the reality he lived in. It was everything he knew, but… but now it was…

The hand disappeared from his face, and then Sonic was reaching for his own hand on his uninjured arm, and Lancelot was pulled to his feet. Sonic looked him full in the eyes, their pull hypnotic, and even as Lancelot tried to choke back his tears, he felt his breath catch in his lungs.

“Hey… I need you to trust me with my own life, okay?”

Lancelot blinked, and the smallest of tears managed to escape him. Sonic didn’t think he trusted him.

In a sense, Lancelot supposed that he didn’t.

Yet when he reopened his eyes, he saw the look the other hedgehog was sending him, a look he had seen in Arthur’s eyes many times, mixed with a sense of sad resignation. Lancelot had never been able to read it perfectly, a fact which had always frustrated him to no end, for all he wanted was to be Arthur’s closest, to be the one who knew him at a level that no one else could hope to achieve.

But in Sonic’s eyes, the message was plain and clear.

He wanted to be seen as an equal, not someone above him, unattainable, on a pedestal. No, it wasn’t just that… Sonic looked determined to pull them both onto equal ground, to the same level, and the thought made Lancelot’s head spin.

“Lance… I know it’s scary, but you can choose how you want to live your life now, and trust me, it’s a good thing.”

And Lancelot, who knew nothing aside from being a knight, felt the crushing weight of the world in front of him, dark and untamed, when before he had Arthur’s light to follow. Paths were branching in front of him, too many to count and too many to walk down individually and explore. His head spun with possibility, and fright gripped at him, tempting him to deny, to refuse, to hide his face, or perhaps, to die as a knight in a world that refused to house him as he was.

Then he felt Sonic’s hand, still holding his, warm and comforting and safe, and somehow, in the midst of his existential turmoil, Lancelot felt a warm glimmer of hope.

“Okay,” he murmured in response, and Sonic’s brilliant grin soothed and delighted him more than he could properly understand.

Sonic… I shall do my best. For you… and for me, as well.

…

It hit too close to home, in this place that was about as far from home as Shadow could get.

Every day, whether he looked for him or not, Shadow saw King Arthur struggle silently. He saw him work day in and day out, endlessly trying to prove that he was worthy of being king, of being in everyone’s good graces and that he wasn’t just entitled to be there, but that he was supposed to be in his position. Even while all around him there sat obstacles and red tape and tough decisions and divides and people who were just never satisfied and…

And…

Shadow closed his eyes, recalling every debriefing he had had in G.U.N.’s headquarters. He remembered feeling as though he was on a leash, that every mission, every move he made had to be executed perfectly, otherwise he would lose his right to exist as a free being.

No… Shadow had never been free. Not since the day he was created, with the power to hurt and to heal, and every day he had to face the consequences of actions he had committed years prior. Shadow remembered the feeling of the imaginary leash shortening, tightening around his throat, reminding him that no matter what he did, it would never be enough.

Shadow would never be considered a true person by the people who saw him as a weapon.

And Arthur… Arthur seemed to be considered in the same way by the people who saw him as a king.

Shadow’s heart ached, and the dark hedgehog grit his teeth as he recalled all the times he had caught the other wincing and massaging his hand while drafting laws and messages, how he plastered a smile on his face as he met people and made addresses when he clearly would rather be anywhere else, and how he kept his voice even as he ordered his knights around, even though he obviously didn’t want to be giving orders, he just wanted to be looked at as an equal, but he was so ingrained in this life that he felt resigned, and so he stopped trying to fight where the fight could not be won. Shadow knew all these feelings, all the sensations of being worked to the bone, of putting on an act to protect himself, of accepting that there were some things that, like it or not, would simply never change…

But Arthur, unlike him, was not the Ultimate Lifeform. This man was not made of infinite power and energy, was not capable of rapid healing or boosting himself in body and mind with his own energies whenever it suited him. Arthur was a remarkable but regular hedgehog, who had been working off of nothing but his own willpower and strength of mind, and that knowledge hurt perhaps the most of all.

Arthur and himself… they both pulled a painfully similar weight, a weight that, even on his worst days, Shadow had never wished upon another person.

So what else could Shadow do but grab Arthur’s hand and run him out of there, out of the castle, yelling vague excuses at anyone who tried to stop them?

Arthur followed easily behind him, not asking a single question as Shadow ran, ran away from suffocating walls and legal obligations and the knowledge that it was never, ever enough.

Shadow was used to Sonic keeping up with him. They had always been on equal grounds, and Shadow knew it, even at the beginning stages of their rivalry when they both had asserted that they were the stronger, the faster, the more incredible hedgehog. With time, that knowledge became easier to swallow, as their rivalry held a friendlier edge to it, and especially so when their friendship and partnership had become more undeniable, and when those dumb, weird feelings started springing forward and…

And…

But with Arthur and his frightfully similar situation, Shadow’s empathy had hit him like a truck, and seeing him in so much concealed pain every day had turned into something too much to bear, and so, just for this one, Shadow decided he would be the man’s savior, even for just one evening.

They stopped in a meadow, far beyond the castle and away from the treeline where the forests began, and Shadow avoided looking at the exhausted king, unsure how to express what was in his head, in his heart, in his soul.

How was he supposed to tell him that watching him take all this weight, all this responsibility, was too much for him?

How was he supposed to say that he had similar issues, with G.U.N. and the people of the United Federation breathing down his neck and observing his every move, and that perfection was the bare minimum?

How could he express that they both deserved to live their lives without earning the right to exist without constant scrutiny, where one slip up meant everything falling apart, absolute ruin, the end of the world…

Shadow took in a deep breath, his mind spinning with thoughts and feelings he wasn’t sure he could put into words, but when he finally looked over to Arthur, the breath left him and wouldn’t return.

Arthur didn’t look angry or annoyed or anxious, even though Shadow had ripped him from his work that he couldn’t afford to fall behind on. Arthur didn’t look upset at all.

He looked grateful.

He looked serene.

Arthur looked directly into Shadow’s eyes, his own green ones reflecting the stars up above, and Shadow wanted to tell him everything, even though his body refused to breathe and his tongue refused to move.

The hand in his hold shifted, and Shadow felt Arthur squeeze his hand softly, just once.

He understood.

Chaos above, Arthur understood, and Shadow didn’t even need to say it.

Shadow swallowed, feeling overwhelmed, and Arthur seemed to understand that, too. Wordlessly, the blue hedgehog moved closer, his hand never leaving Shadow’s, and he leaned his body against Shadow’s, answering an unspoken need for comfort without smothering him, without trapping him in place with a hug or an embrace.

Shadow closed his eyes, hating how the gesture reminded him of one time Sonic had done something similar, a small shoulder check that had lingered a moment too long, and at his side, he felt Arthur breathe in deeply and hold it in, as though he were resisting the urge to sigh.

Shadow knew he was probably thinking about Lancelot.

Their hands both squeezed at the same time, and they both knew.

It was a strange feeling, as though both of them had lost a large piece of their lives, only to gain another to take its place. It was something that felt like infidelity, even though nothing warranting such a thing had been established with the other person on their minds.

Yet this closeness… this was something that Shadow had wanted for a long time, but had never been able to truly obtain. Shadow didn’t always know how to use his words, how to explain what he wanted or what he needed or what he was going through, and now here he was, with Arthur, a man who understood him without words. A man who he understood, who brought out his empathy to an almost painful degree, and Shadow wanted in that moment for nothing more than for them both to be happy.

As he felt the warmth of Arthur’s body and the beautiful comfort of being understood, even in a world that wasn’t his own, Shadow figured he might be on the right track.

Arthur… I don’t know how to thank you.

…

When Sonic first kissed Lancelot, it was after another battle, in which neither escaped without injury. Sonic could see Lancelot try his hardest to hold back his instinctive reactions, struggling to trust him and not place the blame on his shoulders, and Sonic looked out the window, knowing that life was short and uncertain and that any day might be his last.

He also did it knowing that waiting for Shadow was not going to help either of them at all.

He felt Lancelot tense up in shock, then relax, lifting his hands up to his head and burying them in his spines. Lancelot was pilant, willing, eager to receive whatever Sonic wanted to give him, and Sonic responded with his best efforts to make the kiss special, the sort of kiss that Lancelot deserved, after so many years of putting himself second. Whenever Lancelot made a noise that suggested he enjoyed what Sonic was doing, Sonic resolved himself to keep going, to deliver the indulgence that Lancelot had always been denied of.

It was completely different to how he always imagined kissing Shadow would be like. He had always imagined a competition, with both of them trying to one-up each other like they always did, but Lancelot’s sweet eagerness as their lips met again and again pushed all thoughts of Shadow from Sonic’s mind, and as they finally parted for air, it was Sonic’s name that escaped from Lancelot’s mouth.

…

When Arthur first kissed Shadow, it felt like a long time coming. The king knew he would need to take the initiative, with Shadow struggling to come to terms with his own feelings, and he felt the striped hedgehog become rigid in shock when Arthur’s hands landed lightly on his arms and he pressed their lips together.

He also did it with the knowledge that he might never see Lancelot again, and if that were the case, that Shadow was someone he couldn’t bear to let slip through his fingers as well.

When Shadow recovered from the shock, he kissed back, roughly and intensely, and Arthur found himself being pushed to keep up. It was like a battle, fueled by unspoken, deeply internalized feelings, finally being let loose until their heads swam with a lack of air and an overflow of emotion and the immeasurable feeling of connection without words.

Kissing Shadow lit a fire in Arthur’s soul, even as he felt Shadow start to calm down, finding enjoyment at being able to be vulnerable without pain for once in his life. Arthur could feel the heat flush off of the other’s face in waves, and when they finally parted, gasping for air, he was so, so glad that there was no visor or helmet to create a barrier between him and those eyes, softer than he had ever seen them, that he could read like a book.

[depressedhatakekakashi]

Konoha’s Beautiful Green Beast

AU: Canon

Words: 1899

Rating: General

Pairings: Hatake Kakashi/Maito Gai

Warnings: None

Summary: The wedding is finally here, and Kakashi can’t help but feel nervous. Especially when his husband-to-be is late.

Made with lots of help from @uncharted-darkness

Panic was starting to rise in his chest. A tight, painful feeling making it difficult for him to breath. Like there was a heavyweight on his chest, making the pain worse every second that he stood there.

“He’s late…” his voice shook when he spoke, all of the worst-case scenarios coming to the front of his mind.

What if he’s injured and I’m not there to help?

What if he got lost?

Or he just doesn’t want to marry me anymore?

His stomach churned, Nausea settling in.

Forcing himself to take deep breaths, he tried to apply some reason to the situation. Remind himself that it was Gai who asked him to marry him, who planned out the wedding and carefully picked out the guest list so that it wasn’t too big but all of their friends were there.

No matter what he did, that impending feeling of disaster clung to him. Clawing at his soul while his mind tried to come up with every excuse that it could be for Gai’s lateness.

Gai, who was always on time with a bright smile and excitement that no one else could ever hope to match. Who had never kept Kakashi waiting for anything in his life, and would often scold Kakashi for just being a few minutes late to their dates.

“Sensei,” Sakura’s voice called out to him, but he ignored it. His mind going a thousand miles a minute trying to figure out why Gai wasn’t there. Coming up with even more excuses and reason’s for why he was left standing there in front of a room full of people he didn’t even want there, waiting for his fiance. “Sensei!”

A hand came down onto his shoulders, shaking him lightly until he focused his attention on his student. Her face stern as she stared into his eyes.

“You’re panicking,” As if pointing out the obvious would suddenly get rid of the barrage of negative thoughts going through his mind. “Gai-Sensei will be here. I’m sure he has a good reason for being late.”

Somehow Sakura’s words don’t help him relax, though he does appreciate the effort. No matter how hard he tries to listen and believe her words, his mind refuses to cooperate.

I knew he’d realize it

Giving his head a shake, he pressed a hand over his left eye. A tactic that he had learned over the years to try and help himself through the panic. Just a little pressure to center himself into the real world.

I’m not good enough for him. He doesn’t want me anymore.

His hands started to shake. Fingers twitching against his face as the negative thoughts drowned everything else out. Silent, personal reminders of how he didn’t deserve Gai.

“Hey,” A pair of hands wrapped around his wrists, forcing him to open his eyes and look at Sakura once more. This time Naruto was standing directly behind her with a worried look on his face. “Sensei, he’ll be here.”

He knows she means those words. Her voice is serious and firm, trying to reach out to him when his own mind was against him, and he wanted so desperately to believe what she was saying.

Opening his mouth, words of protest start to form. Before he can get them out, though, the sound of laughter fills the air. Gai’s laughter, loud and bright, drowning out every word of doubt that had been swimming in his head just moments ago.

“I told you,” Sakura jabbed him in the side, chuckling when he glared down at her. “You worry too much, Sensei. Gai-Sensei will always show up for you.”

Warmth bloomed in his chest, stamping out the fear and pain as if they were nothing. The only thing his brain would focus on now was the laughter that he loved so much.

Fixing his eyes on the entrance to the field, he wished that there weren’t trees and fences blocking his view. Tenzo’s idea, of course. He had said something about adding a little suspense to Kakashi’s life, and he hated it. It wasn’t so much to ask to see the person he was going to marry, was it?

“Straighten up, Sensei,” Naruto finally spoke up, beaming when Kakashi looked his way. “You want Bushier-brows Sensei to see you excited for the wedding, don’t you?”

Straightening himself up, Kakashi forced his hands out of his pockets and forced them down to his side.

“Maybe not that straight,” Sakura giggled behind him. “Now you look like you’re getting ready for Tsunade-sama to give you a mission.”

That wouldn’t do.

Taking a deep breath, he relaxed his shoulders and focused on the entrance that Gai would come through. The spot where he’d finally get to see his partner. That stunning smile shining as bright as ever towards him, and eyes that screamed ‘home’ when he felt lost and confused about where he belonged.

A blaze of green came rolling into view. The wheels of Gai’s wheelchair screeching to a stop dead center of the entrance, with green and purple ribbons attached to the handlebars and arms swaying in the wind.

Gai’s chair was a celebration of colors, and no doubt drew in a few eyes from the audience, but all Kakashi could look at was the person he was going to marry.

A bright, proud smile. So wide that he could see every single tooth in Gai’s mouth. Eyes soft and kind, staring at Kakashi as if he was the only person there, with a misty look in there that told him his partner was already close to tears. Slowly, making sure that Kakashi was watching him the entire time, Gai raised up his left arm and stuck out his thumb in his signature pose, and for the first time since he had arrived that morning, Kakashi laughed.

Happy and warm, he turned his face away from Gai and brought a hand up to wipe away the tears that had started to pool in his eyes.

He knew why he had panicked, but standing here now with Gai sitting at the entrance smiling at him, he couldn’t imagine how he had ever believed the things his mind tried to tell him. Gai, who had always been by his side. Who refused to leave him even when he tried so desperately to push him away, choosing not to get married to him.

Deciding after all of these years that he could do better, and leaving Kakashi at their wedding alone and broken. It was all so ridiculous now that he thought of it.

“Sensei,” Naruto’s face appeared directly in front of him suddenly. “Are you crying?”

Usually, he would scold Sakura for punching her teammate at such an important event, but he was willing to let it slide this one time. She had held back her punch, only hitting Naruto hard enough that he was forced to take a step back, and she immediately started lecturing him about giving their Sensei his personal space and not embarrassing him on his wedding day.

He really did appreciate the support.

“That’s enough, you two.” using the bottom of his palm to wipe away the last bit of tears, he looked back down the aisle to Gai and finally took in the full image. Rather than wearing the brilliant green Hanfu that Kakashi had helped him pick out just a few weeks ago, Gai seemed to have gone with a stunning green silk dress instead. Form-fitting and showing off his arms and legs perfectly, it was patterned with two different shades of green swirled around each other along the length of the dress. The neckline dipped down into a V-neck, highlighting Gai’s chest.

The feeling of a small weight landing on his shoulder pulled him out of his thoughts, forcing him to drag his eyes away from Gai and to the small pug dog getting comfortable there on his shoulder.

“Shouldn’t you be guarding the perimeter?” he asked, certain that he had made Pakkun’s mission objective clear for the wedding. ‘Make sure that no one did anything stupid.

Pakkun was the only one he trusted to keep everyone in line, especially later in the evening when Alcohol entered the mix.

“You do know that ‘Make sure no one does anything stupid’ includes you, right?” Some would call it fate that Kakashi had connected with the sassiest little shit of a hound dog in the page, but Kakashi liked to consider it divine torture. Someone in the universe was laughing their asses off at him every time he talked to Pakkun, and one of these days he was going to find them and stab them. “You look like you’re about to jump Gai, and it’s my job to make sure you keep your hands to yourself until the ceremony is over.”

“Have I ever told you that Bull is my favourite?”

“Don’t lie to my face just because you’re mad you can’t tackle Gai,” Reaching out a paw, Pakkun shoved it against Kakashi’s masked cheek. “Now pay attention. He’s headed your way.”

Returning his attention to Gai, Kakashi smiled when he saw him making his way towards him. Tenten right behind him carefully pushing his wheelchair, and Ningame in front of him.

It had sounded so weird when he originally suggested including their Summons in the wedding. He had thought Gai would laugh at him and tell him that they could just use their students or other shinobi for the jobs he wanted to give Ningame and the hounds.

But Gai had smiled that soft beautiful smile instead and told him that he loved the idea. Indulged him when he wanted to add something personal and interesting to the wedding.

“Hey,” Pakkun smacked his cheek, this time a hint of claws coming out to poke him. “Stop zoning out.”

Right.

He was getting married. To Maito Gai of all people.

Keeping focus was important.

“Rival,” Gai came to a stop at his side, his bright smile shining up at Kakashi as he waved Tenten off to take her place by his side with Lee and turned his chair to face his Fiance. Soon to be husband. “Sorry for keeping you waiting. I had a little trouble deciding what i wanted to wear today.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I think you made the right choice,” reaching out, he gently brushed Gai’s hair behind his ear. Chuckling when he leaned into the touch. “You brought the Hanfu just in case, right?”

“Tenten has it sealed away in a scroll,” He assured him. “You didn’t worry too much while you were waiting, right?”

“Not at all,” he could hear Naruto and Sakura snickering behind him. Giving away all of his secrets to Gai without saying a single word. He’d have to deal with them later. “Just excited. I finally get to marry Konoha’s beautiful Green Beast.”

Gai’s laughter filled the air once more. Beautiful, warm laughter that made Kakashi’s chest bloom with excitement.

After all of those years of putting it off. Promising that they’d get around to it once there were no more missions and wars, and almost losing Gai to the eighth gate, he was doing it. Committing himself to Gai for the rest of his life. Finally, he was done waiting. Today was the day he married Gai and started the rest of their lives together.

He couldn’t wait.

[etlunainmorte]

DMC WEEK DAY 3: Fight | Reunion | Loss ( Dante and Vergil )

~ I now present to you my third entry for DMC WEEK, featuring the Sparda brothers, Dante and Vergil.

~ No warnings. Tissues, maybe? Nah, you'll be fine.😁😁😁👌👍👍

Enjoy!

***

How many times have we fought?

Hard to say. It's the only memory I have since we were kids.

Vergil's words rang through Dante's mind that evening as he pondered about everything he's been through for the past three months.

Safe and back from the Underworld where they faced legions upon legions of Demons, the Devil Hunter looked back on everything, including that one memory, that one moment, that led him and his brother to such tragedies.

Yes, it's true. He lost count of how many times they've fought. He has forgotten how many times the Rebellion clashed with the Yamato. He lost count of how many times he was punched in the face, and he has forgotten how many times they fell.

To the brothers, their world has always been their battleground, the sound of their weapons the only music they danced to.

If that day didn't happen, would they still end up like the failures that they were? Would they still be fighting in their endless sibling rivalry? Would they even have the chance to prove to themselves that they won't have to fight in order to prove who's the better Sparda?

Dante chuckled as he shook his head, his mind conjuring up some images that made him lose focus for a while.

Drifting into his own reverie, he went back to the day when they were playing outside their house.

And in his head, Vergil didn't run away from him and their mother. The Demons didn't come, and their mother was still alive.

He imagined himself beating his older brother and laughing at him, feeling proud of his little achievement.

"Now, would you leave me alone with my book?" He could hear Vergil say, seeing him stand up as he wiped the blood off his nose.

"Uhh, sure!" He saw his younger self beaming with pride as he picked up the brown leather - bound book and handed it back to his brother.

"Oh, I know! Tomorrow, let's play - "

"Leave me alone, Dante." Vergil cut him off mid - sentence, walking away from him, without another word, back to their house.

The image swiftly changed and all of a sudden, he could see Vergil sitting on a bench in their garden, reading that same book.

Carrying around the pair of wooden swords, Dante walked up to his brother and said, "Hey, Vergil! I just thought that we - "

His brother looked up from his book, and without a hint of reluctance, he stood up and faced him. Placing the book carefully on the bench, Vergil said, "Well?"

"Uhh, here!" Dante answered, throwing a wooden weapon to his brother, who flawlessly caught it and hastily attacked him without warning.

"Whoa, easy there!" Dante quipped as he countered the attacks. The wooden swords clashed and clashed, until Dante's broke into two. Then, Vergil launched one fast kick, and a few seconds later, the younger brother found himself lying on the ground, beaten and with no other way to fight back.

"Hehe! That was an awesome fight, Ver - !"

But, Dante wasn't able to finish his sentence when his brother turned away, grabbed his book, and went back to the house.

The next vision quite took his breath away. And not in a good way. He was standing in the doorway that led to the living room, in the middle of the night, watching his mother, his brother, and another person talking.

And not just any other person.

It was their father. In the flesh.

Dante was startled, his eyes almost popping out of their sockets when he suddenly heard his mother pleading. Almost crying even.

"He's just a boy! You can't do this to him,... "

"I'm afraid there's no time left." The father answered, his heavy voice making Dante tremble in fear. "The boy has no other choice but to do it, or else,... "

"Or else, what?!"

Dante couldn't take it anymore. He pushed the heavy wooden doors open, startling the three people inside.

"What are you talking about? Mom?"

The father gave his wife one last pleading look as he took out his Devil Sword. "There's no time! Take the boy!"

The mother winced and closed her eyes, whimpering with those tears she refused to show her children. Then, she kneeled before Vergil and hugged him so tight, whispering words that Dante couldn't hear. She stood up, then ran towards Dante, lifting him off the ground and running away from her husband and child.

Dante was helpless. He was powerless. He couldn't do anything when those Demons suddenly broke through the room where his father and brother were. He could do nothing but call Vergil's name as he saw him looking forlornly at him.

He couldn't do anything but watch when his older brother drew that familiar weapon that was given to him by their father. The Yamato.

Dante closed his eyes and covered his ears with his little palms, trying to shut the screams of the enemies and the sound of tearing flesh. He couldn't believe it. He was separated with his brother, who couldn't do anything but follow their father's will.

To fight Demons alongside him.

And Dante, on the other hand, couldn't do anything but allow his mother to take him away to safety. His mother, whose heart probably ached after being separated with her husband and one of her beloved children. He was weak. Powerless. He couldn't even fight alongside his father and brother. And now, he has no other choice but to escape with her.

He has no other choice but to watch Vergil fight from a safe distance.

"Dante, are you alright?"

His eyes snapped open, and he saw himself sitting in a class room. He looked up and saw the concerned face of his classmate.

He rubbed his eyes and nodded at her. "Yeah, I'm fine,... "

"Don't mess with him, Mary!" Came the voice of one of his classmates, who looked at him with scorn and pity. "He probably stayed awake again to take care of his mommy!"

"What did you say?!" With teeth gritting in anger, he walked towards the bully and looked down at him.

"I said," The bully spoke and stood. " ... you stayed awake to take care of your sick mommy!"

"Take that back!" Dante grabbed the collar of his smug classmate but, it didn't seem to frighten him, even a bit. "TAKE THAT BACK!"

"Aww, and what will you do? Tell your daddy? Tell your brother?"

"What did you say - ?!"

"I SAID, YOU'RE WEAK!" The bully threw a punch at Dante's face, the sheer force of it throwing him to the floor. "YOU CAN'T DO ANYTHING! YOU'RE PATHETIC!"

His other classmates took this as a cue and a few moments later, they all joined together in bullying him, kicking him and telling him words that tore his heart and reminded him of what happened that night.

Weak. Pathetic. Good for nothing.

Dante closed his eyes once more and tried to endure the kicks, the insults,...

He tried to endure the feelings of longing. A deep longing to be with his father, and brother, once again.

"I'm sorry, Dante."

He opened his eyes and saw the same girl from his class, Mary, now grown into a gorgeous lady, looking at him like he,...

Dante tore his eyes from her for a while and saw, in utter disbelief, his mother's name,...

... etched in a gravestone next to his feet.

He turned back as he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and saw Mary's tears falling from her eyes. He took it and simply nodded, trying to reassure her that he would be fine.

"I pronounce you man and wife."

The sad and depressing image before him blurred like a mixture of paint on canvass being erased with turpentine, and all of a sudden, he saw visions after visions of him marrying the same girl, building a family with her, raising children of their own,...

He saw himself living the normal and quiet life he desired so much. Away from harm, away from fights.

Away from those Demons.

The images went on and on in his head, until it came to a point where he was standing in his own house. It was empty, and yet something in its austere atmosphere made his skin crawl.

Then, he heard strange noises coming from the room to his left.

The children's room.

With escalating heartbeat, he ran towards it, opened the door, and nearly collapsed at the gloomy sight that greeted him.

Laying on the floor and swimming in her own blood was his wife, Mary, her arms around their two children, who, unfortunately, were no longer breathing.

And standing before them was a Demon so monstrous and horrifying, it reminded him of that day when his mother took him away from their old house.

They were murdered by this fiend.

Collapsing on the floor next to his family, Dante's mind tried to conjure happy images. Anything that could make him forget about his weakness and his miserable life. Again and again, he envisioned himself living lives better than this. But, all of those visions somehow led to this very moment, of him kneeling down next to his murdered family, of the Demon's claws rapidly going to his head,...

... of him suddenly remembering the face of his older brother as he faced those enemies with his father,...

But, those claws never reached his head. As a matter of fact, he saw those same claws on the floor next to his wife and children, as if something sliced them. He looked up and saw a tall, white haired warrior, wielding a familiar - looking weapon, standing between him and the Demon. The warrior raised his weapon, and in an instant, the enemy was on the floor, dead and slashed into multiple pieces.

The warrior sheathed his own weapon and looked down at him with such pity in those cold eyes of his.

He knew those eyes. He knew that look,...

"Vergil,... " Dante whispered as he tried to reach for his long lost older brother. His whole body trembled as his fingers grazed the fabric of his brother's coat, as if the mere touch of it awed and humbled him.

However, his brother ignored him and walked past him.

"Vergil!" Dante called helplessly. "Wait for me! Vergil!"

"I don't know you." The warrior answered.

"What?" The younger brother mumbled in confusion. "Vergil, what are you talking about? I'm your brother! I'm - "

"You're a disgrace. An embarrassment to Sparda's name." Vergil answered, his voice as cold as those eyes of his. "You shouldn't have been born." And with one last look at his weak sibling, he said, "The Dante I know would never succumb to his own weaknesses,... "

And with those painful words, Vergil left his brother. Dante stood and tried to catch up to him but, every time he was about to touch him, his brother seemed to slip further and further away from him, until he could no longer reach him.

Until the very thing left by him was his own shadow,...

... the shadow,...

... that plunged him into the deep and dark abyss of the Underworld,...

Dante's eyes finally snapped open, startled by the shrill ring of his old telephone. He looked at his surroundings and realized that he was back to his old and messy shop he called, Devil May Cry.

Then, as sudden as when his eyes snapped open from that very vivid nightmare of his, his brother's head popped up from behind the door of the room to his right, looking very stressed and disturbed.

"Are you going to pick that thing up, or not?" His irritated older brother asked.

"Well, I,... " Dante stuttered, still unable to believe that Vergil was now living with him under the same roof since their return from the Underworld.

He still couldn't believe it but, after long years of them fighting and trying to kill each other, of their weapons clashing and wounding their bodies,...

...of their pride always getting the better of them and blinding them, preventing them from seeing what really matters to them as brothers,...

... he now felt he's confident to say that he's glad to have his brother, Vergil, back.

And he very much preferred it than any other way.

An irritated growl escaped Vergil's throat as he grumpily made his way towards Dante's desk, blue pajamas, pair of blue bunny slippers and all, and answered the call, himself.

"Devil May Cry." The Devil Hunter in pajamas growled, and a few moments later, he threw the handset to Dante, who caught it and raised an eyebrow. Walking away, slouched and tired, Vergil said, "Your girlfriend."

"Wha - ? I don't have a girlfriend!" Dante mumbled in confusion. He raised the handset to his ear and spoke, "Yes?"

"Dante! Do you have any idea how many times I've tried to call? Like, a gazillion!" Came Patty's shrill voice.

"What do you want now?! It's the middle of the night!" Dante barked at the handset, getting annoyed with how Vergil chuckled at his sorry, stressed middle - aged man state.

"Don't forget! You lost to me at Poker! You have to take me out shopping tomorrow! Oh, my God! I'm so thrilled!"

"Go to sleep!"

"Hey! I still haven't told you what to wear for - "

And even before Patty could finish her sentence, Dante hung up the phone. A few seconds later, it rang again, and Dante had no other choice but to pull the cord to forcefully turn it off. Then, Dante heard Vergil's low laughter. He looked up at his brother and saw him watching the entire scene with such amusement in his eyes.

"What do you want?" The annoyed Devil Hunter questioned.

"You're a disgrace. An embarrassment to Sparda's name." Vergil simply answered with a sadistic grin and entered his room, closing it so he wouldn't hear his younger brother's reply.

Dante couldn't do anything but helplessly shake his head. "Yeah, maybe." He leaned on his chair and put his feet back up on top of the table. And before opening his magazine, he whispered, "Glad to have you back, Verge."

***

@dmcweek

***

[cirvat]

Week 4- Creatober

(Ahhh! Week 3 drew a blank! But week 4 brought me back!)

Prompts: Obsession, Become, Repress, Dusk, Exsanguination, and Break

Havenwood Apartments, Maddie mused to herself, was like a feel good monster cartoon come to life. Everything, from the campus grounds to the general theme of the building, was like a bastardization of an Addam’s Family spinoff. 

It was the little things. 

The general color scheme of the building, a dark wood paired with sophisticated shades of teal and gray, evoked a feeling of perpetual dusk. The refusal of the sun to break through the clouds and shine on any part of the grounds. Even the quirks of the tenants were odd.

Ms. Pennyweather of apartment 2A never went anywhere without her needlepoint projects which were always complex collections of foreign words and dark imagery. She would smile in that sweet auntie way while embroidering gory scenes of war and death. Maddie quite liked the bloody embroidery she had done on one of her jackets. She’d called that one ‘Exsanguination’.

Mr. King, in apartment 2B, was never seen during daylight hours, or what passed for daylight hours here. A knock at his door elicited no response before 8pm and his cat, affectionately called Fido, was never in his apartment. The animal was always napping elsewhere, in the kitchen or library or sitting area.

The twins, Misters Warton (apartment 4A), on the other hand never slept. Whenever Maddie got up, be it 7am or 2am, either one or both of them would be up in the library dithering away in their books and debating some inane topic of history.

Finally, there was the Garcia family in 4B who were the most normal tenants in the whole building, and yes Maddie knew that included herself. Or, they seemed like it until she had witnessed Mr. Garcia say, completely unprompted, how chilly a midsummer day was going to be hours before the wind came. 

The only person that seemed halfway average was Regina, Mr. Garcia’s daughter and Maddie’s newly enforced best friend. She attended the same little private school Huang Mulan, Maddie’s latest guardian, had enrolled her in. She giggled like a teenager, watched makeup tutorials, and posted artful pictures of her food to her Instagram. 

The only weird thing about Regina Garcia was how determined she was to be Maddie’s friend. She was kind and helpful and it set Maddie’s teeth on edge like nothing else. She didn’t even complain when Maddie started staring off at the spirits that were haunting her shadow or glaring down the ones that got too close. 

Maddie shook her head, repressing that warmth that bubbled under her skin. She let her eyes refocus back on her newest obsession, although maybe that was too strong of a word.

Watching Huang Mulan, Ms. Huang as Maddie had taken to calling her, paint was quickly becoming one of her favorite pastimes. 

Ms. Huang was honestly the coolest adult Maddie had ever seen. She either dressed to the nines with collared shirts and slacks or she looked like she had just rolled out of bed. Tattoos traced their way from her neck down her arms and spine in waves of dragons and plant life. The septum piercing was pretty cool too. And the pet raven.

“Not a pet.” Ms. Huang said as she dipped her brush in a frankly gorgeous shade of robin’s egg blue.

“What?”

“Have you gotten a chance to explore all that Havenwood has to offer?” Ms. Huang ignored her question as she traced the blue along the tree branches on her canvas. “Perhaps you could allow Ms. Garcia to give you a more in depth tour.”

“Are you really trying to get rid of me right now?” Maddie frowned. “I’ve already seen everything.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, everything I was allowed to see.”

“‘Allowed to see’?”

“Yeah, I’m not a creep!” She huffed. “I didn’t go digging in anyone’s apartments and Mr. Warton told me not to go snooping on the third floor.”

“Hm.” Ms. Huang smiled. “Charlie really should mind his own business on these kinds of matters.”

“What?”

“Madeline. A-Ying. You can go through the third floor.” She turned to look her ward in the eye. “You have my blessing.”

“What, really?” Maddie’s shoulders tensed. 

“Of course.” Ms. Huang turned back to her painting. “Bring your friend along. Who knows what you’ll meet.”

Maddie, who had checked out of the conversation as soon as Ms. Huang had given permission, bolted out of the room. The door of their ground floor apartment slammed open and she turned to the stairs in her sock clad feet. 

She sprinted up the steps, two at a time, to the fourth floor and pounded on the door to apartment 4B. When Regina opened the door she grabbed her arm immediately.

“Huanggavepermissiontoraidthethirdfloor! Mr. Gracia! I’m stealing your daughter!” She screamed into the apartment, hearing something vaguely like an ‘ok’, before yanking Regina out into the hallway. 

“Wait, Maddie, what’s going on?!” Regina stumbled on the carpet. 

“Third floor!”

“What about the third floor? We can’t go there, remember?”

“Ms. Huang gave me permission and told me to bring you so that means you have permission too and we are gonna raid the place I bet there’s some cool shit like dead rats and rotten furniture and maybe you can take a picture for your Insta or some shit! Come on!” She barely spared the time to breathe as she pulled her snooping buddy back down the stairs to the floor beneath them. 

“Uh-Um.. A-are you sure she meant me?” Regina fumbled for her words. Maddie would never understand this girl’s fear of her guardian.

“Who else is forcing their friendship on me? Fido the cat?” She scoffed as she took Regina’s shoulders and frog-marched her to the door for apartment 3A. “He doesn’t give a shit. He’s probably in here all the time.”

“I-I don’t know, Maddie.” Regina rubbed her hands together. “Mr. Warton said that we shouldn’t-”

“And Ms. Huang, you know the owner of the fucking building, said that we could. So we’re gonna.” Maddie tried the door and immediately knelt to pick the lock when it didn’t turn. “She said that ‘Charlie’ should keep his nose out of it.”

“I doubt she said that.”

“Spiritually, she did.” Maddie smirked when the lock clicked and the door opened. 

“You can pick locks?” Regina blinked when she sprung back up to shove the door open. 

“Hell yeah, I can.” Maddie winked at her. “I gotta use these delinquent skills somehow. Come on!”

The room that they entered was nothing like Maddie had expected.

Instead of old wood and dust there were stacks and stacks of paintings. Canvases and frames covered every wall. Almost every square foot of floor space was taken up with statues and busts. There was a small winding path that led through the unlit room. 

The girls glanced at each other before making their way inside. 

“Is this just where she dumps all of the crap she doesn’t sell?” Maddie frowned as she tiptoed along the path. 

“Do you mean Ms. Huang?”

“Yeah. She paints, like, all the fuckin’ time. I just assumed she sold it all to afford shit like this house and art supplies. You ever look at the prices in those art stores? It’s crazy expensive!”

“I guess I didn’t think she had a hobby like that.” Regina shrugged. “I thought she just went around fixing broken stuff and collecting rent.”

“Don’t you do her dirty like th-! Stop!” Maddie threw out an arm, freezing in place. “Did you see that?!”

“See what?” Regina looked over her shoulder. “I didn’t see anything.”

“Sh!” She pointed. “There it was again! Something moved!”

“Oh, god. Do you think there’s actually rats in here?!” Her friend took a step back. 

“No, no! It was up high! Look, look!” Maddie pointed again. This time she caught the movement and watched as a ink-black goldfish slowly swam through the air. It floated over to a painting and disappeared into the canvas, becoming part of the image depicted there.

“What in the world?” 

“There’s more!” The two girls looked up and watched as a school of goldfish meandered through the ceiling beams. Regina glanced to the side staring at one fish as it sailed into another painting and tugged Maddie to watch as the painting itself began to change. 

A young girl swung on a rope swing as a storm slowly approached from behind her. Wind shuffled the leaves, changing their colors, and tugged at the girl’s hair. The fish made its way to her and she started to laugh, cupping the creature close.

Soon they noticed that each painting moved. A seascape patterned through a rushing tide. Ink slowly dribbled across fresh snow. A single wolf shifted in between forest trees. A young man blinked at them from his spot at a low table. 

“Maddie, what’s going on?” Regina tugged at her sleeve. 

“...” Maddie closed her gaping mouth and smiled. “My aunt is a fucking witch!”

[vannahfanfics]

Valentine's Day always makes me think of the Host Club, so could I please request Mori x Haruhi with the prompt "Roses"?

Here you are, dearest! Thank you for requesting. I don’t get many Ouran requests so it really is a breath of fresh air, especially with these two shy cuties! ^u^

A Moment’s Peace

A serene smile adorned Haruhi’s face as she sat at the small white table situated in the midst of the botanical garden she and her male compatriots were currently visiting. They were attempting to make the best of their time in America, despite being extremely busy with their schoolwork, and so on weekends, they frequented the local cultural highlights. On this jaunt, they were having tea-time in the city’s botanical garden. Haruhi sighed contentedly as she reclined in the iron-wrought, ornate chair, leisurely swirling the tea in her teacup with the small spoon as her eyes traced over the plethora of blooms that were within her view.

The garden was constructed in the shape of concentric squares, with small stone paths linking a series of small clearings enclosed on all four sides by intricate flower beds. Each zone embodied a specific floral theme. And in true Host Club fashion, Kyoya had booked the area that was surrounded by roses. Naturally, there were rich ruby reds, but the garden had also cultivated a rainbow of other flowers: blushing pinks, sunny yellows, royal purples, pristine whites, and tiffany blues, and even a bush of midnight black blooms. Haruhi sipped contentedly at her tea as a gentle breeze rolled through the open-air flower garden, making the roses’ soft petals and the spiny bush leaves rustle all around her. So peaceful…

Then, she heard the unmistakable yowling of Tamaki and the evil cackling of the twins in the distance. She scowled as her mental peace was all but shattered by their remote uproar; surely, the twins were antagonizing Tamaki in some way. She began counting down the seconds until he burst from underneath the floral arched exit, sobbing pitifully about how mean they were being to him and begging Haruhi to chastise them because he seemed to have the idea that Haruhi could control them. In reality, the twins could only be controlled when they wished to, so there was no point in disturbing Haruhi’s gentle contemplations. Disturb her they would, anyway, so she grudgingly prepared herself for all the noise.

Her eyebrow quirked as her keen ears regarded the far-off shouting. It did not seem to be growing closer. She could distinctly hear Tamaki yelping, though. For all she knew, they were beating him with a stick and disposing of the evidence. Oh well. Tamaki could use a bit of toughening up, she supposed as she calmly sipped at her tea again. Damn, that’s some fine Earl Grey, she esteemed silently. The Host Club was full of loons but damn it if they didn’t have fine taste in teas.

The cacophony dwindled below the level of the rustling greenery around her. He’d live, probably. There was no reason for Haruhi to worry over it. Her round eyes swiveled around as she continuously sipped at the light-colored drink, sweetened with much sugar and cream. Haruhi may be relatively plain, but her taste buds were not. So beautiful, she crooned in her head again as her eyes beheld the brilliant blooms nearly the size of her hand.

The ceramic clinked lightly as Haruhi set the half-empty teacup back into the saucer and rose from her seat to walk over to the line of rose bushes closest to her. Her white skirt, mid-length and flowy, swished about her knees with her rising. It had been strange, adjusting to dressing femininely all the time after pretending to be a male for well over a year, but she had grown well accustomed to it now. A small smile alighting her face, she scampered up to the row of bushes and was instantly greeted with the pleasurable, pungent aroma of the roses. Each one was distinctly different, some sweeter than others, but they blended together in a sensational harmony that had Haruhi’s nerves buzzing with joy. She clasped her hands behind her back as she leaned over the stone wall to sniff lightly at the bloom in front of her face. Its lovely scent drew a humming sigh from her. Smells so nice…

“Haruhi?”

The girl shrieked and nearly jumped a foot in the air as she was suddenly addressed. Though, of course, she knew that sniffing roses was a far cry from a damning activity, her subconscious’ alarm bells were blaring with the insane idea she had been caught doing something wrong. Her face nearly the color of the bright pink roses in front of her, she whirled around, hands twisted into the sides of her skirts as she faced her inquisitor. Mori was standing in the entrance to the zone, dark eyebrows arched nearly up to the roots of his neatly-trimmed hair. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he mumbled with an embarrassed haze over his cheeks matching Haruhi’s.

“I-it’s fine,” she said before stiffly shuffling back to the table to plonk back into her chair. She stared with big brown eyes at the cup of tea. She ought to drink it before it grew cold, but her sudden rush of anxiety was making her stomach lurch. In a compulsive gesture, she tucked the strands of her short hair on either side of her head behind her ears. “You aren’t watching Hunny?”

“He’s with the others.”

Haruhi had been too absorbed in admiring the flowers to notice, but Tamaki was yelling and the twins were cackling with gusto once more. They sounded at least a zone closer. Haruhi’s mouth began to twitch, unsure if she wanted to smile or scowl. Leave it to those idiots to start an uproar in such a classy place as this… For rich kids, you really can’t take them anywhere. “I thought you might be lonely,” he added in a lower voice. Haruhi’s cheeks began to pulse with low heat as he cast a glance at his shoes, playing with the ends of his hair on the back of his neck. She blinked at him, then smiled sweetly. Mori was always so concerned for her. It was endearing.

“Thank you. I’m all right, but since you’re here, would you like to sit and look at the roses with me, Mori?” she offered with a wave of her hand to the chair opposite her. His tall body grew rigid for a second as he eyed the chair like a foreign object he knew not what to do with; then, robotically, like an automaton who had just been granted life, he walked over to slowly ease himself into the chair. Haruhi placed a hand over her mouth to cover the small laugh that threatened to spill from her lips; really, it was too small to hold his tall, broad frame. He looked like a giant had agreed to converse with a fairy, uncomfortable but too polite to refuse, and was now seated at a mushroom table with no idea of what to do. The mental image made her snort and she had to try and act like she was coughing.

“Are you all right, Haruhi?” Dammit, he looked concerned now. She waved a hand dismissively, now coughing for real from trying not to be rude. She thought she heard Tamaki yelling again, but she couldn’t be sure for the gasping hacks her lungs were forcing up her throat. It took her a moment to regain a normal semblance of breathing rhythm.

“Yes, yes,” she said as she swept the small tears that had formed in the corners of her eyes away with the tip of her index finger. “I think I may have inhaled too much pollen smelling that rose.”

“You… Like roses, Haruhi?” His tone was light, curious. Her anxieties had melted away, so she picked up her tea to resume drinking it delicately, casting a sidelong glance at the flowers.

“Yes,” she smiled placidly. “I hadn’t thought much about flowers before all this, but I think I like them now because they remind me of the Host Club.” She leaned her cheek in her hand as she peacefully watched the blooms bob amongst the dark green leaves as the wind bounced them about. “Sure, it’s chaos and not how I imagined my life would turn out, but… I’d be remiss not to admit that I don’t regret it at all. I would do it over and over again and never change a thing,” she said with a beaming grin in his direction. Mori’s eyes were slightly widened as he just stared at her, expression completely unreadable as he reeled in what she supposed was shock. She chuckled in embarrassment and compulsively smoothed a hand over her brown hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get all sentimental. I bet you think that’s weird.”

“No…” he spoke finally, gaze dropping down to the empty saucer in front of him. “I don’t think it’s weird at all.” Likewise, Haruhi’s gaze dropped down into her nearly-finished cup of tea. “I’m glad… You don’t regret anything,” he added after a second, and they both looked up simultaneously such that their eyes locked. Something about the intimacy of the moment made her blush, but she could not force herself to look away from him. Not even Tamaki’s affronted yowling, definitely much closer now, could tear her out of that one, simple, electrified second.

Mori moved first, looking back at the roses. He then stood up to walk over to the rose bushes, stooping down to pick up a rose that had been ripped from the bush by some force of nature or destructive hands. “So… Would you say one of those roses is the most beautiful flower in that whole garden?” It was a strange question, and an even stranger delivery; his tone was level, confident even, but Haruhi could detect the barely hidden waver in his voice as he wrestled with insecurity. Haruhi was confused about the question and figured the only response was to answer.

“Well, yes, I suppose so. Do you disagree?” She wasn’t sure why she posed the inquiry. It was almost instinctive, as if her subconscious was reading the signs Mori was giving her, though her waking mind couldn’t process them. Her eyes traveled the length of his spine to the back of his head as he slowly straightened up, holding the discarded rose by the stem and slowly turning it in a circle between his thumb and index finger.

“Yes, I would,” he responded. Haruhi had no time to process that he had actually disagreed before he turned around and approached her. A small gasp, a ghost of a breath, passed her lips as he kneeled down on one knee before her to tuck the flower behind her ear with all the care of a prince bestowing a token upon his princess. Her face was not sure what emotion to display, but her eyes were a clear window to her quivering soul, shaking with emotion as she stared at him with her lips slightly parted though she could force no words through. “If I had to say, the most beautiful flower is sitting right in front of me. See? She even puts that gorgeous rose to shame.”

“Oh… Oh my… Mori…!” she squeaked as her hands automatically slapped up to cover her blushed-blazed face. There was no mistaking the way he was looking at her. Haruhi had always liked Mori; he was kind and gentle. But did she like Mori? Why was her heart saying “yes”? She had no warning! How were her feelings so powerful as to send her heart hammering in her throat, palpitations near cardiac arrest, so suddenly?! Her head was hot enough to fry an egg in an instant. Still whimpering in shock, she parted her fingers to peer out at him. He was still kneeling there, smiling gently at her. “Oh, goodness,” she breathed, not even realizing she had uttered the words aloud. “Th-th-thank you…” she managed finally, mostly because it was required of social decorum.

Before Haruhi could ask what the blazing hell had gotten into him, Tamaki and the twins finally burst onto the scene as she had predicted. Tamaki’s voice was several octaves higher than normal as he dashed in a circle around the zone with the two twins howling in laughter, chasing him with a stick. After a second of watching them, she realized there was a big, fat, green caterpillar on the end of said stick.

“Haruhiiiiii!” Tamaki wailed with tears streaming down his cheeks. “They’ve been chasing me all over with that stupid bug! Make them stoooooooop!” He launched himself across the clearing to land on his belly next to her chair at the perfect angle to clutch at her skirt and beg. “Please, Haruhi, I can’t take it anymore.”

“Why didn’t you ask Kyoya to deal with it?” she frowned down at him, completely unsympathetic. His breath hitched in his throat as he heard the twins snickering and they both glanced over to see them slowly encroaching with the caterpillar, wriggling the branch tauntingly.

“Kyoya abandoned me! He took Hunny and walked off! The bastard!”

“Jeez,” Haruhi huffed with a roll of her eyes. She stiffly stood from the chair and wrenched her skirt away from Tamaki’s grabby hands before marching over to the twins, who looked the picture of scolded puppies. “Honestly! I can’t get a moment’s peace. I don’t care what you do to Tamaki, but why torture this poor little caterpillar? Go put him back where you found him so he can eat in peace!” she scolded while planting her feet and waggling her finger at them. Behind her, Tamaki sat up on his knees and chewed on his thumbnail with watery eyes.

“Tch. You just had to go whine to Haruhi instead of holding it like a man,” Hikaru groused through pouty pursed lips. His brother sighed loudly and plucked the caterpillar from the branch to begin trekking back to where they had plucked him from. Haruhi thought the affair was settled until, right as he passed Tamaki, the boy mimed as if he threw the bug on the blonde boy. Tamaki released an unholy screech and batted frantically at his clothes and the open air, falling over and knocking down the chairs and tea table in the process. Mori had to scuttle away before it fell on top of him.

“Dammit, you two!” Haruhi shouted over Kaoru and Hikaru’s maniacal giggles. “Kyoya’s gonna be pissed if we have to pay for that! Don’t make me come kick your little asses!” she growled and made to wrench off her flat to do just that.

“Man, Haruhi, so vulgar!” Hikaru laughed as he pranced away from her as she made to swipe him over the head with her shoe, which she had successfully wriggled off her foot.

“That’s cuz you’ve pissed me off!”

“We’re going! We’re going!” The twins chimed in unison as they hurried back into the floral hallway before Haruhi really did kill them. She sat there, seething and huffing and flat clutched in a white-knuckled grip. Tamaki crawled over to her like a toddler and clutched at her leg, sniffling about how mean they were. Haruhi responded by whapping him over the head with the sole of her shoe.

“You! You’re a grown man! Why are you freaking out over one measly caterpillar?!”

“Ow! Haruhi, whyyyyyyy?” he wailed and clutched the crown of his head, though she knew he was just being dramatic because she had taken care not to hit him nearly as much as she wanted to. He looked at her with teary, swimming eyes that would fell a lesser woman, but she was not that lesser woman— far from it. She put her fists into her hips as she glared at him, bare foot tapping wildly into the stone pathway. “Oh… I interrupted something?” he realized finally as he looked between himself and Mori, who was standing now and swiping grass blades from the knees of his dress pants. Tamaki’s mouth fell open in horror and he eyed the rose in Haruhi’s hair scandalously. “Mori! Were you flirting with our darling Haruhi?!”

“Yeah, so what?”

Haruhi slapped a hand over her mouth at the callous affirmation. She would have thought Mori would’ve been shy and even refused, but he was just gazing pointedly at Tamaki like it was just this natural thing. Tamaki hissed like a cat and hugged her leg again, earning another strike to his head.

“Ow! Haruhi, why— Mori! How could you?! I’d expect this from Hunny or the twins or even Kyoya, but not you! How the mighty have fallen!” he wailed in dismay, laying the back of his hand against his forehead as if he might faint like a weak-willed woman.

“Moron. It’s none of your business! He means it!” Haruhi chastised him, then blushed when she realized what had actually come out of her mouth. Mori was finally growing bashful, hand over his mouth as he looked away from her, but she spied the pink creeping up the skin not covered by his fingers. Haruhi growled in ire as a headache began to grow in the pit of her skull. Never a moment’s peace…! “Tamaki! We can take about it later, but for now, can I please just sit here and enjoy the roses with Mori? Please?” She emphasized the question by grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and prying him away from her leg. She wasn’t strong enough to really lift him, but he curled up like a turtle into its shell, arms and legs hugged to his midriff as he stared at her owlishly.

“O-okay, Haruhi. If that’s what you really want,” he said in a small voice. He obediently got up once she set him a half a foot away from her and made his hasty exit, throwing confused glances at her all the while. As soon as he vanished through the archway she groaned because she just knew he was going to go blab to the others and she would face a real inquisition upon their return. With her shoulders in a defeated slump, she whined at the arch until Mori came up beside her with a small laugh.

“Never a moment’s peace,” she grumbled aloud before looking at him out of the corners of her eyes, impishly with her cheeks puffed childishly.

“No,” he laughed, hand sneaking down to entwine their pinkies, “but would you prefer it any other way?”

“No, I suppose not,” she admitted breathily before squeezing his much larger pinky with her own. Tugging on it, he guided her back to the wall of roses, smiling beautifully all the while. There were many questions, from many different people included herself, but Haruhi shoved all those aside for the moment as she beheld the pretty blossoms with the quiet but passionate man. For now, she just wanted to enjoy a moment’s peace, on the cusp of an uncertain but undeniably happy future…

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to perusemy Tableof Contents!

Tag List: @deliathedork

[eirian-houpe]

Beauty Compelled

Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold

Characters: Belle (Once Upon a Time), Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Grace | Paige, Maurice | Moe French

Additional Tags: Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, A Monthly Rumbelling (Once Upon a Time), Beauty and the Beast Elements

Summary: Years ago, Moe French endebted himself to the nobleman, Mister Gold. Unable to pay the debt by any other means, he promises his daughter, Belle, in marriage to Gold. Now, on the day of her 18th Birthday, the contract is to be honored, and Belle must go to her new home, Adelram Hall, and to meet her husband-to-be, Mister Gold, who has a reputation for darkness.

Read on AO3

Beauty Compelled

Such arrangements were supposed to be a thing of the past, so when her eighteenth birthday dawned, brighter and clearer than it had any right to do so, it was with a sense of dread in her belly that she greeted the day.

Since her father’s inauspicious return, so many years ago now that it would have been lost to her memory but for the jewel she wore on the ring finger of her left hand, the day had been a constant specter hanging over her. She had been unable to remove the ring since she had accepted her fate: to give herself to him, or for her father to lose his fortune and suffer the slow decline into destitution and death. Her guilt had driven her to agree, for how could she refuse when it was because of her that her father had trespassed, and incurred a debt which he was unable to repay, all for want of bringing her back a gift.

She sat with her father that morning. The mood was somber on what should have been a day of celebration, as they took tea with barely a word spoken between them. A letter had come that morning, and he slowly slid it across the table to her.

The paper was soft velum, the folds were crisp and sharp. The hand upon the front of the sealed missive was in looping cursive, in a deep red, almost black ink, and the seal on the back was made of heavy wax, and was layered, decorative, though to be decorated with a skull seemed more than a little disturbing.

“Aren’t you going to read it?” he father asked quietly, sounding almost as fearful as she. She took a deep breath, and then hooked her thumbnail beneath the seal, preparing to break it. Then she froze. Words encircled the grotesque image in the center, and she lifted it closer to her face to peer at them.

We know what we are, but not what we may be.

She frowned as she read them, and a slight shiver went through her, like a warning, or some kind of expectation.

“Belle?” her father prompted.

She shook her head. “Nothing,” she said, and tugged at the seal until it broke from the paper and she could unfold the letter, swallowing hard as she did.

The message was short, and to the point. It read, “Miss French, My carriage will call for you at 2pm, and my footman will escort you to your new home.” and it was signed with the same flourishing hand as the script on the envelope with a single name. Gold.

She felt her eyes fill with tears and fought not to let them escape as she slid the letter over to her father. She had agreed to this after all.

Her father read silently, then said, “So, he means to go through with it then.”

“Did you doubt that he would?” she remarked rhetorically. Gold had a reputation, after all.

The farewell had not been tearful. She would not allow it to be, and had followed the silent, tall, and gaunt footman to the carriage, and accepted his help to climb inside. The journey was long and taken on unsteady roads which, in spite of the modernity of the conveyance, still jostled her, leaving her as physically rattled as she was emotionally. It was coming on evening when the house came into view, it’s three towers of dark gray stone, loomed beneath the almost-black of the slate roof, one in the center, above the main door, and one either end of the enormous building. The house - almost large enough to be called a castle - stood at the end of a long, sweeping driveway that curved around either side of a well manicured lawn. It stood four storeys tall with many chimneys in the same gray stone, and many arched and dormer windows graced what she could see of the front of the building as the carriage came closer. It was imposing; intimidating.

All too soon the carriage came to a halt with practiced precision directly in front of the main doorway, and the carriage rocked slightly as the footman alighted, and came to hand Belle down and then to escort her inside, through a spacious vestibule and into the large open space that was the main hall dressed in marble, with statues and other artifacts adorning shelves and display cases, and waiting in the hallway was a young lady that could not have been much younger than she herself.

The girl was modestly dressed in a long, dark blue dress, with a white blouse beneath. As Belle was brought to a halt by the footman, the the waiting girl lowered herself in a deep curtsy. Belle swallowed, unused to such genuflection, since it wasn’t required in her father’s household.

“Welcome to Adelram Hall, My Lady,” the girl said. Her quiet voice held the accent of the low country, though it was well refined. “Mister Gold has asked that I attend you, show you to your room and help you get settled.”

Belle smiled at her as the girl rose from the curtsy, and said, “Thank you, and please… I’m no lady. My name is Belle.”

“But, Miss Belle, you’re to be Lady of Adelram hall,” the girl said, sounding perplexed, and Belle supposed she would have to get used to the honorific. It seemed that kind of household. The girl then turned her attention to the footman, still standing beside them, and said quietly, “Thank you, Mister Dove. You can have Miss Belle’s things sent up to her room.”

He gave a wordless bow of his head, and then a lower, more respectful bow to Belle as he turned from them, and left the two women alone.

“Should I show you upstairs, Miss Belle?” the girl asked then. “I could show you the Oak Sitting Room, and then when your things are brought up, I can help you to dress for dinner.  Mister Gold has asked that you join him.”

“Of course,” Belle said, and felt a nervous flutter in her belly. She had yet to meet the man to whom she was promised and, if his letter and the house was anything to go by, she could not imagine he would be any less austere. She clasped her hands together to prevent them from trembling, and then said quietly, though she didn’t at all feel it, “I’m ready. Lead the way.”

The Oak Sitting Room was so named because it was entirely paneled in oak wood around the walls. Entry to the room was gained by a double door from the corridor outside, and at either end of the room there were two smaller doorways. Belle wondered where those other door led.  Beside one of the two doors was a sizable fireplace, where a low fire burned already against the coming chill of the evening, and nearby the fire, an area carpet in rich browns and reds covered the wood paneled floor on which the rest of the furniture, tables and chairs, and desks for writing at, stood.  Over the carpet, however, was a comfortable looking couch and high backed arm chair.

“Should I send for some tea?” the girl asked as Belle came to a stop after visually examining each corner of the room.

“Thank you,” Belle said, turning a smile the girl’s way, “I should like that… and… how should I call you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Miss,” the girl said and blushed slightly as she went to the bell pull at the side of the fireplace. “My name is Grace.”

“And do you…” Belle asked carefully, “… work here?”

Grace gave a soft little laugh. “No, Miss Belle, not the way you mean,” she said. “My father is a… business associate of Mister Gold, and his lordship is kind enough to give me a home while my father is away on their shared ventures… which is a often.”

Belle’s breath came out of her in a rush. “Oh, thank goodness,” she said in the midst of that relieved exhalation, “For a moment I thought…”

She shook her head at herself and then grinned at the other young lady, who was also shaking her head.  “No,” she confirmed as though she could read Belle’s mind, “Mister Gold just thought you and I might be friends, that’s all.  That we might each like to have a friend, and I… well I, for one, certainly should.”

Belle reached out and took hold of both of Grace’s hands and squeezed them tightly in her own. “I should like that too,” she said. “Very much.”

Grace beamed, and without letting go of Belle’s hands, drew her toward the couch, just as a maid entered the room carrying a tea tray, which she brought wordlessly to the coffee table nearby to the couch, setting the tray down first, before bobbing a curtsy.

“Will there be anything else, My Lady? Miss Grace?” she asked softly.

Grace shook her head, and Belle answered, “No, thank you.” The maid curtsied once more, and then withdrew, and Belle groaned softly as she turned to Grace. “I shall never be comfortable with all of this,” she said. “They’re behaving as though I’m royalty.”

“Here, you are,” said Grace simply. “Mister Gold, is lord and master here, and no matter how close some of us might become to him, it is well to remember that, and since they know you’re to be his wife…”

Belle’s belly clenched again as Grace’s words brought back, starkly, the reason she was hours away from her home, in a strange, grand house, filled with fine things, and people she did not know - though at least Grace was a flicker of light among it all.

Sharing tea with Grace helped to settle her nerves but a little, as Grace told her about her new home, and presently the two young women rose and Grace led her toward the other of the two doors, which led to her chambers, and told her that Mister Gold’s room was at the opposite end of the sitting room, by the fireplace. The thought took the ends of the knot in her belly and pulled it a little tighter.

Her room was opulent, with a large canopied bed with drapes of red and gold. In fact the entire room was decorated in the glorious color of sunlight, the floor length curtains at the three bay windows were a golden yellow with the same red and gold color valances as the bedspread and canopy. Even the skirts around her vanity matched the curtains and bed-skirts, the entire room was so well coordinated. Belle imagined that the morning sun would make the room light and airy indeed.

For the moment though, the curtains had been closed, and a fire lit in the hearth to warm the room for when Belle would eventually return to it, her trunks had been unpacked, and a black evening dress hung up for her to wear to dinner.  She supposed she would have servants after all.

As though Grace was once again reading her mind, the girl chuckled and said, “You didn’t imagine Mister Gold would let you do everything all by yourself, did you?”

It seemed to Belle to take an age to prepare for dinner, and Grace fussed endlessly at her hair to have it fall just right about her shoulders, but just as she feared the younger woman would make her late to dinner, Grace declared her ready, and prepared to lead her downstairs to present her to her intended.

“You’ll dine in the Breakfast Room,” Grace told her in a half whisper as they began to descend the stairs. “Mister Gold thought it would be more intimate for the two of you.”

“You’re not joining us?” Belle asked, feeling a sudden rush of panic tighten her belly, and Grace chuckled.

“Of course not,” she said, “There will be plenty of staff to see propriety maintained, and besides, you don’t want me twittering on when you meet him for the first time.”  She leaned closer as if she were about to impart a huge secret and whispered, “I think you’ll like him. He’s not at all as fearsome as people think. You’ll see.”

Before Belle could answer they had reached the bottom of the stairs, and began walking toward a room from which she began to hear the sound of chamber music. Grace suddenly grasped her hand excitedly, and Belle started. Her nerves already frayed.

“Oh, he is playing the gramophone,” she said excitedly, “You are in for rare a treat!”

Belle blinked.  She had heard of a gramophone of course, but her own family were far too old fashioned to have possessed such a thing, and she wondered at what it would be like to hear it properly instead of from a distance. Her silent question was soon answered, when they reached the doorway to what looked like a Salon, where electric lighting - also a commodity that was not so familiar to Belle, at least not in her father’s home - had been switched on, and the warmth of a fire in the hearth reached out to caress away the chills of the stone corridors and the staircase down which she and Grace had come.

As they entered, a man whom she presumed to be Mister Gold, came to his feet, and swiftly buttoned the front of his dress suit jacket as he turned to the ladies. Grace did not wait for the two of them to meet formally, and for the moment Belle was glad of that.  The younger woman simply bobbed barely a curtsy and then almost rushed across the room to greet Mister Gold, standing on her tiptoes to brush a kiss to his cheek.

“Miss Grace.” Belle watched, the frantic beating of her heart subsiding just a little as he indulged Grace with a smile. “Are you certain you won’t join us for dinner? I can easily have Stiers set another place.”

“And get in your way?” Grace teased softly, “Absolutely not. I’ve already arranged with Mister Stiers, and Miss Bernadette to allow me to share supper with them.”

Gold made no comment on this, merely raised an eyebrow, and as if remembering something, released Grace’s arm, which he had been lightly supporting, and walked to the sideboard to retrieve a folded letter.

“A letter from your father came for you today,” he told her, offering it to her.

She took it with a smile, and threw what looked to Belle to be an impulsive hug around Gold’s chest, with a heartfelt, “Thank you,” and then pulled back, clutching the letter to her chest and withdrew almost at a run toward the door through which they’d entered, catching a hold of Belle for a moment and turning her around, almost full circle as she hugged her too. “Enjoy your dinner, Miss Belle,” she murmured as she did, and then was gone leaving Belle standing almost with her back to Mister Gold.

“She’s quite the force of nature, is she not?” Gold’s voice washed over her, like a rolling wave, deep and with a fondness that belied his upright appearance.  At his words though, Belle turned, back to him in time to see him picking something up from atop an untidy fall of papers on his desk, before he approached her, carrying it in his hands.

He came to a halt barely a step or two away, and held out a single red rose toward her.

“If you’ll have it,” he said quietly.

She smiled shyly, and reached out to take it from him, thanking him softly, before she realized she had not shown him the proper respect, and dipped into a deep and graceful curtsy. As she rose, it was to find that he returned her a low and equally respectful bow. She found herself surprised and it must have shown in her face, because he tilted his head a look of query in his eyes.

When she shook her head, uncertain what to say, nor trusting in herself to say… whatever it might have been with a steady voice, he chuckled and nodded, even as he held out his hand to her.

“Ah,” he said knowingly. “My reputation.”

She blushed more fiercely, and set her hand into his, allowing him to lead her across the room, closer to the fireplace.

“I didn’t mean…” she stammered, faltering as he shook his head again.

“No matter.”  His voice was gentle, calm and almost without inflection, but when she looked up she saw a flash of pain and anger move across his eyes, as he said, “In my position I suppose it is only to be expected.”

“Your position, Mister Gold?” she asked, frowning as they came to a stop before the warmth of the fire.

“As the Lord of this Estate,” he answered, “And the lands beyond it, I’m certain there are all kinds of unsavory rumors spread about.”

“Oh,” she said, “Oh, I don’t think—”

“Am I unreasonable?” It took her a moment to realize he was not asking the question of her, but of the rumors themselves. “No, I simply expect that my tenant farmers and laborers honor the terms of our agreements, and pay their dues on time. Everything has its price, Miss French.”

She swallowed hard, tugging her hand from his, the tone in his voice sending tendrils of ice through her blood. The rumors she’d heard said that, yes; that he was a hard, but fair task master, but there were other, darker rumors; rumors of a stranger nature, that hinted on the hidden, the occult, to use the vernacular - dark magic.

“I understand entirely, Sir,” she said.

Her words seem to waken him from his tirade, his momentary lapse of propriety, and he closed his eyes for a heartbeat before offering her a soft, sad, smile.

“Forgive me, Miss French,” he craved quietly, and after a moment or two added, “I don’t know what kind of tales you’ve heard told about me, but as you have entered into our arrangement in good faith, and though we shall be wed, as our contract agrees, I promise you, my dear, that I shall command of you, nothing, and no moment, to which you do not consent.”

She swallowed hard, blinking at him owlishly, a fierce blush rising in her cheeks and she studied him. Rumors also spoke of him as disagreeable in form, a beast with no mercy, and yet, he had shown her nothing but gallantry and kindness since her arrival, and - her blush deepened - she certainly did not find his appearance in any way offensive. Quite the contrary, in fact. His high cheek bones, his long hair and full lips, and the depth of his eyes, their deep crystalline brown, like dark amber, drew her in; made her want to be in his presence… get to know him…

“Do you understand?”

At his softly spoken question, she realized she had made no comment on his promise, and it would be expected that she should say something.

“I,” she began, unsure of how to proceed, “thank you, that is most noble of you.”

“Hardly noble,” he said, his voice dry with cynicism, “I would simply prefer you to be happy here.”

He held out his hand again then, toward her left, the one that bore his ring, and without a thought to objection she placed her chilled fingers into the warmth of his palm.

“You are free here,” he told her softly, “to come and go as you please, so long as it is safe for you to do so and you go accompanied, either by Grace, or by one of the footmen if it is outside of the grounds.”

“I understand,” she said quietly, but inside her heart was pounding. Here was a man to whom she had expected to lose all of her free will, who was offering her a freedom that she had not even enjoyed in her father’s home.

“When I entertain guests,” he went on, “I would hope that you would attend our gatherings at my side as my wife should.”

“Yes,” she agreed readily, it was only fair, and why would she not want to attend such balls and soirees as she had heard were held at Adelram Hall?

“You will oversee the household management, and provisioning of our needs, as would be expected of the Lady of Adelram Hall,” he said, and again, it was no less than she had expected, and had been schooled for as the daughter of a landowner after all.

“Got it,” she confirmed.

“Oh,” he added, as though he had just remembered something very important, his face a mask of seriousness. “And once a month, when the moon is at its peak, you will accompany me to the basement to participate in my rites of dark magic.”

She gasped audibly then and pulled away from him so suddenly that she stumbled backwards into a round table by the hearth, dislodging a china tea cup, finely decorated with pale blue flowers, sending it tumbling to the Persian rug on which the table stood.

The color drained from her, and she felt a band of panic tighten around her chest, both at his words, and for fear of the damage she had done to the tea service, and stared at him in something approaching horror, only then noticing the slight twinkle in his deep brown eyes.

“That one was a quip,” he told her, “Not serious.”

She breathed out a nervous laugh and a whispered, “Right,” before she bent down to pick up the cup, biting her lip as she noticed the chip in the rim of the cup.

“Oh, my…” she said as she lifted the cup from the rug and began to hold it up for him to see. “I’m so sorry. It’s… it’s chipped. You can hardly see it…”

He approached her slowly, carefully, as though approaching a fearful deer whom he thought might bolt, lifting the cup from her fingers and cradling it for a moment.

“It’s just a cup,” he told her softly, as though confused, or somehow testing her.

“You’re… making fun of me,” she accused softly, as he set the cup back on the tray. He turned back to her then.

“Making fun, yes,” he said, “but not of you. Never of you. Simply mocking the rumors that I’m sure you’ve heard. I too have heard the things they say. That I’m a beast; A monster that revels in dark magic.”

“I’m so… sorry,” she said as she noticed that flash of that pain again, but then like a summer shower it was gone once more, and he shook his head, smiling.

“No, the apology is mine, my lady,” he took her hand, and she gladly allowed it, “Can you ever forgive me?”

“Of course,” she said, offering a smile of her own. “No man should have to endure to have such blatant stains cast upon his character, especially as untrue as they are.”

He gave her bow over their joined hands, and asked, “May I?”  She nodded briefly, and he tenderly raised the back of her hand to his lips, to brush her skin with a soft, warm kiss that tingled over the whole of her, following the path of nerves through her body, like lightning seeking to ground.

She shivered and blushed anew as he slowly released her hand.

“Dinner will be a while,” he told her with regret. “I thought we might enjoy some music while we wait.”

“I should like that,” she answered, with a genuine smile. “Grace seemed quite taken with your gramophone.”

He chuckled then as he began to search for a record from the stack beside the player.

“Her father brought it to me,” he said quietly. “It is a treasured gift - for both of us,” he straightened up then, a disk in his hands, held carefully by the edge, and added with a smile, “For you too, I’d hope. A little Chopin, I think.”

She returned the smile, and nodded her accord, not so very well versed in the music of the classical composers to be able to recognize many, but not so ignorant either. Chopin was a favorite of hers. She couldn’t help but wonder if he somehow knew.

She closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the gentle strains of Raindrops Prelude, letting the piano sounds wash over her, until she felt a sudden heat prickle at her and wondering at it, opened her eyes to find him watching her, a quiet half smile on his face.

“Would you care to dance, Miss French?” he asked.

“Oh, I…” she began, about to refuse, but then, something inside her unfurled a little at the look of supplication on his face, and stepping toward him even before she knew what she was doing, she said, “I should like that.”

As she reached him he offered a low bow, and she responded in kind, a curtsy from which he raised her, lightly taking her into his arms, and beginning to turn with her about the open space in the Salon.

At first her hand trembled a little on his shoulder, and where their hands met she felt as if a tingling passed between them, only softly, but it made a strange feeling fizzle in her lungs, a tenderness and excitement that she would never have expected to feel from a stranger - and stranger he was, for all that he would be her husband.

Their movements matched the gentle nature of the music, the light piano tones guiding their steps, and she followed him with ease, and with delight. Then the music darkened, moving to a minor key with many crescendos. He tugged her closer, and she held fast to him. The gentle fizzle becoming an ache, a need to be subsumed by the music, by the man that held her, turned with her, pressed her close to move as one, his thighs parting hers to step, to move around the spaciousness of the room that yet did not feel large enough to contain them, and she became lost in him.

And then…

As if a dream, the power and energy that had possessed her, possessed them both, faded as the music turned again, to fall over them as the gentle patter of rain, washing them both clean, bathing them, blessing them together, and they came slowly to a stop, she breathless, and he…

“I rather fear I forgot myself,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive,” she whispered in return, and pressed a hand to his chest to feel his heart beat strong, fast, but slowing against her fingers.

[green-spear-of-causality]

For the OTP prompts thing, 6 Proto-Cu and Robin again? Sorry for asking again, I just really enjoy your writing.

6. "Here, take my blanket/jacket." "I'm not cold." *Shivering*

Ah, thank you!! I realized that the last prompt you asked me barely hinted at the ship at all, which I'm going to make up for here! I should really change up the POV, though...if this pairing is requested again it'll be from Robin's POV!

(Lowkey read the 6 as a 4 and started laughing at the mental image of Robin hissing at Proto Cú like a cat)

----

Proto Cú loved winter.

The smell of freshly fallen snow, the blanket of white across the landscape, the tiny fluffy crystals floating down towards the ground from the heavens...

He loved it all.

His other counterparts, unfortunately, shared other opinions. Cascú griped about the heat being turned up in Chaldea, which usually upset his concentration and raised his already abnormal body temperature. The layers of clothing he had on certainly weren't helping any. The other Lancer complained about the cold forcing them and their Master off of the battlefield, which meant less fights for Lancer and more time to do anything but fight. And Alter...

Proto was pretty sure that Alter hibernated.

So when Master suggested that they go see the auroras at the North Pole the night of Christmas Eve, Proto Cú was ecstatic. He was so ecstatic that he forgot to bring any extra layers with him, opting for a thin black turtleneck and relying on his own abnormal body temperature to keep him warm. Emiya, with his parental instinct, had managed to give him a pair of dark blue earmuffs to protect his ears from the biting winds before they left.

And protect they did. Proto Cú wrapped his arms around himself, glancing at the other Servants who gathered for the sights. He could see Diarmuid and Jeanne leaning against his Alter counterpart, talking quietly with smiles that refused to leave their faces. To his left was Arthur, awkwardly wedged between Gilgamesh and Ozymandias, the other kings' laughter trapping him in place.

Proto Cú winced. I kinda feel bad for the guy.

"Oi, there you ar- What are you wearing?!"

Proto Cú regretfully let go of his hold on himself to face Robin Hood, who stared incredulously at him as he made his way over.

He grinned, waving him over. Ever since the pranking incident gone wrong a couple weeks back, Robin seemed to hang out with him more often and even gave him a portion of his food for breakfast.

Sometimes, too, they'd visit Robin's forest to talk for hours on end. Proto Cú liked those moments the best; there, Robin was more open, more honest with both himself and others. Those moments always left Proto Cú wanting more, though for what he didn't know.

Robin's voice brought him back to the present. "Where's your coat?"

Proto Cú's grin turned sheepish. "I...may have left it behind."

Robin's eyes glinted, scrutinizing his face. Proto Cú's cheeks started to warm under the intense examination. Wait, what? "You got too worked up about the event, didn't you?"

Proto Cú's sudden interest in the snow made him huff in exasperation. The Lancer spared a glance his way, and was surprised to find something fond in the way he looked at him. What's wrong with me? Why am I thinking like this?

He glanced away, missing the frown that flashed across Robin's face. Before either of them could break the awkward silence, Da Vinci stepped up onto a soap box and spread their arms out wide.

"Hey, everybody! Thanks for coming out tonight! The auroras are supposed to appear any minute now, so please turn your attention upwards!"

Dozens of eyes turned towards the sky...and Proto Cú's breath was blown away.

A myriad of colors painted the sky, flowing and billowing on an unseen wind. The snow that fell into their faces was fluffy but light, allowing them to get a good look at the sight before them.

An uncontrollable grin spread across Proto Cú's face. In the background, he can hear other Servants cheering and the younger Servants playing in the snow.

Proto Cú himself laughed, the sound drowned out by the cacophony of voices that rose up in wonder. This...is what I'm fighting for. Screw Solomon's Grand Order; we don't need it.

His happy mood was interrupted by a sneeze. It was so sudden that it took himself by surprise, and it was only a few seconds afterwards that he felt how cold it was.

He shivered, rubbing his arms in an attempt to warm them up. He was starting to regret not picking a heftier sweater to wear...

Robin sighed next to him, the closeness of the sound making him jump. "You can be an idiot, sometimes. Here; take my cloak."

Proto Cú's eyes narrowed, his head turning to look at him. "What - "

He stopped when Robin moved to place himself in front of him. He was already unclasping his hood, hands quickly yet gently reclasping it around Proto Cú.

Robin refused to look at him. "Just shut up and let me work."

After a few moments Robin took a step back, satisfied with his handiwork, and Proto Cú's words died in his throat.

It was...warm. It was certainly warmer than he thought it'd be. The cloak quickly warmed him up, and he buried his nose into the fabric with a contented sigh. The fact that it smelled like pine trees, like Robin made the temporary gift all the better.

He looked up, beaming. "Hey, thanks Robin!"

Robin made a strangled noise, turning away. It was then that Proto Cú noticed how red his ears were, not to mention the dark green sweater that looked more like a coat.

"...Don't sweat it. Bathory gave me this to wear, so that was just getting in the way."

"Hey, don't say it like it's something repulsive!" Bathory seemed to appear out of thin air, making them jump.

A knowing smile stretched across her face, as teasing as it was merciless. "Ah, so this is why you ran off."

Robin gritted his teeth, turning away from her disdainfully. "As if. I'll take anything to get away from your energy."

Proto Cú blinked. He wasn't blind; Bathory's teasing, Robin's curt sentences, the stiffness in his movements. A grin threatened to break out on his face as he hugged Robin's arm, pulling him away from Bathory.

"Yup, he's mine, so go find someone else!"

Bathory stood, dumbfounded, until a laugh tore its way out of her body. "Ah, so that's it. My bad, I didn't know he was taken!"

Robin gaped.

Bathory waved them off, still laughing. "Have fun, you two!"

Proto Cú passed by his older Lancer counterpart, who looked ready to tease him when Emiya wrapped a black scarf around his neck. The Archer did it with such care that the other Lancer's words died on his tongue instantly, eyes wide and a blush spreading on his face like wildfire.

Proto Cú grinned. "Having fun with your date, older me?"

"Bite me." Fsn Cú grumbled, even as Emiya turned away with his ears burning. Proto Cú felt rather than saw Robin chuckling beside him, although it came out choppy.

Once they were a considerable distance away, Proto Cú let go. He scratched his cheek, realizing that in their escape they became separated from the partying group.

What the hell do I say now?

"...Cú."

That got his attention. Robin usually only ever called him Proto, although now that he heard his name fall from his lips...

He wanted to hear it again.

Shaking his head to rid himself of the sudden, sappy thoughts, he faced Robin. "Yeah? What's up?"

"Did you mean it?"

Ah, that. Proto rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling bashful. "Uh...yeah. You sought me out tonight, so I got dibs on you. Although, seeing your reaction was worth it in its own right..."

Robin fell silent, instead opting to watch the skies above. They stood side-by-side for about a minute or so before the May King spoke up again.

"I need to tell you something."

The seriousness in his voice made Proto Cú pause. He glanced at Robin, who stubbornly kept his gaze upwards.

"Listen...I - "

"I know."

Robin's eyes whipped towards him, mouth hanging open. "You - What...?"

Proto Cú smiled, light laughter leaving him. "I'm no dummy. I'm the Hound of Culann; I can tell when someone's pining."

Robin fell silent beside him. Proto Cú continued to talk, oblivious to the way Robin's frame shook. "Though, you hid it well. I was surprised myself; to think that the one person I was courting would end up developing feelings in tur- mmph!"

Lips, soft and gentle and warm, covered his own. Hands gripped his shoulders, preventing him from leaving. Eventually, Proto Cú melted into the kiss, hand reaching up to tilt Robin's head and get a better angle.

This was...sweet. It felt nice; it felt right. Proto Cú may have only kissed a few people in life, but by far the one he now shared with Robin was his favorite.

It was over all too soon, in his opinion. Robin pulled away first, looking smug. "If that's the only way to shut you up when you get going, then I'm gonna have a hell of a time doing this."

Proto Cú stared, dazed. Robin's eyes widened before a blush of his own erupted, causing him to hide his face in his sweater.

"Wh-What the hell are you doing, giving someone that look? I swear, you're gonna be the end of me..."

Proto Cú snapped out of it, instead chuckling as he carefully pried Robin's hands away from his face. Robin refused to look up, suddenly finding interest in the snow on the ground.

"You think I'm gonna let you go after a stunt like that?" He whispered as he drew Robin in for another kiss.

Indeed, winter was his favorite season.

[whumpywhumper]

Oryn--Part 4

@castielamigos here’s part four! Part One, Two, and Three 

So this one has some conlang in it that I played around with for my big OC work. I put the translations in the parenthesis cause I wasn’t 100% how best to show what he was saying--lemme know if you have any ideas? I could’ve re-worked it but I wanted to leave it in. 

Oryn doesn’t get a whole lotta feed back, but I appreciate all of you who seem to like him :) @0idril0 as always was a huge help 

<>

Oryn was paralyzed, his limbs refusing to move, left panting as fire enclosed him, lapped over his face with lazy swipes of its tongue. His body was useless, unable to struggle, at the mercy of the inferno that crackled over his skin. He panicked, unable to calm himself, and couldn’t stop his horrible pants of fear that sucked in huge lungfuls of smoke. He couldn’t see to reach for anything to pull himself free of the heavy weight that held him and ignited his body in heat suffocating smothering heat. Flames seared his airways with white embers and he was going to die, he was going to burn, no no no—

The soft thud of a door slipping closed woke Oryn with a harsh intake of smokeless air. He cracked his gritty eyes open and his desperate hands clutched at his blankets. His eyes, unaccustomed to the light, were assaulted by a bright lantern that had been left in the corner. He whimpered in instinctive fear, withdrawing from the fire. His skin was still alight with the searing heat of the fire from his dream. Slick drips ran down his forehead, pooling in the hollow of his throat. The image of his skin sloughing off in the heat and pooling around his bones danced in front of his eyes but, other than the lantern, there was no flames in sight. Nothing devouring his flesh.  

Where? Where was he? 

Oryn held back a weak gasp as his sore muscles strained to turn his head and take in the rest of the room. He flinched when a soaked rag flumped onto the pillow next to his face--the movement sending a sharp bolt through his neck. Eyes swimming, Oryn swallowed back nausea until the room finally settled into fuzzy detail. 

Heavy wooden blinds kept the obvious moonlight from reaching into what was clearly a study, filled with papers, specimen jars, and other baubles. He had not been in this room before, but it was not outside of Soren’s scope to want to run an experiment with his notes or tools nearby. 

The tools glimmered in the moon and fire light, sending sparks across the room to ignite the walls and play with the dripping shadows. Dread heaved it way up through Oryn's gut and he watched in transfixed terror as the sparks grew into a grin. White, pupil-less eyes looked down on him from the ceiling and he shrank back into the mattress. He can't, he doesn't want to, no more--he panted at the burgeoning panic rising in his chest.  

He raised his arms to defend his face and blinked in sudden confused realization. He looked down. He was alone and he wasn't chained down. The metal cuffs were still around his wrists, cutting him off from his magic, but he wasn’t chained down. The scabs and sores from his struggles had been bound with tight bandages underneath the cuffs. Thin splits were wedged into the bandages to keep the broken bones of his wrists straight. But he wasn’t chained down. 

Looking back to the ceiling, the monster that had appeared was gone but the lingering shadow of terror drove him to action. 

He had to get away. 

Oryn struggled with the blankets tucked around him. His hands trembled as he pushed at them, fingers clumsy and lacking their usual dexterity. A throaty groan poured from his mouth as he managed to pry his torso from the bed. Pain was building like the burgeoning cascade of water behind a beaver dam, held back only by a thin barrier of drugs and terror. A violent shiver wrench through him as the blankets slipped from his fever hot skin. Echoing cracks sprinkled through, pain starting to hiss through his frame. 

He set his teeth and tried to drag himself upright but he gagged at the onrush of pain, barely managing to hunch forward. His head became a heavy, unwieldy weight on his neck and it pulsed in time with his heart beat. Vision spiraling, he tipped forward with a quiet moan. Oryn fell with a heavy thud to the floor, unable to stop himself, his legs tangled in the bedding. Sharp, splintering agony erupted from his broken bones as he connected with the stone floor, white flashing across his vision. A scream fluttered behind his clenched teeth as a wet slick slide poured down his side from popped and snapped stitches. 

He panted, wet and small. Unable to pull in a deep enough breath. The barely conscious Fae felt more than heard the thundering boots that rushed toward the room. Oryn was unsurprised to find tears falling down his hot cheeks as he gasped and scrabbled at the stone floor. He didn’t fight the childish need to worm his way under the cot, seeking any kind of safety, before the door slammed open with resounding bang as it bounced off of the opposite wall. 

A pair of scuffed boots were all that Oryn could see from his vantage point on the floor. It was pointless to hide, there was a trail of bedding that led to his hiding place, but he couldn’t suppress the curling of his body around the blanket he had accidentally drug under with him. Trying to make himself smaller. Less of a target. 

A heavy knee dropped to the floor in front of Oryn’s shelter accompanied by a gray, wrinkled face with deep set brown eyes that peered under the cot. The stranger’s concern was illuminated by a stray beam of light from the lantern. “Oh lad,” the rough voice whispered, “what have you done to yourself?” 

Oryn’s pitiful growl sounded like a mewl even to his own ears. He pressed his back against the cold wall, giving himself mere inches of distance from the stranger. The narrow cot was not deep enough to keep the strong hands that gripped the side of it from reaching him, and he wheezed with fright. 

“I know you feel safer under there, little pup,” the older man tried to soothe, “but I think you have opened your stitches.” He didn’t reach for him, but held his gnarled palm out. 

Oryn flinched and drew his blood-tacky hands further away, pressing at his stomach to stem the bleeding. He grunted, turning his face away to the cool stone. Shivering violently, his gut sank as his eyes arrested on dark wiggling lines on the floor. Fear crawled up his spine. He snarled, showing sharp teeth when those shadows became reaching claws. 

“What are you seeing, lad?” the man questioned. 

Fevered, yellow eyes snapped over to the one speaking, and he shuddered. Shadows ate away the stranger's face, leaving it gaunt and misshapen. The shadows would eat everything, everyone, taking it from the Mother’s embrace. He couldn’t do anything, he was powerless, weak. He was already cut off from Celüne's power, he could not be taken by their corruption too. 

Oryn squeezed his eyes shut and he shook his head.  His ribs ached. “Mi’hael naught," (Don't touch me) he wept, sudden sobs tearing from his throat, "n’ya triske, Celüne, därog pæl.”  (I don't want to, Celüne, please (emphatic)) The sæthe spilled from his lips in a fervent prayer, and he sniffled through his tears. 

"I don't understand, lad," the voice murmured to him, trying to soothe. "You have to come out of there, pup, you're burning up with fever." 

He didn't understand. He didn't want to be burned up. He didn't want to be corrupted. He wanted to be left alone. 

A wail forced its way through Oryn's teeth when a dry hand brushed against his bare shoulder and he jerked away. "Naught," (Don’t) he pleaded, "naught! Mi'zenÿa salleine!" (don't! Leave me alone!) He flailed under the bed,  "Celüne, mi'cuita!," (Celüne, help me) he gasped beseechingly, eyes still squeezed shut. Panic raced through his chest. Panic and pain. He coughed and a lance stabbed through his ribs--forcing the air from his lungs. He cried out, gasping for air.  

A curse from the man, and he called out, "EMRIK! Get in here!" The hands returned to his body, and he thrashed to keep them away. The cot thunked as the wooden frame knocked into the wall, "Fuck, lad, I am not going to hurt you! Be still!" 

"Galen?! What's wrong?!"  A young voice interrupted the coarse cursing of the man trying to wrangle Oryn, and he opened his eyes to see tiny boots run into the room.

"His fever is spiking. I think he’s hurt himself. Help me calm him. I don't know what he's saying." 

A silvery silvan face dropped into view beside the now normal wrinkled one. Shimmering blue eyes met Oryn’s panicked yellow, and the Fae hissed with his remaining air at the lesser seelie when he raised a hand toward him. 

"Naught-ila råné," (Literally-- "We don’t hurt") the silvan murmured in a harsh accent, jumbling and forgetting syllables. 

Oryn startled at the sæthe, eyes growing wide as he panted air through a reed.

 "Please," he continued, and Oryn watched his fingers knot a spell, a dyät, for calming but didn't release it, waiting. "Triske-ila—damnit—we want to - to- cuita, that’s it!—triske-ila cuita.” (We want to help)

 The Fae continued to struggle against the hands that were trying to drag him from under the cot by his shoulders, movements becoming uncoordinated and jerky. “N’ya regrovat-il,” (I don't believe you) he panted between tiny gasps of air. His chest was screaming like a banshee, impossible to ignore, making his hands feel numb. 

A concerned frown creased the young seelie‘s unlined face. “Let him go, Galen,” the silvan murmured. “Just for a second.” 

Galen looked at the silvan with worry, "We have to get him out from under there," he said, but removed his hands. Holding them at the ready as he backed away.  

The injured Fae trembled and used the last of his remaining feeble strength to pull his arms back to his chest. His throat was raw, and he couldn't get enough air. He writhed under the cot, pressing at the pain in his chest. He whined, everything hurt, tears cascaded down his hot cheeks and he curled in on himself. "Celüne," he implored, his voice wet and breathy. 

“Galen, open the blinds,” Emrik whispered urgently, and the human moved with creaking agility to do as the silvan asked. “El-aith, look.” (She is here)

Oryn’s heart clenched as the blinds were drawn away from the windows to allow moonlight to spill across the floor.  Gentle light reached through  the room and without thinking he moved his hand forward to meet it. He sobbed, thin reedy noises of his lungs barely able to bring in air.  

A sound of skin on stone, and Oryn saw the silvan reaching for him again, the delicate bird-like bones standing out in the moonlight. “Mi’regrovat,” (believe me) he said.  

His bloody hand didn’t twitch away from the dyät knot that Emrik showed him this time, allowing the warm feeling of comfort to envelope him. Eyelids fluttering, Oryn's body relaxed into the stone of the floor. The pain wasn't less but the overwhelming panic that surged through him had faded to a low thrum in the back of his mind.  

The silvan slumped as the magic ran from himself to Oryn. The Fae watched through cloudy eyes as Galen caught his shoulders before the lesser seelie face planted and deftly moved him out of the way. 

They turned to face Oryn, and he felt a buzz of fear push at the dyät knot, "Easy, it's okay," Emrik murmured, sending a note of peace. He brushed Oryn's hair back from his forehead before leveraging his arm under the dark head. "Galen, get his legs." 

Galen moved in synchronization with the silvan, drawing his limp body out from under the cot with gentle hands. They settled him on the floor, stretched out on his back, and Oryn wheezed at the strain on his chest. "I know, pup, I know," Galen murmured, his hands prodding at his ribs. "There's no movement  on this side," he said to Emrik. Oryn felt the slide of a hand on his side and saw the old mans face turn dark, "fuck, that's air. Grab my bag from that table." 

Oryn drifted as the two others worked around him, the dyät knot keeping him limp and malleable. He turned his face toward the windows, glassy eyes settling on the waxing moon. He struggled to breathe still but the lingering panic from the shortness of breath had been shuttered away. 

His caretakers jostled him, moving his arm to the side, and he moaned softly when pain rolled down his body. He shuddered and reached out instinctively, finding the sleeve of the silvan. The silvery face appeared over his own and grabbed his cheeks. "I need you to listen to me," Emrik said, "this will hurt but it has to be done, okay?" 

The lack of understanding must have shown on his face because he grabbed Oryn's left hand and held it tightly, up and away from his chest and placed his other hand on his shoulder, holding him down. Creases appeared at the corners of Emrik’s eyes, and he sent a wave of comfort through the dyät. "Now, Galen," he ordered. 

Oryn cried out when something popped into his side, between his ribs, and he tried to arch away. The tiny silvan held fast, using his weight to keep him from moving. Panic surged and broke through the dyät when Oryn felt something move inside of him. This hurt, it hurt it hurt make it stop, he couldn’t breathe and this hurt. He opened his mouth, trying to shove air down his throat and heard a wild croak erupt from his lips. "Därog! St--Stagni!"  (Please! Stop!)

They said that they didn't want to hurt him. He didn't understand. Why? He shook his head, desperate, and clawed at the dyät, feeling it shred and weaken in places. 

Emrik grunted at the attack, "Hurry!"  

"Almost," Galen said to himself, with the metallic clink of a metal tool being thrown away.  

With a last jolt of pain, the huge weight that had settled on Oryn's lungs was removed. Air, blessed air, filled his chest and the wave of oxygen sent a high through him. He threw his head back, taking as big of gulps as his broken ribs would allow. His body sank into the relief of being able to breathe—muscles spasming with exhaustion and fatigue. A low overwhelmed moan rumbled in his throat. He hovered at unconsciousness, feeling his heartbeat in every injury. 

“That’s it, breathe.” He heard a great sigh and a hand rested on his breast bone, his skin sliding under a calloused palm. “Breathe, pup.” 

Emrik released Oryn's shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze to his hand as the Fae settled.  The silvan slumped back with a slight thump on the floor. "Fuck," he muttered,  "That was, uh, what the fuck." 

"Are you alright?," Galen asked. 

"Yes," Emrik murmured, "that, shit, that took more than I thought it would." 

“You sure?” the human asked as he continued his work at Oryn’s side, the clink of bottles and rustling of cloth. 

“Hmph,” a dismissive noise, “let me go get the water and miscallum while you finish.”  

Oryn allowed himself to float between consciousness when the silvan left the room, listening to the quiet humming that the human started. It was a lullaby, the simple melody soothing on the coarse vocal cords. Exhaustion coated every fiber that made him, and he could feel the heat of fever on his cheeks as it flared.  Small sparks of pain rose from  his side where the old man's hands remained, but they weren't enough to draw him back. 

He stirred a time later when he was moved by hands under his shoulders and knees. His eyelashes brushed against his cheeks, “Nuh…” 

“Just getting you back in the bed, lad,” a voice murmured into his hair. He whimpered at how his bones ground together at the movement, but they settled him quickly, wrapping him in warm blankets. He shivered when a cold weight was placed on his forehead and tried to turn away. 

"I know, I know it feels cold-" fingers pushed through his hair, "-but your fever needs to come down." 

A whisper, "This should help him get to sleep." 

Oryn flinched when something pricked the soft skin of his inner elbow but the hand didn't leave his hair, rubbing at his scalp with soothing circles. 

His caretakers murmured between themselves, and Oryn allowed the black tide of sleep to take him under. 

[gem-quest]

[QUEST o1. - E N T H R O N E D]

(written by @bebemoon)

. . . Quest 1 .

. . . T O U R N E Y . A N D . F A I R . I N . W I L D F L O W E R . M E A D O W . . . L E V E L . O N E . . .

Neddy gazed up at the lighted announcement slipping across the sky of level ten like a scrolling billboard ad in Times Square.

She was squarely amid the Prince's bursting gardens, headed in the way of her "nest" as she liked to call her homebase, when the lights of the announcement banner had drawn her eyes skywards- twinkling gold against cornflower blue.

"Jack!" Neddy called ahead of her on the garden trail. When there wasn't an immediate response, she started forward again, stumbling a little as her eyes were still pinned upwards. "Jack!"

Finvarra's gardens, where Neddy had taken up residence since the incident, was a knot of overgrown mazes whose centre was a raving-mad fairy party thrown by the hedonist fairy Prince Finvarra- an npc with far more brides than scruples. He and his brood made the argument to players traveling through that it made far more sense to lay about and drink honey wine with them than it did to slog through level after level, narrowly escaping death at every turn, with the ambition of returning to a world of "imminent catastrophic death" and until then, "inescapable boredom".

"Would you not, my dear, much rather Partake?"

Enticing though the notion may have been, Neddy, at the time of clearing the level, had been able to refuse the Prince because she had had someone to stick with-  

But that was before. More and more she felt the lure of the sweet meats of the fairies' forbidden feast.

Neddy arrived back at her nest on the outskirts of the gardens, far from the clamour of the Prince's ceaseless bacchanal. She hurried up the short twiggy ladder and into the leafy alcove of her self-made refuge. It was little more than a hovel of bent branches bound together in the shape of an acorn's cap, but Neddy enjoyed the green smell of it and the fact that it was well out of the way of most players who traveled through ten. In the beginning, she really relished the isolation.

"Jack?" Neddy repeated in sing-song, half-preoccupied with locating her player-plexus. She knew full well that the creature wasn't inside the nest- he was much too large. But she hoped he was nearby since she wanted to leave soon and didn't dare go into any other floor without him now that she was alone.

She got on her hands and knees to reach the plexus- which was just a thin, quartz-y screen no bigger than a tablet in the real world- beneath the cot of sewn-together rose petal bed clothes on which she slept.

Neddy tapped the crystal screen, swiped into her Inventory, scrolled downwards through the list of items, and selected a 'Drink Me' potion. The concoction appeared like magic, hovering above the plexus screen in an illumination of blue until she took it into her fingers and gave the tiny, glass bottle substance. She tucked it into the hip pocket of her wafer-thin robe.

Overhead, Neddy could hear the beat of Jack's flower-skinned wings on the air. It was time to go.

-

< < < Spell used: I C T U I U M > > >

Jack was never pleased about being shrunken down to the size of a Lhasa Apso or being carried in a reed basket on Neddy's back, but (most of the time) Neddy wasn't looking to cause havoc by having a fully-grown dragon in tow. When travelling through peaceful levels, making him a less threatening size seemed only right. Such was the case in revisiting level one.

The flowering meadows outside of Yue City conjured all kinds of unwanted images in Neddy's mind. It was the initial spawn point for all players, and the last she had seen of it, she had been with her boyfriend. She had been with their entire party, in fact. Even Bloodbriars, a pale vampire mage-knight, who shared Neddy's love of dance . . . among other things.

The meadow, very unlike the last Neddy had seen of it, was lifted with the roaring voices of crowds of players surrounding the lists and brimming with every manner of species from every guild milling between the colourful tent stalls topped with snapping banners in red, blue, black, and yellow. The aroma of cooking meat (well-cooked unlike fae fare) was in the air.

Some other players materialised behind Neddy and shoved past her on their way towards the tourney- as if there wasn't open space all around them.

"Ogres," Neddy muttered. She hefted the reed basket further up onto her shoulders. "Keep your eyes peeled, Jack. If you see /him, say so."

The dragon yawned poisonous gas into the air before curling back into the basket bottom with a sigh. Once he took on the size of a lap dog, he promptly became one in spirit too.

As to just why she wanted to see him, even she was unsure. She'd had days of isolation to ponder her own feelings on the situation- nothing of note had surfaced. Neddy decided her heart would tell her what to do once she laid eyes on his face.

Of course, the trick was finding him. And the tourney- because violence was assured- seemed as good a place as any to start searching.

Neddy gravitated towards the closest jousting list, which was set with proper bench seating, but was so swarmed with onlookers that a lot of players were forced into sitting or standing on the barriers. NPCs in neutral-claim colours made up the King's box, as expected.

She forced her way into a press of on-looking players to get herself against the balustrade for a good look at the current match-up. Squeezed sideways between a pair of brutish types (one was clutching a pole through which a full cooked pheasant was spiked upon, now partially eaten), Neddy was able to see the action- At one end of the list, a Moonstone rider in glistening silver armour was waiting mounted upon a winged snow-white steed, and at the other end, an Obsidian rider in a void of black armour was hefting themselves onto a massive black boar. Once the Obsidian rider was in place, they were given a brutal-looking lance of what, to Neddy, looked like charred bone.

The trumpets resounded and the crowd erupted in fevered roars as the two riders set off towards the tilt barrier- towards each other. A few heartbeats and it was over- the Moonstone rider was violently unseated by a crushing blow to the head. The result had been so extreme that Neddy half-expected the body of the Moonstone rider to dissolve as dead players' bodies did, but they were apparently somehow still alive.

Then, just as the Obsidian boar-rider was starting the stadium wave, a pair of legs came into view as someone boosted themselves up onto the balustrade over Neddy, semi-blocking her view of the list.

"Excuse me?" she demanded, flicking the offender's fish-netted calf. "You can't just-"

"Hey, what’s up? You’re Neddy, right?"

Neddy looked up, surprised because she recognized the voice. "Inferna?"

The face that belonged to the legs peered down at Neddy through a curtain of candy red hair. Inferna beamed down at her and offered her a hand up.  

Neddy accepted her gloved hand and was easily drawn up from the ground and onto the balustrade beside the red-head. She grabbed onto an overhead beam to keep her balance.

"View's better up here," said Inferna on a wink.

Inferna then seemed to notice that Jack was on Neddy's back because she released a strange little noise of excitement- not unlike the noise she'd made when first encountering him in the gardens. "God, Jack is so freaking adorable! Does he still like sugar cubes?" she wondered, reaching deep into one of her pockets.

Neddy was barely listening- she was stunned to see the girl again. "How are you faring out there?" she asked, concerned.

“It’s been pretty chill on my end,” Inferna replied easily, giving Neddy a cheeky grin. “Haven’t really done anything exciting, besides get some blueberry scones from the Tearoom the other day; they’re amazing. I was at Level 39 the other day, but fighting the dragon is so much work, so I fucked off after a few minutes.”

Neddy shuddered. She'd heard of Mawrgawse, and she wasn't looking forward to facing the beast.

Inferna clenched one of her eyes shut as she dug further into her pocket and then drew out a sugar cube as well as a tiny tube of red liquid. The red-head pulled the top off of the tube with her teeth and then proceeded to dump the liquid contents directly onto the sugar cube. “Ooh, fuck, Jack is so cute. Here, you’re a good boy, aren’t you?” she said, tossing the sugar cube in the air and clapping with delight when Jack caught it in his mouth.

The boar-rider was mounting up for a second go even though an opponent had not yet appeared. A thrill of excitement rippled through the assembled crowd of players.

Inferna turned back to Neddy, still grinning. “What about you? Got anything fun going on?”

"Nothing quite as exciting as thirty-nine," Neddy replied. "I've just gotten through floor twenty-nine by the skin of my teeth. Mermaid Cove won't be easy for me since I'm currently, you know, on my own."  

Inferna nodded. “Oh, yeah, that level’s a pain in the ass if you don’t have a party. I think I got through it by just finding a group that needed an extra person who didn’t care about Angel’s Breath. Aydina - that’s the NPC you go up against - is kind of a cunt, too. Like, I get that it’s just pre-written dialogue, but the lady could be nicer while trying to fuck us over with that dodgeball of hers, you know?”

When Neddy first met Inferna, after stopping her from Partaking in Finvarra's feast, she was concerned for her given her thoughtlessness about the food. However, it became clear, after hearing all that she had to say about her progress, that the red-head was someone who could too easily tear through the floors even though she was alone. To Neddy, that was enviable- she, too, wanted to help her guild win- she wanted to get out of the game and move on with her life, leaving behind the old for good. This living in Gem Quest was like being trapped within a bad memory. She had to do whatever necessary to help Moonstone escape. Trouble was, she was Enthroned, a weak fairy-kind dancer, and not Inferna, a flame-wielding hellion who (at least in Neddy's mind) kicked in doors and destroyed private property in the real world.  

It occurred to her to ask for Inferna's help when they first met, but she never screwed up the courage. After all they came from different guilds so they couldn't fashion themselves into a party. What was the point other than to make herself look weak and pathetic?

Still. Aydina would be tough. And dodgeball was stupid.

"I'm not very good at dodgeball," Neddy put in. She glanced sideways at Inferna, hoping she wouldn't have to outright ask.

“It was my favorite thing in gym, when I still had to take that bullshit class. All I did was dick around and throw balls at the annoying people in my grade, even if they were technically on my team,” Inferna said.

Her dark eyes were fixed on the restless boar-rider. Neddy was about to ask if she knew the player, but she started to speak again-

“I thought that level was pretty fun, besides Aydina’s totally unnecessary commentary. So I can help you, if you want,” she continued, “if you bribe me somehow. Since I don’t see how helping you with dodgeball helps my Guild, after all.”

Neddy's brows shot up. "Bribe?" she choked on her simultaneous relief and dismay. "I don't have much in the way of coin. . . . I'm not formidable by any means. Surely, it won't hurt Obsidian any if you help little old me move through a lower floor."

Inferna narrowed her eyes, skeptical. “Little old you and a dragon,” she pointed out, gesturing towards Jack asleep in the reed basket.

Neddy nodded, suddenly pensive. Coin was one thing, but Inferna was someone who had back-tracked through multiple levels and re-did the maze on ten just to get her hands on a pastry she could not even eat. Even standing on the barrier, she took a moment now and then to sniff the aroma-filled air like a wolf catching the scent of prey. Food was the answer.

So, Neddy said, "Yeah, okay, I can give you all the apricot tartlets in my inventory if you help me out."

“Alright fine, I’ll do it,” Inferna abruptly agreed, flipping her red hair over one shoulder. “Just tell me when, and I’ll be there. But don’t make it before noon, or I’ll probably sleep straight through it. Like, I’m not even kidding; last semester I somehow slept through ten alarms and missed a 12:30 PM lab. So don’t make it before twelve.”

"Whatever you want," Neddy laughed, and she stuck her hand out to seal the accord between them.

Inferna, with a grin, slapped Neddy's hand in a low-five instead of shaking it- then narrowed her eyes again. “Now hand over those tartlets.”

-

Neddy didn't want to leave the tourney without having a look through the stalls.

Though newly skint of apricot tartlets, she was in need of a few other items following her final bought with the shellycoat hoards on twenty-nine. Since she was Mermaid Cove-bound, she wanted to replenish her supply of medi-elixir and possibly grab a tide jewel, just in case.

Further down from the over-crowded lists, there was a whole wyvern being turned over a spit by some NPCs, and Neddy imagined Inferna would make easy work of the thing.

Players, some half-armoured, were gathered together, drinking mead and exchanging tales of the front. Others were immersed in Gem Quest's version of the dice game "hazard", which was popular in the taverns (and Neddy didn't have the first clue about). People were arriving at the stalls in pairs, if not more, to make purchases. In every direction, people were together- they were together even if their guilds were different.

Neddy stood in the centre of one of the grassy avenues flanked with stalls and people passed around her like water about a river stone. And her heart was heavy because of it, but it had been so for weeks. Enough was enough.

If he put himself before her gaze again, she would see that he didn't dare do it a second time.

Until then, she had work to do.

[ ref for Neddy’s outfit: x ]

[keishiko]

What Gives It Value (Chapter Three)

A lot can happen in five years, and after.

[Chapter 3/?  (Chapters One, Two, Four)  |  Rated for language  |  Angst  |  Natasha x Steve]

[Set during the five-year jump in “Endgame”.  My latest little attempt at a fix-it]

“I found a place,” he announced one day over breakfast, as if her world wasn’t suddenly going to end.  Again.  “Brooklyn, too.  Only a couple stops from the VA down there.  The housing market is nuts these days.”

There was suddenly a gaping ache in her chest where her heart used to be, but Natasha said nothing.  She kept her breathing even and her hands steady as she poured herself some coffee, because she was only human, after all, and denial was an instinctual thing.  She’d known something was up when she came downstairs that morning to find that he’d moved breakfast out onto one of the terraces—food, table, chairs, and all.  She’d scented change in the air and she hadn’t liked it one bit.

He’d told her some weeks ago, casually, that he was thinking of moving out.  She hadn’t brought up the fact that he had yet to join another mission since he’d gone on leave, had shown little interest in other operations.  Instead he’d been spending more and more time out at the VA center downtown.  Though she’d never said anything, she’d noticed him letting his routine slip when before he’d never missed a training exercise, never so much as skipped a morning jog.  Some part of herself that Nat ruthlessly denied existed had hoped against hope that he’d simply drop the idea of leaving, even if he was now leading group counseling nights instead of just participating in them and taking on more duties at the center besides.  She’d told herself he was healing at least, in ways he couldn’t at the compound, and he’d be back good as new before she knew it.  She’d kept herself busy, coordinating with the other Avengers, organizing resources, setting up ops, consulting for governments.

And so she hadn’t seen much of Steve around lately, but now he seemed his most cheerful in a long time as he piled eggs onto his plate.  The light had almost come back in his eyes.  She swallowed a bite of her oatmeal past the painful knot in her throat.

“So when’s Rhodey coming back?  Or Bruce?”

He had the nerve to feign innocence as she leveled a death stare at him.  They both knew Bruce hadn’t made any contact since the night of Tony’s wedding, and Rhodes wasn’t expected back from the Hague for a while yet.

“I think the more important question is”—she leaned over and stole some of his bacon because he at least owed her that, damn it—“when can I put your rooms on Airbnb?”  She bit off half the piece of bacon in her hand and gestured expansively with the remainder before he could notice the tremor in her fingers.  “I’ll frame your uniform and we can split the price difference, because I’m generous like that.”

“Pretty sure I’m still known as an international criminal more than anything else,” he joked, looking down as he buttered his toast.

She was glad he wouldn’t see her smirk waver.  “I’m counting on it.”  Licking bacon grease off her fingers, she pretended that a thought suddenly struck her.  “I’ll probably have to nail it to the wall though, or it’ll be gone after the first night.  Or, y’know.”  She waggled her eyebrows at him.  “Worse.”

She basked in the waves of confusion and, subsequently, horror that washed over his still-too-honest face.  She’d miss this, damn him.

“The case should be unbreakable,” he mumbled through a mouthful of toast.  “Maybe put some laser beams in front.”

“Not sure you’re in any position to make requests.”  Natasha arched an eyebrow at him as she swiped his last piece of bacon.  “It’s not like you’d be here anymore to notice.”  

He looked like a kicked puppy.  “Nat,” he began.

“It’s okay, Steve.  I understand.”  She patted his hand in mock sympathy.  “I’ll just put up a replica.”  She flashed him a grin.  “The originals are for the Smithsonian, of course.”

He groaned, smiled, shook his head.  She wondered how long she had until he, too, disappeared from her life completely.  She picked over the fruit basket to hide her face.

“So you’re not going to hang on to your old suits, then?  To be honest, I don’t think even Friday can get all the mud stains out by now.”  She knew her casual tone wouldn’t fool him, but she had her pride.  

His smile was rueful.  “You know I can’t make any promises at this point, Nat.”  He sat back in his chair, eyeing her somberly.  “Do whatever you want.”

The words went through her like a bullet.  She nodded and quickly looked down at her bowl, not trusting herself to speak past the knot in her throat, filing away the memory of his shadowed blue eyes with all the other mental images she never revisited except on nights she was alone and sad and had had a little more to drink than was altogether conducive to good decision-making.  She suspected she was in for many more such nights ahead.

He tried belatedly to salvage the situation.  “You’re already doing such a great job running the Avengers,” he said placatingly.  “You won’t even notice I’m gone.”

In a past life, she would have butter-knifed his hand into the table, just to make her feelings clear.  Now she just shook her head at him and pointedly began stacking plates.

He stood up and bustled around the table to help put dishes away.  Natasha was just setting aside her coffee cup, reaching for a paper towel, when he suddenly hugged her from behind.  His arms were massive around her waist but gentle, so gentle, and so familiar, and for a moment she clutched at him, biting her lip that had started to tremble, shuddering with the effort to keep herself from breaking down right then and there.

“I’ll just be, like, ten minutes away,” he lied, because it was more like twenty and she knew how he hated going over the speed limit if he could help it.  “And you know you can call me anytime.  For anything.”  He pressed a kiss to her wet cheek.  “You’ll be glad to get me out of your hair, you’ll see.”

She closed her eyes, drew a shaky breath.  She wanted to be supportive, she really did.  She was happy for him if he felt better now, had processed the pain and defeat as she suspected she still refused to, deep down inside.  She knew he enjoyed working at the VA, making new friends, feeling that he was useful again, drawing on his own experiences of loss and lostness to help people.  Natasha couldn’t begrudge him the sense that people finally appreciated him for more than just the physical abilities Dr. Erskine had given him.  He deserved to feel valued for the man he’d always been.  

And he’d always wanted to live in Brooklyn again.  Natasha sighed.  Maybe it was just time for him and the Avengers to finally part ways.  They—she—would just have to learn how to keep on without him.

Natasha willed her voice to be steady.  “Get on out of here already and take your stupid midlife crisis with you.”

His chuckle came as a huff of warm breath at the back of her neck, but his tone was serious and sincere when he murmured, “I’m sorry, Nat.”

He was always sincere, damn him.  Blinded by tears, she squeezed his hand and, for a moment, he squeezed back.

Then he was gone, his footsteps trailing away down the hall and off to the elevators, even and measured.  He didn’t stop or look back.

Maybe she should keep the breakfast table outside for a few months yet.  The nice thing about being in the open air on an upper floor of the sprawling, empty compound on such a breezy day was that no one—not even a supersoldier with enhanced hearing—would hear Natasha cry.

to be continued

[squishedwalkman]

fanfic repost - a world in which miles morales isn’t a hero but still an artist

It took a long time for the news to hit the main outlets. After all, the death of Tony Stark seemed small in comparison to the chaos that followed the sudden reappearance of half the population. People tried to focus on one thing at a time: first the tearful greetings of those who returned, then the repair of the most major of the catastrophes, and then the first initial days of panic when people couldn’t bear to be apart from one another. But slowly, slowly, as the healing began, news began to trickle forward.  Things began to come to light: people still missing after the snap, the damage left behind by unmanned power plants, the environmental effects that losing half the population had on a world crippled by loss. 

Miles found the first couple days hard. And then the first couple weeks. He returned to school, but nothing was the same. There was a joy shining in the air at being reunited with the people he loved, but a darkness too, since he had lived a 5 year span that they had not. He left friends behind in middle school as he began his senior year. His mom was back, but he was taller than her now. The principal had died of cancer within those 5 years, and so his old school wasn’t the same. It hurt, and Miles didn’t know if he could ever heal.

But he found a way. And a month passed. And somehow, if he paid close enough attention, he could see the emotional wounds beginning to close. It would be a long time yet, but already the sun rose brighter than before.

32 days after the Dusted had returned, and 15 days after the rumors surrounding the Avenger’s place in restoring the world began to spread, the news broke. Pepper Potts, reddened and puffy eyes cleverly disguised by makeup, addressed the world in a video exactly 53 seconds long. It was live streamed directly into Miles’s classroom, and as the first words echoed out into the silent room, every student held their breath. 

“Unfortunately, I have the… deepest sorrow in informing you all that Tony Edward Stark, head of Stark industries, and my beloved husband…. has passed away.” She took a shuddering breath before continuing. “Tony died a hero: he fought until the last moment of the battle. He was not only courageous in the final attack on Thanos, but throughout his entire life. Although many of you may have received a skewed image of who he was through media, rumors, or propaganda, I can assure you that Tony died a man of honor and valor. He had a heart for helping and mentoring others, and his death was not the only sacrifice that he had given in his life time. Tony loved this world very much, but it never loved him back. Our family is grateful for your anticipated support, and for the support of many of you throughout Tony’s lifetime. He would be grateful to see you all now. Live on, for him. Remember, we are Iron Man.” 

The camera cut just after tears sprung to Pepper’s eyes, and she began to turn to hide her face from view. At the same time, it seemed something happened to every heart in the school. In the world.

Tony Stark was dead.

Miles’s heart dropped. His throat seized, and suddenly tears sprang to his tired eyes. Glancing down at the worn wooden desktop, he squeezed his hands together and shut his eyes even tighter. One brief moment to choke down the tears, and he raised his head again. 

Tony Stark. Gone.

Miles’s mind flickered back to his bedroom: above his bed hung a poster of Iron Man himself, palms open to the sky, light emitting in powerful beams to the jet planes that soared above. For a long time Miles had admired the man behind the machine who defended the world. He admired all of heroes, but something about Tony always drew him in. Maybe it was the fact that he too had come from a place of immense pressure, of mistakes, but had found a way to rise above it. Or maybe it was simply because of the creativity associated with creating a suit so incredibly complicated and powerful.

Now that he thought of it, though, Miles hadn’t considered Tony Stark since the snap. A hero in the sky seemed far less real than the tangible, heartbreaking hurt surrounding the broken world he knew now. But the love, the devotion, the admiration he felt for the iron soldier quickly flooded back to him. And then the loss.

It hurt. 

My goodness, it hurt.

The rest of the school day went by in a haze. No one talked much in class. The classrooms seemed darker, the lessons petered out long before the period was over, and the walk home was silent, broken only by the occasional attempt at a joke by someone in the crowd. 

Miles tried to do his homework. He really did. But he couldn’t seem to write about anything so simple as literature books and physics when one of his heroes had died. He thought he would cry, but he tears refused to come to his eyes. The pencil in his fingers twirled, and the light outside slowly faded from a golden light the color of Iron Man’s thrusters to the rusted red of his suit, to the eventual fading purple of the galaxy he had disappeared into.

He tried to listen to sad music. To let the emotion flow out of him into lyrics. He tried to write a letter to Stark, but it ended in crumbled paper. There was only one other option. Something he said he wouldn’t do anymore, that he had promised his parents he wouldn’t do anymore… but it just felt right.

Before Miles could stop himself, he was pulling on his jacket and closing the bedroom door quietly behind him. Tiptoeing down the stairs, leaping nimbly over the creaking step, he slipped through the front door and into the fading light outside. 

The air outside was cool but not cold. Nonetheless, Miles pulled his hoodie over his head and walked with his head down. He knew where he was going: he had mapped the place out in his head a thousand times when he was bored in class, imagining what he would put there one day. He passed doorways, parked cars glinting in the last lingering rays of sun, and across streets devoid of pedestrians. Further and further into the city he traveled for a good half-an-hour, until finally his feet brought him to a stop in front of a building four stories tall. 

Pausing, Miles looked up at the sun-faded walls, the wooden doors, and the fire escape climbing ever upward. He had been here once before with his paints. He had planned on painting that day, but his conscious got the better of him, and he decided not to. It was going to be a self portrait. But this was different. 

Swiftly, as if he had done it a thousand times, Miles swung up onto the side of the building, into a fire escape, and clambered upward. The side of a building that stood flush to the one he stood on was blank, and the emotion pressing in Miles’s chest needed to be turned into art.

“I need this,” he whispered on the roof of the building, silhouetted against the quickly darkening sky. “We all need this.”

He set to work. Colors moved through his hands like magic, a spell being cast over the side of the building as best as he could. As the music played from his iphone, as the emotion pounded in his chest, the thoughts in his head were transformed into a portrait of the man he admired. The person who defended the Universe until his very last breath. Color began to come together and details came to shape.

As the light faded from the sky, the picture came alive. A tribute to a hero. Not only a picture for Miles, but a picture to be remembered for years to come. In the piece of art, Miles poured every memory he associated with his favorite hero, every moment he had seen him on the television, had known he was safe in a world with Iron Man, every time he had seen pictures of Stark when he was younger, had known he could do everything Tony could do, every time he had been inspired, and the one time he had seen the rocket of gold and red from the corner of his eye, disappearing behind a building nearby. 

It took well into the night, but finally the portrait was finished. It shone beneath the roof lights pointed at it, like a beacon in the dark, proof that Tony Stark had touched the heart of a young boy he never met. 

Then Miles cried. 

He buried his head in his hands and retreated to a distance to see the picture illuminated as if suspended against the sky. As he looked at the picture, trying to soak up the moment of grief, trying to find a way to continue on in a time when even heroes died, a distant noise interrupted his shaking breath.

Crouched a rooftop away, Miles could see a distant shape approaching. Miles was hidden in the growing darkness, and his hoodie kept him in shadow. But swinging through the buildings came the new hero people had just begun to know: Spiderman.

His webs shone under the moonlight, spitting out and then retracting as he moved faster than the cars below towards the mural. Onward, onward, and then past. He kept swinging off into the night.

And then, a pause in sound. And then a continuation of the webs, but approaching again. Miles held his breath and tried to appear as small as he could. Spiderman came back again, swinging smoothly onto the rooftop, and pausing.

He crouched in front of the still-drying painting. 

There was silence. Miles tried to control his breathing.

Spiderman was looking, and he didn’t move. Seconds stretched into minutes. Just as Miles wondered if he would ever leave, he could hear something muffled, through the darkness, coming from Spiderman.

The hero was crying. Crying.

Miles felt something break in his chest. He couldn’t explain it, but the sight of one hero grieving another crushed something within him. All of a sudden he longed to rush out and talk to the masked man in front of him. But as the sobs died down, Spiderman did something else.

He removed his mask. 

Miles had to hold in a gasp as the face of a young teenager came into view. No older than Miles, Spiderman was still a kid. And, as Miles looked closer, the face seemed strangely familiar. No… it was impossible. There was no way Spiderman himself was Peter Parker, school nerd and newly appointed Captain of Academic League. There was no way. No possible way.

Miles heart was pounding with his discovery. He couldn’t believe it. He had to tell Gwen. He had to get home, he had to tell his parents.

But even as these thoughts raced through his mind, another though arose: “there is no way I could ever betray Peter like this.” And this thought trampled the others, and Miles knew it was right. He could not spread such a secret as this. It was greater than a simple identity. He may not know Peter personally, but the idea of telling everyone something he had tried to hide for so long was despicable.

So, content with the fact that he had no great news to share, Miles was free to once more to consider the fact that Spiderman himself was beside him. And as Peter Parker himself let tears roll down his cheeks, shoulders shaking, Miles cried to, to be surrounded by two of the heroes that had protected him for so long. And separated by only a few feet, hidden from one another, two teenage boys cried silently for the biggest hero in their lives.

For the rest of Peter Parker’s life, he would never know that he had shared such a moment with a teenager who had needed Iron Man just as much as him. 

[hanalwayssolo]

“Things were so easy back then” with Somnus and Ardyn 🙃🙃🙃

Writing this killed me. In any case, this drabble features a couple of my Messenger OCs from Laws of Motion lol pls forgive me

Tagging some pals! @valkyrieofardyn @hanatsuki89 @blindedstarlight @azure-scientia @gowithme @bleucommelhiver @raspberryandechinacea @emmydots @noboomoon

In a strange territory that tiptoed between slumber and waking, Ardyn found himself in a field of red sylleblossoms again. It was a dream he had been having ever since he had taken residence in the ruined halls of the Citadel, yet its frequent recurrence was not the main thing that bothered him, but the distinct clarity and familiarity of it, like a distant memory or a fragment from another life: the sickly sweet scent of the flowers, the sodden earth, the expanse of red and green that tossed and swayed with the wind. He was always alone in these dreams of his, but this time, he had unexpected company.

“Glad to have you join me,” said a voice not far behind him.

It was Somnus. As Ardyn turned, he saw his brother sitting in a brown leather armchair in the middle of the flower field. An old chess table and another armchair sat across from him. He seemed to be playing against himself, attention drawn to the board, analyzing his next move.

Ardyn stared at him. He was struck by an awful wordlessness. This image of his brother before him should have invited the terrible weight of all his vitriolic fury he had harboured so faithfully for two thousand years; he had treasured his ill will like a prized possession, kept its thorns and wore it like a crown on his head with nothing but a kingdom of his hate to rule over.

And yet looking at Somnus now, all Ardyn felt was an unsettling emptiness. He could not find his anger. He was nothing without it. In its place, he felt a frightening calmness that did not seem to belong to him.

“Am I dead?” Ardyn asked warily as he took the seat across Somnus.

“No, not really.” Somnus looked up, leaning his cheek on his closed fist. His face was still how Ardyn remembered it, all sharp cheekbones and lazy smiles and sleepy blue eyes. “You’re sound asleep somewhere, I’m afraid.”

“Oh.” Ardyn sounded disappointed. “I was fairly certain that I am dead. You know, with you here, I thought I was about to spend eternity in Hell.”

“Sorry to disappoint, brother.” Somnus laughed, raking the hair back from his eyes. “Marlowe seems to be having fun conjuring dreams for you, though. And toying with your emotions.”

Of course, the sea witch, Ardyn thought wryly. No wonder his feelings of hatred seemed to have vanished without a trace. If there was any celestial being capable of manipulating dreams and feelings of others, best believe the Messenger of the Hydraean would be up to the task. He had seen her tricks on many an occasion since he and Somnus were children. This one should be no different.

Before Ardyn could demand to see Marlowe, Somnus asked: “Remember when we were children, Johanna taught us how to first play this game?”

“You mean the very same day I beat you?” Ardyn huffed an amused smile. “That time you threw a tantrum and—“

“Yes, yes, the very same,” Somnus said bitterly, rolling his eyes.

Ardyn laughed. “I remember that,” he said. His voice sounded so wistful that it surprised him. “It was also the same day Maxwell came in with the swords he forged for us. Then Circe and Hestia having to punish him for giving young boys such as us weapons instead of books.”

“Indeed. It was quite a time,” Somnus said, beaming. “Things were easier with all of us back then, isn’t it?”

There was a long silence. Ardyn regarded Somnus, whose face had gone solemn. Then, he said, in a voice that neither held anger nor fury: “I still don’t understand why you did it.”

Somnus pursed his lips, averting his gaze from Ardyn. “Of course you wouldn’t.” He drew a weary sigh. “I was living in your shadow for years. Living in the scraps of your glory. I had nothing to offer, nothing to show for myself. But I was a fool. I was the first one who broke our oath to Circe. Remember? Fight for each other and not against each other is what we promised. But what I did to you…” He trailed off, the sound of his voice threatened to crack. “Brother, I still bear that shame. I have lived to regret it for the rest of my days. And I’m not going to ask your forgiveness, because we both know I do not deserve any of it. I only hope that you find the peace you so rightfully deserve.”

Ardyn said nothing and looked at Somnus, uncertain on what to say next. There were so many things he had wanted to tell him, but he could not seem to say it out loud. The words refused to leave his mouth. I would’ve given up that wretched throne for you. I would’ve fought wars with you. I would’ve wanted nothing more than to be on your side because we’re bound by blood, and until the end, you’re my brother—

Before Ardyn could even muster the courage to speak, he woke up. The sea of red sylleblossoms were replaced with the ruins of the Citadel’s throne room. All he was left with was a ghostly ache in his chest, his face strangely damp with tears.

Heartbreak sentence starters

[starlling-writes]

Bewitching Monsters - Elf (Aero) Part 3

Series Rating: 18+ Chapter Contains: minor swearing, minor adult dialogue/themes Pairing: f/m (m/m mention) BeMo Masterlist   ☆  Writing Masterlist

“Dish, Witch.” Despite the café being packed with hungover patrons, Honey took the time to sit down across from me and hold my potpie hostage until I answered her. “How was your feis?”

“It was lovely. Now give me my food.”

She slid the plate over to me, a subtle scowl tugging at her features. “What did you two get up to?”

I savored a large bite, ignoring her until the cloying hunger ripping through my belly started to subside. “We kissed.”

“And?”

“Kissed more.”

She hopped to her feet, slamming her hands on the table. “That’s it? You kissed? You only kissed? Ugh! You two are so frustratingly, disappointingly vapid!” She marched back to the counter and returned to her work. Her yelling made many people stare my way. I glared at them in turn until they looked away. Nosy gossips.

A half hour later, after I finished my food and handling some work on my tablet, I was standing to leave when Honey ambushed me again. She placed three bags on the table and beamed a deadly, manipulative smile at me. “Heading out, dear Witch?”

“Yes,” I answered simply. What did she want?

“Could you deliver this for me? The café is so busy I’m not able to make this delivery. You’ll be compensated of course.”

There were red flags all over the place, but I could at least hear her out. Maybe the payment would be worth whatever trouble this actually was. “What’s the offer?”

“Five pounds of chocolate covered blackberries.”

“Deal.” Curse her for getting me hooked on those. They were too good to pass up. She gave me the address and I was off.

I arrived at a lovely apartment building ten minutes away. Lovely if you liked the neutral tone, nouveau riche look. I buzzed the apartment.

“Who are you?” They weren’t explicitly rude, but their tone still hinted at arrogance—or maybe that was my bias.

“I have a delivery from Honey Cup Café.”

There was a long pause. Then the door buzzed as it unlocked. Oh, no problem. I don’t mind bringing it up to you, I silently sneered at them. Could they really not be bothered to come down themselves or just say something?

At least they were prompt in answering their door. However I was not expecting to be greeted by Aero in only a skirt—actually a plain sheet tied around his waist.

“Two gifts in one. How blessed am I?”

“You’re not who I talked to,” I accused. So he was why Honey had sent me on this errand. I should have guessed.

“No, that was my roommate and boyfriend. Come in, you should meet.” He didn’t give me the option to refuse as he pulled me inside.

Their apartment was open and airy, filled with a number of large, potted plants and even more candles. Incense hung heavy in the air. Aero dragged me to the kitchen then took the bags of food from me. He had half of it pulled out and on the breakfast bar when the boyfriend in question walked in.

“So you’re the witch I keep hearing about,” he smiled then bowed. He was similar to Aero in height and build, with the pointed ears of a fae race. His hair was pulled into a messy bun with a few errant blue curls in his face. His vitiligo perfectly highlighted the V of muscles dipping below his skirt—a proper skirt, unlike Aero’s. “Call me Willow.”

“Nice to meet you. Call me Witch.” I shot a pointed look at Aero.

With a roll of his eyes he said, “Yes, yes—sorry for not telling you sooner. Though as kissing-friends I didn’t realize it’d be such an issue. Unless you decided you want more now?” His coy smirk didn’t have the energy I’d come to expect. Then I noted how dark his eyes were. Did the hangover really hit him that hard? I guess I did have the unfair advantage of having made a rehydration and healing potion to drink before bed so I wouldn’t be a hot mess. All things considered, I let this laps in information go.

“Not today.”

He shrugged, having expected my answer. Aero pulled out my berries but I quickly snatched them up. He looked at me, offended. “Not going to share?”

“Hey, these were my payment for delivering to you guys. A delivery, I might add, I haven’t gotten a tip for.”

Now his smile was closer to his usual self. He stepped closer, sliding his hands up my hips then pulling me against him. “You want a tip?” His head dipped low, an inch away from a kiss. Part of my heart fluttered. Another part remembered that Willow was standing two feet away.

“Don’t mind me, love,” he dismissed, noticing my hesitation. He was more concerned with the food. “He’s done far more in front of me.”

Aero drew back. “Are you not comfortable with polyamory?”

“That’s not it,” I shook my head. “I’m fine with that. No—it’s more so that we just met, and I was completely unprepared for…” I gestured vaguely to all of us. “This.”

“At least we met like this and not when you had a minotaur balls deep in your ass.”

“What?” Where the hell had this conversation diverted to?

“You’re really gonna start with that story?” Aero groaned.

“What better one to start with?” His boyfriend beamed wickedly. “Anyways, long story short, we met at an orgy. With a minotaur balls deep in his ass.”

“There are… so many questions I have now.” And one hell of a mental image. “Should we be drunk again for this?”

“Gods no!” Aero protested. “I am nowhere near recovered and ready for another bender.”

Willow hummed and walked up behind him and kissed his neck. “That’s why Daddy is here to nurse you better,” he said as his lips trailed up towards Aero’s ear. The air elf had closed his eyes and melted into the other male’s touch. Willow looked at me. “Drink?”

There was no stopping the shit-eating grin on my face. I was learning so much about Aero today. “Sure. Juice or water, I’m not picky.”

We moved our chat to the living room and sat on the floor around a low table, the surface of which soon filled with food and drinks. Aero had no shame in dishing out more stories. They frequented a variety of BDSM events and some swinger parties. Aero was a complete submissive and enjoyed a number play types that I hadn’t even heard of. Willow was a caregiver, though never participated in any of the sexual scenes. His pleasure was in making sure everyone else was enjoying their time. They had many stories to offer, opening up an unknown world to me. And they invited me into it.

“Okay, while I am open minded, I am not sure an orgy is for me,” I conceded. Aero tried to steal a berry—he had managed five so far—but I slapped his hand away.

“Clearly ‘cause you’re terrible at sharing,” he dared.

“Pssh, no I’m not. You’re just a greedy berry thief trying to steal my hard earned pay.”

“Wait, no!” he said and snapped his fingers. “It’s because you just don’t like others seeing you naked.”

I picked up the nearest pillow and started beating him with it. “I thought. We got past. Bringing. That up!” I said in time with my hits.

“Back on topic,” Willow chimed in with a chuckle, not caring about the buffeting his boyfriend was receiving. “I wouldn’t start you at an orgy. Start with a private exhibition. Very controlled and small.”

“Mmmh… still not sure—aah!” Aero managed to snag the pillow from my grip. I lost my balance and fell into his lap.

“Would you prefer to watch me on the block first?” he offered. He leaned over and I met him the rest of way for a quick kiss. “Have some fun with me and get used to the audience?” He kissed me again.

“I thought we agreed on just kissing.”

This time the kiss lingered as his tongue danced its way into my mouth. He left me near breathless. “Scenes are different. What happens there, stays there. And you still don’t have to do anything you don’t want.”

I couldn’t tell if the sparkle dancing in his eyes was him imagining me in the center of a scene, or himself with me topping.

“I’ll give it some more thought.”

— — —

BeMo Masterlist   ☆  Writing Masterlist

Story:  Previous  —  Next

Character Arc:  Part 1   Part 2  [Here]

[stusbunker]

Known: Friends in a Fix

A Supernatural Dark Fan-fiction

Featuring: Dean Winchester x Demon!Reader, Dean x Female Vessel OC

Series Masterlist

A/N: With the dates I let you know where the action falls in regards to air dates, I try not to repeat information you already know. Please ask if something doesn’t make sense! xoxo Stu

Not really any warnings this chapter, there will still be show level violence, possession, mental health concerns, and a reminder that it is a Slow Burn. Each Chapter will have its own warnings, because I am generous like that. xoxo Stu

The dark figured loomed in the doorway, an insipid strobe light shone from another room, effectively blinding her as she tried to make out a face or species to her capture. Chloe was pinned down to a wide table, unable to move any of her extremities and the maddening realization that she was going to die like some bitch in a horror movie caused her to taunt the bastard.

“Oh goodie, you’re here—” her voice came out flat, as if she had an accent or something shoved in her mouth. When she looked down at her surroundings, everything shifted. Her hands paled and thinned as she tried to figure out what was happening. Then his voice sent a shiver down her spine, it was familiar yet ominous. Her head snapped up to face him when suddenly she woke up.

The raggedy blanket she kept along the passenger’s seat back wedged beneath her head as a makeshift pillow.

Earth Date: October 8, 2013

Location: A Rest Stop Somewhere between Madison and Milwaukee

She never had nightmares, for a hunter it was a rare quality, one that she had prided herself on. That was until she started to, when exhaustion nor booze could quell the festering dreams that haunted her even in daylight. CC started to question her fortitude, trying to relive the past few weeks and see what would have triggered such elaborate horrors. It was like she had ingested someone’ else’s trauma, the unfinished memories at odds with her own strengths and fears. She quickly grew dismayed over the new, if unfounded, weakness.

CC sat up, rubbing her face with flat swipes of her palms, chasing away the barely two hours of sleep she had managed before the last episode. She stared at the clock on the dash before grumbling to herself and starting the engine. She had turned off her phone the night before after a landline had refused to stop calling and to leave a message with more information than a selfish urgency. There were only a handful of people Chloe Collins would answer after that kind of dramatics, and two of them were dead. She thought about calling Garth, but let the idea float out of her focus as quickly as the wind picked up over the moraines.

It was another day before she remembered to turn her phone back on, having driven mindlessly until she stopped in front of an overgrown gas station and convenience store that looked like it had survived a tornado or some other natural disaster that would have shattered its windows. There was a residue to the place, as if a spirit had led her there to clean up its mess. If there was a spook behind the numbing atmosphere, it remained perpetually silent and out of sight.

“Hey, look, I know things are probably bad out there, but if there is any chance you are near Colorado, call me. Sam’s laid up and, I, I can’t do this myself, not right now. Consider this calling in all my favors. Thanks, Chloe.” Dean Winchester’s voice dropped on her name, it was a plea, not a sign off. He never used her real name. And he rarely asked for help. She turned West before scrolling for his number in her contacts list.

Nothing seemed real anymore.

Location: Nebraska

Despite the bright sunshine and crisp air, Castiel was growing bitter towards his surroundings. He heard Hael’s warnings in his memory as he walked down the quiet two-lane road. Hoping he could do what he had to, in order to stay as far away from every other angel as possible. He had changed clothes, spending his last coins on vending machine nutrients and a bottle of water. The truck driver had been polite enough, dropping him off at the next stop without any agreed upon repayment. And so, he started walking, again, painfully hungry and alone.

The passing vehicles rumbled passed Cas in a blur, his arm held out awkward and listless as he glanced half-heartedly at the few potential rides. Suddenly a rusted pick up screeched along, failing to come to a complete stop as it blew through the shoulder and into the grassy ditch. Castiel instinctively chased after the seemingly out of control vehicle, worry cresting his brow. When he reached the passenger side window, his stomach pitched against its emptiness.

Demon.

The woman appeared frozen, knuckles white against the worn steering wheel. She was shaking either from the impact of the accident or from fighting the entity that was trying to control her. Once he spoke, she spun to face him, her heart shaped face familiar over the parasite’s sinister features.

“I know you—”

“Castiel?” The woman’s voice croaked out of her clenched jaw. The flash of her grey eyes and the charm hanging from her rearview mirror brought pieces of old conversations and images back into focus. Dean mentioning a friend who had made repelling talismans by combining Native American chants with hoodoo ingredients. Her grandfather was a master of petroglyphs, spellwork and runes while her mother had visions from an early age.

“Chloe? Chloe Collins? Did Dean send you?” Castiel’s voice was urgent, but the worry clouded his now human features.

“I tried to stop, but my foot, it’s like it wouldn’t--- am I okay?” She begged for reassurance, not being able to move more than an inch in either direction. Castiel pained for this woman, unaware and at the mercy of her attacker.

“You’re going to be fine,” Castiel walked around the truck, never taking his eyes off of the hunter. When he reached the driver’s side door, the demon took hold. Her head tilted at an unnatural angle, eyes blackened as a horse-like huff flared her nostrils.

“Hello, thief. Long time.” The demon struggled back against her host, Chloe’s voice wavered as she pushed open the door, sending Cas flat on his ass. She leaped from the cab, nearly pouncing on him.

“What’s a-matter?” The demon continued to taunt him, “It seems if the jailbreaker has lost its wings?”

Castiel drew the Angel Blade from inside his stolen hoodie, the fear and humanity rolling towards the demon’s nostrils in intoxicating waves. The weapon got the demon’s attention, she snarled at him as worried voices came out of nowhere. Cas looked back to the road, a family had pulled over to check on the stalled vehicle. The mother’s voice beckoning to the father as he approached the struggling pair.

“Everybody okay over here?” The man’s large hands were gripped in front of his chest as if he was warming them before beginning a task.

Chloe’s eyes returned to normal as she leaned down to pull Castiel back onto his feet. He didn’t say anything but gave the demon/hunter a sidelong glance.

“Yeah, should be, I got caught rubbernecking this one, but he was kind of enough to see that me and my truck are square.” Chloe’s voice had returned, her thick hair drifting in the breeze as she shoved her hands in the front pockets of her jeans.

“You okay, man? You look like you saw a ghost!” The concerned motorist chortled as Castiel thought about what the man meant.

“No, there are no restless spirits here.” Castiel’s confusion broke the man’s revelry.

“Alright, could you do me a favor and wave to the Missus? She wouldn’t believe me unless everyone’s smiling.” As if on cue, Chloe and the bystander turned and waved back at his minivan, his wife beaming with relief as Castiel tried to patch on a smile. As soon as the family was back on the road with another round of enthusiastic waving from Chloe, Castiel redrew his blade.

She froze with the deadly point pressing gently above her kidney, “You kill me, you kill the girl, Castiel. You might be a half-dead has-been, but you wouldn’t do that to the Winchesters. Not when Dean sent her to collect you.”

“What are you doing with her?” Castiel was unmoved by her rationality.

“Nothing you need to worry about, besides,” the demon spun, hard, landing a firm elbow to his temple. “We are too exposed out here, for both our sakes.”

***

Castiel woke in her passenger seat a few hours later, the sun igniting the horizon behind them in a burst of pink and lavender. Chloe smiled at him as she briefly took her eyes off the road. He sat up, hand twitching over his missing weapon.

“Don’t worry, I’m not here to hunt you Castiel.” Her voice was soft and genuine, he realized he was talking to the woman and not the demon now. “But, if you don’t believe me, the Angel Blade is under your seat. I didn’t want to accidentally stab you while I dragged your unconscious ass into the cab.”

Cas didn’t bother verifying her explanation, he had grown too distracted by the giant-sized soft drink in the cupholder. “May I?” He asked with an audible swallow over his parched throat.

“Be my guest,” CC hummed a melody after her offer, one in stark contrast to the radio commercial jingle playing. Castiel removed the thin plastic lid and poured the bubbly, icy liquid down his throat. He paused when the frigid temperature burned his chest, just as an obnoxious belch escaped his lips.

“Excuse you,” CC chuckled, handing him a fistful of napkins from the glove compartment, he hadn’t realized he had spilled down his front.

“Why are you helping me?” Cas’s question caught her off guard.

“Obviously, so I can hold you hostage and take advantage of you,” CC didn’t miss a beat, winking at the perplexed grimace on the Angel-man’s face. “I’m a friend of the Winchesters? Dean was freaking out because Sam was laid up, so he asked if I was near Colorado?”

She continued to end each sentence as if it were a question, hoping the connections would be made in his brain. “When did you last talk to Dean?”

“I haven’t, just started driving West. Got pretty lucky to have spotted you, too. You look half-dead. Everything alright?” She was leading him, but he didn’t feel threatened with her concern.

Castiel sighed, “I’m not up to my full power, thank you for your help, Ms. Collins.”

“CC, Cas. It’s, just, CC.”

***

Castiel felt their presence before he heard his name over the radio waves, the Angels were closing in on him. Traveling with a demon, even a somewhat accommodating one, had been too risky after all. They had stopped for gas and a quick meal, but he knew better than to lead his fallen brethren back to CC and whoever was possessing her. Before CC returned from the women’s room, Cas ducked out of the small convenience store and made his way across the highway to a fast food restaurant.

He slowly made his way up the frontage road and stuck his thumb out for a ride in the opposite direction. Twenty minutes later, he was whisked away, hopefully drawing the Angels away from the confusing demon’s scent.

That night he called Dean from a borrowed cellphone at a group home.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Cas, what the hell?!” Dean barked over the line.

“I wanted to contact you because, well, I left CC at a truck stop in Nebraska.”

“Glad to know she got my message, why’d you split? Everything alright?”

“No, the Angels were trailing me, and I didn’t want to endanger her. Dean? How long has she—"

“Yeah, sorry about that, she can be a bit of a pistol sometimes,” Cas could hear the eye roll in Dean’s voice.

“That’s not what I mean, Dean. You do know that—”

“Oh, okay, right. Sorry, man, Sam was talking. Listen, you just get here asap. I’ll call Chloe before she burns half the corn fields looking for your ass.”

“Thanks, Dean.”

“You sure you don’t want us to pick you up?”

“No, Dean, I think I can manage another state or two.” It was Cas’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Well, okay. But, uh, be careful out there, man.” Castiel hung up as his cover name was called out from the reception desk, announcing his bed assignment.

***

Earth Date: October 13, 2013

Location: Las Vegas, Nevada

Chloe kicked herself for showing up to the care facility on a Sunday afternoon. The residents were exhausted from an outing the day before and the staff was not the most enthusiastic to last minute visitors. An extremely tall blonde female resident frowned at CC as she approached the corner where her mother sat gossiping. With the practiced patience and subtly of her trade, she slid into a seat beside her mother and listened to the perceived drama around her.

One of the night nurses was a kleptomaniac, Doris, her mother’s companion was certain. It was all very mundane with a nostalgic level of neighborhood paranoia, drawing an easy curl to her closed lips. CC sat for ten minutes before the women looked up and realized they had company, her hands folded over her elbows as if holding herself together.

“Hey, Mama,” she leaned forward and patted her mother’s knee. Her mother watched her skeptically, following her hand as it retracted back to her lap as if Chloe’s had personally offended her.

“What’s the matter with you?” Her mother’s tone was blunt, but to be expected. “Your energy is all foggy.”

“It’s nice to see you too,” CC grumbled, tucking her hair behind her ear, her piercings sparkling in the pre-sunset glow that shown through the long windows behind them.

“Please tell me you didn’t bring something with you? I don’t have the means to expel spirits in here.” Her mother huffed, searching the area around their small square of chairs as if a ghost would jump out at the suggestion and attack them all. CC sighed, somethings never changed, mood disorder medicated or not. Her mother had dark eyes and kept her hair in a thick, meticulous plait down her back. Other than that, the women were nearly identical, barely a laugh line or forehead crease deeper on her mother’s smooth features versus her own.

“I’m clean, Ma’am, I know what I’m doing,” CC whispered adamantly now. “Can we talk in private?”

Her mother eyed Doris knowingly, “Like you’re going to rat us out, I swear.”

“Fine.” Chloe leaned back, sighing as the older women shared a look.

“Constance, I’ll be back, I’m going to tell our eavesdropper to mind her own damn business.” Doris and Constance snapped their heads back to land disapproving eyes on the woman that had given CC a very similar look when she first arrived. Soon, Doris was out of earshot.

“Do you hear them?” CC asked, looking at her mother’s shoes.

“Of course, I hear them, girl. They won’t shut the hell up. It’s like they think they’re the only ones to experience a change of address.” Constance Collins groaned, rubbing her temples against the broadcast of celestial communication.

“Yeah, well, moving pains are the least of our worries. It’s like a temper tantrum met turf warfare.” CC explained what she had figured out about the dispelled angels’ situation.

“What are you going to do about it?” Constance watched her daughter, noting the shadows that drooped into her usually full cheeks.

“See how it pans out for now, I guess. Not really something a single hunter can do about all of Heaven.” CC shrugged.

“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has.” Her mother recited verbatim.

“Thanks, Margaret, didn’t realize I had stepped in to a Soc class.” CC rolled her eyes.

“Don’t shoot the messenger, Chloe Cathleen. If you want to fix this mess; you can. Simple as that.”

“Thanks?”

“Anytime,” her mother smirked at her, until CC’s face pulled up and grinned back. “You in town?”

“Not really,” CC admitted, checking her phone for the time.

“Well, the night meds get distributed soon, better scoot before they added you to the queue, doll-baby.”

CC stood, rubbing her sweaty palms on the front of her fitted jeans. “Take care of yourself, Mama.”

Constance stood leaning up to place her cheek against her daughter’s, and with a short hum came a dark send off. “Don’t be too reckless out there. Come back to me.”

CC closed her eyes, “Of course, Mama.”

They broke apart and left with stuttering smiles on both of their lips.

Earth Date: October 17, 2013

Location: The Bunker

Dean woke to the frustrating buzzing of his phone against his nightstand, without a glance at the caller id he groaned a greeting.

“Go for Winchester.”

“Dean?” She sounded so small.

“Chloe, Christ, where have you been?! I’ve been calling for weeks.” Dean sat up, batting at the covers in order to free his bare legs, tossing them over the side.

“North Carolina, uh, just outside of Whittier.” She wasn’t sounding any better the longer she talked. “Uh, I don’t know how I got here, Dean. I remember looking into a case and then nothing.”

“Are you somewhere safe?” Dean rubbed his eyes, panic flooding his thoughts.

“I’m in a diner, but I don’t know where my truck is or—”

“Okay, well get a room, call me and I’ll give them my card. Got it?”

“Yeah, okay, right, first motel in the phonebook, right?”

“That’s my girl. Okay, sit tight. I’ll be there soon.” Dean waited for her sign off, throwing on pants with one hand to his ear.

“Okay, thanks, Dean.” Dean swallowed, exhaling tightly before ending the call. Everything from hex bags to Angel possession crossed his mind as he drove East in a fury. He could have called another hunter, he should have told Sam where he was going, but he didn’t. He just drove.

 My girl. Dean’s words flooded your thoughts as you sat hunched over your malt at the diner counter. Now the waiting began.

tags: @dontshootmespence @because-imma-lady-assface @mrswhozeewhatsis @smi727 @sassykayla255 @dxr-supernatural-fanfic @supernaturalboi @dumbthotticus @eve05glee @veroinnumera @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @forgettingthoughts @shokushuhime-stuff @fanfictionrecommendations-com @soullesscollection-world @igotdressedthroughthemess 

Next Chapter: A Line Once Crossed

[scarletraven1001]

The Final Price (Chapter 7)

Chapter Summary: Vegeta’s gone, and Bulma is finding it impossible to cope with his death. In the midst of her sorrow, she finds hope when she begins to have strange dreams about him, and she realizes that there just might be a way to bring him back.

Entry for the @tpthvegebulmayhem, Week 4 (Part 1 of 4).

Prompt: The Glass Slipper

Chapter Warnings: Rated E - Profane language; Triggers: Mentions of depression and suicide; Torture; Slight sexual content.

All Chapters:  1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10

Also on Ao3.

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Chapter 7: The Undying Bond

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Note: This is Part 1 of 4, for my Week 4 entry. I hope you like it!

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In her thirty years of existence, Bulma had, on several occasions, experienced what it was like to be sad.

She had gone through breakups, and she had lost friends. She had even, at one point, lost literally everything, and has had close friends and family members pass away.

Loss and death were not new to her.

However, the feelings of hopelessness, her conviction that things would never get better, the complete loss of her will to even get up every morning… those were new.

She had usually dealt with her sadness and frustrations by burying herself in her work or studies, by going out with friends or by taking short vacations.

She had tried so hard to do the same things this time around, but she just couldn’t.

She could not keep her mind on her work, making stupid mistakes because of her wandering thoughts that made her lose her concentration.

She had thrown an epic tantrum when she failed to solve a simple equation that she previously could have done with only one eye half open and both hands tied behind her back.

She had filed for an indefinite leave of absence from work, after that frankly embarrassing meltdown.

Her parents were worried, confused as to why she had suddenly become so despondent and angry.

She didn’t care.

She did not want to see anyone, did not want to talk to anybody.

Every step she took made her shake with agony.

Every bite of food felt like sand on her tongue.

She was smart enough to recognize the signs...

She had never before truly realized that there was a profound difference between being simply miserable, and being depressed.

She needed to be strong enough to fight it…

But she did not want to.

Vegeta’s death had hit her hard, like nothing she had ever experienced before.

She loathed herself, for being useless, for being unable to save him, for ultimately not being able to do anything to keep him alive.

She was so utterly lost, so unspeakably dejected, and all she wanted to do was lock herself up in her room all day and sleep.

Yet all she saw, every time she closed her eyes, were gruesome images of his last moments… the ki beam that struck his heart, his shaky final breaths, the look of pride and acceptance in his eyes right before he faded from her arms.

All these horrible memories fill the backs of her eyelids, yet she preferred sleep to wakefulness, because in slumber, she found some relief.

Perhaps, if she slept, she could dream of him. Maybe she would have a vision of him, see him as he was in the afterlife.

Oh, how she wanted to join him.

But she could not, because he had asked her to stay safe.

“Stay safe. My precious Blue Moon…”

She could not, should not, kill herself, because she could not bear to disrespect his memory, his hard work and sacrifice, by failing him at this.

“My Bulma…”

She felt the tears sting her eyes, and she tried and failed to hold them back.

It had been three weeks.

She still could not get his voice out of her head.

She could still feel his hands on her body, his kisses upon her lips.

“My Bulma…”

She could still feel how cold his skin had felt as he began to fade into nothingness, how his lips had trembled beneath hers as he fought to keep his pain to himself, even as he wasted away.

He was gone.

Her Vegeta was gone.

And to her, it truly felt as if a part of her soul had died with him, as well.

Maybe, her soul really had been ripped apart.

After all, he was her soulmate. It made perfect sense for her very spirit to cry out and scream at his demise.

It wasn’t fair.

How dare the world just ignorantly go on, when Vegeta was no longer in it.

At the moment, Bulma was staring numbly out her large bedroom windows and into the distance, her eyes hurting from the weak rays of sunlight that filtered in.

She was hunched in on herself in bed, her hair a matted disarray while her white shirt hung loosely around her frame.

Vegeta had hugged her, while she wore that shirt.

He had lain his head on her pillow as he wrapped his arms around her, an arrogant smirk on his face as he told her of how he was going to melt that shirt off her if she didn’t immediately take it off.

The pillow he had laid his head on, was the same one he had placed under her hips, using it so he can tilt her up as he thrust into her more deeply. It was the one he had slept on after their last moments of passion, one night before he fought Frieza.

She had her arms wrapped around that pillow then, refusing to part with it in spite of the stains from her endless tears.

It was all she had left of him.

She had lost his amulet when she got kidnapped, and she never even managed to take a fucking picture with him.

A stained pillow case was all she had left.

It was so utterly unfair.

A soft knock came on her door, pulling her slightly from her lonely thoughts, and she looked on morosely as the knob turned.

Her mother’s small blond head peeked in, her normally jovial eyes brimming with concern while her small mouth was turned down in a sad frown.

“Bulma, baby? May I come in?”

Bulma nodded, and Panchy walked in slowly, feet hesitantly padding across the floor.

She sat down on the edge of the large bed, while Bulma squinted at her, waiting for her to speak.

Panchy took a deep breath, before she resolutely turned to Bulma.

“Baby, you know I love you, right?” she said softly, reaching forward to stroke Bulma’s thin hand that was clutching tightly at her pillow.

Bulma nodded.

Panchy stared at her, and Bulma watched helplessly as small tears began leaking out of Panchy’s eyes.

“You’re my little girl. And I love you. So, won’t you tell me what’s wrong?” the blond said, scooting closer to Bulma.

She started speaking again. “That morning, when those three men brought you here… you were unconscious and so pale.”

Bulma didn’t remember all the things that had happened after Vegeta had faded from her arms, but she did remember her screams that seemed to go on for hours, until darkness finally overtook her… and the next thing she knew, she was back at home.  

“When I asked them where the fourth man was,” Panchy continued, “they didn’t say anything. And you… you never spoke to me either, Bulma.”

Panchy began sobbing as she looked at Bulma, watched her pale blue eyes look back at her blankly. “I want to help you, Bulma. Like you helped me when I was sick. I can feel… I can feel that your heart is sick too, but I don’t know why. Please baby, let me help you.”

Bulma drew her brows together, not even realizing that the tears had started flowing from her eyes, as well.

“Mom,” she said softly. “No one… no one can help me. It’s over.”

“No! Don’t say that, Bulma!” Panchy exclaimed, lunging at her and pulling her into her arms.

Panchy began to weep, soft, feminine sobs that broke Bulma’s heart just a little bit more, and before she knew it, she had clung to her mother, bawling desperately into her chest as she heard her own voice begin to cry out.

“He’s gone mom! He’s gone! Vegeta’s gone!” Bulma kept wailing, pounding the mattress with her fists as the very words made her body ache physically.

“Oh Bulma, do you mean he left, or-”

“He’s dead!” Bulma screamed, and she realized then that it was the very first time that she had dared say the words out loud.

She had never had the courage to acknowledge his loss out loud, in a fool’s hope that if she didn’t say it, maybe it could stop being true...

“He’s dead! And I – I couldn’t do anything, mom! I just sat there. He’s gone!” she cried, slumping into her mother, seeking comfort from her mother’s loving hold.

But Bulma was trying to fool herself. She knew that her mother’s calming touch would never be enough.

She could only ever find her peace from a thick pair of powerful arms that would never hold her, ever again.

“Oh baby, I’m – I’m so sorry!” Panchy whispered into her hair as she rained kisses on Bulma’s head.

Her mother spoke to her as she cried, and Bulma heard her mother trying desperately to hush her, to soften the flow of her tears.

“I knew… I knew there was something there… but I never realized that he meant so much to you! I wondered why a random team of soldiers had gone to rescue you when you got kidnapped,” Panchy said softly. “Oh Bulma, I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

“I miss him, mom. I need him. I don’t know how I could go on,” she sobbed, as she felt her mother push her down, gently lowering her so that she was laying flat on her bed.

Panchy sniffed as she pulled blankets around her, tucking her in before she lay beside Bulma as well, hugging her tight as they cried together.

“Bulma, I am sure that it hurts. But you have to try to move on. He… he would have wanted you to be happy, don’t you think?”

She nodded, sniffling loudly. “He… he gave his life for me. He refused to save himself because he wanted me to… to stay safe.”

Bulma peered up at her mother. “He… he called me, my Bulma. Do you… do you think he loved me, mom? Because I love him... I love him so much.”

Panchy burst into tears once again, pulling Bulma tight, laying her head close to her chest like she used to do when Bulma had been little, and upset over little things.

“Yes baby. I’m sure he did. It is impossible not to love you, my sweet little girl.”

Bulma sobbed against her mother until she was exhausted, and Panchy just patiently held her, offering her silent support as she soothed her motherly hands across Bulma’s back.

It took a long time, but Bulma finally felt the stirrings of sleep begin to wash over her, and before she knew it, she was lost in slumber, away from the aches of the waking world, and into the sweet nothingness of the darkness of unconsciousness.

Yet… it was not darkness that greeted Bulma as she succumbed to sleep.

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She could still feel the dampness of her sweat as it dried slowly on her body.

She snuggled closer to Vegeta, laying her head close to his hard chest. She knew that the abnormal heat of his body should have been uncomfortable, but to her, it was like being in the gentle clouds of heaven, where nothing could harm her, and nothing could hurt her. It was just the two of them, nestled in each other’s arms, luxuriating in the warmth of their hearts.  

A small feather fell onto her nose, cutting off her tender musings.  She tried to flick it off with her breaths, blowing out her mouth so that the air would push it off her face.

Vegeta had ripped one of her pillows apart while in the throes of passion. She absolutely did not mind.

She felt his chuckle as it rumbled across his chest, before she heard the soft snickers leave his lips.

She watched him lift a hand, and he quickly plucked the offending feather from her before he lowered his head to drop a small kiss on the tip of her nose.

“I am sorry for the pillow,” he said with a totally non-apologetic smirk. “I can fix it.”

“Nah, it’s alright. Leave it for now,” she grinned back. She reached a hand up to trace the contours of his chest with the tips of her fingers, peeking up at him through her lashes. “I rather like the reminder that I was just so good in bed that you had to rip something up. It’s so… feral.”

She laughed as she watched him blush at her teasing.

She expected him to get back at her with an arrogant rebuttal, but the hand that he placed on her cheek, along with the soft look that entered his normally-stern eyes, threw her for a loop.

“I will admit this much, Bulma,” he whispered, as if a part of him was hesitant to say the words. “Being with you tonight was… different.”

“Different in a good way?” she asked, breathless at his solemn confession.

He nodded. “I have never… It has never been this way before. I nearly lost control.”

“Maybe it has just been too long?” she asked, hoping that it wasn’t for that reason.

It had been so incredible for her, as well.

He shook his head, and she nearly sighed in relief.

“No, it is not that… you are my most incredible experience,” he admitted.

She flushed happily, beaming brightly up at him. “That’s great Vegeta, because… it was amazing for me, too.”

He smiled back.”Don’t let it get to your head, woman.”

She laughed, huffing jokingly as she answered. “Excuse me? You’re the one with the huge head!”

“Oh, is that how it is going to be?” he growled, a playful smirk on his face as he turned, pouncing on her, hands crawling up and down her sides, making her squirm before her laughter began to ring around her bedroom.

“No! No tickling!” she yelled, trying in vain to push away from his hands.

He started laughing as well, tickling her sides more vigorously. “I got you now, and I am not letting go!”

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She opened her eyes slowly as she woke, already feeling the tears welling up behind her lids.

She smiled bitterly as she recalled the last vestiges of her dream, her memory of happier times with Vegeta.

“But you did let go, Vegeta. You let go…”

8-8-8-8-8

The next morning was too bright, too cheerful, and Bulma almost felt as if she wanted to vomit as she tried and failed to get up from her bed.

It was really pointless, getting up. Why should she even bother?

She was contemplating going back to sleep, when a bright flash of light suddenly appeared inside her bedroom, and she gaped as a male form with spiky, golden hair materialized before her.

A dozen flashbacks went through her mind as she screamed, tumbling carelessly from her bed as she bolted without thought towards the man who had appeared with his back to her, wearing a blue tank top and loose black pants.

“Vegeta!” she screamed, heart pounding through her ribcage as she desperately tried to move towards him…

Was he truly back?

The man turned, and the hopeful spark within her chest died as quickly as it had been lit, when she realized that the person standing before her was definitely not her dead lover.

It was Goku.

Indescribable rage filled her as he turned to look at her.

“What are you doing here?!” she roared, making him visibly recoil.

How dare he get her hopes up?

How dare he remind her of what she had lost?

“Bulma, I’m sorry,” Goku said, raising his hands up in a gesture of placation. “I just wanted to check up on you again. I didn’t think you would be awake.”

Bulma’s rage continued to simmer. “What do you mean, again?”

Goku winced. “I have been checking on you once every three days. I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

She finally untangled herself from her sheets, rising up to stand and glaring lividly at Goku.

“Look at me! Do I look alright to you, Goku?” she yelled.

She knew her anger was unwarranted, but she was unable to stem the venom that flowed through her.

Goku appeared to deflate. “No, you don’t. You don’t look alright at all. You look awful.”

She glared. “Oh well, thank you, Goku! I-”

“You look sick,” he said, brows furrowing. “You are very thin. You look like you aren’t eating.”

Bulma was taken aback as she noted Goku’s hands clenching, and she watched his face slowly morph from a look of concern to one of irritation.

“You ain’t taking care of yourself, are ya?” he accused, and Bulma cringed under the accusation in his eyes. “Bulma, why? You have to treat yourself better. You-”

“What’s the point?” she asked bitterly. “Why should I?! There’s nothing left for me here. He’s gone, so why should I even-”

“He gave his life for you!” Goku said loudly, shocking her into silence.

She gaped at him, watching his aura flare angrily around him.

“Our Prince, our leader, who we waited thirty Earth years for, gave up on a chance to reestablish the Saiyan race because he couldn’t bear to let you die. He gave up on his legacy,” Goku hissed, “because you meant more to him than me, Raditz and Nappa combined, more than the thirty years of waiting and plotting to rise and lead us again. And all you are doing in exchange for his sacrifice is letting yourself waste away. The least you can do is to respect his death by surviving.”

He turned away from her, angrily looking out her window, and she was struck by the visible similarities between Vegeta and his fellow Saiyan.

That straight and powerful stance, the strong arms and narrowed, determined eyes... Vegeta and Goku looked nothing alike, yet, standing here now, Bulma could fully appreciate the fact that these men truly were not ordinary humans, as their presence resonated with something unmistakably powerful, and she was awestruck by the display.

Goku sighed, powering down so his hair turned back to its usual dark, spiky look. He turned back to her, his face now softer and slightly contrite. “I am sorry for shouting, Bulma. But Vegeta was our Prince. Our ruler, even before his father died. The first Saiyan to ascend to Super Saiyan in a thousand ages. We all looked up to him.”

He walked towards her, taking her limp hands in his, a brotherly gesture that had Bulma near-tears as she sensed his sadness through his somber gaze.

“He… he was my idol,” Goku said, swallowing audibly. “He had been telling me that I had what it took to ascend, and I never would’a tried so hard if it weren’t for him always telling me that I could. It… it hurts to know that he is really gone.”

“It does. It really does hurt, Goku. I… I’m sorry if I’m like this… I just… I can’t handle it,” she whispered, and she felt him steering her to sit on her bed, before he himself crouched before her, rocking back on his haunches as he watched her.

“You have to try Bulma. He wouldn’t wanna see you like this. And I’m here because I want you to be safe, like he asked. So I’m gonna try to look after you, alright?” he said. “I see why Vegeta liked you. You’re a strong girl. If I remember right, back on the mountain those years ago, you were the toughest in your group. You have to be that tough girl, again.”

She smiled sadly at him. “I… I am going to try. I am going to really try, Goku.”

He smiled back. “You should.”

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The visit from Goku shook Bulma, and she decided then that she had to at least make an effort to try to get things to go back to normal.

She knew it would be impossible, but she should at least try to attain a semblance of normalcy, if not for her, then for the people who loved her and were worried for her.

Also… for Vegeta.

Goku had been right. Vegeta wanted her to be safe, he wanted her to live her life, and she was going to try, for him.

She tried to fight back the urge to stay in bed all day. She took baths with her phone right beside her, so she can call her mother to fetch her from the bathroom if the shudders started up again, or if she felt the urge to either not get out at all or to just drown herself in the bathtub.

She asked Goku for his number – which he had to go back home for a second to retrieve from his wife, Chichi – so she can call him whenever she was feeling down.

It apparently helped, to have somebody around who could understand the pain of her loss.

Bulma opened up to Lazuli, her assistant, and the blond surprised Bulma by sharing that she, apparently, had gone through a dark period as well when her parents passed away, leaving her and her twin brother as homeless orphans.

She tried to offer some help, supplying Bulma with books that had helped her cope with her own loss, and though Bulma knew that the self-help books would not really offer her much peace of mind, she took them, grateful for the kinship that she now shared more keenly with Lazuli.

Bulma tried to look back at her memories with Vegeta more fondly, and as the weeks passed, she found herself slowly becoming more able to smile as she remembered his words and arrogant smiles.

She could remember their small conversations, his nitpicking at her messy lab and office. She smiled as she sat in her office, chewing thoughtfully at some pineapple, remembering his face as he sniffed in disdain at how lazy humans were for slicing their fruit into bite-sized bits.

There was, however, one thing that helped keep her happier, that began after she cried her eyes out after coming clean to her mother… after she finally acknowledged out loud, that Vegeta was gone.

She had begun to dream of him.

The dreams were happy dreams, full of memories of their few days together, and sometimes of random encounters that she knew had never happened, and had regarded as simple figments of her imagination.

She thought of them more as alternate universe versions of a life with Vegeta.

She had once dreamed of them flying off to South City to fight villainous androids, where one of them looked uncannily like Lazuli.

She also once dreamed of watching him talking to a group of men who stood in neat lines before a large red mountain, and she realized that two of the men looked suspiciously like Raditz and Nappa.

Just that morning, she had woken up from a dream where they had met on a distant planet, where he had terrified her as they both competed in a search for what she had, in her dream, called Dragon Balls, wish-granting orbs that resembled the enchanted ball that had brought Vegeta into her life.

She dreamed of him every night, and she knew that she was bordering now on an insane obsession, but she reasoned that, it was still better than not seeing him at all, and just letting herself die alone in her room.

At least, with the dreams, she could be with him.

At least, in her dreams, Vegeta was alive.

After she finished her snack, she shook herself free of her thoughts as she stood, moving into the large laboratory that was adjacent to her office.

She sorted through her things until she finally found her ongoing project, a power core for a deep space machine that was inspired by her dream about meeting Vegeta on a distant planet.

In the dream, she had reached the strange green planet using a sophisticated ship that could enter into a form of hyperdrive, bypassing Earth physics and running at speeds faster than the speed of light.

She was trying to figure out if it would, in reality, be possible to engineer such a vehicle.

Bulma had been reading up on the possibilities of deep space exploration and the power sources that could potentially take the people of Earth into farther corners of the universe, but the answer constantly evaded her.

She was about to turn her attention to another project when she remembered a discussion that she had with Vegeta , just a few days after she and her family had returned to Capsule Corp.

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“So this is what your family does for a living,” he remarked, looking around her lab, peeking through the various machines and smaller components that littered her workspace to look at her from behind her cluttered work table.

“Yep! We are engineers! Well, my father and I are. We are inventors; scientists, actually. And this is my home!” she crowed, gesturing grandly at the mess of parts before her.

“And what, exactly, are you working on here?”

“Well,” she began, lifting an energy source from her table, showing him the glowing liquid inside the large fiberglass capsule. “I am trying to make a compound that could function as an alternate energy source so we don’t have to be so dependent on gasoline. I know that there are several other methods now, but this one,” she shook it, “could potentially be powerful enough to send us to the moon with only a liter of it needed.”

“Impressive,” he agreed, studying the mixture. “So it is a highly-concentrated energy source that could potentially power your vehicles into farther distances, with far less quantity.”

“Yes!” she said, beaming with pride.

He frowned slightly. “Did you take into consideration though, how a compound like that could potentially drain other components of your ships? It would not be enough fluid to sustain the other functions that you would need for a habitable vehicle.”

“What do you mean?”

“It would cause a chain reaction of sorts within your ship,” he explained. “The other motors will be needing to work at an equivalently higher rate of efficiency for that compound to be able to sustain all of the functions.”

She chewed her thumb nail thoughtfully. “So you’re saying that if I use this energy source, I need to adjust all other functions on the ship.”

He nodded. “But I am sure you already knew that. What you could consider is this: is your planet’s current technology ready for a machine that could accurately utilize this compound?”

She looked at him, impressed. She had no idea that he even had an interest in mechanical processes and electronics. “You make a good point. However, are you saying that this experiment is not practical, then?”

“I believe it would be ambitious to use this experimental fluid on a large machine, such as a space ship,” he clarified. “Perhaps, you would do well to try testing it on a smaller gadget, to test how far the energy can go, so you can more easily make the necessary calculations as you proceed to larger undertakings.”

She smiled at him then. “Why Vegeta, that is brilliant! Any suggestions on what I could use it on?”

Vegeta smirked. “How about one of those phones that you use to communicate? The ones that you keep charging all the time? Or perhaps, something practical, like a blaster gun?”

Bulma stood from her chair, excited. “Vegeta, that’s a great idea!” she exclaimed, picking up the green capsule. “I’m going to start a different experiment right now!”

She moved around the table, and when she reached him, she leaned up, leaving a light kiss on his cheek.

She immediately noticed the dark blush that stole over his cheeks, before he covered up his embarrassment with a scowl.

8-8-8-8-8

Bulma went to the back of her office, opening a small drawer hidden behind her filing cabinets.

She reached in, smiling when her hand met the small item that she had stashed in there, a confidential little experiment that she had been working on without the knowledge of her father, an undeclared idea that she had personally financed so she can test its viability.

She pulled it out, and her smile turned melancholy as she continued to look at it.

It was a blaster gun.

She had decided to make a prototype, as Vegeta suggested, and she had completed her first model only a few hours before she had been abducted by Frieza, and everything that she knew had gone to hell in a hand basket.

The blaster was small and sleek, made of transparent fiberglass and polished titanium. Due to some adjustments she had to make in the internal machinery, the blaster was unconventional, and did not look like a typical gun.

The handle curved slightly around her hand, and when placed flat on a table, the shape reminded her of a glass and metal slipper. She had wanted to show it to Vegeta, but in all the action, had completely forgotten, and she stared at it now with a mixture of sadness and longing, as she tried to imagine how he would have reacted to seeing that she had managed to turn his suggestion into an actual prototype.

He would have been so proud.

She slowly placed the blaster back into the hidden drawer, knowing that it was actually a rather dangerous trinket, as she had seen the damage it could inflict, first-hand. She had tested it out on some very thick metal sheets, and the powercore had aided the blasts so that the gun had easily melted through the tough metals, and she knew that with the energy held by the weapon – a mere medicine capsule-sized chamber of the fluid – the gun would not need to have its energy cartridge replaced for a very long time.

She turned back to her current experiment, intent on working on it now, to take her mind off the bitter taste that the happy memory with Vegeta had left in her mouth.

8-8-8-8-8

She was in space. That much was clear.

However, it felt strange, as she realized that she was enclosed in a single pod that was controlled by nothing but a very small keypad with unrecognizable square-shaped symbols.

The darkness surrounding her was thick, and she could feel a dull throbbing on the side of her left arm, an inconvenient sensation that had her wanting to rip off her own limb.

Now, that right there, was an odd thought.

She reached behind her, pulling out a thick roll of paper containing diagrams written in a foreign script, and she stared at the schematics as if she could understand the letterings.

“Tch,” a very familiar voice said, the sound ringing clearly in her ears, as if the voice had come from her.

“This makes no sense,” the same voice muttered, frustrated, and Bulma felt shock enter her as she finally placed the voice.

Vegeta.

She wanted to turn, to look for him. She wanted to see him, but her body refused to follow her, only reaching up, and apparently turning on a very dull light within the space pod.

The light filled the pod, and she squinted, looking up at the thick glass window that was right in front of her.

She nearly jumped when she saw Vegeta’s face reflected back at her.

She looked down then, and she saw his very familiar hands clenching and unclenching in what she knew was his way of displaying annoyance.

It was then that Bulma understood, that she was in Vegeta’s body.

What a strange dream…

She watched his fingers reach forward, tapping on a few keys before him, before a small screen lit up, a low beeping sound filling the pod, before Nappa’s face showed up on the screen.

A communication screen.

Bulma noted that Nappa looked younger, maybe more than ten years younger than the one she met a few months ago.

“Nappa,” Vegeta said. “How is the squad? Did you bring the boy with you?”

“The squad is fine, your highness,” Nappa responded. “As for the boy, Kakarot is within the larger ship with Raditz.”

Kakarot. That was Goku.

“Good. That boy needs to be trained, Nappa. I can feel his power within him. Raw and unused. He could… he could be another Super Saiyan.”

Nappa looked shocked. “You believe so, my Prince?”

“Yes, I do. We need him to get stronger. He could be a powerful warrior, more so than Raditz and their father, Bardock, combined.”

“Raditz is a very strong fighter, your highness.”

“And Bardock, before his injury, was stronger. This boy is even stronger than that.”

Bulma listened to their exchange, realizing that this dream was about Vegeta’s time before he had been thrown into the ball.

“We will need him,” Vegeta continued, “in our rebellion against Frieza. I shall train him, myself.”

“He is but a boy, my lord,” Nappa responded.

“And I was even more of a boy when I had first been stolen by Frieza and forced to work for them, until my father retrieved me. Kakarot will be fine.”

Vegeta fidgeted then, bringing his right hand up to clutch at his left arm, and she felt him violently tug at the limb, the pain making stars flash behind her lids.

“As you see fit, my Prince”, Nappa said, nodding his head in acknowledgment.

“If I am right, and the boy does indeed ascend, then we will have two of us able to perform instant transmission. It would be a tremendous tactical advantage,” Vegeta said.

“And I am certain that he will be delighted to be trained by you,” Nappa said. “Raditz told me that the boy idolizes you tremendously. That he has said that he wishes to be just like the Prince.”

Bulma felt Vegeta smirk at that. “As he should.”

8-8-8-8-8

Bulma woke with a start, disoriented by the darkness.

As her eyes adjusted to the meager light, she realized that she was in her bedroom, lying down on her same, soft sheets, clutching her favorite pillow to her chest.

That had certainly been a strange dream.

She could still feel the throbbing in her left arm, the ache of an old injury that sometimes recurred and refused to fully heal.

“Wait a minute,” she muttered, as a very small memory surfaced.

She could distinctly remember Vegeta begin to use his right arm more and more as she watched him during his fight against Frieza.

His left arm could have had a recurring injury.

She bolted upright, unsettled.

That dream… did not feel like a dream, at all.

She immediately ran to her dresser, pulling her mobile phone out. Uncaring of the time, she scrolled down to the number of the one person she knew could help her understand what had happened.

The phone began to ring on the other end, and a few moments later, a groggy voice answered.

“Hello?” Goku greeted, voice thick with sleep.

“Goku! It’s Bulma.”

“Yeah, hi Bulma. It’s two in the mornin’,” he said.

“I know, and I’m sorry. But I need help,” she said.

Goku’s voice was more alert as he answered. “Are you in trouble?”

“Not really, but-” she cut herself off when the familiar glow of the instant transmission appeared in her bedroom once again.

“What’s up?” Goku asked as soon as he materialized into her bedroom. He was wearing a loose shirt and boxer shorts, clearly coming directly from his bed.

“Goku, I am so sorry. I just wanted to ask you…” she said, hesitating before she continued. “When you were younger, did Vegeta train you, because he thought you could be Super Saiyan?”

“Well yeah,” he answered. “He asked Nappa and Raditz to bring me with them to the outer base one day, and the next, he showed up in the training arena to train me. I was shocked.”

She felt the blood drain from her face, as Goku tilted his head, regarding her more closely.

“He… Vegeta was taken hostage by Frieza, at one point, right?” she asked shakily.

Goku nodded. “He was with them for about seven Saiyan ages – fourteen Earth years – before King Vegeta started an uprising to retrieve him. It was during that battle that the Queen Papaya was killed, and Prince Vegeta turned Super Saiyan for the first time.”

Bulma felt her hands begin to shake as disbelief filled her.

She had been right… That was not a dream.

She had seen Vegeta’s memories.

But how?

Goku stared at her in concern. “Bulma, are you alright? Haven’t you been eating again, because you are a little pale.”

Bulma looked up at the tall Saiyan, a confused grin on her lips.

“I’m fine, Goku. More than fine. I think… I think I just dreamed of Vegeta’s memories.”

Goku’s eyes went wide. “What? How? That’s impossible, ain’t it?”

“I’m pretty sure that it’s supposed to be impossible,” she confirmed. “But I am sure. I saw Nappa, and I heard them talking about you having the power to ascend.”

Goku looked baffled. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I need something from you now, Goku. I need you to talk to Uranai.”

8-8-8-8-8

A day after Bulma sent Goku off to Uranai, she began researching on the theories regarding sleep and memory transfers. As of then, it was nothing but a part of science fiction mythos, but Bulma was sure that she could find something that could help her understand just how it could have been possible for Vegeta’s memories to have manifested in her dreams.

She spent the entire afternoon reading up on various sci-fi novels and conspiracy theories, and the only thing she could come up with were a few readings about soul bonding and psychic connections, but most stories concerned subjects who were both still alive.

As the day gave way to night, Bulma was nowhere closer to finding the answer to her questions, and she went home, feeling rather dejected that her research had basically gone nowhere.

She contemplated calling Goku to ask how his trip to Uranai had gone, if his asking the old crone for her theories had been more successful than her own efforts, but she decided against it, thinking that she could just call him in the morning. It was a bit late, after all, and she didn’t want to bother his sleep twice in a row.

She went to bed then, hoping that she would dream once again of Vegeta, or that the answers to her questions would come to her in her sleep.

8-8-8-8-8

It was scorching.

Flames licked up every single inch of her skin, and she wanted to recoil from the agonizing heat of the perpetual fires that surrounded her.

However, her feet remained pinned down, and she realized that she was being held against an iron-like beam, her arms and feet bound by spiked chains around the searing barrier.

Around her were screams of agony, and she could sense the anger boiling up inside her, deep hatred for her situation blistering inside her soul as the fires torched her limbs.

The flames never left a mark, but the endless pain remained.

It was hell.

She wanted to scream, but her pride warred with her need to let her suffering be heard, and she remained silent, teeth gnashing in fury as she tried valiantly to ignore the ongoing torture.

A large blast of fire appeared beside her, clearing up to reveal the form of a large man with red skin, with horns protruding from the top of his head. He had terrifying yellow eyes with slitted black irises, a dark goatee, and he wore a large blue cloak with a long white cape.

She felt herself spit in disdain, a growl rising from her chest.

“Dabura,” she felt herself say, and Bulma was once again surprised to realize that the voice belonged to Vegeta.

She was in Vegeta’s body, once again, probably dreaming of another memory.

Vegeta’s voice had been dripping in contempt, so Bulma thought that perhaps, this was a part of his servitude under Frieza.

“Hello, your majesty,” the large, demonic man greeted sarcastically. “I do hope you are enjoying your stay.”

“Fuck you,” Vegeta hissed.

“Unfortunately for you, I do not find you attractive,” Dabura laughed. “I believe the only ones who would ever fuck you are your Saiyan courtesans, because they didn’t really have a choice, did they?”

“Tch,” Vegeta said. “I’ll have you know that I was the favorite lay of all the Saiyan courtesans.”

“And who was your favorite lay, Prince Vegeta?”

Vegeta shut his mouth, pinching his lips hard against the urge to say something caustic back.

Dabura laughed. “Oh, I had nearly forgotten. You did fall hard for that little Earthling woman, did you not?”

“You fucking leave her out of this, Dabura,” Vegeta growled.

Bulma felt his anger rising once again, and she realized that Dabura had hit a sore spot with Vegeta.

Wait… an Earthling? Vegeta had never been to Earth before he was sealed. Could this mean…

“Would you like to see her again, Prince?”

Vegeta turned his head away from Dabura, but the large devil simply floated towards him, holding out a small mirror that began to glow in his hands.

“Watch, you wretch. Watch!” Dabura leered, and Bulma saw the mirror begin to turn into a viewing screen of sorts.

She could see her bedroom, and she saw a small lump of blankets gathered into the center of her bed.

It took her less than a moment to realize that the lump was none other than her.

It was as she had been while she was still deep in her depression, a frail bundle of skin and bones that refused to get up from her bed, the worst version of herself that had been wishing for nothing but death.

It was difficult, even for her, to see.

She felt Vegeta gasp as his eyes fell on her miserable form, and she felt him clench his hands into tight fists. She felt his conflict, his wanting to look away, but being unable to tear his gaze from the sight of her in her darkest moments.

“Do you see, Vegeta? See how you have made this woman suffer?” Dabura asked, and Vegeta gulped, as she felt an onslaught of guilt and pain fill his chest, a pain that made the agony of the flames licking at his body seem dull in comparison.

“You were so selfish, Prince. If you had never tried to come back to life, this woman would still be living her wonderful life, full of energy and happiness,” Dabura whispered maliciously. “She would never have been targeted by Frieza, would never have had to suffer from her father’s trial. She would never have had to be in such pain…”

“Shut up!” Vegeta choked out. “Stop this, stop this right now!”

“Listen to her cry, Prince!” Dabura said, and all at once, Bulma heard her own voice surround them, her heart-wrenching cries of her own suffering leaving Vegeta breathless in despair and guilt.

“Vegeta… Why… Why?” she heard her voice say weakly, and Vegeta closed his eyes, willing the vision and sound of her sadness away.

“Please…” Vegeta began, and Bulma was shocked at the rawness of his voice. “Please stop. Let her just live. She… she does not deserve to be in this sort of pain. This was all because of me.”

“Well, I am glad that you at least know that, Prince,” Dabura said gleefully, removing the mirror as he began to back away from Vegeta. “Until the next time, your highness.”

With that, Dabura disappeared, leaving a despondent Vegeta to breathe heavily, fighting the despair in his heart.

Bulma could do nothing but listen to his harsh breaths, feel the heaving of his chest and the single tear that trickled down his cheek.

“Bulma,” he whispered, his voice soft, loving, reverent. “Be safe, my beloved...”

8-8-8-8-8

As she woke from the dream, Bulma bolted up, her chest heavy with Vegeta’s pained thoughts, her limbs still stinging from the fires that burned her body from the inside and out.

She had been in literal hell.

Vegeta was in hell.

And he was in extreme agony.

She stood up, pacing her room as she gathered the scattered bits of her mind to piece together all that she had learned.

Vegeta was dead, but somehow, whether he knew it or not, he was still communicating with her. Perhaps, it was the fact that their spirits had been linked for so long, that he was able to reach out to her from the afterlife.

Perhaps… if he was still linked with her…

Then maybe, she could still have him back.

She looked out the window, smiling at the rising sun, as she went to her cabinets and pulled out a pair of denim jeans and a comfortable white shirt.

She ran to the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face, then she dressed hurriedly, before she picked up her phone, and dialed.

“Hello,” the man’s voice was more alert than the last time she had called, so perhaps, he had already been awake this time.

“Goku, hi.”

“Bulma, great that you called! I found something when I went to Uranai yesterday-”

“You can tell me later. I need you to come and pick me up, now,” she said.

Goku paused. “Where are we going?”

She grinned.

“We are going to Uranai, you and I,” she said. “We are going to bring Vegeta back.”

8-8-8-8-8

To be continued…

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