#this nonsensical little thought burble pleases me

[delicateartisantrash]

"Song of War" - Poetry for Megs

Written as a poem for Megatron to claim authorship of in one of my possibly way too many stories. I'm working on a Cybertronian translation to then sing and turn it into an alien song \o/ we'll see how that turns out. If it sucks, I ain't posting it sorry XD

If you don't wanna see my poetry, my tag for it is "DatPoetryTho"

“Song of War”

Oh, the tonal Sound

that reaches ever deep;

across the mires of Death’s decay,

and through the inner guard;

I hear your call, old friend;

once more we sound the beat,

and rev the engines loud;

the chorus to your Song;

Oh, the tonal Sound

the same in victory or defeat;

the difference only stemming,

from who listens and who Sings

I hear your call, my friend;

the sound of war and grief;

and never I shall ever hear,

a Song so bittersweet.

Oh, the tonal Sound

that haunts and clings and seeps,

of Sparks' harmonics ended,

Songs of War, made from their notes.

Oh, truly am I wretched

for I love to hear the Song

that reaches ever deep;

across the mire’s of Death’s decay,

and through the inner guard.

~DelicateArtisanTrash 2024

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #3: Cider and Gold

Prompt: scale || Master Post || On AO3

So this ended up veering in a similar direction as yesterday’s fill, but ultimately I thought it made a nice contrast, and there’s always my editing phase in October if I’m not ultimately pleased with it later on.

--

Ehll Tou’s pretty bare warehouse had been transformed over the last year into a proper lair: assorted spaces for her various crafts (the kitchen very carefully built to keep it sealed from anything from her little foundry or alchemical lab), the guestrooms for her friends, storage spaces, and of course, her own personal roost. Building the walls and cupboards and tables and decorating had been such fun, but almost as fun had been trading with the residents of the Firmament: her sewn and sawed and smelted goods for pretty glass chimes to hang in her windows, or a sturdy chair for Hautdilong, or a plush embroidered pillow to add to her nest.

Truly, the best thing about being smaller and not as pointy as other adult dragons was the ability to burrow into a giant pile of pillows and blankets for a well-deserved nap and not worry about anything tearing. Such a lovely invention, the pillow.

(She wondered, sometimes, if Ratatoskr had enjoyed soft things. But neither the First Brood nor their elder children nor her sire nor her sire’s broodmates answered such questions; pillows and rugs and comforters could not withstand the passage of time like metal or stone, and if Sohr Khai had ever had tapestries as pretty as the ones that now adorned her own walls, she would never know.)

But recently, with Arvide and Synnove's help, she had partitioned off the front entrance of her warehouse into something resembling a shop front! Some Ishgardians wished to commission her, offering gil in exchange for the items she made, which was both flattering and bewildering. (Though not unwelcome; gil would make acquiring her supplies much easier, after all.)

[I am proud of my skills and crafts,] she had said, [but I am not yet a master!]

“It's the novelty, I suspect,” Synnove had said, rubbing at the ears of the carbuncle around her neck.

Arvide had nodded his agreement. “Aye, the ability to show off to that they owned something made by a dragon.”

Ehll Tou couldn’t say she didn’t understand. Dragons were as boastful of men, of course, just not of possessions. But she had agreed that if she wished to accept commissions, it would be wise to set aside a small portion of her lair’s space to meet potential clients, so that they did not intrude upon the sanctity of her workshops or nest. (Another similarity between dragons and men, though among dragons one didn’t necessarily bring a stranger to one’s lair at all, or let them within.) Arvide and Synnove had rigged a door-ringer for her that would work just as well for social guests as it would clients with a bronze bell that could be clearly heard even in the forge all the way at the back of the warehouse, and with Hautdilong, she had carefully painted a sign to put next to the door advertising when she was open and accepting work.

Today, when her cheery bell rang, Ehll Tou was in her woodworking shop (its walls and ceiling as tightly made as the kitchen’s, for the damage here could be more ruinous than spoiled food), and she looked up from planing a mahogany plank for a bookshelf ordered by Marcelloix and Audaine. She cocked her head and glanced at the chronometer on the wall, thrumming thoughtfully; no clients were due by to check their orders, and it was late enough she should consider taking down her sign and dimming the lights of her little foyer. Curious, very curious.

She set down her planer and shook the sawdust from her claws, grabbing a feather duster she kept to brush away any woodchips or shavings that stuck between her scales before she tracked them all over the rest of the warehouse. That done, she exited the woodshop and closed the door behind her, and trotted quickly down the length of the building, flapping her wings once to allow her to glide a short distance to finally reach the front. She turned the knob and stepped into the foyer-shop, a brief purr escaping her as she did; good, the new hot water pipes were doing an excellent job keeping this room as warm as the rest!

Another dozen steps to the warehouse’s front doors and she hauled one open, peering out into the evening gloom—and nearly squawked like a gull in surprise.

[Ser Aymeric, hello!] she said, pushing the door open wider. [Come in, come in, be welcome!]

“Good evening, Ehll Tou,” Synnove’s mate said, smiling, as he stepped inside. “How do fare tonight?”

[I am well, thank you,] she said, shutting the door behind him. [You’re allowed to the friends’ door at the back, you know!]

Ser Aymeric laughed softly and removed his gloves. He wasn’t dressed in his armor; today must have been a Parliament day, then. “I am aware, thank you,” he said, “though today I’m here on business rather than pleasure, and I felt it rude to use the excuse of friendship to intrude upon your valuable time.”

He had such nice manners. The moogles could stand to learn a thing or two from him, and then perhaps she would consider bending the rules for them as she was about to do for her friend’s mate now.

[Nonsense,] she snorted. [Give me a moment to the put the sign up, please; I do not have tea at the moment, but I do have a cask of apple cider.]

Once the sign had been brought inside, the doors locked, and the foyer lights dimmed, Ehll Tou led the way to the kitchen, briefly pausing to allow him to hang his coat up, and poured them both mugs of fresh cider once they were settled. There were still some cherry scones from her last baking experiment, too, that had survived Hautdilong’s taste-testing, and she plated those to offer, too.

Ser Aymeric murmured his thanks, and made similar appreciative noises as her friend had at the first bite of scone, so Ehll Tou mentally noted that recipe should be properly recorded in her “make more often” cookbook. As the elezen sipped at his cider, she crouched on the other side of the kitchen table so they were roughly at eye level.

[How may I be of assistance?] she said.

He swallowed his bite of scone—oh, they needed to bully the moogles into taking etiquette lessons from this man right now—and smiled at her. “Synnove’s nameday is coming up quite soon,” he said, “and I’d like to seek your assistance in making a gift for her.”

Ehll Tou perked up, a churr of excitement burbling in the back of her throat. She had been asked to make nameday presents for clients before, but never for a friend! [Did you have something in mind already?]

He reached into his pocket, and placed two items on the tabletop with a soft clink: two pieces of golden metal, shaped similarly to a dragon’s scales, only a little smaller than his hand. “These are two pieces of the lining on my armored surcoat,” Ser Aymeric said. “The armorers had performed some repairs, and removed these as they weren’t as sound as they should be any longer. I thought they might be repurposed into something and asked to keep them.”

She cocked her head from side to side, reaching out to delicately pick up one of the scales and hold it between her claws. She hummed thoughtfully as she examined it, twisting her hand from side to side, watching how it caught the light. It wasn’t of a material she immediately knew—she would need Arvide’s opinion, or perhaps Stephanivien’s—but it was quite pretty, and if it had once been armor-quality, it would be sturdy.

[There are a number of things that come to mind,] she said slowly, mind whirring. [Let me get my sketchbook and graphite, and let’s see what we can come up with together.]

Ser Aymeric’s smile was warm and pleased, and Ehll Tou promised to herself that she would make this one of the best nameday presents she would ever make.

(But she would make one for Synnove, too, that came from just herself. And give the Highlander a piece of her mind for not telling that her nameday was approaching!)

[fruitcoops]

Hey I was wondering if you could do mix prompts 3, for coops! Like Harry saying his first words infront of everyone and it being like “loops” or “Remus” or something cute like that. Just everyone being jealous.

This prompt is so cute, I love it! Sweater Weather credit goes to @lumosinlove!

Prompt 3: “You’d be a great dad”

Sirius buzzed with excitement as he and Remus drove the short distance to the Potters’ house—it had been three full days since he last saw Harry and the wait was killing him. Babies were terribly fragile and usually made him anxious, but there was something about cradling his tiny godson in his arms that calmed him through and through.

James and Lily’s holiday lights twinkled as they walked up the front steps, careful of the snow-covered concrete and shivering in the cold; a small sticker reading ‘baby inside—please knock gently! :)” in Lily’s swooping cursive decorated the doorbell. Moments after Remus’ knock, the door swung open.

“Hey, you two!” James grinned at them and bounced Harry on his hip as he moved aside. “You’re just in time, Lily made cocoa.”

“Oh, hell yeah,” Remus said, ducking into the warm house and toeing his shoes of.

James narrowed his eyes and smacked him on the shoulder. “Language, Loops, my kid’s first word is not going to be cursing me out.”

“With you as his father, it might be,” Sirius snorted as he joined them. “Hey, J.”

“Long time, no see, man.” Their side-hug was a little awkward with the baby, but Sirius sank into it just the same.

“It’s been six hours since practice,” Lily laughed from the doorway, poking her head out of the kitchen. “How do you two survive apart?”

“They don’t,” Remus said wryly as he hung his scarf. “Can we see Pots? What do you think Pots and Lily are up to tonight? Will Harry still be awake?”

“I don’t sound like that!” Sirius complained, making a face at him. Harry burbled and reached for him. “Bonjour, mon petit chou. Have you been good for your parents?”

Lily cocked an eyebrow and handed Remus a steaming mug of cocoa. “He threw up on me an hour ago.”

“Aw, pauvre bébé.” Harry turned his huge green eyes on Sirius, reaching for a clump of his hair with a toothless smile. “I know, my hair is so messy from my hat—ope, okay, that’s a strong grip you’ve got.”

“Ope,” James mimicked. “You’re spending too much time with Loops.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He shifted Harry to his other hip. “So, when can he have a sleepover with us?”

Lily gave him a disbelieving look. “He’s less than a year old.”

“…and? He sleeps through the night.”

“You want responsibility over a child?”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “He’s my godson, we can handle it. Right, honey?” Remus took a long sip of hot chocolate in lieu of a response. “I thought you liked kids!”

“I love kids, but that doesn’t mean I want a whole infant in our house,” Remus laughed. “We can barely take care of Hattie. Where would we even put him?”

“If you get proper stuff and both agree, you can have him for one night,” James said as they walked into the living room.

“One evening,” Lily corrected. “If that goes well, you can have him for the night when he’s a little older.”

Sirius adjusted the baby so he was perched on his lap, bouncing up and down in his reindeer footie pajamas. “Your mom and dad are so mean to me,” he sighed, tapping Harry on the nose. “Yes, they are!”

The answering string of nonsense baby babble warmed a place deep in Sirius’ heart and Remus leaned his head on his shoulder. “Hey, buddy,” he said with a bright smile. Harry giggled happily. “Yeah, hi. Are you having fun?”

“You’re getting so big! God, you’re cute.”

“C’mere, you, I need my baby snuggles.” Remus carefully took him and gave Sirius a kiss on the cheek as compensation.

“Do you have any plans for this weekend?” James asked, curling up next to Lily on the opposite couch. “We were thinking of going to the holiday market to see the lights.”

Sirius glanced at his fiancé, who was entirely absorbed in tickling the baby across his legs. “The holiday market would be a good idea, actually. Re, do we still need to pick up gifts for your parents?”

“Hmm?”

“Christmas presents for your folks.”

“Oh, yeah,” Remus looked back to James and Lily, who were watching them with fond smiles. “The holiday market sounds fun! There’s a bookstore down there that I’ve been wanting to check out.”

James shook his head. “You and your books. One of these days, Loops—”

“Loops!” The room went dead silent. Even the crackling logs in the fireplace seemed to quiet down as they all turned to look at Harry. “Loops!” he shrieked again, making grabby hands for Remus’ face. “Loops, Loops, Loops.”

“Did he just…?” James sounded like he was about to faint. “Remus, did he just say your name?”

Remus opened and closed his mouth a couple times, but no sound came out. Lily set her mug on the end table with a soft thud. “He’s never talked before. Are we sure that’s what he said?”

“It sounded like it to me.” Sirius leaned closer. “Hey, Harry, can you say ‘Loops’?”

“Loops!” Clear as day.

“Holy shit,” Remus whispered. James didn’t even correct him on his language. “He knows my name.”

“But—but aren’t babies supposed to know their parents first?” Lily twisted the end of her braid. “Did we screw up our kid?”

James sighed heavily. “Our baby likes Remus more than he likes us. Of course he does. Jesus.”

“I’m his godfather,” Sirius protested, poking Harry’s belly gently. “Hey. Baby. I’m your godfather.”

“Loops!”

Remus gave him a sly smile. “Looks like someone got dethroned.”

“You can’t dethrone a godfather!” he sputtered. “Pots, he can’t do that, can he?”

“I think he just did,” James said, resigned. “Doesn’t matter that I’m his actual father. Lils, is there more cocoa in the kitchen?”

She groaned as she stood. “I grew that baby for nine months and then pushed him out of my womb after eleven hours of labor, and he knows how to say ‘Loops’ before my name. I’m getting whiskey to go along with it.”

“Traitor.” Sirius frowned down at Harry as Lily and James left the room, but the baby just smiled at him and kicked his little feet. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“He really is,” Remus said, cuddling into his side.

“As much as I’d like it if he knew my name, it’s pretty awesome that he knows yours.”

Remus laughed. “I’m pretty sure he just knows the word, not what it means.”

“Really?” Sirius raised one eyebrow and took the baby back, turning him so they were face to face. “Okay, Harry, where’s Loops? Do you know where Loops is?”

Harry wriggled around and reached out for Remus, who lit up with joy. Sirius’ heart swelled about eight sizes. “Good job, buddy!” Remus took his hands and shook them around. “Yay!”

“You’re adorable.”

“Me or the kid?”

“Both.” Sirius kissed his forehead. “You’d be a great dad.”

“So would you.” Remus leaned up for a proper kiss that was only slightly ruined by Harry smacking him on the cheek. “Ouch. Am I not allowed to kiss your godfather anymore?”

“Shit.”

They gasped at the same time. “Oh, no.” Remus eyes went wide with horror. “Oh, Lily’s going to kill me.”

“We can’t tell them,” Sirius said instantly, checking the hallway in case the other two were lurking.

“Sirius, she is going to kill me.”

“Not if she thinks it was James. Or herself.”

“We’re threatening their marriage because I accidentally taught their baby to swear?”

“Perhaps.”                                                                                            

“I love you so much.” Remus turned back to Harry and his face became solemn. “You are not allowed to say that word until we leave, young man.”

“Loops!”

“Good job.”

Sirius settled the baby into Remus’ lap and stood, craning his neck to see into the kitchen. “Hey, guys, I think we’re going to head out soon. Hattie’s had a tummy ache since this morning and I’m a little worried about her.”

Lily frowned as she took a sip of whiskey-cocoa. “Aw, I’m sorry. Give her lots of kisses from us, okay?”

“Drive safe!” James called from out of sight. “Thanks again for stealing our child’s first word.”

“You can blame my fiancé for that one.” He gave Remus a thumbs-up as he set the baby in his playpen. They had never put on their winter clothes faster; Sirius was pretty sure his shoes were on the wrong feet, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “Bye, love you!”

“Love you t—” The door cut off the last of James’ words as they all but sprinted down the walkway, skidding on the icy sidewalk and tumbling into the car. There was a moment of silence, and then they both burst out laughing.

“Oh, my God, I taught Harry how to swear,” Remus wheezed, leaning his head back against the headrest. “And then we just ditched.”

“We’re the worst godparents ever.” Sirius thumped his forehead against the steering wheel and turned the key in the ignition. “They will never forgive us if they find out.”

“Definitely not.”

They barely reached the end of the block before Remus’ phone rang. He declined the call immediately, stuffing it into his coat pocket. Not even two seconds later, Sirius’ ringtone for James blared in the silence of the car. Slowly and deliberately, he turned it on silent and shoved it in the console. Later. They would deal with this later.

[mosylufanfic]

The Hotel Room

For the Killervibe Gift Swap, for @firesoulstuff. Behold, a fluff!

The Hotel Room

Caitlin had to pause in the hallway to gather her suitcases together, so Cisco saw the hotel room first. "Ah, Caitlin," he called over his shoulder. "I don't know how to break it to you, but - "

"What," she said warily. 

"This room only has one bed."

She came up behind him and peered over his shoulder. It was an enormous bed. A lake of a bed. A national park of a bed. It looked glorious. "Honey," she said, kissing his cheek, "we're married."

"Oh yeah! In that case, we're fine."

She snorted and nudged him out of her way as he giggled. She heaved her suitcase onto the end of the bed, unzipping it. 

He flopped sideways onto the bed, groaning in pleasure. It had been a long flight. "What're you doing?" 

"Unpacking, what else?"

"We literally just got here."

"And everything is going to get wrinkled if I don't hang it up and put it away." She narrowed her eyes at him. "You should do the same."

He waved a hand. "Later. In the meantime, you're missing out on this bed." He swept his arms and legs out like he was making a snow angel. Even with her suitcase taking up part of the real estate, the bed was big enough for him to do that.  "You see this? You see this luxury? This squishy down comforter? Mmmmmm."

"I should have packed my blacklight," she murmured. "Hotels often don't wash their blankets."

"I'm pretending I didn't hear that," he said. "C'mon. C'mere." He rolled on his side and gave her puppy eyes. "I miss my wife."

"I'm three feet away," she pointed out, but put one last pair of linen shorts into the drawer and crawled up next to him on the bed.

It was incredibly comfortable. 

She let out a sigh and snuggled into his side. "This is nice," she mumbled as his arm looped over her shoulders and pulled her close.

"Best honeymoon I've ever had already."

They'd gotten married quietly nine months before, and put off their honeymoon until now. Caitlin didn't regret that - they'd had some good reasons. But it was wonderful to be here now, snuggling with Cisco, in the sun-washed room and the cloud-soft bed.

"When was the last time we had all this peace and quiet?"

"Too long," he said. "Waaaay too long."

"Mmmm." She should take this time to relax. Maybe even nap. How long since she'd just had a good long nap?

"You're thinking about your suitcase," he murmured into her hair. 

"Just a little bit."

He sighed and shifted his arm. "Okay, go."

She gave him a quick kiss and scrambled off the bed to finish unpacking. He stretched out again, dozing, as she hung up dresses and folded shirts into the drawer set, leaving room for his clothes.

Speaking of that  . . . 

"I see you looking at my suitcase," he mumbled. 

"Your eyes are closed."

"I see it anyway. I'll unpack later."

"But -"

"And if anything is wrinkled, I'll iron it myself with my two mighty hands."

She huffed to herself, but they'd worked out the whole laundry thing when they'd first moved in together, and she really just wanted to distract herself. She drifted toward the window to study the sunny beach below. 

"That was a deep sigh," Cisco said. He'd opened his eyes and was looking at something on his phone. "Is my suitcase that obnoxious?"

"No," she said. "I have to confess something, but you'll laugh at me."

"No, I won't," he said.

She gave him a skeptical look. 

"I promise," he said, crossing his heart. "What is it?"

"I miss the baby," she whispered.

He shut his eyes tight. "Oh my god, me too." 

"Really? Are you just saying that?"

He flipped his phone around and showed her what he'd been looking at - a picture of their daughter, all big brown eyes and chubby cheeks.

Caitlin's heart went to mush in her chest, the same as it did every time she saw that little face. They'd left her at Cisco's parents' house just that morning, but knowing they wouldn't see her in person again for a week felt interminable.

He pushed himself up to a sitting position. "We can Facetime right now."

So tempting. But - "She's down for her nap, isn't she?"

He checked his screen. "It's two o'clock over there, and Little Miss Her Mother's Daughter is probably waking up right on schedule."

She hesitated, but it was true. You could practically set your watch by their daughter's wake-ups. "Okay, do it."

He called his parents, who picked up on the first ring. They chatted politely about the flight and the hotel before his mother finally said, "Ohhhh, I hear somebody awake, you want to see?"

"Yes, please!" Caitlin said, and in another moment, the screen moved into another room and showed them their daughter. 

Though she'd been born bald, at six months old, Rebecca Ramon had a head full of thick brown hair, currently rumpled and disorderly from her nap.  She was rubbing her eyes as if she'd just woken up.

"Wakey wakey," Caitlin cooed, like she did every time she went to get her daughter up from her nap.

At the sound of her mother's voice, the baby focused on the screen, let out an ear splitting squeal and reached out, squeezing the air with her little fists.

"Who's that?" Cisco said. "Is that my baby? Are you my baby? Yes, you are!"

"Are you being good for Abuela?" Caitlin said. "We miss you!"

She burbled and kicked her legs with joy.

They cooed and babbled nonsense at her until she got distracted by something. A sunbeam? A fly buzzing around her room? A mirror on the far wall? Who knew, but they were both well-versed in their daughter's microscopic attention span.

"She's going to want a snack soon, Mama," Cisco said.

"Pssssh, I'm on it, mijo. You act like I didn't raise you." His mother propped the phone on the bedside table and scooped Rebecca up from her crib. "Ven a comer, mija," she said, lavishing kisses that made the baby wiggle and giggle. "Quieres banana?" She picked up Rebecca's hand and waved it at the screen. "Say bye bye, mija! Say bye bye!"

"Goodbye, we love you, be good!"

His dad picked up the phone then, but just to say goodbye, because the game was about to be on. They said their goodbyes and ended the call.

Caitlin let out a sigh. 

"Yeah," Cisco said. "I feel better too."

"I actually feel a little guilty about leaving her for a week," Caitlin admitted. 

"Yeah, we're the worst parents ever, leaving her to get spoiled rotten by her nana and tata for seven whole days," he said, looping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. 

She elbowed him. "I just - we've never left her this long before."

"I know, I know. But she'll be fine, and they'll be fine. And we'll be extremely fine after a week of sun and sand and relaxing, right?"

That was a good point. She relaxed into him. "We will."

They sat like that for a few minutes, then he let out a sigh. "Guess I'd better get unpacked though." He let go of her and started to get up.

She grabbed his shirt to stop him. "I think that can wait."

He eyed her. "Really? Who are you and what have you done with my wife?"

She cocked her head, smiling up at him. "It's just I thought of something else we haven't done in awhile."

The smile started at the edges of his mouth and spread over his face. "Oh, yeah? What's that?"

She tugged at his shirt, and he obediently dropped back onto the bed. She leaned over him and pressed a kiss to his mouth.  "Guess."

FINIS

[the--highlanders]

Birdlike

The Doctor is stuck typing up notes. Jamie keeps him company.

on ao3.

If he closed his eyes and thought about it – really thought about it, deliberately, like he was trying to pull it into being in front of him – then he could believe he was somewhere else entirely. Alone, or very nearly, sat on a rock by the river, the sort of place where the water split around old stones and new trees. Each little stream taking its own path as it burbled and sloshed its way downhill. The feeling of the rock beneath his fingers was not so clear as the sound of water, but he could remember it well enough, bumps and pits smoothed over after a thousand years of rainfall, splodged here and there with lichen like some painter had taken a brush to it. And there was a bird, not too far away, pecking at the rock. Tap tap tap and then a pause as it tilted its head to consider whatever fragment of seed or berry it was struggling to pick up. Tap tap tap – pause. A curious little crow, or something very like it.

And then something whistled past overhead, something too loud and harsh and mechanical to be passed off as the wind, and the image was shattered. Sighing, he opened his eyes.

It was not a bad view, he supposed. The window was half-open, letting in that sound of running water – though he was not sat on a quiet Highland riverbank. Instead he was sprawled across a bed on his stomach, ten floors up in a two-room apartment on an alien planet. A noisy room, the people here called it, for being right by the aqueduct that kept the city supplied with water. They were not so keen on the noise. He didn’t mind it, himself. It reminded him a little of Edinburgh, or what little time he had spent there, and the constant white noise that filled the place. There it had been the bustle of the city, here it was running water. He had liked Edinburgh. He might have liked Glasgow, too, if they had been given a warmer reception there. But he had missed that riverbank.

He missed it still, and the little house he would walk there from. This apartment was surely half the size of the house, though it felt twice as large. Maybe because there were only half as many people in it. And he was perfectly happy to lounge about watching the place’s other inhabitant.

Tap tap tap – pause. A curious little bird, pecking away at something, just as in Jamie’s imagination. But this little bird was pecking at a keyboard, not a scrap of food, and he was rather more human-shaped than most birds. The Doctor was hunched over the desk crammed into the corner of the room, laboriously typing away. Occasionally he paused to turn a page of the book he was reading from, or let out a disgruntled grumble, but he would always be back at it soon enough. Tap tap tap – pause, tap tap tap – pause, over and over again. Jamie knew perfectly well that he could type no faster himself, but something about the way the Doctor did it still seemed agonisingly slow.

Still, that just bought him more time to lie there and watch. The Doctor’s tongue was caught between his teeth, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Tap tap tap – pause, and then a longer pause this time, a sigh and a frantic bashing of one of the keys. Slowly but surely, half a line of text disappeared from the screen in front of him. Slumping back in his chair, the Doctor sighed again. “Quite why I can’t write this by hand, I don’t know,” he mumbled to himself, his voice too full of weariness to hold any real frustration. “They will insist on putting things through the system. If they want an official record of it -” He tapped at the book. “It’s all here.”

It was always hard to tell, Jamie thought, whether the Doctor was wanting a reply, or just chattering away to himself. It was usually safest to assume the latter. This time, though, he took a gamble on the former. “Why don’t ye take a break? They dinnae need it that soon.”

“Oh, I suppose so.” Throwing his arms up over his head, the Doctor rolled his shoulders and let out a long, deep breath. “But there’s only a few pages to go.”

He made no attempt to get out of his chair, and Jamie plonked his chin down onto the bed. Plans foiled, then. He had hoped that the Doctor might spend a little longer away from the book – that he might come and sit beside him, perhaps, or even just talk. In the depths of his wildest imagination, he had wondered if he might even have stood up and suggested that they leave the room altogether. But no such luck. “I’d offer tae help,” he said. “Only I dinnae think I’d do a good job.” He had done a little, early in the morning. It had taken him half an hour to get through one page – and it had taken the Doctor an hour to nitpick at everything he had written.

“Oh, nonsense.” The Doctor waved one hand dismissively. “You did a perfectly fine job.” Jamie snorted. “But I won’t bore you with it.” He tilted his head back, frowning when he saw Jamie lying on the bed. “Ah – what are you looking at?”

“Bit obvious, don’t ye think?” Heaving himself away from the blankets with a huff, Jamie propped himself up on his forearms. “I’m lookin’ at you.”

“Oh.” The Doctor glanced away again, looking for a moment as if he were about to go back to his typing, then swung his chair around to face Jamie fully. “You could get yourself a book, you know. Even go outside, if you wanted. I don’t mind.”

“I dinnae want tae leave ye here on your own,” Jamie protested. Silly thing to say, he scolded himself. Now it sounded like he didn’t trust the Doctor to mind himself without burning the building down. Not that he did trust the Doctor to keep out of trouble on his own, mind. Experience had taught him not to leave the Doctor alone for too long, or he was liable to go wandering off, no matter how many warnings he gave everyone else about staying put. But it was not what he had meant in that moment. “I like lookin’ at ye,” he added a little weakly.

A brief smile crossed the Doctor’s face, almost teasing, like he had been going to prod at Jamie a little but had decided against it. “Do you, now?” he said, eyes glinting – but with curiosity, it seemed, not mirth. “Why would you like a thing like that, hm?”

Jamie shrugged. “I’m in love with ye,” was all he said. He had said it often enough, over the past few weeks. Maybe too often, though the Doctor was kind enough that he never seemed to mind. But he had not said it so often that it had stopped sending a little thrill through him, like it was still something forbidden. He was breaking some sort of rule, surely, to be able to say it whenever he wanted, and have the Doctor’s cheeks dust themselves with orange, to have him open and close his mouth twice before he replied.

“You don’t have to say it,” he said at last, almost under his breath. “I do, ah – I do know.”

“Ye dinnae want me tae say it?”

“No!” The word came out rather forcefully, and the Doctor cleared his throat before carrying on. “Ah – if you want to say it, then please do continue saying it, Jamie. I certainly don’t have any qualms about it. But, ah – if you’re concerned I don’t know -”

“I’m no’,” Jamie interrupted. “I know ye know. I just like sayin’ it, that’s all.”

“Well, I’m – rather glad.” Leaning forward, the Doctor reached over to squeeze one of Jamie’s hands. For a brief, hopeful minute, Jamie wondered if he really was about to say oh, what’s the use, it can wait, set the thing aside and amble over and settle down on the bed. But that was wishful thinking, he knew, and sure enough the Doctor spun his chair back around to face the computer. “I won’t be long,” he said. “Just a few more pages. And then we can go out and explore the city, mm?”

“Aye, I’d like that.”

“Good.” Tap tap tap – pause. “Jamie?”

“Hm?”

“I, ah -” Another pause, but no tapping. The Doctor hung his head, like his expression was not already hidden. “I’m in love with you too, you know.” The words tumbled out all slurred together, half-muffled by being spoken into the desk, but they were clear enough to set Jamie’s heart pounding again.

“Aye,” he said. “I know.”

“Yes, well.” A shuffling of keyboard and book and mouse, like the Doctor did not quite know what to do with his hands. “Good.”

Still smiling to himself, Jamie rolled over onto his side, curling up with his knees almost against his chest. “I’m gonnae rest for a wee while, then.”

His eyes were already closed, but he knew from the creaking of the chair that the Doctor had turned around again. “You could sleep under the blankets, you know.”

“’m alright like this. I’m not gonnae sleep, anyway.”

“If you say so.”

There was quiet again, save for the water rushing past their window. It was a little faster now, the water maybe running a bit higher than it had been before. Like the riverbank after rain. The image was coming back to him. More water, tumbling faster, picking up gravel and small pebbles as it went, carrying them on further downstream. The rock beneath him was slick with water now, and he had picked his way over to it carefully from the muddy, footstep-worn path. But he was here, settled down securely, knees drawn up in front of him and arms hugged around them. Just looking out over the water, watching it flow by. The sky was still overcast, but the clouds were lightening and turning fluffy, a few weak patches of sunlight beginning to break through. And then there was a bird, sitting a little way away, pecking around for any scraps the rain had left behind.

It stopped, lifting its head to look at him. Something brushed over his hair, too firm in its touch to be the wind, but too light to entirely break him out of his imagination. “Sweet dreams, Jamie,” someone murmured. A moment of silence. Then – tap tap tap – pause, tap tap tap – pause, over and over again, the old familiar sound.

[whumpywhumper]

Friends

I needed to release some comfort into the world. This skips some of the Hospital Arc, but the pieces will be connected. 

Masterpost

@misspelledwitch @insanitywishes @imagination1reality0 @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @voidwhump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi  @captivity-whump @liliability @muumimafia @fanastywhump @elisabethrosewrites @unsure-but-alive-752 @jeverest00 @texdoeshalo @fanmanga1357-blog

Thank you guys so much for your support, putting up with my questions at weird hours, and being excited about my characters: @0idril0 @rosesareviolentlyread @walkingchemicalfire

TW: Intubated whumpee

V***V

Markus isn’t quite sure when he wakes up the first time. Isn’t actually sure if he’s even really conscious. He’s aware, but the world is muted. It feels like early color TV, the hues not quite right and turning into an oversaturated mess the more he tries to force it. So he doesn’t, he stops struggling, just lets everything come back in stages.    

His hearing comes back online first.

He hears the steady whoosh, gurgle, and hiss of medical equipment. The occasional urgent toned beep of a IV drip. The soft rustling and hushed voices of people doing their best to be quiet while shoving all of their worry and care into a box.

It’s all muffled and distorted through the cocktail of heady drugs in his system. The sounds swirl, clinging too long to his eardrums before slipping away to nothing. It’s disorienting, confusing, and he welcomes each wave of quiet that surges up to take away the noise.  

There’s a growing anxiety that’s sitting heavily in his chest, but it’s not quite reaching him. Leaving him to teeter on the edge, giving him a hard place to fall with any gentle nudge.

Time flows syrupy slow, and it feels like he fades down back toward unconsciousness and up again before anything else becomes relevant. But, eventually, he becomes aware of his body too. He’s numb in the way that means that he’s on the heavy duty kind of drugs, administered correctly so that his pain is far away. Like the anxiety, the fear, the pain is just waiting on him to acknowledge it so that it can take over.

So.

He does his best to ignore it. To float in this absence of pain.

It’s better.

He doesn’t want to think about better than what, he just knows that it’s better.

So he focuses on anything other than the pain. He’s sunk into the softness of the mattress beneath him. The slightly harder cushion of pillows under his side and shoulder. The rhythmic compression and release around his lower legs, the not-painful pressure almost comforting, so much like a kind touch that he hasn’t had in what feels like years.

He almost feels cradled—safe—as something clicks on and warm air curls around his limbs and envelops him. He floats there, up and down, darkness closing over his head in staggering intervals as his body fights its way through the sedation.

It’s quiet, peaceful, for a while, real, deep sleep engulfing him and blotting out the awareness that his body has painstakingly been building up.

He wakes up again, not knowing how long has passed, not really remembering being awake at all. The world is still soft and liquid, slipping through his fingers faster the harder he tries to hold on to it, so he lets it go. Soaks in the myriad of conflicting and confusing sensations.

Time is skewed, but Markus is just starting to struggle with the thinning line between the numbness of his body and the morass of pain when the quiet clack of a curtain moving disturbs the quiet, the heavier tread of boots on hospital tile joining with the hiss-thunk of one of the machines. The sounds swirl around him, swimming up and burbling through thick water.

There’s a lingering silence as Markus feels the weight of this new person’s gaze on his lax limbs. An instinctive fear of the unknown bubbles up in his chest, and suddenly, he feels exposed. Vulnerable. At the mercy of a stranger when he doesn’t remember what mercy is anymore.

Viscerally, his body recalls harsh hands that pushed and pulled at his defenseless body. Hurt him, took advantage of his weakness, callously disregarded him as anything other than an inconvenience.  

The silence lasts until there’s a heavy sigh, and the clatter of metal and plastic on tile. The blankets shift, and there’s pressure around his hand, the artificial, sticky feeling of latex that manipulates his limp fingers.  

He gets nothing from that pressure other than the sensation of another person touching him without his permission. Desperately, Markus wants the simple comfort of someone holding his hand, that yearning striking a cord deep down, buried under the lingering fear and terror, reminding him of safety and home. But this touch is nothing but latex and a firmly artificial barrier between him and whatever supernatural sense he could gather of this person, leaving him with nothing other than the primal desire to curl into and away from the touch at the same time.

But.

It doesn’t matter what he wants. He’s still far from being able to move, even if he wanted to. Divorced from his flesh, only able to suffer and exist inside of it.

His soul cries out for safety, for someone, anyone, to hear him and take him home.

Something tickles the side of his face, and the person next to him shifts, another latex soft touch brushing over his cheek bone, feeling wet and cold.  His hair is gently stroked, and the touch settles over the top of his head. The pressure around his hand tightens briefly, “Markus? Can you hear me, sugar?”

The voice registers, but it’s muffled, the words whisked away just as he’s comprehending them. The sound and the touch though anchor him out of the soupy mire his consciousness has become, but he can’t really respond, doesn’t want to respond. The person doesn’t push, just hums, shushing him nonsensically.

“Alright, sugar, alright,” the low voice rumbles, the words coming tentative and slow, “I know you’re still sleepin’, but David told me that you were tolerating the lowered sedation this time. That maybe a little more of what we’re sayin’ will start stickin’ with ya.” Soft, soothing patterns are drawn into the cold skin at the back of his hand. “Catrina told me not to, uh. . . not to overwhelm you, not to talk about any heavy stuff, just to try and get you to respond, ya know?” A thick, huffed laugh. “She’s kinda terrifying, doesn’t put up with any a’ us trying to bully her for information. So, I’m. . . I’m just gonna hold your hand, and you squeeze when you’re ready, okay?”  

The man clears his throat roughly, and the pressure around his hand leaves for the rasp of what sounds like days old stubble, and Markus feels an unexpected, surprising burst of warm affection.  An absent thought tiptoed its way across his muzzy consciousness, there and gone moments later: Clint never did like to cry.

The voice—god, it’s familiar, so fucking familiar—quiets for a while, and Markus is so exhausted. He drifts, pulled down by growing fatigue and thickening tendrils of pain. Maybe he slips down into actual sleep again, but the next time he’s aware there’s another voice filling the room.

“—seems kind of distressed.”

“Yeah, I hit the call button just before you came in, Catrina should be here in a second.”

“Good, good, he probably just needs them to check his drip, maybe increase it a little. It’s not easy to titrate these meds.”

He’s too confused, overwhelmed to realize how tense he’s become, to feel the way that his brows have gathered together, the way the muscles in his arms and torso have tightened, or the way that his lungs have started to fight against the tube in his throat.

His chest and throat are sending him urgent messages that there’s something wrong, the intrusion of something hard and unyielding that isn’t supposed to be there making him move automatically. Clumsily, he reaches for whatever is making him hurt, uncoordinated limbs heavy and unwieldy.

“Woah, hey, heyheyhey—” he’s intercepted, and Markus flinches from the gentle restraints as they pull his hands away , “—don’t do that, sugar.”

“Markus, can you hear me, buddy?” The pressure around his hand tightens, cold latex rubbing over his knuckles. “Can you squeeze my hand if you can hear me?”

Reflexively, he tries to pull away from the restraints, ignoring the request as his heart gives a discordant thump at the whistle of anxiety thrumming through his chest. He stiffens at the brief flash of real pain through his system, muscles protesting as he begs silently for release. Please, please no. He can’t stand the thought of being held down again, being helpless. But even that small of a movement seems to push concrete through his veins, and he doesn’t know if it’s the fatigue weighing him down or the way the others slowly, gently push his hands back to bed that has him settling.

“Shhh, okay, okay,” his shoulder is engulfed by a soft touch, the deeper voice continuing to soothe him, “you’re okay. Markus, can you open your eyes? It’s Evan and Clint, we’d really like to see you, yeah?”

Clint? Evan? It can’t be. . . He wants to see his friends so badly it hurts, even worse than the building ache in his body, but his eyelids must weigh a hundred pounds. He feels the build up of tears behind his eyelids, the heavy droplets slipping free without permission. Please, please be here. . .

“Fuck, Markus,” one of the voices whispers, cracking over his name, a sniffle accompanying it, “Clint, where’s Catrina? I think he’s hurting pretty bad.”

“I’m gonna go see if I can find her, maybe Olivia’s available. I’ll be right back.” There’s the rush of displaced air, sudden coolness of his skin, but Markus’s weak attention is drawn back by the other’s calming voice.

“Okay, buddy, we’re gonna get you taken care of, alright? It’s Evan, Markus, I’m not going to let anything happen to you, okay? I promise.”

Markus wanted to sob. He wanted it to actually be his friend so, so much, he remembered how he’d prayed for his friends but they’d never come. His face creased as a wave of pain rolled through him, teeth clamping down around whatever was in his throat. He heard a muted curse, “Fuck this.”

There was the snap of latex, warmth cupping his cheek, and then the overwhelming sense of Evan had Markus drawing from some reserve of energy that he didn’t even know he had. He turned into the palm against his face, fighting his eyelids until they lifted, light and shapes crossing his vision in a blur, and he heard a wet gasp. “Oh my god, hey,” a calloused thumb swiped over the apple of his cheek, smearing the tears across his skin, “hey, buddy, I’m here, you’re safe, okay?”

He blinked sluggishly, taking too long to reopen his eyes, but he finally found a modicum of focus as he took in the image of one of his best friends. He was still blurred, but the salt and pepper of Evan’s hair was visible over the blue of the mask covering the lower half of his face. He didn’t need to make out the details to know his friend now anyway, the skin contact lighting up parts of his magic not used in months. It was enough to push the pain back momentarily, dulling to a hum rather than a roar.

Evan’s other hand closed back around Markus’s, squeezing gently. “Can you understand me, Markus? Squeeze my hand if you can understand me.”

Slowly, his fingers closed around Evan’s, and he heard his friend give a shuddering gasp as Markus blinked slowly again. There was a rush of movement behind Evan, and the other man turned slightly. “He’s conscious and responsive.”

A startled exclamation, and another broad shouldered figure appeared in front of him, leaning over him. Markus drug his glassy stare over, not quite focusing as even these little movements drained whatever energy he’d gathered. “Hey, hey, sugar,” his free hand was scooped up between two latex covered paws, “God, it’s good to see you awake.”

“Take your gloves off,” Evan ordered, “skin contact seems to help. His vitals dropped back down, too.”

The figure did as he was bid, and Markus shuddered, eyelids dropping as relief and the safety of Clint flooded through him.  “Fuck,” Clint whispered, voice broken. As well as he could, Markus drifted his thumb across Clint’s hand, and heard a startled exhale that turned into a shaky, surprised laugh. The relieved joy of his friends was bright, buoying him in reality as it curled up in his chest.

Even with the safety of both of his friends surrounding him, the pain came back with a crescendoing wave. He tensed again, eyebrows pulling together as he shifted minutely. God, my chest hurts, it hurts. A few more tears slipped free, and he tugged weakly at Evan’s hand.

“You hurting, buddy?” He squeezed Evan’s hand, and he heard the entire room shift as Evan gave some sort of signal.

“And that’s where I come in,” a friendly, warm voice interjected, coming closer as Clint released his hand. The impersonal feeling of latex took his friend’s place, and Markus was terrified again. Clint, please don’t let him, please. There was a starburst of panic, and Evan hissed in surprise. The beast master’s hand snapped from Markus’s face in time with a sound of alarm from the faceless entity as the latex was pulled away.

“Sorry, doc,” Evan chuckled lowly, “if you’d felt what I just did, you woulda done the same. Gloves, you’ll understand in a second, trust me.”

There was another snap of latex, and a new, slightly cool hand slid into his own. The sense of deep caring and logic accompanied the doctor’s surprised inhale. “HooKay, that’s new.”

Markus relaxed slowly as he felt the other man’s alarm turn into curiosity and concern, but nothing malicious, as Evan explained. “His magic’s coming back. He’s always been extremely empathic, normally has great control of what you sense from him, but in this circumstance. . .” he trailed off with a sigh, bringing his hand back to brush through Markus’s hair.

“Alright then, no more gloves if we can help it,”  the other man’s friendly voice turned back to Markus, taking the news in stride. “Markus, can you open your eyes for me?” His tone was authoritative, but gentle, and Markus did his best to obey as a thumb dragged across his skin.

He only saw a bright sliver of light before his heavy lids became too much. Instead, Markus managed to tighten his hand minutely. That was easier for some reason, he didn’t have to try and make sense of the room, could focus on the safety net Evan provided. His friend hadn’t let go of his hand, the warmth of Evan’s skin warming Markus’s even with his poor circulation.

“Okay, Markus, I understand. Can you squeeze my hand again if you’re in pain?”

His fingers twitched, but Markus’s brain was becoming fuzzy on stress hormones, mired in the negative sensations. His lungs felt sticky, like his heart was turning over in his chest. “Okay, yeah, that heart rate is getting elevated again,” the voice was distant in a way that told him he wasn’t being addressed, “Catrina, let's give him one time dose of 50 mcg fentanyl, intravenous, and he can have an as needed dose of 25mcg every hour, if that’s not enough call me. Monitor for how he continues to tolerate the vent.” The voice came back to address him, “Markus, hang on just a second, okay?”

Evan’s hand swept down to drag the back of his knuckles across the side of his face, the touch exactly what he’d been begging for for months. “Go back to sleep, buddy, we’ll be here when you wake up again.”

“You’re not alone anymore, brother.” Clint’s voice trickled in as a wash of cold flowed over his chest, black swallowing up his lingering consciousness. “I promise.”

[mengyan]

Omg hey! I’m so exited to read the Valentine’s Day collab!! I love love loooove your writing so much!! So anyway I wrote my first Carulia fanfic and I just wanted to ask you what you think of this small bit? If it’s bad please tell me-I wanna improve🥺

If you don’t wanna critique it I totally get it, it is kind of long.

..

Julia POV

Warm rays of sunshine brushed Julia’s freckled cheeks, making up for the bite of frost in the air. The sky was a cheerful blue today, reflecting her mood. She was sitting at a street corner, admiring the view of quaint little shops that resembled the cutesy designs of dollhouses.

Saturday morning chatter rung in her ears in soft, eloquent words of French that were so different from the English required for her job. A frenzy of Bonjour’s (hello/good morning) and Comment allez vous? (How are you doing?) could be heard from across the street.

It was good to be home, to have a day off to enjoy the beauty she had forgotten Poiters possessed. As an avid traveller, there was nowhere quite like the city. Nothing could match it’s charming, Romanesque buildings or tranquil solitude.

Julia smiled at nothing in particular, a flaky, warm croissant in one hand and a timeless romance novel in the other.

How long had it been since she had gotten to relax like this? To enjoy the nature of her city and not have to chase a certain red rogue across the globe? The very same red rogue she struggled to protect from her coworkers?

A sigh escaped her lips. Suddenly her mind wandered to someone she hadn’t wanted to think about: Carmen Sandiego. The thief never ceased to plague her thoughts lately. A warm blush tinted her cheeks as she recalled the kiss they had shared in Cairo, Egypt. There was a sort of thrill in knowing it was so, so wrong, and Julia hated the adrenaline rush it gave her.

Their last interaction had been a week ago, and it had been on an ACME mission rather than the late night visits the thief had begun to pay her. The absence of the red rogue pained her terribly. She missed Carmen. She missed everything about her from her cunning gray eyes to her knowing smile, the light rasp to her voice, and the feel of her lips. She had barely gotten to see the lady in red recently.

Would this be what a relationship with the woman would entail? Random visits sprinkled through the weeks while Carmen gallivanted around the globe and Julia had to pretend she wanted her behind bars? Would she be doomed to live with this uncertainty, this emptiness?

At her inner turmoil, the thief seemed to appear before her with her signature smirk, the curl of her lips forever ingrained in Julia’s memory. Hallucination-Carmen spoke, reciting the promise she had made her not too long ago. “We can have a normal relationship, Jules. We’ll be able to see each other everyday, go on dates, do all of that couple-y stuff. I promise.”

Julia had scoffed at that, of course. Maybe in another world where she wasn’t dating a thief, for goodness sakes. But still she wished there was some way the red rogue could fulfill her promise. Julia knew that what Carmen was doing was absolutely important but....she couldn’t help but be selfish and wish she had her to herself.

On top of that, though, there was the fear that whatever was happening between the two was nothing but physical on Carmen’s end, that this...fling...would be over in a heartbeat and the red rogue would once again disappear with Julia’s heart, only this time she wouldn’t return.

She didn’t want fo think about that.

Trying to take her mind off her worries, Julia reopened her book. The petite woman frowned, nibbling on the last of her pastry and lazily scanning the page for anything interesting. It was one of her favorites, yet she couldn’t bring herself to relax, to forget.

Sighing, she closed the book with a sense of finality, tucking it safely in her messenger bag. It was no use. Nothing could keep Julia’s attention from Carmen for long.

“Partir déjà?” Said Nadia, Julia’s friend and the cashier. The woman adjusted the side of her hijab before opening the cash register. “Habituellement, vous passez toute la matinée ici lorsque vous êtes absent.”

TRANSLATION: “Leaving Already?.....Usually you spend the entire morning here when you’re off.”

Julia smiled sadly. “Quelque chose me vient à l'esprit ces derniers temps, Je ne peux pas me détendre.”

TRANSLATION: “Something has been on my mind lately. I can’t relax.”

Nadia smirked knowingly. “Querelle d'amant?“

TRANSLATION: “Lover’s Quarrel?“

Julia felt her cheeks heat up. Nadia was one of the few people who even knew she was seeing someone, let alone the fact that that someone was a thief. “Entre autres, oui. Il s’agit plus de mon travail.“

TRANSLATION: “Among other things, yes. It’s more about my job.“

Nadia shook her head, making a tut sound. “Tu travailles trop dur.“ She inserted her credit card into the register, swiping twice before the transaction was complete. “Vous savez, les filles et moi allons au Buckingham Club ce soir. Tu devrais venir. Je parie que cela vous fera oublier ... quel est son nom? Carolyn?“

TRANSLATION: You work too hard....You know, the girls and I are hitting the Buckingham Club tonight. You should come. I bet that’ll take your mind off of...what’s her name? Carolyn?“

“Carmen.“ Julia corrected with a smile. “Et Je ne sais pas, pas ce soir. je n'en ai pas vraiment envie.”

TRANSLATION: “Carmen....I don’t know, not tonight. I don’t really feel like it.”

“ S'il vous plaît? Ce sera amusant!?” Nadia replied, making an exaggerated pouty face.

TRANSLATION: “Please? It’ll be fun!”

“Je ne devrais vraiment pas.....”

TRANSLATION: “I really shouldn’t...”

The cashier shook her head, pressing her lips into a thin line. “Oh, Julia, tu es toujours aussi ennuyeuse.”

TRANSLATION: “Oh, Julia, you’re always such a bore.”

Jules simply smiled in response, pushing the rim of her glasses up her nose. “Peut-être la prochaine fois, Nadia.”

TRANSLATION: “Maybe next time, Nadia.”

She said her goodbyes and left the small cafe, the little bell at the door signaling her departure. The cool, crisp air met Julia immediately, the frost already kissing her skin. She turned the corner, making a beeline for her apartment complex when suddenly, a certain beeping sound caught her attention.

A very familiar beeping sound.

She threw a discreet glance over her shoulder before darting into the nearest alleyway, ducking behind the nearest dumpster before removing her pen from her pocket.

Julia clicked the cap, tossing it to the ground as she wrinkled her nose at the stench.

“Agent Argent.“ Chief’s no-nonsense voice came as her hologram blossomed. “I have a new mi-“ She paused, taking in Julia’s location.

“Are you behind a dumpster, Agent?“

Julia felt her cheeks heat slightly “I was in public and had to be...creative...“ She replied curtly, breathing through her mouth.

“Right....anyhoo,“ Chief began again, adjusting her blazer. “I’ve got on assignment for you. I’m sorry to interupt your time off, but you’re the closest agent in proximity.“

Julia smiled sadly, scratching her wrist. “It’s alright, chief. I was feeling restless anyway.“

Chief cocked her head in mild concern. “I’m sorry to hear that, Argent. It’s nothing too serious, but we have reports of some meddling with the security systems at the Louvre. I need you to investigate.“

“Of course. Will Agent Zari or Devineaux be accompanying me?“ She asked, already picturing the splendor at the Louvre. Maybe a trip to the museum was just what she needed today.

“No. Zari and Devineaux are on a case in Santo Domingo.“ Chief said, beginning to pace the length of the alleyway.

“Khadija or Jonas, then?“ Julia replied, referencing two agents she’d been paired with in the past, albeit less frequently than Chase or Zari.

“You’ll be going it alone today. Intel indicates that Carmen Sandiego won’t be present. I trust you can handle a routine check up.”

“I’ll take care of it, chief.“ She answered, giving a small salute to her superior. Internally, Julia released a sigh of relief that she wouldn’t have to tail Carmen.

“Good. Transportation has already been arranged and the details should be on your phone.“ Chief said, crossing her arms. Almost simultaneously, her phone pinged with an encrypted email from ACME.

“Don’t disapoint me, Agent.“ With a terse nod, the hologram disappeared from before her.

Quickly, she darted home and changed into her ACME-issued suit before making her way to the train station. Paris was waiting, after all.

...

No matter how many times she frequented the city, Paris never ceased to amaze Julia with a million new places she hadn’t visited yet. The Louvre, however, was an outlier to the fact. It was Julia’s favorite spot to hit whenever she was in the area.

It had been One-Thirty when her train had pulled into the Paris Saint Lazare, a station settled on the right bank of the Seine and the one closest in proximity to her destination.

The Louvre lay before her in all its grandiose splendor, afternoon sunlight glinting off of the crystal pyramid and casting a rainbow into the burbling fountain before it. The Famed palace of the same name was set on either sides of it, the tasteful renaissance era architecture transporting her into another time.

Julia smiled. She knew every corner of the museum. Every nook and crany was immortalized in her mind from it’s renowned Petite Galerie to it’s extended Egyptian exhibit.

She removed her ACME card from her messenger bag, thumbing it’s side to allow her interpol credentials before going to speak with the security

As promised, a staff member was waiting for her once she got inside.

“Bonjour. Julia Argent, Interpol Britain?“ A tall, skinny man with hooded blue eyes and unkempt blonde hair stepped forward.

“Oui.“ She replied, flashing her badge. “Marcel Cardone?“

“Oui, correct.“ He answered in a thick French accent. “Thank you for coming.“ He said, gesturing for her to walk with him.

Julia smiled. “Bien sûr. J'ai été informé mes supérieurs de la mission. Pouvez-vous me dire quel semble être exactement le problème?“

TRANSLATION: “Of course. I was briefed by my superiors on the mission. Can you tell me what exactly seems to be the problem?“

Marcel spoke as he led her through the halls of the grand building. “Do not worry, I am fluent in English. I do not know the details but the head of security will inform you on the matter.“

“Sounds good,“ Julia said reverting back to English. Her guide stopped at a door with la sécurité (security) written in bold script.

“This is it, mademoiselle.“ Marcel said, opening the door and leading her to the back. Standing before her was another door. Probably to an office, Julia guessed. “Monsieur Toussaint? L'agent d'Interpol est arrivé.“

TRANSLATION: “Mr.Toussaint? The interpol agent has arrived.“

A tall, stocky man with brown skin glanced up, adjusting his glasses. “L'agent? Miss, le problème s'est corrigé juste avant votre arrivée.”

TRANSLATION: “The Agent? Miss, the issue corrected itself just before you arrived.”

“Il n'y a donc rien de mal avec la sécurité?” Julia asked, confused.

TRANSLATION: “So is there nothing wrong with the security?“

“Plus maintenant, non...” Mr.Toussaint answered, scrutinizing her.

TRANSLATION. “Not anymore, no.”

“Mais je suis venu tout ce chemin...” She answered, slightly disappointed.

TRANSLATION: “But I came all this way....”

The man scratched the side of his head in mild concern. “Nous sommes désolés, mademoiselle. Perhaps you would like a tour of the Louvre in compensation?”

TRANSLATION: “We are sorry, Miss. Perhaps you would like a tour of the Louvre in compensation?”

“No, it’s quite alright, thank you.” Julia murmured, tugging at the hem of sleeve.

“Please accept. Nous allons même le rendre gratuit!”

TRANSLATION: Please accept. We will even make it free!”

“If you insist.” Julia smiled awkwardly.

“Good.” Mr.Toussaint lifted the phone on his desk, dialing as he spoke. “Cheryl? Préparez-vous à faire une visite. Oui. Rencontrez-la près des statues.”

TRANSLATION. “Cheryl? Prepare to give a tour. Yes. Meet her by the statues.”

The balding man put the phone down, swiping through the many papers scattered on his desk. “Our tour guide, Cheryl, will meet you out by our Sculpture Department. Please enjoy your day.”

They exchanged goodbyes and thank-yous before Mr. Toussaint returned to the millions of files on his desk and Julia to the swarming museum crowds.

Deftly, Julia navigated the throngs of people, making her way to the modern sculpture exhibit. As promised a woman was waiting before the exhibit checking her watch.

Her dark red-brunette hair was pulled into a pony-tail, and a pair of green khakis and a blue blouse contrasting against her flawless brown skin. From the back of her head, Julia could see a thick pair of glasses settling at the rim of her nose.

She seemed familiar, so very familiar....

And then she spoke. “Enjoying the view, Jules?”

The light rasp, the sultry tone of voice...

The petite woman gasped. “Carmen?”

“Surprise.” The thief said with a smirk.

“What’re you doing here?!” Julia asked, confused. Was Carmen behind the security issue already being solved before she arrived?

“You must have mistaken me for someone else,” The Red Rogue grinned coyly, reaching over gracefully and slipping her fingers between Julia’s. “I’m just Cheryl Vasquez, foreign exchange student and Louvre Tour guide.”

“Of course.” Julia scoffed but played along. “And what would Cheryl Vasquez be doing touring the Louvre?”

“If you’re asking whether I’m here to stop VILE, then no. They aren’t trying to steal anything. I’m here of my own accord.” Carmen replied, her thumb tracing circles along Julia’s palm.

“So I suppose it’s just a coincidence that I was sent here on a mission?”

Carmen winked at her, her rouged lips relaxing into their signature grin. “Yep. A coincidence. Absolutely nothing more.”

A twitch of annoyance flared within Julia. Sometimes Carmen’s games could get tiring. “Well then, since you aren’t stealing anything, I’ll be on my way then.”

“What?” The thief said, for once taken aback.

“You heard me.” Julia began with a smirk, turning in the other direction. “Have a nice day, Miss Sandiego. The Louvre is quite the sight to see.”

“Not so fast, Jules.” Carmen grasped her wrists gently, pulling her in close. Julia blushed, her mouth mere inches from the thief’s. She parted her lips gently, her eyelids sinking lower. Her tongue flecked across the expanse of her bottom lips as she waited to meet the thief’s lips for the first time in more than a week.

“Huh?” Julia said in confusion as she felt the other woman’s heat move away from her own.

Carmen was no longer before her, lips moving closer. Instead she darted away from the smaller woman, a smug grin scrawled on her beautiful face. She waved Julia’s ACME gas gun in the air teasingly, throwing her a wink. “A theft in progress is occurring, agent. You’re lawfully required to follow.”

“Carmen!” Julia shouted in shock, not at all caring about the attention they were gaining from their fellow museum-go-ers. “Give it back!”

“Come and get me!” She called with a trickle of laughter, disappearing into the hordes of people.

Julia smiled despite her frustration and ran after her, for once not at all caring that her behavior was extremely unprofessional.

That was what Carmen did to her. She...freed her. Allowed Julia to relax, to sit still, to live in the moment.

Julia felt all the tension that had built up over the course of the week melt away as she pursued the chase and danced across the Louvre court yard.

She chased Carmen out of the museum, nearing the edge of the complex. “Aha!” Julia shouted, finally catching up to her lover and realizing a smile had formed on her lips.

“You’ve got me, alright,” Carmen smiled, lowering her lashes flirtatiously as her voice lowered teasingly. She slipped her arms around Julia’s waist being just tall enough that the shorter woman had to slightly look up to meet her eyes. “Now what’re you gonna do with me?”

Julia answered her with a kiss, feeling the thief’s bright red lipstick smear onto her mouth. The lady in red captured Julia’s lower lip with her teeth, chuckling at the ACME agent’s Yelp of surprise as she tugged. Every gasp that managed to escape her lips was swallowed by Carmen’s mouth as she pulled her closer with passion.

“Mhm, I’ve missed that.” Julia smiled. “I’ve missed you.”

“You aren’t the only one.” Carmen purred against her lips. “You have no idea how badly I wanted to come and see you...but...”

“It’s alright, Carmen. I understand.” Julia whispered, touching her forehead to the Latina’s and lacing her fingers through the thief’s. “Do you plan on telling me why you’re here, though?”

“Can’t I just pay a visit to my favorite ACME agent?” She teased, beginning to lead Julia out of the museum complex.

“At my apartment, yes. But here?”

“Okay fine....” The thief relented, turning away. Julia spotted a tiny tinge of a blush dusting her cheeks. Carmen? Blushing? “I....may or may not have had my team hack the museum security and leave a trace to VILE to get you sent here.”

“Carmen!” Julia hissed. “You could get caught! And for what? Just to see me? You can meet me at my apartment!”

“Hey, hey, what’s done is done, alright?” She said, her arms flying in front of her in attempt to calm her down. Then, she smiled. “Aww you were worried about me. That’s adorable.“

“Thats-Thats not!....Thats not the point!“ Julia tried to fight a blush but it was no use.

Carmen laughed, caressing Julia’s face and tilting her chin up to meet her eyes. “Hey. I know you mean well. I’ll be more careful from now on. Promise.“

“O...Okay.“ Julia murmured, the woman in red’s slate gray eyes catching her off guard.

“But...since you’re already here....we should make the most of it, no?“ Carmen smiled sweetly, for once with no tinge of smugness to it.

“Alright.“ Julia relented with a small grin. “So is this a....date?“

The latina winked, her teeth sliding over her bottom lip. “Do you want it to be?“

“No! I mean...I just thought...“

“Relax, I’m messing with you.“ Carmen said, taking Julia’s hands in hers. “The truth is...Jules...I wanted to prove that I’m serious about this. About us. You...mean a lot to me, and I want us to be about more than just random hookups.“

The petite woman felt herself smiling at the other’s words, and gave the red rogue’s hands a squeeze. “You have no idea how relieved I am to hear you say that.“

Carmen returned her grin, running her thumb over Julia’s knuckles. “Explanations aside, are you ready for the greatest date in the world?“

Julia’s brow tugged upwards along with her lips. “The greatest, huh?“

Carmen threw her a flirty glance. “Hey, I don’t settle for second best.“

“I can see that. Alright then, Miss Sandiego.“ The shorter woman said coyly, “Show me what you got.“

....

ANON!! THIS IS SO AMAZING OH MY GOD?? for your first fic this is incredible and i absolutely love how you write them!! everything is so in character and carmen absolutely would create an entire heist just to meet up with jules 😭

i don’t have much to critique: just a few minor spelling errors here and there and some misplaced punctuation but that’s it, everything else is so good?? i’m serious this gave me so much serotonin omg,,, if you post it on ao3 let me know and i’ll be sure to leave kudos and a comment!! <3

and thank you so much for enjoying my writing, i can say the same for you :D

[il-papa-patata]

Come into My Heart

Mary and Swiss have a good fuck at the end of a long day.

(Established Mary/Swiss, Mary is Special Ghoul AU, smut with feelings, creampies, pwp)

Rated Explicit/18+

Cut for space and content

He'd told Terzo he wanted Swiss to nut in him, but like, emotionally.

The man has squinted at him, lips pulling into a grimace, and asked him if he was still high or something.

No, he wasn't high. And however weirdly put, it was a sincere desire of Mary's, though hard to exactly quantify. It's not like he could actually tell Swiss to nut in his heart, and it's not like he could give directions on how to get there, but-

Well, Swiss is kind of getting there on his own right now.

It's at the end of a long day. An early morning, waking up to a cool summer sunrise where the air was clean and fresh, they showered together (which was totally just practical, although having Swiss' big hands sudsing him up was the kind of torture he'd happily submit to for eternities), a light breakfast of leftover pastries from Aether (who's been on a baking stint), band practice and a mass and an early dinner together with everyone at some local restaurant, the plates flying and laughter burbling out of everyone, tips and critiques and praises swapped as they tucked into the food. And when they had gotten back, Swiss had pulled him against the door and kissed him for a good long while, these gentle presses of lips and teeth and tongue to his face and neck and shoulder, and grinned at him, saying “I missed you.”

They had a good night in – Swiss put on their favorite record, they had stripped out of their vestments, gotten into their sleep clothes, and cuddled close on the couch, talking about everything and nothing all at once.

At some point he had crawled into Swiss's lap, kissing him. Swiss had agreed, pulling Mary into him by his waist, roving those big wonderful hands along his skin, pulling off the sleep shirt and starting to nip and lick at that exposed skin. Mary had watched Swiss kiss him – soft and reverent, quiet in the still of their apartment (and it was theirs now) – and had thought if I could fall more in love with this man I would.

Swiss had picked him up – one arm, so strong, strength that was always gentle without being patronizing – and taken him into their bedroom, settled him across the sheets, told him that he wanted to fuck him until he was brainless from it.

Which is exactly what he's doing.

Slow, soft – but not gentle, not really. Swiss takes his time, lingers over each piece of Mary's skin, each turn of his joints and each smooth expanse of his skin. He nips and nibbles, licks and laves. Mary settles into the bed, arching into the touches that come.

“Pretty thing,” Swiss murmurs.

Swiss's big hands smooth warmth into places – his thighs, first, coming up under his ass to pull him closer, down towards the edge of the bed, then to smooth against the divot in his upper arm, down to his hand where their fingers lace gently. He pulls off Mary's sleep pants with one hand (and some help from Mary's free hand) and nestles his cock against Mary's, bending down so that their foreheads touch.

“How do you want it, pretty thing?”

“Mm,” Mary murmurs, “In your lap.”

“Edge of the bed or up by the pillows?”

“The edge.”

Swiss laughs, pressing a kiss beside his nose.

They part, resettling – Swiss goes for the little box of stuff they have, trying to grab a condom, but Mary shakes his head. Just lube is fine. Swiss nods, sits along his side of the bed, coos compliments as Mary gets up over his lap.

Swiss drizzles a bit of lube onto his fingers, settling his cheek against Mary's shoulder, presses his finger against him. Mary tenses – he's done this so many times but Swiss's touch is so gentle and tender that it feels new -- shudders a breath, and dips his head against his chest.

“Okay?” he murmurs.

“It's fine.”

“Just relax,” Swiss murmurs, “I've got you.”

One finger – Mary groans softly, nuzzles his nose against Swiss' hair, leaning into him. After a moment, a second – Swiss's other hand holds his hip, spreading him open a little more. A third, slicking in and out of him slowly, and Mary shudders again, holding Swiss even closer.

Slow left so much time for thinking – for emotions and love and desperation to worm in and demand place, for the fragile-tender part of him to sigh in relief, for the man who needed touch and warmth and tenderness to weep. Slow was worse, and better, with someone like Swiss, who he can lean into like this and who supports him, who doesn't laugh when Mary whines softly against his hair.

“You're ready?” Swiss murmurs against his neck, ghosting lips against it.

“Mm.”

Swiss guides him down.

Swiss is kind of a big guy, but he's used to the stretch by now. There's no pain involved, just a tightness. The pleased little sigh Swiss lets out is worth it.

Swiss doesn't push, or press – he just rests his hands on Mary's hips and waits for him, smiling up at him.

Mary starts slow, a shift of his hips, rising up and settling back. Swiss guides him along, slipping a hand along his spine, arching his back.

That's different. Swiss starts to roll his hips up into Mary, their stomachs shifting against each other. Mary always wants more- wants to cling to Swiss, touch him, touch him more and more. There was this carnivorous thing to consume him, become one and the same. It was nice to cling, but it was even nicer when Swiss pulls him close himself, losing the edges of himself in Swiss.

Swiss groans softly, smoothing his other hand down the hair at Mary's nape. Even just the way his breath comes, hot and heavy – just hearing that winds Mary up, feeling the way their stomachs press against each other with each deep breath.

Mary moves faster, the effort of bouncing too much when he's just chasing sensation, the deepness of Swiss, the head of his cock pushing against him in a way that makes him drool. Swiss balances it out, shifts Mary's hips with his firm, strong hands. Pulls him in close, like he's trying to push deeper.

Mary's head swims with it. The closeness, the feeling of him. Swiss's hand drags down from Mary's nape to his cock, smoothing his thumb along the underside of it and forcing a moan from Mary's throat.

“Ungh, yes, right there,” he whispers, Swiss ghosting his lips over Mary's pulse.

They rock together, Mary bonelessly grinding down of Swiss, Swiss rutting up into Mary, Mary's mouth going a mile a minute and muttering complete nonsense.

“So nice, so nice,” he mutters, limply gripping onto Swiss's arms, “Feels so good inside me, Switzy, s-so good.”

It's like he's dissolving where their skin meets – it's just- this closeness, the fact Swiss knows him, knows his body, paid attention to his body, treats him with care. Treats the person inside the body just as well, will no doubt smile when he lays them back on the bed, will ask if it was alright, will smooth gentle fingers over his cheeks and kiss them.

“Unh, Switzy,” he moans, flicking his hips against that insistent craving, against the way his skin sparks and shimmers, “Gonna- oh, I'm gonna come-”

“Yeah,” Swiss groans, nibbling a few quick, fluttering bites along his neck, up to his ear, before coming away to watch with hooded eyes.

Mary shifts a few more times, bracing himself on Swiss's arms, before his climax peaks and he's coming over Swiss's stomach.

“Shit,” Swiss groans, clenching his jaw, “So tight.”

“Come inside me,” Mary moans, drifting on the warmth and friction of Swiss's cock inside him, “Come in me, please, I want you-”

Swiss presses his lips against Mary's, silencing him as Swiss rolls his hips against Mary's, hitting up into him unevenly. He clenches his teeth again, hissing out a breath, brow knitting, before coming with a stuttering breath.

Mary shudders at the warmth that fills him, at Swiss's groan he presses into his shoulder, pulling Mary so close into him. Mary slings his arms around Swiss's shoulders, kisses him, their bodies a tangle of limbs – no way to tell from feeling where one of them begins and where the other ends.

Swiss pants. Mary forgets about breathing for a few moments, until Swiss's nice fingers drag along his ribs, as if coaxing the breath out of him.

Mary comes away first, head lolling back. It's dizzy, feverish, like the comedown of some upper, but Swiss's hands running gentle paths along his chest soothe him.

“Ooh,” Swiss groans, “Wow.”

He has the same kind of bleary-dizzy look Mary's sure must be on his own face. He licks his lips, shaking his head a bit. It's cute.

“Maybe we didn't plan enough,” Swiss mumbles, reaching for his shirt and settling it next to them. In a smooth motion, he rolls Mary onto it, his cock still inside.

“'s gonna ruin your shirt.” Mary's mouth is full of cotton, and his brain's turned to marshmallow, but there's a certainty in his heart when Swiss pulls out anyway.

Mary moans. He's always been kind of addicted to the feeling of pulling out – how Swiss's cockhead scrapes against orgasm-tender flesh, the feeling of finality and the chance Swiss might slip in again – but it's kind of even better with Swiss's come dripping out of him. It's lewd in all the right ways.

“We should shower,” Swiss murmurs, wrapping an arm around Mary's waist.

“Nh,” Mary groans, “I wanna cuddle.”

Swiss laughs, “You're gonna feel gross.”

“'m not gonna feel gross. I like your come in me.”

Swiss swallows, bites his lip. Mary grins, leaning in close.

“I like feeling like you're still inside me,” he teases, “Like I belong to you.”

Swiss's pretty silver eyes turn white hot for just a moment, shimmering with want.

It's kinda rare to see it, but it turns Mary on every time when he looks like that. He considers asking Swiss to fuck him again, to fill him up even more.

But Swiss just chuckles and kisses him gently, politely licking against his lips. Mary giggles unevenly, relaxes into it.

As carefully as they can, Swiss and he maneuver up to the pillows, Mary mindful of how he moves so he doesn't get the bed dirty, laying down on his stomach. They're in each other's places, but it's fine for one night, and it's fine when Swiss cuddles him up into his chest.

Mary sighs, holding him close and kissing him gently.

“You know, I told Terzo I wanted you to nut in me emotionally.”

Swiss laughs, “Oh yeah?”

“Think you did it,” he grins, “And I didn't even have to tell you to.”

Swiss smiles up at him, softly. Tucks a loose piece of hair behind his ear. “I have a pretty good guess of what you like, now.”

Mary smiles, a sudden giddiness riding through him. It's never been this easy with someone, and here Swiss was, knowing what he likes, what he needs. He throws his arms around Swiss's chest, laughing like he was drunk, and when Swiss hugs him back, laughing too, maybe he is.

Sleep comes easily, when Swiss starts running his hand down Mary's back in slow arcs. In the morning, they'll shower (together, for convenience, and Mary probably will complain about Swiss's come dripping down his thighs) and have breakfast (leftovers from dinner) and will probably part ways for the rest of the morning, but not before kissing each other at the threshold of the door and telling each other to have a good day.

And Mary's happy about it. He really is.

[honeys-fiction]

I was really excited to do this one when I saw it, sorry it’s late! I’m a slut for soft Dabi!

-Honey

Dabi playing dress-up with his 5 year old daughter

     Dabi is one of the most notorious villains in Japan. He'd sent many lesser villains to a violent, scorching grave, he'd fought heroes, he was the leader of the Vanguard Action Squad-

     But right now, he was none of that. Right now he was Duke of Fairies, having a tea party with the Princess of Flowers. 

     He sat on his knees, wearing his wife's flower-embroidered cooking apron and his daughter's favorite purple, glitter fairy wings. Hair ties and clips littered his hair nonsensically (done by his daughter, of course), his fingernails painted purple. His five-year old daughter sat across the small table in her room, decked out in a purple princess dress, tiara, and jewelry. On the remaining sides of the table sat Sir Frogington, her green frog; and Lady Puffalots, her very fluffy pink unicorn. 

     "Sir Frogington has run out of tea, can you please refill it Duke Glitterbum?" She spoke rather eloquently for a five year old, but that was probably thanks to the Disney movies she insisted on watching everyday.

     "Of course, Princess Chiharu," he drawled, picking up the plastic tea kettle filled with juice and pouring it into Sir Frogington’s cup. As he did, Chiharu grabbed Lady Puffalots and had her walk into the purple castle tent located behind her, under the facade that she was going to sleep. Once the unicorn was inside and the flap zipped up, Dabi’s daughter turned and spoke to him in a low whisper.

     “Did you see what she was wearing?”

     “Yellow and olive green bracelets, atrocious.”

    “Quite.”

     She broke out into giggles while he chuckled. Should he be teaching his daughter to talk behind people’s backs? Probably not. But he knew she’d probably pick it up at some point. If not from him she’d learn it in school. He wished he could protect her from all the horrors the world would throw at her, he knew she’d face it some day. No matter how hard he tried to protect her.

     He remembered when you told him the news five years ago. You had tears in your eyes, breaking down on your knees right in front of him. You were so worried he was going to leave you, Dabi never seemed like the fatherly type. And for awhile he wasn’t. But as you sobbed on your shared kitchen floor, dreading the worst, he knew if he was going to have a family, it’d be with you.

     And he was terrified. He never had a stable parental figure in his life, no one to show him what being a good parent meant, but he’d be damned if he ended up like his deadbeat father. So instead of hightailing it out the door like you had originally thought, he crouched down on the floor and cradled you to his chest. He promised he’d never leave you or your child, not ever. Not for the League, not for himself, not for the world.

     Fuck he’s so glad he did. Sure taking care of you was a bitch and a half, what with your mood swings and strange cravings, but he knew it’d be worth it. The moment his daughter was born confirmed that fact. When you handed her to him, he felt like you had given him the world and more. His own precious little star, nestled tightly in her little blanket, burbling away in her sleep. He nearly fell to the floor right there. All he could do was caress her face gently, a few tears, but he’d always deny it.

     The two of them became inseparable. No League mission could make him miss his baby’s first steps, no shot at vengeance could tear him away from watching cartoons with his little princess. For once in his life, he felt whole. 

     The stoic cremation user couldn’t help but smile as his daughter chatted with Sir Frogington about the royal ball, cakes and fairies. A small chime resounded from the small easy bake oven located in the corner of the room, his daughter jumping up and rushing over and returning with several miniature cookies.

     “Help me decorate them, Duke Glitterbum!” Chiharu jumped up and down, placing the tiny cookie decorations onto the table.

    “What about Sir Frogington?”

    “You know he allergic to frosting!”

    “My apologies.”

     By the time the cookies had been decorated, his daughters dress was covered in frosting and sprinkles, the table and his wife’s apron was surely stained purple. But they munched away happily, enjoying the tiny cookies and juice. 

    “Thank you, Duke Glitterbum. I’d say this was a very successful party.” Princess Chiharu beamed.

    “Glitterbum?” 

     Damn it…

    “Uncle Hawks!” Chiharu squealed, running over to the Number two hero and jumping into his awaiting arms. “I thought you had a business trip!”

    “You didn’t think I was gonna miss my favorite Princess’ ball did you?” He snickered, gently tossing her into the air above her head, catching her with ease. 

    “How was the tea party?” Your head peaked around the door, causing your daughter to squeal with joy.

    “Mommy! Your back!”

    “I managed to sneak out of work early, business was slower than usual.”You took your daughter from the winged hero, hugging her to your chest. “Also, love the names. I thought the frog was Grigorts?”

    “Only on Wednesdays!”

    “Alright kiddo,” You laughed, handing your daughter back to Hawks with a pat to her head. “Why don’t you go with Uncle Hawks while me and Duke Glitterbum clean this up.”

    “C’mon chickadee, there’s an ice cream cone with your name on it.” Chiharu was whisked away down the hall to the living room, where her favorite princess movie was already starting.

    “Only one!” You called after them, then turning to your dolled up husband. “That’s a good look for you, Glitterbum.” 

   “Shove it. You know I make anything look good.”

    “Damn straight,” You purred, sliding into his chest and pressing a kiss to his face. “Alright handsome, lets clean up. Wouldn’t want to keep the Princess waiting.”

    “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

[all-hallows-evie]

Athenaeum:3

Warnings: LANGUAGE (cuz it’s me), Eventual canon type violence, this HAS NOT been Beta’d (sorry!), eventual fluff, domestic fluff up the ass,  no Y/N and as of right now, reader is not gendered. Not planning on changing that one. This fic will be rated T at most.

Summary: (stolen from my AO3 summary) You are the sole caretaker of a small archive in an outer rim planet, where you collect information from anyone who happens to wander through. When the Mandalorian happens to appear at your door you are loathe to help, but the kid wins you over.

But this is Star Wars, and nothing is ever that easy.

***

The chunky but funky chapter, lol.

Grogu plush was ABSOLUTELY used for reference....all over my house lol.

***

Chapter 3:

Two nights came and went, and life seems to get back to normal. The excitement from the arrival of the silver soldier of fortune has finally died down, and your overflowing stack of uncategorized information disks is finally starting to peter down to a sad stack of uninspired information split between discs. It was a shame the Mando had no information to give, it was always hard to gage when someone else even half as exciting might wander through town.

Your mind begins to wander. It circles around the dark corners of your mind, you are mindful and careful to stay away from the shadows that linger there but your toes can't help but dip in slightly, rewards for your curiosity come instantly, flashes of memories blind you, white as lightning and almost twice as hot.

It’s the high pitched squeal that finally manages to break you away from your thoughts, as a little green and tan blob of energy zooms underneath your table. Six little claws pinch into your calf. You peer under the table as the bubbling little gurgles start.

"Hello you," you coo back, "Where's your big bad bodyguard?"

The child clutches at the tops of your worn boots, pulling them slowly from off your calves as he tries in vain to crawl up your leg.

"Brave little thing, aren't you?" You sigh as you pull your boot back up by the thin leather before setting the child on the table in front of you. His little hands instantly clutching at the edge of your helmet.

"Can you watch him?"

You don’t even turn to face him, "You must be out of your mind Mando." Comes your huff of a reply.

"Overnight is all I ask."

Now you can’t help but turn, you sling your arm over the back of your chair, "No one else could take him in for you?"

"He doesn't like anyone else."

Doubtful , you can't help but think as your eyes roll behind the safety of your helmet.

"I will get you what you ask."

"Hn. So you expect me to watch your kid and give you access to my files...all for...what?"

"My bounty is a slaver from Baralou, sold native Krikthasi to anyone who would pay."

You hate the way your heart skips a beat at his words, "Krikthasi." You repeat, your mind mulls over the unknown word.

"It's a worm." He replies to your silence, "One of two species on the planet."

"Fine." You sigh as your mouth grows dry. You couldn’t think of anything else you would like to do less than to babysit tonight.  "Overnight Mando, and not a second longer."

He is already at the door before you can say anything else, his dark cape sways behind him as you turn back to the child who seems too distracted by the images on your viewpad to notice that his father, guard...whatever the Mandalorian was to this tiny creature is quietly leaving him behind.

"I hope you can eat human food." You sigh, pulling your gloves from off of your hands and slapping them onto the table a little harder than you intend.  You reach over to the screen and flip to the next image, the child gurgles happily, plopping down on the table and pulling the screen to rest on his tiny lap as he watches the fishes swim by on the screen. You can't help the warm smile that blooms on your lips, "You like those?"

He coos, big brown eyes sparkling with a question he's not yet able to verbalize.

"Those are fat fish guppies from Naboo." You reply, as you tap the screen to restart the holo, the kid squeals in joy.

"Your dad ever taken you to Naboo?"

He responds, in his own way, a series of quiet and sweet sounds as his eyes are glued to the screen. His little clawed hand reaches out to tap the glass, the yearning to touch etched deep creases on his little brow.

"I'll take that as a no." You chuckle. "He should. That planet would probably suit you, I think." You murmur as you reach a hand out gently and softly stroke his big ears, velvety and smooth under your fingertips. His big brown eyes never leave the guppies as they dance from one side to the other, he leans slightly into your hand as you both grow braver to each other's sudden company. Much braver than you would have been at his size, he never flinches away from your touch.

You scoot your chair closer so that both of you can watch the screen, he turns up to face you, little hands clutching together as he burbles. You aren’t positive what he's asking but the feeling at the pit of your gut makes you answer anyway, "No, you wouldn't want to eat them. They don't taste very good unless you’re a Gungan."

He nods with a satisfied little chirp and you laugh softly, tickled by every reaction on his little face. You bring your elbow up onto the table, and rest your head on your hand as you watch him, "Would you like to see my favorite creature?"

Joy erupts on his little face, eyes sparking as he taps on the glass excitedly.

"Alright, alright!" You laugh as you search the data files for the holo, finally placing it back on the child's lap as giant four legged beasts race across the screen, their large soft ears flap with every gallop. You didn't think it was possible for his eyes to grow any bigger, for the sparkle inside them to get any brighter. He squeals with delight, tiny teeth flashing in his little mouth.

"Exciting, I know!" You reply, "Those are called fathiers and they are some of the fastest animals in the galaxy."

His bubbly language comes faster and faster, raising with the excitement of the races on the screen. You feel the way the child is already worming his way into your heart, bringing sense into why the towering Mando seems so protective of the little squirt.

He suddenly looks away, uninterested with the images on the screen. He murmurs something softly as he looks around the room.

"I know that face." You smirk, "I bet you, little one, are hungry."

He babbles in agreement.

"Alright, come on up. Let's see what I've got laying around." You reply, shutting the viewscreen off before tucking it under your arm. He makes some more pleased noises as you pick him up from under his arms and tuck him into the crook of your opposite arm. You carry him through the small corridor in the back, and to the left, shutting off the lights for the front room as you go, making your way up a small staircase to the upper floor where you've managed to carve out a comfortable, if not small, home.

You push open the door and sunlight streams through open windows of your small living area, a sturdy old couch is pushed up against the side wall, small stacks of empty data disks are splayed over the floor in random puddles and a spare viewscreen lays across one of the old cushions. You shut the door before putting the child down in the middle of the living area space, his little toes disappear into the high pile of the worn down rug in the middle of the room. He sits instantly, little claws grasp at the soft fibers as he looks around, taking in every corner of your home. You set the viewscreen from under your arm down next to him, “Don't wander too far, the kitchen’s right in there, I’ll be right back.”

His big brown eyes watch you as you step into the kitchen area, your fingers slip under the lip of your helmet as you push it off of your shoulders and set it down on the small kitchen table before you wander over to your cabinets, looking for something that might appease a toddler’s appetite.

You open the old creaking cabinet, barely getting a small peek inside your supplies when the tiny scritches of sharp toes come up beside you. You look down and meet the curious gaze of the kid as he stares wonderingly at your face, tiny little mouth gaping open and closed like a little fish out of water.

You smile, “Yeah, I bet he doesn't take his helmet off around you yet, does he?”

The child doesn't make any sound this time, his eyes too caught up in the shine of your hair in the sunlight.

“Since you are here, you might as well decide.” You sigh, stooping over to haul him up on to your hip as you pull a few things from the cabinet, a crinkly silver package of some buttery crackers, some fresh fruit still in your netted shopping bag from only this morning and some freeze dried juice, “That look like enough?”

His little clawed hands make gripping gestures at the bag of fruit.

“Alright, I was hoping so.” You reply with a smirk as you place him gently on the counter beside you, you pop open the silver sleeve of crackers before fishing out a couple to give to him. Both little hands are instantly occupied with a cracker in each, he takes big bites as he watches you pull the fruit from the bag. He alternates bites from one hand to the other as you peel the fruit and dice it into small enough slices in a bowl. Once one hand is empty of crackers he waddles over to the bowl, fingers curling around a slick slice of bright colored fruit that is soon sucked into his tiny mouth. You rehydrate the juice as quickly as you can, as his little fingers are quickly making both the fruit and crackers disappear. You slide him the smallest glass you can find with a smirk.

“Look, usually this is for...adult stuff, “You find yourself reasoning with him as you fill the short spotchka glass with bright purple juice, “But if you don't tell Mando, I won't either.”

He burbles some kind of nonsense before he drops a half eaten cracker as he makes a beeline for the glass, still having to use both hands to lift the little metal cup to his lips. He smacks his lips in satisfaction after a few big gulps and then waddles back to pick up the discarded crackers from the counter top.

You can't help but shake your head as you watch him, this was not quite how you imagined today going. You pick the little green bean up again and place him in your arm, quieting his wiggles when you hand him the sleeve of crackers, with your free hand you grasp the bowl of fruit and his little cup before taking him back to the safety of the rug in the living room. You set him down again and he happily waddles towards the viewscreen, crackers held tightly in his free hand. You put the bowl close to his legs as he plops down and makes a small whine as he taps the viewscreen with one, very sticky hand.

“Well look at you, king of the castle already.” You huff but switch on the viewscreen again, this time bringing up holos of a different fish from another planet.

As he settles in, eyes glued to the screen, you walk over to the couch and snatch the other viewscreen from off of the cushion. You fully intended to sit and watch him from there, but his face turns towards you and he makes that sad little whine again.

“Ok fine, I’ll be right there.” You reply, as you move to sit beside him, your thigh pressed against his side as you bring up your own screen, “ I do have to work, you know.”

The child doesn't say anything else, instead he leans his head against your thigh and continues to chew on alternating fruit and crackers as the holos continue to play on the other screen. You lose yourself to your work in a matter of moments, sorting through information and locating the disks you will need in order to fulfill your end of the bargain with the Mandalorian.

But where do you even start? The Old Republic? The fall of the Jedi? The Golden years? The Mandalorian Jedi war? You sigh as you start to compile a little bit of everything, hopefully the information he has promised you is worth the trouble of hunting all of this information down.

Before you know it the pale walls around you are painted orange with the setting sun. You startle out of your trance, eyes landing on the child, still curled up to your thigh. The view screen now dark as the holo ended a long time ago. He breathes heavily, you crane over to look at him as slowly as you can. His big brown eyes are closed, his little hand splayed against the fabric of your pants as he sleeps.

You could have dropped a seismic charge into the middle of your home and the kid would not have stirred. It is only when you pull the roasted meat from the oven and the smell fully engulfs the room that you hear the kid begin to stir. It’s not a loud sound, just a quiet gurgle and shuffle of soft blanket as his little head peeks out from behind a mountain of worn burgundy felt.

Your stomach quietly grumbles as you realize you have the daunting task of keeping the kid asleep while you try to get up and start something for dinner. You shift your hips away from him, as smoothly and slowly as you can manage, sliding your thighs away from under his little green grasp, softly placing him face down on the carpet when you are finally able to pull all the way out from under him. He sighs and makes a soft bubbling noise but seems to stay asleep. You stay still for a few moments more, watching his little body move up and down with every breath before silently standing. You creep into your bedroom, pulling an old worn burgundy blanket from the foot of your bed and softly draping it around the child to keep him cozy. Maybe it was all for nothing, you chide yourself, the moment you start cooking the kid is probably going to spring awake.

"There he is, welcome back kid. You got room in that belly?" You chuckle as you place the hot pan on the counter, you toss the thick towels you were holding to protect your hands from the heat of the roasting tray to.one side before you pull open another cabinet and pull out two plates. As you cut the meat into bite size chunks you hear the patter of his little feet as he waddles back into the kitchen. He tries to rub the sleep from his eyes as he comes closer but he can’t quite reach with his tiny claws, so instead he rubs at his face with the thick fluff around the wrists of his little brown coat. You place a healthy portion of the cut up meat and vegetables on his plate, stopping only to blow on a roasted bit of root vegetable, trying to cool it a bit before leaning over and handing it to the child, "Try that."

He takes the entire bite into his mouth, chewing with a happy gurgle.

"Not bad?"

His response is to clutch his claws up to ask for more.

"Get your cup and I'll meet you at the table."

He clutches the air again in response.

"Ok, one more then go get your cup." You reply with a smirk as you pick up another steaming hot piece of vegetable and blow on it gently. You watch him from the corner of your eyes as the child looks up at you and smacks his lips in anticipation, until you hand him another piece. He pops it in his mouth before you can blink, "Ok, deal’s a deal buddy. Go bring me your cup."

He sighs loudly and dramatically before he turns around and waddles back into the living room as you set both plates down on the small table pushed to one side of the tiny kitchen area. He walks back towards you, dragging the cup behind him as he approaches.

"Thank you." You smirk as you lean over to pick him up from off the ground and sit him beside his own plate, "Don't choke, let me top you off."

He digs in immediately, both hands snatching up every bit of food they can as he shoves it into his little face. You fill the glass again before setting it down beside him. You pull your chair up to the table and take a few bites as well.

He eats his meal happily. Only stopping to gurgle in your direction or look around your home from his new vantage point on the table top. Your curiosity is starting to get the better of you as he waddles around the table, in search of more food for his plate.

You stand up and walk to the roasting tray, the kid watches you as you go.

It was fine, you could show him right?

The kid hasn't spoken any actual words the whole time he has been with you, who is he going to tell?

You shake your head, this has bad idea written all over it but here goes nothing.

"Hey kid." You say, reaching your hand out towards the table, with a quick pull from the energy buzzing around the room you snap his plate into your open hand. He squeals his delight, his little body suddenly flashes with his signature, a light blue glow all around him.

"I'll be damned." You can't help but sigh as you load his plate up with seconds. You bring it over, placing it beside him before sitting down again. "You've been hiding away too."

He coos, brown eyes studying your face before he digs back in, the glow from his life force slowly fading away as he goes back into hiding.

You wonder how much he has let his powers slip in front of the Mandalorian, but it wasn’t like you could ask him and get a solid response. A moment of terror sweeps over you, was this kid nothing more than a bounty?!

No.

Wait.

You remember the way the Mandalorian had gently pried the disk from his mouth, the way the hardened killer seemed to soften when he had scooped the ball of energy off of the floor.

Any work you had planned for the day goes out of the window after dinner as the child grows restless and full of energy.

"He's trying to get you home, isn't he?" Your heart clenches under your ribs, the kid turns to you, gurgling softly as his reply.

"I'm gonna have to wear you out aren't I?" You laugh as he runs little laps in your living room area, you grab a long scarf from your closet before you lead him downstairs and out the front door. He waddles behind, funny enough keeping up with your strides as you let him roam into the evening air. The streets light up from the lamps that dangle on thick metal ropes between posts, the two open air cafes hold their doors and windows open letting the music from the live bands inside leak out into the street.

This tiny little speck of town, untouched by the Empire or the rebellion, it was the best place the Mando could have landed. Safe, sound and hidden. You watch as the child wanders around, growing braver by the moment as he peeks through open doors as the music starts. He turns and looks at you, big brown eyes shining in curiosity until a group of other kids descend onto the street a few feet away. They split into their own little groups, some play on the sidewalk while another, slightly larger group, starts a game with a ball in the middle of the packed dirt street.

"Well go on then!" You laugh when he looks up to you, the request to play written all over his little face.

He squeals with joy and runs towards the larger group of children. He is pulled into their pack instantly. He is handed a ball and is walked through the game by one of the little girls who continues to hold his little hand as they play.

You watch from the sidelines, hopping up on a duracrete fence and folding your legs in under you, eyes never leaving the kid for long. One of the nearby cafe owners approaches you, handing you a mug of hot tea.

"That's the child that came with the Mandalorian, isn't it Conservator?" He mumbles.

You nod, slowly sipping at the herbal mixture in the clay mug, "His foundling."

"Is that what he looks like under that fancy helmet?"

You grin wide at the image it paints in your mind, "We will never know."

"You know, we offered to watch the child for him, but he declined. Why do you think that is?"

"To torture me, of course." You reply as you gulp down another mouthful of tea. Fucking full of surprises that Mandalorian. The man says nothing, just chuckles as he walks away, back to the few patrons of his small cafe.

You let the kid play for what feels like hours, it was easy to lose track of time when the nights were so calm and warm. You start to notice a bit of a drag in his step, his big brown eyes growing glassy. You swoop in and pick him up before he falls asleep on his feet, "Alright little one, I think you've had your fill."

He coos softly, rubbing at his eyes sleepily as you hold him close to your chest, wrapping him in your scarf before pulling it across your back, folding him into the makeshift carrier. You stroll home, the kid almost making a purring noise as you walk, tiny snores of exhaustion echo in the empty library as you lock up for the night.

You lay the kid on one of your extra pillows, and make him a small bed by your headboard. You pull spare blankets around him to keep him somewhat enclosed before tucking him in. He stirs for a moment before his little face relaxes again and he resumes snoring.

You sigh as you slip out of the layers of your long sleeve jacket and tunic, leaving on only a thin, sleeveless undershirt and your leggings. You rub away the slight itch from the constricting fabric that had been wrapped around your arms all day, but the dull ache returns to the scars on your arms. You rub at the aching skin with a bit more pressure.

The emblem of the Empire burned into the inside of your wrist is still rough around the edges, the ink of your call number still sitting on raised skin, as if it was still fresh instead of almost fifteen years old.

NC-062

It was marked up the length of your arm in bright red ink that could never be washed off. You hated it but at the same time it was your only link to who you could have been before you had been taken by the Empire.

You had traced the origin of your number for months after your escape, it had taken you to Naboo, but without a family name your search had taken you nowhere.

Nowhere but here, where you continue to search for something, anything that would help you find whatever was left of your home.

***

   <<Back to Master List  II  Chapter 2  II  Chapter 4>>

[chrysalispen]

xxx. cups opened in thousands for their blood,

AO3 Link HERE.

also i’m slapping a big old content warning on this for torture

====

Nightfall was approaching and that meant it was time to set aside the day’s work.

Frieda Miller set aside her knitting needles and sighed, flexing her cramped hands before rubbing absently at the swell of her growing belly. She had hoped that the Hearer might countermand some of Aurelia’s orders, only to discover much to her chagrin that the old man’s advice was even more stringent. As tempted as she was to simply disregard it - she had four children, after all! - she wearied of lectures. If it put the conjurers at peace and left her the management of her home at least, she supposed she could play along until the babe was born.

But Frieda wasn’t one to simply sit about waiting for something to happen, and in the meantime, there were some things she could do even from early confinement.

The rickety whirr of the spinning-wheel made her smile. She pushed herself carefully upright, stretching her stiff back as best she was able.

“Bran,” she said, “you can stop for today, there’s a good lad.”

Her second-youngest looked at her with wide eyes. He was a solemn and softspoken boy, bless him, more like Rauffe than any of their other sons--more prone to thoughtfulness than his brothers by far and strangely conscientious for a child of but six summers. Hearer Ewain had once said that he had an old soul, and she believed it without any shadow of a doubt.

“Is it time for dinner, Mama? I’m hungry.”

“Yes, love. Your Da will be back soon enough to take the pies from the oven as he promised. Why don’t you go wash up and see if he’s coming down the lane?”

She smiled as she watched him go. Aye, she thought, a good dutiful lad.

The sounds of water splashing into the basin by the door filled Frieda’s ears while she busied herself with examining the cloth and yarn spools Bran had worked according to her instructions. His first few attempts had been as disastrous as she had expected, but he was patient and stubborn in equal measure and by all appearances, he seemed to be taking her lessons to heart. She was pleased to see that the spool of hempen yarn he’d completed looked fit for use. He’d make a good weaver, if that were of interest to him.

“Mama,” Bran called.

“Yes, my love?”

“Miss Aurelia is at the door.”

Frieda paused. “She’s come back? Did she bring that little girl with her?”

“No, Mama. There’s a man with her. Can I let them in?”

“Of course, darling.”

Frieda had expected to see Sergeant Epocan shadowing the novice conjurer’s heels -- despite her vehement denial that there was anything between them, she suspected that if Aurelia Laskaris gave the poor man half a reason to think he had a chance he’d take it in a heartbeat -- so she was very surprised to see instead a tall, dark Highlander ducking into her doorway. The man looked pale and exhausted and his right arm was immobilized in a sling.

“Well, come in, Aurelia! You know you’re always welcome here. Though I hope you didn’t come by to check on me before you did anything else. The sergeant says you’ve been out in the field on business for the Conjurers’ Guild.”

“Yes. Frieda, I’m so sorry to impose. I know it’s late-”

She grinned. “All you’ve interrupted is my boredom, love. Who’s your handsome friend?”

“This is Sewell, a patient. I’ve been treating him for the past sennight. He’s a refugee from Ala Mhigo and he’s got nowhere to go, not even any clothes.” Aurelia hesitated. “I need to confer with Sergeant Epocan, but in the meantime, I was wondering if you knew anyone with a spare bed that might be able to take him in? It would only be a temporary measure, of course- no more than a sennight at most.”

“...In the village? Probably no one. But since it's you doing the asking, I could find room.”

A mixture of surprise and distress flared her eyes wide. “What? Oh no, Frieda, I couldn’t possibly ask you to-”

“To what? Do a small favor for my favorite conjurer?” At Aurelia’s helpless stare, she smiled. “I see he’s only one good arm at the minute, but he’s got two good feet and I can use them. What do you say, Master Sewell? I’ll have my husband lay a pallet here in the common room and you can help me with my weaving until Conjurer Aurelia and her friend can figure out something a bit more permanent. If you’re willing to have a woman and a little boy as your taskmasters, that is.”

“Ma’am,” Sewell said, dipping his chin. “I’m not looking to impose. If it’s too much-”

“It’s no trouble at all. I’m bound to my bed until this little one decides to arrive and there’s work still to be done, so extra help will be welcome in any way I can get it. Pull out those pies I’ve got in the oven before they burn and you can have one.” She squinted critically at what remained of his linen undershirt, tattered and stained with sweat. “And we’ll see about replacing that rag you’re wearing while we’re at it.”

“Ma’am,” he protested, “there’s no need for that-”

“Hells, not another one! Don’t you start with that bleedin’ nonsense,” Frieda scoffed. There was a conspiratorial twinkle in her eye as she added, “Mistress Laskaris always says she ‘can’t possibly accept’ this or that and I make her accept it anyroad. You might as well save your breath.”

Aurelia hid her smile behind one raised hand.

“Mama, do we get a guest for dinner?” Bran piped up.

Frieda beamed at her son, her mood as sunny as Aurelia had ever seen it. “We do, darling! Master Sewell will be helping us with the weaving for a few days. Could you put an extra chair at the table for him and go wake up your brother?”

She exhaled with relief as the little boy all but bounced away, smiling so painfully it almost hurt. In her near-sennight of navigating Rhaya Wolndara’s reserved civility (and later the woman’s icy fury), she’d half-forgotten the cheerfully loud and rambunctious chatter of the Miller household-- never mind that of its benevolent mistress. The village’s master weaver, for all that she had her faults, had proven a true friend.

“Thank you so much, Frieda,” she said. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“There’s naught to repay. None of that.” The older woman’s wave was dismissive. “Now go find the Sergeant. He’s been moping all over the place with you gone, so I hear.”

==

Keveh’to almost thought he was seeing things.

Wailer Lieutenant Aubaints had been less than impressed when he had reported nearly two bells late back from the Druthers, and after dressing him down for making a drunken disgrace of himself he’d been posted to back to back wall duty shifts the last three nights. Thus it took him long moments to react at the sight of a familiar crown of kerchief-bound golden hair, even as the Garlean looked at him with a tired, rueful half-smile that didn’t meet her eyes. He bent nearly in half to look down from the lip of the stone and mortar scarp, blinked furiously, and squinted again.

“They’ve put you to the grindstone, I see,” Aurelia called, hands braced upon slim hips.

Keveh’to barked out a sharp laugh, his lips stretching in a grin. He vaulted his way off the top of the wall on his way down to meet her, heedless of the startled exclamations from the two villagers already on their way up to relieve him.

“You’ve come back!”

“Of course I did. It was so dreadfully boring without you that I couldn’t bear it.”

“Boring without me there for you to bully, you mean,” he said. Aurelia scoffed, but despite her smile he could see something worrisome lurking in her dark blue eyes. There was nothing of that sunny brightness in their depths, and his own grin faded to see it. “I’ve a lead on that scuffle near the village a fortnight ago. Seems there was a witness after all.”

“Oh?”

“You’re never going to believe who it is.” He hesitated. “Can we get somewhere quiet? Where we won’t be overheard?”

Aurelia eyed him.

“I’ve someone you need to meet, at that,” she said. “At the Millers’ place - but as it’s something I don’t know that I want the village to hear either, the creek will be as good a place as any.”

They made their way back towards Ewain’s cottage in an unhurried quiet. Most of the villagers had retired for the evening to their stew pots and their beds, but some few milled about the main thoroughfare yet, and a few even lifted their hands in a wave of recognition. It struck her then, how much friendlier everyone in Willowsbend had become - even towards Keveh’to - and how it had taken a sennight away from the town to see the change at all.

The creek burbled softly within its banks as he opened the low-slung gate for her and followed behind, and with a sigh, she dropped onto the cool grass.

“What a bloody week,” she muttered.

“That doesn’t half describe it. Do you want to go first or should I?”

“By all means.”

Keveh’to nodded and dropped to the grass at her side. The tip of his tail twitched next to her hand, but he was staring into the growing darkness of the forest on the far side of the creek.

“The witness is Noline,” he said suddenly.

Aurelia gaped at him, jaw slack. “What- wait. What? Noline Brassard? The laundress who’s engaged to Trevantioux and has moved their wedding date back three times? That Noline?”

“The very same.”

“Does that mean that Trevantioux-”

“No, I don’t think he’s a witness.” Keveh’to grimaced. “...I was in the Druthers, asking around to see if anyone might have seen imperials in the area. The Redbelly Wasps have a couple of henchmen with lovers in this village, as it turns out. But unless the Hearer’s assistant is leading a very colorful double life, I think it far more likely that his fiancee has been seeing a bandit behind his back.”

“Hells below.” She let out a long sigh. “I never thought I would ever say this about him of all people, but poor sod.”

“Now you see why I didn’t want to tell you. At any rate, I’m trying to think of a way to question her about that night in the-”

“I don’t know that it’ll be necessary. I said I have someone with me you need to meet, right?” Aurelia grinned at him, a hard and mirthless thing. “He told me what happened. The whole thing. That Ixal scout may simply have been in the wrong place at the wrong time-- it seems there was a unit of imperial soldiers that came through here chasing a deserter. One who somehow ended up in the care of two Miqo’te, one of whom was in the Amdapori ruins trying to gather healing herbs when she accidentally drew the ire of a forest guardian.”

“Thal’s balls, are you having me on?”

The corners of her lips remained drawn and tight. “Did I mention that I ran afoul of them myself? They came to the girl’s house looking for him.”

“They didn’t- I mean are you-”

“I’m fine! Obviously we drove them away, else I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you right now. As it happens, I found a novel use for one of the most disgusting leatherworking reagents you can imagine.” She tore a handful of grass from the dirt and sifted it between her fingers. “They’ll all have to withdraw to their castrum or else stink like an overfilled field privy for the next fortnight; ‘tis only what they deserve.”

“So that’s why you came back? Where is he now?”

“At the Millers’. Frieda took him in- you know how she is.”

“He can’t stay here. It’ll put the entire village in danger.”

“I know. We’ve got to get him moving again. If there were a larger settlement where he could claim sanctuary, they wouldn’t dare come after him. I thought about Gridania, but the elementals are too likely to refuse him a-”

“What about the Twin Adder?”

“What about it?”

“If he’s got fighting experience, he can join a Grand Company. We’re short on people in all the rebuilding efforts even with the prisoner labor. I can put in a good word for him and let my superiors know he may have current information about the Garleans’ movements. Did he tell you why he ran?”

“He was about to end up with classified information, I gather, but the whistleblower who meant to give it to him died before that happened and the evidence was destroyed. He fled into the wood and killed one of his pursuers while trying to get away.”

“...and that’s where the casings in that clearing came from.”

“I imagine so. My guess is that he’ll never be left alone. He killed an officer, so they’ll either shoot him on sight or make an example of him with a tight noose.”

“Well, he’ll be safe with the Adder,” Keveh’to said firmly. “Let me get in touch with my captain and have him go up the chain of command. These things have to be authorized- but I’ll wager it won’t take more than a day or two for that to happen. In the meantime…”

“In the meantime?”

His smile was as rueful as hers. “Speaking of Noline,” he said, “her gifting is at the end of the week and the entire village is invited. There’s a party we’ll be asked to help prepare- the Hearer will bless their upcoming union and request the well wishes of the forest, and then there’s a feast and gifts for the betrothed to start their new lives. As Ewain’s apprentice, it’s most likely you’ll be expected to attend.”

“Are you mad? We can’t just let them go ahead with this if she’s-”

“Yes, we can.” At her incredulous stare, he frowned. “...Don’t look at me like that. You know full well it’s not our place to say anything to Trevantioux about his personal life.”

“I would want to know if my future wife had lovers behind my back!”

“And he will find out, I’m sure, but until he does we keep our mouths shut,” Keveh’to snapped. “Seven hells, Aurelia, you’re not the saviour of the godsdamned realm! You can’t just walk in and turn everyone’s lives upside down. We are outsiders here. If Trevantioux asks I’ll be more than glad to tell him, but neither of us were supposed to have been involved enough to come by this information in the first damned place!”

“If he finds out--”

“Tell me: if you were still at home and you knew the Emperor was being unfaithful to his wife, would you let her know?”

“Of course I wouldn’t, but that’s not the same at all!”

“It is exactly the same.” Unexpectedly, he took her hand and squeezed. “Please, Aurelia. Let’s not stir any more pots than we must. We’ll get your deserter to safety and let the Grand Company deal with any imperial incursions, but this- I’m not in the business of sticking my nose in other people’s bedrooms.”

“I think it’s a mistake not to say anything,” she said. “But I don’t suppose there’s a good way to tell him.”

“Don’t worry yourself about Treventioux, all right? He’s a pompous fool, but he’s one just clever enough to know when it benefits him to be used.”

She sighed, feeling the rough warmth of his hand withdraw.

“I hope you’re right.”

~*~

It had been a near sennight since Miss Aurelia and Master Sewell had left, leaving Vahne and her aunt alone once again. And in that space of time, it had taken precisely a day and a half of relative solitude for Vahne Wolndara to decide she hated it.

She was dreadfully bored.

Not only was Vahne bored, which at the tender age of not-quite-fourteen summers was quite nearly the worst thing she felt one could possibly be, she was furious with her Aunt Rhaya for sending away the first real friend she had ever made on her own. Her chores were quiet, the cabin was quiet (save for the crackling of the wax paper at night when the wind blew in from the north), dinner was quiet, everything was quiet.

She hated being quiet. But she wasn’t going to give her aunt the satisfaction of breaking her silence saying thus, and so it went: a cold and stifling impasse that went on and on, and Vahne was determined that she would not be the one to blink first.

On the evening of the fourth day, over an uncomfortable and - of course - silent dinner, Rhaya finally set her fork on her plate.

“Vahne,” she said, “I am not going to ask you again. Eat your mashed popotoes.”

Vahne gave a noncommittal grunt but did not answer.

“If you want to keep throwing a tantrum over a matter that doesn’t concern you that’s your choice, but you should know that woman was not who she told us she was.” When Vahne still didn’t speak, Rhaya sighed. “That’s the way of life, you know. People will find ways to disappoint you when you blindly trust them. You’ll learn when you’re old enough--”

Vahne glared at her.

“You never wanted to trust her in the first place,” she accused, cheeks flushing as her brow knitted in a scowl. “You never trust anyone .”

Rhaya’s eyes narrowed. “Miss, you are walking a thin line.”

“Don’t ‘miss’ me! You know it’s true! You didn’t like her from the start. Just because she’s an outsider--”

“She’s not just an outsider!”

“You never trust me with anything!” Vahne exploded. Her eyes burned with angry tears and she hated herself for it, for wanting to cry like she would have when she was much younger. “I can’t even have any friends because you won’t let me. You always want to act like I’m a baby who doesn’t know any better. Well, I’m not!”

Rhaya slammed her folk on the table with a loud clatter that startled her ward into silence.

“I have sacrificed more than you will ever know,” she said, in a low, tight voice. “I don’t have friends either, Vahne! Do you know why? It's because I’ve spent the last eight summers raising you and keeping this roof over our heads!”

“Fine! If you hate having me here so much, then I’ll leave,” Vahne shouted. “That way you won’t have to worry about me ever again!”

“Go seek your bed,” her aunt hissed. “You are banished from the table for the rest of the night.”

Vahne shoved her chair back from the table so violently that it fell over when she stood and stormed down the short hallway. There was the sound of a slamming door, then silence reigned once more. Rhaya ran her fingers through her hair, then buried her face in her hands.

I made the right choice, she told herself again, angrily. I know I did.

Her only answer was the night wind, crackling the wax paper she’d put up in the emptied panes with each self-sustained gust.

Hells with it. She’d speak with the girl once the washing was done.

With a grunt she stood and began to clear dishes from the table to the scullery tub, knowing the sound would be audible throughout the cabin. The sounds of running water filled the space, and in due time she began to busy herself with the soothing repetition of washing and drying. Quite often, Vahne’s way of trying to make peace after one of their arguments was to venture back out - against Rhaya’s instructions - and help her with some chore or other. It didn’t always work, especially if her niece was upset enough to make a point of avoiding her, but it was reliable enough that she thought it worth the attempt.

The crackling rustle that came from outside some few minutes later brought her idle scrubbing to an abrupt halt. Rhaya went very still, her ears swiveling back and forth, flickering as she listened for the sound again, and felt a chill creep slowly down her spine. Her great-grandmother had built this cabin, had fought literally tooth and nail to keep the lands around it against repeated incursion by Gridanians, by poachers and bandits and birdmen, and Rhaya had kept the land as her mother and grandmother and great-grandmother had, fought for it as they had-

-and she had never, until now, felt uneasiness at the knowledge that she was alone. Ever since those godsdamned imperials had arrived a sennight ago for the man who'd been lying abed in his sickbed, hidden in her root cellar-- and now she was going to have to see to the source of that noise just to give herself some peace of mind.

She exhaled loudly, feeling angry all over again.

Her bow and quiver were not close enough to reach but that didn’t mean she was entirely unarmed. Rhaya hung the dishrag with great care over the lip of her scullery, reached for one of the knives slotted neatly near her cutting boards, and slipped on quiet feet into the common room, tucking it as best she could in her right hand. Save a single light in the window, the room lay semi-dark and silent.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

Nothing at all-

-save the creak of an errant floorboard.

She froze mid-step, tail lashing in agitation.

“...Vahne?” she ventured. It was possible the girl had decided to come in the room and sulk where she could be seen-- not likely, but possible. But there was no response.

Rhaya’s grip, clammy with cold sweat, shifted on the grip of the knife. She reached for the door, threw the bolt, and opened it the barest crack.

The loud and familiar yowl she heard from the field made her sigh, her shoulders sagging as the tension flowed out of them and her incipient fear turned to a flood of relief and disgust. Twelve’s sake, she thought, it was just one of Vahne’s barn cats. Hunting mice in the wheat sheaves, no doubt.

“Go find your dinner, Shadow,” she muttered, moving to shut the door---

---and a large hand clad in a scarlet-trimmed black gauntlet thrust into the space between the door and its frame.

A gasp rattled from her throat as fingers curled about the edge of the door and slammed it open, then hoisted her into the air by the front of her dalmatica. Rhaya retaliated in the next instant, lashing out with the knife she still held securely in her grip. She heard a deep voice cry out, cursing as the blade slid through carbonweave and into flesh, but her assailant didn’t drop her so she sawed into the offending limb again. This time he made a sound much like the cat had: a high and piercing yowl. Hot, liquid crimson ran in rivulets from his sleeve and soaked into her shirt and down her bare forearm.

“One of you help me get this bleedin’ door down!” the man screamed. "Take her down!"

The Miqo’te’s foot shot out sideways, lodging herself in the door frame so that there was no possibility of entry, withdrew the blade, and prepared to slide it just beneath his armpit. One deep stab in the right place would pierce the lung--

A metal-clad foot connected with her knee in a heavy, brutal kick.

The pop and wet snap of the joint and bone as both collapsed beneath that force reached Rhaya’s ears even as she screamed, a combination of agony and rage. In her thrashing in the man’s grip, her fingers - already soaked in her first attacker’s blood - slipped from the wooden handle. Her only weapon hit the floor with a loud rattle.

As the big man fell back clutching at his arm and swearing, his accomplice dragged her out the front door. Her leg felt as though someone had dipped it in molten pig iron: nothing but white-hot burning from her hip to her toes. She scrabbled desperately against the man’s grip, trying in vain to free herself. The foot on her unhurt leg kicked wildly, aiming for where she thought his ankle might be, but the impact of a wooden patten had no effect on the armor that protected it.

Yet another voice shouted something that she didn’t catch - some order or other. Her stomach gave an unpleasant twist of dread as three, four more black-and-scarlet clad soldiers skittered into the house like shadow-clad insects. Twelve, how many did they bring with them...?

Alarm, tinged with horror,

(!!!!! oh gods no Vahne---)

flashed through her mind like the fin of a trout breaking water.

Someone waved, shouting in heavily accented Common: “No use, my lord. They’ve already cleared out. We even checked in the root cellar. It’s empty.”

She heard the frustrated growl moments before the imperial soldier clamped his arm about her throat.

“Where are they,” his guttural voice snarled in her ear. It sounded strange -- faraway, thin, and shallow, as though someone were speaking through a can.

Rhaya Wolndara let out a strangled sob and did not reply, renewing her struggle. Her blood-soaked fingers were too slick to give any purchase, and her nails began to warp and bend beneath the unyielding outline of the decorative brass gilt. It shone with a dull light from the waxing moon, the light blotted in places where blood had stained the chasing.

Her captor shook her so violently she could hear the chatter of her own teeth.

“Blackthorne and the Garlean woman,” he repeated, slow and icy and deliberate. Her cheek met cold steel and tempered glass. “I know you know where they’ve gone. Where are they?”

“Go to the seven hells,” she bit out, gagging and coughing. His free hand closed about her blood-soaked arm. Pinching metal and a heavy grip wound about her wrist.

“You should know that your deserter friend made a most excellent point,” he said blandly. “And if you won’t tell me what I want to hear--”

Rhaya yanked her hand towards the weakest part of his grip with all her might, but that resistance only made him bear down. Steel edges dug into the meat of her palm and she froze, heartbeat racing in the tips of her ears, flattened against her head and flickering with every burst of speech and static from that faceless helm.

“--I think you shall see that I find myself quite willing to take her advice until you do.”

All it took was one single, violent twist. The sound of breaking bone was consumed in her agonized shriek, flung into the night wind like a wolf’s howl.

“Reduced to the beast you are in truth, and so quickly. What a pity- yet I doubt that will be sufficient.” Unable to speak, the huntress writhed when the Garlean’s inexorable grip tightened, sobbing and still kicking in an attempt to free herself. Still squeezing, he twisted her hurt arm behind her back and up.

“Mm. Another, then?”

She felt her fourth digit pinched between the Garlean’s thumb and forefinger like a rabbit caught in a trapper’s wire.

“Perhaps I should have my subordinates flush out the child. Surely that would make you pliable.”

Rhaya near felt the blood curdle in her veins; so frightened was she by the prospect of this man getting his hands on Vahne that her struggles stilled for a brief moment.

“Tell me where they are.”

“Leave her alone! She’s only a--”

He bent and twisted and the bone snapped like a twig beneath his fingers. Rhaya’s answering scream came at a pitch and a volume so piercing it could have shattered crystal, her one good foot kicking wildly.

“Madam, these people are criminals. Why are you protecting them?”

“I told you I don’t know where they went! They left nigh on a sennight past. That’s all the information I have, now leave the girl be!”

The Garlean had moved to her ring finger, grasping it by the joint. Her eyes had gone the size of saucers, watching him do it. She knew what was coming, and she had already begun to tremble violently in the vise of his arm. Her pattens rattled against the steel plate of his armor.

“You are bringing all of this pain on yourself, savage,” he hissed in her ear. ”Now tell me. Where. They have gone. Otherwise, I promise this will go very, very badly. For both of you.”

“No no no no please by the Twelve I swear I don’t know, I don’t know,” the pain had reduced her to a shrieking mantra, she could feel him twisting, pulling, the joint grinding and displacing and she no longer cared for her pride, sobbing under the weight of the pain and in horrible anticipation, “I don’t know I don’t know I don’t bloody know oh gods please don’t--”

“Lord Cinna!” someone shouted. “Over there! Ten o’clock!”

Her eyes tracked the sharp snap of her captor’s chin and caught the flash of a white linen shirt: A small and spindly figure on swift feet, sprinting away from the house. Streaking into the fields and toward the deep forest beyond, with the single-minded determination of a barn cat in sight of its prey. Her tormentor released her, his attention successfully diverted.

Rhaya Wolndara fell to the hard-packed earth, curled about her hurts and coughing from a bruised throat as she took small sips of air. Her chin swiveled in the direction she’d last seen her young niece. Shadowed and helmed figures in black and scarlet reared upwards from their hiding places in the fields, like fell and ancient ghosts baying upon the heels of a soul marked for their ferry-boats.

Voice hoarse from her own screams, she cried out, the sound of it thin and cracked:

“Vahne, run!!!”

~*~

The moment she heard running water, Vahne had known her aunt was clearing the dishes.

Aunt Rhaya hadn’t wanted children, but she’d got one, and she’d tried to raise her sister’s only child as she’d been raised. One of Vahne’s first memories was trying to show off to her aunt how fast she could run from the front of the cabin to the end of the fields. She had instead tripped and fallen in the dirt and skinned her knees and cried. Instead of noticing her swiftness, her aunt had yelled at her for ruining her pinafore.

That was the first time she had shut herself in her room and refused to come out. Until she heard the sound of water in her aunt’s scullery and the clink of dishes, and had felt guilty, and had crept out to join her with a washcloth. They hadn’t spoken, just washed, and by the time the chore was done together she had felt calm enough to forgive her aunt for yelling. Thus it had gone, in the years since.

Cleaning the dishes was always Aunt Rhaya’s roundabout way of asking Vahne for a truce. Or it had been, in the past. But this time Vahne’s anger kept her firmly attached to her bed. She sat stoic and still upon the mattress, fingers digging into the coverlet as she heard the clatter of dishes, willing herself not to go. Aunt Rhaya was wrong, and Vahne didn’t want to mend things with her. Not right now. Once, she thought angrily, just once, her aunt could come to her, instead.

That was when she realized the clatter had gone silent and the water stilled, far too soon. She frowned, ears flickering with curiosity even as she stubbornly kept her attention on her book of adventure stories. I’m not going in there, she thought. I’m not telling her I’m sorry because I’m not.

I’m not sorry for what I said. I’m not. I’m not. I’m not.

The creak of the front door.

I’m not--

A man’s shout, the sounds of a scuffle, and a high-pitched scream of pain in what was unmistakably her aunt’s voice-- followed by the sound of footsteps clattering over the deck and spilling into the common room.

Her heart started to pound and fear clenched her stomach.

Someone was in the house. A lot of someones. And by the sound of things, it was unlikely that her aunt had even expected them, let alone invited them inside.

Rhaya had raised her alone, amidst the constant threat of someone or other attempting to take the land for themselves. Some were friendly enough, all things considered, though Vahne had suspected as she grew older and saw and understood more that her aunt was likely paying a portion of their goods to some of the stronger gangs for the promise that they would leave the homestead alone.

But her aunt wasn’t stupid. She knew better than to trust bandits and poachers, especially after what had happened to her younger sister. When Vahne was seven summers of age, Aunt Rhaya had taken her aside to give her strict instructions.

If anyone ever comes inside the house and I didn’t invite them, she remembered the long-ago lessons, you know what to do. You get in a hiding place and stay still and quiet until I come and get you myself---and if you think I can’t keep them from finding you, you get out through a window and go find help. Do you understand?

Yes, Aunt Rhaya.

Someone shouted from the front of the cabin. They’d found the root cellar--

--and someone was heading down the narrow hallway. Her heart took a terrifying leap into her mouth. There wasn’t anywhere to hide in her room, nowhere that would keep her from being found. Vahne jumped onto her mattress and her hand flew to the window latch.

She only had a few moments, she thought, fiddling frantically at the small mechanism.

“Hallway clear,” a voice called, in a funny accent she didn’t recognize. “Checking the back. Anything down in that root cellar you found?”

“Nothing,” someone else shouted back. “Once you’ve checked that room go report to Lord Cinna. He’ll get the woman to talk one way or another.”

“Understood.”

There was a creak as the doorknob began to turn.

The latch gave under her fingers and the window slid open, blessedly silent. Vahne planted her foot on the sill and wriggled through the small opening, her tail lashing to ensure that she kept her balance, and jumped down from the sill into the hard-packed dirt.

A small shock of pain lanced through her ankles at the landing, but no one was waiting outside to grab her. She didn’t waste any time in hiding, immediately darting behind the nearby midden and trying to ignore the smell of it. One tense moment passed, then two, but there was no shout to raise the alarum. Her escape had - thus far - gone unnoticed.

Screams and frantic pleas drifted into her ears and fear ran icy fingertips down her spine. Vahne had never heard her confident, self-sufficient aunt sound like that before. Ever.

She crouched all but paralyzed behind the pile, her mind racing as she tried to decide what to do. She couldn’t stay here all night, she knew. They’d find her eventually- and it sounded like they were about to do something really bad to her aunt. Even if Vahne was still mad at her, she couldn’t bear the thought of her hurt or… or worse.

Like Mum had… like what had happened to Mum. She had to do something.

Go find help, her memory echoed. Do you understand? Go find help.

“Miss Aurelia,” she whispered.

Aunt Rhaya! Look at me! Let me show you how fast I can run! Are you watching?

Soil kicked up from her heels as she darted across the yard from the compost pile and into the endless waves of wheat. She heard angry shouts from the strange people in their strange clothes, the sounds of the crickets and the birds, the distant rumble of thunder--

--and above it all, her aunt’s cry,

“Vahne, run!!”

She didn’t dare look back. She sprinted between the gaps in the rows and tore a path through the wheat as if the hounds of death themselves snapped at her heels, straight into the waiting and depthless black arms of the wood. Willowsbend. She had to get to Willowsbend, as fast as she could. She had to find Miss Aurelia.

She had to save her aunt.

==

Argas rem Canina exhaled as they watched the small figure flit past them into the forest, her simple white shirt fluttering like the wings of a water bird. The first leg of the plan had been successful. Time to open the link and relay orders.

He pressed the switch next to the helm speaker.

“Operation Gold Finch has commenced,” he said. “Bird-watchers: you are to track the target to her eventual destination and confirm the presence of one or both deserters. Follow at a safe distance and do not attempt to apprehend or engage. I repeat, do not apprehend or engage.”

“And the prisoner?” Phoebus pyr Cinna asked. There was an icy note in his voice, one that hadn't abated since they'd set out on this raid, and with a frown Argas made a silent note to document and discuss the man's attitude with Lord Fabian very frankly once all was said and done. It wouldn't do to allow insubordination, subtle or not.

“Bring her. Let’s keep all of our cards ready to play if need be - we may need her for leverage.”

Static crackled over his helm's internal speakers with the man's sigh. “If I may remind you, 'twas your request that we be granted the freedom to levy harsher penalties against these savages. Whatever else she was, the woman was harboring-”

“Did I say we wouldn’t make an example of her, Cinna? Burn the house,” he said flatly. “And the fields. Leave a cleanup detail to make sure the fire remains controlled and does not spread to the surrounding forest. For the moment, I think that will suffice.”

“Understood.”

"Understood what, pyr Cinna?"

"...My lord."

Satisfied that the reminder had been made, Argas told himself these measures were necessary even as another part of him recoiled at their cruelty. The woman had brought it on herself. She and her deserter associates had had their chance to cooperate, and instead had caused him injury and nearly killed one of his subordinates. Such defiance was unseemly and not to be countenanced- and she was quite fortunate he had been inclined towards mercy. He knew plenty of others who would simply have hanged her from the nearest tree they could find.

The imperial presence in these wild lands might be a sleeping tiger, but it was still a tiger. It still had its fangs and its claws, and it would bare them both when necessity required it to do so.

Phoebus pyr Cinna does work quite fast, he thought. I must grant him that much. Very efficient. A repugnant man, really, but very efficient.  

Fabian rem Corbinus clearly liked him, a great deal more than Argas himself. Small wonder he now stood in jeopardy of losing his command of the mission.

Within moments he watched threads of flame and smoke commence their ascent towards the cloak of the night sky. 

He toggled the switch on his helm and tugged on his medicus’ arm. Lavinia jen Salvitto stood, helping him to his feet, and the pair made their way towards the wide dirt path to wait on the optio and his prisoner as the fields, too, began to burn.

[webcricket]

Cute Castiel idea-Cas buys the reader a kitten. Is captivated by the little bundle of fur as it crawls into his lap and begins to purr as it falls asleep in his lap. Reader decides to name the cat Cassie after Cas.

Youfound the document you were hunting in the last storeroom you searched, on thelast low level shelf, in the last dingy box, in the last dog-eared file folderyou checked. Glancing over the mostly redacted and totally useless yellowedtyped account, you sensed it wasn’t nearly as crucial to the case Sam and Deanwere working as they had earlier led you to believe when they departed andinsisted you remain behind to find this all important antiquated fragment ofthe Men of Letters record they absolutely needed to guarantee their success.Sitting there on the floor, cross-legged, dust-covered, scowling at the pieceof paper, back aching from sifting through boxes all day, it slowly dawned onyou that this was the brothers’ miserably maddening way of keeping you safe andsound in the bunker. Thoroughly frustrated, you punched the innocent box besideyou, denting the cardboard with your fist and sending it careering across the cementfloor to crash into a pair of familiar black-booted feet.

“Hello,Y/N.”

Yourgaze travelled up the legs attached to those feet, pausing at the swinging hemof a trench coat, following the striped tie to up to a curiously cockedunshaven countenance flaunting a stunning and inquisitively squinting set ofbrightly shining blues. “Oh, hey Cas,” you mumbled, tossing aside the paperwith a sigh. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Theangel meowed in response. More specifically, something in his pocket wriggledand mewed plaintively. His brow knotted in visible vexation.

“Isthat a kitten in your pocket?” you asked, scrambling to your feet, navigatingthe maze of discarded files to assault the angel with unbounded enthusiasm.Somewhere in the back of your mind you were grateful Dean wasn’t around tofinish your query with the cheeky, or areyou just happy to see me?

Plannedsurprise decisively ruined by the impatient feline, Castiel rolled hisbeautiful eyes and reached inside his trench to pluck a tiny fluffy ball of grey-bluefrom the recesses therein. “She was supposed to keep quiet,” Cas glared chidinglyat the betraying bundle of fur who only happily purred louder, utterly contentin her treachery. “We had an agreement.”

“Ohmy god, she’s adorable!” you squealed, grabbing the squirming kitten and clutchingthe soft bundle of fuzz to your neck while humming in pure joy. You held herbefore you to look at her, an incoherent stream of baby talk syllables spillingfrom your lips as you doted on the rosy pink nose, twitching white whiskers, bushyflicking ears, and goggled over the expressive sapphire eyes she possessed. “She’sperfect Cas! Thank you!” You breezed by the angel in a flurry of kitten focusedaffection without a second glance, missing the rare small smile lighting up hisfeatures, and disappeared into the hall.

Casstood there for a moment, smile fading in the dim storeroom, staring inbewilderment at the box still at his feet, wondering where exactly his plan hadgone awry. When he picked out the kitten at the shelter that morning, he did sobecause he knew it would make you happy and he enjoyed making you happy. At thetime he did not consider the possibility that you would abandon his company forthwithin favor of the feline’s companionship. As with the aftermath of manysituations he involved himself in, he found he had some serious regrets. “You’rewelcome,” he muttered gruffly to the unsympathetic box. Mood defeated, theangel followed the incessant burbling nonsensical coo of your voice through thebunker to the threshold of your bedroom.

“Thereyou are!” you exclaimed, as though Cas had been the one to unceremoniously desertyou. “You have to see this!”

Castielglanced over his shoulder to be sure your remark wasn’t directed at some other haplessbeing who happened to be standing stealthily behind him.

“Comein,” you urged with a wave, focus intent upon the kitten on the bed playfully pouncingon and repeatedly attacking the dotted pattern on the comforter. “Hurry up!” Youleft the teeny creature for a moment to haul the unresponsive angel into theroom by his coat sleeve. “You have to see the way she flattens her ears andwags her bottom before she ambushes the dots. It’s so cute!” You knelt on thefloor to more closely observe her antics.

Casperched tentatively on the edge of the bed, keeping a wary distance from the duplicitousfeline. In two rollicking leaps and a somersaulting roll she was in his lap, upsidedown, swatting at his tie. Paw poised mid-swipe, she gazed piercingly into theangel’s eyes, blinked slowly, and began to purr. “Why is she vibrating?” Casasked, eyes growing wide with alarm.

“She’spurring,” you grinned, scratching her chin as she yawned and stretched her stubbylegs overhead, extending her claws and then melting into the warmth of theangel’s thighs.

“Oh,”Cas murmured, mimicking your action to gently pet the velvety smooth fuzzbetween her ears. The little furball’s eyelids sank blissfully shut as shenapped.

“Ijust thought of a name,” you beamed, rising to sit on the bed beside the angel.Threading your fingers through his dark locks, ruffling his hair affectionately,pecking a tender kiss upon his stubbly cheek, you nuzzled his shoulder andwhispered, “Cassie. After the sweetest angel I know.”

Castiel,sometime angel of the Lord, current celestial cat bed, blushed.

Castieltag list:  (Ifyou’d like to be added or removed please let me know!)    @jeepangel  @sammiesamness  @willowing-love  @roxy-davenport  @blueicevalkyrie   @im-the-nerdiest-of-them-a11  @thesugargalaxy  @zeeimpalaangel  @bluetina-blog  @dont-trust-humanity  @afanofmanystuffs  @casbabydontgoineedyou  @love-charmer-sketch  @skyethekeks  @honeybeetrash  @bucky-thorin-winchester  @tacos-and-trenchcoats  @superwholockz   @tistai  @wordstothewisereaders  @gill-ons  @mrswhozeewhatsis  @marisayouass  @mycuddlycorner   @stone-met  @gravehumour13  @castiel-savvy18  @samualmortgrim  @pointlessbow  @trexrambling  @magnificent-mantle  @kdfrqqg  @xdifsx  @narisjournal-blog  @book-loving–anime-chick  @misscherryberry  @moon-and-stars-cas  @tokentransboy  @mandilion76  @rockfairy  @badasssweetsrebel  @xxgoldiethegoldenxx  @peaceloveancolor  @unicorntrooper  @anisolatedship  @itsilvermorny  @alyssa6marie  @superjunkdrawer  @aditimukul  @calicat79  @feelmyroarrrr  @theedwardscollection  @wehannia  @kudosia  @goofynerd-67babylove  @eternallyademon  @peculiarlyrene  @lllydg  @noonelikestheo  @idk-fandom  @amionthetumbler  @furiousdonutbarbarian  @chocolategate  @oresalupus  @ladydork  @graceavidan

[tatooedlaura-blog]

Cheezy Pouffs

the series read as follows:

Superman … Monday

_____________

Contain words and thoughts deemed innappropriate for those under the age of appropirate inappropriateness ...

_____________

She was all set and dressed for another day of work when the call came in. Overnight, they’d picked up the suspect, meaning no more bodies, no more scalpels, no more Dana in scrubs and masks. Happily, she went back to sleep for another hour before heading to the station to wrap up her end of the paperwork. While waiting on a final signature of somebody she couldn’t remember the name of, she used the power of her government agency and got herself on a flight leaving at four that afternoon, which put her back Washington at the ripe old time of 1am. Deciding to withhold that information from Mulder for surprise sake, she waited impatiently to leave, to board, to fly, to drive until she reached his apartment.

Fleetingly, she wondered when she’d get to sleep in her own bed, in her own corner of the universe but then, grabbing her carryon, she found herself grinning at the prospect of sleeping in his. She moved in silence, taking her shoes off once she got off the elevator, not wanting her heels to click him awake, preferring to surprise him in other, more entertaining ways.

She never should have worried about waking him up with the sounds of her hallway walk, given even before she slid her key in the lock, she heard noise. Figuring it had to be the TV while he dozed on the couch, she opened the door, put her luggage in first, then pushing it the rest of the way, stopped dead when she saw Frohike, Langly, Byers and Mulder all turn in unison towards her, holding handfuls of playing cards, empty Cheeto bags and beer bottles littering any and all flat surfaces.

Mulder was the first to stand, immediately tipping sideways and grabbing Frohike’s balding head to keep his balance, his cast having slipped on a forgotten pretzel bag, “Scully?!”

Standing there, she had absolutely no idea where to go or what to do, given she had her luggage at her feet, her blouse three buttons to the wind, her shoes in one hand, her keys still dangling from the other. Her mouth, she felt, had opened in surprise but she couldn’t seem to shut it, instead gaping like a fish, not able to come up with a single word to explain her ‘I’m home and here to spend the night’ stature.

The Gunmen, once they stopped throwing each other triumphant looks out of the corners of their eyes, began to stand, poised to clean up the game and run like hell from the house, to dance in the hallway in ecstatic jubilation that at least one of them might be getting some kind of sex in the future. She stopped them, however, holding up a hand, “wait. Keep you game. I’m going to head back home. I just came by to … to check on Mulder’s leg. Make sure he hadn’t done anything stupid while he was away.”

Mulder’s face broke into a grin, eyes never leaving hers even though hers tried to escape his gaze, “actually, boys, get out. I’ll clean up and cash you out later.”

Langly, because he was Langly, “how are you going to remember who’s who?”

“I’ll write it down, now get out.”

“But I started with …”

Mulder gave Frohike a look, who in turn shoved Langly out of his chair, “come on, Goldilocks, mom and dad want some alone time and they don’t give a rip about your money at the moment.”

Wanting to both smack and kiss the man, Mulder simply stood, waiting while coats were pulled on and boots were tied. Each of the three Gunmen respectfully tipped hats or nodded as they filed by Scully, careful to keep their amusement to a minimum lest she kill them with two fingers and a high heel. Once the door closed behind her and she locked it with a twist and a tug of the handle, she turned back towards him, sheepish look abounding, “I really should go. I didn’t mean to interrupt your game.”

With shoulders raised and arms out in a conciliatory gesture, “what game?” Giving a nod towards the footwear still dangling from her fingers, “would you please put those down and come here so I can kiss you?”

Clattering shoes signaled her obedience and, after weaving through the sea of bottles, she made it to him, “sorry for crashing the party.”

“Sorry I didn’t know you were coming. I’d have at least showered and not had Larry, Daryl and Daryl here for embarrassment factors.”

The next thing he heard was her chuckle before her lips tentatively brushed his, hesitant and upturned, a full-on grin moments away, tongue then wetting both mouths before she came in again, hesitancy gone as her body pressed against him.

Standing there, in the well-lit room, the smell of Fritos hanging in the air, the fish tank burbling in the background, she moved her hand to his hair and just starting to glide her fingers through it, she ran into a stray chunk of something dusty and crunchy, something resembling a Cheezy Pouff and removing it, indeed found a Cheezy Pouff. Pulling away from his mouth, she was highly amused he followed her nearly two inches before he woke up from his stupor, realizing she wanted to speak. Giving her a slow smile, eyes half-shut, lips warm and wet, “where’re you going?”

Stepping half a foot back, she held out the food formerly trapped in his hair, “did you have a food fight?”

Mulder immediately ran his hands over his head, “shit, I thought I got all those. Yeah, well, Byers threw what he thought was an empty bag at my head but there were some crumbs left. Apparently, I missed some in the cleanup process.”

She couldn’t get past Byers doing something so … un-Byerly, “was he drunk or drugged at the time?”

“No. Just pissed that I had the Jack he was looking for. Cards turn him into a completely different person, a mere mortal if you want to get down to name calling.”

With a smile, she pointed down the hall, “shower, Mulder. I don’t need to be finding snacks in the mattress.”

Eyebrow cocked, “so, staying the night?”

“Just go shower.”

He clunk-stepped his way quickly towards the bathroom while Scully debated for roughly 4 seconds about cleaning up, then said a mental ‘fuck it’ and moved to the bedroom, under the covers in record time, enjoying immensely a mattress that didn’t reek of hotel/motel/don’t ask, don’t tell.

&&&&&&&&&

Nearly 2:30am by the time he turned off the last light in the living room, he did his best to walk quietly to bed, figuring she had to be dead asleep by now. Shuffling in behind her, the first thing he registered was skin.

Not the type of skin that appears because the tanktop shifted slightly off her shoulder or the pajama pants scooted down her hip a little but honest-to-God vast expanse of smooth-as-silk skin running from peaked shoulder blade through deep dip in the back to upswell of ass. One-quarter of a heartbeat, half a breath, a twitch of a muscle later and his mouth was by her ear, “you are beautiful in the dark.”

A hitch in her ‘thank you’, muffled by baited breath, pulled him to her mouth, supple, open to him, waiting for years of memories, years of stares and gazes and endless, utter flirtatious nonsense to finally find its end game. He moved away however, after one frustrating little graze of his tongue against her and she nearly pounded the mattress in frustration at his departure, until she stupidly realized he was only moving to get his clothes off.

Her embarrassment would have normally turned her red, flustered her, made her apologize but before any thoughts could form beyond, ‘come back … comeback … comebackcomebackcomeback’ he was indeed back, the weight of him on her, his boot knocking her ankle, his bony knee sinking in the bed beside her thigh. It was a welcome and dreamed of heaviness and it sent her clit thrumming, muscles tightening at the thought of the next two minutes to 75 years of pure, mind-addling sex with him.

Problem was, he focused first on her mouth, which was wonderful, his hands moving over her gently, reverently … then he drifted down to her neck, which escalated things quite a bit … then to her collarbone, shoulder, crook of elbow and delicateness of wrist, fingertips and palm, ribcage and finally upward curve of breast … hot breathe on cool skin, moist lips on fevered flesh …

She’d had enough.

“Mulder, you know,” his mouth suckling, “how much I love,” hand holding breast, “you and appreciate you taking things,” lips moving slowly over breastbone, “slowly but I’m going to be,” thigh running lightly against thigh, “crude for a moment, if that’s all right?”

Nodding into the dip in her neck, which she’d arched back, giving full access to throat and hollow, “I like crude at times.”

She took his face in both hands, pulling him up and away so she could look at his face, “I need you to fuck me … right now. I vote for all the foreplay in the world, hours upon hours of touching, kissing, licking, sucking, the whole nine yards … later … but right now, I need you to fuck me like there’s no tomorrow, any position, anywhere, I don’t care … I just need you to fuck me.”

He had never laughed so hard in his life, in bed or otherwise and collapsing on her, body shaking as he gasped for breath, “holy shit … when you said crude, I just … I had no idea …” He then felt her chuckle, her inhale erratic and her exhale filled with giggles, her arms sliding over his back, kneading the muscles she found, her hands finding his well-sculpted ass after a moment and pulling him flush to her.

It was, however, her whispered, “I wasn’t kidding,” that calmed him enough to kiss her, position himself and slide his way in, full length, quick, deep and hard.

Her answering gasp, still flirting with giggles, made him grin, “I never thought you were kidding … I just never expected you to order me around in bed.”

With each thrust, she lost more of the English language, sentence structure collapsing under the chuffing of breath, the thwapping of skin, the rhythmic creak of the bed, all of which became faster, more urgent as the seconds passed. She lost color next, room darkening, her vision tunneling under the building pressure between them. Mulder blurred, spun, she shut her eyes against the sheer ecstasy of him inside her, around her, surrounding her.

His hand suddenly between them, thumb on clit, balls swinging a rhythmic beat against her, she came, eyes sparking behind closed lids and breath held, clenched fists pulling sheets off the corner of the mattress, cloth tangling as her head twisted, a low moan escaping into the pillow, her muscles pulling him along with her, milking every last drop until his head fell against her breast, pillowing him as he grasped for a lungful of air.

&&&&&&&

Eventually, her world re-focused, eyes open, sense of Mulder’s weight comfortably atop her. Looking over his shoulder, she smiled, then nudged his forehead with her chin, “hey, you awake?”

An acknowledging, muffled ‘yeah’ reached her ears, then he lifted his head, “’sup?”

Her grin grew, “second, we will address the use of ‘sup in bed over breakfast tomorrow but first, have you noticed your leg at all?”

Eyebrows scrunching in the illusion of deep thought, he responded in beautiful Mulder-fashion, “yes, because who gives a flying crap that the love of my universe is naked beneath me when I have a leg and holy mother of pearl, it’s attached! … no, I have not noticed my leg.”

Now she laughed, a low reverberating chuckle that carried its way through Mulder’s chest, “smart-ass. No, I mean, did you realize that I’m pretty sure we just had some fairly, well, astronomically good sex, to continue your space theme, and during it, you had your casted leg sticking up in the air the entire time?”

Looking over his shoulder as well, he nodded his surprise, “huh. Must have kept it up so it didn’t rub on you. That would explain why my knee’s aching like it is.”

Immediately, she slid up and over, helping him lay down on his back, his relieved groan hitting her ears, “oh, I’m sorry. I should have been on top.”

Mulder grabbed her face, pulling her down to kiss him, “you say the nicest things in bed.”

As she swung her leg over his hips, “once again, not kidding.”

[docholligay]

A Tragedy in Four Acts

THE UNPROMPTED FIC NOBODY ASKED FOR. I’ve alluded to this moment a bunch of times in the fic verse but never really sketched it out to now, and I, after receiving my shitty news, decided I really did want to finish this. So, 3,000 words, and I really hope you enjoy. Entire OW verse is here. 

Tracer

The shots rang through the still air, one, two, three, and Tracer felt a shock of hot pain run through her. She gasped with the surprise of it, more than the pain, the idea that the sound of the gun could ever be connected to her own welfare a shock to her, even after seeing so much in this world.

She looked back at the darkness, and saw a cowboy hat receding, as if he could not stay to see.

Tracer looked down at the hand she had clasped to her stomach, and rubbed her fingers together, the hot dark blood smooth between them.

She gave a half-smile to herself. “Well. That’s unfortunate.”

She could hear her teammates in her ear, telling everyone to get back to the rendezvous, that they had been successful, good job, and the calming replies of her safe team.

She hadn’t been paying attention. Normally, such a thing would not have been unusual, as the phrase, “I’m sorry, what?” was intimately known to her, and had been all her life, lost sometimes in a daydream of her own. No, it was the nature of it that was unusual, she was generally quick and keen on the battlefield, if nowhere else, and this was the first time she had ever stopped, stock-still, just to stare. A woman’s silhouette in the moonlight, who must have been Widowmaker, who Tracer knew so little about, a woman from a thousand years away, before she had even been lost to time.

Her wound became less amusing as she began to feel weak, growing chill in the cool of the night. There would be time to wonder about how she came to this later.

She stumbled against the wall, barely holding herself up, and tapped her earpiece. “Tracer ‘ere. I’m down, and I need assistance.” There was no reply, and Tracer tapped it again. “Tracer down,” she took a shuddering breath, “can you ‘ear me? I--I need ‘elp.”

Tracer hit the earpiece again, and realized she could not even hear herself. It must have malfunctioned. Had she checked it before the mission? Jack had told her a thousand times, but sometimes, when she was busy, things slipped her mind and now...

I am going to die.

She was deep in enemy territory, in one of the side alleys where she made her trade, flitting in and out of the light, and they would never find her in time. After a lifetime of near-misses, this was the final chapter for Lena Anne Oxton, callsign: Tracer, Overwatch agent, adventurer, and noted aviatrix.

She looked down the alleyway and saw a stone fountain, bathed in moonlight.

I might have to die, but at the very least, I can do it by a lovely little fountain, and there’s worse things, aren’t there?  I know there are.

She closed her eyes and gathered up her strength, and half walked, half fell to the fountain, laying down on the cold side of the stone, moonlight glittering off the water.

There. Much better.

She looked down at the water gently dripping into the fountain, cool and burbling in the silver rays of light, and dipped her hand into the water, the blood drifting into the clear of the water, cloaked in the dark. She shivered, a chill coming over, her deepest breath less satisfying than she’d like.

“Do you know what I do when I’m afraid, Lena?” Her father had drawn her onto his lap as they sat in the waiting room.

“What, daddy?” She leaned back against him.

The voices echoed down the alleyway and bounced off each brick, surrounding the small round fountain in the spotlight of the night.

“I sing a little to meself. Anything what comes to mind, doesn’t matter.”

“Then you’re not scared.”

“Gives me something to do, any’ow.” He gave a hollow laugh and began to hum a tune.

She felt herself begin to struggle and float, and sang softly to herself. “Fortune’s always hiding...I’ve looked everywhere. I’m forever blowing bubbles, pretty bubbles in the air.”

___

Winston

There was always a worrying moment when the group reassembled, as Winston practically held his breath, hoping everyone would come through the door and he could relax.

There had been plenty of times, in the older organization, where people had not come back, and yet, it never got any easier for Winston, any of those times.

Tracer wasn’t back yet, but that wasn’t unusual, necessarily--she went further out than most of them, down back ways and side streets, and the thrill of victory sometimes distracted her, and so she took a bit more time to get back than usual.

Pharah, it seemed, was not really in the mood for Tracer’s dallying.

“Tracer, return to the rendezvous.” She tapped at the earpiece again. “Tracer, this is Pharah. Do you copy?” She sighed heavily and tapped it one more time. ‘Tracer. Rendezvous. Immediately.”

WInston looked at Pharah, a strange, wavering feeling rising in his stomach. “Maybe she’s ...hurt.”

“She had better be. Seriously.”

“Fareeha!” Mercy scolded, scowling at her. Missions made her nervous.

“Oh, I am only joking.” She looked over at Winston. “I am sure she is distracted.” A beat passed, and Pharah looked around the rendezvous. “Is everyone’s radio working?” She examined them as they nodded assent.

Winston was not at all like Tracer, and, in many ways, he thought this might be why they were so compatible. But it did not help him at all as he tried to think like her, tried to imagine where she would go and down what side alley she might have sped.

It’s fine, Win. You worry too bloody much. Her voice rang inside him, high and cheerful as a bell.

The air was cold, and the streets were quiet, and he felt a shadow come over him, the memories of the day on the moon like glimpses at the corner of his eye, and he tried to ignore them. That was then. That was before. That wouldn’t happen to Tracer.

If it was going to happen, it would have happened by now, of course. She can be careless. But she’s born under a lucky star. She always says so.

A man of science is not necessarily a man of truth.

A sliver of moonlight caught his eye through a side street, glowing like a blade of silver in the night, and he followed it.

It was almost idyllic as a painting, the light off the water glittering like diamonds, the blue and silver of the stones in the moonlight playing against the orange of her uniform, the dark burgundy seeping into the shadows.

“Lena!” It escaped his throat like a wild bird from a cage, the letters barely intelligible, more a cry than a name.

He ran toward her, and all the old prayers from that day came up. Please no, please not this, please not her, I don’t want to be alone, please help, please no, please not her...And the fountain could never get close enough fast enough.

He reached her, and she was breathing. That was all that mattered, in one moment. But only for a moment, as he noted the dark red spreading over the stone and dripping into the water, writing warnings in its curled script.

Tracer looked up at him, eyes wide. “Win…”

He put his hand under her back. “It’s okay, Lena,” He lied, though mostly to himself, “you’ll be all right.”

“Don’t think so.” She said weakly. “Love you, Win.”

“Lena, stop it.” he gritted his teeth. “You’re here to stay. You told me that.”

“What day is it?” She had looked over through the glass, as Winston put their plates on a tray to take into the timelocked room Tracer called the Bug Jar. “Innit something?”

“American Thanksgiving.” He had answered, holding the tray in his hand. “I brought us turkey from the cafeteria!”

Tracer ignored the food, just kept looking at him. “Aren’t you American, then? Should ‘ave the day off, you should.”

Tracer had started speaking again a month ago, and she seemed to be making up for lost time.

“I’m--” he pushed his glasses up on his nose, “I don’t--I don’t take holidays off, usually.”

“Well, why not?” She pushed at him as he stammered his way through the first double sealed door. “Cafeteria’s food not brilliant as you think, Dr. Winston,” she laughed, “Proof you ought to leave the lab, so it is.”

“I don’t have any reason to.” He set down the tray.

“Cooking that bad in your family, love?”

He sat down, practically muttering into the gloppy potatoes. “I don’t have anyone. No family. No friends.”

She had been uncharacteristically quiet for a few minutes, and then sat down and placed her hand on his.

“Well, that isn’t true, now is it love, what am I then? Oxtons are a rowdy bunch, they are, and they’ll ‘ardly note another body at the table, if we get me out of ‘ere ever.” She smiled and rocked forward, bouncing with excitement. “And me Nan never met an ‘oliday she didn’t like, so we’ll give you a proper American Thanksgiving, next year, when I’m out.”

He shook his head. “It’s--”

“You took care of me, now didn’t you? You do, still now. We’re friends, Win. ‘ope you don’t mind if I call you Win, us being such firm friends and all.” She patted his hand. “”Ere to stay, I am.”

You weren’t supposed to move someone who’d been seriously hurt, but the slick red over the stones made Winston think there was no waiting for Mercy to get here, and he scooped her up into his arms, and ran as fast as he could, but like the fountain had, the tactical van seemed further and further away, no matter how fast he ran, a treadmill that was set too high for him.

“I found her! She’s been shot!” It was all he could say, over and over, and the words that came back to him seemed garbled and nonsense.

He had never felt simultaneously more and less human in his life, the pain of losing Tracer  tearing like a wildfire through his chest.

___

Mercy

“Winston. 76. Hold her down.” Mercy’s voice took on an air of command it lacked in all other situations, at the sight of blood, slipping an oxygen mask over Tracer’s face,  and Winston obediently laid her down and pressed down her shoulders, 76 following suit at the other end.

She looked down at Tracer’s wound, her mind calculating exactly what she was going to have to do and precisely how unpleasant it was going to be. She grabbed a compress and looked at Tracer’s face.

“This is going to hurt badly, Lena, I’m sorry.” She pressed down as hard as she could, trying to stop the bleeding.

Tracer screamed the pained, senseless cry of a trapped animal, twisting against Winston and 76, who held her fast.

“I need blood!” she barked at Pharah, who moved quickly to the cabinet affixed to the wall of the tactical vehicle, flinging it open and grabbing a bag of cool red blood.

Pharah knelt down next to Mercy, awaiting further instruction--it was not the correct moment to be thinking all of this, but still Mercy did--that what she loved most about Pharah, both individually and as a commander, was her ability to follow orders if the person giving them clearly knew better. She would not lose a teammate for pride’s sake, however individually proud she was, and Mercy cherished this about her.

Mercy looked at the bag. ‘This is O positive. She is negative. I can’t use it.”

Pharah opened her mouth to say something, but shook her head and sprang back to the cabinet, rifling through it with renewed vigor. Tracer took a shuddering breath, her heart racing with all its might against the cruel insistence of the bullets that it simply stop trying. She was beginning to decompensate. Tracer was very tough, Mercy had learned over the years, but there is no human body that does not have its limits, and Tracer was rapidly finding hers.

Tracer gave a soft, tearful moan. “Daddy, ‘elp me.”

Mercy closed her eyes against the sound of it, but there was a dull and decidedly non-professional ache in her chest. Where was Pharah?

“Fareeha!” She called desperately to the cabinet.

“That is all there is!” She turned to Mercy, a look of apology and frustration on her face. “There is nothing else.”

“Es kann nicht sein,” she mumbled to herself, but, as her mind wandered, she found it must be very possible, for it happened, and all it took was one mistake, one person at the hospital misstocking her tactical vehicle, and mistakes happened, and it seemed, now, that mistakes were happening to Tracer, and she was bleeding to death on a cold metal floor.

And Mercy could not stop it.

Mercy shook her head at Pharah, and looked back down at Tracer’s body, never taking the pressure off the bleeding, her mind whirling through a thousand different options in each of the four languages she spoke. Nichts. Rein. K’lum. Nothing.

Pharah’s face grew soft, and she reached down and gently touched Tracer on the shoulder. “Oh, Lena, no.”

The vehicle was quiet save for the sound of of Tracer mumbling incoherently to anyone who would help her, struggling for breath.

There was a dark moment, Mercy had found, where you realized the game was over, and there was nothing that could be done, and those final moments as life left someone drug on like hours, a reminder of how she had failed someone who depended on her, and her face fell.

“Jack?” she asked softly. “I need you to--” she stumbled over the words, “I need you to get me the morphine.”

___

Pharah

Pharah looked up at Mercy, and her face changed, the tenderness replaced by determination.

“No. Not like this. Not today” She reached under Tracer’s collar and grabbed the ID tags, snapping the chain from her neck. She looked at the tags, and then tossed them to the side of the van. “It is what I thought.” She rolled up her sleeve. “However much you can take from me without killing me, you should do it. And quickly.”

“Fareeha, it might n--”

“I am not speaking to you as your wife, I am speaking to you as your commander!” She regretted the snap instantly, and she softened. “Angela. Please do it.”

Mercy looked over at D.VA. “Come here. Press this down as hard as you can. She will not be liking it.”

D.Va nodded and came to Tracer’s side, kneeling down next to her, overlapping Mercy’s hands and quickly pressing down, Tracer bucking against it with renewed force.

“Settle down!” Pharah scowled down at Tracer.

Mercy quickly pulled apart the packs of needles and line. She was a deft hand, and though Pharah had seen many talented medics on the battlefield, she had never seen Mercy’s equal. Pharah was no medic, but she knew Tracer would already be dead but for Mercy’s skill.

Mercy slipped the line into Pharah’s vein so quickly she barely felt it, and she looked at Pharah softly.

“I will have to watch you. It is fast.”

Pharah nodded. “I will be honest with you.” She looked back at Tracer, searching for something to say, something that would make everything feel less dire. “If you waste this opportunity, I am writing you up.”

She thought Tracer would laugh at that, if she could. If she were not calling for her parents and struggling to stay alive.

Mercy broke the horrible soundtrack of an uncertain future, quietly singing a prayer as she bent over Tracer.

“yimalei rahamim aleha…”

People loved Pharah because of the things she was sure of. She was sure, as a commander.

“L’hahlimah, u-l’rap’otah,”

She knew the way people moved, and she knew how to move them, and she was always sure as she opened her mouth to issue the words. If she was not sure, she would not send them.

“L’hazikah, u-l’hay-otah...”

But of some things, Mercy seemed ever more sure than Pharah.

V’yishlah lah bim-hera, refuah shlemah...”

Pharah’s eyes moved back over to the wall of the van, where Tracer’s tags lay on the floor, the light gleaming off them, the raised text bouncing into the air.

“Religion.” Pharah looked up from the form at Tracer.

“You mean, what do I believe?” Tracer kicked back on the couch. “That’s rather a difficult question now, innit? I’ve seen so much, in me life, and its left me with a lot of questions, mind, but I think there’s some possibility--”

“Tracer this is not a philosophical question. It is more,” she shrugged, “what do you want us to do if you are dying?”

“Not dying, not necessarily, Fareeha. Badly hurt, maybe.” Mercy’s eyes grew soft as she reprimanded Pharah.

She looked back over at Tracer. “Correction. What do you want me to do if you are badly hurt?”

Tracer thought for a moment. “I dunno. ‘Old me ‘and maybe. Be nice to me, for once in your bloody life.”

Pharah sighed and wrote down ‘no preference.’

She looked back over at Tracer, lying on the ground, and the thin red line that connected them, just barely holding her to this earth.

Pharah slipped her hand around Tracer’s. and held it tight. 

[ecotone99]

Humor [HM] Fantasy [FN] Cadorna Keep Chapter 1 - A Dnd GameLit

“The lords will see you in just a few moments now,” the stuffy shirted gnome told them. He stood perhaps three and a half feet tall but somehow held a halberd. The axe shaft was twice as long as he was and it wavered awkwardly.

The party didn’t really notice though, absorbed as they were with the anxiety of the moment. The adventurers had been pacing for a good half an hour, well aware that if they messed up this interview they might as well pull up camp from Gennopolis and head off elsewhere. Yenrab’s stomach burbled with the stress of bottled up gas and his face was taut with displeasure.

Tracy looked over her friend with sympathy.

“Maybe, friend Yenrab, you should take a trip to the latrines?”

Yenrab looked back at her with a pained expression.

“Ya know I would if you all didn’t make me the party captain. I’ll take off to the crapper then they’ll call us in and I’ll be the sour snout that messed it all up for us all. They’ll be like, oh, hey, where’s your captain? And you’ll all say that I’m in the crapper. Then they’ll do some stuff with the papers and huff and haw and we’ll lose to the job to Some Other Guys.”

“Some Other Guys are a pretty decent group, mates,” Bern Sandros cut in, his midnight blue cloaks and leather quite the fashion statement now that he’d had the cash to have it tailored. “Enough so that people were telling me that SOG is almost certainly going to get this job instead of us.”

“Nonsense brosephs,” Wex added, his featureless mask fully in place, his mailed body edgy with anticipation. “We’re the heroes of Rising Action and Torus Strade. We’re a shoe in, right?”

“Yeah?” Bern questioned.

“Yeah bro,” Wex answered. “No doubt about it.”

Strings plucked in the corner.

“They came they saw they slew them all - hoorah hoorah - they are the Exterminators of Things that Hurt Us and Are Really Bad - hoorah hoorah - EoTtHUaARB came to save the day, everyone got hurt and there wasn’t much day but it all ended purposeful for the Exterminators of Things that Hurt Us and Are Really Bad . . .” Carric Smith sang, fading out at the end. He was dressed up in fancy and colorful clothing, not quite his style but today he had to dress to impress. And these fancy duds came from home with his name tagged to every article. At his side he carried his scabbard with the words ‘Momma’s Little Dumpling’ woven into its edges and upon his back was hooked his exceptionally manufactured hand crossbow whose name, ‘Lil Sunshine’, stood carved into its outward arc.

“What was that?” Bern Sandros asked the half-elf, his pointed ears and thin build a stark reminder of his mixed parentage.

“Shuddup. I’m working on it.”

“I’ve heard better cat squalls,” Wex opined. “And what’s with the duds? You look so not you?”

Carric simply scowled. “The lords will see you now,” the stuffy shirt yawned, somehow still hanging on to that danged halberd.

***

The hall they entered resembled a courtroom more than anything else. The lords of the ruling council sat tall behind gavelled podiums of a deep brown oak, well finished and well furbished. The rest of the large council room was absent except for them, the wooden panels that composed it playing back their every sound as it echoed through the room.

A light squeal sounded from Yenrab’s end. Carric shifted and coughed to cover it up, though Yenrab’s very guilty face, and the sudden smell of dirty rear let the rest of the party know that this interview had to go fast.

The three lords stood from their high places. Each was dressed regally, but in glitzy and ceremonial garb as best befit their titles. On the left stood the Lord over Civil Affairs, elected, as they all were, for a single ten year term. He wore golden silks in the form favored by sages, and ceremonial eyeglasses clung to his face, though they were not necessary. Next, in the middle of them, stood a broad shouldered man with a scarred face. He was the General over Military Affairs, and his golden chestplate gleamed as only a soldier with a spit rag can make it. Last was the Diplomat over International Ties and Diplomacy. It was a long title given to a man who looked crooked and calculated, with eyes that were filled with wild intelligence. His garb was that of some majestic godlike courier and frankly it looked ridiculous.

“You have audience with the Lords Regent of the Republic, party, Ea-ot-the-ah-arb,” the diplomat spoke. To every person within these halls of the law, he was simply the diplomat because the law had no name. Or so the law exposited. The party proceeded to line up as the formal words were spoken. Yenrab stepped forward to start this encounter.

“EoTtHUaARB, your, uh, graces,” Yenrab corrected them in a tone that, to those who knew them, indicated a bit of distress. Carric coughed again to cover a couple of creeping noises and Wex sneezed as the acrid stench reached his nose.

Hot air rises. We’d better finish this interview in a hurry, he thought to himself.

“What do you need?” Tracy stepped up beside him. The rest of the party scowled but the lord laughed and then, with a motion at his fellows, they were all seated.

“Party EoTtHUaARB,” the lord pronounced correctly, speaking it exactly as it is spelled, “we are here to beseech an adventuring party, the best one I suppose, to do a mission of a military matter.”

The general stood back up, his armor gleaming as the rays of the afternoon sun poured in through the windows of the Assembly’s dome. The building was quite majestic and, were one to write about it, surely they would give it a tremendous amount of description due to its powerful and statuesque beauty.

“We’re talking about Cadorna Keep,” he growled out. There was something about grizzled combat veterans that turned them half-feral. They always growled.

“Our Freeholder’s Republic is holding strong, but since we lost that keep during the Revolutionary War, it's been hard as the Elemental Plane of Earth to keep it free of pirates. And we’ve been getting goblin and orc tribes marching through our borders and dragging long boats in.”

“Someone needs to build a wall, A huge wall. A tremendous wall!” the Diplomat exclaimed fervently.

“We’ve been over this,” sighed the lord. “Who’s going pay for it?”

“I told you,” the Diplomat exclaimed again, standing up. “They will!”

“Fleer of Villages!” the general cursed. Yenrab started. When the heck did my folk hero titles start becoming curses, he wondered.

“Look, enough partisan bickering. Let’s just focus on the task at hand. Adventurers, what we need is a group to land on the island. We will have transport ships take you there and they will come back to pick you up the next day. We need you to map the place out and tell us what is where and where is what. The island has been under some sort of curse and we will send a military to occupy it whilst clerics of good cast this bad magic out. For your services we will give you the princely sum of,” the general looked uncomfortable, “Five-hundred gold pieces.”

Why is it always gold pieces or silver pieces, one of The Gamers griped. Do they just march around with jagged chunks of unstamped metal in their pockets? How much is that anyways? Like five dollars? Five-hundred dollars? Why not something cool, like pieces of eight?

Oh, look at that, an even more powerful figure observed. The weather outside has turned rather rough. It’d be a damn shame if a stray lightning bolt came blasting through that window.

The voices of The Gamers faded away.

“Bloody hells we will,” Bern Sandros broke in. “You want us to stay twenty-four hours on a haunted island for the cost of a good set of mail? No thanks, mate. Pass.”

“Bern, bro,” Wex the wood-elf cut in, his mask removed to show off his dark skin and even darker eyes. “Mask has granted me the power to scare the undead. It’s right.”

Bern soaked that in, and then nodded. Yenrab motioned with his hand, using a broken bit of Thieves Cant that Bern had told him meant hurry up (but actually meant I am a giant talking turd with a lot of money. Please rob me.)

Tracy, though, twirling in strange ballerina-like pivots and slides behind them, all at once stopped.

“One-thousand gold pieces,” she stated in a coquettish lilt. “And a few magic items.”

Then she raised her fist and winked at Bern.

“Power to the People.”

“Yeah!” Bern agreed. “Power to the People!”

Carric fiddled a bit with his lute and stepped forward to take over negotiations.

“That’s one-thousand gold dollars -” the faraway Lord of the Gamers sighed - “and a few magic items. Take it or leave it.”

The Diplomat looked as if he were about to start to argue, his finger raised to make a point, and the lord looked as if he were already ready to oppose the Diplomat, no matter what it was that he actually said, but the general spoke loudly and in a commanding voice that shut both up rather quickly.

“One-thousand gold pieces, er, dollars and a few magic items, but you guys lift the damnable curse then,” he growled.

“Deal,” Carric smiled. Yenrab took the opportunity to run away from the room in a strange waddle, his thick orcish legs bouncing him back and forth like a toddler learning to walk. But Bern and Wex slapped hands and Tracy cheered, making jazz fingers at the moon goddess, whatever that meant.

“Say,” Carric asked out of the blue. “Why did we get the job and not the party SOG?”

It was the general’s turn to smile, his eyes stony and satisfied at a deal well done. “Oh, Some Other Guys? They got the job first. There was just nothing left of them when we came back to pick them up.”

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