#this wip had been almost getting dust for nearly two months now!!!!!

[disastersteps]

into the mornings

[starzzach]

*ahem* son of the sea god ? 👀

hiiiiiiiiii malllllllllll

this one is really funny bc i have 1 wip of them being the gods, and this wip of them as the children of the gods set in a percy jackson-esque universe.

i haven't worked on this fic in a while but there's a solid enough foundation i think the snippet (under the cut) will make sense!

-

In fact, he hopes he can get another kiss out of the whole encounter, but Charles is sighing, standing up and tugging on the collar of his shirt, dragging Carlos with him. “Come on,” he says airily, dusting down his shorts, and tousling his perfectly styled hair. “It’s time for lunch.” Pointing down at the camp, he uses his other hand to take Carlos’, leading him down as if he hasn’t used this path countless times.

There are jeers and whistling from some of the other campers when they emerge, but Charles doesn’t drop his hand. Rumours have flown around about the two of them for more summers than Carlos cares to count. Lando spies him from the archery range, waving wildly in greeting. Carlos doesn’t have the chance to wave back, jerked yet another way by Charles’ iron grip. “Where are we–?”

“Lunch,” is the only answer he gets.

They’re, like, not really heading to lunch though. Unless the layout of the camp has completely changed in the months Carlos has been gone, the mess hall is in the opposite direction to which they’re moving in. He tries to fall in step with Charles but he’s making it much harder than it needs to be with the length of his stride. They walk past the Zeus and Hera cabins through to the Poseidon cabin, which Charles opens harshly with his shoulder, nearly knocking the door off its hinges. “You’re stronger these days,” he tries to joke, but Charles merely shoves him in, rolling his eyes. “What–”

“Gods,” Charles complains under his breath, hardly audible over the shut of the door behind them, “why can’t you take a hint?” Carlos only has a moment to try and comprehend the situation before Charles is walking them backwards, capturing his lips in a kiss so brutal he wonders whether the goal of all this is pain or pleasure. The air in the cabin has always been slightly salty, but Charles’ sweetness almost seems to be in a battle with it. Carlos loses himself in the embrace as his back hits the wall, arms hesitantly encircling Charles’ waist as his hands make their way along his jaw to his hair. 

An embarrassing noise escapes from Carlos, and he can feel Charles smile against his mouth, grip lightly tugging on Carlos’ hair in retribution. Carlos would stay here forever if he could, hiding away from his responsibilities and lost in Charles’ embrace instead. He deserves it, after the last two, three, four, five years. If it’s what Charles wants too.

Charles leans back, nibbling on his bottom lip before he lets go. He doesn’t go too far. Carlos doesn’t think he could take it if he did. His breathing is heavier than normal, which he takes as a small victory along with the redness coating his whole face, stretching down his throat and disappearing into the neckline of his shirt. But even after all that, he still looks mildly irritated.

“What hint?” he asks incredulously, brows furrowing. He’s getting increasingly tired of being left out of the loop, especially like this.

But Charles steps back for real this time, clearly wanting to use his hands in what is sure to be an argument, and Carlos feels his loss immediately. “After this winter?” he says, as if that makes anything clear. “You don’t even check to see if I’m here? If I came?”

He sounds… he sounds something close to hurt. Carlos’ frown deepens. He’s actually seriously at a loss here. Much had happened last winter, but nothing immediately comes to mind. “What?”

“You–” And, yes, here is the hand irritated hand waving, accompanied by his signature pacing. If the other campers could see him now, the senior counsellor of the Aphrodite cabin losing his shit over Carlos of all people, well, it would cause serious scandal. “You’re so annoying!” he huffs out, and Carlos blinks.

He was. Well, expecting worse. “But, why?”

Charles covers his face in what seems to be a silent scream. “If you want to be together then we have to be together,” he stresses, glaring venomously at Carlos as if he’s a piece of mould on the wall and not someone he’s proposing a real romantic relationship to. “Stupid. You’re so stupid, gods.”

“But I didn’t even do anything!”

“Exactly!” he says, and now he’s more confused than ever. “You can’t just kiss me and then not make anything, you fool.”

“Do,” he corrects distractedly, trying to process the whole conversation. He cannot quite tell if Charles is speaking, well, normally, or if his words have a sweet tinge to them, fogging up his thoughts. He blinks and then looks back up at Charles in surprise. “You want to be together? With me?”

Charles closes his eyes, counting wordlessly to himself. After a beat, he says: “I’m going to drive my knife through you.”

Carlos is sure even his ears turn red. “Oh.”

“‘Oh’,” Charles mocks, but he’s red himself, too. That’s him blushing twice in one day. A new record. (Certainly not, but, come on. Carlos has earned the right to exaggerate.)

After a few moments of silence, they both speak up at the same time. 

“So–” 

“You–”

Carlos scratches the back of his neck in a nervous gesture, holding out his other hand for Charles to hopefully take. Hopefully is pushing it, because his arm doesn't feel like his own, but the air tastes salty again on his tongue. “Lunch?” he asks, avoiding his eyes. They’re green in this light, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to look away if he does.

Charles clears his throat. “Okay,” he says indifferently, interlocking his fingers with Carlos’ as if that was a totally normal thing to do.

As if Carlos wasn't going to obsess over this for at least tonight.

-

honestly this fic has been kind of a headache to characterise bc half of their backstory is inapplicable due to their new parentage so. yeah. also i won't be hearing any complaints about their godly parents ESPECIALLY if its about charles (if you're thinking why not ares for carlos. you are thinking correctly)

[lambourngb]

a skeleton of something more [malex wip]

Inspired by the promo/trailer for season 3. Spoilers and speculation ahead. 

A tumblr work-in-progress

Pairing: Michael/Alex, Alex/Forrest

Summary: Alex goes undercover to seek out Deep Sky. Starts mid-2x13.

Alex leaned his back against the solid wood of his front door, letting the heavy oak take up his weight. He kept making the standard uneven bargain with his body, of giving just a little more, going through the motions for a little longer, and then it would be over. But the tally sheet his body held was long, overflowing with so many unfulfilled promises that it seemed ever more likely he would end this journey in the red. 

If it ever ended.

At least, tonight, he had haggled wisely for some space to breathe. On the other side of the door, he had managed to escape Forrest’s hopeful and not subtle attempts to follow him inside, toward the bedroom for a long-awaited reunion. A reunion that Alex had deftly avoided without a trace of guilt. He had used the bland excuse of fatigue from a long, cramped ride from Holloman Air Force Base to Roswell on a bus that had predated the ADA by a good thirty years. It was transparent but still true, written on every line of pain in his smile as he had said “Not tonight.” that even Forrest could read it, even if only Alex knew the real source of his fatigue. 

He waited several long moments, before turning to look out the peephole to watch Forrest’s Prius silently reverse out of his driveway. Exhaling out long and low, the tension he had started carrying a little more than a year ago slipped away, letting the calm certainty of safety of his house slip down his body as he released the facade. 

Alex was almost done with this assignment, he reminded himself, as he rubbed the back of his hand against his mouth, scrubbing away the taste of Forrest Long from earlier. 

Just a little while longer, and he will have enough good will built up to finally meet the leader of Deep Sky face-to-face, after all who could resist the request of a senior member, especially one with the last name of Long? It had been a lucky find that Alex had made in cleaning out his father’s house after his death, a ring and an old photo of the members. In washed out Kodak colors was the cabal of Deep Sky. Former military men with names Alex had memorized off the salvaged hard drives from the Caulfield prison. Linked not by overlapping time on the alien project, but what had become of their careers after their military service had ended. All of them vowing to carry on the protection of Earth against an alien threat, but without the oversight of the government. 

The photo in his dad’s desk had been expected, but the silver ring? He had remembered clutching it, his hands still sore from tearing down the shed with Michael, and feeling the imprint of the symbol press deep into his skin. Searing across what Mimi had called his long-love line, singular and deep on his palm. Searing even deeper inside with the recognition that the symbol matched the ring Forrest Long wore.

The genial historian with the loose-fitting cardigan and blue-streaked hair, who had shown flattering interest in Alex, had worn the same ring. Easy on his hand, flashing in the bright sunlight when he had eagerly met up with Alex at the paintball fields with sharpshooter skills. After that date had crashed and burned thanks to a mishmash of his father’s voice and the feeling he had whenever he thought about kissing someone, not Michael, well, Alex had figured that would be the last he would see of the man. 

It hadn’t been. 

Suddenly, Forrest was everywhere he was, the Crashdown, the Wild Pony. It should have been suspicious to Alex, after months of sharing the same town with the other man without a single encounter. His heart was still bounding uselessly after Michael, while his hands had been full of his suddenly feeble father, and he had missed the snare of the trap. Not just the one his father had laid. Then after his kidnapping, two things had become clear to Alex, his father would never change from the hateful man he was, and Alex’s heart would never change when it came to his feelings for Michael.

Alex pushed his leaden body away from the door, tottering on his feet for a moment before the new prosthesis shored up his balance and he took a deep breath for the strength to move forward.

Fuck. That was a mistake. 

His house smelled like rain. Michael. The unexpected consequence of having Michael watch over his house while he had moved around the country, playing up the role of the grieving scion of the Manes family legacy. After a year of brief trips back to Roswell and long stints on the road, the house now smelled like Michael. 

Alex sucked in greedy gulps of air, chasing the taste of green and petrichor with his tongue to wash away his previous actions at the bus stop. His security system, his reinforced door and window locks, the weight of his gun still tucked in his back holster, none of it made him feel as safe as the smell of Michael in his home. It was the smallest crumb of promise, but it filled him.

Moving toward the kitchen for a drink, he clocked the changes Michael had made in his absence. His heavier luggage, shipped ahead of him, was already stored, including the set of crutches and the charging station for his back-up prosthesis. The lights in the kitchen came on with a single touch, all of them bright. Dammit, Michael had fixed the two burnt out bulbs, along with the slightly weeping fitting on the sink faucet.

There was zero sign of neglect in his house, no matter where he looked. Not even the faintest trace of dust on his guitars. The house looked warm and well tended. Loved. 

The rush of tears welled in his throat, an impossibly large lump, as Alex fought to keep from breaking down. Don’t fucking cry, don’t do it, that’s for at night, he swore creatively at himself. Tears were only allowed under the cover of dark, in hotel rooms or visiting officer quarters, not in the middle of his brightly lit kitchen.

A knock sounded on the front door.

Abruptly, every drop of tortured longing was gone, as Alex straightened his shoulders and crossed the threshold back to the door. He pasted the right amount of faked aspiration mixed with real annoyance on his face as he yanked the door open, expecting to see Forrest back on his step with a weak excuse concocted to overcome the earlier rebuff.

Michael looked up in the porch light, his black hat in hand and his curls wild with nervous raking. “Uh, hi.” He scuffed his boots against the concrete before growing still under Alex’s gaze.

He looked over Michael’s shoulder nervously, for the distinctive truck that everyone in town knew belonged to Michael, but his driveway was empty.

“I parked a few streets over. I don’t think anyone saw me-” Michael’s explanation was cut off short as Alex grabbed his wrist and yanked him inside. Stumbling from Alex’s strong grip, Michael fell forward, and then back as the front door slammed shut with them both safely inside out of view. His mouth was still open in surprise as Alex covered his lips in a kiss. 

The surprise was short-lived. Michael came alive under the kiss, opening and yielding to Alex’s hungry lips and tongue. Alex brought his hands up into Michael’s curls, cupping his head protectively as he pressed Michael firmly against the door, drinking in every sound Michael was making. 

Hours before, he had kissed Forrest at the bus station, playing up the role of a dutiful boyfriend returning home. It was the tariff he paid with his body to get closer to the roots of Deep Sky, but this, feeling Michael whole and safe under his hands, tasting him now, that was sustenance. Lifeblood. There was an evolution of difference between the two, like comparing simple bacteria wiggling toward complexity and the finished product of a man, standing upright. 

It was both a reminder of why he was doing this and a reinstatement of focus, as he slowly broke the kiss with reluctance. Michael chased at his lips, his mouth red and wet, his eyes dark with want. He could feel the heat coming off of Michael’s thin brown shirt, his hands itched to pull it off, to descend back into the physical, but Alex knew that he owed Michael an explanation for earlier.

“I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t know he was going to be there to meet my bus. I thought it would be okay for you to give me a ride,” Alex explained quietly, as he ran his hands from Michael’s neck down to his fingertips, drinking in all the changes that had happened while he was gone. Michael looked thinner to him, as if he wasn’t eating enough despite the healthy amount of work and money. “I guess he wanted to surprise me and thought it would be romantic.” 

Michael made a face at the idea of surprises ever being considered romantic, especially to Alex. He turned sweetly toward Alex’s palm, kissing the center as Alex pushed a stubborn curl out of his eyes. “Are you sure that’s all it was? He wasn’t testing you, was he?” 

“I don’t think so.” Alex couldn’t pull his hands away from Michael, and leaned in to kiss him again. It started soft and shallow, trading breaths with Michael, lips against lips, licking deep into his mouth as his previous weariness disappeared now that Michael was here. “He saw you watching us. Now that I’m back, he’s worried about losing my attention to you. He hasn’t hidden his jealousy that I asked you to watch my house last year.” 

“Did I look sufficiently broken-hearted?” The question was light, but Alex could hear the grain of truth under it.

“You did.” Alex closed his eyes, the guilt of the situation flooded back inside. The statue of his father looking down on him didn’t make him feel nearly as sick as having Michael’s eyes on him as he let Forrest kiss him in front of the town in a cinematic homecoming moment. It was a cruel reminder to Alex that he had never been able to give Michael that, a public welcome that spelled out who they were to each other, not once in ten plus years of deployments and duty station assignments. Trading a glance across the Wild Pony was as close as they came. “I wish it wasn’t like this, sneaking around, pretending-”

“Hey, I agreed to this, right at the very beginning when I was your only back-up. Remember?” 

“We were just friends back then, you couldn’t have known that things would end up like this.”

Michael laughed, his head tilted back against the door, casting an attractive line of his throat to his collarbone. “We’ve never been just friends, Alex, but I knew what I was signing up for when you told me what you planned to do to smoke out Deep Sky. We’re in this together.”

*** to be continued... here

[st4rlabsforever]

Based on this post by @fenny2613 re: the sambucky hug in the finale: “Another theory though is that this was the first time they ever hugged and Bucky just goes for it at a time when Sam would least expect it and Sam just goes with it and definitely will be talking with Bucky about it later”

part 1 of a 5+1 fic (WIP)

i.

“Where is everyone?” Sam hears Bucky ask, even as Bucky makes eye contact with him where he’s busy taking photos with the locals.

It’s probably bad form for Sam to break away from the not insignificant line of eager children and adults both, but Bucky’s already heading towards him like Sam knew he would. What happens next, though, is wholly unexpected: Sam reaches a hand out to pull Bucky in close, Bucky reaches out to grasp it even as Sam turns his head to greet Mr. Arceneaux, and the next thing Sam knows he’s being reeled in towards Bucky for an honest-to-God hug, and is that his chin resting on Sam’s shoulder?

It’s…a good hug, Sam admits to himself. He can say that much even with half of his attention focused on Mr. Arceneaux. And it’s not like he hadn’t already known Bucky was a dispenser of fantastic hugs, seen him dole them out on exactly two occasions – to Wanda after Stark’s funeral, to Shuri after being de-iced in Wakanda, and they’d both looked like they’d melted right into Bucky’s arm(s). It’s just that it’s not something Sam and Bucky ever do. Hugging. Even with the past month now behind them, they’re more inclined to claps on the back, shoulders, arms, even a firm handshake.

The moment is over nearly as soon as it’s begun, though, and Sam means to say something or at least give Bucky shit for it, but when Sam looks over at him, he’s gazing round at the partygoers with such awe and wonder – like he’s just so damn happy to be a part of this moment – that Sam really doesn’t have it in him to even tease the guy. Tonight is technically an ode to Delacroix’s hometown hero, and yet in a small way, it’s also a celebration for Bucky even if none of these people know of the demons he’s had to overcome to make it here today.

And then the townspeople are dragging Sam off for more photos, Sarah’s hugging him, AJ and Cass demand to see the shield again. Getting to revel in this moment with his family – his community – is really the best celebration he could’ve asked for.

By the time he’s walking off the pier with Bucky by his side, the hug is long forgotten. Or at least, it is until they’re back on Sarah’s porch away from prying eyes and Bucky’s arms engulf him when he least expects it. Metal and flesh both squeeze so tightly around his back that Sam exhales in surprise. Five seconds pass, and Sam wraps his arms around Bucky, too. Ten, twenty, and Bucky still won’t let go. The feeling of a warm body against his own is...nice. Bucky smells of pine and citrus, and Sam knows it’s because he’d used Sam’s body wash that morning. Thirty. Bucky buries his face in the crook of Sam’s shoulder and sighs like this is the only thing he’s ever wanted – like he might die without the contact.

A startling thought occurs to Sam: this is probably the most physical contact Bucky’s had since breaking free from HYDRA, which means it’s the most physical contact he’s probably had since the goddamn forties. That thought in itself is depressing enough, but then Sam starts to think about how long it’s been for himself. Definitely nothing after the Blip. The quick friendly hugs from Steve before then didn’t count. Natasha wasn’t the sort to do hugs, and neither was he particularly close with any of the other Avengers. Then the last time someone truly held him the way Bucky’s doing now would have been…

The weight of it hits him like a freight train.

It would have been Riley, fifteen goddamn years ago. Twenty, if he includes blipped years. He lets out a shuddering breath and leans further into Bucky’s hold. Bucky, who hasn’t a clue as to the kaleidoscope of thoughts currently assaulting Sam, but still holds on tight. And maybe this hug right here and now is enough. It has to be because Sam’s in no state to let his thoughts wander into such thoroughly lonely territory tonight.

“Thanks for everything,” Bucky says softly, finally pulling away.

“No problem,” Sam says. He just barely manages to keep his voice from shaking.

After that, the hugs become their “thing.” It’s always Bucky who initiates them, and unlike the first two times, he doesn’t bother waiting for Sam to let his guard down anymore, just goes right in. They hug after missions – success or failure – a quick embrace before news crews, paparazzi, and bystanders can gather and ogle. They hug after particularly close calls, tight and harried like Bucky needs to make sure Sam is still with him in the flesh. And – Sam thinks he likes these the most – they hug when Bucky comes down to Delacroix on the weekends and Sam meets him at the airport, every weekend without fail. These ones are all-encompassing, much more like their hug on Sarah’s porch than any of the others. Like Bucky physically aches from the distance and time apart and Sam is the balm for his weary soul.

And if Bucky doesn’t know that Sam needs this just as much as he does, well, Sam isn’t going to tell him. Why ruin a good thing when the comfortable silence is enough for them both? So they don’t really ever talk about the hugs, the same way they never talk about Steve or getting dusted – and it’s fine. Really. Just two broken people with too much responsibility on their shoulders trying to make it through the day-to-day of this mostly broken world.

Of course, Bucky has to almost ruin it when one muggy summer evening he says, “I’m not gonna walk out on you again,” more into the crook of Sam’s shoulder than to Sam himself.

“Huh?” Sam’s brain is mostly still loopy from the shot of serotonin that comes with the hugs.

“After Thanos,” Bucky says. “All you tried to do was reach out and I couldn’t even be fucked to send a text.”

“Jesus, Barnes.” The last name is meant to put some distance between them, but Sam doesn’t think it works. He wants to play it off – act like it was no big deal, except that’s not really the truth. It had hurt more than Sam cared to admit that his only living connection to the shield and Steve’s legacy had blown him off like it was nothing. Not that the kind of guidance Sam had needed at the time could have been found with Bucky, but having someone by his side would’ve undeniably eased the burden just a little bit.

He settles on: “That’s all in the past.”

Bucky shakes his head, misty-eyed. “I want you to know it’s not like that anymore,” he says emphatically. “You’re stuck with me now.”

Sam’s heart goes aflutter and he resolutely ignores it.

“No need to get all sappy on me,” Sam says and slings an arm around Bucky’s shoulder. So not working. Bucky leans in to the touch. “Let’s head inside. The boys are gonna be mad if you keep them waiting much longer.”

Bucky grins, more genuine than not. They don’t talk about it, but everything is fine.

[howdywrites]

Chapter Zero

→ an In The Woods Somewhere excerpt

This is from my zero draft of ITWS that won't be in the new draft I'm starting for Camp NaNo. I still thought it would be fun to share since it gives a little insight into Jackie (park ranger main) and a side character named Benny who works under her. NOTE: there is a lot of info in this that's changed as I've outlined so some of the locations will be inaccurate.

Warnings: brief mention of recreational drug use (mushrooms)

Length: 2.3k words

[ WIP Intro ]

Breath burned aching lungs. Boots stomped in slick, dark mud. The icy mist clung to every hair on bare skin and the drumming of heartbeat became the rhythm in which Jackie fell in time with. She jerked, ducking beneath a low hanging branch. Her hair whipped as she cast a worried glance over her shoulder. It wasn’t following her anymore.

A disgruntled skunk and her litter of kits watched her sprint from the home they made in a thicket of bushes. If she had stuck around for just a second longer, Jackie would have paid dearly for her grave mistake. Up on [the mountain], there wasn’t a proper shower to be had at the lookout. In fact, there was almost no running water to be had at all. That’s exactly how she preferred it - being one with nature in every sense of the word.

“Fuck-” A patch of thick mud sent her sliding into the wooden Trail 46 sign that pointed southeast. Jackie held on to it, leaning over with her chest heaving while she caught her breath. A spring of curled hair fell over her forehead from under the brim of her uniform hat. Taking one last deep breath, she swept it back under and ran her hands along her two thick braids to make sure her rubber bands were still attached to the ends.

Static crackled from the radio on her hip. A voice snickered at her from the other end.

“I didn’t know you could run that fast,” the voice teased her, his laughter turning into crackles. Jackie lifted her head and dragged her eyes along the ridge behind her. Ancient trees and wild brush lined the rocky ledge. She squinted, trying to make sense of the map of greens and browns. Despite her year of working in Wyoming, she struggled making out shapes in the woods that weren’t blocky signs. “Surprised you didn’t lose your hat.”

Jackie unhooked her radio and held it up to her mouth. It trilled and went quiet. “Where are you? I swear to god, Benny, if you scare me again you owe me a cone at Marie Bettie’s on Monday.”

She stood there, a hand on her hip and her radio up by her ear. A crease formed between her brows. Birds flit from tree to tree down Trail 42, drawing her eye. Frowning, she didn’t see Benny there. Nor did he respond on the radio. She hesitantly clicked it again. “Benny I’m not playing. Where the hell are you?” She couldn’t hear herself on the other end. Wherever he was hiding, he had turned off his radio so she couldn’t gauge where he was.

Stepping out into the middle of the trail, Jackie circled around like an uneasy horse, feet pressed firmly into the packed dirt. A small creature of amber red and white darted out from a nearby thicket of prickly bushes and skittered across the trail. She gasped, nearly jumping out of her skin. While distracted, a pair of hands touched down on her shoulders, fingers curling over her uniform.

Jackie screeched, launching herself forwards out of the grip of the intruder. The ranger hat on her head tipped off, rolling and bouncing off the gravel. Her arms barely caught her in time to save her face from getting superficial scratches. Squirming, she rolled onto her back and scrambled into a squat. Benny stood there, cackling loud enough to send a few birds flying from their nests in the trees. His smile took up most of his face. Smile lines deepend and the prominent gap between his teeth was on full display.

“I got you good, didn’t I?” He leaned in, holding a hand out for her. Despite the adrenaline soaring through her veins and the annoyance that tumbled within her, Jackie sighed and grasped at it for help off the ground. Freckles splattered his sun-kissed skin, his cheekbones turning to apples with his grin.

“Yeah, yeah. You owe me two cones, now, Wonderbird. Double scoops.”

“Hey, that’s not fair! You know volunteers don’t make squat here-” Benny stooped down to pick up her hat, dusting it off for her. It was true. When he first joined the park just six months ago, Jackie had been assigned as his mentor. The junior program was offered to any college students pursuing their line of work. To get a taste of life as a ranger. They didn’t make a salary, but their summers spent in action were funded by park leadership in the form of bunks and food. A far better deal than what was offered to her in Tennessee. She took up her hat and repositioned it proudly on top of her head. “But I guess it’s the least I could do for doing that.” He pointed down at her green trousers.

A small tear cut across her knee, thankfully protecting her skin from being lacerated by her fall. Sighing, Jackie lifted her leg and inspected the hole. “Luckily I brought my sewing kit with me to the tower. C’mon, let’s finish our rounds. Think the captain has extra radios for tonight? Last thing I want is to not be able to contact anyone - especially this weekend.”

The end of summer break brought in the most guests outside of the spring season. Mostly college students looking to get out of town, but not willing to commit to the cost of going to the Bahamas or Miami all the way down south. Jackie couldn’t remember most of the breaks from her college days. She crunched to get through with her degree as fast as possible. Any break she got was filled with studying or working wherever she could. She would have liked to go somewhere tropical and warm for her breaks, but she preferred the serenity that usually came with visiting state parks instead.

“How many people usually camp here during breaks?” Benny kicked a pale gray pebble into the grass alongside the pack dirt walking trail.

“Could be hundreds. Maybe even close to a thousand or more. Really depends.” Earlier that day, they had already received an influx of campers eager to stake their claim on the best spots in the park before the hoards arrived. Easily several dozen of them, all scattered between RV hookups, the rentable cabins and clearings for tents. “Just be glad you’re not working at any of the offices this weekend. I’d take firewatch over disgruntled campers any day.”

“I can’t thank you enough, you know.” An elbow bumped Jackie’s arm and she glanced at the grinning young man. “If it weren’t for you, Richards probably would’ve never let me take over tower 24. He told me you put in a good word for me.”

Smiling down at the ground, Jackie shrugged and reached out to give him a gentle pat on the shoulder. “It wasn’t all me. You’ve got the passion for this. The drive. Can’t say the same for some of the other volunteers-”

A trill of squealing laughter caught her attention. The two of them paused right at the fork. One path remained wide open with wooden signs encouraging guests to stay on the correct path. The other had overgrowth and a dirt path so narrow, one could hardly call it a trail at all. The usual rope gate meant to block it off had been cut. Both ends laid useless on the ground with frayed edges. Another bark of laughter came from the end it shouldn’t have.

“Damn…” Jackie muttered bitterly under her breath. Just when she thought they could wrap up for the afternoon. Benny puffed out his chest and stood up taller.

“C’mon, ranger,” he chirped, marching towards the rocky side path. “No dilly dallying!”

“You just want to write up a citation.” She snorted and followed alongside him. “You’re starting to sound like the captain.”

Snaking down the path, the trees overhead grew thicker and wider. Branches from lowly pines scraped against their arms. Creatures that remained unseen skittered into their hiding places. The closer they got to the three or four voices chattering away up ahead, the more signs they saw. Brand new, the signs were nailed into the untouched bark of the trees along the path or plastered on wooden signs hammered into the thick dirt.

WARNING: do not proceed! This area has been sanctioned for investigation by the State of Wyoming and local police. Any violations will result in a $500 fine.

“Have these signs always been here?” Benny’s voice lowered to a faint whisper. Jackie stepped carefully around a pile of stones gathered around the base of a thick oak. Her boots slid against their jagged surfaces. “I don’t remember them putting these up.

“I don’t either. I remember some feds were here on Wednesday, but they weren’t up for much small talk.” They stood proudly in their dark suits and shade, holding boxes of flyers and paperwork and speaking in hushed tones to her higher ups. The single chance she had to greet one of them was met with silence. Very rude. “I don’t think this was a missing person’s case, otherwise we would have been informed about it.”

Like something out of a sci-fi movie, bright yellow caution signs littered a shady grove at the end of the short path. The sound of water trickling from a nearby stream joined the quiet voices. The blocky lettering on the big yellow signs yelled at them.

DO NOT DRINK THE WATER! Do not disturb local flora as issued by the governor of Wyoming.

“Dude! You’re going to get us in trouble!” A nervous voice murmured beyond the trees. There, by the creek, four college aged kids stood around a mossy puddle. Two girls and two boys, all wearing their UW school colors. Most likely freshmen given their wide eyes and round faces. One of them stood with his jeans rolled up to his knees in the shallow water, a fist full of curling brown mushrooms that looked like kelp. They went silent at the sight of the two rangers.

“This path is restricted.” Benny took the initiative, his voice wavering just a bit at the end of his statement. Jackie let him take the reins. If he really wanted to do this for a living, he would have to get used to this. As he went over what rules they broke being there, she made her way over to a damp patch of tall grass between two moss covered trees.

Squatting, she spied even more kelp-like mushrooms. They stuck out of the grass like limp, decaying fingers out of a grave. Jackie narrowed her eyes and used a pen from her breast pocket to jab at it with as gentle of a touch as she could manage. It released a pussy substance and a musky scent that reminded her of the single frat party she attended her last year in school. Similar to weed, but different. From looks alone, she couldn’t nail down from which family this fungus derived from. In fact, she couldn’t recall anything remotely similar in all her years of study.

“You can’t do that.” The kid in the water whined, trudging out of the water. He tossed the picked mushrooms. “C’mon, man, we’re just trying to have a little fun! I gotta pay for books next week!”

Jackie looked over her shoulder in time to see Benny’s head fall like a disappointed teacher’s. He sighed and shifted his weight from foot to foot, unable to reply. Tucking her pen back into its spot, she dusted her hands off and stood.

“Here’s what we’re going to do-” She put her hands on her hips and took over for him. She spoke with authority and a rigid stance. “I’ll let you off with a warning, as long as you four keep to the official trails and stay out of trouble. If me or any of my associates catch you out of bounds again, it’ll be a $700 ticket. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The kid slipped his wet feet into his Nike sandals and hung his head. Blonde hair stuck to his pink face and despite his towering height over her, he still looked like a boy. It only made her feel older than she was. The other three murmured in agreement, following behind him. She watched them shuffle up the path until they disappeared behind a thicket of pines.

“I thought I could do it,” Benny sighed, his head swiveling side to side, checking for litter or anything else the rowdy guests may have left behind. Jackie moved to stand beside him and ruffled his mess of red hair. The way his nose scrunched and his shoulders relaxed from the playful exchange reminded her so much of Andre back at home.

“You did better than I did the first time I tried writing a citation - I cried.” Her sidekick blinked, surprised, and chuckled.

“But you’re so good at it. You’ve got a mom voice - in a good way, I mean.”

“Geez, I’m not that old, Wonderbird. First them, and now you? I’m aging by the second. You’ll have to explain to Richards why my knees are bad and my hair is graying when summer’s over, you dingus.”

Benny all but collapsed forward with laughter, holding his stomach and slapping his knee like a cheery grandfather. Jackie smiled so wide her cheeks ached. She had to avert her gaze to not let the homesickness creep in. She would miss him when he had to go back to school. Just like she missed Andre.

The mushrooms among the grass piqued her curiosity again. She stooped down beside them and inspected them without touching. Who knew what they did and who knew why the government and college kids were so interested in them.

“What are they? They were grabbing a lot of them.” Benny squatted next to her, reaching out to touch one. Jackie gently smacked the back of his hand and shook her head.

“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t touch them. Let’s get to the office, the captain’s waiting for us by now.”

-

ITWS Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added!): @lordkingsmith @celestialbunnistories @aeslin-writes @writinginslowmotion @chayscribbles @theramwrites @tiredlittleoldme @sapphcon-ic @hazard-writes @lookingmuchimproved @themidnxghtwriter @draculinawrites @aetherwrites @svpphicwrites @maxgraybooks @writeherewaiting @sjjsalamanders @thelittlestspider @ashen-crest @writtendevastation @ravesthewriter @adie-dee @christine-thinks @cream-and-tea @reeseweston

[cupcakemolotov]

Wild Hunt

I think I promised @goldcaught a Klaroline Fae fic years ago. This one has been in the works for a while, let's not talk dates, but 2020 definitely slowed production down. I promise, the second half will not sit languishing in my WIP for too long! The biggest, most heartfelt thank you to Kiry, who has been both a cheerleader and a kick in the pants as needed to get this thing on track to being finished. Kiry doesn't sleep, but I can't complain too much, since they have kindly listened to me complain until the wee hours of the morning. (And also my girl @klarolinedrabbles who saw a super early version of this and was kind enough to be encouraging.)

Edit; And I failed to tag @kirythestitchwitch directly, but you know, today was a trip.

A couple of notes to avoid confusion:

Fae: A word used in this fic to generally reference a type of European mythological beings. Sean O'Connell: Cami O'Connell's Twin.

Synopsis: Killing Tyler Lockwood starts a chain of events that put Caroline exactly where she's always dreaded and longed to be: in the arms of Klaus Mikaelson.

Warnings: Alternate Universe; Alternate Universe - FaeAlternate; Universe - Soulmates; Fae!Caroline; hybrid!Klaus; Minor Character Death; Blood and Gore; Mild Gore; Implied/Referenced; Torture; Psychological Torture; Canon-Typical Violence; Compulsion; Blood and Injury; Blood Drinking

Hand pressed tightly against her side, Caroline took several careful breaths, her lungs burning and her pulse a steady thump in her ears. Her senses were hyper alert, magic straining to catch the faintest hint of a disturbance. All around her, humans slept soft and cozy in their beds, and the night had gone quite. As the silence continued to hold, she allowed herself to relax, letting the cold of the concrete at her spine cool her flushed and fever warm skin. For the moment, she was safe.

Reaching up, she rubbed her breastbone, lips curling into a small, pleased smile at the burn. Her father was angry. If she survived the night, that alone would make the pain of her injury worth it. Thankfully, the knife wound felt like it had finally stopped seeping, and her glamour would hide the blood. It was the iron poison that was going to cause her complications. The black spider web crawling up the line of her ribcage hadn’t made it close to her heart, she was her mother’s daughter too, but it weakened her all the same.

It left her in a magical disadvantage.

Grimacing as her phone buzzed silently in her pocket, she pressed a little further into the concrete behind her and looked around. There was nothing to suggest her cousins had been able to track her, though that was just a matter of time. Thankfully, even suffering from iron, she had enough control of her magic to hide the glow from her phone, though she didn’t quite dare to risk more.

Not yet.

Pulling it free from her pocket, she winced at the number of missed calls and quickly scanned the texts that had accumulated.

Bonnie (12:45 AM): Hello???

Bonnie (12:46 AM): You’re not dead.

Bonnie (12:46): Are you ignoring me?

Bonnie (1:10 AM): I swear, I’ll put Enzo on a plane. With the time differences, he’ll be there before dawn.

Bonnie (1:10 AM): Then you’ll have to listen to him complain about airplane food while he tries to kill people.

Bonnie (1:11 AM): I might do it anyway. I could use the alone time.

Wincing, because Bonnie Bennett did not bluff, she hurriedly tapped out a response.

Caroline (1:11 AM): I’m alive.

Bonnie (1:11 AM): What happened?

Caroline (1:11 AM): It was a trap.

Bonnie (1:11 AM): How bad?

Caroline: (1:12 AM): I’ve mostly stopped bleeding and Tyler is dead.

Very dead. She’d made sure of it. There was a lot someone like her father would do with a dead body, so she’d made a point to separate his head from his body so he couldn’t be resurrected. Baba Yaga spells were rare and costly, but if anyone could get their hands on one, it would be her father. It was why she’d then dumped her stash of holy water on the body and then carefully dusted him in iron shavings, rendering his body and his blood unusable.

The little dots below her conversation on her messenger app popped up and died several times, and Caroline closed her eyes, letting her head fall back as she waited for Bonnie’s response. She’d know that coming to Chicago was a risk, for a number of reasons, but even at her most pessimistic she wasn’t sure she could have guessed just what she’d find here.

What could possibly have led Tyler to be so desperate that he would trust her father? Tyler, who was one of the few people who knew the truth of her origin, who had hugged her when she’d said goodbye and told her he would always care about her. Tyler, whose blood she now wore beneath her nails, who had stabbed her with an iron knife and who had died with hate in eyes.

Her phone buzzed and she glanced down.

Bonnie (1:13 AM): Klaus is in Chicago.

Caroline stared at her phone, surprise and a shot of adrenaline leaving her momentarily breathless. Klaus. Here. In Chicago. The city where Bill had set up his most recent plots, where Tyler had attempted to betray everything that had once made him a good man. Sliding her teeth along her lip, she very carefully typed her reply, her fingers shaking.

Caroline (1:14 AM): You said he was in London for the next month. What changed?

Bonnie (1:15AM): I don’t know.

Bonnie (1:16 AM): Do you need an exit?

Bonnie (1:16 AM): He owes me.

Caroline was shaking her head even before she started typing. Being anywhere near Klaus was a terrible idea, and Bonnie knew that. That her friend would never make the offer unless she thought it necessary left dread sitting low in her stomach.

Caroline (1:16 AM): What’s got you spooked?

Bonnie (1:17 AM): Someone is blocking my scrying spells.

Caroline (1:17 AM): Bill?

Bonnie (1:17 AM): If we’re lucky. We both know what it means if we’re not.

Caroline’s fingers tightened on her phone case, her pulse loud in her ears. Bonnie was right. Very, very few things blocked her from seeing what she wanted to see. Bill could do it thanks to the blood bind but it wasn’t easy, and he never managed it for long periods of time. Grams probably could have done it. But the list of powerful witches who remained alive in the United States after the purging of New Orleans was short.

There was only one reason Bill would use the blood connection between them to block out any outside magic from interfering tonight. She hadn’t just pissed her father off, she’d actively disrupted his plans, and thanks to Bonnie’s magical brilliance, he couldn’t track her easily. But there was another way to drag her to a Fairy Court, and she would have to move very quickly to avoid it.

Baring her teeth in a mimicry of a smile, she gave herself a moment to feel a sharp burst of satisfaction. She had a list on her phone of her father’s potential means of retaliation, and Wild Hunt was right there at the top as the worst possible outcome, but it also meant Tyler must have been far more integral to his plans than she’d guessed. Even knowing that her chances of survival had just taken a serious dip, it did little to dim her pleasure. If she was very, very lucky her father’s precious Queen would feel the need to take out his failure on him directly.

A girl could hope.If she survived the night, she was going to find a fancy bottle of wine and pick up a cupcake. Maybe two cupcakes. She deserved the mini-celebration.

Caroline (1:20AM): I spotted half a dozen of my cousins tonight. I don’t know who holds their allegiance but it probably won’t matter. If Bill is super pissed, he’ll call them all.

Bonnie (1:21 AM): Fuck.

Bonnie (1:21 AM): If it goes bad, don’t be an idiot. Use Klaus.

Caroline (1:21 AM): No.

Caroline (1:22 AM): Favor or not, I killed his hybrid. He doesn’t strike me as forgiving.

Bonnie (1:22 AM): He’s not.

Bonnie (1:23 AM): You don’t have to tell him.

Caroline (1:23 AM): Uh huh. I’ll call you when I’m safe. 🤦😘❤️🏃

Shoving her phone back into her pocket, Caroline exhaled slowly at the bite that was her warning that her magic was nearly tapped dry. Giving herself another half-a-dozen heart beats to celebrate her first major victory, she turned her mind to her problem at hand.

Bonnie had good reason to be worried. It had been almost thirty years since the Queens had summoned a wild hunt to drag one of the half-Fae home for punishment. Bill had made a point to tell her in great details the torture that had awaited her cousin, the way the Queen had plucked his body and his mind apart for his treachery.

Caroline doubted she had become enough of a problem that the Queens would send the hunt, which meant that Bill would be expending a great deal of power to collect her. Her lips twisted, finger tapping silently against the side of her phone. Fae magic was powerful, and so was her father, but it could be circumvented. She needed to concentrate on that, put together her plan.

Pissing her father off twice in one night would normally be her highest priority, but instead what she wanted to think about was the message Bonnie had given her.

 Klaus Mikaelson was in Chicago.

Anticipation was a tantalizing thrill in her veins. She’d hoped the truth of New Orleans would have helped her grow out of her strange obsession. Instead, it left her wanting to know more. It was a struggle, when all she had to do was text Bonnie and ask for a location. She could then finally indulge in the bone deep curiosity that had been part of her life for as long as she could remember. Maybe figure out the cause of her obsession with a monster she’d never met.

She might’ve, if only doing so tonight wouldn’t put everyone she cared about in danger.

Caroline slid her lip between her teeth, letting the small hurt ground her. If she thought her father hated her enough to call down a Wild Hunt now, exposing the Fae’s secrets to Klaus would make his rage burn even more bitterly. She’d honestly have done it years ago out of spite if such a move would only put her in the crosshairs of the courts, but it wouldn’t.

Bonnie and Enzo would also be marked.

The High Courts currently considered her rebellion to be a family matter, though one Bill was unable to control adequately. She could not risk a Queen deciding she was her enemy in truth, not yet. Not when she was so close to figuring out how to banish her father permanently to the otherside of the Veil.

She’d be thrilled to just killing him, but she long since accepted that might not be possible. Tyler had been right, when he’d called her a monster. When he’d called all of them monsters. He just hadn’t understood that for all of the terrible things in this world that there were worse fate’s hidden behind the veil in between the worlds, horrors lovingly encouraged in Underhill that could break a human mind merely with their existence.

Earth had pushed the Fae back with their iron and religion all those years ago, had sealed the veil with witch magic, and humanity considered themselves victorious. But the truth was all they had done was defer the fight for the territory the Fae claimed as theirs to own to a different day.

The Fae hadn’t forgotten humanity nor had they forgiven them for their defeat. Banished behind magic, the Fae watched and watched and hungered. They had waited for the time that they had truly passed into myth, until the world forgot how to defeat them with a dangerous patience. But the nature of the Fae was as capricious as it was violent, and not all agreed on waiting.

Some had altered their plans and plotted a different course of action.

The Great Experiment.

Caroline supposed she should be grateful for that impatience, it was the reason for her existence, but all she could muster just then was a familiar anger. For six hundred years, members of the High Courts had mingled their blood among humans, hoping to breed children with resistance to both iron and the religion, the tools that had locked them away from the world that had once been theirs. And their plan had produced some success, though not always how they had hoped.

She was one such success.

Elizabeth Forbes had never been comfortable with her half-Fae child, but she’d also refused to abandon her to a world filled with monsters. Instead, she’d taught her daughter the good and the bad of humanity, had shown her the world as it was and what it could be. Her father saw her as a tool, a means to an end. Her mother’s love had been gruff and uneasy, but she’d tried.

She would never, ever forget that.

Or forgive Bill for her death.

Caroline had defied her father and his magic, had pitted herself against his will as she vowed vengeance for killing the one thing she’d ever claimed as her own. Her mother.

Hunting Bill required care and a meticulous eye for detail, and a particular stubbornness she had in spades. His magic was more powerful than hers, but he had always underestimated his only child by Liz, brushed her off as not powerful or clever enough for his schemes. It’s been a deliberate decision of hers to hide what she was capable of, hoping that such a ploy would save her mother. Now, she used her magic against him with the same ruthlessness he had taught her as a child.

But she was just one half-breed among hundreds, and so she’d learned to be careful. She wasn’t even the most powerful of those born on this side of the veil and underhanded ambush tactics had always served her better than brute force. A disruption there, a few dozen murder’s here. Just enough to skew her father’s chessboard while she worked to uncover the truth of his plotting. The fewer of her cousins who were able to carry out the will of her father and his fellow full blooded Fae’s plots, the safer humanity was from a terrible strike.

But she couldn’t kill them all, though she’d certainly tried. Her family did not die easily, and magic lingered in places of terrible violence like fingerprints. Each kill was a risk that could lead to her death. Over the years, it’s become clear that if she wanted to destroy her fathers plots, she couldn’t do it alone. The tie that connected them, the thread that burned so clearly now in her chest with her father’s rage, meant that she’d never be truly safe from him. Blood ties were not easily broken.

But Caroline knew witches, so she’d returned home, to the place where the only people she trusted still lived. Tyler had already been gone by then, lost in his need for vengeance, but Bonnie had been there, lingering in the ashes of conquest almost as if she’d been waiting.

It was then that Caroline had learned that humanity's greatest monster had become its potential savior. That the true potential of Ester’s terrible offspring had finally been unlocked. Klaus Mikaelson had broken his curse.

Her fingers curled into her palms, the strange, bone-deep curiosity that ground her joints together every time she thought of his name a familiar sensation. Klaus had broken his strange Sun and Moon curse in the forest she knew so well, had cut a bloody path through everyone who tried to oppose him, and laid the foundations for the army of hybrids he was determined to build. His perfect army that feared neither sun nor death and were unnaturally loyal.

Hybrids that Bonnie had helped create.

Her best friend rarely spoke of the events that led to the creation of the hybrids, refusing to give Caroline even the smallest detail of how a hybrid was made. Even tucked away in her home in Maine twenty years later, hidden by both Fae and witch magic. Caroline might not have the hows involved, but she knew the whys.

It all circled back to Bill.

Liz hadn’t been the only causality of her father’s hunger for power, just the first in their small town. Murdering Sheila Bennett had been a mistake in that it had set Bonnie against Bill, but it fit the pattern Caroline was starting to see in her father’s plans. Liz had been human, but one whose family had been deeply entrenched in the supernatural for generations. Sheila Bennett had been powerful, but she’d been born of the witch line that had created the Otherside. Gram’s had made sure her death had cost Bill, but it hadn’t been enough to stop his plans as Tyler’s presence tonight had proven.

Sometimes, Caroline wondered why Bonnie didn’t hate her. Bill was a scourge that returned time and time again, because her blood allowed it. Maybe if she’d been stronger they’d have been able to protect their families. But what she couldn’t protect, she could avenge.

Bonnie had agreed to help. Had been working on her own plans for years. The first real foothold into Bill’s master plan had been with the Augustine Society. Bonnie had been watching them for months before Caroline’s return, humans who had relentlessly experimented on vampires. They’d staged a rescue for the vampire that had been imprisoned, and it had been Enzo who had known of Tyler.

Tyler who had been the first of Klaus’ successful hybrids, whose loyalty was a shaky thing despite whatever magic bound him to his maker. Her childhood sweetheart who yearned for freedom from the yolk he had chosen. It’d taken months to go through the society’s notes they’d managed to save, to dig into the texts they had been experimenting with.

They’d known so much but understood so little.

But one thing had become crystal clear.

Bill was trying to bring down the Veil. Not unexpected, as most of the Fae worked to destroy it. But Bill also worked to understand what had led to the banishment of the Fae, so he could break it better.

It had been humans, werewolves and witches who had originally created the veil, blocking the Fae Lords from returning in great numbers after their banishment, forcing them to squeeze through cracks when the veil between worlds was thin or use now defunct gates. When iron had slowly lost its grip on the world, they might have managed more but for Qetsiyah.

Bonnie’s ancestor had been clever. When she’d bound the otherside, trapping Amara in stone and Silas forever out of her reach, she’d sunk the power of those souls into the Veil between humanity and the Fae, creating a second anchor. An additional failsafe to guarantee that no Supernatural would be so foolish as to undo her work.

Witch. Vampire. Werewolf. Hybrid. When they died, they were shuffled into Qetsiyah’s chosen afterlife, and their souls protected humanity. Humans were spared that fate, but their very existence acted a detriment to the Fae, as it was humanity who embraced iron.

The fastest way to destroy the Veil would be to free Silas. For a while, she and Bonnie had worried that he would succeed. But no one knew where Qetsiyah had hidden Silas’ body, and for all of her father’s attempts to restart Silas’ little cult, he’d always failed. The last real surge in members had ended when they’d been slaughtered, setting her father back decades.

The only other way to destroy what Qetsiyah had put into place would be to destroy the Veil at the root. And while no one understood the magic that had cast out the Fae so many years ago, her father didn’t need to understand the magic of the Veil to break it. He just needed dominion over it. But that was no easy task. Humans and witches could be bribed or fooled. Werewolves hovered at the brink of extinction. But the children of Esther, the hybrids that now walked the earth, defied every master but one. And so her father gathered his pieces and worked to subjugate Klaus’ creations in secret.

Caroline had tried to save Tyler.

She’d tried to talk him out of the part that Bill needed him to play. He’d refused. And the betrayal had burned like acid in her gut.

It had been Tyler, who had helped her dig Elizabeth Forbes’ grave. Her friend who had given her his gloves when her palms started to bleed, had said nothing when her tears had made her clumsy. It had been Tyler who sat with her and Bonnie, listening as Grams told them of the dangers in the world after Caroline had announced she was leaving. But her friend had died long before Caroline had killed him.

She shivered in the wind.

She knew Klaus played his part in that. It was impossible not to. It had been because of Tyler that she’d ended up in New Orleans, after all. The whispers of the destruction of the city, of how entire witch lines had been lost to madness and death had not adequately captured the horror of it. She’d seen what Klaus had left behind: werewolf packs left in ruin, the survivors turned and bound to his will. Broken witches and terror ridden vampires.

But rarely death. Klaus was not so kind to let his true enemies escape him in such a way. Instead, his wake left behind living ghosts. At least in this, she had done her best by her old friend. Whatever had driven him, whatever horror he had witnessed that had turned him so fully against her, she hoped he could find peace from it now.

She wasn’t so sure she’d be so lucky. Klaus was a spector in her life that she didn’t know if she could escape. And tonight, she’d killed his first hybrid. She grimaced. Klaus would not take to that news kindly. Best if she was long gone when he learned of it.

She wondered if she could manage it. She already felt the pull in her chest, the need to see, to touch, burning through her. It has always been like this. When Grams had first mentioned his name all those years ago, she’d felt the smallest of pulls, a jolt of curiosity. A tug she couldn’t explain. And everytime she thought his name, every time she heard another whisper of the night terrors he created, the tug to search him out grew stronger.

She’d deliberately chosen to look for those horrors once, hoping the truth of his nature would terrify her into running away. Instead, the monster that she had cultivated since she was seventeen and covered in her mother’s blood had approved. The more she learned, the more she wanted to know.

It was why she’d helped Bonnie disappear. Whatever happened between her and Klaus, she was determined to protect her friends from the fall out of it. But she was not the only Fae who hunted for information about Klaus, and Bonnie Bennet had helped create his hybrids.

Her people would destroy Bonnie, if they learned that truth. That a witch from Qetsiyah’s line had once again worked great magic against them would light the fires of their impotent rage for a long, long time. As long as Klaus and his hybrids roamed the earth, it made their chances of winning a war that much harder.

Fae magic was powerful, but given forced limitations by the rules they had to follow. Klaus and his creations were bound by no such things. And they were swallowing the world.

It had been nearly five years since the first hint of a hybrid returning to the US since New Orleans had raced through the Supernatural community. Over the decades, the US communities had watched from a distance as Klaus had bent Europe to his will, his creations breaking across city after city like a wave, choking out any dissent in their paths.

London, Paris, Milan. They all fell at Klaus’ feet with little more than a whimper.

The first real sign of his return had been when he turned New Orleans into a witches' graveyard, and then his gaze had turned to Chicago. Her father was no fool, he had to have known that Klaus had made this city the seat of his power in the States. Bill was far too cunning to risk catching Klaus’ attention unless he had a plan, and not knowing the exact details of what that plan was worried her.

Though she could guess part of it.

A sharp whistle cut through the air, and Caroline’s gaze cut along the rigid angles and sharply jutting corners of the builders around her, but she maintained her hiding place. She had no intention of being flushed out of cover like a bird they intended to net but she needed to come up with a plan.

Glancing at her watch, she grimaced.

It was nearly two in the morning.

If her father had chosen to call a Wild Hunt, she had roughly sixty minutes until the witching hour of three A.M. struck, and the Hunt was let loose. The blood tie to her father might have eroded to the point that he could no longer use it to force her obedience, but they had never managed to break it entirely. Fae magic was tricky. Blood ties more so. Instead, Bonnie had done her best to cloud it, to thin the connection to a single, potent thread.

A Wild Hunt would cut through the witch magic hiding her and return her to her father. Caroline was certain the only reason Bill hadn’t tried to do such a thing before was because of the cost. Calling a Hunt took a great deal of personal power. She would only have one shot of slipping away, and the risk of being caught by her father’s soldiers was dangerously high.

 Klaus was in Chicago.

Her fingers clenched, and Caroline put her phone away. She wouldn’t risk Bonnie or Enzo by going to Klaus, not yet. Not with Tyler’s blood fresh on her hands. But that didn’t mean she still couldn’t use his presence in the city to her advantage. In a game of half-breeds, it always came down to who was the better gambler.

Supernatural cities always had seedy vampire nightclubs and supernatural friendly bars littered throughout. When Klaus had taken over Chicago, he had commandeered several for his own use. But there was one club in particular that she’d pinned down as potentially being part of his stomping grounds; the number of bodies that were secretly removed from the club gave credence to her theory, though she supposed it could just be a place that attracted excess stupidity.

If she was going to have a chance tonight, she needed to go into that club and stay just long enough to let the scent of mingling supernaturals hide her trail so she could slip away undetected and find a place she could hide from the magic seeking her. If she was lucky, Klaus’ potential presence would act as a deterrent.

It was a risk.

Not only because she needed to keep her own blood-lust in check, but because she had never before let herself venture close enough to Klaus to risk catching a single glimpse of him. She was magically exhausted and wounded, the slow crawl of thirst thick in her throat, and her bones ached with the insistent need that made no logical sense.

She would have to be so very careful. Still, for now, her glamour was holding. Setting her teeth, Caroline turned and headed to the heartbeat of the city. Tonight, she’d find a way to live and tomorrow she’d call Bonnie and they’d work out a plan for her to escape. And she’d have to do it without indulging in a curiosity that had no name but was a pulse in her blood.

The rest is here: A03

(I’ll add the link to FFN once I get it posted.)

[srrrokka]

WIP Tag

I got tagged by @exultedshores to post a snipped of one of my wips! Thank you, Shores, you know that this is the only way they shall see light of the day :’)

The following bit is from the first chapter of To All That Is Lost, a Corvo/Daud fic. (Couldn’t find a good moment to crop this so it’s a bit over 3k, just saying.)

I shall tag @screwtheprinceimtakingthehorse, @puppyblueao3, @modlisznik, and @ptera-novaeangliae :3c

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Maybe it was that he became too cocky, too confident after a month-long streak of easy, uninterrupted burglaries and theft—or rather scavenging, considering the flats he entered had been mostly emptied by the plague already—or perhaps it was the gnawing hunger, twisting his stomach into painful knots that spurred him onward into actions bordering on straight up idiotic. Regardless of the cause, Corvo found himself south of the river, uncomfortably close to a Watch outpost swarming with officers and equipped with not one but two arc pylons. 

A string of colourful Serkonan curses fell from his lips between one heavy breath and another as he ran out onto a narrow makeshift bridge linking two opposing buildings, and prayed to the Outsider, and any other being listening, that he wouldn't get shot from the street below. He fisted his left hand, ignoring the throbbing headache it caused. Turquoise light flared from under the too long sleeve of his tattered sweater. The moment his fingers unclenched, he was on the other side, slamming the balcony door shut with his foot. He stumbled forward, looking for a way out, his worn leather coat flapped around his shins as he whirled around.

Stairs. Stairs leading to the ground floor. No breaking legs today.

Angry shouting from the footbridge pushed him forward as if he had wings and he nearly flew down the first flight of stairs, jumping three steps at a time. The few things in the canvas bag slung over his shoulder slammed their sharp edges into his thigh where it bounced with every step. But he barely registered the pain.

"Stop! Stay where you are!" Corvo froze at the words, his eyes wide behind the simple leather mask. He nearly ran into the Watchman climbing towards him.

Upstairs a loud bang and the sound of shattering glass announced other officers being right at his tail. He let out a strained breath. If there was no way up or down... there was always left and right.

He swallowed hard and, using the handrail like a springboard, jumped over it and into the drop between the steps. The fall wasn't massive, but it was enough to nearly make Corvo land on his knees, all of the muscles in his body strained with the impact. Probably only due to the adrenaline rushing in his veins and humming like a waterfall in his ears did he manage to not stumble and immediately broke into a run.

The way out was so close, so very close. He could make it. He could live another day.

A light blue shine on the right caught his eye. Whale oil tank powering one of the arc pylons. He forgot about the arc pylons!

"Don't move! There's no escape!" yelled one of the officers behind him and he shot a quick glance in his direction. There were five of them, already nearly at the ground floor.

With a metallic scrape, Corvo yanked the whale oil tank from its socket and blinked down at it as the contents swirled dangerously behind the glass. He had an idea. It was a bad idea. But it seemed to be just the day for those.

He tossed the tank towards the staircase and broke into a desperate sprint.

The heartbeat in his chest counted down to the explosion along with his frantic footfall. He caught one hand on the door frame to aid in taking a sharp turn. But instead it helped him not to tumble forward when he slammed into someone's solid form.

It felt as if time had slowed down for him. Against all logic there was enough time to look at the man in a red leather coat in front of him — his light grey piercing eyes wide in surprise, grab his lapels into a grip so tight Corvo's knuckles felt like they were about to dislocate, and yank him away from the entrance, spinning them around and slamming him against the wall right next to it. The man opened his mouth, a scowl growing on his features, but whatever he had to say was swallowed by an explosion that shook the marrow in Corvo's bones. They both instinctively curled in response, trying to shield themselves as much as possible, as a ball of fire shot out with an angry roar from the building. 

Through the ringing in his ears, Corvo heard what seemed like quite a large number of people yelling. He couldn't quite make out the words but when he lifted his head and his eyes met the red-coat's, he knew it was time to go.

They both lunged away from the swarm of Watchmen at the same time as if signalled by a starter pistol. They sped down along the street, kicking up clouds of dust and Void knows what else, as a thunder of several gunshots cracked behind them sharply like a whip. A bullet hit the cobble near Corvo's feet and ricocheted away with a high-pitched whistle. He grit his teeth, willing his legs to go faster.

Regardless of how bad the Watch was at aiming, they would eventually get shot if they continued on in a straight line like that.

As if knowing his thoughts precisely, the man at his side yanked him by the arm to the left, nearly throwing him over in the process. Corvo scrambled gracelessly with him towards a narrow, shaded alleyway. It was closed off by a tall brick wall, too tall even for him to Blink on top of, if he had any energy left for that in the first place.

But his companion didn't seem too perturbed by the fact that he was leading them into a corner. Either he had a plan or he was simply insane. Either way, one thing was clear — there was no going back now.

Corvo was about to open his mouth to voice the concern, when a strong, gloved arm pulled him closer to its owner, wrapping itself tightly around his middle.

In the space between a heartbeat and another, an endless sea of whispers like the last breath escaping a hundred souls surrounded him along with a swirl of ash. The sensation of misplacement that followed was familiar in the most unfamiliar way — weightlessness guided by the purpose of another, not his. Then, as the ash parted, the world caught up to him in a wrong angle, wrong space, wrong altitude.

And with a breathless exhale he fell.

The only thing that saved him from landing three stories down in a pile of broken bones and blood on the hard concrete, was the mindless instinct to grab. The old cast iron balcony railing rattled dangerously under his weight, as the gravity almost wrenched his shoulders out of their sockets and his solar plexus hit the outer edge of the stone floor, making him fruitlessly gasp for air with a painful wheeze.

Above him, heavy boots on either side of Corvo's palms, the red-clad man struggled to keep his balance on the balustrade — arms spread wide, attempting to counteract the wobble Corvo was causing. Quickly enough, he regained his footing, jumped back onto the landing, and, having thrown a glance to the mouth of the alley, grabbed the back of Corvo's coat and helped him clamber up and into the building.

With a ruckus equal only to a herd of blood oxen, the stampede of Watchmen turned the corner and ran into the dead-end below, to their surprise, finding it completely empty.

The wave of relief that came over Corvo, as he watched them scramble aimlessly through a dust-covered window, was like a splash of pleasantly cool water. His lungs were burning, all the muscles in his body were screaming with exhaustion, and his head was pounding, but he was alive and he would continue to be, even if the following morning he'd probably regret his continued existence.

A dry barking cough brought his attention back to the person in the room with him — tall and well built, with a narrow face on the side of which was a long scar that disappeared all the way under the collar of his thick white shirt, and armed to the teeth. But most importantly–

"You're Marked," Corvo found himself rasping out with disbelief between the slowing breaths, and cleared his throat. It wasn't a question, the man was just like him. It never even crossed his mind he could meet another blessed by the Outsider. "Who are you?"

"Depends who's asking..." he replied, voice low and husky. His eyes narrowed as he looked over Corvo with a gaze calculating enough to make him irrationally self conscious about his scruffy appearance.

Having lifted his left hand, Corvo slipped his thumb out of the hole in the side of his sweater sleeve, showing off the back of his hand. The Outsider's mark stood stark black like spilled ink on his skin. "A fellow heretic," he supplied with a self-satisfied note in his voice and bent his fingers, willing a flash of turquoise light to highlight the sharp lines.

It reflected in the man's steely eyes but, apart from the most subtle shift in posture that did not escape Corvo, it invoked no reaction whatsoever. Maybe it was best to let him mull the news over for a moment or two. If the gifts of the Leviathan were as rare as he was made to believe, the man was surely as shocked as he was.

With that through, Corvo peered outside again and found only two officers still standing in the alley. The irrelevance of that number let him relax further and he rolled his aching shoulders as he looked around the abandoned flat. It must have been grand once — high ceilings of white stone and wooden flooring with intricate patterns now filled with grime and dust like everything else. Several pieces of furniture were still there; maybe some other treasures could be found too.

"I'm Daud," the Marked finally said dryly, the arms crossed over his chest nearly audible in his words.

Corvo didn't turn to look and continued rifling through the drawers of a water damaged desk. "Just Daud?"

"You're not from around here, are you?"

He froze, fingers just above the splotchy brown surface of a tarnished brass knob. For the second time that day his heart jumped straight to his throat. Was that one innocent question really enough to give away his complete lack of knowledge about Gristol? "You that famous?"

"As much as getting dubbed the 'Knife of Dunwall' warrants," Daud said darkly and leaned his shoulder on the nearby wall, making some loose flakes of plaster and paint fall to the floor.

"Oh, right, I heard about you. Head of the Whalers." Corvo finally reached into the drawer and shuffled the yellowed papers around.

"And you are?" Daud put a bit more stress on that question, clearly getting irked by him avoiding any solid answers.

Nimble fingers pocketed a silver coin from under the papers and, not having found anything more of interest, he turned around to sit on the edge of the dresser. "Attano. Corvo Attano." With his thumb he pushed the leather mask up to rest on the top of his head and rubbed the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. "Nice to make your acquaintance," he added with a cocky smile.

"Attano," Daud repeated slowly as if trying his name out. "A Serk, huh?"

"Problem?"

"Not at all. I'm from Serkonos myself."

"A little pale for that," Corvo grinned at him smugly from across the room.

Daud raised an eyebrow, the arc of it a sharp angle. "So are you."

"Touché."

In his most recent memory he wasn't — he used to be quite tan, skin sun-kissed with constant running around in the Serkonan heat — but it must have been decades ago, considering how he looked at the present and how the gap between then and now felt nearly endless. A black void of a sudden cliff's edge.

"So, Attano." Corvo's attention snapped back to the assassin as he spoke again. "How long have you been in Dunwall?"

The desk whined underneath him when he shifted, eyeing Daud with narrowed eyes. Something felt off about this. "No offence, but what's it to you?"

"Just curious," he shrugged.

"Aha, sure. Do you show this interest to every person you meet on the street?" Corvo gritted out and got properly back onto his feet, ready to move at any time. Did the man think he was stupid? "Listen, if you want something from me, say it and stop running circles. But, as far as I see it, I saved your skin and you saved mine so we are done here."

"Straight to the point, I can appreciate that." Daud pushed himself off of the wall and half-heartedly dusted off his shoulder. "I want to offer you employment. You've got some skill, and certain other advantages, which I would definitely use among my men."

That caught Corvo completely off guard. "What, you want me to be a Whaler?" he asked incredulously. "Sorry, Knife, but I am no assassin."

"No one said you have to be an assassin. Other positions are available."

It seemed too good to be true. As far as Corvo and many other people of his status were concerned, the looking a gift horse in the mouth saying was a steaming pile of oxen dung. Always question an overly generous gesture because it might turn out that under the surface it isn't one at all.

But despite that, Corvo couldn't stop a spark of hope igniting at the very back of his mind. Having a job, no matter how shady, would not only give him some means to live but also put a sense of structure into the confusing wreck of his life. The Outsider only knows how difficult and terrifying the last month was for him.

Daud graciously let him consider the offer for a good while but when he finally spoke again it was like putting a marble block on the scale. "I can also offer you a safe corner to sleep in and a reliable supply of food."

A ravenous twist of his empty stomach sent Corvo's thoughts to the two heavily bruised apples at the bottom of his bag — his only food. "You got me there..." He exhaled slowly. There shouldn't be any harm in chancing the truth, should there? "Listen, it's not that I'm not willing. I just doubt I would be useful to you."

Confusion clear in the tilt of his head and eyes scanning, Daud questioned on, "How so? You seem capable enough to me."

"What if I told you I can't remember the last fifteen, maybe twenty years of my life?" Corvo asked, throat tighter at the admission than he expected. It occurred to him then that he hadn't told anyone about this before. He hoped it didn't sound too much like a weird excuse. "I doubt I would be useful to you because I don't even know what I can do."

"That's... rough," Daud managed. His grey eyes darkened under a deep frown. He seemed horrified by that concept, in a faraway, concealed way. Or maybe Corvo just wanted him to be.

Corvo laughed mirthlessly, "Yeah, tell me about it... All I've got is the last month and then nothing until I was a kid." His eyes dropped, fingers fidgeting nervously with the edge of his tattered bag.

"We can always find out what you can do. Or put you through training," the assassin offered.

That wasn't a bad concept. He definitely had muscle memory of some skills, like the mark and various sword fighting techniques he doesn't recall knowing in his youth. But it was unexpected how easily the Knife came to accept his affliction. So with a frown of his own he looked the man dead in the eye, challenging. "Excuse my distrust, but you are very... intent on getting me on your side. Why?"

Daud considered his words for a short moment. "You're Marked," he finally said simply. "There are very few of us and those who are alive are very powerful. I would most definitely not want an enemy out of you."

"And that's why you want me under your heel. Makes sense," Corvo thought out loud and immediately winced inwardly. It sounded much more malicious than he intended. Fortunately, Daud didn't seem bothered by that remark.

"You would be under my command, yes, but it's not like I would be able to control you, Attano," he reasoned. "You can leave whenever you want to."

"So what are your conditions?" Corvo asked as if he hadn't decided already.

The corners of Daud's narrow lips curled up in a knowing smile. He was undeniably handsome, in a sharp and dangerous kind of way that either made one's blood freeze or run hot, no in between. With slight amusement Corvo found that he fell under the latter category. There was something exhilarating in being under the scrutiny of those icy, attentive eyes.

We learnt something new about ourselves there, huh?

"The Whalers are more of an organised force compared to other gangs — everyone has their own function and a strict hierarchy is in place. As such, I would expect you to follow my orders and those of the ones above you." When Daud began moving in his direction with leisurely steps, one arm behind his back and the other gesturing loosely as he talked, Corvo straightened his back instinctively. With eerie ease he felt himself slip into the alert stiffness he could expect from Watchmen during an official briefing. "To trust you with our secrets, I need your loyalty. But as I said, you can quit at your discretion. Preferably by telling me, otherwise it might so happen that you could be considered a traitor and hunted for sport." The last words were accompanied by a dark glint in the master assassin's eyes. That was not an empty threat.

None of what he was asking for was unreasonable, Corvo had to admit. And considering he wouldn't be forced into killing people, it seemed like a great deal all around. Then again, casting his mind back to the officers he blew up — probably gravely injured, if not dead due to his actions — didn't fill him with too much remorse, so maybe they could make an assassin out of him still.

Lightly, he tapped the heel of his boot on the wooden panelling several times, rolling all of it over in his head for the last time. Then on a long exhale he said, "Alright. I'm all yours."

[fexalted]

Fic Writer Interview

tagged by @fallen-gravity, @pinesbrosfalls, @fordanoia, and @endae! i think that's everyone agdnshdj sorry i took forever to get around to it, but thanks for the tags 💗

How many works do you have on AO3?

.......four

What’s your total word count on AO3

12981

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

on ao3: gravity falls, pokemon, warrior cats, star trek (technically) (yes the last 3 are all in the same fic)

only in wips: star wars/the mandalorian, undertale, ace attorney, ghost trick, fire emblem: awakening, doctor who

posted elsewhere and lost to time: code lyoko, homestuck, steam powered giraffe

i'm almost positive i'm forgetting at least one lmao, i have chronic Can't Finish Anything Disease

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

only got four ahdjshd but

1. for those once held so nearly

2. Make Me Believe Again

3. Darkened Light, Starless Night

4. go sailing on by

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

i try to respond to all of them! i don't sign into ao3 very often and i never check the email linked to it so sometimes months go by before i realize i have a new comment shfjshfkd

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

out of what's currently posted, probably for those once held so nearly (but i do have a second part planned that will end in a much happier place i promise) counting wips, i've got a couple undertale ones that focus on some of the sadder neutral endings, but idk if i'll ever finish them bc damn it's hard for me to write pure angst these days

Do you write crossovers? If so, what’s the craziest thing you’ve ever written?

pikachu/firestar star trek au crackfic drabble (it was a request don't @ me)

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

got a couple "why this" type comments on the aforementioned crossover but i relished in them lmao

don't think i've ever gotten straight-up hate on a fic before, tho i did have a friend who would give me uhhhh,, let's say less than constructive criticism

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

nope! closest i've written was just like, making out lol

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

not that i'm aware of!

Have you ever had a fic translated?

also no, unless i forgot about it, which is possible shfjshdj

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

i've tried co-writing original fiction before but it didn't get very far. have talked about co-writing fics with a couple peeps but nothing's happened yet, would be fun to someday tho! if it counts, i RPed a lot when i was a teen, hahah

What’s your all-time favorite ship?

i'm not sure i have one actually? admittedly i don't ship much to begin with but idk if i could pick an otp out of the few i do, i'm too casual about it. you can probably pick up on some i like by what i reblog tho

What’s a WIP you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

like half of them lol 🙃 first one that comes to mind is this big multichapter gaster-centric undertale fic that i was working on back in like early 2016, i have so many chapters half-written and it feels like such a shame to let it gather dust in my wips but i don't have the drive to go back to working on it after all these years

What are your writing strengths?

i feel like i'm pretty good at writing natural-sounding dialogue, and describing feelings/sensations

What are your writing weaknesses?

god i struggle with scenery. i feel like i have to have a literal image in front of me to base my descriptions off of sometimes, esp if it's outdoors/in nature. also don't like writing beginnings! these two things are related!

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

i'm cool with it. it can sometimes take me out of the fic a bit if it's a longer sentence or something i need to scroll down to the end to see the translation for tho

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

either code lyoko or pokemon, it's been so long i can't remember which anymore

What’s your favorite fic you’ve ever written?

it's still a wip (like 90% of my fics), but there's one that's very special and personal to me and i hope i get to share it someday 💗

i forget who's all done this by now so i'm just tagging @autisticmight and whoever else wants to do it!

[spacetimewraithwrites-archive]

Word Prompt #10 - NSFW

Word: Honorific WIP: Thriving series CW: 18+ only, my fellow humans(?), for this is…not in any way safe for work whatsoever. Word Count: 1,922 Additional Notes: This is directly following up another WP piece of mine, Beard, and uh yeah. Also, I’m kinda glad I originally pulled this cuz I made a few minor changes to it.

***

Possibly two feet from the bedroom door was when Warren realized he was in the midst of experiencing the most difficult anticipatory moments of his life, and he glanced from his bags in Thrive’s arms up to the beautiful beard growth over the sharp angles of his jaw, the silver pin keeping the small bun of hair in place, and wanted so badly to knock the luggage out of his clutches and throw himself at him right in the middle of the hallway.

Thrive, however, had slightly different plans. He allowed Warren into the bedroom first, kicked the door closed behind him, and set the bags on the floor at his feet. Then from all but nowhere shot his hand to grab Warren’s throat and shove him back into the wall with barely restrained effort.

“Oh, fuck,” Warren managed to gasp before Thrive silenced him by claiming his mouth, the urgency of their kiss very apparent right off the bat. Warren pulled him closer by the hips, slid his hands up his back, clutched him around the ribs, weak in the knees from letting Thrive run his tongue over his bottom lip while simultaneously giving his mind permission to curl around his psyche, to return home where it was familiar and warm.

Warren reached up to remove the pin holding Thrive’s hair together, and he couldn’t even pull away to get a look at it as he was too busy reeling from the thigh that had made its way between his legs and the fingers creeping their way into his hair. Somewhat luckily, their mental connection allowed him to foresee it when Thrive decided to grip his mahogany locks and tug his head to the side, grazing his teeth over his throat and inhaling deeply.

“Hmm,” he murmured, and Warren could feel his husky timbre vibrating in his sternum. Thrive pressed his mouth to Warren’s ear. “This smell is unfamiliar.”

Heat roiled in Warren’s stomach and all of the blood in his head made a quick and terrible nosedive in the complete opposite direction. “This smell is possibly a whole month of being in the wilds of Logoryt.”

“We’ll just have to fix that, won’t we?” Thrive said, his voice barely a whisper as he deftly moved down the succession of Warren’s shirt buttons with one hand. “You and I both know the only scent that should be on your skin is mine.”

He’d growled the last word and Warren’s knees nearly buckled, though the thigh between his legs did a good job keeping him upright. “This is…probably the most functionally deficient I’ve ever been in my life—”

Thrive kissed him again, his beard barely scratching against his face, and it only became clear that he’d finished unbuttoning Warren’s red and gray flannel when his fingers found the strained zipper of his jeans and he dusted his knuckles across the swollen shape.

Warren, who’d been touch-starved for about an entire year, quickly pressed Thrive’s hand to himself and kept him still, biting his lip almost hard enough to draw blood. “Ah…careful. I’m a bad gust of wind away from ending this whole thing.”

Thrive’s eyes glittered with a thought. “Is that so….”

Warren didn’t even have the chance to confirm before Thrive sank to his knees, popping his jeans open and releasing him in one fluid movement. He curled an arm around the underside of Warren’s thigh and pinned him against the wall.

“Hey, now, wait a minute, wasn’t I supposed to be the one—OH! My fucking god—” Warren’s head smacked the wall upon Thrive’s mouth enveloping him, and it was all he could do not to buck forward, though that proved moot once Thrive’s other hand gripped his hip to keep him still. “Yeah, shit, I can't—”

“You can,” Thrive said against him, tightly squeezing him and inciting an inconsequential amount of pain to keep him in check. “And you will.”

Warren took a few deep breaths through his nose, his legs already shaking. “I’m gonna die here and it’s your fault.”

Thrive slid his hand up Warren’s stomach and stroked him slowly, angling a crooked grin in his direction. “What a way to go.”

Warren ran his fingers through Thrive’s chin-length hair and cradled the back of his head well into finding himself back in his mouth, screwing his eyes shut and simultaneously enjoying the sensations and doing his absolute best to keep himself going for just a little longer.

“Okay,” he panted, cupping Thrive’s face as a warning. “Okay, okay, okay….”

Thrive pulled back, but instead of stopping, he continued to stroke him, watching him intently. He used his other hand to flip his hair to one side and made direct eye-contact with Warren. “I don’t think you realize who’s in charge this morning.”

With a loud groan and a sharp cant of his hips, Warren writhed against the wall, full-body shivers overwhelming him and practically uprooting him as Thrive encouraged everything out of him. His limbs turned to jelly and he didn’t notice Thrive had begun to remove his jeans for him altogether.

“God,” Warren said forcefully. “I think I gotta leave home more often….”

Thrive stood. “Bed.”

Blinking away his lightheadedness, Warren glanced at him. “I dunno if I can walk, babe.”

Thrive curled his fingers around him again, causing him to inhale sharply and hiss through clenched teeth. “…You will address me by my honorific.”

Warren groaned again. “Mm…sorry…Your Majesty.”

“Get on the bed.”

He sat on the edge, watching Thrive carefully remove his cape and peel off the few layers of his robes and flushing a deep crimson when his hair caught the light of the sun through the window.

“On your stomach,” Thrive ordered.

Warren shivered again, doing as instructed. “Wanna get this thing out of the way?” he asked, tugging the collar of his shirt.

Thrive rummaged around the drawers of Warren’s dresser. “No.”

The fabric of his bedspread made Warren’s sensitive skin tingle. “I gotta say this is kinda hitting on a fantasy of mine,” he said sheepishly. “I’ve spent years daydreaming about you, uh, dominating me and….” He scratched his temple. “The choking thing was really doin’ it for me.”

“The idea of me breaking you in half arouses you?”

“Fuck yes,” Warren laughed. “Yeah, exactly. The fact that you could is like…combined with the fact that you’re super smart is just….”

Thrive had meandered back over to the bed. “Talk more of what turns you on about me.”

“So many things,” Warren said, fully aware of the snap of a bottle opening and the scent of synthetic peach filling the air, and his gut tightened in response to the bed sinking beneath his knees. “Your eyes are so gorgeous, the way you talk to me sometimes is so hot, and your body….” He dropped his head to the mattress when he felt a hand at the small of his back. “…Is incredible.”

“This is not my body, Warren,” Thrive murmured.

Warren clutched the bedspread with tight fists as Thrive’s coated fingers found their target and sent a wave of electricity through him. “Yeah…yeah, I know that….”

“If I were to become natural at this very moment, would you still feel as unraveled and vulnerable as you do now?”

Warren couldn’t hold back the laugh that burst forth from him again. “If you became natural right now while you’re doing what you’re doing I would actually explode without further prompting.”

There was a curious pause from Thrive as he continued to touch Warren, hot palm caressing his back and the curve of his backside as his other hand prepped him. “…That is good to know.”

Warren’s grip on the bedspread only tightened when Thrive pulled him back by the hem of his shirt, then his hips and sheathed himself within him. “Ah, god….”

“Up,” Thrive grunted, and with his help Warren pushed himself upward so Thrive could wrap an arm around his midsection and hold him tight to his chest, finding a pace that drew the most sounds out of him. He tugged on Warren’s earlobe with his teeth. “Right…I’m not letting you out of this house again.”

Warren’s head dropped back onto a broad shoulder, his emotions swirling together with Thrive’s. “I…can’t see myself arguing with that at the moment….”

The sun eventually reached its peak in the sky and Thrive flipped Warren onto his back, his hand once again tight but safe around his throat, and Warren hooked his legs around Thrive’s waist for leverage, and between all of that and the fact that they were in full view of anyone who happened to fly by the window at that time—

“Oh, fuck, Thrive,” Warren groaned, overwhelmed with heat and the rise of pleasure in their mental connection.

“Say it,” Thrive growled.

“Your Majesty—!”

Thrive arched himself over Warren and threw a dark leg over his shoulder, rolling his hips into him a few times before Warren couldn’t contain himself any more and let go, pulling Thrive’s face down to kiss him hard and dig his nails into the flesh of his back, releasing cries of ecstasy that he was suddenly glad no one else was in the house to hear.

Slowing to a stop, Thrive smoothed Warren’s hair down on his head and instantly collapsed beside him, holding him in his arms as Warren came down from his euphoric state.

“Holy shit,” Warren panted, throwing an arm over his face to hide the tears streaming down the sides of his head. “That was so fucking amazing….”

Thrive stroked the side of his face. “You’re alright?”

“I’m shaking….” Warren held his hands up to look at them and chuckled. “God, yeah, I’m great.”

“Was it too much for you?”

“No. No…no, you could’ve even pushed harder, to be honest.”

“I worry about hurting you.”

Warren turned his head to look Thrive in the eye, a bit taken aback. His chest heaved with his efforts to catch his breath. “I mean, everyone’s got a limit, but…a little pain isn’t too bad. Is it?”

Thrive linked his and Warren’s hands together and brought his knuckles up to his lips. “As long as you’re fine with what transpired here.”

“Are you?”

“Truthfully, I only had you in mind.” Thrive shook his head to keep his hair out of his face, and he smiled when Warren raked his nails through his beard. “I only ever have you in mind.”

He dropped his head low to meet Warren in another kiss.

“Damn,” Warren whispered. “I’m so glad to be home.”

“Well,” Thrive replied, “I very slightly meant what I said about keeping you here. It’s always a ruin to contentment without you at my side at all times.”

They lay in quiet for a moment, gazing into each other, and Warren held his face in his hands.

“Let’s do this again,” he murmured. “But keep looking at me just like that.”

Thrive obliged him, and they spent the rest of the day in bed, making up for lost time, until Warren had nothing left within him to spend, and the start of the sunset called for a long nap in each others’ arms with the view of the three moons of Tournaltis curving across the sky and the waking desert lights bobbing over the distant shore.

“Love you, Your Majesty,” Warren mumbled sleepily beneath Thrive’s jaw.

Thrive tucked a hand comfortably into the waistband of Warren’s sweatpants at the small of his back. “Love you as well, Your Highness.”

Warren smiled against his skin.

***

NSFW tag list (ask to be added or removed!): @pertinax--loculos @dontdowhatisayandnobodygetshurt @biscottibitch @drabbleitout  @holidaysong

[derireo]

why does everyone hate yukio what did he do pls gimme some spoilers

almost forgot to answer this! :o for anyone who wants to avoid MAJOR spoilers, please don't proceed any further!

Okay, so here’s the thing. I also don’t know much past Act 1 as I’ve only experienced snippets of Act 2 and Act 3 on Twitter because I don’t really mind spoilers. (Doesn’t really ruin my experience of the game!)

But not everybody hates Yukio. A lot of EN only players tend to have mixed feelings about him or don’t want to judge him yet until we’ve got everything from JP server localised.

Personally, I don’t want to hate Yukio, but it’s kind of hard not to since he’s a father who left his family and friends without any explanation. Just up and left.

Now, here is what we DO know so far from Act 1.

At the very beginning of the game, Izumi receives an invitation that was meant for Yukio. Izumi’s all determined that this is how she’s going to be able to track down her father only to be met with MANKAI that is literally on the verge of getting destroyed to become a cabaret club.

(A cabaret club is kind of like a host club, just more refined and high-class. Tbh, Sakyo could have raked in a lot of cash with that if Izumi didn’t appear.)

Unfortunately, Yukio is nowhere to be seen and Matsukawa has no idea who Izumi is until she explains why she’s there.

Fast forward to where we meet Yuzo. There’s this one scene in Act 1 that happens where Yuzo thinks about how proud Yukio would be if he saw Izumi now. And then there’s another scene where Yuzo is on the phone.

I can’t remember the conversation well, but it was implied/proved/people guessed he was talking to Yukio on the phone.

And like. U know. Let me talk to my fucking dad.

Anyways, I got over that moment pretty quickly bc I was like, whatever, not worth it. I really don’t need a dad in this damn game anyways, but it would’ve been pretty fuckin’ nice right??

That’s pretty much all I know CLEARLY.

But then Act 3 comes along with the original A3! leaders.

As in, the original members of the ORIGINAL MANKAI. You know, the one that Yukio formed back in his late high school days and kept together up until his mid 30/40′s. Before he dipped. Yaknow.

Kasumi (Spring), Hiro (Summer), Zen (Autumn), Syu (Winter).

Kasumi, Hiro, and Zen are the leaders who only have good/neutral opinions on Yukio while Syu seems to despise him. Something happened in the past that left a bad taste in Syu’s mouth, (I vaguely remember what, but I don’t want to say just in case I twist the character’s words) and when he reappears, he kind of voices his distaste for Izumi’s dad.

And then there’s Reni. Oh my god, there’s Reni. I’m not too heated or surprised or intrigued by this information, but MANKAI was founded by both Yukio and Reni. (Correct me if I’m wrong.)

Reni was so enthralled and encouraged by Yukio’s acting, so much so that he agreed to form a troupe with him (or the other way around?).

They worked their asses off gathering members for this troupe, worked so hard until they finally made it big enough to qualify for a Fleur Award. One of the most prestigious of awards to win as a troupe.

But like, something happens??? I don’t know if it was explained yet what exactly happened, but this thing causes Yukio to flee. I don’t know if these are rumors or canon, but people have said that Yukio fled the damn country over something that we don’t know.

Like. Unless ur wanted for murdering someone or because u need to find refuge, I don’t really think u have the right to leave everyone and everything in the dust just because u fucked up.

Doesn’t matter if it was to save the company or the faces of the people he worked with because either way, the company nearly fell apart with Sakyo and he’s made an enemy of Reni and fuckin’ Syu, the boomer e-boy (attack me, idc) doesn’t like him either.

Anyways, these are just things I’ve read in passing so take this info like a grain of salt or just completely disregard me.

FOR ME, PERSONALLY. I just don’t like absent fathers.

How many games have I gone through where the MC has no dad or has lost a dad (I’m looking at u Fire Emblem. Especially you, Three Houses. I want Jeralt back).

And then very personally, I grew up without a dad and was raised by my two older brothers. My mom was busy working so many jobs that I rarely saw her, and even with my brothers around, I was still left to my own devices because they were busy with school and working as well.

My dad left my family in debt. He was absent for more than half of my life. I had no idea where he was, I was never told why he wasn’t with us, I have no recollection of having him in my life.

Izumi’s lucky enough to remember Yukio since he left her when she was still in her teens so she can still cherish those happy memories, but it’s also unfortunate that she has to live the rest of her life without her dad (assuming that he isn’t going to come back or make an appearance).

The absence of my dad took a huge toll on my family, to be honest. My mom worked tirelessly and my brothers had no one to go to. My brothers fell into this lifestyle of gang violence, substances, and lots of illegal activity. There was really no one there to steer them away because I was too young and my mom wasn’t there enough (I can’t blame her).

It’s not hard to imagine that Izumi lived similarly to me. Being an only child in her case, she was probably alone most of the time when her mom was working. 

Doing the chores at home, staying out late because she doesn’t want to come back to an empty house, getting a job and involving herself in way too many extracurriculars so she has an excuse not to be at home.

I’m actually really surprised that Liber hasn’t made Izumi resent Yukio because I know I would be super fucking pissed rather than be keen on discovering his whereabouts. I don’t give a fuck.

I know it’s just a game, but damn, bro.

Anyways, I’m just one of many few who dislike Yukio and it may be because of personal reasons (I know that for me, it is very very personal).

Don’t let my opinion sway you, really, I think you should experience everything in EN server when the time comes to really form an opinion. I know for me, whatever happens next with Yukio, if it’s good news like he’s coming back or he has a good reason for leaving, it’s going to be very difficult for me to be okay with just that.

The jealousy, loneliness, and pondering your worth as a child??? God, I wish that was never me. And to think Izumi probably had to go through that during her teen years??? Phew, I think a lot of us know that feeling too well.

I actually have a WIP that I started last month that touched bases on Izumi’s growing up through high school without Yukio so if I ever get back to that again, you’ll kind of get to see my self-projection lols.

Anyways. that’s all I have. Hope this answered your question, anon! Thanks for asking. 

[leafenclaw]

For the “Ask questions about my WIPs!” game

@inkstainedfingers97 asked:

“Perchance would you be willing to send me a brief summary of the premises of "Gem" and "Fearful Symmetry" ?”

First of all, thank you for asking! ^^

Gem is actually one of my earliest Mentalist works, one of several character studies I wrote in preparation for another story called Visions (which I was supposed to go back to right after Chasing Storms, but then Kindred happened x3). The concept was quite simple, a long drabble in which Lisbon was pondering all the ways Jane reminds her of a diamond (the dazzling smiles, flashy tricks, cutting edges of his personality, the fatal flaw at heart, etc.). That said, 400-ish words in I realised I was pushing that metaphor just a little bit too far? XD So unless I recycle parts of it for Kindred at some point (perhaps for 2x09, with that subplot about a diamond Jane lost in the bullpen? ^^), it’ll probably never see the light of day and to be honest I’m pretty okay with that. x)

Fearful Symmetry is a different animal entirely. I don’t know if you remember 2x10 well, it’s the episode where Jane gets hit by a baseball and gets a concussion, so he spends the whole episode fainting and having intrusive memories of his father? And in one of those memories, you see him and his father conning an old lady and her dying granddaughter. For some reason as I was watching I started thinking on that kid, wondering what would happen to her if she survived after this. Would she think the crystal really saved her, or would she know it’s a con and resent the Janes for it? I followed those thoughts for a while, got mislaid by a few Shakespeare references, and ended up with a story in which Celia (the dying girl) is Red John, because the application of the crystal nearly killed her and she wants revenge on the boy who lied to her. x)

It’s not a happy story. Written in 2nd person from the POV of an extremely unreliable narrator, it’s meant to be an illustration of how a healthy mind can sink into really unhealthy thought patterns because of a single event, how holding onto hate and a desire for revenge usually ends up poisoning your own life, and (as the title implies) it was also meant to be a commentary on thematic parallels between Jane and Red John, how similar they are, how you just need to fill in a few blanks to realise they have the same nature.

Anyway. x) It was SUPER cathartic to write and I was all set to publish as soon as it was done... until a computer mishap ate half my progress (more than 5k gone, I had almost 12k by then), including a scene I struggled a lot on, so it never recovered. I’m still keeping that one on the back-burner though, it’s one of ten stories across all my fandoms that I definitely intend to come back to and complete.

Excerpt under cut. Trigger warnings for obsessive thoughts of hatred and revenge, graphic descriptions of pain, some internalised ableism, and violent rejection of morals and religion. (There may be other things, as I said it’s not a happy story.)

(Feel free to comment but please don’t reblog.)

*****

Fearful Symmetry

*****

"Breathe," says your grandmother softly.

And you do, one laborious inhalation after the other, even as the wet, squelching sound makes you shiver, and the pain tears you apart. You do, and you clutch the crystal against your chest – because it will help, won't it? It must. Your grandmother says so, and the Carney man at the fair said so, and the boy. The boy said so. The beautiful boy who cried for you, with the golden curls that makes you want to giggle and sigh and feel their softness under your fingers. He said so.

"Breathe," repeats your grandmother, and you do – again and again and again and why isn't it working?

"I'm sorry to tell you, ma'am. You were robbed," says the doctor, shaking his head. "Crystals aren't magic. They can't heal anything."

But neither you nor your grandmother will listen to those lies, because you saw it. You saw the blister on the boy's finger heal with your own two eyes. How is that not magic? So you breathe, and breathe again, and cough up phlegm until even your grandmother pales and shakes her head.

*****

"What if – " you ask, then cough some more. "What if it needs to be inside?"

"Direct application," whispers your grandmother, eyes feverish. "Yes! We could put it in your oxygen tank – that should work. It will work, Celia. I promise."

Of course, no doctor will allow her to put a foreign object in your oxygen tank, not even a magic healing crystal that could save you. You should have known. They never took you seriously, even in the beginning. That's why the cancer was allowed to spread so far.

But you and your grandmother know what you're doing. You've seen it work. And when it does, when you're healed, you will walk back to the county fair on your own feet and kiss that boy right on his generous mouth to thank him for everything he did.

One day. If you dare. You need to heal first, for that to happen.

So you and your grandmother talk about it, and come to a decision.

Forget about the doctors.

Trust in the crystal.

Trust in the boy.

"Keep your eyes closed," whispers your grandmother, a handful of carefully grounded crystal in her palm. "I will blow it toward you. And when I say so, take a deep breath, as deep as you can. Are you ready?"

You nod.

"Now!"

You open your mouth wide and breathe, and cough, and open your eyes because it hurts so much, and dust flies in your eyes and your mouth is burning, your eyes are burning, your lungs, NO, burning scratching burning bleeding leaking painpainpain –

You scream.

*****

"What were you thinking!" bellows the doctor, somewhere on the other side of the door.

Your grandmother is crying, all hysterical sobs and blubbering mess, incoherent words of desolation falling out of her mouth like a waterfall. You want to tell her it's not her fault – it's not her fault, it's the boy's. The lying boy with his lying tears and those lying curls of shining gold you still want to feel under your fingers, except now you want to feel his lying throat bobbing up and down as you squeeze it just as much.

You want to tell her, but they hooked you up to your oxygen tank and you can't say a word, and you can't reach out to her either because you can't see with all those bandages covering your eyes.

Can’t, can’t, can’t do anything, anything at all.

"It's a miracle it didn't kill her on the spot!" yells the doctor again.

You can hear the angry breath he takes and releases, almost covering your grandmother's cries.

"Your crystal dust buried itself in the tissues, scarred her lungs and cornea," the doctor adds, so quietly you have to strain your ears to hear him speak. "If she was to live, it would be a miracle for her to escape pneumonia and infections. But as it is..."

You shouldn't be listening to this. But you do, you do even if you're not supposed to, even if you're supposed to be sleeping, and resting, and recovering. That's what they told you to do, anyway. Rest, and don't bother your pretty little head with grown-up talk.

Rest.

Rest in peace.

"Her last days will be painful," concludes the doctor. "Dying will be a kindness."

Your grandmother's wail covers every other sound.

The pang of shock in your mind covers every other thought.

Until shock turns to helplessness.

Then anger.

Then hate.

*****

You lie on your back, eyes closed as the priest anoints your forehead with oil, muttering blessings for your soul. Your grandmother cries softly by your bedside as you take one painful inhalation after the other. They've all given you for dead already, talking about you in past tense, hushed murmurs and sniffles in every corner of the room.

You don't care.

You're such a raw mass of unending pain. Nothing else matters but the burning in your lungs and the fever in your eyes and the pounding in your head that erases all ideas, all thoughts, all emotions.

Except one.

And the growing thirst for revenge sustains you in a way nothing else – no medicine, no prayer, no crystal – ever could.

*****

You never knew there was an emotion so powerful as to conjure up miracles – but if you had, you would have bet on love.

And you would have been wrong.

Love, in the end, wasn't enough to save you. Be it the love of God with its many prayers all through the night, or the love of Science on the altar of which you sacrificed your hair – both utterly failed you. Even the love of your grandmother only brought you worse suffering instead of the promised peace and relief.

Love wasn't enough.

But hate is.

Hate allows you to survive night after night until a full month passes. Hate allows you to hang on by a thread until breathing comes easier, until pain ceases. So slowly at first nobody notices you healing. So slowly at first you don't even notice it yourself.

Until you do.

Until they do.

"It's a miracle. Praises be to God," says the priest, and you want to tell him to shut up shut up shut up, because there is no miracle, there is no God, there is only hate burning bright and hot inside you, turning the cancer to cinders and coal dust.

"It was the crystal. It gave her back her life," says your grandmother, and you want to tell her to shut up shut up shut up, because the crystal nearly killed you, the crystal scratched your eyes away and even hate couldn't give you back your sight.

"It was the treatment. In a few months, we may be able to graft her a new cornea," says the doctor, and you want to tell him to shut up shut up shut up, because the medicine was never helpful to begin with, they didn't even bother treating your eye infection properly when they thought you were dying, and when you finally get out of here you will never trust a doctor again.

But you don't say a word – because you may be healed but you're still weak, and arguing over what exactly saved you would be a waste of time, a waste of energy. Instead you let hate eat away at any warm emotion you once felt, shield your mind with its cold, hard shell of frozen magma.

Who cares what they all think anyway? You know the truth, and at night you dream of a thousand humiliations and pains for the boy who grievously betrayed you.

[theprodigypenguin]

👀

This is an excerpt from a WIP called “Yes Man” that I wanted to write a little after finishing “Moon Sick”. It’s a blend of Jeddy and Scorbus (and I almost never write Scorbus so this was supposed to help me get used to then yeet). It also had a bunch of really fun bits with Albus and James being bros, James having an oblivious crush on Teddy and not realizing it, also James being so stupid in love he’d say yes to anything Teddy asked, even if it meant helping him get together with a girl:

“Alright! Now this should be an excellent day!” was the first thing James said as he stepped onto the cobbled path down Diagon Alley, “Albus, let me see your book list.”

“What for? Do you not remember what you had to buy for your sixth year?”

“That was ages ago, Al,” James said, snatching the envelope from his brothers hand and opening it, “Can’t expect me to remember everything.”

“James this is only your first year out of school, stop acting like you’re Merlin.”

James just ignored him, “The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6; Advanced Potion-Making; Confronting the Faceless, that’s the text for Defense Against the Dark Arts. Dad also said I had to take you to get you new robes, because you just had to get taller didn’t you?”

“Why do I have to do this with you in the first place?” Albus asked, “I’m sixteen now, I should be allowed to shop for school supplies by myself without you. Hey why doesn’t Lily have to come with us?”

“Dad and mum both have work, Al, and Lily went with Rose and Hugo.”

“Why the hell does Rose get to go off on her own and I can’t?! She’s sixteen too!”

“Albus you know exactly why.”

“This is bloody unfair…”

“Ah come on, Al, you really hate spending time with me that much? I thought we had an understanding. We’re brothers, remember!” he threw an arm around Albus, “Besides, I love spending time with you!”

“Ugh…”

“That should be your motto, etched in stone on your grave. Ugh.”

“Can you shut up? Let’s just fucking get what I need and go home.”

“Hey, try a bit harder to be happy about this. We might run into Scorpius while we’re here.”

James felt Albus tense under his arm, but there was no more protest, so he released his younger brother and they headed for the closest shop to get Albus sized for new robes.

Maybe it was a bit unfair to use Scorpius against Albus like that, but it was so fun to do, to see his face change when the young Malfoy’s name was brought up.

Albus and Scorpius, inseparable friends since the instant they met eyes on the Hogwarts Express leading to their first year, had been dating for the past few months. James figured it started sometime during their fifth year, towards the end of it perhaps.

He didn’t pick up on it for the longest time, and Lily felt no shame in calling him an utterly dense airhead whenever he noted his confusion (“Didn’t even realize they were an item now.” “James, your head is full of Billywiggs.”).

The first time it occurred to him that they might have been something more than friends was during a trip to Hogsmeade, where he saw Albus and Scorpius over the heads of other students, leaning into each other, seemingly no personal space between the two of them and not at all caring. James had no idea what they were talking about, but Albus was grinning so big there were dimples in his cheeks that James never noticed he had before, and there was a flush of red across Scorpius’ nose that definitely could have been mistaken as caused by the cold.

They always stood that close, though, so it wasn’t until James saw them later entering The Hog’s Head that his interest piqued, following them into the dingy pub and sitting in the furthest corner to watch them from a distance and not be spotted. You didn’t go into The Hog’s Head unless you didn’t want to be bothered or seen doing something you shouldn’t have been doing. None of the other students went in there, normally preferring to take up at The Three Broomsticks (which was a cleaner and better kept establishment).

That was probably exactly why they went into The Hog’s Head, though. Even after five years, the rest of the school didn’t seem too fond of Albus or Scorpius, so they probably wouldn’t have had much fun in the crowded Three Broomsticks where so many of the students could be found. 

While The Hog’s Head had definitely been refurbished and tidied up a bit since the death of Voldemort, it was still quite a mess, and not nearly what The Three Broomsticks was. The lights were low, though the dust had been cleaned from the floor at some point, the glasses cleaner than they ever were before and likely ever would be again. There was still a lingering scent of grass and mud and goats, but it also smelt of malt liquor, chocolate, and incense, as if the old owner was trying to “spice things up”.

The pubs owner and operator, Aberforth Dumbledore, acted like he knew Albus and Scorpius, greeting them and waving them to a table in the far corner just across from James. It was hidden from most of the windows so no classmates would be able to spot the Slytherin boys if they happened to pass and glance inside (as if they would be able to see anything through the cloudy windows anyway). They didn’t even have to order, as Aberforth had returned minutes later with two tankards that were hopefully clean.

When he wandered over to James, who was slouching with his hood up (not at all unusual in the Hog’s Head), Aberforth just stared blankly.

“What can I get you, Potter?”

“What? I’m not- I’m just a humble traveler my good sir.”

“I can see the Gryffindor crest on your chest.”

“Bloody hell-” James tried to fold his cloak over himself to hide the red crest as Aberforth gave a snort. “I’m just-”

“I don’t care,” Aberforth interrupted. “Spy on your brother in a shadowed cobwebbed corner in a shady Hogsmeade pub, won’t make any left or right to me. What do you want to drink?”

“Just a warm Butterbeer please.”

“Fine.”

James eyed the old wizard as he shuffled away before looking back over at Albus and Scorpius. They’d pulled their seats together, leaning into each other with one hand on their drinks and grins at their mouths and a flush to their cheeks, though James didn’t think they’d even taken a sip of what they’d ordered (and they were only fifteen, James definitely hoped they weren’t drinking Firewhiskey).

“Pst, are they drinking alcohol?” James asked under his breath when Aberforth came and set down a steaming cup.

“I don’t sell to minors.”

“Right…”

It was then that it happened, when Aberforth started back towards the bar and James picked up his steaming mug, hugging it to his chest so the scent could waft into his face, warming his hands and raising the tankard up, watching his brother and the young Malfoy leaning closer while laughing about something, a joke or something stupid that one of them did, or saw someone else do; James wished he could hear them.

Their foreheads were touching now, laughing at their private joke, both tilting their chins until their noses were brushing, then their lips, interrupted quite suddenly when a rag smacked Albus in the back of the head, making him jerk back and spin in his seat to glare at Aberforth.

“What the bloody-”

“No snogging in my pub, Potter, you’ll chase all my customers away.”

“What?! We’re the only ones in here!” James sunk down in his seat. “We’re the only ones who ever come here!”

“Sorry, Mister Dumbledore,” Scorpius quickly said, grinning, and Aberforth gave another grunt as he walked away.

“Your father had to curse you with that name, boy, just like the original, snogging trouble makers in dark corners.”

“What was that?”

“I said you’re as gay as my brother.”

“Wow, what an honor.”

It was clear that they were trying hard to keep their relationship a secret, so of course everyone eventually found out. Maybe it was because James told Lily he saw them snogging, maybe it was because Lily already knew, but by the end of the year, Fred, Roxanne, Rose, Louis, Lily, and Hugo, all of their family still in school, knew about their relationship, either because they heard from James, saw the boys snogging for themselves (despite their attempts to hide it), or had already known about it.

Even Dominique and Victoire didn’t seem all that surprised when Fred and James told them. In fact, Victoire actually scolded James for spying on them, as if he’d never done that before.

Over the summer break, Scorpius had visited a few times, and Albus had even been allowed over to Malfoy Manor a few times, and somehow no one ever suspected. Maybe because the two of them always acted the way they did. Leaning into each other, sitting on opposite ends of the couch with their legs tangled together, Albus falling asleep on Scorpius’ shoulder at the table during breakfast; it was all stuff they’d been doing since they met.

The only difference that separated their long time friendship and their newly discovered romantic relationship was the occasional snogging in dark corners.

So yea, bringing Scorpius up was bound to get Albus to silently go along with James through Diagon Alley. The concept of bumping into his boyfriend was too good to pass up. James struggled to hide his snickers as they dropped into seats in front of Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour with wrapped parcels and bags of newly acquired school supplies.

Albus kept pivoting his head back and forth, glancing over one shoulder then the other, clearly searching for someone. Someone who just happened to have platinum blond hair and grey eyes.

“Well, he could be busy. Maybe he already picked up supplies, or intends to get his things later,” James tried to lift Albus’ spirits, but his little brother just slumped in his seat exhaling heavily through his nose. “Or you could just sit there sulking into your banana split like the Millennial you are, that’s also a fine option. Well done, Albus.”

“Piss off.”

“Wow.”

[epicstuckyficrecs]

Post Endgame Fic Rec!

So at the time I’m making this post, I haven’t seen Endgame yet (but it’s out in certain parts of the world), but I imagine that what everybody will want after watching it is either 1) to pretend it never happened, or 2) some fluff (I tried to keep it to fics posted in the last year since I already did a fluff fic rec after IW). So here goes! Enjoy!

(* besides the ones I’ve read)

Infinity War fix-it

*still here by wearing_tearing (1,8K): Steve wipes the dust off his face.

*To Never Have Loved At All by hitlikehammers (3K): Steve will say they had work to do, and a universe to put to rights. They had people to find and hearts to unbreak. They had a mission. There was no time for any of them to mourn. Steve, as it turns out, says a lot of things that are mostly bullshit.

Beyond the Burn by eyres (7K): Steve saves the universe - but it takes him awhile to be okay again.

This is the Perfect Time to Panic by Brokenpitchpipe, emij1s (8K): Finding the infinity stones and restoring half the universe is the boring part. The fun part comes next.

*watch them rolling back by napricot (17K): Bucky was just here, he was right here. This can’t be all that’s left. Well, it’s not all that’s left, not quite. There, in the pile of ash that used to be Bucky Barnes, already drifting to scatter across the soil of Wakanda, to dissipate in the air, to be nothing but dust on Steve’s hands and in his gasping mouth and in his lungs—left there, in that ash and dirt, are his gun, and his left arm, gleaming dully in the sunshine.

Realignment by amethystkrystal (24K): After assembling their own Infinity Gauntlet, the Avengers defeated Thanos and brought back everyone who disappeared. But their victory came at a great cost: in order to take the Soul Stone, Steve had to sacrifice the Captain America mantle and all the super-soldier strength that came with it. Small and sickly again, Steve’s poor health soon reaches a breaking point and his last option is a difficult surgery only Shuri and her team can perform. But not all hurts can be fixed with medicine, and the real healing begins after the operation -- when Bucky asks Steve to stay in Wakanda with him.

*Endless War by Nonymos (27K): There is always something more to lose. (Which means all is not lost.)

At Times I Almost Dream by LadyC (29K): When Thanos snapped his fingers, he split the universe into two – one where half the population had been erased from existence, another where the other half had. As both sets of Avengers will learn, the divide between the worlds is thinner for those who share a particular type of connection…

*might never be normal again (but who cares) bynapricot (WIP, 3/4, 36K): All things considered, Steve thought he’d handled the whole Thanos killing half the universe thing and the ensuing bitter, desperate quest to defeat him pretty well. Sacrificing his super soldier serum to use one of the Infinity Stones wasn't a problem either, not when it meant getting back the half of the universe they'd lost, and especially not when it meant getting Bucky back. But retirement and finally confessing his feelings for Bucky? Those were proving to be more challenging.

Dismantle The Sun by hitlikehammers (WIP, 19/20, 56K): This is the way the world ends: with a bang, and a whimper, plus a snap. And yet—between realities and quantum vagaries and heartbreak and that foolish not-just-human penchant toward hope—even that wasn't the end of their stories. Not even close.

Fluff

*I [Heart] You by writeonclara (1,1K): “Steve’s been hit with a curse,” Natasha said. She said it calmly, so Bucky didn’t immediately go flying out of the apartment to tear apart the Tower in search of Steve. “Of course he has,” he said. He felt, abruptly, exhausted. “What is it?” “It might be easier just to show you.”

*Boeuf Mystère by galwednesday (1,2K): “Quick question,” Bucky said. Steve looked up, but didn’t stop moving passports and stacks of cash into a nondescript blue duffel, his mind busily ticking through logistics. He’d grab the glock taped behind the hidden drawer in the desk on their way out, and they could buy new clothes once they got across the border into neutral territory, so they didn’t need much else, apart from whatever Bucky wanted to bring. One duffle should be enough. “Yeah, honey?” “What the fuck.”

*Blank and Silent by Kellyscams (1,6K): Without any words on his wrist, Steve Rogers is sure he'll never find his soulmate. But fate might have some different plans for him.

*Check, Mate? by talkplaylove-art (talkplaylove), wearing_tearing (2K): A notification from Check, Mate? blinks back at him. Steve’s heart speeds up when he opens the app and then his face breaks into a blinding grin when sees what’s waiting for him. James likes him back.

*Just About Half-Past Ten by rohkeutta (2K): But as he reaches Madison Avenue, Stark Tower a mere block away, the skies open with a whoosh, and he barely manages to duck under the construction scaffolding perched over the sidewalk. Thunder rumbles overhead, and Bucky frantically checks every compartment of his bag for an umbrella he knows is there. It’s not. He does find some loose glitter, though, and a lipstick he wore for Pride and had thought he’d lost, plus a spare Metro Card he can’t remember buying. He also gets a crystal clear flashback of leaving the umbrella under his desk to dry yesterday morning, and never picking it up again.

*One for Fiction by thepinupchemist (6K): In the heart of a modern library, children's librarian Bucky Barnes meets his match in the form of the new barista: Steve Rogers. He doesn't think there's any way his crush could be requited -- but sometimes librarians don't know everything.

*A Little Sparkle by roe87 (7K): "What about that guy in accounting?" Natasha mused. "Billy, Buddy, or...?" "Bucky," Steve said, knowing who she meant. "Lip piercing, right?" "Yeah! He's cute." "Yeah," Steve agreed hesitantly, then added, "but I'm not ready for that."

*A World That Makes Such Wonderful Things by stevergrsno (noxlunate) (8K): In which Steve is a mermaid, Bucky's a werewolf, and as always, they fall for each other.

*Found: One Bicycle by gracie137 (8,7K): Bucky Barnes posted in Overheard at Middlebury College: Hello fellow students! Basically in my drunken stupor last night I came across a bicycle. Being rather intoxicated and far from home I decided the logical thing to do was ride it back. I can assure you all that both me and the bike survived this adventure and are in perfect condition!! I now however have no use for for said vehicle and have realised that someone is probably pretty upset about having lost it. Anyway, if you can correctly identify the bike’s make and colour, slide into my DMs and I promise to return it to you!! Thanks for the ride xoxo

*Kiss me and take off your clothes by steveandbucky (10K): Steve Rogers is dared to send a dick pic to a blog which critiques dick pics (run by none other than Bucky Barnes). Hilarity ensues.

*before we can breathe easy by belovedmuerto (22K): No one touches Steve. Bucky sets out to do something about that.

*Roll Out the Red Carpet by Lorien, Quarra, talkplaylove-art (talkplaylove) (29K): The premiere for Steve Rogers' newest Captain America movie was just around the corner, and Steve knew it was going to be a hit. The big downside was that he had to have a date. The last several times he'd brought someone to an event like this, things had ranged from unpleasant to disastrous. In a last ditch effort to get out of taking someone that might make his night hell, Steve went on Twitter and invited the Winter Soldier to be his plus one. The Soldier was an international fugitive, and currently wanted for a series of high profile attacks on corrupt businessmen. Since every person the Soldier attacked was involved in some truly vile criminal activity, the public loved him, despite his crimes. Inviting him to the premiere was the perfect cop out. There was no way he was ever going to show. Right?

*The Twilight Bark (And Other Things Bucky Has To Deal With On A Daily Basis) by spacebuck (36K): Steve Rogers: I couldn’t say no to this little guy, so I guess he’s coming home with me! The picture below it is an overexcited looking dog, barely older than six months, shoving its nose through the bars of a shelter gate. The tweet already has twenty thousand retweets, a few thousand more likes, and nearly three thousand comments. Bucky can’t help himself, leads in hand, and he leans a shoulder against the doorjamb and taps the comment field. bbarnes: if you’re ever in need of a walker I’d be happy to take the lil guy on, nyc based and rescues are my thing!

[naviizeldablog]

Hylia’s First - Part 1 out of 3

FINALLY SOMETHING OF ORIGINAL CONTENT! Lo siento to every follower I have that waited for me to post a fic again... But anyways, school’s almost done, just gimme like three weeks and then I’ll start on more wips of mine and Get STUFF DONE. And I really didn’t know how to end this so, if it seems kinda unorganized or confusing at the end then sorry. Yeah, so credit to @linkeduniverse, @jojo56830, and Nintendo. Constructive criticism is accepted. Peace out my dudes. 

Warning(s)?: violence, fighting, some blood, the usual

“So you think that by communicating to the spirits here, they might tell you why the timelines are getting mixed up.” the question of how they all got together in the first place has been hanging over the heroes’ heads ever since they meet. Now nearly two months into their unexpected journey, they still had no idea of what was happening, except for the fact that a specific shadow was involved in all of this.

“Possibly, yes. That is the ideal outcome.” the hero of the sky had been answering, or at least attempting to answer the many questions of the group’s youngest for the past hour.  He led the way through the giant temple of which they were in, once dedicated to Hylia long before his time, but now abandoned and left to rust away.  Earlier in his adventure to save his friend, he had traveled here and faced an ancient automaton revived by a rather stubborn demon. Yet despite the fact that he had cleansed the cistern from evil forces, he couldn’t help but feel as if something bad was going to happen.

“And what if you don’t get the answer we’re looking for?” he could only keep up his patience for so long until the twelfth question.

“Then we’ll try again at another place.” With the help of the unnaturally strong twilight hero, they opened the giant metal doors to the inner cistern, where the other heroes gawked at the ancient murals surrounding the walls and the pillars encrusted with gold. Sky himself was surprised, being that there was no remains of an automaton nor were there demolished pillars and cracked walls.  But there was still a matter of business to be dealt with, and the sooner the done the better.

Sky took off his scabbard, Master Sword included, and handed it to Wild. “If anything happens, don’t bother knocking.” the blue-clad knight nodded silently and slung it over his soldier with his other sword. Sky stepped back to address the entire group, “Stay here while I pray to the spirits of the land at the altar on the other side of that door,” he said while gesturing towards a door opposite from where they walked in.

Sky made his way to the room where the eternal flames of Farore resided, but before he knelt down at the altar of the goddess of courage, he casted a small and unnoticeable containment spell he learned from Impa on the door. Not that he didn’t trust his friends, no he would lay down his life for them any day, but the feeling of uneasiness had been plaguing him since they’ve stepped foot in the old temple.

Separated from their friend, the remaining heroes begun to pile their equipment and belongings in a pile off to the side when suddenly a voice echoed throughout the cistern.

“My my my, it has been quite a while since we’ve last met, knight of Hylia.”

The sounds of swords being drawn echoed in the room as the heroes stood back to back looking for the unknown speaker.

The hero adorned with the blue scarf spoke out first, “Who-”

“Ah but something's… different. How irritating, none of you seem to be the person I was looking for.” the warriors casted wary glances at each other, and then at the doors of which their disappeared through.

Annoyed that he had been interrupted, Captain questioned the mysterious speaker again, “Just who do you think you are?”

From the direction of which the heroes entered from, a figure walked out of the shadows and in front of the warriors.

“Oh my, it appears that I have forgotten my manners! My name is Ghirahim, or Lord Ghirahim is you wish to be generous.”  Each of the heroes had seen many strange monsters and foes, this one was no exception. Short white cropped hair framed a sullen and ashen colored face.  Like most demons, his eyes were black with a slight hint of insanity.  He wore a bright red cloak and to the fashionista of the group’s despair, a nearly skin tight bodysuit underneath.

“Hmm, you all painfully remind me of someone I once knew. Perhaps you would know him as well. No that can’t be right, it’s been nearly a millennium-”

“Why are you here?” at this point the hero of time had become fed up with this mysterious intruder and their unknown intentions.

“Impatient are we? And here I was just scolding myself for my poor introduction. Anyhow, I came to this rather dreary place because-” the strange man froze as his gaze set upon a sword handled by the hero with various burns and scars.

“Is there a problem demon?”

“That sword…”

“What about it?”

“That… how….” the demon shook himself out of his shock, and a small chuckle escaped his mouth. “Heh, so you’re his descendants then. That damned mortal… of course his descendants would carry his sword. Question is though, where is he now?”

The youngest of the group raised his sword at the demon with a wary look, “Answer our questions first Lord Ghira-er whatever your name was.”

Sighing audibly enough to get some of the more impatient warriors annoyed with him, the demon absently brushed off dust from his cloak, “As much as I would love to stay and chat I’m afraid that I am on a busy schedule. So if you value your lives, I’d suggest moving out of the way.”

The hero of time stepped forward and glared down the newcomer, “I don’t know why you’re here, but we can’t let you past these doors. Resist all you want, we’re not backing down.” the rest of the heroes started to spread out, their shields up and weapons ready. The demon however, didn’t move from his spot as a bored expression became apparent.

“Persistent eh? Just like him… Very well then!” he snapped his fingers and a slightly curved sword appeared out of a flash of diamonds. His face of boredom turned into an ear-to-ear grin, as his flung his coat aside.

“Fine, if you wish to be so stubborn, then let it be known that it was your undoing!”

If the heroes had known beforehand what facing off with this demon had meant, then they would have considered sheathing a sword or two and instead try to talk of reason or even surrendering.

The hero of time continued to face off against the demon, the two silently glaring each other down while the rest surrounded the mysterious foe.

Then suddenly without any warning, the demon lord dashed at the hero of time, sword tucked in and ready to slash. But years of sparring with the Sheikah trained queen had sharpened his senses more than the average soldier.  He waited until the very last second, and then jumped out of harm’s way.  Yet when he swung his claymore it sliced through the air, and no trace of the demon was present, except for a couple of floating diamonds.

He turned around just in time to parry what could have been a lethal hit if he had not been fast enough. Time narrowed his eyes and moved into a defense position, realizes the potential dangers of letting his guard down even once. 

The observed the battle from afar, raising their shields after seeing the dirty move this foe had just done against their leader. But when Time took another swing at Ghirahim, the demon disappeared into diamonds and reappeared behind the hero of twilight, who just barely managed to avoid a deadly sabre piercing his chest.  The two went into a series of back and fourth swipes and thrusts, until another hero joined in to take Twilight’s place. And so this strategy went on, the warriors consistently switching in and out, hoping to tire out the demon.

But their plan wasn’t working. Ghirahim had not broken a sweat, and nearly every hero was on the verge of exhaustion.  The demon lord could see this, yet he was starting to get frustrated over how long it was taking him to achieve his mission. 

With a quick snap of his fingers, an energy wave threw back the warriors of various times.  And while they slowly recovered, still tired from fighting him, Ghirahim leaned against a pillar and inspected his sword. “You know, I don’t think that I’ve ever had a fight for that long without drawing blood.  But your efforts at stopping the inevitable bore me.” 

Hearing the hint of malice in his voice, the hero of warriors stood ready to fight him, already expecting a change in the demon’s tactics. Thankfully he wasn’t as tired as his younger comrades, he had spent enough time fighting entire hoards at once to know how to conserve his energy. 

The demon noticed the hero with the blue scarf stand to face him, a pitiful effort if may say so himself.  But this mortal would only cause him problems if he left him unscratched. “Well someone has to teach them a lesson of who they’re dealing with..” he thought bitterly.

Warriors wasted no time bringing his shield at the ready once his foe disappeared into a cloud of diamonds.  A glimpse of movement came from his right, but he was a second too slow to block the sword. Pain flared from lower chest, right below his rib cage.  He staggered back, hardly processing the advancing demon or the battle cries of his friends.  If he had the conscious to do so, he would have seen the dagger floating next to the demon.  He would have brought up his shield, or move out of the way.  But through the haze of pain and the stench of blood, a new wave of pain coursed through his body.  He looked down with half-closed eyes, trying to comprehend the dagger burrowed into his shoulder, blood oozing out of the wound.

Time’s throat was coarse from yelling out to his friend, telling him to get up, to move, to do anything besides his current condition.  But he was in no shape to take the demon out from behind, a swift and powerful kick to his legs had rendered one of them completely numb and for now useless.  So there he was, kneeling on one knee, using his sword to stay off the ground, and unable to do anything to stop the dagger piercing his comrade’s shoulder.  Pathetic. 

“Got something to say hero?” Time look up with a seething glare at the demon.  Oh how he wanted to send that merciless fiend to a realm of pain and agony.

Ghirahim took no notice of the mortal’s anger, he looked around at the scene before him. Many of the heroes unconscious from exhaustion and his wave of dark energy, some trying to force the fallen to drink a potion.  But as much he had enjoying these moments, there was still someone missing that he needed to find.  He looked down again to what he presumed to be their leader. 

“You know, if you would have just surrendered when I first asked you to, you wouldn’t be short on half of your soldiers.” the warrior’s head bowed in shame and defeat, a sign of an easy victory.  He raised his sword high, paying no heed to the cries for mercy from the others.  After all, what kind of demon would he be to let his foes live another pitiful day?  He was just about to bring his sword down when he heard the voice of the person he had been searching for.

“That’s enough Ghirahim.”

[incandescent-creativity]

Camp NaNo: EVERY EXCERPT

That’s right, folks, every excerpt I posted during the month of April can be found here in this post! There would be thirty of them had I not met my goal early and missed a few days of posting, but there’s at least twenty.

Enjoy!

(Oh, and if you’re new here, this is an angel/demon romance. Summary and WIP Page can be found there!)

Day One: Maluka’s POV

I can tell they’re about to dismiss me, so I take one last chance. “Legion, I have a formal request to submit on top of my report.”

“Is it about your fake angel?” the female guesses, a playful, mocking smile on her lips.

“I didn’t make Olufemi up,” I snap. “What reason would I have to lie about this?”

“To get out of a Focus,” the male supplies, slouching back on the couch.

“We’ve heard a lot of bullshit excuses in our time,” the female adds on.

“Never an angel, though,” the non-binary Legion says, that smirk on their face again.

“Honestly, Mal, you couldn’t think of something a bit more realistic?” the female mocks me.

There’s finally a pause in their weird, back-and-forth way of talking, but I have no idea what I could add to this conversation. The three of them wait for me to say something, pleased half-smiles on all of their faces.

When I can’t come up with anything, the male stands up and dusts his hands off. “Maluka of Wrath, your formal request has been denied.”

Day Two: Olufemi’s POV

Rae and I may comment on how everything is planned, but I’m not sure the Lord’s design ever accommodated demons. I mean, I’m sure it must on some level, but He doesn’t have any omniscience over them or us like He does the humans.

Then again, Mal said something about “focusing” on Nora. So if she was somehow tied or connected to my Guarded, maybe she would be in the grand design.

The real question I have is why.

Why me? Why couldn’t this test be given to an older, more experienced Guardian? Or even one of the original archangels? They would be more qualified to handle a demon than I am. I couldn’t even strike out at it.

But I might get another chance tonight, so I have to be prepared.

Day Three: Maluka

I’m mostly just fucking around, but Olufemi takes the question seriously. “What if we… traded?”

The idea would be hilarious if it wasn’t so stupid. “Oh, that’s a bright idea. You can plant the intrusive thoughts, and I’ll use all the Heavenly connection I don’t have to protect her.”

“I didn’t mean trade places!” Olufemi snaps, and my eyes flash to their hands. They’re not glowing, so I’m not in as much danger as I could be. “I meant… trade information. You tell me what a Focus is, and I’ll tell you… something else.”

For a second, I almost can’t believe it. The angel… is suggesting they hand me all the information I need for my reports? I didn’t have to bring that up by myself?

Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit. This is too good to be true. 

Day Four: Olufemi

“Don’t take the name of the Lord in vain,” I snap. “For He will not leave you unpunished if you do.”

“Jesus Christ,” she says, laughing at me and ignoring everything I just said. “Leave me unpunished?” she quotes.

I open my mouth to tell her yes, that’s literally what we have been taught, but I’m interrupted by the way Maluka abandons any pretense of laughter. Without warning, her expression drops into something much darker. Glaring at me, she stands up from leaning against a wall and walks toward me.

“Let me tell you something about punishment, angel.” The word is an insult from her mouth. “The very first memory I have is falling through the realms, my wings burning with the aftereffects of the magic that cast me out.

“I don’t even remember what I did to get exiled from Heaven,” she says, fangs poking out over her bottom lip, “but I would do it again, just to see the look on the bastard’s face. So don’t talk to me about punishment, because you don’t know the meaning of the word.”

Day Five: Maluka

“Have you ever, like… said something… to someone… that you probably shouldn’t have?”

The smile he gives me is pitying, and I very nearly flip him off. “Oh, sure. I’ve pissed off many a person in my time. And so’ve you, if I recall.”

“I didn’t piss them off,” I criticize, gesturing with the bottle. “I just… it probably wasn’t smart to show my hand so early. You know?”

He waves off another patron, and I know I’ve got his attention. “Show your hand?” he repeats, not letting me look away. “What kind of enemy are you dealing with, Mal?”

Six-foot-five, rich black skin, hair cut close to their skull, lithe fingers that sometimes glow with Heavenly light that’s powering up to burn me to a crisp. “Nothing I can’t handle,” I tell him.

“Uh-huh. You can totally handle it, that’s why you’re sitting here with a half-empty bottle of my vodka in one hand.”

“Fuck you.”

Day Six: Olufemi

“Anyway,” I point out, “I was suggesting you lie, not me.” 

“Me?” she asks, her eyebrows raised high and her hand pressed to her chest in mock misunderstanding. “But Olufemi, I have been nothing but truthful to you this whole time! How could you possibly expect me to lie?”

“Truthful?” I repeat. “What have you been truthful about?”

The mockery slides off her face like water off feathers. “Let’s count, shall we?” she says, back to disdainful. “I told you what a Focus was, and how it worked.” She holds up two fingers.

“That should count as one,” I object.

She ignores me. “I told you about my memories, and how I don’t give a flying fuck about blasphemy.” Okay, that one is true. “And I’ve told you about what will happen if I don’t do my job.”

Waving her now open hand at me, she continues, “So with all of that in mind, I am going to go plant some thoughts so my life doesn’t end up ruined by some liar angel.”

Kissing her middle finger and blowing it towards me, Maluka turns around in the hallway and walks towards Nora’s bedroom.

Day Seven: Maluka

“Uh, hi. Are you done with… whatever you were doing?” I ask, wary of those hands. If they glow again, I’m outta here.

A faint smile lifts one corner of their mouth. “It’s called praying, Maluka,” they tell me, smug and superior. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

Oh, duh. Thinking quickly, I reply, “Actually, no. Care to enlighten me?”

I expect them to back off, but Olufemi calls my bluff instead. “Of course. Come and sit down.”

The hundreds of ways this could backfire on me running through my head, I venture into the living room and sit across from an angel.

Day Eight: Olufemi

Glancing over, I notice the Book open to Proverbs. Half of 13:3 is highlighted in pink: but those who speak rashly will come to ruin.

Everything makes sense all at once. Maluka is not an intriguing person with unexpected biblical knowledge, she’s only a deceptive demon who will use anything she learns to her advantage against me.

I almost want to cry. How could I be so stupid? Everything Michael had taught me, I had forgotten everything he ever said. 

Day Nine: Maluka

I’ve never seen their expression stay as cold for as long as it has now. “You have had plenty of opportunities to apologize for arguing and accusing me of being a liar, yet you haven’t. And worse, you’re a hypocrite because you’ve lied to me.”

There is no way I’ll be able to deal with this sort of judgement for a month. Throwing my hands up, I say, “Fine. You win, angel. I apologize.”

Olufemi mirrors my frustrated gesture. “It doesn’t count if it isn’t genuine,” they say.

“It’s completely unrealistic to expect a perfectly genuine apology whenever you decide you want one,” I argue. “You sprang this on me a few minutes ago, and you want me to just roll over and obey you?”

Day Eleven: Olufemi

My point is only proven when I touch down in Nora’s living room and hear a voice coming from down the hall.

Feathers puffing up with anticipation, I call the power of God’s grace into my hands. They start to glow, illuminating the hallway enough for me to see Nora’s door. It’s still shut, which means it isn’t a robber; it’s Maluka.

I’m tempted to burst through the door and scare her, but I resist. It will be more valuable to me to know what she is saying to my Guarded, in order for me to do my job better.

“—it’s just so stupid, you know? Like, how was I supposed to know they wanted an apology. They never said that until they were jumping down my throat for not reading their mind and knowing it automatically. It just feels unfair. 

“Like, I don’t think they know how terrifying that glowing hand shit is, but I still don’t explode on them because they don’t know! And it’s not their fault they don’t know, it’s mine, because I haven’t said anything. You know?”

As expected, Nora says nothing. Which makes sense, as we are in a different realm. And she’s asleep.

I hear Mal sigh. “Ah, I guess it doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t be surprised they don’t like me. Everyone around them must be so pure and holy and whatever, that’s all they know.” She laughs for a single second. “I guess I must have come as quite a shock.”

I let the glow die from my hands and walk through the door. “That’s putting it mildly.”

Mal nearly falls off the bed. “What the fuck,” she exclaims, out of breath in her surprise. “You can’t just do that to someone, angel, Jesus. I thought you left.”

Day Thirteen: Olufemi

“Wait, why are you taking notes?” I ask.

“For my reports,” she says, her tone making it obvious I should have realized this.

I push myself up to my feet, wings spreading to counterbalance. “Wait, what? No, I can’t—you can’t put this kind of stuff in reports.”

Incredibly, she actually asks, “Why not?”

I hold up a finger as I list each item. “You file a report. The report gets read. Demons assemble and execute an assault on Heaven, succeeding because they have had insider information. Angelkind falls. Humanity falls.” Putting my hand down, I meet her eyes and finish, “I will not be responsible for all of that.”

Maluka laughs at me, apparently amused by catastrophe. “Damn, angel, paranoid much?” When I don’t respond in favor of maintaining a serious attitude, she sighs. “Nobody reads Focus reports, especially not from someone like me.”

Day Fourteen: Maluka

“So, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think you had a good idea.” This catches their attention, eyes darting up to mine. “We trade information, none of it personal, in order to satisfy our mutual curiosity, until the month is up, and we don’t tell our superiors. Deal?”

I stand up, extending my hand like I’ve done so many times before. Olufemi stands from the floor in one fluid motion, and grasps my pale hand in their dark one.

“It’s a deal,” they announce.

My palm starts to itch, and I pull it back in a hurry. You’ve got to be kidding me. Olufemi takes a step back as I take my hand away, but I’m too busy staring at my right palm to bother comforting a nervous ball of feathers.

Ink blooms in a dark spot in the very center of my palm, and travels across my skin to rest on on the inside of my wrist. It solidifies and sharpens into an elongated T shape—one all too familiar.

When I finally look up at Olufemi, a simple cross tattoo is resting on the inside of my wrist.

They are glancing between my face and my wrist, as if unable to comprehend. “What…” they ask slowly, “just happened?”

I let out a sigh as I process that question for myself. “Well, the long and short of it is that you accidentally made a binding magical deal with a demon.”

Day Fifteen: Maluka

“Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, Hanael, Camael, and Kepharel.”

The list is too quick for me, so all I end up doing is staring at them. “I’ll be honest,” I say, “I have no idea how to spell most of those.” As if that’s what my problem is, and not the speed at which they fired them at me.

Sighing, Olufemi leans forward with an open hand. “Let me. I’ll even match them to whatever section they lead for you.”

Score. Names and angelic jobs make for a great foundation for the wealth of information I can provide my superiors at the end of the month. Offering a smile, I watch them carefully scribe the names into my page.

Olufemi seems careful to avoid brushing hands with me when they hand the notebook back to me. It’s a tiny detail that might not even be there, but it pisses me off. Do they think they’ll explode on contact if they touch me? I know I’m not any creature of light or whatever they are, but still. It’s insulting.

Day Sixteen: Maluka

“You’re going to have to cross the street,” I tell her, lacing my voice with magic to ensure that she hears it.

In a brilliant moment of a perfectly executed thought, Nora takes it seamlessly and steps off the curb.

In the blink of an eye, Olufemi is in front of her. “You’ll do no such thing.”

But they’re not talking to me. Their eyes are locked on Nora, and their voice is rich with power. Nora stops in her tracks, blinking as if confronted with a bright light. The instant after they stop, a car races through an intersection. It almost looks like it caught some air on that hill.

Nora stumbles back onto the sidewalk, and I let her walk through me so I can face Olufemi.

There’s a lot of things I could say, but the first thing that comes out of my mouth is, “Where are your wings?”

(later - Olufemi’s POV)

Jutting her chin out at me, Mal says, “I’m not letting you off the hook so easily. You,” she continues, pointing a finger at me, “are stuck with me.”

I bite my tongue until she lowers her hand, smirking and thinking she has won. Only when she leans back on the heels of her boots do I reply.

“Correction, Maluka: I have been stuck with you.” Her expression lowers into one of confusion at the past tense. “From this day on, you will be stuck with me.”

I didn’t expect the threat to land, but when Maluka asks, “How so?” her voice is purely cautious. There is no hint of superiority anywhere—a welcome change.

Opening myself to God’s grace for the second time in an hour, I channel the power into my hands and my eyes. I step forward, and watch Maluka step away from me. Her breathing is shallow and her eyes are wide, glancing between my wings held high and my glowing eyes.

“I have tolerated your presence as best I could,” I say, “and allowed you to survive upon the basis that you will not harm my Guarded. Having shown yourself incapable of even that, you will find her now under my full and active protection, specifically against you and your work.”

Straightening my shoulders, I allow my wings to snap open to their full length. They pass through shelves of potted plants, but the effect still causes Maluka to stagger away from me. “Leave now, Maluka of Hell. Return to whence you came, and know that your continued attachment to Nora would be unwise.”

Day Seventeen - Twenty: Maluka

Oh, who am I kidding. Dealing with an insulted archdemon is intimidating in the way that a human dealing with their manager is intimidating; I could lose a lot if it goes badly, and my entire life would be flipped upside down, but I’d probably survive.

A radiantly nuclear Olufemi is an entirely different thing to deal with, if the shaking in my knees is any indication. I don’t even make it home before my legs decide to go on vacation. Without their support, I’m left to stagger to the building corner and drop onto the sidewalk.

~ ~ ~ later… ~ ~ ~ 

After all, I can’t be the only demon in Hell who’s met an angel before, right? I hope not.

I might be the only one who has survived, though. But I may not be able to hold that title for long if I don’t get more information. I was hoping to get information from the angel themself, but I suspect that getting answers from them will be significantly harder in the coming days.

But, if I’m lucky, it won’t be impossible. If I learn something from the demons around me, I might be able to surprise some conversation out of them.

And I’ll only need one conversation to explain how mandatory the inspector is and how I can’t get around it. If this angel can’t appreciate the inescapable responsibility of a Focus, maybe the urgency of an intruder to our fake peace will light a fire under their feathers.

Day Twenty-One: Olufemi

She pouts, but we’ve lived together long enough for me to remain unaffected. “It was just a rumor,” she explains. “He might not even be coming.”

“Raenel,” I say, her voice a short huff of air from my mouth.

“Aw, come on,” she pleads. “You don’t even want to guess? I could give hints.”

I get up and shuffle my wings to loosen them. I have no time for Rae’s festival plans, I have to get to the Pyramid and review the threads of fate. If I’m lucky, I may even be able to peer farther ahead and discover what the festival day has in store. That’s never guaranteed, of course, but—

“Okay, fine,” Rae calls as I reach her doorway. “It’s Michael.”

I freeze. Refusing to turn around, I ask, “Michael? As in, Head of the Council, Archangel of Justice, the First Ascended, leader of the Original Seven? That Michael?”

“Don’t forget your mentor,” she adds. I can’t see her, of course, but her voice is hesitant. There is no pleasure in the delivery of this news. “That seems like an important title, too.”

Having scared her enough, I let a grin grow as I turn on my heel back into her room. “Rae, why didn’t you lead with that? Of course I’ll come to the festival.”

Her wings sag with relief. “Stars, I don’t know! I didn’t want you to get excited and then have him not show up. I mean, what kind of friend would I be if I lied to you?”

Hearing her speak the same question I’ve been asking myself causes a guilty stabbing in my chest, but I endeavor to keep my smile in place. “A terrible one, but that wouldn’t count as a lie. Jerusalem is a long flight, even for one like him.”

Day Twenty-Three: Maluka

Walking the streets of Pride isn’t something I do often, and I hope it doesn’t show.

The atmosphere is completely different from my hometown of Wrath. Gone are the comfortingly dark and dirty streets, replaced by glistening, tidy pavement and extravagant homes. Gone are the sweet smells of sweat and gasoline; the sprawling city of Pride smells clean. Like rubbing alcohol.

The only similarity is the crowded streets. You can’t walk two blocks at home without encountering a fight of some kind, and I can’t take more than a few steps here without bumping into some human gazing over something fancy.

I don’t find someone like me until I’ve been wandering the city for at least an hour. The demon I do find has gathered a crowd of humans, but I can’t tell for what reason. The only thing they’re doing is standing there, behind an empty table.

Day Twenty-Five: Maluka

In the center of the city is home to a skyscraper that isn’t curved or graceful. Instead, it is formed with straight lines and uniform windows. It’s completely symmetrical until three quarters of the way up, where it starts to narrow until it reaches the spike at the top. The whole thing is manufactured from some sort of dark steel, giving the whole thing a cold, grey look.

Lucy’s tower. Luckily, not my destination today. Turning my head and tilting my body, I manage to veer right and start looking for the columnar structure of the Archive.

When I spot the blinding white stone of the domed building, it looks deserted. Obviously no humans can get to it, but even the demons who can cross the magical wards aren’t on the grounds. Weird.

I very nearly fall onto my knees when I land, but I manage to run forward and catch myself. There’s one benefit to nobody being around. Carrying on as if nothing has happened, I walk up to the building with my shirt gone and my wings out.

Trying to maintain confidence despite my look, I knock on the door.

A window slides open, and a demon with the thickest glasses I’ve ever seen pokes her head out.

“Can I help you?”

Ignoring the way she looks me over, I run a hand through my hair and say, “Yes, I’m looking for any information you have on angels.”

“Angels?” she repeats, unimpressed.

“Specifically how anybody has survived encounters, and anything you have on their weaknesses,” I clarify.

This doesn’t impress her any more than I already have. “And who is asking for this information?”

“Just a curious citizen of Wrath,” I answer. No way I’m going to give her my name. If they want to trace me, they’ll have to go to the Legion first. Who will probably be able to connect the dots between a request about angels and the Focused demon who was just talking about angels, but at least it will be an extra step.

Evidently, my answer doesn’t pass. “We have no such information here,” the archivist says shortly. “Please do not come again.”

The window slides shut, and I’m left standing alone out in front of the Archive with no answers and no plan.

Dang, did you really read all of those? You’re awesome!

If you’d like to see more, I’ll provide these again: Summary / WIP Page / Comic Sans Presentation

And my inbox is always open if you’d like to come and chat or ask stuff!

[sanguinarysanguinity]

Fic-Writer / Vid-Maker Meme

Tagged by @educatedinyellow and @gailbsanders, thank you!

Author/Vidder Name: sanguinity

Fandoms You Write For: Lately it’s mostly book!verse Hornblower and ACD!Holmes (although the ACD!Holmes is largely behind the scenes with a long-form WIP that I’ve been focusing on). I also write for assorted small Holmesian fandoms as the whim or prompts take me, and I used to write fairly prolifically for Elementary, before that show wore me into the ground with how persistently they don’t care about Joan Watson. I’ve written a fair bit of Strange Empire, some Doctor Who / Torchwood, and quite a few one-offs in random fandoms, from the Oz books to Terminator: Sarah Connor Chronicles.

Fandoms I Vid For: Mostly one-offs or small batches that overlap with the fandoms I write for: Holmesian multiverse, Terminator: Sarah Connor Chronicles, plus a number of rarer Festivids-qualifying fandoms like The Middleman or Noah’s Arc. 

Where You Post Fic: Most of it is on AO3, excepting some three-sentence and five-sentence fics that I’ve never collected. 

Where You Post Vids: Variously Vimeo, YouTube, and DailyMotion, depending on who threw a fit about what copyrighted music the week I posted it, but all my vids are listed at AO3.

Most Popular One-Shot: “The Sincerity of Dust,” a BBC Sherlock Mystrade flash-fic I banged out one morning and which then went on to eat Cleveland. It has 1400 kudos and is working on 14,000 hits. Its nearest rival is “Score: Q to 12,″ an Elementary flash-fic featuring Sherlock and Joan playing Calvinscrabble, which performed modestly on AO3 but cleaned up on tumblr to the tune of 1700 notes.

Most Popular Multi-Chapter Story: “Holocene Park,” an Elementary case fic featuring dinosaurs under the streets of New York City. If I’m remembered in the Elementary fandom for anything, it’s probably for this or Calvinscrabble.

Most Popular Vid: “Something Good (Will Come From That),” my Holmes/Watson multiverse vid. It has 10K plays, the AO3 page has 2.5K hits, and the tumblr page has almost 800 notes. It escaped my corner of pseudonym-based AO3-centric fandom and has made the rounds of the Sherlockian scions on Facebook, as well as being rec’d on non-fannish websites in French, German, and Japanese. For a little while there it was making me anxious with how popular it got -- at the height of its popularity, I was worrying my mom was going to email it to me. After it hit it big I almost completely stopped making things for a while, because I was pretty sure that nothing else I made would be even half that good ever again. Happily, that turned out to be a stupid reason to not make things, and so I started making things again.

Favorite Story You Wrote/Vid You Made: Yeah, sorry, no, my brain burns out on “favorite” questions, especially ones that have no criteria. I’ll just refer you to my Fic/Vid Speed-Dating Score Card, which can be construed as a list of my favorite works on various axes, and is still fairly accurate despite being a year old. (Scariest nowadays is probably “Tea for Two,” a Moriarty-centric story from this last round of Holmestice.)

Story You Were Nervous to Post: “Any Service Required,” which is dark Bush/Hornblower porn. I always feel hideously exposed when publishing porn -- I’m nervous about posting it even in the best of cases. But what with this being dark-fic, I was half-expecting the self-appointed morals police who get prescriptive about “healthy” relationships to show up and make a stink. Or along similar lines, I was fearing that followers who are used to a certain kind of thing from me will look at this one, think it base trash, and lose respect for me over it. I’m happy to say that nothing like that has happened so far, and while readership has been light, I’m fine with that: I’d rather a story have a small readership who is genuinely into it than a large readership who isn’t, and I’d like to believe that this story’s small readership is mostly due to people taking a look at the tags and making good decisions about the kind of thing they enjoy reading. 

How Do You Choose Your Titles: BY ANY MEANS I CAN MAKE WORK. My preference is to grab a meaningful phrase from the text, but I’ll also use quotes and popular phrases, sometimes straight-up and sometimes with a twist, if it seems a decent fit for the story. Ideally, a title will speak to some deeper truth about the story, but when push comes to shove, I’ll settle for a title that is short, clean, and memorable: basically, anything that I and others can remember without having to look it up all the damn time. (This is my main problem with people using lines of poetry or song lyrics as titles: they tend to register in my brain as generic word salad, and in many cases I couldn’t say without looking it up what the title actually was, let alone what it had to do with the story.)

Do You Outline: For long or complex stories, sure, yes. If there are many scenes or multiple chapters, I tend to jot down a few lines listing out the succession of scenes or chapters; for “The Next World,” whose main body is a long and rambly conversation, I had an outline that listed out every twist and turn of that convo. The outline for “Langstroth on Bees” (WIP, currently 58K) is a monster of a thing, listing out the internal timeline (five years of current action plus another ten of backstory), various promises I’ve made that I need to deliver on, assorted events that I want to remember to include, and rough ideas about where chapter breaks should maybe fall. Given that I’ve been working on that story for five years now, often with breaks from it of nearly a year, that outline has saved my ass. I guarantee you that without it, I would have picked up this story at some point, tried to remember where I was going with it, come up with nothing much, and shelved it permanently. If anything, I really should outline more often -- I have a few long-standing drafts in my WIP folder that I just... don’t remember where I was going with that. I remember that I did have a destination in mind, yes, but what exactly? WHO KNOWS. Btw, my outlines are living documents -- I revise them often, as my understanding of the story develops. In fact, revising the outline is one of many tools for understanding where a story is going and what is still needed to bring it together.

How many of your fanworks are…

Complete: 92 stories or story collections (I have a few AO3 “stories” that are actually collected ficlets from tumblr or Sherlock60), and 26 vids and vidlets, 

In-Progress: Nothing published to AO3 -- it makes me crazy to have a partially-published WIP. My drafts folder has 36 partially completed stories in it, and there are probably a half-dozen vids that I started but haven’t finished.

Coming Soon: Four? For various values of “coming soon.” I have two Hornblower stories that are mostly done (one for the Tegmore verse and another for the Kraken verse), and I’ve been working steadily on “Langstroth on Bees” in the hopes that I’ll finish it this year. And I’m signed up for Remix Revival -- whatever I do for that will probably be the very-most-next thing.

Do You Accept Prompts: Yes! Although I have only a 1/3 to 1/2 completion rate on prompts -- I do hope that no one minds that too terribly! But I’ll actively solicit prompts from time to time -- to celebrate something, or if I’m having a shit day and want to turn it around -- and some of my best stuff has come from prompts people have given me. I never ever guarantee filling them (see my above mentioned completion rate), but if someone wants to prompt me something, my ask box is open. Even if the prompt never gets filled, I still get a warm flutter of “They want to play with me!” from it.

Upcoming Story You Are Most Excited to Write: “Langstroth on Bees,” a 58K-and-counting Holmes/Watson retirement fic that I’ve been working for five years. I added a solid 13K to it this month, and have maybe 20K left to go -- I’m hope-hope-hoping to have it done this year. But I’ve gotten far enough into it that “Langstroth” has finally begun overlapping the territory covered in “From Allegany,” and by the end of this chapter I’ll have passed it entirely. Then I’ll be in unwritten territory, wheee! (Speaking of titles, I never really intended to call this thing “Langstroth on Bees” -- that’s just a working title for my drafts folder. But enough of you now know it by that name that I think I’m going to have to stick with it? So I’m desperately trying to figure out how to justify it. ONE OF MANY THINGS TO DO IN THIS DRAFT.)

Tag Five Fanfic Authors to Answer These Questions As Well: @beanarie @quipxotic @phoenixfalls @xserpx @amindamazed And of course anyone else who wants to play!