#traipsing around plains of existance

[rhonoveifics]

Summary -

Senior Year of high school has finally come. Both Kevin and Edd walk into school struggling with hidden feelings, the former determined to take action on them, the latter attempting to keep them buried. Kevin's home life is shit, and Edd tries his best to keep away from his own empty home. When Kevin sees the affects Edd's home life has on the Dork, he remembers something Naz told him about once - a unique form of meditation he's certain will help the nerd out. Through a mishap of impatient willful ignorance, the meditation exercise goes awry, plunging them them into a series of irreversible events that bond the pair for life while dragging the rest of the cul-de-sac down with them. Lo and behold, the veil between worlds is ripping...

*additional trigger warnings and other tags can be found at the beginning of the fanfiction.

*being part of the fandom is not needed to enjoy this work. Blind reader friendly.

[atinylittlepain]

Hi, love your writing!!! Anyways, I was thinking, a Joel x Reader! One-shot, where the reader possibly messes up a deal or trade with a different group and Joel is PIIIIIISSSSSEEEDDDD (grumpy angry Joel bc yes obvi 🧎🏻‍♀️) so anyways they go back to Jackson and he slowly gets over it y'know, BUT then when the next occasion for a trade arises, Joel brings reader along and it seems like Joel is betraying the reader, trading her for supplies (possibly handing her over to enemies or some real sick people) but then he reveals its a ploy to get the upper hand on the group and the two take out (k1ll) the bandits and Joel is basically like " I would never trade you for anything even if you mess up sometimes" Yada Yada fluff 💕💕💕

-yc :3

baaaabe, apologies for my delayed reply, but i love some good angst and wanted to do it right <3

gif by @riley-keoughs

Cold as Ice

Joel Miller x f!reader

joel miller masterlist

when she messes up on a job, Joel's anger freezes her out harder than the biting Wyoming winter.

warnings | 18+ angst, canon-typical violence, feelingsssss

..................

She was freezing. It was the middle of winter in Wyoming, and she was shaking so hard she could barely steady her hands on her rifle. It didn’t help that she was laid out in the snow on her stomach right now, peering out from an overlook at Joel and the men he was dealing with. She knew it shouldn’t be much longer though, so she did her best to steady her focus back on the scene in front of her. 

Joel had asked her to hang back while he traded with them, men that he had encountered a few weeks back on a solo patrol shift. Always careful to keep the existence of Jackson a secret, Joel had told the men that he was a lone survivor, making camp in the valley of the mountains for the winter. While the men had accepted this lie, they had also asked to meet soon to trade, something that Joel couldn’t deny without stirring suspicion. So, he made a plan to return to the plains the next week, bringing her along for hidden back-up if need be. 

She had said yes to joining him without hesitation.​ They’ve been partners for a while, having traipsed across the states with Ellie in tow and witnessed their fair share of horrors. Somewhere along the way, they had started seeking a little more creature comfort in each other, but she had chalked it up to just that, comfort, no need for feelings messing things up. 

Where Joel goes, she goes, and vice versa. But as she shivered in places she didn’t know could shiver, she wanted more than anything to be back in town where the unfathomable luxury of space heaters exists. 

Her nose was running, snot freezing right to her face as she tried to keep her eyes on the men down in the valley, but the deep itch of cold kept forcing her to rub her face in the crook of her arm.

It happened so quickly she didn’t have time to even think of stopping it, a hard sneeze racking her body. She was lucky her finger wasn’t on the trigger, but the men still seemed to have noticed it, heads whipping around to look up the hill that she was tucked behind. She could hear a swell of heated murmuring between Joel and the men. She pressed herself as flat into the ground as she could, praying that they would chalk it up to the whipping wind or an animal. The men’s questioning chatter died down into silence and she held her breath as the only sound that remained was that of boots trudging closer through the snow. 

She craned her neck up just enough to look out over the hill, relief flooding through her at the sight of only Joel hiking toward her, the four other men receding in the opposite direction. Her relief was short-lived, however, with the way he hauled her onto her feet with a harsh hand hooked under her arm, pushing her to keep walking along with him.

“What the hell was that?” Suddenly, the cold was the least of her worries, with the way Joel was seething beside her. She stumbled over her reply.

“I-I fucked up. I’m– I’m sorry.” 

“We don’t get to fuck up. Not out here. You know that.” Her heart dropped at the harsh tone of his words.

“Wh–what happened with those guys? Where are they going?” Joel huffed, keeping his eyes forward as they continued to trek back home.

“They got spooked. Gonna have to come back in a few days to finish this fucking deal. You’re lucky they weren’t smart enough to think anything more of that sound.” It was the last thing either of them said the whole hike back to Jackson, Joel’s anger cracking and fissuring between them until the distance felt insurmountable. 

For the first time since they settled in the house Tommy gave them, she slept in her own bed that night, startling awake to the sound of Joel slamming the door to his room.

…

It had been a quiet few days back in Jackson. She had been avoiding Joel as best she could, and he did nothing to stop her, each of them taking odd shifts to stay out of the house as much as possible. Ellie had sensed there was something wrong right away and had asked her “what the fuck happened” but all she could do was sigh and shake her head at the thick heat rising in her throat. 

More than anything, she was upset at herself, that she had made such a stupid mistake. But a close second to that feeling was the wary fear she felt being the subject of Joel’s obvious ire. If they happened to cross each other’s paths, he wouldn’t so much as look at her, keeping his head down and his brow furrowed as he quickly shuffled off. She hadn’t been sleeping at all either, having gotten so used to tangling up with him each night. There was no warmth, no steady heartbeat to lull her to sleep alone in her own bed. 

She was starting to resign herself to this new reality in which Joel Miller seemed to want nothing to do with her. She told herself that she’d stick around for Ellie, but otherwise, she’d keep away from the man she had so clearly let down. This didn’t last long, however, not when Joel sought her out at the stables, sidling up next to her where she was grooming one of the mares. It was hard to look at him, and she resolved herself to keeping her attention on the horse as he spoke in a hushed tone.

“I, uh, need your help tomorrow.” She couldn’t help the scoff she let out at that.

“Why would you want my help? I’ll probably just fuck it up anyways.” She knew it was a childish thing to say the moment it left her mouth, a heavy silence falling between them after. Joel finally cleared his throat to press on. 

“Gotta go back out tomorrow to finish that deal. Nobody else can know what’s going on, Maria’d probably have my head if she found out.” Her heart sank at the realization that the only reason he was asking her for her help was because she was the only person he could ask. She let out a harsh cough to mask the thick sadness creeping up her throat, nodding at his words, but still not looking at him.

“Alright, fine. We’ll head out in the morning.” Another stilted silence fell on them. She knew Joel well enough to tell that he had something else to say, by the way he was toeing his boot into the ground and lingering next to her. But he seemed to think better of it, letting out a sigh and grumbling that he’d meet her at the gate in the morning as he was already trudging out of the stables. 

…

The silence was maddening. They had been walking for a few hours, getting closer to the meeting point, but it had felt like an eternity with the way neither of them was speaking. They had never been particularly talkative on the road, but by the time they had settled in Jackson they had warmed to each other enough to usually keep a quiet conversation going. No longer able to stand it, she finally cleared her throat, words puffing out into the cold air.

“Joel? I am sorry– about last time. I–” Before she could finish speaking, Joel came to a halting stop, pressing her back behind him, and it was then that she saw the four men coming toward them, guns cocked. Shit.

“Drop your weapons! And whoever you got tucked behind you better step out to the side.” Joel glanced at her over his shoulder, a hesitant nod as she shuffled out alongside him, both of them shouldering off their guns, palms up as the group of men closed in. 

One of the men let out a low whistle, looking her up and down like a piece of meat.

“Was that noise we heard last time you, pretty?” She pressed her lips into a thin line, trying hard not to give anything away in her expression. The men all laughed, but Joel was quick to cut through it with a firm few words.

“This doesn’t have to be a problem. We can still trade.” The men instantly steeled back into silence, the mouths of their guns all aiming at Joel. The man who seemed to be the leader sneered.

“Was I talking to you, man? No.” He turned his attention back to her.

“Why don’t you walk over to us, pretty? Then turn around nice and slow so you’re facing your man.” With four guns aimed at them, she knew the man wasn’t asking, he was telling, so she did as he said, quietly trudging through the snow closer to the group before turning around to face Joel.

“Can’t blame you for hiding this one from us, buddy.” The man sauntered closer to her and she had to will herself to keep from flinching as he pressed up behind her, frostbit fingers skittering along her cheek. 

“What’s your name, honey?” She muttered her name to the man, trying to keep as still as possible as he skated the barrel of his gun along the side of her neck. She couldn’t help the quiet yelp that escaped her lips when he brought his other hand to the swell of her thigh, squeezing hard. She didn’t dare look at Joel, shame rising like hot bile in her throat.

“S’a pretty name for a pretty girl. Don't you think your boyfriend here was a little rude for not introducing us?” The men laughed again, a sound that sat heavy in her stomach. The man behind her hummed a little, pressing his cheek against hers as he looked over her shoulder at Joel.

“Isn’t he a little old for you, honey?” The men snickered, and her eyes finally darted to Joel’s face, his eyes squinted, mouth screwed up. A shiver of fear ran up her spine because for the first time in a while she couldn’t read him, couldn’t parse out what he was thinking or feeling in that moment. She had never felt so alone.

A gasp escaped her mouth when the man wrapped his forearm around her chest, cocking the barrel of his gun right under her chin as he kept his eyes set on Joel. She thought she could see his fingers flex where his hands were still held up.

“Tell you what, pal. I’ve got a new deal for you. You let us take this sweet thing off your hands, and in return, we won’t shoot you where you stand.” Blood rushed in her ears, an icy panic settling in at the way Joel wasn’t seeming to refuse, to offer up some alternative. She couldn’t help thinking that maybe this really was it, that Joel Miller was cutting her loose and feeding her to the wolves. Her thoughts were jolted by the sound of the man cocking his gun again, pressing the barrel a little harder into her jaw.

“I’d rather not ask twice, man. Do we have a deal or not?” She could see the bob of Joel’s throat, but he refused to look at her, his gaze staying on the man holding her up. 

“She has my knife. Just let me get it back and she’s all yours.” His words felt like a quick kick to the stomach and she choked on her breath, but her mind followed fast with the realization that what Joel said was a lie. His face was still unreadable, but it was becoming clear that he had a plan. The man behind her let out a breathy chuckle before harshly shoving her forward toward Joel, he catching her forearms to steady her.

“Go ahead, then. But make it fast.” Joel finally looked at her, reaching around her to unzip her pack, she guessed to look like he really was digging around for his knife. He ducked his head down, his words a low murmur just barely heard above the whistling wind.

“Know you keep a side piece in here. You still got your knife?” She offered him a faint nod.

“I’ll cover you. On my word.” She could feel his hand in her pack closing around the pistol she had stowed in there. She met his gaze again, one more jerk of a nod followed by Joel’s muttered “now.” 

They did what they do best. She whipped around in a flash, Joel already shooting one man down as she ran up on the others. The three men left standing were so disoriented, unsure where to aim their guns, and she made quick work of a second man, striking her blade across his throat and sending him down to his knees, warm blood spurting across her face. Joel was quick to put a bullet in another one, leaving the leader for her. She was more than happy to jam her blade up into the softness beneath his ribs, watching blood gurgle out of his mouth before he slumped to the ground. 

Her hands were shaking as her eyes swept over the aftermath, but Joel quickly came up behind her, spinning her around to face him and cupping her jaw in his palms, eyes searching her expression.

“You alright? Not hurt anywhere?” She shook her head in his hold, finally letting out a stuttering laugh, making Joel furrow his brow at her.

“What? What is it?” 

“I just– really thought you were gonna let them take me for a second there. Thought you were finally done with me.” His face slackened at her words before he snapped back with a gruff scoff.

“You fucking serious right now?” She shrugged, eyes not quite meeting his.

“After last time, figured you didn’t want to work with a fuck-up anymore.” Joel made a harsh sound in the back of his throat, dipping his head down to try to catch her gaze.

“That’s bullshit. You’re my partner. I’m not gonna fucking dump you just ‘cause you made a mistake. That’s not how this works, how we work.” She finally met his gaze, a little fire kicking up in her anger.

“Oh, it’s not? Then why have you been avoiding me like the fucking plague ever since?” She didn’t get an answer, Joel breaking away and quietly muttering that they needed to get home.

Another agonizingly quiet walk back to Jackson.

…

When they got back, she was quick to stomp off toward their house, but could feel Joel watching her the whole way as he trailed behind. She was sick of getting jerked around by him, and now it seemed the tables were turned and it was she who wanted him out of her sight.

She took the stairs two at a time, quickly shuffling into the upstairs bathroom and shutting the door behind her. She wasn’t expecting there to be so much blood spattered across her face when she looked in the mirror, and the sight made her pause, her breath catching in her throat. It wasn’t the first and it wouldn’t be the last time she had to harshly scrub away the remnants of violence. 

The soft click of the bathroom door opening didn’t stop her from continuing to drag a damp washcloth across her face, skin going red and splotchy under her ministrations. 

“Hey, hey. Just stop– will you look at me, please?” Calloused hands grabbed her wrists to stop her movements, turning her toward him. Joel let out a long sigh when she still wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“Look, I’m sorry for the way I acted. I was never mad at you– was mad at the fucking situation. A-and I was trying to create some distance before I said something I didn’t mean. Never wanna hurt you– you’re– I–” he stopped himself with another sigh, leaning back against the sink. She tentatively stepped between his legs, her wrists still held firm in his hands between them.

“I’m sorry too, Joel. It was an accident– but it was a stupid one. Fucking hate that I let you down.” He let go of her wrists to bring one hand to cup her jaw, tilting her head to finally get her to meet his gaze.

“Didn’t let me down. Even if you did– more than made up for it today with the way you took out those fucking fools.” That coaxed a half-hearted smile from her as she leaned into his touch.

“We did that together.” He nodded lightly, thumb stroking the arc of her cheek and making her breath hitch.

“We did. Make a good team. Right, partner?” Her smile stretched into a grin at his words.

“Right– partner.” When he kissed her, it felt different. This wasn’t their usual lust-driven tangles. It was careful, and dizzyingly sweet, something she hadn’t known Joel was capable of. He pulled away just slightly to rest his forehead against hers as they silently followed the push and pull of each other’s breath. 

“You know I wouldn’t do that, right? Would never leave you.” She sighed, nodding her head slightly against his.

“I know you wouldn’t. But it wouldn’t hurt to be reminded every now and again.” That made him chuckle as he brought his other hand to her hip, squeezing lightly.

“Consider this your first reminder then.” 

The kiss he gave her that time was just as sweet as the first. It was all the reminding she needed.

[thedreamlessnights]

Foul Little Thing

Summary: Astarion adopts a cat. Or, rather, the cat adopts him.

Warnings: Post-BG3. Major spoilers for BG3 Act III. Mentions of Cazador and trauma recovery, as well as starvation and animal malnourishment.

Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: Merry Christmas everyone! Here's a soft, short little story that I hope will warm your heart. Enjoy!

Since the loss of the tadpole, Astarion has been forced back to the misery of seeing the world in shades of grey.

He misses the other aspects of the sun, of course. The golden light that had warmed his skin for the first time in two centuries. The freedom to traipse around wherever he pleased without the fear of burning to a crisp. The plain normalcy of it - as if, for a moment, he could pretend he wasn’t what he was. All of that has been lost, too.

Most of all, though, what he misses is the color.

Darkvision serves its purpose: he can see what he needs to, and nothing more. There’s no joy to it. The washed out grey of life is as dull as wine tastes to him now. Once, that wine had been rich, heady, and sweet on his tongue. Two centuries ago. A life he can barely remember. Similarly, once - more recent than the wine - Baldur’s Gate had been a kaleidoscope of colors, rather than a myriad of loss.

In the light of day, Baldur’s Gate is a number of things. Sweet wrappers at a candy shop, glistening green and pink and blue, like the sky. Beautiful gowns on display in the windows, constructed from pearlescent silks, embroidered with an amount of skill even Astarion had to admire. The ocean’s deep blue in the distance, and the buildings painted in shades he’d almost forgotten existed. If he closes his eyes, he can see it now; he can make believe that it’s still there any time he wants it, that shining jewel of a city.

His for the taking.

Somewhere deep down, he knows he’d done the right thing in turning down the Ascension, but it doesn’t take away the sting of what he’s lost. He can no longer stroll into houses uninvited or walk through running water without it burning like acid, and if Cazador were still alive, he’d most certainly be vulnerable to his compulsions.

Some nights are worse than others in the aftermath of it all, but tonight is particularly bad. His chest seems to have filled itself with lead. The air is bitter and frigid, as it tends to be in the months approaching winter. Even the clouds above are a dull shade of grey - no silver moonlight to curb their gloom.

His ears feel iced over in the exposure, but he can’t force himself to go back home. Not yet, at least. Not even for the warmth of the pleasant little room he’s made for himself. His feet drift over the cobblestone, barely making a sound. The wind howls, tousling his hair as it sweeps past. Even this late, it’s rare to find the streets so empty, but they’re practically deserted now. Everyone else must have turned in, seeing the state of the sky.

If Astarion wasn’t so restless, he’d join them. If visions of Cazador’s cruelty weren’t blurring across the edges of his vision, he’d already be at home, tucked away with a book and enjoying his freedom.

More than anything else, this is what seems the most unfair: that Cazador can be dead - really, truly dead, and by Astarion’s hand - and yet still haunt him. Those scars and the memory of them being carved will forever mark his back and his mind. If he could see his reflection, it would be fangs and red eyes that greeted him, not… whatever color they used to be. And, on the worst days, the bastard is ingrained in Astarion’s thoughts, faded commands echoing against the shielded corners of his skull.

As a cutting gust of wind blows past, Astarion stirs from his thoughts, and finds himself almost home - just a few more minutes, and he’ll be there. His feet have started the path without him realizing. He can’t quite decide whether or not he’s grateful, or if stepping inside will make it worse, but it does seem gloomier than before, somehow. He picks up his pace.

Is it more grey than usual?

As if in response to his thoughts, there’s a bone-rattling rumble of thunder overhead, and the sky begins to pour rain. There’s not even a precursory drizzle, a light mist, a warning to give him time to run. No, instead it strikes down in a blow of icy water, soaking him straight to the bone and drenching his best boots.

“Oh, for the love of…” he sighs, throwing his arms out at his sides. He can feel his hair pressing flat to his scalp, undoubtedly a mess that will take ages to tame. He’s just started internally bemoaning the hours lost to fixing the extent of the rain’s damage when he hears a noise. Even worse, something rubs against his leg.

Astarion has always been one for instinct. Immediately, he’s leaping away, brandishing his favorite dagger - curled fingers ready to bury the hilt in a new home. Then, he sees his enemy. No enemy at all, really. A scrawny little beast, soaked just as he is, all wet fur and dirty paws and pathetic eyes that stare up at him. He can see the creature’s ribs.

The cat lets out a pitiful meow, and he can’t help but grimace at the sight of it.

“Shoo,” he says, but it doesn’t understand him. Instead, the wretched creature begins to purr, once again nuzzling against his now-sopping boots. The rain has made its way into his socks, and it’s almost more than he can bear. “Go on,” he says, louder this time, gritting his teeth against the discomfort. He has no time to deal with animals, and this thin, mangy stray is the last thing he needs at the moment.

It once again doesn’t listen, though. Instead, when he moves to press on, it follows him. Past the butcher’s shop, past the town hall, past the graveyard. “Oh, go on. Shoo!” he says again and again, as if one of these times the cat will take the hint.

It doesn’t.

It follows him all the way to his home, and when he shuts the door in its face, it sits on the doorstep and waits. Astarion knows it waits, because even after he’s peeled away all of his dripping-wet clothes, he can hear the weak pulse of its heartbeat outside the door.

“Foul little thing,” he mutters, but he can’t get the image of it outside of his head. Scrawny, weak, pathetic. It’s the last thing he needs. What’s he supposed to feed it? Blood? His house is empty, save bad wine. Even he knows that won’t do.

His gaze shifts to the nearby counter, and his brows rise in shock. As it turns out, he does have something. He’d been recently gifted a loaf of bread from a grateful contractor, unaware of his true nature, and he hadn’t bothered to throw it out yet. Cats can have bread, can’t they?

Or, perhaps they can’t. Maybe, in trying to help, he’ll end up killing it. It’s just the sort of thing that would happen to him.

Still…

“Gods above,” he mutters, casting a hand over his eyes. The sound of that pulse is driving him mad.

After a moment more of internal debate, he wraps himself in a warm, comfortable robe, fluffs out his hair as much as he can, and swings open the door. Just as he’d known it would be, it’s there, staring at him in silence. Sitting on the rain-soaked porch.

“Oh, all right,” he sighs, standing back to let it in. “Come in, then.”

The cat tilts its head, then rises to its feet, tail rising straight up. Then it starts to circle around him, purring as it nuzzles against him once more - brushing against his newly-dry legs and covering them in soggy rain water and who knows what else.

“Just wonderful,” he mutters.

Yet, for all he’s heard about the temperament of cats, this one isn’t so bad. It sits still as he dries it off with an old towel, only letting out a single yowl of complaint. It eats the bread up with no hesitation, and the nip it gives Astarion’s fingers barely stings. When he finally turns in for the night, it curls up next to the fire to sleep, and when he rises from his trance, it hasn’t made a complete mess of things.

It’s much too thin; this he knows. The hunger present in its visible ribs and weak movement is a feeling he’s all too familiar with. It’ll have to wait until the sun sets again, when he’ll be able to venture out and purchase some decent food. Yes, the basics of this little beast - hunger and exhaustion - are well known to him.

Everything else, however, is all too new. He should name it, shouldn’t he? He’s not very creative with these things. And it needs some form of bed, doesn’t it? Gods, he’s surely not meant to be in charge of anything like this. Taking care of himself is difficult enough as it is.

For a moment, he even considers reaching out to Gale. After all, the wizard had mentioned owning a cat, once, hadn’t he? Knowing him, he’s almost certainly an expert on the subject. Still, the thought of asking for advice is enough to turn Astarion away from it.

No, he thinks. He’ll handle this on his own.

Once the sun has gone down and Astarion is ready to start his nightly activities, he readies his supplies and slips his favorite dagger back into its sheath, intending to give the new occupant a few stern words about not breaking his valuables. As soon as he pushes the door open, though, the cat slides past his legs and darts away.

Astarion stares after it, an uncomfortable feeling churning in his gut as the black silhouette of its fur fades into the distance. “Well,” he says after a moment. “I suppose that’s that, then.”

After a brief internal deliberation, he heads off.

Work goes smoothly, as usual. Astarion gets his fill of blood before the vagrant dies, sating his hunger - but, for some reason, he can’t stop thinking about that stupid cat. He even, gods forbid, buys a few fish off the docks of Wyrm’s Crossing, and all the way home, the smell of them is nearly unbearable. He’s not sure if the cat will be back, but it can’t hurt to be prepared.

Sure enough, as soon as he’s approached the doorway, there it is again - running in from the nearby park, circling around his legs and purring.

“Go on, then,” he says, swinging open the door. The cat’s tail rises and it enters, making itself at home in front of the fire.

Astarion takes one of the fish from the pouch and places it on one of his decorative plates, setting it on the floor. The little beast eats it up within seconds. The second fish is gone just as quickly, and the third follows soon after. Clearly, he’ll need to get more food than that in the future.

Then he attempts to make it a bed, fluffing up a spare pillow and blanket, but it won’t even lie on it. Instead, it blatantly ignores his hard work, jumps up on Astarion’s bed, and curls up into a ball - apparently meaning to nap.

Oh, who is he fooling? He has no idea what he’s doing. At this rate, it’ll be dead within a week, and his house will reek of fish. Not to mention his new sheets, and the havoc that will undoubtedly be wreaked upon them.

Letting out a long sigh as he internally admits defeat, Astarion takes a seat at his desk and begins to compose a letter.

Gale Dekarios

Waterdeep,

Western Heartlands

After all, he thinks, leaning back in his seat, there is nothing Gale loves more than talking about his knowledge.

[alectoperdita]

What if for the prompt kaijou with 45 or 40? Dealers choice. Maybe for 40 kaiba dresses up as kaibaman for mokuba or xyz reason & he’s really nice to jou through the anonymity of his costume? 🤔

From Put That Guy in a Situation(TM) Ask Game

Read the previous prompt fill for 45 here

40. Identity reveal/major secret revealed

---

One day, Seto would wring Pegasus's lily white neck. Not today, but someday. And soon.

Tribute, his ass. There was no reason for Pegasus to make such a card other than to make him a laughingstock. He even named it after Kaiba.

Kaibaman.

What a ridiculous "monster" design. From the helmet to the flowing brown locks to the mockery of his trademark coat. Kaiba didn't even wear that coat anymore. He constantly reinvented his look to keep his image from going stale. Yet that was still the one most people remembered and would remember, thanks to Pegasus memorializing it in card form.

Mokuba loved it, though. And as much as Kaiba loved his little brother, he sometimes despaired over his lack of taste. Being fourteen only excused him up to a certain point.

It was also because of his love for his brother that he suffered his current indignity—traipsing around his amusement park dressed as one of his least favorite monsters, Kuriboh included.

For KaibaLand's third anniversary, the company had organized a slew of events in the week leading up to the event, including special shows, limited edition merchandise sold only on park grounds, and a mini tournament. All in the name of drumming up attendance. And it worked like a charm.

Tickets sold out weeks in advance. Day after day, they hit the attendance limit. Security caught their fair share of stragglers trying to sneak in through the side entrances. Products flew off the gift store shelves. They could barely keep them stocked day-to-day.

But it was difficult to bask in the resounding success in his current state. Between the helmet and the meter-long wig, Kaiba perspired as he'd never before in his life. The costume's state-of-the-art fabric could only wick so much sweat. In addition to impeding his peripheral vision, the helmet roasted him. But if he removed it for even a nanosecond, he'd be besieged.

That was because of another of Mokuba's bright ideas—a scavenger hunt. He insisted that guests who weren't Duelists (and Kaiba scarcely believed such people could exist) should have a chance to win prizes, too. Thus, the boy had put together an elaborate list of two hundred items, each worth various amounts of points. At the top, with the possibility of netting the player with almost fifty points, was a photo with Kaiba taken on the day of the anniversary.

But Mokuba was as devious as he was clever. Simply because Kaiba had to be out and about for the game to be fair, it didn't mean Mokuba had to make it easy for them.

Hence, the costume. Literally having him hide in plain sight.

Countless guests had approached him for pictures thus far, but he doubted a single one of them would submit it as part of the scavenger hunt. To them, he was one of the park's many character actors.

It was the perfect disguise for surveying the park in relative peace. Kaibaman the Duel Monsters drew less attention from the crowds than Kaiba Seto. So he could go wherever he pleased without being mobbed.

But he was reaching his limit. He needed to find somewhere secluded and shaded to cool off before heat exhaustion claimed him. That wouldn't be easy, given how crowded it was.

He found one eventually. An oasis of calm among the hustle and bustle. Or it could've been if there weren't already people there—a couple plainly in the middle of a quarrel. That alone should've sent Kaiba speedwalking in the opposite direction.

Except he knew the couple.

Well, he knew one of them. Jounouchi Katsuya remained a bit of a thorn in his side to this day. The boyfriend, though? Kaiba wouldn't have known if he wasn't dating Jounouchi. At least Jounouchi regularly made it to the podium in Duel Monsters tournaments. What's-his-name barely broke the top ten in rankings.

Kaiba hated to say it, but Jounouchi could do better than that loser.

"C'mon, babe, you're blowing this out of proportion," What's-His-Name wheedled as he clung to Jounouchi's elbow.

"Leggo. Don't you 'babe' me. I know what I saw," snarled Jounouchi with clenched fists.

Kaiba wondered if Jounouchi might hit the other man.

What's-His-Name didn't know when to cut his losses, though. "She was hitting on me! I swear!"

"You had your hand in her back pocket."

The loser broke into a cold sweat. Perhaps he didn't expect Jounouchi to be so blunt about the matter, especially in public. Just goes to show how little he understood Jounouchi, then. He switched tactics, instead. "You can't blame me. I mean, you saw how smoking hot she was. Tell me you wouldn't cop a feel if she offered. You swing both ways too."

Without warning, Jounouchi lurched forward, putting him intimately face-to-face with the man. Their roles reversed in a flash; What's-His-Name tried to jerk back, but Jounouchi had captured his wrists.

Jounouchi's gaze was equally steely as he spoke. "No, because being bi doesn't mean being a lying cheat. That's all on you."

To say What's-His-Name was shaken was an understatement. He looked ready to shit himself.

"I'm sorry. It'll never happen again. Gimme another chance, Katsuya—"

Something inside Kaiba recoiled upon hearing Jounouchi's given name. Was he that serious with the loser?

Jounouchi dropped his wrists. "No. We're done. Lose my number."

What's-His-Name really had no self-respect. Or brains. He reached for Jounouchi again despite everything about Jounouchi's body language screamed "DO NOT TOUCH." Kaiba could see it already. The inevitable right hook, the blood, and the screeching, then the many headaches that ensued after a public altercation.

He cleared his throat, and the two other men froze. Slowly, their heads turned, and they both gawked at Kaiba. At his costume.

Fighting the embarrassment brewing under his collar, he pitched his voice lower when he said, "That's enough. He's made his position clear."

Suddenly, Kaiba was immensely grateful for his helmet. It would hide a multitude of sins.

What's-His-Name's gaze flitted back and forth between Jounouchi and Kaiba. Perhaps he had been willing to grovel like a worm, just not in the presence of a third party.

"I'll call you later," he muttered before fleeing the scene.

"Don't bother. I'm blocking ya," Jounouchi called after him. Then, straightening to his full height, which was still shorter than Kaiba, he jutted out his chin and said, "Thanks, but I had that handled."

"I know," Kaiba replied. "It wasn't for your sake. I was saving the idiot from the broken nose he was talking himself into."

He hadn't intervened out of the goodness of his heart. No, the only media circus worse than the one where Jounouchi went public dating another man would be a knock-down, drag-out breakup fight of the same relationship on KaibaLand property. That was something Kaiba wanted to avert at all costs.

Jounouchi blinked. Once. Twice. He threw his head back and laughed, wrapping his arms around his waist while his entire body heaved from it. It was Kaiba's turn to stare. Maybe the breakup hit Jounouchi harder than expected. He was laughing like a loon, with tears now streaming down his cheeks.

Should Kaiba say something?

Should he leave him alone?

To his relief, both the laughter and the tears soon subsided. Jounouchi slumped and perched himself on a low garden wall. While wiping the moisture from his eyes, he patted the empty spot next to him. For a long awkward second, Kaiba debated the wisdom of taking such an invitation. In the end, the shade convinced him and he took a seat, back ramrod straight, beside Jounouchi.

Jounouchi kicked his legs forward, scuffing the sole of his sneakers against the concrete. "Betcha wondering why I was with that bozo."

Kaiba nodded before he could stop himself.

"I mean, it wasn't all bad. We had a lotta fun in the beginning. We saw each other almost every day. Went out together all the time."

Kaiba was aware. For weeks without end, new photos of Jounouchi and his beau surfaced daily in the tabloids and gossip sites.

Jounouchi continued, "Sometimes it felt like he was showing me off. Which was probably the first warning sign now that I think about it. We were out in public all the time, but we barely spent any time where it was just the two of us except for— Never mind, you don't need to know that part."

Heat gathered under Kaiba's tall collar. He silently thanked Jounouchi for his rare discretion.

"But at the time? I gotta admit. It was nice. It felt good to be wanted like that."

Jounouchi finally looked his way. The helmet's limited field of vision ensured he couldn't see much of anything other than Jounouchi's resigned expression. Not unless he turned his head away. That seemed rude even to Kaiba's limited social graces.

Kaiba cleared his throat. "It doesn't give him the right to treat you like that, especially after you came out for him."

"What? Nah! Please! That was the press blowing shit out of proportion. I've been telling 'em I ain't straight forever. They just didn't believe me until they saw me with a man with their own damn eyes. Dunno if they thought it was a publicity stunt or something, but it's not like I was hiding it." Jounouchi rolled his eyes, then shook his head. "It's so hard to find guys to date."

Kaiba caught himself before he nodded.

"I mean, don't get me wrong, this sucks. Breaking up sucks. But I ain't heartbroken about it. I just wish it hadn't turned out like this. I know it sounds insane, but shit like this makes me feel like I'll never be good enough." Jounouchi slumped forward to assume a rather defeated posture. His bangs fell over his eyes, obscuring them. He didn't move for several moments, leading Kaiba to wonder if he was crying for real despite his insistence he wasn't heartbroken. A deep sigh heaved out of the man. "Anyway, sorry for dumping all that on you, man—"

Kaiba cut him off. "You'll find someone better."

Jounouchi shot up. He gawked at Kaiba with wide eyes. "Ya think?"

"He was beneath you. His best tournament ranking was thirteen." Disdain seeped into Kaiba's tone. "And that's when he breaks the top twenty."

Jounouchi's shoulders shook as he bit his bottom lip. It took him a beat to recompose himself. "God, of course, that's the part you're most outraged about."

Was Kaiba supposed to be offended? Jounouchi made it sound like he was the ridiculous one here. He left it alone, though. Jounouchi was laughing again. It was a vast improvement over the gloom that previously wreathed him.

"Well, I actually feel tons better now." Jounouchi flashed a lopsided grin. The idiot always looked better with a smile, no matter how vapid. "So thanks for that, Kaiba."

He stiffened. Not Kaibaman. Just Kaiba. "Excuse me?"

Jounouchi tipped the helmet back to unveil Kaiba's stunned face. "Your Christian Bale Batman impression could use some work."

Heat engulfed Kaiba from head to toe. The glaring afternoon sun may not be to blame. He groped for something to say. Anything. But Jounouchi caught him red-handed. What could he possibly say to justify himself?

Jounouchi let go. The helmet slipped back into place, obscuring the top half of Kaiba's face once more. Through the lenses, Kaiba watched him intently as the man stood and stretched, extending both arms to the sky.

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone"—Jounouchi glanced back and winked—"it's you in the costume."

Read other prompt fill ficlets here

[sssammich]

great writeup, mel! i really enjoyed the breakdown here. hope you don't mind sharing my thoughts here also. very winding ideas and observations, so apologies in advance lol

i think it's in the pursuit of finding out who kara is that puts into perspective the complexities of her identity and why she traipses so well (and sometimes disastrously) between this person trying to do good and be good and be a source of strength and power for others who also happens to be sometimes a little bit terrible because of her passion or her blindspots or her biases and predispositions. which, in my opinion, makes her all the more human. i think as a result, this idea of Just Kara that she mentions can be considered as a kind of 4th identity that amalgamates the kara she wants to be, the kara she thinks she is, and the kara that she really is (insofar as 'really is' can be defined by those around her, like lena, and we, the audience).

i don't think it's too far fetched for me to say that kara exhibits behaviors that can be deemed courageous and cowardly or selfless and self-righteous, she's both protector and protected (via intersecting privileges such as middle class upbringing, cis/white appearance, her position as an alien/superhero along with law enforcement, economic status, etc), and she aims for truth while she stands as a hypocrite with both hands on her hips. these behaviors and traits harmonize in some ways and clash in others, just like you said. the woman has existed in the world for half a century in a body of a 20-something year old with unique trauma we can only really fathom or imagine. hard to beat that kind of circumstances, specifically on the shoulder of a pubescent teenager. how she's standing is a stuff of legends tbh. and that's without her powers. that's just her trying to make it through life without anything else.

i like how you framed it that danvers and zor-el are both burdens in some way. because it's true, right? what's in a name? certainly lena luthor knows all about that, she's a perfectly good foil there. but i think from this what i've noticed is that danvers hides one identity while it buries the other. kara danvers hides supergirl and buries kara zor-el.

danvers is her human name, her human identity, her human life. it is her most encompassing and longest identity which is so fascinating to consider when you think about how she doesn't give credence to it until she Became Somebody. isn't that just fascinating? like who is she otherwise? for all those years of her adolescence and early young adulthood, who was she to herself? i know that she was frustrated with not being able to use her powers or join kal in fighting crime and was consistently told to hide and protect herself, but i guess i wonder how did she see herself in the mirror at that age? did she still see kara zor-el or was it kara danvers from that point on? or a mixture of both? how long did it take for kara zor-el to switch from her default identity to kara danvers?

overall, the utility of the kara danvers mask is for hiding in plain sight, to be unremarkable and be as average as possible as a means of survival and protection. but it's also not just a mask she takes off at night. by the time she applies for her catco position, she assimilates and has assimilated into being kara danvers whether she's made up her mind about who that girl is or not. it's her default setting and the one identity she knows best, the one she knows truest. it's the one identity that protects her because it's the one that has to be On all the time.

interestingly, kara danvers becomes a name of Someone Important. she becomes a reporter who wins a pulitzer, and she becomes Someone Important to lena. that name steps out of premeditated averageness and mediocrity and transforms. gone is her unassuming nature because now her name is on the byline, she cannot just disappear in the wind. and isn't that something when it comes to accountability? there's an expectation on her name now that wasn't there before.

so whether she likes it or not, it's also the identity that fumbles and stumbles and hurts others. because it's her defaulted setting and most often worn mask. that's the one she shows everyone (has to show everyone for safety's sake) and one that lena became friends with. which is an interesting contrast with nia who became friends with kara AND supergirl at roughly around the same time. meanwhile, you've got a frozen identity and a crutch identity that develop in their own ways (especially as she unburies them or brings them to light). supergirl as the crutch identity makes a name for herself even though it's already attached to someone else's name: her cousin, superman. and kara zor-el, her frozen identity, thaws because of how kara connects to her supergirl identity. it's an interesting dynamic there for parts of kara.

i think as she learns more about herself and her heritage (all the good, bad, ugly about her family, about what her people have done), the kara danvers mask gets pushed aside to make room for the others. certainly, her obligations as supergirl comes at the forefront of wanting to protect, do good, etc. she's not just a name, she's a persona. she reaches celebrity status with that name. similarly, i think the suppressed zor-el who never got to grow up still gets to grow, in her own way. like you said, she can never really know because her world and that life is gone. but i think the more kara explores who she is, her actions and her behaviors, the more that kara zor-el gets to breathe, gets to be unburied. that girl gets to be incorporated in kara's life just for the fact that she's no longer hidden away.

all that to say, the 4th identity that i posit here is that Just Kara is the identity that wants to and tries to reconcile the lost childhood of an orphaned girl, the acceptance and growth of a person who is tries to be honest and present to her loved ones while also wanting to enact change in the position of power she wields as a member of the media and just as a regular person, and the commitment and responsibility of a superhero who wants to protect her second home from evil and harm and wrongdoing using the very unique powers she's been granted. and what's great about her is that Just Kara still kind of fails, especially in that moment you cite with lena. Just Kara was not fully honest, not the way she wanted to be or intended to be. and isn't that just such a cool aspect of her flawed existence as a character? there are these parts of her that she's pulled together to be who she wants to be and she still messes up with that character? and then has to figure out how to grow through that and past that and be better?

anyway this has gone on absurdly long and im not sure i've made any real points here but just interesting to dig further into kara's characterizations, her chosen identities, and the impacts of her identities that have on her despite her attempts to create someone from all of that.

Supergirl the show poses a question: Who is the real Kara?

Kara Zor-El, Kara Danvers, Supergirl. Who's the mask?

In the beginning, Kara doesn't even know. In the aftermath of Krypton's and Kenny's deaths, she did everything she could to appear as normal as possible - there was little room for her own innate traits to shine through when she was being as nondescript and people-pleasing as possible.

But that's not who Kara is.

We get the first glimpse of who Kara really is during Flight 237.

This is not about her being Supergirl or her powers (though both are relevant). Kara has suppressed herself for over a decade. She's not going to make waves - until she has to. Our first real insight into who Kara is now is as a devoted sister. It wasn't until Alex's life was at risk that Kara started breaking out of her shell (and then there was no holding back).

Our protagonist is a mid-20s adult - this isn't a coming-of-age story in the traditional sense. But it is a story of finding oneself and what it takes to get there.

And it starts with defending found family after a lifetime of loss.

So Kara creates the Supergirl persona. I think the cape is a crutch.

People say "a crutch" like it's a bad thing. But crutches are actually pretty fucking useful. They support you when you need it, whether it be short-term or long-term. They help you get around when you otherwise may not be able to.

Kara was deeply traumatized by losing everyone and everything she ever knew, being thrown into a world that overwhelmed her senses and made even her most casual movements into dangerous ones, and was told she needed to suppress everything - who she used to be, what she was going through now - to survive.

To find herself again, maybe she'd need a tool to get past what she had been through! The cape became that tool. She was able to unbury the heritage she had been hiding, she was able to embrace the powers that had burdened her, she was able to find her own bravery (and reactivity, she's got flaws in there too).

Keep in mind, in the scene above, Kara isn't "human for a day". Kara is powerless... just like she spent the first 13 years of her life. Her bravery isn't about her powers or Supergirl; they just help her get started.

That's not where her growth ends.

Kara's instincts for helping people start getting unburied in season 1, and she is excited to tag along someone else's quest to figure out where future threats may lie, or figure out how she can use her powers in service to the DEO.

But it's not until this moment that she realizes that Kara Danvers can be more, too. Lena unintentionally launches Kara's career - a second pathway for Kara's desire to help people, growing into a passion she is going to pursue (even if she gets fired). Her worth is no longer just about her sun-granted powers or being Superman's "younger" cousin.

In season 4, we even see her realization that Kara Danvers can be more powerful than Supergirl, because some fights can't be won by fists. That's a real discovery for herself.

Which I think, looking back, might becoming especially baffling for her... because Kara Danvers was originally an identity imposed on her when she needed to hide.

It's important to note that, while Kara Danvers was originally a facade that Kara gets at thirteen, she doesn't stay a facade - even in the suppression era.

We don't see enough of who Kara is when she's on Earth, left to her own devices. But we see glimpses - we know she likes baking (and we know we shouldn't try what she makes), we know she paints, we know she listens to NSync and Britney Spears. She's a goofball (even when she puts on the cape). Kara Danvers starts as a facade, but becomes a vehicle for Kara to continue developing her personality, now in her new context.

Would she have the same interests on Krypton? Maybe some and not others, maybe some new ones that don't exist on Earth. We're all products of our environments, after all. Her interests as Kara Danvers aren't necessarily fake just because they're different than what she expected.

Though she'll never know who she would've become on Krypton.

Which brings us to Kara Zor-El - the identity that is frozen.

Most people aren't the same person as an adult that they were as a child. Interests, tastes, personality, world outlook, philosophy - all of these shift over time, sometimes dramatically.

Parts of her are going to be deeply rooted in Krypton, and she's going to have ties to a culture that no one else on Earth has. It's not an aspect of herself that she can erase. But it's also not an aspect of herself that was able to develop for the remainder of her childhood and early adulthood.

She, like all of us, was destined to lose pieces of herself. But some of her loss was very sudden, and the pieces she lost probably weren't going to be the same on Krypton. Of course, she has no way to know.

And I think that frustrates her.

I guess my answer to "Who is Kara?" is that the three personalities clash with and harmonize with each other. None of them are truly her. All of them inform who she is.

There's a young Kara Zor-El as her root that was torn from the ground before she could ever grow.

There's a Kara Danvers who formed the bulk of her life - a mask that was given to her, the only vehicle for her personality, who ultimately became someone she could embrace as worthwhile in her own right.

There's a Supergirl who distinctly separates from those around her, but lets her move past her numbness and reclaim her heritage.

And it's that clash that makes her a particularly compelling character.

Maybe that's a cheating answer to the original question.

But there's still a missing piece to the puzzle - because it's not just about Who is Kara? but also about Who does Kara want to be?

I think Supergirl is something that could fade if needed. If Kara lost her powers, she would find a new normal, so long as she was able to pursue her desire to help the world in some capacity.

But the truth of her is somewhere between Kara Danvers and Kara Zor-El. The truth of her is in what Supergirl allowed her to unbury, even if not directly tied to Supergirl herself. But Danvers and Zor-El are burdens, in a way. Lena is one of the few people who sees the person in between, who understands Kara on her own terms. Which is why Kara is terrified of Lena's rejection.

I think it's one of the most telling lines in the show - to be just Kara is to be free of her own baggage, to be able to embrace herself despite the pain in her history. Something I think we all want, that is never entirely possible.

But the pursuit is still a worthwhile one.

[writer59january13]

I never escaped from maws bing pi eyed piper pauper

Thus yours truly resigns himself

June first two thousand and twenty three to imagine being gifted with untold riches courtesy female named Jean E. This tramp (caricatured familiarly

epitomized, demonized, characterized... countless Chaplinesque productions,

Dickensian tales, oil paintings from artistic

hands of great masters, and other anonymous

exquisite craftsman, et cetera) remembers practically nothing

of nine month stay in utero birth, childhood nor early adulthood my amorphous gauzy,

hazy fractal memories solely comprise fractured,

fragmented and splintered collection of miserable memories

character wry zing living hellacious hand to mouth

hard scrapple existence.

Past wispy vestiges of wretchedness present woebegone existence, which seems a worse fate than death

overpowering urge to survive summoning up one

barely audible l'chaim utterance against depredations rustling

grim reaper found nothing but defeat daily dismal

grinding away of last shreds repurposed driven life fending off real and imagined threats sought salvation vividly encased within

preserved imagination, an existence awash

with trappings of southern comfort provided by Jim Beam.

Yours truly dug deep

with bony introspective strength in tandem with fantasy notions knocking around in figurative

heady noggin like cranial carapace to muster every ounce

of strength escaping chronic confrontation

endless streak of bleakness cursed with brutish, nasty

nefarious fate as a measly

looking human varmint,

this grimy, grungy, rangy, et cetera looking besotted being clung with all might

within mine five foot ten inch and one hundred

and fifty plus pound body to transcend twerking terrestrial travesty tweeting and tweaking

fickle finger of fate against favor.

I tapped atavistic survival skills summoning willpower

to stay alive drinking butter bear heavy cross of dirt poor poverty

borne no matter a hard-core skeptic at heart,

this cynic plaintively called divine intervention

to help this human piece of flotsam and jetsam

to cope living like a doleful junkyard dog essentially

abandoned, ignored, cancelled and shunned vagrant

frequently raged against Deus ex machina manacled movement found figurative amidst

literal unlovely bones slim pickens with demons

that tormented psyche

while traipsing along litter strewn condemned boulevard of broken dreams, torn and well-worn shoe

kicked discarded items weather beaten hands reflexively bent to retrieve accouterments

comprising colorful jagged shard, previously housed cheap fermented liquor nothing but crud filled

remnant of dog gone boozehounds’ favorite drink. Although never drawn

to drown sorrows by turning to the bottle,

cigarettes nor drugs (a respect for thyself existed), an automatic reflex caught

eye-catching attention comprising anonymous drunkard’s signature lost memento and wireless device entity constituted a dullish metallic object, which turned out to be a heavily damaged slender MOTORAZR (long obsolete) phone. Out of foolish embarrassment

qua natural instinct, i raddled then rubbed

remnant once containing amber liquid of the gods’

irrational explanation in mockery against cosmic consciousness, my mouth jabber walk key talky like

into mobile phone these chapped, course and cracked fingers

slid across unbroken surface of antiquated bottle in tandem

with parched lips uttering cockamamie pretend plea, a crackle, snap and pop delivered a lifelike being whose corporeal essence resembled a goddess. The mp3 player issued magically syncopated beats indicative per favorite saved playlist tunes former owner

of electronic contraption without a shadow of doubt,

this vision and auditory music definitely brought sobered Punch

to this Judy schuss schlepper. I clapped these nearly deaf ears, thence rubbed mine-gnarled hands

across myopic eyes.

These twin bodily motions

executed just to dismiss stray chance of experiencing hallucination a maiden suddenly appeared

in plain view, which disbelief found me

pretending to conduct make believe conversation

via encrusted cell phone while speaking a matter of fact tone of voice. She (in a hypnotic, lilting,

melodic and sing song tone) responded with casual chit chat

genie hill (Alladin like) everyday, general friendly conversation eventually ensued fraught

with apprehension and self consciousness) before purpose

of her presence became clear, an intuitive

understanding took place akin to acute telepathic Sikh sixth sense. Immediate difficulty arose

to think of one wish to abet grievous humiliation

and immersion in miserable penury, which might be abrogated

once and for all with immediacy by simple syllabic voicing for a pile of crisply minted money, yet rather than blurt out immediate offering for untold material commodities

and resplendent riches, i surprised myself and

communicated a desire for female friendship. A gamesome, genteel, gentle gal who would surrender herself for cries

and whispers seemed more important than any pile of wealth aware cha self-actualization about

my utter decrepitude appeared as immediate

deterrent toward attaining a bona fide sincere relationship, an ordinary and reasonable ambition appeared as lofty goal. Self absorbed in rambling

longing of body, mind and heart, I quickly became oblivious to imaged or real corporeal presence who spurred outpouring

tears of joy per this ostracized and unwanted vermin eyes while loosening the tongue in an effort to picture the escape

from pernicious malady crushing breathing room

of abominable existence. Lips shut tight also

prevented the woebegone loss what appeared as some

divine trickster who conjured such a muse out of thin air

upon winding down this unrehearsed recitation,

a painstaking effort got made to open the eyelids very slowly. Lo and behold, when manifestation

in actual dolled up guise of a gorgeous gal stood still as a statue, and remained rapt

with attention provenance and provenance found pleasure

in my prattle, and promise got uttered by lovely lass

to remain a permanent die-hard companion

no matter many considered this paperback writer wannabe nothing but wretched

pestilence of the earth. This groveling gremlin

of a human felt like a beast alongside one beautiful babe, who came across as genuinely modest and passionate to promulgate profound sharing of body, mind and spirit triage, where homelessness and pennilessness mattered not a whit to this literally spellbinding goddess, who seemed to materialize out the heavens in the likeness sans Betsy Ross. The question how

and where did this muse render herself to appear

out of thin air puzzled, and quizzed curiosity

assessed and gleaned no matter not one word uttered,

thus necessity for conversation seemed superfluous for we both

seemed able to converse by autosuggestion of this,

that or the other query.

I (by the way) seemed

to be more intrigued

in this angelic spirit come to life viz comedy of errors

that punctuated anonymous life with angst king lear

riddled tragedy suddenly took a most pleasant unexpectedly

found that all’s well that ends well with this leery king

from southeastern Pennsylvania

possesses great expectations

by dickens no matter the field

of whet dreams populated

with slim (shady) T. Boone Pickens.

[more-than-a-princess]

@cadcnce asked: "In my chaotic world, you're the only peace I need." Sweet words from the former assassin. But given the retreating lights of law enforcement (after being appeased) the timing could have been better. Still, worth a smile.

Unprompted IC asks - Accepting from mutuals!

He said chaotic world as if he didn't exist as the cause, and on occasion the solution, of a good amount of chaos in her life. Outside, both of their personal assistants, a security team, and several members of the family's PR team waited at Sonia's insistence. They'd spoken with the police, who had been set to arrest Wylan on a series of charges that had nothing to do with actually killing anyone, though after recognizing his face, his accent, and their future queen who adored him, they were forced to retreat, sirens silent, grumbling unfortunately not.

Until they'd left, Sonia's arms had remained folded, firm, over her chest, her rose pink mouth formed into a frown as she listened to the complaints in a mix of rapid French and Italian. The capital's most elegant theater, built in the 18th Century, dutifully maintained, and granted a national heritage site in the mid-1950s, had its security system circumvented by someone in a real, antique suit of armor, traipsing through the building (instead of scaling it), before hanging an array of damp undergarments out to dry on a clothesline on top of the building. The police had mentioned the knight had deemed it acceptable to wave at the people below, many of whom were keen to take photos and video of the spectacle.

But now, she sighed, letting her arms fall to her side as she finally let out the laughter she'd struggled to keep in. "Why am I under the impression that your chaotic world is fueled by a list of questionable, if not ridiculous, Novosonian laws you've found on the internet?" She replied between giggles before finally taking her seat on a velvet-upholstered chair in the Royal box seats. If he was going to be given a talking-to by police, they'd at least do it somewhere discreet. And for Sonia, familiar. "Yes, it is still illegal to enter a Royal residence, government building, or heritage site wearing a suit of armor. And yes, it is illegal all days of the week to hang your undergarments out to dry on a line, and illegal to dry all clothes on an outside line on Sundays and religious holidays."

Still, she had to acknowledge his determination, creativity, and the fact she hadn't laughed so hard in weeks. It was pure practice in decorum that she was able to keep her wits about her in front of the police, but with them gone she didn't hesitate to lean over and kiss his cheek, the armor's helmet having been discarded some time ago. "I'm torn between curiosity and concern as to what you'll try next: no, you will not be served ice water in restaurants, a plain cup of coffee or tea cannot be charged more than three euro no matter where you are in Novoselic, and all of the public restrooms are accessible only through payment."

Usually she was dressed to the nines, in a ballgown for the black tie performances she was enlisted to attend. That Sunday, she'd come from a combined brunch and tennis lesson with her aunt: her white uniform, tennis shoes, and visor looking particularly out of place. When the call had come through, she hadn't had the time to change: there were plenty of people around her who would have loved a reason to deport him. For good.

But as she leaned back in the seat, she squinted at the pile of clothes that had been hastily taken down and put inside. "Whose undergarments are those, anyway? They're certainly not mine."

[skeletondeerart]

A Life Without You Isn’t a Life Worth Living.

Aloy x Fem Reader | 1263 words

The thundering of my heart was the only thing I could recognise, my mind thrown in a constant spin which felt like it was going to knock me off my feet at any moment. My brain felt so heavy in my skull, like it was full of lead and yet all I could was lay there in a state of paralysis, mud etched into my skin, rocks and shards of metal tearing my skin like paper. I was terrified of rolling over as I wasn’t sure what was broken.

The Thunderjaw was no easy opponent, with lasers that cut through the flesh of warriors like butter and a body that would grind you to a pulp with the lightest of steps. I shouldn’t have taken this mission alone. Yet I thought I could. The Thunderjaw scanned the plains for me, it was still searching. Luckily, I dove into foliage and debris of the old-world, I used it as a shield from the prying eyes of the machine as I waited for a moment of reprieve to escape with my life.

I could feel my wounds leaking a concerning amount of blood as I attempt to staunch them with the fabrics of my armour that Aloy had bought for me during her last outing.

I had to get back to her. I promised her.

I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing trying to quell my beating heart, my entire body throbbed with adrenaline as I let another breath out of my blood coated lips. My exhales clawing its way out of my chest and burning my throat. I shakily peek out the gaps of metal to gaze at the Thunderjaw traipsing around in circles trying to pinpoint me. I knew that once I started my sprint out of here I couldn’t stop, there were no other hiding places except the one where I currently resided. I took one final look at the Thunderjaw, its back was facing me.

This was my chance.

I held back my scream as I force myself to get into a crouch position and crawl my way out of the wreckage. Then I ran. I ran faster than I have ever before. Once foot in front of the other I blocked out the burning sensations stabbing at my chest and legs, I knew that if i halted I would surely die a horrible death. Screw the Thunderjaw heart, screw the shards, I just wanted to go home. To go home to my lover... to my beloved Aloy. 

I didn’t know it, but I was crying, tears streaming down my torn skin, tears that burnt like machine oil. Armour staining crimson and heart drumming with desperation, aching to survive.

I didn’t want to die here. I kept on running, running all the way to salvation, to where it was truely safe. I could never forgive myself if I didn’t hold my end of the promise that I made to her when we left for the Forbidden West. I ran for what felt like an eternity until I made it to the bottom of the chilling mountain range of where the base resided, yet I knew that I couldn’t make the climb up to the door. All I could do was simply collapse in the snow, the snow a bitter reminder of my foolishness.

Darkness was all I could remember, the ever-encompassing darkness that I thought was death. So, my Father was right all these years, heaven didn’t exist after all, only the never-ending darkness...

That was until I could hear screaming... well that was quite peculiar...

The noise continued to grow in volume as a resounding crash reverberated in the walls.

Then it was silence.

“Aloy... calm down, everything is going to be fine.” I heard a male voice comfort. Muffled coughing was heard, seemingly from continuous crying.

“I should have gone with her Varl, if I did maybe she wouldn’t be sitting on the verge of death right now... am I a terrible fiancé Varl?”

“Not at all, this shouldn’t have happened in the first place, you couldn’t have stopped it. You know (Y/n), she is just as stubborn as you are sometimes and an extremely resilient fighter.” I heard a slight laugh at that.

“I suppose...” Aloy spoke, seemingly calming down.

“Alright, I’ll take my leave now and give you some time to yourself, don’t spend all your time fretting. I made sure Zo did an extremely thorough examination on her. She is going to live.” I heard the electronic door opening and closing and footsteps drifting off into the distance.

I desperately wished to open my eyes, yet I didn’t have the strength to. All I could do was to lay here and rest my exhausted bones. I hear the door open once again but this time slow steps came in my direction, foot falls light as if not to spook the most alert of machine. The steps halting at what I assumed to be my door as I heard the whirring of the door opening. I had a feeling who was approaching - Aloy - She sat down on her side of the bed as she let out a tired sigh, yet she did not speak. I felt her fingers run gently down my bandaged face and arm as if I was a fragile flower that would shatter under too much pressure.

“I’m sorry I didn’t find you soon (Y/n)... I couldn’t imagine what could have happened if you bled out in the snow any longer than you did. I don’t want to lose anyone else... You know you scared me back there. Coming back from Scalding Spear to find you pretty much dead at the base’s doorstep.” A pained giggle arose from her chest.

My lungs burnt, not because of physical pain, but the pain I felt for Aloy, I imagined her finding my bloody and broken body lying helpless in the frigid snow. I wish I was faster... stronger... so she didn’t have to worry about me when she was out saving the world.

I felt tears welling in my eyes once more, yet I couldn’t open them no matter how hard I tried. The bandages covered the right side of my face completely, so the bandages grew wet as my tears slipped down the side of my face, laying there absolutely helpless. I hated feeling weak, I wanted to be able to stand by Aloy’s side without her having to worry about me every day and night. I hated feeling inferior to her. My strong and independent lover, famed for saving the world countless times over. Yet all I ever did was support her from the sidelines... I was no brilliant huntress like her, nor could I be any help in the medical field. Some nights when Aloy is sleeping I stare at her and wonder why, of everyone she has met in her adventures, why did she choose me?

“A life without you.. isn’t a life worth living...”

I had thought I passed away then and there. My lungs hitched in shock as I listened to her. Sniffling could be heard as I felt her lay down beside me pressing herself into my side gently seeking comfort herself.

“Don’t cry... please.” She whispered.

At that moment I gathered the strength and turned my head to face her, and my eyes cracked open, and all I could she was her. Teary eyed and all. She was mine. My beloved. My sweetheart.

My Aloy.

We both looked at each other and we didn’t have to speak another word, as a single glance spoke a thousand words. Aloy was right.

A life without the other... truly wasn’t a life worth living at all. 

[livefromcastledracula]

The Victorian literature vampire who actually cracked this was Lord Ruthven.

Dracula is by far the most powerful and ambitious of them with his "centuries-spanning long game supervillain scheme to anonymously buy up real estate across England, propagate resting places for my undead minions, start seeding them across a heavily populated modern state that refuses to believe we exist until it's too late to stop us" plan. He just done fucked with the WRONG polycule and it bit him spectacularly in the ass. Carmilla did pretty well with her "oh no, I am a vulnerable young girl in need who must be cared for by a wealthy household with a similarly aged daughter whilst my mysteriously aristocratic mother traipses off on important business" con, and it would have continued working for her except for being caught up with by the vengeful dads and a kooky descendant of her long dead not-boyfriend who conveniently had all the dish on where to dig her up. Varney and Ruthven both hit on the real con, though - the best place for a bloodless amoral fiend who sucks the life out of everyone around him to hide in plain sight with no consequences in the Victorian era? ...the British aristocracy! Varney just wasn't as good at it as Ruthven because, ironically, he had too much humanity left in him. Ruthven owned it, and sure enough, he's the only one of his contemporaries to get away with it at the end of his novella. He may not be as powerful as Dracula, but he knew his game, and he won it. I have my issues with the Kim Newman Anno Dracula books, but making Ruthven the British prime minister (and a Tory 😂) was perfect casting, because if the fucker actually made it to the modern day, the only unrealistic thing about him actually becoming the Tory PM in the 2020s would be that he'd be actually competent.

In hindsight, the thing that really gets me about how things worked out during Dracula’s time playing host to Jonathan is that he could have been completely normal about, like, everything

Sure, sure, play up the eccentric elderly gentleman act, but just skip the whole ‘invade Jonathan’s privacy and give away the No Reflection problem followed by throwing his mirror out the window’ thing.

Maybe don’t actively entrap your nice solicitor friend who had, up until recently, been surprisingly chill with your general weirdness despite all the locals wailing at him to Beware Your Freaky Castle

How about using your own front door to go grocery and victim shopping instead of going scuttling in your lizard fashion? Or! OR! Turn yourself into mist like all your vampire lady friends can clearly do so as not to risk Jonathan seeing you act like a gecko on the cliffside

All these giveaways and his general spooky bullshit were entirely avoidable! Even being caught doing the housework by Jonathan could be explained away; or better yet, turned to his favor. Just say all the locals who were moaning about monsters are just so superstitious that he cannot pay anyone enough to stay on as staff (bar a certain carriage driver, but he does not have to live on the grounds). And he is not so feeble an old man that he cannot manage the company of his new friend, who has forgiven so many eccentricities of his already

Cue Jonathan ‘I Will Put Work and Manners Before My Own Life’ Harker immediately folding back on his suspicions like a deck of ashamed Victorian playing cards. To think he’d thought so ill of some lonely old man doing his best to keep up appearances for pride’s sake, his money only good in a faraway land because the place around him is so fearful of bogeymen! It would have flowed so easily from there–Dracula would’ve suckered (ha ha) him into redoubling on his social allowances, maybe even wheedled a proper introduction from the good solicitor on his return to England

Here is Count Dracula, who played attendant to a young man so below his station, simply for the sake of being a proper host. A noble! Taking care of the needs of a commoner just a half-step into the middle class! It’d read as eccentric bordering on endearing, if nothing else

But no. He had to pull the monster card at every turn. Had to play mind games. Had to actively fuck around and be a big obvious bloodsucking jerk about it.

Now, the obvious reason he decided to imprison, toy with, and ultimately promise Jonathan to his ladies as their new blood bag/boytoy is that the guy’s a sadist. Just plain old Capital E Evil. Just for giggles. Which doesn’t make sense when compared to his actions as a host. 

Because this is fucking Dracula. He could’ve broken every bone in Jonathan’s body but his right hand, forced all the information and paperwork he wanted out of the guy, and chucked him in his Girlfriend Cellar. The End

The fact that he does go out of his way to be charismatic, chatty, and caring of Jonathan’s needs and wants suggests something like a very warped earnestness. He doesn’t just want Harker for his plans. He wants Harker. Whether we go all the way down that homoerotic road with that want or not, it’s made clear in later chapters (and his own covetousness during the scene with the vampire babes) that Dracula isn’t just out to kill people off, he’s cherry-picking new members to add to his harem/collective/colony/Hematophagous Club

However bizarre or cruel or friendly*** he is about it, Dracula wants Jonathan in his thrall too.

Which, again, could have been done in a less obviously, pointlessly traumatizing way. Seeing as the Count is clearly not an idiot, this must have occurred to him too. So what the fuck happened, Vlad? My theory:

He might–might!–have originally planned to be much more lowkey about the vampire business. Maybe he even planned to let the dude go back to England, make his friendly intro of his good buddy the Count, and then get on with the biting. Instead, he got hit with the same impulse that will inevitably strike him when he get’s an eyeful of Lucy and Mina. Namely…

Dracula, pre-Jonathan: Okay, everything’s in order. No windows for the girls to get through, doors locked, rooms ready, kitchen full. Good, good. I’m ready to be extremely normal about this transaction.

Jonathan, handsome and winsome, warily trusting, radiating the hopeful good vibes of 1000 golden retrievers: Hi? <:)

Dracula, rewriting his entire game plan on the carriage ride back: Ohhh I can’t not be weird about this

[tabbyrp]

{Tropes in the Wild West, the final installment} {Cont from [x]} @brooklynislandgirl @tarnishedhalo

The first to come was Beth’s grandfather.

He emerged from the plains alone and unarmed. Despite warm invitations, he refused entry to their home. Instead, the man sat upon a sawn-off stump in the garden and waited. Beth went first to talk. Through the window, Riley observed the conversation, Tabby swapping between hovering at his side and leaving in the hunt for distraction. When Beth traipsed back inside, brow furrowed in frustration, she sent Riley out for his turn.

Civil greetings to start; a lift of the brim of his hat and a nod in turn from the elder. Dignified legacy bred into the man’s blood and bones, one which required Riley hear out the warnings. How the girl was a danger. How she had corrupted spirits of the land and sky. Turned them into marauders, devouring rain from the sky and life from creatures to quench monstrous thirsts.

“If that’s true...” Riley gave no hint as to his opinion either way. “... it is an accident. Tabs would never want to hurt an innocent soul.”

Beth’s grandfather remained equally impassive. “The tate tanka – the tornado – does not chose to cause destruction, yet it still rips apart all within its path.”

The next to come was a shadow.

It slunk along, dragging claws over barriers the siblings erected each eve. Testing. Scratching. Riley leaned against the front door, a cool night breeze caressing his skin, pistol at cocked hip. The shadow stopped and shimmered into solid form. Passing close to human, with eyes black as pitch staring from bleached skin.

“I offer a trade.” It waited, watching for a sign of interest. The creature lacked a need to breathe, and never once did those dark eyes disappear beneath the blink of a lid. “We take her far from here. End the blight and leave you to a peaceful life.”

Riley’s answer came in the unholstering of his gun.

The shadow smiled.

“As you choose. She is made of darkness and will find her way home, one way or another.”

The third to come was Pastor Francis. Right after church on a warm Sunday morning, he arrived by horse, with a posse of townsfolk at his back, rifles hanging from every last saddle.

“Beth.” Riley straightened from where he had been digging in the garden, brushing dirt from his palms. “Take Tabs up to the porch. Stay low.” For once neither argued, leaving seedling strewn aside and taking each other by the hands as they hurried to less exposed shelter. He needed to keep the pair in view with this many men in approach, the rear to the property vulnerable in the daylight.

“Ranger.” Pastor Francis greeted from atop his horse, half-led up the path and showing no sign of dismounting. “It has been some time since I saw you in town.”

“Pastor.” Riley played the game of civil chit chat. Despite the differences in their faith, the two had maintained a cordial relationship. “Ranch life keeps me busy.”

Moisture pooled along Pastor Francis’s neck, his collar already stained with the escaping sweat. He nervously glanced towards where Beth and Tabby stood, then back to where Riley loomed. A short and soft man of God, any fight between them would lack fairness. Odds balanced out with the faithful crowd he had brought in tow.

“I won’t beat about the bush, Ranger. Out of respect, you understand. The council has advised you keep a devil child here, and I request you hand Miss Mitchell over, before she spreads more corruption and risks the souls of these good people.” Despite nerves, the good Pastor drew on years behind the pulpit, gesturing to his followers and earning their noises of approval.

Riley’s jaw tightened. “No. She stays here, under my protection.” He could hardly be clearer than that.

Atop his horse, Pastor Francis drew himself up to full height, the force of rightful conviction adding steel to his spine. “I don’t wish to do this, but you are leaving me with little choice. Hand over the girl...” His voice dropped to a ragged hiss, intended for only one recipient. “... Or I call you sister a witch, and we take them both.”

The threat struck true, if not how the pastor intended. Rage instead of fear sparked awake, Riley’s eyes swirling from green to fire laden gold. He caught himself too late. The pastor’s horse reared back, hooves flailing. One of his acolytes panicked in turn, then another, both raising a gun with shaking hands.

Crack. Crack. Crack

Pain seared through Riley’s chest. As ground rushed up to meet him, blood already copper on his tongue, screams rang out from the porch. Broken and wild, Beth’s magic carried on the noise like lashing whips, sending Pastor Francis clutching hands to his ears, crimson beginning to trickle between the gaps where fingers could not seal tight. Every man upon horse buckled beneath the weight, digging heels into flank, urging their steeds to retreat and kicking up dust in their wake.

Blue sky filled with soft faces, the girls kneeling on either side. Riley wished he could tell them not to worry. He drew breath to say as much, only to spew out a river of blood instead.

So much he had failed to say, and now it was too late.

Beth’s palms came to rest upon his chest. He could feel the tendrils of her magic weave into flesh, twisting and tightening, only to drown beneath the liquid soaking his lungs. She tried to stitch the ragged holes in his heart together, fighting each time the shredded organ split apart into new fluttering strands.

Everything was growing so cold. All except for where Tabby stroked back Riley’s hair, pleading for him to hold on.

Then, Beth stole that hand from his brow. She sliced open the palm, gripped Tabby’s bleeding hand tight, and the magic shifted. What began to pour into his mortal wounds was earth and fire, sun and night, birth and death. It swirled, fighting and gnashing, unfettered power that had his back arching with the fight to keep it from tearing more than body apart. Beth held Tabby’s hand tighter, knuckles straining white, and Riley feared taking the two women with him. He gathered his will, pushing back, trying to yank the magic out by the root. His power touched theirs, three strands twisting together like all those times Tabby would sit and braid Beth’s hair. The warm, simple scene he had often watched with peace in his soul. The same serenity weaving into existence, taming sizzling magic as it wrapped around his heart, filling the gaps anew until it beat once more, strong and steady.

A blink and Riley found Beth curled in against his side, covered in dirt and clutching on as if he would float away should she let go. Tabby still knelt by his side, so wild with relief she was perhaps about to laugh. Instead, she lowered her pale face and pressed soft lips to his. A tear welled up, sliding down dark lashes to land upon Riley’s cheek. Then another, and one more, until it was not saltwater tears splashing over his skin but rain cascading down from the heavens. Down it poured, drenching them and the lands, spreading relief far and wide as the drought finally came to an end.

[6em4k]

"You are, and knock it off - that's my job."

"Go for it, honestly. You've got glamours, mock up a human one and go traipsing around the city. Lots to do, lots to see." Macaque chuffed, quiet for a second before speaking in earnest.

"It's - kinda healing to just be in public. Sit somewhere, eat something, just... existing with everything else."

"I know, before you start, what a thing to hear from me of all people, but sometimes the best hiding place is in plain sight."

"I am kind of hard on myself aren't i?" A chuckle leaving the great sage as what Macaque said wasn't far from the truth. He did tend to sulk or ignore things that he didn't want to think about, wanting to be the best he could be. And when he couldn't or hurt those close to him he didn't always handle things particularly well.

"Kid's already got plans today to do a movie marathon with mei and redson though I suspect he might've been brought into it not fully willing. I don't want to intrude on their time together so I may just go out and do things on my own."

[grim-faux]

2 _ 17 _ Where is His Hat

First

 The building was falling apart, through the eroded walls and to the unraveling ceiling. Water soaked the floors and swirled within spaces caved beneath the tile, the foundation itself buckled underneath the shelves spaced across the main floor. Some of the lights still worked, a benefit, since it was late in the evening and the outside environment black beneath the brewing storms.

 “Be careful,” the Thin Man cautioned, as the child waded by once more. His own attention fixed on the front counter and the products stashed at the back wall. At random he selected one of the packages and gave it an examination, frowning. Variety would be nice.

 Dismissing the assortment of flavors, he turned away, and noted the child perched on the counter staring at him. The hat this time the former one confiscated, when he had forced negotiated the child into rest. The feather as well, though now it was matted by static and drenched and no longer did much. The boy seemed satisfied to let it ride in the band on his hat.

 The child was gone in a blink, back in the water and sloshing away. The Thin Man hummed to himself, the lamps above pulsed. It had been this way for a while, though the lad was comfortable enough around him. At a distance, at least.

 In short time, the splashing diminished. Either climbing a shelf or some other obstacle, or located a relatively dry space of the floor. The Thin Man drifted easily among the aisles, unhindered by the depth. For Mono, it was knee deep. Still, the liquid concealed sinkholes or perhaps aquafers that could be hazardous if not lethal.

 Most of the viable food stuff was junk stuff and candy treats. Children didn’t typically go for sugary things due to ‘sugar burn’, and the vile sickness that came about. But at times children became desperate, and food was food regardless if it was tolerable.

 Overall, the small shop still carried enough edibles that could stock Mono for a few days, but no more. Staying was not an option, given that anything could come in – the walls so depilated that anything might haphazardly stumble through, or punch through the ceiling. He and the child didn’t stumble through a front door, but a crumpled wall of the building which led into an alleyway. And a television there.

 As soon as the boy recuperated some vigor, he could take a scout around for a secure haven. He would revisit the shop and pilfer the rest of the food, Mono could have a short break from the endless wandering. That might cheer him up.

 For a while the child disappeared, but he was not concerned. Initially, he thought the boy was done following him around and ready to set out on his own. That didn’t happen. Even so, the Thin Man prowled through the stocky shelf arrangement, disinterested in the broken or vandalized items. In a few of these pathways, sat the melted box stuffed to bursting with fresh merchandise, all of it never reaching a shelf.

 It took no time at all to locate the child, given he wasn’t going anywhere. As expected, the boy located a dry segment on one side of the store and was crouched, with his back to the wall, sleeping. Or half sleep. Or not. It is difficult to tell with Mono; the child didn’t stir an ounce when he drew near.

 After drawing a cigarette from his coat, the Thin Man let the boy be and went to check the doors of the shop. He made certain they wouldn’t budge an inch, then, did a walk of the inner store perimeter. Most of the iron bars in the windows held firm against the beating rain, the glass crumbled in sections but what surface retained substance barred out any muddled illumination offered by the clouds. No hope spang eternal for some reading material, given the overall state of the building. With his patrol satisfied he returned to where the child was huddled down, and took a seat on the floor.

 The shop did have a dining zone that remained in bearable condition, but for whatever reason the child picked this particular spot. For the first few hours Mono did some sleep, and the Thin Man is always a little surprised whenever the child awoke. But it was half sleep, thus his presence did not go unheeded. When the boy snapped his head up, it was to give the vicinity a brief search. Once assured all was in order he tucked his head down, and gave a little sigh. Back to half sleep.

 With nothing else to occupy his time, the Thin Man smoked. And almost envied his younger-self’s capacity to just… curl up into his coat. That was one thing he missed dearly when he aged, in the Tower. Some days (?) were worse than others, when his fortitude faltered, and the Eyes of the Flesh wanted to jeer at him more than usual. Wear him down, weaken his resolve. It was an endless contest to see which would blink first, and the Tower knew it all already. Knew every in and out of his existence, every ounce of his vitality. Toyed with him. Cryptic riddles. Mocking. Insinuating it knew more than let on, knew the core of his sum. Hauled him to the brink of his sanity, toward a dark slice of his psyche that was potentially as dangerous to himself as it was lethal to the Tower itself.

 He jarred from his slouch, smacking his back against the wall. The child cringed against his side, still sodden from traipsing through rain, and clinging to his coat. For his merit, Mono hoisted himself up by the coat and clambered onto the Thin Man’s middle. The boy was still soaked through, and still, curled up and dug into the suit, as if the man in the hat would evaporate between his fingers.

 During this, the Thin Man rubbed the dull ache out of his neck. His back was vibrating almost as intensely as the thick vapor threading through the stale building, but he was not able to stand now. Instead, he settled a hand over the child and brushed his thumb along Mono’s neck. The child emitted a muffled whimper and bore down tighter (he should really check for claws) but didn’t vault loose as he was prone to. This at least settled some of his misgivings – he didn’t know if the boy was frightened of him now or simply hated him, over the book incident.

 The child was… distressed, clearly, when he tried to confront him about the book. It was a day or more later when Mono would finally emerge from his nest, for food, which the Thin Man had acquired. Though, he was uncertain if Mono would remain in the residence, upon the desertion of the threat. He left the food beside the dresser within easy reach, and it was uplifting that the boy chose to eat in the open rather horde the food away.

 The Thin Man lingered in the doorway, confident Mono was aware of his presence. It wasn’t about the book, he didn’t care, really. He wasn’t mad. But of all the things available in the dwelling – the doors, the cabinets, the walls, anything at all – why did he chose to destroy a book of His. Was it out of spite? Was it boredom, plain and simple? And what did he do with the pictures, he’s most curious. Any reason would suffice, he didn’t care. He just wanted to know why?

 He rethought ravaging a pointless question. Did the child really need a reason for what he did? And… really, what could the boy say?

 While Mono was preoccupied with choking down the food thing, the Thin Man went to the main entry. He was not expecting the faint chirp out of the blue:

 “Where?”

��Then and there, the Thin Man didn’t know what to think, and very nearly stalled out. He peered back at the child – he was not close – but there all the same. “I need to go… check on some things.” Mono was still shoving the food – he really didn’t know what it was – into his mouth. “You should stay here.”

 The boy swallowed and tipped his head, only one eye peering out from the current hat of the time. “T’n stroll? Leave. T’h come w-fh?” He wasn’t sure if Mono looked anxious because he had to venture out and address him, or due to the prospect of him leaving. He didn’t know. The child clutched the food until it was falling to bits between his fingers. “M’to follow?”

 A bit reluctant, he did open the door to step out. “You don’t have to come. You can go wherever you want.” But the child did inch closer to the doorway, while he stood there indecisive himself.

 “B’t follow? Can keep.”

 He caved and left the door open. Mono followed, as he was prone to do now. Did the boy know no other way? The Thin Man didn’t understand this child. No middle ground. Distress or exasperation.

 Mono slept on without hitch or fidget. It was becoming alarming, the Thin Man was on the verge of panic and closer to intervention. If not for the very shallow breathing, he could mistaken the child for… he’s worried he might’ve fallen into another coma. For what reason, he couldn’t say. Rarely anything Mono did made sense lately. Or, did the child just need that much rest? That in itself was alarming.

 While it wasn’t a crisis, he let the child alone. It only felt like an arduous and long time, because he didn’t have anything to do but wait and smoke. Though this pitiful ounce of good fortune shouldn’t be overlooked, given Mono could’ve easily collapsed in the street. Again.

 It is possibly the second day, or maybe more, he doesn’t keep track anymore, but the child finally stirred. The Thin Man raised his arm to his knees, while the child collected himself. Hat more rumpled now, Mono raised his head and looked around blearily. Only a good portion conscious, but at least he was calm.

 “You’d wake up more if you would get moving.”

 Mono’s response was nestle down. The only difference, he pried his fists free of the coat and tucked his arms against himself. He mumbled something incoherent. “Mh….”

 Not this again. The Thin Man nudged the child off and stood, in a crackly glimmer. He fixed the wrinkles in his coat, and inspected the boy… laying on his side. “Child. You need to eat something. Get up.” Mono made it to his knees, and sat there. Still utterly out of it.

 This was still better than dragging him off the street half dead.

 Getting Mono to wander through the water gave the child a jolt, and he’s mostly fully awake, able to reach the aisles with food and do some foraging. The Thin Man assured himself Mono could scale the platforms without a tumble, before letting him be, to check through the murky pathways as before.

 It had been an unknown span of time, anything could have slunk in without his knowledge. Though he doubted it. The Thin Man needed to stretch out and knead at the bruise in his back. This would be worth it, he could get the child to a suitable shelter and not need settle for whatever doorway the lad happened to collapse in. While patrolling along the outer wall, he perused the outdated objects melting down the slots and slates. Whatever this inventory once was, he cannot discern—

 A sudden but stifled squeal cut through the store. It’s quiet, but he knows it is Mono. The Thin Man reacted immediately, flashing across the rows, some of the items formerly cemented by time and rust toppled off the slates. He streaked to the end of the aisles and addressed the scene.

 A familiar rectangular shape peered back at him, the little rumpled hat seated on the cluttered shelf beside him. The Thin Man gaped, stunned. Hats made sense to him, but he thought the child was beyond the paper bag now. Really, he shouldn’t be surprised. Whenever Mono made speek with his own likeness, it was always topped with one.

 Mono took the bag off and worked at the eye holes a little more, trimming carefully with studious precision, turning the bag this way and that or flipping it around. He checked a few times, assuring that the eye holes lined up. It was looking exactly like the one he wore, when the Thin Man emerged from the television.

 “You don’t need that,” he rumbled, moving closer to the shelf. “Child.”

 Mono mumbled a noise and scooted away, focused settled on his mask. “Fix.” Upon reaching for the paper bag in his hands, the child wrenched away with a little snort and turned his back.

 Sighing, the Thin Man plucked up the hat and held it closer to the boy. “Hats suit you better. And, your little feather.”

 “Feh-th’rrr,” the child muttered, still fixated on the paper bag. “S’maj-ee-kal. H’s fet-err mah-jik g’t tol.” He stashed the paper bag in his coat, then turned to the Thin Man reaching for the hat feather.

 The Thin Man didn’t comment. That mask would resurface soon enough, but Mono was responding to him now. He relinquished the hat and watched the child drop off the shelf, into the shallow water.

 “Fea-therr,” he enunciated, as he followed the child.

 “Feht-err. Feaa-th’r.”

  “No. Feath-Eer.”

 “Fe-thf-RR.”

 Was he doing that on purpose?

 The child elected one aisle to wade down, scanning the surface prospects for anything appealing. Some of the food labels and packaging didn’t endure, but some containers would have safeguarded the contents. With a leap Mono began climbing the slates, checking packages – occasionally stopping to peer through the gloom – other times, he tore plastic or aluminum wrappers apart and sniffed at the contents. Or stuck his tongue to something that looked mostly edible.

 For a while the Thin Man watched, but not directly. He watched the other end of the aisle, keeping Mono in the fringe of his view. If he turned away an inch, he had no doubt the boy would flutter off again.

 “Can you speek, ‘I am Mono’?” At current, the child was digging into a food paste container. He stared at the Thin Man, while licking his fingers. “Mono. Try this speek. I.” The boy slowed at reaching into the container again, just… staring. “Mono. This speek. Can you repeat this? I. Come now. I….”

 At last he ventured, quietly, “I….”

 “Am.”

 “Mm.”

 “No. Aa-Mm.”

 “Mono.”

 “No. Listen now, like this. ‘Aam.”

 “Aam.”

 The static bristled, he brought a hand to his face. Unhindered, the boy rifled through some other package. “What do you want to eat? What have you got there?”

 The child shrugged. He adjusted the container, still working on the food paste, and dug out another handful of unappealing goop. He would be eating faster, if it was not so goopy.

 The Thin Man took a long draw on his cigarette and exhaled. “What sort of food is that? What would you call it?”

 Another shrug. Mono pulled over another open container, some sort of bag, and dumped some of the contents into the partially eaten goop paste.

 “I want speek, child. What sort of food is that? Can you tell me?”

 The child pushed his hat back a margin and stared. He shoved the container a fraction along the shelf edge closer to him, but couldn’t travel further than an inch due to the clutter of packaging and intolerable food things he shoved aside (but not off to the floor). “T’n… share?” he whispered. “Th’s good. N’plenty. Lot’s un—”

 “No, I don’t want that.” He pinched his brow. This child. He did this on purpose, he swore. “Food.” The boy tilted his head. He stood there, hugging the container to his chest. “Can you repeat my speek. I have food.”

 A tentative, “Do’y?”

 He took a long deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Pay attention. Listen. Repeat. This speek. I. Have. Food. I. Have. Food.” This was going nowhere. The boy just… wouldn’t respond. He tried slower this time, “Mono. You know how to do this. Just repeat. I. Have. Foo-ood.”

 “I-h’ve ffh-ood.”

 “Slower.” He took a quick nip of the cigarette, and once more, “I. Have. Food.”

 “D’food.”

 Why? Just why?

 This time, he elected a container from the shelf that looked viable – a jam or jelly – and stepped closer to the boy. “I have food.” He held it up. The boy crouched down and looked from the newly presented container, then to the tall thin man. “I. Will. Give. Food. Can you repeat that speek?”

 The boy huddled there looking bewildered, like his hat was doing acrobatic flips. “Speek?”

 “Just repeat it, child. Repeat what I speek.”

 “N… t’share?” The Thin Man clapped the jar on the shelf beside Mono, and the boy winced aside.

 “My word, child. I don’t want the food.” He stepped back when the boy released his container, and it splashed into the floor below.

 “S’speek share?”

 “We know the same speek. You know this, we’ve been over this.” He clasped his hands over his face. “You just garble everything.” Was it something he did? Did he actually break the child? Did he foul up when he tuned the transmission? For the life of him, he didn’t grasp the problem.

 “M’speek? S’not good?”

 The Thin Man grimaced behind his hands. “It… needs work.”

 “Oh.”

 ‘Oh,’ he says. As if they hadn’t spent a half hour or whatever on this.

 The boy tore open a new package and began stuffing his mouth with the food. He did better with something dry and lighter.

 “All right,” he sighed, through smoke. “Let’s try this. I am tired.” Mono rasped a sound in his throat and scooted away, further back onto the shelf among containers of food. He turned his back to the Thin Man and kept eating. “Child….”

 Mono coughed, then choked out, “Eat.” Then resumed chewing.

 For now, the Thin Man let it go. He imparted, “Be sure to breathe.” And let the boy be.

 The whole mess of linguistics frustrated him to no end. How did it get this bad? By the time he was abandoned in the Tower, he had a firm vocabulary established. The child too, they could carry conversations during their alliance and following the treachery. What had gone wrong? How did he fix this?

 Then, the child would get frustrated and shut down. Wouldn’t push himself to do better, or try to learn. This intolerable child. Completely content to butcher through a mediocre dialect.

 The Thin Man returned to the dry patch of floor where the child rested before, and slid his back against the wall to drop into his slouch. He hoped Mono didn’t shred through all those packages and left some food viable, so he could leave him somewhere for a time. He needed a break from this.

Next

[zombriekid]

Medium [Alucard/Gender Neutral Reader]

Series: Hellsing

Summary: “…could I request where the reader uses their medium powers on a mission and Alucard begins to believe them?” victory usually tastes so sweet but not at the expense of the innocent

warning: vague mentions of violence against children

 Mediumship is nowhere near as glamorous as the entertainment industry loves to portray; it’s not all traipsing (see: trespassing) on ancient burial grounds and hurling invasive questions into the air in the hopes of something Otherworldly™ responding. You don’t often see apparitions- full body or otherwise- and it’s rare to hear much more than a single whisper, in fact the vast majority of the time your dealings with the dearly departed amounts to little more than just random surges or depletions of energy.

 This is not to say that your spirituality is weak, it’s just that… that’s what “ghosts” are- energy left behind by the living like an imprint of history, and this energy can be influenced by events, past or present, and passionate emotions, negative or positive, thus rendering any argument that they exist a hollow shot in the dark. Because you can’t prove what you (often) can’t see, not to others, especially in this day and age of technology with photo/video manipulation. And the fact that mediumship has a bad rep due to prior exploiters and frauds.

 But you purposefully leave that last bit out of the conversation cause even though He’s acting like He’s not interested, you know that Alucard is tuning in.

 Not that you can blame Him though. What else is there to do?

 From the moment your little menagerie of hunters stepped out of the Hellsing jet, absolutely nothing has happened. Nothing, zilch, nada. This might be ideal in other situations but you were promised a paycheck upon the eradication of a vampire who’s “more monster than man” and the subsequent purification of his/her hunting grounds, and goddammit you can’t let this mission stain your record! That and Mr. Tall Dark and Frightening is assigned as one of your partners.

 Well… more like you’re the one that’s assigned but yadda yadda fine details and all that.

 “So in other words…” Seras pauses with a drawn out vowel, “you feel ghosts rather than see or hear them?”

 You shrug in response before catching your boot over a pile of broken glass. It’s inevitable that you’ll trek through some before the mission’s end- hell before the night’s over because of friggin course a bloodsucker sets up shop in an old, forgotten hospital- however the less shards you have to pluck out of the soles later the better.

 “Depends. I hear Pip just fine, and on occasion he visually manifests himself for me, but that’s only cause of his connection with you. Uses your energy.”

 This seems to satisfy the young vampire for she gives you a quiet hum in acknowledgment with nothing else to follow. Silence hangs over your small group as the three of you inch down the hall, briefly turning your attention into every passing doorway and you specifically avoiding stepping on to jagged scraps of splintered wood and dusty glass; these two might be immune to pathogens but that doesn’t mean you are.

 “So you sensing energy… you mean that literally?” She asks.

 “Yes ma’am.”

 “Then riddle me this, revenant,” Alucard’s voice disrupts the conversation, chases away any semblance of peace and echoes into every dark corner of the walls around you. The fine hairs all up and down your skin suddenly stand to attention with the intrusive introduction of His baritone. It’s not as if you forgot that He’s there, or even that He’s eavesdropping, you just didn’t expect Him to vocalize His opinion. Should’ve known better, it’s friggin Alucard after all. “Do you ‘sense the energy’ of our target?”

 That’s the thing.

 You don’t.

 You can pick up both of your companion’s energies easily- Alucard’s is oppressive and dark and just plain inhuman while Seras’s is warm and jovial, but scarred, reticent, as if she has a blanket of secrets weighing down her back until she aches. That’s the best way you can describe it at least.

But there’s no other energy nearby.

 Now you’ll always be the first to admit that there are certain limitations to your spiritual sensitivity- for instance you wouldn’t be able to sense someone in the parking lot from this deep in the complex- and there are many factors outside of your control that contributes, with species acting as a major contender. After all, man eating monsters tend to amass a surplus of energy with every soul they devour, human or otherwise.

 So why can’t you feel the target’s energy? Sir Integra herself described them as “a gluttonous, beastial affront against the Lord with a deplorable appetite for children”; loss of humanity, depraved morality, the murder of kids… merely one of these would be sufficient enough for you, let alone all three, so this should have ease akin to your breathing offending Alucard in some way.

 Then why…?

 “I’m callin’ it,” Seras huffs before her boots cease their trek, which (shockingly) causes your other vampiric squadmate to pause as well. No need to single yourself out, strength in numbers as the saying goes, so you do the same. “They’re not here.”

 “I agree, but why not ask Hellsing’s residential medium? After all they’re supposed to be able to sense this thing’s energy.”

 The walls quickly sprint by in your vision as you snap your attention to the right, and you channel every poisonous thought and cutting emotion into the glare you fix the back of His head with. Alucard feels the weight, you know He does, just as you don’t need to see it in order to know that there’s a self satisfied grin stretching across His face.

 God, He’s such a petty bitch.

 Then again so are you.

 “Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you could use the energy of your soul to sense someone else’s!” You spit out through a clenched jaw, but you’re not yet done. Now for the zinger. “Wait! That’s right. You can’t cause you don’t have o-”

 Cold.

 A plume of icy chill kisses your pebbling skin. Fine hairs rise. Your spine straightens. Instincts, or a sort of magnetic pull to your right. Not Alucard though. Further.

 Over your shoulder.

 A winding stairwell.

 Energy. Young. Scared. On the same floor. Your floor. The first stair.

 There’s a-

 “Murray?” You hear someone ask but you quickly shush them.

 Because there’s a ghost at the base of the stairwell in the little passage off to the group’s right; it’s not strong enough to create a perfect visual, or rather much of a visual at all, instead you’re graced with an opaque silhouette vaguely humanoid in shape. You can make out where the head and shoulders are supposed to be, though the legs dissipate below (presumably) the knees, and judging by the relatively small size you can almost safely assume that this spirit comes from a child.

 An assumption that dries out the roof of your mouth, tightens the muscles in your throat until it hurts to swallow; child ghosts have always proven to be the most harrowing in terms of purification, if nothing else because of the implications of their demise. No one cherishes the idea of dead children, after all.

 It’s in the nature of your job, unfortunately, and it’s time to get to work so first thing’s first: is this ghost related to the mission?

 “Do either of y’all know any history about this place?” You ask in a voice that practically toes on screechy, and yes you’re aware that your drawl is a touch thick right now. “A children’s hospital, maybe?”

 Seras stumbles over her words, likely a result from your behavior considering this is the first she’s bore witness to this side of your role, but she quickly regains her faculties with a throat-clearing cough.

 “N-no, it’s umm.. was just a general hospital. Mostly used during one of the World Wars.”

 Your kneecaps ache- cold, sharp, it bites at the crevices between your joints and it slinks down both shins until your toes start to feel chilly. A sort of rolling, hollow loftiness churns the pit of your stomach, and your head seems far too heavy to be sitting on such a stiff neck, and a dusting of salty tears sting the fleshy corners of your eyes. A scream tears at your jaw.

 But you don’t panic, there’s no need to because this reaction is not yours. The pain in your legs, the woozy light headedness that’s sapping your energy, the involuntary urge to sob and shriek until the lining of your throat feels like sandpaper? None of this belongs to you. This is your body reacting to the stimuli from the child’s ghost.

 Or as you like to call it: minor possession.

 “Why do you ask..?”

 A vampire with a preference for younger victims.

 “Murray?”

 The shade of a terrified kid, silhouette incomplete, and everything from your knees down plagued with an icy burn.

 …there’s no denying it, what you’re currently staring at, subsequently what’s burrowing into your bones and siphoning your energy, is a casualty of this mission’s target.

 You hear someone call your name, more specifically your first name, but with so much metaphorical cotton stuffed in your ears you can’t really determine who so you instead lift a pointer finger towards the spirit; perhaps crawling through mud would be easier. God you feel so weak.

 Seras is the first to respond.

 “Wha’ is it? I don’t see anything.”

 Through your teeth you manage to bite out: “g-ghost.” And that is perhaps the worst thing you could’ve said or done because the shrill gasp that she unleashes is nothing short of jarring, and she bounces from one foot over to the next and back again as her red eyes widen and glimmer with what you could only call excitement.

“Where?! Where is it, where do you see it?!”

 These questions gush out of her like a broken spout with many more to follow, but you can’t help but to tune them out cause this? What she’s doing right now? Yeah this is the exact reason why you prefer to tend to spirits by yourself; the fascination that borderlines fetishization that most carry with their individual worldviews often leads to disrespecting those who have long since passed. Hence your profession boggled down with money-grubbing charlatans, and entire programs dedicated to ghost hunting- ah, your apologies, you mean “paranormal investigating”. It’s distasteful, it’s tacky, and it’s downright insulting, and it etches itself deep into the lines between your brows and the downward tug of your frown.

 This… must convey your message perfectly for the young vampire’s delight gradually bleeds into something more somber.

 Maybe if you weren’t so tired you’d find it in yourself to let it go? “That’s one of our target’s victims, Victoria. Try to show some respect?”

 At least she has the decency to look ashamed, unlike her master whom you can feel the glare He levels you with behind the orange tint of His glasses. Any other time and the weight of His ire would intimidate you, but you honestly don’t care right now.

 The child’s spirit rises and bobs up the stairs, as if it’s simulating the act of walking, and with it goes the sensation of ice and pain and fear out of your joints. From beside you, on your right, you can barely make out Seras quietly saying “I think I see something.” It rounds the sharp bend in the stairwell before it continues its ascension until you can’t see- or sense- it anymore.

 And then something dawns on you.

 “I think he/she wants us to follow.”

 Alucard scoffs from somewhere behind you. “Is it going to lead us to the target?”

 A nod is all that you give Him. He in turn allows a single barking laugh to rip from His throat out of derision, judging by the sound in the way it’s meant to curl around your cheeks until they feel hot, however you’re rather confident in your assessment. In fact you’re very nearly absolutely certain that that is what’s going to happen: follow the ghost and you’ll find the target.

 Which brings you to your final conclusion, one that Seras seems to be grasping at herself. “Wait. If this ghost genuinely is a victim, then it really shouldn’t… exist per say, yeah?”

 “Yep. Man eating monsters, especially vampires, essentially absorb souls as a means to substitute what they’ve lost.” You glance at her in your peripheral. “Which means one of two things. Either my hunch is wrong and this spirit truly is an echo from the past, or…

 “My hunch is right, the spirit is a casualty, and our target’s already dead.”

 Silence picks up where your sentence ends; the nothingness of the quiet permeates through one ear and out the other, and it presses down on the bones of your shoulders until your spine shivers. There’s a tension in the air not unlike a rubber band being stretched from both ends, you can feel it in the cavity of ribcage, and though you could easily attribute the stress to the hospital’s atmosphere or the very real possibility of your estimate holding true, your instincts- built from some odd months worth of experience and adversity- place the blame on something else.

 Or rather someone else.

 Alucard.

 Because His opinion of you, and of your work, is coated in an acidic venom, and He’s very open about this with every sharp word and barbed look that He deems worthy of His time. Yet He hasn’t said anything else, hasn’t done anything else since His last outburst of sarcasm, and it makes you hyper aware of Him. As if He’s going to attack at any moment, physically or otherwise. Does He disagree? Is He biding for time until the finale where He can deliver yet another calamitous blow to your already scarred ego? … Is He actually considering that you may be right about this?

 Not possible. His pride is greater than His hatred for your existence.

 And on this dismal thought, you decide to not dedicate any more energy in to solving the enigma that is Alucard and you take a few strides towards the stairs before you mumble out a “only one way to find out.” You don’t bother waiting for your companions.

 Not twenty minutes later the three of you are provided with a definite answer to your theory.

 But you don’t gloat, there’s not even a hint of desire to. Because, after all, no one cherishes the idea of dead children.

_______________________________________________________________________

a/u: had ta repost this bitch cause i done messed up a-aron, which in turn meant tumblr pissed in my coffee and not showed it in ANY tags sooo... presto here we are again! once more with feeling: thank you to the anon who requested this, and thank you to everyone who reads <3 if ya liked my scheisse then please tickle the heart, leave a comment, and reblog it so other peeps can enjoy it too -3-

[whirlybirbs]

When I requested “miss Turner blushing” I did not mean for it to end like that! Omg I’m sad now 😔 Hope, unfuck this mess!!! (But do really really love what you wrote and now I’m excited for what’s to come

a/n: here’s part two! to the blushing drabble -- you and arthur have a spat, he says something nasty and hosea steps in. you’re both sent on errands, conflict still hanging in the air. an apology and a gift right things between you and the outlaw. i love these two. 

���Mr. Morgan --”

“Not now, Miss Turner.”

You could pull your hair out.

He’s unbearable to be around.

Plainly so.

I mean, even Hosea -- a man with so much patience he could be revered as a Saint -- can’t stand being around the outlaw for more than five minutes at a time. And that’s saying something. Hosea nearly raised the unruly boy. This new stretch of attitude has him biting off heads at the slightest convenience. 

Christ, he’d snapped at Javier for brushing Sugarcube. 

Not that you’d know -- after all, Arthur has ignored you outright for the last three days straight. Hasn’t said a word, save for a biting little comment at dinner the other night about you bein’ in his way. 

It puts you in a bad spot for a day or so -- guilt is heavy in your gut at the realization that your words about him not bein’ your type were far from the truth. The girls are nice enough to see it too, and... even Grimshaw tries her best to get you and Arthur in the same place to at least talk about it. 

Dutch is the one that jokes Arthur’s mood brings in three days of late-night, summer storms. The heavy heat is dampened with the cool air the thunderheads roll in on, leaving the camp scrambling for cover at the first crack of lightning.

Last night, the winds had been so bad, they’d sent Pearson’s tent into the lake.

Just... up and lifted and threw the whole thing.

So, here you are, deciding that if Arthur Morgan wants to ignore your very existence, you’re going to make it mighty hard for him to do just that. You are, plain and simple, sick of moping about.

You follow him as he storms about, following the source of the commotion by the lakeside. It’s Pearson, swearing up a storm about his tent. Dutch is trying to calm the navy-man down, but it’s Arthur who ditches his boots and traipses right into the lake. Always the fixer.

You, hellbent on not letting him off the hook, hop out of your own boots and follow.

And, half an hour later, here you are.

"Jus’... pull, will you?”

“M’ tryin’.”

“Well,” Arthur snaps, “Try harder, Miss Turner, I’m gettin’ soggy.”

You’re waist deep in the lake when he starts in, arm dove deep beneath the water as you try to unwrap the tacking from a piece of rotting wood on the bottom of the beach -- the red clay has you sinking in and you teeter, one hand gathering your skirt and the other trying to dislodge the knot.  

At his comment, you serve him a look.

“I don’t see you over here,” you snap, “Up to your shoulder in muck, Mr. Morgan.”

He’s about to open his mouth, about to dig in, about to the the dynamite struck on an open flame, when Dutch cuts him off.

“I believe it may be a lost cause, you two,” the leader yells, parsing a hand through dark hair, “I think it best a run into town is made. No doubt the Rhodes’ General Store has some tent supplies.”

You stagger out of the water, skirt weighed down and mud up to your knees. You’re soaked, hair hanging in your face -- the front of your blouse clings to you and if you weren’t so irritated with Arthur Morgan, maybe you’d be happy to be cooled off for once. 

“Both of you,” Dutch says slowly, “Get changed and take the wagon --”

“Oh, no, no, Dutch. I don’t think tha’s a good idea --”

You narrow your eyes as Arthur turns, leaning in to give your back a hearty pat -- it lacks any affection, though. You stagger forward a bit, biting your tongue. His words fly out with malice and that same gut-wrenching guilt you’d sworn you were going to try and beat surges back up in your belly. 

Blue eyes dart between you both. Faux-amusement is written there.

“Y’see, I’m not Miss Turner’s type.”

It’s like a tea kettle has hit it’s boiling point. You give a strangled shriek, annoyance spurring your fists to ball up.

“You are insufferable!”

"You’ve already made your feelings for me painfully clear --”

He starts up the hill through the camp and you, so hellbent in anger, follow him with wide strides. He’s already working at the buttons on his soaked through shirt, ignoring the beating of the hot sun on his back. If anything, your glare is just as hot. You catch up to him by the stew pot, snagging his arm.

“Will you just listen t’ me?!”

He shrugs you off, muddy finger pointing in your face.

“I’ve heard plenty.”

You don’t let up, though, following him all the way to his tent and stopping short with your hands on your waist. 

“I’ve been tryna talk t’ you for the last three days an’ --”

“ -- An’ I don’t wanna hear it.”

He shirks his clay-caked, navy dress shirt onto his cot, snapping his suspenders down to hang low around his thighs. He turns his back to you as he does so and for one moment, you get a glance at his back -- it’s littered with jagged and long and bullet-shaped scars. The sight shuts you up for a breath and you swallow down the want to reach out and touch him. 

Not now.

Arthur takes note of your silence and laughs bitterly. “Y’ say m’ not yer type but you’re awfully keen on ogglin’.”

“That -- it’s not -- I...” you gape, eyes turning up to the ceiling of his tent, “You misunderstand me, Mr. Morgan.”

“Did I now?”

“Yes,” you grit, “Quite.”

He’s working on another shirt, this one is white -- and leans, tucking in the hem to his pants. He doesn’t bother to change his jeans. In this heat, they’ll dry soon enough. Arthur lands on his cot, calloused fingers working the buttons into the eyelets. He’s keen on ignoring you; mostly because the hope that he really had gotten this all wrong with you is blinding. He has spent the last three days trying to shut it all out and --

“I’m awfully sorry I ain’t some rich, old railroad magnate, Miss Turner,” Arthur’s voice rises into somethings awfully sharp and angry, then, driving the knife into an already open wound, “So you best find yourself a man who can replace good ol’ Waylon Robbins, certainly that’s your type --”

That. That hurts. 

You aren’t sure what to say -- you really are speechless, left fumbling over the hard punch to the chest his words mimic. To use that against you is... unfair. And rude and mean and awful and terribly unlike the Arthur Morgan you’d gotten to know and you must have looked like you were one beat from crying because suddenly:

“You best get changed, Miss Turner.”

It’s Hosea.

Your eyes hit the ground. At the gentle touch of the mentor’s hand, you nod -- quickly pulling away from Arthur’s orbit and heading back towards your own tent. 

It’s only until you’re out of earshot that Hosea speaks again, this time with the sternness of a father.

“You are going to take her into town, get the tent supplies,” he says, “And you are going to apologize.”

“I ain’t doin’ no such thing.”

“Yes, you are, Arthur Morgan,” Hosea hisses, jabbing a finger into the outlaw’s chest as he stands, “What has gotten into you? I know you’re dumb, but god -- can’t you see she’s trying to explain herself?”

“What is there t’ explain, Hosea?” Arthur stands, face twisted into a sadder sort of anger, “She made her feelings clear --”

“Did she?” his father-figure jests, “Are we callin’ eavesdropping clear now-a-days? You’re actin’ as if she turned down your hand in marriage, my boy --”

“Yeah, well,” Arthur grumbles, raising a hand as he leans to pull his boots on, “I’ve been there -- I ain’t goin’ down that road again.”

Hosea sighs. His hand is gentle on the blonde’s shoulder. “The girls pulled me aside, you know, asked if I could do anything -- they were ribbing her over chores, y’know, about you two. Karen thinks she... well, thinks Miss Turner was tryin’ t’ be modest.”

“Modest.”

A bitter laugh.

“You know how it is,” Hosea shrugs, “....High-class ladies and their modesty.”

Arthur, from across camp, catches you emerging from your tent. You’re sweeping your hair up, penning it tight and high away from your neck in a neat bun. You’ve changed into a lighter cotton dress, light blue with delicate floral patterning. It’s Sadie, the recently addition to the gun-slinging gang, that offers you her hat. 

You look beautiful. 

Arthur hates himself. He’s a fool.

Hosea can see it.

“Just... talk to her, will y’, Arthur?”

“Alrigh’, alrigh’.”

And so, you and Arthur Morgan saddle up, ready to make your way to Rhodes for supplies. You’re quiet on approach and he’s just as bad -- not daring open his mouth thanks to the sudden realization that he really did hurt your feelings. Your eyes are watery. 

Guilt bites him in the heart.

You decide it’s best to ignore it. If this is what he’s after... making you hate him, then so be it. Maybe it’s better that way.

He offers to help you up into the wagon.

Much like the day you met him, you swat his hand away.

The first few minutes of the ride are unbearable and Arthur is suddenly very aware of how, with the cold shoulder reversed, miserable this is. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned and... well, he deserved it.

Finally, after he’d spurred the horses into a trot and onto the main road, he speaks.

“... I’m sorry.”

You’re not sure you heard him.

You spare him a side-ward glance and grip your satchel a bit tighter.

Arthur sighs. “I am -- I... That was rude of me t’ say back there.”

“It was.”

“And --”

“And cruel,” you snap, voice wavering, “And unfair.”

“I said I was sorry --”

“And I don’t want an apology Hosea is forcing out of you, Mr. Morgan,” you say, “If you’re so keen on hating me, then so be it.”

“I ain’t keen on hatin’ you.”

Arthur sighs, then, disparagingly so. You cross your arms, turning and crossing your legs as the wagon rocks. You make due with the view of the bayous around the trail. You’re sure if you look at him, you’re resolve will just... snap in half.

Another few moments of silence pass between you both and Arthur thinks this is what hell is like. It’s torture. Suddenly, three days worth of shutting it all out is falling apart. After all, how could he push past the feelings he’d realized with you beside him? Pretty and poised in a sundress -- looking awfully angry but awfully beautiful. 

God, he’s got it bad.

Finally, he speaks again.

His bitter, rugged facade falls -- if just for a moment.

“It hurt my feelings.”

It’s so quiet, it’s nearly a whisper.

You blink, then, eyeing the slumped posture of the outlaw beside you.

“...What?”

“It hurt my feelings,” he says again, louder this time, “T’ hear y’ say that -- the bit about me not bein’ yer type.”

You wring your hands. “Well, you aren’t.”

Arthur blinks. Hurt flies across his face.

“-- You’re different from any other man I’ve ever met, is what I meant,” you continue, nervousness not letting you look at him, “It’s not a bad thing -- not a... condemning notion. I just... where I’m from, there aren’t any cowboys or outlaws or highwaymen. It’s... It’s all weak-chinned men who talk the talk but -- I don’t know. I ain’t never had a type like you. Not that my previous type was anything special.” 

More silence.

Arthur heart is hammering so loud in his chest it’s like the strike of a sledgehammer on a railroad track. He feels -- like all at once -- his breath has been stolen from him. His eyes are stuck on you, attention diverted from the road. 

“So...” you twiddle your thumbs, sparing him a doe-eyed look.

“... I was an ass.”

“A dumb-ass,” you correct, “A baboon’s ass, even.”

Finally, he laughs. Finally, and you feel like smiling again. 

You move, then, leaning and muscling around in your satchel.

You pull out a leather-bound journal. Pulled across the binding is a deep, rich, black leather -- the pages are crisp and fresh, a stark comparison to the one in Arthur’s bag. He hit the end of the pages the night before last, scribbling angry notes about how love is one hell of an illness. 

Blue eyes cast across your face, trying to read the emotion there.

“I was gunna give you this, I been carryin’ it around,” you say, “I picked it up in Saint Denis, but... Well, you were busy givin’ me the cold shoulder. It had to wait.”

Arthur blinks, shifting the reigns into one hand. He takes the journal, eyeing the thick pages. Gratefulness shines in the tender way he holds it.

“... You didn’t --”

“I did,” you chirp, “I mean, I didn’t buy it --”

Arthur laughs then, booming and full and happy and it’s like a sun-storm. Your face splits into a grin, finally, after three days of no sun. You bask in it, happy to sail onto better seas. The outlaw’s thumb grazes the cover. You stole. For him.

It means a lot.

“Thank you.”

“Take it as an apology,” you say, patting his knee, “For hurtin’ your delicate feelings, Mr. Morgan.”

He shoulders you, pulling a laugh out of your chest. 

“C’mon,” he drawls, “Don’t want the others t’ think y’ broke my heart an’ left me for dead.”

Onward and upward, straight into the sweetness of feelings. 

[jane-ways]

A Little Bit Every Day

After defeating the Devil, you find yourself adrift in Vesuvia, searching for your purpose. Clarity comes from the unlikeliest of places: Consul Valerius.

Read it on AO3! // For @my-first-name-is-agent

You woke to sunlight streaming through the windows. Outside, birds sang, and you could hear the quiet hum of palace activity in the halls outside your bedroom door. If you had asked for an objectively perfect morning, this would have been it. Things had returned to normal after your battle with Lucio and the Devil so quickly, so seamlessly, it was almost hard to believe the events of the past few months had really transpired. Stretching, you felt the pull of sore muscles and the crack of bones: physical evidence that your adventures really were more than just a night’s bad dream.

Your aching bones, and the overwhelming, all-encompassing ennui you felt. The adventure was over: the Devil was defeated, the city was saved, and everyone went their separate ways. Julian had left on his sailing voyage, Asra was traipsing about the country somewhere, and Nadia was full tilt at the helm of Vesuvia. They had all asked you to join them, of course, but none of it had felt quite right. You hadn’t felt quite right. The others seemed so sure of their purpose, their next step—so ready to move on from this dark and trying episode. Life moved on. But not for you.

Mentally, you began to review your day, and the empty hours stretched out before you. You sighed and sat up. No use laying around in bed and wallowing in your own boredom. You used to covet days like this when you were working in the shop—days where you were bound to no schedule or duty but your own whim. You used to wander Vesuvia until nightfall on days with fair weather, window shopping and exploring and enjoying the thrum of the city. Maybe, you thought, that was what you needed now.

Quickly washing your face and teeth, you threw on clothes and set out. It was still early, and the city glowed gold under the morning sun. This had always been your favorite time of day: that early morning calm, before the world was fully awake. Even in a city like Vesuvia there was a certain stillness, a peace, at this time of day. Soon the city would wake, and the streets would flood with people, but for now, the boulevards of the Heart District near the palace were calm.

Aimlessly, you wandered, heading in a vague sense for the floating market, where you supposed you might take some breakfast. You weren’t as familiar with this part of the city, having usually opted to visit the market district nearer your shop. Asra’s shop. (Was it really yours anymore? Had it ever been?) You had considered, briefly, heading that way, but it hadn’t felt right. There was a lingering sense of—what? Distance, alienation, feeling the world pass you by. It would have been too strange and painful, you thought, to walk those streets, so familiar and yet not. You needed time and space before revisiting that part of your life. Time to mourn, you supposed, the loss of who you were. Who you thought you had been.

As you walked further and further, the streets began to bustle as people awoke and headed for work, or stepped out to the market for food and supplies. By the time you reached the floating market proper, it was the beginning of the breakfast rush, and the stretch of cobblestone where visitors could stand to observe the passing fare and signal a merchant was quickly becoming overcrowded. Your stomach had, by now, begun to contract unpleasantly from lack of food and hydration, so, as gently as you could, you attempted to shoulder your way to the front of the crowd.

Your shoe caught the uneven edge of a stone, and you tripped, stumbling forward into the person in front of you. Swiftly, they caught you by the waist, and you instinctively grasped at their shoulder to haul yourself up. The arm that held you was covered in a fine sleeve of silver silk, which led to a cowl of rich black velvet and—oh fuck, you realized, it’s Consul Valerius.

Valerius pulled you gently upwards into a standing position. He looked as shocked as you felt. And as embarrassed. Fuck fuck fuck what the fuck do I say? Your mind whirred as you reeled a bit unsteadily on your feet, flustered both by the fall and by Valerius’s intrusion into your general existence (and your personal space). Valerius noticed the slight tremor in your legs, and tightened his grip on you, which was when you realized that not only was he still holding you, you were also still holding him.

“Are, ah, are you alright?” he asked. The expression on his face appeared, surprisingly, to be one of genuine concern, rather than (as you might have expected) annoyance or disgust.

“Yes, um, thank you, I’m so sorry.” You were as astonished at his apparent genuine human emotion as you had been a moment before at his gallant behavior. “Um…” you trailed off, not sure what to say, Valerius’s arms still strong around your waist. It felt almost protective.

Realizing he still held you, Valerius quickly pulled away, with…was that a blush? You took a deep breath. Valerius was perhaps not your favorite person in the palace, but, to be fair, for most of the time you had known him, he had been under demonic possession. And he had helped you in the Hierophant’s realm. You had never properly thanked him for that, and now seemed like an opportune time.

“Consul Valerius, listen,” you began, but he cut you off.

“No, please, allow me to apologize—sincerely apologize—for my behavior over the past few months,” he interjected. He looked downward sheepishly. “My conduct was absolutely inexcusable.”

A wave of sympathy overcame you. “You weren’t in your right mind, Consul.” Gently, you reached out to him and patted his shoulder in what you hoped was a soothing manner.

Hurriedly, he replied, “Please, call me Valerius. And yes, I was…somewhat compromised, but that is no excuse.” He paused, considering his words. “I am a reserved man by nature, and the public nature of my role at court can be taxing on me. It was particularly so during the Countess’ absence. I am afraid you bore the brunt of that frustration. I am very ashamed of my behavior. Forgive me,” he added quietly.

The earnestness of his words, and the sincerity with which he spoke them, rendered you speechless for a moment. (“Quite a feat,” you could imagine Asra saying with a wink.) Gathering your wits, you replied slowly, “I am very grateful for your apology, Cons—Valerius, and for your aid. You were a great help to us.”

“It was the least I could do.” His reply carried the same earnestness. You both paused then, a little awkwardly, not exactly sure what to do or say next. You briefly considered making your exit, but the thought flitted from your mind almost as soon as it occurred to you. For one thing, you still hadn’t eaten anything, but even more than your hunger was your reticence to part ways with Valerius. Absurd! Even a few weeks ago, you could barely stand each other; never, when you met this man, could you have imagined willingly staying in his company, let alone enjoying it. But here you were.

“So,” you ventured cautiously, “anything here you’d recommend?”

Valerius smiled, relieved for a direction to take the conversation—and, no doubt, for the opportunity to display his superior culinary taste. A glint shone in his eye. “Do you trust me?” Without waiting for your response, he gently took your elbow and shouldered his way through the crowd.

Momentarily taken aback, you allowed yourself to be steered to the front, towards a vendor selling bagels. Calling and motioning towards the two of you, Valerius attracted her attention, and held up two fingers. Nodding, the vendor busied herself preparing what you guessed was Valerius’s regular order. He turned to you and began to say something, but caught himself. A blush began to color his cheeks, the rosy tint blossoming over the sharp bones. (When did you start noticing Valerius’s cheekbones? asked a voice in the back of your mind.) “I hope you don’t mind me ordering for you,” he said sheepishly. “I suppose I ought to have asked.”

“Well, I did ask for your suggestion, so I suppose this must come recommended pretty highly if you’re eating it, too,” you answered with a laugh. Relief washed over Valerius’s face. You hardly visited this market, and you weren’t generally too picky of an eater. Besides, it was Valerius, after all. Say what you would about the man, but he had impeccable taste. “What’s your order?”

He smiled. “A salt bagel with lox and plain schmear. It might seem simple, but I find the relative plainness of the bread and the simple creaminess of the spread highlights the smoky undertones—”

You were spared a lengthy discussion of Valerius’s complex palate by the food vendor, who handed your food, wrapped in cheesecloth, to the consul. Fishing out the appropriate coins from his small purse, he thanked her, and turned to hand your food to you. As you reached for your own coin purse, he waved his hand. “Please,” he said, “allow me. Consider it a small repayment for your patience with my…earlier behavior.”

Generosity? From Valerius, of all people? Curiouser and curiouser. He must be genuine about reforming his ways. An emotional makeover, as Portia might put it. You grinned. “I will always gladly accept free food,” you said. Motioning you through the crowds once more, Valerius guided you towards a large alabaster pillar away from the throng of people, the base of which doubled as public seating. Primly, he swept his robes out from under him as he sat, tucking his long legs elegantly off the side. Typical, you thought. Only Valerius could manage to make sitting on public property look chic. Intensely aware of yourself, you sat beside him, your thighs almost brushing his own. Heat rose to your face: first at the closeness of your bodies, and then for even noticing the closeness of your bodies. This was Valerius, for goodness’ sake.

All right, you told yourself, this is absurd; eat your food, already. Biting into the bagel like a sandwich, you instantly understood why Valerius came all the way to the floating market so early in the morning. It really was phenomenal—crisp, plush bread where so often the texture was dense and heavy; silken-smooth salmon where so often it was over-smoked and flaky. You each ate silently, alone with your thoughts, and you wondered if you should say something. It wasn’t that the silence was awkward—in fact, it was almost pleasant. Comfortable. You were wondering if you should say something, you realized, because you wanted to talk to him.

Blessedly, Valerius broke the silence first, sparing you the agony of trying to find something to say without making a total fool of yourself. “So,” he began, “what business draws you out of the palace?”

“I was wondering the same thing about you,” you countered. Good deflection. It would buy you time to gather your feelings into socially-acceptable words for the company of a person you barely knew.

He blushed slightly, and looked down at his hands, clasped together in his lap. “Well,” he started, searching for words, “my duties at the palace have been somewhat…lighter since the Countess has been able to return more fully to her work. As you know, the Countess’ headaches could be quite debilitating. She often required many hours of rest, and—considering the capabilities, or rather, lack thereof, possessed by the other courtiers—I was responsible for some measure of the running of Vesuvia. But now, with her health recovered, the Countess is both able and eager to take on many duties that formerly fell to me, and I find myself somewhat…freer than I was previously. In more ways than one,” he added with a grim smile. “I realized that, for all the time I spent governing Vesuvia, I no longer knew it. It seemed worthwhile to once again make myself familiar with the city.”

That has to be the most words Valerius has ever spoken to me at once, you thought, and once recovered from this initial shock, you also realized that Valerius was being remarkably vulnerable in this admission. It didn’t take magic to sense the meaning behind his words: he was every bit as lost and lonely as you were.

“I feel the same way,” you said, forcing a smile. “I’ve enjoyed having some time to myself.”

“What about your friends?” he asked. “Why not accompany Julian, or govern alongside Nadia? Surely Asra would be glad to have you back with him in the shop?”

You laughed, but there was an edge to your voice. “Sure, when Asra’s actually in the shop.” It occurred to you that Valerius didn’t have any friends who asked him to go on adventures, or to come stay with them. Nadia was, quite rightly, eager to regain more control of her own government, but even if Valerius hadn’t done a stellar job in her stead, the feeling of exclusion must have hurt him. “I decided I wanted some time on my own,” you continued after some deliberation.

Valerius gazed at you intently. “That is understandable.” You broke your gaze and looked at your hands. Returning to your food, you finished the last of your bagel, chewing thoughtfully. Valerius did the same, but you could that both your and his attention was elsewhere. You sensed a pregnant pause; even though you knew abstractly the lull in conversation couldn’t have been more than a moment or two, the empty air between you seemed full. Potential abounds; the magician must merely harness it. Asra had taught you that.

You took a deep breath, and, still staring at your hands, you asked, “Where are you visiting today?”

Valerius turned to you. “In all honesty, I did not have much of a plan. Would you…” he trailed off, and your heart skipped a beat. “Would you care to accompany me?”

You met his gaze and smiled.

*

The two of you wandered across the city, no destination in mind. Passing through Goldgrave first, then the Center City, you took your time exploring. Valerius often paused to appreciate Vesuvia’s architectural features, or to relate what he called “relevant background details” (and what you jokingly called “gossip”) about various past and ongoing city improvements. He told you what restaurants and vendors sold the best products and which ones jacked up their prices—and which ones were worth it anyway. He listened in wonder as you described your adventures as Asra’s apprentice, and, later, as Nadia’s consultant. Even the simplest magic seemed to impress and (dare you say) delight him. (The trick for keeping the drinks you purchased cold even as you sat and chatted on the café patio in the warm afternoon sun seemed to especially enchant.) Underneath his sharp exterior you found a man both witty and intelligent, in possession of excellent taste—and desperate for company around whom he could simply be himself. It was a shame, you thought, that his time at the court had turned him hard and bitter. Under different circumstances—and had he learned to cultivate patience, a little empathy, and a good poker face—he might have made an effective politician. He might never have enjoyed it, you supposed, preferring as he did his estate and his vineyards, but he might have been better at it.

He might still be better at it.

Without you having realized it, evening had rolled in. Quite uninvited, too, seeing as you were, despite all expectations, actually having a very good time. The two of you had meandered in something of a circle, leaving you about back where you started that morning. If this were one of those romance novels Julian likes so much, there would probably be something in here about “how it seemed like years had passed since then,” or maybe only minutes, or maybe both at once—months and moments all tangled in on one another, you thought. But it’s not. Valerius isn’t going to take me in his arms and sweep me off my feet into a life of passion and romance. We’re going to say goodnight here, and I’m going to go to my room in the palace, and he’s going to go back to his estate, and we’ll probably never even see each other again.

Valerius’s voice broke the solitude of your thoughts. “If I may be so bold, may I escort you back to the palace? I will be staying in my rooms there tonight; the sun is rather too low for me to return to my estate. Perhaps I might interest you in a visit there tomorrow?”

Well, in my defense, I’ve never been that good at reading the future.

*

Valerius called for you at an hour that was, in your opinion, altogether ungodly. Apparently this was a man who woke up with the sun by personal preference instead of by accident. But whatever displeasure you had at being woken up so early was quickly assuaged not only by the prospect of a fine day in the country but by Valerius flushed and stuttering at the sight of you answering the door in your nightclothes. It was cute, sort of. “Is my bedhead so bad it renders you speechless, Valerius?” you teased.

Valerius’s blush deepened, if that was even possible, turning a delightful shade of red. (He would have called it “blood orange,” you supposed.) He sputtered, “No—I hadn’t even noticed—that is—I’m terribly sorry to have awoken you.” He regained some of his composure. “I should have specified a time for us to depart; that was an oversight on my part. Please, forgive me.”

Two apologies in as many days from Consul Valerius? The world really had become a different place.

*

The sun was hot on your face as the carriage rounded a copse of well-trimmed trees at the edge of the estate. You could see now why Valerius had wanted to set out so early: the property was well outside the forest, nestled into the rolling hills of golden meadow beyond the city. You preferred the forest, dark and deep and full of secrets, or the seaside, balmy and breezy. And both considerably cooler at this moment, you thought, than the open countryside. But it was beautiful, in its own way, once you knew how to appreciate it. A little like Valerius, it occurred to you, and to your own surprise, you did not banish the thought.

As the carriage wound through fields of young grapes, you squinted your eyes through the sun to get a better look at the main house. It was a massive structure, clearly meant to impress, and it did: large and imposing, the limestone house bore large wings on either side of a colonnade. Three stories tall, it was situated behind a large oblong pond, long and wide enough to reflect the whole expanse of the house.

Your face must have betrayed your awe, because Valerius turned to you and spoke. “My family built this house generations ago. The vineyards are almost as old. We produce several varietals, along with botanical liquors from the gardens,” he said proudly. After a pause, in a slightly softer voice, he asked, “Do you like it?”

“I…I’m still comprehending it,” you answered with a laugh.

“It is rather large, isn’t it? At one point, most of the extended family lived here, all of us together. I remember it that way from childhood—my grandparents, aunts and uncles.” He sighed, and an edge of distance crept into his voice. “But they are gone now, and I was left the only heir, and so now it sits quite empty. It seems absurd, I think sometimes, to keep a house this large for just myself, but I can’t bear to let go of it.” You wished you could say that you understood. But you didn’t. You didn’t have a family, or a history. You wished, and you wished a little longer. The rest of the carriage ride passed in silence.

Eventually, the carriage arrived in front of the colonnade, and a parade of liveried servants poured out of the house to greet Valerius. Taking you down the line, he introduced as his “honored guest” to his steward, his chamberlain, his comptroller and secretary, his veneur and falconer, his pantler and butler, his cooks, his maids, his valets du chambre and grooms and pages—so many people were necessary for the running of an estate this large it made your head spin, and yet Valerius knew them all by name. Bowing and curtsying, they smiled at him with what appeared to be genuine affection and admiration. Walking through the colonnade to the house proper, you were greeted by twin statues, a ram and a ewe, one on either side of the entry. Your footsteps echoed through the frescoed halls as Valerius escorted you through the various galleries, libraries, and studies that made up the public parts of the house. And, of course, the wine cellars, which were a point of personal pride.

You had finished the tour of the house when Valerius suggested a tour of the vineyards. “It’s pleasant weather, if a bit sunny, and the walk is very agreeable.” You knew the vineyards were his pride and joy, but you couldn’t resist teasing him a little. “Am I allowed to sneak some grapes?” you asked with a laugh.

“Only if you sneak enough for me,” he replied with a small smile. Imagine—joking with the Consul, of all people. If you had been told a few months ago you’d be laughing with Valerius at his country estate, you would have thought it madness. But here you were. Taking you by the hand, he guided you outside in the direction of the gardens. His skin, you noticed, was smooth, and you found yourself running the tips of your fingers gently across the side of his palm. Embarrassed, you stilled your hand, but Valerius only grasped your hand tighter, and you felt heat rise to your face. Threading your fingers between his, he led you to the fields, the leaves on the vines glittering like emeralds in the sun.

*

As twilight drew itself like a shroud around the sky, storm clouds began to roll in over the rolling hills. You watched them from the large picture window in the dining room. One of the dining rooms, anyways. The two of you were eating in a small room that Valerius explained was used only for family, rather than large parties of guests. (For some reason, this knowledge pleased you.) Valerius had suggested, given the length of the journey back, that the two of you stay overnight. “It’s not as though we don’t have any rooms available,” he had added with a sly smile. So here you sat, in Valerius’s home, at his table, eating his food. Very good food, too. I could get used to this, you thought to yourself, and it startled you. Could you?

The meal passed mostly in amicable silence, and after you had finished what felt like your millionth course, you moved to the window, staring out at the fields below. “The storm is really coming in now,” you remarked, gesturing to the gray-violet sky.

“Yes,” Valerius answered, “I expect the rain will be heavy. It’s been humid for so long now, surely the clouds must want to burst. I wouldn’t be surprised if we have some thunder to go along with it.”

“I love a good storm. Why don’t we watch?” So the two of you settled in on a sofa that angled to face the window, and against the sound of the rain pattering on the window, broken now and again by a burst of thunder, you drank, and you talked. About your life as an apprentice; about Valerius’s childhood on the estate. He had been happy here. You wondered if you had been happy, wherever you were, and the thought occurred to you that what does it matter, if you’re happy now? You found yourself lost in your own thoughts, until the distant sound of Valerius’s voice pulled your mind back from itself. “What will you do, now?” he was asking you, and with a start, you burst out—

“I have absolutely no idea!” The sound of your own voice startled you. Had you really just said that out loud? Your words had loosened something inside you: a wall, a dam built over your emotions, and suddenly you felt them all bursting forth, the words tumbling out of your mouth. “Before all this, I had a purpose—I had an identity. Even if I was just an apprentice. And then overnight, literally overnight, my whole world was turned upside-down, but that was all right, because still—I had a purpose. And when you’re fighting the forces of evil with the balance of the world hanging by a thread, you don’t have much time to pause and think about things like this, I suppose. And then just as suddenly, everything was over, and I felt…untethered. How can you pick up the threads of an old life, once they’ve come unwoven?” You caught your breath, your mind finally catching up with itself. You could feel the embarrassment begin to settle as the reality of your words began to sink in. “I’m sorry,” you added with a nervous laugh. “I don’t know why I said all that to you. I haven’t told anyone else how I’ve felt, and—”

“—And somehow saying it out loud made it more real,” Valerius finished, “as if by keeping it all locked up, you could somehow keep it from being true.”

“Yes,” you admitted quietly.

“Did you not desire to go with Asra, or Julian?” he asked, repeating his question from yesterday.

“No,” you continued, “I didn’t want to keep…being someone’s companion. Their apprentice. I needed to find out who I was when I didn’t have to mold myself around someone else. I wanted to be my own person; live my own life.”

“And are you?” His voice was so low you could barely hear it above the rain.

“It’s difficult,” you replied at length. “It would have been easy to go off with Julian, or Asra, or to stay with Nadia. At least when I was Asra’s apprentice, I knew who I was.”

He smiled faintly. “There is an old saying my mother used to repeat. I never put much stock in it, until I had to learn the hard way she was right. ‘In the earth, there is all kinds of treasure—gold and diamonds. But if you do not know what to look for, or where to look, all you will find is rocks and dirt. A teacher is the geologist of the soul: they can show you where to dig, and what to dig for. But the digging you must do yourself.’” Valerius paused, as if for effect, and then smiled again. “The digging, I found, was much harder than expected. It still is. But I must trust it will be worth the effort.”

You regarded him, not saying anything, just watching his face, holding his gaze. “What will you do, now?”

“I haven’t the faintest clue,” he said, and as he spoke, he broke into a smile, so wide it made your heart ache.

“What a pair we make,” you remarked quietly.

“What a pair indeed.”

*

It wasn’t the sunlight that woke you up. In the groggy haze of first waking, you tried to place it, searching mentally for a moment, and then there it was—the stirring of the body next to you. (It had been like that with Asra, too, the break in the steady rise and fall of his breathing always waking you up along with him. With a quick, sharp pain, you realized you would never wake with him again.) The knowledge that the limbs tangled around you belonged to Valerius dawned on you slowly, but not unpleasantly. You should have felt embarrassed, it occurred to you, at having fallen asleep on a sofa at all, let alone in the arms of the insufferable Consul Valerius. At the very least it should have seemed uncomfortable. But the sensation of his arms around you, surprisingly toned and strong, was anything but.

“Good morning,” you murmured, shifting in his arms. He stilled, but you only laughed, and pressed yourself against him affectionately. “It seems we had a bit too much wine last night.”

A long pause, and then, “So it would seem,” which might have sounded more awkward, had the sound not been muffled by Valerius saying it into your hair.

“It’s still light out,” you whispered. It was true; the dawn had only just broken across the fields. “Let’s go back to sleep.” Valerius kept still for a moment, and then, in drowsiness, and longing, he relaxed, pulling you closer to him. He nestled his head beneath yours, and almost imperceptibly, he kissed your hair.

So this is what it’s like, you thought. No kissing under a starlit sky. No fireworks, no grand gestures. Just the simple comfort of being known.

You could live with that.

With a smile, you sighed, and closed your eyes again.

[theofficersacademy]

A great kingdom to the east of Fódlan. Its territory borders that of the Leicester Alliance, with the precipitous mountain range known as Fódlan’s Throat acting as the dividing line. Its people maintain a strong legacy of horsemanship and relish in the thrill of battle. This vast kingdom is rich in fertile prairies, deserts, and mountain ranges.

DESTINATION: Almyra

CARDINAL BEAST TARGET: Gricenchos, Tiger of the East

An enormous, tiger-like Demonic Beast. Rumor has it that it crossed Fódlan’s Throat in a single bound. Scouts report that it is currently roaming the Almyran countryside, headed south, as though searching for something. Be cautious when approaching, especially if you are male, as it will hunt down almost any human it sees. Despite its hostile attitude, animals seem to be drawn to the monster, and in turn it is protective of them. 

TEAM POST GOAL: 100

TEAM TAG: #ArcadiaGricenchos2019 is to be used on all event-related IC posts

Places of Interest

Almyran fort of Lamasar: The counterpart or Fódlan’s Locket, an impressive fort carved into the mountainside and held by the Almyran border guard. They maintain regular patrols on agile wyverns, and they have been engaging Gricenchos regularly to prevent it from roaming any deeper into Almyra. Their captain Elam convinced the rest of the border guard to tolerate your presence here, but there is still a lingering resentment due to the monster originating from your side of the border. If they had a choice, they would really rather handle this themselves.

Zefra Village: A local farming village nestled at the base of Fódlan’s Throat, not too far from Lamasar. Frequent attacks from the Zagrosi and now Gricenchos have driven most of their people away to the safety of other villages, yet there still exist a few families that refuse to abandon their home in its time of need. The adults remain wary of you, but they’ll help however they can.

Pastureland: A stretch of grassland controlled by the Zagrosi tribe. This nomadic group counts roughly 200 people in its ranks, the majority women and children. Their new leader is a fiery upstart named Cyaxares, who has given both border guards and the villagers no shortage of grief. They have adopted the practice of regularly raiding the local villages and enslaving whoever is unlucky enough to not get killed outright. A group of young, wealthy Fódlaners is an irresistible prize.  

NPCs of Note

Irina: The captain of the Goneril Valkyries stationed at Fódlan’s Locket, but right now the head of your escort into Almyra. She is an incredibly capable Falcon Knight who takes her job quite seriously, but always with a good sense of humor to keep morale up. She appears to be great “friends” with Elam, and holds his hand when no one is looking.

Elam: The captain of the Almyran border guard, hailing from the nearby Zefra Village. With news of his idol Nader making his way to the border to deal with the situation, he is anxious to be a hero and make a good impression on him and the other generals in his entourage. Though he is as tough as the massive wyvern he calls a mount, his “friend” Irina insists to you that deep down he is a softie.

Cyaxares: The youthful and fierce leader of the Zagrosi, eager to prove himself worthy of leading his people. He regularly leads his men to raid the surrounding villages and even the Locket from time to time, coming away with more notches on his belt and more people in his ranks. Under his command his people have grown much through raiding, ransom, and slaving, and he sees no reason to stop when fresh meat comes along..

Mission Task Board

Preparation at Garreg Mach

Before setting out to Almyra, it might be a good chance to learn a little more about where you’re going. Stories of the place abound, but if you’re going there, it’s best to be prepared. The library would be a good start, or maybe you can ask around. Those wyverns belonging to the Almyran envoys are really big, though...

It’s only been a couple days since the address by the academy heads, but already new chaos has gripped the monastery. The envoy from the Sreng outpost was found dead early in the morning, his body heavily mutilated by what seems to be dark magic and left at the monastery gates. Who would do this?

The Hunt for Gricenchos

It’s not everyday that the young elite of Fódlan society come traipsing into Almyran lands. Rumors spread unimpeded throughout the plains, and the temptation to rob the students of their wallets and freedom proves to be impossible to ignore for one man in particular. One morning, a loud horn sounds in the distance, all too familiar to the Almyrans. Every fit Almyran readies themselves to defend what little they have left. Cyaxares has come to claim what will be his.

As promised fresh Almyran troops have arrived at Lamasar to aid the efforts to dispatch Gricenchos, with the famed Nader the Undefeated at its head. While the generals talk strategy in the war room, there are younger soldiers around your age that seem to be giving you funny looks and gossiping amongst themselves. You realize that they are sizing you up for a fight just as a group of the taller ones approach you. They eagerly propose a tournament between the two groups, mighty Almyra against the Fódlaners who hide behind their Goddess’ skirts. The winning side will have the honor of killing Gricenchos and all the glory that comes with it. Win or lose, the grand feast promised at the end is surely worth fighting for!

Lately, the mounts at both the Locket and Lamasar have been irritable and restless, their eyes and minds drawn towards Gricenchos. It’s only a matter of time before the students awake to the sound of flapping wings, of feathers and leather both. Looking out the window, you can see the Valkyrie pegasi and the Almyran wyverns fleeing deeper into Almyran territory. After them! But watch out for Gricenchos itself... [Grants Flying +1]

Working with the Valkyries and the border guard, you’ve finally managed to track down the Cardinal Beast itself. It’s massive, easily twice the size of most monsters you’ve seen before, its teeth the size of a man’s forearm. Those with mounts find that their steeds are unruly and distracted, as though their loyalties are divided. But you’ve come this far... time to take it down! [Grants Any Skill +1]

Frequently Asked Questions

Can I only thread with my teammates?

'The Hunt for Gricenchos’ tasks, as well as any threads taking place en route to or within Almyra, can only be written with your teammates. ‘Preparation at Garreg Mach’ tasks, or any threads taking place pre-departure at the monastery, can be written with anyone.

These aren’t the only threads I can do, right?

Of course not! These are just prompts to help give some ideas of possibilities. You’re always free and encouraged to make up your own threads.

How do I claim the skill points?

In order to qualify for the skill point, the thread must clearly allude to the listed task and preferably feature the task being completed. You do not need to message the masterlist to claim your skill point.

Can I only do one task?

Nope, you can do as many as you’d like with as many different partners as you’d like! You can do the same task with more than one person! However, you can only claim any skill points once.

What if my partner leaves or drops a skill point thread?

If the dropped thread has at least 5 notes (not counting likes, only reblogs with replies in them) and you have hit at least 400 words on your end, you may still claim the skill point.

My muse has ties to this location. Will this affect any of my headcanons?

All worldbuilding has been written to have little to any relation to playable muses. However, we understand that there are certain muses that have ties to these locations. Anything written by the mods is only for the enjoyment of the event and the benefit of our participants. Embrace, refute, or ignore what you’d like! It’s your city regardless of what team you end up being on or whether or not you choose to participate.