#trying the plague tale series and I can’t get into it

[klauswalz]

Feels like I’m getting to a point where I’d rather watch someone play a game on YouTube then actually play the game itself.

[icarryitin]

Episode 24: Trade Deal

spencer reid/gn!reader

i started this bc i was ill and feeling sorry for myself and it turned into a very not to me not if it’s you kind of vibe, mostly bc i frankensteined a couple of my favourite translations of That Scene so they could have their own version🥰🥰

series masterlist

word count: 1.5k // warnings: reader has a cold and all the grossness that comes with it, spencer is so Cute™️ it causes me physical pain

summary: In which Spencer Reid, known germaphobe, pretends he doesn’t know exactly how many pathogens have made their home in your sinuses.

It starts with a scratchy throat on a Tuesday morning.

You don’t think much of it, blame it on seasonal allergies, knock back a multivitamin - you’re not about to be bested by a cough of all things. That is, until it gets to Friday afternoon. You’re trying, you really are. Your immune system has other plans.

“You stay right there, Patient Zero.”

Rossi’s comment would be funny if you didn’t think that laughing might trigger a coughing fit that could very well be the end of you, right there in the doorway of Hotch’s office. That’d be one hell of an epitaph - too stubborn to take a sick day, choked to death in boss’s office. Hotch, at least, already seems to know why you’re hovering.

“I’m-“

“Going home, I hope.” He interrupts you with all the fondness of a concerned father. You don’t have the energy to argue, or to hold up an unaffected front. The men standing by the window soften a little as they watch you visibly deflate. Dave promises to send you his Nonna’s minestrone recipe, there’s nothing it can’t cure; right now, though, you’re only thinking about your bed.

The well wishes follow you through the bullpen, old wives tales and family cures that have never failed. JJ tells you to sweeten your tea with honey, Derek swears that a hot water bottle on your back will work magic. Even Emily pipes up from behind her germ shield, the folder held across her face so you can only see her eyes, and tells you to take a hot shower first thing in the morning - the steam will clear you out for the day. There’s a chorus of agreement, or disagreement you’re not sure. It’s a struggle to hear much over the cotton wool in your ears.

“We’ll see, with any luck I’ll die in my sleep. Love you!” You sniffle as you back out of the office, feeling all kinds of sorry for yourself, and determined to make it as far as you can without touching anything. Lest you actually start the next plague.

Spencer watches you go, shuffling backwards out of the office and turning towards the elevators. He’d elected not to add his own suggestions to the plethora of options supplied by the rest of the team. Unable to focus on much beyond just how tired you look. You’ve been fighting this thing all week, he’d passed over his own supply of hand sanitiser only that morning when you ran out. Ultimately, you put up a good fight, but there’s no cure for a virus. It just has to run its course. Just like his own feelings.

Okay, maybe he shouldn’t be comparing a virus to whatever it is he feels for you. Has felt, will feel - if there’s an end to this tunnel, he can’t see it yet.

“What about you, Spence?”

JJ’s voice pulls him from his thoughts before he can start spiralling down that particular hole. It takes him a moment to recall what they’d been chattering about before your long overdue exit - drinks, right. Yeah, that’s not happening.

“I’m busy, actually.” He shrugs, content to miss out on one night in favour of the plan currently coming to fruition in his mind. They won’t miss him too much.

“Busy? You weren’t busy when we talked about it last week.” Emily makes no effort to conceal her surprise. To be fair to them, it’s not like him to blow them off. There’s just something that’s come up, something decidedly you shaped, that’s far more important.

“Yeah, I forgot. Sorry.”

Spencer doesn’t miss the look that JJ and Emily share, he doesn’t miss the eyebrow that Derek raises in his direction. He simply chooses to ignore them.

At least the walk to your apartment is short, there’s still heat leeching from the plastic bag around Spencer’s wrist as he fumbles with his keys. You’d given him a bright pink key cap, so he’d know which one was yours, as if he wouldn’t know anyway. Eidetic or not, that’s one he would have committed to memory. The excuse had been because he was helping you out whilst you were down an arm, takedown gone wrong, you’d dislocated your shoulder. And then you’d insisted he keep it, because someone should have your spare key, and he’s the least likely of the lot of you to lose it.

He thinks you might be asleep at first, open plan living area lit only by a salt lamp and a set of fairy lights draped over your kitchen window, it’s cosy. And then you appear in the bedroom doorway, wrapped in a jewel toned blanket. The low light is forgiving, but Spencer would be able to spot the bags under your eyes from a mile away. Without his glasses.

“I brought noodles.” He says as he turns back to set the steaming bag on your kitchen counter.

“I’m so gross right now.” As if to demonstrate your point, another cough racks your body. You just about manage to catch it under the swathes of blanket clutched in your fingers, but at least he can’t claim you’re not truly disgusting in this moment.

“I don’t mind.”

You’re so set on denying him entry that you don’t even really register what he said - Spencer Reid doesn’t mind that you’re ill. He doesn’t mind. A younger, healthier version of you would swoon. You might anyway, although that’s probably the vertigo talking.

“You’ll get sick.” Your rebuttal is weak, resolve crumbling. Warm noodles do sound pretty good right now.

“Will you let me help you, please?” It’s the firmest he’s ever been with you. No room for argument, doctor’s orders. So you have to relent. Not that you have much of a choice, he’s already pottering about in your kitchen in search of bowls. As if he doesn’t remember where they are.

“Did you get me a number three?” Your voice is brighter than he’s heard it all week.

“With extra toppings, of course.”

And those extra toppings go down a treat, of course they do.

Spencer watches you carefully as you eat - usually he’d be a little more subtle about it, but there’s not a lot that could pull your attention away from the bowl in your hands. You’re cross legged on the couch, blanket bunched around your middle, happy as a clam. Something his mother would say. He wonders what else she might say, what she might think about the abandonment of his germaphobia. Convenient, probably. Diana would say it with a raised eyebrow and a sly smile, the one that’s just for him. She has always liked you.

He promises he’ll be back tomorrow, once dishes are washed and leftovers are tucked neatly in your fridge, to make sure you get that hot shower Emily mentioned. The steam will definitely help, he’s read about it. Arguing with him would be pointless. You don’t have the energy, he’d only show up anyway, and it’s kind of nice to feel looked after. Spencer’s never failed to make you feel like that. You’re far too delirious to start thinking about that, not while he’s still standing in front of you at least. So you let him tuck you into bed, let him leave a glass of water on the table, let him dote. Pretending is a comfort when you feel as awful as you do. You’re already drifting off before he’s even ready to leave, content enough in your bed with the sound of him in the other room. Just, tinkering.

The sound of your front door opening rouses you the next morning, just about. Just enough to raise your head from your pillow and witness the sorry sight in your bedroom doorway.

Spencer’s trying - key word, trying - to suppress his sniffles, but the red rimmed eyes and tissue clutched in his fist give him away. It’s impossible to keep the sad little smile off of your face.

“Oh no.” You reach out a tired arm to pat the space beside you. There’s enough room for the two of you in amongst the blankets, and Spencer’s so far gone that he doesn’t even argue. His shoes and bag find a home at the foot of your bed as he lets himself collapse into the nest you’ve built. Tension leeches out of his body the moment he hits the mattress.

You have to lean across him to get your phone, right arm outstretched over his back - you can feel the heat rising off of him through his sweater and yours. Fever, that’s day two. Which means he spent yesterday evening taking care of you whilst he began to feel worse and worse. Softie.

“Egg or no egg?”

There’s an affirmative grunt from where his face is buried in your blankets. Egg it is, then. You dial the number mostly from memory, elbow still resting on his shoulder blade when you put the phone to your ear. You feel a little better than you did, but dragging yourself to the front door is still probably all you’ll be capable of today. At least you won’t be suffering alone. The line rings for a moment, then clicks, and a grainy hello sounds from the other side.

“Hi, can I place a breakfast order for delivery, please?”

i’m stuck on which chapter to work on next, do we want angst or yearning or fun flirty activities????🧡

[mk-wizard]

A Plague Tale: When tragedy is necessary

SPOILERS ABOUT “A PLAGUE TALE” SERIES AHEAD!!

As sad as the ending was and much as we all wish Hugo made it, it should stand not just because it would cheapen his death. The fact that there was no saving him was the entire point of the story which is actually Amicia’s story. The story of A Plague Tale is really the story about Amicia and her coming to terms with her brother having a supernatural illness known as the Macula and seeing him go through all the harrowing phase while fighting both literally and metaphorically for a way to save him. Eventually, she has to accept that there was no saving him from the Macula, but she could at least give her brother a proper goodbye and end his suffering out of mercy. While the circumstances and details are fictional, the situation is not. Dealing with a terminally ill loved one is a very common thing as is hoping that maybe they will be the exception and beat the disease or that there is a cure waiting to be discovered in their lifetime only to face the harsh reality that all we can do is love them and be there until the end.

We talk about representation, but we forget that isn’t just orientation, skin tones, race, religion, gender identity, etc. Representation can be things such as this and it is important to showcase them. We need show that some people just don’t have happy endings, but that doesn’t mean they can’t recover from them. In fact, the way Amicia was at the end of everything (Requiem) shows the right way to mourn which is to continue living your best life, cherishing the time you had together, remembering them and also learning from it. In her case, she wants to take action to help the next Carrier and Guardian, so that this time, they may have a fighting chance at least which can be seen as a metaphor for a loved one passing away from cancer and you trying to do what you can to help the fight against it so someone else may have a fighting chance. When you look at this way, it also drives home the point of how the tragedy of Hugo should stand. He did not make it, but because everyone learned from his experience, the next Macula Carrier might be able to.

Also, I mentioned that there was no saving poor Hugo and I meant it. The only way to keep the Macula from taking over the boy was for him to be constantly calm and happy which is impossible. No matter what Amicia and the others would have done or went, Hugo would eventually face stressful and bad situations as the beginning of Requiem showed us. It is impossible to control every single event and suffering is a part of life. And there was no medical way to keep the Macula at bay with the way science and alchemy were in the gang’s lifetime. Even if the Count had never kidnapped Hugo and they did make it to the cabin in the mountains, something else would have eventually triggered the Macula. They just did not have the means to cure, treat or keep it under control. Even the elixir from the first installment (Innocence) just slowed the process down. Also, Hugo was either always on the run, was in pain or getting treatments that were like torture which was not a life any person should live much less a child. To add insult to injury, none of it helped, so in the end, the only way to end Hugo’s suffering was to euthanize him.

This doesn’t mean that this is the way it will end in the hypothetical third installment. In the final bonus scene of the Requiem, it is hinted that the next Carrier was born in modern times when medicine, science and possibly alchemy has made progress in leaps and bounds. And considering how determined and unbroken Amicia was, I have no doubt that she made precautions to help the next Carrier and Guardian to prevent both a disaster and tragedy. It is possible and dare I say likely that in the hypothetical third installment, the terror of Macula will be put to an end and the Carrier will be saved. The dark side of this though is that Hugo’s tragic end has to stand.

Anyway, that is my opinion, and I would like to hear yours. Thank you for reading and as always, stay safe.

PS: I think the creators should create a third installment not just to complete the trilogy, but also because having this one time where having a story take place in modern times would work in its favor because we are going through a pandemic. In this case, A Plague Tale which takes place in our time would be especially terrifying and all the more satisfying.

[agnol117]

Series I, Part IX

SCP-045 - Atmospheric Converter

I don’t know how to feel about this one. I might actually be too dumb for it, because I read it twice and still only sort of get it. I think it could theoretically ruin the world by converting parts of the atmosphere into water and table salt, but I don’t have enough of a grasp on chemistry to fully understand how severe of a threat it actually is.

5/10

SCP-046 - “Predatory” Holly Bush

This one’s pretty cool. I like both versions of the document. The idea that it tricks people into coming to it is pretty neat, and the idea that there’s some debate about whether or not it’s predatory is actually pretty funny. All told, I just find this one to be fun.

7/10

SCP-047 - Microbial Mutagen

I think this one is neat. I especially like that it doesn’t actually affect humans, but rather works on viruses and the like, and can potentially make them more deadly. It’s good.

7/10

SCP-048 - The Cursed SCP Number

Okay so this one is very funny, but I’m honestly unsure of how to rate it. The problem is, like 036, it’s not really an SCP? It’s more of a meta joke about SCPs? I dunno.

-/10

SCP-049 - Plague Doctor

049 my beloved

I really like this one. Partially because I love the plague doctor aesthetic (I have several plush plague doctors), partially because I love like, pre-modern medical horror (like Bloodborne and Pathologic). But also because the whole vibe here is great. 049 isn’t trying to be actively malicious (maybe it is in some of the tales, but again, I’m not counting those for this project). It’s just a perfect example of what TV Tropes calls blue and orange morality. It is aware of a Pestilence that only it can sense (or it thinks it’s aware of this pestilence, it’s unclear), and it’s trying to save the world from it. The fact that it can’t properly explain the Pestilence, or that the Pestilence may not even exist, isn’t really it’s fault.

10/10

SCP-050 - To The Cleverest

The vibe I get from this one is like, a fairy. You hold onto it, and if you’re nice to it, it does nice things to you, like clean your office. If you do mean things, like abandon it or try to destroy it, it tries to destroy you. It’s cool.

8/10

[alleiradayne]

In Baldur’s Gate, Dragons Dungeon You! | Art Master Post

An SPN/D&D mashup that can be read on its own or part of the greater series The Way Things Ought to Be.

On a quiet afternoon a week shy of Christmas, Dean is interrupted while poking through the news for a case. Someone is pounding on the Bunker door. After a brief huddle with Sam and Castiel, they investigate to find Charlie on the other side, a box of books at her feet. She needs to use their archive for research and a place to stay while she does it. Of course, she's always welcome at the Bunker. And when Dean discovers her trove of Dungeons & Dragons books, she offers to run a quick campaign.

But the mysteries aren’t just in Candleekeep. Charlie seems to have one of her own. Except no one can put their finger on it. The campaign unravels--along with Charlie’s secrets--as she tells the story of The Scrivener’s Tale.

Chapter 6 - The Grand Illusion

Summary: A treasure trove of information awaits in House Ryllin's stores. And Eileen catches on, spotting Charlie in the middle of something strange, something she can't quite put her finger on the moment she attempts to explain it to Sam. Warnings/Tags: D&D, intrigue, the usual, Charlie Is Weird Again Characters/Pairings: Castiel playing Castiel, Dean Winchester playing Rawridan, Sam Winchester playing Mephisto, Eileen Leahy playing Fechin, Jack Kline playing Comet Shadowpool, Charlie Bradbury Pop Culture Reference Count: 7 Word Count: 6618 Song: The Grand Illusion - Styx

Though it had been over three years since Sam had successfully resurrected her, sleep still eluded Eileen. Nightmares plagued her dreams more often than not, robbing her of any rest. And so, when she startled awake beside Sam in the small hours of the night, she slipped from his bed. Best not to disturb him. He would wake on his own in another hour for his ritualistic run.

Sterile kitchen lights flickered to life at a flip of its switch. Tea, she thought. Chamomile. Preferably without caffeine. Fat chance, that. But she figured one pass through the teabox couldn’t hurt. Maybe the crash afterward would finally let her rest. So she crossed the kitchen to the coffee bar, hopeful. Not that she was about to hold her breath. But, hopeful.

The myriad teas in the heavy wood box beside the hoddle offered only the strongest of leaves: black, matcha, even yerba mate. Might as well just make a pot of coffee at that point. But then she spotted it. Tucked behind a row of Earl Gray—besides captains of spaceships from an intergalactic future, who drank that stuff?!—hid a lonely packet of chamomile. She plucked it from the case, then let the lid drop. 

A deep rumble resonated through her chest, and she stared at the lid for a moment. Then it dawned on her. She darted to the steps, tea abandoned, and leaned against the door frame. Another’s presence encroached, one with which she was beginning to grow familiar. So she leaned over the threshold, one eye peeking over the jamb.

Charlie hopped down the stairs one at a time, a surprising spring in her step considering the hour. Then she recalled Sam mentioning Charlie’s odd behavior since showing up at the Bunker unannounced, but for the life of her, Eileen could not recall what he had said. She shook her head, then crested the top of the stairs and greeted Charlie with a wave and a short, “Hello.”

Surprise flashed across her face, then twisted into a quick smile as though to hide her shock. “Morning. You’re up early.”

Eileen signed with her. “I don’t sleep well… not since…”

Charlie nodded. “Death is literally the worst,” she agreed. “I get it. Don’t need to explain it to me. I’m gonna try to sleep another hour or two before it’s too late.”

She gave Eileen no chance to respond beyond a parting sign and another nod. So she turned back down the stairs for the coffee bar. There, she retrieved her coveted bag of chamomile, set it aside, and hefted the pot from its stand. The cozy sent a plume of dust into the air when she tossed it aside, and that prompted her to check the inside of the pot itself. Though covered, it too had gathered dust, long unused.

And if it weren’t for Sam’s quick hands, the teapot would have been finished for good. Then again, it was his fault for startling her in the first place. After a few sharp breaths, she snatched the pot and set it down rather roughly. “Don’t scare me like that,” she signed as she rounded on him.

He apologized, then said, “What’s going on? I just passed Charlie in the hallway, but she was in a hurry… did you talk to her?”

“Just for a minute,” she started. “But then she said she wanted to get more sleep, so she took off.”

Sam considered the hallway door, then turned back to her. “What was she doing? It’s not even four-thirty.”

“She…” Eileen paused, then thought for a moment. What had Charlie been doing? She knew it had been something, enough to trip her suspicions. But again, she could hardly recall. “I saw her in the hallway and said good morning to her. That was it. I think.”

A sharp string of curses tumbled from his mouth. “Something is definitely going on, I just don’t know what. Half the time—every time, actually, I try to think about it, it’s like trying to hold water in my hands. I can’t remember anything.”

“About Charlie?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, but left it at that. His eyes landed on the teapot and her chamomile bag. “You alright?”

“I will be,” she signed. “Just need something to help me get back to sleep.”

Long arms enveloped her from shoulder to hip and tugged her close to his chest. Then Sam held her out at arm’s length and smiled. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. If you need your own room, your own bed…”

She shook her head. “I need company. Hell was… lonely. In all the worst ways.”

“I know,” he began. “You okay for now, though? I was gonna go for a run but if you want me to come back to bed—”

“Oh, no, I’m fine,” she said through a yawn. “I’ll be here when you get back. Keeping it warm…”

That earned her one of Sam’s wickedly crooked grins. Nimble fingers teased at the hem of her t-shirt—his t-shirt—and danced along her hip. Then his lips found hers, and when she pulled him flush to her chest, he closed the space so willingly. It took all her effort to let him go again.

“Wake me up when you get back?” she asked.

Sam signed as he climbed the steps backwards. “Absolutely. Can’t wait.”

And with that, Eileen returned to making her pot of tea, eager to find a sleep full of her favorite dreams.

A few hours of sleep later—which included a prelude of some extra curricular activities—Eileen entered the war room to find Charlie at the library table, her Dungeon Master’s things all set up.

Charlie twisted over the back of her chair and smiled as Eileen approached. “Where are the others?” she asked, half signing.

“Sam’s doing laundry,” Eileen began. “Cas and Jack are baking some cookies. And I think Dean was reading in his room.”

A dark cloud shrouded Charlie’s otherwise bright demeanor. “Reading what?”

“He found Tolkien in the archives last night after we finished playing,” she explained. “I think Sam’s trick question got to him a little.”

Charlie winced. “Oh, yeah, that tracks. Speaking of, I think we should hit this campaign today. Get through the story and knock out some combat. No pun intended,” she added. “I think I’ve figured out how to get rid of my friend’s curse—”

“Already?,” Eileen interjected. “You just figured out what curse it was yesterday. You’ve already found a cure?”

Nonplussed, Charlie shook her head and said, “What, like it’s hard?” When Eileen could only laugh at that, Charlie continued. “I do think I’m close. At least I’ve got enough to try.” Her frown twisted into a small smile then. “If it doesn’t work, then…” She positioned her arms like that of a robot and dropped her voice. “I’ll be back.”

They laughed together for a beat, and it nearly worked. A lesser hunter, a civilian, would have missed the nonchalant tug on her shirt sleeves at the wrists. But Eileen caught it as Charlie stood, chair rasping across the floor. For fuck’s sake, why was she the only one there? None of it mattered if nobody else saw it.

“Eileen?”

Charlie stood right in front of her so suddenly, Eileen startled. “Sorry,” she began. “Was a little… you know. Tired.”

Charlie’s stare narrowed just so, but as quick as it had come, her smile replaced that scrutinizing look. She opened her mouth to say something only for Dean to enter from the war room, an uncharacteristically bright smile on his face.

“How’s the research?” he asked as he topped the library steps.

“Great,” Charlie replied. When Dean shuffled to a stop beside them, she continued. “I was just telling Eileen about it. And I think we should hit the campaign early. I’m probably leaving soon, so I think we could finish it by tomorrow night if we played most of the day today.”

Dean lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. “You want to play Dungeons & Dragons all day?”

Charlie shrugged so casually, Eileen resisted the urge to laugh. “Yeah, sure. That’s what I do most weekends. Well, most weekends I’m not hunting anyway.”

“Ha!” Dean barked with a thunderous clap. “I’ll go round up the others.”

And just like that, Eileen stood alone with Charlie once more. But not for long. By the time she had fished her character sheet and dice out of the pile on the library table and taken a seat, Dean returned with Sam, Castiel, and Jack in tow. Through it all, she remained focused on Charlie, furtive glances out of the corner of her eye, watching, waiting. Something had to happen, something that would remind her of what it was that had bothered her so greatly only a few minutes earlier.

Maybe it wasn’t just Charlie. Time, it seemed, was toying with her, too. Sam waved a hand in front of her face and called her name, then squeezed her thigh, pulling her back to the present.

“What?”

“I said your name like five times,” he explained. “You alright?”

She shook her head to clear the fog and signed. “Good, yeah.”

“Awesome,” Charlie declared, leaving them no further room for table talk. “Last night, we finished as Taresson was leading you to Machil Rillyn’s storage.”

Rawridan calmed at last, wiping tears from his snout. “I’m telling you, Cas, that was a good joke.”

“I hardly see how joking about one’s disability can be considered good humor,” Castiel retorted.

A twitch found Fechin’s absent-minded fingers. And before she had a second to cover the moment, Mephisto twisted his own fingers in kind. So she replied.

So you speak it, too?

Guilty, he replied.

Your parents must be Harpers.

Or I had a sharp eye.

“What are you two fucking talking about back there?”

Taresson glared at the both of them, and Fechin returned the stare twofold. “If it had concerned you, we would have spoken aloud.”

That shut him up. Though Yvandre had maintained her formal demeanor, she had also come across as personable. Much less could be said of Taresson, she surmised. She had also detected an air of resentment about him. Perfect. Something they could exploit.

“I do have a question you may be able to answer,” she said as Taresson approached a large wooden door at the end of the east wing. “Yvandre mentioned that anything of value we find amongst Machil’s things should be turned over to her. A price for access. Why? Does she assume he hid something?”

If Taresson had rolled his eyes any harder, they may have fallen out of his head. “She doesn’t. She is merely hopeful that her idiot uncle had stumbled across something worthwhile as he burned through the Rillyn family coffers on pointless adventuring.”

Pointless? “His excursions were no longer profitable?”

Again, Taresson rolled his eyes. Though he muttered under his breath, Fechin read his lips. “I’m surrounded by assholes.”

She had half a mind to give him a real reason to consider them such, but decided against it as he turned to the door with a haughty shrug of his shoulders. Fechin leaned an inch to get a clear look of the door as he unlocked it. His key rasped in the heavy lock, and a shower of sparks that only she could see flashed from the metal housing.

What about locks fascinates you?

Apparently, she had not been as discreet as she had hoped. Taresson threw the door aside and ushered them along in a sweeping gesture, following them inside.  Fechin signed to Mephisto once they were past.

Nothing. I require sight for my magic to work.

Magic?

Sonance glow.

Baffled, Mephisto shook his head. You’re…

Deaf. Yes. I read lips. The Harper’s Tongue is useful but not enough people speak it. At the same time, too many of the Harper’s enemies do. And it helps to be able to hear the battlefield. So I picked up some sorcery here and there to create my own little ritual.

Sonance glow?

“Will you two stop flirting?” Dean interjected.

Sam tried to defend himself, signing at first, then gave up. “I’m just talking to her! Now we know more about her character.”

“And here I thought you were gonna bail at the first sign of elf sex,” Charlie teased.

“Good thing for me she’s a half-elf,” he retorted with an eyebrow waggle for Eileen.

And she returned the gesture two-fold, never one to back down from Sam’s teasing. “Fechin might take you up on that offer if you can—”

“Forget I said anything!” Dean barked. “Christ, I thought I asked you to stop flirting.”

“I can’t flirt with her, she’s my wife,” Sam insisted. “That’s just how we talk with each other.”

“No, that’s flirting, because her face is as red as a tomato, look—” Dean turned to Castiel and said, “I think we should try the blue rope again—”

“Dean!” Castiel shouted, his face flushing immediately.

“See, flirting,” Dean said as he pointed. “Now, no sex with any species in D&D, let’s just play.”

He glared at Charlie who had reclined in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. “Backfired, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah…”

She sat up then, boots thumping on the floor. “Fine, I’ll let it go. Taresson has just let you into Machil Rillyn’s once-upon-a-time study-turned-storage room…”

Bookshelves covered three walls surrounding an ornate desk. Behind a wingback chair towered a stained glass window from floor to ceiling patterned in a hypnotizing crimson and teal geometric flow. A thick layer of dust covered the large chests and crates littering the floor and the desk’s surface.

“No,” Taresson stated.

Fechin had nearly forgotten her question. And then it dawned on her. “The wish spell.”

Taresson’s flat glare confirmed it. Instead of responding, he turned on his heel and strode back into the hallway. “Remember that everything you copy will be logged regardless of how mundane it may seem.” He shut the door with a sharp snict, Fechin’s sonance glow sparking alight, and that was that.

Mephisto regarded her with a curious quirk to his brow, then Fechin considered the others. Together, as though beckoned by its sheer volume, their forlorn gazes fell upon the hulking chests and crates, and Fechin sighed.

“I suggest we split up,” Rawridan began. When they all turned to look at him, he continued. “Take sections. I’ll start in this corner. Each of you take a five square foot area, including the book cases.”

Comet raised his hand and, when they all stared at him, he spoke. “What if there’s a copy of the tale here?”

“While it’s possible,” Mephisto started, then paused as he strode across the room for a nearby shelf. He withdrew a book and opened it, the dusty binding cracking from years of neglect. “I doubt a copy would be similarly cursed. But, yes. Best we be on our toes. Or hooves,” he said as he nodded to Rawridan.

Except they never had a chance to prepare. A shiver coursed along her spine, catching Fechin flat-footed, and she turned too late. Ramilir was falling to the floor, and though she lunged, she had no hope of catching him.

But just before impact, Mephisto manifested from a magenta mist right behind Ramilir and caught him by the shoulders. He steadied for a moment only to crumple on the floor with him in the next. When nobody moved, Mephisto chastised them. “A little assistance would be much appreciated.”

Rawridan and Castiel moved together, tripping over one another in their haste. Rawridan hefted the acolyte with ease, and Castiel assisted Mephisto from the floor. Fechin, however, kept a keen eye on Ramilir whose glassy stare had rolled into the back of his head. Then he began to convulse repeatedly, shudders wracking his entire body and Fechin reached for her pack. Something, she had to do something, anything to help.

“Stop.”

Fechin froze, twisted towards her hip pouch. She risked a look at Ramilir to find him unmoving in Rawridan’s arms, only his jaw working. Rattling breaths heaved his chest as another command followed.

“Free me!” Another rattling breath. “You must free me for only I can destroy the Queen of Air and Darkness and end the curse!”

Wide eyes searched one another’s faces. Fechin waited on pins and needles, but Ramilir said no more.

Mephisto straightened from Castiel’s arms and dusted off his leather and robes. “Who are you?”

“The Princess,” Ramilir gasped.

Another round of cautious looks passed over the group. “Of the Shadow Glass?” Mephisto continued.

“Correct.”

“I’d like to perform a deception check,” Sam stated as he picked up his crimson D20.

Charlie pursed her lips. “For what?”

He thought a moment, then turned to the group. “Do we agree that she is who she says she is?”

Eileen nodded with the others. “But do we trust her?”

Sam shook his head. “Not at all,” he said as he turned back to Charlie. “I want to know if she is telling the truth about the curse. Can she actually get rid of it?”

“Roll for it,” Charlie stated.

The tiny ball of fiery resin fell from Sam’s hand, clattered across his character sheet, and landed on a ten. “Twelve.”

“As far as you know, she’s telling the truth…”

Eileen was beginning to dislike that response.

Mephisto furrowed his brow as he straightened and folded his arms across his chest. “Convenient that an all-powerful archfey locked away in an extra-dimensional prison claims to be the only person that can destroy the one who put them there.”

Silence stretched uncomfortably until Ramilir spoke again. “I can end the curse. If you release me, I will end the curse and destroy the Queen to end her tyranny.”

A hard bargain. “How can we trust you?”

Ramilir stiffened suddenly, as though seized by an invisible grip. Rawridan yet held him, the rail-thin acolyte no sweat for the massive minotaur. But not for long. Tension oozed from Ramilir, and his entire body fell limp, sagging against Rawridan so suddenly, he nearly dropped the poor man.

“Watch it!” Rawridan grunted as he fumbled for his grasp. “Get me something for his head.”

A chair cushion whizzed across the room and landed at Rawridan’s feet. He asked no question, but Fechin wheeled about just in time to see Mephisto lowering his hands. “I never really get to use that one,” he said sheepishly.

“Good eye,” Fechin jested.

Mephisto twitched half a smile at her, then turned his attention back to Ramilir. “He’s already coming ‘round?”

Fechin startled back a step when she spotted Ramilir on the floor, eyes fluttering open as he coughed and flailed his way upright. After Comet offered his water skin, Ramilir drained it, then handed it back. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, then asked, “How long?”

“How long, what?” Comet asked as he upended his water skin only for the last drop to fall upon dust.

“How long was I out?” he asked as he scrambled to his feet.

“You weren’t exactly… out,” Rawridan began. “More like possessed.”

Ramilir grimaced a contorted frown. “I feared as much. What did I say?”

“You don’t remember?” Mephisto asked.

“Oh no, I do,” Ramilir assured him. “But your question confirmed my next suspicion. Everything I recall, I spoke aloud. So you all know exactly what the Princess of the Shadow Glass wants.”

Fechin nodded, as did the others. “Free her so she can destroy the Queen of the Gloaming Court. And she’ll end the curse.”

Wrath darkened Ramilir’s otherwise bright countenance, a rare visage for him. “I’m not buying it,” he grumbled.

“I agree,” Mephisto stated as he crossed the room. “We should do all the research time permits. Yvandre mentioned a city…”

His voice trailed off and his stare narrowed on Ramilir who had begun listing to one side like a sinking ship. Rawridan followed Mephisto’s concerned look, then clapped Ramilir on the shoulder. “Master Ramilir? Are you sure you’re alright?”

Ramilir shook his head. “Fine. But let’s keep this between us. And it was Delimbiyran. Yvandre mentioned Delimbiyran.” Gingerly, he turned about and scanned the room, then picked a section along the wall. “I suggest we start looking for that. Just wish I knew what it meant…” he mumbled under his breath, then his gaze drifted to the desk. His stare narrowed, and Fechin followed it, only then to realize that he stared not at the desk but what stood behind it.

“I’ve seen this window before…” he began as he drifted across the room. “But the memory is… muted. As though it belongs to another.”

He shrugged then, and returned to his crate. With that, their search commenced, but Fechin picked the corner nearest the large stained glass window to study it. The geometrical pattern swirled in a spiral, growing larger the further it reached from the center. It made little and less sense to her the longer she stared, so she turned to the nearby shelf, unwilling to waste any more time on useless details.

Books, old and new, piled haphazardly and near to tipping over at the slightest touch, crowded the bookcases base. But hers were deft fingers and nimble hands, so organizing the treacherous stacks proved a menial task.

Which had gone a long way to amuse the Master Warlock.

Not ten feet to her right, Mephisto raised one brow when he observed her work, then flicked his fingers.

Impressive method.

Fechin continued to sift through the texts. I did my time in the Waterdeep library.

A wonder we did not meet earlier. Did the Harpers station you there?

Perhaps.

“I think I’ve found something.”

Mephisto tapped her shoulder and pointed to the nearby corner opposite them where Comet unfurled a large scroll, much wider than a mere document. “Delimbiyran. And Environs. Sounds promising.”

Ramilir crossed the room and hunched over Comet’s shoulder. After a moment of squinting and widening and squinting again, Ramilir scowled. “That’s… odd.”

Fechin crossed the room, book in hand, to look at the aged vellum and found a map of various ruins. Ramilir pointed at one site labeled Haven of the Red Quill. “Look,” he muttered as he raised his sleeve. “The handwriting matches.”

Indeed, the neat, angular script matched that on the map. Not only that, it differed from the rest of the text, too. The label on the map was not original, Fechin concluded.

“Are you saying that Zyrian, the Scrivener, created this map?” Mephisto asked.

“No, I do not believe so,” Ramilir replied. “But I have no doubt that he added that note.” 

“So it’s older, then? The map?”

Instead of answering, Ramilir closed his eyes and joined his hands at his heart, then sucked in a deep breath, filling his lungs through his nose.

“Is he possessed again?” Castiel asked as he continued to rummage through another crate.

Mephisto shushed him with a sharp reprimand and an insistent hand. Seconds ticked by, silent as the grave, and the fine hair on the back of Fechin’s neck stood on end. Then, at last, Ramilir blinked his eyes open and said, “Where once was a dream of kinship and valor, disparate kin under three crowns, wisdom was preserved in deep places. In that depth was a great deed done, the quill named, and the scrivener showed his cunning.”

“Divination?” Mephisto asked.

“Legend lore,” Ramilir sighed. “On this ‘Haven of the Red Quill’.”

“A great deed was done…” Fechin began, her head spinning like a top with so many questions. “In the Haven? Maybe the imprisonment of the Princess?”

Ramilir grunted his agreement as he thought. “But what about it was so cunning?”

Fechin drummed the cover of her book as she thought, then pivoted to return to her stacks when no one else offered anything else for consideration. But before she took a single step, the book tumbled from her hands, an uncharacteristic fumbling on her part. Loose pages fluttered from the splayed cover as she retrieved it from the floor, revealing notes in Machil’s hand.

“The notes contain a great deal of information from Machil’s last adventure,” Charlie explained. “Eileen, can you make me a Perception check?”

She picked up her emerald green D20 and gave it a flip. “A ten.”

“You’ve picked up on a common thread…” Charlie began.

“Uh, Ramilir,” she started as she scanned the pages. “I have a theory.”

Comet rolled up the map, setting it aside to be copied and logged, then returned to his corner to continue searching. Mephisto and Ramilir shuffled to Fechin’s side, towering over her shoulder and reading along with her. She pointed at the notes and said, “Machil was searching Delimbiyran. That’s how he found the book. He was looking for the ‘shadow glass’. He thought it was an object of great value. Not a person.”

Ramilir pursed his lips in thought. “So what is your theory?”

“The quill named, the great deed done, and the cunning,” she said. “What if the ritual to create the curse on the book was the same ritual that imprisoned the Princess?”

“The book,” Sam started, adding to Eileen’s thought. “The book is the prison. She’s trapped in it.”

Charlie’s wide grin said more than words ever could. “Give me an arcana check.”

Sam tossed his D20 eagerly, and it skipped half way across the table where it landed on a fifteen. “Twenty.”

“On the nuts,” Charlie mused.

Ramilir blinked once, then twice, eyes widening. His jaw worked, opening and closing as he searched for the words, but before he could voice his thoughts, distant thunder rolled through Fechin’s chest and Mephisto spoke as if on cue.

“The book is her prison,” he began. “It’s an extra dimensional plane. That’s why she can speak to you. Through you.”

Ramilir opened his mouth to respond but once again, before a single syllable left his tongue, Rawridan called out to him from across the study.

“Excuse me, Master Ramilir?” He clutched a stack of papers in his massive fist. “I believe I may have found something you will want to read yourself.”

He shook his head before crossing the room, Fechin and Mephisto on his heels. Rawridan discarded the stack of papers he held—old bills, most of which were marked “past due” and well over a decade old—and held out what appeared to be an unsigned letter from Machil.

Ramilir cleared his throat and read aloud. “To my family. Forgive me the vanity that took me from you, and must soon claim my life or soul. You know how my ambition corrupted my love for you. I pray that someone avenges the evils done by Nintra Siotta, Princess of the Shadow Glass, Lady of Dread Omens, Seeker of the Three Crowns. But spend not your own lives against it. The scrivener bound her in his haven, and only there can I be free of her. But it is too late for me.”

He dropped his hands to his sides and hung his head. “Nintra Siotta. Finally a name.” He closed his eyes once more for a single breath, then straightened as they opened. “Glass omens, dread crowns, three princesses, shadow lady, deathless is the seeker.” He shook his head. “Nintra Siotta was exiled from the Gloaming Court to the mortal plane first. She influenced the wars that brought Phalorm to ruin. But she was eventually imprisoned by the Queen for those crimes.”

Reeling with such a revelation, Fechin’s head spun. But before they had a moment to consider the implications, Castiel approached, a crumbling paper cupped in his hands.

“Another note from Machil,” he started. “Only a small portion is left. ‘... stairs among the surface ruins of Delimbiyran and descended deep to the Haven of the Red Quill. The guardians almost finished us before the door was opened. Gods, how I wish…’ Rot has damaged the letter severely,” he explained.

“We need to make copies of everything. Now,” Ramilir said after a deep breath. “Something far more serious is afoot here and I do not want Yvandre tangled up in this spider’s web. Mephisto, can you…” He gestured to the papers they all held. “I must speak with Taresson. If we leave saying we found nothing, they will grow suspicious. But I dare not put them in danger, either. I will think of something…”

Without wasting another second, Ramilir rushed through the study door and it shut behind him, an unceremonious thud that reverberated through her chest.

“How do we copy a map quickly?” Comet asked as he spread the heavy vellum open across the desk.

“I’ll take care of that,” Mephisto said as he turned back to him. “Although I will require a bottle of ink…”

Too quick, Ramilir returned then with Taresson in tow, both men red faced and arguing. “I’m telling you,” Ramilir insisted, “all we’ve found are a bunch of useless notes and an old map of the ruins that Machil searched just before he was cursed.”

“The map must be worth a fortune!” Taresson shouted.

“We will make a copy,” Ramilir barreled over him. “No one will be any wiser. You can sell the original!”

Taresson quieted at last, arms folded across his chest and lips pressed to naught but a line. “Fine,” he hissed. “But if you find anything valuable in those ruins, Yvandre will know and you will owe her half.”

“Agreed,” Ramilir shouted over the group’s protests. “Half.”

And that was the last of Taresson. He strode through the door, slamming it shut, and his stomping boots trailed away to nothing. But then Ramilir darted across the room and locked the door. He rounded on them, back pressed to the heavy oak, then hurried to Mephisto as he procured a bottle of ink from his waist pack. “Copy everything we’ve got and be quick about it. Before he comes back and changes his mind.”

“Why would he change his mind?” Rawridan asked.

Ramilir watched as Mephisto worked, hands smoothing over the map as he chanted under his breath. “Because,” Ramilir started, “I lied to him.”

Fechin’s skin crawled. Sure, she might be a thief, a dabbler in lies. But Ramilir? He was a scholar, an academic. Unbecoming behavior for one of his station. “About?”

“There’s no way in the Nine Hells we’re giving them a single red cent out of what we find in Delimbiyran, let alone half. And I lied about the map.” He pointed and Fechin followed his finger to the desk where Mephisto stood, hands hovering above a new vellum sheet procured from a nearby shelf of scrolls. At the behest of his ritual commands, fresh ink rolled in thick beads across the canvas. 

Ramilir continued. “I told him it was just some ruins Machil was scouting before he was cursed and we wanted to check out. I said nothing about Delimbiyran.”

“How do you expect to leave before he…”

Before Castiel could finish, Ramilir cleared a space on the floor and stepped back, arms held out at shoulder height. “We’re going straight to Daggerford. We’ll resupply there and then head to Delimbiyran”

“Now?!” Fechin screeched.

Ramilir raised both hands much like he had back in Candlekeep, one hand still and the other conducting in long, wide circles. “Yes, now.” Swirling blue electricity crackled to life two feet in front of him, widening with each revolution. “Mephisto, please tell me you’re finished.”

Back at the desk, Mephisto cradled the rotting letter Castiel had found. “Nearly there.”

The door handle clicked once, then rattled. “Thieves! Open up at once!” Taresson bellowed through the door between thunderous pounding.

“Why doesn’t he just unlock it?”

“Because he can’t,” Ramilir said through grinding teeth.

“Are we really going to associate ourselves with a rake?” Castiel asked Rawridan as they approached Ramilir together.

The portal widened to the ceiling, an indiscernible dark space beyond. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Rawridan said with a shrug, then crouched through the portal.

Continuous pounding rattled the door on its hinges, and Fechin leaped into action. “Time to go, children.” She grasped Comet by the upper arm as she rounded the desk and shoved Mephisto ahead just as he finished copying the last note. He swept the large map vellum and the other papers atop it into his arms, then rolled them up as Fechin rushed him along.

“Go,” Ramilir demanded, waving them through. “I’ll be right behind you.”

With Comet and Mephisto through the portal, Fechin leaped, but not before she grabbed Ramilir by the sleeve of his robe and dragged him through with her. And good thing, too. Taresson burst through the study door flanked by two guards just as the portal spiraled shut, his shout cutting off with a shrill cry.

Beside her, Ramilir doubled over, hands on his knees and breath heaving from his chest. When he looked up at the group, a small smile crooked his lips and he laughed. “Wouldn’t be much of an adventure if there weren’t a few close calls.”

Mephisto snapped his fingers and purple flames ignited in his palm, illuminating the walls around them. He tucked the vellum map, rolled up with the other documents, under the other arm, and raised his warlock’s lantern high overhead. A long, empty alleyway stretched to either side of them, and tall brick buildings soared high overhead. “Define ‘close’.”

“We could have taken them,” Rawridan chuffed. “Hells, but I could have just sat on all three of them. At the same time.”

A shiver coursed along her spine as Fechin peered into the darkness beyond Mephisto’s light.

“Regardless of that fact, House Ryllin may pursue us,” Castiel stated. “Any scryer worth their salt will trace your lingering magic, Master Ramilir. We should be—”

“Sh!”

Gods but she had tried. Fechin held a finger to her lips and stood still as stone. Unseen eyes crawled along her skin from just beyond the light. Though she heard nothing, the distant watcher peered ever inward, delved deeper into her soul until laid bare. Pursued, indeed.

Mephisto flicked his fingers on his free hand beneath his linen sleeve.We should move.

Fechin nodded, then motioned for the others’ attention. She signaled for their silence, a finger to her lips, then nodded to the further end of the alley. Inn, she signed, and Mephisto agreed with a single nod. He turned down the alley and she began to follow.

But before either took more than a step, clanging mithril plate startled her from behind, and Rawridan shuffled past her as she wheeled about.

“Apologies, my dear,” he said. “But there is very little use in attempting stealth between Castiel and I.”

Castiel, too, clattered past, his plate armor echoing off the brick walls. They skirted past Mephisto, and when no attack came, he followed them. She hurried to catch them after beckoning Comet to follow her. Whatever stalked them from the shadows had receded it seemed. Best take the win and be on their way.

“Where are you going?” she asked when she caught up to Castiel.

Before he could answer, Rawridan looked back over his shoulder and said, “To see if there’s a pub.”

Fechin saw no point in arguing. In fact, it was the best idea Rawridan had come up with thus far. So she fell into step beside Mephisto, eager for a drink, a soft bed, and some rest.

“That deserves an inspiration point,” Charlie said through their laughter. “And I think we should call it for tonight.” A yawn caught the end of her words, and she stretched into it. But then she startled, suddenly alert and acutely aware of her surroundings. She tugged at her shirtsleeves and stood, then darted for the war room, her Dungeon Master’s things left behind. “I’m starving.”

Dean followed her without question. “I’ve got dinner planned already.”

Castiel and Jack also headed to the kitchen, and Eileen watched them go, only to then turn and grin at Sam. “Why does Mephisto follow Fechin around?” she signed.

“He likes her style,” he replied.

She laughed at that. “She is pretty cool.”

“She is.”

“And Mephisto isn’t half bad,” she teased. “For a tiefling.”

He leaned over the arm of his chair so close, his heady scent filled her nose. His lips brushed hers and, for a brief moment, Eileen wondered what they might accomplish in the library. But then Sam parted from her and said, “Careful. You don’t know what that warlock’s been up to lately.”

“You know Fechin’s more than capable.”

Sam kissed her again, a little deeper, more insistent. “Mephisto might enjoy discovering that first-hand.”

Eileen stood then, and pulled him up with her. “We’d have to run it by Charlie.”

A wicked gleam flashed in his eyes as he looked towards the kitchen. “We could just… play it out on our own.”

She shuffled to a stop before the hallway stairs. “What happened to no elf sex? Did Charlie… did she… “

Did she what? Her head rattled like an empty tin, hollow but for the one clueless molecule left bouncing between the walls.

“Did Charlie do what?” Sam asked.

“I… don’t know,” Eileen stammered. “She… I remember she said something about elves after… after you said something.”

“You can’t remember what she said?” Sam asked. When Eileen nodded, he grabbed her by the hand and lurched down the hallway. “C’mon.”

“Sam, we can try the roleplaying thing later—”

“I’m not talking about that,” Sam said. “Something’s up with Charlie ever since she got here and none of us can figure it out because we can’t remember shit.”

“That’s… a serious accusation,” Eileen replied.

At Eileen’s door, Sam ushered her in, a gentle hand at the small of her back, and he said, “It’s getting worse.”

“Oh?” She shut her door.

When Sam slumped onto her bed, she sat beside him, but waited. Charlie’s behavior had piqued her interest, of course, but Sam appeared physically disturbed by it. So she gave him the space to breathe a moment, collect his thoughts, organize his theory.

“She showed up without calling ahead,” he began. “That’s… uncharacteristic of Charlie, but also not? You know her now, she’s a little quirky like that. Wonderful. Good hunter. But… shit, that’s the last thing I can remember about her that bothered me. Just her showing up unannounced. Everything else is… blank. Except I know other things have happened.”

Eileen tried her best to recall the fresh memory but it was as Sam said. Blank. Every time she neared the thought, it vanished, a wisp in a vast fog. What were they supposed to do? If she couldn’t trust her memories, how could she even fathom how to fix the problem? “I can hardly remember anything besides her confusing ‘Dungeon Master’ with ‘dungeon master’. And I don’t know why I’d remember that but nothing else.”

“That’s just an honest mistake…” Sam muttered, signed. “Do you think maybe… ugh, why can’t I focus? Again, I feel like I get so damn close and then—nothing.”

She gathered his hand in hers and squeezed it. “Whatever it is, I know we’ll eventually figure it out. We always do. Somehow.”

He ran his free hand through his hair and sighed. “I sure as hell hope so. Let’s go help out with dinner. I’m a little too out of it for—”

She kissed him then, swallowing his words, his thoughts. When she parted from him, she laughed. “Later, Sam. When we figure out whatever this is and take care of it.”

Massive arms enveloped her from shoulder to hip and hugged her close. “Thanks, E.”

“Of course, Somhairle.”

This series is complete! Reblogs are loved and feedback is welcome!

[trippedandfell]

#100 "it's always been you" kisses because damn if that aint buddiecore.... (please!)

today, yesterday, everyday, and tomorrow night

buddie | 3.6k | ao3 | enjoy some odd, vaguely explained magical realism/parallel universe... stuff.

Eddie wakes up in a cold sweat.

There’s a journal on his bedside table, a glass of water carefully perched on top. He picks up both, downs half the glass in one go.

Then, as the sun begins to creep up above the horizon, he begins to write.

-

This is what Eddie knows -

There are over 420,000 parallel universes that exist alongside Earth, bumping together like beads on a hand-strung necklace. For most people, they exist only in passing - a sentence at the end of a museum plaque, a throwaway line by a reporter on a slow news day. It’s the kind of information that gets taught near the sticky-hot end of the school year, kids fidgeting out of their chairs, the teacher plodding through a chapter that’s been forced to be included in the curriculum. 

This is what Eddie knows -

He’s not like most people.

Hasn’t been, really, since he sat down at the kitchen table opposite his Abuela in the middle of June, twelve years old and still shaking from adrenaline as he recounted a dream that had been real, too real, right down to the hot warmth of the sun on his neck and the salty tang of the ocean. It had been almost a relief when she had taken his hand and explained it slowly, those who walked between worlds as they slept in hopes of discovering hidden truths. A gift, she called it, smile soft and understanding. A way to teach us what’s important.

Eddie learns about the night his Abeula awoke under a sky of different stars and met an old man who told her the exact nature of the injury that had been plaguing her hip, the time his Dad met a man in the middle of a brilliant purple ocean who showed him the path to his chosen career. When he gets older, he has his own stories to share - the young girl he met that showed him how to throw a fastball, the winding village road he followed back to his Abuelo’s childhood home. He and his sisters swap stories at the dinner table, tales of the not-quite right worlds they visit when they close their eyes, comparing notes on the different ways the ground felt beneath their feet, the unique tint of the sky.

The dreams don’t come every night, or even every week - they’re random, striking like a summer thunderstorm, a collection of short bursts that leave just as quickly as they came. Only when it’s truly important, his Abuela tells him, and Eddie realizes just how true that is when he spends three weeks trying to decipher why he keeps hearing a child laugh ecstatically while he sleeps, only to wake up one day to Shannon shaking his shoulder, a pregnancy test clutched tight in one hand. 

He doesn’t dream when he’s overseas, although whether that’s from sheer exhaustion or something else, he can’t quite tell. It’s not until the helicopter goes down in a sea of flames that they start anew, more intense than ever - a woman on the street shouting at him to make a change, the faint sound of a siren following him as he treks around a world with two moons.

Eddie follows the dreams to LA, where they shudder again to a stop.

That is, he supposes, until now. 

-

Buck’s already got coffee waiting when Eddie staggers into the kitchen, taking a grateful gulp before collapsing into the nearest chair.

“Somewhere tropical this time,” he says, in lieu of a greeting, fingers drumming idly on the tabletop. “South America, I think. Lots of beaches.” 

He slides the leather-bound notebook across the table, already bookmarked to the latest entry, the messy memories he managed to scrawl down the night before. Buck’s silent as he reads, throat bobbing as he finishes his own coffee, topped with so much milk that it’s nearly the colour of snow.

“This is the third one that’s had blue sand,” he says finally, flipping to the back of the book, the series of hastily-drawn charts and diagrams littered across the pages. “Do you think that has something to do with it?”

“I don’t know,” Eddie moans, slumping down to press his forehead against the cool wood. “It’s never been this hard before.”

He can’t see Buck’s face from this angle, but he can picture it - eyebrows drawn together, bottom lip caught between his teeth. It’s the face he’s been wearing ever since Eddie sat him down last month and poured his secrets out in a rush - the dreams, the travelling, the way that he hasn’t been able to sleep through the night since Hen and Karen’s vow renewal, his consciousness on a hunt for something that he can’t quite find. They’d called his Abuela together later that day, who had been concerned but not ultimately helpful, reminding him that sometimes these things take time, that he just needs to find the underlying message and they’ll stop.

“Mijo,” she had said finally, after Buck left to go pick up Chris, squeezing Eddie’s shoulder as he went, “are you sure it’s not-”

“No,” Eddie said flatly, and that had been the end of that. 

Because it’s not Buck causing the dreams, he’s sure of it. Buck appears in the dreams, more often than not, but he’s never - he’s not there to send a message, or to reveal some hidden truth. The vast majority of the worlds Eddie travels to are remarkably similar to his own, so it’s no surprise that nine times out of ten Buck is there, normally with some other members of the 118, or even Eddie’s family. He’s just there as part of the fabric of Eddie’s life - a familiarity. A welcome committee, wherever he goes.

Whatever his mind is trying to tell him, it isn’t about Buck. Which leaves him here, sitting at the kitchen table long before Chris makes it out of bed, dissecting every moment of last night in hopes that he’ll finally stumble across the right answer and finally be able to get some goddamn rest.

“Okay,” Buck says now, tapping a pencil against the lined page, one, two, three. “Maybe it has to do with the water. You didn’t speak to anyone?”

Eddie wrinkles his nose, trying his best to remember. “I lived with you and Chimney,” he says, thinking of the strange room he woke up in, mattress hard against the floor. “We were - surfers, I think. Hen ran the coffee shop downstairs?”

“But no strangers?” Buck presses. “No one on the beach? Did you have a phone?”

“I did,” Eddie allows. It’s always easier in the worlds with phones - he can see who he’s in contact with, search the internet to discover where, exactly, he is. On the days when he wakes up without Chris, he’s always tempted to search his name, see what he finds, but can never quite find the strength to. If he’s honest, he’s scared he might stumble across something he never wants to see - that Chris is gone, or, even worse, that he never existed at all. “I texted - um. I wrote it down. My mom, and -”

“Adriana,” Buck says, squinting at the page. “I think. Your handwriting is awful, dude.”

Eddie kicks him under the table, laughing as Buck squirms away. “You try writing in the dark and see how well it turns out.”

That sets Buck off on some rant about different handwriting styles, and the cultural variations of each - Eddie’s too tired to fully comprehend it, if he’s honest, but he’s more than content to listen, let Buck’s words wash over him as he rambles. It’s far better than dissecting every single moment of Eddie’s night, as much as he knows Buck wants to.

Because Buck - Buck is worried. Eddie knows it, even if Buck won’t tell him outright - can see it in the clench of his jaw, the way the coffee mugs he slides to Eddie across the table keep growing in size. Eddie wants to hold him and tell him to stop, tell him that he’s alright, but at this point, he’s not quite sure if he believes it himself.

He’s at the edge of the precipice. And to be quite honest, he doesn’t think he has much longer until he falls. 

-

It’s not until he starts travelling when he naps that it truly becomes a problem.

He’s been using naps as a bridge to survival the past six (or is it seven? He’s lost track) weeks, curling up against Buck’s side at the station and dozing off whenever he can. It’s been working pretty well for him, up until the day that he falls asleep in the bunkroom and wakes up in an unfamiliar house, stretched out in a king-sized bed. 

“Motherfucker,” he curses, pulling himself upright before going through his checklist - phone, window, photos. Thankfully, the device on the bedside table looks remarkably similar to his iPhone at home, so he opens it up, swipes through it - Buck’s at the top of his contact list, same with Ravi and Hen. There’s no Chimney or Bobby this time, but there is a picture of Chris as his wallpaper, so - that’ll do. He can work with that.

The window is next, peeking out into a residential street, houses boring and beige and otherwise unremarkable. There’s a full moon high in the sky above, and Eddie’s about to check the formation of the stars when something darts across the street, disappearing into the shadows as quickly as it emerged.

It takes Eddie a minute to place it, but when he does, he has to bite back another curse. He turns to the pictures on the nightside table, and - yep. There’s a group of them sitting in a field, arms slung around each other’s shoulders and faces decidedly wolfy.

Buck’s probably going to get a kick out of this one. He loves the supernatural dreams.

Now that Eddie’s fully awake, he can feel his senses kick into full gear - the sound of Chris’s heartbeat down the hall, the faint honk of a horn from five streets over. There’s a scuffling downstairs, and he almost jumps before his brain catches up - Buck.

The house is old, floorboards warped with age, so Eddie doesn’t even bother to be quiet as he makes it down the steps, following the sound of Buck singing in the kitchen. He smiles when he sees Eddie, canines long and poking over his bottom teeth.

“Morning,” he says, sliding a plate of waffles across the table. “You’re up early.”

“Mm.” Eddie busies himself with eating so he doesn’t have to respond. This is always the hardest part of these dreams - figuring out what this world’s Eddie is like, slipping into another person’s shoes for a day. His Abuela has told him time and time again that he won’t actually affect this Eddie, that the day will reset once he’s gone and no one will have any memory of it except himself, but it still feels - weird. “You sleep okay?”

Buck snorts. “I never sleep on a full moon.” His eyebrows narrow, just the slightest. “Are you feeling okay?” 

“I’m -” Eddie’s about to say fine when there’s a tug low in his gut, something he hasn’t felt before. “Uh,” he tries again, before he doubles over in pain, Buck racing over to his side before he can react, hands braced against Eddie’s chest.

“What’s going on?” He demands, voice tense - scared. “Talk to me.”

Eddie tries to, he really does, but then the world around him blurs and he comes to on the floor of the bunkroom, back drenched with sweat and Buck - his Buck - standing over him worriedly. 

“You weren’t answering,” he says, and his voice is rough, as if he’s been yelling. “Was that-”

There’s still a sharp ache in Eddie’s gut, but it’s fading rapidly. “Yeah,” he says, because there’s no point in lying, not when it’s Buck. He takes a deep breath, digs his fingernails into the palms of his hands. “I, uh. Think it might be time to talk to someone.”

-

Dr. Richardson is kind, competent, and very, very experienced, according to her impressive website. None of that explains why her eyebrows furrow when Eddie describes his situation, Buck a stony soldier to his right, clutching the notebook they’ve brought along. 

“The dreams aren’t supposed to hurt,” she says finally, leaning back in her seat. Outside the window, Eddie can hear the loud sound of a car alarm - he supposes, with people like him being so rare, that being in this industry isn’t exactly lucrative. Not unless you’re shilling fake dreams for people, like some of the weirdos Buck found online in his research. “They’re supposed to just - nudge. Help. Definitely not last this long.”

“So is there a way to stop it?” Buck asks, and his face is a little tense, gaunt. Neither of them have been sleeping well ever since the incident at the station, scared of what will happen if they do. “Like, do you have medicine or something that can help?”

“We can try a few things,” Dr. Richardson allows, although she doesn’t sound particularly hopeful. Eddie’s heart sinks somewhere deep in his stomach. “But dreams - especially travelling through dreams - are fickle. Unpredictable. It’s like the universe, wherever it is, has something it desperately wants you to know. Something you’re avoiding, or refusing to admit.”

“But I don’t have anything like that,” Eddie says frustratedly, refusing the urge to tug on his hair. “I mean - my biggest thing to work through was coming out, and I took care of that before this all started. Everyone in my life knows.”

“Coming out is a good example, but - not quite.” Dr. Richardson taps her pen on the corner of her page. “Some studies - fringe theories, really - say that what we learn in our dreams is the opposite of what happens when you’re awake. Not the lesson we learn, but - the feeling. If you discover something in a terrifying dream, it might end up being a really funny moment in real life. Same with sad dreams - happy moments, when you’re awake.”

“So what does that mean for Eddie?” Buck is too big for the chair, limbs squished and contorted. Any other time, Eddie would laugh, but right now he’s just - tired. 

Dr. Richardson smiles at that, the faintest thing. “That maybe whatever the universe is trying to tell you, it’s really, really good.”

-

Eddie goes home.

Eddie dreams.

Eddie dreams about skydiving, about floating in a bubble above the Earth. Dreams about being a firefighter in Boston, or teaching overseas. Dreams about living in a mansion on a lake, camping in a tent during a pink-hued fall.

In all his dreams, Buck is there. In all his dreams, he’s awoken too early by a stabbing pain - sometimes in his stomach, sometimes elsewhere. 

“This is just - bullshit,” Buck finally says one morning, when Eddie comes limping out of his bedroom with a fading ache in his leg. “This shouldn’t - this is supposed to be a good thing.”

He looks so indignant, so furious, that Eddie just wants to give him a hug. He settles for linking their ankles under the table instead. 

“It normally is,” he says, soothing. “We just need to figure this out. We’re close.”

And they are close, he thinks. They’re circling in on a few themes, scrawled in the back of Eddie’s notebook: Family. Togetherness. Relaxing. Vague ideas that might lead to something, anything.

He’s taken to speaking ideas out loud, when he wakes up in unfamiliar places. I want more children. There is a promotion in my future. I’m taking a vacation soon. They all feel vaguely wrong, like ash on his lips the second he says them. But he just - can’t. Can’t figure out what else it might be.

The dream journal’s getting beat up by how much use he’s getting out of it, edges warped and pages bent. It’s instinct, at this point, for Eddie to reach for it when he wakes up yet again in a cold sweat, the clock on the wall informing him cheerily that it’s just past three in the morning.

Normally, after the dreams, he’s able to go back to sleep, catch a few hours of normal rest, but tonight he just feels - wired. Jittery. After nearly an hour of tossing and turning, he gives up altogether and flips through the notebook, turning on the nightside lamp as he goes. There’s just - there’s got to be something.

Reading the book front-to-back doesn’t unlock any new secrets, so he settles instead for tallying words on the back of an old receipt, counting the total number of times they appear. Blue appears forty-eight. Father appears fifty. Family appears sixty-five. And Buck - Eddie scrubs at his eyes, just to make sure he’s not reading it wrong - Buck appears seventy-two times.

The last time Eddie got a dreamless sleep was seventy-three nights ago.

He forces himself to check his math, to try again, but the result is the same, Buck’s name leaping off of every page. More words appear, too - Cooking. Kitchen. Firefighting. Chris. Peace. He tallies them all, then stares down at the back of the page, hands shaking.

Because he’s just - on the back of a CVS receipt, of all places - he’s just holding a list of precious phrases that make up Buck. They’ve been searching all this time for one word, or one thing, but it’s been everything - every aspect of his dreams, from the beach in South America to Buck making him breakfast - is about him. He had been so sure, so certain that Buck wasn’t there in every dream, that it couldn’t possibly be the lesson he was trying to be taught, but now, looking at the pages - even if Buck wasn’t physically there, Eddie always texted him, or called. There was always at least one picture on the nightside table, a number in his phone.

God. Eddie’s mind has been a shrine to Buck for nearly three months now, and he hadn’t even noticed.

“I’m in love with Buck,” he says, aloud to his empty room. Nothing shakes, nothing moves, but he somehow feels more - at peace, regardless. “I’m in love with Buck,” he repeats, and then, before he can help himself, he’s on his feet, making his way over to the couch where Buck’s dozing restlessly.

“Eddie?” He murmurs, and then he’s jolting awake, reaching out to grab his sides. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“I’m fine,” Eddie promises, and he knows he’s smiling like a fool, but he can’t quite bring himself to care. “I just - I figured it out. I know what the dreams are trying to tell me.”

Buck’s alert now, his body a tense line next to Eddie’s own. “Really?” He murmurs, and then, without warning, pulls Eddie into his chest. “God, I was so fucking worried,” he gasps, hands fisting the back of Eddie’s shirt. “I just - what is it? Are you allowed to tell me?”

Eddie takes a deep breath. He should be nervous, should be terrified - this is, if the intensity of his dreams were any indication, probably the biggest realization he’s ever uncovered. But it’s also - it’s just Buck. Who showed up with a pile of research before Eddie even had a chance to think, who lets him steal sips of his too-sweet coffee at work. Buck, who takes Chris to the zoo nearly every weekend and has his own collection of mugs in the cupboard under the sink.

“I’m in love with you.”

Buck reels back as if he’s been hit. “You - what?”

“I’m in love with you,” Eddie repeats, tugging Buck’s hand into his lap, twisting their fingers together. “And,” he adds, when he can see a protest forming on the tip of Buck’s tongue, “this isn’t another guess, or something I’m unsure about. I know it. This is what the dreams have been trying to tell me.”

“Your dream curse almost killed you to get you to confess your feelings,” Buck says, somewhat in disbelief. He stares at their entwined hands as if he can’t quite believe it himself. “I just - wow. Holy shit.”

“I know it’s a lot,” Eddie says apologetically, looking out the window, where the sun is barely peeking above the horizon. “And you don’t have to say it back today, or ever, really. I just - needed to tell you.”

Buck scoots closer, just enough so that their knees brush. It sends a tingle of something up Eddie’s spine, an undeniable sense of rightness flowing through his entire body. 

“It is a lot,” he confesses, voice low. “But it’s not - God. I love you. I’ve wanted you for ages. You had to have noticed.”

Eddie gestures to his general everything, biting his lip to hide his smile. “I’m pretty oblivious, apparently.”

It feels silly now, in hindsight, that it could have been anything but Buck. He probably owes his Abuela an apology.

“I want to kiss you,” he blurts out, inelegant and simple. If pressed, he’ll blame it on the lack of sleep. “I mean,” he pauses, clears his throat. “Can I kiss you?”

Buck doesn’t answer with words.

Instead, he cradles Eddie’s face in both hands, like he’s something precious, something breakable, and leans in. It’s hardly a kiss, hardly anything at all, but Eddie swears his chest cracks right open in that moment, his heart barren for all to see as he kisses Buck again, and again, and again.

(And again.)

-

Eddie goes to bed with Buck in his arms that night.

It’s the best sleep he’s ever had. 

leave a comment on ao3!

[theredpharaoah]

MAJOR SPOILERS FOR PLAGUE TALE: REQUIEM

My review of plague tale is 5/10. I feel like it was repetitive in a lot of places. We needed more breaks. I mean at one point there was nonstop fighting for 3 hours of gameplay. We got a short break and then it was right back to fighting. I also think the dialogue is very repetitive. Not just the regular dialogue, but the dialogue that comes with certain actions: we don’t need to hear Amicia say “light the way” every time Sophia brings out the prism. Other than that, I think the theme of killing = bad was drawn out and nonsensical. It should’ve been addressed after Amicia’s first spree and then she should’ve accepted the fact that she lives in a very dangerous world and must defend herself. I also don’t think this mindset was at all realistic for a French noblewoman in the 14th century - nor for peasants like Lucas and Sophia. Especially Sophia considering she’s a smuggler. Them constantly punishing themselves for defending themselves got tired and annoying real quick. I also don’t think the story was great. It started out really good, but then they fumbled it. When the magister told Amicia to handle her fire, I thought Amicia was going to gain some sort of power to counteract Hugo’s - something with light, fire, and life. A way to protect others, Hugo, and keep him in check. I thought she was the Child of Embers. Even when they didn’t do that, I still really enjoyed the story of Aelia and Basilius, and the protector being this badass slayer(Buffy) like role. But then they completely fumbled the bag. The Count and Countess seemed like such last minute villains. They didn’t feel like serious threats at all to me - in fact no one throughout the entirety of the game felt like a serious threat. The boss battles were not great. And they kept trying to make up for subpar bosses with a bunch of tedious fights and it just wasn’t working. This game was clearly moreso about the story, and it felt like they forced hours of fighting in the game. I honestly got frustrated that I was playing a game half the time and wish they had just made an animated series. Like the story was literally on pause for about 3 hours of gameplay from the destruction of the first city until their arrival at La Cuna. I understand we had to set the stage to get there, but I don’t feel like they made that “bridge” segment - for lack of a better term- at all interesting. I loved Joseph, Arnaud, and Sophia though. I don’t think the story should’ve ended at La Cuna either - it didn’t feel like it was set up that way. La Cuna felt like a place we go to get answers and then we return to the mainland for the real enemy. And I think that was the big issue for me: where is the real enemy? Who’s the big bad? I was hoping that the big bad would be The Order. I think that would’ve been better and made a lot more sense. I also thought Hugo’s death was stupid and boring. I mean by that point he had teetered on the edge about 4 times - I was annoyed and just tryna get it over with. And if these children are destined to die anyway, why don’t they just euthanize them at birth? It doesn’t seem like the Carrier ever makes it to the age of 10. They’re horribly sick their entire life, they cause plagues that kill millions, and then they’re themselves destined to die. Keeping them alive seems cruel to them and everyone around them. It’s not like they’re disabled - disabled people can live great and fulfilling lives like everyone else. The Carrier can’t. Also, the ending of the game felt so…unfulfilling. I would’ve preferred Amicia(my fav)died as the cure for Hugo over that. And the epilogue was underwhelming as well, so it happens every 800 years? We couldn’t do 1894, or even 1918? I just don’t feel like a protector and a carrier are going to be able to run around in a surveillance state against semi-automatic weapons and all that jazz. Idk, the story had all it needed to be great but they took the wrong turns. I also think we need to abolish this idea that gritty realistic stories have to end in bad or bittersweet endings.

[tommysparker]

Never Forget You [Chapter 3]

Obi-Wan Kenobi x Jedi!Reader

A/N: hey y’all! thank you for your patience with this chapter. enjoy!! :) [also totally didn’t have this in my drafts then forget to post earlier pfftttt whaaaatt?]

Warnings: angst with a tiny amount of fluff. anakin finally makes his debut in this series. it gets better just stay with me. long italic paragraphs = flashbacks

Anakin Skywalker had witnessed many things over the years. 

Giant beasts? At least once a week. Sith Lords? Becoming too common. Droid armies? All year long. Looking death in the eye? Simply another day in the life of a Jedi. 

Nothing could ever have prepared him for the sight he was currently witnessing. 

Obi-Wan Kenobi, his Master, The Negotiator, the Jedi Council’s most prized Jedi…sulking.

It has been a full week since You returned to the Jedi Temple and Anakin couldn’t help to think his former Master’s mood and your arrival were connected. He was vaguely aware of your past friendship, only hearing bits and pieces of the adventures you had together as Padawans. 

During his days under Obi-Wan’s apprenticeship he would often hear about how “a wise Jedi I once knew” would do certain things. He wanted to know more about this oh-so-great Jedi, however, any time the young boy asked his Master would always brush him off with a mournful look in his eyes.  

He didn’t understand at the time but now he’s beginning to piece together that perhaps there was something more between the two of you. 

“You think Master Y/l/n and Master Kenobi were courting?” 

“Keep your voice down, Snips,” Anakin hushed.

“Sorry, sorry. But Master,” Ahsoka lowers her voice, “what led you to that conclusion? I’ve hardly seen them together since Master Y/l/n came back. What makes you think they could be lovers?” 

“That’s just it, Ahoska. They’ve been avoiding each other like the Rakghoul plague. Obi-Wan told me they were such good friends, and now that they’re back they can’t stand to be in the same room as each other? I don’t buy it.” Anakin looked back to where Obi-Wan sat with Commander Cody, no doubt brainstorming new battle tactics and liberation plans. 

“So what do you suppose we do? Set them up or something?” The look her Master gave her made her regret her words the moment they left her mouth. 

“Come on, Snips. It’s a good idea. We get them to stay in the same room so they have no choice but to confront each other and talk things out! It’s genius.” Anakin smiled, his eyes still on his former Master. He had a feeling if Obi-Wan were to find out about this plan he would be in for a major lecture but he couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment. He couldn’t stand to see the old man look so miserable, not if he can do anything about it. 

Ahsoka crossed her arms and followed her Master’s gaze. Something was clearly different about her Grand-Master. He had put his full attention into ending the war, which wasn’t new. However, she could tell something was off. He no longer came out to the landing zone to greet returning fighters, stayed away from the meditation and training centers as well as the Jedi Archives which was the most off-putting observation considering that was where he spent most of his time.

Anytime someone needed to find Obi-Wan Kenobi, the first place they would check was the ancient history section of the Jedi Archives. 

“I don’t know why you find so much interest in these old books Y/n/n,” Obi-Wan complained from across the table. “Can’t we go practice our lightsaber skills instead?” 

You smiled. “Nuh uh, mister. If I won the wager you promised to sit with me during my reading time. Now shush, and read.” You pushed the unopened textbook toward the pouting Padawan. “Maybe you’ll actually learn something.” 

Obi-Wan stuck his tongue out in a childish manner, sighing dramatically when you gave him a certain look and reluctantly opened the cover and began to read Tales of The Old Republic. 

Safe to say from that point onward, Obi-Wan would join your daily Archive visits with zero complaints. 

You close the book, careful to make sure no pages fell out and gently push it back into its place on the shelf. Using the force, you carefully push the ladder you were currently standing on over to the next column and begin nitpicking through the array of old texts. 

It took a few days for you to settle in and readjust to the Jedi Temple life. Once you had, however, things quickly took a turn. 

Master Yoda requested that you help train some of the younglings who were having trouble advancing into the next stages of becoming a Jedi. In all honesty, you much rather have had the freedom to roam for at least one more week, but the new role presented an excuse to not be around a certain blue-eyed Jedi. 

“Looking for something?” 

The voice startled you, causing you to jump and lose your balance on the ladder. You yelp as you begin to fall towards the ground, bracing yourself for the hash impact and the bruises that would add to the collection on your side still currently healing.  

Instead, you feel a pair of arms catch you, one under your back and the other behind your knees in a classic bridal style. The hold felt secure instantly, and you instinctively clung to the tunic of your savior. You look up to thank the person for preventing any injuries, but the blue eyes staring back at you made your mind go blank. 

Obi-Wan stared back, unsure of what to say. This was the closest he has been to you since you left a decade ago. He longed to have you in his arms, to hug you, to regain that safety net you provided he knew he could always fall back on.

“Um...thank you, General.” It came out as more of a question, your mind still reeling from almost falling and also the fact that the man who you had been actively avoiding just happened to be in the same place you spent hours of your youth together. 

“Obi-Wan, please. No need for formalities, darling.” The old nickname slipped out, and he was about to apologize when he noticed the light blush that spread across your face. Perhaps not everything about you has changed. 

“Right...Obi-Wan. Well, I’ll be on my way then,” You rushed, trying to pass by him but he stopped you once again by the call of your name. 

“Y/n/n’s wait. Whatever game you’re playing, frankly I am not a fan of it.” Obi-Wan crossed his arms and furrowed his eyebrows. 

“What are you talking about?” You turned around and looked at him confused. 

“You were the one who summoned me here,” he stretched his arms out, “here I am and now you’re trying to run away again. I hardly think that’s fair.” He was beginning to get frustrated. He came in with his heart on his sleeve, ready to finally talk to you after so long and find out why you’ve been keeping your distance. Now, all he felt was betrayal and irritation at the ongoing dance you insist on doing around each other. 

He preferred to dance like you did in your youth, but alas this was nothing but another sign he needs to get mind out of the past.  

You scoffed lightly. “Again? What is that supposed to mean exactly?” You knew exactly what he meant, but you didn’t want to admit it. You’ve been denying it for ten years and Force be damned if you’d admit it now. 

“You’ve been avoiding me since your return--” You open your mouth to protest but he ignores you and continues “--and then you send the youngling to bring me here, only to try to flee upon my arrival,” He frowns, lifting his elbow and resting it on his remaining crossed arm. “I know our history can make things...difficult in the present time,” He glanced around cautiously as he spoke,”but I would appreciate it if we make an agreement simply to not speak from now on. No more games.” 

You blinked, head tilting slightly as you waited for him to finish. “Obi-Wan, I didn’t ask for you to come here. Nor would I ever involve younglings in personal matters.” He should know that, you thought. But should he really? 

His face fell from annoyance to embarrassment, his arms falling to his sides. “Oh.” He wasn’t sure what to do now. It was his own fault for getting his hopes up. I should have known better. 

You purse your lips and nodded slowly. “Well, I’m glad we at least came to an agreement. Goodbye, General Kenobi.” You took your leave, forcing yourself not to look back as you felt his eyes watching your figure. 

Obi-Wan let out a frustrated sigh, knowing he just ruined any and all changes of reconnecting with you. In his defense, however, you were the one avoiding his attempts at friendly conversation and refusing to meet and make up for lost time.  

Still, something didn’t feel right about this. 

“What the kriff was that?” 

Ah, there’s that something. “Anakin, please tell me this was not your doing.” 

Anakin smiled guilty, Ahsoka coming out from behind the bookshelf to stand next to her Master. 

“It was Snips' idea.” Anakin shrugged, flinching when he felt her punch his arm. “Ow!”

“You were the one who came up with the plan, and now look! Master Y/l/n and Master Kenobi will never get together--” Ahoska stops herself, realizing she said too much. “Oh no.” 

“I beg your pardon?” Obi-Wan looks at them both incredulously. “First of all, Master Y/l/n and I are simply…” he wanted to say friends, but even that was a reach at this point, “acquaintances. We knew each other in the past, and in the past our friendship shall stay. As for ‘getting together’, you both know very well any implication of that goes directly against the Jedi Code.” He crossed his arms tightly as he scolded. 

“I can tell you harbour feelings for them, Obi-Wan. You don’t need to lie to us.” 

“Whatever feelings I may or may not have for Y/n are unrelated. You must understand your responsibilities as a Jedi. No matter what emotional sacrifice we must make.” He made a point to look at Anakin at the end, knowing he won’t follow the implication but at least hoping he’ll get the message.     

“We’re sorry, Master.” Ahsoka looked down in shame not at what they had tried to achieve, but at the cost and clear damage they caused. 

Obi-Wan sighed, running a hand over his beard before resting it on her shoulder. “It’s alright young one. You meant no harm. Perhaps some things are better left forgotten.” 

Oh, if only it were that simple. 

A Padawan approached the three of them quickly. “Excuse me, Master Yoda sent me to tell you he and Master Y/l/n are waiting for you all in the council room.” 

Of course, these things never are. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

heres a box to put your heart pieces in  -> []  :) 

Taglist: @queenariesofnarnia @dwarfplanet69 @katsukink @blondekel77 @generousrunawaydonut @fandomtrashwhore @fortheloveofaqueenfan @mrskenobi19 @mellowstatesmanhandsempath @hotleaf-juice @emiijemii @neji85 @doctor-warthrop @ayamenimthiriel @lizzy-95 @lovelylostminds 

[tsukikento]

Empathetic Chapter 18

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

Summary: After your mom, the number 1 hero in America, gets offered a teaching position at U.A., you two pack up your things and head to Musutafu, Japan to start a new life. Pressure for you in America was at an all-time high, and now you’re in Japan, where almost no one knows you, or your family’s past.

This tale starts on your first day of class where your new teacher decides the best way for you to fit in is to fight against the strongest person in your class: Bakugou Katsuki.

Warnings/Genre: This piece will feature some angst and reference to an abusive parent, if you are ever worried about other tw’s feel free to send me an ask and I will let you know. There will also be fluff, slight angst, pining, and slowburn.

A/N:  Usually, my chapters are ~5000 words, but this one is less than 3500. However, that is because I wanted to end the chapter here! I hope you guys enjoy some of this glorious fluff with a short explanation to the reader's backstory. There is more to come and unfortunately it with be rather angsty.

(series masterlist)

You didn’t know what to say and Aizawa didn’t expect you to say anything. He gave you a few moments for the concept to sink in and then he began speaking again.

“Your mother is already on a plane back to the United States. She is in contact with your siblings and even tried calling you a few times.” He paused, debating his next words carefully, “Our goal is to have him think you are still in America. Your family is arranging for there to be a record of you at your old school. Your mother left in hopes to convince your father that she rushed home for you.”

You nodded meekly. It’s not like anything will change if I speak up.

Aizawa sighed. “We are working on our end to get rid of your trace here, but we believe overall that it is safest for you to stay here on campus, surrounded by heroes. What this entails is that you will not be in the limelight at all. You will stay training under me, you will not go out on missions where the public can see you, and you will not participate in the sports festival.”

Aizawa sat down next to you, trying to be as considerate as possible in such a difficult situation.

All you wanted to do right now was call your mom and siblings. You wanted to hear their voices, hear the truth from them, and then have their soothing voices tell you it would all be okay.

“I’m sure you want to talk to your family right now,” Aizawa began as if he was the one who could read your mind, “But you can’t.” He once again rubbed his eyes in irritation at the problem. “If you call them, your number will show outgoing calls from Japan to the United States.”

“I understand,” You solemnly replied.

“However, tomorrow morning, I will be calling your mom with the intention to talk to her about the situation and missing class,” Aizawa explained. “Come to my office half an hour before class and you can talk to her.”

You nodded, trying to comprehend just how important and serious this topic was.

“I don’t expect you to be amazing in class,” Aizawa elaborated, “I know this is a tough situation. However,” He looked into your eyes, “I want you to be there and I want you to keep fighting for your hero education as this gets sorted out.”

You nodded.

Aizawa stood up. “Now, go to bed, get some rest.”

You nodded a final time. “Thank you,” Your meek voice responded, bowing slightly because you knew it was the polite thing to do. You made your way back to the dorm as Aizawa followed behind you.

When you entered, you saw Ashido and Kirishima now in the room with Bakugou, Kaminari, and Sero. However, no one else was there anymore. Briefly, you wondered if your friends, particularly Bakugou, yelled at everyone to get lost.

“Have a good night,” Aizawa said as he left you, closing the door behind him.

Frankly, all you wanted to do was go up to your room, sleep the night away, and talk to your mom in the morning. You hoped everyone could respect that.

Ashido was the first to approach you. They had all been sitting at the usual spot on the dining table. The load wooden chair creaked against the wooden floor, surely adding another scratch to the collection. She rushed over to you and pulled you in quickly for a hug.

It was brief, mainly because you didn’t hug the pink girl back, and she pulled away in concern.

She looked deep into your eyes, unsure what to say.

With the utmost concern and care she could muster, the girl simply asked, “Are you okay? Do you want to be alone?”

“I do,” You mumbled out quickly.

“Of course,” She immediately replied, turning to lead you up to the dorms. She was your escort, and she would make sure no one, not a single soul, bothered you.

As you walked, your eyes wandered to the group. Most of your friends were standing at the edge of the dining room, too scared to enter. Bakugou, on the other hand, stayed in his chair, his eyes never leaving yours.

He looked at you with a serious face and motioned for you to take out your earbud.

You listened and took out one.

Are you okay? You heard his thoughts, much more apparent than anyone else’s, ask.

Not wanting to lie to the blond, you shrugged. You didn’t want to hear anything else, especially because most people’s thoughts were focused on your own situation. You popped the earbud back in as your rounded the corner to the hallway that led to the elevator.

Time passed numbly as Ashido ushered you to your bedroom.

“I’m going to fill up your water and bring you a couple of granola bars in case you get hungry,” She paused to look at you, “Do you need anything else? I could wake you in the morning for class if you’re going.”

“No,” You smiled, “I appreciate you.”

“Of course.” Mina’s tone was much more calm than usual. “Even if I am asleep, feel free to text, call, or bang on my door till I wake up, okay?”

You laughed, “I will.”

Your door shut. You sat down. Minutes later you heard the clink of your water bottle be pressed against your door.

A vibration.

I left it outside your door <3

On your phone were multiple calls and texts. A few from your mom, a few from Aizawa, and a few from Momo and Iida, the class representatives.

You clicked on each, ridding yourself of the red notification bubble. Sighing, you got up to grab your water before going back to bed.

You snuggled yourself into the duvet and attempted to play some videos to distract yourself.

You felt tears prick your eyes multiple times through the night until you finally fell asleep.

~~

When you woke up, you were sweaty. You already had been, but this fresh sweat was most likely the result of a nightmare you already couldn’t remember. Your mouth was dry, and you immediately moved to grab your water. You gulped down half your water in only seconds, thankful that it was filled by Ashido.

It was still dark outside so you grabbed your phone to check the time.

2:19.

If anything you were only asleep for an hour. It had been difficult to fall asleep in the first place, but now it seemed you were being plagued with nightmares.

You pondered if it was better that you didn’t remember what you dreamt. Part of you wished you could.

You sighed into your empty room.

Knowing yourself, if you fell back asleep, you would have the same nightmare.

Maybe I can distract myself for a little bit and try to fall back asleep later.

You looked around your darkroom. But what to do?

Sighing, you stood up from your bed and began grabbing your toiletries. You were much too sweaty for your liking and assumed a nice shower would help calm you down.

Quietly, you slipped downstairs, not using the elevator because you knew it would ‘bing!’ when the doors opened and closed.

Thankfully, the living room and dining room were empty. Your bare feet padded against the hardwood as you made your way to the showers, trying to keep quiet in case anyone heard.

You entered the bathroom, lights switching on immediately due to the motion sensor, and placed your belongings onto the sink counter. You turned to one of the stalls and switched it on before returning to your belongings. As the water heated up, you grabbed your essentials and flung your towel across the tile walls that separated each shower stall. You took off your earbuds and placed them securely into a cloth pouch you attached to your basket.

You peaked around the room, ensuring no one was there, before quickly peeling off your sweaty clothes. You rushed to your stall, closing the curtain, and sighing into the security of a warm water stream.

You took your shower slowly.

You spent your time massaging your head as you applied shampoo. You exfoliated your legs carefully, getting every inch and letting your thoughts fall down the drain with the soapy water. Your mind was clear, and you numbly followed each step meticulously.

It was when you were just about to wash the conditioner out of your hair and get out of the shower that you heard the door click open.

Whoever entered, disturbing your peace, let their heavy toiletries basket fall onto the counter.

I can’t fucking believe it!

It was Bakugou.

Someone else is showering at this time when I wanted to be all alone.

You debated telling him it was you, curious to see if knowing it was you would ease his anger. However, he would also know you could hear his thoughts in these moments.

He turned on the shower that was two away from you. You heard him sigh and pictured the blond rubbing his eyes in frustration.

His thoughts flickered over multiple subjects in the span of seconds. With many people asleep, thoughts were quiet. Bakugou being so close made it easier for you to focus on his thoughts but did not stop your head from hurting slightly.

You weaved around his thoughts, pushing away the passive ones that were simply about turning on the shower, grabbing his shampoo, body wash, and conditioner, and entering the shower. You moved away from his frustration, searching for something more.

Y/N.

More.

Is she okay?

More.

I wonder if she was able to fall asleep.

More.

I wish I ignored stupid pink hair and just went to visit her.

Fuck.

“Bakugou.”

A wave of shock when through him. After a few swears within his head, he finally replied.

“Y/N.” A short pause, “Didn’t I tell you to call me Katsuki?” Another pause, “For practice, I mean.”

You chuckled, running your hair under the water. “No, Bakugou-san, I don’t think you ever did.”

“Tch.”

You heard him open a bottle.

“Well, you can,” He finally said, his voice annoyed, but his thoughts telling you it was a façade.

You didn’t bother replying. Instead, you turned off the water and ringed out what water you could from your hair.

“I’m fine by the way,” You said, interrupting the silence.

You could tell Bakugou wanted to ask some questions, but his thoughts were not directed to you. They were not specifically asking so you didn’t say anything.

You dried off your body and wrapped the large towel around your body before realizing you didn’t bring any spare clothes.

Even worse, you slipped your clothes off and just left them out there. At least, you were smart enough to throw them into your basket of toiletries. Despite that sliver, if silver lining, you still needed to wash your face, brush your teeth, and put some products into your hair. There was no way in hell you were going to put your sweaty clothes back on that you ran in.

Maybe if I work quickly… you reasoned as you secured your towel best you could and proceeded to the sink.

The silence allowed you to work quickly, washing your face and applying products to it while Bakugou simply showered, thinking about how to ask you whatever it is he wanted to ask.

“Can you still hear my thoughts?” He asked out of the blue. Or, at least, it would have been if you didn’t hear his thoughts prior.

“Yes,” You replied as you applied a heavy glob of rose water gel cream to your face and neck.

“Then why aren’t you answering my questions? I know you can hear them?” He inquired.

“Your thoughts are different when you are thinking them and actually talking to me,” You explained, moving on to rapidly put lotion on your exfoliated body. “I don’t answer because they aren’t for me.” You paused, unsure how to phrase this next part, “I don’t want to interfere with your thoughts, I just can’t wear my earbuds when I’m soaking wet.”

His water shut off.

His water shut off and you still had things to do.

You checked your towel, rolling the top over a few times for maximum security.

“You might as well just answer them,” He explained. His green towel disappeared, his hand swiftly grabbing it from the tile walls.

“I’d rather you ask me what you really want to know,” You shot back, “I am not inclined to explain a difficult situation to someone without enough balls to actually ask.”

You could hear Bakugou scoff at the comment.

“No offense,” You added.

A chuckle. “None taken.”

He opened his curtain and stepped out. The blond was wrapped in only a towel, much like yourself, except this one hardly clung to his hips.

You looked away, looked anywhere else, and kept working. Next, your hair.

“It’s fine, you can look,” He teased.

It was a bold comment, but you could tell he was nervous to say it and just as nervous to look at you.

“I could say the same thing,” You looked into his eyes, cautious of his expansive chest. You pointed at your head, “Remember?”

“Tch, how could I forget?” He said, meeting you at the large sinks.

“You should have brought clothes,” You said, continuing the conversation and purposefully moving it away from tonight’s events.

“I could say the same thing,” He repeated, mocking you.

You laughed lightly, “I thought I would be alone.”

“So did I!”

You paused, “Yeah, well I got some pretty bad news tonight so you can’t be angry at me.”

The conversation stopped. Bakugou was tentative to say anything.

“You want me to tell you that badly, huh?” You questioned, looking at him through the mirror.

“You don’t have to,” He quickly replied.

“I know.”

You were done. Teeth brushed. Face fresh with lotion. Hair oil on. You turned to lean against the counter and watched the blond as he brushed his own teeth. You folded your arms, more so for the security of your towel, and for the comfort it would provide you.

“And just so you know,” You began, “I’m not telling you this because I crave attention.”

Bakugou gave you a look, not bothering to reply.

You bit your lip debating where to start. As you thought, your eyes looked over Bakugou’s body, admiring his strict diet and workout regimen. It’s really doing him wonders.

You caught Katsuki’s eyes, and he smirked, knowing exactly what you were doing. He didn’t pressure you to start your story and instead simply looked back into the mirror.

“Anyways,” You began, “My dad broke out of prison and he’s probably going to come looking for me.” You wanted to tell this story quickly, much like how one would rip a band-aid off quickly. “My mom is going back to the United States, and I am staying here because it is safest. However, I can’t do certain things,” You paused, “Like compete in the sports festival, or call anyone.”

Bakugou looked at you, your story clearly processing in his mind. He opened his mouth but closed it after a few moments. You knew what he was going to say though.

I’m sorry you can’t compete in the sports festival.

Albeit a little off-topic, you could tell the comment was coming from a good place. He had been training with you for weeks now in preparation. He also knew that it would be your opportunity to get an internship. However, now there was no possibility of doing that.

After deciding not to say such an oblivious statement, he was unsure what to do.

“It’s fine,” You finally said. “You don’t need to console me of anything.” You sighed, “It’ll be tough, but they will eventually get him, and everything will go back to normal.”

An awkward silence filled the room. Although, it wasn’t silent for you. Bakugou’s mind rushed with thoughts, the most prevalent one being—

“Is he where you got your quirk from?” Bakugou asked.

“Yes,” You answered before adding, “But his abilities are much more fleshed out than mine. He is able to manipulate feelings so strongly, and for so long that it’s basically mind control.”

Not wanting to elaborate, or go into your family history anymore, you began packing up your belongings. Bakugou also seemed ready to go as he began doing the same things.

Motioning to the blond, you finally put your earbuds back in. “You’re free,” You joked, enjoying the silence.

Bakugou snorted through his nose and grabbed his things. He held the door open for you and you each made your way to the elevator. You pointed to the elevator and stairs, silently asking him which one he would rather take.

Bakugou answered by leading the way up the stairs, walking slow enough that you were still able to keep up.

“I’m glad I ran into you tonight,” Bakugou said, breaking the silence. His voice echoed through the hall, making your heart flutter. “I was really worried honestly,” He added, worsening your nerves and making your face heat up.

When you didn’t reply, the blond turned to look at you. He immediately saw your red face and began to get red himself. His lips formed a fine line as he tried to remain serious and not smile.

“Don’t look at me like that!” He exclaimed, turning back around, and speeding up.

“What do you expect me to do?” You replied, “You started it.”

Bakugou scoffed, opening the door to your floor. “Yeah, but I didn’t look at you like—” He wasn’t sure what to say and gestured at you— “That!”

“Like what?” You shot back as you each walked to your rooms.

“You know,” Bakugou grumbled, his face becoming even pinker than it already was.

“But what if I don’t?” You questioned.

“I know you know,” He said, looking at you finally. “Of course you know with how I’m reacting.” Bakugou scowled at you and pouted his lips. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

You smiled brightly and the blond and nodded your head. “If it helps at all,” You began, “I’m glad I ran into you too.”

Bright red.

He was as red as his eyes.

You smiled even wider, happy to know you could make him react that way.

Before he could close himself away into his room, you decided to add insult to injury.

“It was also really reassuring having you with me when we first got back,” You paused, thinking about what to say. “It may be small, but you really helped me at that moment, especially when you moved me around.” Although you were doing this to get a reaction out of the blond, it was also an embarrassing moment for you. Neither of you was outright saying that you liked the other, but you were getting quite close to it. “I’m also really glad you yelled at everyone to leave so it wasn’t super crowded when I got back.” You thought for a moment, “At least I think you did.” A smile graced your face that would have anyone starstruck.

Bakugou stared at you like a deer in headlights. His eyes were wide, his face was red, and he could hardly move. It felt rather funny, each of you standing there in only a towel as you proclaim something so personal. Your arms held onto the top of your towel and Bakugou’s hung loosely by his hips.

For a moment, you imagined the garb falling off. It was a hilarious image and you knew the both of you would be nervous, but the way it hung really teased the idea of it.

It took a few moments, in which he stared directly at you, for him to regain his motor skills. With a ‘Wshh!’ of the door he was gone, tucked away in his small dorm.

You smiled to yourself, happy with how tonight played out. Even if your family was fighting for you, even if you had to fear your father showing up at any minute, it felt good to have a silly little high school romance. It made your life feel normal, it made your heartbeat incessantly, and it made you crave more time with the stubborn blond who stole your heart.

Once back in your room, you bit your bottom lip, trying to tame your smile. You change into some pajamas and make sure your alarm was set for the next day. You didn’t need to work out, but you needed to get to class early so you could talk to your mom. You were happy, really happy. Despite everything, your day was an overall great day and you knew it was all thanks to Bakugou.

[semper-legens]

72-5. Bloodborne Comics, by Kt, Kowalski, and Simpson

Owned?: Yes Page count: Unknown, not numbered My summary: The Hunt has begun. Foul beasts stalk the streets of Yharnam, the victims of the ashen blood plague. But is it enough to just survive the hunt? The Hunter seeks paleblood to transcend. The scientist and the priest seek answers. The Crow seeks her past. And when the veil is torn asunder, one traveller seeks the mysteries of the universe itself… My rating: 5/5 My commentary: 

I’m back on my bullshit being in too deep about Bloodborne, and part of that is rereading these Bloodborne comics. Reader, I love Bloodborne to bits, I love its world, its characters, its story. And three out of four of these comics are an exemplification of why! The dark tone, the complicated plot structure, the enigmatic characters...I can’t get enough. Just a shame about the last one, really.

The first comic, The Death of Sleep, is excellent. It’s exactly what I’d want from a Bloodborne comic - the tale of a hunter, fighting and struggling against the beasts, protecting all that should be protected and trying to solve the mystery of Paleblood. It takes place a little before the game’s continuity, and appears to be a hunter previous to our player character. The story is mysterious, with no easy answers, and yet mimics a player winding their way through this world. I love the detail that the hunter’s gender is never specified and not important - when asked by Iosefka, the hunter even replies ‘I am a hunter’. And the child is the perfect balance of creepy, mysterious and sympathetic.

The Healing Thirst is also excellent. It’s the story of a priest in the Healing Church and a Yharnam scientist, before the events of the game, trying to figure out how to stop the Beast Plague. Both characters are interesting and sympathetic, and really shine a window into what life in Yharnam was like before everything went to hell. (Only some things have gone to hell!) One thing I appreciate on this reread is the balance of sympathies switching - the priest starts out kind of an asshole and ends up kind, while the scientist starts out noble and ends despicable. It’s a well-told, self-contained story, and I really enjoyed it.

I’m gonna lump the last two together, because I’ve figured out why I hate the latter - structurally, they’re very similar. Disjointed moments from the life of a character as things get weirder and more eldritch around them, revealing small nuggets of information about that character and showing parts of their stories. The difference is that A Song of Crows, is about established Bloodborne character Eileen the Crow, whereas The Veil, Torn Asunder is about Some Guy. And that’s the problem. These comics are for Bloodborne fans, and a Bloodborne fan probably wants to know more about Eileen and her story. The small glimpses of her life we see are tantalising, hinting at her place in the wider universe. I don’t care about Some Guy, and there’s not enough information about him here for me to care. Unlike Eileen’s story, in which I’m already invested because of the game. It’s such a shame, a poor ending for an otherwise stellar series.

Next up, back to Ancient Rome, for gladiators and murder!

[underworldobsessed]

I Don’t Intend to Suffer Any Longer ll Extra Fic! Bo-Katan Week Day 7: Free Day

Title: I Don’t Intend to Suffer Any Longer Rating: T Ship: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Satine Kryze Characters: Bo-Katan Kryze, Satine Kryze, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Luke Skywalker Series: This Life is Mine (Bo-Katan Week 2021) Collection: Obitine Cave Fam Summary:  Bo-Katan knows that when she doesn't feel safe, she doesn't sleep. She so rarely feels safe, that even visiting her sister's family on Tatooine leaves her feeling unsafe and refusing to sleep. However, on this particular trip, that changes. ll Extra fic for Bo-Katan Week Day 7: Free Day Author’s note: So this is actually based on a roleplay universe a bunch of my friends and I created, and I got permission from them to create a little fanfiction universe based in it. I adore the AU we created and I'm so excited to bring this world into my writing. Also, I felt kinda bad that my last day of Bo-Katan week was smut, so here’s an extra fic for all of you Bo-Katan fans!! I had a blast with this week! Thank you all for sticking with me!

Tagging: @bokatanweek

Read here or under the cut

Bo-Katan got the ship ready to land as she lowered into the atmosphere of the most backwater planet she could think of; Tatooine. She never understood why both Satine and Obi-Wan chose this planet to settle down on, and raise their young adopted son; Luke. It kept them safe, which to her, was the most important thing.

Yet despite all of it, she never felt safe enough to get rest while she was there.

She still felt uncertain with Obi-Wan, still trying to get accustomed to working with a jedi like him. Her sister knew this well, which was while she questioned it, she never judged her sister for not  sleeping while she was on world. It was something she wished she could do, but sleep never came to her while she was there.

Wherever Bo was, if she didn’t feel safe, she wouldn’t sleep or her sleep would be plagued with nightmares. Even places she had been dozens of times, like the main Nite Owl base could cause her to become anxious and prevent her from sleeping. If they got a new member, or if they had recently had a close call. She became used to working on limited sleep, if she ever slept in general.

As she landed on the created landing platform, she picked up her helmet off the console. She would only hope her sister didn’t see that she had bags under her eyes from the stress she was under and sleepless nights. She hid a yawn as she walked down the ramp, only to get slammed into by a four year old, seeing her sister and her husband walking up towards her.

“Auntie Bo!” She smiled despite her exhaustion, lifting Luke up to set him on her hip. She pressed a kiss to his head. “Welcome home, Auntie Bo!”

Her heart warmed at the greeting, still unbelievable that she had a home that wasn’t a military base. Her sister and family actually had a place for her to stay, and wanted her there.

“Hello, Bo.” Satine walked up and wrapped her arms around Bo to try and hug her without crushing Luke. “How long are you going to be here this time?”

“I’ve got three days of leave before I have to return to base.”

“Awww,” Luke whined as Bo set him down. “Why can’t you stay longer, Auntie?”

“I’ve got people to save, kiddo.” She didn’t want him knowing just what she was doing when she wasn’t on world. At least not while he was this young. She knew her sister would frown at the consideration that she wanted to tell him of violence. Best not to let her know that she was planning on buying him a dagger for his birthday this year. She got one when she was this young from her parents, so it wouldn’t hurt to get him one as well.

He pouted but hurried into the cave where he lived. Obi-Wan smiled at Bo, clapping a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m glad to see you in one piece, Bo-Katan.” He smiled “Perhaps once Luke goes down for the night, you can tell us about what you’ve been doing and the progress on Mandalore.”

“Of course,” She promised as she followed them inside. On the table was already a full meal prepared. She was still not used to someone preparing a meal like this for her. She typically made herself something quick and easy, or just resorted to eating rations to get buy. A real home cooked meal like this was rare for her. Not that she was complaining necessarily, and she knew Satine had become a relatively good chef in the time since they were younger.

They all took their seats at the table, Luke making sure to sit next to Bo. She knew how much the kid missed her and she had to admit, she missed him too. It killed her to be off world more and more, finding less chances to come back and visit her family. At least for now, this was the way it was going to have to be.

“Is Korkie gonna come visit us anytime soon?” Luke asked, and Bo sighed. She looked over at Satine, who was pointedly not looking at her anymore, but she knew she was listening. Satine had still been keeping Korkie’s true identity a secret, but she always worried about the state of her son now that he had joined the Nite Owls in their fight to reclaim Mandalore.

“He wanted to join me this time, but he went on a supply run and won’t be back on base for another few days.”

“Oh…” Luke pouted as he took a bite of his food, before launching into a description of what he had been up to for so long since she had come to visit. The story was disjointed, but Bo could keep up fairly well. She listened to his story, smiling to herself as he went. She caught that he was making friends with some of the other kids, though always under the watchful eye of Satine when they went out. They had been to Mos Eisley a little bit more frequently, but lost what they did there in his rapid talking.

“Luke, you need to not talk with your mouth full,” Satine chided him, and at least he had the chance to look a little sheepish as he stopped talking briefly to eat a few bites.

“Sorry, Mamma.” He said, and Bo could see that same stunned face she made every time Luke called her that. She knew that Satine and Obi-Wan had told Luke the story of his birth parents, of Anakin and Padme and all they had accomplished. She had almost expected Luke to stop calling them mamma and papa after that, but the affection of them as his parents remained.

She knew anything different would tear Satine’s heart apart.

“Let the kid talk, Satine, I’m here so infrequently. I want to hear his stories.”

Luke beamed and launched into another story, this one about his recent love of reading some of his mamma’s old books. Bo had been bringing Satine some old Mandalorian children’s tales that Satine would find appropriate to read for Luke so he could learn. She knew there wasn’t much she could do for Obi-Wan’s past, but had found books that he would approve of for him to read to Luke as well.

They had been trying to get him to learn Basic and Mando’a, and possibly Huttese as well though neither were fluent in that.

But it was a connection to his father nonetheless.

As dinner wound down, they retired to a seating area to continue talking. Bo had taken up a seat on the couch with Luke and was playing with his starfighter toys, engaged in a playful fight as Satine sat comfortably on Obi-Wan’s lap as she watched her sister interact with Luke.

Paying attention to this caused her to notice just how Bo’s movements started to become sluggish. Her eyelids lowered as Bo let the starfighter drop to her side.

“Auntie?”

Bo’s eyes opened briefly, and she looked over at her nephew.

“I’m sorry, kiddo.” She ruffled his hair, and picked the toy up to continue playing with him once again.

As they played, and eventually just sat as Bo started to read one of the books she brought for him. She felt Luke grow heavy against her and she smiled, her eyelids lowering as well. Her arm wrapped around Luke’s shoulder and her head slowly fell to rest against the armrest of what she was sitting on. It wasn’t long before both of them started to fall asleep.

Satine looked over at the couch and gently nudged her husband to look at them.

“Obi, look.” Satine’s voice was soft to try and keep from waking Bo by mistake. “She’s actually sleeping.”

“Forgive me, darling, but I would assume Bo-Katan would sleep, it is quite late.”

“Obi, in the years my sister has come to visit us, how frequently would you say she came to sleep?” When silence greeted her, she continued. “When she doesn’t feel safe, Bo won’t sleep. She knows she has nightmares, and knows they’re more common when she doesn’t feel safe, so she won’t sleep. The fact that she’s willingly fallen asleep means she’s finally starting to feel safe while she’s here.”

Satine looked once again at Bo, who seemed so much younger now that she was asleep. The stress had melted away on her face. While she knew that they were twins, Bo had been graced with a younger face, so she always reminded Satine of when they were children and Bo would fall asleep next to her.

Finally, her sister felt safe enough in the same place as her where she would willingly sleep like this.

The thought brought tears to her eyes, and she felt her heart warm.

“Should we carry them to bed?” Obi-Wan finally spoke up once again “I don’t want them to get a crick in their necks.”

“Don’t worry about it, Obi.” Satine reassured him. “Bo used to be able to sleep pretty much anywhere once she was comfortable. Besides, I don’t think she will be able to fall asleep once again if we accidentally wake her. Let them sleep. Luke will be happy to sleep close to his aunt since Bo is so rarely here.”

“I’ll get them a blanket.” He said as he went to the spare bedroom that Bo never used. In the meantime, Satine got up and went to brush her sister’s hair out of her face.

“I love you, Bo’ika. I’m so happy to see you finally feeling comfortable here. This is your home too and we will keep you safe so you can always get a full night’s rest while you are here.”

[fuchsiagrasshopper]

Falling Together Part IV

Author’s Notes: Here it is, the finale! What fun it was writing for this mini series, and now I can’t wait to embark on something else. Thanks to you lovely readers who made this a fun journey. If you have ideas on what you want me to write next, let me know in a comment or message. Enjoy!

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Word Count: 2977

Warnings: light angst

From his time as King of Kattegat, Ivar had taken many lessons from his failed ruling. He was intuitive, and would never make the same mistake twice. The people had followed him in battle, feared him, revolted against his crown until finally, he had crept away in exile. After all of that, there was one challenge he had never faced, and it was an illness.

The fever first started as a whisper,  maybe one or two elderly succumbing to a quick death. It was nothing out of the ordinary, and it had not caught the attention of the healers. But as able-bodied warriors began to grow weak and pallid, and children dropped weight, the alarm was raised. 

The first blow came when Hvitserk fell ill. He had shown signs during a discussion regarding the start of the fever, and now he was housed with the others in a large makeshift tent in the center of the city. The sick were kept away from the healthy, and only the healers came and went at their own peril. They tended to the infirm without complaint, even as it kept many of them isolated from their own families.

Ivar had heard stories of when the plague had crossed through Kattegat from Bjorn. A half-sister he would never know had been taken by the illness. He was reminded of this tale because of Hvitserk's condition. Fear was ever-present in his mind about losing his brother, and he had been passing along messages to the healers to take to him. Even though they refused to let him be by his side, he wanted Hvitserk to know he wasn't alone.

"We need to do something for the healers," You said, your voice bringing him back to the warmth of your chambers.

Ivar turned to you and watched you in silence. The occurrence of the fever had taken a toll on you as well. Memories of your mother's early death had been brought up in the still of the night as you lied together. Though he didn't have the words to comfort you, he had held you close, skin to skin, your air mingling together as you each took turns whispering soft things of care.

"Any provisions we don't need will go to them first," He said, coming to sit beside you on the bed. Dáire was sleeping against your leg, and Ivar ran his fingers through the dog's hair.

"I've written to Father, and he has agreed to send food and linens. We'll have to send men to retrieve the cart. I don't want outsiders risking coming through the gates."

You were calm and pragmatic in the face of turmoil, and Ivar was grateful to have you by his side. He leaned across Dáire, reaching for you to lay a quick kiss on your temple. You replied with a short laugh.

"What was that for?"

"For being strong. I have never dealt with illness among the people, but having you here has helped me with the difficult decisions."

You took his hand from your face and gave a kiss against his palm. "It's something we have to do, right? When the people suffer, we have to be strong."

You were strong, and with the both of you together, Ivar felt invincible. But there were the first signs of exhaustion creeping up. He felt it in his frail bones and saw it on your face. This was an invisible enemy, and no amount of brute force could be submitted. It was an isolating situation, helping the people from afar and relying on the information from the healers. The air in the city was reek from the sick, and the ground damp. Neither of you ventured out from the Great Hall unless it was of the utmost importance.

"Rest," Ivar told you, gentle but firm. "The people will need you."

'I need you' was what he wanted to say, but your eyes had grown heavy, and Ivar didn't like how warm your hand felt in his.

You agreed without complaint, and Ivar didn't mind that Dáire was nestled between you. He settled into sleep as well, for the few hours he could. He had been awoken in the night the past while by thralls or guards with updates on the illness, and he couldn't afford to squander a chance at rest. Turning to face you, Ivar pulled the furs over and let his eyes close, falling into a fitful sleep.

ooOOoo

It was still dark when your eyes shot open. Your chambers were filled with shadows in the small light of the candles that burned low. The season was late, but you were warm and covered in sweat. A sinking feeling woke you, something you had been trying to hide from your husband. In the past few days, your appetite had vanished, and an increasing malaise had taken hold. 

You jumped out of bed, jolting both Dáire and Ivar awake. An empty chamber pot was near, and you lunged for it, landing hard on your knees as you emptied your stomach. With your head buried, and your hair falling around your face, you couldn't make out what was happening around you. The room fell into chaos. Ivar was already shouting for a healer, and Dáire was running around, whimpering frantically.

"(Y/N)," Ivar called, combing your hair away from your face. 

You didn't know when he had joined you on the ground, but you pushed at his chest with a weak hand. "No, stay away. You'll get sick."

"I'm not leaving you," He barked back. "Nothing can stop that. We share everything together. I'm already at risk."

Dáire let out a growl at the guard that came into the room. He had two thralls and a healer with him, and they worked to separate you from Ivar. You were maneuvered back onto the bed, while one of the thralls took Dáire out from the room. Your husband refused to leave at the order of the healer, occupying the chair at your side with an immovable resolve. 

A cool cloth was draped over your forehead, and the healer was grinding down herbs for you to drink. You had lost control over what was happening, your body spent while everyone else spoke around you. Your head was stuffy, and you felt bloated even after retching.

"For the time being, you should room elsewhere, my King. And your wife should be put into isolation with the other sick," The healer said.

"No, she'll remain here with me," Ivar argued. "I will help look after her."

You felt the first drop of hot brew as the healer tilted your head up to drink the medicine. The taste was aromatic and bitter, and you hoped your empty stomach would be able to keep it down.

"How long has she been showing signs of the fever?" The healer asked Ivar.

"This is the first time I've seen her sick."

A wave of guilt washed over you for keeping your symptoms hidden. "It started a few days ago," You murmured.

You could barely make out what was being said by the healer, but you could see the anger and disappointment furrow Ivar's brow. Your marriage was a strong union and without lies. Downplaying your sickness had simply been about sparing him of the worry you now knew he felt. On top of Hvitserk being struck with the fever, and managing the concerns of the people, you didn't want to be his burden. 

When the guard stepped out, and the thralls were ordered around by the healer  Ivar took your clammy hand in his.

"If you weren't sick, I would be furious at you for your silence."

You smiled while running the cool cloth down your face. "That's unlike you to hold back. I like our arguments."

"Then I'll save it for when you are well again."

That was more on par with the Ivar you had come to know. From tales of his mother to the boat builder, Floki, you knew your husband struggled with loss. So he chose to deal in absolutes. He couldn’t fathom losing you from the sickness. 'When you are well', as if saying it aloud, it would keep you from death.

Your own mortality was not something you had considered until now either. When your mother had been taken by fever, she had still been young, and you wondered if she had thoughts about her own death before succumbing to it.

"I need to get word to my father that I've taken to bedrest," You said, pushing yourself up in bed.

"I'll help with that," Ivar said while easing you back down to rest.

It would be the first time Ivar would get to test his writing skills after your teachings. The thought would have made you happy had it been under better circumstances than informing your father you had taken ill.

The throbbing feeling was back in your head, and the fever made your eyes burn. You allowed your lids to shut, hoping to rest even if you were too worried to sleep. Thoughts of the people suffering weighed heavily on your mind, and you did not want to leave Ivar to deal with everything. You were aware that he was at your side, and you soon succumbed to the will of your body, falling into much-needed rest.

ooOOoo

"You look like shit," Hvitserk said, the first words Ivar had heard his brother say in person since he had been taken to isolating with the others.

The days had advanced, and so had Ivar's haggardness. More bodies had been piled to be burned in a massive pyre, and it was decided that once the fever was swept away, a celebration would be held for the dead. It was just one of few things Ivar had wanted to give back to the people. Their hope was clinging by a thread, and he struggled in your stead to keep it alive.

Many others had managed to fight off the illness, which included Hvitserk who was now on the mend. He was thinner from the ordeal, but his appetite had returned with a fierce need to prove he could still devour a whole chicken in one sitting. Ivar was pleased, if not disgusted, to witness his brother's return to form.

"Did you want something?" He asked around a mouthful of meat, indicating to the rest of the spread down the table.

Ivar shook his head while nursing his mead, which had begun to cool. "I'll eat with (Y/N) later."

"How is she feeling?"

Ivar frowned as his thoughts continued to swirl around that same thought for the past week. The last wave of the illness was ending with fewer people falling sick each day. You still remained on rest in your chambers, and while the fever had broken on you two days prior, you were still showing signs of illness.

"She's fighting," Ivar said shortly.

"(Y/N) is strong. I don't think the Gods would choose this to be her end."

If it was he would renounce them all...but he couldn't give in to such caitiff thoughts. You might not have shared the same Gods, but he preyed they would all grant you more time at his side. His days without you were endless, and though he had not spoken the words aloud, he knew he loved you. It was difficult to comprehend when it had happened, but it was a simple thing. With Freydis he had been besotted by her beauty but was embarrassed to find he didn't know what else he loved about her. His marriage to you was different. What started as a strange and loveless affair had grown into what he had always searched for. Perhaps it had been too easy, and now the Gods wanted to take you away. 

"I owe much to her father," Ivar said, thinking out loud his train of thought. "Without the extra supplies and medicine, our losses would be much higher."

"And how's he handling the news of his daughter's illness?"

The first letter Ivar had written to King Conall had been with your dictation, but what you didn't know was Ivar had continued to write to your father in his own words. He was the only other man who could understand his position, and Ivar craved the guidance and wise words he was able to provide.

"When he first heard of (Y/N) falling ill, he had wanted to come here, and damned the chance of catching the fever himself, but I persuaded him to remain away."

"I'm sure Ragnar felt the same way after he returned to find Gyda had passed," Hvitserk said, and it was the first time either of them had mentioned her name. "I wonder what she was like."

Ivar didn't. Dwelling on the dead was something he had done for so long after his mother's murder, and he could bring himself to do it again. He was comforted by the idea that Gyda was reunited with her mother and father in Valhalla, even if it meant peace for Lagertha.

"My King," They were interrupted by your personal thrall. She appeared rather giddy, which had Hvitserk tossing him a confused look. "The Queen requests your presence in your chambers."

"Is she well?" Ivar asked, bracing to stand on his crutch. 

"Aye, she is eating again," The thrall replied with a giggle. "Almost as much as master Hvitserk."

Hvitserk let out a belch and a chuckle. "Odin had heard you, brother."

Ivar refrained from allowing his relief to get the better of him, but he started for your chambers as quickly as he could propel his body. It was the first time in days he was approaching your shared room with excitement rather than dread. Seeing you spread out in the center of the bed with the furs pulled down to stave off the fever had weakened his heart. He took the words of your thrall with a grain of salt, deciding he would determine your state for himself.

He burst forth through the threshold the moment he reached it and was met with the strong smell of fermented fish. You were propped up with furs and cushions, a plate balanced on your lap. Dáire was perched up on his hind legs by your side as you tossed him a scrap of food.

"You're awake," Ivar said out of breath. 

"And you came all this way to see me," You teased with a tired but pleasant smile. "I missed you."

Ivar shut the door and came to sit on the bed. "I've hardly left your side."

"I know, but I wasn't aware of much that went on around me, and I must have made for dreadful company."

The only dreadful thing had been when watching the color fade out from your face as you slept through the fever. A warm glow was set upon your cheeks again, and it was the first time he'd seen you eat whole food.

"How is Hvitserk?" You asked, interrupting his reminiscing of terrible thoughts.

"He remains eating any extra provisions your father had sent to us," He explained, and you laughed at the answer. "I should grab a healer."

Your hand reached out and tugged on his sleeve, keeping him in place. "Hlíf was already here before you came. She thinks I've been free of the sickness for two days now."

"But you were sick this morning," Ivar said, not understanding the healer’s interpretation. 

"Yes, and that will likely continue for a time," You paused and breathed a small laugh. "I'm with child."

Ivar's strange first reaction was to look down at your stomach as if expecting to find a curve to your middle. It was too soon to tell by looking, but that didn't stop him from reaching out and placing a hand down on your warm belly.

"When did you find out?"

"The healer told me this morning, but I suspected it was possible as the fever faded, and I still was waking up unwell," You said, your hand joining his. "What are you thinking?"

So many things, yet his mind was quiet. There was fear that the child wouldn't survive long enough to be born, or worse it would carry his affliction. He couldn’t do to you what he did to Freydis, but he wondered if he would see his own child as a burden, much as Ragnar saw him.

"Ivar," You whispered, moving in close. "Come back to me."

He blinked, seeing the worried look appear on your face. "I'm afraid when I should be happy. What if this child brings nothing but disappointment?"

"Only if we let it. We cannot control our fate, and if we fall off one path we won't stop. We'll take a new one together, with our child. I don't believe this is a miracle or a blessing, it is just the result of us falling in love, together."

"I thought good Christians believed in those miracles," He murmured, while brought to ease by what you had said.

You wrinkled your nose in disgust. "No God should be so lazy, and they can't claim responsibility for every child born of one breath."

Ivar pulled you down beside him on the, and he was pleased by the surprised shriek you let out. "I'll make a heathen out of you yet."

"I love you, husband."

He'd held on for so long without the need for love, but now as you offered it, so safe and simple, he knew he would take it all. It was different than any other time before, not smothering or conniving. It was a tranquil pool he could wade into without the worry of squalls or tidal waves. Ivar was grateful you had both fallen together. 

"Of course you do, and I love you right back."

@peachyboneless

@didiintheblog

@soleil-dor

@zuxiezendler

@pieces-by-me

@xbellaxcarolinax

@heavenly1927

@everyartistwas-firstanamateur

@youbloodymadgenius

@xceafh

@shannygoatgruff

@tgrrose

@1950schick

@castielsangelsx

@rastakami23

[a-kind-of-merry-war]

Close Encounters

Oh, my.... is that... a Megamind fic?? Why I do believe it is!! 

Roxanne muses on an obsession from childhood, and a slightly embarassing tattoo. Megamind interrupts while she’s watching her favourite movie. A wardrobe malfunction requires two sets of hands to fix. Rated M, 7.5 words, contains alien pop-culture, swears, and being cut out of a really expensive dress.

Also available on AO3!

~ Look, Roxanne tells herself for the umpteenth time. You've always been into alien movies.

Still, she can't help but feel a little weird as she slides the DVD into the player. But dammit, this is one of her favourite movies and has been since she was a kid so she's going to watch it and she isn't going to feel guilty about it.

Much.

The DVD whirs as she heads into the kitchen and throws a packet of popcorn into the microwave. It begins to hum as she moves upstairs, shrugging off of her blazer as she goes.

Everyone has a weird obsession when they’re a teenager. It's expected. It's natural. She had friends who had gone through ghost hunting phases, tarot cards, cryptids. But none of those friends had found the object of their obsessions steadfastly following them into adulthood. Not literally, in any case.

It had started when she was a kid and her dad had brought a VHS collection of some old Sci-Fi show at a yard sale. She was immediately hooked. Next she tore through Star Trek, developing a deep fondness for the original series with its cheap sets and absurd acting. Her sisters thought she was mad, but she didn’t care.

There were times when she felt like her closest friends were extraterrestrials, secret agents and time travelers. In fact, during the first few months in college, she'd spent more time than she was ever willing to admit alone, binge-watching episodes of Doctor Who and The X-Files. They were comforting, like old friends, and they let her cling onto that hope - the hope of what if. What if there was something amazing out there, waiting for her. All she needed to do was reach out and find it.

That all changed after she'd made friends - specifically, once her British roommate had realised that “going to the library” actually meant “watching Daleks try to destroy the world” and had insisted she move her binge sessions into their room.

Soon, there were “I Want to Believe” posters above her bed. She saw every alien film that came out - and all the ones that had come before she was old enough to “get it”. She loved Contact, with its promise of great, unimaginable things, and the Alien series, even though she'd never been good with horror. She found herself drawn to the movies where the aliens weren't some unimaginable evil come to destroy the planet. There were enough things trying to destroy the planet as it was: panicking about some unknown alien threat felt redundant.

Avatar came out the year she graduated, while she was travelling. She and Fiona, the roommate, watched it in a tiny theatre in some small town in Florida. This was what Roxanne wanted - adventure, freedom, new worlds begging to be explored. She had blushed during the sex scene. Fiona teased her about that for weeks.

It was just after Avatar that she...well. She did what any graduate in their early 20s would do with a wad of birthday cash and an obsession.

If someone asked now, someone from her new life in Metro City, she'd say that she “lost her mind”. She knows that she should be calling it a regrettable decision, blaming it on the folly of youth, but honestly...she doesn’t regret it all that much. If it ever came out, she’d spin some tale about being young, impressionable, stupid, and say that of course she regrets her choices. She’d add something about believing we should learn from our mistakes instead of pretending they didn’t happen.

That would give her a good excuse not to get the damn tattoo covered up.

Before she moved to Metro City, before she was Roxanne Ritchi: Reporter, she didn't really care. But in the city, plagued with its rather unique troubles, she realised some things were better left under wraps. She stopped wearing bikinis, only bought one-pieces, and avoided anything too low cut in the back or arm. She dodged the crop-top phase of 2018 like a pro.

And now, standing upstairs in her room, finally free of her tailored-to-death work clothes, she lifts one arm and peers in the mirror at the little symbol that adorns her ribcage. It's about the size of a credit card, perhaps smaller, perfect for being hidden away and forgotten. She runs a finger over the black lines - it feels like it’s not even there. She wonders what everyone would say if they knew. She wonders what he would say.

But no one in Metro City will ever know. In fact, no one knows - no one apart from Fiona, and that was only because she needed someone to hold her hand and convince her that her bad idea might have actually been a pretty good idea. He will certainly never know.

The thought is… disappointing.

The whole thing is disappointing, really. Here she is, living the reality of all those films and TV shows she loves so much, while being stuck in a normal job in a normal apartment doing… normal things. Normal-ish.

She tries not to dwell on what sort of situation she would need to find herself in for Megamind to see it in the first place. She certainly isn’t going to start wearing crop-tops to work, and there’s only one other scenario in which him - or anyone, for that matter - might catch a glimpse of her bare ribcage.

She’s trying not to dwell on it. Trying, and failing.

Fiona still teases her about blushing during Avatar. She’s never actually told her friend - her best friend - about these new and lurid little imaginings, but she assumes Fiona knows regardless. She’s always been able to tell when Roxanne is crushing on someone.

From downstairs, the microwave pings, breaking her out of her thoughts. She throws on a pair of leggings and a baggy sweater and heads back down.

However weird her life may be, however guilty she feels about it - Close Encounters is still an excellent film.

An hour and a half later, she's curled up on the sofa, knees tucked up to her chin and the half-eaten popcorn abandoned beside her.

Every time she watches this movie, she promises herself she isn't going to cry, but now it's nearly over and she can feel her eyes welling up. Even the five notes - the little tune they use to communicate with the aliens - is making her feel teary. She wipes her eyes with her sleeve and gives a noisy sniff.

And Megamind bursts through the patio doors.

~

“Miss Ritchi, prepare to-”

She's crying. She's sat on the sofa and she's crying and there's smudged makeup around her eyes and she looks so sad and—

This is unprecedented.

“Megamind!” She scrambles for the remote, pauses whatever it is she was watching and hastily wipes her eyes with her sleeve, smudging her make-up even more. “Sorry, I'm just…”

She's blushing, now, and her eyes are red and watery. Evil Gods - what's happening? Has something terrible happened, did someone die, did…did she break up with her insufferable superhero boyfriend?

“I...uh…are you...okay, Miss Ritchi?”

She sniffs and wipes at her eyes again with an exaggerated blink, trying to quell the tears.

“I'm fine! Really, I'm okay…” She stands up, “Uh...kidnapping?”

Megamind peers at her. He furrows his brow.

“Miss Ritchi, I have no intentions to kidnap you in this...in this state!”

She seems insulted. “I mean, I was going to go and fix my makeup, but—”

“What? No! Obviously, you're upset and…”

And what? And he would never kidnap her if she was feeling vulnerable? That he'd never want to be the thing that pushes a ‘bad day’ into a ‘shit day'? That he's come to her apartment, just a few times, to find her weepy or upset or asleep and he's simply turned around and called the whole thing off?

He doesn't need to finish that sentence, thankfully, because she cuts him off with a laugh, loud and jarring.

“Upset? No, no: I'm not upset!”

“But…” he gestures vaguely at her face, “the crying!”

“Oh!” It's like she's only just realised that there's tears falling from her eyes, “No, it's just...this movie always makes me cry!”

“Then...why watch it?” He asks, baffled.

“Because it's one of my favourite movies,” she says with a laugh, “and, you know, the crying is kinda nice. It's cathartic.”

“I… can't say I understand. Is this a human thing? I was under the impression that crying was bad? Something to be avoided?”

“Hah! It's a Roxanne thing. Loads of people watch movies that make them cry. Not everyone, I guess, but it's not weird or anything.”

“Uh-huh…”

“It's not like it's because I'm sad,” she continues, fiddling with the sleeves of her jumper, “it's just...it’s happy, sort of, and bittersweet and emotional so it really… gets to me. Like I said, it's my favourite movie.”

He isn't convinced. "You're crying because the movie is happy?"

She nods. "I guess? It's not a traditional happy ending, but… it's important. To me." She trails off, and he can't help but notice a pale blush spreading across her cheeks.

"What movie is it?"

Now she looks downright panicked.

“Look: I'm fine," She blurts out, the blush deepening, "let me run upstairs and put something more suitable on and then… kidnapping, right? That's why you're here, after all.”

“O...kay?” She's dodging the question, but he finds himself drawn along by her enthusiasm, so simply nods lamely and watches her skip up the stairs.

Finding himself alone in her apartment, he cautiously sits on the very edge of the couch and looks back to the TV. The remote lies next to him. Well, if she isn't going to tell him what she was watching…

He flicks the movie back on.

It's old - late 70s, he guesses. The scene playing appears to be some sort of military base, with personnel hurrying around in the dark. He hadn't pegged Miss Ritchi as a fan of military movies. He pulls the bowl of popcorn towards him and starts to absent-mindedly nibble on it when something unexpected appears on the screen.

A spaceship. It's comical, really, and extremely typical of a human's understanding of spacecraft; a standard flying saucer, covered in blinking lights and flashing neons. It's not a shape particularly well suited to space travel; he should know, after all.

He continues to watch, and now there's various humans milling about; some dressed in flight suits, some in variously inaccurate historical garb. There are reunions, apparently, between these people and those on the military base.

So Roxanne is watching some sci-fi movie? That's… unexpected. And she's crying, too. Is she… scared? That would explain the crying; he's not sure about the physiology of so-called "happy crying" but is well aware that humans cry when afraid. He's seen it himself, many times. Did she lie to spare his feelings? A horrible pit opens in his stomach and he freezes, one hand hovering above the popcorn bowl. Is she scared… of him?

It shouldn't be surprising. She should be afraid of him. Not just because he's a villain who threatens to throw her to the piranhas every few days, but because… he's scary. He knows he is; he's so other compared to the humans, even compared to Metro Man. It's natural to be scared of him. Watching scary movies isn't as strange as watching sad movies; he watches scary movies himself, although they very often fail to have the desired effect.

Maybe he should just… leave. This, clearly, is why she was hesitant to tell him what she was watching. She didn't want him to know that the idea of an alien threat upset her so much. She's always being brave, needlessly brave. He turns away from the television and takes a deep, calming breath.

CRASH.

From somewhere upstairs comes an enormous bang and the distinct sound of glass shattering.

He jumps up, sending the popcorn flying. All pretense that he might leave is gone, and before he’s thought about what he’s doing he’s leaping up the stairs and throwing the door to her room open and—

Roxanne is standing in the middle of her bedroom, pieces of broken mirror scattered around her feet, her hair a wild halo around her head.

“Megamind!” She flings out her hands - a gesture warning him not to come closer, not to step on the glass - and he realises that the dress she must have just put on is still open, revealing far, far more of her skin than he’s ever seen before. He can see her bra. He swallows, feeling his ears getting hot.

“Ah! I’m sorry; I heard the crash, I thought…”

And then he spots it.

~

Roxanne grabs her new deep purple dress out of the wardrobe then sets to work on fixing her smudged makeup. With horror, she realises that she didn't turn the TV off; just paused the DVD. Which means he could sit down, means he could see what she was watching, see what was making her cry…he's going to think she's completely insane. He's going to think she's some creepy alien fan-girl. She wouldn't be at all surprised if she goes downstairs and finds the DVD playing and the apartment empty. She makes a mental note to hurry.

Makeup fixed, she pulls off the sweater and yanks the purple dress over her head. She tugs at the zip underneath her arm, and—

It catches on the fabric.

Shit.

She tugs again, but the zipper is caught and it won't budge. She tries to pull it down, but that makes it worse. She swears under her breath, aware that she's wasting time, and decides to abandon the dress. She tries to pull it up over her head, but it barely gets over her chest, and the design means there’s no way she can wriggle it down over her knees.

Shit shit shit.

She pulls back into a reasonable position and catches herself in her mirror. Her hair’s a mess, her face is red, and staring at her in the mirror is the cheeky black outline of an alien face neatly framed between the two sides of her dress.

This will not do.

There’s a pair of nail scissors sat on her dressing table. She could just...cut the dress off. But it’s basically brand new, and it cost so much money: way more than she’d ever usually spend on a dress. And it’s a nice dress.

Okay, no. Cutting it off is the last resort.

She hops around the room, desperately tugging at the zip, muttering under her breath - come on, come on…

It moves. Just a fraction. Yes, yes! She gives it one huge tug - but it’s stuck again, and totally off-balance she stumbles backwards and crashes into the mirror which topples over and smashes, the glass shattering and skittering across the floor. She freezes. Fuck.

He's there in seconds. He comes bursting into the room in an obvious panic and she throws out her arms to stop him stepping on the glass – a pointless gesture, she realises, as he's wearing those damn leather boots.

He's there, standing in the doorway, breathing heavily and panic in his eyes and for a moment, neither of them say anything. He just… stares. And then, suddenly, he seems to realise that he's staring.

“Ah! I’m sorry; I heard the crash, I thought…”

He stops. His eyebrows twitch. His mouth hangs open around a half-finished sentence.

He’s seen it. There’s no way he hasn’t seen it. She could just… ignore the situation. Pretend she has no idea why he's suddenly found himself speechless, pretend there's absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about the few inches of skin currently on show.

“I… the dress… the zip’s caught,” she hazards, “I tried to get it up and I… fell. Into the mirror.”

He blinks. “Oh. Right.”

“I… ah… I’m kinda stuck, actually.”

"Oh?"

Roxanne sighs, knowing what she’s going to have to do next. "Look…" She says, "This is… I know this is weird but…" Oh god, oh god, "… Can you… help?"

"… help?" His voice is suddenly very small, very quiet.

She can feel her own face flushing now. "It's just… It was a really expensive dress and right now my only other option is to use my nail scissors to cut it off and I… I really don't want to do that. If I can help it."

"But… ah… you want me to help?"

She shrugs. "If… if it's not weird?" She spots the look on his face, and suddenly starts backpedaling. "I mean, you don't have to. It's… it's fine, I can probably figure it out myself…"

He swallows, heavily, then takes a cautious step forwards. An unseen shard of glass cracks beneath his boots and he winces - they both wince.

“So, the - the zip?” He hazards, and she can see where his ears are turning purple, the colour spreading across his cheekbones.

She nods silently, sure that if she actually speaks she’ll say something to only further incriminate her, and raises her arm, giving him access to the zip. He edges forwards, cautiously at first, then when it's clear she isn't going to jump away, with a little more certainty. He gently takes each side of the dress in his fingers and examines the fabric where the zip is stuck. The little alien - just three lines of black ink, indelible on her skin - peers back at him. He doesn’t say anything. Neither does Roxanne.

"The fabric here is caught in the zip," he mutters, finally, "we need to fix that…"

He pulls the two sides together again, aligning the zip, then gives it a tug. To Roxanne's shock, it moves; but not far enough.

“I need to..” He huffs through his nose, concentrating, “I need to get a closer look. Do you… I mean, can I..?”

Roxanne nods, silently, and then gently - oh so gently - he’s moving the fabric around to see where it's bunched in the zip. His fingertips - just his fingertips - brush against her skin. It sends a little shiver down her spine, making her heart race.

“It’s caught, here…”

He starts to fiddle with something - he’s too close for Roxanne to tell what, trying desperately to ignore the feeling of his fingers fluttering against the sensitive skin. He gives the zip another, cautious tug down - but it doesn’t move at all. He makes a little annoyed noise that’s almost cute.

“Um,” Roxanne begins, feeling a little silly, “is it…”

“Completely defective?”

She smiles. “I was going to say ‘fucked’, but - sure. Is it defective? Completely?”

He laughs. He actually laughs, and the sound only furthers the flush creeping up her neck.

“Well…”

“Shit.”

“You mentioned something about… scissors?”

Roxanne groans, instinctively moving away a little as she buries her head in her hands. “Fuck.”

He laughs again - which still sends her reeling - but doesn’t let the dress go, still peering at the zip.

“Actually…”

“What?”

“Well, I mean - I’m no stranger to, you could say… clothing malfunctions. If you can cut this along the seams, rather than where the fabric is caught… it’s salvageable, certainly.”

“Salvageable? Megamind, I can barely sew a button…”

“Oh, no! I meant… that is, if you want to…”

“... if I want to what?”

He takes a breath. “I’m sure Minion would be more than happy to assist. He’s bored of capes and spikes, though he would never tell me that, of course.”

Roxanne blinks. “Minion?”

“Oh, yes, quite the tailor.”

“You’re telling me that Minion makes all your… your capes, and suits, and things?”

“Well; yes! Of course! Who else would? I may be brilliant in most ways, Miss. Ritchi, but textiles are a little out of my grasp.”

Roxanne thinks. “I thought you just, I don’t know, had some sort of… Supervillain store you got all this stuff.” Saying it out loud, it sounds catastrophically stupid. “...Online, maybe?” She hazards.

“Hah! No, that would be far too easy. And far too traceable! No, Minion is more than capable… and, yes. He should be able to fix the dress. I mean. If you want him to - I understand, that might be somewhat odd?”

“No, I… Like I said, it was an expensive dress…”

“Well, then.” He takes a step back. “Where are the scissors?”

Roxanne takes stock, for a moment. She truly doesn’t want to ruin the dress… but surely this is a step too far. The film she can wave off, the tattoo cannot be ignored - no matter how hard they’re both trying - but giving Megamind her dress? So his henchman can repair it? It’s a step towards…

Towards something. She doesn’t know what. She wants to know what. She thinks of the tattoo, of twenty-something-year-old Roxanne, her obsession with things beyond her world. She wonders what that woman would say if she saw her like this: in her bedroom, alone, with an alien man offering to cut her out of her dress.

Oh, to hell with it.

“On the dresser,” she says, gesturing towards it with her head.

“Right.”

He picks his way across her room, avoiding the glass that still litters the floor, and finds the scissors amongst the mess of toiletries, make-up and various bits of junk on top of the dresser. Her heart is beginning to thunder in her chest, her fingers twitching nervously at her side.

He grabs the scissors, fiddling with them, snipping them open and shut.

“This will be easier if…” he mutters, and then, as Roxanne watches, he places the scissors back down and begins to remove his gloves.

Roxanne swallows as the black leather slides away to reveal long, slim blue arms. She realises, all at once, that she’s never actually seen him without his gloves on. It feels lewd, almost. Wrong. She resists the urge to avert her eyes, as if he’s undressing in front of her.

The first glove is removed and he flexes his slender blue fingers before moving to the other. She realises with a start that she’s staring, and quickly looks away, hoping he won’t notice the heat creeping up her neck.

When the act - dull yet obscene - is finally over, he picks up the scissors once more and walks to her side, taking another look at the fabric, looking for the best seam to cut.

“Here…” he says, and Roxanne can’t tell if she’s talking to himself or to her, “I can cut below the zip, then I can cut through the fabric of the zip itself, as that will need to be replaced anyway…”

His fingers play on the seams, the touch feather-light. He peels back the fabric again to better see the zip, and Roxanne can see the focus on his face. She rarely sees him like this - not up close, anyway - when he’s given a task to fixate on.

“Is that okay, Miss. Ritchi?”

She blinks. She’s barely been paying attention - too distracted by watching him work, by his skin on hers.

“I… yes?”

“Good. Okay, hold still: I don’t want to stab you…”

She snorts. “That makes a change.”

He freezes, then straightens himself so he can look her in the eye. He takes a moment - like he’s composing himself - before speaking.

“Miss Ritchi—”

“Roxanne.”

“What?”

“Call me Roxanne. Please. Considering the circumstances it only seems right.”

He looks at the scissors in his hand, then to her dress, then back to her face. “If anything,” he says, “this seems like a circumstance in which I should be calling you Miss Ritchi.”

“We’ve known each other for too long for you to call me Miss Ritchi, Megamind. It’s fine.”

“I’m don’t thi—”

“It’s fine.” He looks chastised - almost hurt. Guilt bites at her. “Sorry. I… you were going to say something?”

“It’s irrelevant.”

“No, it’s not. What was it?”

“Miss - ah - Roxanne. If you’re uncomfortable with me being here… I can go. It’s fine. I’m sure you’re capable of this,” he gestures at the scissors in his hand, “yourself. You can just… leave the dress somewhere and I’ll have a brainbot pick it up later. Or not, if you’d prefer.”

She frowns. “Megamind, I asked you for help.”

“Yes, but… you can change your mind. Tell me to leave. I don’t want you to think…” he trails off.

“Think what?” He doesn’t respond. “Think what, Megamind?”

“That I’m a threat.”

“What?”

"When you left I… I turned the movie back on." He says it like a confession. Roxanne’s stomach drops. Shit.

"Ah…" She chews her lip, "Look, I can explain…"

He shakes his head. "You don't need to explain anything, Miss Ritchi. I understand."

"You… you do?"

"It's… understandable. The way you… ah… the way you feel."

This is not what Roxanne is expecting. "You don't think I'm, you know. Weird? Or… creepy?"

He frowns. “I… what? No, no of course not. It’s… it’s only natural. I mean... ” He appears to be thinking, choosing his words carefully, “Considering what you’ve been… what I’ve put you through…” He rubs his hands together, nervously. “I understand.”

She blinks. “What?” She’s starting to feel like a stuck record.

“You don’t have to pretend, Roxanne. You don’t have to lie to me. And you don’t have to be brave, either.”

Roxanne has no idea what he’s talking about. “Brave?” She repeats, weakly.

He sighs, like she’s being deliberately obtuse. “I saw what you were watching. And, honestly, you claim that you were happy, or… or something, but I saw how upset you were, too. And… humans get upset when they're worried, or sad, or…” he looks away, looks at the floor, “scared.”

And then it all clicks into place - his hesitance, his uncertainty, the way he’d balked when she’d joked about him not stabbing her. For the second time, she feels horribly guilty. Guilty, but - confused. Almost amused. How could he possibly think she was scared of him when he can see the evidence of her borderline obsession staring him in the face?

“I don’t…” she starts, unsure, “Megamind, how… Why would I…” She stutters, tripping over her own words. "We can't… You can't just…" She starts wringing her hands in the air, "You can't just say that, while ignoring the… the fucking elephant in the room!"

Megamind seems unfamiliar with the phrase. It pulls him out of whatever thought he was having. "The what now?"

"The… oh, Jesus Christ, Megamind. The fucking…" She raises her hands to cover her face, her palms pressed against her eyes. "The tattoo!" She sighs, finally. "We both know you've seen it. I promise you, Megamind, I’m not scared of you. I’m not… trying to be brave, or spare your feelings. But how could you stand there, and see it, and still think that?”

“Well, ah - coping mechanisms, you know, and…”

She raises her eyebrows. “And?”

He sighs. “And… and the piece is fully healed, but the ink shows signs of spread. There’s patchiness, a sign of wear, where your clothes rub against it, which is typical of a piece that’s roughly…” he does a quick calculation, “ten years old? Give or take?”

She stares at him, dumbstruck, and he continues.

“You could have gotten the tattoo itself several years ago, before… all this, but haven’t been able to have it covered since coming to Metrocity. That would make sense, of course, as you’re you, and if word got out that you had… this tattoo, even if it was an old tattoo, then that would be… well, it wouldn’t be particularly good for your public persona, I think we can both agree.”

“I… yeah.”

“So.” He folds his arms across his chest like he’s just won the argument, “Like I said. There’s… an explanation. If one is needed.”

Roxanne chews on her lip. “That’s not… that’s not it, though. That’s not why I’ve not gotten it covered. I mean - there’s other cities out there, you know. I could have gone to another state…”

“I… suppose.”

“I’m not… all these things you think about yourself, Megamind, they’re not—” she suddenly realises she’s about to be horribly offensive, considering his career choices, and attempts to reign herself in, “You are scary. Sometimes! But it’s not because you’re an alien, it’s because of, you know, the death-rays and the laser guns and the continual attempts to kidnap me and take over the world! And even then, Megamind, even with all of that… I still trust you.”

“... Oh.”

“And, honestly? The tattoo? I can’t stand acting like it isn't there and like it isn't super weird, so if you're gonna say something or…" She swallows, "… or realise that I'm a complete lunatic and leave, then…do it now. Get it over with."

“You’re a lunatic?”

“I - well - well, yes! Probably!” She throws her hands into the air in frustration. “Megamind, you walked in on me sobbing because of a movie about aliens, and then - as if you needed further proof that I’m mad - discovered that I have an alien tattoo!”

“It is a little…”

“A little what? Weird? Creepy? I swear, Megamind, I never came to Metro City expecting this to happen, if that’s what you’re—”

“...Flattering.”

She chokes back whatever she was about to say next, the words suddenly forgotten. She feels her face turn red.

“Roxanne, I… I’ve been here - here on Earth, I mean - since I was a baby. It’s all I’ve known. And being like me…” he still has the scissors in his hands, and he begins to fiddle with them. “People are scared. Disgusted. Confused, angry, horrified… They see the head, and the skin, and the eyes, and, shit…” he chuckles, and Roxanne realises this is the first time she’s heard him swear, “and all the things that come with my biology that virtually no one knows about, and... perhaps they’re right to be scared. I’m not normal. I understand that.”

“But you’re not—”

“But I am. I don’t fit in, certainly not like your perfect boyfriend does. I’ve come to peace with that. That’s why I’m here, after all. It’s why I do what I do.”

There’s too much to unpack there - too much raw truthfulness - but Roxanne hooks on to the one thing she knows isn’t true.

“He isn’t…” She pauses. May as well spill all the secrets. “He isn’t my boyfriend.”

This seems to hit him harder than the sudden revelation that she’s a secret alien fan-girl. “He what?”

“He’s not my boyfriend. Honestly, I don’t want him to be, either. He’s annoying. Don’t tell him I said that," she adds, quickly.

“But—”

“I also don’t want to talk about it,” she says, as Megamind gapes at her, utterly lost. “You can ask me later. Okay? Not today.”

“I… yes. Okay. Yes.”

“What were you saying?” She prompts, softly, “before I uh… before I told you my second biggest secret?”

He shakes his head, with a small laugh. “I was saying… I know that I’m alien. People are scared of me. But…”

“But?”

“... it was worse. Thinking that you were, too. Not because of the death threats and the traps and the kidnappings, but because of… of me.”

Roxanne smiles. “Well… I don’t. The opposite, really. Is it… is it weird?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“On who you ask. I assume… no one else knows about the tattoo?”

“No one apart from the person who came with me when I got it,” she says, shaking her head.

“And they’re..?”

“She’s good at keeping secrets. And lives three and a half thousand miles away. She won’t tell anyone.”

“Right.”

He looks unsure, and she feels awkward, exposed, just standing there. “You’re sure it’s not creepy? Or… disrespectful? I don’t want it to be, I don’t know… offensive? When I got it I wasn’t exactly planning on meeting any actual aliens…”

That makes him smile. “No, I suppose you weren’t. It’s fine. Did you… did you want to meet actual aliens?”

“Well, yes,” she says, “but I never anticipated one being so… close.”

He smiles, and she bites her lip. There’s a soft pause - not awkward, not stilted. Just there.

“Oh!” He says, suddenly remembering, “Your dress - do you still need me to…”

“Oh! Right!” She shakes herself out of the comfortable thought, trying to ground herself back in the present, “Yes, if that’s okay?”

“Yes, right…”

She’s struck with a thought. “Wait!”

He freezes, immediately. “Yes?”

“I assume you were here to kidnap me?”

He looks a little surprised.

“Well, yes, that was rather the point of bursting in through the top-floor balcony. However…” he peers at his watch, which lights up in neon blues as he raises his wrist, “I fear the time window may have passed…”

Roxanne raises her eyebrows. “There was a time window? What were you even planning?”

He lowers his wrist and straightens his back, smugly. “Roxanne, really. You’ll have to wait and see. It’s easily rearranged.”

She rolls her eyes at the familiar, easy banter but doesn’t comment on his stubbornness.

“Fine,” she says. “Um. Do what you need, then.”

She gestures vaguely and he approaches once more. Roxanne finds herself holding her breath as his hands hover above the dress. This time, he doesn’t speak, just begins to work at the stuck fabric. He pulls the zip aside and she bites back a gasp as the cool metal of the scissors glides across her skin. Megamind goes still, for a second, clearly reacting to her instinctual response.

“Perhaps…” He’s muttering to himself, one hand still holding the zip, the other the scissors. He’s close enough that Roxanne can feel his breath on her skin. She hopes he can’t see the goosebumps that are raising on her arms, glad he can’t hear the way her heartbeat is absurdly picking up.

He’s never been so close.

And then, instead of pressing the edge of the scissors to her ribcage like he’d done before, he plucks at the fabric, pulls it away, and slides two fingers beneath it, his skin brushing - pressing - against the sensitive skin below.

Roxanne’s skin is on fire. Every inch of her - from the place where Megamind’s fingers are pushed against her skin to the tips of her fingers - is suddenly alert, tingling. Until now, she’d been happy enough to push any lingering thoughts of him to the back of her mind, to pretend it was nothing more than a foolish infatuation - like being a teenager again. But now she can’t ignore it, and she can’t pretend her body isn’t reacting to his touch, that she isn’t lighting up from the inside.

He begins to work, cutting through the fabric of the zip, using his fingers to protect Roxanne’s skin from the blades. He moves slowly, meticulously, avoiding the expensive fabric of the dress. As he moves lower, Roxanne can feel her heartbeat in her wrists, in her neck. The end of the zip is nestled in the curve of her hip, and his hands are drifting ever-lower. She wonders if he too is silently panicking, if he’s holding his breath like she is, standing deliberately still, too far into the task to stop now.

Neither of them speak - him working, her watching - and soon his hand is resting against her side, the heel of his hand leaning lightly against her hip and his fingers still held to her skin. The moment when he cuts away the bottom of the zip, snipping into the thick material in sharp right angles, lasts an age. She’s desperately aware of how close he is, how if he only moved a little further south his fingers would be slipping beneath the soft satin fabric of her underwear.

That thought sends a hot little rush to her core, and there’s a tightness in her stomach. She flexes her free hand - the one facing away from him - trying to distract herself. It would not do to throw herself at her would-be kidnapper.

And then it's over, and he’s moving back up, silently slicing through the material. He cuts through the final few inches and - with a low, long sigh - leans back, the destroyed zip in one hand and the scissors in the other. Roxanne quickly grabs the sides of the dress, holding it together, trying to retain at least a modicum of dignity.

Her face must be scarlet, she knows, her breathing heavy. His breathing is odd too - she was right, she realises: they were both holding their breath.

Finally, Megamind backs away, and she can properly look at him. She wants to say - wants to do - but she doesn’t know what. Before she can move, he speaks.

“There. You should be able to, um…” He’s blushing furiously, twisting the zip around his naked fingers. “That is…”

She’s not used to him like this. Usually he’s in control, sure of himself and what he’s doing next, even when his plans have failed and his inventions are burning around him. But now he’s stuttering and hesitant, utterly unsure.

Roxanne attempts to take control of the situation, despite feeling as flustered as he looks.

“Thank you,” she mutters, and her faux confidence falters almost immediately, making her voice sound low and hoarse. She clears her throat and tries again. “I… thanks.”

She wonders what he’d do if she asked him to stay, what he’d do if she simply pulled off the dress right in front of him, what he’d do if she kissed him.

She doesn’t do any of those things.

“I’ll just get changed,” she says, trying to keep her voice even, “and you… can wait downstairs?”

“Yes! Yes, I will… do that. Yes.”

His eyes are wide, pupils expanded and dark, ears purple. He heads back to her dresser, putting down the scissors and picking up the gloves. As he moves back to the door, he steps on a shard of glass that crunches loudly beneath his boot, making them both jump. The sound seems to startle him, and he dashes from the room. She can hear him thundering down the stairs.

As soon as he’s gone, she sighs, relaxing. That was… new. She wants to chase the feeling, but fear gnaws at her. What if she read him wrong - what if his reaction to their closeness was just concern. He’d seemed anxious enough when they’d been speaking, worried that she was scared of him: it would make sense if he’d spent the past ten minutes paralysed with fear, not with the excitement currently flowing through her own veins.

She shuffles out of the dress, carefully pulling it over her head and placing it down on the bed. She moves between the shards of mirror that still litter the floor and grabs the sweater and leggings she’d thrown off earlier, tugging them back on quickly, trying not to let herself think about doing anything rash. She slips on her slippers to better protect the soles of her feet from the glass, grabs the now destroyed dress and then, after another deep breath to steady herself, follows Megamind downstairs, intending to find the dustpan so she can clear up the glass.

To her surprise, Megamind is already using it - or rather, a brainbot is using it, darting around her living room and sweeping up spilt popcorn while making happy little beeping noises.

“Ah…”

Megamind and the brainbot both spin to look at her. Megamind is looking a little guilty. His gloves, she notes with disappointment, are back on his hands. The absurdity of the little scene is enough to break her from her thoughts.

“What happened?”

“There was an… accident. When I heard the crash, I came running…”

“And spilled my popcorn all over the floor?”

“Something like that.”

She shakes her head. This, somehow, is the least unusual thing that’s happened to her today. The brainbot, now finished with its job, floats past her with a nod and a bowg, then deposits the popcorn in the trash can in her kitchen. She can’t help but watch, fascinated, as it hovers back towards Megamind, ready for the next instruction.

“Well done, number fifteen!” He coos, patting the brainbot on its glass domed head like it’s a well-behaved puppy, “Very nice. Now, I need you to go up to Miss Ritchi’s room to clear up some smashed glass. Understood?”

The brainbot bounces in the air a couple of times, then zooms up the stairs, still trilling. Megamind spots Roxanne’s expression.

“It’s perfectly safe,” he says, “don’t worry.”

“Actually,” she says, “I was going to tell you off for calling me ‘Miss Ritchi’ again.”

“Oh, that?” He laughs, “No, that’s just programming. They’re - ah - programmed to respond to certain names. You’re hard-wired into the code as ‘Miss Ritchi’, I’m afraid.”

“Really? Why me?”

“Well, you spend more time around them than anyone else, other than myself or minion. Makes kidnappings go smoother, you know. Less likely to… ah… target the wrong person.”

“Has that happened?”

“Nearly happened. Once.”

She frowns. She doesn’t like the thought of him kidnapping someone else, and it has nothing to do with concern for some poor unsuspecting soul who doesn’t know him like she does.

“Right,” she’s unsure of what else to say. “So, ah…”

There’s another crash from upstairs, and then the Brainbot returns, the dustpan full of shards of mirror. They both watch as it quickly tosses the glass into the trash can, then zooms back upstairs.

“I should go…”

“You can stay—”

They speak at the same time, cutting one another off.

“If you want—”

“I mean, if you’ve got somewhere to be—”

They both fall quiet. On the TV, the credits of the film are silently playing. Roxanne grabs the remote and pauses the DVD, then twiddles it in her hands, feeling uncharacteristically nervous.

“I don’t…” Megamind starts, voice quiet. Roxanne turns, and he tries again. “I don’t have somewhere else to be.”

“Okay. So…”

“Ah… what was it? The film?” He gestures at the TV.

This is ground Roxanne is more familiar with. “Oh! It’s, ah, Close Encounters of the Third Kind.”

He doesn’t seem to recognise the name. She frowns.

“From the 70s? Alien abduction, flying saucers, you know…” she hums the little five-note tune, “dah-dah-dah-bum-bum.”

“And it’s your favourite?”

She wiggles her shoulders in a so-so way. “One of them.”

“Are all your favourites about, ah…” He falters, falling silent.

Roxanne finishes the sentence for him. “Aliens?”

He nods, silently.

“At the risk of sounding like a weird fan-girl,” she says, slowly, “...yes.”

He doesn’t look scared, at least.

“If you like,” she says, quickly, before she can change her mind, “and it’s not too weird… stay. And we can watch one. Together. If that’s not…”

“Something a weird fan-girl would say?”

She feels herself blush. “I was going to say ‘uncomfortable for you’, but… yeah.”

“Well I…”

He hesitates, and in the moment of silence the Brainbot appears again. It makes that trilling little noise at them both again, before disposing of the last of the glass, dropping the dustpan and hovering expectantly in front of its master. Megamind seems to take advantage of its sudden reappearance.

“What a good little bot you are!” He says, once more petting it on the top of its glass dome, the lights inside flashing. “Well done!”

It bowgs again, its long metal legs twisting in the air, claws grabbing at nothing.

“I…” Roxanne watches. Megamind sets his shoulders - he appears to have made a decision. “Daddy’s got some more work to do here, okay? You go home, and tell Minion not to wait up.”

The Brainbot chirps.

“Yes, yes, I know what he’s like. Tell him it's fine. Oh, and one more thing…”

He takes the ruined dress from Roxanne’s unresisting hands and passes it to the bot, who takes it gently in its metallic claws.

“Give this to Minion, alright? Tell him I’ll explain later.”

The Brainbot spins, and then it wooshes away, out the still-open balcony door and away across the city.

“So…” Now he’s made a decision, he seems very certain - there’s swagger back in his step. “Which would you recommend?” He says, lowering himself down onto the couch.

He talks confidently, but Roxanne can’t help but note how close to the edge he’s sitting - how unused he is to this sort of casual friendliness. It’s like he’s anticipating that she’ll kick him out at any moment.

“Let me think...” she turns away from him, back towards the kitchen, where she reaches into the cupboard and grabs another bag of popcorn, throwing it into the microwave.

She mentally skims through her favourite films, wondering what might be best. And then…

But no, she can’t. She shouldn’t.

She peers over her shoulder at the alien man sitting on her couch, legs crossed, fingers twitching on the armrest. It wasn’t so long ago that those fingers had been pressed to her skin, gently tracing down her ribcage, cool and soft and tempting.

...Fuck it.

The microwave pings. She grabs the popcorn, along with another bowl, and strides towards the couch.

“Tell me...” she says, handing him the bowl and popcorn then reaching towards her little collection of DVDs. “Have you ever heard of Avatar?”

Megamind pauses, pouring the popcorn into the bowl. “I can’t say I have.”

Roxanne prays that she isn’t blushing. “Well, then,” she says. “Let’s start there.”

[hysterialevi]

Hjarta | Chapter 20

Fanfic summary: In an AU where Eivor was adopted by Randvi’s family instead, he ends up falling in love with the man his sister has been promised to despite the arranged marriage between their clans.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male Eivor

This story is also on AO3 | Previous chapter | Next chapter

THE WAR ROOM

Carefully unrolling the parchment in his hands, Arngeir spread a large weathered map across the table as his companions took their place in the war room, ready to discuss the upcoming assault. Sigurd, Styrbjorn, and Eivor all waited patiently in silence, watching the jarl finish his preparations as they filled their predecessors’ roles.

It felt strange to Eivor, seeing Sigurd standing in Ulfar’s position. Even though he knew the old raider wasn’t coming back from the dead, it still made his head spin to see someone else in his shoes. It was no more than a simple changing of the guard, and yet, to the Wolf-Kissed, it felt like witnessing his entire world shift.

Though, he had to admit, there was something about the king that caught his attention too. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was, but Styrbjorn seemed... different today. More... composed. Dignified. As if the life in him had suddenly been reignited. His appearance radiated a noble presence, and his expression looked free of the fatigue that so stubbornly clung onto his eyes. Eivor guessed he finally took Sigurd’s advice to heart.

“Alright,” the jarl said, grabbing everyone’s attention. “We’re all here. Good.” He stepped forward a bit, resting his palms on the table’s surface. “Now, I understand that you’re eager to put this battle in motion, but before we start devising a plan, I believe the king has something he wants to say first.”

“Indeed,” Styrbjorn replied, linking his hands behind his back. “I have declared Gorm’s judgement, and I thought it would be necessary to inform the rest of you.”

That caught Eivor’s interest. “What’s to become of our prisoner, my lord?”

“For now, I’ve made the decision to keep Gorm alive. He has knowledge about Kjotve that could prove to be useful later on, so I will not dispose of him just yet. Once this war is finished, however...” the king exchanged glances with the prince, “...he will be executed. Publicly. Sigurd and I have agreed to grant him a merciful death as repayment for his cooperation, but he is to be beheaded on Bjornheimr soil.”

Arngeir paused. “Bjornheimr? Does this mean you won’t be taking Gorm back to Fornburg, my lord? Normally, when the king passes judgement on a criminal, it is he who swings the axe.”

“True, but seeing as how Gorm wronged your people more than anyone else, I’ve decided to leave his fate in your hands. It seems only fitting to me.”

The jarl was satisfied with that. “...Very well. I agree to these terms.”

“Then it’s settled. Gorm will be kept here as our prisoner for the remainder of the war. As soon as his father is killed, he will follow in his footsteps. Are we clear?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good. Then I won’t hinder this plan’s development any further.” Styrbjorn turned to his son. “Sigurd, you said you had new information pertaining to Kjotve’s whereabouts?”

“I do.” the prince confirmed. He walked up to the war table and leaned over it, pointing to an island on the western side of the map.

“According to what Gorm told me, Kjotve should have arrived on an island by now known as Thrymr’s Tomb. He’ll be making use of an abandoned fort located in its northern half.”

Eivor took note of the island’s name. “Thrymr? King of the jötnar? Is there a reason for that name?”

“Ah, it’s connected to a local tale, nothing more. Due to the island’s peculiar shape, the folk in that region believe it was once a fragment of Thrymr’s skull. They say it flew off his head when Thor struck him with Mjölnir, and landed in the ocean. Thus, its name.”

“And what of Kjotve’s defenses?” Arngeir asked. “What can we expect when we arrive?”

“The fort itself was built a long time ago, so its defenses should be nothing that we haven’t seen already. Plus, it’s been deserted for ages now. Its walls are feeble and decrepit. We should be able to break through the gates rather swiftly. The biggest challenge we’ll face -- is reaching them.”

“Why is that?”

Sigurd slid his finger down the map. “Because the island has no trees.”

That took everyone by surprise.

“What?” Styrbjorn blurted out. “How can that be?”

“Whoever the fort’s original occupant was, they chopped down all the trees on the island so that their foes wouldn’t have anywhere to hide. This means we’ll have no cover, and no way to approach it discreetly. We’ll be forced to launch a head-on assault.”

Eivor began growing concerned. “And how simple do you think that’s going to be?”

Sigurd furrowed his brow. “I won’t lie to you all. It’s not going to be easy. There’s a river that separates the island into two halves. The fort is on the northern half. We’ll be on the southern half. And the only way to reach the gates... is by crossing the bridge.”

Arngeir paced around the room, stroking his beard in thought. “The bridge will have us all cornered into one spot. We’ll be nothing but walking targets for Kjotve’s archers. They’ll slaughter us before we can even knock on his front door...!”

The Wolf-Kissed wasn’t so sure. “...Maybe. Or maybe there’s something else we could do.”

Sigurd’s curiosity took hold. “You have an idea, Eivor?”

The younger man thought for a moment. “...What if we formed a shield wall? We could protect ourselves from oncoming arrows, and move forward during the time between the onslaughts. It would be slow, but much safer than charging to the gate.”

“A solid idea,” the prince conceded, “but how would it work in this case? Don’t forget, we still need a way to break down the gate. How could we transport a battering ram across the bridge, and maintain a shield wall at the same time?”

“We could create a wall around the ram.” Eivor suggested.

“Around it?”

“Yes. As you said, we’ll need to bring a battering ram in order to get through the gates. But if our men are going to be moving something as big as that, they won’t have any hands free to lift a shield. So that’s why... we’ll protect them in the process. We’ll form a shield wall around them, and keep them safe from any arrows.”

Sigurd played out the method in his head. “...Hmm. It’s damned risky, but I’m afraid it’s the only option we have. The battlements are too tall for us too climb, and there’s no way we could cross the river by foot. We could swim, theoretically speaking, but it’s such a dangerous path that it’s not even worth considering.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, first of all, it’s freezing. The water would probably kill us before Kjotve could. And secondly, the river’s current is so strong that we would most likely be whisked away, or even drowned. Trust me, we’re better off taking our chances with the bridge.”

“Hm. Makes sense.”

The king posed another question. “Alright. So we’ve decided on a way in? We’ll dock our ships on the southern half of the island, and cross the bridge using a shield wall. In the meantime, the rest of our warriors will focus on moving the battering ram to the fort’s gates. Is that correct?”

“Yes.” Sigurd confirmed.

“Very well, then. What happens once we’re inside?”

“Then, we find Kjotve. And put an end to this miserable war.”

Eivor felt a sense of worry flare in his chest. “But what if he escapes a second time? What guarantee do we have that he won’t flee again?”

A grim look hovered over the prince’s gaze. “Our guarantee is Dag’s death. He was Kjotve’s ally, and the reason our previous assault ended in failure. He told the man to flee before we could reach his shores, but this time, he won’t be around to warn anybody.”

Arngeir raised a point. “Of course, however, it is worth nothing that Kjotve might have taken precautions already. After all, I think it’s safe to say he’s probably aware of Gorm’s imprisonment by now. He will be anticipating an assault, now that his own son has been subjected to interrogation.

“Indeed,” Sigurd conceded. “So we’d do well not to let our guard down, no matter how much of an advantage we have.”

Eivor was pleased with that. “Sounds good.”

Styrbjorn jumped back in. “Then, have we agreed on a plan? I believe our current strategy will be our best option, and unlike other battles, we won’t have much time to adjust it. So if anyone has any concerns or objections, now is the time to speak up.”

There was a unanimous silence.

“Very well. I will inform my clan of our discussion today, and prepare them for the battle ahead.” The king turned to the jarl. “Arngeir, I think it’s best if you do the same.”

The other man displayed a slight bow. “Of course, my lord. I’ll start making preparations right away.”

“As for you two,” Styrbjorn faced Eivor and Sigurd, “try to get some rest. Both of you will have a long day tomorrow. The journey to Thrymr’s Tomb will take quite some time, and there’s no saying what will happen during the fight itself. I need you to be sharp.”

The prince nodded assuredly. “Understood.”

“Good. Then this meeting is concluded. Take care of any unfinished business you may have, and prepare yourselves for war. This will be the battle that shapes the future of the entire kingdom. Defeat is something we cannot afford. Stay vigilant. All of you.”

Stepping away from the map, both Styrbjorn and Arngeir made a swift exit from the war room as they headed out to the village, determined to turn their plan into a reality. The torches’ flames flickered in their wake as they strode through the archway, and settled down with a series of soft quivers once they were gone.

In the meantime, Sigurd and Eivor remained at the war table and simply stood there in silence, drowning in the sea of worries that plagued their thoughts. Both of them had plenty of risks to consider in the upcoming battle, but one fear in particular kept shaking the prince’s mettle. 

“I can’t believe it...” Eivor whispered, staring at the map, “...after all these years. After everything we’ve lost. We finally have a chance to take Kjotve down for good. We have his son as a prisoner, and he no longer has any allies amongst our people.” An inspiring spark glimmered in his eye. “What if this is it, Sigurd? This could be the victory we’ve been waiting for.”

The older man crossed his arms. “...Perhaps.”

It didn’t take long for Eivor to pick up on his tone. “Is... something wrong, Sigurd?

The prince leaned against a wall and sighed, unable to conceal the sorrow he carried.

“...You do understand that if everything goes according to plan tomorrow, and Kjotve dies, my clan will leave Bjornheimr permanently?”

The realization struck Eivor like a club, and he found himself quickly being drained of the hope that had just settled in.

“...Oh.” He murmured. “Right.”

Sigurd gave him an apologetic look. “Forgive me, love. I know it’s an unpleasant thought, but it’s the reality. If we win this war, I’ll return to Fornburg... forever. And I don’t know when I’ll get the chance to come back.”

Eivor shrugged. “So, what are you saying? You don’t want us to win?”

“No, of course not. It’s just...” the prince pushed himself off the wall, “...I’m going to miss you dearly, Eivor. It’ll be difficult adapting to a life without you.”

The younger man’s head drooped. “...I understand. I’ll miss you too.”

Sigurd approached his partner. “My offer still stands, you know. There’s a place for you on my longship if you wish to join us. You’re more than welcome.”

Eivor drifted off into silence for a moment, pondering the decision.

“As much as I’d love to go with you, I don’t know if I can.”

“You don’t know if you can? What do you mean?”

The Wolf-Kissed glanced upward at his companion. “Don’t forget, Sigurd, you’re still a married man. Up until this point, it’s been easy for us to hide our relationship since everyone’s been so focused on the war. But the minute it comes to an end... their attention will be back on you. And if someone finds out...”

Sigurd took Eivor’s hands into his own. “They won’t. We would just be friends in the public eye. And even then, we could do so many things together -- hunting, fishing, sailing, drinking, you name it. I could show you around Fornburg, take you to places unlike anything you’d ever seen; places where we’d be alone. No one would suspect a thing.”

“Are you sure? No one would find it odd that, in addition to your new wife, you also decided to bring her brother? Think about this, Sigurd.”

“I have,” the prince insisted, “and I want you at my side, Eivor. I love you. You know this. Damn what anyone else says.”

Eivor let out a breath. “I love you too, but...” he pushed Sigurd’s hands away, “...I. Just. Can’t. I’m sorry.”

The older man grew concerned. “Why not, though? You and I have been hiding this for weeks already. This is nothing new. Is there something else that’s bothering you?”

The Wolf-Kissed let his gaze sink to the floor, feeling terribly guilty about the heartache he was causing his partner.

“I wouldn’t be able to handle the pain, Sigurd.”

The response earned him a puzzled look. “Pain? What pain?”

“The pain of seeing you with someone else. You and I may be lovers in private, but to everyone else, we’d have to be friends. You’d have to maintain your image as husband-and-wife with Randvi, and I’d be forced to watch it from the side. I don’t know if I could handle that, Sigurd.”

A shadow of harsh understanding dimmed the prince’s passion, and he finally began to realize the source of his lover’s hesitance.

“...Ah. I see.”

“And besides,” Eivor continued, “I can’t leave my father behind. He’s already lost Thora to this war. If he had to say goodbye to me and Randvi as well, I don’t think he...”

“It’s okay, Eivor.” Sigurd reassured, in spite of his disappointment. “You don’t have to explain. I... understand.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I may not be happy with it, but I understand. I can’t ask you to keep this charade going forever, especially amongst a clan you’ve never known. It... wouldn’t be fair. And you have a father here who needs you. I can’t take you away from him. No matter how much I may want you.”

Eivor felt a tad more relieved. “...Thank you, Sigurd. I know it’s not the outcome either of us were hoping for, but it’s what we’ll have to live with once this war is over. If we survive long enough to see it through, that is.”

Sigurd stepped back a bit, allowing his companion some space. “...Of course. You’re right. This war is bigger than the both of us. We’ll need to prioritize our duties above all else if we’re going to make this alliance work.”

He paused for a short while, attempting to distract himself from the disheartening news. It was clear that he was trying to prevent his emotions from breaking through the surface, but even then, Eivor could see that the man was heartbroken.

“...Anyway,” Sigurd said, clearing his throat, “I should get going. There are many things I need to take care of before we set off. I’ll be in my chambers if you need me.”

“And I’ll be at the temple if you need me.”

The prince found himself intrigued. “The temple? Are you planning on making an offering?”

“Not exactly. There’s someone I wanted to speak with before the battle. I saw them praying at the temple earlier while I was walking to the longhouse.”

“Who, Ingrida?”

Eivor shook his head. “No. Randvi.”

The answer took Sigurd by surprise. “Randvi?”

“Yes,” he replied in remorse. “I haven’t been a good brother to her lately. I’ve practically deserted her ever since your clan arrived. I didn’t even talk to her after Thora died. She’s been dealing with all this grief in complete solitude, and I want to make sure she’s okay.”

Sigurd nodded empathetically. “Of course. Go. See your sister. You and I can talk later.”

“Take care of yourself tomorrow, love.” Eivor said, caressing the man’s cheek before he took his leave. “I don’t want to return home without you.”

The prince gripped his hand securely, looking him straight in the eye. “I won’t let myself fall to Kjotve’s axe. I promise.”

~~~~~~~~~~

LATER THAT DAY

THE TEMPLE

Pushing through the hills of snow that lounged on the earthy terrain, Eivor sauntered towards the temple as a gust of wind fluttered across the land, shaking the chimes that lined the path. A series of scattered clinks decorated the air in the breeze’s wake, and up ahead, Eivor could see the statues of the gods rising into view.

They remained as adamant as ever, despite the mayhem thriving around them. They guarded the village with an unwavering iron gaze, and towered over the worshippers who knelt at the base of their feet.

It was a sight that would’ve brought Eivor a sense of peace in the past. He often came here when he needed guidance from the gods, or comfort from the seeress’ words, but now... all he could think about were the sacrifices they’d made.

Thora, Ulfar, Eirik, Dag... the list grew longer everyday. Their village seemed to be occupied by more ghosts than people at this point, and returning to the temple did nothing but remind Eivor of the times when he had the luxury of taking his loved ones’ company for granted.

What if this was the last time he’d ever see Bjornheimr? What if something happened tomorrow? He was hopeful that he’d finally be able to corner Kjotve after this insufferable chase, but really, he had no guarantee.

It was entirely possible that Eivor could’ve ended up sharing his father’s fate once this war was over. There was nothing else to secure their victory other than the sheer will of their raiders, and ultimately, he had to remind himself that he was just another man.

If Eivor fell tomorrow... there was no coming back. He’d simply be gone forever, and his soul would be taken by whichever god claimed him first.

His legacy in this world would be no more than a warrior who died chasing an impossible dream, and to the Wolf-Kissed, that was a fate far more frightening than death. A fate where he would only be remembered for his failures.

“Randvi?” Eivor called out, searching for his sister. He got no response from the woman in the moments to follow, but eventually found her sitting on a bench positioned before Freya’s statue. Her head was hanging low between her shoulders like an anchor, and her elbows rested gently on her knees.

“Randvi.” Eivor repeated, trying to get her attention.

Still, she offered no answer.

“Hey,” the young man said again, kneeling in front of her. “It’s me. Eivor.”

Randvi’s stone-cold stare inched towards his face at the sound of his name, revealing nothing but a pair of dead orbs sitting in her sockets. 

She looked even worse than Arngeir did. Despite his grief, the jarl still seemed to have some fight in him at least. It may have been an act to preserve his clans morale, but even then, he had proven he was capable of leading a battle. Randvi, on the other hand, appeared as if she had joined Thora’s side already.

Her temperament was entirely devoid of any signs of life. She sat on the bench like a frail plant withering in the sun, and the way she peered through Eivor made him wonder if she truly knew he was even there.

“...We should’ve listened to her.” Randvi whispered at last.

Her brother shook his head in confusion. “What? What are you talking about?”

“We should’ve listened to her. She knew all of this would happen.”

Eivor glanced back at the temple. “...You mean Ingrida?”

“Yes. Do you not remember? The day the Raven Clan arrived, she warned us of a vision. Freya’s statue had just fallen, and the gods entrusted her with a dream of the path ahead. A dream of Tyr.” Randvi frowned. “...Ingrida told us about the treachery we’d face. She told us to turn the Raven Clan away, but we refused to listen. We dismissed her fears because we didn’t want to insult King Styrbjorn. And now look where we are.”

She gazed upwards at Freya’s idol. “...What if we had called off the alliance? What if we never went through with this marriage? Would we still be where we are now? Would Thora and Ulfar be alive?”

Eivor took a seat beside Randvi, sharing her anguish. “I don’t know, sister. I really don’t. The gods have been difficult to predict lately.”

The woman scoffed. “Forget the gods. Our prayers have proven to be all but useless. Thora and Ulfar both spent their entire lives following a code of honor, and yet, the Nornir still let them die. Meanwhile, men like Kjotve get to roam free, causing nothing but suffering and death everywhere they go. As far as I’m concerned, I’d be a fool to rely on the gods for protection. I don’t need them. What I need is you.”

Randvi turned to her brother. “Where have you been, Eivor? These past few weeks, you’ve made yourself scarce. I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages. I understand we’re in the middle of a war, but...”

Eivor’s tone sunk with guilt. “...I know, Randvi. I know I haven’t been a good brother to you.” He paused for a second. “I’m... I’m sorry.”

A fatigued breath escaped from the woman’s lips. “Well, to be honest, you aren’t the only one who’s deserted me. It seems like all my friends have either died or disappeared. You, Sigurd, Thora, Ulfar... even father keeps to himself these days. The only company I really have anymore is Ingrida, and she’s almost gone completely mute ever since Eirik’s death.”

Randvi stood up from the bench and crossed her arms in thought, taking in the view of Freya’s statue.

“I just miss Thora so much. I see her in my dreams every night. She was always there for you and me, keeping us safe in a world that wanted to leave us behind. She knew how to make people laugh too.” Randvi’s shoulders slouched. “...And Ulfar. I’ll never forget the times when he held me as a child, calming me down after I woke up from a nightmare. He may not have been our real father, but I loved him like one.”

Eivor nodded. “Me too. He was always there to keep me company after Kjotve killed my parents. I can’t imagine what my childhood would’ve been like without him.”

Randvi peered at the clouds gliding above the temple, almost as if she were looking into Valhalla itself.

“I suppose the best thing we can do for them now is to make sure that their deaths weren’t in vain. Knowing Thora and Ulfar, they wouldn’t have wanted us to be consumed by our grief. They would’ve wanted us to push on, no matter the cost. I just wish it were that easy.”

Eivor rose to his feet, joining stepping next to his sister. “It won’t be. But we’re so close to the end, Randvi. Just one more battle, and we can finally put all this tragedy to rest. We only need to fight for a little longer.”

The woman didn’t appear reassured by that. “That’s easy for you to say. If we win, you’ll get to go back home and celebrate your victory. But me? I’ll be forced to travel to Fornburg with Sigurd, and live in a clan full of unfamiliar faces. I’ll have to start an entirely new life far away from here, and spend the rest of it with a husband who hardly even cares about me.”

Randvi shut her eyes in frustration and took a deep breath, attempting to ease her nerves. A bottle of boiling rage sat corked in her chest, and without even meaning to, she had smashed it open due to seeing Eivor’s face again. 

He was one of the only people she trusted, after all. With her older sister gone, Randvi no longer knew who she could confide in. She had kept all this pain locked inside her mind, and until now, she never realized how severely it was hindering her.

“...I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to be so curt. I’m sure you have your own burdens to bear. I just don’t know what to do anymore.”

“No, I understand,” Eivor assured. “The stress of this war has taken a toll on all of us. And let’s face it -- I haven’t exactly done my job as a brother. I should’ve checked on you more often.”

Randvi shrugged in curiosity. “Is that why you came today? Because you wanted to see me?”

“Yes, actually. I saw you while I was walking to the longhouse. I was occupied with matters concerning tomorrow’s battle, but I still wanted to speak with you.”

A hint of warmth radiated from the woman’s gaze. It was clear that Randvi was surprised by the gesture, but grateful for it nonetheless.

“...Thank you, Eivor. Even though you and I haven’t spoken much recently, I am glad to see you again. I missed having your company.”

A loving grin spread across the man’s face. “I missed you too.”

Randvi slowly approached Eivor, placing her hands on the sides of his arms. “Please, be careful tomorrow, brother. I know you aren’t the type to sit by and watch a battle unfold, but it’s been difficult enough dealing with Thora’s death. Don’t make me bury you too.”

He held Randvi’s hand in a comforting manner, speaking with sincerity.

“I’ll do everything in my power to return unharmed. But I can’t let Kjotve go.”

“I know. And I don’t expect you to. Just remember what matters. Even if you survive this war, losing yourself to revenge can be a death in itself. I don’t want to see that happen. Can you promise me it won’t?”

“Of course. You have my word.”

Randvi didn’t press any further than that. “...Then I suppose it’ll have to do for now. The thought of coming back home to your corpse terrifies me, but I understand how much Varin’s honor means to you. I won’t deny you that.”

“Thank you, Randvi.”

The woman stepped back from Eivor and turned towards the temple’s entrance, ready to get some rest before charging into the storm ahead. Her mood seemed to have lifted somewhat ever since her brother arrived at the temple, but the perturbed nature she carried made it evident that she wasn’t free from her fears just yet.

“Good luck, Eivor. Even though I have faith that you and I will see this war to its end, I’m aware that anything could happen. Fight well tomorrow. If I don’t get to bring you home... then I pray that the Valkyries will.”

[judediangelo75]

Claws To Wings

Welcome one and all~

I did say I was going to be working on the Talith lore, so here’s another installment of that. So I did some tweaking to the storyline that Jam City had. So the first Valentine’s Day happened in 4th year instead of 5th (because you can unlock I think both Valentine’s Day TLSQs in the same year and it didn’t make too much sense to me). 

Plus there are future true events that happen in 6th year, if you’re already familiar with the Without You/The Man Behind the Necklace series than you already know. During that time, Judith and Talbott are together and have been for quite some time. But before that, they have been pining after each other for years. 

In my first story, “The Scent of Love to the Heart of a Loner Poet”, Talbott is coming to realizing how deep his feelings were for Judith (whose been crushing on him since 3rd year). Between then and now, those feelings have grown and they’ve been dancing around each other. 

There’s gonna be some details here that are definitely gonna be new (because it’s part of a super old character reference I created for her when I first started posting about HPHM content here).

Anyway, enough rambling. On with the story! Enjoy! 💛

MC friend: David Willows ( @that-scouse-wizard )

---------------------

Talbott stood before his mirror, readjusting his tie for probably the fifth time.

He was trying to soothe his nerves. Why you may ask?

Because of the Ball.

The Valentine’s Day Ball.

In his right mind, he would avoid such social gatherings like the plague. But it’s fair to say he hasn’t been much of his right mind ever since he met her.

Judith Harris.

A Hufflepuff witch with pale gold eyes and a heart of gold to match.

He met her alongside her best friend, David Willows, early third year. When they came to him seeking help on becoming Animagi. He was quick to shut both of them down. While David glared and protested, Judith eased the bullheaded Hufflepuff and gave him a shy sad expression along with an apology for disturbing him.

At the time, he wasn’t sure why he suddenly changed his mind to help the two. But as he got older, he did realize it was because of her.

Something about Judith was familiar. And…

He didn’t like the sad look into those bright eyes…

After the two achieved their forms and helped him find his feather necklace, Judith and Talbott became closer. Even to the point where he followed her out to the cemetery and learned about her dead father, Kendrick, on the anniversary of his death.

That’s when he learned that she was a part of his past. 

That single day of his childhood where he made a friend. And developed a bond on a girl who he thought was unique with her long pretty locs and Caribbean accent.

With it being their 5th year, Talbott has gone on two dates with her. Their very first date out by the Black Lake and last year on Valentine’s Day when he learned that he has deeper feelings for her outside of a friendship.

He can still remember the sweet blush on her face after he shyly gave her a kiss on the cheek after gifting her with a heart statue.

Giving her a physical representation of his heart.

He fiddled with the ring she gifted him that day. He always remembers seeing it on a black chain around her neck on occasion. Judith was a person who cares about sentimental value so it’s very likely she gifted him something that has a level importance to her. But he was so stunned when she slipped it onto his finger, and that it fitted perfectly, while announcing that it was her Valentine’s Day gift to him that he forgot to ask…

Maybe today he will. After all, after the Ball, he had a special surprise for her.

Of course, there had to be some last minute changes when he realized a certain Slytherin witch ALSO planned on using the Library and two fairies also got into a squabble. He had at least a day to make the arrangement work and the “Most Powerful Witch at Hogwarts” actually might of done him a favor.

It would be nice to revisit where their tale began.

Talbott sighed, looking over his appearance once more before turning on his heel and leaving his room.

‘I hope she likes what I planned. She’s the only who deserves to see this side of me,’ he thought as he made his way to the Great Hall.

——————

“C’mon Little Tigress! We’re gonna be late,” David huffed, knocking insistently on his best mate’s door.

“I look ridiculous! I’m not going anymore!” Came the stubborn reply from the other side. David rolled his eyes at Judith’s behavior.

They’ve been busting their asses to save the Valentine’s Day Ball from a lonely Madam Pince by using a pining Mr. Filch. However, due to all the planning and finally asking out Merula and Talbott (after Judith finally got over her initial shyness), they didn’t have time to style an outfit for themselves. So they went to the resident Style Wizard for help. 

David’s pick was easy.

Judith however… not so much.

It was fair to say that Judith was more than disgruntled as she looked in the reflection for the suit Andre put together.

“You lost your damn mind Egwu if you think I’m going to the Ball like this. I look like a mom in her mid-30s looking to speak to your manager to file a complaint.”

David was on the floor in tears when he saw the offended look on the Ravenclaw wizard’s face. To be fair, the suit plus the pixie cut that Andre magically put together wasn’t doing his best mate any favors.

However, she didn’t step out to show the dress to them. She tried it on, switch back into her normal clothes, and left without much of another word.

Now David was curious to what could be wrong with Andre’s design for her to believe she looked “ridiculous”.

“C’mon Judith. What’s wrong with it? Surely it can’t be as bad as that suit Andre design,” David coaxed.

“…It’s… a lot…” David wasn’t sure what to make of that and they’re gonna be late if Judith kept this up.

“Judith, it’s either you open the door willingly to show me what you’re talking about or I break into your room to see for myself. We don’t have time for this right now,” David huffed. He didn’t want to late with for his dance with Merula.

Silence ensued and David was half considering going through with his threat when the tell tale sound of the door unlocking hit his eyes. David turned the knob and walked in.

He paused when he took in the sight of his little friend.

Judith was wearing a short black dress decorated with pink and red roses. A small slit can be found on her right leg. White 3-inch open toe heels were on her feet. Her usual ear accessories and earrings were present. A familiar dark red lipstick, dark eyeshadow, and black eyeliner made an appearance on her face. Her hair was out from its normal twists, curls and coils tumbling down her back and a bang swept over her right eye.

“David,” Judith mumbled awkwardly as her friend stared at her. That seemed to have broke the spell on the wizard as he shook his head to recollect himself.

“Well I’ll be damned… you look far from ridiculous, Judith. You look beautiful,” David said with a smile. Judith blushed and rubbed the back of her neck.

“You sure? It’s kind of revealing, don’t you think,” she asked. David cocked his head to the side, rescanning the girl from head to toe.

He could see her point, but it wasn’t as bad she probably thought it was.

The dress fitted her like glove, revealing the curves she was developing as a young woman. While the dress did show quite a bit of skin, it was still respectable.

“No, not really. To Bill and Orion, possibly but they’re big brothers who naturally want to keep every perverted wizard away from you. Hell, I may end up breaking someone’s teeth in if they think they can disrespect you like that. But you look beautiful Little Tigress, don’t think otherwise. Talbott would definitely agree with me,” David stated, watching his fellow Hufflepuff blushed at the name of the boy she’s been crushing on since third year.

David has been watching the two dance around each other since Judith admitted that she fancied the Ravenclaw wizard in the Charms classroom when practicing the Memory Charm. He was waiting for the two to finally get together already.

“If you’re done worrying, we still have a Ball to get to,” David said with a raised brow.

“But-EEP!” David already saw the protest in her eyes was quick to walk across the room and throw Judith over his shoulder. He only resorted to such measures when she was be difficult, and she was definitely being difficult.

“C’mon Little Tigress, your bird boy is waiting for you,” he said as he made his way out of her room. Judith spluttered over her words, mainly out of embarrassment at both what he said and the unnecessary position David has put her in.

“DAVID! Put me down, you brute! I’m in a dress for Merlin’s sake,” she protested loudly, wriggling in David’s unforgiving grip.

‘Damn demon lineage...’ she thought with a grimace.

“I'm well aware, we can clean you up when we're there with a spell, I not missing my chance to dance with Merula,” David said breezily. Judith gave up, allowing herself to be carried off like a sack of potatoes.

“Bloody sap... stupid dance,” she grumbled under her breath. David chuckled at her disgruntled mood.

“You’ll thank me for it by the end of the night, trust me,” he said. Judith pouted.

‘Assuming I don’t hide in a dark corner somewhere first...’

“Do that and I'm casting Lumos Maxima so there's nowhere for you to hide,” David said suddenly, nearly scaring the girl half to death. Judith mentally slapped her forehead out of exasperation. 

She should know better not to think aloud around David, seeing how they’re both Legilmens.

Damn it...

“Fine,” she huffed. Luckily for her, they finally arrived near the entrance of the Great Hall. David finally set her down, and casting a spell that made her look presentable again.

David offered his arm to her.

“Shall we, Little Tigress?” Judith felt her cheeks heating up at the thought of the person waiting on her inside the Great Hall before letting out a sigh. She took her best mate’s arm.

“I guess we shall...”

-----------------------

Talbott was chatting alongside with Merula, twirling a red rose between his hands when he heard a whistle. Both turned to make out the figures of their dates not too far from them.

David separated himself from his fellow Hufflepuff to walk up to the two. David gave Talbott a smirk and nodded over in Judith’s direction before stealing Merula away.

Talbott only raised a brow at the Hufflepuff wizard’s behavior before walking up to his date for the night. As he stood in front of her, any words that he was going to say to her, died at the tip of his tongue.

Talbott stared at his date, heart racing with a blush on the high points of his cheekbones as he looked at her from her curls to her high heeled shoes. The silence was starting to unnerve the Hufflepuff witch as her long time love interest stared at her without saying anything.

“Y-you clean up quite nicely, Talbott,” she blurted. She mentally smack herself immediately afterwards.

‘When did I become this awkward, goodness…’

However, seem to have done the trick and snapped Talbott back to reality.

“S-sorry, little bird. I-I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I-It’s just that…” Talbott shook his head, trying to focus.

“It’s just that,” Judith echoed slowly, biting her bottom lip. She was worried that David might’ve been wrong and she looked like a fool in front of the boy she had feelings for.

Talbott stepped closer to her, tilting her head up by her chin so she could look at him. He offered a shy smile.

“You look beautiful, Judith. More lovely and temperate than a summer’s day,” He said softly, placing the rose he had behind her left ear. Judith blushed as she felt her heart race at his barely there touch.

“I-I… thank you, Talbott…” The Ravenclaw wizard smiled at the shy response. Behind them the instruments started seemed to be warming up to play the first song.

“May I have this dance,” Talbott asked, mock bowing to the girl. Judith giggled behind a red manicured hand.

“You may…” Taking her hand Talbott led Judith close to the center of the dance floor, with David and Merula standing not too far from them. The fairies that were lighting up the room swirled around the students, leaving them in awe at the magical moment. In the midst of this, David gave his friend a wink, who in turned returned it with an unimpressed glare. Judith returned her attention back to her date once she felt him take one of her hands

“I’m not usually one who likes public displays, but… I quite like this one… almost as much as I like you,” Talbott quietly admitted as he looked into pale gold eyes.

‘Is it possibly to pass out from blushing so much? Because I think I’m close…’ Judith thought as she ducked her head with a smile. Talbott was being so sweet and kind to her, she wanted to be wrapped up in his arms and dance the night away.

Judith looked back up at him with a teasing grin.

“I hope you like dancing too, because it’s our time to shine…”

————————

Talbott was smiling at the laughing girl in his arms as he spun her around. The two have been in their own little bubble ever since the dance started.

Their shy exteriors melted away leaving behind something much warmer and intimate. Anyone with eyes can see that they were clearly smitten with each other. Which were plenty watching them on occasion.

Red eyes darted around the Great Hall, finding the person he was looking for. He gave the Headmaster a subtle nod which he returned with a knowing smile. Talbott stepped back from Judith to clear his throat with a smile.

“All this dancing is making me thirsty, I think I’m gonna get a refreshment,” he said. Judith smiled at him, making his heart stutter in a lovestruck sigh.

“A refreshment sounds great, actually! I’ll go with you-” 

“N-no need! I-I’ll get one for you! Just...  stay right there,” Talbott stuttered before taking off. Judith’s brows furrowed in confused as she watch Talbott disappear in the darkness.

Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder. Turning, she saw the cheery smile of David.

“Cheers, Little Tigress! I see that I was right about you enjoying yourself,” he said with a grin. Judith glared and punched his arm.

“Cheeky bastard,” she growled. David laughed good naturedly while rubbing his arm.

“I’m surprised you’re not with Synde. Seeing how eager you were to get here and be with her,” she retorted. David shrugged.

“Mer said she going to get refreshments for the both of us. She actually suggest I go find you to see how your night was so far,” David replied. Gold eyes narrow out of suspicion.

“That’s a little odd. Talbott just let to do the same thing...”

“Was it? I found it very typical  of Miss Synde and Mr. Winger,” a third voice said. David and Judith turned to see the amused face of their Headmaster.

The pair chatted with Professor Dumbledore for a while when Judith noticed something was amiss.

“It’s bit awhile since Merula and Talbott went to get refreshments. Surely it can’t take that long,” Judith pondered out loud. Dumbledore smiled.

“Clever eye, Miss Harris. That’s because they’re no longer here and they personally asked me to distract you,” he chuckled. David and Judith glanced at each other before looking back up at Dumbledore.

“Professor,” David asked warily. Dumbledore chuckled.

“Mr. Willows, you can head to the library. Miss Harris... while Mr. Winger wasn’t explicit with the location for you to go to, he did say ‘Remember our first date’ as a clue. Enjoy the rest of your storybook fairytale night, you two. You deserve it,” Professor Dumbledore informed the pair with a knowing smile. 

Judith blushed walking out of the Great Hall with David. The two said their goodbyes as Judith made her way outside. Transforming into her Black Sparrowhawk, she couldn’t help but wonder what Talbott had planned at the Black Lake...

-----------------

Judith landed on the shore and transformed back, only to be surprised to find who was waiting for her.

“Lily,” she asked as the little fairy flew around her, buzzing out of excitement. 

What was her little friend doing all the way out here?

The magical creature took ahold of her hand, tugging her to the Boat house. 

“Okay, okay, I’m coming. Just slow down, I am wearing heels after all,” she laughed gently. Judith followed the excited fairy inside only to freeze at the door way.

Standing inside was Talbott. The place looked to have been cleaned out. Numerous fairies including her own lit up the Boathouse in a soft glow. Rose petals scattered the floor, along with some candles. A large heart made up of different colored roses was hung up behind the Ravenclaw wizard. A small table with some chairs of some of the food and drinks form the Ball sat in a corner. Somewhere in the background, there was soft music playing as well.

Talbott walked up to the stunned Hufflepuff witch and took her hand.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, little bird,” he spoke softly. Judith shook her head out of disbelief. 

“W-what is all this, Talbott,” she asked. The young man bit his lip.

“I-I... I may have been planning this while I was at the Owlery... I wanted to surprise you. While I did originally plan to do this in the Library, someone else had the same idea... So I’d figured the Black Lake was the next best thing. I did have some help putting this together,” Talbott admitted.

Lily buzzed, as if she was giggling at the two. Judith rose a brow at her Fairy’s cheeky behavior before chuckling.

“I just thought that... after everything you’ve done for Hogwarts, for me, you deserved a storybook romance,” Talbott said. Judith rescanned the room before offering a smile.

“I had no idea that you could be such a romantic, Talbott. But clearly you are.” Talbott blushed, scratching the back of his neck.

“I guess all that poetry paid off...”

--------

The pair sat and ate, chatting in between. Talbott giving going as far to feed Judith a bit of a cupcake. He ended blushing when he felt her lips touch his fingers tips as she let out a pleased moan. 

Currently they were slow dancing in the middle of the room, listening to the music softly playing in the background.

“This is really amazing, Talbott,” Judith spoke up, daring to look up at red eyes that reminded her of rubies.

“You’re the amazing one, Judith. I was simply following my heart,” Talbott replied, squeezing her closer. That foreign yet familiar scent that clung onto the Hufflepuff filled his nose.

“O-Oh stop it. I am not,” Judith insisted with a nervous laugh. Having Talbott so close to her was causing her heart to beat faster than normal. Talbott stopped dancing in favor of holding her hands. His gaze was unwavering.

“I mean it, little bird. You made this Valentine’s Day  perfect for everyone, even Flich and Pince... And especially for me,” Talbott confessed. Pearly whites flashed at him.

“All I wanted was a magical Valentine’s Day with my date,” Judith started, glancing down for a quick moment to gather herself before looking back up at Talbott through her lashes.

“...And... And I’m so happy that date is you...” And she was. Truly. 

Talbott was the picture perfect gentleman. And the fact he went through great lengths to make Valentine’s Day memorable for her reminded her of happier times from her childhood. Except now it was with someone who likes her for her. 

She hasn’t felt this special in years...

Talbott urged his heart to calm down as he reached for his wand.

“I feel the same way, Judith. And I... made something for you...” Stepping back, Talbott casted a spell, causing a book to appear. Judith blinked out of surprise at the book that hovered between them. Carefully reaching for it, she opened it to a random page somewhere in the beginning.

“...The loner poet listened to the Howler professed the words he wasn’t aware that lived in his heart. Speaking of a deep longing for a girl with otherworldly pale gold eyes. To never leave him because when he looks into her unique irises, he can see future. A future where he would wake up to them every morning. A future where he would look at child with the same eyes as her. A future that would lead to forever together.

He felt his heart stall in his chest, itching to cast a spell to light the Howler ablaze to prevent its words being heard by unwanted ears. It was then he smelled her before he heard her.

A hint of sea breeze that made him feel like he was standing so close the never-ending ocean. Chocolate that reminded him of her skin tone. A variety of fainter sweet scents, most he couldn’t name but the one he could pick out was honey.

Her melodious low voice sung to his eardrums:

“Hey, what did your Valentine Howler say?” He swiftly turned to find pale gold eyes curiously looking up at him. He could feel his heart speed up when he connected the dots.

It was her.

She was the one his heart longed for.

Everything that has transpired that day and this revelation became too much for the loner poet to take. He was quick to deny that his Howler hasn’t said anything, using the opportunity their teacher has created to leave the classroom. 

He needed time. Time to think of what to do next...”

Judith was so engrossed in words written on the page that she didn’t realize that Talbott was now standing behind her.

“It’s not finished, more so of a... work in progress for an ongoing story...” Judith jumped a little when she felt his breath ghost over her visible ear.

“This is about you,” she whispered, releasing the book to float again. She turned to find Talbott staring down at her with half lid eyes.

“It’s about you and me, little bird,” he whispered, cupping one of her cheeks. Judith closed her eyes, leaning into his warm touch. 

There was a shift in the air and she nervous but secretly excited to where this could lead...

Talbott withdrew for a moment forcing Judith to open her eyes again. She notice a heart shaped key necklace in his hand.

“What’s that,” she asked quietly.

“This is the key that unlocks the book. I made it be this way so you can wear it like a necklace. So our story would always be with you,” Talbott answered, carefully placing the it around her neck. A full body shiver raked Judith’s body when she felt the tips of his finger ghost over the sensitive skin.

“I... I never had someone put this much effort for me. To bare your feelings like this, Talbott... I... I don’t know what to say,” Judith confessed quietly. She could barely hear her own voice over the roar of blood rushing to her face combined with the sound of her heartbeat pounding against her eardrums.

Talbott caressed her cheek again.

“I don’t expect an answer from you right away little bird. I’m more than happy to do this for you. You’re the only one who deserves to see this side of me...” Talbott leaned closer aiming to place a kiss on her cheek. Much like he did last year.

What Judith did next surprised both of them. 

Turning her head ever so slightly, she caught Talbott’s lips with her own. This stunned the pair, both remaining motionlessly for a few moments. Just as the Ravenclaw wizard was about to pull back, Judith held him there by his tie, pressing against him. Her painted lips moved against his unresponsive ones slowly, testing the waters and his resolve.

After a moment of deliberation, Talbott gave in and returned the unexpected kiss. With one hand cupping her face, its twin finding refuge on her lower back, pushing her closer still. Judith released his tie in favor of wrapping her arms around his neck, melting in his embrace. Both of them were placed under a cloudy haze as their lips continued to move against one another.

The pair broke apart for air, foreheads resting against one another. Talbott silently licked his lips, picking up the taste of vanilla.

‘She tastes just as sweet as she looks. Good Gods help me...’ came the helpless thought as he found himself at the end of Judith’s sultry stare. 

‘What are you doing to me, Talbott? Why do I feel this way towards you...’

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Talbott,” Judith whispered, placing a soft kiss against the corner of his lips. Talbott shivered at the sound of her voice, which has dipped down an octave. Her accent came out, loud and clear. His hands, which has migrated to her waist, squeezed down on the curve for a few seconds.

He could listen to her speak to him like this for hours...

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Judith... Thank you for being my valentine...” Judith let out soft chuckle, pulling him in for another kiss.

In the midst of this an involuntary thought passed through her mind. One which would shatter the Hufflepuff witch later on.

‘I love you, Talbott...’

-------------------

Some time has passed since the Valentine’s Day Ball. Judith more or less went back to her life as per usual. 

With occasional outing with Talbott when classes and working for Rakepick became too much for her.

It was late at night and she was at the shore of the Black Lake, practicing her spellwork. She always wanted to remain sharp on her skills and it was a way for her to prepare for the upcoming O.W.L.S., which was approaching fast.

She decided to practice the Patronus Charm, seeing how she hasn’t casted it in awhile.

“Expecto Patronum!”

What came out of the tip of her wand shocked her.

Instead of her usual Siberian Tiger was a-

“G-Golden E-Eagle?!” Her eyes watched as the avian predator flew above her before disappearing. 

She shocked her head, not believing what she just saw.

Over and over again, she casted the spell, waiting to see her beloved tiger. Only to watch the animal that came out soar its wings above her.

Her legs gave out from beneath her. 

“No, no, no! How can this be happening?! Patronuses don’t change,” she panicked. A vague memory came resurfaced in her mind.

“Though I have heard of Patronuses changing forms after falling in love...” Judith’s eyes widen.

That voice belonged to Tonks when they were dealing with the Dementor threat from last year.

Another memory surfaced, however, much older...

“Gift this ring to the one your heart desires above all others. It will only fit and accept that one person, anyone else, it’ll reject and return to you...” Tears ran down her cheeks. When she realized what memory it was.

“Gran-Gran...” came the broken whisper. Her grandmother gifted her a magical blue and silver ring before she died. The same ring she gave to Talbott just a year prior. She didn’t remember her dear grandmother’s words when she gave it to him. 

Now that she thought about it, the ring never returned to her. And it was on Talbott’s left ring finger the night of the Ball.

Even as she kissed him, those three words that haunted her since childhood has crossed her flowery dazed mind.

She couldn’t do anything but face the truth. To speak the words that haunted her in form of a Boggart from third year.

“I love Talbott Winger...”

And she was secretly terrified.

Because she knew if he were to confess the same, she was done for.

Her heart would be his. 

And risk breaking if he were to ever leave...

[vaindumbass]

a series of full moons

((written for @rosemaldrge, happy birthday Em!! I hope you like this hurt/comfort. warnings for mention of blood and wounds)) 

~~~

“I don’t want you there.” Remus says, and his voice sounds foreign to his own ears, the way it has for almost thirteen years now. 

Sirius recoils, and Remus can see anger settling deep into his bones, no matter how much Sirius tries to keep it in (they always knew each other too well). “Why not?” 

“The wolf doesn’t know you anymore” I don't know you anymore, Remus wants to say, but he worries that will break them to the point of no return. “He needs time to adjust.” Again, Remus is talking about himself. He has taken Sirius in, yes, but that means he has almost no time alone, and he’s almost glad that he’ll have a few minutes to himself, even if those minutes will only be filled with the promise of pain.

Sirius snaps, a little. “Fuck you.” He says, his voice more ragged than it used to be. “Fuck you and your- the ways you subtly destroy yourself. I can help.” 

Remus feels a bit cold, almost detached, looking at the emotions on Sirius’ face. “I’ll be fine. I’ve been going through them alone for thirteen years now.” 

Sirius’ jaw moves in the tell-tale way that lets Remus know he’s gritting his teeth, but he doesn’t say anything. Remus nods, and walks out of the room. 

The basement Remus uses to transform in is cold, and dark, and so, so silent. For a moment, he rests his back against the wall, his head hanging down, and suddenly he misses his old friends so much that it aches. He closes his eyes.

~~~

“Moony!” James had said, hazel eyes big and bright from where he sat next to Remus’ hospital bed. “You’re awake.” 

Remus had blinked back at him, and then he had blinked at the sandwiches that were held out in front of him. James grinned at him. “Pomfrey said you’d need food to recover.΅ 

Tentatively, Remus had reached out and taken a small bite. Remus felt as if he had never eaten before, as if his mouth processed tastes and textures for the very first time. He remembered reading somewhere that cooking was something only humans did, and in that moment, he felt really, truly human. In short, it was delicious. James’ grin became wider when Remus told him so. 

“Peter and Sirius are getting some sort of ointment from Pomfrey that’s supposed to help,” James had said, in response to Remus’ unspoken question.

Closely after that, Peter and Sirius had come back, and as soon as Sirius had reached Remus’ bed he’d taken the one of Remus’ arms that had the biggest wound, and started putting the ointment on it carefully, making sure not to hurt Remus. It felt like a caress.

James had chuckled. “Don’t you think that Remus can do that himself?” 

Sirius had immediately stopped, smiling sheepishly up at Remus, the lightest of red on his cheeks. “I don’t mind.” is what Remus had said, shrugging, his heart beating in his ears.

With a small smile, Sirius had continued. James and Peter came to sit on the bed next to him, and Peter had handed him a bit of chocolate. Sitting there with his friends, Remus had felt truly happy, no matter what he’d gone through only a few hours before.

~~~

The floor of Remus’ basement is still cold the next morning, as he finds out when he lies there, naked, with a bleeding leg. That doesn’t stop him from slumbering there for a few moments, trying to slowly come back into his body, to absentmindedly flex his fingers and his toes.

He stops, abruptly, when the door swings open. Sirius is standing in the doorway, a plate in his hands, and he starts walking towards Remus, starts kneeling down next to him--

Remus stands up and smacks the plate right out of his hands. It’s accidental, or, well, from the right angle it looks accidental, with Remus being slightly wobbly and unsure on his feet, but Remus doesn’t regret what happened in the slightest.

“You don’t get to-,” he blurts out, and his feelings are too big, too complicated to fit into something as banal as words, but actions aren’t helping either, the satisfaction from the broken plate is long gone (was it even there in the first place?), “You’re not-” 

His sentences get stuck in his throat because he’s awful at this, at talking about- talking about-

There is plain, open hurt on Sirius’ face, and Remus wonders if he somehow lost his emotionless mask in Azkaban.  “Okay,” Sirius says, “I’ll- Okay.” He walks away with slumped shoulders, but his steps are quick, and Remus wants him to come back and he wants to never see him again.

And then Sirius is gone and Remus is alone again and he can’t look away from the shards of the broken plate, from the sandwiches strewn between them, from how even now they’ve fallen apart, it’s visible that the slices of bread were cut the exact same way James always used to. 

~~~

They ignore what happened. Remus feels awful about lashing out, about showing something of a monstrous nature, and Remus hates talking about his feelings, however awful they may be. Sirius seems to accept that, and doesn’t move when, the next full moon, Remus walks down to the basement.

Remus wakes up warm, comfortable. He immediately knows something is wrong. When he finally manages to wretch his eyes open, he sees he’s curled up around a black, soft shape.

He doesn’t even need to blink again to recognize that it’s Sirius in his animagus form. The muscles of his stomach clench almost involuntarily, as if they’re trying to keep his anger down. He stands up, and he isn’t shaking, he isn’t even bleeding. It only serves to make him more furious, however irrational that might be.

“I know you’re awake, Sirius.” 

A grey eye opens slowly, and looks at him. Remus looks back, stubbornly, until he’s looking at a man instead of a dog.

“I told you not to come.” Remus says, and it echoes a bit, in this room that is so used to being empty.

“I promised I’d take care of you.” 

That hurts, and it hurts even more because it’s aimed at that place in himself that he has tried so hard to protect, to build walls around, to forget about. 

“No,” he responds, his voice on the edge of cracking, “we promised we’d take care of each other. You, James, and-” his voice falls over the edge, “-and Peter.” 

The gray of Sirius’ eyes looks a bit like steel. “And you. You promised too.” 

“Look how well that turned out.” 

Sirius stands up straighter, and Remus observes how he seems almost thirteen years younger, all the wrinkles that Remus wasn’t there to see the origin of disappearing, anger taking its place. “I’m trying, Remus, but you’re not even taking care of yourself, you don’t even fucking have wolfsbane!” 

“Wolfsbane isn’t exactly cheap, in case you haven’t noticed.” 

“You could have asked me.” 

“You could have not gotten thrown into Azkaban.” It’s a cheap shot, and Remus is very, very aware of that, but finally he’s getting a memory that is so sharp and broken that it fits exactly against his splintered edges. He’d forgotten how good it felt to fight with Sirius.

Sirius rises to the bait like Remus knew he would, hackles raised. “You could have gotten me out of Azkaban, but no, why would you ever go after anything you want? Anything that could make your life better?” 

Remus doesn’t even deny that Sirius could possibly make his life better, the lump in his throat is too big for that. He works around it carefully, making deep cuts with the precision of a surgeon. “You should have tried to take care of me thirteen years ago. It’s too late now.” 

Sirius sets a step closer, and finally does Remus see the furious glint in his eyes. It fills him with anticipation, because while he’s hurting Sirius, the only thing that’s keeping him standing is that Sirius is hurting him back. He feels alive, horrifically so. 

“You could have gotten Harry.” Sirius says, and there’s a pause, in which Remus realizes he wasn’t prepared at all, this wouldn’t even vaguely be like old times, because Remus had made so much more mistakes since then. “You could have gotten him out of there. He lived in a cupboard for eleven fucking years. You could have prevented that.” 

“I-” Remus starts, “I put a protection charm on him, after- after the tournament. It’ll keep him safe from everything, dementors, other wizards-- I’ll keep him safe.” 

Sirius laughs, but it’s far from the laugh that Remus used for his patronus before- before it all. It’s the one that plagues Remus’ nightmares, the one that sounds as if it scrapes itself out of Sirius’ throat with the sharpest claws, the one that feels as if it scratches over Remus’ heart, cutting ever so slightly through the surface. “That’s not enough. You know that’s not enough.” 

Sirius sounds an awful amount like the voice in the back of his head, and Remus deals with him the same way he does with the voice. “Leave.” he says, or maybe he yells it at the top of his lungs. He’s not sure. He does know, however, that Sirius leaves, casually stomping on what’s left of Remus’ heart as he goes.

Of course that’s the moment other memories start to flood him. Did fighting with Sirius always leave him this drained, this tired, this sad? Yes, his memories tell him, but this time you managed to fuck it up even more than you used to.

He wonders how they used to make up after fights. Because of Peter, his memories whisper in his ear, biting down on every piece of him they could reach, he was always the one to get you guys to talk to each other again, but he’s not here anymore, is he? 

~~~

They stop talking for about a month. It’s not the easiest thing, what with living in the same house and all, but Remus only ever politely asks for the salt, and Sirius will hand it to him, and then they’ll go their separate ways. Sirius isn’t supposed to get out of the house, but it’s a muggle town, and Sirius would go crazy otherwise, so Remus doesn’t say anything.

He also doesn’t say anything when Sirius buys groceries, and he’s silent when Sirius tells Dumbledore that he, once again, refuses to go to grimmauld place, and he doesn’t protest when he finds new books in his bookcase. Remus knows that Sirius knows that means something, but he only speaks right before the full moon. 

“You could stay,” Remus says. He has thought about this extensively, but only now realises that Sirius may not want to. “If you’d like.” 

Sirius stays.

And it cracks Remus’ heart right open. He wants to ask Sirius, right then and there, if he’d maybe also like to try and be together again, to wake up next to each other again, to take care of each other again. But it’s too much, too soon, so for now he just offers Sirius his hand when they walk down the stairs that lead to the basement, and smiles when Sirius takes it.

~~~

Remus wakes up free of pain, once again cuddled up to Sirius. He stretches, and gives Sirius a tentative smile, that is returned, lips stretching slowly.

Remus kisses him. It’s accidental, more impulsive than Remus can ever remember being, but he doesn’t think it could be avoided, and Sirius doesn’t seem to mind. 

Remus doesn’t mind the cold floor as long as he can put his right hand in Sirius’ hair, as long as Sirius’ left hand is on his waist, as long as their other hands are holding each other.

It’s soft, and sweet, and everything they haven’t allowed themselves to be for years. Sirius pulls back a little, only to gently kiss the scar that crosses Remus’ lips, a scar that Sirius wasn’t there to see the origin of. Remus grips his hand tighter.

Sirius’ hand moves a little, and Remus hisses through his teeth. “What is it?” Sirius says, worried, hastily breaking their kiss.

“Just a bruise.” Remus presses his lips one last, lingering time to Sirius’ jaw, then makes to stand up. “Pomfrey gave me something for it, it’s upstairs.” 

Their hands are still entangled when they walk up the stairs again. Remus catches Sirius looking down at them, and then smiling broadly before looking up. Remus is sure his face shows the same giddy excitement. 

Sirius lets go just before they reach the living room, and quickly ducks into the bathroom before Remus can, returning with a jar of ointment. “Let me?”, he asks, grey eyes open and vulnerable.

Remus nods, and quickly takes off his shirt, avoiding looking down on his bare and bony chest. He’s thankful that Sirius’ eyes linger only a moment on the newer scars, and then Sirius’ hands are on him, a shock of cold that somehow manages to make Remus feel warm inside.

Somehow, it feels even more intimate than the kiss they shared in the basement. It’s hard to look at Sirius, but Remus can’t resist, and he doesn’t regret it in the slightest, not when Sirius seems so focused on patching him up, his long hair falling over the side of his face. 

Remus reaches out and tucks it behind Sirius’ ear in what he knows is an incredibly cliché move, but Sirius has always made him do silly things. It gets Sirius’ to focus his heavy gaze on him, though, so it’s not all bad.

“Would you sleep in my room?”, he asks, and it’s not the best way to start this conversation, but as Sirius laughs he figures that it isn’t the worst way either.

“How bold. Yes, I’d like that.” Sirius smiles softly at him, in a way that could fuel a hundred more patronuses, and Remus’ poor heart skips a beat.

He scrapes his throat. “Good. Then Harry could take your old room. Do you think he’d like it?” 

Sirius laughs again, a bit more wetly this time, and says: “I’m sure he’d love it. I’d love it.” 

Remus closes his eyes, and leans his forehead against Sirius’. “Me too.”

They sit that way for several peaceful heartbeats, and it’s the most at home Remus has ever felt in this place. 

Then, he opens his eyes. “I think it’s time we send Harry a letter. I heard they’ve got Umbridge as teacher, and that boy will need all the support he can get when he’s forced to interact with that bigoted bootlicker.” 

Sirius laughs, as delighted as he always is, was, and used to be whenever Remus cursed around him. “Let’s do it.”, he says, and Remus knows he’s not just talking about the letter-writing, but also about everything it implies, about the bed-sharing, about being together again, about taking care of each other, and Harry, too.

Remus smiles at him. “Let’s.”