#under THAT window was a much narrower bookshelf that I could much more easily just clamber over

[blujayonthewing]

I've finally finally just gotten around to putting casters on the bookshelf in front of my basement room's egress window so it can easily be moved aside, with the theoretical intention of being able to clamber in and out to hang out in the yard whenever I feel like it, and right now I have a step ladder in here to that end but god if I thought I could manage something structurally sound enough to hold my weight it'd fucking rule if, when you moved the bookshelf, a hidden stairway unfolded out from the wall behind it

[stuff-from-the-void-matron]

Laurel Wreaths & Animal Teeth (3)

(c!technoblade x fem!reader)

(some people liked chapter 2 so here’s chapter 3. whether or not there’s a chapter 4 is dependent on if this one gets any comments/reblogs.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’re not exactly sure when your plans for a house shifted from ‘maybe a two story house’ into ‘some kinda roman temple/shrine type building’ instead. 

Probably after the third time you had to tear down what you were building because it just didn’t look right. You’d initially not been able to go anywhere with the white quartz (you’d made a base but it looked stupid so you’d tossed it) so you’d switched it with a birch wood. That was where the problems started. First you’d tried your hand at making a cute little cottagecore house, but it just didn’t look cute to you and instead came out kinda frumpy? So you scrapped it, even though it pained you. 

“Hours wasted.”

Then you tried making another house, this one taller and with dark wood. But it ended up looking like some kind of Viking home, no matter how much you tweaked it, which totally clashed with the vibrant floral scenery around you. It would work better in a snowy biome. So you’d scrapped that one too, none too happy either.

“Why do I suck?”

Then you’d tried your hand at making a cute mushroom house! But…. it was awful. No matter what you did it just didn’t look right?? You tried making the stem ‘natural’ like it would look in minecraft but then it looked too artificial to you. Then you tried making it look more normal but then it just ended up looking wonky. Long story short.. you hated it. You scrapped it, maybe a little more angry than the previous two times. That was when you’d gone back to the white quartz blocks.

And you started with a huge square, then that sorta morphed into a circle. Or as ‘circular’ as this world’s building blocks could get. Then it just sorta.. went from there? Before you knew it you had a circular white temple/shrine with a domed and tiered ceiling and four tall stained glass windows with star and sky designs. You’d gotten into the construction as it had begun to be more fun. You’d even hung lanterns by chains from the ceiling in symmetrical points and it gave the whole place a nice vibe you think. Especially when it started raining outside.

Once it was all done to your satisfaction you just sat in the middle of the quartz floor and gazed up at the gently swaying lanterns. You’re glad you’d ended up with this place, it looks pretty and has a calm vibe you can resonate with. 

It would be dawn soon so you decided since you were done you’d go to bed since you had nothing else to do at the moment. Or well that had been the plan until you placed down your bed and couldn’t help but notice how utterly ridiculous a single bed in the corner of this huge temple looked. It actually made you snort before deciding then and there you needed a bed that somewhat matched the temple aesthetic you guessed you were going for now.

-0-

You ended up making this huge canopy bed with curtains and a platform you had to walk up a step to get to the three beds you’d put on it to look right. Under normal circumstances you’d not like such an overly lavish bed but it certainly fit the almost regal aesthetic your new temple home had. Which was just fine you supposed, it’s not like you were opposed to it. Just not what you’d planned to do from the get go.

Only problem now was.. the place still looked weirdly empty of life. Like one of those barren ‘minimalism’ nightmare homes rich people get off to. So you went through the inventory and started looking for stuff to decorate with. On the wall to the left of the entrance you set up an area for a brewing stand and cauldron as well as an ender chest, mostly just because it looked cool with the purple particles. You also hung up some item frames on the wall by the quartz counters you set up and picked out a bunch of pretty colored potions to hang in them.

Then on the opposite wall you made a little library with an alcove in the middle for an enchantment table. With a lantern on top of the bookshelf next to the crafting table and clay pots of flowers on the uppermost bookshelves to give the area a nicer look. You even added some fluffy carpet in front of the area to enhance the comfiness. And when you went over to the front door and then turned to look at the whole space you smiled because it really did look good. Larger than you’d intended, sure, but also very comfy now too.

You think you’re done with the inside until you look up at the bare walls between the stained glass windows. They were a little… naked. So you tried hanging up some paintings but… they looked terrible. The ‘round’ angle of the windows kept the options for what paintings you could put up pretty narrow. So you forgot that idea and instead tried putting up item frames! But you put some up and disliked it almost immediately. It felt way too busy so you got rid of those too. 

You were getting tired of decorating so you just grabbed a random banner (purple because why not?) and then you grabbed a handful of different colored dyes before pulling out a loom. You tried a bunch of different designs, threw out most of them because they either ended up with ugly clashing colors or looking way too busy. But you finally settled on one that was a purple banner with an orange gradient coming up from the bottom and finally a gold sun right in the middle. It looked very pretty, like a sunset!

Once you were happy you hung a couple inside then on a whim you even hung a couple outside your door on either side. It made the outside look prettier in your opinion so once you were done (for real this time) you went and just flopped into bed, not feeling more than a touch tired but with nothing else to do at the moment. So you snuggled into your big cozy bed and drifted off to sleep~

-0-

Days passed since you built your home and you kept up work around the village, planting bamboo and berry bushes in a wall around it in a circle as a form of defense against the Illagers. They were kinda jerks and seemed to only want to kill villagers. Which wasn’t cool. And yeah you could have dug a moat or pit around it instead you guessed but you didn’t want any of the villagers falling in and you felt like they would… 

So a wall of bamboo and prickly berry bushes it was. And it works! And looks dope. So win/win.

And it was as you were on your way to put some lights at the bottoms of the ponds and rivers that you noticed it from the corner of your eye. One of your sunset banners! But it was hanging up outside of the weaponsmith’s place instead of on your temple home where you knew you left it. But then you noticed another one hanging up outside the stonemason’s workshop…

You look over at your home up on the hill and see your banners still in place. And you know none of them trudged all the way up there just to steal one from the inside so you decide to investigate more in the village. And the further you walk in the more banners with your pattern on them you see. Actually every building you pass has at least one hung up somewhere near the door. You blinked before chuckling a little and thinking to yourself,

‘Oh! They all must have seen the banner I made and liked it! So they made their own to hang up. That’s actually pretty cute. I’m glad they like it.’

You were blissfully ignorant to the fact that the villagers have started to see you as their saint of sorts. Their goddess of prosperity and kindness. Without whom they would still be lost and living in pathetic huts and with no drive to acquire a skill and better themselves. They honestly look back on those times as such a dark period of their lives. When they were ignorant of their own abilities without your blessing to guide them. They owed you their lives and they wanted to show their thanks to you.

So when they saw you put up your sunset banners on your temple they quickly went to the shepherd and asked him to make them some just like it! And the shepherd, with his skill being a master thanks to your wonderful trading help, was easily able to craft such banners. Every villager had at least one by the time the sun was going down, all of them proudly being hung on the outsides of their homes and work buildings to show their allegiance to you!

But it wouldn’t stop there. The villagers wanted to give back even a fraction of what you have given to them.

-0-

In the following weeks you definitely noticed the villagers acting… odd. It started small at first, with them each coming to you and giving you gifts. The shepherd gave you a pair of blankets that were beautifully crocheted with this fluffy wool yarn, one that’d been dyed a soft baby pink while the other was a soothing sea foam color. You thanked him with a smile three times over and he seemed endlessly happy you liked them. You took them home and laid them across your bed and liked the pop of color they provided your space.

Though after that the farmer and leatherworker both met you at the entrance to your temple and each gifted you some things they thought you’d like. The farmer happily handed over a full basket of freshly baked bread along with another basket containing a bushel of golden carrots and almost a full melon’s worth of glistering melon slices. While the leatherworker offered up a pair of dainty leather sandals that looked like they would lace up your legs to just below your knees. And also what looked like a prettily crafted leather utility belt! It had lotus details and golden studs and buckles on the front and back. And one large pocket, one medium zipper pocket, and two smaller pockets. You loved all of their gifts and thanked them both over and over while safely putting the food away (and maybe eating some bread right then) and putting the slippers and belt on. 

You were beyond grateful and thought that was the end of that.

You… were wrong.

-0-

As the days turned into weeks you were lavished with more and more offerings. It took you a while to realize that’s what they were; offerings. You got a little uncomfortable with all the gifts after a bit but when you started to refuse them the villagers looked so sad so you began to accept them again. Especially after they tried to make ‘better’ stuff for you after your initial refusal, under the impression the last ones weren’t good enough for you or something. It started to get hard to take in all the gifts, because sometimes you weren’t available in the village (you still liked to explore) or because you were working on something and they couldn’t reach you. So as a solution you set up a double chest outside your temple for them to put the gifts in. 

They eagerly adapted to that and each night you’d clean out the chest, putting away practical gifts and discreetly getting rid of ones you had WAY too many of. Like the food. You had a full double chest of food and you didn’t need anymore, but saying so would probably hurt their feelings. So this was the easiest way. Plus a lot of the gifts you actually DID like. Like the sandals, hip pocket belt, and the pretty white dress you were currently wearing. The under part of it was just a simple white sleeveless mini dress that went above your knees (you’re not sure it was that shirt when you first tried it on..) and the over part of the dress was a sheer white maxi dress with loose ruffled sleeved that hung off your shoulders, and a slit on each side that helped with ease of movement.

You’d taken to wearing the dress, the hip pocket belt, and sandals every day. They were all comfortable and looked pretty good on you now that you think about it. Not to mention the fabric was light and breathable too, which helped keep you from getting too hot. You’re not sure what kind of fabric it’s made of, but whatever it is it’s light enough to not make you sweat but it’s also heavy enough to keep you from getting cold when it’s windy. Regardless, it’s your go-to outfit these days.

But aside from the offerings and stuff, you had to sit down and really examine your current position. You really took the time to pay attention to how the villagers were treating you. And you eventually came to the conclusion that they were treating you like some kind of saint or deity. They gave you the best of their wares as offerings, they took on your banner as their own (presumably as a show of loyalty), and they almost seemed to worship the ground you walked on. This isn’t even mentioning the statues that they’d put up of you… Like, they were good! Very well done and made of polished white quartz but.. it was still strange. Though like everything else you can’t say you weren’t getting used to it all.

You sighed and rolled with it. 

-0-

You realized one day you’d never been to the Nether. And you wondered if the rules here (like mobs not bothering you) was also true there? You couldn’t deny you were sorta excited to go see, but also scared. You HATED the freaking Hoglins when you played Minecraft before this place. They were always so aggressive and you can’t count how many times they’d killed you, the bastards. But your curiosity won out over your anxiety so you grabbed the enchanted diamond pickaxe you’d been given and then paused while grabbing a stack of gold bars.

“Wait I need to wear gold right? Or the Piglins will be all mad,” you said as you grabbed a gold helmet from your inventory.

You thoughtlessly went to put it on but jerked the helmet back when it clanged against something hard. Something hard that made you wince as a small shock of pain went through your skull. A curse left your lips as you asked out loud what the fuck THAT was about. You were in the middle of trying to come up with an explanation when you reached up with your free hand and flinched when it came into contact with something on your head. Something that 200% was NOT your hair or skull. Panic bubbled inside you and your stomach sank into your feet as you whipped the gold helmet up to look into its polished surface to see yourself.

Horns? Little blunt horns… On your head. 

With a shaky hand you reached up, sort of hoping this was just a dream. But when your fingertips brushed against the soft velvety texture of the horns your breathing grew faster and you pulled your hand away like you’d been burned. You dropped the helmet, not even hearing it clatter against the floor as you stumbled back, nearly tripping over the step that led up to the platform your bed was on, but you somehow managed to get to the bed and sit down.

Before you knew it you’d burst into tears and buried your face into your hands, sobbing and unable to cope with this new fuckery. 

You’ve had to deal with so much weird insane shit since ending up here, wherever the fuck HERE was. You were honestly so tired. You’ve done your best to stay calm, stay sane, and just keep going. And for the most part you have! You focused on surviving, building, and dealing with the villagers. You’d probably feel silly for breaking down over some dumb horns later, especially after you’d barely batted an eye over your weird ears, teeth, and EYES. But the breakdown was probably more to do with life deciding to give you another slice of bullshit despite your overflowing plate. At least that’s what the logical part of your mind was thinking.

But the illogical part, the emotional part, was just so done. So you cried and cried and cried your very soul out until no sound was leaving you anymore. And then, once you were cried out and exhausted you weakly crawled onto the pillows and just passed out. 

You’d deal with this new shit later.

-0-

Far on the outskirts of the opposite side of the village from your temple a young boy with golden hair stumbled across the entrance to said village. 

He’d never seen this village before and was curious. He’d have gladly stormed in and started going through villager chests for loot but it was getting close to dusk and his older brother said he needed to get back asap. Now usually he’d shrug off his brother’s bossy nature but he’d sounded worried so he decided to hurry and get back before it got too late.

But before he turned and left he marked down this village’s coordinates so he could get back to it later..

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

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[cyhyr]

KakaIru Maze 2021: Cursed Places

Fandom: Naruto

Rating: T

WC: ~4400

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Additional Tags: Devil's Bridge, Ghosts, Demons, Curses, Established Relationship, Love Confessions, Oaths & Vows, Presumed Dead, Pet Names

A/N: Hey y'all I'm back on my bullshit and writing nonsense again ;)

This is based on the legends of Devil's Bridges. The one I referenced is the Rakotzbrücke in Gablenz, Germany. The curse, however, I made up, after reading all of the other legends of other listed devil's bridges I could reasonably find.

Read on The Archive

~

“What a gorgeous bridge!”

“Careful, now; it looks rather old,” Iruka says, cautioning Kakashi’s genin as the three of them run up to the stream’s edge. They’re busy ooh-ing at the perfect circle the bridge makes with its reflection in the water, and Iruka’s watching them closely and is distracted.

Kakashi takes the opportunity to sneak behind Iruka and wrap his arms around his waist, to rest his chin on Iruka’s shoulder and press his nose into the soft skin behind Iruka’s ear. One of Iruka’s hands reaches back and snags his hair, pressing Kakashi’s face closer into his neck. He glances up—the kids are still distracted—and quickly shifts aside his mask and presses his teeth to the back of Iruka’s neck, kisses him, delights in the soft gasps he draws out.

“Kakashi,” Iruka's voice is warm and smooth, and he chuckles, “not now.”

Kakashi pulls back and replaces the mask. He shifts so he’s standing beside Iruka; drops one arm but keeps the other around his waist. He presses one last, masked kiss to Iruka’s hair, and then they begin walking again.

“Iruka-sensei! Are we crossing the bridge?” Naruto asks.

“There's no need,” Iruka says. He’s right. Even if their group wasn’t shinobi and knew how to walk on water, the stream is shallow enough that they could cross to the other bank with little problem. They stay on the path beside the water and approach the bridge, but don’t veer off to cross.

There’s a statue where the path turns off, and a sign in the arms of the stone figure. Sasuke is the one to stop and read it aloud. “Cursed Bridge: Do Not Cross.” He turns to the rest of the team and shrugs, “Guess it’s good we’re not going that way.”

“What? You scared, Sasuke?” Naruto taunts.

“No, he’s just smarter than you!” Sakura says. “It’s not a bad thing to avoid curses.”

Sasuke ignores her. “I’m not scared, idiot. I’ll be the first to cross the bridge and prove that the sign is a hoax.”

Before Naruto can get another word in to continue the fight, Iruka interrupts. “Our destination is another two day’s walk,” he snaps. “Admire the bridge’s architecture all you’d like, but we’re not tempting fate by messing with a clear warning.”

Kakashi, beside him, tamps down on his jumping heart. Iruka’s so cute when he gets worked up.

The kids think otherwise. All three of them fall back in line and keep walking. Sasuke hangs back a bit and mutters, “Sorry, sensei,” quietly enough that only Iruka and Kakashi can hear. He then joins Naruto and Sakura up ahead.

Kakashi takes a few steps to follow, but then notices that Iruka isn’t moving with him. His hand has slipped around and settled on Iruka’s back, and he calls out softly for his partner. “Iruka?”

Iruka is staring at the sign, head tilted. His feet are rooted, a defensive technique taught in order to withstand earth and lightning attacks. Kakashi takes Iruka’s hand, surreptitiously slips his thumb against Iruka’s pulse and frowns.

It’s really slow. They’d been walking since dawn. If anything, Kakashi expected his pulse to be faster than usual.

He tries again, a little louder. “Iruka? Love?”

“A fate worse than death awaits those who cross this bridge, lest their souls be theirs to lose,” Iruka mutters. He looks back at Kakashi, his eyes wide and a tremble creeping down his spine. “You—none of you heard it, did you?” he asks.

Kakashi turns to the genin and calls, “Stop where you are! Don’t come back here, but don’t get ahead!”

Naruto, Sakura, and Sasuke all turn at once and look back at him. Naruto looks, for a moment, like he’s going to disregard his orders, but the other two helpfully keep him calm and hold him back.

Kakashi faces Iruka again, and says, “No, I don’t think they heard anything like that either. Love, we need to get you out of here. Can I move you?”

Iruka's dazed, his eyes unfocused and glassy. His breath is coming slower, and he sways to either side. "It said it as soon as Sasuke started talking about proving it wasn’t a hoax. I don’t—Kakashi, it’s sad.”

“We need to leave.”

“It sounds like a child. Can’t we—oh fu—”

Kakashi catches him as Iruka drifts to the side, his rooted feet laxing and tripping underneath him. He slips his arms under Iruka’s knees and back, picking him up easily. He relishes the soft, even breaths against his neck as he flash-steps away from the bridge and closer to his genin.

“Iruka-sensei! Is he okay?”

“You three set the pace,” Kakashi says, “but we need to move as fast as possible. Don’t stop, don’t look back—not even at me and Iruka. Not unless I tell you to stop. Do you understand?”

He gets three nods of different speeds of hesitation. He has to stare down Naruto before the kid gives him the affirmative.

“Good. Go.”

Then they’re off, leaping through the trees and keeping the path by the stream on their right. Kakashi keeps a tight hold on Iruka, who slips further and further into a comatose state. His breath comes slower with each branch Kakashi kicks off of, and his eyes finally close half an hour into their run. He goes fully limp within another hour; Kakashi has to pause to adjust his grip and pulse his chakra so as to not drop his partner.

The genin stop when he does. He doesn’t yell at them. He knows he should, but he’s too worried by what could possibly have happened to Iruka to bother.

~

There’s a village up ahead which is in their itinerary, but which they hadn’t expected to reach before tomorrow morning. Kakashi calls for the genin to slow down, to flank him, and to keep up defensive positions until they have more information. This village is the closest to that supposedly cursed bridge; if there are legends or stories about the place, they’ll find them here.

Team 7 enters the village at a gentle run, and stop in the first business they see. Helpfully, an apothecary.

“Jii-san! Can you help?” Naruto asks the man at the counter with no preamble.

The old man looks up from his mortar and pestle, and takes in their appearance—specifically, Iruka’s. He narrows his eyes and stands, coming around his counter.

“You lot passed the Devil’s Bridge, didn’t you?”

Kakashi asks, “What's wrong with him? The sign said it was cursed, but only warned against crossing. We stayed on our side of the stream.”

“That’s… well, then this is just incredibly unfortunate, son,” the apothecary says. He gestures for Kakashi to set Iruka down on a futon, set up alongside one of the walls. “He went and stood before the statue for a bit then, didn’t he?” the man continues once Iruka’s settled.

“He said he heard a child’s voice,” Kakashi says.

“A child’s? That’s new,” the apothecary checks Iruka’s breathing and pulse, his temperature, and then finally lifts up his eyelids briefly and nods. “The curse is set. You lot are shinobi, aren’t you? Just passing through, or staying a while?”

“No, please; what’s wrong with Iruka-sensei?” Naruto pipes up behind them. The other two, for once, are silently backing him up. Kakashi, too, wants more information than what’s been given.

“What is this curse, and how do we break it?” he asks.

The apothecary sighs heavily. “Son, there ain’t no way out of this one. He got caught up in a pact that was supposed to be settled a long time ago, but…” His gaze is distant, watching the world outside the window over Kakashi’s shoulder. “He ain’t getting better, ‘less he crosses the bridge. And even then, after that his soul is forfeit. It’s a kinder fate to say your good-byes now and—”

“NO!” Naruto shouts, falling forward and kneeling beside Kakashi on the floor. He puts a hand on Naruto’s back and pulses his chakra to check in on the Kyūbi seal; it’s holding fine. “There’s gotta be another way! Please, Jii-san, there’s another way?”

The apothecary shakes his head. “I have a drug for this situation,” he says quietly. “It won’t hurt. He’ll slip into deeper and deeper sleep until his body simply shuts—”

“If you want your village to remain standing by morning,” Kakashi says, voice low and threatening, “you won’t finish that.” He pulses more chakra across his connection with Naruto to keep the seal steady, but can already tell the signs of the kid’s protective anger rising. “You mentioned before, it was new that Iruka heard a child’s voice. What do you mean by that?”

Sasuke and Sakura come to kneel around Naruto as well. Naruto reaches out and takes Iruka’s hand between both of his own.

The old man clears his throat. “Well, see most people who get the curse hear the voice of a deceased loved one, or a… hmm.” He strokes his beard with two fingers. “Did he say what the voice said?”

Kakashi recites, “‘A fate worse than death awaits those who cross this bridge, lest their souls be theirs to lose.’”

The man looks up, shocked. He stands up quickly for someone so old, and crosses the shop to a bookshelf. “‘The bridge waits for love to cross unhindered, for death can be a fairer fate to choose.’ Did he say that, too?”

“No, he didn’t. What is it?”

“The rest of the inscription,” the apothecary says, taking a book down and thumbing through it. He holds it open in his palm and frowns down at the pages, flipping back and forth, and finally settling. He brings the book back to them, and hands it, still open, to Kakashi. “My daughter,” he says slowly, sadly, “she also heard the call of the bridge. And the statue spoke to her, and it said the same thing. She said… she said she heard her mother, at the time. She told me what she heard, before the compulsion grew too much.”

“Kakashi-sensei,” Sakura says, reading over his shoulder, “look there. It says that the curse compels its bearers to—”

“I see it, Sakura.” He sighs. “How long do we have before he wakes?”

“Before he tries to cross that bridge,” Sasuke grunts.

“Considering his condition, a few hours,” the apothecary says.

“Is there any way you know to wake him before then?”

“No. All we can do is wait, and see how the curse manifests.”

~

Kakashi sends the genin out to find dinner when the sun starts to set. It’s difficult to convince Naruto to leave Iruka’s side, but he takes him aside and murmurs, just for him, “I won’t leave him. I won’t let him leave. Iruka is safe with me. Go eat something; he’ll kill me if he finds out I’m not taking care of you when he can’t.”

Naruto follows after Sakura and Sasuke.

The apothecary, who eventually introduced himself as Natsu, putters around his shop, putting together poultices of wet salt and herbs—like it’s going to help. Kakashi holds Iruka’s hand tight and watches as the dying sunlight crosses his face.

Finally, he starts to wake.

“Iruka, love?”

Iruka opens his eyes and sits up at once. Kakashi keeps hold of his hand and stares at the new color his eyes gleam in the evening light: cold red, just like the sharingan.

“I have to go back,” Iruka says.

From behind his counter, Natsu winces. “If you go, you’ll die,” he says.

“If I don’t, the child…” Iruka looks over at Kakashi and asks, “What else am I meant to do?”

“Stay,” he pleads quietly. “Be selfish for once and stay. For me, for Naruto, for the village, I don’t care but—”

Iruka laughs—three barks of horrible, defeated laughter. “If I don’t do this, am I really me?”

Kakashi softens. “No,” he admits. “No, you… but gods I wish…”

“There’s a child who needs me, Kakashi. Who am I to deny them?”

“You have a child already, and he needs you,” Kakashi tries one last time. “At least let us go with you.”

“Absolutely not. If any of you cross, you’ll die too. Better one of us than… than all.”

Then Iruka makes a few hand seals and presses his free palm to Kakashi’s cheek. “I’m sorry, my love.”

This is what he gets for falling in love with a fūinjutsu master. A sleep seal to his face, without the seal master needing ink or paper at all. He slumps forward, and Iruka catches him and trades places with him on the futon. He’s asleep before his head is placed on the pillow.

~

Iruka drifts his fingers over Kakashi’s slack face. The seal won’t hold for long; it’s not strong to begin with, and he purposefully weakened it so as not to even risk any harm to his partner. He turns to the old man behind the counter, still packing herbs into a silk poultice with wet salt. “Are you going to try and stop me, too?”

“No,” the man says tiredly. “I tried that once before with my daughter. All it did was prolong both our suffering.” He finishes the poultice and ties it closed with a piece of string. “You’ll want these. If the demon takes you, and it more assuredly will, they’ll keep you safe.”

“Herbs and salt?” Iruka shakes his head. “Thank you, but I’m not going to a demon. I’m going to a child.”

“That blond boy was concerned about you. You should reconsider, try to fight.”

“You just said—”

“I know what I said,” the man snapped. “I won’t stop you. That doesn’t mean you won’t break that man’s heart when he wakes up and you’re gone.”

Iruka leans over and kisses Kakashi’s forehead. “I have to do this.”

“That’s what my Naomi said, too,” the man muttered, suddenly tired again. “Go, if you must. But please, for my own peace of mind?” He holds out two of the poultices, one in red silk and the other in blue. Iruka gives Kakashi’s cheek one last touch and then stands, crosses the room, and takes the blue poultice.

“Give the red one to Kakashi, when he comes after me,” Iruka says. He doesn’t look back, tucking the poultice into his weapons pouch and striding out the door. Once outside, he turns back to the forest, to where the stream skips and flows, and he dashes away.

~

Natsu is kneeling beside him when Kakashi wakes up. He scrubs at his face to get rid of any lingering traces of the seal, and sits up. Natsu silently hands him a red silk bag which smells of salt, sage, rosemary, and—

“He left not ten minutes ago,” Natsu says. “If you hurry, you should be able to catch up. Get your last words in before he’s gone for good.”

Kakashi puts the poultice away and stands up. If the sleep seal is good for one thing, he at least feels refreshed and able to run, even after carrying Iruka and running along the trees for hours earlier.

“Shinobi-san,” Natsu continues, “if today is your last day with him—”

“It won’t be.”

“Shinobi-san—”

“Iruka is strong. He’ll make it past this. We’ll make it past this.” Kakashi stands, pats himself down to assure himself his weapons are in place, and then asks, “Is there an inn I can send my team to settle in for the night?”

Natsu sighs, and waves him off. “I have spare rooms. Your children can stay in the patient quarters, and if—when you come back,” he grins sadly, “my daughter’s old room is made up for guests.”

Kakashi nods. “Thank-you, Natsu-sensei. Please, keep the genin here until dawn as best you can.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He’s wasted enough time. Once he’s on the street he bursts his speed like he used to in his ANBU days, back to the bridge. He should check in with his team before leaving them behind, but he feels he knows them enough to know that they won’t stay back if they know the situation.

So he runs. And when he catches Iruka’s scent his heart flutters. And as he comes closer to the bridge he can sense Iruka’s chakra—warm and steady—and he sighs.

Iruka

Don’t leave me. I can’t take another heartbreak.

He stops in front of the statue, really looking at it this time. It’s grotesque, depicting a monster with fangs and horns, feathers and fur alike. But the more Kakashi looks at it, the less frightening the statue seems and the more he gets the feeling of longing from the wide eyes and wrapping limbs.

It’s still holding the sign. Cursed Bridge: Do Not Cross.

Kakashi looks out at the bridge, and wants to be surprised to see Iruka standing at the crest of the bridge, looking off the side downstream. He’s not surprised, but he does catch his breath, because a glance in the water shows the reflection of two figures, even though Iruka is alone on the bridge.

“Iruka!”

His gaze turns away from the water and back to the bank, and Iruka smiles. He says something to the invisible figure beside him, and then comes back down the arch of the bridge.

He stops before he steps off, though. “Kakashi,” he holds out his hands.

“Your eyes are brown again,” Kakashi says, helpless but to step forward and put his hands in Iruka’s.

“Den-chan says the red eyes were always temporary.”

“Den?”

“The little girl who’s stuck here,” Iruka says. “She had been offered to the bridge as a guardian, but… oh, Kakashi, she’s so young, I can’t imagine she ever learned how to do this right.”

Kakashi brings Iruka’s hands to his face and kisses them through his mask. “If anyone can teach her, it’s you. Don’t lose yourself.”

Iruka sighs. “I think… but, I have to cross the bridge all the way, to see her home. It’s part of the curse. Den-chan doesn’t know how to undo it, but she knows she needs to be led across the bridge to be able to leave it.”

“And if you cross? This ‘fate worse than death’?”

Iruka nods. “I walk into the land of demons. And once one does that, the only way to leave is to become a demon yourself, a process which takes centuries.”

“You’re prepared for this, then.” Kakashi knows his voice is cold and his hands tighten around Iruka's. “Please, please reconsider.”

“If I don't try,” Iruka leans his forehead onto Kakashi’s and closes his eyes, “then my life energy, my chakra, will wane with the night and I’ll be dead at dawn. Den-chan unconsciously uses the chakra of those who refuse her in order to sustain herself.”

“You can’t,” Kakashi stops. Breathes. “Please. We’ve had so little time together. I want—I want, Iruka, and that’s more than I’ve felt in so long.”

Iruka kisses his cheek, his forehead, and then pulls his mask down and presses their lips together. The kiss turns hungry and desperate in a blink, and Kakashi tries to step into Iruka’s body to hold him, but is held back by Iruka’s hands flattening on his chest. He put his hands on Iruka’s hips, torn between grasping him tight or reaching back and groping—

“She’s still watching,” Iruka groans. There’s a smile in his voice. “Behave yourself.”

“Never,” Kakashi murmurs against his lips. “If this is the last time I get to hold you,” he takes a chance and grabs a handful of Iruka’s ass, groaning deep in his throat.

Iruka laughs, loud and clear. But still, he takes Kakashi’s hand off of his backside and presses a kiss to his fingers.

He still smiles, but is more subdued as he says, “I want… Kakashi, my love, I need you to do something for me before I—”

“I’ll take care of Naruto.”

Iruka shuts his eyes and ducks his head. He hisses a breath through his teeth and sniffs, “Gods, how did I get so damn lucky?” He lifts his eyes and strokes the side of Kakashi’s face, still bare from their kisses. “I love you. And I would be yours forever if fate would let it be.”

“Fuck fate,” Kakashi presses their foreheads together, kisses him again. “Let the earth become sallow and the oceans dry up—death will not keep me from you.”

“Kaka—?”

“My life,” Kakashi says emphatically, “my soul, is yours.”

Iruka looks back over his shoulder to where the little demon is, and then he kisses Kakashi quickly. “Will this work?” he mutters.

“Who cares? I’m not lying, Iruka. I am yours.”

Iruka swallows a sob and fights back tears. “Oh, gods I love you, Kakashi. My soul, my life, is yours. Death cannot keep me from you.” They share one last deep, searching kiss, and Iruka tears himself away from Kakashi’s arms and back to the crest of the bridge.

He stops once there, speaks to the air like there’s someone there, and then offers his hand like he once did for Naruto when the boy was six years old. The figure shifts into sight as they cross the bridge, a little girl in red pigtails, who looks back at Kakashi and smiles sadly at him before she fades out of view over the crest.

Iruka doesn’t look back.

~

Kakashi sits beside the statue with his eye closed, his mask back up around his nose, and his arms resting on his drawn up, spread knees. He had stood at the bank of the stream for an hour, not daring to cross after Iruka; he has a promise to keep, one of them has to stay alive to care for Naruto. But the hour passed and midnight came and went and Kakashi is trying not to sob for the unfairness of it all.

Iruka hasn’t come back.

The book Natsu-sensei gave him said that there is a theory that one whose soul belonged to someone else could cross unburdened. It would seem that a declaration of undying love and a mutual claim on each other’s souls isn’t enough to subvert the curse. He’ll have to tell Natsu-sensei about it later.

The night wind blows cold. Kakashi wonders if Orochimaru ever figured out that eternal life shit; maybe then, Kakashi will be around when Iruka comes back as a demon.

Kakashi

There are no animal noises in the forest tonight. He’s stuck somewhere between denial and depression. Bargaining is useless and anger… Well, maybe the animals have the right idea in leaving him alone.

Kakashi

Kakashi!

“Kakashi, my love, please look at me.”

He does—he opens his eye and here, kneeling in the dirt between his legs, is clearly a hallucination or a spector and fuck Kakashi doesn’t know which is worse. Iruka’s eyes are warm and brown and worried, and his hands are braced on Kakashi’s arms, over his knees. Before he can start crying again, he shuts his eye and tips his head back against the statue.

“If you’re going to haunt me, please—”

“Oh, my Kakashi, I’m here.” Iruka shuffles forward on his knees and places a palm on Kakashi’s neck. He-he can feel it. “Don’t count me out so soon.”

He throws himself forward, wrapping each of his limbs around Iruka’s body just to feel how solid he is. And he is, solid, warm and laughing and real and—

“How?” he sobs into Iruka’s hair.

“You,” Iruka says quietly. “It’s you. ‘Lest their souls be theirs to lose.’ Remember? It was your brilliant idea, my love.”

“I. But it took so long. You—you were gone for hours.” Kakashi pulls him in tighter (as though it were possible) and nudges his mask down with his nose so he can kiss every bit of Iruka he can reach while still being wrapped around him.

“I had to make sure Den-chan would be okay. And then find my way back.” Iruka kisses his temple, long and soft. “Your soul is beautiful, Kakashi,” he murmurs. “Thank you for giving it to me. It was the perfect beacon.”

“Iruka,” he whines. “Fuck, you’re really here.” He pulls back, enough so he can slip his hands up to frame Iruka’s face and press his thumbs into the scar bisecting his face, his lips, the corner of his eyes; beautiful, brown, perfect once more. He leans in and kisses Iruka again because gods he can’t help it.

“I came back for you, my love,” Iruka says against his lips. “You made sure I would. And Den-chan isn’t attached to the bridge anymore. She’s been trapped on this plane for centuries and you let me go so I could lead her to where she belonged. I can’t thank you enough. I can’t love you enough.”

Kakashi doesn’t let him keep talking anymore. He pulls Iruka down on top of him, still kissing, and together they spend the rest of the night reaffirming that, yes, Iruka came back—and yes, Iruka was real.

~

In the early morning rays, Iruka leans against a dozing Kakashi and watches the sun’s reflection on the water. He sees the spectors of dozens of people cross the bridge, fading away as they reach the opposite bank. Each one is led by the hand of a little girl in red pigtails, dressed in white.

He breathes easy. Den-chan knows her role now, and is helping all those she had accidentally hurt over the years. She had never wanted to be known as a demon, cursing the bridge; she just wanted to go home and needed a specific kind of person to bring her there.

Iruka turns his head into Kakashi’s collar and sighs. If he had to tie his life, his soul, to anyone, he’s glad it’s Kakashi.

Den brings a young woman to their side of the bridge and lets her leave, waving to her spector as she leaves the bridge and steps onto the path. The woman takes a few steps before vanishing, crossing into the next life. Den notices him sitting by her statue and smiles, giving him his own wave before going back to the crest of the bridge for the next soul.

Iruka lifts a hand in a subdued wave.

The sun rises.

The lovers sleep.

[fidothefinch]

Stars, Hide Your Fires - Chapter 1

Reread this this morning and realized I? did not post? the first chapter here? So here it is!

Dick Grayson doesn't want to leave the circus he's called home his entire life. When he overhears Pop Haley talking to a strange man about sending Dick away for 'training,' he decides he'll do whatever he can to stop it.

Even if he has to make a deal with a demon.

- - -

Madame Emmaline Obas lived in a dim carriage full of magic.

Her room had always given Dick the heebie-jeebies, even as he had become more familiar with it. Hanging from the door was a little burlap bag full of spices that she kept for warding off demons. One wall was covered completely with astrology charts, maps of the palm, and her vast collection of crystals. Along the other was a bookshelf, lined with old tomes whose titles were almost completely worn off their spines, jars of feathers and bones, and an old bird skull whose eyes seemed to follow Dick throughout the room.

But she made the best tea, and she had the best gossip, and his parents insisted he visit her caravan at least once a week so she didn’t get ‘too lonely.’

She kept incense burning in her caravan twenty-four/seven, and it clogged the small space to the point he always sneezed when he first stepped inside. But the warm cup of chai in his hands was cutting through the cloying scent, and Dick took a deep breath of the steam.

Madame Obas was packing her ‘bag of tricks,’ so she called, in preparation for her appointments tonight. When she rolled the heavy crystal ball into her bag, Dick started to nudge the wooden case of tarot cards toward her, but hesitated before he touched. He had heard her during her appointments enough times to know not to touch them.

She saw his hand pause, and scooped the case into her bag herself. “Don’t worry about these, chouchou,” she laughed. “These are for show.”

Dick wrapped his hands tighter around his chipped teacup. “You mean you can’t really tell the future?”

She shook her head as she sat across from him. “Not with that, I can’t. The art is much more subtle, but people pay for a show.”

Dick kicked his feet under the table. His toes almost brushed the floor; he’d had a growth spurt recently. “So how do you do it? Will you teach me?”

She looked him up and down. Hummed. Sat back in her chair. “Maybe one day, when you’re older.”

“Aw, come on. Please?” He looked around the room, and his eyes landed on the books. “Can I teach myself? With those?”

She snapped her fingers in front of his face to get his attention back—she was like that. “Nah-ah.” She pointed a finger, and Dick almost went cross-eyed bringing it into focus. “Those books are very dangerous. You never touch them. Understand me?”

Dick nodded, stunned by the sudden change in tone. He set the teacup down before he could spill it on Madame’s great-grandmother’s tapestry, draped over the table like a table cloth. “I understand. No touching.”

She watched him with narrowed eyes, and when she didn’t find what she was looking for, sat back again. “Something is troubling you.”

Dick had become very good at performing, but he wasn’t good enough yet to hide his feeling from his circus family. “No?”

“It wasn’t a question.” She smiled warmly. “Drink your tea. Tell Auntie Obas what’s wrong.”

Dick wrinkled his nose; Madame Obas never told him to call her ‘Auntie’ unless she thought there was gossip to get out of him. (She had been prying about the possibility of a younger sibling, and he had been assuring her she would be the first to know besides his mom.)

Nevertheless, she looked sincere, and Dick knew he wasn’t getting out without spilling. “I wasn’t eavesdropping—”

“Ha!” She laughed. “I’m sure you weren’t, mon chouchou.”

Dick cracked a smile at the nickname. “I wasn’t! I was refilling the cooler with ice, but I overheard someone talking to Haley.” He shifted uncomfortably. When words didn’t come easily to him, he took another sip of the tea. “I think they were talking about me?”

Madame Obas stilled. Her mouth drew into a thin line. “Really?”

He took another sip of his tea before answering. “They were talking about how old I was. They said it was ‘time’. . . . It sounded like they were sending me away.”

Madame’s brow crinkled, “Why would they do that?”

Dick shrugged. “Something about training.”

Madame sighed. “Ah, yes, John and Mary had the same issue. Men from schools come, looking for new star students.” She reached across the table to smooth a hand through his hair. “You do not need to worry, dear. You’re not going anywhere.”

He was out of tea, and out of excuses not to speak. “Madame Obas, would you read my future?”

She stilled, eyebrows raised a moment. Then tilted her head to the side. Hummed again, but this time it was deeper. “Give me your hands.”

Dick immediately shifted so his hands rested on the table palms-up. She scooped his hands in hers, and her eyes closed in concentration.

“What are you—”

“Shhh,” she hissed, one eye cracking open. “I am listening.”

“Sorry.”

Her eye slipped shut again, and Dick closed his eyes, too.

It was quiet.

Then it was soundless.

The normal sounds of her caravan, the circus, and even the city beyond faded away. Blood pounded in his ears, and he could hear it speeding up. He fought not to twitch in response, afraid of disturbing the silence.

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter as it stretched on for what felt like eternity.

Something freezing cold brushed across his shoulders. It was sudden, as though someone had swiped an ice cube under his shirt. He jolted at the feeling, eyes flying open.

Madame Obas’ face was inches away, bloodshot eyes boring into his. He tried to pull back, but her hands tightened. As he watched, her skin began to pale.

Dick stared, heart jackhammering in his chest. Her hands squeezed even tighter, and it felt like she was grinding the bones of his hands together.

He gasped.

The sound was enough to break the spell, and she dropped his hands.

Dick blinked as sound filtered back into existence from outside the caravan. His head felt . . . cloudy.

Madame Obas stood abruptly. Her chair clattered to the floor behind her.

“Madame?” Dick asked, confused as she whisked away his tea cup and picked up her bag of tricks.

She started pulling on her shoes to leave, and that’s when Dick panicked and grabbed the hem of her robes. “Auntie? What did you see?”

She paused. She shut her eyes, and took a deep breath before turning to him. “You have great trials ahead, but love will save you.”

Dick let go of the robes. “Does that mean I have to leave?”

Madame ushered him out the door. “I must go to my tent, and I cannot trust you won’t wreck my room while I am gone, so yes, you must leave.”

Dick let out a frustrated huff. “Please. You know what I mean.”

She followed him out and shut the door behind her. “I cannot predict the future so precisely, chouchou. And I am late for my first appointment.”

Dick watched as she hurried away. Madame Obas had honed her skill; she had told his parents he would be a boy, and had told Pop Haley when staying in town would bring in huge crowds. She could predict when the hottest days would bring rain and when the camp’s cook would accidentally burn the food. She brought good, uplifting news to the people who visited her tent.

The only time she was vague when she knew something was wrong.

It could only mean she had seen something terrible.

And Dick would do whatever he could to stop it.

- - -

He waited until forty-five minutes to the show, when he knew everyone would be on set. Quietly, knowing he only had so much time before his parents began to look for him, he made his way back inside the carriage.

If he thought her carriage was creepy before, it was infinitely more terrifying with only the dim moonlight filtering through the windows to illuminate its interior. He sneezed, as customary, when he stepped across the threshold. The heavy wooden door swung shut behind him, and he couldn’t help feeling like he had stepped into a tomb.

He ran a hand along the wall until he found the lamp in the corner, and with a yank the warm yellow light cast eerie shadows across the walls. Dick cringed into the wall a moment. It hit him suddenly that Madame’s carriage was full of magic only she knew how to control. He eyed the bird skull on the bookshelf across from himself like he was afraid its jaw would hinge open and give him away.

But after a few seconds, nothing had moved, save the swaying chain he had used to turn on the lamp.

Dick took a deep breath and headed for the bookshelf.

He had never looked closely at the old tomes, beyond noticing many of them were written in languages he didn’t know. He set his sights on the most-worn one. It had a title in Latin.

It was cold to the touch. He pulled it from the shelf and a fine cloud of dust floated after it. He sneezed again, and set the book down on the small table in the corner.

It was thicker than the others, and the pages had dark splotches where they had been thumbed through many times before. Dick traced the gold letters embossed on the dark cover with one finger.

Madame’s warning floated through his mind.

But he didn’t want to leave.

He opened the book.

Immediately, the shadows around him shifted. Dick’s head snapped up at the movement, and he watched with growing horror as he traced the movement’s origin back to the lamp, which had begun to sway back and forth. The air got thicker, denser. Just like he had experienced with Madame Obas, the sounds from outside, and then inside, the carriage were sucked away, until Dick was left listening only to his own harsh breathing.

He jumped when some invisible force pressed his palms into the table on either side of the book. The pages continued to turn by themselves. In the flipped pages Dick caught illustrations of monsters, old chants in dead languages, what looked like a recipe written in blood. His fingers curled into fists, but he was unable to lift them.

As quickly as it all started, it stopped. The book flipped one more page and stilled. Dick stared down at the pages, unable to make sense of the language but uncomfortably aware of the painted eyes that seemed to stare back at him.

The room was plunged into darkness.

Dick’s breath was ragged in his ears. He thought, with a shudder, that he would be able to see his breath in the sudden chill of the room.

The pressure on his hands didn’t release.

Dick audibly gasped when he felt ice across his shoulders in a sensation similar to his experience earlier. Except this time, the cold reached from his fingertips to his heart, and it lingered on his skin like a burn.

And then the book started glowing.

More specifically, the eyes did.

Instead of sclera, the eyes glowed a fiery red. Dick froze in terror when they swerved down and looked directly at him. The slit pupils dilated to twice their normal size.

And then the pages around the book warped, as though they had become putty. Two points pressed against the pages from the other side, and then they broke through with a horrible loud ripping sound.

Dick shrank back from the giant horns that rose out of the pages. They framed the glowing eyes, and as they continued to rise the eyes rose with them, along with a coal-black face and body. Dick had to crane his neck to see the full height of the figure, who shook the entire caravan when it jumped down from the table. A billow of smoke rose from the pages next, making Dick’s eyes water, and they coalesced behind the figure’s back into twin bat wings.

“YOU ARE SMALL.”

The voice came from nowhere and everywhere, reverberating in Dick’s chest and ears. It was deep, and dark, and gravelly, as though it had been drawn up from the murky depths of some underground volcano.

Dick shivered. The pressure on his hands let up suddenly, and he stumbled backward until he landed in the rickety old chair.

The figure’s mouth stretched into what may have been a smile. Row upon row of long, sharp teeth glittered in the glow from his eyes, the only source of light in the room. “YOUNG AND FOOLISH.”

“Who—what are you?” Dick squeaked.

The figure huffed, and smoke billowed out of the place where nostrils should have been. “YOU SUMMONED ME WITHOUT EVEN KNOWING MY NAME?” It leaned forward, boxing Dick into the chair with arms that smelled like ash, its wings extended behind it to block out the rest of the caravan. When it laughed, its breath—if that was what it was—was freezing against Dick’s face.

“MY NAME IS—” he bared his teeth and a piercing tone clicked out, almost too high for Dick to hear. He clapped his hands over his ears until it stopped. “BUT MORTALS CALL ME THE BAT.”

This had not been one of Dick’s better ideas.

It was leaning into him still, and this close, he could see the sharp slope of a slightly elongated face, ending abruptly in a hole where the nostrils were supposed to be. It reminded him of the animal skull he had found in an owl pellet once.

He wetted his lips. He didn’t know what to say.

“WHY HAVE YOU SUMMONED ME, CHILD?”

Dick bit the inside of his cheek. His hands shook, so he clamped them down on his legs. “I want. . . I want a favor.”

The Bat finally leaned back, giving Dick the room he needed to breath properly again. It chuckled darkly. “I DO NOT GIVE FAVORS TO MORTALS.”

“A deal!” Dick shouted, louder than he meant. He lowered his voice into something more confident-sounding. “A deal, then.”

The Bat paused. Crossed his arms. “WHAT IS IT YOU WISH FOR?”

Dick’s heart hammered away. This was it. “I don’t want to leave the circus.” No; he knew better. Phrasing was everything. He may want to leave one day; settle down if he met someone. “No—I don’t want to go with the people who spoke to Pop Haley.”

The Bat tilted its head to the side, the movement exaggerated by its pointed ears. “I COULD DO THAT. WHAT WILL YOU OFFER IN RETURN?”

Dick swallowed. “I—I don’t know. My soul?”

Smoke rolled out of The Bat’s mouth as he talked. “WHAT WOULD I DO WITH THAT?” He turned around, taking the light from his eyes with him. Walked toward the book again. “THANK YOU FOR FREEING ME, LITTLE ONE, BUT IF YOU HAVE NOTHING TO OFFER ME, THERE IS NO DEAL.”

“Please!” Dick whispered. He reached a hand out, and it wafted through the smoke-wing. “Please, help me!” He thought of Madame Obas’s face when she didn’t tell him the bad news. He couldn’t live through that. He couldn’t think of anything worse than being ripped away from his family.

The Bat ignored him, heading toward the door.

“I’d give anything!”

The Bat stopped.

Its head twisted back around slowly, the light in its eyes shining brighter than before. It cast an eerie red hue over the interior of the caravan. “ANYTHING?”

No. Absolutely not. Dick stood up from the chair, even though his legs threatened to buckle under the weight of what he was doing. “Yes. Anything. Name the price.”

The Bat turned around fully. “SMALL ONE, YOU ARE A BRAVE FOOL. I ACCEPT.”

“You—what?!”

It beat its wings, and in a blink of an eye, cold breath and smoke billowed down Dick’s shoulder from behind. Black-tipped talons gripped his wrists, rooting him in place when he instinctively tried to jump away. That cold seeped into him where the hands touched him, following the burning path up his arms again. But this time it dug fingers into his heart, deeper than before, stealing Dick’s breath with the burn.

He choked on a scream.

The hands released, suddenly. “IT IS DONE. I WILL FIND YOU WHEN I NEED TO.”

There were tears in Dick’s eyes, but he didn’t know if they were from the pain or the smoke. He whirled around to face The Bat. “What do you—?”

The Bat flapped his wings, and disintegrated into ash and smoke.

All at once, sound and light filtered back into the caravan. Dick gasped in the suddenness of it, resulting in a lungful of dust. Coughing and gagging on the putrid taste, he staggered out the door and down the steps of the caravan.

He left the door open to let the smoke filter out. After the show, before final bows, he snuck away to put the book away and return the furniture to normal. There was no sign of anything happening.

No sign but the page missing eyes.

You can read the rest of this story (it's complete!) on AO3

[myfanfictiongarden]

Storm- Descendants fanfic

The clouds are dark and heavy, a menacing presence over the Isle, the winds throwing the rain manically through the dirty narrow streets. Shops are closing down for the day and the market stands are being deserted, everyone surprised by the force in this recent storm. To have bad weather on the Isle is not unusual, more the norm, having cold winds chill your bones or constant showers of rain drenching your raged cloths. Yet once in a while the winds decide to show no mercy on those who would despise such act anyway and one is only left to creep into any kind of shelter that he considereds home.

Skipping over the slippery rocks along the beach, the steep cliffs already far behind, Uma curses under her breath as heavy rain rolls down her face, her hair already dripping wet, her clothes a mere joke in this weather. A tiny hope arises in her that maybe now at least the rain may finally wash out the everlasting smell of shrimps out of her braids that has caused her such misery throughout the last three years, but this hope is thin as not even stolen Aurodonian soap could do such miracles. In front of her Harry easily aclimbs the last rocky obstacle and she follows him her feet finally having wooden planks under them, the path along the Wharft being uncomfortably slippery too. They had just met up after school at the rocks on the beach, only waiting for Gil to arrive so they could start their “treasure hunt” (as in “stealing”) in the market, but the weather has turned abruptly even before their companion could join them.

She has been following Harry through the rain without even asking where he was leading them, sure he would know some good place to take shelter, which was the reason why she now for the first time stopped realizing where he was taking them and wondering if that was truly their only option.

“This is the best you could cone up with? Isn’t your dad, like, at home or something?” She asks standing one foot on the plank that is leading on the famous Jolly Roger.

“Nah, he is still at the shop by now, and surely won’t consider coming home in this weather.” Harry says just slightly turning in her direction before disappearing through the double doors leading inside the ship, and she is left to simply follow too. Everyone knows the Jolly Roger and her famous captain, and Uma has often been standing at the harbour admiring that mighty ship, impressive still after long past it’s glorious days. To set foot on it was not an option. On the Isle you are usually not friendly with your neighbours, especially if they want to enter your property. Being wet to the bone as she was there was not left much to think about.

Passing through the entrance door she climbs slowly the stairs down to the living quarters, a grin on her face as she has the unexpected honour of entering that ship. Coming down to the first level she scans her surroundings, on the one end having a door leading to the mass with a stow and pans and long table being visible, another door indicating the shared bedroom of Harry’s sisters (the roughly engraved name of Harriet and the more joyful one of CJ declaring it as such) and the stairs behind her leading further down to the quarters of the crew that doesn’t live there anymore and the storage level that only storages dust and rats these days. 

What catches her attention the most though is the open door at the end of the hall at the far end of the ship: the Captain’s quarters. Her curiosity getting the better of her she lets her feet lead her there with a ever broader grin on her face, not noticing that Harry was about to lead her in the opposite direction. Her eyes are firmly fixed on what is in front of her, not ready to let this chance slip. How often can one wander Captain Hook’s ship anyway? The door is quite wide open, good, she would be able to take a look without touching anything. 

As she finally arrives at the doorframe she suddenly stops. The room in front of her is exactly how one would imagine it to be. Great windows on the far end cover the whole back of the ship, fine red curtains that look splendid even with the moth holes, a huge table in the middle with countless maps spread on it, a great piano in one corner and a small stowe to keep the room warm in winter in the other end, a curtain hiding what must be the sleeping place. But this are not the things that made her stop so abruptly. Sitting in a chair by the table is a woman of middle age, dark blond hair falling messy around her face to her shoulders, streaks of grey mixing with the blond, a dirty white blouse and a black and green long skirt being her attire, a round golden earring visible on the left ear. It is the manner in which she sits that makes the scene eerie, the thin hands holding needle and thread and a piece of fabric like about to sew, but all they do is move through the air in small movements, the lips twitching from time to time, the eyes holding a stare lost somewhere in the distance.

Uma didn’t even notice she had been holding her breath, until a gentle touch on her shoulder made her nearly jump, and turning around she can see Harry gesturing with his head she should follow him. Feeling suddenly incredibly awkward she looks down to her feet where a puddle of water has formed by now before silently following him.

He leads her to another door at the other end of the hall she realizes must lead to his bedroom. The door squeaks a bit as he opens it and steps in, not even turning around to see if she had been following him. 

His room is messy and not really big. He takes of his drenched red fake leather jacket (his biggest pride at the moment, he managed to bring a goblin to sell it to him for half the price) his black hoodie under it not looking much better, and ruffles his wet hair with his free hand, water dripping all around. Throwing the jacket over the only chair in the room he lets himself down on the floor under the round window opposite the door, stretching his legs and leaning his head on the wooden planks of the wall. Her hair still dripping (but not too much anymore, and she considers if she should start braiding it all the way around and not just in parts, that way her locks wouldn’t be an complete disaster in rain) she is a bit unsure what to do with herself and crossing her arms she starts to pace the room a bit. 

On the wall right from the door hangs a collection of various pocket watches and clocks, most of them already having a chipped glass, none of them working. She knows Harry likes his weird collection. There is a bookshelf with a bunch of rolled up papers, most of them probably sea maps one can not use on the Isle, and two actual books, one on the history of piracy and the other on sea monsters and myths. Opposite there is no bed but a simple hammock with a pillow and blanket. On the left from the door a chest stands, but judging by the look of it it doesn’t hold any treasures and more like dirty laundry. She can see the sleeve of Harry’s old shirt peaking out, the deep cuts in it telling her some sword fighting didn’t end too well for him. The middle of the room is taken by an table and chair, the chair not looking all too safe to sit on she decides to stroll to the wall where Harry still sits motionless on the floor.

Crossing her legs she lets herself down, lightning striking outside, followed by a deep rumble of thunder not far off. Waves rock the ship as they both sit in silence, she suddenly feeling itchy to talk.

“Was that your mom?” she asks as casually as possible, not sure if he would reply.

“Ay, the one and only one. Didn’t think I had one, right? Thought some dirty glowing fairy raised me, isn’t it?” His laugh, as he says that, seeming weirdly out of place.

“Of course I knew you had one, dumbhead.” She scoffs turning her head away, faking insult while actually still wondering about the sewing woman. On her right stands a wardrobe and the cutting marks tell her the doors must have stood in for quite a few of Harry’s angry outbursts. She can hear his pose shift, like he is reaching out for something on his left and soon enough he punches her arm a bit, a cup in his hand and dice on the other. She smiles slightly at the good idea and they spend the rest of the afternoon playing a game of dice.

Even though none of the clocks in his room work she knows a lot of time has passed, the sound of rain having calmed down, the sound of thunder dying away. Knowing her mom would throw her tentacles after her if she came to late to her shift again, she decides it’s time to face the ever present wrath called mother, and laying down the dice she makes her way about to leave, Harry following her suite. She walks into the hallway, dark and empty, wooden planks squeaking with every movement of the ship. On the far end she can still see the door to the Captain’s quarters being open and her feet stop at the stairs, her head turning slightly in that mysterious direction.

“She gets such fits once in a while.” Harry’s voice is nothing more than a whisper, nearly lost in the howling sound of the wind outside. Without another word he makes his way up and she follows him.

The clouds aren’t that heavy anymore, the evening sky already dark. Her steps are quite quick, yet she can still hear his steps being nearly as quick, him walking only slightly behind her. She isn’t sure why he decided to follow her to the shop, she doesn’t need any protection in the dark (although it does feel better) and it’s not like she has to expect every day to have a bucket of old fish been thrown over her head (she believes it would now happen even less often since she broke that dumb boys nose last week in school). The harbour is nearly deserted when her mom’s shop appears in eyesight and Harry stops to give her arm a slight punch before turning on his heals and starting to head back in the direction they came from. Some barrels standing by the side he decides to make a jump over them, getting hand of some rope hanging down and swinging on it a few feet through the air before landing on his feet again. He’s crazy Uma thinks. 

As she watches his silhouette disappear in the thick evening mist she notices he has neither his jacket nor hook with him.

[hiddendreamer67]

Gilded Cage- The Witcher

What’s that? Peter Pan Witcher AU, you say??

Summary: Geralt has been watching Yennefer through her window for weeks now. Jaskier flew ahead to scope it out tonight, and now Geralt’s fairy is doing time behind golden bars.

Word Count: 1,623

(In which young Geralt is Peter Pan, the lost boys are all witchers, fairy!Jaskier is his chattering Tinkerbell, and young Yennefer is the mysterious Wendy.)

Feel free to send in more prompts from my bingo card below! Also check out my writing blog @hiddendreamerwriting for more of my work!

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“You are one insane little girl.” Jaskier huffed, his wings twittering irritably on his back as the fairy fluttered about, trying to find a weak spot within his new prison. The golden bird cage seemed perfectly sturdy, unfortunately. “Mentally deranged, in fact. Completely off your rocker!”

“Hmm.” Yennefer gave him a predatory grin, for an eerie moment sounding like Geralt. “Could an insane person do this?” She pushed the side of the cage with her finger, making it sway.

“Yes! Indubitably- indefinitely?” Jaskier cursed his own lack of focus. “You cannot lock me up. Young lady, if you’re even a lady at all, I demand you release me at once!”

Yennefer huffed. “And why on earth would I, pixie, when all you’ve done in chant school yard insults in my direction?”

Jaskier felt his face turning very, very red, and forced himself to try and calm down. He couldn’t let his temper get the best of him, not when this child was holding all the cards.

“Now now, let’s be reasonable.” Jaskier hovered to the middle of the cage, crossing his arms to look stern. It never worked on the lost boys, but perhaps girls were different. “I am a very important fairy, darling. Without me, the very essence of nature would be thrown entirely off balance. Centuries in the making, gone! Poof! I certainly wouldn’t want that to rest on your young conscience, knowing you single-handedly destroyed the world.”

“I don’t have a conscience.” She teased.

“Of course you don’t.” Jaskier muttered. He fluttered up closer to her end of the cage again, glaring. “I’m serious, you know. 100%, total collapse of the earth, entirely in your hands. Ooooor, you open this measly little door, let one harmless fairy go free, and BAM! Savior of the world, right before me. Oh, wouldn’t that be wonderful? You could save everyone, wow, what an honor!”

Yennefer didn’t seem keen to take his deal. Even worse, she didn’t seem to be paying any attention to Jaskier, instead staring out the window.

The music-talent fairy couldn’t make sense of it; here was a child who has successfully caught a fairy, possibly the first to do so, and she wasn’t even interested in the actual fairy? What? Jaskier knew it couldn’t be about him personally, after all he was a sight to behold. A wonderful conversationalist as well (when not trapped in a cage), and though Geralt would never admit it Jaskier knew he made a delightful companion.

“...alright.” Jaskier sighed, knowing his curiosity could get him into trouble. “I’ll bear this burden, address the elephant in the room. What is it you want with me, hmm? I can’t grant wishes, not really my specialty, music’s really my passion but you don’t seem like the lullaby type-”

“You’re with the flying boy.” Yennefer cut him off, once again glancing his way.

...oh.

It wasn’t a question, but Jaskier answered anyway. “Well I’m certainly not with anyone now.” He laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. Strictly speaking, Geralt was meant to be a secret. Of course, so was all of fairy kind, but clearly that ship had sailed.

“Don’t play coy.” Yennefer rolled her eyes. “It’s unbefitting. He’ll come for you, of that I’m certain.”

And- well, she had a point. Jaskier had to hand it to her, it wasn’t a bad plan. Geralt may take pleasure in telling Jaskier off, but Jaskier knew the boy cared for him deep down in that stone heart of his. After all, it was Jaskier who had first found Geralt, the first lost boy, helping him settle on the island before they both discovered more abandoned children to bring to neverland. Jaskier was constantly flitting by his side, ever since Geralt first united the boys under one name: The Witchers.

But, sadly, despite their history, Jaskier knew when Geralt came it wouldn’t be for him.

“And if he doesn’t?” Jaskier asked bitterly. “Plan on keeping me behind golden bars until I starve to death? I won’t make it easy on you, mind you, my death will be slow and painful and vocal, I assure you.”

Yennefer considered this for a moment. “I suppose I’ll just have to transfer you to a jar, then. Put you out of your misery when the air runs out.”

Despite the teasing glint in her eye, her blatant comment made Jaskier turn furious. His chittering rose to such a high pitch that to Yennefer’s ears his swearing sounded more like tinkling bells. The young girl laughed, amused at his plight.

In all the commotion, a light breeze at the window went unnoticed, a figure with glowing eyes floating in to stand on the windowsill. He cleared his throat, immediately pulling all attention to himself. The young boy was dressed in dark rags, white hair tugged out of his face.

Yennefer let out a gasp in awe, appearing almost reverent. “You’re here.”

“You took my fairy.” Geralt jutted his chin towards the cage, and Jaskier ignored the pleased warmth that came with that title.

“True.” Yennefer admitted. “But I assure you, your firefly is unharmed.”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s face betrayed no emotion as Jaskier’s voice went too high to hear again.

“Mouthy, isn’t he?” Yennefer tilted her head, glancing at the fairy. “Don’t know how you haven’t gone deaf.”

Geralt’s lip twitched, clearly torn on how to respond. “...I’ve no idea.”

“Geralt!”

Geralt sighed at Jaskier’s indignant response. “Release him.”

The girl stood up, crossing her arms and coming closer to Geralt. “No manners? Perhaps think you can give me orders because I’m a little girl?”

Geralt wisely said nothing.

“Or perhaps you think it’s alright to come peer into my window when I’m sleeping.” Yennefer squinted at him with a knowing eye. “How long have you been watching me sleep, witcher?”

“Mmm.” Geralt looked displeased with where this was going.

“Hope you enjoyed the view.” Yennefer moved her hands to her hips. “But I think it’s only fair I get some repayment, I know fathers who have beat boys for doing less to their daughters. Not that mine would give a damn, of course, but a lady deserves her secrets.”

“I hardly think it’s fair recompensation, my life for his adolescent tendencies!” Jaskier called out, completely neglecting all the times Geralt had to save him after Jaskier’s own wandering eyes got them in trouble.

Geralt growled in his direction, clearly embarrassed.

“I won’t keep your fairy, boy, not to worry.” Yennefer patted Geralt’s cheek, making the lost boy flinch away from the unexpected contact. It had been years since someone had touched him so, even in jest. “I only ask for one favor.”

“What’s the favor?” Geralt asked.

“Teach me to fly.” Yennefer glanced out the window. “So I can escape this life.”

Jaskier and Geralt shared a look, glancing around the elegant nursery. They had met plenty of abandoned or neglected children on the streets, but in such a lavish home?

“You’d miss this life.” Geralt murmured.

“Don’t speak for me as if you know a thing about my life.” Yennefer snapped. “My choices are my own. I won’t stay where I’m not wanted, no matter the golden trim. My parents play a charade I want no part of and they’ve made it clear my less vocal siblings are preferred. I will start anew on my own terms.”

“Or you’ll die on the streets.” Jaskier piped up. “Starving, freezing, perhaps abandoned on a bench. Only so much pixie dust to go around, really, before you end up in the middle of nowhere. At least here it’s safe with a luxury pillow beneath your head.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt issued in a warning tone.

Yennefer ignored the musician’s squabblings, narrowing in on one fact in particular. “Pixie dust?” She glanced between them. “Is that the secret to how you fly?”

Geralt let out a long sigh. “No. And yes. It’s … complicated.”

“Then perhaps you should un-complicate it.” Yennefer challenged. “Or I’ll simply push you off and learn by observation.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow in a gesture that clearly stated ‘I’d like to see you try.’ Yennefer stared him down, the two clearly caught in a silent match for dominance.

“Let Jaskier out.” Geralt was the one to break their silence. “Only then.”

“Say please.” Yennefer challenged.

Geralt stayed quiet.

“Oh Geralt, come on!” Jaskier threw his arms out. “It’s one word, we’re so close- give the crazy child what she wants?”

Geralt’s jaw tensed, his teeth gritted. “...please.”

Yennefer smirked in triumph, sauntering over to the cage. “And I thought manners killed witchers. Perhaps you’re not all uncivilized urchins.”

The moment Jaskier was free he zoomed over to Geralt’s side, tugging at the boy’s hair. “Alright, we did it, time to go!”

Geralt looked at him as though he’d gone mad. “Jaskier, she let you go. I need to help her.”

“She also kidnapped me.” Jaskier hissed, clearly still peeved to be in the nursery at all.

“And you both spied on me first.” Yennefer frowned. “We can play the blame game all night.”

“No need.” Geralt brushed Jaskier to the side, easily stepping towards Yennefer. “I’ll teach you to fly.”

Jaskier felt his heart shattering, watching Geralt so casually pass him by. This was his big fear, the reason he had flown ahead to try and lock the nursery window. Geralt had fallen head over heels for Yennefer the past few nights and that was before she was even awake. Now Geralt continued to take her side, even when she proved herself to be a dangerous fairy-napper.

The music fairy huffed, sliding down to sulk atop the bookshelf. With his luck, Geralt would want to do something reckless like invite the girl back to neverland.

[azozzoni]

VDS saga, part 7... Rated R. With special, beautiful art by @dreamy-slytherin

*

My mom’s going with my brother to his football match this weekend. Gone all weekend.

Staring at Jens’ message, Lucas sighed, leaning his head against the window of the train, ignoring the rushing landscape outside the train window. The train car was fairly empty, most people engrossed with their phones or staring out the window.

Gone all weekend. The words echoed in his head and he swallowed down the nerves clawing their way into his throat. He knew exactly what that meant, or at least, he thought he did. He hadn’t said anything when he’d agreed to Jens’ suggestion he come up to Antwerp to check out his favorite places this time.

It was easier to focus on what was coming than what he was leaving behind.

He didn’t want to think about Jayden and Kes and their fight, the anxiety welling in his chest. He forced himself to take a breath. There had been no messages from Jayden asking what the hell was going on with him lately, no messages from Kes asking if he was okay, if he wanted to talk, reassuring Lucas that he was there. Nothing. He didn’t want to think that it was just as much his fault that they weren’t talking to him, that he wasn’t talking to them.

Honestly, he didn’t know how to fix it. He’d never fought like this with Kes before, never felt so bad every time they crossed paths at school and Kes seemed like he wanted to say something but didn’t.

Turning his phone over, Lucas couldn’t help sighing. He didn’t want to relive last week, not when the prospect of seeing Jens was right in front of him. It wasn’t a long train ride, just long enough to let the anxiety build up in his stomach.

They still hadn’t talked about that night all those weeks ago, when Jens had texted him from a party, drunk and horny, sent him pictures Lucas may or may not have saved to revisit late at night.

Lucas hadn’t said that he’d never done with anyone before when he’d replied to Jens. He didn’t say that he was scared, excited, nervous. He’d thought about it, sure, opening him up to someone else like that, if he was kind of guy who had casual sex. He didn’t think he was. Which was why he was here, on a train, running away from his problems at home to see a guy who wanted to do this.

The announcement of the next stop jolted Lucas out of his thoughts, rising to pull his backpack from the shelf overhead and heading for the train door. There was no time left to think about this. It was happening.

The platform was cold, a cutting wind blowing through the station as Lucas hopped onto the concrete and glanced around for the exit.

Following the crowd, he headed upstairs, looking around for Jens as he reached the main level, swallowing down the butterflies clambering to escape his throat.

“Hey.”

Jens appeared in front of him, between the crowd, an easy smile on his face, and Lucas felt himself relax.

“Hi.”

“Come on,” Jens said, nodding his head toward the exit, and Lucas didn’t say anything as Jens’ warm hand wrapped around his and tugged him along.

Lucas didn’t keep track of the way they came, past tall buildings very similar to the ones in Utrecht, past canals and trees waving in the chill breeze, brown leaves clinging desperately in the wind.

He could only concentrate on his hand in Jens’, the way Jens glanced over at him as they turned corners, down narrow cobblestone streets until they reached a door that Jens unlocked easily and let him go in first.

There was no mistaking it, what they were going to do.

“You want a drink?” Jens asked once they reached his apartment on the third floor, a small but warm space, blankets tossed over every couch and chair. Bright light streamed in through the windows on the opposite wall, the sky grey in the distance.

“Sure,” he said because he didn’t know what else to do. He was pretty sure Jens was much more experienced between the two of them. He took the bottle Jens handed him, glancing around the living room. “So your brother does football?” he asked, catching sight of the photos on the bookshelf. There was a woman with Jens’ same dark hair, Jens a few years younger, and a kid that was there was no mistaking he was related to Jens. Same hair, same nose, even the same tilt to their smiles.

“Yeah, but the team sucks,” Jens replied, eyes on Lucas instead of the photo. “Still, it gets him out of the house.”

The empty house, Lucas thought, looking back at Jens. He was sure there was something going on back home, some party the guys hadn’t told him about because they were in some stupid fight. He was sure if he hadn’t called Jayden an asshole, he’d be sitting with him and Kes right now, getting high, talking about stupid shit like who could hold their breath the longest or listening to some story Jayden had about going down on a girl.

He bet Jens had done that, had gone down on girls, but he didn’t want to think about that with Jens so close. Instead, he took a drink of his beer and forced himself to exhale a long breath.

“So do you want to watch a movie? Or we could get food,” Jens said after a minute as they stood there.

Glancing over, Lucas knew Jens was giving him an out, or at least, easing him into it. He didn’t need to be eased into it despite the way his heart was hammering in his chest. “I thought maybe I’d go into a dark room and take a picture of my dick,” he said, only half-joking when Jens’ eyebrows quirked, almost surprised Lucas would say something like that.

“You know I was really drunk when I sent that,” Jens admitted, smiling at Lucas. He reached for Lucas, though, fingers sliding to his neck. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t want it.”

This smile was easier as Lucas gazed at Jens, the part of his lips, the smirk at the edge, calming somehow.

“I haven’t ever,” Lucas managed to say, letting out a breath as he tilted his chin up, closer to Jens’ lips. He didn’t check the look in Jens’ eyes.

“Neither have I,” Jens said, and Lucas looked up finally. “With a guy,” he added at Lucas’ frown.

“Are you nervous?” he asked with Jens’ lips so close to his, feeling Jens’ pause, biting the inside of his cheek.

Jens kissed Lucas before he answered, a swelling feeling rising in Lucas’ chest at the heat in Jens’ kiss. His hands came up to Jens’ ribcage before he could stop himself, the soft, thick fabric of his hoodie under his fingers.

“I might be shit at this,” Jens admitted when the kiss broke and Lucas forced his eyes open, watching Jens’ tongue slide over his lips.

“I doubt that,” he said, feeling bolder, more confident now as he leaned in to kiss Jens again.

He’d thought about this, about what it might be like to get Jens alone, truly alone. Not out in public at a club or even as alone as they could be in a park or a tree grove. He thought he’d be scared, worried he was going to fuck it up somehow, that he would be a fumbling mess when it came to his first time. There was still time, he told himself, letting out a breath as Jens’ hands fell to his hips, gliding under his jacket.

“Come on,” Jens said, tugging Lucas out of the living room, down a hall and through a door at the end.

Jens’ room was much like Lucas had pictured, although there were definitely more posters of half-naked girls than he’d expected. The door closing behind them made Lucas turn around, watching Jens peel off his hoodie and drop it on the floor, leaving him in a thin tee shirt.

“There’s a lot of girls up here,” Lucas said as Jens stepped forward. Jens gazed around the room for a second before reaching for Lucas, a firm hand around his waist, pulling him forward.

“I should get a really hot naked guy, shouldn’t I?” he asked, and Lucas took a breath as Jens’ hands skated under his jacket, pushing it over his shoulders. He let it fall to the floor behind him, focusing on the tilt of Jens’ chin, the way Jens’ eyes dragged over his face. “To remind me of you.”

Lucas’ cheeks went hot as Jens laughed, walking him backwards until they hit the bed. Lucas fell first, heart pounding as Jens climbed on after. They still had all their clothes on, hadn’t gotten any further than kissing, but he gasped at Jens’ hand sliding up his thigh, parting his legs so he could settle in between them.

When Jens kissed him this time, it was different, a fire burning in Lucas’ chest as he grabbed onto Jens’ shoulders, slipping to his neck as their bodies aligned. They were really going to do this. He really wanted to do this.

There was no more talking for a minute, not with Jens’ warm fingers grazing under his shirt, up his stomach, forcing it off, mussing his hair. Lucas shivered, but not because of the cold as Jens sat up, perched over his hips, and pulled off his own shirt, tossing it aside carelessly as he came back to Lucas, kissing him deeply.

Lucas had never gotten this far with anyone—he’d always managed to distract the girls before they tried this, tried to suck marks into his neck. They’d never left him breathless like Jens did, closing his eyes and focusing on the slide of Jens’ tongue down his neck, the teeth scraping at his throat, Jens’ hands on his bare chest, gripping his ribcage as Lucas’ body reacted on its own, pushing up into Jens.

He didn’t want to go slow, he decided with Jens’ mouth sliding down his chest, heat throbbing everywhere Jens touched, more and more turned on with Jens’ hands reaching for his jeans, the sound of the zipper filling the room.

It was the first time anyone else had ever touched him like this, gotten their hand underneath his boxers and stroked in a way that made Lucas bite his lip and whisper, “Fuck.”

It was Jens’ mouth, hot and wet, slick tongue sliding over his hip bone, leaving a bruise just above his waistband as his free hand yanked down Lucas’ jeans.

Opening his eyes, Lucas couldn’t help looking, down at Jens’ soft, dark hair hovering over him, the way Jens glanced up, met his gaze before leaning into his cock and licking up the underside.

“Shit,” Lucas cursed, heat rolling around his stomach, so hard as Jens took his time tracing the ridges in his cock, leaving him desperate for more.

He’d never imagined it would be quite this good, that he would feel so hot, panting for breath as Jens took him deep in his mouth.

His skin burned, breath shaky as he tried to remember to breathe, to not get lost in the feeling of Jens sucking him off, too good for it to be his first time. God, Jens was just good at everything, wasn’t he?

As if in response to his thoughts, Jens pulled away, wiping at his mouth and panting for breath, smiling up at Lucas.

“Harder than I thought,” he said, and Lucas could swear there was a pink tinge to his cheeks that might not just have been because he was out of breath, but Jens didn’t stop, curling his hand around Lucas and stroking hard and fast as Lucas groaned above him. Instead, he mouthed along the outside, soft lips and a careful tongue that seemed to know exactly what to do to bring Lucas to the edge.

Fingers digging into the messy comforter, Lucas shut his eyes, exhaling shakily. He wasn’t going to last long, not like this.

He was too hot, stomach clenching tightly in the moments before he came, the moment he took to push at Jens’ shoulder, break him away from sucking on the tip, pleasure shooting through him as he gasped, biting hard on his bottom lip.

“Fuck,” Jens muttered as he pulled back, hand sticky and wet as he wiped it off on the comforter before he grimaced.

Breathing heavy, Lucas couldn’t even find the words to respond, feeling oddly vulnerable, completely naked beneath Jens, who still had pants on at least. That simply wasn’t fair.

“How’d I do?” Jens asked as he pulled himself back up to Lucas’ level, brushing back Lucas’ curls, gentle in a way that made Lucas smile, butterflies fluttering in his chest again.

“Good,” Lucas assured him, eyes dropping to Jens’ mouth a second before he kissed him, rolling Jens onto his back, climbing on top of him.

Jens’ gaze scraped down his chest, mouth hanging open slightly, intense and wanting as Lucas shoved aside any doubts that he wasn’t going to be good at this, that it was just going to be an awkward mess.

Jens’ jeans were tighter than Lucas expected, tugging them over his hips, checking that Jens was still watching. He was, dark eyes flicking to Lucas’ as he opened his mouth, licked his lips and let out a slow breath.

Jens’ dick was heavy in Lucas’ slender fingers, long and hard, warm to the touch. It was just like jerking himself off, Lucas told himself, spitting into his palm and sliding it up the length. He tried not to go too slowly, tightening his grip when Jens sucked in a sharp breath.

Jens wasn’t loud, breathing heavy instead, biting his lip and exhaling slowly, as though concentrating on the feeling of Lucas jerking him off.

It was hotter than Lucas would have thought, watching the way Jens’ chest moved with each breath, the flush along his collar bone, and he couldn’t ignore Jens’ dick in his hand, the tip shiny and wet, the throb of blood he felt against his palm.

“Faster,” Jens said, eyes falling to Lucas, half-lidded as Lucas sped up, shifting on top of him, unable to stop himself from reaching for Jens’ stomach, fingers gliding over his abs, tracing each muscle as Jens groaned.

Jens didn’t warn him except to curse under his breath before he came, hot and wet and sticky as Lucas slid his hand down the hard length. He didn’t stop, not until Jens’ cock flagged and Jens reached for him, pulling Lucas up by his arm, the kiss sloppy, too much tongue, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as Jens rolled on top of Lucas, a warm weight sinking into him as his head went dizzy from Jens’ lips.

“Have you ever tried it with toothpaste?” Jens asked after a minute and Lucas stared at him, eyebrows furrowed.

“What?”

“Never mind.” Jens shook his head, letting go of Lucas to relax onto the mattress, shoving his hair back as he let out a breath.

Lying there, they didn’t speak for a moment. Lucas didn’t even know what to say as his breathing returned to normal, feeling like his whole body was warm and soft, melting into the comforter. So that was what it felt like not to be scared, to let himself go. Lucas didn’t think he could ever go back.

“There’s a really good fry place around the corner,” Jens said finally, and Lucas glanced over. The flush on his chest had receded, faded to its normal color, Jens’ skin tanned and warm even though summer was long gone. “We could get some and I could educate you on why Rambo is the best movie ever.”

Lucas laughed despite himself. “That’s going to take a lot of convincing.”

“Good thing we’ve got the whole weekend,” Jens said, but he didn’t move, smiling at Lucas beside him.

“Yeah,” Lucas agreed after a minute, meeting Jens’ gaze. In here, he didn’t have to think about the boys, about the fight, about what he knew he had to do. In here, they had the whole weekend.

[gaygent37]

A Kiss A Day - Day 1

Holiday Countdown Fics, December 1 - MISTLETOE

JayDick, Ivy’s protoge Jason, Robin Dick, first kiss, mistletoe hair, teenage crush, Ivy’s a good mom, slight identity porn, 2398 words

*̣̥☆·͙̥‧❄‧̩̥·‧•̥̩̥͙‧·‧̩̥˟͙☃˟͙���̩̥·‧•̥̩̥͙‧·‧̩̥❄‧·͙̥̣☆*̣̥

The boy came out of nowhere, startling Jason. A gloved hand grabbed his wrist, and Jason gasped, whipping around.

“Robin!” Jason yelped, nearly dropping the little crate he was carrying. 

“Give me the box, Foxglove,” Robin said, lunging for the crate. 

Immediately, Jason lifted it out of Robin’s reach with a vine that burst out of the ground to aid him. Robin crashed against Jason’s chest. Jason swallowed hard, pulling the wooden box farther away.

The young hero growled and reached for the crate again, pushing himself harder against Jason’s chest.

Jason inhaled sharply, squeezing his eyes shut behind his mask. Robin stopped struggling and the lenses of his domino narrowed, staring intently at Jason. 

“What?” Robin demanded. “You’re acting weird again.”

“‘m not acting weird,” Jason breathed out shakily. “You’re just- You’re just in my personal space.”

“Yeah, I’m trying to get your damned box of seeds. I’ll get off you if you’d just give it over!”

“I can’t do that, Robin,” Jason said, his heart beating loudly in his chest. Robin had no shame, but Jason could not help but be ultra aware of their proximity and Robin’s bare legs practically straddling Jason, and Robin kept him pinned against the table with those legs alone. Not to mention, Robin would not stop rubbing up against him. “I- My mom needs those seeds.”

“Yeah, to wreck havoc on the city! Fox-” Robin’s foot slipped, and his thigh brushed over the bulge in Jason’s pants. He went silent, staring at Jason in disbelief. “Are you hard?”

Jason’s hair suddenly exploded into sprigs of small green leaves and poisonous white berries. There were so many of them that it pushed his hood off of his head. 

A few berries bounced off Robin’s face. “Mistletoe?” Robin asked in wonder, staring at Jason’s hair.

“I-I gotta go!” Jason squeaked. He shoved Robin off of him, grabbing the box and running off as fast as his legs to carry him. 

Jason dropped the box off where Ivy said she would pick it up. Then, Jason went back to one of their safe houses, willing the mistletoe to disappear. They were mostly gone by the time Jason showered and got himself something to eat. 

He pulled out the last couple sprigs, tossing them onto the ground. Jason hated that his hair exploded into different types of plants depending on his emotions. His mother did not have that problem, but she had different problems that Jason was glad he did not have.

Robin and Jason tangled often, had have been enemies for a little over a year now, though their clashes rarely consisted of much physical fighting. Mostly arguing, which evolved to teasing, which now developed into Jason shutting down around the older boy. 

Ivy had admonished Jason about his huge crush on the Boy Wonder, but she had also ruffled his hair, saying it was only natural for Jason to be interested at his age. 

Jason flopped onto the couch and buried his face in his hands with a groan.

“I see the mistletoe disappeared.”

Jason’s head snapped up when he heard Robin’s voice behind him. “What are you doing here?” Jason snapped, grabbing his mask, which was on the table. He put it on before spinning around and glaring at Robin. 

“I followed you,” Robin said simply with a shrug.

“I don’t have the box anymore,” Jason said. 

“I know,” Robin said, giving Jason a smile. “I followed you, remember? Picked it up after you left it in the abandoned mailbox.”

Jason gritted his teeth, anger flaring briefly. “I said my mother needs those seeds! They’re just normal seeds.”

“I’ll put them back if they really are normal seeds,” Robin promised.

“Then what are you doing here?” Jason asked. He searched for his sweatshirt, wanting the comfort of his hood pulled over his head. He felt strangely naked standing there in a t-shirt and shorts. 

Robin did not answer, just tilting his head to the side and staring at Jason. 

Jason blushed hard. He looked away from Robin. “Can you just leave?” Jason asked. “My mom’s not going to be happy if she finds that you’re-”

Robin slipped away from the table he was leaning against and walked towards Jason, taking each step slowly and deliberately.

“Robin...” Jason said in a breathy voice. “Get- Get away.”

Robin grinned up at Jason. “Why? I’m not going to hurt you, Foxie.”

“Don’t call me that,” Jason hissed. 

“It’s what Ivy calls you, isn’t it?” Robin asked, now only a few steps away. “I think it’s cute. Foxie, Foxglove. So. Why mistletoe?”

“It’s- It’s not-”

Jason’s hair exploded into plants again, much more than before. The sprigs cascaded down his sides, reaching his shoulders at alarming speeds. They grew exponentially faster than before, which made Jason more than a little worried. Two doses of Robin in such close proximity was more than his poor little heart could handle. 

Robin laughed in delight. He even reached up and teased a berry between his gloved fingers. Jason stepped back hurriedly. A few sprigs of the mistletoe fell onto the ground.

“What the hell, Robin?!” Jason asked, touching the cascade of mistletoe locks he now possessed.

“I didn’t do anything, Fox,” Robin smirked, like he knew exactly what he did. He bend down and picked up one of the fallen sprigs of mistletoe. “You know,” he said in a sing-song voice. “Mistletoe represents romance.”

The mistletoe on Jason’s head grew another few inches as he blushed furiously. He back up against the bookshelf. His hand brushed on a gardening book. “Get out of here, Robin!” he yelled. He sent the book flying at Robin, who just stepped aside and laughed. 

Robin pushed open the nearest window, swinging one leg out. He still held the mistletoe in his hand. “See you around, Foxie,” he said. He brought the sprig up and gave it a little kiss before swinging out of the window into the night. 

The mistletoe that was Jason’s hair now reached mid-back. When Robin was gone, Jason let out a little sob. The mistletoe was uncomfortably heavy, and a very prominent reminder of his stupid crush on Gotham’s youngest hero.

He rushed to the kitchen and yanked open the drawer with the gardening tools. Jason grabbed the heavy duty shears and cut through a thick handful of the mistletoe. Robin’s grin floated in his mind. Jason watched in a sinking heart as the newly sheared mistletoe hair grew back.

He sank to the floor and held his head in his hands. For an entire hour, Jason tried as hard as he could to get the mistletoe to disappear. But it did not go away like it did before because Jason could not get Robin’s teasing remark out of his mind:

“Mistletoe represents romance.”

Finally, with no other solution in mind, Jason reached for his phone, dialing the only number in it. His voice was shaky when the call was answered a few seconds later. 

“Mom?”

*���ﾟꍈ｡*ꍈﾟ

Dick strolled down the street, whistling cheerily to himself. His breath came out in warm puffs in front of him, and the skies were cloudy but bright. It was a happy kind of gray. His gloved hands were shoved deep into his pockets.

He passed a park where the local kids were skating on the lake, which had frozen over a week ago. He grinned, wondering if he could convince Bruce to go ice skating with him that weekend. 

As Dick moved passed a barber shop, something caught his eye. Dick took a few steps back, staring into the window where a woman and her son were talking to the barber. 

Without a second thought, Dick walked inside. 

All three turned to stare at Dick. “Hi,” Dick said with a smile. “Sorry, I was just passing by, and I couldn’t help but notice your, uh, predicament.”

The boy glared at Dick. He was sitting in the barber chair, wearing a black sweatshirt, but the strangest thing ever was that his hair was actually a wild bush of mistletoe. So long that it practically reached the ground. 

The woman who stood behind the boy was the notorious Poison Ivy, but without her usual get-up, it was a bit harder to tell. And Dick played oblivious good-doing citizen of Gotham. 

Dick grinned and gave a low whistle. “That’s- That’s a lot of mistletoe. Science experiment gone wrong or something? You know, you can probably sell that once you cut it off. It’s the holidays and people are always looking for an excuse to share a kiss under mistletoe,” Dick said. “Hey, maybe that’s what you have to do! Handsome boy like you, I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding someone to kiss.” He even gave the boy a wink.

“Who the fuck are you?” the boy snarled. 

“Jason,” Ivy said with a firm voice, putting a hand on her son’s shoulder. She turned her gaze back to Dick, cold and uninviting. “Some problems are not so easily solved as with a- a kiss, young man. Sometimes we just have to be practical, so if you’ll excuse us while we search for a permanent solution to my son’s problem.”

Dick sighed. “Well, I gave my advice,” he said. He turned on his heels, heading towards the door. He tossed a smile over his shoulders, aimed directly at the boy, Jason, sitting in the chair. “Good luck with that hair,” he said. “It honestly looks kind of cute. Happy holidays, folks!”

Dick continued down the street with a slight skip to his step, his smile just a little bit wider. 

*ꍈﾟꍈ｡*ꍈﾟ

The next time Jason saw Robin was a few days later. He was sitting on one of the highest buildings on Robin’s Thursday route, hoping the Boy Wonder would see him. 

Jason did not have to wait long. Near midnight, Robin dropped down behind Jason. 

“I see the mistletoe hasn’t disappeared yet,” Robin chirped with a grin on his face. 

Jason rolled his eyes, frowning at the hero. “No, it hasn’t,” he said. He ran his hand through it. It was shorter now, but it grew every time Jason thought about Robin (which was dreadfully often now), and Jason had to cut it at least once a day.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Robin asked, sitting down next to Jason. 

“Of course it bothers me!” Jason grumbled, his face heating up. He could already feel the mistletoe growing. The longest sprigs reached his ears now. 

“Then do something about it,” Robin said. 

“Do what?”

Robin just stared at him, smiling that smile that made Jason’s heart thud loudly. The parasitic plant on Jason’s head just kept growing longer. Finally, Jason had had enough. He grabbed Robin by the collar of his cape.

He mashed their lips together, teeth clashing as lips parted. Robin moaned appreciatively, leaning in closer and tilting his head to the side. Robin’s mouth was hot and wet and pliant, and Jason took everything he wanted from the older boy. 

Their kiss went from desperate, hot, slightly awkward and painful to slower, a burning heat, and much more sensual. Jason’s face grew warm and his hand relaxed, no longer trying to strangle Robin with his own cape. 

The Boy Wonder pulled away first, but just a little. He smiled at Jason. “What a pleasant surprise, Foxglove. You could have just asked if you wanted a kiss so badly.”

“Shut up, Birdbrain,” Jason said, but his insult came out as a shaky whisper, so it did not have the effect he wanted. 

“Look,” Robin said. “Your hair’s back.”

Jason straightened in surprise. His hands few up to his head and felt his soft black hair instead of twigs, leaves, and berries. 

His face heated up. 

“Oh, don’t go blushing again, Foxie,” Robin teased. “They might come back if you keep getting flustered around me.”

“I don’t- I’m not flustered around you!” Jason protested as he blushed harder. 

He could feel the mistletoe poking at his scalp again, and he knew a few leaves and berries popped out again. 

Robin laughed when he saw that. Instead of saying anything, he just leaned in and kissed Jason again, cutting the other boy’s protests off with a kiss. A few seconds later, Robin pulled back.

Jason swallowed hard, his heart pounding. “Thanks,” he eventually choked out. 

“No problem, Fox,” Robin said. “Though, it certain makes a little issue. We’re not supposed to like each other.”

“Too late for that,” Jason grumbled. “For- For me at least.” He looked down at his lap, suddenly realizing that he basically confessed to Robin, his nemesis.

Robin laughed softly. “Hey, don’t get all shy on me now either. I think you’re pretty cute too, Fox,” Robin said. “Though I suppose you wouldn’t know that since my hair doesn’t try show my desire to want to kiss you.”

Before Jason could blush and send his hair disappearing into a bush of holiday cheer again, Robin kissed him one more time. He patted Jason’s stunned face with his gloved hand.

“Don’t worry, Foxie,” Robin said. “The hair thing is endearing. I think I might drop by and kiss you more often now. A kiss a day keeps the vegetation away! But for now... I gotta get on with patrol. See you around, Foxie.” 

With that, Robin somersaulted off of the side of the building and swung into the night with a happy whoop. Jason watched him go, his heart doing a happy little dance. 

He went home that night, and his mother was in her lab, working on another one of her experiments. 

She paused when he walked in, mistletoe-free. Her green eyes looked at him accusingly over the top of her purple glasses. Jason bit his lip when she pursed hers.

“You kissed him, didn’t you?” she sighed, setting the vials down and walking over to him. She tilted his face up and peered at him. 

Jason gave her a sheepish smile. “I... might’ve...?”

Ivy pursed her lips harder. Then, she shook her head and smiled. She ruffled his hair. “Be careful, Jason,” she warned in a motherly tone as she headed back to the table. “I don’t want to end up finding out that little bird is going to be my son-in-law someday.”

“Mom-”

“Just saying, Jason. You don’t want a bat furry for a father-in-law either, do you?”

“Mom!”

*̣̥☆·͙̥‧❄‧̩̥·‧•̥̩̥͙‧·‧̩̥˟͙☃˟͙‧̩̥·‧•̥̩̥͙‧·‧̩̥❄‧·͙̥̣☆*̣̥

I didn’t mean to start this off with Ivy’s protege Jason again, but really, I couldn’t help myself. Happy December, everyone, and happy whatever holidays you all celebrate! I promise it will get more porny as the month goes on.

[unholyhelbig]

Scratching at the Door | #HW201

Prompt: Creature Feature/ Cryptids 

Summary: Emily is given a new job at a national state park, where something watches her through the windows, and scratches at the door. 

Read on AO3 here 

Emily could feel her stomach contract as the old Sedona made its way over the packed dirt path. Its giant wheels didn’t’ struggle as much as her pension for keeping her breakfast down. She instinctively grasped at the foam-covered bars that kept tourists seated and tried to will her first meal to stay put.

The yellow paint was chipping away to a rusty red and the logo “Fort Worth Guided Tours” had long ago faded away. They had tried to fix it with a poor attempt at gluing on a plastic design instead, but it was just as bad under the mercy of the sun.

Emily realized she had stopped listening just as they ducked under another canopy of trees. The sun that had been burning her skin raw vanished, if only momentarily, as the ride decided to smooth out.

“Not many people come out here in our offseason,” The woman at the wheel said over the sputtering engine. “Fort Worth is a beauty all year round but it’s more of a summer destination- Gee, you don’t know how glad I am that we found you. The job isn’t too taxing, I promise.”

The girl bit her tongue and laughed nervously. The forest stretched out for miles in front of them; Emily could hear water on all sides of them but hadn’t been able to locate its source yet. The air was beginning to sting against her cheeks and she loosened her death grip on the bars.

She had been staying at a motel right off the highway that smelled strongly of stale cigarettes and off-brand detergent. Someone had tossed a newspaper into the bin by the vending machines and against her better judgment, she pulled it from the old receipts and food wrappers. An ad for a winter caretaker was among the classifieds. Emily jumped on the chance for permanent room and board.

She had fibbed in her initial interview about previous experience; but as Chloe said, it wasn’t a difficult job and both of them took an instant liking to one another. So she considered herself lucky. Emily would fake it until she made it, and by then, the summer season would be in full effect and she could head to whatever small town she threw a dart at on the map next.

Chloe beamed and stepped on the gas a little harder to get over a big dip in the trail. “There are a few people who go fishing on the lake in the early mornings, but most of the time it’s just you and a few other employees. You’ll hardly see them.”

“What exactly am I doing?” Emily asked, holding her breath as Chloe took a sharp corner. She tried not to look at the steep fall to her right. “The ad wasn’t really specific.”

“You just need to keep an eye on the property. The City owns most of this place and they have pretty shallow pockets if you know what I mean. We put almost every other staff member on sabbatical. For the most part, it’s just you and the night shifter.”  

Emily nodded along like she understood and let the rest of the ride go as smoothly as possible until an old cabin came into view. It looked dusty; it’s wood paneling enveloped in the thick forest. There was an old grill and a hammock that had been wrapped inside of itself. The engine cut off entirely, and it made her ears ring.

She could smell the water, and hear the river trickling somewhere west of the structure. Chloe hoisted the one duffel bag out of the backseat and reached with her other hand for the rifle that Emily hadn’t known was there. She had never fired one off before, but that was one of the formalities that she blurred to get this position in the first place.

Her boots crunched on the gravel and she minded her weight on the creaking steps leading to the cabin door more than Chloe did. The door had been painted red at one time, a bloody-pulpy color that had faded away. There were sets of long scratches against the remaining color. Emily moved the pads of her fingers against the gashes and felt a chill run up her arm.

“What made these?” She asked. Chloe glanced up from her task of finding the keys to the cabin. Her crystal eyes reflected green under the trees. She narrowed them and finally grabbed hold of her prize.

“All sorts of animals out on Greer Island. Some of them are more curious than others.” She shoved the rifle into Emily’s hands. It was weighty and smelled old. “That’s why you have this.”

Whatever- free room and board. She could deal with a couple of bears and some daring deer. It was better than the cheap motel room and the scratchy sheets. It was a much better improvement than the backseat of her Toyota. She followed Chloe into the cabin.

A thin layer of dust covered the entire place; there was an old plaid couch and a matching chair that sat adjacent to the grey stone fireplace. A bookshelf devoid of much reading material was pushed against a far wall below a taxidermy bison that looked like it was missing an eye. The place had an open floor plan and lead directly into the kitchen. There were two closed doors that held firmly onto that crimson color.

Chloe set the duffel bag down with a loud thud, Emily felt her fingers clench around the barrel of the gun and her shoulders edge up to her ears. She stifled a profanity and took a few more steps into the little cabin.

“The fridge is fully stocked.” She continued, “I’m out here once a month to restock everything for you. There isn’t much service, but there is a walkie-talkie in the bottom right drawer that has enough power to get to the main cabin. If it’s storming, that’s not the case.”

Emily nodded again and tried to comprehend the quick instructions. Chloe talked too fast, she decided. But she listened eagerly. “What do I do if it storms?”

“Either use that gun or run like hell. You can try both but” Chloe frowned and ran her finger over the edge of the rickety kitchen table and picked up a layer of dirt. “Christ this place is dusty. Anyway, you have four patrols around the lake each day. It takes an hour for each one. Between them, you can do whatever you want except for swim in the water. That’s how you catch something nasty.”

“What exactly am I looking for?”

Chloe shrugged “Anything out of the ordinary. If you see people fishing make sure you check for their license. The date of expiration is on the top right corner. If they’re expired, ask them to leave and radio into the main cabin so they can keep their eyes peeled.”

“Ok.”

“And whatever you do, make sure you finish your last patrol before dark. The sun sets around Six right now but it’ll change to five soon enough. Make sure you have enough firewood and lock the door. Don’t open it until your morning patrol.”

“Ok,” She dragged the word out this time. Something about Chloe’s change in demeanor made her itch uncomfortably. There was a stillness to the air. “Sounds simple enough.”

“Like I said, not too taxing, you can get some writing done up here, I’m sure.” She was beaming again, like the desolate nature of her words hadn’t weighed so heavily on the atmosphere. She dusted her hands off on her jeans and informed Emily that her uniform was in the closet (Which she learned was the door to the left).

“Oh, and Emily?”  

“Yeah, boss?”

Chloe was standing with her hand on the door. She left the metal key they used to enter on the table on the clear spot that was wiped away earlier. Her eyes were that dark and stormy blue again. “Whatever calls to you in the middle of the night ignore it. It’s not real.”

Emily didn’t sleep well that night, despite the four-post bed being the closest thing she’s felt too comfortable in months. Chloe’s words weighed heavily on her, and she locked the three deadbolts that she hadn’t noticed before. She had located the radio and kept that on the nightstand until she fell into a fitful slumber.

The sun rose right at six and her alarm started blaring. She slid on the jacket with Lake Worth’s logo on the breast and the sleeve before following the clearly marked trail towards the water. It was a simple walk and it was too early for her to spot anyone fishing.

She ended up back at the cabin at 7:30 and collapsed in a cold heap on the dusty couch. It was oddly silent and she had two more hours to kill before she had to make the trek again. Chloe was right; she would get a lot of writing done here.

Emily brewed some coffee and downed two cups as she wrote a decent part of her manuscript, papers spread over the kitchen table. The alarm on her watch went off a few minutes before 10:00 am and she made her way back to the lake.

The autumn sun was warm against her cheeks and she decided to enjoy the walk more this time. She breathed in the scent of the season and kept her eyes out for anyone on the water. She checked one fishing license and went on her way.

Her next patrol wasn’t until 3:00 pm so she decided to crack open one of the many books on the shelf. She chose “The Howling” by Gary Brandner and settled onto the couch, getting lost in the cheesy horror novel from the ’60s.

Emily had fallen easily into the routine three days in; she did each patrol but struggled immensely to beat the sunset on her fourth walk around the lake. It was colder and it made her move slower.

The scratching started on the seventh day. Her world had grown colder and she had fallen into an easy routine of walking around the lake. She left the double-barrel rifle next to the front door but made sure the radio was strapped to her belt.

The first night she heard it was no different. She had nearly forgotten Chloe’s foreboding words, but it had become a habit to lock the door at night. She missed the moon and the crisp dark air. But even still, she headed the warning.

Emily had dozed off on the couch with the book at her side. It’s heavy spine hitting the floor startled her awake. The fire she had stoked burned out and her heart pounded in her chest. But that wasn’t what had stirred her, no, it was a dull scratching- barely noticeable if it weren’t for the quiet of the cabin.

She sat up and stared at the door.

It budged at the pure force of the animal on the other side, and Emily figured that she had been reading too much about the occult. As Chloe said, some beasts are more curious than others, and she had dead-bolted everything. She watched the door for a few more tedious moments before crawling into bed.

Emily saw the tracks the next day.

They were unlike any animal she had come across before; long and jaded. It’s nails dug into soft clay earth and trailed right up to her front door. There were fresh slashes in the red paint- and she swallowed back her discomfort.

She had to call the cabin on her fourth walk that day, the sun was setting faster than she cared to admit and she trudged through the icy path. An orange light coated the earth as she thought strangely of the animals around her. The particular animal that started to wait under her window at night, it’s breath fogging the glass. She made it to her porch just as the soft pink of the sky faded to a darker blue, almost black.

Emily had another restless sleep, like her first night in the cabin. There was the same scratching at her door and the radio crackled with feedback next to her. She wondered if anyone else heard the thing past her walls.

Chloe brought her new supplies on the tenth day, stating that the roads were a lot worse than usual and that a big snowfall had cleared out the entire grocery store in town. She presented her with stale bread and some orange juice that had enough pulp to create the fruit that it came from. Her boss stuck around and fried up some eggs.

“The scratches on the door,” Emily started.

Chloe stilled her movements, she had the blunt end of the spatula against the iron skillet. But it was just a beat where she was taken aback, barely noticeable. “Mm, have they been bad?”

“No. I mean, as normal as they can be. What kind of animal sounds like that?”

“We’re not sure. Not one you want to mess with.”

She tipped the pan over and divided the eggs evenly between the two before sitting in the rickety chair across from Emily. She didn’t wait to dig in, shoving a good heaping of the food into her mouth. Emily figured it avoidance.

“You said something about it calling out to me”

Chloe stopped the fork halfway to her mouth, a large glob of yellow yolk splashed into the grooves of the table. She lowered it and sat back in her seat. “Has it?”

“It hasn’t.”

“Good.”

She dropped the subject after that. They ate the rest of their breakfast in silence and Chloe left before the next time Emily had to trudge along the lake. It was getting harder, the colder it was, to get back to the cabin before nightfall. She gripped the radio tighter and let the eggs settle to the bottom of her stomach like rocks.

She put what Chloe said out of her mind until the scratching began again.

Emily had another fitful sleep. The air was growing colder and it made her chest ache. She rose when the sun did and took her first walk around the lake. She spotted two fishermen by the edge of the water and stopped just short of the tree line.

“Howdy,” one of the men said, he reached instinctively for his wallet, and Emily, drowsy from sleep, thanked him. “You’re new.”

“You’re out here a lot?”

She checked both of their licenses and watched as they effortlessly slid them back into one of their pockets. The sky was overcast and there was an odd stillness to the water. The man who had stayed quiet smiled widely and nodded. The fishhooks on his hat clinked together.

“Oh yeah, all the time. Most people don’t like to be out here in the cold but we love it. Fewer tourists and people trying to get a look at that dumb lake monster, they simply scare him off if you ask me.”

The other man shoved a pointed elbow into his friend “You know that shit ain’t real. It’s a money pit. Hell, they have shirts and bumper stickers. It’s nothing but a legend.”

“No, remember Mike? It hopped down from the trees an’ slashed all four of his tires. That’s why his hair is grey.”

“Mike Granger? His hair is grey because he’s an old lying bastard.”

Emily watched the exchange with wide eyes. She didn’t know much about this sleepy little town. She had pulled into the motel in the late hours and only spoke with one woman. Her voice was husky from years of smoking and the only vacancy sign in the place buzzed like a trapped fly. She should have paid more attention- should have eaten at a diner or asked Chloe more questions, even if she didn’t get the answers she wanted.

“I’m sorry… monster?”

Both men stopped their arguing and stared at her. She waited as her breath pooled past her lips. They were dried and cracked and tasted like blood. The taller one cocked an eyebrow and sent a narrow glance at his friend.

“Now, surely you didn’t take this job without knowing the Lake Worth Monster.”

She shrugged dejectedly “I’m afraid I did.”

“It’s a big hairy beast. Half goat, half-man, some bloke even said he can shapeshift. It’s got scales too and apparently claws long enough to slice tires. It’s been around since 1969 and our little town has capitalized on it since then. Like I said, a complete marketing scheme.”

Emily hugged her jacket closer and nodded. She thanked both of the men and continued on her way. She didn’t stop until she was back at her cabin. Her breath was shallow and she knelt down to stare at the long scratches on the door.

She struggled to put the beast out of her mind, to forget what the two strangers had said. She had checked and then double-checked the locks but still, she worried. Her eyes trained themselves on the ceiling and she listened as something crawled below her bedroom window.

Emily woke the next morning to the radio crackling. She reached for it blindly. “Hmm?”

“Emily, do you copy?”

“I copy.”

“I know it’s early. There’s been an accident. I need you to meet the sheriff down on the south side of the lake.”

Emily sat up and cursed herself for the quick movement as stars danced against her eyes. She pressed her palm against her forehead and blinked hard until they faded away. She squeezed the radio and told Chloe that she understood, even though she didn’t.

She saw the caution tape and the flashing lights that looked brighter under the half-risen sun. The sheriff was a tall woman with dirty blonde hair and soft pink lips. She was bundled up more than Emily and stood with her boots at the edge of the icy hardened shore. There was an overturned boat and the crackling of a radio other than hers.

“Emily, I presume?”

She nodded and her head was spinning “What’s all of this about?”

“Two fishermen are missing to the public.”

“What does that mean?”

“As far as anyone else knows, they’re just missing.” The sheriff grimaces and fixes her hat. “They were mutilated.”

Emily swallowed the dark feeling in her stomach. “By what?”

“You mean who?”

“Yeah, yes. By who?”

Emily didn’t’ mean by who; she meant what she had said and the sheriff stared at her as if she were to head back to the cabin and never speak of it again. Did this town have a vow of silence in the winters? She sheepishly kicked at the gravelly sand and listened as the woman spoke evenly.

“We don’t know. We were hoping that you had seen something but Chloe explained that you wouldn’t have. Said you were really good at your job and the time that these men were killed doesn’t line up with one of your patrols. I still wanted to speak to you.”

She could smell the blood and the way it mixed with the black water and looming fog. She wondered if they didn’t’ follow the rules and hadn’t gotten inside before the sun moved behind the horizon. This was the price to pay, for insolence.

Emily answered the remaining questions that the sheriff had before trudging back to the cabin. This time, she didn’t’ stop to feel the scratches on the door. This time she slammed it behind her and flopped onto the couch. She must have fallen asleep.

It was nearly dark, and she was late by the time she woke up. She had missed both of her midday patrols and wasn’t about to miss the fourth. Her body ached from the uncomfortable position she had winded up in. Emily slid on the jacket and thought twice before grasping at the shotgun behind her. It’s weight nearly throwing her off.

She was tired and the air was buzzing with electricity. There was a storm brewing and half of her knew that the rain would come down as slush instead of simple water. The twilight sky had clouds blocking a half-moon.

Emily had a job to do, and she wasn’t about to lose this one like she had the others. She had convinced herself, in the few weeks of solitude, that the manuscripts were coming along nicely because of the environment and the way she could listen to her own breath and the sounds of the cabin settling.

The sheriff and the boat, and the horrid scent of dried blood had been swept away with the wind. She kept further away from the shore, only stalling for a moment as the color in the sky began to fade away to black.

Emily didn’t know why she stopped. Why she listened to the ripples hit the shore and her own stilted steps against the sand. Her toes were numb, two pairs of socks not enough to keep the cold at bay. She recalled a conversation she had with Chloe the second time she dropped off supplies. This time she brought Emily a notebook and some pens- a few books about the Holocaust to lighten the mood.

It wasn’t a funny joke, but she chuckled anyway. “Thank you for taking this job, Emily. I’ve really taken a liking to you, you know?”

“I like you too, Chloe.”

She had flipped through the pages of the book and faired that if she got really desperate, she would give them a shot. She wasn’t’ much into history and neither was Chloe, seeing as she left them here with not much care.

“You been hearing weird things at night?”

“No,” She lied, setting the book on the step next to her “Whatever it was must have gotten bored enough.”

Chloe nodded and smiled before climbing back into her dusty yellow jeep and heading off to her next destination. Emily sat on the porch and watched her go. She breathed in the musty scent of the trees around her and flexed her fingers. Emily had made up her mind a few nights ago.

She wasn’t sure if she should watch the sun settle behind Lake Worth. If she should plant her feet in the sand and wait until whatever it was that wanted her came. A bit of caution tape was left behind, its plastic hissed in the wind so loud that she nearly didn’t hear the twig breaking.

Chloe had been hiding something; and as foolish as it was, Emily needed to know what. Those men, those that had settled onto the rocky lake with the intention of fishing had to be one of many. One of maybe thousands. Her morbid curiosity was too much.

Emily heard it before she saw it. She waited for something and nothing all at once, her breath solidifying in front of her as night finally fell. She hadn’t seen the way the sky lit up with stars all at once- but she enjoyed it now. Her eyes traced the constellations.

She clenched her eyes shut until those stars appeared within her mind and the sound of the water lapping at stones and sand and dirt moved over her ears. Almost too loud for her to hear it. Almost. Emily felt the heat of its sour breath on her shoulder, and even from where she stood, she knew it towered.

Emily drew in a cold, ragged breath and she tightened the grip on a gun, she didn’t even know how to use.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Happy Together : 9

Good Morning

Character(s): (deceptively) dark!Steve

Warnings: this is a dark!fic, it contains non/dubious-consent elements. It goes without (and with) saying that this is 18+. [spanking]

Series Synopsis: The reader is stood up while awaiting a blind date, instead finding herself keeping company with the restaurant’s famous owner; Steve Rogers. After that night, she tries to forget her humiliation but she just can’t shake one thing about that night: him.

Masterlist

Chapter Summary: Steve continues to toy with the reader.

Notes: Okay, so this is the least chapter I have ready to go but I will do my very best to get another done by next Wednesday as usual. I really love this series but it is intense and I wanna do it a certain way so it takes a little more. That being said, I love everyone reading along!

Thanks to everyone who reads and as always, I looked forward to hearing from you in the replies/reblogs/tags/asks. <3

+

That night was spent in agony. Steve slept soundly beside you, his arm wrapped around you as ever, but you couldn’t stop squirming. He had left a need in you. It may not have been him you wanted but you couldn’t quell the desire nestled between your legs. Every time your thighs rubbed together you had to hold your breath. You weren’t sure if he had done it on purpose but it annoyed you all the same. He had kept you locked up here for a whole week and you were going crazy from it.

How could you ever be incensed by the touch of a man who had paddled you? Not only that, he had dry-humped you like some teenage virgin. You thought you had left that nonsense behind in high school. When you did at last doze off, you dreamed of the scene in the kitchen. Trapped against the counter but this time, Steve was inside of you. Your thighs shook and your walls clenched around him longing for more. Then you woke up.

Something moved along your thigh. Steve’s fingers danced around the hem of your nighty, slipping beneath it and glossing over the thin satin of your panties. He caressed your stomach, picking at the elastic waist and slid his fingers under it. You went stiff against him, his thick arm holding you in place as his erection once more poked you ass. You reached down to stop him, your hand merely resting on his as he continued his motion downward.

His finger pressed between your folds, finding your hooded bud. He held his finger down, inflaming your nerves and your pelvis bucked unwillingly. You scratched at the back of his hand, “Please,” You begged, unsure if it was for him to stop or continue. 

He withdrew his hand, only to quickly catch yours and start guiding it with his own. He lined his large fingers up with yours, once more searching out your clit. You trembled as he made you rub yourself, the circles spinning your wits on end. Then two fingers, firmly against your bud, your body wracked as your breath picked up. Despite your efforts to resist, the flames were growing high, sparking along your thighs and stomach. You arched your back without thinking, his cock only withheld by his thin pajamas. He forced you to pluck at the strings, pulling, pulling, pulling tighter. Your moans wisped out of you as you tried to steady your heart. 

You grunted as your climax blossomed suddenly, rippling across your flesh as goosebumps broke out over your skin and electricity coursed through your veins. You bit the pillow to keep from crying out and Steve worked your fingers until you went limp.

“Good morning,” He whispered, leaning over you. 

He pulled your hand from your panties, holding up you glistening fingers in the artificial light from the window. He moved your hand to his lips and licked them with a hum. You wanted to recoil but waited until he released you, not wanting a repeat of the night before. As it was, you were ashamed of what he had just done. What you had done.

“Morning,” You said quietly, drawing up your legs as if to hide from him. You kept your back to him and tucked your hand under your side. Your thighs were slick with your cum. He kissed the top of you head before rolling to his side of the bed, his weight lifting from the mattress. 

“I’m gonna shower,” He said sweetly, “You wanna get the coffee on?” 

You mumbled your ascent but didn’t move. You watched him as he came around your side and neared the bathroom door, his hand reaching into his pajamas as he stroked his unyielding erection. You could see the shape of him through the stripe pants; he looked even bigger than he felt. You covered your face and the sound of the faucet came soon after.

It took you a moment to break free of your mortification. Sure it was nice to release the tension but the method had been less than ideal. Why had he done that? Why were you even still asking that question? There was no reason for anything he did. You didn’t know why he had first bothered you that night in his restaurant or why he had continued to pursue you afterward. You didn’t know why he had abducted you and brought you to this place. You only knew that he was undoubtedly insane.

When you stood, you tried to ignore the dampness of your panties. You wrapped your robe around yourself and entered the kitchen. You went about the dull practice of readying the morning brew and stared at the cracked screen as it peeked out between the curtains. 

You leaned on the counter and felt something jab your back. You looked over and grabbed the leather paddle from where Steve had left it. You spun it in your hand as you considered it; too light to use as a weapon. It’d only anger him. Once more, a large hand wrapped around yours and you jumped as Steve came up before you. He easily took the paddle from you and waved it in the air. 

“I’ll put this away,” He lowered it, turning it flat against your thigh, “Unless you don’t want me to?” You crossed your arms and sidestepped him. You pulled open the cupboard and took out two mugs. “Sorry, that was bad joke,” He said.

You stayed silent and poured the coffee. You handed him a cup and returned to the counter, content to drink yours right there.

“Dear,” He came up closer, his hand on the small of your back, “Is there anything I can bring you tonight? A book? Maybe...a record? There’s a player in the den.”

“There’s a den?” You still didn’t look at him but the prospect of another room was a speck of excitement in your monotonous existence.

“There is,” He confirmed, “But if I unlock it, you have to behave. Understood?”

“Yes, sweetheart,” You let go of the handle of your mug and turned to him, “Please. I’ve been so…” Your breath caught in your throat as you feared finishing the sentence and angering him.

“I know it’s boring in here, for now, at least. But you’re still learning,” He touched your shoulder, “You generation...Well, you’ve forgotten a lot of things. I’m just trying to give you the skills society took from you.”

Your eyes narrowed but you said nothing. You really wanted to listen to some music. Or read anything but lifestyle articles. It felt as if it had been years since you had heard a melody. You recalled the rich notes blaring in your ears when he had taken you. You wondered what he had done with your headphones.

“I swear, I’ll be good,” You pleaded, “Please?”

You looked up at him hopefully and he smiled. He bent down to kiss you, drawing you to him as he swayed against you. “I can’t say no to you,” He said, brushing his fingers through your hair as he held your head to his chest. “After breakfast, I’ll show you the den, okay?”

-

As promised, Steve unlocked the den after breakfast. He led you through the small hall parallel to the dining room. It was a large room. A fireplace along the far wall hooded by a painted mantle with a line of ornaments, including a few empty picture frames. An ornate rug was spread across the centre of the room beneath a cherry red couch; book-ended by a pair of walnut end tables. A matching coffee table with curved legs stood before the sofa right before the hearth. Two arm chairs finished the set; their fabric striped with white and red. 

There was a bookshelf along one wall and in the next corner, a record player atop a tall table. Beneath were a collection of records on the single shelf. Two more windows, or rather screens, shone, adding to the light of the porcelain lamps. The aesthetic matched that of the rest of the house; you hadn’t expected anything less.

Steve watched you as you considered the room. It was a little more freedom; not true freedom but as much as you could hope for. You couldn’t help the slight curve of your mouth. There were books in here. Not just magazines of fashion tutorials and cleaning secrets. Actual books. And the record player! It was literal music to your ears; or would be. You stepped forward, forgetting about your unwanted escort, but he caught your hand before you could get far.

“Dear,” He drew you back to him, “I’m trusting you today. Keep the den in order. Don’t let yourself get carried away. I still expect your chores to be done.”

Your face immediately fell. “Yes, sweetheart,” You droned.

“I think it’s mostly just Sinatra, some Cab Calloway,” He turned you and led you towards the record player. “Maybe some Judy Garland…” He released you and knelt by the table, “Do you know how to work it?”

“I do,” You voice was lined with a hint of excitement. You looked to him as he stared at you expectantly. “Thank you.”

He smiled and stood. His eyes wandered to your body. He stepped closer and you found yourself against the wall. He touched your arm, tracing his hand along your shoulder and across your collarbone. He leaned down to inhale the scent of your hair.

“You were naughty this morning,” He breathed, “Touching yourself like that.” You froze and closed your eyes in shame. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. I’ve done it too.” He confessed, his nose brushing against your temple as he spoke in half-whisper. “I think of you when I’m in the shower.”

“Steve,” You squeaked as he pressed himself against you and your eyes snapped open. He pulled back to gaze down at you, his hand rested on your neck, palm pressed to the side of your throat.

“If you wanted me to, I’d touch you. I’d do anything you asked me to. Well, within reason.” His other hand was at your throat, too. You thought he was going to choke you but then his fingers began to dance down your chest, hands cupped your breasts through the thin fabric of your nightie. “There are things we cannot do until we are wed...I want you to choose a date today. That is my one request,” He pinched your nipple between his fingers and you whined.

He released you suddenly and turned his back to you. You were left against the wall, bracing it for stability.

“Here,” He crossed to the wall just beside the door and took down the calendar hanging there. He found a pen in the drawer of an end table and came back to you. “Pick a date,” He circled a whole row, “Within this window and we’ll start planning right away.” He tucked the pen in his pocket. “The sooner, the better.”

You took the calendar from him and he checked his watch with a sigh. “I’m afraid I have to leave you, dear,” He bent to kiss you, his hand holding your chin as he crushed you against the wall, the calendar trapped between you. “I promise, when we marry, I won’t work for two weeks. Maybe three...our honeymoon is going to last forever.” He pecked your lips one last time before detaching from you, “I love you, dear.” He brushed the hair away from your face, “Be good.”

He stared at you until you echoed him; ‘I love you’. Content enough, he smiled and left you as you were. The door stayed open and you heard him leave through that at the end of the hallway. You looked down cautiously and examined the calendar. He had circled the week after this. If he had his way, you would be married within a few weeks. You dropped the bundle of paper and slid down the wall. So much for freedom.

+

tags: @brigidwolf @ruff-m3rc @alexakeyloveloki @lanabanana-86 @sathlens @jessieray98 @lilithhellfire @kellyn1604 @ahideousthinginside @ironlady1993 @kloe-iel @grayxswan @iheartsebastianstan @myboyfriendgiriboy @tanelle83 @patzammit @phoenix21love @they-call-me-le @spaghettirogers @buckycaptspideypool @bethanyzed @biasedtittes @bbyspiiice @thoughtlesstales @glitterypinkkitty @selinbaskaya @vitamingrant @dil-emmuh @metalarmlover @queenoftheunderdark @lilly-evans-and-the-kpop @captainfreecandyvan @collette04 @this-is-my-design @yagurlrosie @blackpantherimagines @kweenkxtrina @heavenlyblyss @secretlyactivated @roses-and-absinthe @xxxelettaxxx @rainbowkisses31 @celestiial-angel @alphabloodfur @xdatbitch @quant-um-fizzx @peaceloveyesh @bodhi-black @captainarp @booklover240 @kawaiiloverofanimu @everything-is-awesomesauce @holylulusworld @lemonnggrab @kiwihoee @aekr @arkhamsanity @twizzziee @karabear0091 @breezy1415  @beautiful-and-strange  @momc95 @buckycaptspideypool @justballoonfishthings @ms-munchkin @whosmarisaaarw @kxllyxnnx @calspixie @imdiegohargreeves @satinprincessxo @amethyst-the-thot @docharleythegeekqueen @iiqueer-vibesii @carol-damn-vers @l0rd-disick @jilldsumner @hufflebucky @nerdypinupcrystal @pink1031 @agent-spidey @wassupbitchesssss @lucifersnipnips @thirstyforsomeyandere @xxm3xxj @stuckybarton @heartbeats-wildly @tea-with-seb @the-lululemon @abesottedlass @poppyshawn @obsesseds-world @jazztherebel  @heartislubbingdubbing @couldntbedamned @desir-ae @adreamemporium @ashrod98 @buckyxwintersxldier @buckybarneshairpullingkink @lazinessisalliknow @kastheabsolutepessimist @daggersofloki @odinson-barnes 

[carryonsimoncarryonbaz]

Whumptober Day 9

I’m all over the place with this. I’m a day late but that’s better than nothing, right?

Day 9: Shackled

Simon

I’ve got a free afternoon today. Baz is at football practice, so I’ve got the room to myself for a change. I’m lying on my bed, window open, relishing the peace and quiet when a little bird flies in with a summons from the Mage.

He doesn’t do this that often—mainly when he’s got a mission for me. But I just got back from one a few days ago so I’d be surprised if he sends me out again so soon. I’ve already missed half a week of classes.

Penny says it’s irresponsible of the Mage and shows an unforgivable lack of respect for my education.

“But I’m getting an education in real magic when I go, Penny.”

“You can’t do the practicals without having a solid foundation in the theory, Simon!”

Penny has very definite views on magickal education. She regularly sends strongly worded missives to the faculty board regarding the educational practices at Watford. She was livid when the linguistics program was shut down fourth year and nearly went off when the music program ceased being part of the curriculum last year.

“Sung spells are so important, Simon! The technique is completely different than spoken spells—you have to perfect the elocution and the melody, not to mention the tempo.” We’d been in Magic Words class at the time and I’d been trying to levitate my notebook. It kept flinging itself off the edge of my desk instead.

Penny’s eyes had gone distant. “Sung spells are the only ones you can cast with other mages to increase their power. It’s criminal to eliminate the music program.”

“That’s one thing you and I can agree on, Bunce.” Baz had leant across the aisle, his book hovering a foot above his desk, not even wavering when he turned to nod at Penny. Wanker.

“If nothing else, I can count on you to support the value of a well-rounded education, Basil.” Penny had given him a meaningful look.

Baz’s face had lost its harsh angles momentarily, the sneer he typically sports when I’m in the vicinity fading away as his expression softened into something unfamiliar. Thoughtful and fleetingly vulnerable.

It was unexpected and it made my chest tighten. “It was important to my mother.” He’d paused, looking down for an instant before continuing. “She was a master of sung spells. My father . . . My father says he’s never heard anyone who could match her.”

I’d been agitated the rest of the class period. And most of the afternoon. It’s unnerving when Baz acts out of character. It throws me off.

Probably why he does it, the tosser.

Always plotting.

I make my way to the Mage’s office, passing through the wards set at the entrance. They’re set to let me pass freely. He’s at his desk, a large book open in front of him. He closes it and tucks it into a drawer when he catches sight of me.

“You called for me, sir?”

The Mage stands then, coming around his desk, arms clasped behind his back.

He’s taller than me.

I grew three inches this summer but I’m still a bit shorter than he is. I still have to tilt my head up to meet his eyes.

He’s grown a goatee this year and I’m dead jealous, even if Baz keeps making snide Robin Hood references about it.

Not that Baz has anything to brag about. He’s no better than me—not a hint more than peach fuzz on my face and Baz’s skin is even smoother, pale and unblemished, not a whisker in evidence.

“Simon. I called you here for some extra practice.” He sits on the front edge of his desk, one hand against the desk and the other lightly gripping his sword hilt. “I feel I’ve been remiss with some of your training.” His eyebrows come together in a furrow over his forehead. “We’ve not spent adequate time practicing spells you might need to utilise if you are bound or captured. Now that the Goblins are intent on your demise we need to add those to your arsenal.”

“I don’t intend to get captured, sir.”

“Simon.” There’s an edge to his voice when he says my name this time. “We must prepare for every eventuality. It is not an unlikely scenario, and not just as far as Goblins. Who knows what dark creatures might try to ingratiate themselves with the Goblins by apprehending you.”

I hate doing spell practice with the Mage. His mouth always narrows to a thin line and I can see the disappointment in his eyes, hear the frustration in his voice when he barks at me to enunciate clearly and use my words.

So much for my free afternoon. “Yes, sir.”

He walks behind his desk again and opens another drawer. “Come here, Simon. Hold out your hands.”

I put my hands out, fully expecting him to place something in them.

The Mage steps forward and snaps a set of metal shackles around my wrists before I can react. He nods at me as I stare at him in surprise. “Let’s have you try to get out of those.” He holds a hand up as I start spluttering. “Unlocking or releasing spells only, Simon. You have to count on stealth and speed in a situation like this, not brute force. The risk of being discovered or injuring yourself is real.”

Fucking hell. I’m terrible at this sort of thing, thinking up spells on the fly. I’m not even good when I try to do the ones I’ve memorised.

My mind is an utter blank. I can’t think of a single spell to open the shackles on my wrists.

“Come on, now, Simon. I haven’t got all night.”

“I can’t reach my wand.”

“Exactly the circumstance you would find yourself in, if this happened in the field. You can cast without your wand. We’ve worked on that.”

We have. I can do it, sometimes. Mostly when I don’t intend to. It’s unpredictable, like all my magic is.

“Uh . . . the only opening spell I know is ‘open sesame’, sir.”

He gives me a pained look. “Absolutely not in this circumstance.”

I wrack my brain as I give the shackles an experimental tug. The chain stretches to its full length—about an eight inch span—but I can’t budge it beyond that. The links are sturdy.

“Simon.” It’s not just a hint of irritation this time.

Ok. Ok. I can do this.

I cast “lucky break” but there isn’t enough magic in it. I try again but nothing happens.

I go through “free as a bird” and “get out of jail free” to no avail. The shackles glow for an instant with “go scot-free” but nothing happens.

I can see the Mage is getting irritated with me. I tug at the shackles again.

I try to think of spells to enlarge the cuffs but nothing comes to mind.

The Mage has his arms crossed over his chest, brow furrowed, a frown on his face. He looks at his watch.

“Simon, why don’t you keep at it for a while longer. I need to check in with my men. I’ll be back shortly.”

And with that he leaves. Just leaves, with me still trapped in the cuffs.

I can feel my magic coursing under my skin as my agitation increases. I’m angry, I’ll not deny it.

When Miss Possibelf sets us tasks like this she prods us, gives us gentle nudges, hints, feedback on what we could do better. The Mage does that with swordplay, but with the magic he just seems to expect me to figure it out on my own. It doesn’t come as easily as the fighting does though. It’s a struggle. And that just aggravates him. I can tell.

I can’t believe he just left me.

Probably thinks it builds character or some such rot. “Let experience sharpen your blade, Simon.” He says that one far too often.

I sink into the armchair set in front of his desk and run through spells in my head. I’m not like Penny—i don’t have reams of them stored up.

Or like Baz, who’s never at a loss for words, the utter prat.

I mutter a few more spells. Nothing happens. I’m desperate enough to consider Bible verses. I know it’s taboo, but it’s not like I’ve got a lot of options, now do I?

I don’t want to still be struggling when the Mage gets back here.

I can think of a few verses that might work. Some of the care homes had a more religious bent than others. I just went along with it.

I cast a “loose the bonds of wickedness.” Nothing happens and I don’t get struck down for my audacity so I try another. “Break every yoke” makes the shackles glow again, for longer this time, but they don’t open.

I’m sweating now. I can feel my magic thrumming under my skin, heat coursing down my arms. I close my eyes as the red haze starts and I take a few deep breaths, muttering “stay cool” and “cool it now.”

It helps. The haze recedes when I open my eyes. I stare at my wrists, trying to think of something useful.

I’d be right well fucked if this was a real situation.

I’m right well fucked with it as a training exercise.

I yank my hands apart, as if I could break the links. There’s nothing weak about any of them.

Fucking hell! I cast a “weakest link” and pull my hands apart as hard as I can. The middle link snaps clean through.

The shackles are still firm on my wrists but I can at least move my hands independently now.

If I were really held captive this would be enough. I could call the Sword of Mages and use it, cuff notwithstanding.

But I have a feeling that won’t be good enough for the Mage.

I stew on it a bit, shifting around in the seat. I can’t sit still so I get up and start pacing back and forth across the Mage’s office.

Six steps to the bookshelf and six steps back.

Back and forth.

I just want to be free of these stupid shackles. I want to leave. I want to go back to my room.

I look out the window. The sun is slanted lower. Baz will be heading back from football practice soon.

I’d rather deal with him than be here for one more minute.

I just want to be free.

I just want to break free.

Merlin, that’s it!

I can hear the lyrics in my head. Baz may be a complete wanker but he’s a wanker with good taste in music. I’ve heard him play this song often enough on his contraband iPod.

I cast “I want to break free.”

The shackles glow even brighter this time and stay that way, shimmering. I can feel a tingle in my wrists and heat radiating from the cuffs. It doesn’t burn.

But they don’t snap open.

What am I doing wrong?

It comes to me then. It’s a song.

Maybe I have to sing this for it to work.

Fuck. I don’t sing.

I mean, I sing when I’m in the shower but only if Baz isn’t around. He’d take the piss if he heard me, I’m sure of it.

I have to try. I’m out of options and I’m sure the Mage will be back soon. I can’t face disappointing him again.

I hum the tune a few times to prepare myself.

“I want to break free.” It comes out wavery. What did Penny say? Melody, elocution, tempo. Ok. Ok.

And intention. That’s true with every spell though.

I intend for these fucking shackles to come off.

I take a breath and sing the lyric again.

And again, my voice getting stronger with each repetition. The shackles glow with a blue light and spring open, falling to the floor.

I rub my wrists and shake my hands out.

The Mage walks in just as I’m picking the cuffs up off the floor.

His eyebrows go up as he takes in the sight of my cuff-free wrists. “Well done, Simon. Tell me, what spell did you use?”

“‘Weakest link’ to break the chain, sir, and ‘I want to break free’ for the cuffs.”

His expression relaxes and relief floods through me.

“I wanted you to focus on releasing spells to remove or loosen the shackles but ‘weakest link’ is a good one in a pinch. It lets you use your sword, if nothing else.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “The other one worked as a spoken spell?”

“No, sir, I had to sing it to make it work.”

He looks pleased now and I can’t help but bask in it. “Did you?” His claps my shoulder and gives me a hint of a smile. “Well done indeed.”

I smile back.

I’m so relieved.

[chapitre7]

When I have you

The Untamed [陈情令] | Mo Dao Zu Shi [魔道祖师] fanfiction

Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji/Wei Yīng | Wei Wuxian (Wangxian)

CQL-verse, Canon Divergence, Alternate getting together

Tracks up to episode 33

Read on AO3

“Why would a person like another person? I mean that kind of like.”

 He makes an abrupt pause in his writing, and though he doesn’t look up, the smudge on the paper is ever-growing. If not for the practice of his calligraphy, all the work put into transcribing those rules would have been for nought. He’ll have to discard those, and start over.

 Wei Wuxian, however, unfortunately encouraged by his reticence, continues.

 “Come on, Lan Zhan, you’re the smartest person I know. I don’t understand what my senior sister sees in that peacock, but she seems to like him, like really likes him, and not out of the endless kindness in her heart.”

 The Jiang disciple breaks the peace in the Library Pavilion with heavy steps, crossing the distance between his desk and Lan Wangji’s in long, ungraceful strides, plopping down beside the Second Jade with a low sound. Head bowed, eyes turned up, he attempts to lock gazes with the other.

 “What do you think, Lan Zhan? Have you ever thought about it?”

 Lan Wangji is not looking up but he can see Wei Wuxian’s grin just at the limits of his peripheral vision. Out of a stubborn, uncontrollable desire to ignore the other, Lan Wangji continues to write down the Gusu Lan rules from memory, the blotch in the middle seeming to chastise him for his irritation.

 “Has Second Young Master Lan ever liked someone?”

 “Ridiculous,” he mutters, but not with as much purpose as he meant to convey with the word. Under the cold layers of his façade, Lan Wangji admits to know the sentiment in his heart. He loves his brother, and he loves his uncle, and he certainly loves his sect. Those are all different from the kind that Wei Wuxian is talking about, he also knows. A kind that he hasn’t put his mind into in his short experience in life, having had no reason to consider it. Even as brother tries to gently push him towards the path of friendship with someone, he’s... troubled. If he must fulfill his duties with his sect with focus and precision, how could he be dedicated to someone else?

 “Right, it is ridiculous.”

 It must be a particular talent of Wei Wuxian’s, to sound petulant even when he’s being agreeable.

 “Second Young Master Lan is cold as jade, I bet no cultivator has been strong enough to melt the ice in his veins.”

 Lan Wangji closes his eyes, summoning all of his diligent training to calm the storm that seems to loom around this disciple who seems to want nothing but to shake the foundations of the Gusu Lan sect.

 “But if I could almost beat you in a fight, Lan Zhan, I wouldn’t give up on that front if I were you!”

 He snaps his eyes open and Wei Wuxian recoils at his glare, as if sharp Bichen had just been unsheathed and pointed at his neck. And because he’s not been taught to feel pride, Wangji rationalizes that it’s only appropriate for the misbehaving to be aware of their actions.

 “Get back to work,” he says, enunciating every word, and Wei Wuxian pouts like a child, resignedly dragging himself to his feet and slouching back to his own desk. He doesn’t ask anything else that day, and Lan Wangji makes a series of mental notes of all the points that Wei Wuxian needs to work on in order to become a proper cultivator.

 The question still lingers in his mind when he lies down to sleep. In the cold, dark blue of the Cloud Recesses after curfew, no hints are blown to him on the breath of the wind, nor are they whispered by the cricking branches of the magnolia trees. It’d be a shameful question to ask uncle; brother wouldn’t mind, but his usual method of guidance would be like trying to tread through a village without light. One can live alone, Wangji. Our hearts are our own to keep or to give. But our feelings are hardly ours to control. He knows, just like he’d be able feel the dirt beneath his feet and feel his way from one side to the other in the dark. But as he relies on his sight to see, how could he know if his surroundings were the very ones he had been looking for?

 Lan Wangji only falls asleep hours after curfew, after he wills himself to stop thinking.

 ***

 To find Wei Wuxian searching through the archives of the Library Pavilion, having arrived earlier than Lan Wangji, is something of a surprise that the young Lan could easily brush past, his jade-like complexion not betraying the slight sentiment of optimism that the disciple is finally willing to be studious and respectful.

 To hear him muttering, “I can’t believe there’re literally no romance books,” causes those fragile wings of hope to melt under the scorching reality that Wei Wuxian is unrepentant, and realize there’s still much work to be done.

 “Lan Zhan!”

 He barely suppresses the narrowing of his eyes. Every time he calls his name is like he’s closing in again, trying to whisper theories or whatever occupies his mind at the time, and Wangji does not like to be close, does not like to be touched, does not like the ease with which Wei Wuxian falls into calling him by his name. Excessive feelings are forbidden. He bundles his disapproval, folds it over and over and tucks it away, so he can properly start finding ways to discipline Wei Wuxian.

 Who’s looking at him with undisguised disappointment. “I had so many expectations for your library, Lan Zhan, but there’s really nothing helpful! The library at Lotus Pier has collections on bravery, legendary hunts and cultivation partners. Doesn’t your sect have any romance in you?”

 Lan Wangji moves soundlessly to stand beside the other, adjusting the book spines back into their proper place. The task is nothing to him, just a repetition of propriety, and against his better judgment, his eyes go unfocused, thinking about the concept of romance.

 “Lan An, after finding his cultivation partner and founding the Gusu Lan sect, passed on that all regulations can be foregone once one finds the one they love. Although that much is known, he didn’t leave behind any record or notes about his life with his cultivation partner.”

 Which Wei Wuxian would know if he had been attending class like his peers, and paying attention instead of messing around.

 Casting his gaze aside from the bookshelf, Lan Wangji notices that Wei Wuxian stares at him with wide eyes and an open mouth. Words seem to have escaped him, for what surely must be the first time in their short acquaintance. The moment stretches for so long (seconds) and it’s so out of place that Lan Wangji almost fidgets, but instead he barely moves, ready to guide them to their proper seats to start their work for the day, if Wei Wuxian isn’t inclined to say anything else. However, he takes only a sidestep when the boy blurts, a bit too loudly,

 “You can ignore the rules?!”

 He soundly gasps, clutching the front of his robes, looking positively anguished. Lan Wangji is unimpressed.

 “Lan Zhan! Then why are we even learning this many rules to begin with!”

 Lan Wangji retracts his foot from its designed path to place it right beside the other, turning fully to Wei Wuxian, the perfect form of ordinance.

 “One must first know and follow the rules in order to forego them.”

 The rules are so much more than the binds Wei Wuxian perceives them to be, and with time, he’ll understand. At that point, however, Lan Wangji is a little wavered, experiencing his own limits. He is, perhaps, a bit disappointed in himself. But Wei Wuxian only blinks, the exaggerated, dramatic mask he’s wearing dropping, only to break into his usual mirthful countenance. He laughs, body curving forward, both hands cradling his belly.

 “Lan Zhan, ah, Lan Zhan,” he says between difficult breaths, wiping tears away from his eyes. Lan Wangji simply waits, hands behind his back, slowly blinking. “The Second Jade of Lan can be so funny! You must talk more!”

 “Nonsense,” he says, ready to leave Wei Wuxian’s inappropriate curiosity behind, walking to his usual seat in the pavilion. Without anyone to entertain him, Wei Wuxian follows.

 “Lan Zhan, listen! What do you think a man who wrote down however many rules only to give them up was thinking?” He hops from one side of Lan Wangji to the other as the cultivator walks, and gingerly sits down beside him as the other carefully sets himself behind his desk. “Do you think it he was taken by how pretty she was? Or how nice? But the peacock is neither of those things! Well, he might be good-looking, but his personality is rotten, so what good is it for! What do you think, Lan Zhan? What would you like? Would your destined young lady cultivator have to be prettier than you? I think those standards are a bit— All right, I’m going, I’m going, I’m sitting down, see?”

 Lan Wangji keeps glaring at Wei Wuxian even as he starts scribbling down the rules in uncoordinated calligraphy. He catches every glance the other throws in his direction to make sure he refocuses on his designed task. It’s only after a few good minutes of Wei Wuxian copying the rules at remarkable speed (which would probably require another whole round of copying, considering he’s processing a whole lot of nothing that way) that Wangji allows himself to look down at his own blank manuscript.

 With Wuxian quiet, the doors to the pavilion closed, and only a breeze swaying a wind chime by the open window, Wangji tries to remember any love poems that he’s read in the past. He doesn’t get up to look for any books, not wanting to catch Wei Wuxian’s attention, but all of the meanings and messages that he remembers fail to form a proper answer, speaking only of an abstract feeling that supposedly one could do anything for. To create rules to regulate one’s spirit and then give them up. To live for a sect and to live for a single person. Be two people — or was it just one, perfectly divided, perfectly wise? Was love also a form of cultivation, once you uncovered its mysteries?

 All Wangji knows of love are uncle’s short words about father when he dared to ask, spoken with fondness before a grunt and an endless reciting of rules.

 An open door with warm arms and a laughter that rang like bells, teasing him into speaking, into making sounds. Warm despite her fate, caring and welcoming, until the door closed and never opened again.

 Flowers that never survived winter.

 “...An. Lan Zhan!”

 His eyes had been open the entire time, but it’s only after the call that he sees Wei Wuxian. Standing before him with a slight furrow between his brows, holding a stack of notes but keeping it at his side. Instead of handing them over, he kneels, placing his elbows on Wangji’s desk. The paper before the Second Jade is empty again, and if he wrote anything, he’s unable to recall. The sun is low outside, casting shadows on the usually bright pavilion.

 “Are you okay? Are you hungry?” Wei Wuxian tilts his head to the side, and all of his questions beg no real answers as he continues. “Really, Lan Zhan, the food you serve here isn’t enough to sustain a cultivator of your caliber. You should come to Yunmeng! I’ll show you all of the best restaurants, though none of them can really compare to senior sister’s cooking. I can ask her to make you all my favorite dishes! I’m sure you’ll like them.”

 Wei Wuxian stands up laughing, but it’s not quite like the way he usually does. He’s moving between his heels and the balls of his feet, delighted huffs of air escaping through his nose. It echoes the melody of the wind chime, his eyes catching a light that Lan Wangji doesn’t know the source of. Wangji can only watch him for a second or two, spellbound, as if the sun that he is, that Jiang Wanyin and Nie Huaisang tend to gravitate around, is lighter, the beginning of autumn. Something lies heavy in his chest — the promise or the company? The clear concern or the unambitious compliment? — and he can’t speak, waiting for the words find their way back to him.

 “No need,” Wangji says at last, holding out his hand, and Wei Wuxian hands him his copy of the rules with a clearly displeased expression at his dismissal, which gives Wangji some relief; he’s not acting strangely, or not so strangely as to make an impression on the Yunmeng Jiang disciple.

 All through dinner, thoughts keep swirling in his head. Brother doesn’t keep him in his company for long, catching that something is on his mind, but being, as always, kind enough to let him go if he’s not ready to share. And as he folds his robes after changing for bed, he’s suddenly hit with the memory of the cloud patterns on his mother’s robes. Even if he can no longer perfectly envision her features anymore, he thinks that he can understand the virtues that could lead someone to love. Kindness, gentleness; a disposition to accept him and stay with him, even if he’s not much of a talker, not fun to be around; and a way to make him feel like he’s right where he’s supposed to be, even within the four walls of her pretty birdcage.

 In the space between the long night and sunrise, Lan Wangji dreams of white gentians and of Wei Wuxian, clad in the white of Gusu Lan as he knew him, laughing with his sword in his hand and the night breeze in his hair. The world is boundless behind him, and he’s calling his name. Opening his eyes to the dark of his safe quarters, Wangji wishes it had been one of those dreams that he forgets at the first light of day, lest he feels tempted to long for their continuation.

 His name in Wuxian’s voice lingers in his ears.

 ***

 Brother seems to understand something that’s not enlightened to him yet. Or maybe he’s just testing the waters, surveying the scene, as cultivators ought to do at the beginning of a night hunt. Guiding him, without taking his hand. Smiling at him, anticipating his success.

 Traveling with Wei Wuxian is nothing like night hunting. There are no guidelines to follow; even as they ride their swords to Caiyi, he talks about everything he can think about, all the people he sees, an anecdote about Yunmeng here and there. Once they arrive, he’d certainly get lost in the crowd, carelessly going from one merchant to another, if Wangji didn’t go straight to their inn. And when brother arranges for them to stay in the same room — what were his expectations, exactly? Wangji wishes he could see the threads of his brother’s thoughts —, Wangji feels like he’s being tested. Exactly by whom and what for, he’s not sure. His brother isn’t one for tasteless jokes, that much he’s certain. So he must be missing something, any indication that he let on, unconsciously, that he wants things to change.

 Does he?

 An answer doesn’t come simply because he wishes for it. And he’s no child to throw tantrums at what he doesn’t like or understand. So he just takes it as he does the tasks he’s given. He goes, and he’s focused, as he always is.

 Wei Wuxian — Wei Ying, despite his brashness and overconfidence, is smart. He’s capable of asking the right questions, to find the flaws in a story, to grasp at the truth beneath. But exactly because he’s brash and arrogant, he jumps to conclusions that, judging from Jiang Wanyin’s brazen outbursts at his attitude, oftentimes lead into trouble. And he refuses to adapt, to fit into the rules, to follow a more direct path to being a righteous cultivator instead of skirting from one way to another like a drunk.

 And yet, Lan Wangji keeps the drawing he made secure on a shelf, pressed between his books. And yet, Wei Ying keeps approaching him in that shamelessly familiar way, just to... What? Rile him up? Get under his skin, like he did with that outrageous book? Or is he so used to all the attention that he gets, that he won’t tire until he’s secured his as well? He tries to piece him together, the contradicting parts of him, the loud and the subtle, the clever and the ignorant, and Wangji doesn’t even know why he thinks of him. Is this what brother intended, in the end? To help him solve a puzzle that he didn’t even realize he was trying to put together? He is unlike any other guest disciple that had come to the Cloud Recesses. Maybe brother intends to have Wangji guide him—

 “Lan Zhan.”

 Wei Ying talks from his bed. He’s been quiet for so long that Wangji had assumed he had fallen asleep after sulking, after his usual games didn’t follow through with him. And there’s a part of Wangji that feels a pang of guilt that, instead of meditating or preparing to sleep, he had just been sitting there, thinking about him while he’s in the room. It feels dangerous, all of a sudden. That somehow, his thoughts and questions might be seen by the other, that he’ll be able to tell that he’s been on his mind.

 “I still can’t think of why senior sister would like the peacock. Maybe it was something he said to her?”

 There’s no perceptible change in Wangji’s stance, but he doesn’t shut the topic down.

 “Maybe in one of their meetings he said something to her that made her fall in love... Is that possible? I’ve said all kinds of things to the girls in Yunmeng to make them smile and I don’t remember any of them. So why like someone for what they say? Why like something that can be so easily taken back or veiled in lies? You agree, right, Lan Zhan?”

 Lan Wangji agrees that words are fleeting, especially considering that Wei Ying says so many of them at any given time, and he’s not surprised that he can forget them the very next moment. But he can’t deny that words can have a life of their own; those once said or those never uttered. They carry a weight to Lan Wangji; he’s known for having few, and in his experience, few are enough. Other times, the questions he’s wanted to ask die in his throat and speak only in restless dreams.

 Why did mother kill father’s teacher?

 Why didn’t he let her go?

 How did she die?

 Why won’t father see us anymore?

 Why is Wei Ying—

 “We must sleep.”

 He ignores Wei Ying’s complaints, putting out the candles. He takes off his outer robes, folding them with precision, as his eyes grow used to the dark. He lies down and tries not to be so aware of Wei Ying’s presence in the room, even as he strains to hear the rustling of cloth, his intelligible mumbling followed by a sigh, then silence.

 Could a person fall for someone’s words?

 He has no idea what it’s like to fall.

 But a person can remember so many things in a lifetime, that even something ordinary can feel precious with time. A compliment, perhaps. A hummed melody.

 A deep inhale in the stillness of the night.

 ***

 It’s not sound that wakes him. Wei Ying is sitting by a window, looking down at an asleep Caiyi, drinking directly from a jar of alcohol that Wangji doesn’t remember seeing him buy, but he’s not making a sound. He’s just peering at something, or nothing at all, moonlight bathing him in pale blue. The Gusu Lan robes grant him a sort of glow — or maybe it’s Wangji’s half-asleep eyes, interpreting the only source of the room with more brightness than it holds. Wei Ying doesn’t look like he’s slept at all.

 “Drinking is forbidden,” is something that comes straight to mind and right out of his mouth. His body is telling him that he hasn’t had enough rest. Wei Ying’s image, his face turning to him, softer at the edges with a trick of light and shadow, keeps him from slipping back into his bed. His unguarded posture and uncharacteristic silence keep the sting out of Wangji’s words. The sound of water is faint in the background, in the pause where they simply look at each other.

 “Sorry, Lan Zhan, did I wake you?”

 Lan Wangji rises, softly muted steps taking him towards Wei Ying. He casts a glance out of the window, trying to will himself awake and catch any abnormality, but he sees only the busy town of the day, now deserted and painted in darkness.

 “You should sleep,” he remarks, letting his hand fall from the window frame. Wei Ying just smiles, bubbling with a low chuckle.

 “Don’t worry, Lan Zhan. I’ve been to night hunts on little sleep before, it doesn’t affect my performance.” He lifts his jar to him, eyebrows raised with a question, but Lan Wangji just shakes his head. Wei Ying shrugs, then proceeds to down the rest of the alcohol by himself.

 “What are you doing here?”

 “Just thinking.” He doesn’t really fit on the windowsill but that doesn’t keep him from perching one foot up while the other just moves back and forth languidly, as if unable to catch up with his rapid, endless thoughts. His smile goes a little crooked then, before he says, “Wishing the peacock were here, to see what he’s made of.”

 “Don’t antagonize, Wei Ying.”

 “I’m not antagonizing him,” he says, eyes darting up at Lan Wangji, his lips forming an almost imperceptible pout. “I just need to know.”

 He doesn’t elaborate, meaning hanging and falling away from view. Wangji frowns, more from trying to decipher Wei Ying’s charade than from any discomfort.

 “Ah, I wish I had brought my dizi.”

 “You can play?”

 Wei Ying nods, foot moving down to join the other, body turning to face Lan Wangji fully.

 “Madam Yu, ah... Only senior sister really likes my playing, Jiang Cheng complains it gives him a headache. I’m good! I don’t use it for cultivation or anything, although, after seeing Zewu-jun, I think it wouldn’t be so bad.”

 Wangji nods, without hesitation. This Wei Ying, creating music with the spirit that he has witnessed, is something that he finds himself wanting to see.

 Wei Ying beams up at him, the moon at his back, still favoring him. Like on that first night of mischief, the night when Wangji met his match.

 “Lan Zhan, you should come to Lotus Pier and I’ll play for you. You can play an instrument too, right? We can play together! I may not be on the Second Jade’s level but we can play something nice together, I don’t think anyone would complain about you giving them a headache. What do you say?”

 He doesn’t give voice to his agreement. Doesn’t take a step forward, closer to Wei Ying, like he feels compelled to. He looks down at Wei Ying’s fingers, supporting him on the windowsill, and lets his mind wander, for the long span of a second, maybe two, about the songs it can bring to life. Wei Ying, in the foreground of the lively Lotus Pier, painted in his mind only after books and retellings from senior disciples. His smile beckoning, ready and open, like it is now, for him.

 “It’s late,” he says, after too long. He turns his back so he doesn’t see Wei Ying’s disappointment, lies down and closes his eyes so he can sleep instead of think about it, of how nice it would be.

 What would Lotus Pier sound like? What would it smell like?

 He doesn’t even know what the Cloud Recesses smell like anymore.

 He closes his fists, fingers clutching at his covers. He falls asleep quick, as his body was trained to do, and once again, he dreams.

 ***

 The cold springs turn the burning on his back into a phantom pain; something there but distant, bearable. The cloudy memories of the night before, in inexplicable contrast, don’t stop echoing in his head, as much as he’d like to forget them. The heavy beating of his heart against his chest as his admission about his mother fell from his lips; the slurred tale about a boy, his parents and a donkey; weak laughter drowned in alcohol. He swayed then, right where he sat, taken by the mist of his inebriation but also by warmth. He thinks he fell, embarrassingly, against the other, or maybe it was the other way around. Then the memory blurs and he remembers only of lying down and hands holding his, placing them against his chest. They’re not close, he had said so, he doesn’t like touching people, but boundaries were pushed back, washed away by waves that carried him along to unknown places.

 He thinks that he held onto those hands, but it could be either a memory or a dream. Questions asked, answers given, his face so overwhelmingly warm. He tries to recall some kind of promise; another one among so many that he collected now, like pressed flowers between pages of his favorite poetry book. And then nothing else.

 He accepts punishment for his transgressions, accepts it because it’s the right thing to do. But the night yet lingers behind his eyelids, faded and out of focus, watched from behind a waterfall. When Wei Ying approaches him, crossing the waters, he’s ever conscious of him, of things he said and things he might have said but that Wangji can’t remember; or maybe something Lan Wangji might have showed, eyes downcast but not closed, the back of Wei Ying’s hand against his cheek.

 “We’re friends, aren’t we? Of all people that I know, I really want to be friends with you, Lan Zhan!”

 He struggles without purpose, without meaning, while Wei Ying says all that he wants with ease, convinces him to use his headband so they can both uncover the secrets that lie beneath the land of Gusu Lan. Uncle would have been outraged to know; Lan Yi says nothing, demonstrating a spirit so unlike those of his immediate family that Wei Ying himself looks at her in awe, bowing to her with more respect than Wangji has seen him show for anyone.

 Their bound hands are just like the pull that he can’t ignore, persistent, like an ache. It’s stronger when Wei Ying is close, and stronger still when he backs away. Lan Wangji doesn’t know what to think. The tangible problem of the Stygian Metal fails to take over his mind, no matter how much he wants it to.

 After they emerge from that place lost in time, that piece from the past heavy inside his robes, Wei Ying falls against him. He feels heavier than the Stygian Metal, the weight not lessening even as he stands, pressing against Wangji’s chest.

 Every look Wei Ying sends is tinged with meaning now, with secrets shared between them, both acknowledged and not.

 When Wei Ying shows him the lantern he made for him, he thinks he knows a bit why his brother seems to have taken a liking to the boy so fast. In his hands stained with ink, in the delicate rabbit he drew for Wangji (it’s their lantern, their secret), he sees him. His is a spirit that thrives in pushing down barriers and then reveling at his success with showmanship, with resonating laughter. Every action has his mark, every move gives him away. Juggling jars of Emperor’s Smile back and forth with a warrior’s gait, speaking against Wen Chao unafraid of an unequal fight, pulling pranks and playing with those he holds in esteem; thinking hard about things beyond himself, just for the sake of his sister. There’s so much of Wei Ying in everything Wei Ying does, and the person he is...

 “I, Wei Wuxian, wish to eliminate evil and protect the weak, always maintaining a good conscience.”

 ...doesn’t feel like a stranger.

 ***

 “After young master Wei leaves, the Cloud Recesses will return to its previous silence,” brother remarks as the Yunmeng Jiang sect leader walks away with his family, Wangji’s chest aching like it hadn’t in so many years. The passing of time in constant calm and quiet, things Lan Wangji has known all his life — he feels like the ants that Wei Ying had been playing with before are crawling over him, cold and insistent and hard to get rid of.

 He clenches his fist, the other holding firmly onto Bichen, and prepares himself for the journey ahead. Away from the Cloud Recesses, he might not feel the loss as he does then. Alone, he can focus on his mission, on his duty to his sect, without being carried away by feelings that grow every time he thinks about them, every time Wei Ying is near and filling his head with questions about love. It is enough for him to invade his dreams with his smile, with his gifts and outstretched hands, calling him to share his burdens, to fight together with ideals guiding their swords. He dreams of him even awake, at times, the cadence with which he says his name already etched like a song in his memory.

 He tries.

 “Lan Zhan!”

 And his resolve to let go crumbles so easily, in a single call. It’s always so easy for him; to appear in a second, with loquats in his hands. It was once alcohol, it was once a drawing, a rabbit and a flower for the Second Jade of Gusu Lan. He closes the steps and stands beside him, clad in dark and red robes, the sun catching on his eyes, and Lan Wangji feels the ache of Wei Ying’s absence grow numb, even as he throws his usual quips at him, even as Lan Wangji keeps pushing him away for his own peace of heart.

 As they walk together, move together, and talk about which way to go first, the numbness gives way to a buzz, and the buzz gives way to nothing. It doesn’t feel out of place to have Wei Ying standing near, he doesn’t have the need to be alone, away from Wei Ying and everything, secluded in his own cultivation. Wei Ying shows off his talismans and plays around Tanzhou; he chatters away with Nie Huaisang and talks about frivolous things and Lan Wangji lets him. He’s sprinting ahead, leading, taking him by the hand, and he lets him.

 Lan Wangji doesn’t know when he started trusting him, at what point between all of his rule breaking and demonstrations of good thinking and good heart he started to trust his judgment, but he does. On the night of their second night hunt together, he sits around a fire with a dozing Wei Ying and a very much asleep Nie Huaisang, waiting for a clue about the Stygian Metal to show itself, waiting to contain a disaster, and it’s completely different from all the night hunts he’s gone with the Lan sect.

 It’s...

 “Lan Zhan.”

 He keeps his eyes closed, but tilts his head in Wei Ying’s direction.

 “Uncle Jiang canceled the marriage between elder sister and the peacock. Can you believe that?”

 Lan Wangji opens his eyes and looks at the fire. He remembers young lady Jiang’s face at the time of the fight between Wei Ying and Jin Zixuan. Futures are more fragile than we believe.

 “I want to feel like it’s a relief but I saw elder sister crying and there’s really nothing I can do to make her feel better.”

 Wei Ying pulls himself up to a sitting position, regarding the fire with eyes that look but don’t see.

 “Liking someone like that, isn’t it like haltering your own neck?”

 He says it so low that Wangji doesn’t think he’s talking to him anymore, fiddling with the ribbon that fasten his arm guard. Concerned about how he gazes so intently into the fire, Wangji speaks, though he’s not sure about the subject, not any more sure than the first time Wei Ying brought it up.

 “Have you found your answer?”

 The temple is cold, dust and dirt caught in every corner and crevice, under them, all over their palms and robes, long inhaled by their lungs. It’s uncomfortable, and the fire can’t warm them evenly, can’t keep them safe in its weak light from the shadows that surround them. He takes notice of nothing. As a cultivator who treads in the night, who protects those in need, who goes where the chaos is. And as Wei Ying looks at him, saying nothing, maybe still thinking, yet unwavering, perhaps leaning towards him. Wangji waits for the answer, discovering Wei Ying’s smile against the candles flickering behind him, and his warmth despite the whole distance of the burning campfire between them.

 It should have been different. Wei Ying smiles for anyone and he plays with everyone and he goes wherever he wants, unbound by rules. How could he long for him to smile only at him, to appreciate his company, to stay by his side, being so fundamentally alike but with so striking differences?

 He thinks there’s an answer in his ellipsis, in how he stops smiling. Wei Ying’s hands are moving, splayed on the ground, scraping against the dust, he’s definitely inching closer, the few feet between them growing fewer, and the man who’s always had something to say is silent like the nights at Gusu.

 Wei Ying stops when their knees touch. He has to look up at Wangji as he stands with his back straight, and Wei Ying doesn’t, leaning in instead, his breath tickling Wangji’s cheek. He thinks Wei Ying dusts his hands off on his dark robes but he wouldn’t be able to tell much, he can’t look away from his face, suddenly so close. The fire shines in his eyes, beautifully. Wei Ying is beautiful, like the warriors from the books he likes, drawn with fine brushes and the right lines and curves, as Wangji saw in an illustration in Caiyi. He’s more beautiful still, because he’s real and he knows him and he wants to be known in return.

 “Let me see something,” he says, and he moves his hand like he wants to touch Wangji’s face. He halts, not completing the motion, hand in mid-air, and Wangji’s gaze goes from it back to Wei Ying’s eyes who are looking down at his lips. Wangji swallows, the action so clear in their proximity, and Wei Ying looks back up, waiting, but Wangji does nothing else. Wei Ying had asked him for permission and he lets him. Through the tempest inside of him, he lets him, one hand closed around Bichen, gripping it tighter, and the other safe on his lap. He closes his eyes when Wei Ying does, and leans his head down at the same time Wei Ying tilts up.

 The kiss doesn’t make a sound. Their position is awkward, not close enough, and without either of them holding onto the other, it’s like they can fall at any second. They hold still, not breathing, until Wei Ying moves his lips, closing around his, pressing closer. He backs away but Wangji falls back into him, the hand not holding Bichen moving to fit perfectly on his jaw, the cold tips of his fingers touching the soft skin behind Wei Ying’s ear. He moves his lips like Wei Ying did, capturing his upper lip then his lower lip, while Wei Ying responds, both slow, unsure of what they’re doing. Wei Ying still hasn’t quite touched him, his fingers traveling, but not holding, along the front of his robes.

 Their exhales come deep and hot between them when they part. Nothing much has changed; there’s not a strand of hair out of place that wasn’t already out of place a minute ago, and their clothes aren’t crumpled or dirtier. There’s only their lips, glistening in the firelight, and Wei Ying looking at him with wide eyes.

 What did you see?

 They’re leaning back against each other, like magnets that can’t help themselves, but just like in Caiyi, time is not on their side. There they were out of sync, out of balance, still lost between questions. In their pocket time at the temple, he sees an answer in Wei Ying’s face — or maybe not an answer but a different question, a tilt of his head, an inhale that he’s just close enough to hear  — and the moment is broken by the sound of cracking stone and a rumble that shakes the ground and causes Nie Huaisang to jolt awake with a scream.

 Together, they fight. They go from one enemy to the other, the night stretching into day, cultivators committed to their cause. He fights back to back with Wei Ying, their feet and slashes working in perfect coordination, completing attacks with simple commands, with a look. Yet Wei Ying still goes a little further, mind always working too fast, too careless, where Lan Wangji hasn’t yet learned to go. He folds and folds his worry and his frustration and everything that follows Wei Ying away, until the moment comes again, when he’s within his reach. Until then, he’s the Second Jade of Lan, and he’s on duty for his sect and for the good of the entire population.

 Was Lan An ever worried about giving too much or too little to his partner?

 Which way was he supposed to go?

 Lan Wangji just marches on, not a single sign in his body language that he’s lost any of his resolution.

 He just moves forward, going where his brother wants him to go.

 ***

 Wei Ying is a little tipsy when he enters Wangji’s room in Qinghe. He smiles a silly smile that turns his eyes into tiny crescent moons before he walks to his bed, tips off his shoes, and plops down.

 “Lan Zhan, it’s not fair,” he says, swirling the jar of alcohol he’s still holding. “We’ve been through so much the past couple of days and there’s not a stain on you.”

 He’s wrong. There’s dried blood caught at the hem of his robes, and residual dirt that told the tale of their battles and little rest. Lan Wangji feels all of the tribulations of their journey in his bones, and the tension caused by the shadow of the Wen sect feels even stronger against his bloodstream. Wei Ying must feel it too, his smile strained, his eyes lost in the distance but not glossy, not overtaken by the alcohol. In a few strides, he reaches the bed and sits down next to Wei Ying, taking the almost empty jar from Wei Ying’s lax grip. Wei Ying lets him, smile shining again.

 “Lan Zhan, we need to report back to Zewu-jun. We can figure out what to do about the Wens together. We’ll part in the morning, just you and me.”

 He pats down on Wei Ying’s hair, an affectionate gesture that surprises the both of them. Wei Ying just stares at him at first but quickly leans against the touch, and Lan Wangji is left with the tatters of his restraint as he pets him, thumb gently touching his temple.

 “And Jiang Wanyin?”

 Wei Ying stops moving his head like a needy cat to blink, frowning as he considers his options. Wangji is glad, then, to know that he’s not the only one struggling with priorities.

 “I’ll ask sect leader Nie to have someone escort him back to Lotus Pier... I can’t let you travel alone, Lan Zhan, not while you’re carrying the Stygian Metal. What if something happens before you reach the Cloud Recesses? What if you’re ambushed?” He shakes his head, taking hold of Wangji’s wrist and sitting up. “You’re not going alone.”

 He holds Wangji’s gaze with the determination he’s got to witness more than once as they worked together. Wangji says nothing, does nothing, but he feels Wei Ying hand trembling in the grasp he has on him. He looks down, pulling his wrist from Wei Ying’s hold, only to hold his hand in both of his. He understands. Though they’ve been trained to fight since they learned how to walk and have been cultivating for just as long, there are little lessons that prepare you for the bloodbath that Xue Yang left in his wake. And it’s only a prelude of what’s to come, following the Wen sect right to their homes.

 Wei Ying head falls against Wangji’s shoulder, the hand that’s not being held closing around the cloud motifs in his robe.

 “You don’t have to be alone anymore, Lan Zhan.”

 His words are low, muffled from his position, but Lan Wangji hears them clearly. And they bring him back to that day, apparently so distant but it wasn’t, not really. It was just before all of this, all of the worry, all of the road that led them to where they are. The words he had forgotten, hidden away by his drunk stupor and shame, but a promise still uttered, still made before he fell asleep under Wei Ying’s kind touch.

 You don’t have to be alone forever.

 Wei Ying raises his head, nuzzling against his jaw. He takes his hand from Wangji’s hold, placing it on his shoulder, his lips placing a lingering kiss against the corner of his mouth. They’re so simple, his touches, not demands but asking, giving him time and space to lean away, his eyes small and tired but unwavering from his. Asking, please, asking, what do you see?

 There’s no risk of falling this time. They’re not alone in an abandoned temple with a threat right at their necks, they’re not exposed and vulnerable under a shaky roof. He guides Wei Ying down on the mattress, the embroidered, silver curtains of Qinghe keeping them safe, if only briefly, a small sanctuary to spare. He keeps one hand on Wei Ying’s waist, the other lying next to his head, lost between thick strands of black hair. There are wet sounds in the silence this time, their mouths finding ways to meet, to pull, to open and breathe, before Wei Ying’s tongue tentatively nips at his lips and he dives further, tasting the alcohol in his mouth and getting inebriated by it alone, Wei Ying holding his face with both of his hands and keeping him close.

 They kiss until Wangji’s jaw hurts, until Wei Ying is so dazed that the alcohol and exhaustion catch up to him, drifting off as Wangji melts the stress away with gentle touches and his warm presence. He lies with him until he’s sure he’s fast asleep, then he disentangles himself from Wei Ying and stands up.

 Looking down at his asleep form, Wangji can already feel their separation like a physical ache.

 Why would a person like another person? For a touch, a look, something they said or did, or a beauty that no other can compare?

 Wangji remembers everything about Wei Ying since they first met, has overanalyzed them, discovering only the undeniable proof of Wei Ying’s being; rash and inconsequential, reckless and wild, but brilliant just the same. Relentless against challenges, even if that challenge is the son of a high sect, too closed up in himself to let other people in. And he called himself his friend, he called himself close, until he found all the parts where they intersect, where they meet, and there he made his home.

 He doesn’t know if Wei Ying found his answer, but he found his. And because he’s certain of it, he holds Bichen in his hand, and he stands, pale blue of Gusu catching the lights of the Unclean Realm.

 “Wei Ying, I’ll be leaving now.”

 He parts, knowing he’ll come back, trusting he’ll have someone to come back to.

 ***

 Everything else hadn’t seem real. People looking at him and not seeing, as if he’s invisible. Somebody else’s life, with his own nightmares bled in. People calling his name like a curse long destroyed, a plague, defeated. Jiang Cheng’s hatred was just as he remembered or worse, words stinging with venom each time they fall from his lips. And the white of mourning, touched by the clouds, summoning him — Hanguang-jun.

 His guqin, resounding through Mo Manor, was the first thing that got through to him. More than a memory, cutting deeper than the wounds of Mo Xuanyu’s last wish. Under the experienced hands of the Light Bearer, the ground shook and the threat that had troubled his disciples seemed almost small. Then everything stilled under his gaze and Wei Ying allowed himself a moment to simply watch him, those eyes he had missed so much and that could tell you the world if only you were looking.

 He’s alive again. The ritual had really worked. And he has to leave those eyes behind, knowing he had already given him enough trouble for a lifetime.

 But why does chaos follow him, wherever he goes, knowing he can’t turn his back on the pain of others, as long as he’s in power to help?

 Everything else happened too fast. Seeing Wen Ning again, alive, or as alive as he last saw him. Losing control of him, panic soaring inside his head in flashes, like the signal the juniors had sent for their beloved senior. And there he was, as though Wei Ying had truly sent for him, called him, just like in the past. Lan Zhan, he’d say, over and over again. “Lan Zhan,” was at the tip of his tongue but he bit it back, tried to hide behind Mo Xuanyu’s mask, behind the shrill sounds of his makeshift flute that was nothing like what the Yiling Patriarch used to win the Sunshot Campaign. He played for Wen Ning though he wanted to run. He played until he was gone, then, Zidian.

 Zidian.

 He wakes to the sound of Lan Zhan’s playing, but it’s Zidian that he feels at his back. It had been just one hit, but it grounds him, oh it grounds him with a shiver and a burn. Even when he had a golden core, it had hurt. And though it had been a single hit, it still stung, as if it had been Yu Ziyuan herself who had scorned him for his return.

 The melody of the guqin is broken with a dissonant note. Lan Zhan is by his side in an instant, even though he never rushed, never ran, always the perfect son of the model sect. He feels his weight on the bed as he sits up, wincing at the mark on his back but knowing that he had felt much worse.

 I’ve died, once. What could be worse than that?

 Lan Zhan is calling.

 “Wei Ying.”

 He freezes, and even his pain forgets to burn. He quickly raises a hand to his face, and realizes that the mask is gone. Of course it’s gone. He’s down to his under robes, so if there had been no decorum for his clothes, why would his mask be spared? The Lan Wangji he had met on that rooftop, a lifetime ago, might not have touched him. But this one who stands before him, who had left whatever remained of his childhood on the battlefield washed with Wen blood, whose face is sharp now, lean and so fair (have they been feeding you? you look like you’ve spent three months at the Burial Mounds, Lan Zhan, ah, Lan Zhan) — this man who stares at him now, he knows Wei Ying too much, too deep.

 He had almost fallen off the edge of that cliff, still holding on to him.

 “...ei Ying. Is the pain too severe?”

 Wei Ying looks up, the anguished eyes in the back of his mind being replaced by the same pair, now worried, in front of him. He tries to wave it off, feeling too exposed by everything happening at once, even if it’s just his heart that’s too slow to catch up.

 “I’m okay, Lan Zhan. I just had forgotten what it’s like to be struck by Zidian. I’ll be fine in a couple of days, it was just one slash, after all.”

 He lets his hand fall back onto his lap but Lan Zhan takes hold of his wrist, pulling his robes up to reveal the sole mark of the curse that remained. Lan Zhan raises his eyes, the question evident in them. Wei Ying opens his mouth, ready to dismiss it again, but Lan Zhan takes his other wrist, checks the skin above, then attempts to slid Wei Ying’s robes down his shoulders. Wei Ying’s catches his hands, flushed despite the mood of the situation, and says Lan Zhan’s name in a high-pitched question.

 “Anywhere else?”

 Wei Ying frowns, breathing through his mouth.

 “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

 Their hands are clasped together, but it’s different now. Wei Ying can feel a slight tremble in them, and it stings, deep in his heart, knowing those hands are always steady, always wielding Bichen with perfect grace, and playing the guqin as if they had been born for nothing else. But they have touched him, whispered secrets against his skin, and held on, even when he tried to let go. When the path got too narrow and too dark for Hanguang-jun to tread and he tried to push him back, he held on, and Wei Ying reveled in it. Until the day he couldn’t anymore.

 Wei Ying lets go of him, but his hands remain close.

 “Ah, no, I’m all right. I was well put together!” He smiles because it’s what he does, because it’s what he’s always done, even when elder sister worried. “This isn’t even a wound, you see, the ritual—”

 Lan Zhan takes his wrist again and pulls, at the same time he leans closer him, and their chests collide. Wei Ying is a little out of breath, and his back complains at the impact, but Lan Zhan has one arm around his shoulders while his other hand travels across his back, its movements long, slow, and warm against the thin fabric. He feels Lan Zhan’s inhale against his own chest, and the exhale is ragged, loud and heartbreaking next to his ear.

 “Lan Zhan?” He tries, not really knowing what answer he wants, but knowing the other will not speak on his own, barely ever is the first to move, but he’s shaking now, his forehead pressed against Wei Ying’s shoulder.

 “Sixteen years...”

 It had been long. Jin Ling is grown now, there are so many disciples that he doesn’t know, but Jiang Cheng still has the same look in his eyes that he did the day elder sister died. And Lan Zhan...

 “Wei Ying.”

 “Mn,” he lets out, his arms moving, circling Lan Zhan’s middle, his chin resting on his shoulder.

 “Wei Ying,” he says again, in a voice that Wei Ying hadn’t heard before, or perhaps did, right before he closed his eyes and vanished from the tragedy at Nightless City.

 “Mn, I’m here.”

 The last time he had seen Lan Zhan cry, it had been in that forgotten cave, trapped with the Tortoise of Slaughter. He cried for his father, for his sect, for his home, and Wei Ying cradled his head in his arms, kissed his exposed forehead, and didn’t wipe away his tears until he was done. He had promised him it’d be okay, that together they could make it right, but nothing had been right. Had Wei Ying kept a single promise he made him? As Wei Ying’s robes soak all of his tears, Wei Ying realizes that he had left him alone. For sixteen years, he had left him just as he was when he had first met him, with a brother too busy to keep him company, and a world that needed him, but never saw beyond the white of his clothes.

 His own crying comes with sobs, but Lan Zhan doesn’t make a sound, he never does. Wei Ying rubs circles on his back but still feels him strained, so horribly contained, and no amount of whispered words can soothe him. He’s caught between grief and his own rules that try to limit what can’t be limited.

 Lan Zhan, shouldn’t you stay away from this person? Should you be holding so tight?

 Jiang Cheng had proved what the world thought about him still. He feels that he should tell Lan Zhan to let go, but if asked the same, would he do it? Could he don a mask and pretend not to know him, go about his life, without ever looking back at the cultivation world that meant everything to him?

 In this second life that he was so unworthy of but that was gifted to him anyway, could he not right his wrongs, mend his promises, and live without regret?

 Lan Zhan has stopped shaking, and the hand that had been clutching to him so tightly feels lax. And yet he embraces him, fingers threading through Wei Ying’s loose hair, so affectionate that Wei Ying feels he might cry again.

 Why like someone so much? Lan Zhan, is it possible to like someone this much?

 He leans back, arms unwrapping from around Wei Ying, head bowed low like a chastised disciple. There’s a flush on his cheeks, on his ears and around his eyes, clear marks of his emotions, vivid in candlelight. He keeps his hands on his lap, almost as if he doesn’t know what to do with them, as if he’s forgotten where they belong. Wei Ying regards all, still clinging to his robes around his waist, sketching his wet lashes in his mind, and his unadorned hair, and all the other parts of him that he shows no one else.

 “Wei Ying, you should rest...”

 Wei Ying can’t help but let out a huff of air. Really, that Lan Zhan, when has he ever rested unless Wen Qing forcefully knocked him out? And after sixteen years of darkness, neither here nor there, when all the parts of him are finally one, how could he let his soulmate fall apart in his stead?

 Lan Zhan looks up at him, a little startled at the sound he makes, and Wei Ying lifts his hands to tearstained cheeks, wiping away the trails, brushing back stray strands of hair. He brings that face closer — beloved, beloved —, lays kisses on closed eyelids, rests his forehead against the cloud patterns of his forehead ribbon. So many promises made, all of them broken, but what does he have if not a thick face and a beating heart that knows he’s welcome?

 He places a kiss right on the metal adornment that he’s touched more times than he should probably have. Lan Zhan’s hands have found their way to his wrists and he holds on tight, his breathing loud in the clear silence of the Cloud Recesses.

 The kiss feels nothing like it used to. He knows the shape of his lips, and the details of his mouth, but his weight is different, heavier, carrying sixteen years of memory that Wei Ying will never be able to experience, to understand like Lan Zhan does. They kiss like it’s the first time, and it is, all around them a world at peace, with newborn life, and all of tomorrow ahead of them.

 Breaking away, Lan Zhan hovering above him but careful not to place his weight on top of him, Wei Ying sees the past in his eyes. Eyes still red from crying, a tell-tale of his heart, that have been looking at him — after him, since he was copying rules at the Library Pavilion. Wei Ying’s memory is faulty and spotty, that much he knows, but he remembers what Lan Zhan looked like then, the reliable expanse of his back, and how he called his name each time with less annoyance, growing used to him, indulging him as he rambled about both useless and useful things.

 He laughs, because he remembers wanting to kiss him not to see if he liked him then, but because he already liked him so much, he needed to see if there really was a cliff waiting on the other side and if Lan Zhan would be there to catch him. He needed to give it a name.

 Turned out it felt much like they had already been leaning back to back, waiting for the other to turn.

 Lan Zhan tilts his head, the curtain of his hair falling over his shoulder, hiding Wei Ying from the gaze of the moon.

 “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, wanting to say it a million times more, pulling the other until he lies on the bed beside him. “Will you play a duet with me?”

 Lying on his side, facing him, the moon once again smiling upon them, Wei Ying sees him smile.

 “Mn.”

 “Will you go to Yunmeng with me?”

 “Mn.”

 “Are you sure it’s okay for me to stay by your side? I’ll try my best not to be recognized, but—”

 “If Wei Ying wants to stay this time, I wouldn’t have him anywhere else.”

 Wei Ying frowns.

 “This time?”

 “Wei Ying didn’t want to come the first time I asked.”

 He looks down and Wei Ying can’t help but let out a pained noise, scooting closer until his nose is nuzzling Lan Zhan’s collar.

 “That was different, Lan Zhan, I wasn’t...”

 He sighs, closing his eyes when Lan Zhan’s hand starts petting his hair.

 “I won’t leave you alone. I promise.”

 With a hand at Lan Zhan’s back, he searches for the ends of his forehead ribbon and twirls it around his finger. His breathing falls into rhythm with Lan Zhan’s and he falls into a peaceful sleep, Lan Zhan only moving to place a cover over the two of them, protecting against the chill of the night. Curled around his best friend, confidante, soulmate, Wei Ying has no need for dreams.

 When he wakes in the morning, alone, the sun cascading through the open window, he finds that the Cloud Recesses look just as beautiful as it did in his youth. Fire couldn’t destroy its heart. He sees himself and Lan Zhan in every corner, his elder sister smiling and laughing as he plays with Jiang Cheng, the smiling eyes of Lan Xichen following him, and even the memory of Lan Qiren throwing a scroll at his impertinence doesn’t fail to make him happy.

 Wei Ying sees love in the halls and pavilions, in the trees and the rabbits. And when he catches the sight of Lan Zhan at the cold springs, he sees it in every moment of their past, all the way back, in a conversation about Lan An, and in a drawing of the Second Jade with a flower in his hair.

 He runs towards Lan Zhan, ready to give purpose to his second life. There are still mysteries to be uncovered and a debt to be paid to Mo Xuanyu. There are night hunts to be had, and without the Stygian Tiger Seal, he can figure out his own way to fight, without harming the body he now cherishes. He needs to find Wen Ning and take care of him, and maybe, when he finds a way, he can see Jiang Cheng and Jin Ling again, even if it’s from afar, against the warm waters of Lotus Pier. He doesn’t know whether he can live in the Cloud Recesses, if they would accept him, or if he dares to hope they can live like Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan, bound only to their common ideals, their combined strengths and inseparable hearts.

 Wei Ying isn’t good at planning far ahead; he dreamed of being a hero and he gave it all up to do what he considered right. He doesn’t regret it, not even for all that he lost, for all the pain he caused. All he can think about is the immediate tomorrow and a tangible, new dream.

 If he can, if Lan Zhan will have him, he’ll do everything to finally live his life with a clear conscience and a heart full.

 Lan Zhan turns his head once he approaches, and seeing him there, trusting and waiting, Wei Ying swears he can promise him a hundred things and still not run out of things he wants to do or say or keep. So many years have passed and he still wants to pour all of his heart at the feet of the second young master of Gusu Lan.

 ***

 “Lan Zhan, what’s the name of the song? Don’t give me that look! Please? There can be no secrets between us! You know I never stopped thinking about it! All I wanted to do was play a duet with you in Yunmeng, ever since you got stuck with me at the Library Pavilion. ...Lan Zhan? Really, you didn’t—? Haha, Lan Zhan, you’re really too much to my heart. I only started thinking about what it’s like to like someone when I met you.

 It was always you, Lan Zhan.

 It had to be you.”

 ***

 Why would a person like another?

 Wei Ying can no longer remember a time he hasn’t.

[vore-scientist]

I, Spy [In Which There Are Thieves]

[G/t M/multiple gender ambiguous prey, safe soft vore, mild stuffing, fear.play]

A MINI Tale of the Mystic Woods

Summary: The evil half-giant wizard Yonah gets a little carried away catching a team of thieves. But his aching stomach is the least of his worries.

Warnings: A lot of teasing. As usual super duper unwilling prey, Yonah acts as if he is going to kill his prey, and he is very convincing.

Story features Yonah’s ward the Princess Sophia, and Yonah’s wizard friends Avshi and Eli. 

------ Three thieves today, and Yonah had it handled. Too handled. The Princess Sophia could tell when he was getting carried away and even though he hadn’t even caught them all yet, she knew tonight was one of those nights. He was so in character she even worried that once he ate the last thief he would try to stuff her into his belly with them! Of course once he did eat all three he was bound to start complaining. As if he didn’t do it to himself! The glutton! He could barely eat two humans and yet she’d seen him make the mistake of three on two previous occasions.

What makes this time different? Well. This time she figured it out early. And ran straight for the mirror, whispering for it to call Yonah’s friends, any it could reach. Please! It will be so embarrassing! The mirror obliged without needing a rhyme, finding two, Avshi And Elisheva. Sophia angled the mirror so they could see what was going on but held a finger to her mouth. an instant later they were in the tower, Sophia dragging them behind the mirror.

“Thieves!?” Eli whispered, Sophia nodded.

Yonah was being careful as he prowled his study, he had one human already tucked under his arm. He was grinning from ear to ear, showing off his uncannily large canines, and with each hungry growl he exhaled steam. Each footstep shook the room.

He reached at his bookshelf full of his notes and tossed them aside, revealing the second human who joined their friend in Yonah’s elbow.

“Thought you might want to watch. He’s gonna do something stupid.” She saw their eyes sparkle with mischief. “Just stay hidden.”

“He’s gonna know we’re here, he always does!” Eli pointed out.

“Not this time. Trust me,” Sophia insisted.

As they watched Yonah catch the second thief and without loosing steam, chasing the last around the room, his hair smoking, eyes glowing, they realized she was right. But just in case they both encircled themselves with invisibility.

“What are you going to do?” Sophia hear Avshi from her left side.

“I’m part of the show!” She ran to the edge of the desk. Kneeling she shouted down as Yonah reached behind a shelf.

“Hey Jack! Yoo hoo!!” She whistled at the thief who had crawled out from under the shelf and was stealthily making a beeline for the window.

“Huh!?” They looked up to find the source of the mysterious human woman’s voice.

“HA!” Yonah caught them easily. “Thanks Sophia!” He stood up and held his catches proudly.

“What a bounty!” He declared, a happy kid returning from a sweetshop. Sitting at his desk he pressed his face into them and breathing in through his nose as he growled, lower now, “I cannot wait to get you all in my belly!”

They squealed and redoubled their efforts to get free but to no avail. He chose one of them at random.

“So I’m not going to wait. This was a delightful diversion, but fun time is over. For you at least. ” And he opened his mouth wide, forcing the torso of the humans into it and to the back, as he tipped his head up and swallowed.

Sophia could swear she heard gasps from somewhere behind her, but Yonah didn’t seem to notice as the thieves in his arms screeched. Their friend’s kicking legs were pulled down with each powerful swallow, until the giant could close his mouth and the distensión in his throat receded with a heavy, satisfied sigh, and a hiccup.

“Oof, went a little too fast there!” He informed his victims, hiccuping again, “I should have savored them more, they were scrumptious! No matter, I have two more to go!”

Sophia was so tempted to point out that he was already full. She could see his stomach already pressing against his vest ever so slightly.

He raised up the next human who was shaking as he lowered them feet first into his mouth. Steam rose around them and they tried to hold onto his teeth as he swallowed them, tried to pull themselves back out but he flicked his tongue up and downed the rest of them in a few gulps, uttering hungry growls as he did.

Now he was visibly full. He actually had to unbutton his vest, lest the buttons rip apart. This is why he preferred the traditional robes… but he looked so dapper!!! Ah well, he had a nice shirt on underneath! It wasn’t as stiff as the vest but his stomach still pushed against it.

“Mmmmm even more delicious than the first!” He informed the third thief. And he looked to Sophia. “This one has a lot to live up to, or die for, in this case” he laughed a grand belly laugh, feeling the humans inside him tumble a bit.

“Buuut… I’m pretty full after two,” he said, licking his fingers, the human was still trapped in his arm, pressed against his side. “Maybe I should save this one for desert? Or just let them go?”

“LET ME GO! PLEASE!” they pushed themselves away as best they could. This was their last chance, hoping against hope the giant wasn’t just fucking with them. They could feel their friends dying beneath the skin and fat and muscle. It was too late for them!

“Depends,” Sophia put a hand to her chin, mocking stroking a beard, “Just  

how tasty were the first two?”

She had to keep her cool, if Yonah came to his senses it would all be ruined! He was running on adrenaline and wasn’t yet feeling the pain from stuffing himself. Three would tip that over the edge.

Yonah leaned back in his chair and stroked his stomach with his free hand, drumming it with his fingers. It trembled beneath his touch as his captives thrashed about.

“Some of the best I’ve ever eaten! I couldn’t possibly wait for dessert!”

Yes!!! Sophia cheered to herself as Yonah licked the final thief bodily, Making happy noises, not thinking about anything but how good this one tasted, and how wonderful an addition to his current, but very temporary, collection they would be.

“Awwww, hear that?” He rubbed his stomach with two fingers “You’re friends miss you dearly!” He pressed the thief to his tongue and drew them into his mouth. And leaned back to swallow this one, much slower than the last.  

“A happy reunion” he pronounced and affectionaly pat his now obviously stuffed-full-of living-smallfolk stomach

Then he sat up and Sophia saw his expression instantly change to painful regret as he held his middle.

“Oh dear, that was… way too many…*hic” a bit of drool fell from his mouth and onto his slightly stretched shirt. “Owwww. Stop moving so much,” he poked his stomach which protested loudly with the screams of the thieves and he groaned.

He looked at Sophia with puppy dog eyes. A puppy who broke into the food stores.

“They never listen,” he said deeply unhappy, eyelids drooping. It might be painful but Yonah was still a giant, and such a full stomach made him a bit loopy and sleepy. Only he was in such pain he couldn’t sleep. The only good news for the thieves.

“You did this to yourself, dumbass,” Sophia had no sympathy for him or the thieves, though she smiled in amusement at their collective distress.

clap

clap

clap

Yonah looked up and tried to find the source of the noise but his brain wasn’t his friend right now.

“Yipe!” Sophia jumped as the two wizards stopped being invisible on either side of her. Still clapping.

“Good show Yonah!” Avshi looked into the eyes of a very confused and startled half-giant.

“Terrific!” Eli added, “And I mean that in the original sense!”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in such glorious form!” Avshi said, “You  never worked up such a fearsome demeanor playing with us!

“Uhhhhh,” the last thing Yonah had expected as his friends to show up. No. Not show up. They had been WATCHING! SPECTATING!

“FUCK!” He stood up and took a step back, still clutching his swollen middle. “What are you two doing here!”

The pair grinned. “We heard you were catching thieves and wanted to see The Great And Terrible Yonah HaEsh at work!” Eli supplied.

“But I- how,” his slow brain finally catching on, “SOPHIA!”

The princess stood proudly but sheepishly as Yonah had to regain his balance. The thieves in his stomach screaming as he nearly fell on his ass. His face was turning a fascinating shade of scarlet.

“How could you! They’ve never seen me like, *hup* this!”

“Like what? Exactly?” Sophia sat on the edge of the desk, feet dangling, head in her hands.

“Like- oo*HIC* a-“ he couldn’t say it.

“Monster?” Avshalom sat next to Sophia and looked kindly at their suffering friend.

“A stupid monster?” Elisheva improved, sitting on Sophia’s other side.

Yonah nodded dumbly. Returning to his seat to massage his aching belly. From the shock his wits were back enough to see his friends glance worried at his stomach full of squirming humans

“He’s gonna let them out,” Sophia told them, and they relaxed considerably. But Yonah narrowed his eyes.

“Oh? I was gonna but I’m having second thoughts,” he crossed his arms over his stomach, pressing down on his still very much alive morsels.

“Yonah!” Sophia snapped at him.

“What! You came here to see a man-eating monster didn’t you! Well that’s what you’re gonna get,” he hiccuped again and his stomach gurgled with agreement. Or was it in opposition? Yonah looked at tad woozy.

“You’re gonna kill them to spite us!?” Sophia crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow.

Yonah pouted for a few seconds. Looking rather silly. His friends didn’t seem phased by his decision, probably because he wasn’t very convincing at this point. Even with a belly full of screaming humans and his apathy fueled by a horrible bloated pain and drowsiness.

“No,” he admitted, but he wasn’t happy about it. He still couldn’t bring himself to kill three random people on a whim. That wasn’t him.

“But don’t think any of you are off the hook! I’m going to be hungry when I spit these fools up”

Great. He said it, and now the three inside him went positively bananas. Confused? Elated?

“Yeah you heard me, you’re getting out alive! Aren’t you lucky! So how about you stop moving so much” They were cheering even though he hadn’t actually spit them up yet. Ugh.. it hurt.

“/Urrg/ I need to lie down for a minute,” he gingerly got out of his chair and lay on the floor, looking up at the ceiling. So cool. It drained the heat of embarrassment from his body. And his stomach relaxed too. Much better. Seemed like they were listening to him too and weren’t squirming, but adjusting.

OOF he let out a yell as did the humans in his stomach as something landed on them! He craned his neck to see the princess sitting atop his sore stomach gleefully rubbing it. Glancing to the side he saw Eli and Avshi leaning against him too.

“How are they doing in there?” Eli asked, pressing a hand to his stomach. Retracting it when she felt one of them move. Hmm she didn’t like that. It was fine when it was one of them in there… this was different.

“They’re- hic- fine. Just very very cramped,” he let his friends continue to massage his belly. Except for Eli. A bit too uncomfortable. She preferred to stay by his face, which he turned to look at her with a pathetic little smile.

“How you can do this I don’t understand it,” she stroked his nose and he closed his eyes.

“Because you’re not a giant,” he said, sticking his tongue out to lick at her, “nor are you evil.”

“Oh yessss the very evil Yonah, who eats folks but won’t kill them,” she kicked at his tongue. He could get a taste AFTER he spit up the thieves.

“Hey! I’m very terrifying! You said so!”

“Terrifying? Yes!” She pet his forehead. “Monstrous? Absolutely! That was quite a performance. But Evil? I’m not so sure,” she explained as she moved on to ruffling his hair. It was so fluffy.

“Hey guys, do you think I’m evil?” He wasn’t asking Sophia or Avshi, but the three thieves, he poked his stomach to make sure they knew.

“YES!” They cried in unison. Then one continued “FOR THE SAKE OF THE GODS LET US OUT!”

Yonah rolled onto his side and Sophia fell off. “It’s about that time, but I’d rather not throw up on my nice clean Workshop floor.”

He picked up his friends and went downstairs to the kitchen to spit up in the sink, which was filling with water. Painfully aware of his two wizard buddies watching with fascination, he quickly regurgitated three thieves. Too quickly! Coughing and panting he slumped over, leaning against the cabinets.

“I never fucking learn,” he said more to himself than anyone else. “Three humans is too many.”

But he had to recover as the thieves cleaned up fast and as Yonah’s friends and Sophia were on the floor with him, they were making their way towards the door.

“Oh no you don’t!” He stood up and snatched the thieves into his arms once again. The blood rushes to his head and his vision blurred with grey and tan fractals. The thieves screamed as he squished them to his chest so he wouldn’t drop them.

“Calm the fuck down I’m not gonna eat you again!”

He noticed that his friends and Sophia had managed to climb up the embroidery of his robes while his head cleared. Sophia and Avshi on the right shoulder and Eli on the left. He proceeded back upstairs to release the thieves onto the windowsill.

They didn’t need any prompting to skedaddle the moment the wizard stepped back. The three wizards and one princess watched them disappear into the woods. Before Yonah also climbed out of the window and dropped into his garden with a earth shaking THUD!

“Hey! Warning next time!” Eli was gripping his collar with white knuckles.

“And why are we outside?” Sophia asked.

“It’s a nice day!” Yonah walked over to his favorite apple tree (the one big enough for him to lean against) and he sat down in the shade. He plucked his friends from his shoulders to cradle them in his arms.

“What am I to do with you three?” He smiled.

Eli crossed her arms “I have no idea what you mean!”

“I think you do,”  he brought her to his face, “it was very rude to spy on me!”

“We didn’t want to throw you off your game!” Avshi said. “It’s not like we can plan ahead of time for thieves!”

“I suppose not,” he looked up at the leaves, apple blossoms peppering the branches. “But it still deserves punishment!”

He licked Eli who was expecting it and had put her hands in front of her face.

“You can’t eat us! We don’t have the supplies for the spell!” She protested being actually shoved into his mouth.

“I can too!”

Eli looked shocked. Would he really risk it!?

“But I’ve had my fill for today.”

She relaxed. Not completely because he basically stated he didn’t have a problem eating them without protection. Avshi pouted, “I’d be willing to get eaten” they said under their breath.

“Yonah HaEsh has had his full? I don’t believe it!” Sophia wrestled herself free of his embrace to lay in the crook of his elbow.

“Ehhh,” he half rolled his eyes, “I don’t feel like swallowing and so quickly spitting up anymore people.” He paused. Eli had lowered her guard and he quickly flicked his tongue at her face and she squealed in frustration. She had washed her hair this morning. All glossy and straight but curled at the ends into sharp points! and now it was ruined!!!

Graciously he put her down in his lap. “Takes a lot out of me, and I did it three times today!”

“Now that I believe,” she smiled and then opened her eyes again “Wait that means you’re gonna eat me!”

With her curse lasting FOUR hours which could be reset while inside him… eating her didn’t have come with the downside of quick regurgitation.

“You’re the one who called Avshi and Eli here,” he pointed out.

“Great,” she didn’t feel like being eaten today but she couldn’t really stop him, and she had thoroughly embarrassed him. It wasn’t like she didn’t expect this. She had hoped he would have been satisfied with the thieves. She should have known better.

“not now!” He grinned from ear to ear. “I think I shall have you for dessert!”

Oh. So he planned to sleep with her in his stomach! Fine. So she wouldn’t have to subject herself to the ordeal for a good many hours. It was only midday.

“Hey! I said I would be fine being eaten!” Avshi said a little louder, standing up unbalanced, hands on their hips.

“Sorry Avshi! Im too tired,” Yonah lifted them to his face, licking his lips, “so it’s just licks.”

“Eli was wrong, you are evil,” they didn’t resist as Yonah shoved them into his mouth but didn’t make any indication of swallowing them.

Eli sat down and closed her eyes. Sitting on Yonah while he… enjoyed a human snack… wasn’t the most pleasant activity, but at least he wasn’t tasting her anymore! She made use of his robe as a hammock and lay down, ignoring the noises from above. Yonah’s gleeful giggles and Avshi’s muffled exclamations were a bit distracting.

Eventually Yonah slid Avshi from His mouth and made sure they cleaned up before joining Eli in his lap.

“How about lunch, in an hour?” He suggested as his friends settled down, yawning as he did. He re-adjusted his position against the tree to be more congruent for proper relaxation.

They all agreed. A nap before lunch was just what they all needed.

And it was a very nice day.

[FIN]

[Thanks for reading! please reblog! for more mystic woods go to vore-scientist.tumblr.com/tagged/mystic+woods+story or search ‘mystic woods story’ on my blog! For thief stories only search “MW Thieves”]

[bucciarati-pizza]

[ Fic ] - Jumpin’ Jack Flash: Chapter 1

SO IM FINALLY POSTING THIS AFTER DANCING AROUND IT FOR AGES ///

me and my jobro @justjuliainc have been developing this AU fic together. it is a slow burn bruabba where Abbacchio remains a cop, his partner lives, and Bruno is a fisherman along with various other character swaps. and well, without saying much more, I hope you all enjoy the start of this bizarre adventure ;))

A blaring police car spun around a corner then ground to a halt at its final destination. The rain made it hard to make anything out.

“I’m searching the north wing, you do south!,” an officer yelled over the sound of crashing thunder and lightning. Two sets of shoes splashed through the mud the police car was now in. “Got it!,” the other replied back, turning on a flashlight. “You think they’re armed?”

The first officer was already pulling the gun from his belt, answering his question.

Then came the screams. Muffled like someone had covered their mouth, but still clear as ever. They echoed throughout the entire building and out into that terrible rain.

A shudder ran down both their spines. Children’s screams. This shabby abandoned looking cement building on the outskirts of town happened to be an orphanage.

They frantically ran towards the double doors.

“No one, over my dead body is getting away with this shit. Not tonight. Not ever.”

The officer that spoke had a fierce glint of gold in his eyes, illuminated by his partner’s flashlight. He wore a shade of lipstick that nearly matched the stormy night sky.

“Abbacchio.” The man turned to the sound of his name. “I second that, with all my heart.” He kicked the door in with a determined grin, his hat tipping slightly to reveal short brown hair. “Let’s put an end to this!”

Abbacchio nodded, barely having the time to reply, “I’m counting on you too, Michele!” before blindly racing up the stairs.

The sound of screaming got louder the closer he got to the top. His heart raced. The police had been investigating a strange series of kidnappings for weeks now, with no trace of the culprit. A 911 call was made from the orphanage just a half hour before now. Yet no other information was disclosed, both Abbacchio and his partner knew deep down inside exactly who it was. The same one responsible for all the recent crimes. And this time, said suspect had gone too far.

The hall seemed to never end. Abbacchio never questioned why the door he needed to burst in as soon as possible was getting further rather than closer away. Maybe it was just his eyes playing tricks on him. He never questioned why the floor beneath his feet seemed to warp into otherworldly shapes when weight was applied. He didn’t look down.

It seemed like forever when he finally made it. Panting, he tried the door and it was unlocked. The crying ceased the instant he opened it. He had a sudden sinking feeling. “Where are they?” The sinking feeling got worse. “Where the hell are they?!” He pointed gun over flashlight across the small room and found nothing but empty beds.

Impossibile...

Not even a window was open. Just what was going on?

While searching under beds, Michele ran through the door. “I-I didn’t find a thing. I searched every room on the way here too,” he said wearily. “There’s not a single person in here.”

Abbacchio pulled himself out from the bed he was under. “I don’t understand,” he began, shaking slightly.

“Something bizarre is going on. This is the room most of the screaming came from. They were in here”

We’re too late.

His partner turned his head at another sound. It caused them both to shudder. More desperate screaming filled the dark halls of the orphanage.

They both shared a knowing glance and cautiously started for the source of the noise, covering each other’s backs. It was only two doors down. Once again, it seemed to be getting further. It took a few minutes to reach it. “What’s going on? Is this some kind of madhouse?,” Michele hissed, terrified and confused. He looked down at the floor and gasped.

“No clue, but I’m going in!,” Abbacchio replied as he charged through the door.

“Wait, Abbacchio!”

All he saw was a flash of light before the wind was knocked out of him and he fell to the hard wood floor. He lie there for a few seconds trying desperately to catch his breath, vision blurring. Two bodies tumbled over each other, in the corner of the room, one spitting out rows of curses.

“I’ll fucking kill you! Right here! Agk- I’ll...“

Abbacchio didn’t recognize that voice. Not good! He began to force himself to stand up. A gun went off.

Abbacchio’s heart skipped all it’s beats.

A gun went off and something clanked to the floor.

Abbacchio’s feet moved before his body.

“Michele! Michele!!!”

His partner was hunched over another man, unmoving. A pistol had been slid across the floor. There were bullet holes in the bookshelf in the other corner. Wait.. didn’t that mean..

Michele was only still because he was straining to hold the man’s writs down.

He missed!

“Abbacchio, I’m— sorry I had to push you out of the way so hard. I realized we were being stalked when there was a third shadow on the ground. Somehow, this bastard was behind us and was about to attack you.”

Abbacchio had no words. He panted speechless before them.

“Agh!,” his partner suddenly exclaimed.

“You thought you could catch me that easily?,” the pinned man seethed. He had taken the opportunity to spit in Michele’s eyes. “How do ya like that, eh?” He chuckled maniacally. He nearly got his hands free, when in one swift movement, Abbacchio took over, keeping him held down.

“Cazzo. Don’t dare underestimate us.”

Michele hummed in dissatisfaction once he wiped his eyes, brushing off his jacket. Abbacchio took a moment to look around the room with narrowed eyes.

The thug beneath him was scrawny, yet surprisingly strong, his blonde shoulder length hair tangled into disgusting mats. He looked to be about 30, but was probably a lot younger. He sounded hoarse when he spoke. He managed to kick Abbacchio’s leg hard, trying every mean possible to distract them and escape.

The silver haired cop had enough and roughly put both wrists into handcuffs.

“...Where are they?,” Michele wondered out loud, still looking around.

“Ow! Take it easy on me would ya?! And what the hell do you wanna know?”

Leone gritted his teeth, a growl rising in his throat.

“You know damn well! What happened to whoever was in this room? There.. there was screaming,” he said the last part half to himself.

The man remained silent, glaring between both of them for a second before bursting out laughing.

“You really are stupid, aren’t you! You think I’m the answer? You think you little heroes are doing society a favor by coming here?,” he shook his head, still chuckling while both officers looked on distraught.

“Well, you have no idea what you get yourself into,” he continued voice turning deep and gravely again, “When you stick your nose into places it

doesn’t belong.”

Something about the man’s words gave them both an uneasy feeling about the future. Yet, they couldn’t afford to let it bother them now. The man was eventually taken outside and shoved in the back of the police car. His gun was seized along with him and they would use that too in their upcoming investigation. They were going to get answers.

Neither Michele or Abbacchio really knew what happened that night or even how to explain it.

But a few things were hauntingly certain:

Hundreds of orphaned children had somehow vanished right under their noses.

There were no signs of the caretakers and whoever made the phone call either.

The man they captured wasn’t the ringleader in all of this. If he was, there would’ve been a much bigger show.

Abbacchio’s hands gripped the steering wheel tighter.

And he believed that there were strange forces about.

....

“Idioti!”

Both officers jumped slightly when the hand of their chief slammed down on his office desk.

“Pardon?,” Michele asked, taken aback. Abbacchio looked just as confused.

They had been called into Signor Polpo’s office early in the morning to “discuss last night’s endeavor.”

Polpo was a sight to behold. Morbidly obese, he had to have a special chair made just for him to sit in. He towered over practically everyone at nearly 7 feet tall. No one had ever seen him without a hat, even when on a break from duty. His eyes people say, became so void of a soul that the sclera began to turn completely black. No matter what the reason was behind it, this was somehow true. Bright green irises were surrounded by a beady black that made anyone who met his gaze shiver.

Signor Polpo was the kind of man that made Leone’s blood boil.

“Did you not understand what we reported to you?,” Abbacchio asked slowly, tone dark.

The obscenity hummed briefly, looking between the two like they were mere ants beneath him before replying.

“You both became some of the force’s brightest pupils in a very short amount of time. You flew through training as if it were nothing, and I knew right away I could depend on you to... protect the streets of Napoli.”

The chief’s voice boomed throughout the tiny room and he ended that last sentence with a chuckle.

Abbacchio and Michele didn’t like this one bit. What the hell was he getting at?

“Yet...”

Polpo’s brows were furrowed.

“You had to go on and pull a stunt like this?!”

Abbacchio’s quick temper was about to show. “Wh-“

“No backup. No means of communication. Going to a useless abandoned orphanage by yourselves only to catch a petty street thug. I simply thought I knew you better.”

What?

Michele got a terrible feeling. Abbacchio saw red.

“Abandoned?..”

Polpo didn’t skip a beat. “I think you two are forgetting who decides what you get to look into and when,” he continued pointing a finger right at Leone.

Abbacchio didn’t look up. His fist was clenched at the side of his chair and his jaw was tight.

His partner looked speechless for a few seconds before trying to ask again.

“Abandoned? It.. it was an obvious kidnapping!”

That among various other things.

Abbacchio knew it was no use to bombard the chief with questions when it was already apparent what was going on.

Polpo remained poker-faced.

“I didn’t order you to go there, did I?”

“No, Capo,” replied Michele, looking away.

Abbacchio remained silent, biting his lip to keep from exploding. “They paid him off. He accepted it. They paid him off. The fat fuck is actually in on this,” was all that raced through his head.

“Did. I?,” pressured Polpo, his chair creaking as he leaned closer to Abbacchio’s face. And now he couldn’t even argue.

The officer with short grey hair looked up, his eyes furious but tone neutral when he finally answered.

“...No, Capo.”

Polpo stared at him for a few additional seconds before adding, “Good. I’m glad we can all come to that understanding.”

Abbacchio’s brows twitched. He and Michele had risked their lives continuously for the people. Last night, one or both of them could have died. Came very close, in fact. All the victims of a crime that had yet to be investigated were probably never going to be seen again and any evidence of something gone wrong would be erased. Yet, the whole time, his own chief was in on it? He knew Polpo took bribes and negotiated with criminals. He hated him for that. But this? This was way too far.

The room was dangerously silent.

Polpo narrowed his eyes. “You must understand the certain contradictions that come with this job. It’s how this world works. I expect you to await my command before even putting on your uniforms in the future.” He leaned back in his chair, upturning his long nose. “I’m only looking out for your safety.”

Michele glanced over at Leone. Uh oh.

He knew that look. Wide, twitching eyes. Biting his lip and shaking. If they didn’t get out of Polpo’s office soon, something was going to happen that would end with him beating the shit out of someone. Michele had much to discuss with his partner that wouldn’t dare be brought up in this room.

“Oh and one more thing,” Polpo started with an eerie smile. “You’ll leave this little meeting with your mouths zipped shut. What we just discussed is a secret between you and me. I can trust you... right boys?”

Silent nods.

“Excellent. You’re dismissed.”

Michele bowed customarily. Abbacchio just glared at him, such passion in his ombré eyes that Polpo read it as a warning.

Once the door was shut and their footsteps got further away, Signor Polpo picked up the phone on his desk and dialed a number.

“Send me backup. They’re getting too smart for their own good.”

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

“FUCK!,” Abbacchio yelled throwing his hat off once he and his partner got onto the street and turned the corner into an alley. “FUCK. FUCK..” He kicked it in frustration, in complete rage by now.

“I’M TIRED OF THIS,” he kicked again, “STUPID... SHIT FOR BRAINS,” more kicks, “FUCKING POOR EXCUSE OF THE POLIZIA.”

Michele stood there with a hand on his shoulder, not quite sure how he should try to begin to calm him.

“I’M TIRED OF IT. I’M,” his movements slowed and he threw himself against a wall, defeated. “..tired of it.”

He slid down against it, pulling his knees to his chest. Lost and vulnerable.

“Leone..”

His partner sighed and bent over to pick up the hat and brush it off before joining Abbacchio against the wall.

“Leo.. it’ll be okay..”

Abbacchio’s gaze remained downwards, staring blankly at the ground between his legs. He hadn’t even registered there was a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“You know what? You know what this feels like, Michele?”

The other officer remained silent for a moment before asking, “What?”

“It feels like we’re in the goddamn mafia.”

Abbacchio looked up.

“I didn’t want to say it. I wanted to push it to the back of my mind. But I can’t... because it’s true.”

Michele took his hat off.

“The way things are going, I have to agree with you... but..”

Abbacchio looked at him hopelessly.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t do something about it, right?”

“I don’t.. know what to do. No one is going to believe us over that pig Polpo. But I can’t let the victims die. I can’t... let these crimes continue to happen while the rest of the force sleeps on it.”

Michele nodded.

“It will be stopped. Don’t ask how, but I know.”

No words were spoken for at least a few minutes.

“Coffee?”

“Fuck, do I ever need coffee.”

“I doubt anyone will care if we stop at Libeccio before we get grounded.”

Michele smiled, helping his partner up. Abbacchio’s expression lit up. It was the name of his favorite little restaurant and it had been ages since he even stepped foot in it. He brushed himself off and put his hat back on.

“Let’s go.”

Michele did the same.

“That’s the spirit.”

....

[seenashwrite]

Some Dean

Word Count: 4K Category: One-shot, On-The-Hunt, Humor, Creature Feature, Behind-the-scenes Canon-Compliant, Teamwork, Friendship… and, to hell with it: Fluff Rating: Teen & Up Character(s): Dean, Sam, Cas Warnings: None Anti-Warning: There’s no images or links to anything creeptastic below the cut, those of you with squicks/phobias need not worry, I’m not that big of an a-hole Author’s Note(s): *This is a re-post minus tags & links in an effort to get it to show in searches*; if you’ve no knowledge of the children’s story “Charlotte’s Web”, this may not be for you; more post-story Overall Summary: Sometimes good things come in small, albeit eight-legged, packages.

Dean had always liked spiders.

Well, “like” may’ve been overstating; Dean had always held an appreciation for spiders. They weren’t nasty like rats or sneaky like snakes, with spiders you knew where you stood: in his experience, anything supernatural aside, you leave them alone, they’ll leave you alone. Plus, they were badass - spiders packed a lot of intimidation into a small package, could be killing machines when they wanted to be, and mostly he appreciated that they were efficient and effective when it came to dealing with the annoying bugs that occasionally popped up. He did live in a basement, after all; the world’s tiniest were not deterred by any amount of warding or weaponry.

So when he’d notice small, barely-there wisps of webs in far corners or between the bottom of a bookshelf and the wall, stretching from the carved wood to the sticky bricks, he’d leave the homemade traps be for a week or two if they were empty, and sure enough, they’d have captured some crawlers next time he made a run-through with the vacuum. It was an amicable relationship - Dean never saw the spiders, just their handiwork, and the webs seldom popped up in the same space twice. Plus, they seemed to know the kitchen was a no-fly… spider… zone, so all was well.

And then came Charlotte.

Charlotte - as Dean had eventually started calling the garden spider, much to Sam’s dismay - did not have any regard for the out-of-sight, you-don’t-get-the-boot arrangement, nor did she have any regard for giving Dean his space. The day they met, he’d sauntered into the garage, popped the Impala’s trunk, tossed in a bag and a shotgun, yelled at Sam to hurry up, then went to reach for the driver’s side handle, caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and froze. And he wasn’t the only one.

The web was thick at the edges and delicate in the middle, stretching from the side mirror to the handle, upon which Charlotte perched, her crafting put on hold. She wasn’t terribly small, but not remotely large; she would’ve easily fit on the pad of his thumb. And she was clearly of the brave - or stupid, perhaps - sort, because she didn’t immediately scurry off. She took in the sight of the giant creature before her - technically, there was eight of him, what with her four pairs of eyes and all - and she opted to see what would happen.

What happened was that Dean turned, grabbed a shop rag, and began cursing under his breath as he whipped the web into nothingness; by the time he stopped, Charlotte had skittered to places unknown.

Dean tossed the rag away, gave the handle a good eyeballing before he grabbed it, opening the door and saying in a low voice through grit teeth, “Not. The. Car.”

“What not the car?” asked Sam, bounding up the garage steps.

“Nothing,” Dean replied.

This nothing continued for six weeks.

Charlotte was a determined artist, it seemed, not to mention a fast one. She spun webs of all sizes and shapes, covering the license plate in quilt-panel squares, weaving long, ropy trails around and between the wipers, and at one point obscured the back window in a lacy pattern that Castiel noted looked like a fine guipure. She liked to travel, too, as more than once the brothers would exit a given roadside motel room to find Charlotte had been busy during the night, Sam’s personal favorite being when she’d decorated a hubcap in a complex Fibonacci design, though he’d never have let on to Dean.

On the initial occasions following such a discovery, if Dean happened to spot her, he would scold her with a sharp “NO!”, walk in her direction briskly, and she’d retreat, slipping into the trunk or under the hood, but it wasn’t long before she’d stay put, even edge closer, cutting the distance between them, eventually so bold as to crawl onto the roof of the Impala, watching as he dismantled her webs.

“Really?” he asked one morning after the latest wipe-down, bending slightly so they were eye-to-eyes.

She calmly extended one leg to the side, held it out til he got the hint, turning his head, following what he’d presumed was a point, and sure enough, he’d missed some cottony puffs that were still stuck on a tail light.

Looking back at her, he said - begrudgingly -  "Thanks.“

Dean had dealt with stranger things.

"One day I’m expecting to come out and see ‘terrific’ in a web,” Sam commented during a return trip from the latest hunt.

“What?” Dean asked.

“You know - the kid’s book. Charlotte’s Web. You read it to me when we were little. About the farm, and saving Wilbur the would-be bacon?”

“Charlotte’s anti-bacon?”

“No, I don’t think— it was— it— she was just pro-pig.”

It was after this conversation that Dean took to calling their frequent tag-a-long Charlotte. To be specific, it was after he’d brought a BLT with him into the garage while working on the car, and she’d happily investigated a bit of bacon that had escaped his plate. A point to the pro-bacon column, he thought.

Dean informed her that he was fine with her hanging around, he was even fine with her fancy webwork, but she needed to cool it when it came to the car, explaining with lots of gesturing to make sure the message got across, just in case. He’d looked it up. Spiders did not have ears.

He’d also looked up things on spider life spans, and arachnid health in general. Sam found him in the library one evening doing just that, frowning at his laptop screen as he scanned. Castiel was nearby, returning some books to their places on the shelves.

“What is he doing?” Sam asked in a hushed voice, and Castiel opened his mouth to respond, but Dean spoke, diverting their attention.

“Did Charlotte look pale to you earlier?”

Now Sam frowned. “Dean… what?”

“I mean, she’s light brown, but she looked a little yellow earlier,” Dean explained, scrolling further down a page, but then closing the window with a huff and turning in his seat to face Sam. “Can’t find anything.” A pause; a thought. “Hey, I should put out a devil’s trap drawing for her, maybe a new pattern’ll perk her up.”

Sam was, in a word, startled. “Do you think of her as a pet?”

“Why do you care?”

“Oh, I dunno - because a spider is stalking us, and you’ve named it, and you talk to it, and—-”

“What, you got a thing about spiders to go with your thing about clowns, even though your imaginary friend was a clown?” Another pause. “Come to think of it, that explains a lot.”

“Sully’s not a clown, and no, I do not have arachnophobia, what I do have is a worry that - if it is a female - it may lay a bunch of eggs, then we’ll have an infestation. Is that what you want? Bunch of spider babies in your Baby?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “She’s not gonna do that.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Did she pinky swear?”

“Would you like me to have a look at her?” asked Castiel, and the concern in his voice was less for Charlotte and more for Dean, and less in the sympathetic way and more in the tiptoeing around someone who’s slipped into psychosis way.

Sam crossed his arms. “Taking it outside hasn’t worked, neither has trying to leave it wherever we’ve been hunting - this is getting ridiculous, will you just kill it, already?!”

Dean stood, walked over to him, defiant. “We not been doing enough killing for you lately?”

“It’s just a spider, Dean!”

“I know that! Maybe I just don’t wanna be scraping moist spider guts off my boot.”

“Does this spider communicate with you?” Castiel asked, the concern still floating under his words.

He was ignored.

“It’s not your pet, it’s a tiny insect - you don’t even know if it could be poisonous!” Sam exclaimed.

“Not an insect, genius, and Charlotte would never bite us—-”

“What is wrong with you?!”

“Have either of you considered the possibility that this is no ordinary spider?” Castiel suggested.

“Gee, thanks, Cas - no, hadn’t noticed that this is weird,” Dean shot back with a look.

“So you get that this is weird?” Sam checked.

“Our life is weird, what’s some more? And at least this is fun weird, is that so bad?” Dean replied, and the touch of melancholy in his voice caused both Sam and Castiel to stay quiet for a few moments.

The silence was broken by the ring of Dean’s phone - a case awaited them.

And, of course, Charlotte.

Dean looked up from the map as Sam came back into their motel room, six pack in one hand, phone in the other, kicking the door shut as he spoke.

“Jane called. She says a container ship from the UK was bringing in illegal cargo, for some rich people who wanted exotic animals for canned hunts—”

“Douche move.”

“—and apparently when they went to unload, the crates were all busted up. The hold was covered with what was left of the bodies of the animals. All except for one. Three guesses.”

“Big bad bacon?”

“Yup. And she thinks we’re looking at… ah….” Sam trailed off and chuckled.

“Yeah?”

“A cryptid. It’s called The Beast of Dean, a.k.a. the Moose Pig.”

“Why do I think that somewhere, somehow, whatever’s left of Crowley just got a chub.”

They were in a rural area of Virginia, not too far from Portsmouth, and had been for a week, tracking what sounded like a rabid boar, but there was enough of a bump-in-the-night bend to the word on the street that they’d been confident it fell in their wheelhouse. Now that they had confirmation, after a night of research and weapon prep, they were ready to knock out the most recent mission and get back home. The Dean-Moose was large, and it was anything but subtle. The hunt should be an easy one, wouldn’t take long, nothing to it.

Well. One thing. One sort-of big thing. Even though it was also a small thing. Sam’s pro-pig storybook spider and their companion, they’d come to find, had more in common than just a name.

.

STOP

.

There, stretched across the Impala’s grill the next morning, was an undeniable message, and given Dean’s jaw-dropped state, it prompted Sam to speak on his behalf.

“Um, Charlotte? Listen, I don’t know if you… you seem nice, and… really smart, but… look, this thing isn’t like that pig in the book.”

“Because she’s read the book,” Dean said sarcastically, breaking out of his stupor and stomping over to the car, sharp eyes looking for the sassy spider; no joy. “Hey, guess what?” he said loudly. “I’m gonna drive so fast that by the time I do stop, your web’s gonna get shredded, how do you like that? I told you my car was OFF LIMITS!”

With one last glare at the web, Dean got into the car, and Sam followed suit. They put on the radio and chatted about anything but spiders and pigs for the better part of an hour as they bumped along the winding back roads. And after parking at the edge of the woods where the most recent sighting of the beastly hog had occurred, they opened the trunk to find another message, one that unfurled neatly, springing open as the lid of the weapons compartment lifted.

.

REALLY! STOP, STUPID.

.

Punctuation, and all.

“You know…” Dean began, but trailed off with a shake of his head, snatching up the shotgun and pocketing a handful of the shells with the special filling he and Sam had cooked up the night prior.

Sam removed the freshly-etched-with-symbols machete. Dean slammed the trunk shut. Charlotte did not emerge.

As they walked deeper and deeper into the woods, Sam spoke in a quiet voice.

“When we get back, I’m calling Cas. This is out of control, Dean. The spider’s obviously somebody - or something - dicking around with us. Maybe that’s been the plan, keeping us from killing this thing.”

Dean didn’t look at him, rather kept scanning their surroundings as he responded. “Maybe. She… it… came around before that ship got here. But, yeah. Maybe something’s up.”

Sam reflexively sighed in relief, and at that moment Dean stopped, extended his arm to stop Sam’s progress, as well.

“Shhh. Listen.”

The growl was only audible for a moment before the foliage began to stir.

The hunt, it turned out, did not last long. The defeated brothers wearily tossed their dented weapons into the backseat and practically fell into the front. Dean immediately turned off the radio - the chanting of Duran Duran’s “Wild Boys” had come screaming through the speakers.

“It does kinda sound like they’re saying 'wild boars’,” Sam noted.

“Shut up.”

After they’d returned to the motel and showered, cleaned up their scratches and cuts, swapped torn clothing for intact, Sam went back to researching, while Dean went out to the Impala, damp washcloths in hand, and opened the trunk. It was barely even six o'clock, and there was still enough sunlight that he could see every trace of the webbing was gone. But he wanted to check that his little - former - friend hadn’t done anything else.

She had.

Sitting in the driver’s set, Dean’s eye was drawn to the thin, nearly opaque message across the radio, anchored by the knobs and an ejected tape.

.

BAD JOB

.

Dean swiped it away without a word, uttering a small groan and clutching his bruised ribs as he climbed out. He took a few steps, but then pivoted. He opened the door again and leaned in, voice tense as he spoke.

“Tell you what, how’s about I bring you some toothpicks and you join in tomorrow, help us out, get in a few stabs? Be useful, show us how it’s done?”

Dean fell asleep wondering if he’d completely lost his mind.

.

THIS IS DUMB .

Sam ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes - he’d been out the door first, so the newest message, covering the entirety of the hood, immediately made him brace himself for what was coming next.

But, surprisingly, Dean kept his temper in check; he merely set down his bag, returned to the room for a towel, and briskly wiped down the hood.

“Ready?” he asked Sam, forcing a smile that was likely more unsettling than intended.

Sam kept quiet, answering with a thumbs-up.

Their Everything’s Fine! charade was short-lived.

As with the prior morning, Charlotte had chosen to reinforce her message, wrapping the steering wheel so thickly it was barely visible, and her stance on their mission came through loud and clear.

.

THIS IS ACTUALLY DUMB .

Sam thought the choice of having the final “dumb” in bold italic for emphasis was a nice touch. And he noted the copious amount of webbing wound around the gear shift with raised eyebrows. And he gulped when he spotted more strands of said webbing emerging from the ignition. He cut his eyes over to Dean and, upon seeing his expression, took a step back.

This time, Charlotte did not hide. She’d positioned herself on the dashboard, right near the puffed-up wheel, standing with what could be described as quite the petulant posture. And much like the day the spider and the hunter had met, Dean froze.

Charlotte held her ground.

Dean’s nostrils flared.

Charlotte crossed her front legs as if they were arms.

Dean’s jaw clenched.

Charlotte tapped a back leg, as if to say Well get on with it.

Dean was still unmoved, and so Sam said, “You know, when you freeze like that, it’s really not as intimidating as you might—-”

“CHARLOTTE!” Dean bellowed.

She turned and sashayed to the glove box, crawling inside without the first indication she felt in any danger whatsoever.

Thankfully, the motel was just shy of a mile from from a modest gas station-diner combo. Sam talked Dean into a breakfast - with extra bacon, a thumb of the nose to both the beast and its defender. After they easily convinced the owner to loan them his truck, explaining their car’s fuel gauge was apparently broken, buying a can of gas for show, they promised they’d have it returned to him by morning.

As they drove back to grab their gear, Dean asked, “You hear from Cas?”

Sam nodded. “Reception’s crap, though - I can only hear parts of his voicemail. He found something about Charlotte, at least, I think. But he didn’t sound upset, like she was dangerous.”

“Let’s just roast the pig and get the hell outta here.”

“I’m sorry she’s not… you know, fun-weird anymore,” Sam said.

Dean lowered his foot, gunning the engine. “Yeah, well. Story of my life,” he muttered.

The truck was returned way before morning, this encounter with their newest foe having gone as well as the first. Then they found that Charlotte had removed all the web from the Impala, though the door to the motel room held some snark:

.

NICE HEAD

.

Dean barely glanced at it - possibly a little hard to do with the near swollen-shut, a breath away from blackened eye - and didn’t even bother to clean it off. There was no message from Charlotte the next morning. Dean did bother to wonder if she was gone.

The sound of the tree cracking sent both of them diving behind a small knoll, gasping for breath, cringing as it crashed down just where they’d been not seconds earlier.

“I’m empty,” Dean said, returning his gun to his waistband. “You?”

“About ten minutes ago,” Sam answered.

The beast’s growls now turned into a piercing scream, a most furious howl, angry it couldn’t find them. They heard it turning up earth with its tusks, sending rocks flying, then ramming its head into yet another tree, the trunk buckling under the strain. Dean had managed to send a bullet into its snout, likely preventing it from sniffing them out, if the occasional gurgling snorts were any indication. Sam had earned himself a minor goring to his calf, but otherwise they were intact.

“Think you can run?” Dean asked, gesturing to the bandanna-wrapped wound.

Sam nodded. “Yeah, I think so. That the plan? Just make a run for it?”

“You got any better ideas?”

“On three?”

“One… two…. three!”

They dodged trees, though the beast didn’t bother, taking out the smaller ones along the way, picking up speed with every moment that passed, while the brothers were losing speed at the same time.

Dean noticed a large branch in their path up ahead and started to veer off from Sam, pointing to it and yelling, “Keep going! I’ll try to knock Porky out!”

“No!” Sam yelled back, grimacing each time his leg made contact with the ground. “It’ll kill—- HUUUURMMPPHH!”

Sam went down, Dean not far behind, something tripping both of them, causing them to fall with such force that whatever air they had left in their lungs got knocked out. Disoriented, they raised their heads only to immediately duck them, covering up with their arms, as the beast was still plowing ahead. Its hooves hit the ground in between them, tossing dirt everywhere, its speed too far gone for it to stop on a dime. They expected to soon hear it reversing course, so Sam opened his eyes, trying to spot a place to hide, Dean doing the same, trying to spot the branch.

Instead, the sound of the most meek squeal one could imagine reached their ears, prompting Dean and Sam to turn their gazes directly ahead.

They were at the bottom of a small incline, and they watched as the boar’s head rolled their way, their heads slowly turning as they observed it leisurely passing by. It came to a sudden stop against something near their feet. They shared a look, moving in sync onto their knees.

“Uh, Dean?” Sam said.

Dean looked up from inspecting the severed head to find Sam with his hand extended, pushing under something that Dean couldn’t make out, but a shift in position and a tilt of his head allowed him to see the bright moonlight glint off the surprisingly thick, iridescent rope running across Sam’s fingers.

Another look, another in sync movement as they stood, then tentatively walked forward til they reached the body. This time, Dean spotted it right away when he crouched, the finely-wound strands that were stretched between two trees, at just the perfect height to relieve a squatty hog monster of its head. He flicked it with a finger, as one would a string on a guitar, and it was just as taut.

“She clotheslined it,” Sam said, awestruck. “She tripped us so we wouldn’t… That could’ve clipped us at the knees. She… she…”

Dean looked up at Sam, and a slow smile spread across his face. "She’s awesome!”

Sam shifted his weight off of his bad leg, and grinned. “Think she’s any good with stitches?”

How Charlotte managed to spin their salvation in such little time, they’d never know, and they also had no idea how she beat them back to the car, but the evidence was there, across the driver’s side window. .

SOME PIG .

They laughed, Dean saying, “You ain’t lying.”

But before he could say anything else, Charlotte crawled out from under the handle. She scurried up her web, and as they watched, she whipped the “P” into a “D”; the “I” went “E” in a few short passes; the “G” was partially dismantled, then spun into an “A”; and in mere seconds, there appeared an “N”. .

SOME DEAN .

After a quick hop from its tip, a slide to the outside of one of the long connecting end pieces, and a drop of a new line of silk, their eyes followed her as she leapt, letting the momentum swing her clean up onto the roof. And then - Sam would swear to it, many times over the coming years - she curtsied.

“Thanks,” Dean said softly. “You, too.” With that, he opened the back door, gestured for her to climb inside.

Which, she did.

“Yes… yes… that’s very kind of you.”

Dean, Sam, and Castiel were standing outside the bunker, the former waiting patiently - and occasionally impatiently - as the latter had a conversation with Charlotte.

Castiel looked to them. “She says she likes my tie. The material meets her standards.”

Dean’s expression was completely flat, causing Sam to snicker.

“There any reason you didn’t tell us you could’ve been talking to her this whole time?” Dean demanded.

Castiel shrugged. “You didn’t ask.”

It turned out that Castiel’s message had been to inform them that Charlotte was indeed a most special spider, more so than what they’d already divined. She was an emissary, an information-gatherer, a spy of sorts, though not a nefarious one. And because she herself was quite the accomplished hunter, she chose to spend time with other hunters whenever her journeys brought her to them.

And now, it was time for Charlotte to start her next journey.

Castiel was nodding his head as Charlotte, who was on his collar, near his ear, told him one last thing. “She’d like you to know that Sam was correct - she does need to prepare to lay her eggs, though she would not have done so in the car,” Castiel related.

Dean shot Sam a smug look.

“And she says she’ll name them Dean.”

Dean blinked. “All of them?”

“Yes.”

“How many we talking?”

A pause as Charlotte answered, and Castiel replied, “Anywhere from fifty to sixty.”

“That’s… a lot,” Dean said, because he didn’t know what else to say.

“Not really,” Sam commented.

Another look from Dean - actually, he cycled through several.

“Fine. So maybe I did some research, too,” Sam admitted.

“It’s time for her to go,” Castiel announced. “She says she’s enjoyed your company immensely. And she apologizes for the web you’ve yet to find. It seems she was in a cranky mood that evening.”

“That’s okay. Tell her it’s okay,” Dean said, walking closer. “Tell her that, um… it’s been great knowing her. Don’t be a stranger. All that.”

Castiel smiled. “She knows.” He raised his hand to his shoulder, and Charlotte climbed onto it. “I’m going to give her a boost,” he explained, and then to Charlotte he said, “Please do give Mr. Anansi the Winchester brothers’ warmest regards.”

They watched as Charlotte prepped a silk balloon, and after a gentle wave of Castiel’s hand, off she flew.  

“It would be… cheesy of me to comment it is angelic, their flight, wouldn’t it?” Castiel asked.

“Yes,” Dean and Sam answered in unison.

They began to walk back inside.

“What was that at the end? About Anansi?” asked Sam.

“Networking,” Castiel replied.

“I wouldn’t worry about us ever having to tangle with him,” Dean said. “I mean, not with Charlotte on our side. She’ll talk us up. She’s a talker.”

“Plus, there’ll be all the Deans,” Sam added.

“Yup. Exactly. We are cool with the spider kingdom,” said Dean, and with great confidence.

Dean was incorrect on this point, as he and Sam would later learn, during a case involving a young lady by the name of Muffet.

But that’s another story.

Want more stories? My Master Post is linked in my profile, and it tells you about getting on the Tag List, too! If for whatever reason it gives you trouble, don’t hesitate to send an Ask and I’ll link you.

Re-blogs and feedback are fuel for a writer’s soul - please do let me know if you enjoyed. 😘

Author’s Note #2 - The Jane mentioned is a character from my story Supernatural: Revelation, which you can find linked on the master post -or- just go straight to AO3, same author name SeeNashWrite 😁

Author’s Note #3 -  This also included a prompt which had languished in drafts - albeit with the note “Anansi” from the get-go, thankyouverymuch! - which was from the cringeworthy submissions:

You can find all the #Nash300 Follower Celebration Master List of Madness stories (wherein I asked followers to send me prompts consisting of three words to make me cringe) via the Master Post.

Author’s Note #4: The beast of Dean mentioned is actually a thing, give it a google! And so is Anansi, check that out, too. If you don’t get the Muffet reference, well, I can’t help you with that. 😉

[reitziluz]

overgrown with fondness

prompt image [here] on ao3 [here] 

Serizawa’s apartment was barely bigger than his old room had been. There were two windows, a narrow one in the kitchen corner, and a bigger one facing the wall of the neigboring building. He had a futon, a table, and a bookshelf – not much else, because he feared that clutter would just gather into piles of trash.

However, on the windowsill, in a small baby blue pot, he had a twiggy houseplant. He hadn’t planned on getting one – even a pet rock felt like too much responsibility when it took his everything to just keep himself going forward. However, he had visited Minegishi’s new workplace, a cozy little flower shop, in an effort to keep in contact – their current relationship was friendlier than it had been ever before, and it was nice to have someone who understood without him having to try and put all the complicated feelings into words – and they had been picking out dead leaves from the little plant. They had told him how they found it abandoned next to a pile of trash bags waiting to be picked up, told how it was a finicky plant so no wonder it was near dead. Two of the four branches had rotted, but one of them had tiny pale-green new leaves stubbornly curling out.

Before he had realized it, he had been sitting in the bus to home, the pot in his lap, and instructions written on a notebook page.

Minegishi had kept the plant alive with their power, but when even more of it dried dark brown, Serizawa was loath to ask for their help. His window should have enough light, he was watering it properly, he had even gotten fertilizer and a little spray bottle to mist the plant with! Clearly he just wasn’t meant to be taking care of living things.

The disappointment followed him to work, and with a dark cloud over his head, he watched Reigen water the plants in the office. He had denied liking gardening, citing that he had gotten into a mood to start a new project and gotten too deep into it, and now it would be a waste to get rid of them, so he had to keep going. He had found that Reigen often dismissed his talents and kindness like that, despite having a boastful front. Sometimes Serizawa wondered if he would have ever noticed that, if he hadn’t first seen Reigen trying to protect Shigeo-kun from the president.

“Hey now, it’s unprofessional to zone out like that,” Reigen said as he sauntered over, “Joking, joking, it’s okay – it’s a quiet day, eh? What do you say, let’s have a coffee break, maybe that’ll wake us both up.”

“Sure,” Serizawa said, leaning back and rubbing his eyes and slapping his cheeks to get himself to focus. Reigen leaned over his desk and spied on his screen.

“What, I thought you had tired your brain out with math again – thinking about getting a gardenia, huh?”

Serizawa shut the laptop, shaking his head.

“I… have one already. It’s just dying.”

“Oh.”

The coffee was a little bitter, but Serizawa sipped it steadily. It had become a habit to sit down on the couches for coffee – or tea, in Reigen’s case – like it had become habit to eat lunch together, and for Reigen to help him with homework and cramming. He was working hard to be a proper adult, but kept finding himself depending on Reigen – and feeling like he shouldn’t, he tried not to ask him for help.

“… you know, I could come over and take a look on your gardenia.”

He had said it breezily, like it was nothing at all, just an idle idea among many others. What it turned out to be was a first, awkward visit at his place, and then several trips to different flower shops – and then dinner at his apartment almost every other day, and hell, as he was already there, might as well help him with school, it wasn’t like he had anything else to do.

What Serizawa found out was that Reigen smoked too much, ate too little, and slept badly. He was a messy eater who would scarf down almost anything, but didn’t always remember to sit down to eat, and didn’t know how to cook anything that wasn’t cup noodles. Serizawa didn’t either, but he found himself learning, if just to pay back a little bit for the help.

When months had passed and he found himself sitting next to Reigen, watching the tenth episode of the trashy giant robot series on a Sunday, he realized it didn’t have anything to do with the gardenia, anymore. For the rest of the night, his palms were sweating and his fingers kept twitching, so close to Reigen’s hand, yet so far.

“Happy birthday!” Reigen bellowed as he stepped in, and thrust a new plant in Serizawa’s hands. It was a tall and robust lavender bush, in an earthen pot with a bow tied around it.

“I heard lavender’s calming, and you had talked about wanting to get something for the other window. It would do great in the sun there, it’s – Is something wrong, Katsuya?”

He cried too easily. Holding the pot carefully in one hand, he wrapped an arm around Reigen and pulled him to a hug.

“It’s – it’s been a while since I got any birthday presents, is all,” he choked out. “Thank you.”

Reigen tensed up, and he started to pull away, embarrassed about imposing himself on him -but then Reigen hugged him back with a little laugh.

“Don’t make me cry too, I just wanted to get you something as thanks for all you’ve done.”

“What?”

“You know, I… I never had much in my life, when it comes to, um, close connections. And you let me come over again and again even after you didn’t need help with the gardenia. I’m thankful for that.”

Serizawa had to float the lavender to his table to free up a hand for wiping his eyes. He looked at Reigen, who was staring at his shoes, his face hidden under his fringe but his ears bright red.

“No… I’m the one who couldn’t even keep a single plant alive on my own,” he denied it, trying not to fixate on close connections even though the ring of that made him feel like floating. Instead he turned to point at the gardenia.

“See, it’s –“

There were a few dead leaves curled up on top of the soil, but the remaining stalks had short but stubborn growth on them, brilliant dark green leaves that stretched outside the pot. And in one of them, a white bud was halfway unfurling – something he hadn’t noticed before, despite going through the motions of taking care of it every day.

Speechless, Serizawa turned back to Reigen, who was now watching him with a gentle smile, so unlike his customer service smiles and cynical grins it was like another flower blooming in the room.

“How I see it, you seem to have a knack for making things thrive,” he said with a small bashful shrug, and Serizawa was struck by how there were no shadows under his eyes, how his cheeks were less gaunt than he had first seen them.

“… maybe I do,” he murmured, surprised to realize that he believed his own words.

Later, when he could hold Reiged’s hand as they watched their shows easy as breathing, they sat on his futon, kissing sweetly. The gardenia was in full bloom, its sweet scent heavy in the air, and another bud slowly growing next to it.