#vesper is straight up telling him about their soul

[otomes-and-tears]

*grip you by the shoulder* I need your analysis of the relationship between vesper and Keir-

Pretty please 💗

! CHAPTER TWO SPOILERS !

I think the most interesting aspect of Keir and Vesper's relationship is how, despite the circumstances that brought them together, Keir treats Vesper with a surprising level of respect and openness. It’s not something you’d expect in a dynamic like theirs, especially in a setting like the marketplace, where trusting someone—anyone—can be a massive liability.

Vesper is a big liability, after all. Even if they're being blackmailed, even if the reason Keir picks them is because they're disposable, but show promise, it's still a risky decision that doesn't only put his life at risk, but potentially the people in the mouse hole, which he deeply cares about! But the still puts some level of trust in them. Vesper's followed, sure, but he feeds and houses them. He indulges them in banter, lets them poke fun at him even if he complains about how annoying it all is, And most importantly, he answers their questions.

In a place where no one shows their real face, where people don’t even share their real names, information is currency. It’s survival. But he lets Vesper in, just a little. He tells them about himself, about life underground, and makes sure they know enough to stay safe. Even when he withholds things, like the origins of the Ichor, it’s a difficult choice made for a reason.

I think that has a lot to do with, not only his feelings for Vesper, but the community he's surrounded by and how much those values have shaped him. Both his pursuit of doing good or at the very least as good as he can to help as many people as possible and his inherent kindness. As much as Keir insists he isn't a good man, I think it's really fucking clear that he has a strong moral compass, and most of all, a strong will to keep vulnerable, outcasts safe. He goes above and beyond for that goal, and all his actions are informed by that desire to take care of his community.

Vesper is now a part of his community, for better or for worse, and therefore he extends to them the same level of care and respect he'd show to the others. I think one of the things that really struck me was how we get to see the people in the mouse hole, and most importantly, Keir's inner circle, warming up to Vesper! They include them in their day-to-day chores and welcome them relatively quickly. They're all keeping an eye out for the ichor they oh so desperately need, because in a lot of ways, Vesper is just like them. Another outcast, another person in desperate need of that support and community. I like to think that maybe Keir saw that in them too.

They might not fully realise the weight of it, seeing as how the marketplace's culture differs from the surface's, but Keir is painfully aware of all of this all along.

I think especially of the scene where Vesper opens up about their condition. It's a pivotal moment. In a place like the marketplace, that kind of information falling into the wrong hands could be downright catastrophic. But it's easy for them to open up about it, to show Keir that level of trust. This information exposes their fragility, their desperation. And most of all, they're exposing it to their blackmailer. It would be so easy for Keir to turn this show of trust against them, it's easy ammo. But he doesn't. He listens, he empathises.

I think that's the point where things really shift for them. It's a little moment but I think it's so important to shape how their subsequent relationship, and most of all, I think it's what makes his betrayal by keeping the truth about lunar ichor even more painful to Vesper.

[eldritch-spouse]

I'd give almost anything to be squished between Vesper and Santi.

[You'll give your holes, that's for sure. Fem reader.]

" Are you sure I'm ready? "

Santi watches you squirm in place, picking and plucking at an outfit that shows more skin than anything you've ever put on before. He assured you, several times, that by the standards of Lust you're being very conservative.

The incubus rolls his eyes for what feels like the hundredth time, but tries to be patient. After all, going to Hell, even if just for a little visit, isn't something all humans treat casually. Especially not his darling match, poor thing that you are, so ignorant of his origins, his nature. Visiting the King of Lust specifically is twofold the stress for your little head, he must imagine.

" And why wouldn't you be, love? "

You huff.

" I... I don't know... What if I get nervous and say something really stupid? This is a -What did you call them?- An Icon of Hell, I can't be making a fool of myself- "

" Dearest. " The dark demonoid interrupts, lifting himself off a lush bed to stand behind your figure in the mirror. " Vesper may be a King, but he's also my friend. I only want him to know about us, you're going to do just fine. "

Averting your gaze from his, your lips are still firmly set in a frown.

Santi whispers sweetly. " Don't you trust me? "

" Y- Yes. "

There's a grin. He plays with the hem of your scarce top enough to let a nipple flash for a lurid second.

" Then do this one favor for me, I promise you'll like him. He's quite the character. " Understatement.

He can hear your heartbeat pound inside the vehicle.

The trip through his birth Ring has been uneventful for the most part. It could only have been that. You may be considered fresh meat by his kin that inhabit this particular zone of Hell, but you're accompanied by a high-ranker and being escorted in a limousine sporting the royal insignia.

No one would dare interfere.

It doesn't stop the curious glances, the oohs and aahs, or the sights Lust often has on display. The streets are an open ground for depravity, it's very standard to watch pairs and groups of demonoids crawling over each other in a cacophony of moans, humans and monsters alike giving into their carnal whims, lewd smiles on their faces as they're paraded in fetish gear and shown off like the prizes many of them are.

Santi watches your scandalized expressions as you nearly fog up the window in morbid curiosity.

" S- Santi! "

" Mm? "

" They're- Oh lord, they're tied to a post Santi! "

He arches a brow, fingers ceasing their casual groping of your thighs to glance out, seeing some poor sod of a human tied to a street post by the wrists. They look disheveled and pant in exertion, sweaty, infernal obscenities scribbled on their skin while gratuitous amounts of seed ooze out of their orifices. They lean on the post for support.

" Oh, the poor thing- " He jests, failing to keep straight-faced at your glare. " They're going to keel over! "

The fiend who had just finished using the community cumdump gives them a loving pat on the head and reaches from a bag to offer the human water. The two appear to be chatting idly. Santi watches confusion etch itself in your pretty complexion at the contrast of the human's bruised, exhausted state and the care they're shown by the one you recognize as an assailant.

The nature of Lust is conflicting.

It's oftentimes hard to tell whether or not someone is here of their own volition, partaking and letting go because they decided to, or because they caved under the Ring's influence and began to enjoy their unfortunate demise.

Some people argue that Lust is the most merciful Ring of Hell for those that get dragged into the annex, because while you may lose yourself, your last lucid moments are spent in utter bliss, and that bliss is what you'll know from henceforth. Others argue that Lust offers the ultimate humiliation of the soul, turning you into a beast of the flesh that craves only to use and be used.

Santi doesn't quite care. The end result is always the same, everyone enjoys themselves here.

Deciding that perhaps it's best not to let you get too into your own head, the incubus looms behind your concentrated figure and plants soft kisses on the back of your neck, gently coaxing you to turn around so he can pull you into his lap and shower you in idle affections.

" Santi... " You start while he kisses the back of your hand.

" Yes, love? "

" How did you and the King meet? "

What a question.

He doesn't want to think too much about those days, that past which seems so distant yet not at all. He was someone else, back then. Someone harsher, someone you wouldn't have fancied, someone who'd make you quake in fear even if your loins sang. He wouldn't have been able to appreciate you for the treasure that you are, during that period. You deserve more than that, you're worth the world and all its pleasures.

" I don't remember all that well anymore, but I know it was during a party, sweetness. " He vaguely replies.

" An orgy. " You correct him, having started to put two and two together about the cultural cues of a concubus' speech.

" Same thing. " Santi counters, knowing very well there's a difference.

A silence settles for a brief couple of moments where the incubus gets to close his eyes and bask in the comfort of your perfect form, feeling your every muscle twitch against him, the hitch of your breath as arousal has yet to fade from your system.

He's doing this intentionally.

For things to go well today, it's ideal for you to always be somewhat stimulated. Plus, he's always loved watching you writhe and try to conceal your own desires. Not as much as Santi adores seeing you boldly demand he do obscenities to you. For you. To please you.

" You used to live here before, right? "

" Mhmm... " He hums smoothly.

" What made you want to leave Hell? "

Santi halts, gathering his thoughts, coming up with a decently abstract yet still valid answer.

" I wasn't happy with myself back then, love. I figured a change of scenery couldn't hurt. "

Half-truths, oh bittersweet as they are, he almost doesn't feel bad when you smile your blind acceptance.

" I'm glad you decided to leave. "

The monster's heart stirs in its confines.

" What, you wouldn't want to move in here? The heart of Lust? " Santi mocks.

" Fuck no- "

And he cackles.

You've entered mansion grounds.

This sly-eyed imp with pointed hair introduced himself as King Vesper's head imp, and has been escorting you two through the halls of the royal mansion so far.

If you had to describe the place, you'd call it deceptive.

Deceptively ornate. Suspiciously calm. Questioningly beautiful.

There's something amiss, is a better way to put the vibe of this location.

Varying shades of pink fade invitingly into purples and reds that seem to comfort and beckon. Many were the gold-swirled corners and turns that you peered into momentarily before returning to following the guide. The furniture and décor is just standardly royal enough to make you wonder if many of the set ups are meant to be as phallic and yonic as they seem. You could swear one of the walls had patterns carved into it that resembled the vulvas of countless individuals. A statue was poised just suggestively enough that it resembled malehood. Many are the paintings and figurines scattered across walls and vases depicting pairs and groups of lovers entangled in dirty yet passionate acts. Are the objects on the shelves meant to be sex toys or just peculiarly shaped abstract figurines?

When passing by what Lacai called the "Hall of His Majesty's Favorite Commissions", Santi covered your eyes occasionally. As far as you could tell, it appeared to be furnished with many differently styled depictions of Vesper's raunchy adventures with a plethora of his attractive playmates. You trust Santi's judgement that maybe some of them are too potent for the human eye.

Since the moment you set foot here, your grip on the dark incubus' hand has been iron-like, trying to siphon some of his calmness. Santi looks absolutely enamored with some of the design choices present, making you wonder if maybe he'll do some tweaking to your living space later.

" And we've arrived. " The imp, previously idly chatting with your lover, exclaims.

Two incredibly tall doors separate you three from whatever lies beyond. Infernal is engraved in them, statements you can't discern, stylized in a type of perfect, gentle cursive and accompanied by sculpted tendrils embracing the torsos of emerging demonoid figures sporting androgynous builds.

You can't help but get lost in the expressions of such visceral bliss captured in their faces. They appear to be molds, almost. Alive. Suffering the torments of eternal pleasures. Grotesque, beautiful. Maybe you really are Santi's match after all... Or maybe that's this sweet smell you've been drowning in for a while getting into your head.

" King Vesper will welcome you shortly, if you need anything, do scream my name. "

A wink, directed at both of you, and the head servant is gone, slinking back into the previous halls without a moment's notice.

Perhaps your gulp was a little too loud.

" Deep breaths, you know what's going to happen- " Santi pulls you into a big-titted hug, rubbing your goosebump-riddled skin. " No need to sweat about it. "

Much more easily said than done.

Chuckling and giggling is heard from the other end of the doors.

" There there, all set to rights, head on out honey. "

One of the massive doors parts forward, and a small hand struggles to find balance upon it. A grayish monster woman emerges, shaky, glazed eyes unaware of either of you. She tries to rearrange her fur and tuck loose tufts into her clumsily worn suit, but only succeeds in nearly wobbling to the floor. The stacks of paper and cases under her right arm tell you that this woman came here for some kind of diplomatic task, and probably didn't get much done...

Santi politely helps the lady step forward, unable to wipe away the only slightly mocking grin on his face.

" Do come again, I believe our business isn't quite complete! "

The same voice calls.

It's hard to describe it. Strong, potent, undeniably demanding of everyone's attention to a scary degree, but also loving, desperate, begging you to listen, to come closer. Velveteen reverence and the authority of someone who can take it away from you in the snap of a finger, a tempter, a lover, a challenger.

You don't need to think too hard to understand whose voice that is.

The poor woman mumbles some kind of exasperated farewell before she too disappears into the same halls Lacai had left through.

You recall a conversation about royal etiquette you had earlier with Santi. When the King of Lust accepts a request for a meeting, even if he's not being summoned, it's considered polite and common sense to also bring him something to eat. This meal could come in the form of a second person, or the requester themself. You suppose you know the choice the monster girl made.

" Next please! "

A shudder wracks its way down your body, but a firm warm hand on the small of your back prevents you from stepping back.

You're guided forward, into what appears to be a lavish lounge room, sharing the same inviting tonalities from before. Big couches and beds and tall mirrors with rails and steps spread across the room, even what you think is meant to be a pretty discreet altar in the middle, disguised as an artistic design choice. A neatly arranged table is set up next to a balcony, half obscured by darkened curtains. A great chaise lounge is clearly meant for your majesty, the other smaller two are meant for guests obviously.

The two of you stand politely at the entrance, waiting for acknowledgment, and the odor permeating this room is so intensely thick it feels like it's dripping into your skull, caressing every inch of you.

Alarmingly, your skin becomes feverish and you gasp for much needed air, feeling the peaks of your tits perk immediately, a rush of blood flying to your nethers. You feel the overwhelming urge to drop your already light clothes and throw yourself into one of the many soft cloths offered.

Santi too sniffs and rumbles at the atmosphere, no doubt incensed by the scent of what might have transpired only moments earlier. Although he's much more in control of himself than you, a gentle touch guiding you back into focusing on the present. You thumb at the bracelet he gave you, the one that presses into the inside of your wrist, dispensing a countering substance into the thin sheet of skin there.

Said substance is the only thing that's keeping you from crawling on the floor like a dog in heat.

A large, flowing tail swishes, and the two of you finally have the composure to glance right, met with the visage of King Vesper, naked as the day he was spat onto Hell, grabbing belongings from a fancy cabinet. When he turns around, your breath catches.

It's not entirely news to you. Santi described him to you, and Vesper has got to be the Icon of Hell who most desires to be seen by everyone, so you knew he was pink, voluptuous and fluffy in a few sections.

But seeing him in person is a whole other matter. It doesn't compare to any detailed descriptions.

Only Santi has managed to captivate you more intensely than the demonlord standing before you. It's... Well, if you had to try to put it into words, when you gaze into those big, predatory magenta eyes, it's like the shock of when you first glanced at Santi- But without the warmth in your chest.

No, this here is just warmth in your loins.

No soul in Heaven or Hell is stopping your eyes from dancing all over Vesper's body. From flowing tendrils to piercing pinks, heart-shaped nipples, golden chains, neatly-arranged fluff and thighs for days, a second mouth grinning at the two of you- There's so much to focus on, so much to ogle, that your sight nearly crosses for a moment.

He's a lot.

It's hard to steady your breathing.

Eventually, you notice those purpled claws are holding onto a spiral-shafted bottle and three miss wine glasses. You don't know what's inside the bottle, but it looks like a regular wine.

" Your Majesty- "

" Vesper, Santi. We've been over this. " The Icon frowns.

" Vesper. Long time no see. " Your incubus smiles, a slight wag of the tail behind him.

In contrast, the Icon's entire head tendril curls with happiness. " Oh say less! Much too long! And after this news, I would drag you here myself if you refused my invite. "

Santi nods with an expression that clearly shows he doesn't doubt the King one bit.

Suddenly, the ruler's gaze snaps to you, like a hawk spotting its lunch a mile away. He bends, much too close, invading, before grabbing smoothly onto your left hand. This close, you can smell the lush, almost floral scent coming from what must be that mane around his neck.

" And where have my manners fled- You must be this harlot's one and only match, the human I've so been aching to meet. " A thumb runs across your knuckles.

" Hhh- Hello- It's a pleasure, your majesty. "

Brilliant. Flawless. You definitely didn't choke up like a cat trying to cough up a hairball. Santi chuckles, introducing your name to the monarch, who licks his lips.

" You may recognize me as a King, but just as I said to Santi, tonight you know me not as a ruler, but a friend. A lover, even. " The last part swooned dreamily, planting facetious suggestions.

Then, he does something you should have seen coming. Should have remembered, actually, but even knowing what was about to transpire, no one could blame you for blanking.

Gleefully, the Icon reaches down across his own figure, hands drifting along his front to grope and paw at his fattened slit. It looks good enough to make you want to shove your whole face in there, and frankly that might be the intended effect. In mere practiced seconds, Vesper's cocks proudly slide out.

To say he's hung is an understatement, but he wouldn't be the King of Lust if he didn't sport a trial of willpower between his legs. Two of them, actually. Ringed and slick, with this restless tentacle poking and prodding between them, occasionally latching onto one of those lengths before switching to the other like its indecisive. You can appreciate the pigment of his cocks, which is a weird thing to say but true nonetheless. It makes you wonder how they'd look stained by the wetness of your puffed cunt.

More than gawk, you huff some kind of bewildered animal noise, hues flickering between the Lord's own and Santi's face. When Santi kneels, so do you, blinking as Vesper grows half-hard in a twitch or two.

The lump in your throat won't go down while you observe Santi lean forward and chastely kiss the tip of Vesper's right cock, before swirling his tongue around the head as best as he can and leaning back. He made that look like the most erotic thing you've ever seen, seemingly unbothered by the effect that view had on you when he expectantly beckons you to tend to the spare member.

Nowhere near as charming as a concubus, your small lips tremble when you close your eyes and lean in to imitate the act, cheeks aflame. This will be the first person you've put your lips upon after having started a relationship with Santi. You decide not to think too hard about it. A small peck is planted against Vesper's length, and the shudder that rocks your body afterwards has you exhaling hard through your nose. Although you glance at Santi for approval, he smiles and arches a brow as if to tell you that you're not quite done yet. The cock hovering in front of you flexes and you understand you're going to have to put some heart into it.

By the time you decide to try and swirl your small tongue around the King's tip, he's already beading in excitement, the view of a still somewhat timid human trying to appease him probably doing something for the demonlord.

It's messy. You have to turn your head and put more effort into it than Santi, ever practiced, did. Unfortunately, Vesper tastes almost as good as the other incubus next to you, so even if you're struggling, it's hard to let go. You could suck at him all day if it meant keeping that taste on your tongue.

Eventually, when you do pull away, a string of precum follows, snapping onto your chin and making you try to clean it away with your fingers. A bad idea, they're sticky now. Thankfully, Santi is there to lick them clean for you, winking to let you know you did a good job.

" I do so love making new acquaintances. " Vesper seems to ebb satisfaction. He doesn't bother with his exposed malehood and motions over to the chaise lounge area. " Please, both of you, sit. Talk with me. "

And you do. Of course you do. Your legs might eventually give out if you don't.

The King gracefully splays himself on his seat, uncorking the bottle with his index claw and placing the three differently sized glasses onto the table. You and Santi sit closely on one of the opposite chaises lounges.

" Can I get you lovebirds some temptation rouge? " He purrs, beginning to pour the drinks anyway.

Santi nods. " I'll have some. None for the lady, please. "

Vesper pauses his pouring, the alluring stream of purplish delight fading enough to allow you to focus.

He frowns. " Oh come now. "

The high-ranker doesn't budge. " Vesper, this isn't something humans should- "

" Mmm really? I recall you offering it quite generously. " The King taps idly at the shaft of the bottle, his tone petty.

The black-horned demon offers a look that begs Vesper not to push on the matter, which is apparently met with mercy.

" But I understand, you're in love, the world has a different hue. "

" Yes... You couldn't guess how distinct. "

Not quite deciphering the exchange the two fiends had, you choose to speak up when Vesper inches Santi's drink his way.

" I can have some. "

Santi shoots you a look. " No. No, that's silly- "

Santi's tense, sighing.

But a large paw has already been raised. " Hush! The lady has spoken, and who are we to deny her? "

" Surely, just one sip is alright. Besides, she's a virgin of Lust, let her enjoy some of my land's exquisite offerings. "

You watch the King pour half a glass for you. You're no virgin, how could you be with Santi by your side? Though saying that someone is a virgin in Lust generally means that it's their first time visiting the Ring.

You spot a muscle on Santi's arm twitch when you cautiously grab the miss wine cup. You know the contents within are likely a very potent aphrodisiac, perhaps a psychostimulant, something that'll make you trip balls essentially. After all, concubi don't drink or eat out of necessity, so this clearly has a use.

" Thank you. " Santi responds, a bit flatter.

Reclining on the seat, the Icon sips out of his glass, the mouth on his stomach licking its chops at the shared taste. A tail flicks, you note that he's been idly stimulated this entire time by the tendrils still squirming between his two dicks.

" So, tell me sweetheart, what do you think of my Ring so far? "

You hope he didn't catch you staring, but that face says it all.

" It's... " You have to think for a second, finding it difficult to articulate a plethora of mixed feelings.

" Freeing, in a strange kind of way. " You trace the rim of the glass. " It's still Hell, still scary, and I don't understand much of what I see out there... But I wish- " Your cheeks grow warmer. " I wish sometimes... That I could join. "

When you look back up, Vesper is grinning, this very amused glint in those magenta pools. " Mhmm, an honest response. I appreciate it. "

You smile politely in return.

Conversation unfurls easily afterwards as both demons partake of the rouge, their faces darken with time and they seem to sway the slightest amount, bodies restless. When you take your first sample of wine, the room is already thick with a scent you've grown to understand means hungry concubi are looming around.

Pungent. Thin but so sweet that it seeps into every pore in a wave of fruity warmth beckoning more and more of its sampler's attention. You'd have this for breakfast, for lunch and for dinner, quickly turning into some shameless alcoholic. It's of little surprise that all of Hell's confectionary is as addictive as it is to humans, that's how fiendkind tends to assert their power over other species. You suppose Lust, as the Ring of desire, has a particular ease creating concoctions of great addictive power.

Your idle reckoning is entirely derailed by the jolt of wetness from your loins, something you expected but couldn't calculate the intensity of, throat burning as you clumsily choke down the whore noise that wanted to flow forth. Maybe you drank too much at a time? How can those two have several glasses of this and look only mildly buzzed?!

Right on cue, Santi reaches to pluck the glass out of your hands. " Aaand that's enough for you. "

" Hah, oh the poor thing! You know that's properly aged, honey, try not to waste it. "

An embarrassing amount of time clearing your throat later, the King pipes up again.

" Ah, I've been meaning to ask, what is it like? " He waves a hand, his head tendril wraps around it fluidly, allowing the demonlord to toy with it.

" The sex? " Santi prods.

" No, the fighting- Of course I'm talking about the sex, you bumbling slut! "

The incubus straightens, eager to talk. " Oh, well- "

" Nuh-uh, quiet. " Vesper's tail nudges Santi into silence. " I know that part. Oh, sex with a perfect match is like pure ambrosia, it's the richest source of energy, a taste so delectable it fries you harder than the cocktail of an orgy of kissless virgins! You can never go back and you'll never have an experience half as pleasurable, it's the greatest gift a concubus can have but also the bane of their search for newer sensuous experiences because it causes obsessive infatuation- Etcetera etcetera... "

The Icon rises much faster than you'd guess his mass could ever allow him to, only to drop to a crawl, gaze piercing into you with an almost violating intensity. " No... " He murmurs sweetly, stopping to squat mere inches from your already overheated body, the chain anchored by his tits swaying hypnotically in front of you. " I want to hear it from you, darling. Regale me! "

Put on the spot like this, you don't actually know what about your perspective can be so appealing to the King, but his tone is authoritative, demanding. You must give an answer.

And so, you allow the hellish alcohol to speak for you, memory drawing upon the moments of your most intimate moments with Santi. The definition of his body, the noises he makes as he partakes of your form, the form you never gave much thought to yet the same one he reveres and coats in his drool. The whispers against your skin that you can never quite make out and the dance of claws on sensitive areas bordering between the sweetest caress and the plunge of a jealous lover.

" I- " You laugh breathlessly. " Well, I didn't know what sex was before I met Santi, real sex, real desire. There isn't a thing he does that I dislike, every time I lay with him, I only wish that it never ended, and I'm thankful he knows when to stop, because I might just tell him to keep going until I draw my last breath. "

You don't know where all of that came from.

The King's wolfish grin now turns shark-like, and he nods ever so fervently, egging you on. Santi has set his own glass down, blinking in bewilderment at your words, until a rumble bursts from his chest, and he seeks to hug you closer to himself.

" I know it sounds cheesy a- and dumb but I always want to try new things in bed with him because I've always felt so appreciated and- Santi makes me feel like I'll always look gorgeous no matter what I have on or what little accidents we have. I never knew sex could be so fun and feel so good... And I guess I only have him to thank for it. "

Santi doesn't say anything, just pulls you into a searing kiss full of tongue and approval. One you get lost in far too quickly, uncaring of your surroundings, or the demonlord ogling the two of you like steaks on a platter.

Maybe the King was looking for something a little more lewd and descriptive, but it seems the drink took you to a more emotional lane. Either way, what you said apparently resonates with the incubus in question, because he beams like a spotlight, eyes bright and smile so full of heated love it might just melt you.

It wasn't always like this. You remember the rocky start of this relationship. It could have turned into something ugly. It could have hurt you badly. Don't think about it.

" Oh- Oh, love does win! " Vesper dramatically rises, pretending to wipe a tear that isn't there. " So romantic, so heartfelt, I could just about write a whole drama from this alone. "

Eyes closed, getting a tongueful from your now overly-excited lover, you feel hands pawing at your body. His, you initially think, squirming playfully as they nudge your barely concealed breasts and squeeze at your tummy, palming at the swell of your ass possessively. Then, what you thought to be two hands become three, become different. It takes you a second of sloppily making out to finally open your eyes and check.

The Icon is now looming above you both, all glowing eyes and slobbering chops, cocks twitching for attention while he hastily reaches to place both hands on each of you. You're barely able to complain before your shorts are pushed aside with your thong and a large hand is palming at you insistently, met with the rush of wetness Santi's saliva has helped create. Speaking of, the high-ranker himself has already parted his legs to allow the King to tease his girth out of his slit, getting leisurely pumped. You watch each other get fondled for a moment, the shock fading into shameless acceptance and a burning need for more. Your cunt clenches around nothing.

" Mm, why'd you stop? Enjoy yourselves. "

The other grins, placing a finger under your chin and guiding you into another embrace. This one is slower, more measured, not just to savor the moment but to make a proper show for the sovereign of carnality. Santi works just well enough in tandem with the King's hand to draw out a wanton moan from you, eating it up with his own. Vesper apparently finds this very appealing, sighing his appreciation and rewarding the two of you with more attentive touches.

Your clit is flicked a certain way that forces your legs to jerk, and the situation is fixed when Santi readjusts to hold your leg slightly upwards, encouraging you to slide down a little. Just so, just so... Until Vesper has a finger in you, his index. Then two- His hands are large, larger than the average demon's, this is a stuffing on its own.

Whatever shred of composure you had left is gone, starting to keen and whimper as the demonlord immediately hammers onto the spot that usually has tears welling in your eyes. You don't know what kind of faces you're making, but they're probably not pretty in the wake of such intense stimulus. It feels as if your entire body is throbbing with sensation, the peak of it making your nethers pulse like an epicenter of delight.

Vaguely, you feel someone tug your top down so your tits can bounce free with every thrust upwards, turning to spot Santi rocking into the fist offered to him while he bites his lip to the debauched sight you make. You didn't think you'd be getting off to something like this, but seeing the desperation to use you in his eyes has you fuming in arousal, and likewise, he's loving your helplessly wanton exhibitionism.

" Ahh, she likes that. " The demonlord keenly observes. " Don't you, princess? Like the sight of your pretty incubus fucking my hand like a needy animal because he can't have you yet? Does it turn you on how lost he is in you? Do you think I should make him cum like this? You're both adorable, I'm loving this so much already! "

His depraved purring is the straw that breaks the camel's back, you can only roll your eyes and choke out some kind of plea for mercy before squeezing like a vise around Vesper's fingers and soaking him for all you've got, barely able to breathe in-between the thunderous pulsing of your orgasm. He rides you through it, nice and hard and milking the entirety of it for his own selfish gain, until you're spasming and gasping erratically.

Unfortunately, you missed Santi's own climax, finding him sagging against the seat in a state similar to yours, while the King whorishly sates himself with the mix of your released fluids, sucking and lapping at his hands for every hint of slick and humming pleasantly at the flavor you make together.

" Not bad... Not bad at all. Again, now, I can't wait to see your bond up close! "

You're a little bit confused when he plops himself back down on his massive lounge chair, then taps his thighs invitingly. Santi gets the idea however, tickling and nudging your clothes off you before settling on the monarch's lap.

Vesper hums, rearranging him so Santi's back is to his front, and then you are invited on. The resulting position has Vesper serving as a kind of living support with you seated atop Santi, giving the King a perfect view. Casually rumbling his glee, the King takes hold of your hips and steals any kind of autonomy from you by leading the pace, grinding you against the delectable ridges of Santi's hardness.

Laps are delivered to the side of Santi's face, and you know the mouth on the demonlord's stomach is also sampling around, tendrils closing in to shift between stimulating him and coiling luridly around your bodies like he just can't get enough.

One moment the two of you are locked in an desperate rut against the slow pace of regal hands, the next, you feel the sting of the demon's exquisite girth as you're swiftly impaled, the pain much too quickly blossoming into momentous relief.

It's a frenzy of movement you can hardly process. Maybe it's the effects of that drink, maybe it's just the cacophony of pheromones that being glued to a high-ranker and an Icon produces -You hardly doubt that bracelet is doing anything to protect your poor mind at this point- But you get well and truly lost in it. The world spins, only flashes of the experience register in your muddled brain, goosebumps, a swaying vision, waves of pleasure heightened to such a degree that you cease hearing anything but the muffled echoes of your lover's moans.

In that moment, there's nothing more to reality than the monster in front of you, looking as depraved as you, and leaning into it. Santi drools onto his own chest openly, pupils dilated, eyes relentlessly hypnotic as he swallows every twitch of your tormented form's muscles. No hint of higher thought lies in those acidic green hues, only the beastly impulse to have you, to reduce you to a spasming mess, to make you lose your mind and grow addicted to him.

Faintly, you can hear low whispers in a foreign, harsh tongue, and it never occurs to you that might be the source of your current trance. You don't know what it's doing to you or Santi, and you don't care.

You don't care about anything expect the constant pistoning driving you to a filthy paradise. If the Icon wasn't the one moving your legs, you'd be mush by now, point proven further when your top half simply flops onto the incubus' body, useless.

It must have been about an hour or more when the two of you are stopped, and no matter how gentle the winding down was, you still grunt and whine wordlessly in frustration, met with laughter from the two of them. Santi recovered faster, because of course he did. Looking down to where your bodies meet, you're disgraced with the sight of a sticky mess coating not just your mons and thighs, but plenty of Santi's lower half. It doesn't even reek of sex, you've gone nose blind at this point. It's almost terrifying, you have no idea how many times you orgasmed, or how many times he did for that matter, but the overwhelming evidence is clearly there, and your throat is quite sore. Whether from gasping, screaming or simply breathing through it, you don't know anymore.

Vesper says something to your partner in clear infernal, met with a reply you cannot hope to interpret either, and you're pulled forward to kiss the King, the three of you exchanging lips in a disheveled mess.

By the time you start giggling and breathing hard, Santi sighs.

" We... We should stop for now, no? " There's a mildly guilty look on his handsome features. Probably because you're going to be feeling this for a week.

The demonlord huffs. " Ugh- Fine fine, but only because you two were such a show, the imps flocked to the doors you know? I can feel them peeping. "

The darker demonoid snickers in amusement, reaching out to pet your face and try to ground you in reality, to no avail. You're eventually lifted to a stand, latching onto his arm for support and starting to somewhat ferally bite him in adoration.

Vesper follows suit, look too predatory to mean anything good, and both hands coiled around vastly neglected lengths. Making quick work of himself to the filthy view you and Santi make. He's the one who gulps now.

" I have been very patient however, the least my adorable guests could do is give me a lasting farewell. "

Santi looks like he's about to try to politely renegotiate.

" Pretty please? "

You clap and cackle in enthusiasm, entirely out of your gourd. More, more!

The incubus watches you jump in place, then turns to his old friend. " You have spare regeneration ointments, don't you? "

[casualjacobwrites]

FFXIV Write 2023 Prompt #1 - Envoy

I'm actually doing it this year! Anyway, short little bit about Tataru. Mostly this is ARR, but there is one vague Endwalker spoiler if you know what to look for. (Seriously, it's one tiny line about the Scions financiers.) It is imperfect, but I just want to get back to writing period, and a huge part of my therapy is learning to be fine with not being perfect at everything I do.

Word Count: 705

----

In the wake of the Calamity, few knew of the existence of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. Fewer still knew of their headquarters tucked away in an unassuming warehouse in Vesper Bay. During this blessed time Tataru Taru spent her hours poring over ledgers and books to teach herself how to manage the finances of a small clandestine operation that covered the length and breadth of Eorzea.

Or she tried to stay occupied. Despite her head for figures and her love of Minfillia's dreams of a brighter future for Eorzea, it was impossible not to grow bored in the quiet hours when the Scions were away. It was awfully lonely at times, too. Sitting at the entryway watching the door with nothing to do but stare at names and numbers scrawled over too many lines was enough to make anyone dull.

Sometimes she thought about asking Minfillia to keep her company, but the poor girl had the weight of the world on her shoulders along with the weight of Louisoix's absence. Not to mention that she had her hands full with writing missives, reading reports, and checking in on far flung allies via linkpearl multiple times in a day. Once Tataru tried to pull Urinager away from his books for some tea, but conversations with him would make her head spin, and while she loved learning, the Archon might as well be from another plane of existence with the way he spoke of prophecies, primals, and Eorzea's history.

Thus it came to be that she found other ways to while away her hours. Whether that be imagining scenarios of having to rebuff would-be peddlers from entering the Waking Sands, or singing tavern ballads quietly to herself when her eyes had grown tired from reading too many letters on a page. It was during one such performance she was startled by a plucky adventurer who'd come to ask where the wild roses bloomed. She gave that poor adventurer an earful about sneaking up on unsuspecting receptionists before going to tell Minfillia about their newest arrival.

Looking back, this was the moment everything changed. Not long after that rude interruption Tataru's days shifted from slow and uneventful to constant activity. Envoy after envoy turned up at her door asking after the adventurer who had laid Ifrit low. Some of them had nefarious intentions, while others were simply desperate for help for those still suffering the aftermath of the Calamity. The former she was quick to shoo away. The latter...

It was hard when she had to say no and harder still when she watched Minfillia despair over their inability to assist every soul in pain. While she pretended not to hear, she knew those were the moments when the leader of the Scions asked for Louisoix's guidance the most. Tataru never told the others about the tears shed, or the doubts expressed. Instead she marveled at Minfillia's ability to raise her head up to face the dawn with a straight back and squared shoulders. From that display of strength Tataru drew her own strength and pushed herself to make Minfillia's and the other Scions' burdens lighter.

No one in the Waking Sands was ever without a cup of tea, a needed book, or an ear to hear their troubles. The only guests who made it past the front door were those who had legitimate business with the Scions. The rest were quickly run off with a minimal shouting and cursing. As for finances, Minfillia never once had to worry. The ledgers were immaculate and every penny was accounted for, including the ones from a mysterious donor in Old Sharlayan whose only request was that they keep them abreast of any news regarding Louisoix's grandchildren.

As for Tataru herself, her needs would have gone unmet if not for a certain plucky adventurer who always seemed to show up at the right time and always had a moment to listen to her and encourage her. Later on she would come to realize how much of her growth as a person was only because of the people around her. Without them she'd be a simple receptionist. With them, she was able to help change the course of the world.

[maribatshipper]

Miraculous 39 Clues

Lillian glares with her dark eyes at the picture of the Ladybug-themed heroine. The heroine was lying on the ground with her arm twisted into an unnatural shape after a fight with one of these akumas. Lillian picks up her phone & calls a cousin of hers.

"Dan, I'm going to Paris. I need to speak to Stone." Lillian growls.

Dan asks, "Why? What's wrong with him?"

Lillian frowns, "Not what's wrong with him, what's wrong with the city he lives in. Check a site called the Ladyblog. You'll see why. I have to look out for my fellow Janus."

Lillian hangs up as she buys a ticket to Paris, running her hair through her burnt amber hair.

***

"STONE!"

Jagged Stone winces. He's always known about his heritage & everything that went on. He preferred the love he got from people when they heard his music compared to the backstabbers he called his family & their obsession with the clues.

"Lily, what are you doing here? In Paris?" Jagged asks, his pale-green eyes hidden by some glasses with 2 Eiffel towers & Paris' flag incorporated into it.

"Why didn't you tell the Cahill's about the situation in Paris? Those of us who are good could have done something to help the heroes of this city. They clearly need all the help they can get, & who better to help than an entire family of spies, inventors, artists, & jocks?" Lillian glares at the much older man.

Jagged sighs, "The Lucians have a base here & said nothing. You've seen the reports, Lillian. The heroes are just kids. I was turned into a rockin' villain. What was I supposed to do? Call the entire family over to get us all akumatised when they find out what's going on?"

Lillian glares, "No, you're supposed to warn us about Paris & about keeping emotions in check! The Lucians here are fools for not bringing this to our attention! Our branch is supposed to share information with the rest of our branch! This is something that has to be taken to the head of our family! This Hawk Moth character could be a rogue Cahill, or a Vesper! If this guy is a Vesper, our whole family needs to be warned about him! No matter how much we hate each other, we don't leave other Cahill's to deal with Vespers. What if he's like Peirce? What then, Stone?"

Jagged sighs, "You're right. I haven't been thinking clearly. So un-rock'n'roll of me. But this isn't something that can be fixed with the master serum. Cahill's can't face against the power of these jewels called Miraculous. Even with that serum. These Miraculous are more powerful than anything, & they should be kept out of our family's greedy hands."

Lillian frowns, "But we could help. We've had exper-"

Jagged whirls around, "Not with this! We've never had any experience with this! This is dangerous, Lily! No matter how genuine our talents, we can't help them against this! I know it's un-rock'n'roll, but that's what it is, Lillian!"

A knock comes from the door. Jagged breathes a few times & opens the door to see a familiar face. Jagged's face stretches into a giant grin.

"Marinette! There's my Rockin' designer! Whatcha got for me this time?" Jagged asks.

Marinette smiles, "Well, I designed you some new glasses, because the ones you have right now are starting to fall apart, since I didn't really have the best materials when I started that, but these new ones should last at least for a few years, & I have a small-scale of that poster you asked me to do, & I need to just adjust your outfit for your show tomorrow. Oh, I also have some stuff for Fang. It's all in my backpack."

Lillian walks up to Marinette & studies her, a suspicious glint in her eyes.

"Who's this, Stone?" Lillian asks, not taking her eyes off of the teen.

Jagged smiles, "Lily, this is my best designer, Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Marinette, this is a relative of mine, Lillian."

Marinette smiles & holds her hand out to shake with Lillian's, only to fall when her backpack bursts from being overfilled. Lillian's eyes widen as Marinette collides with the ground. She crouches down to help Marinette pick the stuff up, only to catch her eye on an open design book. She picks up the design book. Her eyes widen at every design. Marinette panics as she sees this & grabs the design book quickly.

"I'm so sorry. I'm madly clumsy. Those are just rough sketches-"

Lillian smirks, "Rough sketches? If those are rough sketches, the finished product must be good enough to go to heaven, Dupain-Cheng."

Jagged stares at Lillian in shock. She is harsh, cold, & not one you'd expect compliments from, even if she is a Janus.

"Stone, I need to talk to you." Lillian grabs Jagged's arm & drags him away from the confused blue-eyed teenager.

"What is it?" Jagged asks, rubbing his sore arm where Lillian's nails were digging into his skin.

Lillian frowns, "She's got the skill of a Cahill with the Janus serum. Does she know anything about the Cahills?"

Jagged shakes his head, "Not a thing. Her mother is most likely a Tomas from China, even though she is small. I saw her in action when Penny was akumatised. Her father is a French baker, & she designs clothes, posters, glasses, she could design a coat for Fang if she wanted to."

Lillian holds a dark coloured hair between her fingers & smirks, "Let's see if she is a Cahill."

Jagged gapes, "How did you get that?"

Lillian laughs, "Stone, I'm a Janus who's been taught at each of our branches bases & in each art. Canada, Hollywood, Venice, any base there was, I've been there. I've done what our ancestors did. We test this. If it comes back positive, we train her in the Janus ways. If not, you don't have to worry about anything."

***

Marinette was confused when this strange teenager who was somewhat older than her dragged her favourite singer away with such authority.

"What was that, Tikki?" She whispers to her little purse attached to her hip.

The quiet being in her purse answers, "I don't know Marinette. She radiates an artists' soul, but she seems so..."

Marinette offers, "Standoffish?"

Tikki chuckles, "Yeah, but there's something more to her than that."

The two older artists come back, Jagged cowering slightly when Lillian looks towards him. Tikki stays hidden in the purse.

"Do I wanna know what that was?" Marinette asks.

Jagged laughs, "It wasn't really anything Rock'n'roll to talk about."

Lillian nods, keeping an eye on the teen.

"So, Marinette, what are your interests?" Lillian asks.

Marinette smiles, "Well, I'm really into fashion, I even design & sew my own clothes. I'm really good at video games, especially Ultimate Mecha Strike 3. Then of course there is music, I mean, I listen to Jagged's music all the time while I'm sketching out designs, his music inspires me! Unlike XY. Bleh! I even designed the costumes for Kitty Section, & I've made so many different outfits, & I'm starting my own website, but I really don't know if it's a great idea with so much stress at school, & akumas, & of course I'm class representative for my class."

Lillian smirks, "I think I'll visit your school, kid. See how well you do in a place like that."

Marinette panics, "It's really no biggie, I just have a lot on my plate."

Lillian smiles, "Either way, I'll be visiting. I gotta go to my apartment. Remember, Stone. I will be telling."

Jagged nods, confusing Marinette.

"Am I missing something here?" Marinette asks.

Lillian smiles, "Nothing to worry about, kid. See you at your school, Dupain-Cheng."

Lillian walks away with a dangerous looking smile on, which scares Marinette slightly.

Marinette suddenly asks, "Does she even know which school I go to?"

***

Lillian checks the test results of the hair she plucked from Marinette's head earlier. Lillian calls Jagged.

Jagged sighs, "Well?"

"It's a match. She's Janus alright. But she's also Lucian & Tomas. Test result says 5% Lucian, 5% Tomas, & 90% Janus." Lillian smiles.

Jagged sighs, "Check her classmates & parents too."

***

A month has passed, & Lillian gathered as much information about the Dupain-Chengs as she could. Marinette's mother, Sabine, is the Cahill with genes. The father, Tom, is a Tomas, which Lillian thought was funny. The only issue? Neither parent knew that they were part of a giant family spreading all across the world. Marinette's grandmother Gina seemed to at least know something of the Cahill name.

Lillian sighs, "I can't believe they don't know a thing about us."

She looks at her research notes on the classmates. All of them have tiny bits of Cahill DNA except Cesaire and Bourgeois. When she visited with Marinette that one day, the kids seemed sweet, but Lillian's a Janus. She can tell when someone's acting. There was one that was acting the most. Her acting was spot on, except for one small issue. She couldn't keep her stories straight.

"Well, miss Rossi, you are about to get a few dozen lawsuits delivered right to your school in the middle of your class. You shouldn't have messed with Marinette. You mess with a Janus, you mess with a powerful enemy. Now to get the kid trained like a Janus."

***

Lillian shows up to Marinette's school again & points out a flaw in one of Lila's stories. She then walks to the bathroom, where she has laid a trap for the fox.

"Hello. Lillian, right?" Lila fakely smiles.

"& you must be Splenda." Lillian smirks.

Lila asks, "What?"

Lillian explains, "Artificially Sweet. Like Splenda. Fake sugar. Drop the act, I can smell the Lucian on you!"

Lila actually seems surprised, & asks, "What's a Lucian?"

Lillian looks through Lila for any sign of deception, but she sees that Lila actually has no idea what she's talking about.

"Of course. That makes this so much easier. Keep away from Marinette, or I can guarantee all your fame will disappear."

Lila drops her Façade & smirks, "How could you possibly do that? Everyone here can't resist when they hear what they want to hear. There's nothing you can do about it anyway. You don't want to be my friend, fine, but I'll make sure no one here wants to be your friend at all. You're a little less dumb than the others, so I'll give you one chance. You're either with me, or against me. You only have until the end of class to decide, Lillian."

Lillian giggles, then full out laughs.

"Oh you poor, delusional soul! I don't want to be friends with anyone here except Marinette! & thanks for saying that. Now I have all the proof I need!" Lillian smirks.

Lila asks, "What do you mean?"

Lillian smirks, "You'll find out."

***

Months passed, & Lila's entire empire toppled once lawsuits were coming to her in public for defamation & slander, & Lila was also sued for abuse. Marinette got paparazzi swamping her, asking about how long Lila had threatened her, but Lillian kept Marinette away from the Paparazzi with practiced ease. Marinette had found out how she was related to many important people. Lillian trained her, causing Ladybug to defeat villains much quicker, & Cat Noir stopped showing, not that it bothered her. Cat Noir stopped even helping, acting childish every time Ladybug denied his feelings. Ladybug decided to pick a new hero, a new fox. The new fox made everything easier on Ladybug, & even stole Cat Noir's ring & gave it to Ladybug after his first week.

Ladybug smiles, "You ready for patrol, Corsac?"

The new Fox smiles, his red hair with white tips blowing in the wind. He was also a Janus, which is why Ladybug chose him for the fox. One needs a really good artistic mind to use the fox power.

Corsac's blue eyes widen in happiness.

(I couldn't find one with white tips. Imagine they're white.)

"Of course, Ladybug."

A/N: While reading Miraculous Salt fics, I suddenly had the thought, “What if the 39 Clues universe was part of the Miraculous Universe?” And this came to life with a prompt. I can’t remember the prompt, but I’m happy with how this came out. 

Okay... so... I ran out of really cool fox names, so I actually googled Fox species, and there was only 2 cool sounding ones. Culpeo and Corsac. Can anyone guess who Corsac is?

[if-weshadows-haveoffended]

Sunshine- James Bond x Reader

A/N: GUESS WHOS BACK BINCHES. Oh man uni really did run me over with a semi-trailer. Hot Tip: biochem really do be the work of the devil. Feel free to send in fic or mixtape requests, I’ve got all the time in the apocalypse for them.

Look, I know Judi Dench dies in Skyfall but she’s the only M I will ever recognise (even though I do love Ralph Fiennes). Nothing makes me happier than the time M straight up calls Brosnan!Bond a misogynist. Also, I decided to tell this from the perspective of Q, just because I feel like he’s the only one with the emotional range to articulate in vivid detail the absolute delight that would be watching James Bond have Soft Romantic Feelings. God he was just so soft in Casino Royale before all that shit went down (rest in pieces my girl vesper lynde).

Title: Sunshine Original Request: Could you do a James Bond x reader where the reader is a doctor at MI6 and when Bond comes back from his missions, she’s really gentle and sweet in taking care of his wounds? And Q and M hardcore shipping them because they have never seen Bond flustered ever, and the reader kinda just manages to make him blush when she smiles at him and immense fluff ensues (and sweet pet names for each other) (x) Tags: @roseslovedreams​ , Fluff, sass, S O F T N E S S, Craig!Bond, Q, M, Doctor!Reader Words: 1300+ Masterpost: here (x) Prompt List: here (x) Mixtape Archive: here (x)

“Bond? Bond, were you even fucking listening to anything I said?” Bond raised his head from staring at his hands with vague disinterest- no. No Q wouldn’t call it disinterest. He watched the way the man stood up, adjusting his suit and leaving M without his usual pathetic quips.

No, Q was intrigued. This was something wholly different. In fact, if he was so bold as to suggest it, the man was distracted… on edge almost.

“Did I just see what I just saw?” M asked him, disbelief clear on her face. “I almost miss the blatant insults.”

“Well, it’ll be a nice change for a while, I suppose. Keeps bullying me into making him exploding pens.” Q muttered under his breath.

“Oh, Q, don’t let the bastard get to you. Its just his way of trying to be helpful.”

But even later that afternoon, at his appointed meeting with the surprisingly forlorn agent, there were no questions about exploding pens. Absolutely no protest about having a fancier car than 006 (to be fair, he was glad, she would take care of that car far better than 007), and even no jab about how Q’s non-existent acne was today. Usually, it would be cause for celebration and something to tell his cats. But this was just unsettling. It seemed wrong.

In fact, Q was on the verge of considering himself genuinely concerned about 007. Or at least he would have been until he very quickly connected the dots. He watched as the man stared after the woman who had just entered the room, looking mildly irritated as she threw a stack of papers at the agent.

“Don’t fucking lie on my reports, Bond. I spent years training to be where I am now and I think I can tell when sample baselines have been meddled with.” Q considered this to be a fairly mild telling off by her standards, but oh no, the man appeared to be mildly enjoying it. He considered the slight rise of colour in his cheeks to be the most emotion he’d gotten out of him all month.

“I just don’t want you to concern yourself, Sunshine, I’m perfectly fine,” 007 murmured, struggling to make eye-contact with their resident doctor.

“You’re not.”

“I am, and I will be fine, and I will come back in one piece.” He protested stronger this time, his hands resting on her upper arms, trying to convince her that he would indeed be fine and not crash yet another expensive car into the mountainside.

“You promise?” Her question was softer this time, the intensity of her gaze and Bond’s solemn stillness had absolutely transfixed Q’s attention. The way the man released her from his grasp, his fingers barely, just barely brushing her skin for longer than would be deemed necessary- the way he cleared his throat and gave the shiest smile possible. He didn’t even know Bond could look that way.

Hopeful. Hopeful and for once scared of fucking up. He fidgeted with a well-polished cufflink, staring at his shoes before meeting her gaze once more.

“Of course, can’t have you spending your time around 006.” He scoffed sarcastically. The doctor raised a brow.

“Oh, but she’s far prettier to look at than you.” She teased, her smile sharp and predatory. If Q wasn’t mistaken, the small smile pulling at the corner of Bond’s mouth meant that he enjoyed the sensation of somehow looking like a rabbit about to be slaughtered by a wolf.

And so he hurriedly relayed everything back to M who, after clearing up the tea she had choked on and spilled over her paperwork, immediately descended into a minute forty-seven of breathless laughter. Tears spilling from the corners of her eyes, she asked him if it would be worth forcing the man to retire early. She would love nothing more, she had finally gotten out after a few seconds, than to see the man in a ‘kiss the chef’ apron and serving their doctor a home-made dinner.

“Oh god, could you imagine him taking dogs for a walk? Or just… just…” She faltered now, leaning back in her chair with a softer smile on her face.

“Just?” Q asked.

“Be happy.” She finished, “They all know what they signed up for. Just that none of us ever expect to find something worth losing. You don’t remember what he used to be like, do you?” He shook his head in response, “After Venice something happened to him. He lost whatever soul he had left. Most of us lose it along the way, but I didn’t realise it turned him into something else outright.”

Well, that made his decision for him.

Within the hour he and M and made the oh-so-very solemn pact that they would do everything possible to get Bond kicked out of the service due to his overwhelming feelings for one particular woman. He even made the note to prepare a best man’s speech just in case he was asked.

And eventually (after some days or maybe weeks, he wasn’t even sure anymore) Bond sauntered back home, bruised and bloody and sporting a smug grin as he handed M the stolen spyware.

“Must you drip blood everywhere?” M sniffed, though Q pretending to show interest in the gadgets that had just been handed over, noticed her stifle a grin. “Anyway go and get yourself patched up, god knows why I keep you here.”

“Oh you love me,” M only deigned to roll her eyes.

Q escorted the man down to the medical centre, watching with rapt attention at how the façade just crumbled before him. The man who naught but five minutes ago was all bravado and quips now reduced to nerves once again. Okay, okay, you got this. “So, 007…”

The agent let go of a long-suffering sigh, “Haven’t you got 006 to equip with some laser high-heels?”

He took a deep breath, trying to steel himself, “Well, no, actually I’ve got to remove your biometric chip. Doctor Y/N has agreed to assist me with the whole process.” Bond stopped in his tracks, turning to face him with a look somewhere between excitement and fear. “If you have no objections of course.” He winced at how brightly that last statement came out.

“No… not at all.” And they continued on their way, eventually reaching the clinic.

And he couldn’t do anything but watch in amazement at how Bond suddenly shifted. He’d almost laugh if it didn’t genuinely hurt his cold heart at how happy the man looked. He watched as she’d gently cut away burned fabric, cleaning wounds and beginning her stitches. She would apologise and with an unfairly attractive smile he’d say she barely hurt him. Q wasn’t even sure if this sort of bodily contact was considered professional, the way her hand cradled against his jaw as she dabbed away at his bloodied temple. And he couldn’t help but smile as the man simply looked both flustered and confused at just how achingly gentle she was being, as if he deserved none of this. M had once described Bond as a blunt instrument, incapable of nothing but brute force. But here he was, nothing but softness in his manner and the blue of his eyes.

It felt as if he were intruding as he instructed her in removing the biometric chip, her hand caressing the nape of his neck as well-practised hands were expertly trying to remove the small implant. She would hum under her breath, like a soothing lullaby putting Bond at ease, her hand suddenly reaching for his as he held back a groan of pain and the bloodied chip hit the floor.

“Easy now darling, it’s done. I’m here.” Her voice was soft as she knelt before him now, her hands atop his.

Bond, his gaze never wavering from hers, brough her palm to his lips and pressed a chaste kiss. He murmured his thanks and she merely smiled back in return.

God help him, the man was a romantic. He was going to need a drink after this.

[msruchita]

Who Knew? - Part 1

Summary: It’s been 5 years since the snap, Bucky doesn’t seem to be coming back. Enters a stranger who is a balm to her soul. Will she dare to love again?

Pairing: Erik ‘Killmonger’ Stevens x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: 18+ (There’s just a lot of smut, so please, swearing too)

So, I have finally created a proper Marvel fic for the Sinful Secret’s Challenge. My prompt was ‘Do you want something better? Here’s my number.’ from

@howardpotts and also tagging @tranquil--heart and @cametobuyplums

Let me know your feedback and seriously, every like, reblog, comment is appreciated. I always aim to make myself a better writer. So, to stop rattling on, I hope you guys enjoy! Plus, my Taglist is open, but I will stop tagging you if after a few fics; I see no activity from your end

@thesaltyduchess @brazen88brat @lancetuckersmustache

Masterlist

“Enlighten me again, why are we playing Truth or Dare in the middle of a club when we can barely hear each other?!’ Peering intently over your glass at the three people opposite her, you downed the last of your vodka, before choking and gagging on it as everyone around you laughed uproariously. Trying your best to control your own laughter, you set the bottle down as Vesper winked at you before shaking a large silver cocktail mixer.

‘Feeling a little reptilian, in the nastiest way possible? We have you covered with Alligator Sperm! This bright green gator crazy goodness contains melon liqueur, pineapple juice, and yes, a literal splash of cream. Try ordering it at the bar with a straight face like me if you actually have the balls.’ She finished her sales pitch with a poker face as she poured out the  lime green liquid into fresh glasses while Shayan held a small pitcher of cream.

It was busy tonight, the crowd seemed to be thrice more than normal, the reek of booze, sweat and desperation spraying everywhere as you shifted on the slightly sticky leather. None of you ever spoke the truth outside of the group therapy sessions Steve forced you to go to. It was like scraping fresh wounds with salt, hence, every time Truth or Dare was played, it was more Shot or Dare. The latest dare being Vesper had to get a hickey from someone she hadn’t slept with yet; the video now safely in your phone courtesy from the bartender who had been necking her barely minutes ago, the fresh purple of the bruise standing out against her olive skin.

‘Crocodile cum, actually.’ Lucien was so matter of fact, everyone collapsed into a fit of giggles again as she waggled her eyebrows at him. The bass of the music thrummed through your veins as all of you relaxed, occasionally bursting into fits of laughter as all of you did shot after shot; most of the dares having already been done before and the novelty had faded.

‘Y/N, you. Flash your tits to the first guy that puts his hands on you or 5 shots.’ Shayan pointed at you, flashing you a grin that was anything but innocent, as you shrugged. Slamming all 5 in a row, you winked at them, waiting for the moment the liqueur went straight to your head; the throng of people gathered beneath the DJ, all looking to escape reality like you, parted like the sea as you slid off the leather vinyl.

The heat was near unbearable, but you didn’t care; the pulse of the music called to you, it was the only time you’ve ever felt so alive, so free. You could feel your blood singing as the humidity clung to you like second skin. The bass vibrated beneath your red heels; anything was better than thinking about what lay outside the walls of the club. At least protected by the four walls, throbbing beats and strobe lights, you didn’t have to face the rubble that Thanos left behind. The pain and suffering of the people lost still pierced deep in hearts; why Steve left you alone after you both lost him. The love of your life and his best friend. Bucky.

Swallowing the sudden lump in your throat, you swirled your hips, rucking up the black camisole top you borrowed from Wanda paired with the skin tight jeans she and Natasha would whistle at every time you stepped out in them, running your hands through your skin, as you let yourself be seduced by the music. The memories of their laughter echoed in your mind as you noted several appreciative glances at your dancing and your body, knowing the glitter oil you used was illuminating your curves just right as you flipped your hair back. You caught a flash of gold, Lucien’s watch glinting for a second, as he gave you a thumbs up, hoisting Shayan up. Nodding once, you blew a kiss to Vesper; knowing your friends were just checking on you before heading out.

Vesper and Lucien understood better than most; your need to stay awake the entire night. Giving you a once-over from the table, they would check that you’re okay before calling it a night. They never stayed long; but they never said no to you either whenever you asked to go out. You continued swaying side to side, giving your hips an extra boost, pushing the memories away; the flash of teeth, crinkle of eyes before steel-blue eyes…

No! You dug nails into your side sharply, the pain chasing away the scent of gun metal, whiskey and mint. It was either dancing till the bouncer called a cab for you, telling you it was time to close up or spending hours waiting silently, staring up at your ceiling fan waiting for the alarm to ring. You always stayed till closing time, helping out to clean the place down, making sure the employees got home safe.

The body that suddenly slotted against you from behind was both familiar yet a stranger. A distant memory of raised scars and a warm, calloused hand, the same hand that now splayed wide against your belly, unyielding yet soft. Leaning against the hard chest, you continued swaying hypnotically and he followed without a second thought. ‘Did you know, there’s a rumour going on,’ you began after a long pause, as his grip tightened on your belly at your facade of casualness, that hint of pain rushing to your head faster than alcohol. ‘That you’re Erik Stevens, T’Challa’s cousin?’

The flex of the muscles under his skin relaxed fractionally, as you wondered what he was so afraid of. Nobody cared about that anymore; too much had happened. He slipped a hand beneath the camisole, up to rest underneath your ribcage, so warm and steady. It pressed just beneath your breast; thumbing slowly at the curve, a whisper, let go for me.

You could kick yourself for the comparison you can’t help but make that he never matches up to. That memory lane was dangerous as you pulled yourself out once again, chasing away the ghost of cold metal against your skin, another rough palm splayed out against your tummy, keeping you grounded against him as you very slowly sunk yourself into the crook of his body.

‘What’s my name?’ Erik asked quietly, his words brushing against the shell of your ear as his hand came up to your breast, squeezing the soft flesh. ‘What do you know about me?’ He dipped his head further, his tongue snaking out to taste the jasmine on your skin, the other hand slowly tracing out symbols onto your bare flesh, the symbols etched on your skin like he knew, as you struggled not to shudder under his touch.

‘Charismatic genius, MIT graduate with top honors, slight homicidal tendencies and-,’ You cut yourself off, not wanting to do this dance anymore. You sighed indifferently, tired. ‘Why does it matter? One night and I’ll never see you again.’

His hips suddenly pressed flush against you, his cock coming to nestle between your ass, his hand playing with a nipple. A guttural growl of warning reverberates through his chest into you, like you’re treading on thin ice. True dread spiked through you as his posture shifted, shoulder rolled unconsciously back, feet parallel so that the weight is evenly distributed. The stance of a warrior.

His voice was a low timber as you slowly turned to face him, looking up at those piercing brown eyes filled with cold intelligence. ‘No,’ he assured, pulling the nipple away before releasing it, watching it bounce lightly. ‘Not with me. Never with me.’

You looked down to see the markings peeking from the top of his white shirt and the cuffs of his jean jacket. You knew they adorned his entire upper body; earned with every life taken. You should have trembled with fear when you traced one scar, but there was a deeper need to trace your tongue along each one, the way he longed to trace his fingers across every ink you had.

You sighed heavily again, breaking away from his touch as your body screamed for his warmth, hands that promised to show that you would be taken care off, over and over again. You managed to get away enough to reach the bar when Erik grabs your hand and like a movie spins you into his arms, flush against his chest, one hand slapping your ass so fiercely you gasp as he simply sets his lips on yours.

It could have been maybe a minute, but it felt like time suspended itself; everything slowed down before he gazed down at you, the hurt and concern in his eyes surprising. ‘Come with me, please.’ He held his hand out, and you slipped yours in it without thinking.

Your talks lasted the entire night, even after the soft pink and lavender of dawn peeked through, you both kept going. He starts with his beginning. About his father, about Wakanda, how he just wanted what was his by right; but even that had been deceitful. The fight for the throne, how he almost died, meeting the White Wolf. An enigma unlike himself.

Your heart clenched but he held you in his arms, your legs between his body, stroking your back against the silk. He tells you what his cousins were like, unable to hold a grin back at the elegant respect he begrudgingly built between him, T’Challa and M’Baku though the latter would love the chance to break his back. Shuri, for being a prodigy yet so humble, it annoyed him and made him prouder than he could have imagined.

You tell him how you met Bucky when Okoye and Steve forced him to join a yoga class as he wasn’t sleeping, and they had tried everything. Even Shuri was fed up. How it was a riot watching him struggle even though he had the natural agility and flexibility of an Olympian gymnast. Within a week he asked you out, a month later you were his girl, staying with him in STARK Towers, recounting all the incidences when F.R.I.D.A.Y and Tony would team up with Sam to play tricks on you.

He tells you about how Okoye beat him to within an inch of his life for attempting to murder her king and manipulate her lover, W’Kabi. He reluctantly admitted he deserved that as you laughed out loud, missing the way his face lit up at your laugh. His voice breaks slightly as he mentions going for therapy, going deep into the jungles to stop poachers, how he had just finished his probation when he heard the news, watching his men disappear.

A diplomat and the acting king for Wakanda, he came here hoping for some change, just anything to take him away from the ashes that haunted him. You would never admit how the bleakness in his eyes matched the ache in your heart…

You stand offering him a place to crash and a mug of peppermint hot chocolate as the sun filters through. He slowly pulls you into his embrace, arms tightening around you, the need to protect you, covet you so strong he doesn’t realise he’s near tears till his voice comes through ragged and raw.

‘Ya know, I expected something better than hugging the hottest woman I’ve ever laid eyes on and getting hot chocolate for baring my soul.’

He stares down at you, a cocky smirk on his face, his eyes shining with unshed tears you wanted to smear with your thumb.

‘You want something better? Here’s my number.’ Scribbling your number on his hand with a ball point pen you found in his jacket, it was like a purse in there. ‘No calls for the next 2-3 days. I don’t put out on the first date.’

Winking at him, you power walked away, heels clacking, telling yourself you wouldn’t look back. Within 2 minutes, you started chuckling, looking at the message from the unknown number flashing on your screen.

‘I’m not waiting 2 days for that ass.’

8 Weeks Later

Your back hit the mattress with a thump, bouncing lightly, giggling as you shifted yourself half upright to see Erik more clearly, the bangles on your wrists clinking softly against each other. His dark eyes glittered in the darkness, the lust stamped on his face hungry as he reached for your ankle, tracing the delicate bone before kneeling on the bed, straddling your knees, holding you down with his weight.

Leaning forward, he kisses his way up the red fabric, the gold accents shining in the moonlight, pausing at your exposed waist. Shifting the material of your sari aside, he took a good look at you, chest heaving against the barely there blouse, your tattoos swirling in intricate patterns around your skin.

Grabbing your wrists, he gently kisses your clenched fists, the metal scarping softly against his lips, smiling at the soft exhale of breath as he pulls you up, deftly untying the strings that held the scraps of lace together, exposing your breasts to him. Pushing you back enough to arch your back, he trails a trail with his tongue over one breast, before pulling the fabric back over your skin, your nipples hard and aching, peeking through the sheer material.

‘Did you enjoy making your King squirm for you? Wrapping me around your little finger, turning me into a jealous clout with just a yard of fabric? Hmm, answer me!’ He slapped you once, the slight sting making you gasp as with another grim smile, he slants his mouth over yours, swallowing the squeak of surprise, his hand tweaking a nipple, the soft scratch of brocade teasing your sensitive skin.

Mewling slightly, you grab his shoulders when he pulls away, trying to pull him down to your lips again, but he shrugs you off, instead kissing a burning trail down your neck, deftly undoing your necklace and draping it on the table beside; over your exposed shoulder before biting down on the firm muscle, his teeth leaving their imprint behind.

Frustrated at Erik’s refusal to kiss you, your hands reach for the lapels of his suit, fumbling to get the buttons undone on his shirt, as he reached to nip at your collarbone, sucking a row of purple bruises along the column, grabbing your hands and pulling them away from his shirt, shaking his head.

‘No baby, not this time. Not after that little stunt you pulled with this outfit…’ His words trail away as he runs a warm possessive hand over your waist, tugging lightly at the thin chain that adorned it, licking his lips slowly as your own heartbeat sped up.

*

Another useless gala dinner with the world leaders; just another unproductive meeting for them to try and reason with the Avengers. They never showed, leaving everything to you and Erik. The situation had worsened as nobody knew what to do with all the empty infrastructure. You had been sent to mediate lest the situation worsened; you wondered since when did a yoga teacher become a certified consultant.

Slowly climbing up the stairs, making sure your golden high heels didn’t catch along the embroidered fabric, you strode towards the foyer, just as Eric stepped in with Okoye nearly barrelling into the Prime Minister of Canada over, as his eyes never left you. The mere sight of you, a vision of gold and red with slight accents of blue; a true goddess. Okoye merely smiled at you, mouthing how beautiful you looked before her sharp eyes swept around, making sure there was no threat as the Prime Minster ogled at you.

His reaction did not go unnoticed by the Warrior King, his mouth tight at the sight of the sari wrapped around your lithe body, your curves accentuated by the small dips and creases in the fabric, your waist enticing any man for a closer look with a simple gold chain adorning it. His chain, the one he asked you to wear for good luck, now made into an object of desire.

Heads turned, jaws went slack as women hissed softly in envy, the sari blouse so daringly cut, it couldn’t even be called a blouse, it was a bikini top, mere scraps of gold lace held together by strings, cupping your breasts softly.

You strolled towards him, unaware of the seductive spell you wove; an extra swing in your hips, your movements almost cat-like, as you came to stand beside him, claiming your place, his hand sliding down your back possessively…

The rest of the night was a blur of sexual tension, stolen touches and awkward adjustments as he discreetly kept adjusting his dress slacks every time you bent down exposing the tattoo on your chest or when you turned around to showcase another one of your inked designs on your back dipping into your waist. Gritting his teeth, he promised retribution for your teasing, his teeth bright against the warm tones of his skin, a dark glint in his eyes.

Pinning your wrists down over your head, he used the strings of your blouse to tie the bangles together, the metal clinking each time you moved, a warning to not bring them down as he bent down to kiss you, slow and passionate, but still ghosting around deep. He begins his assault on your neck again, this time leaving a trail of stinging, red bites down your chest, around your breasts to bite down on your nipple, bringing your body up to an arch.

Keeping one hand below the bangles holding them down, the other hand strips off the fabric off your body, leaving you topless in the petticoat, your stomach quivering as he runs a finger lazily to trace the angelic runes that adorn the soft skin. Your belly goes taut under his touch, breath heaving as you moan for more. The soft cotton clings to your legs as he reaches down and takes his time pulling up the skirt, kissing every inch of freshly exposed skin. His other hand moves to clasp your hand in his, finger entwining as his lips trail your calf, up your knees, to your inner thighs, your arousal soaked through the cotton. You didn’t wear any underwear.

The dark glint returns as his mouth descends up to focus on your breasts again, kissing the aroused flesh, blowing warm air on each pert nipple, a small frown on your face as he refuses to give it the attention its begging for, instead stroking his hands across your exposed belly, the tattoos shining black under the moonlight from the open window.

Slowly, he tugs the petticoat off you, leaving you completely naked save for the belly chain and the bangles on your wrists. ‘Baby, you went without underwear, that’ll require some punishment…’

He smiles into your skin, finally taking a nipple into his mouth, sucking slowly as a single thick digit slides into your wet, swollen folds, his groan reverberating through you. He chuckles wickedly, as you tighten and moan around him, the other hand wrapping around your throat, squeezing.

You buck your hips against his hand. ‘Erik, please…’

‘Hmm?’ He asks innocently, deliberately adding another finger , raising his head to press a kiss to your lips, his mouth watering to taste your tattoos, taste your sweet pussy, the obscene sounds calling for his tongue. He rubs his lips against yours, nipping the bottom lip and biting it down with a soft pull.

His muscular body pulls you up to him, pressed against you, the scars creating their own friction against his clothes, his cock hard against your mound. The sensation sends warmth and lust in dizzying waves through you, pooling to your lower belly. His fingers curl inside you, rubbing against your sweet spot, before pulling them out completely to suck and lick them.

‘So beautiful, so wicked, so sweet, all for me…’

‘Fucking tease…’

He chuckles again darkly, bending down to kiss you again as you gasp against his mouth as he suddenly thrusts both fingers back inside, the other hand leaves your throat to hold the back of your waist, the chain digging into your skin, keeping you still as he slowly finger fucks you.

‘I’m the tease?’ He continues the slow, torturous pace, enjoying the myriad of emotions running through your face, your mouth slightly open in mid-moan, and you look so pretty he can’t help pull you in to kiss you.

‘Perhaps you should have thought of the consequences about wearing bits of cloth as a blouse and this damn sari, mmm, this sari, will be the bane of my existence, and my solace when I’m away from you. Shouldn’t have worn it to the gala. This should have been just for me.’

‘It was a necessary risk. It’s my job to entertain and mediate the delegates.’ You manage to breathe out, his growl making you jump.

‘Perhaps you were being unwise. You will entertain no man but me.’ The smile that now graces his face has a hint of madness, it’s almost evil. He’s no longer Erik, but Killmonger and you understand immediately what makes him so fearsome to his enemies. Crooking his fingers, he twists them, screw driving you, making you cry out as you nearly collide into him, jerking at the pleasure shooting throughout your entire body.

He lets go, watching you fall back on the sheets, your hands clenching at the duvet, almost ripping it to shreds as your orgasm builds up. You sit up, grasping at his suit, pushing it off his shoulders desperately, hands shaking to unbutton his shirt, exposing his body to you.

Killmonger refuses to give in to you, a wicked smirk on his face, instead moving his fingers with more speed, his knuckles hitting to the hilt every time, biting down on the other nipple harshly as your orgasm rocks you, and he removes his fingers, your walls clenching emptily at nothing, as you whine at the loss of contact, disbelief stamped on your face. He slides backwards of the bed, leaving you feeling cold and frustrated.

Quickly shedding off his clothes, standing completely nude at the foot of the bed, devouring you like a carnivore with his eyes. He grasps your ankle and pulls you to him, hard. You nearly fall off the bed straight into his arms, as he bounces you up, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist, the scars rubbing against your heated skin, making you bite your lip.

His hands come down to grab and squeeze your ass, slapping them a few times, knowing how much you love the sting, as he crawls back on to the bed, never leaving you and settling down on his knees. His hands trail all over your body, avoiding where you want them the most, pressing sweet open-mouthed kisses against the purple marks. He bites down on the skin on the other side, leaving angry red marks in its place, claiming you as his.

He pushes his finger back into you, adding another two, the three thick digits creating a soft stretch as he scissors them, swallowing your moans with a heated kiss. Your eyes almost roll back when he his hand wraps around your throat again, squeezing tightly, the air suddenly thin. He removes his fingers from you, spanking your ass hard before circling your clit, feather light. You buck your hips against him, but he merely smiles.

‘You look so pretty when you’re so flustered. Such a doll.’ He grins, kissing the corner of your mouth as you suddenly stiffen, feeling the ghost of cold metal in the place of his warm, calloused hand.

‘You’re such a doll to me. I don’t deserve you…’ Brooklyn accent washing over you as you tip toe up to tangle your hands in chocolate brown locks…

‘Y/N! Look. At. Me. Who am I? Who do you belong to?’ Grasping a handful of your hair, he yanks tightly as you snap back, unable to sink into the attack, his eyes seeking yours desperately.

‘I belong to you. Erik, please.’

‘Say my name!’

‘Please N’Jadaka, fuck me.’

Softly strokes your cheek, nuzzling your ear, pleased. ‘No.’

He changes the angle of his fingers so that they’re thrusting up, causing your orgasm to build again as you forcefully suck in a breath against his hand around your throat. He stills all movement again, you moan pitifully, the pressure bringing tears to your eyes.

Grinning wickedly, a glint in his eyes, he returns his hands back between your legs, the flesh so swollen and wet, it gleams softly against his skin. Removing them to roll a nipple between his fingers instead, as you arch your back against his hand and he takes your other nipple in his mouth.

He sucks lightly, flicking the tongue over the already sensitive, tender bud. You hum and he bites down slightly harder than before, turning your moan into a cry.

You can feel his cock pulsing against you and the anticipation is both killing and making you dizzy with pleasure. You clench your thighs around his waist, urging him but he doesn’t move. He releases your breasts, his mouth coming up to kiss you, the pillowy softness red and bruised as his hand comes down to play with your clit. He rubs it lightly, alternating between quick flicks and pressing against the very sensitive nub.

[djinn-and-djuice]

lo for I have risen from the grave! life has been interesting and challenging as of late, but I’ll spare you the spiel. episode 26 broke my heart, and episode 27 made me cry, and I have little else to say aside from “beau is fun to write”. i am exhausted but i hope you like this fic.(also on ao3)

[contains spoilers for episodes 26 and 27 of campaign two, and alludes heavily to spoilers for the endgame of campaign 1]

vespers

~*~

It's a long walk back to The Landlocked Lady, but there are still things to be done in the wake of that thoroughly upsetting recon mission. Champ, that creep, is working the desk when they get back but thankfully keeps his comments to himself when they pay for two rooms but all file into one.

Keg is sketching out vague blueprints of the Sour Nest with Nila's help, Caleb is still recovering from talking for ten whole minutes back at the Estate Sybaritic, and Nott is naturally glued to his side while he flips vacantly through his spellbook. Aside from the occasional whispers, none of them speak. Beau, meanwhile, can barely focus on anything. The room, already cramped with the five of them packed into it, feels almost claustrophobically small. Every sound, from Keg’s whispering to the scratching of quill against paper, feels like it’s being carved into her eardrums with a chisel. So with as little movement as possible Beau stands, throws her cloak over one arm, and steps out of the room. A quick glance over her shoulder shows her that Nott is the only one to notice her departure. She watches Beau walk out, but doesn't acknowledge her with anything more than a barely-there nod of the head.

It's probably shitty of her, to be walking off alone after everything that's happened and while there’s still so much to do, but if she doesn’t get a breath of fresh air and thirty seconds of silence she is going to crawl out of her fucking skin. Hopefully the obvious presence of her pack left behind conveys that this is just a stroll; that she’ll be careful, that she fully intends to come back.

Like intent means anything these days.

She sniffs, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her cloak as she puts it on in the foyer. The cold weather has been vicious on her sinuses, used as she is to the southern climes of Kamordah and Zadash. Or at least, that's what she tells herself to keep her face stern as she walks through Shady Creek.

This place is an absolute disaster, and Beau has seen some terrible shithole towns and some seedy goddamn underbellies. There’s more than a few people passed out or straight-up dead in the gutter, garbage and food refuse is scattered everywhere, and the whole place smells vaguely of blood and dry rot. It does very little to alleviate her mood, and briefly she wonders if she’s going to feel like this - discontented, like she pulled a muscle in her soul - forever, if this is just her life now. No. That’s bullshit. She’s been through hell before and come out swinging; she can do it again this time. She doesn’t know when she’s gonna come out the other side, but she will. At least she’s not alone this go-round.

She walks a few blocks, but the sights don’t get any less depressing or disheartening. She doesn’t feel quite as penned-in as before, but now that her head is clearer the jagged, rusty edges of the town loom even sharper. With every step she’s further and further convinced that this little walk was a mistake, but something keeps her putting one foot in front of the other. It feels less like she’s running away and more like she’s walking towards something, which makes no fucking sense but feeling like she has some sort of goal is leagues better and she’ll chase that feeling anywhere.

Eventually her feet lead her to a small stone building, set apart from the others. It’s somewhere between a shed and hut in size, made of brick in places and large unworked stones in others, painted a uniform grey. Despite how ramshackle it is, it doesn’t carry the same air that the rest of the buildings in town do. There’s something about it that makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

One step closer becomes two, becomes five, and she sees the metal raven skull set into the door, the bundles of dried flowers set at the doorstep and that feeling suddenly makes sense. This is a temple. The Matron of Ravens is an interesting choice to have in the middle of town, but not necessarily odd.

It takes her a second, however, to realize it's not a temple to the Matron of Ravens. Painted copper coins have been nailed around the doorframe, which Beau only notices when she gets closer, showing that this small building is dedicated to her Champion instead. The coins are precisely spaced, and not a single one is missing, surprisingly. Huh. Apparently there are some things in Shady Creek that are sacred. Or maybe it’s fear of divine reprisal, but either works. Still, that’s a motif that people only use when praying to him, rather than his queen.

Beau knows the folktales, and her connections with the Cobalt Soul means she knows which ones are true. She's heard all about the Champion of the Lost, the guardian of souls, the knight who sits at the Matron’s right hand. While she holds total dominion over death, it is his charge to see the souls of the deceased safely to her embrace. He comforts the recently dead, and prevents them from becoming restless, haunted spirits. Beyond that the information is fuzzy, protected by the higher echelons of the order. She knows how he used to be a mortal servant of the Lady of Fates a couple decades ago, but that’s about it. She doesn’t know when people started worshipping him or why, but there seems to be some substance to it, at least. If nothing answered the prayers, people probably wouldn’t pray anymore. Given who he serves, worship of him isn’t prohibited in the Empire, per se, but it’s not exactly the safest of propositions to have a temple exclusively dedicated to him like this one.

It makes sense, in a weird sort of way. Town like this, there’s probably a lot of people who want to make sure their souls aren’t left to wander.

Pushing the door open to the tinkling of chimes, Beau pokes her head in. There’s no one else in the space, so she steps in and shuts the door behind her. The temple is clean, with a couple of low benches and a small, if well appointed, altar. While there isn’t a whole lot of ambient light to come in through the windows in the first place, what does come through is filtered by gauzy curtains, creating a sense of dusk.

The temple smells of dry stone, smoke, and lavender. Off against the wall she can see a black iron censer and the low glow of the coals inside it. It’s such a small thing, but that gentle herbal scent reminds her so profoundly of Molly that she cracks for the second time in three days, stumbling before the small altar and falling to her knees to cry. The slender statue of a half-elven man with great black wings looks quietly down as the pain bleeds out of her.

Was he there, when Molly passed? The stories said he could fly faster than thought, was he quick enough that Molly didn’t wake up somewhere alone again?

She’s not exactly sure how much time passes, but it’s not too long before her tears have run their course and she pulls herself up to sit heavily on the bench nearest the altar.

“Listen up, you asshole,” she says, pointing an indignant finger at the statue. The figure of the Champion is carved from stone and painted with an almost loving amount of detail. “You look after him, alright? We’re gonna do our damndest to get him back, but you make sure to keep him company for now. He’s obnoxious, but he’s one of the good ones. One of the few really good ones.”

Praying has never been one of her strong suits-she’d never really needed it before the monastery, and the Cobalt Soul was more interested in serving Ioun in deeds than venerating her at all hours.  Maybe calling him an asshole wasn’t the greatest idea, but it’s all she has. The statue is smiling-smirking, more like-so he’s probably the sort of entity to take that kind of talk in stride.

She sets her face in her hands, sighing. “Tell him we miss him,” she says, voice muffled.

There’s no one else in the temple-she checked when she walked in, and the chimes hung from the door have stayed silent, but she feels someone sit down beside her and put an arm over her shoulders. She catches a waft of that rich incense Molly was so fond of, and hears, behind her, the faint sound of creaking leather armor.

The feeling is gone as quickly as it comes, and Beau lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Suddenly the small temple feels barren and unwelcoming. She’s had her moment of quiet, and now the thought of that cramped room is an appealing one. She doesn’t want to be alone now.

She takes some of her last pocket bacon and sets them in the offering dish at the foot of the statue for the Champion. The dead don’t need food, and the gods need it even less, but it feels right.

“Thanks,” she says, and stalls at the door for a moment or so, unsure if there’s anything she’s supposed to be doing, before simply walking away.

She makes her way back through the streets of Shady Creek Run with a keen eye on her surroundings. The only thing she misses is the large black bird that flies behind her, keeping watch the whole way.

[ukdamo]

The Jackdaw of Rheims

Richard Harris Barham - in humorous vein...

THE JACKDAW sat on the Cardinal’s chair!

Bishop and abbot and prior were there;

       Many a monk, and many a friar,

       Many a knight, and many a squire,

With a great many more of lesser degree,— 

In sooth, a goodly company;

And they serv’d the Lord Primate on bended knee.

       Never, I ween,

       Was a prouder seen,

Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,

Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!

       In and out

       Through the motley rout,

That little Jackdaw kept hopping about;

       Here and there

       Like a dog in a fair,

       Over comfits and cates,

       And dishes and plates,

Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall,

Mitre and crosier! he hopp’d upon all!

       With a saucy air,

       He perch’d on the chair

Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat,

In the great Lord Cardinal’s great red hat;

       And he peer’d in the face 

       Of his Lordship’s Grace,

With a satisfied look, as if he would say,

“We two are the greatest folks here to-day!”

       And the priests, with awe,

       As such freaks they saw, 

Said, “The Devil must be in that little Jackdaw!”

The feast was over, the board was clear’d,

The flawns and the custards had all disappear’d,

And six little Singing-boys,—dear little souls!

In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles, 

       Came in order due,

       Two by two,

Marching that grand refectory through.

A nice little boy held a golden ewer,

Emboss’d and fill’d with water, as pure 

As any that flows between Rheims and Namur,

Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch

In a fine golden hand-basin made to match.

Two nice little boys, rather more grown,

Carried lavender-water and eau-de-Cologne;

And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap,

Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope.

       One little boy more

       A napkin bore,

Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink, 

And a Cardinal’s hat mark’d in “permanent ink.”

The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight

Of these nice little boys dress’d all in white:

       From his finger he draws

       His costly turquoise;

And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws,

       Deposits it straight

       By the side of his plate,

While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait;

Till, when nobody’s dreaming of any such thing, 

That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!

       There ’s a cry and a shout,

       And a deuce of a rout,

And nobody seems to know what they ’re about,

But the monks have their pockets all turn’d inside out;

       The friars are kneeling,

       And hunting, and feeling

The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling.

       The Cardinal drew

       Off each plum-color’d shoe, 

And left his red stockings expos’d to the view:

       He peeps, and he feels

       In the toes and the heels;

They turn up the dishes,—they turn up the plates,—

They take up the poker and poke out the grates,

       —They turn up the rugs,

       They examine the mugs:

       But no!—no such thing;

       They can’t find THE RING!

And the Abbot declar’d that, “when nobody twigg’d it,

Some rascal or other had popp’d in and prigg’d it!”

The Cardinal rose with a dignified look,

He call’d for his candle, his bell, and his book:

 In holy anger, and pious grief,

 He solemnly curs’d that rascally thief!

 He curs’d him at board, he curs’d him in bed,

 From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head!

 He curs’d him in sleeping, that every night

 He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright;

 He curs’d him in eating, he curs’d him in drinking, 

 He curs’d him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking;

 He curs’d him in sitting, in standing, in lying;

 He curs’d him in walking, in riding, in flying;

 He curs’d him in living, he curs’d him in dying!

Never was heard such a terrible curse! 

       But what gave rise

       To no little surprise,

Nobody seem’d one penny the worse!

       The day was gone,

       The night came on,

The monks and the friars they search’d till dawn;

       When the sacristan saw,

       On crumpled claw,

Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw.

       No longer gay, 

       As on yesterday;

His feathers all seem’d to be turn’d the wrong way;

His pinions droop’d—he could hardly stand,

His head was as bald as the palm of your hand;

       His eye so dim,

       So wasted each limb,

That, heedless of grammar, they all cried,

       “THAT ’S HIM!

That ’s the scamp that has done this scandalous thing!

That ’s the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal’s Ring!” 

       The poor little Jackdaw,

       When the monks he saw,

Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw;

And turn’d his bald head, as much as to say,

“Pray, be so good as to walk this way!”

       Slower and slower

       He limp’d on before,

Till they came to the back of the belfry-door,

       Where the first thing they saw,

       Midst the sticks and the straw, 

Was the RING, in the nest of that little Jackdaw.

Then the great Lord Cardinal call’d for his book,

And off that terrible curse he took;

       The mute expression

       Serv’d in lieu of confession,

And, being thus coupled with full restitution,

The Jackdaw got plenary absolution!

       —When those words were heard,

       That poor little bird

Was so changed in a moment, ’t was really absurd. 

       He grew sleek and fat;

       In addition to that,

A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat.

       His tail waggled more

       Even than before;

But no longer it wagg’d with an impudent air,

No longer he perch’d on the Cardinal’s chair.

       He hopp’d now about

       With a gait devout;

At matins, at vespers, he never was out;

And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,

He always seem’d telling the Confessor’s beads.

If any one lied, or if any one swore,

Or slumber’d in pray’r-time and happen’d to snore,

       That good Jackdaw

       Would give a great “Caw!”

As much as to say, “Don’t do so any more!”

While many remark’d, as his manners they saw,

That they “never had known such a pious Jackdaw!”

       He long liv’d the pride

       Of that country side,

And at last in the odor of sanctity died;

       When, as words were too faint

       His merits to paint,

The Conclave determin’d to make him a Saint;

And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know,

It ’s the custom, at Rome, new names to bestow,

So they canoniz’d him by the name of Gem Crow!

[houseofswordsnovel]

Chapter One: Second First Impression

The lights were dimmed. The stage, set. And this? This wasn’t the play that Ash remembered.

Who was he, this man who stood where Beckett once did? He wore a spotlight halo, but he wasn’t the star of the show. About his feet, actors bright with sequins and glitter danced through the fog. Sailors, soldiers, creatures of the sea—all together in time to the verse and the strings of a guitar that had never been played. They just mimed to the speakers, now, like the characters they replaced.

Maybe he was just being childish, but the robots were more convincing.

There was one last animatronic whose appearance was yet to come, though, and he hadn’t given up on her. Not yet. His last hope might be a vain one, but he liked to be optimistic. Was that childish, too?

“At length did cross an albatross…”

Yes, this was it, this was the part! Ash knew better than to hold his breath now, but he still looked up. He still watched, and waited, the same way he did all those years ago. The ceiling was painted black to hide the tracks, but even now he could pick out the circle she would have followed.

“Through the fog it came,

As if it had been a Christian soul, we hailed it in God’s name.”

And there she was, exactly as he remembered. From out of the smoke, a ghost, silent but for the swell of the orchestra. So close that if he could reach just a little higher, her wings might brush the tips of his fingers… and then she sailed on by, and the actors, the man pretending to play his guitar, never spared her a second glance. To them, there was no magic to any of this at all. Just another day at work, another prerecorded musical number, and a cheque in the bank at the end of the week.

Would he, too, stop watching for her as she passed?

“Getting acquainted with your coworkers, I see.”

Ash squawked—loose pages scattered from his arms. “S-sorry, I didn’t know you were—”

“No, no, let me—”

He scrambled after them, cheeks burning, but the damage was done. Great. He hadn’t even clocked in for his first shift and he was already embarrassing himself…

The man knelt, too, with the grimace of someone who knew this would come back to bite him later, but he waved off all protest as he retrieved the nearest sheets. “It’s fine—I don’t know how many times I’ve been told not to sneak up behind people,” he said, his voice quiet, composed. Warm, like his eyes. The lines beneath them creased upwards in a carefully pleasant smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Ash collected his notes in silence, dodging glances in the pattern on the carpet. They prickled at his back, waiting for him to say something. Like what? Sorry? He’d done that. But a glance of his own strayed to the man’s bad leg, to the way his nails dug into his knee. He knew better than to say anything, but… he stood and offered a hand, and for a moment that felt like forever, the man just… looked at it. It was with an odd mix of shame and gratitude on his features that he took it and pulled himself to his feet.

“You must be our new engineer.” He ran a hand through his hair for what probably wasn’t the first time that day. Maybe that morning he was the sort of person to be concerned about his appearance, and he still made an effort to straighten out his pant legs now, but it didn’t take a bird keeper to spot a few ruffled feathers. “I’d shake your hand,” he added, his lip curling, “but I think you’ve done that already.”

“What gave me away—the lurking, or, uh, the screaming?”

A hint of mirth folded the smile into one that looked genuine and he held up his half of the wad of notes. There, on the very first page, Ash’s scribbles of all the moving parts he could see from the balcony. “I believe these are yours,” he said, handing them back, neat and in order. “Maybe a notebook would be a good investment?”

“My birds like to eat binder glue.”

“I see. Well, it’s nice to meet you in person, Mr. Fletcher. I’m Eric Nye, the manager here.”

… Oh.

“I-uh, nice to meet you too, sir.” Ash stuck out his hand, remembered they’d done that part too, and, not knowing what else to do with it, busied himself stuffing his notes back into his satchel.

But Mr. Nye only nodded at the stage below. “Is it what you were hoping for?”

That was… a strange way to ask what he thought. Ash, frowning, stepped up to the railing. It wasn’t as if he’d get in the way; there was no one else up here. “It’s smaller than I thought it would be,” he admitted. No, not smaller. If there was one thing he expected, it was for some unseen piece of him to fall back into place—instead, it felt as though something was taken away. When did they replace the painted backdrops with footage from a projector? The huge set pieces, the animatronics, the character who used to play the organ? And Beckett…

“Childhood does have a way of making everything seem larger than life, doesn’t it? But…” Something changed then in Nye’s smile, his eyes. As if he, too, gazed down on a half-remembered stage that he could never bring back, but never quite let go. How many years had he worked here? Five, ten?

Whatever it was he meant to say, he never did, and maybe that was for the best. “It’s probably not the show you’re here for—I imagine you want to see your new toys.”

Ash never said anything about coming here as a child, and wasn’t sure he liked being read. His hands tightened around the railing. Was it that obvious? “I’ve seen projectors and fog machines before.”

However many years, the manager had been here long enough to know how to deflect the questions he didn’t want to answer—but he still laughed. “Well, lucky for you that’s not all there is to look at. But you don’t have to take my word for it; how about a tour before you start?” He tilted his head, his smile crooked. “It’s on the house.”

Parry and riposte. “That sounds good,” Ash said, masking the disappointment in his voice. He had to grow up at some point, and now seemed as good a time as any. And, whether or not he wanted to admit it, what was left was still cool. He liked the costumes, and the raising platform still worked, and the seagulls sang on the reef in front of the stage, as they always had.

This was… fine. After all, Nye was right. He wasn’t here for the show.

“In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, it perched for vespers nine,

Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, glimmered the white moonshine.”

And she was still here. His eyes strayed once more to the albatross, in time to catch her shadow against the lights as she passed, but this time something was wrong. Something in the tilt of her wings, like arms held out for balance, up, down, tipping over the edge…

“God save thee, ancient mariner, from the fiends that plague thee thus! Why look’st thou so?”

… And falling.

Screaming. Metal against metal, the kind that raked over his skin like a rusted knife. The sound of breaking, tearing—he shivered, unable to find rhyme or reason to why it cut him through to the bone. Why his heart lurched when she did, and why, when she kicked and thrashed on her noose above, those glass eyes stared back into his own. Then someone cut the breaker and the light in them went out.

And just like that, there was no albatross. Just a broken machine with glued on feathers, hanging limply from a mechanical arm. Ash winced as the PA system crackled with feedback overhead.

“Louise to stage one.”

Nye’s mouth formed the shapes of curses in the half-light, but to his credit, he only said the mildest of them as he pushed away from the balcony. “Damn it—I guess that’s our cue, I’m afraid we’ll have to take a raincheck on the tour.”

Out of the kiddie pool and straight into the sea; he’d find out soon enough whether he’d sink or swim. With one last glance behind him, Ash followed him down the rows of seats.

Mr. Nye clicked the rope into place behind them at the top of the staircase. “Any idea where Louise is?” He said into his handset, though from the look on his face, he already knew the answer.

“Yelling at Johnson,” came the response, fuzzy with static and unseen mirth.

His lips thinned, carving the lines of his face deeper. “I thought as much. Thanks, Corbin.”

Did he have any intention of telling him who, exactly, Louise was? Or Corbin for that matter? Would he get a cool walkie-talkie too? Ash buzzed with a thousand questions, but voiced none of them. Most would have answers in due time, and the ones that wouldn’t… well, he had a feeling he wouldn’t get them from Nye. “Are we going to the stage too?” He asked as he fell into step behind him, down the crooked stairs. Every last one of them creaked. How old was this place, beneath the paint and plastering, the manufactured history? Was it a theatre then, too, before it was stripped down, built up, and rebranded as the Crucible?

It was… funny, renovating a building just to make it look old again. But it felt right, like a return to its roots, the way he did when he came here.

“Hm, after a small detour,” came Nye’s response as Ash leaned over the banister, watching people abandon their seats in search of snacks. The curtain was closed, shrouding in black all but the seagulls—Roger, Dodger, and Doohickey—while they filled in the unscheduled break. He’d seen this one often enough to know all the words but a small part of him still wanted to stay and watch. Or maybe he just wanted to delay the inevitable; more coworkers meant more handshakes, and he’d had enough of those for one day.

“Yer pullin’ me leg! Both’o ye landlubbers know I sing the best shanties—and our mateys in the audience agree!”

“... I don’t hear any clapping.”

“They don’t need to clap to agree, I haven’t started singin’ yet!”

“Well, why don’t we make it a contest? But don’t cry fowl if you lose!”

… Never mind, he’d forgotten how bad the jokes were.

The ‘detour’ turned out to be the manager’s office, tucked away in a corner of the second floor mean strictly for business. Past the double doors marked ‘staff only’, wood gave way to warm neutrals, steel-legged chairs, and one of those plants that only seem to grow in waiting rooms. It was the kind of place Ash might not have found without the raised voices echoing down the corridor to point the way. And with every step closer, they only grew louder.

“He’s just a boy! How can you expect him to handle this?”

Ash ducked his head—they were talking about him.

“Eric seems to think he’s perfectly capable.”

“Who’s in charge of the fuckin’ gear, me or him? You know that ain’t what this is about!”

“Oh for—what happened to Jones was an accident, and it won’t happen again. You’ll have to deal with him now whether you want to or not—we can’t cover this place for the whole year with just the two of you and people aren’t queueing for the position any more.”

“Gee, I wonder why! So when are you planning to tell him?”

Nye shot him a look that was equal parts sympathy and embarrassment as he rapped his knuckles on his own door. ‘Manager’ was spelt out there in brass letters, though someone had prefixed it with ‘micro’ written on a sticky note. “Louise? We have a problem.”

“Yeah? Well tell me something I don’t know, I’m busy—”

“Louise, can you please come to stage one?”

“Oh for fuck’s—alright, alright, I’m coming!”

The door burst open, missing Nye by an inch, and the woman who stood there was taller even than him—tall enough that her shock of pink hair brushed the frame. Her coveralls were shoved down to her waist, sleeves hanging loose, as if she had to stop right in the middle of her work. Was it normal for people to have to rush backwards and forwards here?

“The hellevator again?” She snapped.

“The albatross.”

“Shit.” She didn’t wait to hear the verdict, shouldering her way past him without so much as a second glance. “Shit, shit.”

Ash could tell that she saw him, that she knew exactly who he was, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes as she passed him in the corridor. The silence she left behind was deafening.

And that was that. Nye shot a steely look at the man still sitting there at his desk—given that no one else here was wearing a three piece suit, the man in charge—whose only response was to shuffle papers and pretend to be busy. It was with a firm grip that he steered Ash by the shoulder back the way they came, until the doors swung shut and sealed that world, the real world, behind them.

He let out the breath he’d been holding. “Who was that?”

“Pascal, the owner. He leaves most of the decisions to me, but we’re all on his payrolls,” said Nye, grimly. Whatever he was thinking, he masked it well. “I’m… sorry you had to hear all that. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

It was obvious that he didn’t quite believe him, because he held his gaze for a long time before he finally said, “don’t judge her too harshly, she just doesn’t want you to get hurt.”

Well, she was a bit late for that. But his feelings were only bruised, and… he’d get over it soon enough. “We’d better go,” he said, turning away.

They ducked glances from patrons in the lobby on their way down the grand staircase. Most had gathered around the booth built into its feet, to complain, to buy popcorn, both—there was no avoiding them. Ash tucked his arms in close and tried to look as uninteresting as possible in Mr Nye’s shadow, but the tap of his shoes on each step still echoed, and eyes still prickled at his skin. To one side of the staircase, staff rushed to and from another pair of those double doors, banging open and closed, closed and open and closed again. Bang, bang, bang. The knot in his stomach tightened—no wonder people were staring. “Is it always like this?”

Nye mulled over a diplomatic answer, only to fall back on the dry humour that, by now, was either his trademark or last line of defence. “Well, working here does keep you fit.”

“We got fifteen minutes to get this show back up and running,” Louise was saying as they stepped out onto the stage. “If ya’ll just gonna stand around, then stay out of the way—and you.” She snapped a finger at the guitar guy, who was loitering, hands in pockets, by what was apparently called the ‘hellevator’. While flush with the rest of the stage, the striped tape marking its boundary was clear to see. “What’s the rule?”

“If it ain’t fine, stay back from the line,” he echoed, sullenly, and shuffled away until he was out of the danger zone. “Yeah, I get it already.”

Appeased, Louise moved on, down the ramp and off stage left—or was it right?—to where a man peered out through the wing access door. “What’s the damage?”

“Looks like she came off her track,” he replied, opening it just a little further to allow her a glimpse without drawing any attention. “All the way over there, too. Man, that’s going to be a pain.”

In all the commotion, Ash wasn’t sure if he was invisible or just being ignored, but he planned to take advantage of it while it lasted. Neither noticed as he edged around behind them and peered up over their shoulders. Yes—there! He could see it, one pair of castors hanging off over the edge. A little nudge, and the third rail that supplied power would be the only thing holding her up. He didn’t even want to think about the thousands of dollars that would cost to fix. Why an I-beam? Why not an enclosed track? Then at least there would be no risk of the whole animatronic falling off the ceiling.

Even so, machines didn’t break for no reason. There was a large bolt missing from the side of the arm—when that came loose, all that weight swung like a pendulum and wrenched the wheels right out of the rail. So where did it fall?

“We’ll have to go up into the scaffolding. Where’d you put the harnesses?”

“Back on the hooks… uh, last I checked.”

“And when did you last check?”

“Is there anything we can do?” Nye offered from the top of the ramp, and Ash jumped back to avoid two pairs of elbows as the technicians swung around—now he understood why the manager stayed well out of melee range. Their eyes snapped to him for a moment, but he saw no hate or even anger there. Just… unease.

“I dunno, take him for coffee or something!” Louise bared her teeth, but her growl cracked around the words. “Last thing I need is you breathin’ down my neck!”

“I—that’s—” He looked like he wanted to argue, but he knew when he’d been overruled, and it was with the thinnest, palest sliver of a smile that he turned to Ash. “No, she’s right. Come on, we’d better get out from under their feet, there’s a place just across the road that’s nice—Ash?”

But he was already shouldering his way past them, out into the auditorium.

Under cover of Dodger’s rendition of ‘General Taylor’, no one saw him slip into the shadows between the wall and seating. That gave him a head start, but he was still looking for a needle in a theatre-sized haystack, and without narrowing down the search area there was no hope of ever finding it. But it was out there, somewhere, waiting to tell him what went wrong and how he could fix it. Okay, he could do this… just breathe in, breathe out, and go.

Right, he was on the balcony… and he would’ve noticed a bolt bigger than his thumb landing nearby. It couldn’t have hit anyone, either—there’d be an ambulance here already.

It was on the stairs, somewhere towards the back. It had to be.

There was no use pretending to be just another member of the audience when they could all see the light from his phone, but he tried not to think about those who might find his antics more interesting than the skit. He checked and checked again every step along the rows, every nook and cranny, higher, higher, until he was four rows from the back wall. And as if they were waiting for this moment, as if they knew exactly where to go, his fingers closed around something in the shadows.

The light picked out the glint of metal.

“Next time,” Louise growled through her teeth as she hauled him back through the door and slammed it behind him, “tell me before you go runnin’ off! The hell d’you think you were doing?”

Ash held out the bolt in silence. In the long pause that followed, he watched her face go through all the stages of frustration, confusion, disbelief. And, finally, understanding. “The thread’s stripped,” he said, placing it into her hand. It was unusually heavy for a bolt, and warm to the touch. And a shape he’d never seen before, too; short, wide, and the nut that came with it wasn’t machined all the way through, as though it were meant to fit on the end like a cap. It was made specifically for the albatross rig, he realised with a sinking in his heart that could only be dread. “Do you have spares?”

The look in her eyes said ‘no’ long before the words were out of her mouth. “That’s… the last one,” she admitted, the gears already turning behind her grimace. “Think it can go for one more day?”

Ash bit his lip. “I think so.”

“Great, ‘cause I might be able to get hold of a die to rethread it, but it’s gotta hold ‘til then—fuck’s sake, Joel, where are those harnesses?”

“Found ‘em!” The blonde man emerged from around the corner, grinning in victory.

“Right, let’s head upstairs. Better get her into the aviary for a checkup before we send her back out there.”

While Ash wasn’t invited, they didn’t say he couldn’t tag along. He stayed at the man’s heels, up the rickety little set of metal stairs, pausing only to peer out over the rails of the catwalk. All his life, he’d only been on this side of the audience once—and that was while wearing a graduation cap. If he craned his neck a little he could glimpse the reef from above. It felt… strange, like he was seeing something he shouldn’t, and any moment now someone would come along and shoo him away.

“Do I look like I’d fit in that? Why do we even have a small, ain’t none of us—” Louise stopped, then turned, eyeing Ash’s smaller frame like a part at a chop shop. It hadn’t occurred to him until then that she could snap him in half and use him as a toothpick if she wanted to, but he wished he could un-think it as she held the harness against him to check its fit. “Say, you afraid of heights?”

“No,” he answered, truthfully, though he already knew where this was going.

“Then put that on, fast. You ever done this before?”

“... No.”

“It’s easy. These two bits go over your shoulders—like that. And these loops are for your legs, ‘cause you really don’t wanna be hangin’ by just your shoulders if you fall off.”

“... Am I supposed to get special training for this?”

“This is your special training.” She fussed over the straps until she was sure they fit exactly as they should, then pressed one last piece into his hand. “That’s your inertia reel, and if I see you take even one step without hooking it up to the scaffolding first, it ain’t the fall you gotta worry about. Am I clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Good—meet you back in the aviary,” she said to the man—Joel—who flashed a thumbs up back over his shoulder on his way around the catwalk.

… Was it just him, or was all this a little too convenient?

The ladder creaked when Louise tested her weight. Did she trust any of the equipment here? But there was a time and a place for that question, and this probably wasn’t it. Ash followed, clipping his reel to the bars as he stepped out onto the edge of the knife. One foot in front of the other… it was just like walking on a wall, really. Scaffolding cobwebbed the auditorium from end to end, into all the darkest corners, and there, caught in its threads, was the albatross. Her eyes followed him with every step closer.

“You’re a natural at this,” Louise called back to him over the thump of music. “Now head round to the other side, I’m gonna need you to hold the rig steady while I screw this back in.”

Ash did as he was told, shimmying along until he circled around to the bird’s flank. She hung there on nothing but hopes and dreams and two little wheels, swaying ever so slightly with the flex of the beams under their weight. If he fell now, would he take her down with him? Carefully, carefully, he edged closer, close enough to reach for the base of the rig—

The albatross swung, and he grabbed for it just as Louise caught hold of the lower half.

“Sweet Jesus in a manger,” she breathed, just that little bit paler than she was before. “Right, hold her there and don’t let her fall.”

Easier said than done. The trolley was heavier than he expected—what on earth was this animatronic made out of? Rebar?—and it was an awkward angle to lift from while squatting on a beam. Nye got one thing right—he wouldn’t need a gym membership. “Next time,” he hissed while she pulled the arm back into place and lined up the holes, “maybe a couple of bungee cords to hold her up? Just an idea.”

“Hindsight’s a wonderful thing, ain’t it? Other than the couple a’ times she got stuck runnin’ over a mouse, we don’t work on her out here.”

… Gross.

Ash breathed out a sigh of relief once she fed the bolt through its hole and screwed the cap back on—he couldn’t even name the muscles that were going to hurt tomorrow. Even with most of the lights off, it was stuffy up here, and the smell of hot dust and metal scratched at his throat. “Did it work?”

She grunted, and he chose to take that as a yes. “Right, time to break out a sweat. We’re gonna lift and push her back onto the track. I’ll lift, you push, ‘kay?”

But—he was already sweating! “Okay,” he said, with less enthusiasm than he planned, though glad at least that he didn’t get the lifting part. “On three?”

Or not. She heaved the rig up into position and he could’ve sworn his feet left the scaffolding in the split second that he went with it. Damn, she was strong. Scrabbling for a better foothold, he threw all his body weight into forcing it back, bit by painful bit. But if it came out, it could go back in, and together they levered it over the lip of the rail and back into place.

Louise shook it a couple of times, just to be sure, but she knew as well as he did—they were done.

Well, he’d passed the test. It… felt like less of a victory than he’d hoped. Maybe it was gut feeling. Maybe it was the resignation in her eyes, like she’d done all this before. Like the whole ordeal was just another scene acted out on stage, and he’d played his part—but someone else wrote it. He was starting to wonder if he really believed in coincidences.

… In his childhood, he would’ve given anything, anything, for the chance to be here. Without thinking, he reached out to brush the tips of his fingers over snowy white feathers.

“Don’t touch her!”

Ash snatched his hand back, and for the briefest moment he saw a flicker of life in that glassy stare.

“We’re clear,” Louise said into her handset, eyes flashing at him dangerously—he took that as a cue to back up and give the old bird room to spread her wings. “Get the power on, we’ll see if she comes home to roost on her own.”

Like some Frankenstein creature wrought piecemeal from the dead, the albatross stirred into movement with a shudder of bones and breath. Her ribcage flexed as those wings began to beat, and he could almost imagine that a heart did, too, a pair of lungs. And with the flick of another unseen switch, she sailed away.

End scene, exit stage left.

… Maybe it was just the play messing with his head. Dad… would read the Rime to him on stormy nights, with a flashlight and blanket fort, and a ‘mystical tome’ made from an old road atlas and papier-mâché, and he’d go to bed dreaming of whispered promises.

Now, he had a few of his own to keep.

Metal creaked behind him. There was no sneaking up here, and he knew when he was being watched—he could feel it. Was it too much to ask for a moment to catch his breath?

“Yeah,” he sighed, glancing back, “I’m coming, just give me a sec—”

He perched there, no harness, no shoes, looking back at him with those eyes that always lit up when he smiled, just like he remembered. He remembered, too, the unspoken mischief when it went all crooked like that. That little smile said more than words could when he held up the missing harness. The large one.

“You ready?” Louise called from where she picked her way across the scaffolding. “Can’t start the show without ya.”

Couldn’t she see…? No, no! He couldn’t have imagined it—he was right there!

But when Ash glanced back over his shoulder, he was alone.

“Uh, you okay kid? You look like you just seen a ghost.”

[orthodoxydaily]

THE RICH YOUNG RULER Luke 18: 18-27

 Fr. Basil Rhode with another angle to the story 

THOSE who believe that Jesus, our Lord and Master, is also the Word of God and Second Person of the Holy Trinity, can’t help but approach Him with a certain sense of fear and awe. We don’t speak to Him in a common, pedestrian way. We don’t pray to Him using language like He’s our “good buddy.” Our Orthodox Church teaches us to pray using elevated language, precise, God-pleasing vocabulary, offered with an extremely humble demeanor. Last night, at Vespers, we heard these words extolling the virtues of the Prophet Zephaniah: “we honour thee for having the eloquence of God, being honourable and pleasing to Him.” Eloquence. This is how the holy Fathers wrote the prayers in the Prayer Book. This is how the saints composed the Divine Services. This is how David, the prophet and King, wrote the Psalter. We speak to the Saviour as the God Who created us, as the God Who is everywhere present and filling all things, as the Lord and God Who “searches every heart and understands every desire and every thought” (1 Chronicles 28:9). But in general, in first century Palestine, the religious and political leaders were not inclined to regard Jesus as anything at all. They did not see God when they looked at Him. They didn’t even see a holy man. St. Cyril of Alexandria says, “for they, with their princes and teachers were in error, and saw not with the eyes of their mind the glory of Christ. Rather they looked upon Him as one like unto us: as a mere man” (Sermon CXXII on Luke). That was certainly the case with the rich ruler of the synagogue whom we encounter in today’s Gospel. How does he address Jesus? Does he address Him with eloquence? Does he address Him with lofty words, honorable and pleasing to God? Not at all! He calls Him “good teacher.” Not “rabbi,” not “Master.” Just “good teacher.” Good grief, even the “good teachers” of today would rather be thought of or spoken of as “educators” not merely “teachers.” The object of the rich religious leader this morning was to trip-up Jesus in His words. I want us, this morning, to think about our words, to think about the words of our prayer – the way we pray, and the way that we think about our Lord Jesus Christ when we pray. First of all, let me say that prayer is vital to our life in Christ. St. Theophan the Recluse says: “There is nothing more important than prayer; therefore, our greatest attention and most diligent attention must attend it.” All of us should learn to pray and continue to pray using three primary texts: 1.) The “Our Father” 2.) The Jesus Prayer or Prayer of the Heart, and 3.) The Prayer Book. The Lord Himself taught us the first two. And the Holy Church, the Body of Christ, the God-pleasing and Spirit-filled Saints, have given us the third. These are our primers, our lessons in prayer. No one can be a disciple of Christ, a student of Christ, without first learning these basic lessons. They teach us everything about Who Christ is and who we are. They teach us the language, the vocabulary of piety. They instruct us in the path to the acquisition of the virtues. They are the fundamental building-blocks of the spiritual life and the practice living theology. We must use them. We must be taught by them, moulded by them, perfected by them. And part two of my little instruction about how we speak to Jesus, how we should pray, is about our hearts. If our hearts are not connected to the words of our prayers, then we can also be sure that we are not connected to God at all. Remember the story of the Publican and the Pharisee? The broken-hearted prayer of the Publican went straight up to God, while the arrogant prayer of the Pharisee clanked right back down on his own head! Why? Because the Pharisee “prayed with himself” which means he said the words, but he wasn’t really talking to God (see Luke 18:11).  His heart was not in his prayer. Again, St. Theophan says: “Always strive to pray...so that prayer comes from the heart and is not just thought by the mind and chattered by the tongue.” And St. John of Kronstadt wrote: “The chief thing in prayer is the nearness of the heart to God.” Real prayer must be connected prayer. Simply reading or reciting something religious isn’t prayer. Again, St Theophan tells us: “(True) prayer is the piercing of our hearts by pious feelings towards God, one after another – feelings of humility, submission, gratitude, doxology, forgiveness, heart-felt prostrations, brokenness, conformity to the will of God, etc. All of our effort should be directed so that during our prayers, these feelings (and feelings like them) should fill our souls, so that the heart would not be empty when the lips are reading the prayers, or when the ears hear and the body bows in prostrations, but that there would be some qualitative feeling, some striving toward God. When these feelings are present, our praying is prayer, and when they are absent, it is not yet prayer.” St. Gregory of Nyssa speaks of prayer as a sense of presence. It is an awareness of the presence of God. Prayer is the experience of God in me and me in God. It’s not something that I do, but an experience of God that I enter into. The late and ever-memorable Metropolitan Anthony Bloom once wrote that “Prayer is the search for God, an encounter with God, and going beyond this - an encounter in communion. Thus it is an activity, a state and also a situation; a situation both with respect to God and to the created world. Prayer is born of the discovery that the world has depths--that we are not only surrounded by visible things but that we are also immersed in and penetrated by invisible things. And this invisible world is both the presence of God, the supreme, sublime reality, and our own deepest truth." Dear ones, let us love God, honour God, and show our faith in God by the way that we pray and by the frequency of our prayer. Let us strive to make sure that every word of our prayer comes from the heart, and isn’t simply a mental exercise or a duty to be completed. When we pray, let’s endeavour to actually be in the presence of God, believing that He is really listening. To Him who gladdens kings, prophets and priests, Who created His own Mother, Who summoned Magi from the East, Who appointed an angel to shine as a bright guiding Star,  Christ our true God, be all glory, honour and worship, always now and ever and unto ages of ages. Amen.

[skyskip]

A Lalafell’s Tale, Part 3: A True Samurai

[Part 1] [Part 2]

((An apology for anyone actually following this. The tale is growing longer with the telling, and whatnot. One more chapter left after this, I swear.))

After scouring the surrounding areas of the Goblet, Kip realized that more time had passed during his little fever dream than he initially anticipated. There was no sign of Sasajiri anywhere, it would seem, and the the moon had started to move closer towards the horizon upon further inspection. He would need to set out on the road if he was going to have any hope of catching up to the little old samurai. After making a quick stop at the stables to hop on his chocobo, the Lalafell was off to the races as the pair blasted through the chilly dunes under the starlight.

Despite how late it was, Thanalan was always home to traveling merchants making their way to and from Ul’dah. That, combined with how distinct Sasajiri’s clothes and weapon were, made it a simple matter for Kip to follow the trail of merchants that the man had left in his wake to get directions as to where he had gone. This would inevitably culminate in Kip narrowly arriving in Vesper Bay just as the silver-haired samurai was boarding the last ferry of the night. With a skip, hop, and narrow toss of gil towards the man in charge of the ferry, Kip and his chocobo would only barely make the boat as it left port.

“Sasajiri!” Kip called out to the man, who was just about to descend into the lower levels of the ship. The elder twisted his neck swiftly after being called, his hand falling to the hilt of his blade until he saw the blonde Lalafell hop off his chocobo to approach him. “Sasajiri.” Kip began. “I’m sorry for...er...sneaking up on you like this, but we can’t part ways yet! You know what happened to my grandfather. I need you to tell me. I need to know if he’s still alive. Please.”

Sasajiri’s hardened gaze would squint at Kip pleaded, his thoughts unknowable even as his hand dropped from the hilt of his blade. After a few moments of silence, the man would let a grunt of displeasure escape his lips. “You know not what you ask, Skyskip.”

“Can we please talk without the cryptic speak?” Kip asked as nicely as he could, trying to disguise how frustrated he was getting with all these old samurai. “I’m not a child, you know? I’m turning 27 years old for gods sake!” He’d protest, which seemed to be enough to cause Sasajiri to sigh and turn his eyes upwards to the starry night sky. He would leave Kip in suspense for almost a full minute before responding.

“Very well.” The elder relented. “I will take you to him.”

“Truly?” Kip asked, stars in his hopeful eyes as a smile appeared on his lips.

“Yes. I do not think it wise, but you are an adult, as you said. If this is truly what you wish, I will oblige you. But do not forget that this was the path you chose on your own.”

“Gah...again with the cryptic stuff…” Kip muttered, but did not press the topic, shoving his hands in his pockets a little indignantly.

“Heh…” Sasajiri snickered for a moment, before returning to his previous stoic expression. “When the ferry lands in Limsa we will begin our journey. We should arrive before dawn. Steel yourself.”

Steel yourself. Kip wasn’t exactly sure how to go about doing that, and he pondered it the entire journey as Sasajiri lead him through what felt like all of La Noscea, staying close to the roads all the while to avoid any wild creatures or bandits that might have been stalking the area. The two Lalafell were pretty safe, if only due to the rather unnerving aura that surrounded the elder man. Short as he was, he was not someone to be trifled with, and even Kip knew that despite being able to lock down his katana swipes earlier. In retrospect, perhaps he shouldn’t be putting as much faith and trust into this man he just met. There was no telling what his true motives were, but Kip had to assume he really knew his grandfather, or at least met him once. How else would he have been able to get his hands on his soul crystal?

“We’re here.”

Just as the blonde was having second thoughts his mind would be broken from it’s contemplative stupor when Sasajiri announced their arrival. Kip blinked a few times, before looking about. It would appear that the elder had lead the younger Lalafell to what appeared to be a waterfall that rolled off into a small stream that fell into the ocean below. Even in the darkness Kip could recognize that this place was near the old fisher village that he called home as a child. As a matter of fact, he distinctly recalled his grandfather forbidding him from going out this far, yet he was never told why.

“I know this place.”

“Hm. I imagine you would.” Sasajiri mused as he took a few steps towards the waterfall, gazing into the steam of water that fell from above for a few moments before speaking softly. “Beyond this wall of water is a small cave. There you will find what you seek.”

“...you’re not going to come with me?” Kip tilted his head, feeling a little concerned at this point. He just couldn’t get a read on this guy.

Sasajiri sucked in a breath as he shook his head. “No...my path sent me here long ago. I dare not return again. If you are so determined to continue down this path, you will do it alone.”

Kip’s fists clenched as his nerves were acting up. He stepped into the rushing stream that came up to his knees, staring straight into the wall of water separating him from the cave. Now more than ever did he feel a sense of existential dread that he could not place. It was almost as though a presence lingered beyond the falls, attempting to dissuade him from entering beyond the threshold. Yet, despite how desperately he might have wanted to run from the terror building in his belly he knew he could not turn his back here. After inhaling a breath, Kip closed his eyes while taking a few steps forward to finally cross the threshold into the cave.

The water drenched him, taking his breath away with it’s frigid chill as a shiver ran down the Lalafell’s spine. His eyes closed tight until he took enough steps into the cave for the water to fall away, leaving him damp and alone within the cave. The only illumination provided was the moonlight piercing the veil of water, casting Kip’s shadow forward over a figure slumped over in the darkness, away from the moon’s embrace. “G-grandfather?” Kip’s voice came out in a whisper, one laced in fear of the unknown. No answer. Kip took another step forward and repeated the name again with slightly more confidence. “Grandfather?”

No answer once more. Kip continued to approach until he could recognize that the slumped forward figure was wearing a familiar haori that his grandfather always wore. Something was odd about it though. From what he could tell something was poking against the back of it from the inside. “Grandfather? It’s me, Ki- ow!” He had reached forward to pat what he assumed was the man on his back, only to be rewarded with a sharp pain stabbing into his palm. Kip quickly recoiled, nearly slipping on the damp rock floors as he knocked the slumped over figure into the beam of moonlight to reveal it’s form.

What lay before Kip was a skeleton clad in his grandfather’s battered haori, his skull clearly detached from the space between his shoulders and his bloodstained katana falling from the space between his ribs and hips and clattering on the ground beneath him. With the skeleton having fallen to the wayside, Kip was able to glance down towards the rounded jingasa laying upside down on the stone. Inside was a similarly upside down skull seemingly gazing back up at Kip’s shaken form, absolutely paralyzing the Lalafell before the realization of what had come to pass had overwhelmed him. His legs gave out and he fell to his knees as his hands shook as his stomach coiled into knots. He could not form words or any coherent thoughts. All he could do now was scoop up the jingasa and hold it to his chest as he cried his eyes out for a man who didn’t deserve his tears. But he could not help it. He was family, and Kip loved him.