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amiedala · 3 years ago

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SOMETHING MORE (the mandalorian x reader)

CHAPTER 28: You Wanted Proof

RATING: Explicit (18+ ONLY!!!)

WARNINGS: sexual content & descriptions of violence

SUMMARY: “Where the hell did you go, you scared the life out of me—”

And then you’re done talking, because Din pulls out a ring. You gasp, choke back a sob, and stare at it. It’s a simple silver band, but the structure and strength of it looks exactly like the beskar his armor is made out of. You inhale again, staring at it, and when you get close enough, you see that there’s something carved on the inside. It’s a star, the same one you embossed into your necklace, and around it, the words “ni kar’tayl su”, light but intentional. You try to breathe, but all you’re doing is sobbing, looking frantically from the ring in Din’s palm to his open face, and when you cross the divide between the two of you, seizing his glorious cheeks between your hands, he meets you in the middle.

“You wanted proof,” he says, again, and everything feels dizzying and starry and huge. You feel your heart rush with the feeling of belonging, that something more that started right here, in this same spot, on this barren planet, months and months again. “Last time, I didn’t have a ring. But I do now, and I’m never leaving your side again.”

AUTHOR'S NOTE: HELLO MY LOVES AND HAPPY SOMETHING MORE SATURDAY!!!! i had such an emotional time writing this chapter, and i hope y'all love it!!! this chapter is dedicated to Brittany Broski (yes THE kombucha girl) because she recommended SM to all of her followers?!?!?! i am still in shock!!! Brittany if you're somehow seeing this, i love you <3

more notes at the end angels!!! enjoy!!

When your consciousness fades back in, everything is starry and dreamy. Kicker’s design has a lot more open windows than the Crest did, so you open your eyes to the blurred galaxy slowly traipsing by, an ache deep in your skull, the feeling of prolonged sleep heavy on your bones. You rub at your eyes with your fingers, shifting to find Din, because even though there’s light in here, he’s still good at avoiding it. When you turn your head to where he’s sitting, faced away from you in the pilot’s seat, you see the Darksaber hanging out of his hands, his head low, his vision intense.

You skip by it at first, cataloguing the way he looks—haunted, exhausted, hungry—and then your eyes find the wicked beacon again and something clicks into place. You shoot upwards with a gasp, rocketing your aching body up by the heels of your hands, wild and shocked.

“You’re awake,” Din remarks, quietly, and you point at the saber held in the palms of his gloved hands.

“I just had the craziest dream,” you say in response, heart still hammering. “We—we were in a city, getting shot at, and after you patched me up, you told me you were the ruler of a whole entire planet and then just…let me go to sleep.”

That gets a smile. Just a little one, his pink mouth quirked up at the edges, his eyebrows still hesitant. You’re not used to seeing Din’s full face, watching his bare skin shift and change in real time, even though you’ve catalogued every inch of it, it still feels off. “I hate to break it to you,” he starts, lowly, “but none of that was a dream. And the bacta knocked you out, so you needed the rest.”

You laugh. It’s not full, it comes out disjointed and too loud, but it’s enough to coax you to sit up straighter and stare at it. “What…does being the ruler of Mandalore entail, exactly?”

Din stares at you, down at the Darksaber, and back at you. “Bo-Katan didn’t tell me,” he sighs, finally, and you can tell he’s reluctant, but you also know he’s been keeping this in for two weeks, maybe more, and so you scoot closer to where he’s sitting on the floor, trying to show him you’re attentive, that you’re listening. “I—she told me about the saber, when I went on that mission with her and her…Mandalorians.” He grimaces at the word, like it tastes rancid in his mouth. “You were there on Nevarro when I told her I didn’t want it. I have no interest in it. What do I need a weapon like that for, anyway? I just wanted to get it out of Gideon’s hands.”

You nod. “I remember.”

“Well,” Din sighs, looking back at the weapon in his hands, “she didn’t tell me why she wanted it. She gave that whole speech about wanting to—to have it returned to the rightful leader of Mandalore. I didn’t care, honestly, at that point. All I wanted to do was protect you and the kid and kill Gideon. But when we…we asked for her help, when Cara and I were going to attack Gideon and save Grogu, Bo-Katan told me again that the Darksaber was hers. I agreed. But she didn’t tell me that the weapon has to be won in battle for it to…belong to someone. Gideon had the Darksaber. I fought Gideon. I defeated him, so I took it out of his hands. I tried to give it back to her,” Din exhales, low and long, dragging a hand over his face and stubble, “but she wouldn’t take it. I told her she could fight me for it, even, that I’d roll over for her and let her have whatever ceremony she wanted, but she just stared at me like she wanted to kill me. Eventually, I just let her take Gideon back to Mandalore, because I didn’t…know what else to do.”

You nod again, slowly. “So…so you can’t challenge her to a duel or something?”

Din looks at you, incredulous. “I tried—”

“What about a thumb war?” you ask, and you’re not trying to make light of the situation, but a laugh starts bubbling up in your throat and you press your lips together. “Like, a real one, with a ring, Cara as the referee. You just…let Bo-Katan win, and that’s it. No harm. No foul. Just sore thumbs.”

The look on Din’s face is totally unreadable. Just as quickly as it started, your laugh evaporates back down your throat, and you lean in closer to him, immediately wanting to apologize. You’re not sure why, you just know that there’s something deeper to all of this, something more. “Apparently, I’m a zealot,” Din says, finally. “My…my clan, who raised me—they’re descendants of purist, extremist group from back on Mandalore. Before it was sieged, before—” he cuts off, abruptly, and you know he’s frustrated. “I wasn’t born there. I don’t even know the history of the planet,” Din continues, tiredly. “And it seems that I don’t know what it means to be a true Mandalorian. How am I supposed to be anyone’s ruler?”

You bite your lip. You lean in closer, and when you lift your hand to touch his face, you feel him relax under your fingertips. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough. “For what it’s worth,” you whisper, cocking your head to the side, stroking your thumb across his cheekbone, “I think you’d make an excellent one.”

“I don’t know the first thing about being in charge—”

“You’re a father,” you interrupt him, quietly. “To the strangest, strongest, alien baby in the galaxy. You’ve protected us—and countless others—from certain death. I’d say that’s more than enough credentials to be deemed a fit leader.”

Din stares at you. “Except,” he says, hollowly, “I don’t have my kid anymore, I’ve shown my face, and with the way Bo-Katan and her group hate me, I can’t imagine Mandalore would ever accept me as their ruler.”

You swallow. Your breath hitches in your throat, caught on words that aren’t there yet. “Din—”

“I just—” he starts, then cuts himself off, eyes drifting from yours down to the Darksaber in his grasp. “I don’t want to,” he admits, his voice low. “I—I miss being a bounty hunter. I miss not having the fate of the galaxy in my hands. People relying on me—you, the baby—having to do this all—I want to go back. I want it to stop.”

It’s your turn to stare. “Wow,” you say, quietly, dropping both of your hands away. “So taking care of your family is a burden to you.” And you don’t mean it, because you know that’s not what he meant, but your fiancé begging and hoping to go back to a time before you were in his life, before his child was either, cuts deep. And it stings, the more you look at him.

“Nova,” he starts, “cyar’ika—” and then Din cuts himself off, hands dropping the saber to the floor, leaning earnestly towards you. “I don’t want to go back to that. I never—I never want to be without you again. I’d be the ruler of ten planets if it meant I go to keep you by my side. I just—”

“It’s a lot,” you finish, quietly, hands fumbling at your collarbone for the necklace that isn’t there. Immediately, you feel horrible. “I know.”

Din looks back at you, hooks his finger under your shin, gently forcing your gaze to return to his. “For what it’s worth, I’m going to help you save the world,” he whispers, and you know he’s exaggerating, but his promise, free and so gentle, makes everything in your body quiet. “I’ll follow you anywhere.”

“For what it’s worth,” you repeat, the words so quiet that they’re barely air, “Mandalore would follow you anywhere, too.”

Din’s gaze is complicated, complex. You don’t know what he’s going to say, and when he does, you have to strain your ears to listen. “I didn’t mean it, when I said I miss being a bounty hunter. I don’t miss anything from before I met you. I—I just want my life back. The one with you, and our kid, and the ship we called home.”

You lick your lips, looking slowly out the window at the crush of space. Even without looking, you feel Din’s eyes follow yours, tracking the luminescence, and just for a second, you hold the two of you there. “I’m here,” you remind him, finally, “and this is a new ship, but I think we can make it into a home. And…” you trail off, grabbing both sides of Din’s face gently, gravitating his eyes back to yours, “Grogu might not be here, right now, but he’s always ours. And I think we both know that between the three of us, there’s nothing in this entire damned galaxy that can keep us apart. What was it that you called us back on Dagobah? A clan of three?”

That small smile works its way back onto Din’s face. He nods, just once, resolute.

“Clan Djarin,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss the man you love, “is pretty resilient, you know.”

“Oh,” Din mouths back, and you let him come the rest of the way to you, meeting you in the middle, “are we now?”

“You’re a Mandalorian bounty hunter, I’m the Force sensitive punching bag of the new Empire, and Grogu, our child, is older than the both of us and off with the greatest Jedi Master we know of,” you murmur, feeling the weight of your foreheads bumping together, “I kind of think we have to be.”

When you kiss Din, you let everything run out of you backward, trying to clear your mind. And when he pulls you onto his lap, guiding you as close to him as physically possible, you feel your knee crash up against the saber before it skitters away, back under the dashboard, into the darkness. You kiss him, letting the thing roll away from the both of you, too preoccupied with the security you feel to care about where it lands.

Hours pass. The two of you doze, on and off, and when you wake up for good, you check the nav system built into the dashboard to just see where you are. You’re not in much of a hurry to dock anywhere, truthfully, because you’re enjoying the uninterrupted coast through space, and the last time you were on a planet, the both of you nearly died, but there’s something pulsing under your skin. It’s alive in the same way your worry has been, the anxiety of knowing something big and scary is coming. It’s restlessness, you realize, everything about your fight or flight activated in both directions at once. When you get up for good, you slip away to the fresher, letting the hot water roll over your face, your aching shoulders, your tired muscles in your legs from always running. When you’re clean, you step out of the shower, studying your reflection in the tiny little mirror. You press your fingertips lightly to your face, puffy from sleep, trying to decide if you still look like you used to, or if the past year of love and fighting and loss and everything in between has settled permanently in the ridges of your face.

When you dry off, slipping back into fresh clothes, you take extra time to catalogue all the pockmarks of scars drawn into your skin. As always, you spend extra attention on the jagged, lightning bolt shaped thing running across your stomach. No matter how many years pass, none of it fades away. The skin is still raised slightly, a memory of the ache, and every time you press on it, you can feel it, residual. The other battle scars you’ve accumulated since are smaller, each one trackable, quantifiable. This one—and the way it catalyzed the rest of your life—stands triumphant, eternal. You let your shirt drop back down over it before you spend too much time staring at it.

The second that you climb back up the ladder, you realize something is off. Din is half-clothed, and you’re ready to lay back down on the floor with him and let him undo all the cleaning you just did, but he stands and turns around at your reappearance.

“What’s wrong,” you say, immediately, voice catching on its way out of your mouth.

“Someone called,” Din says, and his voice sounds off. “Tried to reach you through the comm system. I couldn’t tell who it was, or what they wanted.”

You stare at him. “Did you pick it up?”

Din looks from you to your commlink, his gaze skipping back over to you, his full eyebrows furrowed in concern. “I…tried to,” he answers, finally, “but it seemed corrupted. Listen for yourself,” he continues, pressing the microphone into your hand. You fold yourself down into the pilot’s chair, squinting out at the space slowly streaking past the window, knowing neither of you are currently under attack, but no one’s told the anxiety bubbling back up into your chest.

Slowly, you press the playback button. Din’s right—the voice is scrambled, tinny, off-putting. It sounds like random, grotesque grunting. The rhythm of it doesn’t sound much like a language. Even though you can’t understand it, you’ve heard the natural cadence of dozens of different languages, and the sounds playing back to you are warbled and disjointed, and you can’t get anything viable out of it.

“Weird,” you mutter, under your breath, sliding your fingernail between your teeth. You press the button again and again, let the voice spin down to nothing until you’re sure you’ve listened to it enough to gain any kind of insight, and you give up, letting the noises warble and stomp their way to their incongruous end, seconds of loud screeching building up until it cuts off. The feedback makes both of you cover your ears.

“Did you get anything?” Din asks, lowly, and you shake your head. “I—I thought you had the contact system disabled.”

“I do,” you whisper back, bringing up a knee to your chest, resting your cheek against it, gaze flipping from Din to the comm to back to Din. “I can only make outgoing calls right now. My tracking’s off, too, and there doesn’t seem to be a lot of traffic out here in this part of the galaxy.” You hesitate, scanning the space around you frantically, making sure that your guess is accurate. It is. There’s no one out here except the two of you and the small asteroid fields that flux and flow, and the silence that was once comforting is now unsettling. You stare again at the commlink before you attach it back to the dashboard, pulling up your exact coordinates, trying to locate the two of you. You’re coasting through the bridge between the Mid Rim and the Outer Rim, a vast no-man’s-land. The planets are scattered haphazardly, and you check the fuel gauge, trying to see how much longer you and Din can stay out here, floating, unnoticed.

“Nova.”

You barely recognize your name’s been spoken until Din asks it again. You spin back towards him, biting down on your lower lip. “Yeah?”

He hesitates before moving a step closer to you. Maker, he’s so tall. The two of you have been in this exact position countless times, you sitting, him standing over you. It doesn’t intimidate you anymore, how large he is, how present his body is, but it’s still exhilarating to have him eclipse you. “How are we doing on fuel?” he asks, and something deep buried inside of you tells you that wasn’t the question he was initially going to ask.

“We need more soon,” you answer, softly, trying to figure out what his original point was going to be. But Kicker starts beeping, and you turn your attention back to the dashboard, trying to figure out what she needs. And, right on time, the little lever built into the fuel gauge has shifted to empty, and you sigh, setting the course to the next planet in the nav system. “Have you ever been to—” you squint, trying to sound out the name in your head before speaking it aloud, but you’re not in much luck, “—Khubeaie?”

Din stares at you blankly.

“Yeah, me neither,” you say softly, letting Kicker navigate her way down into the planet’s atmosphere. It’s night, so everything is cast over in deep blue shadow, but the city seems to glitter even in the silence. You park in a nearly empty landing bay, and when you stand up, Din’s already almost completely dressed. He stares at his helmet, and you pick it up off the ground and press it into his hesitant hands, nodding at him. “I know,” you whisper, “but remember the last time we were on the ground without you armored up?”

He looks at you to the visor on the helmet, his deep brown eyes intent and wary. “It still feels wrong,” Din manages, and his voice is still so unsure that you feel your heart ache in your chest.

“I know,” you repeat, reaching your hand up to graze against his face, thumb tracing the pattern over his groomed mustache, letting him settle into your touch. “It’s safer this way.”

Din nods as if he’s steeling himself, and then he inhales, pulling the helmet over his head. You offer him a small smile, the corners of your mouth upturned and reflected against his armor. You pull on your jacket over your nondescript clothes, adjusting the shawl you got back on Cantonica over your shoulders to pull up over your hair if you’ll need it. The atmosphere here is sultry and shifting, the darkness cast over the tall buildings amorphous. You’ve never heard of this place, but with its proximity to Tatooine, you’re not surprised that the people here a mix of the same locale—mostly humans, some Twi’leks, a Rodian or two. It’s easy enough to blend in, and when Din falls into step with you, you slide your palm into his, squeezing, to reassure him that everything’s okay, but when you go to drop it, he just laces his fingers through yours even tighter, the two of you silent, walking hand in hand.

“Here,” Din says, quietly, and you look up at a glowing sign that indicates a fuel source in the back. You follow him into the market, looking around for the exits. The second you step into the light of the store, you pull your shawl up over your head, trying to disappear between the aisles as you restock some of the nonperishable food and the bacta the two of you have burned through since the last refuel, and you pull out your small bag of credits to pay.

Din doesn’t come back. It takes a minute, and then another one, and you’re starting to get nervous. The clerk and the other customers don’t seem to be paying you much mind, but after the events on Cantonica, and Takodana, and Ryloth, and Tatooine, you don’t take passivity as innocence anymore. After a few more minutes, you exist the store, shoving what you can into your pockets, peering down the alley that Din disappeared in.

Something about it is off. It give you that same uneasy feeling that kept running cold through your veins back on Kicker, the same anxiety rush that the Darksaber comes with—powerful and intense and not entirely yours.

“Mando?” you call out, quietly. You step gingerly down the cobblestones, trying to keep your footsteps as light and intentional as you can. It’s dark down here, darker than the shifting streets, and it’s a longer path than you would have imagined, but when you turn around to check that you’re not being followed, the street is open and clear in the dim moonlight. “Hey,” you call again, not daring to use Din’s real name, “where’s the fuel?”

Still nothing. The toe of your shoe catches on a cobblestone, and you go down to the ground, hard and fast. You groan, cursing under your breath, pressing your scraped hand to the street, trying to regain your balance before you haul yourself up, but the alley disappears. You gasp out in the darkness, and at first, you think it’s just because the moon is hidden, but the way that the blackness pulses and swallows you doesn’t feel like it’s from natural causes. You’re plunged into another vision, so quickly you get motion sickness. You’re on the ground. When you look up, there’s that violent clash of red and blue again, and that version of yourself that’s running to get in the middle, to blast apart the energy sources—or the lightsabers, you can’t make them out from this distant—is heavy and laden with desperation. You can feel it, wet and hot, muscle memory from something that hasn’t happened yet, and then you hear a noise behind you, so you turn. Suddenly, everything is raining, the ground soaked, your clothes pooling in rivulets all over the ground. You can’t even see two feet in front of you, and when you get plunged underwater, you struggle against the sinking tide, trying to find the right way up. Your name is called, once, then twice, and you scream against the current—and then you’re on solid ground again. It’s like this vision, this type of premonition, doesn’t have anything specific. Everything feels huge and thematic rather than predicting glimpses of what it’s about to happen, like you’re in a dream state and everything is vivid and garish and loud and will slip away immediately when you get pulled out of it.

And then you see him. The baby. He’s sitting on a rock, maybe, or a cliff, you can’t tell, and his little fuzzy head is tousled in the wind, his big bug eyes closed shut, his tiny green palm raised into the open air. You yell out Grogu’s name, and you start running. He doesn’t look like he’s in any danger, it looks peaceful, but that same exact dark feeling bubbling up in your chest says otherwise. You’re running and running as the ground falls away, and you scream out, trying to get to the baby, trying to get there before you fall through the cracks again, and the second you make it there, within an arm’s reach of his glorious little body, something dark and dangerous spits through the air, slicing into you. You yell, thrown backwards, as the shadow completely engulfs you, and, horribly, you get thrown back into the present. You can feel the cobblestones under your hands, the ground hard and weighted underneath your touch, and when you feel yourself come into reality again, Din’s there, standing over you.

“Nova,” he says, his voice low and concerned, “what just happened?”

“Vision,” you manage, gasping, eyes fluttering as your face gets dragged upwards so Din can inspect you. You shake your head back and forth, trying to clear your mind. “I—it was a weird one. Where the hell did you go?”

Din shakes his left hand, the one not on your face, and you register the sloshing of the fuel can before your eyes adjust to the point of recognition. “I was getting us fuel,” he says, gloved hand grabbing at your chin.

“You were gone for a long time,” you manage, finally sitting up fully, your breath catching in your chest. “How far does this alley go on for?”

Din cocks his head at you, visor looking out at where you are. Right in front of you, not even a full foot from your touch, is the end of the alley. Frantically, your head flails from side to side, and then you realize the fuel is a few feet away, a market stand in the dark. You swallow, embarrassed, when you see the owner and his patrons stare over at you.

“Weird,” you mutter, rubbing at your eye, the one still starry and disjointed from your premonition. You get the same unsettled feeling that you did when the feedback from Kicker blared out. “I could have sworn this went on for miles—it doesn’t matter. Did you see me come out here? Did you see me fall?”

Slowly, Din shakes his head back and forth. “No,” he answers, finally, and the gentle, bracing way he’s talking makes your heart accelerate again. You nod, slowly, trying to keep yourself under control, but you’re panicking. Between the odd, screeching message back on Kicker and completely misinterpreting the alleyway, you’re shaken up. Not much, because you don’t scare easy, but enough to feel like you might slightly be going crazy. Eventually, Din pulls you to your feet, and you follow, keeping a close eye on the shifting city around you, intentional about where you plant your strides.

The refueling process is easy. It’s the one procedure on Kicker that she doesn’t fight, and she takes far less gas than the Crest ever did, so it’s much easier to spend your credits on more fuel. Din offers to do it while you start programming in where you’re going next, and you climb the gangplank and scale the ladder, biting your nail as you ponder where to go next. You miss Hoth. You miss Nevarro. Honestly, you miss Kashyyyk most of all, and that’s where you want to go, but you don’t think that the isolation of being there would give you any favors. You have to call Wedge and tell him about what happened on Cantonica, and some part of you really wants to call Cara. She’s not as cut and dry as the Alliance is, but she’s big and strong and every time you’re in her presence, you’re not on high alert. You know Din’s probably not in any hurry to get back to Nevarro now that he’s the one being hunted, but, selfishly, you want to go there.

“Hey, cyar’ika,” Din says, startling you out of your reverie. “Are you okay?”

You nod. Hesitantly, at first, and then stronger. “I’m just trying to decide where we go next.”

Din sighs, long and heavy, and then his fingers are hooking under the rim of his helmet and pulling it off. “Do you have any idea what to do from here?”

You shake your head slowly. “No,” you admit. “I don’t like being aimless, but I also don’t think running wildly around the planets in our closest proximity is the safest thing to do, especially after Cantonica. I know that was our initial plan, but with how much we’ve been attacked, I think it’s safer to let the rest of the New Rogue Squadron poke around for evidence because they’re less likely to be detected. I hate it. I…” you trail off, looking out the window, and your eyes catch on something. You think it’s just the strange, shifting darkness around the both of you, but something feels off. Din calls your name, and you snap out of it, back into your conversation. “I think we need to find out what the Order is,” you continue, even though it makes your heart hammer in fear. “I…I don’t know how. I wish I did. I’m sorry. I feel a little out of my depth.” Admitting it feels like climbing a mountain, but the second the words are out of your mouth, you feel like you can exhale a little better.

Din looks at you, and then he pulls you, gently, to your feet. “I’m not scared of them,” he says, cradling your face between his two big hands. “I don’t know what they want with us, and I don’t know how to stop them. But I also know,” he says, sighing, “that between the two of us and the people standing in the sidelines, we can take them on.”

You give him a small smile. Your heart aches in the same way it did way back on Yavin, back when Din took you home, when he proposed. It feels like a lifetime ago, but it’s so vivid and so clear. That same tug is pulling on your heartstrings, and you can’t place it until your hand goes to close around your necklace that isn’t there. You swallow.

This is how it felt. When you were a teenager, when the Alliance was on the brink of collapsing the Empire. Your parents held each other like this, a warm and steady constant through such turmoil. You close your eyes, just for a second, and imagine them here with the two of you, ready to fight back.

But when your eyes flutter open again, Din’s gaze isn’t on you anymore. It’s locked on the window, behind you, and as you spin around to see what he’s staring at, you see it. You weren’t imagining a figure earlier, and it wasn’t the smoke and mirrors of the darkness. Someone’s out there. You gasp as Din’s eyes narrow, and before you can stabilize yourself, his helmet is up and over his head and he’s descending the ladder, lowering the gangplank.

“Hey!” you call, racing after him. “Din! What are you—”

A blaster shot rings out over your head, and you scream. It isn’t your finest moment, you have to admit, but you’re shell-shocked and you have no idea why Din is racing towards the figure, into the dark of the night, on an unfamiliar planet, running away from you again even though he promised you the rest of your battles would be fought together. You stare as he runs, and then you’re getting shot at again, and you duck and cover, rolling back up into the ship and accelerating the lift of the gangplank. You swear, catapulting yourself up to the cockpit, maneuvering Kicker around, because you have no idea who’s shooting at you. It’s not stormtroopers. It’s not the smaller force of Gideon’s troops, either. Whoever’s sending you the blasts, you’ve never seen them before. You punch in the sequence needed for liftoff, praying to the Maker and the ship gods above that Kicker listens to you. She does, and you breathe sighs of relief as you navigate into the air.

Again, you’re being blasted at, and anger sets in. You’ve lost sight of Din and the figure, and you don’t want to abandon him here, but you’re getting shot at from somewhere in the darkness, and you don’t know what the hell else to do.

And then your comm buzzes again. You’re expecting the weird bleeping, so you roar a very uncharacteristic “what?” into the mouthpiece, forcing Kicker straight upward.

“Whoa,” Wedge’s voice comes through the line, and immediately, you buckle.

“Don’t get me wrong, Wedge, because I am so thankful to hear your voice, but how the hell,” you pant, dropping out of the artillery range of whatever—or whoever—is shooting at you, “did you get through to me?”

“Your callsign was reinstated,” Wedge says, confused, and as you get shot at again, you scream out of sheer frustration. “Nova, what’s going on?”

“If I knew,” you pant, scanning the shadowy grounds for where Din disappeared, “I’d tell you. Have you gotten any—weird calls, or anything? Scrambled radio waves? Anything like that? Strange things keep happening to me,” you admit, voice slightly lowered.

“No,” Wedge answers, but there’s an edge to his voice. If you weren’t so preoccupied with trying not to die, you would interrogate him, but whatever’s volleying blasts at you is so persistent that you can’t even ponder why he sounds so strange. “Listen, Nova—”

“Do you know anything about the Order?” you yell, punching in the code for the thermal tracking sensor. The ground is covered with life forms in the shadows, so it’s hard to identify where Din ran off to, but you squint and scan it, looking for a heat signature that matches his.

“The…the Jedi Order?” Wedge asks, his voice crackling.

“No,” you interrupt, immediately, “definitely not. We ran into some…unsavory people on Cantonica that mentioned it to me. Apparently,” you say, swinging around to inspect your creaky artillery, “they want me for something. The man, the one who—it doesn’t matter. He told me ‘What died didn’t stay dead’.”

On the other end of the line, Wedge is quiet. “What did he mean?”

You sigh, frustrated, exhausted. “I don’t know,” you manage, and you hate the way the words taste in your mouth, heavy and stonewalled. “And now I’m getting shot at. Again. Every time I think we know what we’re up against,” you say, firing a round of blasts off into the general direction of the other ship, “something new unfolds.”

“Nova—”

“What were you going to say earlier?” you say, and when you realize you’ve cut Wedge off again, you wince. “I’m so sorry,” you apologize, genuine, “I’m—I’m not on my game.”

“I heard from Luke,” Wedge says, and then you catch glimpse out of the corner of your eye. It looks like a green lightsaber flash, even though it’s not, even though it can’t be. You squint, and then the full weight of what Wedge just said hits you, and your attention is immediately snapped back to the comm.

“What?” you ask, voice wobbling with something you don’t entirely understand.

“I heard from Luke—” Wedge repeats, and then whatever’s screeching in your commlink cuts him off entirely, and you scream out into the noise before you realize the connection’s lost. The ship in the darkness is shooting at you again, and this time you’ve had it. You yank up on the controls, hard, and Kicker groans as you accelerate her into the sky.

“I know,” you whisper, voice too jittery to be placating, “but you need to work with me, Kicker.” Reluctantly, she does, and when you roll over into your signature move to shoot back with all the artillery you can muster, something shiny flies up in front of you, obstructing your vision. You yell out, slapping your own hands away from the controls before you can shoot Din and his jet pack out of the sky. “What the fuck!” you call, and you know he can’t hear you over the ships’ engines, but with how loud it is, you think he might be listening anyway. Din flaps his hand at you, and you move backward, away from the city, landing just on the outskirts on a pile of gravel. You pull your blaster back into the holster, hand outstretched to the Darksaber, which flies back into your hand as if it’s being called. You stare at it for a second, still so conflicted about the sheer power it radiates, and then your grip tightens around it, storming down the ladder and lowering the gangplank. You don’t have your shawl draped over your head, you’re not being nearly as safe as you should be, especially since you don’t know who was trying to ground you, but you’re rattled and on edge and scared, and you hold both weapons in your hands, preparing.

The other ship blasts out of the darkness and shrouding of the city, and you stare. It’s such a strange shape—a flat back on the rear end, the cockpit round but menacing—and you glare at it, eyes following it all the way to the ground. You start to storm forward, and then Din lands in front of you, stopping you in your tracks.

“Din Djarin,” you say, so low that anyone outside of a one-foot radius can’t hear you, “you better have a good excuse as to why you’re stopping me from fighting back against the ship trying to shoot me out of the sky—”

“I do,” he says, and his voice is low and urgent. “I know them.”

You stare at him as two figures emerge from the ship, and Din steps in front of you as they break into a run, shielding your body with his own.

“Stop,” he says, and both of them do. It’s dark, and you can’t see very well, but you see the long, multifaceted black braid hanging off one of the silhouette’s shoulder and you realize with a jolt that it’s Fennec Shand. Your eyes refocus on the stockier, set figure next to her, and as he steps into the light, you see his face and your heart jumps. He’s older, and he’s marred and scarred from the time he spent in the Sarlacc pit back on Tatooine years ago, but it’s Boba Fett. Your heart jumps in your chest. “It’s us.”

“Why,” Boba Fett starts, his voice low and dangerous, “are you in that ship?”

You stare at him. “Because the Razor Crest was blown up and we needed another vehicle? Also, if you know him,” you continue, voice shaking slightly, pointing to Din, “why are you shooting at us?”

“Where is the Jedi?” he asks, staring at you.

“No Jedi here,” you say, voice still unstable, “unless you mean the untrained one with the weapon of ruling Mandalore in her hands, and then here I am.”

“He must be here,” Fett continues, and you look back and forth between everyone, trying to understand what the hell he’s talking about. “I saw his lightsaber. I saw the ship.”

You look back at Kicker. “Who?” you ask. Your heart is beating so fast, feeding on your adrenaline. You inhale, the breath rattling in your chest. “What are you talking about?”

“Luke Skywalker,” Boba Fett seethes, and your heart drops. You step forward.

“You saw him too?” you ask, voice small.

“No,” Fennec Shand starts, and then Din steps forward at the same time.

“I did too,” he admits, and you look up at him.

You swallow, looking between the three of them, brain working furiously to try and keep up. “I just talked to Wedge,” you say, voice small, “and he said he heard from Luke again.”

Din whips around to face you. “Where’s Grogu?”

Your eyes widen as you shrug. “That’s all I got from him. Then my commlink went haywire again, and the connection dropped. What the hell,” you say, inhaling sharply, “is going on?”

Fett stares back at you. “You know Skywalker?”

“I—I know him in passing,” you say, and you drop down to the ground, exhausted. “I’m in the Rebel Alliance, and he’s training our kid! What do you want with Luke Skywalker?”

“To pay him back for sending me to certain death,” Boba Fett says, his voice measured and angry. Your eyes try to track the differences between him and Din, because in the dark, the similarities are startling. They stand at about the same height, Boba Fett’s armor is older and greener, but right now, it’s nearly impossible to tell. You shiver. This planet is weird.

“Looks like you escaped certain death,” you say, and a small smile curves across Fennec Shand’s face. You look at her, and for the ruthlessness her reputation carries, she has a warmth to her you didn’t expect. “Why were you shooting at me?”

Fett’s face changes. “I thought I saw Skywalker,” he admits, and his voice is less confrontational. I could have sworn it was his X-wing.”

You want to retaliate, and then the shifting shadows of the city in front of you catch your eye, and you understand. Something about the atmosphere seems to be playing tricks on the both of you, so you just exhale and nod. “And you,” you say, turning to Din, “what happened back there? Why did you just leave like that?”

Something in him shrinks.

“You’re in trouble, Mando,” Fennec smirks.

“I thought I saw Luke Skywalker,” Din says, and his voice is just as honest and tired as yours is, and you let him pull you back to your feet. “Something about this place…it isn’t right. We need to get out of here.”

You nod, fervently. Boba Fett and Fennec Shand follow suit.

“That weapon,” Fett says, guarded, eyes locked on the Darksaber hanging from your closed hand, “doesn’t look like it belongs to you.”

“It doesn’t,” you say. Fennec looks at Din, and back at you.

“Belongs to him,” she smiles, and Din sighs, low and heavy, through the modulator.

“It,” Din says tiredly, “does not. You know how hard I tried to get rid of this thing back there. I’m still working on it,” he says, and you feel his gaze on you underneath the visor, “but right now, I think we need to regroup on Nevarro.”

Your heart flips over, half in excitement, half in dread. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

Fennec grins again, equal parts venom and warmth. “Not as dangerous as us,” she posits, and both Din and Boba nod in agreement. You shake your head, but the smile on your own face is furious and determined. You split up, Boba and Fennec heading back to his strange, deadly ship, and you and Din return to Kicker, punching in the coordinates for Nevarro. You’re exhausted, and when your eye catches sight of the Darksaber again, it’s in Din’s palm. That colossal, colliding feeling of belonging to each other and belonging to something more sparks up in your chest like a supernova. As you jump into hyperspace, you watch him turn it over and over again, and a small, tiny, sparking part of you imagines him ruling Mandalore with it in one hand and your own in the other.

You missed Nevarro. It’s a wasteland, a strange volcanic desert that spits up lava whenever it desires, and there’s always a weird edge to it, but landing in the same spot as Fett and Shand, knowing Karga and Cara are close by, it gives you a small, strange fortification. Safety, you realize, as the four of you are walking into town, that’s what you’re feeling. You feel safe here, in the presence of people who you know are on your side, even if half of them were just trying to shoot you out of the sky.

Din makes friends so strangely. As the four of you walk into town, over the ashen dried magma, you learn a little bit about how they joined together at the last moment to try and defeat Gideon. Fennec, you realize, is another enemy-turned-ally. She met Din on Tatooine weeks before you did, and she crossed paths with Toro Calican. She says it so freely that you don’t understand at first, and when you remember who they were dealing with, your stomach flips over. They reunited back on Tython, right as Grogu got whisked away by Gideon’s dark troopers, and formed a wary alliance. But the way the three of them are talking now, it seems like every moment of dissonance has been smoothed over, now that everyone’s on the same side. Cara and Din became friends like that, too—guns to each other’s skulls before realizing they were on the same team. It makes you smile as Boba and Fennec talk about Din on your way into Nevarro City. He doesn’t say much, but you can tell he’s at ease, which is a very hard thing for either of you to come by these days. And this is how you know he’s going to be a good ruler. Every single person you’ve met through Din recognized his goodness under all of that bounty hunting and beskar. He’s strategic, and he’s levelheaded, and he can speak more languages than you can. He’s great at both descalation and escalation, at rushing into battles and playing mediator. It doesn’t matter if Mandalore doesn’t accept him straight out, because they’ll see the man he is and the ruler he can be, and every single one of them will fall in love with him, too.

“What’s your plan after this?” Din asks, and you fade back into the conversation, still wearing a small smile in the shape of a badge of pride across your face.

Fennec and Boba exchange looks. “We have business on Tatooine,” Boba says, lowly. “But if there’s still something to be defeated out there, if our job wasn’t finished, then we’ll help you again.”

Din nods. “And after?”

“You know I’d rather have you on the throne than the Kryze girl,” Boba continues, his voice quiet but intense. A small smile snakes its way across Fennec’s face. You think maybe you’ve read her wrong. She doesn’t seem outright malicious. She’s dangerous, and she could easily cut you down if you tried her, but she doesn’t seem to relish double-crossing or killing like you’d heard in the rumors. She just seems to crave chaos, and if that’s what she wants, you’re glad she’s here.

Din sighs. “I don’t want it,” he says, but there’s a reluctance in his voice that you haven’t heard before.

When you look up again, you’re at Nevarro City. You breathe a small sigh of relief, the outcroppings of the familiar buildings stand tall over the horizon. As you cross over into the gateway, you see more stormtrooper helmets on the pike than you thought you saw last time, and your tummy flips over at the knowledge that you might be bringing danger here. You swallow as the four of you make your way to the cantina, and the second the door closes, something shifts. You lift your chin higher, scanning the room for familiar faces. And while you’re preoccupied, Cara comes out of nowhere and punches Din on the arm, in an unarmored spot beneath his pauldrons.

“You know,” he says, “a simple hello could suffice—”

“I’m mad at you,” Cara retaliates, her eyes glinting when she looks over at you. “I put it to rest while we were trying to get the kid, but don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

You quirk your head, trying to get her to explain, and she folds you into a gentle hug for a second before appraising you at arm’s length.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she says, genuinely, and then her hand snaps back out to jab Din on the same spot on his arm. “When he told me he just left you somewhere, I could have killed him with my own two hands.”

You smile at her. “I’m honored.”

“I had a plan,” Din mutters.

“Not a good one,” Cara responds, but then she smiles at him. You watch how it lights up her rough face, how pretty she is, especially when her eyes sparkle. “If Nova’s forgiven you, so have I.”

“Well,” you say, looking up at the man you love with a little fire of your own, “about that—”

“Mando!” Greef Karga’s booming voice cuts through the static, and you drop it for now. He walks over to you, cutting around customers and Guild members, weaving a clear path to the five of you. “Welcome back to Nevarro City. I’m sorry about the kid,” he continues, genuinely, slapping a large palm down on Din’s pauldron. “But if I know anything, I know you can get him back.”

You feel Din shrink, just a little, and then he stands up straighter. “We’re here because we have a problem,” he says, lowly, “and we need your help.”

Everybody starts drinking except you and Din. You refuse the spotchka, because it’s daytime on Nevarro, and mostly because you’re too on edge to drink anything, especially if the usual pattern follows suit and you get into some sort of altercation today, but while the rest of them are drinking, you hatch a plan. You and Din will tell Wedge everything you know about the Order, the Alliance will search for information across the galaxy. Karga will stay here on Nevarro City and hold down the fort in case anyone unsavory comes by. Cara will split her time between being the Marshal, traveling with you and Din, and joining forces with Boba and Fennec to keep the six of you connected and up to date. Boba and Fennec, while not with Cara, will use their skills and abilities to act like they’re still in league with the Empire’s leftovers, try and scour of any information they can. As the conversation comes to a close, you realize that you and Din don’t have anything to do immediately other than notifying Wedge.

“What’s our plan?” you ask, lowly, looking over at Din in the low light. “What do we do in the meantime?”

Din looks over at you, then to the other members of your recently forged alliance as they talk and drink. “Did you really think you saw Luke Skywalker back on Khubeaie?”

You stare at him. You blink once, twice, and then nod. “I thought it was just my vision playing tricks on me,” you murmur, fingers flapping around where your necklace used to live. Din, under the visor, tracks the movement, but you don’t pay it that much attention. “And I don’t think—well, the planet was weird. It was playing tricks on all of us. But if you saw him, I saw him, and Boba Fett saw him, then…”

“He was there,” Din finished, lowly, the second half of the sentence raised up as if he meant to ask a question but didn’t go all the way.

“I don’t think he was physically there,” you manage, brushing a way a loose piece of hair, “but I think we all saw him for a reason. Either Khubeaie’s haunted,” you breathe, “or something there is connected with the Force.”

Din stares at you. You can just tell, especially here and now in the cantina. “For you, maybe. But if I saw him, and Fett saw him—”

“Then maybe the planet’s haunted,” you interrupt, and you don’t entirely mean it, but the memory of the comm system warbling and screeching twice makes your blood seep cold through your veins. “Or, at the very least, something weird is going on. But when I talked to Wedge—” you breathe, sharply, “he said he heard from Luke again. And I don’t know about you, but I—”

“Don’t believe in coincidences,” Din finishes, his knee knocking up against yours under the table, “I know. These days, neither do I.”

When you part ways for the night, it’s temporary. Tomorrow, you and Din will hail Wedge and fill him and the New Rogue Squadron in on everything, and Boba and Fennec will head to the places in the galaxy where there’s still affiliates of the Empire to dig for more information. Cara will go interrogate some of the prisoners she’s brought in, offer them reduced sentences if they can fill the rest of the team in on anything related to the mysterious, dark Order. Karga will stay on Nevarro, speaking to the Guild members to try and fish for information about what the Empire leftovers are planning, and how they’re communicating with one another.

You and Din walk back to Kicker, hand in hand, in silence. You can feel sleep calling at you, edging in from the corners of your eyes. It feels like forever since you’ve gotten a full night’s sleep without being knocked out from the bacta, and as much as you love its anasthetic properties when you’ve lost a lot of blood, you want to fall into sleep on your own tonight. Neither of you shower, just undress and strip down into whatever you’re wearing to bed, and crawl into the nest of blankets you’ve made on Kicker’s floor. For hours, it seems, you lay there, together, in the dark, before Din speaks.

“Nova?”

You sigh, halfway into a dream. “Mmm. Yeah?”

He’s quiet, again, and you think you’ve imagined it, so you just burrow down into his warmth, feeling your skin brush up against his. His hands tighten around your waist, just for a second, and you feel so secure that fighting sleep doesn’t really seem like a favorable option. “I love you,” you hear, and then as you drift off into sleep, you hear him whisper, “I meant it. I’m never leaving—” and then you’re gone.

You wake up, and Din isn’t there. Panic floods into your chest, wet and heavy, and you flail around in the blankets, even though you know he’s not cuddled up in there with you. You get up, redress frantically into your only pair of clean clothes, swinging your jacket around your shoulders. The fresher’s empty, and he’s not in the cockpit, and when you slide down to inspect the gangplank, you see it’s been lowered in the last hour.

“Fuck!” you yell, slapping at the thing, which doesn’t do anything except lowering it again. You grab your blaster and shove it into the holster, holding your arm out for the snap of the Force to let the Darksaber fly into your grip. Your heart still hammering, you race down the gangplank, comm on your wrist, yelling the whole way into the city. “Where are you?” you ask, and you realize you sound angry, and you are, because Din keeps promising he’ll never leave your side and then whisks himself away to fight a battle that would be so much easier to win with the two of you in it together, but you’re also terrified. Nevarro isn’t the safest place, especially since Gideon and all of his troopers found Din, Grogu, Cara, and Karga here before, and even though Din’s wearing his armor, you’re scared.

And most of all, you’re upset. You want him here. You promised, a year ago, that you wouldn’t run from him again, and even when you’ve wanted to bolt for your life, you stayed. You don’t go back on your promises. And for Din assuring you he’s a man of his word, he hasn’t kept the most important thing he’s ever sworn to you, and it hurts. Grief and anxiety are two burning pyres in your chest, and as you haul yourself over Nevarro’s rocky, barren surface, heading towards town, you can feel the tears threatening at the corners of your eyes.

You’re tired. You’re so tired. You just want to be back on the ship you call home with the man you love and your child, and you’re so sick of fighting against the people who are trying to either steal you for themselves or make sure you die and stay dead. You know that this wasn’t Ahsoka’s fault, that she didn’t intend to send you on such a draining mission, but some small part of you is angry at her for letting you leave, for spearheading the chain of events that amounted to one huge loss after another. You flutter your hands around your neck, tears streaking down your face once you realize that it too is gone.

You step forward, trying to not let the big, raggedy sobs out into the open air. You duck behind one of the buildings so you can cry in peace, exhausted and strung out, worried for Din and heart still aching with him leaving. You know you should pull it together, go all the way into town and tell Cara, but right now, you can’t move. You cry, quietly and completely, letting the tears build and fall until you’ve run dry.

“Hey,” a voice from behind you says, “I’m looking for a pilot.”

You whip around, hand on your blaster in its holster, ready to fire if needed, but when you spin all the way, it’s not a stranger. It’s Din. He’s down on one knee, helmet off, in the exact place that you met here a year ago.

Your heart flies into your chest. “What are you doing—” you hiss, but no one’s here. And you seem to be frozen to the spot in the same way you were back on Yavin when he proposed the first time, everything rushing through you, exhilarating and confused.

“Preferably a Force sensitive one. Used to be in the Rebel Alliance, and recently reinstated to her previous rank. Can fly anything. You wanted proof,” Din shrugs, and your eyes roam hungrily over his bare face. He doesn’t look hesitant. There’s no trace of him rushing to put it back on, so you step forward, heart in your throat, thrumming and beating like an erratic butterfly. “That I’ll follow you anywhere. I have proof.”

“Proof of what?” you breathe, still walking towards him. Even on his knees, his head comes up to your chest. “Where the hell did you go, you scared the life out of me—”

“You wanted proof,” he says, again, and everything feels dizzying and starry and huge. You feel your heart rush with the feeling of belonging, that something more that tarted right here, in this same spot, on this barren planet, months and months again. “Last time, I didn’t have a ring. But I do now, and I’m never leaving your side again.”

“Din—”

“I tired to make it back before you woke up,” he whispers, earnestly. “I left a note on the dashboard. I just had to make it down to my—to where I used to live, to forge this.”

You swallow. “That’s where you went?”

“I’ve been kicking myself ever since I didn’t give you a ring in the first place,” Din continues, “and I know promising to never leave you again and then waking up must have been—I’m sorry. It was going to be in and out. But I ran into someone down there.”

Your heart flips over. “Did they hurt you—”

“No,” Din shakes his head, the ghost of a smile dancing across his face. “No, it was the Armorer. I thought she was gone, but she’s still alive—it’s a story for another time. But I told her about you,” Din says, lifting his hand to stroke a line down your face, “and she made you something, too.”

Your eyebrows furrow down the middle, and then he pulls out something else made out of the same metal as the ring was—a simple, secured chain, with two charms hanging from it. The symbol of the Alliance, and Din’s signet of the mudhorn. You cry as he loops it around your neck, tears intense and filled with disbelief and magic. “You did this for me?”

Din stares at you. “I’d do anything for you,” he says, finally, voice so soft. “You wanted proof I’d follow you anywhere, right? This is me trying to prove it.” He takes in a shuddering breath, and you smile at him. “You don’t have to forgive me, yet. I know I need to earn it. But, cyar’ika, I’d really love it if you’d agree to marry me.”

“You,” you start, taking a huge, shuddering breath, “always surprise me. I love you.”

Din smiles. “Is that—”

“Yes,” you scream, nodding frantically, “yes, of course, I’ll marry you, I love you, I love—”

And then you’re cut off, the ring slid on your finger, and Din’s on his feet, picking you up and dragging you backwards, down the alley towards a wall, and when he lifts you against the concrete, you sigh out into his mouth. “Ni kar’tayl su,” he starts, and then you pull him in closer, his mouth latched onto yours.

“Darasuum,” you agree, between kisses, “forever.”

He’s pulling at your clothes, and the part of you who knows this is a bad idea is silenced by the way his teeth sink into your shoulder, leaving marks all up and down your upper chest. You kick down your pants, not even bothering to take them off, and when Din rests your feet back down on the ground, immediately, he dives in between your legs, tongue wet and warm and full for you. You moan out, loud, too loud, but you don’t care who hears, not now. His tongue slides up and down, finally locking on your clit, licking swift little circles. You moan, hands seizing into his dark, messy hair, running your thumb over the metal of the ring. He licks into you like he’s been hungry for years and you’re the only thing standing between him and starvation. When he pushes a single finger inside, still eating you like his life depends on it, it’s enough for you to see stars. It feels like forever since you’ve been touched like this without interruption, and you lean into it, breath running ragged, moaning out his name.

“I want to touch you—” you manage, voice high and breathy, “please, Din, let me—”

“Not here,” he says, roughly, pushing another finger inside you. It buckles you over, right on the edge, and you moan into his shoulder, “I’m taking care of you. Don’t argue with me.”

You close your mouth, nodding. His tongue finds you again, his hands on your hips, digging slightly into the flesh there, voracious and insatiable. When he makes you cum, it’s three orgasms in a row, and your legs shake. “Din—Din, I can’t stand up—”

He’s on his feet quicker than you can imagine, like a lightning lash. “Then I’ll hold you here,” he says, and both of your legs are being hiked up. Your bare back scrapes against the concrete, but you barely even hear it sting as you’re being hoisted into the air. “I’m going to fuck you now,” he breathes, something low and lustful in his eyes, “and you need to try to keep quiet, or everyone in Nevarro City will know my name. You can do that for me, can’t you, cyar’ika?”

Your eyes widen, wet heat seeping between your legs. You feel like you’re buzzing. “Yes,” you manage, syllable broken down the middle, and when you feel the head of his cock start to push its way inside of you, wet and ready, you have to clap your own hand over your mouth to keep the very unsavory noises from leaking out into the open air of the town.

“Good girl,” Din manages, and then his mouth is on yours, his hips fucking into you hard and fast, a staccato rhythm punctuated by both of your muffled moans, burying himself into you. You let yourself be held there, hands tangled up ferociously in his hair, using as much gravity as you can to get him to pound you like you’ve never been pounded before, writhing with your hips, everything starry and alive, wanting him to get to whatever universe you’re in. His breath hitches, and you know he’s close, already, he’s close, and it feels like you’ve barely started, but you grab at his bare face with your hands and nod, giving him permission. Your comm warbles, but Din’s muttering sweet nothings in your ear, telling you you’re so fucking wet, sweet, pretty girland I can’t wait to have your pussy forever, and right before he climaxes, he moans out your name, and then a breathy I love you, and whatever your comm is yelling out, you don’t hear it, because you’re too preoccupied with letting the man you love mark you as his, over and over and over.

When you finish, you feel how puffy and wet you still are, and if it wasn’t for the incessant bleeping and blinking on your wrist, you’d beg him to fuck you again. And then your head registers it’s Cara, hailing the both of you, and you and Din make eye contact in a panic, both frantically redressing.

“It’s me,” you manage, voice still fucked from going to heaven and back, “are you okay?”

“You both need to get here, to the cantina,” Cara says, and her voice is clipped and short. You exchange looks with Din before he slips the helmet back on, and you run your hand over your messy hair, hoping the braid isn’t beyond repair, and both of you bolt towards the cantina. You toss Din the blaster, he tosses back the Darksaber, steps matched up, hurrying toward the center of town.

“I want you to know,” Din says, lowly, right before the door opens, “ regardless of what’s waiting for us in there, I’m not done fucking you.”

Despite everything, you grin back at him, brazen, chest still heaving. “Better not be.”

When you break through the vestibule, it takes your eyes a minute to adjust. When they do, you realize who’s standing there, Cara’s eyebrow lifted, staring over at you and Din intently. The other woman turns around, and your feel the smallest bit of panic flood into you as you take in her chiseled jaw, her short red hair, the way her eyes lock onto you holding the Darksaber.

“Bo-Katan,” you start, and she steps forward, not aggressive, but intentionally.

She looks both you and Din up at down, gaze landing on the Darksaber, and then back on your face. “I’m not here for that.” You watch her face, looking for a bluff. It isn’t there. “We need to talk.”

I HOPE YOU LOVED IT!!!!! it's so bittersweet, because so much of this chapter feels like the prelude to the end none of us wants to come, but i want you all to know that even though SM is coming to a close, there is so much more going to be in the sequel. if it doesn't feel like everything is resolved, please remember MORE IS COMING!!! i needed to leave some loose ends to make sure i had enough content for the second one ;)

with that being said, i anticipate SM will be ending with one or two more chapters. likely two more, because there's so much content planned, but as soon as i start writing, i will update you all on tumblr (amiedala) and tiktok (padmeamydala) to give you a definitive answer. if it is just one more chapter, it will be LONG!!! i don't want any of this to end, but this part of the story is coming to a close, and i cannot wait to share the sequel with you all <3 i love you all so much!!!!! thank you for taking this journey with me!!!!!

CHAPTER 29 WILL BE UP AT 7:30 PM EST SATURDAY, JULY 10TH!!!

xoxo, amelie

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kats-kradle · 3 years ago

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Febuwhump day 28: presumed dead (yes i know its a day late)

Fandom: Stargate Atlantis

Whumpee: Ronon Dex

Word count: 1,554

Notes: of course my wifi would crash for over 24 hrs on the last day of febuwhump smh. ayway my first fic in the present tense! surprisingly it went well

<><><><>

Ronon doesn’t cry at the funeral. He’s too in shock to fully grasp the fact that Beckett’s gone to really register what’s going on around him. It’s not until the box is being lowered into the ground that he realizes with a sharp exhale that Beckett is in that box, not in the infirmary, and he instinctively takes a small step forward with a hand half-reaching out for the wooden grave before it closes uselessly and falls to his side. John lays a hand on his arm as they watch a shovelful of dirt hit the blue flag on the coffin. A broken sob flies out of Beckett’s mother.

“My wee baby,” she whispers to herself. A woman with curly hair and a smile that could’ve have lit up a room if it hadn’t been so sad squeezes the older woman’s shoulder comfortingly. Ronon doesn’t know if she’s a relative or just a friend. He realizes that he knows very little about Beckett. Perhaps he should’ve tried harder to know him better.

Another shovelful of dirt hits the flag, breaking the clean white lines that stretch over the solid blue. Ronon always favored Beckett’s flag over the others on the base. Something about the simple design was always both interesting and pleasing to him.

“It’s the flag of Scotland,” Beckett had proclaimed proudly once when Ronon asked about the patch on his sleeve, “I should take you there someday, I think you’d like it! Oh, and my mother would just adore you. You’re coming with me if you ever go to earth.”

Ronon clutches the same patch in his hand tightly. The sharp velcro digs into his hand. He’s not supposed to have it.

He doesn’t care.

The walk back through the gate to Atlantis is just as solemn as the one out had been. Rodney veers off immediately, muttering something about working in his lab. John sighs as he watched him go, but he wanders off towards the infirmary, wanting to give Teyla a report of the funeral.

Ronon puts the patch on the sleeve of the jacket that he never wears. It hangs in the corner of the room in an almost mocking way. Look what you’ve lost, it says every night when he lays down to sleep. Look how foolish you were for loving something again.

<><><><>

He tries to leave. He doesn’t know how else to react to the situation but to run as far and as fast as he can until he has nothing worth losing anymore. Teyla catches him one night while he’s shoving some clothes in a bag. They both freeze when she walks in the room.

“Are you going somewhere?” she asks. It’s more of an accusation. Ronon ducks his head.

“I’m leaving.”

“Where will you go?”

He shrugs. “Somewhere I don’t have to care anymore.”

Ronon thinks Teyla is about to yell at him, but a great, heaving sob flies out of her instead. She covers her mouth as she sinks to the ground. It scares Ronon more than anything he’s ever seen, and he’s by her side in an instant. He holds her tightly as she chokes out apologizes between her sobs.

He doesn’t try to leave after that. He takes more notice of his friends: Rodney walks through the halls now as though he were one of those undead creatures from one of those earth movies. Teyla looks constantly exhausted, her voice thick with grief and her eyes always red. John, too, looks exhausted; his shoulders more slumped than not, and he stares into the distance with a pained look at various intervals. Ronon makes it his personal mission to watch over them, maybe in an attempt to busy himself to the point of detaching himself from his feelings. He brings Rodney the meals that he forgets to eat, he leads John back to bed on the nights he stays in the shooting range for hours with a blank look in his eyes, and he sits silently with Teyla on the days that she can’t seem to leave her room, holding her close and letting her cry.

They all could cry.

Ronon almost envies them for that. He feels like he’s drowning, his lungs exploding in a desperate need of relief, his heart struggling to carry a massive weight.

He ignores it.

<><><><>

One night he wakes with a start from a bad nightmare, jumps to his feet and looks around the room wildly as he fully wakes up. The adrenaline fades quickly. He collapses next to his bed, cradling his head in his hands. It’s a Tuesday, Beckett’s turn for night shift. Ronon can recall almost countless occasions where he would wander to the infirmary self-consciously after a nightmare, and Beckett would say nothing, but give him a kind smile and let him sit there until the sun came up.

Ronon doesn’t cry at the thought of finding the infirmary empty. Not that it is; they’ve replaced Beckett with another doctor, but the whole base seems as if its soul has been ripped from it. Ronon doesn’t know why that doesn’t make him cry. Maybe deep down he knows that if he lets himself mourn then he has to accept the awful truth that his friend is... gone.

Maybe he’s just a bad person, a bad friend.

He doesn’t go back to sleep after that. He wanders the halls aimlessly instead, and ends up in the training room. At lunch the next day when Teyla lays a gentle, questioning hand on his battered one, her eyes searching his, he pulls away without a word. She watches him leave with worried eyes that haunt him.

“I’m worried about you, Ronon,” John admits soon after that during a bout of sparring. “I know you’re trying to ignore that you’re hurting.” Ronon huffs and says nothing, merely redoubling his efforts to get John on the ground. John wins that sparring match. He’s been winning the matches for a while. Ronon allows himself to believe that it’s because John’s getting stronger, and not because Ronon seems to be getting weaker.

A few weeks later, he breaks a rib or two while on a mission. John orders him to the infirmary in a tone that leaves no room for arguing, and Ronon has every intention of going, he really does, but every step closer seems to ring louder and louder in his head. He hasn’t been there since...

He’s three steps away from the doors, and he turns and runs away as fast as he can.

John finds him slumped in a corner of the training room sometime later.

“I thought I told you to—”

“I can’t,” Ronon says shortly. “I tried. I... I can’t.” John sighs and says something into his radio that Ronon doesn’t catch. A few minutes later, a nurse comes into the room with an armful of supplies. Ronon recognizes her. He doesn’t know her name, but she usually worked Beckett’s shifts. She has a kind face. She leaves him with painkillers that he ignores until John lowers himself to the ground next to him and holds them out with a look that Ronon knows not to cross.

“You’d better keep up with these,” John tells him. Ronon nods, but they both know he won’t.

<><><><>

It’s he can do to keep from falling over in shock when they open that door in Michael’s facility and Beckett is there. The doctor tries to talk to Ronon on the way back to Atlantis. His grin starts to falter at the lack of response and Ronon wants to reassure him, but he’s frozen in place. He can only stare.

It’s Rodney who finds him later, tucked into a corner in his room, clutching Beckett’s patch and staring blankly at the wall.

“You okay?” Rodney asks him awkwardly. Ronon can only shake his head.

They find out that Beckett isn’t Beckett, but a clone. Admittedly, it’s not the strangest thing they’ve encountered, but Ronon stays on his guard. He doesn’t trust the clone, despite the part of him that’s desperate to do so. Ronon refuses to speak to him, even when John nudges him sharply, even when Rodney glares at him. He has nothing to say. He knows that Beckett—not Beckett, Beckett’s dead, alone in a box in the ground—Beckett is hurt by the fact that he won’t do more than scowl in his direction. Ronon feels guilty every time the doctor’s face falls after another failed conversation, but he’s just... not ready yet.

And then Beckett is dying, and oh, Ronon wishes he hadn’t been so stubborn, he wishes he had just talked to him. When the doctor about to go into the stasis pod, Ronon finally speaks.

“This is exactly what I was afraid of,” he says quietly. Beckett gives him a small smile.

“I know, big man. Sorry.”

Ronon slips into the room that night and sits in front of the stasis pod with the patch in his hand. He tells Beckett about everything that’s happened in the last two years; Beckett told him once that people in comas can still hear you, and Ronon hopes it’s the same for stasis pods.

Tears fall onto the patch and stain the blue and white as he finally grieves for his loss.

#My writing #stargate atlantis #ronon dex #carson beckett #not intended as a ship but i guess if you wanted to you could read it like that #angst #febuwhump2022 #febuwhumpday28 #ive got a lot of feelings about the emotional turmoil of beckett dying and essentially coming back to life #i have a dramatic side and it 100% made an appearence here sorry not sorry

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imagine-loki · 4 years ago

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Not as it Seams

TITLE: Not as it Seams

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: One-Shot

AUTHOR: wolfpawn

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki using a seams ripper to play a prank on Thor

RATING: General Audience

Elena loved her job tending to the fashion needs of the Aesir royal family. She loved assisting Queen Frigga in designing grand dresses, working on Thor and Odin’s clothes to get their attire to work with their armour, but Prince Loki was the most fun to work with. He had impeccable style and taste and appreciated the work of the palace tailors. He often came in discussing what he needed and spoke with them rather than merely telling them what he wanted and expecting it done.

“What is that device?” Loki was looking at the small item in her hands.

“This?” She held it up causing Loki to nod. “A seam ripper which does exactly what it’s named and rips seams.”

Loki’s eyes lit up at the explanation of the device. “Interesting.” For the rest of the time he stood waiting for his cloak to be sized correctly, he remained silent but looking at the instrument on the table close by.

When he was finished, Elena was entirely unsurprised when he walked over to it once more. “I wonder if I could borrow this for a short time?” Knowing better than to decline such a request for a item worth so little, Elena walked over to her desk and pulled out another one. “Perhaps you would like it better in green?”She held it out for him. “They are inexpensive so don’t fret returning it.” She was half saying it because it was true, half because she feared what he would do with it and she did not want to get blamed if it could be linked back to her.

With a deep chuckle, he took the seam ripper and left the room.

Elena had practically forgotten about the seam ripper Loki had procured from her when the reason for him acquiring it came to the fore.

Loki had been on Vanaheim for a solid four weeks when Thor burst into the tailors’ rooms looking red-faced and bewildered. “What has happened my clothes?”

Elena and a few of the others that worked there looked at him worriedly before noticing parts of his clothes seemed to be coming apart...at the seams. With raised brows and a look to match her workmates, though a deeper understanding as to what was happening, Elena walked forward to look at the attire. “Your seams seem to have fallen apart, Your Highness.” “How? Is it seidr? I bet it is, I wager Loki is to blame.” Thor snarled angrily, not admitting to them that this became embarrassing because he had been attempting to talk a maiden of the court to go to his rooms with him and she had laughed as he flexed only for the side his attire to fall open.

She studied the clothes closely and shook her head. “No, the thread is snapped in a few places.” She pulled out some of the thread for him to see. “There is no foul play afoot, as you can see, it is simply pulled apart, nothing more. I would assume seidr would fizzle it to nothing or snap it cleanly. This is just frazzled. I think I recall this clothing, it is quite old at this stage, it looks like it has had a few adventures too.” She indicated to the few areas that needed patching previously. “I would wager in moments of playful sparring with your comrades, you have pulled it harshly from you and discarded it to the nearest surface, with your muscle growth since this was made, I am sure that has pulled on it so.” She smiled.

Loving that his ego was being stroked by the implications of her words, Thor moved his head side to side slightly in agreement. “Well, it has been some time and you know, clothes are not meant to last forever, I suppose. I better leave it so.” He pulled it from himself and gave it to Elena who nodded back at him. “I will require new garments, are you the one that usually does such?”

“Not for yourself, Your Highness, that tends to be Lady Geraldine,” Elena explained, unsure how the prince would not notice the Light Elf that made his clothes from the Vanir and Aesir that also worked in the rooms.

“Is she here?” “No, Your Highness. It is her day off.” Thor swore. “You start them, then.” Unhappy at threading on Geraldine’s work but knowing she could not decline a direct order from Prince Thor, Elena took his current measurements and started her work.

Thor was nothing like Loki, he did not assist in any manner. Loki seemed to know where she needed him to place his arms and when she did the inseam of Thor, he seemed to think she had different thoughts with her hands there. “Perhaps you rather go somewhere more private with that?” Elena rolled her eyes internally at his stupid remark. “I will say to you as I say to every man that makes that joke, regardless of where you want me to do this, it needs to be done and I am not interested in wasting time. I can do it correctly now or guestimate it if you make me wait but that results in incredibly tight groin areas that tears easily at best or damage your, Crown Jewels when not done correctly.” Thor winced at her reference. “I am just doing my job, so please let me do it.” Feeling embarrassed by her admonishment and nauseated at the image she had put in his head about tight pants harming him, Thor said nothing after that. She moved his limbs as she needed them and took notes. Walking over to Geraldine’s table, she took her notes for Thor and checked them against her own.

“Your last had your measurements done with Geraldine eighteen months ago, your numbers are mostly similar, your neck has increased somewhat, metaphorically and physically.” She added the last three words quietly, though not so quietly as for others to not hear causing the other tailors and seamstresses to chuckle. “I will add these to her notes and begin the basics as per the instructions she has here. She will do the more intricate work when she returns to work. She is off for a few days, you should have them ready to try within the week.”

“So long?” Elena wondered what level of service Geraldine was being forced to work at. “That is standard practice outside of emergencies, Your Highness.”

“What are emergencies with clothes?” Thor asked.

Elena merely held up his destroyed clothes he no longer could wear as an answer.

“What will I wear back to my rooms?” Renée, a seamstress, brought over a riding cloak for him. “If I may, Your Highness.” Thor studied it and put it on. “This is for someone more slight of frame than I.” “It is Prince Loki’s,” Elena explained. “It was in for repair but with him being off-realm for so long, he has not collected it yet.”

Remembering that Loki was gone and certain he had worn the clothing since Loki’s departure, Thor grumbled and mentioned something about having them brought to his rooms when it was done before walking out of the tailor’s rooms.

Elena looked at the other tailors and seamstresses present before shaking her head and sighing. “I guess I better get started on this, then. Renée, could you get me…” She looked at Geraldine’s notes to see what fabrics Thor preferred and gave the seamstress her instructions.

Loki walked into the room with a smirk on his face. He had waited three weeks after court began to gossip about his brother’s clothes seemingly fell apart where he stood speaking to a lady of the court.

Elena, who had been working on a clasp of a coat that Loki’s hand servant had sent to be repaired before Loki’s return, turned on the sight of black and green leather in the tailor’s rooms. She noted Loki walk past her desk and inconspicuously drop the green seam cutter as he passed without breaking stride. “Your Highness.” “I have to have a few new pieces commissioned.” He declared. “When are you free to take my fresh measurements?” “I can fit You Highness in now if that would please you?” “Excellent.” He used his seidr to alter his travelling clothes to something more comfortable and stood as he knew Elena liked him to do to start his measurements. “Have I missed much in the world of tailoring in my absence? I hear my brother had the palace all a din.” “Apparently, Prince Thor was over eager with his attire and tore his seam in a manner that relieved his clothing from its duty of concealing his torso.” She responded, barely able to conceal her grin as Loki embraced his own laughter. She took the measurements of his inseam and around his thigh as he stood still, with him ensuring she had enough room to do so. “He also was of the impression that my current actions are somewhat sexually based.”

Loki stared at the tailor in startled shock. “Norns, I am not sure if it is ego or stupidity or even both with that fool.” He chuckled to himself. “I am sure you set him straight.” He moved so she could check both thighs were equal in size.

“But, of course.” She rose to write the measurements, Loki checking on her notepad to see how he had altered in the few weeks away. “The usual?”

“Please.”

She nodded and while he was close to her, she whispered in his ear. “Next time, try the groin of his pants where it attaches the front and back. It will either rip as he bends down to show his rear end or when he sits and tears to reveal his less than attractive underwear." Loki's eyes widened at the idea.

After doing all that needed doing, Loki went to leave again bidding Elena farewell as he did.

When Elena went to put her notebook back on her desk, there was no sign of the green seams ripper on her desk causing her to laugh slightly to herself as she shook her head.

#Loki #god of mischief #submission #Submitted one shot #wolfpawn #not as it seams

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jaysworlds · 4 years ago

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T4TMA Day Three - AU

Gerry has a lot of tattoos, he knows that. He gets looks from old women on the tube if he’s wearing short sleeves and looks from children in the street, and he’s running out of empty space on his torso, but he likes tattoos. Every time he spends a little more of his late mother’s money on a new design it feels like a fuck you to her, and he revels in it.

(So, he may have one or two issues still to work out. He’s fine!)

Unfortunately his last artist (a rather difficult old woman named Gertrude, who gave the impression of someone who would crochet doilies, not give tattoos) just moved to the states, and now he has to find a new one, and he doesn’t like change. Or people.

It’s proving kind of difficult. Most of the artists just aren’t what he’s looking for, and maybe he’s picky but they will be sticking needles in his body, so he feels like he’s allowed.

A couple of months after his artist moved he walks past a new tattoo shop on his commute home from work. He knows it’s new, because he’s been to pretty much every shop in London by now and he’s never even heard of this one.

It’s called The Archive, and he doesn’t have time to stop by now, but when he gets home he pulls it up on the internet.

The website looks like a myspace page from 2002, but the examples look pretty good, and it’s close enough that he might as well check it out.

The site doesn’t say whether you have to make an appointment or not, and it’s new enough that Gerry guesses probably not.

He has time at the weekend, so he makes a note to drop in and then pushes it to the back of his mind and gets on with his life.

He’s forgotten about it until his phone dings with the reminder and he realises that he might as well go now. If it doesn’t work out it’s just another thing to cross off the list.

The shop doesn’t look like much from the outside, but there are some designs stuck up in the windows that weren’t there before, and the sign says open, so he pushes the door open and goes inside.

The person behind the counter is hot. Like off the wall hot. Button up shirt rolled up to the elbows and hair that somehow manages to look soft hot, and Gerry nearly turns around and walks right back out, because he’s definitely going to make a fool of himself if he stays, but the person has already noticed him.

“Hello,” they say, standing up a little straighter. They’ve got vines twisting up their forearms. “What can I do for you?”

“Hey,” Gerry says, and takes a few cautious steps further into the shop. “This is a new place, right?”

“Yes,” the person says. “We’ve, uh, just opened. Already had a few complaints from nearby old women.”

Gerry huffs a laugh. “I’m not surprised.”

The person nods. “Yes, it’s … it’s fine. Sasha usually deals with it; she’s very good at speaking to old ladies.”

“Sasha?” The name is familiar, and Gerry wonders vaguely if it’s the same Sasha who used to work for Gertrude. He kind of hopes so, because it would be nice to have a familiar face around. They hadn’t exactly been friends, and he hadn’t yet figured out where she’d gone when the old shop had closed down.

“Yes,” the person says. “She’s … one of the other employees. I’m Jon, by the way. My pronouns are he and they, and if you have a problem with that this isn’t the place for you.”

It sounds almost rehearsed, like he’s anticipating people who do have a problem, and Gerry kind of gets it.

“Great,” he says, perhaps a little too eagerly. He hasn’t met a trans artist before, but he has met several who have been weird about his top surgery scars, and honestly it’s a relief to know this place is trans-friendly. “I mean … that’s nice. To know. I…” He is making a real hash of this. It’s Jon’s fault for being so goddamn hot. “I’m trans too,” he manages, running a hand through his hair.

“Ah,” Jon says, and they’re smiling a little. “In that case, what can I do for you?”

Gerry shrugs. “Are you free now?”

Jon nods. “Yes. As long as what you’re hoping for won’t take longer than a few hours.”

“I don’t really have anything in mind,” Gerry admits. “Maybe you could come up with something for me?”

“Alright,” Jon says. “You can come into the back with me. I’ll get one of the others to watch the desk.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Tim!” Jon calls, and a moment later a tall man in a frankly hideous shirt pokes his head out of the door behind the counter.

“Yes, boss?”

“Could you watch the desk for me.”

“Sure thing. Who’s this?”

“A customer,” Jon says, giving Tim a withering look.

“I’m Gerry,” Gerry says, walking over to the door Jon is beckoning him towards.

“Right,” Tim says, waggling his eyebrows. “Enjoy yourselves.”

Jon glares at him again and ushers Gerry through the door.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, sighing deeply. “Tim can be … a bit much sometimes.”

“He seems great,” Gerry says, smiling a little. “Horrible sense of fashion, though.”

“I’ll tell him you said that,” Jon says, lips twitching upwards. “He won’t believe any of us.”

“You do that,” Gerry says.

Jon nods quickly. “Anyway. Do you want to sit down?”

“I can do,” he says, wandering over to sit on the bed. “You wanna see the stuff I’ve got already?”

“That would probably be best,” Jon says, stepping a little closer.

Gerry shrugs his jacket off and pulls his shirt over his head, showing off the patterns over his chest and arms.

“Wow,” Jon says, and he sounds honestly impressed. “I hate to think how much all that cost you.”

Gerry laughs, leaning back on the bed. “A lot,” he says carelessly. “My mother’s money, though. I imagine she’s rolling in her grave.”

“Ah,” Jon says. “My condolences, I suppose, though you don’t sound as though you miss her.”

“I don’t. I was thinking here, for the tattoo?”

Jon wisely doesn’t ask any further questions about his mother, just comes over to see the patch of skin he’s referring to, over his left ribs. They ghost their fingers very gently over his skin, and he can’t help but shiver a little.

“Alright,” they say, finally. “That seems reasonable. I doubt I need to warn you that it will hurt?”

“Nope,” Gerry says. “I don’t think I’m capable of feeling pain anymore.”

Jon laughs quickly. “Great,” he says. “I’m sure I can come up with something for you.”

He moves away from Gerry (to his disappointment, though he’d never admit it) and over to a desk, getting a pencil and a sheet of paper and scribbling away for a while.

Gerry is content to sit quietly and look around the room. It’s almost empty, just some basic equipment and one or two designs. He supposes that the shop hasn’t been open long enough to collect stuff.

“How many customers have you had?” he asks, after a while, and Jon looks up.

“Two, including you.”

“Huh,” Gerry says thoughtfully. “How long have you been open?”

“Two weeks.”

“Not bad.”

Jon smiles. “No, it’s not. Would you like to see what I’m working on?”

“Alright,” Gerry says, and gets up, walking over to Jon’s desk.

“Here,” they say, offering him the paper they’ve been working on. “I thought it went well with your whole … aesthetic.”

Gerry takes it to look over, and they’re right, it does fit his aesthetic. A book, flames curling over the pages. His mother, with her immaculate libraries, would hate it.

“It’s perfect,” he says, and Jon smiles.

“Thank you.”

“You can do it now?”

Jon nods, waving him back towards the bed. “Yes.”

“Awesome,” Gerry says, and goes to sit down, pleased with himself. This was definitely worth it, and he thinks he’s going to be coming back.

Jon takes a moment to pull gloves on and gather up his equipment. He’s humming to himself, Gerry thinks, and it’s … kind of adorable. Not that he would actually say that; Jon strikes him as the kind of person who might take it as an insult, and that’s the last thing he wants.

“Alright,” Jon says, finally, and comes back over. “Could you lie down for me?”

Gerry complies, biting back the joke that immediately springs to his lips. He doesn’t know anything about them, really, and he doesn’t want to get kicked out for making an off-colour joke.

He’s more than used to getting tattoos by now, and honestly it’s pretty relaxing. Especially since Jon’s hands are stroking gently across his ribs, and every time he hisses involuntarily they say shh, shh, and he really likes that.

It takes just over an hour and half for the tattoo to be finished, and it’s rather sensitive by the end, but Gerry expected that. He has tattoos on all his joints, and those hurt way worse than down his ribs.

“Right,” Jon says, finally. “I’m finished.”

Gerry opens one eye and looks up at him, pulling his gloves off. “Great.”

“You were very good to work on.”

Gerry raises an eyebrow. “Is that a compliment?”

“Yes,” Jon says, their cheeks going a little red. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Gerry says, sitting up and waving a hand. “It was nice to have you working on me.”

“Will you be coming back?”

Gerry grins. “You want to see me again?”

The colour in Jon’s cheeks gets a little darker. “I … well … I suppose so, yes.”

“You could have just asked me out.”

Jon exhales, a little shakily, and Gerry prays he hasn’t misstepped. It will really suck if he scares him away by being too forward.

“I…” Jon stutters, seemingly trying to compose themself. “I didn’t want to assume anything.”

“You can assume if you want,” Gerry says, smiling a little. “So, are you going to ask me out?”

“If … you would like that. Then yes.”

“I would like that,” Gerry says. “Do you want my number?”

Jon nods quickly, pulling his phone out of his pocket and offering it to Gerry. Gerry types saves himself as cute goth <3 and hands it back. If Jon wants to change it they can, and he thinks it’s funny.

“Right,” Jon says, and he’s smiling as he puts his phone away again. “Thank you. I … will message you.”

“Cheers,” Gerry says. “I look forward to it.”

He gets up and stretches, wincing as it pulls on his sensitive skin.

“Hold on,” Jon says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Let me cover that for you.”

“Alright,” Gerry says, pleased, and stays still as they care for the very fresh tattoo with careful hands. He’s definitely not going to complain.

“Right,” they say, once they’re finished. “That’s all, then. I’ll message you.”

“Thank you,” Gerry says, leaning in to kiss them on the cheek, almost without thinking about it. He pulls away very quickly, realising he hadn’t exactly asked if he’s allowed to do that. “Shit, I’m sorry. Is that okay?”

“It’s okay,” Jon says, looking almost as though he’s trying to hide behind the waves of his hair. “I don’t … it’s okay. Thank you.”

Gerry smiles, relieved, and does it again. “Alright. Good.”

He really does have to leave now, but he really doesn’t mind. Got a new tattoo, and gave the very cute artist his number.

Not bad going. Maybe he’ll even forgive Gertrude for moving away.

#t4tma #jongerry #jon sims #gerry keay #tma #its under a cut because it accidentally got long #whoops #tattoo artist!jon #he/they jon #as per usual for me #no fears au #i like this one a lot actually

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wolfpawn · 4 years ago

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Not as it Seams

Done for a request sent by @colifower "Loki using a seam's ripper on Thor's clothes"

“What is that device?” Loki was looking at the small item in her hands.

“This?” She held it up causing Loki to nod. “A seam ripper which does exactly what it’s named and rips seams.”

With a deep chuckle, he took the seam ripper and left the room.

Elena had practically forgotten about the seam ripper Loki had procured from her when the reason for him acquiring it came to the fore.

Loki had been on Vanaheim for a solid four weeks when Thor burst into the tailors’ rooms looking red-faced and bewildered. “What has happened my clothes?”

“So long?” Elena wondered what level of service Geraldine was being forced to work at. “That is standard practice outside of emergencies, Your Highness.”

“What are emergencies with clothes?” Thor asked.

Elena merely held up his destroyed clothes he no longer could wear as an answer.

“But, of course.” She rose to write the measurements, Loki checking on her notepad to see how he had altered in the few weeks away. “The usual?”

“Please.”

After doing all that needed doing, Loki went to leave again bidding Elena farewell as he did.

When Elena went to put her notebook back on her desk, there was no sign of the green seams ripper on her desk causing her to laugh slightly to herself as she shook her head.

#Loki fic #wolfpawn #Not as it Seams

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rokutouxei · 4 years ago

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a storm of a woman

part 7 of atelier heart

ikemen vampire: temptation in the dark theo van gogh/mc | T | 3146 | [ao3 in bio]

a/n:just pure, tooth-rotting, domestic fluff, because the latter part of Theo’s route is just miles and miles of agony.

a series of snapshots in the daily life of Theo, now romantically entangled with you, a storm of a woman, if he had any say in the matter.

Theo has always been an early riser. He likes to get his day started as the sun is rising; it gives him an extra boost of energy and motivation like no other. But as of late, he’s had some motivation to stay in bed a little longer than he ever has before, if only to watch you for a few minutes, sleeping soundly next to him.

You usually scoot extra close to him at night, so he’s careful as he wakes up so he doesn’t jostle you or get you out of your comfortable position. Presses a kiss on whatever patch of skin is closest to him—your shoulder, your cheek, your hand—and watches: sea-blue eyes trained on the person he loves the most. Joins you in your synchronized breathing, in, and out, you give him a peace the sunrise can’t compete with.

His stubborn mind and experience tells him it’s wrong, but somehow when you’re with him he feels like nothing can go wrong—that this is the epitome of peace—that it can’t get any better than this. So much has been lost to him, so much has been left behind, so much has passed. Fate has been crueler to Theo than he ever was to himself in many ways, and yet you’re here now, like an apology, like a recompense for all the misery.

So Theo takes his time with you.

The healthy sheen of your skin under the early-morning sun; the tenderness of your flesh; the curl of your eyelashes against your cheek as you’re deep in sleep. The gentle in and out of your breathing; the warmth of your hand curled against his; the thrum of your blood underneath your veins reminding him: you are here, you are here, you have not let him, and if the world is kind, you never will.

But nothing—nothing!—knocks the wind out of him in his early-morning reverie quite like your sweet, sweet smile, your scrunched eyes, the soft sound you make as you stretch, reaching out to him in many ways, and your groggy, hoarse, “goedemorgen”—

Oh, you’re so bad for his heart.

It is simple to say I want to become an art dealer too but much harder to do, so once you’ve finally made up your mind to follow him on his journey, the learning begins. While of course there are many things you learn on foot, like in between exhibits or visits to artists and patrons, there are also other things that you learn in between pages of a book. Like art history, techniques and styles, methods and design. Theo is a stern tutor, and the both of you spend nights huddled up on his bed in his room memorizing and discussing, making connections between observations in real life and things learned on paper.

And it’s not like you’ve come from the 21st century entirely empty-handed, so when he teaches you about this or that era you can name a few artists, the most familiar of them. But what excites Theo the most is when you talk about the future. Pathways of art that have long been found from where you are from that are still being looked for; he makes sure to take note of the names you mention, the timeframes. And when he does, you’re always laughing because “how did it end up that I’m the one teaching you? Theo, focus!” is such a fun way to tease him, but—

(you always talk about the future with wide-open eyes, and Theo can’t help but dream of even the most unimaginable things coming true with you)

He has so much to learn from you, how can you blame him from staring?

There are loud days. Disagreements aren’t that surprising when Theo’s words are commonly coated in barbs, and no matter how long you’ve spent with him there are a few things you just can’t let pass. So there are days you fight. Sometimes it is quiet; cold shoulders and unwillingness to cooperate. But on others, it is loud. You are screaming down the hall and telling him you don’t understand why he has to be so stubborn and he asks why you have to be so insistent.

The room is cold.

Today, you’re fighting over something so silly he doesn’t even quite remember what it is anymore, maybe just a slip of the tongue or some unmeant insult—but either way, the one thing he does know is that it isn’t worth all of this shouting. You’re sitting on the other side of the bed from him (his side of the bed, ironically) with your arms crossed over your chest, a deep frown on your face. And maybe if Theo listens even closer, he’ll be able to make out your little sniffles.

He knows that getting into disagreements with him makes you the most upset, but they are unavoidable, not when he is stubborn and insolent like that and you are a hundred years from the future. It’s understandable, he knows, but it doesn’t have to be normal.

So he reaches out to place his hand on yours from across the bed, and when you flinch and pull back he holds it down. “Let’s talk,” he says, softly, as to not scare you, “I don’t want to fight anymore.”

And you turn, smiling weakly at him, and softly say, “I don’t want to fight anymore either.”

Then there are quiet days. Days for recovering after a long week at work, days for just relishing in each other’s company. Somehow, the two of you have found a way to spend these afternoons lounging in the mansion’s rather impressive library, picking up books and reading it to each other.

You’re holding up a book of Classical Literature, a stack of other books on one side, as you’re prancing around on the carpet in front of the sofa where he’s laid down, happily reading out loud the cheesiest of lines from literature, ones he tries to counter back. Though at this point, the both of you have prepared for this exchange in advance, so most of the lines are said from memory; the conversation goes:

You say, “Your love is the weather of my being. What is an island without the sea?"

He says, “I love thee with a love I seemed to lose with my lost saints.”

“In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you,” you say back, with as much flair as you can.

And Theo says in turn, “She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies; and all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes.”

You grin just as you say your winning line, reading, “My love is as a fever longing still, for that which longer nurseth the disease,” and Theo gasps, offended—

“Is that Shakespeare? How dare you!”

And he pulls you by the wrist as the two of you tumble onto the sofa, laughing, legs tangled together in the most inappropriate of ways, sharing a kiss.

You go on dates. You say that every work day spent with him is nearly like a date anyway, when it’s all enjoyable, looking at art and going to different parts of the city and sometimes even out of the country, but he makes sure to take you out on rather “normal dates” too. A lot of it depends on the schedule, but “normal dates” include at least one of the following: going to galleries, walking along the Seine, eating at new (or old, familiar) cafés, taking King out for a walk, or taking a carriage to nearby towns.

It doesn’t help, though, that when he is alone with you, with no work to think about, no worries, he gets so distracted because all he has to think about and focus on is you. It doesn’t help either that he’s constantly still trying to make sense of how you make him feel, a million different metaphors rewriting itself over and over again in his mind.

The one that sticks with him is that you are like a drop of rain after a long-lasting drought; the beginning of a storm. A storm that will turn into a flood, ravaging the hills, causing landslides. Drowning villages, leading rivers to overflow into the ocean. A storm that will take everything with it—and one he will take for washing away all that he’d have.

You’ve made him new and it hurts and it’s raw but you’ve made him who he wanted to be.

“Theo?”

Oh, the sound of his name on your lips; he returns back to the present and looks up at you with that lovestruck smile he doesn’t know he wears. Regularly. You get lost in it for a moment, before the flush settles in your face.

In mock anger, you furrow your eyebrows. “What were you thinking about?”

“You,” he quickly answers, and you feel your effort to tease him come rebounding back at you in ten times the force. What can you do when it’s you who had opened up his heart to honesty—but to suffer the brunt of the blow?

Theo cannot deny the fact that he is some sort of workaholic, but just because his work ethics are like that does not mean yours have to be the same—is what he constantly says to you. Not that you listen, because yet again he’s found you hunched over a desk in between sorting documents and checking your notes, and with a tsk and a gentle pat on your head he’s off carrying you to bed. This has happened once or twice now, but tonight’s is different, because you’re burning up with a fever that’s snuck up on you in between all the fatigue. In the morning, you wake up dizzy, and hot, the sun already high in the sky and Theo’s half-dressed, as if hesitating.

“Am I sick?”

Theo frowns. “Can’t you tell?”

“Just making sure,” you say, with a cough to match it.

He sighs in response and sits next to you on the bed. “I thought you’d get better by morning.”

“Wait, we have an important meeting today, don’t we? Oh, today’s supposed to be full. Artists in the morning… tools in the afternoon… the patron by evening.” You shake your head weakly. “Don’t worry about me, go to work.”

“I don’t think I can go when you’re like this.”

“You have to!” you say, but your voice betrays you. You clear your throat and try again. “No really, I can handle myself.”

He presses a hand to your warm cheek and frowns out of worry. “I’ll need to go to that patron by evening, but I can stay with you for the rest of the day.”

You want to argue that he has to go—which is true, even your feverish mind can figure that out—but there’s only so much you can do when your mind feeds you the rest of the images on its own: Theo next to you for the rest of the day, which instantly makes you feel calmer. Theo giving you water when you’re too dizzy to stand. Theo helping you eat. Theo holding your hand. Theo easing you out of your fever just by existing. You sigh, then curl up against his body, pulling the blanket with you. “I think I’m delirious. I’m giving up. Please stay.”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your forehead and then slapping a wet towel over it for good measure.

Theo isn’t the kind to jump at all your bad ideas, but it doesn’t take much to convince him to do it anyway, so now the both of you are cuddled rather awkwardly in your shared room’s private, solo bathtub. The new equipment of running water thanks to the turn of the century but also Le Comte’s great influence as a nobleman is something you were not going to take lightly.

Theo’s got in his hand a bottle of your homemade shampoo, and you’re holding in yours a bar of your also-homemade soap, because as much as you’ve gotten used to 19th century life, you’re still up for 21st century bathing techniques, should the opportunity arise. You’ve asked Theo to wash your hair, saying that you’ll in turn wash his back, but he’s too fixated on trying not to get your ass pressed too hard onto his crotch, because one more time and he’s sure he’ll—

You make a noise that is borderline pornographic just as Theo returns to the task of massaging the shampoo onto your scalp. The sound goes straight between his legs, and when he growls, you turn to him with a silly grin.

“Need some help there, big boy?” you ask, and Theo growls as he pulls you closer by the waist.

“You’re doing it on purpose!”

“I told you to be careful,” he sighs, as he puts you down on top of a low cabinet, making sure not to jostle your scratched knee. You had tripped while rushing past a crowd in the middle of running errands with him and had landed rather terribly, considering you did have layers and layers of skirts and petticoats on top, and you still landed knee-first onto the pavement.

You pout and it doesn’t show on his face but you know just that expression on you is enough to let you off the hook with Theo. Especially if it’s such a small thing such as this. “I’m sorry. It’s not too bad though, at least it didn’t bleed that bad.”

And it didn’t; just a light scrape that has made the flesh pink, but one that could probably use a bit of antiseptic and maybe some gauze. Theo has carried you directly to one of the buildings the both of you have rented lately, to be used as exhibit space, fully knowing he has a first aid kit in there somewhere.

You clean yourself up with antiseptic, and Theo holds the gauze in his hands, still (faux) glaring up at you. “From the moment I’ve met you up until now, you’ve done nothing but worry me. When are you going to stop?” he asks with the most overdramatic sigh you’ve ever heard from him. Well, he’s getting better at his acting, at least—and it’s rather amusing.

But instead of praising him, you go the roundabout way, the way he does, just to bite back at him. “You should stop worrying now, because now you are at least watching over me, right?”

And he groans in defeat, but he knows you’re right.

A phonograph is nothing to Bluetooth speakers of the 21st century but it’s still music, and the two of you are in one of the rooms in the mansion that’s being used as Vincent’s little storage area for all his paintings. There’s no need really for anything to ease boredom or exhaustion, because Vincent’s art is all magic and stunning in one place, but Theo’s set up a phonograph on the corner anyway, to play some music as you two go through the piles of canvases for paintings that will go along with the theme of the new exhibit the both of you are planning.

There’s nothing quite like appreciating art while a little tipsy though, and the whiskey you’ve been drinking (happily gifted by Vollard) makes it easy for the both of you to get lost in the music, to get distracted by its swaying tunes—and soon the two of you are face-to-face, slow dancing in the middle of the room under the late-afternoon sun peering through the window. Theo’s got his arms around your waist and your hands are around his shoulders and you have a cheek pressed against his chest.

One song slides into another and maybe they’ve replayed already but you’re not quite sure, not when Theo’s already tilted your face up to share a kiss—he had told you once that sometimes he just can’t stop kissing your stupid, stupid face—and you’re laughing into this one at the memory. He gives you a look but you shake your head and kiss him again, the kiss like something the both of you are not taking seriously, just something passed around. Clumsy mouths pressed against each other. Back and forth, back and forth, you’ve taught him, this is what it means to share, you say, this is what it means to not carry it all on your shoulders. And after one impertinent round of laughter he bites your lower lip and tugs—and you’re not one to be bested so you curl your fingers into his hair and pull, and the kiss is something and everything all at once.

It steals Theo’s breath away and he’s thanking it.

Your lips on his, the warmth of your touch, the music, the setting sun—this moment feels like it will last forever.

Theo thinks of much of his life—both in this and the past one—shrouded in a veil of darkness, the same way dark clouds cover over the sun just before it crashes and falls. But you’ve made him think differently of storms now. A storm that will take everything with it—that’s what you are to him, and at this point, he doesn’t mind if you ravage his lands as long as he gets to keep you, the rain that makes his flowers grow.

And one morning, Theo wakes up, much, much too late, on a day-off, after a very, very busy night in bed, to find you already bundled up and curled up on the armchair near the window, sipping a warm mug of coffee. It’s raining outside, mid-autumn showers that make the red leaves fall.

You look so lovely.

So delicate, so strong, and yet so fervent.

Oh, to fall for a storm of a woman like you.

You are teasing each other for morning breath as you both wake up. You the future he is trying to build. You are the arguments settled between bouts of tickle fights and laughter. You are centuries of books on romance combined. You are running in the rain because it suddenly poured and there is no shelter. You're warm soup and fresh bread. You're pushing all the limits. You're comfort and adventure.

He thinks back to everything that has happened in the past. To everything else that can happen in the future—the good, the bad, the ugly. And he hopes, hopes deep inside his heart, that nothing goes wrong. Nothing goes wrong when you’re with him after all.

So it’s himself he hopes for. Hopes that he can get this right, this time around.

in the atelier: The Storm, by Pierre Auguste Cot

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikevamp theo #ikemen vampire theo #ikevam #fic #atelier heart #a storm of a woman

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gabriel-agreste-has-no-rights · 5 years ago

Link

Rating: T

Summary: Marinette needs a model to finish her figure drawing portfolio. If drawing Chat Noir will distract him from asking why she refuses to ask Adrien, then she'll make it work. (It's not like his suit leaves much to the imagination, anyway.)

Word Count: 4729 | Chapter 1/2

Notes: See AO3 for notes. tldr: the main genre is humor and despite what you may think, there are no sexy times

XXX

“This is terrible!” Marinette flopped face-first onto her bed and wailed into her pillow. “I’m going to fail figure drawing, and get kicked out of the design major, and never get an internship and starve trying to get commissions and I won’t be able to afford cookies for you which means you’ll have to find a new chosen and Chat Noir will hate me and—”

“Marinette, breathe!” Tikki ordered, lightly smacking the part of her cheek that wasn’t buried in her pillow. “You’re catastrophizing again! None of that is going to happen.”

On a conscious level, Marinette knew that. But that didn’t particularly matter right now when her mind was racing and the final due date for her portfolio was days away and there was no way for her to catch up now.

The figure drawing lab was closed for the models to prepare for their finals. This wouldn’t be a problem, except she had missed too many classes due to akuma attacks to finish the pieces she needed. All she had were five out of fifteen finished drawings and six loose sketches, hastily abandoned while she made increasingly awful excuses to go transform. “I need to go water my plant” had been the most recent. It was a miracle Professor Carbonneau hadn’t kicked her from the class already, considering how coveted the seats were.

But it didn’t matter if she was technically in the class if she couldn’t draw enough live models to pass.

“It’s hopeless, Tikki. There’s no way they’ll let me retake this class. I barely got a spot in the first place.”

“It’s not hopeless,” her kwami said more softly. “You’re Ladybug. You’re luckier than that. And you’ve worked too hard to fail now. I know you’re stressed, but you can’t give up!”

She rolled over onto her back, shoulder brushing a drawing that had slid down the wall and gotten lodged in the crack next to her bed. She pulled it out only to crumple it and toss it towards her trash can. Even the better designs she’d hung from a wire with tiny clothespins felt more like mockery than inspiration right now.

“If I wasn’t Ladybug, I wouldn’t have had to miss so much class in the first place.” She sighed.

“I know, Marinette.” Tikki patted her shoulder consolingly. “I wish it didn’t have to be so hard on you. You give everything you have into both being Ladybug and creating your art. You shouldn’t have to give up one for the other.”

In a way, it felt like she already had. She’d never abandon Paris, no matter how frequently fighting Hawkmoth’s villains cut into her classes. But could she really abandon her dreams of becoming a designer either?

“You’re right, Tikki. I’ll… figure something out.” She smiled and rubbed Tikki to her cheek. “I can look up reference pictures online, I guess. The details won’t be as good as drawing from life, especially for the size of paper I have to use, but it’ll have to work.”

“I could always model for you!” Tikki joked, flashing a few poses she’d surely seen from the Agreste magazines Marinette used to have plastered everywhere. She figured she’d look weird enough to her flatmates from her odd sleeping habits and patrol times without adding photos of her old crush into the mix.

“Thanks for the offer, Tikki.” Marinette giggled at the kwami’s attempt to look flirty. “But I think this course is meant to teach human anatomy.”

“I bet one of your other friends would model for you if they knew how important this was,” she insisted. “What about Adrien?”

“No!” Marinette smacked her fist to her forehead to try to dislodge the image of Adrien shirtless and posing for her that came unbidden. “I can’t ask him! I’m trying to actually get art done, not drool all over the carpet.”

“I haven’t seen you drool in a while. Not over him, anyway.” Tikki smiled knowingly, and Marinette glared.

“I do not drool over Chat Noir either.”

“I never said anything about him.”

She groaned, flopping back and wishing the mattress would just swallow her up already. She didn’t drool over Chat. He’d gotten over his crush on Ladybug before they came to university. Unlike her, apparently, he knew how to move on.

Not that it mattered, because she didn’t have time for a boyfriend! She was stressed enough as it was!

She took a few deep breaths and pulled herself back to the matter at hand: finishing her portfolio. She wouldn’t dare ask Adrien to model for her, even if there was a slim chance he’d actually do it. They were finally comfortable as friends, and while she was used to staring at nearly-nude models in class, she didn’t trust herself to not make things weird again if she had to stare at him in his underwear for hours.

Though unfortunately, he was probably the only one of her friends used to sitting and being stared at for hours. Maybe it would be worth it…?

“Nope, nope, not doing it.” She shut her eyes again. She hadn’t been able to confess to Adrien in the past four years. There was no way she could risk revealing her crush in such an embarrassing way, even to save her final grade.

...Granted, she’d done worse. He’d gotten her constipation pills and she hadn’t given up.

“What are you not doing?”

“ACK!”

Marinette bolted upright, nearly toppling off of her bed at the voice from the window. For a moment it had sounded like Adrien himself, summoned by her thoughts. Thankfully, it was just the blond boy who was a more regular visitor to her fifth-story window.

“Chat!” She whirled to scowl at him through the windowscreen. “Don’t you know it’s rude to eavesdrop?”

How long had he been there? Had he heard Tikki? Had he heard her not-confess to drooling about him?

“You left the window open.” He shrugged from his perch on the outer ledge.

She had left the window open because she needed some fresh air to keep from suffocating under the pressure of her deadlines. Sure, usually the open window meant Chat was welcome in, but…

Actually, maybe Chat Noir was exactly who she needed right now.

“I guess I did.” She sighed before prying off the screen to let him in.

He slipped over the sill, bowed, and produced a pink rose from behind his ear.

“For your hospitality.”

She laughed and tucked it in the vase on her desk, replacing the wilting flower he’d brought her last week. She was lucky her roommates weren’t as nosy as Alya, or she’d never hear the end of it.

“You know, if you’d really wanted to get me something, you could’ve brought the rabbit miraculous.” She leaned back against her creaking desk as he took his usual spot on the cushion in the corner of the room.

It was a joke, but as she said it, the idea sounded tempting. Alix wouldn’t mind parting with Fluff for a day while she patched her portfolio back together, would she? If she weren’t worried about causing some kind of temporal paradox, she would’ve done it.

“Rabbit? Sorry, someone else has already hopped on that one.” He grinned, crossing his legs beneath him. “You don’t feel like squeaking by with the mouse again?”

She stifled a laugh. “You’re terrible.”

“But you’re smiling.” Only he could look so smug about it. She always frowned just to prove him wrong. But she did feel better already, the way she always did around him. “So what’s up? I didn’t come to my favorite civilian’s house just to drop a few amazing puns.”

“Awful puns.”

He waved her off. “Anyway, I just wanted to see how you were doing, with finals coming up and everything. Akuma attacks always spike around now, you know.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” She rubbed her temples.

“Don’t worry, though. Ladybug and I have special patrol routes this finals week. We’ll take care of any akumas faster than you can say ‘thank you Chat, you’re the best superhero ever’.”

Despite everything, she laughed. The daily patrols would be just one more stress placed on her, but it was necessary after Finalizer destroyed the entire university last semester. But Chat was surely dealing with the same thing, and he’d still taken the time out of his studying to come make sure she was alright.

“Thank you Chat, you’re the best superhero ever,” she said with a teasing grin. She didn’t expect the blush that spilled out from under his mask.

“I-I guess I am pretty great.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“And I guess bragging about yourself is supposed to scare off akumas, huh?”

“Yeah, I mean—hey!” He pouted, sending her giggling again.

“Sorry, sorry.” She joined him on the ground by the cushion. “You are great. I wasn’t expecting you, but I’m really glad you came.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’s just… been a long day.” She sighed. “I missed my last class today, and now I don’t know how I’m going to finish my portfolio for my final.”

“Are you feeling okay?” He reached out to press his palm over her forehead, as if he’d be able to feel anything through his glove. “I’ve heard people get sick around finals week, too. Do you want soup? I can bring back some soup—or juice maybe? What do you like when you’re sick?”

“Stop, Chat, I’m not sick.” Though her face probably warmed enough at his concern to pass as a fever. “I just missed class because… um—I stayed up too late studying and accidentally fell asleep!”

“Oh.” He pulled back his hand and nodded sagely. “That makes sense.”

She held in a sigh of relief. “Anyway, I need to finish at least four more figure drawings before… three days from now? Which wouldn’t be a problem except I need a live model and it’s not normal for friends to strip down to draw each other.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t sound that weird to me.”

She pointedly did not imagine him stripping down in front of her. ...Not entirely, anyway.

“Yeah, well, unless you want to model for me—”

“I will.” He grinned before pink tinged his cheeks. “Um, or I would. I don’t think I can take off my suit without revealing my identity.”

“You—take off—” She made some noise that vaguely approximated a keyboard smash. Not because of the thought of seeing him shirtless! But he really trusted her that much, even as a civilian?

“Sorry, forget I offered. It was stupid.” He suddenly looked even more embarrassed than her, which was saying something.

“No, no! I—I really appreciate it, Chat Noir.” She squeezed his arm and smiled gently. “I would never ask you to detransform for me, but it means a lot that you even thought about it. Really.”

“You know you’re one of my best friends, Marinette. Of course I would. Besides, I’m used to—nevermind.” He ruffled the hair at the back of his neck. “Anyway, I’d gladly model for you if I could. But hey, don’t you have a friend who’s literally a model? Why don’t you ask him?”

Her eyes widened at the sudden subject change. “A-Adrien? NO! I—I mean I can’t, I—” She groaned and dropped her head in her hands. It was bad enough for Tikki to tease her, but if Chat Noir found out about her maybe-not-so-old crush? She would never hear the end of it.

“Why not?” His head tilted, his brow creasing beneath his mask. “He is your friend, right?”

“Yes.” She sighed. Just a friend, who would probably not enjoy her ogling him half-naked. Which wasn’t the point! She was just trying to pass her class, not stare at boys!

Maybe she should ask Alya at this rate. She was ride-or-die enough to do it. But Alya had a worse finals schedule than any of her friends, with all the journalism papers she’d put off while chasing akumas for the Ladyblog. Nino, then? No, he had several music scores to finish composing.

Adrien probably had as much work as the rest of them, with his math and physics classes. It wouldn’t make sense to ask him.

“Then I don’t see what the big deal is,” Chat said. “I’m sure he’d love to model for you.”

“He’s probably busy,” she said, which was true. “And besides, modeling for figure drawing is completely different from clothes modeling. You have to hold poses much longer, and some of them are weird, and you have to, you know, wear a lot less clothes.”

Her face burned. She was stupid to even bring it up; she was just digging herself an even deeper hole.

“I think you underestimate how long photoshoots take,” he quipped back, and she raised an eyebrow.

“How would you know, anyway?”

“I-I wouldn’t! I just think, all things considered, he’s your best choice. I’m just trying to suggest what’s best for your grade, as a good, supportive friend should do.”

“Uh-huh.” She frowned. It did seem a bit odd how insistent he was on this. Had he guessed her not-so-secret-crush after all? “It doesn’t matter, because it’s not going to happen.”

“But—”

“Nope,” she cut him off, shoving him a little to make room for herself on the cushion. He scooted to let her smush in next to him. “I’d sooner draw you suited up.”

“...Would that work?”

She glanced at his chest, which was about at her eye level with the way she was slouched against him. She never really thought about it before—really, she hadn’t—but the suit didn’t leave too much to the imagination. If she used Chat as a model and just fudged a few parts, would anyone really be able to tell? It would definitely be easier to get the proportions right than it would be drawing from a screen, especially for the quick gestures that were supposed to comprise a third of her portfolio.

And if it distracted him from asking about Adrien, well, that was just a bonus.

“You know what? I think it would.” She grinned and scrambled up to get her drawing board, which she’d dropped against her desk as soon as she’d gotten home, too exhausted to store it properly. Part of the giant pad of newsprint was coming off of its clips, and she adjusted it before propping it up against the foot of her bed. It was even less comfortable than the benches in the drawing lab, but it would do.

“You—really?” He beamed.

“Of course, silly cat. I might not be able to use you for the detailed figures, but need gesture drawings too. Your suit is tight enough that—nevermind.” She flushed again. This was such a bad idea.

But it would work. If she could be professional with Chat Noir while fighting akumas, then surely she could be as professional as she was with the paid figure drawing models.

She expected him to tease her over that last comment, but he just sprung up and started striking ridiculous poses.

“So, how do you want me?” He flexed, and she snorted.

“Not like that. These are warm-up gestures, so let’s have you do a few that you can hold for at least thirty seconds. They can be standing or sitting or using props, it doesn’t matter.”

“Props, huh?” He tapped his chin before reaching behind his back for his baton. It wasn’t like it was unusual for models to pose with staves in class, but she still had a feeling she was going to regret giving Chat Noir that permission.

Two seconds later when he had an arm and a leg wrapped around his baton, she knew she regretted it.

“How’s this?” He asked, flashing a toothy grin.

“Chat.” She glared, and he laughed before stopping his joking attempt at pole dancing.

“Sorry, sorry.” His grin was unrepentant, but he rested the baton behind his shoulders instead. “Better?”

She shook her head while letting out a little laugh. He was just such a dork.

“Sure, that’ll work.”

She fished her conté sticks out of her pencil case, set a thirty second timer on her phone, and swore that she wouldn’t make this awkward.

She looked up to find him pursing his lips in a kissy face.

Aaaand she promptly burst out laughing.

“If you’re going to make that face, I’ll have to ask someone else to model for me.”

“Nooooo! I’ll be good, I promise!”

True to his word, he schooled his face into a neutral expression. His charcoal-lidded eyes peered up through golden bangs.

She forgot to breathe for a few seconds.

“Marinette? Is this better?”

“Uh—y-yeah! That’s great, just hold that until the timer goes off, then switch poses.”

She pressed the start button and brought her conté to the paper before she could get lost in his eyes again.

From there, it was much easier. She was used to staying professional during her figure drawing classes, and all she was doing was capturing his form, not the bright green shade of his irises. Not that the sharp curves of his shoulderblades and defined calves couldn’t be distracting too. But the timer helped with that; she couldn’t lose focus when her warm-ups each lasted thirty seconds.

“How do you draw so fast?” He asked after shifting to pose where he knelt close to her sketchpad.

Her face colored in embarrassment. It was much harder to draw someone when they could watch you. Gesture drawings weren’t particularly interesting to the untrained eye; he probably thought she was wasting his time drawing glorified stick figures.

“Woah,” he breathed.

“Stay still,” she said before he could learn farther into her space.

“Sorry.” He snapped back into position. “It’s just your drawings—I don’t know much about art, but they just. They look like they’re moving.”

“You can tell?” She smiled hopefully, briefly forgetting about the timer. “That’s the point of gestures. It’s to warm up and get the form on paper without getting lost in details. It’s not what I draw the most, since I’m taking this class to prepare to draw my fashion designs, but I’ve enjoyed it a lot.”

“It really shows. And you can do this even though you missed so many classes?”

“Er—well I do practice outside of class as much as I can. It wasn’t easy.” She’d nearly snapped her conté sticks from frustration those first few weeks. Professor Carbonneau was pretty lenient with her students, but that didn’t stop her from comparing her drawings to all of the studio art majors who had clearly been practicing for much longer. She knew her art still wasn’t the top of the class, but as long as she could pass with a grade high enough to stay in her major, she would be grateful.

The timer buzzed, reminding them both to get back to work.

“Let’s move it up to a minute this time,” she said.

“Whatever the Princess wishes.” Chat Noir bowed, holding the pose for her to draw.

She laughed and went back to putting him down in black and white.

Tension leaked out of her as she swept her conté in long arcs, soft shadows, sharp edges. Somehow Chat Noir was a much better model than she’d expected. He barely twitched under her scrutinizing gaze. Every once in a while he cracked a joke that set her line shaking, and she had to force herself to glare at him.

It was normal. It was fun. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

At least, that was what she thought until they finally got to the fifteen-minute pieces.

Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of staring at her partner lounging on the cushion like a real model. Taking down the contours of his legs and side and maybe-occasionally just staring at his chest.

If he noticed, he was at least kind enough not to comment.

She swallowed, glanced at the timer, and kept drawing. This one would be for her portfolio; she couldn’t afford to get too distracted. Not that she should find him distracting in the first place.

“Let’s take a break. You’ve been at this for a while,” she said when the timer finally went off. She folded the cover back over her sketchpad and set it aside.

“You’re the one who’s been drawing. All I had to do was sit there.” He shrugged.

“That must not be easy to do for so long, though. In our class, the models get breaks every thirty minutes.”

“Really?” His eyes widened. “That must be nice.”

“We can’t have anyone falling asleep on us,” she joked, standing and holding out a hand to help him to his feet. “Come on, I’ll order us a pizza. It’s the least I can do after everything you’ve done for me.”

His cheeks pinked below his mask. “It’s nothing, really. I’m a pro at sitting and looking pretty.”

She rolled her eyes, but unfortunately couldn’t argue with that.

XXX

“So,” Chat Noir said before swallowing a mouthful of pineapple pizza, “did you get enough drawings for your class?”

“Not quite.” Marinette sighed, running her fingers over the edge of the paper plate in her lap. “I still need a few thirty-minute pieces. I don’t want to keep you here all night, though.”

“You know cats like to stay up late, Princess.” He winked. “But in this case, I do actually have a study session early tomorrow. What if I came back tomorrow afternoon?”

“Hmm… I guess that could work.” She took a bite of her pizza. “I didn’t want too many drawings of the same model, but I don’t have many other options. And you are really good at this. I just wish I could...”

“Could what?”

“I could really use someone who doesn’t wear a full body suit for the longer poses.” She sighed. “Your suit’s too shiny for me to pass it off as skin, and I can’t make up the shading from scratch. My professor will know.”

“There’s always Adrien,” he said with a smirk.

Marinette had half a mind to throw her pizza at him. “Why won’t you let that go?”

“Because I know for a fact he would love to help you out.” He shook his crust at her.

Her face flushed at the word love. She thought she was better than this by now!

“Really? And how can you be sure?”

“Because I—uh—because…” He glanced back and forth before shoving the pizza crust into his mouth.

“Come on, spit it out, Chat—no not literally!” she exclaimed when he frantically spat the crust back onto his plate.

He sheepishly grinned and put the slobbery food back in his mouth. She smacked her forehead, probably getting pizza grease there.

“You’re gross, you know that?”

He swallowed. How he didn’t choke on the crust, she didn’t know.

“But you love me anyway.”

“Keep dreaming, kitty.” She managed to get it out without so much as a stutter, despite the heat remaining in her cheeks. Whatever feelings she did or didn’t have for Chat, it wasn’t like she could act on them. Not when they couldn’t know each other’s identities, and not when she still couldn’t get over Adrien.

Not when he’d already gotten over her.

“Anyway, what were you trying to tell me?” She asked before she could dwell on that.

“Oh. Uh.” This time he didn’t have any more food to use as a distraction. His eyes darted back and forth before he sighed. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but… IthinkAdrienhasacrushonyou.”

Marinette felt her brain cells fizzle out at trying to process that sentence. She had to have misheard, hadn’t she? “Come again?”

“Adrien,” he said more clearly, “has a crush on you.”

Was she dreaming? She was dreaming. She had to be.

“And how would you know that?” She asked, her voice a little higher than normal.

He crossed his arms. “A cat never reveals his secrets. And besides, even if I’m wrong—which I’m not—he’d still help you because you’re his friend, and he cares about you. So I really think you should ask him, or else I’ll use my superheroly powers to get him to model for you myself.”

“You wouldn’t.” Her eyes narrowed, though her heart was beating out of her chest. Adrien? Having a crush on her? It wasn’t like they’d seen each other too often this semester, with both of them being busy with their classes. Why would he like her now?

At first she thought he was going to argue, but then he seemed to deflate. “Fine. I’m sorry for being so pushy, I just… you really don’t like him, do you? Did something happen?”

Why did he seem so hurt by that? “N-no! I mean, I do like him, I like him a-a lot actually, and—you can not tell him this,” she threatened with a finger near his nose.

He went cross eyed trying to look at it, but nodded.

She dropped her hand. This was stupid. If Chat knew about her crush… she’d worried about him teasing her, but really, he was her friend. Her best friend. She had to keep enough secrets from him because of her identity. It would feel good to at least be able to share one.

“I’ve had a crush on Adrien forever, Chat,” she finally admitted. “That’s why I didn’t want to ask him to be my model. I don’t want to get distracted. I need my drawings to be the best they can, and I especially don’t need him catching me ogling him.”

Her face burned. It was one thing to share secrets, but maybe she didn’t need to share that much.

He laughed. Was her crush really that funny? He almost sounded surprised though, like there was any chance she wouldn’t fall for a sweet, caring, kind friend who also happened to be unfairly attractive. Maybe he was only surprised because he thought puns and roses were the way to a girl’s heart.

(His way had worked too, though, hadn’t it?)

“So you want to ogle him.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

“Yes—no—shut up!” She shoved him, and he collapsed laughing on the carpet.

“I’m hurt, Marinette. And here I thought you wanted to ogle me.”

“I hate you,” she said through her fingers as she contemplated ways to erase this conversation from existence. Could a Lucky Charm do that? “I can’t believe I ever thought I liked you.”

“Ouch. And here I thought your dad’s punches hurt. Whoever made up that ‘sticks and stones’ saying was a liar.”

It took her a moment to realize he was referring to the time her papa was akumatized. Of course he wouldn’t expect that she actually liked him now.

That was for the best though. She wasn’t supposed to admit that, not as Marinette, especially not when she’d just learned Adrien (probably) had a crush on her. She could hardly go out with Adrien when Chat Noir snuck in her window a few times a week, could she?

It hurt too much to think of letting her strange more-than-friendship with her partner go.

“So, you think there’s time for one more drawing?” he asked, brushing his hands off on his suit.

“If you’re still up for it.” She couldn’t turn down the opportunity, even if she was even more afraid of giving her feelings away now. Besides, if he thought she only liked Adrien, he wouldn’t notice her acting weird. Right?

“Of course. Can’t deny you the opportunity to capture all this.” He flexed his arms in a few different poses.

“You know, I was going to thank you, but now I think that might go to your head.” She laughed.

“Ah, it’s too late for that.” He grinned. “You’ve already inflated my ego beyond repair.”

She didn’t see how, but he was already holding his pose, one hand on his hip, the other arm flexing up near his head. His legs were braced in a slight squat that would probably hurt to hold for too long, but left her with an all-too-good view of his quads.

She set her timer for thirty minutes and hoped that she could keep her secrets to herself a little longer.

#marichat #miraculous ladybug #fic tag #marinette dupain cheng #chat noir #tali writes #charcoal lines #humor

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unicyclehippo · 5 years ago

Note

You ever think about how Caduceus is probably gonna outlive and bury all the nein.

there is a garden far to the north of the empire ringed by three stone-and-iron-and-thorn walls. the gateways stand open and from deep within the garden there is the ever present bloom of flowers. it is hot here. it has been snowing for weeks but the garden air is humid and sweat immediately begins to prickle beneath cloth, beneath armour. buzzing insects drone on about insect business, the wind talks through the leaves and the grass. when the trees of the garden give way, the complex opens into hillocks and divots where swamps have crept in and claimed a place. ponds of murky water skinned over by immense lily-pads. croaking frogs hold parliament at their edges.

though it takes a while for a humanoid voice to come through, there is one here.

he is seated on a log beside a rather complex looking set-up—a crackling fire beneath it and boasting a squat little teapot above. a curtain of pink hair falls to one side of his head, laced back by a simple braid embedded with flowers. the braid must have been done for him for the firbolg is very old; his eyes, when he blinks them curiously toward the singing birds above, are clouded over with age and his fingers shake as he reaches for the pot to pour another cup.

his name is caduceus clay and he tells this easily to the young adventurer who steps into the garden. they have done their research, what they could, and they know who is buried here.

‘their graves,’ he repeats when the adventurer asks to see them. ‘you want to see them?’

‘yes, please.’

he scratches at the long goatee that curls down from his chin. ‘for a monk of the cobalt soul, i suppose i could do that.’ his laughter is rich and warm, surprised out of him when the monk blinks. ‘you did a very good job hiding it,’ he nods. ‘never was sure why you all like to do that, but you do.’ he shrugs. heaves up onto his feet. towering at a full seven feet, perhaps taller, there is a moment when he is silhouetted by the cloud-dimmed sun and shadows fall across an angular face and he is not jovial or warm but imposing indeed. and then the moment passes and he gestures toward the pot steeping above his contraption. ‘tea? this is from the—‘ nostrils flare in his broad nose. ‘eresovon family.’

‘ah. thank you, yes.’

the grin he gives them is not comforting, but it is amused. ‘dead people tea,’ he says.

the monk shivers, very aware that for a moment they were surrounded. not by ghosts, not exactly.

‘well alright then, follow me.’

‘you’ve read all about them, i suppose.’

the monk—a half-elf who introduces themself as archivist kosh—nods eagerly. ‘yessir! everything that is available from the archives regarding their travels after the alliance and as much as i could gather from before their emergence as heroes. there is very little indeed from before the slaying of the laughing hand,’

‘ah, yeah. him. he was not very nice,’ caduceus nods.

kosh pales, seeming to remember that this man indeed was a part of this same group they have studied for so long. ‘right. no. servant of the crawling king. not nice. i shall...make a note, shall i?’

‘seemed pretty obvious to me but sure, yeah.’

caduceus doesn’t lead them far before they reach a well. he stands hunched beside it and doesn’t speak. kosh blinks. searches for a sign of what they are doing here. they shift their weight from their heels to the balls of their toes, bounce a few times to bleed off the restless energy.

‘this is where we put fjord. he made it himself.’ caduceus steps around, waving kosh to follow, and shows them the sword embedded into the stone.

embedded isn’t the right word. the stone has grown around it—creeping vines of granite holding the sword to the side of the well. kosh reaches out before pulling their hand back.

‘go ahead,’ the gardener rumbles. ‘everyone always wants to tug on it.’ he waits a moment, head tilted to the side, and then laughs quietly.

kosh wonders if they should write in their report that the gardener has a rather juvenile sense of humour. it is something they can decide on later; first, they want to try and pull the sword from the stone, as it were.

the handle is terribly cold, at first, enough to make them want to snatch their hand away. they don’t. instead, they hold tighter and lift and to their great surprise, the sword grates against stone for a moment before sticking again.

‘hmm,’ the gardener says. ‘interesting.’

‘is it?’

‘possibly. not sure.’

‘oh.’

fjord spent many years building wells, caduceus tells them as they wander the garden. partly because of his connection to water, definitely, but there was something comforting to building that he always enjoyed. maybe the fact that he would have people join him and learn how to do it themselves, how to make the repairs, how to drop a new well if this one ran dry. he liked people. was always good at taking a piece of them with him, in a voice or a gesture or a story. rather poetic then that so many people got to keep something of him.

miss jester lavorre, the sapphire, kosh has written in their notes. not far from fjord, there is a peculiar archway that always seems to be facing kosh no matter where they walk, overrun by tiny blue flowers that smell sugar-sweet, and the path—a short path, only a few feet long—is a shifting, shining mosaic of blue and green, pink and gold. she made it herself. started the day fjord passed. caduceus stares down at the path for a long, long time. breaks out of his quiet only when kosh’s curiousity lures them closer to the arch.

‘i don’t know where that will take you,’ he warns. ‘maybe to the other side.’

‘of...life?’

‘of the arch.’

‘oh.’

‘or death. or the fey. or the centre of a volcano.’ he shrugs. ‘who knows? nott is over here.’

veth brenatto is buried beneath wildflowers. hers is a simple grave, with a maker not unlike many kosh has walked past before. the flowers are simple too, common as weeds. caduceus offers no explanation, simply pats the headstone and moves along.

not far from her grave is another patch of flowers grown over a simple grave. vibrant orange blooms and—catnip? kosh stares in confusion and a faint sense of indignation wells up in their chest as they read the name etched without design or flair into the headstone. caleb widoghast. and, below it, bren aldric ermendrud.

‘he—the archmage of the mederi council—he should have a mausoleum! a place of connection! something that shows the esteem the empire—the world—has for him! this is not fit for the archeart’s chosen!’

‘not fit?’ again, kosh sees the shadows grow, though the sun is shining brightly. the birdsong seems to fade as kosh is aware of the thudding pulse in their ears. ‘the grave is not for you. the grave is for the dead and for those who loved them. what better grave is there for him than to be buried beside the person he loved best? to be a simple man, buried simply, and to grow beautiful flowers? come,’ he says and his hand settles on kosh’s shoulder. it is impossible to disobey and kosh walks from the grave.

if they are worried for a moment that caduceus will send them away, they need not be for only a moment passes and, like the passage of a breeze that dips and turns where it wishes, the cold anger of the firbolg shifts and is gone.

‘yasha is over there,’ he says, and points. near to the wall of the garden, there is a series of trees. at first, kosh cannot determine which of them the gardener is pointing toward, and then they see it. ‘part of her wanted to be buried with her wife, so she was. part of her wanted to be buried with us, so she was.’ he leads the monk up to a tree with dark red wood and dripping with red leaves.

‘a vermaloc tree. i didn’t think they grew—‘ kosh stops themself, flushing.

‘almost anything planted in her garden will grow,’ caduceus tells them, ignoring their embarrassment. ‘some take a little easier. it was worth tending to,’ he says much more quietly, and pats the red bark again.

he turns then, those clouded eyes focusing none-the-less with intent upon the monk. he says nothing.

kosh feels their stomach twist. that restless energy, mostly assuaged by their walk, returns. they bounce up onto their toes, unable to hide it.

a smile breaks across the gardener’s face. ‘i thought so. save the best for last.’

‘they’re all vitally important to our research,’ kosh recites.

caduceus nods. ‘and to you?’

they can feel their ears twitch. ‘she’s a hero. she’s a legend. she’s—all my life, i read about her and then when i joined the archive i tried to find out more but there’s even less in the archives! did she burn all the information about herself? was she just that good at going unnoticed? is it true that she could run so fast you couldn’t see her move, she was just there?’

the smile grows.

caduceus nods his head, toward the next tree. ‘that’s hers.’

it’s a strange tree. like and unlike many kosh has seen before. the bark shifts from smooth to rough in patches and pathways. the colours are dappled in browns, all healthy, and there is a peculiar energy that surrounds it that kosh can’t quite identify other than the urge to climb it, an urge they’re quite familiar with, is almost impossible to ignore.

‘does she have a headstone?’

‘do you think she does?’ caduceus asks.

kosh hesitates. then, they nod. ‘she could’ve gotten rid of every trace of herself but she didn’t. it was like a scavenger hunt to find the information.’

‘then i suppose if she does have one, you would have to look for it.’

it takes some days of talking with caduceus and walking the garden themself before kosh notices the branches of the oak and the vermaloc have twined together, high above. a blue ribbon tied where the two meet.

#critical role #prompt fill

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freewheelshippin · 4 years ago

Text

FIC: “be proud”

Let me indulge in the fantasy that I got to help, just a little bit, in making one of the only ballads on this earth I like. More “utapri characters that aren’t ranmaru” content than usual, especially Ai, since this is vaguely based on their Idol Songs album!

Content warnings include an allusion to home invasion, Ranmaru’s usual backstory things (i.e. dealing with debt), and some eating/meal scenes.

Ranmaru was surprised to receive the package, a fairly big box from someone he never expected to get mail from. Something in the pit of his stomach half-expected it to be everything he’d sent her, unused and returned to sender.

For a second, he thought he was right. It was a similar array of trinkets and colors as the merch she’d designed for his album, but it quickly became obvious this wasn’t his merch, but hers. Trinkets from her shop, like patches and pins, and one of those handmade prints she liked making on weird paper. Candies he didn’t recognize, some American snacks he did, a little box of something that looked homemade with a hand-scrawled label on it. At the bottom, a shirt, printed with a cleaned version of an album art draft he’d especially liked but the agency didn’t approve. Folded within it, a note, written in English on one side and clumsy Japanese on the other.

Yo, Kurosaki!

I know I already messaged you thanks for sending me my comp copies of everything, but I wanted to return the favor! You really didn’t have to go out of your way get it to me like that, much less pack in all the other shit you did. But I’m glad you did! It arrived on the day I got another rejection, one I was really hoping would pan out. I got back all the time I would’ve spent feeling sorry for myself and instead just wanted to try again. That’s kind of the message I got from the sound of your album, so I guess it’s appropriate!

Honestly, even if it was tough figuring things out sometimes, I had more fun on that job than any other one I can think of. You don’t have much to apologize for, I’ve survived way worse than some grumpy e-mails from a cool client, and you actually had pretty good feedback to offer. I think the end result was pretty metal. (Or well, rock, since it’s your shit, after all.)

If you’re cool with it, I think it’d be fun to keep sharing our work with one another, outside of just being a client and artist. Get some fresh perspectives, you know? You know where to message me if you think so, too.

-- M

P.S. You’re the first person to get this custom pick I got designed. Be grateful (LOL).

Taped to it, there was a pearlescent pick, red and black with white lettering. Ranmaru took it off, careful not to tear the paper, and ran his fingers over it. It wasn’t even close to the type he’d tolerate using if he wasn’t going to finger-pluck his bass.

He clasped it in his hand, pausing for a moment, before he let out a ‘hmph,’ equal parts amused, relieved, and a little bit giddy.

---------

“...Ranmaru,” Ai said, looking at him with those big saucer eyes. Sometimes Ranmaru felt like the guy never blinked, which made his curious once-overs scarier than he’d ever admit to.

“What,” he growled back.

“...according to every piece of data I know about you…” he started. He already didn’t like where this was going. “Nothing would point to you being the cell phone charm type.”

“So?!” he barked, frowning at Ai as he self-consciously stuffed his phone into his pocket. It buzzed from a message notification, as if on disastrous cue, making a plasticy noise as it rattled against the charm. “What’s your data know about the real heart of people, anyway,” he continued, crossing his arms as he leaned back in his chair.

“It hasn’t been wrong about anything yet.” Ai tilted his head. “Why do you have a charm all of a sudden?”

Because I saw she uses one of mine, Ranmaru answered frantically in his head, thinking back to the video chat they’d had where she showed it off. His hand was in his pocket, muffling his phone buzzing as more messages came in. He ran his fingers over the smooth pick, the subtle grooves where the letters were, the jagged hole he’d poked into it, the string that ran through it and knotted into a hole on his case. Because she told me about how much she liked it, so I wanted to return the favor.

“Why is this so goddamn important to you, Ai?” Ranmaru bristled. “Can’t we just get on with work already?”

Ai stared at him a moment longer before shrugging slightly. “I’m simply curious. What would motivate you to act against your usual protocol seems interesting. But if you won’t tell me, I suppose there’s no use prying, especially when we have work to be done.”

Ranmaru grunted back, leaning back to the table and looking over the notes. “We’re decided on what we wanna do for our duet, but we still have to decide on a direction for our solo songs on the album. Something that makes each of us stand out but doesn’t ruin the cohesiveness of the whole thing.”

“You should do something slow,” Ai said, after a moment of thought.

“Why should I?” Ai should know by now Ranmaru wasn’t about that sort of sound, especially when Ai already had the sad lullabies more than mastered. “Nothing about that’s very rock or wild. It won’t work with my image. Or do whatever that “gap” shit is that people like…”

“Really?” Ai looked at him again. “Ballads are an intrinsic part of rock music, and wouldn’t it be ideal for communicating feelings that aren’t as energetic as your usual work?”

“You should’ve just said power ballad in the first place,” Ranmaru grunted, but he had to admit it wasn’t a bad idea. “It’d work better with your usual style. And the duet, from how it’s going so far.” The biggest problem Ranmaru could think of was he couldn’t imagine what on earth he’d want to sing about in one.

“Then it’s decided,” Ai said decisively.

“...Oi, Ai, when did I say I agreed to this?” The kind of thing he’d rather shape into a ballad instead of his usual, urging style was a complete mystery, which Ranmaru didn’t like the idea of committing to in a partner project and on a deadline, even if it was months away. But like hell he’d admit that to someone else in Quartet Night, much less Ai, who’d just give him “logical” suggestions Ranmaru already knew he’d hate.

“Was your reasoning not enough?” Ai tilted his head. Ranmaru met his eye. Something about the curiosity on that blank face felt less pointlessly prying this time. Now it was more like someone who just wanted to see something new.

Ranmaru couldn’t fault him for that. And he was due to challenge himself in this way, anyways.

“....Fine. Whatever. That means you can’t do your usual sentimental stuff. You should do something that’ll lift everyone up after the heaviness of the other songs.”

“That sounds logical,” Ai replied. His eyes moved to Ranmaru’s pocket as it buzzed once again, but quickly turned back as they brainstormed ideas.

--------

He wiped his eyes as he leaned back from the computer, surprised by how quickly and unbidden they came. He hastily tore up a strip of paper and hung it over the camera built into the laptop -- he knew it wasn’t on. This wasn’t a video call. But the idea of someone seeing him like this felt surreal and, frankly, too scary to confront right now.

They chatted a lot more, now. It’d been about half a year since they’d started talking outside of work. It wasn’t just occasionally sharing art and music with each other anymore, either, it was a big stew of ideas, inspiration. A lot of breaking down what they liked in all the albums they shared with one another, and how they wanted to integrate all that in their work. Her siphoning gear and singing tips off of him, while she broke down expressions and visual composition to a science to help him out with modelling. And amid all that, something easygoing. Complaining about work, about weird clients, about shitty train rides, but also the nice parts of their days, too.

He’d gotten short with her today, and she got frustrated with him. They argued -- for the first time since they’d tossed aside client-and-professional for friends-and-colleagues -- and it turned out she was as passionate a spitfire as he, assuming she got in the right mood.

And in the middle of all that furious typing, she paused.

M: You know, it’s kind of relieving to argue with you like this.

Ranmaru was so startled, he forgot the point he was making.

R: what the hell are you talking about?

M: oh, come on, we both know I’ve used diplomacy to handle your grouchiness before, and that worked fine enough then. But I just appreciate that I trust you enough to not take such a safe approach, for once, and the thing you’re most upset about is that I didn’t feel comfortable calling you out on your horseshit sooner.

Ranmaru didn’t have an answer for that as she typed on and off. He imagined if this were a verbal conversation, this would be the point where he’d just listen while she strung her thoughts together -- wordily, but getting to good enough of a point that it was worth letting her meander.

Instead, she cut right to a point he wasn’t expecting.

M: hey, I’m not taking back anything I said, but I probably should’ve asked sooner. Are you doing OK? You always get stuck in asshole mode for a reason. I don’t have classes to teach today, so you can bend my ear if you need to. even on voice chat, if you like, japanese or english.

An uncomfortable wave of relief washed over him. He hadn’t told her about it, but things were the kind of stressful that pushed his stoic approach to its limits. Too many deadlines at work. Too many people there talking, too few saying anything he gave a damn about. Money was tight this month -- the debt collectors suddenly hiked up what he owed, and they’d banged down his door to “tell” him that. And another shitty argument with Camus, after he “freed” all his bananas for some ridiculous flambe parfait he just had to have for lunch on a day when Ranmaru couldn’t afford any.

This was just how things were. Why was he upset about it now? He was beyond cursing how things had turned out for him. Making useless wishes when there wasn’t anything to do but work and survive until he didn’t have anything to lament.

M: alright that’s a suspiciously long amount of time between messages for you when you’re riled up. are you OK? It’s fine if you’re not, and it’s fine if you don’t wanna talk to me about it, but i’m here if you want. If something’s really eating at you, that’s more important than me being mad. (for now, anyway)

It felt surreal as he leaned back to the computer and felt his fingers find the keys as he started finding the right words.

R: it’s not a light subject R: and it’s not on you to deal with it M: LOL bro c’mon. M: I eat heavy for breakfast, and I said I’m here for you. M: lay it on me

He wiped his tears away with his sleeve. It’d been long enough since he’d cried that he didn’t even think about how it’d smudge his makeup and stain his clothes, but he didn’t especially care as he started to explain himself, the words coming out hesitantly until they coalesced into a small cascade of short, tight sentences, heavy with years of restrained sorrow he’d ignored so aggressively until now.

---------

Recording Haruhana went well. Ranmaru expected it to, somewhat. Ai’s cold problem-solving could be annoying, but they never got in the way of the heart of his vocals. Their voices blended into an interesting harmony, and the acoustic guitar bridged their styles into a bittersweet sound they slipped into easily enough that recording sessions went uneventfully.

“It does not surprise me, but.“ Ranmaru couldn’t bring himself to outright glower at Ai as they stopped recording and stepped away from the mics. “You’re very good at conjuring a strong, wistful image with your voice.”

“Then why do you look surprised…” he grunted back, loosening and lowering the mic for whoever had it next. “...You do it well, too, but we already knew that.”

“The heart of things you’re so obsessed with,” he said plainly. “It wouldn’t do if we couldn’t bring truth to the emotions we write about.”

Ranmaru hadn’t given much thought to why Ai’s songs were so lamenting and sad, for the most part. He’d acknowledged they were genuine, had a tone color that suited him right, and made the fans happy. Truthfully, he’d only thought of those songs in the context of work -- Ai was a rival and a colleague he respected enough to sing with and not want to lose to, so he’d only looked at his songs from that standpoint, too. But Ranmaru realized better, now, just how good Ai was at sharing sadness that wasn’t so heavy it dragged people down with it. Wistfulness that grasped forward towards something, like a greater understanding.

“How’s the ballad going?”

Ranmaru clicked his tongue. “How’s your synthpop bubblegum bullshit going?” he shot back.

“Well,” Ai replied, unfazed. “I have the chord progressions and kits mapped out.”

“Good for you, then,” he grunted back. Great. So Ai was making good progress while Ranmaru hadn’t made any.

“Are you struggling?”

“Isn’t that the point of a ballad?!” Hopefully Ai couldn’t argue with that and would leave him alone from there.

“Shouldn’t you defer to a composer or lyricist if you’re stuck?”

Ranmaru glared at Ai. “If it’s a ballad, I should write it myself, not leave it to someone who’s just gonna put words and music I don’t mean into my mouth.”

“Past data suggests you won’t back down about this,” Ai said smoothly, stacking the notes and papers they’d brought into the studio neatly. “I suppose I should wish you luck, in that case, and remind you this is my album, too, and it’s the fans who are most important.”

“I know that,” Ranmaru spat, long done fussing with the mic.

*************

R: you hate ballads, right M: I sure do! :D R: why M: too slow for my tastes, sentimentality done like that isn’t my thing, don’t always feel genuine, you know R: that’s literally every problem i have with the big project at work right now M: oh no you have to make a ballad?? Like….poppy enough for shining agency and all that? Oh boy.... R: what’s your advice to making a ballad you don’t hate, then M: HMMMMMMMMMMMMM M: pass a kidney stone M: WAIT RANDY COME BACK I’LL HELP FOR REAL R: If you want to help why are you calling me randy?! M: suffering is the root of all good ballads. I’m helping R: can you at least remind me what the one ballad you like is M: oh, turn on your light M: judas priest M: it’s always judas priest R: so why don’t you hate it R: other than it’s judas priest M: oh, nothing big M: my first gf just made me a mixtape and confessed with it is all M: and that was my entry point into western metal M: sealing my fate forever as a queer metalhead and thereby forming the foundation of all my aesthetic, social, musical, and auditory sensibilities forevermore M: and some other stuff R: oh is that all “We are about to arrive at ____ station, please make your way to the doors if your stop is ____ station....”

R: what’s the other stuff M: oh dw about it M: it’s, you know, the stuff everyone brings to listening. the mushy baggage that lets ‘em connect with strangers. you know how it is

The train arrived right after that message went through, and he had to put his phone away over questioning her further. Recently, he’d felt more irritated with himself than usual. He knew he got this way when he felt he owed someone and hadn’t done his part to even the score.

He was kind of in the same camp as she when it came to slow songs. Rock was about energy, passion, an urging sense of power, and even if he could understand why those slower songs were important, it didn’t mean they had to always resonate with him. He thought about their exchange. She dropped art into their chats a lot because, as she insisted, it helped having a musician look at her work, instead of another illustrator. And he liked her perspective for the same reason -- more personal than a fan, but more refreshing than everyone else at the agency.

Really, it sounded like what made the ballad feel genuine was the context she could apply. It wasn’t just a song, but a personal gesture that singled her out from the millions of other people who’d hear the song and imagine it was for them.

Ranmaru frowned as he exited the train station. The solution to his ballad problem was simple, so obvious he felt stupid for overlooking it. If he expected people to connect to his music, he had to give people something to connect to. All he had to do was what he always did -- just go for what his heart told him to. No frills, no fancy trimmings, just something he wanted to honestly express.

He strung basslines in his head as he walked to his apartment. Let the music-making guide him, instead of demanding it follow rigid instructions. As he pushed the key into the lock, he caught the faint stain of his eyeliner on his sleeve.

Don’t look at me … while I dry my eyes....

His stomach lurched a little, but moreso he felt his body surge with the truth of the song he wanted to write. The same rush of a surging venue, somehow, but with the kind of wistfulness and earnest desire he appreciated in Ai’s work more now.

Tama had started to squeeze through the little crack in the door, investigating why Ranmaru had just stood there like an idiot for so long.

“...c’mon, you little dope,” Ranmaru said softly, surprised how breathy he needed to keep his voice to get past the tightness in his chest. He squatted down, scooped the soft little creature up, and walked straight to his workspace. He did the once-over his apartment he’d gotten in recent habit of, seeing if anything had been seized by the collectors while he was gone, before depositing Tama on a cat tree where Mike was sitting. He hummed a melody that was quickly taking shape, his hands barely keeping up as he grabbed a scrap of paper, scrawling notes as fast as his hands would let him.

*******************

Reiji looked up at Ranmaru in disbelief. Ranmaru scowled back.

“If you don’t want it,” he growled, reaching for the box he’d put in front of Reiji. “I’ll fucking take it back.”

“No! No no no, Ranran, I’m so grateful!” Reiji exclaimed, scrambling to slide it out of Ranmaru’s reach.

“Humph! If I didn’t know of your peasant tastes,” Camus started from across the table. “I’d just tell you you’re better off skipping this slop.”

“Oi!” Ranmaru pointed a spoon threateningly at Camus. “You don’t have to eat, asshole! You still owe me for ruining my bananas, and as far as I’m concerned this just means you owe me another meal!”

“You think your pauper’s tongue deserves the fineries I’d select, I see,” Camus said challengingly, tilting his head and crossing his legs. Ranmaru was a hair trigger away from just throwing the box with Camus’s portion right at him. Maybe it’d ruin that stupid suit and he’d learn to shut up.

“He-heeeey, Ranran, everything smells super good….I’m so excited to dig right in, but are those sauces I see?” Reiji interrupted. Ranmaru clenched his fist around the spoon as he turned his glower towards him.

He slammed the spoon down in front of Reiji. “Which sauce do you want, the spicy chili one or ketchup,” he managed through gritted teeth.

“O- ohhh, wow! So gourmet! We have options!” Reiji cheered, in that singsongy way he did when he was trying to smooth over disasters. “Ranran, I knew you could cook, but I never knew you were so talented! I wonder what’s in ---” Ranmaru was losing his patience, and he grabbed the bottle of homemade chili sauce, hovering it above Reiji’s portion. The bottle sputtered as the air escaped, and Ranmaru’s grip threatened to explode the whole thing right then and there. “ -- I’ll have just a little bit of the spicy one, haha…”

Ranmaru held his gaze a moment more before he focused back on the food, squeezing a reasonable amount onto Reiji’s portion. He opened the box with Camus’s, already dressed with a mountain of sweet chili sauce, stabbed the spoon into it, and slid it over.

“Is this omurice?” Ai asked. Ranmaru handed him his own box.

“Is the rice in the omelet?” he grunted. “It’s just a stuffed omelet you eat with rice.”

“Mm-mm! So good! I’ve never had spices quite like these! Is this a secret specialty dish you’ve been hoarding to yourself?”

Ranmaru, at this point, just wanted to sit down and eat. “No,” he grumbled, hoping they’d get the picture.

“I can’t recognize this preparation against any recipe I know of. Did you make it up yourself?”

“It’s one from a friend, alright? She sent me a bunch of chilis and herbs and I had to make something to use them all up. If you don’t like it, then you don’t have to eat it. Stop asking questions and let me eat!”

They ate quietly for a while, much to Ranmaru’s relief. Camus, of all people, was the one to end the silence.

“Kurosaki,” he said, taking an odd tone for a conversation with Ranmaru. “....You will share the recipe for this sauce immediately,” he said, an odd hush to his voice.

“And what if I don’t,” Ranmaru sneered back, feeling just a little smug. “You gonna pass out from a sugar crash and finally give me some peace?”

Before Camus finished his reply, Ranmaru took a bottle from his bag and tossed it at Camus, who disappointingly kept his composure through the surprise. “Maybe you’ll learn to eat some meat, now that you’ve got a way to slather it in sugar.”

The rest of Quartet Night all stopped again in surprise, the same way they did when Ranmaru said he’d made them all lunch for today. Their eyes burned on Ranmaru as he went back to his meal, and he tried very, very hard to not let it bother him.

“...Ranran, you’ve been acting different lately. Did you--”

“No,” he growled. “Whatever you think it is, no.”

******************************

M: oh dang M: wow dude M: i really don’t know what to say

Ranmaru stared at his phone in the dark, waiting as feedback from the other side of the world came in.

M: you fucking nailed it. I don’t know how you did it, like a week ago this wasn’t anything. M: now it’s a whole new side of you i don’t think your discography’s shown off yet M: the fans are gonna go apeshit

The rest of the song came to him in the kind of exciting, passionate fervor where his hands couldn’t keep up with the ideas. The melody followed the bassline very naturally, peppered in by flashes of lyrics that slowly built and reorganized themselves. And from there, more instrumentation became evident. What he had now was just enough to make the soul of the song clear, finished late tonight in the studio.

Already his head was filled with what more he could add, but they blended into blur of ideas he was too tired to separate.

M: can I confess something? I mean, i don’t know why I’m asking, you’re probably already asleep M: what you have here already made me cry a little bit M: i don’t know what you did, but you made a ballad that works so well. It really feels personal and so full of the soul everyone loves you for, but there’s something really sad and kind in there that makes my heart squeeze. M: and that’s even in the lyrics! (what i can understand of them, anyway haha) but you know how saccharine I find ballad lyrics most of the time!!! M: then again, it is you. I don’t think there’s anything you could ever make that would feel disingenuous lmao M: is it too late to ask if i can illustrate this album too....would Ai and the agency let me do that…. M: i can draw something that’s soft and rock as shit!!!! M: anyways M: you’re probably dead asleep but just know this: good work, dude. M: it really felt like you were saying something very heartfelt, even in this rough cut, and i think how personal that voice is is gonna make everyone feel such a feeling. M: it sure made me feel one!

He locked his phone, tearing himself away from the slow stream of messages coming in. He laid on his back, phone facedown in the blanket, as he stared up into the dark swallowing the room back up again. Every part of his body felt like it was on fire, burning to get back into the studio.

The lyrics weren’t complete yet. He wasn’t the poetic type, so it’s not as if he’d let himself overthink his words and lose their heart in too many revisions, but there were still blanks. The phrase that’d pull it all together, the words that summarized the message of the song, they still weren’t there, but he could feel himself getting closer.

It was about paying an unspoken debt, and it was about shame, but above all, it was about pride. In himself, for letting himself reach this point, and in someone else. That was the sort of connection he could sing himself to tears with, whether on the stage, the studio, or the clean, edited album, and for that, he was proud.

#iron maiden & rocka rolla #scribblings #it's been a while since i procrastinated shit i had to do with furious fic writing #and i've been some kind of feral lately over Be Proud like the song #so i guess this is where we're at lads

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enchanted-prose · 5 years ago

Text

#12 A Bloody Ballad

and with this fic, I have officially crossed into the 60,000 word count territory. I've also decided that I will finish this ficlet series by July 14th and submit it to Jennifer Nielsen’s fan content competition.

Word count: 5,715

Characters: Jaron, Mott, Jolly (Original character who deserves lute rights), Lord Thomas Row (a babey and original character), Merry (Original character), Commander Regar (Original character), Roden, Tobias, Renlyn (Original character), Princess Amarinda, Imogen (this one’s a reAL party)

Notes: This was creepy even for me to write, so that’s your warning. Edited and ready to be read!

Enjoy!

The sneezing never stopped.

Always sneezing.

And it was all that cat’s fault.

Jaron rubbed his eyes. It wasn’t the cat’s fault, it was his. He should’ve thought about his reaction to the cat when Renlyn managed to sell it to him. Cat hair was everywhere.

But by the Saints, nothing could best the smile Imogen had when she held that kitten on her lap.

He didn’t mind silent suffering if it meant Imogen’s happiness.

Her secret smiles filled his head. The way her hand sought his whenever they were near each other kept his feet planted on solid ground. Jaron knew that Imogen’s mere presence gave him the focus to solve every puzzle at his fingertips.

However, it went deeper than that.

Imogen insisted on looking him over each time he got into trouble. She had no qualm about staying up until the early hours of the morning when memories of Avenia plagued him. Her love came in gentle forms; she brought him deftly spun bracelets, a spoonful of sweet pastry dough, ruffled his hair with flour covered fingers.

He could sneeze for a millennia for her.

With each passing day, his stance seemed more and more likely.

Did the Saints sneeze?

Energy burst through him without a warning. Jaron stood up, nearly knocking his chair to the floor. He snatched the letter he’d been reading and began to pace. King Kippenger was sending a representative to discuss the situation Avenia was in.

There was nothing Jaron wouldn’t do to assist an ally, save abdicating the throne and a few other atrocious acts of course. He was prepared to give aid to Avenia in any shape.

He was prepared to send his best military leaders to action if needed.

His mind instantly began thinking about what news Kippenger’s representative would be bringing. The path he walked was familiar. It gave him space to think outside of his normal routine. To the corner, to the door, to the shelf, back to the desk.

Thomas Row, that was the representative’s name. A farmer raised to nobility after demonstrating his loyalty not only to Avenia, but to Kippenger during the first months of his reign.

Carthya’s harvests over the past four years had been wondrous, and a new push for education thanks to Amarinda and Tobias. Feall was working with Roden, and Jaron was confident that Feall would make a capable temporary replacement should Roden be sent to Avenia.

The pieces were in place. Jaron could play this figurative chess game and win.

He was juggling what would happen if Avenia wouldn’t accept his help and what he would have to do to protect his own people.

Would it really be worth it to keep a Carthyan influence in Avenia if it only forced Avenians even further away from good relations?

Decisions, decisions, decisions.

To many outcomes, not enough stable variables.

Think, think, think.

What could he do if Avenian relations soured?

Bymar would come to help, Jaron was certain of it. Mendenwal would likely come as well, and maybe even Gelyn, though the latter would likely have ill intentions. He could always completely withdraw Carthyan aid as a last resort.

A very last resort.

Why, oh why couldn’t Thomas Row be there, knocking at the door?

Jaron rubbed his watering eyes, and returned to his desk. One letter down, countless others to go. He inched his chair backwards, inched his chair forwards, and wished he had a chair that spun in a circle.

Saints, it wasn't even noon and he was already bored.

He’d managed to read through ten letters when somebody finally came to check in on him.

“Mott!” Jaron stood up, this time successfully knocking over his chair. “Thank the Saints, I wanted to ask you if-”

“No, I will not let you use a shield as a sled and ride down the grand staircase,” Mott’s brows lowered into a solid line.

Jaron broke into a wicked grin, “Good idea, but that’s not what I was going to ask. You read Kippenger’s letter, no?”

“Haven’t had much to do but read since the attack.”

“Do you have any- oh.”

During the Avenian war, Mott had received a wound that would’ve killed him if not for Tobias’s skill as a doctor. The wound prevented Mott from fighting his way through a battle.

The wicked grin Jaron sported faded into a deep frown. He wanted to be a good king, a just man who sought out justice rather than revenge.

It was a well kept secret that Mott’s ghost wound flared up. A well kept secret that the fight with the Faola who attacked Feall was responsible for the ghost pains.

But Jaron knew, he knew about Mott’s pain.

And if it weren’t for Imogen and Tobias, he would’ve taught the Faola a lesson they’d never forget.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” muttered Jaron, tossing through the emotions pulsing through his veins.

Anger, grief. Anger, grief. Anger, grief, and frustration.

Did nobody care how hard he was trying? Was that why there was still crime plaguing the streets of Drylliad?

“Not exactly, but I do appreciate the sentiment,” Mott shifted on his feet. “I did read Kippenger’s letter, and I dispatched a series of spies to try to locate his representative.”

“Did you find anything out?”

“As a matter of fact, I did, although the information came from someone who’s not one of ours.”

Oh?

Jaron motioned for Mott to continue, “Is it reliable information?”

“From a friend’s perspective, yes. However, from a ruler’s perspective there’s a series of holes in the story,” explained Mott. “My informant, ah, has a history of lute playing, colorful clothing, and pursuing every vice he can.”

“Please don’t tell me-”

“Jolly is my informant.”

He didn’t mean to snicker. He didn’t mean for that snicker to turn into a fit of laughter. Jaron coughed into his fist, trying his best to mask his grinning, “Jolly is your informant? The man who sings about floral crowns and otherworldly romances?”

Mott was all too serious as he nodded. “Considering that he not only found Thomas Row in Avenia, he also managed to bring him here, I’d give him a bit more credit.”

“Lord Thomas Row is here!? When did he arrive!? Why wasn’t I informed!?”

“He requested to stay at an inn rather than in the castle, said he wanted to be with the army that accompanied him.”

“By the toes of every Saint, I have to meet with him,” Jaron bolted to the door, froze as his hand hovered above the handle, and turned back to face Mott. “Would you like to come with me?”

“Perhaps,” Mott said. “I have several things that require my attention, but I don’t suppose you’d be opposed to helping me with my duties.”

More chores?

More papers to read?

Jaron shrugged, “You can’t tell anyone, otherwise they’ll always come to me to help push papers around. I have duties of my own.”

“As do I.”

“To the Devils’ with duty then, I’m the king, my word is law.”

With a few catches, of course, but Jaron didn’t need to explain that. It would’ve diminished his perfect excuse for abandoning the papers on his desk.

All he needed was a quick stop at his chambers to change his clothing. He’d be able to blend in with the crowd well enough in a pair of shabby trousers. It was a slight miracle that he hadn’t been recognized yet.

He was feeling more comfortable once he’d dressed in a patched shirt and ragged shoes.

Although when he stood next to Mott, who was still dressed plainly according to the royal court’s ridiculous standards, he looked like a pickpocket.

Once a thief, always a thief.

The courtyard was bustling with life. Horses were being led to shadier pastures outside the castle. Sheets and sheets hung on lines as they dried in the sun. Roden was yelling at a group of soldiers.

Everything was as it should be. Jaron was grateful for the false security the routine brought.

He would be a fool not to acknowledge that there was something not quite right anymore.

Like a right shoe being ever so slightly bigger than the left. Like a spoon and fork sharing the same engraved design, only the spoon was missing a line.

Quiet yet obvious once found.

“Tell me about the army Thomas Row brought,” Jaron asked, stepping over a laundress’s large bar of soap.

“It’s a hired army,” Mott wiped his nose. The smell of heavy duty soap wasn’t the sweetest scent. “The army’s lead by a man called Commander Regar, I suspect his men are mostly Bymarian and Gelynian.”

“Ah, mercenary armies. They’re too unpredictable for my taste.”

“One could argue that you’re also too unpredictable for different peoples’ tastes.”

“I don’t give my loyalties to the highest bidder; mercenaries do.”

In fact, Jaron didn’t think the mercenary armies so favored by nobility were worth their cost. The mercenaries were little more than bandits who could play the game of life a little smarter.

It was far better to find men willing to fight for something they loved rather than men who fought for coin.

“Market day should be a success,” Mott noted, gesturing to the various stands that had popped up overnight.

Jaron shrugged, “I’m hoping for a large supply of peaches this time. The peaches at last market day were full of worms.”

“I suppose you’ll just have to wait two days to see the peaches yourself.”

“Think I should have Roden pray for my peaches and their health?”

“Don’t be sacrilegious.”

Ah, market day was a thief’s dream. Hundreds of vendors came with their goods to sell, and security could only protect so many. Jaron had taken advantage of market days as a child. He rarely returned to Mrs. Turbeldy’s Home for Disadvantaged Boys with his hands empty after market day. Sometimes, he got lucky. Sometimes he was able to steal enough food to feed himself for a few days.

Though the anxiety that constantly tugged at his lungs made him wonder.

Made him think.

Made him realize that maybe this market day would be unlike the others.

Perhaps he should get somebody to pray about it.

Thomas Row was staying at the Traveler’s Inn, which meant a short walk for Jaron and Mott. . . If Thomas was there. And as fate would have it, Thomas wasn’t. He was at the Dragon’s Keep, catching up with a certain brightly colored troubadour.

Jaron could hear the lute playing long before he saw the Dragon’s Keep. Jolly’s clear tenor voice sailed through the tavern’s open windows.

There was blood in the kitchen

And blood in the halls

Blood in the bathtub

Blood on the walls

There was no way that tune was Carthyan, Jaron would’ve remembered a ballad that violent.

“After you,” Jaron said, holding the door open for Mott.

“On the contrary, after you Jaron.”

“No, after you.”

It took several more ‘after you!’s before Mott finally conceded and walked into the Dragon’s Keep with Jaron trailing behind him.

Stepping into the Dragon’s Keep was like stepping into a warm cloud.Men and women crammed around almost every table. There was no set uniform among them, although several people wore thick, knee-length skirts with knotted patterns. Jolly was sitting on a table flanked by a man playing a large set of pipes and a woman playing a tin flute. Jolly’s tenor voice took on a thick Bymarian accent; the chords he played turned sour:

There was blood in the kitchen

There was blood in the halls

Blood in the bathtub

Blood on the walls

And blood on her Majesty, Lady Ingrithay

A heart in her right hand, dagger in the other

Ye can’t outrun yer mother

She is yer judgement day

Jaron shivered.

Ye can’t outrun yer mother

She is yer judgement day

“That’s him, Lord Row,” Mott said, gesturing to a man in humble clothes sitting a few tables away from Jolly and the other musicians.

Lord Thomas Row was a plain man, save for his head of wiry, black braids. His white shirt flared down his arms and cinched around his wrists.

Cinched around one of his wrists.

One of his wrists?

Lord Row had a right hand, but the left one ended in an elegant, covered hook.

“Sir Mott! It is good to see you!” Lord Row bellowed, and he lunged to embrace Mott. “It’s been too many years!”

“Yes it has, Tom, yes it has,” Mott clapped Row’s back.

Jaron tried to stop the squirming unease that came when watching a pair of old friends reunite.

Once Row had broken off his embrace, he took a long look at Jaron. “Is this-?”

“It is, no need for names, my friend, I came here to make your acquaintance before rushing into talks of politics,” Jaron said, extending his right hand. “Sometimes they get messy, I’d rather be friends than enemies. And forgive my dress, I find it’s easier to slip through crowds when not wearing a jeweled tunic.”

“There’s no need for forgiveness, I wholeheartedly agree, and I sincerely hope you don’t become my enemy, your Majesty.”

“Please, call me Jaron.”

“I accept your invitation of friendship,” Row bowed his head. “Jaron.”

“By the Saints can he change this ballad?” Mott grumbled as Jolly launched into a new verse.

Ye can run, ye can run

But lady, o’lady

Yer time’s almost done

Sing like a bird, say what you say

O’lady yer the one

To stop dear Ingrithay

Blood in the-

“No! Don’t touch my lute you insufferable imp!” Shouted Jolly as he launched off the table.

Jaron let out a sigh of relief, “Find whoever stole the lute and bring them to me, I’ll give them a knighthood.”

“The ballad isn’t that bad,” muttered a man from Row’s table.

“On the contrary, I think it is.”

“Ignore old Regar, he’s sympathetic for Bymarian ballads,” Row waved his hook at the man who’d spoken.

Regar held up his hand in greeting, but chose to drink the contents of his tankard than say hello.

“It’s not exactly a song for dancing,” Mott pointed out. “It’s Bymarian, you say?”

Row nodded, “I’ve heard it multiple times on my journey here. Regar’s men are mostly from Idunn Craich, it’s been interesting hearing their tales, they’re much bloodier than tales from Bultain.”

“Only recent ones,” Regar said, having finally finished his drink. He dragged his hand across his bearded face and smiled, “Commander Regar, I am honored to be in your presence, Majesty.”

Jaron made a face, but nodded in return.

He hated it when people called him Majesty.

That’s what people called their prettiest mares, Saints be cursed.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Jaron said. “Sort of.”

“Thank you, I think.” Regar nodded his head. His eyes were elsewhere, and soon he was sitting again, nursing his tankard.

“See something you don’t like, Commander Regar?”

He didn’t answer.

“Regar isn’t the most spirited at this time, return in a few hours and he’ll be singing with our mutual friend Jolly,” Row said, setting his hook on Jaron’s shoulder. He steered both Jaron and Mott away from the table. “Jaron, may I ask how your day has gone?”

“Oddly average, if I must be honest,” Jaron said, still looking at Regar.

“Ah, I must say the same, as average as riding can be.”

Mott chuckled, “That’s good news, I’d hate to know there were troubles with your travels, Row.”

His head was racing. Put the pieces together, put the pieces together! Regar was several inches taller than Jaron, and from his standpoint, could probably see more than Jaron could. From Regar’s eye-level, he could see the other side of the tavern, which was much emptier.

Bar maids dashed to and fro trying to appease every customer they could.

One of them was serving drinks while keeping a lute free from Jolly’s hands. Green scarf in her bushy hair. Jolly’s ballad echoed through Jaron’s mind.

There was blood in the kitchen

There was blood in the halls

Blood in the bathtub

Blood on the walls

Something was staring at him, right in the face.

It plagued him as he sat at the bar, listening to the bloody Bymarian ballads, and trying to weasel his way into Mott’s conversation with Lord Row.

He rubbed his eyes, which had finally stopped burning now that he’d left his cat hair covered office.

Aside from Lord Row and discussing Avenian policies, there were other matters to take care of. Among that never ending list of problems to be solved was the Faola attack on Feall.

It took numerous questions from Feall, Roden, Amarinda, and himself to firmly conclude that the girl who’d been arrested wasn’t responsible. She was simply doing the wrong things, got involved with the wrong people, and got caught at the wrong time.

But Feall had suggested bargaining with her. Bargaining with Ayvar, a criminal.

It wasn’t the worst deal Jaron had to make.

He promised Ayvar her freedom and a pardon for banditry if she was able to help them catch the culprit. She swore on her own false grave in Gelyn that she would keep her word, and was prepared to act immediately if needed.

Ayvar would remain a prisoner but would be moved to a tower room. She would be given ample food, water, and blankets.

All she needed to do was be prepared for when she was needed.

It was a game, and Jaron didn’t mind playing games.

He only hoped that he’d win this time.

Too many times had he gambled and lost, resulting in disastrous consequences and a pile of innocent victims. This time, it would be different. He would catch a Faola, and in the process, drive away all the others.

There was blood in the kitchen

There was blood in the halls

Blood in the bathtub

Blood on the walls

Jaron rubbed his eyes. The words to Jolly’s song refused to leave.

It seemed that even thinking of Jolly caused him to appear. “Headache, sir?”

“No, no, I bought a cat from Renlyn Karise, turns out I don’t do well when cats are around,” Jaron confessed.

Jaron didn’t want to admit that he was thankful for Jolly’s company; he didn’t want to admit that Mott was talking to Lord Row much better than he was.

“Ah, Renlyn,” Jolly held a hand over his heart. “The envy of every man and their wives. A beauty and a wickedly intelligent woman.”

“Imogen mentioned that you knew her, how did the pair of you meet?”

Jolly’s blush matched the pink details on his blue jerkin, “Ah, well, I was one of the fools who chased after Ren for her golden curls. I thought I was clever by tricking her into a gambling game. . .”

“And?”

“And I lost everything. She gave it back, of course, but I learned my lesson. Karise is a force to be reckoned with, and a fierce friend. But she’s good at every kind of game.”

Especially the game of How Much Money can Jaron Waste on a Cat?

“And you know Merry, as well,” Jaron noted, gesturing to the girl in question as she dragged a box of dirty dishes to the back room. “How?”

“It’s not my story to tell,” Jolly scratched his mass of black hair. “I’m sure you could ask her about it one day, not sure how much luck you have.”

“I’ve heard plenty about her, believe me. Roden, ah, Roden gets easily excited when he’s on the bottle.”

“Yes, yes he does.”

“And how do you know Roden?”

“You know what,” Jolly made a face. “I’m not quite sure, we were speaking in a tavern and he’s always been a friend of mine. Wrote a ballad about him, and a ballad about Renlyn. I have a ballad I’m writing about-”

“Don’t say it’s about me and Imogen.”

“-you and Imogen.”

“By the toes of all the Saints,” Jaron pinched his nose. “At least make it a good one.”

“I can sing it right now!” Jolly bounced away from the bar, swinging his lute into action.

Jaron’s eyes went wide as Jolly began strumming each chord, tuning them all to perfection. He began plucking out the first few notes, which led to a series of slowly strummed chords. Jolly heaved in a breath, preparing to sing, when out of nowhere a pair of hands shot out and stole the lute.

“You’re in timeout!” Merry said, cradling the lute in her arms. “You sang Ingrithay too many times, you’ll lose your voice!”

“Merry, Merry, quite contrary, you tug my- that’s actually a wonderful rhyme,” Jolly made a face, nodding ever so slowly.

In silence, Jaron pressed his hands together and bowed his head, grateful for Merry’s interference. She winked at him in return.

She patted Jolly’s shoulder, “That’s right, my tortured artist, think about your songs, and drink something warm. Can I get anything for you gentlemen?”

“I’ve heard the lemon tarts here are very nice,” Jaron said, exchanging a sneaky grin with Mott.

That wasn’t the only thing they’d heard.

“And for you, Lord Row?” Merry cradled the lute in one arm, and set her free hand on her hip.

“I’m quite well, thank you,” Lord Row flashed a smile. “I’ll be certain to call for you should anything change.”

“I’ll do my best to answer that call, sir.”

There was blood in the kitchen

There was blood in the halls

Blood in the bathtub

Blood on the walls

No, no. Not the rhyme again.

He hated not having all the answers. He hated knowing that there was something lurking in his future.

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

“This stuff, really?” Tobias asked, gesturing to the bottle not far from Roden’s reach.

As much as he tried, Lord Thomas Row was more concerned with checking in on Commander Regar’s men, and opted to save their discussion for a few days later.

Meaning Jaron had nothing to do for an entire evening.

His first instinct was to snuggle up to Imogen, or do something silly like cover her eyes and guide her through the castle. However, his attempt to steal her away came too late: Amarinda had commandeered Imogen and Renlyn for an evening ride in the woods with Feall and Mott as chaperones.

His second instinct was to pester Roden into doing something fun, but when he entered Roden’s usually clean office, he knew he was gravely mistaken.

Pieces of fabric and at least one of Roden’s shirts were scattered about the floor. He and Tobias were arguing about something, but the argument came to a grating halt when Jaron walked in.

“Be quiet Tobias, you need loads of spirits to be a seamstress,” Jaron wrinkled his nose. “Let Roden embrace his dreams.”

“I’m not becoming a seamstress!” Roden crossed his arms, his frown rivaling the gargoyles on Drylliad’s biggest cathedral.

“Are too!”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Am not!”

“Then why do you have a pair of shears in your hand and fabric on your lap?” Jaron sauntered over to Roden’s desk, sat in his chair, and kicked his heels up. “I can arrange for you to get more pretty things if you’d like.”

Roden perked up, “Really? I mean, no! That’s not what I want!”

“Oh he definitely wants pretty things,” Tobias pointed out. He’d picked up the bottle on Roden’s desk. “This is definitely stronger than what I’m used to trying.”

As Roden curled over his piece of fabric, Jaron looked to Tobias, and both exchanged a snicker.

If he couldn’t convince Roden to ride a shield like a sled down the grand staircase, Jaron would make fun of him till he reacted. That would be worth it.

Tobias looked at Roden, who was cursing his scissors, and made an outline of- of a bell?

Jaron squinted at him, shrugged, and shook his head. What could he do with a bell? What- oh! Tobias was making the outline of a skirt, not a bell. Ah! Jaron could work with skirt jokes.

“You know, I hear Bymarian women wear dresses with slits so they can move,” Jaron rubbed his nose. “I’m sure Amarinda can get you one.”

“No, no, that wouldn’t work,” Roden waved his hand, and didn’t bother looking back.

Looking for reassurance, Jaron looked at Tobias, who was sniffing the contents of Roden’s bottle of spirits. He made a face as the fumes escaped. No reassurance from him.

There had to be a way to upset Roden. “Are you more of a skirt person?”

He paused and straightened. “I suppose I am.”

Once again, Jaron looked to Tobias. This time, Tobias was prepared with a confused shrug.

“Are you- are you being serious?” Jaron leaned forwards. He’d heard of men wearing skirts into battle. By the Devils, even some of Regar’s men wore skirts. He just hadn’t expected Roden to suddenly take a stance on the trend.

“I don’t really mind what a girl wears,” Roden looked back to glare at Jaron. “Why are you asking me this?”

“I was talking about you wearing a dress, you oaf.”

Roden pointed his scissors at Jaron, “No. I’m not playing this game, I’m in a good mood.”

“Good mood? I’d like to change that.”

“Jaron, nothing you could do could change that. I have the evening off and-”

“Are you making dish rags for the kitchen staff?” asked Jaron, now resting his chin on his hands and his elbows on Roden’s desk. “No, Tobias, don’t drink that. I need somebody on my side in case Roden plays dirty.”

Unfortunately, Tobias was looking to do something foolish too. Jaron could hear him draining Roden’s bottle of spirits.

Dear Saints, he was causing a circus.

Good!

“I’m not going to fight y-,” Roden tried, but Jaron was eager to do something incredibly foolish.

“You’re making hair scarves for Merry, aren’t you?”

Aha! He’d hit a nerve!

“So?” Roden grumbled, curling back over his fabric. “I like seeing her ears. One of them has this-”

“Boring!” Jaron jumped to his feet, and walked over to a fine square of red fabric. “You want to know what would make these all prettier? Tobias, you’re going to pass out.”

“I think I deserve a quick nap,” Tobias argued, setting down the now half-empty bottle of spirits. “Jaron, don’t do something stupid, remember what we said about being kind.”

Oh yes, Jaron remembered that deep discussion. Something about being considerate for others and not pestering people until they reacted in a negative way. During the conversation, Tobias pointed out that perhaps Jaron wasn’t used to receiving any verbal or physical attention, which was likely the cause of Jaron’s desire to punch Roden as hard as he could during the most obscure times.

Unfortunately, Tobias’s statements were too close to home. During the next large banquet, Jaron made sure to punch Tobias as hard as he could rather than Roden.

He’d certainly gotten an earful from Imogen after that.

“Don’t. You. Dare.” Roden growled, slowly rising to a stance to attack.

Jaron raised his foot above the red square of fabric, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m warning you. Don’t do-”

“What, this?”

His intention was to bring his boot down on the red square of fabric and leave a massive footprint, but he wasn’t sure if he accomplished his goal. Roden had launched himself right at Jaron, sending both of them careening across the floor.

“Hey, hey, hey! I’m a little guy! It’s my birth- hey!” Jaron cried out trying to wriggle out of Roden’s deathgrip.

“I told you not to touch the fabric!” Roden roared.

Jaron felt his feet touch the ground for a split second, and then he was hurled over Roden’s shoulder. Completely unfair. He refused to stand for it. Jaron kicked his legs like a fish, grabbed the back of Roden’s tunic, and tumbled to the ground.

He barely managed to roll away from Roden’s swinging foot.

“Oh, the fabric,” Tobias murmured. “It’s so pretty.”

“Quick-” Jaron dodged a flying fist “-question! What was in the bottle?”

Roden lunged, successfully grabbing Jaron by the left leg and dragging him to the ground. “It’s from Libeth!”

Now that wasn’t good at all. Libeth had some of the wildest alcohol brewers in the entire kingdom. Supposedly, they made a liquor strong enough to remove barnacles from sea vessels.

And how much had Tobias drank?

“He was-,” Tobias hiccuped and wiped his eyes. “Roden was making little hair scarves-,” another hiccup. “Making hair scarves for Murry. Little scarves, oh dear Saints, this boy can only wield a sword, bless him in these days as he-”

“Shut up Tobias!” Jaron and Roden yelled.

By the Devils! Roden had the upper hand again! Jaron was all too aware of Roden’s hand holding both of his wrists, which meant only one thing.

“Please, Roden, I beg you, it was just a joke!’ Jaron whimpered, trying to weasel out of his grip.

No, no, no.

The first time Jaron and Roden had gotten into a physical fight ended the same way, with Jaron unable to move and Roden prepared to deliver the finishing blow.

“I just wanted to cut up fabric!” Roden argued. “Tobias and I were doing fine before you barged in!”

“I was bored! Please don’t do this!”

“You could’ve helped with the fabric!”

“I wasn’t that bored!” Jaron squirmed again. “Please, Saints, no. No! Ah!”

The finishing blow was the worst part of the fight. Roden had licked his little finger, and shoved it into Jaron’s ear.

Although, now there was a third party involved.

Tobias flung his arms around both Roden and Jaron, tears streaming down his face. “I love you both with my whole heart, honest to the Saints. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

“Can you get Roden to take his nasty hands off of my body!?” Jaron bellowed, yanking his head free from Roden’s little finger.

“Does the baby need a nap?” Roden cooed.

Oh, ho, ho, Roden was remembering old exchanged insults. Jaron unsuccessfully tried to escape, but to no avail. Roden hooked his arms beneath Jaron’s knees, and swung him up into his arms, while still keeping a drunken Tobias on his feet.

“Put me down!”

“Not until you apologize!”

“Roden?”

“Yes?”

“Rot with the Devils, you clotpole.”

Tobias’s quiet tears turned into sobs as he wrapped his arms around Jaron and Roden once again. “Little hair scarves.”

It was quite the scene to walk into: Roden holding Jaron like a baby, Tobias sobbing like he’d learned he would die soon, and bits of cut up colorful fabric covered the floor. It just so happened that Amarinda’s night ride finished early.

They didn’t look pleased.

The disappointment in Mott’s eyes was an all too familiar sight.

“I can explain,” Jaron croaked, finally realizing that he’d lost the fight.

A fight that he started.

“It looks like a dress shop in here,” Mott clasped his hands behind his back, Amarinda, Renlyn, and Imogen trailing behind him.

Roden practically dropped Jaron on the floor. “I was trying to make something, and then Jaron showed up.”

“Hey, you didn’t have to hit me,” argued Jaron. He grunted when Tobias set his head on Jaron’s shoulder, and refused to move. “Get off of me!”

The only answer Tobias gave was a new wave of silent tears, and a fresh set of apologies.

Mott’s face didn’t betray a single emotion. “Weren’t you going to meet with Lord Row?”

“He moved the meeting back, and I happened to finish my work this evening, and didn’t want to be alone.”

“So you picked a fight with Roden?”

Jaron scowled, he realized how foolish he’d been in starting the fight. A conversation wouldn’t have been enough for him, there was too much energy bursting through his body.

“These are pretty,” Amarinda held up an opaque piece of yellow fabric.

“Don’t worry, I’m not making myself a skirt,” grunted Roden, his hands full of different fabric squares.

“Were you putting something together?”

“I finished, so it doesn’t really matter.”

“He was-,” Tobias hiccuped. “He was making tiny, tiny scarves. For Merry, to wear.”

There hadn’t been a time when Tobias had been so drunk before, or at least there hadn’t been a time Jaron could remember.

Amarinda sighed, and transferred Tobias’s head from Jaron’s shoulder to her own.“Oh, darling, what did you do this time?”

“They were fighting, and I’ve had it.”

Amarinda patted the side of Tobias’s head, her eyes boring into Jaron’s very soul. However, she gave no biting remarks, she only wrapped her arm around Tobias’s waist. Together, they inched towards the door.

Her smile was forced. “I’ll be taking him to our chamber, I don’t want him doing something foolish.”

“Is that from Libeth?” Imogen asked, gesturing to the bottle on Roden’s desk.

However, before anyone could give a clear answer, Renlyn took a large swig from the bottle, set it down, and frowned. “That batch was weak.”

“You know what?” Jaron crossed his arms. “I don’t think I want to know. Jolly told me about your tendencies.”

“Is that an invitation for me to take over the kingdom through a gambling match?”

“Absolutely not, I’ve been warned, and I won’t ever concede to your money games again.”

“That’s what they all say.”

By the Saints! Jaron scowled at Renlyn, who had the audacity to remain completely placid. He knew deep in his heart that he’d have to do something worse than terrorize Roden to get a reaction out of the notorious Renlyn Karise.

Imogen raised her hands, “Ah, we should take the energy down a notch, don’t you think?”

“Jaron started it!”

“I know Roden, I usually start things, unlike you.”

“Jaron!” Everyone chorused, followed by Tobias’s slurred agreement.

“What!?” Jaron crossed his arms, screwing his face into the fiercest scowl he could.

He’d rather be lectured than think of those cursed lyrics.

There was blood in the kitchen

There was blood in the halls

Jaron would rather hear complaints and be tossed around like a child’s doll than consider what fate had in store for him.

He wasn’t ready yet.

He just wasn’t ready.

#fic friday #prince jaron #roden #tobias #mott #princess amarinda #imogen #ocs #so many ocs #the ascendance series #fic friday except its saturday #also this was #too creepy #but so fun #the false prince #the runaway king #the shadow throne

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thearcanaartificer · 5 years ago

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BIRBLIAN FEEL FIX

Title: Of Fools and Bird Monsters

Characters: Julian Devorak (Birblian) and The Fool (MC technically)

Rating: T

Genre: Angst/Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 2180

Note: Finally posted it on AO3. I will post a link for those who want to read it there when I get to a real computer. The phone app is a little dumb about edits. This is a different twist on the Reverse Ending. But not exactly. I just wanted to write angsty Birblian. There will probably be more shorts on this couple, but for now, it’s just this one.

—————————–

“Sweetie, no!” She ran towards him, grabbing at his taloned hands and pulling them away from his wings. She was already too late and there was a large amount of feathers in his clutched claws.

She pouted as she lightly smacked the back of his hand, clicking her tongue in disappointment as she stood on her tiptoes to inspect the spot. He had been plucking again. Her gaze went to his face and he refused to meet hers, a stubborn look on his face as he gloomily stared off into the distance. He was distressed. She knew this. Birds plucked at their feathers when they were stressed out and apparently seven feet tall bird monsters were no different.

She felt terrible for him, she really did. She couldn’t imagine anyone worth all this pain he endured. He was still changing, little by little, though there wasn’t much left to change, she supposed, and him being with her had slowed the process down to a near stop. A few things had changed- more feathers in a few select places- but, thankfully, nothing else.

She forced her fingers into his grip, making him relax it and released the plucked obsidian feathers, her eyes going from her work back up to his face. She was so small. She had to crane her neck way back to even look at his face, but she did. She did it every time because eye contact was important and she wanted him to know that she saw him. She gave him a stern look, one filled with resolution.

“Birdie, I will go get the mittens if you keep doing this. Do you want that?” The way she spoke told him an answer was mandatory.

“N…no…” His voice was so quiet. It felt… off to her. She felt like he should have a voice that could fill a room. A boisterous tenor with jovial tones. But instead, it was small, quiet, and often raspy, like he had forgotten how to use it.

He probably had. She had found him all by himself in a swamp one day when she had been wandering about the magic realms. She knew that she wasn’t supposed to go into other people’s realms. The other Arcana were never happy with her when she wandered through their realms without their permission, but… what could she say? The Fool’s path is of improvisation, of spontaneity, and of believing that the universe will lead them to where they are to go. And as The Fool, she did just that. Wandered right into a swamp realm with an overgrown, gloomy bar and line of faceless golems (who she doubted looked faceless to the intended victim) tormenting a large bird monster. And he seemed to be trying to find the bottom of an endless barrel of alcohol.

It didn’t take much for her to decide what to do with this bizarre situation. She had been alone for so long and, well, she decided he had been alone (mean golems did not count as company!) long enough too. Only, he had seemed very determined to remain in this realm of torment… so… she… well, threatened him.

She was not proud of how she got him to come with her, but what was done was done. As long as he believed her threat, well, that’s all that mattered. One day he’d realize she never would make good on it, not without his permission, but she hoped that it was when his head was a little clearer. When he was doing better. Right now, he’s still a mess.

“Doesn’t it hurt? To do that?” She held his taloned hand, rubbing her calloused thumb over the scaly skin of his wrist.

“…No… ah… uh… maybe?” He didn’t seem sure. He didn’t like looking at her. He was still quite sore at her, but too frightened of her threat still to see there was no bite to it.

“Bend down, I want to look at where you plucked. I don’t want you getting another infection after we just took care of your poor oil glands.” It really wasn’t fair she was so small.

He didn’t do as she asked right away, but she reached up and tugged at his upper arms to get him to concede. He heaved a sigh as he bent his legs and ended up sitting so she could properly see. She tried not to pout at the fact that he had two feet in height over her.

“Good boy.” She knew to praise him when he listened. Despite how much he acted like he didn’t care, to hear those words always caused his feathers to lay smooth- the tension in his form a little less than before.

She ran her fingers through his feathers. They were dull, tattered, brittle in some spots, and a little matted despite having helped wash him after they had returned to her realm. If he’d let her help him preen… but he hardly let her help him with anything without a fight. She continued her inspection. He had gotten quite a few handfuls before she caught him and he had some bald patches from his plucking. The feathers would grow back, but he was going to be uncomfortable as they did.

“Poor dear. You did quite the number on yourself, Sweetie, you’re still bleeding a bit. Come on, let’s get you inside so I can treat you.” She tugged at his claws again, inspecting them a bit too. “And your talons seem to be regenerating again. I’ll file them down again, if you want.”

Upon returning to her realm, she had conjured up a nice little bungalow and farm for him to enjoy, rooms accommodating to his unique features. Typically she didn’t mind the wide empty lands for her to roam, but he seemed to need something a little more… stable. She even made sure to include nice commodities such as a spacious water closet with a large bathtub, a bed big enough for his wingspan, an impressive library, and a huge kitchen.

“Ye… yes, please.” That was the only thing that got her a little perkiness- filing his talons. He didn’t like the possibility of hurting others, even if it was her.

“Then I’d be happy to do that for you. Right after I take care of your ouchie.” She smiled at him, to enforce that she wanted him to be happy.

She hadn’t stolen him away from that place because of anything malignant. It was a bad place where he was being hurt by others and himself. Yes, she forced him here, to this place where she could take care of him and let him heal, because he had been in no cognitive shape to know what was good for him. He seemed determined to stay in that toxic environment, like some sort of self-flagellating martyr.

“Don’t…” His words trailed off, but she was patient. She watched him as his storm grey eyes shifted about as he found the words he wanted to say. “Don’t fret… over the… over the… Just… file my… th-the talons…”

“Nonsense, Birdie,” she tugged at his claw, pulling him to stand lest she drag him there with her surprisingly impressive strength. “If you are hurt, you need to take care of the ouchie, lest it get infected. Since you don’t seem up to the task, I will easily and happily assist you! So don’t worry about it! I can do both!”

She reassured him with a toothy smile. He sighed, but didn’t argue with her. She patted the back of his taloned hand, lacing the fingers of her closest hand between his and holding it assuringly. He didn’t fight and she took it as a good sign.

Once inside, he sat on the floor. She pouted a bit, but relented to it because otherwise she’d have to stand on a chair. It was a purposeful, noverbal jab at her height. He did this from time to time when he thought he could get away with it and, goodness, he was good at hitting her where it hurt.

“Ah! So thoughtful, Sweetie! Now stay still while I go get some supplies.” She pretended that was where she wanted him all along. His poker face was fantastic, but his wings gave away his disappointment. Brat.

It didn’t take her long to find her things and return. Normally, being that she was The Fool, she’d use her magic to heal a wound like this, but with Birdie- that was a big no. He didn’t like magic. It made him uncomfortable and he would cringe away from it, so, for now, she did things the non-magical way. She hadn’t conjured up anything since adding this place to her realm’s design.

“Birdie stop!” She shouted, dropping the things she had just collected to lunge at him. She grabbed his wrist and stopped him before he could yank out more feathers.

He jolted, glossed over eyes clearing a bit as he realized what he had been doing. He had the decency to at least look abashed for starting up so soon after a reproach. She hadn’t even yet tended to his previous one. She gave him a long, stern look, eyes watering up a bit because it was just so sad to her how stressed he was. How terrible his body dysphoria was. She was trying to help but healing took time and patience, and this was merely the beginning of a long journey.

“M-mittens.” She said with a waver in her tone. She was trying not to cry. “Until you don’t mindlessly do this to yourself.”

He looked at his other scaled hand, thinking as she continued to hold his other hand by the wrist. There were two paths he could take. She was The Fool. She knew a thing or two about choices. He could either fight her about wearing the mittens (because she knew they made him feel stupid and co-dependant, unfortunate side effects to the treatment) or he could concede and stop the bad habit from developing further.

She could tell he was thinking long and hard about his options. It was an important hurdle, no matter how small it might have seemed to others. To help aid in his own healing or to struggle against the assistance.

His free hand raised habitually as he thought and as she was about to shout again, because he was reaching up to pluck out more feathers as he thought, he startled, suddenly aware of what he had been about to do. His scaly hand dropped into his lap with a thunk. He sighed and his wings sagged down with his shoulders.

If her hearing hadn’t been as excellent as it was, she might have missed the quiet word of ‘mittens’ mumbled under his breath as he took his wrist out of her hold to lace it with his other taloned hand to keep them from trouble.

She didn’t hide her elation as she swooped down a bit to place a happy kiss on his cheek. “Thank you.” She told him earnestly. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

His feathers fluffed up as he looked anywhere but at her, completely flustered by her entire reaction. He didn’t understand why she was so happy as she bound away once more to go get those awful mittens. He conceded, is all, to the fact that it was a problem- especially if he would keep getting scolded by her for it. The tiny thing was relentless about it and it was annoying.

She returned quickly enough with mittens in tow and he made no movement against her placing his taloned hands into the thick quilted mittens that allowed him no dexterous use of his hands at all and even allowed her to secure the velcro at the wrists so he could not shake them off. She smiled the whole time, elated that he had let her. He didn’t know why her smile made him feel funny, so he avoided looking at her.

“I’ll still file your claws, don’t worry.” She reassured him, “But first let me tend to your injuries. Oh, thank you, Birdie! Thank you for letting me help!”

His feathers puffed out further and he made a sort of bird noise. It was embarrassing. All of it. He didn’t get why it made her so happy… but her smile was nice to see, he supposed. He could wear the mittens for a little while, to at least placate her a bit.

She was almost done with tending to his small infliction when she spoke again. “Can I preen you too?!”

Having nice blunt talons be damned, he escaped her quickly. He used the wings attached to his back to knock her over so she couldn’t immediately give chase, and retreated into his given bedroom and sat in front of the door after securing it shut. He could hear her whine as he barred her from following, but he stayed seated there, sulking indignantly at her comment. Could she preen him? Hmph.

“Birdieeeeeeeee~”

#julian devorak #julian the arcana #birblian #The Arcana Game #the arcana #Reverse Ending Fic #fanfiction #fan apprentice #The Fool #Odelia as the Fool

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nickburn · 4 years ago

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Observations on Thief 2, Mission 9: Trail of Blood

So I didn't think Thief 2 was supposed to get that weird, but in Mission 9: Trail of Blood, you follow a dying pagan into a portal to a magic forest, where you find that the Mechanists (technology-worshiping fanatics) have slaughtered a village of pagans in their huts already. You see their last moments play out in ghostly flashback sequences, one of which involves a small girl and her doll, Dewdrop (who doesn’t like Mechanists).

(This place is really significant to the game and the story, because up until now, everyone’s been saying that all the plants in the City are dying. Yet they’re still thriving here.)

But the Mechanists have been killed too, presumably by the pagans or their woodsie allies. After you poke around the pagan village enough and either sneak by or dispose of the mace-wielding Mechanists still guarding the place, you find two large rubies that you slot into the eye sockets of a giant, stone face, whose mouth opens another portal.

Through this portal, you find the corpse of the last Mechanist, so you can surmise their invasion probably only made it this far.

The next area gets even weirder, first having you travel through an eerie patch of eyeball flowers that turn to look at you as you pass. You can stop to pick up some more water arrows from the pools near them, which you’ll need later. After the eyeballs, you enter into a dark grotto with glowing crystals, poison water, and giant pitcher plants.

You’ll also find your first Ape Beasts of the game here, who walk around with an unsettling lilt to their animation, guarding the entrance to their home. You can put them to sleep with gas arrows which you can find lying around, or you can sneak up on them and knock them out. If they spy you, though, they attack with blow darts and chase you relentlessly. It’s also worth noting that, you’re always searching for the path of blood as you move through these spaces, but it’s often worth it to stray from the path and explore a bit. This level is mostly linear, but it does reward your curiosity.

The Ape Beasts can be difficult to deal with, because they walk quickly and like to hang around torches. There are also little forest sprites flying around that light up whatever area they happen to fly by, making some areas a lot less safe than you’d first assume. The Apes argue over plums (which you can find and consume) and comment with glee that no one could possibly get past them.

Garrett can, of course, and after passing through giant trees themed after the four seasons, you follow the blood trail into the final area. Garrett makes a wistful comment around this point, hoping that the pagan you’re following doesn’t run out of blood before you find him. It’s a really funny joke on the plot and level design of the mission and helps to bring some humor to the other-worldliness of it all.

After finally tracking down the corpse of the man, you’re given a fantastic cutscene where Garrett confronts his nemesis from the first game, the wood nymph Viktoria, who took his right eye. She explains that the woodsie pagans are not Garrett’s true enemy, though, and reveals that the Mechanists are working to destroy Garrett as well as her and her followers. After Garrett reluctantly agrees to help her, she gives you your next objectives, which involve sneaking into a high-profile dinner party and finding out what the Mechanists are plotting next.

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I’m excited to get into that mission and explore the back half of this game. Trail of Blood was a real treat, though, calling back to the first game and also providing a great interlude from infiltrating mansions and prowling the City streets. I’ve been really surprised and impressed with this game so far, and it’s giving me a lot of food for thought for my own levels.

#thief #level design #game design #stealth

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bladekindeyewear · 5 years ago

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HS^2 bloggin’ mainline 2020-02-24

IT’S ONLY BEEN TEN FUCKING DAYS HOW OFTEN ARE WE GONNA GET THIS STUFF

IT’S NOT EVEN A BONUS IT’S SOME MAINLINE THING

Alright, clicking the log to find my place as usual (while squinting so I don’t see too much), I see... one new page... THAT’s ominous. Unless they’re doing the thing Andrew used to do and only showing the surface link so as not to spoil the update length/contents in the log, which would be nice given the new site format. (Also I’ll be covering the commentary for the previous chapter here that went up on Patreon.)

...um. what?

Well, it doesn’t say [S]...

> Chapter 5. YOUR 3Y3S H4V3 B33N CLOS3D

CONTENT NOTE: This chapter contains Discussions of Suicide.

Thanks.

...I kinda understand the need for inclusion of this, though. Not the trigger warning, that’s genuinely appreciated, I mean the working-through of many of these characters’ probably suicidal-verging thoughts given the bullshit the Epilogues have put them through, and the leadup events thereof. Or, from the looks of this page trying to lay out how to create these new alien races, clearly based in part on pages of her Zoologically Dubious grimoire...

...the creations THEMSELVES wanting to commit suicide, if I had to guess.

(Hooves? Dirk. Don’t let this become a Musclebeasts VS Horrorterrors session. Whoever wins, we clearly lose.)

*scrooooll*

Ohh, I get it. It’s a single really long-form story-image to montage the process to us, instead of a series of panels. THAT’S why it’s a one-page upd8.

What are you clowns doing? (And that architecture and teal road below it is looking kind of Land of Thought and Flow-y too.)

Hah, poor Rose, just float-noping on out of there cause Dirk’s pushing his whole Cave-shadows-on-the-wall allusion. Are you getting bored of this monstrous process, Rose? Yes? No??

Taking a floatwalk across the gorgeous alien landscape? (Wait, your robot floats without rocket boosters? Neat. Is that technology or God-Tier flight? Did it need to be a fancy robot to integrate the latter or was that just yours for free?)

What will she run into to make sense of the title of this chapter-panel?

...Wait.

Did Terezi run back to the ship to snoop on that thing Dirk had been hiding while he and Rose were distracted?

I hope that’s what she did.

Eeeewww. It looked MUCH cooler when your human eye did a magic sun thing.

Yes, yes, you have a technosight HUD, that’s no excuse, your magic was still cooler.

The whimsical wandering angle of this shot makes it unclear whether Rose is flying ahead while looking into the sky, or has suddenly flopped forward onto her face on a pale patch of ground.

Ooh, and now we have text! ...Which makes it unlikely that Terezi successfully snooped anything important unless Dirk would narratively let her. Shit.

Wait, the command for this page might make sense if she was using the command terminal in the ship to mess with Dirk or someone else, possibly to give her the opportunity to pull something. Right?

The soft whitenoise ringing of the extensive ventilation network sounds, if she closes her nose just right, like the rustle of wind through the leaves of a treehive universes away.

...closes her nose. ¬___¬

but Terezi isn’t distracted from the main object of her focus — the unconscious body of Rose Lalonde, bathed in dim light, chest rising and falling in an artificially-induced slumber.

Good. Her body had better fucking stay alive for a while. They killed Davebot’s outright, since he was an “extra”, essentially -- Rose’s needs to stay alive if we’re to have fucking hope that Kanaya can snatch her up in a comfortable non-robotic embrace and get her out of this self-centered, brainwashed nightmare.

Wires and tubes run up from her plinth to the ceiling of the chamber, keeping her alive, yes, but too much just for that purpose. Something about the tangle of intravenous tubing and fiber optic cable makes Terezi think of the old stories about the Ψiioniic.

Mhmm. She has to stay connected to and pilot her body.

ROSE: There you are. I haven’t seen much of you. TEREZI: IV3 B33N R1GHT H3R3 FOR HOURS TEREZI: BUT YOUR 3Y3S H4VE B33N CLOS3D TH3 WHOL3 T1M3 >:[

--Oh. I’d misremembered the chapter name as “your eyes are NOW closed”. So it probably wasn’t some sort of trick. (Unless she’s lying here, and tricked Rose into THINKING her body wasn’t kind of half-awake for a moment, potentially rebelliously? .....nah.)

Better question, though...

Why does Terezi care so much?

I can imagine the old Terezi getting attached enough to Rose (and Kanaya) to look at this and feel bad enough to stare, but...? She used her emotional distance from most of her remaining friends to vamoose with these people a long while ago. (Which was a pity.) How did those feelings and that empathy get resurrected way out here?

Rosebot turns her head to look back at the frail, failing vessel that once housed her consciousness. She doesn't even dispatch a fake laugh to her behavioral display matrix in pity of this half-joke.

Fuck you. Dirk is writing half of this.

ROSE: Your attachment to my comatose body is unexpectedly charming, as well as slightly sinister. ROSE: She isn’t going to do anything. ROSE: She isn’t coming back from where she’s gone. TEREZI: YOU N3V3R KNOW

Does Terezi really care about Rose that much now?

Also, fuck you, Dirk-manipulating-Rose’s-worldview.

I mean, I know she’s probably really deep into all her new power and foresight, even as herself, but she wouldn’t be nearly as dismissive and comfortable if Dirk hadn’t been shaping her with mind control for years.

ROSE: Yes, I suppose that’s true. ROSE: Anything can happen, you can’t see the future, etc. etc. ROSE: Except I can. I can see the trajectory the story needs to take, and thus I know the trajectory it will take. ROSE: And resurrecting my meat puppet would not only be difficult to the point of being worthless, it would also be extremely lame. ROSE: Not that it would be out of character for this story. We live and breathe on the stupefyingly mind-numbing, and the mind-numbingly stupid.

They’re REALLY pushing her as a full fucking villain here. Benefits of transcending human flesh aside, she’s being WAY too dismissive of what she’s leaving behind, here. What came with this body besides the body itself. The attachments and Blood it means relinquishing and severing.

TEREZI: 1F WH4T YOU'R3 S4Y1NG 1S TRU3 TEREZI: 1F 4 STORY H4S TO B3 COMP3LL1NG TO B3 C4NON TEREZI: DO YOU R34LLY TH1NK D1RK 1S TH3 TYP3 TO T3LL 4 COMP3LL1NG STORY

A compelling story, yes!

But a heartless one.

TEREZI: H1S T4ST3 1N 4N1M3 4LON3 1S CONC3RN1NG TEREZI: 1 D1D 3NJOY TH3 ON3 4BOUT TH3 HORS3S THOUGH ROSE: I don't think that counts as "anime."

MLP is pretty colorful.

TEREZI: PL4Y1NG W1TH 4 WHOL3 WORLD L1K3 1T'S SOM3 K1ND OF SQU34KY LUSUS TOY DO3S SOUND L1K3 1T H4S 1TS MOM3NTS TEREZI: 1 M34N TEREZI: MY FR13NDS W4NT3D TO RUL3 YOUR L1TTL3 WORLD 4S P3TTY TYR4NTS 4FT3R W3 WON TH3 G4M3 OURS3LV3S TEREZI: BUT DO YOU TH1NK TH4T WOULD'V3 B33N FOR TH3 B3ST FOR YOU 4ND 4LL TH3 OTH3R M4MM4L14N W31RDOS ON YOUR PL4N3T >:/ ROSE: It didn't happen because it didn't happen. TEREZI: 1F 1 H4V3 TO H34R ON3 MOR3 T4UTOLOGY FROM 31TH3R OF YOU 1 4M GO1NG TO MOV3 TO TH3 WOODS 4ND PL4GU3 YOUR N3W SOC13TY 4S 4 H3RM1T BOG MONST3R FOR3V3R

Rose has stared into the sun so hard that she is LITERALLY BLIND. “It didn’t happen because it didn’t happen” is the worst, most basic and wrong level one Seer of Light thing she could possibly believe. She has completely fucking FORGOTTEN that she played through an entire game session that was clearly trying to TELL her something. TEACH her something. And is dismissing everything at play back then, everything that MADE reality and the final timeline what it WAS, as something at worst meaningless or just plotpoints in a subpar story, and at best a failed moral tale that she thinks she would write better in her sleep. She’s like... worse than inverted Rose right now. Where’s all this new Lighty wisdom she’s supposed to have? Jasprose is showing more foresight and prudence in the bonus chapters than she is as a PURE ultimate self, thanks to her own twisted ambitions and Dirk’s horse-blinders.

TEREZI: JUST B3C4US3 YOU'V3 3L3CT3D TO 4B4NDON TH3 CONC3PTS OF "GOOD" 4ND "B4D" 3NT1R3LY DO3SN'T M34N 1 DON'T ST1LL H4V3 MOR4L R3S3RV4T1ONS

...Yeah. I’d like to think that Rose would never do that on her own without Dirk’s twisting, but...

TEREZI: 1'M T4LK1NG 4BOUT TH3 B4S1C 4B1L1TY OF 1NT3LL1G3NT B31NGS 1N 4LL R34L 4ND HYPOTH3T1C4L PL4N3S OF 3X1ST3NC3 TO G1V3 4 SH1T TEREZI: 1 DON'T G1V3 4 SH1T TEREZI: 4ND HON3STLY 1 H4V3 4 H4RD T1M3 UND3RST4ND1NG WHY YOU DO

I didn’t expect the “Why would anyone read this crap?” line so early in the story. Still, this sequel WAS designed to both ask and answer this question... I shouldn’t be so surprised.

TEREZI: YOU D1DN'T DO MUCH "WORLDBU1LD1NG" WH3N YOU FUCK3D OFF FOR 3ONS 4ND L3T CH3SS P3OPL3 BU1LD YOUR PL4N3T ROSE: That approach failed. ROSE: Without an organized antagonistic force, the planet became fundamentally unsuited to relevance.

YOU FUCKING MORONS

THE GOAL OF MAKING A NEW UNIVERSE OUTSIDE OF CANON WAS TO ESCAPE RELEVANCE FOR PEACE!

Everything New Rose says makes me want to throttle her. :(

ROSE: We only know of one way to perpetuate canon for sure. To play and defeat the game, and continue the life cycle of the genesis frog we cling to parasitically.

WHY is “perpetuating canon” EVEN A GOAL

WHY if it isn’t even WORTH anything???

ROSE YOU SOUND LIKE A CASH-IN-HUNGRY MOVIE PRODUCER

ROSE: Now it is protected, in the steady hands of a duly-elected ruler, sure to have a boring and uneventful perpetual term in office.

Oh my GOD, Rose. You thought leaving Racist Jane in charge was going to just be peachy?

ROSE: As the sheer number of doomed universes our actions in the game spun off should show, we barely understood the design at the time. ROSE: Truly, we stumbled through the tape of the finish line ass-first, cheating all the way.

I suppose I can agree on a small sliver of this, a tangent -- one of the same reasons I was so surprised when Homestuck’s finale closed so few threads:

You all clearly didn’t have time to learn enough lessons.

ROSE: But there was no table of judges waiting to adjudicate our performance by holding up little placards with numbers on them. ROSE: We are the observers, and we are the judges. ROSE: We won, and to the victor go the spoils. ROSE: If you want a hand in making the rules of this new world, then don't storm off.

Terezi knows better than this. The trolls “WON” with this attitude, and were hoisted on the resulting petard. Ah, there we go, and she’s saying just that:

TEREZI: YOU'R3 TRY1NG TO L34D M3 TO 4CC3PT YOUR MOR4L FR4M3WORK TEREZI: WH4T 1F NO ON3 SHOULD CONTROL 4 UN1V3RS3 TEREZI: 4LL W3 FOUGHT 4G41NST W4S MONST3RS WHO CONV3RT3D POW3R 1NTO CONTROL TEREZI: 4ND NOT 3V3RYTH1NG W3 LOST F1GHT1NG TH3M W4S 4 M1ST4K3 TEREZI: TH3R3 W4S 4 LOT S4CR1F1C3D FOR TH3 1D34 OF "GOOD" TEREZI: WH4T'S TH3 PO1NT 1N CONT1NU1NG TH1S STORY 1F TH4T W4S M34N1NGL3SS TEREZI: 1F LORD 3NGL1SH W4S JUST HOLD1NG UP TH3 WORLD TEREZI: 1F 1T T4K3S 4CT1NG L1K3 H1M TO K33P 1T 4L1V3 TEREZI: WOULDN'T 1T B3 B3TT3R TO JUST L3T 1T D13

...but that crazy, ruled-over multiverse they ended up escaping is exactly what we think they’re going to end up CREATING in this story, right? A contained loop of countless universes that follow the same rules they fought so hard to shrug off, many enslaved and miserable under Lord English’s rampaging thumbs? In trying to do it “better” her own way, Rose is going to possibly end up creating the exact system she once tried to reject.

Congratulations! You’ll have created a prison. For your Ultimate Villain, AND yourselves. I just hope you come to your senses and dodge getting trapped inside there again.

Rosebot looks over at the plinth where her body sits, kept alive, sure, but atrophied and weak, dependent on this machine to continue projecting consciousness to the abiotic enclosure keeping the realization of the Ultimate Self from tearing her apart.

Wouldn't it be better to just let it die? Terezi isn't asking new questions. Rose had first threatened suicide when she was eight.

Ah, damn. That’s the route we’re going with this conversation, huh.

I was wondering whether keeping Rose’s body alive was “necessary” for the functioning of this particular level of robo-self tech, or whether it’s the last vestige of her vacillation, refusing to cut it off completely yet only because some NON-FUCKING-BRAINWASHED piece of her is wondering if she’ll eventually decide that all this isn’t “right” after all, that she can accept being “less” if it makes her happy.

Explaining things to someone not aided by the exponential increase in processing power Rosebot has is tedious. Terezi's hesitation won't be swayed by explaining more of the universe. There's another source at work.

Source? What?

ROSE: You said it yourself, that you don't give a shit. ROSE: This melancholy, this meaninglessness you're feeling? ROSE: I think there's another explanation for it. One having little to do with the structural soundness of our plan.

Oh, THAT kind of source. Fuck you, psychoanalyzing anybody else when you’re like THIS right now.

ROSE: You are fucking depressed. TEREZI: OH TH4NK YOU DOCTOR SC13NC3 TEREZI: L3T M3 T4K3 OUT MY HUM4N CH3CKBOOK TO P4Y YOU FOR TH3S3 1NV4LU4BL3 HUM4N 1NS1GHTS

How would you have the slightest impression that Terezi ISN’T completely aware of this, Rose? Why do you think she CAME with you???

ROSE: The constant insistence that everything is as it ought to be isn’t just counterproductive, it’s pathetic.

Oh, you think she’s projecting. Fuck you.

ROSE: From one seer to another, we both know how bad you’ve gotten in the past. ROSE: Or, if not in the past, in some past. ROSE: I have no desire to meet that Terezi, no matter how doubtlessly sticky and charming she might be.

Eugh. It’s interesting that you know so thoroughly about non-blind faygo-chugging Terezi from that timeline (who Terezi fully knows about too), but using it against her is pretty low.

TEREZI: W3 4R3N'T FR13NDS TEREZI: GO 4H34D 4ND DO YOUR 4RTS 4ND CR4FTS PROJ3CT W1TH P3OPL3'S L1V3S

But she DOES keep staring at Rose’s life-support body... so she DOES care somehow.

ROSE: Your life is going to be short, compared to mine and Dirk’s, but that doesn’t mean it has to be boring. TEREZI: TH3 TWO OF YOU R34LLY 4R3 M4D3 FOR 34CH OTH3R

Just, a tragedy what an asshole she’s been transformed into.

TEREZI: 1S TH4T WHY YOU L3FT K4N4Y4 B3H1ND TEREZI: B3C4US3 YOU KNOW SO FUCK1NG MUCH 4BOUT "F4M1LY" ROSE: I would be careful if I were you. ROSE: The weight of what I know and you do not is enough to overwhelm a mortal frame. TEREZI: UGH SHUT UP TEREZI: STOP PULL1NG TH1S MYST1C4L BULLSH1T 3V3RY T1M3 TEREZI: DON’T YOU M1SS H3R? ROSE: Don’t you? TEREZI: YOUR CONST4NT D3FL3CT1ON 1S 4S PO1NTL3SS 4S 1T 1S 1N3FF3CT1V3

Yeah, Terezi looking at Rose’s body and seeing constantly that crime committed against Kanaya is enough excuse to stare at Rose’s floating body, if she cares about Kanaya.

Too bad Rose is incapable of even THINKING about Kanaya properly as long as Dirk’s influence persists, and Terezi practically or literally knows it.

ROSE: We are obliged to act. To save the concept of meaning itself by continuing to spin the narrative loom into new tapestries.

Said the movie producer plonking down for the creation of Fast 7.

TEREZI: D1D YOU W4NT 4LL TH1S? TEREZI: OR D1D TH3 PR1NC3 >:?

Abruptly, Terezi is lifted from the ground with a glidingly-smooth effortless motion. Metal is so much stronger than flesh. She flashes a sharp-toothed grin as her feet dangle uselessly in front of the lithe metallic form of her counterpart Seer. Inspiring a reaction like this from Rose's robotic placidity has been like squeezing blood from a stone on this years-long journey.

Delicious, candy-red blood.

Oh hell fucking yes. Is THIS what you were after, you beautiful troll? Terezi just proved that SOME deep level of Rose has recognized that she’s being manipulated, and refuses to accept it for the sake of her own ego. She couldn’t possibly get so ANGRY otherwise. :D

ROSE: I know what I have lost. I have taken a full account of it. I cannot and will not forget it. ROSE: But to cling to it as it faded to nothing would be a meaningless capitulation to entropy.

Why do you value “perpetuation” so much? She asked you before, and you barely gave a straight answer.

ROSE: Someone must sit atop Olympus and propagate the fabric of reality upon which these memories sit. ROSE: That is the task we have taken on. The game does not feel. The game does not mourn. The game must be played, and we must guide those who will play it better than we ourselves were guided.

DID it need YOU though? You already had a universe under your belt. YOU didn’t have to be the one to cause all this. But I suppose it’s too late now -- you will be, and you might end up regretting it.

ROSE: Just as I have remembered the good, I can recall the terror that consumed me and overwhelmed my body. ROSE: The visions of dissolution. The narrative unspooling. A thousand voices shouting contradiction. ROSE: What value is a marriage, temporary domestic bliss, if all is lost? ROSE: You understand this bargain.

Yeah-- it’s pretty clear here now.

The heroes’ goal in the initial comic, and the reward they earned -- while unclear on paper and DEFINITELY not spelled out -- was to “stop being Homestuck”. Was to escape the bounds of the comic, to almost KILL the comic.

But that was a little vaguely put, before. HS^2 has done us the favor of making it an EXPLICIT GOAL of the heroes.

ROSE: Is your resentment towards my choice about Kanaya, or about V–

BONK. Rosebot's even metallic voice is interrupted by the bang of skull against metal, and Terezi's headbutt collapses the both of them into a crumpling heap of metal and flesh.

That was a step too far. Tensions that once simmered under the surface have found the catalyst for a boil.

Terezi’s barely holding on if she’s going to get so dramatic so fast.

Or Dirk’s writing this so dramatic, anyway.

Rosebot finally has Terezi pinned to the ground by the throat. A cool metallic knee is pressed hard between her legs, holding her down. A natural pause in the staccato squabble is found, and two pairs of red eyes are locked on each other.

Oh God, don’t <3< please.

TEREZI: 1 T4K3 1T B4CK TEREZI: TURNS OUT 1 ST1LL 3NJOY T4LK1NG TO YOU >:]

Ah, shit. Weakness for Light players, huh.

Rosebot leans in close. Terezi can smell the licorice-black lipstick, the same kind as always, applied now to synthetic polymer lips inches away from her own. Rosebot's metal fingers close just a little tighter around her neck–Woah, woah, woah.

I fiddle with some advanced speciation machinery for a few hours and then come back to this?

...yeah, you can’t get into Terezi’s sex life without a bit of choking and breathplay I guess.

You people are here for logic. Systems. Weird plot shit. Lore. Not this.

Hm.

I have mixed feelings about this possibly-sarcastic point of view of his. And that’s coming from someone who was fuck deep in those systems and frustrated as hell that Andrew worked them out but never explained them or made their (at least I believe) hidden importance clear.

Quit out of your browser, slam the laptop closed and punt it into the ocean. That shark is probably hungry after all the jumping.

You won’t, though. If you were going to quit you would have quit before this. We’re in this for the long haul, you and I. We’ll all go down together. Welcome to ‘Nam.

...yeah. :C

I'll just get a head start on my species, then. It's only the fate of a new planet on which the weight of saving the universe lies.

Did Dirk never get the memo that Calliope and fucking Caliborn were born on Earth C millions of years hence???

Your universe’s “relevance” is safe, my dude. You’re just making excuses to rule the narrative.

And... that’s it! For this update, anyway.

Let’s cut over to the commentary for the last one, which I expect will be touching on and lampshading just how much of an amoral dick move Rose and Dirk are making with the entire live-draft species creation process.

Sketches and Commentary: Chapter 4, The Contest

Oh, two members of the writing team are discussing this one.

Plenty of appreciation of the art of the alien planet, apparently art-ed by Gina.

--Yes, I agree, Terezi probably wouldn’t be the best at parallel parking.

Oh right, I should skip most of the fluff y’all would see if you paid and get just any plot important discussion, let’s skip past some ogling of Rose’s pretty well-designed robo-form and its first onscreen appearance...

(Xam’s designs are GREAT all around.)

A1: The imagery is, admittedly, a little heavy-handed. Terezi leaving the cave for the light, the other two remaining in the darkness to talk endless circles around each other.

Heh.

...There are some seriously good jokes here.

--OH! I finally get to figure out why Dirk’s hand was glowing all weird when he slammed the “map”: ......nope, they just talk about how big his yaoi hand is.

A1: I guess this means we’ve sort of canonized Dirk’s Texas accent? a2: yeah, but i think this was a foregone conclusion. the dude lived in post-apocalyptic texas, and he's ABSOLUTELY the sort of person to adopt a long-dead accent for no reason other than historical accuracy.

That’s fair. (Yes, I included that for plot relevance. Totally. ...I really need to be a lighter touch with how much I include of these things that isn’t helpful to actually understand what the fuck is going on with the actual plot/characterization, here, this was real borderline.)

i think we could stand to talk more about the writing at this point.

JESUS CHRIST THANK YOU

we sort of go in drunken circles of Dirk and Rose trying to out-bullshit each other and convince themselves they’re doing the right thing.

--which was obvious to everyone, but. Still appreciated to see it spelled out. Seeing our points of view validated like this helps us stay sane through the bullshit, a golden promise of eventual reprieve and vindication.

a2: we tried something a little different for the writing process of this update, which is that for large sections of the dialog we just rp'd the characters a2: andrew copied large sections of early homestuck from personal chatlogs with friends, and i always thought that lent it a special kind of humor and rapport that can be hard to capture by yourself. i think this approach worked pretty well for us.

It REALLY is an effective way to write dialogue for these sorts characters in particular! Heck, I’m kind of helping someone else do exactly that. It’s pretty fun! There are chapters and chapters out by my understanding, having diverged from such a focus on the central character I’m playing but using our logs as a guide... none of which I’m allowed to read, not even the FIRST chapter, so as not to spoil me with the surrounding narration and added revelations.

...What?

You expected me to tell you what it is? Where to find it?

No. :)

(Maybe later.)

A1: Moving right along. We see more of Dirk’s casual manipulation of Rose’s mental state, that he rationalizes away. It’s not actually that bad if she was going to agree anyway, right?

Mhmm. Hard to watch.

a2: [...] but it's a large part of what this chapter is about. a2: what is the right thing to do when you're functionally omniscient? a2: or omni...whatever these kids are. A1: Yeah, the question of whether morality actually has anything to do with running a system like this. Can god be moral? a2: and of course, that's kind of the same question that i ask myself a lot when writing. authorship is a peculiar thing.

That last part is pretty key about the story this entire thing is trying to tell. A story about the morality of how one goes about creating a story. A just story. And if what’s created even has value.

a2: i was responsible for the animation on the sprite panels, which was fun. it's obviously imitating andrew an awful lot, but i think that lends it an aura of homestucky authenticity. andrew is low-key really good at animation.

Yeah, he really, really is. His keyframing and the devices he used to communicate what was physically happening were really tight. I always appreciated that.

a2: aaaaand one last gina panel to finish with. rose may have had her doubts about this contest at first, but as soon as dirk made a little creature with tentacles she's like, fuck it, this is all i've ever wanted actually.

A bit sparse on the detail I was looking for once shit started to get horrific, the implications and such... but I can understand that.

Maybe when we get to the second and third place draft aliens, we’ll actually see a hint of a moral crisis in them. At least a tiny one.

Arrite, that’s it. See y’all next time. I’ll wait to blog the commentary on the past bonus chapter whenever the next bonus chapter is up for blogging.

#Homestuck #hs2 #Homestuck Liveblog #upd8 #bladekindeyewear #blastyoboots #spoiler #spoilers #Homestuck Commentary

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the-foxes-fangs · 5 years ago

Text

I Wish I was The Moon Part XII

Tagging the wonderful @louveau, @you-mass-effect-my-dragon-age and @otomediary

Warnings: Fiery speeches, angst

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆　　｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

“I asked for information, ninja, not your opinion.” Mitsuhide said, drumming his fingers irritably on the butt of his matchlock, staring testily at Sasuke across the sputtering fire he had built in a slightly less burned out corner of the temple.

“And I asked you to give me back my glasses, but here we are.” Sasuke replied wryly, the indignation in his usually impassive expression wasted on the tattered curtain that was receiving it. “I am absolutely never providing EMT services for any warlord going forward. You make lord Kenshin look incredibly polite.” He muttered to himself.

“I don’t suppose I make anything look like much of anything to you at the moment.” Mitshude retorted acerbically. He had lost consciousness, and still felt damnably weak and unsteady despite his racing mind.

“Taking a man’s glasses, that’s unconscionable. I don’t know what I expected from the Akechi Mitsuhide, but still, that’s a dirty trick.”

“Oh, so my reputation precedes me, even into the future.”

Mitsuhide banked the fire, waving away the smoke that flared up from the damp wood as it drifted into his face.

“It’s not like I’d leave the man my bff– for reasons known only to herself and whichever star guides people toward terrible choices– loves.”

“Your what now?” Mitsuhide asked, sharply, eyes narrowed at Sasuke as he considered the revelation of frequent ceiling and floor assisted visits.

“Best friend forever.” Sasuke said reaching up to the blank space where his glasses normally sat as if to push them up the bridge of his nose disapprovingly. “And you have no cause for jealousy, she’s like a sister to me.”

“Yes, I suppose if you’d had designs you could’ve just gone back to your own time together.” Mitsuhide replied. “You said that the fissure would open again, so tell me where and when and I’ll just fetch her myself.”

“I also just told you that that course of action is extremely ill advised, if it’s even possible at all. The potential distortion of space-time–” Sasuke replied, cutting himself off with a sigh.

“Alright, so that’s the least feasible option. We’ll just put that aside for now. What other course of action can we take?”

“I’m afraid I’m otherwise employed and must inform you that I have an extremely binding contractual obligation which regretfully prevents me from joining you in any ill-advised ventures likely to result in dismemberment, severe emotional trauma, beheading or otherwise unspecified bodily harm.” Sasuke countered flatly, reaching for his phantom glasses again and dropping his hand with a noise of displeasure.

“Were you under the impression that you had a choice? I’m afraid not. Keeping you hostage is an absolute necessity.”

“I could take you in a fight right now.” Sasuke said to a patch of white ash on a scorched pillar.

“Oh I have no doubt, but you won’t. I might die, and you’re just ever so slightly more devoted to your bff than Kenshin.” Mitsuhide replied knowingly.

“Dear god, it’s like someone desaturated Shingen and surgically removed his conscience.” Sasuke whispered in horrified awe.

“And If you’re thinking ‘surely lord Kenshin will come for me!’ you should know that I know he doesn’t know you came here, and that I can keep you hidden for years.” Mitsuhide added.

“You really just added a new and disturbing dimension to my relationship with Kenshin right off the cuff there, didn’t you?”

“Spare me the inane chatter, give me options. How do we get her to the wormhole at the right time?” He asked with a gesture that was wasted on Sasuke.

“Leaving aside that we’re well beyond my known timeline, there’s no fail-safe way to ensure that any message you send will survive.”

“If I could just get her back to Tanba…” Mitsuhide said, stroking his chin thoughtfully, thinking of the myriad hiding places he had built into the castle and the ways he could draw her attention to them without alerting five centuries worth of residents.

“You should know that Tanba was a ruin in our time, and my calculations suggest that an incredibly dramatic causal variance would be required to change that outcome.”

They sat in contemplative silence for awhile, until Mitsuhide dropped his fist into the palm of his other hand triumphantly. “I’ve been thinking about this all wrong. It’s the people!” He said enthusiastically.

“Are you feeling dizzy again, by any chance?” Sasuke asked with a note of alarm.

“I feel like I’ve been trampled by several horses, but that’s not important.” He answered dismissively, his mind on fire with plans.

He had been nearly paralyzed with leaden misery at his own helplessness, feeling only the overwhelming distance between them and the implacable rule of time around him like water closing over his head.

Even if she didn’t return to him, even if they never met again, he had to make certain that she knew that she had been loved, would be loved, always. He only needed a problem to solve to find his feet.

“We have two issues– how to physically secure a message, and how to draw her attention to the correct place.”

“In extremely simplified terms, yes.”

“She won’t be too keen to look me up, if I know her. She’ll be trying to carry on and let go of me, which precludes some kind of monument. But the people– they can protect Tanba and convey my message all at the same time.”

“I don’t follow…” Sasuke replied curiously.

“Of course you don’t, but all you need to do is follow along.”

He had driven himself to the brink of collapse the rest of that winter, exhausting every moment that he could conceivably be away from Azuchi without rousing more then the usual levels of suspicion. He returned on a soft spring day just in the nick of time for a war council.

Hideyoshi strode toward him with a mixture of anger and concern, grabbing his collar to growl “where the the hell have you been?”

“Starving himself half to death, by the look of it.” Ieyasu interjected dourly.

“Are we sure he hasn’t got the plague or something? He has a look in his eyes– and where’s the lass? Why isn’t she with you?” Masamune added, studying him closely.

Nobunaga studied him impassively, and waited for the tumult to die down. Only the inner circle was present, as Mitsuhide had requested. He strode forward, but did not sit.

“What I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this room.” He began, and explained her absence.

Masamune offered a low whistle, with an amused look in his eye, while Hideyoshi stared blankly and Nobunaga tapped his fan on his knee thoughtfully. Ieyasu snorted derisively, and Mitsunari knit his brow in concentration.

“That was several months ago. What have you been doing since then?” Hideyoshi asked, finally shifting out of his reverie.

Mitsuhide smiled perhaps the first entirely honest smile he had ever offered them, knowing that it was probably ghastly on his gaunt face. “Why, scheming to bring her home, of course.”

“You’ve finally lost that tangled excuse for a mind.” Ieyasu said harshly.

“Oh quite possibly.” Mitushide answered, sweeping his gaze across the room as he made his great gamble. “But then again, none of you have ever known me when I truly wanted something.”

Nobunaga narrowed his eyes with a taut smile. “And just how do you intend to accomplish such a feat?” He asked, coldly.

Mitsuhide cocked his head and looked out the window at the soft blue sky, picturing her under the cherry blossoms for half a moment. “With the closing of this rotten age, my lords. The time for peace and unification has come, one way–” he dropped his hand to his gun, “or another.”

“You crazy bastard.” Masamune said with a wild laugh. “I like this side of you.”

The blood had drained from Hideyoshi’s face, and his voice shook as his hand drifted toward his sword, hissing “what have you done?”

“I wouldn’t, Hideyoshi. If I don’t leave this council with my head on my shoulders all hell will break loose.” Mitsuhide answered, lightly.

“Speak your piece.” Nobunaga said darkly.

“With Kenshin and Shingen alive and dragging the last of the Imagawa in tow, we could be at war for who knows how long, and with unpredictable results. But I need a rough sequence of events to unfold, and it doesn’t include endless war. The remnants of monks of Heiei and the Mori are problems all their own, and then there’s your puppet Shogun.” He said, gesturing at Nobunaga.

“We’re all aware of the current situation.” Hideyoshi spat through gritted teeth. “What’s your point?”

“There are too many personal vendettas and ambitions at play for this to ever be settled under only our volition, unless it’s by battle royale with only one left alive. Given her affection for all of you, that’s not a particularly desirable outcome either.”

“All this for a woman.” Masamune said with amusement.

“Lord Mitsuhide…” Mitsunari cut in at last, with quiet dread in his voice, “you’re talking as if you’ve brought in an outside army.”

The air was electric as Nobunaga leaned forward with a hard glitter in his eyes.

“Not so much an outside army as evening the odds for the people we have no business trampling over on our way to glory. I’ve armed the women in every fief, and given the farmers instructions to stop working the fields if our demands for peace aren’t met. They may choose to rise up and kill me, of course, but as long as I’m a convenient mouthpiece, I’m reasonably safe.”

Hideyoshi struck him hard across the face, leaving him with the taste of blood in his mouth. “You’re going to– no, you’ve already thrown the country into chaos and famine!” He thundered, red faced with fury.

“It sounds quite peaceful outside to me. More peaceful than it has in my memory. No thundering cavalry, no armies marching at the pleasure of men who are, in the end, only men no better or worse than they.” Mitsuhide replied, dabbing the blood from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve.

“What hope could peasant women and farmers have against trained armies?” Nobunaga asked contemptuously.

“Not much, it’s true, but how long do you think your foot soldiers would heed the order to attack their mothers, sisters, daughters and wives? You’d order them to destroy the future, and for what–” his voice rose, hoarse and strident, “to say that you ruled the world?”

He made a sweeping gesture, hoping that his words, always his favorite weapon, would secure a bloodless victory.

“Every throne casts the shadow of its own destruction, my lords. We clamber to the heavens and live in dread of those we leave below, driven to greater and greater cruelty to avoid being dragged to the hell that we ourselves have made.”

He dropped his hands and and his voice, and looked each of them in the eye in turn.

“Isn’t it better to dig graves for our pride than our people?”

The silence was louder than any sound could ever have been.

It was finally broken by a ringing, rolling laugh from Nobunaga, who finally sat back and cleared his throat with a wide, wild smile, and the tiniest flash of relief somewhere far, far back in his dark eyes.

“I knew you were going to revolt eventually, but holding a gun to all of our heads, from the Imperial court to the local magistrates–” he shook his head and chuckled again, “and not even with the ambition to rule! Ingenious.”

“My lord–” Hideyoshi said, his expression tense.

“Enough. We’ve been outplayed.” Nobunaga said with a wave of his fan. “It’s almost poetic– in the end, the people unified themselves.”

…

How many years ago had that day been? His mind was still sharp, even as his body had begun to fail him, heart growing weaker by the day. He had wrung out every bit of his strength taking aim at the distant future.

The years had been full of mountains of correspondence, leagues of riding from one end of the country to the other to keep the peace, to pluck out the seeds of war before they could be well and truly sown.

And always in the dark, the memory of her, and the hope that every step forward and every day would build a shrine that could carry his heart to her.

He whispered to her in the night, when the fear that it wasn’t enough chilled him, knowing that the odds were astronomically stacked against them, he whispered every sweet and longing word into quiet space where she should have been. Dreams of her carried him through, of the warmth of her body, the feel of her skin, every exquisite shudder and sigh, even the painful aching fire of unfulfilled lust he carried like a penitent barbarian in their horsehair shirt.

He had spent the first half of his life trusting no-one, and spent the latter half holding his trust like a weapon– trust in her, in himself, in whatever capricious force had brought them together in the first place.

The irony of dying in hopes of giving himself a second chance at life was never lost on him, who had never so much as believed in the immaterial soul. Time was an enemy and his dearest ally.

With the final preparations made, with nothing left but to leave his faith in the children and grandchildren of his friends and one time enemies, he was helped into the saddle for one last ride. The old scar on his arm ached as the early winter snow drifted down.

The ruins of Honno-ji had become an overgrown mass over the years, but he had built a small cozy hut there, the place where he had begun to live, the place where he intended to die.

“Thank you, Kyubei.” He said as took the proffered cup of sake gratefully, watching the snowfall in the quiet night.

“I’m Kyubei’s grandson,” the young man said, and gave him a conciliatory pat on the shoulder.

“Ah. Forgive an old man for losing track of time.” He said, quietly.

The quiet snowfall had lulled him into a deep, peaceful sleep, a dream where she was curled against him, so warm, a dream of a long ago kiss upon the back of his neck, of her cradled in his arms, of her beautiful body tangled with his, of her precious voice telling him

You do not have to be good

but you are

Somewhere in the deep blue dawn he heard the calling. He struggled up, half staggering, half crawling, toward the door.

“Wait– where are you going?” The boy cried out, trying to take hold of his sleeve, but he felt lighter than he had in years, felt as light as the flakes of falling snow.

“The wild geese are calling me to my place by her side…” he said, bare feet in the soft snow, strangely warm as he walked toward the place where the balcony had been and folded his legs neatly beneath him, hands in his lap, heart in his hands to give to her as he closed his eyes.

…

She had had one day and 7 hours to dispose as best she could of her life, but nothing had ever been easier. She had already been living as if she were dead, and dropped her letters of farewell into the post without a single regret.

It felt as if she were floating a little above the ground as she carefully wrapped up four sets of glasses for Sasuke, and went to the monument to wait with one more poem on her lips like a prayer

A kiss on the forehead—erases misery. I kiss your forehead. A kiss on the eyes—lifts sleeplessness. I kiss your eyes. A kiss on the lips—is a drink of water. I kiss your lips.

How many lives were folded between the two of them like ink dropped into water, and why, she didn’t ask. Just one, even if it hurt sometimes, if it frightened them both, if it was struggle, just one would be so much more than enough.

The pressure and the crackle in the air brought grateful tears to her eyes when they arrived, and she stood fearlessly and walked into the wormhole, eyes wide open.

It was the same dark haze but she felt as if she were being dragged every which way, buffeted first toward one blurred landscape and then another, searching frantically for him.

She saw the diverging paths of his life, the violent heartbreaking ends, the loneliness, and shards of incohate moments.

Snow. He was there in the snow, seated as if in silent meditation, beauty still apparent under the marks of age.

He didn’t stir as she cried out his name, again and again, telling him she had returned as the sight of his serene face faded. She felt a familiar cool hand brush her tears away with a touch so soft and light, felt guided toward a faint light, and began to run.

…

“Are you ill?” Nobunaga asked as Mitsuhide pitched forward onto his knees, and clutched his head.

“I– I just had the odd sensation of having… died.” He mumbled, faintly.

Sasuke cocked his head thoughtfully, watching the storm as it descended.

“You called these peace talks under threat of revolution you’re not allowed to die of a broken heart, you insufferable snake.” Hideyoshi said angrily.

The four of them had ridden up to Honno-ji as the storm came on, and he felt as if his head were full of intense flashes of something he couldn’t name– other selves, other lives.

“I did warn you that the timeline reasserting itself might be unpleasant.” Sasuke said dryly, and adjusted his battered glasses.

“Shouldn’t she be here by now?” Hideyoshi asked as he hoisted Mitsuhide to his feet.

“There’s no guarantee–” Sasuke began, and was cut off by Nobunaga gesturing toward the balcony.

He scrambled across the sleet slicked ground, feeling that same desperate fear and hope as he stumbled up the stairs, overcome with the sensation that it had been so much longer than a single year, weak in the knees as he slid down, straining to see into the twisting cloud.

She toppled into him, snow in her hair and on her lashes, and they fell together onto the cold and sooty wood of the balcony. She was so warm in his trembling arms, her pounding heart pressed to his.

***

WHEW, WE MADE IT THROUGH THE ANGST

This chapter’s poem is “A Kiss on the Forehead” by Marina Tsvetaeva

#ikemen sengoku #ikemen sengoku mitsuhide #cybird mitsuhide #cybird ikemen #otome #akechi mitsuhide #mitsuhide akechi #mitsuhide xmc #thefoxesfic #fanfic #wow writing him dying was a big ouch

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