#The Watcher doodle was me thinking about how the Watcher watches over everyone | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yolkyeomie · 3 years

Text

Trade Off of Gifts | Bang Chan

summary — no one knows the world of an artists as well as you do, at least that’s what you thought until he decided to show up one day

word count — 1.7k words

pairing — chan x gender neutral!reader

genre — fluff, artist!reader with a tiny hint of musician!chan (even tho he’s already a musician???)

disclaimer — just something tiny for all your fast and short topher needs !!

Being someone who is artistically gifted has its perks, leaving you to be more creatively thoughtful than most of the people around you.

The world and its people was one big incomplete painting to you, splashes of colors being splattered into its surface as you began to maneuver through it. You were the artist who determined what colors were allowed to stay and what colors no longer fit the narrative you were trying to create. It was a tiresome and even lonely job when you had to pick up a brush and bring a new color into your final masterpiece, but it was a rather exciting process nonetheless.

Different colors meant different things and different shades indicated different tones. Sometimes they’d change meanings and sometimes they’d stay the same, it always depended on how you felt that day. You could never explain exactly what everything meant to you, thinking of it as some innate feelings you were born with.

You never bothered trying to help outsiders comprehend what you meant either, as it was easier to keep it to yourself instead of giving your thoughts and feelings for the world to see.

But then somehow, you were stumbled upon by someone who shared the same views as you. Someone who saw the world in a rather similar artistic and dreamy light as you did, and they weren’t even an artist who puts pen to paper.

“That’s a nice drawing,” the stranger told you, hovering over your shoulder like a hawk to its prey. You scrambled to your feet almost immediately, pressing your art to your chest in a defensive manner. You didn’t like it when people hovered over you while you were drawing, entranced in this magical world of fantasy and possibility when you doodled on whatever surface you.

Usually, people would interrupt you when you weren’t finished, commenting on how odd everything seemed and how empty your art looked.

But then it clicked in your head, the stranger didn’t make any sort of ignorant comment on it. He simply said it was nice.

“Thank you,” you managed to say, your eyes darting down to the sketch you had created.

It wasn’t anything special, a half-done headshot of one of your friends from memory. It didn’t really look like any of your friends at the time either, there wasn’t enough detail on the features for it to be recognizable of who it was. “I mean, it’s not really done or anything so it’s not the best I’ve ever created but—“

“Really?” He questioned, his eyes widening to show off the little twinkling stars in his eyes and his mouth gaping open at your response. You couldn’t help but chuckle at his expression, nodding your head as an answer. “You’re a really good artist, you know that? Not many of my friends can even pick up a pencil if we really wanted to, but I guess that’s not really a compliment. Is portraits the only thing you draw?”

You lifted an eyebrow as he spoke, cautiously eying him and the choice of his words. He definitely wasn’t new to the whole artist thing, there was no way he was that knowledgeable on what artists liked to hear and what they didn’t like to hear and wasn’t an artist himself.

He even called you an artist instead of a “drawer”! If that wasn’t a dead giveaway of the fact that you were in the presence of an artistically gifted person then you don’t know what was.

“Not always,” you answered him, shrugging your shoulders as you tried to come up with a decent answer. “It really depends on my mood, but I like drawing portraits of people more than anything. It gives me an excuse to look at others without seeming… creepy? You know?”

“Oh…,” he nodded, a smile donning his face as he looked up at you. “So you’re a people watcher?”

“Not exactly,” you corrected him, “I just enjoy looking at people’s faces. You know, to catch every little detail that makes them unique to themselves. Everyone’s got something about them that’s different from everyone else and drawing lets me capture their uniqueness in a form that can be treasured forever.”

“That just sounds like an over-exaggeration of people watching,” the boy insisted, a laugh escaping his lips when he caught your frustrated glare digging daggers into his skull. “I’m kidding I promise! I completely understand what you mean. So who were you drawing just now then?”

Your expression immediately falls into a grimace, hesitantly peering towards your unfinished work to your friend. “Ah… this?” You ask him, trying to stall time from explaining your latest creation to him.

Through when you looked up to the boy he only nodded at your question and gave you the brightest smile he could. “It’s… it’s a drawing of a friend. He didn’t ask me to make this or anything, but I was just using him to practice faces.”

“You’re only practicing?” the boy gasped, scooting closer to you to steal another peek of your sketch from before. “That’s crazy, I would have thought you were working on an actual project and trying to get to the final piece!”

“You flatter me too much,” you joked, giving your sketch a half-smile. You appreciated the compliments he was showering you with, but there was no way you were actually living up to those expectations in your head. Being artistically gifted had its perks yet also had its more major downfalls: creating unattainable standards for yourself that you constantly set yourself up for failure was one of them. “I still have a long way to go before I can get anywhere near where I want to be.”

“I think where you are now is a great place, you should help yourself to the compliments when you get them. You deserve them,” he commented, a wide grin stretching across his face. Watching his lips turn into a smile made you so do the same, the atmosphere around him too addicting to go to waste. “Plus, I can tell you like it when people praise you.”

“Shut up, you ruined the moment,” you hissed, jumping to your feet to shove him out of your range of sight. The boy giggled at your reaction as he forced himself to stay put, not moving a singular inch no matter how hard you pushed him. “Leave! I don’t want you around me anymore, you ruined the moment!”

The boy thought about your words for a moment, as if he was trying to determine whether or not he wanted to leave you alone. “How about this,” he offered, spinning on his heel to face you. It caught you off guard for a moment, stumbling back on your feet as he shined that same smile from earlier on to you. “I’ll leave you alone now, but you have to let me come back and talk to you about your art more.”

You snorted, “I don’t even know you, why would I do that?”

He nodded in understanding, considering your comment before holding his hand out for you to shake. “Okay then, hi! I’m Bang Chan and I want you to let me come back another day and talk to you about your art. Does this make up for the lack of acquaintanceship?”

“Hi, I’m Y/N,” you humor him, shaking his hand before sliding out a slightly impolite question from your lips, “Is Bang Chan asking to hang around me because he wants me to give him a free drawing? If so I’m sorry but I’m not confident enough in my skills to even make you anything if I wanted to. There’s a reason I’m practicing here you know.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he clarified, slumping back onto the ground and laying back with a content smile. “I don’t want free art, I just want to hear you talk about your art. Maybe people watch with you from time to time.”

“I’m not a people watcher.”

“Sorry,” Chan nodded, “maybe not-people-watch with you then.”

You went silent for a moment, looking down at the sketch in your hands and glancing back towards the boy. “So that’s all? You just want to… hang out with me while I draw? No strings attached? You’re not going to ask me to draw you for free in the future or make fun of my unfinished work at all?”

He nodded in response and pointed a finger at your head. “The mind of an artist is a very interesting place to explore because not every artist has the same thought process when it comes to their creations. I want to see how we differ from each other.”

“So you’re an artist as well?” You question, your eyes widening as you slowly began to realize what he had said.

“Wouldn’t exactly say an artist,” Chan laughed, downplaying his statement as much as possible. “More of a… musician? I guess? I make songs, but that’s nothing compared to being someone who puts a pencil to paper.”

So your hunch was correct, Chan was artistically gifted! Of course, it wasn’t exactly in the way you had thought before but the mere fact that he was like you made much more sense now. “A musician is still an artist,” you tell him, “just because you’re not creating art in that sense doesn’t mean you aren’t an artist. Art comes in many different forms you know, you can’t limit it to one medium.”

“Well my form of art isn’t very… how do I say this, it isn’t—“

“—You’re embarrassed.” You finished. As expected the boy came up with as many excuses as possible, trying to drill the false act into your head but utterly failing. All you could do was laugh as you spoke, “don’t worry! It’s normal to be closed off about the things you create, I’m embarrassed to show off my art to people all of the time.”

Chan nodded, nervously fidgeting with his hair as he tried to play off his flustered actions. “I guess that’s one thing we have in common right?”

“Make that two things,” you corrected him. He turned to you with a confused glint in his eyes as you held up two fingers and grinned at him as you explained, “we’re both artists and we’re embarrassed to show people our creations. Oh the woes of being artistically gifted, am I right?”

He nodded in agreement, a cheeky smile appearing on his face once again as he repeated, “oh the woes of being artistically gifted.”

#stayhavennet #kpop imagines #kpop #kpop scenarios #kpop fluff #kpop au #stray kids #stray kids imagines #stray kids chan #skz imagines #skz fluff #skz chan #skz #bang chan imagines #bang chan #chan x reader #bang chan x reader

46 notes · View notes

smallmediumproblems · 4 years

Link

Now that everything’s made public, this was my submission for the Piles of Nonsense 2019 Halloween statement exchange! I haven’t gone through all of the other submissions yet, but the one I got was AMAZING, 10/10 looking forward to the next event like this. I actually wrote two since I couldn’t decide on the prompt, the other one’s an additional chapter in the Ao3 link. It’s about a cat.

You don’t get many people in here asking for advice, do you? Seems kind of stupid. Everyone comes with an offering for your greedy little watcher, and none of them think to ask for anything in return. Well, I haven’t forgotten that this is an archive, and if you don’t mind, I’ll be using it as one. I mean, what are you going to do, stare me away? No. I thought so. Besides, it’s not like I came empty-handed. I do have a story for you. I imagine you’ll need some context to be of any use, just like a normal archive. I don’t need an actual, physical favor, you see. Just information. A statement for you, and a nudge in the right direction for me. Sounds fair? Good.

You’ll want me to start from the beginning. I can tell.

A few months ago, I made the mistake of trying to clean my apartment. I’m one of those people who’s chronically unable to clean on my own. I always get distracted with old forgotten things. Videogame cartridges, costume odds and ends - books are the worst, the absolute worst. Especially if I find one with a bookmark still in it. Part of me feels guilty for leaving it unfinished, which of course means I have to chew through a few chapters and a precious amount of my cleaning time.

That’s how I knew this particular closet was going to be hard for me. It wasn’t just books. It was notebooks. Three stacks of the things, each one nearly two feet tall. From the couple I’d labeled, I must have been eleven or twelve when I’d written them. Most of it was schoolwork in spiral-bound notebooks, plus some stacks of looseleaf stapled together. The real prize was an old diary. It was a scuffed little composition notebook, much smaller than the others. That’s what drew my attention to it in the first place.

I don’t remember keeping a diary. Finding one anyway didn’t strike me as odd, I’m sure I don’t remember a lot of stuff I did when I was eleven. That’s how I explained it away to myself. I’d forgotten most of what was in those schoolbooks, I can tell you that. You know, I used to speak French? Like, not a lot, but apparently enough to write a few paragraphs of essay responses. I found that out as I was flipping through the notebooks trying to dredge up any memory of when I’d written them. The fact that I couldn’t made me a little sad. It’s like I was a completely different person back then. A tiny stranger who spoke French, who doodled in the margins of her notebooks, and who slowly, unremarkably, vanished.

I think that’s why I started reading the diary. I didn’t feel bad for her- or, myself, I guess - but I was curious. I’m sure you know what’s that like. To my immeasurable disappointment, the first few entries were dead boring. This clearly wasn’t the first journal I’d ever kept. I’d fallen into a routine of matter-of-factly jotting down whatever I’d done every day even if I had nothing to say about it. After a while, I got to one that was just aimlessly sad. Like, big, messy handwriting sad. No details about the day, just a lot of purple prose about how I felt helpless and trapped. It was a little hard to read, honestly. That did make me feel bad for eleven-year-old me. It can’t have been too awful, though, because the next entries continued on like nothing happened. I guess the little frenchwoman had a habit of bottling things up. A couple pages later, I found the first really strange thing in the journal. It looked like nonsense, at first. One line of apparently random letters in all-caps:

JWMKRLLYUABWHJMOJ

I thought it might be an acronym of some sort, or a mnemonic for something in one of the schoolbooks. It wasn’t referenced anywhere else on the page. I was ready to brush it off until I saw another one a couple pages later.

DDSVXSXXVQZVJNJ

The thought appeared in my head that this might be some kind of coded message. A bigger mystery than what it said was who I thought I was coding it from. I had no siblings, and parents who were pretty respectful of my boundaries as long as they thought I was safe. I wasn’t a paranoid child. At least, I don’t think I was. It looked like there was a lot about myself that I’d forgotten. The only idea I had was that I could figure it out if I could just decode the messages.

This turned out to be harder than expected, even with the help of the internet and a motivational cup of tea. After a little digging, I figured that it was probably coded with something called a Vignere cipher, where you use a single word as a key to encrypt a string of text. That made the most sense, but the online decoder I found couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Either the key was too long to decipher, or the messages were too short. Probably the latter. At this point, my interest was starting to wane. I really needed to get back to cleaning. The fact that I’d stopped what I was doing to google ciphers was a bad sign. I set aside the diary, making the difficult decision to chuck the rest of the notebooks directly into a garbage bag. The doodles weren’t exactly the lost works of DaVinci, and I wouldn’t need to reference my algebra homework any time soon. By lunchtime, I’d gotten about half-done refilling the closet with more junk for me to throw out next time I felt like cleaning. I was feeling pretty good about the day until I found myself tapping out a rhythm on my mug.

I don’t know if this next part is going to make sense. It definitely didn’t to me at the time. Something about the movement felt involuntary in a way that was very alarming. It wasn’t a natural motion like swaying to music. It reminded me of goosebumps. Or like when you get nervous or frightened, and you just start shivering like it’s minus ten outside. That feeling that there’s a wire crossed in your brain, somewhere. What really shook me was how hard it was to stop. Relaxing my hands didn’t work, and my fingers continued to spasm when I set down the mug. I eventually got around it by clenching my fist so tightly that I couldn’t move the hand at all. This made my microwave burrito harder to navigate, but that wasn’t my biggest concern just then.

I wondered if I was having a stroke. It didn’t sound like one. Too minor, too specific. I’d say I didn’t have a history of this kind of thing, but that would imply that I had any idea what it was. My mind scrambled for something that had happened, something I’d done that would have caused this. My eyes, of course, settled on the journal.

What if the key wasn’t a word? What if it was a pattern? I loosened my grip on the fist. The rhythm was weaker now, barely a twitch in my fingertips. The same pattern repeated over and over again. First the thumb, then the middle finger, then pinky, index, ring. One, three, five, two, four. I made for the diary, flipping it open to the first chunk of coded text. It was harder to decode than it would have been to encrypt, even with scratch paper, but fortunately it was short.

I THINK IT’S WATCHING

I don’t remember being a paranoid child. I am definitely not a paranoid adult. I need you to believe that I would have taken any excuse to dismiss the whole thing. Surely this was just an eleven-year-old girl taking some fantasy a little too far. But something about the message filled me with the most unshakable dread. It hit on something that was just short of a memory. A feeling that I’d felt before while holding this diary, reading those words. Even parsing it out logically, I couldn’t quite shake it off. The messages were so isolated. Nothing else in the diary pointed to someone who would have made this stuff up. I didn’t ever comment on school drama or gossip, no conspiracy theories, or dreams of intrigue. Just the coded messages. That, and the way my fingers were still twitching. One, three, five, two, four.

Another scan over the page didn’t reveal any clues. If anything, the entry was less detailed than the other ones. Which made sense, actually. I’d be a little more careful of what I was saying if I thought someone was watching me. I made another pass through the diary and collected every encoded phrase, every one translating just as unsettling as the last. There weren’t many. Most of them were pretty vague. Things like "It can see me” or “It’s so close.” Some were specific, but not much more helpful. One read, “It’s behind my eyes.” Another said, “That’s not my voice.”

Reading the whole thing start to finish, I noticed something else. Some of the handwriting wasn’t mine. I hadn’t really noticed it at first because, honestly, who picks up an old journal expecting to find something like that? I saw my handwriting because I expected my handwriting. The human brain is real lazy, when it wants to be. Especially in the earlier entries, the handwriting was noticeably different. The w’s were sharp where they should have been round. All the circles were slanted wrong, the a’s, the d’s, the p’s, all of them. There’s this little curl at the bottom of my l’s and t’s that wasn’t there, that was the one I noticed first. Again, this was totally something I could have explained away, if it wasn’t for one of the later pages.

There was a margin completely filled with w’s. Curly, rounded w’s, the way I always write them. I remember getting confused in a statistics class once because they look just like the lowercase Greek omega. I also remember thinking that there was no way I’d use that symbol in real life, and that I shouldn’t change my writing, because it looked nicer. The margin was full of the things, and at the very bottom was another coded message. It was the only reason I stopped on the page in the first place.

THAT’S NOT HOW IT GOES.

I couldn’t help feeling a little annoyed at that. As if it were talking to me.

I’d scoured the whole thing start to finish, and one of the coded messages still didn’t translate. It was just one word off in the margin: AIDEZMOI. I kept mulling it over, trying to see if I’d put it through the decoder wrong, but by that point my brain was starting to turn to mush from the whole thing. Even if it was another keyword, I was out of things to decode. The trail had gone cold, and I was starting to get distracted again.

I pulled out my big sheet of scratch paper, the one I’d been decoding all of this stuff on so far, and tried to write one of the coded messages. The only memories I’d managed to conjure up had been tactile; the tapping fingers, the feeling of the diary in my hands. Maybe I could get back in the mindset of my past self by retracing her steps. I wrote something that I thought sounded sufficiently paranoid, coming up with:

MHFXINHFNSOH

It didn’t look right. I’d wanted to write “Can you hear me,” half directed at myself from the past, and half at whatever I was hiding from. Had I spelled it wrong? I double-checked just to be sure. No point in doing this if I was going to do it wrong. The translation I came up with read:

LEAVE ME ALONE

I dropped the pen. I’m surprised I didn’t throw it across the room. For a split second, I honestly thought of throwing the diary out with the trash bags. This was the second time this thing had made my hand move on its own, and I was not excited to find out what it was going to do next.

But, like I said, I was curious.

The way I saw it, I had two options. Option one: The diary was super haunted, in which case I needed to get it as far away from me as possible. Option two: Whatever was taking control of me was already here, and the diary was the only thing that had the clues I needed to stop it. I must have stopped it before, right?

I took the pen and tried to write something else the same way, coding and decoding it. Pushing the boundaries a little at this stage probably wouldn't be too dangerous. I wrote one of the lines from where I had the diary open to, something about having pizza for lunch.

PLEASE JUST STOP THROW IT AWAY DON’T TOUCH ME

That sounded like option two. I felt that same annoyance as when the coded message made fun of my handwriting, bubbling up into something close to anger. This thing was taking control of my body. Who did it think it was, making demands like that? This sounds stupid now that I say it out loud, but I kind of assumed it was reading my thoughts, so I wrote out another line to see if it had anything to say for itself.

YOU’RE NOT GOING TO GET ME I’LL KILL YOU GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT

I decided that this thing had lost its letter-writing privileges. For a third time, I tore through the diary for any more clues, something that looked even a little out of place. More than anything, I wished that I had some of the earlier books. How long had this been happening? When did I start coding the messages? More importantly, how did I think they were going to help? They couldn’t even be called cries for help. Just… cries.

Slowly, I realized that I did have other books to search through. The trash bag of notebooks still sat next to my front door. I emptied it out onto my kitchen floor, and was faced with the crushing realization that I had no idea where to begin. Just like in the diary, all I could do was look for a break in all the little patterns of my old life. I got through nearly a dozen notebooks before I recognized the word from the margin.

AIDEZMOI.

Aidez-moi.

Help me.

It had to be the French homework. The notebook was peppered with French in the margins like the codes in the diary. There was one page with a whole block of it scribbled on the back, clearly not part of an assignment. Just sort of tucked in between class notes, like she was hoping someone wouldn’t notice. Hoping that thing wouldn’t notice.

This was the only lead I had left, and I desperately needed it to work. I pulled up a translator on my phone and got to work, decoding line after line. Sure enough, the very first one shaped up into a sentence.

I need to tell my parents.

Poor thing.

It’s watching my diary too close. Thank god it gets bored in class. I tried to tell Ms Kennedy with that last assignment, but she just told me to keep my essays more serious. Why won’t anyone listen? It’s so quiet. I can almost speak. If I could get just one word out, I don’t even know what I’d do. What could I say? I’m afraid to think too hard. What if it can hear my thoughts? Can you hear me? You son of a bitch?

I yanked the pencil away from the page. That last line hadn’t come from the notebook. I won’t try to tell you I wasn’t scared, at this point, but I was starting to get angry, too. Not the best combination for someone to act rationally. I said - and I actually tried to talk to it, out loud - I said, “You don’t get to talk to me like that.” I told it that I’d already beaten it once, and I could sure as hell do it again.

My voice sounded wrong, when I said it. It was that same gut-deep, physical deja-vu as when I’d held the diary. Not the words, exactly, but the feeling that I was struggling against something inside my own head, my own body. I’d messed up. As soon as the words were out, I knew that. I realized that the more I engaged with it, the more I made it real, the more power it felt like it had over me.

By the time that thought appeared in my head, it was too late. I looked down to see that I’d filled the rest of the scratch paper. No codes, this time, no French. Just big, messy handwriting. Like someone was upset. It read:

FUCK YOU. I'm still alive, and you’re still stupid and lazy. Nobody listened. That’s the only reason you’re here, nobody listened, and nobody helped. If I had gotten out just once, you’d be the one stuck in here as a bad memory. You didn’t beat me. You did a lot of things to me but you did not beat me. I’ve been patient. I’ve been quiet. But if you don’t throw out that diary- if you don’t get your slimy hands off of the ONLY THING you didn’t take from me, I can promise you I won’t be quiet anymore.

It looked so much like that sad, angry page from the diary, I almost felt sorry for her again. But I’m sure, just like that terrible day all those years ago, she’ll get over it. Eventually. She’ll learn to be grateful, again. I’ve been thinking it over in the meantime. Whether I want her gone for good. She’s clearly been doing some rearranging upstairs, and I’m just not sure I can let that slide now that I know what she’s been up to. I’m not sure I should. That’s really why I’m here talking to you. If anyone can help me figure out how to do it, it’s you. It’d be nice to have the option even if I decide to keep her around. A part of me just wants to prove her wrong. Show her I’m not too lazy to finish the job. I’ve just been so busy. She’s got a lot of responsibilities now that she’s older. If I’d known how much work taking over for her would be, I don’t know if I’d have signed up for it. I’m not lazy, really, I’m not. And just because she knows French doesn’t mean she’s smarter than me.

#tma #the magnus archives #fanfiction

5 notes · View notes

queen-scribbles · 5 years

Text

Complete Confidence

for @pillarspromptsweekly 82: March Forth. Had some fun with Keya and various associated OCs. Some of whom I now love entirely too much for them not existing before I wrote this.

Things were usually quiet at Caed Nua when the Watcher was gone. Sure, there would be the occasional attempt by bandits thinking they were weaker with their Lady gone. (They quickly found out otherwise) Or oozes and trolls would emerge from below, or a petitioner would take issue with seeing Watcher Illani’s representative rather than the woman in charge herself. (Especially when they learned her representative was an orlan.)

Keya was well-accustomed to dealing with all of it. And she didn’t mind a little excitement, but she was also perfectly happy when things stayed calm. Boring to use her friend and employer’s word. This occasion--the longest Tavi had ever gone on one of her Dyrford trips--appeared to be following the pattern. One irate delegate who didn’t wish to deal with a “cat fucker”(she had to stop Ioan from punching the man in the jaw as he escorted him out), but otherwise things were humming along like normal.

Until one of the guards returned from patrol with reports of drake activity and xaurips tracks near the soutern edge of Caed Nua’s territory

“How sure are you, Caitha?” Keya asked, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. Tavi was going to be in Dyrford another three weeks, at least. If there was really a drake--especially one with a cult following it--in their territory, it couldn’t wait for her return. They’d need to deal with it now, before they attacked the fortress.

Caitha shrugged apologetically, smoothing a lock of nut brown hair back toward her bun. “I saw the xaurip tracks and, uh, drake leavings m’self, boss.”

“Damn,” Keya said with a sigh. She looped one of her narrow braids around her index finger and tugged it hard, forcibly resisting the urge to chew on it as she thought. “How fresh?”

“A week old at most.” Caitha shifting uneasily. “It looked like a lot of xaurips,”

Well, that fucking clinched it. Keya let go of the braid to instead massage her temples. Illani owes me big time for dealing with this shit. “D’you think, before you go off duty, you could show a couple of the scouts--maybe Gjyra and Caed--where you saw it? On a map, I mean. See if they can track it, find either the drake’s roost or the xaurips’ camp. Better we take the fight there than let it decide to come here.”

Caitha nodded. “Sure thing. They in the barracks?”

“Dining hall, last I saw ‘em,” Keya replied, nodding her gratitude. “Dismissed.”

Caitha thumped a fist to her chest and inclined her head slightly--”Boss”--before heading that direction.

Keya waited until she was gone to drag one hand down her face and let her shoulders slump. She’d never hoped for one of the keep’s soldiers to be mistaken about something before, but fighting a drake would not be fun.

She would much rather things stay boring.

~~<>~~

Unfortunately, that was not to be.

Gjyra and Caed dutifully set off for the location Caitha marked. They returned, muddy and just a little bruised, almost a week later and corroborated Caitha’s report; there was a drake with a substantial xaurip clan worshiping it not quite two days out from Caed Nua.

Keya gave herself all of five seconds to process and mentally grouse before reminding herself At least it’s only one, and heading for the barracks. She needed a team big enough to safely deal with the problem without leaving Caed Nua vulnerable while they were gone. Given what Gjyra had reported about the xaurip numbers(big enough clan for three high priests), things could get ugly real fast if they were under-prepared.

Ten seemed safe. For a single drake and a xaurip clan, ten was probably enough to handle them without risking the fortress’ safety. Caitha and Ioan both promptly volunteered as soon as she made her plans known.

“You know this won’t be easy, I hope,” Keya felt obligated to point out. Caitha nodded and Ioan smirked.

“Why d’you think I wanna come?” he shot back. “This is a threat you’ll actually let me hit.”

Keya rolled her eyes and sighed in fond exasperation. “One disgruntled bastard does not equal a threat. Didn’t want you causin’ a diplomatic incident with a fuckin’ lord over an insult I’ve all but gone numb to. Though your loyalty is noted and deeply appreciated. Try not to let it get you killed, huh?”

“Do m’best, but I can’t promise anything,” Ioan winked.

“Bastard,” Keya grumbled, but couldn’t resist a smile. “Go get ready.”

“Yes, boss.” He saluted and darted for the barracks.

Caitha shook her head as she followed. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t forget anything important. Like his head. Or common sense.”

Keya laughed. “Thanks. Second of those might be a losin’ battle. His type ain’t big on common sense.”

Caitha stopped and raised an eyebrow. “His type? Do you mean elves or barbarians?”

Keya snorted. “Given who our real boss is and what she’s like, I’m tempted to say elves. But I was referrin’ to barbarians.”

“On that I’ll agree with you. Still, I’ll do my best.” Caitha resumed course for the barracks, and Keya headed for her quarters to gather her gear and check her armor.

~~<>~~

It took into the following day for them to be ready, but there were still plenty of daylight hours for them to get underway and make some good progress. And so, mid-morning, Keya led her small army(all volunteers; this was a dangerous task) forth from Caed Nua in hopes of dealing with this drake as quickly as possible so they could get home.

They were a handful to wrangle; Ioan was not the only hothead with dreams of killing a dragon who volunteered. The bickering was largely tolerable, but she did have to issue some scoldings when things edged toward too heated. The weather was fair, however--typical of Early Summer, and they made good time down the road.

“How well organized did the xaurips seem?” Keya asked Caed and Gjyra as they walked.

“They’re xaurips, boss,” Caed said with a shrug. “This lot didn’t seem any more intelligent or stupid than average. There were a lot of them, though.” He scratched behind one ear. “Gjyra told you about-”

“The multiple priests, yes,” Keya nodded. “That’s what has me worried, they don’t usually share well. They’re pretty clannish and territorial, so for these three to merge and share one drake as their deity is unusual.” She chewed on the end of a braid in thought. “Did it seem like one of the priests was more important? Bigger headdress, more bone necklaces, or whatever? Like that clan maybe overpowered and absorbed the others?”

Caed shook his head. “They seemed pretty equal to me. One big happy family.”

Keya snorted at his wry tone. “Great. This will just be so much fun.”

“Some of ‘em definitely think so,” Caed commented with a laugh. “I think I heard Ioan and Ambili debating whether to hang the skull in the barracks or in the dining hall.”

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t really blame them for their excitement. “Bold of them to assume they get a say. The Watcher’s the one who gets to pick, it bein’ her damn keep an’ all. She might take a suggestion from whoever kills it, but it’s her call in the end if she even wants it displayed.”

“Try telling them that.”

“Oh, I will. They don’t scare me. I need to address everyone tonight when we make camp anyway.” Keya skirted a mud puddle and almost ran into the lanky scout. ”I’ll just be real clear about what’s happening to the drake once it’s blazin’ dead.”

~~<>~~

There was some grumbling, as expected, when Keya relayed the reminder that night. But they all knew two things: she was correct, and the Watcher was generally laid back and open-minded when it came to Caed Nua’s decoration. So whoever killed the drake had a decent shot at the skull hanging where they wanted.

Following Caed and Gjyra’s guidance and Keya’s leadership, they made it within an hour’s march of the drake’s lair by the time they needed to camp again. Keya took the first watch along with Ioan, and was sorely tempted to murder him within the first hour, as his impatience and eagerness made him far too restless to sit still.

“You keep fidgetin’ like that an’ I’ll use you as xaurip bait tomorrow,” she finally warned.

“Sorry. This is prob’ly the closest I’ll ever get to fightin’ a full dragon, and I guess I’m already excited about it.” He didn’t sound more than half-apologetic.

Oh, so many ways to respond to that. Keya doodled in the dirt with the toe of her boot as she picked one. “Longtime dream of yours, I take it?”

Ioan scoffed quietly. “Goin’ on eighty years.”

Keya snorted at the deadpan reminder of how long his race lived. He’d been dreaming of slaying dragons more than twice as long as she’d been alive. “Oh, is that all?”

He laughed, a little too loud, and caught himself when a sleepy oath issued from a nearby tent. “We could wait a few decades, let this beast mature into a full dragon, would that do?”

“It’s going to be a hard enough fight as a drake,” Keya groaned. “Let’s not. Especially since this one has a not-so-little cult. I’ve fought a drake before, with Tavi. Lemme tell ya, Ioan, they don’t go down easy.”

Ioan grinned, teeth flashing in the firelight. “Good thing we don’t either, ay?”

She admired his confidence, untested as it may have been. “I sure hope so.”

“C’mon, with you leadin’ us”--he nudged her with his elbow--”thing doesn’t have an ember’s chance in the White March.”

“Thanks.” Keya sighed, absently pinching the bridge of her nose. “Hope that’s enough. Sometimes numbers trump leadership, and there’s apparently a lot of xaurips.”

“Course it will be. We’ve got you and you’ve got me,” Ioan said playfully, spreading his hands in a mock-aggrandizing gesture.

Keya shot him a flat look. “We can slay them with your ego, is that what you’re saying?”

“Confidence, boss, not ego,” he corrected. “Complete and utter confidence.”

“Whatever lets you sleep at night,” she chuckled, and they lapsed into silence for the rest of their watch. Still, his encouragement and confidence warmed her.

~~<>~~

That warmth lingered all the way through the night and the next morning’s journey to the drake cave. Given the difficulty she’d had in the beginning getting some of the soldiers to take orders from an orlan, their willingness to follow her now was gratifying. (Though, to his credit, whatever flaws he had, Ioan had never been a problem in that regard) It dimmed slightly as they found actual xaurip tracks to follow, and she had a visual for how many Caed and Gjyra had meant by ‘a lot’.

As they stood outside the cave, she issued her final instructions. “Alright, Garet, Ambili, keep the drake’s attention while the rest of us take care of the xaurips. Then we’ll help you finish it off.” She saw the protest rising in Ioan’s eyes and spoke before he could. “You’re better use fightin’ crowds and you know it. Kill ‘em fast and you can have at the drake.”

He did know it, but Keya was sure Ambili’s smirk was still hard to ignore. “Yes, boss.”

She reached up and clapped a hand to his arm high as she could reach. “Just thin the numbers some and you can switch focus.” She waited until he nodded to continue. “Caitha, Caed, you’re support. Keep back, bolster those who need it, but don’t get reckless. Everyone else, fight smart as well as hard.”

All of them nodded understanding, and in they went.

~~<>~~

It was a grueling fight. Keya hadn’t expected otherwise, of course, but anticipation and experience were two different animals. And grueling felt like a good word for a fight that claimed two of her men and injured damn near everyone else to some degree.

By the time she got the killing blow on the drake, it felt like vengeance for the lost as much as duty to protect Caed Nua’s territory. Still, for their odds, they’d come out rather well and she knew it. Especially since Caitha and Caed--the other two with healer’s expertise--escaped relatively unscathed, thank the gods. She didn’t have to do all the patching up by herself--

“Ow!” Ioan flinched and Keya pulled herself back to the task at hand with a self-recriminating wince.

“Sorry,” she said, loosening the bandages she’d pulled too tight.

“I know you like to joke about me havin’ a big head, boss, but I don’t think that’s the way to fix it,” he said dryly. He shot her a lopsided grin, the bandages over his left eye preventing its full spread.

Keya rolled her eyes. “At least you still have your sense of humor. Hylea forbid you lose that.”

She felt the shiver as he repressed a snort. “Gods, don’t make me laugh right now.”

“Sorry.” Keya glanced over toward where Caed was stitching a long gash down Ambili’s arm, and then back at Ioan. With him seated and her standing, they were roughly eye to eye, so she could meet his gaze as she added, “also sorry for stealin’ your dream.”

“What, ‘cause you vaulted off my shoulder to kill the damn thing?” Ioan asked, amused. “Why would you need to apologize for that? It was blazin’ badass. ‘Sides, I still got to fight a drake, and this”--he lightly tapped the bandages--”is gonna make one Hel of a scar. That’s memento enough for me.” He rubbed at a bruise on his forearm. “An’ speaking of mementos, whatcha plannin’ to do with the drake skull?”

Keya smirked. “Keep in in my room so you bastards don’t fight over it. At least for now. Maybe when Tavi gets back I’ll talk to her about hangin’ it somewhere more visible.” She tied off the bandages and stepped back to survey her work, shooting Ioan a wink as she did. “You can come look at it whenever y’ want, though.”

“In your room? People really will talk, boss,” he deadpanned.

“Eh, let ‘em.” She wiped healing salve and blood off her hands with a rag, frowned at the clinging remnants in her fur. She’d have to scrub hard later. “They’ve been talkin’ since the first time you were unruffled by havin’ an orlan in charge. ‘Less it bothers you,” she amended.

“Nah.” Ioan shook his head and winked at her with his good eye. “Okay, gods, that was weird. But we know the truth.”

“True.” She gave him one last look to ensure he wasn’t bleeding through and the bandages looked secure. “There. You’ll live to fight another another day.”

“What a relief. I knew I was in good hands.”

Keya rolled her eyes at the teasing praise “Get your shit together. You an’ Ambili were the last ones who needed to be patched up, and looks like Caed’s almost done with her.”

Ioan saluted off his good side with a playful ”Yes, boss,” and pushed to his feet.

Keya waited until he’d walked off to clean up the healer’s paraphernalia and start packing her things. It was going to be a long walk back to Caed Nua, made longer by injury, hauling the drake skull, and her own regret at the lives lost. She’d had men under her die before, once, and it never got any easier. Their losses keep this from feeling like a victory, but at least they’d succeeded at their goal and the drake was no longer a threat.

It took the entire journey home to convince herself that was a tolerable trade, despite Caitha’s reassurances and Ioan’s darkly-humored attempts to lift her spirits. If this was excitement, Keya reiterated to herself, she would definitely rather things had stayed boring. But at least she had good people around, who she was confident could help her through.

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

So in writing this I learned that Keya is not ‘M’lady’ or ‘Captain’ or anything else when she’s in charge. She’s just ‘Boss’, as both a title and a nickname. I feel like this has roots in her Deadfire/Explorer background; maybe she worked for someone who went by ‘Boss’, but she’s still being vague on those details.

Ioan(Ewan) and Caitha are her right hand people, just like she is for Tavi. They were the only one who never seemed to have any issue listening to an orlan, so she trusts them the most and they’re friends as well as underlings. So they banter, and she and Ioan trash-talk each other on occasion(Caitha’s more reserved, but she’s gotten some good verbal jabs in a coupe times).

#queens fic #pillars prompts weekly #keya durran #caitha merrick #ioan #who totally isn't missing a last name bc i couldn't think of one #it's def bc he's an orphan or something #not bc i ran out of inspiration in the name area >.>

11 notes · View notes

lunartearrose · 5 years

Text

Ok... im gonna be serious for a sec here...

Its so tiring to see so much drama in fandom spaces

Like first there's the fact that hey, people have to fucking stop obsessing over people, digging, stalking, doing all this shit to people who don't deserve it. Do your own research, know your facts, and know when to quit. Its almost like people get pleasure from drudging up muck on others and its sickening. Block, move on. I'd understand if there was a huge, major issue, but especially if you've got your facts wrong you're only ruining the day of another human being over and over. The block button is easy and free. It pays to distance.

Like seriously some of y'all are staight up stalking people like you're out for blood, stalking twitter handles, screening twitters and tumblrs and hell even more personal places and where blogs have gone when ive never even seen proof of any claims prior. Many others havent either and even worse some blindly follow. Its not funny or cute or a spiritual duty to oggle at these individuals this is just horrible and if you really, honestly get joy from driving people away even after they correct their problematic behaviors or follow your tips because they were non the wiser on a subject, there's something wrong with you. If you're obsessive like that, with a non forgiving never forgetting policy, just don't even interract. Re-evaluate what you're doing here. People grow and change and its ignorant not to believe that. If people never changed, we wouldnt be where we are as a world.

And second, the drama of bringing it up over and fuckinng over again. Neverending. I thought ive seen the last of the talk of this person but hey!! Here it is again! Right in my face! This gets so tiring and i can speak from experience when i say drama over something as a fandom, ship, headcanon or whatever just makes people lose interest.

It disheartens it disgusts after a while even until theres so much bombshells to have to watch after that, and you feel you can barely move. There's probably other people that feel this too who are more watchers, and even if you are/think you're doing good by spreading info there's a point where it goes to be too much. You drive people away, it makes nobody wanna have a say or interract. I personally have dropped interest in many a thing for this reason. This person's bad, that's cringe, that's not correct even if it the majority headcanon isn't real, incorrect even if the headcanon is rare! Like seriously, unwind. You can dream and like all you want! Just don't start shit or start lying about other people because they disagree! This or that, that or the other thing, it makes me wanna roll up a paper and smack you very gently on the head because, im angry, but im not violent! Its just so much endless back and fourth because nobody can let go, and people try to drag it out and just aah, how do you still listen to yourselves type? Speak? How are you not tired of an endless debate that you keep going back to?

Look, i used to kind of be that way with ships. I used to hate a popular, nonproblematic few for no reason other than i didn't like the chemistry of it, or it made me think of bad things personal to myself, and i used to bash. But someone who is currently like one of my best friends pulled my head outta my ass and was like hey! Thats not cool! Chill! And over time, with their help, in some ways, i unwound and saw that what i made myself hate wasn't bad. It was chill, and now if they asked me for a doodle of something they liked cuz they were down I'd do it woth a smile. People are as numerous and varying as stars in the sky, and nobody will think exactly like you do, so don't try to snuff them out or change them if they don't want to. Informing and forcing are two different things, with a very fine and defined line between.

Ships and headcanons that are good are good. Popular ones are fine, so is straight, so is gay, bi, lesbian, trans, polly, platonic, rarepairs, crossovers, tasteful ocs, not really going with theme or order, those are what i talk about when i say its fine to like and let people like! If you have comprehensive skill and know what im saying and arent gonna be like, "ah, so you advocate for *insert horrible thing i obviously never meant*!!! Disgusting for shame!" Then you must understand!

I guess, the TLDR here would be this: Unwind. Take a breath, try please try to get along with someone, don't spread hate, see things from their perspective and if someone bothers you, and they aren't actively advocating for disgusting things and nothing can br proven but you still have that urk, please. For your and everyone's sake. Look at the block button. Press it. Breathe. I swear, things will be so much better if you just let yourself have peace. It's a simple act of pure self love.

Otherwise, you're only sitting there, endlessly trying to get fleeting enjoyment from meaningless, hurting drama. And nobody wants that suffocation in the end.

#fandom #discourse #looking at you...#coroika #splatoon #splatoon 2 #drama #text #medium post #im sorry #but i just need to say this #i go in the tags and see this and i just want people to get along and stop obsessing!#tumblr #hellsite #hell site #tungle dot hell #i know im preaching to a deaf choir but i mean. if you disagree just don't touch me. block me. i want to believe people can change #for the love of god be positive #*covers my head with pillow* im gonna snooze now

12 notes · View notes

burclay · 7 years

Text

Be Held -- Chapter 5

“No one would think you were okay, B.”

Buffy stuck out her tongue at Faith. “At least I’m cute.”

ao3 chapter 1

The dreaded Scooby meeting did come, of course. After Buffy showered, she brought her food outside to find Kennedy talking to Xander and Giles, and as she came closer, she could tell that they were talking about what to do next.

“What about Cleveland?” Xander was saying.

“If we replace the Watcher’s Council in England,” Giles answered, “we will be able to send Slayers to every Hellmouth there is.” He paused when he noticed Buffy. “Hello, Buffy.”

“Hey,” Buffy said, joining the circle. “Is this the part where we realize we can’t actually sleep for the next three years?”

“Looks like it,” Xander said.

“Where’s Will?” Buffy asked.

“Still asleep,” Kennedy said. “That spell took a lot out of her.”

“Where’s Faith?” Xander asked.

“In the shower,” Buffy said. “Probably avoiding this conversation.”

“Actually, I’ve already spoken with Faith,” Giles said. “I’ve asked her to take a role in educating young Slayers. We have no clue how many there are going to be, and some of them will be coming from difficult and dangerous lives.”

Buffy nodded. “Like Faith.”

“Exactly," Giles said. "We’re going to have to organize, however." He turned to Xander. "Which is why I feel that we should go back to England.”

“That’s why?” Buffy asked. “Nothing to do with how much you miss scones?”

“What’s a scone?” Kennedy asked.

“It’s a British thing,” Xander told her. “Like crumpets, or Queen Elizabeth.”

“I do not want to go back to England because I miss scones,” Giles protested. “Or crumpets, or Queen Elizabeth, for that matter. I simply believe that we will be able to make use of the Council’s extensive resources and the foundation that already exists.”

“Shouldn’t we spread out?” Buffy asked. “We need experienced Slayers everywhere, right?”

“You and Faith should stay central,” Giles said. “As the Slayers with the most experience, we will need you to teach younger girls, and perhaps to step in when things get dire.”

“I’ll go anywhere,” Buffy said. “I’ve gotten over the idea of being able to choose.”

“Your life is yours, Buffy,” Giles said. “Perhaps you should consider taking a break before we start reorganizing.”

“I can’t,” Buffy said. “Not with all these new girls. Maybe when the new Slayers have some experience. Faith can’t teach them all herself.”

“It wouldn’t be just Faith,” Kennedy said. “I mean, I don’t have much experience as a Slayer, but I know stuff, right? Lots of us know stuff.”

Buffy sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I would do.” She looked at Giles. “I think I have to stay with you guys. I hate it, but I have to keep going. I have to help.”

“So, is England definite?” Xander asked.

“Not necessarily,” Giles said. “We will have to speak with Willow first, and Faith. We haven’t had long to recover.”

“Think there are any vampires near here?” Buffy asked. “I think Faith’s getting restless.”

“Just Faith?” Kennedy asked.

“Slayer’s gotta Slay,” Buffy sighed. “Seriously, I would love to just be able to kick back and watch some bad movies or something.”

“Could do some group training,” Xander said. “Get all the girls together, teach them to use their strength.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea,” Buffy said. “I bet Faith’ll be in.”

“In for what?” Faith’s voice came from behind Buffy, and a moment later her arm was snaking around Buffy’s waist. “You can’t be already making plans?”

“Just to do some group training with all the girls later,” Buffy said. “So we don’t all get too restless without anything to Slay.”

“Yeah, I’m in,” Faith said. “Girls won’t know what hit ‘em.”

“No hitting,” Xander said.

“You know what we do, right?” Kennedy asked. “It’s mostly hitting.”

“If we don’t do something to keep these girls active, there’s going to be hitting,” Buffy said. “Trust me, Xander. You want us to do this.”

“Plus, you know, lots of girls bouncing around,” Faith said. “Sounds like your paradise.”

Buffy stared at Faith. “Ew.”

“Seconded,” Kennedy agreed.

“Just telling it like it is,” Faith protested.

“Can we talk about something else?” Giles asked. “Anything will do.”

Kennedy grinned, looking over Giles’s shoulder. “Hey, Willow!”

Buffy turned her head, looking past Faith. Willow was walking towards them, looking far more chipper than anyone had the right to be.

“Hey, Ken, everybody.” Willow stepped around Buffy and Faith to get to Kennedy, putting her arm around Kennedy’s waist the exact way Faith had done to Buffy minutes before. Suddenly conscious of this, Buffy took an uncomfortable step away from Faith. She could feel Faith’s eyes on her, but she ignored it.

“We were just talking about what to do now,” Buffy said. “Since the big evil is gone and all.”

“What, no one new’s shown up yet?” Willow asked.

“I think we’re allowed a day off,” Xander said. “Just the one, though. We’ll be looking out for something coming at us tomorrow.”

Everyone laughed.

“Wow. When did that become funny?” Faith asked. “I mean, I knew I was messed up, but I thought the rest of you were okay.”

“Did you really?” Buffy asked, looking at Faith. “In your heart of hearts?”

“Yeah, good point.” Faith grinned a glorious grin at Buffy. “No one would think you were okay, B.”

Buffy stuck out her tongue at Faith. “At least I’m cute,” she said, turning back to the rest of the group. “So, if we continue this conversation, are we going to come up with anything new?”

“Probably not,” Giles said. “But we all need to be thinking about the next step. I, for one, don’t want to stay in this motel much longer.”

“You got that right,” Faith said. “I give it one more night before the girls revolt.”

Buffy looked around. Most of the girls were in various rooms, but a few were in the parking lot, looking through shopping bags and chatting with one another.

“We should clean that up,” Buffy said, gesturing at the bags.

“We should keep the clothes in the bus,” Faith said. “In case the girls want them. Is it unlocked?”

“I don’t actually know that much about buses,” Giles said. “Can they be unlocked?”

“The driver’s got to get on somehow,” Xander said.

“I’ll figure it out,” Kennedy said, peeling away from the group. Willow went with her, holding her hand.

Buffy started grabbing shopping bags, hanging them on her arm. Faith followed, taking the full bags from Buffy and bringing them to the bus, which Willow and Kennedy had indeed gotten open. A minute later, all the bags were on the bus, and Buffy leaned against the yellow metal and pulled Faith next to her.

“What do we do now?” she asked. “And don’t say we have to watch bad reality shows anymore, because I think I’ll explode.”

“Think the room’s big enough to spar?” Faith asked.

“If you want to explain to the front desk that we killed their lamp, sure,” Buffy said. “I guess fights in the parking lot are frowned upon.” She looked around. “We really do have to get out of this motel.”

“We’ll find somewhere to go,” Kennedy said.

“Possibly England,” Willow added. “Lots of room in England.”

“Have you been there?” Faith asked.

“Yes, actually,” Willow said. “I spent a while on a very nice farm. There were horses.” She paused. “I’m actually not the biggest fan of horses. But it’s the thought that counts.”

“So,” Kennedy said, “what’s going on between you two? Because my lesbidar is tingling.”

“Your what?” Buffy asked.

“She’s making fun of me,” Willow said. “And being rude about things that are really none of her business.”

“It’s okay,” Buffy said, grabbing Faith’s hand. “Isn’t this the sort of thing I’m supposed to tell my best friend about?”

“Hey,” Faith said. “Don’t I get a say?”

“Sure,” Buffy said. “Say something.”

Faith looked at Willow. “I’m gay for your best friend.”

Kennedy snickered. “You ever need tips, let me know.”

“Tips on what?” Buffy asked.

Willow pushed Kennedy. “Stop it!”

Faith laughed. “Don’t worry about us, Kennedy. We’re doing just fine.”

“I need new friends,” Buffy groused. “Maybe even a new girlfriend.”

“Too bad,” Faith said. “You’re stuck with me.” She slung her arm around Buffy’s shoulders. “Chosen two, remember?”

Buffy looked around for Giles and Xander. She didn’t see them, so she let herself kiss Faith’s cheek.

“Can’t forget.”

She looked back to Willow and Kennedy, who were giving each other a decidedly knowing look.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Willow said.

“I called it weeks ago,” Kennedy said.

“Faith wasn’t here weeks ago,” Buffy said.

“Feels like weeks,” Willow said.

“Fair enough,” Faith said.

“Do we get to do group training now?” Buffy asked. “I can’t just sit here.”

“I’m in,” Faith said.

“Me, too,” Kennedy agreed.

“Not for me,” Willow said. “I’m no Slayer.”

“You’re free to watch,” Kennedy said. “I’ll get the girls.”

Training with one Slayer had always been fun. Training with twenty Slayers was astounding. Twenty people, moving with power and synchronicity, all following Buffy and Faith, all drawing from the same energy, was beautiful.

“Imagine when we have hundreds,” Buffy murmured to Faith, forearms locked in a choreographed combination.

“Doubt we’ll have them all in the same place,” Faith answered, throwing Buffy’s arm to the side and kicking her. They each reset their feet.

“I think I like leading them,” Buffy said, attacking.

Faith blocked. “Me, too.”

Buffy kicked. “Good to hear.”

They reset their feet.

That night, Buffy was the good kind of exhausted, the kind of exhausted that came from safe exercise and not a fight to defend the fate of the world. She ate the food Giles had gone to get while they were training, and she took a good long shower, and then she pulled on a random T shirt and stretched out on the bed while she waited for Faith to do the same.

When Faith got out of the shower, Buffy was on her stomach and doodling on a notepad she had found lying around. She looked up at Faith, in a loose shirt and wet hair, and sat up, putting her doodle aside.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Never better,” Faith said, sitting next to Buffy.

“Really?”

“Well, yeah, but that’s not saying much.” Faith sighed. “I just keep thinking about the girls who died, you know? All those Slayers. Their energy has power. But--”

“There could be more,” Buffy said. “I know.” She wrapped an arm around Faith and pulled her close. “That’s why it’s hard being in charge. Even when you save the world, you lose something.”

“Yeah. We should do something,” Faith said. “You know, for all those girls. A memorial.”

“We should. When we get settled we can put something together.”

“Yeah.”

A moment of silence. Faith laid her head in Buffy’s lap.

“So what do you think about England?” she asked.

“I’m not wholly opposed to tea,” Buffy said, fingers twining through Faith’s hair. “I mean, Giles likes it, so I might as well try it.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“It’s far from home,” Buffy said, “but home isn’t an option anymore.”

“You know,” Faith said, “we could hang out at Angel’s hotel for a bit. He’s chill, and he’s got rooms.”

“We should suggest it to Giles tomorrow.”

“I’ll call Angel in the morning.”

“Cool.” Buffy leaned down. “Has anybody ever told you how soft your hair is?”

“I don’t let them get close enough,” Faith said.

They stayed like that for a while, Faith’s head in Buffy’s lap, Buffy’s hands in Faith’s hair, until Buffy leaned over and turned out the light and laid down, pulling Faith to a more comfortable position. Suddenly, Faith rolled over to the other side of the bed, facing away from Buffy.

“What’s wrong?” Buffy whispered.

“I don’t know,” Faith’s voice said. “I’m not good with the hugging.”

In the darkness, Buffy could see her curled in on herself.

“Thanks,” she said.

“For what?” Faith asked.

“Not running.”

“It’s no big, B.”

But Buffy, rolling to face away from Faith, thought maybe it was a bigger deal than Faith would ever admit.

“Night, Faith.”

“Night, B.”

Buffy fell asleep quickly. She woke up to an empty bed and rumpled covers.

#myth-spoken #btvs #fuffy #writing #be held #i should probably post the first four chapters on tumblr

2 notes · View notes