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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

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BTHB: Working Through the Cold

I’m not entirely happy with this, but some advice from everyone here has me thinking I will post it anyway! Let me know what you think! (and thanks to @slaintetowhump, @moose-teeth, @wildfaewhump, @robins-whump, Anons, @that-one-thespian, and others who were so nice about me being a schmoop yesterday)

TIMELINE: About a year before things get better for Killan

@badthingshappenbingo request: Working Through the Cold by Anon

CW: Extremely dehumanized whumpee, noncon touching (nonsexual), wing whump, muzzling, conditioning/training a whumpee, careless/casual/distant whumper, a kind of pet whump, referenced piercings, restraints, display whump

From inside the little shop, located on a busy street close to the central square, passing people might have heard the sounds of chirping birds, chittering small rodents (a southern delicacy, you know, when fed just the right mixture of seeds, nuts, and berries), two long, lean spotted cats built for the hunt and the chase, and one very old dog whose bark was much worse than his bite.

At least, he was missing enough teeth by now to undermine the threat.

A long-treasured travel companion, the old dog was fed rice cooked in a rich chicken stock with vegetables and chicken shredded so finely it didn’t require chewing. He’d had the dog for so long, now, and perhaps the old boy didn’t move much these days, but the merchant would rather rent a shop to help his dog keep warm over the harsh northern winters than be richer - and lonely without the old boy by his side.

The dog, of course, was not of much interest to his customers. No, they came to look at the rarities - to buy quill pens made from feathers saturated with a brilliant teal, or perhaps take home a pair of lovebirds cooing to each other, beaks just touching. An aristocrat or two with a taste for the meals in the far-off lands they’d traveled to might by the Sunning Hens for the soup pot, along with the packet of heady spices and tikla flour the merchant offered to recreate the spicy, thick stews from the south, where the people fought heat with heat.

They could come and see, while the weather continued to cool day by day, these reminders that there were lands, far away, who did not grow cold enough to bring out the painted lights in the sky at night, there were places that did not see the Longest Night at all.

They could see these things, for an easy, small price. In the large bay window of the shop, that angles outward and then in again, the people often paused to see something else entirely. No a reminder of the south’s bright colors and warmer clime, but… something new.

The summer’s warm air had been blown away by the oncoming winter chill, and autumn was in full swing. The trees in the small park in the town square were a riot of reds, oranges, and yellows, drifting down to create pools of color against the browning grass.

This far north, autumn felt like a luxury, a few weeks of middle-chill before the deeper freeze set in.

The people made the most of the time, and some of those people - when out their walks, or taking their children to and fro - stopped to look at the creature in the rarity-merchant’s window.

You couldn’t say anyone had ever seen anything like this before. In this part of the world, the fae were a whispered rumor of mountain folk more like birds than men, who swooped down to carry off lambs and calves and children alike. They were known to sour the milk and spoil the harvest using magic no human could quite master.

Here in this bustling city, the people had never so much as seen a feather that could be proven to be of fae origin - although many large hawk and eagle feathers were sold to excited children as fae feathers, the same way they might bring home a plush centaur or unicorn to line up in their beds.

No, nearly none of these people would ever see a fae in person, in their lifetime. But when looking at the creature strung up in the merchant’s window, they came as close as ever they would.

The creature shivered - the window did not hold out the chilly autumn breeze, and even through the slightly scratched glass the people could see the tiny bumps that rose on its skin, the minute tremors, the way its body fought to warm it.

It wore only a loose pair of pants - scandalous, if it had been a man. It looked a bit like one, of course, except… well.

Except for all the ways it didn’t.

In the window, they came to stand, one or two at a time - whole families on occasion - to look at the strange half-open blue eyes with tiny slit-pupils that stared back at them above a heavy leather muzzle dotted with little brass circles where it took in air to keep breathing. Wavy brownish-blond hair was chopped roughly, curling over rounded ears and against the nape of its neck, and only drew attention to the inhumanity written in the flatness of its eyes.

For all the roundness of its ears - and didn’t everyone know the faes’ ears were pointed and moved forward and back like a cat’s - and the gentle rather than pointed curve of its chin, you couldn’t ignore those eyes, or the blunted, pitch-dipped talons that twitched on its right hand.

A thick chain ran from the buckle at the back of its muzzle, keeping its head pulled slightly back, exposing a wickedly curved scar that ran down its throat from pulse point to collarbone. Affixed to the window at even level with it was a small piece of paper that read TWO VOICES, TWO WORLDS: 10 Marks to Hear a Song!

Iron cuffs around its wrists were chained to the wall, keeping its arms outstretched, giving an easy view of the other large scar down its left side, traveling down over its ribcage, fading out only just above the hips. Another sign here read FLIGHTS OF FANCY: Could this scar have to do with the power of flight? Come inside to see more!

It knelt - or sat, as the day went on and on - on a small cushion, and the people came each day to drop a coin or two in the box outside the shop and drink in their fill of the visual of the strange creature, neither man nor fae. Afforded the respect given to neither - not terrifying enough to fear like the fae, and so clearly not human.

The old dog by the fireplace was given more dignity than this.

But it wasn’t like the creature understood that, right?

Near its talons, one more sign in the window read: Razor-sharp talons slice a rabbit to shreds in seconds! These are dipped in pitch for your safety. Feel free to inquire inside for a closer look!

Mostly, they stay outside. It was worth a coin, or two, perhaps - to look at the winding, stitched-in threads that adorned its pelvis in a series of constellations that directly echoed the shape of the stars on clear winter nights all the way up to its chest, where a spiral had been sewn directly over its heart.

Assuming, of course, it had a heart in the same place a human would. No one seemed to know, and there really was only one way to find out for sure. The merchant wasn’t ready to sell the thing off for parts, not yet.

Some of the people, curiosity and the chill air driving them inside, couldn’t resist the pull. They meandered into the little store feigning disinterest. They looked over the areas where the merchant sold the rarities he kept in cages - brightly plumed birds, the little rodents, those two great hunting cats - and pretended to be more interested in those. Maybe they even bought a bird or two.

In the end, though, they gave the merchant more money for a chance at the creature’s wings.

They were huge, to the eyes of humans who had never seen fae - spread to their full wingspan by chains hooked into the joints that ran straight up to the ceiling. The creature’s display took up an entire side of the room, really, the side farthest from the warmth of the fireplace.

The southern-bred birds and rodents needed the heat, after all. The creature in the window seemed largely dulled to the cold.

This close, a paying customer could see the creature’s ankles were chained down, too, to keep it from trying to stand or move away. The occasional man or woman might flick at one of the thin but solid chains hooked to its wings and listen to the creature’s answering whimper as it forced the joints, even for just a second, to stretch farther.

While the creature kept its eyes on the people outside, it was the ones within the store who touched it. Their curious, questing hands ran over its spine, pushing and prodding at the scar tissue there, murmuring with scandalized whispers about the way the ropey, knotted skin seemed unnaturally thick.

There were more stitched threads, new constellations humans had never thought of and never named, that twined and twirled around its hips at the back and skimmed up the center of its spine. Galaxies were marked, and no one in this city knew what those galaxies might be called, but the fae knew.

And the creature - the boy, who had been named Killan once, and who now was only monster or creature or stop that, it’s not so bad - had been taught each and every name to scream into the spinning void as the magic was sewn in. Not that he told the merchant that.

Even now, abandoned and sold and then bought and sold and bought and sold again, there had to be some things he could hold inside, secret and safe from even the deepest violations. They had taken nearly everything, but they did not - they could not, they didn’t know to - take this.

Everyone thought the galaxies on his back were some fanciful nothingness sewn there. Only the boy - and the fae who had made him, and the other fae who had turned away from the horror of his appearance and had been the first to call him monster - knew the names of the stars on his back.

But the hands never stopped on the galaxies, and when they moved to his shoulder blades, the creature drifted uneasily back into the haze, colored with nothing, that let him exist as an it, day after day after day.

If there was still a spark, it was so hidden that none of the customers could ever, ever find it to take it away from him.

No. That he was still him was his own private secret. To the gaze and the hands and the curiosity and the endless need to know to see to feel to own of the people who came, there was no boy.

Only the creature.

It continued to shiver as the cold air drifted through the imperfect seals on the glass window and ghosted over its front. Even in the haze, the thing would tremble more and more through the day. Stomach hollow and empty, it held as still as it could under the overhot, clammy hands of the paying customers behind it, but still there was a slowly growing coating of grime and dirt and grit from their fingernails scratching at a thread to see if it would pull up, or rubbing at the base of its wings in a violation so complete it pulled an unwilling keen from the creature’s throat.

Every other day or so, the creature at least knew there would be a bucket of water over its head in the stables, a harsh brush meant for cleaning the dust from the horses, its own skin nearly torn open and reddened from how it would clench the wood handle in its hand and desperately try to clean away the memory of their touch…

Well.

The buckets of water were something, at least. And if it could not be interesting enough to be sold, it could be interesting enough to see.

The merchant was a clever man. He’d begun to understand that no one wanted to pay a good price for the creature, not here, but they wanted to pay a smaller price to see it. Give the people what they want, he always said, and you’ll make your fortune.

So he gave them what they wanted.

He gave them something new, at an affordable price.

The days passed, and autumn turned to winter, and still the merchant led the quiet, unprotesting creature with dulled blue eyes from the stable where it slept with the horses to the window every day, fastening its chains, stretching its wings to an agonizing width.

At some point, to amuse himself, he began to make up little whistles to train it to respond to. A certain number of notes meant stand, a second meant lift your hands, a third spread your wings. The winters were long, and the nights stretched on and on to a nearly-constant twilit near-dark, and he began to keep the creature in his rooms at the back of his store for longer and longer each evening after its daily meal.

The creature proved eager and willing to learn, when offered an extra helping of porridge or stew or whatever he fed it that day.

Enrichment, the merchant thought, quite pleased with himself. Like the small wooden clickers he left in the bird cages, like the tiny wheel he’d fastened together for the smallest rodents. Something to do, to put in the creature’s mind. A way to please him.

Even the old guard dog’s tail thumped, now and then, when he brought the creature in and it stopped to give the dog a scritch behind its ears.

Funny, how the creature seemed to have quite the way with the animals.

Still, even learning to move by whistle, to answer his unspoken commands, something was… missing, from the eyes of the monster. Listless, unsettled. The monster began to remind the merchant of silt - a swirl of useless dirt covering up the depth of a lake, or river. Making it look shallow and unsafe to drink, and beneath the silt, in the depths… what?

Empty darkness? Or a raging torrent?

To make up for the loss of shine and the heavy shadows under the creature’s eyes, he began to paint a bit of kohl and shimmery gold, not quite transparent, over its eyelids.

He couldn’t completely hide the way its spirit had dulled nearly to dying, but he could disguise it.

The winter passed this way. There were always new customers, and returning visitors, and one by one the birds, the rodents, and the hunting cats sold to interested parties.

Until only a few cages of birds remained… and the creature in the window.

In the winter, the shivers started faster, but the warm hands of the paying customers inside the store were far more welcomed than they had once been.

The creature stopped pulling away from them, or trying, and began to lean back, pressing its spine into a questing touch, tilting its head back even further to seek out the palm and fingers that had run so kindly through its hair. It would trill and chirp on command for the children who came by, and there was a slight wrinkling of the nose, a hint of a crinkle to the eyes, that made the merchant think absently, on occasion, that the creature might be smiling behind the muzzle at their delight.

From the window came a bitter cold. The merchant rarely ventured to that part of the store, and kept his own fireplace stocked high and crackling, to keep the remaining merchandise and the dog as warm as he could.

The creature, though… well, fae did not get cold so easily as people did. Its shivering was a show it put on, he thought, to try and make him feel guilt. He was unmoved. He ignored the whines and keens of pain when he finally unhooked it at the end of each day and its wings were finally able to curl back against its back. Instead, he whistled, and watched it drop to its knees on the wooden floor instantly in the back room, eyes closed to soak up the relative warmth compared to its usual proximity to the window.

After its daily meal, the merchant watched it curl up near the fireplace by the old guard dog, wings tightly wrapped around itself. He had grown a little fond of the thing, and so often allowed it to go without its muzzle for a couple of hours and warm itself before he led it to the stables to be chained down to sleep.

Usually, when he came in the morning to feed the horses and pick it up to lead it to the store window, he found it sleeping curled against one of his horses. And he never stopped feeling the prickling worry that the look in the liquid eyes of his long-time wagon team was not knickering interest any longer, but a simmering hate that grew each time the creature required its pitch to be replaced over the talons, or they saw the muzzle remove and replaced.

Surely that wasn’t possible.

Horses didn’t hate.

The merchant put the thought from his mind.

Through the winter, each day was the same in the little store the merchant rented. Wake the creature at the stable, allow it to stretch and bend its muscles in preparation, allow it to drink its fill of water, and then get it set for the daily display. Each day the winter stretched onward, the creature seemed less present than the day before.

Instead, the creature began to watch the twisting northern lights in the sky that stayed vibrantly visible late in the morning as the days without sun continued on. Instead, the merchant found its eyes were tilted upward, not on the customers, but up at the grayish-purple eternal twilight.

One night, the merchant paused on his way leading the creature to the stables, and caught its eyes turned upwards. He’d left the muzzle off, for a bit, and with so much of its face visible, he saw a very sentient look of awe written across its expression.

Intelligence was in that face, however dulled and deeply repressed. Humanity was in that face.

“What are you doing, creature?” The merchant asked, to cover his own unease.

It turned to look at him, and for a moment darkness covered the inhuman eyes and concealed its tightly curved wings against its back and he was looking at a young man, nothing more. A young man in chains, and with the red marks of the muzzle pressed so deeply against the bridge of his nose and his cheekbones that starlight left them in plain sight for hours.

The creature had not spoken in so long that its voice came out hoarsely hesitant, struggling to form the words. The monster had a soft, slight accent, as though it had grown up far to the south.

“Listening,” It said. One word only, and even that was reluctant.

The muzzle in the merchant’s hand twitched, suddenly wondering if he should replace it before he let the thing say a single word more. Still, he couldn’t stop himself. “Listening to what?”

The creature, who looked like nothing more than a boy, turned its gaze back upwards. Above their heads, a brilliantly painted blue and green light snakes along the sky like a snake, the trace of some great dragon.

The boy was silent, for a second, and then clicked deep in his secondary fae throat.

“Stars,” He said, plaintive. Soft and sad. “Wish they could hear me. I hear them. Try to sing back. Don’t think I’m heard.” Reddish tears welled at the corners of its eyes and caught the starlight, and it was that that broke the spell the merchant had been under, transfixed by the sound of its very human voice.

All at once, he remembered.

Fae magic.

The merchant’s jaw set in a shiver of repulsion, and he yanked on the chain that went to the ring around the boy’s - the creature’s - neck. It stumbled forward, and he replaced the muzzle, fastening the buckles with a touch more cruelty than necessary, until the thing whined at the pain.

The animal sound the creature made soothed the uncertainty that had so briefly flashed inside the merchant’s mind.

It bedded down obediently enough with the horses in the stables. In the morning, it was back in the window, on display for the stragglers who might come by in the crowd.

The merchant did not ask it questions again.

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Tagging Killan’s crew: @astrobly @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @slaintetowhump , @quirkykayleetam , @whumpallday , @whumppsychology, @doveotions, @broken-horn, @moose-teeth, @whumpfigure, @oceanthesarcasamfox, @whump-only, @just-strawberry-jam, @loopylunacy (if you would like to be added to an OC’s tag list, please send your request via an ask! Those are easier for me to keep track of and I tend to lose requests in comments, reblogs, tags, or PMs!)

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the-vibe-dealer · 4 years

Note

May this soul request some more skekUng vibes

Oh, absolutely you may!! For I am The Vibe Dealer!! The Dealer of Vibes!! So naturally you shall receive the best of SkekUng vibes!!

I wound up going absolutely bonkers with this, so a lot of it will be under the cut!! Catch me going nuts with fluff and longning tbh XD

Also!! If any of y’all want some ambient music that sort of matches the vibes I was going for, here you go!!

---

“What’s all this then, my love?”

You spun around at the sound, your face lighting up in an excited grin as you saw just who had entered the room.

“Ung! Welcome back!”

You trotted over to the skeksis in question, smiling up at him and hiding your hands behind your back. He leaned down slightly as you planted a chaste kiss on his cheek, a warm and excited fluttery feeling filling up your chest at the deep little chuckle he gave you in return.

“I’m glad you were actually able to sneak away,” you continued excitedly, bouncing up and down on your heels, “I was worried you wouldn’t come back until late!”

“Of course I was!” He replied, nuzzling into your neck and purring softly and contentedly, “Why would I disregard such a sweet request from my dearest one?”

You giggled at the feeling of his fluff brushing against your skin, bringing one hand up to settle against the side of his face and the other sneakily storing the small item you were holding into the pocket of your outfit. You gently trailed your hand down to the corner of his jaw, lingering there for a moment before planting another soft kiss to his beak and pulling away, smiling cheekily at the wonderfully contented expression that spread across his face.

“Of course, of course,” you chuckled quietly, “I would expect nothing less from you, my love.”

You moved to fiddle with something on a nearby table, SkekUng beginning to unwind and relax in the background behind you. You furrowed your brows slightly as you opened up your downloads on your phone, one of the few things that followed you from Earth to Thra. There really wasn’t much you could do with it anymore, Thra wasn’t exactly known for its cell service after all. But at the very least you still had access to your downloaded photos and music. You sighed slightly at the dangerously low battery percentage, realizing that this would likely be one of, if not the last time you would be able to use it.

‘It’ll be worth it,’ you thought to yourself, shaking your head slightly and opening up the specific song you had chosen for this very night, ‘It’ll be worth it in the end. It has to be.’

SkekUng paused at the soft music that began to play throughout the room, looking up at you as you cleared your throat and moved to stand in front of him, holding out your hand and cocking your head to one side. A nervous smile spread across your face at his obvious confusion, a quiet giggle escaping your lips and your eyes closing as you steeled your nerves.

“Would you do me the honor of a dance, my love?” you asked, trying your best to ignore the slight tremble in your voice.

The short pause between your question and his response felt to you like an entire eternity, the anxiety you had been trying to repress all day rearing its ugly head and clawing at your chest with gnarled and cold hands. The nervous stuttering of your heart almost deafened you as you awaited his answer with baited breath. You had no reason to be so nervous, SkekUng was your lover after all. But you supposed you couldn’t exactly be blamed, either. You were very much in love, and the gnawing fear of losing one of the best relationships you’ve ever been able to cultivate was certainly one you were never able to completely shake.

Your nervous thoughts quickly quieted as you felt SkekUng’s hand gently grasp your own, your glassy eyes flying open to meet his own gaze. You grinned, purposely ignoring the shaking of your hands and the quick jackrabbiting in your chest. He smiled down at you, and you felt your face go red at the expression. He never ceased to surprise you with just how charming he could be sometimes.

“I would be absolutely honored, dearest one.”

His other hand came to rest on the small of your back, gently guiding you further into the room and absentmindedly feeling the fabric of your outfit between his thumb and forefinger. It was one of your favorites, he realized, your go to ensemble for important and fancy events where one needed to dress up. It was one of his favorites, too. He loved the way the fabric fell and draped around you, creating an all around regal appearance that was still entirely you. He found himself questioning why exactly you were so dressed up for him on this particular evening, but your wide and excited grin quickly silenced any doubts he might have had.

Thra, he loved you.

The dance was slow and intimate, moreso him holding you close and swaying with you than an actual dance. Sure, SkekUng may have known some ballroom dances, but he was never quite comfortable going beyond slow spins and gentle swaying. You couldn’t help but nestle a little closer into his chest, your eyes closing in contentment and the nervous fluttering of your heart morphing into giddy butterflies. The soft music drifting throughout the room tinted the atmosphere a particular shade of orange that you absolutely adored, the warmth and joy of the moment overwhelming you in its embrace and setting your emotions alight with burning affection for the skeksis that was holding you as close as he could.

A part of you wanted this moment, this dance, to last forever. Just you and the dearest love you had found in the strangest of places holding each other close and sharing in such a romantic gesture.

But there was still something you needed to do.

You stopped in your swaying, pulling away from SkekUng’s gentle grip and taking both his hands in your own. He looked down at you, confused, cocking his head and furrowing his brows in concern. Your grip on his hands tightened slightly as he held yours back. You closed your eyes.

You sucked in a nervous breath through your nose, holding it in for a moment before releasing it in a shuddering sigh. You steeled your nerves and set your will, giving SkekUng’s hands one more squeeze before finally gathering the courage to do what you needed to do.

“Dearest one? Are you...”

He trailed off as you lowered yourself down on one knee, digging through your pocket for the small item you had stashed earlier. Bringing it out into the open revealed it to be a small... box?

SkekUng was more than a little confused at this point, absolutely wracking his brain for what in The Crystal’s name you could be doing. He moved to ask you for some sort of explanation before pausing when you beat him to it, him hanging on to every word you spoke.

“SkekUng, my love,” You rolled your next words carefully in your mouth, testing them to see if they were the ones you wanted. You spoke only when you were satisfied with how they felt, finally allowing them to tumble over your lips.

“Ung, I love you. I love you so, so, so much. I’m constantly grateful that out of every being on this strange planet, you are the one I fell in love with. You mean so very much to me and I....” you gulped, keeping your head down and your eyes closed, nervous to meet the skeksis’ gaze, “I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you, however long that may be.”

You carefully opened the small box you grasped in your hands, finally gathering the guts to look your lover in the eyes as you popped the question you had been wanting to ask for days.

“Ung? Will you do me the honor of letting me spend my life with you? Will you... Will you marry me?”

The whole world seemed to still as the question left your mouth, the music fading out as your phone finally died along with the last chord of the song. SkekUng was well aware of what you were asking, of course. You had told him about human customs such as this. You had also told him just how much trust it took, just how much love must be present in a relationship for marriage to even be considered.

He sucked in a breath, not even realizing he was dropping to his knees before you.

You, his perfect dearest little darling, the love of his long and never ending life, wanted to marry him?

“SkekUng? Are you... are you crying?”

If he was it was the very last thing that mattered to him as he quickly bundled you up in his arms, a quiet and shuddering yes, Thra yes, being his only response. You laughed, a sharp and breathless thing, flinging your arms around him and grinning into the fabric of his robes as your own tears quickly began to spill over.

He said yes!

He wanted to marry you!!

He was going to be your spouse!!!

Your laughter and tears mixed as you pulled away and cradled his face in your hands, watery eyes meeting his as you peppered kisses all over the skeksis’ face and sputtered out your gratitude. The sheer joy you felt bubbled out from the deepest part of your chest and spilled over into shaky exclamations and warm kisses and caresses.

Neither of you were quite sure how long you held each other for, nor how many tears either of you shed that day. But what you both knew, deep within your chests and branded into the deepest, most intimate parts of your consciousnesses was this single promise:

You would be there for one another no matter what. Through sickness and in health, to have and to hold, long after this day and as far into the future as either of you could see.

The glittering of the silver lockets around both your necks was proof enough of this, the whispered words of praise and love solidifying your shared future in each other’s minds.

And as you studied your lover’s sleep softened face that night, as you listened to the soft purring emanating from his chest and stroked a gentle hand over the bumps and divots of his battle worn face...

You realized that you wouldn’t have it any other way.

#me before writing this: i dont particularly care for skekung. not one of my favs.#me after writing this fic: skekung is my fucking HUSBAND and i will happily dIE FOR HIM #tfw you fall in love with a dumb bird jock #catch me gently smooching his dumb fluffy little bird face #skeksis #skeksis x reader #skekung #the garthim master #skekung the garthim master #skekung x reader #the dark crystal #the dark crystal age of resistance #age of resistance #tdc aor #tdc #aor #tdc x reader #oneshot #x reader

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drawlfoy · 5 years

Text

Kricowl

masterlist

request guidelines

yes i’m actually back now lol

also this gif is the most adorable thing i’ve ever laid eyes on i love it to the pit of my soul

pairing: draco x grangertwin!reader

request: yes! thank you!

summary: reader is a gryffindor along with hermione. she originally shares her twin sister’s feelings about draco, but then when she sees something one day her opinions change...but the question is will it be mutual?

warnings: cursing. if you’ve read any fics before you know me well enough by now to assume

a/n: heyyy i’m back!! i finished my act on saturday without too much trouble. i either did really well or painfully mediocre. it totally depends on how good my guessing skills were that day. also, i’ve started a new job, which has been fun but has also filled up my schedule more than i would’ve liked. i’m back now, and you’ll notice that my fics are a little longer. i’m no longer planning on publishing 1-2 fics a day. instead i think i’ll write longer ones over the span of a couple days. thanks for reading, and as always, requests are open! i’ll try to burn through my current ones too, so if you’re still waiting on a request, it’ll be out in the near future!

music recs: i’m literally listening to creepy reddit stories asmr lol

word count: 4,317 (wow! longest one shot i’ve written!)

“Y/N!”

Hermione’s voice rang out from across the courtyard, pulling Y/N’s attention away from the little robin chirping excitedly at her from the bushes.

“We’re waiting!”

Y/N rolled her eyes. Hermione and her obsessive scheduling.

“I’ll meet you there later, ‘Mione! I’m busy right now!” she yelled back, hoping that the robin wouldn’t fly away from her raised voice.

“Suit yourself!”

With that, Hermione dragged Ron and Harry off to somewhere else, no doubt the library. Or perhaps the kitchens, if it was Ron putting the destination requests in.

Y/N turned back to the robin in bush, still waiting and staring at her expectantly.

“You’re a smart little thing, aren’t you?” she cooed, fishing through her pockets. The packet she was looking for was in there somewhere.

As she searched, she noted that the robin had an interesting mark on his orange chest--an odd sprinkling of grey feathers across the middle. The color difference only served to make the little bird more endearing.

Y/N’s fingers closed around the packet, sighing in relief and pulling it out.

The robin chirped when it saw the crushed peanuts, hopping on a branch just a tad closer.

“Easy, there,” she mumbled. “Give me a moment, darling. I just need to open it.”

Once she succeeded, she placed the peanuts on a branch close to the robin, smiling as the bird hopped closer and began to feast.

“What are you doing?”

Y/N spun around to see the last person she wanted to see--a confused but flushed Draco Malfoy, wearing that stupid fur hat and black leather gloves to ward off the cold weather.

“Being a charitable person, Malfoy,” Y/N snapped back, motioning to the bird, who was just about to finish up the peanuts.

“No!”

Y/N jumped, shocked at the sudden burst of energy from Malfoy. She watched, stunned, as the blonde boy leapt forward, snatching the bird before it could fly away.

“What the fuck, Mal-”

“Are you trying to kill this poor thing?!” Malfoy cut into her exclamation. He was suddenly frantic, attempting to steady the bird in one hand and locate his wand in the other.

“What are you talking about? I feed robins peanuts all the time, they love them.”

“Are you daft, Y/N?” Malfoy snapped. “This isn’t a robin! Look at the grey feathers on its chest! This is a Kricowl, it’s not a robin! It’s deathly allergic to peanuts!”

“A what?”

“Shut up and grab my wand out of my pocket!”

Y/N had never seen her arch-nemesis look so scared as she reached in his pocket. The lining of his pockets was soft and felt obnoxiously expensive. His coat probably cost more than the price of everything in her room combined.

She pressed his wand into his free hand and watched as he pressed the bird down on the table next to them, muttering incoherent spells under his breath. Within a few seconds, the bird opened its mouth and began heaving, chunks of peanut coming out completely undigested.

Stealing a look at Malfoy’s face, Y/N was stunned to see how concerned he looked for the little bird, even going as far as to reach out and stroke the soft, orange belly of the Kricowl. She could’ve sworn that she heard him whisper a pained “don’t you worry, you’ll be alright”.

Once the bird had seemed to expel all of the nuts it had consumed, Malfoy turned to her again.

“Go to the potion supply cupboard and bring back some knotgrass, you hear me?”

Y/N turned and sprinted to the potions classroom, her sassy comebacks dying on the inside of her cheeks. It had become abundantly clear to her that Malfoy was not messing with her--why else would he have asked her to reach into his pocket?

She returned a few moments later, holding the knotgrass out to the blonde. He grabbed one of the leaves, twisting it over the bird’s mouth and landing a drop of something into its open beak.

Within seconds, the bird was back on its feet and flying up, far away from both of the students.

“I had no idea,” Y/N breathed.

“I mean...” Malfoy gave her a sideways glance. “I can’t blame you. It’s not like it’s your fault you were born inferior.”

Y/N bit the inside of her cheek as she thought.

“But it’s your fault you’re such an intolerant ass,” Y/N responded. “I bet that Kicrowl is the only thing on this campus that appreciates you.”

“Kricowl. And thank you for your input, I value it so, so highly.”

With that, the blonde huffed and turned, sauntering off to wherever rich purebloods went after they said their mandatory bigoted remark of the day.

♥♥♥♥

Y/N had only ever spoken to Pansy Parkinson directly once, and that was plenty enough for her, thank you very much. Her vile nature was something that made Y/N wish she was a Kricowl gorging itself on peanuts. The one time they interacted had been when Parkinson had sat in Y/N’s newly assigned seat in potions in the beginning of term. Y/N had kindly asked for her to move, to which she had responded, “Sorry, I have trouble hearing those with with bad breeding. Can you come again?”

Y/N had sat in a different chair that day and for the rest of the days remaining. It wasn’t that she was afraid of Parkinson--no, she just had better things to do. It was so much more fun to goof off with Harry, Hermione, and Ron than to sit and plot her revenge. That was a Slytherin school of thought, and there was a reason why Y/N was a Gryffindor along with her sister.

Unfortunately, she was unable to keep this quiet streak going with Parkinson.

It was a crisp February morning, and Y/N was on her way to her first class when she heard yelling from her left. Swinging around. she saw Pansy shrieking at a pair of two young Hufflepuffs. She moved closer to investigate and soon realized that a crowd was forming around them, a group of interested students who were too afraid to step in. The Slytherins were grouped on one end, laughing like sadists and watching as Pansy’s comments caused one of the girls to start tearing up.

Y/N moved closer, leaning her head in to hear what they were saying.

“-and YOU have the audacity to trip me!”

“It was a mistake, I swear! Like I said, I didn’t mean to!” the young Hufflepuff cried out, her voice jumping up a few octaves.

“No matter! I’m not attending a school where Hufflepuff halfbloods can get in my wa-”

“Excuse me?”

Y/N stepped into the circle the students had formed before she could stop herself, bracing herself for the impact to come.

“I don’t believe I was talking to you, mudblood,” Pansy spat, digging her heels in and puffing out her chest.

Ignoring what the pureblood had just said to her, Y/N began, addressing everyone standing around the scene.

“Listen, can we just admit what Pansy is too embarrassed to?”

Whispers began filling the crowd. Pansy looked like she didn’t quite know what to do.

“The Hufflepuffs didn’t trip her,” Y/N said, motioning to the two quivering girls next to her. “It’s her heels. We’ve all seen it. Pansy can’t walk in them, but she still insists on wearing them every day.”

Pansy stiffened up, glaring at Y/N, and then trying to glance anonymously at her feet, clad in heels that were ill suited for school. Everyone else in the crowd did the exact same thing. Laughter rippled through the courtyard as people began to remember all the times they saw Pansy stumble around in her shoes.

Pansy turned a tomato red, spinning around and darting off, at least as fast as she was able considering her footwear.

Y/N turned and left as well, but not before she noticed a pair of steel-grey eyes staring curiously at her.

♥♥♥♥

As the days grew longer, Y/N became aware of Pansy’s wrath. The brunette would show up out of nowhere and mess with her by casting little spells to cause embarrassing wardrobe malfunctions or ruin her hair day and even trying to trip her herself.

Y/N, on the other hand, had other things to be concerned with.

One day in Charms class, Y/N found herself staring at a certain boy across the room as he lazily practiced Aquamenti.

His pale, slender fingers loosely gripped his wand while his cheek rested on his other hand, tilting his head slightly to the side. There was a peculiar way in which he scrunched his nose as he cast the spell over and over again, each time performing it perfectly.

Y/N allowed herself to gaze at him for as long as it took for him to fully fill the goblet in front of him with water from the repeated Aquamenti charm, and when Malfoy finally lifted his head up from his hand and glanced over in her direction, she snapped back to attention, pretending to be intently practicing the spell herself.

Gulping, Y/N tried to fight back the blush that rose on her cheeks as she felt the boy’s eyes drag over her. Was he looking at her? She couldn’t say for sure, she was trying so hard to pretend like she hadn’t just been caught staring that she couldn’t naturally look up to see where Malfoy was looking, not now.

She froze in her chair as she noticed the blonde get up from his chair and make his way over in her general direction.

No, no, no, there was no way, you’re just overanalyzing, there’s no reason why he’d come over here.

Turning her head, she pretended to rummage through her satchel to pull out a quill for no real reason.

“Is there something in my teeth? Or do you just have a problem with my wand work?”

Y/N jolted, snapping her head back up to see Malfoy standing before her, calmly staring down at her. He was, impressively, much taller than she was.

This is no time to be thinking of that.

“I have no clue what you’re talking about.” Y/N rolled her quill in between her fingers under the table in an attempt to her hide her nervousness.

“Oh? So why were you staring at me?” Malfoy adopted a rather amused face as Y/N was taken aback from his forwardness.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she retorted, setting her jaw and placing a hand on her hip.

Malfoy’s lip quirked as he looked her up and down, apparently thinking about what he was going to say next.

“Whatever you say, Y/N.”

With that, Malfoy stalked back to his rightful desk, leaving Y/N shocked at the fact that he called her something other than Granger.

♥♥♥♥

It had taken Y/N a while, but when all she could think about was how soft Draco’s hair would feel if she ran her fingers through it, she had to admit that she had begun to nurture a crush on the intolerable pureblood.

She didn’t know what started it, but she had a hunch that it had to do with his actions that day on the courtyard where he saved that bird, whispering those gentle phrases to it when he thought she couldn’t hear. Or perhaps it was the fact that he was referring to her by her first name now, and the way that it rolled off his tongue was so enticing--so pristine that it made her feel lucky.

She knew it wasn’t right. It was immoral to fall for the boy who had made her sister’s life hell for the better part of 5 years. She knew better than her inner instincts to save the “bad” boy. She knew that Draco was very popular with girls and that if she wanted him, she’d have to get in the back of a very impressive line of girls with more money and better families.

But a stubborn part of her prodded these doubts away, reminding her of how many times she thought she had seen Draco staring at her out of the corner of her eye, how many times he “accidentally” brushed past her in the hallway. Granted, all of the incidents could’ve been sheer luck and, besides, she was far too shy to talk to him anyways.

So, as any rational 15 year old girl would do, she decided that there was no harm in pursuing him in her imagination. The deal was simple--she wouldn’t make a single move on him in real life, but her daydreams were fair game.

And so, it began. Y/N spent those few precious moments before she drifted off into sleep indulging in her most shameful desires. She imagined what it would feel like to run her fingers through the Slytherin Prince’s hair, to softly trace the outlines of his cheekbones. She wondered if his hands would be cool or warm to the touch, whether or not the icy paleness of his skin was any indicator to either of the options. She imagined that his skin would be soft from the expensive wizard soaps he’d use religiously. She imagined how he’d take his tea--strong with no sugar.

Her feelings began to collide with reality whenever she ran into Draco in classes, He seemed more interested in tormenting the Golden Trio than he was in the earlier part of the year, forcing Y/N to acknowledge the uglier side of the boy whose lovely eyes she dreamed of at night. However, to her surprise, he never once uttered the word “mudblood” in her presence. In fact, she couldn’t even pinpoint the last time he had said it.

His taunts became less about her sister’s blood inferiority, morphing into rather clever, witty, and biting remarks about the trio’s irritating amount of self-importance and righteousness.

As much as Y/N hated to admit it, she agreed with some of it. Hermione, Ron, and Harry were all lovely people, but she often felt left out. Since Hermione had met them first, they grew closer to each other than they did to Y/N. They were plenty civil to her, but not as interested in actually being her real friend.

Not that she didn’t mind too much. She already got enough attention being vaguely connected to Harry. She didn’t know how she could handle being a target for all the anti-Potter propaganda and was much more content being as off the map and incognito as possible.

But at the same time, it was a little sad whenever she saw the trio gain all the glory. They’d sneak into the common room late at night every once in a while, giddily whispering about some secret mission they were on that Hermione refused to tell her twin.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” she would always say. “It’s just that if you were to slip anything to the wrong type, we’d be in big trouble.”

So in other words, Hermione just didn’t trust her to stay quiet.

♥♥♥♥

Y/N laid on her back, staring up at her dorm ceiling and wishing for sleep to take her away. She’d accidentally blown up at ‘Mione when her sister had made a rather condescending remark regarding her potion brewing skills by telling Ron to not copy Y/N’s movements because “there’s no telling if she’s even remotely following the directions”.

Y/N had snapped and told her sister off, calling her an insecure prick that only felt smart when she was putting herself above others.

“You know,” Y/N had told her, “people who are actually wise don’t feel the need to boast about it.”

Hermione had turned beet red, huffing and putting her back to her sister. Not a single member of the Golden Trio attempted to talk to Y/N after that, not even during meals.

The true weight of her mistake was now heavy on her chest as she came to the realization that some of the most well known and well liked kids in her house were no longer speaking to her and that this was causing a good portion of her other friends to regard her with caution. She had eaten in silence that evening, studied in solitude, and sat up in her bed alone instead of joining the congregation in the common room.

Now, not even her imaginary Draco would concern himself with her as she lay in the dark.

You git she thought. I created you, and this is how you repay me?

She’d been in her dorm for over three hours now. Sleep absolutely refused to pull her away, restlessness instead welcoming her with its open yet uncomfortable arms. Her sheets were far too warm for a spring evening and she had turned her pillow over to the cold side so many times that there was no cold side left to speak of.

Finally, with nowhere else to go, she decided to just get out of bed and take a walk. The brisk air would do her nothing but good, and if she was caught by a member of the inquisitorial squad, then at least she’d have some human contact to speak of for the day.

♥♥♥♥

Y/N found herself at the top of the Astronomy Tower, absentmindedly looking for constellations and failing miserably. She’d nearly failed any question on an exam pertaining to astrological features.

There was something relaxing and careless about the soft breeze licking at her face. It reminded her that nature didn’t care about her shortcomings or her sharp tongue. She was alive and breathing, and that’s all it took for the universe to allow her to see a beautiful night sky full of stars.

“I never thought of you as someone who breaks curfew.”

The familiar, snooty tone of Draco Malfoy’s voice broke the comforting silence.

“Aahh!” Y/N yelped, jumping and grabbing onto the railing to prevent her from falling to her death. “Don’t sneak up on me anymore! I could’ve died!”

Draco let out a dark chuckle, propping his own arm on the railing and looking her up and down.

“Well, rest assured,” he told her. “I’m not the one with the murder plot. That’s Pansy. Watch your goblet in the dining hall, will you?”

Y/N couldn’t decipher if he was telling the truth or not, but looking him up and down, she observed that there wasn’t a trace of malice in his expression.

“Are you telling me the truth?” she asked, feeling her defensiveness drain out of her tone.

“Believe it or not, yeah,” Draco drawled, shifting his position so his elbow was supporting his body weight on the railing and his chin was being propped up by his hand in a very similar fashion to that one time in Charms. Now his height was a little closer to Y/N’s, and she could look him in the eyes without turning her chin up too far. “She won’t shut up about how she’s learned how to brew this potion that’ll make all your hair fall out or something. So just...I don’t know, watch out.”

“Aren’t you gonna take me to Umbridge?” Y/N asked, forgetting what he was telling her once she saw the moonlight reflecting off of his inquisitorial squad badge.

“Nah, I’m not in the mood to see that hag tonight.”

A laugh escaped her lips before she could stop it.

“Oh. Thank you.”

The words felt foreign to Y/N. Things had really taken a turn for the worst--she had spent the past two months relentlessly daydreaming of the boy who bullied her twin, and now she was thanking him.

Silence hung between the two, and to make things a little less awkward, Y/N turned her body away from him to look up at the sky.

“Kill any Kricowls recently?” Y/N nearly jumped again when she felt a finger lightly poke her arm.

“Oh....no, I haven’t been feeding any birds peanuts anymore,” she confessed, turning again to meet the boy’s eyes. “I’m starting to realize how much I don’t actually know about the world.”

Draco regarded her curiously for a few moments.

“You’re nothing like your sister, you know,” he finally told her.

“What do you mean?” Y/N couldn’t decide if this was a compliment or a thinly veiled slight.

“I mean, you accept the fact that there are things that you may not know,” he began. “I’ll be completely honest--I don’t tease Grang--your sister because of her blood type. That played a role when I was a little younger, but now it’s more because she’s an insufferable know it all that’s all holier-than-thou and probably wouldn’t have even let me get close to that Kricowl.”

“I can’t stand her sometimes,” Y/N whispered, looking down at the floor so she wouldn’t have to meet Draco’s piercing eyes. “I know it’s awful because I support the political cause that they support but they’re so...exclusive. I make one mistake and I’m out. There’s no room for accidents when you’re not in the trio.”

From her vantage point, she could see Draco nervously rolling his wand around in his free hand.

“They aren’t very respectful to you,” he said after a few painful seconds of silence.

“Well, it’s not like you’re a saint either.” Y/N dared to glance up at him to see a glimmer of hurt flash across his face.

“I know.” He shuffled his feet. “I’m sorry.”

Y/N, stunned, jerked her head back up.

“You’re what?”

“Merlin, I didn’t think it was that monumental,” Draco mumbled. “I said, I’m sorry. Please forgive me for whatever nasty things I’ve said to you in the past. I’ve been trying to read more about why pureblood prejudice is the way it is, and I learned that.....er...”

Y/N noticed that he was struggling to get out what he was saying.

“You can’t tell anyone this, not right now at least, alright?” Draco nervously stuck his hand out.

“Sure I won’t.” Y/N took his hand and shook it, noticing how she was right--his hand was soft and supple, warm enough to be pleasant but not enough to be sweaty.

“Well I did some more research, and I learned that my family actually has some muggle blood in it...like, there’s a lot of half-bloods that married muggles and branched out, but they were still Malfoys at birth.”

Y/N gaped at him.

“And I don’t really enjoy hypocrisy, so I’ve...er...been kind of trying to reconstruct my political views.”

“Good for you.”

Y/N sat there for a little bit, grappling with all the information he’d just told her.

“Pinch me.” Her voice rang out before she could stop it.

“What?” Draco stared at her in wide-eyed confusion.

“It’s a muggle thing,” she told him. “Pinch me to prove I’m not dreaming. A Malfoy just told me that he wants to get over his blood prejudice, so yeah, forgive me if I’m a little surprised.”

“So you think you’re dreaming about me, huh?” A smirk appeared on his face.

“No, you...ugh! That’s not what it means at all!” She rolled her eyes to hide the fact that her cheeks were growing redder by the second.

“Well, you can’t blame me for being curious,” he said to her, his tone noticeably lower. Draco took his hand off the railing, rising up to his original height before stepping nearer to her. He was much closer than he should’ve been for a simple conversation. “You think I haven’t noticed how much you watch me?”

“I have no clue as to what you’re referring to.” She fought to keep her tone steady as he inched even closer.

“Oh, I think you do.” He paused after ducking his head down to be eye level with her. “See, you’re blushing.”

“It’s dark out,” she said lamely. There was no way that this was real. She had to be dreaming.

“And? Still doesn’t change the fact that your cheeks are significantly darker than the rest of your face.”

“What are you trying to do?” Y/N surrendered, leaving his statement out to hang in the air unanswered.

“This.”

He suddenly darted forward, his hands curling around her sides and his lips aiming for hers.

“Stop!”

Y/N pushed back at his chest, holding her head back out of reach and glaring at him.

His face looked immeasurably pained as he retracted his hands, putting them back in their pocket.

“I thought you wanted...”

“Maybe I do,” she told him, taking a step back. “But not right now. You told me that I had inferior breeding less than 6 months ago. I need some time. Please.”

Draco opened and closed his mouth a couple times, clearly not expecting this reaction.

“I know what this is, Draco,” she told him, softer this time. “I know you’re trying to ease your guilty conscience by doing,” she motioned to the space between the two of them, “this. I’m not interested in that right now, understand? I haven’t forgiven you yet for all of those things you’ve done to my sister.”

He dipped his head down, clearly ashamed to have been caught in the act.

“I really don’t think that that’s it, though,” he said after drawing in a shaky breath. “I’ve always been...interested, but I could never allow myself to act on it, but now that I feel as though my beliefs are evolving...”

“That’s good, Draco, that really is,” Y/N soothed, stepping back towards him. “But I still need time. And so do you, to make sure you’re not fabricating all of this to hide your guilt.”

“That’s not at al--nevermind. You’re right.”

Y/N was struck with the thought that this was the first time she’d heard the words “you’re right” come out of Draco’s mouth in a situation where he wasn’t mocking someone or being sarcastic.

“Can I take you to Hogsmeade, at least? This Saturday?” He swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I have a better idea. What can Kricowls be fed?”

final a/n: feel free to berate me on how ooc this draco is... i couldn’t possibly bear to write some kind of kiss or any real physical intimacy in the end because i don’t think that draco would change that quickly and i definitely don’t think he’d have this level of an existential crisis regarding his blood purity before his task in 6th year. for this reason, i don’t think i’ll be continuing this fic as it’s already long enough and i don’t fancy writing more ooc draco, as cute as the request was. so if you requsted this....please don’t feel bad! i’m sorry if i didn’t give you what you wanted. i might rewrite this one a little later when i have more time and when i can do another series because i think if i were to rewrite this, i would make it much longer and give draco 2x as much time to grow up and redeem himself. ok, that’s all, thank you for reading!

#draco #draco x reader #draco imagine #draco x oc #draco malfoy #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x oc #draco malfoy imagine #harry potter #hogwarts #slytherin #ravenclaw #hufflepuff #gryffindor #hermione granger #ron weasley #pansy parkinson #lucius malfoy #narcissa malfoy

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evolutionsvoid · 4 years

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This species is one with many common names, so much so it is a bit hard to decide which is the proper one to use in this entry. For those who live in the region it is native to, it is sometimes called the Bladed Prowler (or Bladed Prowler Bird). They may also be called Saw Beaks or Razor Vultures. Go more outside their native lands, and others refer to them as Iron Cloaks or Dagger Birds. Another name has arisen from the fact that these birds are a part of the siren family, so the name Razor Plumed Siren has become a bit more popular. But even that has given rise to the more light-hearted name of Siron (which is often used more as a joke than a legitimate name). Then if you go even farther away from the homeland of these creatures you will find the name that you already know I hate, Steel Dragon. I am pretty sure the Dragon Beast category was created solely to mock me, because goodness it is atrocious and quite inaccurate. Since there are a dozen more names to be used for this species, I am just going to pick one and stick with it for this entry. I will just ask the opinions of my guides and some local friends and use whatever they suggest. Bladed Prowler it is! As I mentioned at the beginning, the Bladed Prowler is actually a member of the True Siren family. You can easily see this with their six limbs and pair of external larynges, which is a staple of this family. This species is found on the arid continent, where they stalk the savannas, grasslands and forests. Much like Canyon Sirens, the Blade Prowler walks on all fours, while their winged pair of limbs are reduced to a tiny and flightless state. While they possess a vibrantly colorful face, most people's attention is drawn to their plumage. While they do possess feathers like birds, these ones have been changed to the point where they are more like scales! Instead of light, fluffy strands, these plumes have stuck together and hardened, creating a structure that has the density and texture of a chip of wood. They are light in weight, but they are in no way weak! They are quite resilient and are tough to break, which turns these hardened feathers into armor. The edges of these feathers are also sharp, which leads to all the names that mention blades and knives. Due to their special formation and the fact that they grind against the surrounding feathers, these structures are sharp enough to cut through flesh! So not only is their plumage a good defense, it also serves as a nasty offense! Speaking of weapons, they also possess long tail feathers that drag behind them as they hunt. Much like the rest of its plumage, these feathers are super sharp and have wicked barbs along their edges. Since these feathers are connected to special muscles, the Bladed Prowler has surprising control over them. Combine all these together and you got a bird that would put a swordsman to shame! While they have an intimidating appearance and names that suggest aggression (like Steel Dragons, ugh), the Bladed Prowler is actually an omnivore. It feeds on vegetables and nuts that it finds on the ground, and it may also reach low branches to collect fruit. As for meat, the Prowler is not a picky eater. Any small critters it can catch will do, but a lot of its meat is gained through carrion. Bladed Prowlers like to seek out fresh kills and will try to claim them even if the original hunters are still eating. Though it is not a fierce hunter itself, they are quite formidable opponents when it comes to a fight. Their feathers can protect them from tooth and claw, while they are also able to inflect nasty cuts. When the Bladed Prowler is agitated, the sharpened feathers will raise up, kind of like a porcupine. This changes their armor to a coat of daggers, which will mean serious pain to any who try to touch it. Their tail feathers will also be used in this angered display, as they will begin to violently quiver like the rattle of a snake. If someone dares approach while they are in this state, the Bladed Prowler will whip its body around, causing its razor tail feathers to lash out like a whip. This speed can give the sharp feathers the force to slash down to the bone, which is something nobody wants! As it fights, it will use its tail to lash out at opponents and inflict nasty wounds. If one can avoid the tail feathers, than they also have to deal with its talons and saw-edged beak. So in the end, the Bladed Prowler has the weaponry and strength to scare predators away from their kill. Some have equated them to the bullies of the savanna, strutting in and stealing what they want. Hunters who have strong numbers may be able to force the Bladed Prowler to back down, but they must be ready to stand their ground. Often enough, these confrontations are resolved without any fighting or blood, as one side admits defeat and slinks away.

One such species that they compete with are Savanna Devils, who are also scavengers of these grasslands. When a cackle of Savanna Devils are interested in the same carcass as a Bladed Prowler, then a standoff occurs. The Devils will often have strength in numbers, while the Prowler has its weapons to rely on. The Bladed Prowler will seek to scare them off with its display, throwing in throaty booms from its external larynges as an extra effect. The Savanna Devils will move to surround the Prowler, all while baring their shearing mouthparts and waving their forward most limbs. This confrontation is meant to show off who is superior. For the Prowler, it is about presenting enough of a threat to the life and limbs of the cackle members that they will not risk it. For the Devils, they try to outmaneuver the bird and nip at its tail feathers. While they are the Prowler's main weapons, the jaws of a Savanna Devil can snip them right off. If the cackle proves to be a threat to the Bladed Prowlers arsenal, then it will back down. In the end, one will claim victory over the rotten carcass. However, the Savanna Devils don't lose everything if the Bladed Prowler dominates them. The scavenging bird does not have the beak to crack open large bones, so they often leave them behind. In the end, the cackle will at least be able to eat the skeletal remains! The use of its feathers in its aggressive display is an example of how the Bladed Prowler uses its plumage for communication. While their vocal skills are just as incredible as other True Sirens, their feathers also play a key rule. Their hardened state makes them perfect for stridulation, as they can be clattered or rubbed together. The sharp sound that comes from rubbing their feathers together often means uneasiness or inquisitiveness. It is heard when they are inspecting something new or unknown. The loud clattering of their feathers is a show of boisterousness, often used in songs of victory or an attempt to impress a female. Then they have their vocal abilities, which are used quite often. Funny enough, these sirens do not use the hypnotic singing that their other counterparts rely on. It is probably because they are quite capable of getting food on their own and thus don't need such a lure. However, some suggest that they use a different type of song in their daily lives. Those who have been around a Bladed Prowler as its stalks about and hunts note that it tends to sing a low tuned song as it does so. They have also noted that they have felt strange sensations of dread and fear as it sings. This has led to the theory that the Bladed Prowler can emit a song that can instill a sense of uneasiness and terror in those around it. By doing this, it can cause prey to panic and make stupid decisions. Small critters who hide in nests and burrows may desperately try to flee, which winds up exposing them to the talons and beak of the Prowler. This song may also serve as a form of defense, as I can imagine predators would be hesitant to attack with such paranoia in their bodies. I have tried to expose myself to this song to feel its effects for myself, but I am not sure what to make of it. While I was studying a foraging Prowler, I did feel worried and uneasy. However, I had recently angered a local warlord, so I had some others reasons to be afraid! When mating season rolls around, it is time for the males to impress the females. The first step is to locate a receptive female, which is done by listening for her. When females are prepared to mate, they will constantly sing a special tune that will bring in males from miles around. They will rush in to win her approval, which is done with their own displays and songs. If competition is tight, some males may become a bit scrappy, and a some fighting may ensue. As they sing and dance, the female will inspect her options and decide which suits her. A sign of her acceptance is her singing along with the chosen male's tune. Once the winner has been chosen, the two engage in a sort of ceremony, where singing and dancing is plentiful. The pair will then be mated, and they will go off together. The two will prepare a nest for the eggs, and the female will sit over them once they are laid. The male will forage and hunt for food, returning to feed her the spoils. Once the eggs hatch, the male will slowly drift away from her, returning to a solitary life. The female will be left to raise and protect the young. The chicks will often hide beneath their mother as she strolls through the savanna, and she will become much more aggressive towards strangers and intruders. It is highly advised that one steers far away from female Bladed Prowlers when they have young, as they will be quick to lash out and slice you up! The absurd amount of names these creatures have already suggest a special reputation. They are intimidating sights to behold in the wild, and their displays have inspired many ceremonies and dances. The hardened and sharped plumage is admired and feared by many, and it has seen a lot of use in local cultures. Fallen feathers are collected so that they may be used as crude weapons or materials for armor. I have seen them used on shields, with some often ringing the edges to create a surprise weapon. Some regions have used the feathers to carve into special throwing knives. Their lightweight and size makes them easy to carry and conceal, and the right technique can make them quite deadly! Showing off your skills with these throwing daggers is a good way to boast and brag, and often a brew or two is added to the mix! And if turning them into tools is not enough, they are also quite popular in the field of Thericorium, as who doesn't want to grow their own layer of sharp feathers!? Since they double as armor and weapons, the feathers are often used as inspiration for those who want to be both lightweight and deadly. Often those who use the Prowlers for their transformations will use the feathers as throwing knives, replacing the removed blades with precise applications of powder. Of course many use their own blends and mixtures to throw more colors into these feathers and create their own personal displays. If your growths aren't a piece of art, then why are you even practicing this field? As much as the Bladed Prowler is seen as a sign of deadliness and prowess, it is also one heck of a nuisance. Their territories tend to drift towards towns and villages, and they like the plentiful food that those places provide. If allowed, they will root through garbage and raid gardens for any food they can find. The droning terror song they emit is capable of spooking livestock, which means trouble for any farmer. Once a Bladed Prowler is in a place it isn't supposed to, you will have a real hard time getting rid of them. When approached or irritated, they will go into their agitated display and refuse to leave. You will have to work real hard to scare them off, and you will need to do so carefully if you don't want to get flayed. Reminds me of a time one of these creatures wandered into my camp while I was cooking dinner. We came upon a peaceful agreement where it enjoyed my roasted vegetables while I did absolutely nothing about it. Chlora Myron Dryad Natural Historian ------------------------------------------------ Boy I love drawing up sirens and cockatrices, but boy do I hate drawing feathers!

#bird #siren #monster #creature #feather blade #art #drawing #armor

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comicgeekscomicgeek · 4 years

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Their Hero Academia – Chapter 61: Final Exam Part 3: Short Answer

Presenting the next chapter of my on-going, next-gen, My Hero Academia fic, Their Hero Academia!

All chapters can be found here

Through her connection to Frog-Shadow, Asuka felt the world spin. Whatever it was, it wasn’t affecting her directly, but it was affecting Frog-Shadow and Haimawari. It couldn’t be the winged Villain—his Quirk was obviously some kind of wind manipulation—which meant there had to be another Villain somewhere that they weren’t seeing.

Asuka dove for cover, drawing Frog-Shadow back into her body. Haimawari veered towards the wall, swerving wildly. But rather than try to break, he jetted forward, putting up his hands at the last moment so that he traveled up the wall. He pushed himself off it with another pulse of his power, executing a flip in the air, before making a three point landing. He shot a fist into the air.

“Wooo! Did you see that?! I did it!”

“Pretty fancy, Hero,” the winged man sneered. “But it’s going to take more than that to take down the Raptor!” His wings spread out behind him, then flicked forward again. The resulting blast of air should have knocked Haimawari of his feet, but despite being buffeted by the winds and flailing against them, he wasn’t moved from his spot. Looking closely, she could see a faint glow surrounding his feet and Asuka realized he must have been using his Quirk to adhere to the street.

Ready, Frog-Shadow? she thought. If they were going to try again, there wasn’t a better time than while Haimawari still had the Villain—Raptor—distracted.

Ready! I don’t know what he did last time, but this time, I’m going to kick his ass! Just you wait and see!

Asuka rolled her eyes for a moment. Ever since she’d almost lost her during the Internship, she’d been trying not to be as annoyed by Frog-Shadow’s antics and bravado. And she’d been letting Frog-Shadow out more often under casual circumstances, incorporating her into what was going on. It had felt… right. Frog-Shadow was a part of her, but was also her own self. And in trying to suppress that, to make Frog-Shadow conform to what she considered to be proper behavior standards, had she not been suppressing part of herself? And more trust in her familiar had resulted in better coordination during training. It was a benefit to them both, especially since Frog-Shadow actually acted up less when she felt she had more of an outlet and voice.

Then go! she commanded.

Frog-Shadow flew from her body towards Raptor, but the moment she got close, the disorienting feeling of dizziness returned, the world spinning as though someone was turning it around and around in every direction. Asuka fell to her knees, while Frog-Shadow flitted about in the sky going every which way. She couldn’t see clearly with the world spinning, but it looked like Haimawari was dodging this way and that, occasionally firing a burst of power at Raptor.

This time, the dizziness was overwhelming; she was now clearly a direct target of it, making her feel as though she was going to throw up her breakfast. Even closing her eyes offered only limited relief. Every time she tried to rise, she found she couldn’t. The mere thought of moving made her ill.

Hang on! came Frog-Shadow’s thoughts. Her thoughts were shaky too; being hit with whatever was causing the dizziness directly and feeling it through Frog-Shadow was possibly making it worse than it could have been. I’m coming! I see him!

Frog-Shadow zipped unsteadily through the air back to her, briefly entering her body, before shooting out the other side of her again. Take that, you big meanie!

A mighty thwack filled the air, the sound of Frog-Shadow smacking into something, followed by the sound of someone hitting the ground. The nausea immediately stopped, her head and stomach clearing quickly. When she was able to open her eyes, she saw a hideous figure trying to get to its feet, a humanoid cockroach. She very nearly let out a cry of alarm, but kept her beak clamped shut. Such a reaction was unbecoming of a Hero and considering her own avian appearance, hardly appropriate as a person either.

Frog-Shadow, meanwhile, was still raining punches down on the bug-man, eliciting a groan. “Call it off! Call it off! She’s crazy!” the bug-man cried out, multiple arms waving in the air in a show of surrender. But Frog-Shadow pressed her attack and decked the man, who collapsed in a heap on the sidewalk.

It was only now, when she had a moment to think, that Asuka realized she’d lost track of Raptor and Haimawari. And she had no idea what had become of Sero and Ojiro either…

***

Takiyo’s head was killing him, his ears still ringing, so he was fairly certain that he could not possibly have heard Shota Shinso say what he thought he’d heard. Then again, the short boy was rather obsessive in his fanboy tendencies. If anyone could recognize whoever the school had gotten to fight them for their exam, it would be him.

He knew he should not have been so embarrassed. The fact was, their assailant could have just as easily shot any of them. True, Iida’s armor might have protected her, but the rest of them had no such protection. But being shot and having to be rescued like some civilian ate away at him all the same. How was he ever going to make a name for himself if he could be taken down so easily?

“You don’t know shit, kid!” the woman in the catsuit shouted, waving her rifle about as she tried to refute Shinso’s claims. “Shut up!”

Somehow, having a gun pointed at him did not deter Shinso from talking. Takiyo suspected that, were the boy somehow trapped in a soundless void, he would find a way to continue to talk.

“I do too! You’re the Shadow Thief! Mom and Dad fought you!”

The woman looked so startled she nearly dropped her gun. “Shit! I knew that purple hair looked familiar!” She recovered her grip on her weapon quickly, but before she could fire a shot, Koda threw seeds which quickly grew into vines. As the vines ensnared her, she and her weapon vanished, melting back into the shadows from whence she came.

The Shadow Thief reappeared immediately, behind Shinso. She struck him with the butt of her rifle, knocking him to the ground. Before Koda could react, the Shadow Thief fired a shot directly into her center mass, knocking her down. She spun to fire again and Takiyo let out a cry of alarm. But when he did, he unleashed a blinding flash of light.

“Argh!” the Shadow Thief cried out, this time dropping her weapon, which fell to the ground with a great clatter. She stumbled backwards, one hand covering her eyes. “Dammit…”

Quickly, he fired a laser beam of light at her weapon, the heat slicing it in half cleanly. He took some smug satisfaction in that. At least he wasn’t so hurt that he couldn’t still aim. He started charging up another shot in one hand, while projecting blinding beam from the other. This woman had appeared from the shadows and had taken him out first. It stood to reason that dark things like her feared his light.

“The next shot is for you, witch. Stand down.”

“Can’t… do that,” she said, between gritted teeth. She kept slowly trying to edge backwards, out of the range of his light. No doubt looking for more shadows to escape to. “I’ve got too much at stake... to let some pissant lightbulb like you stop me…” Her hands strayed to her belt and she removed something he couldn’t see from a pouch there. She let whatever it was drop and dark, obscuring smoke began to rise, hiding her from him and obscuring even his bright beam.

A scream from behind him, acting as a wedge of force, pushed the smoke aside. But when it did, the Shadow Thief was gone. Takiyo released the energy he was building up and turned, seeing that Shinso and Koda were recovering from her assault. Shinso was rubbing the back of his head and Koda had one arm draped protectively over her chest. She’d taken one of those shots full center of mass. His head ached enough from merely being clipped by one. How much worse were her injuries?

“Mademoiselle Koda, are you all right?” he asked. If that Villain had hurt her…

She held up her free hand. “Sore, but I shall live. Thank providence for my thick hide.”

“I’m fine too,” Shinso said, though he hadn’t asked. He touched the back of his head gingerly. “Oooh, that’s gonna be a lump.”

Takiyo’s mind was still reeling. Had they gotten actual Villains for their exam? Surely not even Aizawa would unleash something that dangerous upon them. It had to be a joke. A trick! Shinso had to be mistaken! And yet, Takiyo realized there was no possible way that Shinso would be mistaken about the identity of a Villain. But then, what did that mean? If there were real Villains, their teachers would be riding to their rescue. And she was only firing nonlethal ammunition…

“What… what was that?” he demanded. “What was she talking about? ‘Too much at stake’?” He waved his arms in a gesture of confusion.

“Beats me,” Shinso said.

Iida’s voice crackled through their head sets. “No sign of the Villain… Izumi says that Toshi wants us to pull back and regroup as soon as we are able. Check for remaining civilians, I will maintain a lookout. Then we can go.”

Takiyo no longer felt quite so confident in this exam. If there were real Villains about, if this was something other than what it seemed… then what was going on?

***

“’Too Much at stake’,” All Might repeated, turning to look at Aizawa. “Just what did you tell them, Aizawa?”

“Only what was necessary to properly motivate them to give the students a real challenge,” Aizawa replied, not looking at All Might. His tone of voice seemed to imply that this should have been obvious. His eyes remained fixed to the various screens in front of them. “A rationale deception designed for the optimum effort from both sides.” He declined to elaborate further.

Koharu swallowed nervously. Was the Hero Course really this nuts and unregulated that one of the teacher’s had called in actual Villains to fight students during the exam? Why were the Villains going along with it? What was keeping them from just killing everybody? If she booked it out of the control room, maybe she could give Class 1-A some kind of warning?

Vice-Principal Midnight seemed to sense her discomfort. She gave Koharu a kind smile. “It’s all right,” she said. “Eraser personally vetted each and every Villain for this exam. They’re all model prisoners who would have been up for parole in a year or two anyway.”

Koharu’s antenna popped up and she tried to smooth them down. They always did that when she was nervous. “Is this normal?” She waved her hands in vague circles in the air, unable to properly articulate what “this” was.

That got a laugh out of the Vice-Principal for some reason. “Oh, honey, nothing with Eraser is ever normal. He likes to keep all of us on our toes.”

“If you can’t handle the unexpected,” Aizawa said, not bothering to turn to look again, “you’ve got no business being in this line of work.”

“Understood, sir,” Koharu said, unsure if he was talking to her or Midnight.

She returned her attention to the Vice-Principal. “Can I ask about who these Villains are then?”

Midnight smiled again. “Asking questions and gathering intelligence already,” she said. “Good job. Shinso already identified Shadow Thief, a very talented cat burglar and practitioner of corporate espionage. As her name implies, she can travel through any shadow to any other.”

She pointed to one of the other screens, where the giant woman was pulling herself out of the ground. The group that had been battling her had already moved on, clearing out what civilian-robots remained in their area, all the while keeping one eye behind them in case she came after them again.

“That’s Kamuy,” Midnight explained. “Guilty of political agitation, destruction of government property, and kidnapping a government official, some of which would have garnered her a slap on the wrist, if she hadn’t used her Quirk to do it. Still, it’s the last one that really hung over her. She’s Ainu and has fought rather violently against encroachments on her people’s culture. Her Quirk lets her absorb kinetic and other forms of energy and uses them to fuel her own strength. Sato there almost figured it out… it’s an active Quirk, not a passive one.”

Another screen showed the bird-headed girl and her frog… thing… restraining a small man who looked like a cockroach. There was no special shared love among insect Quirks, but it did look like the frog-thing had smacked him around more than was probably strictly necessary.

“Nauseous,” Midnight said. “Guilty of multiple counts of theft and disruption of public events, whose Quirk allows him to disrupt the workings of people’s inner ear. And apparently that of Quirks that act like people too. Not a terrible guy, all things considered. When a robbery he was involved in went south, he stayed with the injured guard rather than make off with the money like his friends.”

Koharu winced at the frog thing gave Nauseous one last smack.

“Hmmm,” Midnight said. “Looks like he’s out of the fight. That’s one for our kids, anyway.”

Another screen showed the metal sumo wrestler that Midoriya had uppercutted into the stratosphere climbing out of the rubble of a building. It had come down when he’d crashed into it. “Remind me to deduct points from Midoriya for that,” Aizawa said. “That kind of carless destruction could cost lives.”

“I’ll work with him on that,” All Might said sheepishly. “I may have regaled him with a few too many stories of one final Smash…”

“Of course you did.”

“Jawbreaker,” Midnight went on. “Ridiculed for his appearance, he tried to live an honest life, despite the temptations of crime. He ultimately turned to crime and theft in order to pay for his father’s medical bills. Anything he eats, he can take on the properties of. The kids haven’t seen half of what he can do yet.”

Koharu’s eyes widened. “You’re really letting somebody like that fight them? He looks like he could give Deku a rough fight!”

“It’s fine,” Midnight assured her again. “Like I said, model prisoner. And besides, we made it very clear what happens if they step outside the boundaries we set for them.”

And then there was the winged man, who was leading Haimawari on a chase across the skyline. Haimawari was doing his best to dodge the wind attacks and return fire, while the winged man kept trying to blow him over unsuccessfully.

“And lastly,” Midnight finished, “Raptor. The son of Chinese immigrants, who grew up in the Triads. It’s a little romantic really, but he turned state’s evidence against them when he fell in love and started a family. It got him a reduced sentence and now he’s up for parole. His wings let him manipulate wind, not to the extent of, say, Gale Force, though his overall destructive output might be higher.”

A rare flying Villain. Koharu gulped. As a flying Hero, it would someday be up to people like her to fight people like him. A sobering thought.

“So, Kocho,” Aizawa said, still not taking his eyes off the screens. His voice was deadly serious. “What would you do if you had to fight these Villains?”

No one told her this would be a test!

***

“Look out!” Takuma shouted, jumping into the air while firing a strand of Acid Tape. He swung and quickly grabbed a pair of child-sized robots with his free arm, getting them out of the way just in time to avoid being squished by falling rubble. That had been entirely too close!

“You two okay?” he asked the robots when he set down again. Both nodded and gave him a thumb’s up, the lights on their chests turning green to indicate a successful rescue. “Good. Do you know where you parents are?”

The robots didn’t respond, but instead took off towards a taller, vaguely woman-shaped robot, who briefly embraced them before running off. “Artificial intelligence is getting way too real,” he said aloud.

He popped the faceplate on his helmet, wiping some of the sweat away from his brow. He and Kimmie had done a good job getting people away from the fight and the winged guy, but that was getting harder and harder now that Haimawari was chasing after him. He spotted the winged guy jetting from one spot to the next, always pushing off something at one point or another in his flight. Maybe he couldn’t actually fly? He looked heavy. If his Quirk was really the air thing, maybe the wings were just glide and steer?

And if that was the case, what did he do with that information?

He watched, just for a minute, as Haimawari dodged out of the way of a blast of air, sliding up the side of the building backwards, then bringing up a hand to pepper the Villain with pulsing energy bolts. It didn’t look like they were doing much damage, but they were definitely knocking the guy around a good bit. He’d give Haimawari credit, he had great control of his Quirk.

“That’s the last of the civilians,” Kimiko said, running up him. “Everyone’s evacuated.” She looked up at the on-going fight between Haimwari and the Villain. “Should we do something?”

Takuma winced as Haimawari narrowly dodged a blast of wind that blew out the remaining windows of the building. It shattered the remaining windows in the tall building, showering everything below with glass. Haimawari blasted a few shards away from himself, but was started to slow down in dodging the wind bursts.

He nodded. “Yeah. Climb on my back. Can you make us invisible again?”

Takuma couldn’t see her eyes or her expression, but the rest of Kimiko’s body language just radiated a “yeah, duh” response of such intensity he was surprised he wasn’t on fire from it. Rather than continue with his commentary, he snapped his visor back into place and bent down and allowed Kimiko to climb on his back, wrapping her legs around his chest and her arms around his neck. She was pressed up against him tightly enough that he was glad he was gay or he’d probably have a lot of trouble thinking straight.

‘Straight.’ Even in the middle of an exam, he was funny. But why was he always at his funniest in his own head?

“Okay!” Kimiko announced. “Time to disappear! Let’s go kick that guy’s ass!” There was no feeling as she used her Quirk, making both her costume and him invisible, only the colors of the world losing some of their edge, everything going a little bit gray. It was always weird and he swore his peripheral vision was a bit wider with his skull being invisible. And that wasn’t even getting into how he shouldn’t have been able to see if his eyes were invisible.

Kimiko’s Quirk did not bear deep thinking if you wanted to keep your sanity. Was this how she saw everything, all the time?

It also required absolute concentration to use in teamwork. Without his ability to see his body or even his Tape when he fired it (as it was still a part of him until he released it), he had to be absolutely certain of any move he made while invisible. Thank goodness they’d put in plenty of practice.

Takuma fired off a strip of Tape at the side of the building, making it good and sticky, tested that it was secure, then launched himself and Kimiko into the air, reeling himself up to the side of the building. Quickly, he fired another strip of Tape, pulling both of them up to where Haimawari was struggling to maintain his grip on the building against the winged Villain’s winds. The winged-Villain had amped up the pressure and intensity of his attacks, leaving their classmate no opportunity to fight back.

Even not being directed at them, he could feel the air currents. Kimiko let out a shriek as they were nearly dislodged. Takuma quickly secured them with another strand.

“This was a bad idea,” Kimiko whispered in his ear. He wasn’t sure he disagreed. Raptor was moving fast, bouncing from perch to perch, never letting up the pressure on his wind attacks.

“You’re persistent, kid, I’ll give you that much,” Raptor growled, wings flapping hard as he bounced off the side of a building, readying another volley of wind. “But you’re just out of your depth.”

Haimawari withstood the barrage again, his hands and feet glowing as he poured his Quirk into adhering to the building. But he was starting to slip, Takuma could see that much. It was now or never if they were going to do something.

“Hang on, Kimmie,” he whispered. He fired off a strip of Tape again, and swung himself upwards. As he soared up through the air, he fired off another Tape strip, giving his wrist a hard flick. With perfect timing, the Tape itself wrapped around Raptor’s legs, pinning them together.

“What the?!” Raptor cried out. He was in motion, gliding through the air before starting his next attack, leaving him no opportunity to try and dislodge the Tape.

Takuma grunted and pulled with all his might. He was definitely going to be feeling the stain tomorrow, but taken by surprise, Raptor slammed into the building, hard. But the Villain pushed off with a grunt, flapping his wings hard and propelling himself with blasts of wind. Takuma was forced to cut the strip of Tape loose, lest his arm be pulled out of the socket. When the strip broke away, it became visible. Raptor tore it loose, flapping his wings hard and reversing direction in mid-air.

His wings flared again as he prepared to fire another blast of air. But their attack had given Haimawari the precious seconds he needed to actually return fire. He sped up the side of the building, then turned and snapped up, his feet still clinging to the building but bother his hands now in firing position. “SLIIIIIIDE-BUSTER!” Haimawari unleashed a powerful looking, pulsating blue-white beam of energy, looking stronger and bigger than the small bolts he usually fired. The beam struck Raptor dead on, blasting him into the ground below. He made a rather satisfying thud when he hit.

Kimiko let the two of them fade back into visibility. Takuma looked up and gave Haimawari a wave. “Niiiice, dude!”

Haimawari gave them a little wave in return. “Figured that had to be you two. Thanks. Wasn’t sure what I was going to do there.”

“Hey, if you two are done congratulating each other,” Kimiko interrupted, “the bad guy’s getting away!”

Takuma looked down and saw she was right. The Villain was back on his feet but running away, not taking to the skies. He saw him slip between an alleyway and then lost track of him.

“Ugh, great,” Takuma said. He wondered if that was going to cost them points. Beating the Villains was only the number three priority, but… “Should we go after him…?”

“Are you three all right?” Tokoyami’s voice over the comms cut off that line of thinking. “I’ve,” she stopped suddenly, as though she was arguing with someone he couldn’t hear. Probably Frog-Shadow. It was a shame Tokoyami didn’t have any interest in fame. A straight man who could supply their own co-host to argue with? That was comedy gold there. “Pardon, we’ve captured one of the Villains and Gravi-Might wishes for us to regroup.”

Well, that answered that at least.

***

It didn’t take long for everyone to make it back to the civilian defense shelter and gather in front, and Toshi was glad to see that everyone was still standing. Some looked a little worse for wear than others though. Both Sora and Tensei had dents in their armor; there was a massive dent in Tensei’s chestplate that was shaped like a fist and Sora’s armor looked like someone had been shooting at her (He had to try really hard to separate the boyfriend concern from teammate concern there.). Aoyama and Shota were both nursing head wound and several others like Shoji and Koda looked more than a little beat up.

Ojiro quickly went to work checking over the wounded. They were all versed in basic field first aid now, but with the additional training she was receiving from Aunt Eri and her Quirk, she made the most sense as the team medic. She quickly pronounced that there were no broken bones or internal damage, though she loudly professed that they were all probably going to be sore tomorrow.

Toshi was sympathetic to that. Smacking into the building, even in a state of high gravity, had hurt like hell. He was lucky the rest of his team had been so quick to act. It had kept them from being injure and left the three of them—Izumi, Mineta, and Kaminari—along with Sato and Ojiro, as the only people who weren’t hurt or put through the ringer.

“Toshi!’ Shota piped up. “Toshi! Toshi! It was Shadow-Thief! We were fighting a real Villain! It was the Shadow Thief!”

“That’s great, Shota,” Toshi said, his attention on the broader group. “Okay, so we’ve all had some contact with the Villains and it looks like we’ve beaten them back. And Asuka’s got us a prisoner.”

He looked back at the unconscious form of the cockroach-like man Asuka had brought back with her, bound with what looked like a street lamp wrapped around him, courtesy of Frog-Shadow. She’d also dumped a garbage can on his head, explaining that the Villain had some kind of Quirk that could cause extreme dizziness. She’d guessed it was based on sight, judging by how she and Haimawari had been affected. Izumi was already working on forming a cube of ice around him, a little miniature prison cell. Maybe if he woke up they could interrogate him for more information. He could play good cop and he was pretty sure Katsumi would jump at the chance to play bad cop.

“And that’s Nauseous!” Shota said, pointing excitedly. “Wow!”

…Wait. Toshi stopped mid-thought to stare at Shota, mouth agape.

“Loud Kid,” Katsumi snapped, saying what they were all thinking, “why the hell do you know who these guys are?”

“They’re real Villains!” Shota explained again. “I mean, I thought both of them were supposed to be in jail, but they’re still real Villains!”

At this pronouncement, chaos broke out among the rest of his classmates, except for Koda, Sora, and Aoyama, everyone talking at once and over each other.

“The fuck?!”

“I am certain our teachers would not willingly subject us to danger like that without failsafes…”

“We’re gonna die! We’re gonna die! Villains have overrun UA! I’m too hot to die! There’s so many people I never hit on!”

“You! Have! A! Boyfriend! I’m the one who’s going to die alone!”

“I beat a real Villain! GO ME!”

“Yes, you did. You can stop bragging now.”

“I helped take down a real Villain and I couldn’t get it on video?! This is the worst thing that ever happened in the history of ever!

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU HELPED?! WHAT AM I, CHOPPED LIVER?!”

“Really, this is what you two are arguing about now?”

“This is truly improbable, and yet Shinso has a statistical record that makes his identifications very likely…”

“Guys, think for a second. It can’t possibly be what it looks like.”

“Hey, guys, ah, maybe we should listen to Midoriya…?”

Haimawari’s words, at least, seemed to calm the class down for the moment. Everyone quieted down and gave Toshi their attention again. He once again realized how much everyone looked to him in the figurative sense as well. It was a sobering burden. And one that was starting to remind him of something Dad had said once, about how he only tried to do so much (which was, admittedly, a lot), because he didn’t want people relying on him like they had on Grandpa Might. It was why he was the Symbol of Hope, not Peace.

He was really going to have to do something about that.

“Okay,” he said. They could dissect the implications later, but he trusted in their teachers not to put them in danger. …Okay, he trusted Aizawa not to put them in too much danger. “So all that really means is that we’re fighting people who are experienced fighting Heroes. But they’re probably holding back some. We don’t know if they were briefed about us or our Quirks, but I’m betting we have the best source on the planet for figuring out what they’ve got.”

Toshi pointed at Shota. “So we’re going to fill Loud Kid in on what we’ve got and who we fought. Shota, it’s time to put your knowledge to the test.”

His eyes scanned the cityscape behind the others. “Because make no mistake… this isn’t over. First round went to us. But there’s at least four Villains still out there. They know we’re here, they know where we are. And since this is where their target is…

“They’re coming for us.”

#my hero academia #their hero academia #fan fiction #fan fic #my writing #asuka tokoyami #takiyo aoyama #takuma sero #toshi midoriya #Koharu Kocho

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elizapbrooke · 4 years

Text

A discovery of pancakes

This is my newsletter from Friday, May 22. You can sign up here.

I am disappointed to announce that the bird call I thought belonged to an owl comes, in fact, from a mourning dove. “One of the most abundant and widespread of all North American birds,” Wikipedia says. It’s an embarrassing but maybe understandable mistake. I figured this owl was out during the day because it was a creature of New York like the rest of us, its circadian rhythm all fucked up by early morning garbage trucks and the blue glow of the Chase Bank across the street. The mourning dove’s coo is low and melancholy, a distinctive series of five notes. I’d certainly forgive you for thinking it’s a hoot. As I was listening to mourning dove calls on my computer and having this horrible realization, one landed on the fire escape and startled me with the loudest, most intimate rendition of their song I’d ever heard. It may as well have pressed its beak up against the glass. (I assume it thought there was a dove in the apartment.) I crept over to the window to confirm with my eyeballs what AllAboutBirds.org had already told me, and, yep, there it was. It felt so special to have a mystery owl in the neighborhood, but I guess doves are lovely birds too, with their plushy throats and elegantly tapered tail feathers. Anyway, my friend Sid tells me he’s heard owls in Gowanus, so I’m keeping my hopes up. This week I published a story for Curbed detailing the history and recent evolution of the home office. As I was fact checking it, I realized I’d accidentally talked to ten hundred sources, so please do enjoy the fruits of my labor. I’m not here to talk about home offices, though. A few weeks ago, I woke up in the middle of the night and discovered I’d been brainstorming pitches in my sleep. I was thrilled. On account of pandemic depression and seeing very little of the outside world, I’ve really been struggling to come up with story concepts, which is problematic because that’s my job. Most of my dream pitches evaporated upon waking, but I managed to hold onto one, and in my sleepy haze I thought it was possibly the greatest idea I’d ever had. It was: PANCAKES ARE HAVING A MOMENT IN QUARANTINE. I decided I’d email the New York Times first thing in the morning. In the light of day, I realized that there wasn’t really a story there. When you’re writing a trend piece, you want to be able to point to, I don’t know, at least four really solid examples from the public sphere. My evidence was:

Alex and I had made pancakes recently

We were planning to make them again

I’d recently discussed pancakes with Molly and Vivian

I’d heard you can make pancakes from sourdough starter discard (which actually does speak to the zeitgeist)

But here’s the thing. Pancakes are a great topic for a newsletter. So here is my pancake article.

***

I’ve always liked the look of a big stack of pancakes, but I never really got why people were so into eating them. I like a breakfast that is hyper-functional and maximally filling. Because I’m an aging hippie, my preferred breakfast is a double-sized bowl of Ezekiel cereal, which tastes like delicious cardboard and fulfills 42% of your daily fiber needs. Pancakes, like pastries, always struck me as glamorous but pointless. I was even somewhat distrustful of my mom’s pancakes, which are dense and nutty, not sweet at all. Her recipe came from a “chiropractor/health nut in San Diego about 31 years ago” and involves grinding your own flour from winter wheat berries, groats, rye, brown rice, and millet. I love them, but a family pancake breakfast still makes me feel very out of control. This all changed a few weeks ago when Alex and I decided to make pancakes for dinner. All I can say is that quarantine has a way of melting away the rigid little fucks you used to give. For once, the chaos I associate with pancakes sounded fun and freeing. Also we’ve been watching a ton of Parks & Rec, and I was feeling inspired by Leslie’s diet of waffles and whipped cream. We made buttermilk pancakes, extra fluffy ones that require you to whip the egg whites on their own for several minutes before folding them into the batter. Two with banana chunks, two with bits of frozen peaches, two blueberry, one bonus plain for me. I had mine without anything on top, enjoying the choking feeling of eating so much cakey carb. It felt like a hug. When I saw my friend Todd post a gorgeous stack of pancakes on Instagram, I asked him if he had any theories about why they’re such a good quarantine food. At first he thought I was trolling him, but when I told him I was dead serious, here’s what he said: “What I love about pancakes right now is that they feel both ordinary and radical at the same time. Ordinary because they are nostalgic, all-American, homey, comfortable, and approachable. Anyone can make them. But there’s also something really subversive about a stack of pancakes right now—the gluten, the non-plant-based butter and eggs, eating breakfast when Goop tells us we should be intermittent fasting, so forth. Eating pancakes in the time of coronavirus brings into focus how overwhelming wellness culture has become in recent years—celery juice and collagen smoothies will never, ever, ever beat a big, buttery, syrupy stack of flapjacks.” I would agree. Given my dedication to breakfast foods that involve sprouted beans—which predates our wellness moment but was certainly bolstered by it—I definitely find pancakes subversive. They make me feel nostalgic, too, but not for anything I’ve personally experienced. For weekends in high school that I spent ensconced in the television world of Gilmore Girls, maybe, where breakfast at Luke’s Diner is a comfortable routine. As I continued my journey into pancake reportage, I sought out the perspective of Sarah Jampel, an editor at Bon Appetit. While pancakes made from sourdough discard have their fans, Sarah is not particularly one of them. She’s also team waffle. I don’t really have a horse in the pancake/waffle debate, but Sarah makes a compelling case. “I have thought a lot about pancakes,” she emailed back when I asked if she had anything to say about the topic. “And yes, I have made them since isolation started—mostly because I'm ‘every woman’ and my fridge is overflowing with sourdough discard. ‘Put it in pancakes,’ I thought. The issue is that I need to add more flour (as well as butter or oil and leaveners) to sourdough discard to turn it into pancakes, so I ultimately end up using more ingredients for the sole purpose of not throwing some stuff into the trash or compost (but really, the trash). And even though pancakes sound nice in theory—why not start the day with a hot breakfast instead of the usual routine, eating a Clif bar with one hand while the other clings bare to the subway pole (huge sigh of nostalgia)?—in actuality they're inferior waffles. Unless you take care with your pancakes—loading them with lots of butter and separating the egg yolks and whites (this recipe's my fave)—they're too mono-textured.” Never fear: Alex and I loaded ours with an alarming amount of butter. I suppose it is to be expected that when you go out hunting for pancake insights, you come back with waffle testimonials. When I asked Alex’s high school friends to weigh in on the appeal of pancakes during a global shutdown, Nico said, “Waffles are the superior carb. They provide greater textural variety and are a better delivery vessel for condiments.” (Dylan has been eating toast all quarantine, and Dan “didn’t understand the question” because the only god he acknowledges is the Joy of Cooking’s pancake recipe.) My friend Molly has been eating a lot of savory pancakes under quarantine, for breakfast or lunch. She sautées a bunch of garlic and kale in olive oil, adding scallions at the last minute, and then sets the vegetables aside in a bowl. In goes the Bisquick, and she adds the kale mix on top of the pancakes as they cook; after a minute, she tops the pancake with shredded white cheddar so that when she flips it, the cheese turns crispy. She’ll eat that with a runny egg or garlic yogurt. I can’t wait to see her again so she can make one for me. Pancakes are one of the few foods that Molly has consistently been able to stomach during this period of immense anxiety. They have a strong positive association for her: in pre-corona times, she would make savory pancakes after playing soccer on Saturday mornings. Those games are one of the things she misses most right now. We talked on the phone while she made her daily trip outside to juggle a soccer ball. Molly likes to chat with friends during these breaks because bouncing a ball on your feet benefits from loose attention. “Cooking a pancake is similar,” she said. “It requires some focus but it’s not that hard. You don’t really need to cut anything. You just watch it.” Alex always says that cooking is meditative for him. I would respectfully disagree—to me, it feels more like hurtling down a mogul course—but I can see it with pancakes. You’re just systematically waiting and flipping, waiting and flipping. After making buttermilk pancakes, we progressed to Sqirl’s buckwheat pancakes for lunch on a Sunday. I can’t find the recipe online, but here’s a photo. For those who are lucky enough to have dodged my Sqirl talk thus far, it’s a phenomenal, semi-healthy breakfast and lunch spot in Silver Lake. Every time I’m in LA, I badger my companions into going right when it opens at 8 a.m. so we’re sure to get a table. When I was there to write about Dax Shepard in November, I high-tailed it to Sqirl right after our interview and embarrassed myself in front of the staff by inhaling bits of a particularly seedy cookie and having a loud coughing fit, after which I went around the corner to die in private. Alex and I thought we had all the requisite ingredients for Sqirl’s buckwheat pancakes, other than cactus flour, but the recipe calls for corn flour and it turns out cornmeal isn’t the same thing. We subbed in whole wheat, so they weren’t really Sqirlcakes, but they were still tasty in a restrained, earthy way. Alex convinced me to try one with raspberry jam, which I reluctantly admit was a great pairing. A week or two later, we made them again. I wasn’t really hungry because it was 2 p.m. and I’d already eaten lunch—Alex had just gotten up—but I pledged to eat my portion cold out of the fridge. Alex thought this was insane, but he sometimes forgets that I like my food a little squidgy. We went grocery shopping the next morning, which was as much of a bitch as it always is right now. Even though we’ve gotten the process down to a science, it still takes three hours from start to finish, with significant angst on my part about the cleanliness of the inbound goods. Finally everything was put away, and Alex headed off to take a shower. I was agitated and crazy hungry. I scrubbed my hands one more time, pulled the pancakes out of the fridge, and promptly dropped one on the floor while trying to get it into my mouth. I ate the rest in big, angry bites, one after another, standing in the middle of the kitchen. I didn’t want to sit down in my outdoor clothes. The pancakes were perfect, though. A shot of sweet, comforting carb straight to the heart.

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vitavitale · 4 years

Text

drabble II — Griffon ;

(for easier reading, find this on AO3)

Hell itself would not dare to match the fire and brimstone spewed from his mouth. With a sharp eye, sharpened wit and talons to complement, he was a diabolical thing armed to the nines. Capable of decimating any with a word as with a bolt of lightning; it was all the same to him and he was cocky about it. That was how he'd lived day in and day out and the underworld had no love for him. It was just as well that he was plucked from it without will or warrant—he wouldn't miss it. But the nerve to move him without his consent! It was unjust! Never before had he experienced such a thing, and he wished he hadn't in the seconds that pulled him across realms to finally settle him atop an inverted pentagram, surrounded by the flames of candles that danced wildly in greeting. All at once there was darkness and points of light before his vision, and in his alarm he darted all about the confining space out of raw panic to seize control over the circumstances. Heavily his wings beat, forceful were the gusts produced and genuine were his shrieks of surprise. All at once the world had changed and home was far and away—and he'd been here before in a distant time, though not in this room and not in the company of child sporting a head of the whitest white.

A wild animal caged, subdued without even knowing it at the hands of...a child!

A child with white hair!

He'd seen him when he arrived; yes, he remembered—panic fogged the mind, but memory was fresh and vivid and he'd stopped scrambling to find a perch atop the wardrobe from which he could spy the boy, gather a good look at him for the first time (and his bearings in the process). From above he peered down, wary at first before he'd realized the reality of things: the boy was a human, he was alone, and he'd looked twice as alarmed, almost frightened.

You've got to be kidding me.

“Hey, you're just a little pipsqueak, aren't you?” The demon's voice, edging on disdainful, emerged dauntlessly and, as if a finger, pointed accusingly at the runt beneath him. The sight was pathetic: the child had backed up in retreat of the beast and stared wide-eyed at him, donning a pallor that even the demon could see in the dark. And should he dare to think that this little creature was responsible for his change of environment? A demon's pride would not suffer that.

Narrowing his eyes, he craned his neck to intimidate the boy. “Demons are bad news, kid. Didn't your parents ever tell you?”

Wordless boy, gawking up at the demon he'd invited into his space. Did the fiend's mastery over language flabbergast him? “Cat got your tongue or what?” wondered the demon with impatience. He wasn't sure what to make of him—but his silence was deafening and something about him gave the demon some small pause. It was the white hair that did it, chiefly, among more, and he could sense it in the air. Not only the remnants of magic used, but an element buried deep within that child that the avian demon could not mistake. His head canted as he mused, eyes fixed on the boy who'd taken the momentary inactivity to step forward and make his own voice heard.

“Y–you can talk.”

What a meek little thing! It would have been hilarious if it'd not first been insulting. To imagine that he conjured a demon all on his lonesome? Unacceptable.

“For a minute there I thought you couldn't,” ragged the fiend. “Anyway, it's been wild, but I've got places to be, so make with the hocus pocus and send me back.”

“I can't.”

“What comes in goes out, kid. I don't know how you learned to do it, but you can, so we're not gonna argue that.” A glimmer in golden eyes—he was being smart, cunning, derisive, and he wanted only to cut to the chase. “You send me back now and I'll forget this ever happened. Deal?” If he could have done it himself, he would have. But he was knowledgeable of the sorts of rites that conjured the likes of him and of their conditions, and he'd confidently assumed the little sorcerer had closed the opening between realms and cut off the avian demon's every means of returning to his land. Irritatingly, he had to depend on the boy for his freedom.

“I don't know how. Even if I did, I wouldn't let you go,” the boy countered resolutely.

“Wrong answer!” Electricity crackled all about the raptor's frame, illuminating his lustrous, intensely hued plumage, and with it he threatened, “Someone in here's gonna be toast if he doesn't smarten up!”

That appeared to do the trick. The boy shrank a little, quieting down beneath the demon's anger. He would not be given an inch for his arrogance. Foolishly, though, he refused to back down; he tried so hard to look strong, dauntless, but there was no mistaking his inexperience and the uncertainty that resulted. He hadn't known exactly how to proceed, and that was all the beast needed to turn things around in his favor.

“Now,” he started again, “the right answer, kid. We're not playing your game by a long shot.” How chilling the scene must have been to the child, his room enveloped by darkness save for what few candles remained lit and the electricity that infrequently popped about the demon looming above him as if an omen of evil. The beast was ready to lunge if he had to, and in his mind there was little that would stop him from punishing the human. Of course, he'd felt adequately comfortable where he'd waited, well out of reach should the boy grow a wild hair and retaliate. Such a mousy one as he, however, would not even think to go that far. And, yet, for all of his humanity, he was the most distinctive one of the lot the demon had ever come across. He did not quite enjoy this feeling, this supposed perception of a thing he could only have guessed to name in regard to the child staring into his many irises.

“I'm...not playing,” the little one came to say, “I need your help.” Still trying to find his courage; perhaps it should have been admirable that he could speak his mind and stand his ground, all things considered.

It was surely enough to rob the demon of any retort he may have planned on delivering. He fell quiet as he processed the surprise he'd been dealt, but not for embarrassingly long before he'd, plainly, uttered, “Come again?”

There was some small delay—uncertainty—before the boy spoke. “I need a demon. Please?”

Please?! Is he fucking nuts? The demon could not avoid the laughter that poured from his triple-hinged beak, and while it was short-lived it still must have bruised his audience. “Oh, come on. You expect me to buy that? You expect to get away with a feeble request like that? Hate to break it to you, but that's not gonna persuade anybody. Not a demon or another one of your kind. That's life.” He could tell the boy had soured. “What the hell could you possibly want with a demon anyway? We don't make good pets, trust me.” He hadn't taken the boy seriously in the slightest. He would have lied if he'd said his curiosity wasn't thoroughly arrested, but he had no plans on staying just to humor childish beliefs.

“I don't need a pet, I need a familiar. I need a demon, I need help, and you're the one that got here.”

“You shut your trap!” the fiend ordered through what sounded like frustration. Suddenly, the situation had taken a turn—or, in fact, this had been the case from the start, only he had not taken notice until it was spelled out for him. How could such a meek little thing have sought this? The demon may have been naive, underestimating humanity's desires and their relentless will to acquire whatever in the world they wanted. Maybe it started from a young age. How was he to know? He'd only ever been to the Earth once before, and not for the purpose of interacting with its primary inhabitants. This was all very new to him, and he hadn't a taste for it. His eyes were hard and pointed, glaring the child down into a semblance of submission. He looked startled, green eyes wide and brows furrowed, and he almost looked as if he wanted to retreat behind the fringe of white hugging his cheek.

“No-fucking-body needs a demon, especially not some mousy little twerp!” Cacophonous was the beast's voice, unnerving like steel scratching glass, and his rage was only too clear as he'd lost all control of himself. “I'm nobody's tool!” shouted he, lunging for the arrogant little fool. Electricity crackled and popped all across his body as he swooped low, and he dismissed the cry in fearful protest uttered by his prey. When contact should have followed, however, he stopped inches in front of him. No desire of his own, and yet in spite of his roaring instinct he could not touch the child. “What the hell?!” Not immobilized—he hovered where he'd stopped and searched for answers—but still unable to make a move against his intended target, who'd stared on in alarm, apprehension and subtle relief.

“What gives?!” the demon demanded, but he'd already had a guess.

“A protective spell... I'm not an idiot,” the child answered, his guard up, with some cunning on display as he'd decided to defend himself at last.

Damn! He's smarter than he looks!

How embarrassing for a demon supposedly so proud; privately he acknowledged the child's forethought, realizing he was sorely mistaken for assuming the boy would have let his inexperience dominate his sense of caution. Perhaps he wasn't playing a game after all. Seemingly having gained the upper hand (in reality, in possession of it all along), he silently forced the beast's hand. The raptor had tried to send a jolt through him to test his claim, and it worked in the little sorcerer's favor: the electricity did not touch him. What more evidence could either party wish for? The facts were concrete and so the demon was pushed back by failure alone. Maddening!

In the darkness of the enclosed room, the demon settled on a spot opposite the boy right behind the inverted pentagram. To say his feathers had been ruffled would have been a gross understatement. Wholly displeased, he watched the boy just as he'd been watched, not one of them making a move forward or backward—just as if they'd reached an impasse. Going this long without a response clued the child in to what went reeling inside the demon's mind, and the latter of the two was acutely aware that had been the case. This prompted the youth to speak first.

“I wouldn't be unprepared,” his voice came mildly.

“Bet you're feeling pretty smug right about now,” acknowledged the infernal bird, utterly reluctant and sour.

“I don't care… I only know that I need you.” He spoke quietly and candidly.

The demon now knew that he'd been restrained on all fronts, incapable of fighting back in his usual manner. Diplomacy might have worked, some negotiation, but he was not as tactful as those options would demand. He was at a loss and could now only hope that such spells placed over him would wear out before long. Arguing would not help anything, he learned, and decided that he may as well do nothing at all. He eyed the boy quizzically, so far unaware of what he'd intended and why. “What the hell gives you that idea, anyway?”

“I need help from you because...no one else can give it to me. I think tonight is my only opportunity, and...I don't have a lot of time to do this.” He stared into the demon's eyes, a soft pleading look painted upon his features and most notably over his brow.

“Fine,” the demon snapped dismissively, “but why? No one in their right mind would want that. So either you're out of your mind or you're an idiot after all.”

The boy was quiet, pensive for a moment though it was clear he'd become frustrated by the demon's contrary attitude. The fact that he hadn't an answer to give right when he'd been prompted said something about his uncertainty. Strangely, he sat down on his side of the floor as if he'd wanted to get comfortable. He crossed his legs, barefoot, and continued watching the feathered demon in his room. So tough a nut to crack, and by now the boy had already been deemed a little bit nutty. The demon pressed him unkindly, the faintest touch unsettled as far as the child's potential was concerned. The youth's voice returned, following an exhale, tamed by his thoughtfulness. “I won't be able to survive on my own. I can take care of myself, but not when it comes to everything. Like I'd said, there isn't anyone I know that can help me. I...had to resort to this, to conjure it for myself.”

“Uh… Huh?” the beast begged. “What, so you're on your own here? You're not messing with demons behind your parents' backs?”

The boy shook his head to respond without word.

“You lost me again.”

“I live with a witch. She's not...my mother. I've never known my father.” He sounded meek as if he'd suddenly lost heart. A somber veil cast its shadow over his face, and even in the darkness of the room the demon had taken notice. As far as the latter could tell, he wasn't putting on appearances but acted genuinely and spoke with an identical quality.

The story was punctured with holes, but some things had just begun to make sense and a handful of inferences could thus form. The child had no parents, then, and lived with a woman of questionable character (as far as the demon could surmise). It might have been an unhappy living, then, but he doubted that warranted the need for a demon's intervention of all things, so he offered his judgment: “I think you're exaggerating, kid.”

“It's the truth!”

“Hey, don't get all defensive with me. You got a problem with whomever you're living under but that doesn't have shit to do with me. Grow up big and strong, climb out the window and never look back. Easy as pie.”

“It's not about that,” the boy countered, his tone affected by a measure of exasperation. “I can't protect myself. Not...from her. After tonight, she will be cross with me. I have the feeling, and I will need someone beside me. But it's not only about her. I need more than that.” He really may have been as weak as he'd first been thought to be. Already he'd begun depending upon someone other than himself, believing he could not fend off dangers and fight for survival on his own. Given his fear, the way he would occasionally shrink into himself, the demon did believe that the boy was about as useless as he'd described himself to be, that he hadn't a clue what to do and he was missing a guiding hand to hold.

Was he searching for a babysitter?

“Look, kid, if you're wanting someone to take care of—“

“I need help killing a demon.”

“What? What? Are you mental?!” Feathers splayed from the sheer alarm of it. Eyes widened and stared at an opposing pair somehow controlled and at ease as they stared back, and they'd reflected a quality of resolve that had clearly welled up within the boy. The demon failed to peg him: what was his matter? Plain stupidity? That somehow seemed unlikely; the demon noted he was a rather bright human, all things considered—but this apparent obsession with magic and demons tapped into a reservoir of interest that was deeper than anticipated. The fiend had already assumed poorly of his mental state.

“I can't do it by myself. I know I'll have a better chance of killing the demon if I have another do it for me.” A logical argument made with a sudden glower come over his brow. “So...I'd need you for a few things.”

“That's a tall order, kid. Can't you leave well enough alone and focus on other shit? Like, I dunno, trading cards or something.”

“It's important. I have to do this—and I have to have a familiar.”

What an unusual set of circumstances. Rather troubling ones, too. The boy was adamant; determination burned in him like a hungry fire and it was noticeable in bright green dimmed only by the darkness of their surroundings. He belonged to the sort that would not simply “let go,” and such a fact became clear to the demon even before he'd learned of the child's motives. It left him largely speechless as he stood before his conjurer, contemplative as he'd searched his mind for something that would help him avoid the entanglement that awaited him. As if at another stalemate, the two endured in quiet for a short spell with eyes full on one another. The silence inevitably broke before long.

Composed, feathers flat and body back, the demon observed, “You're not like your other humans, I'll tell you that.”

A shrug from the boy.

“Any good reason why you got murder on your mind?” Reluctantly the question followed, and for it came an absolute refusal to answer. More silence, tense and...suddenly difficult to bear. The demon was respectful in his patience and waited a mite anxiously for something, but he could see unfavorable twitches in the boy's facial muscles and how he'd grimaced shyly as if meaning to keep it discreet; but his gaze did not turn away. He'd assumed the boy hadn't a reason, which may well prove the worst in contrast to having one as it would point toward wild impulsiveness. That, however, would not have made much difference in persuading he who was already reluctant to agree. “You have got a reason, right?” cautiously he wondered, believing he was on to something. “Don't tell me it's what all the cool kids are doing these days.”

Steadily, a shake of a head of white followed in response. “No.” Again his voice came meekly as if he'd forgotten his courage. “The demon shouldn't be here, but it's here...because of me. I let it in. What I did with you, but...I made a mistake and now it's out there.”

“I guess you are an idiot,” came the rebuke. “You're summoning demons left and right and then calling on more to clean up your messes! Actually, that's not idiotic: that's insane, irresponsible, however you wanna put it. You think you're playing games with us?”

“I've only done it once before!” the child defended earnestly. “That's why I'm trying to make things right now! If I could do it myself, I would, I swear it. But I just can't. I so badly need help—demon or human, it doesn't matter, but I need it.”

Those were pleas, genuine, desperate pleas for the thing he'd evidently sought to no end. Remorse had driven him all this way, then, and now he wanted to atone for the mistake he'd made. At least he'd shown some sense of responsibility, and it was oh-so such a human thing to feel. It rather struck the demon, impressed him when he'd seen how intensely such a frail little thing had felt in reality and this little eruption offered a small glimpse into that obscure head of his. The demon had to wonder, however, why the child conjured one of his fellow infernals in the very first place. What in the world had possessed him to try? To want it? So very reckless of a human that young to do—but, of course, the boy before him was not...whole. The white hair gave it away and it aided in reminding the demon of another with a head of white that he'd heard stories about, someone who seemed not to have a care in the world how they'd dealt with demons, or that they'd done it at all. Such must have been a trait shared among them.

Forgetting to acknowledge the boy's entreaty, the demon went on to inquire, “What is it with the white hair? What about it makes you go after demons like we're such hot shit?”

“My hair…?”

“You hear me loud and clear, kiddo. What's it do to your head? You're not an isolated incident, you know. I've heard about this sort of thing before.”

“What are you talking about?” He appeared to shrink behind the very hair in question.

“You're pulling my leg! Pretending you don't even know!” the demon said boastfully, raising his head as if to claim superiority. “Come on, kid, I can see right through you. You play the human role pretty damn perfectly, but that right there ruins your image.” He threw his eyes at the boy's hair, but in the dimly lit room the boy may well have not noticed the gesture. “That and the whole...'I'm cool with summoning demons like it's nothing' thing. Yeah, what human does that, eh?”

A furrow of brows over a countenance tinted orange through candlelight. “I don't understand you.” Insecure was his tone as he argued, gently. “A lot of humans summon demons and they don't mind. Satanists, devil worshipers, they all do it. I'm not one of those, but—”

“You're a damn weird kid for getting in on the act. Which proves my point: a full human you are not. Let's get it all out in the open, shall we?” The demon's tone was challenging now, and by the sharpness of his words it was discernible that he'd assumed some upper hand in the situation. He was subsequently not in the slightest moved by the boy's ascending eyebrows. “I know what you are, so come clean already.”

“I'm, I'm human!” the child answered earnestly, confounded by the demon's accusation.

“Yeah, yeah, but not one hundred percent. Maybe more like ninety percent. It's subtle, but it's there. You're not gonna fool any of my kind, unfortunately for you.”

“Why are you saying that?”

“Because I can feel it, kid! You think I'm stupid?”

The boy hadn't realized he'd become confrontational, leaning over the inverted pentagram on the floor as he'd subconsciously neared the fiend in his company—and it was also the same fiend who craned his neck and thrust his head forward in a slight attempt to buttonhole the little conjurer before him. As if prepared for a tussle, the demon's shoulders had tightened and squared. However, he successfully silenced his opponent who'd quickly shrank backward upon receiving his reply. Apparently, it was not one he'd counted on hearing. Upon seeing his submission, the demon backed off in turn. He observed, “That's more like it,” before allowing another question to probe his intellect. Through a glimmer in golden eyes, he continued: “I've been among humans before, so I can tell the difference. You're definitely giving off something with a little oomph. I guess it makes sense you can't feel it yourself.”

“What are you driving at?” the child pressed, anxious. “That I'm...less than human?”

“If you wanna put it that way. Depends on your point of view—but, come on, you knew this all along.”

“I swear to you I didn't.”

“You're screwin' with me,” the demon argued, impatience brewing beneath his plumage. “Something had to tip you off. One of your parents must've told you.”

“I only had my mother and she never told me anything like that.”

Oh, the demon might have pitied him if he cared; the child sounded conflicted, defensive, on edge, and he was persistent in his denial of the facts. He did not seem to enjoy any mention of his family, either, and the demon was rather certain that was where the key lied. Sullen was the boy's face, suddenly impartial toward the conversation. He'd gotten himself into this mess, so he would have to deal with it in spite of his personal discomfort. He may yet bore of the entire thing and let the demon go free.

Inconveniences aside, it was rather shocking that a human of limited blood had somehow not come to learn of that part of himself until a full-blooded demon had to point it out to him. Unbelievable, but...he'd really not known, had he? His behavior expressed as much and so far the demon knew not what to expect from so singular an adolescent. He could only brace himself for what other surprise may come. Scrutinized by the child whom he in turn watched deliberately, the avian demon found himself in a far more baffling, challenging position than he first thought. What next moves to consider were limited; he could only converse.

The evening was still aside from their activity, and the room he was confined to was only big enough for them. As far as it was perceptible, not another soul resided in the dwelling at present, so the master of the house had been away while little sorcerers dared to play. A sneaky devil in his own right! How much of the truth he'd told the demon was still up for debate, but based on his reactions he appeared...adequately sincere. As the night drew on, the child should begin to tire, but by now the demon had learned that conventions did not fly with his conjurer. If what he'd said before was true, however, then he really hadn't much more time to go—not the boy or his trapped quarry.

“Well,” the demon started after a moment's thought, “your mommy should've been upfront with you, unless she doesn't have a clue either, then what the heck?” When the boy's face soured doubly, the demon's voice sounded again. “Either way, you're mostly human... And the part that isn't has gotta be—hey, whaddya know, demon too! Give the kid a cigar!” That was more sarcasm than joy, of course. The boy had opened his mouth to protest with the meanest dip of his brow, but he was cut short before he could even take a breath.

“Hey, don't blame me for that. Take it up with whoever in your family. I'm laying out the facts as they are, kid, and I'm willing to bet on 'em.” With nonchalance the demon spoke; a likely irritating thing to an adolescent boy already on a nervous roller-coaster. “Brings me back to my point about the hair: it's a dead giveaway. Heard about someone else kinda like you, as a matter of fact.”

It dawned on him then that the witch the boy lived with might have known the same: that he was not as human as he appeared and, given his talents, was potentially of value to her. He was, after all, attempting to get away from her, or to acquire some protection against her. Might he have been on the right track all along? Was his story, then, believable and factual? To think seriously for a moment that the boy was in some danger introduced a strange suggestion of responsibility on the part of the demon summoned tonight. From it, his conscience balked; and it reminded him that he had a conscience after all. A damned pesky thing.

“You're not lying,” the child realized, “are you?”

“Demons are about as truthful as we are deceitful. I'm not the lying kind of asshole, at least. I call it like I see it and you can kiss my ass if you got a problem with that.” He laid out his philosophy in the simplest terms with the simplest candor. “Doesn't your mom have white hair?”

“No...”

“Ah.” No wonder the boy didn't have any more of a clue than his mother. Perhaps it was his father, then, with the mixed genes, and he claimed to never have known him. Sounded reasonable enough. “Gotta come from your pops, then. Maybe that's why you've never seen him: he split 'cause his half-demon ass had to hide...or whatever.” In less than a minute the feathered fiend made assumptions based on too little information and, from it, formed a story of the boy's origins that neither of them had any clear picture of. Yet, it was one that left the child pensive as he'd silently sat with his eyes downcast. He must have been ruminating over what he'd just learned.

Come to think of it, where was his mother?

“Why don't you go home to your mom, anyway?” the demon wondered without reserve. “Or did she kick you out for playing with black magic?”

If it had not been for the way hair shielded his face and his eyes traveling away, the demon might have picked up on the expression of a child sickened. He'd taken a moment before he spoke and after he had, it was with difficulty. He was barely heard. “She died. That's why I'm here.”

Oh. Oh. They both fell silent, looking away from one another. The quiet was heavy, thickened by a discomfort shared between the two parties, and it was a swift, aggressive sense of embarrassment that kept sealed the demon's beak. Thankfully, he did not have to break the silence; the boy did it for him, and it seemed as though the lad had dismissed everything talked about to return once more to the purpose of the conjuring rite. He stood, caught the demon's eyes, and balled his fists as he looked down upon the beast with a hardened brow.

“Will you be my familiar?” he asked, now with strength.

There was so much more to him than the demon could observe. Troubled waters, a storm brewing—would it wash him away without help?

“That's a point-blank question.”

“Well, answer it.”

“What if I say no?” wondered the beast, challenging mildly; wit combined with a curiosity gleamed in his eyes. “You know you can't make me. That's not how it works.”

The boy's lips did not move; he had no answer, he hadn't known how to. Thus his awareness of the circumstances was made clear. He'd known enough about what he'd gotten himself into to know, consequently, that making demands would be fruitless for him. Thus, defeat wormed into his muscles when his hands relaxed. There was such a hardness to his demeanor now, however, that contrasted how he'd behaved, even sounded, just a minute prior. “But,” carefully he'd said at last, “will you?”

“Be your demon, huh?” the other asked for clarification; he was answered with an affirmative nod of the head. “I dunno, you don't look like you're ready for that kind of responsibility.” That was a tease and he'd delivered it through a note of sarcasm. It visibly frustrated the child—and upon his countenance he wore a look of equal hopelessness. Ah, poor thing, subjecting himself to this as if he had no choice. His options were right in front of him and he could have ended this now, but he didn't. The demon knew he wouldn't without a fight. Persistence alone suggested a kind of gravity that the demon did not care to humor, but it was obvious the boy's sentiments were vehement.

He was, perhaps, at an end where the demon before him was concerned; his final chance, his last hope defiant and jeering. The fiend did not imagine what that may have felt like for a boy of a still tender age, but for a fleeting second he felt some semblance of pity. No longer was he wary of the little sorcerer as he'd come to realize the extent of his prowess. The boy was certainly capable if he'd only hone his skills, but he was starting out. A fledgling in the area of magic craft.

With an air of confidence (not exactly exaggerated) the conjured entity watched the helpless boy, smart in the eyes as he went over his thoughts. His voice broke through when he arrived at a decision. “Let's recap: you're an orphan, a witch is after your ass and you got a demon to kill, so you're looking for a hand to help you take care of all three of those things.” The gist was understood and the boy offered no argument. “I got a deal for you, then. A real once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

Oh, that really grabbed the child's attention! His eyes widened marginally and rather than frown, now he knitted his brows in confused interest. “What kind of deal?” he asked with a reasonable touch of skepticism.

“I can't be any kind of parent, and I won't be, but I can help you get out of here and carry out your assassination, and in return you send me back to the underworld. We both get what we want.” It was a risk without question for he would bind himself to terms he did not understand the full extent of—what sort of a demon would he have to face off against?—nor would he have any certainty of the boy's commitment to upholding his end of the bargain. He may well shackle the demon to his side once his goals are achieved! And, yet, the demon offered his services regardless. Little more was left to him, however: what other chance did he have of getting that human off his back and returning home? Thus, a compromise was his best bet. It would have to be—and if he'd learned anything at all about the boy, it would be that the latter would prefer to take something over nothing, and doubly so in his current conditions.

It was a brilliant plan.

The boy did not take more than a handful of seconds to respond through a flush of decisiveness. “Fine, yes. I accept.” He didn't sound satisfied, but he did sound anxious. Desperate. As the demon predicted, the child would take even a pittance over none at all. “Then we should proceed with the rite.”

“Whoa, slow it down, kid. You think I'm just gonna let you drag me right into your clutches so you can keep me indefinitely? Not a chance, we're not doing any rite.”

“You said yourself that demons are deceitful. What guarantee do I have that you're not going to get away from me the first chance you get? You could be lying about everything.”

Ah, rats. “You really are smarter than you look,” the demon commended reluctantly, “but, listen, I've been honest so far, right? I wouldn't bail out as soon as it's convenient… Some of us have integrity.” He only tried to be persuasive now, but the insincerity to his voice did not go unnoticed.

“One way or the other you'll be set free,” the boy argued, “but I'm the one who may come up with nothing if you leave before you have to.”

Such a good point, and there was always the potential for egregious selfishness from demons no matter the prevailing circumstances. The feathered beast currently in negotiations was well aware, therefore he would have to swallow any distaste in order to satisfy the child and inspire a cause for trust. It would make his departure so much easier. So, the demon finally acquiesced—complainingly all the while. “All right, all right, I'll go for it. But listen: you so much as try anything underhanded and I'll show you what hellish torment is like for the rest of your short, miserable life. You mark me?”

“My word might not be worth much to you, but you have it.”

Deal struck, fates in the short term sealed. The demon would follow through with his proposal as long as the child acted in kind. So it appeared that he would become someone's familiar after all. Well, that may not be the worst thing to happen so long as he could get out of it, and he would make damned sure the boy would break their bindings when the time came. “Let's get on it with, then. You know how to undo the, uh, binding thing, right?”

“In theory,” was the lad's reply, “since I've never done it before. But I'm sure I could manage it.”

“Yeah, well, I'm gonna make doubly sure of that. I know more about these kinda rites than you might think.”

Nothing was replied. The boy clad in plain dark clothing turned to grab a book from the floor and thumbed through its pages, stopping at the one he'd searched for and appearing to read it in the dimmest light. He moved again to fetch a matchbox, probably intending to light the candles that had gone out, and as he went the demon watched the flames come to life. His mind was not vacant, however, as he'd mused over the rite in question and judged privately whether or not his conjurer was as learned in so delicate an art as he'd claimed to be. It was then that the boy chose to make heard his voice and he stared into golden irises for it, but not before he blew out his match. “I have a question to ask.”

Now that the room had been more adequately lit, the demon could study the human's appearance with better clarity. Nothing new to note, nothing quite remarkable about him apart from his hair. All of his impressive qualities resided within, and occasionally they were seen through the eyes. Whatever curiosity he wanted satisfied was, perhaps, one deserved. The boy was thus encouraged to speak his mind.

“Earlier, you said that you heard about someone...like me?” it was cautiously asked, and he'd sat back down on his previous spot.

“Hm… Oh, yeah. Word is some white-haired guy goes around killing demons left and right,” the raptor answered, “and he's even gone to the underworld to do it. I've even heard he went after Mundus himself—you know about him, right? Former emperor of the underworld? Yeah, him,” he continued, dismissing whether or not the child had any knowledge, “he and whatshisname went mano a mano if you can believe that.”

“I don't see how that makes us alike.”

“Oh, what, really? And you're not even the least bit impressed?” The boy astounded the demon. Of course, even he was not certain of the facts. It was all hearsay for him, and he'd treated the accounts as little more than legends. Still, there had to have been some truth to them. Whatever murderous rampage the aforementioned man had gone on was one that touched even this demon's life. When the boy expressed his uncertainty, the demon went on to speak following a sigh. “I know I knew his name before... Uh, something cool-sounding, like…Drake? Da— Oh, Dante! That's it, his name's Dante. It was on the tip of my tongues. They say the guy's half demon, and I wouldn't doubt it if he's capable of killing some of the underworld's baddest. Even wiped out the head honcho of my kind, so I've heard. I don't how much of that's true, but King Griffon bit the goddamned dust in a really ugly way.”

“So...he killed your leader? That must have been awful.”

“Well, he and Mundus both. They say Mundus was the one to put Griffon out of his misery after Dante beat the hell out of him. Honestly, he had it coming; he was a major prick and an ass-kisser like you'd never seen,” the demon explained further. “He had his head up Mundus' ass and his own, he thought he was such hot shit. He ruled the roost for centuries back in the underworld and we all agreed we hated the bastard. But he was fucking massive while the rest of us were about this size...so we really couldn't do a thing about him. Guess we just had to leave it to Mundus and the half-breed to do our dirty work for us. Ha!” There was a demonic air to him and an equally dark glimmer in the eyes when he laughed. He'd never plotted assassination, no, but found that the fate of King Griffon (a title so implied by the emperor himself and adopted by the avian demon's own flock explicitly for scorn) was fortuitous in the extreme. Something to make light of.

“Oh,” the boy observed softly. “Did anyone take his place?”

“Nah, not since he was killed. You could say we're winging it now. You should see the infighting going on. Nearly everyone in the flock wants a shot at the big time. Could really be anyone by now.” He shrugged his shoulders to express his disinterest.

“Could you be?”

The instinct was to laugh, yet the demon endured in his own silence as he watched his conjurer and mused. He had never joined in those petty squabbles over dominance; it wasn't anything he'd aspired for so he'd gladly left it to those willing to do the fighting and, ultimately, the ruling. But by that point he was in and out of the flock's territory, half of the time absent when he didn't care to be around his kin. No one really seemed to take notice, or cared to begin with. They let him be as he'd let them. His casual disrespect for both community and hierarchy led to an existence of solitude and aimlessness, but it suited him. He did not want for anything. A position of power, therefore, was nothing he coveted. Better that he'd come to the Earth to get away from all the hullabaloo for a little while.

The possibility that he'd ever become leader of anything amused him, and he humored the little sorcerer for a moment with a dry satirical note. “Me, huh? Yeah...even I could be the next Griffon. Hell, maybe they decided to give the reins to me as we speak. So you'd better watch it around me, kid, 'cause I could fry you royally.”

So mild a threat was taken with a little defiant smile. “I don't think they'd accept you, anyway. You complain about everything.”

“You are a smart-mouthed little twerp!” the demon snapped back, irritated but not irate. For all the trouble the human was worth, he had not inspired the demon with an intense desire to electrocute him. That was new. And, if he was not mistaken, the insult appeared to satisfy the boy. He'd not suffered a change in expression and looked down at his book. Weird kid...

“Let's try it now,” said the boy, and he looked back up with a neutral expression now worn. “I don't think we have a lot of time.”

“Hasty little bugger, aren't you?”

“Let's just try,” he insisted, a mite impatient as he'd opened his book and turned to the same page as before. “I know the incantation, we're both willing...”

Then, like a pop of electricity in his mind, the demon remembered one of the rite's provisions in particular which may very well upend the arrangement he'd agreed to. It made him snicker inwardly. “Just had a thought. An exchange of names, right? I don't mean to burst your bubble but I don't have one. Guess that kinda spoils things.”

The child could not hope to stop himself from gasping. “What? How can that be?”

“It's not uncommon. Most of us don't have names and we don't need 'em. That's pretty much how it goes for us.” He and his kin all knew one another without ever calling a name. Certain demons earned them; everyone else got right along without.

“We'll find you a name, then.”

“You don't even know if that counts!”

“If it's one you like, it will. Then you can forget all about it after I send you back.”

Sound logic. Now, it wasn't likable, but it was sound, and the demon had already agreed to give the boy what he was barking for. He'd have to put up with a shit name, too. “Well,” reluctantly, “what the hell are you gonna name me?”

The aspiring sorcerer became silent as he thought. His eyes studied the demon's form, from head to toe, and it was clear his brain had been at work for the short spell of inactivity that fell upon them. His lips pursed inward, and the demon gave the thinking a try as well.

“Shit, I can't think in a hurry,” he complained at last.

“Maybe I can call you Whiny,” the boy dryly teased, and he brushed off the fiery retort that instantly countered. “Actually, I think...you ought to be Griffon.”

The demon could not believe his ears.

“Are you fucking dumb?! I am not sharing a name with that asshole! Weren't you paying attention to a damn thing I said?!” Shouting and contrary, always contrary… His hackles had raised, every feather on his body splayed and his wings stretched to half their length.

“You said you could be the next Griffon,” the child explained with calm, “and that he was the biggest one of your species—”

“And ended up roadkill!”

“But you are a Griffon, aren't you? That's what I'd read about: a demon species like yours, and the text called them Griffons. If your dominant demon was called Griffon, why couldn't any other be?”

“Because that's idiotic! Fucking Mundus decided to forget the rest of us existed and call his golden boy Griffon because he couldn't be bothered to think of anything!” That may have been a slight exaggeration. Nevertheless, the demon gawked, stunned by the child's apparent brainlessness—one that threatened to match the former emperor's. What a crime that would have been!

The boy shrugged in answer. “I don't think of him when I name you. I think you'd be a much better Griffon than he was, anyway. You even said that he was...subservient? Well, you have a strong will of your own. You'd do anything to be independent. I think you're smarter and stronger than he was.” He couldn't have known, but he at least appeared to understand the gist of what he'd been told about the fallen leader.

The points he'd made might have been simplistic, but they were proven by the way the conjured demon fiercely wanted out of the child's company. So much, in fact, that he would even compromise a little of his freedom now to have it all back in the near future. The demon was certainly one of a kind and, in a number of ways, a better example of his species than the one who'd ruled them for centuries. He wasn't as much of an egomaniac as King Griffon, however, and did not quite consider himself in such glowing terms. Nevertheless, he was given something to think about although he'd not become quiet for it.

“Those are weak arguments, kid,” he criticized, “and as far as I can tell, you're clueless. Naming me Griffon is gonna be like naming a dog Dog. Like, 'Hey, Dog, let's go out for a fetch.' Is your name Boy, by any chance?” He'd delivered the reference to going for a walk incorrectly, but his point came across regardless. His disappointment could not have been clearer and he was defiant in demeanor; his complaints hadn't reached an end yet, either. “And here I thought you, with your smarts, would be creative too. At least come up with something original!” At this point he would have accepted Blue Bastard.

The child's brow furrowed in an expression of disappointment of his own. “I think it's fitting. You'd represent your species well.”

“I don't give a fuck about that!”

“It's just for the moment. Please.” Again the child spoke pleadingly. “You can abandon the name after I've released you. We only need it for the rite and that's all.”

In truth, the demon did not need to say a word. He was at the mercy of a child and could do little to change that for the time being. He would have to indulge him in spite of his grievances. There was some small delay in reply, an obvious indication that he'd been in thought, but before long he spoke; reluctant in tone and discernibly critical, and yet he'd settled down—wings folded and feathers flattened. “Okay, whatever. The sooner we get this over with, the better.” Pain in the ass.

He sat as he waited for the boy to go on with his preparations. As mentioned before, he'd known a thing or two about these rites—a variety of them, as a matter of fact. As much as the circumstances and their conditions were a bother, the demon had to endure in spite of them. And, in spite of them, he privately measured the boy's readiness and aptitude. Previously he'd acknowledged that the small human was bright; now, he supposed he'd find out if his appraisal had been premature. He thought it curious, too, that the subject on the boy's bloodline was never again touched upon—almost as if it hadn't been worth entertaining, or...perhaps it had been pushed to the very back of his mind for later. One way or the other, it was of no importance to the feathered demon. Neither of them uttered a word, the boy keeping his nose buried in his book as if he'd been reading with every ounce of his concentration. The demon could only figure that was a grimoire in his possession. What manner of evils had been written upon its pages he could only wonder, but its owner appeared too meek to wield so dark a power for equally dark purposes…

“Um,” the boy uttered softly, “I think I'm ready,” and he looked forward to lock eyes. “I don't need anything else… It's all in the incantation.”

“Then go for it, kid. Just don't fuck up!” The demon gave him his final permission and watched with intent, very anxiously awaiting an amateur's mistake that would bring about disaster for he who would be bound. The risk was not the conjurer's!

Still seated at opposite sides of the inverted pentagram, they faced one another with mutual agreement on their minds. The moment had come at last: the newly christened Griffon's final minute of freedom. The conjurer's voice returned with strength and clarity as he read back the words on the pages in a tongue that was not English. A baffling thing at first, but soon the raptor identified the Latin he'd heard and he was struck with surprise. It was damned impressive to hear and he almost chided himself for esteeming the boy's skill and apparent proclivity. The thought was fleeting; any distraction may foil the entire rite as unified minds (and hearts) were necessary. The demon conjured need not recite anything themselves as it was entirely in the hands of the conjurer; it was the conjurer's will that brought them together and it would be the conjurer who established the binding bond. Such was the scenario in the enclosed bedroom where a teenage boy had employed all of his will to rob, even if temporarily, a demon of his independence.

In what sounded like a second sentence uttered, the boy lifted his arm and held it out to the demon before him; after it followed his eyes, tearing from the book to look into those that watched him back. Apart from the occasional glance at the text, he'd kept his eyes largely on the demon's; he appeared confident enough in his memory to speak the words that demanded the utmost attention to detail. The hand he'd offered opened as if to welcome the demon to it—and the fiend picked up his cue, stepping over the inverted pentagram to establish the closest proximity without yet touching between himself and the little sorcerer. A change in the air was unmistakably felt, something that no amount of words in any given language could ever hope to describe. The demon would not deny he'd felt real concern; this was all new to him and no matter how much he knew in theory, he would not have known what to expect in reality. To the very best of his ability, he tried to align his will with that which beckoned him. He recognized the section of the incantation the boy had moved on to—that is, he understood the Latin—and expected for the first time to learn his name. They'd arrived at the part that required both names to be shared (twice, even, in contrasting order) and thus his identity as Griffon was cemented. That of the boy, Vitale, wasn't one he'd remembered hearing before but would hereafter have it etched onto his brain.

A pull was born from nothing tangible. Toward the boy the demon should go—that was the feeling that bubbled deeply within, an almost phantasmal force of attraction akin to two magnets of opposing polarities brought toward one another. Griffon would adhere to the child as much as the child would adhere to him, and this he knew would be effortlessly felt and inferred by the very strange youth who so desperately wanted a demon to call his own. Such a feeling swelled within Griffon as if he were only a vessel for the substance—a balloon filled to bursting with water—and just as the incantation had reached its close, the flames upon the candles danced wildly, glowed brightly, a noiseless power shot through human and demon alike and in a blink Griffon's body was reduced to the finest, blackest particles that darted uniformly through the air toward the boy, his master.

The flames calmed and the room was once more awash in downpour of silence save for the young sorcerer's gasp. He did not expect the demon to vanish and it spawned quite a feeling of alarm. Wide were the eyes as he glanced all around the room, but his memory urged him to examine his person. He had the sense to look under his shirt; suddenly his pallid, plain skin was decorated with flowing black patterns. He could see them despite the dim lighting; he'd found them concentrated beneath his clothing, on his chest and sprawling over his upper arms, and he was hesitant to touch them. Insecurely he called the demon's name; no response, so he called again, and it was after some short delay that the demon, in an instant puff of those soot-like particles, reappeared before the boy in a panic.

“What just happened?!” he demanded, throwing his sights on the boy in search of understanding. He was all alarm, wings partially extended. Nary a clue he had as to what just transpired, but a brief exchange of ideas led him to believe that it was a consequence of the binding rite. The boy who'd identified himself as Vitale described markings across his body that had thence disappeared upon the demon's return. Displeasure was born within Griffon from concluding that the patterns were representative of him; neither he nor the child now his master had any other guess for it, and they appeared in mutual agreement to not bother over the particulars of the supposed tattoo. It was singular at best and demeaning at worst for him. What's more, he'd had only the benefit of sight and hearing; his vantage point was from wherever he rested on the boy's body and nowhere beyond. The experience was a startling one to say the least, hence his manifestation. It was not the boy's calls that brought him out.

There was something more to the change. Faintly felt was a tether, a metaphysical thing between himself and his conjurer. Next to impossible to describe, but nonetheless there when it hadn't been before. The demon was not at all certain nor could he quite craft words for it, so he resorted to one that even a toddler might make the most sense of: connection. By and large, what formed as a result of the binding rite was nothing less than that acutely named tether, the very thing that bound demon to human, the bond that birthed familiar and master. So it was at last completed, the final rite that the boy had so desperately sought. Now he'd had what he wanted, whereas the demon was less fortunate; he would have to hold steady until his time for renewed freedom arrived. It would not be too long, at least, and he thought himself hardy enough to endure through the duration of the deal made.

They spent the remainder of the hour exploring the nature of their bond. The demon watched his young master clear the room and they talked even through his hasty activity. At one point he mumbled complainingly, “Can't believe I'm gonna go around being Griffon...” as the name he'd been given was still distasteful—but it was his now, and (at least to his master) he would be known as nothing different. He had a smaller complaint for his master's name, claiming it was a “mouthful” and it was much to his surprise that the boy had rather insisted that he be called, plainly, V. Only V, always V, no matter in whose company—and while it was strange, unwarranted, and vulnerable to critique, Griffon had agreed to those conditions without debate. It was nothing he pried into but suspected the reasons would reveal themselves in time.

The night had not drawn to a close without its events reaching their climax. Wrathful was the witch when she returned home; she discovered demonic doings, the evidence in the air, and on those grounds tossed the boy along with an invisible Griffon out of her sanctuary and, further, her life. Just as predicted, the witch spurned V's presence. With naught but the shirt on his back, the book he'd cradled so protectively, and a demon at his side, he took to the wilds of the streets—and it was some surprise to Griffon after all, for he'd in some way not taken the child's worries as seriously as they may have been in reality. He'd plucked himself from his master's skin after they'd found a secluded little backstreet and had only to say, “Talk about your wicked witch of the west!”

He may have then expressed a mite of concern for his master's fate.

#drabble ;#// it's hecking long.#// 15 pages I DON'T KNOW HOW but there we are omfg

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