#its insomnia hours once again folks

[punchdrunkdoc]

Part 2, Chapter 20

Summary: After the events of S3, Matt Murdock is trying to once again balance life as a lawyer and a vigilante. But he’s been scarred by loss and betrayal - will a mysterious new neighbour help him heal? Or will her secrets drag him back into the darkness?

Notes: This is a slow burn romance with an original female character, told in 3 parts. There is mystery, intrigue, action/violence and angst - all the good stuff!

Also available on AO3 and Wattpad

Masterlist

Reference pics

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This one is NSFW folks!

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PART 2

Chapter 20

Halfway through updating Calina on the pheromone case, Matt realised she’d fallen asleep. She was still tucked against him as they lay on their sides, their legs entwined. Matt had been playing with the fingers of her hand while they filled each other in on the last three weeks, but now that hand was limp, and Calina’s deep, even breaths stirred the air around him.

He smiled indulgently and kissed the top of her head, glad that she was able to get some rest. After stifling a yawn earlier, she’d admitted that she hadn’t been sleeping well without him. “I was wide awake again at 5am this morning,” she’d explained. “Then there was the four-hour ride to get here…it’s all catching up with me.”

“Four hours, huh?” It was the only clue she’d ever let slip about the location of the new Widow’s base. Although it didn’t exactly narrow things down. “Would that be four hours north, south or west of here?” he asked.

“Why? Are you planning to track me down and show up under my window with a boom box over your head?”

“What?”

“Oh, its from a romantic comedy we all watched recently. It came out in the eighties so I thought you might have seen it before your accident.”

“Sweetheart, the only movies I was watching as a kid involved either Bruce Lee or spaceships.”

“So no rom-coms, then.”

“No. Although I’d watch one with you now - you could tell me what’s happening on screen. I’ve missed hearing you describe the world to me.”

“I’ve missed that too. I’ve missed talking with you, and reading to you, and being here in this apartment, just the two of us.”

“Me too. It’s not the same here now, without you. I’ve been avoiding the place, to be honest - I’ve spent most of my time either out as Daredevil or in the office working on the pheromone case.”

“How’s that going?” Calina asked, trying to suppress another yawn.

Matt should have known she wouldn’t be able to stay awake while he talked through their progress - or rather, their lack of progress - in tracking down the people behind the pheromone drug. It wasn’t exactly the most scintillating conversation topic for 3am.

Matt eased out of bed, careful not to wake Calina, and toed off his heavy boots. He gazed at her still, peaceful figure as he unzipped his suit jacket and shrugged out of his pants. He was looking forward to getting some sleep next to her - she wasn’t the only one who’d been struggling with insomnia again - but a small part of him was disappointed that all they’d be doing is sleeping. That kiss earlier had started to heat up just before Calina’s tears had gotten the better of her. It had made him hopeful for a replay of what had happened the last time they were in this bed together.

Or even something more.

But he never wanted to pressure her. He would take his cues from her and go at her pace, no matter how slow that might be.

They’d never really spoken in depth about her missions when she was a Widow. But the hints that she’d dropped over the past few months suggested that she’d been intimate with her targets - all while her will and choices had been subjugated by the mind control serum.

He could only imagine what that kind of violation would do to a person. And he didn’t want to do anything that might remind her of that time.

The last time they were together, he hadn’t been thinking clearly about that aspect of her past. He’d been too vulnerable, too caught up in his own fears. He’d latched on to her in the midst of the terror and uncertainty of his deafness, and he’d rushed them into an intimacy she might not have been ready for.

He knew she’d enjoyed it at the time. But he’d had a lot of time to reflect and consider things over the past few weeks, and he was determined that the next time she would be in the driver’s seat. Whenever and wherever - and even if - they ever took things to the next level, it would be her decision.

He could wait. And in the meantime, he’d be happy just being able to hold her and kiss her and be with her.

Now dressed in just a pair of sweats, Matt crawled back into bed and did just that. He gathered Calina in his arms, dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose and smiled as she burrowed against his warmth.

This was enough.

He didn’t need any more than this.

 ———

 Calina needed more.

As much as she enjoyed waking up in Matt’s arms feeling rested and refreshed…she needed more. She wanted more than just to sleep next to him.

She’d spent the last three weeks wishing she’d made love to Matt the last time they’d been together. Denying herself that intimacy hadn’t made their separation any easier. If anything, the regret had made it harder.

She was determined this time would be different. She wanted to be with him in that way. She wanted them to take that next step.

She just wasn’t sure…how to go about it.

She was feeling distinctly nervous.

She bit her lip as her eyes drifted over Matt’s face, taking in his peaceful expression. The frown lines on his forehead had smoothed out, and his full lips were soft and parted. His cheeks were flushed with sleep, and the warmth of the covers they shared. The morning sunlight spilling into the room brought out the reddish tone of his dark hair and highlighted his ridiculously long eyelashes.

He was beautiful.

She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to run her fingers through his hair and pull him on top of her. She wanted them naked, skin-to-skin, with nothing left between them. She wanted to explore every inch of his body and feel him moving inside her.

But her shyness had returned with a vengeance. She couldn’t seem to lift her hand to touch him. She couldn’t bridge the distance between them to kiss him. All the seduction tricks she’d employed over the years as a Widow felt dirty and out of place in this bed.

But that was all she knew how to do - use people. Entice and entrap and manipulate.

She didn’t know how to be with someone she loved.

In a very real sense, this would be her first time. And like a naive, virginal teenager she wanted it to be perfect. Special. She wanted this encounter to erase every other one she’d ever had. She wanted it to make her clean and pure again.

Which…was a lot of pressure. For both her, and the oblivious, sleeping man beside her.

Poor Matt. It wasn’t fair to put this on him. It wasn’t his responsibility to ‘heal’ her and make her whole. It wasn’t-

“What deep thoughts are you thinking?”

The low rumble made Calina jerk in surprise. Her eyes flew to Matt’s but his were still closed. His face was still relaxed and he hadn’t moved a muscle…but there was now a slight curve to his lips. His tongue darted out to wet them before he spoke again, his voice deep and husky. “It’s Christmas morning and we’ve had at least six hours of sleep - you’re supposed to be happy and relaxed, not tense and stressed out.”

“You caught that, huh?”

He tapped the tip of his nose. “Kinda hard to miss when I’m this close to you.”

“Sorry.”

His eyes fluttered open. “Don’t be sorry. Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

 ———

 “Nothing.”

Matt had never heard a more dishonest word in his life. Either he was getting better at detecting Calina’s lies, or she wasn’t trying very hard to hide the truth this morning.

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and gave it a gentle tug in rebuke. “Calina…”

She sighed. “Yeah. Okay. Not nothing. Just…I’m overanalysing the situation, as usual. And I got in my head about it.”

“Well that’s not vague at all.”

She laughed this time, and the sharp taste of cortisol in the air faded away, proof that she was feeling better. He smiled at her and continued to stroke his fingers through her hair. “Hey…”

“What?”

“Merry Christmas.”

She smiled. “Merry Christmas to you.”

He leaned forward and kissed her, loving the feel of her smile beneath his lips. He meant it as a simple gesture of ‘hello’ but, as it did every time they touched, the gravity of her pulled him in. The kiss deepened as he gathered her closer with a hand on her back. One of her legs slipped between his, and her thigh brushed against his morning erection.

She went still.

Worried that he was moving too fast, he angled his hips back and away from her. “Sorry,” he mumbled into her mouth.

“No!” she cried.

Matt jolted in surprise. “Calina?”

She ducked her head and buried it against his chest, and he could sense the heat rising from her cheeks, as if she was embarrassed.

But why would she be embarrassed?

“Calina? What’s wrong, baby?”

“I just…I want…” He heard her clench her jaw in frustration before letting out an annoyed, “UGH!”

He stifled his laughter. He didn’t want to make light of her obvious struggles, but her irritation with herself was kind of cute. He stroked his hand over her hair. “Talk to me. You can tell me anything, you know that.”

Calina took a deep breath. “Iwanttohavesexwithyou.”

Matt frowned as he tried to interpret the rush of words. And when he finally did, his heart started pounding. The thumping beats reverberated in his chest, and he felt the echo in his cock as the blood rushed through the rapidly hardening organ.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

In answer, Calina leaned up and kissed him. And there was nothing embarrassed or shy in it. She pressed her lips against his firmly, and her tongue swept into his mouth with passion and confidence. It was as if finally voicing her desires had unlocked them, allowing them to run free.

Matt responded instantly. He grabbed the back of her head, his fingers gripping her hair, as he returned the kiss. His tongue warred with hers. He bit at her lower lip, and sucked it into his mouth. Then he attacked her neck, licking and nibbling and scraping the delicate skin with his teeth.

He tried to slow down. To gentle his approach. But it was as if his own hunger had been ignited by the force of hers.

And she met him step for step. Her fingers raked through his hair, tugging on the strands and sending sparks of pleasure through his nerve endings. She dragged her nails down his bare back. She hooked her leg over his hip and used it to pull him on top of her.

He went willingly, settling into the cradle of her thighs with his cock pressed against her core. Her legs wrapped around his waist, squeezing him closer as she rocked her pelvis against his. He moaned at the friction, and felt her lips against his neck curve in satisfaction.

Helpless to resist, he thrust against her. Her breath hitched in response, and it was his turn to smile. They started moving, their lower bodies working in tandem to bring them both to the edge as they panted and moaned against each other’s skin.

But Matt forced himself to stop. He didn’t just want a repeat of last time. He wanted more.

And he knew Calina did too, despite her groan of protest.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he murmured, lifting himself up onto his knees. “I want to feel you against me. All of you.”

 ———

 Calina tried to calm her racing heart as Matt pulled her up off the pillow until she was sitting in front of him, her legs between his spread thighs. She’d gotten carried away by all the sensation - the weight of his strong body, his hard length rocking against her, the delicious things he was doing with his lips and tongue…

But she was glad he’d stopped when he had. She wanted them to take their time. She wanted to savour this, and remember every moment of it.

And she wanted what he wanted - the feel of naked skin on naked skin.

She lifted her arms as he slipped her t-shirt over her head. He threw the top onto the floor then his hands returned to her body. He glided his fingers over the material of her bra, and she cursed herself for wearing plain cotton lingerie today of all days. But she’d left Maine in a hurry and had figured that, without his sight, Matt wouldn’t care about sexy underwear.

But she should have taken his sense of touch into account. Next time, she’d chose something more stimulating for him - satin or lace, or something with complicated straps…

“You good?” Matt asked, his voice soft and gentle. His hands had paused at the closure of her bra, and he must have been wondering why her attention had drifted.

She decided to tell him the truth. She didn’t want him to think she was anything but 100% invested in this. “I was, um, regretting my choice of bra.”

He chuckled, as his clever fingers unhooked her strap. “Don’t. I’m much more interested in what’s underneath.” As if to prove his point, he quickly removed the garment and tossed it aside.

But he didn’t touch her exposed skin. Instead, he took her face between his hands and kissed her. A gentle, careful kiss. The sweetness of it, the reverence she could feel, brought a tear to her eye. Matt kissed away the moisture and lay her back on the pillow. Then he scooted down the bed and brought his hands to the top of her sweats.

He looked up at her, and she could read the question on his face - Is this okay?

His constant checking for consent made her fall in love with him even more. She didn’t know if he was always this solicitous in bed, or he was accommodating her…unique…history, but either way it made her feel so cherished. And the control he was handing over to her - the ability to stop this whole encounter with a word - was a potent aphrodisiac.

This was already better than every other experience she’d ever had, and they both still had their pants on.

She wanted that rectified. Now.

So in answer to his question, she lifted her hips. He grinned and hooked his fingers in the waistband and slowly, slowly dragged the material down her legs. The same silent check and consent played out with her underwear, until they were a scrap on the floor and she was naked beneath him.

And that’s when he finally touched her.

At first, it was a barely-there glide of his fingers over her skin, the soft strokes leaving a trail of shivers behind. Then his hands spread out and he ran them all over her body, as if mapping the shape of her. The curve of her breasts, the hard peaks of her nipples, the flare of her waist and the sensitive spot behind her knees…no inch was left untouched.

Except the throbbing spot between her legs.

The ache in her core deepened with every caress of his hands, until it started to overwhelm her senses. Calina clenched her thighs together, trying to ease the growing pressure.

But Matt caught the movement. With a chiding “Uh-uh,” he grabbed her thighs and spread them apart, intensifying the desperate emptiness inside her. He repositioned himself between her legs and leaned over her to kiss her neck.

Calina tipped her head back on a reflex, while her lower body writhed against the hard mass of his body, searching in vain for some relief. “Please,” she begged, twisting the bedsheets at her sides.

“Just a little while longer, I promise,” Matt replied. “I need to taste you first.”

Calina gasped at the imagery of Matt’s clever, agile tongue following the path of his hands…then moaned as it became a reality. He teased and tortured her for what seemed like hours, slowly dragging his mouth over and along the length of her body. He kissed a path down her chest and painted her nipples with liquid heat. He nibbled at her hip bone, and pressed gentle kisses to the fluttering skin of her belly.

Then his mouth dipped lower…

The first stroke of his tongue against her clit shot through her like a firework. Her back arched off the bed and her strangled groan filled the room. She didn’t care how shameless she sounded. She didn’t care that a constant stream of pleading words were flowing from her lips…all she cared about was the mouth between her legs.

Matt licked and sucked at the moisture now bathing her upper thighs. He let out his own moan and the hands holding her hips in place dug into her soft flesh. “God, you taste amazing,” he rumbled. He stabbed his tongue into her opening, and the merest hint of being filled shot Calina’s desire into the stratosphere. Her whole body tightened. She could feel her toes curl and her hold on the bedsheets became a death-grip as the need inside her built and built until it was almost painful.

Then Matt wrapped his lips around her clit and it was all over.

She came with a half-sob, half-cry and collapsed back onto the mattress. Aftershocks pinged through her body as Matt continued to nuzzle against her, his mouth gentler now as he guided her back down to earth.

She let out a shuddering breath and flung her arm over her eyes, overcome by the intensity of what she’d just experienced.

“You okay?” Matt asked as he moved up the bed to rest beside her.

Calina laughed at the absurdity of his question. She’d never be okay again.

She turned to burrow against his warmth. “Yes. Thank you,” she whispered.

He slung an arm around her. “Believe me, it was my pleasure,” he laughed.

But the sound of it was slightly stilted, and there was a hitch in his breath. She felt a tension in his body as he held her close and she realised he was still…unsatisfied.

She wanted him to feel what she did. She wanted to give him the same explosive pleasure. She pushed him onto his back and reached up to kiss him, loving the exotic taste of herself on his tongue.  She gripped his hair with one hand, and used the other to tilt his jaw where she wanted it.

She made it clear with her touch that it was her turn now.

Matt seemed more than happy to relinquish the lead. He let her direct the kiss, and when her lips moved down to his neck, he tilted his head back to give her more access. When her hands moved to the waistband of his sweats, he followed her move from before and lifted his hips from the bed to help her along.

She eased the bands of his pants and boxers over the steel length of his erection then quickly discarded his clothing until he was bare before her.

She gazed at his body, and licked her lips. She wanted to run her hands and lips all over him, the same way he’d done to her. But first she just stared, enjoying the sight of him laid out like a greek God in repose.

The strong winter sunshine flooding the room illuminated him in all his glory. The light bathed him, touching upon every contour of muscle and glinting off the pearlescent lines of his scars. 

He was so beautiful.

She placed her hand on his neck, just over the notch of his collarbone and dragged it down the centre of his chest, down his ridged abdomen, down until her wrist just nudged against his hard cock.  The friction drew a low masculine noise from deep in his throat and the sound went directly to her core, causing it to pulse in response.

She repeated the glide of her hand, then set about mapping his body the way he’d done to her, charting the terrain of his muscles with her fingers and her lips, and teasing him they way he’d teased her.

After long, long minutes of torture, she finally reached his cock. She paused over him, letting him feel her panting breaths against the sensitive tip. Every inch of Matt was still, every muscle taut, as he waited for her next move.

He jerked in surprise when she suddenly took the head in her mouth. She swirled her tongue around it, loving the sounds he made in response - hungry male sounds that made her feel sexy and powerful.

But just as she dipped her head to take more of his length, he wrenched her off him and flipped her onto her back. She started to protest, “I wanted to-,”  but he cut her off.

“I know. Next time. Later. I gotta be inside you.” His accent was rougher, his voice raspy with desire as he crawled over her. “Condom. In the drawer-”

He made a move towards the bedside cabinet next to her, but she stopped him and shook her head.“We don’t need that.”

“Sure?”

She was clean - endless testing in the Red Room confirmed that - and she knew he was too, due to some very intrusive hacking by Anya. And birth control was…not a concern. Not wanting to get into all that, she just nodded. “Sure.”

He nodded in return, then settled himself over her and kissed her.

Although calling it a kiss was like calling a hurricane a light breeze.

He devoured her. His mouth moved over hers with an urgent need as his heavy weight trapped her in place. He grasped her neck, the large hand spanning her throat as he held her in place.

There was no softness to him now. No gentleness. Just dangerous, hard strength.

But she’d never felt safer.

She yielded to him. Relaxed beneath him and spread her legs to allow him closer. And to give him that last bit of wordless consent.

She felt the blunt end of his cock line up with her opening, and then he entered her. The sharp thrust surprised a gasp from her. The sound seemed to penetrate the haze of his lust, and he paused, the thick length of him buried deep within her. “Calina?”

She hitched her legs higher on his waist and adjusted to the feel of him inside her. “I’m good. I’m good.”

To prove just how good she was feeling, she squeezed around his girth. He moaned, and she smiled at the sound.

“Not fair,” he ground out from between clenched teeth. “I’m so close.”

She smoothed his hair back from his face and spread her hands over his shoulders. She could feel the tension in his frame as he tried to hold back.

But she didn’t want him to hold back. She wanted him to go wild.

“Let go, Matt. Just let go,” she whispered, clenching around him one more time.

Her permission was all he needed. He pulled back his hips then snapped them forward again. She absorbed the impact with a moan, then moved with him as he established a frantic rhythm. His unfocussed eyes burned with intense need as he thrust into her. She kept up her caresses, running her hands over his back, his arms, his stubbled cheeks. Her fingers strayed close to his lips and he turned his head to press a kiss to them, a hint of tenderness in the midst of his fierce, untamed ascent towards release.

The sight of him, the feel of him, the enormity of what they were experiencing, reignited Calina’s own lust. She felt the familiar insistent ache in her clit and slipped a hand between them to help it along. Matt realised her plan and beat her to it. His rough fingers rubbed against her, as he thrust and thrust. Within moments she went over the edge, so sensitive due to her earlier orgasm.

Matt followed her with a guttural moan then collapsed on top of her.

She took his weight gladly, and couldn’t stop the smile that spread over her face.

She’d made love to Matt.

Finally.

And it was amazing. Everything she could have hoped for and more.

She glided her hands down his back, feeling the slight tremors beneath his warm skin as he recovered. He levered himself up onto one forearm and smoothed the hair off her face, then pressed a gentle kiss to the tip of her nose. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she whispered back.

He pressed another kiss to her lips. “I love you.”

Her smile widened. “I love you too.”

Matt rolled onto his back and pulled her with him until she was sprawled across his chest. And that’s when the sounds of the outside world started to penetrate their cocoon. She could hear cars in the streets and the faint laughter of children no doubt playing with new Christmas presents on the sidewalks.

But she tried to zone them out. She didn’t want the real world today. She didn’t want time to pass.

She just wanted to stay in this moment, with Matt…forever.

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Chapter 21 

Tag list: @hollandorks​ @stilldreaming666​ @yanna-banana​ @chezagnes​ @tearoseart-blog​ @acharliecoxedfan​ @freckledbabyyy​

If you’d like to be added - let me know!

#Daredevil #daredevil fic #daredevil fanfic #daredevil fanfiction #daredevil fandom #marvel's daredevil #daredevil x original female character #Matt Murdock #matt murdock x original character #matt murdock x oc #tabula rasa

[ttreingdar]

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[fuckit-hero-of-trains]

I adore that people sometimes write Warriors as an older brother figure to Time due to his involvement in the war, but I also think we're missing the funnier younger older brother brother situation: if Wind considered himself to be Time's older brother.

#I know that hw toon link is like #a mix of ww and st link #with a heavier emphasis on st #but like #wouldn't it be funny? #its insomnia hours once again folks #linked universe #lu wind #lu time

[lovely-necromancy]

A Cure for Insomnia CH.4

WARNING OF DEPICTION OF A PANIC ATTACK and mentions of drugging. 

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The rest of the day went by pretty uneventfully. That is after Nate lectured you about stranger danger and how you couldn't just walk forty miles in two hours. You really have no clue how you messed up the math that bad or how calling Nate for a ride never crossed your mind. Nate made you promise not to get into another stranger's car, especially without knowing their fucking names.

“I mean seriously YN, you just hopped in their car because they had a dog?! That's literally the first thing they tell you not to do when you learn about stranger danger!” he said munching on a boston cream donut. It was a good thing you'd brought donuts because you caused this man to stress eat...or was that a bad thing?

After you agreed to having better stranger danger instincts, Nate told you things would be run a little differently around the shop. Apparently the camera out back had died on Sunday, which although weird could be explained away as a camera that hasn't been updated or switched out since the shop was opened, maybe even before then too. So unfortunately Big Jo and Nate still didn't know who broke into your car or if they had been looking for anything. But Big Jo still wants to take precautions like the two of you leaving together and in the morning one of you waiting in their car with the doors locked for the other to come and then entering the building together.

Nate also mentioned a few other things, shipping and inventory related, that wouldn't really pertain to you or change any of your current tasks. It's really just to limit the amount of people coming through the back room. The back room was the emptiest you've ever seen when you went to check on your deer skull. You wonder if you hadn't been hired who would've gotten this position and how long they'd be able to keep their mouth shut about the obviously illegal activity going on. But you remember the person who had this position before you had been Bambi, a sweet if not oblivious girl. So, had you not come along the Cowells would have probably found someone else who didn't have an ounce of perception for their surroundings.

The week goes by slowly and with no further incidents. The deer skull has been completed and you plan on taking it to Maddie's Workshop next week to get a mount for it. In the time that you were bleaching and polishing the bones Nate took it upon himself to clean around the shop. Even though he's made it clear you just have to do your task list here, which takes about an hour maybe two depending on the tasks, he's always working on something.

Nate's the type of guy who's never content to just chill he needs to keep moving always chasing that high you get from accomplishing a goal, whatever he's made his that day. He's probably just substituting whatever he did daily with these new deep cleans of his.

Even with the lack of incidents following your car's break in the two of you have kept to the new precautions. Nate even going so far as to remind you tonight that on Monday if you arrive before him you'll need to stay in the car. At this point you think it's less about safety and more about the security of the store's extra curricular activities. Either way you don't really mind.

Things seemed to return to normal, you were back to driving yesterday and after you rearranged furniture in your house you felt a little less on edge. And every night this week you'd been able to get a good night's sleep, which although not too strange did stand out to you. Maybe another thing that had kept you on edge this week, because it meant when you saw a shadow pass by you during the day you couldn't write it off as quickly as you normally would.

But tonight it seemed your luck had run out. You sat on your bed with your sketch book in hand just doodling strange squiggles till your eyes were so tired they couldn't focus. Putting the book down to rest your eyes and crack your wrist, you sigh not feeling tired at all. The thought of a hike isn't really appealing right now, plus if you made a run into the mini mart you'd probably see either Ronnie or even Tim working behind the counter, that thought set your ears a flame. While the night life in Kepler was decent especially for a Friday night in summer, you just felt the need to be alone.

A drive was the best answer you had. You'd just choose a random lane on the interstate and take a random exit till you found a diner or something, order a tea and a slice of pie. Like you were a background character in someone else's story longingly staring out the window as your dreams slowly slipped through your fingers in this cold cruel world. Ok, you'd been joking about that because you saw a TikTok saying that, but your melodramatic ass actually thinks that sounds fun.

Throwing on some jeans and a flannel over you muscle tee, you were out the door. When you were checking the lock you'd heard rustling coming from around the house where your bins were. Worse case it's a stalker, best case just some raccoons. Either way you decided to calmly but briskly walk to your car, locking the doors immediately. Once in you drove around the side of your house, luckily, you assume, you spot the chonkiest raccoon you've ever seen digging through the bins. His tiny little person hands drawing an awww from you even though his demonic gleaming eyes should send a chill down your spine.

Hissing at the car Chonk returns to dig through your garbage. Weird how he only comes on your pizza weeks. Probably has a thing for Leo's homemade pizzas. You sure as hell do, as much as you love it you do save a slice for this little guy. You haven't put it out yet though, eh you'll do it tomorrow.

Having solved that mystery you sit in your car and link up your phone so you can have your driving playlist. It's mainly Folk Punk and Sea Shanties and while most might say it's a weird combination you say it's the same genre just different fonts. You could drive hundreds of miles into the middle of no where listening to this playlist and you'd be just fine...maybe have an emotional break down or two but expressing your emotions is suppose to be good for you. Mouthing along to Jim Bogart as it comes through the stereo you set off on your little excursion.

Just like when you have the urge to hike at night the urge to drive is nearly one in the same. Momentum taking you forward and not looking back as you do, needing to just go forward with no real destination in mind. Tonight however would be a little different you'd stop at the first diner you see that's out of Kepler bounds. Or turn right back around at one in case you hadn't found anything. There've been times that you kept driving straight through morning and didn't know where the hell you ended up. Not to mention you rarely remember the ways to get back after going for so long, and gps can only get you so far in some of the towns that also border the Monongahela Forest. You'd just have to rely on dumb luck tonight.

Unlike hiking, which gives you a burst of adrenaline as you push your body to its limits to move as far as you can and as much as you can. Driving gives a much more relaxed feeling, it's a feeling a weightlessness that gets lighter and lighter the further you get from home. Some may describe that feeling as a wanderlust or nomadic calling, but you've never cared for either of those things. You've only ever wanted to stay in one place for as long as you could remember. Moving around so much in your youth really messed you up, and you promised yourself this would be the last time you uprooted your life. And you've really come to love Kepler in these past few months. You can't imagine how you'll feel next year after getting to know the community more, but so far it's been really compassionate and understanding, a few rocky spots here and there but nothing like your hometown.

Without realizing it you've picked up your speed, you're doing 75 in a 55 zone. Even with no other vehicles around you slow down to just above the speed limit. While there might not be any cops around looking for easy tickets you don't want to risk dissociating at 75MPH or more. That could only end horribly. Though dissociating behind the wheel at all would be horrible. In the middle of shaking yourself from these thoughts you catch sight of an exit sign, which holds the logo for Denny's on it, and the exit is coming up in five miles. Switching lanes you cross over and get ready to hop off on the next exit.

You're pretty sure the only pie Denny's has is the dry apple with a scoop of ice cream. That isn't very appetizing to you, but then again you aren't really a fan of pie, a fact you seemed to gloss over when you made the decision to drive out here this late at night. Not too bothered by the fact, you remember Denny's has a salted caramel and banana pancake which should work in place of pie.

Pulling into the parking lot there are only three other cars, peering into the diner you don't really see anyone so the cars must belong to the skeleton night crew. Entering the Denny's you see there actually is one other patron, you only see the back of his head as he makes no move to look at the new arrival.

“Hun, seat yourself, I'll be out in a bit.” is the motherly voice that rings out from the kitchen, truly something you've only experienced in the south. Walking into a diner in the dead of night and  being treated like a daytime regular.

Seating yourself near the TV mounted to the wall you let the sounds of the soap opera playing drown out any buzzing you feel in your head. The waitress is out within minutes and though she startles at your masked face she regains her composure very quickly.

“I'd like the salted caramel pancakes if it's alright.” you say declining the offered menu.

“Just the pancakes?”

“Ah, yes please. And water's fine too.” it really pays to know the menu prior to coming in. Gives you ample time to run scripts over in your head.

Viv, the name on her name tag, nods and gives you a smile as she spins right round to the kitchen. Probably happy she won't have to run out so many times for just one order or maybe to spend time with the cooks in the back. You remember working food service sucked but the line cooks made it so much better at the end of the day. Even if they said you were too quiet and called you 'mouse'.

It might not have been exactly what you set out to do but this little midnight self date was really nice, you should do this more often.

Pancakes finished and mask back on you waited for Viv to bring out your check,  then you notice the other patron also making his moves to leave. You're sat facing the door so when he turns and comes closer dread fills your veins like burning cold dry ice. It's David, a local from Kepler you briefly met when you first moved. He gave you really bad vibes and over all was just a very skeevy dude.

What made you feel worse about him was when he left town to “help his sister” right after Bambi disappeared. Those in your circle told you she always talked about leaving Kepler one day but you trusted your gut in saying she didn't leave by her own choice. It got made for her, and David leaving just furthered your theory. You look away hoping he hadn't noticed you but unfortunately you could hear his footsteps falter and then pick back up by passing the door completely.

“Hey...YN, right?” fuck he remembers you, alarm bells are ringing at this fact. Why would he remember someone he briefly met months ago?

“It really is you, still as quiet as I remember.” what did he mean the two of you only met a handful of times and that had been because of your mutual friendship with Bambi.

Where is Viv with the check? You'd really like if she saved you from this painful situation right now. But you aren't sure what's worse having to sit here and listen to David tell you everything he's been up to these past few months, like you even care. Or the thought of leaving with David having him follow you and maybe doing whatever he did to Bambi to you.

“Yea so my sister's better now, I should be seeing you around soon. We should catch up maybe do Saturday Night Dead. Does the Crypt still do that?” great a fucking rhetorical question, he knows the Cryptonomica still does it's weekly movie nights, it's only been two months he's been gone. Not to mention it's a big hit and a huge source of revenue for the shop.

You haven't said anything this whole time, fuck being polite to a potential killer, and fuck being polite to this creep. He's just been talking nearly nonstop for the last few minutes. He must really love the sound of his own voice or thinks he's the most charming person to ever grace the Earth with his presence. Since he's not really caring that you aren't proving to be a stimulating partner in this conversation. He really does love hearing himself talk. By the time he's said his own goodbyes Viv finally makes it out from the back.

She apologizes for the wait, had to go on her break sometime you supposed. You take your time finding your wallet, it's in your back pocket but you wanted to stall for time since you could still see David's car out there, you were also keeping an eye on your own car. Only relaxing when you saw him pull off from the corner of your eye. Oh look you've “found” your wallet,  handing Viv your credit card you just want to get out of here quickly now.

You pay and leave a nice tip for Viv, while she didn't save you from that creep it's not like she could've known. You sit in your car for a moment or two just breathing in and out in the glow of the diner lights. Almost meditating before you begin your long drive back to Kepler with all these thoughts of David, Bambi's disappearance, and how it can't be coincidence that David is coming back at the same time that you have a break in. Could you be his next target? Were you just over thinking things? Just blaming this poor guy because you didn't like him? But you've always been intuitive and bad vibes aren't something to ignore. David appearing now meant something.

Just that thought alone put you on edge as your skin begins to crawl. With a few calming breaths you go to start the car and sync your radio when you notice the glow of the lights changed from the slight yellow to a sterile blueish white. Looking up where the diner should be you see the mini mart back at Kepler...how on earth did you get here? You didn't drive! You couldn't have dissociated while driving, you never even turned the car on and you can barely take a hike dissociating let alone do something as complex as drive a car.

It happens before you can register it, on shaky legs that move on their own you are passing the threshold of the convenience store and catching the tail end of a conversation.

“ppened to not feeding into delus...” the voice cuts off as the door shuts behind you. You know that voice why is it so hard to focus?

Something warm brushes your hand and you see someone in front of you. Who is that? You can't see their face, they've got a mask covering their face. Like you but that person is not you. You might know them...Tobais?

“Yea? You good there?” confusion, you blink hard and see you are standing in the mini mart now, Connor standing under your hand, Toby hovering close by and both Brian and Tim watch with unease over by the register.

“...I don't know how I...how I got here.” you register movement in the background but not consciously.

It's the shifting of Brian's head as he looks out the front windows and spots your Kia.

“You drove.” shaking your head, “Maybe...I don't...I dissociated?” in your confusion you can register Toby stiffen in front of you.

Fear, fear, uneasy, breath....are you breathing? Your head's so jumbled right now.

You scan the shop trying to look for answers that may help you but you find none. The more confused you get the more worked up you get, chest rising and falling rapidly. You take a step back or try to and end up falling on your butt. It's starting to get hard to breathe with your throat constricting, you bring a hand up to your larynx.

“..re.....have..attack......”

        “could be o...me..”

“.....pressure...”

Is all you can make out with your fuzzy consciousness before a heavy pressure is piling on your chest and knocking you fully on your back. The pressure is actually pretty lifting as contradictory as it may seem. Instead of restricting your breathing more it seems to be kick starting your lungs to exhale and inhale. With oxygen coming back into your body you can feel your toes and the tingle behind them. You can feel your fingers and the fur under them. Fur?

Taking in a big breath you move your head and come face to muzzle with Connor.  You give a nod of recognition to the dog before lying flat again and staring up at the ceiling. After about ten minutes you're thinking more clearly than before, which isn't saying much.

“Thanks.” you aren't sure who it's directed at but you still mean it.

It's silent until Toby breaks it, “I'm taking you home.”

“Car.” it's all you can manage to say but the message though distorted got through.

“I'll drive it, Brian follow behind.” there is no room for arguing, driving under any influence must be a touchy subject for Toby. Or maybe you're really fucked up right now and just can't comprehend how bad.

You use Connor to get up, he seems ready and no one else makes a move to you. Toby pushes past and holds the door open as Connor guides you, still holding onto his vest with one hand, and Brian murmurs something to Tim before following you three.

Outside Toby already has your keys in his hand, when did he get those? Did you give them to him? Your hand is risen, you must of...how on earth did you even drive like this. Had you really driven? There's a lump in your throat again and you're breathing's gone shaky, god you hope you didn't hurt anyone. You must have been zoning out for too long, not only is Connor pushing your legs but Toby has a grasp on your forearm coaxing you forward.

His grip isn't suffocating, honestly even seeing it there you still don't feel it. Maybe it's because you're so numb, or maybe it's because he's genuinely helping you but you can't feel the pain that  usually comes with being touched. The sharp jab that feels like you've been struck with a fire poker where ever someone laid their hands on you. After he's pushed you into the backseat, more like nudged you, even making sure you didn't bump your head, he buckles you in then snaps and Connor jumps into the car and lays across your lap.

You're shaking, actually trembling as you look at Toby. What's going on? Why can't you figure out what's happening? The brunette doesn't say a thing as he gets into the driver's seat and buckles in to drive you home. That's strange you think, how does he know where to go? You told him right, just follow the road...or maybe he guessed from the other day. What happened to you? Why the mini mart? You were at Denny's.

“This town doesn't have a Denny's.” did you say that out loud?

“I...I went for a drive, a town over...up...no.. north I think...” you start blinking barely able to keep your eyes open before your eyes lock shut. It's sending you over the edge even more in your confusion.

“Hey, hey just focus on the Denny's. What'd you do once you got there?” is he trying to distract you? Calm you down? Or is he trying to piece together what happened like you are? You can remember Denny's just fine, the dull yellow glow of the inside the skeleton crew murmuring in the back, the pancakes you had, and the “conversation” with David. Did David do this, had he put something in your water glass? Did you even touch your water glass after he left? Breathe. You need to breathe. Toby's waiting.

“Pancakes...I had pancakes. Then that creep came over...and he started talking. Didn't like. We aren't friends, I don't know him. I don't understand why he'd talk to me. Didn't like. Didn't like.” finger back to pressing down on your larynx and the weight of Connor preventing your legs from striking out at the seat in front of you.

“Wait, were you drugged?” Eyes flash to the rear view to lock with your own teary stare.

“No, maybe...I don't think so.” you barely feel the pain in your throat right now, this is all so overwhelming. “He left, I...I watched him drive off before getting in my car... I had an episode while the car was off then..” then you were at the mini mart. You never touched the ignition.

“I didn't drive, I never started the car. Didn't, didn't, didn't” Your attack is probably stressing even Connor out now, but this is all so confusing.

You're so focused on the fuzzy events you don't notice Toby bristle. Or how he grips the steering wheel tighter until his knuckles grow white despite his already translucent skin. He might not be able to feel or see it in the mirror through his mask but he's probably gnawing off more of his face. He'd deal with it after he dealt with you.

You've made it to your house and he's waiting for the headlights from Brian. When he sees them in the rear view he gets out but not before telling you, or maybe Connor, to stay put.

It's a few long moments before he comes back. But in the silence and darkness of your car, growing colder by the moment, you start to ground yourself. You aren't calm by any means and you're still very unfocused. But you aren't crying as the numbness overtakes you, you don't even jump when the door beside you opens. With a snap Connor is out of the car and soon you're being pulled from the car, that same weightless touch gripping your forearm. Toby guides you into your own home, and walks towards the hallway looking into the bathroom, the only other door, before finding your room.

Seemingly understanding your catatonic state he sits you on the bed and gives some order to Connor before he leaves the room. And you just sit on the bed staring into dead air as a silent guard sits in wait. You aren't sure what he's waiting for or why he's still there but the numbness has taken over too much and you can't find it in you to give a single fuck.

#ticci tobyx reader #ticci toby #ticcitoby #reader insert #readerinsert #creepypasta fanfic #masky #masky x hoodie #masky x reader #hoodie #hoodie x reader #timothy wright #timothy wright x reader #brian thomas #brian thomas x reader #timothy wright x brian thomas #A cure for insomnia

[willard-writes]

Hollownopus Coronatus, A Night With Glycerin

(( hey what do you do when you’re struck with inspiration in the midst of depression? freeform write, just do whatever!!! no plan just go!! ))

1 PM had struck. It had to be 1 PM. The start of the morning, an in-between of dusk and dawn. Did that even matter, none of these words had a point, it was all the same. Did it even matter on Gasmoxia, where more often than not was the light trapped in within the planet’s atmosphere, leaving blinding light to pierce through dust and sand that traveled through the air, the only thing leading to any protection from the sun being a heavy plate on a window. Only the best for the Queen of the whole planet.

Rewinding to the earlier statement, everything felt the same - stagnant, no matter the hour. Just that time of the week for Nitros Glycerin III, as she fell victim to her own thoughts. Not even the slight buzz of her TV screen as the feed had ceased, the distraction of the lights and sounds of various recordings had reached its end, leaving her laying still on her bed, staring up at the roof.

Lowering each of her four skinny legs, one by one, off her bed, not a single feeling coursed through her as her body tumbled to the ground, no pain, no sound of the impact nor the fluttering of her wings as she forced herself up. Only a strong curse within her head, her mind the only thing capable of conjuring her screeching vocals.

An anxiety rising up in one of her hearts, she grew needy, demanding some sort of stimuli, everything felt just so empty in her room, it was absolutely crushing, as her slit-like pupils gazed around, her head literally spinning in place. Was her room getting smaller? No, no, she needed to ground herself, this was just a normal occurrence. The sensation of no escape, the manifestation in shapes in the walls that had no distinction, then the pulling on each of her bony body parts.

The only sound that was making itself distinct was the reminder of the position she was in... someone with intense insomnia and restlessness. One of those things had a cure, right, she told herself. What she could do to bring some senses back to her, to get her through this night? Retrieving her phone, her sharp finger raced through her contacts. Oxide should be awake, she knew he was particularly bad about sleeping. No, contacting any of her children wouldn’t do, she couldn’t worry them. That really only left her with her lovers to contact, which for some she could probably get away with, different planetary time zones and all. Out of the question, why would they travel all the way to her palace on Gasmoxia to endanger themselves? Not even the one on her planet she could contact.

Everything around her began to give the illusion as if it was warping, leaving her to shake her head. She’s combatted whatever this was before, she could do it again! Opening the door very carefully, she skittered out of her room, down the various floors and halls throughout the castle, she still found herself perturbed how quiet everything was, even with the nocturnal guards patrolled all around,  it really seemed as if all she really knew within the hour was isolation.

She completely thought this night was going to go off without a hitch, she would go berserk in the dining room, trying to find a way to calm herself or feel something, and she could just go back into her room, watching the immensely cinematic reviews of the entire discography of folk music by a band from Teknee. That all could be fun.

Part one went without a hitch as luckily there were usually leftovers waiting for her, the staff knowing what they were dealing with. All Glycerin could hope now is that there was less of a feeling like death was looming over her, she fulfilled part of her role as a parasite host, she still couldn’t sleep or really depend on others, but she wasn’t going to die. Go team Queen Glycerin!

Now, part two of just once more laying flat on her bed and simply existing for the next four hours. That was when something finally hit her hearing glands after what resembled an eternity, as she opened the door and saw her fourth child, Lithium, stare up at her, asking what she was doing.

Nervously giggling, she asked what they meant, and in response they blankly stared at their parent, remarking that they were trained to be a protector of their planet, of the royals; if there was anything they could make out, it was the crashing of dishes and the rushing through the halls - and this happened every week.

At a loss for words, the monarch heard her third youngest ask her why was this the case, was there something that she didn’t talk about, was the position of being the head of a family such as hers too much pressure? She still couldn’t respond. She didn’t want to push anyone away or refuse help but she wasn’t about to keep her offspring from sleep, or force her problems onto anyone else. 

“We’ll talk in the morning, but you can take me back to my room.”

 “It is the morning.” 

Their remark brought some relief to her, a smile amidst all the emptiness at the beginning of her journey outside her room; that she was in a family of smartasses.

As she returned to her room, she bid Lithium a good night. As they left, her room appeared a lot less closing-in-on-itself. Perhaps relying on people a bit helped.

#Gasmoxia Content #(( I love myself my tags aren't gonna involve calling my stuff trash anymore)) #(( it's not charming and I'm better than to feed self deprication ))

[banashee]

i"I have way too many stories already planned" I said. “I can’t write in multiple fandoms at once, it will throw me off” I said. “OK so I’ll just get this out of my system real quick” I said. “Well shit, I’ve gotten more ideas now that I’ve started…” I said, determinded to face it - I have a problem. Just a small one… Who am I kidding. Send help.

Also, this is the first time I’ve written for this fandom. I’ve loved and enjoyed TMA for a while now, not just the pod but also fanworks. And now I’m joining in on the fun and you folks will have to deal with it :D ♥

This story got inspired by a conversation on Reddit with Swiftysmoon. Thank you very much for the inspo! This one is for you :)

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edit. sorry about the missing ReadMore cut, Tumblr is programmed like a pile of garbage and removed it after I edited a typo...I’ve added it back in now.

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please mind the tags and warnings

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 Into the Void

Truth be told, Jon never planned on this to happen. Of course not - it is ridiculous and more than a little embarrassing, but he can’t help himself.

See, the thing is, Jon is a restless, anxious person in general. He’ll hide away in his office for hours, typing away or recording statements in solitude, only interrupted when someone actually wants something from him. That, or when Martin brings him yet another cup of tea, checking if he’s still alive or starved to death on his desk.

No kidding - Martin had told him this, once, and although he’d been half-joking at the time, the underlying message had been very clear.

‘Please take care of yourself, you worry me.’ - it had been oddly sweet, and Jon still has no idea how to even react to this kindness.

But the thing is - Jon has nervous habits. While his mind is wandering and he is buried neck-deep in his work, he tends to fiddle. Mostly with pens, or anything else he can reach on his desk. That would be fine - no one notices it, unless they stand right next to him. But Jon had almost choked on the pen he’d been chewing on, lost in thoughts while reading his notes, omn more than one occasion. Mostly thanks to Tim bursting into the room like the whirlwind he is.

For one, Tim Stoker just doesn’t knock. Ever. He enters a room as loud and cheerful as he does anything else, and it can be a bit unnerving. Still, he somehow manages to be a professional and be really good at his job. That and the fact that there is  ‘Chaos’ written all over him makes for an odd combination sometimes, but they’re all somewhat used to this.

So, when Tim suddenly sticks his head into the room with a cheerfully casual

“Hey, Boss!”

Jon startles and nearly stabs himself in the throat with a pen while he scrambles to make it look like he  didn’t chew on it the entire time. He needs to preserve some sort of professionalism around here, even though he feels a little bit lost sometimes.

He glares halfheartedly, trying to keep whatever is left of his composure in place. Tim shoots him a bright smile with finger guns, then he rattles off the information that Jon had asked him for not long ago.

Thankful that he doesn’t have to explain himself, Jon launches onto it.

      As time goes on, things around the institute get more and more weird. One thing adds to the other, and suddenly, they’re at war against worms all over the place. They spend their days at the institute armed with fire extinguishers and in Martin’s case, a corkscrew. Martin even lives there now, which adds a whole different level to it all.

Really, it is not surprising that they rarely ever get any outside visitors down in the archives. They have a bit of a reputation for being weird, and truth be told, Jon can’t find any fault in the people who assume that. If he wasn’t involved - if he didn’t  know  what lurks out there, in the shadows, he’d have thought the same.

Pushing his own dismissive, sceptic act is getting harder and harder these days, but it doesn’t stop Jon from trying.

Even after Jane Prentiss’ attack, Jon tries to keep up that act. It’s clearly faltering now, though, which may or may not be partially due to the fact that he confessed to Martin that yes, he does believe and he is terrified. It’s been an awkward conversation, to say the least, and not just because Jon pretty much asked if Martin was a ghost and despite Martin stabbing him with the corkscrew. To be fair, he’d apologized profusely for that, and while Jon is not happy about it, he is thankful for his attempt to get the damn worms out of him. Just thinking about it still makes him shudder, makes him lay awake at night.

On the plus side, their team in the archives has grown much closer to one another - it eases the anxiety and paranoia, just a bit.

      Jon finds himself busy, not to say, utterly distracted. Time flies, and he takes even less care of himself than he did before. He practically lives off tea, and whatever food is offered where Martin, Tim and Sasha drag him along to.

Jon acts prickly and annoyed as always, but in reality, he appreciates their efforts. Lord knows, he isn’t sure he deserves this kindness, but he still makes an effort. These three people are all he’s got, after all. They’re the only group of allies who have any sort of idea what is really going on in the archives, and that alone is enough to have him lower his walls just a bit.

One day, Jon keeps blowing an annoying, grey-streaked strand of his otherwise dark hair out of his face. He didn’t have the time or energy to get a haircut lately - there are much more pressing matters to take care of. But his hair is currently at the awkward in-between length that he hated years ago, when he decided to grow it out. He’d kept it long, up until shortly before his promotion to head archivist. Only then he parted with the shoulder length ponytail in an attempt to be perceived as more professional.

It doesn’t feel right - never did. And as much as he hates the annoying strands falling in his face, it makes him feel like he is back on the way to himself. Or at least as much as he can these days.

Especially in the face of, well, everything else, it is a small comfort. Right now though, Jon is annoyed - he takes a pen from his desk, and sticks it behind his ear to hold back the constantly falling piece of hair - it works.

Jon only notices the pen again when he is about to go to bed that night - he huffs, places it onto the small desk in his bedroom and then crawls under the covers. Once he is in bed, Jon is waiting for the insomnia and the nightmares to keep him awake, despite his best attempts to fall asleep.

He is long used to both, but the last few months have been significantly more stressful.

The next day, Jon is exhausted. He barely makes it into the kitchen for some coffee, then he drives to the institute, the pen forgotten back home. Oh well - he’ll bring it back in another day - no big deal.

Except, it becomes a Thing, with a capital T.

Jon is chewing on and fumbling with his pens as usual, recording statement after statement and doesn’t exactly realize what he is doing. He hides away, until one of the others drags him away from the desk for inconvenient human needs like food and company, but really, he goes willingly now. All he needs is a small reminder.

The bit of human warmth and company means a lot to Jon, and he soaks it up as much as he allows himself to. Trusting people is a struggle for him. His relationship with each and every coworker is definitely a work in progress, but he is willing to try, anyway.

One night, Martin points to the side of Jon’s neck in quiet amusement.

“Oh, you’ve got ink on you - yes, right there.” he touches the spot behind his own ear. Jon blinks, and when he tries to wipe it away, his hand comes away with yet another goddamn pen.

It joins a small pile of accidentally stolen pens on Jon’s desk back home - he’s been meaning to bring them back ages ago, but he keeps forgetting. At this point, he refuses to drop them all off at once, because that would definitely catch someone’s attention - and attention is the last thing he wants right now. Add in the fact that this is, well, ridiculous and embarrassing… No. Just no.

Jon looks around the room, heat creeping up his face even though there is no one around to look at and judge him - then he opens an empty drawer in his desk. The pens disappear with one swift movement of his arm before Jon slams the drawer shut. There - done.

And this is how, what Jon secretly calls his “Desk Drawer of Shame”, comes into existence.

      Occasionally, a small handful of pens will make its way back into the archives. But at this point, they’re way, way too many to bring back at once, at least not without pissing off Elias. That is, if he isn’t chuckling at the ridiculous and mysteriously high cost of office supplies in the last few months.

At the very least, Jon would be at the receiving end of some good natured ribbing from his coworkers in the foreseeable future.

Jon is reading the last few lines of a statement, when the door to his office opens up after a quick knock. He looks up with a frown, which is more habit than anything at this point, and quickly drops his feet back on the ground. At least, he isn’t chewing on a pen this time.

Standing in the doorway, shooting him a small smile, is Martin and he is waiting for Jon to finish recording the last few lines. Only when the familiar

“Statement ends.” marks the end of the recording session, he starts talking.

“Hi! Uh, did you have lunch yet?”

Jon didn’t, and Martin knows it, but he is trying to go the polite route before his motherhen-mode is activated and he physically drags the man away from the desk in an attempt to make him take a break.

So, Jon smiles back, which still feels a bit foreign in a work context, but he secretly enjoys the spark of happiness on Martin’s face when he does. Not like he focuses on that or anything…

“No, I- I didn’t. Did you have something in mind?” he asks as he gets up and pulls his jacket from the back of his chair. It’s a welcome distraction from his work.

Jon didn’t sleep, again, and he can tell that he is getting sloppy and way more irritable than usual. Chances are, getting a bite to eat and spending some time out of the institute with a friend will do him some good.

On the way out, Jon falls comfortably into step with Martin. Plenty of thoughts cross his mind, and he chooses to ignore all of them. In fact, he’d been so busy staring up at a cluster of freckles on Martin’s cheek that he doesn’t even notice what he tells him about the little café that he was planning to visit. Only when he stops talking, obviously waiting for an answer, Jon nods, hoping that Martin actually asked him a yes-or-no question.

For now, it seems to be enough, and they enjoy their lunch break. Jon is still lost in thoughts though.

That night, he is unable to sleep once again, as his mind keeps him wide awake and Jon is shaking apart under the blanket. There are two new pens on his desk, and it feels like they’re glaring at him. It’s ridiculous - they really are the least of his worries. Jon is just distracted, that’s all.

      There is ink on his neck. Again. Jon swipes at it in mild annoyance, inwardly cursing himself for being so careless. His movement catches Tim’s attention, and then his eyes wander to the pen that is stuck halfway to Jon’s ponytail - it’s for convenience, really - but it’s clearly the cause for the ink scribbles on his skin.

Tim puts the pieces together and grins. He is way too easily amused about this, but to be fair, they get their laughs whenever they can these days. And this is still much better than the silent, angry version of Tim that tends to come out more and more and the last few months. At least, when he’s laughing, he isn’t that.

Small favors.

      The more distracted Jon grows, and the longer his hair gets, the more pens he keeps losing - or more like, forgetting - in it.

He doesn’t realize that he is doing it, really, until someone - mostly Martin or Tim these days, because Sasha is (gone) (different ) absent - walks up and plucks one of the pens right out of his hair in order to use it. Jon should be annoyed, but he can’t bring himself to be. It’s oddly comforting that the two of them are still willing to seek him out. Because that’s what this is - there are plenty of pens around, of course.

There is no need to come into his office, to come close to him just to get office supplies. They’re here because they want to, and that honestly means the world to Jon.

As much as he’d tried to keep them at arm’s length, he’s failed miserably. Thankfully so - things would be much, much worse if they had to deal with everything on their own.

      “Hang on - how many bloody pens are in there?” Martin asks one day, calling over from the other room. He looks up in utter confusion while already cracking up with  laughter.

“Wait, are those-?”

Oh goddammit.

Apparently, that’s what happens when Jon answers absentmindedly when asked for the location of a pen in his apartment.

He needs to renovate his kitchen, because the landlord just won’t do it in any reasonable amount of time, so Jon is in old jeans and an even older T-shirt, packing dishes and kitchenware into boxes with Martin and Tim. The two of them had been kind enough to offer help, so that’s why they’re all piled in Jon’s small apartment on a Saturday morning.

Partway through, they realize that they should probably label the boxes, and soon after, Martin stands in the bedroom, opening not the stationary drawer, but The Secret Drawer of Shame With Accidentally Stolen Pens From The Institute.

“Oh, good lord.” With an audible ‘thump’, Jons forehead collides with the kitchen table. His glasses sit crooked now, and he doesn’t lift his head up while he tries to explain, and despite being flustered, he manages to keep that certain tone of voice that’s usually reserved for work hours.

“I, yes. I may have accidentally taken a pen or two with me and only realized it here. Coming back into work with all of them at once seemed… well. Not ideal at the time.”

“No wonder when you keep storing them in your hair.” Martin comes back, with a handful of pens and a bright smile.

While walking past, he pulls another pen out of Jon’s bun, just to prove his point. A long strand of hair slips forward and falls back into Jon’s face. Meanwhile, Tim has snuck off to peek into the other room out of pure curiosity, then he proceeds to laugh his arse off for the next few minutes.

“You know, we should make it a sport at this point. How much stationary supplies can we steal until Elias catches wind of it?” Tim offers, because of course he does.

It is ridiculous and childish, so naturally, it quickly becomes A Thing.

Anything to get a tiny bit of satisfaction is a valid option at this point, and besides, it’s not like Jon is trying to be sneaky or anything. It just happens , like so many things these days.

      As it turns out, Elias doesn’t care. None of them is stupid enough to assume he doesn’t know - the bastard knows everything, that’s part of their problem. He just never calls any of them out on it - if it is because it’s too unimportant or if he is getting a chuckle out of it as well, they never find out.

At some point, late at night when all three of them had a few drinks, they’re brave enough to joke about what fear entity would be responsible for a never ending void filled with pens (“A.K.A you desk drawer of shame, Jon. Have another drink, you’re annoyingly sober for this conversation.”)

It’s a half-serious debate, and one which they continue every once in a while. Most notably so at the institute’s christmas party, huddled in a corner where they’re mostly being left alone. And if that is mostly due to Jon glaring holes through anyone daring to come close, just a hair away from actually hissing and snarling, well. He didn’t get his reputation of being rude and prickly for nothing.

      All of this turns into fond memories, once everything has gone to hell.

Jon is freshly awake from six months of coma, and the world around him has changed. Martin is barely around and Tim is  dead . So is Sasha, even though they never knew, for the longest time.

All of this hurts badly enough to stop him from breathing every once in a while, and after a series of even more tangled and unfortunate events, Jon finds himself huddled close to Martin on a train.

They’re on their way to Scotland and neither of them talks much, but they’re unwilling to let go of the other’s hand. The air is chilly, even inside the wagon, and Martin is still shivering under layers of jumpers and jackets.

The Lonely has settled deep into his bones, and sometimes, it’s like he is fading away again. Every time this happens, the steady warmth of Jon keeps pulling him back.

Jons hand is smaller and bonier in Martin’s own large, soft hand, but it’s grip is steady and warm. His thumb keeps stroking gently over the back of his hand while he is holding it, and it is the most loved Martin has felt in a long time.

Eventually, he manages to relax enough to doze off for a bit. While his head find’s it’s way down and onto Jon’s shoulder, he can feel the slight poke of a plastic pen that is sticking out of his hair.

Martin almost smiles, and squeezes back when Jon tightens the grip around his hand and settles against him.

    They keep finding the damn things around the safehouse, because frankly, they’re everywhere. And that’s just whatever Jon had on his person out of sheer habit. Lord knows, his hair has grown way past his shoulders by now, and more often than not, he keeps it up and out of the way with whatever is around him at the time.

Mostly, it’s pens.

At first, they’re just  there , and both Jon and Martin have about a million other things to think of and to deal with than a few too many office supplies laying around.

The exhaustion, both physically and emotionally, leaves them absolutely drained and dead to the world.

It is bad enough so that they crawl into bed almost as soon as they have arrived and inspected the small cabin. The question of whether or not they’re going to share the bed isn’t even raised - neither of them is willing to let go of the other. All the way from London to up here, they’d held hands to reassure themselves that they wouldn’t lose each other, and they’re not about to stop now.

It is a lot easier to remind each other that they’re not alone when all they need to do is focus on the breath and heartbeat of one another. Focusing on the heat radiating under the blankets, where they are embracing throughout the night to keep the nightmares and the ever growing anxiety at bay.

They have plenty of bad days when everything just creeps up at them and even talking is too much. Those days, they spend curled up in front of the fire or in bed, holding on tight for as long as they need to in order to feel more alive again.

After a while, they’re able to relax more. Martin is much warmer and solid now, doesn’t fade away into the fog without noticing. It’s happening less and less now - whether or not he will be able to shake off The Lonely entirely, neither of them knows, but he is happy about every step in the other direction.

Jon is just as happy to see him doing better, and he tells him as much over breakfast, smiling as he tangles their legs under the table.

There are two pens already stuck in his hair, holding it up in two buns. It’s probably from when he read a statement from the stack of files and tapes that Basira sent over the other day.

The statement has definitely taken the edge off of things for Jon. Now he can sit at the kitchen table with his boyfriend and enjoy a cup of tea instead of growing weaker and weaker with hunger for statements. As ironic as it is, it makes him feel more human, even though he is no longer fully human. He’s pretty sure of it.

“I love you.” Martin tells him, because it is true and he likes saying it as often as possible, now that he can. It sends a spark of warm happiness through his chest, and it is bright enough to chase away the cold fog that’s still lingering sometimes - just for a bit.

“I love you, too.”

He’ll never get tired of hearing this.

“I love you” they say, as they drink tea in the morning and eat freshly baked bread, still warm from the oven.

“I love you” they say, as they walk hand in hand through the cobblestone streets down in the village, on their way to buy groceries and look at the little local shops.

“I love you” they say, as they step around each other in the tiny kitchen while cooking dinner, distracting one another with kisses until one of them remembers the food or notices the charred smell of something burning. It’s only then that they break apart, cursing and laughing all at once.

“I love you” they say, as they spend nights wide awake, holding on tightly through their grief and fear. They say it out loud or whisper it into the darkness, comforting one another as best as they can.

“I love you”, they whisper through silence and tears, but they say it just as much through smiles and laughter.

“I love you” they say, after every single argument. Their love for each other is strong, so much so that they’re certain they will be able to figure out the rest. Whether that’s the end of the world as they know it or anything else doesn’t matter.

“I love you” Martin says, after he walks up behind Jon and plucks one of the pens out of his hair. There are at least two more, and besides, Martin woke up this morning with a few lines of poetry in the back of his mind. He wants to write them down before he forgets - maybe, just maybe, he can  turn them into  something beautiful.

“I love you.” Jon says, and he pulls Martin closer by the front of his pyjama shirt, turning around just enough to be able to press a quick kiss to his lips. The movement leaves them both in an awkward position, hanging over the back of the sofa with their glasses askew.

Martin has one of his arms wrapped around Jon, who is holding on tight, happily leaning into him with a quiet, happy satisfaction on his face. Clearly, he is enjoying this an awful lot.

No doubt, if it wasn’t for the hold onto the sofa Martin has with his other, he’d have toppled over and fallen right into the smaller man’s lap. And maybe that’s exactly what Jon is trying to do - who knows. He is way more affectionate than either of them would have thought possible, really.

They remain wrapped up in the tight hug, and neither of them wants to let go yet.

                                     Notes:  

Warnings: - Off-screen canon character death mentioned - insecurity - Loneliness - Trust issues - if you want me to add anything please let me know

#banashee writes #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #the magnus archives fanfic #JonMartin #mentioned character death

[aye-write]

Summary: Research student Isla Reid has been fascinated with the legend of the Kildonian Chessmen - a trio of mythical Pokemon rumoured to have lived centuries ago on the remote region of Kildo - for as long as she can remember. So, when a museum exhibit on the Chessmen is set to open in Kildo’s Hydrogate City, coinciding with her independent research project, she packs herself and her trusty partner Furret onto the long ferry journey bound for this new region.

However, when she arrives in Kildo, thoughts of her research, new friends, and an entire Pokedex’s worth of new Pokemon, are quickly dashed. Kildo is a troubled place, beset by natural disasters and fierce rivalries among its people. Isla suddenly finds herself at the centre of a centuries-old plot to invoke the wrath of the Chessmen, and is set on a race against time to stop them, before it spells destruction for the entire region.

Other Links: Read it on Ao3!

Tags: OC Pokemon journey, OC region, Fakemon region, bisexual main character, found family, ace main character.

If you are not interested in these posts, especially as I know Pokemon journeyfic is fairly niche, please blacklist the tag #Checkmate. Most of the story will be put under a Readmore anyway!

Author’s Note: If you’re interested in more information, exclusive updates, character art, and teasers for this fic, please consider following its sister tumblr @kildo-pokedex! 

This was another chonker chapter at 4.5k that I didn’t anticipate being this long at all! The joys of plantsing, eh? I had hoped to reveal the starters this chapter, but that’s being bumped to next update. In the meantime, please enjoy the reveal of Brootser, and the partial reveals of Weldeon, Ampster and Coastrot!

*****

Chapter Three

Despite everything, night rolled over the Whispering Pine Croft.

After hours battling insomnia, Isla stole downstairs not long after the clock in the hallway chimed midnight. Goosepimples erupted on her skin, the air chilling her to the core. Clicking on the floor lamp, she cast her gaze around the living room. A rickety bookshelf took up most of one wall, covered in dust and trinkets. It didn’t take her long to strike gold.  

The Etymological Dictionary of Old Kildonian, 1981 Edition.

Sitting at the old coffee table, she spread out her books and copies of the Old Kildonian script until there wasn’t an inch of space left. Then she opened the dictionary and started to read. She read, moving between dictionary and text, until her eyes strained in the dim light of the lamp, and the words on the page turned into incomprehensible squiggles. Just keep going, she told herself, as she marked off another decoded word. Just keep going. Just keep going. Just keep—

“Isla?”

Isla slammed the book shut. The noise seemed to echo forever in the quiet of the living room. The intruder snapped on the main light and Isla blinked foolishly as everything illuminated around her. It was Blair at the door, swaddled in an enormous red dressing gown and a pinched look on his face.

“What are you doing down here?” he asked, pulling his dressing gown tighter. “You’ll catch your death of cold.”

“I’m… I’m not doing anything,” Isla said, trying to collect the papers together, position her body over them, anything to hide them from sight.  

“Really? You look like a student trying to panic revise a whole subject the night before an exam,” he chuckled, plopping himself in the seat opposite. “Come on. What’s up?”

Isla sighed. What was the point in lying? “I’m just trying to make some sense of these texts.”

Blair glanced at the clock above the fireplace. “At half two in the morning?”

“I couldn’t sleep. This presentation is doing my head in.” When Blair frowned, she added, “My supervisor asked me to update them with all the “progress” I’ve mad so far. Of course, I haven’t made any yet.”

“So, you’re trying to decode all these old books with…. an out-of-date Kildonian dictionary?”

“I found it in the bookcase. I thought it might help.���

“I’m pretty sure that book is older than me. Please don’t tell me you’re taking it word-by-word.”

“More or less.”

“You’ll be there months trying to sort all that lot.”

“I don’t have any other choice,” Isla’s voice cracked. “Everyone is hounding me. I can’t let this come undone. They’ll pull approval of my project and fail me if I don’t keep jumping through all their hoops.”

“Why is the legend of the Chessmen so important to you?”

Isla hesitated. It was an innocent enough question, but the thought of answering it felt like ripping her chest open and exposing the beating heart underneath. “Well...” she started, cringing at how stupid it all sounded in her head. “When I was little, I was kinda lonely. I didn’t have siblings. Or friends, really,”

Blair made a sympathetic noise.

“No, it’s okay. I wasn’t that bothered by it,” Isla lied. “But because I didn’t have many friends, I naturally leant towards books instead. And I loved fiction, like adventure stories and that, but I felt so much more connected to things that were actually real.”

Blair nodded. “Understandable.”

“Anyway, one Christmas, I got this book. I think it was called Myths and Legends of the Pokemon World and it had all the origin stories of all the legendary Pokemon from like… every region in the world. God, I ate up every single story - how Arceus created the world, the theory that all Pokemon came from Mew in some way, how Groudon and Kyogre created the land and sea. I was absolutely hooked. Then, right at the end, there were a couple of small articles devoted to a place called Kildo.”

“Typical,” Blair muttered. “Always playing second fiddle to the big guns.”

“The book explained a little bit about the legend of the Chessmen. I was just… amazed at how these Pokemon brought humans these gifts of technology and arts and whatnot and how advanced the region was for its time. And then when I read what happened next, well… I just wanted to know why. Why did the Chessmen take away what they gave the humans?  What happened to them after they became dormant? I was obsessed. When I was younger, I had this stupid dream that I would like… Oh, it sounds so cheesy now, but… like solve the mystery of what happened all those years ago.”

“It’s not cheesy, Isla. Dreams are never cheesy.”

Isla bit the inside of her cheek. “I know that. It’s just… well, this legend has been everything to me for years. I’m not bigheaded enough now to think someone like me could ever solve it. But I’d love to find something. Even if it’s just standing in the same place these Pokemon stood once, all those years ago. But now it feels like it’s slipping away from me. I won’t be able to do anything unless I get these texts translated.”

“They’re well-known texts, right? Haven’t they already been translated?”

“The only translations that exist are locked behind online paywalls,” Isla sighed. “Not exactly within my budget. The originals were family owned. I suppose you can’t blame them for wanting them kept safe.”

“Could the university not pay for you to access them?”

“Not my department. They already think the project isn’t worth the time. They’re usually into social changes, modern day life, that sort of thing. Mythology doesn’t get a look in. Even though I changed my project a bit – focusing more on how the mythology influences modern life, with the Chessmen more of like a case study – the department still don’t want much to do with it.”

“Well, that’s their loss. Your project sounds fascinating just from what I’ve seen of it.”

“This little bit you’ve seen might end up being all it ever amounts to. With Nana Morag in the hospital, my options for translations are limited, and these old texts are all I have to help me piece together where the Chessmen might be.”

Silence unfurled around them. Isla stared down at her lap, her legs shaking and her mouth dry. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d ever talked so much about herself and she found that she couldn’t quite bring herself to look Blair in the eye.

“I think I might know someone.”

Isla pricked her head up. “Really?” she said, hope throbbing in her chest.

“I have a friend who lives in Inverbrook. It’s not a huge city, but they do have a subsect of Tideburgh University there. He’s doing a Masters in Language and mentioned being involved with an elective on Old Kildonian. I can contact him for you. He might be able to help.”

Something surged through Isla like she’d just taken a shot of adrenaline. “Oh, Blair, thank you! That’s amazing!”

“No guarantees, of course!” he said, spreading his hands hastily. “He might not know enough of it to be a proper help. But he may be able to put you in touch with some other folks who can help, if that makes sense.”

“It does. A lot of sense. Thank you again.” Isla paused. “Where is Inverbrook?”

“Pretty much directly south of here. About forty odd miles or so. Following routes 29 through 26 pretty much leads you right there. Public transport is crap, though, so you’re better walking most of it. Shouldn’t take much more than a couple of days if you’re…”

He paused. Isla knew what he wanted to say. If you’re fit. Women like her weren’t supposed to be fit. And even though the thought of days of walking filled her with equal parts apprehension and dread, she forced a look of determination onto her face.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I can handle it.”

**

Isla shared the news that she would be leaving in the morning as they sat down at the kitchen table. Kenneth and Skye stayed quiet, barely reacting to the news, but Rhona’s face crumpled.

“Oh, chick, are you sure?”

“I think it’s probably for the best,” Isla said. “I don’t want to be a burden, especially with you guys having your hands full with the croft and Nana Morag being ill. Having a guest is too much on top of everything. I really do appreciate everything you’ve all done, but I think it’s best that I head towards Inverbrook and start my research properly.”

A strange expression passed over Rhona’s face, one that Isla couldn’t make sense of. For several terrifying moments, she thought she’d offended her.

“You wouldn’t be a burden on us, Isla,” Rhona eventually said, her eyes brimming. “We’d happily have you here for as long as you want. It’s been lovely having you.”

Isla felt something in her heart buckle.

“We do understand that your studies have to come first. But… you said you wanted to go to Inverbrook?”

“Yes. Blair is going to put me in touch with a friend of his there that might be able to help me with some translations.”

“It might not be as easy as you think, chick. I’ve just been watching the local news. There was flooding down south. The river that goes through Route 27, which connects Port Glen to Inverbrook, burst its banks. The whole route is submerged. No-one can go through. It’s completely impassable.”

**

You wouldn’t have said the entire of Port Glen had only just recently been battered by a storm, Isla thought, as she set off down towards the harbour after a filling breakfast. The morning sky pinkened gently, like a mother’s embrace, and golden threads of sun drifted through soft, watercolour clouds. A cool wind kept the worst of the heat at bay as she walked. All in all, it was a fairly pleasant experience. Well, as pleasant an experience as walking would ever be.

It was Rhona that had suggested trying the ferry. She couldn’t be sure what passenger routes they ran from Port Glen, or if they only did international and goods shipments, but it was a better option than waiting the potential weeks for the Inverbrook route to be cleared or taking the (extremely) long way around the whole region.

Breathing heavily and sweating despite the brisk ocean breeze, Isla stopped to catch her breath as she arrived at the harbour. She cast her gaze around hopefully. It was quiet. Too quiet. Not a good sign in the least.  Aside from the occasional sailor pacing the docks, and the sharp, cutting cry of seabirds, the place was still and silent.

The thought of asking someone to help sent panic crashing through her like waves in a storm, but there was no other choice. The best option rested with a nearby sailor, busily looping ropes and picking apart complicated knots. A Pokemon stood at his side. Squat, muscular, with short brown fur, flecked with white, and cut into a stout triangle pattern, it was another one that Isla didn’t recognise. Every now and again, the sailor tossed it a particularly difficult-looking knot of rope, which the Pokemon expertly shredded with sharp, curved claws.

“Brootser, the Pelting Pokemon. The evolved form of Brogue. With incredibly sharp claws and powerful jaws, Brootser are highly aggressive and territorial. Even against much stronger foes, it won’t back down easily,” her Pokedex chirruped.

Isla’s hand tightened around Soba’s Pokeball as she read more details. A Fighting type. A second evolution. Being a Furret, Soba wouldn’t stand much chance in a fair fight, much less an unfair one. While she did generally feel more comfortable approaching a fellow Pokemon owner, she probably could have stood to pick one with a less terrifying partner.

All the same, she approached the sailor, keeping herself primed like a coiled spring. “Excuse me? I was wondering if you could help me with something?”

The sailor had a strong, lined face, but he didn’t seem anywhere near as intimidating when he relaxed into a smile. “Sure,” he boomed. “What can I do for you?”

“Are there going to be any sailings from this port in the next few days? Anywhere that lands near Inverbrook?”

The Brootser, distracted from its work with the knots, pressed its wet nose against Isla’s hand. Isla let out an involuntary squeak.

“Brootser, stop that!” the sailor said firmly. “Sorry, miss. He’s obsessed with leather. Have you got leather in your handbag or anything? Your shoes? I swear, he can sniff it out within a mile. I have to keep him distracted at work otherwise he’d never leave people alone. Here, Brootser, go and do this for me.”

The sailor tossed a section of rope a few feet down the docks. The Brootser growled, a deep throaty rumble, before dropping to all fours and pursuing. Within moments, the rope was ripped to little more than fibres.

Isla searched for something to say. She eventually settled on, “He’s cute.”

“He’s a menace is what he is,” the sailor said, wiping his brow. “Anyway, you were asking about the ferries? Unfortunately, the passenger ferry was badly damaged in that storm two nights ago and won’t be running any routes for a while.”

“How long is a while?” Isla asked nervously.

“We’re waiting for some metal workers to come down from Hydrogate. They’re delayed because their Weldeon team were exhausted after a big job in the ironworks. Currently we’re looking at about a week.”

“A week?”

“I’m afraid so. If you go to reception and leave your details, they’ll be able to contact you as soon as we know when the sailings will be going ahead.”

“Aren’t there any other options?”

The sailor considered. “Not here. But if you’re set on sailing and you could get to Dewbrae Town, I think they’re still running sailings.”

“Where’s Dewbrae Town? Is it close?”

“It’s up past Aberdrip City, which is an hour’s drive north of here. Then you have to pass through Aberdrip Forest and that brings you out just at Dewbrae. Maybe a couple of days walking if you keep a steady pace,” he paused, and Isla felt his eyes rake her body. “Maybe a couple more. But, if you’re in a hurry, it’s better than waiting around here. Everything’s very up in the air at the moment.”

Isla thanked the sailor, trying to ignore the heavy feeling that came over her. Why was this so difficult? She’d encountered disaster at every turn so far and, in her darkest moments, she couldn’t deny wondering if it was even worth it to keep going. Nana Morag ill, no passage to Inverbrook through Route 27, no ferry from the Port Glen docks, now she had to go all the way to Dewbrae – wherever that was – on nothing more than a possibility?

But what could she do? What other options did she have?

Rhona would know what to do, Isla decided. She had a way of sorting things out, an uncanny level-headedness her own mother didn’t have. That’s what she’d do. She’d head back to the croft and take stock of the situation. She started walking, thoughts whirling through her head like the flapping of birds’ wings. Maybe there was another way to Inverbrook. They knew the region better than she ever would. Maybe they could—

“WIIIIING!”

Isla gasped and swore as her foot trod on something soft. With a gust of cold air, the offending thing burst upwards and pain erupted at the top of her head. Sharp, pointed talons dug into her scalp and she yelped in pain.

“Gull! Gull!” her assailant screeched; each squawk accompanied by a swift peck to the head.

Isla’s hands closed around her attacker’s soft wriggling body. With all her might, she tore it from her head and tossed it as far as she could manage. But the Pokemon swooped back into the air, seemingly unharmed, fixing Isla with a glare that sent a tremble down her spine.

“Gull! Wingull!” it shrieked.

Recognition dropped into Isla’s belly like a stone. It was a Kildonian Wingull. The same Kildonian Wingull that had attacked Rhona the day Isla got off the ferry. At least, it certainly looked like the same one – she could hardly call herself an expert on them – but it was roughly the same size and had the same high-pitched squawk. And didn’t the Pokedex say that Kildonian Wingull only attacked people who had food? Isla didn’t have a single crumb on her. So what other motive could it possibly have for attacking her?

Isla reached for the Pokeball at her waist, panicked fingers scrabbling for the catch. But the Wingull screeched again, diving into a tackle.  The impact came low in her stomach, knocking the air from her lungs and leaving her doubled over. The second blow sent her off-balance and stumbling, eventually crashing to the ground where the pain came in sharp spikes. With a fury of feathers, the Pokemon ripped Isla’s bag away from her.

“Hey!” She wheezed. “There’s nothing in there for you!”

Her protests were rewarded with a face full of frigid water.

By the time Isla had sluiced the water from her face, the Wingull had unhooked the bag’s clasp and was digging around in her things. Hairbrush and deodorant were both ignored, the coin purse in the shape of a Quagsire got an inquisitive gnaw but ultimately left in favour of a pen, which lasted a whole thirty seconds until it splintered and was promptly spat back out.

Every inhale felt like she was being stabbed underneath the ribs, but she still forced herself to move. “Leave my things alone! There’s no food in there!”

Wingull had wriggled itself right into the bottom of the bag and had pulled out an old emergency kit that Isla had nearly forgotten about. Most of the items had already been used or dumped over the years she’d had it, leaving only a couple of travel sized Potions, a Repel Kit, and a Poke Doll, wrapped up in a worn-out bag. The Wingull squawked indignantly and decapitated the doll in one fell swoop. Then it turned back on the travel bag, scraping around and tearing at it with its beak.  

Something dropped out. Isla’s heart plummeted to somewhere near her feet.

It was a Pokeball. An old Pokeball scratched and grimy with age. A Pokeball that Isla had all but forgotten about ever since she made the decision to train just Soba all those years ago. A Pokeball that was now right in the Kildonian Wingull’s line of sight.

She saw it happening before it actually did. The hungry Wingull viewed the Pokeball as nothing more than a shiny, tasty snack. It darted forward, opened its beak wide, and engulfed the old capsule. Isla prayed that the ten year old ball would turn out to be too old to work anymore, and the worst thing to happen would be the Wingull hacking it back up again. But the Pokeball made a shrill shiiing noise as it made contact with Wingull’s beak, and the Pokemon disappeared in a flash of blue light.

The Pokeball shook. Once. Twice. Three times. Then it was still.

And Isla had caught a Kildonian Wingull.

**

Isla told the story of her accidental Wingull capture to an appreciative audience when she got back from the docks. And then again over sandwiches at lunchtime. While Soba curled up in the corner next to the radiator, oblivious to this new teammate, Isla released Wingull for the nerve-wracking job of introductions and feeding time. Rhona’s eyebrows rose so high that they practically disappeared into her hairline, but she didn’t protest.

“I can’t believe it’s the same one,” Rhona said, eyeing her half-eaten sandwich she was planning on saving for later. “Most try their luck once and then move on.”

“I think it’s young,” Blair said, lifting its wing to get a better look. “Perhaps separated from its mum too early. Maybe it doesn’t know any better.”

“I didn’t mean to catch it,” Isla sighed. “I’d forgotten all about that old Pokeball. We were always told to carry an extra one or two, even if we never intended to catch Pokemon, like for emergencies and that.”

“It must have been starving if it thought a Pokeball was food. Or maybe just exceptionally stupid.”

“Jury’s out on that one,” Isla said, as the Wingull pecked at a Tauros shaped pepper shaker.

“Kildonian Wingull are incredibly food oriented,” Blair lifted his plate to avoid the Pokemon’s frantically flapping wings. “Most of the bird Pokemon around here are.”

“Why is that?”

“Competition. Because there’s so many, they all compete for the same natural resources. That’s part of why people think Wingull adapted for Kildo the way they did. They couldn’t compete for most of the natural food, so they evolved to take food from humans instead. Problem is, they end up thinking all food is fair game. Hey, watch it! No! That’s mine!”

Isla suppressed a chuckle as Wingull lunged for the crusts on Blair’s sandwiches. In the kerfuffle of squawking and feathers, Isla looked over at Skye, who hadn’t said a word through the entire of lunch. Her face was screwed up.

“Skye? Are you alright?” Isla asked.

Skye made an odd strangling noise, pushed herself back from the chair, and ran for the stairs, each one thudding under her feet. A moment later, a door slammed.

“Did I say something wrong?” Isla said, horrified.

“No, not at all,” Rhona said, rescuing a glass of juice that had been upended when Skye left the table. “She’s just a bit upset. We were supposed to be going up to meet Professor Spruce tomorrow to get her trainer’s license and first Pokemon. But because Nana Morag is in hospital, I have to be here in case something comes up on short notice, and I just can’t spare the time to take Skye up to Aberdrip City. She’ll only be delayed for a few days, but the poor lass was so looking forward to it. Especially when she’s had to wait so much longer than everyone else.”

“Why’s that?”

It was only after she asked the question that she considered it might have been rude. Or none of her business. Too late to save herself now, though. Rhona’s face tightened, her mouth puckering like she was sucking on a sour lemon.

“Sorry,” Isla looked down at the table. “I shouldn’t be nosy.”

The kitchen fell quiet. Rhona let out a deep, juddering exhale and sat back down, folding her hands into her lap, the kitchen suddenly feeling about ten degrees colder. Isla took a sip of water, her mouth and throat turning to chalk.

“Skye had childhood cancer.” The words didn’t even get a chance to settle before they were tumbling out again, like Rhona was trying to get them all out at once. Like they couldn’t hurt her as much that way. “She spent most of her childhood in hospital with leukaemia.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” Once again Isla found herself cursing both her mother and herself for not bothering to find any of this information out beforehand.

Rhona shook her head. “It’s alright, chick. We don’t talk about it much. Besides, she’s been in remission for a year now. But she’s missed out on so much school and she gets tired so easily.”

There was nothing Isla could say that would be enough. She had to settle for, “I’m sorry to hear that…” and hope Rhona could somehow understand just how much she meant it.

“There was a time when she was being treated that she became very low and very depressed. It was frightening. I’ve never been so worried in all my life. We were scared she was just… giving up. Then, one day, they had some Pokemon trainers visit the hospital. A lot of children there would never be able to go out training. Some wouldn’t even… you know, live to see their next birthday.”

Rhona’s voice wavered. Blair put his hand over hers and squeezed. “Easy, Mum. Don’t go upsetting yourself now.”

“One of the trainers was assigned to Skye,” Rhona continued. “But she was so quiet and so withdrawn that we didn’t think the trainer could get through to her. The trainer had this Pokemon with her – Ampster, I think it was – and it was like a light turned on behind Skye’s eyes when she saw it. I saw glimpses of my daughter again. This trainer stayed with her for hours. Just talking. She’s wanted to be a Pokemon trainer ever since. And I hate that so many things keep getting in her way.”

Rhona sunk her head into her hands. Her shoulders quivered.

Isla felt terrible. No wonder Skye had been quiet during the whole of lunch. How stupid had she been? Skye was being kept from her dream of being a Pokemon trainer and she’d waltzed into their kitchen showing off a Pokemon she hadn’t even meant to catch? It made Isla’s toes curl just thinking about it.

“Could Skye not make the journey on her own?” she asked.

“No,” Rhona lifted her head again, looking pale even at the thought. “She’s not fit enough. We were going to rent a car and drive her, but…”

“Could I take her?”

The offer slipped past Isla’s lips before she knew what she was doing. Rhona looked at her in mild shock, her mouth slowly gaping open.

“I mean, I’ll be passing through Aberdrip anyway!” Isla continued. “One of the sailors said I could get the ferry from Dewbrae Town which is just past Aberdrip, right?. I could take her along with me.”

“Gosh, that’s very kind of you, chick. And I’m sure Skye would love it,” Rhona said, nervously glancing at the stairs. “But I’m not comfortable with her making the trip back on her own. Or even just the amount of walking she’d have to do.”

“I could go with them,” Blair said.

Rhona looked at her son like she’d only just remembered he existed. “What’s that, honey?”

“I could go with them,” he repeated. “We could put Skye on Coastrot. That’s my partner Pokemon,” he added for Isla’s benefit. “He’s strong enough to carry her and we can keep her nicely bundled up. Then once Isla heads off to Dewbrae, I can take Skye back.”

“I don’t know,” Rhona said. “We need you here too.”

“Mum, it’s a day. Maybe two, tops, if we let Skye rest overnight. You and Dad can manage that long, right? You could ask a couple of the lads from the market to pitch in if you really need to. I’m sure they’d work for a hot pie and some cash in hand. And you don’t need to worry about us. We won’t do anything silly. We’ll just get Skye her Pokemon, check in for the night, see Isla off to Dewbrae the next morning and head back ourselves. Easy-peasy!”

Rhona still didn’t look convinced. “It’s such a long way, though. She’s not been away overnight in such a long time.”

“It’s a few hours of travelling, Mum. You said it yourself, Skye’s already missed out on so much. It might not feel like much for us, but for Skye, it’s her whole life. One delay after the other. And with everything the way it is right now, what if there’s just more delays? More reasons not to take her? You have to let her.”

Rhona went very quiet, her face pale.

“I’ll look after her, Mum,” Blair said. “She needs this.”

“I know you will. And I know she does,” Rhona heaved a sigh. “She’s not my little baby anymore. She’s growing up.”

“I’d like to go.”

Everyone jumped at the voice that came in from the doorway. Rhona wiped her eyes. “Oh, Skye, honey, sorry. I didn’t hear you come down. Are you okay?”

“I think I can do it,” Skye ignored her mother’s question. Her voice was louder this time, but still hesitant, like she was testing out its limits. “I want to go get my Pokemon and I’d like Blair and Coastrot to take me. And Isla,” she added, and Isla felt a smile curve onto her face. “If that’s okay with you?”

Silence widened like a chasm between mother and daughter and for one horrible moment, Isla half-expected Rhona to turn away, to start shouting, to deny her flat out. But then tears spilled out of Rhona’s eyes and her whole face softened.

“Yes, honey,” Rhona said, her voice little more than a whisper. “Yes, that’ll be okay with me.”

As they hugged, Isla felt a stray tear prick at the corner of her eye. The emotion surprised her. Yes, it was touching to see a mother and daughter hug and reconcile, but something told her it went deeper. As she looked out at the dying sky, strewn with deepening orange and slicks of black, something unsettled itself in her heart.

Tomorrow she would be leaving Port Glen. Tomorrow she would leave behind a family unit where she felt accepted. Tomorrow she would start her journey to Inverbrook.

She didn’t know which one felt scarier.

#checkmate #pokemon oc fiction #pokemon fanfiction #fakemon #fakemon fanfiction #long post #fanfiction

[rickthaniel]

Trial Slice-of-Life Avatar Fanfic

Tbh I’ve never written fanfiction before but wanted to try some in-universe stuff as a writing exercise. Had a lot of fun and will likely continue on my own, but am curious if there’s interest for this kind of thing here? If people would want to read it? My suspicion is it’s not really the kind of thing folks would be into, but maybe I’m wrong! So be gentle I guess but figured I’d put out a little trial piece. If you’d read more of this, I’d love to hear from you!

________________________________________________________________

The first morning, Kuyon awoke a full hour before dawn. It was the heat that did it, he thought – but then again, it could have just been the change in surroundings. Time off the water always took some getting used to. His first sea voyage as a child was fraught with sickness and insomnia, even though his mother had done everything she could to make him comfortable during the long journey south. The fear of the ocean itself was still present then – strong in him – and he worried that if he dozed off at the wrong moment, the ship would be swallowed up in his sleep. Years later, when he took his first post on a ship, it took him three months to finally get comfortable with the constant, quiet movement.

Now, it was the opposite. Being on land was what gave him restless nights. But it certainly didn’t help that the Fire Nation was also about as hot as the name suggested, even before summer had begun. It wasn’t just the heat either. It was the weight of the air, the dampness. So different from either of the homes Kuyon had known. As a child, it had baffled him how a city built on ice could be so very, very dry. And when he heard the stories of masters pulling water from the air itself, he’d been so excited to try – only to discover that in the heart of the Water Tribe, there was nothing in the air to bend. Maybe that was why the technique was only mentioned in distant rumors – something waterbenders did in foreign places.

Kuyon had unintentionally become that waterbender. Of course, this particular visit wasn’t his first to the Fire Nation, but every other time he’d only seen the ports, and he’d had the welcoming belly of the ship to fall asleep in. Besides, Ember Island didn’t feel like those places. For all the blackened, rocky shorelines and volcanic landscape that was the nation’s signature, he somehow expected the beach would not have sand. A rock beach would have been more fitting, but the stones on the island were smooth – nothing like the jagged rocks he’d seen elsewhere. And for all the explosions that had created the surrounding islands thousands of years ago, Ember Island felt serene. Despite the fact that it was a resort, Kuyon hadn’t actually expected it to feel peaceful. He didn’t think the Fire Nation could have peaceful places.

Unable to fall back to sleep, he got dressed in the dark and walk out to the beach. It was still black out, but there was enough starlight to see the way down to the water. The moon was barely there – just a sliver of a thing in the sky – and that too might have contributed to the restlessness he felt.

It wasn’t that he felt weak when it was waning. It was a latent thing – a scar of fear left over from when he was eight and saw the full moon in the sky go dark. From his window, he could see the warriors’ water fall, limp and useless, and he was sure at that moment that he was going to die. Even at such a young age, it had been instilled in him that men of the Northern Water Tribe did not run from a fight. But when the sky went red with the blood of the spirit – as the story would later be told – he saw the men if his tribe flee in panic. Every month since then, a part of him still feared that when that sliver vanished, it would not come back; that the sacrifice the chief’s daughter had made would wear out somehow.

At the water’s edge, Kuyon sat down in the sand and felt the edge of the tide wash over his toes. With his left hand, he gently pulled with its ebb and flow, barely bending it, just following the water’s lead. The breathing exercise had always calmed him, especially during his early days in the South Pole. At the time, his mother told him they were going to rebuild their sister tribe. Years later, he realized that most of the northerners who joined Master Pakku’s expedition were really looking to rebuild themselves. They had either lost someone in the siege, or were exhausted of hiding behind the city walls, waiting for the war to end. A whole generation had lived and died while the North was frightened to sail too far from home, and when reports started coming of what had been done to the benders in the Southern Tribe, an even greater fear set in.

In those early days in the south, his mother would take him down to where the ice became water and show him how to breathe into the tide. The same night he saw the moon go dark, Kuyon saw the great spirit rise from the waters of the city and wash the invaders out. It had taken weeks to sort through the wreckage left by the decimated navy, and though the spirit had saved them all, it had frightened him too. In the whole voyage south, he’d never spoken to the Avatar. Part of him had wanted to of course. At eight and twelve, the two weren’t so far apart in age. But despite his quiet demeanor on the ship, Kuyon was afraid of the airbender, for the same reason that for that whole journey he was afraid of the sea beneath him. That thing those two had become together – the boy with the tattoos and the spirit of the ocean – had both saved him and terrified him on the night the moon was killed. Pushing and pulling the tides with his mother, he remembered that the ocean could be peaceful too.

Even the water was different in the Fire nation though. The waves that splashed up on the sands of Ember Island were frothy and white; nothing like the perfect blue of the northern waters, or the icy stillness of the south. Once, after word had come that Ba Sing Se had fallen, he’d asked his mother why the Ocean Spirit didn’t simply appear on the shores of the Fire Nation as it had during the siege of the north. “It could wash away the whole army,’ he’d said, almost pleading with her, “like how it washed away the ships. Why doesn’t it?” Of course he knew vaguely that the spirits didn’t work that way, but his mother didn’t tell him that at the time. Instead she just sat beside him and put her arm around his shoulders, and said “I don’t know, Ku. I don’t know.”

Feeling the pulse of the Fire Nation’s ocean, Kuyon watched as the bottom of the sky began to bloom with pink, then orange, then yellow light. He focused his gaze on the water’s surface out by the horizon, in search of the thing that had brought him there, but with no luck. It would still be a few days before the migration passed by. Until then, he’d have to get used to sleeping in the heat.

Some members of the Water Tribes had developed a scorn for sunrise over the course of the war. Kuyon had never understood that. It was a beautiful thing, still.

The sky alight with early morning, he pushed himself up off the sand and began to walk down the beach, toward the town square that lay inland a ways further along the shore. There was no one else in sight as he went. Kuyon wondered if Ember Island’s stream of wealthy vacationing Fire Nation aristocrats had slowed in the past decade; if the shadow that had loomed over the country for the last fourteen years in the wake of its defeat extended even to the tourist industry. The families who owned homes here had taken major hits in reputation to be sure, but their fortunes likely suffered as well. He’d heard that the new Fire Lord had ousted most of Ozai’s true loyalists from the inner workings of government, but he doubted those expulsions meant any real severity for families with so much ancient wealth and power.

Strolling up the beach and through one of the town’s winding footpaths, Kuyon came eventually to a small plaza. Shops and restaurants lined the perimeter of the square, but almost all were still closed. Only one tea shop seemed to be awake at such an early hour. Inside, Kuyon found a tidy arrangement of wooden tables, and a small counter at the back. A woman, maybe ten years his senior, was wiping down one of the tabletops when she glanced up and saw him standing in the doorway. She squinted at him, straightened, and tucked the rag into the front of her apron.

“Would you like a table?”

“If you’re open.”

“Just the one of you?”

“Yes.”

She gestured from one wall to the other with an open hand.

“Wherever you like. What are you drinking?”

“What do people usually get?”

She walked behind the counter, pulled a set of spark rocks from a drawer he couldn’t see, and started a pot of water boiling.

“Our ginseng is the most popular.”

“I’ll have that then.”

She nodded and set to work. It was terribly quiet, despite the faint breeze that made its way off the water, through the plaza and into the room.

“Is this your shop?”

“Me? No. My uncle owns it. And I should warn you he only takes Fire Nation money.”

“I can pay.”

“I guess so if you’re staying around here. You a tourist?”

“I’m a fisherman.”

“Are you on vacation?” she asked, leaning over the counter toward him. Her hair was black like his, about as long, but worn up in the Fire Nation style. Her face was hard, but Kuyon couldn’t tell if it was because of his clothing or something else entirely.

“I guess,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to see the tiger dolphin migration. It only happens every four years, and they should be coming right by here in the next few days.”

“They got you in a shack down there?”

“It’s all I could afford. My ship’s in port at Hing Wa Island for the week, so I managed to get a little time away.”

“You should have stayed with them. Hing Wa is gorgeous this time of year. It’s ash banana season.”

“That’s why they’re there. My captain’s hoping to turn over our recent hauls for as much of the harvest as he can. They’re becoming something of a delicacy in the Earth Kingdom.”

She came out from behind the counter carrying a tray, the teapot and two small porcelain cups arranged on it, and set it down on the table in front of him. Steam rose from the neck of the pot. Without a word, she sat down in the chair across from him.

“Let it sit for another minute,” she said. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“Please.”

“It’s just that I’ve never met a member of the Water Tribe before.”

Kuyon feigned shock, glancing down at his blue tunic, the blue rings on his fingers, the blue armband with the Tribe’s sigil.

“How did you know I was Water Tribe?”

She laughed.

“Which Tribe?”

“Both. I was born in the north, but we moved south when I was eight.”

“When you were eight.”

“After,” he said. “After the siege.”

She nodded, her arms crossed on the table before her, staring straight at the teapot and the steam rising between them.

“My husband was a technician on the Ilah’s Pride. It was one of the first ship’s to make contact with the wall. At least, that’s they told me.”

Kuyon looked at her, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. She picked up the teapot and poured them each a cup, but he hesitated to take his, suddenly tense and wary. Then she took a sip from her own and laughed again – a sharp, barking laughter.

“It’s not poisoned if that’s what you were thinking. I’m not a hateful person, really. And that whole naval crusade was an absurd vanity project to begin with.”

“Still,” he said, “I’m sorry. I saw what happened to those lead ships. It terrified me as a kid.”

“Yes, well, that’s what we get I suppose. Wei Ko should have known better than to join the navy. But that’s where all the advancement was in those days. He thought we needed the money. And why am I telling you all this?”

“I don’t know. You haven’t even told me your name.”

“Sung.”

“I’m Kuyon.”

“Well, I’d keep your head down while you wait for your dolphins, Kuyon. There’s a lot of naval heritage on Ember Island, and most folks won’t be as accepting of those Water Tribe colors as I am.”

#Avatar The Last Airbender #the legend of korra #atla fanfic #lok fanfic #aang #Zuko #fanfic

[mymindsmadness]

Mermaid Draco Part 2

Just to be clear, I had never planned on writing the first part of this. I’m not even sure how I got here XD. It started with an idea, and now I’ve gone and played myself. I suppose I can’t stop now. For every part I write, more and more ideas come to me. I’m not sure if this will be a fully fleshed out story. More of little scenes here and there that would make up part of a story, if that makes sense?

I blame @imadumbbinch @pretty-in-pink007 and @captainchanglingkhat for talking me into it ;D

Once again, I am not a writer. I do this for fun and because I have no life. I’m American, so I’m sorry for any terminology that doesn’t quite mesh well! Also, I’m sorry for typos. It’s just me sitting at a computer, probably with insomnia. 

Read PART ONE 

Harry couldn’t help the way his lips pursed as he watched the bright pink tail breeah the water and smack back down. He knew it was Malfoy’s way of messing with him. Because Harry had been the one to reach out and try to help (again). Why wouldn’t Malfoy want to get under his skin?

“Tell me why he has to stay here again?” He looked to Hermione who mirrored his expression, though he was sure hers had more to do with the paperwork she’d be buried under.

“We’ve never seen a curse like this, Harry. The unspeakable are beside themselves. Ron spoke with Bill and got the names of a few curse breakers, but they’ve never heard of anything like this. Rolf Scamander is on holiday with Luna, so we haven’t heard back from him yet.”

“Are you sure it was a good idea to call him? We don’t want Malfoy on the front page of the Quibbler.”

“You know Luna would never.” She smacked his chest lightly. “Besides, you never use this room anyway.”

That was true. It had been Walburga Black’s old room. Although there was no screaming portrait in here, the room felt dark. It still smelled of stale perfume and tobacco despite the charms that reshaped it into a small pond. It was only about the size of a swimming pool, but it was deep enough for Draco to stretch his – uh… fins? It was all so bizarre to Harry.

“That’s odd…” Hermione mumbled as she watched Malfoy pop out of the water. “His tail… it’s gone white.”

Harry looked over to where Malfoy was leaning on the edge of the ‘pond’, his head resting on his arms as the faux sunlight warmed the room and caused it to grow humid. The scales that lined his sharp cheekbones seemed to shimmer under long blonde lashes. Harry couldn’t help but notice how serene Malfoy looked. He wasn’t sure he had ever seen the other man quite this way. No scowl. No sneer. Just a soft expression. Even his thin lips seemed delicate and plumper under the lack of tension. He cleared his throat and remembered that he was supposed to be looking at Malfoy’s tail. For some reason, that seemed far more intimate. Hermione was right (as she so often was). His tail had turned an iridescent white. It reminded him of Aunt Petunia’s mother of pearl broach.

“What have I told you about my eyes, Potter?” The tone wasn’t as cross as Harry would have expected. When his eyes flickered to Malfoy’s face, he paused. Instead of a sneer, he was met with a small smirk and an assessing gaze. The short twelve hours at Harry’s house had done wonders for him. His skin was no longer translucent, but a creamy white dotted with scales here and there. His cloudy eyes had sharpened and darkened into the familiar mercury color Harry had come to know over the years. And his tail… well, that was still a tail, wasn’t it? Apparently, the folks at the aquarium had put him in the wrong sort of water. Maloy had tried to tell them, but they didn’t understand a word he spoke. 

“Your tail’s gone white.” He said dumbly, not enjoying the way his stomach rolled as Malfoy scoffed.

“I must say, Potter, your skills of deduction speak volumes about our ministry’s auror training programme.” His face had gone flat again; a mask of neutrality. “It changes sometimes.” He shrugged one scaled shoulder.

“What causes that?” Hermione whipped out a pad to write on, nearly scaring Harry out of his skin. He had forgotten she was still there.

Harry watched in amazement as the scales along Draco’s cheekbones started to shift from a pearly white to a light pink, darkening as the color stretched to his shoulders. “I don’t know, Granger. Isn’t this your department?”

“Cursed mermaid gits? Wasn’t on the NEWTS.” Hermione mumbled under her breath, causing Harry to smile fondly down at her. “Given the timing…” She hummed as Malfoy’s eyes darted away. “You know your father’s still locked in Azkaban.”  

“Hermione...“ Harry tried to interject. There was no reason to bring up their pasts now.

“Last I heard, he’s gone a bit mad. They say your mother has taken a lover though. Some muggle barista from what I hear.” Harry’s brows knit as she ignored him and pressed on. Was this even Hermione? Since when did she speak like this? It was almost callous.

“My mother would never!” Harry turned back to Malfoy just in time to see the scarlet red of his scales reaching his tail. “And if you think-“

“Ah.” Hermione smiled and jotted down a few notes. “It is provoked by emotion then.”

“That was a dangerous game.” Harry sighed, tucking his hands into his pockets. He figured he wouldn’t have intervene since the color of Malfoy’s tail was slowly receding. Though, the pouty frown kept its place.

“That’s all I need for now.” Hermione pocked her book and leaned up to press a quick kiss to Harry’s cheek. “We’ll see you at dinner tonight?”

“Yeah.” He would rather sleep off this nightmare of a day, but Hermione enjoyed cooking for him and Ron. It was a shame she wasn’t very good at it. Neither man had the heart to tell her as much, however. Typically, they would take turned shoveling their food into the carnivorous succulent Neville had gifted them. Hermione always commented on how much it’s grown, but could never figure out why. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

When she left, there was a heavy tension in the room that had nothing to do with the newfound humidity. It was only then that Harry realized Hermione had never answered his question about why Draco Malfoy had to stay in his house. Unbuttoning the neck of his auror robes, Harry sank into one of the folding chairs he had brought inside. He pretended to not know that Malfoy watched his every move, once again lounging on the edge of the pond. When Harry forced himself to look in the other man’s direction, only the smallest hints of red remained on his cheekbones. The rest had gone a light pink. His eyes traveled from the iridescent scales to the equally bright eyes. It had been years, years, since Harry had felt that familiar churn in his stomach. At Hogwarts, he couldn’t quite place it. He knew it happened whenever he looked at Malfoy, and figured it was due to apprehension. He was always up to something, after all. After he broke things off with Ginny, he was able to assess it further. It was only after Malfoy disappeared and Harry grew into his own that he realized it was blatant attraction. Even now, as a sodding mermaid, Draco Malfoy was ethereal. And he was still watching Harry.    

That was it though, wasn’t it? They were always watching each other, then and now. Harry never told Hermione or Ron, but when Malfoy went missing, Harry pleaded with Robards to be put on the case. If Malfoy had pissed off to France or whatever, that was fine, but Harry wanted to be sure. There were a lot of people – there were still a lot of people – that wanted the Malfoy’s dead. Harry just wanted to make sure that wasn’t the case. Robards had refused, telling Harry it would be a conflict of interests. When Harry had asked again, Robards threatened to send him back to academy. Slowly, Harry had let the case and Malfoy slip from his mind. But now that he was back, that piece of Harry, the piece that had always been owned by Draco, had awoken again.

“Maybe I should sell you admission like that bloody muggle. If you’re going to stare, I might as well get something out of it.” His words were cross, but his tone was lazy. He had even gone back to resting his chin on his folded arms.

“You’re living in my house, so I think that ought to make us even.” Harry shrugged.

“Technically, it’s my family’s house. But if you’re so desperate to not owe me anything, I suppose I’ll take pity on you and call it even.” Even as a mermaid forced to live in a charmed pond, Draco Malfoy managed to sound superior.

Harry closed his eyes, rubbing them and pushing up his glasses with one movement. “I’m going to leave for dinner soon. Shall I leave you a bucket of kippers, or would that make you feel the need to preform tricks before eating?”

No harsh curses or snarls came after his words. He had just settled his glasses on the bridge of his nose when Malfoy spoke again. “… Harry?” His breath caught and his chest was far too tight as he met steely eyes again. Had Malfoy ever used his first name without insult? But hearing it from Malfoy’s lips wasn’t as good as Harry had hoped. It was small and timid. Maybe under all that bravado, he really was scared. Maybe - “My mother isn’t really dating a muggle, is she?” Harry felt himself deflate with a light laugh and a shake of his head.

“No, Malfoy. She’s not dating a muggle.” It seemed like he deflated too, a small smile on his lips. “Last I heard, it was a house elf.”

#harry potter #draco malfoy #mermaid draco #drarry #my fic #sort of #if you can call it that #what have I done

[aria-i-adagio]

Rosemary. Heaven Restores You in Life

Masterpost

Fandom: The Arcana

Chapter Rating: Lime

Sunlight pouring in the bedroom window wakes me after a hour or two of sleep, and I roll lot of bed, still feeling nearly as much energy as the day and night before.  The lack of tiredness - that isn’t a good sign.  Especially not if I need to keep my head clear.  I don’t have time for mind to run in multiple circles at once.  Not now.  Not when I actually have something at stake.

I make a large pot of tea and finish off most of it, letting it steady my thoughts.  I’m not at all sure that I’m interested in helping the Countess, even after what she had confided in me the prior night, but I’d like to retrieve my ‘remarkable’ collection of things and get one more look at that library before making a final decision.  And, I can’t get Julian’s laugh out of my head, nor the insistent belief that he could not have killed someone.  If I can find the actual murderer, the Countess can’t possibly execute him.  Right?  Not even if the crowd calls for his neck in the noose.  

I wish I were more confident of her.  More confident that she wouldn’t give in to the whispers of another in her ear or her own desire to promote an image of control.

Feeling lazy, I ask around the market until I find a merchant headed for the palace who’ll let me hitch a ride on a her cart of cabbages.  When we arrive in the back courtyard of the palace, Portia is overseeing a group of servants loading up a wagon.

Portia catches sight of me across the courtyard and claps her hands together in excitement, beckoning me over and pulling me up into the wagon bed with her.  “Oh, there you are!  We’re going into town to announce the Masquerade.  Milady wants you to come with us.  You can check on your shop.”  She looks me over from head to toe.  “And maybe you can grab a few extra outfits.  Late night for you, was it?” 

I switched the bathrobe for a proper jacket before I left this morning, but apparently I still didn’t pass muster.  Or maybe it was the raccoon eyes and messy hair.  Portia gives me a sympathetic look and passes over a warm metal canteen.  “Coffee.  Careful, it’s hot.  Climb on up in the wagon.  Want to tell me where you were?”

I take several sips of the thick dark coffee before answering.  “Couldn’t sleep, so I went out for a walk.  Ended up back at my shop.  Not much to it.”

She looks around the wagon, counting heads and then gestures for the driver to start.  The wagon jolts forward, and she arches both eyebrows at me knowingly.  “Just a walk?”

“Mostly.”  I grin foolishly and drink some more coffee.  

Portia winks and laughs.  “Well, I suppose it turned out today, but keep in mind that Milady is generally an early riser.”

“I’ll mention that to my insomnia demons.”  

Portia snorts in amusement and then turns to one of her colleagues to discuss some aspect of the announcement.  I finish the coffee, then lean back against a bag of rice in the wagon bed to close my eyes.  The morning sun is pleasantly warm, and the rice makes for a passable pillow.  Too soon, the wagon halts in the middle of the hustle and bustle of the morning market, and Portia starts shouting orders for folks to go about their business but return at noon for the announcement.  It isn’t difficult to imagine her as captain of a ship, ordering about sailors however she pleased.  Or as the sergeant of a mercenary troop, quelling any protests from the mangly lot of vagrants with her voice alone.

On my way back to the shop, I stop by the baker’s stall and pick up a loaf of pumpkin bread.  As the warm scent of spices wafts over my face, I wonder why I hadn’t done that earlier.  It’ll go well with some more tea, and then I probably should attempt to find something a little more palace appropriate in my limited wardrobe.  Or maybe I could borrow something flashier from Asra’s.  He wouldn’t mind, assuming that he ever noticed that I was wearing his clothes instead of mine between wandering off to here, there, and everywhere.

Chewing on a torn off piece of bread, I undo the wards on the door and shove it open with my hip, only to find a surprised looking Julian on the other side.

“What are you doing here?”  I reach up to put my free hand on his chest and push him back inside, narrowing my eyes at him.  “I know I locked everything this morning, so either you broke in again, or -”

He holds up a bit of copper, sheepish grin on his face.  “-or I have a key?”  I snatch it from him, put my bread down on the counter.  Julian rubs his hands together.  Is he actually nervous?  “I was hoping Asra was back.”

“Of course, you were.”  That’s how Asra works - like a drug, an addiction - barely gone at all and you want him back.  I dig my own keys from my pockets, comparing the key he had to the others on my ring.  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice him tearing a generous portion from my pumpkin bread.  “Hey, did I tell you could eat that?”  He drops his hand away from my bread and begins to stammer an apology.  I flick my fingers at him and smile.  “It’s fine, have a piece.  You look like you need it.  Who gave you a key to the back room?”

“You, oh, I see.  You really, you really don’t know … I, umm -”  He looks down at his feet and blushes before recovering with one of the smirks that were clearly his coping mechanism for uncomfortable topics.  “Let’s just say I needed to make some house calls.  After hours.”

“What is it that you think I don’t know?”  My own smirk is at least as broad as his when the color rises in his cheeks.  He steps to my side trying to get around and to the door.  I match his movement - just if it was last night and we were still dancing - and lean against the door to block him as best I can given our difference in height and size.  I already know that he’s quite capable of picking me up and moving me if he really wants to leave.  “What else do you have up your sleeve?”

His eyes dart away for a moment, then he regains his composure and looks back at me, hands raised above his head.  “Oh, I hope you don’t think I’m a thief.  I’m a lot of things, but not that.”

“I remember you telling me - possibly more than once - that I’m a fool to trust you.”

“Well then.”  He shrugs out of his overcoat with a dramatic sigh and begins unbuttoning the jacket underneath.  “Search me.  If you find anything of yours, I’ll show myself to the stocks.”  His shirt is same one he was wearing last night missing most, if not all, of its buttons.  I fold my arms across my chest and suck a breath through my teeth.  Oh, this is good!  Possibly better than the tea he’s keeping me from.  Definitely makes up for last night’s gentle (and, to be fair, probably wise) refusal.  He spreads his arms and tilts his head down, one eye still peering at me through his curly hair.  “Search til you’re satisfied.”

“I think I will.”

His head jerks back up when I call the bluff.  The stunned expression on his face changes gradually into a leer.  He doesn’t seem to mind much, even if he didn’t expect me to take him up on the offer.  Or he wanted me to?  “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?  Don’t be shy.  I promise I’ll be good.”

No one has ever accused me of being shy - at least, not since I figured out how to talk again.  I step close to him and lift my hands to his shoulders then run them down and around each well muscled arms.  Coming back to his neck, I slide my fingers just under his shirt.  He draws in his breath sharply, and I pause, watching his face to see if he objects, before I continue, tracing my fingers up and over his well defined chest to his collarbone then along his neck and up to the base of his skull.  I have to lift myself on my toes to press my fingers into his thick hair.  The motion pushes me against him, and I can feel his pulse jump in the artery running down his neck.

“Sorry.”  Feeling wicked and a bit pleased from that response, I drop back onto flat feet and smile.  “You’d be shocked what people manage to hide there.”  I lower my fingertips to his collarbone, then just beneath, and stop again, meeting his gaze and giving him another chance to protest.  A blush begins to spread across his face, and his breath quickens, but he doesn’t break eye contact.  I continue, spreading my hands wide across his chest - ah, he is wonderfully muscular - curving my palms around the sides of his torso.  He jumps when I reach his waist.

“Ah, no, not there, I’m terribly ticklish.”  I look up, stifling a laugh and pulling my hands away.  “That, um, can be our little secret.”

“Hold still.  You said you’d be good.”  I step back.  He’s biting his lip and the flush in his face is pronounced.  This is interesting.  

“Done so soon?  Why you’ve only just started - Oh!”  He nearly jumps again when I crouch down in front of him, running my hands along the outside of his legs, stopping at the top of his absurdly high boots, not quite yet wanton enough to drag my hands all the way around to the inside of his thighs.  I straighten back up and step around.  He twists following me with his eyes.  “I had no idea that you were so … hands on.”

“Did I say you could move?  I don’t think I did.”

“No.  No you didn’t.”

The tips of his ears turn red as he faces forward again.  A shiver passes through him as a run my palms over his back, down to his hips.  He gasps sharply as I push my hands around his waist to check his pockets, stopping when I find a hard edge in one.

“Oh, um, don’t, don’t mind that, just a knife.”

Clicking my tongue against my teeth in mock disappointment, I fish it out of his pocket and toss it on the counter.

“Not that I’m not happy to see you.  I can show you if you like.”

I take that as a cue to continue our game.  “Are you now?”  Indulging myself, I run my hands down his legs again, this time trailing my fingers closer to the insides of his thighs.  I step back around him, tracing my fingers over his hip.  He’s sways toward me, weight shifting from his heels to the balls of his feet.  “How many knives do you have hidden in these absurd boots?”

“Umm.  Two.  Are you - are you done?  You’re quite … thorough.”

“Not quite.”  I step next to him.  Not quite touching - just teasingly close.   “You were going to show me something?”

“I, yes, … oh hell -”  He steps back and leans over, bringing his mouth to mine.  One hand clutches my upper arm, the other curls around my cheek.  I push back into him, pulling his bottom lip between my teeth, biting about as hard as I dared to do while avoiding drawing blood.  He moans.  “You don’t have to be that gentle.” 

I laugh with impish glee and grab his hands, tugging him back into the reading room, to one of the multiple napping nests scattered throughout the shop.  Shoving him down on the cushions, I peel off his gloves and then straddle his lap and push aside the collar of his shirt to kiss, bite, suck at the pale skin there.  His head lolls back and his hands trace their way down my back fingers digging into my ass, then pulling back up, sliding to the front and under my shirt to cup my breasts, thumbs drawing ever tighter circles around my nipples.  I whine into his neck and run my hands through his hair, accidentally nudging the band holding the patch over his eye.  His hands pull away from me, and he quickly fumbles the band back into place.

“Hey, slow down a little.”  He takes my shoulders and pushes me back from him before sitting up.  “I’m not going to run away or anything.”  He pushes my hair out of my face, then leans down and kisses me slowly, teasing his tongue between my lips.

“Mmm … maybe you should.”  I push him down again and walk my fingers down his sternum.

“I’m not known for making good decisions.” 

I tug his shirt free from the waistband of his trousers, pull the fabric aside, and run my hand over the smooth skin of his stomach then up to his chest, pushing my fingers through the not immoderate amount of hair there.  “You’re suspiciously free of scars for a former pirate.”

“Oh, um, long story there, I was more the ship’s doctor than -”

I kiss him to cut him off.  “You’re talking too much, Julian.”

“Um, yes, talking too much, I do -” 

“Shh.”  I press a single finger against his lips then replace it with my mouth, sinking into the kiss for as long as I can without breaking for breath.  When I finally do, I shift all my weight to my left leg and roll onto my back, tugging at Julian’s arm to bring him with me.  He knocks his head against a low shelf as he turns, face scrunching up in a wince.  The shelf rattles and a knick knack falls into the floor.  I pick up the figure and trace my fingers over the small fox - painted in a fanciful pattern of purple and white - and frown, propping myself up on my elbows and looking around the room, suddenly remembering a comment he made the other night.

“I don’t remember there ever being a skull in here.”

“What?”  He looks confused.

“The other night you said something about the creepy skull being gone.”  I sit up and touch my fingers lightly where he knocked his head on the shelf, willing the temperature of the air around my fingers to drop by a few degrees.

“Oh - that, feels - I mean, don’t worry about that, not a bad bump.  It’ll be fine in a minute really.”  He pulls my hand away from his head.  “Just how much magic has he taught you?”

“Some.”  Often it doesn’t feel like Asra teaches me anything; he just suggests that some task or another can be accomplished with magic, and I just somehow already know how to do it.  “About this skull?”

“You switch moods this quickly all the time?”

“Everyday except fifth Wednesdays.  Those are usually pretty stable.”

Julian sighs and rolls his good eye at me.  It’s bad joke.  I know.  I don’t care.  “He had it on a shelf in the corner.  Kind of charred.  Some kind of memento mori, I guess.  Definitely macabre.”

Macabre, eh?  Not one of the many adjectives that I would generally apply to Asra, but it’s not difficult to imagine him going there.  “Never seen it.”  I take his hand in mine and turn it over in mine tracing the lines on his palm.  “Is this your dominant hand?”  I pull it closer to my face, peering at the life line curling around his thumb.  

“Huh?  Yes.  Anyway, I think, maybe, he was in a, uh, peculiar state of mind at the time.  Maybe more than I realized.”

“Asra is quite peculiar all the time.”  Beautifully so, but very much so.  I press my lips to Julian’s palm.  “You have an interesting hand.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.  Your lifeline.  It actually breaks here.”  I point to the jag in the crease.  It’s faint, but definitely a break, not a ring or a concurrency of fainter lines.  “I’ve only seen that on one other palm.”

“Oh. Whose?”

“Mine.”  I hold my hand out and point to the strange break.  The break in his is faint, but the life line stops sharply on my palm, for a good half centimeter or so, before picking back up again, just as abruptly.  “Asra refuses to tell me what it means.”  And the books on palmistry in languages I knew had mysteriously disappeared at the same time I asked.

An insistent knocking begins at the front door of the shop.  I’m ready to ignore it, but the knocking turns into the ringing of the chimes tied in the doorframe to alert me when a customer comes in.  I roll my eyes.  Forgot to lock the door again.

“We’re closed!”

“Dema?”

The voice is Portia’s.  Julian’s uncovered eye goes wide, and he hastily scrambles out of the floor, redoing the fastenings of his trousers and looking around for an exit.  “Just stay back here,” I whisper to him.  I pull myself upright, quickly do up the buttons on my shirt, and push my fingers through my hair before stepping out into the main room of the shop.

“Portia, it’s not noon already -?”

She isn’t looking at me.  Her eyes are trained up and over my shoulder where Julian has pushed aside the curtain.  Her hands are at her side, curled into fists and shaking.

“Il - Ilya!”

She grabs at his arms with hands that I’ve only seen tremble once before, when the Countess announced her intention to hang the missing Dr. Devorak.  “You, you, bastard, shto ty delaesh? Are you trying to get caught?”

“You’ve grown up, Pasha.  I’m sorry I wasn’t - prostii menya.” 

I think back to the barely legible letter I found in his desk.  Is Portia the sister he has addressed it to?

“You… Oh, I’ll show you sorry, you…”

Suddenly she looks over at me, blue eyes going wide.  I raise my hands and side step behind the counter and toward the stairs to flee before she turns her tongue on me.  “Umm, I’ll be upstairs.” 

I put the pumpkin bread away on a shelf and then decide against tea and for curling back up in my bed.  Between not sleeping at night and the events of the past few days, I’m completely drained and few more minutes of rest will be welcome.  I hug a pillow to my chest and allow my thoughts to meander into a dream. 

A small white fox curls up beside me, tongue lolling.  It whines with pleasure as I run my hands through its fluffy fur.  I choose my eyes for a moment, and when I open them again, the fox has become Asra.

“Master.” I twine my fingers tighter into his hair.

“Mmm.”  He catches both my hands in one of his pinning my wrists above my head.  His hands have always struck me as large in comparison to his height.  He balances himself over me, weight resting on one knee between my legs.  “Don’t call me that.”  He leans down and kisses the corner if my mouth.

“Asra.”

“Better.”  He kisses the other side of my mouth. I whine and arch my back, pushing closer to him.  Teasing, he kisses my forehead, before coming back to my mouth.

“Do you love me?”

With the question, our positions are reversed.  We’re still in bed in the upstairs of the shop, but I’m looking down at him, straddling his torso and holding his hands above his head.  The light has changed from the cool light of morning to a warm, afternoon glow, and the beginnings of laugh lines don’t mark the corners of his eyes.  He’s smiling easily, without any trace that he’s holding part of himself back.  

“Do you love me, Dema?”

I lift a hand away from his wrist to strike his face, then lean forward to kiss him, taking my time with his beautiful lips.  “Of course,” I whisper as I pull back from him.  “Always.  I’ll love you forever.”  This scene has been scripted, but I’m not an actor in it.  I am myself, but these words have already been fixed at some point in time.  “If you’ll let me.”

He brings his free hand to my face as the light changes back to what it was before, and his face becomes guarded again.  “Ah, dear heart, how I want to!“

“Dema?”  

Portia’s voice pulls me out of my dreams.  With a groan I roll back out of bed and stumble to the top of the stairs, beckoning her to come up to the apartment.  She looks around nervously, then climbs the stairs.  I take her elbow and lead her to the kitchen. I need tea before I can possibly manage another conversation.

“Umm…” She stares as I wake the stove salamander and start a pot of water to boil.  “So, my brother, Ilya …”

“He’s the Julian Devorak the Countess wants to hang.”  I measure tea leaves - Keemun, not as smoky as Lapsang Souchong, but better with milk and still plenty strong - into our well used pot and set it next to the stove.  Looking across the table at Portia, I gesture for her to sit.  “What do you want to do with that?”

She sits down and looks at her hands. “Does it matter what I want?”

Her posture and the question emphasize the resemblance between the two of them; Portia’s red hair and blue eyes are the brighter, color saturated version of Julian’s auburn and grey.  What happened when they were young, that neither of them believe that simply wanting something, some outcome is acceptable?  I pour boiling water over the leaves and sit down across from her, sighing loudly.

“Why shouldn’t it matter what you want?  Or I want?  Or anyone wants?  We may or may not get it, but that’s different from whether it matters.”  I lean over the pot breathing in the scented steam while the tea steeps.  “Julian is your brother.  If he’s caught, he hangs.  Are you alright with that?” 

She folds her hands in front of her. “No. Are you?”

I shake my head. “No, I don’t want him to hang.  I don’t think he’s guilty.”

Portia visibly relaxes and looks up at me, face brightening. “Great - we’re partners then!  We can show Milady that he’s innocent.”

I take a mug from the center of the table, fill it with tea, and push it across to her. “Partners.  I like the sound of that.”  I pour tea into my own mug and knock it against hers.  I suspect I’m going to need whatever help I can get.  We drink our tea in companionable silence for a moment, then I grin and arch an eyebrow at her.  “You know, I think you’re the only person I’ve met recently who I haven’t done a reading for.  Shall I?”  

Portia claps her hands together in glee, visibly excited by the idea.  “Ooo, yes!  Love!  Romance!”  She rolls the r dramatically and pretends to swoon.  "Tell me about that.”

My bag is where I left it on the table.  I dig out Asra’s deck and unwrap the silk from around the cards.  “Someone in particular?”

Her cheeks redden as she smiles.  "Not exactly.”

“Hmm."  I give the cards a single shuffle and then outside then across to her.  Usually, I handle them myself, but Portia’s hands are sure and steady, and I don’t fear an impromptu game of seventy eight card pick up.  She shuffles the cards, cuts the deck, and shuffles them again before pushing them back across the table to me.  I lay out the first five cards in a cross pattern: center, right, left, above, and below.  "Flip the center card over first.”

Biting her bottom lip, she turns the card over.  Seven of Cups, upright.  

I arch my eyebrows at her and shake my head in mock disapproval.  

“What?  What it is?”

"So this card tells me about you, right now.  And Miss Portia, I do believe you might be spoilt for choice.  Is that what you meant by ‘not exactly’ a particular someone?”

The color rises in her cheeks, almost matching her hair.  “Well, I, um…”

“But careful though, not all your choices are equal.  Maybe this card will help.”  I tap the card to the right of the center.  “It speaks to the characteristics.”

Portia, still blushing, turns it over.  The King of Swords.  "Hmm-” I press my finger to my lips, miming seriousness.  It’s something of a relief to be back in this role, doing a light hearted romance reading, after all the high stakes and somewhat grim spreads I’ve been reading.  Dragging it out is attractive - it’s relaxing to just follow my intuitions rather than hearing more specific message from the cards.  Portia will be happy enough to play along with a bit of melodrama.  “Your love will be a serious person.  Skillful, logical.  You’ll lighten them, and they’ll steady you.”  There’s a small smile playing on Portia’s lips.  Now she has a particular person in mind.  “You think you know who they are?”

“Maybe."  She bites her bottom lip and runs her finger over the card.  "I kinda hope so.  I mean, I hope it’s the person I’m thinking of.”

I motion to the card on the left.  She turns over the Page of Cups.  "So this card describes how you’ll meet, or in this case, how you’ve already met.“  The cards aren’t whispering the me right now, but when I close my eyes I can hear the crashing of ocean waves behind the page.  "The sea, I think.”  Portia’s mouth is hanging open in surprise when I open my eyes.  "Is it still who you think?”

She nods and the corners of her crinkle with delight.  I smile at her.  "They’re about to come back into your life.  You should be open to reunion, reestablishing the relationship.“

"What are the other two cards?"  She looks excited now, leaning over the table.  

"The one at the top first.  It’ll tell us something about the nature of this relationship.”

She flips it over eagerly and looks at me with wide expectant eyes.  The Seven of Pentacles.  Fitting for Portia, and the card makes sense in relationship with the King of Swords.  “Both of you are hard workers.  Yours will be a productive union.  Turn the last card.”

She turns over the Star.  I smile.  This is a fortuitous reading, and Portia, with her kind nature, deserves it.

“Ooo…. This is a pretty card!  What does it mean?”

"It’s called the Star.  Both your labors will have a pay off.  You’ll enjoy rest and peace together.  Happiness with each other.  And look at this.” I trace my finger down the horizontal axis.  "All these cards are associated with the number seven, which suggests the arrival of something that has been looked forward to for a time.  Especially when the Star is involved.  But-“

“What?  But what?”

“The cards aren’t any sort of promise.  There are a lot of choices in here.  I tap the Page of Cups.  First, there’s the question of whether you and this person will choose to reconnect when you meet again.  And -”  I move my fingers to the Seven of Pentacles.  “You’ll both need to put effort into maintaining the relationship.  Your jobs might at time result in you being apart.  But the Star says that it will be worth it.”   

Portia finishes her tea and compliments the pumpkin bread profusely before hurrying out to oversee the announcement.  I rinse out the teapot before putting it away.  I want to try to summon Asra again to the fountain.  Some magics work better with a physical object to stabilize them.  Perhaps I can find something in the shop that is just so essentially Asra that it will make the connection stronger.  And, if I’m lucky, keep him from disappearing on me.  Again.

There’s any number of objects in the shop that are Asra’s.  Little figurines painted in cheerful colors.  An old bird’s nest tucked in a window as if it’s waiting for the mother to return.  Jewelry.  Some absolute junk, some of impressively high quality and all tossed haphazardly into the same lacquered box.  A hand mirror with a crack running down the center.  A basket of seashells and stones.  Twigs and dried flowers tied into little bundles.  All it is Asra, but nothing is precisely Asra.  

I give up when I hear cheers from the street outside.  Portia’s announcement must be going well.  And, with that, I suppose I should get back to the square before the wagons left.  Unless, of course, I wanted to walk back to the Palace on my own.  I grab one of Asra’s multi colored scarves and wrap it around it around my shoulders, wondering if this will finally fit the definition of appropriate wear for the Palace.  Although, to be honest, part of me wants to appear in the most hideous outfit I can muster, just to see the look on the Countess’s face.

When I make it back to the town square, the announcement has turned it into an impromptu festival.  There’s a brass band playing at one end and a circle of drummers at the other.  Servants from the palace wander the crowd, handing out candies and paper masks.  Street vendors are doing brisk business in snacks.  I can already here discussions of possible costumes and plans for smaller gatherings as I push through the crowd.

"Dema!  Over here."  Artemis waves to me from where she’s standing next to a pillar.  Her enthusiasm is exceeded by that of the toddler perched on her shoulders.  He extends his chubby little arms out and echos my name.  Most of his excitement is from the hoopla surrounding the announcement.  And, sitting on Artemis’s tall shoulders, Tam can see everything.

 The air is filled with rice and confetti.  His older sister, Eurydice, is chasing soap bubbles nearby, closely shadowed by Artemis’s wife.  Sibyl, too, is batting at the bubbles and laughing.

Artemis crouches down when I reach her to let me kiss Tam and ruffle his hair.  He pats my cheek with sticky, two year old fingers and shouts, "up, up, up.”  She stands again, holding his ankles firmly and looks me over with a grin.

“You look tired.  Have anything to do with this spectacle?”

"No.  Not directly anyway."  I lean back against the pillar and cross my arms over my chest.  Someone had put a lot of effort into planning and preparing for this announcement though.  Portia would be my first guess.

"The Countess is putting you through your paces then?”

“You could say that."  I’m not quite yet over the little game she played with me yesterday.  Knowing about her memory loss makes me a touch more sympathetic to her, but at his point, my cooperation with her is a matter of clearing Julian.  "Artemis, the other morning, when I said the name Julian -”

“Yes?”  Her eyes narrow and the tone of her voice becomes cautious.

"You recognized the name.  Julian Devorak, do you know him?”

She’s quiet for a moment.  Tam starts to pull at her hair and she reaches up to bat his hand away.  “I worked some with Dr. Devorak during the plague.”

“Very tall, red hair, eyepatch?”  There couldn’t be that many people named Julian Devorak, especially not Dr. Julian Devorak, but just to be sure.

"The eyepatch is new."  Her son pulls at her hair again, and she lifts him from her shoulders, shifting him to her hip.  "But the rest: tall, red headed - drama queen.  Why do ask?”

“The Countess believes he killed the Count."  

Artemis dissolves in a fit of laughter.  Tam looks down at her in confusion then holds out his arms to me.  I take him from her.  He pats my cheeks then tucks his head against my shoulder and wraps an arm around my neck.  Without Tam in her arms, Artemis doubles over in her fit of mirth.  She finally catches her breath and slaps her thighs in amusement.  "Julian? That boy?  Kill someone?  Even an absolute parasite like Lucio?  No."  

"How are you sure?”

"Have you met him?”

"Well -”

“Wait."  She stops, looking down at me with concern.  "You have met him?  And he didn’t …  Fucking hell! Asra, you son of a bi - biscuit."  She belated puts a hand over Tam’s ear, then peers closely at me and touches my temple.  "You’re okay right?”

"I’m fine.  Why?  What about Asra?  I know he and Julian were together.  Don’t ask how, I just do.”

“Yeah, I tried to stop that.  Idiot boy didn’t listen to me any more than you do.”

“What did Asra do?"   

She strokes her son’s desk curly hair.  "I can honestly tell you that I don’t know exactly what Asra did.  And it’s not that no good came of it, but there are some lines I don’t think we’re meant to cross, even if it’s our heart’s desire."  She leans over and kisses the top of the child’s head.  Her forehead brushes against mine, and she lets it rest there for a breath.

“I knew Julian too, didn’t I?  I mean before.”

She straightens back up and sighs, eyes darting away from me and then back to my face.  “You don’t really need me to answer that, do you?  Listen, Julian is a good man, no matter what melodramatic nonsense he may be prattling on about these days.  In general, trust him.  You just may need to smack him around a bit every now and then for acting like a fool."  

The sound of tiny sandals slapping against paving stones pulls her attention away from me and to someone behind me.  "Mommy, look what I have!”  Eurydice runs up clutching a double handful of hard candies wrapped in paper.  Sibyl trails a foot or two behind her, dimples in her cheeks from a smile. "Mama said I have to ask you how many I can eat at once."  

"Oh, did she now?”  

Sibyl shrugs apologetically, and Artemis rolls her eyes.  "Tell you what.  You can have one now and two after dinner, or two now and one after dinner."  Eurydice huffs and twists her lips in concentration, debating between the options.  

Tam lifts his head off my shoulder and looks over at Sibyl, squirming in my arms with a hand reached out to her.  She coos to him.  "Aww, is my little one sleepy?  Thanks for holding him, Dema.”  She takes him from me.  "Artemis said you were working for the Countess?  How’s that going?”

“It’s -” I smooth my blouse from where holding Tam had rumpled it.  “Interesting.  But I don’t think I want a permanent job.”

Sibyl smiles warmly.  “Good.  We’d miss you around here."  She’s never been anything other than kind to me.  Eurydice tugs at her skirt.  “Hmm, we better get home, your brother is sleepy.  See you soon, Dema.”

Artemis hugs me quickly then tucks Eurydice’s extra candies away in a pocket before taking the little girl’s hand.  “Be careful, Dema.  Find me if you need me.”

The crowds begin to clear as the brass band finishes up and the palace servants return to the wagons.  I walk across the square and find Portia, who is unsurprisingly directing the clean up organization.  She pulls me up into the wagon and into an exuberant hug.  The wagon’s jerk to a start, nearly toppling us both over, but she only laughs and throws more rice out into the crowd.  After the wagon pulls out of the square, she plops down beside me and tosses an arm around my shoulders.

“Well, Dema, think you’re ready to meet the courtiers?”

“The -?  Oh.”  Between the prior night and the events of this morning, I had forgotten that the Countess intended to introduce me to the rest of the court this afternoon.  There’s no way that I’m ready to meet the rest of the court.  

“Don’t worry.”  Portia pats my shoulder.  “I’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

Chapter Eight

a/n: Interpol, “Evil”

#the arcana #arcana fanfiction #portia devorak #julian devorak #ilya devorak #julian x mc #julian x apprentice #asra x apprentice #asra x mc #asra #asra alnazar #whatever i've done #my writing #dema

[themanicmagician]

Scapegoat - FFXV Oneshot

[AO3] Summary:

“King Noctis?”

He barely holds back a sigh—had ten minutes alone been too much to ask?—and forces an amicable smile on his face.

He turns to greet the newcomer. And freezes.

A man he’s never met has the barrel of a gun trained on his chest.

Insomnia is slow to recover. The crown city had been ravaged during the clash between Niflheim and the Old Wall. After Insomnia fell, the empire held the city but did not maintain it, instead letting the infrastructure crumble, leaving it all to rot. Then came a decade of darkness, and the city became home to daemons and animals, as well as a handful of humans too concerned with living day to day to concern themselves with burst pipes and rubble in the streets.

Noctis had hesitated, at first. He’d done all that’d been asked of him. With the help of his brothers, he’d given Ardyn peace at last, and returned light to the world. Surely, no one would begrudge him the choice to tuck himself away in some quiet part of the world and let everything continue on without him.

But then they’d returned to Hammerhead, the morning sun at their backs.

The gathered scraps of the crownsguard had wept—even Cor’s eyes were suspiciously damp. They’d knelt before him, pressed their lips to his knuckles and called him Majesty. At once, there were volunteers to patrol the city, people scrambling to summon their families from wherever they were holed up, talk of the equipment that’d be required for the rebuild. No one could even fathom that Noctis would want anything otherwise. With the empire in shambles, they needed a stability to their world that only he could provide. It would be selfish and cruel of him to leave them now.

And so he stayed.

News of the king’s return spread throughout Lucis. In the weeks that followed, people entered the city in a steady stream. Some were eager to reclaim their lost homestead; others just sought security. Noctis threw himself wholeheartedly into the revitalization efforts among his people, becoming just another pair of hands sifting through the rubble. Tensions ran high initially, Lucians unhappy with the Niflheim refugees working alongside them. Noctis nipped that enmity in the bud, shaming them into better behavior. He meant what he’d promised Prompto, all those years ago in the keep; he craved above all a unity between the nations, so nothing like the war between Lucis and Niflheim ever happens again.

Once they’d cleared the streets enough that cars could make it through to the Citadel and back, his coronation was held. The ceremony was less fanciful than those past for want of resources, but they made due with what they had. His father should have been the one to place the crown onto his head, but the duty instead fell to Cor, the last remnant of King Regis’ reign. On the steps of the Citadel, the newly-crowned King Noctis pledged himself to his people, to rule and protect them as best he was able.

The coronation ceremony had been televised. Now with tangible proof of his ascension, emissaries were quick to reach out to establish alliances. Ravus surprised him by being the first to step forward and pledge Tenebrae’s loyalty and assistance with Insomnia’s recovery efforts.

Reluctantly, Noctis began to sequester himself from the physical, tangible aspects of the rebuild effort. He turned his focus inward, to learn what it meant to be king. The Citadel, miraculously, had been left largely untouched all this time. Sure, windows were smashed out here and there, but its resources had been left mostly intact. Noctis spent countless hours holed up in the library, pouring over books on past treaties and tactics. He wasn’t about to risk his ignorance ruining the peace everyone had sacrificed so much for.

Today they’re holding a reception in one of the Citadel’s ballrooms for visiting dignitaries from Lestallum. The thought of that still throws him. Ten years ago, Lestallum had been a lively but small city, nothing next to Insomnia. His friends had caught him up to speed on how the city had evolved into much more of a city-state. Lestallum’s reactor made it uniquely suited as a hub for safety in a world of darkness, and it’s now six times the size it’d been when he’d last visited it. With Lestallum’s proximity to Insomnia, it’s imperative they become firm partners in trade.

Insomnia will be as grand as it once was, but to get there, the capital city needs all the aid it can get. So Noctis puts on his most pleasant smile and mingles with the people of influence from Lestallum.

This gala is a mockery of what such parties used to look like. But they simply don’t have the supplies and reserves yet for anything better. Instead of caviar, there’s fish caught fresh from the reservoir. Instead of fizzy champagne, they’re serving wine that they’d raided from some deep cellar in the Citadel. Staff had dusted the bottles for hours to make them look “vintage” instead of ancient.

All the diplomats Noctis speaks with are gracious enough not to comment on Insomnia’s sluggish pace of improvement, instead taking pains to praise the empire’s defeat and Noctis’ return.

Noctis has to be very careful with his words. Since his return, people have seen King Noctis Lucis Caelum the Lightbringer first, and Noct second. Attendants trail in his footsteps, hoping to glean some blessed wisdom, imitating his every mannerism. At the tail end of a meeting he’d lamented offhandedly to Ignis that he missed skittles. Days later, a veritable mountain of the sugary candy was delivered to the Citadel. He’d been touched, but also kind of embarrassed. He kept a few packets despite Ignis’ grumblings, and gave the rest to the children.

Gods, there are so many of them. Not babes, not yet; it’s been five months since dawn returned. But teenagers and toddlers are aplenty, war orphans. They first wandered the broken streets as the adults worked, unsure what to do or where to go. Noctis seized an old college dormitory to house them in, and there were many volunteers to teach and care for them. Noctis makes a point to visit them once a week with “Uncle Prompto”.

Noctis withdraws from a droning conversation with a trade magnate. The man doesn’t let him leave until he presses a kiss to Noctis’ knuckles with his rubbery lips. Noctis fights the urge to wipe his hand on his sleeve. He’s still not used to being treated with such reverence. He’s unworthy of it, and it makes him uncomfortable.

Needing some air, Noctis ducks out of the ballroom and into the hall. He should probably notify Gladio, at least, that he’s stepping out. But Gladio would insist on tagging along, and he needs solitude even from his Shield right now. He passes through an antechamber that leads out to a balcony.

He tests the railing’s strength, and, once assured it won’t collapse at the slightest touch, he leans his weight against it, staring out at the view. The crispness of the wind is refreshing. He closes his eyes, just taking a moment to revel in the breeze that stirs his hair.

“King Noctis?”

He barely holds back a sigh—had ten minutes alone been too much to ask?—and forces an amicable smile on his face.

He turns to greet the newcomer. And freezes.

A man he’s never met has the barrel of a gun trained on his chest.

Noctis’ hand twitches, but he doesn’t call forth his Engine Blade from the armiger. He wouldn’t be fast enough.

“Put the gun down,” Noctis commands, more confident than he feels. He risks a glance over the man’s shoulder. There’s no one coming. Inexplicably, no one noticed his absence yet, or they have, and aren’t sure where he’s run off to. “You don’t have to do this.”

A laugh tears out of the man. It’s a broken, hollow thing. He holds the gun in both hands, and reaffirms his grip.

“On the contrary. I’ve been dreaming of this moment for six years.”

Noctis has to keep him talking as long as he can. He takes the slightest step forward, so small as to not draw the man’s attention. Disarming methods had been drilled into his head when he was a child as a precaution. If he can just get close enough…

“In what way have I wronged you?” Noctis asks.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Your Majesty.” He spits the title like a curse. “You left us in the darkness for ten years.”

“I needed time to prepare—”

“Sarah didn’t have time!” He yells over Noctis. “Gods only know where you were, but for us common folk, every hour of every day was a struggle to survive. All the crops died in the first months, do you understand that? My Sarah…” He sobs. “I had no money. Nothing to barter. The rations weren’t near enough. She was whittled down to nothing when her heart gave out. Her skin hung off her bones like paper. And you want us to worship you now? For sauntering in like the last ten years never happened? It’s your fault she’s dead, that thousands are dead from the Long Night.”

“I don’t want to be worshiped, or anything of that sort.” Noctis is so, so close now. Just two more steps. His heart beats frantically in his ears. “Believe me when I say I never intended to be away for so long.”

“I’m not here to listen to your excuses.” His finger tightens on the trigger. “I’m here for Sarah.”

“Wait, please—”

Noctis lunges for the gun, but he’s too slow.

There’s a loud bang as the gun goes off, then all Noctis hears is a ringing whine. Red blooms from the center of his chest. His killer stares at him, face pale, seemingly shocked that he’s actually done it. Then he spins on his heel and flees, leaving Noctis to die alone.

He has minutes, at most. He thinks he should probably feel more frantic about the concept of dying, but instead a calm resignation settles on his shoulders. He’d made his peace with his death once before, when he’d been so sure fulfilling his destiny would cost his life. His knee aches, along with his chest, so he slides down onto the floor. He presses his side against the railing of the balcony, so he can look out at Insomnia below. It’s late, and dark, so he can’t see too much detail, just the bright lights of the buildings. It reminds him of the city’s halcyon days, and he can almost pretend he’s twenty again, looking out on the cityscape at night, everyone he loves still alive.

Maybe this is the divine hand of the Astrals; save for Shiva, they hadn’t been pleased when he’d cheated the poetic death they’d laid out for him. So they’d stuck him with the next end they could find, five months later. At least death by assassination isn’t too terribly ignoble.They could’ve been proper assholes about it and given him a heart attack on the toilet, or something.

No, this isn’t bad at all. He was able to bring the dawn back, and he knows his friends will get on fine without him. They’ve all been doing so well, had done so well without him all these long years. They don’t need him. Perhaps they never did.

Noctis is so tired. He closes his eyes and drifts.

~*~

Prompto is doing his absolute damndest to appear like he belongs here. Noctis would never think of excluding him, but still, he lacks the lessons on etiquette that had been drilled into Gladio and Ignis since they were kids, and he’d never attended parties like this when Noct was prince. He feels supremely out of place amidst this glittering crowd, even with his freshly pressed and tailored uniform. The last thing he wants to do is stick his foot in his mouth and cause some sort of scandal with the visiting dignitaries, so he keeps to himself on the fringe of the activity, gripping the glass of wine in his hands like a lifeline.

He watches Noctis make a slow circuit of the room, taking the time to speak with everyone. In high school he’d bemoaned his royal duties, had skipped state dinners against his father’s will to play video games with Prompto in his pajamas. It’s difficult to reconcile that bratty prince with the regal king Noctis has grown into. Ten years in the crystal have tempered his spirit, brough to the surface the noble qualities that Noctis used to shield behind an indifferent, sullen attitude. Prompto’s stupidly proud of him.

Noctis’ gaze finds him across the room. Prompto waves unthinkingly, then yelps as he accidentally sloshes wine onto his sleeve. The smirk the king flashes him is all Noct.

Prompto scuttles over to the buffet. He wets a napkin and tries to scrub the wine out of the cuff before it can set.

“That will definitely stain.” Ignis says, appearing over his shoulder and confirming his fears.

While Prompto feels out of place, Ignis, on the contrary, looks right at home. This is the kind of environment he was raised to work in. Running around all of Lucis hunting demons and gathering the blessings of the Astrals had been an unprecedented departure from his intended duties.

Prompto gives up on saving his sleeve, and rolls it up half an inch instead to hide the damp discoloration. It exposes the black band of his bracelet beneath, but there’s no prickle of anxiety. The guys know what he is, where he came from, and they’d accepted him easily. He hides the barcode now to avoid having to explain himself to strangers, but if it comes off, he’ll deal with it.

“How are things going out there?” Prompto gestures to the crowd before them.

“I’m cautiously optimistic,” Ignis says, which is Ignis-speak for fucking ecstatic. “Insomnia doesn’t have too much yet in the way of resources to offer for trade, but considering Noct is the one who ended the Long Night, they are all too happy to supply any aid they can in thanks.” His smile is wry. “They want to get in the good graces of the Gods’ champion, as it were. In case he has a few more miracles up his sleeve.”

Noctis had sat them all down after they’d killed Ardyn. He still retains the Ring of the Lucii and the Crystal, but the covenants with the Gods have expired. They can use magic as they wish, but otherwise they are on their own now. If people are expecting Noctis to display the Gods like a party trick, they’ll be waiting a long while.

They both stiffen at the sound of a sharp bang. A gunshot?

The partygoers cry out in panic. Cor jumps to take charge, ordering crownsguard to the doors.

“Have you seen Noct?” Gladio suddenly appears in front of them, looking frazzled.

Prompto glances back to where he’d last seen his friend, but he isn’t there. He looks around the room, searching for the telltale glint of a crown, for a flash of black and gold. They just heard a gun go off, and he can’t find Noct.

Without another word exchanged, the trio tear off towards the source of the gunshot. They run through a hallway, and take a turn into an antechamber that leads out to a balcony.

As Gladio shoves open the door to the antechamber, a man shouts, and tries to bring the butt of his gun down on Gladio’s head. Gladio is faster and stronger. He delivers one swift punch to the man’s face, hard enough to crack his jaw. Dazed, the man lets the gun slip free from his hand. Gladio drives him to the floor, and keeps him pinned with his knee.

“I’ve got him. Check on Noct!”

A set of glass doors divide the room from its balcony. Prompto lets out a low moan of fear, hand coming to his mouth in horror. Noctis is slumped against the railing, his raiment soaked through with blood.

Ignis beats him there by seconds, yanking open the glass door and sliding to his knees before his king.

Noctis’ eyes are closed, his face impossibly pale.

“Is he—?”

Ignis presses a pair of shaking fingers to Noctis’ neck.

“Still alive. He doesn’t have long—we need a phoenix down.  Now.”

“On it.” Prompto says, and bolts from the room.

He runs as fast as he can, crashing around corners, bowling people over. Noctis is barely clinging to life. After—After he dies, because he will die, because none of them had been paying enough attention, they’ll have ten minutes at the absolute maximum to get the phoenix feather into Noctis. Any longer, and they’ll be too late.

And of course, of fucking course they none of them have any phoenix downs on hand. They hadn’t wanted to bother Noctis with restocking the armiger, not when he was so busy with everything else. They have a handful of phoenix downs stored in the hospital wing of the Citadel, in case of a dire emergency. Not one of them had thought to slip one into the armiger tonight, because who would dare attack the king in his own home, surrounded by his closest confidants?

Even though that’s exactly how King Regis had died. Gods, even after everything they’ve been through, they’re still a bunch of idiots.

Prompto skids to a stop in front of an elevator bank, and jams the button to call an elevator repeatedly. He itches to just take the stairs, but as slow as the elevator seems, it’ll be faster.

The elevator doors open with a soft chime, and Prompto is inside and pressing the close door button before it finishes. He takes the half a minute of the elevator’s descent to catch his breath, and plan out the path he’ll take from the elevator that’ll be the quickest to his destination.

When the doors open again he’s off like a shot, brushing past bemused glaives on patrol. He stumbles into the infirmary. The on-duty doctor drifts towards him, alarmed, looking him over for injuries.

“Phoenix down.” Prompto pants.

“But we were instructed to—”

“The king is dying!” Prompto snaps. “Give it to me.”

The doctor scurries away to find the curative. Prompto eyes the clock on the wall, watches what could be Noctis’ last seconds tick away. His fingers drum on his pants. No time. No time.

The doctor returns, grasping a tuft of a golden feather in his hand. Prompto snatches it from him without a word, and sprints back to the elevator bank. Thankfully, the elevator he’d called down is still here.

As the elevator climbs higher, Prompto cradles the phoenix down close to his chest. The feather glows bright with magic, waiting to be used.

He bursts into the antechamber. Noctis’ assassin is bound and unconscious in one corner of the room, under the watch of a pair of crownsguard. Gladio and Ignis have brought Noctis off the balcony and into the room. Ignis is pressing his handkerchief to Noctis’ chest, but Prompto can tell it’s a fool’s errand. Noctis isn’t breathing. How long has it been since he stopped?

Prompto drops to his knees before them and slams the phoenix down over Noctis’ heart.

There’s a long moment where nothing happens. Magic ignites in Noctis’ chest, but he remains still and pale. Gladio’s eyes are wet, and Ignis looks positively shattered. All Prompto can think is if only he’d been a little faster, maybe they could’ve saved him.

And then Noctis is arching up, gasping for air, hands clutching at his chest. Prompto watches Noctis draw in one ragged breath after another, and it’s the most beautiful goddamn thing he’s ever seen.

“Oh Gods. Thank the Gods.” Prompto gasps. He clasps at Noctis’ shoulder, reveling in the proof that Noctis is still alive.

“Noct. Noctis,” Ignis repeats his name like a prayer, running his trembling hands through Noctis’ hair. His hands are tacky with blood, making Noctis look more a mess, but Ignis can’t help himself.

Gladio is across from Prompto, and has one hand wrapped around Noctis’ wrist, thumb over the pulse point. He draws in a shuddering breath, crying silently.

“What—What happened?” Noctis rasps. His gaze flickers rapidly between the three of them as he struggles to make sense of the gap of time.

“You’re alright now,” Prompto promises, voice thick with tears. He takes Noctis’ hand in his own, pressing it to his cheek. Gods, his hand is freezing cold. They came so close to losing him. “We’ve got you.”

~*~

Noctis had been dead for eight minutes, due to negligence of his role. In the ten years Noctis has been gone, Gladio has forgotten what it meant to be a Shield. He’d become a Sword, focused only on honing himself, becoming stronger, obliterating any daemons that ventured too close to the king’s people. Swords are useful, but the king has plenty of swords already. He needs a proper shield. Someone to defend him, someone who can provide a haven of security. Someone who can sense when he needs a moment to himself, and guide him somewhere safe where he can compose himself without the threat of danger.

Gladio failed him last night.

Clarus is no longer here—he died with his king, before his king, as Gladio should have—so it falls upon him to discipline himself.

As soon as he can, he makes an excuse to separate from the group. He leaves the Citadel and returns to the Amicita estate. He hasn’t been back here since that fateful day over a decade ago, when he’d piled into the Regalia alongside his friends. Back then, his only concern had been if he’d brought enough books along for what was supposed to have been a week-long trip.

His home doesn’t match up to the memories in his mind. The Niffs had known who they were; MTs had stormed the estate in search of him and Iris, seeking to cull the line of faithful Shields. The elements have gotten in through the smashed windows, leaving the once-vibrant carpets muddied and faded, wooden furniture spoiled by rainstorms. Gladio picks his way around overturned furniture, and tries not to think about how the walls are mottled with bullet holes. Iris had survived Insomnia’s fall. That’s what matters.

Gladio enters his old room. Spartan, save for the full bookshelf alongside one wall. He didn’t have the time for many hobbies growing up, nor the inclination to indulge.

Beneath his moth-eaten mattress is a box. He pulls it out, and lifts off the lid to reveal what’s inside. A scourge, his father called it. A thick leather handle, with six barbed, knotted ropes attached. He’s never had cause to use it before.

Gladio peels off his shirt, and shivers in the slight chill of the air. He hefts the whip in one hand with solemn resolve.                                          

His king had been dead for eight minutes; so it will be eight lashes against his skin.

The first strike stings, like a daemon had caught him in the back by surprise.

His skin breaks open on the third. He feels blood roll down from the open cut. He pictures Noctis, left to die alone, and the next lash is harder still.

At six lashes he has to pause. Bowed over, hands curling in the carpet fibers, he gasps for breath. He deserves this. As soon as Noctis had been coherent, he’d knelt by his side and apologized. The king had forgiven him, absolved him of all blame, but Gladio still feels unrest in his soul. Noctis couldn’t seem to grasp the depths of Gladio’s shame.

After the eighth lash, he drops the scourge. He should clean his blood off the bits of spiked metal; there’s a chance he’ll need it again. But for the moment, he just sits, feeling the welts on his back, sinking into the pain of it.

Then, the floorboards creak. Too lightly for a man.

Iris enters his room.

They haven’t spent enough time together, but now that there are no daemons left to kill, she’s strayed closer to his side than she has the past several years. The Long Night has shaped her into a formidable warrior. Still small, but built of compact muscle and with a steely resolve that rivals Cor’s. But despite everything she’s endured, she still maintains her sweet smile. Iris the Daemonslayer is still the same Iris who snuck cats inside their house to keep them out of the rain.

There’s no panic in her eyes at the sight of his bloodied back—she, too, is Clarus’ child.

“I thought I’d find you here.” Is all she says.

He’s infinitely grateful that it’s Iris, and her alone. Prompto, Ignis, and especially Noctis would be appalled. Horrified. This is not something that anyone else but them, the last two in the line of House Amicita, will understand.

Iris cradles a hi-potion in her hand. He turns away.

“I don’t need that.” He’ll bandage and clean the wounds. But he wants the pain to linger, wants the scars to remind him.

“Don’t be an idiot, Gladiolus.” She shoves the hi-potion at his face. “How are you going to defend King Noctis if you’re too sore and stiff to wield your sword?”

Still, Gladio hesitates.

“You can’t prioritize your need to feel guilty over his well-being.”

“I’m not.”

“So…?” She shakes the glass bottle, sloshing its contents around.

Begrudgingly, he accepts the hi-potion. He swallows it down in three large gulps. It’s bitter, but effective. In seconds he feels his pain dull, skin knitting back together. Streaks of drying blood on his back and the scourge now the only proof of what had transpired.

“Come on,” Iris bumps her shoulder against his. “Noct is waiting.”

~*~

Ignis is well aware that he’s hovering.

He can’t bring himself to stop.

If he pauses but a moment, then he’s thrust right back to the night of the gala, feeling the failing beats of his king’s pulse beneath his fingers. So he doesn’t stop. He irons Noctis’ clothes, and polishes the golden clasps that adorn his kingly raiments. He takes over Noctis’ meals, to the head chef’s chagrin, spoiling him with whatever favorites he can. The mundane tasks distract his hands and mind, and are soothing in their familiarity.

They’d come so close to losing him. Ignis has only felt such terror in his life twice before. When he’d been told the news of the Marilith attack and Noctis’ paralyzation, and when Ardyn had held a dagger to his unconscious leige’s throat. Noctis has had close brushes with death during their long journey, they all have, but there’s a difference between injuries scored in the heat of battle versus ones inflicted when Nocitis is caught unawares. Noctis has fought Gods and won, and a simple bullet claimed his life. So simple to be ludicrous, and so unfair. Noctis has more than earned a long and happy life.

Ignis still can’t comprehend it. That anyone would ever want to harm Noctis, their king, the bringer of the dawn. They should bless him for every harvest, for every child that can grow up in a world free of daemons and war.

He’s developed a new habit in the past handful of days. In between his self-assigned tasks, he checks the armiger’s stock. They secured a second phoenix down from the medical wing—just in case—and had added a small collection of potions and other curatives that Ignis intends to expand further still, as soon as Noctis feels well enough to spare the magic. Ignis refuses to be caught so off guard again.

Noctis can sense each time Ignis dips into the armiger to take a look. He glares over at Ignis when he feels him rummage through it for the third time in one hour.

“You can go, Specs.” Noctis gestures to the stack of reports on his desk. “You’re antsy. Take the rest of the night off. I’m just getting through the rest of these and heading to bed.”

“I can stay.” He casts about for an excuse. “In case you have concerns. I have some thoughts on the crop surveys—”

“Which I’ll be more than happy to hear about tomorrow. I’m fine. I’m not going to fall apart the second you leave the room.”

Annoyance bleeds through his tone. Ignis winces. He’s not the only one that’s been finding excuses to remain at Noctis’ side. Gladio shadows him from room to room, rarely excusing himself for his own needs. Prompto fills every meal with ceaseless chatter, and shepherds him to meetings alongside Gladio. Noctis has always hated his need for security, his lack of privacy as a public figure, but they need to keep reassuring themselves that he’s alright. Ignis knows he will never forget Noctis’ last hitching gasp before he stopped breathing.

“Ignis, please.” It’s the weariness in his voice that makes Ignis concede.

“Very well.” Ignis draws himself up, and collects the thin folders he’d used as an excuse to drop in. “Tomorrow, then. Have a pleasant evening, Majesty.”

Noctis inclines his head, and Ignis slowly, reluctantly, trudges from the king’s rooms. He nods at the two crownsguard posted outside the door.

He showers. It’s still such a novelty, having power to spare for hot water.

Ignis then settles on the couch in his room at the Citadel, and goes over Noctis’ schedule for tomorrow. His time is choked with meetings, but there’s nothing for it. As slow as Insomnia’s recovery may seem, it requires a lot of activity behind the scenes to keep everything in motion.

Once he’s exhausted preparations for tomorrow, Ignis attempts to distract himself, in vain. He’s too restless to focus on a book, too wired to sleep.

He’s already bid Noctis good night. But...it can’t hurt to check in on him, can it?

It’s nearly eleven now. Noctis usually heads to bed around midnight. He’s been having some issues sleeping, stress giving him nightmares. Perhaps a soothing herbal tea will help ease him into pleasant dreams.

He prepares a pot of chamomile tea and snags two tea cups from the kitchens before he heads to Noctis’ rooms. The guards posted sentry don’t look surprised at all to see him again tonight, and let him inside.

“Noct?” He calls, softly. He sets the tea and cups down on the coffee table.

He finds Noctis slumped over on his desk. Ignis nearly panics, until he sees the rhythmic rise and fall of Noctis’ chest, hears the low whistle of his snores. Ignis drags a hand over his face. He is being ridiculous. They’d had a scare, to be sure, but Noctis is  fine .

Ignis crosses over to his king, and gently shakes his shoulder.

“Noct, come on. You can’t sleep here.” Hunched over like this, he’ll aggravate his back if left to it.

Noctis mumbles something incomprehensible, and bats weakly at Ignis’ hand. There’s a wet spot of drool on the opened report beneath him.

“Come on, up you go.”

Noctis’ eyes crack open a sliver. More than half asleep, he lets Ignis steer him to his bedroom. Ignis would prefer if Noctis would change into something more comfortable for sleep, but he knows Noctis doesn’t have the energy for that right now. So Ignis helps him into bed, and after removing his shoes, Ignis drags the comforter over him, tucking it up to his chest.

Noctis curls on his side, and in moments his breathing deepens in sleep once more.

~*~

He just needs a few minutes alone. He’ll be fine if he can just get that.

Noctis is well aware that wanting a few minutes of solitude is what resulted in his brush with death not one week ago, but he’s not the first Lucian king too stubborn to learn from history.

He retreats to the same place he fled to as a child, mostly whenever he’d been upset with his father. The Citadel has several gardens and greenhouses, but the one tucked away on the 43rd floor has always been his favorite. Patches of Tenebraean sylleblossoms had been carefully coaxed into flowering amidst the willow and sakura trees. He used to gape at the koi as they swirled majestically around the multi-tiered pond, the gentle scent of blossoms embracing him.

The fish that used to entrance him have long since died, their remains choking the water’s current. The flowers have all shriveled, their stalks stringy and yellowed. The trees at least, though they stand hollow and dead, stand still, creating a familiar enough setting. Noctis sits in the dirt before the edge of the pond, and watches the stale water lap quietly against the bank.

His killer has a name; Luca Taylor.

The sentence for an attempted assassination is death. Noctis knows this. There’d been attempts made before, on his life and his father’s, albeit none as successful. Regis hadn’t hesitated to meter out the king’s justice upon those foolhardy men and women. He’d watched with hard eyes as Clarus took their lives.

The crownsguard locked Luca up in one of Insomnia’s still-functioning prisons. Just waiting for Noctis to give the order. Gladio will leap at the chance for vengeance—if Ignis doesn’t beat him there first. But Noctis has said nothing yet about Luca, despite all the probing questions about his fate tossed his way.

Because he knows Luca was right.

The Long Night, as they all call it, has left its marks. As much as everyone tries to downplay it—so grateful he returned at all in their lifetime, they made no mention of the decade he’d abandoned them for, save for Gladio’s quiet “Took you long enough, princess”—Noctis can see how it has worn on all of them. He sees it in the way Ignis rations out meals for the week to the last crust of bread, leaving nothing unused. The way Gladio’s head snaps up at every sudden, unexpected sound, hands twitching for a sword. The way Prompto, once so animated and bubbly in everything he did, has taken to sitting still, to conserve his strength for survival.

The way they all can’t sleep without a light on in the dark of night.

Noctis had nearly wept when he’d stepped out of Talcott’s truck to witness how years of slow starvation and constant war had left them so haggard and hollow-cheeked, shadows of the men they’d once been.

And it’s his fault. All they endured, all Luca suffered through. The deaths of Sarah and countless others.

He hadn’t been enough. He’d pressed his hand to the Crystal and begged for the power to end the daemons. He’d offered everything. If the Astrals had told him a blood price would be enough, he would’ve slit his wrists right there in Gralea.

But instead, the Crystal had taken him away from them to build his strength, so he’d stand a chance against Ardyn Lucis Caelum. While Eos had suffered, he’d been cucconed in the impenetrable protection of the Crystal. Not knowing hunger or paranoia or pain like any of them had.

He will never truly understand what it felt like, for any of them. He would’ve gladly lived those ten years in the darkness alongside them. He feels like he’s cheated his way to a happy ending. He doesn’t deserve it.

Gods, if anyone deserves it, it’s Luna, his father. They’ve done so much, given so much. They deserve to be here in the world they saved, not him. Not the lazy, weak little prince.

A pair of boots crunch over the dead plants.

“Noct?” Prompto’s voice sounds strained. “You in here, buddy?”

Noctis almost says nothing, selfishly wanting more time to himself, but his guilt at the worried edge to his best friend’s voice has him calling out.

“Here.”

Prompto rushes to him, scanning him over for any type of injury. When he finds none, he sits at Noctis’ side. He sends out a message to their group chat. Noctis’ phone buzzes in his breast pocket with the text alert. Prompto’s gaze flicks to it.

“You know, we’ve been looking for you the past hour or so. Calling you.”

Has it been that long? Noctis can’t tell. His sense of time has been skewed since he emerged from the Crystal; his imprisonment hadn’t felt ten years long.

Prompto digs out a stone from the sandy soil and tosses it. It hits the pond water with a heavy plop.

Prompto laughs, mirthless. “Gotta say that was pretty uncool of you, man. We’re still in panic mode, you know? Ignis was about ready to tear apart all of Insomnia with the glaives and everything.”

Guilt settles uneasily in his stomach, like a thick sludge. Noctis hugs his knees to his chest.

“Didn’t hear the phone. ‘m sorry.”

Prompto deflates some at his muttered, shitty apology.

“I get it. Just tell us next time, okay? Give your poor crownsguard some peace of mind.”

“Not just that.” Noctis sighs. “Prompto, I’m sorry for…for everything.”

“What are you talking about?” Prompto asks, with a bewildered tone that has to be fake.

“Stop that,” Noctis shifts to glare at him. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know—”

“Noctis? Prompto?” Ignis’ voice rings out. He sounds out of breath. Gladio trails in behind him.

“Over here!” Prompto waves them over. Gladio and Ignis come to sit beside them.

“Why don’t you ever answer your damn phone?” Gladio grinds out, but Prompto speaks over him.

“Noct already apologized for that. And also for everything? Apparently?”

There’s a glance exchanged between the three of them that he doesn’t understand. Of course he can’t read them anymore. It’s been too long.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Noct.” Ignis says, and it’s that infuriatingly gentle tone of his that breaks him.

“Enough, please. You don’t have to coddle me, and pretend you don’t really resent me. You should never have had to wait so long for me to get out of the Crystal. I know what I am, okay? I know I’m a fuck up. A mistake. I know it, you guys know it, Luca Taylor knows it—”

“Whatever that man said to you, I can assure you he’s incorrect.” Ignis says, with a deep severity.

“He isn’t.” A peal of hysterical laughter rips through him. “It’s nothing I didn’t already know. I was a pathetic prince, and I’m an even worse king. You should’ve—You should’ve just let me die.”

His statement sucks all the air from the room. Horror is mirrored on all three of his friends’ faces, but then they shift: Gladio, to anger, Ignis, to grief, and Prompto, to incomprehension.

“Noct, no…” Prompto croaks.

“How could you even say that?” Gladio asks, with a surprising lack of heat despite his palpable fury.

“Noctis Lucis Caelum.” Ignis takes Noctis’ head between both his hands, forcing Noctis to look him in the eyes. “I have known you since you were six years old. Not once have I ever doubted you, or thought you a mistake. I never wished you were anyone other than who you are.”

Noctis pulls away.

“I put all of you through so much.”

“We chose to go with you.” Gladio says. “To follow you.”

“Ever at your side,” Prompto reminds him.

“It’s not as if you chose to stay away from us. It was in the hands of the Astrals.”

“Yeah, but if I’d been stronger, or better, somehow, maybe it wouldn’t have taken me so long.”

“Don’t you get that we don’t care about that?” Prompto says. Tears are gathering in his eyes. “Fuck, Noct. We’re so glad you’re back. We would’ve waited forever. And for you to go and say that you—that you wish you weren’t here—”

Prompto’s throat closes on the words, and he’s unable to continue.

“We mourned you.” Gladio picks up the conversation. “We knew you were still alive, we could still use the armiger and summon weapons, but it wasn’t the same without you there. We were so lost without you. We weren’t living, just...existing. Until you came back to us.”

Ignis shifts. “When you left us—no. When the Crystal took you from us, we splintered. Fighting together as a team felt wrong without you beside us. We separated. We were of better use spread out across Lucis, true, but the main reason we fractured is because we were not one whole without you, Noct. But we would find a way to meet up for your birthday. Every year.”

Prompto lets out a watery chuckle, swiping at his nose with his sleeve. “Six, do you remember that crappy little cake on his 26th? I thought you were going to kill us, Iggy.”

“Turns out powdered eggs and old flour don’t a good cake make,” Gladio grunts. “Just gives you the shits for days.”

“I did the best I could with what was available,” Ignis says, defensively. Then, he sobers. “But you must understand, Noct. We missed you not just because we felt we had a duty to our king. But because first and foremost you have always been our friend.”

Gladio and Prompto nod along with Ignis’ words.

And he’s—fuck. He’s crying now. Great ugly, heaving sobs that make his whole body shake. Prompto doesn’t hesitate to dive in for a hug, wrapping his arms around Noctis’ chest and burying his face in Noctis’ shoulder. Gladio slings his arm around Noctis’ shoulders, and Ignis wraps his arms around Noctis’ neck, pressing his face to Ignis’ chest. Surrounded by his friends, he lets himself go.

He cries. For all the people they’ve lost, for all his friends have had to endure. And lastly, he cries for himself. Finally giving himself permission to. He’s getting Ignis’ dress shirt all snotty and wet, but his chamberlain voices no complaints. Instead, they all hold him tighter still.

Noctis swallows thickly. “Guys, I’m…”

“I swear to the Six, Noct.” Prompto vows, voice muffled against Noctis’ shoulder. “If you try to apologize to us again I’m gonna punch you in the mouth.”

“No, I. I just wanted to say…”

He feels so loved.

“Thank you.”

#my fic #noct whump #some gladio whump too #ffxv #noctis lucis caelum #prompto argentum #ignis scientia #gladiolus amicitia

[fuckit-hero-of-trains]

Wind: So, which one of you guys is the evil quadruplet?

Red, Green, Blue, without missing a beat: Vio

Vio, shrugging: They’re not wrong.

#insomnia hours strike once again folks #I feel like this is something wind would ask right off the bat #and honestly? #its a fair question #linked universe #lu wind #lu four #this is dumb #train talk

[aedroths]

tagged by the lovely @airiat, thank you sm!!❤😊

rules: answer the questions and then tag 20 people

name: hannah

nicknames: i used to go by middle name bc i was like 19, had just moved out of my parents and wanted to reinvent myself. it got too confusing. so now amphitrite, bc on xbox my husband's gamertag is poseidon!

zodiac sign(s): gemini sun and moon, aquarius rising. i'm basically a tornado lmao

gender: female

sexuality: mostly into men, but every once in a while a woman would be attractive so!! idk. what are labels anyway

favorite color: pastel pink (or really any pastel)

time right now: 4:53 am :) third trimester insomnia has been kicking my ass lmao

average hours of sleep: ??? i have no idea like sometimes i'll sleep for a solid two hours, other times I sleep through most of the day

the last thing i googled: temporal lobe psychic. i was reading up on someone talking about the pineal gland, and thought that the temporal lobe was related to psychic powers as well!

number of blankets: 1, it's june in texas. my anemia is gone and i'm sensitive to heat now

favorite fictional character: ??? i have so many lmao mostly anti-heros!!

what are you wearing right now: ... i sleep naked. clothes irritate me and it's too hot 😭

favorite book: the alchemist

favorite musician: it depends on the genre! from rap, it's cardi b. folk, Mumford and sons. pop, taylor swift.

dream job: for now, stay at home mom/wife. i'll start thinking about my career again when my son is old enough to go to school. i really just don't like the idea of leaving him with anyone. ik my parents would love to babysit him, but as long as they have my sister visit, who had really wronged me and done A LOT of very fucked up things last year, i'm not sending him to stay with them. i don't want her anywhere near me or my baby.

number of followers: on my main, 150. on here, 95

when did you create your account: i'm pretty sure it was dec 2018, or January of this year idk

what do you post about: on my main, astrology, personal, spiritual, writing, memes, aesthetics, animals, and social justice things! on here, the elder scrolls; my ocs, aesthetics, shit posts, and my opinions

what made you get an account: so i made this account bc i lost my password to my email for my other one. and i made both of them because: boredom, venting, and where i could express my interests!

when did your blog reach its peak: uhh usually after i post a meme or opinion

do you get asks on a daily basis: not yet! i'm hoping eventually i will. i'm an attention hoe and very much like to debate ideas or talk about ocs

why did you choose your url: i love the concept of aetherium in tes, but obviously i couldn't use it so i added an -ity. idk why. idk what it means but i'm sticking to it lol

tagging: anyone!! just say i tagged you (i don't have enough mutuals on this blog to tag 20, but if you want to play this, tag me in it!!)

#tag game #about me #nontes

[swaddlen64-blog]

Prologue/Introduction

Blood spilled out of the body hanging upside down from the flag post in the town square. Throat cut, skin white and cold, the smell permeated around the dimly lit platform. Thick and pungent, blood and death. The body, naked and hairless, was male. His eyes stared out, sightless, though his face appeared calm. A stray observer would think, in other circumstances, surely, that the man died a peaceful death. Upon closer inspection, a smiling gash sunk deep into the man's throat. His head lulled inches above the ground, attached only by a slight chunk of flesh on the back of his neck. The pool of blood beneath him spread and spread.

A shout woke the otherwise quiet village, three hours before the rooster's caw would have. Old Hoyle, one of the most senior of the town councilmen, out on one of his regular insomnia-laced walks, had limped, cane, bum leg, and all, into the town square. Not an ounce innocent to the spoils and terror of war, Hoyle's heart nevertheless skipped a beat as his old eyes passed over the blood-drained body.

Hobbling as quickly as his pained legs would carry him, Hoyle pounded the Sheriff's door with the top of his cane. A murder! Just across the square from the sheriff's own home.

Another rap of the cane on the door. A crow fluttered down out of the night sky, as if appearing out of nowhere. Black on black, the bird perched itself a top the flag post, creaking its head quizzically at the dripping body down below.

A loud shuffle from inside the sheriff's house signified Hoyle had succeeded in waking the big oaf. Thank the Sun he got up. Likely spent the night guzzling ale at Tarran's. Probably just got home and passed out.

The door creaked open and Sheriff Burke, face flushed and hair matted to his forehead with sweat, gruffly berated Hoyle: "whaddya want, old man?"

"Sheriff, by the Sun, get dressed. There's been a murder."

Despite his annoyance at being awoken at this early an hour, Burke flashed a hand across his face, wiping away the sleep, and for once, he listened to the elder councilman.

A murder? In our town?

###

Less than twenty minutes later, a large crowd had grown in the town square. Mayor Sem stood in the center, conversing hastily with Hoyle, with Burke, with the other councilmen. Villagers, awoken by the hustle and bustle, made their way out of their sleepy houses and gathered round the flagpole. Around the body. Women cried; children screamed, whether from the terror of seeing death for the first time or simply from being woken too early in the night was unknown. Men, many feigning bravery, stood resolute next to their wives, their families, begging their children to quiet. Assuring the lot of them that they'd be safe.

Out in the harvesting fields, cows mooed. More crows gathered, perched a top the houses and markets, looking over the grisly scene.

Garus, the town's Sun priest, waddled through the crowd in his bright white robes. When he saw the bloodied body, he gasped and, covering his mouth, began to recite the prayer of the Sun. The Moon priest, Balyr, had not yet shown up.

Mayor Sem, looking up from his conversation with the council, appeared to finally take notice of the large crowd that had gathered. The murmuring, the worry, the unknowing. Now was the time to step up, he knew. Only a mere three months into his mayorship, now was the time to truly start to lead. He turned to face the crowd, holding his hands out as he'd imagined a king or a prince might.

"My friends, I'm sorry that we have gathered for such a grim occasion--"

"Grim 'occasion'?" Someone shouted, interrupting, "A man’s been killed!"

More shouts, concurrences. The crowd became unruly. Screams, angry cries, children's fear.

"Friends, please calm down, please --" Sem tried to assuage the terror but the pandemonium had already set in. Shouts echoed over the crowd, each person frightened and trying to speak over one another.

"A killer is loose!"

"Are they among us?"

"Anyone seen Fred lately? He and Brant had that row a few days back. Fred says Brant stole a barrel of corn from him..."

"Agh! Fred couldn't do nothing like this. The old bastard can barely manage to wipe himself properly!"

"Monsters!"

"It's blood magic!" A group of teens laughed.

The sound of a punch, a gasp as someone tried to catch their breath after having the wind knocked out of them. Raucous discord as several folks in the crowd bickered and wrestled.

"You shut up with that bloody witchcraft! We need none of that here!"

"Oh the smell, the bloody smell!"

Someone vomited.

Too many voices at once, too much to handle. Sem was not prepared. He didn't know what to do, how to manage this. He was not ready, was not prepared. Suddenly, Old Hoyle stepped in front of the young mayor, placing a soft, yet firm hand on his shoulder.

"Silence!" the old man shouted and everyone quieted.

Hoyle peered over the crowd. Nearly everyone in the town, as far as he could tell, had assembled in the square. "Now, does anybody recognize this man?" He turned, his hand outstretched towards the hanging body as if displaying a hunting prize he'd just slaughtered and was attempting to sell. Recognizing the bad optics, Hoyle swiftly returned his hand to his side.

The crowd was silent. Except for the random fluttering of crows wings and the flickering of torch flames, there were no other sounds.

"Nobody? No one knows this man?"

Still, nothing but silence and the night.

"Then he did not come from our village." Hoyle said, stepping down from the raised platform the flagpole stood upon in the center of town. He paced in front of the crowd. "Someone brought the body here."

Murmurs, gasps, turmoil. The crowd, of course, was frightened and confused. Who could do such a thing? This little, quiet, riverside town did nothing but farm and fish and sew and mind it's own business. Who could have something, anything, against them?

Sheriff Burke, wrapping up his discussion with the other townguards made his way down the platform steps to join Hoyle. Though calling them townguards was a bit of a stretch. The group was made up of two drunkards, like Burke himself, and two young men, barely into the throes of puberty, probably with just the lightest sprigs of hair on their balls. Nothing to truly entrust the safety of a whole town with. But, it was what they had. It'd have to do.

Burke spoke up, "there was no trail of blood leading into the square." More murmuring. "whoever did this, muddy have slit the poor man's throat right here."

"Or whatever did this!" A man shouted from the crowd.

"Quiet!" Hoyle shouted. A crow cawed out, as if in response.

"I've spoken with the other townguards." The Sheriff said. "We will post up for the rest of the night, two at each entrance to the village. We'll make sure nothing enters our town. At first light we, and any able-bodied man who can, will travel out and search nearby in the river lands."

The crowd, unsatisfied, continued to surge with doubt and with fear.

"What if the killer is hiding here, hiding amongst us?"

"What if he's escaped while we all gather here?"

"Who says it's a 'he'?"

"A woman couldn't do something as gruesome as this!"

"Oh fuck off, I've seen monstrous women in my day!"

"Quiet!" Hoyle shouted again. Nearly forty years in service as a councilman of this quiet town. He'd seen nothing like this before, and was entirely unprepared to deal with it. But, it was moments like these that one must truly step up as a leader. And clearly Mayor Sem was unable to do so.

The Mayor, still up on the platform, willed himself to not look at the gruesome body hanging upside down next to him. The dripping blood had stopped, thank the sun and the moon, but still. The dead exert a certain depressive aura that makes a man almost want to join them.

Hoyle, through all his years in this town, had not seen anything quite like this. A dead cow attacked by wolves, sure. Maybe a sick horse that needed to be put down by its owner, yes. But a grisly murder like this? In their very own streets? Impossible.

A deep sense of foreboding swept across Hoyle as he stood in front of the crowd. The only way he knew to muster the strength to make himself feel better was to tell the people what they wanted to hear. Make them feel safe and he'd have done his job.

"Our sheriff and our guards will protect us through the night. They will hunt whatever did this tomorrow morning. There's no use searching now; it's still too dark." Hoyle encouraged. "Whoever did this may have escaped but they can't have gone far. It rained just a few hours ago. Their tracks in the mud will be preserved in the mud around our village."

The crowd didn't seem to accept this, but without other answers or explanations they remained silent. The Sheriff turned, nodding to the old men and the young pre-teens, who gripped their dull swords just a bit tighter and rushed off in opposite directions to stand guard at the two village entrances.

Meanwhile, someone again shouted out, incredulously: "if it's blood magic, we'll never find them!"

Another retorted: "Shove that blasphemy up your ass! Blood magic's not real, you know that!"

"You lot best stop talking bout magic at all, lest we get the Knights of the Phoenix patrolling through our Village! Or worse, those bloody Three Fingered Men..."

Hoyle's stomach felt queasy. And it wasn't just the mention of blood magic, or the thought of the Three Fingered Men paying the townsfolk a visit. He needed to do something. Needed to stop the rumors, the wild speculation amongst the crowd.

A cool breeze passed through the crowd and with it, any hope of quelling the spreading rumors in the town.

A deep, raspy voice called throughout the square, chilling everyone present to the very bone.

"The blood of the fallen shall haunt the living."

If Hoyle's heart, still beating, hadn't stopped at the first sight of the hanging body, it should have stopped now.

"Who said that?" whispered Mayor Sem.

All was quiet. Except for the ruffling of crow feathers, and the large assembled crowd, of course, it was as if tonight were no different from any other night. Then, the raspy voice spoke again:

"Your Sun and your Moon cannot save you from the Hell that swiftly comes tonight."

It was then that Hoyle noticed the faces of those in the crowd, staring rapt in horror past him and towards the center of the square. He whirled around so fast it made his old bones ache.

The body, now completely drained of blood and cooling, was...twirling slowly in the air. Suspended, somehow, by nothing. The eyes, the sightless dead eyes, were now glowing a deep crimson. The dead man's mouth was agape, a dark cavern from which the horrible voice escaped.

It repeated itself again, those same words, and with them panic and terror woke the crowd from its horrified stupor. Screams and shouts echoed throughout the town square. Hoyle was shoved to the ground as two of the other councilmen ran into the crowd to their wives. Children crying, crows cawing, chaos reigning. There was nothing the council could do now to calm the crowd. Everybody wanted to get as far away from the twirling dead man as they could.

Mayor Sem had fallen to his feet, just a few meters from where Hoyle lay. He whimpered, scared and confused. His youth now very apparent, Hoyle pitied the young mayor, the boy who never chose this leadership role, who had probably never even seen death first hand. Hoyle crawled, his bad hip burning with pain, to Sem's side. "Get up, boy! We need to move."

The sheriff and the other town guards had returned from their posts. They made their way to the Mayor and Hoyle, helping the old man to his feet.

Burke was the first to speak, shouting over the screams of the chaotic crowd, "Sir, what shall we do?"

"We need to quiet the townsfolk," Hoyle replied. Sem was shaking in Hoyle's arms. They watched the crowd running back and forth, mothers trying to find their children who'd been lost in the madness. Fathers desperately trying to traverse the crowd and get to their homes, whether to grab their own weapons or just to shack up and hide.

"They're not going to calm down," Burke said, solemnly. Nothing like this had ever happened in their quiet town. He hadn't seen this much pandemonium since the Battle of Brystell, years earlier. He'd moved here to seek a quiet life of drinking, gambling, and more drinking. It was looking like that quiet life had run its course. Burke turned and looked at the twisting body. The crimson glow of its eyes made his balls jump back inside the sheriff's body. He felt queasy, uncertain. Damn it, he was scared.

"Garus!" Hoyle called out, seeking the Sun Priest. The man, dressed in a billowy white robe emblazoned with the red and yellow symbol of the sun, had bowed his head in prayer. Garus stood in front of the rotating corpse, his long white hair falling over the rest of his face. Muttering under his breath.

Great good prayer will do for us right now, Hoyle thought. "Garus! Where is Balyr?"

The Sun Priest did not respond, acting as if he'd heard nothing. How could one hear nothing at a time like this? The town was alive with fear and death and anybody paying attention could notice nothing else.

Balyr, the Moon Priest, still nowhere to be found. "He's probably at that brothel in Mendellwood," Burke supposed. "Bastard always had a thing for the women up there."

"And the men," snorted another town guard. Burke smacked the man in his chest.

Suddenly, Hoyle's unease subsided, not into a good feeling, but into one he'd not felt for many, many moons. Dread. His heart, his mind, his very soul filled with dread.

The chaos and screaming had ceased, almost as quickly as it had begun. Replacing it were not shouts joy and happiness, no. The crows, all of which appeared throughout the night, gathering one by one like the crowd of townsfolk below, had perched themselves in rows along the tops of the buildings. They looked down over the square below, watching. Waiting.

In unison, the birds' heads turned upwards to the black sky, their beaks opening as if of one mind. A terrible shriek pierced the night, emanating from each crow, the sounds enveloping and multiplying into one murderous screech.

Children ducked, clutching at their mothers' robes, covering their ears with their little hands. Fathers paused where they were, looking up at the line of crows above them. Hoyle stared in awe, dumbstruck, worried. Tears burst from Mayor Sem's eyes. Burke had no idea what to think: was this really happening? Or a drunken nightmare he'd soon wake up from?

"It is time." The raspy voice called, escaping out of the swirling corpse's gaping mouth. The crows' shrieks immediately stopped when the voice spoke, though their heads remained pointed up at the sky.

Then, the man's white body, once suspended demonically in the air slumped to the ground with a sickening, wet crunch. The moment it fell prostrate onto the bloody stone below the crows heads whipped down from the sky, eyeing the crowd of townspeople who had stopped their chaotic running in an attempt to fathom what was happening in their once quiet town.

Moving as if like one solitary form, the crows black wings lifted them from their perches on the buildings and they each dove, faster than anyone could imagine a crow could dive, into the crowd. The massacre was quick, and certainly not painless.

Beaks pierced through thick jugular veins, ripping out throats. Talons tore into chests, wings beating, feathers flying. The villagers' screams filled the night air, mixing with the fluttering of wings, the cawing of the birds, the wet crunches as bodies fell and eyes were dug out by bloodied beaks.

It lasted only a few minutes, but soon everything went quiet. The birds, having done what they were summoned to do, flew off as quietly as they had arrived.

The bloody scene would not be discovered for four more hours, when a passing merchant arrived at the town's gates, curious as to why he had not been greeted as usual by Old Man Hoyle.

###

[the-ashla-project-blog]

You Can't Change Your Family History

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[mushydesserts]

headcanon: ignis as a+ DIYer not only cooking/cleaning but fixing the faucet, installing ceiling lights etc & noct is so impressed & 1 time he tries himself to prove he can do stuff (& also to impress iggy a bit) but he accidently kills the power of the whole house & noct's even hurt a bit (or maybe just his pride) but in the end iggy's still impressed while he saves the day & then there's cuddles afterwards. also your blog is like the air that i breathe & i love you thanks for existing

buddy I’m 98% sure this ask went to the wrong blog but I’LL TAKE IT 

can i imagine this in future fix-it verse 

“What’s wrong?”

“What? Nothing’s wrong. What makes you say that?”

Ignis pauses as he hangs up his cane, and then very, very slowly, proceeds to sit and begin to undo his shoelaces. “Noct.”

“Yeah?”

“You rather sound like something’s wrong.”

“I’m distracted by your beautiful face?” Noct sounds hopeful. The incredibly casual tone of his voice from the doorway to the kitchen raises the hairs on the back of Ignis’s neck.

“The apartment smells as if you’ve tried to dismember an electric bomb in it,” Ignis says warily.

“Well, I — I thought I might uh, try out your newest recipe.” A nervous laugh. “Maybe I could get you to taste-test for once.” He sounds vaguely coquettish, but Ignis isn’t going to be distracted that easily. Also, it really does smell awful.

Ignis frowns as he toes off his shoes. “Might I ask why you’re leaning against the coat stand?”

“I what?” There’s a sliding noise and the sound of furniture collapsing. “Shit — ”

Noct scrambles to pick up the falling coat stand, and what sounds like a cascade of shoes comes tumbling off the nearby rack. Something rattles against the wall. He gets his feet tangled in an umbrella, throws out an arm, and slams his shin into the bench.

“The lights are off, aren’t they?” Ignis says as Noct continues to curse.

Noct makes a pained noise. “Okay, before you say anything, this isn’t like that time Prompto tried ‘romantic lighting’ out, all right, this was just — ”

“Did they burn out by themselves? All of them?”

“I think a fuse got fucked up,” Noct blurts.

“On its own?”

There’s an uncomfortable moment. As nobody else is around to save Noct, Ignis waits patiently.

“I — fixed the oven,” Noct says, strained.

Ignis raises an eyebrow. After a moment he realizes that Noct probably can’t see it, but his silence seems to have the same effect.

“Not because I broke it,” Noct clarifies. “I was just adjusting it. Because you know how it was heating up too slow because the coils in the back were, I dunno, gunked up or whatever, and none of the staff wanna touch it because they know you like it set just right and they’re worried you’ll kill them if they mess it up?”

“I was going to fix it myself,” Ignis says, starting to feel indignant. “I don’t — ”

“Well, I didn’t want you to have to,” Noct says. Ignis’s mouth closes, and a second later Noct grudgingly continues, “I think the staff might kill me if I let you try, actually.”

“Noct,” Ignis says finally, and then stops short, torn between chastisement and amusement and something softer.

“I uh, I did get it working,” Noct says, sounding wilted. “Heats right up. Real fast now. Maybe too fast.”

A small bubble of laughter rises out of Ignis’s throat against his will.

“Hey, I did my best, all right?” Noct sounds offended. “I’ve been at it for at least — ”

Hours, probably, but Noct stops short before admitting it. Ignis sits down again and reaches to help right the coat stand.

“I believe you were meant to make a showing at a charity ball tonight?” he asks. Noct has appearances to make at one or two of these every so often — truly wealthy folk are rare nowadays, certainly by the measures of Old Insomnia, but most everyone can use an occasion to celebrate the rebuilding efforts that they often find their scarce resources go towards. They have genuinely achieved an astonishing amount in a very short period of time, and the people tend to be encouraged by the sight of their King in their midst after so many years of thinking he was gone.

Ignis doesn’t often attend. War wounds make the attendees uneasy — too close, too soon — and while Prompto and Gladio insist his presence would be missed, Ignis is more than happy to leave it to the others.

Noct sits back on his heels and gives up, apparently, speaking directly into the air. “Gladio took over for me. I might’ve mentioned that I needed time to do something for you before you got back. I mean, is there any way you would’ve let me try it if you were in the house?”

Probably not, Ignis has to admit. “I appreciate the sentiment, Noct. You don’t have to go out of your way.”

“You go out of your way all the time,” Noct protests. “I mean, you do everything around here. I know you’re good at it, but… just…” He scratches the back of his head. “Let me take care of you once in a while, okay? I want to. I can get better at it, just — give me time.”

A fond ache settles warmly in Ignis’s chest. “I’ve had ten years on you getting used to doing things on my own, Noct. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

Noct laughs softly. “Ten years? More like thirty and then some.” He shuffles on his knees as if trying to move closer, and then appears to realize he has no idea where Ignis is, thinks better of it, and settles back. “At least let me pretend to be useful once in a while, all right?” He sounds sheepish.

Ignis’s lips twitch, and then — well, Noct can’t see it, can he? — curve into a smile. “Well, if we must.” He rests his elbows on his knees.

There’s another moment of shuffling, and then a sour sigh from somewhere in front of him.

“I can’t see shit.”

Ignis has to stifle a laugh. “The oven’s enough for today, your Majesty. We can fix the fuse in the morning.”

“Easy for you to say,” Noct says, only slightly irritated, and — yes, a little pleased. He’s traded his lights for Ignis’s oven, and Ignis knows full well he doesn’t regret it at all.

Ignis leans forward, knee to the ground, and finds Noct’s hand. Noct stays still for him, and Ignis easily stands, lifting him to his feet by the elbow; he lets Ignis place a hand to his cheek, slide fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and his breath hitches as Ignis brings him in for a firm, slow kiss.

“I suppose I’ll just have to show you to the bed,” Ignis whispers in Noct’s ear, and smiles at the answering shiver.

Noct’s hand twines through his. “Lead the way,” he says, and Ignis can hear him grin.

ao3

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