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makeste · 3 years

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BnHA Chapter 294: A Half-Assed Escape

Previously on BnHA: Mirio was all “SURPRISE I’M BACK THANKS TO OUR RESIDENT SEVEN-YEAR-OLD WHO RECENTLY EARNED HER BACHELOR’S OF BEING A TOTAL BADASS.” Kacchan was all, “you know what, Dabi’s been trending long enough, time to remind the fandom what a real G looks like,” and he blasted his little bleeding body back into the fray and was all “FROM HERE ON OUT CALL ME DYNAMIGHT!!” Mirio was all, “AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA... oh, you’re serious,” and Kacchan was all “!!”, and so that’s the story of how my son got murdered twice in one day. Meanwhile in the Todoroki Drama Zone, Deku was all “STOP MURDERING MY FRIEND” and Dabi was all “THAT’S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS” and fandom had a whole big debate about Whether Or Not Dabi Trying To Murder Deku’s Friends And Mentors Is Any Of Deku’s Business, which went exactly how you think it went. Anyway, so then Deku yelled at Dabi, and Endeavor was all moved by his manly words and randomly went to go uppercut Machia in the chin. And, seeing as how the Momoserum finally chose that exact moment to kick in, Machia is now down for the count.

Today on BnHA: The Miriosquad handles the Nearly High End Noumus, freeing up Jeanist to jasphyxiate (okay that one doesn’t really work so well) the rest of the League. Compress is all “TIME FOR THIS MILD-MANNERED SIDE CHARACTER VILLAIN TO SHINE”, except that by “shine” what he actually means is “use his quirk to punch a literal hole right through his own ass to free himself.” The rest of the chapter is basically just a back and forth between him and Jeanist, with Jeanist trying to recapture him, and Compress repeatedly thwarting him by chopping more holes out of himself because HE’S FRESH OUT OF FUCKS, AND THE ONES AT THE STORE ARE ALL SOLD OUT, MOTHERFUCKERS. Anyway, so with Compress basically dying and all, Horikoshi is all “you know what that means”, and delivers a freshly-baked villain flashback revealing that Compress is a descendant of Harima Ouji, a.k.a. the Peerless Thief, a.k.a. some famous guy whom Gentle mentioned this one time for like two seconds back in the day. The chapter ends with Compress finally demasking himself and dumping Tomura back onto the ground, a.k.a. The Worst Possible Place For Tomura To Be. ( •﹏•)

WHY IS CRUST HERE YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD

-- OH WAIT, SHIT. OH

AIZAWAAAA you’re alive and receiving medical help thank GOD. HOW MANY EYES DO YOU HAVE. AND MIRKO!! HOW MANY LIMBS DO YOU HAVE, OMG

so is this Aizawa dreaming about Crust’s final moments, then?? jesus. with All Due Respect to Crust’s memory, does Aizawa not already have enough misplaced guilt on his conscience as it is?? “nope, we’re gonna keep piling it on. that’s all he is now. three limbs, an indeterminate number of eyes, sexy hair, and Guilt” well shit

motherfucker y’all really out here placing an oxygen mask on Gran Torino’s corpse. fucking shounen characters. each one comes with a lifetime warranty

DAMN YOU HORIKOSHI WHY DO YOU KEEP SHOWING THESE CLOSE-UPS OF HAWKS’S UNCONSCIOUS FACE ALL WHUMPED OUT AND EXHAUSTED. HOW MUCH MORE OF THIS ARE WE GOING TO GET. ARE YOU PLANNING ON KILLING ME WITH THE UPCOMING CONVALESCENCE ARC, BECAUSE IF SO, AT LEAST HAVE THE DECENCY TO TELL ME AHEAD OF TIME SO I CAN MAKE A WILL

for a moment I considered going back and checking my previous recaps to count how many times I’ve already made a joke about Dabi’s fire incinerating Hawks’s wings but not touching so much as a hair on his five o’clock shadow, so that I could calculate whether or not I could possibly get away with making that same joke one more time. but then I realized I could just do it in this kind of roundabout way I’m doing right now instead. so there you have it

FFFFFFFMT LADY AND MIDNIGHT NOOOOO

PLEASE BE ALIVE. PLEASE RESPECT THE SIGN ON THE FRONT OF THE BUILDING. THE ONE THAT SAYS “NO LADY CHARACTERS ALLOWED TO DIE”, WITH THE FINE PRINT AT THE BOTTOM “AT LEAST NOT UNTIL HORIKOSHI GIVES US LIKE TWENTY-SIX MORE OF THEM FIRST IF THAT’S THE WAY HE WANTS TO PLAY IT.” IT’S A GOOD SIGN, PLEASE RESPECT ITS WISHES!!

so anyway though, Jeanist is giving a speech about how god knows how many people all worked together to bring Machia down. and now RHA is getting in on those fabric puns too, I see. “A SINGLE STRAND MAY BE THIN BUT TOGETHER THEY FORM A STRONG ROPE” oh so you think you guys are funny eh? I’m a frayed knot

MEANWHILE EXCUSE ME BUT WHY ARE YOU FUCKING CRYING BLOOD, HOLY SHIT

fffffff. so much for him taking over as the Number One once all this is over. so let’s just recap real quick, because Horikoshi has long since made it clear that one of his plot goals for this arc is to wipe out every single member of the Billboard Top Ten. so how we doin?

Endeavor - was just figuratively eviscerated in front of the entire nation by his homicidal zombiepunk son. also burnt half to death and possibly down a lung. will almost certainly be forced to retire after this one way or the other

Hawks - lying prettily in a medical tent. wings status: gone. hair status: still perfect

Jeanist - WELL I THOUGHT HE WAS FINE BUT APPARENTLY HE’S OUT HERE DYING, JESUS CHRIST

Edgeshot - MIA, last seen fighting Re-Destro. I really want him to have kicked RD’s ass because fuck that guy, but realistically they probably fought to a draw at best

Mirko - alive but in critical condition and missing something like 1.5 limbs

Crust - dead, currently haunting Aizawa’s traumatized dreams. now he’s gonna be triggered the rest of his life by people giving him the thumbs up, THANKS A LOT

Kamui Woods - was set on fire which is His Weakness. thoughts and prayers

Wash - last seen floating hospital patients to safety as Tomura’s wave of decay descended towards him. probably dead ffff

Old Man Samurai - haven’t seen this fucker in a hot minute, who even knows where he’s wandered off to

Ryuukyuu - currently being treated for her wounds, looked pretty bad off. but it’s hard to tell how hurt she is since most of the injuries were acquired in her transformed state. SHE BETTER GET WELL SOON

anyways, so yeah. so much for the top ten. guess that’s another reason Horikoshi brought Mirio back now, huh

so there’s a big panel of everyone fighting the Noumu while Machia lies there all “blurgh.” good riddance my dude. it took like twenty chapters and a hundred people to stop this guy so I really fucking hope he stays down. you’ve had your fun

anyway so Jeanist is sending another steel thread towards Dabi! and he’s all “just a bit more!!” fklklj this is gonna go real well isn’t it

meanwhile Mirio’s fighting a Nearly High End with all of these weird rock formations jutting out of its skin. go on and kick his ass then, Mirio

“each of these guys is probably just as strong as the Noumu from Kyuushuu” hold on I thought Ujiko or Tomura or someone said that wasn’t the case? not that Mirio would know I suppose. anyways let’s just hope he’s wrong cuz if not these kids are probably screwed

kLSDKFHLSKHGLKLK OH MY GODDDD

IIDA FUCKING TENYA YOU’RE A PEACH. THINKS THE NAME IS OUTRAGEOUS, CHECK. USES IT ANYWAY, CHECK. “JUST BECAUSE I DON’T UNDERSTAND DOESN’T MEAN I CAN’T BE SUPPORTIVE.” WHAT A CLASS ACT

AND KACCHAN IS RESPONDING WITH AS MUCH DIGNITY AS HE CAN MUSTER

WOW, SON. IT’S ALMOST AS THOUGH YOU HAVE A HOLE IN YOUR TORSO, OR SOMETHING!! although listen up, real talk, the fact that Kacchan of all people can’t muster the energy to yell at someone questioning his ability to kick ass is HIGHKEY troubling and we may be in need of an intervention here soon :/

now Jeanist is finally turning his attention to the League! was... was it not already on the League. omg

ACTUAL SCREAMING AHHHHHH FUCK FUCKLK LK AHHLKHKFFFF

hey so um. what the actual fucked up hell. my soul left my body. imagine if you saw the reflection of this panel on your bedroom window. you would never sleep again

OKAY RHA TRANSLATORS ARE YOU HAVING YOURSELF A LAUGH AGAIN

THIS CANNOT BE WHAT HE’S ACTUALLY SAYING RIGHT. BUT IT’S RIGHT IN THAT UNCANNY VALLEY OF NOT BEING QUITE SURE, THOUGH... (　ﾟдﾟ)

(ETA: just a next-day clarification here, apparently my sleep-deprived ADHD word-skipping brain completely skipped right over the “a” in that last panel, so what I read was, “and Shigaraki’s limp noodle.” so yeah, the moral of this story is always read the speech bubble carefully before you start making running jokes throughout the rest of your post, folks.)

oh wow he’s really freaking out lmao

to be fair though, I’d argue that Dabi has gotten pre-tty close at this point :’) thrilled for him, really I am

but anyway, well then figure something out you big dramatic robot-armed fiend. didn’t you just say you could touch your own ass? can you not just Compress yourself to break free?? does it not work on you? or would you be stuck afterwards lol

(ETA: I was picturing him compressing his entire body at once, not just chunks of it. ghhhlkh.)

holy shit Jeanist. are you stupidly trying to cut off their air, or are you going for more of a sleeper hold (jleeper hold??) thing instead. the latter would be way smarter and faster and probably safer as well just saying

but unless Spinner is just being super dramatic, it sure looks like he’s fucking strangling them djslkjlk. this will certainly cement his popularity among the villain stans. good thing you’re not running for office any time soon bud

anyway so I have no idea what these guys are trying to do now. what is this

do you even have till the count of 5 at this rate. I mean

OH MY GOODNESS

HE’S REALLY FUCKING DOING IT!! HE’S COMPRESSING HIS BUTT!! OMFG. TOMURA HIDE YOUR NOODLE!!!

WHAT THE FUCK

DID YOU COMPRESS A PIECE OF YOUR OWN ASS. FUCKING WHAT. PUT THIS MAN’S PICTURE IN THE DICTIONARY NEXT TO THE WORD “LOYALTY”, HOLY CRAP

HOLY SHIT COMPRESS

“HOLY SHIT DID THAT GUY JUST PUNCH A HOLE THROUGH HIS OWN ASS IN ORDER TO SAVE HIS VILLAIN PALS. FUCK IT, HE DESERVES TO ESCAPE”

jeez, talk about... A HALF-ASSED ESCAPE ATTEMPT :D :D :D hahaha. but real talk though, Horikoshi has clearly never tried to leap twelve feet straight up in the air multiple times in succession with only half his glutes though. everyone, I regret to inform you that this panel right here on the left may be slightly unrealistic

also where the hell is he going to go?? did you pack a jetpack away in one of those little marbles sir. and what about Dabi?? and Skeptic too, I guess, but we don’t really care about Skeptic

(ETA: at this point I had to stop reading for about two hours because I had to go out and take care of something; that’s also why this is being posted later than usual lol. anyways so where were we.)

oh my lord

the existence of a translator’s note here implies that the earlier line about Compress being able to reach Tomura’s junk was not, in fact, ad-libbed. hmm. hmmmmmmmm

anyway so now he’s grabbing Compress again because OF COURSE HE IS, so now we’re right back to square one! except now Tomura and Spinner are secured inside of little marbles, and presumably Compress is the only one who can release them

oh nevermind he’s just maiming himself again instead, SHEESH

Skeptic a man is dying please have some goddamn respect

so, uh. is he gonna die, though??

I really can’t tell wtf is going on here, this is the most confusing the art has been in a while. Horikoshi put all of his spoons into that creepyass close-up panel earlier, that bastard

OMG WHAT ARE YOU SERIOUS

DON’T FUCKING TELL ME THE “COMPRESS IS RELATED TO THIS THIEF GUY FROM OLDEN TIMES” THEORY IS ACTUALLY TRUE WHAAAAAAT. OH SHIT

so apparently Harima was a Robin Hood type guy who stole from... heroes?? wtf. are heroes the 1% in this scenario. y’all didn’t have any Fortune 500 CEOs to steal from?

THAT’S THE BLOOD THAT FLOWS THROUGH YOU, OH SHIT. and in a related oh shit, the fact that we are getting a Compress flashback now of all times doesn’t bode super well for him. ffff

MEANWHILE THE TODOROKIS ARE STILL TODOROKI-ING

listen here boy if you touch one freaking hair on Shouto’s candy cane head I swear to god --

WHAT DID I FUCKING SAY!!!

SHOUTO NOOOOOO. WTF YOU’RE LITERALLY THE ONE GUY WHOSE WEAKNESS IS ABSOLUTELY NOT SUPPOSED TO BE FIRE. DABI YOU SHIT, YOU BETTER WATCH YOURSELF!! I’M PRINTING OUT A COPY OF THAT COMPRESS PANEL!!! KEEP AN EYE OUT ON THAT BEDROOM WINDOW YOU PUNK!!!

SO NOW POOR SHOUTO IS UNCONSCIOUS AND FALLING!! SOMEONE SAVE HIM!! WHO CATCHES THE CATCHER

COMPRESS LITERALLY HOW ARE YOU STILL ALIVE RIGHT NOW, WHAT IS HAPPENING

PLEASE DON’T CALL TOMURA LEADER OF THE “PLF” YOU KNOW I CAN’T TAKE IT SERIOUSLY WHEN YOU DO THAT. ARE YOU DYING. ARE YOU JUST A FUCKING HEAD NOW WTF

(ETA: “masks are removable, makeste” you know what it’s been a long day okay lmao. or I suppose Compress is really the one who is lmao.)

GASPPPPPP

okay. okay. looooool okay then

WHY WERE YOU COVERING THIS SEXY MOP OF HAIR UNDER THAT HOOD YOU TOOL. IT WOULD HAVE LOOKED SO GOOD WITH THE TOP HAT. I’M SO MAD AT YOU RIGHT NOW

as if it wasn’t enough for him to demask himself, he also had to get all shirtless and then do this weird attempt at a sexypose too huh

hard to say exactly how much of his torso is currently missing, but safe to say that’s proooooooobably not good. :///// fuck

on the other hand, Kacchan also has a torso hole and he’s still flying around like he just drank a dozen red bulls, so

this man lost his ass and he’s still out here monologuing like it’s the last two minutes of The Prestige. one might say he is monologuing his ass off

so he let Spinner and Tomura free, but is Dabi still trapped in his marble?? wasn’t he all on fire and stuff?? hopefully he can still turn off his quirk in there because if not that’s a pretty fucked up way to die. somewhere out there Snatch’s ghost is all “YEAH I’LL SAY.” oh how the turntables

last but not least, sooooooo. Tomura. back on the ground. that’s. um. ...shiiiiiiiit

#bnha 294 #mr. compress #...and actually that's pretty much it lol #bnha #boku no hero academia #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #bnha manga spoilers #makeste reads bnha #sorry this is up later than usual (and mostly unedited as well)#just one of those days

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angstyaches · 3 years

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Drop

Again, this is quite heavy for this blog. Please heed the warnings! DM me for a summary, if you don’t want to actually read it because of any of the tags (I’ll make a post if anyone asks on anon). Stay safe, friends.

CW: disordered eating mention, alcohol, heights (inc. character struggling with fear of heights), angsty and dark thoughts, relationship problems being discussed, very brief but intense death ideation, mention of gore/injury (described by character, not real), danger of falling, mention of broken glass, emeto, food mention, blood mention

___

Shayne had hoped the bad thoughts would take longer to find him, but they were waiting for him just on the other side of his bedroom door in the townhouse. For the past two weeks, he’d eaten three meals a day with Charlie at his parents’ house, even if some of them were small, and he’d been imagining himself keeping it up once he got back, but now that he was alone, the shame and the feeling of helplessness that had always surrounded food came flooding back.

When dinner time rolled around that evening (he knew it was dinner time because his stomach remembered), he felt Madelyn’s phantom breath on his neck and ignored the hunger. He crawled into his bed and tried forcing himself to sleep before his body could realise it was being deprived.

But god, he was just a needy, greedy little black hole of a creature, a sap on the world so long as you’re not fulfilling your duty, an insult to flesh and bone, nothing but darkness and hunger and waste and –

Shayne sat up in bed and squeezed his head between his hands. He’d gotten so used to Charlie’s constant presence and warmth, that he was already feeling unbearably lonely without him.

Stupid Charlie, he thought, feeling a flutter of affection in his chest as he pictured Charlie’s head resting on his shoulder. And then, a sinking feeling.

In the absence of Madelyn’s voice in his head, Shayne realised how… quiet everything else was. Ryan and Nancy were probably still travelling in Europe, but Elliott and Felix should have been here.

He’d half-expected Felix to come pounding on his door around this time, raving about whatever he was cooking and asking questions about Shayne’s Christmas. But the fact that the townhouse was this silent was extremely unpleasant.

Shayne let himself into the hallway, pausing and holding his breath, scanning for any signs of life. He could have done this easily if he’d been in a forest, but houses and urban settings were always trickier. He picked up a flash of something, a thrum of a heartbeat, but it sent his head spinning and he had to stop concentrating. It seemed to be coming from Elliott and Felix’s room, even though he hadn’t heard a single stir in there since he’d gotten home.

“Hello?” he asked softly, pushing the door open slowly.

He wasn’t surprised that it was cold in the bedroom beyond, but a breeze took him right in the face. Papers had been gently blown across the floor, and a vase holding a fake rose had been knocked from the windowsill onto the floor.

Nobody was in here. This wasn’t where he’d sensed somebody.

The view of the town was incredible from this height, four storeys up. It was around dusk, so there were lights blinking to life in houses and office buildings even as Shayne stood by the open window and rested his hands on the sill.

“Elliott?” he called out quietly, leaning his head outside. The distance from his face to the street below was dizzying.

“The fuck do you want?” came a curt reply, which made Shayne look to his right. The moulding on the outside of the building was about a metre wide, enough for Elliott to slump against the brick wall with a glass balanced on his knee and a bottle grasped in the opposite hand.

His hair was loose of its usual ponytail, as well as being greasy and dishevelled from having fingers constantly dragged through it. He was scraping it back with his left hand at that very moment, eyes glazed over as he looked up at the sky.

“When’d you get back?”

“Uh, today. Earlier.” Shayne could hear how high-pitched his voice had gotten, but what could he do about it? He couldn’t stop wondering how Elliott’s weight wasn’t forcing him to slink further down, legs pulling him over the edge. “El, what are you doing? Someone’s gonna see you out there.”

“So?” Elliott shrugged. “Maybe I’ll become a Reddit legend.”

“I have no idea what that means,” Shayne sighed. “What’re you doing out there? Are you okay?”

Elliott blinked, the motion slowed by the darkness and an unknown amount of whisky. “Come here, and I’ll show you.”

Shayne would have really preferred not to, but it didn’t look like Elliott was coming to him anytime soon. He turned around and sat up into the windowsill, slowly shifting his legs around so his feet touched the moulding. He breathed hard, tried not to look at the fall below, and told himself that if it could hold Elliott’s weight, it could hold his.

“You know, inside, there are floors and – and chairs,” he stammered, edging closer to Elliott before lowering himself to a seated position. He didn’t slump like Elliott though; his hands were pressing the concrete, stiff as pillars. “Lots of nicer and safer places to sit and drink whisky.”

“Mmph.”

The words barely seemed to reach Elliott’s ears.

“So, what’s up?” Shayne asked.

When Elliott smiled, it was a sick thing that twisted the lower half of his face without touching the rest. He looked past the rim of his glass and out across the town. Shayne wouldn’t have been surprised if his glare had caused a sudden flash of lightning to tear through the clouds.

The silence seemed to press in further, the sound of traffic fading away as though a bubble had descended on the rooftop.

“Where’s… Felix?” Shayne already had the feeling that the answer wasn’t going to be good.

“I don’t know.” Elliott pursed his lips. “Think he’s left me.”

A cold stone seemed to drop through Shayne’s stomach. He couldn’t begin to imagine what the equivalent of that felt like for Elliott. “What? Why?”

After a slight roll of his eyes, Elliott reached into the pocket of his trousers, fidgeting with something before pulling out a ring. He twirled it between his thumb and his figure, examining it up-close for a second before holding it out.

“Oh.” Shayne eyed the ring for a moment before reluctantly lifting one hand – one of his supportive pillars – and letting Elliott place it in his palm. “I take it he said no?”

“No, he didn’t say no. He didn’t say… anything.”

“Is that – is that better, or worse?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“Sorry, El.” Shayne gulped and stared at the ring, only managing to hold onto it for a couple of seconds. Elliott had already taken his eyes off of it, his attention snagged by his drink again. A slight breeze across his skin made Shayne shudder, as though it could possibly throw him off balance. Mostly, it was just cold and unpleasant. “Here, take it back. I’m gonna drop it or something.”

“Why would you drop it?” Elliott asked with a grunt, reaching to pick up the ring. His fingertips lingered a moment as he realised how badly Shayne’s hand was trembling. “Fuck, man, are you okay?”

“Mmm.” Shayne put his hand down next to him again, fingers aching under the pressure he was putting on them.

“What’s up?” Elliott scoffed lightly. “You gonna hurl?”

“Maybe,” Shayne admitted. “I’ve never been up this high before.”

“Jesus, you’re such a drama queen.” Elliott planted a hand down and pushed himself to his feet. His movements were as swift and graceful as a panther, even while drunk, and he seemed to tower unreasonably high over Shayne as he straightened his back and stretched his arms over his head. He almost reached the roof tiles that jutted out over the top floor. A strong gust of wind could probably have toppled him, especially considering how much whisky was probably flooding his system.

Elliott’s feet made a scraping sound on the concrete as he lowered his arms, laughing deep in his chest.

“Elliott, stop! Just sit the fuck down.”

“Why?” Elliott’s voice was no stronger than a breath. He closed his eyes for a worrying amount of time, his shoulders swaying slightly as his arms hung by his side like weights. “Would you care if I fell?”

Shayne got a sinking feeling, for what seemed like the hundredth time in ten minutes. “What kind of question is that?”

“Do you think I’d die, actually?” Elliott perked up again, unnervingly so. He opened his eyes and lifted his glass slightly. He craned his neck to look over the edge of the moulding. He hummed, like he was pondering whether he should buy a pair of shoes in black or in brown. “I’m fairly sure that fully-developed vampires can only die if they’re burned alive, but… I wonder how thoroughly that’s been tested.”

“Elliott –”

“I’ve had a decent run. In human years, I’m almost seventy, you know? That’s longer than a lot of people end up with…”

Shayne didn’t know if he should have been trying to grab Elliott to stop him from teetering so close to the edge, or if that would make everything worse. He could barely breathe, let alone think.

“It’d still fucking hurt either way, though.” Elliott threw back the last mouthful of his drink and smacked his lips. “Bones poking up through my organs, probably bits of me exploding on impact –”

“Elliott, seriously, you’re just being an asshole now, just sit down!”

“Would it make him come back, if I was injured like that?” Elliott demanded, his golden eyes piercing and intense. He was beginning to lapse into clumsy arm gestures, his voice rising higher with emotion. “Would it put everything into perspective, Shayne? Would it fix everyone’s problems if I was maimed? Or if I was completely and utterly de–?”

Shayne’s stomach turned, his hands flying to his face, as the whisky glass shuddered and dropped out of Elliott’s hand. It disappeared from view, faster than the sick grin could fall from Elliott’s face.

The shatter was tiny; Shayne had to really strain his ears to hear it. He watched Elliott blink tears down his face and slowly lower himself to his haunches. He opened his mouth wide, like he was going to scream, but no sound came out.

“Hey,” Shayne whispered, letting go of a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He stretched out one hand, trying to gently catch Elliott’s attention. “El. Elliott.”

Elliott didn’t move. He stayed crouched, one hand gripping the edge of the moulding, his face hovering over the side. When he blinked, tears fell and missed the building completely, dropping straight to the sidewalk that was four storeys down.

“El, come on.”

All the way down to the sidewalk –

“Elliott.”

He turned his head, swaying a little, and for a moment Shayne thought that was it, that he was gone, he’d lost his balance. Shayne sat forward on his heels, instinctively making an uncalculated grab for his cousin’s hand, but luckily Elliott was reaching back too; two fumbling hands happened to fumble in the right directions at the right time.

“Fuck,” Elliott whimpered, steadying himself on his feet again. Shayne could feel both their pulses in their joined hands, Elliott’s almost explosive. “We should… We should probably get off this thing.”

“Oh, you think?” Shayne snapped, though he clung to Elliott’s hand like a toddler to a parent as the two of them edged back over towards the window. He hopped in through the window first, turning to make sure Elliott was following him. The taller man hit his head on the open window, making the frame shudder as he shut his eyes and winced.

“Shit, are you okay?” Shayne held out a hand to help him make it the rest of the way.

“I’m fine, get off me,” Elliott growled, shoving Shayne away from him and storming over to the bed.

“Fuck heights,” Shayne murmured, pulling the window shut with more force than was probably necessary. It released some of the fear that had been pinching his nerves though, and his head felt clearer. “We should probably go down to the street and clean that glass up before someone –”

“Shut up.”

Shayne shrugged, gazing at Elliott as he sat at the edge of his bed, head resting in his hands. “Is – is your head okay, or –?”

“What’d I just say?”

“You said to shut up, but how the fuck do you expect me not to ask you if you’re okay? You almost fell off the fucking… roof!” Shayne smacked his hand on the bedpost as he walked by, partially on purpose. “Fuck you, Elliott.”

“Calm down, man,” Elliott snarled, his head shooting up from his hands. “Come on, you seriously think that’s the closest I’ve ever come to dying?”

“You can’t…” Shayne stopped by the door to the hallway, eyes lowered. “You can’t do shit like that, you can’t talk like that. I don’t care if he’s left you, if the world’s falling to shit, if you think nobody cares about you being around, you can’t…”

A sob broke the air, and Shayne froze, turning to watch as Elliott hunched over at the edge of the bed, his head ducking and disappearing from his silhouette.

“I’m… sorry.”

Having never heard such a heart-wrenching sound from Elliott before, Shayne found himself hurrying back to the bed. He sat down next to Elliott and let him sink his head against his shoulder and cry, his body convulsing with what seemed to be days’ worth of pent-up agony and sadness. Shayne felt utterly useless; he couldn’t guarantee that everything would be alright with Felix, because how the hell could he possibly know that?

“Ugh, fuck,” Elliott exclaimed, his shoulders jerking forward with a sob so deep that it sounded more like a hiccup. He clamped a hand over his mouth, the other lifting to tentatively cover the front of his head, where he’d hit it on the window.

“You okay, man?” Shayne asked hoarsely.

Elliott shook his head, face paling even in the dull light.

“You gonna hurl?” Shayne murmured, wondering if the irony would be lost on Elliott in his current state. He was already getting to his feet, remembering that Felix kept a metal bin under his desk.

“Mmmph.” Elliott nodded furiously, only releasing his mouth from his hand once Shayne had thrust the bin at him. Saliva glistened on his lips as he hovered, breathing heavily. His eyes were red and swollen and he was still gently kneading his head.

A deep retch rolled his shoulders and made him duck his head further into the bin. Shayne grimaced and almost put a hand on Elliott’s shoulder before remembering that that would have been a terrible idea. He stood by the desk instead, arms folded around his waist, flinching in time with Elliott’s horrifying gagging.

When Elliott’s face resurfaced, he was gasping and spitting out mouthfuls of thick bile and saliva, tinged only slightly with the golden hue of the heavy liquor.

“Jesus,” he choked out. “How hard did I hit my head?”

After a disbelieving glance towards the window, Shayne scoffed. “Your head? What about the god-knows-how-much whisky in your system right now?”

“Alright, whatever,” Elliott groaned. He pawed at a thick strand of his hair that was stuck to the side of his face and trailing into the bin itself, tossing it over his shoulder. Just in time too, since the next retch was deep and abrupt and dragged a rumbling belch up alongside a gush of foamy alcohol and stomach acid.

Between gags, Elliott let thick liquid drip from his mouth into the bin, body shivering with the effort it took to bring everything up. It went on for so long that Shayne was certain Elliott was going to fall asleep with his head in the bin.

Eventually, Elliott sat upright, grabbing a tissue from the nightstand and dragging it across the lower half of his face. He tossed it into the bin and reached for another one.

“Want me to get you some water? Or, like, blood?”

“No.” Elliott sighed deeply, dropping the second tissue into the bin before he began to scoop his hair back from his face and neck. “I’ve been drinking on an empty stomach for two days. I wanna go get chips.”

“Chips?”

“Yes. Can you grab one of Felix’s scrunchies from his side?”

Shayne did as he was asked, mostly in a daze, rounding the bed to get to Felix’s bedside locker. There was a pile of hair ties sitting alongside a handheld cassette player.

“Can you even eat?” Shayne asked, leaning across the bed to hand one of the hair ties to Elliott. “You know, with all of your full-vampire shit going on?”

“Seriously, you little asshole?” Elliott snapped, his voice scratchy and weak. “My life is falling down around me and you’re trying to deny me chips?”

Shayne quickly shook his head, a little bit grateful for the bloodcurdling glare that Elliott was currently treating him to. He got up from the bed again as Elliott tended to his hair. “Let me just grab a jacket.”

#idk how I originally wanted it to end but I can't look at it anymore #Swallow the World #StW Thicker than Blood #vampire emeto #emeto #emeto fic #emeto sickfic #angst fic #angst #death mention #death ideation mention #alcohol #alcohol mention

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queenmuzz · 4 years

Text

Siren’s Song

If his father found out where Nero had gone, all alone, he’d drag the finling’s tail back and lock him somewhere in the depths of the ocean. His dad, (and mom, to a lesser extent) tried their best to keep him from the danger of humans, but by the Dawnfather, he was almost thirteen migrations old, and finlings his age were allowed to go where they wanted, within reason. Besides , he thought as he flexed his fist, his soul weapon had fully materialized, he could defend himself from practically anything. Only two weeks ago, his entire right arm had changed into a beautiful scaly claw that glimmered silvery blue and red. His parents seemed relieved more that his newly developed weapon was permanently bonded with him, than the fact that he’d gotten one earlier than usual. It meant he didn’t ever have to worry about ever getting separated from it, a fate worse than death.

Even then, The only two reasons he had managed to get closer to the shoreline was that he was supposed to be with his uncle, who was supposed to be teaching him how to hunt with his new arm, but with the promise of picking up a human trinket for him, Dante had left him to his own devices, while his uncle went on a hunt for something called ‘pizza’. His uncle was weird.

Another reason Nero had gotten so close to the shoreline, was because his dad seemed to think this area, despite the human settlements, was safer than most areas. This island, this Fortuna…. It didn’t have the large fishing tankers other places did, only the easily dodgible small fishing boats. And unlike other sandy banks where the dry land met their home, there were few humans wearing those tiny strips of cloths that provided little protection. When they rarely showed up, they were covered head to their stubbly legs in clothing. And they almost never went into the water.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to be careful. The legends spoke of how dangerous humans could be, especially when you encountered them on their own domain. The rules were simple:

Never let yourself be seen by them.

Never accept a gift from them.

And most importantly:

3. Never promise a human anything.

You can also read it on Ao3 HERE

Humans were a strange people, with inexplicable powers that were said to compel or even worse, bind Merfolk to them. How many tales had his father sang to him about foolish mermen and maids suffering captivity and death because they didn’t understand the danger they were courting by encountering humans?

Well , Nero thought, as he slowly got closer to the shoreline, the tide went out for them, but I’m different. Besides, he had his new weapon, he’d be perfectly fine. Already he had perfected his hunting using a manifestation of his claws to shoot out and either spear, or grab a fish, before yanking it back to be devoured. A group of Cordina swam a tail’s length away from him, and he effortlessly yanked one of them, and with pride, he began to take a bite of its belly. He wasn’t old enough to swallow them whole, but probably by his next migration, he should be…

Mid bite he heard it. A beautiful sound that reminded him of the haunting choral singing of the whales of the North. Except this was higher pitched, came from only one throat instead of many, and strangely enough… it sounded like it came from above the surface?

Resisting the urge to give in to curiosity and break the surface, he compromised by slowly following the entrancing song from beneath the waves. It couldn’t be far, sounds in the air didn’t carry as far as they did in water, and sure enough, within a few strokes of his fins, he found the source, a lone wooden dock jutting out over the water.

Or rather, WHO was on it.

Nero had been told by his father that singing was something only Merfolk and the warm blooded fish of the sea could do. If humans could sing, he explained, they would have to stand right next to each other in order to hear, and their songs couldn’t possibly convey the depths that his people’s songs could.

And yet, this human… this… girl… (She seemed about his age, and his mom had explained that human children had different names for gender) sang so sweetly, it almost felt like she was luring him in with magic.

But it couldn’t be magic, since he still had the wits to remain hidden, to check for danger, before settling underneath the creaking wood of the dock. Even so, her voice was so beautiful, he risked silently breaching the surface to hear her more clearly.

He didn’t know why she was singing. She was apparently alone, so she wasn’t telling a tale, and she was far too young to be singing for a mate. Tidemother have mercy, he couldn’t even understand the words. Something about ‘darkness’ ‘wind’ and… a ‘garden’? That was a strange word. Maybe his uncle or mother would know.

But in the end, it didn’t matter as he listened, his claws embedded into the slippery post to stabilize him. Whatever she was singing, it was beautiful.

And, as he risked a peek through the planks, she was as beautiful as the song she sang. Her clothing was whiter than seafoam, brighter than the icebergs that floated from the south, with lines of what seemed to be glittering sunlight etched into it. But that wasn’t the most stunning thing. Her hair was a vibrant shade between coral red and earth brown, a colour he’d never seen in all of his travels. And her eyes! For a moment, he thought they were seaweed green, but then they flashed into dark sand brown, so rapidly, he wasn’t even sure they were different colours, or just a melding of them. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. His father had told him most humans were brutes with harsh voices, but he hadn’t said all of them were. Maybe his dad was wrong, that humans weren’t the monsters the tales said they were. Or maybe, this one human was an exception, a pearl in an oyster.

She slowly stopped her singing and with a beautiful smile, she pushed her hair back to form it into a tail of some sort, revealing her creamy skin with reddish speckles (did humans have scales? He’d have to ask his mom about that, she was really knowledgeable about that stuff) and sighed happily while basking in the son.

“Oh!” She yelled out, and Nero froze. Had she seen him, or somehow sensed him? He clung to the post, quickly calculating paths of escape.

Instead, he heard a tinkle, a Thud! and a Plop!, as something hit the dock, before slipping through the crack between planks and fell into the water, to sink straight to the bottom. He could only get a small glimpse as it plummeted down, but it sparkled, like a falling star.

“Nononono!” the girl yelped, and above him, he heard her scrambling, and her head popped down over the side, obviously trying to locate that glittering trinket.

Nero was totally not terrified. Not at all. Sure, this was the closest he’d ever been to a human, and he stilled his breath, she was so close she could probably hear his heart pounding. All she had to do is look in his general direction, and he’d be spotted. It was only her intense gaze to the sea bed below that saved him. He couldn’t even flee, because any movement he made would undoubtedly attract her attention. So, he clung to the post, silently praying for both the Dawnfather and Tidemother to protect him.

The only upside to his situation was that he had an even closer look at the girl. She was so pretty, and hadn’t been for the fact she had legs, she could have been indistinguishable from one of his people. But even so, there was an expression on her face that hurt him deeply, a deep sorrow. Whatever had fallen into the water, it had been very precious to her.

“KYRIE!” A voice called out from the shore, and the girl's attention swung over to the source, allowing Nero a moment of reprieve, “I told you not to get your dress dirty! The ceremony is happening very soon!”

Rapid footsteps clattered as an older woman, who bore a resemblance to the girl strode up. “I’ve been looking all over for you, have you been here all this time?”

“I-I-wanted to practice my singing here, mama.” “You know you don’t always have to come here alone dear, everyone loves your singing!” “Yeah,” she didn’t sound convinced. Did she think her singing was bad? Nero scoffed at the idea.

“Well, it’s time for your performance,” the older woman wiped off traces of dirt off her daughter’s dress, before gasping, “Where’s your new necklace!?”

“It… fell off my neck,” the girl admitted, hanging her head, “the clasp unlocked and it fell…” she glanced down to the water below.

“Oh Kyrie....” the woman was disappointed, yet not angry. “Your papa and I just got that for you...you need to be more careful with your possessions.” She glanced over the edge of the dock, and Nero had yet another flash of panic. Thankfully, she didn’t spend much time scanning the water. “Ah well, there’s no time to retrieve it. Your father and Credo will have to look for it tomorrow morning, it shouldn’t go far. Now,” she patted her daughter’s head, “let’s be on our way, your singing will delight everyone!”

Nero didn’t move for what seemed like an eternity, even when the two humans were gone, in the small chance that this was a feint, a trap. Because that glittering fallen star, that...necklace that glittered in the sand, like an anglerfish’s lure. But, there were no signs of any other humans laying in wait for him, so cautiously, he made his way towards the sparkly item. Despite it shining like the Dawnfather, it wasn’t hot, in fact it was cool to the touch. But it glimmered and sparkled like his father’s amulet, it even had a little red gem in the middle. But the lady was wrong, the way the water moved around here, it would be washed away by tomorrow, or buried by the shifting sands. Nero had a conundrum: He could either let it get washed away, lost to the sands of time....

Or he could grab it. But it belonged to the girl, and the rules about accepting gifts from humans...what if it put a terrible curse on him?

But , he reasoned, it’s not really a gift. He was merely retrieving it, and he’d give it right back to her… maybe he’d put it on the dock.

His fingers caressed the shiny metal, as reflective as his father’s blade. No, he couldn’t just leave it here, some bird, or some other human would pick it up for themselves. Nero couldn’t have that. He’d just have to hold onto it until he saw her again at the docks. She apparently hung out here to sing. Yeah, he’d find her, figure out a way to leave it nearby, and hope she noticed it without noticing him. Simple plan, really.

The necklace glistened once more in the sunlight, before suddenly with a golden flash, disappeared into his scaly claws. So his soul weapon could do that too... interesting. At least his uncle (and dad) wouldn’t be on his tailfins about the trinket he had. It would be hard to explain how he had gotten a hold of something like this.

“Heya guppy!” his uncle met him a good distance from the shore, ruffling his hair, “you got anything cool?”

Nero pretended to be annoyed, “Nah, sorry. But,” he scratched the bridge of his nose, “can we come back tomorrow? I think I heard some of the humans talking about a ‘pizza party’ on the beach tomorrow? Maybe we could…”

His uncle’s grin widened, “Oh yeah! We can do that! I knew you’d pull through!”

Nero almost felt bad for lying...almost. But his dad would never let him get so close to the shore unaccompanied, and his uncle was the only one who trusted him to go by himself. He'd just give it to her tomorrow. Besides, how hard could it be?

It was much harder than Nero had thought. Finding Kyrie was incredibly simple, she had a very set schedule, spending hours in the morning just singing, or ‘practicing her scales’ as she put it, her voice ascending and descending like the waves. And he’d hide under the dock to listen, entranced by everything. He almost was tempted to sing along to the songs she sang, if it wasn’t for the fact he’d be caught for sure. Sometimes, her parents would come to call her home, or her older brother, but usually it was just her...and him.

But every time he felt he should give back the necklace, he felt… he couldn’t. And it wasn’t magic, he was certain of it by now. Honestly, the more he observed her, and the others, the more he was certain that humans couldn’t EVEN do magic. They were just a slower, weaker, more clumsy version of merfolk, who couldn’t even breathe underwater.

But Kyrie… there was something about her. Nero wanted to be near her at all times, and holding onto that necklace seemed to be the only way he could do that. So, every time when she was called home, he’d promise himself that tomorrow would be the day he’d give it back.

Unfortunately, that day never came. “Wait, what do you mean we have to go?” Nero tried to stop his father from swimming off. He still had plans for the day.

“It’s time, the shoal is on the move to the north,” his father gruffly said, “we’ve wasted enough time on whatever you and your uncle have been up to, if we wait any longer, we’ll spend far too much time chasing instead of hunting. Tell your mother we must be on our way.”

“But…” Nero still hadn’t given back the necklace. And now, he might never get another chance to.

His father’s furrowed brow softened as he placed a hand on his shoulder, “Nero,” he spoke softly with misplaced understanding, “I know you’ve enjoyed your new found freedom in this area, it’s why I have put off the migration for as long as possible, I wanted to see my son happy and free in a safe area. But,” the sternness returned, “the Ways must be followed, we must move on. You understand that, right?”

He was right of course, already the Cordina shoals were slim, and Nero was lucky if he found one on his own per day, and he didn’t relish the thought of eating kelp as a replacement. (A trait apparently passed down from his father, who detested the stuff) But still…

“Do not worry” his father patted his head softly, “We will return. We always do.”

It was an attempt to reassure him, in his father’s awkward way, but still...Nero hoped that she would keep to her pattern as he did his. He’d have to get it to her next time on their migration. It would be easy.

It wasn’t easy. Eager as he was to see her again the next time they followed the shoal to the balmy shallows of Fortuna, he still couldn’t give up the necklace. She still stood at the end of the dock at the same time each day, singing not only the same songs as before, but more complex ones as well. She’d gotten taller, and dare he say it, even more beautiful. But still, even with multiple opportunities, he couldn’t part with it. It was like keeping a piece of her with him, and when he took it out of his clawed arm, just the caressing of it calmed him down when he failed miserably at hunting, or when he had an argument with his parents about how independent he was allowed to be. And so, by the time they had to move on, he still carried it. There was always the next migration....

He told himself that after the first one, then the second, then the third…

They were approaching Fortuna for the fourth time since he had first met (no...that was the wrong word, but how else could he describe it without sounding like he was hunting her?) and after a particularly aggravating hunt where his uncle constantly ribbed him about ‘If you’re that bad at hunting, maybe you should stick to kelp, guppy’ , Nero had found a secluded shelter to calm down. He was a krill’s whisker away from punching that smirk off his uncle’s face, and the last thing he wanted to happen is to give his father a reason to restrict his movements, especially as they approached the island. He rolled his shoulder, and out came the necklace, pristine as the day it fell into the water. He smiled gently as his fingers traced the shape, like bird wings, that enclosed the brilliant gem. If he closed his eyes, he could swear he heard her voice. Perhaps she has another new song?

“Ah, there you are!” His mother’s voice snuck up on him, giving him no time to hide the necklace without looking suspicious. “When Dante said you stormed out of the hunting party at the speed of a sailfish, I was a little worried you’d get yourself in trouble.” She drifted down towards him, a makeshift satchel made of salvaged cloth from the surface world at her side. No doubt it was full of shellfish, her favourite food. She wasn’t as quick at hunting as his father, his uncle, or to be honest, any of the other merfolk, and Nero always worried that she had been injured early on in her life, something that put her at a disadvantage. But she was always cheerful, and found other ways to contribute to the hunt.

“It’s just…”

“Dante...I know… trust me... sometimes I wish a jellyfish would sting him on the tongue, just to shut him up for a while. But,” she sat down beside him, and began prying open one of the clams with her soul weapon, a small pearlescent knife, and offered him the contents. “ He thinks he means well, he just doesn’t realize he’s swimming against the current.”

He gratefully took it and slurped down the contents. His mom was always able to mediate between the three mermen, she’d find a way to make his uncle apologize, and things would be back to normal...for a while at least.

“Oh… that’s beautiful Nero! Where did you find that?” Too late he realized that by grabbing the shell, he’d inadvertently revealed his prized possession.

Parrotfish Sand! He thought, Welp, time to fib a little.

He put on a convincing smile. “Oh this? It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I found it while investigating an old shipwreck a while back!” Yeah, that was believable. His dad was more permissive about him going down into the depths than into the shallows.

Unfortunately, the doubtful look on his mother’s face shattered the illusion, “Oh really? If it came from an old shipwreck it would have had more corrosion on the brass clasp, to the point where only the pendant should still have a possibility of retaining its shine. That is, if the jewelry had a high enough percentage of gold. If not, it would have been just as corrode d.”

Nero was stunned. How had she known he was lying?

“Corrosion?”

“It’s where the water and the salt…” she paused as if she was trying to find the right words, “well, simply put, they change the metal into something different, and often weaker. Human metal of course, not the metal of our soul-weapons. It’s why some shipwrecks at the bottom of the sea are all brown,and fall apart just by brushing up against it. Some metals, like gold, are resistant, some not at all.”

“How..how do you know that? About human stuff?”

She smiled softly at him, “Nero...I suppose it’s time I told you that once…” she looked up at the dappled surface, the flickering sunbeams shining down on them, “Once, I was one of them.”

Nero choked on the last of the clam he was slurping up. Maybe he hadn’t heard his mom right. There’s no way that his dad of all merfolk would have fallen for...a human? Maybe his dad didn’t know…?

“I’d hoped that your father would have explained our ‘unique’ family situation earlier on...but…” she sighed… “well, if he won’t take the first step-I mean, first stroke. I guess I should. Yes, I used to be human, and yes both your father and uncle knew about me.”

“But-” Nero was at a loss for words. True, his mom always seemed a bit ‘different’ than the other merfolk, but he’d never really minded. She was a wonderful mother, why should he care? “How?”

“Magic I suppose, it’s hard for me to wrap my mind around, and I’ve had over a decade and a half to try to make sense of it.”

It still didn’t make sense to Nero. Of all the mermen to settle down with a ...human? “Dad hates humans!” he blurted out without thinking, “He always reminds me how dangerous they can be, that I should never talk to one, or be seen by one.” Instantly, he felt the urge to slap himself for such an insensitive statement.

His mother looked sad, but not because of what he had said, “I… understand where your father’s coming from, he’s had...an unpleasant history with humankind, it’s tainted his views. One day he may tell you about it, when he’s ready But,” she stroked his cheek, “even he understands humans aren’t all bad, there are some that are ignorant about what happens past their shorelines, and others that are willing to take a chance to dive beneath the waves, so to speak. I was one of the latter, and it still took me the better part of a migration to gain his trust and love. I suppose he tries to tell you those stories to keep the risk of you getting hurt as low as possible but,” she looked down at the necklace, “it seems that our family’s obsession with the surface still runs in the blood. So…” she smiled, “spill the beans, (her penchant for weird turn of phrases suddenly made a whole lot more sense), who’s the lucky human? I won’t say a word to anyone else about this.”

“It’s...it’s a girl. Her name is Kyrie...and she likes to sit on the docks and sing in Fortuna.”

“Awww, how sweet! How did you two meet?”

“Sh-she hasn’t actually met me yet” , he must have turned as red as a snapper by now, “ I just sit under the docks and listen to her singing.”

“But you have her necklace.”

“Yeah, she dropped it about four migrations back, and...well, I wanted to give it back...but…” ah well, he might as well come clean about it. Perhaps his mother would understand. “Everytime I do, I get the weirdest feeling, like I’m giving up a part of myself.” He scratched his nose, “You probably think I’m being dumb as driftwood, eh?”

“Not at all,” his mom said, surprisingly “the heart is a strange and stubborn thing, that makes us do things that we really don’t understand, but,” she smiled, “don’t be like myself and your father and deny your feelings, because you don’t know what the next wave will bring.” She pulled him close to give him a kiss on the forehead. “Just promise me that you be careful, alright? I want you to be happy, AND safe.”

Kyrie was there, sitting on the dock, just like always. Unfortunately, that was the only thing that was the same. Instead of her brilliant white clothes, she wore a dress of deep black, like the depths of the ocean. And instead of singing, she remained silent, not even humming a tune. And worst of all, her beautiful smile, the thing that only the Dawnfather could compare to in brilliance, had vanished. Instead, she sat, her legs dangling over the edge, staring out to the horizon, not moving. Her beautiful eyes had lost their vibrancy, like dead seaweed, and her skin had gone pale, and sickly, like a bloated dead fish. Strange, there was wetness on her cheeks, that dribbled down before landing in her lap. Nero wasn’t sure what had happened to her. Was she ill? Hurt? All he knew, it caused his heart to constrict, and that he’d do ANYTHING to bring back her smile.

Steady footsteps on the worn wood caused him to dart back to his hiding spot under the dock. He knew the gait, even if he didn’t see him very often. Credo strode down, but slowed as he approached the young woman at the end. He was also dressed oddly, his usual white and gold outfit replaced with a dour black, quite similar to his sister’s. Was there something going on, a sort of celebration?

“Kyrie…” he spoke softly, as if he didn’t wish to disturb her, but was forced to. “I was beginning to worry when you didn’t come home after school today.”

There was no response, her eyes still locked on the horizon.

“It’s getting late, and the funeral is early tomorrow. You and I need our rest for what’s going to be a long day. The entire family will be coming over… Aunt Lisandra will be taking care of the food preparations, and- ”

“I can’t..” her voice sounded raspy, rough like a shark's skin, “I can’t go home...because mom should be there, taking the poppy seed buns out of the oven, and dad should be there in his study, putting the final touches on that painting he was working on…. But there won’t be the smell of bread in the kitchen, and that painting will always be unfinished.... Because they aren’t ever coming home again....”

Nero was perplexed. What did they mean by never seeing each other again? Even if humans couldn’t swim, they could travel anywhere in the world, they could even fly in those metal bird things he would see sometimes up in the sky.

“I know…” Credo answered soberly, “I miss them too…” he placed a hand on her shoulder, before crouching down, “but I know, wherever their spirits have gone, that they would want us to persevere, to remember them, but move forward.”

Only then, did it hit Nero with the force of a tidal wave: Kyrie wasn’t ill, or hurt...well, not in the physical sense. She was mourning for the dead. Dawnfather strike him down, what an idiot he was!

“It’s going to be difficult,” the older man conceded, “but you don’t have to bear the burden alone.” “I know…” came the response, a little less soulless, but still with grief.

“If you don’t feel like it, you don’t have to sing at the service. I don’t want you to feel unnecessary pain, just because some of our relatives desire a show,” her brother muttered darkly.

“No, I need to do this,” she argued back, “not for great uncle Lorenzo, or anyone. Just for me.”

“If that’s what you desire…”

“Yes. I just…” she sighed, “I just need some time alone for a bit more. I promise I’ll be home in an hour or two.”

“Are you sure?” “Credo…” she smiled at her brother, sadly, but with more sincerity, “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me. But,” her smile lost some of the grief, “thank you for everything.”

Nero stayed still for quite a while after the man had departed, ruminating on what he had heard. He hadn’t had to deal with the pain she had dealt with, but his father had, and it was obvious that his grandparents’ deaths had affected him. If there was a way to ease her pain, a way of healing the absence in her heart.

The necklace!

He looked at it in his clawed hand. He’d expected the usual reluctance to give it up yet again, but not this time. This time she needed it more than he could ever. The only issue was how to give it to her. He couldn’t just swim up and plop it in her hand, nor could he attempt to throw it up onto the dock, where there was a good chance it would just bounce off and back into the water, attracting her unwanted attention.

He looked at the glistening jewelry in his softly glowing clawws, and realized the answer was in the palm of his hand….literally. All he had to do was find the correct position, speed, and angle...it was just like spearing a fish.

Swimming far enough to get a good angle, but deep enough to not be noticed, he clenched the amulet in his hand one last time, took a mental deep breath and with a force of will, his spectral hand shot out of the water, almost silently, and with precise control, dropped the necklace on the dock with just the barest of noise, enough to get her attention, before it retracted back to himself, and he quickly returned to his hiding spot.

“Oh!” Kyrie had heard the clatter, and turned almost too quickly, a second sooner, and he would have been caught. But her eyes were immediately drawn to the necklace, glittering in the light of the evening Dawnfather, as she gingerly scooped it up.

“How in the…” she slowly caressed it in her hands, no doubt trying to figure out if it was the same one she had lost all those migrations ago. Nero swallowed as he peeked through the crack in the wood, getting as close as he dared. She closed her dull eyes as she clasped the necklace in her hands, pulling it close to her forehead. After a few moments of silence, her eyes opened, not quite back to their beautiful state, but much more clear, and on her lips, a small smile.

“Thank you…” she spoke quietly, and Nero froze. For some reason he was certain she was speaking to him. But that was impossible! He had made sure that he was completely undetectable! She hadn’t ever given an indication that she had noticed his presence. Maybe she was just speaking to the spirits of her parents or something.

But it didn’t matter, as she began to sing, a song he hadn’t ever heard before, a song full of grief, and yet hope.

Quando sono solo sogno all'orizzonte e mancan le parole

Sì lo so che non c'è luce in una stanza quando manca il sole

Se non ci sei tu con me, con me

Su le finestre

Mostra a tutti il mio cuore che hai acceso

Chiudi dentro me la luce che

Hai incontrato per strada

Time to say goodbye

Paesi che non ho mai

Veduto e vissuto con te

Adesso sì, li vivrò, con te partirò

Su navi per mari che, io lo so

No, no, non esistono più

It's time to say goodbye

And even though Nero couldn’t make out most of what she was singing, it still gave him a feeling of peace

It was the next migration, his seventeenth, when Nero finally broke the last rule. He was doing his typical thing, hovering under the dock, relaxing to the soothing music that Kyrie sang. She looked healthier, happier, and more at ease. The loss of her parents undoubtedly still had affected her, but she had grown from it. He was happy as well, hoping his action, as little and delayed as it was, had brought her some comfort.

So lost in her melodious voice, he didn’t even notice her slowly lower herself down, and with a sundenness that would have caught a dolphin off guard, poked her head underneath the dock.

“Hello there!”

His instincts screamed that he needed to flee, that he was in an extreme amount of danger right now. His muscles spasmed, and instantly he began to calculate on whether it would be safer to dive down and then out, a slower but safer way, or risk making a mad dash from the docks, putting as much distance between her and him. Then never, ever, EVER come back. He’d played far too long in the low tide, now he was in danger of being beached, metaphorically speaking.

“Wait!” Her voice called out, and against his better judgement, he paused, “Don’t go, please? I’m not going to hurt you. I just…�� she paused as she tried to think of what to say, “want to thank you.”

He froze. He hadn’t expected that.

“Thank me?” Her eyes lit up brilliantly at his response.

“You CAN talk! I’m so glad! I always worried that you didn’t speak our language.” Her smile grew in delight as she pulled herself back up. Nero floated there, momentarily at a loss what to do. Should he make a swim for it? She hadn’t made a move to attack him, in fact, she was giving him an opening to escape. But what if it was a trap? He shook his head. The way she spoke, it seemed like she had known he was there for a while, possibly for multiple migrations. So, slowly, and with more than a little wariness, he swam from underneath the dock and popped up in front of her. The delight on her face was infectious, and that smile, Dawnfather be praised, that smile was for him, solely for him.

“Thank me?” He repeated, confused as he looked around, still worried he would be spotted. But aside from a few fishing vessels on the horizon, there was no one but her.

“For everything…” she explained, as her hand went to her throat, playing with her necklace,. “Every year around this time, when I’d come to the docks, I swore I felt someone watching me, supporting me, like a guardian angel.”

Nero had no clue what she was talking about, but he wouldn’t interrupt her. Her singing was beautiful, but now, her speaking to him, directly, was pure bliss. If this had been a trap, he would have been a stunned fish right now, easily hooked. But nothing happened.

“But unlike an angel...it didn’t come from above, it came from below…the water. It was you.” Her toes grazed the surface of the water, and she was so close, she could have reached out and touched him, but she didn’t. Not that he would have minded…

Her eyes went down to the necklace between her fingers. “In the darkest moment of my life, you gave me something precious. The necklace, yes… but,” she looked back at him. “Whenever I couldn’t sleep, when I felt like I was falling into despair, I would hold onto this and would feel a sense of peace, like the rise and fall of waves, of seagulls, the songs of whales. It was so comforting… That was you, wasn’t it?”

He didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t intended it, but perhaps keeping it so close to himself for all those migrations had some residual effect.

“Uh....yeah.” It wasn’t a lie, but he wanted to slap himself with his own fins on how stupid he sounded. “I-I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you sooner, I-”

She laughed, and Nero felt tingles everywhere in response. “It’s okay, I’m glad it was safe with you. So,” she leaned forward, getting even closer, and Nero lost himself in her eyes. If she wanted to, she could reach out and touch him, and he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it (not that he would want to), “Can I have your name?”

Somehow, his mouth was able to work, and he didn’t even stutter…

“Nero...my name’s Nero”

For what seemed like ages, he and Kyrie talked. She told him all about the surface world, from how they managed to stay sane despite living in the same place for migrations at a time, to her family, (he decided not to pry into her parents), to why she sang. It stunned him that not all humans enjoyed singing, how in the watery depths were they supposed to pass on knowledge to their children?

But he kept his questions to himself, and when she cautiously asked about him and his people, he felt comfortable to tell her about his family, and merfolk in general. She never pressed for more details, but she asked how long he would remain in Fortuna.

“It’s about one cycle of the Tidemother, the shoal moves out, so we gotta follow it, or else we’ll be stuck eating kelp” He couldn’t help it, he gagged at the thought. “We should be heading out when she hides Her face.”

Kyrie’s face fell a little bit. “Oh, that means you’ll be heading out pretty soon.”

“Yeah…” he agreed, and for the briefest of moments, the thought of him staying in Fortuna for the rest of the migration, eating nothing but kelp didn’t seem that bad. But explaining why he didn’t want to leave this island to his father… not so appetizing. “But guess what, I’ll be back to see you on the next migration! And I won’t hide under the dock this time!”

“You promise?”

There was a slight pause, as Nero recalled something he’d heard innumerable times

Never promise a human anything.

To the depths with that… he thought, and smiled at the young woman, the one that had unwittingly lured him in, and captured his heart.

“I promise”

#Devil May Cry #Nero #nero x kyrie #Mer!AU #Sequel to Deep Blue Sea #Spoilers for the first story

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legendoftheghost · 4 years

Text

Wild Embers, Offering Clarity (Ghost of Tsushima, 2/2)

Pairing: Jin Sakai x Yuna

Tags: Emotional Outbreak, Vulnerability, Emotional Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Intoxication, Past Trauma, Post-Ghost of Tsushima, Smut, Girl on Top, Friends to Lovers, Anal Sex, Penetration, Cuddling, Intimacy. (more tags to come)

(Part 1 is here)

She isn’t entirely certain where he stops and she begins – Yuna only knows her body is alight with flame. Briefly, she feels the spell of feverish heat rise in her form and must quickly quell its heat in order to not annihilate them both into oblivion. Always at the whim of her body's emotion and desire, her wanton want is still a terrifying storm in the essence of her core that had to be kept at bay.

Hoisting herself up, Yuna seizes the back of Jin’s neck and pulles herself into his lap, burying her face in the crook of his neck and jaw. She peppers kisses and nips at his flesh, delighting herself in her strength and dominance and ability to make him tremble with her mouth and hands alone. Asserting herself, grabbing hold of him and forcefully bending him back with a grunt of effort, willing him to submit as she takes a moment to catch her breath.

The important people in Jin’s lives had left imprints; they may stay, or go in the impermanent realm of his memories, but no matter what the outcome, they will always be there in his heart. Because they all helped to form the Ghost’s heart, in their existence or lack thereof. There is no getting over that. The weight of it, the depth of it, all of it overwhelms him still, but nothing overwhelms him more than being pulled under by the sucking drag of the receding wave. And Jin mourns, as the rain pours, as his heart downpours, and becomes mesmerized by each other and the world around them. And how he moans, as the churning sensation of Yuna’s lips transport him right into the clashing and shimmering light of the early sun, stripped of sorrow as spinning daylight manifests in the dark.

They are young, still young and recovering from physical and emotional scars and gashes gained from the harsh world they live in. All the shared impressions, and the numerous ones even before their paths crossed make up the blueprint of who they are, and Jin finds himself searching, an exploratory hand trailing a crude scar on her stomach. The question lingers, but it’s for another time.

He finds the scalding feverous heat soar ablaze in the depths of his gut, something other than carnal lust, but unrestrained fury. In the shimmering pearl of his eyes, the thunder of his wanton need becomes the radiant bliss that lights up the muscle-corded nakedness of Jin Sakai’s being. He gently breathes into the crook of her neck, as they clasp and fold their bodies front to front, two bodies now beating as one as their hearts whisper, making sweet amends.

Time seems to slow for a moment; floating carefree around them like a feather in the air. Her lips are warm and plush and inviting, and Jin tips Yuna’s chin, making her look into the polished depth of his eyes. Scintillating, challenging, dancing with her own. A bit timid and a bit trembling, but still intense and tender. His kisses are all rich and golden, not because they’re perfect, but they are his. A quiet, pinning piece of his heart wants to stay in this place with her forever, and his fingers tangle into her thick, silky hair. It is an unrealistic feeling.

For his breath gets knocked out of him, again and again, as rapturous ardor of his devourment meets her gentle dominance, and Jin blushes, the saturated ruddy hue of the sunset painted over his cheeks, as their ornamented intimacy reaches its zenith, and the glazing sweetness of their sweat agleam, streaming the further connection between two troubled souls, coinciding in yet another troubling place that drowns both in. Yet, they would still manage to tint their hearts in amber and in honeyed sentiments. And he feels the throbbing hardness, all of his girth being penetrated deep into her. How the foundations of their being brought their souls together; a perfect fit of suffering and longing, hope and love. Their worlds merging together, blending the rivers of their lives into a great, immeasurable ocean.

As long as they passed breaths in susurrations, adorned with their love - him and her. Nothing else mattered, but their body and mind’s connection - barely a spiderweb thin, with all their shared thoughts, aspirations, and beliefs in their own importance. “Jin,” Yuna calls out, “What are you waiting for?” Jin looks up from his deep introspection, somewhere stuck in the unfurling smoke, a clump of cloud. Her body was the only reality. I hurt, therefore I am.

“Yeah, I am here. I was thinking…,” one day, the pain of staying was greater than the pain of leaving, and Jin had swallowed the shadows his hands have timed to the wall. Perhaps he was always destined to wear a deflated smile, but he wasn’t dreaming. Yuna had always been the sun that melted his exhaustion, melting his weakened wings, gently plucking him feather by feather, until he could no longer bear the excess weight. He will fly, but Jin thinks he may be safer on the ground, along with her anyway. “All I want is the sea salt to assault my skin, as hot heat melts my hair. You would become my oasis, Yuna.” He speaks, as insatiable sense of belonging causes him to plunge deeper into the engorged folds of her wet tunnel, and how liberating he feels, as the tight coil of her flesh constricts, squeezes around his length as Jin shudders right into her as the sensuous curve of his defined back slouches, melts into her.

How Jin burns, with all spindly flames, his bones and body starved. The light was a brewing storm in the depth of his brave eyes, and his body felt tighter, higher, his chin tilted up as his sliding manhood twitches, veins growing electric as the rolling of Yuna’s hips had him instinctively jut and rock his hips, gyrating, causing Jin to feel concurrently being afloat, as the waters of passion begins to rise, but drown into the currents of lapping streaks as it surges through his veins. Yuna continues to sink, with her head tilted back, nestled hands clawing across Jin’s well-built shoulders, leaving coral blossoming nail strokes.

Jin’s facial muscles melt in a glaze, as he overflows with a relieving sensation. How he sings, mantras of deepened, guttural groans intertwined with her quieted whines, as their synchronized rhythms rattle their universes. There’s so much Jin Sakai could feel as their bodies embody an eclipse, the light and dark coalescing together to cause a world of difference upon the humanity as to let their presences known, if they hadn’t done it already. On road to its pinnacle, he edges, both painfully and delectably, taking rushed skips before he is faced with the zenith of all.

Their bodies embody more like a kiln, slow to reach its boiling point, then the heat feels like a widening hole swallowing them whole and each minute movement of their rippling embers elevated to become a deafening roar as he locks in petrification. And a whole world of galaxy presents itself upon his half-lidded gaze, as his stillness extends; a stinging, explosive release that defies the gravity as strings of pearly white pulses and soars, and the spilling wetness of Yuna’s flesh saturates their connection furthermore as the warmth of her ichor coats Jin’s groin, becoming the glaze that would seal everything together.

How they continue to clash and shimmer in the light, even in the absence of natural light, beneath the chastened hours of an early sun, stripped of trauma and sorrow, as daylight spins with their entangled limbs and panting breaths. How they clasp their hands - Jin round her waist, Yuna’s own encompassing Jin’s neck - as hearts whisper, making sweet amends.

“I was scared that my unspoken words would swim inside my head, that I was going to drown by it,” Jin breathes, still out of breath as his chest heaves, as he drifts into the sea of nebulas that is Yuna’s sensuous curves. “My passion once had been diluted, until it became a surging, submerging sea after I met you. You have been my everything, Yuna, and you were exquisite.” How his eyes become the very stars drenched in every melodic moonlight, as the delicate, yet feral gaze of his hold her steady.

“Our hearts were much darker back then, I still remember you visibly struggling, aching, fighting on what seemed like a losing side of this war. There was no room for it,” Yuna pauses, kissing the bobbing length of Jin’s throat. “You were passion like explosive embers in the battleground, and for me, that was enough, until now.” She smiles, mirroring the curve of the crescent moon, smiling down at both of them.

Jin’s spine curls and ripples akin to a calm serene ocean for now in a moment of rapturous delight, as he instinctively ruts, and feels his spent member begin its pulsating retreat. The vigorous, yet slowed motion of Yuna’s hips that coil around him continue to spiral with his fluid dynamism. “I will always satiate you with eager anticipation and rapture if you talk like that.” He teases, the fullness of his lips brushing against her temple as he smirks.

#▬▬ι═══════ﺤ || the storm of clan sakai (headcanon)#▬▬ι═══════ﺤ || the legend of the ghost (iii)#▬▬ι═══════ﺤ || I wouldn't be here without you (jin x yuna)#(nsfw)#jin sakai #yuna #jin x yuna #ghost of tsushima #(I'm not as confident with this compared to the first part but now it's done)#(let me know what you think)

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creacherkeeper · 4 years

Text

here until i’m nothing

tdp post s3. soren and amaya go back for claudia. 7k

Claudia decided she would never speak again.

It was one of those decisions that came in a flash of understanding and insight—you weren’t even thinking of it before the reality hit you all at once. It was the perfect solution, Claudia decided, sitting in the damp and dark cave all by her lonesome, to a problem she didn’t know she had. Dark magic had gotten her into this mess. That hit her all of a sudden as she sat there, her back against the awkward cave wall, no longer feeling the cold (she could no longer feel her hunger, either, which was a problem for a different day—the kind of problem that built and built until it wasn’t a problem at all).

Dark magic. That’s where everything had gone wrong.

She had wondered as a child if it was their family’s dark magic that had driven her mother away. Mothers liked little girls in dresses, girls who played princesses and who would squirm at the things that Claudia delighted in. Claudia got muddy and messy and squished bugs. She did spells just to turn her eyes black—all the better to scare Soren with. Claudia was loud, curious, and grim. She’d spent sleepless nights wondering if that had been the driving point, had wondered if her mother had a different family, a better one, wherever she was now.

Her eyes drifted to the still form a ways from her in the cave.

The form was crinkled and bruised and didn’t look much like a person at all—much less like her father. His organs had given out, that’s what did him in the second time. They didn’t cope with being brought back and they just gave up. Nothing to be done. In his last breaths he’d spat at her that she hadn’t done it right, hadn’t done enough, had brought him back for nothing—did you bring me back just to suffer?

Maybe, she thought. Maybe I did.

Claudia no longer thought her mother left because of her.

Mothers liked little princesses in dresses, yes, but they also, as far as Claudia knew, liked fathers who laughed, fathers who cared, fathers who smiled every once in a while and not just at their own successes. Daughters, she also knew, liked fathers who said sorry and meant it, but Claudia had never asked for that. She’d never asked so much of him, though he spent every waking moment asking more and more and more of her.

Nausea swirled in her stomach. It wasn’t a threat--there was nothing but acid in there anyway.

Claudia realized, with a heavy sort of dread sitting on her chest, that she was going to miss her father terribly.

But, right … Dark magic. That’s where the problem lay. It had turned her father into a man who could get anything for a price. He’d turned into a man who was willing to pay any price for the things that he wanted. Others would say he was hungry for power; Claudia thought he was hungry for satisfaction. He liked knowing he could get what he wanted, that his desires would be fulfilled, that others would bend to his will to see his goals through. He didn’t like being told no. It wasn’t the power she thought he wanted: it was the comfort that power gave him. Underneath it all, Claudia wondered if her father was just scared.

Guess I’ll never get the chance to ask him.

Not that she would have. Not that he would’ve hesitated to punish her if she had.

Not that he’d ever admit if he was.

She’d been staring so long that black spots had started to swirl her vision. She blinked, languid and slow, but they didn’t go away. She wondered if this was a price for her spell—for the ultimate spell, to bring back life—but she knew, some subconscious part of her, that she was hungry, thirsty, and oh so tired. Had she slept? She didn’t think so, but she couldn’t remember. She was worried that if she fell asleep, she wouldn’t wake back up.

Maybe that would be for the best, she thought. Maybe then I’d stop messing things up.

If she had tears, she might have cried about it. But she could hear in her father’s voice what a waste that would be. That was precious liquid, and, more than anything, crying wasn’t useful. If you wanted something, you used your wits, you used persuasion and perseverance. You didn’t cry about it.

Why did I bring him back?

She went to look at him again, and it was only after a sad few seconds that she realized her eyes were closed. She wasn’t sure when that had happened. Did she fall asleep?

Her head tilted back against the cave wall, eyes still fastened shut.

Because I love him, she thought sadly. She hoped, wished, prayed, that in his own way he had loved her too. She’d thought he did, before. But how much of it was just another of his ploys, she didn’t know. She would have bent Xadia in half to know he meant it.

Her ears twitched. She swore she could hear that bug writhing around in its cocoon.

Maybe she had brought him back to suffer—some unconscious part of her that wanted him to feel how she felt in that moment: terrified, aching, and lonely. Soren had already left, just like their mother, and Claudia had wanted nothing except not to be alone. She didn’t think she was that cruel, that vengeful … but the seed had been planted in her head and only wished to worry at her. It scratched like an itch at the back of her skull—your fault your fault your fault—and Claudia was too tired to fight with it. It had been her fault. All of it, the whole thing. It was because she used dark magic, she’d decided.

Which brought her back to her original point. Dark magic required a verbal component, which meant if she just didn’t speak … well then, she couldn’t cast spells, could she?

(she couldn’t do damage she couldn’t drive people away your fault your fault)

Maybe it was taking things to an extreme, but she was in an extreme situation. There was a war and they lost. They paid the price in destruction and death. Her father paid the price for her failures.

(She paid the price with a family fractured to the marrow.)

She would never do magic again. She wouldn’t even give herself the chance.

She’d never done a spell that big before. What if the magic had seeped down into her—into her pores, into her blood, right down to the bone—and the next time she opened her mouth, it was dark magic that came out? What would stop it from taking right over? She heard scary stories of mages gone wrong, of spells gone sideways, when the magic took over until the person was just a vessel for whatever chaos it wished to unleash. It was called dark magic for a reason. Her father never assuaged her fears, never told her they were just stories to scare children straight. He said instead: it won’t get you if you’re strong. It won’t get you if you’re careful. You have to be better than them, Claudia, you have to be better.

Claudia wondered if, in the end, she would be better. It was safer to never find out.

The decision came to her with a flood of relief. She’d never get into another fight, would never say sorry (would she laugh? she hadn’t decided), she’d never say something she regretted that she ached and groaned over later. If she didn’t talk, all the less chance for her to muck things up. It would be better for everyone, really. Safer.

Claudia thought, dully, that it might not matter anyway. She hadn’t even tried to leave the cave. Her father had wasted away, cursing all the while, and she … sat. She stared. She watched the last breath pass his lips, two days ago now, and still she sat and still she stared.

A sigh drew in and out her nose. She really should get up. But the part of her that cared about self-preservation had withered with her hunger. Now, she was mostly tired. She wished for and feared sleep all the same.

Her ear twitched.

Footsteps.

At least, she thought they were footsteps. There was something like boots, something like clinking armor. She couldn’t be bothered to open her eyes and check. She was pretty sure hallucinations set in after a few days without water, and if it wasn’t, if the sounds were real … well, any soldier would just do away with her after seeing what she’d done. Better keep her eyes closed. She didn’t want the last thing she saw to be the glare of a sword.

(The sounds reminded her of Soren’s heavy boots and Soren’s clinking armor, and that was almost enough to do her in by itself.)

The footsteps stopped not far from her.

Not the scariest hallucination to have, she thought.

A sound like sliding clothing.

Fingers touched her neck.

Claudia jumped, and the hand pulled away. Blearily, she opened her eyes, and her vision came into focus too slow with a black haze around the edges.

It didn’t make much sense for a hallucination. She was expecting her father, perhaps Soren, even her mother. A soldier with the head of that bug would have been more expected. But it was General Amaya’s face that her eyes finally focused on, a smile slowly spreading across the woman’s lips.

On reflex, Claudia almost spoke. She’d always been inquisitive, and a question had almost passed through her open mouth before she caught herself and held it back. She let her lips close, swallowing through a burning throat. Amaya’s gloveless hand came up, finding her jaw and moving Claudia’s head back and forth.

It felt … very real. She supposed that was the way with hallucinations, you didn’t know they were fake until you knew, but … The fingers against her jaw were warm and solid, calluses on each tip. Maybe this was her own dark magic playing a trick on her, or maybe …

Her hand rose, shaking fingers closing around Amaya’s wrist. There was warm skin and the jut of bone under her fingers.

As Amaya’s eyes trailed to the new streaks of white in her hair, the smile on her lips faltered. Her other hand rose to point at Claudia, then sign O-K, O-K?

Was she? She supposed the honest answer to that was a resounding “no”, but that would only lead to more questions. On the other hand, if she nodded yes, her very first action after her resolution was to tell a lie. She wouldn’t be using her voice to do it, but … it counted, didn’t it? It had to.

She didn’t realize her eyes had trailed away until fingers tapped her cheek. She looked back to Amaya, who was watching her with concern now evident on her face.

She swallowed. Her throat protested the motion.

Amaya’s eyebrows raised further to emphasize the question, and it took all Claudia’s effort to lift her shoulders in a shrug.

“Okay,” Amaya signed. “Can you walk?”

Another shrug.

Amaya nodded, her face pinching in sympathy. She removed her wrist from Claudia’s grip, grabbed her sword, and smashed the pommel down on the cave floor.

The sound echoed across the walls.

More footsteps.

“Did you find something?”

The voice came from the mouth of the cave. It was worried and familiar, and it hit like a punch to Claudia’s chest.

No use for tears, she heard in her father’s voice. Just a waste of liquid.

Still, tears came.

It was dark in the cave—probably dusk outside, though Claudia had lost track of the sun a while ago—but the form was unmistakable as it made its way closer. Even with her blurry, tired eyes, even in the dark, Claudia would recognize that armor anywhere. She knew the sound of his footsteps (had memorized them as a child—she knew the footfalls of each member of her family, of the King, of Callum and Ezran) and could feel her heart beating in time. There was no one it could be but him.

He’d actually come back for her.

She couldn’t even see as he approached, flooded as her eyes were. Her heart, previously a weak staccato, was hammering in her ears. Suddenly, she was terrified this was a hallucination, or a dream, or a vision—she was terrified the world was going to take Soren from her again.

Amaya’s hands moved as she signed. Most of it was lost to Claudia, but she caught the point towards the body on the floor and the hands flipping over.

Dead.

Soren nudged the body with his foot.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Yeah, looks like.”

Claudia raised her arm to wipe at her eyes, missing what Amaya said after. She sniffled and blinked away the last of the tears, finally able to see him clearly.

Soren looked down at her, a worried smile set into his face. He looked on the edge of tears himself—smile wavering and pink around the eyes.

“Hey, Clauds,” he said. His hand reached out. “Ready to go home?”

This time, Claudia knew she’d fallen asleep.

She’d been having a nightmare. It hadn’t been coherent, really. She was in a desert, dying of thirst. She was in a great dining hall, the main dining hall of the royal family of Katolis, and she was starving; when she’d pulled the lid off the serving tray, it was her father’s head looking back at her. She was up in the sky, fighting to get back to the ground, each star burning and stinging at her. She was in a cocoon, trapped.

Trapped.

She woke with a start, expecting the dark, damp cave. But as she came to, her heart already hammering, she realized that wasn’t where she was. There was a horse beneath her and two armor-clad arms to her either side.

Soldiers? Claudia didn’t remember being captured, but her head was so heavy and fuzzy that she could barely think straight. Maybe they’d taken her while she was sleeping. Who knows what they would do to her. She had to get back to the cave—her father would be waiting for her there—he needed her if he was going to get stronger—he couldn’t take care of himself like he was. If she left him alone, who could say what would befall him. (She didn’t trust that bug. She didn’t trust it one bit. Claudia had squashed scarier and less suspicious things, and she wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.)

Claudia jumped from the horse.

There was a shout as she toppled to the ground, her legs immediately giving out on her. Her knees ached from the impact, and tears sprang to her eyes. Run. She had to run. Get up get up.

Claudia stood as the horse stuttered to a stop behind her. She didn’t think she would make it far, her legs felt like jelly and her stomach was so hollow, but she had to try. What would her father say if she didn’t try?

She started to run.

Her legs buckled.

She fell.

She hit the ground with what should have been a sound, hard as the impact was. Claudia realized she couldn’t hear, there was a ringing in her ears and the deep thrum of her heartbeat. She pulled in a gasping breath, and the sound returned. It was her own crying that she heard.

“Claudia, hey, stop!”

Suddenly, rough gloves against her arms. She tried to pull away, but the grip was far stronger than whatever fight she could muster.

“Claudia, Clauds, look at me.”

She gasped another breath, her arms burning where the gloves touched her. Some distant part of her whispered that she wasn’t in danger, that she just needed to pay attention, but panic had made a fearful animal of her. She tried to yank her arms away, tears hot against her cheeks.

“Claudia, please.”

A hand brushed the hair out of her face. Her lips pulled in a snarl, and part of her had the mind to bite. But the touch was so careful that it gave her pause. It broke through the trance for just a moment.

She looked up. She blinked away the tears.

Soren.

Right.

He’d come back for her.

Everything came flooding back in a rush of memory and dread.

Her father was dead. She’d almost wasted away in that cave all on her lonesome, waiting for … something. She didn’t know what. She’d almost died there, just sitting in the cold with a corpse, a testament to her failures. She wasn’t speaking anymore, either. She’d sworn off it—had sworn off dark magic.

“You with me?” Soren asked.

She blinked, her eyes focusing on him again. Behind him was Amaya, concern etched into her face. Surrounding them was the quiet, star-lit night.

She nodded.

“Okay.” His hands dropped from her arms and pulled back hesitantly. He watched her. “This was part of your secret plan to give me a heart attack, right?”

She thought it was a joke. One of her shaking fingers rose to tap her nose.

Soren smiled. “I always knew it would come to this.”

Behind him, Amaya’s hands began to move. Through her teary eyes it was hard to catch, but Claudia understood the question the second time it was spelled for her.

“Nightmare?”

She swallowed. The answer was yes, but to what degree, Claudia didn’t know. She didn’t know if it was possible to sleep within sleep; maybe she’d wake up again and find this whole thing had been one terrible dream—she’d wake up in the castle and have breakfast with her family, she’d read her books and spend time with the princes and everything would just be normal.

Claudia knew with a sunken heart that things would never be normal again.

Amaya’s face pinched. She’d always been good at reading people. Her hand lowered and found the waterskin at her hip, detached it, and held it out. Claudia took it with shaking hands. She took a small sip at first, just to test; they’d given her water when they found her, but it hadn’t been enough to sate her thirst. The water was so cold and crisp on her tongue, it felt like coming alive again.

Well. She didn’t know what that felt like, exactly. She’d seen it, though.

She took another sip, then another. She tipped the waterskin back and squeezed. The water cascaded into her mouth as she took hungered gulps, only serving to feed the tears that still cut lines through her dusty face. It wasn’t enough. She was so thirsty. Claudia wondered if there would ever come a day where she wouldn’t be.

The waterskin was yanked away. Claudia glared as Amaya pulled it away, her scolding signs quick and decisive.

“Not too much. You’re going to get sick.”

I don’t care, Claudia thought. I’m just so thirsty.

“Come on, Clauds,” Soren said, the smile now wiped from his face. “We’re almost there. Then you can rest.”

Claudia sniffled and nodded, wiping away tears with her wrist. She let herself be helped to her feet, then onto the horse, and Soren was right, their camp wasn’t too much further. They came to it within the hour, just as the moon was making its home at the top of the sky. There was a fire pit with logs around it, as well as a tent pitched against a tree with supplies tucked safely beneath.

It felt wrong. She couldn’t explain it. She was safe here, she was going home, but … some weird, twisted thorn in her heart longed for her cold and quiet little cave, where she didn’t have to worry about anyone or anything except finding her next breath. She’d scared Soren. Already she was causing problems. At least there, there was no one else for her to hurt.

And … she missed her dad. She thought that she wasn’t supposed to, that he was bad man who had done bad things—had taken advantage of her and her magic and her love—but … she missed him. Maybe one day she wouldn’t, but now, it ate at her heart like poison.

They just left him there. They just left him in that cave to rot.

“Home sweet home,” Soren said, helping her off the horse. “Home sweet … quickly thrown together campsite? Whatever, it’s … it’s something. Somewhere to rest.”

Claudia held her feet under her for long enough to make it to a log. She sat down on it, her legs already shaking.

Amaya dismounted and approached with the waterskin again.

“Slow,” she said, really dragging the sign out. “Okay?”

Claudia nodded.

This time, her sips were slow and careful. Her frantic gulps earlier had quickly been regretted—the water twisted her stomach with nausea, and even still, she felt queasy. She wanted her hot brown morning potion. That always made her feel better, even when she felt so terrible after a spell like this.

She took one final sip, then handed the waterskin back. Amaya nodded gratefully and reattached it to her belt. She was crouched before Claudia, watching her with careful eyes.

“You need to eat,” she signed.

Before her hands were even done with the motions, Claudia was shaking her head.

Amaya’s brows furrowed, then raised in a question. “When was the last time you ate?”

Claudia’s hand rose to wave over her shoulder.

“That’s not an answer.”

The truth was, Claudia didn’t know. It had been before the battle started, she was pretty sure. She’d just been so caught up in everything. But she didn’t know how long ago the battle was … the days in the cave had blurred together, her anguished spell making everything warp and fuzz.

Before, Claudia signed again.

The thing was, General Amaya was a blunt instrument. You could point her at a problem with the comfort that she would ram her way right through it and that she was too stubborn to give up until she was done. The other thing was, Claudia realized, that direction had never been her before.

“You’re eating,” Amaya signed bluntly. She didn’t wait for a response, just moved to the sack with their rations in it.

Soren watched on nervously.

Soon, Amaya found what she was looking for. She ripped the roll of bread in half, slapped a slice of what looked like cured ham between it, and sandwiched the two pieces together. She approached again, holding the slapdash sandwich out for the taking.

Stinging saliva filled Claudia’s mouth. Her stomach protested even the sight of it—groaning and twisting in her gut.

She shook her head again.

Amaya sighed through her nose, the sound almost silent. She bent her legs under her and sat on the ground in front of Claudia, and still, the sandwich was held between them. With one hand she signed, “One bite. I can wait.”

The general did a good job of shielding her expression. The mask was patience and determination, but underneath … Claudia could see worry bleeding through the cracks. Amaya was a hardened soldier, had seen worse things than Claudia could imagine … but she was also Aunt Amaya. She’d watched them grow up. They were like family.

And here Claudia was, making her worry. Another way she was failing them.

Her hands reached out.

She already knew it was a bad idea before she brought the food to her lips, she knew this was going to go very poorly, very quickly, but still, she ripped a chunk of bread and meat off with her teeth (a small chunk, admittedly), chewed, and swallowed.

The two of them regarded each other.

Amaya had deft hands. She had a ribbon in Claudia’s hair, tying everything back, before Claudia even knew she’d need it. But she did. Oh boy, she definitely did. The solitary bite had settled in her stomach for only moments before making its way back up.

Claudia dashed away from the camp with a sudden burst of strength and urgency—she leaned against a tree, made a grab at her now-tied hair, and didn’t try to fight it.

Hands replaced her own around her hair, catching a few stray strands that threatened to fall in front of her face. Another settled on her back, rubbing up and down.

“You knew that was going to happen, didn’t you?” Soren asked.

The hand on her back left, then resettled a moment later.

It took Claudia a few moments to catch her breath as she coughed. Her throat burned. It felt like she’d swallowed magma, or maybe something minty, or rotten, or …? Whatever it was, it hurt. But was also …

Suddenly, she realized what had happened. The same thing had happened before, only once, after she healed Soren. It had been the same sensation—burning, tingling, stinging.

“So that doesn’t look … great,” Soren supplied helpfully from behind her.

Claudia was almost too afraid to open her eyes, but she did, blinking tears away from them.

Yeah.

That’s what she thought.

It was the same charred, black ooze as before, something like the remnants the dark magic had left in her. She wasn’t sure what it was exactly, but if it turned out the mass of it was the damaged lining of her insides … well, you wouldn’t have to mark her down as surprised. Her body was worn and frayed. You could see it in the white stain of her hair, but she could feel it inside her. Dark magic was killing her, bit by bit.

Part of her said, might as well. The other, stronger part said, it’s not going to take me like it took my father.

She did feel better now, though. That was something. Whatever that thing was, she was glad not to have it in her body anymore.

Huh …

If the weird tingly was magic … spent, used-up magic, but still magic … she wondered if someone could have done dark magic with her—used the magic within her like she used the magic of so many other creatures.

The thought made her laugh. It was a sad, desperate sort of laugh, but it was laughter all the same. The hands on her hair transferred to her arms, keeping her upright as she almost doubled over with the force of it.

“Okay,” Soren said, sounding thoroughly weirded-out. “Let’s, uh … let’s sit you down, yeah?”

The two of them helped Claudia back to the camp and sat her on the log again, and after a minute, Claudia settled. Now that the laughter had stopped, Claudia’s body shivered and shook. As Amaya fussed around the camp, pitching a tent and rolling out the sleeping mats and blankets, starting a fire and securing all their supplies, Soren sat next to her. His arm was around her shoulders, just holding her to him.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” Soren said, sounding more like he was trying to convince himself. “We’re going to go home, and then …” He paused. The fire crawled into life and began to flicker, starting to crack in the air. He sighed. “We’re going home.”

Claudia didn’t respond. Even if she was speaking, she wouldn’t have anything to say.

She tilted her head to rest on his shoulder, and closed her eyes.

Now that her eyes had adjusted to the dark, now that Soren was fast asleep, clad in soft pants and a short-sleeved shirt with his heavy armor cast to the side, Claudia could see the toll the battle had taken on him.

Bruises lined his arms—deep purple covering various nicks and scratches, some already beginning mottle green and yellow. A cut tore from his bicep to just above his elbow. There was a burn on the inside of his wrist that Claudia thought with dawning horror was from one of her own spells. And besides that, bags hung under his eyes, dark even in sleep, that she hadn’t seen the likes of since he first started his Crown Guard training.

Her side did that. Her father’s army did that. She did.

To her brother. His son. Their friend.

The rest of the sandwich sat like lead in Claudia’s stomach.

She remembered holding the staff with the corrupted light high above her head, pulling magic for the spell and letting it loose on the opposing army. People had fallen. A lot of people. She hadn’t seen them get back up, but she hadn’t been worried about that at the time; they were the enemy, even Soren standing behind the front lines, even General Amaya, Callum, Ezran—they were the enemy. What she was doing was right. That’s what her father told her.

She could comfort herself and say her father had brainwashed her, that he used his wits and her love and his magic to win her to his side, that she had no fault in any of this, really, was just another victim.

But that wasn’t true.

Soren had seen the truth. Soren left. He wanted her to come, he wanted both of them to leave, together, but she said no. She stayed behind for him.

How many lives had been lost because of her decision? How many people were left wounded and suffering because of her?

What if Soren had died?

What if she’d killed Amaya, or Callum, or Ezran? What if she came out the other side of the battle—dirty, exhausted, starving, but unscathed—and they just … weren’t there anymore?

Everyone else was paying the price for Claudia’s mistakes. So easily, it could have gone worse. So easily, their father wouldn’t be the only person dead. What would she have done, if one of her friends had died by her hand? Her brother?

Her next breath came as a shallow rasp.

Nothing but luck had stopped that future. And what had she done to deserve that luck? Why was she alive when so many soldiers—good soldiers, good people, parents, siblings, friends, people—were gone now? How many of them had been turned into beasts while her father spared her?

He wanted to do that to Soren. He was going to do that to Soren and I still stayed.

What had Claudia ever done to deserve her luck?

I don’t. I don’t deserve to be okay, alive, I don’t deserve to go back home, they shouldn’t have come back for me, they shouldn’t still care, so many people are dead, I could have killed Soren, they came back for me and they shouldn’t have, I don’t deserve anything, I don’t- I should just-

She couldn’t catch her breath. She hadn’t said any of it out loud, but she was winded, gasping for air like she’d taken a blow to the back. Beside her, Soren slept, one arm around ribs she knew hadn’t yet healed. She tried to focus on the pattern of his breathing, on his soft snores, but her gasps were getting more desperate and her skin itched, her vision was focusing too hard, too narrow, and she had to get out, she had to- She needed air- She needed-

Claudia bolted up and tore from the tent.

It was still dark out, though dawn would come soon. The stars in the sky were just beginning to disappear. The fire was going, but burned low in the pit, just enough that it still flickered and warmed the air around it. Amaya was poking at it with a stick, still awake. Keeping watch, she’d said. Just in case.

Her head turned as Claudia stood, the flap of the tent falling shut behind her. Amaya’s eyes studied her shaking form. They lingered on where Claudia’s arms were wrapped around herself, something like a hug, just trying to hold herself together, then on her cheeks, which Claudia only now realized were damp.

Amaya inched over on the log. She patted the space next to her.

Claudia sat.

Her heart thudded like a war drum and her skin jumped with untamed shivers. She could hear a ringing in her head, just like before, that wouldn’t seem to go away. She tried to pull in a breath, one good breath, but it came too quick and too shallow.

Amaya’s arm came up to wrap around her shoulders, free hand rubbing up and down Claudia’s arm as the other held the stick that prodded the fire. Whether it was an attempt to warm her or comfort her, Claudia didn’t know, but she appreciated the embrace all the same. She leaned closer, her shivers beginning to lessen.

They sat for a few minutes, watching the fire. She found her breathing after a while, timing it with the movement of Amaya’s hand up and down her arm. The fire crackled with energy, moving and twisting with its own sort of life.

Claudia stared.

She saw the sunfire queen, fallen. How many soldiers fallen? Civilians.

Claudia led them there. She led them over the breach.

She began to shake again.

Amaya sat down her stick and turned to her, eyebrows pinching in concern. She waved her hand, but Claudia wouldn’t look at her, just stared into the fire with welling eyes and a harsh bite on her bottom lip.

She didn’t deserve Amaya’s concern. She didn’t deserve for them to come back for her.

She closed her eyes as the tears rolled down her face, arms wrapping around her middle. She felt hands on her, trying to pull her into a hug. She yanked herself away. Her feet carried her away from the fire as she hugged herself tighter.

Once again, Claudia came to a decision.

She turned around, eyes finding Amaya’s cautious gaze.

Her hands shook as she signed.

I - not - want - go back - home.

Amaya stared, eyebrows furrowed, looking … Claudia didn’t know. Reading people had never been a strong suit of hers, and now, she couldn’t place what was on Amaya’s face. If she had to put a name to it, it might be determination, but that didn’t feel right. Maybe stubbornness, maybe anger, maybe mourning.

“We’re going home.”

Claudia shook her head.

I - not--

Her hands stilled.

I - can’t--

Her fingers shook.

I - can’t, she signed, chin trembling. Can’t - can’t - can’t - can’t - can’t--

Amaya held out her hands, motioning for her to stop. She stood, but didn’t approach. “Why?”

Claudia wracked her brain for the sign, for her reason. I don’t deserve it, she thought. I can’t face that, I can’t face everyone again knowing I was on the wrong side, I can’t bear for them to take me back, I don’t deserve it, please. Please.

Claudia raised a finger to point at herself. There was supposed to be something that followed, some explanation. Her finger hovered, aimed at her heart.

Me.

That was it. That was all she signed.

“Where will you go?” Amaya asked.

Claudia didn’t know the answer. Back to the cave, maybe, she thought. Just rot with my father.

“You’ll leave him?” Amaya asked, her finger holding in its point at the tent, which muffled the gentle sound of Soren’s snoring. “What will you tell him?”

Stop, Claudia signed.

“He’s scared. He needs you. He needs his sister.”

Stop! Claudia signed more forcefully, her hands hitting together.

Amaya’s hands fell. She sighed.

“Okay.” She held up her hands for a moment, as if in surrender. “I won’t stop you. Go say goodbye.”

Claudia’s heart lurched.

Because it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair the sign she had used—it wasn’t just goodbye, just a farewell. It was a sign she had taught them when they were little, one Claudia and Soren had used on silent nights hiding from their parents’ fighting. That’s why they had learned sign in the first place, to use on nights like that, when they were too afraid to speak in fear that their father would overhear and come after them next. Their hands were young and clumsy, nothing like Amaya’s deft speech, but that was a sign they had grafted onto. It was one that, all these years later, Claudia still remembered.

It wasn’t just a goodbye. The hand was waving in a farewell, but the fingers said something different.

I-L-Y

I love you.

Claudia sunk to the ground.

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t leave him again, not again, she couldn’t choose … choose what? What was she choosing over her brother this time, what was she choosing except to tear the remnants of her family further apart? She didn’t want to go home, she didn’t deserve it, but Soren didn’t deserve for her to leave. Soren didn’t deserve to lose the last member of his family. Amaya was right, she couldn’t do that to him. They had to stick together. All they had left was each other.

“Claudia?” came a sleepy mumble from inside the tent.

Claudia wrapped her arms around her knees.

“Claudia!”

The tent flaps burst open, and Soren came spilling out, one arm around his ribs, hair rumpled. It took a moment for his eyes to find her on the ground, peering up at him, but as soon as they did, his shoulders dropped and relief washed over his face.

“I thought you …” He swallowed.

Her chin trembled from where it was hidden behind her knees. She shook her head.

“Okay.” He nodded, hand coming up to scratch through the stubble on his chin. He took a shaky breath and wiped at his eyes. “Did you get any sleep?”

She didn’t answer. She stared up at him, tears hanging on the edges of her eyelashes, and wondered how she’d even let him leave in the first place.

Sorry, she signed.

His brows furrowed. He made his way towards her and gingerly lowered himself to the ground.

“What for?”

Her hands trembled. Everything.

He watched her. He nodded. “Me too.”

You - not - need - sorry. I - sorry.

“I’m sorry that …” He sighed something shaky and swallowed again. “I’m sorry I left. I shouldn’t have made you choose.”

Tears dripped down Claudia’s cheeks. She shook her head.

“No, I- I am, I … It wasn’t fair. I’m your big brother, I’m supposed to protect you, and … I failed. I left you with him, and I shouldn’t have.”

Claudia shook her head. She wanted to comfort him, to assure him that it was her fault, not his, never his, but she didn’t have the words. She reached out with one shaking hand, and he took it in his own. She used it to pull herself closer, shuffling until she was by his side. She laid her head on his shoulder and wrapped one careful arm around his middle. Between them, their hands were clasped.

“But now, we can just … We can move on, right?” Soren asked. He didn’t sound convinced, like maybe he was searching, desperately, for the answer. “We can move on because he’s not here anymore to … to yell at us, or manipulate us, or make us feel stupid … I never wanted to leave you, Claudia, you have to believe that. I just … I couldn’t stand to be around him anymore. He made me feel like nothing- He- I couldn’t stand who he was turning me into. Both of us.”

Claudia nodded. She was staining his shirt with her tears, she was sure.

A blanket dropped around their shoulders. Claudia looked up, startled, but Amaya only rested a hand on her hair for a moment before going back to tend the fire.

Soren tilted so his cheek was resting on top of her head. He sighed.

“I’m sorry I chose him.”

This, Claudia knew, was not about before the battle, or before they left to find the princes. This was, Claudia realized, something that went far deeper. It was something older, something she hadn’t realized until now might be eating away at him.

Mom, she signed.

“Yeah.”

When their mother was leaving, it wasn’t Claudia who chose, and it wasn’t Claudia who chose their father. She’d been told then not to choose between her parents, but to choose her brother.

“You need each other,” her mother had said. “Stay with him.”

If she’d been right about anything, she was right about that.

She was right about that.

Claudia was choosing Soren. Right here, right now, she was choosing him. She wasn’t choosing herself, or her own future, she wasn’t choosing to go back home, or be with the princes, or anyone.

Just Soren.

Claudia raised her hand.

I-L-Y

“Yeah,” Soren said, shifting in a chuckle. “You too, Clauds.”

They sat, looking out at the trees as the sun slowly rose over them, chasing away the stars and the darkened night. The fire dimmed and sputtered out. It was a new day, one they would face together.

Amaya shuffled dirt over the fire and gathered their supplies. She folded the tent, packed their bags, and readied the horses. Finally, she came to crouch in front of them.

“It’s a long journey. Are you ready to go home?”

Amaya looked at her, and Soren did too, both waiting for her answer. Claudia was tired—her body ached, her lips were cracked from days without water; she missed sleep, real sleep, desperately. But the sun heralded a fresh start, had dawned on a new world where Claudia maybe, finally, cautiously, had things figured out.

Going back to the castle was something Claudia didn’t know if she was ready for. She would have days, maybe weeks of travel to prepare, to work herself up to greet those stone walls and familiar faces. But home ... that was something different. And she realized, sitting there, her back to the dying fire and her head tilted towards the sun, her cheek pillowed on her brother’s shoulder and hand clasped in his …

Home. She already was. She’d made up her mind—where Soren went, she would follow.

Claudia nodded.

#tdp #tdp fic #tdp claudia #tdp soren #tdp amaya #i've been working on this for ages #by which i mean like 2 weeks lol #which is much longer that i usually work on a fic but this was written almost entirely at work #thank you casey for betaing!!!#hope you guys enjoy :)

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mogwaei · 5 years

Photo

Here’s my huge first piece for @dadrunkwriting (Thank you @contreparry & @midnightprelude for the delightful prompts!)

I ended up combining these two and it got out of hand. It’s sitting nearly at 6k words, so you’ve been forewarned! Will be posting this over on my Ao3 as well.

A little background for those who haven’t read The Guardian:

-Maori knows who/what Solas is, but he doesn’t know that she knows

-She has sketchy abilities that no one else is aware of in the Inquisition (Solas knows she can shapeshift and has shared that he can as well)

-Maori hates killing dragons

-Minor spoilers for those who are following my fic ^_^

“I am going to kill the Inquisitor when we get back to Skyhold,” she swore, breath clouding thickly before her mouth. As if to emphasise her immense displeasure, the creature just above them let loose a magnificent roar that shook the pale stone of Etienne’s Ring. “There aren’t dragons in Emprise, Maori! The only hot things there are the Pools of the Sun! And me when I’m present,” she said, mimicking an Antivan accent. A couple of white clouds puffed to her left and right as her companions laughed quietly behind their cover of the coliseum walls. It wasn’t the greatest protection, since all it would take was for the dragon to breathe into the corridor and waste them to ash. “No dragons, Inquisitor? Because I counted three fucking dragons.”

“I love when she gets like this,” Sera said between stifled giggles as she strung her bow. “Mao, if you can ride the dragon, I’ll show you how to pick locks with a blade of grass! Plus, Quizzie will shite nugs when he hears.” Solas hissed a stream of ghostly vapour between his teeth.

“This is no time for games, Sera!” he whispered, voice barely audible over the whooping of wings. His head popped out from within one of the alcoves, stormy eyes narrowing at Maori. “Lockpicking and bragging rights are not worth being rent apart by a dragon!” Maori looked away from him, hiding a grin.

“Oh, c'mon, live a little Solas!” Bull whispered. He barely flinched like the rest of them as the entire earth seemed to quake with the dragon’s romping above. “If you can ride the dragon, I won’t tell anyone about the raven I saw.” Maordrid’s mood soured instantly. She turned a smoldering gaze on the Qunari and gripped her hilt tightly. He flashed an animalistic grin. He saw me change form Fuck. Fenedhis. Kaffas. Vashedan. You’re getting careless!

They all cursed and ducked back into cover like startled mice as splinters of ice blew into the corridor.

“Ah, so she’s an ice breather,” Maori grumbled. The hivernal chuffed her frustration, obviously trying to find a way to access them.

“Bonus points if you can ride the dragon into something. That way you aren’t technically killing her,” Bull amended, still looking at her with challenge.

“Fenedhis!” At Solas’ sharper tone of voice, they turned their attentions on the elf to see that a massive column of ice had fallen and nearly crushed him. “The dragon will not go away if we simply ignore her. We need a plan.” Sera blew her tongue at him.

“Who thought it was a good idea to bring elfy along? Nothin’ but naggin’.” Solas said something too low to Sera for Maori to hear, but her attention was instead on joining the Qunari warrior behind his large boulder.

“I’ve a plan,” she told him. He raised a brow in surprise at her fervour but an enthusiastic gleam grew in his one eye. “If you charge out, it will give me time to cloak and get behind her. Once she turns her attention to me, help the other two to get out of cover and into position.” Bull nodded and grinned.

“You do have experience killing these things,” he accused, lowering his voice.

“Going to run along and tell your superiors in Seheron?” She drew her hilt and willed the shimmering labradorite blade into existence between them. The spirit within greeted her happily, as always. Bull cast his gaze to the rest of their party on the other side of the path.

“They’d probably be pretty interested in an elf that isn’t the Inquisitor with a history of killing dragons,” he admitted. “But the Boss himself? He doesn’t know you can fly like one.”

“You’re serious about riding the dragon?” she deadpanned. Bull’s thick hand wrapped around her bicep and pulled her out of the path of a falling slab of ice.

“Y'know, if I were talking to almost anyone else, I wouldn’t even bother and casually mention it to Yin anyway,” he said, unstrapping his great axe with a clank. “But I like you and I can see that rattles you good. Here’s the thing–they’re paying for my services.”

“Are you suggesting I outbid them for your silence?” Bull grinned.

“Up to you. Can’t really outbid a dragon.” She considered him, but then shook her head. Something like disappointment fell across his scarred, grey features as he hefted his axe in both hands.

“Get on with your distraction, Qunari. Or this dragon is going to crush us like ants,” she said. They got to their feet and turned to face Solas and Sera. “We’re going to lure her away from you. Get ready.” Solas’ lips pinched at the corners and his hands clenched a little tighter around his staff, but he nodded his agreement with Sera. With a grim smile, Maordrid cloaked herself and ran up the crumbled path behind Bull who charged out of cover with a fierce roar that startled the dragon.

The fight commenced with a burst of silver magic and a rippling roar that shattered the frozen puddles of the Ring. Raw magic swarmed the hivernal, reaching high up into the sky where the clouds began to swirl in a heavenly maelstrom.

As promised, Maordrid initiated her distraction of the dragon by wrapping ropes of magic around her lashing tail, tethering it temporarily to a rock jutting out of the ground. The dragon let out a confused growl and swung her great head around to look for the invisible pest at her back. Maori dropped her cloak, popping back into visibility. The hivernal’s yellow-ringed eyes snapped to her form immediately. At the same time, Sera and Solas emerged from below, spreading out along the top as fast as they could.

Then there was Bull who’d a bigger death wish than herself. He went straight for her breastbone with a roar to challenge the fierceness of the dragon herself. It, of course, drew her attention back to him. Seeing that she was surrounded, the great winged reptile took an agile leap back, nearly crushing Maordrid who dove straight into the icy puddles to avoid it. The Veil around her sharpened, then grew taut and frigid as the hivernal drew it around her in a protective barrier. The air began to thrum with the telltale signs of a winged attack. Maori pushed herself to her feet, feeling a barrier settle over her skin. Solas was running to the edges of the arena tossing barriers and fireballs like candy. Sera was somehow perched on top of a broken arch, safe from the howling gales that pulled at Maori’s body like wraith’s hands back toward the dragon. Arrows aided by the wind sailed through the air like minnows in a creek, feathering the thick flesh at the dragon’s neck. Magic from the enchanted arrows blossomed across the hivernal’s scales in rippling colours–a well-aimed shot at her foreleg actually crippled the dragon temporarily. Spotting danger, Maori redirected, stepping through the Veil to jab her sword between entrail-encrusted teeth and Iron Bull’s shoulder.

“Your tactics are shit and you are going to die like a cow in her jaws!” she screamed in Qunlat at Bull who was wrenching his axe from the ice where it’d been trapped. The dragon tried to snap her spirit sword in half between her teeth but Maordrid dispelled it and spun away before she could retaliate.

“Say, your tongue is pretty good. One more thing I can add to my reports!” Bull returned. Maordrid growled.

“It’d be a shame if the water were to freeze around your ankles–” Bull turned the dragon’s entire head to the side with the flat of his axe, diverting a lunge that would have put Maori’s entire upper body into her gullet. “I will have trouble keeping a straight face telling the Inquisitor and your Chargers that their pet cow served as a frozen hors d'oeuvre for a dragon.”

“Hey, my offer still stands. Just sayin’--WHOA!” He laughed with abandon as they were both tossed backward by the force of the dragon’s foot slamming into the ground. Next came the familiar whoop as the dragon prepared to lift off. The proximity almost burst her eardrums.

“Throw me!” she shouted, getting to her feet and running back toward Bull. His eye widened with excitement.

“Seriou–”

“NOW!” His arm wrapped around her waist and with a bodily spin, she was airborne. She heard Solas swearing up a storm as she landed on the hivernal’s neck just as the dragon took to the air. Maordrid scrabbled for a hold, sliding down the dragon’s craggy hide. A jerk of the reptile’s body sent her hilt tumbling into the void and to the unknown below. There was no time to mourn its loss, especially since she was still falling herself.

Her hands found tenuous purchase on the dragon’s tail spikes, the force with which she caught them throwing her heart into her mouth and her body into a flagellate motion. Maori risked a glance downward and saw the earth dwindling. She could no longer pick out Etienne’s Ring.

Mere seconds later, they broke the clouds and the only sounds were the leathery slap of wings on wet air and the wind in her ears. She cast a skin-tight barrier around her against the wintry currents threatening to freeze her limbs solid and began her climb up the dragon’s body to seek a safer position. The hivernal screeched, her call muffled by the grey. Maordrid let out an involuntary cry of surprise when her stomach became weightless as the dragon righted herself in the air. She took the opportunity of the horizontal change to climb as far as she could up the bluish-grey spine, digging the tips of her gauntlets and boots into the ridges formed by the scales. Flecks of white danced and swirled past her face and she lifted her gaze to see snow drifting across the rocky landscape of scales and scars. Some caught in her hair and lashes despite her barrier.

It was almost funny that her worries did not lie in surviving the dragon or cold itself rather than that they were with the furious elven mage and the devious Qunari that awaited her back on solid ground.

Solas was going to kill her.

~~~~

The three of them rushed to the edge of the frozen arena, staring up into the darkening skies after Maordrid and the dragon. Solas laced his hands atop his head, loosing a stuttering breath. His heart fluttered with fear and anger - a very unpleasant mix.

“That was grand! I can’t believe you threw her!” Sera tittered to his right. The Qunari had the gall to laugh.

“Right? Fuckin’ didn’t expect that!” Solas turned on him, a frown twisting his lips.

“Why?” he snarled. “Why would you put her in even more danger?” Iron Bull hefted his axe over his shoulder still bearing a jolly grin. He wished to burn it from his face.

“Sorry Solas, it was in heat of the moment. Plus, she made a pretty convincing argument.” It was pointless to argue with the Ben-Hassrath about this.

An eerie screech echoed down from cloud cover.

“There!” Sera crowed, pointing with an arrow. A jagged shadow appeared in the white, skimming just out of sight before they took a plunge, taking Solas’ heart with it. “She still attached?” The question was answered as the dragon spun mid-fall to reveal the small form of Maordrid crawling her way down its body. A strangled cry escaped him as she came apart from it in a free fall.

“Damn, Mao is badass!” Bull hooted. He watched in abject horror as Maordrid twisted her body and maneuvered her way between the dragon’s deadly limbs. He saw her reach a hand out, placing it against the dragon’s underbelly. There was another flash of silver punctuated by an agonised roar as she opened its belly with an ethereal blade visible even from there. The dragon’s lifeblood seeped from the deep wound, flowing upward, spattering her and drifting between the thick flakes of white that had followed them down from the clouds. His heart rattled painfully against his ribs, watching the tableau of death play out. He wondered how her heart was beating. Was it a blood-thrilling rhythm for battle? A hymn of lamentation for the life she’d taken? Or was it erratic with fear, like his own? Perhaps it was cold and evenly paced, cruelly indifferent to it all.

The dragon began to careen, wings jerking in the throes of its death. Her head whipped from side to side, maw unhinging to pour a stream of uncontrolled magic and ice into the air. Solas cried out once more when it caught Maori in its path, this time knocking her loose and far from its body.

“Shit,” Bull groaned with dread as they dropped toward the Elfsblood river. Sera screamed her own terror, so loud and shrill that it raised bumps along every inch of his skin. Without waiting for them, the rogue began scrambling down the rocks without any heed for the danger that the landscape itself posed.

“Wake up,” Solas begged her. “Wake up, vhenan…”

His heart skipped a beat as her form wavered and smoke unfurled from her body. He blinked and the raven had replaced the elf. She continued to fall with the dragon and he knew something was wrong when she didn’t try to fly to safety.

Limbs shaky and numb with adrenaline, Solas followed Sera, using magic to make the descent less precarious.

They reached Judicael’s Crossing in time to witness the dragon crash into the frozen river just below, sending skyward a geyser of ice shards and water that almost reached the bridge. There was no sign of Maordrid.

It took far too long to find their way down and by then a handful of Inquisition agents who’d witnessed the spectacle had made their way to the riverbank as well. The snow was knee deep on him - ordinarily he’d walk upon it but that would only draw attention - though halfway through the trees he gave up and melted a path as he went.

The air glittered with fibres of ice crystals even in the gloom, making each intake of breath sharp before they melted in his throat. Despite the tranquillity of the wilderness, Solas was anything but, fraying further when the grotesque scene came into view. The dragon’s corpse was hanging half in the water, face down with its wings shredded and broken from the impact. Vivid arterial blood seeped and steamed from multiple wounds in the bright, painterly flesh and had spattered much of the snow on the banks. The water around the body was bubbling, though from what, he could not say.

“Did you see an elf anywhere?” Solas asked a gaping agent standing near the edge. The strawberry-blonde woman blinked rapidly and looked at him, seeming just as surprised at his arrival as she was of the mythical creature’s corpse. “Obsidian of hair and short in stature?” The agent shook her head slowly.

“No, Messere, only the dragon,” she said in a thick Orlesian accent. “Should I have someone search downriver?” He nodded curtly and turned as Bull and Sera joined him, wading through the snow. Sera’s eyes were rimmed with red and she was sniffing too much for it to have been from the cold. Iron Bull had little expression, eye fixating on the corpse behind him.

Solas opened his mouth to speak, though what he meant to say, he wasn’t sure, except that no one present deserved to be the target of his anger.

“She has to be somewhere,” he said, hardly aware of how hollow his voice sounded in his own ears. “The snow is deep…and there’s forest we can searc–”

“Solas–the ice!” Iron Bull pointed a meaty finger to something behind him. He spun, eyes searching and landing on a spot down river that was…glowing? Then he recognised it as magic - fire, to be precise. Solas took off at a run - or so he tried, forcing his body to plough through the snow toward the red-orange splotch. It pulsed once, twice, and then the surface exploded with such a force he felt the wave of heat on his cheeks. Water rained down all around him, but he forged ahead and slid down onto the river, sprinting when he heard desperate gasps and saw blue-tinged hands scrabbling for something to grab onto.

She slipped back under, but his hand plunged into the water, closing around her wrist just in time. He pulled up and her frightfully pale face burst from the freezing depths, bloodless lips parting for another gasp. Vhenan, oh my love, you reckless thing! With his help, she clambered clumsily onto solid ground, leaden arms tangling listlessly with his. Solas ripped his cloak from his shoulders and wrapped her in it. She wasn’t shivering, which was a sign that she wasn’t out of peril yet. Maordrid slumped forward on her knees, head bowed. Was she laughing? How dare–

“B-Beautif-f-ul,” she whispered, peering up at him with winter-silver irises. Even like this, drenched and weak, she was a vision that stole the breath from his lungs. She is so real. A blankness stole over her features and her eyes rolled into the back of her skull. Real and in danger. Solas caught her, drawing her into his arms, not caring who saw as he wrapped her body tightly in his cloak.

Sera and Bull came skidding across the ice just as he got to his feet with the unconscious elf in his hold.

“Tell us what she needs and I’ll bluddy do it,” Sera told him, reaching out to brush a knuckle along Maori’s cheek with a tenderness not befitting the rogue.

“A tent. Bedroll, blankets,” Solas managed and Sera was already bolting back across the river toward the Inquisition scouts. While they waited for someone to return with a kit, Solas sat with her, passively warming Maordrid’s extremities as he could. An hour later, the tent was erected and Solas took her inside. Sera refused to leave even when he assured her he had it under control. When she showed no signs of listening, he caved and allowed her to help him undress Maordrid to her smalls and covered her beneath blankets imbued with heat spells after he had checked her over for broken bones and internal bleeding.

He finally got the rogue to leave on some mission to fetch a hot broth for when Maordrid woke, allowing him a moment of respite with his reckless heart. If they weren’t surrounded by agents or in the company of the other two, he would have joined her beneath the blankets - kept her warm with his own body heat. It would not do for someone to walk in and get the wrong idea. The thought repulsed him to his core.

Solas had not doubted her survival. Maordrid had come back from worse, after all. Certainly he feared for her life, but his anger he found was directed at her continuous neglect for herself. She’d no sense of self-preservation and seemed to find a thrill in taunting death. Her excuse would be something along the lines of “It’s for your own good.” It was the only thing predictable about her.

Her disregard had been so concerning that he’d requested she fight from afar rather than engage in dirth'ena enasalin. She’d taken it as an insult, rightfully so, as a true Arcane Warrior should. Ghilan'him banal'vhen, he’d asked of her. Yet…the next time they fought he found her beside him wielding a staff. He remembered her wry grin when he asked what had changed her mind. To give my heart some peace of mind. Plus, did you not want to keep me close? How could I resist a request like that?

How? By simply not caring what I think, he thought now, but perhaps that was unfair to her. He knew that she was not good with expressing her emotions, but never had he doubted her love for him. And it was a kind of love he had never known. Fierce and protective as the dragon she’d slain today while simultaneously terrifying…and ensorcelling. He revelled in the fires of her love. Some day, she might burn him to ash and he would love her for it.

His little warrior was a walking paradox.

“When you wake…” he trailed off as anger, hurt, and frustration swirled through him like the snow by the winds outside. He sighed. “Wake soon, vhenan.”

Then, he waited.

~~~~

She came to in the grips of heat and a white brightness glaring her in the face. Her body felt as though the dragon had sat on her all night. Each limb was stiff, too hot, and tight with pain. Her eyes swivelled in their sockets, trying to get a read on where her body currently lay. A tent, so it would seem. Shit, she thought with dread. Something had gone awry–

Oh. Right. She’d shapeshifted in an attempt to glide away into safety but hadn’t accounted for the drag created by the dragon’s body. She didn’t think the soul-sucking chill of the Elfsblood river would ever leave her.

With a soft groan, she forced her arms to lift her into a sitting position to escape the rude sunlight pouring in through the hole in the tent. Blinking the brightness from her vision, she found that she was alone, but only within the tent judging by the low hum of voices outside. Though her head pounded and her mouth was dry as bone, Maori first donned the clothes she found folded on a stool by a table. A cup of cold tea sat on the corner of it as well as a half-eaten ration of porridge. She swallowed the tea and decided that before she faced the wrath of anyone, she needed to visit the hivernal and pay her respects. She hadn’t meant to take the dragon’s life, but things had spiralled too far from her control to have avoided it.

Maordrid slipped out of the tent with her hood drawn and darted for the nearest wood her eyes landed upon. Only once she was in cover did she turn and take stock of her surroundings. Apparently, her companions had seen fit to take her as far away from the site of the dragon’s final resting place as possible. The head of the Elfsblood river was to her left, just beyond the shattered bridge and its frozen statues.

It would be a long walk to the dragon.

It took little over an hour to make her way down the frozen river, but eventually the colossal stone bridge came into view around a high bluff, as did the great grey-blue corpse of the dragon, her body still laying in the river where she’d fallen. By then, it had begun to snow again and the sun had disappeared behind the clouds. It was as though the world knew that it had lost one of its skyward children, mourning her by the way she had been in life, surrounded by cold and ice.

Maordrid had to stop and lean against a riverside boulder as a sense of shame and sorrow bore down on her spirit. She had murdered a spirit of the natural world. A remnant of a time before mortal beings had taken root in this plane of existence. And for what? A selfish endeavour of hers?

Her feet carried her across the blue vein, but then stalled when a flicker of motion on the treeline caught her eye. Not yet. She relished the tranquil scene of the falling snow, the silver-dusted pines, and the stones riddling the landscape, for once her eyes sought the ancient wolf watching her, she knew it would all be over.

But there was no use delaying the inevitable.

She acknowledged his presence, turning her body to face him. He leaned against a tree, arms crossed, ankles hooked, and a stern expression on his noble face. Maordrid reluctantly pushed back her cowl so that he could see her eyes.

“Why do you sneak about like a sordid thief in the night?” His soft voice carried across the wintry stillness, light as the falling flakes of snow around her. She frowned, wondering how long he’d been following her for.

“I would rather pay my dues to the dragon without interruptions,” she answered truthfully. Solas pushed away from his tree and began making his way slowly down the snow, nary leaving a track as he walked. He stopped when he reached the edge of the bank, hiemal eyes cold and filled with an indescribable emotion. Even if she could not read him, she sensed the trap waiting to spring on her. She sighed. “And I know you are upset with me.” Solas scoffed, swinging his head to peer at the dragon’s still form. A muscle in his neck tensed as he clenched his jaw.

“That is one way to put it.”

“Solas, I–”

“What were you thinking, Maordrid?” It was unnerving how he could speak in little more than a whisper and it would cut through the silence of the world like he’d shouted. “Ah, yes, you weren’t. Should I even be surprised?”

“You could do without the insults,” she muttered, then louder so that he could hear, “It was–”

“For our sakes, so you say. As always.”

“Will you allow me to get a damn word in?” She glared at him - he regarded her on his higher ground, looking down at her like a patron upon a supplicant. An Evanuris and his slave. She shut her eyes tightly, trying to dispel the horrible images and memories that flashed to mind. He never owned any. Quit it.

“Of course, let us see what excuses she can spin for this misstep.” She bristled, taking a step forward and meeting his eyes defiantly. Solas tilted his head, looking every bit like a wolf with his fur-lined cloak and features made almost feral with irritation. “Oh! Allow me - I cannot think of a single valid excuse for riding a dragon.” She threw her hands up despite the wrenching ache in her muscles.

“No! I don’t have a bloody excuse! Are you happy that you get to be right once again?” The cloud of white that came out of her nose was not steam, but smoke. The mage tucked his hands behind his back and this time it oozed condescension. “I was not going to offer excuses, Solas. I have an explanation but it seems like you are set on being angry with me. Or is this another attempt to push me away?” This, at least, garnered a reaction from him. Insult, then hurt. Oh, and how she abhorred that look. She wanted nothing more than to take his face between her hands and - no. Not this time.

“I simply do not understand why you acted so recklessly! Careless! I thought we had worked past that!” he said, voice raising just a hair in volume. She did not remember when he had climbed down from the riverbank, but now they were on even ground. “I have asked very little of you - not that I have any right to, but everything that happened yesterday could have been avoided.”

“You don’t know that,” she interjected sharply. “Any one of us could have been injured or worse! It is the way of battle –”

“Is taking the most perilous path possible–?”

“Solas, I had no choice!” He fell silent, a line forming between his eyebrows as he frowned. “In spur of the moment, I had no way around it.” She could see him trying to rearrange the pieces of the situation in his mind, attempting to find some way to box her in again - to gain the upperhand.

“The raven,” he was quick to puzzle out. She nodded.

“Bull saw me shift before, though I’m not sure when,” she said, running her fingers across her face. “Sera joked about riding the dragon and Bull saw it as an opportunity to…coerce me.” Solas’ eyes darkened, but he nodded for her to continue. “Ride the dragon and he won’t tell anyone. Though I suppose there is nothing truly keeping him from spilling what he knows about my abilities. So yes, I am a fool. But I took the chance.” A strange expression formed on his face as he looked back up the river. “What is it?”

“I believe he may have regretted his actions after what happened,” he said, sounding almost…smug. She knew Solas had a borderline hostile relationship with Bull - it had been a damn nightmare travelling from Skyhold to Emprise because of it - but the way his little grin curled his lips chilled her. Again, she was having a hard time reading him, which was…unusual. “As you should your own.” She resisted the urge to throw her hands up again.

“Thank you for the kind reminder, Solas,” she said, hating the way her voice cracked. “I was on my way to reflect on my mistakes alone when you saw fit to intercept me.” She stepped into his intimate space, looking up into his face, baring her own so that he could see the hurt in her eyes. “I regret it all. But what do my words matter to you? You don’t want to hear my ‘excuses’.” At his silence, Maordrid turned from him in anger. “So please excuse me now. I have rites to perform before Iron Bull brings the Inquisition down on my head for…lying by omission. Chances are I will be forced to flee.” She got a total of two steps in before bumping into him, having not even sensed him move.

“I have seen you lie before,” he said, close, but not touching her. His words sent a real chill cascading down her spine. Solas tilted his head, trying to capture her eyes with his. “Would you give up so easily against his claims, should he decide to expose you? You would face down a dragon but not a threat waged on your reputation? I do not understand you.” Maori shook her head, stepping back from him with a steady exhale.

“I have been outplayed. Leliana is already watching me closely, looking for any excuse to pin me down as some kind of criminal,” she confessed.

“I think you are lying to yourself now,” his voice was hedging back into his insufferable condescension once more. As though he knew better. “You have convinced yourself that you cannot talk your way out of it.”

“What a convoluted way of suggesting that I lie to them, Solas.” There was a bout of silence where they simply stared at one another.

“There are many ways to go about doing it.”

“Bold of you to assume that I would be fine with lying.”

“Let us pretend that you are, for a moment.” She stared at him, slightly aghast. He continued unaffected, “He may claim to have seen you shift into a raven - but what proof does he have?” She chewed the inside of her lip, shaking her head slightly. “An outright denial is one option.”

“And what would you do, wolf?” He didn’t react like she expected he might. Cool as the ice beneath their feet.

“Start a rumour about myself of absurd accounts. A dragon, a griffon, a nug…a wolf, whatever takes your fancy.” He smirked, clasping his hands behind his back. Maordrid once more looked to the side, considering. “In fact, I would strongly advise we do that, even if Bull decides not to. As a preventative measure, should he change his mind.” He paused. “You may even come to derive amusement from the way your reputation changes before your very eyes.”

Is that how you felt, once? Not anymore, surely.

“We?” she repeated, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. “I did not take you for a gossiper.” His cloak swayed once with the single step he took toward her. His cinereous eyes reduced to slivers beneath his lids as he fixated on her. This close, she could see tiny snowflakes alighting on his lashes and a faint flush on his freckled cheeks from the windchill.

“Tall tales have their uses, and are not always malevolent in nature,” His lips twitched against a smirk. “We can get very creative.” She was not sure if he was still angry with her, but testily, she reached up and twined the leather cords of his amulet around her fingers. When he did not withdraw, she took it as a good sign.

“If we are to stick with the shapeshifting theme…you could shift into your wolf and walk by my side past one of the camps,” she mused, running the thumb of her other hand over the jawbone. “Might they think me an Emerald Knight from the olden days?”

“It would likely be more sinister than that, though I do enjoy the idea,” he said.

“Ah, sinister, is it? I can hear it now, ‘She walks beside Fen'harel! The demon-witch from the Fade is in cahoots with the Dread Wolf!’” Solas cast his head back and laughed heartily, clumps of white vapour curling from his mouth. The next thing she knew, his arms were tugging her to him and his mouth was on hers. The liar’s tongue tasted like mint and gingerroot today.

“That may not go over well with our Dalish Inquisitor or his sister,” he hummed against her lips.

“You were the one who suggested we be absurd. The idea was a good one.” A shadow passing overhead had them both looking up to see a raven flying toward the riverside camp. “Ravens and wolves. In Dalish legend…Dirthamen and Fen'harel.” She gave him a devious look. Oh, how I enjoy this game. “Imagine spreading the rumour that we are two elven gods come to assist the Inquisition.”

“I would rather not involve myself in these rumours,” he said, brushing a rogue strand of hair from her face.

“You wouldn’t need to. Shift, walk with me for a bit, then hide and shift back. No harm to your pristine reputation.” Solas’ eyes gleamed with amusement. “Or, teach me how to shapeshift into a wolf and I will do it myself. Who is she, really? Fen'harel? Dirthamen? If I knew a dragon form, I’d throw an Old God rumour into the pot.”

“I think it is rather set in stone that those two are males, vhenan,” he chided.

“Oh? I will prove to you the power rumour has over even stone.” Solas chuckled and pressed his lips to hers once more, plush and warm, but chaste. She untangled her hands from his necklace to loop them around his neck, pulling him close.

“Will I regret getting involved in your mischief?” he asked over her head, arms moving to encircle her waist.

“So long as you do not mind hearing the undoubtedly racy rumours that are bound to spring up about me,” she said with her own laugh. “Beyond that, you know what is true.” He drew back with a raised brow.

“Do I?” His thumb swept along her bottom lip. “I think you are lying, vhenan.” She smirked, lifting her eyes to the gloomy skies.

“That makes two of us.”

#da drunk writing circle #Solas #solas x oc #the guardian #DAI prompts #my writing #DADWC

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kallypsowrites · 5 years

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The Angel’s Shadow Chapter 1

A/N: Alright, so I’m going out on a limb and posting the first chapter of an original novel of mine called the Angel’s Shadow. It takes place over 1,000 years after the Revelation began and demons and angels have both become common place to humans. The first chapter focuses on Trisha, a girl with strange arms who has never left her house on the hill.

Read if you like my writing. The full first chapter is under the cut. And Imma go hide now.

Chapter 1

Words whispered behind closed doors felt heavier than others. Trisha Blackwood decided as much as she stood outside her father’s office, listening to the nervous voices within. Each word fell into the pit of her stomach like stones down a well, and her heart beat marked their fall.

Plunk.

Her parents’ conversation was not meant for her, and she knew it with every inch of her body. She hovered in the hallway, one foot on the stairs, one hand gripping tight to the bannister. She wanted retreat to the safety of her room, but her curious ears tied her to their secret words and the door that muffled them.

“I don’t know what else to do,” her mother said. “The villagers hate us. Mr. Weiss will look for any excuse to run us out of town. And Trisha--“

“Trisha will be fine. They won’t hurt her.”

“They might try. If they saw her arms, they might try.”

Trisha studied her hand where it rested on the bannister. She could almost see her reflection in her strange, hard skin. Were her arms to blame for the family’s troubles? Or was it her whole self?

“We can’t send her away, Rachel,” her father said.

Trisha’s head jerked up. Away. What did he mean, away?

“She would be well cared for and safer,” her mother replied. “They aren’t so suspicious on the mainland. Estella is a dear friend of mine. She would take care of Trisha like her own daughter.”

“You haven’t heard from her in three years.”

“She is still my friend. She’ll answer me.”

Trisha did not quite know how to absorb the words. They confused her more than they scared her. For the past ten years of her life, Trisha’s world began and ended with the house on the hill. It began in her room, tucked away in the Northwest corner of the manor where she woke every morning tangled in her plush blue quilt. It ended with the stream that ran between the woods and the rest of the village.

Never go past the stream, her parents told her often. Yet now they were talking about sending her away?

What would it be like to finally leave?

“I sent the letter weeks ago. It’s too late to talk me out of it,” her mother said. “There’s nothing left for Trisha here. For any of us. We can barely keep the house anymore or pay Agatha what she’s worth. Maybe we’re doomed, but Trisha is young. She has a chance.”

Her father did not reply, and somehow his tense silence was heavier than all the words combined. Then:

“Fine. If she responds... I’ll think about it.”

Trisha’s parents shifted behind the door and the creak of wood sent Trisha skittering up the steps, toward the safety of her room.

When her mother came up later to bid her goodnight, her eyes had gone red from crying. Trisha had one million questions, but she bit her tongue against them.

Words from behind closed doors were heaviest because the eavesdropper had to keep them to themselves.

That night, Trisha dreamed of the sea and of a ship carrying her away from her little village and off to far-off places she had only read about in stories. The great water stretched out endlessly before her, glittering beneath the sun, like millions of sapphires swirling together. And when she dipped her hand in the waves, her fingers were normal and smooth.

But when she woke, the sea was out of reach, and it was her arms that glittered in the sunlight streaming through her window.

The trouble for the Blackwood family started with Trisha’s arms. While Trisha had always been pale, her flesh shifted from milk to diamond at her elbows. The surface of her skin became hard and bumpy, like a precious gem, though she still had perfect movement in her wrists and fingers. Sometimes, when she got angry, her fingers sharpened into points like the claws of a stray cat.

Her arms had looked like that for as long as Trisha could remember, though her parents insisted she was not born that way. She did not mind their look. She liked the way they sparkled in the sunlight in the early morning. But their nature meant that she could not venture into the village or let the townsfolk see her. And she certainly could not touch the sea just beyond. Only gaze out at it from a distance.

Her parents described the townsfolk in their corner of England as “superstitious of all things beyond this world”. Trisha did not know where her arms came from, but she had an idea from the scattered words she heard behind closed doors.

Abnormal.

Cursed.

Touched by demons.

With such a small world, Trisha had never seen a demon, nor did she wish to do so. She had read enough books and seen enough pictures to know the destruction they could cause. In the ancient days, the onset of the Revelation laid whole cities in England to waste and the sea carved away great chunks of coastline. And behind every great disaster since the Revelation, a demon stood with a grin full of crooked, sharp teeth.

If a demon touched Trisha, she would surely remember.

Trisha flexed her fingers a few times, watching the sunlight dance across her knuckles. Then rolled from beneath the covers and hurried to dress. It was Friday, the busiest time at port, and she wanted to watch the ships come in. She tied a cloak over her gown to keep out the autumn breeze and slipped out into the hall.

The manor was quiet, but then again, it always was. They had far more rooms than they needed with their small family—remnants of a time when the Blackwoods had more family and guests. Most of the rooms felt like that. Remnants. The empty bedrooms. The great ballroom where her grandparents apparently once hosted gatherings of nobles. The maid’s quarters which they could not afford to fill. They were shells that longed to be filled, but they had to settle for Trisha.

At least, not every room was that way. Agatha, the only maid remaining, spent most of her mornings in the kitchen. Trisha found her there on her way out, pulling a batch of sweet biscuits out of the oven. Trisha tried to snatch one as she passed and Agatha rapped her spoon on the back of her knuckles.

“No. They’re too hot, child.”

“Not for me,” Trisha protested. “You know my hands won’t burn.”

“Aye, but your tongue will. Unless your tongue started glittering overnight,” Agatha said.

“It did,” Trisha said, lifting her chin.

“Uh huh.” Agatha arched her brow and tapped Trisha’s lips with her spoon. “Open up then and show me.”

Trisha pressed her lips together in defiance and Agatha laughed, shaking her head.

“All right then. Take a biscuit. But wait for it to cool.”

Trisha beamed, snatching a biscuit from the tray and rushing out the door into the cool autumn morning.

The Blackwood manor sat on a rather high hill, overlooking the village and the sea which lay beyond. It stood three stories tall, mostly dark grey stone that jutted out in places making it perfect for climbing. To reach their house, any visitors had to cross the shallow stream and hike up a winding path through the woods. And visitors rarely deigned to make the trip, so Trisha was free to play on the hill. In the summer, wildflowers sprouted in colorful patches, and Trisha picked them often on her morning walk. Even more grew on the hillside beyond the creek—yellow, pink, and blue. But those flowers were forbidden.

Never go past the stream.

Off to the right stood an old watchtower, made of old stone and covered with moss on the east side where the early morning cast its light. Hail fall damaged the wooden roof three years previously, leaving holes big enough for skinny cats and fat rats. It was useless to Trisha’s parents. But to her, it was everything: her sanctuary, her stash of important things, and her view into the world she could never touch.

In the tower sanctuary, she kept a typical child’s stash: a doll with fine silk clothing that her father brought her from the mainland (she did not remember which country). A rubber ball which she could bounce off the walls and chase when it accidentally tumbled out the window. Bundles of wild flowers, half dead, half dying, which she had plucked from the forests. Five of her favorite books with torn bindings from so much use.

But most important of all: a tiny music box that she found by the creek. Some children must have dropped it while playing. She planned on handing it over to her mother until she heard it’s pretty tune. She did not know the name of the song. Only that it made her feel peaceful when she sat in her tower, turning the crank round and round. It was a small, soft melody. It fit her world nicely. A small world for a small girl.

When she reached the top of the tower, she snatched up the music box and gave the crank a few twists. Then, as the song played, she settled herself on a crate in front of the window and peered out at the horizon. Past the tree line, she could make out the roofs of the village at the base of the hill and the steeple of the old church. And beyond that? A sliver of sparkling blue sea, dotted with the sails of ships coming into port. She smiled, tearing off a chunk of her biscuit. It was cool enough to eat without burning her tongue but warm enough to chase away the chill of the early morning.

She sometimes spent hours in the tower, watching ships drift from the horizon to the port until their sails disappear below the tree line. That tantalizing strip of sea made her long for the open waters of her dreams and a ship of her own. But she had never even seen a ship up close. Instead, she was left with her imagination and the stories of adventurers in her books.

She tried to be content with that. She tried not to dream of stepping beyond the stream because she knew her parents were right. Most would fear her arms. Cut them off or throw her out of the village to let a real demon prey upon her.

“Big worlds are not always good,” Agatha told her once. “Big worlds mean big people who use their size against you.”

Agatha’s words sounded wise. A girl with cursed arms was lucky enough to have any place in the world at all.

Yet she could not help wish that one day she would grow big enough to not fear the monsters on the other side.

An hour passed and Trisha stayed at her perch, alternating between flipping through a book of French fairytales and peering out at the sea. But once when she looked up, she caught a flash of movement on the path. Two young men were approaching the house.

They dressed like noblemen from across the sea with all of their clothes stitched with the finest materials, and they shared the same warm brown skin and dark hair. The eldest carried himself much older than suited his young face, his chin held high and proud, and his gaze hard as the cane in his hand. He kept his hair slicked and pulled neatly back with a violet tie.

The younger could not be more than a few years Trisha’s senior, and his shoulders did not quite fill his fine suit. He had shorter hair than his brother but he kept it wild, letting the curls fall in his eyes. He walked with his shoulders slumped forward, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his eyes fixed to the ground, as if he were looking for something he had lost. But when he raised his head and caught sight of Trisha in the window, he smiled, giving her a little wave.

Trisha should have stayed in her tower. She should have stayed hidden and kept her arms out of sight. Yet they hadn’t had visitors in so long. Certainly not visitors like these. So she found herself hurrying down the steps, her book of fairy tales still tucked under her arm. The young men had nearly reached the porch when she rushed out to meet them, tucking her arms instinctively behind her back as she skidded to a stop just off the path.

“Are you from across the sea?”

The elder boy paused at the foot of the porch. Trisha shivered as his gaze fixed on her. She was not used to being studied so intently nor was she used to strangers. Maybe coming downstairs hadn’t been a smart idea. “We’re from Lisbon.”

“Portugal?” Trisha shifted from foot to foot. “I’ve always wanted to go. The books say that it’s beautiful in the summer. Especially the ocean.”

“The books don’t lie.” The eldest stepped toward her. He turned his cane in his hand. “Your name is Trisha Blackwood, yes?”

Trisha nodded once. She pressed her arms more firmly against the small of her back. They seemed to tingle when he drew near. She had never felt such a sensation before, and she did not know what to make of it.

“I’m Stefano De Galantes.” He glanced down at the younger boy. “This is Leon. My brother.”

Leon offered her a small smile. He had kinder eyes than his brother. Warm brown, just like his skin and hair. “It’s nice to meet you, Lady Blackwood.”

Trisha giggled. “Lady? No one has ever called me a lady.”

“Because your parents hide you from anyone who would, I expect,” Stefano said. “You don’t have to hide from us. We know about your arms.”

“You... what?” Trisha felt a lump in her throat.

“Your arms. Your parents told us.” Stefano stepped toward her, holding out his hand. “May I see them?” When Trisha did not move, his hard expression softened. “It’s all right. I’m not a danger to you today.”

“What about tomorrow?” Trisha asked.

Stefano’s dark eyes glittered with amusement. She was sure she saw purple flecked through the brown of his irises. What a strange mix of colors. “You’re a clever one, aren’t you?”

“My mother says so,” Trisha said. Then, slowly, she unwound her arms behind her back.

The cracked diamond surface of her skin glittered in the light as she held them up for Stefano’s inspection. The younger brother, Leon, craned his neck to get a look at her arms, his eyes wide. Stefano touched her palm for only a moment before he jerked his hand back.

“What is it?” she asked. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No,” Stefano said. His voice was even. He was a good liar, unlike her parents.

“I can hurt people if I’m not careful.” Trisha passed one hand over the back of the other. Her knuckles cracked sharpened into points over her fingers. “Sometimes this happens on its own.”

Stefano’s jaw went taut. Perhaps the claws had frightened him. She should have known better than to show them to strangers. The younger brother had taken a step back at the sight.

“I’m not surprised,” Stefano said at last.

“You’ve seen arms like mine before then?” Trisha looked up at him, wide eyed. She had never imagined there was anyone else like her.

“In a sense, yes,” Stefano said. His eyes fixated on her hands. Now, Trisha was sure she saw violet in his irises, overwhelming the brown. His hand twitched like he meant to reach out again. The nerves of Trisha’s arms buzzed.

“Trisha?”

Trisha looked up to see her mother standing in the doorway, clutching the frame with one hand and a fire poker in the other.

Stefano dropped his hand, straightening and turning to face Trisha’s mother. “Lady Blackwood. My name is Stefano De Galantes.”

“And I’m Leon De Galantes.” Leon gave a bow.

Her mother’s grip relaxed on the fire poker and the door handle all at once. “You both have Estella’s look.” She glanced at Leon. “You especially. I should have known at once. Thank you for coming.” She stepped out onto the porch. “Where is Estella? Could she not come?”

“I’m afraid not,” Stefano said. “She passed a few years ago. Our father followed shortly after.”

Lady Blackwood’s shoulders deflated. “She’s dead.”

Leon looked down at the ground, scuffing his boot against the gravel. Stefano tapped his younger brother’s ankle with his cane as he passed and he straightened quickly into a more dignified position.

“Yes,” Stefano said. “I’m head of the family now.”

“You’re awfully young for that, aren’t you?” Lady Blackwood murmured.

“I’m old enough,” Stefano said. “I received your letter about your daughter. I know you and our mother were once close. I thought I’d better come in her place.”

Trisha’s mother bit her lip and nodded. “I appreciate the courtesy, my lord. Please come in. We should talk away from younger ears.”

Stefano nodded and followed her into the house. Leon lingered outside with Trisha. His shoulders seemed to relax when Stefano disappeared, an almost visible weight lifted off his shoulders. The lightness in his eyes surprised Trisha when he smiled at her. “What were you reading?”

“Oh.” Trisha remembered the book tucked under her arm and showed it to him. “A book of French fairytales.”

“I love fairytales.” Leon crossed to her, carefully taking the book from her. “Yes, I think I’ve read this one. We have many books in our library.” He flipped through. “You read French?”

“Yes. I can’t go very far from this house, you see. So I have lots of time to learn things. Like French and history and literature.” She pulled at one of her odd fingers. “Do you read a lot too?”

“Yes.” Leon smiled fondly. “I’d spend all my time with books if I could.” He rubbed a hand behind his neck. “But Stefano insists I learn the family business.”

“What is the family business?”

Leon studied his shoes. “Shipping.”

“Shipping what?”

“Lots of things. We own ports and trains that go all over Europe.”

“So you own ships?” Trisha’s eyes lit up.

“Oh yes, many,” Leon said. “One of our ships brought us here to your little harbor.”

“I’ve always wanted a ship of my own,” Trisha said. “I wanted to sail every corner of the seas like a great adventurer in the stories.” She bounced up and down on the balls of her feet. “Tell me, is the open sea as beautiful as the pictures?”

“You’ve never been out to sea?” Leon asked. “It’s just down the hill.”

“I’m not allowed to go past the stream. Because of these.” Trisha held her arms up to the sunlight. Leon flinched slightly when her hand passed too close to him and she frowned. “See... you’re afraid of them too.”

“It’s... not that,” Leon murmured. “They’re beautiful. It’s just... it’s too bad they keep you from sailing.”

Trisha nodded once, pretending that she did not notice his lie. “But... that might change soon. I heard my parents talking of sending me away to keep me safe. If they do... I’ll cross the sea then.”

“I suppose you will,” Leon said. “You’d like our ship. It’s beautiful. Much better than a picture.”

Trisha was sure she would like any ship, even a broken down one. She wanted to ask more questions, but the door creaked open and Stefano stepped out. Leon’s shoulders seemed to hunch again as Stefano jerked his head toward the doorway.

“Leon. Come here. Now.”

Leon nodded once. He gave Trisha one more soft smile, handing back her book. “Maybe you can show me more of your collection sometime.”

Trisha returned his smile. “And I can see your ship.”

Leon nodded once, then turned and scurried up the porch steps, sliding past his elder brother. Stefano cast Trisha one heavy look before shutting the door.

More closed doors, Trisha thought. They must be discussing many weighted secrets in there. Secrets not meant for her. And Trisha did not wish to bear the burden of their whispered words today. So she picked up her book again and sat at the foot of her tower.

Words in books were meant to be shared. She far preferred to lose herself in printed pages than in the voices just beyond her reach.

A short time later, the De Galantes brothers left. They had some business in the town and needed time to consider her mother’s proposal. Would they take her across the sea or would she stay here in her little world?

It was an exciting and terrifying thought. If Trisha was honest, she was more terrified about what would happen if they said no. She had the promise of a ship and the open sea in front of her, closer than they had ever been. But what if they left without returning and she lost her chance?

She could not stand to go back indoors yet. With a few more hours of daylight before her, she wandered down the path toward the creek. She always wandered the woods in the late afternoon because she liked the way the fading light caught the trees. Trees at dusk made the most beautiful silhouettes, and the evening sunlight made the surface of the water glitter and shine to match Trisha’s arms.

She let her worries about the secret “proposition” between her mother and the noble brothers drift away as she walked along the stream, dipping her toes into the cool water every so often. Occasionally, she allowed herself glances across the stream into the forbidden territory of the village. The grass on the other side looked much the same as the grass beneath her feet. No greener, really. But it wasn’t the grass she wanted. It was the sea. It was the ship.

She found herself in a staring contest with the barrier, though it had no eyes to look back. One couldn’t win a staring contest with the ground. A little voice whispered in the back of her mind.

“The heroes in the stories are bold. If they weren’t... they would never leave home.”

That little whisper pushed her forward.

And she stepped. She stepped across the stream. Then she stepped again. And again. Her feet carried her down the hill toward the village.

It will be fine, she told herself. My sleeves are long. If I hide my hands in the pockets of my cloak, no one will see.

I’ll be fine. I must be bold.

I want to see the ship.

***

Trisha wondered if this was how heroes felt the first time they struck out on an adventure. It always seemed the first few steps to freedom would be exciting. For her, they were filled with nausea and paranoia. She kept her hands tucked in her pockets and hidden beneath her cloak as she hurried down the hill toward the village she had only ever seen from a distance. The very sight of people on the main road made her panic, and she was quick to duck behind the nearest house, letting out a shuddering breath.

This is bad. This was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have done this.

She swallowed down a wave of panic, looking down to make sure her arms were not visible. They weren’t. No one would know if she just kept them like this.

She swished her cloak around a bit, checking to make sure there were no gaps. Then she took a deep breath and continued on her way, taking quick, nervous steps down the alley.

She kept to the back ways, trying to avoid people as much as possible. But even when she passed others, they did not seem to notice her. They were too busy with their own affairs for that. Slowly but surely, she grew more confident in her pace, and her shoulders relaxed. She really was here. Past the stream. Out in the village.

And the sea was close at hand.

She hurried on until she last she broke out of an alley and stumbled into a fence. It was that fence that kept her from tumbling right over into the water. Suddenly, she was looking out at the sea. She could smell the salt, hear the waves rolling in the wind. How blue it was. How... beautiful.

And when she looked to her right, she spied the port and the ship which she had come to visit.

The vessel was much bigger than she had expected, and it dwarfed the other ships in the harbor. The wood was a dark reddish-brown, and it shone so brightly that Trisha thought it must be a new coat of paint. The mast stretched high into the sky and Trisha imagined that when the white sails would look magnificent when unfurled. The ship was called ‘The Lion’s Breath’, and its name was written in gold letters along the side. Trisha leaned against the ropes, wanting to reach out and touch it. But she could not risk anyone seeing her arms.

“What are you doing here?”

The cool voice made Trisha jumped, and she looked up to see Stefano De Galantes standing by the gangplank of the ship, his gloved hand gripping the railing. She could not tell if he was angry to see her or if that was just his normal expression.

“I... wanted to see the ship,” she mumbled.

“Someone could have seen you,” Stefano pointed out. “That’s a lot to risk just to see a ship.”

She shifted from foot to foot. “But I’ve... never seen one before. I thought if I didn’t come now... I would lose my chance.”

He studied her for a long time before he replied. “And? Does it meet your expectations?”

She risked a nervous smile. “Yes, my lord. It’s a magnificent ship. Better than any picture in a book.”

He did not smile back at her, but there was a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “Was it worth the risky trip?”

“I think so. No one has noticed me yet.” Trisha took a small step toward him. “Will you take me with you, Lord De Galantes? Have you decided?”

“I haven’t,” Stefano said. “But...it might be better for you to remain here.”

Trisha’s heart clenched. “You’re wrong. If I stay, I’ll only make more trouble for my parents. And... and I’ll be stuck at the top of the hill forever.”

“Well, you’re not at the top of the hill now,” Stefano pointed out.

Trisha bit the inside of her cheek. That was true. It was an invigorating feeling, finally crossing the stream. But she did not want to stop at this short journey.

“I told you. I haven’t decided,” Stefano said. “For now, return home. You’ve seen your ship. Let that be enough for today.”

Trisha did not move for a moment. Then his gaze hardened, and a tingling went through her arms again, like a warning.

“Go.”

Trisha took a step back. Then she turned and hurried away from the docks, urged forward by his single word. His face was young, but there was a weight to his voice that made him seem older, and that single word had felt like an order.

I don’t think he likes me, she thought, and that was enough to crush what little hope she had of going out to sea. She had been foolish to hope for that.

But she had seen the ship. She tried to be content with that as she picked her way carefully through the back roads of the town, using the hill in the distance as her guide. She passed a few people but most did not pay her any mind. Until she ducked onto the road behind the blacksmith and almost ran headlong into a boy with red hair.

She stumbled back, muttering a quick apology as she checked to make sure her arms were not visible. They weren’t, but still he looked at her with wide green eyes.

“It’s you,” he said, which was not what she expected him to say.

“It’s... me?”

“You’re the girl who lives up the hill,” the red-headed boy said. “The one with the pretty arms.”

Pretty. That wasn’t the word she expected to hear from him. She shoved her hands deeper into her pockets, shaking her head. “No...I’m sorry. You must be mistaken.”

“I’m not. I saw you once before, just past the stream. You were picking flowers.” He glanced around as if worried someone would hear. “You should go home, quickly. They’re looking for you.”

“Who?” Trisha asked.

“Ralph Weiss and his friends. One of them saw you in town and they went on a... hunt.”

A hunt? How could they hunt Trisha when she wasn’t an animal?

“Why?” she asked.

“Because of your arms,” Reid said. “They think you’re a demon. Listen, one of them has a knife. I’m not messing around. Go up the hill. Quickly. I’ll try to lead them away.”

Trisha’s heart beat against her rib cage like a frightened bird. A knife. One of them had a knife. She turned to go but stopped in her tracks when she heard the voices.

“No really, I saw her,” a boy claimed. “Saw her running on all fours through the trees like some kind of animal. She had claws. Bright purple eyes too.”

“Yeah right.”

“I know what I saw! The Blackwood’s have a demon for a daughter.”

Trisha took a step back, looking around frantically for a retreat. But it was too late. The group had rounded the corner. One of them, a boy with pale blonde hair, had already spied her. He cackled, pointing her direction.

“Is that your demon girl? Cause she’s standing on two feet.”

“Yeah, and her eyes are blue, not purple,” another said.

A boy with too many freckles, the one who claimed to have seen her, stamped her foot against the ground. “That’s her; she’s just not in her true form. Demons never start out looking like demons you know.”

“Leave her alone, Ralph,” the red-headed boy said. “She’s not a demon at all.”

“Oh. O’Banner. Didn’t see you there,” Ralph said. “Well, good work finding her. I knew that big brain might come in handy.” He looked Trisha up and down. “Well? Show us those arms.”

Trisha shook her head, taking a step back. Her hands clenched into fists in her pockets, but she could not bring herself to speak. She saw the knife at his hip. The same knife the red-headed boy warned her about.

The boy with too many freckles stomped over to her, grabbing for her arm. “I’ll show you. Her arms are strange. Just look.”

“Don’t touch me.” Trisha smacked his hand a way, stepping back. The sunlight rippled over her skin and the boys gasped.

“Hellfire. She does have weird arms.”

“I told you.” The boy with too many freckles seized her wrist, jerking her arm up into the air. They were all older than her by a few years and thus much taller. “Didn’t I tell you? Demon hands.”

“I’m not a demon.” Trisha struggled in his grip, a worm on a hook. But the other boys were already swarming her with wide eyes and greedy smiles. “I’m not.”

“Let her go,” the red-headed boy, O’Banner, tried to come to her aid, but two of the other boys seized his skinny arms, pulling him back. Trisha turned, wanting to help him, but the boy with the pale blonde hair and the knife grabbed her other wrist, holding it up to the light.

“Well, you’re not human, that’s for sure. What are these made of?”

“Demon crystal?” the freckled boy suggested.

“No such thing as demon crystal.”

“How do you know?”

Trisha gritted her teeth, jerking in their grip again. “I said let go.”

“Shut up, Demon Girl,” the boy with too many freckles said. “I bet if we take her to Old Mick, he’ll tell us what kind of demon she is.” He yanked her hard toward the main road, and Trisha dug her heels into the ground. No. No one else could see her.

“Old Mick will take all the credit for catching a demon then,” said one boy holding O’Banner. “We caught her. We should take her to the town square. Mr. Weiss will give us fat stacks of money for catching a demon.” He looked to the blonde boy. “Right, Ralph? Your father will pay us good?”

“If I ask him,” the boy replied. His blue eyes glittered with malice.

“Please stop. I’m a girl. I’m a normal girl,” Trisha insisted.

A metallic scraping sound echoed through the alley and Trisha’s stomach twisted. Ralph had drawn his knife.

“We’ll take her to my father in a minute. I want to see what her arms are made of.”

Trisha hissed and threw herself backward. Her arms finally wrenched free of their grasps but she knocked hard against the ground. She hadn’t even caught her breath when Ralph fell on top of her, pinning one of her wrists to the ground. He tapped one of her fingers with his blade.

“What are you doing?” the freckled boy asked.

“Her hands look hard. I wonder if I can cut off a finger,” Ralph said.

“You’re insane!” O’Banner protested. “She’s just a kid.”

“She’s a demon, O’Banner. I’m trying to protect us.”

Trisha realized then, with startling clarity, that appealing to them with words was pointless. They didn’t look at her as a girl. They looked at her the same way they might a rat or a bug. They could carve off all of her fingers and her toes too, and they wouldn’t see it as wrong.

She couldn’t reason with them.

She drove her fist forward without thinking, meaning to punch him. As if on instinct, her knuckles sharpened. The flesh of his neck gave easily, followed by the spray of warm blood across her face. Pain jolted through her hand, white hot like lightning, and she cried out.

The boys screamed too and stumbled back, but Ralph couldn’t make a sound with a sliced throat.

He toppled off of her, collapsing to the ground. The others scrambled off, abandoning him before Trisha had even fully sat up. She looked down at the pale boy, straight into his wide blue eyes. His mouth trembled as he tried to draw in gasping breaths. Instead, he could only choke as the air slipped out the hole in his neck.

Trisha could not tear her eyes away from him. She watched every painful gurgle until the light faded from his blue eyes. Then he went utterly still.

Another pulse of agony raced up Trisha’s arm, and she gritted her teeth against a cry. She looked down at her left hand, expecting to see a wound. Instead, she saw a black spot spread across her knuckles beneath the blood. Black like charcoal.

“You killed him.”

Trisha looked over her shoulder to see that only O’Banner remained, wide eyed and pale.

“I was just trying to...” Trisha trailed off. It didn’t matter what she was trying to do.

The boy blinked hard, looking from the body back to her. “You need to go. Now.”

This time she did not protest or hesitate. She tucked her hands beneath her cloak and ran as fast as she could back toward the hill. And all the way there, the black mark on her hand throbbed.

Trisha stumbled up the hill, racing to get home before dark. She held her left arm tight to her chest, trying not to move her blemished hand. Panic clawed at the inside of her chest, but her expression did not move. She floated within her own body as it moved on instinct, trying to get to safety.

Agatha stood on the porch, beating out the front hall rug when Trisha fell to her knees in front of the house. Her legs trembled too much to hold her weight.

“Miss?” Agatha dropped to her side. “Merciful heavens, you’re bleeding!”

Trisha shook her head, staring straight ahead at the pearly white buttons of Agatha’s dress. “It’s not mine, Miss Agatha. Don’t worry.” Trisha almost didn’t recognize the flatness of her own voice.

Agatha let out a foul stream of curses and leapt to her feet. The door creaked and her footsteps tapped rapidly away, leaving Trisha alone again on the porch. She did not dare to move, or look at her blood stained left hand. She wanted to become stone and never move again, not even for the wind. They could not hurt her if she was stone. Stone did not feel pain.

The footsteps returned, this time with company. Suddenly, Trisha’s mother and father knelt beside her, shaking her, checking for injury. They asked so many questions and Trisha couldn’t process any of them.

“Trisha, look at me.” Her mother cupped her face in her hands and forced her head up. “Tell me what happened.”

“I crossed the stream. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have,” Trisha muttered. The numbness of her expression cracked, and she felt tears slipping down her cheeks. “I wanted to see a ship. And... one boy wanted to cut my arms open. So I...”

“Goddamn it,” her father hissed and Trisha flinched. Her father rarely raised his voice.

Her mother pulled her tight to her chest, stroking Trisha’s dark hair. “Don’t say anymore, dear.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t think there would be so much blood. I don’t think you’ll be able to wash this dress, Agatha.” Trisha’s chest shuddered. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s just a dress, child,” Agatha murmured from somewhere to Trisha’s left. She couldn’t see her through the film of gathering tears.

“They’ll be coming soon,” her father said. “In less than an hour, there will be a mob at our doorstep, looking for her. Damn it all. We were so close to getting her out of this wretched place.”

“They won’t get anywhere near her,” her mother vowed. She pulled back from Trisha, looking her in the eye again. “Trisha dear, I want you to go to the tower.”

“The tower?” Trisha asked.

“Yes. You love to hide up there, don’t you? I want you to hide again. Think of it like a game.” Her mother pushed back her hair with a soft smile. Why did her parents’ smiles always seem like lies? “You mustn’t let anyone find you. You must stay quiet and still until everyone else leaves. Do you understand?”

Trisha nodded once. “I think so.”

“Be sure.” Her mother squeezed her shoulders. “Promise me you won’t be found.”

“You should hide with me,” Trisha croaked out.

Her mother shook her head. “You know I don’t like the tower. It’s so dirty up there.” Tears gathered in her mother’s eyes. “I’ll hide somewhere else. Don’t worry. Just promise me.”

Trisha swallowed a lump in her throat. “I promise.”

“Good girl.” Her mother stood, drawing Trisha up with her. “Go. The game starts now.”

Trisha nodded, blinking away tears. She fled to the tower as fast as her feet would carry her. The sun was nearly down and she could barely see her feet as she ran up the crumbling steps. When she reached the top room, she tucked herself between her box of treasures and a fallen wooden plank from the damaged ceiling.

Quiet and still, she waited.

The village came less than an hour later. Or at least a large portion of the village. It had to be a great number of people, because there were so many voices outside, chanting in one livid chorus. The light of their torches flashed through the narrow window of the tower and painted deep shadows on the walls. Trisha shrunk from the light, not wanting it to touch her. She must stay hidden.

“Give us the monster!” one man called. “The demon killed a child. Bring her out.”

“She is not here,” her father called back. “She fled an hour ago.”

“Lies. Bring her out. She does not deserve your protection.”

Trisha swallowed hard. Her parents had never been good liars. Even the townspeople knew as much.

The villagers’ cries for justice rose around the tower, mixing until they became incoherent. Trisha could not make any individual words. Just the emotions. Rage. Fear. Hate. She felt them pressing in around her like the shadows from their torches. She clapped her hands over her ears to smother them.

She couldn’t smother her sense of smell though. Smoke stung her nose, and the firelight seemed to spread. Fire. Had they set fire to the house? A sudden terror gripped Trisha for her parents. She forgot, for a moment, her mother’s command to be silent and still. She crawled across the ground on all fours and chanced a look through the narrow window.

She had never seen so many people before, clustered all in a mass, each with their own torch in their hands. One torch had lit the west side of the house on fire. But her parents had not moved. They stood strong before the door. Agatha stood behind them, clutching a huge steak knife that she usually used to prepare dinner. It wouldn’t be enough. The villagers had weapons too.

The firelight passed over her face and Trisha ducked down beneath the window again. Too late. A clear woman’s voice rose over the crowd.

“I saw something move in the tower. She’s there.”

“NO,” her mother screamed.

The tower seemed to shudder. The villagers pressed around its base. Her parents must have barricaded the door, because Trisha heard it shudder but not give. Still, she was sure their pounding alone would knock over the tower.

Her parent’s screams mixed with the horrible din and she tried to focus on them. On the familiar sound of their voices. But soon, the cries of the mob swallowed them up. She couldn’t hear them anymore. The door shuddered. Splintered.

Then the screams changed.

It was a subtle difference at first. From blood-thirst to fear. Then panic. Then utter terror. A woman shrieked in agony.

“Oh God. Oh God, Demon.”

Now, the shift in the mob was clear. The door had stopped shuddering, and the screams seemed to scatter. And amidst the cries and the crackling of fire, Trisha heard the most awful sounds.

Crunch

Snap

Pop

Like tree branches cracking in a great storm, but softer.

Crunch

Snap

Pop

Trisha did not dare rise again to see what was happening. She stayed at her place below the window, watching firelight dance across the wall. Then, suddenly, a face appeared before her.

The face melted out of the stone first, as if breaking through a waterfall, and a body followed shortly after. In the shadows cast by the fire, Trisha thought it must be an awful ghoul come to kill her. Then he spoke.

“Shh, it’s all right.”

Trisha focused on his face now. Leon De Galantes. Had he... walked straight through the wall?

“I won’t hurt you.” The boy moved forward carefully, kneeling in front of her. He had a soft smile. A real smile. “I’m here to help.”

“The mob,” Trisha choked out.

“Not a problem,” Leon said. “We just have to wait a few minutes. Then they’ll all be gone.” He looked around her tower, noticing her box of treasures. “This is your hideaway isn’t it?” He slid over to her box, looking through her little treasures. He pulled out her music box and turned the crank. A familiar, pretty tune filled the tower. It surprised Trisha she could hear it at all. The mob had gotten strangely quieter. “I’ve heard this before. It’s a waltz they often play at balls.” He looked up at her. “You’ll get to hear a whole orchestra play it someday.”

He had a kind expression, and yet...

“You came through the wall,” Trisha murmured. “Are you a demon?”

“Yes,” Leon said. He answered so simply. Yes. No lies. No shame either. Just a yes. “Well, I’m possessed by a demon. I’m still human but...I’m sort of both. So are you.”

Trisha blinked hard. “I’m not. I’m just...”

“You are.” Leon sat down in front of her. “It’s all right. We’ll look after you now. In Lisbon, you’ll be safe. No one will think to hurt you under our roof.”

“What about my parents?” Trisha asked.

“They won’t be able to look after you anymore, Trish.” He rested a hand on her arm, just above where abnormal flesh met smooth skin. “But we will. We’ll take you across the sea. You’ll get to see many things now. You won’t have to stay hidden away.”

“I’ve never left this hill.” Trisha swallowed hard. “And when I did... everything went wrong.”

“Now is a good time to try again.” Leon grasped her shoulders and eased her to her feet. Then he pressed her music box into her hand. “Come on. It’s over now. Don’t be afraid.”

Trisha was afraid and her thoughts spun out of control. She was a demon. Possessed. The villagers had been right to want to kill her. Yet this boy, a demon like her, was kind.

Demons weren’t supposed to be kind.

Leon guided her down the stairs until they reached the splintered remains of the door. The mob had left a gap big enough for Trisha to step through.

She stepped into a sea of bodies.

The villagers lay strewn about the grass, all around the field where Trisha used to play. Their bodies twisted at odd angles, their necks lolling to the side and their eyes and mouths wide, frozen with their last screams. She didn’t see any blood, except from three of the bodies. Agatha, lying near the door, speared through the chest by a pitchfork.

And her parents, on the porch, in a pool of red.

The mob had killed them, but someone else had killed the mob. Someone...

Trisha’s arms buzzed, and she looked up.

A single man remained standing in the sea of the dead, barely visible in the light of the fading flames. No blood stained his clothes or face, and he held no weapon. Yet Trisha knew, with absolute certainty, that he had caused the shift in the mob’s screams.

He had killed them—every one of them—in minutes.

A gentle breeze rustled the man’s long hair, filling the dead quiet for a moment. He let out a long breath, like her father used to after a hard day at work. Then Stefano De Galantes adjusted the cuffs of his jacket and turned to face them with eyes glowing violet in the dark.

“Ready to go?”

Trisha crossed the stream for the first time that day, and it had been a terrible mistake. Now she crossed the stream a second time, following the brothers back toward the port.

But the village had twisted into something out of a nightmare. The villagers who had not come with the mob were screaming, and the smell of smoke filled the air. Trisha heard an earth-shattering shriek from nearby.

“Rogue demons,” Leon said. “They must’ve come when they felt your signature.”

“Undoubtedly,” Stefano agreed.

“Should we do something?”

“No.” Stefano did not slow his pace. “Let them have their rampage.”

Trisha stumbled to keep up with Leon. The cold wind bit at her skin even through her cloak. At least, her hand did not burn so much anymore, but the black spot remained.

The docks came into sight, and Trisha did not have time to admire the beauty of the ships before that horrible shriek pierced the night again, this time much closer. She turned, wide eyed, to see the thing Leon had called a “rogue demon”.

Unlike the De Galantes brothers, it looked nothing close to human. Its mortal body had long ago fallen away, leaving behind a true monster. It stood as tall as a house with bubbling, blackened skin and a bulbous body too large for its skinny legs. It had six of them, bony, with the elbows popping out at odd angles. A wonder that it could even hold itself up, but it could easily crush a building with its weight. Or a ship.

It crashed its way toward the docks but Stefano held up two fingers, his violet eyes flashing. The creature stopped with a pained roar.

“We need that ship,” Stefano said in a cool voice. “Do your work elsewhere.”

The demon shuddered at the wake of his words and turned, sliding off in the other direction, crushing shops as it went.

“See,” Leon whispered to her. “You have nothing to worry about, Trisha.”

Trisha wasn’t sure of that, but she did not have the voice to argue. They stepped onto the docks when she heard another cry, this one much more human.

“Demons!”

She whipped around and saw him. The redheaded boy. The one who told her to run. He was sprinting toward them, an axe in his hand. She thought he meant to kill her, but instead he let out a cry.

“Demons. Let her go.”

Trisha blinked. Did this boy mean to save her? Did he not realize what she was even after he saw her kill someone?

Stefano stepped forward, flicking his wrist. The boy flew back, smacking into the wall of the nearest building. Trisha let out a cry before she could stop herself. Her scream seemed to stop Stefano.

“Leave him,” Leon said. “We need to go.”

Stefano glared after the boy for a moment, his jaw tense. Then he nodded. “Yes, let’s go.”

Trisha looked over her shoulder as Leon guided her onto the ship. The redheaded boy slumped on the ground, unconscious from Stefano’s blow. Her would-be “savior”.

He must have thought her a princess from the stories, kidnapped by demons. He did not realize she was one herself.

#my writing #amwriting #originals #wingless #the angel's shadow

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seekthemist · 5 years

Note

adansey w/ 11 perhaps?

“I didn’t know you were so sensitive.”

ANON WHO ARE YOU, THIS IS THE MOST GALAXY-BRAIN PROMPT EVER!If you can’t tell, I adore this, and thus the fill it’s long. A lot of pining and build up, mostly under the cut. Watch out for references of canon abuse. Let me page @interropunct for this, as he was having a bit of a hard day.

Other Raven Cycle fills: Ronsey #29 ; Pynch #21

From this prompt list!

Gansey’s penchant for finding things came with the responsibility to look for them. For good measure, he had always subscribe to the policy of finders keepers, whenever applicable — and that, too, was a responsibility because you should never chase something you’re not willing to take care of after.

That was a rule for information, for things and for people — one that didn’t save him from the very human burden of having favourites.

For some of his findings he had found a new home, be it final and fulfilling of the overall purpose or a new temporary step to get the process rolling. Other, he kept with him, for the big picture or for a genuine attachment.

In this whole system, Adam fit weirdly, or — more accurately — refused to fit at all.

Gansey had found him, clicking with him in a way that definitely echoed a bigger fate. And yet he didn’t get to keep him, at all, no matter how much easier everything would be if Adam just let him. Rather, Gansey seem to be condemned to seeing Adam slip in and out of his grip, a constant exercise in finding and finding and insisting on not letting go completely.

Adam was at Monmouth now, final home to everything Gansey cared more about in the world, but he had already said, “Temporarily.”

“Just a few days, so that I can…” He had repeated, with the box of his scarce possessions Ronan had drove him to recover sitting on the floor, as precarious as him. The sentence trailed off into nothing, and it was infuriating to know how many unachievable things Adam wanted to fit in that just, in that few.

It was somewhat difficult to have him around like this — beaten, bruised, with damages that were likely to be permanent. Still, it was better than the alternative.

In the weird dance between Gansey’s need to care for what he loved and Adam’s steadfast unwillingness to be taken care of, it was usually Gansey that caved. The fact that Adam was caving now — temporarily, in the desperate effort of getting back to his feet — didn’t feel at all like a victory.

But Gansey did what he had to — what he could among the many things Adam could need — and brought him homeworks and assignments, left towels and beddings and spare clothes available, filled the fridge and tried to think of the way of making Adam forgo to keep track of any of these things.

It was late at night, somewhere between the second and the third day, when Adam came quietly in the open space, with an aura of partial reluctance that was enough to lift Gansey away from his books and papers. He was shirtless and appeared freshly patched up with the same medical supplies he held in his arms.

“I can come back later if you’re busy…” Adam said, tilting his head minutely towards the scholarly chaos.

“I’m not busy,” Gansey replied, trying not to rush excessively in both his words and getting up from the floor.

“I…” Adam started, then stopped, averting his gaze. When he spoke again, it was neat and measured, with a hint of nerves that shone through the slight drawl in his vowels. “I can’t change the patches on my back. Can you help me?”

It shouldn’t be such an herculean effort, and yet it was, with all the underlying shame that Gansey refused to address because he wanted to be constructive and that seemed to call for destruction.

“Of course, can we sit over here?” Gansey gestured at his bed, a bit helplessly, as the only other viable option was the chair of his deck and Gansey was guilty of having covered it in post-its.

“Sure, thanks,” Adam murmured, and went to sit down at the corner of the mattress, among unkempt sheets and some discarded clothing.

He left the supplies beside him, well within Gansey’s reach, and Gansey picked it up gingerly — rereading the prescriptions even though there he had already stole a look at them while they waited at the hospital. Adam watched him sideways, silent in an awkward way, with his bare back virtually at Gansey’s disposal — it felt like the trust of a wild animal, somehow.

As most wild things, the sight wasn’t pretty.

The skin on Adam’s back was of three or four different colours, small bruises and large bruises, at different depth and different spread of impact, mixed with points in which the skin had been cut by friction. It made Gansey’s stomach turn around a scream that he would never get out — not even, especially not with the way Adam was holding himself so carefully, his head tilted down.

Gansey toyed with the disinfectant, just one second, and then he started talking. “So, in that 1900 land registry document I found a reference to some earlier records, mid 1800, and I think we might be facing a change of landmarks in the borders, which would of course made our geography in old Virginia a bit funky…”

Under the avalanche of unwarranted chattering, Adam tensed even more, and then relaxed a bit with a sigh. He stayed silent for a long while — enough for Gansey to soften the patches with disinfectant — but then he started offering feedback in return.

It was better, like this. More familiar, less punishing.

Gansey peeled off two patches and Adam sunk a bit in his own shoulders, trailing off from his previous comment on minor river paths through the decades. The bruises underneath were predictably the worse, a deep purple of swollen skin that made Gansey afraid of even brushing against it while trying to clean.

But that was part of the responsibility of caring, and so Gansey rolled through the motions, resuming the chatter at the cost of it being one-sided just to give Adam something else to focus on, if he so wished.

“Big part done,” Gansey announced, when the pristine white of two patches covered Adam’s left side and a point around the centre of his back. He very pointedly refused to think about how many organs were in easy reach with hits landing there and there.

“Thank you,” Adam murmured, under his breath. His right shoulder twitched just a bit, as Gansey ran a hand over the surface of the patch to make sure it was smooth and adherent.

“You’re most welcome,” Gansey replied, keeping for himself three thousand more answers. “Do you really think a turrent could change path so markedly?”

Resuming the chatter was better, safer, as a complement for the anti-inflammatory cream that Gansey proceeded to apply. He rubbed at Adam’s skin slowly, with just the fingertip of his index, or sometimes the middle finger if he wanted to spread it to a wider area, and went about as carefully as he could about letting the cream absorb between touches.

Adam’s nape was exposed and he was much more silent now than he had been with the patches, his head lowered. Gansey kept talking, with less urgency, slightly distracted as well by the weird mixture of laboured strength and jutting bones that seemed to compose Adam’s body.

He heard him sigh, and his shoulder blades followed.

Sitting so close behind him, Gansey followed the movement with his eyes, and then with the back of two fingers — dry and cream-free — along the profile of the bone, the skin fairer than Adam was in the middle of the summer. Adam didn’t comment on it, or squirm away, so Gansey kept stroking lightly, a weird drive towards contact and affection that wasn’t necessarily the most familiar for him.

He kept spreading cream with one hands, at time, but even with the extensive collection of Adam’s bruises he was running out of spots to tend to. With his right hand, he kept caressing around, with no purpose more than contact.

Every once in a while, Adam shivered — time and again, as Gansey kept going.

He stroked down Adam’s spine, feeling the bumps of each vertebra against his knuckles. Adam’s next shiver followed the path of Gansey’s hand, shoulders jutting back just slightly.

“Sorry, are my hands cold?” Gansey asked, following a sudden doubt and yet not quite retracting his hands.

Adam shook his head, a subtle gesture at first, before he spoke. “No, you’re very warm.”

It was a low admission. Towards the end of the sentence, Adam’s voice dipped a bit, in the slightest of crack.

It settled in layers in Gansey’s brain, somewhat changing the very light of the room. He swallowed around the Oh that wanted to escape from his mouth, and just raised his hands again.

Touching felt more charged now, almost forbidden. But if there was one thing Gansey was sure of is that Adam would have shied away from any contact that was unwelcomed — now more than ever — and instead he didn’t even try to turn around, his head still lowered.

Gansey stroke along his back, once, than again, venturing broader until he could trace a path from Adam’s nape — and the little bump of his vertebrae jutting out because his head was lowered — all the way to the base of Adam’s spine, at the waist of the sweatpants he must have planned to wear to bed.

At the first full run, Adam stayed very still until the very end, when he exhaled in a slightly hiccupping way. Once more, and Gansey saw him arching along with the touch.

Gansey thinned his lips, feeling goosebumps rising in sympathy.

He grabbed at Adam at the end of the wave they traced together, without being able to help it. His right hand lingered at the centre of Adam’s back, between his shoulder blades, and the left one curled around his hips on the left side. His fingers ran along the protruding bone there and that, too, made Adam jump.

“I didn’t know you were so sensitive,” Gansey whispered, a constricting feeling around his throat.

Adam breathed out longer than he actually manage to inhale, uneven. “Yeah, me neither.”

His voice was so low, and yet Gansey felt it in his bones. Suddenly, he was very, very glad Ronan wasn’t home today and Noah had decided, so to speak, to not manifest.

The reality of what was happening was laid out between them, and still Gansey regained his touches — all along Adam’s back, almost featherlike on the patches, delicate around the exposed bruises, and just gentle anywhere else.

“Mnhgh…”

Gansey desperately wanted to know what face could possibly be making, groaning and shivering for it, but the after-effect of whatever tumult Gansey might be causing was best seen from behind him — that was, if Gansey wanted to keep going.

It wasn’t even really a questions.

He dug his fingers with more purpose, stroking along Adam’s hip bones until Adam arched again, and then — so very slowly — he slid his hand past the fabric, right inside Adam’s boxers.

The first impression was just of warmth. Next, it was the evidence that Adam was very hard.

“Ga-ah…Gansey, fuck…”

Hearing his name broken up in a moan didn’t exactly smother Gansey’s impulse.

He pressed his cheek on Adam’s shoulders — just his cheek, no lips, nosing delicately around the span of it — and Adam keened a bit.

It was easy, and quite rewarding, to touch him. Back and front, and front, and back, new touches on an unfamiliar body on an almost familiar angle. Gansey could only dream to know how to do it best, but as it was everything seemed to be good. Adam choked a bit on his own sounds, arching and canting at what felt like Gansey’s whim, guiding what was undeniably pleasure.

“Fuck,” Adam stressed again, all shivery.

He reached up with one hand to grab onto the bent of Gansey’s elbow and his head lifted up, pressing on Gansey’s shoulder behind him.

With one hand in the middle of his back and another one jerking him off, Gansey felt Adam coming as if it was his own body — a single shiver going all the way down, breaking into release and spreading like a seizure.

From his angle, it was the most Gansey had seen of him since Gansey had sat down on his bed — his profile flushed, a bit overwhelmed by this strange spiral they had precipitated it.

Gansey let go of Adam’s cock, fingers slick with residues of medicine, and wet with Adam’s come, and slid his hand out of Adam’s sweatpants.

Silently, Adam closed his eyes. With his body pressing back against Gansey’s hand, the exhale he let go after actually relaxed him.

It was glorious to witness.

He caressed his back until all the goosebumps smoothened, and then some more.

At the end, it was Adam that straightened up. it was delicate, careful, and Gansey still feared what could come next.

“I’m…” Another false start. He collected his prescriptions back into his arms, trying to fill the silence. “Let me leave this in Noah’s room and…change…then you can show me the documents.”

“Yes!” Gansey piped up before even fully processing, relief flooding through him. “Yes, of course.”

Adam looked at him only at that, wild and vivid. “Thanks,” he said again.

Then he made to step away from the open space, leaving Gansey only to wonder, like an afterthought, if he would manage to take care of his own erection in the short time that Adam’s absence conceded him.

#the raven cycle #Adam x Gansey #Adansey #My Writing #ALL THE PROMPTS

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huffle-puppy · 5 years

Text

The Stars That Bind

@drew-winchester, I promised two things--that I’d write something happier, and that I’d write this scene. This is about as opposite in tone from my previous fics for you as I could get, which is a happy thing! (And I’m glad to be writing of happiness--I’ve had a rough few months with school that have blessedly finally evened out; else I’d’ve gotten this out to you sooner.) Enjoy :3

Khadgar woke up with a weight over his chest. His eyes darted open, quick and anxious that the Legion was attacking again and somehow had made it into the city--

Perry’s lips met his, soft and full.

He lay there a moment, disoriented but quickly returning to the present, before wrapping up his beloved in a tight hug, kissing her back tenderly.

The morning light strode in upon them from behind the curtains, casting a soft glow about her. She pulled back slightly, folding her hands over his heart and setting her chin on them, bright eyes and sweet smile bathing his face in radiance.

“Good morning, Sun,” she murmured, voice a quiet song against his ears.

“G’morning, Stars,” he replied, stretching and yawning and settling back, hugging her close again. “What’s… time?”

“It’s something the Bronze Dragons know a lot about, dear.” Perry giggled and kissed his chin. White stubble prickled against her lips, and she nuzzled against it, scrunching up her nose. “You’re getting to be a cactus.”

Khadgar sighed, a smile playing at his lips. “I can shave.”

Perry laughed. “I don’t mind you being my Cactus-Mage~!”

She kissed his chin again and moved back out of his arms. Khadgar sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, pausing looking her over. She was already dressed to go out, leather armor worn and heavy. Reliable, thick and not made for showing off the person beneath, but still…

“Are you staying in bed all day, my love?”

Khadgar blinked and shook his head slightly. “Hm?”

Perry smiled softly, tucking a white strand of hair behind one elven ear. “Are you staying in bed all day? You paused, looking at me.”

He blushed lightly. “Of course I paused, looking at you. Why wouldn’t I pause, love?”

She giggled, a dash of purple rushing over her pink features, but gave no reply. He smiled and hoisted himself up out of bed, cleaned himself off, and dressed to go in robes that had seen so much conflict.

“So, where to?” he asked, meeting her at the door.

Perry’s smile faded. “Darkshore. Even with-- Even with things settled, and Deathwing finally gone--”

“There’s still so much to do,” Khadgar murmured.

She nodded, face set in determination and courage. His heart moved faster, looking into her eyes, and he took a breath to steady himself, nodding back. They would do as much good as they could, today. And-- perhaps--

Well, perhaps it was time.

There was, after all, something waiting in Ashenvale he’d set up. The elves there were patient; they’d still be waiting, surely--

Khadgar summoned a portal around them, and moments later it crackled and crept away again to the ether, and they stood huddled together against the Lor’danel winds.

The shoreline bathed them in what should have been a resplendent serenity. The water broke along the edge of the town and down the sandy beach for miles, waves cresting and filling the air with sighs of power before they receded and another took their place. The trees seemed almost to hum against the wooded edge of Lor’danel, and the occasional wisp darted too and fro merrily. Animals wandered in curiously to be greeted by the tall, friendly populace, and beyond the ocean’s edge, far out into the water--just a bit too far to comfortably swim--the massive tree Teldrassil stood, looming, a pillar to the everlasting victory of nature and nurtured hope. Home of the Night Elves, Perry’s people--

His beloved, Khadgar noted, maintained her brave demeanor, yet the occasional small fidget in her fingers let him see a tired anxiety beneath. Perry was, after all, as small as he himself was, compared to the tall elves, and, though they for the most part seemed quite polite, he knew every race to have some inborn judgmental streak. He himself had worked hard to turn off those thoughts when working with Orcs, and even then some residual murmurs rumbled about.

“Anywhere specifically you had in mind, my dearest?”

He took her hand in his, warm and strong, and the fidget ceased as she glanced back at him. Her brief, sweet smile lit up his soul.

“There’s a refugee camp a few miles down the road,” Perry said. “They were hit hard after Auberdine collapsed. The elementals and cultists in the area were taken care of, but I’m sure they could use all they help they could get, right now.

Khadgar nodded, found the Saber-Keeper in the town, and chartered a ride down the shoreline to the Auberdine ruins. Perry was delighted to climb on the back of the large saber cat, and Khadgar, who had far less experience with them, tried to remain as pleasantly calm as possible. If he could deal with the Legion out in Outland, it was absolutely foolish that a giant cat would scare him!

Especially considering that Perry, being a druid, could turn into a (albeit smaller) cat with just as ferocious claws and fangs.

Although, perhaps he should be frightened. She was, after all, the last person he ever wanted to make angry…

Perry giggled as he hugged her waist tighter. “It’s just a big lovable kitty, Khadgar!” she called back against the wind rushing around them. He said nothing, smiled, and hugged her tighter still.

Soon enough, they got to the ruins of the once-great Auberdine. Khadgar looked on in sorrow at the great devastation wrought upon the town; buildings fractured and sunken into the ground; water and sand consuming the foundations; massive jutting cracks of earth spearing upwards, carving through the old town roads and homes.

Perry looked on with him, pain inexpressibly quiet in her eyes, before turning back to the saber and thanking it for taking them this far, petting its long mane and making it trot over to Khadgar and poke its fluffy head under his hand. The mage started, looking down at it quickly, then chuckled and gave it a suitable reward of scritches before it trotted back to the road and took off back to Lor’danel.

“Let’s find this camp, then,” Khadgar said. Perry moved over, taking his hand and squeezing it tight, and together they walked on past the Auberdine ruins.

The camp didn’t take too long to find; off the main path leading out from the town, by the road’s sign-post, a large area of grass had been trampled down. Upon it, tents were erected from tarps that had seen better weather and the straightest fallen branches the elves could find. Against the back edge, a caravan was parked, and from it, various clothes and medical supplies were being distributed and stored away again. A scarce number of refugees huddled together against the winds, barely fifty by Khadgar’s count; less than half of the town’s populace. However, he knew, trying to shine hope back on that bleak thought, that any in better shape would’ve already made their way up to Lor’danel.

Dentaria Silverglade, a Priestess of the Moon, pale skin accentuated by her white satin robes, looked up from one of the refugees on the ground. She stood, taller than either the human or his elven lover, but nonetheless bowed in respect.

“May I help you two?”

“That’s what we wanted to ask you,” Perry said softly. The elves of the camp watched the newcomers wearily, but Perry’s gaze stayed focused on the Priestess. The taller woman blinked, then smiled.

“Help would be appreciated,” Dentaria replied. “I fear the tasks will be menial and few; we have most of what we need. Nonetheless, we would not turn down your offer.”

Khadgar smiled. “What do you need, Priestess?”

Dentaria turned her gaze to him. One of the elven mages of the camp, recognizing Khadgar, offered him a brisk salute before continuing his work.

“Firewood to last the night and any herbs you can find--especially anything edible, though those with toxins we can use in salves and treatments.”

The couple set off into the Darkshore woods.

Khadgar, determined not to upset any of the wonderful trees--and any forest critters whose homes were in there--limited himself only to branches that had fallen. There were, blessedly, many of them, and it wasn’t long before he had to summon arcane servants to carry the back-breaking load of firewood.

Perry, meanwhile, who they determined was far more likely to recognize specific herbs from any tall blades of overgrown grass, sprinted along in the forest, pausing by the edge of a nearby river, looking along the base and roots of each tree, giving her pleasant regards to the bears and stags and cats that roamed free through the area.

An hour passed this way, and they returned to camp with what they’d amassed.

Dentaria, surprised and delighted, thanked them both for their efforts. There was, as she commented bashfully, however very little the camp could give back, including even such a meager reward as lunch. Perry laughed, shaking her head, saying sweetly that no reward was necessary. The knowledge they were safer and better off was reward enough.

The elves of the camp watched her more intently, some even smiling. Small in stature and different as she was, there was a pure heart beneath an irresistible smile.

Khadgar certainly thought so, lost once more in her presence. It was definitely time, he thought to himself.

He took her hand, thanking the Priestess and wishing the camp well, and summoned another portal. Perry stepped through it first, he followed, and they came out at the wondrous Astranaar, further down the continent in Ashenvale.

The elven town, larger than Auberdine and intact, bustled with its occupants. Night Elves went too and fro, mostly uninhibited, though the occasional Sentinel, Draenei, or Worgen wandering through broke the quiet hum of their forest lives. Around them all, the trees sighed and leaned in, protection; beyond them, a natural river carved around the island of the town.

A safe haven, beautiful, sweet.

Perry looked around, smiling brightly. “Khadgar? We’re having lunch here?”

Khadgar smiled to himself, glancing around. The tailor of the town, sitting out on his front porch and watching the world, got up and bowed to the mage, going inside his shop.

“Khadgar?”

Perry looked back to him, smile still lighting up her features. Khadgar met her gaze, thoughts racing and heart starting to pound harder, nervous. Perry blinked.

“That’s a very wistful smile to have, my darling.” Perry moved to him, taking his hands. “What’s clouding your thoughts?”

Khadgar looked around, sighing. The trees were so old and so wonderfully strong. Some of the branches overlapped; some even intertwined. Old souls spinning their way up to the heavens.

Khadgar took a deep breath, looking back to his beloved.

“Peregrïn Starfallen.”

Perry blinked again, eyes opening wider after. Her breath slowed, and her face colored purple. After all this time, hearing him say her name in such soft, rich tones still made her heart skip.

Khadgar started to say something, paused, then chuckled and looked down, hand moving into a pocket of his robes and fishing about for something.

“I-- Well. Perry. I’m not-- I know I’m not the best with speeches and eloquence--” He pulled something out of his pocket, something small, that she couldn’t see quite yet-- “--and I also know, beyond any magic I’ve learned; books I’ve memorized-- histories, anything-- that I love you. I love being near you. I love every moment I have with you. So I’m going to do something that terrifies me, irrationally, far more than any demon invasion.”

Khadgar knelt down before her, looking up with a faint smile. Perry’s breath caught, and the world around was silent, in awe, watching them. Khadgar revealed the small box he’d pulled from his robe, opening it to show a ring, a carved perfect pearl inset among the petals of a pure white starflower.

“Peregrïn Starfallen, will you grant me the privilege of being your husband?”

Perry gulped. A faint smile slowly danced along her face. She opened her mouth to speak, shut it again, and nodded, smile growing faster and faster. Khadgar let out a deep breath, relaxing, taking her hand in his, warm and gentle, so much coarser with war, and slid the cold band onto her slender finger.

She looked at it, grinning ear to ear, then threw her arms around him as he stood again, kissing him with deep, tender passion. He held her close, kissing back with as much loving energy.

How long she held that intimate contact, she didn’t know. Time was nonexistent. All that there was was him.

She did finally pull back with a giggle, blushing deep purple. “Why, d-- darling, was that so much more terrifying?”

Khadgar blushed, looking away sheepishly. “If you said no…”

Perry wrinkled her nose and covered his cheek and neck with a myriad of soft kisses, hugging him tighter.

“Do you really think, Khadgar, that I would have ever refused you? I love you with all my being. Wherever you are; whatever happens-- I will forever be yours, and you mine.”

Khadgar smiled, nuzzling her cheek.

Perry paused, still blushing. “Does this mean now we have to go mad with inviting everyone and decorations and…?”

She trailed off, wincing. Khadgar chuckled, nodding over to the tailor’s hut.

Perry glanced over. The tailor smiled and waved, beckoning her to come in. She blinked up at Khadgar.

“You didn’t… did you?”

He chuckled. “I thought it’d be easier than trying to create a big fuss for weeks on end and rescheduling everyone’s lives…”

She blushed and moved over curiously to the tailor’s shop, disappearing inside. Khadgar gulped, moving over to the row of houses against one side of the town. The Night Elves beamed, appraising him, and the tailor’s wife handed him a bundle, bowing deeply. Khadgar took it, bowing back, saying in his best elven that he was extremely grateful to her and her husband before moving off to change.

The sun, just starting to dip down in the sky, cast a golden glow through the leaves, sending shadows and beautiful patterns of nature scattered along the ground. Secluded in a small grove at the edge of Astranaar, a Moonwell of glowing, pure waters cast an ethereal light. The townsfolk were seated pleasantly or standing by the ring of trees, leaving room down the middle aisle. In the pure waters, another Priestess of Elune stood, covered in light robes and a thick, deep hood, so that the Goddess herself could see through her.

Khadgar stood at the Moonwell’s edge at her command, dressed in an elven suit of fine white silks. He breathed as evenly as he could, yet nothing could prepare him as the crowd let out a murmur of reverence. He turned.

Perry stood at the end of the aisle. The tailor had outdone himself: her wedding gown rolled smoothly along her top half, outlining her with dignity and regality fit for an angel itself. It was cut deep along her front and back, and along her shoulders and the border of the cut, white rose petals had been sewn in, adorning her with the delicate beauty of the finest craftsmanship nature had. The sleeves ended at the elbow loosely, and white lace, dazzled with jewels tenderly shaped in floral arcs, wound its way up to her wrist and along the back of her hands.

Seamlessly, the tight fabric billowed out along her hips and below, giving such slender folds as the robes the maidens of the stars might wear. Against her hip was fashioned a five-pointed flower of huge white petals, and along her ears the glitter of small chains connecting piercings hung down.

Perry met his gaze with a soft smile, vulnerable but without any shyness. She was his to behold.

And behold he did. That such a sight of magnificence and beauty could ever appear before him, much less be wed to him--

“Light above,” he managed to mumble.

Perry made her way down the aisle to him, slow, steady strides. The dress billowed around her feet but never once threatened to get caught under them. The crowd murmured in awe as she passed them by, shining brighter than any star above, bathed in the soft glow of the sunlight and the glistening purity of the Moonwell.

She came to her beloved’s side and stood still, facing him, a blush spreading slowly along her features as she looked over his visage. He was a statue come to life; so perfectly, achingly handsome, white hair and drawn face; strong and tall, sleek and powerfully magnetic in his suit, drawing her in without any attempt. Elven patterns wound around his chest, and she resisted hard the urge to brush her fingers along every one of them.

The Priestess took a deep breath, reaching her hands up to the heavens. The lovers looked to her as the Moonwell shined brighter. She brought her arms down, slow, slow…

Her voice rang out, deep and high, charged with power:

“I am the Queen of the Starry Vaults, the residing Mistress of Heaven, the Moon in all her phases and majesty. I preside now over the union of two mortals, their paths irreversibly entwined; their souls, in my will, to bind together for all the eons left that Time shall spin its webs. Lest this be done with error, I offer first the chance to any and all who can think of a reason why these two may not wed. Speak, if you have words with which to speak.”

The elves of Astranaar and all of nature beyond stayed silent.

The Priestess of Elune bowed, then held out her hands.

“Join hands and step into my waters.”

Khadgar glanced at Perry. She glanced back. They smiled faintly, and with interlaced fingers stepped up the steps to the Moonwell and into the pure waters. Despite the liquid, though, neither their legs nor their garments seemed to get the slightest bit wet.

“Face each other.”

They did, and it took all their will not to embrace, their beaming faces full with such sweet intimacy.

“Take both hands.”

They did, interlacing their fingers; no balance of power between them save equality in love.

The Priestess produced from her robes two golden cords, tying them one at a time around either set of hands. Neither Perry or Khadgar even felt the fabric, too busy looking into each other’s eyes. The Priestess receded again to her place.

“Speak the vows of the Soul, and give your ties meaning.”

“Khadgar. To you, I give the years of my life. To you, I give the air and the fire, and all my power with which you may do as you will. I give you my unending devotion, my loyalty, and all the hours and chambers of my heart. Within you, I give a piece of my soul, to nourish and cherish and grow, to be your calm in any storm of life, to be your shield and defense, to be your sword and guardian. I give to you all I have, all I shall ever be, and all that I am. Until Time’s wheel cracks and the echoes of Eternity fall silent again in the realm of the Divine, I pledge my soul as yours.”

Perry spoke softly, murmuring without even knowing the words. They flowed neat and beautiful from her mouth, and with each syllable the golden cords along their arms glowed brighter.

“Peregrïn. To you, I give the years of my life. To you, I give the water and the earth, and all my power with which you may do as you will. I give you my unending service, my faithfulness, and all the hours and chambers of my heart. Within you, I give a piece of my soul, to nourish and cherish and grow, to be strength in any time of hardship, to be your shield and defense, to be your sword and guardian. I give to you all I have, all I shall ever be, and all that I am. Until the Stars crumble from the sky and the Divine Beings of Elune and Eonar fall once again to the next cycle of Creation, I pledge my soul as yours.”

Khadgar’s words came out smooth and entranced. The golden cords burned bright as the sun along their arms.

“Kiss,” Elune murmured, “and be One.”

The lovers kissed, and everything melted away. The cheer of the Night Elves around them, the electricity sparkling through the air, the wisps watching on, the trees, the earth, the sky: nothing was there. They stood together, pressed together, lips caressing, a zenith of all they could be. They felt each other, knew each other, and beyond the plane of mortality, their souls entwined and held fast, pieces of a grand cosmic puzzle that had found each other after so very long.

The Priestess gently undid the cord, and the kiss broke. Perry and Khadgar looked at each other, breathing hard in a daze, the static of their connection no less heightened than it was, no less than it ever would be now. The Night Elves were clapping in a steady rhythm, and they looked together to the end of the aisle where a broom had been placed along the ground.

Jump over it together, enter the new life.

They grinned to each other, rushing forward, the world passing by in a smooth shifting set of colors, and in one motion, they were over the broom and out of the glade, off into the world.

Rain started to fall from new clouds above. Perry glanced up and laughed. Khadgar grinned, still watching her gorgeousness, still squeezing her hand tight. He summoned another portal, taking them to an inn by the quieter end of Ashenvale, near the border of Darkshore overlooking the ocean. Without breaking stride, he went in with her, lifted her up into his arms, and carried her to the room the innkeeper had set aside for him--the best one there was to offer.

There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her; nothing she wouldn’t do for him. Without a second thought, they were bound for this and every lifetime. Husband and Wife. Khadgar and Peregrïn.

#World of Warcraft #peregrïn #Khadgar #khadgrin #elune #marriage #wedding #drew winchester #hopefully good tears this time

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beccas-a-cipher · 5 years

Text

Leader of the Spero (AU)

Originally posted: 27 August, 2018

I. FORGOT. ABOUT. THIS. AU. How? I flippin love this AU! I think that at one point I had been considering adding more to it, but ended up not for some reason...

AU where before Ichiro went after the White Stone he kidnapped Melissa in episode 109 and trained her for several years to become the next leader of the Spero

Everston. She gazed up at the tall front entrance. It's been a long time.

"Harmony, you copy?" A voice said into her ear. Melissa shoved her hand into her pocket as the blue aura appeared around it.

"I do, Duality. How's everyone else doing?" Melissa said quietly. Everyone on the team had a small device in their ear that vibrated specifically at one of Melissa's unique frequencies, allowing for her to be a sort of receptor and pass communication between everyone during their mission.

"We're good. Fever, Lord, and I are waiting for our cue."

"It might be a little bit, but be prepared for my signal," Melissa ordered before cutting the signal and turning to her partner. "You think this will work?"

The aqua-eyed boy grinned. "Totally. There's been so much planning in this, there's no way it can't work!"

Jax joined the Spero a few weeks after Mel arrived there. He first joined because he was angry that his best friend had ditched him for Magiclica friends, but was very surprised to find her training her powers in his first training session with him. They had since rekindled their friendship and were an inseparable duo.

Melissa glanced at the hustle and bustle of the crowd around them. "I wouldn't be so sure... There's a lot we couldn't prepare for. Remember, if something goes wrong and we can't fulfill the mission, forget it and get out of here ASAP." Jax's good mood dimmed as he nodded.

They wandered in silence for a while, looking like fairly ordinary Everston students. Technically, they were a year older than what they needed to be to go to school here, but they had still donned their old uniforms and pretended to be registered students at the prestigious school once more. They also had identification for their allies: Melissa wore a large black hat with a stripe that was white and the color of her powers that she had tucked her giveaway hair into. Jax had two thick, black wristbands with the same style of white stripe but instead of a sky blue, there was a bright rainbow.

Melissa spotted someone. "I'll be right back," she said quietly and slithered her way to the tanned boy that was glancing every which way and looked very uncomfortable. She tapped his shoulder, making the boy with the bandana around his neck with four colors- red, yellow, blue, and green- with white borders in a black fabric, jump out of his skin.

"H-Harmony! I-I didn't see you!" Kai stuttered. His stumbles statement jogged something in the back of Melissa's mind, although she couldn't place what exactly.

"Are you looking for your boyfriend?" She questioned with a rather serious tone. Kai tensed.

"No! I-I don't have a..." he caught Melissa's dubious stare. "Alright maybe... I'm not trying to mess up the mission, I... I promise." About six months after Melissa joined the Spero, Kai had come down with a mysterious condition that left him with migraines and periods of severe weakness, along with the inability to use his aura without extreme pain. He very occasionally came on safer missions as an emergency support, but even Ichiro agreed that Kai should not use his power if possible.

Melissa rolled her eyes, a quick smile playing across her lips before returning to her serious face. "Go find Quinston. But don't tip him off," she pointed a finger accusingly at him. Kai jumped and nodded.

"Y-yes Harmony!" He nodded vigorously before rushing off.

Melissa sighed and shoved her hand into her pocket again. "Keep an eye out for Kai. He went to find to one of the Magiclicas he knows."

There was a series of "Roger that, Harmony." from the other Spero scattered around the school. Melissa paused before adding, "If you see him, leave him be unless it looks like he's disrupting the mission,"

"Are you sure that's a good idea, Harmony?" Ichiro's calculating voice asked. Melissa tensed as she was put on the spot by her father.

"I think so, Lord. He's unfortunately not able to help much here. He's a lookout, so I think it makes sense. Besides, everyone deserves happiness every once in a while." While most people knew Kai was in close relations with several Magiclicas that went to this school, only Melissa and Jax really knew the full extent of their relationships since they also knew the people Kai was friends with.

There was a hum of acceptance from the leader of the Spero and then silence.

"Harmony, want to meet up?" Jax's voice came through the device.

"Let's split up, Prism. Make us look less obvious." Melissa declined.

"Roger that. See you at the meeting spot once we start." Jax said and cut the connection.

Tonight was open house at Everston for the new students. During the past White Stone Festivals held here, the Spero had been able to track the movement of the White Stone back to its resting location. Now they were working to disable the security and traps set up to protect it. They figured it was going to take several missions during public events, where there was so many people they could easily blend into the crowd and sneak in.

Most of Everston looked the same to what Melissa remembered of it. The only difference she could see were two bronze statues in the main hall. On closer inspection, she was mildly surprised to recognize the two depicted. She jogged over to them and read the plaques.

Melissa Jane Harmony

A Magiclica Who Grew Up As a Cipher

Wrongly Taken by the Spero

Return To Us Soon

Jax Kollman

A Cipher That Went Missing

Forever in Our Hearts

Return To Us Soon

This hit Melissa hard. The past five years had been such a blur, she had never really looked back and thought about the consequences of her actions and joining the Spero. She figured Jax had never really looked back, either. She was also confused by the line "taken by the Spero." I chose to join, didn't I? Because I found my real father.

"It's been a long time," a rich voice with a slight accent said from beside Melissa. She glanced out of the corner of her eye to recognize the chocolate hair and bright green eyes of Quinston. He was in a uniform similar to that of Everston Faculty, although it had a different badge that Melissa didn't recognize.

"I'm sorry, so I know you?" Melissa feigned confusion. She saw his face flicker with doubt, before it settled into resolution again.

"I believe you do, Melissa." His voice dropped to a whisper as she said her name with a uncertain tone.

She took a sharp breath. "Okay, you got me," she sighed. "How's it been, Quinston?" She sent him a smile, trying to feign being oblivious. He wasn't buying it.

"You're up to something. I know where you've been all these years." He stated coolly. Melissa internally cursed at herself- Kai.

"You're little sweetheart tipped you off then," she growled.

"Not directly. There are several factors to this revelation. Your hat is one of them," He jutted his chin to her Spero hat. "And your eyebrows are another." Melissa wad slightly disturbed that he noticed her aqua eyebrows that even she forgot about. "And guessing from the fact you're wearing your old uniform, the Spero are trying to sneak in."

Melissa cringed and turned to face the dual-elementaled Magiclica fully. "Am I not allowed to reminisce?"

His hands glowed both red and blue. "Unfortunately, no. CHICKEN!" Quinston's face morphed into one of surprise and confusion at the word that just came out of his mouth. Melissa smirked as she pulled her glowing hand out of her pocket, letting him see what was going on. Quinston's face turned to panic as he stepped away and raised his hands to his mouth.

"BOW BOW'S LOOSE!" He yelled instead of whatever he was going to say to warn of the Spero. Melissa switched to her personal frequency.

"Someone break the pink Wither out of its case, quick. We're going to have to be quick and efficient. O'Kouzlo recognized me," she said. There was a flurry of responses. A few seconds later, she heard the sound of glass shattering down one of the hallways and mass clucking, along with shrieks and screams as Bow Bow flew into the main hall.

Quinston shot Melissa a glare and thrust his blue hand out, ice quickly forming around Melissa. She shivered and the cold completely encased her and watched as the Magiclica sprinted off to deal with the runaway matchmaking Wither.

Once he was gone, she used her own power and sent it out at an extremely high frequency to the thinnest spot in the ice. It quickly shattered, leaving a hole in the cold dome.

"Harmony! Where are you?" Haiden's panicked voice demanded.

"Be right there, Fever. Had to deal with the Magiclicas," Melissa's tone of voice had changed in that statement.

No longer was she the friendly girl to her teammates, or greeting an old friend after not seeing him for years. Now, this was her true colors. A Miscela, the secret weapon of the Spero. The daughter of Ichiro and the future leader of his organization.

——————————

Word count: 1680

I’m 99% sure I had a part two to this SOMEWHERE and I need to go look for it because I remember what happens and it’s pretty cool

Quick code names-

Melissa= Harmony (in this AU she took up the last name Hamura, so it’s sort of ironic?)

Jax= Prism

Haiden= Fever (like hay fever, but looking back I sound have done Draco lol)

Reina= Duality

Ichiro= Lord

#magiclicas #qutejakey #au #alternate universe #spero

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ibitesharkbubbles · 6 years

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The Restless Worshippers

He didn't expect her to agree so readily. They had discussed taking the trip weeks before and she had seemed hesitant, cautious. Now, laying in bed, the subject came to mind again.

"I know it's a bit of a drive. And we'll definitely have to be careful once we get there," he said while watching her play with her hair. It was a habit she had when there was deep thinking going on. "Daytime is safer for going in... we should still bring a flashlight, just to be on the safe side, y'know?"

His careful planning was what tipped the balance of her indecision. She was the one who was rash, spontaneous; she loved having him around to pull into last minute adventures. "Flashlight and a picnic?"

"Let's grab something on the way there. The less we carry, the better -- we might have to run."

"Run? From who?" The thought of having to run made her less excited to go.

He moved close, kissed her cheek. "The place is abandoned, and the cops do patrol around from time to time. I'm sure we'll be okay as long as we're careful and quiet."

Feeling a little less nervous, she perked up. Nearly rocketing from the bed, she turned to him. "C'mon then, slow poke, no time to waste." Rummaging around for jeans and something with long sleeves, she didn't see him smiling, only heard the quiet laugh as he started to dress.

On the way, he told her more about their destination: "It's been abandoned for at least twenty years now. Place was shut down for all kinds of bad shit -- mistreatment, sexual abuse, keeping people well after they shoulda been released... patients just wandering around half-naked and drugged outta their minds. Sure, it was an insane asylum, but that's crazy."

He chuckled at his own joke while she rolled her eyes. "Why haven't they torn it down then? Place has gotta be falling apart."

"Some kinda governmental land dispute crap. Y'know, trying to figure out who's supposed to pay for demolition and all that. It was built back when they built shit to last, all brick and steel. You saw the pictures I pulled up on the internet... still standing tall and proud as the day it was finished."

"Yeah, it looks impressive in the pictures. I hope we don't get there and find it burned to the ground."

Slowing down to catch their exit, he glanced at her quickly. "If it's a bust, I'll take you shopping, okay? I already found an outlet mall not far from it." She wiggled in her seat; he knew how to plan ahead for every occasion.

Finding the parking lot that was within walking distance, they took a moment to gather their provisions. Fast food wasn't his first choice for breakfast, but she had insisted on getting some "eggy goodness" for energy. They began to make their way through the first patch of forest.

After a couple minutes, a path opened in front of them. He figured it was an old access road to the asylum and stopped to scan their surroundings. Across the way, there was a large wooden post with a sign on it. As they approached, he knew they were headed in the right direction:

"Sayermount Hospital

Private Property

No trespassing"

Underneath, scrawled in black marker: "Welcome to Hell" and an arrow pointing ahead.

She paused. "Hell? That sounds so inviting."

"Kids think their so dark and evil. Be prepared for lotsa dumb graffiti full of devil horns, bad grammar, and tons of penises."

"Wasn't sure if I wanted to go until you mentioned penises," she quipped, grabbing his hand and dragging him onwards.

It wasn't much further before they saw the tops of the main building peeking over the trees. Even from a distance they saw the overgrowth, greenery jutting off the roof and down the sides. The path wound around as if they had made it to avoid nature. A parking lot that had become a field appeared on their left; the concrete posts that marked the reserved spaces were tombstones of the past.

An intact gazebo, large enough to fit a wedding party, stood next to the lot. They decided to take a break, eat their food, and stare at what lay in front of them. Pictures did it no justice. As much as it seemed that the earth was attempting to reclaim the land stolen by man, man's testament to time fought back. Many of the windows were broken, and in a few spots the walls were open, but overall it was still in charge of the ground it stood on.

"Geez, will ya look at that," she pointed up at the edge of the highest building. A tree was sticking out, careless of gravity. Someone had tied a rope onto one of the lowest branches, and what appeared to be a stuffed animal was dangling in the wind. "Fucking weirdos... 'Oooh, I'm sooo clever, this'll be freaking people out'." She waved her arms in mock excitement. "'I'm so cool'... Tuh, idiots."

They stuffed their trash into an over-flowing receptacle full of beer bottles and other fast food wrappers. "C'mon," he said, stepping down onto the broken pavement, "Let's find a way in."

There were signs of a makeshift path along the side of the main building: trampled grass, broken branches, and shifted debris marked the way inside. A fire door, rusted and bent, was pried away just enough to squeeze through. The only light was what crept through with them, so he took out the flashlight. In the darkness of the stairwell, above and below swallowed their sight.

Even with the beam of light, shadows loomed all around. The way up seemed promising but after the first landing was blocked with stone and file cabinets, they worked their way down. Smells of mildew and stale air were heavy, and she tired not to breathe through her nose.

At the bottom, they could see sunlight pushing past the remains of low windows. It looked like a service corridor, doors spaced out along the left side. They peered in the first one and were disappointed by the empty room. The next two were much the same, only filled with litter.

The third room held their attention. He thought it was the furnace room, but a lingering odor pushed the truth into him quickly: they'd found a crematorium. Its large metal door was wide open and a series of platforms were slid out. A previous visitor left a sneaker sitting on the edge, probably hoping to give someone the creeps.

It worked on her. "Okay... I'm ready to move on now." She could see another stairway at the end of the corridor, and felt the need to get up and out of the basement.

Going up this time was easier. There were tiny windows all the way up, and aside from discarded paper and more broken bottles, nothing was in their way. They looked through the doorway at the first landing, seeing patient quarters on both sides. They traversed up to the next floor; it was the same except for a collapsed inner wall at the far end. The next floor held more interest, as he could see the signs for the asylum's chapel.

"This way. Watch your step." In one of the forums he had read there were talks that the chapel was the only room untouched by vandals. He hoped it was true.

Pushing on the door, it budged slowly, trying to keep him out. "Gimme a hand, please?"

"Only because you said please," she laughed, putting her shoulder to the door next to him.

It relented to their combined efforts. He was not disappointed; she stood there, in awe of the scene. The pews were straight, evenly spaced, moldy bibles sitting in the pockets on the backs of each set. A beautiful stained glass window in the shape of the cross lit the pulpit in a cascade of rainbows. High above, two ornate chandeliers still hung, bulbs glimmering. The only signs that anyone had been in there were scuff marks and handprints in the decades old dust. It was truly a stunning sight.

He walked slowly, taking it all in. Normally talkative, she was swept into silence, trying to fumble with her phone to take photos of their find.

*click*

He spun on his heels and shouted, "NO! DON'T!"

Startled, she dropped her phone. "What the fuck is wrong with..." was all she got out before he ascended on her. He snatched her by the arms and pulled her close, spittle frothing in the corners of his angry mouth.

"Taking images in this holy place is a sin!" His voice tore at her ears. "Blasphemy in the house of the Lord is a sin! Do you understand?!?"

Terrified, she tried to pull away, but his grip was iron, his hands hot. Something passed over his face, a shadow in the light.

A whisper wormed into her brain: "Blasphemer... heretic... sinner..." It repeated over and over, wrapping around her consciousness. 'Yes,' she thought, 'I am a sinner.'

He started yelling, more gibberish than words. "Foul foul foul thing arghhhplease thy faaaaathrrr... lick cleeeeannnn their harrrrrrrts..." Voices welled up from the ceiling, from beneath the pews. More shadows stirred, enticed by the new intruders. She was weeping, pleading for mercy, tears blurring her sight as the shadows blurred reality.

A newer noise piped in -- her phone chimed, the alarm she had forgotten to cancel. The sound grabbed the faint bit of her memory, dragged her back to temporary sanity. She could see the whites of his eyes, the tendons in his neck taunt with the strain of his ramblings.

With a jerking motion, she broke free of his grasp. He was motionless except for his mouth, drooling and spitting out nonsense. In a panic, she ran from the room, sprinting faster than she could ever imagine. Halfway down the stairwell she paused for a second.

'I should go back and get him,' she briefly thought, but a loud scream from the hall above pushed her back to flight. Retracing their steps was simple, yet the darkness of the basement disoriented her. Everything was closing in, the sun shying away from assisting her exit. She fell once before making it to the next stairway. The wet walls were almost comforting beneath her hands as she carefully groped her way up and out. The final door was there, right in front of her, the world waiting for her return.

The hand that snatched her by the ankle tripped her forward. Instinctively she kicked, screamed. It let go and she scrambled for freedom.

By the time someone found her wandering in the parking lot, the sun was beginning to set. An hour later, with police and an ambulance arriving, it was dark outside. The red and blue lights swung through the night. An officer on duty that night told his wife, "I wish they'd tear that damned place down already... I'm getting tired of all these missing kids...

"Tear it down and salt the earth."

#short story #amatuer writing

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jonathanalumbaugh · 6 years

Text

Weekly Digest

Dec 23, 2017, 4th issue.

A roundup of stuff I consumed this week. Published weekly. All reading is excerpted from the main article unless otherwise noted.

Read

When women are discussed on the main economics discussion forum, the conversation moves from the professional to the personal...

Even with generous subsidies, low-income people are still unlikely to buy health insurance...

Managers are biased negatively against minority workers, and this, in turn, makes the minority workers perform worse...

Living standards may be growing faster than GDP growth...

The World Bank’s $1-a-day poverty line inadequately deals with local context, and a better measure can be derived through more complicated math...

Decriminalizing sex work makes it safer and more common...

Poor kids who grow up in rich neighborhoods do a lot better than poor kids who grow up in poor ones...

Better trained doctors mean fewer opioid related deaths...

After a bad outcome, female surgeon’s referrals went down much more than male surgeons...

The average worker does not value an Uber-like ability to set their own schedule...

Foreign finance has led to more inequality...

Preschool programs targeted at the poor don’t work nearly as well as universal pre-school programs...

Shocks to the economy in certain sectors can have larger effects on the entire economy than previously thought...

— 13 economists on the research that shaped our world in 2017

Comments section: Pilote345 - NO WONDER: Recently, the pilots' pay was less than it was in the 1980's. They might be trying to improve, but for example, I just now found Allegiant Air found pays MD-80 1st Officers $34,440.00, not much more than the $15/hour crowd wants for starting burger flippers.

— Airlines battle growing pilot shortage that could reach crisis levels in a few years

— APOLLO 10 0N BOARD V0ICE TRANSCRIPTION

Under Schmidt’s leadership, Google notched its fair share of not-quite-not-evil missteps. After getting everyone hooked on Gmail and Search, the company started to erode some of its original privacy promises.

— Be Kind of Evil

“People want to cast it as a choice between policy or technology as a solution but those should exist hand-in-hand. We would have never gotten renewable energy prices where they are today without really ambitious public policy. It shows the importance of bold goals,” Brown says.

— California Poised To Hit 50% Renewable Target A Full Decade Ahead Of Schedule

“Keep your phone away from your body,” the state health department writes. “Although the science is still evolving, some laboratory experiments and human health studies have suggested the possibility” that typical long-term cell phone use could be linked to “brain cancer and tumors of the acoustic nerve,” “lower sperm counts,” and “effects on learning and memory.”

— California says the only safe way to talk on your cell phone is to text

Developer infatuation with Chrome is not good — because competition between browsers is good.

— Chrome is Not the Standard

The initial physical deployment of 5G networks alone could pack a major economic punch. A 2017 Accenture report forecasts the cellular communications industry will invest $275 billion in new networks, which will create up to 3 million jobs and add some $500 billion to the United States’ gross domestic product. Longer term, researchers expect the new 5G networks to help stimulate productivity growth to rates not seen since the 1950s.

— The Coming 5G Revolution

In early tests, the company claims the feature helped to reduce ghosting behavior on its service by 25 percent.

— Dating app Hinge rolls out a new feature to reduce ‘ghosting’

Liberated from the diamond and pointing calmly eastward, perhaps a designer’s pure intent is revealed—direction for an otherwise aimless walk in the woods.

— Decoding the Mysterious Markers on the Appalachian Trail

Trade the ginkgo biloba for a bag of spinach during your next stop at the store: Leafy greens may be your best resource for boosting memory... The study involved 960 people, all between 58 and 99 and without dementia. Everyone enrolled in the study was part of the Memory and Aging Project, which has been ongoing since 1979 at the Knight Alzheimer's Disease Research Center at Washington University.

— EATING SALAD EVERY DAY KEEPS BRAINS 11 YEARS YOUNGER AND PREVENTS DEMENTIA, STUDY SHOWS

— Edward Snowden on Twitter

Commander Persera swam out into intergalactic space last week, she says in a forum post, piloting a ship called the Jack of Flames. The reason for the trip is simply to go further from Sol than anyone else (a previous record was set by one Commander Deluvian, who travelled 65,652 lightyears from Sol along a similar route). But also, she says, to bring a canister of mugs from the infamous Hutton Orbital space station into the void and leave them there. Just because.

— Elite Dangerous pilots are scrambling to rescue an explorer stranded in the void between galaxies

[Eminem says] that he's not making his music for other artists who aren't fans to begin with.

— Eminem Responds to Vince Staples’ Criticism of Him

Reports so far claim the spec will offer support for low, mid, and high-band spectrum from below 1 GHz (like 600 and 700 MHz) all the way up to around 50 GHz while including the 3.5 GHz band. It’s been said that the first 5G networks for consumers will begin rolling out in 2019 and this will continue throughout 2020.

— First 5G Specification has been Declared Complete by the 3GPP

As Brian and his wife wandered off toward the No. 2 train afterward, it crossed my mind that he was the kind of guy who might have ended up a groomsman at my wedding if we had met in college. That was four years ago. We’ve seen each other four times since. We are “friends,” but not quite friends. We keep trying to get over the hump, but life gets in the way.

— Friends of a Certain Age

Comment section: Blaming Amazon for this is wrong. The people make a choice to work for them. This is an indictment on our society that forces these people to have to work. Amazon isn’t a charity that should have to take care of people. But it’s all of us who are to blame.

— A Glimpse Inside CamperForce, Amazon's Disposable Retiree Laborers

Effective filmmakers, no matter their genre or taste, put their fingers in the air, feel for a current, and then make art that either complements or pushes against it. They distill the world they live in, which is why there’s no such thing as an apolitical film.

— How Big Screen Sci-Fi and Horror Captured 2016’s Political Paranoia

The Legislative Analyst’s Office predicts California will eventually make more than $1 billion annually from taxing recreational marijuana.

— HOW RECREATIONAL MARIJUANA IN CALIFORNIA LEFT CHEMISTS IN THE DARK

What makes for an effective office environment? Random encounters with your coworkers. And food. Lots and lots of food.

— How to Build a Collaborative Office Space Like Pixar and Google

Fidelity suggests having your yearly income saved at 30, three times your income at 40, seven times your income at 55, and 10 times your income at 67.

— How Much Should You Have Saved at Every Age?

HCI (human-computer interaction) is the study of how people interact with computers and to what extent computers are or are not developed for successful interaction with human beings.

— Human-computer interaction, from University of Birmingham

The company says it is now focused on “on developing and investing in globally scalable blockchain technology solutions,” but, as reported by Bloomberg, it has exactly zero partnerships in the works with crypto firms

— Iced Tea Maker's Stock Price Triples After Adding 'Blockchain' to Name”

9 “Should you invite someone who assaulted you to your wedding.” No.

— It Came From The Search Terms: “I Can See The Sun In Late December”

The best way to cook a steak is medium rare. Plenty of people will disagree with this statement, for different reasons.

— Medium Rare: The Best Way to Cook a Steak

It sounds like it was made by an algorithm. It checks off so many boxes it could land in anyone’s “Because you watched” recommendations.

— Netflix’s first big movie “Bright” feels like a blockbuster built by an algorithm

State law that is rarely invoked requires tied elections to be settled by “lot.”

— Oyster shucking? A duel? No, Virginia will pull a name from a film canister to settle tied election

— Parents give teacher wine with son's face on label

— Reggie Watts: Fuck Shit Stack

— Reggie Watts: Humor in music

Self-efficacy is defined as a personal judgement of "how well one can execute courses of action required to deal with prospective situations".

— Self-efficacy (Wikipedia)

The problem Haven aims to address is known as an “evil maid” attack. Basically, many of the precautions you might take to protect your cybersecurity can go out the window if someone gains physical access to your device.

— Snowden's New App Turns Your Spare Android Phone into a Pocket-Sized Security System

After doing a lot of online research and making a terrible mess, I thought I could make a tutorial for humble people like me. If I can do it, you can do it too.

— The Ultimate Guide to DIY Screw Post Book Binding

The robot obediently appeared in the distance, floating next to Miller. Miller then walked into the same space as the robot and promptly disappeared. Well, mostly disappeared, I could still see his legs jutting out from the bottom of the robot. My first reaction was, “Of course that’s what happens.” But then I realized I was seeing a fictional thing created by Magic Leap technology completely obscure a real-world human being. My eyes were seeing two things existing in the same place and had decided that the creation, not the engineer, was the real thing and simply ignored Miller, at least that’s how Abovitz later explained it to me.

— We Need to Talk About Magic Leap's Freaking Goggles

What’s this mistake so many make? It’s using your current job title as your headline.

— What Your LinkedIn Headline Reveals About Your Self-Confidence At Work

With the Dec. 14 repeal, Comcast and others will be able to charge content companies exorbitant fees without, technically, blocking. This fundamentally changes how the internet works, argues Ryan Singel, a fellow at the Center for Internet and Society at Stanford Law School.

— What will happen now that net neutrality is gone? We asked the experts

The story [Cat Person] stuck with me because I, too, have felt like the story’s main character, Margot. I have belittled myself to make a man in a vulnerable situation feel more comfortable. I have allowed myself to spend time with boys who I did not like that much but who I felt I owed my time to because they really liked me. And I have also taken part in the practice of ghosting- ignoring somebody who is texting me, instead of outright rejecting them. With time, I have gotten much better at being straightforward when someone is interested in me and the feeling is not reciprocated, but I still do the dance many women do: We exert energy into finding the most polite, passive way to get ourselves out of uncomfortable situations with men.

— Why Women Are Ghosting You

#weekly digest

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thatshankcallednewt · 7 years

Text

The Maze Runner: High School AU - Gally: Together - Part One

A/N: Okay, so this is the official part one of Together. For some reason it took me a lot longer to title this series! Most of this chapter was posted in the preview, sorry, but I will get another chapter out soon. But if you did read the preview, there is still a chunk of this part that hasn’t been posted so make sure you still read that!

Thanks to everyone who left notes + replies :-)

“So…” Your teacher starts, his glasses sitting on the edge of his nose; his hands rifling through papers of a folder that seems to have been taped up at the binding to keep it from splitting right through. “You requested extra credit, is that right?” How could anyone acquire a folder that… size?

You nod your head slowly, but continue to stare at the bulging folder of however many detentions, changed schools or broken rules that could be filled with. Impossible, you think to yourself. Mr Francis takes a sip from his coffee, pulls out a single sheet of paper, and places it on top of the desk in front of him. You look around his office, crammed with books mostly of education, a few photos of his family, drawings from little kids, and few knick-knacks here and there. And the smell of dust and coffee, almost budding onto an old people smell, fills your nostrils. You know he isn’t that old but you do spot a few greying hairs on his head.

His eyes avert to another piece of paper lying next to it, “I see you have tutored before…” He starts, pushing the glasses up the bridge of his nose. He has a kind of tiredness to his voice, like an extension – it’s there but he could choose to get rid of it if he wanted to. “But you stopped quite abruptly with this student, how come?”

You clear your throat a little before talking, “The student was… he was troubled. And I’m putting that lightly.”

Mr Francis nods his head, “You do know that most kids who need tutoring are troubled in some way?”

You laugh, not loudly, just lightly; it sort of floats from your mouth and hangs in the air inappropriately. “Everyone is troubled, Mr Francis. Tutoring that student, however, put me in danger and at risk, I was pulled from it without question. I had no choice.”

Mr Francis looks up at you for a moment, neither amusement or understanding reflecting back in his eyes. “Galileo.”

You frown, “Excuse me?”

Mr Francis sighs, and removes the glasses from his nose. “Galileo, he is in the grade above you. A senior.”

You look from Mr Francis to the overflowing folder, “You mean… Gally, right? On the football team?”

His eyes narrow, and you suddenly find yourself feeling a little bit uncomfortable under his glare. “Yes, Gally. Whatever his name is nowadays.” He takes another sip from his coffee, the smell beginning to overwhelm you. Not that you do not like coffee, in fact, you live off of it most days. But you can smell instant coffee at the drop of the hat, and on the worst days it can make you feel so much as nausea. “You will be tutoring Gally, starting after school today.”

“Already?” You dare to question, and as your sentence of defiance leaves your lips you already regret speaking. “I mean, I’m just not quite sure if I’m prepared yet. Sometimes I like to bring materials with me to the session that I think might help—

“You will be starting the first session after your classes today, Miss Y/L/N, this is his address,” he slides you a smaller piece of paper with an address scribbled onto it, barely readable, and a phone number underneath. “The phone number is a direct number to my office, in case you have any problems.” He sits back into his chair, and it creaks with age. “Any questions, Y/N?”

“Well… yeah, actually. Do you really think it’s a good idea for me to tutor Gally?”

He only looks back at you, confused and irritated from the assumption that you have some sort of bad attitude to his proposal.

“I don’t think a Senior would want a Junior to tutor him… How is that even possible anyway?”

Mr Francis sighs, “Look, all I know is he needs the help and you’re willing to do it. Yes, he is in the grade above you but you are smart enough to handle that. And if he doesn’t agree with you then that is his own problem, we are providing him the help; he just needs to take it.” He takes this moment now to cough a, unfortunately, phlegmy kind of cough which leads into an almost fit. After he finishes, he takes another sip from his coffee, “No more questions?”

You shake your head, and then collect your bag; picking the piece of paper off of his desk as you walk out. You stare down at the address for the second time, the pace of your heartbeat growing faster. Unfortunately, like all cities, there is always that one neighbourhood, or that one side of town, where things are a bit sketchy. Unfortunately for you, that is where Gally lives. Now, you are not one for discrimination and judgment on others, but it is what it is, and what worries you most is getting to his house. You shake the worry from your head and walk down the school’s corridor, shoving the slip of paper into your jacket pocket.

“Y/N!” A familiar face calls out along the lockers, it’s Thomas. You smile, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you walk over to him. “Coming to watch me play lacrosse tonight?” A cute little grin spreads across his lips, and you swear you see a twinkle in his eye.

However, the giddiness you feel from him stops short as you remember your tutoring session. “I’m not so sure at the moment…”

Thomas frowns, “What? You never skip a game!” He shakes his head, “What will I tell Newt? Teresa? The gang!?” He continues to cry in an over-dramatic tone, as usual when he wants to be funny or entertaining.

You laugh and slap his shoulder playfully, “You know I wouldn’t skip a game if I didn’t absolutely have to.” You feel the slip of paper in your pocket again, the corner of it jutting into the skin of your side. “Besides, it’s not a definite no, it’s just not a definite yes.”

Thomas looks at you suspiciously as he reaches into his locker, pulling out a textbook for his homework, “You’re not… going on a date, are you? Because, as delightful as that would be, I could not give my blessings and approval if he’s taking you away from my lacrosse game.” He chuckles at himself, zipping the backpack up.

“No, there’s no date or hang out even… It’s just school stuff.” You lean your back against the locker beside his, “Hopefully it won’t drag on for too long though. Wouldn’t want to miss seeing you smash those losers from Oak High, now would I?”

“No, you wouldn’t!” He smiles, and slings his backpack up onto one of his shoulders, “I got to run, but I hope you can make it tonight! Bye!” He says, jogging off in a hurry down the opposite way you were heading.

“Bye!” You call after him. You then find your way to your own locker, pack the necessary items, and then leave. Once you reach the doors of the school you take out your mobile phone and send a text to Teresa, explaining that you can’t go for milkshakes with her, Brenda and Newt this afternoon… and like with Thomas, you do not go into much detail as of why.

You take out the piece of paper again, some of the ink has been smudged off –probably because you had sweaty hands or something— and you try and think about which bus would take the fastest route there. You then conclude that the train might actually be the better way to go, so you tuck the paper away again and head down the path towards the train station.

You tug at your jumper, pulling the sleeves over your fingers to keep them from going numb. You really underestimated the weather today, and now you’ll have to suffer those consequences. You keep walking, passing by other students and strangers along the way until you spot a group of seniors up ahead. They block most of the path so you are going to have to push through them or go around. You consider back-tracking completely but as you think of it you realise you are just about to walk through the group, so you keep your head down and hope no one notices your existence.

You make it through without a scratch, relief flooding your anxious mind. However, you spot the train pulling up to the station ahead, and you mumble a curse word as you begin to walk faster. But then, a low grumble of a voice calls out to you, “Hey! You!”

You turn around, wide-eyed, and look towards the person who called for you. He has quite short dark hair, piercing green eyes; and he’s massive. Okay, maybe not massive, but he’s very tall. Very intimidating. Very—

“Are you Y/N?”

You blink, and take in his facial features one more time. Soon you realise this is the boy you are supposed to be tutoring today. Gally. You hadn’t seen him a whole lot before, you could only remember that he was tall and on the football team; but he does not wear the famous jacket like his teammates, instead he wears a leather jacket that reflects strips of sunlight at different angles. “Uh, yeah, yeah that’s me.”

He blinks back too, and looks unsure of what to say. His eyes slowly travel over your face, and your height, as if to size you up or something. “Mr… Mr Francis said—Suddenly he stops talking altogether and looks over his shoulder, glancing back at his classmates who do not seem to be that interested in the conversation you two are having, but even so, he pulls you aside anyway. “You’re tutoring me today, right?” His voice is still rather gruff and raspy, but at a hushed tone.

You nod, barely making eye contact. Then you gesture towards the train that is now leaving its stop, “I was going to take the train…”

He looks towards the train station and then back to you, “Are you crazy? You should never take the train to my house, that stop is known for drug deals and all sorts.” He looks away for a moment, as if contemplating something, “Besides, I was going to give you a lift in my car anyway; safer that way.” He then grabs his bag up from the hood of another car and nods over at his friends, “I’ll see you guys later.” He grabs onto your arm and pulls you along with him further down the pathway, you become so intimidated that your feet stumble over one another and almost trip you up. He glances down at you, “Can you walk like a normal person please? People are going to think I’m forcing you to come with me or something.” You turn back for a moment and see his friends and their friends staring after you, some even wolf-whistling or hooting.

You laugh nervously, “You kind of are,” you gesture to his hand still wrapped around your arm. He lets go of your arm, especially as he hears his friends making suggestive noises.

He stops at a nicely-sized car, unlocks it, and hops in. You follow, sliding into shot-gun, your heart pounding. You’ve never really gotten into a car with some guy you don’t know too well… Isn’t this the exact situation your parents teach you to not do?

“Sorry about them, they don’t know about the tutoring so of course they think of the only other possibility.” He laughs a little bit, but it dies down when he realises you don’t laugh with him. “Oh, and, them not knowing, I would like to keep it that way.”

You continue to look out the window, “Yeah, sure. No problem.”

Gally backs out of the car park, quite swiftly and with ease, and then drives out of the school onto the main road. Stores, houses and wandering people pass by, and you try to keep your focus on them but the thought of Gally sitting right next to you doesn’t leave your mind. And that he’s the one controlling the vehicle. What if he’s one of those crazy drivers that gets off on putting themselves in danger? You hope not.

“I didn’t know that… well,” he starts, his voice a little crackly and uncertain. “You’re a Junior, right?”

You gulp, daring not to look at him in the eyes, “Y-yeah, a Junior.”

He pauses for a moment, and it’s like the silence between you stretches for minutes. “Okay.”

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, so you take it out cautiously. The text is from Teresa, and reads:

that’s ok, hope to see u tonight!

You chew your bottom lip, realising that it might not be as easy to get away as you thought. A part of you wants to help Gally, and to respect the chance of extra credit that you’ve been given by the school, but a part of you just wishes you could take advantage of his probable disinterest in being tutored and leave early. You turn the display screen off and put the phone away, hoping that you’ll come up with a decision later.

You slow down to a stop at a red light, and Gally takes this moment to flick through a few radio stations. Another car pulls up beside you, their music blaring, windows down and laughter filling through your own barely open window. Your eyes wander over to the car and the head in the opposite window that bops to the music causes you to shriek and duck down so your no longer in view.

Gally jumps slightly and the sound you make and glances down over at you, his eyebrows creased in concern, “What?” He looks out the windscreen and notices nothing, then he looks out your window. His eyebrows slowly become undone from the furrow they were in, and then he turns back to face forward. Minutes go by, and neither of you move or speak. You finally hear the music fade out into the distance as the car turns its corner, a sigh of relief escapes your lips as you sit up.

Gally’s foot presses onto the gas pedal and the car takes off, continuing its path straight down the road. “Didn’t tell your friends either?”

You straighten up a little bit more, and glance over at him. Hardened jaw, eyes straight, and hands stiff against the wheel. “I just thought… because you’re a Senior…”

He blinks once and then swallows before answering, “Yeah. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Time passes by as a throaty and hoarse voice talks through the radio and streets go past in a blur of colours. A younger woman mentions the weather, and then it goes back to him as he announces the next song. A new song from Y/F/B. As the intro plays, Gally’s fingers find themselves over the volume dial; spinning it to turn the volume up.

You smile, “You like this song?”

He taps his fingers on the wheel to the beat of the song, “Yeah… yeah I do, actually. They’re my favourite band, since forever ago.”

“Same! Have you heard all of their newest album?” You say excitedly.

“Only a few songs, just whatever’s been played on the radio. I haven’t… haven’t had the time to go out and get the CD.”

You smile to yourself, thankful that you two have something in common and that he’s someone to buy a hard copy version of music still. You know iTunes music is relevantly easier, but the CD makes it so you have something physical. “Well, if you like, I can play you the CD when we get to your house, I have it in my bag.”

He seems to smile at this, or at least the colour in his eyes goes lighter. You’re not sure, but something about his mood definitely changes. “That would be great.”

You sit back into the car seat after turning up the song just a little bit more, since it’s your favourite part, and quietly sing the lyrics until the song is over.

Part Two

#thatshankcallednewtimagine #tmr imagines #tmr gally #will poulter #tmr #tst #tdc #tfc #tmr fanfiction #reader x gally

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goodguyjean · 7 years

Note

(1/3)Hello, random person again with a long rambling theory about Jean's class background because I have actually thought a lot about it because I have a Problem with worldbuilding. So here's my theory. Trost used to be a relatively affluent town (we can imagine it as a marketplace, as it would be a natural point of entry for Maria agricultural's goods towards the inner walls, and we know from canon that there were some sales companies like Reeves corporation), until Wall Maria fell.

Helloagain, Random Person! Thank you for sending me this headcanon! There’s no suchthing as “thinking too much” about Jean! That’s kind of the premise of thisblog, after all xD. Longass Jean-Metas Unlimited.

I’msorry it’s taken me a bit to get back to you and I’m sorry if this post is alittle rambling: I’m quite sick today and it feels like I’m really strugglingto think properly lol.

I’m putting my answer under the cut because it is kinda long (oops!).

I think what you posit here makes a lot of sense! And you’re perfectly entitled to keepthis as your headcanon for Jean’s backstory because Isayama has shownabsolutely no interest in providing one for him (in fact, his fake preview forthe end of volume six looks to me like a flippant refusal to come up with aproper past for Jean xD). In the manga, the only things we know for certainabout Jean is that he grew up in Trost, he didn’t like it because he views it as dangerous (mostly because of the titans and the military, I should say; I don’t think it’s because of the refugees: more on that later), and he has a mother.Your theory addresses all of these canon facts, so I think it holds up!

It’scertainly very likely that Jean and his family (whoever they are; I’ll comeback to this) underwent a class shift after the Fall of Wall Maria. As yourightly point out, Jean’s family staysin Trost after the Fall, indicating that they probably did not have the meansto relocate. And I think it’s safe to say that those who could relocate did do so based on these panels here:

Chapter 3.

I think we can infer from Franz and Hannah here that people left Trost because they were afraid of the titans.We also know (from Jean and Armin) that a lot of people “left” Trost on a doomed mission to retake Wall Maria. These people were probably mostlyrefugees, like Armin’s family (I will hold the fort that Armin’s parents ANDhis grandfather were taken out during the cull, since that is what the mangasays, even if it doesn’t make a ton of sense … again, Isayama, pleaseprovide proper and consistent backstories for your characters). So I think aportion of Jean’s cynical worldview, as you say, must come from watching thegovernment/military round up the desperate people they should be attempting toshelter and sending them out to die while calling them “heroes.”

I willsay that I have a hard time coming up with what Jean’s life may have been likepre-Fall. On the one hand, it makes sense that Trost might be an affluentcenter of trade between the walls and that Jean’s family might have been welloff compared to his fellows. On the other, Jean never says he’s trying toreclaim a lifestyle that he’s lost. When he talks about life in the interior,he’s always kind of vague about what the life will look like: it’s “comfortable”and “safe”, but also not something many people get to experience.

Chapter3. The fact that Jean says “right?” multiple times suggests to me that he’s not entirely sure what things are really like in the interior.

So,while I think his life was certainly disrupted by the events of the Fall andwitnessing the cull, I’m not sure about the extent to which his class statuschanged.

In theprocess of thinking through Jean’s backstory based on your headcanon, I wentback and tried to glean what info I could about Trost from the manga. Inaddition to probably being market hubs, Isayama says that all of the walledtowns (including the ones on Wall Maria) receive an economic boost from thesoldiers stationed there. According to a page of extra information in volumeone, the military focuses its efforts on guarding the walled towns and theirgates because those areas are designed to attract titans so the military won’thave to spread themselves thin guarding the other parts of the wall. Isayamawrites: “Having troops garrisoned at the town guarantees an economicbenefit for the area, but that economic benefit falls short compared to thefear of being eaten by a titan. Thus, not many people are enthused about livingin these towns.” However, I think a place like pre-Fall Trost would have lesstrouble attracting people, considering that it would probably seem safer than atown jutting out from Wall Maria, say. So it could have been quite adecent place to live, all things considered!

Post-FallTrost seems to have been a scarier place, although there was still money to bemade there, according to Dimo Reeves:

Chapter 54.

Itseems like their economy relied even more heavily on the army post-Fall. Involume two, Reeves makes a comment about supplying the soldiers:

Chapter 5.

Inaddition, it appears a lot of post-Fall Trost’s taxes go to the soldiers. Itseems to be an area that both depends upon and resents that dependence on themilitary.

Chapter 53.

Thisinteraction takes place after the Battle of Trost, but the fact that he says“taxes are as high as ever” suggests a tense relationship with the military asboth their economic benefactors but also the people who are gobbling up theirresources.

So,ultimately, it appears post-Fall Trost became a much more stressful place to livethat was even more dependent on the military, and perhaps that’s why Jean sawbecoming a soldier as his ticket to getting away from the front line (as weirdas that phrase it is to type: Annie’s right to term the whole situation afarce, I think).

Butthere are still things that don’t add up to me: for instance, Jean’s mother.

Chapter 72.

Isayama includes brief mentions of her in chapters 70 and 72 of the manga, which Ithink are supposed to allude back to the OVA, but there’s a lot that just …doesn’t make any sense about the OVA. First of all, it stars the Character-Formerly-Known-As-Jeanwho’s nowhere near as well developed as Jean is in the manga (so he’s missingall the defeatism and desperation that makes Jean so interesting and causes usto speculate about his backstory), and secondly it suggests that Jean’s familylived a comfortable life even after the Fall of Wall Maria, which doesn’t seemvery likely, considering they were stuck in Trost. Most importantly, if Jean’smother was living in Trost during the attack why doesn’t Jean express any concern for her wellbeing? Given whatwe have to go on in the manga, I choose to believe that she had managed torelocate somehow before the attack on Trost … no matter how estranged sheand Jean may be, I can’t imagine Jean, of all people, not worrying about hisown other mother if she were ever under direct threat.

Additionally,Jean doesn’t offer any info about Trost (for example, he doesn’t seem to know athing about the Reeves Company, who apparently help run his town …) toSquad Levi during the Uprising arc. He doesn’t muse over what happened to itduring the attack, reflect on how it’s changed significantly over the years: hejust really doesn’t seem to care about it at all. It’s unusual, to say theleast. Even if he hated it (as is kind of implied by his earliest rants aboutit being a shitty border-town) it seems unusual that returning to Trost wouldn’tspark some kind of reaction in him. Basically, I’m not sure Isayama reallythought through all the implications of Jean coming from Trost when he decided on that it was Jean’s hometown …

Anyway,thank you for sending me your thoughts! Hopefully this isn’t too much a mess,haha. And feel free to message me with more ideas; I’m always up for a chatabout Jean! xD

#replies #anonymous #longass jean replies xD #jean kirstein

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eirabach · 7 years

Text

All (We) Want

So, in the Writers’ Hub we have quite the selection of opinions on when, where and if Captain Swan have ever done the deed. I took it upon myself to um... bring some of those scenarios to life.

4.4k of pure smutiness in various forms. Rated M. On ao3 HERE

Credit to @winterbythesea @ofshipsandswans @hencethebravery @dassala and @businesscasualprincess for the situations and @captainwiley and @irishswanff for the sprinting help. Did I say credit? I meant blame.

Also @killiancygnus. Because ily.

1. Neverland

He can feel the weight of her stare on the back of his neck as he turns from the helm, her regard following him as his invisible companion as he moves to go below.

She's been sitting at the bow since sunset, the sky spreading before her like a sea of stars, but her face has never turned towards them, nor has she looked down at the glittering carpet of the ocean below. Her attention has been fixed, wholly and completely, on him.

It makes him nervous in a way he hasn't felt in centuries - her silent perusal combined with the thrill of his newly discovered feelings leaving him quite lightheaded.

He wants her to watch him, but more than that he wants her to want.

He slips a hand into his jacket pocket in search of his flask - anything to soothe his frayed nerves - but he comes up empty.

“Lost something?” she calls, holding his flask between finger and thumb, her lip curled sardonically. “You're not the only pirate around here.”

“You need only have asked, Swan,” he says, shuffling over with hand outstretched. To his surprise she pulls the flask back, holding it close to her chest and watching him with hooded eyes.

“Is that true?” she asks, her voice low.

“Is what true, love?” he asks, snatching for the flask and scowling slightly as she refuses to hand it over.

“That I only have to ask.”

Her gaze flicks down his body as she speaks, then rises to fix on his lips.

Killian swallows hard.

“Maybe you should go below,” he ventures, oddly unnerved at the way she's still focused on him. “Get some rest.”

“You didn't answer my question,” she says, her tongue coming out to wet her lips and gods above but he can already taste her. “Do I only have to ask?”

He draws back slightly, his hand wandering to his belt and his eyebrow lifting. It’s safer this way - this flirtation, this dance - it’s something he’s perfected over centuries. Something he can rely on when his traitorous heart starts pounding out her name.

“Well I don’t know, love,” he says, bravado in every sway of his hips. “Why don’t you try?”

She juts her chin out, shoulders back, body taunt, and he thinks he might have misjudged her.

“I’m tired,” she says. “I’m tired and I don’t want to go below, because below is where my ex is, and my fairytale parents, and the woman who raised my son. My son, who I already lost, and I almost lost him again and if it weren’t - ”

She’s trembling, just a little, her body betraying her even though there’s fire burning behind her eyes, and he almost reaches for her only he’s afraid to be burnt. She set him smoldering in the jungles of Neverland with one kiss and if he touches her now - if he touches her now he’ll be cinders and ashes.

“If it weren’t for you,” she spits from between gritted teeth. “I’d have lost them all.”

“No you wouldn’t,” he shoots back, more certain than he’s ever been. “You wouldn’t have lost them, Swan. You’re a fighter. You’re the Savior. You’ll always win.”

She takes a deep breath, her eyes flitting closed before opening to fix on his.

“Will I?”

“I know it.”

She’s on him in seconds, her lips just as rum-tainted and soft as he remembers, her body just as forceful against his own as she pushes him back against the guardrail, her hands in his hair, at his collar, skimming under his coat.

“I want to forget,” she mutters breathlessly against his jaw as her hands slide lower and lower. “Hook, I want you to make me forget.”

“Here?” He curses himself for the crack in his voice, but they’re flying a fathom above the ocean’s surface and her over-protective father is dozing only feet below them. “Are you quite certain?”

“Didn’t take you for the shy type,” she says, her grin wolflike against his throat. “You said I only had to ask. I’m asking.”

“In that case,” he breathes, gathering his senses enough to pull her body against his own, his hand smoothing over the hot skin of her back before it works its way lower, her skintight breeches falling victim to a pirate’s quest for treasure as he works them over her hips, her sighs more precious than gold. “I am at your service.”

He turns her to face the endless sky, holding her close to his body with his arm while his fingers work to draw ever more delicious sounds from her mouth.

“Look at the stars,” he tells her as her head lolls back against his shoulder. “See how unchangeable they are? They’re fixed, as we are.” He runs kisses down the side of her throat, stopping to suckle lightly at her pulse point and revel in the way her tight walls flutter around him. “We can’t change our pasts, Swan, any more than we can change the stars. Only live with them.”

“You’d know,” she gasps out, grinding down against him as he works her clit with his thumb, her arm coming up to grasp the hairs at the back of his neck.

“Aye,” he twists his fingers, crooking them against that place that he knows will make her fall, and holds her tighter as she buries her cries in the collar of his coat, committing her every sound, her every twitch, to memory because he knows already she’ll never ask again. “That I do.”

2. Post CPR

“I’m still mad at you,” she spits as she peels wet leather down his legs, her mouth rough against his pulse point - the throb of his heartbeat simultaneously soothing and enraging her as she scrapes her teeth lower. “Don’t think for a second I’m going to forgive you for this.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he pants as she bites down - hard - on his collarbone, his grunt of pain morphing into a groan as she finally takes him in hand. “This is far preferable to forgiveness anyway.”

She wants to hit him, she realizes as she squeezes him just a little harder than she usually would, wants to scream and shout and drown him herself, but she contents herself with sucking a bruise into the damp skin of his chest, her hand moving in time with the answering jump of his cock.

He sags back slightly against the back of the tree she’s pushed him up against, and she swats at his hand as he tries to pull her closer - the platitudes she can see blooming on his pale kiss-bitten lips not at all what she wants to hear.

“I thought you were dead,” she spits. “I thought you were dead.”

“I know,” he mutters as she releases him, his eyes full and soft and unbearable. “Swan, I’m so sorry, I’m so - ”

She drops to her knees, cuts him off with her tongue, laving one long stripe to the underside of his cock before she’s taking him in - the prickling of tears at the corner of her eyes intensified as she forces him to hit the back of her throat again and again and -

His hand is gentle in her hair, his thumb coming to wipe at a rogue tear on her cheek, as he slows her frantic movements. She chances a glimpse up at him and sees his color high again, his skin flushed neverland red as she swirls her tongue around the head of his cock, his eyelashes fluttering as she takes a breath and sighs against him.

“I’m sorry,” he says as her hand comes up to clutch at his hip, his eyes closing entirely as she laps at the sensitive underside. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” she hisses, but there’s no heat in it now, not now the fire within her has been banked only to be relit between her thighs, her free hand reaching to stroke the soft skin between his as she wraps her fingers around the base of his cock while his winds itself into her hair and pushes her infinitesimally closer to where he’s aching for her mouth, solid and straining and alive.

She hears the dull thud of hook piercing wood as she opens her throat and swallows him down, her nose brushing wet curls as she works her other hand between his cheeks, her name a whispered prayer in the cold forest air, and something rises up inside her - something she’d thought lost the moment she’d chosen - chosen him.

He comes with a shout - hot and salty and with his hand tangled in her hair - and when she looks up he’s lost, his face slack as he struggles to hold himself up, and she can’t resist smiling around him before she releases him with a wet pop and a gentle, relieved kiss.

There’s more than one sort of magic, after all.

3. Enchanted Forest

She tries to sleep, she really does, curling up on her side on the forest floor with her eyes squeezed shut against the flicker and flare of the fire, but it’s hopeless from the off.

Behind her closed eyelids she watches as her mother burns, the crackling of their campfire a macabre soundtrack to her nightmare, and when she opens them -

When she opens them she sees him.

He sits near to the fire they’ve lit, keeping guard over the sleeping figures of Snow, Ruby, and David on the opposite side of the clearing, and doing a pretty terrible job of pretending not to be looking at her. She knows because she’s doing a pretty terrible job of not watching him.

She’s been doing a pretty terrible job of that since the beanstalk. In this case, practice does not make perfect.

“Are you tired?” she asks on the third occasion she opens her eyes to find him watching her, longing writ large over his face. “I can take over if you want?”

He shakes his head, poking disconsolately at the fire.

“You need your sleep, Swan.”

“Ugh,” she rolls onto her back and folds her arms across her chest. “Tell my body that, then.”

She can feel the weight of his stare change somehow, and when she risks a glance she sees him looking at her with a strange combination of calculation and fear.

“What?”

“I’ve - ” he coughs, clearing his throat, and she quirks an eyebrow at him. “I have an idea to help you sleep. If you’re amenable, that is.”

“You can try,” she scoffs, rolling away so that her back is to the fire. “Give it a shot, I guess.”

“All right,” he says, softer now, and closer. “I will.”

She feels him settle behind her, curling his body around hers and lifting her head so that it’s cushioned on his left arm.

“Cosy,” she says, wriggling slightly so that she’s comfortable - and closer. “Are you going to snuggle me to sleep?”

“Not exactly,” he says, and lowers his lips to her throat.

She half jumps out of her skin at that, but he doesn’t seem dissuaded, running a line of soft kisses from her ear to her collarbone and back until she relaxes against him, her head lolling against his arm as she allows him easier access.

“What are you doing?” she breathes out as his hand creeps over her belly, his palm hot against her breast. He stills, his hand going lax against her, and she arches into his touch. “I didn’t say stop.”

“Was it the running commentary you were after, Swan?” he asks, his scruff teasing the sensitive skin behind her ear. “Or merely a statement of intent?”

“Either. Both,” she says, pressing back against him as he nuzzles against her throat. “Is this a good idea?”

“You need to get a little more specific, love. It feels like a very good idea to me.”

He shifts his hips against her ass, and she almost moans when she feels how hard he is already. She’s been running on adrenaline for what feels like weeks now - thoughts of secret lives and surprise brothers and witches with jealousy issues filling her every waking moment - and it’s left her wound tight as a spring and ready to snap.

She almost had, back on the ship. The taste of the rum on his tongue (not his tongue) and the hard planes of his body (not his body) filling her with the desire to take and have and fuck everything except him and the pleasure he offered. Fuck everything especially him, this man who plays her body like an instrument through fifteen layers of clothing and at least half a gallon of rum.

It would be nice, she thinks, just to take what she wants for once. Especially when it’s offered up on a platter like this, Killian rocking his hips against her, his fingers sure and firm as they knead her breast.

(But it’s a soggy, leafy sort of platter, and her not-parents are only feet away, and -

And maybe there are a thousand reasons why she shouldn’t, but maybe she just doesn’t care.)

“You worry too much,” he says, nipping at her pulse point and grinning at the shudder that runs through her in response. “But say the word, and I shall go take a walk and never speak of this again.”

“Don’t believe you,” she says, and places her hand over his, guiding it lower until they reach her skirts and helping him gather the material in his fist.

“Believe it or not,” he says, his voice cracking slightly as she uses both her hands as well as his own to ruck the front of her skirt up to the tops of her thighs. “I do possess a modicum of self-control.”

“Do you really,” she says, turning her head so that she can kiss his jaw, a wicked grin spreading across her face as she guides his hand to where she wants him. “That is a shame.”

“Minx,” he teases, clever fingers making quick work of pushing her panties aside and moving to swallow her moan as he sinks two inside. “Hush now, Swan. You don’t want to get caught out now do you?”

He thumbs a slow circle over her clit as he speaks and she makes some incoherent sound in the back of her throat just loudly enough that Ruby stirs on the other side of the clearing.

“You’re going to have to do better than that,” he breathes against her lips, as he twists his fingers, lifting his thumb away as she swivels her hips, searching for more friction than he seems willing to provide. “Promise me, Swan.”

She nods desperately, straining her neck as she tries to capture his lips with her own.

“Promise,” she mutters softly. “I promise, Killian. Please - ”

She doesn’t need to say anything else, his mouth coming down hard as he changes the angle of his fingers so that she can rock against him, the cold metal of his rings pressing against as he wind her higher and higher, only his tongue in her mouth stopping her crying out as he flicks at her clit, crooking his fingers until she’s squirming against him, her nose pressed to his neck, an elastic band made of desperation and need and please please just there please and -

The band snaps in a silent scream against his sweat slicked throat, and he groans his approval into her hair.

“I win,” she gasps as he strokes her through the aftershocks, her whole body trembling as the cool night air brushes her sensitive flesh. “Told you.”

“Very impressive,” he says, and the strain in his voice remind her that there’s still something very insistent pressed against her ass. “Next time, we’ll try this somewhere a little more private, aye?”

“Next time?” she places her hand on his as the sensations get a little uncomfortable, but doesn’t move to replace her skirts. Instead entwining her fingers with his slick ones, and squeezing. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“Oh darling,” he says, lifting their joined hands until he can brush a kiss over her knuckles. “I absolutely am.”

4. First Date

She lets him walk her home, lets him drape his new jacket over her shoulders and take her hand in his new hand, lets him tell her about the constellations and how she’s more beautiful than all of them, and the whole time she gazes at him with her eyes blown wide with something he daren’t name, her cheeks flushed from the cold.

“We’d best be getting back, love,” he says after they’ve lingered at the docks long enough to set her nipples straining against the dainty fabric of her dress and his self-control tumbling. “Your parents will be worried.”

“Why, because I’m out with a scoundrel?” she asks, her tongue peeking out of the corner of her mouth as she looks up at him through long dark lashes. “Or because they think I might do something about it?”

He tries to laugh, but it dies in his throat as she leans against him, her palms flat against his new, thinner, vest as she lifts her chin to kiss him, her words barely a whisper against his parted lips,

“They ought to be.”

He tries to keep it chaste, tries not to answer the sweep of her tongue with his own, but then she’s sliding her hands down his body and his trousers are becoming more confining by the moment and -

“I don’t pillage and plunder on a first date,” she reminds him as she cups his burgeoning erection in her warm hand.

“So I recall,” he breathes, chasing her kiss as he cants his hips against her hand.

“So you’d better take me home,” she continues, moving to reach under his shirt, her fingernails raking against the skin of his stomach until they catch against the band of his trousers.

“Probably,” he sighs, hardly aware of the way she smiles against his neck as he turns his face to the sky. “But Swan, you’re not making it easy for a man here.”

“Of course,” she continues, her fingertips questing lower until he’s forced to ball his hands into fists at his sides just to resist the urge to ravish her against some filthy dockside warehouse. “A real scoundrel would know I have a fire escape against my bedroom window. And I’m really bad at remembering to lock it.”

He pulls back, surprised.

“Is that so? I thought you had a rule.”

She grins, her eyes bright, lips kiss-bitten, and he wonders what he ever did to deserve this woman looking at him this way.

“I guess I hadn’t been out with you yet.”

He almost turns back when he hears the muted tones of her parents from behind the closed door, almost heads back to the Jolly for a flagon of rum and his own two hands. That would be good form, after all. She’s not a conquest, his Emma. Not a woman to be bedded and then left like some shameful little dalliance born of too much drink and not enough thought.

But then he thinks of her face - flushed and pretty - as she offered him a place in her bed, and of the way her eyes had shone as he’d asked for the honor of another ‘date’, and he knows he’ll never be the man who steals that smile from her lips. Not if he can help it.

And anyway, he’s only human.

The fire escape sways slightly under his weight, and he’s glad of the added grip of his newly returned left hand as he swings himself up to the highest window.

She’s left it open slightly, a flutter of gauzy curtain peeking out into the outside world. There’s a slight clatter from inside and a muffled oath, and then he hears her - voice low and sultry in a way he’s not at all used to.

“Are you coming?”

He pushes the window up with both hands, and swings himself into the room with as much dignity as he can manage - which is somewhat less than usual in this realm’s ‘jeans’.

“That is the plan, love,” he starts, grin wide, but then he stops, his whole body simultaneously going slack and roaring to life at the sight before him.

Emma sits against the headboard of her bed, clothed in nothing but the scattered moonlight from the window and waves of her golden hair that has been released from its bonds to cascade around her shoulders and over the swell of her breasts. Her legs are parted, one knee drawn up, so that he can see where she’s bare and pink and already glistening as she bites down on her lower lip and crooks a finger towards him.

“We’ll have to be quiet,” he hears her say, although it’s difficult to concentrate over the sound of his pulse rushing through his ears. “But Elsa snores like a truck so that should cover most of - ”

He can’t hold back a moment longer, her knee finds itself thrown over his shoulder as he dips his head to kiss her, his tongue writing sonnets against her most sensitive spots as she bucks beneath him.

She follows her own advice, only half stifled whimpers escaping her as he brings his hands into play, one spreading her wider while the other teases at her entrance, his own cock straining almost painfully against his zipper as she welcomes him inside.

Her fingers fist in his hair and he ruts helplessly against the floral bedspread, looking up from between her thighs to she her head thrown back, the tendons in her throat stark in the moonlight as she seeks her release and by the gods if she isn’t the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He tells her as much, whispering his devotion against her as she shudders beneath him, pressing into her her skin with every twist of his fingers, every careful flick of his tongue.

She falls apart, but he’s the one who has fallen.

5. Gold’s Cabin

Don’t you know, Emma? It’s you.

He says it like a sinner might at confession, his voice barely more than a whisper, his words rough as though they’ve been torn from his very soul. Maybe they have, she thinks. Buried beneath centuries of anger and hate and loss, this little spark of hope he’s carried for so long finally being allowed out into the light. Vulnerable. Desperate.

She wishes she was a better person, a better lover. One who could soothe him with words of devotion and comfort, one who could take that little spark and treasure it until it became a blazing fire.

But he’s not the only one with a lifetime of baggage weighing down his soul, and he’s always been braver. His heart has never been a mystery, his words like poetry written just for her.

Well, Emma’s not much good with words.

She’s always been a woman of action.

His clothes are stiff from seawater, and she knows there’s more to the story there than she’s heard so far, and it makes it difficult to work the buttons loose on his vest, her fingers stuttering against his chest as she struggles to release them.

“Emma,” he whispers against her mouth, his hand resting over her own and stilling her attempts. “You don’t have to.”

She pulls back and eyes his vest critically.

“You’ve got a point,” she says. “Hold on.”

She wrinkles her nose in concentration, channeling her magic into her desires just the way Regina had tried to teach her. There’s a rush of warm air between them, and her lips curve into a smile when she sees the results.

The vest is gone, shirt too, and Killian is looking at her with wide, delighted eyes, a hint of a smirk at the corner of his lips.

“Been practicing that one love?”

“Oh,” she says, shrugging her jacket off before pressing her palms against the warm planes of his chest. “You have no idea.”

He laughs, and it sends warmth flooding through her, his hand and hook gentle at her waist as she walks him backward across the room to the small bed in the corner.

“Feel free to practice whenever you like,” he says as the back of his knees hit the side of the bed forcing him to sit and look up at her through long eyelashes as she kneels over him. “I’ve no complaints.”

“Such a fan of my magic,” she sighs and leans down to press her lips to his, removing the rest of the layers between them with a wave of her hand.

He groans into her mouth, his hand coming to rest against her ass as he slides the curve of his hook up the inside of her thigh, the cold metal making her gasp as he runs it along the crease of her hip.

“Every. Part,” he says, punctuating his words with a squeeze of her flesh, the hint of steel against where she’s aching for his touch.

She leans forward, slightly worried that he might catch himself with his own hook if she doesn’t, and takes his face in both her hands.

“I know,” she says, and rests her forehead against his, tries to force the words that won’t come until she’s left half pleading for an understanding. “Killian, I know.”

His smile is a tremulous thing as she takes him in hand, his hook moving to settle against her ribcage as she slides herself against him, his breath catching as she lowers herself down and settles into the burn of him.

“Good,” he exhales, his body melting into her own until they’re so tightly pressed together not even magic can come between them. “Good.”

“I mean it,” she whispers into his ear as she rises and falls, the fire growing brighter with every grind of her hips, his teeth sharp against the juncture of neck and shoulder. “You must know I mean it.”

He smiles against the bruise he’s left behind, and she thinks that maybe – despite everything - he does.

#captain swan #cs ff #cs crew #cs smut #cs writers hub #prompt fic #clare vs writers block #all (we) want

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