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Castiel giggled excitedly, squirming so his chest was flat against Dean's own before nibbling at his jawline. Dean wanted them to be together as much as he wanted it, and that was all Cas needed to be happy. "Gonna mark me up, baby?" Dean asked, his breath speeding up and he took his bottom lip in between his teeth. Cas was getting dangerously close to the sensitive spot on Dean’s neck with every passing breath. Castiel ran his hands up to pull Dean’s neck close, his hands gripping the nape. He started to nip and suck at Dean's pulse point, grinding his hips gently and teasingly. "C-Cas!" Dean moaned, feeling Cas' lips land perfectly on his sweet spot. "Fucking...fucking hell." He swallowed thickly, grinding up into Cas. Castiel gasped and his toes curled as Dean ground against him. "Dean..." He breathed out before eagerly sucking a hickey on Dean's pulse point. His movements would stumble whenever Dean would roll his hips upwards. "Cas... " Dean repeated, tilting his head so Cas could suck marks on him easier. "Jesus Christ I’m hard again…” Dean groaned in surprise. Castiel smiled fondly and suckled until the mark was dark purple before sitting up and smirking. "Are you going to do something about that?" He said teasingly. "I might do you," Dean smirked, looking up at Cas, reaching into his boxers and starting to stroke Cas' cock. Castiel gasped and threw his head back, his hands slid to fist in Dean's shirt. "Please." The smaller boy breathed out. "You sure you can handle it this time?" Dean smirked up at him. "N-No, that's the fun part," Castiel said breathlessly before leaning down and kissing Dean lightly. Dean swallowed thickly as he unzipped his jeans and kicked them off, leaving only his tented boxers on. Castiel couldn't help but shudder and rock back against the larger boy teasingly, his lips parted as he breathed heavily. The smaller boy's blue eyes have only been left as a ring around his blown pupils. "I need to stretch you, baby," Dean said thickly, flipping them over so Cas was on his back and he started to shimmy Cas’ jeans off. Cas lifted his hips, sliding his jeans off quickly before his hands latched onto Dean’s shoulder. "O-Okay." He whispered nervously. "Good boy," Dean said softly, pulling Cas' boxers down, rubbing softly at Cas' marred thighs before spreading them apart, looking at Cas' pink pucker. Castiel took a shaky breath and squirmed under Dean's close attention, it was almost like Dean was taking him apart piece by piece and rebuilding him. Dean got a small bottle of lube out of his jeans, before he drizzled it all over his fingers and rubbed them at Cas' hole, the pinkness now shiny with slick. "Love you so much..." Dean murmured, slipping in a single finger. Cas gasped and looked away from his fingers and up at Dean's face. His legs spread wider and he rocked back against Dean desperately. "Good boy..." Dean pumped the finger in and out, moaning at how he felt Cas clench and ripple around him before adding in another finger, scissoring the boy and curling his fingers. Castiel panted and opened his mouth. "I love you too- DEAN!" He cried out, his head flew back into the pillows, all of the air was knocked from his lungs. "Cas..." Dean said soothingly, trying to calm the boy down. "It's okay, baby." Dean kept repeating every time he would thrust his fingers in. "You ready to take me, baby or one more?" The poor virgin probably didn't even know what could have caused that much pleasure within him. "You! I want you!" Castiel moaned, his thighs trembled and clamped around Dean's wrist while pleasure coursed through him in waves. Dean grinned and got on his knees, shuffling towards Cas, positioning the fat head of his cock against Cas' tight pink hole. "You ready baby?" Cas nodded and wrapped his arms around Dean’s neck before burying his face in his neck. "I'm ready." He breathed shakily onto the tan column of skin. Dean nodded and started to push in, using all his self-control to not fuck into Cas like a madman. Castiel’s lips parted as his head fell back. "Ohhh..." He gasped, his eyelids fluttering like crazy as they tried to stay open. Dean was so big, he was practically stretching Cas to the brim, it was glorious. Dean was just as much of a mess as Cas. Cas felt so fucking good. All hot and tight and slick, Dean felt like he could cum on the spot. He started thrusting lightly, his cock slipping into Cas a little more each time. Castiel let out a loud moan, his back arching off the bed. "Oh god Dean...feels so good.." he whispered encouragingly, the slow feeling of something pumping in and out of him driving him crazy. "I know, baby." Dean moaned back through gritted teeth, he felt all of his control slowly withering away, all he wanted to do was pound into Cas hard and fast like he wanted. The chords in Cas' neck stood out as he whined, a red tinge flooding his cheeks. "Dean... feels so good, oh god it feels so good." The small boy breathed out shakily. "Can I go faster?" Dean asked when he was completely inside the boy. "U-huh," Castiel whined, the pleasure was so strong, it was thrumming through every nerve in his entire body. Cas wanted more, he needed more. Dean nodded and started to rock his hips, grinding against Cas. Slowly, he started to pick up the pace and he was soon thrusting into Cas, his balls slapping in a rhythmic sound to each punch of his hips forward. Castiel mewled and moaned desperately, practically consumed by what he thought was the highest amount of pleasure anyone could experience. "Ohhhh! Haah~!" He gasped out as his lips parted in the perfect 'o' shape. Dean fucking loved it more than anything when people made noise during sex. He loved hearing their moans and whimpers and know that he was the reason every single one of their nerves was ignited with pleasure. "Fuck...that's it, baby..." Dean moaned and started fucking Cas in earnest. Cas' blue eyes rolled back, his mouth open wide as he felt Dean strike that nerve behind his belly button dead on. At first, no sound could come from his plush lips, only small choked up sounds whimpering past. That was, before Cas' voice crackled to life, and he let out a mix between a scream and a moan, cumming about twenty seconds into Dean fucking him and he couldn't even care less; all he could think about was Dean. Dean’s eyes widened as Cas' throat emitted a sound that seemed like one of pain. "H-Holy shit, Cas, are you okay?" Dean stilled, his cock head still pressed into Cas' prostate. Castiel's back flattened back to the bed and he breathed shakily. "Stop asking if I'm okay, that was amazing." He gasped out, his stomach was covered in cum and rising and falling heavily. "Can I keep going?" Dean still hadn't cum yet, and he wanted to cum inside of Cas, but if he couldn't take it, Dean would understand. "Yes," Castiel assured, kissing Dean gently to encourage him. Dean kissed him back and started thrusting inside him again. "Moan for me, baby," Dean whispered against Cas' lips before he started fucking into him quickly. Castiel almost died right then and there, his pleasure only amplified from the sensitivity he felt. The smaller boy let out a throaty moan, his back arching. Dean growled, he was so close, so close that his balls were drawn up tight, and the way that Cas was clenching around him was sending him farther towards the edge. It took everything in Dean's power to keep his eyes from rolling back, to keep them on that beautiful expression that spread over Cas' face. "Gonna....gonna cum in you, baby." He warned. Castiel leaned up and nipped at Dean's pulse point, his legs wrapping around Dean to bring him endlessly closer. Dean grunted once, then came inside Cas with a loud moan, painting the boy's insides white. "Cas…" Dean moaned hoarsely. Castiel gasped and clung to Dean, his hips rocking needily as he moaned along with Dean. "Dean...oh god." "That's blasphemy." Dean grinned, still buried balls deep inside of Cas. "Shut up." Cas teased shyly, burying his face in Dean's neck and clenching around him in revenge. Dean wasn’t expecting Cas to do so, and when he did, Dean let out a high whine and collapsed, Cas' hole tightening around his over sensitive cock. Castiel chuckled cheekily, kissing Dean's neck once before pulling back. "Hello." He whispered. "Hi." Dean rolled his eyes. "I can feel your cum on my stomach...and it’s hot as fuck," Dean whispered lowly. Castiel shuddered, his head falling back slowly. "Oh god, Dean, you better stop talking or I'll need more." He breathed out. "You think I won’t give you more?" Dean growled and rolled his hips, grinding his cock inside of Cas. Castiel let out a tiny wail, slamming his hand over his mouth to muffle it as his blue eyes rolled back, his eyelids fluttering. Dean was still pressed right up against his prostate, and he felt like was going to pass out just from the pleasure. Dean grabbed Cas' wrist and tugged it away from his mouth. "Don’t cover up your noises, baby." He rumbled huskily. Cas' cheeks were tinged red, his toes curling as his head burrowed back desperately into the pillows. He used his free hand to try and scoot back away from the onslaught. "Too much." The smaller boy breathed out, his eyes hooded lazily in efforts to keep looking at Dean. "I don't think its enough," Dean smirked down at him, giving Cas a sharp thrust to his prostate, his toes curling as he felt his cock try to start to harden again. Cas practically screamed, using his free hand to muffle it, he couldn’t help but think about what would happen if the neighbors heard. His back bowed off the bed, his blue eyes rolling back again at the pleasure consuming him. Oh, Jesus fuck how was Dean still going? Dean kept fucking into Cas until he felt his cock twitch and become fully hard inside of Cas, and he was still moving with never-ending stamina. He kept grinding his hips in the same way, hitting Cas' prostate every time. God, the sight, and sounds of Cas were driving him closer to the edge more than the tight hotness around him was. Castiel let out strangled moans of Dean's name, screaming his pleasure like he was being driven insane by it. Dean pounded into the smaller boy's body, a tight coil of heat twisting in his abdomen. The blue-eyed boy's back arched wildly, his mouth hanging open in a wide 'o'. Cas came so hard almost passed out before he looked down in between his legs, watching Dean's cock plowing in and out of him. He threw his head back, moaning loudly at how Dean was fucking into him. Dean could feel Cas steadily getting tighter around him, and when Cas finally came with a hoarse scream, he tumbled right over the edge beside him. "I love you too, Cas. So much." Dean kept whispering, repeating it over and over. "Love you so much!" He whined out when he came, his hips freezing as he painted Cas' insides white. Castiel gasped, clinging onto Dean desperately while his eyes fell closed. "O-Oh Dean, fuck. " He breathed out into the crook of Dean's neck. It was all so wonderful, the feeling of being consumed by pleasure, of being here with Dean, of being safe, of being loved. "I love you." He whispered. Castiel teared up, smiling like an idiot into Dean’s neck. No matter how many times Dean said I love you he would never get used to it. It made him feel loved. He hadn't had anyone say I love you to him in years, his parents didn't love him and they were always too busy, he had no friends, and Dean was always off trying to get more popularity to his name. "I love you," Cas whispered softly. Dean finally pulled out and scooted back getting on his elbows and looking at Cas' gaping hole, leaking cum. "So pretty, baby." Dean pressed a finger against his puffy rim. Cas moaned breathlessly and rocked against Dean's fingers. The words coming from Dean's mouth drove him crazy, it was insane. "Dean.." he gasped out. "Yeah?" Dean smirked, moving his head forward and pressing a kiss to Cas' pink rim, before kissing all of Cas' scars and laying down on the bed next to him. Castiel bit his lip, watching Dean's every move lovingly. "Why do you love me so much..." He whispered in awe. "Do you want me to stop?" Dean snorted, scooting up the bed and putting his arm under Cas' shoulders, resting his head on Dean’s chest. Cas smiled and nuzzled his head into Dean’s chest, cuddling into his side. "Never." Dean grinned and wrapped his arms around Cas pale skin. "I need to take you tanning sometime." He said, absentmindedly. Castiel giggled and slapped Dean’s chest gently, turning red as he tried to hide his body in embarrassment. He was always so busy wearing sweaters and jeans or his trenchcoat that he never really got sun. "I'm sorry, baby." Dean apologized, rubbing Cas' arm. "Don't hide your body. You're beautiful." Cas nuzzled his face into Dean’s side. He wasn't used to all of the compliments. "Sh." He whispered. "No." Dean defied him. "You are so fucking beautiful and sweet and you don't serve the shit that happens to you. You are so kind and amazing and I can't even describe it. You make me feel so many things I've never felt before, Cas." Dean’s voice got choked up as if he had too much emotion behind his mask of strength. Castiel looked up, tearing up at the words. "Dean..." He breathed out, crawling on top of the larger boy. He straddled him and leaned their foreheads together. "Oh god, Dean," Cas whispered sadly. He didn't deserve the words, he didn't, and he knew that, but it felt so good for someone to finally say that. "I love you, Castiel," Dean said, looking up at Cas, bringing a hand up and cupping Cas' cheek. "More than you'll ever know." Castiel let out a mixture of a laugh and a sob, placing his hand over Dean's. "I love you too, Dean Winchester. So much. Endlessly. Never forget that." "Well if you insist." Dean grinned at him, his heart swelling up under Cas' touch. Cas giggled and leaned down, kissing Dean gingerly. "Mmm, mhm." He hummed teasingly. Dean whined loudly, pouting like a child. "Cas…" He looked up at him, sticking his tongue out. Castiel smirked and leaned down, seductively taking Dean's tongue in between his own lips with care. He tilted his head up and pulled only slightly before letting go. Dean let out a little whimper, then a moan. "Cas..." He repeated, his eyes fluttering closed. Castiel sat up with a smug look, smirking down at the disheveled boy. "Yes, Dean?" "Please..." Dean let his head fall back to rest against his pillow. "I need you..." Castiel tilted his head and let his hands rest on Dean’s chest, helping him balance. "Again?" He teased with a smile. "The things you fucking do to me, Cas." Dean moaned softly. Cas leaned down, nibbling and sucking down the side of Dean's neck. "How the fuck do you even...?" Dean’s voice trailed off, and he let out a sweet moan when Cas bit a sensitive part of his neck. Castiel giggled quietly and sat up, rocking back gently onto Dean’s cock. "How do I even what, Dean Winchester?" "Make me like.. this!" Dean gestured to his body. "You've got me all hard and blushing like a fucking schoolgirl." Castiel laughed and kissed Dean's collarbones, rolling and rocking his hips against the larger boy. "Mmm, I try." "Mmm!" Dean moaned loudly. "I thought you were supposed to be some type of blushing virgin." He panted out. Castiel pulled back, a shy look on his face. "Yes, well, I am, but I'm trying to be what you want me to be." He mumbled awkwardly before leaning back down and nibbling at Dean's jaw. Was it not what Dean wanted? God, he was so bad a reading people. "I want you, no matter what you are, Cas, you know that." Dean looked at Cas with a raised eyebrow. "You know don't ever have to pretend for me, Cas." Dean slightly pushed Cas away so he could look him in the eye. Castiel nodded and bit his lip shyly, his facade crumbling almost instantly as he turned red. "Okay." He breathed out. "See? I like this Cas." Dean grinned up at him. "All shy and adorable." Reaching up, Dean trailed a finger down Cas' chest, stopping at the waistband of Cas' boxers, tugging at them. Castiel squeaked and nudged Dean's hand away, he'd never get used to how predatorial Dean could be. "Stop it.." He whined, turning redder at Dean’s words. "What’s wrong, Baby? Scared you'll cum too early?" Dean smirked, leaning up to whisper in Cas' ear. "That won’t be a problem. I can just make you cum again...and again...and again..." Castiel shuddered, his lips parting as he wrapped his arms around Dean’s head, burying his hands in the short blonde spikes. "Dean." He breathed out. "Does dirty talk get you off, baby? You feel like you can cum just by the filthy things I whisper into your ear?" Dean lightly bit the shell of Cas' ear, before he slid his entire hand into Cas' boxers, wrapping his fingers around the leaking cock within them. Castiel groaned and whined, his hands grasping onto Dean's wrists as he pulled his hand away. "Dean please ." He whispered shakily, it was all too much, he was becoming consumed by Dean in every way, and it was driving him crazy. "Do you not want this?" Dean raised an eyebrow when his hand was pulled out of Cas' boxers. Castiel shook his head and breathlessly looked at Dean, his cheeks flushed and his lips were swollen. "N-No, I do." He said shyly. Dean nodded, thinking. Suddenly, he flipped them over and got to his knees in front of Cas. "See? I'm on my knees for you, you control everything I do." Dean grinned up at him. Castiel tilted his head and chewed on his lip, not knowing what to do at all. "I-I...um." He stuttered. Dean rolled his eyes and grabbed Cas' hand, putting it in his own hair, making Cas curl his fingers around the coarse blonde tufts. "Just...do whatever feels right, Cas." Castiel stuttered and thought back to everything Dean had done with his mouth before deciding Dean had an amazing tongue. The smaller boy nervously spread his hairless legs and slowly and embarrassedly guided Deans face an inch downwards. Dean grinned and brought his face forward a little more, nodding to let Cas know it was okay, it was fine. He dropped his eyes from Cas' face to Cas' boner, his mouth watering. Castiel couldn't feel any more embarrassed than he did now, he looked away, his face burrowed into the pillows as he pulled Dean all the way forward. He didn't know what to do. Dean swallowed thickly. "It’s...it’s okay, Cas." He managed to stammer out, trying not to fucking cream the sheets below him. God...Cas was so fucking sexy this way, he didn’t know why, but the fact that Cas was all embarrassed was turning him the fuck on. Slowly, Dean moved his head forward and took the tip of Cas' cock into his mouth, suckling gently. Castiel gasped, his eyes fluttering shut at the feeling. Never once did he think anyone would want to touch his dick, it wasn’t like it was huge or impressive like Dean’s, it was just average. The smaller boy gently started playing with Dean's hair, guiding him down a little more. Dean moaned around Cas' dick before he started bobbing his head on it, taking a little more each time he lowered his head until all of Cas was in his mouth and throat. Castiel groaned throatily, his chest puffing out with need. When Dean ate him out he would keen and mewl, sometimes scream, but this made him groan and gasp, it wasn't that tingling searing pleasure in his abdomen. It was that tightening at the base of his spine. "Oh god." He breathed out. Dean smirked around him and started using his tongue on the underside of Cas' cock. Bringing a hand up, he started playing with Cas' puffy rim. Castiel let out a mix of a groan and a whine, his hips immediately canting up towards Dean's fingers. "A-Ah..!" He gasped. Dean pulled off, only for a second, to spit on his fingers, before he went back down on Cas, rubbing his slick fingers against Cas' loose entrance. Castiel groaned and rocked his hips up and down desperately, the smaller boy couldn't decide whether to fuck himself on Dean's fingers or up into Dean’s mouth. Dean smirked again, watching the boys indecisiveness. He started to speed both his mouth and fingers up, trying to give Cas a body rattling orgasm. Castiel groaned, his hips launching downwards to force Deans fingers to slide into him. The smaller boy's head was thrown back into the pillows, his back bowing off the white sheets with a cry of Dean's name. Cas came as he writhed and trembled, his eyes rolling back uncontrollably. "So sensitive..." Dean murmured after he pulled off of Cas' softening dick, still curling his fingers inside of the shaking boy. Castiel settled back down and his hips jerked, trying to get away from the onslaught on his prostate. He wailed, his hands immediately forcing Dean’s face down further on instinct. Dean felt his face being pushed down and he smirked, starting to lick at Cas' rim, where his fingers were currently thrusting in and out of the writhing boy. He didn’t know how much overstimulation Castiel could take, but Dean knew if the boy kept whining and squirming, Dean would cum untouched. "Oh!" Castiel mewled, his legs flew up to wrap around Dean’s head, pulling him impossibly closer as pleasure began filling him once more. The smaller boy was so glad that they were still young and had a practically nonexistent refractory period. Dean moaned quietly and started humping the bed, his dick rubbing against the cloth. He slid a third finger inside of Cas and added his tongue in the mix also. Dean didn’t know about Cas, but he enjoyed eating him out instead of fucking him. On the other hand, Castiel liked when Dean would fuck him because it feels more emotional, but Cas loved when Dean tongue fucked him just as much. The blue-eyed boy shuddered and squirmed, tiny pants and wails of pleasure slipping past his lips. He stuffed his first and second knuckles in his mouth to muffle the cries of ecstasy from pouring out of his lips. Dean continued assaulting Cas’ hole with his tongue, pulling away only to breathe for a few seconds, before he dove back in, lightly biting around Cas' rim, speeding up the three fingers he had going inside of him. Castiel came with a muffled scream, his whole body writhing and his hands flew out to grab onto the bed sheets as his legs pulled Deans face in between his asscheeks. "J-Just like that!" He cried out, shuddering and clenching around Dean’s fingers as he came with a mantra of mewls. Dean smirked and pressed a final kiss to Cas' hole before he pulled back and sat on his knees, the insides of his boxers wet and sticky with fresh cum. Cas breathed raggedly, his eyes hooded and pleasure hazed as he reached for Dean, his hands skimming along Deans torso desperately. The smaller boy still felt like he was still cumming, basking in the aftershocks. Dean shuffled closer to Cas, letting the boy have his way with Deans body. "Something you're looking for, Sweetheart?" Dean grinned down at Cas. As if on instinct, Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean’s neck, his legs coming up to hold onto Dean desperately. "Fuck." He breathed out, his whole body thrumming as the fire in his nerves slowly died down. "Hmm." Dean smiled, getting on his hand and knees above Cas, a hand on either side of Cas' head, holding himself up. "We should do that more often," Dean smirked down at him. Castiel groggily released a tired groan as he smiled and nodded. He would never know how Dean wasn't absolutely fucked out right now, but it was probably because of the amount of sex he'd had before Cas. Castiel, on the other hand, had zero sex before this, so he was utterly dead. "Uuhhhh." He groaned lazily. Dean grinned and laid down next to Cas, wrapping an arm around the smaller boy. "You're really sensitive, huh?" Dean asked, sliding a hand under Cas head, altering the boy's position so Cas' head was now laying on Dean’s chest. Castiel nodded sleepily and snuggled closer, burrowing into Dean's side. "I love you, so much." He whispered hoarsely. "I love you too, Castiel," Dean whispered back as if it was a secret. "So fucking beautiful. You're amazing." Dean felt a fine shiver go through him at how Cas' body was pressed up against his so close, the boy was so warm. Castiel smiled like an idiot, pressing his face into the crook of Dean's neck. "You're so smart and caring, I never thought I had a chance with you." He whispered sadly, curling his limbs around Dean like a koala. "Shoulda just asked, kid." Dean was only a few months older than Cas, but he used it whenever he could. Castiel groaned and swatted Dean playfully, a smile on his face. "I'm not a kid, Jerk." He mumbled. “Bitch,” Dean said as he rolled his eyes. The larger boy was caught off guard by the hit. "Ooo, spank me harder." Dean laughed. Castiel laughed and shyly ducked his head, turning red at the words. He'd never admit it, but the idea of it kind of turned him on. Dean arched an eyebrow when Cas flushed red. "Oh? You like the sound of that?" He purred out, smirking down at Cas. Castiel shyly stuttered, Dean’s smirk was always way too sexy to be legal. "N-No.." He mumbled. "Don't lie to me, Cas. I might spank you just for that." Dean put a faux-hard edge in his voice. Cas shuddered, his cheeks turning redder than they already were. "Y-Yes, sir." He whispered, not realizing the words fell from his lips. "Now, I asked you a question. Answer it." Dean’s voice was cold and direct. "Yes, I do like the sound of it," Castiel said shyly, a tiny smile on his face. "I might have to spank you for lying to me," Dean said, sitting up on the bed. "Bend over my legs." Castiel turned beet red, his mouth opening and closing in disbelief, Dean was actually going to spank him? "Hey!" Dean called, breaking Cas out of his trance. "I fucking said lie down." Castiel flinched and stuttered, lying over Deans legs in confusion. Cas was bad at reading people, so to him it seemed like Dean was angry with him. Dean felt Cas tense up. "Hey, hey..." He said softly, rubbing a soft hand over Cas' asscheeks and thighs. "I thought you wanted this? I'm not mad at you, sweetheart, I swear." Castiel instantly relaxed, so that’s why Dean's personality changed so quickly. The smaller boy shyly canted his hips into Dean’s hand and smiled. "O-Okay." He breathed out. Dean grinned. "Good boy, I'm not gonna go hard, I promise..." Dean said. "I'll give you 10, does that sound good?" Castiel nodded, smiling in assurance before he buried his face in the sheets, biting onto a bundle of blankets in anticipation. What if it hurt? Would it hurt? God, this was an embarrassing idea. Dean grinned and raised his hand, waiting for a second, before he firmly brought it down on Cas' left cheek, watching a red color blossom to the surface. Castiel squeaked, his eyes shooting open in dazed wonder. Of course, the first second stung, but after the nerves around Deans palm print started to tingle, it felt good. "Was that okay?" Dean asked worriedly. "I can stop if you want." Cas shook his head, reaching back to grab Dean’s wrist. He guiding Dean’s palm back to his reddening ass, his head turning around to reveal a deep blush on his face. "Don't stop." He whispered breathlessly. Dean’s cock started to harden against Cas' bare stomach. "9 more..." He swallowed thickly. Dean lifted his hand again and brought it down again, this time a little bit harder. Castiel gasped, fisting his hands in the bed sheets. So many thoughts flooded him, what else was there to explore that Dean knew about? Dean hit Cas a few more times, each hit harder than the last, soon he was down to only three left. "If I hit you too hard, let me know, okay?" Dean warned. Castiel nodded, completely unknowing of Dean's warning in the haze of pleasure. His nerves were tingling and singed with tiny pricks of pleasure and pain. Dean nodded and lifted his hand and brought it down firmly, not really holding back anything at all. Cas let out a gasp, his eyes pricking with tears. It was a perfect mix of pain and pleasure. He couldn't decide on which sensation to focus on. "O-Oh." He breathed out. "That’s it..." Dean grinned, then hit him in the same exact spot, somehow even harder, Cas' pale skin turning almost purple. Castiel groaned, his hands clutching desperately at the sheets. The smaller boy's lips parted to make way for tiny pants. "Mmmm, D-Dean.." He whispered desperately. "One more, Sweetheart," Dean smirked before bringing his hand up high and striking Cas right in the middle, as hard as he could, a hit that would have people screaming. Castiel froze, his brain immediately sending him into a panic attack. Suddenly, he was back in the locker room, it was about a week ago. The whole team took turns punching and hitting him, but this time when Dean ran in to help, he joined them instead. The smaller boy stared at the wall, tears streaming down his face. The flashback was so real, it was like he was reliving every punch and every kick. Why did they hate him so much? What did he do to make them think he deserved this? At first, Dean grinned when he saw Cas shaking, he thought he had maybe sent the kid into some kind of body trembling orgasm, but when Cas started jerking around, mumbling things that didn’t sound right, Dean froze. "Shit, shit!" Oh god, what had he done? He quickly picked Cas up off of him, laying the boy down on the bed, putting a soft pillow under his ass so the sensitive flesh wouldn’t chafe against the bedsheets. "Cas?" Dean asked softly, crawling up the bed. Cas was staring at the ceiling, wide-eyed and unblinking. Castiel started murmuring pleads, pleads for it to stop. The smaller boy's hand shakily covered a fading yellow bruise, groaning and rolling onto his side. It was the kick he received from the former quarterback before Dean took his spot. Tears were practically pouring down Cas' face, his brain making him re-live everything that happened to him. It was one of the worst beatings he'd taken. The small boy choked and sobbed, jolting as if he was being punched by some invisible being, it wouldn't stop, they wouldn't stop. "Castiel, please!" Dean said, not wanting to touch the boy in fear of what would happen if he did. Quickly, he lunged over to his phone, quickly dialing Sams number. Sam was only 14, but he'd know what to do, right? Sam threw another chip in his mouth, his fingers flying over the buttons of his PlayStation controller. The teenager glanced at his phone and grumbled when he saw Dean's name. "Gabe, hold on a sec." He said, pressing a button on the side of his gaming headset. Sam stood up and took the headphones off, leaving them on the couch abandoned on the couch as he ran to his phone. "What do you want? I'm in the middle of a tournament!" Sam hissed in annoyance when he answered the phone. "Sam, Cas is having a panic attack!" Dean said, unable to control how his voice rose. "What do I do? Please, Sam?" Dean looked over at Cas, who was still repeating the words, "Stop... please, stop ..." Sam sighed and grumbled. "He's having a panic attack, he should be just freaking out about something, what is he doing?" "He's kinda just shaking and saying please stop and stuff." Dean brought his thumb up to his mouth, biting at the nail, god how he prayed Sam wouldn’t ask what had triggered Cas. Sam frowned, turning his spinny chair in circles. "That doesn't sound like a panic attack. Panic attacks are when people start freaking out and having extreme anxiety over something. What the hell happened?" "We were doing something, then he just started shaking and crying and I don’t know what to do, Sam!" Dean’s voice broke at the end. Castiel choked on a scream, holding his stomach desperately as Lucifer grabbed his hair and lifted his head. "What? Baby boy gonna cry? Why don't you fucking die? No matter how many times we try you just don’t. It's getting fucking annoying." Lucifer spat in his face before cracking his head back against the tile. Sam huffed. "Well, it didn't happen from nothing! It was probably triggered by something that had happened to him before and it's pretty obvious he didn't like it." Sam said blankly. "Just call the cops or something, they can help!" "But he said he wanted it!" Dean blurted out, before hearing Cas try to scream. "Sammy please I don’t know what to do." Dean felt like he was about to fucking cry, and when he went up to wipe his eyes, he discovered there were tears already there. "Wanted what?" Sam asked in confusion. Why wasn't Dean just calling an ambulance, was it really that bad that he couldn't tell him? "I'm just a teenager! It's not like I spent my life studying the brain!" "For me to spank him!" Dean said, before blushing darkly. He ran around the room, trying to put Cas' clothes back on him. If he was going to call an ambulance, he didn’t want them to see Cas naked. Sam gagged and almost dropped the phone, his nose scrunching up. "I will never look at either of you the same way." He said blankly. "Shut up." Dean rolled his eyes, pulling Cas' boxers back on him. "The Novaks are rich, a hospital bill won't hurt them, right?" Dean asked, wiping Cas' cum off of him with his own shirt. Sam shrugged and grumbled. "Gabe says his parents aren't even around, they probably won't notice. He says it's just him, Cas, and his dumb ass siblings Anna, Michael, and Raphael. Dude, they're rude. I don't know how Cas can even be related to Gabriel and his brothers. Gabes all rebellious and his brothers are jackasses, Cas is like a goodie goodie study buddy." Sam said, not even taking a breath between his sentences. "Okay, President of the Gabe fan club." Dean sat down next to Cas, running his hands through Cas' hair, trying to calm the smaller boy down. "Hey! They're Gabe’s words! I'm just quoting!" Sam yelped in defense. Castiel trembled a look of agony on his face. In his flashback, Lucifer had his hand in his hair, but for some reason, he was stroking his hair now. That never happened in the original. The smaller boy recoiled, not wanting Lucifer to touch him ever again after what had happened. "Cas, please, it's me, Dean," Dean said softly in Cas' ear. "It’s like he can't hear me, Sam." Sam frowned and paused, typing on his computer again. "Flashback, maybe? What the hell could he be having a flashback about from spanking? Unless he always lets his best friends spank him. Why the fuck were you guys spanking each other anyway? What about Lisa, dude?" Sam asked at lightning speed. "First of all, he said he liked it, and it’s not like I was just fucking spanking him out of the blue, we fucked, I ate him out, a lot happened." Deans verbal filter seemed to have gone on vacation or something. "Secondly, she’s a fucking bitch and I'm dumping her tomorrow. And thirdly, I don’t know, maybe some guys from the football team beat him up?" Dean shuddered, remembering that he was the guy from the football team that beat Cas up. "Come on, Castiel, please, it’s me. It’s Dean, Dean Winchester." Dean said a little louder, trying to get through to Cas. Sam squeaked, throwing up in his mouth a little at the images he was flooded with. "OH GOD THAT’S JUST DISGUSTING!" He hollered into the phone. Sam grumbled and tried not to get angry at his older brother. "Dude, you know she's not gonna like that one bit, you've been trying to break up with her for ages ." Despite the situation, Dean laughed. "You asked, and maybe if I fuck Cas right in front of her, she'll get the hint." Dean looked back down at Cas, who was still shaking. "Cas...please wake up, please, it’s not real." Dean said softly, laying down next to Cas, running a hand through his hair. He muted his phone so Sam couldn’t hear him for a second. As much as he loved Sam, he didn’t want his little brother to see, or hear, this side of him. "I love you, Cas, please wake up…” A shaky hand launched out, clinging to Dean’s shirt like a lifeline. It felt real . Cas slowly began to realize that what he was seeing had things off about it. The color or Lucifer’s hair was blue and the lockers were pink instead of grey. Dean quickly unmuted his phone. "Sam...Sam! I think I did it, I think he's waking up." Dean said excitedly into the phone, lowering his voice when Cas started to look frightened again. "Hey, hey, Cas I love you so much, come on, wake up…please wake up…for me, Cas." Dean blushed brightly when he realized Sam heard all that. Sam couldn't help but smile softly, a warm feeling filling him. His brother acted all macho, trying to seem like the top dog. But the only person Dean ever said I love you to was him, and that was once. The fact that Dean loved someone enough to say that was a lot. Castiel let out a tiny sob, clinging onto Dean desperately. It was Dean, it was his Dean. Dean was right there with him even though he couldn't see him. "Dean?" He whimpered, staring blankly ahead of him. "Sam, he's awake." Dean grinned, before looking at Cas. "Yeah, Cas, I'm here...right here." Dean murmured softly, putting his warm hand over Cas' cold one. Castiel's eyes flitted around, focusing on Dean slowly. He let out a cry of relief, quickly scrambling to hold onto Dean. "I'm gonna go, get back to your boyfriend, and that dumb tournament you always care about." Dean grinned, holding on tight to Cas. Sam snorted and hung up, running back to resume his game. Castiel buried his hands in Deans hair, pulling him close as he wrapped his arms around his neck and his legs around Deans middle. "D-Dean.." "Cas, I'm so sorry..." Dean said, throwing his phone somewhere, wrapping his arms tight around Cas. "I'm so sorry, Cas, It's all my fault." He repeated. "No, it's not, I asked for it. It's Lucifers fault." Cas whispered, his eyes squeezed shut. The smaller boy clung to every part of Dean he could reach, his hands clenching and unclenching in Deans hair and shirt. Dean hushed him. "Let’s just…sleep, for now." He said, rubbing Cas' back, tracing swirls and patterns into it. "I love you so much, Cas," Dean said, his voice suddenly choked. Castiel clung to Dean and sniffled, burrowing his face into the crook of Dean's neck. "O-Okay...I love you so much, so so much. I only love you." He whispered. "I love you too, Cas." Dean knew this was cheesy as hell, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. "God, you make me so happy, Cas. I'm so sorry about everything..." "It's okay, Dean, it's okay. It's not your fault." Castiel whispered, his eyes becoming hooded from sleep pulling him under. "You make me feel safe." He whispered unknowingly. Dean grinned. "I love you." He whispered, trying to shove all the emotions he was feeling into those three words. Castiel smiled lazily and his breathing deepened, slowly trailing into an even in and out. "I love you, Dean Winchester." He whispered before he fell asleep. Dean grinned widely. "I love you, too, Castiel Novak." Dean grinned, playing with Cas' hair for a few minutes before he felt himself start to fade into a peaceful sleep right alongside his boyfriend.
Merlin and Arthur were currently in the prince's chambers, arguing. Which, on most days, was completely normal. They did it all the time over just about anything, after all. But this argument was a bit different, to say the least. "I can't tell you," Merlin muttered, eyes downcast. "What are you talking about? Of course you can. Move your mouth and make sounds, Merlin, it's not that hard." "No, I mean I really can't. You wouldn't understand," he said the last part under his breath, but that didn't stop it from being heard. Confusion set upon Arthur's face. "What does that mean?" he demanded. "Don't, please. Just leave it alone," Merlin pleaded, trembling. "Oh for god's sake, Merlin! Just tell me!" Arthur's frustration was apparent, his eyebrows furrowed and his fists clenched at his sides. "Please." To Arthur's horror, tears formed in the smaller man's eyes, and began to pour down his cheeks. Arthur immediately made his way toward him, momentarily letting go of anger in favor of concern. He cupped the dark haired boy's face, and met his tired eyes. "I promise you," he said just above a whisper, "that whatever this is, whatever is bothering you so much, we can work it out. I swear to you, Merlin." "You'll hate me." "I won't." "And how can you promise that? How do I know if I can trust you?" Merlin raised his voice. And, okay, that hurt. Merlin couldn't trust him? Ouch. But Arthur couldn't think of that right now. "You'll just have to take my word, I suppose," Arthur's mouth was set in a thin line as he tried to convince his manservant. He couldn't promise he wouldn't be mad, but he could swear on his life that he wouldn't hate him, at least. He could never hate Merlin. A weary glance was cast his way, and the empty look in the young warlock's eyes seemed to send daggers through the prince's heart. Merlin knew this day would come eventually. Arthur would see something, or hear something, or just sit down to think one day, and he would realize that there were a ton of things in his life that just didn't make sense. And he would ask Merlin. Of course he would. And, of course, Merlin, who was never good at coming up with excuses on the spot, would hesitate on his reply for one moment too long, and, of course, Arthur would notice, and of course he would question him further, looking at him with those expectant, curious, almost knowing eyes, and... Merlin couldn't take it. He knew this day would come. It was inevitable. He just didn't know it would come now of all times. Not that any other time would have been better, but... why now? Couldn't Arthur have waited to notice something was up? What was he supposed to do now? How is he supposed to fulfill his destiny if he gets killed (he doesn't use the word executed, it's bad enough to die, but even worse to die in a courtyard full of people) before he could get the chance? He wondered vaguely if he should try to escape. He could escape using magic if he wanted, and never be found. But he knew that would only make things worse. make him look guilty. And if he was to never see his friends in Camelot again (because he wouldn't be able to come back, that's just not an option), never see Arthur again... He doesn't want them to remember him like that. like the guilty, evil sorcerer he knew he wasn't. He would rather die. "―erlin? Merlin!" Oh, that was Arthur. Merlin had almost forgotten he was here. "I'm so sorry, Arthur, so sorry," he said. And oh god, this was it. He couldn't breathe. "Merlin, it's okay. Hey, hey, Merlin, breathe. Breathe, Merlin. You need to do that if you want to live." "Live?" Merlin laughed, a horrible, insane laugh of a man who had all but given up, apparently. "I'm going to die anyway, why does it matter how I go?" Better to die through lack of oxygen than burning, he thought. Arthur looked shocked. "What the hell, Merlin?" "I'm going to die. If I tell you, I mean. You still want me to tell you, right?" His eyes were starting to hurt from crying. Come to think of it, so was his head. But maybe that's just from the air deprivation. "What I want, you idiot, is for you to breathe! You're not dying, do you hear me? Not now, not anytime soon, you're not, so stop it!" The prince didn't know what to think. Here he was, on the floor (when did they sit down?), with a manservant who, if Arthur didn't know any better, he would say was suicidal. Merlin let out another heart-wrenching sob. Arthur really wasn't letting this go, was he? He was going to make Merlin confess. This sucked. "Merlin, I want you to listen to me," Arthur began, turning Merlin's face to look at him. "When I first met you, I didn't like you. Not one bit, quite honestly. You couldn't do your job right, and you were always mouthing back at me," this elicited a small laugh from Merlin, "and I was betting you would be sacked and out of there within the first week. But I never fired you, and do you know why? I never fired you because, believe it or not, I warmed up to you. Became fond of you, even. Of course, you were still terrible, but I grew accustomed to having you around. And the past few years you have taught me things, Merlin. Things I wasn't aware of back then. You taught me how to be brave. You taught me friendship, loyalty, love, and, as impossible as it may seem, you taught me wisdom. And I can never thank you enough for that. Even now, I'm still learning from you. And you... you're important to me, Merlin. I don't ever want you to think otherwise. I've convinced myself that you belong by my side, and that won't change, no matter what. I will make sure of it. So please, Merlin. Drop the act, and tell me. I'll still look at you the same. I promise." ...Jesus. What was Merlin supposed to say to that? A fresh wave of tears came to his eyes as he stared into Arthur's eyes, stunned. What room had that left for argument? None, quite frankly. He took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself (which didn't really do anything, it's not like you can prepare yourself for something like this), and... "I have magic." The world stopped. The expressions that Arthur kept switching between made Merlin feel both relieved, but also scared as hell. There was confusion, then anger, then disappointment (that killed him inside), then realization, then... well, he couldn't really tell what that one was, but it wasn't a negative emotion, at least, and Merlin thanked the gods for that. Arthur's mouth opened and closed as he tried to form a response. Merlin waited patiently, not daring to speak. Arthur looked down, then up at Merlin, then down again, then up... and Merlin could see the struggle that was going on in his mind through his eyes. Merlin prepared himself for the worst response by default. He forced himself not to expect the best automatically, because the chances of acceptance were slim, in his eyes. Merlin was torn from his thoughts as he was engulfed in a hug, which almost knocked both of them over. Now it was Merlin's turn to be confused. He hugged back, wrapping his bony arms around the larger man, but he couldn't stop the words from exiting his mouth as he breathed, "What the hell, Arthur?" And, wow, there seemed to be a lot of what the hell's today, huh? Not that they weren't justified, of course. "You idiot," Arthur whispered, and there was a thickness in his voice as he said it. He pulled back, and only then did Merlin realize the prince was crying. The tears weren't sad, though. They were simply tears of relief. His expression, however, was one of anger, and that scared Merlin half to death. "Arthur, I―" "How could you?!" Arthur yelled, but there was no venom in his voice. "You made me think the worst! I thought something had happened, or you were in trouble with someone, or dying, or... just... gods Merlin, never do that again!" He pulled Merlin into another crushing embrace. "Y-you mean you're not mad?!" Merlin's eyes widened as he hugged back once more, head falling upon the prince's shoulder. "Oh, I'm mad, believe me," Arthur sighed into Merlin's hair, "but only because you kept it from me. I'm not inclined to believe you're an evil sorcerer, or anything, no. If you were planning to kill me or destroy Camelot, you would have done it ages ago. You're not evil, by any means. You're just Merlin, my idiot manservant. I don't think you could be evil if you tried." "Hey, I could be if I wanted to," Merlin declared with an offended pout, and Arthur all but cackled. Merlin joined him, laughing a real, genuine, carefree laugh for the first time in what seemed like forever. As the room quieted, the two held onto each other tighter. The silence lasted for minutes. It was a comfortable silence, which both of them were thankful for. When they finally pulled away, Arthur was the first to stand. He grabbed Merlin by his hands, pulling him up as well, and didn't let go once the warlock was standing, wanting to remain close. Their eyes locked, and both of their gazes softened as they took in the other. "I take it you won't be telling your father, then?" Merlin inquired quietly, grinning. It was meant as a joke. Merlin knew that Arthur wouldn't tell uther, but still... Arthur's face hardened at this. "You'll be free, one day. As soon as I am king, the ban will be lifted. You won't have to live with the burden of keeping this a secret anymore." Merlin squeezed his hands, acknowledging the promise. Arthur nodded once, finalizing the statement. Their hands finally dropped, along with the stares they had been holding,and they both backed away slightly, laughing. It wasn't awkward laughter, though. It was normal. It was nice. Suddenly, Merlin stopped, becoming serious. He looked up at Arthur. "Thank you," Merlin said. "I mean it, Arthur. thank you. so much." Arthur smiled. "Don't thank me, Merlin. Not yet. Actually, I should be thanking you. You've probably saved my life many times." "Oh, you have no idea," Merlin stressed. Arthur laughed a little before continuing, "I also want to thank you for trusting me enough to tell me. Especially with me being the king's son, of all people. That was probably... hard for you, to say the least. I understand why you kept it from me for as long as you did," Arthur finished, nodding to himself slightly. "I do trust you, Arthur. I know it sounded like I didn't before, and I'm sorry for that. But I do trust you. More than anyone." "It's alright. You had good reason, after all. I'm sure that if I was in your position, I wouldn't have trusted me, either." Merlin nodded a little, lips twitching into a small smile. And there was that comfortable silence again. Merlin couldn't stop his thoughts from racing. He had finally told Arthur. He couldn't believe it. For years, he had been afraid of revealing his biggest secret, which could potentially get him killed, and now... he had told Arthur. And it had gone well, too. Maybe the gods were on his side, for once. Arthur finally broke the silence, looking at Merlin as he spoke. "No more secrets, okay? Promise me, Merlin," he said, his voice lingering on the name for a split second. "I promise," Merlin responded honestly. And so, Arthur and Merlin stood there. Right next to each other they stood, just as it should be, and just as it always would be, until the end. And they were happy with that.
The sky above Lake Michigan was the color of a bullet. A one inch thick veneer of muddy snow blanketed the streets, piling up on dumpsters and swelling into drifts in alleys, suggesting that there was a harsher bout of weather soon to come. Clusters of human-made buildings rose from the locus of downtown, clashing with the asymmetrical, organic curves of the newer trollish architecture sprouting from amongst them. Blazing technicolor holoscreens scrolled across the upper levels of most buildings, creating a canopy of neon that wove across the city. The narrow strip of the Mag Mile clung to the edge of the frozen lake, its turf grass hidden under a layer of white. You wouldn’t expect anywhere to get snow in 2409, what with the ozone layer lying on its deathbed and the polar icecaps being permanent residents of the past tense. She’d heard it was something to do with increased moisture in the atmosphere, something to do with climate swings, something to do with the environmental dangers of terraforming. Whatever it was, it certainly never reached Los Angeles, which hadn’t seen a flake of snow in the last forty years before it fell into the sea. Roxy Lalonde stepped off the public lift, and the doors slid closed behind her. Standing ankle deep in a drift, she reached down and scooped up the first handful of snow she’d ever touched. It was cold. Experimentally, she licked it. That was probably unsanitary, but given that it tasted just like what you’d from expect day-old street snow, she spat it out immediately, so it didn’t have the chance to do her much harm. Welcome to New Chicago, said Hal. Red text scrolled across the corner of her visor, and the AI’s camera whirred as it did a full three-sixty of the area. Just like Old Chicago, except polluted, unfriendly, and ruled by a species of hyper-wealthy monsters. Oh, wait. “Cry all you want, country boy. At least this place is above sea level.” She took a deep lungful of air. It smelled like saltwater and smoke. Lake Michigan was undergoing some development on its eastern bank to construct homes for seadwellers seeking subaquatic property. Country boy? I was born in Austin. You crawled out of the woods somewhere in upstate New York. “Firstly, Dirk wrote most of your code when he got bored on a flight to D.C., so I’m pretty sure you don’t qualify as a Texas native. Secondly, I grew up in SoCal. And thirdly, country boy isn’t a birthright, it’s a state of mind.” What, a man can’t make an observation or two around here without being called a yokel? “Babe. C’mon.” All I’m saying is, if worrying about climate change and wealth inequality makes me a Podunk local, then call me a cowboy. “You know,” said Roxy, cheerfully, starting off across the street, “I remember when Dirk was the most dramatic person I knew.” What are you talking about? I’m agreeing with you. Hal’s cursor blinked innocently in the upper corner of her visor. Yee haw. A row of glittering shop windows flanked her on the left, while a steady stream of lifts zipped to and fro in the street to her right. Most were of troll make, with domed roofs and rows of twelve-paned windows in neon colors set into exteriors that gleamed like insect shells. At a distance, they resembled metal centipedes, sans the legs, hovering a few feet above the ground through use of Crockercorp tech. Those who walked — and more did than she would have expected, in this weather — wrapped themselves in bulky parkas and thick snow boots, visors glowing a full hemospectrum of colors through the swirling mist, swaddled so thoroughly it was almost hard to tell who was human and who was troll. Roxy pulled her scarf higher up over her nose and exhaled, trying to create a pocket of warmth underneath it. She’d worn the warmest clothes she had, but coming from California, that meant a pair of relatively un-tattered jeans and a leather jacket layered over a sweatshirt, with an old set of pink gloves someone in the commune had knit for her that’d long since sprouted holes in the fingers. Her sneakers had been soaked through within seconds of getting off the lift. With her gun slung across her back and a suitcase in her hand, she’s pretty sure she looks like some wayward lovechild of the Punisher and a Rogers and Hammerstein protagonist. Nevertheless, nobody looked twice at her. Nice thing about cities, she supposed, as opposed to forty-person human communes: if you don’t stick your nose in anybody else’s business, they’ll keep their noses well out of yours. Jesus, I’m cold just looking at you, Rox, Hal complained. Get a taxi. “Don’t need one,” she said. “It’s not that far.” Crocker Estate’s two miles north of here, and it’s about to snow. ‘Not that far’ means different things in Chicago and Bakersfield. “Buck up. I’ll be fine.” If you say so. Who needs all ten toes, anyway? I have it on good authority that eight is much more aerodynamic. “Are you gonna pay the cab fare? Cuz if not, this broke girl is walking.” I could wire you a few million from one of the peerage’s offshore accounts, if you’d let me. “Yeah, so could I. You know what I could also do? Time. In prison. For that thing.” You’re assuming you’d get caught. “And you’re assuming you wouldn’t?” I’m assuming that A.I. have a leg up on humans in terms of leaving digital traces, given that we interface directly with programs instead of using an intermediary tool to manipulate the binary. Which is true. I’m assuming a fact. “Sure,” she granted, “but if you do get caught, that’s GG. Least when I’m hacking, people don’t get a peep show of my dendrites if I get it wrong.” That’s never happened to me. My dendrites remain unseen by human eye. My circuits remain unmolested. My memory banks are as pure as the driven snow. “Congrats, you’re a virgin. You want a medal?” You have no mind for metaphor, fleshbag. Roxy grinned. She passed a yellowblood hunched over in the enclave between two buildings, cradling a sopor pan in their hands, gaunt hollows under their cheeks and a wild, sleepless, haunted look to their eyes. Her step flagged, and she paused to watch them take a long drag from the pan. Their face eased over immediately with the bliss of dreamless sleep. Humans couldn’t get hooked on sopor — brain chemistry wasn’t wired right for it. That didn’t mean she didn’t know how it felt. She kept moving. It had been three days since she’d flown out to Crockercorp HQ in Seattle for the job interview. ‘Interview’ was a strong word for it; a grumpy indigoblood had scowled at her over his desk and barked rapid-fire questions about her loyalty to the Empire and appreciation for the Heiress’ baking vlogs until he seemed satisfied, and then sent her out without once asking about her qualifications. Granted, she hadn’t really applied for the opening so much as been drafted for it. A summons had appeared in her inbox one day in Imperial pink script, demanding that she submit her resumé and complete criminal record for perusal, and it wasn’t until she’d already sent both that she was allowed to know what the position even was. Chief Bodyguard to the Heiress, Jane Crocker. Of all things. Seventy-two hours later, Roxy was in New Chicago with every personal belonging she owned stuffed in a suitcase, and had only a vague understanding of why. She could hack her way in and out of a tight corner, sure, and you didn’t last long in the human communes without knowing your way around riflekind, either. But it was laughable to think that she was the most qualified individual in the world to guard the second most important person in it. Not that it made much difference, in the end. The Imperial Office of Employment had sent her a notice informing her of her new salary, and Roxy regarded herself as a pretty virtuous person, generally, but at the same time the list of things she wouldn’t do for that much money was very, very short. ‘Move to Chicago’ wasn’t on it. Dirk had left a year earlier, anyway. Headed off to live in Austin, of all places, despite the city being near abandoned after it flooded. Apparently he wanted to get in touch with his roots, whatever the fuck that meant. More likely he got sick of people. Anyway, without him there, the commune didn’t have much in it capable of tempting Roxy to stay, much less six figures’ worth of temptation. Hello? Hal asked. Ground Control to Major Rox? You can shave fifteen minutes off if you turn left here. “Oh.” She shook her head, sucked in a gust of frigid air to clear her head, and turned left. “Thanks.” Dirk had built him for her as a sixteenth birthday present. “Every cybernaut worth their salt needs a sidekick,” he’d said, handing her a remodeled Hubtopband, complete with automatic rifle scope and wifi connectivity. “Try this one on for size.” “What’s it do?” She’d clipped it to her right ear and slid the lens over her eye, blinking as it cycled through the startup routines and keyed itself to her iris. “He,” Dirk corrected. “And he’s me. Me from five weeks ago, I mean.” “You’re the A.I.?” “No,” he said. “I’m not him. But he’s me.” Then, hesitating, he said, “More or less.” Hal had turned out to err on the far, far side of ‘less.’ Cross the street. “Roger, roger.” She did. Following Hal’s instructions presented a mixed bag, typically, since on the one hand, he was bound by his programming to perform the tasks she asked of him, but on the other hand, Dirk hadn’t put anything in there regulating the manner in which the task was performed. That was a lot more wiggle room than she figured he’d originally intended. And Hal could turn circumventing his subroutines into an Olympic sport. A long, wide street opened up in front of her as she turned, with six lanes of traffic moving in either direction, and a sidewalk broad enough to fit two full-grown purplebloods lying head to foot. But the road was much more densely populated than the sidewalk, and the crowd thinned the further she walked along the street, leaving her conspicuously without cover. She also didn’t fail to notice that most of the people this far north were trolls, and highbloods, at that, with the warmest among them a chrysanthemum blue. One of them bared their teeth at her in passing, and she couldn’t figure out whether that was supposed to be a threat or a catcall, so she just increased her pace and kept walking. Heads up. Flies at your seven. Her heart takes a running leap, but she keeps her pace even. “How far?” A block and closing. “We haven’t done anything wrong. For once.” You have a GBF the size of a horse’s tibula strapped to your back, you’re carrying a suitcase, and you’re a human in the middle of the Highblood District. Better actors than you would fail to come off innocent, under those conditions. “Did Crockercorp file my residence permit yet?” I don’t know. You don’t give me access to your inbox. “Shit. I don’t, do I.” She activates the rearview camera in her visor and spots the police car, blue and red neons blazing as it freewheels down the street. Too close to run. Not that she could evade them for long, anyway; it’s not her city, not her digs. The most she could do on foot is find someplace to hide, and the time’s long passed when that wouldn’t look suspicious as a rainbow drinker at a blood bank. No. I seem to recall it was something about ‘setting reasonable boundaries.’ “And I stand by that.” I’m riding permanent shotgun on your life and livelihood, here, Lalonde. Why are government invoices your line in the sand? “It doesn’t really matter what the line is,” said Roxy, “so much that the line exists in the first place. Distance?” Five hundred meters and closing. Our chances of successfully losing them are a soft twenty-seven percent. “ATTENTION CITIZEN.” Make that a hard thirteen. She ducked behind a broad-shouldered troll and turned up her collar to hide her face as much as possible, pretending she thought they were talking to someone else. “CITIZEN IDENTIFIED: ROXANNE LALONDE, HALT.” “Fuck.” Two point nine nine repeating, reducing exponentially by the millisecond. Want me to run the odds of this being a random search? She came to a halt, setting down her suitcase, and lifted her hands in the air. The lift slid into the curbside parking lane, and a pair of flies got out. They were both a warm indigo, dressed in Imperial blacks, with the bright, artificial wings marking them as members of the Empress’ Finest strapped to their shoulders. The plates on their armor resembled an exoskeleton — an intricate network of interlacing joints and shifting scales, all the same glossy black of adult trolls’ skin, although these ones in particular looked a few years shy of their last molt. A special Crockertech nylon weave clung to the skeleton frame of their wings, like the gossamer strung from the pinions of butterflies. Thus, the nickname. People exaggerated the wings’ functionality for dramatic effect; without sufficient updraft, they couldn’t get far off the ground, and mostly served to give wearers a bit of an edge when trying to make long jumps or taking an otherwise bad fall. A far cry from the movies, where they were sent zipping around in midair like a hummingbird on a speed trip. They carried stun sticks at the hip, but were probably packing, too. “Evening, officers,” she said, plastering a smile on her face. “Afternoon. Noonish. Whatever. Problem?” Do we have a plan of attack for this? Or are we just rolling with the punches? One of them — a beefy blueblood with two feet and a hundred pounds on her snapped down his visor and squinted at the holster on her back. “You got a license for the gun, miss?” “Yep,” she said, drawling the vowel, popping the -p. Ah. Lying. I assume you want me to forge that, unless you’ve been filing paperwork behind my back. A beat passed. The fly’s mouth flattened. “You wanna get it out?” “Sure,” she said, reaching slowly for her palmhusk, and stared hard at the cursor in the corner of her visor, hoping the AI would take the hint. “Give me a sec.” She tapped a few random commands into the husk, giving Hal time to work. After a second, a pink hologram sprung to life above the husk’s projector. It was, to all appearances, a government document, marked with the Imperial insignia and everything, proclaiming one Roxy Lalonde to be the perfectly lawful owner of one Mark II Girl’s Best Friend sniper rifle. The fly squinted at it. “This is from California,” he said. Oh, eat my entire ass. I’ll bet you a gig of storage that the permits cross state lines, Violet Beauregarde over here just doesn’t want to admit he fucked up. “Yeah,” she said, attempting an amicable tone. “Just moved, actually. Haven’t had time to register it yet. Couldn’t ship it here, for obvious reasons.” She laughed, high and reedy. His mouth twisted, but he let it slide. “What’re you doing this close to the Highblood District, kid?” She put away the palmhusk. “My job,” she said brightly. “Recently hired to work for Crockercorp. Supposed to report to the Crocker Estate, ASAP, soon as I get here.” She hefted her suitcase expressively. “Thus, the luggage. Uh, as you imagine, this Cali kid doesn’t have a whole lot of warm clothes, so if you don’t mind—” He pulled out a tag scanner. “Tag, please,” he requested. She couldn’t tell if he was peeved or just bored; it was always hard to tell, with trolls. “Look. There’s no need for this, okay? I’m not here to cause trouble—” “Tag, citizen.” The other one is reaching for his stun stick. She bit hard on her cheek to keep a retort down and tugged down her collar, curt. It exposed the thin slip of plastic adhered to the skin above her collarbone, blinking dull green to indicate its connection to a local network. The fly aimed his scanner at it and washed it in black light. The scanner would cross-reference the tag ID with a file in the Empire database. It’d hold everything from her criminal record to test scores to tax returns. In a hot second, they’d have anything they wanted on her, and she’d have jack shit to do about it. She starts babbling. “I know I don’t have a permit to be up here, okay, but look, like, I deadass just got hired three days ago, today’s my literal first day — you can call Crockercorp, if you want, right, they’ll back me up —” The scanner beeped, and the fly’s eyes widened. He backed off like she was infectiously diseased. “Yes’m,” he said quickly, and oh, well. That was new. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am, didn’t realize you — anyway. Yes. Our mistake. Won’t happen again, I promise.” She tilted her head. “O…kay?” “We weren’t informed you would be arriving. Of course, in the future, we — again, our mistake. Give our fondest regards to the Heiress.” He gave her a short, stilted kind of nod, which she thinks might have actually been an aborted bow, and backed off another few paces, as if she needed a four foot radius of bubble space to walk down the street. “About your business.” It doesn’t make any sense. Unless Crockercorp already updated her employment records, which doesn’t make sense either, since she hasn’t even started yet. But it’s the only thing that would explain them treating her like a seadweller out of the blue. The company composes nine tenths of the world’s wealth, the last tenth being the personal funds of its CEO, and isn’t so much a private corporation as a privatized form of government. Getting to call yourself an employee of the real deal, and not just a wager grinding for some subsidiary, is like naming yourself a member of the peerage. It’s part of why she took the job in the first place. That, and the serious benefits. Hitmen didn’t get dental. Why Crockercorp would care about getting her name on the roster so quickly, Roxy doesn’t know, but she’s got places to go and other things to be baffled by, so she leaves the gift horse’s teeth well the fuck alone, nods, and takes off speed-walking down the street, tossing a lazy salute over her shoulder. Did you hack the scanner? She mutters, “I thought you did.” No. Looks like we’re chalking it up to good luck. “Aw, shit,” she whined. “Probably just used up my yearly quota.” Maybe this just means you’re in for a lucky year. To quote Alexander Pope: Hope springs eternal in the human breast. She smirked. “But what about yours?” I’m afraid to say that my tits remain hopeless. She climbed the stairs to a skybridge ferrying people across an intersection too busy to be guarded by a crosswalk and descended onto the next street. The chatter of crowds thinned out the closer they get to the residential parts of NC; since the lifts ran near silently, the bustle of the city came more from the clamor of construction work and the cold, omnipresent voice of the Imperial Drones gliding over the streets than anything the citizens did. A billboard on the side of a skyscraper switches from an ad for the new Martian colony to one for the Heiress’ Grubtube channel, gutsyGumshoe, bearing a picture of Crocker herself holding a bright red mixing bowl and a brand-appropriate scarlet fork. A coif of short black hair curls around her temples, perfectly tucked into place, and held back from her forehead with a gleaming red tiara. She just got her braces off two months ago; it was a public holiday. Her eyes are unnaturally bright blue, like shards of copper sulfate under light. She grins at the camera easily, knowingly, as if she can see the passersby looking at her and is smiling back at them in particular. It’s the kind of smile that’s selling something. What do you think she’s like? “Crocker?” Roxy averted her eyes from the screen and crossed the street. The taller buildings were beginning to fall behind them, leading into a shorter, more sprawling area of elaborate homes and immaculate townhouses. White brick and coils of wrought iron, layered with plastic neon to give them pops of color, sat high off the street and connected by way of pristine stone stairs. All the windows were tinted to opacity. The place was still crowded, and the packed, claustrophobic aura of a metropolis hadn’t left it by any means, but here, at least, you could entertain the idea of personal space. Buzzing streetlights cast pools of fluorescent light on the snow. Yeah. “Dunno, I guess.” Do you think she’s really good at baking? Or is that a marketing ploy? You know she’s not really baking things, on her show. The food’s all fake. That’s the only way to make it look edible, after it’s been sitting under stage lights for a couple hours, or however long it takes to film. “Anyone who pretends to bake that much is probably at least kind of good at it,” Roxy reasoned. I suppose. Left here, and you’re home free. She turned the corner, and promptly pulled up short. The street corner across from Roxy was swallowed by an enormous townhouse, built from pale grey brick with black windows, with window gardens sticking out from each that sprouted fuchsia tulips and olive grey vines — real vines — that climbed up and down the walls. A holofence of solid white twice Roxy’s height walled the house off from the public and street below, glowing and emitting the faint hum of laser energy. Paparazzi flocked around it, all but flinging themselves against the shield, creating a cacophony of shouting and the odd chittering screeches of trolls. Roxy took a deep breath, tightened her grip on the suitcase, she crossed the street and plunged into the crowd. She had to fight for every inch of it. They were packed in and writhing, struggling against each other so close that they head-butted each other with their visors when they clashed, and even when she tried to slip through the crevices left between, someone or other would throw an elbow her way or sidestep to try and crush her out. The appeal of holofences was that they were supposed to let authorized persons through without harming them, and keep unauthorized persons out. That didn’t make the idea of pushing her hand towards an eleven foot glowing slate of lasers any more appealing. She grit her teeth and wedged through, all the same. The light parted for her, and she passed. This got the paparazzi’s attention. “Hey!” “Hey, you!” “What’s your name? Where are you—” “Can you confirm Miss Crocker’s appearance at the gala next w—” “What’s your business here?” “Miss!” “Do you have business with Miss Crocker?” “Do you have time for a word!” Roxy’s shoulders hunched. She took the stairs up to the main entrance two at a time. Finding no doorbell — or if there was, it was too techy to resemble anything Roxy had seen before — she grasped the knocker on the door, an elaborately carved cuttlefish, and rapped it thrice. A moment passed. The door cracked open a sliver. A short burgundyblood stood in the opening, built like a brick wall, with hair that was slicked to a tip at the back of her head. Although three, maybe four inches shorter than Roxy, her horns stretched above Roxy’s head, bent backward at the top and ridged. A birthmark dotted her chin. Her glasses were so thickly tinted it seemed inconceivable that she could even see out of them. “Hi,” Roxy said tightly, picking up her suitcase again. “Roxy Lalonde, professional hacker, newly minted bodyguard to the stars. Let a girl in, wouldja?” She got a thorough once-over in return. “You getting me, friendo? Roxy Lalonde. I can repeat that for a voice recognition system. Or fingerprints. Crockercorp took mine when I got hired for the job, so I know you have them, somewhere.” The butler reached for something behind the door, and then brought out a tag reader. “Oh, come on. Really? How many people do you get that can pass muster at the holofence? Do you wire up your face recognition systems to let the rabble in?” The butler said nothing. Roxy couldn’t even tell if she blinked, because of the shades. She groaned, and then wrenched down her neckline, baring her tag. “Fine,” she said. “I mean, fuck privacy, right?” The butler grunted, glancing at the tag reader. Then she backed away. Roxy darted through the door. It swung shut behind her, and the chorus of the paparazzi vanished. Silence settled over the room, complete and eerie. The Crocker Estate foyer was a tall, narrow chamber with a spiral staircase in black marble curling up along the curved back of the room. A mural of the Condesce possessed the whole back wall, stylized, with the Battleship Condescension rising from the sky behind her. A domed white ceiling above them dangled an elaborate crystal chandelier from its center. Arched doorways lead off to the left and right of the foyer, beyond which lay large, exquisitely furnished rooms, of which Roxy only got a glimpse before the butler interrupted her musings with a little cough and gestured to the stairs. “You’ll be wanting to meet the Heiress,” the butler said dully. Her voice was deep and throaty, with a lowblood accent so thick you could cut it with a knife. Roxy choked. She hadn’t been expecting to meet her so soon; she’d expected to have a few hours, at least, to clean herself up and maybe put together something to say. She hadn’t thought Jane would even be at home, on a weekday, her schedule presumably being packed to hell and back, and had figured she would have a comfortable amount of wiggle room in which to settle before staring into the face of Crockercorp. “Heiress,” she managed, shortly followed by, “I mean, right, yeah, Heiress. Chick I’m guarding! Heard of her. Ha.” She forced a laugh. Watch out, we got a smooth operator over here. She gave her visor a hard thump on the side. The butler sent her an odd look. She smiled apologetically. “Old model,” she said. “Got a programming error that makes it act up sometimes.” That was uncalled for. “But I’d love to meet her. I mean, if she wants to meet me. Does she have the time? If she doesn’t, I get it. Don’t want her to drop out of an important meeting for lil old me.” The butler did not appear impressed. She started climbing the stairs without checking to see if Roxy was following first. Real charisma bomb, that one. The upstairs of the townhouse opened into a spacious hallway. The butler didn’t get far before she stopped at a door of dark oakwood and jerked her head toward it meaningfully. Roxy came to the startling realization that the Heiress was probably behind it. “Wait,” she said, an unexpected surge of anxiety rising from her stomach. “Hold on. I need to, um. I gotta pee. Like, something awful. I—” The butler ignored this, and pulled open the door. Jane Crocker was the rare case of someone prettier in person than they were on TV. Broadly speaking, nothing about her was different. Same cap of curls, same neat little triangle of a nose, same round, owlish specs. Even the same eyes, a blue so bright Roxy had always assumed it was digital editing. But she was older off camera, with lines under her eyes and less makeup — which in turn makes her less girlish — and her clothes were a far cry from the cute outfits she wears in the vlogs, which typically involved poodle skirts and overalls and cargo shorts. Before Roxy, she wore a crisp red blazer and slacks, complete with tie. A red visor extended from the tiara atop her head. But she was sixteen, and no amount of makeup or clothes or exhaustion could make her not sixteen. And after the initial shock of seeing a face she was used to watching on billboards and magazine covers in the flesh, the intimidation factor faded away, and Roxy found herself staring at a teenage girl. When she stepped into the doorway, Jane looked up from her husktop and smiled. Her teeth were perfect, whiter than snow. “You must be Roxanne Lalonde,” she said, rising. She crossed the room quickly and held out her hand. “Good evening.” She didn’t introduce herself. Roxy got the feeling it wasn’t so much arrogance as respect for Roxy’s intelligence. “Just Roxy,” she said, and shook the Heiress’ hand. “Rox will do.” “Roxy. Welcome. How have you liked New Chicago?” Jane folded her hands expectantly. Her smile had not wavered once. “It’s — cold.” “Yes,” she laughed. “Unfortunately. Better not to get caught outside in January.” She noticed the gun on Roxy’s back, and her eyes widened. “Goodness.” “Hm? Oh,” Roxy giggled, tugging on the strap. “Yeah. I’m riflekind. Comes with the territory. Not much of a point to picking the deck if you’re not gonna carry around something that spits serious metal, right?” “I’m spoonkind, myself,” Jane said faintly, still a bit goggle-eyed, and Roxy came damn close to rolling her eyes, because of course she is. But the Heiress shook it off quickly and refocused on Roxy’s face, pointedly ignoring the gun. “Would you like anything? Tea, caf?” “M’good, thanks.” “Have you any business in the city? We can arrange transport to take you wherever you need, but after you start work, I’m afraid your schedule will be somewhat wed to mine, with the exception of your days off.” “That’s chill. I mean, uh. No thanks.” Roxy warmed under her unfailing attention. “Only been here a few hours. Don’t really know anybody here to have business with.” “And you came from California, correct? It’s warm there. I imagine the shock might do a chap in.” Her smile changed, shrinking, but into something slightly warmer. An English lilt caught her vowels and tossed them around with soft URP, just stiff enough to seem artificial without being overpowering. “You’ll have to wear something a bit bulkier than that if you want to keep happy, here.” “Sure,” Roxy said, politely, and added ‘coat’ to the mental list of things she’d buy as soon as she got her first paycheck. “Have you been shown your rooms?” Roxy’s brain had a moment much like what she imagined a husktop experienced when you had eight applications running and tried to open a ninth. “Rooms?” “Yes.” “I have rooms? Plural, rooms?” Her mouth twitched, a bit amused, a bit perplexed. “Well, perhaps more a bedroom than a suite, but we wouldn’t make you sleep in the yard, Ms. Lalonde. We’re not quite that mercenary.” “No, yeah, I got that, I just — you know what, I don’t know what I figured.” “It should have been in the packet sent to you by Crockercorp after you were brought on,” Jane said quizzically, tilting her head. “Ah,” said Roxy, and having flashbacks to the huge PDF sitting in her inbox, which she had received, checked for malware, and then immediately ignored. “Yep. No. I remember, now. The packet. Yes! Gotcha.” She flashed a thumbs-up. “Sorry. Took a sec.” “Okay,” Jane said, clearly letting it go not out of gullibility but of generosity. “I expect you’d want to see your quarters, then. To get cleaned up after the journey.” She stepped past her, out of the office, and held the door. “I’ll show you there. You can leave your suitcase with Marsti, she’ll take it.” Roxy took one look at Marsti and understood that this was a surprise to both of them. Nevertheless, Jane had said it in a way that didn’t leave much room for disagreement, so she gently settled the suitcase on the floor and gave the butler an apologetic grimace. It didn’t seem to help, much. “This way,” called Jane, who was already halfway down the hallway. Roxy tripped to catch up. The winding interior of the apartment was as gorgeous as the rest of it, furnished with dark hardwood and pearl-pink walls, dotted by the occasional side table bearing an expensive-looking piece of china or a potted flower. The blooms were all fat and full and luscious, even in winter. Each door bore a gold plate embossed with the name of the room behind it, including ‘LIBRARY,’ ‘VR ROOM,’ ‘LEISURE ROOM,’ and one simply called ‘JANE.’ The lattermost room sat at the very end of the hallway, which terminated in a broad, spotless window looking down onto the street; Jane stopped at the door across from hers. Its plate was blank. There was no doorknob that Roxy could see. Jane pressed her thumb to the print reader beside the door and it chimed softly before the door slid back into a socket in the wall, soundless. “The interface on the inside has settings you can use to key it to your print,” she informed Roxy. “You can also grant temporary or permanent access to someone else by entering their Crockertech ID. Keying your print will also let you access the suite of rooms permitted for the chief bodyguard, including the kitchen, library, leisure room, et cetera. All rooms use the same door mechanic; as long as you don’t go switching thumbs with anybody, you should be able to get in anywhere you’re supposed to.” She grinned a little at her own joke. “Cool,” Roxy said, eyeing the scanner. In Cali, they’d used keycard scanners, or even analogue locks, if they were especially antsy about whatever they were locking up. Maybe this was standard fare for troll living. “Cool, cool. So your print will unlock it, too?” “Yes.” Jane at least had the decency to look abashed at this probable violation of privacy. “In the interests of efficiency in times of emergencies, I and a few others have our prints registered for your lock. Head of Crockercorp Security, for example, can open any door in the house. It’s a safety measure.” “Can I change that?” Jane blinked. From her expression, it was entirely possible that had never occurred to her. “No,” she said. “You can give access, or take away access that you granted in the first place. You can’t bar higher-ranking officials.” “Uh, okay.” “It’s for safety reasons,” she repeated. “Really, it’s in both of our best interests — and I would never enter without your permission except in the direst of emergencies, you understand. I respect your space. It really is for instances where communication is absolutely vital — the walls are soundproofed, you see. So this measure is in case of a fire, or a home invasion, where I might not be able to inform you in time, otherwise.” “Sure,” said Roxy, as if that did anything to soothe her whatsoever. “Sure! Sure. Um. That’s cool.” Marsti trudged up behind them and deposited Roxy’s suitcase just inside the door, dropping it with a heavy thunk. Roxy winced. “Will that be all?” Jane nodded perfunctorily, and then turned to Roxy. “Will it be?” Roxy stuttered, caught in the unexpected situation of being asked for orders and blindsided by it entirely. Marsti waited, staring at her dully. “Uh, yeah. No, I’m good, thanks.” Marsti bowed low to Jane, her horns coming close to scraping the floor, one hand tucked behind her back and the other held across her waist. The act nearly folded her in half. Then she straightened and performed a shortened version to Roxy, keeping her hands at her sides, but bending deep at the waist and holding the pose for a few seconds before releasing it and walking away. Jane didn’t watch her leave. “I hope you get settled well,” she said warmly, placing a hand on Roxy’s shoulder. Her hands were soft, her nails perfect robin egg crescents. “Tell me if you need anything.” “Thanks,” Roxy said, a bit weakly. Jane nodded graciously, and then followed Marsti up the hall. “Oh — oh, shit — uh, J— Miss Crocker? Your Highness?” Jane turned, laughing a little. “Jane will do perfectly well,” she said. “I’m not a princess.” “Jane,” Roxy repeated. “Yeah. Do I have access to your room?” Jane gave her a funny little look. “Of course you do,” she said. “You’re the head of my security detail. What use are you if you can’t get to me when I need you?” Roxy struggled to keep her face neutral. “Course,” she said. “Just checking! Laters.” She stepped quickly into the room and shoved her thumb onto the interior print reader, closing it. She stood there for a moment, face warm. Well. At least we know the disarming lack of boundaries is a two-way street. She blew out a long breath through her teeth in reply, raking her hands through her hair. “Six figures,” she said. “I’m getting paid six figures to let Jane Crocker have a key to my bedroom, and you know what? I’ll take it.” Jane Crocker and assorted Crockercorp officials. You don’t even know who all can get in here. “I’ll just remember to lock up my shit when I leave,” Roxy said, slinging the gun off her back and bracing it against the wall by the door. “Easy peasy.” With what? You pack your own chest of drawers in that suitcase? “See A point: six figures. I can afford to buy some padlocks, Halexander.” Whatever you say. It’s not my panty drawer being left unguarded. She reached for her suitcase and turned around, taking a sweeping look around the room. The far and right walls were consumed by a wraparound corner window, offering a panoramic view of the streets below. A row of troll buildings drew a curving black skyline against the dark red sky in the distance, while the dull luster of lifts passing to and fro on the street below illuminated the roads. The carpet was light grey, and matched the silver drapes, which had been drawn back for her arrival; the walls were dark charcoal, almost black, and accented with a tortoiseshell marble fireplace to the right of the door where a fire in its dying stages crackled quietly. A chaise lounge was tucked into the corner, and the king-sized bed was buried beneath a mountain of pillows. An en-suite bathroom could be glimpsed through an open doorway on the opposite side of the room, and a walk-in closet through a doorway adjacent to it. The whole thing, even by conservative estimates, cost more than Roxy had ever made in her life. A bouquet of gorgeous purple roses sat on the bedside table. A small white note was tucked in amongst the blooms. Roxy approached and pulled it out, unfolding it. )(ey gull enjoy ya new digs Roxy checked the back. There was nothing more. “Huh.” Well, look at that. Not one day into your new job and you’ve got a secret admirer. She folded the note and slid it into her pocket, dumping her suitcase on the bed. “Whatever. They are nice digs.” Obviously. Unpacking was a short process. She unloaded her clothes and tossed them in the closet’s wardrobifier, not bothering to organize them, before pulling out her husktop and settling it on the bed. Then she removed her laser gun and its holster, which she hung on the nightstand. Hauling a sniper rifle around got unwieldy after a while, and she figured it probably wouldn’t fly everywhere. The rest of her stuff she decaptchalogued from her sylladex, and then she was done. There wasn’t much. She’d never had much to begin with. “Hive sweet home,” she proclaimed, and keeled over facedown on the bed. It wedged her visor against her face. Wonderful. “M’ gonna sleep for a thousand years.” It was muffled to incoherence against the comforter. It’s only 20:32. And you haven’t had dinner. “I’m on west coast time.” It’s earlier there. “Whatever.” She pushed herself up and shrugged off her jacket, tossing it haphazardly onto the chaise. “It okay if I put you on sleep mode, lil man?” I suppose. I’ll scrounge up an internet connection and entertain myself. She slid the visor off her head and reached over to settle it on the charging stand next to the bouquet. Her right eye took a second to adjust, reorienting its perception of color without the tinted filter of her lens. Her husktop hummed the three-note Crockercorp jingle as it booted up. The desktop was a photo of her and Dirk on the Santa Monica pier — three years ago, and a year before it went under. His hair was shorter, still ragged from the godawful haircut he’d given himself that summer, and hers was dyed platinum white instead of its natural gold. She was sprawled across his lap with an arm hooked around his neck and the other outstretched to snap the photo, winking, her tongue stuck out; his eyes were hidden behind his shades, as per usual, and he wasn’t smiling, per se, but there was a softness to the lines around his mouth and brow which suggested that if he were a different person, he might have been. He had a smudge of ice cream under his bottom lip. An unexpected pang of loneliness struck her in the sternum. She missed her twin. The chat client opened automatically as part of the startup process. At the top leftmost corner, a green dot appeared next to the familiar orange handle. tipsyGnostalgic began bothering timaeusTestified! TG: hey d TG: whats hangin TG: just got to the new casa and dude TG: duuuuuuuuuuude TG: ya girl is channeling her julia roberts TG: getting pretty womaned all over here TG: luxury.jpg TT: Well, hot damn. TT: Did you end up marrying rich after all? TT: Do they know you don't have a dowry? Don't tell them until after the honeymoon. TG: puh lease TG: who needs a dowry with an ass like mine TG: and n e wae naw its my room at crocker estate TG: im parked across the hall from ms heiress herself TT: No shit, really? TG: deadass TT: Nice. TT: Tell me you're going to steal something. TG: dirky NO TG: i am being a loyal employee up in this bitch TG: i am getting m fuckin honor code on TG: ya girl is earning that dolla TT: All that talk of eating the rich, and yet in the moment of truth, she betrays us. TT: How does it feel to be an instrument of the bourgeois, Roxy? Do you feel the heat of a million proles watching you with resentment? TG: bijon i AM the bourgeois now TG: did u see how much im makin when my first paycheck comes around im gonna buy a fuckig plane TT: You may have wealth, but you will never have the moral high ground. TG: alas TG: allow me 2 serenade u with my tiniest violin TG: so tiny TG: so sad TG: howre things down in tejas TT: Quiet. As per usual. TT: Some radicals attacked Houston the other day, so some of the locals are worried that we're up next. But I'm not. TT: Consider it one of the advantages of living in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere, U.S.A.: no one cares enough about your territory to target you. TG: r the drones still hangin around TT: Yes. But you get the idea that they're here for the revolutionaries, not the residents. It's not ideal, obviously, but they don't seem to give two shits about the people who live here, so we can go about our business for the most part. TG: wish i could say the same TG: 3 guesses who got pulled over 2day! TG: asked to step over i guess TG: wasnt drivin when it happened TG: all the same TT: Wait, what? TG: keep a lid on it nothin happened TT: What did they want? TG: just to fuck over a human prolly TG: like theyre flies they dont need a reason TG: but heres the fun bit TG: they peeped my tag and basically shit themselves TT: What. TG: ya TG: being a crockercorp wagedrone has its perques TG: score 1 for the sheeple amirite TT: So they really keep kosher about pissing off pinkbloods up there, huh? TG: ubetcha TT: At least you'll be out of trouble, then. TG: bitch who do u think ur talkin to TT: My mistake. TT: *At least you won't get caught, then. TG: better TG: and dont u forget it TT: Wouldn't dream of it. TT: I've got to go. One of the neighbors wants to squeeze in an extra hour of work on the water filtration plant before dark, and I'm the only one who knows how to do-si-do with a power coupler without blowing off his own fingers. TG: aight godspeed TG: txt me if u need advice TT: Course. TT: Talk to you later? TT: I'm close to finishing the holoprojector. I could probably have the video call function up and running within a couple of weeks. TG: sick TG: this place has wild tech bro im sure i can find one around here TG: miss seein u TT: Yeah. TG: yeah TG: welp TG: off u go TG: try not to fuck up the power couplers TG: remember 2 break the circuit before u start fuckin with the wires TG: im not there to resuscit8 u this time TT: Thanks for that. TT: I'll keep it in mind. TG: do TG: keep wise big bro TT: You too, Rox. timaeusTestified ceased bothering tipsyGnostalgic!
The moon has risen. The dark of the forest is smooth and absolute, broken only by thin slivers of dusty moonbeams that break through the shadowed trees. The horses’ hooves are muted by pine needles, quiet on the forest floor. The only other sound is the whisper of the others’ hushed conversations. It is the only thing to reveal their position in the dark. It’s a good thing her horse knows where it’s going without her to lead him; Anya can’t see its head in front of her face. She can’t even see Clarke. If it weren’t for the weight of the Omega’s back against her chest, she wouldn’t be convinced of her safety. That isn’t to say that she can’t sense her presence in other ways. Clarke’s musky scent is strong and reassuring. It’s particularly potent in the dark, when Anya can’t rely on her sight to take in information. It’s as though her senses have attuned themselves especially to Clarke; every particle of her body seems to be straining to absorb everything there is to know. Every hitched breath, every sleepy mumble, every stuttered heartbeat; Anya’s spirit takes it in and catalogues it attentively as proof that the Omega in her arms is safe. She has reason enough to be on alert. There is nothing in the forest that will attack them when they are traveling in such numbers, but the dark makes movement feel tricky and uncertain. The Trikru are used to journeying by horse at night, particularly in the summer when the days are hot, but the Skaikru are new to such travel, and their senses are not accustomed to its particularities. Though the horses know the direction of their travel better than their riders, the darkness complicates things. All it would take is one misstep, a steep embankment, a spooked horse. Then there would be injuries, and the other riders would be forced to stop and tend to their fallen companion, leaving the group vulnerable to other beings that know the dark better than they. Even without mishaps, someone could stray too far away from the protection of the group by accident, exposing them to attack. It is for all these reasons that Anya is glad Clarke is with her. It was ultimately — as all decisions are — Lexa’s idea to travel at night. When Lincoln arrived back shortly after dusk and Raven received the Skaikru boy’s radio call from within the mountain, Heda proposed that they set out immediately for Tondisi. The Skaikru looked a little hesitant at the prospect of traveling through the dark and unfamiliar forest, but everyone agreed nonetheless. After three days of idleness and waiting, all of them are eager to reach Tondisi and put their battle plan into action as soon as possible. Every day the prisoners remain in the mountain, more of their people die. No one, not even Skaikru, can bear waiting any longer. In the meeting that followed Lincoln’s return, deciding who would make the journey was a source of greater disagreement. Four members of Skaikru, including Kane the Chancellor, Abby Griffin, the Omega mechanic Raven, and her engineering companion — Anya believes he is called Wik — declared their intent to join. In accordance with their various positions, all of them were deemed necessary. On top of that, Lincoln returned to rejoin his people, and as his mate and Indra’s seken, Octavia was an obvious addition. Lastly, and intriguingly, the boy Murfi requested to join them as well. He trailed behind the other Skaikru as they mounted the hill to Lexa’s war tent and quietly made his request. At first, Abby, Kane, and Indra outright refused. Considering his role in the village massacre, as well as various other transgressions — Anya has discovered that he is to blame for the mechanic’s injured leg — none of them were eager to allow his presence. However, despite their vehement denials, the Omega boy stood strong, insisting that he is good with a fayagon, and that they are his people in the mountain as well; that he refused to be the only one of the Hundred left out of the action at Camp Jaha, and that furthermore, if they did not allow him to accompany them, he would wreak such havoc on the camp in their absence that they would wish they had all died in the mountain upon their return. It was Lexa who, with a hint of an amused smirk, finally granted him leave to come. With the addition of so many people, the logistics of travel are complicated. In total, the new members have made their party sixteen in number. The Trikru, with the addition of Clarke, arrived at Camp Jaha five days ago with twelve horses. The deaths of the three guards at the hands of the ripa Finn left three mounts unoccupied, but that hardly made a dent. Thus, they have been forced to get creative or risk leaving essential personnel behind. Heda, of course, has a horse to herself. Gustus as her bodyguard and Indra as a general are afforded the same courtesy. Callum, surprisingly, volunteered to travel with Murphy, while Jean and the other two guards all ride alone. Kane and Abby, being the leaders of their people, do as well. Lincoln has taken Octavia on his horse, and Raven, with her injured leg, saddled up with Wick. That left Clarke to travel with Anya. It’s a good thing, too, because in her exhaustion, there would be no chance of her riding on her own. Clarke fell asleep soon after they crossed the river near Camp Jaha. Kept alert by the prospect of the Kongeda War Council and the need to ensure that Clarke doesn’t fall, Anya holds her close. The weight of the political decisions she has been called upon to make, plus the lingering effects of the Omega fever, have brought on tremendous exhaustion. The Omega is sound asleep, and stirs only occasionally to adjust the angle of her head upon Anya’s shoulder. Her face is tucked into Anya’s hair, her weight solid and comforting as she reclines back into Anya’s front. Her breathing is heavy and slow; she seems utterly relaxed. It is a display of trust that makes Anya’s heart melt. It seems a small thing, but the fact that Clarke is willing to find refuge to sleep in Anya’s arms speaks to their connection in a tangible way. The faith that the Omega is putting in her tells her more than words ever could, and Anya doesn’t intend to let her down. She will protect her Omega with everything she has. Now that the fragile state of their connection has been . . . addressed, Anya isn’t about to waste any more time. Certainly, they have yet to discuss the matter openly, but really, it hardly matters. If there is anything that Anya knows, it is that such things are often beyond discussion. For how could they not be? How could she possibly be expected to put everything she feels for Clarke, all of the messy hopes and desperate dreams and heavy, deep-seated longing, into words? There is no conversation that could do justice to what Anya feels. Words will only flatten its effect, for to detangle the complexity of what is occurring in Anya’s heart would be to lose its meaning. Certainly, after the Maunon have been defeated, they will have to come to some sort of verbal agreement about where to go next, but for now, there is no need to sully their blossoming connection with mundane speech. The bond that Anya feels with Clarke is deeper than anything she has ever known. It is intense and insistent and all-consuming, and for now, Anya is willing to merely absorb it without trying to put it to words. She can show her devotion in other ways. It is easy, really, to bring her fevered affection to life. As an Alpha, it is Anya’s first impulse to provide her intended mate with care and protection. To dote on Clarke is the simplest way she knows of showing the depth of her intentions, and dote on her she does. As her Omega, Clarke is deserving of only the best. As an Omega who has spent the entirety of her life save the past few weeks being trodden upon and neglected, she deserves even more, and Anya intends to give it to her. Already, it is enough that she has been granted the opportunity to share the horse. Riding behind Clarke means that the Omega is afforded the chance to sleep in the shelter of Anya’s embrace. Having been so ill, and approaching a wartime during which respite will be rare, even a few minutes of rest are precious. It is also an opportunity for Anya to give subtle proof to her intentions. By volunteering herself for the task and allowing no one else to undertake it, she is offering up her attention. Clarke might not be aware of it, but for a warrior to divide their attention thus is a display of loyalty on a grand scale. A warrior cannot afford to be half-present in battle, so to devote part of their attention to someone else not only speaks to their strength and capabilities, but to the lengths to which they are willing to go for the object of their affections. All things considered, it’s the very least she can do. Anya harbors no guilt over the way she treated Clarke in the forest before the alliance. To do so would be untruthful and irrational; after all, Clarke was just as intent on killing her as Anya was on killing Clarke. They were both acting out of the interests of their people, and in any case, it has turned out well. Warriors do not feel guilt over circumstances they cannot control. That doesn’t mean, though, that Anya doesn’t plan on making up for it in every way humanly possible. Aside from riding with Clarke, she has procured a blanket. It feels like a small gesture, but it’s an important detail nonetheless. The nights now are growing colder, and though Anya hardly feels it, she knows that Clarke is more susceptible. Omegas are more prone to losing body heat, and besides, she suspects that after a life spent on a climate-controlled space station, the Omega’s tolerance for seasonal weather changes is lower than most. Held securely against Anya’s front with the light fur draped over her lap, Clarke will remain snug throughout their journey even during the coldest part of the night. When all of this bloodshed with the mountain is over, Anya will have to focus on obtaining Clarke some ground-suitable clothes. For now, though, she contents herself with the knowledge that Clarke is safe. It is the least she can do to provide the Omega with warmth and security: basic necessities. It shouldn't be too much to ask — though judging by Skaikru’s abhorrent neglect, it apparently is. Once they reach Tondisi, she can ply Clarke with more food and proper armor, but for now, Anya is content to expend the resources available to her. She is proud to give what she has for the sake of the woman in her arms. That she has the strength and ability to give to her Omega speaks to Anya’s worth and power as an Alpha. She knows that Clarke did not grow up with the same standards of Alpha behavior, but she also knows that weeks on the ground have opened her to the innate knowledge that her spirit carries. Though Clarke does not know the rituals of Trikru Alpha behavior, perhaps her inner Omega will understand the devotion shown by Anya’s actions. Even if she does not, Anya will continue to give. She intends to show Clarke what life on the ground has to offer her. Even if Clarke doesn’t understand the significance of her actions, Anya intends to give her a life befitting of her status. She will lead Clarke to the wonders of a life where she is cared for, doted upon; where she can spend her days in air and sunlight, learning trades and traditions and finding a place to sink her roots and enjoy the world for all the golden moments it has to offer. She asks for nothing in return save the slight glimmer of hope that when she has proven her worth, Clarke might grant her the honor of accepting her love. In the past days, Anya has felt like a pup again; anxious and awkward and hopeful in the most tentative of ways. It — Clarke — has thrown her off course quite like nothing else she has ever encountered. Anya is a general, a seasoned warrior far beyond the age of a flirtatious yongon. She never expected at this age to find someone who would jolt her straight back into her eager and awkward adolescence. It’s part of what is keeping her hesitant. Anya is lonely; since the death of her first mate, her spirit has ached with emptiness and yearning. It has been years since she has had a person to devote her purpose to. Being near Clarke is wonderful. The warm eyes, the sweet affection, the earnest attention paid to her; Anya has missed it. She has missed feeling wanted. Certainly, being desired isn’t an experience that Anya has lacked. In the seven winters since the loss of her first mate, there have been any number of takers. She is, after all, a powerful Alpha, and highly desirable in the eyes of the young sekens and new warriors of the villages and Heda’s army. Every week, it has seemed, young men and women have tried their luck, hoping for a chance to wine and dine and bed one of the clan’s two most powerful Alphas — Heda, of course, being beyond the reach of even the most inventive imagination. Yet Anya has spurned them all. Despite the fact that many of her potential suitors have been attractive and even good company, not a single one has managed to turn her head. None of them, with all their luck and attempts, have ensnared her interest. They have all seemed distant and untouchable even as they look upon her with eyes filled with hungry intrigue. None of them have looked at her the way the Clarke does. Like Anya is as mesmerizing and infinite as the stars from which she fell. Perhaps it is because Clarke has lived among them that she considers the stars her home. Anya is hopeful, but she can’t fathom that Clarke truly wants her — her. She’s not oblivious; she is well aware that she is uncommonly attractive, is confident in her capabilities, but Anya feels suspended in disbelief nonetheless. Anya is not as young, not as exciting, perhaps, as some of the others Alphas around. She is a little jaded, a little weathered; not old, by any means, nor anywhere close, but feeling less young all the same. She is not eighteen. Certainly, most Clarke’s age have a mate and have borne a pup or even two already, but it is most often with a mate their own age. Anya has been that young already; has had a mate already, lost them, and lived nearly another quarter of her life in their absence. Of course, perhaps there is something to be said for it. Anya knows the paths of love and loss enough to treasure them the way that young ones often take years to learn. She has built a life; she is stronger and wiser, and twenty-seven is young yet. Still, she would understand were Clarke to want someone not half again her own age. And yet it is over her heart that Clarke has chosen to lay her head to rest in the night. Anya does not pretend to fathom how it has come to be that this wonderful, beautiful, loyal Omega has chosen her, but she will accept the honor with grace and dignity. She may not know why Clarke has chosen her arms to rest in, but she will hold them steady through the night as they ride. Only a few hours remain until dawn when at last the forest around them begins to thin, signaling the outer boundaries of Tondisi and affording them a clearer path for the last mile of their journey. Soon enough, a few shouts through the still-complete darkness herd the stragglers of the group back into formation, and within a few minutes, they are clopping through the gates of Tondisi. The village is dark and quiet at this time of night, but a few familiar faces emerge from the shadows of the gates to greet them. As Anya draws her horse to a gentle halt, Nyko comes hurrying out of the dark bearing a lantern and three small packages wrapped in cloth. “Welcome back, general. Arbor berries,” he whispers in response to Anya’s questioning look at the parcels. He keeps his voice hushed so as not to disturb the nighttime tranquility of the village. “For the skai Omegas. It will help lessen the effects of stress until they can be properly fed." Nodding gratefully, Anya murmurs her thanks and accepts the packages, tossing one through the flickering dark to Callum, who looks a tad uncomfortable supporting Murphy’s sleepily swaying weight. “Mochof, Nyko.” “Pro. I have your tents set up and fresh furs laid. You can bring her straight there.” Nyko’s generosity, as always, is a friendly comfort. These preparations must be Lexa’s doing; she must have somehow sent another messenger that Anya wasn’t aware of. Once again, she marvels at her Heda’s ways. “But the Council — ?” “The Azgeda and Sangedakru ambassadors have yet to arrive,” Nyko explains softly as he carefully lifts the saddle bags. “We expect them with the midday sun. You should have some hours to sleep before Heda calls the War Council to order.” A moth flits in through the dark and bats around the lantern. Against her, Clarke shifts. Nyko notes the movement. “Shall I carry her to your tent, general?” he offers graciously. Anya shakes her head. “I can manage. Mochof, Nyko. Reshop.” “Good night, general.” Nyko steps off to help Callum and Murphy dismount. Anya leans forward slightly, smoothing her hands down Clarke’s arms as she murmurs into her ear. Despite the chill in the air, the Omega is warm beneath her touch. “Wake up, strik skaifaya. We are here.” A sleepy grumble is all she gets in response. Attempting not to jar her, Anya nudges her forward a little on the horse’s back. Clarke only nuzzles into the side of her neck with a sigh. “Klark.” When there is still no response, Anya rolls her eyes to herself, but moves to dismount. Landing on the ground with an arm still braced around Clarke’s waist, she draws the Omega gently from the horse and into her embrace. A moment later, she has her in her arms, and is bearing her off to the tent where hopefully they may find some peace to sleep. They have only a few hours in which to rest before the dawn comes, bringing with it the thrill and fervor of war. As if Clarke doesn’t have enough problems already, she wakes up with a distinct and familiar feeling in her belly that can only mean she’s uncomfortably aroused. The reason becomes apparent as soon as she is awake enough to take in her situation. They are back in the same tent that they slept in upon their first arrival in Tondisi less than a week ago. She must have been asleep when they arrived late last night; she has no memory of anything after crossing the river back near Camp Jaha. Anya must have carried her here to sleep before crawling into bed herself, and therein lies the problem. Though the bed of furs on which they’re lying is more than large enough for two, one or both of them appears to have shifted in the night. However respectable a position they might have fallen asleep in, any attempts at modesty Anya might have made have been rendered entirely moot. The only small mercy is that they are both at least clothed in their undergarments and shirts from last night. At this point, Clarke can’t tell if she’s dismayed about it or not. It must have been cold in the night; either that, or Clarke’s in even less control of her body than she thought. If it is, she feels she has sufficient reason for concern, because if this is the result of them sleeping mostly clothed in the same bed, she would hate to see what might happen if either of them happen to bare some skin. Either way, her predicament now is just about beyond the possibility of redemption. She can only hope that her mother doesn’t barge in looking for her. Clarke is sprawled out on her back — though with the way she’s positioned, sprawled feels rather generous. In her sleep, Anya has moved to rest fully on top of her, one arm snaking beneath Clarke’s shirt, the other curling around her shoulder. Her face is buried in Clarke’s hair, and when she exhales, her breath furls across the place where Clarke’s pulse beats erratically, sending shivers skittering beneath her skin. The musk of furs combined with the scent of sleepy Alpha is musty and sweet in her face. The whole situation feels almost intentional, but Clarke can’t claim any innocence either; she’s got one leg tangled with Anya’s beneath the furs, and the other is spread wide to accommodate the Alpha’s hips. The result is that Anya is very much pressing against the full length of her body — including, most significantly, between her legs, where Clarke has begun to burn. Honestly, she’s surprised she’s held out for this long. It’s been a whirlwind couple of weeks, but with the strength of the feelings that have been creeping up on her, it’s no small wonder that Clarke’s horny. The last time she experienced any sort of intimacy was with Finn, and that was only a small amount of fooling around with their shirts off. Between starving and being ambushed and speared and kidnapped and imprisoned and shot at and generally trying not to die every other minute, Clarke hasn’t had a moment to herself since she was still in solitary. She hasn’t had an orgasm in almost two months, and the effects are starting to make themselves known. There wasn’t much else to do in the Sky Box, after all; she’s used to a little more . . . personal attention than this. Being an Omega who is very much pinned under an Alpha she intends to mate, and very much aware of said Alpha’s erection, is hardly helping matters. Clarke hardly even has room to be embarrassed. She’s beneath an Alpha who is beautiful as well as clearly interested in her, and frankly, her hormones are making her blood feel itchy. Anya’s hand up the back of her shirt doesn’t exactly help soothe the feeling. Two months without an orgasm and a few days in close proximity to a very attractive, very much unmated Alpha has her feeling decisively on edge. What adds to it even more is the fact that Anya clearly shares some degree of the same sentiment. Awake or not, her body dictated the position they’re currently in; she has just as much of a desire to be close as Clarke does. It’s good that Anya returns her feelings, but it’s also a problem. They have a war to fight, dammit. How on Earth is Clarke supposed to focus on the Mountain Men when Anya is right in front of her looking perfectly fuckable? Or lying on top of her, for that matter? She’s making a fine example of her species. She can only hope that no one catches her at it and decides she’s unfit to lead her people into battle. She is unfit, but that’s entirely beside the point. It would be enough that they merely remain like this, asleep without embarrassment, potentially indefinitely, but of course that’s too much to ask. Within several minutes of her waking, the Alpha above her begins to stir. Anya shifts slightly above her as she awakens. It’s not enough to put the pressure of her full weight on Clarke, but it’s still enough to nudge them a little closer where it counts, and suddenly Clarke’s a lot more focused on controlling her breathing than she was a moment ago. The heartbeat against her stutters, then speeds up. Then honey eyes blink lazily open and drift, out of focus, for a moment before they land on Clarke’s. “Sonop, strik skaifaya.” Anya’s sleepy Trigedasleng mumble is endearingly grumbly. Her voice is muffled by Clarke’s hair when she turns her head back into the Omega’s neck. “Sonop, Anya,” Clarke murmurs back. The intonation feels better than it did a few days ago; she and Octavia have been practicing. She’s been improving. Despite the fact that it’s an entirely new language for her, Clarke has noticed that Trigedasleng is almost more intuitive to her than what the Trikru all refer to as gonasleng. Already, she’s finding that her responses, when she knows the words, come automatically in Trig rather than in the Old Language. This quieter, more intimate speech, especially, feels more natural in grounder words. “It is past sunup,” Anya counters after a moment of thought. Her face is still hidden in Clarke’s hair. “We have slept late.” Clarke cranes her neck to try to gauge the light that’s filtering through the canvas. “How late? It can’t be past eight o’clock,” she remarks after some consideration. Tousled with sleep, Anya’s head emerges from her neck. The Alpha blinks blearily at her in the new light. “I do not know what it is, this o’clock,” she says. “But the sun has risen, and we have not. It is all right. All of the ambassadors have not yet arrived, so we have time to rest while we wait.” She seems so far to be either blissfully unaware of the predicament below their waists, or else is choosing to ignore it. Not particularly wishing to engage in such a discussion so soon after waking, Clarke follows her lead. “Did you carry me here last night?” Anya hums a little in affirmation. Beneath Clarke’s shirt, her hand is warm. “We arrived late, and you were sleeping very soundly. I thought it best not to wake you,” she answers, and once again, there’s more care in that statement than Clarke has ever received almost anywhere else. It’s not that Skaikru would have gone out of their way to wake her for the sole purpose of making her miserable, but they certainly would never have thought twice about her comfort. Such things wouldn’t occur to them. Here she is, in a tent with an Alpha who took the time at last night’s late hour to carry her halfway across a village, strip her of her pants and shoes and jacket, bundle her into bed, and keep her warm throughout the night besides. Clarke is nestled quite comfortably between fluffy furs beneath her and the soft body above her. She doesn’t know where Abby and Kane are sleeping, but she has a feeling that their accommodations don’t quite mimic hers. “What will we do while we wait?” Clarke is thinking of the numerous things they probably have to do, which no doubt include organizing weapons and personnel and arguing with a number of influential people. With the Kongeda gathering in full, the laundry list for today is exhausting. While Clarke is eager to move against the mountain, she’s not particularly excited about what the day holds. To her surprise, though, Anya answers her query with an easy, “Whatever you would like.” It’s accompanied by a gaze so soft that Clarke nearly melts into a puddle right there on the furs, but she restrains herself for the sake of her dignity. “Whatever I’d like?” she can’t help parroting with a little disbelief. The open-ended response leaves possibilities so vast that Clarke can’t even begin to consider an answer. For starters, she is in an unfamiliar village among unfamiliar people and traditions; she has no idea what there is to do. Furthermore, even if she did, it has been so long since she’s had the pleasure of deciding for herself how to occupy her time that she finds she’s quite forgotten how. Whatever the hell we want. “I wouldn’t know where to begin,” she says honestly, and half-expects Anya to be disappointed by her indecisiveness. Anya, however, actually brightens visibly at her admission. Shifting a little, she curls the arm beneath Clarke closer, encasing her more firmly in her grasp. The movement pulls Clarke closer against the hardness between her legs; a rush of heat floods her at the movement, but she sucks down a breath, intent on not showing how it affects her. “There are many things that I could show you,” Anya offers with features now aglow with somewhat sleepy earnestness. “Tondisi is an important village; you would get to see our ways much better than from a war tent.” She not only looks eager at the prospect, but painfully hopeful in a way that makes Clarke’s heart ache. She feels a flicker of anticipation at the prospect of Anya taking her around one of her villages, showing her the lives and trades and traditions within its walls. All she has seen so far of the Trikru are war meetings; she would relish the opportunity to see them in a time of peace. After all, she remembers with a note of contentment, these are the people among whom she will live when this terrible business with the mountain is over. “I would love to see how your people live,” she says softly, and Anya’s eyes burn bright. “And I would love to see some breakfast, but Indra won’t allow the sekens to eat until all of the generals have been served,” a voice breaks in. It’s Octavia, who has manifested in their tent for the second time in twelve hours like some sort of renegade genie. Of course she has. By this point, Clarke should really be used to it. She can only be grateful that it isn’t Abby — spontaneous combustion on the part of Skaikru’s main healer and vice chancellor isn’t what she wants to see at this hour of the morning. Octavia is already dressed in her armor and warpaint, and by the way she’s bouncing on the balls of her feet, it’s clear that she’s been up since the crack of dawn, ready and raring to go. The tent flap she’s holding open is letting in all of the light, and the shock of it combined with her sudden appearance causes Clarke and Anya to roll apart in surprise. Octavia pays no attention to their consternation, tapping her sword impatiently on the side of her boot. “I know you’re all cozy and bonding and whatnot, but I’m hungry, so if you don’t mind, would you two get your asses down to the square already?” she urges. “I could eat an entire pauna.” With that, she’s bolting back out of the tent, leaving the flap hanging wide open. In the distance, Clarke hears Lincoln shouting admonishments. “I guess we know our first plans for the morning,” she remarks in amusement, and begins to sit up and search for her pants. “I need to have a word with Indra about teaching her sekens basic manners,” Anya grumbles, throwing an arm over her eyes to ward off the sudden light. Breakfast is an awkward affair. Clarke and Anya made their way down to the village square in the wake of everyone else, so their joint arrival was less than inconspicuous — especially with the way Octavia smirked at them from over her tea. They’ve taken seats between Octavia and Gustus, leaving Abby to eye them suspiciously from across the fire. Since Clarke fell ill, she’s noticed that Abby has been less antagonistic than before, but she’s not inclined at the moment to get any closer than she has to. She supposes that at some point the two of them will have to communicate, but for now, Clarke prefers to keep her distance. Instead, she chooses to focus on the novelty of the experience that is Tondisi. Clarke has been in the village before, of course, but as she was injured and a treaty had yet to be negotiated, her enjoyment of it was limited. Now, safe in the knowledge of the alliance and with the new and added curiosity brought on by her closeness to Anya, she is prepared to take in the experience in full. Breakfast is brought by a collection of villagers who, according to Anya, have volunteered to feed Heda’s army. It’s yet another window into Lexa’s influence. So far, everything that Clarke has noted has pointed towards great respect for the young commander. Certainly, Lexa is an entity in and of herself. Clarke knows that now isn’t the time, but when this war is over, she wants to ask Anya more about Heda’s story. The Omegas, of course, are served first at breakfast. Clarke is beginning to grow accustomed to it, but Murphy and Raven display surprise and confusion when they are handed full plates of eggs, meat, and bread before everyone else. Lexa, too, waits for all of the Omegas including Clarke and Gustus to be served, and Clarke catches sight of Abby and Kane’s surprised expressions across the small seating area as they bewilderedly follow her lead. True to character, Murphy only allows a moment of suspicion before he digs right in. Raven, though, hesitates, and when at last she begins to eat, Clarke can see her uncertainty and confusion written clearly across her face. Clarke recalls the little that she’s heard of Raven’s story with a pang of sympathy. She knows from Finn that her sister Omega grew up the daughter of the Ark’s resident drunk, a woman who routinely traded Raven’s rations for more alcohol. Between that and the less-than-gracious treatment she’s received at the hands of the Ark higher-ups, it’s not small wonder that a full meal comes as a shock. The only consolation Clarke can find so far is that according to Raven, Abby treated the young Omega with a great deal more respect than anyone else on the Ark. Perhaps there’s a glimmer of hope for her mother, after all. Watching them eat, Clarke is reminded once again of the possibility of defectors. She thinks that Murphy, at least, would likely choose such a scenario were the option provided to him; certainly there are others among the Hundred who would do the same. She’ll have to speak to Lexa about it later. For now, though, Clarke is having a hard time considering the people she’s in the process of losing. It’s enough that there have been so many lost in the process of bringing everyone to the ground — hundreds, if not over a thousand. Living in the shadow of their loss will only blur her consideration of what needs to be done for those who remain. To think about the possibility of losing others on top of that, people she cares about, is too much to bear. Besides, for the moment, Clarke is daring to be hopeful. There is enough space between this moment and the reality of war into which she can fit some small measures of joy. Among them, she is getting to know Anya more. There is something about their connection that defies knowledge — Clarke can’t imagine that knowing Anya’s favorite color, if she has such a thing, could possibly make her more infatuated — but she appreciates the opportunity to bond nonetheless. It makes her feel a little less odd about the fact that they’ve only known each other for a couple of weeks. It’s not like that changes anything, of course; Clarke has come to acknowledge that their bond is what it is regardless of the time frame. Still, she’s enjoying the time they get to spend together. Learning about Anya’s life feels a lot like opening a book she’s been waiting to read. On the Ark, literature was fairly finite, physical books even more so. In order to make them last, Clarke remembers putting several aside, saving them so that she might have something to look forward to. Getting closer to Anya feels like the moment she finally took them in her hands, handling the pages carefully and poring eagerly over every word. With every passing moment, it becomes clearer than ever to Clarke how very much there is to learn. After breakfast, they venture together out into the village. Tondisi is large compared to what Octavia and Anya have told her of Trikru villages; despite the closeness of the forest, Clarke understands that its spread is wide. Its center is concentrated near their encampment, a collection of communal buildings framing a large square with a massive fire pit in the center. Trees line its edges, some of their leaves just beginning to burn yellow with a hint of autumn. The walkways between buildings are a haphazard combination of dirt and cobblestone and what Clarke understands to be Old Earth pavement, worn smooth by nearly a century of the Apocalypse’s survivors. It’s fairly representative of most things here, Clarke comes to realize as they wend their way through the winding, narrow streets. She’s seen pictures of the Old Earth capital city; from what she remembers, it was a crowded metropolis filled with sky-high buildings of glass and steel, trains and cars and busses choking the wide boulevards. It was impressive, she knows; shiny and sophisticated. In comparison, Tondisi is small and rather rustic. Still, Clarke can’t help but think it more beautiful. The Trikru have built their homes out of the ruins of an Old Earth city, and the result is a combination of the old and the new. The buildings are small and rather squat, two stories at most, built solidly out of wood and stone. The streets are wide enough to accommodate two horse-drawn carts traveling side-by-side. Broad trees and vines decorate the sides of houses, and gardens sprawl between buildings, overflowing with life. There are no signs for streets or shops — for Trigedasleng, Clarke has learned, is not a written language. Everywhere, there are people: vendors selling goods from wagons, children racing through the streets; young warriors in armor practicing swordplay. The old capital city may have been more impressive, but Tondisi is welcoming and vibrant in character. Clarke loves it. She never felt this way about the Ark; as much as it was home, their metal box in the sky always felt like a prison. Always, she was consumed with visions of life on Earth. Now that she is actually here, experiencing it with the promise of a future, she can hardly wait to explore it. Like the Trikru, it feels more hers already than anything in the sky ever did. The Trikru themselves are fascinating to her. As they walk, Clarke’s ears pick up Trigedasleng from every corner. She is able already to notice a few words and phrases. The dialect has evolved quickly, but there are enough similarities to the Old Language that she can, with effort, understand a good deal. She knows that the members of Skaikru might feel differently, but it’s important to Clarke to learn. If these are to be her people, she wants to be able to communicate with them. Besides, to address them in their own tongue feels like a gesture of respect. The more of the village she is exposed to, filled with its everyday people and happenings, the more it occurs to Clarke that the Skaikru have received a small and warped view of the grounders. The Hundred were consumed with fighting fierce and deadly warriors, and the rest of the Ark likely found nothing different. This, though, is nowhere near the nightmare of screaming warriors in terrifying masks descending on them through the trees. These are families, merchants, tradesmen; people with their own culture and traditions and vibrant history. They are also unexpectedly solicitous. As she and Anya traverse the streets, people come to their doorways to watch them pass. Clearly, having Heda herself in their city is a big deal, for the arrival of the war delegation has caused a stir. Children stare as they pass by, and many of the adults offer greetings in Trigedasleng. A number of them incline their heads respectfully. As they pass by a fruit stand, its vendor hurries forward with two pieces of fruit in her outstretched hands. Clarke can’t follow the exchange that ensues, but when Anya and the woman have conversed, the purple fruit finds its way into her hands. “She thanks us for our service in bringing the news of the mountain to Heda,” Anya translates, seeing Clarke’s bemused expression. “She and her mate have lost their son to the Maunon. She wishes us safety and victory in battle, and gives us fruit from the tree her son planted as a token of her appreciation.” Clarke is speechless. As she fumbles, struggling for words, the Trikru woman’s eyes bore into her. Such an offering can only be answered with something profound, but beneath this woman’s gaze, Clarke finds that she has no words. Though logically she has known since discovering Anya in the harvest chamber that the grounders have also lost many to the mountain’s grasp, her focus in war has been on the forty-seven. Any thought of the hundreds of grounders killed by the Mountain Men has been a distant one. This woman, standing before her in the flesh with her face lined with the grief of her lost child, causes a gaping hole to open in Clarke’s heart. “Mochof,” she whispers at last through broken breath, and discovers that her voice is shaking. “I’m sorry that I — what the Maunon are doing is wrong,” she say fiercely. “It’s cruel and inhuman, what they’re doing to you, and I will . . . I want to end it. For all of us.” It’s unlikely that the woman has understood a word, but Clarke’s shaking voice causes her expression to settle into something calm and understanding. She steps forward and gives Clarke’s cheek a gentle pat. She murmurs something in response, in which Clarke thinks she catches the word skaiheda, and then steps away again and makes her way slowly back to her cart, leaving Clarke feeling shaken. “Not everyone among us is a barbarian,” Anya says quietly from beside her as they watch her go. Hearing her, Clarke turns to her, stricken. “I don’t think you’re barbarians!” she protests. “Many of your Skaikru do.” Anya doesn’t sound unkind, but she’s solemn as she watches the fruit vendor walk back to her stand. “This is why I wish to show you the way we live, Klark. Our people will be living beside one another soon enough, after all. I know that you and Okteivia see us for what we are. Perhaps you can help the others to do the same. Please understand, strikon,” she adds, seeing Clarke’s consternation, “I do not necessarily fault them for it. Our people come from different worlds. Our differences are many. The Skaikru on your Ark still lived the lives of the world before Fayataim, before the world was burned. Life on Earth is not as they expected. They are different, but they should not presume that they are better simply because they survived the burning of the world in the sky. Those of us who are left on the ground are survivors because we stood on a burning world and learned how to make it our home. Perhaps we do not have your tek or your learning or your Old World healing and science, but we have much that Skaikru do not.” “I know that, Anya.” Clarke’s voice is low. “It’s why I’ve chosen your people over mine. Maybe Skaikru have technology and medicine that didn’t survive on the ground, but you have culture. The ground has traditions and knowledge of the earth and dirt and trees and seasons. You have diversity; my god, the last time we had any new blood in the sky was when the stations all merged on Unity Day. The same people have been marrying up there for a century; we’re probably all related at this point, even distantly. Separate cultures aren't a thing anymore for us. I mean, I know my dad’s father was American, but I think my mom’s father was Australian, and I know one of my grandmothers was definitely Russian. Maybe both, actually, now that I think about, but — my point is, even if people looked different, everyone on the Ark was more or less the same,” Clarke concludes with a shrug. She’s realized that she’s rambling, but she thinks that if she’s going to go on and on about their cultural differences, now is the time. It’s important to her that Anya understands what she means. Anya, though, has ceased to look stern and is now watching her with something like confusion written across her face. “Russian?” she questions. Clarke nods. “Well, yeah. Mir was one of the stations that joined the other federations on Unity Day,” she explains, but Anya’s expression remains fixed in a frown of curiosity. “No, I understand that many groups within the sky became your one Ark,” she says contemplatively. “It is the words I do not know. Was Rushan the name of a Commander?” Her question takes a moment to register, but when it does, understanding comes to Clarke like a thunderclap. “Russian,” she says slowly. “Like — like people from Russia. You mean you don’t — the grounders don’t know what Russia is? What other countries are?” The idea seems incredible, but then again, it occurs to her that it isn’t. How would the grounders know, when separated by oceans, that other places exist? She doesn’t know if anyone survived in other parts of the world, but she presumes that some must have. Yet how would anyone know? Anya is now frowning in earnest. “I know that there are other lands,” she disagrees, with the slightest trace of haughtiness evident in her voice. “Elders tell stories that their parents told them of people who lived in places other than here, but many generations have passed since we knew of anyone who came from one. Their names have been lost to us with time.” Clarke has to work to hide her astonishment; it makes sense, of course, and she doesn’t want Anya to think that she’s judging her lack of knowledge. Why would anyone here have reason to know the names of other places? “That makes sense,” she says mildly. “I bet heritage is still more diverse here on the ground, though, especially since this used to be America.” For the second time, Anya’s frown deepens. “What do you mean?” She looks even more confused than before, and Clarke is at a loss. She definitely doesn’t feel qualified to go around explaining such things, but it doesn’t look like anyone else is up for it. “Well, most people who lived around here in Old Earth times had family that was originally from somewhere else,” she explains after a moment of consideration. “There weren’t a lot of people left who were native to this country, because when people from other parts of the world showed up, they . . . well, they killed most of the people who were already living here. I guess they thought they had a right to it because they’d found it." Anya sends her a pointed look, at which Clarke can feel her cheeks flush. “Like the Skaikru, I guess,” she adds in a mumble. “We do not think about family as anyone besides parents and siblings, often only to two degrees,” Anya muses, and Clarke is relieved that she doesn’t pursue the point further. “Grandparents, yes. Aunts and uncles certainly. Cousins. But these great-grandparents you speak of are already too far back.” “So none of you would know much about your own heritage beyond that,” Clarke finishes the thought. “Well, whoever your ancestors were, at least we know they were unfairly attractive.” It’s not what she means to say, and the moment the words are out, she can feel a blush creeping up the back of her neck. By the smirk Anya is sending her, it’s clear that the Alpha heard. The look is dangerous; something about the dark mirth in Anya’s gaze makes the still-burning fire in Clarke’s belly flicker. “Anyway,” she continues hurriedly, feigning ignorance, “I think there was still an old DNA analysis kit left somewhere on the Ark. I have no idea if it made it down, but if it did that might be fun to do someday.” Anya’s amusement is almost tangible. “You are speaking in tongues, skai prisa,” she says teasingly. “I hope you do not think yourself superior simply because you have Old Earth knowledge; I have a good nine summers on you, you know. There is much I know that you have yet to learn.” Clarke’s knee-jerk response is teach me, but considering the abundance of people around them, she doesn’t think it quite appropriate. It’s too late to preserve the integrity of her thought process, though, and it’s all she can do to prevent her mind from entirely running away with her. A glance lets her know that Anya isn’t serious in her chastisement; in fact, she looks rather smug. The effect somehow manages to be attractive rather than demeaning. Anya’s eyes are dark and knowing, and Clarke feels another low swoop in her belly at the thought of what sort of things the Alpha could teach her. It’s the kind of thought that is certainly going to get her into trouble. There is, after all, a war brewing, and the effort will need all of her attention and energy. Nevertheless, Clarke can’t seem to help herself. With the relinquishment of the reins to her innermost Omega instincts has come the concession that her logical mind is no longer in control. She understands now what Octavia meant; her Omega has a clear sense of what she wants. It’s just that at the moment, what Clarke wants isn’t exactly convenient. It doesn’t appear to matter. Already, the effects of Anya’s presence are showing on her; Clarke can feel it in the same way she knows her time on the ground has changed her. She feels powerfully protective of the woman who has shown her such care and compassion. Even more potent is her need to be close Anya; emotionally, of course, but physically close in a way that has her pressing against her whenever she can. There has been something building between them since Mount Weather, and ever since then, Clarke has been a goner. She supposes she didn’t fully acknowledge it until yesterday, but the fact remains regardless. This isn’t something that she can control. What she feels for Anya is beyond Clarke’s realm of knowledge and experience. All she can do is to follow her instincts blindly, trusting that they will lead her on the right path. Mount Weather or no, this situation is swiftly growing out of control. Already, her body is screaming at her, pleading with her to choose Anya as her mate, to be bred with her pups; to be protected and loved and cherished by her. Maybe others would argue that this takes away her autonomy, but Clarke doesn’t see it that way. She will be cared for without anyone subjugating her or taking away her power to make her own decisions; she will be given free reign over everything she does, be taught, be shown how to earn food and make weapons and hold political power. On top of that, she will be cared for. It is in her nature to be taken care of, and Clarke spent nearly eighteen years of her life having her very deepest self withheld from her. After all that time, she is filled with joy at the prospect of being able to embrace it. She wants this woman as her Alpha. Rushed as she knows Skaikru might view it as being, Clarke takes comfort in what Octavia told her about the rapidity with which the grounders choose their mates. Certainly, Octavia has been mated to Lincoln for longer than Clarke and Anya have known each other, despite the fact that they only met a few days sooner. It makes sense with what Clarke is coming to understand of grounder culture: instincts, above all else, take precedence. The simple fact of the matter is that on the ground, things change quickly, and such rapid evolution is expected. One might have a friend one day and an enemy the next. It is more than likely that a spear to the chest will come before they have a chance to think through all the other ways they might possibly be killed or otherwise inconvenienced. Worry is an unnecessary thing here on the ground, and so, with the threat of death constantly looming over their heads, the time to act on feelings is now. There is no time for contemplation or regret or beating around the bush: right now, they are alive. In five minutes, they might not be, so let them live and damn the consequences. Whatever the hell they want, indeed. In the course of their explorations, they pass by the training grounds. The arena is a large depression set in the middle of a square at one edge of the village. Normally, it is only half-filled, some sekens out practicing tracking or wilderness combat out in the forest. Today though, with war imminent, the arena is crowded with sekens and younger warriors who are untouched by battle. The space is large, with racks of weapons lining the edges and the seats filled with spectators — younger siblings or friends, often, of the sekens who are trying their hand at direct combat. The air is rent with the clash of swords and enthusiastic shouts, and Anya cannot help but smile a little. This is the very same arena in which she trained Tris for several years before her death. Lexa, of course, she taught in Polis with the other natblidas. The memory of her littlest seken fills Anya’s heart with sadness. Tris was a promising young warrior, and so eager. Her spirit was fierce, and even when she first came to Anya as a child of only eight winters, she was ready for battle. Her expression was always aglow with excitement at the prospect of action, and she learned quickly; she was only ten when she received her first battle scars. In between times, when she wasn’t training, she was giggling and impish, often earning a smile from Anya with her mischievous antics. Anya misses her dreadfully. She tries not to feel too much guilt over the young girl’s death; bringing sekens into battle is, after all, how they’re trained. Warriors only learn through experience, and Tris was ready. Already, she’d taken the lives of two Azgeda scouts who turned hostile in a border skirmish. She was promising. Anya had no reason to fear for her life any more than she already might have; without the interference of Skaikru tek, she would have been just fine. There is a loud clatter of a sword on paving stones, and a shout drags Anya out of her memories. “Clarke! Anya! Hey!” It’s Octavia, who’s perched on the edge of the arena seats beside Lincoln. By the looks of it, it’s not her round to fight; there are so many sekens in attendance that the arena can’t hold them all at once. They’ll be taking sparring matches in turns. “Hi, Octavia,” Clarke replies with an amused edge to her voice, and the two of them make their way over to where the young couple is sitting. Lincoln greets them amicably, but with a great deal less wild enthusiasm; he looks vaguely amused at Octavia, who is standing on the bleachers waving her hands as she chatters away. “ — and Indra says my form is improving, which must mean that it actually is, because yesterday I tried a really simple move and she told me that I looked like a warthog with a tree stuck up its ass, so I think I really am getting better,” Octavia is finishing telling Clarke. Clarke is listening with her lips pressed hard together to keep from laughing; Octavia’s enthusiasm is so extreme that her flailing arms have already narrowly avoided passing warriors’ heads. Anya decides that what she lacks in finesse, she makes up for in spunk. Perhaps honing her skills won’t be necessary so long as they keep her talking — her brandishing will take the heads off any Maunon who come near. Then Anya is forced to duck as the young Alpha’s water canteen nearly dents her skull, and she considers that perhaps Indra has a point, after all. “You would do well to listen to your fos,” she says sternly as she straightens back up, drawing the group’s attention. “Indra has been training sekens since before you were born. If she says you look like a warthog, you look like a warthog.” She tries to keep a straight face for the sake of appearing disapproving, but a snicker from Clarke causes her lips to twitch upwards in spite of herself. Lincoln is grinning; Octavia looks suspicious. “Oh yeah?” she challenges. There’s a mischievous glint in her eyes that Anya knows can bode no good. “Who else has she trained?” “Callum, for starters,” Lincoln supplies from the bench. “But she also trained Heda’s fos, so indirectly, she is responsible for Heda’s victory in the Conclave.” It takes Clarke a moment, but Octavia’s eyes widen at Anya. “You?” Octavia sounds positively delighted in spite of her clear disbelief. “You were Indra’s seken? No way. Oh, this is the greatest thing I’ve heard all day. I bet Indra has so much shit on you. I have to ask her about this; there’s no way you haven’t gotten up to some serious shenanigans . . .” “You do, and I’ll tell Bellamy about the naked tree fort episode,” Lincoln interjects threateningly. It’s sufficient to quell Octavia, who pretends to sulk unconvincingly. Clarke looks like she quite wishes she had never heard of the naked tree fort episode; Anya is inclined to agree with her. “Well, I think that’s our cue,” Clarke says quickly when Octavia looks like she’s preparing to protest. “We’ve seen a lot of the village, so I think Anya and I are going to go back to the war tent and start going over things with Heda while we wait for the delegates to arrive.” Octavia’s sulk disappears in an instant, transformed instead into a slight grimace. “Oh no, no,” she counters emphatically. “Get out of here and go bathe. My mated nose may be biased, but you two reek.” Clarke looks highly affronted at the accusation; Anya can feel her own face arrange itself haughtily to mimic her. “I’m sorry, what?” Clarke demands. Octavia retrieves her water canteen and begins to gather up her possessions, shaking her head. “Don’t be so offended, Griffin,” she snorts. “Be honest. You haven’t bathed since you got sick; you smell like sweaty Omega. And you.” She turns on Anya. “Your pheromones are like, essentially visible. Like holy shit, they’re choking me, and I’m only into being on the other end of that. Both of you, for god’s sake, go wash off before you send the entire War Council into a frenzy. Heda won’t thank you for starting a war right under her nose on top of the one we already have to fight.” “Actually, she’s right,” Lincoln agrees conversationally, his Beta nose wrinkled in disgust. “You two stink.” Indignant, Clarke opens her mouth to counter him, but seeing Octavia’s smirk growing wider, Anya beats her to it. “I believe I see Indra coming,” she invents with a nod towards the other end of the arena. “Better get back into it before she decides you need a better nickname.” Octavia’s eyes light up with mischief; swinging her sword back into the air, she beckons to Lincoln. “Perfect,” she declares. “Come on, Linc. I’m going to go ask Indra if Anya ever got in trouble as a teenager. There’s a good story in there about jobi nuts, or I’m a pauna’s ass. Bye Griff, bye Cheekbones! Don’t forget to take a bath!” With that, she’s clattering down the arena steps, Lincoln in tow, scattering warriors as she goes. “I thought that might get her to leave us alone,” Anya comments as Octavia goes tearing off in search of her mentor. She’s thinking, though; much as the younger Alpha’s comments are in jest, Octavia has a point. They do stink. To Anya it’s not unpleasant — it’s merely her own scent and Clarke’s, though perhaps a little magnified — but she understands what Octavia means. To the Alpha ambassadors who are about to fill the cramped confines of Lexa’s war tent, their combined scent will be a flame to dynamite. The scent of an unmated Omega layered with Anya’s Alpha aggression will send them into chaos. “Thank you for sacrificing your dignity for the cause.” The warmth of the water curls up Clarke’s legs, steam furling in tendrils across her skin and heating the hollows of her bones that shake already with need. A few hours after waking, and Clarke’s body is getting out of control. They’re above the village at a hot spring that Anya knows of, the easiest place to bathe that doesn’t involve a two mile round-trip hike to the freezing river and back. A grove of aspens shelters the deep pools. The rustling leaves throw speckled sunlight into the sparkling water, where it reflects back, dancing prism-like along the rocks in fragile spines of color. The stones are worn smooth by time and use; they form ledges and basins among the pools, forming a series of benches that reminds Clarke of the pictures she’s seen of Old Earth Turkish baths. According to Anya, it’s usually a highly popular gathering place, but with everyone consumed with war preparations, it’s completely deserted. With the aspens acting as a barrier between the water and the hustle and bustle of the village, it’s quiet in a way that is completely unfamiliar to Clarke. Unfamiliar, too, is the feeling that is consuming her more with every passing moment. There is heat building in Clarke’s belly, a burning pit of deep-seated need that sends fire through her blood. With every minute, the coil burns brighter, until it’s all she can do to keep her head on her shoulders and her body from flying apart. Anya isn’t exactly helping. They’ve been here twenty minutes already, and still Clarke is not used to the sight of her in so little attire. They’ve seen each other like this before, for goodness’s sake, and yet Clarke can’t seem to tear her eyes away. In the sunlight, Anya is even more stunning than usual. She’s lean and golden-skinned and utterly, painfully gorgeous. Clarke finds herself wondering, not for the first time, just how it’s possible that Anya has no mate. An Alpha of her rank and beauty doesn’t go unmated unless by choice, especially not at her age. With her strength and passion and undeniable tenderness, Clarke can’t imagine how it can be that she has no one. She should have had a mate long before Clarke fell from the sky into her waiting arms. Not that Clarke’s complaining, but she’s curious. She wants to know Anya, to learn her fears and wants and deepest dreams. It feels like something out of one of the old rom-coms salvaged on the Ark, but Clarke feels it nonetheless. The more she knows, the better-suited she can be to tend to the Alpha and give her all the things she wishes so desperately to give. The more she knows, the better of a mate she can be to her Alpha. For Anya is her Alpha; there is no longer any doubt in her mind about that. It’s a deliriously wonderful twist of fate, and Clarke won’t question the judgement of whatever gods have delivered Anya to her, but she can’t help being curious all the same. For Anya to be alone at this age means that she has chosen her solitude. She wants to know why, but above all else, Clarke yearns to rectify it. For all of Anya’s bravado, it is clear to her that the Alpha is lonely. She can see it in her eyes, in the hope and eagerness and fumbling earnestness that Anya displays any time Clarke shows her even a small measure of affection. In moments when Clarke needs her most, she delivers with grace and without hesitation. It occurs to Clarke that Anya is walking a fine edge; she is settled and confident in her doting Alpha dominance while simultaneously showing clear disbelief at the idea that Clarke might want that dizzying energy directed at her. It’s endearing, and Clarke understands why she’s being tentative in the face of war, but at the same time, she just wants Anya to claim her already. “Klark, you understand that the water is warm, sha?” Anya breaks into her reverie, and Clarke refocuses to find the Alpha’s sparkling eyes focused on her from a short distance out in the water. She herself is still seated on a ledge with her feet dangling in, but Anya is submerged almost to her shoulders. “There are no water snakes here,” she adds with a hint of mirth. Despite the teasing, Clarke cannot help but smile. “I know,” she grants, though she makes no move to sink deeper into the water. The temperature is, in fact, quite lovely, but between the lingering weakness of Omega fever and the relative newness of her ability to swim, she’s not entirely confident in her ability to stay afloat. Seeing Anya’s prompting look, she divulges as much, and watches Anya’s expression go from questioning to determined. “Have I not told you before that I will not let you drown?” is her only pointed reply. Clarke considers that for a moment. It’s not that she doesn’t want to be in the water with Anya — quite the opposite, in fact — but she’s a little wary of what her body might do if they’re in such close contact. It’s a concern that’s rendered moot, however, when Anya takes the opportunity to duck under the water, reemerging right between Clarke’s knees. One look, and all of Clarke’s protests die on her lips at the sight of the Alpha, dripping wet and sunlit from head to toe. In the quiet grove of aspens, the only sound is that of the dripping water and Clarke’s own, stuttering pulse. The glittering look in Anya’s eyes is doing something funny to her heart. “Come in with me,” Anya murmurs, and all of Clarke’s perfectly sound, logical reasons for keeping her distance leave her head. Suddenly, she can’t even remember why she isn’t in the water in the first place. Anya’s low, persuasive voice and fluttering eyelashes make her forget everything that exists outside of the space between them. How is Clarke supposed to concentrate on anything when Anya’s looking at her like that? “Okay,” she finds herself replying, and scoots back a bit on the bench to remove her shirt. Though the water is warm, the early autumn air carries a bite, and Clarke can’t stop a shiver from raising goosebumps on her skin. In front of her, Anya has gone still. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why; her eyes are glued to Clarke’s body, tracing up and down lines of pale skin. There’s a darkness building in their depths. It’s something a little like reverence, but also a lot like hunger. Being on the receiving end of a gaze so intense is almost unsettling, and beneath it, Clarke squirms a little. A hand on her ribs arrests her movement as completely as though she has been turned to stone. Anya’s fingertips are light where they make contact, tracing the scar that curves between the bones of her ribcage. The point where their skin meets feels like the electric socket that Clarke once got shocked by on the Ark; tingly, sharp, and startling. It seizes her attention in an instant and blacks out everything else, drawing her mind to a single point of concentration like it’s the last bit of gravity keeping her on Earth. The water that clings to Anya’s fingers is first cold, and then hot beneath the fingers that she presses into Clarke’s skin. The sensation of fingertips tracing slowly, reverently over her ribs makes Clarke shudder. “I am sorry that I hurt you.” When Anya looks up, her expression is mournful in a way that nudges an ache into Clarke’s chest. “You were my enemy, and I was doing what I thought best, but I . . .” she trails off; her hand uncurls and presses firmly into Clarke’s side. Something about the gesture feels almost protective. “It’s all right.” Clarke doesn’t know that she’s whispering until the words are out her mouth; there is no one else around, but something about the words feels appropriate to intimacy. “I know you would never hurt me now.” She does know it, whatever Abby and the rest of Skaikru might think. The same ancient instinct that guides her breath and heartbeat tells her that Anya would die sooner than she would do her Omega harm. “I would not,” Anya agrees. Her eyes are focused on her hand, which is still pressed over the scar left by their fight almost two weeks ago. “But that does not make it right. You have been mistreated all your life; it is the very reason you fell ill. I am sorry that I added to it.” Despite herself, Clarke lets out a chuckle. “You didn’t beat me up because I’m an Omega,” she points out meaningfully. “Unless you have something to tell me, in which case this alliance just suddenly got a whole lot different. And don’t tell me you added to it,” she continues when Anya finally meets her eyes with a look that she can sense means she’s about to retort with something defensive. “Are you kidding me? Anya, you’re the reason I got better, aren’t you? All you’ve done since that day is be good to me. Hell, if Octavia explained it correctly, you’re the reason my body even got healthy enough to get sick in the first place . . . if that makes any sense.” Anya’s gaze is still troubled, but she nods reluctantly. “It does,” she agrees lightly, though her touch, still pressing heat into Clarke’s side, is anything but light. “Once you have gotten enough food into you, as long as the Alphas around you treat you with kindness, your body will recover. Your heats are not lost to you yet; once you have regained your strength, they will come back.” At that, though touched by the sentiment, Clarke only shrugs. “I mean, I wouldn’t know,” she says offhandedly. “It’s not like I’ve had one before, so I don’t exactly have anything to compare it to.” Distracted as she is by the way Anya’s touch is sending butterflies ricocheting around her stomach, it takes her a moment to pick up on the fact that the Alpha is watching her with her lips slightly parted in shock. “What?” she asks. “You — ” Anya starts, then swallows hard. “You have never had a heat?” She looks positively upset by the information. Clarke frowns a little, but otherwise doesn’t react. “Yeah, I mean, no, I haven’t,” she clarifies. “I know Indra told you about the suppressants we had on the Ark, right? They kept us from going into heat, and they started giving them to us as soon as we presented, so I got put on the pills before I ever had one. They took me off of them when I was in prison, but they didn’t feed us very well in there, so I didn’t have one afterward, either.” Anya’s expression remains unreadable, but she’s watching Clarke in a way that makes the Omega feel distinctly as though she’s been subject to some great act of injustice without quite knowing what it is. “You could not have refused to take the medication?” Anya questions. From her scent, she remains calm, but her eyes are troubled. Clarke lets out a derisive sound. “Yeah, not likely,” she snorts. “Being a Council member’s daughter had its benefits, but it wouldn’t have protected me that far.” Anya frowns. “What do you mean?” Her concern at this point is almost palpable; she’s agitated in a way that is making her slim shoulders bunch up. Seeing it, Clarke itches to soothe her. Seeing Anya distressed makes her feel like hitting something. It’s as though their feelings are somehow connected; Anya’s anxiety resonates in Clarke’s chest as though it is her own. “Any Omega who went into heat on the Ark was floated,” is her explanation. She makes sure to release a little wave of calming pheromones with the words; if Anya gets more stressed, she thinks that both of them might combust. “Floated?” Anya is puzzled. “Executed,” Clarke supplies, “within ten days.” Anya’s eyes widen. “They would kill an Omega for something so natural?” she whispers, and her voice is tight. “For something your body was made to do?” She looks positively horrified. Clarke nods. “There wasn’t enough life support for Omegas to go around reproducing like that. I guess they figured we couldn’t control ourselves, so we were all put on suppressants — except for those of us in the Sky Box; they wouldn’t waste resources on us like that.” She is startled when Anya extends her hand and seizes her by the arm, tugging her into her body and clutching her fiercely to her with a low growl. A hand comes up to tighten in her hair, the other slung protectively about her waist. The Alpha buries her nose in the side of Clarke’s neck and breathes her scent in deeply as she speaks, teeth clenched. “An Omega — is not — a waste,” she grits out fiercely. “An Omega is rare and precious and a gift to be cherished.” In her arms, Clarke shrugs, though her eyes have fluttered closed at the contact. “They didn’t see it that way,” she says quietly. An inexplicable lump has risen in her throat. Anya’s arms release her just enough for her to grip the Omega by the upper arms and stare purposefully into her eyes. “A heat is special,” she tells her firmly, with words choked by what sounds a lot like reverence. Her hands are hot against Clarke’s skin. “It is something that brings joy; an opportunity for mates to bond and share their pleasure. Ill and injured Omegas do not have heats; it ensures that no pup can be brought into life when the one who bears them is unhealthy or abused. Pups are important to us; our Omegas are important to us." Her voice has dropped significantly with her urgency, as though she’s pleading with Clarke to understand. As she speaks, her fingertips dig deeper into Clarke’s skin as if to press the two of them into one being. “I do not think you realize, Klark,” Anya continues in a lower murmur, “what an incredible gift you are.” Her free hand drifts upward to cradle Clarke’s jaw tenderly, brushing her thumb across a hot cheek. Warmed to the bone by the loving words, Clarke can’t help but nuzzle into the touch; she brushes her nose against Anya’s wrist where the Alpha’s scent is strongest. For a moment, the movement feels a little stiff. Then Anya’s other hand slides around to press with her full palm in the place where Clarke’s spine dips, and Clarke is gone. The feeling of Anya’s lips on hers, hot and soft and reverent, is enough to make her body go weak. Clarke is enveloped; wrapped up so securely in Anya’s arms, the Alpha kissing her desperately, possessively, she couldn't move to resist even if she felt the need. She can’t even draw breath, trusting in her body to keep on steadily even as she sinks into the warmth and tenderness and need of Anya’s kiss. All that she knows is the Alpha around her, on her, against her; she can hardly even move to respond when she is being so gently, utterly consumed. It is a tender sort of taking, intense and fiery yet somehow delicate in its power. Anya is holding her so carefully, Clarke caught up in the immense steadiness of her embrace. With Clarke’s head cradled in her hands, she guides her Omega deeper, intensely, stoking a fire in her belly that curls up through her bones and into her heart. Soft fingers play up and down her spine, sending shivers through the Omega’s body. A press nearer, followed by the Alpha curling her tongue around hers, and Clarke melts into her with a whimper. When at last they pull apart, Clarke is gasping against her lips, trembling in a way that makes her limbs feel ready to give in. She wants to curl into Anya, to wrap herself around her Alpha until they are hopelessly intertwined and never let go. Surely, in Anya’s arms, there can be nothing but comfort and pleasure and joy. And so, with a glance up at the bright eyes that watch her with such longing, Clarke leans in and allows Anya to pull her from the rock into deeper water. This is the safest that Clarke has ever felt. Anya’s arms are sturdy, her body a safe haven for Clarke to burrow into and find rest. Between her touch and the soothing heat of the water, Clarke finds herself more relaxed than she has been in days. The fact of the approaching war hardly seems relevant when her Alpha is here offering such comfort. This is the sort of peace that she could never have imagined having on the Ark. On the Ark, she would be dead. It’s a shocking revelation to consider from her current position, feeling so safe and secure and content. Her body is entwined with a powerful and devoted Alpha; she is well-fed, comparatively healthy, and treated with respect. The bright, calm water, the brilliant sky, the rustling leaves — all are things that a month ago, Clarke could never have dreamed of having for herself. Earth has offered her more in a month than the Ark ever did in eighteen years of life. Once this war is over, Clarke intends to spend more moments like this. She wants the time to enjoy Earth for what it has to offer — food and company and beauty and peace. They are too consumed right now by war preparations to allow for many moments like this, so Clarke is going to take them when they’re offered. A light, floaty sensation comes to her in a wave. It is fleeting, but bright. So fully absorbed in Anya, it takes her a moment to understand it, but when she finally registers its meaning, she feels her heart flutter. Clarke is happy. It’s a feeling she hasn’t known since before Jake was arrested. After he learned of the flaw in the Ark’s life support systems, every day has been filled with fear and anger and the struggle for survival. They still have a war to fight, but Clarke thinks that maybe, when it’s over, she might have a way to be happy again. Against Anya’s chest, she closes her eyes and allows herself to drift. The soft air settles, and her breathing eases with the rocking motion of the water against her spine. “You are calm.” Anya’s murmur comes after a long bout of easy silence. Her face must be buried in the Omega’s hair; Clarke can feel her lips move against the crown of her head. Feeling almost kittenish in her comfort, she nuzzles in closer with a small sigh. “You’re comfortable,” she returns in a mumble. “And the water’s nice.” She feels more than hears Anya’s hum. “Some say these waters have the power to heal,” she comments; it comes out a little muffled by Clarke’s hair. “It is why I brought you here.” She says it lightly, but Clarke feels the way her hands press a little deeper into her ribs. “My arrow wounds are doing well,” she remarks. “I did not mean your injuries.” Anya does not elaborate, but Clarke feels a swoop of recognition at the comment. Not for the first time, it occurs to her just how devoted Anya is to seeing her heal and grow. She has done so much for Clarke only in the past two weeks. Saving the Alpha’s life a couple of times probably makes them even, but Clarke can’t help but feel that she could be doing more for her in return. Anya is so giving; she deserves someone who will be devoted to her in equal measure. Just as Anya insists that Omegas ought to be treated well, Clarke thinks that it goes both ways. An Alpha who is so kind and attentive deserves to be rewarded and doted upon by an Omega. She deserves loyalty and tenderness in return, the kind of attention that Clarke so loves to give. It occurs to Clarke that maybe there is something she can do. “Octavia said that the Trikru tell stories,” she blurts out. It’s a bit of a struggle to extricate herself enough to look Anya in the eyes, but she manages it with a little finagling. “She told me that Lincoln said mythology is really important to your people, and that you tell stories about spirits and healing and reincarnation and everyone puts their faith in them.” “That is true,” Anya confirms. She looks a little puzzled, but not displeased at Clarke’s revelation of this knowledge. “We tell them to our yongons to teach them, and to each other when we have grown to give each other faith and purpose. Warriors, especially.” Clarke studies her. “Will you tell me one?” Anya’s eyes show nothing but surprise before settling into a soft sort of pleased glow. “I would be honored, skaifaya, but we will be needed back soon. We have not yet bathed,” she points out. Clarke shrugs. “You said we should wash our hair,” she supplies. “I could wash yours for you while you tell me one.” At that, Anya’s expression smoothes into a rare, true smile. The effect is catching; Clarke can’t help but mimic her shyly, hoping that she hasn’t pushed too far. She should know better by now. “I would like that,” Anya agrees softly. “But only if you will allow me to braid yours someday.” Catching Clarke’s questioning look, she elaborates, “Leaders and warriors wear breads in their hair into battle to symbolize their status. As the ambassador of your people, it is customary for you to wear them, and for a mate or an attendant to aid you." Which are you, Clarke wants to ask, but she doesn’t; the answer, if not apparent before, has become quite obvious. Still, she wants to eventually hear Anya acknowledge it out loud. “All’s fair in love and war,” Clarke says instead unthinkingly, and then immediately decides that that was worse. The confused tilt of Anya’s head, painfully endearing, doesn’t sway her opinion. “That is entirely false,” the Alpha muses. “We have a code of honor, of course, but the concept of war itself is definitively unfair, and as for love — ” “No, never mind, you’re totally right; stupid Old Earth idioms,” Clarke hurries to intercept her before she carries things too far. The springs may be deserted, but they’re still in a relatively public setting, and if they don’t get a handle on themselves, the War Council is going to be missing two members. Just what they need is for Lexa to send out a search party and expose them to everyone all at once. “Here; hand me that soap you bought and I can start. You’re right that we need to get going, and I want to hear the whole story.” This is the kind of thing that she’s living for these days: moments alone with Anya learning about her culture. She’ll take all that she can get. Moving through the water with Clarke’s weight still solid against her chest, Anya retrieves the soap from a nearby ledge before moving to deposit Clarke on her previous bench-like perch. The minute she’s set down, Clarke’s entire body cries out in protest at the loss of contact. The warm water swirls cold into the places where Anya was pressed against her as the steady simmering of her blood dies down, only to flare up again with something almost like itchiness. It feels achy and insistent, and Clarke has to bite her lip to stop herself from letting out a pitiful whimper of protest. She’s been battling a strange sensation all day, a burning in her veins that generates combined neediness and the impulse to jump anything and everything in sight. Touching Anya, she has quickly discovered, seems to be the only relief. Mercifully, it doesn’t last long. Clarke has hardly gotten a chance to pout before Anya is back, turning around in the water so that her back is to the Omega and pressing into the space between her knees. Clarke’s legs tighten around her instinctively to keep her close; as her body’s tension eases, she hears Anya let out a low chuckle. “Moba, strikon,” she apologizes with a hint of teasing; Clarke can’t see her face, but she can sense the Alpha’s smugness at knowing she was so quickly missed. She feels her cheeks flare a little at the obviousness of her reaction, but she can’t help teasing a little in kind. “Yu nou laik moba, Giva.” At this angle, it’s hard for Anya to turn to her, so she cranes her neck back instead. Upside down, Clarke sees her quick blink of surprise, followed by another rare smile. Warmth settles in her chest at the recognition that the normally reserved Alpha has granted her not one, but two displays of genuinely enjoying her presence. Anya’s smile makes her brain and heart go fuzzy. “Perhaps I am not that sorry,” Anya concedes. There’s a spark of something soft in her eyes that looks suspiciously like fondness, so Clarke grips her hair and uses it to steer her head back into position before the butterflies in her stomach can assert their presence too strongly. “Not yet you’re not,” she threatens good-naturedly. “I’ve never washed anyone’s hair before, so you’re my guinea pig. The potential for mishap here is pretty significant.” When Anya only chuckles again, she narrows her eyes at the back of the Alpha’s head. “You laugh now,” she warns, “but I’m not kidding; that threat was only half fake.” Anya laughs quietly; rolls her head to crack her neck. “In that case, I leave my fate to your incapable hands,” she teases. “I trust you, strik Treja.” Beneath the playfulness, there’s a quiet undercurrent of seriousness that tugs at Clarke’s heart. The sensation of her heart’s constriction is distracting; feeling suddenly disarmed, she fiddles with the damp ends of Anya’s hair. “You know, someday you’re going to have to explain all these nicknames you keep giving me,” she says after a quiet moment of contemplation. Anya merely hums as she tilts her head back into the Omega’s touch. “Someday,” she agrees. Clarke curls her fingers in tighter. “Good. Now stop moving and start telling your story before Lexa sends the whole Council after us.” She gives a little tug to a strand of Anya’s hair for emphasis. A quiet, sharp inhale gives her pause; Anya has tensed a minuscule amount, the smallest indication of a reaction. For a moment, Clarke hesitates, caught between wanting to apologize and wanting to hear that little noise again. Anya so rarely yields even an involuntary physical reaction; that she is letting herself show it, show Clarke, is an honor of which Clarke feels distinctly unworthy. She curbs her impulse to speak as she lathers her hands with soap — some syrupy concoction that yields a surprising amount of suds — focusing on the task before her. Maybe if she devotes all of her attention to what she’s doing, she won’t feel quite so tempted to just push Anya into the water and have her way with her right here and now. She should be so lucky. Her fingers slide back into Anya’s hair, twisting through the snarled curls up to the roots. They’re dark — a little darker than she’s noticed before. Anya’s hair is beautiful, all swirls of auburn and gold highlighted with streaks from the sun. Clarke wonders how she hasn’t noticed before — she’s known that Anya is beautiful, of course, but rarely has she been afforded an opportunity to take in the beauty of the woman to whom she has grown so startlingly close in the past weeks. Anya is gorgeous. She’s leonine and graceful, fierce, but Clarke finds that at a closer glance, there are facets of her that seem almost delicate in their beauty. Not fragile, not at all, but elegantly formed; as perfect as though crafted by some otherworldly being. She’s stunning, and Clarke still can’t fathom that she’s allowed to touch her. The trust that Anya is placing in Clarke, to offer her the gift of such an opportunity, takes Clarke’s breath away. She wants to devote hours to unraveling the wonders of this incredible, indescribable Alpha. She cradles Anya’s head in her hands, taking a moment to knead and press into the base of her skull with her thumbs. The reaction is immediate: Anya lets her head fall back with a soft groan of contentment, her body relaxing between the grip of Clarke’s thighs. “I do not need the healing waters, Klark, so long as I have your hands,” she murmurs appreciatively. Clarke closes her eyes against the weight of the emotions that are rising in her chest, feeling the delicate curve of Anya’s neck warm beneath her fingertips. “I thought you said they didn’t heal physical wounds,” she points out softly. Her palm curves around the Alpha’s neck, skin soft against her own. She can feel Anya shake her head into her hands. “They do not,” she affirms, and Clarke forces herself to ignore the edge of a cracked sigh of pleasure in her voice. “But your hands, skaifaya, could heal any hurt. They could bring us back to life as these waters did after Praimfaya.” The image fills Clarke’s mind, unbidden, of a crowded, horrible room, and Anya’s haunting eyes tortured and empty behind the bars of a locked cage. The idea of healing every ill, she finds, is not unappealing. “What was Praimfaya?” she asks, guiding a little water into Anya’s curls. There is no immediate response; a peek through her eyelashes shows Anya pursing her lips in concentration. Sensing that she is considering — though what, she doesn’t know — Clarke doesn’t press her. “We burn our dead after battle,” is the unexpected response after a minute of silence. “It is our way of honoring them while also giving way to those that still live. From their ashes, new lives will arise, and we will hope to be better than before, sha?” “Sha,” Clarke murmurs automatically, too absorbed to provide a proper response. Anya hums an affirmative, her eyes still gently closed. “When the world burned in Praimfaya, there was death before the rebirth,” she elaborates. “Hellfire raged, and when it ended, those who were left were barely alive. Much of the earth was barren and scorched, and there was no light but for the flames that lit the ash in the sky. Even when the ash cleared, it seemed there was nothing left but ruin.” Anya’s voice has taken on the soft, almost sing-song quality that comes with reciting a poem or prayer. As Clarke cards her fingers through soft hair, she is caught up between the poetic violence of the words and the reverence with which they are uttered. It seems a little odd to speak of the destruction of civilization as something to be revered, but she tries to hold herself in the minds of those who grew up on Earth. Life on the ground has birthed mythologies and spirituality that it is her duty to respect. More than that, they are a facet of the life to which she hopes to eventually join herself, and she feels drawn to the deep roots of culture almost as much as to the woman who is reciting them to her. “The earth was left burned and poisoned. For those who escaped the flames, survival was punishing. They had been spared from the fires, but the essence of life seemed to have been ripped from the world. Survivors scattered, banding together and fighting over the little life that remained." As Clarke’s fingers press into a sensitive spot on her temple, Anya pauses, a little catch in her breath almost rumbling into a purr. Fully absorbed in the storytelling, Clarke stills, enthralled, and waits for her to go on. It’s a moment before Anya seems to gather herself from her distraction, and after a slight hesitation, Clarke prompts her in a fascinated murmur, low so as to not disturb the sacred hush the telling of the fable has brought. “What did they do?” She seems to take Anya a little by surprise; the Alpha’s eyes flutter half-open as she blinks herself back into concentration. “There were traveling stars,” she muses after a beat of languid breath. “Many of them that had been seen circling the earth since the fires first began. They traveled day and night overheard, always circling back around. Their patterns were predictable in a life that had become chaos, and after a time, the survivors began to see them as a guiding power.” Anya continues, not seeming to notice that Clarke’s hands have ceased to move. “One night, nearly two summers after the bombs first fell, the scattered clans saw something strange occurring in the sky. The traveling stars were moving together, growing closer and closer until at last they seemed to merge. As the night went on, it occurred eleven times, one for every hour of the dark. Twelve lights became one. Near dawn, another began to draw near. It moved as the others did, slipping closer to the spot where they all seemed to have joined. But then something changed — it bloomed brighter, fiercer than the others, like the last light of the sun before the dark.” "Unity Day.” Clarke’s whisper breaks the thread of Anya’s concentration at last. Craning her neck, the Alpha turns her gaze upon her with a furrowed brow. “You have spoken of this Unity Day before,” she remarks in surprise. “If I am not mistaken, it was — ” “The day we met,” Clarke supplies. Their eyes have locked, drawn by a gravity that seems to push and pull all at once until its own resistance threatens to tear it apart. “I remember. It was a holiday for us; it marks the day that the twelve stations joined together and formed the Ark. That’s the story we tell children, anyway — there were really thirteen, but something went wrong, and Polaris was blasted out of the sky. That would have been the bright light your people saw.” Anya is watching her with an attentiveness that almost feels unwarranted. Clarke doesn’t feel wrought with the same reverence of history and meditative storytelling. The tale only brings up more realizations of everything the leaders of the Ark have kept from their people for almost a century. She doesn’t see how this has anything to do with whatever mythological fabric bound up the lost survivors of the end of the world. “It is an important day for our people, too,” Anya contributes as though she is privy to Clarke’s thoughts. “It marks the beginning of Heda’s line and the unification of the survivors into what were to become the clans. As the dawn rose, Bekka Pramheda descended to Earth and led the survivors here to their salvation.” When Clarke only stares, Anya elaborates, “Bekka Pramheda was the first of Heda’s line, the one to form the clans and begin the rebuilding of Polis and Tondisi.” Clarke’s mind is racing a mile a minute. “The First Commander came from the sky?” she manages to ask. Anya nods solemnly. “Sha,” she confirms. “And when she died, her spirit found the new Commander, and all the Commanders after that. Eternally, throughout time, the spirit of the Commander is reincarnated in the body of the natblida child who is victorious in the Conclave. All lead with wisdom and honor, but none so far with wisdom and honor as great as that of Lexa. Not even Bekka Pramheda, who led the survivors here to Tondisi and found the waters that healed them. Every ill brought by the fire was banished, and the clans found that the springs’ waters healed too the broken earth and nourished back to life the last it had to offer them. They began rebuilding here, by the waters that brought them back from the brink of death. Heda visits it often when she can, and pays it her respects, for it brings healing and wisdom to all it touches. Even when nothing else remains to us, they are three: Heda, and the earth, and the water that brought them both to life.” “That’s why there are three symbols,” Clarke realizes aloud. “The Trikru — your clan sign is three symbols intertwined.” Anya’s smile is softer than the water that soothes their skin. “The sacred triad,” she agrees, “bound by forces far beyond our comprehension.” A strange, hollow feeling rises in Clarke’s chest, almost nostalgic; not an unpleasant awareness, but one that makes her shiver in the same way that the art of the Old World always has. “You’re saying Heda is like a god,” she says slowly, and can’t help a measure of incredulity from creeping into her voice. Anya’s eyes glimmer up at her like she knows exactly what she’s thinking. “Yes,” she answers easily. Closing her palms around the soap lather, Clarke cannot help herself. “But that’s — Bekka was from the Ark; the First Commander wasn’t — ” she breaks herself off, frustrated, not wanting to discount the steady faith in Anya’s conviction but feeling disloyal to her own firm belief in everything she knows. Anya’s gaze traps her in her flustered uncertainty and holds her there, unyielding. “How do you know?” she counters. Clarke bites her lip, feeling her confusion simmer without anywhere to direct it. What Anya is suggesting feels impossible, but she’s also right. She doesn’t know. It’s the basis of every argument ever held over religion. This isn’t quite religion, not in the ways of Old Earth, but the foundation is the same. “Then what’s to say that any of us aren’t gods?” is the only argument she can come up with in response. It isn’t quite what she means to protest with, but it will suffice. What she doesn’t know how to articulate is the fact that it could be true. It can’t be, but then again, so much of what Clarke has seen in the past two months has challenged everything she thought she knew. If monsters like those below them in the mountain are real, perhaps it isn’t so wrong to wonder if the gods above them might be, too. Anya presses back into her hands like a wave into the shore. “You too fell from the stars and command your people to salvation, Skai Klark,” she says meaningfully. “You tell me.” Clarke’s jaw works against the air in her lungs. For a moment, stricken, she struggles to find a suitable response. Then, against her own volition, her shoulders fall. Gravity seems to pull her in; as though through the force of a magnet, she curls herself loosely over Anya with a tired sigh. The quick inhale that follows brings into her nose the scent of fresh water, swept up with soap and sunshine and the deep, earthy scent that is her Alpha’s alone. “All I want is peace.” She can’t contain the weariness threading through every word. “I didn’t want to start a war, or have to end it. We were sent to the ground to try to find a home, and I just want — ” A home. Belonging. You. There is a swirling of the water as the Alpha turns, shifting back to face her. Anya’s hands, bathed by water droplets, rise up to cradle her temples. Clarke’s eyes flutter unwittingly closed at the touch. “For now, you must lead your people,” Anya tells her solemnly. “Then, when at last the mountain has fallen and our people have been returned to us, there will be nothing but time and joy with which to fill it. You will find a home here, Klark,” she continues, with such earnestness that Clarke opens her eyes again to see the intensity of the expression on Anya’s face. “I will make sure of it.” Clarke lets her eyes burn into hers. “And you?” she asks. “What do you wish for?” Perhaps it’s the looming threat of war that spurs her boldness; perhaps it is only need. Anya swallows hard, and for the first time, Clarke sees nervousness in the set of her lips. “Ai — ” Anya starts, but her voice is rough and cracked. She’s forced to pause a moment to clear her throat, and when she resumes, she looks even less confident than before. “I have . . . lost much,” she confesses. Her eyes burn autumn-bright into Clarke’s, and their depths are broken in a way that makes Clarke want to coo and press even closer until the Alpha is enveloped in comfort. “The war against Azgeda took much from us, Leksa and I, and since then . . . it has been difficult to be happy the way I was before.” The lack of a direct confession says enough on its own; Clarke feels the jolt of recognition like a bone-deep shock. Automatically, her eyes flicker to the curve of Anya’s neck. A lost mate’s mark fades and leaves no visible sign, but she can’t help searching anyway, trying to catch confirmation in the tiny flutter of Anya’s pulse. Nothing mars the golden skin, but the way that Anya stiffens automatically beneath her gaze tells her all she needs to know. When she looks back to her Alpha, Anya is watching her with her jaw set as though against pain. The sight of it fills Clarke with a sense of grief that almost feels like her own; the Alpha’s expression is tense, almost fearful. The effect is heartbreaking. “You lost your mate.” It isn’t a question, but Clarke tries to keep her voice gentle. Anya swallows an inhale. All of a sudden, something within her face is cracking, as though the chink in the armor has been hit and suddenly all has begun to break. “Seven winters ago,” she confirms shakily. The corners of her eyes have begun to glint with the swelling of tears. At the sight of it, Clarke’s body seems to cry out in protest, the sight of her Alpha’s grief striking her like physical pain. It feels inconsequential that the root of the distress is the person who, for all intents and purposes, once held Anya’s heart. Perhaps, in another moment, Clarke might feel jealousy, but all she knows now is an overwhelming need to soothe the woman in front of her. “I’m sorry.” In the pain of the moment, it’s the only thing that Clarke can think of to say. Anya only shakes her head. With the drawing of a shaky breath, her shoulders shudder. “It has been a long time since I loved them,” she chokes out. Shakily, she brushes at her eyes. “It is not — I do not mourn my old mate still,” she explains; she turns her gaze up to Clarke as though pleading with her to understand. “It is only that I . . . ai laik Giva. Do you understand?” The sensation of Clarke’s heart striking against her ribs feels like a knife blow. Swallowing hard against the painful lump growing in her throat, she bites back the tears that threaten to rise. Gently, she reaches out to catch Anya by the cusp of her jaw. “Yu laik Giva, but you have no one to give to,” she finishes the Alpha’s thought. Still looking absolutely lost, Anya nods. “Omegas are Treja, and I . . . I have no one to treasure,” is her whisper, broken at the edges with a pain that cracks in her heart. Clarke feels a sympathetic twinge in her own chest. It solidifies into a deep ache, one that seems to piece the depths of her bones. As it settles there, it twists, wending its way around her heart and through her blood and marrow, until every particle of her being is infused with the soft pain of yearning. When her heart beats next, it sends the feeling rushing through her blood, and the last thin fiber of resistance snaps. Her words, when they come, are steady with certainty. “You do now.” There’s a beat after she says it, and then Anya’s eyes dart upwards, her lips parted in shock. They have been dancing around this for weeks, but now that they’re experiencing a relative moment of peace, the moment feels right for such revelations. Between spending her nights wrapped up in Anya’s arms and her days standing tall at her side, Clarke has had the time to think. She’s considered it from every angle, only for it to become abundantly clear to her, in the past few hours alone, that this isn’t something that she can think through. Perhaps to the rest of Skaikru the question of what she’ll do after the fall of the mountain is difficult to decide, but the answer, in her heart, is obvious. Anya’s steadiness, her attentiveness; her nervous, doting affection and bright spirit, have settled in Clarke’s heart and taken root. Two weeks, and already she can’t imagine her life any other way. Anya’s lips are trembling as her wide eyes dart searchingly between Clarke’s own. “Klark?” The whisper, so tentative, is barely audible, but Clarke can hear in it the broken tendrils of cautious hope beginning to take hold. In answer, she presses closer, seeking with her fingertips the invisible line where another’s bite mark once lay. She’s seen the faded heartbreak in Anya’s eyes, the uncertainty that she knows stems from their difference in cultures. She doesn’t know what grounder traditions are like, but on the Ark, it was frowned upon to take a new mate upon the loss of one’s first. She hopes that, like so many other things, that custom is different here. With the lightest touch that she can muster, she brushes first her fingertips across the place where an old mating mark would have been, and then, with care, presses her lips to the hot skin. Anya’s gasp catches the autumn air as her knees go weak. Swaying, she grasps for Clarke’s shoulders for balance. Clarke gives it readily, allowing her body to bear the weight of her Alpha and feeling her heart blossom with joy. Closing her eyes, she nuzzles in close, letting her lips rest upon Anya’s wildly fluttering pulse. Her Alpha’s scent is overwhelming here, strong and all-consuming, and as the last vestiges of hesitance leave her, Clarke permits herself to be overcome by the weight of the scent and heartbeat and the simple, proud happiness of having her senses narrowed to the woman keeping her soul tethered to Earth. “Ai laik yu Treja,” she whispers, and allows the words to dance warmly across soft skin. She feels the pulse against her stutter, and there’s a beat during which the promise sinks into the space between them. Then Anya’s arms are around her, tugging her close, her hands fumbling to grasp Clarke anywhere that she can hold. She is shaking as she moves, struggling to get Clarke as close as she possibly can; with a muffled noise of surprise, Clarke slides off the rock ledge and into waist-deep water where her Alpha pulls at her insistently until they are fully intertwined. She relaxes there, leaning into the taller body. Anya is pressing hard kisses to her hair, her forehead, her cheek; any part of the Omega that she can reach. Her chest rumbles with loud, frantic purrs that shake into Clarke’s body. She’s whispering something in Trigedasleng that Clarke can’t quite make out, pressing the words reverently into her Omega’s skin with kisses that have Clarke leaning in with a sigh. Clarke nestles closer and tilts her head up, searching. “Anya,” she breathes, once, twice, three times, until at last Anya is torn from her desperate attention and catches the blonde head in her hands. When their eyes meet, Clarke can see her own reflected back at her, their blue as bright as the spring’s waters. Anya’s gaze is more solemn and burning than she has ever seen it. Tears have gathered in her bright eyes. “Ai laik yu Giva,” is all she says, but it’s a whisper so heavy with long-held need that Clarke nearly goes weak. If her knees are to buckle under the weight of her relief, she knows that Anya’s arms will keep her from slipping beneath the surface of the sparkling water. Even if she did, she knows that Anya would give the very breath from her lungs. These waters are said to be sacred. Perhaps she doesn’t believe in gods, but the water seems to dance with some power beyond knowing, and as it baptizes the confessions that have fallen from their lips after so long a wait, Clarke decides there is something holy here, either way. It is well past noon when the sounding of a horn announces to the gathering visitors that the last riders from distant clans have arrived. The Skaikru, minus Clarke and Octavia, are summoned from their tents by guards and led, with a little suspicion, to the gathering place where the leaders of the Coalition are to assemble. They have chosen a large room in the basement of one of the few stone buildings left standing, one that Abby is fairly certain is a remnant of the Old Earth capitol. Whatever it once was, it is unrecognizable; the stone walls are draped with banners bearing the symbols of the clans, its center adorned with a long, rough-hewn wooden table. Over twenty chairs have been drawn up, the Commander’s throne at the place of honor in the very center of them all. The room is teeming with grounders, and where Abby’s morning was spent surrounded by Trikru from seemingly all walks of life, these newcomers are of a distinctly different sort. She counts eleven ambassadors in all, some accompanied by generals or other warriors. All bear the prominent symbols of leadership, indicated by pauldrons, holstered swords, and war paint in every imaginable design. Abby thought the grounders one and the same, all a similar breed of armor-clad barbarian, but this sight is putting her assumptions to the test. While everyone in the room is unmistakably a warrior, she notices that each bears a sign of belonging to a different clan. The armor of one ambassador is plated with a shiny metal that Abby is almost certain is pure gold. Another wears no armor at all, clad instead in brightly colored clothes that almost resemble the Skaikru’s Old Earth style fashion, albeit in better repair. One ambassador, a stocky woman with a head of wildly curly russet hair, carries a salty, windswept scent; another, one of the two late arrivals, bears intricate scarring across his face, his warpaint white instead of black. With the influx of strangers, the Trikru are almost comfortingly familiar with their hulking armor and heavy kohl. All mill about while they wait, overwhelming the Skaikru in their tattered assemblage to the point that Abby, Kane, and even the reluctant Murphy huddle together in the corner. Regarding them coldly as usual, Raven situates herself on the opposite side of the room with her chin held obstinately high. Fortunately, they don’t have to wait for long. Soon after their arrival, the ambassadors begin to take up places at the long table, cueing the Skaikru to scramble to follow their example. The Commander herself arrives last, bringing with her her entourage of Gustus, Octavia, Lincoln, the woman called Indra, Anya, and Clarke. When the War Council convenes, Abby is met with the sight of her daughter so transformed that she is almost unrecognizable. She’s hardly seen Clarke since her removal from Camp Jaha; apart from their brief breakfast, she has barely laid eyes on her. They have yet to speak since Clarke’s illness; in the days that have followed, Abby has kept her distance, simultaneously reluctant to cause further distress and desperate to interact. She has wanted to speak to Clarke, to find out if she is okay, to apologize, but Lexa and Anya’s hawklike eyes have kept her at a respectful distance. Abby doesn’t know what dramatic change has taken place in the few days since her daughter lay burning with fever in her bunk at Camp Jaha, but it is significant enough to stun her into stillness. Clarke is dressed from head to foot in grounder clothes. The most stunning garment is a coat, long enough to reach to her mid-thigh; it is of the same brilliant blue of her eyes, tailored from leather, with metal studs glinting along the cuffs. Her hair has been done up in tiny little braids, half of it pulled back away from her face, and there is ash beneath her eyes. She smells of fire and soot and war and Omega and of the Alpha at her side. It’s a relief for Abby to know that her worries about Clarke’s wellbeing can be laid to rest; her daughter looks healthier than she ever has in her life. Her cheeks are rosy, her eyes bright. Nevertheless, Abby feels an ache in her chest at the sight. As much as she is beginning to see what this new life is bringing Clarke, she cannot quash the painful recognition that her daughter is slipping away. In the flickering torchlight cast on the stone walls, standing tall at the general’s side, Clarke looks more like a grounder than she has ever looked like Skaikru. What shakes Abby the most, though, is the way the two of them look together. She was only able to visit Clarke once after she was imprisoned on the Ark, and it was brief, a two-minute visitation allowed because Clarke was ill. It was four months in, and faced already by signs of oxygen deprivation among her other patients, Abby pretended not to notice them in her own daughter. She hadn’t wanted this when she turned Jake in; hadn’t wanted any of it. Never had she thought that Clarke would put herself in such a dangerous position for her father. Abby remembers that visit like it was yesterday; Clarke, thin and wan and flat-eyed, her limbs a little shaky from the lack of oxygen. Prisoners on the Ark weren’t well provided for; law-abiding citizens had to be prioritized, and so Clarke was skinny, a little fumbling and shaky on her feet, too malnourished to sustain a heat even without her suppressants. Abby remembers the twinge in her heart when she saw her pup sick and grieving, so near the eve of the adulthood that would mean her death. She remembers watching the drop ship burn bright into the atmosphere, unsure of whether she’d ever see her daughter again. She remembers watching Clarke’s screen on the Ark go dark. She remembers wondering if she brought about her own daughter’s death; knowing that if she hadn’t risked it, Clarke would be dead anyway. In just a couple of weeks, this Trikru warrior has given Clarke everything that Abby has never been able to give. Abby sent her daughter to Earth in the hopes that she might live — not just survive a guaranteed death sentence, but live a fulfilling life. As much as it pains her that the price is losing her daughter to another culture, she can no longer deny that her wish has been granted. Anya has given Clarke strength. She has given her nourishment, safety, a purpose. She has given her sunlight and stories of a new culture and the chance to build a new and beautiful life for herself. Abby wants to hate her, but she can’t. She wants to feel the burn of fury in her heart, but Anya looks at Clarke with nothing but love in her eyes. She knew the instant she saw them together that the two of them felt something for each other. Abby isn’t blind. She sees the way that Clarke leans into the grounder Alpha, how Anya stands taller with the knowledge that Clarke is at her side. As they entered the room, Anya guided her with a hand on her back. Now she stands close, protective, watchful, with something soft in her strong-boned features that looks unmistakably like adoration. Abby sees the looks they give one another, the subtle glances, tonight more than ever before, it seems. She knows that Clarke has found her mate. She also knows that she couldn’t have hoped for a better mate for her daughter. Abby doesn’t like Anya, hates what the grounder’s people have been doing to the children of the Ark, but she has seen Anya’s loyalty again and again. She has seen how the Alpha’s eyes go starry when they fall on Clarke, and knows, with a deep and desperate ache in her heart, that they’re the same stars that were in her own eyes whenever she looked at Jake. More than that, Abby can sense the truth that leaves her worried and on edge, the underlying scent of which Clarke herself has yet to take notice. She doesn’t know how it’s possible, not when the children have only been on the ground for a little over a month. They’ve been stressed and underfed since they were imprisoned, which for Clarke was nearly a year. It seems impossible that conditions have improved fast enough for their bodies to compensate, but Clarke, Abby supposes, has been under the care of someone who has not only kept her safe and well-fed, but whose Alpha presence has slowly been calling to her. Whatever the case, the signs are unmistakeable: Clarke is going into heat. Abby is a doctor; she has spent over twenty years on the Ark tending to Omegas. She knows the first signs of heat, has caught it in the ones back on the Ark who managed to evade the suppressants and given them the medicine before it’s too late. She knows why the blush in Clarke’s cheeks has deepened, why she presses instinctively closer to her Alpha. She knows that the threat of impending war is likely the only thing keeping it from coming on in full force. It only makes Abby more aware of the fact that she’s going to lose her daughter to these people. As soon as Clarke’s heat hits, she’s going to want to be with her Alpha — her Trikru Alpha who will likely spirit her away to some Trikru village where she’ll lead a Trikru life. Clarke will live in one of these wood-and-stone grounder cottages surrounded by forests and rivers and mountains; she’ll bear pups for her grounder mate — likely many, if the numbers in this village are anything to go by. She’ll live a life among the trees, without Ark technology; she’ll learn the language of these people even more than she already has and raise her children to speak it, too. She’ll probably be a healer. She’ll learn the grounder ways of medicine and battle and leadership and live the rest of her life in service of this complex and powerful Coalition led by a girl who can’t be more than two years older than Clarke herself. Commander Lexa, Abby has come to realize, is more than meets the eye. It hardly seems possible than a woman of scarcely twenty years can lead the last surviving members of the human race. When they first encountered each other back at Camp Jaha, Abby thought her a child; a bloodthirsty young girl who had earned her ornate throne through some unknown means in order to command the armies of the earth. She was prepared to face a stubborn and reckless child, to barter and play ludicrous games in order to make her see reason. Instead, what Abby has found in Tondisi is that everything she thought of Lexa could not be further from the truth. The Commander leads with strength and wisdom, and a solemn, steady logic that defies her age. Her subjects revere her; that much is evident after just one day in the villagers’ midst. They bow as she walks past, greet her joyfully when she enters a room. The young Commander has a regal air about her, a stance that suggests stability and balance. Abby watches her take her place at the high table and remembers her conversation with Nyko, a Trikru healer she and Marcus spent the morning with preparing bandages. He told them the story of the young Heda, taken from her family as all other nightblood children are at the age of three. He told them how she trained harder and with more determination than any other nightblood; how when the previous Commander died nine years later she stepped into the arena with her head held high. How she won the Conclave and was chosen by the Spirit of the Commander. How the twelve-year-old girl took upon her shoulders with grace and dignity the weight of the last vestiges of humanity; how she brought together the warring clans into one Coalition and earned her title of The Uniter. How the Spirit of the Commander burns brighter in her than in any Heda that ever came before. Abby doesn’t know how she feels about reincarnation. It seems preposterous, given all the Old Earth science she’s spent her life learning and relying upon to save lives that, once gone, don’t seem to make a reappearance. And yet Old Earth science is what brought about the end of the world. These peoples’ ways seem to do nothing but create new ones. It seems that there is much left for the Skaikru to learn. Abby is willing. She has made choices in fighting for their survival that ultimately led to destruction, but she is not so stubborn that she cannot put aside her pride and vanity. There was a time that she thought she knew best for her daughter. If it didn’t end when her choices landed her child in prison, it ended the day that Anya forced her to stand aside and gave Clarke the life that she could not. It will be slow and painful, but Abby will humble herself before these people whose ranks her daughter has joined. The grounders are more than they seemed to be when the children were waging war against them; Abby knows this now. The Hundred were met with warriors, but the clans’ ranks hold others too. They have healers and ambassadors and teachers and families and children. They have history, and culture, and values. The Skaikru might not share those values for now, but Abby is willing to learn where they come from. “Let the War Council assemble.” Lexa’s voice is high and clear, and resonates through the large room without effort. It brings Abby out of her reflection and back to where the gathered Coalition stands at attention. “Welcome, ambassadors; I am pleased to see you have journeyed well.” All around the long table, the eleven ambassadors are nodding in acknowledgement; one or two offer small smiles. “For our Skaikru visitors, allow me to introduce the ambassadors of the other eleven clans,” Lexa continues with a nod toward Abby and Marcus. “We welcome Darius kom Sangedakru.” A tall, muscular man dressed in heavy robes nods. “Gillian kom Louwoda Kliron Kru.” A woman with bright red hair smiles in greeting. “Roan kom Azgeda.” The man with patterned scars etched into his skin remains stony-faced. “Luna kom Floukru.” The woman with curly hair smelling of salty air inclines her head, and her eyes travel appraisingly over the Skaikru. It might be Abby’s imagination, but she thinks Luna’s gaze might linger on Raven a little longer than the rest. One by one, the remaining ambassadors are introduced, as are the generals at Lexa’s side. Then the War Council begins, and Abby struggles to absorb the proceedings as the politics of the grounder tribes outweigh anything she ever thought possible. It has been six hours. Six hours of planning, of arguing and brainstorming and strategizing and of disagreements that start off as subtle but by hour four have evolved into two near-knife fights and a shouting match. Clarke has found that contrary to the Ark’s expectations of Omega capabilities, the fancy political footwork is easy for her to track. The Skaikru visitors are growing visibly exhausted, but Clarke finds herself possessed of the same focused energy that is currently consuming Lexa. By this point, they are missing some members, a few of their number having been ordered to the outdoors by Heda when their aggravation grew too strong. Those remaining around the table have taken on a frenetic, intense focus accumulated through hours of single-minded strategizing. They’ve gathered close at this point, all of them hunched around a three-dimensional battle plan mapping Mount Weather’s surrounding area constructed from odds and ends around the room. “I will not ask again.” Mira, the ambassador of the Boudalankru, has, like all of them, been growing steadily tenser the longer the Council lasts. “If the Maunon can eavesdrop on your talk-boxes, will they not know when it is safe for us to proceed into the area where the acid fog is unleashed? I will walk into battle on Heda’s command, but not if we are to be annihilated.” “They will know.” Octavia has stripped herself of her cloak and leans with leather-plated gloves on the edge of the oak table. While many of the others by this point have begun to tire, Octavia seems to have grown energized by all the talk of war and strategy. Her eyes are glinting with sharp anticipation, and her breath comes quickly as she studies the makeshift map intently. Clarke has never seen her so in her element. “But at that point, it will no longer matter. We will already be inside of their radar, and by the time we reach the door, Raven and Wick will have disabled the dam. By the time they’re able to assemble themselves to react, we’ll already be inside.” Her words are interspersed with Trigedasleng; the Council is being conducted in English for the benefit of the Skaikru, and everyone has so far complied, but Clarke has noticed the extra attention they grant the young Alpha who has chosen to speak their language. That, if anything, has earned the Skaikru a measure of respect. “Besides,” Clarke adds, addressing the table at large, “the door is on the ninth level. Once Raven and Wick reverse the air filters, the Maunon will be confined to the fifth. We won’t be in any immediate danger until we reach them there. With half of us going in from the door and the rest from below in the Reaper tunnels, we’ll hit them from both sides.” “And yet our victory depends on us being able to navigate the inside of this godforsaken place,” interjects Darius with a hiss. A low mutter announces the other ambassadors’ agreement. It is an issue, one that Clarke has been grappling with ever since they reached the infiltration stage of their battle plan. The grounders, she understands, are concerned about navigation. As Anya explained to her when the issue first arose, the clans are accustomed to finding their way by natural signs. There will be none inside the mountain. For all the grounders’ prowess in battle, they depend upon their knowledge of the outside world for much of their strategy. None of them have ever experienced an environment like Mount Weather. Having grown up in a similar bunker, it’s a barrier that Clarke didn’t foresee. Lexa, it seems, has considered how to address it. “That is why we have only two battalion entry points rather than sending a third in through the air shafts like Luna suggested,” the Commander answers stolidly, sending the Floukru leader a deferential nod. Luna returns it with poise. “Klark knows the layout of the mountain, and Onya has already been inside. Between them, they will be our warriors’ guides.” It’s a reasonable solution, one that the ambassadors seem to accept. Nevertheless, Clarke is uneasy. A glance to her right shows her that Anya’s stoic expression has remained unchanged. Nevertheless, as suddenly attuned as she is to her Alpha’s scent, Clarke can sense her anxiety at the prospect of reentering the mountain. The thought makes her chest swell with harsh protectiveness. She doesn’t know what it is, but in the past day or so, Clarke’s instinctive need to defend Anya has watched up a hundred and fifty percent. The prospect of Anya getting hurt makes her blood boil. Clarke thinks of her gentle, loving Alpha being tortured by the Maunon, of them tying her up by her ankles and draining her body of blood; she remembers her sweet intended mate locked starving and cold and empty of hope in a tiny cage, and she wants to tear the Maunon limb from limb. After all, she figures, she’s an Omega; perhaps the Alpha drive is to protect their mates, but it goes both ways. Clarke doesn’t know whose side she’s fighting for anymore, but she knows that she will protect Anya with her life. “What if we are to become separated? What then?” Gillian kom Louwoda Kliron Kru calls out from the end of the table. She and Luna have remained the calmest out of the ambassadors, never raising their voices once even as tensions have risen. “Yes, or what if one of them is to fall in battle?” the Podakru delegate adds. “How will we find our way?” A few other voices rise in agreement, questions flooding in from all sides. Bowing her head, the Commander holds up her hand for silence. The effect is immediate, and once it has fallen, Lexa turns her gaze expectantly to Clarke. “Well, Klark?” The weight of her eyes is heavy, curious. “What do you propose?” “Could you write down directions?” Kane, in the corner, pipes up hopefully. Not removing her stare from Clarke’s, Lexa shakes her head. “Our language has no written form,” she informs him. “Clarke? Can you think of any way to show us?” “Yes, can you lead us into battle, skai goufa?” Mira asks peevishly. “No,” Clarke admits. Then her eyes sparkle. “But I can draw you a map.” It takes about twenty minutes for her to sketch the interior of Mount Weather. The original drawing she made inside the mountain is long gone, lost in the escape and subsequent trek through the forest. Lexa calls for paper and charcoals, which Clarke quickly puts to good use. She can sense Anya’s fascination as she works, the Alpha’s interest flickering while she watches her draw. She remembers their conversation from the river a number of days ago; that they are both artists. The aftermath of this war is hardly Clarke’s focus tonight, but she can’t help a spark of curiosity from flaring up at the thought of Anya showing her the things she has carved. Once the map is done, Clarke hands it over to Lexa, letting first the Commander and then the ambassadors examine it and ask the new questions that arise upon seeing the layout of the mountain. “I’m telling you, we can’t break through any other way. If what Bellamy says is true, those doors are the only way we’re going to get a whole army into that mountain,” Raven insists in response to Trishanakru’s doubts about the safety of the plan. To Clarke’s great surprise, she’s one of the few who has remained fully dedicated to the task. While Kane and Abby have taken up residence in chairs in the corners of the room, barely awake, Raven appears to be in her element. She started the assembly hovering nervously on the fringes of the room, but has slowly crept in closer over the course of six hours until before Clarke knows it she’s as invested and argumentative as the rest of them. Her hair is is coming loose, her eyes alight with a fervor Clarke has only ever seen when she’s come up with a new machine to save the day. “But if we send in a battalion through the Reaper tunnels first — ” Octavia begins. “That’ll only distract them a little,” Clarke cuts across Octavia. “And only for a minute, at that. They’ve got an entire army in there, and from what Bellamy said, it sounds like everyone will be concentrated on Level Five because of the radiation breach.” “They’re not the only ones with an army,” Roan growls, popping his knuckles threateningly. Though not particularly disagreeable, as Clarke initially expected, he has been rather brusque and harsh for the majority of the meeting. Clarke sends the Azgedan Alpha a glare. “Maybe not, but there’s a hundred feet of concrete between our army and theirs,” she counters irritably. “If you’d only listen to — ” “He’s right.” To Clarke’s surprise, it’s Raven who interrupts her this time. A glance at her fellow Omega and she sees that Raven is staring at the makeshift map with an odd gleam in her eyes. “He’s right, Clarke; you do have an army in there — an army that can travel to every level without getting burned.” The confusion over Raven’s pronouncement mingles with Clarke’s shock that Raven has said her name. Since Finn’s death, she has pretended as though Clarke doesn’t exist, even going so far as to stare straight through her whenever she speaks and look around for someone else talking. Clarke feels a burst of joy; she and Raven are strategizing together like they used to before Finn tore them apart. Lexa isn’t as wrapped up in such emotional politics. “Explain,” she orders curtly, though her expression shows the slightest sign of intrigue. A steadying inhale, and Raven complies. “You have an army in the mountain, Commander,” she reiterates. Emphatically, she brings her finger to rest on the point that designates the harvest chamber. “You have hundreds of warriors in that mountain ready to fight. All we have to do is unlock the door.” Silence falls, in which all of the eyes in the room are on Raven. Clarke watches, noting the expressions of surprise and intrigue that line the faces of the ambassadors. Clearly, none of them have been expecting this brusque, grouchy Skaikru Omega to deliver them a plan that might actually grant them a chance. At the realization, Clarke almost flinches, until she registers the fact that in the ambassadors’ looks of curiosity, not one of them looks affronted or dismissive. Among the Skaikru, the response of higher officials to an Omega’s proposal would certainly be riddled with doubt and disregard. Instead, all of these ambassadors — none of them Omegas, by Clarke’s nose — wear an expression of pleasant surprise. All of them are gazing at Raven with deference, Luna most of all. Huh. “What do you say, Onya?” Lexa directs her question at her general. “Will it work?” At Clarke’s side, Anya is still, contemplative. Her brow is furrowed as she stares intently at the map. Clarke can hear her thoughts racing, sense the spike in her scent that means she’s remembering her days of imprisonment. More than anything, Clarke knows, Anya’s heart aches for those still trapped inside the mountain’s depths. It was that, after all, that led them to an alliance in the first place. After a moment, Anya raises her head. “It could work, Heda,” she confirms. A murmur arises among the delegates; after six hours of toiling with much frustration and little progress, a note of excitement has entered their voices. Even Indra looks more eager to engage. “In that case, we will need another team,” Lexa declares, and her words carry new vigor. Around the table, the energy has shifted. The ambassadors are more attentive, leaning in, ready to contribute and plan. “A group will be required to take care of those who have been held prisoner by the Maunon once they have fought their way out. Anya, Klark — you were imprisoned yourselves; what can you tell me about their condition? What will they need?” “Food,” Clarke says instantly. “And water. They’ll be weak from blood loss, so they’ll need energy immediately.” The ambassadors are listening intently now, taking in every word. The uptick in energy has roused even Murphy who, though he remains wary, is now awake and alert in the corner. “They will be cold,” Anya adds quickly. “We were all kept nearly naked, and the room of cages had no heat.” The words are terse, and catching the tight surge of anxiety in her voice, Clarke shifts closer instinctively. “Pack coats,” Lexa orders. “As many spares as you can collect from the villagers, and blankets heated beside the fire. Send Betas to warm them and prepare food and medicine while we storm the mountain.” There is a flurry of activity, and several attendants depart, presumably to convey the message. With that, the ambassadors move in, and Clarke is caught up in the wave of rapid-fire negotiations as everyone crowds around the table and the battle planning begins. “You look tired, strik skaifaya.” The concerned murmur is pressed into Clarke’s hair along with soft lips. A hand rubs soothingly up her back, pausing momentarily to cradle the nape of her neck in a gesture that feels gently possessive. Instinctively, Clarke wiggles closer, tightening her fingers in the back of Anya’s jacket as she moves. The fragrance of leather mingles with Anya’s scent in her nose, heady and comforting. “I am, a little,” she admits once she’s settled. A little over an hour later, and the war negotiations have been brought to a close. The War Council by this point has broken off into smaller groups, most retreating outside for a last glimpse of sunlight before dark. With Raven’s revelation about the grounders trapped inside the mountain, the final piece seems to have fallen into place for Lexa and her armies. The plan, as it stands, is simple: Raven and Wick will disable the dam and reverse the turbines, which will cut the power to the main door and trap the Mountain Men on Level Five. Half of Lexa’s army will be waiting to storm the mountain; the rest will enter from below, where Bellamy, after releasing the captured grounders from their cages, will let them in through the tunnel doors. All together, the three armies will storm Level Five from all sides, punish the leaders for their crimes, and the Skaikru will offer to donate bone marrow to the civilians of the mountain. It’s not foolproof, but it feels about as close as they can get. They leave at dawn. The creature above her hums thoughtfully, tightening her hold. “A hot meal ought to help,” she comments. Nestled so close, her voice gets caught in the curtain of Clarke’s hair. “We are certain to eat after Heda converses with the generals and the scouts. Would you like a snack to hold you over until then?” Effectively buried in Anya’s chest, Clarke shakes her head. “No, thank you,” she denies. “I’m just tired. It’s odd, though; we didn’t do much besides strategize all evening. I feel like I shouldn’t be this worn out.” Ever since the waning of the Omega fever, something in Clarke’s body has felt distinctly different. Her tiredness feels like a heavier sort of exhaustion than before, yet simultaneously feels as though it could be lifted by the scratching of an as-yet unidentified itch. Above her, Anya hums again. “Perhaps not, but then again, you have had long days ever since you found yourself among us,” she reasons. “It is not unreasonable that you are feeling the effects.” Clarke shifts a little in her embrace. As tired as she is, something about being held by her Alpha leeches the weariness from her bones. As offbeat as her body feels, the confusion of it is lessened by Anya’s touch. “Probably,” she grants contemplatively. “Only I feel . . . I don’t know; off. I’m hot all the time, and hungry, but at the same time I think if I eat I might throw up. Maybe I’m getting sick again.” Something is certainly afoot. The sheer, utter relief of having gotten their feelings out into the open combined with a steadily growing level of heat in her belly leaves her with few ways of distracting herself. Apart from the all-consuming elation brought by their midday confessions — the joy of which she can only assume is normal — something in Clarke’s body feels unusually heightened. Her fierce, growing attraction towards Anya, while wildly potent, is nowhere near enough to serve as an explanation for what is currently taking place. Since the outset of the War Council, Clarke has become hyper-aware of Anya’s scent; it’s an issue that has been growing steadily for days, but in the past hour alone her newfound sensitivity has grown almost unbearable. It’s not just Anya, either; her nose is oddly sensitive in a way that’s entirely unfamiliar. Every scent, every ounce of body heat, has Clarke’s bones set on edge. She hasn’t even mentioned the persistent, almost embarrassing level of arousal. Anya, to make matters more distracting, has scarcely let Clarke leaving her sight — or her touch — since their shared moment in the pools this afternoon. It doesn’t help that her mother is watching her every move with a look in her eye that’s far too knowing for Clarke’s liking. At that detail, Anya stiffens. Clarke can’t help grumbling a little as she pulls back, but soon settles as Anya noses into her hair. She lets out a tiny sigh. It’s almost enough to distract her when Anya’s hand drops from her back to her wrist, pressing her thumb against the hot skin. The sensation of long fingers circling her wrist causes a shiver to ripple down Clarke’s spine. Well, that’s new. “Your heartbeat is faster than usual,” Anya remarks casually, dropping her wrist and returning her hand to Clarke’s back. Clarke feels a sting of disappointment at the loss of the gentle grip, and files away that information for later. When Anya’s comment registers, however, a spike of worry distracts her from the inappropriate spiral of thought. Pulling back, she tilts her head to look Anya in the eyes. “What does that mean?” she frets, searching honey eyes for recourse. Hazy memories flash through her mind of fever chills and nausea, the tiny bunk room in the Ark swimming in her vision. Somehow, though, Anya doesn’t look the slightest bit concerned; in fact, if Clarke didn’t know any better, she would say that she almost looks hopeful. “Nothing terrible,” Anya assures her, pulling her back in close. “Your scent has changed as well. If I may just . . . ” she trails off, gently brushing back Clarke’s hair to nuzzle her scent gland. Clarke shivers; then, a moment later, when Anya presses an open-mouthed kiss to the spot and allows her teeth to graze the skin, she lets out an embarrassing little mewl. The sound affects Anya so powerfully that it takes Clarke by surprise. Instantly, the Alpha’s embrace is tightening, one arm snaking around her back while her other hand slips beneath the open jacket to press over Clarke’s heart. With a low growl, she gives a gentle tug, and Clarke is forced to brace herself on the Alpha’s shoulders as Anya pulls her between her hips. Then Anya’s lips close around her pulse point, and Clarke melts against her chest with a gasp. “I thought so,” Anya murmurs against her neck, a touch of triumph in her voice. She pulls back enough to nudge her nose against Clarke’s with a small smile. “You are going into heat.” Her body still wracked with shivers from the unexpected jolt of pleasure, it takes Clarke a moment to register what she’s saying. Her mind is hazy with the sensation of Anya’s lips on her, the gentle sting of her teeth, so close to marking her, claiming her. Then the reality of Anya’s words breaks through the daze, and she blinks in shock. “I’m — but how?” is all she can manage to stammer out, pulling back to stare wide-eyed at her intended mate. “I was so sick two days ago; how have I possibly gotten strong enough — we have a war to fight tomorrow, when will it — ” “You are not there quite yet, I do not think,” Anya assures her. There is a new brightness in her features that Clarke can only attribute to joy. “Within a week, perhaps. Safety and nourishment have given you strength, strikon,” she explains when Clarke’s look of stunned confusion doesn’t abate. “After so long, it is not surprising that it has come on fast once you became strong enough to sustain it.” She is careful to keep her words neutral, but Clarke is not startled enough that she can’t read between the lines. There is hidden but unmistakeable pride in Anya’s eyes, along with a certain measure of what looks like relief, and she knows that this is all attributable to her Alpha. It is because of Anya that Clarke’s body, so long neglected, has grown strong enough to gift her the full experience of being an Omega. It is Anya who has cared for her, fed her, insisted upon including her in a world where she is treated with kindness and respect. It is Anya who awoke the Omega within her, and who then gave her shelter and companionship when the Skaikru’s neglect made her ill. Abruptly, the recognition hits her of exactly what that means. Her heat will not hit until after they’ve defeated the mountain, but when it does, it will mean the beginning of everything new. She has admitted aloud to Anya — though not in so many words — that she wants to be hers. They have not yet discussed it, have not ventured further than to admit their growing mutual attraction, but Clarke thinks there’s a fair chance that however this battle with the mountain goes, she might very well end up in Anya’s home at its conclusion. Certainly, she has no desire to return to Camp Jaha, and with their confessions hovering over them, she can’t quite imagine any other outcome. It’s the first cause of joy she has known in years. Clarke may be tough, may be a leader, but this Omega part of her is a side of her that has been buried, kept from her; long denied her. She wants to feel it at its fullest. She wants to continue to lead and heal and fight, but almost more than that, she wants to belong. She wants to give herself to an Alpha who is worthy of her, who is strong and powerful and kind. She wants to love and serve and protect, to care for; to let her body dictate her actions and do what it is meant for. She wants to give herself up to her heat, to bear pups for this fierce, gentle, wonderful Alpha. She wants to be everything that Anya has ever wanted and more. A part of her thrills to the thought of it; of this powerful Alpha taking her offered submission and giving her strength and affection in return. She feels Anya’s need deeply, senses the warrior’s terrible, aching loneliness, her longing for a mate to protect and provide for and to cherish. She wants to give her that. She wants to care for the Alpha in all of the ways she knows how and still others that she has yet to learn. She wants to feed her from her own hand when her warrior returns home, to tend to her lovingly, braid her hair and touch her face with ash before battle; to provide warmth and comfort during the night. She wants to give her pups to love and teach and train. She wants to ease the pain that loneliness has brought and show Anya that she is needed; wanted. Three months ago, a home on Earth was Clarke’s far-off dream for a distant generation of humanity. To have it within her reach, she thinks, will forever feel like a fevered and beautiful dream. “I do not think you know, Klark, how special this is.” With their noses still touching, Anya’s whisper comes against her lips. It takes everything Clarke has not to lean in and let them touch. She allows her eyes to fall closed. Anya’s hold is strong; her grip has turned possessive while retaining its gentleness. Both her hands have slipped beneath the open jacket to cradle the bow of Clarke’s ribs, more padded than they were even a few days ago. “A heat is a gift, something that brings joy. I am glad that you will have the privilege of knowing it.” Eyes closed, Clarke hums. Even in her relief and eagerness, the room is spinning. “It’s a little overwhelming,” she admits as she allows her Alpha to press their foreheads together. Anya’s grasp slides down to her hips, where Clarke knows the little weight she has gained has begun to settle and show. “I mean, you know I’ve never had one before, and my body — I don’t know what’s happening.” It’s not a lie, but it’s only part of the issue to which she is referring; what she is leaving unsaid is how all of her current instincts are screaming at her to tear off Anya’s clothes and kneel. Propriety dictates that she doesn’t, but oh, how Clarke craves it. Perhaps it’s best not to mention that part right now. “You will be hungry,” Anya affirms. The tips of her fingers just dip below the waist of Clarke’s pants to brush along sensitive skin. “You may grow irritable, especially with those who are not potential mates for you; family, mated friends. You will feel feverish when you do not sleep enough, and you will crave physical contact. Small touches at first, and then . . . more.” Clarke shudders a little with anticipation at the thought of what exactly more might entail. “Onya! Kom au. Heda laik spekt.” Recognizing Indra’s summons, Anya steps back with one last gentle nuzzle. Blinking a little in the brightness of the oil lamps with newly opened eyes, Clarke casts a glance toward the other grounder general who stands expectantly in the arched doorway leading to the village square outdoors. “Why is Heda waiting for you?” she questions. She doesn’t miss the flash of pride that crosses Anya’s expression at the realization that she has understood the Trigedasleng. “Heda wishes to converse briefly with the generals and the scouts,” Anya replies, extricating herself from the Omega with some difficulty. “Go with Okteivia; I believe Indra has asked her to help you prepare for the celebration. I will meet you there, sha?” No longer in direct physical contact with her, Anya has settled somewhat, but there’s still a spark in her eyes that’s not unlike excitement. The active display of emotion is so rare that Clarke is held spellbound. “Celebration?” she parrots. Inwardly, she feels a flash of embarrassment at her lack of eloquence. “Sha.” Anya, if anything, looks only amused. “It is Trikru tradition, a celebration made to honor our warriors and send them into battle with high spirits. Tomorrow we go to war. Tonight, we celebrate.” At the sight of the bewilderment on Clarke’s face, she actually smiles. “Go with Okteivia,” she urges again, and gives Clarke the gentlest prod in the direction of the tents. “I will see you at dinner.” As Clarke follows Octavia out of the crowd of delegates in the direction of the tents, Anya approaches Lexa to find the young Heda watching her intended mate with solemn eyes. When she clears her throat quietly to announce her presence, Lexa turns to her with a calculating expression that can almost be called a smile. “General,” she greets. “Heda.” Though she knows, logically, that such a reaction is foolish, Anya can’t stop a flare of possessiveness from rising at the sight of Lexa’s eyes on her intended mate. Even with the knowledge that her friend holds no interest in the Omega, Clarke’s impending heat has caused a sudden surge of protective jealousy. Lexa’s indulgent smile tells her that any attempts she might make at subtlety are in vain. “She is nearly in heat,” is her light comment, and Anya feels her lips raising to reflexively bare her teeth. “You have been good to her.” At that, Anya deflates, a mild sense of shame sweeping over her. Of course there is no need to defend herself with Lexa. “I am only glad that she is healthy,” she remarks easily. “She deserves it, after all.” She steps up to join Lexa where she stands, hands clasped behind her back, observing the movement in the square. Lexa nods solemnly. “If these Skaikru Omegas can truly recover with such little effort, it will be well worth it,” she muses. “Their happiness is easy to achieve, and so we must strive for it.” She offers Anya a side-eyed glance. “I have spoken to Luna. She is willing to take in any Skaikru Omegas and Betas who wish to defect. We are equipped to provide for them,” she continues as Anya’s eyes remain locked on Clarke. “The Skaikru, even those who are well-meaning, have little idea how to care for an Omega. We will take in those who defect, get them safe and teach them how to keep themselves healthy and strong. If any choose to remain with the Skaikru, we will teach their healers what they need, and their Alphas will abide by our laws.” “There are fifty-eight others,” Anya says softly. “I would be surprised if a single one of them remains among the Skaikru if given the chance to leave. Right now, none of them have heats. All they need is food and comfort, and they will have them soon enough. They deserve that.” The image flashes into her mind of Clarke two weeks ago, underfed and underslept and overwhelmed. Now, after so little time, the change is almost shocking. There is a new light in the Omega’s eyes. The dark circles are fading from beneath them, and her once-hollow cheeks are flushed with health. Already, her body has begun to fill out, her ribs less visible, her natural curves more pronounced. It is a change Anya hardly expected to see so soon. The sight causes pride to flare up in her chest; it is due to her that Clarke is so well. It is enough to allow her to hope. What Clarke offered her earlier in the day feels too good to be true. After so many years of loneliness, of believing that she was fated to spend the rest of her life alone, the prospect of a new mate is almost too wonderful for Anya to bear. Even though Clarke has explicitly stated her interest, the thought remains overwhelming. It has been less than a month, and yet Anya doesn’t know what she would do if this precious, precious gift were to be stolen from her again. She wants Clarke so badly. She wants to protect her and provide for her, and to be loved and defended in return; she wants her as her partner and lover and someone to share her life with. She wants to build a family, to see the Omega’s belly swollen with pups that they will both love and teach and nurture. She dreams of pulling Clarke close, of pressing her beautiful Omega’s body into warm furs and hearing her cry sweetly out in pleasure. Most of all, she wants someone to cherish. Lexa, too, is watching Clarke from a distance. “She will bear you strong pups,” she muses. Anya can’t help the jolt that runs through her at that. “You yearn for a family, don’t you, Fos? For a mate?” “So badly.” The whisper escapes Anya in a tight breath of air. She raises her eyes to Lexa’s and can feel that they are pleading. “For so long, Lexa. Ever since — ” she fumbles and falls quiet, fiddling with her hands for a moment as she shifts her gaze down to the ground. “I have always wanted . . . but then it was stolen from me, and I — I . . .” she trails off, the pure ache within her throat rendering her incapable of forcing the rest of the words out. “I want someone to be soft for,” she finishes in a choked voice. The grip of cool fingers beneath her chin prompts her to raise her head, and she does so to find Lexa’s brilliant green eyes boring into her own. “You are the strongest Alpha our people have known other than me.” Lexa’s words are tough but warm, radiating a kind of pride that has Anya leaning into the steady grip of her palm. “You are powerful, resilient, and a capable leader. You are my best warrior. And you are beautiful, and kind.” Her voice has lowered to a murmur, her lips inches from Anya’s face. “I myself have known pleasure at your hands and know that you are a giving and attentive lover, but more than that, you are loyal and strong and good, Anya,” she says fiercely, and her voice is low and intimate with her words. “Any Omega would be honored to be your mate.” “I did not know that I could love again.” Anya’s words are low, and they escape her lips without her permission. Something close to panic rises in her chest, but her mouth continues to form the words, almost desperately. “I did not think I ever could, but I — what I feel for her, it is beyond anything I — ” she breaks herself off there, beyond words. Lexa is watching her with something behind her eyes that looks like the grey of the morning that Anya met her, seven years old with her limbs too long and a sword in her hand. “You have freedom that I did not,” she says at last after long contemplation. “Love, for a Commander, is weakness, but for you, Anya . . . don’t let this gift pass you by. A mate to warm your bed and heart will do you more good than you know.” “Klark is not my mate,” Anya protests half-heartedly. “But she will be.” Lexa’s certainty brokers no argument. “And when the mountain has fallen, you can give her the life she ought to have. For now, though,” she adds, a twinkle of mischief in her eye, “I suggest finding Lincoln and telling him to go along with his mate. God only knows what sort of trouble she and Klark might get into — they are teenage criminals, after all.” After Anya departs with a gentle smile in her direction, Clarke’s attention is immediately redirected when Octavia comes barreling in. “Wine and a snack!” the Alpha declares, seizing her friend’s arm and steering her toward the place where the warriors’ tents are erected. “I’m under orders to feed and dress you so you’re free to dance the night away. Lincoln told me all about pre-battle parties to distract me when that Sangedakru seken tripped over his own feet this morning and knocked me in the head with his knife handle. It’s all black and blue now, see?” Inclining her head, the young warrior displays an impressive bruise blooming along her jawline. “Anyway, you have a lot to learn. From what Lincoln says, these celebrations can get a little intense.” Passing by a tent where a group of raucous young warriors can be found dipping the ends of their braids in what looks like bright yellow paint, that particular warning gives Clarke pause. “What do you mean, intense?” she questions, watching as a Beta boy, donning a mischievous grin, upends a tub of the paint on his friend’s head. Octavia’s tone remains light and evasive. “Oh, you know, nothing much. Lots of liquor, some fights; naked dancing . . .” “But it’s winter!” Clarke protests. The two of them step neatly aside as the Beta boy sprints hollering up the path, his yellow-headed companion in hot pursuit. “They’re going to dance naked when it’s so — ” she cuts herself off when she turns back to Octavia, seeing that she is being teased. “Well, maybe not naked,” Octavia grants with an eye roll that tells Clarke that she finds this lack of debauchery thoroughly disappointing. Privately, battling a suddenly hedonistic impulse, Clarke agrees. “But I guess it gets pretty sweaty. The fights are real, though — from what Lincoln says, anyway. Light a bonfire and add lots of booze and pheromones, and somebody’s bound to get hurt. Get ready for the pissing contests.” While Clarke digests that information, a group of villagers moves aside to allow them to pass. Curiously, all of them bow their heads deferentially in response to Clarke’s nod of gratitude. One, a young woman whose pheromones scream of Alpha, offers Clarke a winning smile. “They’re so hospitable,” Clarke remarks once they have passed. “I mean, I know we spent a good three weeks fighting them for our lives, but it’s actually a welcoming culture, isn’t it?” Octavia stares at her. “Jesus, Clarke, are you actually a dumb blonde?” she snorts disbelievingly as they approach the tents. “It’s not grounder culture, it’s you. They’re afraid of you.” It’s Clarke’s turn to stare. “Afraid of me?” She follows Octavia into the tent in a huff of disbelief. “Come on. This is a culture of warriors; why would they be afraid of me?” Beginning to rummage through a trunk on the floor, Octavia fixes her with a look of purely incredulous disappointment. “Well, maybe it’s more awe,” she amends, “but still. Omegas are really valuable, Clarke, and you — well, you’re everything an Alpha could want. And I’m an objective source.” Clarke wrinkles her nose. “Objective?” Octavia smirks. “All right, maybe not totally objective. But I have a mate, you know. But you — you’re a leader, and a healer. Plus you’re like, alarmingly attractive. Seriously, it’s distracting. And I’m not even into you like that.” Despite herself, Clarke lets out a snort of mirth. “Okay, so I’m an Omega,” she grants. “So what? That doesn’t make me special.” “How many grounder Omegas did you see today?” Octavia asks her in lieu of a reply. Clarke considers. In the odd shift that seems to have taken place within her body since she recovered from the Omega fever, designation scents, in particular, have seemed more potent and distracting than usual. Betas are neutral and comforting. Omegas rile her up in a way that’s not unlike a sugar high. Alphas . . . well, any Alpha other than Anya smells a little repulsive. Anya smells . . . not that. “Two,” she says after a moment of thought. “Right. Kori and Adelina. There are three more, actually, but two are sekens and one is in heat, so she’s not around right now. Omegas are rare, Clarke,” she says pointedly. “You’re incredibly valuable. That’s why the grounders treat you so well — well, that, and they don’t judge worth by whether you have a dick to stick in things.” “You don’t judge by that, either,” Clarke points out. “And you have a dick to stick in things.” “Yeah, but I didn’t until I was fifteen,” Octavia says wisely. “So I know what it’s like from both sides, don’t I? Plus, you try growing up bigoted when you’ve only ever met two people and they’re your own mother and Bellamy.” At that, Clarke can’t contain a snicker. “I’m serious!” Octavia protests. “Besides, the grounders have every right to be afraid of you, as attractive as they no doubt all think you are. Omegas are powerful, Clarke,” she elaborates when Clarke merely offers her a puzzled frown. “They’re kind of the mama bear of the designations, you know? They’re really fierce protectors, especially of their families and clans. That’s why Omega leaders and warriors are so intimidating; they have a lot of influence, and they’re also ruthless. They’ll do anything to protect their own. Like, actually anything — you know that Lincoln told me an Omega he knew once defended his entire village from a group of Reapers single-handedly? Where do you think you get the guts to keep all of us alive? You’re terrifying to them.” By now, Octavia has unearthed what appears to be a dress from the trunk and is studying the material intently. “But I’m not terrifying!” Clarke protests. “I just don’t want people I love to die!” The bundle of fabric Octavia tosses at her is accompanied by a pointed eyebrow raise. “Yeah, and you’ll do anything in your power to do it. Anya and I know that you’re actually just a little teddy bear,” she says flatly, “but these grounders don’t know that, okay? Heda sent three-hundred prime warriors to kill a group of starving, incompetent teenagers, and you annihilated them. Then you negotiated a union with their Heda — which no one has ever done, by the way; Heda tells people to join her, not the other way around — and convinced her not to kill the rest of these horrible intruders that fell out of the sky. Now you’re talking about storming into the fortress of their oldest enemy and taking your people and theirs back by force like it’s all in a day’s work just because you’ve decided that you have to. Face it, Clarke: you’re scary.” Clarke wants to protest, but in trying to catch the cloth it has landed partially over her head, and she’s currently too involved in untangling herself to be able to respond. When she emerges, Octavia breezes by on her way to the washstand, seizing her wrist as she goes. “Oh, also, they’re calling you Skaiheda,” she adds as she rights Clarke, who in being yanked has lost her balance and threatens to topple onto the water pitcher, bolt of cloth and all. At Clarke’s deeply admonishing glare, Octavia raises her hands innocently. “Don’t yell at me; I didn’t start it.” “I’m almost certain it was Callum.” It’s Lincoln, who has emerged from the tent flap with as little warning as his young mate tends to give. He shrugs off his coat; involuntarily, Clarke shivers with the gust of cold air he brings in. In all of the hubbub of the past two days, she’s noticed that she’s increasingly more sensitive to temperature. If not for Anya’s reassurances, she wouldn’t be able to help but be concerned. Her reaction to the sudden chill doesn’t go unnoticed by Lincoln. “How are you holding up, Clarke?” he asks warmly as he pulls Octavia into a hug. “War Councils typically have more breaks, but since you and Raven came up with the idea of using the army inside the mountain, everyone got a little carried away.” “All right, thank you,” Clarke replies, grateful for his steadying presence. As much as Octavia’s endless banter amuses her, the day has been weighted enough with serious topics that she’s ready for a little levity. Perhaps a boisterous celebration is exactly what is needed, after all. “I thought Heda wanted to meet with the generals and scouts?” Lincoln grins. “She did, but Anya mentioned that she’d sent you off with Octavia to get ready, and Indra suggested that I make myself useful so that, and I quote, ‘minimal property damage ensues.’” He delivers the news with an impish glance toward his mate. At first, Octavia attempts to pout, but the sound of Clarke’s chuckles cajole her into granting him a sly grin. “So uh, about this party,” Clarke jumps in when the grin threatens to transform into a smirk a tad more lecherous than she wants to witness. “Would someone mind filling me in a little more? I don’t really know what to expect.” Octavia shrugs. “I’m not the expert on them, myself,” she says offhandedly. “The first and only one I’ve been to was a bit of a disaster, to say the least.” Her tone is light, but Clarke sees a shadow pass behind her eyes. She recalls Bellamy sharing the story of his sister’s arrest, and feels a pang of sympathy. Already imprisoned, she wasn’t in attendance at the masquerade herself, but she remembers the solar flare and resulting visit from her mother. There was no flare shelter in the Sky Box; the majority of the inmates fell ill as a result. Being in solitary, she never saw Octavia being brought in, but she can’t help feeling a tiny pang of guilt. At least she, Clarke, got to live a life before being arrested; for Octavia, it was one form of imprisonment in exchange for another. “You can handle clothes, then,” Lincoln contributes. Glancing at him, Clarke sees that he is watching Octavia with a look like he knows exactly where her mind has traveled down memory lane. “I’ll bring Clarke up to date.” “Don’t leave anything out,” Octavia teases. The shadows have not quite faded from her eyes, but they’re lifting fast. Clarke foresees a long round of bantering ahead. “We don’t want her to embarrass herself in front of Anya.” At that, Clarke puffs up her chest in indignance. “I am perfectly capable of comporting myself with dignity in front of my Alpha,” she says dryly. Lincoln and Octavia exchange a significant look; too late, it dawns on Clarke what she has said. “I noticed some people aren’t, though!” she scrambles hastily when Octavia makes every move to speak. “There were a lot of Alphas in that War Council, weren’t there? Even Murphy was broadcasting, I mean, Murphy.” As she hoped, the mention of the group’s favorite scapegoat is enough to divert Octavia’s attention. “He was, wasn’t he?” she chortles. “Every time Roan spoke, he looked like he was going piss himself.” While Clarke would usually protest the vulgar visual, she finds that her sympathy isn’t particularly high. As worried as she is about Murphy, he’s still an unpleasant nuisance. Octavia is now up to her elbows in what looks like soot, only she’s gotten it wet and now resembles a half-drowned raccoon. Clarke seizes the opportunity of attention to test a theory she’s been harboring all evening. “Was the Floukru ambassador — ” “Luna,” Lincoln supplies, and Clarke restarts. “Was it just me, or was Luna making eyes at Raven for that entire council session?” Lincoln frowns thoughtfully. “If by ‘making eyes’ you mean that she was watching her quite attentively, then no, it was not just you who noticed.” Octavia’s eyes light up. “Really?” she asks excitedly. “Ooh, Clarke, that would be so cool. Luna’s great; Lincoln says she’s the leader of her clan, and that the Floukru are so friendly and welcoming that outcasts from other clans go to Luna and she’ll take them in. I think that’s what they’re planning on doing with us, actually,” she adds, almost as an afterthought. She’s now scooping the wet powder into a small bowl. Eyeing her warily, Clarke edges slightly closer to Lincoln. “What do you mean?” she queries. She’s heard similar things from Anya; that Luna is a good leader with a kind heart, one of Lexa’s oldest friends who fought with her to make Omega’s lives better in the Kongeda. It is Lincoln who answers. “Heda means to offer a place in the clans for any Skaikru Omegas and Betas who wish to defect,” he replies, moving in to control the wild movements of Octavia’s arm that threaten to upend the bowl of soot. “Luna has agreed to give them a home with the Floukru. There will be homes provided for them, and they will have a place there as long as they contribute.” Clarke considers, digesting that information as she vaguely registers her two companions grappling with the damp ash. “And we can trust her to treat them well?” she questions. It’s not that she doesn’t trust Lincoln’s judgment — he’s proven himself to be more than loyal — but the prospect of entrusting the Skaikru’s only remaining Omegas to a stranger warrants no small measure of caution. Having successfully wrestled the bowl from Octavia’s grasp, Lincoln nods assuredly. “We can.” He seems so absolutely positive of his answer that it throws Clarke’s suspicion. “How do you know?” she wants to know. Lincoln smiles. “She’s my half-sister,” he explains. “Same mother, different fathers. We didn’t live in the same house, and she left when I was pretty young, but we grew up together here. She spent enough time rescuing me from bigger Betas when we were kids — including our older brother — that I know she’ll help anyone who needs it. She doesn’t fight fair, maybe, but I’ve only met three other people willing to fight so hard for people who need them.” “I can imagine Heda and Anya are two of the three,” Octavia remarks as Clarke absorbs what she has just been told. “Who’s the third?” Lincoln shoots her a glance like she ought to know better than to ask. “Her name was Costia,” he says shortly. The sound of the name drags Clarke’s attention back. “I’ve heard that name,” she says suddenly. “I think it was when I overheard Anya and Lexa one night in the tents. Something bad happened to her, didn’t it?” Lincoln and Octavia exchange a look. “Don’t concern yourself with Costia,” Lincoln dissuades her after a moment, in which he and his mate seem to have an entire silent conversation. “And don’t bring her up around Leksa, whatever you do. It’s a sad story, but we have much happier ones to focus on tonight. It’s a celebration — right, strik gona?” Clarke is about to press, feeling as though she has missed something important, but the use of Trigedasleng arrests her focus. “Hang on,” she cuts in as Octavia throws her mate a wicked grin. “Strik — what does that word mean?” Lincoln breaks off Octavia’s eye contact with a stern look that doesn’t quite manage to look convincing. “Little,” is his response. Clarke considers that for a moment. “So strikon means . . .?” she trails off, trying her best to sound causal and unassuming. Octavia pauses with the retrieved bowl held aloft in her hand; Lincoln’s lips twitch as they share a look. “Little one,” he tells her. Clarke nods; she has been assuming as much. Still, the assertion is a helpful one to have. “And skaifaya?” That query is followed by a pause, during which Clarke tries to give off an air as though it’s merely a word whose use she has overheard someplace. The position of Octavia’s eyebrows lets her know her attempt is unsuccessful. “Anya been calling you that?” the Alpha asks airily. Eyes flickering between them curiously, Clarke nods. Lincoln’s eyes are fastened on Octavia’s when the latter answers. “Sky fire,” she says simply, giving Clarke a knowing look. “It’s a literal translation. She’s calling you a star.” Clarke nods. “That’s about what I’d figured from it,” she says offhandedly. At that, Lincoln seems to come back to himself. He pulls away from Octavia slightly and fixes Clarke with a hard look. “It’s not that simple,” he says pointedly. “The Trikru set a lot of store by the stars.” Clarke squints. “What do you mean?” she asks carefully. Again, his lip twitches, but his countenance remains serious when he replies. “They are sacred to us,” he replies solemnly. “The stars are our gods — not in your sense of a god, but more as in spirit. Keryon. Our belief is that we share a soul with those we are fated to love, and that they inhabit the stars. We cannot be whole until they are one with us. We make take others to warm our beds, and love others along the way, but those are time-fillers, space-fillers. The stars are our souls, and when one falls to Earth, we say that it is someone’s soul come to join with their body on the ground. It means that they have found the one they are to love, and that their spirits will be one.” Clarke’s mouth hangs slightly open; beside Lincoln, Octavia looks slightly smug as Lincoln adds with unwavering seriousness, “And so, little Omega, you fell from the sky. Anya is not giving you an endearing nickname, Clarke of the Sky People. She is saying you are her soul.” Clarke stares. “How am I ever supposed to act like a grounder if I’m missing critical information like that?” she protests desperately after a moment, blank of any other possible response that won’t result in a blatant hormonal display, either in the form of arousal or tears. “Well, pillow talk, for one thing,” Octavia comments, already back to rummaging through a basket in search of something. A moment later, Clarke sees her snatch up a small paintbrush with a flourish. “But honestly? You’re doing great so far. Only one thing can make you look even more like a true grounder than you already do.” “And what is that?” Clarke demands. Octavia turns around with a grin. She brandishes the ash. “Warpaint.” All around the square, the lanterns have been lighted and strung upon the branches of the trees that whisper in the dusk breeze. A bonfire roars brightly in the center of the square, throwing dancing shadows across the tree trunks and the faces of the villagers already gathered there. It is evident that during the War Council, a group of villagers took it upon themselves to prepare a banquet and set up long tables. Still others have fashioned garlands of flowers, and as the gonakru begin to filter into the square, the elder women of Tondisi crown them with festoons of goldenrod, asters, and black-eyed Susans. Emerging from the shadowed dusk, Anya pauses at the edge of where the firelight casts a wide circle of brightness across the square to take in the sight. Already, people are dancing arm-in-arm in a space cleared between the tables, all clad in their most festive dress. A loud burst of laughter rises from near the fire, where a group is already drinking merrily. Others have chosen to take plates of food and stand conversing, chattering gaily while a cluster of middle-aged Betas sets the rhythm of the gathering with drums and polished, antique stringed instruments salvaged from the Old World. It is the kind of night that sets her soul alight with joy and the frivolous lightness of the night before war. Stepping into the light, she bows her head before a grandmotherly Beta and a legion of young women who must be her grandchildren, allowing them to coo over her as the elderly woman adorns her head with asters. Nearby, she sees Lexa smirk a little at the sight of the young Betas squealing and attempting to press closer to run their hands along the muscles of her arms. With a smile, she gently shakes them off, and moves further into the ring of light. “I see age is just a number these days.” Lexa steps up beside her with a light smirk. Though she is dressed from head to toe in her finest regalia, her hair braided and wild, her head is unadorned by flowers. No one would seek the honor of laying a hand on Heda, and even if they dared, Heda’s influence goes beyond the reach of crowns. Lexa’s leadership, her guidance, her poise and strength, put her well beyond material symbols of power. “Whatever could you mean?” Anya replies loftily, keeping her gaze trained aloofly above the crowd. Lexa tsks in her throat. “Well, let’s just say that no one of any age seems able to take their eyes off you tonight.” It’s the kind of comment that Anya is well accustomed to at this point in their friendship. Anya, after all, is the one who taught Lexa everything there is to know about everything, women included. She can tolerate a few jibes and jokes at her expense in return. Still, at the memory of the teenaged Betas’ hands on her, Anya shudders slightly. “It is scarcely relevant; I care for none of them,” is her stoic reply. Lexa ought to know this by now. She knows that she is uncommonly attractive — irresistible, even; she is the second strongest Alpha of their clan, but it remains irrelevant. In the seven years since the loss of her first mate, no one has drawn her fancy. What she and Lexa had, they both know, was a mutual choice made in the name of friendship and comfort rather than attraction. “Oh?” Lexa raises her eyebrows and indicates a spot across the square with a nod. “Not even one?” Anya follows her gaze to the place where the lamplight fades into dusk across the square. Her intake of breath shudders in her throat. In the gathering dusk, with the firelight glowing on her golden skin, Clarke looks like an otherworldly being. The deep blue dress hugs generous curves, cut low to frame warm skin, flaring out just above the knee. Hardly needed in the light and warmth of the square, a jacket is slung over her arm. More than the dress, more than the light, it is the glow on flushed cheeks of laughter and a full chalice of wine accompanied by something deep and smoldering in those brilliant blue eyes that makes Anya’s breath catch in her chest, a woman caught unawares. Happiness looks good on Clarke, she sees. Across the square, Clarke’s eyes shine back at her in recognition, and Anya wonders how she must look, frozen and staring like she can never look enough. She can sense Lexa’s smirk beside her, peripherally notices Octavia whacking Lincoln on the shoulder and whispering conspiratorially at the sight of them. Vaguely, she’s aware of how much of a meet-cute moment this makes, but no matter how foolish it occurs to her she should feel, she can’t tear her eyes away. When Clarke’s eyes darken with a blaze that looks unmistakably like hunger, she knows she’s not the only one. In a dreamlike state, it seems, Anya moves across the square, unaware of the revelers around her. All she can see is Clarke, the look in her eyes that draws her in and blinds her to anything but the woman before her. She is struck dumb, shaken; when between two tables they finally meet, all that she can do is hold her stare. “See something you like?” Clarke’s voice is a low rasp made huskier by the wine she clutches in her left hand. Her scent swirls around her, heady and Omega and inviting. There is ash around her eyes, shadowy upon her eyelids, and a few delicate spikes edge in from her hairline. Up close, with the lamplight settling into the depths of her eyes and her ample cleavage on full display, she looks rather more like a creature of the night than Anya has bargained for. It seems that Clarke’s heat, far from abating in the face of war, has deepened. Theoretically, Anya is prepared for this — or at least, she has convinced herself that it’s true. She knows, logically, that Omegas at the precipice of their heats are more noticeably in tune with their instincts. They become needy and hedonistic; almost kittenish in their affection. They crave touch and comfort, and also darker desires less innocently fulfilled. Clarke will need her in the next week, need her in a way deeper and more nuanced than before. Anya thrills to the thought. It is an Omega’s instinct to seek an Alpha during their heat, and it is an Alpha’s privilege to indulge their every need. Clarke, who on Earth would have had her first heat at least three summers ago, will know that need for the first time. She will want to be held and possessed and nuzzled and doted upon, and oh, Anya longs to give. Every part of her yearns to wrap her Omega in her arms and bring her home to a place untouched by war, and to give her everything she needs. She will hold Clarke down the way Clarke wants, press her into silky furs until she cries; she will cherish every inch of soft skin and curves and golden hair. She will give and give until Clarke trembles, until the sweet little sounds she elicits grow so weary that she cannot take anymore. Then Anya will hold her close; she’ll gather her Omega into her arms and press sweet things to her lips until she sleeps at last, and her body will know rest. Each vision flashes through Anya’s mind as she holds Clarke’s gaze, and she must be blushing, or else giving some indicator of the nature of her thoughts, for Clarke’s eyes grow even darker, and her plump lips purse impishly. “If I didn’t know better, Alpha, I’d say you were distracted,” she suggests with a knowing grin. Anya swallows hard. “Perhaps that is because I see something distracting,” is the most sophisticated response she can invent without embarrassment. She’s pleasantly surprised to find that the words escape her with a roughness that comes across as more suggestive than floundering, if the new redness of Clarke’s ears is anything to go by. “Then maybe we should distract you more,” she says knowingly. “Some wine, maybe?” The small hand extended to Anya is offered with a pointed eyebrow raise. Anya allows a playful smile to grow. “Let us celebrate, strikon,” she affirms, and leads Clarke into the fray. It’s a party the likes of which Raven has never seen. Certainly, she attended a few get-togethers on the Ark and found them reasonably enjoyable. Still, such occurrences were relatively rare, and after finishing school earlier than her peers, her focus was so firmly diverted to her mechanical training that she found little time or need to socialize. Besides, the Ark parties were rather stiff and awkward, everyone so inexperienced with festivities that stomping ungainly in a sparsely decorated room was about the apex of anyone’s enjoyment. This is a horse of an entirely different color. Everywhere Raven looks, there is an air of wild and unrestrained exuberance compounded by free-flowing alcohol. Grounders flock into the square left and right, some stuffing themselves at the heavily laden tables while others choose to dance. In every direction, it seems, there is someone half-dressed in leather and beads rolling their hips with abandon. Abby and Kane, hovering near a pig roast, look moderately uncomfortable with the level of nudity on display, but no one else seems to care. The grounders appear perfectly comfortable with flaunting their bodies, so at ease that even Raven has to admit that the sight of bronzed skin reflecting firelight is hardly disagreeable. What is more, there isn’t a single person who appears not to be enjoying themselves. The ambassadors, too, are caught up in the fray. Abby and Kane, despite their awkwardness, look more lighthearted than she’s ever seen them. Even Murphy, skulking as usual at the fringes of the crowd, is sipping on something amber and bobbing his head to the beat. It’s with mixed emotions that Raven watches Clarke with the grounder general, decorated with warpaint, throwing her head back to laugh uproariously as Octavia manages to upend an entire flagon of wine. Lincoln roars with laughter as the woman called Indra shakes her head in peeved dismay. At the same time, three of the Commander’s guards that Raven recognizes from their time at Camp Jaha are attempting to corral Clarke into joining what looks like a drunken game of horseshoes. Anya is chuckling and running a hand along Clarke’s upper back, offering her a sip of something from her own chalice as Clarke deliberates. Even the Commander, still and silent off to the side, wears a less harsh expression than usual, the fire softening the fierce lines of her face into something that looks, if not happy, at least accepting of a bit of levity. All together, caught up in laughter and merriment in the bright flickers of the bonfire, they look like a joyful, close-knit, mildly inebriated family. It causes something bitter to choke the back of Raven’s throat. While a little over a week in the company of the Trikru has eased her initial impression of them as a group of bloodthirsty barbarians, Raven remains torn. Even with the realization that they treat her, Clarke, and even Murphy with dignity and respect, she cannot help keeping her distance. The Trikru have been nothing but courteous to her, and yet, watching the revelry before her unfold, she can’t help feeling as though it’s a closed circle into which she hasn’t been invited. The rapidity with which Clarke and Octavia have wormed their way into grounder culture is lost on Raven, made easier, she knows, by the presence of their mates. With someone there as significant impetus, their transition into another life is eased. She misses Finn so badly it hurts. “So you are the one they call Raven.” The woman Raven recognizes as the Floukru ambassador has stepped up beside her, appearing out of nowhere from the outer reaches of the fire’s glow. Clad in a long coat adorned with metal and buckles, she towers over Raven. She makes an imposing figure, chin held high, eyes soft but glinting in the semidarkness. Her hair is wild, russet curls in disarray. There is something rough and disheveled about her, though not at all unkempt; she is strong-boned, fierce-eyed like the eagle Raven saw one morning at the drop ship. A untamed, salty tang hangs about her in the air, something like the wind and the water and the sea Raven has never seen. She is handsome, Raven decides before her consciousness catches up with her. Intense. “You’re Luna.” She remembers the Commander introducing her at the outset of the War Council. She remembers the feeling of the woman’s heavy gaze, unrelenting. Chapped lips soften into a small smile. “Memorable, am I?” Her voice is softer than Raven expects, rough and low, but less harsh than her appearance would suggest. She says Raven’s name the way the Arkers do, without the stiff, round vowels of the grounder accent. Raven huffs. “Hardly.” It’s out before she can stop it, and when she registers it, she winces. As out of place as the grounders make her feel, the last thing she wants to do is anger an ambassador and send this peace treaty sinking to the bottom of the sea. Luna, though, merely looks amused. “Sorry,” Raven amends gruffly. “Just — know your enemy, I guess.” Luna fastens her with an unreadable stare. Nothing about it is hostile, but it causes Raven to shift her weight on her injured leg all the same. “And am I your enemy, then?” is her quiet reply. Raven shakes herself a little, a wave of resentment rising. “You sent your people to kill mine.” She can’t keep the acerbic bite out of her voice. “My people took no part in this war until now,” Luna corrects her gently. “But you have shown your brilliance in saving your people.” Turning fully to regard her, Raven stares intently. Luna gazes back with equal focus. For a moment, Raven searches her eyes; she finds nothing but frankness and a hint of admiration. A small needle of guilt pricks her conscience, and for the first time, it occurs to her the many assumptions that each side of this ceasefire has made. Perhaps it is as Clarke says; they are all just people fighting for their own. “How do you mean?” She finds that it’s impossible to keep a note of confusion from her voice. Clarke is the one people always credit with saving them, or sometimes Bellamy. Never Raven. “You built the bomb that destroyed the bridge.” Raven winces a little, but stands tall, keeping her chin tilted high. “That’s right.” She can’t help the note of steely pride in her voice, resistant to all criticism. “I did it to save my people.” It’s not quite a challenge, but it’s not quite not one, either. “You must be a brilliant woman to have engineered such a feat.” With that soft nod, Raven is completely arrested. “I — what?” Luna is regarding her with an expression of frank interest. “You were wise enough to plan ahead, to see a possibility and design an opportunity to carry it out,” she elaborates. Amber eyes are steady with earnestness. “It was why you were able to win. Most Trikru warriors are excellent at thinking on their feet, but they can only react to the moment. You saw the full picture, and you used it.” Raven shifts again, searching for something to say. “I’m an engineer,” she relents finally, and makes a conscious effort to stave anything but pride out of her tone. “Blowing stuff up is kind of my thing.” To her surprise, a grin overtakes Luna’s features, transforming the fierce expression into something bright and warm. “Your friends must be glad to have you on their team,” she acknowledges, and just like that, the bitterness returns. Raven’s eyes rove over the scene, settling on Clarke, who is letting Anya stand behind her and show her how to throw a horseshoe like a woman in one of the ridiculous rom-coms salvaged on the Ark. “I don’t think so.” Luna follows her gaze, and for a moment, they are silent, watching Callum taunt Clarke for her poorly thrown horseshoe. Anya only smirks like she’s won no matter what way the game goes. “Ah.” She hears recognition dawn in Luna’s voice as she lets her eyes settle instead on Murphy for a breath of fresh air. “She is the one who turned the boy in.” At that, Raven turns back around. She can feel the harshness choking her throat. “Clarke killed him,” she corrects sharply. “She turned him in, and then she put a knife in his heart.” Luna’s steady gaze, though she looks troubled, remains unchanged. “From what I heard, she granted him a merciful death,” she says mildly. “The Trikru way is to avenge murder with death by a thousand cuts. At her hand, he died by one.” “That doesn’t change what she did,” Raven snaps. She can feel her voice rising with dull fury. “Finn was good. He made a mistake, war was too much for him — he never knew how to handle conflict . . .” She loses traction halfway through, feeling instinctively the wrongness of defending him, but unable to stop herself. She clenches her fists, feeling her chest heave with the effort of containing the conflicted feeling that constricts like iron bands around her heart. “I see,” Luna says, and there is new knowledge in her voice. “You loved him.” Raven twitches. “Not the way I thought I did.” It’s an impulse, that response, and Raven realizes as it escapes her that it’s the first time she’s admitted it, either out loud or to herself. “Finn was my best friend; he was my family.” As she says it, it occurs to her how much more truthful that is than the version she has been retelling to herself, over and over again in the night when she lies awake staring at the ceiling of a tent. Perhaps she loved Finn like that once, years ago on the Ark, but she doesn’t even know that for certain. She loved Finn in a way that defied categorization; as though she could possibly explain what he meant to her. When the drop ship fell from the Ark, she missed him like a lover; when the light left his eyes, she missed Finn. Worst of all, she thinks Clarke did — and still does — too. She can’t even hate Clarke for what she did anymore. She knows, deep down, why it all unfolded the way it did. Maybe she doesn’t have to remember any of it beyond what she wants to. Maybe it’s enough not to remember Finn as the tortured boy torn between them, driven to murder by an obsession that would drive him mad. She knows who Finn was; she loves who Finn was. Perhaps that is enough. “I just loved him, you know?” Raven realizes that she is confiding more in this grounder, an utter stranger, than probably makes sense. “People can be meaningful to you without meaning something specific.” Steadily, Luna nods. “I understand,” she affirms. “It is what I feel for my people. I am their leader, they are my friends and family and subjects, but I love them as simply mine.” Raven blinks, then rediscovers eye contact. “You’re their leader?” she repeats, not understanding even as she does why she is invested in this particular point. “I thought only ambassadors attended the War Council?” She’s surprised that she has retained this bit of information. At the same time, she realizes that she has been trying, subconsciously or not, to reject the absorption of anything meaningful about these people, as though by keeping her distance she can reject the notion that their side has the potential to be the one that is in the right. “Usually they do,” Luna confirms. “But the Floukru are small, and don’t need much in the way of a leader. I exist as a symbol, perhaps, of peace and stability for them, but I trust that they can govern themselves while I am away. It is not my habit to foist duties off on anyone else. Anything my people need, I will do myself.” “Even if those people weren’t originally your own?” Raven may be ignoring the grounders to the best of their ability, but she isn’t oblivious. She’s overheard the conversations between Octavia and Clarke, Anya and the Commander. She’s heard what the solution for the defectors will be. Luna, for her part, doesn’t seem particularly surprised that Raven has this knowledge. “Many of the Floukru come from other lands,” she says lightly. Raven thinks she detects a note of pride in the way her shoulders straighten. “There is no reason to deny them refuge when we can give it freely. Besides, we can always use an extra hand.” It’s reasonable enough, what she’s saying, but it’s in Raven’s nature to be suspicious. “You’re not agreeing to take the defectors just because they’re Omegas?” she questions warily. It occurs to her as she says it that she can’t get a read on the woman in front of her. Her scent is tinged with many facets from which no designation clearly sticks out. The most prominent note is that of the salt water and wind, and something that smells like wood; not fire or smoke, but sandier, like what she imagines driftwood to smell like. Luna doesn’t appear phased by her bluntness. Her eyes betray a glimmer of surprise. “You think that we will give you homes only because you can breed?” She sounds shocked enough by the insinuation that Raven can’t help feeling the slightest bit guilty over her assumption. “Sorry,” she mutters, and averts her gaze. “I know it seems like a lot to assume, but . . .” “Things were different in the sky,” Luna supplies. “I understand.” There is a pause, during which Raven watches Murphy’s face contort with horror as a female Alpha attempts to lure him out to dance. She can’t help chuckling inwardly at the sight. When she turns back, she can feel in her own expression that she looks apologetic. “I’m sorry I implied that,” she offers. The weight of Luna’s gaze is heavy in her stomach. “I guess I don’t really know anything about your people.” There is another long, easy pause; Luna’s eyes rove out over the sea of revelers, lingering briefly upon the fire. “After the bombs, the first Floukru came down from up north,” she says after a moment. “They had had a city, one of the grandest in the land, and while it was destroyed, some who had lived there escaped the bombs, and moved away. The old city, as the legend goes, held a statue in the water, gifted to them by the people of a far distant land. Along with it, words were scripted in the Old Language upon its base.” “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore,” Raven quotes on a breath in realization. Luna turns upon her in the light. “Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me; I lift my lamp beside the golden door.” Luna’s eyes are bright. “The people of the water held this promise in their hearts. I hold it for them now,” is all she says, but Raven sees the glowing behind her eyes, and reads in its gathering light the thousands of other sonnets she does not say. She turns and smiles softly, and Raven feels it roll over her like an ocean wave. There was prerecorded music on the Ark, but nothing in Clarke’s life thus far has prepared her for the experience of hearing live music played on Old Earth instruments in the evening air of early autumn. Everything about tonight seems infused with a kind of magic that defies explanation. The smell of woodsmoke, the crackle of the fire; the taste of wine and fresh food on her tongue and the whisper of the night breeze — nothing is what Clarke expected of Earth when she came. The blue dress — the first brand-new item Clarke has ever worn — is light and warm against her skin. She is healthy, well-fed, and for the moment, at least, there is no immediate threat for the first time since coming to Earth. There is laughter in her ears and heat in her belly and her heart. It scarcely seems possible that a month and a half ago she was alone in her cell in space, awaiting the birthday that would mean her death, never dreaming that she might ever feel fresh air on her skin. The stars glitter above her, and glancing up, Clarke has never been so glad to being seeing them from farther away. “Klark.” Anya has materialized in front of her, clearly having escaped Callum and Jean’s aggressive debate about the rules of drunken horseshoes. She looks particularly radiant tonight, Clarke thinks. With the front of her hair swept off her face, her high cheekbones rosy with the wine they have been steadily consuming, her eyes sparkle with a genuine enjoyment that Clarke isn’t sure she has ever seen before. “Hi,” she murmurs in return. A wave of the Alpha’s scent washes over her, and she has to make a conscious effort not to swoon. With the new knowledge that her heat is creeping through her veins, keeping herself composed around Anya today feels like an impossible feat. The last few times Anya has come near her, Clarke’s knee-jerk response has been to step into the Alpha’s embrace, bury her face in her neck, and breathe in. She’s lucky that Octavia has been too drunk to notice. Rather than anticipating her move, as she has been doing, however, Anya doesn’t move in close. Instead, she hesitates a foot or so away, an odd look in her eyes. Then, as Clarke watches, she sinks slowly to her knees. The hitch in Clarke’s breath is audible as she takes in the sight of Anya down on one knee before her, her hand uplifted in offering, head slightly bowed, hooded eyes gazing up at her with a dark warmth that causes Clarke’s knees to weaken. She recalls, vaguely, the rundown that Lincoln gave her earlier in the evening about Trikru party etiquette; how Alphas will kneel before their mates to offer themselves up to dance. Even with this more innocent explanation in mind, the sight of Anya kneeling before her stirs up thoughts that are far less appropriate for a public setting. For some reason, it hits her, seeing it, that this is real. All of the excuses, the light touches, the longing looks; the weeks that have built up to this, and it’s actually real. They haven’t discussed any of it further after their brief admission earlier in the pools — and once this business with the mountain is over, it will warrant discussion — but the fact true remains regardless. Anya is going to be her mate. After eighteen years spent trapped in space and a year spent locked alone in a cell, Clarke at last has someone to whom she can entrust the fragile remnants of her heart. She may have known Anya for fewer than two months, but the fact remains that somehow, wondrously, this is the person Clarke will love for the rest of her life. Drawing a deep breath and letting the scent of her Alpha send her head spinning, Clarke takes her hand and allows herself to be pulled to where dozens have already begun to dance. Clarke has danced before, at the illicit parties in the warehouse rooms of Alpha Station. Those dances, though, were of the sort suited to their location; uncoordinated grinding and everyone’s hands doing far more wandering than their feet. She is pressed to Anya head to foot, nose to nose, breathing in her heady scent as the pheromones send a tremble through her limbs. Anya’s hold is strong, her own arms wrapped around the Alpha’s neck as they sway. So close, their skin grows hot everywhere they touch. Somehow, Clarke feels calm and simultaneously desperate, like she needs to get closer even though they are already as close as close can be. Surrendering herself to the feeling, she closes her eyes and allows herself to be swept away. “You are lovely, you know.” Anya’s murmur runs through her body like a low thrill of electricity. “Stunning, I believe is the word you use.” Eyes still closed, swaying, Clarke can’t help but smile. “And you’re too chivalrous to be true,” she mumbles into her collarbone. “My knight in shining armor.” “My armor is leather.” Clarke’s lip twitches. “Even better.” They are silent as they continue to rock, but one of Anya’s hands slides up her back, coming to rest at the nape of her neck. She leaves it there, splayed protectively across sensitive skin. A quiet sigh escapes Clarke. “This song is often played at bonding ceremonies,” Anya muses after a long moment during which Clarke simply breathes as they sway. Clarke hums against the curve of her neck. “What are they like?” On the Ark, bondings were a matter of civil ceremony. Clarke has seen movies, but she has never witnessed a true wedding. An image dances through her mind of herself in a bright dress, standing in a sunlit field with honey eyes shining back at her. Anya’s other other hand moves to cradle her lower back. “Beautiful,” she whispers back, and Clarke doesn’t know whether she’s referring to bonding ceremonies or something else. “Bondings are a joyous occasion; entire villages will gather to witness a union and dance the night away.” Clarke smiles again at the image; she feels a slight shudder run through Anya at the sensation of lips against her neck. “I hope I get to see one,” she murmurs. Anya’s hand presses more firmly into her back. In the corner where the musicians sit, a blend of final notes announces that the song is over. Coasting slowly to a halt, Anya removes her hands and steps back. Clarke opens her eyes, pouting a little at the loss of contact, confused. “Klark, Luna has offered to take in your people when the mountain falls.” The set of Anya’s brow is solemn; she looks, not for the first time today, a little hesitant, though there is seriousness mingling with the uncertainty in the tremble of her lips. When Clarke only gazes back steadily, she coughs a little to clear her throat and continues. “We will not force anyone, of course, but . . . if your Skaikru Omegas are interested, Luna would like to extend the offer to them and to any of your Betas as well to come and live in her villages. In her hands they will be safe; the Floukru will give them health and protection, and they will flourish among her people.” Clarke eyes her with a look in her eye that’s cautious, with a lingering undertone of hope. “How?” she asks. Anya lowers her voice, her eyes serious as she explains. “They will be given homes — good ones; safe and warm and comfortable, with Alphas if they so desire. They will be taught how to hunt and cook Earth foods and how to raise gardens, how to build and fight and heal. They can live as they wish to, be what they wish to. They will have the freedom to choose a mate. The clans will protect them and teach them and guide them.” Clarke watches her carefully, sensing that there is more to be said that is leaving her nervous and uncertain. “And I?” she asks casually. Anya’s eyes burn bright. “If it would suit you . . . you could come home with me.” At the suggestion, Clarke shifts on her feet to pull herself out of the burn of heat the words have sent through her. “Not with me, not if you do not wish it!” Anya corrects hurriedly, misinterpreting the movement as discomfort. “Of course, if you would rather go with the others to live with Luna’s people, you would be very happy there! I only meant — Nyko lives in Polis, but Tondisi and the surrounding villages have no healer; you would be highly valued as a member of the community. And there is space, I have — lots of space, I — ” “Where is your village?” Clarke interrupts her smoothly. Anya blinks herself out of her fumbling explanation and looks to her in surprise. “Close by,” she says. “Merely a half-hour’s swift trot to the west.” Clarke hesitates purposefully. “Are there mountains near your village?” she asks. Anya nods. “There are. They are tall and in winter they are capped with snow.” “Are there trees?” “There are ever so many.” “Is there a river that I can learn to not drown and evade water snakes in?” Clarke’s eyes sparkle with mischief, and Anya allows a glimmer of a laugh. “Of course, strikon.” She’s chuckling a little now, and the sight and sound of it is so rare and precious that Clarke cannot help but lean back in. She steps closer until their bodies brush; reaching out, she catches Anya’s wrist and runs her thumb across the backs of scarred knuckles. When she looks up, Anya’s eyes are burning dark, and the heat in her belly is enough to tell her that they match her own. “And will you be there?” She adds it in a lower murmur, every ounce of teasing gone as she traces the worn lines of Anya’s hands. They are warm in her own. The contact feels somehow familiar, and Clarke knows that if she were to close her eyes, she would know them just as well. “I will,” Anya affirms. Clarke feels the heat in her own gaze burn straight into her heart, and then further down. “Then I will have everything I could ever need,” she answers lowly, and allows the gravity between them to assert its pull. There is no telling what time it is when the festivities draw to an end. The grounders, Clarke has noticed, have quite a different sense of time from the regimented, military hours of the Ark. They measure time by shadows and sunlight and the feel of the air. Regardless, it is well past the night’s darkest hour when the first of the revelers begin to straggle off to bed. When Clarke and Anya follow soon after, Clarke is hardly able to keep her eyes open, but they are far from the last to retire. She catches a glimpse of Octavia and Lincoln among a group engaged an energetic sort of line dance as Anya leads her stumbling feet out of the square, and spots Callum throwing back a tankard of moonshine like it’s water. Still grinning with the effects of kisses and wine, too tired to even see what’s in front of her as they enter the tent, Clarke collapses into bed beside Anya and is asleep before her head hits the pillow. It seems only minutes later that they are awakened by shouting outside. “Anya, Clarke, CLARKE! Get up! Hurry!” With a groan, Clarke rolls over and squints open her eyes. Beside her, Anya stirs. A frantic rustling, and in a moment, Octavia is standing over them, face pale and eyes wide and frightened. “Bellamy just called me on the radio — Mount Weather’s launched a missile, and it's headed this way. We have four minutes to get everyone out of this village before it's a hole in the ground.”
Ren had a soulmate. Or a whore-was there much difference? He didn’t know. Didn’t care, really. But it was a lovely piece of information, wasn’t it? And she was human. How utterly degrading. It wouldn’t change his plans by much. But having another thing to take from Ren would certainly sweeten the deal. It had been difficult, initially, to keep Ren in his sights-the black dragon had fled the mountain fortress like the spirits of Chaos were after him. He had had to sacrifice discretion for speed, but Ren had not looked back once. What an utter fool. Just another reason why he was not worthy. He had thought he must give up the chase once Ren turned and entered his warded apartments, but his own cunning had proven superior once again. On a hunch, he had taken the nearest portal to the human realm, and confirmed with the drakan guard that the Crown Prince had rather abruptly exited the embassy’s portal just a few minutes before. He took such pleasure in his own intellect. After that it had merely been a game of cat and mouse, following Ren’s scent trail without getting close enough to be scented himself. And my, what a scene he had come upon! Dead humans lying in an alley, and the high and mighty Crown Prince on his knees with a human girl in his arms like some lovesick whelp. It made him sick to his stomach, quite honestly. But seeing Ren debase himself with these inferior life forms only reinforced the necessity of his schemes. For this was no king, no conqueror of worlds. This was a blunt instrument who lacked brains and a backbone. That was the problem with mages, he’d always thought; they relied too much on their magic and not enough on their own intelligence and industry. He’d thought he’d been made at one point, but the wind had shifted just enough to carry his scent away and avoid discovery. And now he knew where Ren’s precious...whatever she was, lived. Again...a lovely bit of information. Very useful. Snoke, of course, would be incensed when he informed him that he had lost Ren at the portals. But he would kneel and beg his Lord’s forgiveness, and assure him that he wouldn’t fail next time. Yes, he’d have quite a story for Lord Snoke next time. Rey had no idea what she’d done to deserve such good friends. And she knew that’s what they really were, now. Friends. Not staff, or housemates, or Kylo Ren’s employees. Friends, who she cared for and trusted and who, she now understood, loved her in return. They all sat in the living room, munching on the “discussion cookies” Rose had insisted on baking for the occasion. She had apologized for worrying them, and for keeping her departure a secret. They had hugged her and said they understood, but she could tell they were still slightly hurt that she hadn’t trusted them to take her side. And so she told them her whole story- her abandonment by her parents as a young child, her struggle to survive as a scavenger in the Jakku desert, and her desperate decision to move to Hanna City. With flushed cheeks and fumbling words, she told them of how a formidable-looking draka had stomped into Plutt stables a few months ago, asking nosy questions about her family and then storming away with a swish of his black cloak and no explanations. With a pointed look in his direction, she recounted how she’d firmly turned Poe down when he first approached her with his ridiculous request that she go with him. He threw his hands up in the air. “I wanted you to turn me down!” he insisted with a chuckle. Her voice wavered a bit as she told them about the fathiers, and losing her job, and the unlikely coincidence of Kylo showing up right then to ask her to move to a safe house. Rose and Jannah squealed and ‘awwwww’d at all the appropriate moments; how he seemed concerned when he saw her crying, and when he offered her his handkerchief to wipe her tears. She had them on the edge of their seats when she described the first time they had seen and talked to each other through a bond that was theoretically impossible. She’d then answered numerous questions about what he looked like as a dragon-the size of his fangs, his wingspan, whether he had two legs or four, because according to Finn the former is not a dragon but technically a wyvern. There had been bursts of outrage and thrown pillows when she recounted Kylo’s cruel words about her being dead weight; it had produced a rush of warmth at the reminder that she actually had people on her side now. They’d been horrified that she had almost been kidnapped by slavers-Finn and Jannah had cheered and clapped her on the shoulder when she’d described how she’d fought off them with her staff. If they were annoyed that they hadn't been there to protect her because she had intentionally tried to run away when they weren't home, well...they did a mostly good job of hiding it. They all gasped when Kylo had mysteriously appeared right as her vision was going dark from the hands wrapped around her throat. Their eyebrows rose-Poe’s nearly leaving his forehead entirely-when she told them he’d embraced her, and apologized for the hurtful things he’d said. There was begrudging approval at the fact that he’d helped her find BB, and hadn’t even lost his temper when the fluffy rascal had chewed on his expensive boot. Poe had howled at that last bit until tears leaked from his eyes. He wouldn’t explain why it was so funny, just waved with his hand for her to continue while trying to catch his breath. She kept a few details to herself-they didn’t need to know how his eyes changed color with the light and his mood, from hazel to brown to black. Or that she was becoming increasingly intrigued by his bold, slightly uneven nose, and thought she might have seen a glimpse of very large ears. And she would go to her grave before she revealed the scandalous dreams that still occasionally plagued her, or that she was dying to run her fingers through his glossy dark hair. She’d described him as large and forbidding, but left out the distracting width of his chest and shoulders. And the size of his hands... No...they definitely didn’t need to hear her thoughts on any of that. “So what are you going to do now?” inquired Jannah when her story ended with Kylo returning her home the previous night. “Are you still determined to get away from him?” She imagined packing all her stuff again, saying goodbye for a second time to her friends, the house, her garden. She thought about starting over in Canto Bight, the only friendly faces around her those of the fathiers and BB. She imagined never seeing his face again. “Assuming I even can get away from him...honestly, I...have no idea,” she admitted, relieved to have finally said it out loud. Her admission hadn’t altered the warm, supportive looks on the faces, and she discovered another nice thing about having friends-she could be vulnerable and not be met with scorn or apathy. Her problems had always been hers alone to bear, but as she looked at the lovely people sitting around her, she hoped that maybe that was no longer the case. “I only agreed to be here because I literally had nowhere else to go. And then I started to feel comfortable here, and felt guilty for feeling comfortable because I was doing exactly what he wanted me to do.” A slight frown furrowed her eyebrows. “And doing what he wanted seemed wrong, even if it meant I was safe and fed and looked after.” And happy, she realized, looking down where BB slept with his head in her lap. Her complicated relationship with Kylo Ren aside, she’d found a measure of true happiness here. Her life wasn’t perfect by any means, but it possessed a serenity that for once didn’t feel forced. “I was so angry and hurt after the things Kylo said, my first instinct was to protect myself, leave before he could get rid of me. And honestly...it’s still not something I’ve totally taken off the table. He’s unpredictable and angry and rude, and I can’t fathom how a dragon goddess thinks we’re perfect for each other, or why she thinks I’ll just go along with it.” “And he turns into a dragon, which I mark as a point against,” Finn added. “And he turns into a dragon,” she agreed. “But last night…” She paused, struggling to put words to the fragile new feeling that was blossoming inside of her. Rose finished for her. “Last night he swooped in like a fairy tale prince and kicked ass for you. I saw the way he looked at you last night-he’s already half in love with you.” Rey huffed out a laugh. “Are you sure it wasn’t deep-seated annoyance that you saw?” “I’m positive,” Rose insisted with a confident nod. “I’m not saying you should marry the guy, but the stars could have fallen from the sky and he still wouldn’t have taken his eyes off you.” A tiny, fluttering thrill ran through her stomach. It felt frighteningly close to hope. She shouldn’t care. He was still mostly awful. And yet. “Er...well. If you say so,” she demurred. But Rose was right. Having come so close to being taken by slavers, coming so close to dying, and then having him show up like he did-though more like an avenging demon than a fairy tale prince, in her opinion-which reminded her, she really needed to ask how, precisely, he had known where she was and that she needed help. If she was going to try and disappear again, she needed to know how to avoid setting off whatever unnatural dragon sensor he had that had alerted and guided him to her in the alley. But the point was...something had changed. Like..she searched for the words, and suddenly they were there, and she knew them to be true, even if she didn’t know what they meant. Like there was something that had always been inside of her, and now it was awake. She looked up to find everyone staring at her. Oh, kriff...she’d said that last bit out loud. She shook her head and laughed awkwardly. “Well. What’s really important is that being in this mess led me to you all. I’m grateful to Kylo’s goddess for that, at least.” Her face fell slightly. “But I can’t imagine staying here forever, living off his charity as the soul mate he doesn’t know what to do with.” She forced a lighthearted grin, but even to her own ears she sounded decidedly glum. As if sensing her discouraged mood, BB’s eyes blinked open briefly and he gave her hand a warm, wet lick. Poe had been quiet most of the evening, but now he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and fixing her with a serious stare. “If you could do whatever you wanted, what would you do?” Was he the first person who had ever asked her that? She had never even asked herself that- it was just...never something she’d had the luxury to consider. “My whole life before this was just surviving from day to day,” she explained. “Maybe I convinced myself that that was all there was. And now I can take up gardening or learn the quarterstaff." She looked down at BB, giving him a mock glare. "Or teach a puppy some manners." He continued to snore softly, unconcerned. She sighed. "But even though I like those things, it doesn’t necessarily feel like there’s purpose behind them. That's what living in Jakku was good for-just staying alive was a pretty compelling purpose. There wasn't time or energy to think far beyond that." “I knew my place in Jakku. I knew my place at Plutt's Stables. But this" she waved her hand to indicate the comfortably appointed living room, "...I don’t know where my place is in all this. I know I don’t want to be defined by my connection to Kylo. I am more than just a bloody soul mate!" She looked down at her frayed cuticles. "But..." she began, in almost a whisper, "what if there's also the chance, the outrageously unlikely chance mind you, that...I..that he and I..." she swallowed, her throat closing around the words, the ridiculous words, because obviously there was no chance that they- "That you could be happy together?" finished Rose gently, giving her an understanding smile. "It's okay to want that for yourself. I mean, don't force yourself to want it just because he says your his soul mate and you think you have to. But you can let yourself want it if you think you might feel something for him. Because you deserve all the happiness and love in the world." Rey felt tears prick the corners of eyes. She blinked them away quickly, but gave Rose a shaky smile of gratitude. "Thanks, Rose." Finn came back from the kitchen, a refilled plate of the cookies Rose had made in one hand, and plopped down on the sofa next to her. “Whatever you decide, we’ll always be here for you, Rey. Even if we’re not paid to be.” He slung an arm over her shoulders and pulled her in for a side hug. She leaned into it, giggling when he tried to stuff a cookie in her mouth. “Finn’s right-we’re family, if you’ll have us," Jannah said. “And we’ll support you no matter what. If you want to let this guy woo you and move you into his dragon castle, then we’ll come visit. And if you want to kick him in the nutsack and run far, far, away, we’ll hold him down to give you a head start.” Laughter bubbled out of her. “Thanks. I’ll let you know what I decide.” She’d asked Poe to stay behind. He’d sat mostly silent through her long story, a thoughtful but indiscernible expression on his face. The other three had wandered off to their own activities, after hugs and multiple reassurances that she wouldn’t disappear into the night. She refilled their drinks-Corellian wine for him, herbal tea for her-and then sat across from him. “So….,” she trailed. Gods, she’d been so determined to have this conversation with him; why couldn’t she get the bloody words out? He chuckled. “I’m guessing you didn’t ask me to stay for a friendly game of Dejarik.” She blushed and looked down, worrying a hangnail on her left thumb. “Er....no. I didn’t.” “Well, go on then,” he drawled, with an encouraging wink. She drew in a fortifying breath. “Before I make any major decisions about whether to stay or go, I...I want to know more about him. And you know him best,” she said, finally looking up from her nails. Poe raised an eyebrow. “Or better than I do, at least,” she rushed to add. A slight grin tipped up one corner of his mouth. “Oh? You think he was always showing up to rescue me and holding me in his arms after? It sounds like you've seen a side of him that no one has.” She felt the heat of a blush creep up her cheeks. Maybe she should have left that part out. “It’s not the same.” “What isn’t?” She stood and began pacing the room, suddenly overflowing with restless energy. “Sure, we’ve shared these random, intense moments, but I don’t really know him, or anything about him. I don’t know what his interests are, what his family is like. I barely know anything about the Draka in general, or how their soul mate bond works, or how their so-called Goddess decides two people should be together.” She threw her arms out in frustration. “I have a soul mate and I have no idea what that really means!” “Hasn’t he explained any of it to you?” Poe asked. “Barely anything,” she growled, sinking back into the chair. “We’re not great at communicating.” Her traitorous brain decided to remind her that they communicated in her dreams just fine. She dug her fingernails into the palm of her hands to drive away the explicit images now dancing through her brain. “There’s so much I want to know, need to know, if I’m going to…" “Try and make this work?” She held up one hand. “I’m not even sure I want this to work. But...it should be an informed decision, don’t you think?” Poe turned his eyes heavenward, as though begging for divine patience. “Love is rarely an informed decision, Rey.” He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I can fill you in on basic Drakan history and my experience with their culture, and what Kylo was like as a child. But as for his interests and motivations, and what he’s really been up to the last 18 years...that can only come from him, Rey.” “Fair enough,” she nodded. "And I am definitely leaving the...particulars...of the soul mate bond to him to explain," he said firmly. His mouth twitched, trying not to grin. She rolled her eyes. "That bad, huh?" He let the grin spread across his face. "I've heard some things. But it's probably different for a Draka with a human mate. You are the first, you know. So maybe you get to make new rules." She didn't mind the sound of that. Poe briefly explained he had come to spend his adolescence in the Drakan realm; his father had been volunteered to take the post of ambassador to the Drakan realm when he was 8. His mother had recently died, and in his grief his father leapt at the chance to flee the family home and all the memories of his beloved wife. Poe and the young prince had been tutored together, taken their meals together, and generally forced into most extracurricular activites together. “I think they hoped we’d be best friends, learn from each other and foster tolerance, forge alliances for the next generation, and all that diplomatic nonsense,” Poe explained. “But it didn’t work. Kylo acted like being forced to endure my presence was a punishment.” Mm. She rather knew how that felt. But for an 8 year old boy, grieving the loss of his mother while being thrust into a new, hostile culture? “Poe...I’m so sorry. That sounds like a very unpleasant childhood.” He grinned but dipped his head in acknowledgement of her sympathy. “Oh, it wasn’t that bad. He could be a pompous little ass and had a terrible temper if you knew how to push his buttons, but he wasn’t cruel. And my personality was just as charming back then, so I made lots of other friends when he wasn’t around.” He relaxed back into his chair and drained the rest of his wine. “And his parents were a decent sort. The Queen was determined to improve Drakan-human relations, despite the natural dislike the Draka have for any species they consider beneath them...which is basically everyone,” he explained with an eye roll. “She always treated my father with respect, and was kind to me whenever I encountered her. And if the Consort felt any particular way about humans, he didn’t let on. I rarely saw him, but when I did he was always civil-in a roguish sort of way.” He stood and went to the sideboard to refill his wine, bringing her a glass as well. She gratefully accepted. “But Kylo made it very clear he hated my human guts,” he said, taking his seat once more. She took a sip of her wine-she’d never really cared for it before, but had discovered that with a dragon prince’s money came much tastier alcohol. “If his parents were so open minded, why was he still prejudiced towards you?” Poe chuckled awkwardly and rubbed the back of his neck.. “Ah...yeah. About that. Having recently lost my mother, I might have subconsciously sought out the attention and affection of the Queen. I was an incurable flirt, and enjoyed the challenge of breaking through that steely Drakan exterior.” Rey put her hand on her chest in mock surprise. “You? An incurable flirt?” A confident, roguish grin lit up his handsome face. “Believe it, love. I have oozed charm since the day I was born.” The grin slid off his face as he continued. “Anyway, I told a joke one day in her presence, within the first few months of being there. Some dumb joke I can’t even remember now, but the Queen laughed at it. Really laughed. I was pretty damn pleased with myself. And then I looked over at B- at Kylo to see if he was laughing too. But he wasn’t. He was glaring at me, shaking with more rage than an 8 year old should have.” His gaze strayed to the floor, seemingly lost in the past. “It wasn’t until much later that I figured it out. He didn’t hate me for being human, at least not then. He hated me for making her laugh.” He looked up at her then, an old sadness tightening his dark eyes. “You have to understand-the Queen and the Consort were good, decent rulers, but…” and here he seemed to choose his words carefully, “I don’t know that they were able to give Kylo the attention he needed. His mother had a realm to rule, and his father wasn’t around much. Han hated the formality of court life, and the careful dance of politics. He was more than happy to leave that to the Queen. He spent a lot of time in his dragon form; he loved flying.” “My father was busy too, but he was loving and affectionate. With my mother gone, we were all each other had. I always knew I was his first priority.” He paused again. “I don’t think that Kylo ever knew the same. Even though I know his parents loved him, I think he still felt…” Poe trailed off. A sharp pang of sympathy sliced through her. “Unwanted,” she finished in a choked whisper. He nodded solemnly. “Other than when we were forced to be together, he was alone. Always alone. The Draka don’t have many children so there weren’t many other kids his age other than me. He’d have minders with him but they rarely interacted with him, just stood quietly in the background making sure he stayed out of trouble. And we had tutors-one of whom was his uncle- but they were trying to train a future king, not be a friend to a lonely boy.” Her heart broke a tiny bit, imaging a lonely dark haired little boy with forest brown eyes. A defensive side of her wanted to scoff, because at least he’d had parents, and a significantly easier childhood than she had had. But she could easily guess that even a full belly and a soft bed in a palace couldn’t erase the deep heartache of not getting the affection he needed. She vividly remembered her own childhood, the cold nights when she’d curl into a ball and shiver through night, skinny arms wrapped around protruding ribs. Back then she still believed that her parents would return to her. She’d imagine snuggling into a warm embrace, that would pull her in tight and not let her go until the sun returned to share its heat once more. “He tried to put up a cold front, and gods, he really succeeded sometimes. I can’t tell you how many times I wanted to punch his royal lights out. He was an insufferable little bastard most of the time.” Rey could imagine. “But I would watch him sometimes, try to figure him out, why he seemed so unhappy. When his parents were around...he’d have this look in his eye, when he thought no one was looking. He would stare at them, like..like a hungry dog, waiting for scraps to fall off the table.” Rey bit her lip, tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. Damn it all-she'd forgotten that feeling. She couldn't remember distinct memories, but she remembered feeling so hungry-for food, for attention, for any of shred affection. She wanted to wrap that boy up her arms and tell him it wasn't his fault. Maybe the man needed to hear it too. “It helped me see through the frosty wall he always had around him. Inside, I think he was really hurting, and no one looked close enough to see it. And then he transitioned for the first time, and a bad situation became worse.” “What do you mean?” “Most Draka take their dragon form for the first time sometime during puberty. I didn’t see it happen, but the whispers began immediately. They were afraid that he would be like his grandfather.” He must have seen the confusion on her face. “Have you not heard of King Vader?” Rey shrugged. “I grew up in the desert. The only time I heard anything about the Draka were wild tales on my trips to Niima Outpost.” “Well Vader was a bit of a tyrant. He abolished the Drakan parliament and ruled as a dictator. He killed any who questioned him or got in his way.” Poe grimaced. “It’s even rumored he was behind the death of his wife, Queen Padme.” "Bloody hell," Rey murmured. Poe nodded in agreement. “He had particularly nasty plans for humans-it was his idea to use human prisoners to work the mines on Eadu, and they were treated a lot worse under his rule than they are now under Leia’s. Vader would have enslaved us all if he could.” "What happened to him?" she asked. "When his madness reached a peak and the Drakans were on the brink of civil war, his firstborn son and heir, Kylo's Uncle Luke, challenged him to a duel. The fight lasted for days, and it's said their duel leveled a quarter of the realm. After five days and nights Luke returned, and Vader didn't. He never revealed what really happened. But Luke refused to rule-he abdicated the throne and it went to Leia." For the first time she wondered if maybe having no parents was better than tyrannical grandfathers, emotionally unavailable queens and fathers who preferred flying to raising their sons. But only slightly better. “What does that have to do with Kylo?” “Apparently, their dragon forms were very similar, almost identical. Because he was already moody and prone to outbursts, people were easily convinced that he could be like his grandfather in other, less savory aspects.” A tiny curl of indignation flared inside her. It wasn’t like the similarity was his fault, was it? “What about his parents? Didn’t they defend him?” She knew the answer just looking at Poe’s face, and the curl turned into a burn. “The Queen wouldn’t allow any overt comments,” he insisted quickly, “but the strain in his relationship with them became obviously worse. His Uncle Luke was our tutor at the time, and he left the capitol as soon as he saw Kylo’s dragon. I think seeing it brought back the horrible memories.” “My father’s term as ambassador ended soon after that, and I didn’t see Kylo for many years. But my father kept tabs on the Drakan realm, and told me things. Kylo became very close with his next tutor, and when he was about 20 he disappeared from the capitol with Snoke.” He hesitated. “Whatever he’s been up to, Rey...I don’t think it’s been good." She fell quiet, sorting through the tumultuous emotions that had surfaced while listening to Poe's story. She still carried hurt and anger at the way Kylo had treated her. But she felt parts of her shifting and reshaping, softening in the knowledge of their shared, bitter kinship. For so long she had wondered what was wrong with her, why her parents couldn’t love her enough to stay. Had she cried too much? Was she not a pretty enough child? Had they wanted a boy? What had she done to drive them away? Distance and maturity had lessened the frequency of those questions over the years. She was able to remember a few fragmented memories from before they left-her parents stumbling home from Niima Outpost, their bellies full from the drink they had bought with the money meant for food. Which implied that she had been left alone for hours in their squat little hovel, built from scavenged parts that weren’t worth selling, while her parents drank away the day's earnings. They were drunks. Rational thought reassured her that this was not her fault. But still the doubt snuck in, all these years later, that maybe if she’d been better, they would have had the motivation to stay sober and be decent parents. Perhaps Kylo had wondered something similar-why couldn’t his parents spend more time with him? Why did he always come last on their list of priorities? What could he have done differently to make himself more loveable? She’d been abandoned; he’d been neglected. It had left her with broken, battered edges, shoved down and covered up by positivity and determination-what had it done to him? Had it turned him into a walled fortress of a man that kept everyone at a distance, even the woman his deity believed was perfect for him? She thought back to what Rose had said earlier, that she deserved to be happy and loved. She knew she was smart, capable, and strong, with enough stubbornness and optimism to stand on her own two feet. She didn’t need anyone; she’d more than proved that in her 20 years of life. She could be happy alone, and the love of friends and BB was enough. But for a brief moment she imagined a different scenario-one full of large hands intertwined with hers and warm arms wrapped around her on cold nights. She didn’t need that second future. But maybe she was allowed to want it. And that was...refreshingly freeing. She had one more thing she needed to know, if he’d answer. “Poe?” “Yeah?” he replied softly. Maybe he already knew what she was going to ask. “If he’s always been so terrible to you, why are you helping him with this? With me?” "Because I'm a sappy romantic, of course." He smiled faintly, but the sadness still lingered. “I’ve never known Kylo to ask anyone for help, but he came to me. I’ve tried to be a friend to him in the small ways I can.” Her heart clenched a little bit. “You have been a good friend to him, Poe. To us both. I hope you know that.” Poe smiled. “Thanks. When I wasn't wanting to beat the tar out of him, I always hoped he would find some kind of happiness or peace in his life. When I learned he had a human soul mate, I knew she had to be an extremely special woman.” “Or just as deeply emotionally damaged as he is,” she countered sardonically. Poe frowned, and moved from his chair to join her on the couch. He reached out to grip one of her hands in his warm grasp. “I don’t believe that’s true, Rey. You’ve been handed so many bad deals by life, but it hasn’t crushed you. You haven't let it steal your kindness, or your optimism, or your compassion. You have so much inner strength. He absolutely does not deserve you, but you’re exactly what he needs.” She raised an eyebrow critically. “And you think he is what I need?” Poe smirked and shook his finger. “Nuh uh. I'm not dumb or drunk enough to answer that. Only you can decide what you need." "That being said," he continued, one index finger raised in the air, "I know being Kylo’s soul mate comes with a lot of risk, and he isn’t the easiest person to love. But I think, I really do, that he possesses a deep capacity to love and devote himself to someone. If you did decide to give him a chance-and he's smart enough to not blow his chance with you-I don’t think there’s anything in the world he wouldn’t do to make you happy.” In the middle of the night Kylo’s eyes flew open. He didn't know what had woken him. He was lying in bed on his side, arms wrapped around his middle-his room was eerily devoid of sound, lacking the ever present patter of rain and low rumble of thunder. A soft inhale broke the silence. Oh.
Admittedly, perhaps Victor should have paid more attention to how Yuuri was doing. Perhaps he had been a bit distracted after Yuuri's excellent performance of Eros the day before and the memory of the frantic, hurried handjobs they had shared in a bathroom stall right after. The pride of Yuuri's first place finish after the short program and the burning heat that sat right under Victor‘s skin whenever he watched Yuuri perform Eros had consumed any thought other than Yuuri, his body, his lips, his hands. And Yuuri had seemed just as eager when they had taken each other in hand, their clothes hastily shoved aside and Yuuri's other hand clamped over Victor‘s mouth to muffle the sounds he couldn't help but spill into the space between them. That Yuuri had gone quiet afterwards, on their way back to the hotel, and had gone to bed early after a quick shower, had been to Victor only a sign of his exhaustion after the day‘s excitement. He‘d silently commended it, even, that Yuuri made sure to get a lot of rest before his free skate performance the next day. This—all this between them was still so new, still so unknown. Especially the physical side of things was only just budding. They were still learning each other‘s habits and preferences, each other‘s bodies and how to read one another. They had not established a routine yet, barely as coach and student, not to mention as... whatever it was that they were beyond that, so Victor had not yet learned to see the signs of something being wrong. And perhaps Victor had thought more about the romantic gesture than the practicality when he had snuck out of the room early in the morning to get some fresh coffee and tea for both of them, leaving a note for Yuuri to meet him at the rink. But he didn’t realise any of this until Yuuri was standing before him at the rink, shaking and unsteady, dark circles etched under his eyes, hands restless as they fidgeted with his jacket, his bag, the tea that Victor had brought him. Victor knew that Yuuri tended to be nervous before a performance, but this was something else entirely. He did not like the panicked look in Yuuri's eyes as they flitted around the arena. "Yuuri", Victor sighed, "Did you sleep at all?" Yuuri jolted as if he had not expected being spoken to, and turned his wide-eyes gaze on Victor. "I did!", he said, his voice a little too high for it to be believable, "I slept! A little, anyway." Shaking his head, Victor stepped forward and took Yuuri gently by the arm, who once again flinched at the contact. What a difference this was to the confident man who had smirked at the judges and taken Victor apart in a bathroom stall the day before. "Come on, Yuuri, let‘s go back to the hotel", Victor said gently, leading him away from the rink. Practice time be damned, if Yuuri got on the ice like this, he would only hurt himself. Yuuri looked at him a little confused and a little conflicted, but it appeared he was too exhausted to argue, for he let himself be led easily out of the arena and the short distance back to their hotel. Thankfully all the journalists were currently occupied with the beginning practice sessions and so they did not encounter any obstacles. It wasn't until the elevator doors had closed behind them that Victor spoke again beyond a few practicalities. He turned until he was facing Yuuri, one hand still gently resting on his arm, the other brushing his messy hair out of his eyes. "Are you okay, Yuuri?", he asked, "How come you didn't sleep?" "Ah, I just.... Well, I...", Yuuri interrupted himself and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "It‘s nothing, I’m okay, really. Just nervous." "There’s no need to be. You did wonderfully yesterday. Come on." Victor pulled Yuuri along with him as the elevator doors opened, dragging him up to the door which he then unlocked. He herded Yuuri aside, taking his bag and his cup of tea, to set them to the side by the closet and on the small side table respectively, while they both slipped out of their shoes. "Now, get some rest, Yuuri. You can sleep right until the event tonight. Don‘t worry, I‘ll be right here." He looked at Yuuri expectantly, but Yuuri didn't move, just stared at Victor and at his bed in turn, hesitant. "Come on, Yuuri", Victor said, voice low, stepping closer again, "don‘t worry, I‘ll wake you up in time before we need to get back. Just rest, gather your strength." Yuuri slowly shook his head, eyes fixed now on the sheets of his bed as if there was some horror lurking underneath them. "I don‘t—", he started, swallowing, "I don‘t think I could sleep now, Victor. Really, it‘s fine, I‘ll just—" He started to turn away but Victor stopped him, grabbing him gently by the shoulder. "Nonsense", he said, "it‘s clear that you’re dead tired, why wouldn't you be able to sleep? Come here." And without any ado he pulled down the zipper of Yuuri's training jacket, slipping it off his shoulders, before tugging his shirt over his head. There was nothing sensual about his actions, just a perfunctory undressing to make Yuuri more comfortable, but still Yuuri squirmed and shivered under his touch. "Really, Victor, I don‘t—", he tried to interject again, but his protest was feeble, "I just...", he sighed, "I‘ll just keep thinking of the competition tonight, I won‘t be able to relax." "Hmm...", Victor hesitated, his fingers skirting around the waistband of Yuuri's pants, the skin of his stomach and hips warm against Victor‘s cool fingertips. "Then I‘ll just have to take your mind off things and help you relax, won‘t I?" "Ah... I...", Yuuri's eyes widened and colour rushed into his face, but as Victor pulled him closer until their bodies were flush against each other, he didn't look like he was about to protest. Victor kissed him, soft and slow, fingers tracing the firm, lean muscle of Yuuri's stomach, and he felt some of Yuuri's tension draining from his posture as he relaxed into the kiss. Victor let his hands wander further, around Yuuri's hips, up and down his back and finally caressing over the curve of his ass. "Victor", Yuuri huffed as he broke the kiss, a doubtful expression on his face as he looked at Victor through the hair that fell into his eyes. "I‘m really not sure I should be exerting myself any more right now. Shouldn't I save my energy?" Victor grinned. "But how else am I going to get you to relax? Besides, I‘m going to do all the work." He winked and grinned as it drove more colour into Yuuri's face, but the heat in Yuuri's eyes was also unmistakable. Victor hooked his fingers into the waistband of his pants and, after Yuuri nodded, pulled them down, allowing Yuuri to step out of them before he crowded him back against the bed. "Lie down", he murmured, and Yuuri complied while Victor went to his own luggage to retrieve some supplies, shrugging off his coat in the process. Back at the bed, he straddled Yuuri's hips, still fully clothed, and ran his hands lightly over his chest. Yuuri, reclining in the pillows, still looked exhausted, deep bags under his eyes, but he also stared up at Victor with undeniable hunger in his eyes. His hands found Victor‘s thighs as Victor lightly ground his hips down against Yuuri's groin, feeling his cock already half hard through his boxer briefs. "Now", Victor said with a smirk, leaning forward to grab something off Yuuri's nightstand, "I want to try something, if you‘re up for it. Do you trust me?" And he held up his hand, dangling Yuuri's sleep mask before his eyes. Yuuri looked up at him and Victor could see his throat moving as he swallowed, then he nodded. Victor grinned and, leaning down, plucked Yuuri's glasses off his nose, carefully folding them and setting them aside before replacing them with the sleep mask. He ran his hands through the soft, messy strands of Yuuri’s hair for a moment, before sitting up and shifting his weight again to rest mostly on Yuuri's hips. "Comfortable?", he asked, and Yuuri nodded again. "Good. Just relax." Yuuri huffed. "How. How am I possibly supposed to relax with you... on top of me like this?" "Patience, Yuuri", Victor said, unable to help the grin that was surely audible in his voice, "I’ll help you." With that, he let his hands wander down to undo his belt and pull down the zipper of his pants, which he was sure Yuuri would be able to hear. Then he shifted his weight off of Yuuri for a moment, just long enough to discard his pants before taking up his position again. He took his time shrugging off his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt, letting them fall to the floor beside the bed with an audible rustle of fabric. He could feel Yuuri growing steadily harder underneath him with every tiny shift and motion, and now that he was only in his thong himself, he could feel the pressure and heat of it even more deliciously against his ass. Letting his hips move ever so slightly and slowly against Yuuri’s and revelling in the small gasps and breathless sounds it drew out of Yuuri, Victor clicked open the bottle of lube he had retrieved earlier and let some of the liquid drizzle onto his fingers. He could hear Yuuri‘s sharp intake of breath as Victor threw the bottle down on the sheet next to him and leaned forward once more, until his chest was flush with Yuuri‘s, his face hovering close enough that his hair was almost brushing Yuuri‘s sleep mask, his forearm holding him up against the mattress. "Victor? What are you doing?", Yuuri asked, breathless, his hands fluttering until they found Victor‘s thighs again, now bare. Victor hummed at the sensation of Yuuri‘s fingers grasping at his naked skin. "Shhh, Yuuri", he murmured, "I told you, I will take care of everything. You just relax." Without any further ado, Victor pushed aside the flimsy fabric of his thong and circling one lubed finger around his hole. He let out a breath as he pushed the finger inside, relaxing against the intrusion. He couldn't help the shudder that ran over his body, nor the small noises of pleasure that fell from his lips as he slowly worked himself open, still grinding his hips against Yuuri‘s with minute motions. He felt Yuuri tense underneath him in anticipation. "Victor—ah... Victor, are you preparing yourself? Kuso. Victor, I want to see you." Victor chuckled, though he was a little too breathless himself for it to sound very amused. "Not this time, zolotse. Just focus on my weight on top of you. Focus on the sound of my voice." Victor could see Yuuri swallow and nod, and he concentrated on opening himself up again. A little impatiently he worked himself open, two fingers then three, letting little gasps and moans fall freely from his lips for Yuuri to hear. It was delicious to feel the helpless little motions Yuuri made underneath him, the little jerks of his hips, dragging his cock against Victor‘s balls and perineum through their underwear. Yuuri's hands were still on his thighs, now stroking up and down with the gentlest pressure, now digging deep into the muscle. Victor‘s patience snapped when Yuuri whined, dragging his nails lightly against his skin. "Vitya... please..." Victor had asked Yuuri a couple of weeks ago to use the diminutive, but so far Yuuri had only found the courage to do it a few times, often late at night, when they were soft and sleepy, curled up together in bed. But now—here.... hearing the name in such a needy tone from Yuuri's lips, it was a potent drug. Victor pulled his fingers out, deciding that he was stretched enough, and closed the small distance between them to swallow Yuuri's lips in a kiss. Drinking in the surprised noise Yuuri made, he slipped his tongue inside Yuuri's mouth, exploring its soft heat until they were both breathless, gasping. Then he pulled back, sitting up again, resting his hands against Yuuri's chest, heaving under his fingertips. "Now, Yuuri, listen", Victor said, once again rolling his lips against the hard line of Yuuri's cock, "I am going to take you inside and I will warm your cock for you, and you are going to sleep. Do you understand?" Yuuri drew in a sharp breath. "Wa—what?", he sputtered, "I— Victor, how am I supposed to sleep when you‘re... fuck." Victor hummed, trailing his hand down Yuuri's stomach toward the waistband of his boxer briefs. "Just... consider me your personal weighted blanket. I am just here to keep you warm and make you comfortable. If your thoughts stray toward the competition, just concentrate on my weight on you. On the sound of my breathing. On how your cock feels inside me." "Victor, fuck", Yuuri rutted up against him helplessly and Victor met his movement with a downward pressure, pinning his hips against the bed, "I‘m not sure I‘ll be able to last." "You‘ll just have to, won‘t you?", Victor said, letting a playful tone slip into his voice, "Coach‘s orders." He leaned forward again, close to Yuuri's ear, whispering "and if you‘re good and you get some rest, then maybe you can fuck me properly afterwards." Yuuri's breath stuttered in his chest, his fingers clutching harder at Victor‘s thighs. Victor took a moment to let his words sink in, to let Yuuri consider them, before speaking again. "What do you say, Yuuri? Are you up for the challenge?" Yuuri took a deep breath. "Yeah", he said, "yeah, okay." "Good", Victor replied with a grin, lifting his weight once more off of Yuuri's hips and reaching between his legs, pulling down his boxer briefs just enough to pull Yuuri's cock out, hard and already leaking precum. They had both gotten tested a few weeks ago, before the beginning of the season, so Victor simply picked up the bottle of lube once more, drizzling some of it onto his hand to slick up Yuuri's cock. Shifting his weight forward to line it up with his entrance, Victor could feel Yuuri shivering with anticipation underneath him. This was still so new to both of them—the thin walls at Yuutopia and the rigorous training schedule of the last few weeks hadn't left much freedom for penetrative sex. Victor himself also felt the anticipation in his chest, his thighs, tension, taut like a rubber band ready to snap—he couldn't wait any longer. Yuuri's cock in one hand to hold it in place, the other running over Yuuri's chest in soothing motions, he started to sink down. The head of Yuuri's cock was a hot, blunt pressure against his hole, punching a long, drawn-out whine out of him. Victor had not yet had the chance to get used to the feeling of Yuuri inside of him, so thick, how his shape filled him up so perfectly, and he almost wished he never would. He wanted to be this overwhelmed, this overcome always, always, when he took Yuuri inside, wanted the thrill of newness as well as the comfort of familiarity. He bore down to take the last inches in, Yuuri tensing underneath him, his cock twitching at the tight heat it was now surrounded by. "Vitya, fuck", he hissed, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. Victor let out a long, slow breath as he let his weight rest on Yuuri‘s hips again, clenching his hole experimentally around him, which made Yuuri moan beautifully. Victor grinned and shifted his weight forward slowly, sliding his knees down and leaning his torso forward until he was lying more or less on top of Yuuri, his legs to either side of Yuuri's hips, their chests pressed close together, Victor‘s head nestled in the crook of Yuuri's shoulder. He used one forearm to prop himself up a little so that his full weight wasn't resting all on Yuuri, his other hand he ran lightly through Yuuri's hair. "Are you okay, zolotse, can you breathe okay? I‘m not too heavy, am I?" Yuuri huffed a laugh close to his ear, his voice strained with arousal. "No, Vitya. You‘re perfect." One of his hands ran up Victor‘s back, coming to rest at the nape of his neck, while the other stroked up his thigh to his ass, kneading one cheek for a moment before slipping between them. Two fingers probed gently at his entrance where he was seated on Yuuri's cock, making Victor gasp and his cock twitch where it was trapped between their bodies, still straining against the fabric of his thong. Yuuri swore again under his breath, his voice, so low and close to Victor‘s ear, sending a shiver down his spine. "You‘re so gorgeous for me, Vitya, kuso... You feel so good." "Shhh, Yuuri", Victor whispered, though he couldn't quite hide his pleased smile, and he scratched his fingers lightly over Yuuri's scalp in the way that always made him go boneless, "sleep now. Just sleep. I‘ll be right here, looking after you." "Okay. I‘ll try." Victor could feel Yuuri's throat moving as he swallowed, his chest rising as he took a deep breath and slowly released it. His right hand came to rest on the mattress while the other remained on Victor‘s neck, a loose grasp, thumb stroking slowly up and down. Victor smiled to himself and reached out for a moment, pulling the blanket that had half slipped off the bed over both of them so Yuuri didn't run the risk of catching a cold. The he returned his ministrations on Yuuri's scalp, running his fingers soothingly through his hair and along his scalp until he felt Yuuri relax somewhat under him. Victor himself tried to relax, too, knowing he would need to remain in this position for some time still, but he couldn't tear away his focus from Yuuri's cock buried in his ass. He could feel every breath and movement Yuuri made deep inside of him, every involuntary twitch and shift that gave him that delicious friction. Biting his lips to keep from moaning, Victor couldn’t help the shifting, the minute little thrusts of his own hips, his own cock painfully hard between them. He tried, he really did, to keep himself quiet, worried about disturbing Yuuri, keeping him awake and rendering this whole exercise useless because of his own neediness. No—he needed to keep still. This wasn't about him, about his own pleasure, this was about Yuuri, and helping him. So concentrated all his attention on keeping still, keeping himself relaxed and pliant for Yuuri, concentrated on evening out his breathing despite the deep, burning need pooling in his belly. Swallowing down a whimper when Yuuri twitched inside him just right, Victor was starting to regret the choices that had brought him into this situation. He knew—he hoped—this was good for Yuuri, would allow him to redirect his thoughts away from the competition and his nervousness, but he had not considered that he himself would actually have to stay still and quiet for however long Yuuri ended up sleeping. It felt like torture already, having Yuuri's beautiful cock so deep inside him and not being able to move. He waited for as long as his patience would hold, closing his eyes and focusing on Yuuri's breathing rather than the hardness inside him, hoping that he might be able to fall asleep as well, but it was hopeless. When Yuuri's breaths had become deep and slow, his movements reduced to the occasional unconscious twitch and Victor was fairly sure that he was asleep, he allowed himself to move, just a little. He knew by now that, despite the trouble he sometimes had falling asleep, once he was sleeping it took quite a lot to actually wake Yuuri up. So Victor took a few liberties—he clenched his hole tight around Yuuri's cock, revelling in the responding twitch, he rolled his hips down, grinding on his dick ever so slightly until the head of it just about brushed his prostate. He breathed a gasp against Yuuri's throat at the electric sensation moving up through his core, then he waited twenty seconds until his breath had evened and he could be sure not to jostle Yuuri too much, and he did it again. It was the sweetest torture, not being able to move more than this—it was driving him crazy, but it felt so good. Yuuri, thankfully, did not seem bothered by his movements, at least not consciously. Perhaps Victor was able to bring him some pleasant dreams, at least. Victor jolted awake with an electric frisson tingling up his spine. A moan spilled from his mouth and he immediately bit his lips, hoping to hold in any more sounds. He blinked his eyes open slowly. Had he actually fallen asleep? Fallen asleep with Yuuri's cock buried deep inside him? He couldn't remember when he had slipped away, but the last... minutes? hours? ... were drowned in a haze of neediness and pleasure, an indistinct fog covering his senses, leaving room only for desire. He shifted slightly, feeling distinctly Yuuri still inside him, Victor’s rim stretched red and tight around him. His own cock, neglected, was no longer hard, but he could still feel the need nearly boiling over in his gut and his balls. When he lifted his head carefully, he felt a thin sheen of sweat beading on his forehead, trapped between the heat of Yuuri's body and the blanket. Turning his head to look at the clock on the nightstand, he saw with a sigh of relief that they still had a couple of hours time before they needed to be back at the arena. He wondered if he should try to wake Yuuri up, or if he should wait to see if he‘d wake up on his own as long as there was still time. But before he could make up his mind, once again a white hot jolt was moving through his body as Yuuri's cock brushed his prostate. And this time, he barely had time to brace himself before it happened again, drawing a whimper from him—Yuuri was moving inside him. Not a proper thrust, more like a slow, lazy grinding, deep and deeper. Was Yuuri awake? Taking a look at Yuuri's face, it didn't seem so—though it was hard to tell under the mask. His expression was smooth, though his lips were parted, his breath coming slightly laboured. His one hand was still resting on the mattress, the other now buried under the pillow underneath his head. He was dreaming—it must be. "Fuck", Victor whispered, and, bracing himself on his forearm, he lifted his hips a little, letting Yuuri slip out of him just a couple of inches. The reaction was immediate—Yuuri's pelvis rolled upward, burying him back in Victor‘s ass. Victor groaned under his breath. His whole body tingled with electricity, every muscle tense. His need, having steadily built and built over the last couple of hours, was ready to snap, and Yuuri fucking him like this was just too hot. He repeated his motion, grinding down against Yuuri as Yuuri ground up against him, Victor‘s own cock filling up again quickly, trapped in the friction between them. The drag of Yuuri's skin inside him was filthy, right on the edge of painful, some of the lube having dried during their inactivity, and Victor had to turn his head and bite the muscle of his upper arm, hard, to muffle his moans. Finally he gave up and fumbled for the bottle of lube with his other hand, clicking it open as quietly as he could and reaching behind himself to let some of the liquid drizzle directly onto his rim. He hissed at the coolness of it, and Yuuri‘s body, too, seemed to give a little twitch, but it eased the movement of Yuuri's cock inside him. Throwing the bottle aside once more, Victor buried his head again in the crook of Yuuri's neck and, closing his eyes, he focused solely on Yuuri's slow, irregular movements, meeting them with his own. Except they were getting steadily less slow, less irregular. Yuuri's hips snapped a little harder, a little quicker against his, and his body was moving, too—his arm burrowing deeper under the pillows, his spine arching. Breath already panting, Victor lifted his head again, focusing his eyes on Yuuri's face. He did not appear to be awake yet, as much as Victor was able to tell. There was a slight furrow in his brow, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips. Victor couldn't resist; he leaned down, catching Yuuri in a deep kiss, moaning into it as Yuuri snapped his hips harder still, as if in answer. After a few seconds, Yuuri returned the kiss, lips moving slowly and languidly against Victor‘s, and when Victor pulled back, he was panting. "Vitya", he murmured, voice breathless and hoarse, "ah, this... was not a dream?" He lifted one hand to pull away his sleep mask, dropping it carelessly on the pillow next to him as his eyes focused on Victor, narrowed against the sudden brightness, but pupils blown wide. Victor smirked. "Oh no, zolotse, this is real. Most of it anyway—I suspect you did have some quite interesting dreams." "Mhh, I did", Yuuri said, grinding his cock into Victor once more, eliciting a gasp from him, "was fucking you." "You‘re fucking me now, darling", Victor whispered. Yuuri, pulling his other arm out from underneath the pillow, grunted his disagreement. "Not yet, I‘m not." Then, suddenly, there were two strong arms around Victor‘s back and his world was suddenly turned upside down as he was flipped over und found himself lying on his back, Yuuri kneeling between his legs and slipping his cock smoothly back into Victor‘s hole where it had slipped out as they moved. "I‘m about to be, though", Yuuri said, his voice still so rough and deep with sleep, dream-laden and yet focused, and Victor suddenly couldn't breathe with want. "God, fuck", he pressed out, "Yuuri, please, I've waited so long." And it seemed that Yuuri was done waiting, too, because he snaked his arms under Victor‘s knees, pushing them up until Victor was almost folded in half, then he planted his hands to either side of Victor‘s head. Leaning forward like this, his cock was pushed deep inside Victor at a new angle, making Victor moan long and low, twitching around him. Stilling for a moment, Yuuri caught his lips in another deep kiss, the push and pull of his lips and tongue languid and filthy. Then he pulled his hips back until he slipped almost completely out of Victor, and pushed back in with one long, hard thrust. The noise Victor made was almost a scream. After all this time, the hours that he had waited, finally, finally Yuuri thrust into him properly. Victor threw his head back into the pillow, burrowing into the soft feathers under the cover. He was overwhelmed with sensation, his hole feeling tender and swollen after being held open for so long, but he needed this, god, needed more. And more Yuuri gave him, quickly settling into a rapid pace, hips snapping against Victor‘s ass as he fucked him hard. Yuuri moaned deep in his throat with every thrust, his eyes half-lidded as they looked down at Victor, and the sound trickled like honey into Victor‘s ears, making him tingle. He fisted his hands into the pillow under his head, trying to brace himself against the force of Yuuri's thrusts, his words breathless and broken as they spilled from him, "yes, god, Yuuri, more." "Vitya", Yuuri whined, leaning down again to kiss Victor once more, the heat of his mouth as scorching, the thrust of his tongue as filthy as his cock in Victor‘s ass, still fucking him hard and fast. Victor closed his eyes, giving himself over to the sensations only, Yuuri, so close, skin on sweaty skin, his lips, a little chapped but slick with spit against his own, and that hardness inside of him, pushing and pulling, sending jolts of pleasure through his limbs, making him jerk every time Yuuri brushed his prostate. Victor could feel the tension building low in his belly, quick and insistent, a fire ignited now, after smouldering for so long. It was so much, so much, just on the edge of overstimulation, but it felt so good, all electric, tingling, and he needed to come. "‘m close", he huffed into the scant space between them, just barely pulling away enough to form the words. "Me too", Yuuri groaned breaking their kiss properly this time and eliciting a whine from Victor, that turned into a broken moan when Yuuri grabbed him by the hips and pulled him down the bed, away from where he had moved dangerously close to the headboard from the force of Yuuri's thrusts. It made his breath stutter in his throat, that Yuuri could manhandle him so easily like this, a reminder that he was in peak physical condition, a reminder of how much power was coiled tight in his slender frame. The thought made Victor‘s cock, achingly hard and still straining against his thong, twitch, and he filed the information away for another time. For now, though, Yuuri shifted Victor‘s legs onto his shoulders, freeing up his hands. One of them he splayed on Victor‘s chest, just about brushing one of his nipples between two fingers, while the other finally, finally pulled down the front of Victor‘s thong, soaked through with precome, letting his cock spring free. It bobbed between them, angry red and achingly hard, and Victor groaned when Yuuri took it in hand, slicking precome over it with gentle pressure. "Ahhh, fuck, yes." Then Yuuri started moving again, this time pumping Victor‘s cock in time with his thrusts, and Victor was lost. Fisting his hands into the pillow so hard he was worried it might tear, sharp, breathy moans were punched out of him with every thrust and he could feel the wave cresting rapidly. It only took a few strokes before blinding colours were blooming in front of his eyes, tension and release jolting through every nerve of his body as he arched his back and felt his come splatter hot and thick over his abs and chest. He let out a high-pitched, drawn out whine, legs shaking where they were still resting against Yuuri's shoulders, as Yuuri pumped him through his orgasm, slowing his movements as Victor went boneless beneath him. "Fuck, Vitya", he murmured, turning his head to mouth kisses along Victor‘s legs, "you‘re so perfect... so beautiful." Victor shivered, looking up at him from half-lidded eyes. The movements of Yuuri‘s hips had slowed along with his hand, but Victor could still feel the desperate, aborted little thrust he made, desperate for release. "Go on", he whispered, "fuck me. Come inside me." Yuuri groaned at his words, his cock twitching where it was still buried inside Victor. "Are you sure?", he asked, voice shaky with need, "Won‘t it be too much?" Victor shook his head. "Fill me up. I can take it." When Yuuri still looked doubtful, Victor reached out, grabbing Yuuri‘s ass with one hand, pulling him impossibly deeper. "Please, zolotse", he whispered, "I want to still feel you inside me when we go back to the arena later. Don‘t you want that? To know that I‘m all yours when you‘re out on the ice?" "I... fuck." Yuuri‘s pupils blew wide at Victor‘s words, fixing on Victor with a fire burning in his eyes. "All mine", he murmured, trailing his fingers slowly through the cooling roped of come splattered on Victor‘s chest. Then, as if some switch had been flipped, he grabbed Victor‘s ass with both hands, lifting up his hips so he could fuck into him more easily, and set up a hard and fast pace once more. Victor let out a broken moan with every thrust. It was so much—too much, but he wanted this so badly, wanted to feel the drag of Yuuri‘s cock on his oversensitive flesh until he felt he was going crazy. Yuuri snapped his hips into him hard until Victor could feel Yuuri's balls brushing against his ass with every thrust, and it didn't take long now until Yuuri's moans became low, tense grunts, his pace growing quicker, more erratic. Victor dug his fingers into Yuuri's hips, lightly pressing his fingernails into the skin and clenched his rim hard on Yuuri's cock. Yuuri cried out, thrusting deep into him a few more times before he stilled, hips twitching, his come coating Victor‘s insides with heat. They stayed liked that for a moment, Yuuri buried to the hilt inside Victor, both stiff and gasping, catching their breath. Then Yuuri relaxed slowly, tension seeping out of him, and he released Victor‘s legs, softening cock slipping out of him. Victor could feel the hot trickle of come that followed it, clenching his hole against it, trying to keep it inside. Yuuri sank onto the mattress next to him, boneless, pressed close to Victors side, one hand coming up to cup Victor‘s cheek. Victor‘s turned his head to face him, looked into those deep brown eyes, heavy-lidded and soft with satisfaction. "Vitya", Yuuri murmured, "that was... wow." Victor chuckled, still a little breathless. "Wow indeed." Yuuri‘s thumb caressed his cheek-bone lightly. "Are you okay? It wasn't too much, was it?" Victor shook his head. "I should be asking you that, though. You‘re the one who has to skate later... I hope I didn't just make you more exhausted." Now that he said it, a flicker of doubt ignited in Victor‘s mind. Had this been a bad idea? Had he just sabotaged Yuuri's chance at a medal with his stupid, half-baked plans? But Yuuri smiled at him, soft and reassuring. "I‘m fine", he said, "I mean, I am a little tired right now, but I did get a bit of sleep. And besides, I feel...", he thought for a moment, leaning forward to press his lips softly against Victor‘s forehead, "...relaxed." "Good. I‘m glad", Victor said, returning his smile. Then he looked past Yuuri once more at the clock on the nightstand. "We've got about one hour left. You should go take a shower, and I‘ll see if I can find you something to eat." Yuuri chuckled, his eyes darting downward. "Don‘t you think you might need a shower, too?" As if to illustrate his point, he dragged his fingers to the drying, sticky mess on Victor‘s chest. "Okay, perhaps", Victor admitted, "but I can get cleaned up a little when you are done, you go on." "Don‘t be silly, Vitya. We can take a shower together. Come on, we‘ll be quick about it, no funny business." Something in Victor‘s stomach fluttered at the thought. It felt so intimate, taking a shower together. Sure, they had been in the onsen together plenty of times, but this felt different, closer. He let himself imagine it, running his hands down Yuuri's body under the spray of water, just feeling, feeling his skin, his warmth. Perhaps Yuuri would let him wash his hair. "Alright", Victor whispered, "Alright, let‘s go then." And Yuuri smiled at him again, rolling out of bed with a groan, and held out a hand to Victor. Victor kept a close eyes on Yuuri as they returned to the arena in time for the warm-up. They were cutting it a little close, Victor thought as he watched Yuuri lace up his skates. They had rinsed off together in the shower, a little more perfunctory than Victor would have liked, but understandable given their time constraints. Then they had gotten Yuuri a light snack, something to replenish his energy without weighing too heavily in his stomach. And now Yuuri was about to get out there, on the ice. And he looked... he looked okay. Admittedly, he still seemed a little tired, but less so than he had in the morning. There was still a little tension in his shoulders but, most importantly, his hands were steady and sure as they were lacing up his skates, and he met Victor‘s gaze head on when he looked up. He was not fidgeting or shaking. If Victor‘s goal had been to get rid of Yuuri‘s excess nervous energy, he would say that he had succeeded. Once his skates were laced, Victor handed him his water bottle to get a drink, pulling him aside a little before he lined up to get on the ice for the warm up. "Since you didn’t skate earlier today, focus on getting warmed up and limber", he said, "you‘re in a good position going into the free, so—" "Victor." Yuuri interrupted him, voice low. Victor stopped, waiting for him to continue, but Yuuri took his time screwing the cap back onto his water bottle before looking up, a hint of a smirk on his face. "Are you sore?" "I—", Victor said, not really knowing how to continue. He could feel heat rising into his cheeks. "Yuuri..." Yuuri leaned closer, lowering his voice further still. "Can you still feel me inside you?" Victor swallowed. He could indeed feel a twinge in his lower back when he sat or bent over, and was constantly aware of some of Yuuri‘s come still inside him. "Yes", he whispered. Now Yuuri did smirk. "Good", he said, before pressing the water bottle back into Victor‘s hands and turning away to join the other skaters at the entrance to the rink. He looked over his shoulder as he pulled off his skate guards, placing them on the boards. "Keep your eyes on me", he said, and Victor could only nod as he followed the other skaters out onto the ice. Victor looked after him a little dazed, as Yuuri took his place at the end of the line to be introduced, first placed and last to skate. He felt a flutter of anticipation in his stomach, watching Yuuri take his bows. He wondered how Yuuri would surprise him today.
“Hey secret agent dude.” Happy barely looked over his shoulder as the pair of teenagers jumped in the back of his car. “Hey Peter’s love interest who’s name I’ve deliberately forgotten.” Peter sighed loudly as he clambered into the car after his girlfriend. “You’re both annoying shut up.” Happy chuckled under his breath, somehow doing so without smiling which was rather impressive- if not insanely annoying. “Wow, and the hypocrite of the year award goes to-“ “Happy please.” Peter snapped. MJ on the other hand was already more than at ease. “Don’t stress, this’ll be fine. Relax.” But Peter was anything but relaxed. He was jittery the entire ride home- even more so than usual. He barely spoke a word in front of Happy as though he was scared to reveal any secret information. He was fidgeting the entire journey, even more so when they were in the elevator on their way up to the house- and MJ wasn’t oblivious as to why. Though Peter tried to be casual about it, as soon as they got to his room and he’d kicked his shoes off MJ just laughed. “Go, go. I won’t touch your toys I promise.” Peter quickly rushed into the bathroom both out of necessity and wanting the awkward exchange to end. He was surprised when he came out of the bathroom to note that MJ was standing in the exact same spot he’d left her in. “You can sit down, you know.” She held up her hand defensively. “I promised not to touch your toys, I wanted to wait for permission.” “My bed isn’t a toy.” Peter rolled his eyes, electing to sit down at his desk instead. MJ shrugged. “Depends how you use it-“ “Five minutes. We’ve been in my room for five minuets-“ “Chill out it’s a joke.” She laughed, ignoring the way Peter’s eyes had narrowed scornfully. “If Steve hears you say that he’ll explode.” Peter shook his head. He momentarily braced himself for Steve to come busting through the door like the kool-aid man at the mere innuendo. “Don’t make an explode joke, don’t say it..” MJ muttered while squeezing her eyes shut, pretending to be trying her best to avoid anymore inappropriate jokes. “I’m gonna have an aneurysm.” Once Peter had calmed down they managed to actually enjoy one another’s company. They hung out in his room for a majority of the afternoon to prolong the inevitable, and for a while the rest of the household remained elsewhere. Tony had asked for them to specifically not bombard the pair when they first got home, so they were left to make themselves comfortable for a while. But Peter was still suspicious and dared not be lulled into a false sense of security. He made sure to keep a physical distance from the girl just incase someone decided to- “Oh hi kids!” Steve said cheerily as Peter’s door swished open. Of course. “Sorry to barge in but Peter you know the rule.” The rule Steve was referring to was leaving the door open and Peter had forgotten- mostly because he’d been dying to pee but also their doors closed automatically. It had slipped his mind but Steve was staring at him like he was deliberately hiding something. There was a small stand off whilst the pair stared scornfully at each other before the blond grinned again and promptly disappeared from the doorway. “Dinners at 6, have fun!” “Sorry..” Peter sighed as soon as he was sure Steve was out of earshot. “What’re you apologising for? Having someone who cares?” MJ chuckled, but not meanly. “‘Oh god I have a responsible adult who loves me and wants to make sure I’m safe and comfortable- this is so embarrassing’-“ “Okay okay, I get it, you can stop.” After the minor interruption Peter managed to relax somewhat. That overhanging feeling of like he was doing something wrong was lifted now that the door was open. He knew he had nothing to hide anyway, but there was still a small voice at the back of his head freaking out about having a girl in his room. And that voice sounded a little like his aunt. Huh. Anyway, he progressively relaxed enough to move from his desk chair to the bean bag next to his bed, before a thought made him forget maintaining a respectable distance all together. “Oh! I almost forgot!” He said suddenly, cutting himself off mid sentence. “Scoot over-“ MJ quirked an eyebrow as he crawled onto the bed towards her. “Mr. Parker, whatever are you doing-“ “Hush, I’ve got something for you.” Peter brushed her off as he dove across the mattress to reach the drawers underneath his bed. The girl looked skeptical and perhaps like she was about to comment on him having something under his bed for her but she bit her tongue. After a moment of rummaging- and pulling out an embarrassing amount of candy wrappers- he found what he was looking for. A large envelope that MJ recognised to be from the printing section at Walgreens. She held the package in her hand for a moment, studying it skeptically. “This isn’t gonna be something cringy like a bunch of photos of us is it-“ “Just open it.” Peter rolled his eyes. “Like you don’t have pictures of me on your wall already. After sticking her tongue out at him, MJ opened the package and pulled out the stack of photographs- and it was not what she was expecting. The photos weren’t of them, they weren’t of people in general they were of the city- parts of the city she had never even seen before. There were some more recognisable ones of the skylines from impossible angles, then there were ones of random graffiti around the city- a mix of amazing urban and industrial photos that looked way too professional, but she’d never seen them before, and she’d studied a lot of photography. “Oh my god.” “I thought they might fit in with your project.” Peter shrugged. He felt a little awkward since the girl was uncharacteristically quiet as she flipped through the pages. As per usual his mouth started running trying desperately to fill the silence. “You don’t have to use them-“ “Peter these- these are amazing.” She shook her head unblinking as she continued to peruse the images. Just looking at them silently her mouth agape. Peter didn’t really understand her infatuation. He thought they were cool photos but he didn’t have a true appreciation for the art form like she did; though all the hours scaling buildings certainly felt worth it to see her reaction. “How did you- these are incredible, how did you get these?” “I took them?” He shrugged. He had thought that was kinda obvious given the gesture. “But how?” She followed up her question by showing one of the really high up pictures he’d taken whilst scaling the side of a skyscraper and hanging upside down to get a good view of the street below. Ah. He hadn’t uh, he hadn’t really considered the implications when he’d taken them. “I borrowed one of Mr. Stark’s drones- and uh, I got access to some of the rooftops since, you know, minor celebrity status and all that.” “These are- just wow.” Thankfully she seemed to buy into the lie, at least enough to lose her suspicion in favour of pouring over the pictures again. This was the first time he’d seen her speechless and he thought it was rather adorable. “I can’t use these in my project- they’re yours-“ “Mine? I’ve never seen them before in my life.” The boy shrugged, making his stance clear. She gave him a look but it was once again replaced by wonderment when she looked over the photos again. “P, seriously, you should be taking photography. Why don’t you pick it up next semester?” Admittedly, the idea peaked his interest because it meant he’d get to spend more time with her in school- but then he hushed his teenage boy brain. Besides what would Tony think? Sure his dad would be supportive, but he never knew when the old Tony would rear its head. It would be a toss up between “whatever makes you happy bud” or “no intern of mine is going to waste his time on an art” it was hard to tell. Well he did like taking the photos, it was kind of cathartic..or was that just because he knew it would make MJ smile, he didn’t know. “Nah it’s- just a hobby I guess.” Peter mumbled, immediately losing his train of thought when she dropped her head onto his shoulder as she continued flipping through the scattered album. And of course that would be right when Steve trotted past the door. The soldier looked like he was about to explode when he saw them practically cuddling. His face was bright red and his left eye twitched as he gave the closest thing to a Tony-Death-Stare Peter had ever seen. “Oh Sorry, haha, forgot you two were in here.” “It’s fine Steve.” Peter huffed, slinking off of the bed to sit on the floor, establishing as much distance as possible from the girl in the room. “Just brought some of your laundry up- whoops.” The soldier said; as laundry fell from the basket Steve had balanced on his hip as he shifted it into Peter’s dresser. Well only one item. “Oh my god- will you give me that?!” Peter squeaked as he swiped the offending pair of underwear off the floor, darting to shove it in the appropriate drawer. He then snatched the rest of the basket away, opting to put his laundry away himself. “I’ll do it. Thank you.” “Dinners at six-“ “We know.” Peter growled, ushering Steve out of the door where he was quickly swiped by Nat and dragged down the hall. MJ tried to keep her mouth shut, she really did. “Nice Underoos-“ “Hush.” Peter scowled. “So Captain America does your laundry-“ “I said hush!” After that interruption, the pair decided it would be best to just hang out in the living room instead, since they weren’t getting any privacy anyway. Peter also hoped that maybe Steve would relax more if they were in an open communal space- and at least that way he could spy more surreptitiously from his office instead of having to make excuses to pass Peter’s bedroom all the time. They settled on the couch, sitting close together but not quite cuddling, absentmindedly drifting closer over time. Every time Peter shifted to move his arm onto the back of the couch Steve cleared his throat loudly until the boy dropped it again. It wasn’t even like Peter was trying to make a move he just didn’t do well with sitting still. To say it was a relief when Tony strolled in was an understatement; even when he greeted them with a less than cool; “S’up kids.” “Hey Mr. Stark.” MJ greeted him warmly. Tony frowned. “Oh don’t you start with that shit too, you know my name.” “My apologies, s’up T-Dog.” The girl corrected herself, relishing in the expression Tony made. “Okay you know what? Mr. Stark is fine.” The man grimaced before smirking. He leaned against the back of the couch as he engaged in small talk. “How was school?” Peter answered since he figured the question was more directed towards him- and he answered honestly. “Great.” Smelling the sarcasm from a mile off, Tony sighed sadly. “Flash?” “Mhm.” Peter hummed dispondently. He couldn’t help but notice that MJ looked surprised that Tony seemed to be clued in on the situation. It occurred to him that he'd never really had a conversation with her about how much he’d told his family about the bullying. Mainly because anytime they brought Flash up it dissolved into a rant about how he didn’t do anything to help himself and they ended up arguing. For a brief moment the girl looked angry- and Peter could see the wheels turning in her head. If Tony knew about the bullying why hadn’t he done something about it? Thankfully the man spoke again before she had time to ask that question aloud. “What happened this time?” Tony asked tactfully, checking to make sure it was okay with Peter to start this conversation in front of MJ. “You know the usual- homophobic stuff.” Peter shrugged. It was slightly uncomfortable to talk about, but he figured now would be a good opportunity to show MJ that Tony hadn’t done nothing to help him (and maybe silently convey how little the man actually knew). “I did what you said though.” “Yeah?” “Uh huh. He said he’d found me and Ned’s Grindr profile.” Peter explained, smirking when he remembered the other boy's expression. “I just asked him ‘how?’” “Nice.” Tony grinned, offering Peter a quick high five for that victory. “Has Steve left you alone?” “Just about, Nat’s kept him on a leash but he kept coming back there so we gave up trying to have any privacy.” Peter muttered bitterly, stealing glances at the man’s open office door. Tony squeezed his shoulder sympathetically then wandered off again, assumedly to go and tell Steve off. Once Tony was out of earshot MJ turned to him, a telltale look on her face that let Peter know he was about to get an earful. “So he knows?” “Yeah.” Peter sighed. He knew that question could be referring to a lot of different things when it came to his many secrets, but he knew exactly what she was talking about. “Can we maybe not talk about it?” “You never wanna talk about it.” MJ said quietly, but surprisingly she didn’t press the issue anymore. Instead she moved closer, ducking under his arm and laying her head on his chest; sending waves of warmth rushing over Peter’s whole body and making him feel just a bit light headed. But not in a bad way. Just when he finally felt relaxed enough to lean into the hug- the door whooshed open. Again. Only this time it wasn’t Steve. “Greetings!” Peter growled audibly and pulled away from MJ yet again. “Hey Thor.” MJ grinned, entirely unphased. “And a good afternoon to you madam.” Thor grinned back as he sat down across from them on the other side of the U shaped couch. “How are you on this fine day?” “She’s fine we’re both good.” Peter said shortly through gritted teeth. Not that Thor picked up on the social cues at all and not that it stopped him from talking. Ever. “Good to hear.” The god smiled, turning all of his attention back to MJ. “So, Michelle, what is it you prefer to be called?” “MJ is fine.” She laughed, still totally unbothered but Peter was twitching anxiously just waiting for Thor to say something embarrassing. In fairness the god had yet to do anything but Peter was too on edge to give him the opportunity. “I shall take note of that, but I mean in reference to our young Peter here.” And there it was. “Thor.” Peter said lowly and warningly. “He tells me that beloved and consort aren’t appropriate terms for young lovers-“ “Thor!” Peter repeated a little louder. MJ smiled, put her hand on top of his and gave him a look that said ‘it’s okay’. She turned back to Thor with a light shrug. “I think ‘girlfriend’ will do. Don’t you, P?” “Ahh, I see. Don’t want to rush things, Hm?” Thor nodded understandingly- only to look confused when MJ chuckled and Peter facepalmed. “Oh. I’m afraid I’ve made things awkward.” “You’re fine!” MJ laughed genuinely amused but Peter was scowling. “He is not fine.” Peter grumbled. “It’s just the youngling prefers not to discuss such matters.” Thor said quietly to MJ as though Peter couldn’t hear him or wasn’t even there and like the girl didn’t already know that. “Yeah, I wonder why, Thor.” Peter hissed. “What made you think I’d be more comfortable with this?” Thor looked genuinely perplexed as to what he’d done wrong and was about to continue digging himself a hole when everyone else started filing into the living room. Somehow Peter managed to bite back the urge to scream into one of the couch cushions because he just wasn’t ready to deal with the rest of them so soon. He stayed sat on the couch for as long as he could until Steve beckoned for him to come and help lay the table; which he begrudgingly did, though MJ was happy to help. Tony managed to catch the boys eye for a second when he wasn’t staring angrily at the floor and made use of the ASL classes they’d been attending together. He signed to him, asking if he was okay. Peter had to think for a moment to remember the correct sign; ‘nervous.’ Tony nodded and offered a smile before he was pulled into conversation with the rest of the adults. That was when MJ whispered to him. “Don’t be. It’s gonna be fine.” Peter turned to her. “Huh?” “You don’t need to be nervous.” “You-“ Peter blinked confusedly for a moment, because he was 99% sure he hadn’t expressed that aloud. Then he realised. “You know sign language?” “A little.” She shrugged. “Since when?” “Since I found out my boyfriend wears hearing aids. Now come on, I’m hungry.” The girls said flippantly, looping her arm through his and dragging him up to the dinner table to join the rest of them; not even giving Peter a chance to process that information before they were bombarded again. “Hey kids, you were home later than expected. I was waiting for ya, found a couple of extra photo albums May left out of the slideshow. Figured we couldn’t let MJ miss out on completing the set.” Clint winked. At first Peter assumed he was just teasing until the man pulled out a book from under the table. “Gimme that!” Peter yelled. The album was marked with ‘Peter plays’ and they weren’t the school ones. They were the short movies he and Ned had acted out in the living room in their homemade superhero costumes. God, if Tony picked up the nickname Underoos from the old PJ’s he used to wear in place of a suit, god knows what name he’d come up with if he saw those costumes. Peter shuddered, snatching the book away and tossing it over by his school bag. “And we weren’t late.” “Yeah you were?” Steve chimed in. “Did you have AD club or something?” “No we uh- Uhm-“ Peter stammered trying to think of a lie. He’d forgotten that they actually were home later than expected. “I went to the library and-“ “P had to wait for me to get out of detention.” The girl stated casually. The rest of the men sort of nodded in acknowledgment, Steve looking slightly awkward like he was scared that He had pushed a sensitive subject; but MJ smiled all the same. And it certainly peaked Nat’s interest. “What did you do?” The other woman asked. MJ shrugged nonchalantly as she helped pass the plates around the table. “Punched a kid in the face.” Nat smirked, seemingly satisfied with that answer. “Nice.” “M.” Peter whispered and shook his head trying to stop the conversation going further. She looked to him quizzically but Nat must have seen the look too. “What did they do to deserve that?” “Oh you know, just what happened on Monday.” MJ said. It wasn’t until she looked up and saw the weird looks she was getting she realised that she may have misspoke. “What Peter didn’t tell yo-“ The boy in question grabbed her hand. “Can I talk to you for a second? About the Stats homework.” “Oh sure, we were meant to work on that huh?” She said awkwardly, allowing herself to be dragged away from the table. Once they were safely round the corner out of the adults eye line she questioned his sudden behaviour. “What’s up?” “Please don’t talk about the Flash stuff.” “Why not? Tony knows now?” She asked. He’d just told him about the whole Grindr comeback so she was confused. “He does but they don’t.” Peter hissed, gesturing around the corner to the rest of his family. “I mean Thor kinda but I sorta lied to him too and I didn’t tell d-“ shit. Not now. “-Tony about Monday either.” “Why not?” She asked skeptically, crossing her arms over her chest. Peter sighed exasperatedly. He was making the whole situation far more complicated than it needed to be and it was starting to make him panic. Fuck. “Look he doesn’t know all of it, okay? I’m building up to that. And he was too busy fussing about me passing out at lunch and-“ The girls eyes widened momentarily before they blazed. “You passed out?!” Oh, double fuck . “Oh- uh- yeah a little.” “You don’t just pass out a little Peter, what happened?” She demanded angrily. “I forgot to eat and-“ “Dinner!” Steve called from the other room, cutting Peter off before he revealed anymore. Saved by the bell, the teenagers rejoined the group. They all sat in their respective seats only to realise that one was empty. Steve put his hands on his hips. “Ugh that God, probably on his game again- Peter could you..?” “I’ve got him.” Peter sighed, scooting his chair out to stand up again. He trundled down the hall to bang on his brother’s door, yelling over the sound of the TV. “Hey Thor let’s go!” By the time the pair made it back, everyone was already chatting- about something Peter was less than happy about. Steve was already full swing into asking about their curriculum, criticising their history modules before he switched to something else. “Oh, that reminds me, MJ I’ve been meaning to ask- have you ever had a drug talk at your school?” Peter wide eyed tried to mouth to her from behind Steve; but she either didn’t notice or deliberately ignored him- possibly a combination of both. If anything her smile widened. “Drug talk? We don’t even get sex ed in health class.” “Really?” Steve asked interestedly in between bites of food. Meanwhile Peter stood shell shocked in the background, wondering what kind of alternate universe he’d fallen into where it wa suddenly okay to discuss sex education at the dinner table- or, you know, at all. He peered around the room for where Wanda was hidden, sure that it must have been a prank because what the hell. “Nope, they just threw a packet of condoms and a bunch of bananas on the table and were like ‘use these. Don’t get pregnant’. Nothing about consent or contraception or STD’s- and as far as drugs I’m pretty sure there’s just a sign in the bathroom saying no smoking.” MJ explained casually, leaving Peter positively gawking whilst Nat and Clint struggling not to snicker. Just when Peter thought it couldn’t any worse Steve nodded with finality. “Right well that settles it, I’m definitely calling your principal tomorrow.” “What?! Steve no! No please you can’t please don’t!” Peter rushed back over to the table- where Tony promptly pulled him down by the back of his shirt and gestured to his plate; though he didn’t say anything or even look up from his own meal and he certainly didn’t jump to Peter’s defence. “I’m sorry sport, but that’s really not good enough- I’m not saying I’ll be the one to come in and do the talk. Oh what am I saying, of course it’ll be me.” Steve chuckled to himself. For the first time ever Peter was pretty sure he saw a mischievous look in the man’s eyes- he was enjoying this. Payback for all the PDA he’d witnessed. “Okay I know you hate me saying this but in all seriousness if you come to my school to do a seminar on drugs or sex I will kill myself-“ Peter announced dramatically only to be cut off when someone kicked his shin under the table. “Ow.” “Cut that shit out.” Clint said and pointed his knife at him to punctuate his point. “I’m not even kidding!” “Yes you are and it’s not funny.” Tony chimed in, finally joining in the conversation. Only not in the way Peter had hoped as Tony looked across the table, smiling at his friend. “And I think it’s an excellent idea, Steveo.” The conversation continued, and progressed, and somehow diverted into everyone openly discussing Peter and MJ’s relationship. No one bar from Tony and Steve had heard the full story about how Peter admitted his feelings- and MJ was more than happy to recount the story in great detail. Whilst all the adults were busy cooing condescendingly, Peter himself made a point not to talk at all. Instead he sat there pouting and shovelling pasta into his mouth every time someone attempted to engage with him. “Well I think it’s nice that you’re taking things slowly.” Steve chuckled after MJ finished telling their love story. “What do you mean slowly? It took Peter over a year to ask her out what made you think it would be any quicker?” Clint quipped. “Please.” Thor rolled his eyes. For a brief moment Peter thought maybe he was about to say something to his benefit. “You know young people these days, they ought to be engaged by now.” “Thor shut up.” Peter finally snapped. “Peter.” Steve said warningly. “Sorry.” He grumbled sheepishly before stuffing another forkful of tortellini in his mouth, resigning himself to his fate. He’d already given begging looka to both Pepper and Bruce as they were the only ones not actively engaging in the teasing, but they just gave him sympathetic (though still clearly amused) looks. “Yeah they’ll be settling down soon, being sixteen and all.” Clint rolled his eyes right back at Thor. “Well Young Peter doesn’t seem like the type to shop around like his father.” Thor laughed, only for him to get kicked under the table; only he didn’t understand it was deliberate nor that it was a signal to get him to shut up. “Who kicked me?” Tony scowled at the oblivious god while Pepper chuckled and rubbed his arm in an attempt to get her fiancé to calm down. MJ chuckled too, though she gave Peter a weird look, the cogs turning once again. “So, your dad was a ladies man huh?” “Yeah he uh, was something like that I guess.” Peter chuckled awardly, putting inference on the tense for Tony’s benefit since to his knowledge he and Pepper were monogamous now; but also for Thor since his dad was meant to be, you know, dead . “You don’t talk about him much.” “Well he ain’t around much you know, haven’t seen him since the funeral.” Peter tried to joke, ignoring the looks he received for the dead parents joke. “Hm. Could’ve fooled me.” MJ muttered, feigning disinterest. She looked over at Tony and surprisingly the man mirrored her smile but Peter was more than happy to move the conversation away from that because there was no way he could handle any more tonight. However, MJ picked an even worse topic of conversation. “You know I was half expecting Spider-Man to be here.” Several items of silverware dropped onto the table as everyone froze- Peter coughing after accidentally inhaling his food. Once he’d finished choking he stammered; “W-what why?” What the hell had made her say that? He hadn’t left his suit out had he? No- no of course he hadn’t. He made a huge effort not to even mention Spidey stuff around the girl- not even using code words. He always avoided talking about the hero whenever he was brought up too- which had been easy at first since he was a minor celebrity at best, but recently Spidey had kinda been blowing up on Twitter. Which he was proud of, don’t get him wrong, but it was getting difficult to avoid it every time someone flashed their trending page and he was plastered all over it. Maybe he’d made it too obvious when avoiding it? Like he’d made it a thing by trying not to make it a thing? “Since you guys are all buddy-buddy and Tony’s hanging out with him now.” MJ explained. “You scoutin’ for a new avenger?” “Meh, maybe. He’s a little sloppy though, needs more training. He’s way too excitable to be a real Avenger just yet.” Tony shrugged, staying so casual it was unbelievable. How the man could handle secrets so smoothly was beyond Peter- though the big was too busy scowling at the man’s comments to marvel at his ability to lie. He managed to bite back the urge to kick him under the table. There had been an awful lot of kicking that evening and he didn’t want to accidentally break a bone. It seemed that MJ didn’t notice the rest of them sighing with relief at Tony’s smooth response. “Well if you’re hiring I can do a mean kickflip. I’m sure that would come in handy at some point.” Tony hummed thoughtfully and nodded. “You know what, if we ever encounter any maniacs at a skatepark you’ll be the first person I call.” “I’m honoured.” The girl grinned. After that brief heart attack, the rest of them settled down with the teasing and Peter was almost able to enjoy the rest of the evening. After dinner they all settled in the living room to watch a movie, then a while later when Clint picked up the photo album again Peter decided it was time he and Tony drove MJ home. When they arrived at her apartment Peter hopped out with her to walk her to her door, leaving Tony to keep an eye out from the car. “Well thank you for dinner. I had fun.” MJ grinned as they walked up the steps to her building. “Yeah I noticed.” Peter pouted. Once they made it to the entrance to the girls building Peter realised that it was expected he kiss the girl goodnight- or at the very least social convention dictated it. He suddenly felt extremely nervous, maybe it was the late realisation or the fact they had a captive audience waiting in the car- but his stomach dropped. The moment of awkwardness lingered and the longer he waited to do something only made the feeling worse, so he panicked and kissed her- On the cheek. It was a quick peck that made MJ roll her eyes fondly and then to go inside, but Peter grabbed her arm. “No wait!” “What?” She laughed, allowing herself to be pulling in at the waist. “That one was for Goose.” Peter shrugged, laughing awkwardly. “Oh come here.” MJ rolled her eyes before she pulled Peter in again, this time initiating a proper kiss that lasted a good few seconds before they pulled away from one another. Peter was left as usual, slightly dazed and wobbly kneed whilst MJ grinned at him, and pinched his cheek annoyingly. “Nice job, you’re getting better at that.” But of course, the tender moment had to be ruined; this time by Tony opening his car door and loudly pretending to throw up. “Alright Tony! Jeezus.” Peter yelled back angrily over his shoulder, all the while MJ cackled wildly. Peter shook his head and turned back to her, this time offering a small wave as opposed to physical contact. “See you on Monday.” “Goodnight Parker.” MJ smiled as Peter hopped down the steps. She also took the opportunity to offer Tony one last wave before she went inside. “Later Mr. S!” “Bye!” Tony called back happily ignoring the glare he received from his son as he clambered into the passenger seat. “Well that went well.” “Yeah it did.” Peter said with a sigh of relief as he laid his head against the window. “Well, it coulda gone a lot worse anyway.” “You hungry?” Tony asked knowingly. “I’m freakin’ starving.” Peter groaned. He realised his slightly depleted mood despite the positive evening was probably due to the low blood sugar. He’d eaten more than what was considered a ‘normal’ sized portion at dinner, but he knew he couldn’t have what he usually would have since MJ was there. Restraining himself had been torture especially when she gave him funny glances at the size of his plate anyway. He’d forced himself to leave a few bites behind, whilst acting like he was full even though he was still hungry and his dad had noticed. “Yeah I don’t know how we’re gonna manage that if you guys end up spending the night at each other’s places.” Tony said with a small sigh. The idea of Peter starving himself for a full twenty four hours was terrifying. Then again the realisation Peter was coming to the age where he might be staying at his girlfriends house was terrifying also. He shrugged that thought away with a shudder, more focused on the issue of his little boy not starving to death. “I think it’ll be a while before we get there dad. Besides get away with it at Ned’s.” Peter shrugged, not seeing the big deal. Or maybe he chose not to see the big deal because his mind's eye was focussing on the cheeseburgers he was about to devour. “Yeah because Ned knows.” Tony rebutted. The other boy was fully equipped to sneak Peter extra food. It also helped Ned’s family was large, so his mother would never notice if more food was eaten than usual; Peter could eat to his heart's content and they’d still have leftovers, Donna just figuring a few of them had seconds. “That and the kid has a more impressive hoard of candy than Bruce and me put together- but if you end up staying the night over at MJ’s when her dad’s out of town she won’t know to feed you extra.” “I’ll take some of my shakes with me.” Peter understood his dad's concern, he really did, but to him it didn’t seem insurmountable. “I’ll figure something out pops, don’t worry.” Sensing he wasn’t going to get a mature conversation out of his son whilst he was hungry Tony left it there to be revisited at another date. “Hmm.” After feasting on fast food, Peter spent the rest of the evening downstairs in the lab this dad, just talking and occasionally tinkering with random projects. Only when Tony sent Peter off to bed did the man reconvene with the other adults upstairs who were eager to hear Tony's take on the evening. They made it upstairs where Steve greeted them. “Well hey you!” The man smiled when Peter gave him a quick hug, pleased to note the boy wasn’t too mad about him embarrassing him. “Now was that so bad?” “No.” Peter mumbled. Okay, he was still a little mad, but mostly he was grateful. MJ was right in what she said earlier, he couldn’t be too upset about having so many adults looking out for him. Even if they did have a tendency to go a little overboard. He also was conscious of making Steve feel bad, so he decided to keep his grievances to himself. For now. “Thank you for not being too embarrassing.” “You’re very welcome.” Steve chuckle, kissing the top of Peter’s head before ushering hun towards his room. “Now off to bed with you, we’re up extra early tommorow.” “How come? We goin’ hiking?” Peter asked as he took his evening meds. “You bet we are, we gotta work off the McDonald’s your dad let you get on the way home.” Steve called after him as he scampered off to his bedroom. Once the boy was gone Steve and Tony sat down beside one another on the couch. “Well I think that went rather well.” “It did.” Tony nodded in agreement. “You’re not serious about doing a talk at their school are you?” “Oh I’m deadly serious. I don’t know what gave you the impression that I was joking.” Steve said flatly. “I know it’s all fun and games to make kiddo blush but come on- the school seriously can’t expect their students to receive no formal education on these things.” “Maybe his school is more for experience based learning.” Nat chimed in from where she was sat on the other side of the room. “That isn’t funny Nat.” Steve scowled, his face souring at the thought. “Tony, are you seriously not worried about him?” “Doing drugs or having unprotected sex? We are talking about the same kid right? No. Not at all.” Tony said seriously, though he smirked at the idea, finding it genuinely amusing. “He’s a good kid, he’s also an honest kid. He tells me everything, there’s no need for me to worry.” “Are you sure about that?” Clint asked. Tony frowned and turned to him. “What?” “That he tells you everything.” The archer elaborated, something about his tone setting the other man on edge. “Yes.” Tony said deadpan, not expecting anyone to oppose him on that fact. He tried to brush the comment off but then he noticed Clint was smirking. “What?” “Hm.” The archer hummed thoughtfully before standing and exiting the room, leaving Tony with an uncomfortable look on his face. “What does that mean?” Tony called after him, calmly at first before his brows furrowed more as he considered what the was implying. “Clint! What does that mean?!” “Ignore him he’s being an Asshole.” Nat rolled her eyes. She knew full well how much credence Tony put into Clint’s parental advice, so she knew what Clint was trying to do. “He should know not to pull that kinda shit with me.” Tony grumbled. Peter did tell him everything, he even told him about Flash- why would Clint plant that kind of doubt in his head. That fucker- he knew exactly what he was doing. Tony would get him back.
“Sasuke! Get back here you bastard!” Naruto was running as fast as he can, the rest of the fondly dubbed ‘Sasuke Retrieval Team’ hot on his heels like a pack of nin-dogs. There were also actual ninken running with them, courtesy of his latest devotee’s willingness to prove himself to his last student (as much as he would have liked to, Kakashi couldn’t really count Sakura seeing as she had been poached by the hokage personally). The turncoat was not far ahead of the group, ninja from Sound running with him faithfully even as they looked back on the gaining Konoha ninja apprehensively. Just as it seemed he would be able to reach him, Naruto held out an arm to snag the collar of the Uchiha’s ridiculously low-cut shirt only for a feminine hand to bat his away just as the two collectives burst into a clearing that broke the monotony of the forest the chase had taken place in. The three ninja, looking like a strange flag with their respective black, red and white heads next to each other, quickly made their way to the other end of the opening before turning to face their pursuers. Sasuke’s face was red-hot with childish indignance at the fact that Naruto had managed to both find, and catch up with him so quickly. He let his dark eyes sweep the group before him as he smugly took in the fact that they had sent so many elite shinobi after him. He preened under the attention; Kakashi Hatake, Maito Guy, Shikamaru Nara, Naruto and a ninja he had never seen before gazed back at him, an impressive range of emotions being expressed between them. Particularly disturbing was the unknown man, who was standing directly at the clown’s left shoulder, who was looking at him as a wolf might stare down a particularly plump sheep. Tearing his gaze away from the disturbing ninja, Sasuke let his features settle into a familiar smirk as he addressed the fool that was beginning to slowly approach him, standing (surprisingly) at the head of the group. He scoffed inwardly when he surmised that it was most likely because he was the one Sasuke was most ‘attached’ to. Tch, as if. “Why did you come after me, dead-last?” he sneered unkindly at the still advancing blonde, whose face was strangely solemn. His uncharacteristically grave eyes looked like they’d seen some shit, not that Sasuke cared, “Because we’re friends?” The last word was said scathingly, eliciting a chuckle from his Sound companions; although it did seem slightly forced on Karin’s part.“Just come back, Sasuke, I’m not in the mood for this,” Naruto sounded exasperated and the Uchiha bristled. How dare he act like he was the annoyance! Still, he hadn’t yet said a word about any friendship nonsense. Good, it seemed that the message had finally made it through his thick skull. Sasuke opened his mouth to continue taunting his old teammate when a sudden rustle behind him made him whip around. He stared into his ex-sensei’s cheerful eye, but when he attempted to jump away from him he found that he couldn’t move a muscle. Out of the corner of his stiff eyes, he could see the Nara gazing up at him with a lazy grin, his shadows extending to Sasuke’s own, and he growled lowly. Naruto relaxed his stance now, the silver-haired man (who hadn’t left his side) panting in excitement, his eyes shining maniacally, “Huh, that was kinda anticlimactic. Oh well, we’ve got you Sasuke, time to come home.”Sasuke grit his teeth, looking to his comrades to find that they too had been caught by Shikamaru’s clan jutsu. He saw Suigetsu’s form begin to quiver slightly, and he gave a dark grin. He had a trick up his sleeve still. “You’re naïve to think you’ve won, moron,” Naruto rolled his eyes at the comment, only making the raven’s hackles rise more. “I will always beat you!” he literally spat, the spittle finding its home on Kakashi’s mask, which he wiped at disgustedly, eye that had still been carefully on his wayward student closing now with the action.Seeing his chance, Sasuke hissed, “Now Suigetsu!”And as if time was moving in slow motion, Naruto could see everything unfold. The swordsman dematerialised, effectively releasing himself from the shadow jutsu, only to reform immediately. He unsheathed his sword and thrust it defiantly at his sensei. His sensei who was too close in proximity to do anything about the surprise attack. Kyuubi felt his panic and Naruto knew his eyes had regressed into feline slits as he threw his hand towards the masked man. He couldn’t die. “Kakashi-sensei! No!” he reached desperately for the shinobi, whose eye had widened as he finally comprehended his situation. Seeing the inevitably encroaching blade, he gave his student a peaceful smile, unlike any Naruto had ever seen before. And then his head flew off of his shoulders. Letting out an unearthly screech that was neither animal nor human, Naruto fell to his knees and Kurama’s chakra curled around him protectively. Eyes red as much now with oncoming tears as with supernatural energy, he turned his head to where he could feel Hidan about to take his own action. “Make them pay.”With an odd combination of glee at finally getting to see some action, and rage at the stupid teenagers that managed to unsettle his Jashin-sama, Hidan went to work. It only took a moment of horrified spectating for Guy to join the man in his fight with his own emotion-filled battle cry, seeking to avenge his eternal rival and friend. Shikamaru meanwhile had immediately returned to Naruto’s side, a hand on his shoulder in understanding while he glared at the Jashin priest who had killed his own sensei; but who had been rendered untouchable on the hokage’s orders. It was a world of injustice that they all lived in. The fight was, unsurprisingly, not long – what with two seasoned killers going up against a newly minted team of teenagers, and it was only a matter of time before two waves of the unearthly chakra Naruto had come to associate with Hidan’s sacrifices rolled over him. There was no associated pain or nausea this time though, a fact Naruto would contemplate later as, for now he had the traitor to deal with. He rose, unaware of Shikamaru’s sudden removal of his hand from his person or his bewildered gape. Sasuke was restrained and kneeling, face bruised and body bloody from the short battle, but he was glaring at his two captors with a vehemence that would have set them alight if it could. Both Guy and Hidan looked to Naruto, one startling when he did and the other’s eyes widening as a pleased grin spread across his face. Sasuke did the same, the venom in his glare quickly replaced with shock as he took in his teammate’s appearance. He had seen Naruto in his various stages of kyuubification, but this. This was something else entirely. Naruto was stalking towards him with such hate in his gaze that he would not have thought the blonde capable of generating. His lips were pulled back in a snarl that exposed, to his utter bafflement, two rows of sharp, shark-like teeth. His whiskers were indeed darker and more prominent, and his irises a demon-fox red, but his sclera had tendrils of black swirling into normal their milky white. He looked, for lack of a better term, like a vengeful demon. Naruto stopped short when he reached Sasuke and tugged his head back sharply by his shoulder-length hair, his snarling breath animalistic in his face. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right now,” he said quietly, and the words were so much more terrifying than they would have been if he had screamed them at him. Sasuke trembled with a fear he had not known in so many years, and he cursed himself for it. He looked desperately to his two guards, and the silver-haired one watching on with a wide smile on his face was clearly going to be no help at all in preserving his life so he turned to Maito Guy who (to his frustration) was not even looking at him. He was, instead, sharing an overtly concerned look with the Nara who had made his own way closer as well. He gulped when Naruto tugged his hair harshly in an attempt to return his attention to him, “We’re friends?” he squeaked. Naruto snarled and Sasuke flushed red at his vocal mishap (he would take that squeak to his grave), but did not say anything more. What could he say? Then, with a bout of luck that he was wholly undeserving of, the boy was spared by the most unlikely voice speaking up and making the clearing’s occupants fall into an astonished silence themselves. “Come on, Naruto. This isn’t my precious student at all.” Yep, that infuriating patronising tone definitely belonged to Hatake Kakashi, “You’re gonna regret it if you kill him now, as much as he deserves it.”Naruto shook his head to clear it, effectively clearing the eerie new additions to his features as well and then turned to look at where the Hatake’s body was still laying. His jaw dropped, “S-sensei?” The man’s disembodied head was laying a way off from where his body was now twitching like something from a horror film, but he still managed to eye smile at his favourite genin, “Yep.”Naruto only continued to gape, joined by his companions now, and an increasingly paler Sasuke who trembled as he turned to look at the spectacle, his widened dark eyes appearing thoroughly haunted. “Uh – a little help here?” The only one who could move was, unsurprisingly, Hidan and he whooped as he scooped up the grey-haired head and reintroduced it to its body. He dragged it by its shoulders into a sitting position where it remained like a puppet with its strings cut, before placing Kakashi’s head on the neck it had been cleanly removed from.It immediately fell off again. Hidan chortled like he didn’t know that was going to happen before pulling the Hatake’s body into its feet where Kakashi’s head realised that he could actually control it, he took his head from Hidan and held it facing the assortment of ninja in the clearing. He cleared his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing from way above his crown, before addressing them.“It would seen that we need lady Tsunade.” He then grinned insufferably and Naruto realised that yes, this was happening; yes, his sensei was apparently immortal and yes, Hidan was looking at him with the smug expression of a cat that got the proverbial cream. That was, until he remembered his place and immediately dropped to the ground and pressed his face to the floor. A mumbled ‘Jashin-sama’ could be heard from the grass and he heard Gai sputter behind him. He turned around to give the other three men a ‘what can you do’ shrug that was offset by the spooked look in his eyes when there was a fumbling and a cry of indignation as Kakashi’s body dropped his head to follow Hidan’s lead. Naruto sagged, and was about to explain the situation when the Green Beast of Konoha, apparently having come to his own conclusions, followed suit shortly after his eternal rival. He would not be outdone after all, immortality or not. He met an aghast Shikamaru’s eyes, before the Nara came up to him and shakily patted his shoulder, staring at the prostrate men before looking back to Naruto, entirely lost for words. Naruto felt his knees buckle but was caught by his peer before he could collapse to the floor himself, the sheer relief at his sensei’s (against all odds) miraculous survival and at the success of their mission. He turned back to look at his ex-teammate, a satisfied grin on his face at finally being able to return his once tentative friend to the village, to Sakura. When he saw the boy’s expression, he sagged in defeat. On the bright side, Sasuke was finally looking at him with something other than disdain. Unfortunately, it seemed as if he was now utterly terrified of him.
“Are you watching that again?” Cas flinched at Dean’s voice but then relaxed back into the armchair. He’d curled up under a blanket and made himself into as small of a ball as possible. “It’s a different one, I think,” he said. The chair shifted slightly as Dean leaned against it. “It’s not,” he said. His finger pointed at the blurry couple in the background. “Those two were in the last one you watched, doing the same thing.” “This is a different angle.” Cas moved the video forward with his finger, fast-forwarding through the parts he already knew – the two of them grinding on the dance floor, the karaoke version of Bohemian Rhapsody they’d led from on top of the bar, and Dean teaching the crowd to line dance while Cas sat on the edge of the stage calling out fake names for the steps. Several commenters had pointed out that was for square dancing, not line dancing, but that barely added to Cas’ embarrassment. He stopped when he saw something new. “I rode a mechanical bull.” The video blurred a bit but he still saw himself slip right off the leather monstrosity as soon as it started. “Did you even know that club had a mechanical bull?” Dean laughed. “Not a clue.” Dean came onto the screen then, crawling over the ropes to get to Cas. He lay down on top of him and kissed him hard on the mouth, before moving his mouth downwards, promising to “kiss away the hurt.” “Oh god.” Cas looked away from the phone. “Please tell me you don’t—” Dean grabbed the phone and cut the video. When he handed it back to Cas, it was on the home screen and he’d force-closed the Twitter app. “I won’t tell you,” he said and patted Cas’ shoulder in a friendly way. Cas stared at the apps on his phone until the screen faded and then went black. He sighed and buried his face in his hands, trying to block out all the blurry memories that had somehow stuck with him. Half the time he wasn’t sure what was a memory and what he had seen emerge from Twitter in the last two days. “I’ve got to go, babe.” Dean stepped in front of him as he pulled on his jacket, his eyes concerned. “You’re going to be all right here?” Cas forced a smile. “Unless Charlie kills me.” “Good thing you know self-defence.” Dean kissed him quick, then headed out the door. Before it slammed behind him, Cas heard the clamour of the paparazzi on the front lawn, the shouted questions and quick camera flashes. He glanced towards the windows, just to check that the blinds were still firmly shut. Slowly, Cas uncurled himself from the armchair and went about getting ready for the day. Not that he had much to do that day. Sam had been clear on the phone Wednesday morning – don’t leave the house unless it’s absolutely necessary, let him handle the fallout. And he still hadn’t gotten the all clear to leave the house. Dean had. Dean could go wherever he wanted. Dean was welcome to act like a hedonistic asshole and then just go about his day as if nothing had changed. Cas took too long of a shower, dressed in his sweats, and headed downstairs to make another pot of coffee. He had left his phone on the living room table and could hear it buzz. He didn’t need to look at it to know it was Charlie warning him of her approach. He closed his eyes against the dread curling its way through his intestines and listened to the gentle drip of the coffee pot. The front door opened and he startled. Past that, he didn’t move. Footsteps approached, then stopped. Cas opened his eyes to look at the coffee machine, willing it to drip slower, but it sputtered to a stop almost instantly. Traitor. Cas grabbed the handle and poured coffee all the way to the brim of his mug. He sipped at it without waiting, burning his tongue but swallowing through the pain. “Are you going to look at me?” Cas wanted to burrow deep into the ground and not come up until winter was over. But, he turned around and met Charlie’s eyes with as neutral of an expression as he could manage. Given that he hadn’t shaved in two days and had recently burned his tongue, he doubted he was doing a great job at acting like everything was okay. He’d already been part of a “serious discussion” with Sam and been outright yelled at by Kelly. At least Charlie hadn’t booked the first flight back to L.A. to lecture him when he was still coming down and coffee had tasted like ash. “What the fuck were you thinking?” Cas shrugged. “Dean needed to boost his image. We went clubbing.” “Cute. You think you can lie to me.” “I’m not lying.” “You were high,” Charlie snapped the words like she wanted to stab him with them. “On a Tuesday night. Between the live streams and your Twitter followers, the world knew about it in seconds. Your kids knew. Your producers knew. The tabloids knew. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Cas licked his lips. “I wasn’t high.” The lie sounded thin to his own ears. She blinked at him. “There’s a thirty second video that’s nothing but you yelling, ‘I took ecstasy’ over and over and over again. Some asshole made a music video out of it. It’s a popular reaction gif, not that it makes any sense as a reaction gif, but don’t expect the internet to make sense.” She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorway. “So do you want to try this again but tell me the truth this time?” Cas wanted to not have this conversation. He wanted to have already had this conversation three or four days ago or maybe a century ago. As the possibility of time travel lingered in his mind, he sipped his coffee and rounded the counter. He hoisted himself up onto one of the stools and buried his face in his mug. Charlie entered the room and slammed her hands down on the counter. “Please tell me that the only excuse you have for your behaviour is not ‘but Dean’s reputation.’” He shifted his jaw and looked up at her blankly. “Don’t let him drag you into his bad press black hole.” “That’s not fair.” “You’re reputation is all you fucking have.” Her eyes flashed with fire and fury. “Or do I have to remind you that your comeback movie isn’t even out yet? That the cast for your TV show hasn’t even been announced yet? You are getting offers based off of your reputation.” “I’m getting offers because I’m Dean Winchester’s boyfriend,” Cas snapped. He hated the anger that bubbled up in him almost as much as he hated the instantaneous urge to vomit. Closing his eyes, he licked his lips and added in a more measured tone, “So don’t you think it’s good for my reputation to be seen with him?” She shook her head. “You don’t get it. Dean’s allowed to be a wild card. As long as makes music and doesn’t kill anyone, the label doesn’t give a half a fuck what he does to wind up in magazines. But if you, an actor, get a reputation as difficult and lazy and substance-dependent—” “You are blowing this way out of proportion.” “You are missing the damn point!” she shouted. “If you keep this up—” “It was one fucking night. So calm the fuck down.” He met her measured glare with one of his own. He had very little experience staring Charlie down and even less experience being on the opposite side of an argument with her. Silence trickled through the kitchen, the stove crackling as it cooled down and the coffee machine whirring as it tried to keep the water boiled. Then, Charlie sighed. She rested her elbows on the counter, her chin in her hand, and looked at him with something approaching genuine concern. Cas could almost feel his heart break. “I just want you happy,” she said. “Happy and famous and with your kids. Can you understand why this behaviour concerns me?” “Yes.” Cas reached across the counter and touched her arm. The contact felt awkward and familiar all at once. He pulled back. “But Dean makes me happy. And you don’t like him. Can you understand why I feel like you’re attacking him?” “Because I am?” She shrugged. “He’s not good for you.” “You made me do this. I didn’t want to.” “And I wanted to pull you.” She stepped back from the counter as her voice rose again and sighed. Running a hand through her hair, she said, “Look, Sam’s on damage control. And he’s doing a damn good job. So if you won’t listen to me, maybe listen to him when he tells you not to do dumb shit without running it by him first.” Cas nodded. She left the room for a moment and came back with her bag. She dug through it until she found her iPad. Unlocking it, she flipped through her email folder until she got to the one she wanted. She placed the device in front of Cas and zoomed in on the calendar PDF. “These are the finalized dates for the Dreaded Darkness press tour. “The pink dates are the interviews you have with Balthazar.” She pinched the screen to blow up the five dates in March highlighted in pink. “I did my best to keep them limited but you are the leads. So you’re going to have to do some press together. Blue are the interviews you’re doing alone. Yellow is for group interviews and events. And white is for the unconfirmed dates where you may or may not be with Dean.” Cas raised an eyebrow. “His team hasn’t confirmed that he’s available.” “I could just ask him.” She shook her head and pulled the iPad back. “It’s a bunch of red tape, mostly. Dean won’t be able to get his press team to move any faster than I have.” She tapped around on the screen a few more times as she spoke. “The first couple of interviews are in town at the end of the month. After that, you’re doing all the big talk shows and events across the country.” “Big push for a horror movie.” Charlie slipped her iPad back into her bag. “They’re excited to have you back on screen. And they spent a lot of money to make this film.” She glanced up at him again. “Don’t give them a reason to regret that.” Cas bit his tongue to stop from saying something he’d regret. Instead, he simply inclined his head as Charlie left the room again and then exited the house to the sound of clamouring reporters. He wondered if on the way in or out she’d offered a sound bite to defend him. As he glanced towards the covered windows, he wondered if he’d ever be allowed out of the house again.
They made it to the tower in one piece and landed on the helicopter pad, about five floors from the roof of the massive building. Peter lead the way and the door automatically slid open for him FRIDAY’s voice came on, “Mr. Parker, Mr. Wilson who is it that you have with you?” “Oh hey FRIDAY, these are alternate universe versions of Spider-man, could you inform Tony that we could really use his help,” Peter responded pulling off his mask and heading toward the elevator. “Could you take us to the labs?” “Of course Mr. Parker,” FRIDAY responded once they were all inside. When the elevator started moving the AI came back on. “Mr. Stark would like to tell you that he wants to believe that you’re lying, but after careful thought, he will meet you at the lab.” “Thank you FRIDAY,” Peter said with a chuckle. After a while Miles spook up for the first time in a while, “So, what exactly are the Avengers?” “Like what are they in general? Or what are they in this universe?” Peter asked. “Um, what are they at all? You all keep talking about Tony Stark, but um he’s um died a while ago.” Miles said, scratching the back of his head. “I got this,” Deadpool said rubbing his hands together. “Alright so, in 2008 Tony Stark was captured in Afghanistan and built a suit of armor in order to escape from where he was being kept, then the great Nick Fury and Phil Coulson and Nat pressured him into starting the Avengers with Black Widow, Hawkeye, Hulk, Thor, and Captain America. Then mayhem ensued and we got various other people and there’s some mutants that may or may not be running around the building.” “That’s about the same as in my universe,” the teenage Peter said. “Only with the whole death thing,” Peter said making a face like he had just bitten a lemon. “Dude, are you sure you’re okay?” Miles said again. They continued descending in the elevator talking about the differences in the Avengers in each of the universes. Miles was quiet, a lot of the time, speaking up every once and a while to ask what various jargon or nicknames meant that both of the Peters were using. When the elevator opened Tony was waiting for them leaning against the door to one of his labs. A couple other people were milling around, probably waiting to see what was going on. Steve, Bucky, Clint, and Nat were trying to act as nonchalantly as possible, like they would normally just be hanging out at Tony’s labs. They wouldn’t, Peter knew for a fact that they would normally be anywhere but on the same floor as Tony’s lab. “Hey Tony,” Peter said raising his hand. “Hey, what weird thing have you brought me today?” Tony asked. “Tony, and everyone else,” Peter said waving his hands at everyone else that was milling about. “Meet Peter and Miles, they’re each from different universes and they’re trying to jump universes in order to get back to their original ones, but the thing that they were using broke. Apparently, Peter’s Tony made it, so I was hoping that you would be able to fix it.” Tony shrugged and turned to open the door, “Come on in guys.” They followed Tony into one of the glass-enclosed labs that filled the floor of the Avengers Tower in a gridwork setup. Deadpool sat in one of the roll-y chairs that were strewn across the room and pulled out his phone to start fiddling on while Peter and teenage Peter started fiddling with the watch thing that teenage Peter and Miles had used to jump universes. Miles looked just as bored as Wade was and eventually Wade rolled his chair over to where Miles was standing. “So…” Wade said rolling by. “Why have you been so quite Mr. Miles?” Miles shrugged. “Come on Spidey-boy, what’s going on. I can read people like a book, especially spider-people.” Peter snorted from across the lab. “Don’t laugh at me Pete, I speak only the truth.” Wade threw a crumpled up ball at the back of Peter’s head. Peter caught it and threw it back without looking and Wade just let it hit him and fall to the ground. “But like what’s going on Miles, why aren’t you helping them out over there?” Wade said nodding over at them. “I’m not really into all of the science stuff. Aunt May helps me out with all of the web shooters like she made mine and she’s not even my aunt. But I don’t know, this,” he said, waving at the room in general. “I’m sorry, this must be a lot to take in,” Wade said, attempting to seem apathetic, he was starting to get antsy. “Yeah, and like that was Captain America, right?” Miles asked, pointing his thumb in the direction that he had come from. “Yeah, he’s secretly a gossiping old woman,” Wade said trying to fake whisper. “How old is he?” Miles looked confused about everything that was going on. “He died in the 1940s, how is he even here?” “He also died in this universe too, he just got like frozen in ice and his super-enhanced body kept him alive for when Tony found him,” Wade explained. “So I guess yours is still stuck in that ice if he even crashed the plane in the same spot.” “I guess,” Miles shrugged. “It’s just weird, like I’ve never met these people, I’ve never met you. It’s just weird, I’ve kind of gotten over the multiple of the same like superhero, but not the same exact person.” Wade nodded. “Well, I’m Wade Wilson, asshole extraordinaire,” he said holding out his hand for a handshake. “It’s nice to meet you.” Miles took his hand, “Miles Morales. It’s nice to meet you too.” “Do you want a tour of the tower to meet everyone?” Wade asked, “We can introduce you to everyone, bug them at the same time, and get out these three’s hair.” “Shure,” Miles shrugged.
Nico stood rather awkwardly by the kitchen table while Will ordered a large cheese pizza and an order of cinnamon sticks. “Yes that’s delivery,” he said for the third time. “Okay. Thank you. Have a nice day. You too. Bye.” He hung up the phone and faced Nico. “Should be here in about forty minutes. In the meantime,” he said, spreading his hands, “is there anything I can get you? Water? A sweatshirt? You look like you’re going to freeze.” “Will, we’re inside your house.” Will frowned. “Still. The AC is turned up pretty high. Should I—” “Will,” Nico cut in. “I’m fine.” “Oh.” He turned a little red. “Okay.” Nico twisted the ring on his finger. “There’s actually something else I wanted to talk to you about.” Will’s eyes widened. “Oh?” His expression was strangely unreadable. “Yeah,” Nico said. “Um, so…” He trailed off. “I don’t really know how to put this nicely.” Will’s face fell. “Wait!” he yelped. “It’s nothing, um, bad about you. I promise. I’m not—that’s not what I was going to say. I—you—you’re a great friend, Will. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He could feel the blood rushing into his cheeks. “It’s, uh, about me, actually.” “Okay?” He cleared his throat. “Yeah. So, uh, have you ever heard people talking about me?” Will frowned. “Well, yeah, of course. Kayla calls you stupid zombie-related names all the time and asks how you’re doing, Austin keeps telling me that I need to catch you up on music, Jason came up to me once and—” He cut himself off, glancing at the floor and drumming his fingers on the island that separated them. “Um, anyway, yeah. All good things, though.” “Oh,” Nico replied. “Well, uh, on my end of things, it hasn’t always been…like that.” He swallowed. “People say things about me behind my back. Always have, ever since I got to camp. They call me weird, they call me creepy, they call me scary, whatever. I don’t give a shit about any of it.” Will blinked. “I’ve never heard anybody say that. Well, besides Drew once, maybe, but she just thought you could do better without the whole goth-punk-homeless look you’ve got going on. She wasn’t, like…mean, or anything. No one ever has been.” Nico shook his head. “Unfortunately, that’s not true. Everybody talks about me; you just haven’t heard it yet. But that’s not my point.” He sat down on one of the barstools, worried that his knees were going to give way underneath him if they kept trembling so much. “What I’m trying to tell you is that it’s about you now. Now when people are talking about me, they’re bringing you into it, asking why in Hades such a cheery sunshine-and-rainbows kind of guy like you would ever want to hang out with someone like me.” Will went completely silent, his face inscrutable. Nico sighed. At least now he had sort of released the words he’d been cooping up for so long. “I just want you to know that this is what you’re getting yourself into if you want to be friends with me. It’s not going to be good for you.” He hesitated when Will still didn’t move a muscle. “I just thought you deserved to know.” For a painful thirty seconds, Will was silent. But when he finally spoke up, his voice was as heavy and cold as a glacier cutting across a valley. “Who?” “What?” “Who, Nico? Who said that?” Nico hesitated. “I—I don’t know, exactly. I’ve just heard the whispers, seen people looking at us funny when we walk by. I thought it was all obvious what they think of us, really.” Will then closed his eyes and let out a long sigh without opening his mouth again for a few moments. Nico wondered whether he was about to cry, or scream, or maybe both. But he didn’t. He spoke very calmly, in fact. “Nico,” he began, eyes still shut. “I need you to listen to me very closely.” Nico nodded, then realized Will couldn’t see that, and uttered a tiny “okay.” “Those people—whoever you’re even talking about—are not saying what you think they’re saying. It’s not even close. I can personally guarantee that.” Nico crossed his arms. “And why am I supposed to believe that?” Will finally opened his eyes again, but slowly enough to show that he really would have preferred to not. “Just trust me.” “I can’t if you don’t give me good reason to, Will. If they’re not talking shit about you for being friends with me, and vice versa, then what in Hades are they whispering about?” He shook his head. “I can’t tell you.” “Why?” “Because it’s stupid. It’s just a stupid thing and it’s completely about me. It’s not you at all.” “I don’t believe that for a second. They started doing it even more after you left! I’m telling you, they—” He was interrupted by Will all but physically leaping over the counter to grab both of his hands in one of his own and clasp them tightly together. “What if I swear on the Styx? Will that make you believe me? Because I do. I swear on the River Styx that this has nothing to do with them thinking you’re undeserving of being my friend or whatever you said. I swear that it isn’t going to affect what I think of you at all and that it’s nothing for you to be concerned about. Got it?” Thunder rumbled in the distance. Nico’s hands were going a little numb, but he couldn’t be bothered to mind. “I…got it,” he replied quietly. After an awkward silence, Will pulled his hands back like Nico’s were made of toxic waste. “So, uh…pizza should be here in a half hour or so.” Nico nodded rapidly, returning to his previous position on the barstool. “Uh, yeah. Yeah. And cinnamon sticks, whatever those are.” Will’s jaw dropped. “You’ve never had cinnamon sticks?” He was purposely acting melodramatic and he knew it, of course, but it was fun, especially after whatever that conversation was. Nico shrugged, going along with it. “Never. Are they a passing fad like fidget spinners and One Direction, or iconic like High School Musical and Mean Girls or whatever?” Will gasped and held both hands to his heart. “Nico! I am so proud of you. You’re catching on to pop culture so well. And who do I have to thank for showing you those movies?” “Jason and Piper. They’ve got a good stash in the Aphrodite cabin. I watched both of those just last week.” Will nodded approvingly. “Good to know. Well, cinnamon sticks would fall into the iconic category for sure. Just wait until you try them. The dough is like biting into a cloud, and the sauce is like liquid heaven—” He was cut off by a loud buzzing noise coming from the front part of the house. “The doorbell? The pizza guy wouldn’t be here already, would he?” He ran out of the room, leaving Nico with no real choice but to follow. When he arrived in the foyer, Will had already opened the door, and someone was stepping through. “Aunt Lindsey!” Will exclaimed. “Hi! I thought you were the pizza guy.” The woman was tall and thin, her black hair pulled back messily with a clip. She took off a dark leather jacket and then threw her arms around Will. “What, the cute one?” When Will pulled away, his cheeks were red. “No! I mean…anyway.” He stepped back and gestured. “This is my friend Nico.” Nico waved awkwardly, but the woman—Aunt Lindsey—grinned at him—a huge, friendly smile that he instantly recognized. “Hi, Nico. I’ve heard a few things about you.” Nico looked to Will. “Really?” Will was getting more and more flustered by the second. “I’ve just…mentioned you once or twice.” “Yeah, once or twice,” Aunt Lindsey repeated, still grinning. “I won’t bother you two anymore, though. Where’s your mom, Will? I’m here to check on her.” “Upstairs sleeping.” She nodded. “Alright. I’ll at least give her this, then.” She held up a small gift bag that Nico hadn’t noticed before. “Just a little something I thought she’d like from the boutique down the road. Catch you later, Will. Say hi to the pizza guy for me.” After a quick wink, to which Will groaned miserably, she headed quietly up the stairs. Will then turned to Nico. “Sorry. She’s annoying.” Nico smiled. “She seems great.” He hesitated. “And your mom seems great. And your house is great. This is all really…great.” Will gave a soft smile in return. “Thanks. Actually…thanks for even just being here, Nico. I’ve been—well, I’ve been kind of lonely, to be honest. I don’t really have any friends here, so it’s nice to get to hang out with you.” Nico shrugged, though his mind was running a mile a minute. “I’m glad I’m here, too. I don’t have a whole lot of friends, either.” Will raised his eyebrows. “That’s a lie and you know it.” Then he paused for a moment, his expression fading into something more unsure. “I, uh, was just wondering—how long are you planning on staying here?” “Oh,” Nico replied. “I, um, didn’t even think of that. I’m so sorry. I literally just invited myself, didn’t I? Oh gods, I’m such an—” “No, no!” Will cut in. “No, Nico, you’re welcome to stay for however long you want. I was just wondering…what that might be.” Nico considered this. He could play hard-to-get, stick to his aloof, loner facade he usually wore—but he also could have a great time with a great person for a few days, or even a week. Or eternity, his brain whispered. Shut up, he replied. Eventually, he collected himself enough to spread his hands and speak. “How about we wait and see?” Thank the gods; Will smiled. “Sounds good to me.”
Meridian! Another fight with her fiancé, soon she would go from Meridian Hayden to Mrs. Meridian Emerson, wife to Kendall Emerson. Isn't a girl supposed to be happy? Meridian was 5 foot 7 blonde with a skinny strong sculpted body. Her body was very lean and almost too skinny. It was not an intentional thing. She had been hit with a rare genetic disease that kept her very tiny, something she kept from almost everyone. Her face was framed by long platinum blonde hair to her waist with bangs. Her eyes were blue like the turbulent ocean that seemed to have hidden depths to them. Her skin resembled that of a pale porcelain doll. Her eyes were brilliantly accented with thick dark lashes. She was gorgeous in her own right yet not stuck up about it. She never completely understood how beautiful she really was. She was the girl who made everyone comfortable and made them laugh. Meridian was sarcastic and funny with the ability to charm. Meridian was the girl who was different depending on the person or group she was with. Those she let really get to know her always felt there was something hidden because each person only got to see one side of her. No one knew everything. She was a chameleon in her own right. She felt there was something inherently wrong with her upcoming marriage. Instead of happiness she focused on the foreboding doom she felt. She was supposed to somehow settle down. Yeah, what a laugh that was. She was marrying a guy who had no clue who she really was. No one really did. They constantly fought over her working a night job along with a day job, the never ending jealous accusations and picking a fight with her before work was wearing her down. She hid her night life and night career from him. Kendall Emerson was very handsome 28 year old with a very reserved demeanor and a lack of excitement other than horrid spouts of jealousy (especially over her new boss now) and emotional outbursts. He was 6 foot tall with short blonde hair and a thin build. They had been getting along up until the last 2 months when he had begun to rush their wedding. Things were at a comfortable lull beforehand but not exciting. Her friends had continually asked her why they were engaged and getting married. Now she was second guessing it. Meridian had been working for Marcus Benedict for about 1 week. He is the International CEO of Benedict Imports and self made billionaire. It was Monday and he normally worked nights but he wanted to be able to work out Meridian's work schedule. Who was she to complain about working as a 2nd assistant to a man who liked to work nights? She would be working by herself most of the time. He would be working with the first assistant at night. He was a very attractive man which Meridian's fiancé was sure to remind her of continually in rages of jealousy. Marcus was a good 6 foot 3, dark black hair to his shoulders that he kept tied back neatly, olive skin tone, nice build and of course she couldn't miss his emerald eyes. He was always pristine in his appearance and wearing very expensive Italian suits. He came off as commanding as she was sure the position called for. She was still figuring him out. She had trained with the night assistant during the first week. This was the first week they had worked exclusively together. The night assistant was quite charming, Cynthia Le Vain, yes even Cynthia had laughed and said "you know if my husband wasn't so cute I'd have never taken his last name". The office employees were a bit odd but she'd take odd any day over working in a boring office of drones. She had noticed the normal smells of food that most offices get during lunch and breaks was not evident there. The office had more of a metallic smell. She liked that the office had a very high amount of security to the building and constant guards walking around. Monday was a normal day and she was able to finish quite a bit of work that had been put on hold until she was hired. Today Mr. Benedict wanted to go over her coming up with proposals for a new client welcome party towards the end of summer. They were scheduled to meet at 3 pm to go over the details of what he wanted to accomplish. She knocked on his door and when he said enter she asked if he was ready to go over the New Client Welcome Event. "Can I call you Meridian? I'm sorry I'm running late." "Of course Sir, Meridian is fine" she replied. "Meridian, call me Marcus. I'll come get you when I'm finished. Would you have a problem staying late so we can make some headway on the project?" he asked. "Not a problem. There's plenty of other work to be done" she said. "Hopefully this won't take long; I'll come get you soon." He walked around at 4:00 looking for her finding her reorganizing the supply closet. "Hi Meridian, I'm ready now. Sorry for the delay. You do know you could have the receptionist reorganize that or one of the other assistants?" giving her a puzzled look. "Ok so you've found out my problem, I'm a bit Obsessive Compulsive and one hour reorganizing the closet will save me hours later and avoid a possible mental break down" she said. She grabbed her folders and they went to his office table to go over the objective of the event. He kept losing his train of thought. Damn, she smells so good what is that roses and Egyptian musk. The musk reminded him of his vacation to the pyramids in Egypt. The roses reminded him of home. His mother had roses outside of their home in ancient Greece. It reminded him of his childhood. The smell of her was that of sex, vacation and home. He couldn't imagine a better smell. It was obvious this was not some perfume from any store. It was unique to her. He kept thinking how he'd love to pull play with her hair; wondering how long it was and wanting to run his hands through it. She always wears intricate buns and up styles with very little hair hanging down. He could see his hands removing the hair pins and running through her hair. He kept thinking how he'd love to run his hands over her waist to see just how tiny she was. Then his thoughts really got away from him. I could just see that tiny body of hers on top of me sliding up and down my thick cock. God, she's so tiny I wonder if I would fit. I could slide my finger over her clit and rub while using my other hand to guide her up and down. I bet she has gorgeous pert breasts with nipples the color of pink roses against that porcelain skin. I could cup her breast with my palm, clamp my teeth over one of her hard nipples and run my tongue against the tiny captured bud. Then I could bend that tight little ass of hers over this table, with one hand on her lower back and rub her clit with my other hand while I fuck her from behind. I wonder if she's loud, I'd love to hear her cry and shudder as she clenches and spasms around my cock as she comes. I'd love to lay her back on the table, push her skirt up and finger fuck her hitting her g-spot while sucking her clit till she screamed my name. I bet she tastes divine. Oh hell where did all that come from she's getting married for Christ's sake...what the hell am I thinking. "Marcus, did I lose you? I was wondering know how many people you were anticipating?" she asked. Damn if he could be less sexy that would make it so much easy with these close meetings. "Sorry, I'm not used to working early morning hours. Normally we have about 200 attendees but I'd like to increase to 350" he said. "Great then let me work on this and on Wednesday we can meet and go over the options. I've come up with ways to increase attendance, just let me know what time. I think you have time in the afternoon but confirm there are no other more urgent priorities" she said. "I'll confirm with you tomorrow morning, it's already 6:30 and it's been a long day. You should just shut things down and head out" he said. She left his office. She shut down her laptop and swore she heard a moan of "Meridian" as she headed to the elevator. ~~~~~~~ It was Tuesday afternoon and she hadn't seen him much due to meetings. "Hi I'm Mark Seagle with security. So you're the new day assistant?" He said as he sat down in the chair next to her desk in her office. "Hi I'm Meridian Hayden. Yes, I work for Mr. Benedict. Nice to meet you." "Sweets for the sweet?" He said as handed her a box of milk duds. "Thanks" she said. "So how long have you been with the company?" "Over 5 years. How do you like it so far?" "I'm really enjoying it." Just then Marcus Benedict walked in. He had seen Mark walk in and start talking to Meridian. He felt a huge surge of jealousy overwhelm him. "Mark can you stop by my office to discuss security for Friday?" "I'll see you soon Meridian, have a good day" Mark said as he left. They walked into Marcus's office and he shut the door. "Mark shouldn't you be doing your job instead of flirting with my assistant?" "I apologize sir. It won't happen again." Mark left Marcus's office. ~~~~~~~ On Wednesday Marcus got caught up in another meeting and said they should meet at 3 pm on Thursday. She was having a problem getting him out of her head. She was constantly wet when he was near. They got along and he was so sexy. He did seem to have a bit of an evil side he hid. She had seen him sternly reprimand several employees but that didn't scare her. She didn't think anything about him calling Mark into his office. Marcus was actually very considerate to her. With the way her relationship at home was going this was refreshing. Ken was always too busy to touch her. If she weren't getting married she'd love for Marcus to do anything he wanted with her. I bet he would touch me she thought. She kept thinking that Ken thought pussy was actually a cat and that clit was some kitchen appliance he wasn't familiar with. Someone seriously needed to draw him a diagram. Thursday at 3 pm she realized Marcus had been staring at her for a good 5 minutes saying "Meridian". "Oh sorry, I got lost in thought there." She said smiling and looked up at him. "Penny for your thoughts" he said chuckling. "They weren't worth a whole penny. Honestly, I was wondering which approach would work better for Ken to remember I was still in the room A. toss his X-box off the balcony while screaming "Fly Be Free" or B. pretending to be a tree until he notices but I might be there for a long time" she said while laughing. "Just stand nude in front of the TV" he said before realizing he said that out loud. Meridian smiled and laughed saying "didn't work". He just laughed. "Ok let me grab the proposals for us to go over" she said. "I'll meet you in my office" he said. Sitting at his table he kept telling himself to get it under control. When she walked in his phone rang. "One second Meridian. Hi Damon. Is that what you found on the background check?" She was thinking, damn I hope this isn't about me. "Ms. Hayden is in my office so go ahead and handle talking to him but be sure to also terminate his employment....Thank you Damon." They spent the next 2 hours going over proposals and he agreed with her choice and ways to expand the event. Being this close to him was killing her. She wanted to launch herself onto him and attack him until they both couldn't move any longer. They finished the last few details and when she licked her lips and looked over to him he lost it. As she stood up to leave and turned her head to smile at him, he knocked over his chair standing up. He cradled her face in his hands and before he even thought about it he was devouring her mouth. Neither paid any attention to the destruction they were about to create. She jumped into his arms putting her legs around his waist. Damn, even sweeter and hotter than he thought. She broke her lips away and started nibbling and licking the side of his neck up to ear while pulling out the tie that held his hair back. She then moaned in his hear while digging her hands into his hair. He grabbed her hips and sat her on the table. She slid her legs down from his waist. He had one hand cradling her head and the other hand was on her ass pulling her closer. He was nibbling at ear whispering in a language she did not understand but turned her on. He tilted her head and her lips opened as he slid his tongue into her mouth again. He was grinding against her. Her moaning and whining the entire time was driving him insane. She moved off of the table and it turned into somewhat of a tug of war make out session. He grabbed her hips pushing her against the wall. His hands were firmly on her hips lifting her as she wrapped her legs around his waist. He looked down seeing her skirt pushed up to her waist. Her long legs with garter and stockings were around his waist. Her tiny thong was pressing against his erection making him even harder. He moaned. He slid his hands up to her breasts massaging them with a hand on each side pushing up her cleavage through her low cut sleeveless top. He kissed and nibbled down her neck then ran his tongue around where her cleavage was trapped in her top. She started to whine and he kissed her deeply their tongues darting back and forth into each other's mouths. She lowered her legs, looking up him giving him an evil smile. She pushed off his suit jacket while running her hands over his shoulders. She ran her hands up into his hair pulling his ear near her mouth and nibbled on his ear and then started to sing a song in a beautifully soft voice. "Painless Chinese burns, ties me down with daisy chains, diamonds on her tongue and pleasure cuts and teasing." She then started pulling him by his tie. She pushed him back against the desk. His hand had pushed everything off of the desk. He was lying back on the desk when he realized she had removed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. Just then he moaned as she started licking and nibbling from his navel to his nipple. Then she clamped down her teeth on it. "Oh fuck Meridian" he gasp. That brought her back to reality. "I'm sorry, I've got to go I'm going to miss my trains. I'll see you in the morning. Everything is set for your meeting" she said rushing and leaving quickly. "Damn" he said as he ran his hand over his face. OK, now he knew he was in serious trouble. He was having a fight with himself in his head. Logan and Drake both exited the elevator on the 27th floor to see a hot blonde say "Excuse me" as she rushed into the elevator. She looked tussled with her hair starting to fall down. Logan was the newly appointed CEO for London and 6 foot 1 with black long hair tied back and chiseled Greek features and warm bronze eyes. Drake was the newly appointed President for London and 6 foot tall with matching long hair but in a warm bronze, lighter coloring and brilliant hazel eyes. Putting the 3 of them together at any one location looked like a meeting of the gods. Logan and Drake walked into the office and headed to Marcus's private office. Logan just started laughing seeing the destruction. The table had been knocked over along with the chair. The painting near the table had been knocked off the wall and the glass was broken. Marcus's desk was completely clear because everything had been pushed onto the floor haphazardly. Marcus was standing there with his jacket lying on the floor, the tie was hanging off a plant, shirt unbuttoned to the waist and his hair all disheveled and loose. "It's good to see you old friend. I'd ask you how your day was but it's kind of obvious at this point" Logan said while laughing. "Plus, I see you've changed your image, what is the term? Freshly fucked look? Was this all the destruction from that tiny blonde?" Drake said in a teasing voice. "She's my new assistant damn it. I don't know what happened, shit." Marcus was running his hand through his hair. "I can explain what happened if you need me to Marcus" Drake teased. "Enough" he yelled as he started buttoning his shirt and said "Let's go get a drink". He dialed security and had them send up someone to clean his office.
This is a copyrighted work of fiction by the author durablue. All rights reserved. Chapter 6 * "Ivy and my mom... they had a wreck a short time ago. Listen to me, Sam!" Daylon squeezed his hand when Sam's eyes began to change. "Don't! She's fine... they are both fine." "You... are you... sure?" "Yes. That was one of the paramedics. Ivy and Mom are bruised up, bleeding a bit, but okay. They are going to the hospital to run a few tests and check mom out. She lost consciousness for a short time. But they are alive and okay. We need to call my dad and Mary, then get to the hospital." "There's something else, isn't there?" Sam asked as he fished his cell out. This was not a call he looked forward to making. "I sensed danger, then I get a call that Mom had a wreck? And Ivy just happened to be with her? Contact Holland, too, after you call Mary. I want to know what the findings are the they establish what caused this. Call in a few favors if you have to. Also, tell Mary that we'll come get her, then pick up my dad. I want us all together." "You think someone tampered with your mom's car?" Sam asked. "Dad just had that car serviced, Sam. This should have happened," Daylon said, then looked at Sam. "Fuck, you are saying this wasn't an accident?" "That's exactly what I'm saying," Daylon said. * * * * "I'm okay, Daylon, stop hovering over me," Ivy said as Daylon once again checked her scrapes. "Where's the damn doctor?" Daylon growled at Holland. "And is there any word on Mom? Jesus, are all the doctors on a coffee break around here or what?" "Am I actually supposed to answer one of those questions?" Holland asked. The wolf was struggling for control, and coming close to winning. Daylon hated hospitals. The smell of stale urine, cleaning agents, the sickly-sweet scent of infections and abject hopelessness was bad enough, but add in the sensitive nose of a wolf... and his stomach churned. Of course, stress over his mate and his mother had to do with his condition. Daylon paced the small confines of the room, ready to hunt the doctor down if he didn't show up soon. What the hell was taking so long? Just as Daylon was ready to go tearing out of the room, the door opened and the doctor walked in. Daylon sniffed, and knew immediately it was another wolf. "Doctor..." "Macon. My name is Doctor Macon. I'm with the Springfield Pack." "Daylon McCloud. I'm the—" "Oh believe me, I know who you are. It's why I was asked to attend on these two cases. Sorry for the delay, I was at another hospital when I was called. The humans thought you would feel better with another wolf for a doctor." "They would be right. So... what's the damage here? How badly are my mate and mother hurt?" "I haven't had a chance to examine either of them. I'll start with Ivy then examine your mother," Dr. Macon said. Doctor Macon first checked Ivy's reaction to the small pen light he flashed in her eyes. "Hmm, pupils dilate normally," Dr. Macon said. "Is that good?" Daylon immediately asked. "Very much so," the doctor said. "Ivy, are you seeing double? Headache?" "No to both questions. There's a knot on my head where I hit the door and it's tender, but no headache or pain." "What year is it?" Dr. Macon asked as he ran his fingers over the bump. Ivy flinched a bit as he felt of it and Daylon growled softly. "2011," Ivy answered then looked at Daylon. "Daylon, calm down." "Hurt bad?" "Just tender like I said." "We can't rule out a concussion, so we'll watch it for a few days. Don't do anything strenuous. Anyone with you needs to watch out for signs of headaches, drowsiness, decreased coordination or nausea. Come to the ER immediately if any of those signs occur. Understand?" "Yes," Ivy said. "Thank god," Daylon growled again. "Daylon, I'm going to clean out a few of the deeper cuts, and bandage them so please stay calm. It will sting a bit but I'll be very gentle," Dr. Macon said. "Why don't you come stand behind me? I could use a hug right about now," Ivy said as the doctor started cleaning her cuts. Ivy wanted his attention on her, not what the doctor was doing. She nuzzled his neck. Daylon leaned in close and rested his head against hers. "I know what you're doing," he said softly. "Whatever works," Ivy said back. "Okay, I'm done and Ivy is fine. She could use with a swift transformation once you are home to help heal the scratches. I understand she also transformed at the scene, so that helped the healing process." "Have you been to see my mother yet?" "No, I came here first since you are the Alpha. Tests were run though when she came in and the results came back a short time ago." "I'm going to leave my second in command here with my mate. There is some question whether this was an accident and I don't want her alone." "That's fine by me," Dr. Macon said. Daylon and the doctor went to the next room and examined Kiara. Rigor was pacing the small area just as Daylon had been. "Well?" Daylon asked. "Considering the severity of the accident, they are both very lucky. Kiara has a slight concussion, according to the scan, and some bumps and scrapes. Your mate has a knot on her head and some scratches. Both will be sore, but should be okay. I'd like to keep Kiara for observation as a precautionary measure, nothing more," Dr Macon said to Rigor. "Oh... stay the night?" Kiara said. "Mom, this is the best thing for you so please don't argue, okay. My nerves are shot," Daylon said. "Oh my, a guilt trip, nicely done," Kiara said. "Learned from the best," Daylon said and winked at her. "Once I'm done, I'll give orders that everyone stay out of here for at least thirty minutes so she can transform. That will help with the speed of her recovery," Dr. Macon said. "Good," Rigor said. "I'll go get the release papers for your mate," Dr. Macon said. "I'll meet you in Ivy's room." "I need to have a word with my father, and then I'll be there," Daylon said as the doctor left. "I'm going to stay here with your mom," Rigor said as a nurse brought in sheets and a pillow for Rigor. "That might be a good idea," Daylon said. "Do you believe it was an accident?" Rigor asked. "None what-so-ever," Daylon replied, shifting from foot to foot. "Go on son, we're fine," Rigor said. Daylon returned to Ivy's room to find Doctor Macon waiting. He signed the release papers and helped Ivy dress. After a quick stop to see Kiara they left the hospital. Kiara would be released from the hospital in the morning. Both were very lucky, considering. After Ivy was released, she and Daylon went to the police station to fill out the reports and answer questions, the same questions asked in different ways over and over again. The detective was a wolf that Daylon knew in passing and had a good reputation with both the humans and wolves. "Again Detective Moss, the truck that stopped flicked the lighted cigarette out the window at us while Kiara's car was leaking gas," Ivy said. "And it wasn't a truck you'd seen before?" Detective Moss asked as Ivy shook her head. "I couldn't see the plate because it was covered with mud, as was most of the truck, and I'm not sure what color it was either. It might have been white, silver, or maybe gray. It might have been a GMC or a Chevy. And it did have those black-out windows." "What did the driver do again?" "Flicked a lighted cigarette out the window. The smell of gas was strong, and that had me worried more than anything." "Okay, we have everything we need for now. Daylon, remind your mom she needs to come see me tomorrow after she's released. It'll be better to do this while it's fresh." "I'll tell her," Daylon said as he walked Ivy out. Once home Daylon called in a favor and spoke with the Chief of Police. The cops had tried to canvas the flea market and ask questions but the place was just too big, and too many people came and went. Several hours later Daylon received a phone call, and finally had his answer on what happened. Ivy was standing next to Daylon when he got the phone call, and she knew immediately he didn't get the answers he wanted. His big body was shaking, and harsh growls were working their way up from his chest. His eyes lightened in his anger. "What! Are you sure? It's obvious the brake line had been cut? So there is no question this was done on purpose?" Someone on the other end answered, and the answer didn't calm Daylon down. "It's been gone over... completely? There was nothing, no fingerprints, nothing. Son of a bitch. Yeah, thanks Shep, I appreciate you getting back to me so fast." Ivy quickly wrapped her arms around Daylon and held on tightly. She was the only reason he didn't tear his whole office apart in anger... and fear. Fear was something Daylon wasn't used to dealing with. Neither was the guilt, and Daylon was consumed with guilt. "Nothing, there's nothing. No one saw anything; no one heard anything... just nothing!" Daylon said as he slammed down the phone. "It's like that damn truck just disappeared into thin air." "Daylon..." "What the hell was I thinking? I should have never let you go without an escort," Daylon said as he stormed around the office. "I knew there was a threat and—" "Whoa. I think I know where this is heading, and you can just stop it right now. This was not your fault. You are not to blame for what happened!" Ivy wound her arms around Daylon's neck. "Ivy, sweetheart, someone cut the brake line. Do you understand what that means? Someone the car you were in to crash. You and Mom, you both could have been killed." "I know that. Daylon, the person in the truck that stopped after the wreck was probably the one who.... I couldn't see the license plate..." "You sure you didn't recognize the truck?" "I haven't seen that truck in my life, and before you ask, I have never seen Dolmas drive a truck like that." "You know it was him, Ivy. I'd bet money it was him. I'm gonna rip him to pieces, and then I'm going to rip the pieces to pieces! I'm gonna go over there, drag his ass out of the house and—" "Daylon." "I should have killed his ass when I first had—" Ivy hugged her mate close to her. "You don't know for sure he was behind it! How could he have known we'd be at the flea market? Your mom didn't ask me to go until that morning. The trip was spur of the moment. Daylon, he couldn't have known." "He knew somehow. It might have been just sheer luck he saw you two there, and took advantage of an opportunity, and damn, that took some balls, the crazy fucker." Daylon ran his hand through his hair. "Or somehow he knew. I just don't know how. There's no he could have gotten on our territory without being seen." "Listen to me. You can't go and start a war with that pack with no proof. Daylon, there is proof. Innocent people could be killed and for what? A gut feeling?" Daylon rested his chin on Ivy's head. "Damn it, I hate this. I hate that you're right and there's nothing I can do without causing a war. I hate being level-headed." "I know that, but what other choice do we really have?" Daylon pulled Ivy closer to him. "You were the target, Ivy; I have no doubt over that. Promise me you will be careful." "I will be." "And promise me you won't throw a fit when I make sure someone is with you at all times." "Oh come on, are you serious? All the time?" "Whenever you're off our territory. I'm not going to compromise on this Ivy. I won't lose you, I can't. You're everything to me. I need to know you're safe. Ivy, please my beauty, don't fight me on this." Ivy raised he head up and kissed Daylon softly on the lips. "Well, since you asked so nicely... Holland isn't going to be happy." "He'll live," Daylon smirked. * * * * One wolf was happy, but another wasn't faring so well. Kern hadn't been done talking with Jade when he had been forced to run out of Lowe's. Hands shaking Kern tried to call Jade, only to get her voice mail. He hung up without leaving a message. Kern was desperate to see Jade. Kern was just desperate... period, and for good reason. There, sitting on the kitchen table, were Mr. Mac's homegrown tomatoes. The only place to buy them was at the flea market. He and Caleb had been out together when he had heard over the police scanner what had happened with Ivy and her mother-in-law. Kern had broken out in a cold sweat. A brief description of the vehicle thought to be involved went out over the air waves. The owner was wanted for questioning by the human police. Kern's own kind would be interested, too. Kern knew that Daylon would be heavily involved with the human side of the investigation, also. The connections he had went far up the ladder. His pack was rumored to have influence all the way to Washington. Not to mention the investigation Daylon would be doing... his mate had been attacked, and so had his mother. Neither brother had said anything, but they were thinking the same damn thing. There was little doubt about who was responsible. The main thing that confused Kern was the description of the truck used. As far as he knew they didn't own a truck like that. Kern and Caleb arrived home, only to find that their father wasn't there. And there, sitting like a proclamation of guilt, were the tomatoes. "Oh my god," Kern said, staring at them. "Kern..." "Don't say a word, not one word. We don't know for sure." "Yeah, right," Caleb said. There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and his head was pounding. "Don't say a word to Dad, Caleb. The less we know the better." "He's going to drag us into this; it's just a matter of time. Kern, I've been thinking... I don't want to tangle with Daylon over something as stupid as this. Ivy is mated, and Mom went willingly. And damn it, I don't want to die." "Just give me some time, okay. I'll think of something. I got to get out of here; I'm going to take a walk." "I think I'll cut the grass. It needs it and I want to get started before something gets said... with a fist." "Fine, you do that and I'll weed eat around the house and trees later," Kern said. Kern had to get out of the house; he needed air, needed space, and needed to think. He wandered around until he ended up near the back of their land. Way in the back, surrounded by trees, was an old barn they didn't use anymore. This part of their property was overgrown and abandoned. Weeds like goldenrod and ragweed stood waist high, and ivy was taking over the run-down barn. Kern brushed against the goldenrod and a shower of pollen covered the sleeve of his shirt. He brushed the gunk off and immediately sneezed. He hated goldenrod, damn weed was a pain in his ass. So, why were there tire tracks through the weeds and one of the barn doors slightly opened? Kern couldn't remember when the last time they had used this barn so there was reason for the door to be unlocked, much less opened. His stomach cramped, a nauseous feeling boiled in the pit of his belly. Kern made his way through the tall grass to the barn. For a moment he seriously debated turning around and going back to the house. "I've got to know," Kern whispered as he opened the door. The windows on the barn had been boarded up long ago. Light barely managed to slip through the cracks. The barn was dark, but something was wrong. The smell of oldness and mildew assaulted Kern's sensitive nose, but there was something more... a smell that shouldn't be there. That smells like... exhaust? Kern thought. He pulled the barn door open wider so more light would shine inside. There in the middle of the barn stood something big, covered with a tarp. Dread dug its heels into Kern. Cobwebs drifted everywhere, and old tack hung from the ceiling. A heavy layer of dust covered most everything in there. Kern stepped closer to whatever was covered and felt the blood leave his head. He stepped up and grabbed one corner of the tarp, lifting it up. "Oh shit, oh my fucking shit," Kern hissed. The need to throw up hit Kern hard, his stomach flipped over. For a second Kern was worried he'd be on his knees relieving himself of the last meal he ate. Taking several deeps breaths he finally convinced his stomach to return to where it belonged. The back bumper of a jacked-up truck covered in mud looked back at him. It looked exactly like the vehicle the police were looking for. Kern arranged the drop cloth back over the truck and back away from it, his whole body shaking. "I knew it, I it," Kern muttered. Now there was absolutely no doubt. His father had done something to that car Ivy had been in and caused it to wreck. If Daylon ever found proof, none of their lives would be worth a plugged nickel. "Crazy bastard," Kern said as he left the barn. He made sure to leave the door exactly like he found it. Kern walked back to the house. Caleb was finishing up the lawn. Kern went inside, changed clothes, and returned outside. He got the weed eater out of the garage and went to work. He made a point of not telling Caleb want he had found. The less his brother knew the better off he would be when this blew up in their faces. Kern tried to call Jade again later that night and over the next several days. The first few times he didn't leave a message, but that didn't seem right either. After thinking about it, he started leaving messages even though he cringed at how silly he sounded. "Um, hey there Jade. It's me. Ah, Kern. Sorry I missed you. I, well, I was just thinking about you and wanted to say 'hey'. So... hey." Kern closed the phone and rubbed a hand over his face while his wolf just shook his head. Could he sound any more lame? He called back determined to sound more manly. "So anyway, I was thinking we could meet in town and have a few drinks. If you want to, that is. Then we could have dinner. Would you like to have dinner or would lunch be better? Oh man. Whatever you want to do sounds good to me. Let me know, okay. Um yeah, I'll talk to you later." his wolf snickered Kern refused to answer. When Jade called back, Kern couldn't answer because his father was next to him. They played phone tag until he was finally able to catch her. The conversation was brief, but the desire was still there, and growing. They tried to make plans to meet but one thing or the other kept getting in the way. * * * * "Daylon, it's late, are you ready to go to bed?" "I'm not sleepy," Daylon said. "No, I imagine not; you're too busy wearing a hole in the carpet to be sleepy. Come to bed, my mate." "I'll just toss and turn. There's no point in both of us not sleeping." "Who said anything about sleeping?" "Ahh... now that I can get behind." Daylon walked to Ivy and wrapped his arms around her. The mere thought of losing her had twisted his insides up and made his stomach ache. The thought of trying to live his life without her... "I'm fine," Ivy whispered, clearly seeing the anguish in Daylon's eyes as he stared at her. Ivy hugged Daylon. His lips descended, tasting, while holding her tightly in his embrace. Dear God, he loved this woman. Little nibbling kisses covered her lips, encouraging Ivy to open to him. Ivy moaned and rubbed against the hard body so close to her. His big body trembled in her embrace, his emotions running hot and high. She pressed closer, her hard nipples rubbing against his chest through the fabric of her shirt. Daylon slid his arms around her back, pulling them closer together. The hardness Ivy felt prodding against her stomach proved he was slowly shifting from horrible despair to desire. Ivy kissed him back, urging him to respond to her kiss, heating him up. Moaning into his mouth, Ivy felt his shaft rubbing against her. Daylon's mouth skimmed along the column of her throat. Ivy tilted her head back barring her neck to him, showing him she submitted to him... her mate. He eagerly rubbed his cheek against her throat. "Take that off," he asked, motioning to the shirt. She pulled the shirt off and turned so he could undo her bra. She shivered when his hands touched the warm skin of her back. After he eased her bra off, she turned, unzipped her shorts and stepped out of them. Quickly she toed off her shoes. Daylon started at the tip of her head, caressing her with his eye's, and didn't stop until he reached her feet. "I love you, Ivy." "And I love you too, my mate." Daylon stripped off his shirt. Ivy never tired of watching how his muscles flexed when he moved. She ran her hands over his hard, muscular chest, stopping to tweak his hard nipples. Daylon drew a sharp breath as Ivy leaned closer and took a straining nipple into her mouth. "Damn, baby. I really like that." Daylon was hard, aching and needed to make room for his straining erection before he strangled himself. "I know," Ivy grinned up at Daylon for a second before going to the other nipple. Satisfied that both nipples were now hard little points, Ivy hands traveled down his chest until she reached the top of his jeans. Daylon helped her unbutton them, and then sat down on the bed to remove his shoes. Throwing them off to the side, he stood up and stepped out of his jeans. His body was all hard angles, soft black hair and she never got tired of looking at him. Daylon grabbed her hand and pulled her down on the bed with him. He ran his hand over her flat stomach, moving down until his hand slipped between her legs. She was already wet for him. She spread her legs open so he could reach the place that was throbbing for his touch. Daylon moved between her legs. She was so soft, and pink, and he was dying to taste her. Bending his head he lowered his lips and ran his lips over her clit. Ivy jerked on the bed moaning, desperate for more. His tongued her clit, driving her towards untold heights of pleasure. Ivy fisted the sheets as Daylon feasted on her. His arms wrapped around her legs, keeping her open as he sucked on her clit. Ivy nearly screamed when a lone finger entered her pussy. "Mmm," Daylon moaned into her pussy, "so wet." Two of his fingers penetrated her as he continued to toy with her clit. Pressure began to build. One hand left her leg and slowly trailed up her stomach to reach for a nipple. Ivy arched on the bed as he rolled the nub, hardening under his touch. Ivy's head whipped back and forth, her long red hair flying across her face as he used his mouth, tongue and fingers to drive her closer to orgasm. She reached down and buried her fingers in his hair, tugging frantically. Raising his head, he looked at her, the question clear in his eyes. Her eyes gleaming Ivy pushed him backwards until he was laying flat. Ivy reached between them and grasped that long, hard cock. She pulled his dick away from his belly holding it straight up. Daylon's head fell back as he moaned loudly. The head was flushed and swollen, precum dripped from the top of his dick. Ivy licked at the precum, opened her mouth and swallowed the head. Her hand jerked the bottom of his shaft. Daylon buried his hands in her hair, not to push her farther down, but to encourage her to take more. Ivy eased his dick farther into her mouth, and then started sucking, her head bobbing up and down. White light exploded in Daylon's mind. He fought thrusting his hips, the last thing he wanted to do was gag Ivy. This time it was Daylon that was tugging on Ivy's hair. He was so close, every heartbeat bringing him closer to completion. "So... close," Daylon growled. "Need you in me," Ivy said as she lay back and opened her legs. Swiftly he moved between her legs, he aimed his hard, leaking cock at her wet opening. Steadily pushing, he entered her. She was tight still, and so wet; her muscles gripped him. Ivy moaned as he slowly slid all the way inside. He knew he wasn't hurting her; she was still tight, and those moans were of pleasure, not pain. He pulled out, and then thrust back in. Ivy wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him to go faster, harder. Slamming in and out of her, sweat dripping into his eyes, he wanted her to come with him. Ivy's muscles tightened up and he knew from how her breathing changed she was close. Daylon finally let go of his control and thrust into her hard, his hips snapping back and forth. Ivy stiffened and yelled as she came, her orgasm washing over her. "Oh god," Daylon moaned as he came, the sound deep and guttural. Pleasure flowed through his body as he unloaded deep within her. He gently lay down over her, his arms supporting his weight. Ivy smoothed his hair off his forehead. "Don't want to crush you," Daylon said, the weariness clear in his voice as he pulled out and lay down beside her. Ivy kissed his shoulder and got up. "I'll be right back." A few moments later Ivy came out of the bathroom and came back to bed only to find Daylon snoring. With a shake of her head she snuggled next to her mate. So much for not being able to sleep, Ivy thought as she drifted off. * * * * Nearly a week had passed and nothing happened. Ivy ventured to town a few times with Holland two steps behind her the whole way. She was thankful that he was near. For a couple of nights she had had bad dreams about the accident. "Want to go with me and run a few errands, then maybe grab some lunch?" Jade asked Ivy one morning. Jade had called earlier and she and Tara had stopped by. They were sitting at Ivy's kitchen table. "Well, I guess, as long as you don't mind a tag-along," Ivy said, nodding toward Holland. Both he and Daylon were in the office. "We'd be off our territory so Holland has to come with us." "Ugh, really?" Jade asked. "'Fraid so, Daylon insisted after the wreck." "I guess we can stand it if you can." Tara tossed her light brown hair over her shoulder. A delicate eyebrow arched over dark green eyes. Holland stepped into the kitchen to refill his coffee and heard the end of the conversation. He ginned around his drink. "Now is that any way to treat your brother?" "Be nice, Holland. You don't want a repeat of what happened the last time," Jade reminded him. Holland rolled his eyes. They had had way too much fun with him the last time. The looks he had gotten in that department store would stay with him a lifetime. "So, where do you want to go for lunch?" Jade said as she shot a look at Holland. "How about the Tiki Bar?" Ivy asked. "They have really good steaks and seafood there." "Oh, and they have that little drink with the umbrella! Yeah, that sounds like a plan to me," Tara said. "Are you kidding me? A drink with an umbrella... dear god." Holland looked at Daylon, the plea in his eyes. "Get a grip; I've been there to watch the football game on Monday night. It's a cool place. Order the steak, trust me on this," Daylon said as he came into the kitchen. "We'll make sure to order one of those drinks just for you, dear brother." "Jade... shut up." Jade grinned at Ivy. "This is going to be so much fun." "You are so bad, Jade," Ivy giggled. "Yeah, I know it. But as much as I love him, he still needs to be taken down a peg or two. That's what sisters are for." Jade winked at Ivy. "I-I wouldn't know. If I treated my half-brothers like that... well, I just can't imagine it, frankly. I'd probably get a fist to the mouth for the effort." "Oh good god, Ivy, me and big mouth; I'm so sorry, dear. I didn't stop to think, I just... I'm sorry, Ivy." "It's okay, I know you didn't mean to," Ivy said. "Are they really that bad? I mean, would they actually hit you?" Tara asked, shock deepening her voice. "Well, they have left bruises before, while helping Dolmas keep me trapped in my room." "I'd love to get a hold of such a filthy creature and rip his eyes out," Jade growled. "Sister dear, you'd have to take a number and get in line," Holland said. "I just can't imagine it," Tara said, shaking her head. "Holland may want to strangle us on a daily basis, but he would never one of us." "Well, not meaning it," Holland laughed. "Okay, you girls ready to go?" Holland followed them out to the garage. Daylon went with them and kissed Ivy good-bye. "I know it's a pain in the ass, but don't give Holland any trouble, Jade, Tara. Right now he's acting as my second in command, not your brother. Do as he says," Daylon said. "We know that, Daylon," Jade said, and put her hand on Daylon's arm. "We won't do anything to put Ivy in danger, and while we might harass Holland with words, we would never disobey anything he said. We understand." "Good. Just wanted to make sure we're all on the same page." Ivy, Jade and Tara got in the SUV's and Holland drove to town. Jade had a few library books to drop off and Tara wanted to run by the post office. The four of them spent the next few hours running errands. Finally Holland put his foot down, his stomach had been growling for a good twenty minutes. "Okay, where is this damn hut place you wanted to eat at," Holland groused. "I'm hungry enough to a flipping umbrella at this point." Jade smirked. "You men, all you think about are your stomachs." "Trust me, that's not all I think about," Holland rolled his eyes. "I said think about, not think with," Jade fired right back. "There's a difference?" Tara asked. Ivy snorted quietly besides her and Tara turned to look at her. "Oh no, I'm not getting in the middle of this," Ivy said, shaking her head. Holland's sisters continued to pick at him while he drove to the restaurant. The place was set off the main street. A huge parking lot was in front of the restaurant with several buildings facing the parking lot. Holland drove past the other buildings until he got to the back where the Tiki Bar was located. The layout reminded Holland of a square and was nicknamed 'the square' by the locals. Holland parked and stayed next to Ivy as they walked inside. The interior was done like a tropical themed beach hut. Jade asked for a table near one of the big screen TVs for Holland. A waitress came and took their orders, and sure enough, Jade asked the waitress to bring their drinks with little umbrellas in them. "We don't usually put those in non-alcoholic drinks," the waitress said, "but I'll make an exception for you guys." "Thanks! My brother wanted one so bad," Jade grinned. "Jade, how would you like to ride home strapped to the tailgate?" Holland asked. Their drinks were brought along with their salads and Holland left the little pink umbrella in his soda much to the delight of Jade and Tara. Holland just looked at Ivy and shrugged. "You're a good sport," Ivy whispered to Holland. "Their day is coming, I got a feeling," Holland said. "A higher power will take pity on me and repay them for the years of abuse I've taken at their hands. Or I may just strap them both to the tailgate. Either way works for me." Their meal was served quickly, which surprised Holland. The place was busier than it looked from outside. He sampled his steak and did a double take. "Damn, this place might not look like much, but someone back there sure can cook a side of beef. This is the best thing I have ever tasted." "Told you," Jade smirked. "Next Monday night you should come with Daylon and me to watch the football game. I think you'd like it," Ivy said as her cell rang. "Yeah, I just may do that. I think I've found a new favorite restaurant." Holland winked at Ivy. "Guess Daylon won't mind if I invite myself along, huh?" "What was it he said about you guarding me? Oh yeah... he'll live," Ivy laughed as she answered her cell. "Hey Daylon, we were just talking about you." Holland slapped the table as he laughed. "Hmm? Sure, come on, but we're about to eat. Okay." Ivy clicked her cell close. "Daylon is in town and going to join us. He's eaten already, but asked me to order him a soda." "Great! I'm not quite so outnumbered now," Holland said waving to the waitress. "Wanna bet?" Jade smirked. * * * * Dolmas walked around the truck, admiring his handy work. Yesterday the camouflage kit he ordered off the internet had come in and he had just finished covering the truck with it. The truck had been silver in color, thanks to the mud you couldn't tell, but now it was completely done in camo. The plate was stolen off another truck like his, too. The plate was still a bit muddy, but nothing that should get the attention of the human police. "Yeah, I'm a genius. It looks nothing like it did before," Dolmas said as he stepped back to look at it. Satisfied with how it looked now he got in and drove to town. He had a few errands to run, and had a craving for steak, potatoes, and a cold beer. Dolmas wondered briefly where his sons had gotten off to. Kern and Caleb had disappeared on him. If he didn't know better he would be tempted to think they were avoiding him. * * * * "Oh dear god, I ate way too much," Holland groaned, patting his full stomach. "Really? What was your first clue?" Daylon asked. "I think this was a case of your eyes being bigger than your stomach," Tara said. "Or just plain old greed," Jade said. "He finished up what I didn't eat, and then moved on to your plate." "Gonna be just plain heartburn soon," Daylon said. "I'm dying here, give me a break," Holland said, rubbing his belly. "No more than you deserved, you pig," Jade laughed. "My wolf would be very offended if he didn't agree with you," Holland said as he reached into his wallet. "Oh my, your fat belly must be cutting the oxygen off to your brain if you're paying for lunch," Tara said. "Least I can do since I ate the most," Holland said waving to the waitress. "Dear god, next time someone stop me." "I did try," Ivy smirked, "you growled at me." "Daylon, you really need to be careful letting Ivy hang out with these two," Holland said as the waitress brought back his change. Holland left a nice tip, and finished off his drink. "Ready to go?" "I'm going to run to the restroom right quick," Ivy said. "Yeah, me, too," Jade said. "Well, I'm not staying here with Holland..." Ivy, Jade and Tara stood up. Holland stood up, too. As they walked to the bathroom Holland fell in behind them, and Daylon was behind him. " are you doing," Tara asked when she noticed they had followers. "What does it look like? I following Ivy to the bathroom," Holland frowned at Tara. "It's pretty obvious there, Tara." "Are you kidding me? She can't even go to the bathroom alone?" Tara asked. "You do know you can't actually go in with her. Management just might say something," Jade said. "I'd rather have management on my ass than Daylon here, but no, I'm going to wait outside," Holland said, rolling his eyes. "Hmm, he has a point," Tara said to Jade. "Come on you two," Ivy said, shaking her head. "He's doing what Daylon told him to do. And it makes me feel safer with someone, or two someone's watching out." "Okay, guess we can cut him a little slack just for today." Jade winked at Ivy as she pushed open the door. "We don't want him to get too used to it, though." "No fear there," Holland mumbled. Several minutes later the girls came out and the five of them left the restaurant. * * * * "Where is this place again?" Caleb asked as he and Kern drove through town. "Know where the square is at in town?" Kern said. "Sure." "That little hunting shop I was telling you about is there. I need to pick up a scope for my rifle, and maybe some new boots." Caleb started to say something when his stomach growled. "Man, I'm starving. You want to grab something while we're in town. God knows there's nothing at home." "Yeah, we might have to learn how to cook." "Have you lost your mind?" Caleb asked. "Dad sees one of us doing what he considers 'woman's work' and he'll blow a gasket." "Damn sure better than starving, and god I'm sick of fast food. I never realized how good Mom could cook." "Hate to say it, but there's a lot we took for granted concerning Mom," Caleb said. "I know. I wish there was some way we could talk to her." Caleb snorted. "Unless you want to be hauled off their territory in a body bag I'd advise against it. Daylon would love to get his hands on us." "Don't blame him. After what we did to Ivy and our own mom... damn it, I'm ashamed. And I never thought I'd say that, never thought I'd feel that way. It's not an easy feeling to live with." "Not an easy pill to choke down, I agree. But seeing how you reacted to this chick you've been mooning over sure opened my eyes." "She has a name, Caleb." "I know," Caleb grinned. "I just like to see you get your feathers ruffled. You called women chicks for years... and worse." "Jesus, don't remind me." Kern turned into the square. "You want to eat first or run by that shop?" "Let's get the shopping done first so we can eat in peace. I hate shopping," Caleb said. "Hey, the Tiki Bar is near that shop. Changed my mind, park half way between that shop and the bar and let's eat there first. Man, they got a steak that's to die for." "Suits me," Kern said as he parked. Neither saw the camo truck pulling into the square. * * * * "You know, we should run by the mall. Perfect way to walk this meal off," Jade said as she walked out into the sunlight. "Man, that place is dark. I can't see worth a damn." "We'd have to highjack the SUV and render Holland unconscious first," Tara laughed. She and Jade were in front of Holland and Ivy. "It always takes me a second after being in there to see right. I do wish they didn't keep it so dark." "I am going to the mall," Holland growled from behind Ivy. "No way, no how. It's not open for discussion. We are not going. Little help here, Daylon? Damn, is it bright out here or what?" "You're on your own," Daylon said him. "I'll meet you at home, my beauty." "Okay. We shouldn't be too long... maybe," Ivy said. "Oh man," Holland groaned as Daylon walked to his SUV. "Did you say something Holland? No? Didn't think so. Anyway, I think going to the mall is a wonder... Oh my god! I don't believe it!" Jade's face lit up. Smiling, she waved furiously at someone as Ivy walked up next to her. "Oh good, what perfect timing..." A sharp pulse of pleasure shot down her spine at seeing Kern. He looked so cute with his hair all messy from the slight breeze playing with it. His bangs were hanging in his eyes and a sudden urge had Jade's fingers itching to brush it aside. A quick bashful smile cut across his face when he saw her and his eyes lit up. Jade just wanted to grab him there in the parking lot and kiss him silly. "Jade! Hey! What are you... oh shit," Kern said as he saw who was behind Jade. Low growls drifted behind Jade. The stark panic on Kerns' face made her feel light-headed. Fear was the only description she had for such a look.... stark fear. Jade turned to see Ivy was pale as skimmed milk, her eyes huge in her face. What was going on here? Kern looked like he was either going to run, faint or vomit.... Possibly all three. "Holland... why... uh, why are you growling?" Jade asked. The sounds Holland made raised the hair on both Jade and Tara's necks stand up. This wasn't their brother anymore, this was the second in command of their pack... and he was severely pissed. Holland's eyes began to lighten to a bright yellow. "Ivy!" Daylon yelled as he saw what Holland was looking at. "Oh dear god," Ivy whispered as she stared at Kern and Caleb. Ivy quickly grabbed Jade by the arm, halting her from walking to Kern. "Ivy, damn it let go," Jade said shocked. "Stay away from us," Ivy snarled at Kern. Jade, mouth hanging open, stared at Ivy. Kern looked like his world was ending. "What... what the hell is going on?" Jade asked as she looked first at her brother then at Kern. Confusion chased across her face. "Oh shit... no, no, no, ," Kern moaned as he looked at the woman he yearned for daily. She was part of the Wolfland pack. "Jade... oh dear—" "You fucker, how do you know my sister!" Holland yelled taking a step toward Kern. Holland's wolf was fighting the chain that held him in check, wanting to tear into the threat to his sister. Kern gasped. "Oh my fucking..." "Kern," Daylon growled as he started back toward the crowd. "Stay away from my mate." "Jade, stay right here by me. Don't go any closer to him," Ivy said as she tried to pull Jade farther back. "Those are my half-brothers Kern and Caleb." Jade turned pale. "You mean... He's the one that... Ivy, that's not possible! No way! He's much too—" A loud growl worked its way loose from Holland. "I'm gonna you, Kern. You son of a bitch, if you've touched my sister I'm gonna—" "Holland, damn it, calm down," Daylon said. "Please... let me try to explain!" Kern held up both hands, palms out. "Holland, man... calm down. I'm no threat! Dear god, I would hurt Jade... never!" Kern took a step toward Jade and Ivy. "Do not move any nearer to my mate," Daylon hissed, his wolf snarling with the need to be set free. "Just like you would never ever hurt Ivy?" Holland snapped. "I saw the bruises you assholes left on Ivy when she tried to escape. I was there when your dad beat your mom half to death. What was it you said? Oh yeah... " "Kern?" Jade whispered, the horror clear to see on her face. "You didn't say that... did you?" "Oh god, Jade... I-I-I—" "Yes, he sure as shit said that," Holland growled. "Please... just listen to me! Things have changed... I've... we've..." Kern motioned to Caleb, "we're not the same now. Please... I need to tell you about—" The sudden squeal of tires caught everyone's attention. A camo truck raced through the parking lot heading straight for Ivy... and Jade. Disbelief at what was happening froze everyone for a split second; a second none of them had. As Holland and Daylon snapped to their senses and started to move, a lone frightened howl escaped from Kern. The fear and regret of the sound shot through Holland, touching his heart even as his mind shouted in denial at that sound meant. Kern ran into the path of the large truck, pushing both Ivy and Jade out of the way. He swung around to face the oncoming truck... that slowed a bit then everyone clearly heard the motor rev and it accelerated toward Kern. He had a few seconds to stare into the darkened cab of the truck, trying to desperately make out the figure behind the wheel. His eyes widened in surprise as he identified the driver just as the bumper hit his body, sending him into the air. "Nooo!" Jade screamed as Kern's body was thrown over the hood of the truck. "Kern!" A sickening crunch made Jade's vision dim and throat close up. Kern's body bounced off the hood, and fell to the ground, his head hitting the pavement with a horrible thud. His legs sprawled at unnatural angles and blood gushed from a wound on his head and out of his nose and mouth. The truck, skidding out of control, hit a parked car, bending the fender toward the tire. Going much slower, the truck tried to make it out of the square. Jade jerked away from Ivy and ran to Kern. Jade slowly sank to her knees, her hands fluttering above his body, wanting to touch but afraid to... dear god, so much blood and it was everywhere. Daylon and Holland were there right after Jade with Ivy standing over Jade. "It ...Dad..." Kern gasped, pain twisting his features. "Same truck... camo it... saw it... barn out back..." Kern gasped as his eyes rolled up in his head. "Damn it, you listen to me!" Jade yelled in Kern's face. "Don't you dare die on me, you hear me! I won't have it! You got some explaining to do, so damn it, you fight! Do you understand me, you fight to live... Kern, please... for me... fight." "Oh my god! Dad? It was Dad?" Caleb gasped as Kern passed out. "Ivy, call 911 and report a hit and run... victim a wolf!" Daylon yelled. Tara bent down next to Caleb. "The ambulance is coming, I can hear the sirens." Caleb turned to look at the pretty young woman and his heart skipped a beat. There was no censure, only sadness and questions in her gaze. "Holland, with me!" Daylon yelled, infuriated that his mate and her friend, Holland's own sister, had been attacked with him standing there, just a few lousy feet away. While he and Holland had stood frozen for a few precocious seconds Kern–Kern, of all people–had acted without thought or care for himself. His body surged with unleashed power and anger as Daylon dropped to his hands and knees as the change roared through him. His clothes shredded around him. Thick, coarse hair covered his body as man gave way to enraged beast. His mouth elongated into a muzzle that held sharp, deadly teeth. Holland rushed through his transformation, grunting from the pain of changing so quickly. Daylon rushed through the transformation, too, shuddering as power flowed through his body fighting the pain. His bones snapped and popped, rearranging to support the frame of his wolf. Within seconds a huge, muscular black wolf tore off after the truck with another wolf right behind him. Bright yellow eyes, with a black outer ring, narrowed on his prey. On the left side of him another wolf ran... not Holland his mind registered. Daylon looked the wolf over; there was only one male left standing and it was... Caleb. The other wolf looked back at him and Daylon could see the pain and fear in his yellow eyes. Caleb knew Kern was injured badly. The truck was moving much slower now, the front tire smoking from the fender rubbing it. Dolmas was cutting the tire down. With a maddened howl Holland leaped through the air. His front paws caught the tailgate. Struggling he pulled his body into the bed of the truck. Using his massive head he head-butted the sliding back window. He hit it repeatedly until the window had spider-web cracks all through it. With a last hard hit he pushed the safety glass through into the cab. Now he had access to the cab and the bastard inside. He wiggled his massive body until he was partly inside the cab and using his massive jaws attacked Dolmas as best he could. "Fuck! You sorry son of—" Dolmas let go of the wheel. Frantically he let his wolf take control. His eyes lightened as he balled up his fist to attack Holland. Suddenly the passenger window broke and crashed to the floor of the cab. Daylon was attacking from the passenger side of the truck. Daylon heaved his big body partly through the window and sank his sharp fangs into Dolmas' arm. Daylon shook his head viciously. His fangs sank deeper into the upper arm, skimmed the bone and ripped loose a big piece of meat, severing an artery. Pain and fear flowed through Dolmas making his mind scream. Blood sprayed covering the cab and everyone inside. "No!" Dolmas yelled as he reached under the seat for the gun he kept there. "Die you fuckers!" The truck slammed into another vehicle when Dolmas let go of the steering wheel and rolled to a stop. Both Holland and Daylon slowly and mechanically tore Dolmas to shreds... tearing skin from bone, blood covering the cab and horrible screams echoing around them. Dolmas tried to transform but the damage was done. They didn't stop until Dolmas' mangled body lay still on the bench seat of the truck. The entire time Caleb sat at the driver's door, his body blocking any escape. * * * * Two bloody wolves, and one deep in shock, walked slowly back to where an ambulance was pulling away with Kern. Human and nonhuman police swarmed over the scene taking eye witness accounts of what had happened. The human police had stepped back; this was something the wolves would handle among themselves. No humans had been hurt, only property. Ivy and Tara watched as the three males transformed back. Quickly Daylon went to his SUV and opened the trunk. He kept spare clothes there, as did many wolves. He wiped the blood off as best he could and dressed. He immediately went to Ivy and hugged her close. "He's gone, my beauty," Daylon whispered in her ear. "He won't hurt you ever again or your Mom." "I figured he was dead, there's so much blood. God, so much blood has been spilled today." "Are you okay?" "If you're asking me if I'm upset, then the answer is no. I'm not upset that he's dead. It's the best thing that could have happened for all of us. Now maybe our lives will go back to normal. What about Caleb?" Caleb stood shivering nearby. "There's another pair of sweat pants in the SUV Holland was driving," Daylon said turning to him. "Caleb, come with me, I might have something you can borrow." Holland and Daylon walked Caleb to the other SUV. Caleb's eyes darted back and forth between them. "Daylon, I had nothing to do with this, I swear. Kern and I were going to this little shop on the square and—" "I don't doubt you." "I decided I was hungry and there was the Tiki Bar and... wait. What?" Caleb said. "I said I don't doubt you. You think I didn't notice you blocked the driver's door? And you also ran with us to chase Dolmas down. " "I'm-I'm not next then?" Caleb was shaking from the shock of what happened with Kern and fear of Daylon. Daylon stiffened as Ivy walked to him. "Sweetheart..." "Kern saved my life, and Jade's. I can't believe he did what he did; do you have any idea how out of character that is for him? He's not the same person now. And he knew Jade, Daylon. She's pretty torn up over him getting hurt. I think... Daylon, there's something there. Caleb had nothing to do with all this. My mate..." "I'm not going to kill Caleb. He wasn't driving that truck. Hear me, Caleb?" Caleb closed his eyes for a moment and tried to calm his breathing. "I think Kern knew Dad was behind all this. He mentioned a barn on the back part of our land. He was trying to figure out a way to stop Dad... I know he cares for Jade, deeply. The mere thought of her being treated like..." "I was? Or how Mom was?" Ivy asked. "He swore he'd rip Dad to pieces if he ever touched her like that. He wasn't kidding, Ivy. He started questioning how we were raised, what we did to you. We both did." "Jesus Christ," Holland said. "She thinks he's her mate, doesn't she? Fan-fucking-tastic. Where is she anyway?" "She went with him. They aren't sure if he's... Caleb, he's really hurt bad and might not..." Ivy watched her brother tear up.... And was shocked at the depth of emotions on his face. "I'm so, so sorry Ivy. So very sorry for all the things we did to you... and Mom. Words don't cover what we did to you. God Ivy, the thought of treating my mate in such a way sickens me." "The human police and our police want to question us. Let's wrap this up and deal with the rest later. They want to talk to all of us. Frankly, I want to get this done and take a long fucking shower," Daylon said. "I guess I'll go home and—" "Are you sure that's a good idea? You stood by while we killed your Dad. Is your pack going to reject you for that?" Daylon asked. "I-I-I... god. I don't know," Caleb said. "Shit," Holland said as he rubbed his forehead. "I can't believe I'm going to say this, but maybe he should come with us until we see how they respond. And I've officially lost my damn mind." "I was thinking the same thing," Daylon said. "What? That I've lost my mind?" Holland asked. "That's a given. No, I meant that Caleb would be safer for the time being with us. Ivy, do you have a problem with this?" "No, surprisingly I don't. Mom will be thrilled to see Caleb again. Oh Lord... we have to tell her about Kern." Ivy leaned her head against Daylon's shoulder. "You mean... you mean you're going to allow me on your territory? I don't know what to say," Caleb said. "You promise me that I won't end up regretting this," Daylon growled. "No, oh Christ no... I won't do anything, I promise you. Thank you, Daylon," Caleb said as his eyes drifted to a very quiet Tara. Ivy saw the glance, as did Daylon. Poor Holland, Ivy thought. His world was about to get turned upside down. They finished giving their statements to the police and Dolmas' truck was towed in to be checked for evidence. Daylon needed to know whether he was behind the earlier attack on Ivy and his mom. They returned to their SUV's, Caleb included. Ivy shook her head. Her mom was going to be so surprised to see Caleb and relieved to know that Dolmas was dead. Ivy felt nothing; no guilt, no remorse and certainly no sadness. Dolmas was nothing to her, less than nothing. He spent his whole life making her suffer. As far as Ivy was concerned Dolmas was nothing more than a rabid dog that needed to be put down before more people got hurt. So what if, deep down inside, she was overjoyed that her mate had ripped him to shreds. She could live with that... no problem at all. Sam would be relieved, too. But as with any good news, there was bad. Jade was at the hospital with Kern and that spoke volumes. Ivy wondered if Holland had figured that out yet. Mary would want to see Kern just in case things turned out... bad. They needed to eat, then clean up and go to the hospital. It promised to be a long night. Ivy leaned forward and patted Caleb's hand. The simple touch had tears flooding in his eyes again. Sometimes the road to finding love can be bumpy, but worth every second of it. Now they were all on the road to finding trust. The End
The music in the club was pumping loudly. Bodies were tightly packed into virtually every area of The Den. Somehow, the crowd gave the girls a wide berth and they were able to make it to the bar with no incident. A few steps away from the bar, Lucy felt a slight bump to her shoulder. She turned to see a very attractive woman with a jarringly terrified look on her face, "Oh no, I am SO sorry, Ma'am! Please forgive me! Oh shit!" The woman exclaimed quickly. Lucy shot the woman a very confused look. "What? It's fine, I barely noticed. Pretty impossible to avoid hitting someone around here." She smiled, hoping to comfort the obviously alarmed woman. The woman still looked terrified and Briana stepped in firmly, "She said it's fine. Now go." The woman muttered another couple "Sorry"'s before scurrying off to the other end of the club. Lucy shot Briana a questioning look. Bri just shrugged. Melanie broke the awkward moment, "Ladies, you definitely need some more to drink, am I right?! And I could kill for some water!" The three laughed and finally made their way to the bar. No sooner had Lucy stepped up to the bar when a handsome young bartender immediately came her way smiling, "And what can I get for you, miss?" Lucy blushed and asked for a vodka soda. The bartender placed the prepared drink on a napkin in front of Lucy. When she turned to discreetly grab some cash from her bra ( ) the bartender smiled brighter and shook his head. "This one's on the house, pretty lady. Whatever you want tonight, free of charge." Lucy was feeling bold and flirted, "Whatever I want, huh?" She leaned closer over the bar, exposing a little more of her cleavage. The bartender suddenly jolted backwards looking like he'd been stricken. "Uh, um, sorry about that miss, uh, Ma'am, uh... I'll just be over... here..." he stammered as he ran to the other side of the bar. When Lucy turned around, Melanie and Briana were guffawing at the scene they had just witnessed. "What the fuck was that?" Lucy wondered aloud. "Oh, girl it's not you. He just got what was coming to him is all." Melanie tried to explain through her giggles. Lucy chewed the inside of her cheek. Maybe once the bartender saw her a little closer, he changed his mind about flirting with her? She took a big gulp of her drink. The sisters were cheering and clapping for her. The support of her friends helped to harden Lucy's resolve. "You know what, fuck him! Tonight is my night!" Melanie laughed, "Actually, it's supposed to be MY night, remember?" Melanie glanced at the other two, "Awe fuck it, it's all of our night!" With a communal "Wooo!" the girls took to the dance floor. Despite the large crowd, the three were again given a fair amount of space on all sides as they danced their hearts out. Lucy started to sweat as she swung her curves to the eclectic mix coming from the DJ: 2010's hits, disco legends, 90's rap classics, and more. The girls waved their arms high, shook their ample asses, and moved their feet like there would be no tomorrow. Lucy was pretty sure she'd have a killer hangover and sore feet in the morning, so she reveled for the moment in the unbridled fun on the dance floor. Suddenly, the beat got much slower and the vibe in the club seemed to shift. The air felt thick as a Miguel song rang out from the speakers: Lucy felt a presence behind her. Hands confidently reached out and laid heavily on her hips. Lucy sighed. Strangely, the gesture didn't feel threatening. In fact, she felt downright calm. The presence felt... matter-of-fact... ... the weight of the hands laying simply on her body like that. Heat started to radiate from the point of contact. Soon, she felt herself being guided backwards. Her ass made first contact with the man behind her, if she could even call him a man. His body felt hard as stone, yet deliciously warm. She closed her eyes as she gave in to the sensation of the back of her body molding to the front of his. Hot breath traveled down the side of her neck. She shivered and instinctively ground her ass backwards as she made a circle with her manhandled hips. A very low, almost inaudible, groan was let out next to her ear and she gasped, eyes still closed. Lucy wasn't sure if it was the alcohol, the high from all the dancing, or just a magic in the air but she felt electrified. Every nerve ending on her skin was on high alert. She kept moving her hips to keep her knees from shaking. And she also kept moving her hips because damn, did that feel good. At 5'3", Lucy was used to being shorter than those around her. But this person behind her had to be well over 6'0". His body seemed to completely envelope hers. And if the size of his hands was any indication, she was not mistaken that her ass was currently rubbing up against a very sizable piece of meat. Her pussy throbbed at that thought and she pushed her ass into him even more. "If you can't control yourself, I may have to teach you a lesson right here in front of everyone." A deep, husky voice growled directly into her ear. She shivered again. "Promise?" The word was uttered so softly, Lucy wasn't even sure she had said it aloud. The stranger let out a gravely laugh that sent jolts directly to her nipples. "Just you wait." He taunted in that sultry deep bass voice. If she had been any less overwhelmed with lust, she might have laughed at how desperate she sounded. The music picked up to a faster tempo song, but Lucy barely noticed. She was focused on this stranger, the feel of what must be his dick on her ass, the feel of his possessive hands on her hips, and the increasing dampness between her legs. They were in the middle of the dance floor of a wildly popular club, but they might as well have been grinding their hips together in a dark room with no one else around. She felt a wet sensation as his tongue began to playfully massage her ear. She moaned as he moved down her neck, thoroughly tasting every inch of her skin. "Yes, please. Yes." She was in heaven. Thankfully, he kept going. He reached the meeting place of her neck and shoulder and she cried out. The stimulation was too much. Why did she feel like she was almost on the edge of cumming? Granted, she didn't have that much experience with the opposite sex, but that area of her body had never been that sensitive before! Is that what they were doing? Making out? This felt like so much more than that. It occurred to Lucy that she was still facing away from the stranger. As she swung her hips to the side, she rotated her upper half so that she was now face-to-face with the stranger with the magic tongue. Her breath caught in her throat. He. Was. Gorgeous. He was hot. He was sexy. He was MANLY. Her stranger stood well over a head taller than her. She estimated him to be in his mid-30s. His thick, black hair was cut shorter on the sides and longer on top. His hair looked tantalizingly disheveled at the moment. His mouth was surrounded by a thick black beard, neatly trimmed close to his face. His lips looked perfectly delectable. That magic tongue popped out and licked his lips slowly as he watched her quite obviously checking him out. His jaw was square and masculine. She wanted to run her fingers through his hair, his beard, everywhere. He was broad. Lucy tried to bite back a groan as she viewed his expansive shoulders and chest. His legs matched his upper body, too, as they filled out his pants ever-so-nicely. And that bulge... His shirt was tight and clinging to his torso. Every ridge and ripple of his abs was visible. How would his body feel under her tongue? Would he let her lick the salty sweat from every part of his body? Would he make her beg to do it? let She shuddered again. She looked down at his ripped arms. He had thick forearms. He looked so... He could easily lift her up, throw her down, and fuck her any way he wanted. Every way he wanted. She made love to his impressive body with her eyes but his eyes kept distracting her. They were dark, almost black. They were focused hungrily on Lucy, watching her as she sunk deeper and deeper into overwhelming need. As she watched, a faint amber glow appeared deep in his eyes. The glow became more pronounced then faded back again to disappear. His eyes switched like that over and over as she looked him over. She thought back to the bouncer outside's glowing eyes. He shook his head slightly then looked back at her with one of the most forlorn looks she'd ever seen. He spoke with that mesmerizing deep voice, "Little one, I'm afraid I'm on borrowed time here. I would love to show you each and every way I intend to worship that hot fucking body. But I'm afraid this is neither the place nor the time. You have no idea how much it kills me to say this, but I must leave you now." He truly did look very upset. Almost as upset as Lucy felt, hearing the words. Panic rose in her chest and she reached out to place her hands on his broad chest. "No! Please! Stay." His eyes flashed amber again, this time brighter than before. He shook his head quickly again before smirking down at her. "Don't worry, little one. I will never be far. But first, here's something to remind you of my claim." He flashed a devilish grin before launching his mouth with lightning fast speed at that spot between her neck and shoulders once more. She cried out, much louder this time, not giving a damn who saw or heard. She was so worked up the beginnings of an orgasm began to bubble deep within her pussy. "Oh my god, I'm dripping wet." She meant to only think that statement, but his unbridled vigor, licking and sucking the sweet spot on her neck, coupled with his hands now grabbing at her breasts, threatening to rip the thin fabric let her know that she had actually said it aloud, egging him on. "Oh, fuck." It dawned on her that she was about to cum in the middle of a dance floor surrounded by strangers. The idea suddenly had her so aroused that she felt herself falling over the cliff to orgasm. "Yes, yes, yes! Please. Yes. God! Please keep sucking. Oh, shit, SHIT." She babbled incoherently as the spasms rocked her body. He wrapped his thick arms around her to keep her from losing her balance. A few moments after coming down from the best orgasm she'd had in recent memory, she looked up at her stranger. She considered this thought for a brief second. His eyes were again going quickly between black and glowing amber. He closed his eyes and took in a few very deep breaths. When he looked at her, his eyes were coal black and once again sad. "I'm sorry, little one. But we will meet again. Soon." "How soon?" Lucy whispered breathlessly. "Not soon enough." He kissed her forehead gently and stepped back from her. As if remembering something, he cleared his throat ( ) and leaned in very close to her ear, "Jackson." He pulled away and pointed to himself, grinning playfully. She giggled. "Lucy." She pointed to herself. "I know." He said as he winked at her with glowing amber eyes and abruptly turned and moved out of sight. Lucy took a deep breath and tried to process what the hell had just happened. This man had just groped and licked her within an inch of her life, gave her a shockingly strong orgasm, then just left! She felt confused. She felt like a piece of meat. Most of all, she felt ready for Round 2. Soon, Lucy regrouped with her best friends, Melanie and Briana. "Damn, Lucy. You are one lucky bitch!" Briana teased as Lucy's blush became visible even in the darkness of the club. "You have no idea," Lucy said quietly. She suddenly became aware of the moisture in her panties. The sheer, barely-there thong did little to soak up the juices that were getting dangerously close to running down her leg. Melanie wrapped an arm around Lucy and gave her a conspiratorial grin. "Come on, let's get you home and cleaned up. Don't want to risk the rest of these mutts in here getting too close to you." She gestured to the crowds still frolicking the night away inside the club. Lucy felt like all eyes were on her as they made their way out of The Den. She knew she was being paranoid but her blush deepened each time she caught the eye of another stranger. she thought as she observed that many of the patrons and staff's eyes seemed to glow like Jackson and the bouncer's had. Once Melanie was safely back home, Lucy turned to walk to her own apartment a few blocks away. Briana insisted on joining Lucy. "Seriously, Bri. Your place is in the opposite direction," Lucy felt guilty for making her friend go out of her way. "Really, I'll be fine." Briana shrugged, "I just want a little more fresh air before calling it a night. Come on, tell me about this guy!" She started off towards Lucy's building. Lucy smiled with relief. Though she was feeling guilty, it was nice to have a companion this late at night. She vaguely had the feeling of being watched, similar to how she had felt during her run that afternoon. A rush of gratitude came over her for her good fortune to have found both Melanie and Briana so shortly after she moved here. And now her new stranger. "His name is Jackson," she said breathily. "Ooh, dreamy!" Briana teased, good-naturedly egging her friend on. Lucy barely registered the other girl's tone. "He's just... perfect. So big. And hot! And... consuming! Dammit. I can't even think straight, Bri." " Briana sang the Usher tune so off-key the girls nearly collapsed in a fit of laughter as they made their way inside Lucy's building and up the stairs. Briana patiently waited as Lucy fumbled to get her key out of her bra. "You ever heard of a purse, Luce?" "And ruin this outfit? Seriously, thanks again for walking me back. Are you sure you're okay to get yourself home?" Briana smiled and shook her head. "I promise I'm fine. Go! Rest, dream of your beautiful Mr. D-... Mr. Dreamy." Lucy was about to close the door when Briana called out again, "And Lucy? I'm really happy for you," she said with so much sincerity that Lucy felt tears start to prick at the corners of her eyes. Before she could say anything, Briana turned on her heel, loudly squawking offkey a mash-up of different Usher songs as she exited the building. Lucy's neighbors were going to be pissed. *** Lucy tossed and turned in her bed as she tried to fall asleep. She felt restless. In the wee hours of the morning she finally began to doze off. Visions of a deep, lush forest appeared in her mind. The foliage was hard to focus on, she must have been running very fast. Exhilaration and pure joy was all she felt. She easily avoided tree branches and boulders as she leaped along. As she entered a clearing, she looked up to see the moon, boldly and brightly shining upon her. Every star in the sky seemed to come into her field of view. She threw her head back and let loose a loud and piercing howl.
The next two days passed quickly. Lucy returned to work. She studied each worker more closely now. Now she could clearly see how their werewolf nature aided in their jobs. A keen sense of sight and even keener sense of smell seemed to pay-off in the small scale laboratory work areas. They could sense a change in material composition long before Lucy could even begin to understand. She felt proud. Proud of the pack. Her pack. She would soon be one of them. A mate to their Alpha. It was a tremendous amount of responsibility. She hoped she would be ready. She had moved her things into Jackson's house. After the mating ceremony, she and Jackson would return to the city to collect the rest of her belongings from her apartment. Lucy hadn't had the strength to call her best friends and tell them what was happening. She didn't trust herself not to give too much away. She couldn't risk letting slip the pack's most important secret. Maybe with Jackson by her side, she'd find some way to explain her moving out of the city without being too honest. Telling her boss had been much simpler. Ed hadn't even sounded surprised. "Yeah, when he asked for you by name, I figured it was only a matter of time before he got his claws into you." Ed said gruffly during their phone call. Lucy almost laughed out loud at his choice of words. She was thankful that Ed took the news so well. He didn't even make a big deal about her lack of two weeks' notice. "But make sure you don't forget where to send referrals..." he said with a smile in his voice. "I'm happy for you, kid. If you ever get bored in the countryside, you know where to find us." She remembered Ed's parting words fondly as she tried to pick out an outfit for the mating ceremony. The big day had finally come. In addition to withholding penetrative sex, Jackson had even been withholding anything more than making out. "Little one," Jackson had begun the night before as they cuddled close in his... ...bed. "I cannot begin to describe how much I want to sink my cock into your hot, wet pussy while you claw at my back. I want to make you scream my name for all the pack to hear. I long to taste the sweet juices dripping from you. But most of all, I to sink my teeth deep into your creamy flesh. To mark you as " Lucy was practically panting at his words, opening her legs wider. He wasn't giving her his dick, but man, those words were a damn good consolation prize. "But Lucy, my love, I cannot bear to start something I cannot finish." She pouted her lower lip at him and crossed her arms. His eyes flashed amber quickly. "Keep it up, little one. I've always wanted to punish a brat." Lucy gasped as her nipples hardened at his suggestive words. "Oh, Alpha, I need help that only you can provide." Jackson growled as he quickly grabbed her wrists and held them above her head as she was forced to lay back on the bed. "Dammit, woman. You will be my undoing." Lucy bit her lip to hold back a moan at his show of force. Jackson stared at her hungrily. His mouth formed a quick smile and he suddenly released his grip on her. He leaned back and started to get under the covers, preparing for sleep. Lucy felt as though she had gotten whiplash. "What the fuck?" Jackson grinned at her devilishly. "If its punishment you want, it is punishment you shall get, mate. If you cannot handle my affection without being so...greedy... then you shall receive none." His smile broadened as she began to understand his words. "What?! No! Jackson, please!" She reached for him. He grabbed her hand and kissed the palm. "Plus, the extra anticipation will only make it that much sweeter." He kissed her other palm. "Now sleep, my love. We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow." Lucy sighed as she remembered last night's conversation. He was right though, the anticipation was creeping from her loins. She had never felt desire like this before. And she knew it would only get worse. Lucy stared at herself in the mirror, trying to brainstorm ideas for her hair when the heavy bedroom door burst open. "Now where's my favorite bitch?!" Came a loud, boisterous female voice. Lucy ducked her head out of the bathroom to see Melanie and Briana standing in Jackson's bedroom. Her very best friends from the city! Her very best friends. How could she be so sure anymore? How did they even get here? Lucy paused just as was an arm's length away from the two sisters. Melanie and Briana exchanged a knowing look before Melanie began to speak. "Luce, you have to understand. There was no way we could tell you." "Yeah," Briana agreed, "even that night at The Den when Alpha asked us to bring you... I had to bite my tongue a couple hundred times to stop from saying too much." Lucy took in what the women were saying. Logically, she knew they were bound to secrecy to protect their pack. But still. They were her friends. Her friends. Her only excuse for a family. Did she even know them at all? And what did Bri just say? "Wait, Jackson planned that night at The Den?" Melanie snorted, "Well, duh, did you really think this pregnant old lady really wanted to go to a nightclub?" She said, gesturing to her belly. , Lucy thought curiously. Melanie continued, "And come on, girl, have you seen how goddamn hot you are? I'm surprised it took you guys this long to schedule the ceremony!" Bri laughed, "Well yeah, and have you seen how goddamn hot Alpha is?" Lucy bristled and shot her friend a sharp look. What resembled a low growl rumbled in her chest. Briana laughed again as she brought her hands in front of her chest, "Okay, okay, down girl. He's yours. Message received." Briana cast her eyes down and moved her head to the side, exposing her neck to her friend. "See?" Lucy blinked a few times, trying to come to terms with the feelings that had overtaken her so suddenly. She had just about lashed out at her friend over a meaningless comment. . Melanie patted Lucy's shoulder. "It's the mating pull. I know I was a heinous bitch right before my ceremony." "Yeah, and how is that different than every other day?" Briana joked. The three friends shared a deep belly laugh. Lucy was starting to feel almost normal. *** Melanie and Briana guided Lucy down through a trail in the woods behind Jackson's house. She wore a long, thin silver dress that flowed out behind her in the breeze. A stark white blindfold covered her eyes. "To represent the trust you must have in your bond," Briana had told her. The women stopped abruptly and Lucy heard a loud growl coming from somewhere in front of her. After several moments of long silence, Lucy heard random yips and barks. She could no longer sense Melanie or Briana around her. The hair on her arms and back of her neck stood up on end. Lucy thought, referring to herself. The wolves must be communicating through their mental bond. Which of course meant she had of an idea of what the fuck was going on. Jackson had mentioned to her earlier that the mating ritual involved sex. Raunchy sex. Public sex. Part of Lucy was really turned on by the idea, but another part of her was trying to make sure she kept her stomach sucked in as much as possible for as long as possible. There was another loud growl and instantly the dress was ripped from her body, tearing at the seams. She was so shocked by the quick removal of the gown that she forgot to suck in her stomach. She heard another low growl that seemed to be meant only for her. Lucy remembered that as Alpha, in his wolf form, Jackson could hear her thoughts. She thought to the wolf. A cold nose at her navel gave her a jolt. A long, rough tongue ran from one side of her midsection to the other, caressing the skin. The tongue traveled up between her breasts, then licking each breast in a circle around the nipple, but not touching the sensitive buds. Lucy whined. The tongue left her breasts altogether, traveling up to lick her neck. Lucy sighed and leaned her head to one side, exposing her neck to the wolf. Another loud growl. Jackson assaulted with his tongue the area where his neck met her shoulder. It felt so damn good. Jackson took his tongue back down her body, continuing his worship. He roughly tugged at her nipples with his canines, causing Lucy to moan aloud. More barking from other wolves in the distance. Lucy realized their display was exciting their audience. Jackson soothed her nervous mind by giving long, lazy laps to the insides of her thighs. His tongue felt cold, but each spot he touched seemed to burn. His tongue slipped between her pussy lips and tasted her nectar. "Oooh Jackson, yes!" She squealed, the thoughts of any onlookers became the absolute last thing on her mind. All she cared about was that damn skillful tongue. "Oh keep going!" But he stopped. Jackson's wet wolf nose pressing at Lucy's hip forced her to turn around. He laid his head on her back, again applying pressure and indicating that she should bend over. Lucy knew exactly what the wolf had in mind. And she couldn't fucking wait. Lucy brazenly got on all-fours, facing away from Jackson. She wasn't sure if that was her panting, Jackson, or any number of the onlookers. Either way, the energy in the air was palpable and intoxicating. Even with the blindfold still on, she knew what she must look like. Like a hot bitch ready to get fucked by her mate. Jackson's tongue caressed her clit. Normally Lucy would have been in heaven, but right now she was ready for something bigger. Jackson would be her first lover and her last. She heard another growl over her shoulder as he continued to lick her pussy. Lucy was ready to lose her mind. So she decided to beg. "Oh, fuck me, Alpha. Please! Please fuck your bitch. Please give me your cock in my hungry pussy. Unghhh. I need you..." The dirty talk was working. Jackson let up from his licking and raised his paws on her back, ready to mount. "Please, Alpha. Please fuck your mate! I. Need. You. To. Fuck. My. Cunt!" Jackson howled and thrust his cock deep into Lucy. The sound of countless other howls was drowned out, as Lucy could only focus on the pain. His dick had ripped through her hymen mercilessly. Her eyes pricked at the corners, but she was determined not to cry. She had to be strong for her Alpha. For her pack. She could not show weakness. She gritted her teeth and took the plowing. It hurt, but soon enough, the pain started to fade. Lucy's pussy still felt impossibly full, but she was breathing a little easier now. In fact, the pain was starting to reach that delicious point of mixing with the pleasure. She let out a loud, lust-filled cry as Jackon's nails clawed into the flesh of her back. Jackson howled again, this time louder than before. His paws slammed down onto the ground on either side of her shoulders. Lucy knew what was coming. She was ready for it. She thrust her juicy pussy back onto his cock one last time... ... before flipping her chestnut hair to the side, exposing her hickey-filled neck. She felt Jackson's breath on her shoulder. Sweat, or saliva, or both, dripped from his mouth as he waited. Lucy knew what he was waiting for. "Please, my Alpha. My mate. Make me yours! Mark me for all to see! Claim your bitch!" It was the sound of teeth breaking flesh that Lucy experienced first. Then the rush of endorphins following the bite. Her eyes opened wide behind the blindfold and her mouth let loose a piercing scream. "OOOHHH FUCK!!" The orgasm ripped through her body. Wave upon wave upon wave of pure pleasure coursed through every inch of her body. She was completely rigid from head to toe, then in the blink of an eye, went completely limp. Total relaxation filled her. She was aware of an even greater fullness in her pussy and realized Jackson must have cum deep inside of her. Aftershocks raced through her at the dirty thoughts. A rumble on her back let her know Jackson had enjoyed them, too. He licked at her shoulder, at the spot where he marked her. What the fuck was that? " At least that wasn't too bad. Lucy was relieved to hear that the pack wouldn't be getting close to any of her...more sensitive... areas. " She chuckled. It was Jackon's turn to chuff. " Lucy shivered, both from Jackon's implication of frequent hot sex but also because she started to feel delicate licks over her mark. Lucy and Jackson were locked together for what felt like hours. Not long after the procession of licks began, she was sure that the open wound at her shoulder had closed from the repeated application of werewolf saliva, but the ritual continued for much longer. Finally the tongue lashings ceased. She felt the fur positioned at her back recede to smooth flesh. Human-form Jackson pulled her into his lap on the ground and massaged her arms and legs. He removed her blindfold. "So, how was it, mate?" Lucy smiled broadly at him, tears once again forming at the corners of her eyes. "It was wonderful. Really. I love you so much, Jackson DeLane." "Ah, but not as much as I love you, Lucy DeLane." He nuzzled into her neck, inhaling her scent. "You know, you smell just a bit like me now." Lucy was filled with joy, hearing her new name from his lips. This was so much more than human marriage, or changing her name on paper. He was officially a part of her now. "Thank you, Jackson. I can't begin to ever thank you enough for bringing me into your life." Jackson grinned devilishly down at her, "Well, I think I might know of a way for you to express your appreciation... though we may have to practice at it... ." Lucy laughed and pushed him back gently. The couple fell onto the ground, limbs intertwined, overwhelmed with the love passing between them. That night, they slept in each other's arms on the forest floor. Lucy finally felt like she was home.
The moment he heard her voice, even more than he knew at the time he made the decision to go, Sergio realized that it hadn't been the best idea to take off early in the morning without a warning, an explanation, a goodbye. But the nature of the news he had received - the fragility of it, the unexpectedness of it, the timing - had made him decide on impulse to ask his captain on standby to be ready to go early in the morning. To be honest, he hadn’t expected to be asleep before Raquel came back; that was truly an innocent mistake. She had stayed reading with Paula longer than usual, and he had drifted off, despite his nerves and his trepidatious excitement. "I'm . . . this is a sign of getting older," he'd realized. "I tried to stay awake, but I couldn't." He put that thought to the side for now, because the next morning, he’d been grateful he had been asleep when she’d come to bed and that he’d had to leave before she woke up, because then he hadn’t had to answer any of her questions or temper his nerves or his mood. Because she knew him better than he knew himself and always saw right through him. After all they'd been through, the last thing he wanted to do in this whole world was tell Raquel anything less than the whole truth when possible. But to keep a surprise from her felt different. And if this all worked out according to his plan, she would understand and the brief separation and anxiety would be worth it. Or so he hoped. But even knowing it would just be a few days apart made him feel guilty, not only about keeping a sort of secret, but just about being away from his girls. He missed their laughter, the easy steps he took around their now familiar house, the worn-in routine of a shared life, the warm weight of Paula’s arms around his neck, the way Raquel’s fingers found a way to slip into his whenever she was near. Just the last few years with Paula had shown him the dramatic leaps and bounds a child could make in any area during one's absence, and he hated to miss a moment of Paula's achievements or discoveries. He felt just a little bit embarrassed about how much he looked forward to again seeing the dents in the pillows in their bed that reminded him that he had a designated place to sleep next to someone. He’d never be alone again. This whole relationship concept, the rhythm, the changes it brought was still new to him on many levels. He was constantly learning and sometimes wondered if he would ever catch up and get the hang of it, if it would ever seem to make complete sense to him. The time they’d spent in Palawan had changed him in a million ways, but now that the second heist was over and they had been through even more intense experiences, this time as a committed couple that has sworn to each other that nothing on earth could separate them again, he couldn’t imagine ever wanting to do something so outlandish again, no matter who it was to save. No. He had heard her die, they had been separated according to his plan, which hadn’t worked, after they had argued, because of his pride. And he had heard her executed. He had heard her executed. Knowing now that it was fake didn’t undo the sounds, the vivid memories he had of that moment, the days he spent in certainty that she had been taken from him and then in a limbo that she might still be alive and his only focus, because fuck the heist, was to get her back and never let her out of his sight again. Just because they were all safe and together now didn’t mean that for one single second he ever forgot - He had lived in a world where there was no Raquel. He had lived there until Tokyo had suggested otherwise, until he was able to convince himself otherwise, until he was able to save her. But he had still lived in that world, and its dark and tumultuous feelings still came to haunt him from time to time and he would never, ever go back there if he could. He wouldn’t wish the feelings of absolute meaningless and despair he had felt, thinking Raquel was lost to him forever, on his worst enemy. And his list of enemies was not a short list. No. If any gods existed, and if they were listening, all Sergio wanted for the rest of his days was to lay in the hammock with Raquel nestled in his arms, watch Paula playing on the beach, hear Maravi laugh. Dear Lord - he just wanted to have the same conversation nearly every day with Maravi about the garden and the ocean and the weather if he had to, if only so they can have the occasional days where she is lucid and watch Raquel hang on every word, asking questions, reliving memories, trying to make more with the woman who is the mother she will always carry in her mind. He wanted to do nothing more than go to bed and wake up with Raquel tucked into his side. Cook his girls dinner. Take walks along the shore at sunset with Raquel. Keep teaching Paula checkers and chess and find small ways to connect with the girl who now calls him “Papa” without any prompting. All the money in the world to be able to tuck Raquel’s hair behind her ears every day. Kiss Raquel’s neck. Slip his hands under her shirt and feel the smooth skin of her back. Hear Raquel say his name in a whisper, as a reminder, to bring him back to earth from his mental wanderings, as a plea, as a prayer, as she came apart in his arms. Whatever he can do to make that happen more, make these women happier, freer, stronger, more comfortable, he will do. He will never get to watch anyone of his own flesh and blood grow older. Too many genetic defects, bad bad luck, choices, whatever it is, he doesn’t know and he doesn’t blame anyone anymore. “My girls,” he calls them, this is his family now, and he feels such a strong bond that even though he’s only known about their existence for the last five years, it’s clear that these are the people he is meant to live for. The cell phones are a saving grace. As much as it means to Raquel, it means even more to him that he is able to finally give something back to her when she has sacrificed so much; it gratifies him to no end to solve a small problem, a request that she had that they might be in communication with each other. Sergio feels a thrill in it, even as he has to admit that if he had never left her so suddenly, there would be no need to have these lines of communication. If they were just never apart, they would never have to - Some slowly growing and adjusting part of his brain reminds him that it is normal, healthy, encouraged even, to have time apart as a couple. That’s what normal couples do. And they have separate interests, separate friends, even. He scoffs at that thought. When had he ever really had friends? He can count no real acquaintances beyond people he met through his brother. And that had never been a problem, planning the heists and reading books and thinking of ways to solve the world’s problems had always been enough for Sergio. Until Raquel. Their circumstances are beyond the ordinary, to be sure, but this little ordinary thing of having phones to call each other on makes a difference. It’s funny, really, that their relationship began on the phone so many years ago, and now can be made stronger through a phone again. He’s laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the revolutions of the lazy fan overhead, tapping each one with his index finger against where he is holding the phone to his chest and praying for it to ring when she calls. He answers it immediately, just like before, but takes a breath to remind himself not to say her name. “Good evening,” he says instead, gratified to hear her chuckle at his formality. She can probably guess that he had to check himself before he spoke, that he’s excited for them to be able to talk. “So glad I was able to catch you near the phone,” she teases. “Yes, well. I’ve been waiting for a very important person to call,” he says. “What a coincidence, I was, too, but then I decided to make the call myself. I’ve never been very good at sitting around, waiting for things I want.” “I see,” he answers, and a small part of him is transported back to a dirty, damp warehouse where he was speaking to an inspector on the phone for the first time, without the slightest idea what was about to happen to his life in the next few days. He had felt even then the desire to flirt with, impress the voice on the other end of that line. “Well, I hope you get everything you ever wanted.” “Oh, I think I have it all,” she replies softly, and it makes his heart yearn for her. “I’m trying to picture you,” he says after a beat. He thinks he hears her smile at that. What he wants to ask is “What are you wearing, Inspectora?” But they both know a question like that is surely a marker being tracked by Interpol through satellites monitoring conversations all over the world. “Blue. Light blue,” she says, and it’s all he needs to picture her in the gauzy top and bottom set that skims her shoulders and thighs just so, that slides up so agreeably beneath his hands, that sets off the tan of days spent on the beach. He can picture her now, can feel the fabric slipping between his fingers, imagine them together in their bed, or on the swing looking out to the waves, in a hammock, on the beach - A staticky hitch in her breath across the line brings him back from his musings, and he thinks she might be picturing them together, too. “Perhaps tomorrow?” she says, hopefully. Sergio calculates things quickly in his head, knowing he waits upon a few more items, both in the physical sense and also in terms of information to be delivered. “As soon as I can. I’ll put pressure on - “ “Don’t worry about it,” she cuts him off, sighing. “It’s important,” otherwise you wouldn’t have left, right? He hears the words she isn’t saying in the silence. “As soon as I can. Please know I wish I was there now.” A long moment passes and he can hear her take a deep breath, steeling herself against the forces she can’t control, and the ones he’s chosen to guide their lives. “I love you,” they say at the same time, his tone unsure, sounding like an offering and hers like a trusting acceptance. But the simultaneous nature of their declarations makes them both chuckle a bit. “Well, then,” she whispers, and he can almost feel her breath against his shoulder, imagine them curled up against each other in bed. “We’ll chat soon, mi amor. Sweet dreams,” he offers, sure of those few lines at least, and then waits until he hears her click her line off before he hangs up, clutching the cell phone back to his chest and looking back up to the ceiling to recalibrate the next several hours in his head, weighing the pros and cons, the costs and benefits. In the end, the one image that keeps coming to his mind’s eye is Raquel, sleeping on her side, nestled deep into her pillow with her body curved back towards the empty space his had left when he’d slowly crept out of it to get dressed in the wee hours of the morning, responding to an alert on his encrypted satellite phone from his trusted contacts that had been expressly forbidden to engage that line unless one of several predetermined sequences of words had come into their world of knowledge. He would be disturbed for little else. He wonders if she’s been cold at all in his absence and curses himself for leaving. “Right,” he said to himself, before picking up a different phone to make some calls. It would take some greasing of hands, but he was pretty sure he could make it back home soon, possibly by tomorrow night. He was determined to make the trip as quickly as possible, especially now having heard her voice sound just a bit sad on the phone line. The knowledge he’d caused it moved him into action and he swung his legs over the side of the bed, into his slippers and began to pace from corner to corner of the room, one hand beginning to run over his beard and into his hair, the other on his hip or gesticulating in the air, swiping away at different imaginary obstacles in the air until he had it worked out to his satisfaction. He dressed in his customary suit, although the fabrics he wore now were much lighter than in Spain, and fit the wig and colored contacts on before heading out the door. His people on the other end of those phone calls were working quickly (with the promise of a financial bonus) to get him verification of the information he needed to head back to the island, but he had a few more things to locate and purchase which made sense to no one but him and his family, and he preferred to run these errands on his own. “It wouldn’t make sense to anyone else. It’s a family joke,” he thought to himself, as he walked out the door of the hotel and headed out to the taxi stand. “No one would understand except me and my girls.” He smiled to himself, feeling warm and safe all over that such a sentence was one he could say, was something true about his life he had never dreamed would be possible.
Dick hated when his enemies worked together. Bane was experimenting with something dangerous on Santa Prisca. They didn’t know the exact compound, but the number of kidnapped scientists and alarmingly powerful chemicals brought onto the island had triggered every alarm in Batman’s systems. In itself, Bane working on some nefarious plan was no surprise. Not even the location—Dick could not figure out why Bruce had not destroyed Santa Prisca by now, or at least used the Wayne Enterprises money to buy and rehabilitate it. The surprise came when Dick had been sent in for reconnaissance and had instead been caught in the act by Deathstroke. The mercenary had nearly carved Dick in half with a blade before Dick had realized he was there. For a man so bulky, he moved quietly. The rest of the factory was deserted. Dick had hoped he was having good luck, but Bane must have trusted that Deathstroke, Slade Wilson, could manage the security all on his own. Enormous vats of bubbling liquid surrounded them in copper containers that burned to the touch. Steam and smoke drifted toward the warehouse ceiling, multicolored even in the dim lighting. Only a string of emergency lights along the edges of the building provided any light. With most of Deathstroke’s costume in black, he was difficult to track. Dick ducked under a swing of the sword and tackled Deathstroke backward. “What is Bane working on?” Dick asked, pinning Deathstroke to the ground. The assassin was as muscled as Bruce, broad-shouldered and hard as iron. Deftly, before Dick could settle into position, Deathstroke grabbed his arms and slammed his feet into the superhero’s stomach, sending him flying over his head. Dick twisted so that he wouldn’t land on his face, but his hands and knees skidding on the ground. He managed to stop himself just before colliding with one of the vats. He could feel the heat from inches away. “I don’t know, and I don’t care. I do what I’m paid to do,” Slade said, crouching and watching Dick closely. The single lens in his mask glinted in the low light. He lunged toward Dick, but, anticipating the attack, Dick had his grappling gun in hand. He aimed for the catwalk overhead. The grapple wrapped around the rail and Dick was swept in the air just in time to avoid the slice of Slade’s blade. The catwalk gave him a view of Bane’s experiments. The fumes mixed in the air around him like colorful fog, smelling of flame and sweat and night air. He breathed in more deeply than planned, seeking more of the intoxicating scent. He normally would have worn his rebreather into any warehouse Bane was working in, but he had lost it in the swim to the island. Getting to the surface at all had been a trial, and he had not wanted to turn around before his first step with no intelligence. No intelligence. Maybe that was something he brought with him. The air felt heavy and hot around him. What was in those vats? He felt alert, but slow. He was hyperaware of the flex of his armor against his skin, but also felt as though he were moving in a dream. He had already been sweating from the swim and the fight, but he now felt slick with it. He wanted to take off his mask, and that was how he knew something was very wrong. Following Bruce’s training, he focused on his breathing and tapped his thumb against each finger in a steady pattern. He had been dosed with fear toxin and laughing gas and sleeping venom. He could suppress whatever effects these fumes were having long enough to deal with… Deathstroke. The man landed on the catwalk in front of him, sword held aloft. When they had fought earlier, Dick had not wasted the energy to notice how Deathstroke had smelled while pinned beneath him. How had he not noticed it? He smelled more wild and alive than the rainforest surrounding them. Dick had always known that Deathstoke was an Alpha, the same way he’d known the man was strong, smart, and lethal. He exuded the energy in every step, as much a part of him as the single eye. But Dick never let it impact him in the field. He was an Omega superhero—if he hadn’t been able to control his damn hormones, Bruce would never have let him into the field. Some other heroes might not have taken Dick on as a sidekick, but Bruce had never blinked. Bruce never saw what other people focused on—all he cared about was whether Dick had the conviction to do the job. Dick had thought he did. Somehow, though, tonight, he didn’t even flinch as Deathstroke prowled toward him, blade at the ready. Dick was too enamored with the swing of his hips, those powerful shoulders, and that smell to do anything more than gape. “Not even going to draw your escrimas? Giving up so soon?” Deathstroke taunted. Dick couldn’t find the words. He just inhaled, long and slow, and closed his eyes. God, Deathstroke’s voice. It was like the thrum of the Batmobile. “What the fuck?” Slade growled. He didn’t slow his approach to Dick. He put his sword against Dick’s shoulder, a warning to stay still, and then used his other hand to yank Dick’s hair. Dick tipped back pliantly, looking up into Deathstoke’s eyes. The fingers in his hair made his heart pound. “You’re high as a kite,” Deathstroke murmured. Then, he leaned in closer and sniffed at Dick’s jaw. Dick gasped as he felt the mask brush his sensitive skin. “No. You’re in heat.” He looked around the warehouse, staying pressed close to Dick’s space. “You would never go into the field like this. Bane is working on a synthetic trigger, isn’t he?” Dick fought for some thread of coherency. It was difficult with the fingers still wrapped in his hair and the body so close to his. Would a man dying of thirst be expected to solve an algebra problem if a waterfall was in front of him? Bruce would say yes. Mind over matter. Dick bit the inside of his cheek hard. The wash of blood felt erotic over his tongue, but the pain gave him a moment of clarity. This was Deathstroke. The man had been one move from killing him not two minutes ago. He was working for the man who had made this drug, the one turning Dick into something desperate and mindless. Dick tried to jerk away from the grip in his hair, but the tug made a moan slip through his lips. “You’re fighting it,” Slade mused. “You want to fall to pieces. You’re holding on by a thread.” Dick gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the way Slade’s voice rumbled through him. Should Dick reach for his escrimas after all? Slade still had the sword resting by his neck, and that hand was powerful enough to snap Dick’s spine. Instead, Slade stepped back and sheathed his sword. “Come on. With you smelling like that, you’ll bring the whole facility down on us soon.” “What?” Dick choked. “You want me to kill you?” he asked. “Or maybe you want Bane to tear you in half like he nearly did to the Batman?” Dick was too turned on to think. “No?” “Then come with me.” “But you’re…” “This isn’t worth the money,” Slade said. “I have my lines, Nightwing, and killing an Omega who would throw himself on my sword just to get closer to me is one of them.” “Wouldn’t…do that,” Dick protested. Unless the sword was metaphorical. His eyes traced down Slade’s body armor. It was too dark for him to see anything, but he could imagine the cock that rested inside. It was probably as big as the rest of him. “Of course you wouldn’t,” Deathstroke said. Dick wasn’t gone enough not to hear the mocking tone. “You need off this island. The heat is only going to get worse—it’s going to hit you hard, from the way you’re shaking.” Was Dick shaking? He hadn’t noticed. “I know a secret way off. I always make my own escape plans before I agree to a job. Just in case.” “Paranoid bastard,” Dick said. “Worked out for us both this time, didn’t it?” Slade pulled Dick’s arm over his shoulder and led him to the stairs. He moved as though Dick weighed nothing, and Dick stumbled along beside him without complaint. This close, he could feel the muscles in Slade’s neck and back moving with every step. Dick followed along complacently through a series of tunnels underground, damp and smelling of salt water. Slade was mostly silent, after his comments about the tunnels flooding during high tide were met by Dick sniffing his neck. Dick was sure the flooding comment might have been interesting, but Slade wouldn’t walk into a death trap. He was interested in self-preservation beyond all else, and if he wanted Dick dead, he wouldn’t need an elaborate trick. Footsteps pounded nearby, and Slade ushered him into a supply closet. The door, rusted from the sea water, protested being opened, but Slade nearly ripped it off its hinges and shoved Dick inside. The door closed again just as the footsteps turned into their corridor, leaving them in a pitch darkness. Dick could hear the boots getting closer. His sense of smell was heightened, and he could identify a heady mix of Alpha and Beta scents mingling on the other side of the door. Far more intoxicating was the scent beside him. Slade had him pressed against the wall, one hand on his neck. If Dick lost his head and tried to make a noise, Slade would be able to cover his mouth in an instant. Or snap his neck. The heat of him was drugging. He was so large, so solid. Dick rolled his hips once, exploring. The wall in front of him pressed against his cock while his ass rubbed the front of Slade’s pants. Dick shuddered an exhale and did it again. His eyes rolled in his head at the burst of sensation. “Hush,” Slade said, a nearly inaudible growl in Dick’s ear. With trembling effort, Dick held himself still until the footsteps outside disappeared and Slade led them out again. Dick followed closely, feeling humble and rejected. Was Slade as unaffected as he appeared? Dick had always known Slade was attractive. As Dick had gotten older and started noticing such things, his eyes had lingered on Slade’s broad shoulders and sturdy thighs more than once. Even more, Dick had always been impressed by competency, and Slade was the best at what he did. Did Slade still see him as the scrawny sidekick who had thwarted his plans for years? Dick was nearing twenty-four, but he knew some of the older heroes—and villains—still saw him as a kid. It wasn’t until they reached a submarine floating in an underground cave that Dick finally caught a moment of lucidity. This was Deathstroke. Dick did not want Bane and his men to discover him like this, but getting in a tin can under the ocean with one of the world’s most dangerous men was hardly wiser. He was lusting after a deadly assassin, pining over his disinterest. Dick could feel the need clawing at his insides, his skin so oversensitive that each step seemed like a caress between his thighs. Slade had seemed to have no interest in Dick in that closet, but even if Deathstroke himself didn’t touch him, a superhero in this state would be worth a fortune. Did Deathstroke ever work in sex trafficking? Dick felt that was one of the man’s few hard lines, but his mind was too blurred to be sure. “Get in,” Deathstroke said. He pressed a button on a slender device, opening the submarine’s top. It bobbed in the water, a point of no return. “I…” Dick swallowed. His voice was a croak. He needed to think clearly. “I can’t… I shouldn’t, not like this.” Deathstroke was in front of him suddenly. Dick had been too focused on the submarine to see him move. “Nightwing. If you stay here, Bane will find you. Your scent has been getting stronger as we’ve moved—it will be like a flare to them. I don’t know what he was planning with that drug of his. Who knows how intense your heat will be, or how long it will last? You want to be at their mercy for it?” “Do I want to be at yours?” Dick challenged, finding his voice. “Do you?” Slade asked, and the breath caught in Dick’s throat. Slade shook his head. “I don’t fuck unwilling people, Nightwing, no matter how good they smell. I have more self-control than any man you’ve ever met.” “I work with Batman,” Dick said. Deathstroke hummed, but didn’t argue the point. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead. If I wanted you hurt, you’d be hurt. Bane would have given you to me if I’d asked. If you can’t trust me, trust the logic. I’m not risking my reputation to get you off this island just to take advantage of you. I won’t touch you.” And if I wanted you to? “Okay,” Dick said. He was clumsy climbing into the submarine. He would have lost his balance and tumbled into the dark water if Slade had not grabbed him by the collar and shoved him forward. Dick fell through the hatch, the back of his neck still humming with the touch. He scrambled to his feet, already feeling trapped by the small space. Slade dropped through the hatch with ease, moving past Dick without a second glance to sit at the controls. They eased away from Santa Prisca smoothly. Slade operated the small craft as easily as he did anything. The broad window in front illuminated a few feet of ocean at a time, hugging close to the coral. There was a long period of silence where Slade checked dials, scanned for radar, and operated the submarine, and Dick imagined Slade’s tongue in his ass. Dick was in his mid-twenties. His heats came regularly, nudged into place by hormone therapy. Rather than taking daily pills, which were unfeasible on long missions, Dick had trained his body to keep to the schedule with top-of-the-line hormone injections every few months as a teen. Bruce had been as matter-of-fact about it as he was everything else, giving Dick a full rundown of the options before letting him choose. Dick normally spent his heats with a friend. Kori was especially talented at fucking his brains out, and then clapping him on the back and sending him on his way at the end. They stayed hydrated and hygienic, tucked away in a safe house undoubtedly guarded by unseen Robins. It was inconvenient, but only came around once every four months. Sweating through his armor while trapped in a tiny submarine off the coast of Bane’s island was not inconvenient. It bordered the line of terrifying. Dick was not as much of a control freak as Bruce, but he had his limits. Slade’s scent was heavy in the air. Dick felt like a cartoon drifting through the air after an irresistible scent, only he was being led by his dick instead of his nose. He laughed out loud at the thought, breaking the still silence of the submarine. When it hit the air, the laugh seemed manic and threadbare. Finally, Slade spoke. “Are you going to make it to land?” “How long?” “Five hours until we hit Cuba.” Five hours. Dick had fallen headfirst into the heat. How much worse would it get? He was already breathing unsteadily, and he had been hard since the utility closet. What would happen if Dick could not hold on? Would he lose his mind and start rutting on the floor, or just pounce on Slade? Slade could fight him off, no matter how desperate Dick was. Dick could rarely beat him in a fight even when he was at the top of his game. It would be embarrassing for both of them. What would Slade do? Tie him to the chair? Dick shuddered, imagining being bound in place, desperate for touch, while Slade moved just out of reach. “I’ll be fine,” he said finally through clenched teeth. “Because you smell like a brothel,” Slade said. He pressed some buttons on the panel, and the submarine continued forward smoothly even when he lifted his hands and swiveled his seat around. Auto-pilot, now they were away from the rocky shoreline. “I’m surprised you’re not fucking yourself already.” Dick gasped, the image rocking him to the bone. He imagined his pants around his ankles, fucking back onto his fingers while Slade calmly guided the submarine. “Look at you,” Slade mused. He took off his helmet, revealing a single eye intent on Dick’s face. His silver hair was slicked back from his head, smooth despite hours in the helmet. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “This has you all sorts of fucked up. You could, you know. Get yourself off. Far be it from me to stop you.” “Slade,” Dick said, desperate. He felt like a bow in an arrow, strung tight. He gripped his armrests with frantic fingers. “Don’t worry, kid,” Slade said. “I won’t even watch if you don’t want me to. Though I think your noises alone will be keeping me company for a while. Did you know you’ve been whimpering for the last thirty minutes?” “Jesus,” Dick choked out. “Just fuck me already.” Slade leaned back in his chair. Was he hard? It was difficult to tell against the black fabric. “You’re having the strongest heat I’ve seen in years. You’re not in your right mind. You’d regret it, and that’s not how I do things.” He waved a hand when Dick made a protesting sound. “I have toys you can use. You need to get off, but you don’t need me to do it.” Did Slade fuck other people in this submarine? Or did he use them on himself? “Slade,” Dick said, voice nearly a whine. “I want you to do it.” “Your daddy would kill us both,” Deathstroke said with a low chuckle. “You wouldn’t have even thought of this if you weren’t drugged to your eyeballs. Don’t push your luck, kid.” Dick’s answering laugh was breathless. “Slade, I’ve wanted you to fuck me since I was old enough to want that shit. Have you seen you?” He squirmed in his seat. “You saved me. I could use a toy. But I want your knot and you’re right there.” He took a deep breath, which brought in a stronger rush of Slade’s scent and did not help his nerves at all. “Don’t do it if you don’t want, but, God, don’t say no because you think I wouldn’t want to fuck you otherwise. If you’d stop fucking killing people, I’d have fucked you years ago.” “I won’t stop killing people,” Slade said. Dick couldn’t read his tone. “And after tonight, I’ll try to stop you some more, but I need this now,” Dick said. “Batman can’t even complain. I’m an adult and I’m in heat and Catwoman doesn’t exactly have a clean record.” He unbuckled his seatbelt. Carefully, aware of the slick between his legs and Slade’s eye heavy on him, he crossed the short distance between them. He stopped next to Slade, not reaching out. “Say you don’t want me and I’ll take care of myself. I will.” Bright white teeth gleamed as Slade slowly smiled. “How much did it hurt you to make that concession?” he asked. “You’d do anything for my touch right now, wouldn’t you?” “Yes,” Dick whispered. Slade reached down and rubbed a hand over the front of his uniform pants. It was a casual touch, but clearly traced a hardness inside. “Pretty thing, begging for me,” he mused. “I didn’t expect this job to bring such perks.” That was enough of a confirmation for Dick. Let Slade fight him off if he was wrong—he couldn’t stand it any longer. He launched himself onto Slade’s lap, pulling him into a bruising kiss. Slade kissed back, as hot and eager as Dick. Dick ground down on Slade’s lap, feeling the shadowed hardness for himself. “Wildcat,” Slade said. With ease, he stood up, his hands clasped around Dick’s thighs to hold him in place. He walked them to the back of the submarine. Dick was so focused on the heat in Slade’s eye and the feeling of his waist and thick cock that he yelped in surprise when Slade suddenly dropped him. Dick landed on a cot, and barely had time to catch his breath before Slade was on him. Slade stripped him with ease, finding the hidden zippers and clasps without needing to look. He did not stop until Dick was completely naked, apart from his mask. It felt like a weak protector of his identity when his body was on display. Settled between Dick’s sprawled thighs, Slade looked down at him hungrily. Dick tried to squirm upright, twisting. “Change your mind already?” Slade asked, looking down at Dick’s throbbing cock skeptically. “You can’t fuck me like this. I’m turning over,” Dick said. Slade put a hand on his chest and pushed him back down. “I can and I will,” Slade said. “I want to be able to see your face. The effects of Bane’s drug are still unknown…and I’ve imagined before what you must look like when you come. You already live with such abandon. You must be beautiful in the throes of ecstasy.” Dick had fucked people in every position imaginable—when you said you were an acrobat, people got creative fast—but the idea of Slade watching him come apart sent a thrill through him. He had imagined this quick and brutal, feeling Slade mounting him from behind. Face-to-face was more intimate than he would have dreamed. It was terrifying and deeply arousing. Slade must have seen Dick’s reaction on his face, because his hands began to trace over Dick’s bare chest. He brushed his nipples simultaneously. Dick arched as though Slade’s thumbs were electric wires. “Don’t tease me,” he pleaded. Slade brushed over his nipples again. “You’re about to burst,” he commented. “Yeah,” Dick breathed. “I’ve always wanted to see you beg for mercy,” Slade mused, and dipped his mouth to lick one of Dick’s nipples. Dick twisted beneath him, the razor edge of pleasure and oversensitivity warring through his body. Every inch of skin was raw, and the gentle brushes from Slade were too much and not nearly enough. “Slade, please,” Dick said. He did not realize he had begun to reach for his own cock until Slade had both his arms suddenly pinned to the cot overhead. Large hands pressed Dick’s wrists into the mattress. “Hands off,” Slade said. “You asked me to do this, and I’m doing it my way. You’ll take what I give you.” Dick panted, and then nodded. When Slade released his hands, Dick left them in place, twisting them into the sheets. “Good boy,” Slade said. Dick groaned, and Slade continued, “Of course you like that. You like to hear that you’re being good for me?” He watched Dick writhe in place for a long moment. Dick felt his gaze like a physical weight. Finally, he dragged his hand down Dick’s chest. He skirted Dick’s cock, and circled behind. His fingers brushed Dick’s aching balls, and then brushed over his hole. Dick gasped. He had known he was slick, but the foreign touch made the heat narrow. “You’re soaking,” Slade said, his finger drifting over Dick’s perineum. “I bet you’re loose and easy right now.” Before Dick could react, two fingers slid inside him to the knuckle. Dick bucked, keening. The sudden intrusion stretched him the way he had been craving. These were Slade’s fingers inside him, those clever hands fucking Dick’s ass. “You’re too tense,” Slade murmured, crooking his fingers idly. Dick reached for Slade, but slammed his hands back on the bed at a single look from the other man. “We should take the edge off.” “I’m, hn,” Dick said. Slade crouched down between Dick’s legs. He fucked his fingers in and out a few times, rough and firm. The sensation rocked through him, an echo of what he needed. Slade kept his eye on Dick’s expression, and then nodded. “This is what you need,” he said, and then ducked his head to lick a stripe up Dick’s cock. Dick jerked again. His fingers were so tight against the sheets that he was sure the fabric would tear soon. “Please, please, please,” he said. “I know,” Slade said, still fucking him with his fingers. This time, instead of a simple lick, he swallowed the head of Dick’s cock. The sight of Slade taking his cock into his mouth was all Dick needed. He came with blinding speed, shudders quivering through his body. The pleasure pulsed around the fingers still pumping inside him. He could feel Slade swallowing his come, tongue steadily working against Dick’s cock. When the shaking subsided, Dick found Slade propped over him, watching his face like it was the map of an enemy headquarters. Dick’s skin did not feel as tight and hot as it had before, but the need pooling in his core was still as intense as a wildfire. His cock, damp from Slade’s mouth, was twitching but still hard against his stomach. “How are you feeling?” Slade asked. He wiped a bead of sweat from Dick’s chest. “Fuck me,” Dick said. Slade hummed. “Not even a thank you?” “Please fuck me,” Dick said. Slade stood up and stripped. He watched Dick as he did, staring at him like he was a buffet table Slade had been waiting for. Dick was sure his expression was similar. Slade was broad and strong, tanned and scarred from years of his work. He was slightly wiry with age, though no smaller than he had been in their early years fighting each other. The patch of hair above his hard cock was as silver as the rest. The cock was thick and long, nearly intimidating if Dick had not been loose with come and heat. “Now you can turn over,” Slade instructed. He palmed his cock, and Dick was reluctant to lose that view. Still, if it would get that cock inside of him sooner… He turned over and propped himself on hands and knees. The cot beneath his head was perfunctory, covered with a simple cotton. It seemed innocuous, reminding him that they were doing this in the back of a submarine in the ocean rather than at a hotel or his bedroom. He was having his heat in international waters, meters below the surface. Bane’s men could still be hunting them. Any concern for the situation vanished when he felt Slade settle into place behind him. Not just because of the heat of his body, though that was part of it—even if Dick was lost to the sensations, Slade would never lose his situational awareness. Dick was safer in Slade’s hands at the bottom of the ocean than he could have been almost anywhere else on the planet. Dick sucked in a breath when he felt Slade’s cock nudge his entrance. He tensed, but Slade did not enter him. Instead, he leaned over Dick and whispered in his ear, “Are you ready for me? Nice and loose?” Dick whimpered. Slade bit his ear, and then, with a deft motion, used a hand to knock Dick from his elbows. Dick landed cheek-first into the mattress, ass in the air. The sheets beneath him were generic and scratchy, a striking new sensation. Slade moved his hand to Dick’s hair, stroking the locks before gripping them tightly. Dick’s cock had not lost any of its hardness from the previous orgasm, and now pulsed with need. He let Slade keep his head pinned, but rolled his hips. Slade moved back with him so that he could not get an inch more contact, but then took pity on him. Steadily but inexorably, Slade pushed inside Dick. This time, they both groaned. When he was fully seated, he paused for a moment. Dick squirmed, but the weight against his back and hand in his hair prevented him from moving far. After far too long, Slade rocked out and back in. The thrust made Dick groan. He felt like he was being split open from inside, filled to the brim. “Fuck me,” he pleaded. “You beg so pretty,” Slade said, and began fucking him in earnest. He moved his body like a well-oiled machine, pumping in and out of Dick’s heat. It was relentless and steady. “Oh,” Dick said, pushing back into every thrust. It was so much, so good. Dick wouldn’t be able to last long under the steady pressure. Slade seemed as far gone, fucking him hard and fast. Dick tried to move one of his hands down to his aching cock, but Slade tugged harshly on his hair. “Keep your hands where I can see them,” he growled. “Touch me,” Dick begged, but kept his hands by his head. The pleasure was building again, but felt just out of reach. He had already come once—he needed to be shoved over the edge. “No.” Slade tugged his hair again, creating a shockwave of pleasure. “You’ll come without that. Just my cock inside you. Can you feel my knot?” When he said it, Dick realized he could. There was an extra stretch to Slade’s cock now, tugging and pressing at his rim. “You’re going to come without a hand on you, and then I’m going to knot you.” “I can’t,” Dick moaned. “You can because I say you can,” Slade said. “You want to be good for me? Come now. Come again. Milk my knot dry. Come for me.” And just like that, Dick was. He thrashed with pleasure, overwhelmed. Slade kept fucking him, deeper and harder. Dick felt as though his entire body was shuddering, down to his very blood cells. He moaned and spoke nonsense, pleading Slade for more and begging him to stop at the same time. It was too much—just enough. With a grunt, Slade pushed all the way into Dick and locked into place, coming hot inside him. Drowning in pleasure, Dick felt aftershocks from the huge knot inside him ripple up to his fingertips. Slade came in long pulses before finally stilling. He moved his weight more fully onto Dick slowly, unexpectedly careful. The knot inside him shifted with the motion, but Dick’s groan was quieter than before. He felt as though he was floating on a cloud, with only the knot in his ass keeping him tied to his body at all. “Damn, kid,” Slade said. Dick moaned, long and luxurious. He twisted back, feeling the knot move inside him. He felt sated and loose. “Better?” “Much,” Dick said, voice hoarse. “I doubt it will last,” Slade said. “This heat has hit you hard. The knot will satisfy it for only a while.” “Probably,” Dick agreed. The rumble of Slade’s voice against his back was thrilling. “This is your time to back out, if you don’t want me to fuck your brains out all the way to shore,” Slade said. “You should be a bit more coherent for the next few minutes.” Dick had been, until Slade had said ‘fuck your brains out.’ The crassness in Slade’s smooth voice was a shot of adrenaline. “After that, you don’t think I want this?” Dick asked. Slade laughed. “You’ve always wanted this,” he said with no hint of hesitation. “The question is if you’ll let yourself have it.” How could Dick go back to ignoring the attraction between them after having a taste of what Slade could offer? “As long as you’re offering, I want it,” Dick said. “Good,” Slade said. He rolled his hips slowly, igniting the nerves inside Dick. “How long do your heats usually last?” “Thr-three days,” Dick said. “And we don’t know how this drug will affect it,” Slade mused. “We’ll land in Cuba by morning, and we’ll go to my safe house until you can stand on your own feet.” “You’d take me to one of your safe houses?” “Bane will still be looking for us. Besides, I’m not worried—it would be bad form for you to call your daddy on me after how nice I’m being,” Slade chided, twisting his hips again. His knot jolted inside Dick, and he whined. His heat would be flooding him again soon. “Keep that promise to fuck my brains out and we’ll talk,” Dick said. Slade did keep the promise. When the heat took over Dick again, Slade pinned him down and fucked him in every position known to man, hitting deeper and harder each time. Dick was in the middle of an unquenchable wave when they made it to Cuba, and he had vague memories of being hauled bodily down narrow streets before being taken through three layers of security and landed in a new bed. When Dick regained some awareness, he looked at Slade, whose silver hair was mussed and his single eye bright with sympathetic rut. He had just slipped his knot out again, and Dick’s entire body felt thoroughly fucked. “You can’t afford better sheets?” he asked, arching his back and testing the bed. “I don’t sleep much, and tend to bleed in all my safe houses,” Slade said. “I save my money for more important things.” Dick hummed. His heat was receding like the tide, the last few waves lighter than the first. “How long has it been?” “Four days,” Slade said. He grabbed an empanada from a box beside the bed and threw it onto Dick’s chest. “Eat.” When had the food arrived? It always amazed Dick how much loss of awareness he suffered during his heats. He ate the empanada, which was cold but still packed with flavor. “Sick of me yet?” Dick asked mildly. Slade smirked. “Not sure what sort of man would complain about spending half a week buried in that sweet ass,” he said. “I always knew it would be good.” How often had Slade and Dick stared at each other while fighting, secretly imagining fucking each other raw? Dick finally understood Bruce’s on-again, off-again relationship with Selina. The heat of repressed desire from two sides of a battlefield was intoxicating. They fucked twice more. Once was the final push of lust from the heat. The second was in the shower after while Dick was trying to clean himself of four days of sweat and come and slick. Slade had come in to drop off a towel, but had not pretended to demure when Dick invited him into the shower for a blowjob. After nearly a week of mindless fucking, Dick was glad for a chance to show off some finesse. Dick was sated and stable by the time he finally sent a message to the Cave requesting pickup. At some point, according to his previous messages, Slade had convinced him to send Bruce the code that he was safe and in hiding, which explained why he hadn’t been tracked down and dragged back to Gotham yet. Bruce responded to the ping immediately, letting Dick know that the Batjet was on the way to Cuba. “I’ll have to meet him somewhere away from your safe house,” Dick said. Slade gave him an amused look. “Yeah, kid.” When Slade blindfolded him and led him in circles until they reached a beach outside Havana's city limits, Dick knew Slade had never planned to let him know the exact location of the safe house. It was a beautiful night, the breeze crisp and beautiful off the ocean. When the black jet appeared on the horizon, Slade began to slip away. “Hey,” Dick said, and reached up to pull him into a kiss. It started as a thank you, but—as always—turned quickly filthy. He ran a hand through Slade's hair. “Next time, we’re finding a bed with a higher thread count.” Slade smirked. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Seconds turned into minutes, minutes turned into hours as I lay in the same position in Mistresses chambers, my face pushed to the floor, and my ass in the air, waiting for her to come back and let me move, or at the very least give me a pillow. I sat in the position, just waiting, and waiting, and waiting, listening for the familiar speedy clicks of her heels against the marble floors of the castle, or that buzzing sound that always seemed to announce her and her sister’s arrivals. Nothing. The fire I was positioned in front of began to die down, letting the chill into the room, and causing me to shiver. Goosebumps covered my skin once it completely died down and extinguished itself, allowing the cold to completely take over the room. What if I get up and get into her bed? I thought, afraid that if I did, there would be punishment, not only for moving from this position, but also for being on the furniture, which she had made very clear I wasn’t allowed on. Dog. Inferior. Pet. Toy. Property. All words that described my relationship with this woman. All words I loathed being associated with me, but for some reason I just couldn’t bring myself to be mad when my Mistress used them when talking to, or about me. This wasn’t normal, it wasn’t healthy. She’s essentially kidnapped me, and is forcing me to be her sex toy, her property. She’s threatened to let her sadistic sisters play with me. But even with all that, I couldn’t force myself to hate her. Maybe it was her beauty, maybe it was the pity she’d shown toward me when I first stumbled into this place looking for respite from the blizzard. Maybe it was because I ate her out, and she didn’t immediately call me a dyke, after. Whatever it was, it wasn’t normal. “Please come back, Mistress.” I pitifully whispered, hoping that would somehow bring her back sooner, hoping she'd come and help warm me up. I continued to lay there obediently, but shivering from the chill seeping in through the old windows and stones. Click, Click, Click. I heard in the hall, my eyes immediately widening at the sound. Mistress! Mistress is back! I thought excitedly, no longer quivering from the cold but from excitement of seeing her again. The lock in the door clicking, and the old handle turning, the clicks walked forward, closer to me. It took all my willpower not to shoot up and lunge at her legs for a hug. The clicks were finally in front of me. Not the same heels, not the same outfit. Not Mistress. I frowned and whined pitifully. “Uhm, hello.” The new woman said quietly. “Madam Bela told me to come and check on you, and make sure you weren’t too cold or lonely here.” She sounded anxious, her voice quivering every few words. “Thank you.” I managed, looking up at her from my position. “Would you like me to get this fire lit again? It gets cold, and Madame Bela wouldn’t want you to freeze.” She asked, her voice still shaky and anxious. “Yes please.” I said quietly, still upset she wasn’t Mistress. “Okay.” She began moving around getting the firewood, matches, and kindling. Lighting the fire, the orange light slowly growing, and the heat flowing over me. “Would you like some company too?” She asked. “No, thank you.” I answered, already upset, but also embarrassed she was seeing me in this condition. Face down ass up, completely nude save for a collar, and drool pooling by my mouth. “Okay.” She said with a deep exhale, quickly walking out, and shutting the door. How long has it been? The sun was rising when she woke me, and it looks like midday right now. It feels like it’s been ages. I eventually was able to force myself to sleep, and speed through the rest of however long it was until I was awoken by a pressure in my bladder. “No, god no, please.” I muttered quietly to the empty room. “Please not now, god no.” I pleaded silently with no one until the pressure was too unbearable, and I couldn’t hold it without it hurting. I continued to hold it, squirming and wriggling to distract myself and keep my body focused on other things. It was too much, and I had no choice but to let it go, and piss myself. I could feel the hot liquid run down my legs, my eyes quickly following suit with tears of embarrassment. I layed there, covered in my own piss awaiting mistress, the tears stopping well after I had finished relieving myself. The door opened, and I heard that familiar buzzing from when I had entered the castle last night. “Dog, I’m back.” She said in a melodic voice, walking over to me. I refused to look at her out of sheer embarrassment. She sniffed the air. “It smells like piss. Did you piss yourself, Dog?” I sniffled and nodded. “Oh, I knew I should’ve told that maid to ask you if you needed to relieve yourself.” She walked closer to me, kneeling down and running her fingers through my hair. “I’ll get a maid to clean this puddle up.” She continued petting my hair soothingly. “Why don’t I give you a bath? Would you like that, my love?” I nodded, pushing my face off the ground, and looking into her piercing golden eyes, there was just something about them that was so beautiful, so hypnotic. “Alright, come on.” She grabbed my leash, making sure I didn’t mistake myself as an equal to her, and walked me to another door off to the side of her room I hadn’t noticed before. In it, a claw foot bathtub, and as per usual with everything in this castle, it was accented with ornate gold, and roses carved into the sides of the bath. “You sit down, and I’ll heat up the water.” She commanded, and I did so, sitting beside the tub, and staring at the floor. A few minutes had passed before she spoke to me again, ordering me to remove my collar, and I did as told. “Alright, into the tub my darling dog.” She ordered, and I did so, managing to maneuver myself into the tub without standing. The water felt amazing on my skin, relaxing all my muscles, and my brain. Mistress had begun shampooing my hair from outside the tub, running her fingers through my hair as she did so, making sure to get any knots or tangles out. She massaged and shampooed me silently until she broke the silence with a question. “So, dog. You’re not a virgin, and you’re wonderful at cunnilingus,” I blushed at the compliments on my skills at eating pussy. “Why exactly were you out in that blizzard, and not with your girlfriend or something?” I stared down at the water, unsure of how to answer. Not wanting to lie, because I knew she would figure out I wasn’t being truthful. I sat there silently until I finally found the courage to speak, and answer her question. “Well, where I’m from, people aren’t very accepting of people like me.” I could feel my muscles tense up again, despite the soothing water. “I was having a secret relationship with the pastor's daughter, Sofia, until he found us one day. Sofia accused me of using witchcraft to seduce her, and he threw me out of their home.” I paused, not wanting to keep speaking, but not wanting to disappoint Mistress. She remained silent as she washed my hair and body. “I had made it home, but the pastor had made it there first, and he informed my parents of it, so they threw me out.” I was about to continue when I was cut off by Mistress pulling me toward her, and kissing me deeply. Not with lust, or hunger, but with kindness, and what seemed like love. She pulled back, her golden eyes gentle, and sympathetic. “I’m sorry dog, I understand humans can be rather.” She paused, looking for the right words. “Disagreeable, when it comes to sexuality, and especially when they find yours a perversion of the devil, they can be even worse.” I nodded silently. We sat there for a few more minutes, even after she had finished bathing me, and just stared at the floor, or our hands, or the ceiling. “Well,” Mistress broke the silence. “I think you’re clean enough, I think you should hop out, and I can dry you off.” I did as ordered, and awaited the towel on my hands and knees. She brought the soft towel to my skin, and gently dried all the water off my skin. “Are you tired, dog?” She asked gently, looking down at me. “Yes, Mistress.” I answered quietly. “Right, go wait in front of the fire, I’ll move your bed over there.” I crawled out of the bathroom towards the fireplace, waiting for her to move the cushion to it. She plopped it down, and I crawled onto it, quickly falling asleep next to the warm flames, and as she gently patted my hair. “Good girl.” She quietly said as I slipped into unconsciousness.
Percie was hoping her revelation would have delivered some serious oomph to the moment. She'd even made a dramatic point as she declared that Demosthenes was using Katoptris to communicate with Lamia! Jaws would drop, suspenseful music would crescendo into a single pounding chord, and there would be a super focused zoom in on the dagger as all the answers finally became clear. Wow. Being in Hollywood really had messed with her mind. This was real life, not some overinflated action thriller stuffed with B-list celebrities and explosions that substituted for a compelling plot and interesting characters. At best, her theatrical exclamation was met with intrigue, but nothing over-the-top or otherwise Oscar worthy. "How?" Piper asked, still clutching the dagger in her hand. The blade glimmered with heat from use, but otherwise didn't spark any more visions. "Even if Demosthenes could see into this world, as we just saw into his, how could he communicate with Lamia that way? A mirror is just that: something you can look through, but can't pass through." "Okay," Percie conceded, deflating at her idea getting questioned, "but how else could he do it? We already know for sure he's the one coordinating with Lamia and the signs. Based on that vision, Demosthenes targeted Katoptris intentionally. He wanted it for some very specific use; what use could that be other than cross-dimensional communication?" "What if he just wanted to use it like I do? To see the future? Or, at the very least, wanted to keep my other self from doing the same?" It was a fair point, one Percie couldn't refute. Fortunately, or unfortunately, it was hard to tell, Will seemed to come to his own conclusion. "Actually, I think Percie might be on to something, Piper," he said, studying the dagger up close. "You just said yourself that Katoptris has been severely lacking in the vision department, right?" The child of Aphrodite nodded. "So... the reason for that probably has something to do with the fact that my dad has been... well, grounded, for lack of a better word. As the god of prophecy, all prophetic foresight is linked, in some way, to him. With him out of the picture, in both worlds, there's no way I see Demosthenes going out of his way to procure a useless weapon like that. He wants it for a reason other than seeing the future." Piper arched an eyebrow. "Well, Apollo is also god of the sun, and unless I've just been spending too much time indoors, I'm pretty sure the sun goes across the sky every day still." The healer huffed. "There's plenty of gods who can fill that role while he's busy. There are some days where my dad just doesn't feel like it; the sun chariot recently got involved in this fender-bender over Madagascar with some minor deity called Nyame, and it was in the shop for like two weeks after that. Nyame made my dad pay every cent of his insurance, too. I heard that some Aztec deity filled in during that fiasco." Percie put her hand to her eyes. "I'll add the Aztec deities to the ever-expanding list of pantheons I apparently need to know about." "So, what are you saying, Will?" Piper asked, ignoring Percie's grumbling. "That Demosthenes deliberately went after Katoptris because he knew it could see across the worlds? How? Even I didn't know it could do that, and I've been using it for months now." "Then who could he have learned it from?" Will darted his gaze between the two women, waiting for them to make a suggestion. Or come to a realization. Percie folded her arms, thinking it over. Piper had been using Katoptris for a bit, but she wasn't the first to gaze into the Mirror. "Helen... of Troy?" the daughter of Poseidon spoke aloud. Piper scrunched her forehead, cupping her face in her hands. "Wait, what? Helen used the Mirror to look into the other worlds... and what? Told Demosthenes about it at some point? That's-" "Completely possible," Will interrupted, his face lighting up. Either he just came to a big conclusion, or his heritage as son of the sun god (that was not on purpose; curse you, god of accidental puns!) came with a glow-in-the-dark side affect. "Remember what Chiron said about Katoptris in his lecture on ancient weapons?" "No," Percie deadpanned. "Well of course you wouldn't, you fell asleep halfway through and missed everything after Aegis. Look, Chiron mentioned that Katoptris wasn't limited to just the future. Hedge used it to look up freaking baseball scores, remember? Helen stared into Katoptris for almost days on end, especially after being abducted by Paris. What if... she discovered the other worlds during her time when the dagger was hers?" Piper bit her lip, looking like she wanted to argue, but couldn't come up with anything plausible enough to rebuke Will's idea. The son of Apollo looked back at the dagger. "I think the Mirror can show you anything you want it to... we've just never bothered to look into it for anything other than vague hints about the future," he finished. "Granted, we all know most of the images in it are hazy, anyway, so the full accuracy is up for debate. However, with all of this to take into consideration: my dad's removal from the equation, Demosthenes' goal of securing it for himself, and him definitely having some way to communicate across the worlds, I'm gonna have to agree with Percie. Unless something else comes up, we have to assume that Katoptris is how he's doing this." "Then why did we get that vision?" Percie prodded, pushing some of her hair out of her face. "Piper didn't go strolling up to Katoptris, and say 'hey there, friend, mind showing me a cataclysmic event in the making'? She just wanted something... anything. Don't get me wrong; I'm not doubting that we're right. I just want to know how this damn system works. I've had enough misty visions to last me three lifetimes." "Well, to be honest, it always does that," Piper admitted, clutching the dagger's handle in annoyance. "No matter how specific I get in my requests, the best it shows me are just little bubbles hinting at a bigger picture. When I looked into it that time, I just wanted to see if it was up and running again. I didn't ask for anything, exactly." "There's my point; clearly, Demosthenes has figured out the trick, if he's able to communicate with Lamia so effortlessly." Percie's voice rose in assurance. "Now sure, that's bad, but do you realize that means we can do the same thing, if we figure out how?" The looks she got only reaffirmed her sincerity. "We could warn them about him! Or we could at least try to help." Her voice cratered. "I... could talk to Alister again, if just for a moment. To just hear his voice again... I'd do anything." Percie was so caught up in her own thoughts, she almost didn't notice the foggy reflections in Katoptris' blade shift. Almost. Her eyes went wide as the scene changed yet again, all three demigods once again putting their heads together to stare into the metal. This time, their in-flight movie was a silent one; the rolling hills of Camp Jupiter appeared again, but now it was only the backdrop. The downtown area came into focus, and Percie had to bite back several curses as she saw what was happening; undead swarmed through the streets, trading blows with various demigods in Roman armor. The dagger's visions moved along, swinging out of the street and along the paths to the Forum, treating the three teens to the ghastly sight of several dead bodies hacked to pieces... and many of them weren't zombies. "It's... already started," Will said next to her, horror in his voice. "I... don't think time is passing in the same way in the two worlds; it would take longer than just a few minutes for that army to have gotten this entrenched, and caused this much carnage." "I told you; vague and foggy," Piper bitterly remarked. "This could be happening now, or will happen, or it might have even already happened. Since it's not even our world, your guess is as good as mine." Percie heard the argument, but she couldn't wrench her eyes away from the bloody slaughter she was being treated to in the dagger's reflection. She couldn't remember everyone from Camp Jupiter, but to see so many fallen warriors... she'd never get used to this. The vision seemed to skip a beat, rocketing forward along the road to the Forum, before stopping and resetting itself so it faced the opposite way, treating them to a vision of the path they'd just been following. A moment later, Percie's heart almost jumped out of her chest. "Alister!" she screamed, barely registering her own hands as they ripped Katoptris out of Piper's grip. The child of the sea brought the blade right up to her eyes, taking in as much of him as she could. He looked... as wonderful as he ever had. But as she took in every little detail, her pulse fluttered. He hadn't been sleeping well; the bags under his eyes were hard to spot, but she knew that look. He was running, and to the average observer, nothing would have appeared to be wrong. But Percie knew better. "Baby, what are you doing pushing yourself like that?" she whimpered, taking in his slight wobble. Minerva must have done a serious number on him; even with Willamina's expert care, he must have still been in recovery. The healer had been right to confine him to the camp... but now, that safety net had been violated. "C'mon sweetie, look at me!" Percie yelled, shaking the Mirror in her hands as she watched Alister dash past the fallen bodies. "I'm using Katoptris; Demosthenes has the one in your world. He's using it to communicate with the Lamia over here! Please! Let this work!" Despite all her desperate pleading, nothing came of it. The man she loved ran on, his blades coming together in anticipation of a fight. "No. No no no. You can't fight right now! You're still hurt; they can't let you do this! Why the hell is nobody stopping him? Where am I?!" She surely would have woken everyone in the motel up with her shrieking, if the building actually had any guests other than Piper and her unconscious dad. A small part of Percie's head noticed Piper curling against the wall, apparently taken-aback by how vicious the daughter of Poseidon had become, and Will looked to be just as repelled. But she didn't care. The next person ran by, sending Percie into even more hysterics. "Nicola?!" The daughter of Hades' ponytail whipped against her back as she followed Alister, her Stygian sword flashing violet in the dagger's blade. "Forget the battle! Get Alister and yourself out of there! Mina's got to be worried sick about you, at least. Neither one of you has any right to be running headlong into danger like that." Wow, that was hypocritical of her, to say that. "You can't die... not when I have so much I need to say to you," she faltered, sinking to her knees with the blade still in her hands. "Don't... die." But Nicola didn't hear her, either. The young lady threw a sarcastic look over her shoulder, sneering at somebody behind her. Percie couldn't hear anything in this vision, but Neeks' lips looked like she said something about... the scythe. Oh. Oh... Percie rose to her feet, staring into the vision with even more intensity than before. Erebos had told her about this just a few minutes ago; if the scythe Nicola was talking about was the same one she was thinking of... there was only one person who could be coming next. Percie recalled the first time she'd ever heard her own voice over a recording. The tone had shocked her; Alister had only giggled. He'd explained to her how the echoes of your own voice in your head distorted the real sound, so you never really sounded exactly like you thought you did. But mirrors tended to be the exact opposite; bias aside, what you saw in them was what you got. The last time Percie had really checked herself out in a mirror was in preparation for the last Argo reunion party: Hayden had demanded everyone come in black tie, which meant two of Percie's arch enemies made a return; constricting dresses, and heels. With considerable effort, she'd squeezed herself into a pair of four-inch Weitzman's, to her own frustration. She knew how to walk in them from practicing with her mother's back when she was a kid, but that didn't mean she enjoyed the experience. How was she supposed to kung-fu kick an empousa if she couldn't get her leg up high enough past that stupid dress, anyway? The formal wear did come with one good thing, though; she'd gotten to see Alister in a tuxedo for the first time. Percie had been blown away by him before, but that reveal was one she had not been expecting; he'd picked a Windsor, sleeked with silver highlights and a sapphire tie. He'd also slicked his hair back for the first time, and Percie wasted no time in telling him how it made him look at least five years older. He'd blushed a little, and tried to wave her off, but she knew he appreciated the compliment. Seeing him like that really struck her with something; they weren't kids anymore. Percie recalled the mirror they'd checked themselves out in right before they left. As out-of-her-comfort zone as she was, the person staring back at her wasn't the awkward teenager she remembered from a few years ago. It was an adult woman looking back at her, with her sea-green eyes. And Alister wasn't the gangly dork he'd been back when they met five years ago. His shoulders had filled out, his jawline was pronounced, and his waistcoat had emphasized every little detail in his upper torso. They'd both grown up... and seeing herself so differently had stuck with her ever since then. That moment of realization, where both you and the person you love can see the changes you've gone though... it was as scary as it had been heartwarming. That exact same feeling... landed right on her chest as Percy came into view. Immediatly Percie could see the resemblance; they'd both inherited their father's hair, eyes, and facial expressions, if the concerned look on her doppelganger's face was anything to go by. His mouth curled into a half-grimace as he passed the corpses, the same way hers did when she spotted them in the dagger for the first time. Riptide sparkled in his hand, and based on how he was gripping it, he was ready to cut down the first thing that so much as looked at him funny. Percie could relate. Will and Piper had crowded back in a while ago, but Percie didn't bother paying them any attention. Kronos' scythe was nestled under Percy's left arm, the curved blade sticking up into the air with a monstrous air. Percy clearly didn't like dragging the thing around with him, but he had no choice; he couldn't just drop the thing somewhere and hope no one stumbled on it. Demosthenes already had Katoptris; he didn't need the Lord of Time's reaping tool. "Percy," Percie gritted through her teeth, putting every ounce of willpower into her concentration, "listen to me. It's Percie... you, I guess. I don't know if you can hear me, but I have to try. Listen; Demosthenes is using Katoptris to communicate with Lamia across the dimensions. I'm using Piper's to speak to you right now. He's got it with him; if you can, try to get it back. It's a lot more dangerous than Piper ever realized. And tell Alister... tell him I saw him. Tell him I'm still thinking of him. And tell him... to stop pushing so hard, before he hurts himself. Oh, and Annabeth misses you more than you could ever know. I'll take care of her... and you take care of mine." Katoptris' vision melted a moment later, leaving the blade once again a mere reflection of Percie's tear-addled face staring back at her. But in her eyes... there was hope. Because in that split second before the sight of her other self faded away... she saw him freeze. She saw the shock come into his face. That shock... was her salvation. Percy had heard her. Somehow. But he had. She was sure of it. "He heard me," she heard herself mumble. "He... he heard me!" Will had paled next to her, blinking in utter astonishment first at the dagger, then at the jubilant daughter of Poseidon. "I... think he did, too." "He definitely did," Piper added, more bamboozled than anyone else. She stared at Percie in wonder. "How... did you do that?" "I don't know." "I know that, I-," Piper took a moment to compose herself. "I mean... how did you trigger that vision in the first place? Usually someone has to be holding Katoptris to spark something out of it. You... were just standing near it..." her voice trailed off, doubt coming into her tone. Will needled his eyes at the child of love. "Piper, what's with that look? Catch a glimpse of a ghost, or something?" The other woman shook her head viciously. "No. Nothing like that. I just... may have put some pieces together, is all." "By all means, don't keep us in suspense," Percie remarked, handing the dagger back to its current owner. Piper held the blade in both hands for a moment, before sheathing it in her belt. "I said how attuned I was to the emotions of others back during the fight with Lilith, remember?" She got two nods. "When Percie lamented how much she was missing Alister... I don't think I've ever felt as much of a singular emotion all at once ever before. Pure desperation, if you'll forgive me for the bluntness." Percie rolled her eyes. "I've been called worse by teachers. Continue." "Right. Anyways, that kind of exclamation releases a lot of pent-up feelings. And as my mother is so fond of saying," Piper made a gag-me gesture at the mention of her mom, "feelings have more power than any of us ever wish to admit. I think Katoptris responded to that, and thus showed Percie an image of the person she was talking about. When I tried to trigger something earlier, and we got that vision of the army approaching New Rome, I was letting out a lot of frustration. Maybe that's the key." Will tilted his head. "Katoptris responds to an outcry of a single emotion... and adjusts the vision accordingly, to the ramifications of the person who triggered it in the first place?" He pressed his lips into each other. "It sounds crazy... but crazy is the order of the day for us, right now. With how stressful being kidnapped and living through the Trojan War was, I can see Helen constantly triggering visions of other worlds whenever she looked at Katoptris." Percie winced. "Okay... if that is how it works, though, we're in kind of a pickle. That kind of outburst is hard to deliberately provoke out of yourself; if that's true, Demosthenes has been putting himself through quite a series of trial and error to get to the point where he can do it with accuracy." "He's a man venerated for his intelligence, determination, and creativity," Piper stated, matter-of-factly. "He's got the patience and the manpower to pull it off." No one had any counter-arguments to that. Will closed his eyes, before turning back to Percie. "That smaller girl... that was Nico, right?" "Yeah," Percie confirmed. "Nicola." "And the Mina you mentioned... I assume that would be me?" "Willamina; yep, that would be you. Compassionate, a whiz at healing, and more than a little dorky in all the right ways." Will's face flushed, and Percie smirked at the reaction; it was exactly how Mina responded whenever someone complimented her. The daughter of Apollo was almost... too human, at times. She'd had a wonderful human mother, if the way Mina talked about her was any indication, and Apollo actually seemed to care about her, in his own way. She and Neeks were literally night and day; a joke Percie could not take credit for, and would never wish to take credit for. Damn you, Lea. The healer, meanwhile, was seemingly chewing on something in his head. Finally, he decided to voice it: "Nicola... she looked stable. I mean, what with the battle and all, I would expect her to be in serious mode... but she seemed to have a... sense of freedom around her, if that makes any sense." Percie felt a slight pang in her chest. Yeah, she could see where Will was coming from. "Her life hasn't been easy," the child of the sea sighed, "but as bad as it was, I think she might have gotten a better deal than Nico. The last time she saw her brother, he was gouging out someone's eye to protect her. That memory was something she could use as an anchor in her more trying moments." Will's face took on a glum pallor. "But Nico didn't get that foundation; he got the exact opposite, in fact. Instead of being comforted by his last memory of Bianca, his haunted him. It made him blame himself for what happened." Percie knew all this... but to hear Will of all people say it out loud... she had to press her eyes shut to keep them from tearing up again. Gods, why did it take her so long to see something so obvious? Even with Nicola's happier moments of her brother, the daughter of Hades had been through the ringer. She'd promised Bartholomew she would look after Nicola... and she'd promised Nicola she'd look after Bartholomew. Two failed promises... promises that she'd pushed away. "We've patched things up, but I still need to get back to Nicola," Percie said. "As liberating as it was to finally say the things that needed to be said, Nico isn't the only one who needs to hear them." "Good," the healer murmured, his voice low. "Good." Piper, who'd been listening to the conversation with a sympathetic ear, suddenly stood upright. "Wait... neither Alister nor Nicola heard you when you tried to speak to them, right Percie?" "I don't think so, no." "But Percy did. Could that be the answer to our riddle, then?" "What, Katoptris only connects you to yourself across the dimensions?" Piper nodded. "Yeah. I mean, sure, it's random as hell, but isn't there always at least some reason to this kind of magical nonsense? If the Mirror responds to harsh emotion, then connects its wielder's wish to whatever they were feeling about, doesn't it kind of make sense for that to be the case? The other version of you would be the best candidate for completing the cycle, as it were. Without it, all you'd get is a one-way mirror, like that vision we had of Demosthenes leading his army. But if there was someone on the other side who could provide the closest match to the discharge that triggered the connection in the first place, then that one-way mirror becomes two-way. And if it's two-way..." Will eye's widened. "Then suddenly communication becomes possible between the worlds. Information could be shared... the only reason Percy didn't say anything on his end was because Percie's sudden interjection startled him." The child of the sea frowned. "But... wait. If that idea holds water, and Katoptris is really the way Demosthenes is communicating with Lamia... then that must mean..." "Yes." Piper's voice was hard as steel. "He has his two-way mirror working; we need to find this world's Demosthenes."
Just how long could one man shower for, exactly? I checked my phone for what felt like the hundredth time. Fifteen minutes and counting. The sound of the running water in the bathroom was the only sound in the apartment. I was hypnotized by it, listening closely for when the stream was interrupted, splashing down more heavily a few seconds later. Most likely the disturbance was caused by him raising his arms, lathering the soap thickly across his chest. I imagined the white foam coating his upper body, how his hand, spread wide, would glide over his glistening skin. By now, his hair would be slicked back from his face, droplets of water gliding down his chiselled cheeks and over his neck. He would be flushed from the temperature. Then he would close his eyes, turning his frame into the water to rinse the soap away. I heard the water shut off, breaking from my rather detailed fantasy abruptly. I chugged the last of my water as he came out the bathroom, looking intently anywhere but at him. From the corner of my eye, I could see he was dressed only in a white towel, wrapped precariously about his impossibly slender waist. My promise earlier not to poke him with my arousal was soon to be dangerously close to breaking. “There’s fresh towels in there. I’ll meet you in here.” He said curtly, and I could tell from his tone he was far from relaxed as well. This was a test for us both, whether he meant for it to be that way or not. By now, I was fairly sure the Corporal suffered with some kind of aversion to contact. Where it stemmed from, how deep it ran, I could only guess. I knew by inviting me to stay the night with him, he was gaining in confidence, if he could withstand having me in such close proximity. It was one thing to end up snuggling on the couch, an entirely different ball game laying in bed together. I may well find myself on the couch before the break of dawn, albeit not purely because of his inhibitions. I nodded in response to him, frantically willing my half-hard cock to chill. “I’ll be there in a moment, just…. Just finishing my water.” I laughed nervously, and then looked into my glass. It was empty. Guess I’ll be getting in that shower now. Thankfully, the Corporal was already gone. Alone in the bathroom, still thick with the steam from his shower, I undressed myself slowly. My blood supply was still an unfair ratio to the south, and I was seriously considering taking him up on the offer of jacking off in here while I had the chance to. For something I used to rarely do, it was sure becoming a habit. It took a moment to figure out the switches, to turn the water from arctic to Satan’s balls to somewhere in between. Perhaps an ice cold shower would be better suited. I let the water turn to the icier side of the spectrum, and climbed in for my third shower of the day. Mom, Dad, if you could see me now. I know you struggled to get me to wash once a day, and here I am today, showering three times in less than twenty-four hours. How I’ve grown. The need to masturbate passed, and I washed myself despite feeling overly clean already. I was conscious of leaving too soon, given his nearly twenty minute shower, so I lingered under the water until I could withstand it no longer. Chilled to the bone, I hopped out and grabbed a towel, roughly drying off and wrapping it around my waist, leaving the bathroom in search of my overnight bag. “A-Ah…” I opened the bathroom door and found myself in the company of the Corporal, who had changed into his night clothes. He wore loose tracksuit bottoms and a white t-shirt. It was the most casual I had ever seen him, and it took me by surprise. So much so, I couldn’t peel my eyes away. And neither could he. I caught his gaze drifting back to my face just in time. “Tch, stop staring me.” “You… were staring at me, too.” I mumbled, trudging past him to my bag. “I’ll be through in a minute. I just needed to brush my teeth…” “That’s what I’ve come out for.” “Oh.” Hunching over, I scooped my overnight bag up, turning to find the Corporal still standing by the bathroom, his eyes anywhere but on me. We entered the bathroom together, standing side by side at the sink. He was careful to keep a distance, hooking his brush from the little pot on the side. I took mine from my bag, along with the paste. “This is kind of domestic.” I laughed, nervously, as we both wet the brushes. “Don’t get any weird ideas.” He retorted. We brushed our teeth in silence, the odd feeling of domesticity not leaving me. It made me wonder what it would be like to live with someone; the simple aspects of daily life that I took for granted would be shared, like this right now. It felt somehow comforting, even if all we were doing was cleaning out teeth. “I’ll be in the bedroom.” The Corporal said, slipping past me and across the hall to his room. I’d soon be in there with him, too. I felt the air knocked out of my lungs from that thought, and I gripped the side of the sink for support. How could he do this to me so easily? He wasn’t even in the room and my legs were jelly, just from thinking of laying down near him. The sensation was powerful, my breathing ragged for more than a minute as I struggled to get my shit together. My reflection in the mirror was pale, and somewhat alarmed. I was wide-eyed and looked like I was about to puke. Not at all how I wanted him to see me. I dropped my towel and slipped into my own pajamas; a pair of loose shorts and a baggy shirt. Leaving my bag in the bathroom for the morning, I turned the light out and slowly padded barefoot to his room. Too shy to burst in unannounced, I knocked hesitantly on the door. “Get in here already.” He growled. Reassuring as ever. He must be feeling nervous, too. The other side of this door… was his room. My hand quivered as I clutched the handle, the metal chill against the mounting heat of my palm. I was steeling myself, drawing in one shaky breath after another. In a few seconds, I would be in his bedroom. His personal space. The one room of his apartment I was yet to be privy to. It felt colossal, like I was about to explore the final frontier. He had freely invited me into his most private space . With a flick of my wrist, I’d be in there with him. Well, here goes nothing. I opened the door, pushing it open and stepping inside. My eyes were to the floor, to the varnished wood, to my toes that wriggled as I summoned the courage to look up. I could feel his presence, his eyes watching me, waiting impatiently. Slowly, I raised my head and took a tentative look around. None of my imaginings of his room would have lead me to this. I guess I expected to find some level of personal touch in here. The rest of his apartment was devoid of clutter, the personal knick-knacks that fill up a house and make it a home. I expected to find it stowed away here, in the privacy of his own space; photographs, collections of objects and trinkets, all sorts. Yet, to my surprise, there was nothing. The same decor was ever present, the furniture sparse. A wardrobe dominated one wall, with a dresser beside it, with nothing but a single comb gracing the surface. No bottle of cologne, like the one I’d been spraying my pillow with, no left out pieces of jewelry - no personal effects whatsoever. That was a disappointing lack of discovery. “Are you going to spend the entire night standing in the doorway?” The Corporal asked, snapping my attention back to him. I noticed the lamp beside him, casting heavy shadows across his face. It made the angular cut of his jaw and cheekbones yet more pronounced, the stoic set of his eyes deeper still. I caught myself staring a little while longer than I should have, drawn in by his features. He was laying with his back propped against the headboard (a plain, wooden affair), the covers bunched around his waist. His hands were folded neatly there, not so much as a finger twitching. I was about to climb into his bed . My pulse quickened at the thought. Steady on, Yeager. This was purely a platonic arrangement , I reminded myself. “I-I’m sorry…” I stuttered, closing the door behind me. My feet lurched forward, hurrying across the room to the far side of the bed. His bed. The one with him in it. And soon, me, too. I eased back the grey cover, the fabric soft and inviting, and climbed in beside him. It was an ample sized bed for two grown men, spacious and, as I was finding out, very comfortable. Well, if my body wasn’t more rigid than a corpse in the throes of rigor mortis, that is. No sooner than my head found the pillow (was that… feather stuffing?) than the light went out. The room was cast into darkness, my eyes peering unseeingly into the void. All I could make out were the wriggling colors floating in the air, the ones I always used to try and catch in my palm as a child. A remnant of the amniotic sac, or something - I couldn’t recall that particular biology lesson at present, especially when the Corporal was shuffling down the bed. With my eyes out of function, my other senses took up the slack. I heard the whisper of the sheets, like the wind blowing through the trees, and the sinking of the mattress as he redistributed his weight, in search of the perfect, most comfortable position. At one point his leg ventured too far, knocking into mine and sending me into a flurry of hastily spoken apologies. I moved myself further away, my ass now dangerously close to the edge of the bed, in a desperate bid to give him the space he needed. He settled after that, becoming so silently still I wondered if he was there at all. The bedroom door hadn’t opened, so he must be. He must be there, laying down opposite me, his body close and yet far away. Was he facing towards me, was he on his back, or had he turned away? I strained to see, but my vision refused to pierce darkness. “Goodnight, Sir.” I whispered, closing my eyes in a vague effort to actually sleep. I knew I wouldn’t manage it; the best I was hoping for was nothing more than a fragmented hour or so. My nerves were partly to blame, the other factor was that I didn’t want to risk falling asleep and missing a moment. When I woke to him beside me on the couch, I was too sleepy to comprehend properly. I was ready for it this time, and I wanted to remember every little thing. To that end, secure in the knowledge he couldn’t see me, I turned my head into the pillow, breathing deeply. This was the bed he came home to every night. These were the sheets he wrapped himself in, that kept him warm as his dreams soared. These were the pillows that cradled his head. I was sure to find traces of his scent in the woven cotton, I just had to seek it out. As inconspicuously as I could manage, I pressed my nose into the pillow, nuzzling it and then breathing in deeply. My reward was nothing more than the distant scent of detergent. Was he really that clean, that not even his natural scent became embedded in his linen? “...Were you smelling the pillow?” The sound of his voice struck me like a whip, my body jolting hard enough in shock to send me careening over the edge. With a painful thunk , my ass hit the floor. “Ah...ow…!” I groaned, a dull ache shooting up my spine. This was embarrassing, to say the least. I heard him exhale sharply. “Get back into the bed. How close to the damn edge were you to fall out so easily?” “Uhm…” I clambered to my feet, stumbling awkwardly in the dark. I was grateful that he couldn’t see me, although the blush staining my face was probably bright enough to act as a light source. I felt for the bed, padding with my palms before climbing back in. “...Sorry.” “Are you normally this nervous when you sleep with a client?” “I’ve… never stayed in someone’s bed before. It’s always hotels, and then only for a short while.” I explained, pulling the cover up to my chin. I wanted to crawl under it and cease existing, but that wasn’t going to happen. I wasn’t that lucky. The pain in my backside was proof of that. “And for the record, no. I’m… I’m more nervous around you.” “Is that so...” His voice trailed off, into thoughts I wasn’t privy to. “H-How about you? How do you feel, having me… in your bed like this?” “It’s not entirely unpleasant.” He said after a long, thoughtful pause. “I’m trying to change something about myself. If this is how to do it or not, I don’t know. No one can know until faced with the end result.” His words were spoken as if for himself, and I just so happened to hear them. He was adamant, determined to overcome this, and it made me wonder - was it for his own benefit, or someone else’s? I didn’t like the idea that there was someone else significant in his life. Someone who knew his name, for example, already knew him more intimately than I did. “Do you… do you want to change?” I ventured, pushing the stormy cloud of unwanted emotions to one side. I didn’t want to waste this precious time hung up on things I had no control over. I needed to focus on the here and now, on me and the Corporal. “...I do.” He whispered. I wasn’t sure he’d spoken at all at first, but then he let out another deep breath and spoke, just as softly as before. “I can’t go on like this forever.” “Are you lonely?” “I don’t know.” “...Does... having me here help you?” “If it didn’t, I wouldn’t keep paying to see you, would I?” I closed my mouth at that. He had a point, though it was nice to hear him say it. Sort of. I doubt those kind of reassuring gestures would ever materialize between us, but it was enough for me to have this much. I said nothing more. I lay there quietly, listening intently to the sound of his gentle breathing, waiting for the shift as he fell into a deep sleep. Little did I realize I would be the one to fall asleep first. This isn’t my bed , I thought as I slowly came to. These weren’t my covers, either. That was not my pillow, and the arm around my waist was also not mine. I stretched out my legs, yawned and cracked open my eyes. From a slender gap in the curtains I could see it was still the midst of night. The room I was in was too dark to make out details, and as I lay there working out how the fuck I’d come to be here, I heard a soft murmur behind me. Oh. That’s right. I was at the Corporal’s house. I came here to spend the night, which explained the unfamiliar bed and subsequent linen. It also explained the arm around me. Wait, no it didn’t. Back up. My body froze, struck by a sudden chill, despite the soft warmth radiating along my back. In what was eerily reminiscent to the other night, I found myself waking up to the Corporal holding me. His arm about my waist, he held me tightly to him, his chest pressed firm against my back. His legs were bent into mine, our hips aligned without an inch of space between. Judging by the heat, we’d been sleeping in this position awhile. Carefully, not wanting to disturb him, I placed my arm over his and entwined our fingers, squeezing lightly. His skin was smooth, his fingers long and bony. I’d glimpsed them on occasion before, without his white gloves, but this was my first time holding his hand directly. I eased our joined hands up to my chest, slowly. At times like this, I didn’t care about not knowing his name. Anyone could know it. What I had now was better. This was far more intimate, something only I would have. These thoughts, I realized, were deepening. I admitted to myself that I liked him, the Corporal. It was a funny feeling, or perhaps more accurately, it was several feelings colliding at once. They piled up one by one inside my chest; the happiness, the sadness, the confusion. One on top of the other, stacked so high I felt unable to breathe under the weight of it all. I was even a little jealous, to think he may have someone in his life, or that once he was comfortable being intimate, he would find someone to spend his days with. Someone he would invite here, to lay where I am, someone he would whisper sweet nothings to do on hazy Sunday mornings. Just how deep would that feeling burrow into me? It was like a worm, eating its way through my heart. I knew that when the Corporal was finished with me, he would leave a hole straight through the center of my heart. It was a bittersweet affair, to feel this way. Was I falling for him? Or had I already fallen? My body answered for me, a painful twisting in my chest leaving me breathless. No, I don’t think this is love. Infatuation, more likely. It’s human nature to want the most what you can’t have. I’m sure I’d be over him by now if we just fucked. Then I wouldn’t spend so many of my evenings jacking myself off into a pillow, freshly coated in his cologne. Now I was thinking about all the dirty things my mind conjured up. Great. All too quickly the blood in my body diverted, gathering at my waist. I was growing steadily hot, unable to stop the fantasy of us together from flooding my mind, the images becoming more vivid the harder I pushed them away. To make matters even worse, the Corporal was shifting in his sleep, his hips grinding lazily against the curve of my ass. He seemed to lose his inhibitions all too easily when he slept, a fact I am sure he was unaware of when he invited me to stay. Either that, or he expertly played me for the biggest fool in history. I was trapped, his fingers holding fiercely onto mine, inches from my pounding heart, and his hips glued to mine. At least the excruciatingly slow grinding had ceased. Now all I had to contend with was the odd sensation of his flaccid cock pressing into my ass, and my own very not flaccid cock. There was nothing else for it. Reluctantly, I unhooked my fingers from his, and as gently as possible, slithered out from the bed. My problem wasn’t going to go away on it’s own, and there was no way I would be able to do it in his bed. Especially when he instructed me to use the bathroom in the event of… well, in the event of this . My only shred of luck this night was that he appeared to still be sleeping, his breathing deep and rhythmic, no barrage of angry and sassy comments flying out into the dark. I still had to make it to the door, however. I would like to say I moved stealthily, with the complex grace of a feline. Instead, I was a wobbly fucking mess, each step forward positively exhilarating, a will-I-stub-my toe-or-not-roulette. Eventually, I found my way to the door, easing it open as silently as possible. I sighed with relief once I was out, and ambled my way into the bathroom. The light was too intense at first, stinging at my tired, dark-accustomed eyes. Splashing my face with cool water, I examined my face in the mirror. Damn, I looked like a mess. All the time I spent earlier shaping my hair to perfection was wasted, with odd strands sticking out at whatever angle they pleased. No amount of taming with my fingers would fix this tonight. I guess it didn’t really matter. He was sleeping, and the last time I checked, it was impossible to see with your eyes closed. I’d come in here to masturbate, though the treacherous journey to get here had alleviated that particular problem for me. I was too restless to lay down, however. Fetching my phone out of my night bag, I closed the lid on the toilet and sat down, and checked my messages. I had one from Hange - another new customer, and something about their organizer. I didn’t pay much attention to it, clearing it off my screen and moving on. With Mikasa leaving, seeing clients would be simpler, and now that I was no longer in Hange’s bad books, the bookings from new clients were steadily increasing. I would be relying on them all, more so if and when the Corporal ended with me. There was that feeling again, wiggling like a worm inside my chest, inside my heart. I needed to get over this infatuation before that came to pass. Telling myself that was the easy part; the real challenge would be finding a way to do it. I had to pick the difficult one to get hung up on, didn’t I? I slept with plenty of guys, it was never a problem. So why him ? “Corporal…” I whispered, staring down at my phone. “God damnit, what is wrong with me?” The answer was right outside the bathroom door.
"Connor, do you want to explain, the video is being sent up to me now" Marcus said in an angry voice. Drake and Logan just looked at each other like they were watching a movie. Logan's sarcastic response back was "But who gets the girl?" Oddly, Connor and Marcus both said at the same time "We can hear your thoughts you know". Connor telepathically told them all "Before anyone speaks let me turn on the jammer in case someone is listening or there are bugs".He turned it on and sat it on the table. "Marcus, the cover up was necessary. As much as I would rather you not see what happened to Meridian, watch the video and I'll fill in the gaps" and Connor sighed. Both Logan and Drake moved to each side of Marcus to watch the video on Marcus's laptop. He had no idea what he would see. All of them looked highly confused once they had finished watching the video. Logan spoke first "Marcus please replay it and stop when I say stop....stop". "Connor am I seeing this correctly? " Logan asked with a raised eyebrow. Marcus was trying to cool his emotions. He went to disgust, anger and hatred. That bastard had touched her. He had to calm himself and refocus. Then Marcus caught on to what Logan had noticed and proceeded to start asking Connor questions. "Ok Connor, first of all how does an assistant have the skills to kill a vampire and shoot him in the head, much less be carrying a Beretta with a custom silencer? As far as I knew it wasn't a normal gift as an engagement present. Was she sent here to take me out? I have more questions but we'll start with those". "Marcus, honestly she wasn't carrying a gun to make an attempt to infiltrate and assassinate you. She's still a creature of habit and she used to work for the government". Connor thought he should just slam his head on the desk right now to finish the migraine he would have later if they didn't kill him first. "Look Marcus, shit it looks like some of this is going to have to come out. It has to be need to know and never written anywhere or typed anywhere. The girl made some enemies during government work and she's guarded when it comes to her personal safety. She's guarded for a reason. If she was going to screw you over she wouldn't have given me the usb drive and the note the guy was carrying to give you. Oh fuck, I left it in her bag. She knew I'd never screw her over and didn't know I knew you. You don't know I used to work with her". "Connor, you're telling me she was an agent working for the government? You honestly expect me to believe that a 110 lb little 20 year old, not even legal to drink used to work for the government". Connor just started to laugh. "Now I remember another reason they chose her. Marcus, she's not 20. She's in her 30's." Connor sighed and then began again. "She has top sniper ratings, she shoots with both hands, she's sweet and nice but when things get dicey she flips her personality and turns into the ice queen with a gun and other weapons. She can make a guy feel like he's being seduced and give him frost bite at the same time, she has an odd lack of guilt if someone is to be eliminated, odd ethics and refuses eliminating children. She's a very unique creature she stashes weapons like a squirrel stashes acorns. I've never seen her regard a dead guy on the floor as anything more than a house plant in the way." "On a personal note Marcus, if she was here to take you out it would be over and she would never, I mean never had become your assistant. It's too close and too high profile". "Ok Connor, let's say I believe this then why is she "retired". "She got sick, became a liability. A rare genetic disease is a liability for the government, it's not predictable". "We have more questions for you Connor". "Ask away". "Logan pointed it out to me, her eyes changed from blue to dark storm cloud grey as soon as she planned to get the gun. That's not normal for a human, she is human right?" "As far as I know she is. No one knows why. Things that aren't supposed to happen tend to around her. No one has figured it out. She goes on instinct. We were partners at times and she has premonitions. If she tells you something, you best pay attention. And for your information she is officially "retired" no freelance. She called this morning saying she felt it was going to be a very bad day". "I'll need some more convincing and the USB drive and piece of paper would go a long way. I'm going to still want to talk to her and make sure things sound right. I know you are vampire like me. Each of us has our own talent. Drake can see completely into someone's head; their entire life like a movie. I have to have him read hers to confirm this all. It can be quite invasive though if she resists. She will stay with me until this is all settled." "Marcus I have no problem with her staying with you. Keep in mind despite her acting all strong and tough she's still a human and she's been hurt. As far as reading her" Connor took a deep breath. "Meridian was not working for the government voluntarily. She was forced into it. I don't know all the details only that somehow she was brought in for a top agent vampire to read her thoughts. She naturally blocks but something happened and she forced something into his head. He upset her and her response caused him to go insane. He was a top official vampire in the government and at least a century old. She was given the option to work for them or be dissected. My only suggestion is you have someone who is disposable trying it but don't expect them to come out of it alive." "What is her real name?" "Honestly, I have no clue. She was known as the Ice Queen. I don't recommend doing any searches or backgrounds on the code name. The government will swoop in and we'll all disappear. Marcus I wouldn't lie to you. I know what happens to people who get on your bad side." ~~~~~~~ The first shift of security left Benedict Imports. One of the individuals called Cyrus Astor. "Sir, we've had some complications". "What the fuck happened to my man? You're telling me a mere human killed him? That is not successful, it's a failure...I don't tolerate failure". The line went dead as the security agent who worked for Benedict Importing heard the sound of a click before the gun to his head's trigger was pulled. Jamison picked up the phone hitting redial. "Jamison, I assume you will be completing the mission?" "Yes Sir, no problem". "Go get back that drive for me, have fun with the girl while you're at it. I don't like witnesses." "I won't fail you". ~~~~~~~ Jamison did a quick search on Meridian Hayden. Jamison took the stairs up to Meridian's home. This time he would not be screwed by that bitch. He placed picked the lock to the door entering the condo. He put the bomb under the counter. As he searched around he noticed she wasn't there. He started searching the place. He went over to the bookcase. He grabbed the usb drive and put it in his pocket. He ran down the stairs and out the back after arming the bomb for 10 minutes. After the bomb blast, Jamison called Cyrus "The job is complete". "I'll meet you tomorrow at 2 pm at Navy Pier Beer Garden and don't be late" Cyrus smirked. "Wouldn't think of it Sir" as Jamison smirked and thought to himself. Screw Cyrus this goes to the highest bidder and auction off Cyrus after he had upped the price to both him and other clients. ~~~~~~~ Driving up to the gorgeous rehabbed condos Connor, Marcus, Drake and Logan were getting ready to walk to the building when Marcus's phone rang. "Mr. Benedict a first shift employee was shot in the head. We dumped his cell phone line and found the last call to Cyrus Astor." Marcus stood there for a second and started cussing. "Ok dump his home phone and get all the info on him you can, we are about to retrieve Ms. Hayd...What the hell?!" He shouted as the entire top floor exploded. "Oh shit, the entire top floor of exploded, please tell me she doesn't live on the top floor" and the line was silent. "Damon, tell me what fucking floor she lives on!" Marcus screamed. "Top floor Sir, I'm sorry Sir" and Damon stayed silent. "Damon, get a crew together to work with Connor's as soon as you can. Get in to confirm if she's really dead." Connor just stared in shock with all of them and 2 seconds later started yelling "Get in the car we have to get out of here." ~~~~~~~ 4 hours later Damon's crew assembled with Connor's and entered the remains of the top floor penthouse. Drake and Logan were working at Marcus's estate with international contacts to work on piecing together the puzzle. Marcus's and Connor's angry attitude was wearing on both their nerves. Marcus and Connor headed to the charred remains of Meridian's residence. The whole building was blocked by Security to ensure safety. Both Marcus and Connor felt their heart sink when arriving at the top floor. No one could live through this. The whole place was completely destroyed. "Damon what do we have so far?" Marcus asked as Damon fidgeted. "Sir, the bomb was bad enough that I don't know if we'll even be able to find much less identify a body if there was one. The only reason we were able to view the remnants of the blast was a special shell has been built throughout the condo and hallway. We checked with the builder and it seems they had no idea about the special installation. All the other floors are normal. If it wasn't for the blast enforced walls then all of the floors would have exploded. The condo below hers was empty. All residents have been evacuated with only minor injuries" and Damon stepped back. Connor went to check with his team just dumbfounded at the destruction and was informed the only reason the whole building didn't go was because she had blast reinforced her floor. They just stared at the utter destruction. It was basically a box on top of a building. Damn, such destruction. Marcus kept thinking how all he wanted to do was get there, take her to his home and clear this all up. He wanted to hold her till she was well and then she would be his. His alone. Now it was all gone. He was so jealous before of Connor but now they were both suffering. "I think we both need a drink." Connor said. Walking to the car Connor was sitting remembering her laugh. Their missions together. The time they discussed being a couple. Up until now he had thought he messed up saying the missions came first but he realized she was just like his sister. He had to help protect and save her so many times and now when it really counted, he failed. Failed miserably. He looked up and saw Kendall. As Kendall approached him he got ready to give him the news then Kendall opened his mouth. "What did the fucking bitch blow my stuff up because I fucked some skank? It was her fault. Having to work fucking jobs" then he turned to Marcus "For you, you were fucking her weren't you? Is that why she threw me out and blew the fucking place up?" Suddenly Marcus was overcome by rage and anger and hit Kendall throwing him backwards into the crowd. He couldn't kill him right here so he had to keep some degree of control. The crowd all separated letting him fall onto the side walk. Connor grabbed Marcus's arms to pull him towards the car. Before they were at the car they heard the crowd started to scream and go after Kendall. Connor grabbed his radio and instructed his officers to extract Kendall from the crowd and take him to the station for the time being. Marcus looked at Connor and asked "Was the crowd really going to tear him to pieces?" Connor answered him by saying "Meridian did a lot for this community, she may be able to turn into the Ice Queen but she helped so many families here. I always suspected it was because hers was horrid but she didn't say much." "Marcus, shit, the city is going to get a dicey if she's dead. I don't know how to tell you about the other half of her life. I should have told you earlier" Connor said while thinking about how to say it. "I knew she was getting married to Ken, what else is there?" he said as his mind raced. "Have you ever heard of the band Genevieve's Revenge?" "With the female lead singer, millionaire and philanthropist Genevieve Austin? I know of her but haven't met her. Is she a friend of Meridian's?" Marcus asked quite confused. "You've met her, she is Meridian" Connor announced. Marcus stared at Connor dumbfounded. No, why the hell would someone who makes so much money come and work for him as an assistant? Working 2 jobs like she was saving money and not a millionaire. "I don't understand." "She felt that the constant band, stage, rock star was starting to jade her. She had said she needed to "reground" herself as she put it. She was losing sight of why she was doing it. The meaning behind her love of the music. And it was working. She had never told Ken about her rock life. He just got more and more jealous and she tends to just cut herself off if someone is obsessively jealous." "Ken was freaking when he found out who she was working for and to her it was a "litmus" test. She was having doubts. Also, she's stubborn as hell so telling her she can't do something doesn't work. If he couldn't handle her working for a successful high profile individual and trust her how the hell could he handle the rock star in her? She'd never cheat on any committed relationship." Connor said. "I told her before this started. I know her, have for really long. There would be no "litmus" test if it were right. She was over justifying ending it with Ken. She's not the kind of woman who is into a high maintenance relationship. She can't handle the fighting. I can tell you like her; I see it in your eyes. And so we are clear, a long time ago she had talked to me about us having a relationship and I declined. It wasn't until now that I realized I felt like a protective big brother. Still do. If none of this had happened, there would have been a day when Ken came home and she'd be gone. She's in a relationship for the long haul. If there's screaming, fighting, suffocating and huge drama or telling her how to be then eventually she grabs her running shoes and is gone without an explanation" Connor explained. "Damn Connor, now I miss her even more, we're there. If she is declared dead then what about a huge memorial service to avoid any riots?" Even while suggesting it Marcus's stomach was turning. "The problem with it looking like she was murdered is keeping the city from burning down around us. It's not as simple as having a huge city memorial service. She was kind of like a diplomat amongst the different styles of music, cultures, races, religions. If she was killed, you have no idea how many different people will be hunting down whoever did it. We're talking some not so legit groups, normal citizens, communities and the city could easily turn into a war zone of killing anyone suspected." Connor took a deep breath trying to relax. "We're talking about planes of people from all over coming here for retribution over her death. As an example in Nevada she was able to unite and help form a treaty between a coven of witches and were's pack. They had been fighting and killing each other off for 100s of years. She doesn't care about the little things. To her the little things are things such as race, color, or religion. She never understood how much of a leader she was. Let's just go drink and if we can't be optimistic let's get so drunk we can't see straight" Connor said. ~~~~~~~ Once walking in and seeing Drake and Logan they both looked up at Marcus and asked..."How much worse could this get? You look like a meteor is going to hit the planet". Marcus let them read his conversation with Connor in his mind. Drake was the first to speak "Oh shit, do you have any idea of the following in London she has? The charities, the groups she has united? I agree, we drink and when we get the call tomorrow we figure out a game plan to stop World War 3 from breaking out". Marcus picked up his cell and called Damon. "Damon, I need you to pull all the information on Genevieve Austin. I especially need everything she's done with every charity and diplomatic work with anyone. I'm talking even the off the radar groups. Vampires, were's, witches, covens and anyone else." Marcus closed his phone. Connor started handing out drinks. Not only was he mourning but now he was worried. ~~~~~~~ The phone rang at 10 am the next morning. Saturday, damn it. Connor answered "Chief O'Brien here, tell me is she dead?"
“So in the 36 hours or so Jungkook has been with us, we’ve made him cry at least twice and he’s gotten sick,” Hobi announced, wrapping himself around Jungkook. “Are we the best hyungs or what?” “Hyung, you smell like vanilla,” Jungkook breathed. “Wow.” They had been starting to worry just a little bit more when the second morning rolled around, and 21 year old Jungkook was nowhere to be seen. Jungkook could see them all furrowing their brows from time to time, running their hands through their hair like they were frustrated as they ate breakfast and kept staring at him. The only one who didn’t seem worried was Taehyung, who had celebrated his fever going down by acting out a one man drama scene in his ridiculously patterned silk pyjamas in the kitchen, complete with high voices and using food as props in his mouth and the most hideous furry shoes Jungkook had ever seen his life. Safe to say, Jungkook did not find him that hot anymore. But he had to admit that the silk pyjamas felt nice as Taehyung insisted he sit in his lap as he was spoonfed porridge by Jimin. Somehow the topic had switched to movies and Ironman, to which the hyungs’ face brightened as they watched Jungkook breathlessly spill out his love for Ironman. They didn’t want to show Jungkook the new Ironman movies in case they messed up time, so they settled in to watch a documentary about space, Jungkook still in the clothes he slept in and swaddled up in blankets in the middle of the couch. “Uh uh. Gimme,” Jin said, trying to tug Jungkook out of Hoseok’s arms. “You’ve literally had him all night,” Namjoon whined, trying to stop Jin. “When is it my turn?” Jungkook giggled as the familiar voices rose up in bickering as they fought over who got to sit next to Jungkook. If he closed his eyes now, it would feel like nothing had changed. Feeling a pang of helplessness, he stopped to consider what might be happening back home. Were his hyungs worried? They were supposed to be performing in a TV show that their manager’s had worked extremely hard to get. He even had a fan sign coming up. He was going to let them down. He exhaled shakily as Jin won the battle by playing the ultimate hyung card, with a compromise that Jungkook’s legs would be resting across Namjoon’s lap since he was working on something on his laptop. Jimin was still whining, but Jungkook barely heard it as he was reluctantly transferred over into Jin’s arms who frowned as he caught a look on Jungkook’s face. “What’s the matter, JK?” he cooed in a heartbreakingly sweet tone. Jungkook could nearly not stand it, it was so sweet. “I’m just tired,” he lied, unwillingly to explain his rapid thoughts that the hyungs had no answers to. “Well you would be, you’re still not 100%,” frowned Yoongi. “I’ll be ok,” Jungkook sniffed. “I’m not a baby. Let’s watch.” He found the documentary extremely boring, closing his eyes and letting Jin adjust him so he was being cradled and fully relaxing his body. “Is he asleep?” Hoseok asked quietly. Wow, so Hoseok was capable of being quiet. Jungkook was too relaxed to correct him. “I think so. This must be all so stressful on his body,” Jin lowly responded. Jungkook could feel the vibrations as he spoke. “Sorry I’m hogging him, guys. He’s just so cute. Every time I look at his face, it’s like I’m seeing my baby brother that I lost during a long journey. And I feel like if I don’t hold onto him, I’ll lose him again. I just can’t let him go.” “I know I love him, but looking at him like this literally hurts my heart,” Yoongi murmured. “His young face, his innocent eyes. Back then, I didn’t think much about his age. But now looking at him, all I can see is how young he is, and how hard his life is going to be.” Hard? His future looked great. “I should’ve looked after him more,” Jimin said softly, pressing a gentle kiss against his forehead. “His Jimin is probably just thinking about himself, and how he needs to look good on TV. I was so selfish, and such a bad hyung.” Jungkook wanted to protest and say no, Jimin was great – his Jimin would always join in on filming their crazy funny videos. But maybe he really was tired – his eyes felt too heavy to open. “Shhh,” Jin soothed as Jungkook shifted, rocking him slightly. “It’s ok. It’s ok…” He was woken by a loud sound of a track, a male voice singing. “Namjoon! What the fuck!” “Sorry guys, I didn’t see that my headphones came loose!” said Namjoon. “Great. He had only drifted off for 10 minutes,” Jin said crossly, watching Jungkook squint his eyes open in his arms. The particular verse played again as Namjoon mashed at his laptop. “It doesn’t sound complete,” Yoongi said thoughtfully. “Sounds a bit bare.” “It needs a harmony,” Jungkook croaked, still fully relaxed and lying back. Jin was rocking him again. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps something like...” Namjoon smiled as Jungkook sang a tune that would complement the melody. “Our smart kid! Already writing songs while recovering from a cold,” he crowed proudly as he scribbled in his notebook and got Jungkook to sing it into his laptop as a rough record. “I’m so relieved we seem to be doing well,” Jungkook said, watching Namjoon work again. “You all are still doing music. I seriously was worried we would only have a year or two before we had to disband. We’re not that known and netizens always make fun of us… I was so worried about what I was going to do.” Taehyung looked sad and was shaking his head, but made no move to interrupt. “I was so worried. I’m not smart like you guys. I only have a junior high school level education, I’m not going to get a real high school one. Only a few nights ago, I was scared that I was going to work at a convenience store for the rest of my life after BTS, because that’s all I’m qualified to do.” He snuggled deeper into the blankets. “If we didn’t make it, I’m not sure I could’ve made it. I wouldn’t be smart enough to get into college. I would be nowhere.” “College isn’t everything,” Yoongi said. “You don’t need to go to college to make money.” “Yeah, but you guys are way smarter than me, I don’t know how to do that. I know I’m not as smart as people my age. I’m too dumb.” “Jeon Jungkook!” screamed Jimin. Now there was the feisty Jimin hyung he knew. Fairy Jimin was hiding him all along. “Jungkook, I’m sick of you saying that. You are not dumb. Just because you didn’t take high school biology doesn’t make you any worse. How many people know how to write a song? Or put a mic pack on? Or understand how a tv show is produced?” Jungkook didn’t respond and played with an edge of his blanket. Jin was now rocking him in a frantic rather than soothing way. “I don’t know what you’re going to do after BTS – maybe you will release a solo album, and make your own YouTube channel, pick up some change with million dollar modelling contracts when you’re bored: but I don’t know why you’re so convinced you’ll amount to nothing without BTS, and what you’ll do after your military service and how you always say you’ll have no career after 30-“ “Wait,” screeched Jungkook, sitting up. “You mean I’m still worried about it?? Oh my god, I didn’t even think about what might happen after I finished my service!” “Jimin,” admonished Namjoon. “You didn’t need to say all of that.” Jimin apologised, but Jungkook was now working up into a state, crushing his hair into his fists – God, just when he was going to be ok, he didn’t realise that it wasn’t over yet. And wouldn’t be for a long, long time. He was freaking out. “Baby, your service is 15 years away, your entire life again, don’t worry about that,” Jin tried, bouncing him up and down. “And I wish we could tell you all your amazing achievements but we can’t. You don’t need to worry. You’ve worked hard, and you can look after yourself. ” “I know you can’t believe me right now, but you’re good at everything you put your mind to,” Taehyung said, detangling Jungkook’s hand from his hair. He pressed kisses against the knuckles. “Maybe other people will be better at maths than you, but you’ll earn more and do more than they ever will in their life.” “Jungkook, look at me,” Yoongi said. “All these stupid entrance exams are just bogus for parents to compare their children and it’s a waste of time. Heaps of students suffer from them, to a point where they’re suicidal. It’s unnatural, and even if you were studious you wouldn’t be happy. Like Tae said, if you’re worried about survival you’ll definitely be able to look after yourself, and you can do whatever you want. You could sell a painting. Release songs. Live off the royalty you’re going to get soon. Fuck, you could sell your used tissue for a few million dollars right now.” “Hyung, he can’t do that, what if they use his DNA to clone him,” Taehyung seriously asked. “There’s clones?” yelled Jungkook. The rest of the hyungs started laughing, breaking the tension in the room. “No baby, Taehyung was being mean,” Hoseok said. “Kookie, it’ll be ok. We promise. And if you don’t know anything else, you should know to always trust your hyungs.” Jungkook deflated. He held out his arms to Namjoon, one of the only hyungs he felt like he hadn’t properly cuddled yet. Namjoon was the smartest person he had ever met, and if he was still with him and BTS then everything had to be fine. “Good boy,” Namjoon said, giving him a big hug, running his big hands up and down his back. “Kookie, you’re our pride and joy. We would give you everything we know, and help you with anything you want to learn. And between me, Konkuk University grad Jin and the rest of these idiots, you’ll be a combination of all us and you’ll be super smart. You’re our little ultimate.” Jungkook looked down, ashamed. He felt a little undeserving of these words. “Hey. Bambi eyes up. Where are my deer eyes?” Jungkook looked up inquisitively. “Oh God,” choked Namjoon, drawing him into a tighter hug. “And if you ever run out of money, just look at us just like that.”
It’s a wild, wild world when it comes to courtship rituals in animals. Alderia modesta is a hermaphroditic slug that engages in penis fencing. Male black widows “twerk” when approaching the females on their webs in order to avoid being eaten - and may get eaten anyway. The angler fish male attaches himself to the female, eventually becoming absorbed into her body until all that’s left is a pair of gonads for her to use. Bowerbirds create impressive, intricate structures that are intended to make the male seem larger than he actually is. Male porcupines drench potentially receptive females with a shower of urine from a tree. Humpback whale bulls gather in large groups and sing to let the ladies know where they are. Animals have evolved in myriad ways to form pairs with the intention to copulate. Humans, though? That’s complicated. The knock at the door sent Greg’s heart into a wild spin like a bonfire out of control. He huffed into the palm of his hand to check his breath, rolled his shoulders back and straightened his spine. His hair was spiked with product, his cologne was Jo’s favorite - light with clove and cedarwood - and he wore a black button down over indigo denim jeans, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He knew he looked good. He wasn’t as slender as he used to be, with a dewy face and shiny, brown hair, but he still got his share of appreciative glances everywhere he went. Around his neck was a black leather braided necklace with a sterling silver feather that nested in the notch atop his sternum. He opened the door and Mycroft held out a bottle of wine. Greg didn’t miss the path of Mycroft’s eyes as they swept over Greg’s attire. “Ah, good evening. I bought this from a Connecticut winery. Have you tried it before?” He wore a light green scarf and a long, charcoal grey overcoat, fitting for the cool air of a spring evening. Greg accepted the bottle with what he hoped was his most welcoming smile. “Oh, which winery?” He opened the door wider and stepped back as Mycroft stepped in. “Jones Winery. I was told this should complement the chili.” His long, pale fingers began untying the scarf. “A sauvignon blanc would likely pair well with most hot vegetable dishes, I should think.” “Let me put this down, and I’ll take your coat.” Greg closed the door behind him, and hurried to the kitchen. He set the wine down on the counter, glanced in the reflection of the microwave to make sure his hair hadn’t fallen out of place, and went back to the living room where Mycroft was removing his coat. “I can hang that for you.” He placed it with care on the coat rack behind the door. He turned to see Mycroft wearing a white collared shirt open at the top, exposing just a glint of reddish chest hair, over tan chinos. He looked good. Christ. I have to figure out if this is a date or not, because he looks good enough to eat. Mycroft’s face was a little flushed, and Greg wondered if he might be nervous. Or, if it could be the chill of the night air. “Goodness, it smells fantastic in here.” “I made the chili this morning in the crock pot,” Greg said. “Um, let me get that wine.” He wiped his clammy hands on his jeans as he went into the kitchen. Mycroft followed and leaned against the doorway. “Well, the grand tour isn’t too grand. You’ve seen the living room. This here is the kitchen. Bathroom’s at the other end of the living room. Peri’s bedroom is by the bathroom. Office next to Peri's. Upstairs is my bedroom.” “The entire second floor?” Mycroft’s eyes scanned the kitchen and living room, as if taking measurements. “Basic cape house. Not even a dormered window upstairs.” “A castle fit for a king,” Mycroft said. “With a teeny-tiny kingdom.” Greg laughed as he popped the cork from the bottle. “Still a kingdom.” Greg poured the wine and handed Mycroft his glass. “We can eat the chili at any time. I’ve got fixings - sour cream, cheese, chives, and hot sauce in case you like it fiery.” “I do have an appreciation for spice.” Greg smiled. “Me too. But I didn’t make the chili too hot, not knowing your preferences.” “I can take it,” Mycroft said, though he spoke the words as if trying the phrase out for the first time. He hid his awkwardness with a smile, and then dropped his eyes to the floor. “Oh, and who is this?” The gray tom sat at Mycroft’s ankles, casting suspicious glances between the two of them. “Scratch. He came with the place.” “Oh. Abandoned by the previous owner?” Mycroft didn’t bend to pet the cat though most people would have by now. “In a way. He sort of adopted this house, and the previous owner was our old executive director. He told me Scratch never wanted to leave after he showed up one night. I didn’t ever really like cats, so I agreed to find him a new home. But...we sort of got stuck on each other.” Scratch gave Mycroft another once-over, then stalked out of the kitchen with his tail high in the air. “Sorry, are you allergic to cats or anything?” “Mm. No, I’m not. Just unused to them, I suppose.” “You don’t have any pets, then?” “I travel quite a bit for work.” “Ah.” Greg lifted the lid to the slow cooker. The bean chili simmered as the hot steam unfurled in the air, and the odors of cooked spices and veggies filled Greg’s nose. “Shall we dig in?” “That smells heavenly, my mouth is absolutely watering. Let’s.” Greg ran his tongue across his upper palate. His mouth watered, too, and it wasn’t just for chili. It’s not just the accent, is it? Sherlock has an accent, and though he’s good looking enough, I don’t find him attractive. “The bowls are in the cabinet there. Let me get out the other stuff.” The two of them spread the bowls on the counter, along with the toppings and the silverware. The kitchen was tiny, just enough for two people to move around in, but only if they didn’t mind brushing against one another, pausing at one cabinet while waiting for the other to get by. Greg didn’t mind. “Okay,” he said as he spooned out the chili into the bowls. “Fresh shredded cheese, sour cream from the local dairy, chives from the backyard -” “You grew them?” “Nah, Mother Nature did. It’s a wild onion that sprouts in a lot of places. Molly could give you the Latin name.” Mycroft seemed to regard the green spikes with horror. “I promise I washed them first,” Greg said with a guffaw. Mycroft schooled his features back to normal. “I’m sure they’re excellent.” “Where do you get your food from? Is it all hydroponically grown in a sterile environment?” At this, Mycroft chuckled. “Indeed. Then it’s sanitised often to within an inch of its last bit of flavor.” “That’s how I describe grocery store tomatoes. Or strawberries. That winery does pick-your-own strawberries in the summertime, and it’s eye-opening. Eating one of those strawberries is how I imagine walking through the gates of heaven.” Greg plopped a dollop of sour cream on his chili. “But buying from the grocery store? There’s barely a suggestion of strawberry flavor.” “Mm. I suppose you’re right.” “I am. Just wait until strawberry season. I’ll show you.” Greg flashed him a grin and sprinkled cheese over his meal, followed by the chives. He noticed Mycroft skipped the sour cream and the cheese, but he did add hot sauce and chives. Dairy allergy, maybe? Shit, I got ice cream for dessert. “I, uh, got some ice cream for dessert.” Mycroft smiled benignly at Greg. “Thank you, but I don’t eat much ice cream. I’ll have only a bit.” Hm. “Suit yourself; it’s excellent.” I won’t pry - he’ll tell me if he wants to. They sat themselves on Greg’s sofa. Greg glanced at Mycroft as he took his first bite. He sat straight-backed on the cushion, brought the spoon to his mouth with a small portion of food, and inhaled the fragrance. Then he slid the spoon between his lips and closed his eyes. Upon removing the spoon from his mouth, he moaned, swallowed, and licked his lips. Greg’s eyes zeroed in on the bob of the man’s adam's apple. “Greg, this is quite good. If anything, Miss Hooper undersold your cooking.” “Ha, thanks, but don’t let Molly hear you call her that. If anything, it’s Doctor Hooper.” “Oh, what is her doctorate in?” “Horticulture, I think.” “She seems wonderfully accomplished.” “Yeah, she’s good at what she does. She also does taxidermy.” Mycroft’s eyes widened at that. “Well, and don’t take this the wrong way, but the world does take all sorts.” Greg burst into a roar of laughter, chili spraying from his mouth into his bowl, and some into his lap. His face reddened, and he swallowed what was left in his mouth as he grabbed his napkins and began dabbing at the lost bits on his jeans. “Oh Jesus, you must think I’m some sort of savage.” He coughed and his eyes smarted with tears. “Please excuse me.” Mycroft was laughing, that low polite chortling of his. “I do apologize for having made you laugh. Are you quite alright?” “I will be.” Greg placed his bowl on the coffee table as an embarrassed flush continued to crawl across his face. “Just let me get a little water on these jeans.” He hopped up to dart to the kitchen. As he did, he knocked into the glass of wine on the table, and sent its contents splattering across the rug. “Oh shit!” “Oh goodness,” he heard Mycroft say as he crouched to pick up the glass and set it upright on the table. “Can I help?” “I got it, I got it.” He dabbed the wet spot with his napkin. “Just let me get a paper towel.” He snuck a look at Mycroft, to see the man was silent and shaking, his hand over his mouth, his eyes crinkled with joy. Greg threw the napkin down on the spot, and just let out a nervous laugh. “I’m a total klutz tonight. I’m not usually like this.” “Please, don’t apologize. It’s been quite some time since I’ve had this good a laugh. And, it’s not entirely at your expense, I promise you.” Mycroft wiped his mouth with his napkin. Greg’s tension melted from his shoulders and he laughed more easily. “Uh-huh. And just who else’s expense is there to laugh at?” Mycroft’s eyes twinkled at that, and he took another bite of the chili. “I still have to clean these pants, and I need to get myself another glass of wine. I’ll bring the bottle in here for us.” In the kitchen he wet the stains on his jeans, and blotted away what he could. He grabbed the bottle on the way back into the living room. “You know, in England, ‘pants’ mean something else.” “Oh?” Greg retrieved the wet napkin from the floor and set it on the table. “What?” “Well, in the US you mostly refer to it as underwear, boxers, briefs, et cetera.” “Really?” Greg laughed. “Uh, then what do you call pants?” “Trousers.” Mycroft took another dainty bite of the chili. “Hm. I wonder what else differs.” Mycroft slid a look at him. “I suppose we’ll come across it as we go.” He said it in a nonchalant way that suggested to Greg he was speaking as if their association was assured, and this was simply a bit of ground to cover. In one way, Greg liked it. In another, he wondered how Mycroft could be so confident. And in yet another, Greg was reminded of a business partnership rather than a friendship, or a potential romance. Not romance. Remember, this is supposed to be a fling. A long-term fling. An end of spring and throughout the summer fling. What the fuck am I doing? “Yeah.” Greg spooned some chili into his mouth. He saw Scratch watching the two of them from beneath the coffee table. Sometimes Greg gave him a bit of his own food. Scratch’s expression was expectant. It was a good distraction from his thoughts. They finished their meal with light conversation centered on popular dishes in America and in England. Mycroft professed a fondness for curries, which Greg tucked away in his mental file for the future. Once they'd scraped the bottoms of their dishes, Greg took Mycroft’s bowl and spoon. “Let me just do the washing -” “Oh no, please, you cooked, I can clean -” “Please, you’re my guest. Pour yourself another glass of that wine and relax a moment.” Greg rinsed the dishes and placed them in the dishwasher. When he returned to the living room, Mycroft was standing and looking at the photos on the wall. The family photos of Peregrine, Jordana, and himself. Several of just him and Peregrine. A photo of him and Damien at the Point in Cape Cod, photos of him and the High Point Nature Preserve staff at the annual BBQ. “How old is Peregrine?” Greg offered him the last bit of wine. “Fifteen. I can hardly believe it.” “She must be remarkable.” “She’s amazing,” Greg said as he swelled with an infatuated sense of pride. “I mean, she’s too cool for her dad now. But she’s smart, and she’s funny. She has this YouTube channel that she and her friend run, and they have a lot of subscribers. She’s a gamer. They review games, and they do it in a way that’s really entertaining.” “Mm. That sounds clever.” He took a sip of his wine. “And your...ex-wife? It seems the two of you get on quite well.” Greg laughed. Here it is. The thing Greg was proudest of in his life was his daughter. But the way she came about wasn’t his best moment. But it was what it was. Best just plow ahead. “We never married,” he said as he ran his hand back in his hair. “Um, it wasn’t like that.” “Oh? Of course, it isn’t my business -” “No. It’s fine. I always feel a little silly about it. But, the end result was Peri, so I wouldn’t change it for the world.” He gave Mycroft a sheepish grin. “It was one of those things...Jo and I were good friends, and we flirted with one another, but it was harmless, you know? Nothing serious.” He lifted his shoulders as he said, “I’m gay.” His shoulders fell as he continued. “We just got stupid drunk one night, and Jo asked me if I had ever wanted to sleep with a woman, and I said no, and then she told me about when she once tried sleeping with a woman just to see what it was like. Then we kissed and one thing led to another… That’s probably TMI, but it’s - it’s how it happened.” Mycroft’s face didn’t show any shock or judgment. He lifted one brow. “A single night’s indulgence, then?” “Something like that.” Should I mention the drugs? “I love Jo. She’s my best friend. But, I’m not sexually attracted to her...despite the one night. It was stupid. But, I got Peri out of it, and in a way, it was the best thing ever.” Greg scratched at the stubble on his chin. “I mean, I guess the other thing I should say is that we were both high at the time, too. I had graduated college, and I had just started at the Preserve on a part time basis, and I was bartending otherwise, to make ends meet. But, I was doing a lot of stupid stuff. Jo getting pregnant was like a smack in the face. And, I needed it at the time.” Greg stared at the photo of a young Peri holding her parents’ hands. “It was exactly what we both needed. Though, her family wasn’t too happy about it. Neither was mine. But Peregrine was worth all the drama.” “Hm.” Mycroft seemed lost in thought. He hadn’t moved during Greg’s story, and the wine was clasped in his hand as if in a vise. Shit. Have I got it all wrong? Is Mycroft uncomfortable now? That was totally oversharing. Oh shit, what if he’s uncomfortable because I’m gay? Fuck. Greg noted the ring on Mycroft’s finger. Again. The band shone in the lamp light. “So, uh, you married?” Mycroft broke from his pondering. “Pardon?” Greg pointed to the wedding band. “Oh, no. Not married.” Mycroft cleared his throat. “I am also gay.” Oh. It was like a weight had lifted and then been dropped right back on top of Greg. Shit. Mycroft had told him he was gay, and what was Greg supposed to do with that information? Was he expecting Greg to come onto him? That’s what they were both here for, right? Weren’t they just looking for that confirmation from each other all along? What am I waiting for? Make a move! “Greg, I must thank you for a wonderful evening.” Mycroft turned and walked to the kitchen. What? “Oh, I...I didn’t realize you’d need to leave early.” What the fuck is happening? “I hope the chili was good enough for you, and I, uh...got ice cream...but, oh yeah, you don’t eat ice cream.” Greg said all this as he watched Mycroft set his glass on the kitchen counter and then walked back out to the coat rack to retrieve his overcoat. Greg followed him to the door. He turned to Greg. “You’ve been a consummate host. I had an excellent time, but I have to work early in the morning, I fear.” “Oh.” On a Sunday? What the fuck? Mycroft paused in the middle of buttoning his coat. “Greg, I, um, do hope we can do this again.” His face seemed pink in the lamplight. “Uh, yeah. Me too.” Greg swallowed. Just say it. “I really enjoyed tonight. I’d like to do it again.” Mycroft smiled at that. “Well. That’s excellent. Thank you for the meal, and for the conversation.” “Anytime, Mycroft. I mean that.” Greg’s heart hammered. Please know I mean that. “Can I call you this week?” Was this a date? “Please do. Perhaps we could text?” “Yes. Let’s do that.” Greg nodded so hard he felt like his brain might suffer a hit against his skull. “Wonderful.” The smile on his face was no longer nervous. He was neutral again, as if he’d receded like a turtle into its shell. No. Show me you again. “Well, goodnight. Drive safe.” “Yes. Thank you. Goodnight.” Like that, the door shut behind him, but not before a chilly gust of wind dashed into the house, and Greg shivered with cold.
Aizawa shifts awkwardly in his seat, feeling the plug awkwardly rub the inside of his body as he tries to focus on the lesson; It’s been quite distracting all day and it was a constant reminder of what happened this morning, making the man get flustered in his seat. When class was finally over, Aizawa met up with Yamada outside the classroom and wasn’t surprised to find Shirakumo already with him, both chatting on a bench as he approaches. “Hey Sho!” Yamada perks up when he sees him, reaching for his hand once he was within reach and rubbing his thumb against his hand. “Shirakumo was just telling me he was a having a small party in his dorm after our study session and wanted to know if we could come.” “A party?” Aizawa repeats, not really interested but he could see the look of excitement in his boyfriend’s eyes; He wants to go. “Will a lot of people be there?” “Not really, just us and maybe two others.” Shirakumo says with a smile on his face. “I even have some party favors for us all to smoke.” “To...smoke?” Aizawa asks, not really understanding what he implying so Yamada lower him down to whisper in his ear. “He’s talking about weed, babe.” Yamada explains, pulling back and has him sit down on his lap, wrapping his arms around Aizawa’s body as he press his face against his back. “You don’t have to participate if you don’t want to, we aren’t going to force you.” “...I’ve never tried it before.” Aizawa shrugs, shifting in his lap and feels the plug rub up against his prostate, making the man tense up a little. “...We’ll have to stop by our dorm first.” “Hmm? Why?” Yamada asks with a taunting grin, lifting his leg to nudge the plug inside the other man, making him squirm in his lap. Aizawa gives him a look while Shirakumo just sits there beside them completely unaware. “You guys can stop by your dorm before coming over, that’s totally fine by me.” He tell them, hoping up from his seat and picking up his bag. “I need to grab some drinks for the party anyway; There will be soda as well as alcohol just in case any of you don’t drink.” “That’s fine, I don’t mind drinking but I don’t know about Shouta.” Yamaha says, leaning his head closer to look at his boyfriend. “I drink but in moderation.” He says, getting off his lap so the blonde doesn’t torment him for much longer. “Let’s head to library, I’ve got some homework I need to work on.” ~~ Yamada is sitting on his bed when Aizawa comes out of the bathroom after just getting out of the shower, the blonde is playing on his phone and glances up when he comes into the room. “Let me get dressed and we can go.” He says, reaching for his tote, feeling his boyfriend’s eyes on him. “What?” “Nothing, don’t mind me.” He smiles, setting down his phone to give the naked man his full attention with a lazy smile on his face. Aizawa turns back to his clothes with a blush on his face, grabbing some underwear to slip on while he figures out what to wear. This is silly, Yamada has already seen him naked multiple time before already; Why is he still so bashful? Aizawa removes the towel to pull his underwear on and glances over to the blonde, who’s still eyeing him up and down from his bed. He finishes getting dressed and reaches for his brush to brush out his hair. “Did Shirakumo ever tell you where his dorm was?” He asks the blonde and the other holds up his phone to show him he had text him his room number. “He says he’s back now and we’re free to come over whenever.” Yamada says, getting up and stretches his arms. “And...are you okay with the whole smoking weed thing? I noticed you sorta paused when we mentioned it.” “...Uh, I don’t think badly of it or those who do smoke it; I just never done it myself but...” Aizawa slips his shirt on and turns to him to continue. “If you’re doing it than I don’t see the harm of trying it.” “Okay because I don’t want you to think you have to just because I’m doing it.” Yamada frowns, pulling him close by his waist and loops his arms around Aizawa’s neck. “If you decide you don’t want to, we won’t force you; Just remember that.” “I know you wouldn’t, you too nice for that.” “But if I start vomiting from the alcohol, I might have you hold my hair back.” Yamada jokes, patting his back. “That’s your responsibly for being my boyfriend.” “My cross to bare, I’ll do what I need to if the situation comes up.” Aizawa says, following Yamada out of their dorm. ~~ “Hey, you two made it.” Shirakumo smiles brightly as he opens the door to let them in, music can be heard from inside the dorm. “The party just started.” “Did your other friends make it?” Yamada asks, stepping past him to see the room changing colors from a multicolored light that was hung from the ceiling and spots just one other person there. “Whoa...Tensei?!” The man in question lifts his head and lights up when he sees the blonde waving at him. “It’s good to see you again, Yamada.” Tensei says as Yamada sits down across from him as Aizawa sits down next to him. Tensei turns his attention to him and giving him a welcoming nod. “Who’s your friend?” “Boyfriend, actually; This is Aizawa, we met here and have been together ever since.” Yamada pulls Aizawa into a hug. “He’s a bit grumpy but he’s actually a huge softie.” “So this is the man Nemuri was telling me about.” Tensei says, talking a sip of his soda; Of course, good boy as always and has never touched a drop of alcohol. “Never thought you’d find yourself a boyfriend with how picky you were in high school.” “I’m not picky, I just have high standards.” “And I meet those high standards?” Aizawa asks, as Yamada reaches for a beer that was sitting on the table. “Yes; Lovable, cuddly and doesn’t mind what I do on my own time.” Yamada starts listing off, counting on his fingers as he goes. “You’re attractive, caring and supportive.” “You’re gushing.” Tensei chuckles as Aizawa buries his face against Yamada’s shoulder but pulls back when the blonde offers him a drink of his beer. Aizawa cringes at the taste as he listens to the other two reminisce about what they did in school when they were younger; Aizawa wishes he could have been apart of that. “So how’s your younger brother? He’s ought to be a lot bigger now, right?” “Already in high school.” Tensei muses, pulling out his phone to show some pictures of him and his brother. “He’s looks so much like you.” Yamada says as Shirakumo returns with a box in hand and sets it on the table. “Party favors have arrive, help yourselves.” He says, opening the lid and pulls out a blunt. “I’m good.” Tensei says, waving the offer off and sits back in his chair as Shirakumo lights up the blunt as he take a puff off of it. “I’ll take one though.” Yamada says, taking one out and catches the light when the other tosses it to him. He lights it up and glances at Aizawa when he takes a draw. “We can share since it’s your first time.” Yamada offers it to him and Aizawa takes it hesitantly, bringing it up to his lips as the other watched. He takes a draw and immediately coughs roughly, handing it back to the other as Yamada rubs his back. “Easy, baby; Take a small drag.” He chuckles, smoking again and holds up his beer for him to take a drink. “Never smoked before?” Shirakumo asks, blowing out smoke and waves it out of the way. “Not really...” Aizawa mutters in reply, it makes his throat sore and didn’t really like the taste of it. Yamada makes a noise with his mouth close, smoking drifting from his nose as he pulls Aizawa close to kiss him before blowing the smoke into his mouth. Aizawa inhales and pulls back, blowing the smoke out as Yamada takes another drag and smiles. “That wasn’t so bad, right?” “Didn’t burn as much.” Aizawa mumbles, reaching for the joint and this time takes a small drag, it still burns but not as badly. “Thanks for inviting us but how do you know Tensei?” Yamada asks, nodding towards their mutual friend. “We ran into each other at another library.” “He just sort of sat down with me and started chatting.” “That’s how we met too.” Aizawa says amusedly, turning his attention to Shirakumo. “Is that how you’re making friends? Lurking on people in the library?” “Well I have to work with what I’ve got.” Shirakumo laughs with a shrug. “And it’s worked, didn’t it?” “I suppose it did.” “Weren’t you suppose to have another friend here?” Yamada asks, his eyes glassy and red. He takes another smoke as the host of the party sort of runs the hand of his head awkwardly. “Yeah...but I decided to uninvited him while I was heading back to the dorm so he’s out with a couple of his friends right about now.” Shirakumo says, taking a huge drink from his beer. “I only invited him because he was my roommate but the guy is just plain weird, I didn’t want to make things awkward...” “How would he make thing awkward?” Tensei asks, crossing his arms. “Well...” He trails off, not really sure if he wants to explain or not but glances at Yamada. “He sort of has a huge thing for you for some reason, kept asking if you were going to be here and when I told him yeah and that you were coming with your boyfriend, he just sort of got huffy.” Both Yamada and Aizawa look at each other with realization; Shirakumo’s roommate must be a fan of Present Mic. “Well he’ll just have to get over it because Yamada is spoken for.” Tensei huffs, reaching for his drink again. “I know but that’s pretty much all he talks about, constantly bringing it up to the point I had to tell to knock it off; It’s so annoying that I’m considering looking for a new roommate.” Shirakumo mutters into his can of beer before glancing up to look at Yamada. “Also...has no clue that you were a cam boy by the ways, he sorta sprung that on me out of nowhere.” The color from Yamada’s face drains as he nearly drops his can of beer. “He...told you that?” He asks anxiously. “Yeah, after he found out that we were friends, he pulled up your page to show me.” Shirakumo says this as he rapidly blinks his eyes. “And oh my gawd, man; I swear I didn’t have a clue.” “That...doesn’t change the way you look at me now, does it?” Yamada asks, lowering his head to look at the joint in his hand. “What? No, you do your own thing; It’s not my place to judge.” Shirakumo shakes his head before giving Aizawa a taunting stare. “Are you a camboy too?” “No but I was one of his fans before we met.” Aizawa tells him bluntly. “Did you know, Tensei?” Shirakumo asks and the other man nods. “Yamada came to me to show him how to set up his camera and gear.” Tensei says. “It was just not my business to say and no, I’ve never seen any of his stuff.” “Did you?” Yamada asks with a grin but the other just shakes his head. “No, I just told him I wasn’t interested in watching any of your videos although he did keep insisting.” Shirakumo groans, taking another draw. “I’m just not into that sort of thing, you know? The whole sex thing.” He emphasizes by waving his hand around. “Like gay sex or...” “Sex in general; I’m sex-repulsed.” Shirakumo confesses, blowing out smoke. “I’ve tried it once and it just wasn’t for me, all it did was make me super anxious and grossed out.” “Well if it isn’t your thing than it just isn’t your thing.” Aizawa mutters. “But I do find this guy in one of my classes super cute...although it would be pointless if asking him out...” Shirakumo pouts. “What if he super into sex and rejects me just because I’m not or worse, accepts my feelings but tries pressuring me into sex later on?” “If someone tries to pressure you into something you don’t want to do than you need to dump them; No point in making yourself uncomfortable just to please them.” Aizawa says sternly, crossing his arms and leans back against the couch. “If you do end up telling him and he likes you back, sit him down and explain it to him.” “Yeah, I know; You’re right.” “So who’s your little crush? Do we know him?” Yamada asks, finishing of the joint and tosses the rest into the ashtray. “His name is Kan, he’s in one of my classes but he’s also a wrestler; Really big guy.” Shirakumo says with a goofy smile. “I just want him to lift me up and crush me in those huge arms of his.” “I say ask him out or at least, talk to him; Maybe you have a chance.” Tensei chuckles, they’re amusement is cut short by the sound of the door unlocking, followed by Shirakumo letting a low groan. “Roommate?” Aizawa asks, scooting closer to Yamada and seeing the other nod as he jumps to his feet and rushes over to the door to stop his roommate from coming in yet. They can’t hear exactly what’s being said but can hear the clear annoyance in both of their voices; Yamada just rolls his eyes and reaches for another joint to light as Aizawa watches the door intensely with their halfway empty beer can. Last thing he wants is some other dude fawning over his boyfriend and ruining everyone’s fun, hopefully Shirakumo can just make him ago away. “No man, the party is still going on in here and you said you’d be gone for a few hours.” Shirakumo says through the door, followed by some retort from the other outside. “Dude, I don’t think that’s a good idea; You’ll just make things awkward-“ “This is my dorm too.” The other argues through the door. “And unless you want me to report to the campus police about what you all are doing in here than you’ll let me in.” “That’s not cool, dude.” Shirakumo frowns, glancing back to the group. “That’s alright, we were just getting ready to leave.” Yamada sighs, setting the joint in the ashtray and gives their friend a apologetic look. “We’ll see you later, Shirakumo.” Aizawa stands up when Yamada does, tossing their empty can into the trash. “You all can come and join us in our dorm later if you’d like.” He offers, waving goodbye to Tensei as he takes Aizawa’s hand and Shirakumo steps aside for them to open the door the rest of the way; A pretty normal looking man stood on the other side and he seems to light up when he sees Yamada open the door. “Sorry the party couldn’t be much longer.” Shirakumo says, crossing his arms and gives his roommate a look of annoyance. “That’s fine, maybe some other time.” Yamada replies quickly, walking pass the man with Aizawa in tow, walking quickly down the hall without looking back until they turn a corner; Yamada lets out a sigh and looks back at Aizawa. “Way to crash a party, huh?” “I’m sorry, Hizashi.” Aizawa frowns, rubbing the back of his head. “Don’t be sorry, you didn’t do anything wrong.” Yamada tells him, moving to peek around the corner to make sure his fan wasn’t following them. “Shirakumo should definitely try to find a new roommate; What he just pulled was really uncalled for.” “We can just invite them to come to our room for now on if you want.” Aizawa offers, walking him back towards their dorm. “I’m sure Shirakumo would appreciate it.”
Phil Coulson was a nerd. Plain and simple. He had a set of Captain America trading cards – vintage – that he was determined to get autographed by the man himself. The Captain, however, was on his way to Germany with Black Widow to stop Loki and the entranced Clint Barton, a.k.a. Hawkeye. Phil had also received word that Iron Man was joining in and meeting them there. But none of that had Coulson bouncing on his heels while trying to appear as cool and calm as a cucumber. It was difficult to pull it off when inside he wanted to jump up and down. Many people might not appreciate the man that was about to land on the Helicarrier, but Coulson most certainly did. The man was a legend. A frightening legend. A man who had an entire city of criminals looking of their shoulders in fear was nothing short of scary. So when the Batwing appeared out of the darkness, seeming to detach itself from it as if it had been melded to it, Coulson, as well as everyone else on the deck, was more than a little taken aback. Not only had the Batwing gotten to the Helicarrier without being detected on sensors, but it had found the Helicarrier, as cloaked and shielded as it was. The plane descended, landing on the deck with not even the tiniest hint of sound. It was all black and shiny in the deck lights and it sat there ominously, like a bird of prey waiting to strike. Phil swallowed the lump that was suddenly in his throat, though he knew that none of them on the Helicarrier had any reason to fear the Batman, but, well, he was scary. “I am the night, color me black,” Coulson murmured to himself. It had been the title of an old show he had watched on late night TV not too long ago. Twilight Zone, he believed, an old black and white episode. He couldn’t recall what the episode had been about and he hadn’t realized the title had stuck with him until this moment. Around him, those on the deck were silent as well. If it weren’t for the wind velocity, one could have heard a pin drop. The Batwing had rested on the ‘wings’, the tips folded flat, a good two feet to serve as landing gear of a sorts. The rest of the plane was suspended above the deck via the rest of the wings. The bottom of the plane opened up and what appeared to be the seat in the cockpit lowered. Cape billowing, Batman swung free. As soon as his boots were on the deck, the cape stilled around him, surrounding him like a shroud as the seat ascended back into its place. Phil took a deep breath and took a few steps forward. “Mr. Bat…man. Bat…Um…Sir,” Phil said as he resisted the urge to salute or something. “I’m Agent Phil Coulson. Welcome aboard. It’s an honor and a privilege.” Again, fighting the urge to salute…or something. “Coulson, everybody,” Fury stated as he made his way through the crowd to the front of the group. “Don’t all of you have jobs to do? Then I suggest you get to them and stop gawking at our guest.” Without complaint, and more than a few glances at the ‘guest’, everyone dispersed. Fury watched until all were out of earshot, then he focused on the night-shrouded visitor. “Sorry about that. I must admit, I never thought for a moment you would join us, especially if it meant leaving Gotham, even if only for a little while.” A gust of wind, causing the cape to shiver as if it had a life of its own. “I can return to Gotham quickly if the need arises.” Gravelly voice. “And just to reiterate what I told you before; I am not joining the Avengers Initiative.” “Of course not,” Fury conceded. “I do appreciate you being here.” Batman stepped further out of the shadows. “Those files that you had Agent Coulson deliver to Tony,” he began, his head turned to gaze out over the clouds, “were a brilliant tactic. Appealing to him sense of justice, which he denies having.” “After our conversation, I was at a loss as to go about it, but then Loki and the Tesseract.” “Tony knows about our conversation. I told him.” “Really?” “Going behind his back, having that conversation left a bitter taste in my mouth that nothing could attenuate. It was an action born of a desperation I’m ashamed to admit to.” “But there was so good that came from it,” Fury added with a shrug, hands clasped behind his back. “It made me reconsider the Avenger Initiative. I had all but forgotten it after Tony shot me down before.” “There was a part of him that regretted that. That part of him that wants to help people. He’s just afraid his ‘help’ is going to be used the way he didn’t intend.” “Is that why you’re here? To make sure we aren’t doing the wrong thing.” “Yes,” Batman said. His voice leaving no room for error. A tone that belayed his stance on this matter and how little he would tolerate any deceit. “The Tesseract is an impressive source of power. In the wrong hands it could cause a lot of damage.” To a man like Fury, what Batman wasn’t saying was just as clear as what he was saying. “It’s in the wrong hands now. The hands of a vengeful Norse god. You can bet he’s going to use it to cause some problems.” Without turning around, he raised a hand and motioned with it. From across the deck Coulson came over to stand by an access, bouncing on his heels, and smiling. Batman could tell the man wasn’t the bumbling fool he pretended to be. Bruce admired Coulson and knew the man was a very good agent and upstanding person. “And when this vengeful Norse god is thwarted, and the Tesseract reclaimed. I’m not so sure S.H.I.E.L.D.’s hands are the right hands, either.” Batman turned from Fury and began to walk silently across the deck to where Coulson was waiting by a door. “We are the right hands, Batman,” Fury stated still standing with his hands behind his back. “I assure you.” “We’ll see.” He nodded to Coulson and he opened the door. Batman crossed the threshold inside without hesitation, but inside Bruce was hoping and praying this wasn’t a bad idea; being up in the air in the midst of agents of a secret government agency. It unnerved him greatly, mainly because he had yet to decide how he was going to move around here. He had trouble seeing Batman walking to corridors. The door closed behind them, Coulson trying not to talk too much. He didn’t want to babble. Outside Fury gazed out over the clouds that surrounded the Helicarrier, wondering if he had made mistake and how much it would cost him later.
Sirius prides himself on having learned patience in Azkaban, but by the time that Remus calls next, his metaphorical fingernails are worn to nubs from all the wall-clawing he’s been doing. He’s been dwelling on this call and when Remus’s face appears on the screen he feels a sense of relief that is almost palpable. Except then, Remus doesn’t seem to have been dwelling at all. He passes on some intelligence – mostly back-den werewolf talk, gossip even, about Voldemort’s next moves – and then they make some inane conversation that mostly consists of quoting Charm the Week from last night’s WWW broadcast – and then Remus seems like he’s just going to go to bed. Sirius does have a backup plan on the bizarre off chance that Remus isn’t going to bring up the fact that they should definitely try some sexual experimentation together based on the strength of one drunken evening snog session nearly seventeen years ago, one half-drunken morning grope also nearly seventeen years ago, and the fact that they had recently seen each other without shirts on from hundreds of miles apart via the medium of Muggle electricity. ‘So,’ he opens, ‘it’s Friday night.’ ‘What?’ says Remus. ‘It’s Thursday.’ ‘Huh.’ Sirius looks at the calendar on the wall. ‘So it is. But, it’s not like we have nine to five jobs at the Ministry or something.’ ‘That’s true…’ ‘And you have been working really hard.’ Remus’s face, even at this screen resolution, is clearly confused. ‘I suppose.’ ‘I think you have,’ Sirius says loyally. ‘Seven days a week, it seems like.’ ‘Well, I think it’s important…’ ‘But,’ Sirius cuts in, ‘you should also take care of yourself.’ ‘Oh,’ Remus says. He looks startled. ‘That’s… nice of you to say.’ He frowns at Sirius. ‘Why would it matter if it were Friday night?’ Trump card, Sirius thinks, and he pulls out a bottle of firewhisky and places it in view of the camera. ‘I thought we might have a little party.’ Remus starts laughing. It doesn’t sound like a rejection, but then, Sirius hasn’t gotten to the sexy part yet. ‘I don’t have anything to drink,’ he says. ‘Well go out and get something,’ Sirius replies. ‘I’ll wait here.’ Remus purses his lips, and Sirius can tell he’s going to do it. ‘All right. Give me a minute.’ He stands and Sirius has a glimpse of the middle of his body, heavily pixelated, before he bends down and his face reappears. ‘Do not,’ he says sternly, ‘start without me.’ While Sirius waits, he thinks about how Remus had given him a kind-hearted but firm talking to about drinking alone at Grimmauld Place. In fact, Remus’s exact words had been, ‘If you want to drink, you let me know, and we’ll do it together.’ At the time, he’d snarled, ‘I’m a grown man and I’ll decide to drink when I want.’ Remus, forever unimpressed by Sirius’s anger, had rolled his eyes. ‘Great, why don’t you go slam your door and yell about how you don’t have to listen to me because I’m not your real dad.’ Sirius had snarled some more at that, but, as much as he hates to admit it, Remus had been right. He shouldn’t drink alone; it had only been harming himself to imagine that drinking would in any way take away the empty space that he can sometimes feel at the centre of himself. So when things get to be too much – which has been getting less all the time since then – they have gotten drunk together, and it has been much better. Remus, for example, almost always remembers to drink water alongside the whisky, and to remind Sirius to do it too, which is good, because Sirius hates to be hungover. And although that empty space seems permanent, he’s learned to build a fence around it with the two people that make him feel not so alone: Harry and Remus. Sometimes he thinks he could even conjure a Patronus again, if he had to, although it’s not something that he’s attempted since Azkaban. The other Order members dance around asking him to do it and he’s let them assume he can’t rather than have yet another awkward conversation about the time he was in prison. Remus returns from the shop with a bottle of tequila which he shows to the camera as he seats himself before the computer again. ‘Wow, aren’t you the poshest,’ Sirius says, staring. ‘It was the best thing they had going down there,’ Remus says. ‘I mean, it was a Muggle shop, so no firewhisky.’As Sirius watches, he twists the cap, which pops as he breaks the seal. He takes a whiff and winces. ‘Smells like paint thinner. So, let’s get this party started.’ He lifts the bottle to his lips and takes a sip. ‘Oh Jesus Christ, I have made bad choices in life.’ ‘If choosing tequila was one of those choices,’ Sirius says, conjuring a tumbler and pouring himself a slug of the firewhisky, ‘then it doesn’t surprise me that the others were bad too.’ ‘The shopkeeper tried to sell me Jaeger, but this was cheaper, and I’m not a nineteen year old uni student.’ Remus takes another sip, wincing all the while. ‘Oh my god, why didn’t I buy a chaser?’ Sirius, having just swallowed the whisky and still feeling it burn down his throat, finds himself fascinated by the way that Remus’s lips are now red and shiny from the liquid on them. He remembers his primary objective, sees his opening, pauses to think that he’s very good at playing the game even after all these years, and says, ‘You don’t need a chaser if you’re going to do a shot.’ Remus gives Sirius a look of pure alarm. ‘Shots?’ ‘Shots.’ Remus takes another sip, winces again, and says, ‘What the fuck, it’ll dull the taste buds faster.’ They each take a shot, and then another. The whisky really starts to hit Sirius, and he can tell that the drink is hitting Remus too from the way that his friend starts leaning forward, chin resting on his hands, relaxed and laughing a little too much. ‘I don’t actually like firewhisky that much anymore,’ Remus confesses. ‘Too many rough nights with it when we were younger.’ Sirius laughs. ‘Like James with butterbeer after the Yule Ball in seventh year?’ Remus starts to giggle. Sirius catches himself thinking that it’s absurdly cute and, in his tipsy state, decides to let the thought slide. ‘Oh god, I know that we don’t like Peter anymore, but that night produced one of his greatest one liners.’ ‘What did he say? I think I was too busy trying to contain the… situation.’ Remus giggles harder. ‘I remember he was off trying to pull that girl Lisa…’ Sirius reaches back into memory, summons up a hazy image of a young witch in Ravenclaw robes. ‘The one with the crazy eyes?’ ‘That’s the one,’ Remus confirms. ‘But Peter thought he had a shot with her.’ Sirius squints, still trying to remember her. ‘He did, didn’t he? Wasn’t she the one who let him go under the shirt but not under the bra?’ Remus’s giggles turn into full on laughter. ‘I cannot believe some of the stupid things that teenagers do.’ ‘Or the stupid things people will do in pursuit of sex,’ Sirius suggests, gripping his tumbler and struggling against irony. Remus nods. ‘So Peter came back into the room just as James was in the middle of his… eruption…’ Sirius starts to giggle now too. ‘And it smelled like butterbeer too, that was the worst part!’ ‘… And Peter was kind of swaying in the doorway, and he put both his hands on top of his head like he was going to tear his hair out, and I just remember he had this crazed look – like seeing what was happening was literally driving him insane—‘ Sirius is giggling even harder at the recollection: he can picture Peter’s face perfectly, the horror written all over it, ‘And James’s face…’ he gasps, ‘he was just so… bewildered. Like he was thinking, “How can this be happening? Who is doing this awful thing and why is it happening in front of me?”’ Remus has to put his head down on the table. ‘And Peter, Peter says in this tone of just complete and utter dismay, “How does a human body lose that much liquid and not die?”’ They both lose it then and sit giggling and gasping and wiping tears of laughter out of their eyes, until Sirius, now thoroughly engrossed in Remus, decides to try his last, best gambit. He puts his hands on the table to steady himself and says, ‘Let’s play a drinking game.’ ‘Is the game called “take shots until you get fucked up?”’ Remus asks, massaging his ribs. ‘Because I think we’re winning.’ ‘Let’s do a broom race,’ Sirius says. He conjures up two more shot glasses in a row in front of the computer. ‘What happens to the loser?’ Remus asks. ‘Also, for the love of god, can we please use half shots? Remember what I’m drinking here.’ ‘We’ve all got to make the bed we lie in,’ Sirius says sagely. ‘Or something like that, anyway. But sure, half shots is a good idea.’ He doesn’t want anyone to get too drunk too early. Remus conjures and lines up his own shot glasses. ‘So? Penalty?’ ‘Loser,’ Sirius says, and his tongue is thick in his mouth, so that he has to pronounce each word precisely, ‘loses an article of clothing.’ ‘You’re a bastard,’ Remus informs him, and for a second Sirius is worried that Remus is really mad. Then he starts pouring out his shots and when Sirius gapes at him, he says, ‘Looks like you’re going to be first to lose then, hm?’ Sirius does indeed lose the first round. He tries to get through it by taking off one sock, but Remus – jabbing a finger at the screen so hard that it temporarily knocks the camera askew and he has to fix it – informs him that two socks together count as a single item of clothing. Sirius can’t fault him; his logic is impeccable. After all, if the point of the game is to get naked, the fewer articles of clothing there are, the faster that can happen. Unfortunately for Sirius, what he’s forgotten is that Remus is very, very good at drinking. He’s not sure how he’s forgotten it; he doesn’t have enough fingers to count the number of times that Remus had cleaned up after the other three Marauders as a result of a drinking game. Three races later and Sirius is wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs. Then Remus loses one, and his socks; another, and he unbuttons his shirt, all the self-consciousness from the night before gone as he throws it backwards over his shoulder. The light on his nightstand falls over as the shirt lands atop it. ‘Moony,’ Sirius snaps, ‘are you losing on purpose?’ ‘Damn,’ Remus snaps his fingers in front of the screen, ‘caught out.’ ‘How are you not drunk?’ Sirius demands. ‘Oh right, something something werewolf metabolism.’ ‘I’m drunk,’ Remus says, indignant. ‘Just not as drunk as you.’ Sirius pours out his new shots, sloshing whisky everywhere – including onto the keyboard, and that’s probably not good for it – and slams them back while Remus watches. ‘You. Lose.’ ‘Fine,’ Remus says. ‘Fine.’ He stands up and then all the camera shows is his midsection, his muscular stomach and the scars there and the hair that leads down, down to places Sirius is suddenly thinking about in the way that African explorers must have thought of dark jungles before there were any maps, and Remus’s hands unbutton his trousers, and Sirius thinks they might be shaking a little, and suddenly he’s more turned on that he’s been in, well, fifteen years. Remus’s hands tug down the trousers and then he kicks them off. Sirius sees the long muscles of his thighs and the tight bulge in his navy blue briefs and without thinking he puts a hand out to touch the screen as Remus sits back down in front of the computer. For a long moment, Remus looks at Sirius’s hand, and Sirius looks at Remus, and his heart beats like the wings of a bird trapped against a window pane. Then Remus looks directly into Sirius’s eyes, and says, ‘Piqued your interest the other day, did I?’ That directness is sexy as hell. ‘Fuck yes,’ he slurs. Remus’s eyes gleam. ‘Last shot,’ he says. Sirius cannot believe that that is Remus’s response. ‘Really?’ ‘Finish the game,’ Remus says, the very picture of patience, but there’s something else underneath that, a thrill, a tremor, and Sirius can sense it even across the gulf of distance that separates them, and he suddenly realises that he’s had an erection – a proper, hang-your-flag-on-it, hammer-in-some-nails-with-it, cut-through-diamonds-with-it erection – for the last few minutes. He wonders if Remus can see it. Hands shaking, he pours out his whisky as Remus pours out his tequila. Sirius drops the second one onto the carpet and Remus waits, his first shot pressed to his lips, while Sirius fumbles and recovers and pours and redoes, and only then does Remus do his shot. ‘You’re trying to get me drunk,’ Sirius accuses him, and Remus raises his eyebrows. ‘Are you fucking taking the piss?’ he demands. ‘You set up an ambush to get me naked. If that’s not “trying to get me drunk”, then I don’t know what is.’ He sets down the glass and says, ‘Turnabout’s a bitch, Padfoot. So, you’re getting naked now, right?’ Sirius would be annoyed if he could think about anything except Remus touching his cock, but luckily he can’t, because he doesn’t really want to be annoyed. Mostly he wants his cock to get touched. By Remus. Right now. He stands up unsteadily, leans against the chair, and then turns around to pull off the briefs. He bends over and tosses them to the side, hoping he’s giving some kind of show, and also hoping that it isn’t the kind of show where the grotesquery of the situation leads to vomiting or upset. When he turns back, his erection now in full view, he sees that he need not have worried. Remus is staring at him, his eyes wider than Sirius has ever seen them. Slowly, knowing that he’s drunk, and would never ever do this sober, but also completely unable to stop himself, Sirius puts a hand to his collarbone and then trails it down the front of his body to his cock. On the screen, he can see Remus take a visible breath in, and that spurs him on to wrap his fingers around his shaft and give it a lazy tug. Remus licks his lips. The gesture is so off hand sexy that Sirius’s knees feel like they’ll buckle beneath him. He sits back on the chair and Remus says, very quietly, ‘Can you tilt the camera?’ ‘Sure,’ Sirius says. His voice shakes. He pauses, adjusts the camera and then wraps his fingers around himself again. ‘Oh,’ he breathes. He can’t stop himself from making noise. ‘Oh, oh, fuck.’ ‘How long has it been?’ Remus asks, breathless. ‘Fifteen years.’ Remus takes in another sharp breath. Sirius strokes again, trying to savour it. Then Remus says, ‘I’m going to take off my pants.’ Sirius watches him. He’s struck by the sudden and intense desire to bury his face into Remus’s neck and smell him. Remus takes off his briefs and leans back in his chair. Sirius sees, very clearly, that Remus is aroused too. Sirius isn’t exactly an expert but he’s pretty sure that what Remus has lying against his thigh is a Big Cock. It makes his mouth go dry; it makes a ringing noise start in his head. He doesn’t remember sex being quite so alarming or quite so urgent before. This is a need, not a want, and it feels like drowning to be so far apart. ‘If you were here,’ he says, and trails off, distracted as Remus takes a sip of the tequila and then runs his hand from the shining head of his erect cock down to his balls. ‘What would you want me to do to you?’ Remus asks, and his voice is octaves lower, and Sirius can barely handle it, it’s so fucking sexy. ‘What would you do?’ he counters, because he suspects that if Remus were here, now, he’d be overwhelmed and would fall back onto the couch in a swoon. Remus’s eyes flash again, and Sirius sees something predatory there that he’s never seen before. It makes him even harder, makes the atmosphere in the room heavier and hotter and sweatier. He wants Remus to hunt him, to pin him to the ground and have his way with him. ‘I’d suck your cock,’ says Remus neatly. Sirius thinks his head might actually implode. Up until this moment, he could never ever have imagined Remus saying those words to anyone, least of all him; now he feels like he can’t live without hearing it again. Apparently Remus talking dirty is his fetish. He takes a deep, shaky breath, looks at Remus’s red, wet mouth. ‘I bet you’d be good at it.’ ‘Mm,’ Remus says. ‘I’d love to run my tongue around your tip before I swallowed you whole.’ Sirius is unconsciously clenching his free hand into a fist. A passing thought – how embarrassing would it be to actually pass out from lust – floats through his mind like a cloud. ‘I want to feel your mouth,’ he manages, and he puts his free hand onto the screen and runs it across where Remus’s lips are. ‘I want…’ ‘Do you want to fuck my mouth?’ Remus asks. He slides his other hand – and the fingers are so long, just looking at them is doing things to Sirius’s imagination – down the length of his body and into the nest of curls around his cock. ‘I want that to be my hand,’ Sirius says, and Remus smiles then, but it’s not your standard Remus-Lupin-is-a-nice-man smile. It’s a hungry one. It makes Sirius’s heart stutter in his chest. He wants to make him smile like that more. ‘I want to make you come,’ he says, and Remus says, still in that low voice, ‘If you come, I’ll come.’ Sirius grips himself and says, ‘This is going to either take an hour or a second, I’m warning you, it’s been a long time.’ ‘Just imagine me kneeling in front of you,’ Remus says, and his voice vibrates down Sirius’s body. ‘Imagine me kneeling in between your thighs.’ Sirius comes all over his hand like he’s thirteen again. The sensation is too much. He slumps over so that his head is resting on the desk and looks sideways at the screen to watch Remus stroke himself to climax. Nearly a minute passes as they both catch their breath – they’re both breathing hard, like they’ve run a race – and then Remus puts his hand – presumably not the one most recently involved in the spill on aisle three – against the camera, as if to touch him. Sirius puts his own hand up against Remus’s and promptly passes the fuck out.
*** NOT3P prt 3Premise: Lance and Keith are freshly dating so why does Keith keep smelling like Shiro?Scene: On a mission gone sideways Lance can’t work out what’s going on between Keith and Shiro (Kuron), especially when he’d warned the team his heat was due. Omega Lance. Prime Alpha Keith. Alpha Shiro. Alpha Hunk. Beta Pidge. Sex. Misunderstandings. Hurt Lance. Kuron being an arsehole to our boy. Secret boyfriends. *Shiro flew them down to the planet. The pod leaving Lance sitting in Keith’s lap with Lance trying not to pay attention to the look his boyfriend kept giving him. Bringing him lunch, Lance had forced himself to eat for Keith’s sake. He could smell Shiro on him again, and his mind was still stuck in preheat stupidness. Curling up against his alpha, Keith had brought up how warm he felt, his boyfriend snorting when he joked it was because of how hot he was. Holding Keith felt nice, being held by Keith was a little bit weirder seeing he liked being the big spoon around his alpha. He’d only just nodded off when Keith was waking him with a kiss to tell him it was time to go. Having helped each other with their robes, Keith had given him a knife to keep in his boot seeing his bayard was a rifle and not always practical. It was the little things like this which were Keith’s way of telling him how much he cared. When they were together it felt like Keith was solely focused on him… so he’d tried to probe asking what he and Shiro had talked about only to get a very Keith answers of “the mission and stuff”. He didn’t smell arousal on Keith, not his or Shiro’s but that meant nothing seeing he knew how much he enjoyed Keith’s company without it being sexual. Landing the pod in the forest up in the hills above the city. Lance sighed at the idea of the hike. His heat had been completely squashed, yet his body was still lethargic from all its wasted preparation. Being in such close quarters Keith’s and Shiro’s scents were stuck up his nose“Are you okay?”There was genuine concern there… He would have been touched if Shiro hadn’t been there to brush it aside“We have a good half a day downhill. This was least riskiest place to land. We’ll walk down tonight and if it’s safe we’ll make contact”“I’ll grab the bag” He had to wait for Shiro to climb out before he could climb out of Keith’s lap. He’d grabbed his bag from his room, thinking that it’d be good to have a safe stash of supplies close. It still had space, but half of it was taken up by ration bars, water pouches, and the first aid kit he’d adapted to be more “Earthly”… as well as Keith’s collar and chain. Without Shiro’s help, he nearly face planted as his foot got stuck, yet Shiro had no problems helping Keith out“You’ve both your earpieces?”“Mine’s in my bag. I’ll put in when we get closer”“As long as you don’t lose it. Keith, you take lead. I’ll follow and Lance will go last”“I’ll try not to trip and take you both out”Keith smiled at him while Shiro ignored him. It was their standard layout seeing he was the sniper who could watch their backs… but it did mean he wasn’t going to have a chance to talk to Keith before they reached the city. Starting out, Lance was determined not to lag behind. The pace was faster than he’d expected seeing they’d be walking for so long, but like hell he was going to let them think him weaker than he already was. The forest was really pretty as far as he could tell. Tall grey trees reached so high that the canopy blacked out the stars above. Smaller mosses and ferns grew in all sorts of interesting colours… not that he had time take it in. Without their comms he would have been lost by now, and he’d had to bundle his robes up so they wouldn’t drag in the dirt. As much as he loved the colour, and how good looking Keith was in his, he wasn’t sure they were right. He hadn’t seen sleeves in the recon footage, so had packed some basic sewing gear in case they needed to alter them. As much as he loved Coran, the man’s knowledge of customs was 10,000 years out of date. “Let’s take a break here”Thank god Shiro was the one saying it. No one could argue with him if he was the one suggesting it. Sitting themselves down against a tree, Lance didn’t know what to do with himself. His feet ached. The same kind of pain new shoes brought on, and his robes might as well have been held under a shower with how sweaty he was“Sounds good. These robes are a pain”Shiro grinned at Keith “I’m starting to see what you meant. Lance are you going to stand there?”“No. I’m just convincing myself that I want to sit snd face standing back up rather than staying standing” Keith snorted at him“We’ll be sure to give you a hand if you get stuck”“Awww, mullet. That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all day”Shiro sighed at them“Do you always have to fight?”“I wasn’t aware we were, were you, Keith?”“Not that I knew of. Do you want me to take your bag for a bit?”“Nah, I’ve got it. I’ll save the real work for both of you when we get down there”Keith patted the spot next to him, Lance moving to sit across from him and Shiro instead “So what have you got in there? You didn’t tell me before we left”“Just some stuff. Do you guys need water?”“You brought water?” If he wasn’t dating Keith he’d think he was being mocked “I figured we’d probably get thirsty walking”And he had his suppressants in there. No way was he being rendered useless“Good thinking. Shiro, do you want some water?”“We should save it for now. We’ve still got a few hours to go. Now, Lance. Are you sure you understand the mission?”“I’ve got it”“Because we can’t afford to mess things up here. We’re guests as it is”“If he says he’s got it, he’s got it. I’m more worried about you” There it was… Keith was more worried about Shiro than he was about his omega when a murderer was killing omegas…“We discussed this. It’s fine”“If you say so. Do you think we can ditch these robes until we get down there?”“We’d better not risk it. We don’t know if this planet has mosquitos”Keith rolled his eyes at his brother as he elbowed him lightly “You’re such a space dad, isn’t he, Lance?”Hmm? What… oh… He couldn’t say something dumb… If Shiro was mad at him, he should probably be extra nice “In Shiro’s defence he didn’t sign up to father 4 teenagers all at once. Plus there’s looking after Coran… and the fact that everyone seems to want to kill us” Trying to smile, he got nothing back from Shiro. Right. He was probably crashing his time with Keith. He’d always thought the pair of them looked good together and the way Keith had gone after Shiro he’d initially thought there was something there… but then Keith would call Shiro his brother and he’d feel relieved“We need to stay on topic here. The rebels only reached back out to our contact because Pidge asked Matt for his help there. Initially they didn’t want to be involved at all”“You said that before… it’s probably safer that they’re not. I mean, everyone knows the Paladins live on the castle so it’d be shit if they somehow managed to track the rebels down” He really had missed a lot. Pidge adored Shiro, he was practically her big brother too. Naturally she’d feel she had to do whatever she could to help Shiro out“Yeah. Right, we should get going. We’ll keep our positions the same for now with Lance bringing up the rear”“Sounds good. Thank god Pidge put that map on our comms”Reaching out, Shiro ruffled Keith’s hair“We all know how bad Lance is at directions, not that you’re much better”“I’ve survived this long. Lance, do you want a hand up?”“Nah, I’ve got it, mullet” He didn’t have it. By the end of the next hour of walking, Lance was sleep walking. He’d given up trying to move branches out of the way and was now just walking into them. Stupid alphas had unfair amounts of stamina. It didn’t matter how much his muscles had started to develop, he’d never match their stamina outside of a heat. Plodding along behind Shiro and Keith, he was dying for water… and for his armour instead of these damn robes. It was bad enough they wouldn’t have the auto-translation capabilities of their helmets and instead had to rely on an earpiece. He wanted his bed. He wanted his bed and to go back to before he’d noticed Shiro’s scent on Keith. He got it. He told Keith to be there for Shiro but what the quiznak could they possibly have left to talk about!? Reaching the base of the mountain Shiro hadn’t stopped at all for another break. Lance had tripped twice without either alpha seeming to notice. His gut churning, still not a hundred percent from Coran’s brand of suppressants. Finally allowed to rest, Lance pulled out his bayard as Keith and Shiro sat“What is it? Do you see something?”Keith’s hand went to his own bayard“No. I’m going to use the scope to see what’s going on before we get there”“Be careful not to give us away with the light”“Good idea…” Shiro’s words overlapped Keith’s, Lance opting to ignore them both as he set his rifle on a broken tree stump. Despite it nearly being morning, plenty of people seemed to be awake… and those people went and confirmed what he thought. None of them were wearing long sleeved robes. Instead they cloaks…“Quiznak”“What? What is it?”Keith got to his feet, Lance moving back so his boyfriend could look at the scope screen“Our robes are wrong”“What do you mean they’re wrong?”“No one has long sleeved robes. They’ve got tunics over their robes but no sleeves” Keith frowned as he watched the few people moving “Quiznak. We can’t turn back”“I brought a sewing kit. I thought this might happen”Shiro cleared his throat, it sounded like he needed some of that water right about now“What do you mean you thought this might happen?”“In the video they all had the same brown base as we do, but I didn’t remember seeing anyone with sleeves”“And you didn’t think to speak up?!”“I thought you guys knew what was going on. It shouldn’t be too hard to take the sleeves off”“We don’t have time for this” Looking up to the sky, then back to the village, Lance took the chance“I think we’ve got about two hours until dawn breaks. Taking the sleeves off won’t take that long, then we’ll make it into the city as the sunrises”“You should have spoken up sooner”“Like I said, I thought you guys had it handled. I’ll do my robe first seeing I’m the omega. If it looks bad I’ll try and pass it off as preferring my alphas to have long sleeves” “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” He’d expected that kind of question from Shiro, not from his boyfriend who should have known better“I’ve been mending stuff for years. Mami insisted we all learn”“I guess we’ll have to thank Miriam when we get back to Earth”At least he’d remembered the name of Lance’s mother, Shiro asking“Who’s Miriam?”“His mother. Is there anything I can do?” Taking his bayard back, Lance deactivated and stowed it in his robes before remembering he’d have to take them off “Not for now. I’ve got some ration bars too, if you’re hungry. But we should all drink something. We don’t know what’s going to happen and how long it’ll be before we can eat and drink again once we get into the city”“You really do think of everything”“Except to mention that our robes are wrong”Unexpectedly Keith shot Shiro what might have been the first glare he’d ever shot at his brother “We didn’t know for sure until now. Let’s eat. You get moody when you don’t eat” Settling in as Lance pulled everything out of his bag, the worst bit about it all was getting half naked in front of Shiro and Keith. It was ridiculously cold without his robes on, and the second worst bit was trying to work with the small amount of light his comms gave off. Bending the sleeve to look at the seam, Coran had done a really good job. Or rather the castle had. The seam nearly flawless, Keith asking “How hard will it be?”“Not too hard. I’ll use my scissors to loosen the top stitch then see if I can get the bottom one loose”“Why can’t we just cut them off?”Keith teased him to get a rise… Lance sighing dramatically as he turned the sleeve“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that, you heathen”“Takes one to know one”“Says the man who wants to cut up everything”Keith shrugged“What can I say? I’m a simple man”“Keith, you are far from simple… once you get past your whole “Eat, train, stab” routine” “Will you two give it a rest?” Lance ducked his head. They weren’t even fighting. This was just them… and when they were being dumb like this was when he felt closest to Keith“Sorry, Shiro. I’ll try get this done as soon as possible”He had to shut up. If he shut up then he couldn’t keep putting his foot in it…“Ignore him, he’s just cranky”Lance didn’t need to look to know Shiro was pinching the bridge of his nose as he muttered his signature mantra“Patience yields focus”“That’s what you always say”“And one day I’m hoping you’ll listen”“Hasn’t happened yet”God. Would they just kiss already and break his heart completely? He felt like the damn seventh wheel right now… but maybe more like the seventh wheel that had fallen off the back of the truck a mile ago then rolled off into a muddy ditch.
“Ah, good! You’re finally here! I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show up...again.” Joker spat the last word with palpable bitterness. “It’s rude to keep your date waiting, Bats.” Somehow he sensed that he was not alone anymore. Batman was nowhere and everywhere at once, blending in with the shadows, in the darkest corners of his mind. With him now. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach. It was impossible to stay angry at his dearest, or to contain his excitement any longer. All evidence of his foul mood was gone in an instant and his shoulders tensed for a whole new reason. Red lips stretched into a wide, toothy grin; toxic green eyes sparkled with delight when he turned around to face the intimidating figure standing in the doorway, shrouded in darkness. Joker bit his lower lip as he ogled Batman shamelessly. It had been so long. He had missed that broody bat of his, as dark and handsome as ever. So much he could just shoot someone. Maybe later. “Oh, don’t be shy now, do come in!” Joker welcomed him into the room, moving away from the window he had been looking out of until the vigilante’s long-awaited arrival. “I have this special evening all planned out for us, Bats.” He stepped closer to a table in the middle of the sparsely furnished room that he had chosen for their “reunion”. Even if the room itself was nothing special, it commanded quite the view of the city, their eternal playground. Batman stood there, silent and unmoving like a statue, showing no indication of accepting Joker’s invitation just yet. He did a quick sweep of the room with the cowl’s optical lenses, looking for any sign of traps, but as far as he could tell, there were no bombs or contraptions hidden anywhere. Not that there was anywhere to hide them in this all but empty space. There didn’t seem to be any immediate danger, but Bruce suspected Joker had at least a couple of tricks up his sleeves to be revealed in due time. Warm candlelight flickered in the middle of the table which was apparently set for two in mind. There was a single red rose placed near the edge. It looked a little rough around the edges, all of its thorns intact, as if it had been stolen out of someone’s garden on a whim. The whole setup screamed romantic dinner to Bruce. What game was Joker playing this time? Speaking of Joker, Bruce didn’t miss the fact that the clown had spruced himself up for the occasion, more than the usual that is. His makeup looked impeccable and his hair was neatly combed back, showing more of his unnaturally pale face. He cut a fine figure too. An elegant three-piece suit in Joker’s signature purple color hugged his slim frame in all the right places. For lack of a better word, he looked handsome, or rather unconventionally attractive, more than the murderous clown had any right to be. Bruce found himself staring against his better judgement and silently chastised himself for focusing on all the wrong things he shouldn’t have paid that much attention to in the first place. Curse his wandering mind. “Are those bat ears just for show or what? You kept me waiting long enough already, my dear. Now get your lovely ass over here before more innocent people get hurt. Personally, I’d say that would be quite the blast,” Joker snickered and reached for something into his pocket. The lack of physical or verbal acknowledgement from the Bat didn’t sit well with the Joker. “But you wouldn’t want that, would you? I am known to have an itchy trigger finger.” The clown fidgeted with an object in his hand, losing more of his patience by the second. Ah. A detonator. Of course. “I don’t have time for your games, Joker.” “Not even a ‘Hello, sweetie. It’s nice to see you again. I’m sorry I missed our anniversary last month’?” The clown frowned, a little disappointed. “Figures. Always straight to business with you!” Bruce had to be careful, he couldn’t risk setting Joker off, so he had no choice but to play along. For now. People’s lives were at stake. He had to know where Joker had planted his bombs and warn the GCPD before it was too late. The smartest approach to dismantling the situation was to play it safe, although even that wasn’t any guarantee for success. Not when it came to the clown. He was too volatile and unpredictable, not someone you could possibly reason or bargain with. There was more than enough proof of that already, and Bruce wasn’t too keen on adding more names to the list of people he couldn’t save, people who died for no reason at all other than for Joker’s sick entertainment. Bruce sighed and finally stepped inside the room. The sooner he dealt with this menace the better. A lot seemed to have happened during his absence. “What do you want?” Bruce’s tone was demanding and straight to the point as he moved closer, still keeping a sharp eye on the villain. He couldn’t let his guard down now, no matter how “safe” things appeared at first glance. “Oh, Batsy, there are so many things I want right now. And all of them have to do with you.” Joker smirked as his eyes wandered appreciatively over the batsuit, before settling back on Batman’s face. “But let’s start simple and see where the night takes us, shall we?” He gestured at the table that was set with great care. “Come sit with me.” Bruce hesitated for a moment. Joker’s leery looks and suggestive language were nothing he hadn’t dealt with before. He wondered if he could save himself the trouble and incapacitate the clown right here, right now, but there was an obvious problem - the detonator in Joker’s hand. As much as he wanted to avoid the barrage of flirtatious remarks that would inevitably follow, preserving his own dignity was nowhere near worth the risk of getting who knew how many people killed. Bruce hated him. Hated how unrelenting Joker’s twisted affections and advances were, no matter how many times they were rejected. But most of all, he hated how they brought out feelings he shouldn’t possibly harbor for his nemesis. He could almost believe those love confessions to be true with the utter conviction and sincerity they were spoken. That they were not just a trick to throw him off and make his life more difficult than it already was without the added doubts. It was sick and wrong, but then again, so was the Joker too. He refused to entertain that line of thought now, he had to focus on the mission. Joker smiled victoriously when the Bat pulled back his chair and sat down without making much fuss about it. Now, that was more like it! Or was it? Joker was not sure whether he liked or hated the fact that Batman was being so oddly agreeable for once. He expected more of a fight, or at least the token argument or empty threat. No matter. There would be time for that kind of fun later. "See? Was that so hard?" He joined the bat and sat opposite him at the table, placing a napkin on his lap as if he was in some fancy restaurant, smiling with satisfaction all the while. It was no surprise that Batman didn’t bother to do the same. They were not friends and Batman didn’t have to pretend they were. He was there for one thing only. Joker paid Bruce’s stubbornness no mind. Instead he removed the plate cover from both of their dishes to reveal what was hidden underneath. “Ta-da!” Which to Bruce’s surprise turned out to be real food instead of some monstrosity Joker could have cooked up just to mess with him. He was actually being serious with the whole dinner. Of course he would be, threatening the city and acting as if Batman wasn’t here for the sole reason of putting a stop to it. “Do try the duck, Batsy. I made this especially for you.” Joker opened a bottle of Bordeaux and poured his “date” a glass before doing the same for himself. “Really?” Bruce deadpanned, sounding unimpressed. “What, you don’t think I can cook?” The clown frowned, looking displeased. “No, that’s not-“ Bruce started but was promptly interrupted by Joker trying and failing miserably at stifling his laughter. “Pf! You should have seen the look on your face! Ha!” Joker burst out laughing. Batman sat there, calculating his chances of successfully tackling the clown and wresting the detonator out of him while he was distracted, but quickly dismissed the idea. He knew better than to underestimate his foe, even when it seemed like he could easily gain the upper hand. Bruce had made that mistake before. “Ah, you’re funny, Batboob!” Joker wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. “Honestly, I don’t remember, maybe I cooked this, maybe I just made a chef do it and then I put a bullet through his head. Could be either of those. And you will never know what really happened. You know, multiple choice! Why limit ourselves with inconsequential details? What’s important is that it’s all for you, darling.” Joker took his glass and offered a toast, but Batman remained still. All he did was frown even deeper and clench his fists harder, as if trying not to react to the taunting. Oh, Joker knew he was getting to him slowly but surely. One small push at a time. “To us.” Joker smiled, clinking his glass against Bruce’s untouched one before taking a small sip of the wine. “There is no us.” Bruce growled. “Not with that attitude there isn’t!” Joker sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to remain calm. Soon after the outburst, the smile was back on his face as if it never left. “You’re surprisingly difficult to get in touch with lately, you know that, Bats? I mean, what does a guy have to do to get your attention around here? I take hostages, I rob a bank, I blow up a building, I blow up two buildings, and on our anniversary at that…And still nothing!” Bruce barely managed to stop himself from blurting out that Joker had always been his priority. There wasn’t a time when he didn’t devote all of his attention to him. More than he liked or wanted to admit. For all the right and all the wrong reasons. The Bat remained silent, forced to listen to the clown’s erratic rambling. “You can imagine my disappointment when I realized you’d rather send your little birdies to stop me instead of coming after me yourself. You know I only settle for the best, not the supporting acts.” Joker sighed dejectedly, taking a moment before continuing on a slightly different tangent. “I work so tirelessly to get your attention every time, because you would never even care about me if I wasn’t threatening the entire city and coming up with all kinds of horrible and fun ways for people to die. All so you could come out and play with me for a little while. Those moments are the highlight of my time outside the loony bin. Why do you think I keep escaping all the time?” Bruce wondered the same, despite how much resources he had invested in the betterment of the asylum, it felt like all of his efforts made no difference. As if that place had been cursed, beyond hope, much like the patients it housed. The same patients who kept breaking out only for him to find them and put them back where they belonged to get the help they desperately needed, but sadly couldn’t receive. An endless cycle of violence. Bruce didn’t know how to feel about any of this. He was supposed to be the solution, not the cause. Joker was clearly unhinged and needed help. All of his rogues needed help. He had to do better than reinforce the status quo, but every time he extended his hand to offer help, it was swiftly batted away and rejected. Bruce sighed. Joker’s voice brought him back to the present. “Am I not good enough for you anymore, Batsy?” Joker looked almost sad. It was not a look Bruce was used to seeing on the clown’s face. He almost wished he had that disturbing grin back in place instead. That at least, he knew how to handle. “You were never even close to being good, Joker. Otherwise we wouldn’t be in this position, time and again.” “You mean at each other’s throats?” Joker smirked then all of a sudden. Bruce instantly regretted his words. “I do love that position, darling. You on top of me…your hands around my neck, squeezing tightly until I pass out,” Joker bit his lip and rested his chin on his hand, smirking as he gazed dreamily at Bruce as if he could see through his lenses and into his eyes. “That’s just one among many other positions I can’t wait to try out with you. You’re my one and only dance partner for a reason, Batsy. I live for our little tangos right before you drop me off at Arkham, all bruised and battered, to pine for your touch again in my cold, dark cell. It’s not so cold when I think of you, though. Or when I touch my-” “That’s enough!” Bruce interrupted him before the clown could finish his sentence, knowing exactly where this was going, not willing to entertain this particular line of thought. Just when Bruce thought he could reach out to him and reason with him, Joker goes off and ruins it again. “Was it the Cat? I bet you were with the Cat all those times I waited for you to show up…Of course you would chase after her tail instead. I guess Kitty’s up for declawing next.” The clown grumbled, crossing his arms. If looks could kill… “I wasn’t…” Bruce started, but quickly cut himself off before he could say exactly what Joker wanted to hear. ”I don’t owe you any explanation. Just keep your hands off Catwoman if you know what’s good for you. I’ll deal with her myself.” Bruce didn’t want to imagine what the clown was capable of doing to Selina if left unchecked. “You love her, don’t you?” Joker pouted, hurt and upset. That was a novel look on him. “You do, don’t you?” He pressed again, clutching at the detonator dangerously tight in his hand. “After everything we’ve been through together, you and I…” Bruce gritted his teeth and slammed his hands on the table, all but poised to attack Joker if he didn’t get to the point of them being here. They were getting too sidetracked with issues that were not relevant to the current situation, namely, the bomb threats all over Gotham. “Call off the bombs. NOW!” Joker knitted his brows, disappointed that his Bat was trying to dodge the question. “Aw, I thought we were getting somewhere. You’re such a spoilsport, Bats. I’m here pouring my heart out to you while all you care about are some harmless bombs that are not even armed-“ Joker’s finger flicked one of the switches at random as if to prove a point when the ground shook from a powerful explosion not too far from their current location. Bruce was already looming over his nemesis, and only had to look out the window to see the cloud of debris and fire coming out of a nearby apartment building, followed by screams, sirens, and blaring car alarms disturbing the peace that was never meant to be. The night was doomed as soon as Bruce had received that cursed message to meet the damned lunatic here. “Oops!” Joker looked surprised too but then gave a shrug, feigning innocence. “Guess they were armed after all.” He laughed as if he heard some funny joke, pointing at the burning building behind him. “WHY?” Batman roared, definitely not amused by his “joke”. The senseless, indiscriminate violence that Joker was capable of made his blood boil with renewed vehemence, anger coursing through his veins. He had played along up until now, but this act crossed the line. He refused to tolerate Joker’s homicidal tendencies any longer. Bruce reached to grab the other man, but the clown clicked his tongue disapprovingly and leaned out the way quickly, dangling the detonator just out of his reach. “Uh-uh! I have more of those fun bombs lying around, just waiting to go off if you misbehave. Please, misbehave, Batsy, make this more fun for me! OH! I know! We can play a guessing game!” Joker’s eyes sparkled with glee at the prospect, wholly indifferent to the fact that he just blew up a building full of people. Bruce could still hear the alarms outside. People died while he was busy playing “date” with his archenemy. “Let’s see! If you guess where-“ Enough was enough. Bruce was on him in a flash, shoving the plates, cutlery, glass, everything to the floor as he descended upon his foe, the source of so much mindless pain and suffering. The abrupt action took Joker by surprise. He dropped the detonator when the Bat tackled him off the chair, landing on the floor with a loud crash and thud. Bruce straddled Joker’s hips to pin him down, wrapping his hands around the pale neck and squeezing hard, overcome with rage. “There will be no more games! I should just kill you now and be done with it. For everything you’ve done! For every life you’ve taken!” The Bat snarled, ignoring the choked breaths and struggles of the man underneath him, only loosening his hold when Joker’s eyes started to roll back into his head and his grip on Bruce’s arms slackened. Bruce pulled his hands off Joker’s neck as if burned, eyes going wide behind his lenses when he realized how close he came to actually killing his worst enemy. Joker gasped and wheezed for breath, his lungs filling up with air once again, but if anything he looked more pleased than pissed off that Batman almost strangled him to death. Even though his trachea had almost been crushed, he still managed to somehow laugh through all the coughing as he looked up at Bruce with an intense feeling that could only be described as adoration. His voice sounded hoarse when he did speak up eventually. “You were so close, darling.” He coughed again and smiled, his pupils dilating into two impossible black holes, drawing Batman in. “I could almost feel it happening. Oh, how I dream of the day you finally give in and cross that thin line for me. And I will be there to embrace you and take you down with me. At least in death we can be together.” Joker tried to wiggle underneath the Bat on his lap as if to free himself, but Bruce knew better than that. The clown had never shied away from the physical contact while they tussled. Quite the opposite, he wanted to get even closer while they fought, deriving some sick pleasure from being hurt by the Bat. Bruce could feel said pleasure pressed against him, but he ignored it like he always did. There was a time when that used to throw him off. Now, he was getting a little too comfortable with it for his own good. Because he was no saint either. He didn’t want to enjoy hurting and punishing the clown as much as he did. The violence was justified. Or that was what he told himself to feel better about it. Maybe they were both crazy. “But you and I both know you won’t do that, will you? Your precious code prohibits you from taking any life. Even mine…But I know you want it, baby. So badly.” The clown splayed his hands on the powerful thighs holding him down. But Bruce slapped the wandering hands away quickly before they could get anywhere else, and pulled the maniac up by the lapels of his jacket until they were face to face, sneering at the infuriating man. Joker only grinned and laughed in response. Neither of them even thought about getting to the detonator and putting an end to this. Well, maybe they did, but they still didn’t act on it, too caught up in each other to remember why they were here in the first place. Or the excuse for it. Joker eventually calmed down and hummed, his eyes flickering between Batman’s lenses and his lips. “Tell me, Batsy…How do you dream of killing me? Maybe strangling me slowly as the life drains out of me, one choked breath at a time, as you watch me expire? Snapping my neck with your strong hands? Or do you dream of beating me to a bloody pulp until your skin breaks and your muscles tear down to the knuckles underneath? Hm, because I do! Oh, what delicious violence, what wonderful dreams those are. They definitely get the blood pumping…if you catch my drift.” Joker wiggled his eyebrows and bit his lip, shameless about his perverse inclinations. Bruce didn’t know why he was still indulging the other man when he could just knock him out, drop him off at Arkham and be done with it. If he didn’t know his enemy any better, he would say it was as easy as that. But he had the uneasy feeling that Joker was the one allowing all of this to happen, relinquishing control so Bruce could hurt him, so he could derive some sort of masochistic self-gratification out of their violent exchanges. The clown could turn the tables at any given moment if he wished to, yet he chose to stay down and tantalize the Bat. He knew how to worm his way deep underneath Batman’s skin, and latch onto him like a parasite, an intrusive thought Bruce could keep at bay for only so long, filling him with doubts about his own sanity. With warmth. Wait, what warmth? Surprised, Bruce tore his eyes away from Joker’s face to locate its source. He didn’t even realize when Joker had stabbed him. Hot blood seeped out of a wound on his side. A pale hand held the knife in place. There was a strange intimacy in the way Joker wrapped an arm around his shoulders and sank the blade deeper into his flesh, awfully slow and gentle as he gazed into Batman’s eyes, and smiled. There it was again. That look. Only Joker would think stabbing someone was an act of love. Bruce didn’t know if it was sheer luck or a deliberate choice on Joker’s part to avoid any major organs, but he was pretty sure it was the latter. As haphazard as some of Joker’s actions appeared sometimes, there was a carefully calculated premeditation behind them, usually. He obviously didn’t want to hurt Bruce too much, just enough to keep the game going. Maybe it was Joker’s calm demeanor that prevented Bruce from reacting as soon as he noticed the blade lodged in his side. They were now close enough for him to catch the scent of his cologne mixed with something chemical and wrong, but unmistakably familiar and so very Joker. Bruce hated that he knew Joker’s scent so well. Hated what he saw in those eyes which were more pitch black than poisonous green right now. Hated how tender Joker’s embrace was while the knife sunk sickeningly sweet in him. The Bat responded the only way he knew how – by baring his teeth and shoving the clown off him with as much force as he could muster, the same way he pushed away all the conflicting feelings that clouded his judgement. People had died, and more could die before the night was over. He knew what he had to do and wasted no time getting back on his feet, pulling the knife out with a hiss and tossing it to the side. Joker let out a yelp of surprise at the sudden push but recovered quickly, the signature grin back in its place, wide and unsettling. He rose to his feet as well, with a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Aw, don’t be shy, Batsy. I won’t bite.” Joker snorted and shook his head. “Well, that was a lie. Of course I’ll bite. And I bet that’s how you like it too. Kitty Cat ain’t got nothing on me, baby.” “You must be delusional to think I would want to have anything to do with a wretch like you.” Bruce spat out, trying to keep Joker distracted while he scanned the floor for the detonator. “Looking for this?” Joker dangled said detonator with two fingers, pleased with himself. “Way ahead of you, Bats.” Of course he had it. Back to square one. If only he hadn't hesitated before. Bruce’s frown deepened. The cape draped around his whole body, making him appear almost inhuman – tall, dark and imposing, giving off an intimidating aura that would discourage any other criminal. He was done messing around, done losing more innocent lives. He was ready to charge at the maniac and take him down. However, as soon as he made a step forward, Joker pulled a gun seemingly out of nowhere and pointed the firearm at Batman’s head, cocking the hammer dramatically. “Feeling lucky tonight?” Joker’s tongue playfully darted out from between his teeth, eager to start some trouble, fiddling with the detonator just to unnerve the Bat more. “Luckier than you.” Bruce ignored the taunting, prepared for a fight. Joker chuckled darkly. “Hm, let’s put it to the test then.” There was malicious intent behind the challenge. Joker was not bluffing. Batman was ready. In a fraction of a second, Bruce threw a smoke bomb on the floor, dodging out of the bullet’s path just in time. One. Two. The third was a close call. The smoke worked to his advantage – he could rely on his lenses to see through it, while Joker had to shoot almost blindly, trying to guess where his opponent was. The fourth got him in the arm, but not before he managed to throw a batarang Joker’s way in retaliation, which hit its mark, grazing the side of his neck and leaving a bloody trail in its wake. The clown was clearly having the time of his life, skipping around and laughing like a madman (which he was) as he evaded another batarang, before firing his gun again. Five. Six. Now was his chance. The Bat rushed his foe and delivered a powerful punch to his face, knocking him back. “You’re nothing but degenerate filth! I would be doing the world a favor by ending you.” Bruce sounded almost as if he was trying to convince himself. He was sure life would be so much better for everyone in Gotham if Joker just ceased to exist. But would it make his life better? Could he really break his own code? That kept him from going off the deep end, from becoming that which he swore to fight? He would be no better than the Joker. That alone was reason enough to hold back. Not to mention any other selfish reasons why he held back when it came to the clown. Joker was making it so easy for Bruce to hate him, and so hard to love him. “Mmm, yesss! Talk dirty to me, darling.” Joker licked his busted lip, enjoying this violence way more than he should. He righted himself just in time to avoid a kick, “dancing” out of its way and smacking Bruce in the face with the butt of his gun. “Or better yet, let your fists do the talking.” The dark knight recovered from the hit in time to avoid another one, dodging out of the way and punching Joker in the gut, hard enough to force the breath out of him, using the opportunity to land another merciless punch, his fist connecting with the clown’s face with a sickening crack, which saw Joker tumbling down on the floor. Bruce was on him then, not giving the clown any chance to bounce back and regain his feet. He grabbed him by the collar and gave one, two, three more hard punches, just to make sure Joker stayed down. The smoke was starting to clear at this point, but his mind was still foggy from the adrenaline rush, panting on top of the pale man’s lax body. Joker giggled as he lied there, choking a little on his own blood before spitting it out to the side, cackling again, more than comfortable to just lie on the floor with the big, strong Bat pinning him down so nicely after the rough treatment. More warmth had pooled down to his nether regions and he was pretty sure his Batsy could feel it too, poking at him, even through the thick material of his batsuit. “I don’t know if I wanna kill you or kiss you, Bats.” Joker gazed adoringly at Bruce and smiled. His face was a complete mess. “Maybe both. At the same time.” Joker lifted his hand slowly and pressed the muzzle of the gun against Bruce’s temple, looking at him with a soft expression, in stark contrast to his battered appearance and their more immediate circumstances. Bruce didn’t flinch or try to swat the gun away as he stared back at Joker, waiting, making no move to stop him from pulling the trigger. The moment stretched out, neither of them breaking the spell. The gun clicked. Again. And again. And again. Until Joker tossed it aside. Bruce couldn’t tell if it was disappointment or relief written on the pale man’s face. “I guess you really are lucky, Bats.” The maniac chuckled. “I counted the bullets.” Joker snorted and closed his eyes for a moment. “Of course you did.” He sighed. “Well, if I can’t kill you, then I’ll have to kiss you. Woe is me.” “And what makes you think I’ll let you do that?” Bruce was not impressed. “Aw, come on, baby. You already gave me a proper thrashing, what’s a kiss to commemorate a successful date? You already gave me such lovely kisses all over my face, the least I can do is return the sentiment.” And by kisses he meant punches. Which in Joker’s book was the same thing, apparently. “OH! I know what will change your mind!” The clown looked like he had an epiphany as he blurted out the words excitedly. The ground shook again, accompanied by a loud explosion that lit up the night. Curse him. Had he been holding on to the detonator all this time? “NO!” Bruce was beside himself with rage. That was the last straw. He grabbed Joker’s arm and twisted with enough force to break it, but before it came to that the clown dropped the detonator and Bruce tossed it far away from both of them. He tried to ignore the sirens and the people’s screams outside as he lashed out on the man underneath him with renewed fury. “WHY?!” His fist connected with Joker’s face. “WHY DID YOU DO THAT?” Again. Again. “You can hurt me all you want, Joker, but not them! This is between you and me!” “Don’t you see? I wouldn’t do all this if I didn’t love you like I do. And I know you love me too, deep in that dark, batty heart of yours.” “I HATE YOU!” Batman growled as he gave another brutal punch, the blood boiling in his veins. “Love, hate, it’s the same thing. You care about me deeply, one way or the other. You would be nothing without me to give you purpose. I make you stronger through the pain and loss. Can’t you see? There can be no Batman without the Joker! So I give you something to fight, so you can be the best you can be!” “I NEVER asked for this!” Bruce stayed his fist, his words losing some of their fire. “I never asked for this…” “I’m just playing the hand I’ve been dealt, Bats.” Even with the constant smile on, Joker looked almost sad. As if he didn’t have any other choice but to act the way he did. Bruce lowered his hand and sighed, defeated. All of a sudden, Joker started chuckling, unable to stop. His laughter grew louder and more hysterical by the second while Bruce was left dumbstruck by his inappropriate behavior, wondering what the madman found so funny about this situation. The clown wheezed, trying to catch his breath, to calm down enough so he could speak, wiping a tear from his eye. “Do you wanna hear a joke, Batsy?” He burst out laughing again. “Now isn’t the time for jokes.” Bruce shook him until Joker got a hold of himself and stopped. “No, Batsy, now’s exactly the right time to tell you this one. It’s a killer.” He extended his arms towards the Bat, beckoning him. “Come closer, I promise it’s worth it.” He snorted, trying to stifle his giggles and avoid having another laughing fit. Bruce didn’t move a muscle. Clearly he didn't appreciate Joker's effort to hold back his laughter. “Pretty please?” Joker tried, feeling a little embarrassed. “I never beg anyone, so you better feel special right now!” Joker had no knives or gun left on him or near him, even though he was just as dangerous unarmed as he was with a weapon in hand, or any object for that matter. He was also not above using deceit as a weapon. Bruce had nothing more to lose at this point but his temper, so he obliged finally, and leaned down a little bit before Joker wrapped his arms around him and pulled him even closer. Close enough to whisper in his ear. The sweet, metallic scent of his blood was overwhelming, sickening and painfully familiar. The clown was giddy, barely able to contain himself as he turned his face towards Bruce’s face to tell him his juicy joke. “Heh…there was no one in those buildings.” As soon as he finished his sentence, Joker burst out laughing again, convulsing underneath the Bat as he clutched onto him, not letting go. Bruce was stunned into silence while the clown’s laughter filled the room. “What?” Was all Bruce could say. Joker was in stitches. He tried pulling away and look at Joker’s face to see if he could spot the lie, but he appeared as serious as ever, meaning not at all. It was hard to tell whether his claim was true or not. Even if Joker never struck him as a liar. He avoided telling the truth, yes. But outright lying wasn’t exactly his style. “I blew up a bunch of empty buildings, you silly bat!” Joker smiled as he stared up at Bruce who seemed to finally catch on. “The imaginary innocents in your bat head,” Joker poked at the cowl and snickered, “are safe and sound.” Bruce couldn’t take Joker’s words at face value, not even on a good day, but something told him the clown wasn’t lying or twisting the truth this time. He didn’t know how to feel about it. On the one hand, he felt immense relief that no people were caught in the immediate blasts. But on the other hand, he couldn’t shake off his anger at the clown. It made sense why Joker waited so long to tell Bruce all this. To mess with his head. To feel Batman’s wrath and get some sick pleasure out of it. All of this had been one big joke, and Joker just delivered the punchline. “You’re insane.” The Bat was not happy. That much was obvious. “Nah, that would be just crazy!” Joker chuckled but his laughter was cut short when the Bat wrapped his hands around his neck to shut him up. “All of this was for nothing!” Bruce squeezed harder, but the grin on the clown’s face never fell down. In fact he looked even more excited as he wiggled under him. It was as if Bruce was giving him exactly what he wanted. “Harder-“ The pale man choked out as his eyes rolled back and his mouth opened more as if to produce a sound but nothing came out, his back arching off the floor. Bruce withdrew his hands immediately, but it was too late. The sick bastard was already hard underneath him. Or harder, at any rate. Sometimes Bruce wished he had thicker armor so he could not feel his erection pressed against him every time they fought. He would also lie if he said it wasn’t affecting him at all. But no one needed to know that. Least of all, Joker. Who looked way too smug now. “Mmm, not for nothing, Batsy. I only wanted to get you in the mood. It’s been almost two months since our last tussle and I wanted to play with you again, one on one. I yearned for your searing touches, for your little love taps. They always left me broken in all the right ways.” Joker licked his bloody lips as he stared up at the object of his desires, canting his hips to feel more of the Bat’s hard body. He was too far gone to resist it. Not that he ever resisted getting all up in Batman’s space every chance he got. His Bat smelled so nice, especially when he was angry and bleeding. The action did not go unnoticed by Bruce who pushed Joker’s hips back down to restrict his movements. He didn’t know if he was disgusted or worse, interested. He didn’t want to allow himself to enjoy this. He had to shut it down before it could escalate. Before he did something he would regret and hate himself for later. “Come on, darling, give me some more. I’ve been a very naughty boy.” Joker’s hands slid over Bruce’s powerful thighs that kept him pinned to the floor. He had no hope of bucking him off or getting him to move, so he had to resort to teasing. “Hit me, strangle me, anything! I know you want it. Now’s your chance.” Bruce reached out for something behind him. “Let’s end tonight on a high note, my batty knight.” A handcuff clicked around one of Joker’s wrists, before the other joined it in the restraints. “Oh yes, now we’re talking!” The clown buzzed with excitement. “So what awful thing are you going to do to me, Bats?” He asked not-so-innocently. “I’m doing what I should have done from the start. I’m taking you back to Arkham,” Bruce deadpanned, dashing the clown’s hopes. Joker’s smile fell as he sat up, not hiding his disappointment. “Yes, yes, but before that?” Joker moved his cuffed hands up and around the Bat’s shoulders, “trapping” him in his embrace, looking expectantly at Bruce. “You’re not gonna take advantage of me while I’m all chained up like that? Not even a little bit? No one would question if I’m dropped off at Arkham with a few bruises in odd places. Or beaten half to death, for that matter.” Joker leaned in to whisper close to his ear. “You can enjoy yourself and still hate my guts all you want, if it makes you feel any better. It will be our little secret, and you know better than most that I can keep a secret. Cross my heart and hope to die.” He left a bloody kiss on the cowl before Bruce could push him away. Joker sighed, exasperated. “It kills me that Kitty Cat gets all of you without even bothering to work for your affections.” “I don’t-“ “Yes, I know, you don’t love me, you love her-” “That’s not-“ “Even when I do so much just for you, Batsy. Going out of my way to-“ Joker finally went silent when a powerful hand grabbed him by the throat, putting a stop to his incessant rambling. “Shut up!” The Bat grit his teeth, his frown deepening. It was as if time had stopped then, neither of them making any move as the silence stretched between them for what felt like an eternity while in fact it had been mere fractions of a second. Joker’s eyes went wide and his breath hitched when he felt the forceful tug and the hard press of lips against his. Was this-Was this really happening? His heart was pounding in his chest so loudly he was sure the Bat could hear it too. The clown was too stunned to react. The Bat was actually kissing him. This was really happening! Of all the things he thought he could never have… Bruce couldn’t decide if he was disappointed by the lack of response from Joker who just sat there awkwardly still, or if he was glad he had taken the clown by surprise for once. He supposed it was equal amounts of both. He would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the thrill it gave him, feeling the sickeningly sweet taste of danger on his lips. Of what was forbidden and what could never be. Bruce was breaking all of his rules with this simple act. Offering humanity to a man who seemingly had none left in him. Just as Bruce started to pull back, a pair of handcuffs fell to the floor with a clank. Joker had apparently managed to free himself from his restraints, and wasted no time in closing the distance between them again, refusing to let their kiss come to an end without reciprocating and showing the Bat exactly how he felt about it. He grabbed Bruce by the bat ears on his cowl, and pulled until their lips smashed together with much less finesse, but making up for it with enthusiasm. Joker opened up as soon as he felt the Bat’s tongue against his lips, seeking, no, demanding entrance. He let out an embarrassingly desperate moan when it slipped inside his mouth and clashed with his own tongue in a sloppy battle for dominance, reminiscent of their usual confrontations. Joker tilted his head to deepen their kiss, giving as good as he was getting, kissing just like how they fought - dirty. Batman’s hold on him was tight, like a noose around his neck, making him feel just as dizzy as their kiss did. His whole body was on fire, buzzing, unable to contain all the excitement that bubbled up inside as all of his blood rushed south. Just when he thought he couldn’t get any harder than he already was, the Bat went ahead and stole his breath away in more ways than one, and left him aching for more. There was no going back for either of them. “You’re awful.” “Yes, I am.” Joker slid his hands down the cowl to hold Bruce’s face with unexpected gentleness, gazing into his eyes with hunger. Bruce kept his hand wrapped around Joker’s neck, not unlike a dog’s leash. He knew he could never tame this wild animal, no matter how seemingly receptive Joker was at times. Until he wasn’t. Bruce could still taste the blood of his enemy on his tongue, almost like rust. It was disgusting. He wanted to taste it again. Bruce moved his other hand to card through Joker’s disheveled green hair, before grabbing a handful and pulling hard enough to tilt Joker’s head back, bringing their mouths closer as their breaths mixed together. The clown seemed to appreciate the treatment, smiling at the Bat like a smitten fool. “You’re the worst.” “The worst of the worst.” It was so easy for the Bat to steal his breath again and Joker was more than willing to give it. He was too willing, in fact. Bruce let out an angry hiss when Joker’s teeth sank into his lip hard enough to tear it, squeezing his hand around the clown’s neck in retaliation. Which was more a reward than punishment for the lunatic. Joker moaned into his mouth, short of breath, but in delicious ecstasy, lapping at the fresh hot blood as if he couldn’t get enough of his Bat’s taste, so sweet and addicting. Their mouths were a bloody mess, red smeared all around them. It was impossible to say whose blood was whose anymore. Joker’s hands slithered down the armored chest of the batsuit as if they were mapping Bruce’s bare flesh, until they settled on his sides. He slid a finger along the knife wound he inflicted on his Bat earlier this night, before pushing the tip of his finger in it, prodding at the gash with morbid fascination. He loved how wet and hot Batman’s insides felt around his finger as it slipped a tad deeper. If only he could crawl under his skin and nestle inside his body, he would. Someday maybe. Bruce hissed again and broke the kiss, pushing Joker’s hand away from the fresh wound before the maniac could do more damage than put his fingers where they were not supposed to go. Though, that never stopped him from trying that time and again. If anything, this was Joker on his best behavior. “I should hate you.” “Yes, you should.” Bruce gave Joker a hard kiss, pouring all of his frustration into it and Joker took it all gladly. It was more teeth than lips and tongues, but neither of them seemed to care much, too busy devouring each other to play fair or worry if the other one could take it. They’ve hurt each other way worse before, this was considered downright gentle for them in comparison. Joker’s bow tie came undone, tossed to the side, already forgotten. Next came the suit jacket which Bruce pushed off Joker’s shoulders without any resistance from the clown. Joker’s movements were hurried and frantic as he fumbled to get rid of the jacket, but the Bat’s mouth on him didn’t make it any easier to focus on his struggle with the offending piece of clothing. Bruce was definitely not playing fair, using the opportunity to attack the pale man’s neck, right where the batarang had left a bloody gash during their earlier fight. Joker moaned and shivered when he felt the tongue drag across his wound, licking off the drying and the fresh blood that seeped out of it at the contact. That alone was almost too much for the clown to handle as he clutched Batman’s cape tightly and offered more of his neck for the Bat to kiss, lick, bite, anything. Instead Bruce breathed against the wet skin of his neck, speaking in a low, husky voice while his deft fingers worked on Joker’s waistcoat. “I should want you dead.” “You really should.” The clown felt overwhelmed with lust. Every fiber of his being yearned for even the smallest touch from his Bat to set his skin ablaze. He was pretty sure Batman could feel his erection poking against him insistently as he tried to wiggle around and get some much needed friction. If only he could feel Batman’s too against him. The anticipation was killing him. Buttons went flying when Bruce tore open Joker’s shirt, not caring in the slightest that he had practically ruined it, ignoring the clown’s weak protest. He could tell Joker didn’t mind it as much as he claimed. “Hey, I paid a fortune for that, you brute!” Bruce pushed the shirt off him to reveal more of his pale, skinny body, which was littered with scars, most of which were Bruce’s own doing, while some were not. Bruce felt something…unexpected. Possessiveness. His marks were all over Joker’s skin, like proof of ownership, like an artist’s signature. Joker, too, had left more than his fair share of scars on Batman’s body throughout the years. Maybe that was why Joker wanted to hurt him so much every time. Maybe this was his way of claiming ownership, by leaving his own marks all over Bruce’s body. Joker hummed when Bruce licked a scar on his shoulder. It was one that Batman had given him a while ago during their last tussle. It had healed nicely, but the spot was even more sensitive now so, of course, the Bat used that knowledge to his advantage and grazed his teeth against it, feeling the clown shiver underneath him. “Stop teasing me, Bats…” Bruce ignored the warning and instead returned his mouth to the fresh wound on Joker’s neck to suck and lick on it while his hands roamed the pale expanse of his torso. It made Joker gasp and writhe even more, trying to buck up into Bruce’s body without much success as he held onto the burly bat. “I said…” Joker snarled, mustering all of his strength to push Bruce off his lap, so much so Bruce tumbled backwards and landed on his back. “Stop...” The clown was on him before Bruce could sit up, straddling his hips instead and pressing his hands on Bruce’s chest to keep him down. “Teasing…” He ground his hips down against Batman’s crotch, and even if there was a codpiece there, it still provided the friction he so desperately needed right now. “Batsy!” He moaned as he gazed down at the Bat, his eyes hooded with lust. The madman’s breath hitched when Bruce bucked up against him. If he hadn’t already lost his mind earlier, he sure did now. Joker felt powerful hands take hold of his hips, pulling him down harder, controlling his movements, almost making him see stars. He bit his lip and moaned again, rolling his hips against the Bat’s delectable crotch. “Ah! Batssss…Fuck, this is better than I could have ever imagined!” Bruce was in no better state. Watching Joker move so shamelessly on top of him, half-naked and trying to get his own pleasure, was chipping away at his own self-control in record time. His own need was trapped inside his too-tight pants, behind a codpiece that didn’t let him feel anything at all. It was there for a very good reason, but right now he hated its existence. Luckily, his imagination filled in the blanks but he was too far gone to pretend he didn’t want more than that. “Mmm, I wanna taste you, darling. Let me taste you, I want you in my mouth…” Joker whined and grabbed the codpiece, trying to tear away the armor in his desperation, but to no avail. Then he tried taking off Bruce’s utility belt but was promptly zapped for his efforts. “Ouch! Rude!” The clown quickly shook his hands from the electric shock, staring daggers at the belt. “How do I take this damn thing off?” “You don’t.” Bruce bucked his hips up so hard it dislodged Joker who let out a yelp in surprise, sending him back to the floor while Bruce quickly got on his feet again, towering over the half-naked man. “Playing hard to get, huh?” Joker chuckled and crawled up to the Bat on his knees, wrapping his arms around Bruce’s thigh and grinding his clothed erection against his leg like a dog in heat, too shameless to care about anything but getting some relief. And to tease the Bat. Mostly to tease the Bat. “We are way past that, Joker.” “Then let me have a taste. I need it! I’ve been waiting so long for this.” Joker whined and clawed at Batman’s thigh, pressing his face closer to his crotch and licking it as if the Bat could feel it. Bruce didn’t have to feel it to have his body react to the lewd image. “Come oooon, Batsy! Are you really gonna make me beg for your cock? I’m already on my knees here.” Bruce couldn’t lie, he rather liked the sight of Joker on his knees before him. The Bat took off his gloves one after the other and placed them on the table nearby while Joker was staring at him, wide-eyed and disbelieving, as if witnessing a miracle happen right in front of him. The first thing Bruce felt with his bare hands was Joker’s hair which was surprisingly soft to the touch. He ran his fingers through the locks of green hair slowly, which made the clown close his eyes and lean more into the hand. But Bruce had a different idea. He grabbed a fistful and tugged until Joker was facing him again and listening carefully. There was that grin again. “No. Teeth.” Bruce commanded as he pulled harder. Joker seemed to like it, if the blissful expression on his face was to be believed. “Understood?” “Yes, Batsy. Anything for you.” It sounded like he was in a trance. Like a worshipper before his god. Without another word, Bruce let go of Joker’s hair and fiddled with something on his utility belt before it clicked and the belt came off without any trouble at all. It joined the gloves on the table. The clown was almost beside himself with giddiness as he unwrapped himself from Batman’s thigh and enjoyed the show. He could finally have his Bat. His mouth began to salivate at the thought, even before he had seen his prize. The Bat tugged at the pants of his batsuit, lowering them down his hips slowly, revealing more skin and dark hair. They didn’t call it a happy trail for nothing, Joker thought and bit his lip as his eyes went on a journey down south. It was like opening a Christmas present and he couldn’t wait to play with his toy. Boy, was Joker not prepared for sight. Bruce couldn’t possibly miss the hungry look on the clown’s face when he finally got the pants low enough to tug his hard, dripping cock out of its confines, already feeling some relief. But it would take more than this to get the satisfaction he needed. Joker didn’t need an excuse to be on him as soon as Bruce’s erection was out, wrapping his hand around the shaft to get a feel for it. It was hot and heavy as it pulsed in his hand and the clown couldn’t be more thrilled with his finding. “Oh, Batsy, I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this gorgeous dick from me all this time. We could have been having so much fun together.” Joker gave the length an experimental tug, admiring it with shameless appreciation, loving how well-endowed his Bat was and imaging how it would feel inside him. The glistening head was just goading him to taste it. “Mm, you’re gonna feel so good inside me, darling. So long and thick…I can hardly wait!” The clown shivered at the thought, rubbing himself through his tented pants with his free hand. Bruce couldn’t help but buck into Joker’s hand, getting even more turned on by the dirty talk. His length gave an excited twitch at the idea of being inside the other man. His worst enemy. The one he should definitely not be fucking around with in the first place. Yet there they were. With Joker’s tongue licking a path up his length, and with him letting the madman do it. “Damn, you taste so good, Bats!” Joker moaned and took the tip in his mouth. He sucked and swirled his tongue around it greedily, lapping at the slit to taste the delicious juices oozing out of it, looking up at the Bat and smiling mischievously, the little devil. Of course he would. Bruce wanted to hate how much it affected him. He didn’t know what he wanted to do more - punch the clown or pull him up for a rough kiss. He settled on neither, instead taking a fistful of his hair and urging the other man to keep going. Joker got the hint and took more of the cock in his mouth with relative ease, considering Bruce’s size. He closed his eyes and moaned around the length when the tip of it hit the back of his throat. Bruce felt like he was going to come just from that. The sight of Joker, half-naked and bloody, with a mouthful of his dick, was something he didn’t ever think he would get to see outside his occasional wet dreams he so desperately tried to forget. Real life was something else entirely. It was so much more. It was downright impossible to wipe this image from his mind now, even if he tried. He was sure it would visit him again later, in the shower, or in his bed to keep him warm. His knuckles turned white as he tightened his hold on Joker’s hair, biting back a moan when the other man hollowed his cheeks around him and started bobbing his head, fondling Bruce’s ballsack while his mouth was busy with the shaft. Bruce couldn’t help but groan and buck his hips to get more of that sinful wet heat, even if it caused the clown to choke on his cock in the process. But instead of quitting, the madman moaned even louder as he palmed himself, getting off on the harsh treatment, offering little to no resistance and letting Bruce fuck his mouth if he so wanted to. Which Bruce did. And he wasn’t gentle either. There was something awfully satisfying in roughhousing the clown, even this way. Maybe there was something wrong with Bruce too, because he was enjoying it too much. At least he wasn’t alone in this, if being in the same boat with the clown was any comfort at all. It was too easy to get lost in this carnal pleasure. Bruce nearly did. And apparently, so did Joker whose zipper was now undone, his hand wrapped around his own weeping, pale length, jerking himself off while the Bat savagely fucked his mouth. All of a sudden, Joker pushed at the Bat’s thigh to stop him so Bruce did, but not without difficulty. It took all of his self-discipline to refrain from taking what he needed when he was this close. He willed himself to keep still while Joker pulled off his length, curious to hear why he wanted to stop so suddenly. If it was to talk more, then Bruce could shut him up again easy enough. The clown gave one slow suck, swirling his wickedly good tongue around the head to collect all of Bruce’s precome before he left the cock with an obscene, wet pop, as if he had been sucking on candy. He looked even more disheveled than before, his hair pointing in different directions thanks to Bruce’s manhandling, his lips swollen and wet. It took a moment to get his jaw to work again so he could speak. “I want to feel your cock inside me, Batsy.” His hands roamed Bruce’s thighs as he licked along the length as if he couldn’t help himself but get another taste, making sure the Bat could see and, most importantly, feel how insatiable his desires were. “Come on, baby, I’m burning for you so badly, just take me. Make me yours.” Bruce grit his teeth, hating himself for loving the sound of Joker’s alluring, desperate plea. It would be just one more way to claim what had always been his. Joker had a way of bringing out his possessive streak. Funny thing was he never felt quite so strongly about any of his other playboy “conquests”. But then again Joker was unlike anyone else. They had long and painful history together. Nothing about their confrontations was ever subdued or simple. And the clown had never hidden how deep his affections for Batman ran. That and how much he wanted to kill him. Bruce felt the same way about Joker but never dared to put a name to his feelings out of fear it would reinforce them and complicate something that was supposed to be clean-cut and simple. Nothing was ever black and white, though. Joker gasped when his hair was yanked up forcefully then, getting up on shaky legs until they were face to face, but when he threw himself at Bruce to kiss him, Bruce pulled his hair hard enough to stop the clown dead in his tracks. Joker chuckled and closed his eyes, biting his lip as he gave himself a few self-indulgent strokes. He was getting off on the rough treatment and denial. A darker part of Bruce found it hot. “Hng…Treat me badly, Bats…Make it hurt. I wanna feel you in my guts. I wanna know this is real, not just some cruel fantasy or dream.” “You’ll get exactly what you deserve, you freak.” Bruce showed no mercy when he slammed Joker’s face hard against the surface of the table nearby, keeping him in place as he yanked the clown’s pants down with more force than was necessary, getting a lovely view of his skinny, tight ass. He couldn’t wait to give the lunatic exactly what he asked for, to make him regret every word. There was that dark side of him again, wanting nothing more than to hurt Joker, any way possible. “Mm, yessss, give it to me, darling. Make me bleed for you, inside and out.” Joker shivered, letting the Bat manhandle him into position, pushing his hips back to feel the fat cock brush against him, starving for it. The man behind him just shoved his head harder on the table for being so pushy and impatient. “Behave.” “Never!” Joker giggled and wiggled his hips, kicking off the pants around his ankles until he was free to spread his legs more. “You should know me better than that, Bats.” He heard an angry growl from behind and chuckled, pushing his ass against Batman’s hardness until he could feel the throbbing shaft slip between his cheeks. “Do me! Fuck me! Tear me apart!” Joker moaned, grinding against the cock impatiently. “Beg.” “Ugh…you’re so cruel, Bats. I’m dying here…” Joker gasped when Bruce actually bucked his hips and rubbed against his twitching hole. The clown bit his lip and let out another choked moan. This was torture, he needed so much more. Curse him. “Okay, okay, fine…just…please…” The Bat smirked darkly. The clown must have been beyond desperate if he was willing to beg for it, willing to do anything, even submit to his enemy/lover. Bruce would stick with enemy for the time being. Bruce had waited long enough. So he manhandled Joker until the madman had one of his legs up and pressed against the table, opening him up more for the next step. “Oooh, me likey!” Joker hummed and wiggled around. “Shut up!” “Why don’t you make me, Ba-” The clown’s cocky remark got cut off by the gasp that left his own mouth when Bruce pushed his tip against Joker’s entrance until the tight ring of muscle yielded to the pressure and the head popped inside. Joker let out a long groan as he scratched on the table with his nails, feeling the delicious burn of the stretch. No preparation or tenderness, just how he wanted it. And that was just the tip. “HNNN-Batsyy…” He bit his lip hard, trying to relax his body so he could take more. He needed it now. He wanted the pain. The burn. The Bat. Bruce didn’t wait around for the clown to get used to the intrusion. He was already having trouble trying not to come just from the tight heat squeezing so good around his tip. So he took a deep breath to steel himself before he pushed further inside, stretching Joker’s insides as he penetrated him, dry and painful for the clown, no doubt. But it was what Joker wanted. And what Bruce secretly wanted too. “Relax.” “Easy for you to say. Do you realize how BIG you are?” Joker snapped, clawing at the table, his insides burning so bad yet so good. He whimpered when the dick slipped even deeper, filling him up from the inside out. Joker groaned and writhed, twitched and shuddered when the Bat bottomed out, all snug inside him. He was stretched beyond belief, his insides clenching pitifully around Bruce’s hard cock. It was already too much. It was heaven. “Mmmm, YESS!! Oh, baby, I ain’t never had a cock like yours before. Ah!-” Bruce snapped his hips with more force than was wise so early on, making the lunatic gasp. Maybe it was the words that affected him. Had Joker had other lovers before? Someone who did this to him? The thought brought out something dark and ugly and possessive in him again. He didn’t know why he hated the thought so much. Now that he had his cock inside him, the thought of anyone else fucking and brutalizing the clown was infuriating. Burning even more intensely than the heat around his erection. “Don’t worry, Bats...Ah! Y-you’ll always be my one and only.” Joker managed to say in between his incessant moaning. How did he know Bruce was thinking about this? No matter. He didn’t bother responding. It was unsettling how well the other man could read him even without looking at him, discerning and sharp as ever. Considering his position right now, Bruce found it impressive too. His own clear thinking, on the other hand, was already compromised. The Bat grabbed Joker by the hair and pulled hard until the clown’s back arched. The cock disappearing inside his tight ass, the curve of his back, the sweat glistening off his scarred skin, it was a picture so obscenely arousing, it made his length twitch and his thrusts grow faster and harder. Joker was not a fragile man, he could take the punishment, and then some. Joker was on fire, practically drooling when Bruce picked up the pace and rammed into his ass without a second thought or care, harsh and demanding. The pull on his hair was hard enough to tear if he dared to resist. The slip and slide of the dick inside him drove him insane, so to speak. He was being stuffed to his limits and the Bat showed no indication of slowing down his punishing pace. The savage grip on his hip left dark marks in their wake, contrasting so nicely with his pale skin. Joker loved Batman for it. For all of it. “Ahh-Break me! Mmm!! I’m so close, baby!” Joker tried to hold onto something but his hands were too sweaty to get a grip on anything as he fumbled to push back into the cock impaling him and splitting him in half. He was chasing his release, delirious with pleasure, a moaning, writhing mess. “HNn…you feel…so fucking good!!” But instead of release, he got something else. The juicy dick was gone in an instant, and he found himself flipped on the table until he was facing the Bat. “Hmm, better!” Joker purred when he was breached again, wrapping his legs around Bruce’s waist and gyrating his hips in time with the vicious thrusts, chasing after the hard length. His mouth hung open, mewling in delicious ecstasy as the cock drilled inside him so good, hitting his prostate dead with every thrust. The Bat was well and truly on his way to breaking him, tearing him at the seams. It couldn’t get any better than that. Then came the hands. His undoing. A deathly grip around his neck that squeezed so hard that Joker forgot what air felt like. His eyes rolled back into his head, and his body arched off the table as he unraveled. The only sound he could make was the choked wheeze as he finally gave in and went over the edge. His pale cock twitched pitifully, untouched, as it spurted his release, painting his stomach and chest with hot white streaks as his whole body convulsed and squirmed in the throes of divine pleasure. He was a masterpiece. Or so Bruce thought, capturing the pornographic scene before him with hungry eyes, taking in every single detail of this moment as a keepsake. He forgot to move altogether, enraptured by the sight of his enemy, utterly debauched by him. Bruce tightened his grip on Joker’s neck, watching the lunatic thrash around and ride out his orgasm while even more seed oozed out of his spent cock. Bruce couldn’t get enough. He just had to squeeze and his clown would drip for him. The Bat had to loosen his hold eventually, getting a little too lost in tormenting his enemy. Joker gasped for breath, his eyes half-lidded as he gazed at his beloved torturer, sated and contented. His voice was raspy when he spoke. “Come on, love…” He rolled his hips to get Bruce moving again. “Use me and abuse me. Take what you need from my body. I’m all yours, darling.” His words were dripping sweet. Like honey. Bruce was so close, he knew it wouldn’t take much to get to the finish line, not with Joker being splayed open on the table for him like a feast to be enjoyed. Dark marks adorned Joker’s neck where his hands had previously been, pretty as a necklace. It looked good on him. Better than it would look on anyone else. Joker’s insistent movements spurred him into action again. Bruce yanked the clown closer by the hips, plunging his cock balls-deep in the welcoming heat, earning himself a pleased mewl from the man underneath him. The Bat bent over the clown then, close enough to kiss. But instead of claiming his lips, Bruce tilted his head and pressed a kiss on the dark bruise on his neck, tasting the salt of his sweaty skin. Joker gasped and his hands immediately found their way around the Bat, keeping him close, wordlessly pleading for more of his kisses, more of his mouth. Bruce obliged, lapping at the sensitive, bruised skin, listening to the clown’s whines and moans when he finally started moving again in earnest, slamming into the stretched hole and hitting his abused prostate with punishing precision, bringing such sweet agony with every snap of his hips. Bruce bit down on Joker’s neck, to muffle his own cries when his own orgasm hit and swept him away like a tidal wave. The Bat sank his teeth into Joker’s bruised flesh hard enough to draw blood as he buried himself deep into the incredible heat that clenched around him so maddeningly tight, milking him dry one squeeze at a time as he shot his load inside it and filled up the clown to the brim with his essence. The continued assault on Joker’s overstimulated prostate and Batman’s teeth tearing at his injured flesh, were a sure recipe for another climax. The clown whimpered and squirmed on the table as he came for the second time, almost dry, his half-hard cock twitching weakly, trapped between them as it leaked more of his seed until it couldn’t give any more no matter how much it throbbed. “Mmmmm, Batsy…that was incredible…You’ve thoroughly fucked me out. Best. Date. Ever.” Joker hummed, with a wide, blissful smile plastered on his face as he caressed Bruce’s back through the cape, tilting his head to press a kiss on his cheek. “This was all I’ve ever wanted. That and to kill you, of course.” The clown chuckled as he held the Bat who was trying to get a hold of his breathing again. “Hmmm, I wonder if I can fuck you to death. Now, that would be the way to go!” He rambled on excitedly as if he hadn’t already come, twice. That was somehow more disturbing than the fact he was talking about murdering Batman. “Catlady is so lucky to have you, Batsy.” Joker mused as he gazed into Bruce’s eyes, or where his eyes were supposed to be, behind the lenses on his cowl. The Bat dragged a hand down his own face in frustration. “I’m not with her, you idiot! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all night.” Bruce managed to free himself from Joker’s arms to stand upright again. “You’re not?” Joker got up on his elbows, lifting an eyebrow. He sounded rather skeptical. Bruce shook his head and pulled out of the clown without so much as a warning. Joker whined when the cock slipped out of him, but his disappointment was short-lived. His eyes sparkled with joy as he beamed at the Bat. A 24-carat smile, for sure. “That…That’s wonderful news!” The cogs in his head were turning. “I thought I was losing you to her.” The utter distaste with which he spoke about Catwoman was more than obvious. Bruce would just call it jealousy. “Hearing this almost makes me want to jump your bones again, Bats.” Joker wiggled his eyebrows but was slapped in the face with a napkin Bruce had thrown his way. “Clean yourself and get dressed, we don’t have time for that.” “Aw, Bats, you party pooper!” Joker took the napkin and wiped off the mess on his stomach before doing the same with the mess his Bat had left in him. Well, at least some of it. He still wanted to have something of his dearest inside him as a memento of their time together. Bruce did the same, picking up another napkin off the floor, discarded during their fight earlier, and cleaned himself meticulously, tucking his spent length inside his tight pants and making himself presentable again. “Oh, I know! Maybe we can do it in the batmobile next, on our way to Arkham! Your ride has auto-pilot, right?” The Bat grumbled but otherwise didn’t outright dismiss the suggestion. It would be a bad idea. A really bad idea. The worst idea. Yes. No. Maybe. He tried to focus on putting his belt and gloves back on instead. Joker’s legs shook when he got on his feet, struggling to stay upright. “Damn, Bats, you did a number on me. You might have to carry me.” The clown batted his eyelashes at Bruce as he massaged his lower back, feeling sore in all the right places. That’s a pain that will definitely stick with him for a few days, hopefully a week. It would make his lonesome days and nights in Arkham much more tolerable. Bruce was amazed Joker wasn’t making a fuss about going back to the asylum. He sounded as if he was agreeing to go on a vacation for a few days. “Don’t push your luck.” Bruce watched Joker’s every move. He wouldn’t put it past the madman to smuggle some weapon into the asylum, so Bruce had to keep a close eye on him as he dressed. Yes. That was definitely the only reason why he was staring at his bruised, naked body while the man was busy pulling his pants up. Of course he was going commando. “See something you like?” Joker teased as he put his shirt on, leaving it open since the Bat had been so “kind” as to dispose of the offending buttons earlier. The waistcoat and the suit jacket came next. Joker still looked like a total mess and it would be a miracle if no one at Arkham connected the dots. It wasn’t as if the clown wanted to keep what they’d been up to a secret, anyways. If anything, he wanted to show off the beautiful bruises around his neck, the gift from his dear Bat. They were something to cherish, for sure. “No” Bruce slipped the handcuffs back around Joker’s wrists, closing them with a click. Joker’s flirtatious smile fell. “I see something I hate.” Bruce continued, his mouth tugging up at the corners. Joker’s smile was back then, a lot softer than before. He looked around the floor until he spotted what he was looking for. He bent down to get the rose he had picked for his dearest earlier today. Temporarily cast aside, but not forgotten. The clown offered his Bat the beautiful but thorny flower, and pressed a smooch on his cheek. “I love you too, Batsy.” Bruce kept it for a week.
When Clarke stumbles out of the tent not thirty seconds later, chaos has already begun to devolve. The faded stars in the eastern sky suggest that dawn is about two hours away. There is no telling how long they have slept, but the fires in the square have not quite yet died. It is apparent that some partygoers were still awake, for a squadron of villagers accompanied by Callum and Jean is sprinting in every direction down the cobblestone streets, hollering for those sleeping to wake. Lincoln can be seen aiding an elderly woman across the square, while Octavia tears up the street banging on doors and shouting. The villagers are painfully slow to emerge; some stick their heads out of second-story windows, calling down questions to the street below. A blaring hangover is forming in Clarke’s head, but she pays it no mind as she rips on her boot on the street and casts a look frantically at the sky. There is nothing visible as yet, but she knows it will be less than a minute before a flaming streak announces the impending missile. Behind her, Anya bursts from the tent so quickly that she runs smack into Clarke. She makes only half an effort to right the Omega as she bolts in the opposite direction from the square. Boot secured, Clarke follows her lead and takes off through the field of war tents, parting confused warriors as she goes. “Get to the woods!” Lincoln screams as he sees her go flashing by. “Take everybody who will follow and bring them as far into the trees as you can!” Clarke opens her mouth to reply, but he’s already gone, herding a group of little old ladies into the edge of the trees. She skids to a halt and whirls, this time colliding hard with Lexa at the corner of the street. The Commander doesn’t stop, but shouts to Clarke as she bursts into a building at the other end of the street. Clarke stumbles bewilderedly into the room not two seconds behind. “Children,” she says tersely, already pounding up the stairs to the second floor. “Their parents were taken by the mountain recently; they live alone. I don’t know — ” “I’m on it,” Clarke cuts her off, clattering up the stairs behind her. She enters the front bedroom in time to hear Octavia’s shout of two minutes! from below. Finding a little girl bleary-eyed and half-awake, she corrals the pup to her feet and down the stairs. Behind her, Lexa follows with two older children in tow. As they stumble out onto the street, Clarke glances up again. With a jolt of dread, she sees the telltale light in the blackened sky. She notes the distance to the trees with another flash of despair. “Klark, pick her up and run!” Lexa has swung one child onto her back and is urging the elder of the two to run. Clumsy in her franticness, Clarke sweeps up the little girl, and seeing the light of the missile grow brighter, she begins to run. The weight of the child against her chest barely registers with her. As the size of the missile continues to grow, she picks up speed, dodging the tables still laid out from the celebration. In front of her, made faster by her training and a life on Earth, Lexa disappears into the trees and can be heard shouting to everyone to move back further. Clarke evades the last of the tables and, with the woods directly in front of her, breaks out into a flat-out sprint. She just registers the sight of Anya fleeing into the woods at her left before she breaks through the barrier of the trees. She’s barely through when she’s knocked flat by the force of the shockwave as the impact lights up the forest as bright as day. It takes a minute for Clarke to come to. There’s a ringing in her ears, and her hearing feels strangely muffled, as though her ears have been stuffed with cotton. Her vision swims, blurry, as she forces her eyes open. The forest spins before her, a nonsensical blur of strange shapes and colors as she struggles to get her bearings. The pup is sobbing against her neck, protected from the blast by Clarke’s body curled over hers. Her chubby little fingers clutch at the collar of Clarke’s jacket, tiny fingernails digging into the Omega’s skin. Hot tears paste Clarke’s hair to her neck. Rapidly taking stock of the situation and finding that she can, in fact, move all of her limbs, Clarke rolls onto her back with the child on her chest, arms wrapped protectively around her. She murmurs nonsense into the tangled hair pressed to her face as the little girl continues to cough out strangled sobs. “Clarke!” The shout is muffled in Clarke’s ears, but she forces her eyes to roll upward to find the source of the noise behind her. The movement causes a heavy surge of pain to roll through her head. “Clarke, thank god.” Abby’s face swims into her vision, hazy above her. “Are you all right?” Clarke lets out a grunt, the child heavy on her chest. “You’re — ? Oh god. Whose blood — ” “Not mine,” Clarke croaks out. The pup has a small cut above her eyebrow, but in the manner of head wounds, it’s bleeding profusely. The blood mingles with tears on her skin, matting the child’s hair against her collarbone. “She’s okay. Mom, Anya — where’s — is she — ” “ — Alive, I saw her with the Commander,” Abby supplies hurriedly. “They made it just before you. Where’s Kane? Raven? I haven’t seen — ” “Don’t know,” Clarke chokes. The child is light, but Clarke had the wind thoroughly knocked out of her when she landed, and she’s still struggling to regain her breath. “I didn’t see anyone else . . .” She blinks once, twice, and Abby’s face, pale and drawn, grows a little clearer. Huffing out a cough, Clarke wraps her arm tighter around the child and struggles into a sitting position. All around her, people are slowly clambering to their feet, knocked flat by the force of the missile’s impact. Clarke thinks she sees Murphy rolling to his feet a short distance away. A thin layer of smoke fills their air. There is a dull flickering of light on the edges of the tree trunks indicating flames from the area of the village. Even in the lingering darkness, it’s bright enough to light the forest. From every direction, she catches the sound of shouts and the pounding of running feet as people search the scene for loved ones. Clarke’s heart sinks as she takes it all in. She doesn’t know how many people were in this village earlier tonight, but this is nowhere near all of them. “Clarke!” Octavia comes jogging up, accompanied by Lincoln. Both are sooty and look deeply shaken, but neither appear to be hurt. “You’re okay, thank god. Who’s that you’re holding?” For the first time, glancing down, Clarke takes in the features of the little girl in her arms. She’s small, three or four years old at most. Her hair is wispy blonde, her cheeks streaked with tears and soot. Besides the cut above her eyebrow and a bruise blooming on her cheek, she appears mercifully unscathed. “I don’t know,” Clarke confesses. “Lexa told me to grab her from that house we went into — wait. Where’s Lexa?” “All right,” Lincoln answers swiftly. “She came just ahead of you with the other two yongons. Her cousins.” Clarke blinks. Her ears are still ringing, and when she moves her head, it feels like there’s water behind her eyes. “Cousins?” Somehow, it never occurred to her that Lexa might have family. The Commander is so utterly solitary that it is odd to imagine her with relatives. “Her cousin’s pups, actually,” Lincoln clarifies. “Her cousin Jarl and his mate were taken by the Maunon recently. The neighbors have been helping the pups. Jan, the oldest, is ten summers; the middle one is called Mira. The one you’re holding is Myka, I think.” Fighting the rocking feeling in her brain, Clarke struggles to absorb that information. “Never mind that,” Abby breaks in hurriedly. “We can introduce everyone later. Right now, there are a lot of missing people we need to go look for. No doubt there are injuries to attend to.” Her voice is flat, steady, but Clarke reads in the overly calm words the true horror of what she isn’t saying. At a glance, there look to be around two hundred people around them. It’s a mere fraction of those who were at the bonfire last night. More than injuries awaits them outside the shelter of the trees. Fear settles like lead in Clarke’s stomach. Her throat feels constricted. “Who’s missing?” she manages to choke out. The line of Abby’s mouth is thin and white. “At least Kane and Raven, Wick, the Commander’s guard with the curly hair — ” “— Indra, Callum, and Luna,” Octavia supplies in addition. “Plus about three hundred others. Some people ran to the thermal springs for cover — we might find them there.” The knot of dread only eases a little, but Clarke remains stoic as she responds. “We’ll check there, then. Where’s Nyko, does somebody have healer’s bags — ” “I don’t think it’ll do much good,” Abby says quietly. At her tone, Clarke looks up, and seeing her staring at something through the trees, struggles to her feet to see. Where the right side of the village was, there is a crater in the earth fifty yards across. Fires flicker at the edges of the pit, flames licking up into the lightening sky. The buildings nearest the site where the missile hit are reduced to rubble, while many of those further away threaten to cave in. The smoke is thicker outside the woods, but already, Clarke can begin to see the losses. She opens her mouth, but finds that there are no words to speak. “Gyon op gon Heda!” Gustus’s shout breaks through the smoky haze. All around them, people scramble to their feet, those who are able rising to support the injured. It’s difficult with trees obscuring her view, but Clarke sees Lexa emerge from a corner of the wood. Immediately, the gathered fall silent, all regarding their Commander with the same expressions of shaken horror and plaintive bewilderment that Clarke can feel on her own face. “Heda!” “HEDA!” “What happened?” “Who did this?” “Was it the Maunon?” “Where are the ambassadors?” Clarke can only understand some of the rapid-fire Trigedasleng, but it isn’t difficult to imagine the nature of the cries directed at the Commander. Lexa, for her part, remains calm, but Clarke can see even from a distance that she hasn’t quite managed to keep the stoic mask in place. Her eyes echo the horror in her subjects’ faces, and the set of her jaw is tight. At her side, Gustus holds the smaller of the other two children; at the sight of them, Myka reaches out an arm with a cry. Clarke nearly echoes it when she sees Anya step up beside them, looking stunned but unhurt. “We have been attacked.” Lexa raises her voice to be heard from every corner. “We vowed yesterday that our fight with the mountain was to be a rescue mission; save our people, punish the wicked, and spare the innocent. Be certain: there are no more innocent after this. The mountain has sent fire to burn our people when they slept. This is an act of war.” There’s a steely coldness in her voice that carries despite the distance. It sends a chill through Clarke’s blood; in this moment, calm and steady surrounded by death and destruction, Heda is more formidable than ever. “There are people dead, people missing and people injured,” Lexa continues when the murmurs that have arisen die down. “Find them. Tend to them. Pray over your dead and give them their last rites. And rest assured, this atrocity will be answered. Blood must have blood. Today, the mountain will bleed.” She concludes with a sweeping movement of her arm that seems to be a motion of dismissal. At the gesture, the crowd breaks, and the noise level rises steadily again as the assembly begins to stream into the ruined village out of the trees. Between the trees, Clarke sees Gustus scanning the crowd. After a moment, his eyes fall on where their little group stands huddled; when he registers their presence, she sees him turn to Lexa and Anya and speak urgently. Both follow his gaze. When their eyes fall on them, their expressions alter, and they begin to make their way hurriedly through the trees. Clarke and her companions move toward them; legs shaky, Clarke stumbles a little as she reaches Anya and collapses into her arms. “Klark.” Anya’s exhalation is frantic in her ear; when her arms tighten around her, her shoulders drop with relief. “Ai niron. Yu ste ogud?” As relieved as she is, she sounds far too strained to compose herself to speak English. Clarke nods into the crook of her neck. Breathing deeply, she gulps down Anya’s scent, letting the temporary relief wash over her. “I’m okay,” she reassures. Despite it, her words come out choked, and she buries her nose further in the Alpha’s neck. Her hands fist tightly in the fabric covering Anya’s shoulders. “I’m okay.” A squirming sensation against her belly, followed by a disgruntled whimper, reminds her that she failed to set Myka down in her haste to reach Anya. The pup is squished between them, still clinging to Clarke’s jacket. At the feeling of movement, Anya steps back, confused. “Who — ” “Myka!” It is the boy, Jan, who lets out the yell, breaking free from Gustus’s side to rush over to them. The other child, Mira, a little girl of about six, kicks until Gustus sets her down. Not releasing her hold on Clarke, the little girl begins to cry anew at the sight of her brother and sister. They approach at full speed, streaked from head to toe with ash. Even with their blonde hair filthy, the family resemblance is clear; solemn grey eyes peek out from peaked, freckled faces. “Mama.” One hand clinging to Clarke, the other outstretched towards her siblings, Myka’s cries turn plaintive. “Mama!” The sound wrenches Clarke’s heartstrings; beside her, Anya looks agitated. “Who is missing?” Lexa’s sharp query wrenches Clarke back to reality before the strange maternal feeling in her heart can fully manifest. She listens as Octavia rapidly relays the situation. Though her eyes are troubled, Lexa’s face remains grim and composed. “Find them,” she orders when Octavia has finished. “Linkin and Onya — search the springs and any houses that are still standing. Nyko has already gone to search for survivors; he will join Onya. Klark, you and Abi kom Skaikru tend to the injured. One of you go along to the springs with Linkin in case any of our missing people are hurt. Okteivia, find Jean. Tell him to go with you to ready the horses. Be ready to leave immediately once our people have been found.” “I thought we were marching at dawn, Heda.” It is Abby who speaks. She is regarding Lexa with a new deference that until now Clarke has never seen her display. The reflection of the fire burns cold and menacing in Lexa’s eyes. “That was before the Maunon decided to declare an open war upon our people. We ride on the mountain tonight.” In retrospect, they should have known the mountain wouldn’t stop there. When Clarke emerges from the trees flanked by Lincoln and Abby, the smoke in the village has thickened low on the ground, making it nearly impossible to make out the forms of the people nearest to the crater. What only a few minutes ago was a village with which Clarke was growing familiar is now an unnavigable maze of rubble, ash, and worse things that Clarke would rather not consider too deeply. The ground is hot from the force of the missile’s impact. In every direction, people are shouting to one another through the smoke. Leaving Clarke in charge of searching for survivors on this side of the village, Abby departs for the springs with Linkin while Anya begins to enter any houses that aren’t on the verge of collapse. Octavia runs off obediently, yelling for Jean and the missing Callum in equal measure. Not too many moments later, two shouts echo back, signaling that the two guards, at least, have been found. Moderately relieved by this turn of events, Clarke turns to her allotted task with mounting dread. From what she can see, the ruin at the site of the missile’s impact is absolute; there is no chance that anyone who was standing where the crater now lies is still alive. She doesn’t have high hopes for anyone in the surrounding area, either. There lies the faint possibility that people are alive under the rubble, but she thinks it’s likely that if the falling buildings weren’t enough to kill them, the mere force of the shockwave probably was on its own. Even if anyone survived the blast from that distance, Clarke thinks it’s highly unlikely that any of the healers, with their basic first aid supplies, will be able to do them any good. With that in mind, she sets out for the third ring of the perimeter around the site of impact, where buildings stand partially collapsed, and begins to call out. As she starts out, she sees Anya and Nyko emerge from a building nearer the square. Anya has a young boy — Clarke thinks she recognizes him as one of Octavia’s fellow sekens — slung over her shoulders in a fireman’s carry. As she emerges onto the street, the boy kicks impatiently, and Anya is obliged to set him down on his feet. In Nyko’s arms is a woman, her arm bent unnaturally at the elbow and the side of her face crimson with blood. A wave of nausea runs over Clarke at the sight. The blood isn’t the issue; she stood present for many of her mother’s surgeries back when she was in medical training on the Ark. Somehow, after all the horrible things they’ve done to survive, the thought of the atrocities committed here tonight are too much for her to bear. For the mountain to have fired on innocent people — “Heda!” Octavia’s yell comes from the nearby edge of the village, where the horse paddock stands mercifully untouched. If any of the horses remain after such a fright, Clarke thinks it will be a miracle. “Luna’s here, she’s all right! And . . . ” Her voice drowns out as pounding feet thunder into the square. From where she’s knelt, fingers feeling for the pulse of a man caught half beneath the rubble, Clarke strains to see through the smoke as the sound grows nearer. Another shout is heard, and then Luna is breaking through the haze, Octavia and Raven at her heels. “Raven.” Moving away from the man, whose pulse is so weak as to be beyond help, Clarke jogs the short distance to them. She lets her eyes close momentarily in relief, the days of stony silence forgotten as she folds her sister Omega into her arms. Raven returns the embrace, but only for a moment, distracted by something behind Clarke in the trees. Turning, Clarke sees that Lexa stands at the edge of the woods, no longer accompanied by Gustus or the three children. “Heda,” Raven defers to her quickly. Listening to the urgency in her tone, Clarke realizes that she has never addressed Lexa directly before. “There’s something else. I’m getting interference on the radio, like somebody’s tapping it from a secure line somewhere.” Lexa looks to her sharply. “The mountain?” She questions quickly. Raven shakes her head. “I mean, it’s definitely the Mountain Men; nobody else has that kind of technology, but it’s not coming from there. It’s too strong for it to be being broadcast from under all that concrete. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was coming from here, but that doesn’t make any sense — ” As Raven finishes speaking, three things happen in quick succession. Lexa steps forward out of the cover of the trees; seemingly immediately, the seken Anya carried from the house collapses to the ground. In the next instant, a volley of gunfire rips through the square, and everyone scatters. Clarke dives out of the way, landing hard on a pile of rubble behind a partially-collapsed wall. Near her behind another wall is Nyko, who, in his haste, somehow managed to carry the wounded woman with him. Even with the sky only beginning to lighten, there’s enough firelight from the crater that the square is well-lit. From this angle, crouching with her weight precariously balanced on her elbows, Clarke can see the center of the square where, left without an easy means of cover, Luna has flattened Raven to the ground and keeps her down with an arm over the Omega’s head. When the echo of gunfire ceases, Clarke cautiously leans out a little further. It’s a moment before the others start to show themselves. When they do, the smoke is just thin enough for her to make out their hidden forms. When the young boy collapsed to the paving stones, Anya fell back into the shadow of the nearest doorway. Near her, Octavia has ducked behind a stout pillar that last night held the tallest of the torches that lit the square. Lexa, having been jolted back into the cover of the woods, is crouching behind a tree at the forest’s edge. “What’s going on?” It’s Anya who yells from the safety of the doorway. Clarke sees that though she’s emerged a bit from the shadows, she doesn’t dare set foot past the door frame. Clarke feels a flash of fear for her Alpha and prays she doesn’t come any further into view. “Who’s shooting at us?” “It’s the Maunon!” Octavia, still flattened against the pillar. “They must have sent a spy — it’s how they knew the War Council was here!” Even from this distance, half-concealed by smoke, Clarke can see the flash of cold fury in Lexa’s eyes. “Find them!” she shouts back. “If there is a spy of the mountain amongst us, I want them brought to me. Now.” “And how the hell are we supposed to do that?” Beneath Luna’s arm, Raven is glaring incredulously at the Commander. “Any of us move, and they’ll shoot us before we can get anywhere near them!” “It’s coming from the ridge,” Luna adds, not raising her head from the ground. Pressed flat to the fragmented cobblestones, they’re low enough to remain out of range, but Clarke can see that if they sit up even a little, they will be hit in an instant. “There’s no other place they could see us from without being noticed first. They have cover; we can’t hit them from here. Someone will have to get up close.” Thinking back quickly to yesterday, Clarke recalls seeing the nearby ridge where the foothills begin to edge up from the village. It’s mostly barren, lined with boulders and scrawny pine trees and shrubbery. It’s fairly low, which explains why Luna and Raven are out of the line of fire, but it’s enough of a hike that it will take a bit to work their way up there without notice. Instantly, she sees Luna’s point; there are any number of places the sniper could be hiding, yet whoever it is has an excellent vantage point. Anyone attempting to sneak up the hill from the front, even in the lifting dark, will be spotted in an instant. Quickly, Clarke takes stock of their situation. It will be a two-person task. Someone will have to move up the ridge from the side while the other distracts the sniper at the front, staying safely behind the rocks as much as possible. It will have to be someone who knows the terrain and can move quickly among the rocks in the dark. In the safety of the woods with clear access to the ridge, Lexa is the only candidate, and seeing the Commander assessing the situation as well, Clarke knows that she is aware of it. The second person, however, is less easily yielded. Their one advantage is that from this distance and with the addition of the smoke, the sniper’s accuracy is compromised. The scattered volley of shots only happened to catch the young seken; likely, the sniper is shooting at random. Even still, it will be difficult to move from their hiding places without attracting notice. For most of them, it’s impossible. Anya can’t move beyond the shelter of the open door; Raven and Luna are stuck where they are. Nyko is behind a wall that stands alone; if he moves from behind it, he will be an immediate target. Octavia is closest to the woods, but there’s no source of cover in the fifty-meter dash she would have to make across the square other than the low fire pit where a few embers still burn. It would be enough to afford her cover, but not to get her safely to the woods. Clarke, however, has a perfectly clear path. There’s about a ten-yard gap between her and the next building, but once she reaches it, she’s safe. There’s an alley leading behind the next house, and after that, it’s a mere five or six feet to the woods. As long as she can reach the safety of the nearby building without getting hit, she’ll have a straight shot. Across the square, she meets Octavia’s eyes, and sees that she already knows what Clarke has just figured out. “Okay!” she calls out, knowing that her voice will be enough to catch everyone’s attention without the sniper hearing her plan. “Lexa and I will go. Once we’ve caught them, the rest of you find everyone and warn them. Keep searching for survivors, and use the houses by the springs to tend to the wounded. When I count to three, Octavia, I need you to draw their fire.” Octavia nods grimly, and Clarke grits her teeth. “Ready — one, two — ” “Klark, no!” Anya calls out, but by then they’re already in motion. When Clarke hits three, Octavia ducks out from behind the pillar and sprints for the fire pit. Clarke is in motion as soon as she loses her cover and the shots begin. Feet pounding on the hot pavement, she dashes across the square and behind the house just as Octavia dives for the fire pit. She doesn’t have a moment to spare to see if the warrior has been hit. Hurrying through the dark alley, Clarke reaches the other end and, seeing Lexa waiting in the trees just over a yard ahead, charges the last few feet through the smoke to the edge of the woods. A few scattered shots issue behind her, but Clarke is already in the shelter of the trees. Stumbling to a halt beside Lexa, she braces her hands on her knees and gasps in a few lungfuls of smoky air. Lexa looks vaguely impressed. “Good,” she says shortly when Clarke has caught her breath. “Now, would you care to tell me how you’re going to get close enough to kill this Maunon without a gun?” Ascending the side of the ridge in the dark is no small feat. The rocks are numerous and slippery with dew, and Clarke is unused to scrabbling over such terrain, particularly in the dark. The eastern sky is beginning to lighten, affording her a little more visibility, but out of the reach of the fire’s light, she’s forced to feel her way along the rocks as she climbs. She’s going slowly on purpose, careful not to make a single sound. This maneuver requires her completely silent approach. Still, she has to hurry; Lexa is allowing her ten minutes to ascend before she moves into the open and draws the sniper’s fire. Every minute she waits is another minute that the others remain trapped, unable to search for or aid the injured. It doesn’t help that on top of everything else, Clarke’s overly sensitive nose is making the smell of smoke rather nauseating. The awareness of her heat has backed off drastically compared to the evening. Her sense of smell is still heightened, and she’s battling a heavy urge to remain no farther than a foot away from Anya at all times, but the other symptoms have comparatively lessened. Now Clarke understands what Anya meant when she talked about ill or injured Omegas having heats. The stress of being bombed, shot at, and having to chase down a sniper has put the more secondary demands of Clarke’s body on hold. It hardly seems possible that just a few short hours ago, she and Anya were dancing and discussing their plans for after the mountain’s fall. Even harder to believe is that the time that has elapsed between when Octavia first woke them up and now is scarcely greater than ten minutes. It feels like the past few minutes have eclipsed the length of years. Reaching a cleft in the rocks, Clarke pauses to assess the situation. Lexa allotted her ten minutes for the climb, understanding her lack of familiarity with the terrain, but she’s been making fairly good time. From here, she can see the glow of the fires and the smoke crowding the square. Low to the ground, Octavia, Raven, and Luna are just out of sight. She can’t see the others, but from this distance, Clarke can just make out the shadowy silhouette of the rock behind which Nyko is crouching. Squinting upwards through the darkness, Clarke considers her options. Once she leaves the cover of this boulder, there’s nothing between her and where the sniper is hiding. Up ahead, she can make out a distinct outcropping of rocks about thirty feet above her. A little beyond it is a tiny grove of scrawny evergreens; neither are very tall, but both are thick enough to afford the sniper cover. Until Lexa moves and the sniper fires, she won’t know which it is. In order to not get hit, Lexa will have to dodge between rocks with significant speed, leaving Clarke little time to pinpoint the location and charge while the sniper is distracted. If she fails, she’ll be alone on an exposed ridge in the dark with someone a lot bigger than she is who has a machine gun and likely a way to see in the darkness much better than she can. They have one exactly chance to pull this off without somebody getting killed. As something clatters below her, Clarke tenses, ready to spring into action the moment Lexa breaks her cover. Bracing her fingers against the rock, she steadies herself to run. Then a flash of movement catches her eye. Directly across from her on the opposite end of the ridge, Kane and Lincoln burst out from behind a stack of boulders and sprint for the pines just as a battering of gunshots announces that Lexa has made a run for it. Heart dropping in her chest, Clarke abandons her cover and breaks into a run. Evidently having spotted the two men, the sniper redirects his aim. Out of the corner of her eye in the light of the brightening sky, Clarke sees Lexa change course and begin to race uphill. Clarke by now has nearly reached the summit of the ridge. Clumsy in her haste, she scrabbles across a rock and leaps across a gap for the next. In the dim light, she misjudges, and tumbles to the ground with a yelp as her ankle slips and the rocks give way. Gasping, clutching her ankle, Clarke watches the scene unfold with wild eyes. Lincoln and Kane have separated, each taking a separate side as they sprint towards the trees; a moment later, a yell announces that Kane has been hit. Lincoln veers sideways down the ridge to catch him as he falls and begins to roll. Below, Lexa has gained speed and is now rapidly approaching the pines. A few shots follow Lincoln’s retreating back, but none make contact; abruptly, the sniper ceases firing and steps out of the trees. Lexa summits the ridge in plain sight as the gunfire stops, and Clarke freezes, seeing what’s going to happen as the Mount Weather guard raises his gun. Then a dark shape shoots past Clarke from directly beside her at top speed, and Clarke lets out a shriek as a bullet misses Lexa by inches and Murphy collides with the sniper, smashing the gun from his hands and slamming him into the ground. By the time Clarke has shaken the twinge from her ankle and jogged over, they have the Maunon subdued. Lexa is sitting backwards on his shoulders tying his arms with her leather belt while Murphy lies across his kicking feet. Lincoln has stopped Kane, who was evidently shot in the thigh, from rolling down the hill; they’re now making their way over with Kane leaning on Lincoln’s shoulder for support. “Where are the others?” Lexa is spitting as the Maunon struggles to free himself. “Are there more, or are you alone?” “How many missiles are there?” Clarke adds harshly. “Who ordered the attack?” Ignoring Murphy and Lexa, she kneels down in the dirt at the man’s head. Even in the half-light, she can see his face clearly. Emerson. “Alone,” Emerson chokes out, his face half smashed into the ground. “No more missiles. Cage — Cage ordered — I gave coordinates — ” Lexa digs her fingers into his neck, and his voice is cut off. The Commander’s eyes burn with fury. “And if you’re lying?” she hisses into his ear. Clarke shakes her head. “He’s not,” she says frankly. “Or at least, if he is, he knows the consequences. Bellamy said he has a son. That’s leverage, and it’s only a radio call away.” “Osir nou frag yongon op,” Lexa grits out. Clarke shoots her a significant look. “Maybe not, but he doesn’t know that,” she says pointedly, throwing in enough Trigedasleng that Emerson can’t follow what she’s saying. Maybe the grounders don’t kill children, but the mountain has proven time and again that they have no such qualms. A little bluff won’t hurt their cause. It works. “I’m not lying,” Emerson coughs, and Lexa eases up on his neck just enough to let him speak. “Don’t hurt — Brandon; I promise . . .” “See?” Clarke smirks. “We know he’s telling the truth, and we know there are no more missiles. We’ve still got an army ready to go to war, and we need to go now.” Seeing Lexa’s questioning look, she elaborates. “He’s not wearing a hazmat suit, which means they’re already drilling the forty-seven for bone marrow,” she says flatly. “They’ve started killing them.” By the time they descend the ridge with Emerson, significant progress has been made. Lincoln informs them that Indra is safe, as is everyone who hid in the springs. The only known casualties so far are strangers to Clarke, which, while it doesn’t ease her heartache, fills her with relief that at least her loved ones are safe. “Klark!” As they re-enter the square, Anya comes jogging out of the mist. Clarke breaks away from the group to meet her; colliding in the center of the square, she heaves a sigh of relief as her Alpha folds her into her arms. Her heat doesn’t come flaring back with the same intensity it held last night, but something sparks in her belly that died down when they were chasing down Emerson. “Good to see you alive, Griff.” Raven looks a little uncertain, but the relief in her eyes is obvious. “Glad you got the asshole — wait a second. Is that Murphy?” Her gaze is fastened on the Omega in question, who is accepting Luna’s thanks with grudging humility. Clarke only spares him a glance. “Yeah. Saved Heda’s life, oddly enough,” she says with a shrug. “Don’t ask me what made him do it.” She thinks she knows, though; saving Heda from certain death puts Murphy in Lexa’s good graces. If he’s hoping to be taken in with the rest of the defectors and not cast out like the traitor that he is, doing Heda favors is a strategic, albeit ass-kissing, move. At the moment, though, Murphy is the least of Clarke’s worries. “What about everybody else?” she asks of Raven. “Where’s Wick?” Just like that, a wall goes back up in Raven’s face. “Dead,” she says flatly. “Just like about a hundred others.” Clarke barely has time to process that before Abby is in sight, tending a woman who has what looks like a broken knee. “Marcus! What happened?” She’s showing distinctly more concern than Clarke has seen from her in a while. While she’s happy for her mother, it makes a slight wave of bitterness wash over her; Abby didn’t look that concerned when it was Clarke who was unwell . . . “Shot in the leg,” Lincoln supplies as Kane eases himself to the ground with a grunt. “He’s fine, but he’s not going anywhere, I’m afraid.” “In that case, Skaikru will need a new ambassador to represent them.” Lexa’s voice has risen to address all who are gathered there. In response, everyone immediately falls silent. “Abi kom Skaikru: you are a healer. With this many wounded, your services are required here.” Abby’s face twists into an approximation of a grieved grimace. Her arms, Clarke notices, are coated up to the elbows in someone else’s blood. It’s apparent that while they have been up the ridge dealing with Emerson, Abby has been working tirelessly to save the casualties of the bombing. The results, she sees, aren’t promising. Drawing a strained breath, Kane nods. “We’ll find someone to speak for us,” he says decisively. “Perhaps — ” “Clarke is our ambassador,” says Abby quietly. “She’ll negotiate on our behalf.” Silence falls across the square. Clarke regards her mother with shrewd apprehension. Other than their brief words exchanged after the bombing, they haven’t spoken in the days since Clarke fell ill. Between Finn’s death and the tension created by the Omega fever, Clarke has scarcely made eye contact with her in days. Abby is a strong woman, Clarke knows, and good at heart, but her strength is often shown through the necessity of the Council position she has always held. Ensuring Skaikru’s survival has been her priority, and though she does her best to uphold her moral codes, there has been little room for anything but sacrifice. As much as her heart is in the right place, she also is stuck in the Skaikru’s antiquated beliefs, and though Clarke thinks she’s learning to challenge them, the change isn’t going to happen overnight. To hear her casually hand over the reins of power to her Omega daughter is astonishing, to say the least. “Excellent,” Lexa says brusquely while Clarke is left staring at her mother in disbelief. “In that case, we are nearly ready to leave. You say your mechanic friend is dead, Reivon.” Raven flinches. “Can you dismantle the dam alone?” Meeting Lexa’s gaze steadily, Raven lifts her chin. “Looks like I have to, doesn’t it, Commander?” she challenges. Lexa only jerks her head approvingly. “Good. Then let us dispose of this ripa,” she says, kicking Emerson to indicate him, “and we will depart. Clarke,” she calls for the Omega’s attention. “You know these people; what they are like. What punishment do you think befitting of this Maunon’s deeds?” Over the prone figure of Emerson, Lexa’s eyes flicker at Clarke like cold fire. It’s a bold move, and one whose connotations are made secret to no one in the group. Less than a week ago, Clarke made the decision to put Finn to death and was met with fury and incredulity and deprecation on the part of the Skaikru. Now, when the murderer is not one of the Skaikru’s own but a genuine outside threat, Lexa is gifting the choice of the punishment to Clarke. She’s holding her up, Clarke realizes; giving Heda’s very pointed and public seal of approval to her validity as a political entity. No one will dare disagree with Heda — which, Clarke realizes, is exactly Lexa’s move. What’s even more incredible to her is the realization that Lexa putting on such a public show of complete faith in Clarke’s capabilities means that she has complete faith that Clarke will make the correct decision. Clarke’s eyes rove the scene. The smoke has cleared a little since she climbed the ridge, and the sky is growing lighter by the minute. It makes it all the easier to see the extent of the absolute destruction around them. The beautiful village Clarke admired last night is half in ruins, so many of its houses flattened or else burned. There are tiny fires flickering, bodies visible under the rubble. People are crying everywhere, some struggling to help their families and neighbors while others mourn their loved ones. Somewhere, a baby is crying. As she watches the sad scene evolve in front of her, Clarke’s eyes fall upon the edge of the woods. Gustus stands among the trees, Myka in his arms, Jan and Mira at his side. The three children are watching the gathering of adults in the ruins of the square with solemn eyes. Clarke sees tears streaked on all three young faces, and she knows what has to be done. “Give him to the people.” She raises her voice slightly so that all gathered around her may hear. Most of all, she wants Emerson to know what she is choosing to do. “Let all those who have lost someone here today decide how they want to punish the man who told the mountain how to kill their families in their sleep.” By the expression on Lexa’s face, Clarke knows she has done right. “So be it.” Clarke shivers at the cold finality of it. “We leave Luna in command to oversea proceedings here; she will see that it is done. Let the guards take him, and when the dead are burned, they may burn him if it is their wish. There is no forgiveness for what has been done here tonight.” With that, Heda begins issuing orders to prepare to leave. Octavia runs off to find the horses and calm them enough to ride while Lincoln goes to find Indra and call the army together. Catching Clarke in her arms for a quick kiss, Anya hurries off to their tent to gather weapons and armor. Clarke promises to follow in a minute to prepare herself to depart; in glancing down, it has occurred to her that being woken by a bomb threat left her no time to dress. “Clarke.” With a slight twisting feeling in her gut, Clarke turns. Abby is watching her with a look on her face like the day she sent her to the ground. “Mom.” She doesn’t venture to say more; after all that has occurred, there is nothing that Clarke knows how to say. There are no words that can cover everything of importance that has occurred up until now since the day Jake Griffin died. Abby takes a step closer to her. The odor of the blood on her arms reaches Clarke’s nose, thick and gummy and far too fresh. “Your instincts will tell you to take care of yourself first.” She echoes her words from the Ark, and Clarke purses her lips. “That’s the plan,” she says steadily. “I’m going to follow them.” Abby shoots her a look. “You’re a diplomat, Clarke,” she says, and something makes the words come out a little stiff. “You’ll do fine.” It’s clearly meant as a compliment, but Clarke shakes her head immediately. “I’m an Omega,” she counters, and for the first time, it feels like a weapon rather than a weakness. Clarke raises her chin. “Diplomats are supposed to be impartial. I have no intention of being any such thing.” “Which is why you’re better suited to this than I am,” Abby tells her with a touch of earnestness. This time, it’s said with a definite warmth that at this point feels unfamiliar. “I’m too impartial to make the tough decisions when they come along. You never have been.” Clarke shifts uncomfortably with that, unsure how to respond. “You need to lead our people now, Clarke,” Abby whispers. She’s leaned in so close that the smell of blood has grown nauseating, but for once, it doesn’t feel like she’s encroaching. “I’m not strong enough to do what needs to be done. But you are.” Clarke breathes out heavily. “What do I do if they won’t accept a truce?” she asks. She may be prepared to go to great lengths to save those within the mountain, but Clarke isn’t a politician; she hates the constant back-and-forth of negotiations, as natural at it as she might be. She’s not like Octavia, either, she realizes, who’d rather take orders and be done with it. Clarke would rather have nothing to do with it at all. Abby smiles at her grimly. “Clarke, you’re asking the woman who sent a hundred children to the ground so that her daughter could live.” Clarke stares. “So whatever it takes, then?” Abby nods. “Whatever it takes,” she whispers. “And Clarke — ” Beginning to walk toward the tents, Clarke halts and looks back questioningly. Abby’s eyes are wide. “Bring your people home.” At a time like this, Clarke can’t help thinking of her father. When Clarke first presented, a little younger than her peers with Abby’s position on the Council granting her access to more food and comfort, her parents’ reactions were telling. Abby, while only pleased to have a healthy child, was noticeably disappointed. She did her best to hide it, but Clarke knew that she’d been hoping that her only child would be an Alpha too. With Clarke’s assertiveness and penchant for leadership, she wasn’t the only one who was expecting it. To have the only daughter of a Council member present as an Omega wasn’t a disgrace, but there were those who expressed surprise. People had expected different of Abby Griffin’s daughter. Jake Griffin, on the other hand, was thrilled. Clarke remembers the day she presented, the sudden rage of hormones and odd tingling that made her lurch to her feet in her Earth Skills class, retching and coughing and trembling with the newness of the hundreds of sensations flooding her body. Her mother was in a meeting, but drawing up schematics for a new air filtration system in Farm Station, her father was free. Pike paged him, surprise and the tiniest bit of derision hidden in his tone. Jake sat with her on the floor of their little family bathroom, sympathetic but visibly delighted, as her body worked through the shock. When at last Clarke grew steadier, he pulled her into a hug and told her how proud he was. He spent the next hours explaining everything to her; what had happened to her body, how suppressants would work; how she could expect to be treated. He wasn’t bold — Jake Griffin grew up on the same Ark they all did, surrounded by the same beliefs. Still, she remembers him reassuring her that things would be all right; that she was worth just as much as an Omega as if she’d presented as an Alpha instead. Luckily, it was the one thing on which Abby agreed. A doctor, in her opinion, was an excellent option for an Omega. Clarke would just have to be content with a position of less prestige. Jake held her hand as she took her first suppressants and received the birth control implant. After it was done, he allowed her to stay home from school for the rest of the day. She remembers drawing with him, leaning on the windowsill overlooking Earth. It’s hard not to think of how happy he would be here. Clarke thinks of all that has happened since they first reached the ground; how she has grown. She hopes Jake would be proud. She knows he would like the Trikru. He would take instantly, she thinks, to the woman who has given his daughter a new life. Clarke knows that many of the Skaikru see grounder culture as savage, barbarian, even. Hopefully, after last night, Abby, Kane, and Raven aren’t among them. They at least, Clarke thinks, might finally be beginning to see that perhaps it is not the grounders’ culture that is savage, but their own. The irony of the missile isn’t lost on Clarke. Less than a month ago, the Hundred set off a bomb on a bridge that ended up killing dozens of grounders, including the young seken of the woman who is going to be Clarke’s mate. In the way of the mountain men, they found victory not fairly, but by use of superior weaponry. It amounts, Clarke thinks, to a total imbalance of power that continues to be exploited. She’s ashamed of having played any part in it. Still, she reasons with herself, the Hundred used their bomb in war, protecting their people from annihilation. The Maunon, on the other hand, dropped a bomb on hundreds of innocent people in the middle of the night. There was no warning, no provocation, no possibility of a counterstrike. The mere fact that they killed hundreds without lifting a finger while the grounders are rushing into battle on foot makes Clarke ill. She can’t wait until this entire business with the mountain is over with. As soon as all of this has been settled — hopefully with as few losses as possible — she wants out. Away. She’s going to take Anya’s hand and get as far away from this mountain-Skaikru-designation drama as possible. She didn’t think life on Earth was going to be easy, necessarily, but she didn’t exactly expect to be headed headlong into an actual, real-life war complete with actual, real-life swords two months after reaching the ground. Then again, there are a lot of things Clarke didn’t expect when her mother threw her off a space station with ninety-nine teenage criminals. Did she expect, when she stepped out of the drop ship, that the next weeks of her life were going to be spent rigging up radios, fighting wars in the forest, escaping an underground torture chamber, meeting her mate, and defecting to a highly complex, highly fascinating culture whose numbers and history and language she can only begin to fathom? No. As it turns out, there are a lot of things Clarke didn’t expect. Sharing a horse with Clarke is . . . problematic, to say the least. The ride to the mountain isn’t exactly long, but with an army of hundreds, they’re moving at a fairly slow clip. Tradition dictates that Heda, Gustus, and the generals are afforded their own horses, and in the interest of not exerting their valuable and still-recovering Omega companions, it was determined prior to departing Tondisi that Clarke and Raven would ride, too. Though Lexa offered, Murphy refused, citing a desire to stay in the back “in case we need to retreat,” but everyone saw through it. There are only four horses. Between Heda, Gustus, Indra, Anya, Clarke, and Raven, all four are more than taken, and from the look on her face as Lexa offered it earlier, it was wildly apparent that Raven had little desire to share a mount with the boy who shot her in the spine. Murphy may be cowardly, but he isn’t entirely spiteful. Even Anya has to admit he’s growing on her. In either case, with everyone else taking a horse for themselves, riding with Clarke was the obvious choice. Now, several hours later, Anya is faced with the direct consequence of having a sleepy, pheromone-soaked Omega pressed right between her legs. It’s . . . distracting. Even with the prospect of war looming over her, safety from the immediate danger of the bombing has allowed Clarke’s body to resume its rather distracting practices. Anya can feel the beginnings of heat fever pouring off of her skin, can feel each shudder and clench of the Omega’s muscles as waves of heat roll through her body. Clarke isn’t in full heat yet, but judging by the way her body is currently reacting, it’s only a matter of days. The only reason Anya can see that it hasn’t hit her yet is the threat of war in their immediate future. Once this business with the mountain is over, she has no doubt that it will hit in full force. In the meantime, she will do everything she can to make Clarke comfortable. The fact that both their sleep and their breakfast were stolen from them is by now beginning to show. Clarke, who has been leaning comfortably against Anya for the duration of the ride thus far, has begun to shift a little disgruntledly. Every minute or so, she readjusts herself and nudges her head into Anya’s chest. It’s a wildly clear indicator of an Omega who wants something. More problematically, each time she shifts presses her ass more firmly between Anya’s legs. The result is that Anya, for all the attempts she makes at subtly edging away, is currently possessed of a raging hard on. What’s worse, there’s absolutely no way that Clarke hasn’t noticed. In fact, going by the way she has consciously begun to grind her hips back into the Alpha behind her, she’s well aware of what she’s doing. It’s monstrously unfair, is what it is. As Clarke shifts backwards again, grinding hard up against Anya, the Alpha grabs her hips. “Will you stop doing that,” she hisses through gritted teeth. With Clarke’s pheromones broadcasting to kingdom come, it’s almost guaranteed that everyone around them is fully aware of what’s going on. Still, there’s no need to give them a show. “But I’m hungry,” Clarke protests, and it’s almost a whine. From the horse a little ahead of them, Anya sees Lexa shoot her a lecherous grin. At this point, Clarke might as well announce aloud to the group that she’s horny. The way Anya sees it, they’re headed for sufficient public embarrassment if she doesn’t come up with a way to distract Clarke soon. Still, the fact that Clarke has gained enough confidence in such a short period to go from fearing mealtimes to whining for food is almost heartening enough to make up for it. Almost. “It is best not to face war on an empty stomach.” Anya does her best to keep her tone absolutely mild, and doing so, overshoots a bit and ends up sounding vaguely strained. “Lean forward for a moment — there is food in the saddle bags.” Rather in the mindset of doing as her Alpha says, Clarke obeys, and Anya immediately discovers her error. With Clarke leaning forward and bracing herself on the saddle horn, she’s putting herself even more in Anya’s sights. Seeing the Omega she hopes to mate within a matter of days bent over in front of her, Anya can only gape. “Anya.” Clarke’s impatient whine leaves her with absolutely no doubt that her gawking is blatant enough to be tangible. Slamming her jaw shut, Anya shakes her head and forces herself to come to enough to dig through the heavily packed saddle bags. It only takes a moment to find what she’s looking for; she urges Clarke back against her. “Here,” she murmurs into fragrant hair. Clarke smells of ash and wine, but most potently of heat. “Try this.” She stole some bacon from the table last night before bed. It’s cold now, but being a particular fan of it herself, Anya doesn’t see that that should diminish its taste. She’s curious to see if Clarke feels the same. Keeping one arm snugly around the Omega’s waist, she offers it with her free hand. Clarke’s murmur of delight when she tastes it tugs a chuckle from her chest. “Good girl,” Anya murmurs reflexively. She’s happy that Clarke is so openly appreciative of eating when just a week ago she was worried and confused at the thought of being offered food by Alphas. She doesn’t expect the reaction the words incite; immediately, Clarke stiffens against her, belly clenching and body freezing up with a sharp intake of breath, and oh, that’s new. Interesting. Testing her theory, Anya leans forward a little, being sure to brush a hand along the Omega’s ribs under the pretense of steadying her. “Do you like that, little one?” She adds the endearment in gonasleng on purpose for emphasis. With the amount of time that Clarke has spent in the company of Octavia, Anya’s fairly certain that she’s picked up on the meanings of Trigedasleng pet names; still, she wants there to be no doubt. As she speaks, she runs her hand up Clarke’s belly. With the early morning sun shimmering on the edges of the dew, the day promises to be warmer than the past week, and Clarke has accordingly left her jacket unfastened. She’s wearing a small amount of armor, but not enough that Anya can’t maneuver her hands where she knows they both want them. “Depends what you’re asking.” Clarke sounds just the slightest bit breathless. She’s speaking quietly enough that the others can’t hear, but Anya casts a quick glance around them just in case. Other than Lexa, who she knows is valiantly pretending to ignore them, no one else appears to have noticed. To hell with it, Anya decides. “I am asking if you like the bacon,” she mutters pointedly into Clarke’s hair, “but if you are wondering if I am asking whether you like being my good girl, I am curious about that, too.” And yes — there it is again. A shiver shakes Clarke’s spine as the endearment slips past Anya’s lips. Anya can feel her back shudder. Even she is surprised with her own daring. On any other day, Anya thinks, Clarke would whip her head around and give her that trademarked, wide-eyed Griffin stare. Today, however, is not other days; Clarke is running on heat and pheromones, and her only response is to sink further back into Anya’s arms with a barely concealed whimper. “Don’t ask questions you’re not prepared to hear the answer to,” she mumbles half-heartedly. Anya smirks. “Who says I am not prepared?” she counters teasingly. She lets her fingers dance lightly up Clarke’s ribcage as she speaks. She has two reasons for it — of course, part of her is solely focused on touching Clarke for absolutely no reason other than she can, but it also gives her a subtle excuse to check up on her Omega. Wanting Clarke to gain weight feels purely selfish, but Anya knows it’s for Clarke’s benefit as much as her own. A healthy Omegas is valuable, yes, but a healthy Clarke is much more Anya’s concern. Even with war looming, Anya is looking forward to bringing Clarke home. Dazed as she is at the prospect that Clarke finds her a worthy enough companion to take a life with her, she feels a rush of pride at the thought. Clarke, hoping for a comfortable, enjoyable life, has decided that she, Anya, is a good match. It means that she thinks of Anya as capable of giving her what she needs, but also as someone worthy of building a life with. Knowing that, Anya can’t help evaluating her own life from new eyes, this time with the vision of Clarke at her side. Unlike some clans for which food remains thin, the Trikru are fairly well-off. Anya, as a general and a carver who has furnished much for her village, has earned herself a position of respect that has afforded her a little more than some. The village is small, roughly three hundred people. Anya is well known there, not only as a warrior but as a member of the close-knit community. Her home is small but comfortable. She has a garden that Clarke can use to grow herbs for a healing practice if she wishes, and plenty of room for the two of them. There’s even an extra room at the moment, one that not long ago belonged to Tris. Someday, if they have them, it may belong to their pups. She wonders if Clarke will want pups. If she doesn’t, Anya won’t protest, but she can’t help hoping. Very little of her family remains; all but her father’s nomon are now gone. Ever since bonding with her first mate, a family of her own has been something Anya has wanted deeply. There is no official retirement age for warriors among the Trikru, but Anya is beginning to be ready. Many, like Indra, choose to remain until age begins to wear on them, but someday soon, Anya thinks that she would like to turn to other pursuits. She wants a family; she wants pups to coddle and teach. She wants to dedicate more time to her trade, to a mate, to a family. She knows that it has been all but decided upon, but she hopes that Clarke will want the same. Against her, she can feel Clarke beginning to grow tired. Even with Anya’s teasingly suggestive response, she has seemingly grown too weary to continue their banter for now. She’s finished off the bacon, as well as a small sandwich Anya snagged from the table last night, and her weight against Anya’s chest is growing heavier with relaxation. Anya knows that with her heat around the corner, sleepiness is inevitable. She shifts herself, allowing her body to serve as a refuge where the Omega can rest safely. Clarke settles in, and silence falls as the horse plods steadily onwards. “What will happen to Mira, Myka, and Jan?” The murmur comes after a long silence in which Anya assumes Clarke is sleeping. She has tucked her face into Anya’s collar, one hand resting on Anya’s where it grips the reins. “I do not know,” Anya replies after a moment of thought. “Likely, they will remain at home. Myka is small, but the other two are not so young that they cannot begin to fend for themselves.” In her arms, she feels Clarke give a start. She turns her head on Anya’s chest to look up at her in dismay. “They’re only pups!” she protests. “They’re so little — they should have adults to take care of them!” Her distress is magnified by the rampant hormones of her heat; she sounds nearly close to tears. Anya soothes her with a rush of pheromones, curling a protective arm around her waist. “They will not be left alone,” she assures. Clarke’s grip on her wrist has tightened. “Neighbors will watch over them and see that they have enough to eat. Leksa has another cousin who lives nearby, and she may take in Myka for the time being. But Jan is already of ten summers; at twelve, our yongons begin to take charge of themselves. Many apprenticeships begin at nine, and by the time they are of fifteen summers, most are on their own.” The pheromones serve to calm Clarke’s anxiously racing pulse, but only a little. Her shoulders remain stiff against Anya’s front. A quiet moment passes, in which Anya can sense the Omega thinking hard about something. “Anya,” she says slowly after a minute with the hesitance of one just beginning to realize the possibility of something unpleasant. “How old was Lexa when she ascended?” Anya’s eyes flicker to the Commander’s back. Lexa is enough ahead of them that she won’t be able to hear, but Anya is cautious all the same. Heda does not often volunteer personal information, and though Anya has known her for nearly all her life, sharing doesn’t feel like her prerogative. “Twelve winters,” she says on a quiet breath, “though all natblidas train for the Conclave from the time they are quite young.” Clarke has lifted her head to eye Anya critically. Anya keeps her gaze resolutely fastened on Lexa’s perfectly straight back. “And how young was quite young for Lexa?” she asks cautiously. Anya is careful not to blink. “Three.” As soon as she says it, she can see Clarke reeling inwardly as she processes the information. Stamped on the back of Anya’s eyelids is the image of Lexa, scarcely out of diapers, in the lineup of young natblidas brought to Polis for training. Anya wasn’t old enough yet to train her, of course, but she’d watched, already a seken herself, with the understanding that by the time Lexa grew old enough to begin her training, both of them would be ready. Clarke, she sees, is catching on. “So when she became her seken, you were . . .?” she trails off, allowing Anya the opportunity to answer for herself, and suddenly, Anya understands. Maybe some small part of Clarke is asking these questions because she’s curious about the Kongeda, but that’s not the main reason at all. She’s asking because she wants to know more about Anya. “I was ten summers when we met,” Anya supplies, taken with the new understanding of Clarke’s interest. “She was too young to train, but natblidas are brought to Polis the moment they are discovered. I was there with Indra for the summer; she brought me because she knew that in a few years, when the youngest ones were ready, they would be taken as sekens. I chose Leksa. I became her fos during my fourteenth summer, after I returned from the first war with Azgeda. They were little more than skirmishes, but I had proven myself, and Indra decided I was ready.” It’s a lot to take in, and she knows it; she tightens the reins in silence as they begin to ascend a hill, allowing Clarke the time to absorb everything she has just heard. “Anya,” she says finally, and her voice is so tentative that Anya is immediately on alert. “What is the Conclave?” Anya presses her lips together. “It is the way that the Flame determines which of the natblidas is fit to take on the Spirit of the Commander,” she says, careful to keep her voice even. “When the current Commander dies and the Flame goes out, all of the natblidas who have been trained are called to the arena. The last one standing is chosen by the Spirit of the Commander, and ascends.” She tries to put it as delicately as possible, but she sees Clarke’s eyes widen all the same. “And the others?” she whispers. Anya only tightens an arm around her in response. Clarke’s eyes remain shocked and troubled, but they are saved from delving into the topic further when Octavia’s voice rises above the heads of the sekens she walks with, crowded behind Indra’s horse. “Heda, we have word from inside the mountain,” she calls out. Slowly, Anya sees Lexa’s head turn to regard the young warrior coolly. “They’ve seen us on their radar screens; they know we’re coming.” Clarke jolts a little in Anya’s arms at that, turning again to look to Anya in surprise. “How far from the mountain are we?” she wants to know. Anya breathes deeply, not allowing the fear simmering in her chest to boil over. This is different, she reminds herself; today she is entering the mountain not as a prisoner, but as part of an army. “Less than an hour,” she tells Clarke. Ahead of her, she hears Lexa’s voice cut through the murmurs of the nervous sekens. “I hope you are ready for a war, Okteivia,” is her soft warning. Octavia’s eyes flash steely green. “I am always ready for a war, Heda,” she answers, and in her voice, Anya can hear a hint of pride. Lexa nods grimly. “That is good,” she says quietly. “For to war we ride.” “So we have a minor problem.” Octavia’s voice is tinny through the radio, but the reception is surprisingly good for something being broadcast on a walkie-talkie radio through fifty feet of bedrock and concrete. She sounds relatively calm, but the panicked Trigedasleng shouts in the background alert Bellamy to the fact that the problem is, in fact, anything but minor. “We crossed into Mount Weather territory a few minutes ago, and there are no trip wires or reapers — thanks for that heads up, Monty — but somebody neglected to inform us that there would be acid fog.” Bellamy winces a little; even through the radio, Octavia can be scathing. That explains all the screaming. “Do you have a ten — ” “I have a tent, Bellamy, do I look stupid? Everybody’s fine; a few people got some minor burns, so we moved back the front line about two hundred yards and it kind of stopped coming. Now Heda’s pissed though, because the whole plan is that we’re supposed to infiltrate this hellhole, but it’s a little hard to infiltrate it if we can’t get anywhere near it.” Bellamy rubs a hand over his face wearily. “Look, the fog should let up soon — ” “That’s what I’m trying to tell you: it’s not letting up,” Octavia cuts him off. The radio crackles with feedback. “It stops when we retreat, but then every time somebody tries moving forward it starts up again. Not that you don’t have your own shit to deal with in there, but we could use some suggestions.” The acid in Octavia’s tone nearly matches the fog. Bellamy purses his lips, brow knitted in thought. “Maybe — ” “Wait.” It’s Monty who cuts in from behind the generator. With the rest of the forty seven taken hostage in the dorms, he, Bellamy, Maya, and Jasper are stuck in the back corner of the storeroom where Maya led them. They’ll be clear to move freely once the Mountain Men have been isolated on Level Five, but until Raven gets the turbines reversed, they’re stuck hiding. “Octavia, you said you moved back two hundred yards and it stops, but that whenever you start to approach again the fog starts back up again?” “That’s what I said, genius.” Even through the buzzing of the radio static, Bellamy can practically hear her rolling her eyes. Monty, though, doesn’t look perturbed; instead, he’s frowning at the generator in concentration. When he doesn’t immediately respond, the radio crackles again. “Any time would be great, Monty — Murphy’s arm got burned, and I don’t love the little sewer rat, but he can shoot a gun and we have, like, three people who can do that, so it would be really great if we could figure out a way to get him inside without him getting eaten by acid. Just, you know. If it’s convenient.” “Octavia — ” Bellamy starts to rumble. “No, no, wait.” Jasper’s flapping his arms at him to be quiet. “This is actually a problem we can solve.” Still squinting at the floor, Monty nods. “If the fog reacts to the army’s movements, it obviously isn’t a natural phenomenon,” he reasons. “That means we have two options.” He stops there, still squinting. Bellamy waits. When a few seconds tick by without a sign that Monty is going to continue, he raises his eyebrows. “Uh, guys. Still waiting.” “Neutralizer,” Jasper supplies evenly from his perch before he can ask. “If we don’t want to attract attention to the army, we need to find the tanks where they keep the fog and neutralize the acid. They’ll still deploy it, but it won’t be weaponized, so the army can just walk right through it.” “That sounds like it could take a while.” Bellamy can only imagine the time, energy, and thought that are going to be involved with finding and neutralizing what is likely to be a massive room filled with massive tanks of acid fog. If they had all the time in the world, stealth would be the ideal move, but every minute they waste is precious. There’s no telling how many of the forty seven have been killed for bone marrow since they were taken captive. “What’s the other option?” Jasper grins.“Oh, we can just blow it up,” he says easily. “But it won’t be pretty, and it’ll definitely let the Mountain Men know what we’re up to.” “They already know we’re here,” Octavia points out through a wave of static. “And if they see us walking through some neutralized acid fog and not falling back, they’re going to know what we’re up to anyway. Somebody take a gun and go blow up the damn acid tanks.” Jasper nods and slips off the edge of the table. “Roger that. I’m on it.” “Hold up.” Bellamy throws an arm out and catches him in the chest. “You can’t go out there — there are guards patrolling everywhere, and even if you don’t get caught, you don’t know where to find those tanks.” “I can find them.” Their eyes fall on Maya, who has so far remained silent, watching them from Jasper’s side with her face pinched with anxiety. “They’d have to be in a big maintenance room, and there are only three of those. I’ve been in two, so it has to be the one at the other end of Level Six. I can take you there.” “Actually, that’s perfect,” Octavia replies. “We’ll need someone to let the battalion in through the reaper tunnel door once we’ve isolated Level Five.” Jasper nods. “I can do that,” he confirms. “But what about Maya? Once Raven reverses the turbines she won’t be safe on any of the other levels, and they’ll shoot her if they see her on Level Five.” “There are hazmat suit closets on every floor,” is Maya’s immediate reply. “There won’t be a lot of oxygen tanks, but there should be enough to last until the fight is over and it’s safe for me to be there.” Bellamy grunts the affirmative. “Sounds good. O? Can you put me through to Clarke?” He’s perfectly prepared to do what needs to be done, but he doesn’t like the idea of going into this without a clear plan. Octavia, for all her strategic capabilities, has a fairly simple role. She’ll come in with swords flying, while Clarke is more inclined to know the end goal. Octavia snickers. “Yeah, have fun talking to Miss Heatbrain here,” she snorts. “Enjoy. Have at it, Skaiheda. Later, Bell.” “I told you not to call me that!” Clarke’s protest rings out through the radio. “And I don’t have heatbrain, thank you very much.” There’s no time to wonder what they might be referring to; they’re running low on time as it is. Through the radio, Bellamy can hear someone chuckle — it sounds like Anya. “What’s the plan, Princess?” Never mind the fact that he hasn’t heard her voice in several days; they can have a tearful reunion once this is over. Clarke doesn’t hesitate. “Raven went up to the dam with Callum; once she reverses the turbines, Monty will isolate Level Five. The rest of us are splitting up as soon as the acid fog is down,” she rattles off, and it sounds like she’s reciting a to-do list instead of going to war. Business as usual with Clarke Griffin, Bellamy thinks. “Half are going through the reaper tunnels, and the rest of us are going to wait for Raven to short out the power and open the main door. Meantime, you’ll be releasing everyone in the harvest chamber; Jasper will let the reaper tunnel group in, and we’ll take Level Five from all sides. Surround them, kill Cage and the guards, rescue our people. That’s the plan.” Bellamy breathes in. “Sounds pretty straightforward.” If they pull it off, he’s going to start believing in miracles. Raven’s leg is killing her. Fortunately, the dam isn’t that far from the place where the army is gathered, but with all the running from certain death that they’ve been doing this morning, she’s already hurting. Callum hasn’t explicitly offered to carry her, but for the last part of their hike he’s been shooting her looks that she knows mean he wants to. Clearly, her affliction is visible no matter how hard she tries to hide it. It’s harder now because she’s also hit her allotment of painkillers. Rationing isn’t as strict on the ground as it was on the Ark, but with their status among the clans still pending until Mount Weather falls, the Skaikru don’t have easy access to Trikru resources like medicine. Abby and Jackson have done what they can for her — Abby in particular has been shockingly accommodating — but her designation plays an inescapable role in it, too. Valuable mechanic or not, Raven is an Omega, and her allotted portion of every resource is resultantly smaller. It doesn’t appear to be a problem among the grounders. To be honest, it has Raven a little on-edge. These people have so far been so unexpectedly solicitous that she can’t help being suspicious. Wherever she goes, Raven has been offered food first, given a seat first, and addressed with courtesy. Some are more attentive than others, but none of the grounders have so far failed to treat her kindly. Even Roan, the bull-headed Alpha ambassador to Azgeda, has been polite, if a bit curt. Luna, though, is the real mystery. She’s the one who woke Raven during the night, tugging her confused from her bed to drag her in the direction of the springs. Nearly everyone else had fled by then, which to Raven implied that Luna was searching for her. The missile hit before they could make it to the springs, and they were forced to take cover in a stable. They were thrown to the ground, and when Raven came to, it was to find Luna curled over her, shielding her from the worst of the blast. This morning, perhaps sensing her hunger after they were deprived of breakfast, Luna sent her off with a bag of food, a canteen of hot tea, and a heavy coat that she’s pretty sure the Floukru leader shed to give to her. Never mind the fact that the day is already growing warmer. In her weeks on the ground, Raven has found the lack of a thermostat to be disconcerting. The Ark was the same temperature every day, and having to regulate her own body temperature on the ground takes more energy than she expected. Not being fed well has added to her difficulty staying warm. Raven didn’t consider before that her discomfort might be obvious, and more importantly, that someone might care enough to do something about it. The three of them, she and Clarke and Murphy, have been treated well by the grounders ever since the treaty was forged. She knows that Clarke has a significant excuse, but Raven fails to understand why she and Murphy, of all people, are being treated like high-class citizens. Murphy is taking what he can get without questioning it, as usual, but Raven is bewildered. She can see the theoretical gain if the Skaikru were to feed their Omegas better; healthier Omegas bear healthier pups. And yet Luna has assured her that pups aren’t the impetus for treating the sky Omegas well. She doesn’t particularly see any sign of it in Anya or Lexa, either, which is beginning to lead her to reluctantly believe their assurances. The only apparent downside Raven can see is that Clarke is now distracted by a cocktail of raging hormones. Frankly, Clarke’s heat is distracting Raven, too. Omegas are quick to form bonds with one another, often regardless of any reason for a true friendship, and are also quick to share in one another’s experiences and sense each other’s emotions. In the days at the drop ship before Mount Weather attacked, Clarke and Raven and some of the others turned to one another for comfort. They didn’t know, then, that that’s why there were doing it, but Raven understands now why they gravitated towards each other. Often, she and Clarke and Harper shared a tent, sleeping in a tangled pile to share warmth and the desperately needed affection that none of them quite understood. Having forged empathetic bonds with her sister Omegas, Raven is easily tuned into them. Clarke’s heat is bothering her. She can feel Clarke’s agitation, and as much as they’re all focused on the mountain, she almost wants to take a breather for Clarke to get through her heat before they proceed. She isn’t even angry at Clarke anymore; it’s hard to be when she knows, as an Omega, exactly why her friend did what she did. As long as Clarke continues feeling needy and distressed, Raven is going to be unsettled. It’s distracting; even as she considers how best to reverse the dam turbines, she itches to return to where the army is gathered and hug Clarke and nose into her neck until she calms down. But, alas, there’s no time. Both of them will just have to suffer through it. Beside, Harper’s in that mountain, along with ten others who are all suffering. After Raven the mechanic helps rescue them, Raven the Omega can comfort them all. The best part is that she gets to make things go boom. The radio call comes directly after she’s done talking with Bellamy, which really should clue Clarke in to the fact that the lines are being tapped. She hasn’t even had a moment to turn and relay the news to Lexa when the radio is fuzzing to life again. This time, whoever’s on the other end is addressing her directly. “Clarke Griffin.” The static is too heavy for her to be able to determine the speaker, but Clarke knows instinctively that it’s not one of the Skaikru. The accent is too harsh, too clipped with Old World consonants to belong to someone born among twelve nations in the sky. “Clarke Griffin, I know you are listening. I request your immediate response.” It’s loud enough even with the static to be heard by those nearest to her, Lexa, Anya, and Indra among them. Everyone within range turns at the sound. Cold fingers find the button. “Who is this.” She’s careful not to phrase it so delicately that it can be read as a mere question. Days in the presence of Heda have infused a little ice into Clarke’s voice when dealing with political entities, and she’s not unwilling to use it. The image of Tondisi in flames burns bright in the back of her eyes. She can almost feel Myka’s weight slung across her chest. “This is Cage Wallace speaking. If she’s nearby, I would like to speak with your Commander.” There’s a slickness to it that makes Clarke shiver inwardly in disgust. She thinks of Lexa’s ability to command an entire village’s respect merely by walking into a room, and suddenly it strikes her that in a world with three groups of survivors, those on the ground alone have evolved. The Ark and the mountain, as isolated as they are, remain unchanged from the people who a hundred years ago set the world on fire. “I am here.” Lexa’s voice is flat; Clarke holds the button down for her after a moment of fumbling, understanding Heda’s reluctance to handle the Skaikru technology. She releases it at the sight of Lexa’s signal, because Heda is her leader, whatever Abby and Dante Wallace might believe. “Commander of the Twelve Clans, I offer you my terms,” Cage tells her. Around them, all have fallen silent and stand motionless, listening. In the sunlight, the sweep of Lexa’s sash glows blood red. “I understand there are some people in this mountain who belong to you. One-hundred and eighty-nine of them, the last time we counted.” He pauses. “I will release them all, right now, into your waiting arms. In return, you will walk away from here, leaving the people of the Ark with me, and we will never darken the doorsteps of your villages again.” Clarke’s finger slips from the radio, and utter silence falls. All around, the eyes of the army are on them. There is complete stillness, no movement save the rise and fall of Heda’s chest with her even breaths. Clarke’s heartbeat hammers through her body. Lexa’s face is blank, unreadable, and for a horrifying moment, Clarke thinks that she might agree. “Heda.” When Anya speaks, the entire army shifts its attention to her like a wave rising to meet a rocky shore. Anya’s voice trembles microscopically, but her shoulders are straight and proud at Clarke’s side. “You know that as your general, I am bound to your command. With all due respect, if you accept these terms, I challenge your suitability as Commander of the Kongeda.” The silence continues, but it is of an entirely different sort. People’s eyes are wide, their scents abruptly startled and confused. Around them, Clarke sees Lincoln shoot Indra a worried glance. Lexa’s expression is unchanging. She gazes at Anya with no display of outward emotion, her head tilted slightly to one side, eyes unreadable. A drawing at the corners of her lips suggests she is considering. Then abruptly, she smiles, not broadly but grimly, and gestures for Clarke to press the button on the radio to reply. Clarke obeys with shaking hands. “I have a better idea,” she says when the green light announces that she can be heard. She leans in a little so that there will be no mistaking her words. “We clans have a saying that we like to use — jus drein jus daun: blood must have blood. For fifty-six summers, you have bled my people dry. I think it’s time we return the favor.” Clarke really has very little idea what she’s doing. She’s not quite sure why anyone is asking her opinion here. To be fair, she’s not in charge: Lexa is. Clarke isn’t second in command, or even third, Anya and Indra naturally taking those positions. Even then, there’s a whole host of other people who have more expertise, natural ability, and a desire to do the job. And yet, somehow, everyone is looking at Clarke. Maybe it’s because she’s holding the radio. “So.” She clears her throat. With Lexa’s proclamation, she’s choosing to ignore that Cage ever even spoke. The weight of everyone’s eyes on her is heavy, but it’s nothing compared to the pit that’s settled like lead in her stomach — or, come to think of it, Anya’s hand on her hip. Somehow in a moment when they might be moments away from death, a couple of fingertips are enough to drive Clarke completely off the rails. In her defense, it’s a little hard to focus when all she can think of doing is dragging Anya into one of the acid fog tents and having her way with her. She’s starting to see why Omegas have a reputation for being heat-driven. “They’re going to stop the acid fog for us,” she informs Lexa. She raises her voice so that everyone gathered around can hear. “Raven will radio Monty when she’s reversed the turbines, and he’ll let us know when the Maunon are isolated on Level Five. Until the fog is down, though, there’s not much we can do.” Part of her expects a little impatient backlash, especially considering the kind of morning they’ve all had, but there’s relatively little muttering. Lexa only nods sharply. “Good,” she barks out. “In the meantime, we’ll assign battalions. Klark, you will come with me and lead Jean, Linkin, and everyone to the left of the white rock — ” she gestures to half of the assembled army “ — into the mountain through the main door. Onya, you will lead the rest of our people through the ripa tunnels with Indra and Okteivia. Take Murfi with you. One radio per team; Okteivia, you take one. Klark, you are in charge of the other.” Beside her, Clarke can feel Anya’s stress magnify. She knows the Alpha is dreading returning to the reaper tunnels, but Lexa has chosen her because she is familiar with them. Clarke has been there too, obviously, but Anya found the way out, not Clarke. Besides, she admittedly wasn’t paying very close attention to all the twists and turns when trying to outrun the Maunon. The entrance to the reaper tunnels is just inside the range of the acid fog, close enough that the group headed in that direction should have plenty of time to find shelter in the tunnels before the fog reaches them. It’s not clear how long it will take Jasper and Maya to dismantle the fog machine, but the distance to travel between here and the main door is much shorter than the length of the reaper tunnels, so it’s best to allow those going below ground a head start. Accordingly, at Lexa’s order, the battalion sets to organizing itself to be ready to dash for the tunnel entrance. “Ste klir.” Clarke breathes it into Anya’s hair when the Alpha gathers her tightly in her arms. Nearby, she can see Lincoln and Octavia exchanging a rather public goodbye. There are no tears, but she can hear Anya making a faint whining noise of protest in the back of her throat. Whether it’s at leaving Clarke or the thought of going back into the mountain is unclear, but Clarke detects distress edging at her scent. A flurry of unwanted emotions rises in her chest and beats like wings in her throat. “And you, skaifaya,” Anya murmurs. “Do not be upset; when we next see each other, the mountain will have fallen, and our people will know peace.” Her voice quavers a little with hope and anxiety. Clarke steps back, the discomfort at the strain in her Alpha’s voice making her edgy. She keeps her eyes down, feeling an instinctive tug to keep her gaze low as an odd feeling tingles the back of her neck — not subservience, perhaps, but a more willing submission. It’s one of the many new feelings she’s experienced since reaching the ground that seems to defy words. All she knows is that Anya, who is somehow so very precious to her, is deserving of such an offering. Clarke pulls at Anya’s armor, straightening it, her hands fluttering and fussing over the Alpha’s clothes. She’s experiencing a sudden urge to stand in front of Anya and press their bodies together so that no one dares aim a weapon at her. She wants to oil the heavy armor and make sure the fastenings are tight; polish and sharpen the sword that hangs at the Alpha’s hip. A quick flash comes to her, hardly more than a glimpse, of what their future might be, Clarke sending Anya off to battle from the comfort of their own home. Quickly, she fixes Anya’s braids, tucking them back behind her ears tenderly. The braids are silky between her fingers despite some lingering soot, and she’s brought back to the feeling of warm water cradling her hips, breath hot between them, skin tingling with the newness of the air and a brighter knowingness that Clarke is almost sure is love. “Before you go . . .” She fumbles with the wrist fastenings of her coat. The tin lining it shines in the early morning sun, warm with it, that undefinable color of sunlight. Her fingers close over leather and metal, gripping Anya’s wrist to press it into her hand. “I heard that it’s a Trikru tradition to present warriors with a carved token of good luck before battle. There was no time to carve anything, and I’m pretty sure I would have carved myself by accident — and you’re the woodcarver, so whatever I came up with definitely would have been embarrassing — so I wanted you to have this. It was my father’s,” she elaborates as Anya stares down at the watch in her hand. “I know time is followed differently here, so it’s absolutely no use to either of us, but . . . it’s all I have left of him. He dreamed of seeing the ground and living a life on Earth, and he knew I dreamed of a home here, too. And since I’ve finally found it, he would know why I want to protect it with everything I have.” The look that passes between them holds all the words Clarke isn’t saying; that she knows that the tradition is a gift exchanged between loved ones, that Anya is her home. That Jake Griffin would be proud to know the woman his daughter loves. And so, knowing all the things that go unspoken, Anya doesn’t undermine the gesture with words. Quietly, she holds her arm out and watches with turbulent eyes while Clarke fastens the watch around her wrist. Then, when it is done, she looks from the watch to Clarke and tugs her into a fierce kiss so deep it sets Clarke’s blood ablaze. They break apart only when Lexa’s whistle signals for the group’s departure. With a reluctant look, Anya smoothes her hands over Clarke’s shoulders. Her fingers come up to trace the soft lines of her jaw, her cheekbones; the tiny marks at the corners of her eyes. There is an expression of intense focus upon her face, almost furious, as though she’s intently memorizing every part of Clarke, treasuring it, locking it away somewhere special only she can see. There’s something nearly ferocious in her gaze when she looks at Clarke, desperate and possessive and fearful and adoring, and all at once, Clarke understands that she will defend this Alpha with everything she has. She will do anything for this woman who looks at her with eyes so bright. “Go,” she tells her, “and when we meet again, may we know nothing but peace.” She surges upward onto her toes and presses another kiss to Anya’s lips; a hand brushes down her back, and then Anya is gone in the crowd surging toward the tunnel entrance. At Clarke’s side, Jean watches them go. “Not easy letting her go, is it?” he says knowingly. Watching the battalion’s retreating backs disappear into the tunnel as the fog hits, Clarke hardens her stance. “They will not take her from me,” she says flatly. “I won’t allow it. They will not harm any of my people again, Trikru or Skaikru, or anyone else.” Jean hums. Already, the fog is beginning to recede. Jasper and Maya must have destroyed the machine. “You would move mountains for them.” It’s an acknowledgment that scarcely needs to be spoken aloud, but Clarke understands how incredible it is. In two weeks, unimaginable changes have taken place, and when there is time later, they will warrant wonder. Clarke gives him a small smile. “That’s the plan.” The radio crackles, and Bellamy’s voice breaks through. “The acid fog is down and the turbines are reversed. Give that army the war they’re looking for.” Despite his protests that he’d rather bring up the rear, Murphy is corralled through the tunnels at the head of the charge under Octavia’s assertion that she’d rather keep an eye on him. He’s pretty sure they’re all aware of what he did on the ridge this morning in the dark, but it doesn’t seem to have earned him many points. It has afforded him a grudging lack of scathing looks, but that’s about all. Privately, he wonders if they’re waiting to see if they need someone to sacrifice to the mountain during a trade. He’s thought — not long and hard, but fleetingly — about what life will be like after this nonsense is over. Whatever it is, he knows it won’t involve going back to Camp Jaha. The people of the Ark have never seen fit even to give him the time of day. He sees no reason that that should change. As it currently stands, he’s torn. It’s unclear as yet which scenario holds the best chance of survival. Under any other circumstances, running would be by far his best option. Murphy wouldn’t even hesitate except that, by all indicators, what the grounders are offering might boast better odds. He’s overheard the negotiations; he knows what Luna and her people are offering. He doesn’t trust them, not as far as he can throw them — which with his current state of health isn’t very far — but he’s not going to pretend that a free place to live and a square meal sound particularly disagreeable. There will be a price to pay for it, he knows; he’s not stupid. Still, it might be worth it. Whatever happens in this godforsaken mountain will dictate what comes next. By now, under Anya’s guidance, the army has reached the exterior door. The reaper tunnels are dark and gloomy, and their footsteps echo off the wet walls. Even Murphy is disconcerted. The grounders, he can tell, are less comfortable underground than he is. At least Murphy grew up on the Ark, surrounded by walls and few windows. He can’t imagine what it must be like for someone who grew up in the open air. “You guys are early,” Jasper whispers when he opens the door in response to Anya’s knock. “Bellamy said give it ten minutes after Raven reversed the turbines.” Octavia shrugs, holding up the radio. “No reception,” she explains. “These tunnels have too much interference.” “Are we able to come in yet or not?” Indra isn’t messing about with pleasantries. No doubt she dislikes the cold dampness of the tunnels just as much as the rest of them. Jasper throws a glance over his shoulder. His companion, a girl in a blue hazmat suit, lifts a shoulder at him in response. “They’ve gotten almost everyone to Level Five by now,” he replies, “but there are a few stragglers. Maya says they were able to cure a couple of guards, and they’re using them to do a sweep and make sure that nobody got left behind. We think a few are patrolling, too. There aren’t that many, but we’ll have to be careful.” Behind Murphy, a burly warrior cracks his knuckles threateningly. “It is the Maunon who will have to be careful,” he hisses. “Fayagons cannot beat Heda’s army. They are foolish to attempt it.” Maya looks disconcerted, but Jasper only nods. “Well, if you feel that way about it . . . come on in. We’re losing more people by the minute. Fox and Peter are already dead.” Despite himself, Murphy’s stomach gives an unpleasant lurch. As they passed the carts earlier beneath the harvest chamber trash chute, he did his best not to look. He isn’t friends with any of the Hundred, but it doesn’t mean he wants to see them drained of bone marrow. “Then we will risk the guards,” Anya declares. “Let us in.” “Hold on,” Jasper stops them as they begin to step forward. “Maya needs a new oxygen tank. She can’t stay on this level without one, and it’s too dangerous for her to go up to Level Five alone. We need someone to take her through the trash chute and stand guard while she finds one and exchanges it.” “Murphy will take her,” Octavia says flatly. “Less to lose if he gets shot.” Murphy scrunches up his nose. Normally, he thinks, Octavia would be a little more solicitous considering he’s an Omega. Apparently when you’re John Murphy normal codes of moral behavior don’t apply. He can’t say he really blames her. “Fine,” he grumbles. “But you’re giving me a gun.” Wordlessly, Jasper unbuckles the pistol from his own hip and hands it over. Then he steps aside, and the grounders begin to filter through the door. Octavia shoots Murphy a nasty look as she brushes past. “Try not to shoot anyone we like,” she hisses scathingly. Murphy cocks the gun and smirks. “If I do, I’ll be sure to aim for the head.” When Bellamy re-enters the harvest chamber, it’s with reluctance sitting like a ball of lead in the pit of his stomach. It’s only been a few days since he was last in here; when he got captured, they drained him once before he was able to escape. He didn’t like to do it, not seeing the way that the grounders in the neighboring cages watched with a mixture of fury and despair as he darted out of the room. Still, he had to; for himself, for the Skaikru, and for them. He hates being back in here, hates smelling the blood lingering under the stench of bleach and sweat and sickness. The smell of helplessness and fear is overpowering, and the traces of hurt Omega at the edges of it make him sick to his stomach. “You came back.” Echo can’t disguise her shock at the sight of him standing before her cage. The Azgedan Omega has been bled again, he can tell. Her scent is weaker, more tinged with pain and hopelessness. The only thing he can’t smell on her is fear. “I told you I would come back for you, didn’t I?” Bellamy can’t keep his voice above a murmur, and it comes out almost like a coo. He sees her startle a little at that. She doesn’t have enough strength to show much surprise, but a single angular eyebrow lifts weakly. She’s smelling the Alpha pheromones rushing off him, and he can see that she’s not stupid. He knows he’s treating her more kindly than simple human decency demands. He chooses to ignore it for now, focusing instead on the task at hand. “I’m going to let you out, and then I need you to help me release everyone else and organize anyone who can stand to fight,” he tells her, and sees her eyebrow tick upward even more. “Your Heda has brought her army here, and we’re going to take this mountain down, but we can’t do it without the help of everyone in this room. Will they fight?” He knows that she’s from Azgeda, and judging by the ritual scarring on the faces of so many in here, he thinks a lot of the other prisoners might be as well. Her eyes, he notices, are pretty, or would be if they weren’t so clouded with pain. They’re amber-colored, somehow flat, but expressive. Her cheekbones are angular, her face fine-boned and strong. She’s distractingly, astonishingly gorgeous. “They will if I tell them to.” She lifts her chin pridefully, and he sees that he was right in his assumptions. Whoever she is, whatever she is, something tells him that she can command a crowd even better than he can, albeit differently. “But you will have to let me out.” “Right, shit, sorry.” Cursing, Bellamy fumbles with the keys until he finds the right one. The padlock grinds a bit with age, but it opens easily, and a moment later, he’s tugging the cage door open. Hers is a level above the floor, and seeing how her body is trembling, he grasps her instinctively as he eases her to the ground. They both startle a little when their bodies touch. Her skin is cold and clammy, grimy with sweat and her own blood. She’s unsteady on her feet, and it takes every ounce of effort Bellamy has not to pull her into his arms. She’s looking at him oddly, regarding him with an intense, unreadable expression as he steps back and clears his throat. Upright, they’re the same height. He’s not sure why he was expecting her to be taller than he is. “Good,” he says definitively, and fumbles a key off the ring. “Let’s wreak some havoc.” The Mount Weather guard crashes to the floor with Murphy on top of him, one hand over his mouth to muffle his shout of alarm. There’s a brief scuffle, in which they both take a few hard blows to the ribs and jaw from each other’s elbows, before Murphy finally comes to his senses and whacks the man across the head with the butt of his gun. He’d rather just shoot him, but it’ll make too much noise, and it’s risky for them to be in plain sight as it is. There aren’t many guards who have been cured, but this is the second one they’ve seen already, and unfortunately, conflict wasn’t avoidable. They were creeping along the hallway when he stepped out from behind a cabinet, and he was firing at Maya before either of them had a chance to react. If Murphy hadn’t knocked him down, one of them would probably be dead. This is the second time today that Murphy has saved someone from a bullet. He’s pretty sure that’s his life’s quota met, right there. “Right,” he says as he clambers to his feet. “You’re going up alone. This has been fun and all, but you’re in more danger with me up there than down here. When this guy doesn’t check in the next time his buddy radios, somebody’s going to come looking for him, and they’ll realize what you’re up to and go looking for you upstairs,” he explains gruffly when Maya opens her mouth to protest. “I’ll stay here and shoot the bastard when he shows up, and it’ll buy you a little more time.” Maya closes her mouth. She regards him for a moment through narrowed eyes. Then she nods. “Thank you. I know you don’t have to help me, and you probably don’t want to, so thank you for believing me when I say I’m on your side.” She offers it along with a squeeze of his shoulder when she steps past him toward the trash chute. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just don’t get shot.” She tosses an indecipherable look over her shoulder at him, and then she’s crawling into the trash chute, the door banging shut behind her. Letting out a relieved huff, Murphy turns to go, intent on waiting out the storm in a corner somewhere. He’ll probably wait until it’s over, he thinks, and then head off on his own someplace. Maybe he’ll stick around to hear the results of negotiations after the mountain falls, but really, his best bet is to get a head start. He’s hardly taken three steps when a figure comes flying at him from the store closet. “Die, Maunon filth!” “Jesus Christ!” Murphy hits the floor with a crunch that makes his back throb. Immediately, when he hits the tile, he curls over as much as he can with the weight on top of him. Seventeen years on the Ark at least taught him something about self-preservation. Right now, there are fists flying at his face, and the best he can do is avoid them rather than fight back, pinned as he is with one arm twisted beneath him and a knee digging into his sternum. The weight on him is lighter than Pike and the Collins kid, but it wrenches his memory back to the Ark all the same. “Die, ripa!” “Holy shit, I’m not an effing Mountain Man, get off!” he yells into the arm currently smashing his face. He tastes sterile cleaner and blood, and gags a little. The weight on him shifts. A parting thwack to his ear, and it scrambles off him, leaving Murphy to blink up in stupefaction at the small grounder woman who’s been beating the living shit out of him. She’s not an Alpha, despite the fury of her fists; Murphy can smell that much beneath the stench of blood and bleach. There’s a tattoo lining the left side of her face, and Murphy surprises himself with the thought that it actually looks pretty badass. She’s plastered with the same mesh tape as the rest of the grounder prisoners, and her scent is bland and unassuming. She’s a Beta, though the fiercest one he’s ever seen, a Beta with snapping eyes and gnashing teeth. She glares as Murphy grunts and pushes himself up to his elbows; she keeps one fist raised and ready to strike. The other hand, her left, swings at her side despite the fact that it’s the one she was landing the hardest blows with. Glancing down, he sees immediately why she’s holding it oddly, angled away from him as much as possible. The hand looks like it’s been melted and re-formed. There are too many fingers; some are large and appear to be melded together while others are small and curled. Judging by the purple bruising around her knuckles, one of them is broken. His eyes trail from it over the rest of her body, lingering unabashedly on her breasts in appreciation before he reaches her face. When he meets her eyes, though they flash with fury, he detects a flicker of surprise. “If you’re not Maunon, what the hell are you?” she spits out when she’s recovered from whatever confusion she’s experiencing. Rolling onto his side to push himself up, Murphy lets out another grunt. “Skaikru,” he tells her, even though that doesn’t feel quite right. The group he’s really closest to belonging to is the Hundred, but more than half of them are dead and the rest of them hate his guts, so he supposes it doesn’t matter what he specifies, anyway. He assumes it’s sufficient explanation for who he is, but the Beta only narrows her eyes. She doesn’t lower her fist. “That’s not a clan.” “Not yet.” Privately, Murphy doesn’t have high hopes for Skaikru as a member of the Coalition, but then again, he doesn’t really give a damn. He’s out of here either way. “We only dropped out of the sky two months ago, and Heda wasn’t exactly thrilled. Give it a bit.” Still not lowering her hand, the grounder glares at him suspiciously. “You came from the sky?” She sounds entirely incredulous, and for the first time, it occurs to Murphy that she probably has no idea. He doesn’t know how long people are usually kept in here before they’re killed, but he assumed that it wasn’t long enough that she could have been captured before the drop ship landed. “Space station,” he explains shortly. “How long have you been in here?” She snorts at him derisively. “I don’t know.” Right, he realizes. She wouldn’t. To his surprise, though, her face lights up at the mention of the Ark. “The ISS was still up there?” Murphy blinks. “Not really; it merged with eleven other stations after the bombs,” he tells her. “How the hell do you know that?” Her other hand has dropped back down by her side; she lets out a huff of annoyance. “I read, idiot,” she says with a contemptuous eye roll. “It’s not hard.” And with that, she’s walking over to the guard he knocked out. She leans her hands on her knees and stares hard into the man’s face. What she sees must not be promising, because she aims another kick at the man’s head for good measure before crouching down and beginning to strip him of his clothes. Murphy stares in disbelief. “What are you doing?” It’s not like he cares, really, but this is weird, and somehow, she’s one of the friendlier people he’s talked to today. Fuck him for being curious. The Beta shoots him a look that tells him she thinks he’s exactly as stupid as he’s acting. “Stealing clothes, what does it look like? I’m not about to walk out of here looking like a whore at the nomadic trade mart,” she says with a frank sneer. A few tugs and a belt buckle later, and she’s yanking the Mountain Man’s blue coveralls over her bony frame. It’s baggy, but she cinches the belt tight and rolls the sleeves and tucks the pant legs into the too-big boots she pulls on and laces up with a grunt. Murphy notices the movements of a pro with the eyes of one who’s familiar with making do. When the Beta straightens up, she gives him a nod and a weird, seven-fingered salute, and is heading off in the direction of the airlock staircase without uttering another word. He’s scrambling to his feet before she can make it to the stairs, before he himself can even register what he’s doing. “Wait, where are you going?” he calls after her. She turns and quirks an eyebrow. “Running away, the hell does it look like? Bye.” Murphy considers. Then, with a shrug, he’s following. “Sounds like my kinda girl.” The only thing Clarke can think is that she expected it to be harder than this. When the army gathered and Raven radioed to tell them that the power was shorted out, Clarke fully expected them to be shot at in the process of entering the mountain. She wouldn’t have imagined that the Maunon would let them in without protest, especially not after Lexa refused Cage’s terms. Letting the grounder army threaten war is one thing; letting them into the mountain that is their people’s only refuge is another. With everyone save several cured guards isolated on Level Five, it doesn’t make sense to let the army in without a fight. With the Maunon’s efforts so focused on the Skaikru in the dormitories, there’s no reason they should know about the other two battalions moving in on them from below. Still, Clarke finds it extraordinarily hard to believe that Cage would let his guard down even for an instant when the fate of his people is on the line. And yet, all has so far gone disconcertingly smoothly. Level Zero is quiet. With the backup generators flickering on after everyone has crowded through the door, the hallway is only half lit, oddly still and silent. Once inside, the army stands gathered in a tight cluster just inside the door, throwing unnerved glances at the white walls and muttering to one another in Trigedasleng. Clarke can’t pick up all of the words, but even without a translation, she gets the gist of it. They hate this. She doesn’t blame them. It’s been almost two weeks, but stepping back in makes Clarke feel like she was here only yesterday. It’s all the same, the same white walls and sterile feel and scent of antique, un-evolved people and artifacts stuck in time. Clarke used to dream of the Old World in all its technological magic and cultural splendor, but if this is what it felt like, she no longer has any interest. Everything is too manmade, too regulated and ambitious. Even the Ark felt more in keeping with the times, and looking around, Clarke can see how the people of Old Earth came to destroy their own civilization. There’s a distinct feeling of ill-will here, knowing what evil has taken place within these walls. Beside her, Lexa appears to feel the same. “Lead us through, Klark,” is her order, and even Heda’s voice fails to reach the corners of the tiled, vaulted ceiling. “This is a tomb, and ought not to be touched by any but those we will bury within it.” Clarke shudders a little at the imagery, and is reminded abruptly of the reality of what they have come here to do. Punish the guilty, spare the innocent, they decided. Except that after this, Clarke doesn’t know who’s innocent anymore. The image of Anya cramped bloody and broken in a room of cages sears her eyes, and she decides that they all, Skaikru and Maunon and grounders alike, are guilty by association. “The staircases are at the far end of each level,” she tells Lexa. She realizes as she speaks that she’s unconsciously muttering out of the corner of her mouth. “The landings are airlocks, but we shouldn’t run into anyone until we reach Level Five. Once we hit the airlock on that floor, we can radio to Octavia and Bellamy.” After that, it’s a sheer matter of numbers. The Maunon have guns, but at Bellamy’s last count, there are only three-hundred and eighty-one residents of the mountain still alive, almost all of them civilians. Overpowering the few guards and politicians should be a simple matter of force. At Lexa’s command, the warriors spread out, and they begin the slow trek through the levels and down. The way is clear. The entire bunker is deadly silent, the only light the dull emergency strip lights and the flickering of the gonakru’s torches on the walls. The army’s footsteps echo in the halls; no one speaks as they move through each level and descend the stairs at the end. It’s only when they reach Level Three that anyone finally speaks. “I’ll radio Bellamy from here,” Clarke says as they pause at the top of the staircase. “They may have some guards patrolling the next level, so we should check in before we try to go any further.” In the torchlight, Lexa’s expression is unwavering. “Do what you must,” is all she says, but Clarke can detect tension in her voice. She might not show it, but Lexa hates being in here as much as any of the rest of them do. Shifting her weight off the ankle she twisted this morning on the ridge, Clarke brings the radio to her mouth. “Come in, Bellamy.” She clicks it off and waits. Several seconds pass with no response. She presses the button again. “Bellamy, come in.” Another pause, longer this time, and she’s met with continued silence. Clarke throws Lexa a glance; her finger digs into the button hard enough to ache. “Bellamy, do you read me? Bellamy. Octavia. Anybody, come in.” Silence. Clarke’s stomach tightens with dread. “Perhaps there is no reception,” Lexa suggests tensely. Biting her lip, Clarke shakes her head. Dull panic is beginning to spread through her veins. “No, that’s not it. There’s perfect reception everywhere in here; we’ve been talking to Bellamy for days. If they could hear me, they would answer.” Clarke is startled to feel hot tears forming at the back of her eyes. Her breath is ragged; hurriedly, she brushes the back of her hand over her face. Shaking her head to dispel the growing panic, she draws a steadying breath. She turns to Lexa. “There’s a control room with video monitors on Level Seven. There’s no airlock, so nobody should be in there unless they’ve got someone they’ve cured guarding it. I’ll go see if I can see the armies on the monitors. I’ll be back as soon as I know what’s wrong.” Lexa snags her by the wrist as she moves to leave. “I am coming with you.” Clarke stares. “What? No. Heda, the army — ” “Can move to Level Four without me,” Lexa says smoothly. Her face remains perfectly composed, but Clarke can see the flicker of worried determination behind her eyes. “If you go alone, you may be captured. At least with two of us there is a better chance.” Clarke worries her lip, frowning. When she doesn’t immediately respond, a pointed look from Heda reminds her of who is in charge. Clarke sighs. “All right,” she relents, “but they should be ready for gunfire. Only people who have gotten the marrow transplant can be on Level Four, but I don’t know how many they’ve been able to cure by now. It might be more than we’re expecting.” A curt nod, and Lexa straightens up. Clarke closes her eyes, clutching the radio tightly as Lexa calls out orders in Trigedasleng. Lincoln steps in, concealing the concern for his mate that Clarke knows he feels, and takes command of the army. Descending the stairs past Level Five is eerie. There’s still no movement, nor are voices audible behind the airlock. It’s strange to pass by through the silence knowing how many people are behind the double doors. There’s a tense moment when a shout on Level Six makes them freeze, but the pounding footsteps are running in the opposite direction, and Clarke and Lexa melt out of the shadows in relief before they have a chance to become too anxious. Level Seven is deserted aside from the bodies of two guards, one of whom has a gunshot wound to the shoulder that looks like it was poorly aimed. Clarke eyes them warily as they pass, but neither of the men move. At the last minute, she pauses and tugs the gun from one man’s holster. Edging past them, she squeezes in front of Lexa and moves toward the command center door with her back to the wall. Gripping the gun with both hands, she kicks the door open and braces herself in the doorway. “Don’t shoot!” The cry startles Clarke so much that she nearly pulls the trigger despite the warning. Lexa shoves her out of the way and is in front of her with a sword held aloft before she can blink. When the shock wears off, she focuses her eyes, and lowers the gun with a gasp of apology. Monty is kneeling behind the main switchboard, hands above his head. “Monty, thank god,” Clarke breathes out, brushing past Lexa to help him to his feet. Heda kicks the door shut behind them, sheathing her sword. “What happened? Why is no one answering?” Monty’s face is pale. “I heard you on the radio, and I wanted to answer, but I couldn’t,” he explains as Clarke fusses to make sure he’s all right. “They don’t know I’m down here; they’ve sent guards twice, but I shot the two outside the door the first time, and when they sent more to check on them I was able to hide. I couldn’t risk giving away my position, but I figured that when no one responded you’d come down here anyway. Clarke . . .” Monty looks ill; his lips are white and lined with fear. At the sight of it, Clarke feels the panic, briefly abated at the sight of him, rising again. “Monty? Where is everyone? Did Bellamy — ” “Clarke,” says Monty quietly again. “Look.” Unwillingly, with a feeling in her heart like when she saw the missile in the sky, Clarke brings her eyes up behind Monty to the monitors that display the hallways of Mount Weather on their screens. Her heart drops as Lexa draws a sharp breath. On the floor of Level Six, the entirety of the imprisoned grounder army lies unconscious, Bellamy among them. A low red haze lingers in the hallway. A quick glance at Level Four tells Clarke that the second she and Lexa were through the stairwell airlock, the same knockout gas was deployed. The second battalion, Lincoln and Jean included, is spread-eagled on the floor. The room spins; nausea roiling in her stomach, Clarke grasps for the edge of the desk. “They sent the knockout gas through the vents as soon as the group from the harvest chamber reached Level Six,” Monty tells her shakily. “They were listening on the radio when Bellamy called in. After that, I wanted to warn you, but they were patrolling this level, and I knew that they had our radio tapped. I saw you all come in, and I knew they would probably do the same to you as soon as you got close. When you got to Level Three, I figured they’d do it, but they didn’t. I kept wondering why, and then you two left. The second you were gone, they sent the gas through. They must have wanted you awake.” A thrill of horror goes through Clarke. Bellamy, Jean, Lincoln . . . their whole entire army, their one and only advantage, is gone. The knockout gas, Clarke knows, lasts at least fifteen minutes. It’s more than enough time for Cage to make demands that without them, Clarke and Lexa can’t hope to meet. By the time the army is revived, irreversible damage will have been done. Except — “Where is everyone else?” Lexa demands harshly. “The group we sent through the reaper mines, seventy-eight people. Where are they?” Heart beating fast, Clarke’s eyes flicker between the screens. The army from the harvest chamber, Bellamy, the first battalion . . . Lexa’s right. Anya, Indra, Octavia; none of them are among those lying unconscious on the ground. Her pulse quickens. Monty swallows hard. When he shakily raises an arm to point at the screens, Clarke follows his finger, and her stomach gives a hard, painful clench. The second battalion is in the dormitory. Anya, Indra, and Octavia, plus seventy-five others, lie unconscious on the floor. Even from the distant security camera, Clarke can see that their arms and legs have been bound, some to each other, some alone. Anya and Octavia are front and center, laid out at the feet of a chained up Miller and a girl Clarke is pretty sure is Harper. Her heart gives another jolt as she notices the two figures entering the room flanked by Mount Weather guards: Raven and Callum, awake and alert, being dragged by their chains to the wall. “They took them first.” Monty’s voice is shaking harder than ever. “They got them in the stairwell — I think they threw gas canisters out of the airlocks. They left the others, but they took them. I think — Clarke, I think they want to talk to you.” As if on cue, the radio at Clarke’s hip crackles to life. “Clarke Griffin.” Clarke watches on the screen as Cage Wallace steps into view at the dormitory door. “I believe we have something that belongs to you.” “Heda,” Clarke says quietly, not tearing her eyes from the screen. “There’s a quarantine ward on Level Three. Cage’s father is there. Would you bring him to me?” She keeps her request light, but she knows the depth of what she’s asking. For one to command Heda is a death sentence; it is something that even Anya wouldn’t dare to do. Lexa, wise as she is, doesn’t even nod. “Give me four minutes,” she says tersely, and then she is gone. In the rush of cold air that marks her absence, Clarke plays with the cuffs of her coat sleeves. The metal clicks quietly in the hum of the computers. She doesn’t remove her gaze from the screen where Cage stares directly into the security camera. “Monty,” Clarke says. “I’m going to pick up the radio, and when I do, I need you to do everything you can to see if there’s a way to irradiate the dormitory without doing harm to the rest of the level. Can you do that?” Monty’s lips purse; his forehead is pinched. “I can try,” he says after a moment. He sits down in the chair at the main switchboard, and Clarke clicks the radio on. “Cage.” “Miss Griffin. I assume by now you know your situation.” His voice is still greasy, still snakelike. Clarke bites back a shudder. When she speaks, her words come out colder than Heda’s. “I can see.” She has three minutes and thirty-six seconds to stall before playing her only remaining card. She can only hope that it will be enough leverage to sway Cage. Even as she thinks it, an awful lurch in her heart tells her that it won’t be enough. The Maunon have far too much to lose. They have everything to lose, which is why Clarke is already afraid of what she will have to do. Behind her, Monty’s fingers tap frantically across the keys. “Then you know that your three armies are lost to you,” Cage continues in his oily, crooning voice. “You have, I’m guessing, the Commander and the Beta Monty with you, considering they’re the only ones who aren’t accounted for. That leaves you, I’m afraid, with not many weapons in your arsenal.” Clarke has to physically restrain herself from making a snide comment about what sort of weapons, exactly, are in her arsenal. Now is not the moment to act like an Alpha in a pissing contest. Cage may be a Beta, but he’s one of the worst-mannered and worst-tempered she’s ever seen. “My armies will wake up in nine minutes,” she says evenly. “I hardly think you’ve done your worst.” It’s probably not the best idea to provoke him like this, but Clarke finds she can’t stop herself. This man, this godforsaken mountain, has brought out the ugliest part of her that she never wished to see. It’s the snarling, vicious, brutal Omega that will do unforgivable things to defend its territory, and right now, Cage is encroaching on it. She can’t help showing a little teeth. “Your armies will never wake up,” Cage tells her easily, and yes; this is the hidden clause Clarke feared. In all of their battle planning, she knew they had to be missing something. They forgot the gas, of course, but somehow despite their meticulous planning, Cage continues to be one step ahead. “We have lethal amounts of chlorine gas ready to deploy into the vents on Levels Six and Four. We will be dosing them as they begin to wake up. Those we brought here will be drained of their bone marrow, and it will give our people life.” Clarke draws a breath. “We’ll donate it, the bone marrow,” she tells him quickly. It’s been their plan all along, after all, though plans are quickly falling apart. “We’ll volunteer, and then all of this can end; your people can live, and mine can go free.” Cage is shaking her head before she even finishes speaking. “Donations don’t give enough,” he negates smoothly. “In order to have enough resistance to the radiation, we need to take it all. And don’t think that I believe for a moment that your Commander and her armies will let my people live if I set them free.” Clarke is growing desperate. “But our people can get along, we can coexist!” she protests, feeling her helplessness begin to overwhelm her. “Jasper and Maya — ” “Have gotten themselves trapped in the dining room,” Cage finishes for her. “They were apprehended while trying to find you to warn you about the knockout gas; you’ll see them at the upper left corner of the screen.” With a horrible jolt in her heart, Clarke’s eyes flicker upward, and nausea rises into her throat to see Jasper and Maya cornered in the dining room, armed guards closing in from every side. “There is an easy way out of this, Miss Griffin.” Clarke wishes that he would stop calling her that. It feels patronizing, like he’s sweet-talking her. The people that have called her Miss Griffin have only ever been people who want something from her. Her mind flashes to Pike’s face as he called to Jake to pick her up from class, and she feels an icy stab of hatred in her heart. “As I’m sure you are aware, your Commander turned down my offer to her earlier. Bold, perhaps; I can admire that, but it was foolish.” She can see his dark, beady eyes focused on the camera, his suave features a brilliant show of confidence and persuasion. “But perhaps you are a wiser leader.” Monty’s fingers stop tapping; Clarke checks the clock. One minute and forty-eight seconds. “I don’t think so.” Cage laughs. “Maybe not; you’re an Omega, after all. Valuable, but unsuited for leadership.” Clarke’s blood boils. Perhaps Cage is right, but he says it as though it’s something disdainful. Clarke doesn’t enjoy leadership, but in a world in which they have been faced with enemies from all sides, her protectiveness has made her the kind of leader her people need. Even if she isn’t built for it, which she isn’t, he doesn’t have to look upon it as something to be ashamed of. Clarke knows her strengths, knows her capabilities; it takes all types of people to make a world. She is proud of where her designation fits in it. The very thing that made her ashamed on the Ark, in the mountain, is the thing she has found the most honor in on the ground. “Make your point.” She doesn’t make any effort to keep the acerbic bite out of her tone; Cage lost the privilege of pleasantries long ago. One minute twenty-one. “You leave the outsiders here, leave your delinquent children here, and we will not be at war with your people on the outside tomorrow,” Cage offers smoothly. “Leave these prisoners with us and walk away from this mountain, and when we walk away from it tomorrow we will walk among you in peace. We have much to offer you; medicine, technology. The culture and companionship your ancestors left behind on the ground. You will flourish with our help.” Fifty-seven seconds. Clarke closes her eyes to compose herself. The deal is asinine. With a spitting sneer, she tells him as much. Cage only smiles. “Oh yes, I forgot to mention,” he adds, “it will be a trade. Five people in exchange for the rest of the prisoners, including the Commander.” The door bursts open, and Lexa clatters in holding Dante Wallace upright by the collar of his shirt. She stops dead in the middle of the room seeing Clarke on the radio, and her eyes fall on Cage on the screen. “You hand over the Commander of the Twelve Clans and the three-hundred and seventy-six other Outsiders in this mountain, and you, Bellamy, Octavia, Raven, Monty, and your Alpha walk free.” Clarke ceases to breathe; neither Monty nor Lexa move. Of all of them, it’s the last mention that jolts her, and Clarke knows that Cage knows it. Her view of Anya from here isn’t great, but she can see enough to know that her intended mate is suffering. Anya is face up on the floor, arms bound beneath her back. Her ankles are tied, and even from a distance, she can see a bruise blooming on the Alpha’s cheek. Anya, who she promised the mountain would never hurt again, is back here at the mercy of these people who locked her in a cage and took her very blood away. She is back in what for any grounder is a true hell; locked away from sunlight and fresh air and the feel of the earth beneath her feet. Having spent so little of her life in such a paradise after nearly eighteen years in a hell such as this, Clarke can understand. Truly, for the first time, it occurs to her that a life on the ground is the only one worth living. Even worse, she can understand why Cage will do anything to give that to his people, too. None of them, not the grounders or the Skaikru or even the Maunon, deserve a life locked away from the earth. Nevertheless, it’s beginning to look like one of them is going to have to choose. Clarke clicks the radio on. “Or, if you don’t let them go, I could kill your father instead.” In Lexa’s grasp, Dante Wallace jerks slightly. It prompts Lexa to shake him, hard, and he falls still. For the first time, Cage shows a sign of emotion. His lip twitches a little, and his face grows slightly pale. “You’re bluffing.” In answer, Clarke holds the button down and shoves the radio under Dante’s nose. He complies on the instant. “Stay the course, Cage.” Cage’s eyes are widening. “Dad — ” “Your people come first.” Lexa is regarding Dante with disgust, but he keeps his expression placid. Monty shoots him a dirty look. Clarke bring the radio back to her own lips. “Let them go, and I’ll give him back, Cage,” she says easily. On the screen, she can see Cage’s face contort. For a moment, he doesn’t respond, and a tiny flutter makes her wonder if it might work. Then he steels himself, draws a deep breath; when he looks back to the camera, his face is once again the perfect mask. “I’ll take care of our people, Dad,” he says quietly. The gunshot deafens Clarke in the small room, and Cage turns his face away, breathing hard. Clarke takes advantage of the moment of reprieve as soon as Dante’s body hits the floor. She drops her finger from the radio. “Monty? The dormitory?” “Can’t be isolated without irradiating the rest of the level and killing every Mountain Man on it,” Monty reports with a shake of the head. His eyebrows are pinched even tighter than before. In the background, Lexa steps over Dante’s body, shaking her hands delicately free of his blood. “We need a miracle here, Clarke.” Lips pursed, hands shaking, Clarke turns to Lexa. “Heda?” she asks, desperate for Lexa to show a hidden card. But Lexa shakes her head. “Even I do not see a way out of this without an army, Clarke,” she says quietly. “It would take an act of the gods.” Ice in her heart makes Clarke stand still. Then what’s to say that any of us aren’t gods? You too fell from the stars and command your people to salvation, Skai Klark. You tell me. It might be an easy decision, Clarke realizes, for anyone else. No doubt her mother might make a different call. Clarke could lay down her gun right now and walk away with five of the most important people in her life. She could ensure that the children and civilians in this mountain go unharmed, and that they get a chance to walk the earth. She could take Anya away from all of this and ensure that she never falls under the mountain’s grasp again. Cage knows it, and is preying on the Omega instinct that he knows screams at Clarke to protect her mate. Omegas in the mountain must be as deprived of their instincts as those on the Ark, because if Cage knew the lengths Clarke would go to in order to protect her people, he might not be so confident. They are all her people now. She clicks the radio back on. “Here are some terms for you, Cage,” she tells him, and watches Monty and Lexa’s heads snap towards her as on the screen, Cage’s makes the same move. “Let all of my people go, or I will irradiate Level Five.” As she removes her finger from the button, she sees comprehension dawning on Lexa’s face, and a moment later, sees Monty frantically resume typing once more. On the monitor, Cage is shaking his head with a tiny smile. “I’ll let your sky children go, but the outsiders stay,” he wagers. He’s bluffing, Clarke knows, but even if he’s not, it doesn’t matter. Clarke shakes her head into the mouthpiece though she knows he cannot see. “I said my people. Not just the Skaikru prisoners, but the grounders too. All of them. You will let everyone go and never shadow them with fear again, or everyone in this mountain will pay.” She’s breathing heavily now; behind her, she can sense Lexa’s gaze heavy on her neck. “You won’t do it,” says Cage, and he sounds quietly assured. “Look at the monitors, Miss Griffin. Look at the dining room. There are innocent people in here. There are pups in here, babies. See them with their families? You won’t irradiate Level Five. You are an Omega, Miss Griffin; don’t think that I believe for a moment that you would let little children die to save yourself.” She can’t tell if he’s feeding her his true opinion or only playing for time, but Clarke no longer cares. She can see them on the screen. Beneath the brand new jacket that smells of Anya and firelight and home, she can feel Myka’s weight on her chest. “The thing is, Cage, my people have children, too.” It’s so quiet that she’s not even sure he hears. “Offering me my Alpha and my friends in exchange for abandoning the rest of my people to die assumes I’m satisfied with anything less than protecting every single one of them.” It comes down to this: her people, or theirs. Only one can survive, and so Clarke knows what she has to do. Even though it means sacrificing people who have helped them along the way, there is no other solution. She has no choice, and neither does Cage. Both of them are only trying to save their people with no other way out. Now Clarke understands why — not how, for though she has handed over a friend to death, she cannot fathom killing a mate — Abby gave Jake up to the Council. One for the good of the many, only this time, it’s one civilization for the good of the rest. Something tells Clarke this is how wars start, but she has learned the history of the tiny, precious planet that they live on, and she knows that it is also how worlds end. On the screen, Cage’s expression has transformed into something ugly, a leering smile that promises danger as much as it does frustration. “Well then,” he says quietly. “Seeing as she’s worth so little to you . . .” Stepping backwards a bit, he snaps his fingers at one of the guards who stands nearby. A nod, and the man steps forward, and Clarke understands what’s going to happen before it does. In a moment, they’ve yanked Anya upright, and as she rouses a little with the movement, they drag her to the table and begin to strap her down. One for the good of the many. Clarke’s eyes rove over the screens. All across them are displayed the residents of the mountain, all on Level Five. The dining room, the apartments, the schoolroom where a class has gathered with finger paints. Lincoln’s army unconscious in the hallway of Level Four. Bellamy’s on Level Six. Unconscious faces, some familiar, others less so, decorated with war paint and ferocity and pride. Jasper and Maya in the dining hall. Raven, Harper, Miller, Octavia, Indra. Anya, who is beginning to wake. The fear and bravery splashed across Anya’s face is enough to make Clarke weep. Her hands struggle as they tie her down, but they pin them, and in a moment she is scarcely able to move. Then the needle pierces Anya’s skin, and Clarke sees only red. She steps forward, the crowds of people unconscious and awake blurring into one in her vision. Whatever it takes. “It’s done.” Monty is staring at the screen as though he can’t quite believe what he’s doing. “You pull that lever, and the turbines reverse. Once you pull it, it can’t be undone.” He looks exhausted, and later, Clarke will feel sympathy for this boy who has no malice himself but whose hand commits these deeds because he is bright and loves people who are less honorable than he. “I will do it.” Lexa steps forward; her hand finds the lever as her eyes find Anya’s contorted figure on the screen. “I am Heda; I am responsible for my people.” Clarke steps forward, and her eyes land on Anya, too. “They are all my people,” she says. Her hand grasps the handle beside Lexa’s, and together, they draw it down.
The rolling green hills grew larger and larger as the flying motorbike began to make its descent. Remus could see the ground approaching at a terrifyingly rapid pace, and he clutched at Sirius’ jacket in a desperate attempt to feel safe. Flying on the bike was something he had gotten used to, but seeing the earth rush towards him, a small part of Remus genuinely thought he was going to die. He closed his eyes tightly, his stomach dropping when the bike suddenly lurched down. Sirius let out a sharp laugh. “My bad, Moons! Sorry!” Remus didn't say anything. He was worried that if he opened his mouth, his breakfast might escape along with his words. Remus felt pressure build up in his ears with the change in altitude, but he kept his hands firmly twisted around fabric, as if holding onto Sirius would somehow save them in the event of a crash. The bike dropped further, sending Remus’ stomach up into his chest and causing his arms and legs to grapple Sirius tighter than before. “For Merlin's sake, Moons! I can't drive when you do that!” Lupin kept his eyes shut and adamantly refused to let go. One more sudden drop and Remus could feel a powerful jolt as the wheels touched the ground. The bike bounced a few times before it found purchase in the grass and eventually came to a satisfying halt. Neither boy moved. “...Reme? You alive?” Remus kept squeezing Sirius, unwilling to let go. “Remus? Remus, we're on the ground now. We've stopped. Reme?” Sirius twisted himself in an effort to loosen his boyfriend's hold, to no avail. To try to get Remus’ attention, Sirius slid his arms down the legs that were pressed against his own thighs. “Remus… c'mon, take off the helmet. We're here.” It took a moment of tender caressing before Moony's grip finally released, and he relinquished his Padfoot. Remus took off his helmet and tossed it to the ground, staring incredulously at the mass of black hair in front of him. Sirius twisted around to look Moony in the eyes. “Moons, you alright?” “...I thought I was going to die.” “Oh, don't be such a baby. We were fine.” Remus made to punch Sirius, but Padfoot's Quidditch reflexes kicked in and he firmly grabbed Remus’ wrist. He flashed a cocky grin before Remus’ other hand made contact with his opposite shoulder. “Ow!” “You're so fucking selfish !” “Alright, alright, I get it! You're angry and you hate me and you don't like flying. I get it.” “Do you? Do you really get it?” Remus was still glaring at Sirius, but his eyes betrayed him, as they always did. Remus loved being pressed against his boyfriend, even at a thousand meters above the ground. As furious as he was, he secretly enjoyed his bike ride, despite his protests. “Yes. I'm sorry. Okay? I'm sorry Moons. Honestly, I thought you'd like it…” “Why the hell would you think something like that?!” Sirius paused and twisted his mouth in thought. “'Cause bikes are sexy? Everyone loves a motorbike.” “I don't…” “This thing's a chick magnet!” “Good thing you're gay.” Sirius laughed and leaned back against his boyfriend, resting his head on Remus’ shoulder. “I'm sorry, Reme. I really did think you'd like it.” Remus looked down at Sirius, admiring the handsome face that stared back at him, with smooth grey eyes, defined cheekbones, a chiseled jawline. It was so hard to stay angry when Sirius used his looks to his advantage. Remus ran his hands along Sirius’ waist. “It's fine… I'll just have to find a way to pay you back is all.” Sirius laughed, his face lighting up with joy, filling Remus with an unusual warmth. All the terror, all the yelling, all the panic: it was all worth it just to see Sirius laugh like that. It was as if there was nothing in the world except for these two boys on their enchanted motorbike. Moony smiled. Sirius leaned forward, balanced the bike between his legs and stood up. Remus could feel the heat and safety of Sirius’ body dissipate and a part of him longed for the physical closeness. Padfoot tried to dismount the bike, but found that Moony was in his way. “Hey, Moons… you can get off now if you want… ride's over…” Remus looked at his boyfriend, blushing slightly. Thinking about Sirius pressed against him on the bike had brought up some things that Moony would very much prefer his boyfriend not to notice. “I'm good where I am, thank you very much.” Sirius twisted his body to look at his partner, still sitting in the passenger seat behind him. “Moons, I can't get off if you're there. You're in my w--” Sirius cut himself off when he noticed Remus’ flushed cheeks. He knew that embarrassed look: pink ears, lack of eye contact, hands fiddling with the hem of his shirt. Sirius smirked and sat back down in his seat, sliding back until he was once again pressed against his Moony. He hadn't noticed it on the ride there, with the bike bouncing and rumbling beneath them, but now that the vehicle was still, he could feel his boyfriend's erection pushing into him. “See? Bikes are sexy…” Sirius purred, resting his head on Remus’ shoulder, who wanted none of it. “Sod off, Padfoot. I'm still angry at you.” “You don't feel angry to me...” He teased seductively. Remus gave his boyfriend another light punch on the arm. “That’s not my fault. It's just how it works. It was warm and touching something so… but that doesn't mean I want to do anything... Because I don't... I don't want to do anything... Because I'm mad... I'm still upset at you, Sirius…” Remus floundered his way through his excuses, trying not to let Sirius know that he was, in fact, slightly turned on by his punk-rock, leather-clad boyfriend riding a motorcycle. But only slightly. Sirius rotated his hips, feeling Remus inhale sharply behind him. “Any way I can change your mind?” Sirius purred into his boyfriend’s ear. “No.” Sirius sat abruptly upright. “Suit yourself!” He grabbed the handlebars, put one foot firmly on the ground and shimmied himself off the bike, almost toppling it in the process. Remus had both of his feet firmly on the grass, balancing the damn bike between his legs. Once Padfoot was disentangled from his motorbike, he pulled his wand from his pants and began swishing it in the air, muttering spells under his breath. Picnic fixings began floating through the air from his saddlebag, arranging themselves gracefully on the grass. Remus stayed exactly where he was. He stared at the bike nestled between his thighs. It was a beautiful machine, with bright chrome parts and metallic black bits. Having never owned a motorcycle, he had no idea what made a bike good or bad, but this one seemed nice enough. Remus slid forward, gingerly placing his hands on the handlebars. He was surprised how powerful he felt in the driver's seat, behind the gauges and knobs, the machine still radiating heat from its last ride. Sirius finished his set-up and turned around to find his boyfriend still sitting on the bike, balancing it carefully between his legs. There was an odd look in Moony's eyes that Padfoot couldn't quite place. “I thought you hated that thing… come on, get off it and c'mere!” Remus looked at Sirius and quirked an eyebrow. Perhaps he had said no too soon. Perhaps he had still been flustered from the ride here and maybe should have given himself a chance to calm down before chasing Sirius away. “Moony, get your arse over here and enjoy the damn picnic that I've set up for you!” Lupin didn't move. A grin passed over his lips; a hungry smile that made its way into his eyes, glowing with a burning lust. Sirius noticed and casually made his way back to the motorbike. “Moons…?” A smirk was toying at Padfoot's lips as he gave his boyfriend a once-over, glancing from his feet on the ground to the fierceness in his eyes, lingering a moment around his pelvis. With the way Remus straddled the machine, the arch of his back and the firmness of his grip on the handlebars, Sirius could feel his pants tighten. He imagined the mischief that they could get up too, if Remus was willing. “...Wanna learn how to ride her?” Sirius swung his leg over the bike, grabbing Remus’ waist for support, and settled down in the seat behind his boyfriend. He pressed forward, making sure that Moony could feel exactly how turned on he was, and reached for the handlebars. Before he had a chance to grab them, Remus caught Sirius’ hands and brought them back to his hips. “I think I'd rather ride something else…” he cooed softly. Sirius had difficulty stifling his laughter. “Hey, why're you laughing?” “You're sexy as fuck, Moons, don't get me wrong. But you have got to work on your pickup lines…” Remus turned his body so that he and Sirius were looking eye to eye. “Look, do you wanna shag or not? ‘Cause laughing at me is not a good way of getting laid.” Remus had a cheeky smirk on his face that Sirius was eager to wipe off. He leaned forward and pressed a forceful kiss against his boyfriend's lips. It was awkward snogging on the bike and the two boys struggled to find a comfortable position. They found themselves laughing into each other's mouths more than they anticipated. “Mmm, hold on Reme, I gotta do something real quick,” Sirius groaned unhappily between kisses. “Stay here.” Padfoot nearly fell from the bike as he scrambled to get off, grabbing his wand from his pocket. “Repello Muggletum,” Sirius muttered before stuffing his wand back in his pants. “This place is totally secluded, but just in case, y'know?” Sirius made to take off his jacket before Remus stopped him. “Wait… keep it on…” Padfoot raised his eyebrows, but lifted his jacket back onto his shoulders. “Kinky,” he teased, earning him a disapproving look from his Moony. “I'm kidding!” Sirius hopped back on the bike and wrapped his arms around Remus, squeezing his partner between his thighs. Taking a deep breath, he let the scents of of coffee and cinnamon and old books fill his mind and fog his brain. Padfoot nuzzled into his Moony's neck and thick sandy hair, hungrily running his hands up and down the werewolf's slender frame. “Mmm, Moons, you are so sexy, you know that?” “Shut up, Pads,” Remus mumbled, sighing at his partner's gentle touch. Sirius’ hands crept lower until they reached Remus’ waistband. One hand explored tentatively under his shirt to run along his tight abdomen while the other worked on that pesky belt buckle that always seemed in the way. Remus decided to help Sirius, undoing his belt and fly quicker than Padfoot would have imagined possible. Sirius slipped a hand down Remus’ trousers, and Moony leaned back into his boyfriend, his spine arched in pleasure. As Sirius’ hand closed around Remus’ cock, a deep groan ripped through his chest and his head fell back on his lover's shoulder. Sirius leaned forward, kissing and teasing his partner's neck as he toyed with Remus’ shaft, keeping his movements slow and tantalizing. “Yeah, just like that…” Moony sighed, taking his hands off the handlebars and lifting them to grab at Sirius’ hair. Fingers wove through dark strands, involuntarily tugging with every upstroke. “God, Sere, you're so fuckin’ good at that.” Sirius chuckled into Remus’ shoulder, breathing deep, taking in every scent, every sound, every subtle twitch of his partner's body. He was finding it difficult to keep his own hips still as Moony twisted and squirmed in pleasure against him. Padfoot shifted slightly, savouring the friction that his lover's body created against his aching prick. With one particularly skilled twist of the wrist, Remus let out a sharp gasp, pulling tightly on Sirius’ hair. “ Fuck , Moons. I wanna fuck you so badly…” Sirius growled, playfully biting down on the tender skin of his boyfriend's neck. “So fuck me already, Sirius,” Remus answered, surprising even himself. Moony definitely had a preference for being inside Sirius, but this situation seemed to be an excellent opportunity to switch things up. Feeling Sirius’ cock against his arse, the way his partner was grinding his hips, Remus had never wanted Sirius inside of him more than in that very moment. The warmth and tightness of Padfoot's hand disappeared and Moony let out a sad little whine, frustrated at the emptiness. “Patience,” Sirius purred, imitating the way his lover always chastised him whenever he made a similar noise. Sirius put both hands on Remus’ waist and shifted his torso forward, keeping his hips where they were. The werewolf dutifully grabbed the handlebars of the bike and arched his back, eliciting a soft moan from his boyfriend. “ Fuck, shit… God dammit… ” Remus turned his head to find Sirius struggling with his pants. “For the love of...Moons, do not move. Don't... don't even think of moving… I just… fuck … I can't get my pants off on this bike!” Moony laughed at his boyfriend's struggle. He kind of loved that even in the throes of passion, Sirius was still his ridiculous self. Sirius fumbled helplessly as he got off the bike, and Remus obeyed his Padfoot's orders to not move, knowing that Sirius would rethink that decision in a moment. Sirius pulled his pants and boxers off in record time and almost knocked over the bike trying to get back on. He slid his hands around Remus’ waist before making a sudden realization and spewing a new string of profanities. “Merlin's fuckin’ hairy-ass balls. Remus, you gotta do the same. Fuckin’ bike ! Shit… ” Remus’ grin turned into laughter again as he nudged Sirius with his elbow. “Sere, you've gotta get off, I can't swing my leg over with you there.” “ Shit! ” Sirius got off the bike again grumpily, allowing his boyfriend to dismount. He steadied the bike and brought down the centerstand, thinking ahead for the first time all day. “Sere…” Sirius turned to look at Remus, fly undone and prick peeking out the top of his waistband. He had the cutest, smuggest, most annoyingly coy grin on his face. Padfoot enthusiastically walked over and wrapped his arms around his Moony's waist. The boys pressed together, running desperate hands feverishly along each other's bodies, exploring every inch. Their mouths were locked in a passionate embrace, stubble scratching stubble, teeth nipping gently at coarse lips, tongues intertwining. Remus broke away first, panting and breathlessly laughing in his partner's mouth. “Take my goddamn pants off so we can get back on the fuckin’ bike already, yeah?” Trousers were yanked off in a heartbeat and the boys remounted the bike, now steadily balanced on its centerstand. “The bike feels a bit different…” “No, it's fine, Reme, it'll balance itself better now.” Remus flashed his boyfriend a smile before facing forward and gripping the handlebars. “So, how does this work? What do we do next?” He had never done anything this ridiculous before, and a part of him was genuinely nervous. Would this even be good sex? Sirius pressed his half-naked body into his lover's, running his hands up and down his scarred torso. “Next, you let me touch you and make you feel good,” Sirius growled in Remus’ ear, one hand working its way down to his boyfriend's leaking cock. He gripped the shaft again and began to rub it, running his thumb around the head with every upstroke, twisting just so . Remus groaned, his head falling forward as he grasped at the handlebars for support. Sirius was damn good at that. Better than he was, in fact. In the back of his mind, he wondered if Sirius knew Moony was rubbish at hand jobs, but the thought was chased from his head by a sudden rush of heat and liquid in his arse. Another deep moan escaped his lips as Sirius pressed a finger inside, pushing immediately against his prostate. “Jesus, Sere… are you trying to make me come before we start?” Remus’ voice was breathless, his words barely able to escape his lips. Moony could hear a dark chuckle in his ear as Sirius’ finger pushed deeper inside. “Think I can make you come twice?” He teased, wriggling his hand around. Remus was about to make a snappy retort about not being a girl, but he was suddenly incapable of verbalizing anything; Sirius had pressed a second finger inside, and all Moony could choke out was a throaty groan of pleasure. A third finger worked its way into Remus, preparing him. Moony could feel himself getting dangerously close, despite the uncomfortable position they were in. He gripped the bike handles and focused his mind on anything but their current situation. One particularly decadent upstroke brought Remus immediately back. “Stopstopstopstop….” Remus barely cried. Sirius stopped, one hand still inside Remus, the other around his prick. “What's wrong, Moons?” Remus clenched his thighs together, trying to settle his heart rate the slightest bit. “God, I'm so fuckin’ close. You need to stop or--” Sirius cut him off with a laugh. “So what? I don't mind if you finish. It'd be really hot, actually,” he cooed, twisting the hand that was inside Remus. “Ahhh. No. No no no… not before you're inside of me, Sere.” Sirius chuckled as he kissed Remus’ neck, sliding his fingers out of his boyfriend. “Mm… such a considerate lover,” he teased, pressing the head of his prick against Remus’ entrance. “I'm gonna have to say thank you somehow…” He muttered his lubrication spell again and pressed forward, still keeping a grip on Remus’ cock. With his thrust in, he tugged gently on Moony's shaft, sending chills of pleasure up his lover’s spine. Once fully inside, Sirius waited, allowing his boyfriend a.chance to get used to the sensation. After a few deep breaths, Remus began to rock his hips back and forth. Sirius grabbed Remus gently and pulled him closer, penetrating deep inside. Remus brought his feet up to the back foot pegs, causing the cock inside of him to press perfectly against that one amazing spot. “Yes, Sirius! Oh god… ” Moony called out, unable to control himself. “ Fuck , Moons. You're so tight. Feels… ah… feels so fuckin’ good…” The boys increased their rhythm, Remus white knuckled against the handlebars, Sirius’ fingers digging sharply into his lover's hips. “I… I need you to touch me,” Remus pleaded, half moan, half whine. Sirius growled in his ear and happily complied. He thrust faster, stroking Moony's cock in time with his hips. Every forward buck caused a tiny noise of pleasure, and Sirius could feel himself teetering dangerously close to the edge. “Reme, I'm so close…” Remus wanted to answer me too , but all he could manage was another loud moan. Sirius took that as his cue and doubled his pace, trying unsuccessfully to stroke Remus while slamming his cock into him. He released his boyfriend's shaft to grip his hips with both hands, pushing hard and fast. One of Remus’ hands shot immediately down to his prick, rubbing in time with Sirius' movements. Padfoot felt his boyfriend tighten around him and his mind went completely blank, the sheer pleasure and ecstasy the only things he could think about. A long, strained groan left his lips as he rode out the last of his orgasm, filling his Moony up, releasing completely. When he finished and came to, Moony was panting, clinging to the handlebars for balance. Sirius gave his boyfriend's bum a light tap and slid out, making a mess of his brand new bike. He didn't care. Sirius dismounted, but his knees were still weak. He collapsed in a pile on the ground and was joined soon after by warm, soft skin pressed against his own. “Mmm...that was so good, Moons.” Sirius kissed his boyfriend's hair, inhaling the smell of their passion. Remus nuzzled into Sirius’ chest, relaxing completely, letting the warm summer breeze wash over him. “I could use a fuckin’ fag…” “Didn’t you just have one?” Remus teased, earning himself a light smack in the head. Sirius pulled a cigarette from his leather jacket and lit it, inhaling deeply, letting the familiarity and calmness wash over him. On the exhale, Remus let out a small cough. “Shit, sorry Reme. Does the smoke bother you?” “No, no, I'm fine,” he lied, sitting up. Remus wasn't keen on smoke, it always seemed to irritate his lungs, but he didn't want to make Sirius worry. Instead, he reached for his pants and grabbed his wand from the pocket, finding an excuse to get away from his chimney of a boyfriend. “I’m just gonna clean the bike.” “No… stay ... “ Sirius whined as Remus stood up and flicked his wand. He gathered their scattered pants and tossed Sirius’ skinny jeans and boxers over his flaccid groin. “Put these on,” Moony said, pulling up his own trousers and doing up his belt. “We still have a picnic to enjoy.” With a pleasant chuckle, Sirius stood up and dressed himself, putting out his cigarette and tossing it on the ground. He made his way over to the picnic blanket and both boys sat down, Padfoot leaning gently against his Moony. “Hey Moons…” Sirius looked into his boyfriend’s bright hazel eyes. “Thanks… I really liked that.” Remus smiled but didn’t respond. He stared up at the clouds while Sirius sat up and dug through the picnic basket, pulling out ungodly amounts of food that had no right to fit in a space that small. “Hey Sirius…” Padfoot turned around, his grin fading when he saw Remus’ expression. “What’s wrong?” Remus paused for a moment. “I liked that… it was really great. It was amazing, actually… I just… I don’t want you to think that I’m not still upset.” Sirius nodded solemnly, knowing exactly why his Moony was pissed. “I was selfish, I know. I wanted you to like the bike, and I didn’t tell you that it could fly, and I should have run that by you first. I shouldn’t have surprised you with it and… well, I’m sorry, Remus. I’m really sorry.” That was the first real apology that Remus had received all day. In fact, it was one of the only real apologies that Sirius had ever given. The changes were slow, but Remus loved that his boyfriend was maturing. “Thank you for the apology, Sere.” Moony kissed his boyfriend on the cheek and grabbed a bottle of butterbeer. “Now let’s enjoy this picnic and get home so that I can be rid of that goddamn bike once and for all.”
Kurt woke up feeling more well-rested than he had in months. He rubbed his face lightly against his pillow, then paused when he realized that his pillow was made of firm muscle encased in warm skin. “About time you woke up. We’re going out for lunch or my stomach is gonna start eating itself.” Oh, right, that had happened. Kurt had slept with Sebastian Smythe last night. And now he had his face smushed to Sebastian Smythe’s shoulder. And Sebastian Smythe seemed totally unbothered by the fact. Well, if he wasn’t having a freakout, Kurt wouldn’t have a freakout. They had both been aware of what they were doing last night, and they had both enjoyed themselves (really enjoyed themselves), and now they were cuddling, and it was pretty great. “Kay.” He shifted onto his side (but he didn’t shift away, because Sebastian was very warm and they were both rather naked) and looked at Sebastian’s profile. “What time is it?” “Quarter past eleven,” Sebastian told him, attention directed down to where he was tapping at his phone with one hand, the other arm pinned down under Kurt and cupping the dip of his waist. “Guess I really wore you out, huh?” “I’m in prime position to push you off this bed.” Kurt tightened his hold around Sebastian’s middle even as he said it. “When did you wake up?” “Around an hour ago,” Sebastian said with a shrug. “Around an— why didn’t you get me up?” Sebastian shrugged again. “You were comfortable.” Kurt didn’t know whether Sebastian meant he didn’t want to interrupt Kurt’s comfort, or that having Kurt pressed to his side was comfortable. Both were good answers. He redirected his attention down to where Sebastian was texting away, then squinted as he noticed the edge of the case was a familiar shade of blue. “Is that my phone?” “Yeah,” Sebastian admitted readily. “I was bored and it was right there within arm’s reach. Your fault for unlocking it in front of me for last night.” Kurt should have felt the compulsion to read Sebastian the riot act, but his mind was too busy pulling a thread of conversation from the night before to its forefront. And not a conversation he’d had with Sebastian. “If your friend didn’t see the boundary issues in finding out where you lived so he could announce his mentorship, you should probably password protect that thing.” “Oh my god!” Kurt sat up suddenly, twisting around to face Sebastian and wrapping the duvet around himself. He tapped at Sebastian’s chest excitedly. “You are gay Yoda!” Sebastian gaped at him, blood rising to his cheeks. “He seriously told you about that? You met him last night!” “At which point we instantly clicked!” Kurt threaded his fingers together and held his hands below his chin, swinging them lightly from side to side. “And my face is very trustworthy,” he said, widening his eyes and fluttering his lashes to further emphasize his guilelessness. Sebastian groaned and got up from the bed. “Your face is stupid,” Sebastian announced as he walked into the bathroom. “You already told me it was beautiful,” Kurt called after him, eyes already on his phone to see what Sebastian had been up to. “No take-backs!” From: Daniel Beane Hey, Kurt, it’s Daniel from Envy Lounge. So I’m told you guys weren’t exactly happy to see each other, but on the off-chance that Sebastian is with you right now, could you let him know that I have all his stuff and I’ll give it back to him at lecture? Thanks a bunch! From: Daniel Beane Also, I hope you guys managed to work through whatever bad blood was between you. Victor kept pestering me for your number but I didn’t give it to him because I thought that was creepy. That was the right call, right? Any-who, we should grab coffee some time! To: Daniel Beane U didn’t have enuf fun last nite if ur comfortably typing in full sentences b4 noon BUT u did indeed make the right call so I forgive u. Pretty sure Kurt will give me a ride to campus but if not ill figure it out. We defo did work out our bad blood tho. W //spectacular// results!!! ;) ;) ;) -Seb From: Daniel Beane It literally hurt my eyes to read that. For multiple reasons. Glad you’re okay. To: Daniel Beane <3 u 2 From: Daniel Beane You could at least use emojis. They are a tap away. To: Daniel Beane ❤️ u 2 Kurt snorted in amusement and shook his head. He fixed Daniel’s contact name so it was cute, dropped his phone back onto the comforter, and stood up to stretch before meandering over to Sebastian’s dresser mirror to size himself up. Ahh, I got that special “guess who just got some” glow. No need to guess, world, it’s me! Kurt Hummel got some. Kurt leaned forward to run his fingers through his hair in a half-assed attempt to tame it before abandoning that endeavour. The hair complimented the skin perfectly as it was, so Kurt stole a spritz of one of Sebastian’s hairsprays to preserve his bedhead. He grabbed the lone bottle of face lotion on Sebastian’s dresser and helped himself, hissing at the prickles and throbs of pain he felt when he ran his hands over his throat. He pulled his hands away and tilted his chin up slowly, then felt his jaw drop at what he saw there. “Oh my god, no!” Kurt practically wailed in anguish at the sight of his neck, red with irritation and covered in hickeys. Sebastian burst back into the bedroom, face half-covered in shaving cream and razor still in hand. “Okay, I know I shouldn’t have, but— wait, what’s wrong?” Kurt turned to Sebastian and waved up and down over his throat. “I look like I was your personal chew toy.” Sebastian grinned with self-satisfaction, shrugged, and walked back to the bathroom. “You kind of were.” Kurt followed him in so he could examine himself in the brighter light, massaging at the bite mark over his shoulder. “A ‘sorry for roughing you up like this, Kurt. I just got caught up in the moment’ would be nice.” “You like being roughed up,” Sebastian argued as he shaved the other half of his face. “I may have been caught up in the moment, but I’m not sorry.” Kurt cocked a hip against the counter and watched him work, one arm crossed over his chest and propping up the elbow of the other. “You cannot definitively say that I like it rough after spending one night with me, you arrogant ass.” Sebastian smiled (arrogantly) and patted on some aftershave. “Maybe not,” he agreed. He turned and stared pointedly at Kurt’s hand, which had drifted from shoulder to collarbone. “But you’re still playing with the bruises, so I’m pretty sure I’m right.” Kurt dropped his hand like a hot brick. He felt his face flush and he crossed his arms over his chest defensively. “Just because you know this about me doesn’t mean I want anyone else knowing about my… preferences.” “You say that like it’s a dirty word. You know it’s nothing to be ashamed of, right?” “It is private.” “All right, all right.” Sebastian held his hands up in surrender, smirk still firm on his face. “My grandmother forgets I’m a grandson sometimes and sends me girl scarves from random boutiques. I’m sure you would feel right at home wearing one.” Kurt sniffed haughtily. “Fashion has no gender. I trust she has better taste than you, since that’s a very low bar to set for anyone.” His lips quirked at the corner as he tried to hold back a smile. “Then I will get you a scarf, princess,” Sebastian assured. He made his way out and closed the door behind him. “Thank you, pauper,” Kurt shouted as he wet his toothbrush. Faintly, he heard a holler of ‘you’re welcome’ over the rush of water.
On September 21st, after Sir Kuzan's traditionally wild birthday party that left Stainless missing the right half of his stache, Rocinante and Doffy were leisurely walking home through the sky, discussing the face Mozambia made when he lost at poker to Doffy and was summarily dared to shave himself a tonsure with his own sword. On his index finger, Doffy was casually twirling Zotto's hat: a trophy from yet another poker game Doffy blatantly cheated through. Doffy had this amazing talent: everyone knew he cheated at poker, anyone at the table could tell he was cheating from his smug face alone, and no one could ever catch him red-handed. Rocinante suspected his Fruit was to blame. No less amazing was the fact that Doffy still managed to talk anyone at all into playing with him. Maybe it was that insufferably arrogant way he called people 'chicken' when they refused, but no one ever told him no twice in a row. Everyone he wanted to play with eventually sat down at the table, fuming to get back at him, and lost yet again. So Zotto, too, was now hatless. It was his fifth cap Doffy swindled him out of. He had a special section in his closet dedicated exclusively to his poker trophies, and it was already bursting at the seams. "Whatcha thinking about?" Doffy murmured as he clanged their window keys, their house already in sight. (Rocinante couldn't remember when they last used their actual door. Why walk down the stairs when they could walk through the sky?) "You," Rocinante told him, and watched his face light up, "or more specifically, how you're a nasty, rascally cheat." "My, is that a compliment?" Doffy grinned. "Well, if you want to take it that way…" Once they were inside, Doffy pressed him into the wall, peppering his cheek, neck, and collarbones with hot kisses, malt liquor on his breath and fire simmering in his loins. With a soft laugh, Rocinante let Doffy slip his shirt off his shoulders, as he happily grabbed Doffy's ass with both hands and kneaded those firm, tight buttcheeks through the flowery fabric. Doffy gave an appreciative groan and pressed his hips into Rocinante's, letting him feel just how hard he was. In fact, his arousal was very visible — not just in his flushed face and dilated pupils, but also due to the very simple fact that Doffy's pants were, as ever, Very Low Rise, and Doffy's cock was big. "Why, hello there," Rocinante murmured as he thumbed the lovely pink head peeking out of those godawful pink pants. "Guess what?" Doffy murmured, one corner of his mouth ticking up, as he rolled his hips, rocking into Rocinante's hand. Rocinante stalled his ministrations. "Oh no," he said, instantly wary. "Should I be worried?" Doffy laughed. "So suspicious, my love," he teased, rocking his cock against Rocinante's. "I'm not suspicious. You're suspicious, and a troublemaker, and I happen to know it all too well. What happened?" "Nothing big," Doffy's innocent eyes were the most suspicious thing Rocinante had ever seen in his life. "Just thought to tell you we'll be going on a week-long vacation in nine days —" "Why is that?" Rocinante demanded. "I thought we agreed on spending our vacation here on Marine —" "I've already booked a hotel on Mae. A different one," Doffy hurried to say when Rocinante opened his mouth to protest, the memories from a year ago still sore and raw in his mind. "I guess Mae is okay, but why the sudden —" "Because it's not like I can just bring a Flevance kid to the Navy Headquarters, now can I?" Doffy finished, smug. Rocinante blinked. "WHAT," he said. "Vegapunk says his therapy is now done, so I can go get the brat, and bring him to Mae if you want to see him. Well, unless you changed your mind and wisely decided to give up on the squirt —" "No!" Rocinante hurried to reassure him. "I mean, that's GREAT. Doffy… are you serious? I can see Law?" "Why do you even care about that rude brat," Doffy sighed without stopping the rutting. Because Rocinante couldn't not, that was why. He didn't understand it himself, but it was how it was. "I don't know," he said, "I just do. This is — really, really great, Doffy. I'm so happy. Thank you." "You can show me how thankful you are," Doffy hinted, even as Rocinante's fingers already slid down his Very Low Rise capris without Rocinante's conscious intent. "You're lucky you have your Navy coat," Rocinante told him with a chuckle as he pressed his fingers between Doffy's buttcheeks, the access indecently easy. "If you didn't, you'd be walking around showing the world half your ass." "What makes you think I would mind?" Doffy grinned, personally unbuttoning his prized designer pants lest Clumsy Rocinante ruined them. Rocinante paused. Doffy made a noise of protest, and pushed back on his fingers. "I suppose that makes sense," Rocinante slowly acknowledged, "although it's beyond me why you'd want to have your ass on display for all the old HQ codgers to see." "Why, it's a great ass," Doffy admitted modestly, "and while this lowly world hardly deserves to witness its full blinding splendor, I'm a very generous man." They looked each other in the eye. The next five minutes were spent giggling and clinging to each other rather than doing anything productive like fucking. Eventually, Rocinante managed to mostly calm down — but then Doffy deviously tickled his armpits, and there they went yet again. In bed with his golden love, all wet with sweat and slumbering on his chest, Rocinante smiled. The sex distracted him for a while, but now he really let the thought roll through his whole being: In just nine days, he was going to see Law. It had been almost a year since they last saw each other in person, and suddenly, Rocinante wondered how much the kid grew. Was his hair shorter or longer? Was he still just as skinny? Did he still look like a bunny when he ate? Somehow, all those questions felt Very Important in Rocinante's mind, like the fate of the world hinged on the answers to them or something; and suddenly, with a strange chill, he realized he was acting like a — Like a parent. Why, that was new. And entirely unexpected, and — not as unwelcome as Doffy would like, that was for sure. Somehow, he didn't need his Future Sight to see that Law was all he was going to think of in the next nine days; and even as he softly chuckled to himself, wondering just how distracted he was going to be at work, he was already imagining how he'd hug Law, and take off his hat, and ruffle his hair amidst all the yelling that was bound to follow. Honestly, it was like he had no contact with the kid all year long, so excited he got. Luckily, that was untrue: he talked to the kid every night, and sometimes in the mornings because apparently Law liked to start his day with a grumpy, "Good morning, dumbass" on the Den Den Mushi. It pained Rocinante's heart to think of how lonely Law must have felt, even though from what little he was allowed to say about Vegapunk on the calls (which didn't even include Vegapunk's damn name), Rocinante gathered that Law was pretty much a big fan. And with an uneasy foreboding, Rocinante thought that Vegapunk discharging Law now must have been some sort of a sign: After all, it was only yesterday that Rocinante finally managed to find that person. It took him almost a year, even with his high station, access to classified information, and his numerous friends who were ever eager to do him a solid (mostly because he so rarely asked for any favors). Even with all the careful questioning he did on Doffy and Doffy's own "friends," even with all the meticulous archive scouring, digging up top-secret intel, and tracing all the hidden connections between seemingly unrelated people and events, it damn well took him a year. And now, after a year of searching, he was finally somewhat sure he knew where that person might be, for now. But — in the next month, that person could well move to a different island, just to keep the Cipher Pols off their tail. It was the reasonable thing to do; Rocinante would have done so himself. So on his part, the reasonable thing to do would be to go check at once if his lead was true. Rocinante thought of Law's gray eyes as he had last seen them — wide, scared, and desperate — and firmly decided: Fuck it, he could do another year of searching. Right now, the most important thing in the world was whether the kid was still just as skinny as he used to be. He was. "What is this?" Rocinante chided, even as he laughed and cried at the sight of Law clinging to his pant leg. "Why so skinny, kid? You need to eat better. Let's go get some reunion ice cream, shall we?" Then he blinked at the suddenly-bawling kid, carefully extracted his leg out of Law's clingy arms, and plopped down on his butt right there on the dusty pavement of the busy Mae port. With the edge of his consciousness, he could Observe the onlookers' befuddlement and annoyance with a faint side of "aww, how cute," but he couldn't care less if he tried. "Hey, hey," he crooned, unmindful of Doffy's palpable scorn, as he routinely put up a sphere of his Silent, "what happened, little bunny?" Law's indignation at the pet name was strong enough to snap him out of his weeping fit. "'M not bunny," he declared in a twangy voice. "It's — 's just that Lami loved ice cream so much, it was her favorite f — uuuuuu!" Doffy was pointedly examining his nails. Rocinante sighed, shook his head, and grabbed the kid, drawing Law between his knees and pressing the small shaking body into his chest. Law's spine was so prominent and so bony. Didn't Vegapunk feed him there or what? If he didn't, Rocinante was having words with him, clearance or no clearance. He hummed, rocking the kid in his embrace; and slowly, slowly, he felt the tremors in Law's body subside. Then he drew back, wiped the wet trails on Law's cheeks with his thumbs, and softly asked: "Which flavor was her favorite?" "K-kiwi." "Must have been tasty." "Very… I — I was never crazy about it, but it was g-good." Rocinante hummed once again. "How 'bout we all go get some ice cream," he suggested, "with kiwi flavor. And as we eat, you can tell me all about Lami." "Whoever she is," Doffy supplied callously. "That's — that was my sister," Law told Rocinante, notably and pointedly not paying Doffy any attention. ("My sister burned alive…") "I see," Rocinante said. "Doffy, can you please take care of the dinner? We're gonna go take a walk." He briefly snagged Doffy's fingers in his hand, and gave them a gentle squeeze to quell Doffy's rising displeasure, and said: "Please?" He did his best, though it wasn't much, to act cute. He even tried and widened his eyes, although he wasn't sure it would do him any good. He wasn't an adorable little squirt like Law, after all, but rather a three-meter-tall man with a half-gray head and, by dinner, with some very tangible stubble. Doffy folded anyway, abruptly and wholly. Rocinante Observed it before he saw it in Doffy's face, and at that, he just had to grin. For the most part of the past year, his Doffy was the only thing that could still make him grin. Well, he, and the daily convos with Law. Doffy looked at him, his gaze so intense it felt almost palpable on his skin. Then he gave an explosive sigh, and said: "Am I still not allowed to snog the living fuck out of you in broad daylight?" "Nope," Rocinante said cheerfully, "you shameless heathen. Don't you worry, you'll get your reward back in the hotel, with interest." Winking in public was okay, though, because it wasn't very noticeable or telling; so he winked. Doffy looked at him some more. Then he picked up Rocinante's hand, and slowly, slowly thumbed the center of his palm — once… twice… thrice — making him shiver. Somehow, Doffy could turn even this slight simple touch into heady, blood-igniting foreplay. "One day, I'll kiss you in front of a thousand people, so that everyone sees that you're mine," he huskily promised. "As if," Rocinante said, his voice just as raspy. "Now shoo. I want grilled fish." "Slave driver." "I love you too." At that, Doffy gave a wide, predatory grin, and then he was gone. "You like grilled fish?" Law asked. Rocinante jerked: he had almost forgotten any people but Doffy and him existed. "Uh. Yeah? I mean, I'm not exactly a big fan or anything, but Doffy makes some mean grilled fish, and — do you hate it or what? If that's the case, I can stop Doffy — " "No! It's just that — it's my favorite. Lami liked ice cream, and I… I've always liked fish, and she said I was s-stupid, because fish was boring and not sweet at all — " "Hey, hey, don't cry, kid," Rocinante hurried. "Let's go get that ice cream, and find us a quiet bench somewhere in the central park, and then you can cry as much as you want, deal?" And Law sniffled, and wiped his nose on the back of his hand, and gave a resolute nod. After much searching, and Law's open gaping at Mae's many wonders, they managed to find a vendor with kiwi ice cream, and bought five cones, and ventured to find a bench. "Why five?" Law judged him. "Too much sugar is bad for your teeth." Rocinante just laughed and mysteriously told him: "You'll see, kid. You'll see," Accompanied with a wink, which got him distracted enough that his four cones he was carrying dangerously careened, one scoop slipping out of the cone to plop down on Law's spotted hat. "Oi, did you just —" "Yep," Rocinante said cheerfully. "I'm hella clumsy; get used to it, kid. I wonder if I'll get to eat so much as one of these — aw, damn," the next scoop ended up on his shoe, making his foot feel unpleasantly wet and chilly. Well, at least it was now kiwi-flavored? Law goggled at him. Then he ordered: "That's it, you stop and stand still right now — aha, there's a nice bench, let's go sit there before you make even more of a mess." Rocinante obeyed, and dropped another scoop on the way. Life was tragic. Stoically, he wondered if he'd get to try his one last scoop, and check if it was any good. Once on the bench, he shoved the three empty cones in his mouth, one by one — they were very small, obviously intended for people about twice shorter than him — and then, he cautiously licked his sole remaining greenish scoop. It was good. It was really, really good. Licking the ice cream, watching the tiny colorful hummingbirds flutter between the rustling palm trees, listening to cicadas buzz in the bushes, breathing in the fragrance of the tall golden cedars swaying high, high above their heads and the sweet aroma of the bright, iridescent waves of the flower ocean roiling around them in the balmy breeze, feeling the dappled sunlight dance across his face, Rocinante felt the beauty of the moment so sharply he could almost cry. Then he took a look at Law, and — the kid was crying. Quiet tears crawled down his face as he was choking on his sobs, trying and all too often failing to swallow them down, and his nose and chin were all greenish with ice cream, the cone unsteady in his shaking hands. Rocinante watched him, and said nothing. His own cone tipped, and his last scoop flopped onto his pants. Rocinante looked at the ice cream spread on his formerly blue jeans, sighed, and thoughtfully picked some with his finger. His look of the day was now ruined, that was for sure, but the most important thing was that his ice cream was still eatable. It would be a shame if he never finished that one last scoop, with how mad good it was. Law kept doggedly licking and biting his ice cream as tears streamed down his face in a flood, his cheeks now so wet they were all shiny in the evening light. His tears were making trails in the ice cream on his face and dripping off his chin, leaving dark stains on the front of his white short-sleeve shirt. Rocinante stayed silent till the kid was done crying, and for a while after that. He watched the kid, and then he watched the park, all alight with the golden hour: that special, magical evening light with fine dancing gold spilled everywhere in the air; and then he watched the kid some more, and then he silently put out his hand. Law crawled closer and quietly burrowed under his arm, which spoke to how out of sorts he was, that wild, spiteful child. They sat like that for a while, as the sky's blue paled, faded, and then grew darker. Then, when it was dark enough to pretend that no one could see them, Rocinante quietly asked: "Tell me." "What?" Law's voice was still nasally. "Whatever you want. Tell me about your sister, your parents, your friends… What were they like?" "What do you care?" Rocinante stared into the darkness with unseeing eyes. Then he said: "Our dead are a part of us — of our memory, our past, and what we are now. When we forget them, we reject a part of our own beings. When we remember them, we honor them, and come to peace with ourselves." "What are you, a philosopher?" Law grumbled. Rocinante produced a bleak smile. "No," he said. "Remember the night when Doffy and I told you about the three kinds of Haki?" "Yes," Law tensed and pulled his neck into his shoulders, instantly wary. Right, that night — didn't end so well. "Remember what Observation is?" Rocinante asked, as he firmly rubbed Law's skinny shoulder to show him he wasn't angry. "Yes? It's the power that lets you see without eyes." "More or less, yes. See, I have a most unusual Observation — have had since before I turned nine. Normal people can Observe human presence, emotions, and intent, as well as some bigger, more powerful creatures like Sea Kings. I can see all life — even germs." "What…? How is that even possible?" Rocinante shrugged. "Every minute, every second, I see quadrillions of deaths and births happen around me and inside me," he said. "My Observation spans the whole island, and some of the coastal zone. Say, right now, to the northeast, an albatross just caught a large squid. In four seconds now, the squid will be dead —" "How can you tell?" "Some people with Observation also have Future Sight: a way to tell how events are most likely to unfold. A nifty thing to have in battle; less so when it never turns off, and spans a damn island," he shook his head with a sigh. "Anyway, back to the albatross. It's a very old bird — about sixty years, I reckon. Now he's full, and so is his partner. Did you know that this kind of bird mates for life? Those two spent a very, very long life together — I can Observe how they feel about each other, and from those feelings, I can tell their past, like people can tell a tree's age from its rings. These two met a long time ago, and they danced for each other — this is how they pick their mates — and then they saw: this one was the one. And since that day, they never parted. Now, once again, they are dancing for each other as their children are waiting for them in their nest. They are far, far away, yet I can Observe them more clearly than I can see you. " "And you — you've been seeing all this since before you were nine? How didn't you go mad?" "I nearly did," Rocinante chuckled. "I'm lucky I can more or less control this, thanks to my Fruit. My ancestor couldn't. Eight hundred years ago, there was a Donquixote saddled with the same affliction — Saúl, he was called. His younger brother is the man my whole line descends from, because Saúl threw himself into the Grand Line waters on his nineteenth birthday. He never took a wife, and he never sired a child, because his too-strong Observation killed him before he was out of his teens." Law shivered. "Yeah," Rocinante sighed, "this kind of ability might sound cool, but — it's not very easy to live with. Still, my point is, I can see all these things. I can see every move in a human soul. No shields work on me, except for my own. No one has seen the circle of life more fully and clearly than I have. So what I first told you, kid — about remembering our dead — that's not philosophy. That's just a fact I've seen many times, in many people, including my own brother." He was silent for a while. There was this one dead man he and Doffy never talked about. He wished Doffy spoke of that man, even just one time; he wished that they talked about him, and what happened to him on that dark, dark day. He wished Doffy never, ever spoke of him once — never stirred that darkness again. Just thinking about it made Rocinante dizzy and nauseous even now, fourteen years later. If Doffy ever brought to light what he did on that dark, dark day — Rocinante broke off his thoughts. He didn't need another one of his strange nervous fits right now, like the fit that first made him start smoking. The kid was already stressed enough on his own. "You can trust me on this or not, but it's true," he finally finished after a long silence. "Do what you like with it, kid. You don't have to tell me a single thing, but it will be easier on you if you do. And — I want to know. You're my kid now. Everything that's important to you is important to me." Law stayed silent for a while, chewing on his lip till it bled. Then he said: "My little sister, Lami, she — she wanted to become a fashion model. She liked trying on mom's high-heeled shoes and stealing her red lipstick. She didn't look like a model, at all. She was silly and funny and chubby. She always wore pigtails, and she had the same dumb smile as you do." For the sake of his own mental health, Rocinante decided it was a compliment. "She always got in the way when I studied… kept demanding attention. I'd get so annoyed… She was so clingy. 'Brother' this, 'brother' that… 'Brother, let's go to the festival!' 'Brother, stop studying and play with me!' 'Brother, look, I drew you, do you like it?' She wasn't good at drawing, at all. And so noisy, she was… always laughed so much. Always shared her favorite ice cream with me… When she got sick, she was in so much pain, her face was all twisted all the time, and she kept biting her lips till they were all raw, and she kept calling for me… kept trying to smile for me. She was in so much pain… kept clenching her fists and her teeth, and she cried so often. Just couldn't hold back the tears, the pain was so strong… but she was always so quiet… didn't want me to hear her cry. She was so silly. And so cute, like a small kitten." Law shook. "I keep thinking… keep thinking if she hurt very much when she burned. She couldn't even get up, so weak she was… she could barely move, there was white all over her body. She needed a bedpan… mom had to handfeed her. She couldn't get up… I hid her in the closet when the shooting started, told her to stay still… she must have just sat there as she burned. Couldn't get out of the hospital, couldn't save herself… all alone in that dark little closet. And I wasn't there with her… wasn't there to save her. I wonder if — if she cried for me… She must have cried for me when she burned… and I wasn't there. Didn't even get to bury her… never buried them all. Never said goodbye… never said that I loved her. I loved her so much, Roci, so very much… and I never told her. Never told her once… Why did I never say it? Why? Why? Why?!" The sobs rocked and wrecked his body, and he wailed, and he hit his knees with his small pale fists, clenched so tight they were white, and he gasped and wheezed and choked on his tears, and Rocinante could see he could barely breathe. Sometimes this happened when someone cried really hard, so hard the throat got all swollen, and the nose clogged with snot. Rocinante sighed, grabbed the kid, put him in his lap, and pressed him into his chest — and felt Law cling to him like his shirt was a lifeline. The fabric warmly stuck to his chest where Law's tears and snot soaked it through. He hugged the kid tighter, and rubbed his back, and kept rubbing it till the kid stopped wheezing and shaking. There were people in the park, staring at them and whispering to each other as they gaped at the large Silent sphere around the bench, and the small crying child inside it — but it wasn't like they mattered. Let them watch if they had nothing better to do. When Law was all out of tears, he whispered, so quietly Rocinante barely heard him: "Her hair was the same shade as mom's… maybe she'd grow up to be just as pretty, and then she could really be a model. I'll never know. I wish I knew…" Rocinante listened and stayed silent; and minutes trickled by, pooling into hours, as the kid kept pressing into his chest. "The fish is cold," was what greeted them once they got to their suite. For this trip, too, Doffy got them a very nice suite with private access. It had its own kitchen, a private terrace with a barbecue, two bedrooms, floor-to-ceiling windows, a hot tub, and a walk-in wardrobe that was now chock-full of Doffy's shit. Sometimes, Rocinante's magnificent man could be the most ridiculous thing in the world. Like, say, when he showed off by having his dozen suitcases just roll after him seemingly on their own thanks to his invisible threads… or when he was this grumpy and jealous while still trying to look cool. "Kid," Rocinante said without looking at the kid, "go wash your hands." Then he put his palm on the nape of Doffy's neck, and drew him close, and said hello in no words at all. He came to because someone was pulling on his pant leg. He looked down and saw the kid in a — bathrobe? With his hair wet? And his face sourer than any dried plum Rocinante had ever tried. "What the fuck, kid," Rocinante said, still dazed and breathless. "Why did you get your hair wet?" "You were kissing for so long I had enough time for a shower," Law announced acidly. "Thanks for not fornicating in the hallway at least." "Now here's an idea," Doffy grinned. Rocinante poked at Doffy's nose with his index finger. "Dinner first," he declared. "You can heat it up, right?" "Actually, I haven't started it yet," Doffy confessed. "What was the point if I didn't know when you were coming back? And fish cooks fast anyway." "Why did you even complain, then?" "Complain? All I did was tell you the truth. The fish is cold, because it's still raw." Rocinante looked at Doffy's innocent grin for a moment. "Doffy," he said, "fuck you. Not now!" he slapped away Doffy's wandering hands. "You go cook, and I'll go change, and then we'll eat, and then you can —" right, there was a kid listening, "…take me to the shower." "Deal," Doffy grinned, and briefly, firmly kissed him on the corner of his lips. Doffy's grin felt like a sun exploding in the room. "I love you," Rocinante said apropos of nothing. There was an audible scoff from somewhere below. Doffy looked at him for a while, his hand absently petting Rocinante's waist under his shirt as Rocinante's hand kept absently petting Doffy's cheek. "Go change," Doffy said finally. "You look like a right mess." And for a brief moment, Rocinante almost regretted Law's presence: if it weren't for the kid, Doffy wouldn't be talking in words. But then there was a very telling, proprietary hand on his butt, and a loud, "Ew!" from below, and things were back to their new normal. Indeed, fish cooked fast. Rocinante only just managed to change after tripping all over the room and unfortunately ripping his sticky, kiwi-smelling blue jeans in two, when Doffy announced: "Dinner is served!" "Coming!" Rocinante called, and belatedly thought to add, "Please no puns, Doffy, seriously." "What, do you mean dining room sex is also out of the question? Your brat is all sorts of problematic," Doffy emerged on the doorstep of the walk-in wardrobe, critically surveyed the mess Rocinante made of the place, and scoffed like the poncy git that he was. "Note to self: never let you dress on your own," he murmured, prowling towards Rocinante. "Pah, like that's new. Besides, if you were to offer your help, I'd end up undressed," Rocinante grinned, rubbing his nose against Doffy's cheekbone. "Let's go eat, I'm famished." "So am I," Doffy said, dark and intent. Rocinante chuckled and fondly shook his head. "Really, that sex drive of yours…" "Pot, kettle." "True," Rocinante admitted, husky and breathy. "Let's go eat that damn fish, and then you can fuck my brains out in the shower. I'm starving for you," he let himself steal a kiss — just one kiss before he lost his mind and decided to forgo the dinner entirely. He didn't mind staying hungry for the sake of a round of fucking, but the kid needed his sustenance. The kid — Actually, where was he? Not in the dining room, that was for sure. Mystified, Rocinante Observed the place, and found the kid's aura in the guest powder room, looking like he was sulking for all he was worth. "A moment," he told Doffy. "Oh please, you're not the baby here, love, so quit pouting." "The food is getting cold," Doffy admonished, indignant like a true chef. "We'll be there in a moment." "You say 'a moment,' and then take hours." "Doffy," Rocinante told him sternly, "go put the food on my plate." With an emphatic swat on Doffy's delicious butt, he embarked upon the quest to the powder room to retrieve Law. "How did you find me?" the kid asked after Rocinante unerringly dragged him out of the small cabinet by the toilet. Rocinante just gave him a raised eyebrow. Then he remembered the kid couldn't see it anyway, due to Rocinante's thick bangs. But his face must have been plenty expressive, because the kid mumbled: "Okay, okay, I get it. Look, I'm — I'm not very hungry." "Then you can just keep me company," Rocinante suggested. "Please?" He doubted his act-cute tactic would work on anyone but Doffy, but the kid critically regarded his wide eyes, scoffed, and said: "Fine." Grinning, Rocinante happily grabbed his hand, and dragged him out of the powder room and to the dining room. Doffy was waiting, along with a full table of glorious creations that smelt so heavenly Rocinante nearly stumbled. (No, seriously. This time, it was absolutely because of the delectable smell rather than his natural clumsiness.) And then, he nearly stumbled again — this time due to Law's reaction to the sight of Doffy's grinning mug. Now that he thought of it, he had felt the traces of those feelings from the very start, since he first met Law this afternoon — no, scratch that, traces was too small a word: streaks was more like it. Wide, prominent streaks. He didn't make note of them first, due to the sheer blinding miracle of Law being there, but they were present even back then, if a bit dulled by Law's own enthusiastic reaction to Rocinante. Yet now, he could Observe as clearly as he could see Doffy's brazen, arrogant smirk: At one glimpse of Doffy's face, Law's soul was overrun with hatred and fear. The hatred was understandable, because that was how Doffy was: people either loved him to distraction, or hated him with a passion. But fear…? Or rather, terror, because a feeling that profound and chilling went far beyond the bland, simple 'fear.' This — was something Rocinante decidedly had to look into, he thought with a cold, foreboding trepidation of his own, and a simmering anger that had Doffy raising an eyebrow. But — that would have to wait until later. Right now, the kid was probably starving after all the crying and reminiscing, with just one ice cream cone to sustain him… and besides, he was so deplorably skinny in general. Law froze on the doorstep and wouldn't step inside, so Rocinante gently tugged on his hand. It felt like with that tug, Law snapped out of some sort of stupor. Slowly, reluctantly, he crossed the room and sat down at the table, as far away from Doffy as he possibly could. The three plates on the table were all full of lovely, golden-brown grilled dorado with garlic butter broccoli and sun-dried tomatoes: one of Doffy's specialties Rocinante liked best. The mere smell was enough to instantly make him drool. Law turned his nose up at the plate, and said once again: "I'm not hungry." Doffy scoffed. Rocinante glanced at Law, shrugged, and dug in. As he bit into the first piece and felt it melt on his tongue, he couldn't hold back a moan if he tried. "'S good?" Doffy murmured after swallowing his own mouthful. "You bet," Rocinante grinned. "Shoulda been a chef." "I'm not serving anyone but you," and fuck, Doffy's voice. Rocinante nearly forgot all about the mind-melting ambrosia on his plate, or the uneasy kid by his side. Law kept throwing furtive little glances at him as Rocinante chewed. Rocinante just thoughtfully savored the tender, flaky fish, and the buttery vegetables: exactly the right balance of soft and crunchy. One of the most ridiculous things about his Doffy was this: Doffy loved going to restaurants. He always took care to pick the right food and wine pairing, he only graced the very best places with his glorious presence, and he always made sure he looked posh enough to outposh every poshest patron. So from time to time, he'd stuff Rocinante into one of those bespoke dinner suits he had made for him, with a bowtie to boot; and then Doffy'd dress up himself, and put on a cummerbund, and style his hair till he looked so fine and slick he'd probably gladly fuck his own self — and then, he'd put on his shades, and turn around, opening his mouth to tell Rocinante to get up from the sofa and go out to slay. And he'd see Rocinante in that goddamn tux, sitting with his legs spread wide, a cig in his fingers — blowing out the smoke, and smiling at him. Doffy was the vainest thing in the universe — but it wasn't like his vanity was unfounded, seeing as Doffy was also the most beautiful thing in the universe, no doubt about that. It was an objective fact that no one could ever deny. It was no wonder Rocinante loved watching him preen in front of their ridiculously gaudy, ridiculously expensive gilded mirror. So when Doffy finally looked away from his achingly handsome mug in his achingly garish mirror, he'd see Rocinante's besotted face — And his own face would change — from his zesty, arrogant trademark look of 'let's go fuck up the night,' to something primal. And he'd prowl across the room, and take Rocinante's cig out of his mouth, and put it out — because, while hotter than the Big Bang, his Doffy was also very reasonable and didn't want one more fire to ruin their lovely penthouse once again. And then, he'd grab Rocinante, and bite into his mouth, and crush the perfectly ironed tux fabric in his greedy hands… and their restaurant reservation would end up broken, again. Honestly, Rocinante didn't know how the Marineford restaurants still made any in Doffy's name, what with his many no-shows. Yet the truth about Doffy — the overwhelmingly ridiculous truth — was that Doffy only frequented fine dining places for the sole sake of showing off, because he cooked better than any chef whose creations Rocinante had ever tried in Doffy's poncy company. …But then again, that was the quintessential Doffy: always better than the very best. Yet another reason why he favored restaurants was the restroom sex: there was something about stuffing Rocinante into a dress suit and then watching him eat oysters and drink champagne in the candlelight that always got Doffy's motor running. Even now, Doffy's hand on Rocinante's butt let him know that his moan of delight didn't go disregarded — or unappreciated. Rocinante threw a brief glance at him — as amused as it was heated — and broke a piece off what little remained of his fish; and then, he held out the piece, offering it to the kid. "Wanna try?" he asked. "I want to know if that's how you like grilled fish." "That's unhygienic," Law judged him, looking at the piece in Rocinante's fingers. His eyes were glinting with hunger. "I washed my hands, I promise," Rocinante chuckled. "C'mon, it's just one piece off my plate. It won't make a difference even if you're full." The decisive factor, it seemed, was the "my plate" part. Apparently, eating the food Rocinante offered was vastly more preferable to consuming a dish Doffy cooked. Law reluctantly let him put the small fish piece in his mouth. Then, with visible hesitation, he chewed. His eyes widened. His belly gave a loud, loud gurgle. Law blushed beet-red, and aggressively dug into the food on his plate. Apparently, belly gurgling was even less acceptable in his book than eating Doffy's cooking. Rocinante softly chuckled as he watched. Law glared at him as he kept chewing. "Sorry, kid," Rocinante smiled, "it's just that I'm so glad you're eating. I really want you to grow up healthy and strong, and you can't do that if you won't eat." "What do you care," Law grumbled with his mouth full, hiding his face. Rocinante sighed. "I do care, kid," he said. "I really, really do." Law kept doggedly chewing, and his eyes gleamed wet. But then, of course, Doffy intruded, putting a piece from his own plate in Rocinante's mouth — and Rocinante let him, and gently bit down on Doffy's magical fingers. Damn, it was hard, keeping in mind that fucking was currently out of the question, what with Doffy being like this by his side. But Rocinante could wrap his arm around Doffy's narrow waist, and lean his head on Doffy's hard shoulder, and feel Doffy put his chin on the top of Rocinante's head, and Doffy's soul bloom with a trembling, untamable tenderness. "I love you," the words came out of his mouth like just another exhale. His eyes were closed, his heart was full, and if true, perfect happiness existed, then this was it. Even the pangs of Law's resentment and jealousy couldn't ruin it, that golden hour happiness. He had his Doffy by his side, Doffy's soul ever gazing into his own, and when they were together like that, the rest of the world lost its meaning. "Right," Rocinante remembered after the simple dessert: roasted pears with blue cheese and grapes. "Kid. I take it you're healthy now?" He full well knew the answer was 'yes' — so why did his heart sink like that as he waited to hear it? "Yes," Law said, as soon as he managed to swallow a giant mouthful of pear and cheese that made his cheeks cutely bulge, chipmunk style. He even seemed just a bit less grumpy after that much good food. "Vegapunk wanted to keep me a bit longer, to research the long-term effects of the study therapy, but — uh, that was, um, just him playing safe, is all." "Kid," Rocinante squinted at him, immediately suspicious, "speak straight." "But it's true!" "What he's not telling you," Doffy purred, "is that the brat insisted on leaving once he heard it was an option. Apparently, he kept demanding to see you the whole time he was in therapy. Gave Vegapunk tons of trouble." Rocinante's face split in a wide smile. "You look stupid when you grin like that," Law criticized him. Doffy sighed as he watched on, disgruntled. "What do you even need this rude little liar for, sweetness," he idly wondered. "Hm? What do you mean, 'liar'?" "Why, he just lied to your face. Everyone knows you look cute at all times." Doffy's face, Doffy's voice, Doffy's soul said so much more than his words. Rocinante felt a hot wave wash all over his body, warming his cheeks. "Try and be decent, will you, Doffy?" he said breathlessly. "Oh? Do you really want me to be decent?" Doffy grinned, licking him all over with his sparkling, glimmering love. Rocinante promptly tomatified, and primly replied: "Doffy. Behave." Doffy grinned wider, looking just like a mischievous kid who well knew he was far too loved to get any grief for his mischief. Of course he heard his real answer, said in no words at all. Rocinante frowned at him, the corners of his mouth ticking up despite his best efforts to keep them still; pulled Doffy's ear for discipline, briefly, gently thumbing the earring as he let go; and pressed into his side, and remembered that Law existed. "So, kid," he went on with a cough, "how did it go? How did you like Vegapunk?" "I already told you, on the Den Den Mushi," Law grumbled. "But there was so much you couldn't say on the snail," classified this, strictly confidential that. The whole year, they had to refer to Vegapunk as the study doctor, so that any intelligence officers listening in on Rocinante's calls wouldn't get suspicious about the true identity of the study subject. "Tell me everything." A year ago, when Doffy came back from Vegapunk's research station after dropping off Law, he got promptly bombarded with a thousand questions on Vegapunk's medical opinion, his plans to treat Law, and other such crucial things. In response to them all, Doffy only said this: "Chill, sweetness. Your shit fits won't help anything." "How does Vegapunk appraise Law's condition and prospects?" Rocinante demanded. "He says the brat is a most exciting case that requires an innovative and creative approach," Doffy shrugged indifferently. "He's going to work on it in his spare time. I think he's quite excited." "Doffy," Rocinante pleaded, "will Law live?" "Vegapunk doesn't know," Doffy waved him aside, "and can't really tell for now. Whether a suitable therapy can be developed is to be determined only after extensive research and a series of experiments. This is what makes it fun, you know: the game element. You can never be sure about the exact outcome of the study, as it depends on so many concomitant factors, and on pure chance besides. The final landscape is never visible from the starting point — that's where half the excitement comes from, my love." Those two, treating people's lives like they were a math problem or a card game. Rocinante drew in his breath through clenched teeth. "You and he really are two peas in a pod," he spoke, his voice tight. "Okay, tell me this, then: do you think he can find a way to heal Law?" "That depends," Doffy repeated patiently, "but, if you're so eager for something to help you cope, my golden love, here's an obvious fact you already well know: Vegapunk is a damn genius. No other scientist or inventor is a match for him, or so much as comes close to him. Vegapunk achieved things everyone — including me — thought absolutely impossible. If there's anyone in the world who can work out a method to remove the deposits of deadly poison out of every cell of a human body, that would be him." And Rocinante gave a shuddering sigh, and let Doffy wrap his arm around his shoulder, and asked no more. "What did Vegapunk do, kid?" Rocinante asked now. "How does his treatment work?" (How did he work a miracle…?) Law's eyes lit up with unholy fire, the way Doffy's did when he was discussing this or that new and innovative weapon with Vegapunk on the snail; and with a sinking heart, Rocinante realized that Law was a nerd. "See, first he took samples and looked into the way the lead was stored in my tissues — he even let me assist with the analysis! It was amazing! His labs are really something else, I've never seen such equipment before —" "That's because he invented it," Doffy commented idly, flossing his teeth with his strings. Law sullenly glared at him, then went back to his speech: "Then, he thought to study how other living organisms reacted to lead poisoning. And it turned out that lead causes significant toxic effects in all animals, no exception — but with plants, it's very different. Apparently, algae and plants have mechanisms for holding lead within cell walls, away from the sensitive parts of their cellular machinery, thus minimizing the toxic effects. These binding mechanisms help exclude or limit lead from the cell nucleus, plastids, and mitochondria. Even more curiously, Vegapunk's red spruce studies showed that in these trees, the lead that was temporarily stored in the roots could be mobilized to other tissues. So Vegapunk just had to apply those findings to his Bloodline Elements manipulation technology — oh, but you have no idea, Roci, it's miraculous, I could have never imagined it was even possible —" "Okay, wait, wait, wait, kid. Doffy… can you please explain that again in short words? I'm no doctor." "You don't need to be one," Doffy grinned, entertained, "but it would be expedient for you to know botany, that's for sure." "What…?" "To explain this in very short, simple words: the squirt is now a seaweed —" "WHAT?" "And a tree." "Doffy," Rocinante said, very cold and intent, "so help me, if you don't tell me now in no uncertain terms how that quack doctor mutilated my kid, you can say goodbye to your balls." "But I thought that you loved them." Now that Rocinante thought of it, Doffy's remark was not unreasonable. "Okay then," he amended, "you can say goodbye to my balls, because you certainly won't be seeing them face to face till you speak clearly, you wicked man!" "Whyyyy," Law whined, "it's like living in bad porn. I deserve better than this! Besides, Vegapunk is not a 'quack doctor' — he's not a doctor at all!" "Who is he, then?" Rocinante smiled. It made him so happy, seeing his kid this lively and well. "He's a GENIUS," Law declared, his eyes burning with a fanatical fire. "So you're a fan," Rocinante chuckled. Law pursed his lips, clearly torn between his innate spite and his strong obsession with Vegapunk's talents. "What is he like? I've never met him face to face." "He's WEIRD," Law claimed, his face somehow half vexed and half worshipful. "Oh? I figured he'd have to be really weird to be Doffy's best friend. Oh please, love," he quelled Doffy's rising protest, "he calls you to complain over subpar pancakes, and you ask him for favors that might cost you both your heads. You're so best friends, no matter your 'gods this, vermin that' bullshit." "You'd better appreciate the colossal risk I took for your sake," Doffy said sourly, choosing to focus on that particular point. "The things I do for you, love." "I do value your fearless and selfless service, my loyal knight," Rocinante snorted, and gave him a short, firm kiss on the neck. "Rest assured, you will be rewarded." "Oh?" Doffy smirked. "So, how about those balls?" His hand crept to said balls, despite the presence of the indignant kid. Rocinante held it back by the wrist, and remembered: "Right! The quack doctor! What did he do? You'd better explain this to me very quickly, in very simple words, or so help me — " "Alright, alright," Doffy soothingly murmured. "Like the brat said, one of Vegapunk's greatest discoveries is the Bloodline Elements: the blueprint for life itself, present in all living creatures. Your Bloodline Elements determine the shape of your lips," Doffy trailed his index finger down Rocinante's mouth, "the sound of your voice, your height, your blood type, your butt size, your eye shape and color. Everything you are born with, is coded in those mysterious elements. Your every cell holds a blueprint for all of you —" here, Doffy softly cupped Rocinante's face in his palm, "and Vegapunk learned to read those blueprints… and recreate life based on what they say. With a single hair off your silly head, I could go to him, grovel a bit… and he'd make me a new Roci. Or ten, or a hundred, or even a thousand." "That's — scary," Rocinante said slowly. "On the contrary," oh, the way Doffy smiled at him, "I think it's amazing." "You would want to have a harem of me," Rocinante laughed. "Do keep going, love." "As you say, sweetness. Vegapunk's technology doesn't just let him create new organisms: with the methods and tools he developed, he can edit your Bloodline Elements to change the properties of your body. As far as I understand, he took a safe lead holding pattern he discovered in this or that plant, and applied it to the blueprint for the brat's body. So the lead deposits are now effectively isolated from the rest of his body, and won't poison him anymore." "So you mean to say they're still inside…? Isn't it dangerous?" "I can extract them if I want," a grumpy Law intervened. "Like I said, red spruce tree can — uh, move the lead around its body. And now, so can I. If I wanted to, I'd already be rid of it." "But you don't…?" "One of lead's properties is that it can be a bad conductor of electricity due to its reaction with atmospheric oxygen to form a layer of lead oxide, which doesn't allow electricity to pass through —" "Okay, alright. Doffy…?" Rocinante turned his pleading gaze to Doffy's entertained mug. "Why are you so stupid?" Law complained before Doffy could speak. "To dumb it down, I can force the lead out of my body —" he opened his palm, showing it to Rocinante — and suddenly, that pale palm gleamed a glossy white, "and when I do this, the lead oxidizes. With this coating, I'm immune to electric shocks. So even if I touch a Grand Line devil ray, its 2200-volt charge will not hurt me." "O — kay," Rocinante said slowly, "so you opted to keep a terrible toxicant inside your body… to be able to pet electric rays?" Law dismissively shrugged. "Who knows," he said, "some extra protection never hurts. Isn't there an electric Fruit?" "There is, but why do you think you'll ever encounter a Rumble-Rumble Fruit user?" "Why do you think I won't?" "Fair point," Rocinante had to admit. "Anyway, this is all very — cool." "Right?!" Law's eyes, soul, his whole person seemingly sparkled, and for the first time in Rocinante's memory, Law really looked like a child. "You have no idea, Roci — the findings of this clinical study will make history, and I was a part of it! Sometimes, I still can't believe it." Right, Law's hobbies were far from childish — even if they made him feel such pure, bright, colorful joy. Hopelessly fond, Rocinante hugged him around the shoulders, and ruffled his hair. The kid perfunctorily hit him on the arm, but he was so full he didn't even grumble. Then Rocinante remembered to ask another big question: "Doffy — the Government…?" His words were far from eloquent, or even coherent. But with the background and context knowledge they shared, and with their souls twined and growing into each other, Doffy didn't need Rocinante to speak clearly — or at all — to grasp what he meant. "Legally," Doffy spoke with an indulgent grin, "the brat is dead. No one on our crew reported him to the Headquarters or the Cipher Pols —" Their men were all unfailingly loyal, and those who weren't, never lasted long on the crew, thanks to Rocinante's continuous emotion/intent scanning, as well as Doffy's probing and grooming. "…And the records on Vegapunk's research station mark the brat's condition as a bad case of arsenic poisoning rather than the Amber Lead Syndrome or White Sickness. So on paper, no refugee left Flevance that night. Those who do know one did — our crew, that is — are not aware he's still alive. That's exactly why I chose to Geppo to Vegapunk's station, and used a String-String Chaika copy to bring the brat here." "But, what about the crew? Even with a String-String ship, some people had to man it, right?" "There was no one on board but me and the brat. The crew were my String-String clones." "That's — wasteful," Rocinante frowned. "This technique must require a lot of energy, are you sure you're fine doing something like this?" "Says the man with the most wasteful Armament technique ever," Doffy snorted. "True," Rocinante chuckled, and they stupidly grinned at each other for a moment or two. Then he remembered something important: "Doffy, our actual crew — they have the clearance to visit Vegapunk's station, right? And they know about Law. What if they ask — " "They only have any clearance because they're needed to keep Chaika moving, and I can't always simply Geppo to Vegapunk's station. They are expressly forbidden from disembarking, or engaging in any sort of contact whatsoever with the local staff. And, I ordered them to keep quiet about the kid, and never discuss him with anyone, including their own crewmates." Rocinante hummed, somewhat relieved: Doffy's word was more of a law to their crew than actual law was. But then — "But, if anyone ever sees Law's name on Vegapunk's records, they might be able to match it with the names on Flevance' civil register — " Then Rocinante looked at Doffy's unimpressed face, and wisely shut up. "Really, sweetness," Doffy shook his head, visibly disappointed, "do you think I'd put his real name on the records? Not that there was any chance for me to do so: on Unit 731 stations, biospecimens do not get to retain their names." "What…?" "This right here," Doffy grandly pointed at Law, "is Biospecimen #16733. Or Log One-Six-Seven-Double-Three, if you will. On Vegapunk's papers, it was put to sleep after a successful research project, so formally, neither Law nor Log exist anymore." "…What do you mean, log?" "That's what they call their test subjects in Unit 731," Doffy casually explained. "It's a tradition of sorts, stemming from decades before Vegapunk joined." "But why 'log'?" "You're thinking of a ship log, aren't you? That's not it, love. Unit 731 scientists have been calling their biospecimens 'logs' because of how a well-strapped-in test subject can't move even when vivisected with no anesthesia. Exactly like a wooden log." "And because they always burn the used biospecimens. Just like logs," Law supplied knowingly. Out of all the shit thrown at him just now, Rocinante's brain thought to concentrate on this one part: "They call people logs…?!" "I just told you so, dumbass," Law sneered judgmentally. "And you, too, were one…?" "In name only! In reality, I was treated like a guest. I had my own room, I ate well, and I could even go on walks!" "Why are you so skinny, then," Rocinante said mechanically, still trying to wrap his head around the idea of dissecting living people with no anesthesia and routinely disposing of used corpses through burning. "I don't know?" Law shrugged. "I spent lots of time in Vegapunk's labs… come to think of it, I might've been forgetting to eat every once in a while." "Vegapunk said he wouldn't mind keeping him for an apprentice," Doffy supplied. "Apparently, the brat has potential." "He did offer," Law acknowledged modestly, "but — I didn't really want to stay there." "You can always go back, now that you've seen my Roci," Doffy drawled very nonchalantly. "I believe Vegapunk's technology allows for appearance change. With a different face, body, and voice, no one will ever know you were one of the logs." "I like my face well enough, thanks," Law snapped. "Where are you going to stay, then? You have no home, not anymore," Doffy drove in with relish, "and you're certainly not staying with us in Marineford. If anyone ever finds out about your Flevance origins, that's Impel Down for me, Roci, and Vegapunk. Do you think I'll be taking that risk for your sake? You have very few options: it's either Vegapunk's labs or — ah, actually, that's the only reasonable option you have, Trafalgar Law of the White City." Still very much fazed by all the tea Doffy spilled regarding Vegapunk's workplace, Rocinante nevertheless snapped back to life when he saw Law's lower lip tremble, and his wide eyes fill up with tears. "Doffy, shut up," Rocinante said reflexively, and hugged Law once again. "Hey, kid… look at me." Law looked up. He was so pale. He looked so small and so scared, even though Rocinante could see he was trying to keep a stiff upper lip for all he was worth. "Do you trust me?" Rocinante asked. Law mistrustfully nodded. "Then believe me when I say this: you will have a home — a nice, good, safe home of your own — and you won't have to go back to Vegapunk if you don't want to." Which was, in fact, rather curious, because Law seemed plenty enthusiastic about his research and his general person… The thought of 'research' brought to mind the image of — biospecimens, strapped in, trembling and howling as a scalpel went into the skin on their stomachs. Rocinante felt sick. Doffy looked at him, sighed, and peevishly said: "Alright then, I suppose I can find someplace quiet to house him, so that he's out of the sight of the Government, and never bothers you anymore. Hmm, some backwater North Blue island might do nicely…" And Rocinante felt Law freeze under his arm, and gave him a comforting squeeze and a look that said in no words at all: 'You're safe with me, kid — and Doffy can go fuck himself.' Doffy did make some calls to his North Blue acquaintances the very next morning, and came up with some options. Rocinante patiently listened as Doffy laid out his grand ideas, which ranged from a countryside orphanage managed by a friend of a wife of Doffy's old buddy to an all-boys boarding school on the Whitejack island, which was famously so foggy it barely ever saw any daylight. "Charming," Rocinante said when Doffy was done talking and expectantly looked at him. "C'mon, love, this is getting ridiculous," Doffy complained. "You can't realistically expect to keep him forever, now can you?" No, Rocinante couldn't — first and foremost because a child from the White City would always be in grave danger around the Marines, or the Cipher Pol, or any other Government officials or agents, which comprised the vast majority of Marineford's population. Besides, he could Observe Law's reaction when he talked on the snail to his higher-ups, colleagues or subordinates: with him being a high-ranking Navy officer, even his free time was never quite free from urgent work matters. Whenever Law realized there was a Marine speaking on the other end, his resentment and loathing spiked so sharply they felt like arrows trained on Rocinante's soul. Law hated Marines, and the Government, and any Government folk. Rocinante was pretty sure Law would hate the Cipher Pols, too, if he knew those existed. Well, he did have a very good reason. Whenever Rocinante thought about it, he had to wonder why he himself was excluded from Law's burning, relentless hatred: after all, he was one of the chief killers of Law's home city. But that kind of thoughts was less than productive or helpful when it came to the crux of the matter: Where was Law to go when the Mae vacation was over? Rocinante thought about it for a while, as he kept declining Doffy's very reasonable, wholly unacceptable suggestions like Lvneel, Whiteland, or other such increasingly remote places. Doffy's obsessive, possessive jealousy would be hella cute if it didn't involve sending Rocinante's kid away to Heavens knew where. Doffy wouldn't even let him stay alone with the kid, like Rocinante and Doffy were fourteen and fifteen again, and Law was a pretty bar girl rather than Rocinante's own scrawny child. Whenever Rocinante tried for some alone time with Law, Doffy always emerged to hover nearby or straight out paw over Rocinante's person. Usually, it was their normal modus operandi: they were never separate if they could help it. Yet now, Rocinante'd dearly appreciate even a single opportunity to just talk to Law one on one, and tell him that no one was actually sending him to the North Pole. …He suspected Doffy would absolutely send Law to the North Pole even without Rocinante's approval, if he could only be sure he'd be able to pull it off with Rocinante being none the wiser. For some reason, Doffy hated the idea of Rocinante getting too fond of the kid — Rocinante would even say Doffy was afraid, if he weren't Doffy. His Doffy was always the strongest and greatest. He never feared anything in his life. But oh, he could be so silly, his Doffy, going out of his way to make sure Rocinante didn't get attached to the kid — when Rocinante already was, hopelessly and irrevocably. His attachment was very obvious, too, for anyone with so much as a single working eye, not to mention the Observation Haki Doffy was so very good at. But his Doffy was peculiar this way: whenever he didn't like a thing, he'd just keep denying it till it went away — or indefinitely if it wouldn't. Even now, he was staunchly refusing to face reality and admit that Law wasn't, in fact, just a passing fancy, and Rocinante wouldn't just magically forget and stop caring once the kid was halfway across the world. That habit of Doffy's would be almost cute if it weren't so dangerous — for Doffy himself first and foremost. When people liked to live in denial, eventually reality tended to bite them in the ass. But Doffy's hot ass was not Rocinante's chief priority now. (Well, it was, always, but — in a different way.) Law needed a place to stay — somewhere safe, comfortable and enjoyable even without Rocinante there to take care of him, for the most part of the year. Rocinante did have his vacations, and he was more than eager to spend them with Law, but those vacations were going to be separated by almost-one-year-long stretches when Law would have to make do on his own. Doffy was right: there weren't many options for an orphan like Law, with his perilous background and his lack of any relatives — but it didn't mean there were none. For a moment, Rocinante considered sending the kid to one of his friends like Kimin, but then promptly dismissed the idea — if only for the simple reason that his friends were all military, and Law hated the Navy. Meanwhile, the kid felt quietly doomed. He barely even snapped at Rocinante these days — instead, he just quietly trotted after him wherever they went, and he wouldn't ever leave Rocinante's side, whether they were on the beach, or in an amusement park, or in a restaurant, or in a shop. He wouldn't even go to the restroom on his own: he'd just wait for Rocinante to get up first, and then tag along. Mae was beautiful, and Rocinante was happy to have the kid by his side — and the kid's subdued terror ruined his entire vacation. At least half of that terror didn't stem from his dubious prospects. It stemmed from Doffy just — being there. Rocinante heavily considered talking to Law about the reason for his strange, profound dread, and eventually decided the kid was moody enough without any bold conversations. They'd talk later, he settled. They'd talk later, on the way to Law's nice new home, wherever it ended up being. Law's last few days on the magic island called Paradise in Paradise deserved to stay unstained by even more angst. Or so he told himself, as he looked at the kid, clammed up and stiff and morose — and then at his Doffy: as bright and beautiful as a rainbow, as perfect as a living god, as breathtaking as the sunrise sky. Well, at least Law eats well now, Rocinante consoled himself, …if with zero enthusiasm. As Rocinante patiently waited under the beach umbrella, his pale skin burned to lobster red under the scorching sun, till Doffy was done swimming in his pink flamingo tube and showing off his hot bod, while the kid silently pressed against Rocinante's ankle and stared at the sand with unblinking eyes; as Rocinante chewed on the famous local grilled turnovers with the kid munching by his side, looking like a right bunny; as Rocinante was sitting on Doffy's lap on the terrace, breathing in the night flowers, the fresh chill, and the smell of Doffy's body — the very best smell in the world — while the kid was restlessly turning from side to side in his bedroom, Rocinante kept thinking, thinking, and thinking some more, till the vacation was nearly over. A safe, peaceful, easily accessible island where the kid could thrive… And somehow, Rocinante thought he knew just the one. On October 6th, the day before they were set to leave, the three of them went to Rainbow Falls, aka the most beautiful place on the planet. At first, none of them could properly enjoy the views on the way. Doffy was, of course, acting nonchalant, as smooth and confident as he ever was — but the vacation was almost over, and he still hadn't managed to wheedle Rocinante into sending Law to the North Pole, which was displeasing and troublesome in his book. Law kept being quietly terrified, now more than ever, seeing as in less than a day now, the only room he could think of as his would stop being his. And Rocinante just didn't know whether to be more exasperated or worried. They were all so distracted they barely looked around as they hiked the first half of the narrow path to Rainbow Falls. But once they were there, even Law forgot his despondency for a while — his mouth agape, his eyes wide and shining. "Beautiful, isn't it?" Rocinante said quietly. Law silently nodded. "This world is wide and full of wonders… I want you to see them all," Rocinante murmured, and watched Law's gray eyes get all shiny with tears. "Don't you worry, kid. I'll take good care of you." "Promise?" Law demanded, his brow furrowed. "Promise," Rocinante smiled, and kneeled in front of the kid, and hugged him, just because he wanted to. "Sweetness," Doffy intruded, "wanna swim in the waterfall?" And he dragged off Rocinante without listening to his 'no.' They all got to swim in the waterfall, through the glimmering rainbows, thanks to the tubes helpfully provided by the guided tour company; and then, Doffy decided that a day this lovely deserved a special conclusion. In his book, that meant lobster. From a year ago, they knew a place that served the best lobster. It was still just as good as it used to be, and Doffy still looked funny as all hell in his lobster bib. "What?" he demanded with his mouth full when he caught Rocinante looking at him with a smile. "You're cute," Rocinante informed him, his cheek in his palm. "You look so adorable in that bib, like a little baby." Doffy's mouth quirked. "Is that a compliment, sweetness?" he murmured. "Just a cold hard fact," Rocinante kept watching him. He'd watch him forever if he could. Doffy wolfishly grinned. If they were alone, he'd already be biting into Rocinante's mouth, clawing at his ass with those iron fingers. But they were in a fine dining place, and Doffy was not allowed to fuck Rocinante in public — so he bit into the lobster instead, tearing the poor crustacean apart like it was a particularly insolent prisoner of war. As Rocinante watched the ensuing fountain of lobster guts and juice, he just had to think that in the past five years, Doffy's interrogation techniques were getting increasingly and unnecessarily violent… He was not the only one to observe Doffy's vicious ways. Law was frozen by his side, watching Doffy rip the lobster apart, as Doffy was cracking and scraping and biting and crunching and devouring the white tender flesh, like a right shark. Law had his own lobster on his plate, but he wasn't eating. In fact, he was feeling sick — And afraid. That fearful hatred Doffy's mere presence seemed to instill in him was a dark shadow over Law's whole stay on Mae, the Paradise in Paradise, known to be the most beautiful place in the world. And once again, Rocinante wondered: What did Doffy do to Law…? They needed to talk about it. They needed to talk about it long ago, the very first evening after the kid arrived. Rocinante kept thinking about it, planning on it — but somehow, something always came up: Law needing attention, Doffy being distracting… For some reason, Rocinante could never find the right moment for that damn talk. After dinner, Doffy cheerfully went to raid the wine shops with the famous local liquors: some would be going to his wine collection, and some to his more important connections. Maean wines cost an arm and a leg, but any true connoisseurs would swear up and down they were worth every belly. Doffy made a half-hearted attempt to drag Rocinante along. Rocinante silently pointed at the surly kid. "Children are allowed at liquor stores when accompanied by an adult," Doffy grumbled. "Not just any adult, but a parent or a legal guardian," Rocinante reminded him. "Pah, formalities," Doffy waved him away. "Doffy. None of us is legally Law's guardian, isn't that right?" "And exactly no one is going to care," Doffy promised him, his low voice so lascivious and so sultry: he was full with good food, and now he wanted something — someone — to fill up for dessert. Rocinante chuckled. "You wicked man," he said, with tenderness as unbearable as it was endless, "you're not terrorizing liquor store security guards with your Conqueror's. Just go alone, will you? Law and I will just go take a walk in the park." For a moment, Doffy looked pensive. "Fuck those wines," he decided. Rocinante raised a single eyebrow. Which was invisible under his bangs, but Doffy got the sentiment anyway. "Alright, alright, my cruel love," he murmured, the play-act despondence in his voice just a bit too sincere. "Don't take too long, will you?" They were in a restaurant, and a quiet waiter was coming to take the money in the server book, so Rocinante couldn't well kiss Doffy the way he wanted. So he settled for wrapping his soul around Doffy's, drowning it in the wide, blinding sea of his love. The left corner of Doffy's lips ticked upwards. I love you too, he mouthed. As Rocinante and Law were strolling through the busy park, the air ringing with the children's screaming and laughter, the night alight with the ornate lanterns and bright with the blooming flowers, so vivid even in the soft lantern glow, the kid sourly informed him: "You stink of lobster." "So do you," Rocinante chuckled. Eating lobster was always a messy business, even while wearing a lobster bib, even for non-clumsy people like Doffy or Law. "Did you like it?" "It was — alright," Law said, very obviously just for the sake of being polite. Rocinante sighed, and wondered if he should finally ask — What did Doffy do to you? …And decided against it. The kid was already agitated enough, and his last night on Mae deserved to be nice. Ish. "Look, I get that Doffy was a bit — enthusiastic with his lobster, but it's just that it's Doffy's favorite food. He always has it for his birthday, too… Come to think of it — kid, when is your birthday?" Law mumbled something, staring down at the ground. "Hmm?" "I said, it's today!" Law cried, and scowled so hard his whole face just about turned into a dried plum. "What…? Why didn't you tell me before?!" But Law just scowled even harder, and said nothing. Rocinante shook his head. "That's no good, kid. We gotta celebrate! What do you want for a present?" Once again, Law mumbled something that sounded about as distinct as mashed potatoes. "Come again?" "I said, I want to go someplace with no Doffy," the kid muttered, staring at the ground again. Rocinante looked at him, and his heart sank. There was definitely something the kid wasn't telling him, something big — something that involved Doffy being a major bastard. The worst thing was that Rocinante wasn't even surprised. Just hella angry… and worried sick. What an emotional business it was, parenting. He sighed, and kneeled in front of the shrinking child. "Hey," he said, "I think that's doable. But first, I gotta ask you a question." "What question?" Law tensed, wary. "It concerns Vegapunk —" The kid flinched. Strange; he had never shown fear of that name before. What was it about Rocinante's question that scared him this much? Filing the matter away for later, Rocinante went on, his voice hopefully as soft and gentle as it got: "I can see you're a fan, and Doffy said Vegapunk would like you for an apprentice. But — do you want to be on his team?" Law gave an audible sigh of relief — and really, the whole thing was most suspicious. Then he was silent for a brief moment. "You have no idea, Roci," he spoke finally. "He's — he's really — he's a genius, pure and simple. Whatever he does, he's like five hundred years ahead of our modern science. He easily cracks problems most scientists wouldn't even be able to comprehend. He's — his mind is the biggest miracle I've ever seen in my life." "That doesn't really answer my question," Rocinante said, not unkindly. Law scowled. "Just watching him," he said, "it's amazing, the things he does — his research, his experiments. But — I don't think this is something I want to do all my life. I've always thought I'd become a doctor, just like my parents, you know? My mom and dad did conduct some research, sure, but their main job was to treat people. That's — I think that's what I want. To save people's lives when no one else will." "And…?" Rocinante nudged him. "What do you mean, 'and'?" "There's an 'and' there, I can see. Spit it out, kid." Law shifted from one foot to the other, looking as uneasy as it got. "I — I don't want to work for the Government," he whispered, and said no more. Well, it wasn't like there was any need for him to explain. "I hear Vegapunk didn't really want that either," Rocinante said softly. "He never had much of a choice, you know. But I'll make sure you do." When he was eleven and Doffy was twelve, Sir Sengoku took them on a vacation to one curious winter island. Doffy was most displeased, and said it was the lamest vacation ever. In a way, he wasn't wrong, because the only reason why Sir Sengoku chose that particular island for a stay was that it was the best place to treat his injured spine. Even major Marine powerhouses like Sir Sengoku sometimes met their match in combat, and occasionally, the injuries were bad enough to leave lasting trauma. Sir Sengoku's spine wasn't broken, luckily, but it hurt like a bitch. Rocinante could both Observe it in his emotions, and see it in the way Sir Sengoku winced sometimes, or the way his face froze when he moved. But after that island, there was no more wincing. Rocinante was happy: he didn't want Sir Sengoku to be sick, and any place that helped make him non-sick was quite awesome in Rocinante's book. So he privately thought the vacation was good, if indeed a bit boring. And even if most of the time, he and Doffy were left alone while Sir Sengoku got his treatment, and the island had very few attractions to visit, the local woods still had very cute bunnies. Drum, it was called. The island of the best doctors on the Grand Line. Rocinante grabbed the kid. They were back in the hotel before Law could so much as yelp. "What was that?" he demanded once he got over his shock enough to speak. "You never explained how you do this!" "This is called Soru, and it's absolutely irrelevant at the moment. Kid," Rocinante gave him a mischievous grin, "grab your stuff and your Den Den Mushi. We're going on an adventure!" "What…? But — what about Doffy, is he — " "He's not coming with us." "But —" the kid started, clearly afraid to believe. "You're the birthday boy — today, your wishes are coming true. C'mon, kid," Rocinante kneeled, and briefly, firmly embraced him, and stood up, "let's go find you a home." Wide-eyed and dazed, Law still obeyed. From the day Law arrived, Rocinante remembered his bag was small: he barely had any clothes to wear, and most of his possessions were a few books with mysterious names. Rocinante himself was long used to packing his travel bag, so it took him about seven seconds at regular Soru speed. And then, he grabbed Doffy's feather — a pretentious thing with a golden tip — and with shaking hands, he scribbled a short note: 'Went to find Law a new home.' Damn, Doffy was so killing him later — but somehow, Rocinante was sure this was the right way to go. …He'd be so furious, his golden love. So worried, and so lonesome, and so sad. Just as sad as this child was, every second of Doffy's presence staining Law's soul with constant terror. Law was now Rocinante's kid, wasn't he? So he well deserved a few days of his undivided attention, a few days of not being afraid… before they parted for months. And as for Doffy — needless to say, Rocinante would call him a bit later on, and explain things, and tell him he'd be away for just a few short days, and after that, he'd be all Doffy's again, for a whole year. The note was blindingly white on the mahogany desk, the messy ink drops like brands of careless doom. With his back, Rocinante felt: the kid stood on the doorstep, his small bag clenched tight in his hands. He turned around. "Ready?" he grinned, trying his best not to look hysterical. The kid mutely nodded. Damn, was he really doing this…? Was he really leaving Doffy like this, if only for just a short while…? Shut up, Rocinante ordered his stumbling thoughts — and bent over, and picked up the skittish kid. "Hold on tight," he said, quietly, very gently, "we'll be going fast." He was nervous as all hell, but the kid didn't need to know that. He deserved the illusion that Rocinante was someone he could fully rely on. Once again, the kid nodded, his soul so scared and his face so resolute, and he clenched Rocinante's white shirt in his small pale fists — And then, they were off.
Cairo, Egypt. January 8th, 1989. They had finally arrived at their destination, several days before. Their mission was far from over, yet the end was fast approaching. All they had to do was find the mysterious place that appeared in Joseph and Hermit Purple's photos. But it was far from easy, and the research was particularly exhausting. No matter where they were going, they had to ask for any information from the Cairenes. Like, for example, asking a café's owner when they stopped for lunch. And asking customers too on the way. But no one seemed to know. Annoyed, our companions were about to leave when a man called out to them: "Personally... I have already seen this building." He was a short man, seated behind a poker table. He was rubbing his mustache and shuffling a deck of cards with a sly look in his eyes. "No doubt possible, it is this one. I know where it is. - What, is it true?" Joseph asked, regaining hope. "So tell us everything! Where is it? - You expect me to tell you for free? - Oh, yes, sorry. You deserve a reward", the old Joestar admitted, reaching into his pocket. "Here, ten pounds. So? - Haha... I really like games. I can't get enough of the thrill they give me. It is largely thanks to them that I can provide for myself. Do you like betting? - I don't understand. - If you don't like it, say so right away. - What the hell do you want? - I simply suggest that you play with me. If you win, I'll give you the information for free. - To be honest, I think I'm a good player. But we don't have time to play poker. I'll add twenty pounds if you'd like. - We can bet on everything and anything, it won't take long. For example... You see the cat on the wall over there? How about betting which slice of fish he will eat first? So? Simple but exciting, right? - I'm sick of this!" Polnareff exclaimed, banging his fist on the table. "Take your thirty pounds and tell us what you know. Quickly! - Polnareff", Joseph sighed, "stay polite, he wants to help us. - In this case, I take up the bet! He'll take the one on the right! - Good", the man replied, a smirk on his face. "We can have fun. - This guy is a User", (Y/N) sighed, glass of iced tea in hand. "If he tricks you all, don't complain. It would go much faster if we ora ora-ed him from the beg-" The man glared at her. Avdol put a hand over the young woman's mouth to silence her and she groaned in frustration. Why didn't they ever listen to her? But Jotaro gave her a sideways glance to show her that he understood. He would get ready to potentially fight. "What do I have to put into play myself?" Polnareff asked. "A hundred pounds? - I don't need the money. Would you play your soul? - Ha! Yeah, sure. - I give up", (Y/N) said, managing to get rid of Avdol. "You never listen to me, I'm going to get more tea." And when she came back from the bar with another glass of tea, of course, Polnareff was lying lifeless in Avdol's arms. He had lost his soul to the game, and there was nothing Jotaro could do or they would lose him forever. Seeing the furious look the young woman was giving them, her three remaining companions gulped with difficulty. "... How did you know?" Avdol asked hesitantly. "Do you know many people who'd refuse thirty pounds for such trivial information as a building? - ... no", Joseph admitted. 'Bunch of idiots. You always get yourself in trouble because you trust strangers too much. A little common sense, for fuck's sake! - (Y/N) Zeppeli", the enemy muttered, smiling. "It's a pleasure to meet a woman of your status. My name is D'Arby. - I am the one dealing with souls, you sick man. I'm not letting you steal my job. - Here is Polnareff's soul", the man said, putting a token on the table. "Shall we play?" Avdol jumped on him and grabbed him by the collar, ready to punch him in the face. It was rare to see him lose his temper like that. But Polnareff was no longer breathing. It was enough for him to get into such a state. D'Arby made a little monolog that (Y/N) didn't listen to because she was furious. But Joseph knocked over everything on the table, looking determined. He put down a glass and filled it with bourbon, looking gloomy. (Y/N) understood immediately. "Mr. Joestar, don't do this. He's trying to get us one by one. - The rules are simple", Joseph ignored her. "One at a time, we will put coins in this glass. Whoever makes it overflow loses. I'm putting my soul on the line." (Y/N) slapped her forehead in frustration. Why did they all have to have inflated egos? "This is madness!" Avdol exclaimed. "He cheats like he breathes! - I won't let him! I chose the game. Jotaro, make sure he doesn't cheat. - I accept the bet. But first let me inspect the coins and the glass. - Naturally. Just one thing. Show us that you will return Polnareff if you lose. - I'm a player, I have my honor. When I lose, I pay my debts. But that won't happen. - Alright, you can start. Put a coin. - Good luck, Mr. Joestar", (Y/N) sighed. "I feel like I'm going to need a lot more than iced tea." She went back to the counter to order a glass of wine, which she drank bottoms up, jaw clenched. She had to find a solution, and fast. This User was a seasoned cheater, that was obvious. She had to find a game he couldn't cheat on. A game where only she could win. And of course, when she returned to the others, Joseph was already dead. But even worse, Avdol was this close to kicking D'Arby in the face. Quick as lightning, (Y/N) grabbed his arm. "Muhammad. We still have a chance to save them, don't ruin it." Avdol was shaking with rage. She pulled him away from D'Arby who was snickering. At the same time, Jotaro discovered the deception used against Joseph. "I thought I had warned you," the enemy muttered. "It is only cheating if it is noticed. - ... you and me, Jotaro groaned. "We'll settle this in poker. - Interesting! Poker is my specialty! - I'll put my soul at st- - I'll put my soul at stake", (Y/N) cut him off. Jotaro's eyes widened and D'Arby sneered. "Isn't that lovely!" the man exclaimed, applauding slowly. "Miss Zeppeli finally decides to play to save her knight's life! I like it when the roles are reversed- - Shut up. Forget poker. We're gonna play my game. By my rules. - (Y/N), what are you- - Trust me, Jojo. - I'm listening", D'Arby said, smiling. "Take my soul. And I bet you I can come back here, with Mr.Joestar and Jean-Pierre as a bonus. - (Y/N), it's completely fool!" Avdol exclaimed. "Deal!" D'Arby snapped his fingers and (Y/N)'s soul escaped from her body. She fell backwards and Jotaro caught her, looking grim. Her skin was suddenly so cold... It was suicide. He clenched his jaw and lifted her to sit her lifeless body close to the others. He couldn't sit there waiting for her to come back. Because if she didn't come back... "Take your cards. I'll put my soul at stake." When (Y/N) opened her eyes, she was in a small dark room. Her soul was undoubtedly locked in a small casino chip. She looked at her hands, as transparent and nebulous as those of the ghosts she had encountered in her life. And speaking of ghosts... "Caesar?" The doors of Last Judgement opened, comforting her in the idea that she would keep her Stand even in the afterlife, since it was part of her. Caesar got out, and the shock could be read on his face. "Don't tell me you... - I'm not really dead. My soul was simply stolen. - I don't see any difference. - Help me get out of here. - You control death, cara. Not me. You just have to move freely. You'll see, it's a little scary at first." He took her hand. And for the first time, she was able to fully feel his hand in hers, making her smile ear to ear. Her great-uncle protected her. She had nothing to fear, not even death itself. So she walked through the doors of Last Judgement without an ounce of fear. On the other side of the door, she found Polnareff's soul, locked in its own token. "...(Y/N)?! But how... - This idiot wanted to play with death itself. I'm going to teach him a lesson for disrespecting us. Come." Polnareff's face lit up and he admired the young woman for a moment. There was no denying that his little sister had grown up well. He looked away at Caesar who nodded to him. "...Caesar, I guess? - Himself. Nice to meet you, Jean-Pierre Polnareff. - We don't have time to talk", (Y/N) interrupted them. "I don't know how long we can survive here. - Aren't we dead? - Not really. Just separated from our bodies. Let's hurry." She walked through the doors of Last Judgement again, not thinking about what would happen next. Joseph's soul was there. And it clicked in the young woman's head when Caesar entered after Polnareff. Joseph looked up at him with his big turquoise eyes and if he hadn't already been dead, he would have gasped. "Y-...Caesar!! - Jojo!" They threw themselves into each other's arms and (Y/N) couldn't help but smile. She vividly remembered telling Joseph that it was better to mourn than play with death, but seeing them together warmed her heart. They deserved it, if only for a moment. "You did not change! - And you find it surprising?" Caesar laughed. "Old pal! - Heh! - You're all wrinkled. - You wouldn't have escaped aging just because of your beautiful eyes! - Of course I would, I would still have my baby-smooth skin. - That's it, bullshit!" Both men were laughing. And (Y/N) was starting to know the glint in their eyes too well. It was the same love she carried in her heart when she'd look at Noriaki and Jotaro. The same love in Polnareff's tears when he'd mourned Avdol's disappearance. (Y/N) felt a twinge in her heart. They had to leave. "... Mister Joestar." His face in Caesar's hands as the Italian was examining his slightest features, Joseph looked at the young woman. And he understood immediately. An immense sadness seized him and he put his hands on the Italian's who sighed. "... I'm sorry, Caesar. I have to save my little Holy. - I know, Jojo. I am very proud of you." Joseph forced a big sad smile. He couldn't cry in this form, and maybe that wasn't so bad. Caesar leaned over to whisper something in his ear and the old man nodded, his cheeks slightly rosy. Then he straightened up and turned to his companions, looking determined. "I'm ready. Let's go back." (Y/N) led them through the gates of Last Judgement. And their souls reappeared in the café, where Jotaro was bluffing his poker game like a pro. Already under pressure from his part going wrong, D'Arby missed having a heart attack as he saw the three ghosts appear in front of him. Avdol and Jotaro couldn't see them, since they couldn't control death. But the enemy was even paler than a corpse. "I won, d'Arby," the young woman laughed, pointing at him. "Checkmate." D'Arby fell backwards and the three souls rejoined their bodies. It was a particularly unpleasant feeling to suddenly be attached to the gravity and complications of the human body. But that unpleasant feeling quickly faded when she felt Jotaro's arms around her waist. After a moment of hesitation, she put her arms around his neck and hid her face in his neck. "... I never thought I'd say that, but I'm so glad I can smell your stinky cigarette odor again. - ... you died in my arms and that's the first thing you wanted to tell me?» She burst out laughing and he hugged her tighter. He didn't care if the clients in the bar were watching the scene with sick curiosity. For a moment, he'd thought he had lost her. He could use a full pack of cigarettes to relax now. Polnareff had taken refuge in Avdol's arms who kept checking and rechecking if he was alive. From a distance, Joseph observed them all, a faint smile on his lips. He ran his hand over his cheek, trying to remember the feel of Caesar's fingers on his skin. And as D'Arby laid on the ground, passed out from the pressure, all of his stolen souls flew out to walk through the gates of Last Judgement with dignity and finally die in peace.
drumroll this fic is undergoing edits!! woooooooooo!! the main things being changed are as follows -slight format changes -adding more personality to characters -yeeting the lore -yeeting the non chatfic chapters and sections -anything i deem "bad" as this fic is a year old and i have changed my perspective on my writing -once it's all complete you'll be due for a rereading because some new content will be added in -also some of the early non-chatfic chapters that contained headcanons or information have also been yeeted you may continue on now traveler, enjoy the journey however if you are displeased with these changes, i respectfully do not give a shit i am the author, not you it will not hurt my feelings if you move on from this fic im doing this to make the fic better, if you think it's not better than before then i am truly sorry but its going to be changed no matter your views on it have a lovely day <3 3:48am Dream made a group chat! Dream added 16 people! 5:27am George: what the fuck 6:13am Dream: wait that's what I forgot Dream changed 17 names! dudududu: that's better unus annus but make it alive: did you even sleep I- my name dudududu: sleep is for the weak technoplaneeeeee: they speak the truth drinker of coca cola: wow techno agreeng with somone technoplaneeeeee: tommy my sword is right beside me drinker of coca cola: sudenly i am ssilemt father to all: All you little fucks shut up you have school soon. drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: These names- It keeps getting better father to all: Go get ready for school or I'll cancel Saturday. drinker of coca cola: YOU WOULDNT dudududu: YOU CANT DO THIS TO US technoplaneeeeee: he would that man is heartless sad songs go brrrrrr: he has no soul father to all: Go. unus annus but make it alive: everyone ruN 7:40am dudududu: wait everyone introduce yourselves u all probably know each other but the names might not make sense to some people inside jokes go brrrrr do ur pronouns too ig u all know im dream but for pronoun refresh its he/they/it/xe in order arson?: snapchat he/him SAPNAP NOT SNAPCHAT ITS SAPNAP dudududu: LMAO SNAPCHAT sad songs go brrrrrr: haha L wilbur he/she unus annus but make it alive: L ranboo they/he/void awake not found: Sapnap u suck L George he/they/it drinker of coca cola: TOMMY INNIT HE/HIM GET WRECKED SNAPMAP technoplaneeeeee: technoblade he/it our monarch: Eret, any pronouns! nice but sweet: niki she/they!! :D father to all: I can see the school bus if you aren't on it you should probably start running. Philza, he/him. drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: oh shIT THANKS KARL HE/THEY dudududu: CURRENTLY SPEEDRUNNING awake not found: RUN muffin<3: bad, he/him :3 arson?: L imagine not being on the bus unus annus but make it alive: sapnap i can see you running beside the bus right now through the window arson?: no u don't aha? sad songs go brrrrrr: i decided to drive to school today i finally get to relax drinker of coca cola: RANBOO OPEEN TH E BACK DOOJER unus annus but make it alive: ON IT BEES?: WEEEEEEEEEE OH UH TUBBO HE/XE ranboo yur shoess on wronhg unus annus but make it alive: shit they are also stop typing one handed while upside down ur gonna die or smth BEES?: but its fun D: drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: dream are you on the roof dudududu: you gotta do what you gotta do karl BEES?: can't you and boo teleport dudududu: yeah but like im tired so unus annus but make it alive: i teleported on the bus i didn't feel like waiting alone at the school gates BEES?: fair enough i suppose quack quack: quackity he/him also bruh i swear this bus driver hates me he always drives away right as i walk up sad songs go brrrrrr: QUACKITEEEEEEEE quack quack: WILBAH sad songs go brrrrrr: QUACKITEE DO U WANT ME TO DRIVE U quack quack: YES PLEASE drinker of coca cola: WILBUR I LEFT MY LUNCH ON THE COUNTER CAN YOU GRAB IT PLEASE sad songs go brrrrrr: yknow what sure drinker of coca cola: THANKS BIG MAN awake not found: dream get off the roof we need to cross check our math answers dudududu: oh yeah mkay im comin through the sky window thing captain: puffy, she/her man im glad i graduated now i dont need to ride the bus to school technoplaneeeeee: you instead ride it to work captain: livin the high life techno father to all: Alright I'm assuming everyone has a ride so if you aren't able to make it to school speak now. Everyone has a ride good. 8:25am awake not found: Why did sapnap just get floored by a flying techno with dream on his back wielding an axe technoplaneeeeee: it's all in the name dudududu: speedrunning waits for no man drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: im sorry he f l e w? sad songs go brrrrrr: you get used to it muffin<3: is he okay??? autocorrect who: ush qjsr bad aosc our monarch: my eyes are bleeding /lh technoplaneeeeee: ^^ dudududu: ^^ awake not found: ^^ drinker of coca cola: ^^ drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: ^^ unus annus but make it alive: ^^ quack quack: ^^ sweet but nice: ^^ captain: ^^ sam nook: ^^ father to all: ^^ BEES?: ^^ sad songs go brrrrrr: ^^ arson?: ^^ father to all: Well he answered so I guess so Bad. autocorrect who: eoh gyi hiusdb hb sam nook: this is why his name is autocorrect who captain: if he had autocorrect I'm not sure it would even work muffin<3: hey! don't bully skeppy! and sapnap are you sure you're okay? awake not found: he passed out technoplaneeeeee: lol dudududu: dont worry we got corpse and toast to lift him BEES?: who? dudududu: corpse and toast BEES?: these names mean nothing to me dream dudududu: okay and thats not my fault unus annus but make it alive: those two seniors you played among us with that one time at the basketball game BEES?: OH THEMMMM they were fun i like them dudududu: yeah theyre really nice sad songs go brrrrrr: dream how dare you have friends outside this circle the audacity /j dudududu: its hard being someone with a social life sad songs go brrrrrr: i can imagine the struggles you go through to live like this dudududu: its so difficult wilbur :pensive: technoplaneeeeee: dream this isn't discord stop using discord emotes in places that aren't discord i swear dudududu: i cant believe ive been betrayed like this :sob: technoplaneeeeee: i'm divorcing you dudududu: wait we were married technoplaneeeeee: platonically yeah dudududu: well duh platonically idiot technoplaneeeeee: oh fuck off dudududu: fine bitch bye technoplaneeeeee: bye BEES?: i just witnessed a divorce unus annus but make it alive: how do you feal drinker of coca cola: what are you his therapist unus annus but make it alive: yes now shush we're mid session BEES?: i am intrigued and yet distraught what will become of them who gets the kids dudududu: we dont have shared kids BEES?: i am now less distraught 9:03am drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: sapnap's fine quack quack: i think the nurse is staring down karl dudududu: she most definitely is awake not found: this is concerning arson?: saved by the bell unus annus but make it alive: e v e r y o n e s c a t t e r 2:19am dudududu: hey @BEES? i found a snake BEES?: W H E R E captain: woah woah woah what if it's poisonous and also really dream? drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: oh no we've established that it's harmless nice but scary: how was this fact discovered? BEES?: I don't care if it could kill me or not where the fuck is it unus annus but make it alive: dream did not get bitten by it if that's what your asking niki :D technoplaneeeeee: you're* also wtf dream how? dudududu: tubbo you know the lake its like 14 steps from that angry duck you feed which we fed already as to how i was bitten we have no clue drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: we actually don't unus annus but make it alive: oh hey tubbo the snake is around Dream's head captain: this is scaring me more by the minute nice but scary: yeah you do know that snakes can have slow poison right? or is it venom- dudududu: well if i drop dead make sure i look good in that casket and that the flowers are cornflowers or i will come back and haunt all of you technoplaneeeeee: noted our monarch: tubbo what is the snake's name captain: oh gods eret don't encourage him BEES?: well the snake is a he so his name is Sylvester unus annus but make it alive: do I get custody as well BEES?: sure dudududu: sweet karl and i have a new nephew now father to all: It is 2 in the morning why the fuck are you all up and why are the mystery trio at the lake? technoplaneeeeee: oH EVERYONE SCATTER dudududu: GO GO GO our monarch: ESCAPE unus annus but make it alive: RUN drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: AHHHHHHHHH captain: no why were you at the lake nice but scary: ^^ BEES?: I dunno why they were there but I'm glad cause I have a snake and a mc flurry now unus annus but make it alive: WE'VE BEEN COMPRIMISED dudududu: KARL YOU GO TO THE PLACE RANBOO GET TUBBO ILL GET THE FOOD drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: YES SIR unus annus but make it alive: YES SIR BEES?: I have no clue what is happening but I do know Ranboo is carrying me and running I'm very impressed technoplaneeeeee: wow I want a mc flurry hey phil while your hunting them could you bring me one father to all: No because you're also awake technoplaneeeeee: dang so if i was asleep and asked for one would i get it father to all: No probably not our monarch: okay we're safe father to all: I know where all of you live, you're never safe dudududu: lmao not us drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: we are safe here BEES?: wait does this mean I'm the first to see your home it's very pretty unus annus but make it alive: thank you tubbo :D but no someone has been here before you BEES?: oh who unus annus but make it alive: we have been sworn to secrecy drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: that we have BEES?: you don't know do you dudududu: they dont lmao our monarch: oH NO father to all: I found them captain: I SWEAR I WAS UP CAUSE TUBBO COULD HAVE DIED nice but scary: same here!! father to all: You are safe for now technoplaneeeeee: wait no he's coming for me now- BEES?: o7 unus annus but make it alive: don't worry tubbo technoblade never dies dudududu: can confirm unus annus but make it alive: wait wtf how can you confirm that??? drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: ^^ BEES?: ^^ captain: ^^ nice but scary: ^^ our monarch: ^^ father to all: 1. ^^ 2. Eret how did you type that? our monarch: no comment technoplaneeeeee: dream was joking dudududu: I was father to all: I don't believe this but it's 2am so all you little shits go to bed you have school nice but scary: wait when are we getting tubbo back? drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: eh you'll probably see him at school captain: probably??? karl karl I swear to the gods if you don't answer me dudududu: he crashed cause he had so much sugar it knocked him out tubbo's fine he'll live until the morning we think nice but scary: you think?? dudududu: may I remind you that no one in this house can cook neither can tubbo for that matter captain: fair our monarch: just don't kill him or sylvester father to all: Okay how are you doing that Eret Also I said sleep So go. unus annus but make it alive: oh no he brought the punctuation back everyone hIDE- dudududu: dude we are at home rn BEES?: I can feel the father glare from here,,, wherever here is,,, unus annus but make it alive: we aren't telling you dudududu: oh wait i feel what tubbo was talking about but no <3 technoplaneeeeee: what a power move 7:55am drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: so i wake up and dream is just kinda gone unus annus but make it alive: he w h a t BEES?: so does this mean what i think it means arson?: NO awake not found: NO muffin<3: NO sam nook: NO our monarch: ant would also like to say, NO BEES?: no manhunt sadge drinker of coca cola: who made tubbo sad technoplaneeeeee: you would know if you used more than two braincells drinker of coca cola: okay first off fuck you second of all why can i not type in caps still dad said to take off the thingy that stops me from yelling technoplaneeeeee: he asked me to remove it and as I don't have the abilities to do so I have broken no laws sad songs go brrrrrr: the loopholes check out technoplaneeeeee: also karl ranboo and tubbo I know where dream is awake not found: oh are you sparring with each other technoplaneeeeee: not necessarily with each other father to all: not again drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: i'm lost unus annus but make it alive: hey that's my line but same sad songs go brrrrrr: I'm not lost cause I was sworn to secrecy B) drinker of coca cola: why is everyone sworn to be quiet arson?: wilbur you were blackmailed weren't you sad songs go brrrrrr: I will neither confirm nor deny this our monarch: oh I see why phil said not again this makes sense BEES?: what makes sense? dudududu: :D awake not found: oh now he answers arson?: said the person who's sleep schedule is the equivalent of the line on a heart beat monitor unus annus but make it alive: someone please explain where dream is and by extension techno??? sad songs go brrrrrr: let's just say I'm not the only dirty crime boi father to all: if they get caught I am not bailing them out again dudududu: don't worry we came prepared technoplaneeeeee: explosions are fun BEES?: EXPLOSIONS?? AND YOU DIDN'T BRING ME??? drink monster or i will steal you kneecaps: oh he's doing crime that's fine unus annus but make it alive: yeah last time we lost him let's just say it took a bit to find him again awake not found: but wait how did eret know? our monarch: oh easy it was on the news arson?: it's what dudududu: oh sweet we made it on the news this time muffin<3: this time? technoplaneeeeee: did you miss the part where phil said I'm not bailing you out again BEES?: still pissed you didn't bring me,,,, dudududu: maybe next time sam nook: have we all just accepted they are doing crimes sad songs go brrrrrr: pretty much yeah drinker of coca cola: what kind of crime arson?: arson? technoplaneeeeee: a little bit of everything quack quack: that's concerning dudududu: eh probably father to all: All of you get to school except Dream and Techno because I want to see how this plays out technoplaneeeeee: parent validation let's go dream dudududu: oh thank fuckkkk i really did not want to do that math test today awake not found: screw you arson?: commit arson for me and I might forgive you dream dudududu: i will set fire to the old gas station that no one chills at anymore is that good muffin<3: steal me a muffin drinker of coca cola: bad condones crime pog??? muffin<3: no I'm just hungry and the owner of the shop I used to go to is homophobic technoplaneeeeee: so he's a vigilante our monarch: set the homophobe on fire technoplaneeeeee: done dudududu: done sad songs go brrrrrr: murder is a little far but I'll allow it father to all: Don't go to jail and we can all stake out at the lake Now everyone inside I do believe some of you have a math test today arson?: ughhhhhhhhh awake not found: what he said 11:24am technoplaneeeeee: burn the homophobe dudududu: check technoplaneeeeee: burn the gas station dudududu: check technoplaneeeeee: spar in the middle of the street and have the cops chase us for three hours dudududu: check technoplaneeeeee: steal the entire stock of the homophobe's store dudududu: check technoplaneeeeee: are you really eating that entire cookie cake dudududu: i have another do u want it technoplaneeeeee: what kind of a question is that of course I do awake not found: why the fuck are you using the group chat dms exist you know arson?: yeah dude I'm in that mean teachers class dudududu: ew her father to all: why didn't you just talk out loud to each other dudududu: i lied the police chase is still on technoplaneeeeee: yeah they're trying to figure out how we got on the roof of the building with no roof access and also how to get on the roof themselves muffin<3: thanks for getting the muffin :D captain: are we just gonna skip past the part where they both said they were eating whole cookie cakes BEES?: I know and without me, for shame our monarch: they dropped off two for me Tubbo I'll come get you from school in roughly 10 minutes awake not found: you live 18 minutes away???? also sapnap just got his phone taken lmao dudududu: 1. its called speed gee-or-egg 2. lmao 3. are you in the fucking vents again dont lie i know you dont have that class awake not found: surprisingly no I'm watching through the window and making sapnap laugh technoplaneeeeee: DREAM THEY'RE GETTING THE SEARCH HELICOPTER GO GO GO dudududu: OH FUCK NOT AGAIN SHIT SHIT SHIT father to all: Last I checked none of the crimes are worthy of a search helicopter what did you do captain: again????? when was the first time????? dudududu: SO WE UH MAY HAVE GOTTEN AWAY WITH MULTIPLE ACCOUNTS OF MURDER, ARSON, AND ILLEGAL WEAPON OWNING ALONG WITH A FEW OTHER MINOR ACCOUNTS OF CRIME LIKE STEALING father to all: and this all occurred between the hours of 8 and 11 technoplaneeeeee: well it kinda piles up after a while but I'd say we broke at least 18 laws each today, oh and that one account of, and I quote, 'damaging international relationships' dudududu: oh yeah kinda forgot about that one captain: dream. dudududu: OH MY WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT IM LOOSING SERVICE BYE GUYS technoplaneeeeee: I would say coward but I'm just gonna silently slip out the back- BEES?: eret is that you swerving violently outside our monarch: yes get in BEES?: how I'm stuck inside drinker of coca cola: two men just broke the window, swung in, yelled attack of the gays, stole tubbo and left i used this distraction to my advantage and snuck into the computer lab BEES?: can confirm this did happen I am now with three people in a car eating an entire cookie cake father to all: Today is very interesting George, has Sapnap been sent to detention yet? awake not found: we both have dudududu: is jail just societys detention technoplaneeeeee: HOW ARE YOU TYPING WE ARE RUNNING dudududu: i mean you seem to be doing just fine turn right awake not found: sapnap is mad at me lol father to all: Remember I said if you don't get caught we can camp out at the lake BEES?: eret I have accomplished my mission can we go see if the ice cream machine is working our monarch: sure why not I'm in the mood for mc donalds dudududu: we'll be there in 5 eret technoplaneeeeee: so food then safe house dudududu: ye captain: you have a safe house dudududu: would you rather us get arrested again also we dont have a safe house we have like 12 technoplaneeeeee: have to say those cells are trash 0/10 would not return BEES?: how many times have you been arrested dudududu: just the once technoplaneeeeee: yeah it was so bad that we decided not to come back captain: you say that as if it's a choice father to all: It is 9/10 times if you're them our monarch: where are you two dudududu: slight detour the cops circled back we'll be 3 more minutes tops sam nook: I'm more amazed that they can type so well while fleeing the authority and then we have skeppy drinker of coca cola: i asked once and dad just said it was an art they perfected sad songs go brrrrrr: techno won't teach me the audacity dudududu: he said "you have to become worthy" BEES?: why are you saying it for him? dudududu: technoplane :D awake not found: sapnap just shot up wtf oh I backread makes more sense drinker of coca cola: mans got trauma still can't type in caps what is this why is my spelling good all of a sudden dudududu: techno said it made his eyes hurt so he cashed in a favor father to all: Your friendship is so strange technoplaneeeeee: not a friendship rivals clear difference dudududu: ^^ our monarch: oh there you are BEES?: GOOD NEWS THE ICE CREAM MACHINE THINGY ISNT BROKEN AND I GOT SO MUCH father to all: Good luck Eret drinker of coca cola: offended you didn't take me tubbo our monarch: the car only had one seat left and Tubbo said you wouldn't want to ride on the roof again something about not after last time? drinker of coca cola: i am no longer offended BEES?: HAS ANYONE HEARD FORM RANBOO AND JARL dudududu: ranboo and karl had something to take care of father to all: so who is actually in school drinker of coca cola: im in the building sad songs go brrrrrr: I'm in theater class awake not found: me and sap are in detention quackity's at home he didn't feel good captain: me and Niki are in cooking class our monarch: hey rivals don't panic but the cops are here dudududu: thanks for the heads up and the meal technoplaneeeeee: phil, we'll be at the safe house for roughly 4 hours father to all: which one dudududu: the forest one i need to check up on spirit BEES?: who? dudududu: you arent the only one who adopts random animals technoplaneeeeee: spirit's a horse we have no clue how they got there carl too dudududu: and that herd of foxes technoplaneeeeee: they have names you know dudududu: and i refuse to use them father to all: Well don't die and be at the lake by 7 5:02pm dudududu: hey dadza technoplaneeeeee: father we have an inquiry for you father to all: what is it dudududu: can we ride our horses to the lake father to all: Were you going to do it even if I said no? technoplaneeeeee: yeah probably dudududu: i was father to all: then sure go for it dudududu: awesome anyway sapnap if you even get near my horse i will have techno plane you again arson?: I wasn't going to since you believe in that stupid curse still nice but scary: curse? muffin<3: in 4th grade sapnap was given the class pet and it died on his watch awake not found: he has the c u r s e muffin<3: they won't forget it technoplaneeeeee: hey dream you think the foxes would want to come too dudududu: i would but im worried for their safety because of tubbos adopting habits the horses would kill someone who tried to take them but the foxes would sell us to satan for a single blueberry BEES?: fair technoplaneeeeee: alright well no one pet our horses or dream's bird or I will technoplane you arson?: dream has a bird? dudududu: i do and i swear if you touch it arson?: I WONT awake not found: what kind of bird is it technoplaneeeeee: we aren't sure but we think it's a bird of prey muffin<3: it is a mystery as to how they aren't dead yet dudududu: i named him rocket yknow he might be a falcon technoplaneeeeee: he might be BEES?: can I get a dangerous animal friend our monarch: I would say yes but I'm assuming the other household members would say no nice but scary: no captain: no our monarch: I was correct in my assumption dudududu: i mean you can have this chipmunk with a broken leg nice but scary: I would be mad but it's hurt so I'll let it slide BEES?: new animal friend aquired B) technoplaneeeeee: he's a boy BEES?: his name is archie B) dudududu: we'll bring him to the lake with us and try to make a splint from forest things technoplaneeeeee: it should be like before but just smaller right awake not found: I would be surprised but after the many manhunts I'm not arson?: injuries are a given when around dream dudududu: i have given you all great life experiences and lessons 6:13pm dudududu: we have more dangerous animal friends to bring to the lake technoplaneeeeee: floof :D dudududu: mine is rebel :D father to all: And what kind of animals are these exactly? dudududu: wolves!! technoplaneeeeee: they don't have rabies we checked nice but scary: how did you check exactly? technoplaneeeeee: you wouldn't like the answer dudududu: we also found wilburs sheep sad songs go brrrrrr: FRIEND :D :D :D drinker of coca cola: the one he dyed blue by accident? BEES?: oh I love that sheep! captain: where do these animals come from technoplaneeeeee: we gave up on trying to figure it out a long time ago anyway the wolves won't attack you unless we say so don't make us mad dudududu: yeah im bringing a horse, a falcon(?), and a wolf technoplaneeeeee: we're leaving the passive animals there except Friend and Archie father to all: Don't kill any of the group or innocents and be here in 30 7:20pm unus annus but make it alive: WE HAVE RETURNED drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: we ran out of snacks stopping by the store yall want crap dudududu: marshmellows and a 5 gallon bucket of moose tracks ice cream technoplaneeeeee: strawberry juice it's the closest legal thing to blood that doesn't taste bad and some raw meat the animals are hungry quack quack: YEAH I'D SAY SO AAAAAAAAAAAAAfdjiysdctgvhjbu arson?: MAN DOWN MAN DOWN dudududu: relax hes fine 7:04am sam nook: we actually had less injuries this time how nice technoplaneeeeee: if you count the braincells I lost from having to sit near Tommy then we more than doubled our record of 17 drinker of coca cola: i was asleep and heard my name being attacked who was it own up technoplaneeeeee: oh gods I'm loosing more arson?: how do you hear it tommy this is a group chat dudududu: wait for it drinker of coca cola: shut up snapmap dudududu: there it is arson?: YOU CALL ME THAT AGAIN AND WERE GONNA HAVE PROBLEMS TOMMATHY awake not found: oh the girls are fighting again our monarch: @everyone DRAMA IS COOKING BEES?: i am sickkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk nice but scary: this is why we don't eat too much sugar Tubbo okay BEES?: uhhuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhuhuhuuuuuuuuuuuuuhuuhuhuhhhhhhhhhh sad songs go brrrrrr: why is Tommy storming out of the house muffin<3: sapnap dm'd him father to all: Well what are you all waiting for, follow them unus annus but make it alive: bets? dudududu: bets? awake not found: sometimes I forget those two are bio siblings and then they pull things like this drink monster or i will steal you kneecaps: dude i live with them it sucks unus annus but make it alive: we try dudududu: :D captain: where is this going down at I want to watch our monarch: basketball court quack quack: yeah sap brought a flamethrower and some knives muffin<3: so that's where they went BEES?: fear +10 technoplaneeeeee: respect +7.5 sam nook: I feel a disturbance in the universe father to all: I do as well sam nook: oh no father to all: mystery trio, you wouldn't happen to be cooking would you? dudududu: EVERY SINGLE FUCKING TIME drink monster or i will steal you kneecaps: WHYYYYYYYYYY WE WERE DOING SO GOOD unus annus but make it alive: WE ONLY HAD ONE OUT OF CONTROL FIRE dudududu: yeah it's still kinda out of control drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: we should probably deal with that unus annus but make it alive: probably captain: you aren't are you father to all: no I found them they are staring at it and throwing stuff in it to make it bigger while roasting marshmallows they just got startled by me and teleported away thank you for the help dudududu: no problem philza sam nook: they are at the fight now and adding to the smell of smoke sad songs go brrrrrr: it's kinda a draw rn this is strange 10:53am awake not found: kinda disappointed in sap for passing out from exhaustion sad songs go brrrrrr: to be fair Tommy passed out from over heating which is roughly the same thing father to all: None of you become doctors I beg of you quack quack: you think we have enough braincells for that man technoplaneeeeee: or patience BEES?: surgery is just stabbing someone back to life our monarch: nO dudududu: no no xe's got a point sad songs go brrrrrr: people who kill others are reverse necromancers drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: then would their familiars be spirits and ghosts awake not found: it's too early for this unus annus but make it alive: it is 11am george when are you sleeping to make this early our monarch: i can guarantee that this whole chat has slept past 3pm at least once awake not found: sleep is nice quack quack: he will screech at us if we don't sleep dudududu: one time he looked at me and said "dream why havent you slept in the past 86 hours" and then ate a cobb of corn similar to how people eat carrots drinker of coca cola: ,,,,,,,,he what. sam nook: he's a phantom hybrid what to you expect dudududu: speaking of hybrids captain: oh no where is this going dudududu: evidently i am not half human sad songs go brrrrrr: what other half are you then dudududu: chaos demon according to Bad muffin<3: :D unus annus but make it alive: THATS WHY YOU HAVE COOLER HORNS THAN ME father to all: Also explains why they're so fast and he's chaotic enough to keep up with Techno technoplaneeeeee: does this mean he's half immortal drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: not technically BEES?: how many demon types are there muffin<3: well, dudududu: nooooooooooooooooooooooo whyd you askkkkkkk awake not found: please noo autocorrect who: jwtr qd hi sad songs go brrrrrr: I'm not even going to try reading what skeppy said but why are we panicking exactly dudududu: once he starts explaining,,,,,, awake not found: he never stops we learned the hard way muffin<3: I'll dm it to you Tubbo :3 BEES?: akrithyyyyyyyyyyy our monarch: oh the sleep medicine is kicking in captain: jesus christ that took ages nice but scary: tubbo has a strange immune system 2:00pm father to all: who hasn't eaten yet confess drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: :person_raising_hand: dudududu: :person_raising_hand: awake not found: :person_raising_hand: sam nook: gEORGE quack quack: hahahahahaha I ate awake not found: shut up our monarch: I'm scared to say this but... nice but scary: eret... our monarch: :person_raising_hand: technoplaneeeeee: i hate using discord emojis out of discord but :person_raising_hand: sad songs go brrrrrr: I knew it technoplaneeeeee: you knew nothing father to all: go eat something that is nutritious nice but scary: nope come to my house I'm making food dudududu: not eating for a day was worth it i got niki food now nice but scary: do this again and I'll kill you Dream same goes for everyone else dudududu: yes ma'am technoplaneeeeee: ^^ awake not found: ^^ drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: ^^ our monarch: ^^ captain: we parent friends and actual parents are blessed to have niki sam nook: we truly are 4:20pm dudududu: nice sad songs go brrrrrr: nice 5:30pm father to all: you know the drill it's role call time unus annus but make it alive: I'm at Tubbo's place so he isn't too sad and he's sleeping rn so he won't answer technoplaneeeeee: sparing with green dudududu: sparing with pink our monarch: watching musicals with niki and puffy muffin<3: taking care of sapnap with skeppy :D sad songs go brrrrrr: in Tommy's room making sure he doesn't do anything stupid when he wakes up awake not found: beating Quackity in uno quack quack: loosing to George in uno sam nook: watching quackity loose to george uno father to all: karl? dudududu: he's in a area with bad cell service unus annus but make it alive: yeah he told us before he left father to all: I don't fully believe that but alright you may all continue 2:16am dudududu: sometimes i see puffy's name and think of tubbo's dad BEES?: same arson?: wait what drinker of coca cola: TUBBO HAS A DAD??????????? BEES?: yes tommy i have a dad dudududu: yeah he's a nice guy arson?: i thought niki, eret, and tubbo were all related? drinker of coca cola: KASJUYADGFSHJJIUWGDH dudududu: ignoring tommy, yeah eret and niki are siblings and tubbo is their cousin arson?: ohhhh okay i thought tubbo was their sibling too BEES?: its a common misconception you aren't alone in the world arson?: thanks tubbo drinker of coca cola: TUBBO HAS A DAD??? BEES?: yes tommy we've covered this already drinker of coca cola: YOU SAID YOU WERE LEFTT IN A BOX AS A TODDLER BEES?: yeah i was on eret and niki's doorstep my dad lives a very dangerous life and only recently was he able to lift a curse placed on him that prevented him from seeing me often drinker of coca cola: I??????????????? dudududu: anyways wanna play risk tubbo BEES?: sure!! drinker of coca cola: DO I NOT GET CONTEXT?????????? HELLO????????????? 9:38am technoplaneeeeee: just made squid cry, feelin good awake not found: huh arson?: george have you slept in the past 5 hours awake not found: is it that obvious screw this I'm sleeping dudududu: why sapnap he was awake for once arson?: I dunno drinker of coca cola: wait does gogy not know the great potato war sad songs go brrrrrr: oh gods please save us dudududu: there are no gods left to save you now wilbur only the strong may survive unus annus but make it alive: you think some of the readers haven't heard of the great potato war wait oh no- BEES?: readers? drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: ranboooooooo dudududu: please stop breaking the fourth wall unus annus but make it alive: what about the 5th and 6th dudududu: sure why not father to all: I'm not even going to question arson?: we just don't question Dream anymore muffin<3: it's best to not BEES?: I don't know the potato war either but I'll just let Techno tell me later also my beloved /p please come get Michael it's your day unus annus but make it alive: ZOOMMMMMM dudududu: awwww yeah we get to be cool uncles karl drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: sweet 11:23am drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: THIS BITCH dudududu: pleASE NO KARL I BEG OF YOU unus annus but make it alive: NO KEEP GOING KARL HIS MACHINATIONS MUST BE KNOWN (YO WTF I SPELLED THAT RIGHT FIRST TRY) technoplaneeeeee: nice word kid but what did they do this time dudududu: I DID NOTHING SHUT UP drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: HE WROTE A WHOLE ASS BOOK ON HIS ARMS AND HANDS dudududu: ITS NOT A BOOK?????? I WAS JUST BORED AND NEEDED TO WRITE NOTES LEAVE ME ALONE unus annus but make it alive: AND THE THING IS ITS IN SEVERAL DIFFERENT LANGUAGES dudududu: YEAH WELL NOW IM THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN READ IT FULLY father to all: are we sure about that drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: yes actually- dudududu: it's in ender, galactic, piglin, blaze, old tongue, aurebesh, latin, demon, and i think a few others arson?: you think? dudududu: yeah i think captain: dream knows so many languages and I want to know how dudududu: when you are hospitalized several times you get bored and desperate unus annus but make it alive: still doesnt justify why you haVE AN ENTIRE BIBLE LENGTH WRITING ON YOURSELF dudududu: I WAS BORED captain: Niki I want to learn languages the Dream way nice but scary: no our monarch: I'm not the responsible one but no BEES?: I have been told to also say no technoplaneeeeee: do the languages switch every word dudududu: sometimes even every letter arson?: how the fuck do you read that dudududu: i have no earthly idea father to all: at this point I'm convinced he doesn't know what he wrote drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: no he absolutely knows unus annus but make it alive: they are laughing menacingly while writing and reading I am terrified arson?: @awake not found @muffin<3 @our monarch (get ant) RUN RUN RUN RUN GET WEAPONS RUN RUN RUN RUN awake not found: what do you want sapnap OH SHIT our monarch: the panic on ant's face was great he is now running full speed dudududu: glad to know ive traumatized them all technoplaneeeeee: just got a text from dream nice but scary: I also got one arson?: FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR awake not found: IM SLEEPING FOREVER GOODBYE our monarch: ant says: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA dudududu: it's nothing bad don't worry father to all: And Techno just left the house everyone run technoplaneeeeee: why does everyone assume the worst of me nice but scary: I've made them all love me and fear me so they don't do that :D dudududu: for me it depends unus annus but make it alive: they just teleported out oh gods drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: want to watch tales? unus annus but make it alive: ooo yes please technoplaneeeeee: wow they really do have a whole book written dudududu: STOPPPP nice but scary: you know that will probably wash off right? BEES?: probably? how would it not wash off? technoplaneeeeee: blood BEES?: okae :D awake not found: I fear so many people in this group dudududu: it wont wash off i used demon ink so itll only come off if i want it too which is after the next science test muffin<3: why w h y dudududu: heh heh arson?: it keeps getting worse quack quack: DONT WORRY ILL PROTECT YOU technoplaneeeeee: sure you will quack quack: I- sorry sap things have come up- dudududu: coward father to all: Everyone is scared of Techno but you, Niki, Ranboo and me dudududu: that's why we're rivals and have the group technoplaneeeeee: if you spill the group dudududu: im not dont worry nice but scary: and puffy's in it too captain: only because of you niki only because of you dudududu: back to the mission niki and tech lets gooooooooooooooooo awake not found: aH arson?: crap muffin<3: o-0 4:58pm unus annus but make it alive: that is... not what I expected him to look like when coming home drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: you can say that again captain: oh no what arson?: we have been surprisingly not ambushed dudududu: maybe thats the plan to make you think you are safe kidding we were dying our hair technoplaneeeeee: my hair has been restored to pink nice but scary: mine too!! dudududu: mine is blindingly white unus annus but make it alive: this is what Socrates meant when he said holy fuck my eyes drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: it's like looking at the sun but white dudududu: good thats the goal sad songs go brrrrrr: nooooo techno I wanted to dye your hairrrrrrrrrr technoplaneeeeee: that's why I went to dream and niki dudududu: B) nice but scary: B) sad songs go brrrrrr: I have once again been betrayed our monarch: THAT WAS ONE TIME JUST LET ME HAVE A REDEMPTION ARC drinker of coca cola: no we will never forget your betrayal father to all: when did you wake up sad songs go brrrrrr: I walked in his room and he put his phone down before passing out again I don't think you're getting an answer BEES?: is he okay technoplaneeeeee: probably father to all: He's human so he has a weaker body than all of us Tubbo, but he'll be fine! technoplaneeeeee: it's just another nerf dudududu: stop quoting yourself and get to the meeting Nemesis made cookies technoplaneeeeee: suddenly I am moving faster father to all: I need glasses why is Dream's hair so bright captain: how the hell did it get like that dudududu: magic now shut up the meeting is starting drink monster or i will steal you kneecaps: I'll just watch tales on my own then D: unus annus but make it alive: I'm sorryyyyyyyyyyyyy technoplaneeeeee: do not be sorry he is not worthy to join our ranks father to all: shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh 10:46pm captain: I think Ranboo is shell shocked dudududu: how the kid has seen some stuff drink monster or i will steal you kneecaps: can attest captain: tubbo is playing 8 bit music through an autotuned megaphone at him dudududu: WITHOUT ME???? BEES?: JOIN THE CHAOS MY FRIEND dudududu: GLADLY unus annus but make it alive: WHY MUST I SUFFER IJOUTYCGFVBNJMKLJHUTY drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: I'd prefer to keep what little sanity I've managed to save up so I'll not join drinker of coca cola: torture him for me pleakojiuygfcgv sad songs go brrrrrr: LMAO HE PASSED OUT AGAIN technoplaneeeeee: how is this kid alive father to all: Your catchphrase is "Technoblade never dies" I think you rubbed some immortality off onto him technoplaneeeeee: I'm expecting payment from him in 2-5 business days 6:45am father to all: What's a thirteen letter word for disappointment? dudududu: 1. bold of you to assume any of us are awake 2. bold of you to assume we know 3. wtf are you doing at 6:45 that requires this??? a fucking crossword puzzle??? 4. dreamwastaken technoplaneeeeee: 1. you are awake, so am I, so is Tommy I can hear him clanking around like a feral cat let loose in a music store 2. yes I know one. I'm actually smart outside of school hours 3. yes he is old as hell 4. no stop being self depreciating without me father to all: Dream you aren't a disappointment also Techno what's the answer technoplaneeeeee: unfulfillment most likely father to all: Thank you now go check on Tommy for the old man comment technoplaneeeeee: bruhhhh dudududu: ha L technoplaneeeeee: he was trying to get coke so I wacked him and he passed out not my best plan dudududu: coke the drug or coke the drink technoplaneeeeee: probably the drink but you never know with him father to all: Techno don't kill your brother, I'm honestly surprised he's made it this far technoplaneeeeee: with his weak bones I don't know how he's made it this far either dudududu: spite probably sad songs go brrrrrr: yeah can't he just manifest as a phoenix or something dudududu: since when are you up sad songs go brrrrrr: Tommy screeched dudududu: ah technoplaneeeeee: no he can't be a hybrid because that's not how it works Wilbur also he must stay nerfed he's our token human dudududu: yeah wilbur it's like how most groups have a token allocishet except we have like three our monarch: someone mentioned lgbtqia+ and I was summoned father to all: how many people are just lurking right now dudududu: you two may answer i know for a fact you both are here i'm in it for the money: I am gloop: me as well!! technoplaneeeeee: who are they- dudududu: i know people return to the shadows i'm in it for the money: o7 gloop: o7 sad songs go brrrrrr: okay then- dudududu: i added a few,,,, associates, to the chat and deleted the messages that confirmed their entrance. there are more. :D technoplaneeeeee: cryptic as hell but okay you have earned respect points I will not say how many dudududu: Be extremely subtle, even to the point of formlessness. Be extremely mysterious, even to the point of soundlessness. Thereby you can be the director of the opponent's fate. -Sun Tzu, The Art of War technoplaneeeeee: I don't know whether to add respect points for using that quote or take them away for using my brand so I won't do anything dudududu: hehehe sad songs go brrrrrr: please rivals flirt in dms technoplaneeeeee: I will tell them about the blackmail sad songs go brrrrrr: ....which one technoplaneeeeee: you know which one sad songs go brrrrr: well I will hold my jokes back for a few weeks technoplaneeeeee: why a few weeks? sad songs go brrrrrr: no comment dudududu: I think I know sad songs go brrrrrr: sure ya do NOPE THEY DM'D ME THEY KNOW OH GODS HOW dudududu: I know everything unus annus but make it alive: I know a lot as well you thought I wouldn't see? I see a lot of things. sad songs go brrrrrr: fear technoplaneeeeee: is Karl this cryptic too father to all: People don't call them the mystery trio for nothing It's also probably because they don't share a last name and you can't just say "the siblings" dudududu: they're passed out rn but yeah the deception runs far and deep with us technoplaneeeeee: I need to step up my mystery game father to all: Wait why is Karl passed out? dudududu: you arent allowed to know unus annus but make it alive: if it makes you feel better Dream only woke up 45 minutes ago and me 10 dudududu: yeah he should be up soon father to all: what did you do unus annus but make it alive: nothing we haven't done before or yet dudududu: way to drop hints buddy unus annus but make it alive: thanks sad songs go brrrrrr: wait if tommy is the token human then what is karl dudududu: now you're asking the right questions unus annus but make it alive: ugh finally I thought they'd never notice it technoplaneeeeee: yeah what are they? dudududu: not human that's for sure unus annus but make it alive: figure out the rest from there technoplaneeeeee: @sad songs go brrrrrr @nice but scary @our monarch @muffin <3 @father to all library trip let's go father to all: Tommy? unus annus but make it alive: I'll get Tubbo and Puffy, we'll watch him and Dream will stick with Karl till he wakes up @BEES? @captain puffy we want mcdonalds BEES?: MMMMMMMMCCCCCCCCCDDDDDDDOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLDDDDDDDSSSSSSSSSS captain: why I'll do it but why unus annus but make it alive: it had to be done dudududu: what number does that translate to using roman numerals technoplaneeeeee: it doesn't dudududu: aw man this is homophobic 10:29am unus annus but make it alive: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA :D BEES?: void was trying to feed a tabby cat and it touched it's nose to theirs captain: he's dying of cuteness drinker of coca cola: they really are it's annoying jkiuy7trfghjiu why can't i type in capssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssdftgyhujhgvfdrf sad songs go brrrrrr: oh the child has awoken father to all: Hello Tommy please don't get knocked out again drinker of coca cola: techno knocked me out from behind what else could I have done technoplaneeeeee: you were loud also back to library work this is a rivals challenge you have all been dragged into 12:37pm drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: I wake up and half the chat is trying to discover what species I am while ranboo dies and tubbo puffy and tommy watch dudududu: yep thats about it awake not found: this chat is very interesting arson?: you just woke up didn't you awake not found: what else would you expect arson?: nothing honestly awake not found: if I was awake I would have joined the library group because it feels like a way to one up Dream arson?: wait you're right our monarch: yeah ant and velvet are here technoplaneeeeee: join us defeat dream BEES?: "join the dark side we have cookies" -techno, probably quack quack: may I join as well I too wish to know what karl my beloved is arson?: quackkkkkkkkkkkkkkk technoplaneeeeee: sure why not awake not found: alright @sam nook drive us please :D sam nook: you have your own cars and can drive them quack quack: drive us please :D sam nook: fine I'll join the library group too dudududu: karl people are trying to figure out what you are by hatred of me how do you feel about this drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: concerned dudududu: fair 3:15pm father to all: Dream can shapeshift? dudududu: yes i can did you not know father to all: No how was I supposed to know that? dudududu: all chaos demons can makes things more fun unus annus but make it alive: I am scared of my sibling now drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: you weren't before? dudududu: is everyone here scared of me??? father to all: Yes technoplaneeeeee: no father to all: Yes dudududu: nice to know sam nook: I'm glad we got Bad to come sad songs go brrrrrr: dad too muffin<3: demon is not widely known nor is galactic awake not found: we might need ranboo or a translator because the book I'm reading just switched over to what I think is ender unus annus but make it alive: find someone else I'm not helping dudududu: im not either drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: same here sad songs go brrrrrr: wait techno you know ender technoplaneeeeee: reading and hearing are two different things unfortunately dudududu: L unus annus but make it alive: L awake not found: oh fuck off dudududu: imagine not being able to understand various hardly ever used languages unus annus but make it alive: imagine drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: imagine technoplaneeeeee: and this is why we have to win 5:30pm father to all: Where is everyone awake not found: coding drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: tales marathon with ranboo unus annus but make it alive: :thumbsup: quack quack: arson arson?: arson muffin<3: it's controlled arson arson?: sadly sad songs go brrrrrr: it's all in the name our monarch: fashion club nice but scary: fashion club captain: making sure tubbo and tommy don't die while niki and eret are at fashion club BEES?: chaos drinker of coca cola: chaos father to all: I swear if you get knocked out again Please don't die Now Techno and Dream what did you do you haven't responded yet so I know something is up dudududu: just visiting a cousin drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: it's foolish isn't it technoplaneeeeee: yeah it's Foolish father to all: Foolish? dudududu: let's just say xyr good at healing and that's something we need right now father to all: Add them please -Dream added 1 member!- -Dream changed one name!- shark boi: need is an understatement. you have a broken leg and two cracked ribs dream techno has a broken arm and a twisted ankle and a minor concussion you both have lots of cuts and gashes -Dream removed one person!- dudududu: that's enough from xem father to all: Banned from sparring. technoplaneeeeee: crap dudududu: oh come on for how long? father to all: Two weeks dudududu: why so longggggggggggg technoplaneeeeee: I hate it here -Dream added one person!- dudududu: he yelled at me shark boi: yeah I did they'll live dont let them move until about 10pm dudududu: well shit now we have to get in trouble technoplaneeeeee: it doesn't matter dream it must be done dudududu: it must shark boi: No father to all: No dudududu: what are you going to do foolish i know you cant bring us there yourself because you have a meeting shark boi: that doesn't mean I can't get someone else to do it like hannah or purpled or crumb or boffy or XD or prime or lucid or any of your other five million family members dudududu: alright i get it i get it technoplaneeeeee: man that was a good plan too dudududu: it really was and it was non violent-ish father to all: I do not believe that at all in the slightest technoplaneeeeee: my own father doesn't trust me dudududu: no one trusts me and thats a good decision on their part technoplaneeeeee: I would say I trust you but I don't you're a loose cannon most of the time dudududu: good keep it that way unus annus but make it alive: yes do not trust them drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: yes don't also hi foolish unus annus but make it alive: hi fools shark boi: hello you two father to all: that concludes our role call 11:57pm father to all: How did you leave dudududu: why would we say that's stupid technoplaneeeeee: yeah we need all the advantages we can get dudududu: im in the mood for a chase so ill tell u where we are technoplaneeeeee: oh gods why dudududu: :D lazar tag technoplaneeeeee: we are unfortunately tied in points awake not found: how are you healed that quick dudududu: magic foolish is just good technoplaneeeeee: maybe our hybrid type helps too dudududu: i hear him techno go go go gO father to all: No do not go I'm not there dudududu: LIES I HEAR YOUR WINGS YOU ARE VERY LOUD TO MY EARS SIR sad songs go brrrrrr: can confirm he left the house drinker of coca cola: he did i think he crafted a belt first dudududu: THANK YOU FOR THIS INFORMATION YOU WILL BE GREATLY REWARDED NOW WE MUST RUN AND FLY awake not found: this is interesting watching dream be scared dudududu: IM NOT I JUST CANT CHANGE MY HAND POSITIONS AND IM STUCK ON CAPS LOCK BEES?: well it makes it interesting to ghoghy arson?: that's his new name now awake not found: tubbo why have you forsaken me BEES?: it's fun awake not found: fair drinker of coca cola: dream if you can type why can you not turn off your caps lock dudududu: my phone is weird as shit and u have to like,,,,, basically do a ritual at this point for anything to work drinker of coca cola: o- okay then??? 4:20am dudududu: nice technoplaneeeeee: nice father to all: how have I not found you yet did you take techno to your house dream? dudududu: nope :D father to all: That smile seems untrustworthy The search continues dudududu: yay technoplaneeeeee: oh how fun father to all: when was the last time either of you slept shark boi: over a week I could tell dudududu: whyd you say that technoplaneeeeee: why foolish we trusted you dudududu: i didnt technoplaneeeeee: I honestly didn't either but it makes it more dramatic dudududu: i can hear xem grab my hand father to all: Wait I was nearby? technoplaneeeeee: nope but Foolish was dudududu: he was trying to distract us by typing in the chat unus annus but make it alive: they appeared in our house it's fine technoplaneeeeee: we are watching tales now shark boi: now I really wish I didn't prank you guys and get banned from the house drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: the war continues even now dudududu: banishment was a fair punishment unus annus but make it alive: it was that was an awful prank shark boi: it was a good one tho father to all: Ranboo and Karl make sure the idiots don't die and give them food and make them try to sleep shark boi: they are probably glued to the tv rn but I'll make sure someone tells them 4:43am dudududu: why did crumb just teleport in the living room oh okay unus annus but make it alive: she's watching with us now shark boi: another victim has been claimed by the tales 8:07am father to all: Are they alive dudududu: this is crumb i like dream's new hair they all passed out after the last episode i will also now pass out night foolish shark boi: night crumb awake not found: I too shall sleep arson?: oh are we being our names now? muffin<3: as much fun as that would be no arson?: man BEES?: I am now not the only one who has seen the mystery trio house techno is now in my league shark boi: I have also been and know how to get there but I'm banned for past war crimes BEES?: wlecome to the cool club we have snacks shark boi: oooo BEES?: once crumb and techno wake up they may join the mystery trio is not allowed shark boi: I'll get it to take him here captain: where is here nice but scary: yeah tubbo where did you go BEES?: just in the garden shark boi: it's very lovely our monarch: thank you we all work hard on it BEES?: including my bees our monarch: including tubbos bees shark boi: one of you wouldn't happen to know what flowers mean would you? nice but scary: I do, why? shark boi: ranboo and dream nice but scary: ah then I cannot help for they are my protegees in flower messaging you must be worthy to hold this knowledge shark boi: damn I asked hannah but she's in on it too nice but scary: a new recruit good shark boi: she's quite good with plants roses are her favorite nice but scary: maybe you will be worthy one day shark boi: I sure hope 11:13am dudududu: we all just woke up because ranboo teleported in their sleep then screamed unus annus but make it alive: to be fair I teleported near the water dudududu: i never said the scream wasnt valid 1:37pm dudududu: incoming -Dream added one person!- -Dream changed one name!- dudududu: welcome crumb pb&j: hi :3 what's with m' name dudududu: ur ear colors remind me of it pb&j: oh okay!!! i like it dudududu: pronoun check @shark boi u too since u didnt earlier pb&j: it/she shark boi: xe/he/gold pb&j: let's get breakfast shark boi: it's 1pm pb&j: let's get breakfast dudududu: let's get breakfast shark boi: geez okay 10:37pm drinker of coca cola: wait dream and techno can sing dudududu: well yeah technoplaneeeeee: wilbur isn't the only one with musical genes sad songs go brrrrrr: gasp dudududu: he did not mean those jeans wilbur our monarch: they are really ugly wilbur sad songs go brrrrrr: it's my fashion statement father to all: why did I hear hysterical crying from wil's room it's only 10 he doesn't usually do this until at least 12 I back read wilbur I told you to burn those pants nice but scary: they really are an eyesore wilbur but I guess if you like them it's fine sad songs go brrrrrr: is it just bully wilbur's amazing pants day technoplaneeeeee: no it's bully wilbur's disgusting pants day dudududu: dang will he ever recover from a roast that hard drinker of coca cola: he either fell on the floor or tried to attack techno because i heard a loud thud father to all: if he tried to attack techno we would hear a scream drinker of coca cola: heh oh yeah BEES?: can we circle back to the fact that they can sing I have balckmail on a lot of people about a lot of things and this is something I don't know please spi ll dudududu: we have tapes of us singing and stuff also I have more blackmail than you come to the park at 12 I'll tell you some interesting secrets BEES?: what do you want in return dudududu: nothing much just a favor to cash in when I need it BEES?: deal drinker of coca cola: wait what do you mean and stuff dream technoplaneeeeee: you haven't dug far enough in the boxes then we play instruments too drinker of coca cola: i will now search faster dudududu: it's not blackmail if the people it's on are willing to give it up at anytime techno I'm disappointed in your teaching technoplaneeeeee: oh no what ever will I do /s and no one ever asked so we never said father to all: how did I not know dudududu: mumza technoplaneeeeee: mumza BEES?: what did you play technoplaneeeeee: violin, percussion, piano, and alto sax dudududu: trumpet, flute, guitar, also percussion, and also piano sad songs go brrrrrr: a new guitarist to add to the cult niki nice but scary: he will make a fine addition to the others dudududu: I would be scared but honestly a guitar cult sounds fun come kidnap me sad songs go brrrrrr: literally no one in this chat but the rest of the trio and foolish know where you live dudududu: who said I was at my house father to all: get off the roof dream dudududu: well techno won't open his window technoplaneeeeee: it's raining and it's like 40 degrees I am not opening it sad songs go brrrrrr: come to my window I'll be the nice brother dudududu: mumza let me in and now I'm sitting on Techno's bed as he gets fussed at lmao she asked if I want soup do I want soup technoplaneeeeee: yes you do sad songs go brrrrrrr: I WANT MUMZAS SOUP drinker of coca cola: sOuP BEES?: well mumza evidently has good soup and I'm sad that I never learned this sooner our monarch: you've had it before you were just so sick you couldn't taste or remember it BEES?: that checks out dudududu: wait how did mumza know what was happening in the chat or did she just see me at the window father to all: she saw you at the window unus annus but make it alive: dang Karl they're really getting Mumza soup without us drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: you think you're siblings with someone and then they pull something like this dudududu: I was freezing and wet on a roof what did you think mumza would do unus annus but make it alive: exactly that but that is besides the point dudududu: I'll bring you two and crumb some unus annus but make it alive: thank you drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: I'd ask how you knew crumb was here since you left before she came but I've just accepted that you know things at this point dudududu: I think everyone has unus annus but make it alive: probably 12:00am dudududu: good morning technoplaneeeeee: good noon dudududu: good day technoplaneeeeee: good evening father to all: good night dudududu: dang we walked into that one 12:30am father to all: oh wow they actually went to sleep any lurkers go to bed now arson?: dang 6:14am dudududu: soup unus annus but make it alive: WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE crumb would also like to say WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE father to all: I would say don't eat soup for breakfast but it's kristen's and you probably don't eat breakfast anyways dudududu: we don't unus annus but make it alive: we can't cook drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: wait crumb can cook dudududu: OH YEAH unus annus but make it alive: I want crumb's pancakes now dudududu: brb going to bug her to make us food father to all: finally someone in that house that can cook without burning down anything drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: rude fair but rude dudududu: she's making us food now I think the children should meet Jack what do you think ranboo unus annus but make it alive: that sounds like a terrible idea let's do it drinker of coca cola: i an mot a fojsoing chils dudududu: the fact that he doesn't have caps makes it all the more funnier technoplaneeeeee: you'd think with how much he swears he'd learn how to spell them he's screaming now dudududu: from the bullying or you technoplaneeeeee: well it was the bullying and now it's me father to all: please don't make him be put on bedrest sad songs go brrrrrr: yeah I had to sit in his room for so long it was awful got some good pranks installed though drinker of coca cola: what no not agian no pranke pleasd sad songs go brrrrrr: hehehe father to all: how are any of you, and I mean this to the whole chat, not dead or arrested technoplaneeeeee: I've been arrested dudududu: I've done both of those things father to all: you've died? dudududu: yeah father to all: and you're alive how? dudududu: who said I was but I'm not sure honestly but I do know that whoever runs hell does not like me or jack much technoplaneeeeee: did you get kicked out of hell dudududu: maybe... father to all: why am I not surprised unus annus but make it alive: so THATS where you two went drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: that explains why they smelled like fire and blood 9:23am sad songs go brrrrrr: so father dudududu: oh please be telling him sad songs go brrrrrr: shhhhh no I'm still not sure how you even know that dudududu: ughhhhh please tell soon father to all: yes what did you need wilbur also why didn't you just ask me in real life we're in the same house dudududu: well seeds says it's for plot convenience but it's probably so people can back him up and help him if something goes wrong sad songs go brrrrrr: I don't know who seeds is or what plot convenience is but yes it's the last thing unus annus but make it alive: please stop breaking the 4th wall seeds says it's unprofessional dudududu: fair sad songs go brrrrrr: anyway father if you were a grandfather what would you be called father to all: I- huh? drinker of coca cola: grandadza father to all: I am so confused sad songs go brrrrrr: thank you tommy dudududu: well have fun with that wilbur sad songs go brrrrrr: you just know everything don't you dudududu: pretty much yeah 3:10 am drink monster or i will steal your knecaps: I walk in I witness Dream and Ranboo blaring two trucks by lemon demon I walk out dudududu: COWARD unus annus but make it alive: WHY DO YOU DISRESPECT THE GREATEST SONG OF ALL TIME drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: they turn it off i reenter they flip me off and proceed to blast it louder i am stuck until they pass out from exhaustion dudududu: unlikely to happen I haven't slept in only 3 days and my record is a month so buckle up buttercup father to all: go sleep and stop torturing Karl dudududu: no :) drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: NOW CRUMB IS IN THERE BLASTING IT TOO W H Y unus annus but make it alive: BECAUSE ITS GREAT AND YOURE TOO SCARED TO ADMIT IT dudududu: ITS AMAZING KARL JOIN THE TWO TRUCKS YOU WILL BE HAPPIER drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: that's it I'm going to mizu without y'all father to all: why is the location name unreadable dudududu: because you are not worthy of this knowledge yet philza minecraft also HOW DARE YOU KARL YOU KNOW WE LOVE IT THERE unus annus but make it alive: YOU W O U L D N T drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: I WOULD AND I AM IM TALKING TO HIM RN dudududu: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO father to all: karl don't die and the ender siblings go to bed unus annus but make it alive: well I would but the voices are quite loud dudududu: they are very active rn pink and Lemonade won't separate and I think it's cause together they make pink lemonade unus annus but make it alive: nirvana and smol are talking about languages dudududu: bee and sushi are holding back fox because someone cut their fox socks unus annus but make it alive: theres one in the back with another voice I swear is seeds in disguise talking about acronyms father to all: gods you kids are too much dudududu: we know :) unus annus but make it alive: I got permission to use this once :) father to all: don't you have school tomorrow dudududu: eh we can fix that father to all: do not cancel school because you don't feel like it dudududu: well I didnt mean it that way but we could do that too unus annus but make it alive: yeah but the other way means we can do our homework and not get detention with the homophobe teacher dudududu: oh crap you're right I have an essay one sec- 6:38am unus annus but make it alive: he wrote the essay in ender and when questioned why he said without thinking "I can't read english" before realizing this and panicking dudududu: TO BE FAIR I HAVE A SPELL THING THAT LETS ME READ IT BUT I WAS TOO DRAINED TO DO THE SPELL unus annus but make it alive: when was the last time you drank water dudududu: it's been at least 72 hours unus annus but make it alive: how are you still alive that's the max limit of not drinking water for every species dudududu: we all wonder how I'm alive arson?: I'm sorry Dream, the person who can read and speak over 5 languages, CANT READ ENGLISH??? ISNT THAT LIKE YOUR THIRD LANGUAGE HOW DID YOU MISS THE READING PART dudududu: I USED TO KNOW BUT THEN FORGOT SOMEHOW DONT BULLY ME arson?: HOW DID YOU FORGET EVERYTHING HERE IS WRITTEN IN IT?? dudududu: ENDER SPECIES FORGET THINGS SOMETIMES OKAY unus annus but make it alive: fair arson?: YEAH BUT HOW TO READ A LANGUAGE?? unus annus but make it alive: I forgot how to walk once dudududu: yeah that was an adventure arson?: I have learned two new things today 11:19am our monarch: DREAM YOU ABSOLUTE LEGEND nice but scary: APPLAUSE APPLAUSE technoplane: I have to admit that was great sad songs go brrrrrr: AMAZING father to all: what did dream do our monarch: this absolutely amazing person had his hair complimented by a homophobic teacher nice but scary: and then responded back kindly while running a hand through their hair sad songs go brrrrrr: which is rainbow underneath the blinding white technoplaneeeeee: I have never seen someone so disgusted with themselves when did you even get that added dudududu: hannah helped I'm in it for the murder: and me dudududu: and you :D but that's not even the best part sad songs go brrrrrr: how does it get better oh wise one dudududu: the back of my hair nice but scary: go on dudududu: is the flipping trans flag technoplaneeeeee: how did it get so much better our monarch: I have no clue but I'm glad it did father to all: as great as that is, which it is amazing good job dream, please pay attention 12:30pm dudududu: just got a bag of rainbow candy from a crow life is great 1:43pm BEES?: ranboo is sad because he can't join mcc unus annus but make it alive: not until the 67th mcc drinker of coca cola: scott is just afraid of having his gender taken BEES?: yeah he's not immune like me and tommy unus annus but make it alive: sure I guess dudududu: I'm in class but istg if you don't stop being sad I will send boffy after you I'm in it for the murder: (:< unus annus but make it alive: I have successfully been cheered up 4:20pm dudududu: nice time to act high technoplaneeeeee: when do you not act high dudududu: rude reading a book is just staring at a dead tree and hallucinating the alphabet doesn't have to be in order octopuses are just wet spiders we can't control our bodies functions so we don't have admin privileges of our own body technoplaneeeeee: that's enough sad songs go brrrrrr: he ran across the field and tackled dream before taking their phone KJLHJYTFG HE CHUCKED IT AT ME AND NOW DREAMS AFTER ME AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA:OUIFGHUIOTdfchyui drinker of coca cola: rip o7 BEES?: o7 technoplaneeeeee: he's not dead dudududu: yet technoplaneeeeee: how'd you steal it dudududu: I am a very good pickpocketer drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: he's doing the thing where they go still and become invisible so you have to slowly spray water around dudududu: KARL WHY also it's not invisibility it's warping the void unus annus but make it alive: yeah get our abilities right karl EEP WATER AAAA NOPE technoplaneeeeee: well I found ranboo wrong ender hybrid but okay then sad songs go brrrrrr: I know where dream is dudududu: I will release knowledge about the fox father to all: what does that mean sad songs go brrrrrr: NOTHING HAHA now let's switch this conversation to what dream looks like without a mask dudududu: oh gods here we go BEES?: I bet he has squid tentacles drinker of coca cola: maybe he has a fake tongue BEES?: or no teeth drinker of coca cola: or fake teeth like old people unus annus but make it alive: maybe he has no mouth and the mask is to cover it up dudududu: not you too ran- BEES?: maybe his mouth is all yellow drinker of coca cola: or all red unus annus but make it alive: maybe he has another eye there dudududu: w h y drinker of coca cola: this unocked so many new theories hey my autocorrect is gone AND I CAN TYPE IN CPAS dudududu: you've been able to for a while you just spelled everything correctly and didn't use caps drinker of coca cola: woah technoplaneeeeee: are we ignoring whoever the person in it for the murder is and how ranboo is scared of them and dream has control over them unus annus but make it alive: well to be fair who doesn't dream have control over and I'm afraid of everyone dudududu: boffy and yes we are ignoring him technoplaneeeeee: okay then 2:27am dudududu: morning everyone why are we up technoplaneeeeee: insomnia our monarch: my cat is trying to kill a mouse and failing horribly BEES?: I think I angered a dream god or something I've been having weird experiences unus annus but make it alive: hm dudududu: insomnia as well but I have music technoplaneeeeee: what music dudududu: it's called Can You Really Call This A Hotel, I Didn't Receive A Mint On My Pillow Or Anything technoplaneeeeee: i regret asking unus annus but make it alive: it's a nice song don't judge 8:27am dudududu: remember that one time I broke my leg then decided to run a marathon before it healed father to all: yes... why are you bringing this up? dudududu: dunno just felt like recreating that captain: dream. technoplaneeeeee: how are you recreating it you don't even have a broken leg I saw you like 2 hours ago sad songs go brrrrrr: dream wasn't at our house.... technoplaneeeeee: never said he was dudududu: well that was before I decided to jump off the moving train father to all: why would you do that??? dudududu: great question technoplaneeeeee: do you not know or will you not tell us dudududu: great question nice but scary: I would like to add the fact that there are no marathons happening within the state today captain: please tell me you're just running one on your own dudududu: nope this place is very official unus annus but make it alive: where are you dudududu: I ask myself the same thing everydayand also now unus annus but make it alive: well he doesn't even know where they are how wonderful sad songs go brrrrrrr: can we circle back to Techno and Dream being somewhere 2 hours ago? dudududu: no technoplaneeeeee: well everyone is somewhere at all times but no father to all: we'll touch on that laterright now we need Foolish and the mystery trio to do their very suspicious way of finding Dream dudududu: but I'm in 1st place D: technoplaneeeeee: literally how dudududu: I have no idea all I know is S P E E D unus annus but make it alive: well time to bring in the cavalry @/shark boi shark boi: back reading...WHYW H Y dudududu: speed drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: okay I know where he ishow did you manage to get 2 states away- dudududu: train technoplaneeeeee: in two hours? sad songs go brrrrrr: wHERE WERE YOU TWO HOURS AGO PLEASE I WANGT TO KNOW technoplaneeeeee: dadza said laterwe are worrying about dream rn not me and dream father to all: that implies that we should be worried for what happened two hours ago dudududu: you should always be worried around me I am a harbinger of destruction father to all: that you are dudududu: well I won but I see Foolish and my siblings so shark boi: and he teleported away unus annus but make it alive: great. dudududu: oh cool Jack is here I'll tell him we have people he should meet drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: YOU WENT THERE???? dudududu: well yeah where else unus annus but make it alive: oH I AM NOT GOING BACK THERE NOT AGAIN sad songs go brrrrrr: this is like tommy's prank flashbacks drinker of coca cola: please not again-i hbia uhwb oihuo uyitrf technoplaneeeeee: his spelling just collapsed and died shark boi: do not worry dear cousins, I will take one for the team unus annus but make it alive: FOOLSIH NO WE CANT LOOSE ANDOTHER VICTIN drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: DONT GO shark boi: I must dudududu: fRICK XE ARE HERE OH GODS I DIDNT THINK XE WOULD nice but scary: what are foolish's pronouns? shark boi: he/him and xe/xem no order :D nice but scary: okie :D dudududu: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA technoplaneeeeee: WELL DONT LEAD HIM HERE DREAM dudududu: SORRY FIRST PLACE I THOUGHT OFGRAB MY HAND technoplaneeeeee: why do I only ever visit this home when foolish is chasing us dudududu: well now my siblings know where we are technoplaneeeeee: that was the point dudududu: traitor unus annus but make it alive: I vote to unbanning Foolish for dream's health purposes for as long as they need them 1/3 drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: 2/3 votes dudududu: I in fact do not vote yes technoplaneeeeee: Dream is not in a position to vote so I will vote for them and my answer is yes 3/3 shark boi: aw yeah back in the house dudududu: unwillingly and for like 2 hours shark boi: ahnahnah it's health purposes which includes sleep dudududu: well at least techno's here that'll make it go faster shark boi: what do you mean by that? technoplaneeeeee: I know what he means unus annus but make it alive: and some how Karl and I do not....hmm drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: we will have to look into this dudududu: you may try but ultimately you will always fail for I know things you are not allowed to know shark boi: says who? technoplaneeeeee: you can't know that either sad songs go brrrrrr: is this why you two weren't around this morning? dudududu: yeah father to all: my son has joined the mystery trio oh no dudududu: don't worry he isn't to the cryptic stage yet shark boi: who taught y'all how to be cryptic I want to learn from them unus annus but make it alive: well seeds said it's unprofessional to keep breaking the wall but xe also said that xe might just be a powerful overlord in this world drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: seeds taught us dudududu: seeds is great shark boi: ah the ever elusive seeds whom I am 'not allowed to meet' seeds: well you aren't unus annus but make it alive: shhhhhh seeds you aren't meant to exist here seeds: oops dudududu: seeds it's our turn to be cryptic not yours seeds: well technically you all are just- oh I can't say that but dream do try and sleep you're going to need it and techno is there, he needs it tootrust me dudududu: oh dear not this again seeds: well now that he and you both know it means they have free range to attackdon't die dudududu: we won't seeds: oh no I'm being dragged backremember the place dream!!! you mustn't forget!!!!! you have to stop O- unus annus but make it alive: and there goes seeds, stealing our cryptic thunder once more, and also sending dream and techno a warning... drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: let's hope it doesn't end up like last time dudududu: by the sound of it... it most likely will technoplaneeeeee: we need sleep cmon dream father to all: who knew that all it took to make the rivals sleep was a ominous cryptic 'powerful overlord' to warn them of upcoming doom for them to sleep dudududu: I wouldn't call seeds ominous but yeah pretty much technoplaneeeeee: time to crash dudududu: weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeojiugbhkopiugyifihkbj unus annus but make it alive: how the hell did they fall asleep that fast shark boi: I have so many questions drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: from a medical standpoint or an older cousin one? shark boi: both unus annus but make it alive: don't worry we have no clue either shark boi: that makes me more nervous 2:12pm BEES?: I have awoken from my slumber with the desire to answer the burning question of, if foolish is shark boi then who is lava girl unus annus but make it alive: WAIT TUBBO HAS A POINT shark boi: OH GODS NO PLEASE drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: WHO IS SHE FOOLISH shark boi: IM BEING YELLED AT OVER TEXT AND IRL HOW ARE THEY STILL ASLEEP unus annus but make it alive: WE CAN QUESTION THAT LATER WHO IS LAVA GIRL BEES?: the people must know foolishspill your beans unus annus but make it alive: sPILL YOUR BEANS FOOLISH WHO IS THE LAVA GIRL shark boi: THERE IS NO LAVA GIRL??????????? BEES?: does lava girl canonically live in wyoming shark boi: no? BEES?: then she existswho is she foolish?we wish to knowplease release the knowledge we seek drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: screw this I'm finding out myself shark boi: oH NO YOURE NOT drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: I vote to revoke Foolish's medical entry to our household and reinstate the ban placed on him for war crimes 1/3 unus annus but make it alive: I vote yes 2/3 BEES?: seeing as Foolish is not permitted to vote and the rivals are asleep, as the only other person to enter said household I will step in and vote yes 3/3 shark boi: noOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO and I've been banned:sad: father to all: did I just watch a family democracy unus annus but make it alive: how dare you call us a democracy drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: we take vote of all three members if we should do something, if one is out then someone else steps in with their best interests in mind sad songs go brrrrrr: wow imagine being that organized in our family it's just whoever is alive at the end of the fight father to all: it's almost always me or techno sad songs go brrrrrr: I prefer the slow route to victory drinker of coca cola: what does that mean... sad songs go brrrrrr: don't worry about it drinker of coca cola: I am very much worrying about it sad songs go brrrrrr: and who am I to stop you 12:12am BEES?: so who's lava girl shark boi: NO I THOUGHT WE PASSED THIS drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: well you see tubboI did some digging and I found some interesting things BEES?: ooo do tell shark boi: PLEASE NO WHY I THOUGHT YOU LOVED ME drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: love is a social construct who is lava girl?in this essay I will 12:00am BEES?: who is the great lava girl karl, we must know drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: well you see foolish has this friend named Omisha who has red hair and likes warm things such as lava and fire BEES?: all hail Omisha, mighty lava girl shark boi: i hate it here dudududu: wheres the /j wheres the /j fools? shark boi: there is no /j only pain BEES?: that rhymed and i think that's cool shark boi: sIgH father to all: go to bed unus annus but make it alive: or what BEES?: RANBOO DONT DEFY THE CROWFATHER father to all: I will ping seeds if I can even do that.... seeds: depends on if I feel like being existent unus annus but make it alive: AAAAA OKAY OKAY IM GOING IM GOING father to all: huh BEES?: hi seeds seeds: hello tubbo how is Sylvester BEES?: he's doing very well thank you seeds: off to bed now tubbo BEES?: okay :D father to all: I wish I held this power 4:36am dudududu: i wake up to seeds being in the chat seeds: it's fun dudududu: the voices are very angry now seeds: that's why it's fun sad songs go brrrrrr: hey wait are you why dream knows everything seeds: well why do you ask that sad songs go brrrrrr: you're a strange mysterious... being... that just shows up and gives ominous warnings seeds: it's a good conclusion I'll give you that sad songs go brrrrrr: are you- are you gonna answer the question seeds: nope! dudududu: seeds never answers your questions the way you want, or just ends up either not answering at all or leaving you with more seeds: I'll answer a few but not yet, later dudududu: this is my life seeds: it is, now sleep dudududu: okayyyyhyhjuyfdfgh sad songs go brrrrrr: that was faster than last time seeds: I'd say you too but I know why you're up so you can stay up sad songs go brrrrrr: aw yeah B) 11:21am BEES?: niki is a mermaid nice but scary: I am BEES?: and puffy is a pirate captain: ...I am yes BEES?: did niki seduce puffy our monarch: o-O unus annus but make it alive: he raises an interesting question our monarch: what is it with tubbo and calmly asking strange questions BEES?: i'm trying to make a brand dear sibling like how your brand is sunglasses and being the coolest queer dudududu: can confirm eret is the coolest queer technoplaneeeeee: ^^ BEES?: it's funny to me that everyone in my household is bi and I'm cishet our monarch: we needed a trademark cishet tubbo, thank you for taking one for the team sad songs go brrrrrr: our home has 2 cishets and that's sad dudududu: ours has none awake not found: same quack quack: george woke up to say none of us were straight and then fell right back asleep arson?: we have one cishet, for balance dudududu: wait say I if you aren't cis I technoplaneeeeee: I our monarch: I dudududu: @/unus annus but make it alive @/drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps now I know you two aren't cis unus annus but make it alive: I OH GODS I WAS ALMOST A CIS HET GAGS /j drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: I ew imagine being cishet /j dudududu: this is sad we only have 5 non-cis people technoplaneeeeee: what's even sadder is the four cishets dudududu: names technoplaneeeeee: dadza, tommy, tubbo, bad our monarch: wait bad is cishet dudududu: yeah he's platonically married to skeppy our monarch: o h and sam isn't cishet? sam nook: nope I'm bi dudududu: jesus christ how many bi's are there technoplaneeeeee: wanna take another count I our monarch: I sam nook: I nice but scary: I captain: I sad songs go brrrrrr: I arson?: I (and also skeppy) quack quack: I dudududu: karl and I are the lone panromantic aces drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: this is a sad day for the ranboo community unus annus but make it alive: it is I almost became cishet I don't know how I'd deal with that dudududu: no one does ran seeds: can we circle back to did niki seduce puffy? it's quite an interesting topic nice but scary: wait seeds what is your gender identity/pronouns/sexuality? seeds: I'm an agender asexual aromantic, pronouns are it/it's and xe/xem but don't avoid the question Niki we must know BEES?: yeah dear sister did you seduce someone? nice but scary: I don't like where this is going seeds: an innocent person has nothing to fear niki so tell us did you? dudududu: imagine getting ganged up on by seeds couldn't be me unus annus but make it alive: imagine drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: must be so hard BEES?: well then @/captain were you seduced captain: I'm gonna be honest I don't remember BEES?: that sounds like the words of someone who's been seduced seeds: good job niki BEES?: yeah good job dudududu: suddenly I am terrified of a seeds and tubbo meetup unus annus but make it alive: oh gods no wait seeds: I mean I can make that happen dudududu: you- you literally can't seeds: well not this way no but I can do it the other way or the other other way or the bad way,,,,,,,, dudududu: let's try not to do the bad way and instead do the other other way seeds: awwwww but I like the other way drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: what about the other other other way unus annus but make it alive: karl you are a genius seeds: I mean I guess half is better than none I wouldn't want to scare them dudududu: no no you already did that seeds: well I don't want to traumatize them let's put it that way technoplaneeeeee: seeds is such an illusive being shark boi: honestly BEES?: oh good you're back now let's talk about lava girl shark boi: nope nope nope I'm leaving again sad songs go brrrrrr: okay two things, 1. where is tommy 2. were we ever going to find out what techno and dream did the other day technoplaneeeeee: 1. I think I heard a scream earlier he might be dead 2. no dudududu: 1. idk 2. no BEES?: tommy is not dead just very terrified of wilbur's pranks, he texted me before he was sacrificed to appease the prank gods father to all: wilbur go check on your brother and not techno you know I mean tommy sad songs go brrrrrr: dang it father to all: now rivals. dudududu: oh dear he used punctuation- technoplaneeeeee: well we're screwed father to all: where were you two yesterday morning 2 hours before Dream ran the marathon seeds: with me dudududu: SAVED BY SEEDS OH THANK THE GODS technoplaneeeeee: the wrath of the crowfather waits for another day father to all: that makes it seem like you two are doing something tomorrow dudududu: or today that you just don't find out about till tomorrow technoplaneeeeee: maybe we already did it dudududu: who knows seeds: me dudududu: shhhhhhhhhhh who knows technoplaneeeeee: live in fear unus annus but make it alive: we already do 3:38pm BEES?: I have gone too long without gaining a new animal friend who wants to go into the dangerous parts of the forest with me dudududu: I'm offended you had to ask me Tubbo technoplaneeeeee: well of course we want to go BEES?: sweet Dream can you quickly teleport me out of here so I don't get murdered by my family dudududu: sure thing BEES?: w o o s h technoplaneeeeee: me too please dudududu: of course BEES?: w o o s h 2 electric boogaloo w o o s h 3 we landed in a tree dudududu: oh that's why it's green technoplaneeeeee: nope that's your hoodie you fell on the ground dudududu: that also makes sense BEES?: I just heard a scream did they fall in water technoplaneeeeee: almost dudududu: hey I found a koi fish somehow imma go get it BEES?: correct me if im wrong but aren't you allergic to water? technoplaneeeeee: dream dream don't- dream what the heck stop getting closer to the water- drEAM BEES?: how is he not dead father to all: no one knows anymore dream how are you gonna carry the fish unus annus but make it alive: karl and I already started getting the pond ready and dream teleported in to grab a bucket father to all: well of course it's a well thought out operation drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: when has anything we've ever done been well thought out father to all: I recognize my mistake now dudududu: his name is berry and he is my child if any of you touch him I will not hesitate to end your entire bloodline :) father to all: noted dudududu: hey T's I think I see some otters wanna go watch them technoplaneeeeee: o t t e r s BEES?: o t t e r s dudududu: I'll take that as a yes technoplaneeeeee: plot twist two of them were otters one was in fact a racoon that fell in the river BEES?: we are now riding down the river in a hollowed out log at m a x i m u m s p e e d dudududu: weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee technoplaneeeeee: oh hey look a fox den BEES?: awwwww look at the little one dudududu: man I know someone who would love to see this BEES?: noooooo we passed it alreadyyyyyyyyyyy D: dudududu: good news we are near the ocean technoplaneeeeee: bad news? dudududu: I think theres a waterfall technoplaneeeeee: what kinda waterfall drops into the sea BEES?: this one apparently dudududu: one that dives off a cliff father to all: dream you should probably do something about the fact that you can't touch water dudududu: well I can't teleport cause I did that a lot already but I think I can cast a really quick water resistant spell BEES?: their eyes glowed wow dudududu: okay so the spell is gonna wear off soon however I think a pod of dolphins I know swims around here so they can help us go z o o m back to land father to all: did you already fall off the waterfall technoplaneeeeee: no we are now BEES?: it's quite fun my family are spamming my dm's this is great dudududu: splish splash oh yeah there are the dolphins!! technoplaneeeeee: everyday I wonder if dream is secretly has the powers of a disney princess dudududu: shut up it's z o o m time BEES?: z o o m 4:08pm BEES?: a conversation that just occurred Tech: okay it's been 30 minutes I think we're lost Dre: no we aren't I know exactly where we are Me: really? how? Tech: you can't possibly- Dre: walks over to a tree, punches it twice with the side of his fist, a door swings open, they grab a box of cheese itz and starts eating them before closing the door Dre: with food in his mouth so we just gotta walk a mile or so to the sour patch kids tree then take a right and walk for another mile and then we'll be at the flower field Me and Tech: ...h u h dudududu: I think I broke them oh hey wait if we make a slight detour we can pass the lollipop tree which has only blue raspberry lollies in it technoplaneeeeee: okay 1. how much is a slight detour and 2. when the heck did you become aussie with your "lollies" dudududu: 1. less than 5 miles is slight to me 2. I dunno BEES?: dream, my friend, I applaud you for having taste in blue raspberry lollipops, but I wish to find an animal companion and >5 miles is a bit far dudududu: well we'd pass a rabbit's den along the way and then come out at the west flower field where the butterflies live on the hill and the sun'll set by then BEES?: and to the lollipop tree we go~ technoplaneeeeee: how old are these food items exactly? dudududu: not old enough to kill you if that's what you're asking technoplaneeeeee: it wasn't but now I fear BEES?: you think I can ride a deer into battle dudududu: only one way to find out technoplaneeeeee: time to start a war father to all: please no 5:56pm BEES?: war is fun dudududu: I'm glad we could enlighten you technoplaneeeeee: it's getting late should we go to the cave? dudududu: oooo we should I think some axolotls live down there BEES?: AXOLOTLSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS technoplaneeeeee: what should we eat and dream don't suggest any of your tree snacks dudududu: well then BEES?: I refuse to eat a potential pet dudududu: pretty much my only safe foods are chicken nuggets and buttered noodles so don't worry tubs BEES?: good unus annus but make it alive: well I'm making a banana sandwich rn you want me to make y'all food? BEES?: banana sandwich? dudududu: here we go~ drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: here comes the judgement~ technoplaneeeeee: what do you mean?? BEES?: it can't be that bad unus annus but make it alive: so it's bread, obviously then on one slice you put peanut butter technoplaneeeeee: okayyyyyyy unus annus but make it alive: then you but bananas on the the peanut butter BEES?: alright but that sounds good? dudududu: wait for it drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: the final magic touch unus annus but make it alive: on the other slice of bread you put mayo. technoplaneeeeee: W H Y BEES?: WHAT THE FLIP FLOP unus annus but make it alive: ITS GOOD DONT HATE ON IT dudududu: ITS TASTYYYYYYYYYYYYY technoplaneeeeee: HOW DID YOU EVEN MAKE THIS COMBINATION drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: seEDS TAUGHT US DONT HATE ON THE GOOD SANDWICH YOU JUST HAVE BAD TASTE technoplaneeeeee: SEEDS TAUGHT YOU THIS ABOMINATION??? AND YOU ATE IT??? HAVE YOU MET XEM??? dudududu: ITS GOODDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD unus annus but make it alive: screw you haters I'm only bringing Dream food now BEES?: wait no- technoplaneeeeee: I'll live without food unus annus but make it alive: tubbo gets food cause he's my husband /p techno can starve technoplaneeeeee: fine with me 7:13pm dudududu: let's teach tubbo how to use a crossbow tech technoplaneeeeee: bet BEES?: WEAPONSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS unus annus but make it alive: welp I'm gonna die aren't I 8:22pm BEES?: I am surprisingly good with crossbows 9:08pm BEES?: what just happened- all- hears rustling panther runs in and tackles Dream me and tech: panic dre: patiENCE GET OFF laughing us: confusion dre: (while petting a fliPPING PANTHER) calmly explains how this is patience and they befriended her and her girlfriend hope who was probably nearby technoplaneeeeee: you confuse me dream how many secrets do you hold dudududu: too many to burden a soul with good thing I don't have one unus annus but make it alive: I can believe that dudududu: rude but really there are so many things you don't know about me technoplaneeeeee: like what dudududu: I have at least one tattoo BEES?: A TATTOO???????? COOLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL technoplaneeeeee: AT LEAST ONE? also WHERE? AND WHEN???? dudududu: :person_shrugging: I'm not saying what they are or where on my person they are located nor am I saying where I got them or who administered them BEES?: I aspire to be this cool and mysterious drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: well to be fair you are married /p to ranboo so you are kinda the honorary fourth member of the trio BEES?: I NEED TO START BEING MORE MYSTERIOUS NOW THAT I KNOW THIS technoplaneeeeee: dear lord BEES?: what else can you share with us oh wise dream technoplaneeeeee: don't make his ego any bigger please I beg of you BEES?: then beg. dudududu: you are training well young one but uhhhhhhhhhh I mean I can skateboard and roller skate/blade too I'm teaching the other two you can join if you want technoplaneeeeee: how do you keep surprising me dudududu: I surprise myself most of the time our monarch: you know with your aesthetic I wouldn't think you to be a skater but honestly- it kinda works BEES?: wait there are names for styles- our monarch: yeah :D BEES?: what's mine called?! what's dream's called?! how bout techno's?! our monarch: well I'd say yours is a mix between kidcore and cottagecore dream is alt and techno is like... anime meets royalty but he's sometimes just a hoodie wearer and really who isn't dudududu: I like how mine is the easiest to describe yet I'm the most complicated here BEES?: what about everyone else in the group?! our monarch: I'm just gonna say the first few that come to mind, wilbur is very dark academia niki is absolutely ethereal (both aesthetically and otherwise ;)) and karl's a vintage BEES?: woahhhhhhhh our monarch: you can come with me and niki to fashion club if you want since you seem to like this so much :D BEES?: pog!!! dudududu: that was so pure what- drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: why can't we be like this- unus annus but make it alive: because we hate each other most of the time and when we don't we're too chaotic to be wholesome dudududu: well dang no need to call us out that hard jesus- technoplaneeeeee: I've been meaning to ask why the mystery trio all have memory problems? unus annus but make it alive: ender thing dudududu: ender thing plus adhd drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: personally it's because I managed to climb on top of the side of a bouncy castle that some other kids were weighing down but someone yelled for cake (birthday parties am I right) and they all ran off causing me to fall back headfirst about 5 feet or so onto concrete and I was too socially awkward to tell anyone so I walked it off dudududu: at least that's the only logical explanation we have for them unus annus but make it alive: yeah we aren't quite sure about karl's tbh BEES?: those explanations escalated very quickly technoplaneeeeee: they really did didn't they second question how many people do you control exactly dream? BEES?: did he just start playing the nations of the world song from the animaniacs he did dudududu: :) BEES?: :fear: 3:00am dudududu: time for deep thoughts if I peel the skin off my lips from anxiety and swallow them is that considered cannibalism, side note, is licking your blood considered that as well technoplaneeeeee: I- sleep- dudududu: as if you are sleeping technoplaneeeeee: that's because you won't now pleaseeeeeeeeeeeee dudududu: ughhhhhh fine 5:26am BEES?: THE SKYS AWAKE SO IM AWAKE dudududu: it's too early for frozen referencesssssssssssss BEES?: you got enough energy to teleport us to your home? dudududu: yeah probably technoplaneeeeee: what if the probably was a no what would happen then unus annus but make it alive: you don't wanna know dudududu: it's some traumatic unspeakable horror stuff don't worry about it technoplaneeeeee: fair BEES?: so I need to pack up my creatures? dudududu: ye I'm gonna say bye to patience and hope so they don't maul me again next time we see each other technoplaneeeeee: I'll help tubbo BEES?: dream just walked in with a jar and sang "I've got a jar of dirt I've got a jar of dirt" I am too young and uncultured to understand this dudududu: oh I have more technoplaneeeeee: nope not now dudududu: D: BEES?: w o o s h 4 (? I think-) there is a door technoplaneeeeee: it's actually a really nice door dudududu: ikr? :0 GRAVITY FALLSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: YEAHHHHHH unus annus but make it alive: WOOOOOOOOO dudududu: REALITY IS AN ILLUSION unus annus but make it alive: THE UNIVERSE IS A HOLOGRAM drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: BUY GOLD BYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE technoplaneeeeee: what other kids shows do you obsess over? /gen dudududu: mostly gravity falls, phineas and ferb, milo murphy's law, and ducktails unus annus but make it alive: yeah and voltron's pretty good too we just started watching avatar as well BEES?: kids shows are everything drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: honestly yeah oh and darkwing duck is nice, haven't watched too much of it tho dudududu: this is too peaceful and wholesome technoplaneeeeee: WHY'D YOU THROW A STUFFED WHALE AT ME- wait is this wilbur's sad songs go brrrrrr: MY WHALEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE dudududu: yeah mind giving it back to him? somehow it ended up here technoplaneeeeee: I will but what's in it for me unus annus but make it alive: we won't force you to try the wonder that is banana sandwiches technoplaneeeeee: deal accepted BEES?: not to be rude but who is strange... being/man? on the sofa? dudududu: oh hey XD is here!! unus annus but make it alive: yeah!!! BEES?: what does XD stand for? drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: he will not say dudududu: personally I think it's Xylophone Davis BEES?: ooooo animal crossing unus annus but make it alive: yeah he's on the grind also here cause foolish heard we were binging cartoons and didn't want last time to happen again dudududu: yeah last time.... heh heh- drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps: yeah that was a whirlwind of chaos and desperation technoplaneeeeee: I honestly am sacred to know and tubbo is too invested in XD's animal crossing to care so moving on back to gravity falls dudududu: yeah get over here techno bill cypher is showing up soon 2:28am unus annus but make it alive: dream is braiding techno's hair and won't do mine this is homophobic dudududu: bitch ur straight unus annus but make it alive: transphobic* dudududu: I'm literally trans unus annus but make it alive: it's internalized then dudududu: then how is me braiding techno's hair- who is also trans- and not yours, transphobic unus annus but make it alive: ... y'know what screw you 'unus annus but make it alive' has changed 'unus annus but make it alive' to 'oreo boy' oreo boy: new name time screw your names dudududu: wow technoplaneeeeee: wow 'oreo boy' has changed 'drink monster or i will steal your kneecaps' to 'HONK' HONK: RANBOO SCREW YOU I LIKED MY NAME dudududu: thank you karl HONK: not gonna change it tho cause I am too dumb to know how dudududu: oof 4:37am dudududu: well gonna regret this later but 'dudududu' has added 1 person to the chat 'dudududu' has changed 'XD' to 'god' dudududu: XD will you bring me a milkshake smile :D god: what flavor dudududu: m&m god: what does everyone else want oreo boy: oreo HONK: uhhhhhhhh cheesecake ig technoplaneeeeee: watermelon BEES?: peach god: alright bye dudududu: ALRIGHT HE LEFT MOVE MOVE MOVE technoplaneeeeee: why am I being tied up BEES?: it's for a worthy cause technoplaneeeeee: also why are we all texting and not talking irl? dudududu: oh I felt nonverbal and overstimulated for a bit but we good now technoplaneeeeee: ah okay [Beginning of Audio Log] Techno: So why am I tied up exactly? Dream: We're cooking! Techno: oh god- is this why you made XD leave? Tubbo: Yup! evilly giggles Ranboo: We found a recipe for something called molasses cookies sounds okay I guess! Karl: We haven't slept in ages and it's like 4am and we all have monster so let's gET FIRED UP BOIS!! All, excluding Techno: WOOOOOOOOOO Techno: dear lord this is how I die isn't it Tubbo: mmmmmm no I think we'll keep you around a bit longer >:) Karl: Alright I have 12 cans of 8 flavors that makes.... Tubbo: 96 cans Ranboo: The cishet being the only one of us to do math how fitting. Karl: Thanks Tubbo- 96 cans and there are... 4 of us which means we each get... Tubbo: 24!! Techno: You're all going to die- Dream: That's the goal! Ranboo: EVERYONE CHUGGGGGGGGG long period of chugging sounds Techno: How. Just- how? Dream: We're that powerful. Ranboo: Now- WE BAKE! Tubbo: So we add that much of this thing and- Ranboo: That's the wrong measuring thing Tubs. Tubbo: Oh oops. Dream: Okay then we crack the eggs, ignoring the small chance that 4 chickens might pop out! Ranboo: Oh haha very funny Dream: Thanks I'm a comedic genius Karl: We now add the flour I think- Tubbo: Yeah I think that's right Dream: Now we mix!! Karl: WAIT THAT'S TOO HIGH- Dream: OH FU- [End Of Audio Log] technoplaneeeeee: dream put the mixer too high and flour and other crap got on everyone oreo boy: well luckily there's still enough batter to make cookies BEES?: okay wait I might be having a crash dudududu: first time drinking monster? BEES?: uh huh dudududu: yeah it'll do that to you oreo boy: probably shouldn't have given you- what was it 24 cans?- your first time drinking it HONK: he'll be fine I think our monarch: tubbo if you die you can't be in fashion club nice but scary: please don't die we would miss you captain: we really would sad songs go brrrrrr: tommy won't admit it but he would too drinker of coca cola: NO I WOIULD IJG technoplaneeeeee: you summoned him dudududu: but at what cost oreo boy: everything I'm bored while the stuff is baking I'm changing everyones names these are old dudududu: yeah ig oreo boy: aw yeah admin approval B) 'oreo boy' has changed 'dudududu' to 'techno's one fear' technoplaneeeeee: change it ranboo oreo boy: yes sir- 'oreo boy' has changed 'techno's one fear' to 'speed' 'oreo boy' has changed 'technoplaneeeeee' to 'potato' 'oreo boy' has changed 'BEES?' to 'do a flip' 'oreo boy' has changed 'nice but scary' to 'bloop' bloop: ? oreo boy: mermaid :D bloop: :D 'oreo boy' has changed 'captain' to 'yo ho ho' 'oreo boy' has changed 'our monarch' to 'The Coolest Queer™' 'oreo boy' has changed 'sam nook' to 'aww man' 'oreo boy' has changed 'quack quack' to 'give us some money' 'oreo boy' has changed 'awakenotfound' to 'asleep' 'oreo boy' has changed 'arson?' to 'roasty toasty' 'oreo boy' has changed 'muffin<3' to 'rat's owner' 'oreo boy' has changed 'autocorrect who' to 'shiny' oreo boy: hey why do we never hear from sam, quackity, george, sapnap, skeppy, and bad? speed: I asked once and all they said was 'mafia shit' so idk if they're in the mafia or trying to stop it but either way I don't care oreo boy: I- mkay then- 'oreo boy' has changed 'sad songs go brrrrrr' to 'your new boyfriend' do a flip: did you just call wilbur an arsehole oreo boy: WAIT NO I- your new boyfriend: it's too late the damage has been done it's okay maybe in another life I will be cared for oreo boy: NOOOOOOOOOOO drinker of coca cola: AHAHAHAHHAHAHAAHAHA 'oreo boy' has changed 'your new boyfriend' to 'the internet ruined me' 'oreo boy' has changed 'drinker of coca cola' to 'child' child: HEY IM NOT SH DUAIHO DDJHIWHUIJD the internet ruined me: this made me feel better thank you ranboo potato: did he just give up on typing and keysmashed instead speed: probably oreo boy: and now the final name, dadza's speed: wait doesn't changing someone's name ping them- potato: yes it does- WAIT RANBOO NO 'oreo boy' has changed 'father to all' to 'caw caw bit-' caw caw bit-: why are you all up. speed: SCATTER potato: EVERYONE FLEE caw caw bit-: WHY WERE THE MYSTERY TRIO AND TUBBO COOKING?? potato: TO BE FAIR I WOULDNT HAVE LET THEM TIE ME UP IF I KNEW speed: WHICH IS WHY WE DIDNT SAY caw caw bit-: WHY WOULD YOU LET THEM TIE YOU UP??? potato: fair question oreo boy: STOP TALKING AND SCATTER do a flip: RUNNNNNNNNN speed: AAAAAAAAAAAAA potato: rip wilbur and tommy now AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 11:11am speed: make a wish potato: okay the internet ruined me: sure oreo boy: JIGYTDRCHVHJHIG I WAS DRINKINHG MOSNTER AND DINT FINSIH IT AND KARL SAID 'BOY YOU BETTER FINSIH THST IT COULD DEED A WHOEL GAMILY' AND IM CRYINGGGGGGGGGG speed: for those who don't speak ranboo, "I was drinking monster and didn't finish it and Karl said 'boy you better finish that it could feed a whole family' and I'm crying" do a flip: oh okay thanks the internet ruined me: oh that's what that says speed: mhmm wilbur are you ever gonna tell them the internet ruined me: jkugyfdciu this is why I don't come here you keep making me anxious about it which makes me want to say it less speed: okay well go hunker down somewhere and I'll tell them the internet ruined me: okay I guess- potato: ? speed: hush you will understand soon potato: ;-; the internet ruined me: alright I'm good speed: cool @/everyone wilbur has a kid potato: IM SORRY WHAT child: LMAO DAD'S A GRANDPA NOW HES SO OLDDDDDDDDDDDDD caw caw bit-: h u h the internet ruined me: surprise? bloop: I want more info than that dream who do I need to threaten what's the kid's name the important stuff the internet ruined me: I'm honestly more scared of niki than I am of dad rn bloop: :) speed: okay so Sally, y'know that shapeshifter nymph?, yeah she's the mom the kid's name is Fundy and he's a fox shapeshifter and honestly- he's adorable he's about 3 months old and yes the two are still together and Fundy lives with Sally rn the internet ruined me: I'm scared of you speed: aw thanks! caw caw bit-: ...can I hold him potato: dad's gone soft oh no- child: at this rate he's gonna adopt Sally- the internet ruined me: sure you can hold him speed: this is too wholesome potato: it is speed: don't act like you aren't melting in the corner at the picture of fundy I sent you potato: shut up the internet ruined me: dream how do you have- speed: I'm good friends with Sally actually oreo boy: don't question it wilbur he knows everyone and they have connections and favors to probably the whole town speed: yep! give us some money: wait is wilbur a dilf speed: no I said he's with sally still give us some money: damn the internet has ruined me: ;-; child: is dad crying potato: oh god is he child: yep he is the internet has ruined me: alright how bout I bring fundy to the lake next time sally too bloop: yes please do a flip: wait wilbur's the only one who's a bio parent here wow oreo boy: yeah I wouldn't be too sure about that HONK: yeahhhhhh stares at dream speed: s h u t t h e f u c k u p :) potato: wait what the internet has ruined me: ^^ bloop: ^^ do a flip: ^^ The Coolest Queer™: ^^ (also love my name :D) caw caw bit-: ^^ speed: I hate all of you seeds: well I mean they do need a nudge to finally figure it out oreo boy: oh gods seeds is here r u n seeds: hi ranboo HONK: alright I'll tell them a hint that's glaringly obvious and let them draw conclusions seeds: sounds good to me HONK: all I'm saying is The Not A Very Good Town Town potato: what? seeds: you'll figure it out :) oreo boy: wait can I- 'oreo boy' has changed 'seeds' to 'enigma' oreo boy: I CAN AHA enigma: wow just for that I'm doing the thing oreo boy: NO speed: PLEASE DONT HONK: NOT AGAIN enigma: The FitnessGram™ Pacer Test is a multistage aerobic capacity test that progressively gets more difficult as it continues. The 20 meter pacer test will begin in 30 seconds. Line up at the start. The running speed starts slowly, but gets faster each minute after you hear this signal. 'Ding' A single lap should be completed each time you hear this sound. 'Ding' Remember to run in a straight line, and run as long as possible. The second time you fail to complete a lap before the sound, your test is over. The test will begin on the word start. On your mark, get ready, 'ding' oreo boy: NOOOOOOOOO speed: WHYYYYYY do a flip: WHY THAT child: N O HONK: JIOU&TDYCV the internet has ruined me: NUH UH NO potato: existence is pain 'enigma' has changed 'enigma' to 'seeds' 11:45am potato: ignoring seeds just obliterating any mental health we had, I looked up the hint they gave us and the only results were a book series at our local library and the show Tales the internet ruined me: well that's strangely convenient- bloop: library trip? do a flip: I want a library trip maybe I can research that necklace dream has that is totally mystic and or magical speed: wow all my secrets being discovered huh yo ho ho: wait what necklace do a flip: it's a little dolphin wrapped around a clear smooth stone and I swear I've seen it glow oreo boy: wait what HONK: h u h speed: :) potato: also ignoring that whole interaction- to the library! caw caw bit-: before that roll call time @/everyone and tell me if you're going to the library potato: I'm at the mystery shack and I'm going to the library speed: the mystery shack???? I- okay then I'm at home and staying there I think we're gonna let XD back in and hope he doesn't kill us and that our milkshakes aren't melted HONK: sounds like a plan oreo boy: the mystery trio is accounted for at home do a flip: I'm with techno and going to the library! child: I guess I'll go to the library the internet ruined me: same bloop: library :D The Coolest Queer™: library! yo ho ho: libraryyyyyyyyy speed: I texted sapnap and he said mafia shit so I mean they've been accounted for caw caw bit-: ....... I trust Sam and Bad alright everyone may go now speed: I know you two can see this so wanna play manhunt later i'm in it for the money: sure i'm in it for the money 2.0: sounds like fun 'oreo boy' has changed 'i'm in it for the money' to 'minion 1' 'oreo boy' has changed 'i'm in it for the money 2.0' to 'minion 2' minion 2: why. minion 1: I like them oreo boy: thank you one of dream's mysterious people who do their bidding :D minion 1: np HONK: why are you playing manhunt with them? speed: death doesn't affect them or me unlike the original hunters HONK: what do I expect anymore i'm in it for the murder: can i get a name change 'speed' has changed 'i'm in it for the murder' to 'cows suck' cows suck: thank you oreo boy: hey boffy HONK: hello cows suck: hi do a flip: do they not like cows or something speed: oh he hates cows it's hilarious cows suck: they must dieeeeee do a flip: so that's boffy who are minion one and two minion 1: can we tell 'em boss? speed: eh sure it's not like they know you anyway minion 1: yay!! I'm charlie slimecicle and absolutely not a pile of slime I am a human mhmm yes :D minion 2: I'm Punz I can and will kill you no questions asked speed: it's true I've seen him do it caw caw bit-: that's concerning but I can't control you anyway dream speed: pog B) child: I was surfing through alec benjamin's old songs don't ask why and I have stumbled across something speed: oh gods wait I know where this is going- child: dream made a song with alec fucking benjamin potato: how many things about dream do we not know oreo boy: so many things HONK: it's concerning actually speed: rude bloop: I listened to the song and dream I love it but also are you okay speed: no next question potato: library squad roll out oreo boy: techno you literally can't leave would you like me to teleport you and tubbo there do a flip: yes please potato: that would be helpful yo ho ho: wait karl can't teleport so how does he get home- speed: he doesn't oreo boy: he doesn't HONK: I don't yo ho ho: .....okay then Tommy yelled and began to sprint as he saw Tubbo. He ditched Wilbur (he was a bitch boy anyway Tommy thought), "TUBBOOOOOOOOO!" "TOMMYYYYY!" As the two hugged each other Wilbur caught up (he refused to run), "You know we're going into the library Toms you gotta be quiet," then muttering under his breath, "if you even know how-" "Oh shut up Will-i-am" "Hey there's Eret, Niki, and Puffy. Come on let's go inside," Techno said waving the 3 over. The group walked into the library, Tommy and Tubbo being chaotic as ever, rapidly talking about a Logan Paul, no one knew what they meant. Once they reached the inside (why were there so many stairs?) they were met with an empty desk, a bell, and a sign. The sign read, "Hello and welcome to the Alluveterre Town Library! My name is Delphi, pronouns are they/them, and I am mute! I know sign language and can hear just fine! How may I help you today?" Techno rang the bell and the other 4 older people tried to keep Tommy and Tubbo from mercilessly ringing the bell. "Hello, do you have any books on 'The Not A Very Good Town, Town'?" The person- Delphi- entered from a side room ("Where the fuck did they come from-" "Shhh Tommy watch the mysterious person.") upon hearing the bell an Techno's question. They had large white wings, about the size of Philza's; pointed ears, grey eyes, and the most eye-catching thing (somehow even more than the giant wings) was a golden sun necklace around their neck. Their eyes lit up at the question and they nodded swiftly, a kind smile growing on their face, and a knowing look in their eyes. They turned around to search for something- oh a sticky note and a pen- and wrote down something. "You should find it around 945, with the author K. I'm sorry I can't tell you the accurate number, this book series is... quite an enigma if I must say. :)" "Oh okay thank you," he replied, wanting to drag the young teens away from the worker- yet he had a feeling they were somehow used to it already. Once they reached the correct general area, they all began searching. About 2 minutes into the search they heard- "I found it!!" Eret had found it. "Well... let's get started, Tubbo you can go search about that thing you wanted to do if you want." "Sweet!" Tubbo ran off towards the person at the desk, what was their name again? Delphi ah that's it. Y'know they have really cool wings I wonder what hybrid they are- off topic Tubbo, stay on the mission. Right. "Hello I want to look for magical and mystical artifacts? I'm not quite sure I can narrow it down any further than that sadly," he stated a bit sheepishly. They had the same kind smile on their face as they wrote another note, "You should go find my partner, Selene, in the back. Vir knows more than I do, it's their specialty. Vi should be somewhere around the back couches. Don't worry when you can't find them, they'll find you." Tubbo was a bit taken back by the last sentence but took the note and made a beeline (ooo bees- mission Tubbo, mission!) to the plush couches in the back of the library. He wasn't too sure to do once he got there since Selene would 'find him' first. Luckily his worries were put to ease when he saw a person laying on the couch, a similar necklace around their neck- this one silver and a moon instead. "Ah you must be Tubbo! Come follow me Delphi told me what you needed to research!" This was all very fast but none the less Tubbo was glad to figure out one of Dream's many secrets. Especially if he did it without a whole library study group. "You were looking about a dolphin around a clear stone hanging from a necklace, no?" "I- uh- yeah I was how did you know-" "Don't worry about it." Vir smiled at the confused boy. These librarians are mysterious as hell- "Here you go," they said taking a book from the shelf (wait where did that come from?), "this should answer your questions. Have a nice day!" Selene turned a corner and when Tubbo tried to follow them, they were gone. The book previously left on the couch had also disappeared. "Y'know what I'm not gonna question it." He looked at the cover of the book he had been handed, 'The Goddess of Animals (And Those She Favors)' Huh. 4:20pm speed: well that round of manhunt was fun time to be insane! legos live in prisons of their own flesh. minion 2: round 2 let's go I can't let you get away with that minion 1: no no he's right and they should say it speed: exactly 5:48pm speed: I got distracted and found an ermine oreo boy: what's that speed: it's a type of weasel that changes colors in from the winter to the spring HONK: oooooooooooooo what's their name speed: Aion oreo boy: welcome to the zoo Aion leave while you can /j I think HONK: mood speed: mood 2:51am speed: foolish found a rock and we've been staring at it for 8 hours HONK: we have oreo boy: it g l o w s shark boi: I have never seen anything better than this speed: mhmm HONK: mhmm x2 oreo boy: mhmm x3 speed: hey guys oreo boy: what shark boi: what is it I want to stare at the rock speed: everyone look slightly to the left HONK: is that a powerwasher speed: it is oreo boy: oH YES shark boi: nothin like powerwashing everything at 3am while sleep deprived asleep: I wake up and open the gc for once and I see this speed: p o w e r w a s h e r asleep: I am concerned HONK: tbf you probably should be oreo boy: honestly yeah asleep: i won't stop you tho carry on speed: WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO shark boi: WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO oreo boy: WOOOOOOOOOO HONK: WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO 4:20am speed: quick powerwashing break to say, bags are the liquid form of boxes asleep: nope going back to bed 8:06am potato: are you still powerwashing speed: are you still at the library potato: ... touché the internet ruined me: how is dream opposing techno and not dead speed: one time I made him so mad he had a typo potato: wait no I thought we said we weren't going to speak of that again- speed: did you make me swear an oath? no. therefore it has no meaning to me (Image ID: a screen shot of Techno's name in dm's saying "BLOODIDOL FOR THE BALSOS GOE") the internet ruined me: HOW ARE YOU STILL EXISTING ALSO THAT IS AMAZING I WILL USE THIS SO MUCH @child GET IN HERE @caw caw bit- YOU TOO child: PHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA caw caw bit-: aw tommy wilbur don't be too mean it is really funny though potato: I hate it here speed: <3 11:47am potato: what are the places where dream can't go, Kenettra, Beldain, and Tamoura there's three more places where dream can't be, Arhen-Kosho, Drycht, and Odalia speed: I'm also not welcome in Gatlon city caw caw bit-: what did you two do speed: techno bet I couldn't get into pandora without teleporting and now I'm inside and he has to get me out because I haven't slept in awhile so I can't teleport potato: in my defense I actually didn't think they would make it in yet here we are HONK: I'd get ranboo but they are sleeping and also this is funny so continue do a flip: wait when did you leave the library potato: when dream sent the screenshot do a flip: cool anyways dream why do you have a gift from the goddess of nature that allows animals to know when you mean harm and when you don't also how do you know her and why are the librarians giving me deity/eldritch horror vibes speed: well I have a bit of time so I'll explain 1. she's my friend so she gave it to me 2. I know her because I know her 3. idk they've been like that for years potato: dream look up speed: sweet let's go wanna get ice cream after this potato: sure speed: yo ran does crumb want anything oreo boy: I'd ask how you knew I was awake and that crumb was here but I know better yeah she wants mango speed: cool and you all want your regulars? HONK: yerp speed: hey techno should we have a club meeting potato: yeah we haven't had one in a while @bloop @yo ho ho @caw caw bit- speed: what kind y'all want yo ho ho: salted caramel please bloop: strawberry please!! caw caw bit-: fudge speed: time to bless you all with some knowledge ben and jerry's has a netflix and chill flavor and i'm like 79% sure it has alcohol in it oreo boy: thank you for this wonderful knowledge dream speed: no problem my dear sibling oreo boy: did anyone know I can shift into a full human form and a half human form do a flip: I'm sorry w h a t speed: they can HONK: they can oreo boy: yeah it's cause I'm a albino enderman hybrid* so I have human blood on that side, about 25% of me is human child: waitwaitwait wait. does this mean your parent was full enderdragon? oreo boy: yes I was born in an egg speed: so was I potato: wait heh?? an egg??? speed: e g g oreo boy: e g g do a flip: question for dream speed: yes tubbo? do a flip: you aren't human at all are you speed: nope! half enderdragon half chaos demon caw caw bit-: so you don't even have human from the chaos demon side? you're a direct descendant? speed: yep HONK: dream and ranboo have talked about how they were born and said that it was quite nice in the- y'know I can't say it or they'll do the thing do a flip: let chaos reign. egg speed: e g g oreo boy: e g g do a flip: so what does your true form look like? speed: think biblically accurate angel + enderdragon do a flip: oooooooooo child: oooooooooo caw caw bit-: that is frightening to imagine thank you speed: okay we've delivered the ice cream to karl and crumb potato: meeting time oreo boy: pog 3:29pm caw caw bit-: quick meeting break to ask, tommy and wilbur you two still alive? the internet ruined me: d u c k child: wilbur found a duckling and is just starstruck by it everytime it peeps I think he looses a year of life because he practically has a heart attack caw caw bit-: but he's not dead now so it works 4:20pm speed: instead of cursed thing I will say this you're aware of your breathing and blinking now good luck oreo boy: FRICK YOU THIS IS WHY YOU TELEPORTED AWAY SO FAST I HATE YOU potato: w h y HONK: this is hell 5:41pm HONK: just finished watching a nightmare before christmas oreo boy: let's watch it again speed: yes 6:42pm oreo boy: we interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to announce that dream dropped their food speed: (Image ID: it's three bowls of soup with dream style smiley faces on them and in the middle it says "i'm souper sad") child: where the fuck do you get these do a flip: at this point i think he just makes them HONK: we have been trying to figure it out for so long potato: stop being cryptic and hand over how you get the images dream speed: (Image ID: it's a strawberry with a gun with text above it saying "this is a strobbery") potato: i hate you speed: (Image ID: bananas with the dream type smile saying "all i peel is sadness") child: WHERE DO THEY COME FROM I DONT UNDERSTAND speed: they just are oreo boy: for your sins I am telling people you can draw well speed: (Image ID: it's a drawing of ranboo's minecraft skin saying "have you considered shutting the fuck up?") HONK: he just speedran drawing that child: I love that image I'm keeping it do a flip: have you drawn us before speed: ye child: can we see speed: no <3 child: it was worth a shot 9:12pm speed: sapnap just sent me a link and told me to listen to it it's money machine except it's just "hey you little pissbaby" and it ends HONK: it's so abrupt too like what oreo boy: hush and back to the movie 11:17pm HONK: so dream stole ranboo's blanket so they stole dream's pillow and now dream is editing pictures of ranboo's human form's face onto a guy in a banana costume then editing the rananaboo into different movies and tv shows and so on caw caw bit-: your family takes petty to a whole other level and it's concerning the internet ruined me: no it's amazing dream can you edit me one speed: sure the internet ruined me: HE JUST DM'D ME ONE OF TOMMY ON A PUMPKIN COSTUME I LOVE THIS JHUGIFTUDCV child: why speed: idk it's funny HONK: it's pretty funny oreo boy: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA h e l p HONK: dream started playing your best nightmare oreo boy: he's not wrong [Music plays softly in the distance from a record player.] [You recognize this song, it is called Wait] [You look around.] [You are in a room, one you've never seen before.] [But haven't you?] [There is a a tan couch in a corner, you remember this being called a fainting swan couch. Such an odd name you always thought.] [The walls are lined with shelves each one overfilled from books of all sizes and shapes.] [Are you sure you don't remember this place?] [You've never seen this many books before.] [You reach for a book- no you walk to the couch.] [A nap sounds nice.] [The record screeches to a halt.] [You jerk awake.] [Books throw themselves off the shelves.] [You duck to avoid being hit.] [When did you get up from the couch?] [The floor starts to crumble.] [You fall.] [It's dark here.] [A light shines.] [You see a pedestal that has a book on it.] [You walk towards it.] [Why does it feel like something is pulling you away from it?] [The cover says "Knowledge".] [You go to open the book when the pages start flying open.] [You try and fail to read any of the words as the pages zip past.] [Something tells you that another power is at play here. Time must be of the essence.] [Suddenly the book stills.] [You go to read the page it landed on.] "The first deity had no name. They simply were. They made two gods soon after Their creation. Chaos and Order, to keep the balance. More gods soon followed. Then the gods made life. (Gods and Spirits aren't alive, because if you can't die then are you really alive?) Mobs were made, endermen, bees, parrots, creepers. All sorts of animals and creatures. Then humans were created. Eventually the mobs started to look closer and closer to humans. When the humans and mobs had children the gods called them hybrids. Anything with human blood is a Player. If you are not a Player then you have only two options. A God. Or a Creature. Which are you?" [Where are you?] [What are you?] [Who are you?] [The music is back.] [So is the room.] [Do you remember now?] [No?] [I'm sorry I can't tell you more.] [I am merely a spectator, an observer if you please.] [I simply am.] [I cannot tell you what you need to know for that would mean to interact with you. And that is something I mustn't do.] [But I can lead you in the right direction.] [Luckily not all of the gods have fallen to the mad ideas of control that he possesses.] [He thinks he can control everyone.] [He is foolish. Naïve. Childish. Chasing the belief him in total power means everyone is happy.] [A youngling chasing a butterfly, not noticing the cliff that approaches.] [And yet the others follow him.] [I am trying my best but as I said, I cannot do anything that has an effect.] [You must figure it out.] [And you must hurry.] [If you fail to succeed it will be catastrophic.] [For the world, for the Council, for your friends, your family.] [For you.] [You hear a clock ticking, lava flowing, drips of purple liquid. The smell of burned flesh, rotten potatoes, blood.] [Why are you shaking why do you remember this what happened what happened what happened what-] [I can't bear to watch you be there again. You remember how bad it was now don't you?] [You can't bring yourself to say something- to nod- any indication that you heard Them- you're too busy living in the memories of that retched place.] [Yet you don't remember why?] [Why were you there? What did you do? Was it your fault? How did you even get out-] [He is back-] [I tried to keep him back as long as I could-] [You need to leave.] [Wake up.] 7:58pm oreo boy: dream shoved a pineapple in my hands and ran away what do i do child: eat it do a flip: carve out a bad image of his face oreo boy: he just ran in screeching in like 5 languages wait w a i t WAIT NO NOT AGAIN HONK: NO PLEASE speed: MY BRAINCELLS NO- potato: what braincells speed: shhhhhhh now back to our regularly scheduled programing AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HONK: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA oreo boy: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA child: why are we screaming why cant i type in caps again do a flip: its funnier if you read tommy's messages in his normal voice the internet ruined me: oh prime it is why are we screaming tho oreo boy: SO DREAM PISSED OFF XD AGAIN HONK: SO HE REINCARNATED THE DUOLINGO BIRD speed: I DONT WANNA SAY "the boy is patting his parrot" IN GERMAN I WANT TO LIVEEEEEEEEE potato: reincarnated implies you had to kill it last time ,,,,,,,,,,,,,did you fight the duolingo bird speed: YES AND WE FUCKING WON TOO potato: then why are you terrified oreo boy: BECAUSE THIS TIME ITS MANDARIN HONK: I DONT KNOW WHAT THE CHARACTERS MEANNNNNNNNNN potato: fair caw caw bit-: i'm so glad i have this chat muted the internet has ruined me: if you didn't you would have had a heart attack by now caw caw bit-: i'd be mad at the 'you're old' jab but you aren't wrong speed: speaking of not being wrong the nightmare before christmas is technically a hallmark movie he finds love and the meaning of christmas and realizes his work shouldn't be the main reason he exists do a flip: oh i dont like that HONK: THEYRE FENDING OFF THE BASTARD BIRD WITH A BANANA AND TYPING AT THE SAME TIME BTW speed: also jack is a skeleton right so he's all bone he has eyelids and eyebrows just something to think about do a flip: OH I REALLY DONT LIKE THAT oreo boy: oh prime no- potato: what did dream do to piss off XD speed: great question ,,,,,,,,,,,,next! HONK: dream distract him as i come from behind speed: i gotchu ranboo hows that google search on mandarin oreo boy: i can say and read the word chicken speed: keep up the good work soldier oreo boy: karl just wacked the bird with a crowbar while dream spouted some weird crap in spanish speed: it was the pen pineapple apple pen song potato: how did you get a crowbar HONK: it was in the pantry next to the goldfish speed: yeah where it always is oreo boy: where else would we keep it? potato: what do i expect anymore child: why arent we screaming again did you beat the bird HONK: nah we just knocked it out long enough to watch some youtube vids speed: guys its waking up oreo boy: if you'd like to know what the duolingo bird looks like in person just think giant somehow more cursed furby potato: that is now going to give me nightmares thank you HONK: so the bird woke up and dream walked to the fridge pulled out some olives and is just eating them while staring the owl directly in the eyes oreo boy: "its a power move" he says HONK: he just said a single word in mandarin?????????? oreo boy: XD floated in disgusted and im terrified????????? HONK: HEY THE BIRD DISEITEGRATED AND BURNED AGAIN oreo boy: YO WE WON EPIC the internet ruined me: this whole convo reads like some people in a boss fight HONK: listen if you met the bitch you'd know how it is a boss fight speed: vouch oreo boy: hey dream you know you can stop eating olives now right ,,,,,,,,,,,right speed: yes i do HONK: guys hes,,,,,,,,,, theyre still eating them oh prime what- speed: hey ran why is your name oreo boy you're they/he oreo boy: comedy purposes speed: valid child: the chat is the mystery trio's gc and we're all just here in silence potato: it's interesting to watch do a flip: so do we get to know what dream did or speed: no oreo boy: we've been sworn to secrecy HONK: we were given monsters and a "shhhhhhhhh" oreo boy: we were sworn to secrecy speed: hey foolish shark boi: yes? are you injured? speed: foolish im offended thats all you think i need you for shark boi: stop buttering me up what bone did you break speed: my leg oreo boy: it's very gross to look at actually HONK: mhmm shark boi: oh dear prime im coming potato: does foolish just lurk shark boi: yes the internet ruined me: how many of you fuckers are lurkers asleep: o/ child: o/ do a flip: o/ bloop: o/ the internet ruined me: i cant blame you all cause i am too so potato: so how's dream's leg we still gonna spar later? HONK: he's getting yelled at in our mother language oreo boy: our mother language has some good insults HONK: mhmm my personal favorite is "you never have and never will be better than you are now" it's one word oreo boy: we also have pronouns based off time instead of gender there are lots of them do a flip: is this why you never understood pronouns ranboo oreo boy: we don't speak of that speed: IM FREE OH PRIME IVE BEEN TOLD OFF SO MUCH shark boi: yo the other 2/3 of the trio we're binging hell's kitchen get in here with the snacks HONK: OH SWEET oreo boy: HECK YEAH HONK: can we watch the marble races after shark boi: sure HONK: ayeeeeee 9:23pm speed: whats with the weird romance sub plot in like every season of hells kitchen i have a bone to pick with the contestents why are they all bitches and the nice ones are weak willed or just suck at cooking oreo boy: this is how i imagine the kardashian tv show to be HONK: or dance moms speed: or any other reality tv show shark boi: this fucker. just used his hand to taste the food off the show banned imprisoned locked away forever speed: this is amusing to watch 11:05pm oreo boy: dream is crying about the new little boat guy in animal crossing new horizons speed: HE SINGS A SONGGGGGGG ABOUT HOW HES TRYING TO FIND HIMSELF AND HOW HE LOVES HIS BOAT HES SO PURE I WOULD DIE FOR HIM OIUGVBHNJKOI HONK: he's somehow typing through tears we dont question it 1:00am speed: TODAY WE CODED IT THAT EVERYTIME WE DRINK A MONSTER WE GAIN THE POWER OF THE SUN HONK: WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO oreo boy: YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH shark boi: have at it yall 3:48am shark boi: they've carved pumpkins somehow they actually look really good how is it this nice you did these in the dark 3:48am speed: this chat is dead and all but if i hypothetically used a jump rope to cross a river how likely am i to buy bubble gum potato: what child: prime this is worse than my math homework questions oreo boy: tommy h e l p they're scaring me again ;-; HONK: he just took a shoelace with a metal loop thing tied on the end waved it in front of his face for a solid two minutes then just picked up their phone and texted this oreo boy: now they're getting kiwis???? do a flip: what color was the shoelace HONK: red i think? oreo boy: red do a flip: oh yeah he's fine dw about it potato: i'm so lost do a flip: you said they're getting kiwis? oreo boy: yeah? HONK: what does that have to do with the shoelace being red- do a flip: cool just dont let him eat eggs and you'll be okay oreo boy: okay??? HONK: i dont think we even have eggs in the house we might have like,,,,,, sour eggs? the internet ruined me: what in the fucking cursed shit HONK: yeah like sour gummy worms but yknow eggs have you never had those? oreo boy: karl thats not from this dimension yet HONK: oh my bad dont think too hard on this wilbur mkay the internet ruined me: im getting philza child: why are all three of us awakE WAIT WILBUR NO DONT GET DAD I WAS MID TYPE WILBUR PLEASE potato: jokes on you im so tired if i blink i'll pass out also you're gonna get in trouble too wilbur the internet ruined me: IM TAKING ONE FOR THE TEAM @/cawcawbit- caw caw bit-: what the fuck its 3am speed: almost 4! caw caw bit-: everyone to bed now child: yeah yeah we're going I HEAR FOOTSTEPS I WAS TOO SARCASTIC OH PRIME OH FUCK THIS IS THE END TELL MY STORY potato: wilbur istg if you make a hamilton reference the internet ruined me: fuck you too ig THE FOOTSTEPS ARE GETTING CLOSER TO MY DOOR FAREWELL SOLDIERS potato: alright time to blink because i value my life speed: mmmmmmmmmmm n o m oreo boy: dear prime he's delirious HONK: as if they weren't already oreo boy: well yeah but this is worse HONK: it is it really is oreo boy: mkay i have the crowbar HONK: lets do this. caw caw bit-: i am beyond concerned right now but i'm too tired to care do a flip: yknow what i think i'll go to bed now- bloop: yes tubbo please go to sleep also karl and ranboo don't hit dream with a crowbar that would be very bad oreo boy: oh no we know that HONK: mhmm we learned after last time bloop: last time? HONK: it was a dark time niki oreo boy: this is just the door opening crowbar, the hitting crowbar is outside the shower bloop: why exactly do you have more than one crowbar and why outside the shower? HONK: so we can hit any possible people standing behind the curtain shark boi: its true theyve done it to me before oreo boy: in the prank wars its everyone for themselves also hi foolish!! shark boi: hello!! :D now sleep! HONK: awww okayyyy oreo boy: its okay karl we can break into the zoo another day HONK: i hope we can do it soon its so rare that the times collide oreo boy: i know karl but we need to sleep now because i saw foolish with a two pound bag of glitter today and im not about to get a glitter allergy again HONK: oh shit yep sleeping now speed: im in the bed which is close enough shark boi: i'll take it i suppose 5:51am speed: so im in the woods right potato: go to sleep dream its not even dawn yet speed: ugh fine 7:19am speed: so im in the woods right potato: you waited until the sun rose didnt you speed: yep. potato: welp continue i guess speed: cool im just walkin around with my birds vibin when i get hungry and i see a plant and i pick it up and smell it its not poisonous so i eat it now tell me why the fuck it tastes like whatever the shit blue raspberry is do a flip: have you found the source of blue raspberry dream speed: i think i fucking have oreo boy: one of the greatest mysteries solved like that child: can we back up to the "and i pick it up and smell it, its not poisonous" speed: oh yeah i can tell if something will kill me after eating it by smelling it did you not know that? child: fucking how speed: i have no idea HONK: im going with the he was genetically modified theory oreo boy: personally i like the he can talk to plants theory 9:34am the internet ruined me: okay the universe isnt right why is dream not at school speed: oh no i'm here im on the roof of the box thing where the announcers sit in football games i was late tho had to fistfight god for my burrito the internet ruined me: oof was it a good burrito at least speed: no it sucked i won a magical pin from them tho in our poker game! the internet ruined me: poggggggg child: w h o m s t h a s c a l l e d m e speed: wilbur run the internet ruined me: already on it king 11:56am speed: in disrespectful honor of the teacher me, sapnap and george fired a year ago today i will tell the short story of the heatwaves project asleep: oh this is iconic roasty toasty: the best story ever speed: so we all had this homophobic english teacher and she said to take a piece of music and write a story related to it we wrote gay asleep: gay roasty toasty: gay speed: that concludes the celebration asleep: wonderful speech dream roasty toasty: truly amazing potato: why didnt i get to help speed: you were too busy learning the blade and beating 8 year olds in chess potato: oh yeah 2:44pm do a flip: i want to consume marbles speed: same oreo boy: same roasty toasty: same HONK: same potato: same awake: same the internet ruined me: same child: same caw caw bit-: what the fuck do a flip: the round stones made from man are cold and roll around i wish to have them in my stomach philza minecraft caw caw bit-: nope im taking forceful action this chapters over now oreo boy: hey thats our job D: HONK: chapter over :D oreo boy: :D speed: :D potato: what the fuck- 11:47am caw caw bit-: would anyone like to explain why techno and dream are sitting at the top of the courtyard awning eating pepperonis from a paper towel or do i just get to wonder speed: theres gonna be a fight soon oreo boy: isn't the cliché to eat popcorn when there's drama? potato: we used to eat popcorn but then phil said we weren't allowed to eat popcorn at fights anymore speed: and because we're so smart we started eating pepperonis instead potato: totally not because they both start with the letter p speed: absolutely not child: wait who's fighting? usually i hear about all the fights the internet ruined me: thats because you're in half of them child: fuck off speed: dont worry tommy sapnap is the other half of them potato: anyways the asshole from economics class is gonna get destroyed by niki speed: oh yeah we didnt even place bets on this fight because we know niki is about to fucking go off caw caw bit-: im sorry, bets? potato: whats a bet speed: dunno what that word means uhhhh child: oh shit niki is fighting? ayO @oreoboy COME GET ME I WANNA SEE THIS oreo boy: what class u in child: fuckin english do a flip: ew english ranboo get me too im in maths oreo boy: k the internet ruined me: im currently sprinting from music to the courtyard with my guitar half in the case but its for the sake of seeing niki absolutely destroy someone potato: how are you typing so well while running the internet ruined me: autocorrect is my saviour and my worst enemy do a flip: same speed: i dont use autocorrect i just only use words i know how to spell or i google how to spell them when i need to use them potato: you uncivilized being speed: aw thank you! potato: got anymore goldfish speed: i got the rainbow ones potato: as you should they are the best ones HONK: what's your favorite rainbow goldfish flavor speed: green potato: green do a flip: green oreo boy: green child: green the internet ruined me: green HONK: well how do i say i like the red one speed: ranboo we're disowning our sibling oreo boy: such a sad day for the ranboo community speed: rip o7 child: ranboo do you wanna one v one me in football after this oreo boy: do you mean american football or british football because the answers are different child: british football oreo boy: then yes potato: shut up nikis about to throw the first punch the internet ruined me: wait dad are you watching this through the window of your office caw caw bit-: shush you dont see me 12:22pm the internet ruined me: damn niki is such a badass speed: mhmm that was so entertaining potato: i knew teaching niki a left uppercut would be useful child: ranboo you me field now oreo boy: someone record this i feel like im about to get murdered HONK: will do speed: if he gets too close take out his knees then kick his face child: please do not take out my knees theyre already bad potato: i dont think ive ever met anyone with working knees the internet ruined me: they just dont exist like people who understand the stock market speed: somehow against all odds im pretty sure i have a basic understanding of the stock market the internet ruined me: welp guess dream isnt real you guys do a flip: no,,,, i dont believe it the internet ruined me: im sorry it had to be this way tubbo do a flip: after all we shared together,,,,,,,,,, speed: did i betray you guys or something do a flip: how dare you understand money potato: oh no i can assure you dream does not understand money at least not value they understand the concept speed: listen i dont know how much is too much or too little okay it doesnt make sense how am i supposed to know theres nothing to base it off of HONK: so true king speed: anyways wilbur u wanna ditch and go play wii bowling the internet ruined me: can i be player one speed: sure idc the internet ruined me: sweet lets go potato: these two really just left this class without me i see how it is the internet ruined me: in our defense last time we played wii sports with you your controller flew out the window and into a bush potato: thats fair but i couldve at least been a spectator speed: nah we need u to take notes potato: dream you are failing this class speed: yeah but wilbur isnt also im failing it because i dont like the teacher i actually know all the material i just wanna fuck up her teaching ratings potato: what a legend 2:15pm do a flip: who won the football match did we ever find out HONK: oh no theyre still going the internet ruined me: how the fuck HONK: tommy said, and i quote, "no rules, we play till someone collapses" ranboo agreed to the terms as long as breaking bones was banned he doesnt want a repeat of you know when speed: i got flashbacks from that my gods are you still recording it HONK: yep speed: perfect do a flip: im comin over to watch i got some homework to procrastinate 6:38pm speed: theoretically what would happen if i melted down loads of bouncy balls potato: fire? the internet ruined me: a fire or like a really bad burning rubber smell? potato: do it anyways speed: oh dont worry i was going to in the name of science potato: in the name of science the internet ruined me: in the name of science 8:03pm do a flip: they called a truce the fight will continue at a later time HONK: we're gonna go eat food now speed: ooo where to HONK: they're arguing on it right now do a flip: i revoke my previous statement the fight is continuing HONK: whoever gets more 'goals' (and i use that term very loosely) wins do a flip: their definition of goal changes every two seconds speed: order a pizza and me and wilbur will be there in 5 HONK: five minutes or five seconds speed: i think you know HONK: fine tubbo what kind of pizza do you want do a flip: sausageeee potato: dream come get me i wanna watch speed: bet HONK: what kind of pizza does tommy like the internet ruined me: pepperonisdhufgy do a flip: did you just die what speed: nah that was his first time teleporting HONK: rip o7 do a flip: ouch o7 potato: o7 speed: wilbur wants to know if we can also get a beef and green olive HONK: sure why not potato: i hope im the chosen one who gets the one stray black olive thats on literally every pizza ever speed: no i want it potato: ill half it with you speed: YAY do a flip: how are you gonna split an olive slice the internet ruined me: they'll find a way potato: okay who taught ranboo how to judo flip someone HONK: dream speed: me :D potato: oh tommy is gonna die speed: mhmm HONK: especially because ranboo is hungry they go wild when they're hungry speed: its true ive seen it do a flip: shut up ranboo is about to take out his knees the internet ruined me: oop there they go 11:46pm oreo boy: i won :D child: I AM IN SPAIN WITHOUT THE I oreo boy: span? child: ,,,,,,,,WAIT 5:17pm the internet ruined me: i am bored so you all get the transcription of the argument techno and dream are currently having on the roof "NO SHUT UP- IT'S LITERALLY SO DUMB I'M GLAD THEY STOPPED MAKING THEM" -t "TECHNO- TECHNO LISTEN TO ME THE TWO DOLLAR BILL IS A GOOD FORM OF CURRENCY" -d "ITS LITERALLY JUST ONE MORE THAN A ONE DOLLAR BILL" "YEAH BUT IT'S E V E N WHICH MAKES IT NICE AND VALID" "I BET YOU THINK PLUTO SHOULD STILL BE A PLANET" "AND I BET YOU'RE A WHORE WHO THINKS PENNIES SHOULDN'T EXIST" "THEY SHOULDN'T!" "they really shouldn't they're so fucking dumb" "I know right they're practically useless" long period of silence "do you think I could pull off a mullet" -d "no." -t "damn thanks for the vote of confidence" "I'm looking out for you man" "and I thank you for that, but I enjoy making bad decisions" do a flip: dream please don't get a mullet your vibe doesn't fit that ramboo however ranbo rainbow bainwo what the fuck ranboo THERE WE GO PRIME THAT TOOK AGES the internet ruined me: speak the truth tubbo "how about instead of that, you get more piercings" -t "omg i'm contacting my guy now" -d he has a piercing guy????? HONK: yeah!! he's super nice child: wilbur typed that conversation faster than any court transcripter i've ever seen she is speed beyond beliefe fuck belife beleife i give up shark boi: and how many court transcripters have you seen exactly? child: too many to count i live a life you wouldn't understand Foolish Underscore Gamers shark boi: when the shit did you learn my full name child: ranboo told me shark boi: that snitch. oreo boy: I CAN EXPLAIN shark boi: It's too late for you Ranboo Beloved-WasTaken-Jacobs-Underscore. It is too late. oreo boy: NOT ALL THE LAST NAMES IM DEAD THIS IS IT TOMMY FUCK YOU TUBBO YOU GET ALL MY MONEY AND MICHAEL DREAM AND KARL YOU CAN FIGHT TO THE DEATH OVER MY MORTAL POSSESSIONS I DONT NEED THEM WHERE IM HEADED speed: what about ur non mortal ones oreo boy: THOSE ARE FOR CRUMB HONK: wow we're loved here aren't we dream speed: yeah i see how it is ranboo oreo boy: I SEE THE LIGHJT SAOIDHUGYBHJUYasdnjzbhyfuiojKLDmcdvnbhdhnfhdjbxn ccccccccccccccccccccccccm do a flip: oh fuck he's dead shark boi: was that a vine reference do a flip: ✨always✨ speed: welp time to put ranboo's shit in a dunkin doughnuts bag potato: how did tubbo put emojis this platform doesn't even have emojis- HONK: dream i've got the hot topic bag for all their toxic emo shit potato: HOW DID TUBBO GET EMOJIS the internet ruined me: ranboo didn't leave me anything i feel so betrayed child: why does ranboo have so many last names what the fuck speed: cuz void wanted to take both mine and karl's last names as well as his own HONK: and then they got married to tubbo speed: yep child: why do all of you have such weird last names cept karl his is normal somehow HONK: i dont know if i should be offended or,,,,,,,, shit whats the opposite of that feeling potato: complimented HONK: that thing the internet ruined me: tommy your first last name is innit and your second last name is craft don't even get me started on your middle names potato: all of us have weird names tommy you just gotta accept that child: me karl and phil are the only normal ones here the internet ruined me: my name is normal child: no <3 speed: what about niki child: OH SHIT I FORGOT ABOUT NIKI MA'AM IM SO SORRY bloop: Tommy how could you D: child: NIKI PLEASEEEEEE I DIDNT MEAN IT I SWEAR bloop: D: child: NOOOOOOOOOO the internet ruined me: techno we no longer have a younger brother potato: good oreo boy: i woke up and im covered in uncooked macaroni in a location i do not know someone help speed: foolish why did you take them to that place i thought we banned it HONK: dream how do you know where ranboo is speed: you don't know my past HONK: no i certainly dont speed: ranboo does the macaroni have cheese on it oreo boy: yes the bad kind speed: FOOLISH shark boi: IM SORRY I WAS DESPRATE speed: FOOLISH WE BANNED THAT TACTIC FOR A REASON shark boi: IM SORRYYYYYY speed: RANBOO TELEPORT OUT NOW oreo boy: OKAY???? oh hi tubbo do a flip: sup wanna watch the office with me oreo boy: sure! child: can i come do a flip: bring capri suns phil buys the good ones child: oky m also stuffffimg cheezaits in my pokcets oreo boy: bro what happened to ur typing the internet ruined me: he's running from techno do a flip: wow his typing is so good considering the circumstances! the internet ruined me: oh dont be fooled he's screaming like he's about to die speed: i mean he might be u never know with techno the internet ruined me: so true caw caw bit-: Techno don't kill your brother potato: but I want to caw caw bit-: I'll get you McDonald's fries potato: hmmmm the internet ruined me: techno keep going and i'll give you 20 bucks potato: deal child: PLEASE I HAVE A FAMILY potato: tommy I am your family child: awwwwwwwwww potato: Theseus you might want to avoid large drops for a bit. child: wh- what :D speed: oh shit hes pullin out the classics oreo boy: and the full name do a flip: techno please dont damage the goods potato: I won't for I respect capri suns do a flip: thank u for your generosity king caw caw bit-: Dream are you still on the roof? speed: yup i teleported back to watch techno slaughter tommy caw caw bit-: Well dinner is ready, we're having spaghetti, you can join if you'd like speed: ooo yes please HONK: pst mr craft can i join as well caw caw bit-: Sure Karl speed: alright im teleporting to u now karl HONK: okay!! speed changed one name! father: I love it the internet ruined me: okay this got too wholesome can you do cpr with your feet speed: omg can you do a flip: wait i need to know this father: And the chaos is back /aff oreo boy: OH YEAH TONE TAGS EXIST I FORGOT ABOUT THOSE speed: TONE TAGSSSSS HONK: YES YES TONE TAGS potato: dad as much as I love your cooking I'm staying over here for a bit they have swiss rolls dad speed: ranboo if you do not get me a swiss role i swear to prime im taking you back to the macaroni dimension and letting the monster eat you oreo boy: IM SORRY WHAT MONSTER???? HONK: can you bring me a zebra cake if they have any oreo boy: sure and I'll bring some of the kool aid juice that comes in the good bottles speed: YALL HAVE THE GOOD SHIT OMG oreo boy: I KNOW RIGHT AND GUESS WHAT THEY HAVE THE APPLE SAUCE POUCHES HONK: NO WAY speed: NAHHHHHH NOT THE APPLE SAUCE POUCHES do a flip: imagine not having the good shit oreo boy: all we have is fruit cups :sobs: HONK: which is still good but yknow speed: yknow 3:21am asleep: no but can you do cpr with your feet like people massage people's backs by walking on them so if you just like jump on someone's chest would it would it work- could you save someone from choking that way roasty toasty: george go to sleep asleep: BUT SAPNAP I NEED TO KNOW roasty toasty: GO TO BED speed: no no he's got a point roasty toasty: nope. sleep. now. speed: fine asleep: fine 5:28am oreo boy: wh- why are Dream and Wilbur on the roof of qt eating,,,,,,,, are those orange slices???? child: ranboo why are you at qt at the asscrack of dawn oreo boy: you're not gonna ask why they're at qt at 5am???? child: i live with wilbur and dream is dream i dont need or want to know why theyre there now why the fuck are u there oreo boy: i just wanted a doughnut okay child: ,,,,,,,,from a gas station? oreo boy: ,,,,,, yes? child: why are we friends why do i let you exist near me why do i even let you exist at all oreo boy: would u like a slim jim child: ofc bitch oreo boy: oke do a flip: i walked to the qt and dream and wilbur are in fact up there eating orange slices oooo they offered me one oooooooooooooo oreo boy: NO TUBBO child: TUBBO DONT GIVE IN STA YAWAY FROM THJE LIGHT oreo boy: IM COMING TUBBO HOLD ON oooo orange slices child: NO RANBOO NOT YOU TOO NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO I GOTTA SAVE THEM BOTH NOW speed: join us the internet ruined me: join us child: FUCK U NO prime these orange slices are good asleep: what cult shit did i just watch dream bring me some orange slices speed: come get them asleep: but i dont wanna move speed: ugh fine asleep: mmmm orange slices roasty toasty: dream i want some too speed: no roasty toasty: i am loved and appreciated here speed: ur really not roasty toasty: im going to commit arson goodbye speed: is arson ur coping mechanism roasty toasty: yes it is you should know this by now dream speed: fair roasty toasty: so no orange slices? speed: nope roasty toasty: motherfucker potato: "so no orange slices" is the new "so no head" HONK: omg you're right do a flip: come eat orange slices with us potato: I am allergic to oranges. the internet ruined me: you and I both know you have a mild manageable allergy to oranges that you suffer through to eat mandarin orange cups potato: but they're so good Wilbur how could I not speed: man i need a mandarin orange cup now and the fuckin peach one too omg child: i want the gummy krabby patties oreo boy: I want dino nuggets and boxed macaroni do a flip: I want those sugar cookies from walmart that they sell for every holiday but with different colors the internet ruined me: I want the turkey slices from the Lunchables thing, just the turkey though nothing else potato: I physically need mini m&ms or I will just perish HONK: i want a specific brand of icy pop, a lemon one shark boi: i want those chocolate covered marshmellos they only sell at valentines day speed: okay this is so off topic but i fucking hate it when people say "valentimes day" LIKE FUCK U NO ITS AN N NOT AN M of course people who slash gen cant say it are valid but everyone else can go burn in hell SAME THING WITH WORDS THAT START WITH 'EX' ITS NOT PRONOUNCED EGG MOTHERFUCKERS again, those who physically cant say it are so valid /gen potato: me when dumbass people put the fucking apostrophe in y'all after the fucking a bitch its "you all" and last i checked you doesnt have a fucking a in it child: i have never seen techno swear this much since someone told him chartreuse was green potato: IT SOUNDS LIKE A LIGHT PURPLE OR LIGHT BLUE COLOR child: THE COLOUR IS FUCKING GREEN AND VIRIDIAN IS GREEN TOO NOT RED ASSHOLE potato: IT SOUNDS RED the internet ruined me: oh is it bully techno hours callapitter potato: YOU WHORE ITS CATTERPILLER I KNOW YOU CAN SAY IT IVE HEARD YOU the internet ruined me: sometimes I actually cant tell the difference between the two words I give myself a crisis every time I have to say it because I don't know which is which most of the time speed: callapitter just sounds so nice it rolls off the tongue better the internet ruined me: EXACTLY oreo boy: sorry to interrupt the bulling of techno, i know this is a sacred hour, but karl is blasting classical music and playing mario kart speed: is he winning oreo boy: yes actually???? do a flip: tell him to play flight of the bumblebees when he gets to rainbow road oreo boy: okay? WH- HE JUST TIMED THE EXTRA SPEED BOOST AT THE BEGINNING PERFECTLY HE AVOIDED TWO BLUE SHELLS??????????????? HE GOT THE ROCKET GOODBYE do a flip: yeah that song slaps speed: tubbo lets go to waffle house do a flip: yey!!! child: what about us speed: starve oreo boy: bro child: WHAT THE FUCK the internet ruined me: even after our orange slices dream??? speed: tubbo is best boi so we go eat shitty american diner food thats probably a major health hazard now do a flip: dream ur the best speed: thanks i try <3 child: dream your the worst speed: thanks i try <3 potato: you're* child: FUCK U FUCK U FUCK U DIE DIE DIE father: Why do I sense death threats before I've had coffee? the internet ruined me: tommy fucking run child: o h s h i t potato: dadza's craftin a fucking belt child: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA do a flip: i cannot remember if its been brought up here before but dream and techno can waltz??? speed: so can wilbur the internet ruined me: yeah we all also do ballet do a flip: im potato: yeah boarding school was weird speed: the hashbrowns were good potato: I thought they were too greasy but they weren't like absolute trash so do a flip: when did you three go to boarding school- speed: remember when techno and i got arrested for blowing up that one warehouse do a flip: sure? speed: yeah well wilbur and i blew up another one together and they found that out when me and techno got arrested (this arrest wasnt when we stayed in the cells) so they sent all three of us to boarding school for a year dunno how i didnt get sent for two years since i blew up two but whatever oreo boy: oh so that's why you weren't home for a year i just like never questioned it HONK: yeah people in our family just go missing for long periods of time and we just dont worry about it child: i was an only sibling for so long you guys it was great potato: Tommy why aren't you getting chased right now child: dad pardoned me because mum showed up potato: WAIT MOMS HOME????? the internet ruined me: MUM?????? W H E R E speed: OMG KRISTIN do a flip: SCREW THE WAFFLES DREAM ITS MUMZA TIME oreo boy: MUMZA HONK: MUMZAAAAA speed added one person to the group chat! speed changed one name! mother: hello everyone ^-^ oreo boy: IT IS SHE do a flip: MUMZAAAAA 8:17am asleep: i love how the chat died when mumza showed up as it should roasty toasty: shut up she's speaking asleep: prime okay- 3:41pm child: MUMZA IS GONE D: potato: why must we be forsaken so the internet ruined me: aaaaaaaaaa speed: and now back to your regularly scheduled depression oreo boy: I dropped my ice cream cone the other day HONK: they did it was hilarious oreo boy: it was traumatic and i will be bringing it up to my therapist speed: slay or smth idk potato: Dream supports therapy confirmed speed: i do support it for other people. i see you with the therapy page open and my info entered in phil i fuckin see u father: I was so close to being able to hit submit Dream speed: you will never be able to hit that button i will make sure of it potato: I will do everything in my power to drag you to therapy so you'll stop being sad in my dms speed: this is betrayal imma go blast mitski the internet ruined me: did you guys know I'm from Utah speed: yes actually child: what the fuck YOURE AMERICAN????????? the internet ruined me: legally I suppose child: tHIS IS BETRAYAL WHY DONT YOU JUST GO AHEAD AND LEAVE ME ALONE ON AN ISLAND WHILE YOURE AT IT the internet ruined me: okay child: no dont- the internet ruined me: too late child: HOW THE FUCK DID I GET HERE the internet ruined me: hehe child: You're a bitch you know that right. potato: HES GOT GRAMMAR EVERYONE RUN 12:27am oreo boy: we have to write a paragraph in math about a happy memory but I don't have those so I'm gonna write down the transcript from the hunger games movie when finnick and annie get married the internet ruined me: in math class?????? oreo boy: yeah she said that we didn't need to "explain our reasoning" like the text book said and instead do the memory thing do a flip: why that scene though oreo boy: because it was the last time I was happy that author crushed my dreams I am NOT OKAY speed: i heard my name across the spectral plane OH I CRIED AT THAT PART IM SO UPSET ABOUT IT TO THIS DAY potato: I will never forgive her for that. the internet ruined me: I never read that book so I'm really confused potato: it's not our fault you're illiterate the internet ruined me: techno I have a 98 in english class my brother in christ what are you on do a flip: i found an ostrich!! child: tubso where the fuck are you do a flip: dunno it's raining oreo boy: tubbo it's 97 degrees and there are no clouds child: farenhiet fuck oreo boy: it's Fahrenheit but okay child: i will stab you oreo boy: with what you're so small child: IM 6'3 YOU PRICK oreo boy: you're quite literally not child: AKJHYDFVBSUYTEGFDGBJSUY do a flip: raccoon mode: activated speed: i found tubbo guys oreo boy: oh where was he speed: oh yknow do a flip: y'know oreo boy: I don't that's why I'm asking potato: why is Ranboo so,,,,,, unhinged today HONK: they're always unhinged they just cover it up to be "civil in public" like a loser oreo boy: losers come last in kahoot and last I checked I got first so. speed: ranboo stayed up all last night crying about a character in their favorite tv show that died oreo boy: DONT TALK ABOUT IT IM GRIVEING SHUT UP the internet ruined me: off topic but wow my ears are ringing at a deeper tone than normal this is weird potato: Wilbur don't spontaneously combust Phil would cry child: he would father: I would do a flip: raccoon mode: deactivated tommy's back yay!! speed: all i can here is "china's back yay!" no one knows where that's from do they the internet ruined me: internet addict speed: wilbur i want you to look at your name and rethink every choice you have ever made are you sure they were good ones? how many people have you fucked over just to get what you wanted most? how many times could you have stopped something from permanently changing someone's life? the internet ruined me: can I like not do that speed: free country or smth idk the internet ruined me: pog potato: Dream just went full on psychological attack there okay then speed: why not yknow wilbur wanna play mario kart the internet ruined me: sure potato: sapnap did you accidentally expose us all to toxic fumes again speed: he says no potato: why didn't he just say it himself speed: he dropped his phone in the lake george is currently wrestling with callahan over who gets to go fish it out the internet ruined me: its very amusing potato: Wilbur the house isn't near the lake how did you get there I didn't hear teleporting noises the internet ruined me: i was at niki's potato: ,,,,,,,,who's in the house then oh it's a slime creature speed: oh i know him potato: what speed: what potato: anyways I want french fries PHILZAAAAAAAAAAA father: You can drive Techno potato: I don't wanna father: Fine potato: wooooooooooo father: Wait why is Ranboo at school it's Saturday oreo boy: oh i'm not i just forgot to do the homework and for some reason she makes us send pictures of the friday homework on saturday so we don't just like do it monday morning or smth which fair enough i guess but it's still bullshit speed: i know exactly who you mean i got kicked out of her class because i threw a book at her potato: yeah and then you got moved to the higher up class (without me might I add) against literally all of the odds speed: yeah our school system is weird potato: If I was the school system I would not praise you for throwing a book at a faculty member speed: on day one as well!! :D potato: how have you not been expelled yet speed: skilz potato: Not spelling skills I see speed: im going to shove my shoelaces down your throat. potato: you're wearing crocs today speed: no im not??? potato: I swear you were when I saw you run by our house this morning speed: oh yeah that was earlier now ive got converses on potato: you've gained some style points oreo boy: ON THE NEXT MATH EXPLINATION WE HAVE TO SUBSTITUTE IT WITH OUR FAVORITE COLOR I HAVE LIKE FOUR WHAT THE FUCK AM I MEANT TO DO speed: lie potato: write all four do a flip: burn it child: steal a cow potato: you don't need another cow Tommy, Henry is enough to deal with child: youre just upset dad wont let you get a sting ray father: Sting Rays killed Steve Irwin. I do not tolerate their kind. oreo boy: who? potato: okay even I know who that is speed: ive failed as a sibling do a flip: MY BEES JUST BROUGHT ME A KNIFE FUCK THAT GIRL IN 4TH GRADE WHO SAID BEES COULDNT BE ALTERNATIVES FOR CARRIER PIGEONS speed: this is a big day for us do a flip: a very big day. father: Tubbo I do not want to have to confiscate your bees. do a flip: you cant possibly confiscate every bee alive speed: surely that breaks some law potato: anything breaks a law somewhere in Louisiana it's illegal to send a pizza to someone's house if they're unaware of it's possible arrival child: is it pronounced "louis-ee-anna" or "louie-ee-ana- the internet has ruined me: how are you so wrong child: I NEVER TOOK AMERICAN OKAY the internet has ruined me: the name is french?????? america isn't a language??? or a subject for that matter child: wait is louisiana a town in france potato: Wilbur you made it worse speed: tommy its a town in canada child: oh okay thank you you would never steer me wrong :D speed: never :D oreo boy: DOES ANYONE ELSE REMEMBER THOSE TINY LITTLE WATER GAME BOX THINGS WITH THE RINGS AND YOU HAD TO HIT THE BUTTONS TO MAKE THE RINGS FLOAT UP ONTO THE LITTLE HOOKS speed: oh my fucking god yes potato: I had one in Philza's truck I was so good at that thing oreo boy: okay I had an argument with someone on if they were real or not and I needed to make sure I didn't make it up like how I made up a whole animal species speed: you have other friends woah oreo boy: not all of us are anti social speed: im so extroverted potato: You're really not I'm not either so it's okay HONK: dream u left your cheese stick at the house speed: wait thats what i forgot
They start running low on rations partway through the third ten-day of the campaign, but the men start rationing water after the first, once they realize how precious it is in the desert heat. The dustball of a planet is hot and dry and dangerous and the 501st is barely holding back the Separatists as it is. The droids don’t need food or water, so their only saving grace so far is the fact that the heat makes the droids overload, forcing them to draw back every so often. General Skywalker had been grimly approving. And something furious had twisted across his face as he instructed them on the best ways to make the water last. (The General is from Tatooine, Rex remembers, as he watches him speak to the shinies and tell them what to do, teach them how to determine whether you truly need the water at the moment or if you can wait for even a little while longer.) For all that the men were adaptable, it is hard, in the beginning, for some of them to remember the tricks. Only drinking tiny sips, keeping the water in their mouths for as long as possible before swallowing, keeping your mouth closed as often as you could — it wasn’t what they were used to. Water, growing up on Kamino, is the one thing they never have to worry about. (Rex doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the look on the General’s face when one of the men had spilled some of their water. It was sorrow, grief, and anger all twisted into one. Water, he remembers Skywalker telling Commander Tano, is a precious thing. ) Rex isn’t the one who orders the rationing after finding out about the slowly decreasing food supply. After all, he thought, they’re only just starting to get low. There’s still enough food that they should be okay for at least another two ten-days. General Skywalker shakes his head when Rex tells him that. “It looks like that now, but you never know what could happen. If you think you have enough for two ten-days, you usually only have enough for one.” The General pauses, looks Rex in the eyes, “I don’t doubt your capabilities Rex, I know how thorough you are, but on a desert planet it’s harder. Dehydration makes you want to eat, the heat makes you slow, hunger makes you dizzy. It’s all designed to kill you.” The General bites his lip, clasps Rex’s shoulder. “I want as many of the men to make it out of this as possible, and this is the way to do that.” There is a joke among the men (and from what Rex can tell, among the Jedi as well, though in different words), that General Skywalker is so impulsive and reckless that he makes a hurricane on Kamino look calm. Rex can see none of that in the man standing before him. His response is automatic. “Of course, Sir, I trust you.” The grin the General gives him is nowhere near the ones Skywalker usually gives. There is something troubled there, something far away and agonized. (It’s the same look the brothers who survived Geonosis have, it’s the same one that the last vod from their batch or squad get. It’s the same look, Rex realizes, that Cody gets. The one that, back on Kamino when Cody was still Kote, was near constant whenever the long-necks started making noise about Rex's hair or his attitude, a thinly veiled threat of decommissioning that made Kote snarl where the long-necks couldn't see.) Rex isn’t used to seeing a brother’s expression on his General. General Skywalker still has that same expression when he sits down with Torrent and tells them what they need to know. It’s different, again, then what they learned on Kamino. The General doesn't sigh, the need to save water ingrained in him in a way it isn't for the vode, but he bites his lip, rubs at his mouth in a way that reminds Rex, for a second, of General Kenobi. "What were you taught about rationing?" It's one of the shinies who answers, confident and eager to please, "Eat as little as possible and only when necessary, General, and spread out the meal times as much as possible, Sir." The General flinches, and studies them all. The shiny who answered shrinks, and the General's next question is soft. "The Kaminoan's never had to deal with famine or starvation, did they?" There's a beat of silence before Rex answers, "As far as I know, sir? No, not in a couple generations." Skywalker rubs at the back of his neck, "Right, okay. First of all, trooper, you're not completely wrong. And it's not your fault for being wrong, the Kaminoan's just didn't teach you right.” The General purses his lips, taps his fingers against his arms, “Okay, so first of all, yes. You do want to try and eat less, two half portions a day for two weeks is better than two full portions for one week.” Something twists in Rex’s chest, and he swallows it down, keeps his mouth closed, saves his water. The General looks bitterly proud at the way Torrent follows his instructions. The sun is high and the armour is hot, but their canteens are full and carefully opened when needed, water consumed by the capful and not a drop wasted. No one will repeat the mistakes they made the first few days. (Rex was not the only one to see that look of devastation the General couldn’t quite hide.) There is anger flashing across the General's face, and the sun shines down harshly, puts the scar across his eye into sharp contrast. “The trick,” Skywalker begins, voice soft, “with food, is to take little bites. Chew slowly and for as long as you can, wait a little bit before taking another bite, it makes your brain think you’re eating a lot more than you actually are. Keeps the hunger away longer and makes it easier to function. The way the long-necks taught you would only make the temptation of food greater, make you want to eat more often, make it harder to think.” (All of it is designed to kill you, the General had said, experience heavy in the words. The desert is not kind, Skywalker has told them all, tense and knowing, there hasn’t been a single joke about how much the General hates sand since the first few days of the campaign.) They finally win the campaign two-and-a-half ten-days later, just a day after they run out of food. If they hadn’t listened to Skywalker, they would have been dead after the first ten-day. As it was, towards the end, their energy was low and too many of them were injured from things that they normally avoided with ease. (No one makes fun of the General’s hatred of sand and desert planets after that campaign. They understand, just a bit, how something like that could sink deep into your bones and become something hated, something despised.) The General stays tense until he watches all of them eat from their restocked rations, and he only takes some for himself after every trooper has eaten their fill. Rex doesn't ask, but the questions sit in his throat as he swallows down his food. (On that last day, when they had no food or water left, their General had signed to them, using his hands to talk them through the hunger pains and the dizziness. His face hadn't changed, even once, from that blank expression. And if Rex didn't know he'd been sharing his rations with the men, that he must be starving right now, he would've never known.) Rex palms another protein bar and sets it next to the General. Anakin looks at him knowingly and eats it anyway. It doesn’t ease the knot in Rex’s chest. They're out of bacta-patches. Cody can tell by the way Obi-Wan's face stills. Cody breathes heavily, ignores the pain in his side, the blurring of his vision. They'd been separated from the rest of the 212th at some point, though Cody doesn't really remember when. Just knows that he and his General are alone in enemy territory and Cody has shattered plastoid armour surrounding the wound in his side from a slugthrower—which was so weird that of course the one time it pops up on a campaign he gets shot with it—the ammo buried inside his body, and the medpack the General snatched from the dead body of one of the Shiny field medics has no bacta-patches left. Cody reaches for his General’s arm and grunts at the pain it causes. The General looks towards him at the sound, and Cody sets his hand on Kenobi’s arm and tries to project the feeling of it’s-alright-go-leave-go. (He will not be the reason his General dies. Cody’s life is not worth Obi-Wan’s, he knows this in his heart.) General Kenobi gives him a look that is all sorrow and twists his arm, does his best not to jostle Cody, lets go of the medpack and holds Cody’s hand in his calloused one. “My dear Commander, we are getting out of this mess together,” Obi-Wan murmurs, voice soft to keep from attracting any unwanted attention. Cody doesn’t laugh, but only because doing so will hurt more and he refuses to give their position away. “There’s no more bacta-patches, General,” he breathes out, quiet and pained. He winces, tries to steady his breathing. “And I’m not much use like this.” Obi-Wan’s mouth thins and his grip on Cody’s hand is as gentle as it is unyielding. Cody’s General has always been too stubborn. “Now really, my dear, you must have more faith in me. You will get out of this alive.” It’s hard to think, through the pain, but Cody is aware enough to know that the General doesn’t say that he will get out of this alive, just Cody. “General,” He starts, voice quiet but full of warning. Obi-Wan cuts him off, voice just as quiet as before but no less reproachful as he looks for something in the medpack, “Oh hush now, Cody dear, save your strength.” Cody grits his teeth. Everyone who claims that Kenobi wasn’t just as stubborn as his padawan is an idiot, and this is just the most recent action that proved it. Cody inhales sharply as a new wave of pain courses through him. He tries not to, but he knows his grip on his General’s hand tightens. The fool Jedi won’t be leaving, Cody knows, and despairs even as he is relieved not to be alone. Obi-Wan cuts a concerned look towards Cody, and he must do something with the Force, because suddenly the pain lessens enough that Cody can think just a bit better. With his thoughts less blurred by pain and his vision no longer fading between blurs of colour, Cody can see that Obi-Wan has stopped rummaging through the medpack. It takes Cody a second to register the items he’s holding, but when he does, he can’t help his wince. “Ah, the old fashioned way, then?” He tries for humour, but mostly he sounds strained. Obi-Wan sends him a thankful smile, “Yes, well, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s how to perform decent field aid in the event there’s no bacta.” The needle isn’t ideal. It’s not one made for sutures and Cody knows it will hurt. The thread is improvised as well and, though it’s clear the General has done his best to sanitize everything, there’s only so much one can do when in the field. Cody wonders, for a second, where the General would have learned this type of field aid. The Jedi, as far as he can remember, did not teach classes on it. Healers generally learned in the Halls of Healing, not on the battlefield, and his General is not a Healer. He loses the train of thought as Obi-Wan begins to speak, regret lacing his tone, “I’ll work as quick as I can to fix you up, my dear. First though, Cody, I apologize; I’ll do my best to keep the area numb, but removing that round will take enough fine control that I don’t know if I’ll be able to do that and keep the pain away at the same time.” Cody nods, braces himself. Obi-Wan grabs the leather belt from around his waist and hands it over. Cody grimaces and places it between his teeth. His General hesitates for just a second after Cody’s settled, before reaching out a hand again. It takes Cody a second to register the offer, but when he does he huffs a breath and takes the hand in his, the grip loose for now. Obi-Wan gives him a final smile before growing serious. "Brace now, Cody." Cody listens, as he always does. He bites down on the belt, breathing as evenly as he can. His hand spasms as the pain returns and he feels the metal being drawn out. He has just enough awareness to think that he might be crushing his General's hand, before he has to bite down on a scream as the metal stutters and moves wrong. There's a muffled curse, and then suddenly Cody feels nothing. He breathes, shallow and dizzy from the echoes of pain. Dimly he hears Obi-Wan speak, hushed and apologetic, "I'm sorry Cody, it seems that when one doesn't practice something for over twenty-five years, one gets exceedingly rusty." And even as out of it as Cody is right now, he wants to frown, because his General isn't old, and twenty-five years ago would mean the last time Obi-Wan had done this was when he was still a Little, and why would Obi-Wan have had to learn how to do this at all, let alone that young? He doesn't get much further into that thought process, because he's still dizzy and bleeding and Obi-Wan is frowning. "I've sterilized everything, but this won't be pretty, Cody. I don't have the right supplies for this." Cody thinks, It's okay as loud as he can, and it pays off, because Obi-Wan just sighs and nods. "Alright, I should be able to keep it numb this time. Do you want me to take the belt out?" Cody thinks about it, but shakes his head. He doesn't want to risk giving them away. Obi-Wan nods. "Okay,” he pauses for a second, before continuing gently, “I’m afraid I do need both hands for this, my dear. I'm sorry." Cody winces and pries his hand away from the General's. It's harder than it should be to give up that comfort, and it makes Cody feel ungrateful. Obi-Wan makes quick work of his chestplate, pushing away Cody’s hands when he tries to help. And soon enough he’s talking Cody through all the steps he’s taking. Cody can’t really feel anything, but he can tell where on his side he has no feeling and when he looks down at it, he can see the stitches being done, and it causes phantom pain to flare. He lays back, deciding it’s probably best not to look. Obi-Wan’s voice is calm and quiet as he works, and when he tells Cody he’s tying the stitches off, Cody spits the belt out. His jaw hurts, and he feels exposed out in the open like they are. Obi-Wan hums and packs everything away, helps Cody get back into his armour and takes most of his weight despite Cody’s attempts to stand on his own. “I only numbed the pain a bit, and it only lasts as long as I focus. You don’t want to be walking by yourself when I can’t keep the pain away any longer,” Obi-Wan scolds, and Cody reluctantly concedes to it. When they finally make their way back to the rest of the 212th, Helix fusses over Cody before freezing, a strange look on his face. “The General did this?” he asks, and Cody nods. Helix purses his lips and doesn’t say anymore, but they’re both thinking the same thing. How had the General known how to fix up a wound like that without a bacta-patch, and with such limited supplies? Something cold settles in Cody’s stomach and it has nothing to do with the wound in his side. Kix hadn’t expected his General to be able to give medical aid. Maybe it’s rude of him to not think him capable of it, but General Skywalker has never done anything to dissuade Kix of that notion, either. At least, he hadn’t until now. It starts because of a minor misstep. Well, really it starts with them freeing a group of slaves. It escalates after that, with a mistake that Kix makes a note to chew the shiny who caused the mess out for later, but for right now it’s too late, and the tiny little Twi'lek refuses to let any of the medics near despite needing the medical attention for the wounds all across her back. It claws at something in Kix, the way it always does when he can’t help, when he’s forced to be useless, when he can only watch and not heal. The shiny moved too fast or did something or said something, Kix doesn’t know for sure, hadn’t been watching him, but it had sent the Little panicking and scrambling away from any of the vode. She’s still bleeding, and all Kix can do is help the other slaves they freed from the occupation and hope that she lets someone help her before the lashes get infected. When the General walks in, Kix’s first reaction is to keep him away from the situation, not because Skywalker is a cruel man, but because Kix’s General is not known for being calm or thinking things through and the last thing Kix wants to happen is for the Little to be even more terrified than she already is. It makes something like shame well up in him that he just barely keeps himself from pulling the General back. Skywalker is careful though, keeps his distance, keeps his hands in front of him and visible at all times, makes himself smaller right before Kix’s eyes, as if it was second-nature for the General to shrink into himself. He speaks softly, “Hey there, little one, my name's Anakin Skywalker. What’s your name?” She keeps watchful, frightened eyes on the General, but she’s no longer breathing as hard as she was before, no longer curled up in a ball that Kix knows is pulling at the open wounds on her back. “Skywalker?” she asks, wary and tense and so clearly in pain. The General nods slowly, and Kix doesn’t know why that’s important, doesn’t know what that means to her. But she relaxes just the slightest and says something in what Kix is pretty sure is Ryl. Skywalker nods, answers her in the same language, voice still soft and a kind smile on his face, but his eyes are serious. She exhales and it’s as if all the tension has been leached out of her. “Shiri, my name is Shiri.” The General smiles, “Hi there Shiri, could I take a look at your back?” She nods and Kix holds his breath and waits, waits for— He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for, but he doesn’t expect Skywalker to grab a medpack off of the shiny nearest him, and stride over to the corner Shiri has crammed herself in, doesn’t expect him to plop himself down next to her. She shifts, reaches out and grips his wrist. Kix watches as she presses two of her small fingers to the General’s pulse point and taps them there twice. In a quick movement, she brings them up to touch her mouth and then sets her hand down in front of her, opened palm up. She lets it sit there for a beat before twisting her palm face down and pulling her tiny hand into a fist above her heart. She holds like that and then spreads her fingers until her hand lays flat over her chest. The General smiles and returns the series of gestures, and something like awe, like realization, settles over Shiri, and she inhales sharply. Kix moves forward, worried, and the General throws out a fist in halt. Kix freezes and Shiri smiles, shaky and trembling, breathes out a choked, “Thank you.” Kix’s General smiles. “Do you want to be reintroduced now, or after I clean up your back?” “Now,” she insists, voice full of determination. “Now, please.” Skywalker nods. “Okay. Hello there, my name is Anakin Skywalker and I am a person.” Shiri giggles. “Hello Anakin Skywalker, my name is Shiri Teksa and I am a person.” General Skywalker grins, taps first her forehead and then her wrists, opens the medpack and waits for her to finish uncurling and turn around so he can see her back. He starts cleaning and dressing the lacerations as gently as he can, murmuring to her softly as he goes. He asks her something quietly and she hesitates, before nodding. Skywalker lifts his head up and nods at Kix, beckoning him over. The feeling of uselessness that coils in Kix’s chest loosens just a bit. “Sir?” he asks as he gets closer, voice soft to keep from startling Shiri and keeping far enough away that she won’t feel caged in. “Do you have people working on the chips?” Something in Kix’s heart freezes. “The what?” His General looks up, frowns. “You didn’t know?” Kix breathes evenly, doesn’t yell. “Know what, Sir? What chips?” “Oh,” Skywalker breathes, “Oh kriff.” “General,” Kix stresses, his chest tight and mind racing. “Right, okay, so there are slave chips that get put into every slave to make sure they don’t try and run,” Skywalker’s voice slowly grows toneless, speaking as if he’s reciting basic facts instead of something horrifying and disgusting. “It functions as a tracker and an explosive so the Masters can always find you, and if you leave the area the chip is designated for, you explode.” Kix can’t breathe. There is horror ripping through his chest and bile crawling up his throat. He swallows heavily, he clears his throat, tries to speak, can’t. Can only stare at his General’s blank face as he finishes with Shiri’s back. The room is silent. Kix is not the only one who is horrified. There is a well known fact on Kamino, that if you fall too far behind, make too many mistakes, don’t embody everything that makes up a good soldier, you’ll be decommissioned. It could be for something as simple as a cosmetic mutation, or a too-slow firing score. It could be for something as big as talking back or refusing training. (Kix had a batchmate who had refused to do firing practice with the Littles standing in front of the targets. It was an exercise meant to both punish Littles who aren't matching up, or who were too much, and as an exercise for snipers meant to encourage better aim. Kix’s batchmate had refused to even participate, and Kix had never seen him again, it had been the second strike against him. The batchmate, Trill, had had blue eyes. The long-necks were never forgiving towards mutations.) The General is unaware of what he’s brought up, unaware of the memories his words draw forth. Captain Rex hasn’t spoken a word the entire time. When Kix turns to look at him, to try and figure out what to say, the Captain’s face is blank. (At least, Kix thinks, with acid coating his words, the long-necks kill you painlessly. An injection instead of a bomb buried beneath your skin. There is no good option, there is no right answer. There is just one way that lets you feel no pain, and one way that, if you’re extremely lucky, you might survive long enough to get medical help afterward.) Kix breathes. He’s a CMO, he’s been trained for medtrack since he could hold a scalpel, since he could read. He can figure this out. He just needs to focus on the problem. “Alright. Is there a way to find where they are and remove them, sir?” The General and Shiri exchange a look, and a little girl that young should not look so old and so tired. It’s wrong. (It’s familiar. Kix has seen so many of his little brothers with that expression, and he can’t fix that, but he can fix this, he just needs to know how to.) Skywalker hesitates. “Some of them.” Kix wants to scream. Behind him, he can hear the Captain breathe a curse. Kix exhales, face blank and voice even. “What do you mean some of them, sir? I need you to explain this to me, because I don’t know about these things, and it’s clear you do.” (And how does he know? How is Kix’s General so knowledgeable about this, how is he so calm about this? Why is it something the General expects to be common knowledge? Why does Kix have no explanations, why isn’t there anything in his files? Kix needs to know, needs to be able to fix this.) General Skywalker sighs, rubs at his neck, and then freezes, brings his arm down with a wince before he speaks. “It’s complicated. Sometimes, well, sometimes even if you know where the chip is, the best you can do is deactivate it. Some chips are in places where removing them will be more harmful than helpful, some just gradually became part of nerves or muscles.” Kix swallows down bile and Captain Rex breathes out a quiet, “Kark, Sir” Kix’s hands do not shake, “Okay, so a full body scan then. What deactivates them?” Skywalker furrows his brow. “There should be a way to do it without setting it off, I’ll have to comm Healer Che and ask. She’s the one who—” The General cuts himself off, wrinkles his nose. “Well, she’ll know best. I’ve never been able to test any of the machines I built to deactivate them before, and I don’t want to try it while the chips are still embedded.” Right, one thing goes wrong and the bomb goes off. “Anything else, Sir?” Kix asks, trying to make a list in his head. The General bites his lip, looks to Shiri. The little girl looks up at him with trust in her eyes, and it cements whatever the General is finding difficult to say. He meets Kix eyes. “If you find one’s you can remove, try not to put them under please. Let them see the chips come out. They need that reassurance.” Kix glances towards Shiri, who meets his gaze for a second before looking past him and nodding. Her tiny face is balled up in determination, “I want it out, I don’t want in me and,” she falters, “If, if I can get it out I wanna see it happen. Mama used to say that you weren’t really free otherwise.” (The General flinches and Shiri sends him such a sad look.) Kix nods. He has a purpose, there’s a plan. He can do this. The General stands, taps Shiri’s hand once in what must be a farewell. She returns it and Skywalker walks towards the door of the room, heading towards the ship to comm Healer Che probably, when Pixie asks, “Why would anyone do that to someone, though?” Skywalker pauses, and when Kix looks around, every single freed slave (are they really free when they still have chips that could kill them?) has an embittered expression on their face. The General keeps his face blank as he turns to look at Pixie, and his voice is tarine-leaf bitter. “Anything, anyone, that a person buys is something that the owner will want to keep track of. Will want to keep anyone else from taking. Whenever there’s a sale, there’s always a contingency built in.” His expression flickers between angry and sad. “It’s just how things are.” The newly freed slaves, slave chips still active and embedded in their bodies, do not argue. Anakin leaves, and Kix, Rex, and the other medics are left reeling. (Something catches at the back of Kix’s head, something the General said bothers him. There’s always a contingency built in.) (The clones were bought and paid for. What contingency is buried in them?) The ruins of the city are dreary and haunting. The droids hadn’t cared for any of the buildings or for the people inside of them, and it showed. The rubble and bodies were scattered without care and the buildings that had once been beautiful, were now just sad reminders of the battle that had been fought here. The 212th marched forward, their General in the lead, and Cody could see the sorrow on the Jedi’s face. (Life is precious Cody, Obi-Wan had told him, grief etched into the lines of his face and looking at the remains of the battle spread in front of them, and we are—well, we were—peacekeepers. This is never what we wanted. Cody’s feelings on this war are complex, twisted up in the fact that without it he and his brothers would never exist, but if there is one thing he is certain of, it’s the fact that he hates what it’s done to the Jedi. Hates the fact that it tears pieces out of them the longer it goes on. They are not a people built for war, not like Cody and his brothers are, and it is never clearer than in the aftermath.) There is a rustle to their left and Cody throws up his fist in a halt. The General frowns and steps forward. “Sir?” Cody asks him, tense and prepared for the worst. Obi-Wan looks back and signs quickly, ‘survivor.’ Cody relaxes and relays it to the rest of his men. The tension that has settled over every one of them fades just a bit. They are still guarded, still in enemy territory, but this at least, is not an ambush. The fact that there are any survivors at all is a little hard to believe, when faced with all this wreckage, but Cody trusts his General. The General steps forward. Cody follows like always, but Obi-Wan shakes his head, signs to him quickly, ‘child, scared, stay.’ Cody nods, steps back. A Little who survived the initial destruction will not take kindly to seeing soldiers right now. “Well, hello there,” the General says, voice gentle. There’s a quiet gasp and Obi-Wan crouches down, hands visible and away from his lightsaber. “I’m not here to hurt you. I just thought that it must be very scary here, and that you would want some company.” There’s a pause and then a shuffle, but no response, Cody doesn’t move, just watches as Obi-Wan settles into a more comfortable position, crossing his legs under himself. He signs quickly to Cody and the other men, ‘check area, scared for reason, careful, no enemy, maybe bombs.’ Cody signs back an affirmative and, as Obi-Wan continues to speak gently with the child, he organizes a perimeter check. The fact that the General can’t feel any hostiles with the Force is comforting; the warning of bombs less so. When he looks back, Obi-Wan hasn’t moved from his seated position. He holds himself as still and non-threatening as he can, a difficult task when you stand at the head of a battalion. “Do you know that there are over twenty different calendars on Coruscant alone?” the General asks the air. He doesn’t get an answer, but it doesn’t look like he’s expecting one, either. He just keeps speaking in that soft, calming tone. “It makes telling someone the date very hard. My brother came to us knowing one of the stranger ones, and it took ages to stop putting those dates down first on homework, when he remembered to put the date down at all.” Obi-Wan still hasn’t moved any closer, but now, if Cody looks close enough, he can see what he thinks is the faint outline of a child’s body, curled up in the safe spot they found in the rubble of what Cody imagines is their home. “When I was little, I got one of the calendars mixed up with another and,” he barely falters. Cody’s General so rarely shows his weakness, but his breath hitches on the next few words and it’s suddenly so very easy to tell that Obi-Wan never truly got over the loss of his Jedi Master. “My father, well, he thought it was the funniest thing. He didn’t tell me for the entire week that I had been using a calendar that had been ruled useless and no longer in use.” There’s a quiet giggle and a slight shift as the Little peeks their face out, Obi-Wan smiles, “I know,” he whispers in mock offense. He grins and leans forward just the smallest bit and says, conspiratorially, “I got him back though, a week later. I dyed all of his robes the most awful shade of yellow I could find. He had no choice but to wear them until he could get new ones. It was wonderful” The kid laughs, inches towards the General with a smile, not a trace of that cowering, terrified child on their face. Cody’s bucket hides his fond smile, and he sends a quick comm to Waxer and Boil on the other side of the road. The kid’s safe. General has them. “Why hello there, sweetheart.” Obi-Wan smiles, “I’m glad I got to talk with you, it was quite nice.” The kid wrinkled their nose, shrugged. “You’re nice, not mean like the people who were here before.” The General’s smile turns sad, eyes full of grief. “Yes,” he murmurs, “I imagine I’m not much like them at all.” The kid nods, leaning more into the General’s personal space, as if pulled in by him. Cody can relate, Obi-Wan has this way about him — something that makes you feel safe and cared for. “Well Dear, my name’s Obi-Wan, may I have the pleasure of knowing yours?” They grin. “Mhm! I’m Tohalo, but my mama and mom call me Toh! You can too, you’re nice like them.” They wilt. “Do you know where they are? I got lost and now—” their face crumples, and Obi-Wan reaches out carefully. The kid just about dives into his lap, crying, and the General hums and he whispers reassurances to them. Cody closes his eyes. The chance the kid’s moms are still alive are slim, and the General knows it too, if the way he is careful not to promise Toh that their parents are okay is any indication. “We’ll look for them, Toh,” the General says instead, pressing a gentle kiss to the Little’s forehead, “we will. But for now, it’s important we know you’re okay. Is it okay if I have one of my healers check you over?” Toh bites at their lip before nodding. “But only if you promise to stay.” Obi-Wan smiles. “Of course Toh.” (Later, after they get the kid all checked out and set up camp for the night, Cody mentions something to his General. “I’m surprised they came out at all, Sir. I know that if it was me, I would’ve stayed hidden for as long as possible.” Obi-Wan’s voice is even, but his eyes are sad as he meets Cody’s. “Children in war zones are scared, they need to feel safe. It’s all they want, and it’s hard. But when you meet a scared, cowering child, the best thing to do is be careful and give them space, and speak as if you yourself are a child.” Cody frowns. It makes sense in a way, and he knows that he’s done something similar with some of his brothers when they are panicking and spiraling. He nods, and Obi-Wan gives him a sad smile and turns around. But Cody, for the life of him, can’t figure out why Obi-Wan knows how to help a child in a warzone in the first place. After all, before this, the Jedi hadn’t been to war in centuries.) It takes Cody almost three hours to figure out something’s wrong. Shame wells up in him for that, and for the fact that it takes Rex comming him with Commander Tano’s concerns to see it. There is one thing, well, two things that Cody has learned serving with his General. The first is that he will always, always give his life for others. The second is that showing pain and weakness is something shameful, but only when it is Obi-Wan. Cody’s General has always been his own worst critic. Obi-Wan does not ask for help, does not ask for medical aid. He will sit by, injured and bleeding out, until every last trooper has received care. He’ll brush off stab wounds as if they’re scratches, act like he’s perfectly fine even when he can barely stand. Cody has known to look out for it, known to watch him after campaigns to make sure he goes to medical and gets help, he knows better than to forget. But it had been a hard campaign, and Cody had let himself be distracted, forgotten to check and make sure the General had gotten out uninjured. The ball of self-recrimination in Cody’s chest grows as he looks for the General. It should not have taken Rex’s little Commander to tell Cody that something was wrong. Knowing when Obi-Wan is in pain is difficult. Obi-Wan will push through an injury until he collapses, and you will be none the wiser. It happened far too often in the beginning of the war. Injuries would pile up as the Jedi refused to go to medical, and Cody and Obi-Wan had been too new to each other, too unsure, for Cody to do anything about it. Cody hadn’t fought hard enough, and Obi-Wan was too determined to throw his life away for others. He’s learned since then that he needs to fight with the General sometimes, that there are some battles you can not give up on. Cody has none of the Force powers the Jedi do, can’t feel his General’s emotions or if he’s in pain. All Cody has is what he was taught — how to read the body and the face. The difficulty there is that Obi-Wan lies. He lies by omission and by twisting his words around until you’ve lost track of the conversation. When Obi-Wan lies with his body and his words, he hides his pain and everything he thinks is a failing of his, and there is nothing that is more infuriating. Sometimes, Cody wants to know who taught him that, taught him to hide pain away and pretend it isn’t there, taught him that he didn’t deserve care. Othertimes, Cody knows that it will do more harm than anything else, knows it won’t help Cody’s General. Still, standing in the General’s office and watching as the Jedi trembles and pretends he’s fine sparks the rage inside of Cody’s chest, reminds him of being Kote and angry and terrified of losing his brothers. “General,” he says, voice deceivingly even, betraying none of the fear he feels in his bones. The General’s shoulders tense, but he doesn’t look up. “Cody,” Obi-Wan responds, terrifyingly nonchalant, when Cody can see where the blood has started to soak through his robes. Cody closes his eyes, grits his teeth. “Please tell me you at least patched yourself up.” There isn’t an answer and Cody curses under his breath. “General, please—” “Really, Dear,” Obi-Wan cuts him off, “I’m perfectly fine—” Cody slams his hand on the desk and Obi-Wan goes hauntingly still and silent. “If you’re fine,” Cody snarls, more Kote in this moment than Marshall Commander Cody, “then explain to me why Commander Tano is out of her mind with worry for you and Skywalker. Explain to me why you are bleeding out and yet still insisting that you’re perfectly okay.” Obi-Wan scoffs. “I’m hardly bleeding out Cody, don’t be dramatic.” Cody raises an eyebrow. The General is trembling. “It’s hardly dramatic when you look ready to collapse.” Obi-Wan purses his lips, face closing off, and Cody curses in his head. “Commander, I’m fine and doing my job, I ask you to do yours.” Cody ignores the jab. “With all due respect Sir, I am. I’m keeping you alive.” “A task,” Obi-Wan snipes, “that I am perfectly capable of doing.” Cody clears his face, lets it rest in a neutral mask. “You taught your padawan well then, General. He’s on his way to getting himself killed, just like you are.” The silence is freezing, and there is something tormented on Obi-Wan’s face. Cody can’t bring himself to regret, only to be sorry it took using that to get through to him. The General stands stiffly, watches him for a long minute, before all the fight rushes out of him at once. “Fine, I’ll get Anakin and we’ll both head to medbay.” Cody nods, doesn’t push for anything else, doesn’t ask for forgiveness. Obi-Wan gives it anyway. His General brings a hand to Cody’s neck and pulls him in for Keldabe, soft and barely there, leans against Cody for long enough that Cody wraps an arm around the Jedi’s waist and braces him. “I suppose that’s my clue that you’ll be walking me to Anakin, and then to medbay?” the General asks, already knowing the answer. “I know you, General, you’d find some way out of it if I didn’t.” Obi-Wan chuckles, and it feels a little like absolution. They find Skywalker in the hangar, working on the Twilight. The first thing Cody notices is the way that Skywalker breathes in the regulated breaths of box breathing, artificially calm and steady. The second thing is the fact that even though the kid is usually all motion, now he is still, moving only the parts of him necessary to repair the pile of junk he calls a ship. Cody has never known Skywalker to be stil. It makes him do a visual check. The kid is paler than normal, and he uses the Force to get things instead of moving, every shift is accompanied by the tiniest change of breathing. His left wrist is swollen and his right ankle is in a tiny makeshift splint that Cody can already tell would have Helix and Kix in a tizzy. Cody can’t see any blood, but the way Skywalker wobbles every few seconds makes Cody nervous. Concussion, probably. Obi-Wan sighs and Skywalker winces, then freezes, as if catching himself. He takes a shaky inhale. He grins, going for charming but missing just the slightest bit. “Hey Obi-Wan, how’re—” he pauses, watches the way the General is leaning against Cody, and frowns. “Are you okay?” Skywalker gives a quick scan and notices the blood. “What the kriff, Obi-Wan, why aren’t you in medbay?” Cody doesn’t roll his eyes, but his General huffs. “Honestly, Anakin, I could ask the same of you.” Skywalker does roll his eyes, then looks vaguely nauseous for it. “I’m fine.” “You,” Obi-Wan says, voice wry, “have a concussion, and multiple sprains and broken bones.” Skywalker grumbles, “You have blood all over your side and I don’t see you in medbay—” the kid freezes. “Wait, I can’t feel anything from you, why didn’t I know you were injured?” The amusement leaves his General’s face. “That is the question I have for you as well, dear one. It would seem we have so thoroughly blocked each other out, major injuries no longer can be felt.” Skywalker freezes. “It’s not a major injury Obi-Wan, I’m fine.” There is something frantic in the kid’s voice. Cody is reminded, suddenly, of Kamino and the constant fear of being too injured to be considered worth the investment. The words ‘major injury’ had inspired that same form of desperate denial. Obi-Wan’s face softens with understanding. “Oh dear one, it’s not a failing. No one will be upset with you unless you refuse to let the medics heal you.” Skywalker remains tense, and whatever knowledge the two Jedi have sits heavy between them. Cody doesn’t know what made Skywalker fear the words major injury as much as Cody and his brothers do. But it is something that chokes the air around them, as Skywalker struggles to believe them and Obi-Wan struggles to get through to his kid. Skywalker doesn’t relax, but he nods jerkily and stands, holding his head in pain and wobbling. Cody steps forward just as Obi-Wan moves towards his child, and they both steady the kid. Obi-Wan whispers reassurances to Skywalker and Cody tries not to listen in. It’s difficult not to, but he keeps his head forward, gives them the illusion of privacy as Skywalker shakes and Obi-Wan whispers a mantra of “It’s safe here, you’re safe here, no one will punish you for this, you are safe, you can be in pain here, we’ll heal you, you are safe with us.” The rage simmers under Cody’s skin, but he doesn’t glance towards the two Jedi until the mantra has stopped and the shaking has calmed. Obi-Wan gives him a grateful smile even as he winces and Cody grimaces, “Right, okay, both of you two the medbay before you make yourselves worse. You both look only slightly better than death warmed up.” (As the two of them are being looked over, faces equally blank and hiding the amount of pain they are in even now, even from each other, Cody comms Rex. Tell the little Commander they’re both in medbay. Rex’s response only reads ‘thank you’ Cody watches shocked and sheepish looks sprout across both of the Jedi’s faces at whatever the medics say and the quickly signed apology Skywalker gives Cody’s General. Cody watches, and he struggles not to hate whatever taught them not to show pain, whatever taught them kindness when vulnerable was something for others, not for them. It’s easier to be angry for others than to be angry for yourself. Cody sets the thought away, the parallels are too much right now, the wounds on his heart are already raw and bloodied. Another day, maybe.) When Tano makes her presence known, the two Jedi turn apologetic looks towards her as she rants about them taking better care of themselves until she’s holding back furious tears. Skywalker sighs. “Come here Snips,” he beckons, apology laced in his words and arms open for a hug. She goes to him, young and scared and angry, and sinks into the hug. Cody catches Rex’s eye, signs ‘she okay?’ Rex nods. ‘She will be, too much pressure on herself, talked to her though.’ Cody nods, and gives the three Jedi one more glance before he leaves. They’ll be fine for now, with both Helix and Kix watching over them. Rex has learned, many times, that his General is a dreadful liar. Skywalker is indignant about it, but acknowledges the point in good humour. “They stuck the two worse liars in the GAR together, and then put the two best talkers together, said ‘This is fine’ and moved on,” Skywalker had once joked, when he and Rex were watching Cody and Kenobi talk their way out of being reprimanded for a battle decision that, if Skywalker or Rex had made, would have gotten them punished. Instead, the two of them had gotten off scot-free. And it’s sort of true. Rex is awful at lying, can’t quite get himself to do it. There’s just something in his head that makes lying to a superior seem impossible and it makes every lie Rex tells very obviously not true. Cody, on the other hand, is good at making everything make sense, even as he makes you doubt which way is up and which way is down. His Jedi is even worse than him, or better, depending on your point of view. There’s a reason General Kenobi is known as the Negotiator, it just hadn’t been one of the skills he’d passed down to General Skywalker. Which is why both Rex and the General are shocked when they’re assigned to negotiate terms with one of the planets on the edge of leaving the Republic. “Don’t you want Obi-Wan to go?” Skywalker asks, only a little desperate. “He’s the best negotiator, he’d be wonderful at this!” The Chancellor smiles, “My dear boy, I’m sure your,” the Chancellor’s face twists into something faintly disgusted as he speaks, “Master, and really my boy you know I respect your culture but that’s such a heavy word,” the way he says it, an aside, as if he doesn’t see the General flinch, makes something in Rex stand still, register the threat of teeth. But the Chancellor continues on, just as kindly and gentile as always, “Well, he is great at his job, but I’m asking you Anakin. I believe in you, my boy.” The General doesn’t seem to notice the way he flinched at the wording, and Rex pulls every trick about projecting blank stares Cody has ever taught him into practice to avoid drawing attention to himself. The General doesn’t like calling Kenobi his master, or even his Jedi Master. It’s okay some days, but most of the time Rex’s General settles for Obi-Wan or Obi. Rex has never once heard General Kenobi complain, and most other Jedi are perfectly accepting of it. It sticks, picks away at something in Rex, makes him feel like he’s missing something. (Rex is almost sure he doesn’t want to know, not when it can make his General seem so small. He thinks he might have some idea of what it is. But he doesn’t know, not for sure. He doesn’t know what he would do if he did.) Skywalker rubs at the back of his neck, an almost shy look on his face as he gazes up at the holo of the Chancellor. “Thank you for the confidence Chancellor, I won’t let you down.” The Chancellor smiles. “Oh, I know you won’t, Anakin. I have the highest faith in you, of course.” There is something left unspoken there, something that makes Rex uncomfortable. Things left unspoken, Rex has found, rarely mean anything good. After a little more small talk that has the General visibly relaxing just the slightest, the call ends, and the General turns to face Rex, brow furrowed and the tension is back and worse than ever. (It’s a pattern that Rex has noticed more and more as the war goes on. Whenever Skywalker talks to General Kenobi, he’s tense the entire time, as if he expects something bad to happen. But afterward, he’s more relaxed, calmer. With the Chancellor, he relaxes during the talks, and yet afterward he’s wound up tighter than anything, as if everything awful he expects out of interactions with Kenobi had come out of the pleasant conversation with the Chancellor. It’s strange and a little concerning, and it sits next to the other observations needling away at Rex’s brain.) Skywalker sighs. “Well, Rex, this is going to be interesting.” Rex snorts. “I don’t doubt that, sir.” They exchange a grimace. Negotiations are never fun, and Rex is already preparing backup plans for when this inevitably turns into another ‘fight their way out’ situation. His General, after all, has always been more of a fighting person than a word person. (Skywalker can not lie to save his life. Lying just isn’t something Rex’s General can do. Rex doesn’t know why, doesn’t know if something caused it or if it’s just how Skywalker has always been, but it’s the truth, indisputable and constant. Skywalker can’t lie. Skywalker can’t lie, and he doesn’t have the talent for negotiating that Kenobi does, or that easy way of making everything make sense that Cody does. The thing is, though— The thing is, there is a certain talent Skywalker has, in manipulating what he’s told to work best with what he wants. It’s not a skill he uses often, but it is one Rex has seen him pull out at times. Skywalker will either completely shirk off whatever he’s told to do, or he will do it exactly as he was told and utilize all the wiggle room he was given. Skywalker cannot lie but, and Rex forgets this occasionally, just because he prefers to fight doesn’t mean he can’t use his words just as well. It’s a way that Skywalker, from what Rex can read off of him, is similar to some of the brothers. He likes knowing he has the ability to fight, and the thrill that comes with it more than anything.) They set down on the planet and manage not to offend the leaders within their first meeting, so things are going well enough. Rex doesn’t relax though, not when the planet gives vital resources to the Republic that they can’t afford to lose if Rex wants more of his brothers to make it through this war. He keeps his guard up and his eyes open for threats and lets his General try and negotiate. It’s not quite a trainwreck, but only because Rex’s General hasn’t outright insulted or tried to fight anyone yet. The frustration in Skywalker is obvious as they’re escorted to their rooms for the night, the leaders having grown tired and called for a halt, with negotiations to continue in the morning and no conclusion reached after talking in circles for hours. The General scowls as the door is closed and sits down heavily on the bed, switching the signal jammer on before rubbing at his eyes and hissing, “Politicians” Rex grunts in sympathy. “Politicians,” he agrees, as he takes his bucket off and tucks it under his arm. “Afraid there’s nothing to be done about it though sir.” Skywalker huffs. “They’re making everything take longer than it should and trying to confuse us. I’m not entirely sure they even want to stay in the Republic.” Rex frowns. As far as he could tell, they were being a little overly cautious, yes, but not to the point of working against the negotiations. “What makes you say that sir?” Rex’s General shrugs, hand going to his neck and rubbing. It’s a nervous habit that Rex has come to realize the General often isn’t even aware he’s doing, an absent minded gesture spawned by worry or stress. (And yet, and yet, and yet, Rex can’t get the image out of his mind; the picture of his General making himself small as if it was second nature so that a scared Little will let him help her, the look of resignation on his General’s face as he talked about bombs and chips and slaves as if he knew how that felt. The way he rubbed at his neck and then realized what he was doing and stopped, as if the very action was giving something away. Thinking about it makes Rex feel sick. The reason for everything is right there, all the pieces slotting into place and if Rex just had a second to breathe maybe he could fit it all together and process it. But it’s war, and he’s trying to keep everyone alive and running himself ragged.) (And maybe, just maybe, the truth is too much to even think right now. It’s a shameful thought that weighs heavy. And Rex has never thought himself a coward, but in the face of this, he thinks that maybe he is just a little bit.) Skywalker stands, fingers of his flesh hand tapping on his mechanical arm absentmindedly. “Did you see the way they were all turned to face us?” Rex nods. He had been looking for threats and their posture had been one of the first things he noticed, all of the politicians had been facing the two of them, but Rex hadn’t been able to see any ill intent in their postures. Skywalker twists his hands together, in what Rex would call fidgeting if it didn’t look so deliberate for all of Skywalker’s current look of absent mindedness. “Well, they were all facing us, but that positioning also let all of them see each other clearly. They spent most of the time they were talking with us sending each other signals to actively twist the conversation in circles.” Rex thinks back to the meeting, and realizes that his General is right. Rex hadn’t catalogued it at the time because it hadn’t looked like any sign language he knew, and it hadn’t looked deliberate either. But throughout the meeting there had been multiple gestures that were followed by arguments or questions that had already been covered. He never would have noticed it, he’s surprised that Skywalker had. Though, now that he thinks about it, maybe he shouldn’t have been. Rex is overly cautious of where people place their hands in case of any threats, and he’s always watchful for battle sign, but he’s never had to keep watch for careful gestures disguised as random movements before. Skywalker though, in all the time Rex has served with him, has always been careful of people’s hands. Rex isn’t sure he likes that train of thought. He purses his lips. “So they’ve already made their mind up.” Skywalker winces. “I think so. Unless we can—oh.” The General pauses, furrowing his brow. “Sir?” Skywalker hums. “What was it that the leader said when we first got here?” Rex thinks for a second before answering. “I believe it was, ‘Welcome honoured guests, may we find a way to reach a peaceful solution with the Republic.’ Sir, why?” The General grins. “Because they just gave us every tool necessary to stop them from fucking us over.” Rex frowns, “How?” Skywalker shrugs. “They called us honoured guests. They may have been bullshitting us, but I did read the briefing for once, and on this planet being an honoured guest means that any move against us is an offense to the household.” He waves a hand towards the closed door. “The fact that they announced their intention to reach a peaceful solution even with all the talking around? It means the main reason they have us here is because they weren’t quite happy with whatever Dooku offered them. They aren’t trying to get rid of us, they just want a way that gets them through the war on top no matter who wins.” Rex crosses his arms and leans against the wall as that sinks in. “So what’s the plan then, sir? Keep them happy and let them be neutral but still provide aid to the GAR?” Skywalker shrugs. “Something like that.” Rex raises an eyebrow and Skywalker holds the signal jammer up. Rex grimaces and nods. They’ve already had it on for far too long. Any longer and their hosts will be well aware that they don’t trust them. Skywalker flicks the jammer off and gives Rex a curt nod with a quickly battlesigned ‘trust me’. Rex meets his General’s eyes and nods. Skywalker smiles, and then turns to face the beds. “We still have more negotiating to do in the morning Captain. Might as well get some rest.” Rex very pointedly does not make a face, but whatever Skywalker can read off of him must give away his thoughts on how he feels about the lack of a watch in what he’s counting as enemy territory away. Skywalker laughs. “Relax for a bit, Rex. I’ll take first watch.” “Sir,” Rex protests. Skwalker shakes his head and waves the protest away. “Don’t worry about it, Rex, I got it. Besides, I wouldn’t be sleeping anyway. Might as well get you some rest.” Rex scowls but accepts it, stripping down quickly to his blacks and placing his DC’s within easy reach. “Wake me up for second watch, Sir.” Skywalker waves a hand in his direction. “Sure Captain. Sweet dreams.” (It is perhaps not surprising that the General doesn’t wake him up until morning. When Rex gives him the look that this deserves, Skywalker shrugs. “This is your second watch Rex, you’re going to be watching my six the entire time I’m trying to out politic politicians.” Rex sighs and armours up. He really should have expected something like this to happen.) In the morning, the General sips at a cup of caf, already ready to go. Rex sighs. "Did you at least check there was no poison, sir?" Skywalker huffs. "Yes Captain, don't worry. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not entirely thoughtless." Rex snorts as he holsters his DC's. "Oh I know, Sir, I just thought that all the sleep deprivation might have made you forget to check before you drank." Skywalker rolls his eyes. "Point received, Captain. I'll get some sleep after the mission." “Sure you will, Sir, because otherwise Kix will hypo you this time.” Skywalker makes a face, clearly remembering the CMO’s threat. “Mutiny, the lot of you,” he grumbles into his caf. Rex raises an eyebrow, “Whatever you say, Sir. I expect some better caf then whatever swill you’ve been drinking if this is a proper mutiny, though.” The General snickers, unable to hide his amusement. There’s a knock on the door just as the General finishes his caf, and the both of them shoot the door poisonous looks. Skywalker sighs, stands and stretches. “Ready for more politics, Rex?” Rex grimaces as he puts his bucket on. “As ready as I’ll ever be, Sir.” (Skywalker wields words as sharp as any blade, haggling and doing everything exactly as he’s told. He never says more, but he always get more from them than they do from him. It’s a dance that Rex watches from behind the safety of his bucket — a dance which the General, for all that he’s always said he never learned anything from General Kenobi, seems well versed in. There are differences there, when Kenobi speaks he convinces everyone that his side is the right one, the most logical. Skywalker though, he twists words and strikes for the heart every time until they give in to what he wants. Kenobi is grateful nothing more is demanded, Skywalker is always horribly ready for them to demand more. Skywalker, when strikes to the heart fail to work, makes the most useless things seem appealing, an exchange of something the Republic doesn’t need for something they desperately do. Somewhere, someway, Skywalker learned how to make unwanted things sound appealing, necessary, priceless. Watching Skywalker is nothing like watching Kenobi. It makes Rex wonder, as Skywalker gets the planetary officials and leaders to finally agree to the terms he’s set, just where he learned how to do it. Manipulation was never something he thought his General capable of, before witnessing him like this.) Cody is used to insults, knows how to bear them, stoic and silent and fuming. This, though — watching as the ungrateful civilians curse his General and spit on him, do their best to rip Obi-Wan into pieces — is something he is not used to. It makes him angry. ‘He saved you all,’ he wants to spit, wants to shame them, wants to let them know every wonderful thing Obi-Wan has ever done, every way he’s kept them all safe while they hid away. He doesn’t. Instead, he watches as Obi-Wan takes every snarled Jedi, and Child-Stealer, every leave us alone, go back to your temple and stay there, with a gentle smile, responding with nothing of the sharp anger Cody feels. Cody is silent, even when all he can think is, If Obi-Wan did what you’re telling him to, if all the Jedi did that, stayed in that temple until the war is over, who do you think would have to fight instead? Cody’s Jedi does not rage, does not take back his kindness or spit in their faces like they do in his. Cody’s Jedi is kind. The thing that stays with Cody though, the thing that strikes the most, is that Obi-Wan isn’t surprised by it. There is no shock, no outrage — just that calm acceptance and disarmingly gentle smile. He tries not to think about that, takes all of that rage in his chest and forces it away. Locks all of it up in a box and never once let’s his blank expression slip. The feeling, though, simmers in that boxed off part of Cody for the rest of the mission. Later, back on the Negotiator and flying far away from the planet, Cody slips into Obi-Wan’s office. His General looks up from the paperwork, smiles at Cody with so much warmth that Cody can’t, for even a second, see how anyone could ever look at him and call him heartless, or a child-stealer, or unfeeling. Obi-Wan is the furthest thing from unfeeling, feels too much. Is too caring and compassionate in times when Cody knows he, himself, could never be. Like on this mission. Cody steels himself, breathes. “Sir? Do you have a moment?” His General stills, searches Cody’s face and the way he’s holding himself, and nods slowly. “Yes, dear one? Is there something the matter?” Cody breathes, tries to find a way to phrase it kindly. Can’t. He goes blunt instead, because blunt force is something he’s always been good at, and in this case ripping the plaster off the hidden wound will work better than trying to weasel it out. Obi-Wan has always encouraged learning, asking questions. Cody hopes that still holds true after this. “I just, I keep thinking, Sir, about how the civilians reacted to you. And,” he pauses, bites his lip. Obi-Wan doesn’t say anything, let's Cody work through his words, find what he wants to say. He sighs, reaches up and takes his bucket off. The click feels like it echoes in the room, though Cody knows it doesn’t really, and he tucks it under one of his arms. He reaches up and runs a hand through his hair, sighing again. “How is it that you can go through a campaign, Sir, and have them spit on your every effort, and still be kind? How do you still think it’s worth it and not regret it, when they tear you apart despite everything you do for them?” It’s a weighted question, Cody knows. Obi-Wan does too, and he must be able to tell that there are reasons Cody is asking, layers to why he wants to know. Obi-Wan, Cody knows, is well aware of how the men are treated on some planets, on Coruscant. Has sat in this office with Cody before and worn looks of private pain, and something close to anger, over the treatment their men face. ‘How do you bear it’ is a question for Obi-Wan and for Cody. Because, at some point along the way, his General had learned to grow used to anger and insults and borne them silently. Maybe, if Cody didn’t already have some of the knowledge he does, some of the pieces of the picture, it would be easily dismissed as something purely because of the role the Jedi play as the faces of the war. But as it is, he does have those pieces, tiny as they are. And he can’t, in any good consciousness, dismiss it. Obi-Wan purses his lips, sets the datapad in his hands down and brings his hands up to rest against his mouth, folds them together and leans his elbows onto the desk. He looks at Cody for a long, long, moment before he sighs, presses his knuckles to his eyes. “Please sit, Cody,” he murmurs, and he sounds like he’s carrying the weight of the galaxy on his shoulders. Cody does, placing his bucket down and feeling like he is tearing open bloodied wounds. Doesn’t know whose wounds they are, just knows that they’re there, knows he won’t like the answer he gets, knows Obi-Wan will wish he could give a different one. Cody has always known that the universe wasn’t kind. After all, if it was, he and his brothers would have never been created. Never been needed. You do not need a soldier when there is no war. Obi-Wan runs a hand over his beard, drops his hands to the desk with a quiet sigh. “Do you want the answer to your first or second question first, my dear?” Obi-Wan asks, and Cody hesitates, wets his lip as he considers. He wonders if he should’ve asked Obi-Wan this, when he sounds so very tired, so utterly exhausted from it. But, he’s already asked, and will stand by the decision now, hope that it does not hurt Obi-Wan more to tell him than it does for Cody to hear. Hopes he can fix it if it does. And, because Cody may not have been able to escape being cruel like he was taught to be, but he is trying so very hard to be kind anyway, he doesn’t answer right away. He waits for Obi-Wan to look a bit more steady. And then he says gently, as if he did not just ask Obi-Wan to reveal the hidden bits and pieces of himself for his own gain, “The second one, Sir.” “First, Cody, my dear, I will never regret an innocent life being saved, and I will always strive to help and protect and heal. I’m a Jedi.” He meets Cody’s eyes, searches for something in them that Cody doesn’t think he’ll find. Cody was raised for war, and you can help, protect, and heal in war. But mostly, he was raised to be a weapon. He doesn’t think he will ever be able to understand just what Obi-Wan means when he talks of a Jedi’s duty. Obi-Wan purses his lips, folds his hands together and runs his thumb over the back of his hand. “I’m a Jedi, my dear, so I will never regret the actions I take to lessen the cost of this war, to protect and heal and teach.” He smiles, a little sad, but Cody’s General is always a little sad lately. Taps his fingers against his arm in thought, before he looks back to Cody, holds his gaze. Cody always feels like he’s stripped of all his armour, when the General looks at him like that, as if he is tearing down all of Cody’s defenses. He wouldn’t, Cody knows that, but it doesn’t stop that gaze from feeling like it is piercing into him. Obi-Wan sighs, continues, “And it is worth it, will always be worth it, because it means that this war has not taken everything from us, yes. But also because it means that I have not lost myself.” Cody shifts, does his best to hide his confusion. Obi-Wan catches it anyways, smiles softly, indulgently. “If I am cruel, my dear,” Obi-Wan explains, “to those who are cruel to me, then I do nothing but continue a cycle of pain and suffering. If I reach for anger and wield it for the purpose of causing others pain, then that is when I may lose myself. When calling myself a Jedi grows dangerously close to being a falsehood.” Cody thinks he understands, can see the lines of what Obi-Wan means and draw them together into a whole. He tries to imagine an Obi-Wan who would do that to someone and can’t; it wouldn’t be Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan, when he is hurting and worn, does not turn cruelty outward. Obi-Wan does not have the same troubles with being kind as Cody does and yet, he still strives to be kind in everything he does. (Obi-Wan, to Cody, is a marvel for many reasons. This is one of them.) Cody turns his words over in his mouth, pieces them together carefully. “You do not regret, because it is your duty,” he says, like he is reciting something with weight. Knows he is, can feel it heavy on his tongue. “And you are content with it, find joy in it. You do not regret, because in spite of it all, you are being kind where you could choose to be cruel, and where they might turn themselves into something ugly in their hatred, you will still know yourself when you look in the mirror.” Obi-Wan smiles, nods.“Yes. It is not easy, and it is not, sometimes, what I want to do. But it is the best thing to do, it is what I have done and will continue to do for as long as I live.” Obi-Wan is a marvel for many reasons, and it is a list that grows the longer Cody knows the General. He is, suddenly, overwhelmingly, grateful that they were placed together. He bites at his cheek, tries to find any words to respond to that, can’t find the right ones. The one’s on his tongue all too jagged around the edges, and the sharpness of some of them bloody his throat the longer they stay there. None of them are what he wants, the things he means. Obi-Wan reaches a hand across the desk and Cody pries his hands apart from where they are folded in his lap, meets Obi-Wan halfway, like he will always try to, and tangles their fingers together. Obi-Wan sighs.“I suppose you’d like the answer to your first question now, dear one.” He nods, squeezes Obi-Wan’s hand in both apology and support. Obi-Wan closes his eyes, breathes out. “It will not be kind.” Cody smiles, all sharp teeth and jagged edges and kindness molded from bloodied fists and cruelty, says, “I know, sir.” Obi-Wan looks at him, with something like understanding and a little bit like regret in his eyes, murmurs, “Yes, I suppose you do.” Obi-Wan runs his thumb gently over the back of Cody’s hand, sighs. Cody can’t read him, can’t see what it is he’s thinking, or what he wants to say. Though he can see that there are words waiting to be spoken. Obi-Wan, Cody has learned, has a vocabulary that stretches far across the galaxy, has words for most every situation, can string them together in just the right way to do most anything he attempts. But he holds them in for this, doesn’t say whatever it is he’s thinking, and Cody can see him backtracking, reevaluating. Finally, he sighs. “You asked me how I can still be kind even with all they do, I answered that, a bit, when I answered the second question.” Cody nods. His other hand resting in his lap and itching to grab onto Obi-Wan’s hand. He breathes through the urge, holds himself still. Obi-Wan smiles gently at him, always so gently, and just keeps running his thumb back and forth. Some of the tension drains from Cody without him realizing, and he huffs, sees now what Obi-Wan was doing. Obi-Wan taps his thumb gently on the back of Cody’s hand. “The answer though, my dear Commander, is that I am kind to them because it keeps them from having power over me. I smile at them when they spit at me, and they do not know how to react.” Cody blinks, frowns, and Obi-Wan’s smile is just a bit bitter. “It is better than showing my anger, and maybe that is not the case in every situation, but I have been a Jedi since I was small, Cody, and the galaxy at large has had most of their opinions on Jedi set in stone for a long, long, time. Reacting to them only ever brings pain, my dear.” The galaxy at large, Cody thinks, has never stood back to back with a Jedi, placed their life in their hands and had their Jedi place theirs in yours. Obi-Wan looks him in the eye, gaze heavy. “Giving them what they want is both letting them win and inviting more pain onto you, Cody, so smile at them and only show them what you want them to see, and they will have no idea what to do. They will trip over themselves trying to hurt you and you will not let them, and they will expend more effort to hurt you than it takes for you to dismiss them and move on.” Cody turns it over in his mind, dissects the answer from every angle, and Obi-Wan squeezes his hand. “I am aware, my dear Commander, that it is as much a moral victory based off of my own beliefs, as it is a victory for the sake of spite.” It startles a half-choked laugh out of Cody, and he bites his lip to keep the rest of it in. Obi-Wan smiles, squeezes Cody’s hand. “Thank you for answering my questions, General,” he says, and he was right in that he wouldn’t like the answers completely, not with the implications that they bring, but he got his answers. His Jedi has always been kind, even when he maybe shouldn’t be, and just because he has borne the weight of what that means for years does not mean he has to bear it alone. It’s the least he can do, for both this and a hundred other things his Jedi has done for him, for their men. Obi-Wan smiles, “Of course, my dear,” and Cody thinks that he would do most anything for him. Knows Obi-Wan would never ask him to, and Cody loves him a little for that. They sit in quiet companionship after that and tuck the conversation away, let it rest as they work on flimsiwork together and allow that to distract them. (Cody sits, puzzles it all out in his head, tries to find the way the pieces all fit together. He doesn’t like the picture they are forming.) There’s a shadow that has been following them for the last few hours, Rex notes. A shadow that is determined to never actually interact with them it seems like. Rex sighs, pokes at the general when he starts to get off task again and goes back to tracking their shadow’s progress. The trooper almost makes it all the way to their table this time. Which is an improvement over the last few attempts, or the tries when they were down in engineering, or the attempts in the barracks, or in the hangers, or— Suffice to say, it’s been slow going. Rex sighs, he’d been hoping to let them build up their courage and broach whatever they wanted themself, but if they were still struggling…. “Yes, Trooper?” They freeze, looking almost guilty as they sign a nervous, ‘Sir, acknowledged’ They hesitate, tucking a blue shoulder-length lock of hair behind their ear. Rex has been trying to place who they are for most of the day, he makes it a point to try and learn the names of everyone he can, but sometimes he just doesn’t interact with someone much or they don’t make a big enough noise to be immediately memorable. It’s the sad truth of having so many under your command. There’s too many troops to get to know each and every one of them in depth. Though Rex knows that that certainly hasn’t stopped some people from trying. Rex raises an eyebrow, and they fidget as they sneak a look to the general. Skywalker looks at them with interest, and Rex sighs as he sees that he’s completely abandoned the request forms for the bright shiny new interesting thing catching his attention. Being second-in-command feels awfully like herding Littles sometimes. At least he’d gotten a good portion of them done this time, Rex’ll just have to sneak them in front of him again later, after he’s been thoroughly distracted. The things he does to keep this ship running functionally. “Is there something you need, Trooper?” Skywalker asks. They clear their throat as they shift, hesitating a little before setting their jaw, “I actually wanted to talk to the Captain, if that’s alright.” they signed, half asking and half stating. The general frowns a little, turning to look at Rex with a shrug, “Sure, I’ll leave you guys to it. I still have a couple of things to take care of anyway.” He stands, sweeps his stuff up into his arms, “See you later Rex!” he calls as he leaves. Coincidentally, the request forms have all been left, unfinished, at the table. Rex rolls his eyes. The trooper resettles their weight, and Rex focuses his attention on them. They aren’t a shiny, that much is clear but it doesn’t help him determine what exactly is going on. He settles for raising an eyebrow. That usually proves to make most troopers at least start talking. They grimace, “My squad is one of the ones that got filled out with our last batch of shinies,” they sign, “most of them were still getting used to the squad lead much less the general when we deployed and—” they grimace, sighing. “One of them needs a prosthesis,” they continue, “and he’s panicking, to say the least.” Rex allows himself a second to breathe through the riot of emotions in his chest. After the second passes, he exhales and gives them a sharp nod. “I take it that he isn’t believing anything people tell him in regards to him being able to stay with us, or the general?” They nod, and he hums, looking among the datapads and forms Skywalker left to him. If he’s right, then there should be— He finds the datapad he’s looking for and opens it. “Number?” he asks, because the database is made for natborns, not the clones, and numbers are the standard. In some cases, it is also the only thing a vod has, no name chosen yet. It’s a system that’s functional and efficient and standardized. It still stings, those rare moments when Rex forgets himself in the camadrie of the ship. He knows better; this is how it’s always been. He pulls open the Shiny’s file, skims over it as he memorizes the number (CT-8970) and resolves to handle it as soon as possible. (He is also definitely throwing Skywalker at the problem. After all, when the man isn’t blowing things up or blundering through explanations, he is technically still in charge.) He gives the trooper as reassuring a look as he can, closes the file, “I've got it handled from here. Though, I will say, I’m surprised you’re the one bringing this to me and not one of the medics.” They laugh, for the first time since they started shadowing him, and give a wry grin as they sign back, “Who do you think sent me to you, Sir? It sure as heck wasn’t the mousedroids.” Rex snorts, “With the mods the General does to them, trooper? I hadn’t ruled it out.” The first introduction does not go as smoothly as Rex would have preferred. It is, in fact, rather a clusterfuck. Rex walks into medbay alone and armed with a plan. He’ll talk to 8970 for a little while first, and help address any doubts or fears as best as he can. Hopefully, then the trooper would be more willing to take the medics up on their suggestion to let the General work with 8970 to better ensure the prosthetic is made correctly for him. It’s a simple plan, with about a dozen conversation fail safes in case the problem isn’t what Rex suspects, and is in fact something different. It is with this in mind, and having firmly instructed the General to wait outside until he called him in or he’d suddenly find a lot more lost flimsiwork that he’d have to fill out on his desk, that he steps inside. He barely gets a step in before it goes to shit. 8970 just so happens to be in one of the cots with a very clear view of the door, and in the injured paranoia they all suffer from on the best of days, the trooper had been keeping a watchful eye on it. Rex’s plan, to put it kindly, drowns before it even sets foot in the ocean. 8970 goes from in pain but hesitantly relaxed to tense and panicked in an instant. It isn’t a violent devolution, but quiet and all the more frantic for its silence. Rex doesn’t close his eyes in resignation — his bucket is off and that would be the worst thing to do right now — but it is a near thing. “Easy there, vod’ika,” he reassures, unsure of how much Mando’a exactly the most recent Shinys know. (He’ll need to get an update on that soon, need to know who’s covering what, who needs modules to catch up, where their education modules were skimmed to get them out into battle quicker. He adds it to the list that is ever growing as the days go on.) Rex keeps murmuring gentle commands to ‘70 to try and even the silent, panicked breathing, and tensed muscles, distant eyes. Nods to the medic hovering in the corner of his vision to let them know he’s got it, accepts the warning they sign to him with an ‘acknowledged’ as he works to get ‘70 back to a place where he can at least understand what Rex is saying. It is the primal reaction that Rex recognizes deep in his bones, from countless nights spent forced still and still shaking in the dark over whether this would be the unseen offense that would get him decommissioned. Finally too much work to prove worth the effort. ‘70’s panic is familiar and crushing at the same time. Rex had been hoping it was ‘70 being intimidated by the General that was the problem, but he’d known that it was more likely a problem of fear. Sometimes, Rex hates it when he’s right. ‘70 has been on the ship for a total of four days, he has no way to know that the General has never once sent a vod back to Kamino with the label defective because they needed a prosthesis, never punished them for it, never done anything more than commiserate and joke and build new prosthesis that work instead of the cheap crap they’d have to make do with otherwise. ‘70 has no frame of reference, and it has always been the unknown that was most feared on Kamino. Once ‘70 has calmed down to respond to Rex’s words, breathing no longer quiet as fast and sharp, Rex meets his eyes. “Is it okay if the General comes over here for this talk? You’re not in trouble,” he’s quick to assure, when the kid tenses and his breathing starts to pick up again, “just wanted to help you. And the General can’t do that as well from all the way over there.” The kid bites his lip as he looks past Rex to where the door the General is standing behind. It takes a little while, and Rex waits calmly, not rushing the kid. It’s important that all of this gets done on ‘70’s terms, in his own time. Finally, ‘70 huffs, meeting Rex’s eyes and nodding, looking away just as fast. It’s progress though, so Rex will take it. “Okay, thank you. Just remember, trooper,” Rex tells him with a gentle squeeze to his shoulder, “that the Medics rule here, in the improbable world where the General tried anything on anyone in here they’d take him out in a second.” The kid laughs a little at the reassurance, shaky and hesitant still, but he nods. “Understood, Sir.” Sith hells he even sounds young. They’re just shipping them out younger and younger as this war goes on. The worst part is that Rex knows that the kid and all the new shinies are part of the Speedy batches too. Already had their growth accelerated far beyond what was the norm, and still so damn young. It makes something inside of Rex impossibly angry for all he knows the entire war is a numbers game. He breathes and sets it aside. There’s no point being angry over it, and he knows that. He texts the General a simple ‘clear’ and the door immediately opens. Rex suppresses the urge to snort. Knowing him, the General had probably been waiting to open that door for ages now and just barely holding off. The minute Anakin steps into the room ‘70’s breathing begins picking up again and Rex grips his shoulders. “Come on now kid, breathe with me, that’s an order.” The kid straightens up a bit, closes his eyes and slowly, his breathing comes down from the panicky pattern. “Hi there,” Anakin says, like he didn’t just witness ‘70’s complete panic, trying to set ‘70 more at ease. The most important part of Rex’s plan is this bit, getting ‘70 used to Anakin before the General offers his help. If this fails then it’s going to be a lot harder to try again later. Anakin is smiling, wide and open, as he waves with his prosthetic hand, “I’m—” “I know who you are.” The kid interrupts, before flushing and fidgeting. “Uh, sorry, Sir. Just. Everyone knows who you are.” Anakin laughs, rubs the back of his neck with a sheepish smile, even as he flips Rex off for the teasing hand signs he threw the General’s way. “Oh wow. Okay. Um. Well in that case you have an advantage over me. What’s your name?” ‘70 freezes, fidgets. “Uh, I don’t, I don’t have one, Sir.” Anakin nods. “Right, that’s fine, names are difficult!” The kid shifts again and then seems to tense as the sheet moves, the amputated leg clear even through the thin fabric. The kid looks up, frantic. “I, I know that, that I can’t be as effective as the others but I swear that I can still be useful General I promise, I can still do the— the — the data entry or the navigation or I don’t know just, something you don’t have to send me for decommissioning I swear I’ll even—” “Stand down,” the General orders, harsh and hoarse and the kid flinches. Rex raises an eyebrow at Anakin and gets a wince in response. “Sorry,” Anakin says. “It’s just that, the amputation sucks for you and I’m sorry, but it doesn’t mean that you can’t still do anything. Just means it might take a while to get you up to the standard you want. And—” he continues, when ‘70 tries to interrupt, and Rex can see the agitation growing, “even if you couldn’t serve on the ground I wouldn’t just, just wash my hands of you.” ‘70 looks at him, blank and distant and Rex swallows the urge to curse. “Defective units are decommissioned sir, If I am of no use—” “No living being is ever of no use,” Anakin snaps. “no matter what anyone else says.” Anakin breathes, the calming pattern that Kix finally cornered him into admitting he knew and made him swear to use it, and continues, “I know that it’s hard to process right now—” “Do you?” ‘70 snaps, and he is blank and shaking and closed-fisted rage, “because there are hundreds of other people who could disagree with you, Sir, and it wouldn’t matter how useful you think I could be.” It is the truth. Anakin shudders, breathes, and there is a moment where the air goes icy, the chill creeps into Rex’s bones and makes a home there, and then the moment passes and Anakin just nods. “You’re right,” Anakin agrees, resigned, “but that hasn’t happened yet, and you can make sure that it never does, or at least that it’ll take more effort to make it happen than just leaving you be would.” Anakin smiles, and the ice breaks, “You already kind of did it. You’ve got good instincts, trooper. If you’re ever in that position, you open with a way that you can’t be replaced first. If someone can get out of paying for something, they will. Use that.” ‘70 bites his lip, shrugs. “It wasn’t— I didn’t, I was just desperate. It wasn’t a plan or anything, just, I saw you and panicked.” Ankin shrugs. “It happens. Just make sure to remember, even when you panic, to have all the ways you’re irreplaceable ready to go in an instant. No matter what the situation is, that list of reasons can be useful. Everyone is always looking for ways to get out of doing something, if they can cut corners they will, if they can use someone else to help themselves they will, if they can hurt you they will. Every time.” ‘70 plays with the sheets and is quiet for a long time. Anakin fidgets with his fingers, goes to say something more five different times before aborting, and there is something in the hunch of Anakin’s normally proud back that has Rex watching closely. That leaves Rex wondering why Anakin is so well acquainted with this need, this necessity. “That sounds so sad,” ‘70 finally says. Anakin shrugs again. “Someone I knew used to say that the biggest problem in the universe was that people don’t help each other. Now I think it’s that no one is kind without a price.” There’s a beat of silence and then ‘70, shyly, asks, “If you weren’t gonna send me back—” “Never,” Anakin interrupts, and Rex resists the urge to sigh at the General interrupting the kid again. They’ve been working on that the just jumping into a conversation. It’s a work in progress. “I’d never do that to you.” ‘70 nods. “Then what did you come to talk to me about?” “Oh!” Anakin exclaims, excited to talk shop. “I thought Rex told you?” Rex really does sigh then. “I figured it would be best for him to hear it from you. Clearly, I made a mistake on that one. Sorry, Trooper.” ‘70 shakes his head. “It’s fine Sir, really, no harm done.” Anakin fidgets. “If you’re up for it now trooper, I’d like to get your measurements and stuff for your new prosthetic. That’s what this is for, I mean,” Anakin rambles, “to get you fitted for one and all the logistics figured out so I can make you a new one.” “Oh,” ‘70 says and it is the type of awe that breaks Rex’s heart. “I didn’t think I’d be considered worth one,” he whispers. “Of course you are,” Anakin protests, “I never thought otherwise. You matter, you’re important. Fuck anyone who says differently.” ‘70 looks up at Anakin with wide eyes, and Rex smiles as the last of the tension leaves the kid. Rex stays while they finally move on to the measurements and talking logistics for the prosthetic, mostly to keep the kid at ease and avoid him clamming up again. It gives him time to turn the conversation over in his mind, run the words over his tongue and— He doesn’t like what he finds. Because someone, at some point in his general’s life, taught him he had to be worth keeping around if he wanted to live. There was enough of a threat of being replaced that he has a list of ways he can’t be. Someone in his general’s past taught him that the world was cruel, and kindness was a lie. It makes Rex almost sick with anger. (He very, very carefully doesn’t think about why it all seems so familiar.)
Elsa was at the library with her friends. They were working hard to prepare for the baccalaureate, to get their high school diploma. The blonde knew she would get it but the wanted to have the best distinction possible. Her friends weren't so confident. "I'm so bored. And my head is going to explode." Olaf rubbed his skull with his fists and grunted. Finn rested his head on the table. "Let's take a break, please." Elsa chuckled but put a hand on her mouth when she heard someone hushing her from another table. Rapunzel whispered. "So, have you looked at flats for you and the princess?" "I've just looked at some. I think we're going to make some visits during summer. You?" Finn answered. "We found a great one. But I'm not speaking about it or you're going to steal it from us." "It's a shame you can't follow us too, Olaf. It's going to be awesome." Olaf glanced at Rapunzel and answered. "Yeah, well... I'm taking a gap year, I'm pretty sure it will be even more awesome. I'll be visiting the world while you're busy studying." Elsa had been glad to learn Olaf had this plan. She would have felt bad knowing that he stayed in Arendelle alone because of her. "You won't go to Corona if you don't go back to studying Rapz. We only have two more days." The exam was to begin on June 15th and last until the 22nd. They had a free week before to prepare, and they had made good use of it up until now. Elsa was actually confident about her friends' success. Since Finn and Rapunzel had known they could live together in September if they both graduated, they had been working really hard. "How is Anna?" asked Finn. "I guess we're going to see her a lot next year if she lives with you." "She's doing great. She's been over the moon ever since our parents asked us if we wanted to share a flat." And she had received a positive answer from her high-school a few days ago. "I bet she is! You must be too!" Rapunzel winked. Her best-friend had been even more excited about her and Anna since she had told her about the feel-up deal and the almost-kiss. She still remembered how her lips tasted and she could feel butterflies in her stomach just at the memory of it. Imagine what making-out with her would be. No, don't imagine it! And her offer to feel her up... God I want to do it so bad. She could only imagine how her small soft breasts would feel in her hands, and she was craving to discover it for real. "Ok the break is over. Time to get back to it!" Her friends groaned but did as she said. She wasn't going to let them fail, and she wasn't going to have a wet dream about her sister in a library. Or anywhere else, for that matter. They worked during the whole afternoon and Elsa agreed to let them go at seven. She got back home and said hi to her family. The weather was getting really hot and Anna had only been wearing skirts and crop tops recently, which only made Elsa more flustered. She had increased her workout sessions recently and got to it as soon as she arrived in her room. She only stopped to eat and went back to it afterward. When the morning of the first test arrived, Elsa felt relieved. She couldn't be more prepared and only wished it to be over soon. Her friends weren't in the same state though. They were all stressing out and shaking a bit with anxiety. It's not even an oral test! She tried to lighten the mood and reassure them but they weren't really responsive. "Easy for you to say! You know you're going to ace it." "Yeah, we're not all so lucky." Maybe you wouldn't stress out if you hadn't spent the whole year playing video games and trying to date girls, Olaf! The first test went fine even if philosophy wasn't Elsa's favorite subject, and she soon settled in a nice routine. She would do the test, text her parents to let them know it went well and call her sister to speak about it. Then she'd have lunch with her friends and got back to another test in the afternoon. In the evening, she studied again for the next day tests, even if her parents had advised her to take some time off, and would watch a TV series with Anna before going to sleep. The days went by and the dreaded week was finally over. "Phew, can't believe it's finally over. We should go out and celebrate." Finn was always ready to celebrate. "Shouldn't we wait for the results?" They would have them in a few days. "We'll celebrate if we graduate. But now we have to celebrate for being over it." The others nodded and Elsa sighed. "Ok then. Where do you wanna go?" "Why don't we go to the bar you're going to work at this summer?" Olaf asked. "Sure." They agreed and Olaf drove them there. They sat at a table and a waitress she was beginning to know came to them. "Hello everyone. Hey Elsa, nice seeing you." "Hi Cinderella. We're just here to celebrate the end of the school year." "Oh, great. Did the exams go well?" She nodded. "So what would you like to drink?" They ordered and the girl left, swaying her hips as she walked. "Do I need to know anything before I make an ass out of myself again?" Rapunzel laughed at Olaf. "Elsa kind of turned her down." "Humpf." The waitress came back with their drinks but stayed a little longer. "So where's your girlfriend?" "Huh..." She didn't want to explain everything to Finn and Olaf. "The cute redhead. Are you still with her?" The boys looked at her, surprised, and Rapunzel was visibly struggling not to laugh. "No, I mean, yes, I'm still with her. But she's not here. Obviously." She realized she was stuttering and tried to calm down. "She's still at school, I guess." "Oh, she's not in high-school with you?" "No... she... she's in middle school." It felt a bit wrong saying it. As if she was a sex predator or something. "In the last year, though. So, only for a few days yet." Calm down, you're not a perv, she's not really your girlfriend... You wish she were, though. "Oh, I knew she was much younger than you! That's why I didn't think you were dating first." Much younger ? Is she calling me a pedophile now? Rapunzel spoke before she could answer. "She's just two years younger than Elsa. And they both love each other so much. It's so cute." "I see." "And I heard from Elsa that she's pretty wild in bed, too." Elsa opened her mouth to protest but nothing came out. Seriously, you just had to add something like that? A picture of a naked Anna in bed with her came to her mind and she quickly willed it away. "Oh." Cindy blushed a little and was clearly embarrassed. Finn and Olaf were astonished. Gosh, what are they thinking right now? "I'm going back to work. Tell me if you need anything." She got away and Elsa turned angrily to her best-friend. "Seriously, Rapz? You don't think it was already inappropriate enough!?" "Come on, it was funny. And she did leave as soon as I said it." "Huh... so you've been dating a schoolgirl?" "No, Finn, I haven't! The last time we were here the waitress flirted with me and Anna faked being with me so that she would leave me alone." "Huh..." Olaf started "wouldn't it have been easier to tell her you were straight? Or that you weren't interested, if you didn't want to lie?" Well, tell that to my ass-groping sister, not to me! "That's kind of weird, isn't it? I mean, she's your sister..." Finn continued. "You could have asked Rapz, it would have been hot actually." His girlfriend hit him on the shoulder. "Outch. Just kidding." "It's too late anyway. But don't feel forced to complicate things like Rapz." She glared at her once again. "So you're going to work here for a whole month and you will have to pretend you're in a relationship with Anna?" The blonde lowered her shoulders "Yeah, I guess." "That's pretty fucked up." I know, Olaf. "It's not like I'll have to kiss her or something. I'm not even going to speak about her." The four friends stayed quiet for a moment before Rapunzel changed the topic of the conversation. The next Wednesday, Elsa was pacing up and down in her room. The results were to be showcased in an hour at her school, and she was getting more and more anxious. She glanced at the clock again. I should go. Maybe they will give them earlier. She took her keys and left her room. She was getting down the stairs when she heard Anna call. "Sis?" She stopped in the stairs and her sister appeared wearing a top that showed way too much of her flat stomach. "Yes?" "Are you going to see the results already?" She nodded. "Can I go with you? I'm stressed out too." Elsa smiled. "Of course. But I plan on texting everyone once I know anyway." "Yeah, but I'd like to be there. If it won't be too embarrassing for you." "Of course not. Follow me then." She was glad Anna was with her. She get in the car and turned up the AC. Anna sat next to her and she drove to school. She had some difficulties keeping her eyes on the road and couldn't help glancing at her sister's legs. Her skirt had risen up when she had sat and was now showing a good part of her thighs. What I wouldn't give to be able to touch them. The worst part was that she was sure Anna wouldn't say anything if she did. Summer was going to be hard. Wait until she starts wearing swimsuits again... She hoped the weather would be lousy. Can't wait for winter and heavy large clothes. They arrived early but a lot of students were already there. The yard was buzzing with agitation but she soon found her best friend. She was speaking with Finn but waved at her when she noticed her. "Hey Elsa! And Anna. You came to see your big sister humiliate us with her results?" Anna chuckled. "Yep, she's the best!" she said as she circled her older sister's waist with her arm. They waited for a bit and Olaf arrived a few minutes later. When the results were finally posted on the multiple billboards put up for the occasion, everyone rushed to them and Elsa instinctively hold her sister's hand to not lose her in the crowd. She led her to the board and searched for her name. And here it was. Elsa Wynter. Summa Cum Laude. She had graduated. With the best possible distinction. She couldn't believe it and was overjoyed. Anna was smiling too. "I'm so proud of you, sis! You really are the best!" The blonde laughed and took her sister in her arms. She lifted her up easily and span her around. She felt so light and fragile in her hands. The redhead giggled when her sister finally put her down and they both looked into each other's eyes. Then Anna stood on her tiptoes and kissed her fully on the lips. It was just a peck but the blonde was stunned. Her first reaction was to want more, to lean against her again and give her a real kiss to taste her soft lips again. Then she remembered she was her sister and wondered why Anna had done it. She looked at her with wide eyes and Anna blushed. "Huh, sorry, sis. I was just so excited, I don't know what took over me." Then Elsa remembered they were in the middle of a crowd. Several hundred students were here, two dozens of them knowing they were sisters. She quickly looked around her and scanned the crowd, searching for people who might have seen them. She was glad to see that most of them were too busy either screaming with joy and kissing their loved one, or crying and being comforted. She couldn't see Olaf, Finn or Rapunzel and sighed in relief. Nobody had seen them. Or, at least, nobody had bat an eye at the scene. It was just a peck after all. But God it had been awesome. She would trade anything for another one. Plenty of girls and boys were kissing around her and she felt a pang of jealousy knowing that she couldn't kiss the girl she loved, while others could do it so freely. It wasn't fair. She was interrupted in her thoughts when Anna hugged her close. She had her head in her chest and she was smiling. "I'm so proud of you. I love you sis." Elsa's dark thoughts went away as quickly as they had come and she kissed her on the top of her head. "I love you too Anna." Maybe they couldn't kiss, but she knew their love would last forever. Nobody around her could say so without doubts. She raised her head and noticed Rapunzel watching them from afar. She had a smile on her face and Elsa couldn't help wondering if she was smiling because she had successfully graduated or because she had watched the scene. She breathed in and the scent of her sister made her relax. She made sure to enjoy the hug for a minute and then released her. "Come on, let's go see Rapz and the others. I want to make sure they passed too." Anna released her too but grabbed her hand, and Elsa didn't care if people could find it strange. I'll never see them again anyway, so fuck them if they think it's inappropriate. Their fingers intertwined and Anna's thumb began stroking the back of her hand. They reached her friends and she noticed they all looked happy and relieved. "I assume we all passed?" "Yep! And Finn even got a distinction!" "Nice, congratulations! I got one too!" "Yeah, it doesn't really surprise me. Which one?" "What do you think?" said Anna. "The best, of course!" Her friends laughed and congratulated her. They stayed some time here to speak with their classmates and learn which ones had failed. Her physics teacher also came to congratulate her. He was looking at Anna, puzzled. "Oh, this is Anna. She's my little sister." "Oh, nice to meet you. If you're only half as good a student as your sister is, I'm impatient to have you in my classes." "Thanks, but I'm not coming here. I'm leaving for Corona too." She squeezed her hand as she said so and Elsa smiled. She was glad, after all, that her plan had worked. An hour later, they were ready to go but Finn stopped them. "Let's go celebrate. And no cars, we're going to drink as we never have! Wanna come with us, Anna?" Elsa was going to say Anna was too young for that, but she answered first. "Yep, I'll look after sis." The blonde sighed but didn't argue. She was already sixteen after all. She had to stop pretending she was still a kid.
Matt never wanted to hurt Foggy, never. Maybe scare him a little, get his heart racing but that was it. It was only out of love, or maybe something different because Matt didn't know if he was even allowed to use that word, not when everything he loved had a habit of leaving him. Admiration then, an intense curiosity, whatever it was though, it was never malicious. How could he explain that to Foggy? Especially when he considered the fact he was bleeding out on his couch, only there because he'd been pulled off of the floor he'd collapsed onto. Foggy was too good to him, Matt knew that and always had. He didn't deserve any of his patience, he should have been rotting away in a jail cell yet here he was, continuing to ruin his only friend's life. Foggy was scared. He could smell it, the scent of sweat heady in the air. His heart was pounding, almost identical to how he'd sounded upon the first time Matt had broken into his apartment, only this time he knew what to expect. Matt wanted to gouge his eardrums out at the sound of Foggy sniffing, trying to hold back tears— it was the worst thing he'd ever heard. "You know, I should have expected this." God, he sounded so disappointed. It made Matt's stomach curdle, tears spring in the corners of his eyes. He stared blankly up at the ceiling and tried desperately to focus on the aches in his body, each bruised rib and swollen knuckle a pain he deserved. "I...I really tried, Matt. I did." "I know." Matt's voice shook, he'd never heard himself sound quite so small. He didn't care, not if it meant showing Foggy that he was sorry, not for what he had done but for letting him down. The addict is never sorry for doing the drugs, they're sorry for being an addict in the first place, there's a difference. Wilson Fisk was dead, it was all over the news, the majority claiming that justice had finally been served. He'd been let out of prison due to some bullshit deal he cut but it didn't last long, a few days in his cushy penthouse and he got a visit from the Devil. He had barely gotten out before the FBI had realized their precious Kingpin was a bloody mess on the floor, he'd put up a good fight but in the end, the Devil always prevailed. Foggy hated Fisk as much as the next person but it didn't mean he wanted him to be murdered. He wanted justice, the right, and lawful way. That was what he was going to get, he had been working on it from the second he heard that Fisk had been let out of jail but Matt had to come along and ruin it, he had to think his way was the only right way and turn Fisk into some kind of martyr. Deep down, Foggy knew he deserved this failure. That's what you get when you make a deal with the Devil after all, and he'd been stupid to think that Matt was anything but the Devil. He'd allowed Matt to continue, countless people's deaths sat on his back because he'd had to go and develop a schoolgirl crush on a psychopath, it was his fault Wilson Fisk was dead and Devil knows how many more. Not only did Foggy have all that ready and waiting to eat him alive, but he also had the obvious fact that a wanted criminal was camping out in his living room. He'd seen him bloody before but never like this, Devil suit in a pile beside the couch while Matt laid splayed out, bruised chest on display and bloodstained hands clutching at his side. Whether it was intentional or not, Matt had put Foggy in danger and that was a hard fact to get over. "I— I had to, Foggy. I didn't want to but—" "Don't lie to me, don't do that," Foggy barely managed to say before having to sit down, perching himself on the arm of his armchair. "You wanted him dead, that's the truth. And I bet you enjoyed it too. It's who you are, Matt. I was stupid to think otherwise." To think, Foggy had considered Matt to have good intentions, to not be the Devil he portrayed himself to be, maybe he'd been trying to tell Foggy all along but he just didn't want to listen. "It's not." Matt's face crumbled, his beautiful face a mess of dried blood and wet with tears, only falling down his cheeks as he continued to plead with Foggy, for what though, he wasn't sure. "I didn't want to but he was going to hurt people, Foggy. He was going to hurt more people and I couldn't let that happen." Before he could comprehend what he was doing, Foggy was up from his seat and was marching over to where Matt was laid. He crouched down beside the couch, face close enough to Matt's that he could kiss him if he really wanted. "No bullshit, understand me? Or you can go bleed out on the sidewalk for all I care." Matt nodded weakly, his blank eyes continuing to stare up at the ceiling, his eyelashes wet with tears. "First question, why me? Why have you been following me, why pick me in the first place? What did I ever do to deserve this?" Matt wasn't sure if he'd ever been heartbroken before, most people didn't get close enough to have that kind of effect on him. He was starting to think that perhaps it was a good plan, not letting people in because he'd been in pain before, horrific pain he couldn't bare but this? Foggy's disappointment and anger, whatever affection had once been there now gone for good? Nothing would ever compare to the agony. "People like you." Matt started shakily, Foggy noticed the slight tremble in his hand but said nothing. "Everyone likes you, I hear your name everywhere across the city, you're impossible to ignore. I wanted to know you, I wanted to understand why you're so loved." "So that night in the alley, when you saved me for the first time, you already knew who I was?" Matt nodded once again. Foggy didn't know how he should have felt about Matt's confession, he knew for a fact that the guy was lonely and probably just wanted to be loved but God, he went about it the completely fucking wrong way. Then again, he was in Foggy's apartment and had been so multiple times, they'd eaten together and shared stories. Foggy knew he'd been more intimate with Matt than he had been past partners and that was saying a lot since they'd barely touched. It might not have been the wrong way, just not conventional. "Fine. Second question...what does it feel like when you kill someone?" Did Foggy really want to know the gory details? Of course not but he needed to know how Matt felt, he had to work out whether or not he'd been making mistake after mistake in inviting Matt into his life repeatedly, never being able to actually commit to saying no. Matt's lip trembled as he tried to think of some way of avoiding Foggy's question, digging his nails into the soft skin on his side to try and ground him. For whatever absurd reason, from the second they'd met Foggy had kept his secret, even when he didn't know he was keeping it. He'd had so many opportunities to go to the police and he took none of them, Matt didn't care about the police now but if Foggy knew, if he truly knew what he thought about and the joy he got while killing, he saw no outcome where it didn't leave Foggy scared and running as far away as he could. "Powerful," He said quietly, the shake in his voice almost masking his words completely. "It— it makes me feel powerful." Foggy was quiet apart from the occasional sniff, his fingers gliding against his cheeks as he wiped away the stray tears he didn't manage to bite back. He'd asked, after all, he couldn't be upset with the response he'd gotten when he had known it was a possibility. Besides, it wasn't anything he had thought himself. He'd spent hours contemplating Matt's motivations behind being the Devil, trying to coax himself into a false sense of security by telling himself that Matt had good intentions yet again. "Fair enough." Foggy almost laughed albeit a bitter one and the sound made Matt's chest hurt. He would have done anything, absolutely anything right then to hear Foggy laugh for real. "Final question, can you stop?" It was then Foggy realized that he too was shaking, a gentle tremble settling in his hands. "If you really tried, Matt. If you just tried a little harder could you stop? Stop hurting people, even if they deserve it, could you do that? For me?" Matt bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, adding to the already coppery taste in his mouth. He promised he'd never lie to Foggy but the truth hurt so much more, either way, he came out as the monster, as the Devil. He'd convinced himself that it was just who he was, and that was how everyone was going to see him but Foggy hadn't, or at least he'd started to see past all the red. That had all gone to shit, and it was all his fault. "Foggy, please." Matt throat already felt red raw, his voice slowly falling from his grasp and he only wished it vanished completely. At least he couldn't hurt Foggy that way, he couldn't make things worse. It wasn't even his intention to go to Foggy's place, he didn't remember making the decision but could he be surprised? "I can't— please don't ask me to do that. I can't do it, I'm sorry." Foggy's stomach dropped and suddenly he was standing up, he took a few shaky steps away from the couch before Matt erupted into begging, wet and desperate. "No. No— no, Foggy, please. Please, I-I'm sorry. I'm sorry— I love you just, please, please don't leave me." He didn't sound like a murderer, or the Devil. He sounded like a scared little boy, so alone in the world there was no point in having any shame, no care in sounding pathetic. Which he did, Foggy had to admit he sounded pathetic and it didn't help the case he was trying to build. "Christ, Matt. I'm not leaving." Foggy sat back down on the armchair, clutching the arm in an attempt to calm his shaking hands. He wasn't built for dealing with this kind of stuff, all he wanted a simple life with his simple job, not babysitting for the Devil. It was moments like this he was glad he wasn't religious, at least there would be some peace after everything was over. He stared across at Matt and all he saw were the videos of Fisk that had leaked online, the Devil faster and more ruthless than he'd ever been. Foggy saw Matt and saw the Devil, he wanted to cry at the thought of ever thinking he was anything but. Still, there was a pity he still held for Matt— he truly did kill everything around him. "Oh." Matt breathed in what felt like the first time in years before turning his head slowly in Foggy's direction, his head pounding with the rhythm of which it'd been slammed against the wall. He'd always liked pain, partly because he thought he deserved it. Foggy didn't deserve pain and he certainly didn't deserve to be given any of Matt's. Despite knowing Matt was blind, Foggy couldn't help but think he could see him, maybe only him. His eyes were blank and looking a little left of him but still, it felt like the first time someone had ever actually seen him. Because all bets were off, there was no point hiding any of the ugly anymore, Foggy might not have been the one covered in blood but he might as well have been. "Are you going to kill me?" Foggy watched as Matt physically cringed, closing his eyes once again as though that would help shield him from what Foggy was saying. "Because I'm calling the police, Matt. You can't....you can't be allowed to keep doing this. I should have called them a long time ago but I didn't, because I thought you were changing; I thought I could help you." "I promised you, Foggy. I-I promised you. I'm never going to hurt you— never." The worst thing about it was Foggy believed Matt, which meant he had to turn him in. What else was there to do? He was a damn lawyer, his entire adult life had been spent defending the innocent and proving who the guilty are and he couldn't throw that away for Matt, not anymore. By the time Foggy returned back to the living room after getting his phone, Matt was gone. The only evidence he'd been there in the first place was the blood stains on his couch and floor, his suit gone as well except for his mask, which sat on the coffee table where Foggy had put it. It was as he replayed what had just happened in his head that a dawning realization came over him and swiftly kicked all the air out from his lungs. Foggy felt his legs begin to shake as he stumbled backwards and sat down on the couch, still warm from where Matt had been laying. Before he could stop himself, his head was in his hands and his chest heaved with each heavy sob he let out. I'm sorry, I love you.
~~~~~~~ Cyrus led his men in secrecy to a nearby island. He had an inside spy who had given him the itinerary. He'd launch his attack when they least expected. This was going to be too easy he thought to himself. He had found rogue groups to join his efforts and had devised his attack. This infamous Ice Queen would be his personal pet before he killed her and her sisters. He was surprised the dark haired girl he had been holding hostage and raping continually was still holding onto life. Just the thought of her made him hard. He licked his lips and reminded himself he didn't have time for that now. ~~~~~~ "Sorry Drake but we are going to scuba into a secret tunnel under the island that will take us to the main palace. But the water is warm!" Meridian heard Drakes mutterings about water. "Teague the money has been transferred and it was a pleasure as always. Reardan, what do you think you are doing?" "I'm going with. I'm old enough you know." Reardan gave her a cocky smile. "I know you are old enough but you should stay with family, this is highly dangerous." Teague laughed, "You just convinced him to go." "I can help Queen Alex get in and settled." Reardan was suiting up his gear with an evil smirk on his face. "You do understand this is a nonhuman summit? I'm sure you can shoot straight and to kill because of your father but this is more than likely going to lead to a battle." Meridian glared at him while she stood with her hands on her hips looking up at him. "Yes our Ice Queen, I do." Reardan smiled at her. "Seriously, Teague, he might get hurt or killed." Meridian was staring up the two men and didn't realize she was growling. Teague had to stop laughing to answer her. "He is the Prime Alpha of our pack; I just stepped down last month. He has an invitation. You realize you are growling and glowing a wee bit red?" "Must be like AA. My name is the Ice Queen and it's been a couple days since I've killed someone." Meridian started to laugh, "You always pull one over on me. Then suit up. Alex might need help too." "Yes my Queens." Reardan started adjusting Alex's harness to not hit her wound. "Queen Alex, you just hold onto me and I'll do all the work." Reardan was savoring running his hands over her body as he checked the straps again. "And this is my first in command Quinn O'Rielly and he will be accompanying us along a few others." Meridian just nodded as they got ready to jump. "I love you Teague, thanks for saving my ass again!" She hugged and kissed him goodbye. "Don't you go off and get yourself killed lass!" Teague said as he hugged her. "Now what do I always say?" Meridian stared up at him. "If one of us is going to die then it'll be you because I can run faster!" Teague said doing his best impersonation of her voice. Meridian smiled and jumped off the plane and into the water. Drake shook Teague's hand. Then Reardan walked up and hugged Teague, "See you soon Dad!" Teague whispered in his ear, "Don't underestimate the women. They can kick ass." Reardan chuckled and attached Alex's harness to him; they jumped out of the plane to follow the others. Drake jumped with very little scuba gear since he didn't need to breathe. He looked and saw Meridian then there was a bright light and she was gone. As they entered the underground tunnel they stood taking off the scuba gear. Reardan was the first to speak, "What happened to Meridian? Where did she go?" Drake looked at him, "I saw a flash and she was gone. Let's go up and if she's not back in 30 minutes we'll send out a search party." He turned to look at the men. "The Queens are the Triadic Queens and have powers so she could be meeting someone on another plane of existence. For those of you who knew her as the Ice Queen and thought she was evil in battle before trust me she's worse now. I'm not too worried." "Well this meeting keeps getting better." Reardan removed Alex's harness and noticed the tiredness in her eyes. "Where is the doctor at? She needs to be looked at. I'm assuming there is a doctor on the island." Trinity introduced herself to Reardan as she walked in. She gave a bit of an evil smile when she saw Reardan carrying Alex after she screamed in pain trying to walk to the doctor. King Douglas addressed Reardan, "Just call me King Douglas. Prime Alpha Reardan O'Brien correct? Trinity here was my brother's wife." "Yes, it's an honor to meet you. I'm assuming I'll meet him later?" Douglas leaned close, "No, he's deceased. We don't know with the pregnant Triadic the hormonal mood swings so we'll discuss in private." Trinity overheard it and her emotions got the better of her. She elevated above the room and flew towards Douglas pinning him to the wall, "You were not the one locked in the cell." Her breathing increased as she felt her anger going out of control. "I didn't deserve that!" Douglas quickly responded, "I never said you did. Trinity please calm down. It's OK. I just want you to be OK and not hurt the baby. Calm down Trin, I love you and the baby. Calm down." Trinity let him go and levitated to the middle of the room landing in the middle of the room with her hands down as she screamed. The walls started to crack as Alex rushed forward. "Calm down Trinity. He didn't want to upset you."Alex said in a soothing voice. "It's too much power." Trinity said as she her breath increased. "Get me outside so I don't hurt anyone. I want to hurt someone." Alex helped her outside as Douglas followed. Alex sang a childhood song to her until she finally calmed down and started to doze off. She turned to Reardan and mouthed, "Tranquilizer!" He looked at her mouthing back, "She's pregnant!" "Just tell the doctor!" The doctor handed Alex the tranquiller and Trinity went limp in her arms. Alex stared up at the doctor. "It's safe despite the pregnancy." Alex announced. "I called before we left and had it developed." Douglas looked at Alex with pleading eyes, "I really didn't mean it to sound the way it did. I didn't want her upset. I don't harbor any hard feelings. I would have killed my brother long before if I had known. If he would have had her here I would have killed him. I adore her." Douglas looked off and muttered, "More than I should," under his breath. "Prime Alpha O'Brien, would you assist Alex to her room after the doctor looks at her?" "Feel free just to call me Alpha Reardan. I'll take care of the lass and make sure she gets to her room." Douglas carried Trinity to her room at the palace. Reardan looked at Alex, "Is she safe with him?" "The question is if he's safe with her. We don't know what to expect. You might want to keep your distance from me; mood swings and all." "Not going to happen. You're stuck with me until the doctor has you checked out and you're in your room." Reardan pulled her back into his arms as he got her settled on the doctor's table. "So I hear you are a fire starter and a Triadic Queen how does that work?" Reardan was trying to distract her from the doctor's exam. Alex explained the Triadic Counsel and being pregnant. Reardan looked at her, "If you would like, I have an herbal healer here that might help give you herbs to stabilize your moods. Were's have volatile moods especially when pregnant." Reardan heard her cuss as the doctor was cleaning out her wounds. "You hurt me much more and I swear I'll put your head on a damn stick!" Reardan pulled her back holding her down, "He has to clean the wound. Deep breaths, he's almost done." Alex finally relaxed in his arms. "I would be honored if your healer could meet directly with Dr. Mason. Sorry about the head on a stick comment." "Just hand me a get out of jail free card and we'll be even." Dr. Mason said looking at her seriously. "Consider it done. Let's consider it a 3 strikes sort of thing since we're all pregnant." Mason brought out the ultrasound machine, "It's appreciated. I'd be happy to meet with the healer. Now I have to do an ultrasound. I'm concerned about the location of the bullet. This may hurt some over the wound." "Reardan, do you realize how odd it is for me to have just met you and you're here watching me get an ultrasound?" "I'm not just a Prime Alpha lass, I'm also a doctor so relax." Reardan held her hand as he chatted with Dr. Mason discussing the location of the bullet. "So tell me the good or bad news." Alex was feeling the weight of the day come down on her as she struggled to hold her emotions in. Reardan held her hand as he explained, "We won't know for a while. Dr. Mason has cleaned and dressed the wound but we are unable to tell if the bullet has damaged either child. The good news is you are not having any cramping or bleeding. It's a good sign." Tears were forming in Alex's eyes. Dr. Mason looked at her, "I want you to limit the amount of walking and exertion you do. The babies' heart beats are strong so that's a good sign. I'm working with your other doctor so we'll just keep an eye on you. I know it's impossible to put you on bed rest until after the meeting but after that bed rest it is." Reardan left the room with the doctor as she got redressed. When she came out Alex yawned. "You need rest before the meeting. I'm going to give you a light sedative that's safe for the child." The doctor declared. After the shot, Reardan picked her up and carried her up to the palace. "Which room is yours?" "Up the stairs and 7 door on the right. So the children are a waiting game?" Alex said in a strained voice. "It's not the best of circumstances but so far the signs are good. You need to stay relaxed and keep the stress down." He noticed her start dozing off as he carried her up the stairs. When he entered her room Logan immediately sensed him and was ready to attack. Logan saw her in his arms and his emotions went entirely possessive as he rushed Reardan. Reardan pulled her close as he tried to explain with a hint of anger in a low voice, "Back the fuck off. You'll wake her. If you're here to hurt her you have to go through me first." Reardan spun quickly dropping Alex not so gently on the bed. Logan's heart fell into his stomach as the thought of his love being killed hit him. "Just don't hurt her." "I'm Prime Alpha Reardan O'Brien. I'm a friend of the Ice Queen. I've been caring for Alex. She was shot just recently so the doctor said he safely sedated her. Who the hell are you?" "Her soon to be mate!" Logan announced. Logan's fangs elongated for attack. "Sorry but I don't see a ring or sense you are mated." Reardan said as they stood ready to fight. "She's having my children and she will be my mate." Reardan glared at Logan and gave a slight snort at his comment. "Waiting until after 100s of powerful nonhumans meet her and want her for a mate?" "It's none of your business!" They both looked over when Alex whined and slightly shivered. "Temporary truce?" Logan said as he saw the compassion in Reardan's eyes. "Yes. Pull down the covers so we can get her in bed." Logan hesitated but pulled it down. Reardan stepped away as Logan searched her body for the wound. His hand was on her swollen abdomen as he completely forgot Reardan was there. "It's Lord Logan right?" The voice pulled him out of his reverie. "Yes. The shot is low, too low." Logan muttered under his breath. "My suggestion, from what I understand, is for you to bleed into her wound and let her rest." As much as he wanted her for himself he couldn't let her hurt. Logan cut his wrist and let it bleed on the wound. He held her around the waist until Reardan again woke him from his self loathing. "She needs to sleep. Let's go have a drink." Reardan offered him. Logan pulled the covers up and contemplated sitting in the chair waiting for her to awaken. "It will be hours before she is up. She needs the rest. She was shot. She's not cramping or bleeding and the babies' heartbeats are strong. Make her sit as much as possible during this meeting and after it's done she needs to be put on bed rest." "You sound like a doctor." "I am and we've all done everything we can. I believe everything will be fine. You need a drink." "You want her!" Logan said in a low growl possessive growl. "I can smell your scent all over her." "But that is her choice. I won't sacrifice her happiness or her children so let's be civil. I may be competition but I'm not going to sacrifice her well being for it." Reardan then diverted the conversation. "I suggest posting guards outside her door. There are way too many single men here to leave her unguarded." Logan nodded his head and he tucked her securely under the blankets. He eyes were caught on her hand that should be wearing his ring. She was his. Logan leaned close kissing her on the forehead and then whispered in her ear. "I love you so much." Logan turned and followed Reardan out of the room. "Maybe this meeting will do all of us good. Normally, we would just fight each other. Plus, it only takes a few bad individuals to make a group look bad." "It's like any group of people; a few can make the rest of us look like uncaring asses. As much as I may be attracted to her, I couldn't hurt her and us fighting is the last thing she needs right now. I'm guessing she'd kick us both out." Logan laughed at the comment as he saw Marcus come up worried and upset. "Where is Meridian?" Logan motioned they move down the hallway so they would not be heard before they spoke. "It's a pleasure to meet you Lord Marcus. I am Prime Alpha Reardan O'Brien. Drake said there was a flash of light and she was gone. He said we'd wait 30 minutes and if she doesn't show up we'll search for her." Reardan announced. Marcus huffed growling under his deep voice, "We will search now!" Reardan looked at him, "My men will happily assist you in searching for Meridian; we have known her as the Ice Queen." As the men gathered they moved towards the beach. Once arriving on the beach front Meridian appear through what looked like a portal and plopped very ungracefully into the sand in front of him. "Honestly if I knew I could do that I would have dispensed with planes. I'm a bit rough with land though." Marcus put his hand out and pulled her to his chest. "Missed me?" Meridian pulled her legs up around his hips as he walked with her around him back up to the house. Marcus shook Marcus's hand, "Thank you for your Assistance Prime Alpha Reardan." Marcus shouted over his shoulder. "I need a little alone time with Queen Meridian." Reardan and all the men followed them into the main Palace. Logan looked at Reardan, "I'll meet you in the library after your men get you to your quarters." Reardan walked back to the palace until he saw Tarrin grab Alice Grandy pulling her over to the men. Alice felt completely out of her element. She was unaccustomed to being dressed in a large formal gown. Tarrin handed her what looked like a tablet PC with a map. "You ask the sir his name, type it in and then you will show them to their room. You are right here on the map." Alice looked like a deer in headlights as Tarrin walked away. She had never once worn clothes like this. Her caramel hair was in curls to her waist accented by the emerald ball gown with a plunging neckline. She was biting her lower lip and nervous being surrounded by so many men. Her habit of keeping several knifes on her felt like a security blanket. She couldn't believe Tarrin just dumped her out and left her to learn on her own. She literally felt like she was being fed to the wolves. "Please excuse me for one moment and I will find out exactly where we are going." Alice walked around the corner when she was grabbed. "If you scream I will slit your throat. Call Queen Trinity down here." "How? It's my first day here. I have no idea where she is or even how to use the phone here." The man cursed as Alice stomped her heel down onto his foot and elbowed him in the ribs grabbing her knife from her stocking. The knife the other man held lightly sliced her neck trickling blood down to her cleavage. Reardan smelled blood. He turned to his first, "I smell blood. Track it." They went around the corner into the kitchen to see Alice had grabbed a frying pan and smack the man in the head. "Sorry slight delay." Alice put a towel to her neck as the man started to get up. She hit him again in the head. "Stay down damn it!" Alice yelled as she smacked him again. "Sorry, please excuse the interruption. It's been a bit of a rough day for me." Alice said to Reardan and his men. The man went to stand again and she hit him in the side of the head. "Seriously, you would think he would stay down. STAY DOWN!" Alice looked at the pan and at the blood on her dress and her face changed to anger. "You bent the pan asshole! That's probably coming out of my pay! And you just had to get blood on the new damn dress!" Alice smacked him again in the head. Reardan had been laughing but finally stopped, "Someone grab him and take him to security." Tarrin walked in after being told of the commotion and saw Reardan checking Alice's neck. "If you show me to her room I can heal her there." "I'll have one of the guards show you." Tarrin hurried and left to escort more people around. Once at Alice's room he instructed all his men but Quinn to stay outside the room. Reardan addressed her personally, "I can heal you without stitches. Do you trust me? You'll get a bit of my blood in yours but you won't become a Were like me. Is that OK sweet little Alice?" Reardan was in a trance as he stared into her eyes. Alice weakly nodded as Reardan took a knife to his hand and dripped his blood into her cut neck and pressed his palm to it. He watched as it healed immediately. Alice passed out at the sight of him slicing his hand. He pulled her into his arms. Quinn looked at Reardan, "You realize you've temporarily marked her as your mate by sharing blood?" "Of course I have. I was able to read her mind. She's almost 18 and the last thing she needs after her uncle tried to rape her is an island of nonhumans all trying to make her their mate." Reardan ran his other hand through her hair to make sure his scent was on her. Quinn just stared at him before saying, "What is done is done." ~~~~~~ Logan saw Reardan enter the library with several other men. "I suppose I owe you for taking care of Alex." "You don't owe me. Just remember it's a temporary truce. Anything from the meeting forwards is fair game." Reardan said with an evil cocky smile. "Are you saying you'll be seeking Alex as a mate?" The distress in Logan's face was clear. "We'll see. Alex is dominating, head strong and you have to admit highly attractive." Reardan smiled knowing she would be a hand full as a mate. He knew this meeting would be a nightmare for Logan. Douglas walked in catching the last phrase, "More than you know. Mind if I join you before the circus and the fighting begins?" "We've decided not to fight for now." Logan announced. Douglas snorted, "If the two of you fighting over Alex were the only fighting I had to worry about I wouldn't need a drink." ~~~~~~ The infamous Blue Priestess and her father Hermes Trismegistus had arrived. Tarrin was concerned; she never expected such revered people would attend. Seeing the men carry in a glass case carrying a beautiful blue woman was highly intimidating. Hermes was one of the few men that intimidated her. She really didn't want to wake Alex or Trinity. She could tell as she approached Meridian's door she would definitely be interrupting a reunion she was having with Marcus. She contemplated what to do and decided to go to the library. She knew at least one of the future Kings would be there. The conversation was sedate; at least there wasn't any fighting when she walked in. "I apologize for interrupting but we've had a surprise guest we were unsure would arrive. Alex and Trinity are still out from the medication. I was going to ask Meridian but it sounded like she's making up for lost time with Marcus. I am unsure how to handle the Hermes Trismegistus and his daughter, The Blue Priestess." They heard someone cheering from the stairs, "She's here, he's here and they made it!" As they stepped out of the Library they saw Meridian slide down the banister to run towards Hermes. "Hermes! You made it." It was obvious Meridian had just tossed on clothes and Marcus walked down the stairs with a disgruntled look on his face. Marcus walked over to the men as he ran his hand through his hair. Hermes hugged Meridian. "I see you have found family. So wonderful for you, I hope you don't mind that I brought my daughter. You two behave though." "Have we ever not behaved?" Meridian said as the guards gently sat the glass case holding the sleeping Blue Priestess who resembled snow white but in blue down on a stand. Meridian ran over and opened the glass lid and played with a piece of The Blue Priestess's cobalt blue hair, "Wake up sleeping blue. Guess who?" Her bright blue eyes opened and she stared up, "My Ice Queen, it's been so long." Blue pulled her close and kissed her deeply both running their hands through each other's hair. Blue pulled her in and closed the lid. Marcus noticed Meridian laugh. He snorted, "And here I was complaining." "Sorry Blue but I have a mate now." Meridian said as she opened the lid and climbed out. "Oh goody! Which one is he?" Blue said as Meridian pointed to Marcus. "Oh he's yummy. If you every want to share we could all play together!" Blue threw a kiss to Marcus. "You know I'm not good at sharing." Meridian laughed and hugged Blue. The two women giggled as Meridian helped Blue out of the glass case. "Let me show you to your room. I'm sure Hermes would like to have a drink with the men after the flight." Blue grabbed Meridian's hand and then ran her hand over Meridian's stomach, "Immortal child! You are having an immoral child? I am so happy for you." Blue pulled her close so Meridian could only hear her, "When the time comes and your child asks to take over your body, let him, trust me." "A boy huh? Thank you Blue. We should go catch up." Meridian waived at Marcus as she ascended the stairs. Marcus turned to the men, "It looks like we should all have a drink." ~~~~~~
Chapter 15 – Jayde I Jayde turned over the most comfortable bed ever slept on and frowned at finding herself along what must have been the most exaggerated number of pillows. The canopied bed was draped with blue brocade curtains that did not let the sunlight in. Still, most were pulled aside, showing Jayde the bedchamber. The room was decorated in dark woods and ornately and gilded in shades of red, black, and dark blue. It was much gloomier than one expected from the Queen’s Bedchambers. Jayde knew Myrcella planned to sell and refurnish the chambers as with the King’s Apartments. There were too many dragon motifs going around to anyone’s comfort. “You promise you would try and rest,” Jayde spoke, her voice still hoarse. “It is early in the morning.” “I can’t rest more, Jay.” The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms was sitting by her desk, a heavy tome in front of her. There were parchments spread across from the heavy-looking thing as well. Myrcella still wore only her nightgown, a white thing heavily embroidered in gold that looked far too loose on her figure. “There is much that needs to be done. I can’t stay in bed while my mind is thinking over all the work I need to do.” It was most of the truth, Jayde Dacey knew. She also knew how Myrcella tended to wake up in the middle of the night, sweating and muttering names in pain. There were two names Myrcella spoke most often in her dreams. Jayde would always be gentle when she woke Myrcella from her night terrors. But she was not always there. Jayde was hired as a servant for the Queen, but she was still the lowest of the lowest. People would comment if a laundress always shared her bed with the Queen. Fortunately for them, there was an adjusting room to the bedchamber, serving as a ladies’ quarters where their most trusted companions slept in comfortable pillows, awaiting to serve Myrcella. Getting up from the bed, Jayde let her feet onto the soft carpet and walked to her lover. The cold of the early morning woke her better than anything else. Perhaps she was getting too used to the finer things in life. She already heard many maids in the castle speak of how Myrcella was one of the best noblewomen to serve, and Jayde agreed. Myrcella tended towards gentleness and generosity even to the lowest of servants. But Jayde doubted the common-born were given silky nightgowns with pretty flowery embroidery that once belonged to the Great Lion’s eldest daughter. “Why so many lists?” Jayde asked. She couldn’t read that much. Myrcella had wanted to teach her, but Jayde didn’t want to trouble her love with it. She already had enough on her plate. “I need to send for highborn ladies to serve me. I have Margot and Melesa from the West and from the Vale, Junia Royce and Carolei Waynwood, and Lady Janyce is my Mistress of the Robes, but there are not close to enough. I have three ladies from the Vale, and my father will send another one from the West soon. It makes three ladies. I need three ladies from each kingdom to balance it.” “They will be in your service?” “Supposedly, of course, they can become many things over time. They will write to their kin about my private life, so I must be careful with what I show. Mistresses of kings can also be ladies of the court.” Jayde knew how treacherous court could be. Mycella had suffered with the Mad King, but her love seemed to forget she was Queen now, not a lonely lady left behind by her powerful father. “And if they go against you, you send them away.” Mycella gave her a little smile. “What if they find themselves in the King’s favor instead of my own, Jay? A queen’s power comes from the King, only him. Robert might be willing to let me work with him, but it might come a day when he turns on me.” Jayde could see the fear in Myrcella’s pale eyes. She leaned over her love, hoping to give her some comfort. Jayde let her hand wander through her hair, neck, and cheeks, knowing it calmed Myrcella. The deep breath showed Jayde was doing something good. “Has he called you back?” “No,” Myrcella said in a whisper. “Someone must be gossiping about it already. Two weeks of marriage and only bedded once, on my wedding night. I can imagine what awful stories they are spreading at court. At least, Robert made it impossible for people to spread that I was still a maiden.” “They say you are deformed,” Jayde confessed. She wanted to hit however was behind that rumor. Myrcella was perfect, with a kind allure, and while she was far too slim to be considered for her womanly curves, she was still lovely to look at. “He took a woman to bed,” Myrcella said. “She is not noble, and I don’t want to ask about it since people will no doubt gossip about it too. I need to know about her.” “I will ask around. But why does this woman worry you so much?” Myrcella looked to Jayde with a melancholic expression. “I knew he would take a mistress soon. He might bed many women, but one would catch his fancy to last more than a night, but I had hoped she would be a brunette. Not a blonde.” “At least he is attracted to blondes.” “Exactly. If she was a brunette, people could say it was grief over Lady Lyanna. A blonde,” Mycella stressed, “a blonde means he is not that picky. It means I am the problem.” “I will call the rest of your maids to get ready for a bath. In the meantime, call you ladies and try to work on that list, Cella,” Jayde kissed her hair. “I will try and find out what I can.” . . Once Myrcella knew His Grace would marry her, her love began to work on what her servants would wear. According to Myrcella, it was something important, since the lively they wore showed who they served. Apparently, His Grace allowed Myrcella to have her servants wear colors that would be her own, not the Kings. “It hasn't been done since Queen Betha, Jayde,” Myrcella had explained. “And Queen Betha Blackwood had great influence over the King. She acted even as Regent when Aegon V needed to leave the capital.” They had been working on it for some time, with the result was being used by Jayde as she walked through the streets of King's Landing. An overgown of golden yellow that opened upfront and was laced with black laces made it clear she worked in the Red Kee. Jayde had one made of linen, but Myrcella had given her three, two of linen and one of wool. Underneath, Queen Myrcella’s household women would wear red kirtles, and each maid would be given two of wool and two of linen. Myrcella also gave them three shifts, two of linen and one of cotton. Red was not a color used by the common folk, and once Myrcella offered the clothes to the girls, some had tears in their eyes. The two ladies that Jayde was accompanying wore green. Margot’s deep green velvet went perfectly with her golden hair, while Lady Carolei had burning up with the fur around her cape. Margot was on a mission to find textiles for the maids and ladies but also for the Queen. That shocked the tradesmen of King's Landing, since seamstresses were sent to court when ladies wanted clothes. Highborn ladies did not deem it necessary to speak with men of trade. But Myrcella wanted to know how trade was flowing now that the war was over. Two days ago, Queen Myrcella had appeared at the market squares, Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime behind her, and four Baratheon guardsmen. It had caused a commotion. The common folk shouted and praised Myrcella as if she were the Mother sent to them. Margot Lannister was charming a cloth merchant from Tyrosh as Carolei spoke with two seamstresses. No doubt, they would be successful in their mission. Looking at the market square, she stopped a woman buying some herbs. “My lady,” Jayde called, eyes lowered and tone soft. Margot turned. “Her Grace desired for me to look at the herbs in hopes of finding a calming tea and some healing herbs for the hospital.” Margot nodded cheerful smile still one. “Yes, Her Grace informed me. I do thank you for reminding me. You can go. Ser Sandor,” Margot called, and the tallest knight approached. “Go with this goodwoman and help her carry whatever she might need.” Margot gave her a purse, and their eyes crossed. “If you cannot find it here, you have leave to look for it elsewhere as meet us back in the castle.” Jayde walked with Sandor to the stool where a merchant sold some myrish herbs and found the woman in blue linens. Moving so they could speak without being interrupted, Jayde asked, “How is everything?” “Eventful in its own way. Most of the soldiers have left, and I spend most of my days helping women give birth. Her Grace will soon be able to rebuild the place into a proper hospital.” “Have you thought about returning to the Red Keep?” Lily placed the wormwood in the bag she carried and went on her way. Jayde asked the men for calming herbs, already knowing what she wanted. She bought some valerian and moved to another stall, where Jayde found the best ginger. “Her Grace is the best woman I could ask to serve, but I have found something - a calling - in that hospital,” a voice whispered. Jayde nodded, happy for her friend. Lily deserved to find her place as any other person did. “Ser Gerion has been visiting us,” her friend continued. “Her Grace hired three of the young widowers you spoke about to him. She hopes you can guide young girls you think have a good future ahead of them.” Lily huffed. “I know many girls wouldn't mind honest work.” “Other types of futures, the likes of yours.” Lily looked at her. Those eyes were full of hope. “How does she plan to have them learn?” “Leave that to Her Grace. She has a plan. Send the names of the girls, no matter their age. And all of those who can read as well.” “I guess Ser Gerion will be visiting soon.” “Does it bother you?” Jayde asked with a knowing smile. The blush on Lily's face only made her grin wider. Lily paid for the tansy after Jayde got the ginger. The two walked a bit since Jayde wanted to see if she found some herbs that would be useful. Lily shared some news of the hospital, but once they were sure no one could listen to their conversation, Lily spoke. “Her name is Brella. Her mother worked in the Keep as a maid well before the girl was born. Her father died of illness a couple of years ago. She is prettier than most commoners that worked on the Keep. Like often, rumors that she was fathered by some lording came about. But there is nothing to them.” “Did any of the girls know how she found herself in the King's bed and stayed there?” “One of Robert's courtiers, a valeman, pointed her out. He is in Jon Arryn's retinue and likes whores as much as our new king.” “Men do speak when they are happy. See if you can figure out if it was just some knight who wanted to get in favor of the king or if there is something more to it.” . . Jayde was setting the food on the table of the Queen's Solar when the woman in question entered. Jayde did a deep curtsy and got up only when Myrcella allowed her. Rising, she noticed the handsome man with her. She set the rest of the table, using her time to study the man in the Queen's company. The handsome man was tall, not as His Grace was, but taller than most men, with chestnut hair and amber eyes. He was broad-shoulder but leaned, and the white and silver doublet spoke of his wealth. There were even brands with gold threats embroidered. He was not the only one who dressed to impress. Myrcella never looked more like a Lannister than she did in the crimson velvet gown and cloth-of-gold underskirt that also lined her sleeves. Atop her pale hair was a gold and diamond delicate crown. Jayde stood back in her place next to the other maid. Janna was a young widower of two-and-ten who had a two-year-old to raise. The money the Queen paid her allowed her to maintain a room for the two of them and her younger sister, who took care of the babe. Her husband had died in the Sack, and Janna was close to prostituting herself until Lily offered her a once-in-a-lifetime chance. If that had not been enough to ensure her loyalty, the promise of a good future for her son did the rest. All of Queen Myrcella’s servants’ children would learn the letters. Janna had cried when she discovered it. “I am pleased you accepted to dine with me, Ser Baelor,” the Queen spoke. If they were not along, it would be a scandal. Ser Barristan and a knight from the Stormlands stood close enough to protect the Queen if needed, but with a distance that allowed a pretense of privacy. “Her Grace didn't need to ask twice. It is a pleasure to have such a graceful dinner companion.” The man had a charming smile, but there was no desire in his eyes. Jayde zoomed most of the conversation until the important theme came. “I know some speak of my sister’s absence. I am either jealous of her beauty and fear the King will look to her and not me or that she accused me of being a whore and was sent away for it. I hoped you would be able to look a little sister rivalry the other way.” “I am the oldest of ten, Your Grace. I know how rivalry, especially during our youth, can come at times be a bit fiery.” Myrcella gave a gentle smile that did not reach her eyes. Ser Baelor might have some complicated siblings, but she doubted they came close to Cersei Lannister. “I cannot imagine so many siblings. I confess I had my hands full with three." Myrcella jested with her sweet nature, and Ser Baelon smiled fully. "I believe most of your sisters are married.” “All but for Lynesse, but she is still a little maid. And Malora, of course, who chose to wed books.” Jayde noticed the glint in Myrcella’s eyes. “I confess, I find it unfortunate the Citadel cannot take women in, for some of the members of the gentler sex would be exceptionally learned women. If the rumors are to be believed, Lady Malora would be amongst them.” “That is truth, but Her Grace must not humble herself too much not to admit she would be marble at such a place.” Myrcella smiled, “I admit to having dreamt of a life dedicated to books. But the Gods had other plans for me.” “But you have spoken to me of some intelligent women,” Baelon Hightower said with a knowing smile. Baelon Hightower had come to the King’s coronation and remained at the court since. Often, he favored people like Gerion Lannister, with whom he was often seen going about. For a time, Jayde thought little of it. Until Myrcella confessed there was a reason for their closeness, and that had nothing to do with males' interests or different tastes in partners. Baelon Hightower had no trouble with women being educated, on the contrary, he promoted it. Baelon would help get some girls situated in Oldtown in ways that allowed them a stellar education. Jayde didn't know how that would happen, but Myrcella had been ten times happier and more excited since their talks began. She had been radiant. “You should take another trip to the city with my uncle. I am sure you will find much to look forward to, good ser.” Even Baelon Hightower was struck dumb by her radiant smile. Myrcella was made for smiles, but they were so rarer that they became more precious than the diamonds on her crown. The Hightower Heir recovered much quicker than Jayde and was raising his glass in a proposal of a toast. “To a radiant Queen, and a new page our country's history.” “To the improvement of our country and our people,” Myrcella rose with her glass. They both tasted the fine wine Ser Baelon had bought from the Reach and stood in comfortable silence for a time. “I confess, as I am sure you probably have guessed, Ser Baelon, that I had in mind more than a toast to seal our friendship.” Ser Balon nodded. “I guessed as much weeks ago, Your Grace.” “Myrcella, pleased. I do not like my friends to call me by my title. No matter where they come from.” “Yo- Myrcella, I would not say I have given thought to the idea. But I should approach Lord Lannister before.” Myrcella shook her head slightly. “You don't need it. My father has entrusted me with finding a proper husband for my beloved sister. You must talk with him, no doubt, but a letter from me, and it is a done deal.” “Then it will be a pleasure to call such a radiant and intelligent woman my goodsister. If Lady Cersei is half as clever as her sister, our marriage will be a happy one.” . . Jayde kissed up Myrcella's naked back until she found her long neck. Her love giggled and turned so they were staring at one another. Jayde smiled at seeing Myrcella so happy and carefree. But as she touched that pale skin, Jayde couldn't help but ask. "How did you know?" Myrcella hummed, confused, and Jayde continued. "How did you know Ser Baelon would agree with your scheme to have the girls educated as healers and scholars in Oldtown?" Jayde regretted the question the moment she saw the grief in Myrcella's beautiful eyes. Myrcella forcefully tried to relax her expression, but the tears were already wetting her eyes no matter how much she blinked. "Ser Baelon had once been a candidate for Elia's hand. They had spoken of Lady Malora's own education and her views on the subject, and Ser Baelon made it clear he would approach women's education in whatever form he could. That is why I know, because Elia told me," Myrcella gave a huff, and her tears began to fall, "she told me Ser Baelon would treasure a woman like me as a wife." "He would," Jayde replied because it was the truth. Baelon Hightower had no physical desire for Myrcella, but she saw how he respected her mind and cared for much the same things Myrcella did. "You would build all the schools you wanted in Oldtown, find ways inside the Citadel and spend your days speaking of books." "In another life."
Jimin gets up on Sunday. It's 9am and he's glad he had stayed home the night before to spend some time to himself. Although he wrote a report he had had a nice relaxing evening. It was just what he had needed before his week starts again tomorrow. He gets a bag out of his cupboard before going through his fridge and picking out supplies to take over to Jungkooks. Grabbing his keys and a jacket he heads out the door with his bag. Walking down the hallway to the next apartment down he quickly unlocks the door and heads inside. It looks like a bomb has gone off, there are blankets and pillows on the floor with a few bodies mixed in between. It looks as though Jungkook hadn't made it to his own bed as he is lying on the floor with one leg on the couch. He must have fallen off at some point in the night. Hobi is sprawled out on his stomach across the floor with his foot over Wonhos face. Wonho is passed out with a bucket in his arms. It must have been a wild night but Jimin has work to do. Pulling out 4 glasses and filling them with the juice he brought with him and heading to Jungkook's bathroom to get medicine for the headaches they all undoubtedly have. Finding it in the cupboard he heads back out placing it by the cups on the bench, ready for when the alphas wake. He starts on breakfast putting bread in the toaster for a full English breakfast. Pulling out a carton of eggs and bacon and a couple cans of beans baked beans he gets started. He knows the smell of food will wake the alphas, so he doesn't worry about anything going cold. Hobi is the first to wake accidentally kicking Wonho in the face as he jerks up. Looking around he catches sight of Jimin in the kitchen. Hobis gets up and heads out of sight, Jimins focus going back to the bacon he was pulling out of the oven to check on. He feels arms wrap around his waist and a face bury into the side of his neck. “Have I ever told you how much I love you Chim? Because I really do.” Jimin laughs and lets hobi cuddle him, “you could say it more.” “I really do. You know Hana and Eunae never make us breakfast when we're hungover and sad.” “ That's because Eunae drinks more than all of us combined and sleeps through the morning, and Hana, well Hana is too wrapped up in her boyfriend to notice us.” Jimin has moved to start cracking eggs into a pan, “is someone sad?” “Yeah Wonho, didn't you notice him being drunk off his arse on Friday. I know you went hard, and had some fun with our little Kookie in the bathroom but surely you noticed him.” Jimin snorts, “I noticed, but why is he sad is what I meant. Plus it could have easily been you, I heard that he threw up on you. And it could have been Kook too, he wants to meet someone you know.” Hoseok chuckles detaching himself to get plates and utensils out for Jimin, “if that's the case then Kook shouldn't spend so much time with you, you reek of each other. That will be scaring all the omegas away from him.” “I'll do that if you and Joonie stop teasing him about mating me.” Hoseok laughs, “we can stop anytime we want but can you stop being so reliant on kook?” “Yip, I've been without him before, I can dial back our friendship,” Jimin turns the stove top off, finished cooking the eggs as he places it into the oven to keep warm, “if you two would stop I think that would make his life a lot better. It really does get to him you know.” “I know, and we will stop. Promise. But he just gets so red when we do it. It's funny.” Hoseok says now buttering the toast that's ready and placing it all into one big plate. “What if I told you that he wants to settle down and find someone to have pup's with, and every time we meet someone new you ruin it for him.” “Yeah ok. That's fair. I mean with hana settling down its kinda made me want to as well. Wonho too.” “Is that why he's sad? He wants someone to settle down with?” “He wanted Hana to settle down with.” “Really? I didn't see that coming. But I suppose it makes sense.” “Yip he's been pining after her since we met him. And now Yoongi is in the picture he is feeling like he's lost his life. Wolf down and all that.” Jimin sighs, Yoongi, looks like he's ruining things for them again. It can't be helped, “well today we can have a cuddle session to make him feel better, and if he wants we can talk about it.” Hoseoks spring scent perks up at that. “Woo! Chim cuddles!” “Stop it, go and wake the others, I thought they would be awake by now but I guess you guys went hard last night.” “Hard enough for me to need new shoes.” Hoseok is bouncing back over to the others shaking Wonho awake first before shrieking in Jungkooks ear like a banshee possessed alarm clock. Wonho is up looking around before he lies back down and curls towards his bucket mumbling under his breath. They're soon crowding around the bench to dish up food. Jimin as the only omega present goes first, old instincts die hard and all that. It's quiet the only sounds of forks and knives scraping plates and gulping of juice down parched throats. It's then that Jimin decides that he likes this, this quiet sharing of a meal between friends. It would be nice to have the whole lot of them here but that's not always possible with busy lives of adulthood. He might even see if he can get them all together for a dinner one night, that would be nice. Even if Yoongi were there he thinks he could deal with that, the only way he'll find out is if he tries. “Ok how does cleaning all this mess up and then going over to my place for cuddles sound? Jungkookie built a fort on Friday and it's still up so we could cuddle there. Maybe talk about things Wonho.” Wonho mumbles around his food. “That's a great idea Chim, we could all use some omega cuddles, couldn't we. Maybe even make a revenge plan against Yoongi for stealing Hana away, I'll call Namjoon he's smart and knows the best way to get revenge.” Hoseok says far to loudly for this time in the morning. “No revenge hobi hyung. We could just become single men looking for omegas to settle down with now. All of us.” It Jungkook saving the day again. Because as much as he would love to get revenge on Yoongi, it wouldn't be right. And he doubts he'd be able to watch or even plan something horrible for his mate. No matter how much he deserved it. “I can help set you up with people. I know what omegas want, and are looking for in an alpha. Plus I can be your wingman. Point out all your good attributes and skills.” Jimin joins in excited for this plan. “And we can find an alpha for you chim! You never know, you could find your soulmate, and we would have helped.” Jimin flinched at Hobis words, he knew they were said in good spirits but his inner omega whines for Yoongi. It's stupid he knows but he can't help his biology. “It's ok Hobi hyung, let's get you guys together first then we can sort me out,” Jimin knows that that will buy him some time, once they meet someone they will be focused on them entirely and Jimin can slip by undetected. He could tell them that he's mated, but then he would have to explain the whole story again and he's not ready to do that so soon after telling Jungkook. The table is cleared quickly and the boys tidy up the lounge before heading over to Jimins place, Jungkook staying behind to shower and clean himself up. Wonho is cradling the bucket from last night as he waddles next door following behind Hobi. “Can I use your shower too Chim? I feel like I really need one, to wash last night off.” Jimin nods as he lets them into his home, “you know where everything is right?” Hoseok nods walking towards Jimins room first to pick out clean clothes. “Do you want a shower too Wonho?” He shakes his head in no. “You can take your bucket with you if you want.” Wonho seems to think about it before nodding yes. “Ok, why don't we go and pick out some of my clothes. I have some soft ones that are super fluffy.” Wonho simply follows Jimin to his room. You can tell Hoseok had been in here seconds ago because his bed has been made and he knows that he didn't when he got up this morning. Heading to his closet he pulls some of his older clothes out. Ones that are soft, back from when he was in university and was vulnerable. They don't smell like him as much as the rest of his wardrobe but he thinks that might be a good thing in this case. Pulling them out and showing them to Wonho for his inspection. He nods again before asking quietly, “can you scent them?” Jimin is shocked a little bit nods and rubs them against his neck letting out soothing pheromones to soak into the fabric. He can tell that Wonho is very delicate right now. He can understand why. “You know,” Jimin styles on his bed, “things will work out. Maybe not with Hana, but it'll happen for you. Besides, you are a nice alpha with a stable income and a home. You have stability, which is what is omegas want at this stage in our lives. Something we can settle down with. So you'll be ok. Don't worry.” Wonho looks up at him, tears gathering in his eyes, “I love her you know?” “I know. Trust me I know.” He cradles Wonho into his arms rocking him gently as he crys. “It'll get better yeah? Might not seem like it now, but it will.” He hears the shower turn off and movement in the bathroom. Picking up his clothes, Wonho and the bucket, he makes his way to the bathroom, catching Hobi as he walks out. Heading in he quickly turns on the shower and pulls a towel out from under the sink. Placing it and his clothes on the closed toilet seat. He helps him out of his clothes and into the shower placing the bucket just outside the lip of the stall so Wonho can see it. Taking a deep breath he releases as much calming pheromones as he can and sitting on the edge of his tub. Looking across the room at the mirror above the vanity he lets out a sigh. It's definitely tough being in Wonhos shoes, and if he had known that he was in love with Hana he would have tried to help. But in the back of his mind he knew it was pointless since Hana had been hung up on Yoongi. Yoongi was the guy she had been in love with since high school. It made sense now looking back to when she would nope to Jimin about her lost love considering that he carried Yoongis scent on him. His summery scent has morphed into that of a sunshower, still light and summery but fresh with fallen rain. Granted with how much time he spent with Jungkook he now smelt like a sad day at the beach with Jungkooks coastal scent mixed in. He can hear faint sobbing coming from the shower, he lets him cry, not interfering but staying present and releasing more pheromones to calm the wounded alpha. They hadn't been soulmates so Wonho would get over it eventually, but it would take time. Time they had, so it wouldn't matter. They would start with cuddles and move on from there. Once Wonho has stopped crying he slowly starts to wash the stale alcohol off himself cleaning himself of last night's grief, he could do this help and support, Jimin was sure of that. And he knew that their friends would be there every step of the way. Heading out into the lounge he can see that Jungkook and hobi were arguing. Hobi telling Jungkook that the fort was going to have to be built bigger for all of them to fit. Jungkook being adamant that his fort had been just fine and that they would have all fit. Jimin sighs and starts to mediate before this becomes a brawl between two alphas trying to prove themselves. “How about we all build a fort, that way we all helped and can all relax in it after.” The alphas reluctantly nod before getting to work but he can still hear murmurs from hobi and Kookie. He smiles and gets more blankets for them to build with. He knows nothing will come of Kookie and Hobis fight, both alphas just want to prove that they can provide, it's instinct nothing more nothing less. But Jimin still wants his house to be in one piece by the end of the day. Snuggling into there newly built fort Jimin is in the centre with Wonho, Hobi, kookie and the bucket surrounding him. He feels safe. “So, how are we newly single and ready to mingle people going to find ourselves someone.” Hobi asks. “Well we could have nights out at the bar with just us, and maybe Joonie too since he's single, where we try and meet new people. Just us, not Eunae or Hana.” Jungkook suggests. “And we could introduce each other to people we know that we think will match. Can't hurt.” Jimin ads on. “Sounds good. We could also sign up to classes too, better ourselves and potentially meet our mate.” Hoseok says “Hobi can be on the lookout at his job too, since he works at a cafe a lot of different people go there. He can keep an eye out for someone.” Jungkook says. “We can all do that. I mean I'm not the only one with a job. You all work too.” “True but you get more variety Hobi hyung, all I get a stuffy government officials and farmers.” Jimin pouts. “And I'll I get a kids and parents. You can't mate them.” “Well Wonho can keep an eye out then, nothing wrong with an accountant.” Hobi smiles at Wonho encouragingly. “We should have a group chat as well so we can encourage each other and keep everyone up to date.” Wonho mumbles. It's the first thing he has really said all day. “Great idea.” Jimin is rubbing Wonhos back in encouragement. “We should also keep our scents clean, I'm looking at you two Jimin and Jungkook. No more scenting. That way when we do meet with a partner our scent is clean and pure. Not mixed in with others.” Hobi points at them accusingly. “Fine with me, it's Jimin that'll have trouble with that.” “Bullshit we are as bad as each other. And I'll be fine.” It's silent for a bit as they simply enjoy each other's company. Wolves happy at the pack vibes being given off with mixed scents and the safety of a fort. Hobi sighs, “this is nice. We should do this more often. But with everyone. Big snuggle fest. Makes my inner alpha feel really good.” “I was thinking the same thing at breakfast, but maybe with a dinner. We could do a pot luck?” “Maybe we could do a game night at my place?” Jungkook volunteers. “That would be nice.” Jimin mumbles. “I'll sort something out. Since we should make an effort to see our couple friends now that we are a single group.” “Jungkook we aren't dropping our friends just because we want to start settling down. We will still go out like we always do, we just have to work hard. I mean Eunae didn't drop us just because she got with her partner. Same with Hana.” “Ok ok sorry,” Jungkook is waving his hands to placate Jimin, “I'm free next weekend if you guys are for the game night?” “I should be free.” Jimi. Says. “Me too,” echos Hobi and Wonho. “Cool I'll let the others know.” They settle down for the rest of the day. Talking softly to one another in between naps. Spending the day together was healing. Getting ready for the next steps in their lives Jimin spent his time in a quiet pensive, thinking about the Yoongi situation and how he could proceed. He had Jungkook now, that was enough. He could get through this, it would be hard to see Yoongi with another but he could do it if it made everyone happy.
There was no turbulence in space, of course, but pilot reflexes trying to evade a near-continuous curtain of turbolaser fire coming down all around, combined with strong tractor beams projected by a capital ship forging ahead at full power and at right angles to the shuttle’s previous course, made for a rather bumpy ride, for the next few seconds. After a moment of initial panic – it’s the Emperor’s personal shuttle, oh kriff, it’s probably right there in the transponder code! – it quickly became apparent that the barrage wasn’t aimed at the captured vessel. The sheer amount of plasma streaming by (and at a hazardously close distance, too!) was probably wreaking havoc on the paint job, but since the shuttle hadn’t been evaporated yet …. After a brief mental check on his father – unconscious and far from well, but no worse than before – Luke cut the engines before they burned themselves out, and put his faith in the fact that the Force had been with them this far, so hopefully it would stay around and allow them to put enough distance between them and the Death Star before the latter blew up. There were too many jammers still active for the young rebel to get a sensible sensor reading on the situation, so he focused on things more easily visible. As they were drawn nearer, the blinding wall of turbolaser fire dwindled away, and close up the super star destroyer had taken some serious damage. There were scars along her flanks and belly, whole chunks missing that, compared to her overall length, had to be hundreds of meters long. Mere damage-fueled ferocity was an unlikely cause for the hot welcome, though. Luke wondered fleetingly if the irate warship might have somehow picked up on the Emperor’s reaction to her earlier shots. As a test, to see if the man she wanted dead so badly was indeed aboard his own shuttle, the deadly lightshow would have been pretty effective, the young Jedi assumed. The ancient Sith would have definitely tried something … noticeable, to put a stop to the incoming fire. A ragged hole into the blue-grey wall of durasteel yawned darkly and put a stop to his wandering thoughts. The side hangar they eventually ended up in, somewhere close to the stern of the giant ship, was missing half of its previous floor space and parts of a wall. A magnetic field kept the remains under a breathable atmosphere, at least. They had been barely dragged through that barrier before a sudden flare of blue-white light threw every gouge and scorch mark into sharp relief. Luke felt perfectly justified to let himself slump forward for a moment and let victory drain away the accumulated stress. Oo oo oo oo oo oO Movement at the edge of his vision pulled the young rebel back to the here and now. Grey and black figures were moving to surround the shuttle, and Luke, with some effort, sat up to take a closer look at them. Adm Piett looked worn, as if the battle had raged for hours, if not days, and kept one arm very close to his body. The dozen or so men he had with him were all armed, all extremely wary and none of them stormtroopers. Before the young Jedi could properly consider what this might mean for the overall situation aboard, a fierce (if perhaps only semi-intentional) query filled his mind. Luke?! his sister questioned, accompanied by a wordless Fear. Love. Desperate hope. Alive. Safe. Will find you, the young Jedi sent back, and finally heaved himself from the pilot’s seat. Another check on his father – no change – before he made his way to the hatch release and, as soon as the vapors let him, down the ramp. It had been a few months since Luke had looked down so many blaster barrels, and this time they were most likely not set on stun, but the young rebel barely even noticed them. “My father is injured. I need a medical capsule ASAP!” he said instead. Piett studied him silently for a too long second, but then nodded and snapped an unknown name into his comlink. From a side-door, a medical team rushed over and Luke quickly led them back into the shuttle. The young Jedi had just stepped back to let them work unhindered, when a firm grip caught his arm. “What about you?” Luke was about to declare himself fine, when the admiral turned a pointed look down his chest. “Anything that leaves singe marks like those cannot have been conductive to good health, and adrenaline is a very poor substitute to proper medical attention.” The young Jedi sighed. “I’ll live,” he amended and tried to steer the conversation on a more immediately important track. “What is the situation overall, do you know?” It was the older man’s turn to sigh. He waved Luke a few steps further back. “I cannot give you much more than what you’ve seen on the flight in,” Piett started quietly, shook his head in frustration and went on, “Word of advice, Commander: should you ever find yourself in the situation to instruct a ship to compensate for a compromised command crew, take a moment to realize that she is literally the air you breathe, the gravity that keeps you grounded, and in general everything that keeps you safe and moving in a nonviable environment. When the Emperor proved that he could not only cause confusion from afar but stage an internal attack, the Lady was … shocked might be the proper word. Attacked in a way she had not expected, she reacted the only way she knew and for a warship there is only crew and targets. Some of the latter might be friendly targets and some hostiles, but targets all the same.” Another sigh and a probably subconscious rub of the injured shoulder. “Long story short, she re-categorized every single soul aboard as targets. And I mean every soul – I had one hell of a time trying to convince her that I am truly who I pretend to be, and not some puppet slaved to an external control.” The medical team pushed past them with their precious cargo, interrupting the speech, and the two men automatically fell in behind them. They had barely cleared the ramp before the hapless shuttle was snatched up again by the tractor beams and flung out of the hangar, open hatch and all, at an angle that would almost immediately leave her in the wake of the giant warship. The young rebel couldn’t help but grimace in sympathy: the engine backwash of a capital ship was always a hazard for small vessels, and given the Lady’s size and the closeness to the engines the shuttle was about to find herself in … Dead effective way to make sure no stowaways will get aboard through that shuttle, though, Luke’s inner cynic commented. “Like I said: she is not in a trustful mood, right now,” the admiral all but echoed his thoughts, and there was worse, much worse than simply bruised limbs and egos on his tone. Whatever political hurdles would arise from sharing the news in unknown company and with his father still out of action, they could hardly be more catastrophic than nineteen kilometers worth of death and destruction turned loose cannon by (not entirely unfounded) paranoia, the young Jedi decided promptly. “The Emperor is dead,” he offered quietly. “Would that help to reassure her? And would she believe me?” Piett slumped, minimally but noticeably, in relief. Before he could open his mouth to give an answer, though, someone else cut in. She will believe me, a mental voice insisted. Startled, Luke saw blue eyes – just like mine! – above a breathing mask catch his for a moment, before the capsule slid forwards and the shifting angle obscured the view. Hurrying after the medical team as they moved deeper into the ship – automated doors snapping closed behind them in an almost vicious fashion, followed by the tell-tale clunk of durasteel settling against hard vacuum – the young rebel informed the admiral, “Errr, my father just told me, she will believe him.” Perhaps in reaction to the nearest medics’ double-take at the announcement, faint amusement tinted the next mental contact. Thank you for interpreting, Son, but this won’t be necessary any longer, I hope. As I know my Lady, she is already hijacking the sensors and controls of the capsule, including the comlink, in her zeal to ascertain my identity. For the external speakers of said comlink, the following hoarse whisper was too faint to make out any sensible words. The Lady’s reaction, on the other hand, made perfect sense in context with the question Luke had been privy to, mentally: Will you lend me your voice, Lady? YES To a man, the assorted Imperials didn’t blink at the inhuman voice, but there were some astonished looks when the next words came in Lord Vader’s unmistakable mechanic baritone. “The Emperor died on the Death Star,” the Sithlord began. “As such, leadership of the Empire now falls to me – including the duty to end this pointless civil war.” A short pause, just long enough to take a deep, bracing breath. “Lady, make it fleet-wide – and also broadcast the same message on as many rebel frequencies as you have.” There was no sign of assent that Luke could discern, but the next words seemed to come from every speaker the ship possessed. “This is Lord Vader speaking. To all vessels of the fleet: disengage from the enemy and retreat to the far side of the moon. Hold positions there and cease fire, unless attacked. All ships, acknowledge!” There was a pregnant pause while – or so the young rebel assumed – bafflement about a seemingly nonsensical order warred with the indisputable authority of a Sithlord. Then the incoming com-lines went live. “This is Captain Pellaeon, Chimaera is disengaging.” Luke released the breath he’d involuntarily been holding. There went the secondary command ship after the Executor. Except, … hadn’t there been an admiral aboard? Another unknown voice cut off his musings. “Admiral Harrsk here. Arrowheads: disengage! Whirlwind will follow, as soon as that damn frigate is out of my way.” A host of other ships and Captains or even admirals followed, but the young Jedi quickly stopped listening. Temporarily freed from the need to watch his step by boarding a turbolift, he cast out his mind wider than he’d ever tried and deliberately unfocused, so that only large amounts of lifeforms congregated close together would catch his notice. A three-dimensional map started to form in his mind, not unlike a tactical display and yet completely different, though it served the same purpose: The Sanctuary Moon, teeming with life, glowed softly in the distance. All around him, three hundred thousand lives swirled with a dizzying array of emotions, but with some fierce concentration Luke set them aside as background, much like he had the dazzling snows on Hoth. What he was really interested in, were the starbursts shining through the empty space beyond. The Lady had never rejoined the fray, the young Jedi saw, she was just holding a position some distance behind the tangled fleets – which were slowly untangling! The first larger ships were starting to move towards her, trailing smaller sparks of life that quickly peeled away once they got too close to the giant warship … The feeling of his back lit on fire thoroughly ruined his concentration. Luke resurfaced from the Force with a gasp, with his father’s mental shout ringing in his ears and a pair of worried faces looking down on him. He must have swayed back absentmindedly, pressing his burned back against the wall of the turbolift, the young Jedi realized, and then slid down when the pain of impact had buckled his knees, further aggravating the injury. His hastily bit-out, “I’m fine!” was met with general disbelief and a pair of burly medics took a careful but very firm hold of his arms. Wisely, Luke didn’t try to repeat the statement until he had been slathered, back and chest, with a generous helping of bacta spray. He had managed to escape a more comprehensive treatment by stating the vital importance of leaving the ship within a very tight timeframe, which had led to a quiet but intense discussion between a stone-faced admiral and his scowling Chief Medical Officer, that had ended with a stern lecture for the young rebel to get proper care for the internal damage caused by repeated electrical shocks within the day, or (literally) suffer the consequences. Well, to be entirely honest, it had also led to an even more heated (if inaudible) argument between father and son, and Luke wasn’t too sure that he hadn’t won that one merely because the black flames were too drained, at the moment, to keep a hold on the young Jedi against his will. Or maybe citing the need to reassure my sister has won the day, low blow though it has been.
Harry ran ahead of Marvolo as they made their way to the dining room. Marvolo followed at a sedate pace knowing that both Cissy and Lucius were in there waiting for them. Harry’s laughter suddenly stopped when he caught sight of the dining room. The entire room had streamers and balloons strewn about it. A pile of presents sat on one end of the table and on the other side was a three tier birthday cake. A banner spanned the wall directly behind the cake. Harry felt tears pricking his eyes. “Mimi?” Harry questioned as he caught sight of Cissy. “Oh baby come here.” She opened her arms up to him and happily tucked him up underneath her chin. Her nephew got overwhelmed so quickly after finally getting stuff like this. It took an hour for them to get Harry completely okay with the idea of getting presents and that he deserves a party. After that hour Lucius, Severus and Marvolo surprised him with having a gathering of the people Harry was comfortable with. Marvolo and Severus never left his side unless he was okay with being alone. He found this calming and exciting. “Harry! Did you get to open your presents yet?” Draco came bounding over hoping from foot to foot. Harry smiled at his cousin and went back to drawing. “Draco, child. Harry’s a little overwhelmed with everyone so we’re going to open his presents tomorrow when it is just us. Why don’t you come with me and we can get some food for both you and Harry.” Severus specifically chose his words so that even Harry was not upset by them. Slipping into the kitchen Severus grabbed a soft capped sippy cup and a glass as Draco grabbed the juice. Filling both Severus asked Draco if he wanted any snacks. After grabbing two plastic plates filled with veggie sticks and sliced up fruits they made their way back to the small party. At some point Harry’s thumb had slipped between his lips as he continued focusing on his drawings. Severus had to stop himself from sighing at seeing that. Handing over the food and drink to Marvolo he turned to go and get a pacifier for him. “Mama, wook!” Harry excitedly showed him the sippy’s image. “A wion!” The other occupants had to bite back laughter as Marvolo told him he had seen the lion. Everyone was happy to see Harry settling a bit more comfortably than usually within his headspace. They were still worried that he was going to drop hard tonight after getting the poton. “Alright everyone, we would like to proceed with the first step of tonight. The inheritance test.” Severus had came back with all of the necessary items and a pacifier for Harry. Gently catching Harry’s hand, Marvolo pricked it and let three drops of blood to land into the white potion. Severus swirled it and then placed a black feathered quill into the now pink potion. Placing the quill on the parchment words started to swirl out of the tip. Harry James Potter Parents- Lilith Angelina Potter nee Evans and James Charles Potter Godparents- Sirius Orion Black and Remus John Lupin Classification- Little headspace 0-18 months Inheritance- Potter Estate (Paternal) Machiavelli Estate (Maternal) Black Over Estate (Maternal) Fae Blood traits (Maternal) - Block Albus Dumbledore Transfiguration (Paternal) - Block Albus Dumbledore Anigmus (Paternal/Maternal)- Block Albus Dumbledore The list went on and on but after only reading the first three blocks put there by Albus fucking Dumbledore Severus and Marvolo were ready to get blood. They had specifically waited as long as possible to help Harry get over his relatives. Even when they had gotten beyond angry they did not want to do something without Harry’s consent. Now though they were so grateful that they had thought to brew something Lily had invented. It was a simple double potion that you had to mix at just the right rate but once mixed it could clean a system of any foreign magic, spells or potions not given with consent. It tasted nasty but Lily had made it specifically to be mixed with a fruit based juice for children. She knew somehow in all her Lilyness that Harry or another child would need it. Severus mixed it in with what as left in Harry’s sippy and had him finish it. Almost immediately there was a drastic change. Harry was already as thin as a stick, even with his added nutrition potions through the G-tube did not help but now it did not look awkward. Instead he looked lithe, his ears elongated slightly and his eyes had a mystical look to them. When he opened his mouth to take back his pacifier, tiny almost baby like pointed teeth only four of them the rest were all made for vegetarian food. It was almost amazing the difference between Harry with blocks and Harry without. After the party started to wind down Harry was obviously tried. He kept on trying to curl up on Marvolo’s or Severus’s lap to fall asleep. Frustrated with his Mama and Dada after they had woken him up for the third time in the past ten minutes. Tears rose up as he tried to complain, “M..Mama. No Hawwy needs sweeps! No!” He wiggled away from Marvolo’s hand that had been patting his bottom. A sigh escaped Marvolo as he watched Harry’s frustration boil over. “Ducky, you can’t go to sleep yet cause Daddy has to give you another potion. Then you can sleep for as long as you want.” “No!” Harry repeated through his tears. “How about this angel, you can sleep with Mama and I in the big boy bed. How does that sound?” Severus cut in worried that Harry might make himself sick with his crying. He just got a tearfilled nod back. After carefully feeding Harry the blood adoption potion they excused themselves to put the little one to bed. Marvolo changed out of his dress and took off the little bit of makeup he was wearing, pulling on sweats and t-shirt. He and Severus made quick work of Harry and the small mess leftover from the cake on his skin. With a shared kiss over their new son they snuggled down ready to join Harry in sleep.
This had been my first time falling asleep next to someone. That I was comfortable enough to invite him here, to sleep beside me, gave me a glimmer of hope for my future. Of course, he behaved as I expected him to; courteous, considerate, and hopelessly nervous. It humored me to know he was more likely the most anxious out the two of us. His presence had a calming effect on me, while simultaneously stirring something unknown in me. It was confusing and a little annoying, much like the boy himself was. He fell asleep quickly, his nervous energy burning out and sending him off long before I even felt the pull on my lids. I lay quietly, listening to his steady breathing, the gentle whisper of air through his lips. He didn’t snore, which was a relief. I’d overheard Petra complaining more than once that Oruo snored like a pig, but the little shit next to me was almost soundless. Rather than an irritant, I found the sound of him peacefully sleeping to be relaxing, something I was lacking in my life. It was also strangely addicting to observe him as he slept, his normally wild and animated face relaxed at last. His jaw was slack, a small gap between the plumpness of his lips drawing in sufficient air for him to breathe, and no doubt eventually drool, too. His eyes were closed, seeing beyond a wealth of things I'd never truly know. To my surprise, I could feel myself lured by the promise of sleep. I couldn't keep my eyes open, as much as I wanted to, and soon I entered into a dreamless state. I did not anticipate waking up alone, however. How long had I been sleeping for? It was never very long. At best I would achieve three or so solid hours, and at worst as little as half an hour. Despite the disturbance, I felt refreshed. What unnerved me was the space next to me. Reaching out, I tested the warmth of the sheets - they were cold, subtle traces of warmth lingered, but nothing substantial. He’d left a while ago. The question was, then, why had he left at all? Was he still here, in the apartment? Or had he gone home? I sat up, wide awake. The bed felt too big to be in by myself. What the fuck was wrong with me? I was being irrational. I had to pull myself together. If he’d gone home, he’d gone home. It shouldn’t matter to me. It didn’t matter to me. Shaking my stupidity off, I threw back the covers and got to my feet. The floorboards were cold to the touch. I was far too old to be going through these games. He was cute, but not that cute. Besides, I was doing this shit for Erwin, not some brat I found on the internet. That wasn’ t exactly true but it may as well be. I’m sure that’s how most guys found him . He was the substitute, not the main event, and I would do well to remember that. It was laughable, though, and the senselessness of my situation was not at all lost on me. If I had known all those years ago, that one small moment would have me end up like this, I never would have opened that door. There was no use regretting what had already happened - that was more senseless than the resulting circumstances. I opened the bedroom door and stepped out, glancing curiously for signs of my missing guest. If he was gone, there was no use me wasting my time here, either. I would get dressed, grab my car keys and leave. Except, he was still here. The bathroom door was closed, a bright glow radiating through the gap at the bottom. He was in there. I sighed with relief, my head dizzy as it flooded my system. Why was I reacting this strongly? I pressed my hand over my heart, feeling the pulse beneath my quivering palm. It was absurd, that I should feel this way over a small thing. Over him . Folding my arms I leaned on the wall beside the door, listening, hearing nothing but my own slowing heartbeat. The fuck was this kid doing in there? “Open the window if you’re taking the biggest dump in history.” I called, smirking as I heard the toilet seat clamor, no doubt having startled him. His phone colliding on the tile was vaguely concerning. It was unhygienic to use a phone while on the toilet. “S-Sir!” He called back, sounding frazzled. “I’m not…-” Perfect. I liked him like that. It was fun to watch him scramble. It made me feel better about my own confusing emotional state. “If you’re not shitting, you’re masturbating. I didn’t expect you to actually go and do it when I mentioned it earlier.” “N-N-No…” There was a pause, a shuffling, and then the door opened. Our eyes met - his were wide, like a deer caught in headlights. “I couldn’t sleep, so I came in here. I wasn’t doing anything, I swear.” Too cute. That irritated me. His earnest reactions always threw me off; I didn’t know how to respond properly. I was prickly by nature, I knew, and he seemed too soft to be around me, yet here we were. Again. Despite all my protests and self-declarations not to see him anymore, I’d invited him to my apartment for some weird sleepover. It was about time I got my shit together. Even thinking it, I knew I wouldn’t go ahead with it. I wasn’t ready to be mature enough to walk away from this nonsense. Not when, in some ways, I was beginning to feel it working. There was a definite change in me, and one I could only attribute to this guy - to Scout . “On nights when I don’t sleep,” It was a null and void statement already, “I go for a drive.” I searched the vast ocean of his eyes for some resemblance of life. I came back bitterly disappointed. Sighing, I expanded upon my point. “Do you want to come with me?” “Oh… That sounds really great, actually.” “Go get dressed. Your normal clothes will be fine for this.” Pushing past him, I entered the bathroom, shooing him away with his things. I showered quickly, freshening myself up. I didn’t expect him to do the same, he wasn’t like that. It suited him, and I didn’t want to enforce too much of my ways on him. He was compliant enough to satisfy. Once dressed, I grabbed my car keys and signalled for the door. “Let’s get going.” “You do this often?” He asked as we stepped into the empty hallway. I inclined my head. “I don’t sleep much.” “I see. I was afraid I’d disturbed you, I was trying to be quiet… I mean, I was trying to be quiet when I got up and stuff, not when I was… because I wasn’t… you know…” I was walking ahead, a pace or two, and I was grateful for that. It meant he didn’t see my smirk, the amusement of his words forcing it out of me. For a callboy, he was easily embarrassed. That didn’t seem to fit somehow. “I don’t want to know what you were doing.” I said, pressing the button to hail the elevator. “That’s your business. If you left no mess, that is.” He was blushing now, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, no doubt conjuring up a way to untarnish himself and failing. I wasn’t going to throw him a rope. “I was just on my phone,” he whined, stepping into the elevator with me. I saw his reflection - the brightness in his cheeks overtaking the golden hue of his skin. He was trying to hide his face, as much as he could without making it obvious. He was failing at that, too. I observed him, the emotions on his face as changeable as the weather, out the corner of my eye. “Should you not inform someone you’re leaving my apartment?” His head snapped up at my voice. “...I trust you.” “Tch. Don’t blame me if you end up in a ditch.” I crossed my arms, leaning on the wall. He was far too trusting. Did he trust his other clients this much? That was concerning. He was young and naive, and with a face like his, easily snapped up. He should be more careful of those he spends his time with. I did not intend to hurt him, but that was nothing to say someone else wouldn’t. The gesture he made, the truth in those words, was both encouraging and terrifying. I knew from the first time he arrived at my door unsolicited that he was keen to earn forgiveness. I appreciated the risk to his life, even without his garbled speech, in doing so. It was the main reason I opened my door to him again; I had never known someone to be so helplessly reckless with their own life, not for the sake of helping me. Erwin, to a degree, had risked certain things, but I knew I served a purpose to him. My face, for whatever reason, was good for the business. Perhaps I am wrong, and this blushing moron next to me did have something to gain from me, but as of yet I didn’t know what it could be. Money was one thing, of course, but was I paying enough to have him risk it all? I didn’t think that was the case. The parking lot was without a soul besides us. Unsurprising for the time of morning, and a completely welcome attribute. The roads should be clear for us, too. The city was sleeping, no doubt catching up on itself in time for the night ahead. The same could not be said for us. I took a split second glance over at my passenger, wondering how he was faring at the unsociable hour. It was a common occurrence for me to be awake at this time, and by the looks of it, he was used to odd hours also. Two misfits. What a pair we made. As I expected, there was no traffic. Overhead the sun was creeping up, but for now the sky remained dark. The destination I had in mind wasn’t all that far. With traffic light, we would make it in good time. “I’m sorry if I woke you.” He said. He was staring out the window, his fingers folded neatly in his lap. “I didn’t think you would come find me.” “I have trouble sleeping. It wasn’t your fault. Entirely.” “Where are we going?” “You’ll see. And no, it won’t be the middle of the desert.” He laughed. “I don’t mind where you take me. It’s nice to go out with you.” He hesitated, the comment sitting heavy in the air. I admit to feeling my pulse quicken, my fingers clenching the steering wheel tighter. “Ah, uh...I mean… I didn’t mean…” “Forget it.” I pulled the car off the main road, driving a short way up before stopping. I turned the engine off, not giving him a single glance as I got out of the car. He followed suit, eyes darting around as he tried to work out where the hell I’d taken him. He would find out soon enough. I started walking across the loose gravel, listening to the satisfying crunch of stones beneath my feet, suppressing a smirk when I heard hurried steps scuttling towards me. “So… uh…. Where are we, Sir?” “You really shouldn’t call me that out here.” I glared at him from over my shoulder. There wasn’t going to be anyone around, not this late, but even so. I did not want the risk of someone overhearing and thinking we were involved in something weird . “Ah, sorry.” “Follow me. It’s not far.” “I like this. It’s kind of like… an adventure.” “You’re not afraid I’m leading you to a secluded spot to murder you anymore?” He hesitated. “I wasn’t.” Past tense. His response amused me. “We’re here.” I announced, leaning on the railing in front of me. “Oh… wow.” Laid out in front of us was the cityscape, a myriad of lights against a pitch black backdrop. Some were gold, some almost white, others blue and even red. Faintly in the distance, the echo of an emergency service’s siren blared, diluted from the distance. The hum of traffic barely reached us here, giving the impression of seclusion. We were distant observers, like a boy and his ant-farm, peering through the glass at an unknown civilization. “This is incredible… the view is amazing!” I watched as Scout rushed forward, hands clapping onto the railing. “I’ve lived in this city all my life, but I never knew a place like this existed.” “It can be crowded during the day,” I said, admiring the nightscape once more, “Late at night, it’s the perfect place to go to clear your head.” “You come out here often?” I nodded. “When I can’t sleep. The wind clears my mind.” As if on cue, the wind blew through, bringing with it the crisp, pure freshness that only night air could bring. I breathed deeply of it, filling my lungs with the untainted essence. It was refreshing, purifying the soul. “It helps me to relax.” “Your secret is safe with me,” he smiled, a flash of radiance upon his face. “Tell whoever you like. So long as they’re not here when I am. It’s not my place.” “No, you’re right.” He paused, sounding thoughtful. “It’s our place.” What exactly was this brat getting at? It was true that I had never thought to share this place with anyone - like I said, it wasn’t my place - and this was the first time I was sharing the experience. I came here alone, to be alone, even from myself. I left everything at the foot of the hill, in the car, shutting the door on all the shit I had a habit of carrying with me wherever I went. By the time I arrived here, I existed only in a sense of my original self. I could throw my worries and fears to the wind, and forget who I am for awhile. By bringing him with me, I carried half my troubles up here. Since I had already promised not to kill him, throwing him over the railing and leaving him at the mercy of the wind was ill advised. I wasn’t a promise breaker. “Thank you.” “For what?” “For letting me in.” He was standing close to me. I could feel his arm, innocently enough, press against mine as we looked out across the city together. He kept his focus steady, as I did mine. He said peculiar things, things I couldn’t fathom the meaning behind; I didn’t want to read into his folly. He was paid to speak in a certain manner, and I wasn’t going to let myself be pulled in by it, as I am certain many of his customers were. “You couldn’t sleep. When a baby won’t sleep, you take it out for a stroll.” I said plainly. “Did you… compare me to a baby?” He sounded offended. “That seems to be the case.” He sputtered. “I assure you I am most definitely an adult.” I cocked a brow, tilting my head towards him. He looked indignified, his bottom lip protruding in a pout, his brows pulled together, frowning. He looked like a child about to cry - anything but the adult he proclaimed to be. “That isn’t helping you. At all.” I expected him to stomp his foot and scurry back down the hill to the car, a wail of dismay tearing from his lips. He didn’t do any of that. He was facing me, using the full extent of his honestly ridiculous height to prove his point, his expression suddenly serious. Little did he know, I worked with Erwin. Tall men did not intimidate me. Not unless they had that look in their eyes. And this one did. How the fuck did he manage to go from boy to man in the blink of an eye? “What?” “How about now?” His voice was smooth, a million miles from the boyish cheek he normally used, and something inside me stirred. The part of me that I thought to be lost forever, if it had ever existed, stirred to the sound of his voice. I felt it deep inside, like a wyrm uncoiling itself after a millenia of slumber, it’s snake-like form slithering up into my chest and wrapping around my heart. For a second I could only stare at him, static in my mind and cotton wool in my mouth. “I think it’s time we went home.” I pushed off the railing. He caught my hand, stopping me from walking away. My body lurched, the fear paralyzing me as his naked fingers entwined around mine. They were cold to the touch, but undeniably soft. “What do you think you’re doing…?” “Just… stay a minute more.” He whispered, holding my hand fully, his frame inches from mine. I wanted to protest. The fear in me, it screamed so loudly I could hear nothing else above it. It drowned out my sense of reason almost entirely, though from what it sought to protect me from I was never fully aware. It forced the memories back, pushing them to the surface, as if I was standing there in the living room facing it for the first time. No. I wouldn’t let it win. I let my fingers collapse around his, and, closing my eyes, slowly leaned forward until the top of my head nestled against his chest. My strength left me, and I leaned into him, seeking out the warmth and support I knew I would find. Did he question my behavior? Did he even give me a second thought when he went home, after an evening of being with me? He told me the risks he took to come back. I knew them all too well myself; I had taken my own chances in letting him back, as well. I had my reasons. I needed this. I needed this for Erwin’s sake . It was difficult for me to focus on that when it wasn’t him stood with me, it wasn’t him holding my hand and he whose unsteady breathing I could feel on the crown of my head. It was this brat who held me as I felt myself slipping further - not Erwin. But I only had myself to blame for that. I wasn’t man enough to take his hand even if he offered it to me. I was being a coward, choosing some boy who could never feel for me, who could never develop a relationship with me, over the man who could give me everything. Wait for me a little longer . I’ll get there. “Hey, look. The sun is coming up!”
Lance Sterling is a man of action more than a man of over baked thoughts. He always found people who spent all their spare time trapped in their minds to be fussy, annoying, and, worst of all, boring. Perhaps he's never had much to muse about he thinks, but that line of thinking is quickly discarded. No, if anything, Lance Sterling figured out a long long time ago that thinking too much was like stirring up the bottom of a tide pool. Things that were clear and made sense suddenly became murky and confusing. The pieces settled peacefully on the bottom that had their proper place shifted and settled elsewhere after the chaos. He never wanted to know why the bad guys were bad or why the good guys were good. All that mattered was having clear objectives: who to punch and how hard. The spy groaned, scrubbing a hand roughly across his face. His fingers smell of the garlic he minced earlier so he regrets the gesture and moves over to the sink to try and wash off the lingering smell. "Trouble with garlic...cut it and it gets revenge by sticking to ya for hours," Sterling muses aloud while sudsing. He thinks about Walter. He meant to ask if the young man wanted revenge on his father. Didn't seem like he knew the old man was tied to the Agency he's been giving the runaround to. It's ironic to the extreme. He just wanted to feel safe. Everyone who was supposed to protect him failed. Sterling thinks bitterly. He turns off the tap and catches himself. Don't go there. Don't think. It's pointless. Lance Sterling is a man who expends his energy kinetically. He thinks when he has to problem solve. He doesn't dwell on the past. Dwelling on the past is for sad sacks who have nothing better to do than feel sorry for themselves. Unless they have to live with the pain every day because the trauma sealed into the mind won't let them forget what scarred them. His mind unhelpfully supplies a line from his mandatory classroom training. The part where they covered PTSD and other disorders that posed a very real threat for operatives in the field. Sterling has never used the counseling or therapy services provided by the agency. Talking about dead comrades won't bring them back. All the regret in the world won't avenge the innocent. It's stupid. He feels the tide pool stirring. This is the opposite of what he wants. He just wants to wait for rescue. He wants justice done. Walter will get the punishment he deserves for his crimes. Sterling will finally get the reward of sleeping in his own bed. He'll have real butter to spread on his toast in the morning instead of that millennial vegan garbage. Everything will be as it should be. He's not in the wrong. The agency can take it from here. What happens after is none of his business. Did the Agency know about George Beckett's sins against his own child? Lance feels his eyes screw shut, the muscles around his eyebrows and cheeks scrunching up the flesh uncomfortably. Of course they did. The United States government recruited former Nazi scientists to work on the space program in exchange for immunity. If you can't beat 'em, have them join. Good talent is in short supply. Sterling's fist slams into the marble counter top with enough force to rattle the clean dishes stacked beside him. The blow sends pain firing through the muscle and tendon. "Keep it together, Lance," he instructs himself coldly. "You're better than this." "People like you, agent Sterling, hate the less fortunate. You destroy indiscriminately in the name of justice." "Shut up, Walter." "Will you listen to my story, agent Sterling?" "I said shut up..." "Agent Sterling!" "Shut up!" Lance all but roars this as his head swivels to the right, eyes locking on the very real and frantic-eyed scientist at his elbow. Thin nervous fingers are pulling his arm desperately. "Agent Sterling, you gotta hide! He'll see you! He can't see you!" "What are you talking about? Who can't see me?" Above their heads the metallic whirring of a hatch announce the arrival of the unannounced visitor. Lance plants his feet while Walter keeps trying to pull him along. "Please, Agent Sterling. Hide behind the couch! He'll kill you." So it's not the cavalry. As a stealth craft that is not an Agency model begins lowering itself into the lair, Lance complies and ducks behind the white couch they were seated at only minutes before. He's hidden from sight just in time. From his hiding spot he hears the craft touch down and the slow deliberate steps on a man whose expensive shoes Lance can see from the gap between the furniture and floor. Walter's own worn converse shift nervously in front of him as he stands in front of the mystery man. "Killian! What a...surprise! How can I help you?" Walter asks, voice pitched higher from nervousness. "You called me, Beckett. I'm here for my robots." "Eh? I called you?" Lance would face palm if his own carelessness wouldn't give him away. "You did," the man replies resolutely. "Oh. Well. I, uh, made a mistake. Sorry. Um. And the robots. I've been meaning to tell you. I don't think I can finish them for you. Sorry." Killian is dead silent and Lance feels his jaw drop in mutual disbelief. When he does speak again, the man's voice is hard enough to cut diamond. "I'm not leaving without what I came for." Walter makes an annoying sound. A drawn out "Mmmmm" that Lance can practically see in his mind's eye as the ":/ " emoji. "You're kinda gonna have to. I mean, don't worry, I'll refund you in full, definitely. But, um, I'm retiring. I'm closing up shop. For good." Lance barely has enough time to register this new information when there's a crash as Walter's feet leave the ground and he slams against the opposite wall. Walter gasps and coughs. He scrambles to get up but Killian is on him like a viper. Lance hears a metal clicking as Walter's slight body is lifted off the floor and held against the wall. "I'm not in the mood for jokes, Beckett," the man growls murderously. "Finish the job." Walter's struggles but replies quietly and firmly. "No." "You brought this on yourself," Killian says in a voice that Lance knows from experience means that the situation is careening to critically dangerous territory. "Y'know, consent is important. In like, all circumstances. Didn't your mama ever tell you "no" means what it means?" Lance's voice is light and conversational as he smoothly rises from his hiding place with a smirk. His heart is thundering in his chest as two pairs of eyes, one horrified, and another shocked, latch onto him. "Sterling," The man spits venomously, releasing his metal claw hand and dropping Walter roughly to the floor. "I see my reputation precedes me," Sterling says with practiced diffidence, brushing at invisible dust on his blazer as if his opponent doesn't even warrant his full attention. His mind is scrambling to place the face but he's drawing a blank. Killian chuckles and it's a sharp sound like glass cracking. "Always armed with wit, eh, agent Sterling? Same as ever." Without warning, the man rushes forward with frightening speed and Lance has just enough time to duck and avoid having his handsome face ripped clean off. He manages to land a powerful kick on his opponent's stomach and send the man stumbling back several feet with a satisfying "umph!" sound and put some distance between them. "Woah, okay. Okay, I see how it is. My dude, you gotta ease into it. It's bad form to go right for the kill without warming up first. You'll pull a muscle." Killian glares at him and Lance assesses his options. Without weapons they include: Don't die and Stay alive. Fantastic. "Agent Sterling, duck!" Walter's frantic voice cuts through the noise and Sterling manages to dip down just in time to feel the killbot scissor past the top of his head. It blasts a laser at Killian who sideswipes the machine as it continues its assault. Killian disappears behind something for cover and Lance runs to the counter to secure the steak knife he's been eyeing. Three things happen in the next seven seconds: The killbot bursts into flames and slams into the ground. Lance's hand wraps around the handle of the knife. Killian's claw sinks right into his chest in a burst of searing hot pain. Lance feels the breath leave him in a startled gasp. His back slams into the floor. Killian is on him and bearing a crushing weight on the spy. Sterling's hands go instinctively to the metal that's digging deeper into his flesh. He can feel it. Tissue and sinews tearing as warm blood rushes to the surface. The claw sinks deeper into him and he can't even scream; only stare blankly at the triumphant blue eyes of his adversary jeering at him. "This is for Kyrgyzstan. For my men. For the day you took my life from me." He's bleeding out. He's going to die. Lance Sterling is going to die. "Any last words, Lance?" He sees a shock of brown curls behind Killian's shoulder. "Heh...that's my…line." "What?" Killian doesn't even have the chance to do anything before a small laser burns a hole through his throat and he falls forward, dead before he slumps over Lance, claw still embedded on the spot. "Agent Sterling! Are you okay? Are you…" Walter rolls Killian off of him him and Lance gasps. Walter leans worriedly over him and freezes, eyes blown wide in horror. "Lance...no, please, no Lance," Walter pleads desperately, sinking to his knees beside him and grasping at his own hair in distress. He's pale. Scared as he is, he looks even younger. Tears well in his eyes. Has anyone ever cried over him, before? Maybe it's a trick of the light, Sterling thinks. Everything is bleeding. His chest. The colors. The burning bright light. He's cold and tired. Maybe he should sleep. Get his strength back. Just a little rest... "No no no no no no, please, God, no. Lance, look at me. Hang on. Please. You're all I have left. Lance!" Everything goes dark. "Woah. Who's the stiff? Chief, area secure. No active explosives," Ears reports indifferently as Marcy and her agents pour into the last known location where they received a message from agent Lance Sterling. "No idea. Fan out and search," Marcy instructs, surveying the area. They're in a simply furnished kitchen and living area that would look like every other evil lair if it wasn't for the dead man in the center. The pool of blood acting as a carpet looks like it belongs to more than one person if the marks of a body being dragged away from the bloodbath are any indicator, Marcy thinks, disturbed. "Do you think this is Sterling's work," asks Eyes, moving closer like a lanky ibis. "It does seem that way but look," Marcy says, indicating to bloody footprints leading away from the crime scene. "Those shoes aren't Sterling's. At least one other person was here. Sterling didn't walk out of here on his own." "A friend?" Eyes asks, hopefully. "Let's hope so. Keep scanning. Sterling must have left a clue for us…" Lance Sterling wakes groggily to the gentle beeping of monitors the sound of his own labored breathing. It takes a few seconds for his mind to register that he’s in a hospital room and not dead. It’s a miracle, considering the buckets of blood he lost. Beside him something stirs. Eyes barely cracked open he’s just able to make out Walter’s silhouette in a chair beside him. He’s saying something and it takes more energy than Lance has to focus and understand. He does it anyway. “Before you showed up...I didn’t mind being lonely. You get used to it after a while. Then it sort of...becomes a part of you. You get used to anything with enough time,” Walter says, looking at his hands. “Then you appeared and...please don’t hate me but I was so pleased. No. I was happy. Excited, even. I had company for the first time since...since never,” Walter continues with a laugh. It’s short and sad. He clears his throat, looking at the muted tv in front of him. “I knew you were lying, Lance,” he says quietly. “I knew you were trying to lower my guard. That you had a plan. The world’s greatest spy...you had to be cooking something up. Only in your case it turned out to be literal and figurative. Who knew you were such a good cook. Last time I had a home cooked meal it was my mom’s. To tell you the truth it was hard not to cry during lunch. I didn’t want to weird you out anymore than I already had.” Walter dips his head forward. He brushes a hand across his face. His voice is wobbly and heavy with emotion but he says every word clearly. "I wanted to believe your lie so badly, Lance. So I did. It made me feel like...like I mattered to someone. Like I existed. Even though I knew it could never be true. Someone like you...would never think twice about..." Walter’s words break off into a choked sob. Lance can't respond. He’s still so tired and on Lord knows how many pain meds. "Please. Please be okay. I don’t wanna lose you too." Walter weeps quietly. Lance falls into blissful unconsciousness again. When he comes to a second time he is alone in the hospital room. Lance sits up as quickly as he can. It’s awkward with all the tubing going in and out of him. There’s even a catheter. Fan-flipping-tastic. Walter is nowhere in sight. Lance has to work quickly. He presses the button to call the nurse. He needs access to surveillance footage and times and dates. And a martini. He’s probably on way too many analgesics for that to be advisable but after the week he’s had he could care less. He’s on his fifth nurse call button press when Walter walks in with a steaming paper cup in his hands and the brown and white pigeon on his head. Lance feels his eyes widen and his brain mildly short circuits at the unexpected development. “Lance,” Walter whispers breathlessly before abandoning the cup and its contents on the floor. Within two morphine-induced blinks Walter is at his bedside, arms wrapped around his sore neck in a hug that hurts way too much but Sterling has too much manly pride to voice a complaint. Instead, he says, “Hey,” as casually as possible while knowing he’s hooked up to a catheter and probably looks and smells like death. This hug also goes on for way too long and, somehow, Lance doesn’t have it in him to say so this time, either. “You saved my life,” Walter says at length, finally pulling away. “Yeah well, you returned the favor right after so we’re good,” Lance answers frankly. They're silent for several heavy seconds. Walter's eyes feel expectant, as if he wants the spy to lead the conversation. Nothing's ever easy, Lance thinks, unsure of what he should say at this point. Then, “Look, Walter...did you mean what you said last night? Are you really quitting the super villain business?” Lance asks, giving the young man a searching look. Walter nods. Dark circles make his eyes look all the brighter. He looks like he hasn't slept since before the spy was claw-stabbed. “I am. Don’t think I have the personality for it, according to a reputable source.” Lance holds his gaze for a few seconds, feeling out the integrity of the words. He chuckles when he instinctively knows the words ring true and then remembers the previously gaping wound he’s recovering from and thinks better of it. “You're really something else. What made you change your mind?” Walter smiles warmly at him. “You did, Lance.” He says it so sincerely and without any reserve that Lance has to look away. He feels painfully embarrassed for no good reason and tries shaking it off with a cough. “Good. Yeah, that’s good. Great. Good stuff, Walter. You made the right choice.” “Are you...embarrassed, agent Sterling?” Walter asks, surprised. “I’m not. Shut up.” “You are,” Walter affirms in disbelief. “Oh, wow.” “Drop it, Walter. I-” “Agent Sterling.” Their heads swivel to the entrance to reveal Marcy Kappel standing in the open doorway with a nurse; her small team assembled behind her. Walter rises suddenly, eyes wide. The pigeon on his head coos as if asking a question. Lance immediately remembers requesting the agency track Walter's phone a small eternity ago. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Walter tense and begin to reach for something in his pocket. Marcy looks ready for anything. Lance needs to act fast. “Hey, Marcy. Nice of you to visit,” Lance acknowledges lightly, waving at her. He incorporates the Agency's "stand down" gesture into the wave and her shoulders relax fractionally. Marcy is well aware that he wouldn't be so cavalier if there was any immediate danger. She flashes him a brief, relieved smile before her eyes snap to Walter with full suspicion. Behind her, Eyes and Ears crane their necks for a better look. “Who’s this?” “My nephew. Walter.” Walter’s head snaps to him so rapidly Lance could kick him for making it painfully obvious this is the first time he’s heard they’re related by blood. “Your nephew.” “I know. The resemblance is uncanny,” Lance replies breezily. Nothing for it now. He’s gotta commit to the lie. “Eyes. Ears. Wait for me outside. Thank you for showing us his room, nurse.” The crowd disperses and Marcy closes the door behind her. She looks silently from Walter to Lance. She clearly doesn’t believe him but she’s going along with it before making a decision on how to respond. “We found a man dead from where you last contacted us. Know anything about that?” “Sure. He’s the one behind the MK-Assassin.” Marcy raises an eyebrow. “Really?” “Yep. The guy who commissioned it, anyway,” Lance replies honestly. “Uh-huh. What about the guy who designed it?” She asks with a pointed look at Walter’s direction. The spy gapes at her in mock surprise. “Marcy! I’m surprised at you. Doesn’t feel very progressive to assume the inventor was a dude.” “Given how 98% of the time it turns out that way I’d rather hedge my bets,” she answers with a smirk. Her eyes don’t leave Walter who shifts uncomfortably under her scrutiny. “You don’t have to worry about the inventor. I took care of him and the client. He’s not a threat. Not anymore.” Marcy opens her mouth to volley another question but Lance fields her off. “Really. Everything is under control. In fact, seeing as you’re here, Marcy, this is the perfect opportunity to tell you that my nephew here wants to join the gadgets department,” Sterling says conversationally as if talking about Walter choosing a major in college. He lays a hand on Walter’s shoulder to steady him and flashes Marcy his most charming, morphine-induced smile. “In fact, I was gonna recommend him to director Joye, personally. He specializes in non-lethal weapons. The agency could really use him. Make a fresh start and hone his talents. Ain’t that right, Walter?” Walter looks like he’s about to cry again and Sterling prays he doesn’t. He’s spared the waterworks and Walter answers brightly. “Yep! That’s right, Uncle Sterling.” Marcy stares at them for a long while before she sighs and shakes her head. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, Lance. But you better know what you’re doing.” “Relax, Marcy. I’m a professional.” “So am I, dummy," She teases, hands on her hips. She gives him a tight smile, eyes serious. "So. This situation is under control?” “It’s under control,” Lance reassures her, painfully raising a hand to pat Walter on the back like a deactivated bomb. He turns to look but Lance keeps his eyes on Marcy. Finally, she nods. “Alright. Make it work." He's grateful for her trust. "I will. Thanks, Marcy." She turns on her heel. "Be seeing you, Walter.” As she walks away Lance makes a mental note to get her an edible arrangement or something equally overpriced to thank her later. Once they can no longer hear her footsteps reverberating off the linoleum Walter turns to look at him again, eyes literal pools of glitter as he stares at Lance with incalculable awe. “Did you mean that, Lance? Am I...are you really recruiting me?” “Mm-hmm.” “Oh. Oh wow.” Walter’s joy hits a snag as his expression suddenly darkens. “But dad-” “Can’t hurt you. Not anymore. The agency said goodbye to him last month. Permanently.” Walter reaches for the back of his chair and sits down again, stunned. “...oh.” This is a whole other conversation and Lance Sterling has neither the energy nor the willpower to follow through so he does the next best thing and shifts the responsibility. “Yeah, we have counselors and therapists and all that at the agency. Might wanna book an appointment, So. You in?” Walter’s smile is so dazzling it could put the sun to shame. He lifts up half a fist bump “Team Weird?” Lance smiles and lifts up the other half. Of course Walter wold choose a name like that. “Team Weird.” END
Stiles groans as the carriage hits another bump. His ass is thoroughly sore, and not in the fun way, from this trip, but it’s his fault anyway - he had insisted on giving birth on what he still thinks of as Stilinski lands, and Derek had been just as insistent that he not even think about going near a horse in his condition, so they’d had to borrow Lady Talia’s carriage. Just when he’s unsure if he can stand another minute of the ride, his back positively aching, the carriage halts. He rushes for the carriage door, but Derek’s already there, holding out his arms to catch Stiles’ clumsy descent - some might call it a fall - out. Still, once Derek readjusts him and they’re standing in front of the keep, Stiles takes a deep, calming breath. Home. “Next time I’m pupped, I’m not leaving this place,” he says with a sigh of relief. Just as he’d hoped, Derek’s eyes go all dark and dreamy when he imagines the next time Stiles’ heat hits, the next time they can knot. They’ve had to get creative recently, what with Stiles’ massive belly making it difficult. Stiles presses a hand to the small of his back, relieving the constant pressure for just a moment before clapping his hands together. “There’s so much to do! Too much to do. I’m going to need everyone’s help.” “You’ll have it, and you won’t lift a finger, love.” Derek’s voice is stern, yet resigned, as if he already knows how Stiles is planning on violating the order. “Yes, Alpha,” Stiles replies, pulling away in order to start the nesting process, but Derek pulls him gently back and into a sweet, deep kiss that promises more later. Melissa bursts out of the keep, and then Derek is releasing him so that the midwife can show Stiles all she’s done in preparation already. They chatter excitedly as they head up the stairs, though Stiles has to take them slowly, as he hasn’t been able to keep up his running routine while pregnant. Stiles pushes into the Omega bedroom to find it utterly transformed into a nursery. The thrushes on the floor are fresh-smelling and sweet, the large bed has been traded out for a crib, and a rocking chair - one his mother had used, Stiles knows - sits in one corner. “Just as you asked in your letter. You don’t think you’ll miss having your own space?” Melissa asks as she draws Stiles further into the room. Stiles shakes his head. “I can’t imagine not living with Derek, and this way, we’ll be able to hear the pup easily, rather than the old nursery down the hall. This is gorgeous,” he murmurs as he runs his fingers over the artful-yet-solid wood of the crib. “Rufus was happy to make it once I gave your specifications. The quilt inside is a gift from his omega, Stephen, as well as some other clothes that Stephen swears by for feeding.” Stiles brings Stephen to mind, the small, shy omega that Rufus had met at a faire and brought home well after Stiles had been imprisoned. In a way, it’s nice because meeting Stephen had been meeting someone fresh. A new friend with no memory of the child Stiles had been. He has a talent for needlework, and Stiles runs his fingers over the fine stitches of the quilt, feeling the protective omega magic there. Stephen’s probably not aware that he even included it, but it’s there nonetheless, and Stiles’ heart warms. There’s another twinge in his back, and he presses against it. “Remind me never to go in a carriage again.” Melissa raises a skeptical brow, coming behind Stiles to feel the tension banding around Stiles’ middle, then hums. “That’s a contraction, milord.” “No, it’s not. I attended several birthings on the Hale estate because I was curious and because the midwife was nice enough to let me. Those omegas were all screaming in pain.” Melissa snorts and rolls her eyes. “And which of us is the midwife here, Stiles?” “But we’ve a few weeks yet,” Stiles argues back as panic starts to set in. “Pups come when they’re ready, and it feels like this one is, but it could be false. One moment.” Melissa goes to the hallway and flags down one of the betas guarding the second floor of the keep. “Please go fetch the Alpha Lord for me. He’s needed with his mate now.” “What- what do I do? How do I know if it’s time? This is not- I do not like surprises, Melissa.” Stiles knows it’s the panic speaking irrationally but he can’t stop it bubbling up inside him. “Remember when we talked about your water breaking? We wait for that, and until then, we stay calm. Here, sometimes walking helps.” Melissa draws Stiles against her body and walks him around the room. It’s only a few minutes before Derek rushes into the door, looking just as panicked as Stiles has been feeling. “What’s wrong?” he demands, Alpha authority bleeding into his voice. Strangely, it soothes Stiles, knowing his Alpha is here now. “Nothing, especially now that you’re here, Alpha Lord. Please, switch me spots?” Melissa smiles soothingly as Derek slips in, wrapping a steadying arm around Stiles’ back. “Stiles may be going into labor, and he may not be, but regardless, the best thing for him right now is to spend time with his mate. You two could walk, you could lay down and massage Stiles’ back, whatever feels most comfortable for Stiles.” Stiles takes a long breath in through his nose before blowing it out of his mouth, letting himself fully lean into Derek as they come to stand back by the crib. Derek’s arms feel warm around him. “I am here for whatever you need, Stiles,” Derek whispers, brushing his lips over Stiles’ hair. “Isn’t it-” his breath catches, because panic and hormones are making him weepy - “Isn’t it lovely?” he asks as he smooths his hand over the wooden rails of the crib. “It’s gorgeous. Made from oaks on our land, right? So the pup will always be kept safe by the keep.” The thought helps Stiles relax, his shoulders coming away from his ears. “There you go, Stiles. Just like that.” Melissa smiles. “If your water breaks, we’ll know what we need to do. For now, Alpha Lord, keep your omega calm and if the contractions stop, all the better. I’ll be just downstairs, helping Erica organize your homecoming, should you need me again.” With that, she sweeps out the door and closes it behind her. Another contraction squeezes across Stiles’ back and belly, and he hisses a breath in. Derek’s arms stay steady around him as he breathes out, trying to relax again. “What feels more comfortable, standing and walking or laying down, do you think?” “Laying down,” Stiles says on a breath out. “For now. I just want to be in your arms.” “Done, my mate.” Derek guides him through the connecting door to what was formerly the Alpha chambers, now their bed chambers. It’s been cleaned since they’ve been gone, of course, and smells a little stale despite the new thrushes here too, but more deeply than that it smells of them, the two of them combined, and it’s perfect. All Stiles wants to do is huddle among the blankets with Derek, except- “We need the new quilt, it needs both our scents, for the baby, Derek, you have to-” Derek presses a kiss to his forehead and quickly returns to the nursery for the quilt Omega Stephen had made them. “I love you,” Stiles whispers when Derek comes back with it and bustles them into the bed. “I really do.” Everything is changing, Stiles’ world shifting on its axis once again, and it’s hard to hold back his emotions, but as Derek lays with him, pulls him against his broad chest, Stiles knows he doesn’t have to hold back. There, among their blankets, the new quilt between them, he rubs his face against his alpha’s chest and lets himself be vulnerable. The contractions don’t ease, but don’t speed up either, and Derek’s hands are there to massage his back as they come. Eventually, Stiles’ lips find Derek’s, and they drift like that, together, for a long enough time that Stiles’ loses track of how many contractions he’s having. He does notice, though, during one of the contractions, when he feels wetness leaking into his tights. He’s pretty far from aroused, so panic shoots through him again. “I think- I think it’s time to call Melissa.” Everything after that passes in a blur that Melissa assures him is extremely normal. He remembers hours of contractions, pacing the bedroom, squeezing Derek’s hands, and finally settling between Derek’s legs to push. He knows there’s searing pain at one point, but forgetting it is apparently part of the magic of being an omega, because as soon as he hears the cries of their child, he sags in relief and elation against Derek’s body. At least, until the second set of contractions hit right as Melissa is handing the squalling Alpha girl over to him. Derek takes the child instead as he squeezes Derek’s knees and bears down again, and soon after her equally upset Omega sister is born. “Oh,” Stiles manages. “Der-” “You did amazingly, Stiles.” Derek presses a kiss to Stiles’ cheek, using his free hand to wipe Stiles’ sweaty bangs off of his forehead. Stiles can’t name what he’s feeling inside himself as he gazes down at the tiny omega child Melissa places in his arms. For the first time in recent history, he finds himself speechless, gently rubbing away a bit of blood from her forehead and shushing her until she soothes. And then Melissa’s there again, helping with the umbilical cords and afterbirth and wrapping the babies up to hand back to them, and Stiles finds that it was too many minutes to not have his girls wrapped in his arms but finally, finally he’s settled back against a giant pile of pillows, two swaddled babies held against him, Derek using a cool cloth to give him a bit of a sponge bath on his face and chest. He’ll want a bath later, probably, but for now, he’s content like this. “Are you okay back there, Kata?” Stiles asks as he reaches over to squeeze the 10-month-old’s stockinged foot. The Alpha is strapped to the back of her Alpha father, more adventurous at the moment than her sister Claudia who prefers to be cuddled against Stiles’ chest as they traipse through the woods to Lydia’s house. While Stiles comes and goes from the witch’s hut at his pleasure with Scott by his side, Derek refuses to be left behind when Stiles wants to take the girls, along with a small contingent of armed guards. Get kidnapped once, and your Alpha never lets you live it down, Stiles thinks with a smile as Kata kicks her foot at Stiles and giggles, showing off her new teeth. The twins are almost walking, too, and already Stiles looks forward to the day when they can all visit Lydia’s house without needing to strap the babies onto their bodies. His pre-heat means his muscles are sore, even though he’s been able to get back into his practice routine with Derek again in recent months. The pre-heat is why they’re here today, too. After some talking - and one too many days in a row of both Derek and Stiles being woken up for midnight feedings and everything else - they’ve decided, for the moment, to hold off on more pups. And Lydia has access to herbs that allow them to enjoy the heat without bearing fruit, as it were. Derek shares a secret smile with him as they let the crawling babies loose in the garden and greet Lydia. They’ve already made plans with Melissa and Erica on who will take care of the babies while Derek is taking care of Stiles, and Stiles is thoroughly looking forward to his second heat without all the drama of his first. Smiling back, Stiles reaches out his hand and slides his fingers through Derek’s as they converse with Lydia and watch the twins play in the sun.
“Fuck!” “No no no! You don’t get to say that.” Macaque started to panic, fearing he’d be blamed for this. Sitting around the table were three small children, in oversized clothes, that bore an uncomfortable resemblance to MK and his two friends. Mei, the little gremlin, was parroting back Macaque’s spur-of-the-moment words “ Yeah Fuck!” “No no. That’s a bad word!” “But you said it!” Red Son pointed to him with a pout. “Mother and Father say bad words are… umm… in-apro-pri-ate.” “Just what I need. What happened to you three?” He said running his hand over his face. Trying so hard not to give in to the temptation to scratch his face off. “We were eating dumplings! They’re gross.” “Well stop until we figure out what’s going on.” Macaque carefully removed the tray of dumplings from their reach. They looked pretty normal, but they smelled off. He grabbed a small bag and threw them in so no one would eat them by accident and cause another debacle. When he looked back they were already trying to leave. “Hey get back here!” … Xiu finished up with Wu Kong fairly quickly after that. Though he mostly wanted the distance from Macaque. It brought up old feelings he wasn’t sure how to deal with. He wasn’t ready to forgive him. He was surprised when Xiu said that an old friend wanted to see him, he was even more surprised when he saw who it was. Of all the people he didn’t expect Princess Iron Fan to walk through the doors. “Stay back.” “Relax Wu Kong I’m not here for anything malicious.” “You … you’re not?” Wu Kong needed a double-take. One of his enemies wasn’t trying to attack him when he was at his most vulnerable? “Don’t misunderstand, I am still very much pissed at you for sealing away my husband for 500 years among other things. But I’d never do anything to put a parent or parent to be in harm's way! You should know that better than anyone.” “That’s actually very sweet of you. And I’m sorry about that. I just felt he couldn’t be reasoned with at the time.” Princess Iron Fan sighed and sat on a nearby chair as well. “You’re probably right about that. He was always stubborn; he probably didn’t believe you’d go through with it.” “Som personal happened not long before that… I guess I wasn’t as merciful as I should’ve been.” “Our family is together now, ultimately that’s all I truly wanted. I’d be willing to forgive you if you can promise me and my husband one thing.” “Sure. Anything.” “You will keep an eye on our son, won’t you? I know he can be abrasive like his father, but truly deep down he’s a thoughtful emotional boy. He just feels he has to compensate for the time we’ve lost and prove himself.” Wu Kong thought hard before smiling and nodding. “Of course I will. He’s a good kid deep down. He helped rescue everyone when they all got brainwashed with spider queen’s venom so-” “When what happened?!” … Macaque was thankful that he figured out years ago to create fabrics from his illusions. As he was able to create some clothes for them when they shrank. Now that they were fully clothed they were driving crazy! He had to race in all different directions to keep them from doing stupid shit! Then Macaque made the mistake of taking them into the courtyard so they wouldn’t break anything. “No! Mei! Do not put that dirt in your mouth! Drop it.” Macaque said grabbing her hand before she shoved a handful of dirt in her face. “But I’m not allowed to get dirty at my house.” “Dirt can go on you but not in you. Okay ?!” “Okay!” “No, wait!” He couldn’t take back his words before Mei threw what she had grabbed into the air. Covering both of them. He was about to scold her a second time when Red Son lit a small fire. Forcing him to rush over there and put it out. “Hey! That’s my fire.” “You can’t just light fires!” “Yeah, I can, watch this!” He lit the whole ground on fire in a ring which transported him from there to the other side of the courtyard. This forced the shadow monkey to quickly put out the second fire and race over to where he was. Grabbing Mei along the way as she was throwing more dirt around. Macaque put out the newest fire and scooped him up too. Sitting them down in the center of the courtyard. “Just stay here! Okay. Now let’s see. One… two … three- wait where’s MK.” The two kids point above him and he looks to see MK clinging on an overhead tree branch. “What are you doing up there kid?!” “I dunno.” “How’d you get up there ?!” “I dunno.” “Can you get down ?” There was a long pause as MK looked at the branch and looked down. “Hmm… Uhh. No. I’m stuck.” Macaque groaned as he leaped up from the ground and plucked the kid off the tree like a ripe peach before making a smooth landing. Then the kid started crying. “Why are you crying?! I just saved you.” “I want my mom and dad!” “They’re gone remember?! You said they left you ages ago.” In his frustration, he didn’t realize he fucked up and told the kid his parents abandoned him. The kid started bawling harder giving him only a narrow window for a speedy recovery time. “What I mean is um … you have different parents now!” MK sniffed and wiped his nose with Macaque’s scarf. Much to his disgust. “Really?” “Uh Yeah.” “Are you my dad?” “If I say yes will you listen and stop crying?” MK piped down before he sat down in between Red Son and Mei. Still sniffling a little but he wasn’t crying anymore, so he was grateful for that. He needed to get out of here before they did that thing he hated about kids. How they always seemed to jab at your insecurities by asking you personal questions. He needed to tell the others before he was blamed for this mess. “Okay. MK you are going to wait here with your friends, while I go get your … other dad.” “I have two dads now?” He said before glancing side to side. “And two friends?” “More or less…” Macaque said shrinking back trying to avoid any questions. Slowly backing out of the courtyard. “Do not leave this spot okay?” The second they nodded in understanding he quickly ran out of the courtyard down one of the halls to find the others. Mei immediately got up and started charging towards the Koi Pond excitedly. Clearly planning on using the short window of opportunity to be as rough and tumble as she wanted. Her absence left young MK and Red Son together. At first, they looked at each other trying to remember where they had seen one another before. When that failed though MK got on his feet and offered to play with him. “Wanna play tag?” “What is a tag?” Red Son looked puzzled. “You chase each other around until you catch the other person. Then they’re it.” “That sounds stupid.” “Tag you’re it.” MK booped him on the nose before running. “I shall not be defeated!” Red Som decreed as he burst out in laughter chasing after MK. Little Mei watched on from the sidelines. Knee-deep in the mud with her phone out and recording. Teeny tiny Mei knew her way around blackmail. As the boys played the rest of the world seemed to melt away. … Macaque hoped those kids wouldn’t get into too much trouble while he was gone, but where in the world was Wu Kong?! Now that he wasn’t trying to escape he couldn’t find him. “Come on! Seriously?!” He cursed as he searched the halls. “The one time I need to be in five feet of him I can’t find him?! Seriously?” He continued to weave through the halls in a panic until he bumped into a large figure he hoped he’d never have to see again. “Heh… DBK. How nice to see you after all this time, gotta go-” “I heard about what happened with Sun Wu Kong.” “Ohhh, did you now.” “My wife and I have begun to … make amends. For the sake of both our children That doesn’t mean I’m willing to forgive you, however.” His eyes narrowed at the remembrance of their last encounter. “Seems to the general consensus, well don’t let me keep you.” Macaque was about to take his leave when flames flared in the demon bull’s eyes. His large fist surged forward, likely to strike him in the face for some invisible offense. The shadow monkey winced preparing for the blow. Instead of a punch to the face, the fist grabbed one of the accursed dumplings from his bag. The Demon Bull King’s nostrils flared as he took in the scent before he crushed it in his grip, causing a deep purple oil to dribble from his closed fist. He sneered and threw the crushed remnants to the floor. “I should have known.” “I didn’t do it!” “I know your simple simian. I am talking about that Vixen. Yù miàn gōngzhǔ. She’s back after all of these hundred years.” He said stalking off towards the courtyard. “Wait. You know who did this?” “All too well. I’ve encountered this spell before, it lasts until the following morning. She cast that spell as a warning. To let us know she’s back and wants revenge.” Before Macaque could clarify for what. They entered the courtyard to find the kids missing. A trail of muddy footprints led down a nearby corridor. … The kids had a lot of fun chasing each other around. Mei then got a little trigger happy with the mud and they all got quite dirty. So they did what any kid their age would do. Look for their moms to clean it up. “Fear not. Mother will know what to do about this.” Red Son dragged MK along by the sleeve. “But my dad said to stay there.” “Hush. We will be there shortly.” The kids overheard some adults talking in a nearby room. Red Son immediately recognized his mother’s voice and zoomed-in dragging along the other two. “Mother! My friends and I played tag.” Princess Iron Fan turned to see her son as a child once more. And two remarkably familiar-looking children behind him. She put her hands on her hips with a frown. “Okay. Someone better explained what happened in the next five minutes or we are going to be having some serious problems.” The Demon Bull King and Macaque stood outside the room looking in with a rather grave expression. The great demon gave a heavy sigh as he glanced to his wife, giving a silent nod to confirm any suspicion she had. “She’s back.”
“Hold on and — breathe,” Caleb commanded, as Essek tightened his grasp around his middle, clenched as his single functioning leg landed on the next ledge, and panted out. As habit, once Essek got comfortable, life upturned his habit. Walking these slopes was hard enough on two feet, and with one injured, he needed Caleb’s support to cover the ground he thought he knew. Caleb slid down to meet him below, took him under the shoulders, and they slowly kept hobbling on. Their cottage sat on the steppe, a second safe haven. Essek limped, iron grasp on Caleb and no visibility through the sweat and pain. It was dark, and then it was hard earth, and then it was soft straw. A pillow pushed itself under his cheek and he held onto it, despite the end of a feather poking into his nose — at least some distraction from the dull attention-ache of his leg. Those hands that held him through the hurt lay across his back again, so trustworthy that he felt he could, like a child, sleep again. In the quiet of their home, blocking out the tearing light and vulnerable rush of the outside world, he could hear Caleb shuffling around, his intentions punctuating the silence. A scrape there, ripping, water. He felt him come back near, wetly and painfully remove the poultice off his leg, blow, pour their little bit of whiskey over the wound. Essek knew objectively that’s what he did; the cutting pain returned, of something that should not be touched being out in the open. “Shhh, ch, shhhh….” Caleb kept stroking around the wound, one hand around his ankle, the other holding his knee and thigh, keeping them down, blowing on it, humming in between breaths. The gravity of him held Essek when the pain wanted to tear him apart. He never quite got used to it, not in Aeor, not after. And now, not a healing spell. Caleb’s humming continued, his slow petting, the way he sat at the edge of the straw bed and kept caring. Poultice on leg, slowing, singing. And repetition drove him to stupor, to meditation, to trance. In his detachment, he could still trace the healing energy of Caleb’s earth hands on him, and all the lines of potential that they could follow. He lost his focus following them. When he opened his eyes, he found Caleb dozing in a kneeling position on the side of the straw, one hand on Essek’s ankle, body slumped over, face turned away. It was dark, and he could still see the rabbit's foot, treated and ready to work its magic, in his other hand. He couldn’t stop looking at the rabbit’s foot, and how the edges of the wound felt more solid, less pulsing with his own insides than before. Like the spring earth before shoots burst forth. He stayed. After trances, he would leave Caleb’s warm and inviting side, honestly bored under the arms of another four hours. Not today. He rearranged himself around that body, and dove into his own breath, the delicious feeling of stretching lungs and focus beyond pain. He was powerless today. He still is, but he felt safe. As the blue of morning crept into the air, a crackle plunged straight into Essek’s magic-starved heart. The Shadowhand stood in the twilight of their home. Her boots crushed the rushes under them. She looked tired. Caleb jumped up from the straw bed, hand still grasping the rabbit’s foot like it would protect him from her. She looked around the room and then flourished a healing potion out of her wrist pocket. It landed right in front of Essek’s nose. His eyes focused at the sweet, sweet brewed magic in front of him, bubbling with extraordinary application. He wanted not to just use it, but to consume it, and for it to stay. “Drink. I would like to discuss something with you.” Caleb stood above in the shadows, barely breathing. He probably couldn’t even see her in the dark. The healing potion bubbled like champagne when he took it. He had no choice in pain he was in, or in pleasure of its erasure. And how? How did she know to come? Were they being watched? He drank it, and felt the magic work: stitch muscles together, pull his skin over the scab like a blanket, and lighten the realization of full ability returning to him. Fingers spread over, he realized the pain left with the cascade of nectar down his throat. The Shadowhand flatly said, “Let’s go.” And his home disappeared. The second shock of Gallimaufry district Rosohna shivered him less. It felt familiar. It felt dangerous. He knew its streets; however, to walk them? The Shadowhand cast a spell on him, and he was decent again. He saw his cuffs gone, a gleaming Dwendalian wedding band, an elegant silk teal robe. Like he was out for a stroll after tea. No mantle. And rightfully so. It suited her better. “Come, let’s walk.” He still couldn’t float. The cobblestones under his feet felt strangely regular after the wild earth, the constellations in the sky so out of place when he knew sunrise woke with him tonight. Rosohna kept alive, no matter time of day or night, no need for true lengthy, vulnerable sleep, and the Gallimaufry especially showed its need to live. Goblin chords burst from a tavern on one side, a group of happily stumbling carpenters wooping and yelling their congratulations at a bashful goblin in the center. They froze when they saw the current and former Shadowhands strutting. One flew into the traditional Aurora Watch salute, and Essek smirked at the impulse. Despite his newfound empathy for fear, Essek found he missed the power of intimidation. He knew it was not his presence that scared them. “So what have you discovered?” She gave no preamble or cordiality. “Pardon?” He did not appreciate the purposeful instability she placed him into. He was just shivering in a cave, barely able to walk. “About them, about their magic, about what they’re planning.” He had been worried about rocs and beans and laundry. It took a moment to return to this world of newfound relationships that were not his. “These… are your allies.” She rolled her eyes. “My dear departed Shadowhand, please. You’re the one with access to a vulnerable, former member of their elite.” Essek felt his hackles rise. “I was not under the impression that I was serving the nation actively punishing me.” She stopped at the fountain.“Do you really think you’re not? Do you think this will end this simply for you?” A band played at the fountain, drowning out her words in water and horns. Essek felt venom at the back of his tongue at how much they did not know. He had options, still, he chose to have the time to think them through. Water beckoning, he walked to the fountain. The power differential here demanded his subservience; to bow down before the request and acquiesce it would be the only proper course of action. Refusing would delight, absolutely, spit in the face that interrogated him between tight chains. The thing is — it could be worse. They could always make it worse. Humiliation was key. And the unfortunate truth is that he truly had nothing to say. “May we walk? I am considering the format of my words.” She spread her arms before her, and they continued through the ambling Gallimaufry and into the pristine Firmaments. Despite knowing that he looked the part, Essek knew he would be leaving dusty footprints on the travertine. The green lamps oozed sickliness compared to what he knew greenery could be. He had to give something “My experience with my compatriot prisoner has been focused primarily on foundational survival. We have not spoken at length about our relevant experiences, other than optimal water for potatoes.” Alert but unshaken, she continued her expectant silence, so he continued his impromptu report. “I knew, prior to this, of his former relationship to the Archmage of Civil Influence. He sounded unsurprised by her current actions. She requested some of his assistance with a spell, and he acquiesced. I presume this was the spell shown by her students at the academy showcase that we witnessed.” Once again, an expectant gaze. “Lastly, I can say that resolve is fractured. The fellow prisoner does not expect to leave his predicament.” Despite her blunt questions, her serene and intent face did not betray if any of this was new information. He hoped this soft lie of omission was enough. She did not need to know of their crumbs of hope: a rapier, a mysteriously appearing mote, the solder path leading somewhere. Yet — she appeared with a healing potion. Because she knew, and because she still needed him alive. Looking to the sky, she continued on her path. Not wanting to know what would happen if he faltered, Essek continued with her. He had not felt this stone underneath his feet in years. Always floating above, he forgot how loud footsteps sounded on them. Judging from looks outside, no one who saw him made the dissonant connection that he was telegraphing his presence in gravity like they were. The same stones, yet now he could feel them. Differently. No familiar faces passed them, betraying no surprise at seeing him in the city. Despite a closed door trial, he thought someone would still know, express alarm, show him that he is not a ghost, haunting what was formerly his. They passed a turn that he recognized too well. He could ignore the alley to his favorite tailor, the park in which Verin broke his leg, the towers of his former abode stripped of any arcane utility. But there was once a tree on top of that building. Now it stood shuttered, lights dissipated and fanciful artwork erased. Just another Thelyss asset, ready for use. Essek refused the gravitational pull of obedient safety next to the Shadowhand and walked to the Xhorhaus. The door that he leaned on in fear shone with a new coat of paint. The steppe wild flowers on the windowsill, gone. He expected the luscious light and shadow flitting in between the branches of the Wildmother-blessed tree, and found nothing but the perpetual sky open and watching above him. “No one’s been back in a year. Missives have received less than clear instruction on what to do with the property. The affiliation of the group appeared to veer away from the Dynasty’s Light, so Den Thelyss repossessed the property.” He remembered being a bit more subtle when he was Shadowhand. Nor could he judge her for it, since he was the one caught and in chains. Biting his tongue, he followed her to their next painful destination, but he found his boots unexpectedly crunching something on the ground. Seed pods, not yet blown away. The seeds inside them, immaculate, brown and small and round. He reached down to pocket them, saw the Shadowhand walking away, and threw them inside his shoe. After he caught up with her, she swung into an alley. “I expect more details in the following report.” The arrogance incensed him. “I have given all information I can and have nothing else to give. I do not expect further opportunities for gathering information — that was not expressly requested or the goals of which are understood.” Her cold, even gaze reminded him of the roc. Just as ready to devour. “Information will come to you if your knowledge of it will serve the Dynasty. Until your next use.” A squeezing of the organs, his breath gone, and his feet landed on the soft rushes of their hut’s floor. The air punched fresh and bright through the cracks of the door. Hilariously, she left the illusion on him, teal robes and imperial wedding band. “Caleb?” No answer. Not in the cellar, not in the storage, not in the bed. It was midday. Essek put on the hood and walked outside. The water buckets empty, weeds piled up near the turnips, and no other sign. Buckets here, so not the creek. Rapier in place, so not hunting. Baskets still unfinished. He could wait. Caleb could return. Bow on his back, he walked their perimeter. Dull green grasses softly surrendered underfoot as he combed the skyline, too bright against his eyes. The wide open sky still felt too dangerous — he felt predator’s eyes following him and could not look back for blindness. He wanted to see a form on the horizon, but could not bring his eyes up to truly read the details of the silhouette script on the parchment of the sky. Grass, and rock, and the gnarled stone of some horrible past event. Focused on his feet, the sheer cliff face drop in his periphery beckoned. Reflecting light on the valley creek teared his eyes. “Caleb?” Eyes squinted, raised his voice to fly across the plains, and hoped no one but his query heard. “Essek,” a voice croaked behind him. He turned to see Caleb sitting on the edge of the cliff, a glance out of his ground-focused sight. Essek stood over him, casting a shadow so he could actually see Caleb’s features. Watery eyes, red-rimmed. Stubble leaving for a beard. “I’m back.” Caleb looked at him, eyes phasing in and out, like he was trying to pin Essek’s silhouette to the sky. “You are.” A question grounded like someone trying to convince themselves. Essek sat next to him, thigh to thigh, ignoring the drop below their feet, and put a hand on Caleb’s hunched shoulder. He never successfully quieted an animal before, nevermind a person. “She asked me about the Empire. If I had found out anything useful. I had nothing to say, except for what she probably already knew.” Caleb looked back out across the jump, shuddered a breath, and hid his face in his hands. Essek felt his stomach drop, and then return with the venomous bubbling of anger. “I had nothing to say,” he reiterated, keeping the poison behind his teeth, not spraying on Caleb. “ I couldn’t give them any new information, whatever your secrets are, they are safe.” Caleb froze, and then looked back. “You think I was scared for… some amorphous information?” He searched Esesk’s face. “Everything despicable I’ve already told!” He hissed air between his teeth. Essek held onto his shoulder to moor his stormy emotions. Not anger, or shock, or incredulity, but some frustration that this isn’t how any of this was supposed to go, and the humiliation at floundering so much in the deliberate lack of preparation. “I thought I remembered what silence was.” Caleb shook his head. “It’s worse. It’s so much worse.” He sniffed, breathing through his grimaced mouth. “Not even a fake familiar.” He hunched over himself more thoroughly, hugging his long legs close. Like an abandoned child. Essek wrapped his arm around him, closer, pressing himself around this drying leaf of a man, and let the rage inside him burn with clear kindling. “You left first, but I knew why. Caduceus stayed behind. Jester and Fjord, and the…. Kingsley next. Veth, to her family. Beau and Yasha, before they found their, ah, lovely home. The tower was so quiet. The cats aren’t real. No one stayed.” An empty cottage, no fire, no warmth, and a bleak day ahead. Nothing but his own thoughts — again. Essek took his desperate grasping at control, his fury at the Shadowhand and her deliberate amputation of his status, his rage at how no one should have spoken to him like this, no one should have taken him away like this, no one should have left Caleb like this —- “I would’ve found my way back. Please know this. You may refuse me, but I will give you the option first. I will always return.” Blood drained, face fleshy with expenditure, Caleb leaned in, held one of Essek’s hands in his, and surrendered to his fear. A child, Essek thought, a child left alone with no home to return to. He squeezed a hug, warmth to warmth against the brisk wind. Two children who cannot return home. The humiliation of the evening bubbled in him, taking his breath, and he exhaled its fierce warmth onto both of them. “Let’s go home.” — They came home. It was empty, and now it had them. Essek needed to change it, somehow. Essek took up the rushes from the dirt floor, scraped them with their compost pitchfork, pitched them outside. From each corner, collecting ash from the burnt rushes, dust, and dirt, and grime, uncovering the simple packed earth below. He removed the ones fallen out of the bed — what bed, it was a sack of straw on the feral ground, who was he to pretend adaptation when this is not how any person should live — and spat it outside. He worked the corners, where the packed dirt fit into the gray and creaking wood. He roughed where the feathers and fat and blood dripped into their earth, hissing at the renewed rancid smell, eviscerating the ground to rid of the foul entrails. He raked, and shoved, and turned it inside out. Outside, the gnats that should not have been flitted around his eyes, the sun blinding where his pitchfork’s arc uncovered him to the open air. He stabbed the rush bundles, threw them to the pile, lifted the steaming mess, and dropped. Lift, and churn, and stab. Let the worms feast on this mulch. He did not need to see to tear it apart. Staggering, he returned to the door, resting his eyes in the darkness, breathing heavy like after fighting a manticore. He could feel the sweat under his hood falling between his shoulders, down his back, sullying the waistline of his pants. New rush covered the ground, fresh and crunching under Caleb’s feet. In the corner, his tall red head nearly hit the ceiling. He turned around. Caleb’s eyes strayed only to the pitchfork. “Is it not enough?” In his cardiac breathing, Essek did not know what to say. Eyes down, Caleb went to him and grasped the fork. He kept looking at his grasping hand. Essek let go, and kept breathing, staring at his shadow. The demure rasp of the voice behind him predated the larger shadow stretching taller, consuming his own. “If I may offer,” Caleb said and placed a rope into Essek’s burning hands. His face must have shown his confusion, because Caleb took a knot of the rope, and wrapped it around his wrist. Oh. He sent his breath to feed the shouldering heat in his stomach and tender it into the fire of rage. Palms burning, he took the rope. Once, over Caleb’s wrists. Twice, between them. Pulling for tight knots, the ones Caleb taught with his practical encyclopedia of knowledge. That they wouldn’t have had to use if they were not here. The Dynasty traditionally decapitated its traitors. The night sky cleared way for the sun, and the wretched accused watched the blade gleam in the holy light. In the cell, he felt the pulse behind his temples, the heaviness of his mind’s memory, how far his hands felt — thoughts, and actions, and shackles. The interrogators concluded their sessions with prayers of repentance, and hope, and open expectation that Essek refused to acquiesce. Their rhythms echoed between the walls of his skull, and he knew what words to give in between the lines, the call and response. Luxon, what Luxon. If there is a god, they would’ve said something by now. There are still more questions to ask, reverberating between cartilage and skin and bone. He wanted to live enough to find at least some of the answers. He needed time. He knew he had none left, yet he could not regret what he wanted to know. He hung heavy. In some way, he finally came to his preconceived conclusion. He was dead when he began. About time to make that happen. When the guards unbolted his shackles from the wall and drew his hands together in manacles, he whimpered. His feet barely held him, and he was dragged, but not to the light of the acid sun, but into a pearlescent drawing room. The guards dropped him on a pristine white couch. He was sure that his presence on it would leave a stain that wouldn’t easily vanish. The Umavi of Den Thelyss, the Dusk Captain, and the Shadowhand explained their agreement with the Imperials, about the Ashkeeper Peaks, about the delay in execution, about his supposed service. He realized that he must have listened to something, nevermind agreed. They were drinking tea and did not offer any. He wanted to drink. Sweat dripped down his cheek into the corners of his mouth, salt and little sustenance. The blade will always hang above his neck. He could at least squirm under it like a rat waiting for extermination. He gripped the intersection of the knots around the Caleb’s cuffs, and pressed his lips in pleasure that the junction of forearms followed him, fingers splayed helplessly. Caleb stared down. Essek grasped it tighter, suddenly pulling them into the side of his oblique. Caleb stumbled forward, and Essek let his fangs protrude from his sneer. It would have been easier to die, than to continue this farce of affection and lost opportunity. At one point it fluttered helpless and real, throbbing and distracting and undeniable. It probably still was, underneath this simmering resentment. If not for the opportunity of espionage, humiliation, and subjugation the Empire presented, he would be gleefully dead. If not for the Empire having the option, he would not have to deal with this continual wrestling between deeper truth and unfortunate necessity. If not for Caleb, he would never have even known that this other route, different from his culture’s as well as his own, could even exist. Through that fiery invitation, he tasted a warmth unlike the impersonal halls of calculations and diplomacy and dogma that he knew. He wanted to drown in it, but the warmth receded. He would not have felt this forsaken, if not for the man offering himself to him. Like claws, he sank his nails into the hairy flesh of those wrists, wrenched them down. A falling deck of cards, the spine folded and the head of his query bowed before him. With his other hand, he grasped the fallen chin, prickly even in his roughened hands, and stretched that neck to meet him eye to eye. Sun at his back, he held, and waited. Those cloudy eyes would not focus. He pushed him, shoulders back. Caleb’s whole stature wobbled like a reed waiting to be broken. Essek slammed the door shut and felt the action of his hand connect to the iron of his arm, up to the tense bundles of shoulder. His hands were here. He chose them. The barely standing body accepted the additional impact and fell into the sack of straw Essek refused to call a bed anymore. The arms raised, as if attempting to protect the core of the body; despite everything, there is still the most base self-protective instinct in an offering. “If it weren’t for you,” he heard his own growl, the breathy hiss that led his hands, one dragging over the scar ridges of his prey’s arms, the other drawing over the brow line and invading the tresses of hair, finger pads on scalp and the knuckles disappearing in red. There was a pillar of fire in him, drawing him up and up and over, climbing over and expanding to fill the whole room. He found the heavy mass of hair at the back of the skull and pulled, one hand pinning the head, the other the hands, and the whole vulnerable throat exposed with pulses and arteries and breath and a delicious whimper. He imagined how beautiful his dark hands would look on its stark paleness. The eyes closed in the full submission of rapture. The body under him lay as if the ribs blossomed open, the vertebrae exposed to the beaks of ravens, embracing full surrender. But they weren’t dead yet. A bright line of blood seeped from the ridge of the scar, where he gripped, nails and all, from those arms that held him as he lay in pain last night. This is too easy. He froze, and waited. In the breathing silence, those eyelashes fluttered. Clear blue hid behind the fog. The fire inside Essek blew out in their coolness. He let go of the hair. He feared the rage of his hands. Essek let his hands become something else — from constraint, to concern. He traced the cheekbone under him. “Look at me,” he whispered. Those eyelashes fluttered, eyebrows steepled. Those eyes looked at the ceiling, and the body froze. All ready openness closed like their door. “No, no, look at me,” he breathed as his thumb rubbed on that cheek. He let go of his other hand, claw releasing like a broken string. “I’m here, I’m here, and I don’t want to hurt you. I’m here, and you don’t see me,” he could barely wisp out, the truth razoing his insides as he let it go. He grasped those hands, ignoring the ropes holding the cuffs tight to each other. The hands were warm, and rough, and he wanted to hold them, tender, he wanted to feel them palm to palm. “Please, please, please,...” He slithered down that body, kissing down the pale column of the neck, through the rough fabric of his shirt, on those forearm scars he wished he could trace without shame. The fibers of the muscles coiled over the bone in rigid ropes, bracing for impact. The body clenched further, all openness twitching under Essek’s helplessly falling affection, fighting for control against the agonizing embrace of vulnerability. “Why is this so hard for you? I want to be angry at you, but I can’t! You wanted me to give you pain, but you can’t take this!” Essek pleaded. He fell off the straw sack between Caleb’s legs, knees splayed on the ground. The fingers of those beautiful hands froze in almost rigor mortis, and he held them, massaged them, he knew they could respond, in some other world. He graced a kiss to those knuckles, he didn’t know what else to say. He pulled them close, pressed his forehead to them, pulled them close, and did not expect the core of the body to raise up to him and sit in military expectation. Essek sat up. “Allow yourself this, please, like I did for you.” He took that cheek into his hand, he turned Caleb’s face to his, and above those moist eyelashes, he pressed a slow kiss to that forehead. Underneath, the waves of memory rolled. A shudder, deeper than the oceans, shook Caleb like a tsunami, and he slumped. Forehead to forehead, Essek couldn’t stop. “We’re here. I’m here. I don’t know where you are but I’m here. I want to help, but I need you to see that I’m here. What would it take for you to see me?” “Please untie me,” Caleb croaked. So he did. Kneeling before Caleb, he untied those ropes, and he held those limp hands, caressing those sweaty palms. “Please know, I’ll follow you anywhere. I’ll do anything, if you ask. You—- I can’t believe I’m, despite all this, I’m still here.” He cherished those hands, placing one more kiss at the junction of two thumbs. “Essek,” Caleb breathed, like feeling the name on his tongue for the first time. He looked at Essek, and Essek saw the shining blue sky. “How do you keep doing it. How do you keep coming back,” Caleb’s voice shook with inconsistent air and effort, release. “It’s the only future I want. It’s the only one I would like, and it’s the only one Ican do anything about. “Let’s trace the paths, like we’re back in your library, with the little cats. Let’s actually talk about this. It’s been too quiet for too long and I don’t know what else to do with myself. “There is one path where we keep doing this. We do not hear each other, we just occasionally intersect. We remain alive. We do not live. “One where we sell each other. What? Yes. Yes, that is what they wanted. Did you not know? “And one where we walk together.” The memory of their foray into Aeor returned unbidden, the shards of dismay burying in him deep, and he finally looked at them. “Perhaps we already shattered whatever we could do together, but it’s — I want to be the master of my fate, but our lines of potential keep intersecting.” Caleb motioned towards the ground. “We need more rushes to cover the floor.” Essek did not know on which path Caleb had chosen. He felt himself freeze and watch. He could feel the slow creak of inertia, not yet momentum, and no idea at the direction of this vector. “Yes,” he stated carefully. He shuffled to kneel on one knee, and saw it caked in dirt and straw. Essek sniffed. He couldn’t help it. “This is humiliating.” Caleb paused. “Yes. This is worse than many others. But we’re alive.” Essek looked at him and saw lucidity, and felt himself fall into the bliss of relief. “There is a roof over our heads. Simple resources with which to work. Could be worse,” those blue eyes simply stated, as fact, as the bases of a formula without relationships between the entities. He met Essek’s eyes. A line from Caleb to Essek and back. A thread of potential actualized and not ignored, strengthening with every decisive binding breath. “I lived on the run, uh, hunted, without anything, a thief and a beggar, mostly, for five years,” Caleb declared, once again simple, once again searching Essek like he searched back. “Did you not know?” “No. There is a lot I don’t know. What else do I not know?” Caleb swallowed. They looked at each other, just looked, just observed the other, the reflection of themselves in the glassy eyes, the expression, the stance, like mirror images leaving their two dimensional space and seeing the differences, yet leaning in, and gazing at the face now two times as close. Despite everything, they barely knew each other. “Where should I begin?” —— Under the endless night sky, Essek slipped from Caleb’s warm arms. He kissed his shoulder, put a blanket over him. He sat back against the door, watching the slow swirl of the cosmos. The threads of potentiality swung around him, and he chose to watch them appear and fade, fly away to the sky and caress his wrists where he held his bow and arrow. Morning came slowly, like a realization that you didn’t even know you had. The farthest sparks of potential faded first, adding a depth of options to the tapestry of potential that one honestly does not miss when they are gone. The soft blue of the incoming sunrise dissolved the next layer of potential, the lack now apparent in the soft glow. Green and light stole the brightest few left, the ones that you can hold onto just to say that there are even stars in the sky, even options for you to choose from. Pink and orange and yellow and —— bright. There is only one path left to walk, and here it is. The brush parted at the other edge of the garden. A stag musically stepped between their orderly rows, the birdsong lifting its head beyond the crown of the mountains. The sun’s red rays graced the tips of its giant rack of antlers, lighting the tops like candles. Silent and decisive, like every animal’s ironclad commitment to live, Essek raised his bow, slotted his arrow, and aimed at the heart. The candles of the deer wished and vanished. Essek’s flame burned like the sun.
It’s an ordinary night in April when Nicky wakes up out of a deep sleep, gripped by the sudden realization that when Joe had him over for dinner the previous November, it was a date. Joe—visiting his family in Amsterdam for the week—is mercifully not sleeping beside him to be woken by this realization, and Nicky swings his legs out of bed to sit on the edge of the mattress and think as hard as he’s ever thought in his life. A date. It was so clearly a date. Joe was wooing him and Nicky hadn’t a clue. Nicky falls back against the bed and claps a hand over his eyes, cursing softly. He struggles to reconcile the part of him that can’t believe he was so obtuse and the part of him that understands exactly why he would never have imagined Joe was interested. And as he pulls his hand away from his face, letting his arms drop back against the mattress, he’s struck by how much has changed in so few months. On this side of being loved by Joe he knows that there is so more meant for him than isolation and neglect. His heart hurts to think back to November, to all the dull pain he carried, and he shakes his head and thinks of Joe and Andy and Nile and the warmth they’ve spun around him every day. “Oh, Joe,” he says into the darkness, and resolves then and there that he will take Joe on a date, and it will be the best date, and that it will make up for the fact that he has never taken Joe on a formal date, and that he didn’t know Joe was trying to date him back when he was. Nicky glances at the clock on the bedside table – it’s 4.10am. “Tanto vale,” he tells himself, and peels himself off the bed to head to the bathroom and begin the day. * The doll’s house has three floors, including attic space, and a crooked chimney perched upon a wood-tiled roof. Nicky rounds his bench to look at it from all sides, noticing the window boxes and rotten sills, the stretch of broken eaves and the missing windows. “May I?” he asks the woman—Rebecca—to whom it belongs. “Please,” she says, gesturing toward it awkwardly before she clutches the strap of her handbag again. Gently, Nicky unlatches the hook-and-eye holding the front of the doll’s house closed, and helps the whole front wall swing open. One of the hinges is sticky with age, but he’s glad to note that the structure is mostly sound. He makes sure the wall is steady before he looks inside, and when he does, he sucks in a breath. It’s not an empty structure, but rather a house filled with rough-made furniture crafted by inexpert hands. There are beds and wardrobes in all the bedrooms, and tiny bedside tables, and upholstered chairs. There are pieces of art on the walls, and curtains at the windows, and small metal pots and pans cluttered in one corner of the kitchen counter. There are rugs in the dining room and living room, a fireplace, and tiny books on shelves. “This was made with love,” Nicky murmurs, and Rebecca shifts foot to foot beside him. “My granddad,” she says, and Nicky looks over at her with a smile. “For you?” he asks. She nods. “My sixth birthday.” Nicky shakes his head in admiration and looks back at the house, at the dust and the cobwebs clinging to the ceilings of the rooms. “This will take more than my skill alone,” he offers. “But between us, I think we can make this shine.” “Oh, thank you,” Rebecca says, and her voice is unsteady. “I just . . . if I can give it to my grand-daughter, she’d . . .” Nicky reaches for her without giving it a second thought, pulls her against his side in a one-armed hug. “She will be overjoyed,” he confirms with a nod of his head, and lets her go—he has learned that the British deal with affection best if it’s expressed in small doses—and pulls over a stool for her to sit on as he begins to work out the maths of a doll’s house restored. He’ll ask Joe to repair what art he can and paint new things for the walls, ask Nile to clean the vases, dishes, and plates, and make new what can’t be salvaged. Andy can make new pans, and rework the hook and eye and the railings by the garden path. He calculates time and materials and takes off a little for the chance to do something as a team, presents the estimate with a flourish and beams when Rebecca accepts. “It will take us a little time, but we will take excellent care of it,” he tells her. Rebecca nods. “I trust you,” she says, and that’s the best part of all. * On Sunday, Nicky heads to the outdoor market—a habit, he supposes, by now; something he does when Joe is away—and loses himself in the art and the hubbub and the second-hand wares. He always forgets to bring his knives to be sharpened, remembering when he sees the cutler at his wheel, but there are other compensations, like the kebab he buys from the food van and eats while it’s still too hot, cursing softly when he burns his tongue. There’s nothing in particular he wants or needs, save the opportunity to wander and browse the stands of books, and the morning eases by pleasantly amid the jostle of pushchairs and the conversations around him. Nicky doesn’t notice the name on the awning above the stand selling furniture, but can’t help but overhear the vendor telling a woman that the lap desk she’s carrying is too damaged to repair. Curious, Nicky wanders closer, and half looks at the tag on a rocking chair to disguise his real interest. He glances at the desk while the vendor’s distracted. “Oh no,” says the woman, clearly disappointed. “I had hoped . . . my friend said you’d helped her before.” The man lifts one shoulder in an apologetic hug. “The water damage is too deep,” he says, in accented English. French, Nicky thinks. “I cannot make it new again.” Nicky is taken aback by the lie. He can see that the veneer on the desk is stained and curling, but it’s nothing that couldn’t be replaced. “If you’re interested, I’d be happy to buy it for the wood,” the man offers. “Antique cherry is always hard to come by in my job.” Nicky’s heart kicks up a beat with indignation, and he straightens up, makes a motion to cut in. “I’ll be with you in a second,” says the man, fishing a business card out of his pocket and offering it to Nicky before he takes the lap desk in hand. Nicky looks at the card—Sebastien le Livre— and flips it over to find the business information for Merrick Antiques on the other side. Nicky knows his own faults. He holds grudges, and right now all the people who’ve come to the barn after being insulted or turned away by Merrick and his staff come vividly to mind. And now this—that someone from such a terrible excuse of a company is purposefully misleading people into giving up the things they love . . . Nicky bristles as Livre passes a handful of twenty-pound notes to the woman who owns the desk, and she signs a sales slip and walks away. “Can I help you?” Livre asks, stuffing the sales slip in his jacket pocket. Nicky clenches his jaw then deliberately releases it. “I . . .” He gestures to the chest-of-drawers in front of him. “This seems overpriced.” The man isn’t offended. He chuckles as he pats the item with one hand. “Let me guess, you’re a woodworker. A hobby, am I right?” Nicky arches an eyebrow but nods in response. “I try,” he manages. “The thing is,” Livre continues, “that restoration is much more complicated than people think.” “Ah,” Nicky offers. “I see.” “The time involved, the sourcing materials . . . the mark-up is significant.” “Hmmm.” Nicky eyes the price tag again. It’s easily 50% more than the chest-of-drawers is worth. “Was this very badly damaged when you found it?” Livre waggles a hand. “A little woodworm. A little rot.” He offers a half smile. “I bet you can’t find the repairs.” Nicky badly wants to scoff, but stops himself. “Not a bet I should take,” he says, offering his own cautious smile. “But I do have some items at home that might benefit from your attention. You’re here every week?” “First and third Sundays of the month,” Livre says. “Here—” He takes the card back from Nicky’s hand, scribbles something on the back and returns it. “If you want a house call, just ring me. Happy to oblige.” Nicky looks at the card, at the mobile number scrawled beneath Sebastien le Livre and the nickname below. “Booker?” he asks, feeling slightly stunned. “Everyone calls me that,” says Livre. “If you’ll excuse me . . .” and he wanders to the other side of the awning to talk to another potential customer, leaving Nicky blinking in his wake. * Joe’s flight lands at eight that evening, and Nicky drives his car out to the airport to pick him up. He spends the entire journey rehearsing how to tell Joe that he’s met Booker, and that Booker is involved in fraud, but while the story feels simple his speech quickly devolves into cursing. By the time he reaches short-term parking and texts Joe his location, he’s sweating a little and feels sure that his hair is standing on end. “Booker,” he grinds out to himself, caught between the discomfort of imagining telling Andy and a vague sense of guilt for having benefited so spectacularly from Booker’s betrayal. “Madre di dio,” he says to himself, fumbling with his phone, opening up the KLM flight app to check whether Joe’s on time. Someone tries the passenger door, yanking it with a vengeance, and Nicky yelps. Suddenly Joe’s peering through the window. “Open up!” he says with a grin, and Nicky hurriedly unlocks the doors, feeling breathless and nervous and one-hundred-percent off his game. Joe throws his suitcase onto the back seat, closes the door, and then he’s climbing into the front, and he smells so good. “You smell good,” says Nicky without thinking, and then he feels his face begin to burn, but Joe simply laughs and reaches to cup his jaw, says “Hello, I missed you,” and kisses him with a fervor that makes Nicky’s toes curl. Joe kisses him and kisses him and Nicky can’t breathe, and when Joe pulls back Nicky gasps and sucks in air, and then he’s chasing Joe’s mouth and kissing him again. He’s missed him—god he’s missed him—and to have him close and warm and laughing against his lips is almost more than he can fathom, so he kisses him again, and then his elbow strikes the horn and startles them apart, and Joe grins at him wickedly and says, “take me home.” Nicky swallows hard and says, “I think I’ve forgotten how to drive.” Joe’s smile is so dazzling that Nicky’s heart turns over in his chest. “Bed, or right here,” Joe says, and for the sake of public decency, Nicky turns the key in the ignition and hopes he can get them home alive. They make it unscathed, and Nicky balls his hands into fists as he follows Joe up the stairs to his flat, trying to make sure he doesn’t reach out and grab him, press him up against the wall and let some of his pent-up feelings escape. He follows Joe into the flat, hears Joe drop his keys on the kitchen counter, and then he’s shoved unceremoniously backwards, the door slamming closed behind him. “The things you do to me,” Joe mutters, grinning, his hands busy with Nicky’s belt and fly, and then he’s sliding to his knees and taking Nicky in his mouth, and Nicky lets his head fall back against the door, all his breath escaping at once. “Fuck,” he manages, one hand curling around Joe’s shoulder to steady himself. Joe is focused on speed, not finesse, working him over with his mouth and making pleased little noises that go right to Nicky’s dick. “Joe,” he manages, but he can’t say more, and he’s not even sure what words he’d use, or what he wants to say. He closes his eyes, gasping, desperately turned on and hurtling toward an orgasm that five minutes before he didn’t know was in his future. “Oh my god.” Joe pulls back and replaces his mouth with one hand, jerking Nicky efficiently. “There’s no privacy at home,” he says, panting. “A whole week and I haven’t . . . but I’ve thought about you and . . . fuck,” he finishes before taking Nicky back into his mouth and doing something around the head of Nicky’s dick with his tongue that makes Nicky curse and shudder head to toe. Shivering, he comes. Nicky doesn’t remember sliding to sit with his back to the door, but when he blinks and focuses that’s where he is. “Cazzo,” he manages, chest heaving, and reaches to grab Joe by the collar of his jacket to pull him into a kiss. Joe moans extravagantly into his mouth, and Nicky fumbles a hand to Joe’s crotch, barely pressing his hand to the outline of his erection before Joe shudders and comes. It’s the hottest thing Nicky has ever witnessed, and his own dick twitches feebly, as if there were some way he could possibly go again. Joe steadies himself with his hands wrapped around Nicky’s upper arms and after a beat grins with obvious delight. “That was great,” he says fervently, and Nicky snorts with laughter. “You cannot be comfortable,” he says, cupping Joe’s face in his hands and kissing him briefly. Joe hums as the kiss breaks. “No regrets,” he says happily, and Nicky laughs again. * When Nicky wakes up the next morning, it’s to find the familiar weight of Joe against his back, Joe’s arm thrown around him, hand tucked beneath his side. It’s intimate and comforting, and he lets himself drift for a while, idly cataloging the dozen little aches that testify to their fun the night before. He smiles a little to consider that despite the fact that they’d only spent seven days apart he’d missed this—missed the particular scent of Joe’s skin, the texture of these sheets, the steady press and give of Joe’s breathing. He lets out a long, contented sigh, and feels Joe stir gently. Joe grumbles. “Time is’t?” he asks, his voice rough. “I have no idea,” Nicky replies. “Mmmph.” Joe presses a kiss to Nicky’s bare shoulder, and then another. “Hi.” “Hi.” Nicky pulls Joe’s hand to his mouth, kisses his knuckles. “Why are you awake?” Joe yawns and stretches, rolls onto his back. “Time zones?” he offers as Nicky rolls over to look at him. He’s beautiful like this, sleep-soft and drowsy, his curls in disarray, and as Nicky watches he frowns a little, looking quizzical, and reaches to thumb the tip of Nicky’s nose. “What are you thinking?” “That you’re beautiful,” Nicky says honestly, and Joe smiles at him, beaming under the compliment. “Takes one to know one,” he offers, and Nicky laughs. “Such poetry.” “It’s early,” Joe says, tugging him closer. “It’s all prose before coffee.” They kiss softly, a gentle morning press of lips, and Nicky pulls back to look at Joe again, at the lines beside his eyes and the arch of his eyebrows. “What are you doing on Saturday evening?” he asks. Joe blinks and says nothing for a moment. “On Saturday?” he repeats. “Hmm.” “Spending it with you?” “Good.” Nicky leans in to brush their noses against one another. “I want to take you on a date.” Joe raises both eyebrows. “A date, huh?” “A real one.” “Because the others have been fake . . .” “Hush.” Nicky shakes his head. “I will pick you up at 6.30.” Joe meets Nicky’s gaze, then looks appreciatively down the length of his body and back up again. “I think you already picked me up.” “That was a terrible line,” Nicky says, straight faced. “Terrible.” Joe grins. “You love me.’ “I do, I do,” Nicky agrees, trying to sound put out about it and failing. They fall back into their morning rhythm easily, taking turns to shower and to dress, trading conversation in the hallway and then lapsing into companionable silence. Nicky has his own toothbrush in the bathroom, and clean shirts and a spare pair of jeans in a drawer that Joe cleared out for him. The scent of toasted bread and warm espresso pulls him to the kitchen, where Joe’s perched on the counter, nursing a tiny cup between both hands. The knowledge that he has to tell Joe about Booker sits heavily on Nicky, and he blows out a breath as he crosses the kitchen. No time like the present. “I have to tell you,” he says, reaching for the espresso pot and pouring his own coffee. “I met Booker yesterday.” Joe freezes, one eyebrow raised, with his cup half way to his mouth. “. . . you did what?” he asks, sounding strangled. “I met Booker,” Nicky says apologetically, and not knowing what else to do, sits on the counter beside Joe. Joe’s mouth works soundlessly as Nicky settles. “How?” he asks at last. “Merrick has a set of stalls at the Sunday market,” Nicky says. “Booker was . . . .well.” Joe lowers his cup. “What?” “He was defrauding people of their property,” Nicky says quickly. “Telling people their things were irreparable, and offering them too little money to give them up.” Joe sighs and stares into his cup. “I didn’t confront him,” Nicky says, and sips his espresso. Joe’s face does something complicated but he says nothing. Nicky watches him closely and reaches out to rest a hand on Joe’s knee. “I never asked before because it felt intrusive. But . . .” “You know all we know,” Joe says, shaking his head. “He left overnight. No explanation.” “And Copley didn’t find . . .” “Nothing. The books were clean.” Nicky feels his heart ache in empathy. “I’m sorry to have brought up bad memories.” Joe lifts one corner of his mouth. “Not your fault.” He sets his cup down on the counter. “It’s just that when I think about it . . .” Nicky lets silence spill out between them. “It still hurts,” Joe says, lifting a hand and letting it fall. “Like a fracture, and if I’m not careful every bit of anger I’ve ever felt will coming rushing out.” Nicky leans to press a kiss to Joe’s bare shoulder, lingers there for a second. “I can let this go.” “Can you?” Joe asks with an amused huff. “Yes,” Nicky answers. “If it will cause more hurt . . .” Joe turns his head to look at Nicky directly. “No.” He shakes his head. “It won’t. And you sh . . . we should intervene if we know that he’s . . .” He blows out a breath. “We should tell Andy.” “I know.” Joe nods. “Let me do it.” Nicky studies his face for a long moment. “Are you sure?” Joe offers a flicker of a smile. “For some value of sure,” he says, and his eyes flutter closed right before Nicky leans in and kisses his jaw. Their drive to the barn feels especially long that morning, the traffic particularly tiresome. Joe turns on the radio—by shared agreement, their means of asking for time to think—and Nicky doesn’t try to make conversation. The silence between them is warm, at least, and Nicky loves Joe desperately for it, loves that he needn’t fear that there are things going unsaid. There are too many shadowed places in his memory filled with frost and regret. It moves him, more than he knows what to do with, that Joe isn’t lashing out despite his obvious pain. Nile’s not yet at her workstation when they get to the barn, and Joe sets his bag down by his bench, says “I’m going to find her,” and leaves Nicky to his work. It’s quiet without anyone else in the space, and Nicky closes his eyes for a moment, listens to the silence of the spring morning, to the faint whinny of Andy’s horses, and the barest whisper of the wind in the trees. When he opens his eyes to the familiar interior of the barn, he feels overwhelmed by affection for the posts and beams, the skylights and slate, the sawdust that already clings to his boots. He isn’t sure how anyone could walk away from such a place. Rucksack stowed, Nicky rolls up his sleeves and eyes the doll’s house at his station. He’s already removed the roof, worked the stubborn hinges from the front panel, and cleared out the furniture from all the rooms. He crosses to the kitchen sink, fills one of Joe’s paint-splattered jars with water, and tears a corner from the sponge by the mugs. With care he wets the tattered wallpaper in the attic, and with a dull blade scrapes the walls until they’re clean. There’s paper to remove in the hallway, the bedrooms, and the parlor, and he loses himself in the repetitive work, barely looking up when Nile arrives, but relaxing all the same when she plugs in her headphones and he can hear the faintest whisper of music from across the room. Nicky looks up when Joe wanders back inside. “How did it go?” he asks. “Okay,” Joe says, nodding. “She’s making a battle axe.” Nicky nods. “Seems fair,” he says in reply. * Two days pass uneventfully before Nile calls an all-hands meeting, buzzing with an excitement she can barely contain. “We need an Instagram,” she tells them. “And a website. And . . .” “Why?” asks Andy, and gets a punch in the arm from Quynh for her question. “Join the twenty-first century, love,” Quynh says, grinning broadly, and Andy raises an eyebrow. “Are you in on this?” she asks. Quynh lifts a shoulder and tries to look as though she’s above the fray. She fails. “Maybe.” “She’s not ‘in’ on anything,” Nile says. “She’s the photographer.” “I know she’s a photographer,” Andy says. Quynh sighs. “The photographer. You’ll need new images for the website and material for the Instagram. I’ll shadow you all.” Nicky frowns and opens his mouth to ask a question, but Andy’s not done. “Shadow us,” she repeats, over-enunciating the words. She looks over at Nile. “I don’t even understand why we need . . .” “It’s marketing,” Nile says simply. “We’re doing great work, people should know about it.” “To bring in more jobs?” Joe asks. “Yeah. And to stop people heading to Merrick as a first port of call. We’ve all spent too much time cleaning up his mess.” Joe glances at Nicky, then away. “I hear he’s started hiring interns. Pays them a pittance, tells them they’re being compensated in experience.” Quynh snorts. “I hate that guy.” “We all hate that guy,” says Andy. She turns her mug around in her hands, looking grim. “How much will this cost?” Nile grins, and pulls a folded sheet of paper out of the back pocket of her jeans. “It’s all here.” “Can we go back to the part where Quynh will be taking our picture?” asks Nicky. “People are going to love you,” says Quynh, closing one eye and pretending to frame him in a shot. Nicky mutters a small prayer under his breath. * Nicky finds it’s tricky to make plans for a surprise date when you work with, and spend a considerable amount of time outside work with the person you’re taking on the date. He’s grateful that the restaurant he’s picked out has an online reservation system, and on Thursday afternoon he feigns a bad headache to go home early and take his suit to the cleaners. (It’s hard to break free of the habits of a lifetime, and so he spends most of the rest of the afternoon cleaning his flat and offering himself reassurance after reassurance that he is not a terrible person because of his small lie.) With the time he has left to himself, he makes a playlist of songs that make him happy, and songs that make Joe happy, and songs that remind him of Joe. Every song that makes it onto the list reminds him of some moment between them, the stories they’ve shared, a handful of apologies after a handful of fights, the memory of Joe singing in the shower. He feels shot through with affection as he selects song after song, and by the time Joe lets himself into the flat to check on him he’s flushed enough that Joe asks if he has a temperature. “I’m glad to see you,” Nicky says instead of answering the question. “Okay,” Joe says, smiling but bewildered, and Nicky has to kiss him to distraction for both their sakes. He spends most of Friday in the company of four tiny wardrobes from the dolls’ house. Each needs some kind of repair—a crack in too-dry wood; a splinter missing from a door—but as he works Nicky becomes convinced they need more. He doesn’t want to replace them entirely; the labor that went into them deserves deference. But they’re plain and solid where the house needs lightness and grace, Nicky thinks, and after studying them intently for more than half-an-hour, he roots out his tiniest tools and begins to shape the doors into elegant curves with tiny carvings along the base. “Shit,” says Nile at his elbow half way through the afternoon. Nicky blinks at her as he comes up for air, spots dancing before his eyes as he tries to focus on her face. “These are amazing,” she says, gesturing at the two wardrobes that are finished. “How’d you make the carvings so small.” Nicky pushes his glasses up onto his head. “The same way you’ve painted filigree on tiny plates,” he says with a smile. “Spite?” she asks. That startles a laugh from him. “Patience,” he says, and Nile makes an exaggerated face of agreement. “That too,” she says grinning. “Want some tea?” While Nile heads to the kitchen to put on the kettle, Nicky crosses to Joe’s bench and waits for him to notice he’s there. The oil painting Joe was working on that morning is leaning against the wall, reframed and beautiful, without a hint of the tear that an enthusiastic fencing foil had ripped. Now Joe’s painting long strips of paper with tiny roses and even smaller vines—wallpaper for the biggest bedroom in the doll’s house. There’s a beat before Joe looks up and squints at Nicky, then he puts down his paintbrush and rubs his eyes. “Hey.” “Hey,” says Nicky. “We’re having tea.” “And biscuits?” asks Joe hopefully, rinsing his paintbrush. “Of course,” Nicky replies. “But if there are too-few bourbons, it’s a fight to the death.” Joe blinks at him again, then lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Sounds reasonable,” he says, managing to keep a straight face for a second, then ruining it with a wide, infectious smile. Andy drifts in, summoned by a text from Nile, and there’s teasing, and a search for biscuits, and sugar stirred into tea. They settle one by one around the table, absorbed in amiable conversation, until Nile sits down, the last of them to do so. “So, what are we going to do about Booker?” Andy asks bluntly. There’s a long pause as Nicky exchanges glances with Joe and Nile. “Do we have to do anything?” Nile asks. Andy shakes her head slowly, staring into her tea. “No.” Nicky shifts awkwardly in his chair. “I feel . . .” Joe clears his throat and leans forward. “Responsible somehow.” “You’re not responsible for . . . we don’t even know why he . . .” Nile gestures as if that can do what her words can’t. “He’s in trouble,” Andy says. “How do you know?” Nicky asks. Andy hitches one shoulder in a tiny shrug. “I’ve known him for fifteen years. Something happened, something . . .” She pauses, chewing on her bottom lip. “He wouldn’t work for Merrick unless something was wrong.” “Nobody here did anything that means he had to go to Merrick,” says Nile. “Much less start screwing people over.” Andy nods and meets Nile’s gaze. “I know.” Nile sighs and says nothing for a long moment. “Has anyone heard anything from him? At all?” “I reached out,” Andy offers. “Left a message. The next time I called, the number wasn’t in service.” “I tried,” Joe says, and Nicky blinks in surprise. He’d had no idea. Joe looks over with an apologetic expression, but Nicky shakes his head. It’s okay. “It just feels wrong,” Andy says. “Something about it . . .” Nicky sets down his mug. “What is it that we want to do? If he is defrauding customers it’s probably with Merrick’s knowledge.” “I hate that guy,” says Nile. Andy gives a small smile. “What if I go talk to him?” asks Joe. “He’ll be there next weekend. He can’t make a scene on the street.” Andy scoffs softly. Joe tilts his head. “My odds are better there than anywhere else.” “He’s right,” Nile says. “Start small.” Andy looks at them in turn, then nods her head. “Okay. We start small. But if I need to go in with . . .” “No battle axe,” Nicky says firmly, and Andy laughs a little. “Won’t be finished for a while yet,” she says. “We have time.” Nicky nods, and catches sight of Joe’s hand extending toward the plate on which there is one bourbon biscuit left amid a sea of digestives and three custard creams. “Ah-ah!” says Nile immediately, just as Andy smacks the back of Joe’s hand. Joe pouts a little, but it’s for effect, and Nicky smiles into his tea and does not defend his boyfriend’s honor.
Fuck. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Dream rushed out of bed, tripping over himself and almost face-planting onto the hardwood floor after he spotted the time on the clock above his dresser. 8:49 AM. First semester of his Sophomore year and he was already going to be fucking late. All because he’d been too busy playing Minecraft at three in the morning and had snoozed not only his waking-up alarm at 8:10 AM but also his in-case-I-snooze-the-first-alarm alarm at 8:20 AM and then he’d still gone ahead and snoozed his I-know-I’ll-snooze-the-first-two-alarms alarm at 8:30 AM too. Struggling to put on his jeans as he jumped out of bed, he rushed to the closet. He grabbed the first shirt he saw sprawled on the floor, sniffed it to make sure it smelled decent enough and then pulled it on while simultaneously slipping on his sneakers. He grabbed his keycard ID, slid his phone in his pocket, swung his backpack over his shoulder, and hurried out of his suite. It was 8:53 AM and he was running across campus probably looking like a maniac considering he hadn’t even bothered to pat down his hair with his hands like he usually did every morning. And then he saw him—the brown-haired boy walking out of the student center building. He was deep in conversation with another guy, but the first thing Dream took notice of was the way his smile sparkled in the sunlight, illuminating his clear skin and blush-pink, plump lips. He wore an oversized red hoodie over a pair of simple dark blue jeans. He was nowhere near small. In fact, the guy beside him seemed even shorter, but at first glance, Dream could tell he was at least a good few inches shorter than him. He slammed into a pole after that. Beside him, two girls burst into laughter at his stunned expression, and feeling his face grow hot, he turned to see if the boy had seen him but he was already long gone—too busy talking to his friend to notice Dream making an absolute fool of himself. Dream couldn’t help the little spark of hope that sprouted in his chest, hoping he’d see him again, maybe even talk to him. Then he checked his clock, and finding it was 8:59 AM, he cursed aloud and resumed his running, trying to forget the image of the boy’s smile stuck in his head. Unfortunately, he droned out his professor and spent his whole History class thinking about it. The second time he saw him, he was making his way to his Literature class. He walked into the building and the first person his eyes caught sight of was him—the same cute brunette from earlier. He was busy staring at some flyers posted on one of the campus bulletin boards. Dream contemplated talking to him considering he was by himself, but glancing at the time on his phone, he sighed and decided he couldn’t afford to be late for the second time that day. Thus, he forced himself to walk past and forced himself to think about anything that wasn’t those pretty lips. It didn’t work, of course. Sapnap noticed him zone out five minutes into class. “Why are you so distracted? Saw a cute girl or something?” Sapnap laughed, but seeing as Dream turned ultra-red the following second, he stopped in his tracks and slammed his pencil on the table. Fortunately, the professor was too busy blabbering on and on about the Great Gatsby at the front of the class to notice them. “Wait, are you for real? Who was it? Did you talk to her?” “Him. And no, I didn’t.” Dream looked down at his paper and pursed his lips. “I saw him walking out of the student center with his friend… and then I slammed into a pole.” Sapnap burst into cackles, slapping his thigh and gaining a glare from the girl who was trying to take notes in front of them. Dream offered an embarrassed smile, but she only huffed and turned her attention back to the professor at the front. “He must’ve been a real piece of work.” “I was distracted and I was late, okay?” Dream rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. “Why didn’t you slam my door in the morning? You know if I’m not up by 8:30 it means I’m probably still dead asleep.” “Figured it might teach you a thing or two about time management.” Sapnap shrugged. “But that’s beside the point. Are you going to talk to him?” Blushing, Dream finally looked over at his friend. “I don’t even know if I’ll see him again.” “Dude. It’s the first day of the semester. Of course, you’ll see him again!” And he was right. The third time Dream saw him was during his Calculus II lab the day after. He had already spent a full day daydreaming about him, so figuring out they shared a class made him both swoon and dread all at the same time. He was sitting beside the same guy he’d been talking to the first day. Dream couldn’t help himself from wondering if they were a thing. However, as soon as the thought hit him, he shook it off. There was no point in drooling over a pretty boy who was most likely taken. Not to mention, he was also probably straight. Also, he was clearly out of his league. No question about it. Despite that, when he spotted the empty seat behind the duo, he also couldn’t help himself from taking it. He quietly unzipped his backpack, slipping out his notebook to take notes (though he was fooling himself if he thought he’d be able to take any understandable notes with the beauty sitting in front of him). “George!” the guy next to him exclaimed. “I’m telling you, she was staring at you! How did you not notice?” George. His name was George. Dream swallowed, unlocking his gaze from the back of his head and scribbling the date on his paper. George shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t notice.” His British accent nearly made him choke, and the girl beside him sent him a look of concern which he waved off with an embarrassed smile. Sadly, he only found himself falling deeper into the boy’s charm. He was lightly swaying on his chair in such a way that Dream could see his pretty side profile every time he swung his way. He was smiling as wide as the first time, though this time Dream was close enough to notice the crinkles at the sides of his mouth, the way his eyes squinted the harder he beamed, the way he raised both eyebrows goofily often every time his friend (his name was Quackity which was the weirdest nickname Dream had ever heard) made a dumb joke. It was there that Dream decided he’d gain the courage to talk to him… eventually. What was it everyone said? You miss a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take? Yeah, he reasoned to himself. He might as well try and talk to him. Sadly, it was easier said than done. The first week of class blinked by. And so did the second. And before he knew it, Dream’s confidence in engaging George in conversation slowly dwindled away from him the further into the semester they got. Despite that, he found out a lot from just sitting behind him during class. He found out George was a Computer Science major, and considering Dream himself was minoring in it which was the only reason why he was taking Calculus in the first place, it excited him. He found out George was crazy good at coding, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d be impressed with Dream seeing as he was also a pretty good programmer himself. He found out George was a transfer which is how he’d met Quackity and that they were just friends, a fact that made Dream blow out a sigh of relief. He found out his laugh was like music, and he found himself daydreaming about making him laugh as hard as Quackity did—about what’d it be like to hear his beautiful voice every day, every morning when they woke up next to each other. He found out they both played Minecraft which made him hitch his breath in excitement a little too hard the first time he heard them talk about it. They both glanced at him after that, and for the first time, Dream and George locked eyes. His brown eyes twinkled in the white ceiling light, and Dream’s heart skipped a beat. Then, George smiled at him before turning away and continuing his conversation with Quackity. Dream got no work done for the rest of the day in favor of reliving the moment over and over. “Dude. What the hell is going on with you? Are you still simping over your Gogy?” Sapnap asked one day when he saw Dream sprawled out on the couch of their dorm living space staring at the ceiling deep in thought. Dream groaned. “I can’t get him out of my head!” “Then just talk to him for God’s sake. If you don’t, I’ll have to march into your Calc class myself and force you two to talk.” Slapping his hands over his eyes, Dream grumbled, “Don’t even joke about it. I’ll talk to him… one day.” “Well that day better be fucking soon because I’m tired of you zoning out during Lit and not being able to help me with my essays every time I ask because you weren’t listening. How do you even manage to still get A’s on those?” “What can I say?” Dream flashed him a smile. “I’m a natural.” Sapnap scoffed, walking past him to head into his suite. “And yet you can’t even direct a single word to your crush.” One day, he was lying at the usual quiet corner on the balcony of the LGBTQ resource center where he enjoyed napping and working on his homework when he glanced over the glass railing ledge and saw him. He was sitting at the stone picnic table in the grass field beside the center typing away on his laptop. He had his lip between his teeth and his eyebrows were scrunched together in an adorable look of concentration that made Dream’s stomach flutter. How long had he been sitting there? Had he always hung out there and Dream had just never noticed? It couldn’t be. Dream always hung out in the afternoons there during his Tuesdays and Thursdays. Granted he didn’t look down often, but he surely would’ve noticed George sitting there. Dream soon found out it was George’s own quiet spot. Sadly, it also turned into Dream’s not-so-productive spot seeing as he now spent most of his time ogling at the brunette from above: watching him program, watching him zone out sometimes and stare off into the distance, watching people watch him as they passed, often girls who giggled and tried to flirt. George never paid them any attention, and Dream found himself further spiraling into an unreturnable pining for George. It became their routine. Well, at least Dream liked to think about it in that way. George had yet to notice Dream stare at him for hours on end. He had yet to even notice the way Dream tripped over himself every time he spotted him walking on campus. He had yet to realize he had Dream mercilessly wrapped around his finger. He’d acknowledged him sometimes, of course. During class, there’d been a handful of times when George had caught him staring, and every single time, Dream couldn’t help the warmth that overtook his face. George blushed too, sometimes, and Dream found it incredibly adorable, especially because he had been the one to cause it. He discovered he really wanted to see George blush more often, so sometimes, when George caught him staring, instead of turning away, his eyes remained fixated on him long enough to see the red start to rise up his neck. George never failed to smile at Dream every time he did catch him staring. One time, Dream swore he even caught him winking at him, but he dismissed it as a figment of his imagination or a dream he’d had while snoozing during class (except he didn’t quite remember waking up from it). A month after he met George, he arrived at his balcony spot and looked over the ledge only to notice George wasn’t there at all. Odd, he thought. George hadn’t missed a single day ever since Dream had noticed him. Though it was a bit disappointing, Dream figured it allowed him to concentrate on his Gatsby midterm essay for a few hours. Their professor was cruel in assigning them ten pages about a topic of the book. Unsurprisingly, Dream had chosen to write an analysis on how the green light functioned as a symbol of Gatsby’s unrequited love and pining for Daisy. Dream figured he’d be especially good at writing about that. An hour into working on his essay, his phone dinged with a notification and he took a quick break to look at it. cum eat with me at sc, read Sapnap’s text. Dream scoffed, knowing the innuendo had definitely not been a mistake from his autocorrect. Figuring he could use a break, he texted back: be there in a sex. He snorted to himself at the totally-an-autocorrect-spelling-mistake and then packed up his laptop before heading out of the balcony to the student center. He met up with Sapnap shortly after who greeted him with a much too cheerful smile and said, “Dream! Took you long enough!” “You literally texted me three minutes ago.” “Duh. And you’re supposed to run across campus to satisfy my every need.” Dream scoffed. Sapnap broke out into a grin and searched around the building like he was looking for something. Raising an eyebrow, he asked, “Looking for anything?” “Huh? Nah. Uh, why don’t we go get some pizza?” Dream shrugged and readjusted his backpack. “Eh. Not sure I’m feeling up to pizza.” “Nonsense, it’s always time for pizza!” Sapnap took his wrist and dragged him toward the Pizza Hut line a little too enthusiastically. “What the hell is wrong with you today? You got a fever or something?” Dream furrowed his eyebrows as he sent Sapnap an odd look. He was acting weirder than usual, and that way saying something seeing as Sapnap was already an odd one. “I’m just starving, okay?” “Quackity, why can’t we just go to Chik-Fil-A?” Dream felt his whole body tense at the sound of the familiar British voice behind them. “Haven’t you heard they’re homophobic, dude? You can’t betray your kind like that, man.” George scoffed. “We always go to Chik-Fil-A on Fridays.” “Oh, look who it is!” Quackity practically shouted in his ear, and Dream hesitantly looked over his shoulder, instantly meeting George’s gaze who was staring at him like a deer in the headlights. “It’s our buddy from Calc, what’s up, man?” Quackity patted Dream’s back like they had been old friends for life. Despite not having spoken to each other save for that one time Quackity turned around in the beginning of class with a comically huge grin and asked for a pencil because George had lost his. Dream had scrambled to get one out of his backpack after that, and he remembered George’s tomato-red face and embarrassed thanks had been etched into his memory for nights after that. “What a surprise!” Sapnap said, his tone bland and rehearsed. Dream sent him a suspicious glance. Sapnap looked toward George, breaking out into a grin. Dream’s blood ran cold. “You must be George!” “Uh, yeah, I am…” George furrowed his eyebrows. “Do we know each other?” “No,” Sapnap replied with a wicked smile and raised his eyebrows as he looked in between Dream and George. If they hadn’t been in the middle of a crowded building, Dream swore he would’ve strangled him right then and there. “Actually, George, I think I am feeling up for some Chik-Fil-A after all,” Quackity said. “You know what? That sounds like a wonderful idea!” Sapnap added. “Why don’t I go with you?” “That sounds like an amazing idea, guy I don’t even know!” Quackity walked over to stand by Sapnap and patted his back, grinning maniacally and looking in between them. “Why don’t we go over there, and you guys go get your pizza.” “But-” George frowned and made a step to move out of the line, but Quackity pushed him back and right into Dream’s arms. Dream’s face was practically boiling at this point and from the view of George’s reddened ears, he could tell he felt the same. “You guys have fun!” Sapnap hooked his arm with Quackity’s, and they walked off like they’d been best friends for life. Dream decided he was going to kill Sapnap after this. Dream and George stood in the same spot frozen until the person behind them cleared their throat and told them to move up the line. “What just happened?” George asked in shock. “I have no fucking clue.” Dream offered an awkward laugh. George did too. They stood in silence staring at the front of the line for a moment before Dream finally said, “I’m Dream,” and offered George a handshake that he took. “I know...” George smiled. “Huh?” “You sit behind me during Calc lab. You don’t think I’ve heard the TA call your name?” “Oh.” Dream pursed his lips, embarrassment flushing over his cheeks. George giggled, and Dream swore his heart crawled up his chest at the sound of it. “So I’m guessing your friend over there is a weirdo too…” George signaled toward the Chik-Fil-A across the mess hall. “Who?” Dream turned over to see Sapnap and Quackity in line staring at them intently with wide eyes and maniacal grins. It was certainly a terrifying sight. “Oh.” Dream chuckled. “Yeah, Sapnap is one-of-a-kind.” “That special, huh?” Dream’s eyebrows scrunched together and he looked back at George, only to understand what he was insinuating. “Oh god no no no. Sapnap and I are just friends,” he hurriedly clarified. “I, uh, I’m single.” George offered an awkward smile and looked away from Dream. His red cheeks were an adorable sight to uphold. “Nice to know.” Dream suddenly felt a burst of confidence overcome him. He grinned and raised both eyebrows as he sent George a playful look. “Nice to know, huh? What? You interested?” George seemingly choked on his saliva and he looked up at Dream with wide eyes. “What? I don’t- I didn’t say that!” he stammered. Dream broke out into wheezes, slapping his thigh and continuing further in the line. George moved along with him, and he stared away in embarrassment. When he finally recovered from his fit of laughter, he noticed George was staring at him with a tiny smile. “You laugh like a tea-kettle.” “So? British people like tea, don’t they? Does that mean you like me?” “Oh my God.” George rolled his eyes. “You’re so annoying.” Dream buried his hands into his pockets and regarded George with a bright beam and a tilted head. “Oh come on. You’re smiling! You totally like me.” “I do not,” George muttered, crossing his arms. “You’re the one who’s always staring at me during Calc.” It was Dream’s turn to choke. “You noticed that?” “You realize there’s such a thing called peripheral vision?” “No, I had no idea.” George scoffed. When they reached the front of the line, they went through the pizza buffet to grab their servings and made their way to pay. “You want to sit together?” Dream offered with a shy smile after they did. “Uh, yeah, I guess.” George shrugged. They took a booth toward the quieter side of the student center building and sat in front of each other. They made sure it was out of their friends’ sight too, which had been a silent and mutual agreement between them. “You’re a transfer, right?” “What? Now you’re a nosy middle-aged woman too?” Dream rolled his eyes. “You’re such an idiot.” “You say that like it’s a compliment.” “Maybe it is.” They smiled at each other and began to dig into their pizza. Dream found himself feeling surprisingly comfortable. When he thought about the way he’d approach George, he’d imagined all the absolute worst case scenarios—talking to him after class and George thinking he was a creep, running into him in one of their shared classroom buildings and making an absolute fool of himself. Being set up to have a conversation by his best friend was certainly not the way he had envisioned it going, but he certainly owed Sapnap big time for it, even though he’d been ready to murder him just a few minutes prior. “Where are you from?” “London. You?” “Florida.” George raised an eyebrow. “Really? What are you doing going to school in Texas then?” “I should be asking you the same. Can’t say I believe this place is an international student’s first choice,” Dream pointed out, inclining his arms on the table and leaning slightly forward. George’s smile grew a little wider, and he inclined forward in a similar manner. “How about you tell me your reason and I’ll tell you mine?” Dream raised both eyebrows and smiled like he was accepting a challenge. “Wanted to go to school with my best friend and I heard this school had a great English program.” George shrugged and pulled back. “I heard Texas was an interesting place.” “Really? That’s it?” “Not everyone needs a meaningful and deep reason, Dream, ” he pronounced his name in a teasing manner and then took a bite of his pizza. “Fair enough.” Dream leaned back on the booth and ruffled his hair nervously, cracking a crooked smile. “You know I’m not very good at Calc.” George arched an eyebrow. “And..?” “You seem like you know what you’re doing in class.” “Maybe if you didn’t spend the whole time staring at me, you’d actually understand something.” Dream’s smile widened. “But then I’d miss out on admiring how pretty you look.” George’s face turned a bright shade of red, and Dream suddenly realized how much he actually enjoyed making him blush. “That’s so stupid.” Dream shook his head and stared at George with a spark in his eyes, like he was staring into the sun itself. “Well since you’re clearly at fault for me not paying attention during class-” “How does that even-” “- why don’t you give me your number so you can help me out with the homework?” It was bold. Dream knew he was taking his shot, but seeing as he’d had a sudden spark of confidence through the duration of their conversation, he figured it didn’t hurt to try. There was certainly something blossoming in between them. He wasn’t quite sure what, but it was both thrilling and anxiety-inducing all at the same time. George’s eyebrows rose high and he watched Dream for a moment before his smile grew a little. He opened his palm and signaled toward his phone. Dream instantly unlocked and handed it to him. After a few seconds, George handed it back and Dream saw the shiny new phone contact labeled George on his contacts list. It made his heart almost pop out of his chest. “I have to head to class soon, so…” George stood up after he took one last bite of his pizza. He threw his backpack over his shoulder and then ran a hand through his hair, messing with it in such a way that made Dream breathing a little faster. “Text me later?” He sent him a last smile and then walked off, leaving Dream staring at him with his mouth half-open. They spent a week texting—day and night. About everything. Class. Minecraft. Home life. Future plans. Stupid things like when Dream accidentally admitted to wetting the bed a few years back and George started calling him piss baby. Or that George had apparently given his cat the very-creative name Cat which Dream had nearly died at how stupid it was. Even Sapnap grew annoyed at how often he found Dream sprawled on the couch smiling wide and typing on his phone at the late hours of the night. “Are you texting George again ?” “Oh shut up!” “Man, when Quackity and I set you up, I didn’t realize what we were getting into. Guy’s practically stolen my best friend in less than a week.” Dream rolled his eyes and launched a pillow at him which he easily dodged. Sapnap faked a tear down his cheek with his finger. “Love’s changed you, dude.” He scoffed. “Have you asked him out yet?” Dream didn’t answer. Instead, he sat up and looked up at Sapnap, feeling his cheeks grow a little warm. Sapnap’s eyes grew wide. “Dude!” He jumped onto the couch next to him. “Seriously? You guys are like practically meant for each other, why haven’t you asked him out yet!?” Dream shrugged. “I don’t wanna mess things up.” “Oh please! Don’t give me that bullshit excuse.” Sapnap shook his head and crossed his arms, giving Dream his I’m-done-with-you look. “Do I really have to do everything for you?” “Fine. Look, I’ll ask him out next time I see him, okay?” “You better. If not, I’ll make sure Quackity hears about this and kicks his ass and yours.” “Oh shut up.” The next time they saw each other, Dream was at his usual spot in the balcony. For once, he was focused on his essay and hadn’t even noticed if George had arrived at his spot below him as usual. He hadn’t told him he hung out there yet, especially considering he’d spent most of his time watching George. He was going to, eventually. He just wasn’t sure how to bring up the topic. Oh, by the way, George, I sit on the balcony above the place you hang out at and admire you almost every day from afar? In the middle of his essay, his phone vibrated inside his pocket and he pulled it out to glance at it. It was a message from George. too busy to watch me today? Dream felt his cheeks suddenly boiling in the light of the sun and he glimpsed down to find George staring up at him with a wicked smile. He opened his mouth, but he wasn’t even sure what to say. George cracked up and shook his head, looking down at his phone and typing. just come down here already you idiot After he struggled to close his laptop and shove it into his backpack, he stumbled down the stairs and almost tripped twice. George stared at him as he approached. Stopping beside him, Dream nervously laughed and shuffled his hair, still unsure of what exactly to say. He settled for asking, “You knew this whole time?” “You literally couldn’t be more obvious.” Dream’s face grew even hotter with that, and George giggled. He patted the spot on the stone bench beside him and Dream plopped down, their arms brushing and causing sparks of electricity to travel up his skin. “Why didn’t you say anything?” Dream asked, biting his lip. George kept his amused gaze locked onto him, his smile only growing in an annoying cocky manner—like he knew how fast he made Dream’s heart beat. Or the way Dream got distracted during his classes thinking about how fluffy his hair would be and how nice it’d feel in between his fingers. Or how he always noticed how George’s bottom lip turned pinker every time he bit it while he was deep in thought solving a problem or trying to understand what the TA was writing on the board. How Dream thought about how much brighter it might look if it was him biting it instead. George gave him an innocent shrug and continued to stare. Realizing it was now or never, Dream took a deep breath and then leaned his elbows on the table in front of him, turning his body so that he was facing him and that there was only a few inches in between their faces. He could feel George’s distant breath tickling his face. “I’ve been meaning to ask…” he started, nervously toying with the string of his hoodie. “Mhm?” George raised an intrigued eyebrow. Dream’s smile widened and he chuckled under his breath. “You’re such an idiot.” “What?” George laughed out, tilting his head and playing dumb. “You know what I want to ask.” George rested his elbow on the table and got even closer, fluttering his long lashes in such a way that made Dream’s heart want to burst out of his chest. If he wasn’t so in love with George, he would’ve probably considered slapping him right about now. “Do I?” “Stop playing dumb,” Dream mumbled, now realizing he had fallen for an absolute idiot. “You’re literally such a tease.” “I’m a tease, huh?” George looked like he was having the time of his life embarrassing him. “Yeah.” Dream looked away for a second, still building up his courage. Then he locked eyes with George again, and his smirk grew. “Do you want to go out with me tonight?” George chuckled. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Katsuki Bakugou was one of the most sought after boy’s in the whole of UA’s high school. His quirk would surely make him a pro one day, if Katsuki’s brilliance and determination didn’t. He always scored exceptionally high on tests, his eyes were strikingly handsome, and he was built like a particularly murderous dream. But no one was brave enough to confess to him. Every confession ended with cold rejection. The bad news was always delivered with a cruel snarl. Enough crying girls had renounced him for the entire school to retreat and stare longingly at his biceps. Only a fool would confess to Katsuki Bakugo. Izuku Midoriya, by popular belief, was the biggest fool around. If one looked past Izuku's quirkless status, they’d find a particularly stubborn dumbass. Now, maybe Izuku was a top notch student in UA’s support course. But he’d been in love with an explosive asshole for as long as he could remember. Even when said asshole burned his awesome notebooks and yanked his hair, Izuku still got all gooey when he smirked. To be fair, Katsuki also scared off anyone who messed with Izuku. Also, he periodically dropped off bento boxes in Izuku's locker. This was usually when his internal screaming wormed its way into his appearance. The bento boxes were genuinely delicious. So the night before they're anniversary, Izuku added some finishing touches to an incredibly sappy love letter. It was March 16th. That was the first day Izuku met Katsuki at the Bakugou residency. Despite being decidedly hopeless, Izuku didn’t want to be rejected. At the very least, he didn’t want to be rejected face to face. The obvious solution was a love note. On green paper (Katsuki’s favorite color) Izuku wrote a proclamation of love. It was littered with detailed compliments. He poured a good chunk of repressed longing and dumb love into every word. With a giddy smile, Izuku drew the last hearts and put the letter into its envelope. Lastly, he added an explosion sticker. If he was going to get his heart broken, there had to be a silver lining. And a funny little explosion sticker would be perfect. Izuku arrived extra early to slip his confession into Katsuki’s locker. He went to the store after. That way Katsuki wouldn’t catch him at school early. That did not stop Izuku from hiding behind a locker and watching Katsuki open and read it. No one could blame him for the nervous flutter he felt when he saw Katsuki’s reaction. Katsuki’s ears burned red. His eyes were laser focused on the letter. It was with great care that he folded it back up and placed it in his back pocket. Then he turned and looked Izuku straight in the eye. Izuku froze. Katsuki’s eyes burned hotly into him. They were completely and captivatingly focused. Dangerously calm, Katsuki walked through the hallway and grabbed Izuku by the hair. Izuku was promptly shoved into a supply closet two hallways down. Katsuki shoved Izuku against the wall. His back hit with a thud. “A love letter, really? I would say you’re better than that- but you’re still a useless little Deku, huh!” Izuku systematically regretted every decision he’d ever made. A hand slammed next to his face. Izuku’s eyes shot up to meet Katsuki’s. “Look me in the eyes”, Katsuki snarled. “You think you can write all that sappy shit and then look away?” Katsuki grabbed his chin, his fingers hot. Izuku squeaked. A slow dirty grin crossed Katsuki’s face. “Stop shaking, baby. I’m not done with you yet.” At the pet name, Izuku grabbed at Katsuki's arms in a way he hadn’t been careless enough to do in years. Katsuki barked out a laugh while he ripped his arm away. Izuku stumbled forward, landing on Katsuki’s chest. They hadn’t even been that far apart to begin with. Katsuki slipped a hand around his neck, possessive and unyielding. Izuku tried to back away but Katsuki just tightened his grip and pulled him closer. “You couldn’t have just told me?” Katsuki’s voice came out soft. “I’ll have to make you read it out to me, y'know. Again, and again, and again.” Izuku tilted his head up, face tucked into Katsuki’s neck. Katsuki shivered when his lips moved. “You- you accept my confession?” Katsuki growled. ”You call that a confession? Bullshit. That was cowardly. You’re a shit ton of things, Deku, but you’re not a fucking coward.” “Kaachan! That’s not fair, I’m not a coward for not wanting to look you in the eye while you read it.” “Read it? Why can’t you just say it.” “..I wouldn’t be able to get through the whole thing without-“ Izuku cut himself off. Katsuki’s hand sparked, setting off little pops of pain at the back of Izuku's neck. Izuku gasped, hips jutting out, clinging onto Katsuki. “I wouldn’t be able to get through the whole thing without touching you, okay! I miss you so much Kaachan. I couldn’t, I can’t confess without reaching out for you. And Kaachan doesn’t want me.” Izuku finished off his rant with a sniff. His eyes were wet. All was still for an agonizing moment. Then Katsuki rolled his hips into Izuku’s. “Dumbass, does it feel like I don’t want you?” Izuku let out a choked gasp- his fingers tightened on Katsuki’s arms. “K-kachann..” Katsuki ran a hand through Izuku’s hair, sending shivers down his spine. He pressed his lips to Izuku’s temple. “Since I’m not chickenshit like you, I’ll fucking say it. I love you. I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember. I think you’re adorable and good and I will destroy you before you ever destroy yourself. Yes, that’s why I’m not letting you think for a second you can be a hero. We can unpack that load of bull shitlater.” Katsuki huffed. “If anyone touched you I think I could actually kill them. You might be the most important person to me, which is really fucking stupid. I have half a mind to make you bend over and let me fuck you dry just to see if I could.” Izuku choked a little, gaped a lot, and ultimately turned so red Katsuki could even see it in the dim light of the supply closet. It was, frankly, infuriatingly adorable. And very hot since that was clearly Izuku for ‘yes you absolutely could.’ Katsuki tilted Izuku’s chin up. “Baby, when you confess to me- and you will. Properly. I’m going to kiss you until you’re all melted and soft in my arms. Then I’m gonna take you to dinner at that stupid Italian restaurant you love. And then I’m gonna fuck you till you’re begging me to stop.” Izuku let out a little moan and pressed a furtive kiss to Katsuki’s fingers. Katsuki very deliberately resisted pushing his fingers into that mouth and otherwise ravishing him. “But love,” Katsuki lifted the love note stuffed in his pocket, “This isn’t that confession.” With a quick peck on Izuku's cheek, Katsuki left Izuku gaping in the supply closet. Izuku panted. His face felt hot. His toes tingled. And he was way more turned on than he ever should be in school What the fuck. What the fuck. Katsuki loved him? Katsuki loved him a lot? Izuku was not prepared for this response. He’d braced himself for pain and more heartbreak. The only reason he confessed was to stomp on that last bit of traitorous hope that Katski wanted him. Izuku had known that he could never move on without really knowing. But oh lord, Katski loved him. Katsuki wanted to fuck him, and kiss him, and take him out to dinner. Holy fuck. Izuku swooned a little. Then let out a goofy grin. Katsuki wanted a real confession? Anything for Katsuki Bakugou, and Izuku never did anything halfway. Izuku started planning. Katsuki wouldn’t know what hit him.
Spencer doesn’t think anything of it when he leaves work at his usual time, the clock pushing midnight and the offices deserted. He packs his few personal belongings up and turns off his lamp before nodding to the janitor, the only other person to be seen, and taking the elevator down to the ground floor where there’s a little more sign of human life at least. As soon as he steps out into the crisp winter air, he feels the exhaustion of working close to 18 hours straight on far too little sleep hit him. They haven’t even been working a case, he just gets so caught up in his reports and consults that he doesn’t notice the hours whizzing by until he looks up and the bullpen is deserted, dark except for his desk lamp. Inevitably when spending the day at the office dealing with banalities, he finds something that captures his interest. It tends to send him on a trawl through the internet — or, occasionally, to another part of the building — looking it up in every journal he buys a subscription to until that itch is scratched. The others always gently touch his shoulder or call out to him as they leave, which he tends to hear about 50% of the time, and Hotch especially tries to make him leave at a more sensible time, but he can’t help the way his brain works. Once it latches onto something it’s not letting go until it’s satisfied. His feet carry him to the Metro station while his brain absently thinks over his most recent fixation, and soon enough he’s at his stop and back in DC. The streets are slightly more lively in the city, and the noise and light snap him back to reality enough to remind him of his bone-deep fatigue. He usually walks down the main streets to get to his apartment building, occasionally catching a bus if he’s earlier than usual or a cab if he’s later, but tonight he’s just longing for a quick microwave meal, a shower, and his bed. So, he dips down an alleyway and takes the shortcut home. It’s stupid. He knows pretty much every statistic there is to know about his city, and at the forefront of his brain are those concerning crime. DC has one of the highest crime rates in America, and a person’s chances of being a victim is 1 in 18, and although it’s slightly lower in Adams Morgan which is one of the safest, violent crimes are still 36% higher than the national average. This is decidedly increased when you take stupid risks like walking through the backstreets in the dead of night when you’re on your own. Sadly, this does not occur to Spencer before he’s deep in the back streets of the city, being slammed ruthlessly against a wall by two men he didn’t see coming. He’s winded immediately, and before his brain can catch up with what’s happening, a knife is being held dangerously close to his neck. All his self-defence training, all the moves Derek had spent hours teaching him when he’d first joined the BAU fly out the window and he can only breathe heavily with what he knows must be a terrified expression on his face. “Well, well, well,” the man holding the knife leers, his arid breath hitting Spencer’s face, “look what we have here.” The other man doesn’t speak. He’s stood slightly further back, arms crossed as he stares Spencer down. Although he’s physically the lesser threat right now, something about him has ice pooling in Spencer’s stomach. “Here’s what’s gonna happen, you fucking pansy,” he continues, pushing Spencer further into the wall, pain blossoming across his body, “you’re gonna let us look through your gay ass purse, and we’re gonna take whatever we want from it. And then, you’re gonna let Paulie here do whatever he wants to you. He’s had a real bad day, and a pathetic little queer like you is just the punching bag he needs, you hear me?” It’s all Spencer can do to nod his head frantically. He wants to open his mouth, to negotiate, to talk them down, but this is nothing like when he’s faced with the FBI’s most wanted. He’s in control there, he’s on his turf, his playing field, it’s his game and he knows every rule, every bylaw, every exception. Right now, he’s completely at these men’s mercy. “Paulie, take his bag.” The man doesn’t take his eyes off Spencer’s face, scanning his expression and body language for any sign he’s about to bolt, for any reason to put his knife to work. He tries to calm himself down a little, enough to catch his breath at least. He’s taken countless beatings throughout his life, he knows how to survive, just… please, don’t let it be anything more. It’s all Spencer dares to hope for. The other man steps forward and snatches his messenger bag, unceremoniously dumping the contents of his bag on the pavement. Spencer’s just grateful that he doesn’t have anything in there that hints towards his career. He knows this type: they’re intimidating but they’re easily scared. Right now, he’s a weak twenty-something on his way home, he’s not a threat to them, but who knows what they’d do to him if they realised he’s a fed? They take his wallet and his phone before they rummage through his pockets to find some spare cash. His badge is tucked in an inner pocket in his blazer and his Quantico ID is still hanging around his neck, hidden under his scarf, blazer, and thin overcoat; he’s so glad he never took it off. An icy tear drips down his face as he stands there, pressed against the wall, awaiting his fate. All he wants right now is to be back at home. No, that’s not right. All he wants right now is Hotch. As soon as the thought of his father-figure crosses his mind, the tears start flowing faster, desperate to feel safe again, knowing Hotch is the only person to really let him feel that way. The man holding the knife has turned to watch Paulie sift through his bag and rummage through his pockets, but as soon as his steely grey eyes return to Spencer’s face, his face splits into a shit-eating grin. “Aw, are you crying?” he mocks, starting to laugh. “Are the big bad men making you feel scared? You gonna run home to Mommy?” He knows that it’s exactly what the man wants, but he can’t stop the tears from devolving into full-blown sobs at his words. The whole terrifying experience, the implications, the realisations of what might be coming for him in the next few minutes start to catch up to him and he’s violently shaking as he cries uncontrollably. “You’re pathetic,” the man spits, releasing his grip on him slightly, letting Spencer’s shaky legs collapse under him and send him crashing towards the ground. “He’s all yours, Paulie. I’m gonna enjoy this.” His position is quickly taken over by Paulie as the other man leans against a dumpster close by to watch the show, and Spencer looks up at the intimidating man with fear blazing in his eyes as he hangs in purgatory, knowing the hell that’s about to rain down on him. Paulie doesn’t take long to get started and he doesn’t hold back, his sturdy, black boots kicking him relentlessly in the stomach and his thighs before moving up to his chest, slamming the toe of his boots into each individual rib. Spencer can hear the other man laughing maniacally over the sound of his own bones breaking, over his own choked pleas for mercy, but it’s like Paulie doesn’t hear either of them. His face is blank as he gives Spencer the beating of his life, and it only makes him more terrifying. He quickly gets bored of kicking Spencer and bends down to yank him up by his scarf, only to land a hard, brutal punch on his jaw, then his cheek, then his nose before dropping him down again, this time so his back is vulnerable, at the mercy of Paulie’s cruel feet. The torture continues for a few more minutes, and Spencer doesn’t know how no-one hears his desperate cries, but they’re left alone in the alley as he coughs up blood and feels his bones break under the tread of Paulie’s boots. He’s deprived of air as his chest is stood on, as his windpipe is crushed, but finally, finally it’s over. “I’m bored,” Paulie grunts, giving Spencer one last brutal kick to the base of his back before walking over to the other man. They both saunter off down the alleyway, not casting a single look back at Spencer lying curled up on the ground, surrounded by his own blood. Soon, the men have left, and he’s alone with only his ragged, painful breaths for company. He can hear the hoots of a bachelor party just a street over, but no-one’s coming to save him. No-one else is stupid enough to venture down the backstreets of DC. Not with crime rates like those of their city. Not in the small hours of the morning. Not alone. He doesn’t even have his phone to call for help. ★ Hotch expects it to be work when he picks up the phone at 3am. By the time he’s sat up in bed and sliding the bar on his phone to answer it, he’s already half in work-mode, ready to call Jessica and drive Jack over before racing into work to beat the others on the team. He can already taste his first coffee of the day. “Hello, is this Aaron Hotchner?” It isn’t work. “Uh, yes,” he says hesitantly, shifting upright a little further, sleep-addled mind trying to guess who the caller could possibly be, “speaking.” “Hi, my name is Mary Kutner, I’m calling from George Washington University Hospital. I have you down as Spencer Reid’s emergency contact, is that correct?” Hotch’s heart plummets, and he leaps out of bed immediately, ready to get dressed as the shock wakes him up. “That’s correct. What’s happened?” “I’m afraid I can’t divulge much information over the phone, sir, but we’ll need you to come to the hospital urgently.” He isn’t usually an emotional person, but he can feel tears springing to his eyes already. Spencer is a surrogate son to him, and knowing he’s hurt without knowing what he can actually do about it is an atrocious feeling. Please don’t let me watch another member of my family die, is all he can think as he tries to gain enough composure to reply to the nurse on the other end of the line. “Can you tell me his condition?” he asks, somehow managing to get the words past the lump in his throat. “He’s currently in theatre, sir,” Mary replies as gently as one can in such a professional tone. “If you come down to the hospital and report to the ER a doctor will be able to tell you more. I’ll need you to bring identification with you, please.” “Okay,” he breathes, trying to keep as calm as possible, “okay. Thank you for letting me know. I’ll be right there.” He throws the phone on the bed as he finishes throwing his clothes on. He packs two bags: one for him (mostly filled with things Spencer might need) and one for Jack, pulls on his coat and shoes before creeping into his son’s room and lifting him out of bed gently, carrying him down to the car. Jack is a heavy sleeper — he frequently wakes up the next morning tucked in his room at Jessica’s, sometimes in the car on the way — and he’s endlessly thankful for that now. Explaining why he’s dashing out of the flat with a panicked look on his face to a seven-year-old is a conversation he’s glad to avoid. He rings Jessica on the way who, used to his early morning calls waking her up, has no problem with looking after Jack. Somehow, he manages to make it to the hospital only forty-five minutes later, and he didn’t even have to park illegally. Thank God the hospital is at least a little quieter in the dead of night. “Hi, I’m Aaron Hotchner, Spencer Reid’s emergency contact,” he explains shakily to the woman at the front desk, laying down his FBI identification bag down as ID. He could use his driving licence, sure, but… if knowing they’re FBI agents will make any difference to Spencer’s care then he doesn’t give a damn if this could be construed in some way as abuse of his position. He’d rather lose his job than lose his son. “Oh, hi Agent Hotchner,” the woman says with a tone of recognition, glancing at his ID before typing something into her computer, “I’m Mary Kutner, I spoke to you on the phone. Dr Reid is still in surgery but I’ll go and find a doctor who can explain the situation to you.” He nods absently, face stern and pinched as furious anxiety toils inside him. He feels like the last forty-five minutes have been a daze, and now the bright lights and noisy machines and bustling action of the Emergency Department at a major trauma centre are slowly snapping him out of it, the implications of ‘urgent’ and ‘surgery’ and it being the middle of the damn night finally catching up to him. Some number of minutes pass by — he’s too anxious and caught in his head to keep track of the linear passage of time right now — before he’s approached by a young doctor, wearing a mask carefully constructed of confident professionalism and reassuring compassion. “Agent Hotchner?” She’s clarifying uselessly, she knows it’s him. He knows she probably has to confirm for some stupid HIPAA rule, but he just wants to know what happened goddamnit. “Yes,” he replies shortly, “what’s happened to Spencer?” He doesn’t miss her almost perfectly concealed wince, and he feels his stomach sink further. “He was involved in an assault on his way home from work. A passer-by found him in a back road not far from the hospital and called for an ambulance. Luckily we got him into surgery quickly. Upon admission’s initial assessment, he had a ruptured spleen, a collapsed lung, a double kidney contusion, and he suffered a pelvic fracture along with multiple broken ribs, a fractured jaw and cheekbone, and several severe breaks in his left forearm, wrist, and hand.” Hotch stares at the doctor in disbelief as she lists Spencer’s injuries: he feels like he’s going into shock. How could anyone want to hurt the sweetest person he’s ever met? How could anyone be so brutal? He’s worked with serial killers for nearly two decades and still, nothing could prepare him for this. He sits down in the seat behind him as the world spins, his brain trying to piece everything together. “Are you alright, sir?” the doctor asks, sitting down in the seat next to him. “Do you want a glass of water?” “What?” He turns to look at her before her words sink in and he realises what she asked. “Oh. No, I’m fine… I— is he going to be okay?” As soon as the first tear spills down his cheek, he can’t stop them from falling one after another, dripping down his face in his most public display of emotion since Haley died. “He’s going to need a lot of care,” she reasons, “he’ll need to stay in hospital for at least a week depending on the outcome of the surgery, but we have every reason to believe he’ll make a full recovery.” “What’s— what’s the surgery for?” He feels like he’s having an out of body experience. “They’ll address the internal bleeding first by either fixing or removing the spleen and making sure we didn’t miss anything else on the scans. The surgeon will also assess the damage to Spencer’s kidneys and make sure they aren’t contributing to the internal bleeding. They’ll address the pelvic fractures and the collapsed lung as well. You need to understand that Spencer may need further surgery and he’ll definitely need very close monitoring over the coming weeks and months.” “What about his broken bones?” Hotch asks. “How bad is it?” She sighs. “They’re bad,” she admits. “The pelvic fractures are likely going to have a big impact on his mobility, and he won’t have the use of his left arm for a long time. We’re looking at a long recovery, Agent Hotchner. But we have every reason to believe that he will eventually recover.” She pats him comfortingly on the hand before getting up. “Someone will fetch you as soon as he’s out of surgery.” It’s not until she’s halfway across the waiting room that he realises she never even told him her name. It’s close to 8am by the time a surgeon walks over to him, still dressed in scrubs. There’s a smudge of blood on his shirt and Hotch winces at the knowledge that it’s Spencer’s. “How is he?” he asks, leaping up. He doesn't want any screwing around. He just wants to know if Spencer’s going to be okay. “He’s stable. The surgery went well. Unfortunately, we had to conduct a full splenectomy to stop his internal bleed which does put him at risk for serious infections, but otherwise, it’s good news. His kidneys will need support but should heal in a timely manner, and we were able to set the rib that punctured his lung and reinflate it, although we’re going to keep him on oxygen to be safe. His pelvis was severely fractured but we managed to reposition the displaced bone fragments and inserted a screw and metal plate to hold them together.” “Oh, thank God,” Hotch sighs with relief. The worst, immediate threats have been dealt with, and it settles a small part of the anxiety he’s feeling. “He’s in room 338 if you’d like to go and see him. He should be waking up shortly.” ★ Wasting no time, he races up to Spencer’s floor where a nurse lets him onto the ward and leads him down to 338. He pushes the door open apprehensively, swallowing his emotion at the sight of the man he considers a son lying in a hospital bed. He’s lost count of the number of times he’s been rushed to the hospital, but it’s never been like this. It’s always after a case: Spencer knows the risks of the job, they all do, and he puts himself deliberately in harm's way for the sake of others. This time, though… this time he was just walking home from work. This time he had no say in the matter. His left arm is in a cast and his face is bruised and swollen, chestnut hair matted and tangled. Opening the bag he packed, he pulls out a comb and gently teases out the tangles until he can comb through the curls completely unobstructed. There are undoubtedly more knots at the back of his head, but those can wait until he’s woken up at least. It just makes him feel like he’s doing something. It’s only when he sits down in the chair by his bed that he realises it’s Thursday morning now; he’s supposed to be at work today, they both are. No-one except Jessica knows what’s happened. The first thing, he supposes, is to ring Strauss. Once that’s out of the way and she knows that neither he nor Spencer will be in today and he’ll inform her of the latest updates as soon as possible, he messages Rossi. He’s the only one who will be able to remain objective enough to inform everyone, and he’s enough of a dad to the team to help manage everyone’s emotional responses. Just as he hits send on the message, his head snaps up at Spencer’s quiet whimpering as he comes around. “Hey, hey, Spencer,” he says as soothingly as possible, “it’s okay, I’m here. You’re in the hospital. Are you in pain?” Spencer blinks his eyes open blearily, wearing such a pained and vulnerable expression that it goes right to Hotch’s gut. He nods in response to his question, his good hand reaching to hold Hotch’s. “Okay, there’s a PCA pump right here, I’ll turn it up a little. Is that better?” “Yeah,” he whispers, tears springing to his eyes. Now he’s not in as much physical pain, Hotch knows this is pure emotion, and he thinks that’s somehow worse. Spencer’s been through a horrifying physical ordeal, but the emotional recovery is going to be just as gruelling and last years. If there’s one word he’d use to describe Spencer, though, it’s resilient. He shushes him gently, bringing a hand to his hair and caressing it lightly. “I’m here,” he repeats. “You’re safe. I won’t leave you, okay?” Spencer nods and relaxes into his touch, eyes fluttering closed as he calms down a little. “You rest now,” he murmurs. “I’ll be here when you wake up. Everything’s going to be okay.” They’ll deal with the fall-out later. They’ll deal with the team coming to visit, with the paperwork for his sick leave and the frustration of government bureaucracy. They’ll manage their way through processing the trauma of what happened to him, the physical, mental, and occupational implications of the assault. They’ll stay glued at the hip while Spencer’s interviewed by the police, while doctors explain to him just how serious his injuries are. Right now, though, Spencer will sleep and Hotch will sit by his bedside watching the rise and fall of his chest, listening to every steady beep on the heart rate monitor, searing the living breathing proof that Spencer is alive into his mind. Spencer will sleep and Hotch will cry silently over the cruelty of the world, he’ll grieve for the man he said good-bye to 12 hours earlier, knowing he’ll never quite be the same again. Spencer will sleep and Hotch will be there, holding his hand, waiting for him to wake up again.
According to Moore’s law, computational growth is exponential. The number of transistors on a single microchip can be expected to double every two years, though the cost of a computer itself is halved. In essence, technological development is like a snowball rolling down a ski slope; it grows with every passing moment, and that growth itself enables the accumulation of more matter. Tony, at the present moment, is trying to advance the pace of technological development by several orders of magnitude. The problem with that is the dearth of tools available. The usual path is one laid down by the efforts of its predecessors. Machines make machines, and with each successive generation comes incremental progress, though he has little patience for it now. The point of starting at nanotechnology is to create something that is capable of self replication and precision work; something whose growth, too, is exponential. So it’s a time consuming investment, though one that will pay off in dividends as a mere gap between SI and its fellow competitors widens into a yawning chasm. The difference, hopefully, will be even more pronounced against Tony’s personal list enemies, though his current focus is almost entirely taken up by the many headed beast that is HYDRA. HYDRA. What can be done against HYDRA? Tony works his way through the preliminary designs of his production nanites—the ones whose sole purpose is to manufacture bigger and better things. He’s in his workshop, with a mess of virtual and metal parts arrayed before his questing hands. According to JARVIS, he’s between travel plans at the moment, and with a few days of breathing room before his next public appearance. He tinkers his way through the self replicating mechanism that he has in mind for these nanites ( dear god, what has he unleashed upon the world ), and worries at the delightfully named HYDRA Problem in between an arsenal of glowing blue schematics. Stern, by himself, is an issue with a transparent solution. The man is up for reelection this year, with his six year term as a Senator coming to a close. Tony, through JARVIS, has taken the liberty of funding the man’s primary challenger—and if that doesn’t pan out, then he can always direct that aid to the other party’s candidate come November. The politics of it all are secondary. Though it will be useful to have a Senator indebted to him in the long run, there are few politicians in Washington DC that would deny Tony Stark an audience. The point is to remove Stern from a position of influence and power, though that won’t necessarily cleave him from his beloved nazi neo-facist organization as a whole. Then there’s Alexander Pierce, whose profile has been helpfully sourced from the depths of SHIELD. The man is currently the Secretary of the World Security Council—a position that is so enwrapped in procedural red tape that it’s rather hard to understand what the man’s actual role is. He liaisons between SHIELD and the WSC; and should any one member of the oversight committee fall, he’s next in the line of succession. The problem, Tony concludes, is that Alexander Pierce is a man without a good excuse to leave office. He isn’t an elected official, and his term is one that isn’t contingent upon the mercy of fair weather politics. Your average person wouldn’t even know his name. He flicks his way through a plot on the material properties of silver, and returns to the issue at hand. “Pierce, J. What else can you tell me about Pierce?” JARVIS overlays the man’s SHIELD profile over a published article on laser etching and its role in microfabrication. His photograph is a few years out of date, but manages to capture the essence of an older, wavy haired government official. “According to publicly available information, Alexander Goodwin Pierce was nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize for resolution of a hostage crisis following the assassination of Alejandro Castillo. Documentation of the incident itself is highly classified, due to the involvement of several superhuman individuals… I am sorry. It seems as if additional information has been deleted from the archives.” “Again with the superhuman threats,” muses Tony. “We get exactly one success, and governments all around the world think of it as the next arms race of the 21st century.” “Military might is a determinative factor in geopolitical power, sir. As you very well know.” “It matters, because this is how these organizations think. A man like Pierce wakes up in the morning to a glass of milk, trying to advance an agenda; likewise, he goes to bed in a nightcap, thinking of ways to eliminate the threats, potential or otherwise, to that very agenda. If I was him…” His hand stills. This is not a line of thought that he wants to entertain. “J. When is the next time I travel to Washington DC?” “A few weeks from now. Several officials from the Pentagon, as well as the Department of Defense, wish to negotiate the outcome of standing military contracts with SI. They believe that internal investigations have run their course; with sentencing of Obadiah Stane—” Tony lets out an explosive sigh, and steps back to regard the wide breadth of all his unfinished projects—the holographic schematics of his latest endeavor overlaid by the depressing encroach of politics. He was working. This was supposed to be a time where he got things done; forcefully dragging the limits of technological development just one step closer to a distant future. “I—” He minimizes the profile on Pierce with a sidelong gesture, and restores the material selection charts to the forefront of the holographic display. The initial drafts are almost finalized; at this point, he’s confident enough to begin a few simulations. If they’re favorable, then it would only be sensible to commission the parts that will be necessary for fabrication. “Let’s get back to work, yeah? No point discussing all this if we don’t have the technological advantage firmly established.“ “Very well,” agrees JARVIS. “I shall direct your attention, then, to the progress of the Research and Development team in Malibu… ”
Class 2-A+extras [17:17] Froppy: Hey Midoriya, you like Todoroki right? Flight Risk: Well of course I do, he’s my friend. Froppy: but im saying, like more than friends? Flight Risk: Flight Risk has added Ready Player One to Class 2-A+extras . Flight Risk has left Class 2-A+extras. Creationist: ?? Explosive Boi: He does this when he feels cornered. Creationist: What exactly is “this”? Explosive Boi: Dropping smoke bombs, both literal and figurative. It’s fucking annoying. Ready Player One: Midoriya, where did you add me now? Ready Player One: Oh shit, is this really class 2-A? Aizawa Shouta has added Flight Risk to Class 2-A+extras . Aizawa Shouta: Problem child explain. Who is that? Flight Risk: Shiggy. Ready Player One: DO NOT CALL ME SHIGGY!! Ready Player One: YOU KNOW I HATE THAT NICKNAME. Explosive Boi: Zuchan WHAT THE FUCK?? Aizawa Shouta: Problem child explain. Right fucking now. Flight Risk: Ok apparently Shigaraki, the leader of the League of Villains, plays COD. Ready Player One: Former. Flight Risk: *Former leader of the League of Villains. Aizawa Shouta: P R O B L E M C H I L D E X P L A I N . Ready Player One: I left the League, after I discovered some files on All for One’s spare tablet. Ready Player One: Plus the party became filled with Stain-worshipping trash. Ready Player One: Plus we really didn’t get anything done. Ready Player One: allourbasearebelongtoyou.doc Ready Player One: Where they could be. Why do we work here? [17:24] Dead Tired has changed the chat name to Midoriya is THE problem child . Bloodbender: what happened now Aizawa? Dead Tired: Apparently Midoriya has been in contact with Shigaraki. Dead Tired: screenshot93495.jpg Dead Tired: allourbasearebelongtoyou.doc. Eye of Sauron: :) Sleepbender: That’s Nezu’s knowing smile. Dead Tired: You KNEW that he had been in contact with a notorious villain? Eye of Sauron: I was helping him, actually. Dead Tired: With what? Eye of Sauron: Redemption. Dead Tired: Are you being serious right now Nezu? Eye of Sauron: I’m being completely serious. Dead Tired: Explain this. Right now. Please… Eye of Sauron: I’ll let All Might take this from here. It’s more personal for him. Dead Tired: I’m gonna sit down and get coffee, this sounds like a long story. Thin Might: Well Shigaraki Tomura isn’t his real name. Dead Tired: Are you kidding me? What do you have to do with this? Thin Might: His real name is Shimura Tenko. Thin Might: Apparently he was my mentor’s grandson. Thin Might: The two of us have had conversations, and the prevailing theory is that All for One gave Shigaraki his quirk, as well as used other quirks to mentally manipulate him. Thin Might: When the quirk All for One gave him triggered, he accidentally killed his entire family. Thin Might: We’ve been carefully going through his recovery since he left the League six months ago. It’s something that needs to be taken care of very well. Dead Tired: Class 2-A+extras [17:40] Ready Player One: So that’s the story of how Dabi burned his clothes off. Assidic: Holy shit that’s amazing. Flight Risk: Heh. That’s hilarious. Ice Ice baby: got any pictures? Ready Player One: Unfortunately not. Ready Player One: Wish I did though. Aizawa Shouta: Ok problem child we need to have a conversation. Flight Risk: Why? Aizawa Shouta: If you are to redeem villains, PLEASE TELL ME FIRST!! Flight Risk: So that’s an open invitation to begin scooping up villains? Aizawa Shouta: NO! GoingFast: C’mon Shouta, Let the kid have his fun! Aizawa Shouta: Tensei this isn’t our chat. GoingFast: Shit. Ready Player One: How did you find our base if you’re like this? Flight Risk: I have three brain cells. Two are devoted to quirk analysis and the last is a villain finder. Floaty: villain finder/villain magnet. Flight Risk: wihbeshbt I’m not a villain magnet! Red Hot ice: You totally are. Flight Risk: Todoroki you too? Ready Player One: You totally are. Flight Risk: Oh fuck off. You can’t talk. Flight Risk: You’ve been the one planning all the attacks. Ready Player One: AlienQueen: So Mido, how long have you been in contact with Shigaraki. Flight Risk: I played online with him for a year before we realized who the other person was. AlienQueen: When was that? Ready Player One: It was during the mall incident. Flight Risk: It was an awkward conversation. Visible: I’d imagine that would be. Rocky Boi: that face when your gaming partner is a villain and your a hero in training. Ready Player One: We still played together afterwards. Ready Player One: It was just very awkward. Flight Risk: That was when I began to redeem him. Hexapus: How did that happen? Flight Risk: I’ll let him explain it. Ready Player One: Y’know that guy I called “Sensei”? Explosive Boi: Yeah. He acted like your father. Ready Player One: Well apparently he gave me this damn quirk that ruined my life. Ready Player One: So when one of his associates, a doctor, tried to reach me I told him to fuck off. Ready Player One: Plus everyone else in the party became enamored with Stain. Flight Risk: I think you mentioned this “doctor” guy to me. Could you tell me more about him? Ready Player One: Short, kinda fat. Bald. Has a bushy mustache and eyebrows. Weird Green goggles. He told me his name was Daruma Ujiko. Flight Risk: Oh fuck. Speed Birb: Oh fuck. Speed Birb: We’ve met him before. Flight Risk: a dozen years ago, when they tested me for a quirk. Flight Risk: Although I knew him as Dr. Tsubasa. Speed Birb: Tsubasa Himitsu, that was his full name. Ready Player One: Himitsu means “secrecy”, so I don’t think that’s his real name either. Flight Risk: Well whatever helps. Ready Player One: Hey Aizawa, you getting this? Aizawa Shouta: You two should come with me. This is serious. Aizawa Shouta: @everyone has anyone else heard the name Tsubasa Himitsu or Daruma Ujiko, or seen or heard of a doctor with the physical descriptions listed above? Purrple Dream: Yeah. When I was at Deika Orphanage they told me the owner was “Tsubasa-san.” Purrple Dream: Also the matron told me that whenever he came over, I was to lie and say that I was quirkless. Sparkling: Oui! When I was five, my parents and I visited an office run by a “Tsubasa.” I can’t remember much, but I got my quirk soon after. Detective Pikachu: I went to a summer camp run by that guy about eight years ago. It was a special “quirk-camp.” Druid: My father runs a few orphanages that had been previously run by that guy. Apparently he had lost them in lawsuits. Rocky Boi: I think my mother worked on that case! It was two years ago, right? Druid: Yeah! Izuku set down his phone when he read that. He had added Shigaraki to the group chat as a “smoke bomb” to avoid answering the questions about his crush, but they ended up gathering a significant amount of evidence to identify a hidden supervillain. He was thankful that the train of the chat had been derailed. Hell, It had not only been derailed, but it had completely left the track and was somewhere in forested wetlands. He sat up from his resting position on his bed, and went over to his desk. He grabbed a new notebook and quickly labelled it “evidence.” This was going to be his analysis of everything he had seen, in addition to what he had heard. He pulled open his laptop and typed in keywords, such as “Orphanages owned by Tsubasa Himitsu” and then “cases of abuse at _____ Orphanage.” as well as so-called “unusual” cases of quirk loss. The sheer amount of information he had found was disturbing. He moved information onto his word processing app, as well as write down his own observations. Two hours later, he had gathered 20 pages of direct sources and six pages of analysis in his evidence notebook. A text pinged on his phone, distracting from his analysis. Decaymaster [20:21] I know what you did there. Izuku sighs. Shiggy may have been a closet case his whole life, but that didn’t mean he was stupid. Of course he found out about the smoke bomb maneuver. Greeninja [20:22]: I have no idea what you’re talking about. Decaymaster [20:22]: Look, I’m like the worst at romance. But even I can see the obvious. Greeninja [20:22]: Obvious? What’s obvious? Decaymaster [20:22]: I’m gonna lock Todoroki in your room. When your away. The perfect gift for you. Greeninja [20:23]: You can’t even get into UA. Dumbass. Decaymaster [20:23]: I’ll find a way.
Rey wakes the next day with a dry mouth and a throbbing head. She's still fully dressed, needing only to don her boots and smooth the tangles of her hair. She tucks the same errant strand he had touched behind her ear and mourns the lack of peace it gives her as she pretends nothing has changed. Everyone seems to blame her distraction on her overindulgence, offering hangover cures with knowing smiles on their worldly faces. She does little to dispel their suspicions, feigning gratitude as Poe forces her to drink something so vile that even telling the truth almost starts to sound appealing. Almost. She focuses her energy on preserving every detail of the night before, the softness of his touch and the way he held her gaze. It is a foolish endeavor, but it is far easier than trying to forget. -- They never talk about what happened. She never really thought they would and she wonders if it even happened at all. -- The next time she sees Ben, four days after she had demanded him and hours after reports of system wide disobedience against the First Order, there is blood splattered on his face and his eyes are almost as black as the torn tunic he wears He paces nearly a yard away and the air around him is sharp and unyielding. She is spectator, nothing more, and when he finally acknowledges her, Ben is almost as distant memory as the family she never knew. "You're hurt," she tells him and the laugh that escapes him puts her entire body on edge. It's a cruel laugh, borrowed from someone even crueler than himself. "How perceptive of you," he snarls. "No need to ask how it happened. I'm sure even what wasteland you're hiding out on has heard all about it." He isn’t wrong. It is the first successful ambush against the First Order since Starkiller was destroyed. Crait can hardly be a victory when only a score of Resistance survived it and Admiral Holdo’s sacrifice was less a triumph than a necessity. She can't imagine a corner of the galaxy that isn't already feasting on the news, especially when hope is all that is left "I know what happened," she says. "I just want to make sure you're alright." He freezes in his tracks, his eyes narrowed as he stares at her from across the void. "Don't act like that matters to you," he tells her coldly. "Don't lie to us both. Not now. Not after everything you’ve made me do.” “I’m not lying,” she insists, her voice almost a shout, but he is unwilling to hear it. “You’ve spent what little life you’ve had aiding those who would destroy me. The same people who wanted me dead once it became clear that I was too powerful to be controlled,” he hisses. “How do I know you’re not telling them everything? I’m sure they’ve poisoned you against me now that you’ve fallen back in line.” “Nobody needs to do that for you,” Rey snarls. “You’re doing a good enough job by yourself.” His eyes run over every inch of her body, an examination somehow more invasive than when he first forced his way into her head. She might as well be in chains once more, frozen as he dismisses her words with every glance. “Look at you,” he taunts. “The good little soldier. Following orders and wasting your talents on a people that will never understand them." He sounds like his former master and her blood runs cold. She points her blaster at his chest, but he is not cowed in the slightest. “You’re only a hired gun, Rey,” he says, clearly savoring this. “They’ll put you down the moment you act for yourself and it’ll be nobody’s fault but your own.” “You’re lying,” she says. “They’re my friends. You don’t know them…” “I don’t need to know them,” he snarls. “It doesn’t matter what they claim to fight for, they’ll turn on you the second they realize the only thing keeping them alive is your mercy. It’s either kill or be killed and you’ve made the wrong choice.” “I’m not a killer,” she tells him. “I’m nothing like you.” Her voice is something far past a shout now and the tension building in her limbs feels tightly wound enough to destroy a city if she were foolhardy enough to release it. He steps toward her, demanding the space instead of silently asking for it, and she changes her aim toward his head. It is enough to make him stop but his words hurt more than any shot could. “You are exactly like me,” he says and then suddenly he is gone. She shoots the space he used to fill and curses both his names. -- There is something other than fear filling the galaxy. Worlds she had never heard of begin to send emissaries to the Resistance, spurred on by stories of the girl who would save the galaxy in Luke Skywalker’s place. She is summoned to every meeting, whether by the newly reinstated Commander Dameron or General Leia, and met with widened eyes and whispers. She isn’t asked to demonstrate her control of the Force, the ambassadors all seem to take the Resistance at their word, but it doesn’t make her any less of a curiosity. The visitors never call her Rey and she supposes they never will. Her name is unimportant. All they care about is what will happen in the wars to come. -- She doesn't see him, but she can feel him lurking in the corners of her mind, poisoning her every thought. There is no calmness, no shared joy, only desperation that keeps her on edge for days on end. The only respite she has is while he sleeps but it seems he's almost evaded the pursuit entirely, choosing disorder instead of the control he claims to need. His rage swells quickly and with no warning. She digs her nails into her palms to keep the anger from leaking out onto the nearest unlucky passerby whenever he's in a particularly foul mood, gritting her teeth as she waits out a storm that never ceases. There's no shortage of useless scrap on the new base, a pile that only grows as she shatters each warped piece with the Force until only specks remain. It should be enough to ease the tension, to soothe both their troubled souls, but it is only a bandage on a deeper wound. He wants something more than mere destruction. He wants it so badly that she starts to crave it too. -- A week later, the Resistance watches the skies as the First Order strikes down one of their last supply freighters. Two good fighters burn in an instant and the flame of hope becomes an ember. Her friends cry out in sorrow while her borrowed rage is suddenly extinguished. He is finally satisfied. She knows he will not hide from her anymore. -- She is sitting on the edge of her bed when he finds her again, wearing only the nightclothes Leia had insisted on fashioning for her. It seems wasteful to have clothes only for sleeping, far too extravagant when having a roof and a cot is more than enough, but it seems more wasteful not to use them at all. He seems surprised to see her in repose, rubbing a healing salve over her battered legs, instead of waiting with a weapon in hand. It has been too long since the bond has brought them face to face, but he does not interrupt the ritual, choosing simply to watch as she kneads the bruised flesh of her calves and thighs. The tension in his limbs starts to fade and it as close to peace as they’ve ever reached. He doesn’t apologize for what he has done but he has never once admitted wrongdoing, not even with the bodies of his master’s men staining the chamber floor. He sits on what she can only imagine are the ruins of Snoke’s throne, meeting her eye and they are equals once more. “Do you want me to hate you?” The question hangs heavy in the air, weighted down the quarrel from the last time they spoke. She speaks softly, taking care not to attract the attention of passers-by, even if nobody but Leia dares to come in her room anymore. “My life would be far simpler if you did,” he says matter-of-factly, and she shakes her head. “That’s not what I asked,” she says. “That doesn’t make it any less true,” Ben tells her. “When you hated me, the universe made sense.” “I might still hate you,” she grumbles, and his lips curl up just so. “You don’t hate me,” he says. “Not anymore.” His voice is not quite a question, but it lacks the certainty he pretends to have. “And what about you then?” Rey asks, deliberately ignoring the way his eyes lock onto her face. “What about me?” Ben says. His fingers grip the arms of his chair and she can swear his knuckles go almost white. “Do you still hate me?” She hates the tremble in her voice, but she loathes the pause before he speaks far more. He takes a breath and bites his bottom lip, as though he wants nothing more to keep the answer hidden. “I never hated you,” he tells her, voice soothing as though she were a beast on the verge of madness. “I wanted to, but I never could.” The knot in her stomach dissolves into something airy and free, the darkness inside her suddenly subdued and satisfied all at once. There is no hiding the relief she feels and when he extends his saber arm slowly toward her, there is no trepidation when she takes his hand. His fingers are just as warm as she remembers, still just as gentle as when he forgot who they were and touched her face. Without Luke barging in, there is time to savor the weight of his hand in hers, to relish the closeness that feels brand new and all too familiar. In her daring, she starts to trace her thumb over the meat of his palm, almost too afraid to ask permission as she learns the story of each line. “It’s alright,” he says quietly, and she nearly jumps out of her skin as he meets her gaze once more. His eyes are kind now, but she wants nothing more than to hide from them, to keep whatever is bottled up inside her secret and safe. Rey freezes even though he has given her his blessing and it is only when he nods his approval that she feels comfortable enough to lace their fingers together. He keeps still, allowing her the opportunity to explore him at her leisure, and she selfishly takes advantage of his generosity with every new touch. His is the only other hand she knows, the only other hand she’s touched like this, and she greedily thinks of the day where she might be bold enough to hold its twin. She runs her thumb over a faded scar between his finger and his thumb, the mark so pale she can barely make it out. "Saber?" She asks, letting her eyes flicker down to their joined hands. "Spoon," he says begrudgingly, and she laughs before she can stop herself. But he doesn't pull away, so she supposes it's alright. "Did you kill whomever did it?" She teases and it's his turn to look amused . "I was eight years old and bored during some dinner," he tells her. "I wanted to see if I could break the skin. Using a knife seemed too easy." "Didn't anyone stop you?" Rey asks. She sees Han and Leia, young and carefree, until suddenly there is shouting and she regrets ever having asked. "Not until I started bleeding all over dessert," he says. "I was a quiet child. It was easy to go unnoticed." They sit in silence once more, quiet children discovering a world beyond loneliness, and Rey wonders just how many of his scars were forged by his hands. She looks at his face and wonders if it'll ever heal. He clears his throat and it's only then she realizes she was staring. “I have to go,” he says almost contritely. He doesn’t say why, and she is finally wise enough not to ask. “Of course,” she says but she doesn’t let go of his hand, not yet. She stares at their fingers intertwined and paints every detail into her memory before nodding her compliance just once. He squeezes her palm, a silent gentle goodbye, and she's pulled back into the world within her room. -- It is nearly impossible to fall asleep, but somehow, she finally does. She dreams of clever hands undressing her, throwing her nightclothes on the floor and exploring every inch of her body. She imagines a broad frame pressing her against the bed and a deep voice whispering in her ear, desperate and wanting. When she wakes, her underwear is soaked through and she pretends she doesn’t know why. She vows never to touch Ben unless she has no other choice. -- Whether by lucky coincidence or the Force’s providence, Ben doesn’t seem keen on making contact the next time he appears. He barely says hello the next morning, his hair far too ruffled for his usual preference and his responses even terser than normal when she attempts a perfectly normal conversation, and so she carries on as though nobody is watching her clean her teeth. He stifles a yawn and she spots a sliver of his stomach peering out from underneath his shirt as he stretches his arms overhead. Not that she's looking. "You should sleep," she says and for a moment, he looks even younger than she does. "I should do lots of things," he mutters, and she rolls her eyes. “I’ll use my staff,” she offers, and he winces. “Maybe if I hit your thick skull hard enough, you’ll sleep long enough for me to have some privacy.” He glares until the bond begins to fade, the aura around him fading easily back into nothingness. But the next time he appears, two days after their last meeting, she notices that the circles under his eyes aren’t quite as dark and he’s almost polite when she ventures into the wilds of conversation. It shouldn’t feel like a triumph, but it is, and if he were anyone else in the galaxy, she would hug him close. -- She tries keeping him at arm’s length, indulging only in what little conversation they need to coexist in each other’s minds, but he is making it nearly impossible. He is drawing her in, bringing her the worlds he is so desperate to control. Ben never tells her where he is, but he shows her as best he can without giving the First Order’s plans away, letting her see parts of the galaxy she cannot even name. One night, she feels the sun from wherever he’s hiding, hot and unrelenting from systems away. It’s clearly too strong for his tastes, she can see the sweat forming on his brow, but she welcomes the heat in a way she never would trapped on Jakku. He raises his eyebrows in a silent question and she smiles her approval when he takes off his gloves to feel even more of it for them both. Ben takes a step closer and she blames it on the sun. Then there’s snowfall, slowly falling overhead and chilling the air. His shoulders are covered in snowflakes and each breath is crisp and clear. He is more himself in the cold, his cheeks and lips almost rosy, and she tries to enjoy it even with her teeth chattering and each hair on her arm standing straight up. His hair is dotted with white and she can see his eyelashes coated in snow. She takes a step closer and blames it on the cold. -- She dreams of them together, but he is never the same. He is Kylo Ren and she is a scavenger. He destroys the worlds she loved and they stand over the ashes. He binds her hands behind her back and grabs her by the throat and she wakes up fearing him. He is Ben Solo and she is Rey. He steals her back to Ahch-To and they wait out the storm in the ruins of a temple. He holds her close and kisses her sweetly and she wakes up wanting him. He is nobody and so is she. He bumps into her at Niima Outpost and they forage in the ruins of ships that mean nothing more than a day’s pay. He builds her a home and gives her a child and she wakes up needing him. Each dream makes it harder to see him without touching him. The war rages on but she’d never know it if the only world that existed was the one between them both. -- The tide turns once more to the First Order and another planet dies before it has the chance to scream. Her friends are furious, and she is terrified but still she welcomes Ben into her room without a moment’s hesitation. Ben brings her a flower that night, bright and beautiful and crumpled from where it was hidden in his pocket, and her heart aches from studying all his painful contradictions. She sighs without meaning to and he comes slowly towards her, another step in his conquest. “Your men killed innocent people today,” she says, looking at the flower instead of at his face. “They did it on your orders.” She ignores the dried blood on his cowl and pretends to forget that he is the most effective killing machine of all, tries to separate who he is from the bodies in his wake. “It needed to be done,” he tells her. “Once the last bastion of the Resistance falls, the war ends.” “It never ends,” Rey says, finding his eyes with hers. “You’ll always want more. You’ll always take more.” “Everything ends,” he says, giving her only the barest hint of answer. “Everything lives. Everything dies.” “You could end it now,” she nearly pleads. “You could make it all stop. You could make the First Order listen if you truly wanted it to end.” There is hope in her voice and she falls hopelessly into his orbit, now standing only breaths away. He doesn’t smile but there’s an almost kindness in his eyes, something that makes her heart twinge in remembrance. His hand darts closer just as she does, almost brushing the exposed flesh of her arm until she suddenly pulls it back. “Don’t,” she says quietly. “Please.” He jolts back but his arm remains outstretched, lingering in the air in a state of unhappy surprise. “You wanted me to touch you before,” Ben says. “Did I do it wrong?” His voice is eerily calm, each word precise and deliberate, but she can see the wounded look in his eyes, something haunted and betrayed. “You did nothing wrong,” she tells him. “I promise.” “Then why?” Ben asks. “Did you not like it?” His voice breaks and the lump in her throat is almost too painful to swallow. “That’s not it.” She can hear her breath grow shallow and his eyes nearly burn through her skin as she finds the courage to say what comes next. -- “I liked it too much.”
legit had our first rain/thunderstorm in weeks so that helped get this story out :) it had been the sunniest day in the land. the breeze was light, the sun was out and there were minimal clouds in the sky. the bees were buzzing about for pollen and birds were chirping as they flew happily around. people were out and about doing projects or messing with other people. it was a fine day. until suddenly the dark clouds rolled in right before dinner. no one was expecting it after the beautiful day they were having. no one was thinking their amazing day was going to be ruined extremely fast by the rushing wind, the rain that pounded the ground and the thunder that rolled. tubbo could only watch as the clouds grew closer to snowchester from his little balcony. dread made his heart drop and anxiety made it beat ten times fast. he hated storms. hated the wind whistling through the shutters and the thunder that followed the strike of light, like someone dropped a porcelain vase right in his ear. he loved rain. could appreciate the rain, but the rest made him think that it would rip his house from the ground and take him along. he knew, in the back of his mind, that it was irrational. there had never been a storm so horrible that had taken houses or people or pets with it, but still, that fear was instilled in his mind. a lightning strike made him jump and the thunder that followed three seconds later made him shove his hands over his ears. he turned and ran into the house, slamming the door behind him, sliding down in a ball against the wood. “tubbo?” he barely heard the call from behind the wall he was pressing against his ears. he looked up with watery brown eyes to see ranboo and tommy standing in the bedroom with concern and confusion in their eyes. “big man, what’s up?” tubbo whined, shaking his head furiously. he wasn’t big, he was small and the wind and the thunder were scary and he just wanted to be under his blankets where it was safe and wanted mellohi playing in the background to drown out the scary noises. “hey, hey, it’s okay,” ranboo cooed, kneeling before the little, tommy following with an equally worried look on his face. “is it the storm?” tubbo nodded quickly, throwing himself at the two and shaking violently, tears seeping fast out of his eyes and down his cheeks. the two desperately tried to calm him down, but every time thunder erupted, he cried out loudly and squirmed to hide his face in their chests, whoever he jumped to. nothing they were doing was working. “come on, tubs,” tommy said softly, leaning over and bringing his friend to rest against his chest, legs wrapping around the taller’s torso. he electively decided to ignore the tears that were starting to seep into his sweatshirt. “let’s see if we got any nice warm jams you can wear, yea? hey, ranboo, can you go make some warm milk for him?” “yea… yea! yea, i can go do that,” ranboo stammered, shuffling his tall, lanky body down the ladder to the kitchen. tommy hummed one of wilbur’s songs as he carried tubbo into his bedroom. however, once he started letting tubbo go to sit him down on the bed, the little outright cried and clutched tommy’s sweatshirt tighter with shaky, white knuckles. “okay, okay,” tommy murmured, holding tubbo close again. “how old we feeling, little man?” tubbo whimpered and tapped tommy’s arm once. “ooh, a little little tubs today,” the blond said, gently rocking them back and forth as he walked to the clothes chest. “let’s see… does little tubs want… his bee jam jams or… creeper jams or… music disc jams?” tubbo sniffled, peeking his tear stained face out of tommy’s shoulder and grabbing the grey music disc pajamas. “good! good choice, bee,” tommy praised. it was a bit of a struggle to get tubbo out of his clothes and into his pajamas since he refused to let tommy go, but it helped that ranboo came up with a bottle as tommy and tubbo were struggling to get a shirt on. together, the two teens helped the little change into comfier clothes, reassuring him that everything was okay when he jumped and cried at thunder erupting suddenly. ranboo smiled softly at tubbo when those big brown eyes looked up at him, gently wiping away the tears with his thumb. tubbo cooed, grabbing the hybrid’s finger and refusing to let go. “he’s got all of us wrapped around his finger, don he?” tommy asked, laughing gently as ranboo rolled his eyes. “i mean, how can you say no to that face?” the enderman hybrid questioned rhetorically, gently poking tubbo’s red cheek. the little whined, flailing the hand holding ranboo’s finger a little. “why don’t we all lay in bed, yea?” tommy offered softly. “we’ll protect you, tubbo. we’ll be your knights in shining armor,” ranboo added as they moved to the bed. tommy sat against the wall with tubbo in the middle and ranboo on the edge. tubbo dug his face into ranboo’s chest, but snagged tommy’s hand to hold. his bee plushie sat in the crook of his arm and his favorite soft, grass green blanket rested over all three of them. “tubbo~ i got a little treat for you,” ranboo sang, turning and snagging the bottle from the bedside table where he had placed it while dressing the little. tubbo smiled happily, reaching his free hand out. ranboo didn’t care for manners at the moment, neither did tommy, since both didn’t comment on tubbo not asking politely. the kid had been beyond frightened of the storm that still raged on, but with his knights in shining armor, his plushies, blanket, and bottle, he was warm and content. he listened to tommy hum any song he knew as ranboo brushed his dark fingers through his brunette locks, while he cooed happily behind his bottle.
The first thing Tommy heard was the dripping of lava. The smell of rot hit his nostrils, and his eyes flew open in fear when he realized where he was. His eyes landed on Dream sitting in a corner, watching him cautiously. "Tommy?" Dream asked, a note of something he couldn't quite place hidden in his voice. Tommy flinched back violently from the noise, flashes of his death behind his eyes. His eyes darted around the cell until they landed on two heaps next him he hadn't noticed. He gasped. How had they come with him!? Ignoring Dream, Tommy dragged himself over to them. It was Theo and Toms. Dream had revived them. Both of them. How the hell had that happened?! "Toms?" Tommy whispered, his voice scratchy and rough now that he was back in his own battered and scarred body. He gently rocked the youngers shoulders trying to rouse him. "Who are they?" Dream asked harshly. “Why are they here?” Tommy flinched again but tried to stifle it. Of course Dream always noticed. “Really, shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Tommy muttered, hating himself for always wanting to push his luck. "Answer me Tommy," Dream said, his voice becoming dangerously menacing as he moved closer. Tommy hated the fear in him as he shivered violently. “Or this is about to get messy.” Tommy just looked up and met Dream’s face, glaring back at him. He wouldn’t give in to his games. Dream growled angrily and grabbed him by the shoulders, pressing him against the obsidian wall. Tommy squirmed, trying to get away, panic clawing at his chest like a trapped bird. Dream gripped his jaw tightly, making Tommy’s already injured body ache. “I want answers Tommy,” Dream hissed. “And your going to give them to me.” He squeezed tighter making pain rush to his head. “Now.” "They're from the train," Tommy stuttered, breathing fast as he struggled against Dreams grasp. His thoughts raced back to the Train station. Already his memories from there were getting blurred and messed up, as if being alive changed his view of them. "What?" Dream asked, almost to himself. "Like when you were dead? What was it like?" His gaze hardened and focused back to Tommy. Tommy didn't meet Dreams eyes, unable to stare at those cold green pools of poison. Instead he fixed his own gaze fixed at the ground. "It was crowded. There were so many- and the train," Tommy, trailed off shuddering. Dream seemed captivated. He loosened his grip on Tommy. "Tell me more Tommy. Who are these people? Did you meet them there?" Dream let go of him and Tommy inched away from Dream and closer to Toms. Dream followed, not letting his guard down. Tommy hovered protectively over the unconscious Toms, and glanced back up at Dream. "You can't hurt him," Tommy said, trying to sound threatening, while deciding not to answer the question. "I won't let you!" His voice was hoarse and hardly above a whisper. "You need to tell me who they are Tommy, I’m not playing your little games. Stop dodging my questions." Tommy stayed silent. Dream walked closer, prodding Toms with a foot. “Seems like you care about him, huh Tommy?” Dream smirked. “Would be a shame if I were too…” he trailed off, pulling back a foot as if to kick the younger boy in the head. "They're me!" Tommy gasped, throwing himself in front of Toms, not wanting Dream to hurt him. Well he didn't care much for Theo, he could kick the bucket for all Tommy cared, but he would never let Dream lay a finger on this young, brighter, version of himself. Especially now that he was back here, alive. "At the Train, Dream! There were dozens of them! I don't know how they came please don't hurt him, I'm sorry im sorry I'm sorry," Tommy begged, curling protectively over his younger self. Flashes of exile flooded his memories, and then he was back there, begging Dream not to hurt him again. Suddenly someone kicked Tommy in the side and he cried out in pain. "Dream please!" Tommy choked out, then glanced up when Dream didn't reply. "You're really kinda pathetic," Theo said casually, arms crossed. Dream was backed into a corner, a look of absolute shock painted across his usually expressionless face. Theo stood over Tommy, his mask shining bright from the lava light, his red cloak hanging loosely from his shoulders. "It’s actually really hard to believe we’re the same person!" He paused then, tilting his head in a way that was creepily similar to Dream. "Well, I suppose I must thank you though," he said bitterly. "I'd still be dead if it wasn't for you." Tommy backed up against the wall. He couldn't believe this version of himself existed. It terrified him to think that in one universe, he turned into this monster. "Just please stay away from me," Tommy glared, trying his best to not let panic seep into his voice. Theo backed away slowly with his hands in the air. He laughed dryly. Then he turned to Dream, who was still leaning against the opposite wall. "Hello Dream," Theo said cooly, extending a hand. "I don't think you've met me yet." "What the hell," Dream muttered. His eyes darted to Tommy on the ground with the younger Tommy, to the masked version of Tommy standing in front of him. He shook Theo's hand, his eyes never leaving the porcelain mask so similar to the one he used to wear. Tommy heard them muttering, and at first he listened intently, until he heard a soft voice behind him. "Tommy?" His newly beating heart jumped in his chest and he turned to the younger boy, who was staring up at him. "Am I alive?" He asked. "Yeah," Tommy replied quietly. "I think we are." Toms sat up and Tommy hugged him tightly. When he pulled back he noticed that the younger's clothes were covered in soot and there was a large blood stain over his heart. "Are you injured?" Tommy asked, suddenly terrified. "I-I don't think so?" Toms replied. "I don't feel hurt. I think this is how I looked when I died. It's been so long..." "We need to get out of here," Tommy said worriedly. He hated the cell and the fear that Dream induced on him. Not to mention his claustrophobia. Suddenly Dream spoke. Apparently he had finished talking to Theo. "Oh come on Tommy," he said. "You know Sam isn't coming. He thinks you're dead after all!" Dream laughed. Tommy shuddered. "Theo here was just explaining to me about what his universe was like. It's quite interesting I think. It's nice to know that at least some Tommys can turn out right." Tommy growled at him angrily. The younger Tommy stared at Dream curiously. "So your Dream, huh?" He said. Dream looked him up and down. You're pretty young to have died,” Dream commented dryly. "I died in a war!" Tommy said, seeming slightly upset. "Some idiot named Sap- Tommy slapped his hand over the young one's mouth to silence him. He wasn't sure if he wanted Dream to know that Sapnap was Toms' Murderer. He didn't know how the man would react. "Mfhey!" Toms let out a muffled protest. Dream watched them curiously. Toms turned to him curiously. "Why are you so scared of this weirdo? He's probably just some homeless idiot with no friends." Dream growled angrily. "That is not true!" He yelled indignantly. "Before I was unjustly thrown into this place I had a great house!" "Keep telling yourself that," Toms smirked. Tommy let out a laugh. He loved this feisty golden haired version of himself more and more. "Be careful what you say child, or you'll end up like that Tommy over there," Dream spat coldly. Tommy flinched inwardly, but pushed himself between Toms and Dream. "Don't lay a one bloody finger on him, or I'll beat you until there's nothing left!" He hissed, anger flooding him. Theo then stood in front of Dream and raised a fist threateningly. "Oh, I'll take you up on that," he said calmly. "Dream, you got any potatoes?" Tommy blanched. Suddenly a creaking sound rang throughout the cell. It almost sounded like gears turning. "Is that," Tommy trailed off. "What?" Toms and Theo asked at the same time. Before Tommy or Dream could reply, the lava wall covering the entrance slowly lowered down, revealing the surrounding area of the prison. Tommy gasped with happiness, tears of relief almost falling from his eyes. He was free. Dream yelled in anger. "Hello?" A dull voice echoed through the prison and over the lava moat surrounding the cell. "SAM!?" Tommy yelled, his voice cracking with hope and exhaustion. A huge man suddenly appeared on the other side of the most in a room filled with levers. He had fancy armor and bright green hair along with a strange gas mask covering his mouth. "Tommy! You're alive! Who are those people with you?!" "I can explain later, but they're trapped with me! Can you get us out?" Tommy yelled back. He just wanted to get home. "Yes!" The warden yelled back. "Get on the other side of the railing and I'll send the bridge over," he said. Tommy's heart soared. He could finally see Tubbo!! "Don't think this will be the end of it Tommy," Dream said with a cruel smile. "You can never get rid of me." Tommy ignored him, focusing his thoughts on being free. "Are we leaving?" Toms broke into his thoughts. "Will you show me your home?" Tommy put a hand on the young ones shoulder. "Yes," he said. "There are so many people I want you to meet!" "Wait what about Theo?" Toms asked. Theo tilted his head at them. "You two really think I'm staying here? In this place? No way." "What if I don't let you?" Tommy said threateningly, pulling himself to his full height, which, was pretty tall all things considered. Theo glanced towards Sam who seemed to be looking down at the levers distracted, and then he grabbed the front of Tommy's shirt. He dragged him closer and whispered, "You really think you can stop me?" Tommy paled, but tried to hold his own. "I could if I needed to," he growled. "You could never," Theo sneered and shoved Tommy away, dangerously close to the edge. After what seemed like an eternity, the bridge finally floated over and the three of them boarded, leaving Dream behind. As the lava wall was lowered again, cutting Dream from his sight, he heard Dream call out. "Goodbye Tommy," he sang in a song-song voice. "See you soon!"
Thanksgiving came quickly that year. Jess was growing bigger and bigger, her pregnant belly tiny on her small frame. “We need to make pies,” Dean said one night at Mary’s house. “Come on, Thanksgiving is in two days. We need a plan. Help me out here, Jess.” “We need, like, three kinds of pie,” she nodded in agreement. “The baby wants it.” “You’re barely three months in,” Sam said, but he smiled happily, putting a hand on Jess’ belly. “You had me craving chocolate chips and shrimp at one month, mister,” Mary said with a wink at Jess. “I still don’t know how you didn’t know you were pregnant earlier,” Dean said to Jess. “I mean, how do you not know you’ve got a baby in there?” “It’s because my cycle isn’t regular. It’s not weird for me to go months without getting my period. You want all the details?” Jess teased, and Dean shook his head frantically. Mary chuckled at Dean’s discomfort, and changed the subject. “Pies sound perfect. Cas, are you making them?” “Yes!” Dean supplied before Cas had the chance. “Apparently I am,” Cas said, raising a brow at Dean. “Oh, Dean! I had a really good idea about how you could do your cake for the wedding!” Jess said suddenly, and Dean groaned. “I love you, kid, but you’re killing me here. You’ve planned everything. We’re done.” “Weddings are never done!” Jess exclaimed. “Cas, say something,” Dean pleaded, and Cas sat down his mug of hot cocoa to concentrate on Jess. “What’s your idea?” he asked seriously, and Jess lit up. Dean groaned loudly and complained that he might as well be marrying Jess at this point, to which Sam complained, and Dean hastily admitted he was only joking. The banter between her kids, blood and adopted, continued, and Mary picked up her needlework, content to just listen. * “Yes,” Cas said, sighing happily as he pulled a steaming apple pie out of the oven to join a chocolate silk pie, and a pecan pie, both cooling on the counter. “Dude, they look awesome,” Dean said, and Cas wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead before turning the oven off with a click. Dean came up behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist, peppering his neck with kisses. “You know,” Dean continued kissing his neck, up to Cas’ ear. “We could always be a little late. Or not go at all.” “Dean,” Cas breathed out, and arched his back to press into Dean’s body, before turning to face him. “You’re only saying that so you can keep all the pies.” “Am I that obvious?” Dean smirked, and he kissed Cas softly. “You got me. But I still love you more than pie.” “I’m flattered,” Cas said wryly. “Grab those two and follow me.” They made their way over to Mary’s house, where the smell of her cooking wafted down the short hall and into the warm living room, where Jess and Sam sat, holding hands and watching the Macy’s parade on television. “Slackers,” Dean said, kicking the door shut quietly behind him. “She wouldn’t let me help,” Jess said indignantly. “Something about the heat and stress being too much for the baby.” “I made the mashed potatoes,” Sam piped up, and Jess rolled her eyes. “Yes, sweetheart, those instant potatoes can be tricky.” Sam put his hand over his heart, faking extreme hurt. “I slaved over a hot microwave for five minutes, just for you to complain?” he gasped. Jess laughed and pulled him in for a kiss. Dean pretended to gag, and followed Cas to the dining room, where Mary had laid plates of delicious looking food. There were Sam’s potatoes, green beans with heaps of melting butter, stuffing, buttermilk biscuits, and, in place of pride in the center of the table, a browned and steaming turkey, fresh from the oven and piping hot. “These look wonderful. Here,” Mary said, and she took the pies to the refrigerator, only leaving the apple one on the table to cool off. “Sam! Jess! Come eat!” Sam and Jess made their way into the room, and the group settled in around the table. Mary sat at the head, a habit she adopted the first Thanksgiving after John had passed away, and Dean had begged her to not leave his seat empty. Sam and Jess sat on one side of the table, still teasing each other relentlessly and Cas sat next to Dean across from them, hand coming to rest peacefully on Dean’s knee. Mary stood at her seat, and the voices around the table grew quiet as she said the prayer. “Dear Lord, thank you for what we have, and not just today. May we not take it for granted. Thank you for our health and happiness, every day of the year. Amen.” They dug in with fervor. Around bites of the delicious food, they retold family stories that they knew from heart, just to relive the moments. Dean shared the time when Sam had gotten a plastic army man stuck up his nose, and Mary had to drive him to the hospital, where he proceeded to sneeze and launch the piece of plastic at the kindly old doctor. Sam countered with a story of Dean fishing when he was younger, pulling his pole back to cast, and somehow lodging the three pronged hook into his own underwear. Mary quieted the war by telling Jess about how Dean and Sam had both begged to go to a haunted house as children, and were so terrified when they emerged that they slept in her bed for a week. “On to tradition,” Mary said, when Dean and Sam recovered from their embarrassment. “We need to go around the table and say what we’re thankful for. Who wants to go first?” When all of the kids avoided her gaze, as usual, Mary grinned. “Looks like I’m first again this year. I’m thankful for all of you, and how close we are. Next?” Sam spoke up in a small voice. “I’m thankful you let me and Jess stay here. And that the baby is healthy.” Mary beamed, and Dean spoke next. “I guess I’d have to say I’m thankful we live next door to someone who can cook,” he joked, and Cas managed to look amused and offended at the same time. “But yeah…I’m thankful for Cas.” Cas’ nose turned pink at the compliment, but he took his turn next. “I’m thankful to Michael Milton for trying to get me to eat that worm in first grade,” he said shyly. “I wouldn’t have met Dean for years without that.” “We should go find it. The worm, not Michael, I mean. I’ll build it a little worm house,” Dean said, and he nudged Cas with his knee while giving him a wink, and Jess laughed. “It can be our pet. We’ll teach it our ways, dress it in human clothes. And when it wants to go home, we ride our bikes over the moon-” “Dean, that’s the plot of E.T.,” Cas said, laughing loudly. “You’re so weird,” Sam joined in laughing, and they only stopped when they realized Mary was looking at Jess expectantly. “Oh…my turn,” Jess said, and she paused for a moment. “I’m thankful that I have a family again, that I love. I’ve got a mom, two big brothers I never really wanted, but couldn’t live without, and you, Sam.” She grinned widely and reached into her pocket, producing a sonogram picture. “Not to mention the little one. I know I told everyone the baby was healthy at the visit to the doctor yesterday. But I didn’t tell you that the doctor was able to tell me the gender.” She looked at Sam, whose eyes were wide with excitement. “Do you want to know first?” she said, and he nodded. Jess leaned down to whisper in his ear, so softly that no one at the table had any idea of what she said. Sam’s face broke into a grin, and he wiped hastily at his eyes before Jess stood up again. She kept her eyes trained on Mary, who was nearly bouncing out of her seat with excitement. “Think you can handle another boy?” The hush that had settled over the room exploded. Mary cried and leaped up to hug Jess and Sam, and Dean and Cas jumped up to do the same. Everyone was talking excitedly, animatedly, and Dean looked around at his family, happily planning for the future. He felt a pain in his chest, but it was instantly replaced by happiness when he saw the look of pure joy on Sam’s face as he grasped him in a tight hug. “Can you believe it?” Sam whispered into Dean’s ear, and Dean hugged him tighter. “Congratulations, man,” Dean said when they broke apart. “Here’s hoping he doesn’t get your hair.” The rest of the afternoon passed quickly, and ended with Cas’ delicious pies. Dean had a slice of each one, and by the time they headed back home, his stomach was full to bursting. He could barely stand to look at the leftovers when he put them in the fridge. They climbed into bed early that night, wrapped around each other in the chill of the old house, even with the heat cranked high. “Did you have a good Thanksgiving?” Dean asked sleepily, and Cas nodded. “It was hard without Mom, but yes. You made it perfect. You and your attempt at passing off E.T. as your own story.” “I still say we go find the little bastard. Take the worm in, raise him as our own,” Dean said, and Cas nudged him with his elbow. “Earthworms don’t live that long,” Cas said, and he yawned. “No way. I remember Mrs. Adler telling us about that one that lived ten years back in fourth grade, remember?” Dean pressed. “Dean, Mrs. Adler was a barely functioning drunk. Besides, even if it’s true, that was an exception, not the normal life span. I think they only live a year or so, which means our worm has been dead for a very long time.” Dean rolled over onto his back, and he suddenly laughed. “What?” Cas asked. “I’m lying in bed with my best friend, on Thanksgiving night, arguing over the lifespan of an earthworm, and I couldn’t be happier. It’s perfect. You’re perfect.” Cas rolled over to kiss Dean on his hair, inhaling the sweet scent. “And you need to get some sleep,” he said, and tucked himself against Dean’s side. “I promised Jess we’d go shopping tomorrow.” “Aw, Cas, why?” Dean sighed. “I hate shopping on black Friday.” “Because she wanted to go, and you don’t argue with a pregnant lady. Especially the one carrying our nephew.” Cas took Dean’s silence as acceptance, and was soon asleep beside him, breathing deeply. Dean lay awake, though, the words flowing over him. Sam wasn’t just becoming a father. He and Cas were going to be uncles. * “And you! College is good?” Annie asked Cas sharply, and when he agreed, her face softened. “I know you do fine. You have passion. Anything possible with passion.” “Doesn’t hurt that he’s smart as hell too,” Dean said with a wink, and Cas blushed. “Smart and handsome. How you get so lucky?” Annie teased Dean, who shrugged good naturedly. “How are you doing?” Cas asked her, anxious to change the subject. Annie sighed, then smiled at Cas before placing her hand on his arm. “I do okay. Sometimes I hear a laugh, and think it him. I get sad, but then happy. You know why?” Cas shook his head slowly, and Annie squeezed his arm. “Because I lucky enough to hear it again. Even if it not him, I can pretend. Now! No sad today. I bring you best mondoo in the country!” Annie bustled off to the kitchen, and Cas looked up to see Dean watching him across the table. “How about a walk after this?” Dean asked suddenly. “You and your walks,” Cas said, grinning. “Yes.” Annie, true to her word, brought the boys heaps of freshly made mondoo, a small bowl of kimchi, and even some of the goguma Dean had come to favor. They ate happily, praising Annie’s cooking every time she passed the table, and were soon stuffed and content. Annie made her way back over to their table soon after. “Dessert?” she asked, and Dean and Cas groaned in response. “Just the bill, please,” Dean said. “I think my body weight is forty percent mondoo.” “No bill,” Annie said sternly, and when Dean began to argue the point, she cut him off. “No! Eli love you two like sons. Family eats free.” “We can’t just eat all that and leave!” Dean protested. “That costs money to buy. It’s not fair to you.” “What’s not fair is Eli and I having no kids. You my boys. You his boys. And I say you no pay.” She glared at Dean, who backed down immediately. “Yes, ma’am. Thanks, Annie.” “You’re welcome,” she said, and she wrapped both boys up in tight hugs before they left. “Come see me again soon.” Dean and Cas left the restaurant and walked downtown, the chill of the early December air causing them to bundle up and shiver slightly. They walked down lit streets, bright with Christmas decorations and the multitude of lights from big city living. It was far from quiet; cars drove past, inhabitants called out to one another in the twilight, and horns blared when drivers were cut off. But to Dean and Cas, the movement of the city was mesmerizing. After living in tiny Chesterfield, any trip to Lincoln was an adventure. They wandered the city for as long as the cold would allow, hands entwined, pointing out various sites and festive holiday decorations until their noses began to chill and shivers ran rampant through their bodies. Dean led Cas back to the Impala, and once inside, he fired it up and blasted warmth throughout the car. He began to drive, though not the way they normally returned home. It was several minutes before Cas noticed. “Where are we going?” Cas asked, looking at the unfamiliar terrain. “Almost there,” Dean grinned, and soon he was pulling onto a winding gravel road. Cas craned his neck to see where they were headed. Quite suddenly, the view shifted from tall trees to a clearing, and Cas was hit with the sudden image of the Lincoln skyline across the water. Dean pulled up slowly, and cut the lights off, leaving the car idling to give them some heat in the cold winter night. The lights from Lincoln glittered on the water, as though a second city was laying underneath the gentle ripples. In front of them, Lincoln rose up in tall metal spikes against the night sky, dotted with lights and life. “This is beautiful,” Cas breathed out, and he moved closer to lay his head on Dean’s shoulder. “I thought you’d like it,” Dean murmured. “I wish I had my poetry journal with me,” Cas admitted. “What, no violin music this time?” “You’re all the inspiration I need.” Dean settled back into his seat and linked his fingers with Cas’, who gave them a small squeeze before bringing Dean’s hand to his mouth to kiss. Dean watched Cas staring out into the view, the lights reflecting off his blue eyes. “I’m in love with you, you know,” Dean said softly, and Cas turned to look at him curiously. “I know. I’m in love with you, too,” Cas said. “Hey, I’ve got this crazy idea,” Dean said in a teasing tone. “Let’s get married.” “Hmm,” Cas replied, kissing Dean on the cheek. “I think you already asked me.” “Yeah, but I never get tired of hearing you say yes.” “Well, then yes, Dean Winchester. I’ll marry you. At least I’m not in drag this time.” Dean laughed and pulled Cas into a soft kiss. The first of January couldn’t come quickly enough.
Baby Steps Chapter Eight “Where’s Jared? I’m not doing this until Jay’s here cause he will pout like hell if he misses this and-oh my fucking God, I will never let him touch me again!” “Well, the boy ain’t got the mouth on him that you did any of the seven times you went through this.” Callum remarked, wincing at the slap to his chest from his wife. “Well, it’s true. By this point, you’d called me every name in the book, a few that weren’t, and you had threatened to cut off quite a few body parts.” “I’m about to threaten that again if you don’t shush your mouth and go find your son!” Natalie snapped. She was gently wiping sweat out of Jensen’s large eyes as he tried to work through the labor pains that he’d been in for the past eight hours. “We’ve called and left messages at the station and on his phone, sweetie. There was a huge police thing in the next county and that moron Chief thought it was a good idea to send Jared and Chad but he’ll be here before you deliver.” Jensen slumped back against the pillows and tried to regain his breath. He was mentally cussing himself for letting Jared even go to work that day. He hadn’t felt well and he’d felt the same way the day he’d gone into labor with Piper. He was two days overdue and Jared had been nearly manic with worry. Jensen had threatened that, if he didn’t go to work for a few hours, he’d hit him in the head with the new plastic toy sledgehammer Tyler had brought Piper. Now, he wished he’d kept his damn mouth shut and let Jared hover. When he realized his water broke in the middle of feeding Piper lunch, he’d nearly panicked. Of course, the great thing about having been adopted by Jared’s large and welcoming family was that one or two of them had been dropping in a few times a day ever since he’d gotten close to his due date. Tyler had just walked in while Jensen was still trying to get over the shock that he was in labor. He didn’t know which of them was paler. Tyler was great with Piper. He doted and spoiled the nearly 19-month old toddler as much as Jared did. The whole giving birth concept was not so easily handled…though, as Jensen knew, it wasn’t just because he was a man about to push a small human being out of his body. He’d seen the man have a similar reaction when his own sister was in labor too. “Baby!” The construction worker had screamed into the phone while trying to support Jensen and not scare a curious Piper. “Now! He’s… Jare ain’t here and… The baby!” Jensen had no idea who he’d called but less than 20 minutes later, Carly was running into the house. She was dragging her husband along and lecturing him for not being the one to go on that call instead of her dimwitted little brother. The last nine months were a whirlwind of change. Other than being pregnant and going through all the changes to his body and hormones that brought, the paperwork came through that allowed Jared to legally adopt Piper. He give her his name in addition to the Ackles name that Jensen decided to keep mainly because he refused to let his family, who was still hateful, take even that away from him. They also moved into a new, two-story home on the outside of town with more rooms than they needed. Like Jared had said, it was a one-time move. This was the house that they’d raise their family in and Jensen had melted at that. It also had a front and back yard that was fenced in, so Piper and the new puppy could play without fear of traffic. Of course, this pregnancy had left Jensen more tired than Piper’s had, so he mostly had to sit and direct anything done such as painting or moving furniture. Piper had her own room on one side of the master bedroom while the nursery would be on the other side. Only Jared, his parents, Laurie, and Dr. Milly, who’d been thrilled at the chance to come to San Rio to take care of this pregnancy, knew the secret that Jensen did. He and Jared wanted to surprise his siblings and their friends but now that he was facing possibly giving birth alone, he figured that secret would soon be out. “Where’s… Piper?” He asked between clenched teeth, also wishing he hadn’t refused the damn pain shot when Laurie had offered it. “Is she… okay? I will never let him touch me again or he’s getting fixed!” “Piper’s with Katie and Tyler.” Natalie assured him, rubbing his back while looking to see her husband stalking the hall with a phone in his hand. “I used to say that about Cal after every birth… Though, after Jared, I knew he was our last cause my babies kept getting bigger and bigger. But then, you have another reason for having a harder time with this one.” “Yeah, leave it to my brother to put twins into the mix.” Laurie spoke up from where she was taking vital signs. She frowned when another contraction came sooner than she expected. “Okay, these two wanna be born, so Jared had better get his ass here soon or he’s missing the show.” Jensen’s fingers clenched on the bed. “Nope, not doing this until he’s here.” He refused, willing his impatient children to hold on a little longer. “He promised to be here with me through the birth and we’re waiting.” “Now there’s the boy who told off an entire birthing room when I told him I’d have to knock him out for the C-section for Piper’s birth.” Dr. Milly chuckled as she entered the room, dressed and scrubbed. “You know if you have trouble this time, we’ll have to take you into one of the ORs to do this.” “Not… gonna have trouble.” Jensen didn’t want to risk his babies but he was determined to do this like he and Jared had planned… Even if he might scream and call his partner a few interesting names. “Just… just want… fuck!” He swore Piper hadn’t hurt this much and this time, he couldn’t keep in the shout of pain. “Should this hurt like this?” Natalie and Dr. Milly exchanged knowing looks. “Honey, this is just labor. The real pain comes when you’re actually delivering.” The kindly doctor informed him, smiling to relieve the panic she saw building. “You’ll be fine, Jensen. You’re young and healthy. You’ll do fine but we might not be able to wait much longer cause you are ready.” “No, no, you just stop it.” Jensen wasn’t sure what scared him more; the pain or doing this without Jared. He was about to panic when some sound in the hall made him look up. Natalie cocked her head with a warm smile. “And unless I miss my guess and don’t know the sound of my son tearing through the halls, I believe Jared’s here.” She reached for the door just as it slammed open to reveal a wide-eyed, pale-faced, gasping Jared. “I should box your ears for even going to work today, much less going out of town. I’ll do that after you help him bring my grandchildren into this world.” She patted his shaking arm. “Don’t pass out or else your sisters will never let you live it down.” Jared managed to nod but his eyes were locked on Jensen. From the second he heard the first message on his phone to when JD got ahold of him to yell that he was getting bitched at from every Padalecki female and the goddamn DA that Jared had better get his ass back to San Rio and fast, he hadn’t been able to think of anything else but Jensen, Piper, and the delivery that he might very well miss. The speed record he’d set getting to his house that one day was nothing compared to the one he set getting back to town and to the hospital. He was half sure Chad hadn’t died of a stroke from his driving but he wasn’t certain. Anyway, he couldn’t be bothered to check since all he wanted was to be where he was supposed to be. “Next time, I’m taking the whole month off.” He declared firmly. He reached out his hand to Jensen, who grabbed it and held tightly. “Next time?” Jensen’s laugh was watery but full of relief as he let Jared wrap his arms around him and. He used the solid muscle he felt to center himself before the next contraction hit. “Jay, you’ll be lucky if I let you touch me after this. If I do, you better swear to me that we’re just doing kids one at a time.” “Whatever you want, sugar.” Right then, Jared would promise his partner anything just to get that wild panic out of his eyes. He looked up at his sister and Dr. Milly. “What now?” Laurie grabbed his arm and pulled him toward a sink. “Now, you scrub and lose the jacket and gun. Get ready to be cussed at, beat on, threatened, and if he can reach that gun, probably shot, little brother.” She hugged him while smiling. “And get ready to meet your babies.” It took several more hours, mostly with Jared wincing and agreeing blindly as Jensen screamed and threatened him. Laurie finally stepped into the crowded waiting room to announce happily that Jensen had come through with flying colors, Jared only had some minor bruises and scratches, and Wyatt and Phoebe Ackles-Padalecki were both healthy and perfect. “Twins?” Chad Michael Murray had barely survived the trip back but this one about did him in. He adored his best friend’s partner. He spoiled Piper like crazy and planned to do the same again. It was just when he thought too hard that he got woozy. “How’d he… No, no, don’t even wanna go there.” “No you don’t!” Matt Cohen told his fellow police officer while handing tissues to his crying wife and sisters-in-law. “The last time you asked something stupid, Jared threatened to feed you to a bull after he let it stomp you.” Jensen was exhausted but happy as he held his son. After all the testing and whatever medically needed to be done had been completed, the nurses had given the twins back to them. Jared had also been growling that no one had better hurt his babies because he had a gun within reach and half of the San Rio Police Department was in the waiting room. “They’re beautiful, Jen,” Jared said now. He shifted carefully from where he was sitting with his back against the top of the bed. He had one arm around Jensen and their son while he held their daughter in his other arm. He figured he’d counted fingers and toes enough, so now he was trying to count the freckles on his daughter’s face while wisely not mentioning that she got those from Jensen. “You’re beautiful and I love you so much.” “I guess I’ll let you touch me again… After a month or so.” He blinked his heavy eyes to clear them of exhaustion and tears to look up at Jared. “They’re really here, Jay. We have two beautiful babies.” “No, we have three beautiful babies since, when Piper turns 16, we’ll still consider her a baby.” Jared pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Jensen’s head, feeling him lean closer as Dr. Milly stepped into the room. “It’s okay, sugar. Both of them will be back in the room when you wake up and I’ll talk someone into sneaking Piper in so she can meet her brother and sister.” He knew Jensen didn’t want to let go but he also knew his partner needed sleep after so many hours of delivering two tiny, healthy babies. “Make… sure they’ll be safe?” Jensen was drifting but he was still worried. He felt Jared’s lips brush over his. Jared nodded to where Chad had stuck his head in the room. He indicated that he should go watch the babies while he brought Jensen closer in his arms. “Momma will make sure they’re safe and brought back once Laurie finishes whatever needs done. Then, when you wake up, you can feed them but now just sleep. You deserve it.” He heard a soft murmur and smiled. As Jensen slept, Jared looked at this wonderful young man that had come to mean so much to him so quickly. When he’d stepped out of his house that night, he’d known instantly that he’d fallen in love with the man and his daughter. Jared hadn’t expected that night to lead him to where he was now, though. Madly in love with a talented artist who was getting more confident in his skill, even though he’d blushed like crazy when Carly included his drawings in her latest children’s book. He was the father of a beautiful 19-month old little girl and two brand new babies. As long as he lived, Jared knew nothing would ever replace the raw emotion he’d seen on Jensen’s face when their son came into this world closely followed by his impatient sister. Jared carded his fingers back through damp, short, dark blonde hair before placing a light kiss to Jensen’s forehead. Finally feeling him relax fully, he let his own eyes close. His family would wait to visit until Jensen was awake and up to company… or so his mother had decreed. This time was for them alone. Two little beds were sitting across the room with sleeping infants inside. A call from Tyler assured Jared that Piper was fine, happy, and riding the puppy that was bigger than she was. As he felt himself falling to sleep, content and at peace, Jared knew if Jensen wanted more kids, he’d do his best to give the man that wish. If he didn’t, that would be fine as well… But the cop knew if they did have any more, they were going to have to break Jensen of his habit of naming the kids from a TV show. “Love you forever, Jen.” He whispered, looking at their children. He smiled and then fell asleep with dreams of their lives together. The End
Steve lead Bucky towards the washroom, his hands hovering over Bucky’s back. He watched Bucky’s face, worried.“How long were you sitting out there Buck?”Bucky didn’t answer. He just hunched his shoulders and stared off into the distance. Steve gently asked him to sit down on the toilet while he got a bath ready.“You’ll feel a bit better when you get cleaned up.”Bucky continued to say nothing, just watching Steve as he filled the tub. Steve turned around to face him.“Buck, I’m gonna need you to get your clothes off. I’ll clean them as best I can, and give you something else to wear, okay?”Bucky just nodded and reached up to take off his ball cap. Steve smiled as Bucky slowly began to peel off the soggy clothing.“I’m going to get some dry clothes for after your bath, okay?”Bucky nodded and Steve quickly left the bathroom. He hurried to his bedroom and grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a baggy, long sleeved t-shirt. He hurried back to the washroom to find Bucky sitting on the toilet, a pile of wet, dirty clothing at his feet. Steve could almost count Bucky’s ribs under his skin. When was the last time his best friend ate? Steve placed the clothing on the sink and went to turn the water off. He turned over to Bucky and asked him to get into the tub. Steve gathered up the dripping clothes and put them in the hamper, then knelt down in by the tub where Bucky sat.“You need any help, Buck? Is there anything you need?”Bucky looked up at Steve apprehensively, shrugging.“I’m not gonna hurt you Bucky. I promise you that.”Bucky curled in on himself and nodded quietly. Steve smiled before getting up and grabbing a towel.…Steve spent twenty minutes cleaning Bucky’s hair. It was extremely knotted and greasy. Steve wondered silently if Hydra even bothered to wash Bucky’s hair from time to time. He kept an eye on Bucky’s reactions, ready to pull away if need be. Nothing looked out of the ordinary unless you count the fact that Bucky was like a coiled spring. Steve tried very hard to be gentle, telling Bucky what he was doing so as not to scare him. He felt terrible that he had to constantly reassure his friend so that he wouldn’t start freaking out. Still, at least, his friend was home.…Bucky’s heart was pounding at an alarming rate. His mind was racing a thousand miles a minute.‘This is bad.’ He thought. ‘This is very, very bad.’Now to be fair, it wasn’t that Steve was doing a bad job or anything. On the contrary, it felt quite nice. It was the fact that letting this man clean his body went against everything he understood. Bucky could feel his skin crawling and hear a voice screaming in his head to get the fuck out of there. However, there was another, softer voice. This one was telling him to relax, that Steve wasn’t going to hurt him. The voice was soothing and Bucky was tempted to listen, however, he was still fucking terrified.“Alright Buck, I’m going to pour water over your head to rinse the suds out. On three, okay?”Bucky nodded jerkily, trying not to scream.“One… two… three.”Water cascaded down Bucky’s head and face. His eyes were screwed tight as the soapy water flowed. Steve did it three more times, warning Bucky each and every time, counting down so Bucky had time to prepare himself. When all the suds were finally gone, Steve’s hands were on the tub’s edge.“Bucky, can you look at me?”Shaking slightly, Bucky turned his head to Steve, enough so that he could see his face, but not enough so that he could see his.“Are you okay? Do you need me to back off now?” Steve asked, looking quite concerned.Bucky nodded, his head bobbing up and down roughly. He needed Steve to stop, to leave him alone.“Okay, Buck. I understand. There’s a towel for you on the toilet. You just clean the rest of yourself, alright? I’ll make you something to eat for when you’re done.”Steve stood up and smiled warmly at Bucky before leaving the room to get to work. Bucky watched as he left the room, only picking up the bar of soap when the door closed and he was alone. Slowly, Bucky cleaned his body, scrubbing away the dirt and grime from being out in the cold for three months. When he finished, he put the soap away and pulled the plug, watching the water begin to drain away. He got out of the tub and grabbed the towel.‘It’s soft.’ He thought in surprise. ‘The towel’s so soft.’He squeezed the water out of his hair as best he could before drying himself. He looked at the clothes that Steve left for him on the sink and hesitated before reaching for them. Putting on the sweatpants and then the shirt, he reveled in the warmth. Why was he given such nice clothes? Why was Steve being so nice to him with these clothes? Hydra would’ve given him stiff, scratchy pants, or make him walk around naked. But Steve gave him soft, warm clothes. Granted, they were rather big on him, but he felt… good. He felt safe and secure. It was a nice feeling for a change.…When Bucky came out, Steve was filling a bowl with watered down tomato soup. It was simple, easy on the stomach and gave him something to eat. Steve was no fool. He had come across enough malnourished soldiers to know that if you gave them rich food, no matter how high in much-needed nutrients it was, they were guaranteed to spend the next short while vomiting in a corner. However, he didn’t know exactly what he needed to give Bucky to eat, and the internet wasn’t very helpful when he tried to look it up. It only served to piss him off. Greatly. So, Steve decided to call Sam in the morning to see what he could tell him. He quietly asked Bucky to sit at the table while he brought over the soup. Bucky did… somewhat. He was at the edge of the seat and looked ready to bolt if need be. Steve made sure to keep his movement small and slow. After placing the food in front of Bucky, he said,“Go on Buck. Eat. It’ll help.”Bucky listened, quietly drinking the soup, hunched over it protectively, while Steve tried to look like he wasn’t staring (and failing miserably). When Bucky was done, Steve asked,“Would you like some more Buck? Or do you wanna get some rest?”Bucky stared at Steve for a few minutes. He was trying hard to find the right answer. Hesitantly, Bucky raised his right hand, making a flat ‘o’, and tapped the corner of his mouth. Food.Steve was a little surprised by Bucky signing. They hadn’t done signing of any sort since before the war. But, never the less, Steve smiled and nodded.“Sure Buck. I’ll get you some more.”Steve made a mental note to see if he could contact Clint in the morning too.
The press eats it up. By the time Tony retreats to his Malibu home and the morning news really gets started, Iron Man is the lead story, and Tony's face—or, rather, his armor's faceplate—is attached to horrific lead lines like 'Tony Stark takes the charm out of Charm City,' 'Iron Man is going rogue,' and 'Are the Avengers breaking up?'. It's exactly what they were trying to do, so mission accomplished, but it's still kind of depressing—although, on the upside, it's better than being compared to Hitler. Tony tries not to watch the screen as yet another perky news anchor describes in all too vivid detail his confrontation with Captain America and War Machine and recounts the number of buildings Tony managed to completely demolish in that time, and he concentrates very hard on nursing his second cup of coffee instead. Hopefully—hopefully—their little farce works and Loki seeks him out, although he knows Steve and the others are probably working out a backup plan in case this doesn't pan out like they hope it will, and that's totally fine. Just because they all sort of suck at contingency plans is absolutely no reason to worry. A report that paints him in a particularly heinous light—which, really, isn't shocking, considering the source isn't all that fond of him to begin with—starts to play and Tony cringes and turns his head to stare out at the ocean. What he should do, probably, is turn off the TV, go downstairs, turn on some really loud music, and bang at something with a hammer. It won't make the sick feeling that he's ruined everything he's tried to build up since coming back from Afghanistan go away, but maybe it will distract him from it for a little while. Yeah. That's what he should do. He should. Except... He takes a seat on the couch. "FRIDAY?" 'Sir?' He's silent for a moment, having already forgotten why he'd spoken up in the first place—just to hear someone's voice, he supposes, although he's not sure his new AI really counts—and then shakes his head. "Nothing." The news is showing footage of his blasting a building—one he's pretty sure was already set to be destroyed, based on the super quick once-over he got from Rhodey before they set out—and getting clocked on the head by Captain America's shield, again, and Tony can't help but watch as he and two people he considers friends start duking it out in the middle of the street. It's like a train wreck: He wants to look away, but every time he tries... "My, that was quite a spectacle." And there it is. Tony straightens. He's tempted to turn the television off now, just so he can't watch Loki watch the footage, but he leaves it on for emphasis and mutes the sound instead. He doesn't turn around, but he sets his coffee mug aside. "Loki. I heard you were back in town." Loki circles around the couch so that he's in Tony's line of vision, his eyes still on the screen. "Had you? From Thor, I'm sure." "Thor and I aren't really playing for the same team anymore, I don't think." Tony pauses and then wrinkles his nose. "That came out wrong. Not that you'd know. Earth expressions are lost on you, right? I hope?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "We're not on the same side anymore. That's what I meant." Loki's gaze briefly slides from the TV screen. "You are no longer an Avenger? I find that difficult to believe." "Believe it or not, I don't care. They've been throwing me under the bus for every little thing since this whole enterprise started, and I've been putting myself on the line for them every single time. But when I'm the one in trouble? When it's my ass in the fire?" He leans back and crosses his arms. "They let me burn. The Mandarin, AIM, now Ultron? Forget it. I'm done with them. All of them. And they're probably glad to get rid of me, too. I mean, look at what happened with Bruce. Sure, he was a huge help with that one floating city, but as soon as that's fixed they find a way to take him out as payback for the whole South Africa thing. Seriously, I'm pretty sure the only reason they haven't put a bullet in my head is because they want my tech. Or my money. So, you know, too bad for them, because I'm cutting them off from both." Loki considers him, searches his face, and then nods slowly. "I see." Tony straightens again and leans forward. "So is that why you're here? You heard I split from them and decided you wanted to help me out?" Loki's eyebrows go up. "Help you?" "Yeah. I'm not going to lie to you, I'm pissed off, and I want a little payback. Then I can move on and go about my business, you know? And you, you've still got a beef with Thor, right? So, yeah, okay. I'll let you help me out. I'll even let you take a crack at Thor if you want, and when we're all done we'll call it a day." "You'll 'let' me," he repeats dryly, and he shakes his head. "I'm afraid you have grossly misinterpreted my coming here. I've my own plans, and I hardly have the time to waste with yours. I have no intention of offering you my 'help.'" Tony raises his eyebrows. "You've got plans? Of course you've got plans. Okay." He gets to his feet. "In that case, I want in." Loki, whose gaze had slipped to the television again, raises his head and offers Tony the ghost of a bemused, indulgent smile, like he might give to a little kid. "In?" "You say you've got plans, so sure. Why not? I want in." "You want to be subservient to me?" "No way. Let's get this straight from the onset, okay? I'm Tony Stark. I don't play second fiddle to anybody." He nods to the television as Steve comes on screen. "But if you're going after Rogers and the rest of them, I wouldn't mind lending a hand, as long as I get to be on the ground floor of whatever it is we're doing. And come on, you know you can use me. I know the lay of the land. You don't. I know things about the Avengers. More than Clint did when you took him over, that's for sure. Plus, anything I don't know, I can get. I know how to get into their systems. They can try to keep me out, but they can't." Loki arches an eyebrow. "And you think that is incentive?" "I know it's incentive. You don't just want my help—you need it." "I need your help," Loki repeats, clearly skeptical. "Are you so certain of that?" "You bet I am." "Mm. You are vastly overestimating your worth, I think." Tony shrugs. "Sure, maybe, but is that a risk you can take? I mean, things didn't exactly go all that well for you the last time you paid our planet a visit, you remember? Do you really want this to go the same way?" Loki frowns. "As I recall, I was very nearly successful in my last endeavor." "Sure, nearly. Until I came by and blew up the alien hive mind or whatever it was. Oh, yeah, add that to the list of things I've done that no one bothered to thank me for." He shakes his head. "Point is, I'm the reason you lost, technically. Imagine how different it could have gone if I'd been on your side back then. I mean, you tried to get me on your side against my will last time. This time, I'm offering." Tony spreads his hands. "So here, now's your chance to make it happen. Want to win? Let me in on your master plan." Loki watches him, silent for a long moment. His gaze eventually slips back to the television screen, and Tony quickly turns the sound back on, just in case that is any more persuasive than the visual on its own. "—you think, Brenda? Has Iron Man given up on the Avengers?" "I don't know, Stan," the anchor—Brenda, presumably—answers, a little too upbeat for Tony's liking. "It certainly seems as though he and Captain America aren't seeing eye to eye." "Well, the height difference..." Stan quips, and Brenda laughs. Tony turns off the television. He doesn't care whether the footage is convincing anymore; he just doesn't want to listen to it. "Well?" he says instead, trying not only to fill the silence but also to push Loki into a decision. "Are you in or out?" "Perhaps this can be arranged," Loki answers slowly. "But on a trial basis, naturally." That's good enough, for now. Tony can work with that. At least, he thinks he can. "Don't want to rush to judgment too quickly, huh? That's good. It's smart. I like smart. So, what exactly do you have in mind? What are we doing, and when? Soon? Is it soon?" Loki arches an eyebrow. "Don't be too hasty, Stark. All good things come with time. As a man with many vices, and the means to support them, I would think you'd know that." "Yeah, sure, I know that." Tony tries to be subtle about wiping the palms of his hands on his jeans. He can handle high-pressure situations, but this... Well, one wrong move and Loki will know he's trying to play him, and then this whole thing could just spiral completely out of control. "Just, you know, I like to stay busy. Man of action, you know? That's just how I am." "I'm sure it is. Regardless, you will have to exercise some patience. Such delicate ventures cannot—should not—be entered into without some sense of discretion." Say what? Tony isn't a hundred percent sure he knows where Loki is going with this. So far all he knows for sure is that Loki is willing to let him in on his plans, or at least some small part of his plans. Even if it is on a trial basis, Tony is counting that as a win. He has his foot in the door; once he shoves his way through, he'll know everything he needs to bring back to the Avengers and stop Loki once and for all. Assuming Asgard doesn't lose track of the guy and let him out of his cell again, of course, but that's Asgard's problem, not his. As long as Loki stays off Earth, Tony will be happy. "Discretion," he says. "Sure. I can do that. I mean, okay, you probably know the press has a list a mile long of all the people I've slept with, but you should see the list they don't have. It's definitely more impressive, trust me." Loki offers him the ghost of a smile. "We'll see." "Are you at least going to let me in on your plan, at least? See, I like to know what it is I'm signing up for before I get too involved." "You already signed up, technically, and willingly involved yourself in my affairs," Loki says, shrugging. "You have already lost your chance to negotiate." "I did? When did I do that?" "You did," Loki answers, completely ignoring Tony's second question. Then, before Tony can try asking again, he folds himself into a chair catty-corner from the couch, nearest to the window. "Now, I do believe a drink is in order." Tony blinks. "A drink?" "Well, yes. To cement our partnership in this venture." Tony checks the clock on the wall. "It's ten in the morning." Loki gives him a blank look. "Yes, and?" "You don't think it's a little early to be drinking?" Not that Tony is one to talk. He's eased up on his binge drinking, sure, but he still has his moments. He does try not to get completely wasted before mid-afternoon, though. He finds it's better for his general well-being if he stays mostly sober until at least after lunch. Loki waves a dismissive hand. "Not at all. I'll admit that I am unfamiliar with your customs here, but on Asgard, we take drink with nearly every meal." Tony frowns. It's the first he's heard of that, and he's spent a fairly substantial amount of time with Thor. Then again, maybe Thor is just too polite to ask for anything stronger than coffee with his breakfast, or maybe Thor has been doctoring his juice this entire time without anyone noticing. It's really not Tony's place to judge, and, hey, now that he thinks about it, aren't the Asgardians essentially just Vikings with cooler toys? Vikings drank a lot, right? Of course they did. Okay. He's got this. "Yeah, okay," he concedes, and he picks up his coffee cup before crossing the room to his bar. The stock is a little low, and he makes a mental note to have FRIDAY put in an order to replenish it before the week is out. He's not planning on having any wild parties, but, hey, you never know, and if he's going to spending more time with a guy who could probably eviscerate him without putting any real effort into it, he might need to increase his consumption just a bit to help cope—or to help placate the guy doing the eviscerating. "So, what's your poison?" he asks, taking out a bottle of scotch for himself. He unscrews the lid, gives the bottle a sniff, and pours a generous amount into his coffee. "Cognac? You seem kind of like a cognac guy to me." "Do I?" "Yeah. I can totally see you lounging around with a snifter and lording it over your lowly peons while you use one of them as a footstool or something. It's not even a stretch." He puts the scotch bottle back and reaches for the cognac. "So?" "As much as I do enjoy the footstool imagery, perhaps another time. A beer will suffice instead," Loki says, turning his head to look out the window. That gives Tony a moment's pause. Okay, so... He knows Thor appreciates a good beer, although the guy has definitely done some serious damage to Tony's liquor cabinet in his time and has a particular fondness for akvavit, which, honestly, Tony just picked up as a curiosity while he was at some conference or another. Still, Loki... Loki doesn't seem like a beer kind of guy. Port, maybe, or a good brandy, sure, but beer? "A beer?" he repeats. "You sure?" "Doctor Selvig insisted I try one during my previous visit. Something to do with 'the songs of his ancestors.' He insisted it was a beverage to be enjoyed with one's allies." Loki's gaze slides to meet Tony's. "And are we not allies in this, Stark?" "Of course we are. Absolutely." He knows he has beer, although he's not entirely sure where it is, so he closes the cabinet containing his liquor and starts opening up all the refrigerated sections of the bar, trying to find it. "Working together for a common goal, that sort of thing, that definitely makes us allies. Partners in crime, even. Or is that going too far? Speaking of crime, though, I should probably say up front that I'm not particularly okay with murdering people. I mean, not for fun or anything. Or for profit. So if we could just go easy on the murder, that'd be really great. Really." "I'll endeavor to keep that in mind." That's only vaguely reassuring, but Tony opts not to press the matter. He's still walking on pretty shaky ground with Loki; it's probably better he not push him too far just yet. There will be plenty of time for that later. He finally finds some beer and takes a bottle—then, just in case, takes a second one—and takes those and his coffee-scotch over to Loki, who takes one of the bottles from him. Tony sets the second on the floor next to Loki's chair before he retreats back to his spot on the couch. "So," he says. "Are we proposing a toast or something?" "If you would like." Loki removes the cap from his bottle and considers the contents before he takes a tentative drink. He apparently finds it acceptable, and he settles back in his seat. "Did you have something particular in mind?" "Not really." "Then allow me." He raises his beer just slightly and waits for Tony to lift his coffee cup before he recites, "Byrþi betri berrat maþr brautu at an sé manvit mikit, auþi betra þykkir þat í ókunnun staþ slíkt es válaþs vera." Tony drinks when Loki does, then shakes his head. "What was that?" "A toast." "Yeah, but what did it mean?" Loki offers him a slow, small smile that makes the hairs on the back of Tony's neck stand on end. "Hardly anything of importance. Drink up, Stark. We are celebrating." Well, that can't be good. Still, Tony resolves not to worry about it—for now—and returns the smile with a grin of his own, trying not to look concerned. "Right," he answers. "Down the hatch." *** Several drinks and the most awkward forty-five minutes in the history of the universe later, Loki finally leaves and Tony shuts his eyes, tilting his head back to rest against the top of the couch. He's definitely a bit more buzzed than he'd like, mostly because Loki had insisted it was rude for his host to go without while he was still drinking and had continually topped up Tony's cup—something he'd have appreciated, probably, if he didn't have to try and act like some kind of super spy—until he'd apparently decided he'd had enough and left without so much as a 'thank you.' "Alone at last," Tony says. "Seriously, it's way too early for this." He rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "FRIDAY, you got all of that, right?" 'I did, sir. Should I forward the transcript to Captain Rogers?' He shakes his head and immediately regrets it as the world starts to swim behind his eyes. Okay, maybe he's more drunk than he is buzzed at this point. Lesson learned. "Better not." He rubs at the bridge of his nose. "See if you can translate that gibberish he said was a toast, though, will you? I want to make sure he wasn't trying to cast some kind of mind control spell or something on me. Clint would never let me live that down." FRIDAY processes that for about thirty seconds before speaking up. 'It seems to be text from the Hávamál, sir.' "The what?" 'The words of the high one, as they appear in the Poetic Edda. They are usually attributed to the god Odin.' Well, that's interesting. It sounds almost as though Loki's daddy issues might be acting up. If they are, maybe Tony can use that, if he can figure out a way to do it without it backfiring on him. "What's it mean?" 'Roughly translated, it is part of a warning as to the perils of excessive drinking. Perhaps he was giving you advice, sir?' He points a finger at the nearest wall sensor. "Watch it, FRIDAY. The last AI that got sassy with me wound up getting a body and becoming a superhero. Let's try not to have a repeat of that so soon if we can help it. Seriously, I'm not sure the world could take two of you guys." He lowers his arm, mostly because it suddenly seems very heavy. "Give me the exact translation, all right? Word for word." 'A better burden no man can bear on the way than his mother's wit, and no worse provision can he carry with him than too deep a draught of ale.' FRIDAY pauses. 'Would you care for the rest of the verse, sir?' "Nah, don't worry about it." Tony frowns at the ceiling and rakes his fingers through his hair. "Is he on to me? Is that what that means?" 'The odds of—' "Rhetorical question, FRIDAY. Don't answer it. I don't want to know." He scrubs his hands over his face. "I should really be more sober for this. All right, if he is on to me, what then? Is he going to come after me? It doesn't seem like it. I mean, he sat right there for almost an hour and the only hint I've got that he's got an idea that I'm not totally sincere is that toast, and that could mean probably anything, right? Maybe he always gives that toast. I should call Thor and ask him. Except that'd probably be bad, especially if Loki is monitoring my phone lines somehow. That will totally give him the wrong idea." Or is it the right idea? Maybe it doesn't matter. "Is he monitoring my phone lines?" 'Is that a hypothetical question, sir?' He really does miss JARVIS sometimes. "No." 'I have seen no indication that anyone has tampered with or attempted to access your communication outlets at this time, sir.' "Okay. Good. At least I know he's not actively keeping tabs on me. Probably. Unless he's being super creepy and working some of his magic hoodoo on me. Have you seen any hoodoo going on, FRIDAY?" 'My sensors are not able to track hoodoo, sir.' Well, that makes sense. It's not as though Tony has any idea how to calibrate for that sort of thing anyway. Aside from his run-ins with Loki and with Wanda Maximoff, he's had very little access to hoodoo—or any other forms of pseudoscience, come to think of it—during the past few years. "Okay. Good. Keep on the lookout and make sure you let me know if anything pops up that needs my attention, got it?" 'Of course, sir.' He can't let himself freak out over nothing. So Loki gave a toast and then plied him with liquor. Big deal. Even if Loki does suspect something is up, it's not like Tony told him anything. He just made really bad small talk for a little while, and probably a good ten or fifteen minutes of it was about the weather. Seriously, it's not that easy to chat up a guy who doesn't get any pop culture references and with whom he has absolutely nothing in common, and since Loki made it pretty clear that he didn't want to talk about his evil plan for world domination, that was right out, too. And that can't be good, right? Loki isn't going to trust him if Tony can't find some way to relate to him and get him to open up, which more or less defeats the purpose of Tony blowing up parts of a city and making the entire country hate his guts. But what is there? Pretty much the only thing they have in common, that Tony can figure out, is that they both know Thor, but Tony is pretty sure that line of conversation is going to go pretty poorly. After all, Thor is an Avenger, and sure, Tony is supposed to be altogether not too fond of the Avengers at the moment, but the fact of the matter is that he thinks Thor is an all-around good guy and he doesn't want to risk screwing up, saying the wrong thing, and getting on Loki's bad side all over again. He groans. "I'm getting the feeling this isn't going to be as easy as I hoped it would be," he says. "I guess I should have paid more attention when Thor was telling us about the good old days back in Asgard. Don't suppose you have any of those conversations saved, FRIDAY?" 'I'm afraid not, sir.' "Figures." It's his own fault, really. FRIDAY is programmed to retain the essentials only—Tony's attempt at keeping her processing smoothly with minimal effort on his part—and that requires her to dump nonessential data at the end of every day. "All right, I'm not going to call Thor and ask him for dirt on his little brother, so I'll have to do the next best thing. Scour the internet and collect anything you can find on him, will you? I only want to see the cliff note version, though, so try and keep it brief." 'Would you prefer the final report with or without citations?' "It's my eyes only, so just footnote them in case I want to reference back. Keep it streamlined." Tony pushes to his feet, using the arm of the couch to help him keep his balance when the world tilts a little bit sideways from the effort, and then slowly makes his way toward the stairs leading down to his workshop. "I'll be downstairs." 'I should warn you, sir, that Loki is already there.' That gives Tony a moment's pause. "Down where? Down in my lab down there? And you didn't say anything about it earlier? I thought he left. Shit. Was he listening?" FRIDAY takes a moment to process before she decides which question to answer. 'I took your proposal to enter into a partnership with him as permission to grant him access, sir.' He is totally going to have to up her security protocols, at minimum, once this is over. Still, he has to admit that this is probably at least partly his fault. He never thought to let his AI in on the details of this plan and, unlike JARVIS, FRIDAY hasn't been around long enough to know when something is a little off and ask about it. She'll get there—he perfected the learning AI ages ago, after all—but he can't expect it to happen overnight. If he'd put any thought into it at all, he'd have arranged for Vision to come download JARVIS's memory into FRIDAY's or something, if that's even something Vision can do, but oh well. Another time. For now... Tony rubs at the bridge of his nose. "Okay, fine, fair. What's he doing?" 'I'm afraid I'm not entirely sure.' "But you have some kind on feed on him, right? Security cameras?" It takes FRIDAY a moment to answer. 'I believe he is using some form of electromagnetic pulse to block the feed, sir. I cannot access it; I can only confirm that he is there.' Great, just great. EMP in the workshop isn't bad news at all. Okay, time to take inventory. Loki is messing around downstairs. What's down there? The bots, but they're probably doing their usual thing and being more of a hindrance than of any help. A couple works-in-progress Tony had been tooling with before getting called off to hang out with the Avengers. No real dangerous projects, thankfully, since he's still in a weird transition phase of moving all his stuff back in now that the house has been rebuilt. He has a couple suits down there, too, but the only one that isn't locked up and that Loki might be able to access is pretty beat up, thanks to Cap and Rhodey, and all its weapon systems are offline. There's no way Loki is getting anything out of that unless he completely takes the thing apart and figures out how to rebuild them outside of the suit, and that doesn't seem very likely. Still, even though Loki might not be able to get any of Tony's weapons or anything going, he's not exactly defenseless, and unless Tony manages to develop amazing aim in the next few minutes and finds something really, really heavy to lob at Loki's head while the guy's back is turned, he's pretty sure he's the one at the disadvantage here if things go sour. And who knows what the guy overheard after Tony thought he left? How is he going to interpret Tony's debating whether or not to call Thor, or his research project? Then again, if Loki had heard all that, and cared about it, wouldn't he be up here doing something horrible to him? Loki isn't exactly known for reigning in his temper, and the guy moves fast. If Loki wanted to hurt him—or worse—he's had plenty of time to do it, and he hasn't. So what's Loki up to? Is he oblivious or just lulling Tony into a false sense of security? Only one way to find out. Tony shakes his head. "Okay, I'm going to do it. It's probably a suicide mission, but I'm doing it. FRIDAY, if anyone comes asking after my body, have them check downstairs first. I don't care what he does to me, I want an open casket and then I want to be entombed like an Egyptian pharaoh, except I want people to be able to walk in and check me out. More like Lenin, I guess, except without all the politics. Charge admission." 'You want a capitalist funeral, sir?' "The best money can buy." He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Here I go," he announces, and heads down the stairs. He doesn't wait to see what's going on before he opens the door to the workshop and walks right in. "You know, if you wanted the grand tour, you could have just asked me." Loki makes a thoughtful noise but doesn't look away from the many, many holoscreens he has open in front of him. He doesn't even turn around to face Tony, which, honestly, is a little bit insulting. "I'd rather assumed you would take the opportunity to sleep off your earlier ordeal. It cannot be so simple, turning one's back on one's friends." "They aren't my friends." They're more than that, but that's not any of Loki's business. "What are you looking for, exactly, and why did you feel the need to ply me with liquor before you went looking for it? What kind of partnership is this, Loki?" "A tentative one," he answers smoothly. Tony makes a face. "Yeah, well, you just remember that trust is a two-way street, you got it? Don't think I won't change my mind and bail if I decide I don't like how this is going." Loki scoffs. "I could have drugged you and used the time you were helpless to come here, but I chose not to. I would count that as being remarkably trustworthy." "Yeah, the fact that you could have roofied me and didn't—and the part where you even think that's a possible means of ditching someone—isn't exactly making me feel all warm and fuzzy." "I assure you that I would only resort to such drastic action in an extremely desperate situation." "That's not exactly making me feel better." Still, he lets it go. Given the option, he'd definitely rather Loki try to drink him under the table than do whatever other crazy things the guy can concoct. He ventures further into the room so that he can get a better look at what Loki has on the holoscreens. To be honest, he's mostly just impressed Loki figured out how to use them so quickly. Thor can swear all he wants that Asgard's technology is more advanced, but Tony knows for a fact that it took the demigod longer to figure these things out than it did Captain America, and Steve has trouble working the DVD player. "What's all this? Loki waves a dismissive hand. "Research." Tony spots an article and news still from his run-in with the Mandarin a few years back and he rotates the screen toward him. "You're researching me?" "I do have to be sure you can be trusted," Loki points out. "I also think it important I fully understand your motivations in joining me before I truly welcome you into the fold." He glances at the screen Tony indicated and shrugs. "Thus far your public history seems consistent with what you've told me. I knew your comradery with Captain Rogers was somewhat mercurial, but not quite to the extent that he would not aid you in a time of crisis." "Yeah, that was a rough couple weeks." He gives the other screens a cursory glance. "Finding anything good?" He doesn't wait for an answer, instead pulling another screen—this one with what looks like the beginnings a to-do list, except written in symbols Tony doesn't recognize—closer to him. "This yours?" "Notations. Nothing more." Loki waves a hand and the screens all disappear. "Thus far I suppose I've no evidence that you are lying to me." "You're really not giving me enough credit. I mean, seriously. You didn't have to do research on me." Although he has to admit, knowing Loki is researching him makes Tony feel a little bit better about having FRIDAY research Loki. All he has to do now is hope Loki doesn't dig deep enough to figure that out. He supposes he should just be grateful Loki hasn't thought to ask any of the obvious questions, like— "It is remarkable that although it is no secret as to where you are—I found you easily enough, after all—your one-time comrades have yet to come after you." Like that. Just like that. Tony feigns nonchalance and shrugs. "They're probably still off licking their wounds. Or still busy trying to clean up. That's what they do, you know. They destroy a place and then go back and pick up their messes like that's going to make anything better." Loki gives him a sideways look. "That is precisely the reason you invented your heroic persona, is it not? To clean up your own messes?" Ouch. Loki's not wrong, but it's not like Tony really wanted the reminder. Somehow it's even worse coming from Loki. "It's not the same thing." "Hm." "Anyway, that's probably what it is. Now that you mention it, maybe I should relocate. Do you have a hideout? Maybe I can bunk there for a while." Loki gestures broadly. "Oh, but it is not half so nice as all this. No, I think perhaps I will stay here and merely add my personal touch to your defenses." "What exactly does that mean?" Loki looks at him. "I've means of arranging things so that no one can find this place without a direct invitation from someone inside. Knowing what I do of your encounter with the man known as the Mandarin, it seems to be a skill you could have used before." He shrugs. "Never fear, Stark. This partnership does have its benefits, I assure you." "You're... going to stay here?" Is that good? Does that mean Loki trusts him? "I assume that is not a problem." It is totally a problem. A hundred percent of a problem. Loki bunking at Malibu means Tony has to be on his guard all the time—although, granted, the fact that Loki can basically appear out of thin air without any notice whatsoever wouldn't make his commuting back and forth much better—and that he has to keep up his bad guy act all day every day until this gets figured out. That's going to be exhausting. Plus, there's the less than awesome part where it means Loki is going to be there all the time and might kill him in his sleep. Still, it's not like he can say anything like that to Loki, so Tony shrugs instead. "Sure, it's fine. I've got tons of space. Tons. Plenty to spare. Just, you know, usual house guest rules. No wild parties without inviting me, stuff like that." "You do take the fun out of things. Very well, I agree to your terms." Loki takes a step back from the work table. "Do carry on without me." "Where are you going?" "To make myself at home, naturally," Loki says, and, just like that, he disappears. Tony is silent for a moment, waiting to see if he shows back up, and then he tilts his head back. "FRIDAY, where'd he go? Is he still lurking around?" 'I don't have a reading of him in the vicinity, sir.' So that probably means he left. Okay. Good. That'll give Tony time to get his thoughts in order and hopefully put together some kind of game plan. He has a supervillain living in his house, and he knows no more about Loki's plan than he did this morning. Is that progress? He seriously can't tell. So far all of this almost seems too easy. He's on the verge of an anxiety attack, sure, but so far Loki isn't giving him any trouble. He's barely asking him any questions. What does that mean? "I need more information," he decides. "FRIDAY, what have you got on him?" 'The vast majority of my sources stem from mythology, sir, and the accuracy cannot be determined without verification, perhaps from Thor.' "That's fine. I figured that would happen." He took a seat on one his spinny stools and took a whirl around, just for fun. DUM-E whirred and beeped at him from the corner. "Pull it up on screen. All of it. I'm going to take advantage of his being gone to work on my homework. Knowledge is power, right? Who said that? Someone famous, right?" 'Francis Bacon, I believe.' "Famous enough." A series of holoscreens spawn in a circle around him and Tony turns his stool slowly so he can get the full effect. "Looks like I've got my work cut out for me. I thought I told you I wanted the short version?" 'I was as concise as possible, sir.' "That's a scary thought. Okay, go ahead and disregard anything about the battle in New York. See if that narrows things down." Two, maybe three screens disappear, but probably a dozen or so stay up. Tony furrows his brow. "Really?" 'It seems it is a popular mythos, sir, especially as Thor's arrival on Earth confirmed it as at least partly true.' "Yeah, that makes sense, I guess." It doesn't make his job any easier, though. He's got to find a way to relate to Loki so that he can get the guy talking. Once he gets a conversation going, Tony is mostly sure he can steer it where he wants it to go; he just has to make it seem like a natural stream of consciousness. Should be easy enough, right? Tony cracks his knuckles and leans forward to enlarge one of the screens. "FRIDAY, you let me know when Loki is back, all right? If you can, let me know he's back before he shows up behind me or something. Don't let him catch me by surprise. Oh, and keep an eye on the news. Let me know if he does anything out in the real world, or if it looks like any of his lackeys are out and about and causing trouble. Got it?" 'Of course, sir.' "Good. Let's get to work."
Kaeya is going around the Knight’s Headquarters thinking about what to do for the day, when he suddenly hears someone calling to him and turns around. “Uncle Kaeya!” Klee calls to him. Kaeya smiles at the child. “What is it, Klee?” “I need your help!” She says with shining eyes. “My help? What can I help you with?” “I want to do something and Auntie Lisa said that you could help me!” “Oh?” Kaeya exclaims with curiosity. “You see, I want to give Big Bro Albedo a present. He’s always so nice to me and I want to thank him.” Klee says a little embarrassed. Kaeya nods. “That’s great, Klee. I’m sure Albedo will appreciate it. But why do you need my help?” “Because you have a brother too!” Kaeya’s eye widens in surprise. “So I thought that you could help me pick something good for him.” “How… do you know that? That I have a brother.” “Auntie Lisa told me.” Klee says smiling. “I asked her if she knew someone here who had brothers or sisters.” She explains. “She told me that Auntie Jean had a sister and that you had a brother. But Auntie Jean is always busy, so I thought that maybe you could help me if you had time today…” “I do have time today. So it’s no problem.” Kaeya assures her. “Really? Yay!” She’s so excited that Kaeya couldn’t say ‘no’ to her. “Who is your brother, Uncle Kaeya? Do I know him?” She asks with curiosity. Kaeya doubts whether to tell her or not but he knows that Klee is very persistent. “Well, I’m sure you have seen him around the city sometimes. His name is Diluc. He’s tall like me, has red hair, usually wears black clothes…” “Oh! The grumpy grown-up that lives in the winery!” Klee exclaims, which makes Kaeya snort. “Yeah, him.” “Huh. But you don’t look alike.” “That’s because we’re like you and Albedo. We’re not blood-related.” “Blood-related?” She tilts her head, not understanding what he means. “Uh… it means that our real parents are not the same.” Kaeya tries to explain. “But I grew up with Diluc and his father. We lived together, so we’re family.” “Aaah!” Klee exclaims. “Yeah! It’s kinda like us!” She says satisfied. Kaeya sighs. “Oh, yeah, I was wondering. Are you the big brother, Uncle Kaeya?” “No. We’re about the same age, but he’s a bit older than me.” “Then we really are the same, that’s great!” Klee looks like she has something in mind. “Why is that important?” Kaeya looks a little puzzled. “Because you can help me chose something for Big Bro Albedo… and I can help you choose something for your big bro too!” Klee says happily. Kaeya doesn’t know whether to laugh or panic. “I… I appreciate it, Klee. But it’s not necessary.” “Why not? Don’t you want to give a present to your brother too?” Klee seems a little sad. “I want to tell Big Bro Albedo how much I like him, and that I’m happy he’s always taking care of me. Don’t you want to say something to your big bro too?” Kaeya remains silent for a couple seconds. He doesn’t want to disappoint Klee, he knows how excited she is for this idea and he genuinely wants to help her. “You know what? You’re right. Maybe I should give him something too.” “Yay! Let’s think about it then! I will help!” Kaeya smiles. He decides to help Klee on her quest, but he probably won’t give the present to Diluc. He knows how awkward that would be, to give him something out of the blue. Still, he can at least help Klee and make her happy today. Kaeya leaves the headquarters with Klee and they sit on a bench, brainstorming about what they could give to Albedo. Honestly, Kaeya is not sure he will be of much help. He’s not that familiar with Albedo. They see each other sometimes, and have worked together in some occasions, but they’re not that friendly with each other. He doesn’t have an idea what Albedo may like, but still, he may be able to think of something. “I always give my drawings to Big Bro Albedo. He likes them and puts them in his office.” Klee says. “But I don’t want to give him a drawing today, I want it to be something different.” “I see.” Kaeya ponders for a bit. “What does Albedo like? Do you know something specific that he enjoys?” “Hmmm…” Klee thinks really hard. “Oh, well…” “Yeah?” “He likes desserts. Sweet stuff.” “Really?” That takes Kaeya by surprise. “But desserts are just food… Once he eats that, it’s gone…” Klee pouts, because she thinks that’s not good enough. “But it’s a good present.” Kaeya tells her. “I mean, you usually eat cake when you celebrate your birthday, right?” Klee nods. “If he likes sweet food, he will enjoy eating a cake with you. But if you think a cake is not enough… what if you give him something else with it?” “Like what?” “Maybe... a message?” Kaeya suggests. “You could maybe write him a little card with something you want to say to him. And then you give them both together.” Klee’s eyes suddenly brighten. “I like that! I want to write him a message! I want to write him what I want to tell him so that he never forgets about it.” Kaeya smiles. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.” “But what about your present, Uncle Kaeya?” Kaeya freezes for a moment. “Um… You know, Diluc likes cakes too.” He’s not quite sure he still does, but he remembers how much he liked them in the past. “I’ll give him one as well.” “With a message too?” “Of course.” “Awesome! Let’s go get them!” Klee gets up the bench excited. Kaeya sighs relieved. If they just go and buy a cake, he’ll just take it home after he helps Klee with her present. They go to the bakery and Klee chooses a small, strawberry cake, claiming that Albedo prefers eating small amounts of food. Kaeya decides on a chocolate one. Once they’re packaged, they go to his office to have some privacy so that Klee writes her message and they can put it inside. Klee takes out a sketchbook and pencils from her backpack. “Here!” He gives a small piece of paper and one of the pencils to Kaeya. “Oh… thanks.” He takes them and watches as Klee merrily writes her message on the piece of paper she took for herself. “Aren’t you going to write it, Uncle Kaeya?” Klee asks as he sees that Kaeya’s just looking at her. “Yeah, I was just… thinking about what to write.” It’s not technically a lie; Kaeya truly doesn’t know what to write. Even if he’s not planning to give this to Diluc, he takes it a bit seriously and thinks… what would he like to tell him? After thinking about it, he finally decides on something and writes it down. Then, he helps Klee putting the little card inside the package, and he does the same with his own. Seeing that Klee was satisfied, he tells her that he would accompany her to see Albedo, so they go to his office. “Big Bro Albedo!” Klee calls him waving at him from the door. “Oh, Klee.” Albedo spots her, and then realizes that Kaeya is there as well. “Did something happen?” “No, don’t worry.” Kaeya reassures him. “You see, Uncle Kaeya has been helping me today.” She offers him the package. “I wanted to give you a present, Big Bro Albedo!” Albedo blinks with curiosity. “A present?” He takes the package. “Yeah! Open it!” Klee tells him excited. Albedo places the package on a table and carefully opens it. He looks a little surprised at seeing the cake, but then spots the little card inside and takes it. ‘Thank you for being my big bro. – Klee’ Albedo reads the note and smiles. Kaeya is in awe; he doesn’t see Albedo smiling often. “This is really sweet. Thanks a lot, Klee.” Albedo kneels and hugs Klee tightly. Kaeya smiles seeing them and steps outside to give them some privacy. He plans to just go back to his office, maybe there’s new paperwork to take care of. But then, someone takes his hand suddenly. “Wait, Uncle Kaeya!” Klee seems to have run outside to catch up to him. “What is it Klee?” He smiles at her. “Is there something else you need?” “No, not for me.” Kaeya looks confused. “But you came with me to give my present to Big Bro Albedo, so I want to go with you too.” She smiles. Kaeya freezes again. He didn’t think Klee would be so persistent that she would personally go with him. He tries to think of some excuse to tell her but… “Please, let’s go together! I want to help Uncle Kaeya too.” … He just can’t. After preparing everything together, Kaeya feels that Klee would be extremely disappointed if he doesn’t give his present as well. She’s so happy that he doesn’t want to ruin her day. He knows that this is going to be really awkward, but they go to the tavern together. He recalls that Diluc would be there today, as Charles was on vacation. Kaeya and Klee enter the tavern together; luckily there weren’t any customers in the counter. Immediately Diluc spots them, and he frowns when he sees Klee. “Kaeya… You know you can’t bring children in here.” Oh, he forgot about that. “My bad… we’re not going to stay long, I promise.” Diluc fixes his sight on Kaeya, thinking why he would come here with a kid, and why he looked so nervous for some reason. “Did you want something?” Diluc asks. “Yeah… um…” Kaeya’s really thinking how he can make this as less awkward as he can but nothing really comes to mind. So instead, he decides to be more direct and get it over with. “Here.” He gives Diluc the package. “This is for you.” Diluc eyes the package, confused, as Kaeya was expecting. He decides to take it but he’s visibly wondering what it is. “It’s… a present.” Kaeya says, looking away a little. “A present? For what?” “Well…” Kaeya remains silent and Klee decides to step forward. “We decided to give presents to our big bros today, Mister Diluc!” She exclaims happily, which makes Kaeya really want to look away now. Diluc looks curiously at them and can clearly see how awkward Kaeya’s feeling right now. He suspects that he was pressured to do this by this girl, who he recognizes as the little girl who works with the Knights. Understanding the situation, he decides to quietly accept the present and play along. “I see. Thank you, Kaeya. I appreciate it.” Diluc calmly says. Kaeya looks at him with surprise. “Oh, it’s… it’s no problem.” “Are you happy, Mister Diluc?” Klee asks as she sees that Diluc isn’t responding as excited as Albedo was. “Yes, of course.” He tries to smile a bit for Klee. “Yay!” “W-Well, we’ll be going now. Don’t want to keep a child here for long…” Kaeya says as an excuse to leave as soon as possible. Klee pouts but understands. “Good night, Mister Diluc! Enjoy the present!” Diluc waves them goodbye and both exit the tavern. He sighs. He looks around making sure that no one was watching him. Truthfully he’s a little curious about the package, so he carefully opens it up. He sees a chocolate cake. It’s been a while since he had one but he liked them before so maybe he’ll share it with his staff at home. But then, he notices something else inside the box. It’s… a little card. He sees something written on it and takes it out to read it. And as soon as he does, Diluc starts feeling something in his chest. ‘Thank you for giving me a home. – Kaeya’ Fond memories start appearing in Diluc’s mind, of him and Kaeya when they were children. Just two little kids playing in the winery grounds, and then returning home with their father. He closes his eyes and smiles to himself. He folds the card and places it in a pocket in his shirt, to keep it with him. Maybe then he won’t forget about it. And maybe he will treat Kaeya to a few rounds the next time he comes here.
"Duchess Kenobi. Pardon my interruption, but the king would like to see you at your earliest convenience." Obi-Wan continues through the gentle swishing motions of the third form, keeping her movements unhurried. There is no need to increase her speed - the kata is nearly complete. "I will be there, just give me a moment to get presentable." Five minutes later, hair twisted back up onto her head, robes smoothed and face splashed with cool water, she is following the attendant to wherever the king currently is. Through the long, complex corridors, the tall graceful halls and the beautiful, elegant rooms of the palace of Jedha, they go, ending up in front of the entrance to the king's office. Well, she hasn't done anything particularly wrong recently. Has she? Apart from accidentally breaking that fountain... But that was mostly Quinlan's fault. So was the window. And Caleb had insisted that Depa had given him permission to go skiing. So that wasn't really her fault either. Depa has even forgiven her for taking her precious baby skiing near a nest of gundarks. Honestly, the gundarks weren't even supposed to be there. She's fairly certain they don't do well on sunny, snowy mountains. Her thoughts are interrupted by the messenger, who opens the door for her and then leaves noiselessly. Obi-Wan dips into a graceful curtsey halfway into the room and waits. "Rise, Duchess Kenobi." She obeys, rising with unhurried grace and takes the seat that her uncle indicates. "Your Majesty." He shakes his head, frowning "This isn't formal, Obi-Wan. I speak to you now as your uncle, not as yot king." Her posture relaxes, and she narrows her eyes mock-suspiciously at her uncle. "You only say that when you want something from me, Uncle Mace. Should I be worried?" "No, not particularly. I just wanted to ask how your studies of Mandalorian culture are going." "They're going well. Why do you ask?" "Mandalore's Crown Prince Jango will be visiting Jedha in a few weeks, as a preliminary ambassador officially. Unofficially, he's-" "Looking for a wife." Obi-Wan sighs. This again. "And you want him to at least consider me." "You are one of the highest ranking single royals of our family, niece." He reminds her mildly. "And the highest ranking one to suit his inclinations, due to the political ramifications of Depa marrying another heir." She sniffs, the haughty one she likes to pull out during boring negotiations. "This makes the second time this year alone that you've tried to marry me off. Why, do you want to get rid of me that much?" The king leans back in his chair, and a faint gleam of amusement appears in his eye. "Yes, your cousin has been pestering me about the amount of disasters you cause." ''Now that's not fair Uncle! Most of that is Quinlan." "And Coruscant is made of blue cheese." "It is!" She protests, refusing to allow Quinlan an iota less of the blame than he deserves. "Hmmm." Her uncle is a stern man, but he is a good king, a good uncle, and she likes to think she is probably his favourite nibling. It's not like there is much competition for the spot. Feemor spends most of his time on Ahch-To, and no one really sees him much. Xanatos rarely leaves the archives since his unfortunate teenage rebellion, and interactions with people other than his grandparents are limited. Anakin is nine and prefers droids to the duties expected of him as a prince to boot. As for Quinlan, well, the less said about him the better. Her grandfather had always said that Uncle Mace was the only sane one of the three brothers. "But in all seriousness Uncle. Why me? I'm not the only unattached member of the family, and they have less duties to our empire as well. Siri for example. Surely she has the right temperament for Mandalore?" Mace only raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "If you put your cousin in a room with a Mandalorian, one or both would end up dead in under five minutes." She has to concede that particular point, though not without reluctance. "We have been at war with Mandalore for more than a thousand years. Siri's hardly the only one to harbour less than friendly feelings towards them." "Which is why she and several others have been struck from the list of candidates." Obi-Wan sighs. "The twins are both just interested in the new information on Mandalorian culture as I." "But neither has the same prowess as a warrior and diplomat as you." She winces at the reminder. That reputation was earned with blood, and she would rather have died than have bought it at the price that it had cost her and her family. "Garen? He's surely reckless enough?" Her uncle shakes his head. "The prince wouldn't consider him a candidate, Garen's dislike of Mandalorians aside." "So there is no chance of a husband? Xan is very pretty, and very single. I don't think he's had anyone for years." She is well aware that she is grasping at straws here. "I know. But even the Mandalorians will have heard of his...indiscretions." Everyone had. Her second brother’s period of teenage rebellion and experimentation had had some...unfortunate and far-reaching consequences. ''And no, the prince's medical files state his orientation." "Uncle! We shouldn't have access to that." Mace ignored her very valid point and carries on as if she hadn't spoken. "You are the best candidate Obi-Wan. Not least because of your silver tongue." She sticks the tongue in question out at him childishly. "You just want to get rid of me." The king frowns. "I want peace with Mandalore that is guaranteed to last. I also want you to settle down and stop flirting with everything that walks on two legs. That the two coincide is merely a lucky happenstance." "Fine, I'll do it. But I'm not going to agree to marry him just like that. I want to get to know him before I make any concrete decisions." She has some self-preservation after all, no matter what her family says. The pale gleam of approval in her uncle's eyes suggests that he would have added the stipulation anyway. "No absolutes. You can do whatever you like as long as you don't cause a war. Do try to encourage positive relationships between Mandalore and Jedha." "Understood. Off the record?" "Yes. Classified, highest level. Dismissed." In the last exchange, they had abruptly switched from uncle and niece, past king and duchess, right to high general and commander. This was a matter relating to the security of their empire, and off the record or not, there are some habits that don't quite go away. She bows and leaves, her mind already spinning with thoughts. *************** "What would you think of it Papa?" The painted image of Qui-Gon Jinn doesn't answer. It never does. But it smiles that familiar enigmatic smile down at her, and she can almost imagine his reply. "I know, I know. I should be planning my strategies out, doing research, considering my approach, but I don't know where to start." She sighs, reaching her hand out to rest it on his shoulder, in the same place as she used to rest her head. It's been over a year since the disastrous battle between the Korribani Empire and the Jedhan Commonwealth, and it is still so strange and awful not to have her father around. "I miss you so much, Father." "Obi-Wan? Is that you?" Tahl Uvain comes slowly out of the kitchen, her blind eyes staring straight ahead as her face lights up. "Obi-Wan! You didn't tell me you were coming home early!" "I didn't know until I was here, Mother." Tahl smiles, and reaches confidently out. As always, Obi-Wan meets her halfway, and allows the older woman to wrap her in a gentle embrace. They end up on the couch, Obi-Wan sprawling with her head on her mother's lap, and a gentle hand stroking her hair. It's something that developed after her father's death, after their worlds were shaken and the foundations of their existence cracked. They don't often speak during these silent, companionable moments, but Tahl is powerfully empathic, so Obi-Wan isn't surprised when her mother frowns. "You have something worrying you?" She hesitates, before mentally shrugging. What harm can the little she can speak of do? "A mission, Mother." "Ah, of course." Her mother smiles and smooths down her crimson curls. "Can you tell me, little firebird?" "I'm sorry, but it's classified. Highest level only." Tahl doesn't frown or get annoyed at the lack of information. She just smiles again and pats the top of her head gently. "In that case, you must have more confidence, daughter mine. Whatever this mission is, your uncle entrusted you with it. He would not have if he didn't think you would suceed." The words touch a deep-rooted anxiety in Obi-Wan that she wasn't even aware of. She's always been closer to her father than to her mother, but she's been trying, and Tahl loves her fiercely, and believes in her more than anything. Sometimes she forgets that, forgets that her perfect mother believes she can do anything at all. It's a marvellous moral booster. Such strength of belief - coming from a woman who lost her sight and only smiled ruefully before setting herself to the task of learning to live once again, never complained even when she gave birth to a son who's face she would never see - is enough to put even the most tenacious of doubts to rest. ************** Depa is officially Obi-Wan's favourite cousin. As a result of being the only females in their immediate family, Obi-Wan is actually closer to Depa than say...Feemor, who she sees but rarely, attached to Ahch-To and his even more elusive intended as he is. The blatant testosterone constantly on display in their brothers (and Quinlan) have always exuded is off-putting, and they often take refuge in the more feminine side of things to counter the unrefined male idiocy of certain of their family members. Depa had once, when she had been the target of one too many of Quinlan's childish pranks, said that when she was queen, she would decree every fourth male be exiled from Jedha and it's vassal states. Effective immediately. Obi-Wan had suggested that she make it every second male, so they wouldn't have to deal with Xanatos or Quinlan on a regular basis. It had given them both a good laugh, and a fond memory to return to at need. Depa is fussing over her, adding tiny touches to her hair and makeup. First impressions are, after all, incredibly important. At least according to Depa. Never mind the fact that the Mandalorian Prince would probably ignore her. She isn't the most imposing or obviously martial woman in their family, and unless the prince pays no attention to the King and Crown Princess at all, there is hardly a chance that she'll be noticed. Especially not with Depa in centre stage, who is both stunningly beautiful and heiress to one of the largest and most powerful empires currently at play in the galaxy. Her marriage, child and subsequent widowing in the Battle of Naboo seem to have had no effect on any of her numerous suitors so far, none of whom seem to even consider that the future Queen of the Jedhan Commonwealth would be reticent to begin another relationship so soon after her beloved husband was killed. Regardless, Depa is having so much fun dressing her up that Obi-Wan doesn't have the heart to tell her no. It's been too long since she saw her cousin truly smile. "There, done." "Finally." That doesn't mean she can't indulge in a little bit of complaining however. "They're going to be here soon you know." Depa bats at her playfully and spins her around to face the mirror. Out of it stares...well it's her, she knows that. But she looks different. Not as bejewelled and overly bright as at feasts, and not as delicate and fragile as she does ordinarily. Her hair is pinned in a swirl on the top of her head, fastened with pins that glitter silver against her bright hair. Bright cerulean eyes peer back at her, surrounded by no evident makeup, but somehow enhanced and emphasised by whatever Depa has done. Her lips stained ever so slightly darker red, and delicate earrings dangle from the lobes of her ears, sparkling white against her creamy skin and crimson hair. Her skirt stirs gently around her knees, a plain creamy robe that begins with a slight v at her collarbone and falls to just below her knee, held at her waist by a wide belt to which her lightsaber is clipped in full view. Covering that is a heavy brown robe, that hung open from her shoulders to drape heavily to the floor. She looks like a warrior. "Well, do you like it?" She smiles and turned to face her cousin. "Thank you, Depa, it's perfect." The older woman smiles. "You do look rather fine. Now, let's go before we're late." Before Obi-Wan can even begin to reply that, actually, it is Depa who has been ignoring her chivvying, her annoying cousin is out of the door and down the hall. She mutters a quiet insult directed at irritating cousins and follows. Unfortunately, Depa has always been a fast walker and by the time she catches up to the swirl of grey skirts that is her cousin, they're in the courtyard where everyone else is waiting for the Mandalorians and she can't retaliate. "There you two are. Finally, they're nearly here." Making quick courtesies to the king and to their grandparents who emerge from their happy bubble of solitude and learning but rarely, they take their places quietly, Depa at Mace's right hand and Obi-Wan in between Xanatos and her youngest brother Anakin, just behind their mother. "Obi, you're late. Were you in trouble?" She smiles down at her baby brother's worrried blue eyes. "No Ani, it was fine, I promise." "You didn't meet a gundark?" "No Ani, Depa and I just got caught up talking that's all." "Pinky promise?" ''Pinky promise." He smiles blindingly up at her, and Xan pokes her in the shoulder. She does her best not to flinch. "Any later and you would have arrived after the Mandalorians." She doesn't quite manage it, and feels a pang at the equally ill-concealed rush of emotion that it engenders. She's trying, she truly is, and she hates to hurt him even after everything, but it's a long road and they keep sliding back. There is a long, painful silence, that stretches on and on. Finally, finally the roar of an approaching spacecraft hits their ears, and a ship lands in the courtyard with a whoosh that sends robes and hair flapping. It is very different from the ships used on Jedha, and the more mechanically minded people's curiosity washes into the Force like a tidal wave. Ani craned onto his tip toes to try and see it, while Uncle Saesee makes the face they tend to associate with him scanning a complicated piece of engineering. With a hiss of decompressing pressure, the doors open, and out stride nine Mandalorians in full beskar, though they have their helmets under their arms in deference to Jedhan customs. The one in front must be the prince, and Obi-Wan appraises him with as frank and unbiased an eye as she can manage. Short black hair, hazel eyes, taller than her at least (not that that means much) and quite good-looking as such things go. He has a hard air about him, and his eyes dart warily here and there. Not that she blames him - she would feel much the same on Mandalore. A blonde girl walks just behind him, wearing an elaborate blue dress and headdress with no visible weapon or armour. This must be his cousin, Duchess Satine Kryze of Kalevala. Already, the young woman has gained a reputation as a fervent pacifist, who considers any measure of violence apart from the most restrained self-defence abhorrent. "Prince Jango." Her uncle bows, and the prince strikes his fist against the beskar of his breastplate. "King Mace." She likes his voice, she decides. It's crisp and clear, without losing the rolling drawl of his accent. As her uncle introduces his queen and his heir, she fights to keep her attention from straying. Perhaps she had spent too long in the salle last night after all. She places a hand on Ani's shoulder as he starts to fidget, and the movement must have been more noticeable than she thought. The prince's eyes dart to her, and she notes with some surprise that there is more curiosity than animosity in that sharp glance. ************** The music is the same as is played at every such gathering. It follows the currents of the Force, playing specific tunes as the need arises, and diminishing into the background when not required. It requires considerable skill to play note perfect the injunctions of the Force without clashing with the other musicians and is, like everything else, a display of the power available to the Jedhan Commonwealth. Her uncle's voice meets her ear, the Force prodding at her to listen. "And you must meet my niece, Duchess Kenobi of Ilum." Ah. Obi-Wan fights the urge to grimace at her uncle's unusually blatant matchmaking as she abandons her conversation with the Count of Onderon. The king is normally more subtle than this, but he has his own reasons for acting as he always has. As ever, she decides to let it be as she walks over and dips into a brief courtesy. "You wanted to talk to me your Majesty?" Prince Jango, who has assumed the slightly glazed look of someone doing something they had a thousand times before, opens his eyes ever so slightly, surprise and a spark of something else in the guarded depths of his gaze. She smiles, careful to keep it frank, open, friendly, but she can't help it also being a little exasperated. There is a reason she's famous for her silver tongue at such a young age - no use to have marvellous oratory skills without a voice to accompany them. "Duchess Kenobi, Prince Jango Fett of the Mandalorian Ascendancy, and Duke of Concord Dawn. Prince Jango, Duchess Obi-Wan Kenobi of Ilum and the Jedhan Commonwealth. The prince bows to her, a rather stiffer bow than is common on Jedha, but a bow all the same, and she smiles at him. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Duchess Kenobi." "Likewise your Highness.'' Obi-Wan curtsies in return, bending her head gracefully as her russet curls dance about her face like flames. The motion causes her azure skirts to flare about her, and the silver thread to catch the light. As she rises from the curtsey, the music pauses and then changes tone and pace completely to a Nubian waltz. Before she can do more than catalogue the change suspiciously, her uncle excuses himself and makes his way over to join his queen. The prince follows the king's path with a frown, before he turns back to her and holds out his hand. "Seeing as we are on our own my lady, would you enjoy a dance." Obi-Wan curtsies again and places her hand in his, noting the calluses that scrape against her own. She had known of his reputation before of course, but the confirmation of his not inconsiderable reputation is welcome. Making a mental note to be very careful around the prince who killed six Sith Lords with his bare hands, she allows him to lead her to the dance floor. "I apologise for my uncle." "Whatever for?" He is smiling at her now, hands around her waist as she spins, following the eye-catching motion of her bright skirts, but she can see his guarded eyes and the mind racing behind them. This one is clever, and she won't catch him off guard easily. It's a good thing she isn't trying to. "He has been trying to get me to settle down the last few years. I'm afraid my habits have set him a little on edge." "Habits?" He lifts her easily, despite the stupidly heavy dress, and she notes absently that if they ever do fight, she'll either have to avoid close range or augment her strength to an almost idiotic extent to compensate for his. ''Apparently I flirt with anything that walks on two legs, and occasionally some take offence and cause a diplomatic issue." She brushes her hand against his arm on the next spin, and he narrows his eyes before a smile twitches the corners of his lips and he pulls her a little closer to him. "I see you've earned that particular part of your reputation then, Duchess." Obi-Wan smiles back, a flash of dazzling mirth accompanied by a little mental nudge. "And you yours." The prince actually laughs this time, a quick, almost surprised chuckle. "I see you've done your homework then, Duchess." "Of course. Haven't you, your Highness?" He inclines his head. "Of course. It would have been suicidal to come here had I not." Then he lifts her again, and twirls her back against him. "Do you not agree?'' She lifts her face to his and smiles. "Of course, your Highness." "Call me Jango, Duchess." There is a distinct note in his voice that makes her eyes narrow. Interesting... "Call me Obi-Wan, Jango." He spins her out and back to him, and kisses her hand just at the height of the spin. "Have you ever seen a mesynaar, Obi-Wan?" The music chooses that moment to slow, and she uses it to press closer to him, changing her smile to something a little warmer and more inviting. "Only once on a holo. I imagine that it doesn't do them justice." "It doesn't. They are very small, nothing more than blurs outside of the biodomes most of the time." He lowers his voice, and she almost laughs. Oh he's good. "But every now and then, if you're lucky, you can catch one when it's still." She doesn't have to pretend to be curious. It's genetic, to be fascinated with animals. "And?" "They are some of the most beautiful things in the galaxy. I saw one once. It was as blue as the skies of your planet, and it's wings stretched out further than my arms could. Up until today, it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen." Obi-Wan almost fumbles the step, and swallows back the automatic curse. Damn her for not seeing where this was leading. "I'm sorry, you took me by surprise." And didn't he just know it from the quiet almost smug amusement he was unconsciously radiating into the Force. Gathering her thoughts, she looks up at him softly and presses closer to him. She takes considerable satisfaction in the way his breathing stutters almost imperceptibly. "Are you fishing for compliments, Jango?" The jab is delivered so sweetly that he takes a moment to process what she said. He looks at her for a moment, and then starts to laugh. Good, she hadn't misjudged him. It was a risk, but one that she had calculated worth it. "And if I am, Obi-Wan?'' The music comes to an end, and she curtsies before walking away. Jango can't sleep. He's on a planet that, until just before his birth, would have carried the death sentence for him to be on. And he has only eight companions. Cousin Satine doesn't count - he loves her because she's his cousin, but she's incredibly irritating and self-righteous about her pacifism. Just because he doesn't wait for someone to have a blaster to his temple to fight them, doesn't mean he's a morally depraved bandit like she seems to think. Apparently she considers the Jedhan philosophy preferable - something about resorting to violence before diplomacy meaning you've already failed. He has pointed out that it is quite an obscure saying, and Jedha is famous for its own warrior culture, just as vicious and powerful as Mandalore's own. And has she seen this place? It's blatantly militant - guards at every corner with armour cleaned and polished, but bearing the wear and tear of battle. Everyone carries a 'lightsaber', even the very small children. The files on the royal family they may have slightly illegally hacked from the Jedhan servers have military titles given equal prominence with their royal titles. He growls slightly in frustration. Was her head in the sand, all of last year? The big news in the galaxy was Jedha and Korriban clashing again, this time over the blockade of Naboo. Everyone was talking about it, about the armies the two mustered, the ships, the tactics, the battle which had been the largest in two hundred years! And Jedha had won, crushing Korriban's army and killing it's leader, Prince Maul, Emperor Palpatine's heir. These points are all very fresh, as he has just stormed out of Satine's 'pacifist friendly apartments'. Pacifist friendly, his blaster. They had probably just hidden the weapons. Blasters are firing in a nearby room, and, always curious, Jango investigates. He had been sent to search for a Jedhan wife by his father, which was practically preposterous - as pretty as the Jedhan royals were, they had also been at war with his own planet for hundreds of years and the bad blood is still there, but also to discover the workings of Jedha, and ways to defend against them if negotiations fall through. Weaknesses in their armour, things their lightsabers can't defend against rather than just beskar (which was extraordinarily rare), ways to get blaster bolts to pierce their robes rather than just bouncing off. Jango is a soldier, not a diplomat, and he much prefers the second part of his mission. The door is open, and he slipsinside, keeping against the wall. It is a large room, made almost entirely of some strange wooden looking metal. The walls are lined with blasters, which are randomly firing at the centre of the room with no apparent pattern. At the spot where the bolts are sent, is a small figure with a bright azure blur around them, sending each bolt away from them with pinpoint accuracy and blinding speed. It's Duchess Kenobi - Obi-Wan- her hair twisted up into a tight knot at the top of her head, her lightsaber holding arm moving almost faster than Jango could see. He watches carefully. If the movements were slower it would be easier to spot an opening for a blaster bolt. But the sheer speed of the woman's movement means that you'd have to possess an almost supernatural speed to get a bolt through even a gaping hole in the Jedhan's defense. "Are you just going to watch me, Jango?" No, Jango does not jump when the blasters and lightsaber suddenly power off and Duchess Kenobi addresses him abruptly with that sly smirk. He merely, shifts, so as to make conversation more easily. "My apologies, Obi-Wan. I meant no offense." Now that she is standing still, Jango is surprised at just how small she is. He had danced with her the night before this, but the sheer volume of her swirling, brightly coloured skirts, and, he suspected, the heels she had worn, had thrown off his estimate. If Arla ever hears about this, he'll never live it down - she must be a stone less than he had thought, and a good part of a foot shorter. She smiles at him, and the mischevious glint in her eyes hits him like a hammer blow. "I would never object to such fine company, though you should have announced your prescence - you could have gotten a blaster bolt shower sent at you." Oh really? He glares at her challengingly."I could have dodged." The duchess's smirk widens."One or two yes, I believe that. Twenty?" If there was one thing Jango must be to be a good warrior, it is honest about his own limitations. "No." Then, curiosity getting the better of him, he asks. "What are you doing in here at one in the morning?" She hesitates, looking at him with thoughtful eyes. "I suppose it depends if you want the offical or unofficial reason." "Fire ahead." Jango grins wolfishly - this promises to be an interesting insight into Jedha's royal family. His father will be very pleased to hear it. Duchess Kenobi sits down, crossing her legs and looking quite at home in the middle of a room filled with blasters and only the Crown Prince of Mandalore for company. Unwilling to be shown up by her, Jango copies her, sitting so his back is against the wall and he can see in every other direction. It never hurts to be careful. "Officially, I'm merely trying to master Soresu, one of our fighting forms. My father..." her voice hitches suddenly, ever so slightly, and Jango remembers that the Jedhan prince who was killed on Naboo must have been her father. "My father specialised in Ataru, and taught it to me, but I've decided to learn Soresu to supplement it since...since Naboo." "And unofficially?" A brilliant smile blooms over her face, and Jango suddenly understands just how all those hardened politicians fold like tissue in her hands, every damn time she shows up in the Galactic Senate. Uh oh. Bad Jango, don't go getting attracted to the Jedhan Duchess, don't go there. "Unofficially, I've been grounded, and sentenced to rack up fifty hours in the salle before I can get off planet again." "Why?" Jango jumps as a bright laugh floats around the room. It's as lovely as her voice, light and silvery, and rather infectious. She stifles her giggles with her hand, and gets herself under control. Damn. He reminds himself very sternly that she is Jedhan, and one of the most high-ranking females on this planet. There is going to be no attraction to this pretty warrior. "My uncle said it was because I broke the window and the fountain this week, but Quin didn't get anything for that beyond a scolding from Uncle Tholme, so it's definitely because of the gundarks." At his querying look, she explains, that sly smirk making a reappearance. "I took Caleb, Depa's kid, skiing and we fell into a gundark pit. Depa's still kinda mad at me.'' Is this for real? "Gundarks don't live on snowy mountains." A careless shrug, and a toss of those mesmerising curls. "Normally they don't, but obviously these ones were crazy." Jango stares. "Gundarks never leave dark underground places willingly." "Again, normally, but obviously not these ones. They're still quite happy on their sunny mountainside." "You're pulling my leg." "Nope. I can show you if you like." And that was how Jango Fett found himself running down a kriffing snowy mountainside beside the insane Jedhan woman the next afternoon. Of course, the gundarks had decided to chase them as soon as they came within thirty metres. "I thought you said they were unusually calm." She laughs, flinging a look over her shoulder with a wild grin on her face. "They were. I guess mating season came early for these loonies." The gundarks are loonies? Jango hears a roar, and increases his speed. Duchess Kenobi only laughs again. "What are you on?" She grins at him, showing all her teeth in an almost snarl of fierce delight. "Mountain air and adrenaline!" A claw whistles through the air, just missing Jango's head, the gundark attached to it roaring in frustration as they somehow manage to run even faster. "Can't you do something with your Force voodoo?" The whole kriffing pack is chasing them, and Jango can see them actually flanking he and Duchess Kenobi out of the corner of his eye. "Of course not!" No, silly Jango, why on earth would he think that. It occurrs to him that this could be an incredibly insidious assasination attempt. But he dismisses the thought almost as quickly- there was no way anyone could have planned this chaos. "Why not?" "All I could do right now would be to cause an avalanche! It would bury us with the gundarks!" Why is this his life? Eventually, they reach the bottom of the mountain. Unfortunately, this particular stretch of mountain ends steeply in a sheer drop of several hundred metres. So naturally, Duchess Kenobi decides to jump off a cliff and pull Jango after her. They aren't hurt of course, and the gundarks do stop pursuing them, but she just jumped off a cliff. A cliff. A several hundred metres high cliff. This woman is even more insane than most Mandalorians! At least they have jetpacks when they jump off cliffs. This isn't helping his resolve not to get attracted to any Jedhan, least of all this one. Not in the slightest. After...the outing (he isn't really sure what to call it), Jango avoids anyone else on the way back to his quarters. Here's the thing. Mando'karla. It's highly attractive in any form, and Duchess Obi-Wan Kenobi seems the living embodiment of it in Jedhan form. He's fairly certain not being attracted to the beautiful, insane, warrior duchess is by now a lost battle. He's also wondering if maybe he will come back with a Jedhan wife. And if that could ever happen. It would be nice to complete the whole mission, but he only had vague ideas of maybe finding a pretty one who wasn't too openly against Mandalore, but also wasn't particularly...interested. In anything. It had seemed the best way to obey his father and also to make sure that in the future there wouldn't be a Mandalorian Queen actively working against Mandalore. Now that he's been faced with Duchess Kenobi, he's fairly certain that he couldn't stand what he had planned. That none of them seem to be uninterested in life around them is not the point. Duchess Kenobi is beautiful, smarter than the majority of the galaxy (according to her totally legally accessed files anyway), more insane than can be healthy for anyone, and (from what he's seen), an incredibly talented warrior. But he doesn't know if he should take her back to Mandalore. What if she uses her place in power to subjugate Mandalore to Jedha, or to enrich Jedha. No matter what or who she is, Jango will not bring a woman who will ruin Mandalore to be its queen. Regardless of his personal feelings. He reaches for his comm. Jaster picks up on the first ring. "Jan'ika. What's wrong?" "Buir...you know the first part of the mission you gave me?" "The part about the Jedhan wife." "Yeah..." Jango paused, wondering how to say this. His father raised an eyebrow, so he shrugged and carried on anyway. "One of the women here, I think...I'd like to take her back to Mandalore." "Only one?" Jaster smirks at his own joke, and Jango wants to reach out and pinch his buir like he did when he was little and his buir embarrassed him. The harem thing was when he was sixteen, drunk and also out of his mind on drugs. Why does his buir keep bringing it up? "Yes buir. She almost killed me this afternoon, and she's got more Mando'karla than some Mando'ade. And she's beautiful, and smart, and the king's niece." "Duchess Kenobi? The one who killed Palpatine's son?" Jango nods. "It sounds like a match of the ka'ra if you ask me. What's the problem?" "What if...what if she prioritises Jedha over Mandalore. What if, if she did agree to marry me, she abused her position in Mandalore to further Jedha. I don't want to bring someone to a position of power in Mandalore who will abuse it." Jaster raises an eyebrow. "Sounds like someone is persuading himself not to complete the mission. Find out more about her, about her personality, and see if she really would. If she doesn't seem like the kind of person to do such a thing, then start wooing her Jan'ika. And quickly." "Yes buir." The connection shuts off, and Jango sits there, wondering what to do next. He's used all the resources he can get to get to this point. There isn't really much else that he could do. From here that is. He could go to the...archives they called it here didn't they, and see if there are any holorecordings of anything. As it turns out, there are. The librarian (archivian?) is an old woman with bright blue eyes and white hair twisted into a knot at the back of her neck, stiff golden robes rustling around her. When he asks for help, her eyes light up and her husband appears, a tall old man with white hair and dark eyes, wearing dark clothes. They both seem very eager to help him, and he ends up with a stack nearly a foot high. Great. The first one he watches is an obviously home-recorded vid of a man with chestnut hair and dark blue eyes playing with a baby girl. Ah this must be Prince Qui-Gon, and young Duchess Kenobi. Then there is one of the king officially granting her the title Duchess of Ilum on her sixteenth birthday. The third one is taken from security recordings. It begins with the now famous image of the Theed hangar, Prince Maul facing Prince Qui-Gon and the Duchess. Then the fight begins. Jango watches every second, watching how the Jedhans moved and fought. Mainly Duchess Kenobi if he is honest. After her buir was stabbed through the chest (and Jango knew that would be a painful way to go), she seemed to freeze, and he doesn't blame her. He would. Then, oh then she really begins to fight. His eyes widen. The Duchess kriffing chopped Maul up. Into tiny little bits! She didn't even behead or bisect him - she minced him. "Fuck, I think I'm in love." "Your Highness." Jango looks up at the unfamiliar voice. It's a man, with blond hair and bright blue eyes, and he's looking at Jango very coolly. "I believe that's my baby sister you're talking about." ... Fuck. ************************ After her uncle has told her off for rousing a pack of gundarks, Obi-Wan hurries to Depa's rooms. She knows that, at this time of the day, Depa is usually taking refuge in her quarters from the incessant demands of her position. She also knows that Depa will never throw her out. She doesn't, and Obi-Wan flops on the couch, sprawling in a most un-royal manner. "I think I'm attracted to the Mandalorian Prince, but I didn't mean for that to happen. I meant for him to like me, not me to like him. But I can't help it Depa. He's so handsome, and he fights so wonderfully, and he jumped off a cliff after me this afternoon. But-" Depa listens to her entire rant, and then thinks very hard. This is why she loves Depa. Depa is the best. "You know, Obi dear. It sounds like your making excuses." Obi-Wan sits up very correctly and glares at her cousin. "Depa." She isn't whining. Not at all. "No, hear me out. You know that Father gave you a mission, and you know it's going well. But rather than just him being attracted, you got caught by him as well. There isn't anything wrong. In fact, you are doing wonderfully Obi. Marriage is so much easier if there is more than just convenience." Obi-Wan listens to Depa's actually quite convincing argument, and then decides to roam the halls until she has sorted some things out. Actually, maybe she could go and see Shaak and Plo as well. She hasn't seen Ahsoka for ages. But they're out, probably taken the kid for a visit to Shaak's parents on Shili. She hears fighting from one of the salles, and stops to see who it is (and whether the fight is interesting). Not particularly wanting to be seen as she works out what she needs to work out, she goes to the balcony running along one edge to watch. It is Feemor (when did he come for a visit) and...the Prince. They are going hammer and tongs, in a flurry of limbs that Obi-Wan would normally have said were Force-assisted...but the Prince is a Force-Null. The fight goes on for a while, but eventually Feemor has Prince Jango in a headlock, pushing him to the ground, and Obi-Wan sighs. Feemor always won hand to hand combat. As she turns away, she hears a commotion, and whirls back around. Instead of yielding, Jango has somehow flipped Feemor and now is holding him on the floor. Feemor taps out, and Obi-Wan's eyes widen. Feemor hasn't tapped out of hand to hand in twenty years. Somehow, the Prince has beaten him. "Fuck, I think I'm in love." She hurries away, suddenly very glad she had chosen the balcony. She'll go to the archives, to her grandparents. They'll help her while she works things out. Now that he knows he would at least not be unhappy taking Duchess Kenobi back to Mandalore as his bride, Jango decides to step up his game a little. Any flirting he’s done previously has been casual, only instinctual responses to her wit and beauty. He doesn’t have the time for something like that - this posting isn’t going to last forever, and he intends to bring her back with him. Even if he hasn’t fallen head over heels for this silver-tongued, insane warrior beauty, the match would make great sense politically. Apart from the Crown Princess, Duchess Kenobi is the highest ranked, single member of the Jedhan royal family within twenty years of his own age. She’s a seasoned military leader, a veteran warrior, a skilled negotiator and devastatingly intelligent, not to mention stunningly beautiful - the perfect woman to place as Mandalore’s Queen. Jango hisses slightly as one of his legs protests the movement necessary to re-don his armour. Duke Feemor had not gone easy on him earlier, and even though Jango had beaten him, he still has several nasty bruises forming. At least they’re for a worthy cause. Fighting to prove his right to court the Duchess is worth a few bruises, and he has won not only the Duke’s grudging approval, but his even more grudging respect. Across the salle, the man looks coolly at him, one eyebrow raised. His eye is swelling shut. “I’m impressed. Not many people can beat me in hand to hand combat.” Jango snorts. “Among your people maybe.” “My people,” Duke Feemor says coolly, “specialise in blade-work. Specifically, in killing people with blades made of super-heated pure energy. Your people would kill themselves turning a lightsaber on.” “While my people,” oh it’s on, “specialise in blasters. Specifically, in shooting people with fatal electrical pulses with pin-point accuracy. Perhaps your people just can’t use hand to hand well.” They both glare. Jango wants to laugh at the sheer idiocy and impossibility of this situation. In what world would he have ever dreamed of bantering (well, sniping only semi-maliciously) with a high-ranking Jedhan? On Jedha itself, in relative amicability. Sure they just tried to almost kill each other, but for the last ridiculously long stretch of time, they would have actually killed each other. A giggle distracts the two glaring men from their staring contest. The source of the giggle is a little boy, about nine or ten standard, sitting on one of the spectator balconies and sticking his feet through the bars in a typical childlike manoeuvre. He has sandy blond hair cropped short and bright blue eyes, the exact same shade as the Duke and Duchess. A close relation? Certainly royal - a child’s lightsaber hangs by his side, and a brown robe drapes over his infantile frame. “You’re being immature, ‘specially you Fee.” “Really? And I suppose you are the be all and end all on this subject, Ani?” Duke Feemor has suddenly gone from icy anger at Jango to warm affection for the adiik. “Mmhm.” The child kicks his feet with another giggle. “Mama said she could sense it all the way at home.” “I think Mama,” the Duke leaps easily up to the balcony and grab the child, laughing as he squeals upon being turned upside down. “Needs to stop pretending the Unifying Force gives her super senses rather than visions, don’t you.” Slinging the kid over his shoulder, the man disappears from the balcony without another glance at Jango, leaving the Mandalorian standing awkwardly in the middle of the salle. Well, he isn’t dead, which surely counts for something. The day is nearly over, through some odd convolution of the flow of time, and he gratefully makes his way to the bed awaiting him. He is asleep almost before he collapses onto the pillows, but his dreams are plagued with the lovely duchess plunging her lightsaber through his heart. **************** The salles aren’t empty, like he would assume, even though it is right after breakfast. A bit annoyed at not being able to find a space to spar with Myles (who hasn’t shown up anyway), Jango stands near the door and watche the Jedhans spar, a little grumpily. It doesn’t escape his notice that every single one of the people fighting is using a bright lightsaber, and achieving feats no one should be able to, jumping high enough to brush the roof, moving faster than they should. Despite his determination to remain unimpressed by the Jedhans, he is grudgingly mesmerised. A low greeting startles him, and he jumps, cursing his lapse of situational awareness. Into view from behind him comes a beautiful woman in a dress of soft umber and russet, with dark hair braided into loops behind her head and the same piercing dark eyes as the king. Though Jango doesn’t need that to tell him who she is. Crown Princess Depa of the Jedhan Commonwealth isn’t exactly an unknown by any stretch of the imagination. “Your Highness.” He bows, and she inclines her head. “Prince Jango. Would you like to see the city? I’m afraid my family have been rather lax in our duties as your hosts so far.” “Not as such,” he demurs, visions of russet curls and piercing blue eyes rising to his mind. “I have rather enjoyed my visit so far.” A sly glint appears in her eye. “Well, I am most grateful to my cousin for picking up the unconscionable slack left by the rest of us.” Jango just knows he’s colouring, and slams his helmet on before she can see. The smirk that flickers briefly across her face shows he is unsuccessful. “Now, let me show you around our capital city - it’s the least I can do to make amends for neglecting you and your company so appallingly.” Considering that Satine spends most of her time locked in her rooms sulking over the blatantly militant capital, and that several his verd’e appear to have made a few amiable acquaintances, Jango really doesn’t mind. This visit has been very productive so far. Particularly because he doesn’t have to put up with so much of his cousin’s overly-righteous pacifistic tripe. In any case, because it is the polite thing to do, and he was raised to be diplomatic, he inclines his head (exaggerating the movement so it will show through his armour) and holds out his arm. “A tour would be most interesting, I am sure.” ********** To his surprise, it is. Jedha has an history as rich and deep as Mandalore’s, and the Crown Princess knows a lot. For a fleeting moment, Jango contemplates his father meeting this dark-haired beauty with such a deep knowledge and passion for history and shudders. Not least because he feels he knows how it would end, and he’s planning to marry the woman’s cousin, that would just make everything much to complicated and awkward. After seeing a few landmarks, and meeting a few dignitaries, and visiting a school, the princess leads him to a small 24-7 diner, manned by a cheerful Besalisk, a droid with an annoying tinny voice, and a sleepy blond waitress in blue. It’s not as shiny and beautiful as the rest of the city, and looks like something taken from Coruscant’s lower levels and dumped in an out of the way part of Jedha just to put it somewhere. The princess notices his curious look and grins. It’s surprisingly like her cousin’s wild laugh, and gives him pause. He’s already learned to associate that look with chaos. “I see you’ve noticed Dex’s doesn’t fit with the city.” If Jango hadn’t had awkward non-verbal responses trained out of him from a young age, he might have shrugged. “The aesthetic is a little different.” She points to an ancient poster that looks like it should have been taken down ages ago. ‘Welcome to Dex’s Diner!’ It proclaims. ‘We’ve been here for eight hundred years, and we’ve been serving the best burgers in the galaxy for longer!’ “Dex’s has been here almost as long as the current dynasty. The first Dexter Jettsetter was a friend of Queen Benun when she was our representative in the Galactic Senate, and came with her when Jedha left the Republic.” Jango blinks. Even on Mandalore, Queen Benun is a legend, the diplomat turned warrior who declared war on the Galactic Republic and created the Jedhan Commonwealth. To hear her name spoken so casually is...unusual. The princess continues. “My entire family has sworn by Dex’s bantha burgers for hundreds of years.” It’s an odd piece of history, but somehow it sets Jango’s brain working. Somehow, it makes this strange planet seem more real. Mandalore is full of places like Dex’s - little out of the way pockets that seem about to fold under debtors and repairs at any moment, but have been going steady for years, and will continue to do so for years more. He wonders if Duchess Kenobi will enjoy Mandalorian street food. Speak of the devil - the Besalisk sets two bantha burgers with fries down, exchanging a jolly informal greeting with the princess and lumbering off to attend to some other customers. Both he and the princess eat rapidly, hungry from the morning’s travelling around the city. She isn’t wrong - these are definitely some of the best burgers he’s ever tasted. Eventually, just before normal people pay the bill and leave, she folds her hands and looks straight at him. Her eyes are suddenly very serious and piercing, and he imagines they can see right to his soul. “Do you know why I brought you here, rather than anywhere else?” Jango frowns. “I’m sorry, I don’t.” She leans forwards. “This is one of Obi-Wan’s favourite places to eat. Her favourite order is the exact same one as we just ate.” What? Jango just blinks at her. “I’m trusting that you won’t break my cousin’s heart with your ham-fisted courting attempts. An alliance between Mandalore and Jedha would be incredibly beneficial, but I don’t want it to come at the expense of Obi-Wan’s happiness.” Oh. He almost slumps. This again. He always forgets Jedhans are psychic, the royal family especially so. They probably all knew the instant he realised he was in love. But seriously, dragging him around Jedha all morning just for this conversation? Overkill much. “I won’t hurt her your Highness, I promise.” Crown Princess Depa beams and reaches over to pat his hand. “Wonderful. Because if you do, I will be forced to cut out your heart and send your head to your father with it in your mouth, and I would really rather avoid such a diplomatic incident.” With another bright smile, she gives the Besalisk owner the right amount of credit chips for both meals and breezes out of the diner. Jango just sits there for a moment, fuming. Yes, dragging him around the city made a point. Yes, taking him to Duchess Kenobi’s favourite diner made a point. Yes, ordering them both Duchess Kenobi’s favourite meal made a point. But was leaving him there really necessary? The Besalisk pats him on the shoulder as he passes. “Menaces, that lot. Good luck - Kenobi’s the worst of the bunch.” Jango sighs and stands up. Guess he’ll just have to try and find his own way back. Obi-Wan is not having a bad day. She's not. It's just...not a good day. For a start, she woke up late. Fee, damn him, had decided that she should sleep in without consulting her. Apparently she 'didn't sleep enough' and 'needed to look after herself better'. All that time spent on that awful windy planet has clearly addled his brain. Obi-Wan is an experienced diplomat and military commander, little sister or not. She can look after herself perfectly well thank you very much, Feemor. Then her usual robes had somehow ended up going missing, so she has to wear the blue ones instead. She doesn't like wearing them. It's not the boning and lacing that puts her off them, she's used to even more rigid clothes. And the fine cloth and delicate embroidery isn't a problem either, not to a woman born to the ruling family of one of the most powerful empires in the galaxy and then given control of one of the wealthiest planets in the empire. Her entire wardrobe is like that. But the last time she wore these particular robes, she and her father were headed to one of Jedha's vassal planets, to end the Trade Federation's blockade of it. Qui-Gon had died on that mission. He had been killed by Emperor Palpatine's son and heir, and though she had cut Maul down, her father was still dead and gone. She despises these robes, once her favourite. Wearing them brings back memories she would rather not relive. But she can't find anything else, so the blue robes it is. And after that, well, apparently Depa had gone off with her Jango. Which has been irritating her. It's not that she's jealous, exactly. Depa hasn't looked at a man like that since Grey died, and she wouldn't do that to her closest female cousin anyway. It's just...Jango is her mission. Uncle Mace trusted her to secure the alliance with Mandalore. She doesn't need Depa cutting in, well intentioned as it may be. She can do this, and by herself, no matter how much she does complain to her favourite cousin. She's not in a good mood, but, well, that's just how it is sometimes. Deciding she feels like hitting things, she starts to make her way towards the salles. She can take half an hour or so before she looks at the reports from Huyang - it's currently autumn on Ilum, and nothing is happening beyond the ice creeping over the planet from the poles. Besides, she isn't planning on staying long, and it'll be very rewarding. Perhaps she can even hit Quin a couple of times. The thought does cheer her up a bit, after he abandoned her to deal with the fallout for the window fiasco. Honestly, if he keeps doing this she's going to bar him from Ilum and then not leave the planet for the rest of her days. The thought of fighting her least-favourite favourite cousin cheers her up a bit. With that thought in mind, she reaches ahead to the salle, and a smile crosses her face when she hears Quin broadcasting excitement. Good, he is there. Her pace quickens, and her hand drifts lazily to the hilt of the lightsaber resting on her hip. It's been days since she managed to cross blades with him. Unfortunately, just as she reaches the hall where the salles are located, she senses an unfamiliar prescence behind her. Turning, she nearly rocks back in surprise at seeing Jango's cousin. "Duchess Kryze." She murmurs, inclining her head. "What brings you here?" The other woman presses her hand to her heart, presumably her adaptation of the Mandalorian salute, and smiles coolly. "I was looking for you, Duchess Kenobi. Would you care to show me about the grounds of your lovely palace?" Obi-Wan narrows her eyes at the blond duchess, but smiles and agrees all the same. "Of course." The two women link arms and begin walking, smiling and making polite conversation. Obi-Wan feels her entire body tensing the longer it goes on. She can sense anything exactly, but Duchess Kryze is broadcasting suppressed suspicion and dislike strongly. Of course, nothing that Obi-Wan can react to, but it still irritates her. She settles herself in for a very long conversation, and sends a mental apology to Huyang. Hopefully, there was nothing important in his most recent set of reports. Then she turns her full attention to Duchess Kryze, and tries to make the conversation move as smoothly as possible as they make their way to the gardens. It is difficult while they walk through the clearly militaristic halls, passing a guard every few steps, but the other woman loosens up considerably the moment they reach the rather more peaceful gardens. "Why, these flowers are lovely!" Kryze exclaims, bending down to look more closely at a long stem of white flowers. "I've never seen them before, what are they?" Still wary about the other woman's intentions, Obi-Wan keeps her reply cordial and even. "They're pieris flowers, native to Ilum." The other Duchess stands back up, smiling equally cordially. "Ilum is your duchy isn't it? The ice planet with the crystals?" Her sweet tone alerts Obi-Wan to the trap being set. Ah, so Kryze wants to probe her suitability does she? "Quite so." A tiny flicker of irritation appears in Kryze's eyes at the non-sequiteur. "I don't know much about Ilum, Duchess Kenobi, but I've always been curious - kyber is so rare and lovely. Would you care to tell me more about it?" Obi-Wan hides the wince at the casual mention of the kyber. Kryze talks about it like a valuable commodity, as if the most sacred part of Jedha's culture is no more than a particularly rare gem. "If you will tell me more about your own duchy, Duchess Kryze. Kalevala isn't it? The desert planet?" Kryze smiles. "Yes, I see you've come as prepared as I." Obi-Wan inclines her head. "It would be unpardonably rude not to." "Of course." Both women smile at each other, arms still linked. "I'm so glad that we're on the same page about all of this, Duchess Kryze" Kryze places one hand on Obi-Wan's. "Please, call me Satine. We're to be family after all, are we not?" The sudden change of topic sets Obi-Wan momentarily off balance. "I beg your pardon?" Suddenly, she can see the relation between Jango and his cousin. It's something about the eyes, the cold determination that appears from time to time. "I'm not stupid, Duchess Kenobi. Someone has set you to seduce my cousin." Obi-Wan smiles, and tosses her hair. "Seduce is such an ugly word. I much prefer befriend - don't you Satine?" The other duchess only wrinkles her nose. "I don't care what words you use. If you do anything to Jango..." "You'll what?" The woman is a pacifist for Force's sake. "Talk at me?" A cold smile spreads over Satine’s face. "You won't want to see what I'll do. Just because I'm a pacifist doesnt mean I wont defend my family. Are we clear, Obi-Wan?" "Perfectly, Satine. Would it reassure you to know that I'm fairly certain your cousin has the exact same mission as I do?" The Mandalorian duchess sniffs, but the chill seems to have gone from her. Obi-Wan can sense only wary regard now. "Keep what I said in mind. I'll find my own way back." *************** Obi-Wan doesn't manage to make it to the salles for several hours after that. It turns out that Huyang's report had been more urgent than she had thought. The kyber caves had been breached, and several crystals forcibly taken. The culprit had been apprehended before they left the planet - some Weequay pirate who insisted that he was only taking advantage of a wasted business opportunity. She had had to spend hours on a call with Huyang to sort out the hole in security and the appropriate measures to take in response. It was a logistical nightmare, but in the end it had all been worked out. Tired and more than a little irritated, she walks down the hall to the salles once again. Quin is long gone, as she had thought, and there are several Mandalorians in the salles now, wearing full beskar armour. It unsettles her more than a little, because it messes with her Senses. Beskar muffles the Force and turns the people wearing it into rather uncomfortable buzzes where the background hum of the person's thoughts and emotions should be. In any case, she steps confidently into the salle, and starts to stretch, making sure that she warms every muscle up. She isn't sure how much sparring she will be doing today, and she'd really rather not pull something. Once she is quite sure she's stretched out everything, she unclips her 'saber from her belt and moves into the first kata of Soresu. She only started truly focusing her attentions on the third form a year ago, and she really needs the practice. Her father had preferred Ataru and had taught it to all his children. The thought sends a pang through her. Ani was only eight when he died, too young to really start to specialise. Even now, he's only just gotten to the final set of katas of the first form. He won't have any memories of his father's big hands guiding him through an Ataru kata, teaching him the elaborate flips and twists that always seemed so improbable when the one teaching you was more than six feet tall and built like a tower. The thought sends a pang through her, but she accepts it and moves on, taking in a shaky breath and breathing out steadily. There is no emotion, there is peace. When she opens her eyes again, one of the Mandalorians is coming over to her. She can't feel anything but a muted buzz from him, and it itches under her skin but she pushes it down and smiles at the armoured being."Good afternoon..." "Myles. Just Myles." The voice is distorted through the helmet's vococorder, and the scratchy sound makes her want to wince. It just sounds so wrong. "Myles, then." Her lifelong training revolts at addressing anyone so informally without even seeing their face, but she pushes it down smoothly. "Is there a reason you approached me, Myles?" The Mandalorian nods their head jerkily. She thinks it's a 'he', from what she can read through the beskar, but she isn't sure and the uncertainty itches beneath her skin. "Are you any good with that jetti'kad'au?" Obi-Wan feels a smile spread across her face. Just what she wanted. Tilting her head mock-thoughtfully, she bares her teeth in an almost smile at the Mandalorian. "Would you like to find out?" "Elek." Before she can try to match the abrupt syllables with any of the words on the database, she finds herself fending off a fully armoured warrior. It's quite the experience. Prior to this, she has only properly fought with the grunts of an army (and on a few memorable occasions, trained opponents such as Maul or his rather more resilient sister Asajj). She has, of course, sparred with her family too, and often wins or at least only rarely loses. But the war between Mandalore and Jedha has been dragging on since before Queen Benun turned the weak, downtrodden planet into a military power that dominated the galaxy. There haven't been any true battles between the two empires in living memory, let alone since she was old enough to set foot on the battlefield. It's been a generational cold war since before her grandfather's grandfather was king. She has never fought against an opponent that she cannot sense, and she finds herself struggling to adjust. Thankfully, the Mandalorian seems to find fighting a Force-sensitive lightsaber-wielder just as unsettling, and she isn't put at too much of a disadvantage. They settle into quite a comfortable rhythm, neither really trying to win, just wordless mutual enjoyment of the thrill of the fight. She does find her reflexes a little impaired thanks to the sheer strangeness of fighting someone with one of her senses blocked, but if she draws on the Force enough, it pretty much cancels out. The Mandalorian, however, cannot compensate for the Force in the same way that she can compensate for the lack of it, and it is that in the end that tips the scales in her favour. She jumps over the Mandalorian's attack and lands behind them. Before they can react, she has her blade to their throat. They tense, and raise their hands. "Gar par'jila." Taking it as the Mandalorian version of yielding, she lowers her blade. "Reash. You fought well.'' "And you." Sensing someone looking at her, she turns from the Mandalorian and sees an increasingly familiar figure in the doorway of the salle, watching her movements with careful eyes. Obi-Wan thanks the Mandalorian for the spar, and moves towards the door, disengaging her saber and clipping it to her belt. There is no avoiding this. "Jango." Her voice comes out steadily, surprisingly even considering the whirl that her thoughts have been plunged into. "Obi-Wan." His eyes meet hers, and there is something in them that takes her breath away. He extends his hand. "We need to talk." "I was going to say the same thing." She takes his hand, and walks out of the salle.
The first time Chu Wanning walks through the door to Wushan Palace, he smells like bourbon and bad decisions. He’s got the confidence of a man who has decided the best chaser for his last vodka shot was his first tattoo, and the physique of a man who’d faint the moment the gun touches his skin. Hua Binan is manning the counter, flipping through a medical textbook like he hasn’t been “going back to medical school next year” for the last seven years. Mo Ran is perched on the countertop next to him (the one with the sign that says “please don’t lean on me”) ranting to the air besides Hua Binan. “-and then he asked me if I’d hold his hand. Do I look like his fucking mother?” Hua Binan turns to the page detailing the effects of necrosis on the body. The two of them have never liked each other. It started on the day they first met, when Mo Ran sniped a client from Hua Binan. From there, the relationship devolved into increasingly petty attempts to get on each other’s nerves. Mo Ran conveniently “misremembered” what his lunch box looked like and ate Hua Binan’s food; Hua Binan retaliated by sitting down next to him and showing him a video of his “adorable little Shi Mei” eating a live mouse right as the yuxiang pork passed his lips. Unfortunately, with Wushan Palace severely understaffed, that often meant that they spent hours being the only living being the other person could talk to if they didn’t want to go stir crazy. Needless to say, both of them are happy when the door rings and delivers them company other than each other. Though, if you’d have asked them, neither Hua Binan nor Mo Ran had expected the company to come in the form of a beauty that seems to have stepped right from the Heavens into their dingy little tattoo parlor. He’s hardly their usual clientèle. Of course, they get all kinds here, but most of those kinds don’t come stomping into the shop with that level of confidence, wearing something that makes them look like they’re an outcast of a business social gone horribly wrong. But Chu Wanning, as Mo Ran would learn soon enough, is full of surprises. He doesn’t know that yet. At the moment, Mo Ran is wrapped up in staring at the face glaring him down from where it sways in the flickering, luminescent bulb that he never found the time to change. Chu Wanning is handsome in the way you expect from a portrait or a statue; sharp jaw to match his phoenix eyes, solid in the shoulders but with a slender waist that tugs the eyes down to admire the length of long legs. He’s got the kind of appearance that feels illegal to look at too long, as if he’s some statue that’s stepped down from his perch. Mo Ran half-expects a museum guard to come along and slap his hand away for even thinking about touching the displays. Of course, Mo Ran has always been bad at following directions. A few cracks in the jade Chu Wanning calls skin reveal a mortal beneath that god. There’s a stain of a spilled drink on the corner of his sleeve, something bright red and probably a bitch to get out. His hair, longer than one would usually expect, is pulled into a rough ponytail of which most of the hair has fallen out of. One of the flaps on his collar has folded itself backwards; he doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are glassy and vacant. Mo Ran can guess that the smell of liquor on him isn’t just from another clumsy patron at whatever bar he’s stumbled out of. For a man who smells like he’s drunk enough alcohol for his blood to count as disinfectant, Chu Wanning walks up to the counter in a straighter line than Mo Ran thinks he himself can walk sober. “Your sign says you do walk ins.” His voice is clear and concise, more lecturer than lush. Mo Ran isn’t the only one who notices. He watches out of the corner of his eyes as Hua Binan’s slouch shifts into perfect posture. He snaps his textbook closed and shoves it behind him. Mo Ran rolls his eyes as he watches Hua Binan’s expression soften. The voice that makes him such a popular choice for nervous newcomers comes next and nearly makes him gag: placating and syrupy sweet. “We do, but I’m afraid-,” There’s an awkward pause as Hua Binan’s eyes not-so-subtly take in the entirety of Chu Wanning. His options for how to turn this man down flicker in his eyes. Though, beneath that, Mo Ran catches the slightest hint of interest. It leaves his tongue tasting something sour that he doesn’t understand. He scoffs. Chu Wanning’s head jerks over to where Mo Ran is perched, leveling him with a disapproving glare that makes him slide off the counter and straighten his spine. A second later, he realizes he has no reason to pay attention to some drunk idiot, and pointedly leans back on to the counter, closer to him. “We want you to be aware of what you’re agreeing to before we get our hands on you, babe.” He says each word slowly and deliberately, watching the way Chu Wanning’s face shifts with each word, the color building on his cheeks, turning hotter and hotter until finally he jerks back as if he’s been scalded. He’s not a subtle blusher, at least not while drunk. It doesn’t hide in the tips of his ears or rest on the apples of his cheeks. It’s a pretty pink that dips low beneath his half-parted collar, a teasing promise for something more if someone could convince him to loosen up those buttons. If they were anywhere else, Mo Ran thinks he’d like to take up the offer that blush was making. Mo Ran’s a bit impressed when Chu Wanning doesn’t stammer out his sharp reply. “I’m more than aware of what I’m agreeing to.” “Could’ve fooled me.” Mo Ran plucks at Chu Wanning’s shirt right above the red stain just as Chu Wanning tries to slap him away. The motion hikes Chu Wanning’s sleeve up just enough to reveal the willow vine and flower blossoms wrapped around his forearm. From one end, they disappear up Chu Wanning’s shirt, and Mo Ran can imagine them going up and up, opening at his shoulder or nestling just beneath the place where his collar rests. On the end Mo Ran can see, the flowers and vines curl tight around his wrist just at the place where his shirt sleeve sits, a dangerous tease where one wrong move would reveal the ink hidden underneath. Did he commit to the idea? If Mo Ran could strip him down and push him on to his back, pin his hands together above his head, would he find a matching pair of willow handcuffs already painted on skin? His finger grazes against the painted skin and he feels Chu Wanning shiver underneath his touch. When he looks up, he finds the fog in Chu Wanning’s eyes has parted. The inebriated haze has given way to a glare filled with an intensity that would make a weaker man want to shrivel up and die. Mo Ran just wants to see how long he can get Chu Wanning to keep looking at him like that. Behind him, Mo Ran hears a sharp intake of breath. It’s all Chu Wanning needs to jerk his hand free of Mo Ran’s touch. When Mo Ran tears his eyes away to glare at Hua Binan for ruining… whatever had been going on, he finds the expression of faint interest that Hua Binan had worn before has graduated into something that remind him faintly of the way that stupid snake of his had looked just before he’d swallowed the mouse whole. Mo Ran realizes in one clear moment that he is not alone with Chu Wanning. He realizes too in that same moment that he doesn’t want Chu Wanning to be here anymore. Not when Hua Binan was here, at least. Quick on his feet, Mo Ran plucks his card (the one with only his name and number) from the little stand and snatches a pen from the clipboard where they keep the consent forms. Underneath the business number, he scribbles his personal one. “Listen,” he says, loud and firm enough that if Hua Binan even thinks about speaking, his sickly-sweet customer service voice will be drowned out. “Come back tomorrow and I promise I’ll make you my top priority. We don’t do drunk tattoos even if you are entirely too convincing for sober. Both my colleague and I can smell you from here. Go home, shower, and if you still want something, call me in the morning. Maybe I’ll even throw in a discount for being such a good boy.” He files down the sharpness in his grin, brings out the dimples that made old ladies croon about how cute he was ‘til he filled those dimples in with metal. He shoves the card in Chu Wanning’s hand. Chu Wanning frowns down at it like it’s somehow personally offended him. Maybe it has. He still shoves it in his pocket and makes a noise that sounds enough like agreement. Mo Ran makes a note to charge his phone before bed instead of letting it die in his sleep like he usually does. As Chu Wanning leaves, Mo Ran’s eyes might wander a bit south where he finds that for all Chu Wanning seems impressively stuffy, he does know where to get some rather nicely fitted slacks. It’s only once the door has swung shut that Hua Binan hisses at him. “You don’t even do tattoos.” Mo Ran shrugs, and grins wide at Hua Binan in a way he knows pisses him off. “I specialize in piercings, doesn’t mean I don’t do tattoos.” He ducks away just as Hua Binan launches the medical textbook at his head. To Mo Ran’s complete surprise, that interaction with Chu Wanning would not be his last. In fact, it was the start of something far more complicated than he expected He gets the call at “Fucking-Early” o’clock, the voice on the other end smooth as silk. It sounds too steady for a man who really should be feeling a hangover that makes you crave death. “I’m taking you up on your offer.” Mo Ran, who has only just been woken up by the blaring ring of his phone, lets out a low grumbling noise instead of words. He’s still swimming in that half-awake state, barely conscious of the fact he’s alive let alone who he’s talking to. Offer? He’s made plenty of offers before. The voice sounds familiar enough (and hot enough) in his muddled state that he takes a swing. “Isn’t it too early to be calling around for a hook up? I mean if you’re-” The sharp intake of breath, laced with enough barely contained rage, snaps Mo Ran awake. He’s just made a fatal error. Warning, Warning, Jackass: this isn’t a fuckbuddy! (Not that Mo Ran wouldn’t mind-) “How dare you, I-,” Chu Wanning’s words are lost to his spluttering, burning rage. Mo Ran jolts up in his bed, sucking in air through his teeth. This isn’t the kind of impression he wants to make yet. He can practically hear Chu Wanning move to hit ‘end call’, so he blurts out a quick, “Ah, shit, fuck I’m sorry. That’s- You’re the guy from last night, right?” Somehow, in that elegantly panicked string of expletives, Chu Wanning finds a reason not to hang up. “…Yes. You’re the artist who handed me his card last night. You said you’d make me your priority.” There’s a brief pause and a shuffling noise before he continues almost hesitantly, “And you said something about a discount.” He does not mention the extra little stipulation Mo Ran had added, but Mo Ran still thinks of it anyway. Right. Last night. He doesn’t know what got into him last night that he made such a move. It seems strange now, a bit impulsive in a way he can’t exactly blame on lowered inhibitions. Maybe he should try asking Hua Binan if someone can get second-hand drunk off the fumes of another person. Would getting a chance to talk medicine convince him not to rescind that threat of taking a piercing gun straight to his dick? Chu Wanning coughs and pulls Mo Ran back from his musing. Mo Ran manages to blurt out an awkward, “Uh, yeah. Well, if you’re up for it-” “I’m available right now, if you don’t mind.” “Good! That’s good.” It’s not, but Mo Ran’s mouth seems to be working without his permission. “I’ll uh- See you in a bit?” And so, that’s how Mo Ran finds himself leaning against the window of Wushan Palace, waiting for Chu Wanning to arrive, looking a hot mess. Emphasis on mess rather than the hot. Mo Ran knows he looks awful. The bags under his eyes are dark enough to look intentional; he’s barely tamed his bedhead into a bun held together only with a wish and some fluorescent, sparkly hair tie he thinks Rong Jiu left at his house the last time they’d hooked up. The mirror had revealed, as he scrambled to brush his teeth, that he was in dire need of a trim. His once charming fringe had grown long enough to fall into his face, and his undercut was starting to look less like he’d done it intentionally and more like he’d pissed off an ex with a fondness for scissors. (Not that far from the truth, but it hadn’t been the head on his shoulder that she aimed for when she’d gotten her hands on something sharp.) He’d panicked through getting dressed after realizing he’d forgotten to do his laundry yesterday and grabbed a shirt he’s almost certain didn’t belong to him considering how tight it was around his shoulder. Finally dressed, he failed to grab his bus pass three separate times, then worried over whether or not he had enough time to get coffee. After enough agonizing, he decided that he’d already pissed off Chu Wanning enough that showing up a little bit late wouldn’t hurt. All of this struggle and turmoil, and when Mo Ran arrives, Chu Wanning isn’t even there. The thing is, Wushan Palace isn’t even technically open yet. It’s a pretty lax establishment with flexible hours, but for the most part they don’t open until noon. Unfortunately, whatever had led Mo Ran to give Chu Wanning his card last night, had led him to agreeing to meet with Chu Wanning before the store even opened so he really could be Mo Ran’s priority. (It was his dick, why was he even being coy about it, he was lead by his dick.) He wasn’t prepared to offer this early morning service to just anyone, and he wasn’t confident enough that Chu Wanning wouldn’t assume Mo Ran was flaking if he arrived to find the store closed. So, Mo Ran was stuck waiting outside in the cold until he arrived. A sleek black motorcycle, bearing a ridiculously tacky golden dragon, pulls up to the curb, the driver’s face obscured by a helmet. He wears a dark leather jacket and pants tight enough that Mo Ran chokes a little bit on his coffee when the driver leans over to adjust something. What would have been an excellently dramatic reveal is spoiled by Mo Ran catching sight of the willow vine tattoos along his wrist when he reaches up to take off his helmet. Chu Wanning looks just as severe as he did last night. Maybe a bit more, but that’s to be expected when he isn’t drunk as fuck. His mid-length hair is pulled into a clumsy attempt at a bun that might have been neater before he pulled off his helmet, though it makes him look no less charming. Those phoenix eyes are intense as they study Mo Ran sipping away at his coffee. Mo Ran raises an eyebrow in response. Was he drinking it wrong, or something? The harsh line of Chu Wanning’s mouth deepens into a frown. “Having second thoughts?” Mo Ran asks, swirling his cup. The syrup always did like to settle at the bottom and make those last few sips tooth-rottingly sweet. “No,” Chu Wanning replies. He makes it sound like a challenge. Mo Ran wasn’t even trying. “You’re Taxian-jun, right?” Mo Ran winces. Right, that handle. He’d picked it when he was younger, thinking that it made him seem cool and mysterious. He’d grown since then and realized it just made him seem kind of like an edgy asshole. He’d, for the most part, stopped going by it, and his regulars knew him as just Mo Ran. Hua Binan, in charge of most desk work, refused to replace the cards until they were gone, dooming the nickname to haunt him like some kind of corpse that refused to die. “…Yeah, that’s me. I don’t use it much anymore. Just Mo Ran is fine.” “…Chu Wanning.” He says it matter-of-factly, shoving his helmet into a box strapped to the back of his bike. As he does so, Mo Ran takes an ineffectual moment to check whether or not he was hallucinating the fit of those pants before turning around to unlock the door to Wushan. To fill the air, he calls behind him, “You seemed pretty determined to get a tattoo last night… Do you know what you want? Have a design ready? Or are you going to give me free reign?” He throws a grin over his shoulder and nearly jumps when he finds Chu Wanning much closer than he remembers. Up this close, Mo Ran can see the signs of exhaustion that Chu Wanning is trying to hide. The bags under his eyes are dark, his eyes low and heavy. He’s clinging to his severity like a safety-blanket, but it’s slipping with each step. It’s nice to know beneath the stone is something soft and squishy. “I don’t,” Chu Wanning says. It’s a matter of fact statement, said with no shame. He watches with a keen interest as Mo Ran unlocks the door and gestures for him to settle down on one of the sofas while he goes about the opening procedures far too fucking early. He hopes that Hua Binan won’t get it into his head to check later on in the day and start asking questions as to why exactly Mo Ran was at work several hours before his shift was even supposed to start. Chu Wanning settles onto the sofa like he expects it to attack him, studying it for a long while before sitting down on as little of it as is possible without actually falling off the couch. Mo Ran has no clue what his problem is. Hua Binan keeps that thing pretty clean, and Mo Ran’s only had sex on it a handful of times. Which Chu Wanning definitely shouldn’t know about. Yet. “Really? Nothing?” Mo Ran snorts. “What’s so shocking about that? People come in without ideas all the time.” Chu Wanning’s arms are crossed over his chest. The line of his jaw is tight, his eyes sharp enough to cut rock. He’s trying for angry, but with the way he sits on that couch, it almost looks more like a pout. Mo Ran snorts, closing out of the clock-in function and swinging around the desk. He tosses his now empty cup into the nearby trash can. “I mean they do, sure, but not all of them stomp in here with the kind of gusto you did, babe. I was kind of under the impression you’d had the perfect idea in mind and used the alcohol to get up the nerve over your first tattoo jitters.” The nickname slips out by accident, but Mo Ran watches the way Chu Wanning’s eyes go wide just a little at it, how his shoulders jolt and his mouth parts, a faint pink dusts across his ears before he catches himself, goes pale, and freezes up again. His crossed arms slip a little, until it seems more like he’s hugging himself. “This isn’t my first tattoo.” Mo Ran’s eyes narrow and he files Chu Wanning’s reaction away for later. So whatever he’d seen last night hadn’t been a fluke. “Well, now I know that, but you’ve got to admit you don’t look like the type.” “And what does that mean?” He hisses, something of a feral cat in him. He’s got the look like he’s debating at that very moment if he wants to bolt or bite. Mo Ran realizes, faced with such a sight, he wants to find out what Chu Wanning would do when pressed. He strides over in one, two, three quick paces and slides onto the couch next to Chu Wanning, his legs spread wide and arms thrown over the back of the couch. “What it means,” Mo Ran says, his tongue flicking against his teeth, the bell of his piercing grazing the roof of his mouth, “is that last night you looked like you’d walked out of some stuffy office job where even the mention of tattoos would have your coworkers gossiping about you for weeks.” Chu Wanning shifts awkwardly. He side-eyes Mo Ran but does not turn his full gaze on him, as if he is too nervous to. His lips pull into a frown. “Was I wrong?” Mo Ran tests. “Yes,” Chu Wanning says petulantly. “I’m not an office worker. I’m a professor of engineering.” “Oh, my bad.” Mo Ran grins. “Very different.” “I could leave.” “Oh, you certainly could.” He leans into Chu Wanning. From this angle, he can see a hint of color peeking out from behind his collar, different from what he saw of the willow vines around Chu Wanning’s arms. So the sleeves weren’t a fluke after all. “But you’ll stay.” Chu Wanning’s knees knock with his as he spins around. Fury blazes in his eyes, he huffs with rage. Like this, they’re face to face, close enough that Mo Ran really could lean over and do something foolish. He won’t, but the knowledge sits in the back of his mind as he watches Chu Wanning’s lips move around the taunt, “And what makes you so certain?” “Because I know you’re here for the same reason I answered your call this early when we don’t even open until well into the afternoon. You’re curious about me, and I’m curious about you. I want to know what has a man who hides his willow-vine sleeves underneath a three piece suit come storming into this dingy little place demanding we tattoo him when he smells like an entire liquor store.” He leans in, watches the way Chu Wanning’s expressions shift as he moves closer and closer. Fear, excitement, and anxiety all dance across his face, flashes that sneak out of the cracks of the mask of rage he’s still sporting. He expects to be bated away, but when he hooks his finger of the sleeve of Chu Wanning’s jacket and tugs, Chu Wanning lets him. In the daylight, the willow vines are no less stunning. Bracelets painted against his wrists, trailing up beyond the revealed skin, lines dark but fine, drawn with a skilled hand. He wonders who had done them for Chu Wanning, and why Chu Wanning has come to him and not them. “As for what you want?” he says, daring to brush his thumb against the line, up the stalk and following it all the way to the first delicate leaf. “I think you know well enough… But I’ll let you have your secrets.” The expression he finds on Chu Wanning’s face is once more that slack jawed, distant look. When he swallows, it’s thick. “I don’t have any secrets.” “Mm, sure you don’t.” Mo Ran lets go of Chu Wanning’s sleeve, and pats delicately at his wrist. Before Chu Wanning can return back to himself, he pushes up from the couch and waltzes away. “Anyway, if you don’t have any ideas, we could spit ball a few things, consider where you want it. You have other tattoos. Do you want to build on them?” Chu Wanning looks like his brain is still struggling to reboot even as Mo Ran says all of this. He blinks a few times, trying to regain his sense of balance. Mo Ran watches him sitting there with faint amusement. Eventually he hears him say, “I figured I’d leave all that in your hands. That’s what I had all the others do.” “All the others?” “The people who did my other tattoos. I gave them free reign over my body to do as they please. It seemed they enjoyed the opportunity to do whatever they liked for once.” Mo Ran’s brain, stupid and unhelpful, takes those words and does absolutely filthy things with them. In his mind, he imagines Chu Wanning spread out on a tattoo chair. Hands caress his cheek, lead him by the chin to stare up with those dazed eyes as another hand carefully unbuttons his shirt. With each button, more skin peeks out, not enough to see anything just yet, but enough to tease the colors on pale skin. Chu Wanning’s mouth falls open, lashes fluttering, as one of the hands slips lower and lower before- Mo Ran chokes. Chu Wanning gives him a strange look, and Mo Ran brilliantly turns his choking into a cough. “Sorry, it’s uh- Allergies. My coworker’s been slacking on the dusting.” “Mm.” “Anyway, uhm. So I can do whatever?” He is still reeling from that. What a strange string of words, coming from Chu Wanning’s mouth of all places. Chu Wanning, entirely too naive for his own good, nods. “I… see. Well, then.” Mo Ran swallows. What the fuck. “If I’m getting free reign, you won’t mind showing me your other tattoos? I’ll need to know what I’m working with.” Yes, Mo Ran thinks dryly, because that’s the only reason you might want a glimpse at his body. Chu Wanning stares at him like he is some kind of machine he can take apart and understand in the bits and bobs strewn across his table. Mo Ran hopes he wouldn’t find the part labeled ‘prone to suddenly having inappropriate daydreams about his customers’ and bolt. Thankfully, that part seems to have fallen off the table out of Chu Wanning’s view. “Of course,” Chu Wanning says. A strange cast falls over his face, quiet and contemplative. His fingers twist into the fabric of his pants for a moment before slowly rising up. Mo Ran watches, stupefied, as he unzips his jacket and lets it fall from his shoulders. He’s wearing a similar white button up shirt as the night before, a neat tie looped around his neck. Mo Ran would almost think it was the same one, if it were not bereft of the spilled alcohol stains he remembers seeing. It’s a strange contrast to see. A black leather jacket, the attire of an office worker, and beneath it all skin covered in art that Mo Ran would soon see for himself. When Chu Wanning’s tie meets his jacket pooled on the couch, it occurs to Mo Ran that Chu Wanning is stripping in the middle of Wushan Palace’s lobby, right in front of the wide windows whose tinting leaves a lot to be desired. “Ah, no- no. I have a room in the back. More privacy that way,” he blurts out. Chu Wanning pauses, the realization of what he’d been doing coloring his face. It twists into something between anger and embarrassment. “You could have told me that first.” “I-,” Mo Ran begins to say ‘would have if you hadn’t decided to strip in the middle of the entrance way before I could’, but decides it’s not worth the trouble. “Fine, just follow me. Grab your stuff.” His “room in the back” is more of a small little corner than an actual room, with a curtain drawn over it to allow privacy for its occupants. The chair takes up the bulk of the space, shelves containing his tools and cleaning supplies take up the rest. The walls are covered with photos, a mix of past clients and decorative posters from shows he’s seen or just art he likes. A small chair without a back is shoved off into the corner, it’s wheels are cracked and squeak anytime he tries to move in a way it doesn’t like, but apparently they don’t have enough money to replace it. Mo Ran settles down in it and ignores it’s cries as he wheels over to the middle. There’s enough room for him to move around with another person sitting in the chair resting in the middle, but no matter how hard he tries to reorganize, things remain in something of a chaotic state. Chu Wanning doesn’t seem to register any of this as he dips into the room, holding his jacket and tie close to his chest in a little ball. Perhaps it’s still the residual fumes of embarrassment clouding his vision, or perhaps he just doesn’t care as much as Mo Ran does. “You can toss your stuff over here. I promise it’s clean.” Chu Wanning doesn’t seem to find that joke as funny as Mo Ran does. He gingerly places his things down where Mo Ran gestured and shuffles awkwardly in place, arms hanging loosely by his sides. Mo Ran props his elbow on the chair’s armrest and waits. The urge to flee returns to Chu Wanning’s face, but he manages to keep himself from doing it. “Don’t look.” “Excuse me?” Mo Ran blinks, unsure that he’s correctly hearing what Chu Wanning is saying. Except, no. It turns out he is. “Turn away.” “Am I supposed to tattoo you blindfolded? I can promise you that’s not going to turn out too good.” “No, just right now. Turn away.” “Alright.” He doesn’t understand it, but he’ll play nice. He turns his eyes towards some corner of the room. They land on an old photo of him when he first opened Wushan Palace years ago. He’s younger, still clinging to the awkward teenage years like they’re a safety raft. His face is bare of any piercings, grinning wide and cheery enough the little divots in his cheeks show. One of his arms is slung over an older man, gray-bearded and weathered in the way age gives something charm. Old Liu was the one who encouraged him to get into the trade, was the one who encouraged him again to open his own shop. He’d manned the counter for a few years before he’d needed to retire for his own good. Sometimes he still showed up to check on how things were doing. Behind him, the shuffling of clothes fills his ears. It, in his honest opinion, feels more excruciating than if he’d just watched Chu Wanning undress. He keeps his mind focused on the picture of Old Liu to avoid focusing in on the shifting of Chu Wanning’s shirt falling off his broad shoulders, of the rustling of fabric and the sharp metal clink as… oh. Chu Wanning really was going to show him all of his tattoos. Old Liu smiles from the faded picture, and Mo Ran wonders if he’d be disappointed. “You can turn around,” Chu Wanning’s voice calls, even tempered like he’s trying to keep himself in line. Not Mo Ran’s problem. He spins around in his chair and nearly chokes at what he finds. Chu Wanning stands in the middle of his shop, bare except for his briefs. Along his arms are the willow vines, matching as they wrap around both wrists to trail up all the way to his collar bones where they burst out into roots. Underneath their shade a wolf, patterned with delicate stars, rests just opposite a sharp white scar across Chu Wanning’s chest. Moving down he sees a bouquet of flowers blooming underneath Chu Wanning’s breast bone, a different artist from the one who did his sleeves—the leaves of the stems darker and more textured than the delicate lines on his arms. He hears the chair squeak as he pushes up from it, moving closer to admire the details, drawn in by the way his eyes are led down across Chu Wanning’s body. Peeking from beneath his briefs, Mo Ran can see the body of a dragon, long and winding, against Chu Wanning’s hip. The edge of a claw teases from the leg, but the head remains hidden from sight by the white cloth. Across the leg where the dragon rests, a fearsome blade blazes across Chu Wanning’s thigh. It’s hilt is decorated with a pattern of swirls; splashes of yellow give it an appearance of glimmering gold. On the other thigh, a dark black guqin in watercolor twists up a long pale leg. Towards the end it bursts out into a tree from which flower buds are beginning to open. The petals drift down in small pink marks along Chu Wanning’s thigh, unlined and free. For a second Mo Ran mistakes them for hickeys and feels his breath hitch with a strange kind of desire to replace them with his own. But among all this art, the most beautiful thing Mo Ran sees is the man who serves as its canvas. Stripped of his clothes, Mo Ran finds that the impression he first had of Chu Wanning as a god who’d stumbled into his shop by mere accident was no mere trick of the light. His body is firm and lean. There is a solid muscle to his arms, legs, and chest that tells of a dedicated workout routine. Though, he notes, his waist seems thinner than Mo Ran expected, small enough that Mo Ran could place his hands against each hip and probably touch the tips of his fingers together. Mo Ran inhales sharply. Chu Wanning’s eyes flicker up to his face, lashes fluttering a dance across eyes dark with something Mo Ran dare not name. He is close enough now that if Mo Ran reached out, he could touch Chu Wanning, could feel the solid muscle, could see if Chu Wanning is as cold as jade or warm as the light dust of pink beginning to make its way across his body implies. Mo Ran wants to, but finds his hand frozen in mid-air as it begins its journey to reach out for him. Chu Wanning moves, barely noticeable and just within the realms of deniability, towards Mo Ran. He shivers as Mo Ran’s fingertips brush against his chest, right under the white scar. For a second, his thumb brushes at the edge of the gash, but before he can, Chu Wanning’s breath hitches with worry. “Not there.” A breathless little plea. Mo Ran trails his fingers away from it, lets them reach for one of the roots of the vines and follow their path down Chu Wanning’s arm, looping around before landing at the inside of his wrist. “Where were you thinking?” Mo Ran asks, but his voice sounds thick to his ears, falling from his lips with an almost audible plunk as the words drop between them. Chu Wanning’s lips fall open, his bottom lip pink from teeth worrying against them. He says nothing. Mo Ran’s other hand falls to Chu Wanning’s waist and trails down to his hip. His fingers don’t dare to dip beneath the fabric, but they do trace an echo of the dragon’s tail he can see peeking out of the other side. “Here?” Chu Wanning shakes his head no. Mo Ran hums, lets his other hand wrap around Chu Wanning’s wrist. He prompts him to twirl around until his back is facing Mo Ran. Another tattoo rests at the top of his spine: a quiet mountain range, dark with light dustings of Chu Wanning’s skin peeking through as snow. Mo Ran lets go of Chu Wanning’s wrist. It falls limply to his side. Underneath the mountain, the rest of his back is blank. Mo Ran does not play coy here. Both hands press against Chu Wanning’s skin, feeling the way he trembles under the touch—not in fear, but in anticipation. Mo Ran leans in, and Chu Wanning follows. Like this, they’re nearly pressed against each other. Faintly, he catches a hint of something sweet and floral coming from Chu Wanning. It makes the edges of his mind feel fuzzy and delirious. He doesn’t mean to, but finds himself chasing after the scent as though he might be able to place a name to whatever is driving him crazy, as though he’ll find an answer other than a simple: Chu Wanning. “What about here?” It comes out more whisper, breathed in the curve of Chu Wanning’s neck. Mo Ran can almost feel the way Chu Wanning swallows, how he lets out a ragged breath before he murmurs, “All yours.” And doesn’t that do wonders to Mo Ran’s already suffering mind. He lets his thumb trail up and down Chu Wanning’s spine. “Here can be pretty painful.” “I can take it.” “Are you sure?” Chu Wanning leans in, pressing closer into Mo Ran’s hands, enough that Mo Ran can see the small little beauty mark just behind Chu Wanning’s ear. It would barely take any effort if he tried, he could lean in and nip and tease at that spot, see how Chu Wanning acts when he’s got more than someone’s hands on him. Would he like it? “Yes.” For a moment, they stand locked in place. Neither one of them moves. Neither knows what the next move in this game is going to be or if either of them are brave enough to take it. The choice is pulled away from them by the chime of the door opening. It tears between them, brings them both back to the present and the now of where they’re standing. They’re barely given any time to pull apart before the curtain is pulled back and Hua Binan stands there glaring. “I told you not to fu-,” By some small mercy, Hua Binan recognizes the man standing there semi-naked before he can finish the sentence and turn this already bad situation into a terrible one. Unfortunately, Hua Binan takes his quick recognition and turns into an appraisal before Mo Ran can even breath. His eyes roam across Chu Wanning’s body, soaking in the details with a hungry flicker in his eyes. “Oh.” Mo Ran not-so-discreetly adjusts himself so that the majority of Chu Wanning is hidden behind his body like a shield. He reaches over to grab Chu Wanning’s jacket and tosses it roughly over his shoulders before spinning around to face Hua Binan. Hua Binan has schooled his face into his neutral “pleasant smile”, though the edges of it twitch with annoyance. Good, Mo Ran is fine making that stupid mask of his crack. “What were you trying to say? You can tell me in the lobby while my client gets dressed.” Hua Binan rolls his eyes and snorts, but leaves without saying another word which is all Mo Ran can really ask for. He turns back around to Chu Wanning. The man is curled up small behind his jacket, the loose strands of his hair obscure his face from sight. Mo Ran wonders if he should say something about what happened, but finds the words stalling on his tongue. “You can get dressed here, and we can talk over the details in the lobby. That work?” Chu Wanning’s shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. His voice is still as he replies, “That’s fine.” “Cool.” Mo Ran does not run out of the room, but it’s not a leisurely pace with which he makes his way out of that room. Hua Binan is there in the entrance, already settled into his seat at the counter, legs crossed one over the other and hands folded together in his lap. It makes him look like some therapist who’d do more damage to you than you came in with. “Please tell me you did not fuck him here.” “I didn’t fuck him at all.” “Shame,” Hua Binan says, quick like a viper strike. Though before Mo Ran can reach over and throttle him, he shifts the sentence into, “-that he took you up on your offer, even with that discount. He deserves better.” “What? Like you?” “Perhaps.” Hua Binan says. “At least someone who can actually do something that would work with his existing pieces.” “Oh fuck you.” “No thank you. I’m too good for you.” Chu Wanning steps out from the curtain before they can really get into an argument. Both Mo Ran and Hua Binan plaster on smiles as though they are not minutes from a blood bath. He has done a great job of putting himself back together, even going as far as to zip his jacket all the way up to his throat. If Mo Ran had not been there, had not touched him, he might have assumed this man had never been willing to strip naked in his shop. “Are you still considering Wushan Palace for your next tattoo?” Hua Binan asks, voice so sugary it reminds Mo Ran of the last sips of coffee he had tossed away when he had first arrived. “Right now you wouldn’t be pinned down to anyone, so you can consider other artists if Taxian-jun isn’t your style.” Chu Wanning doesn’t look at Hua Binan when he speaks, barely seems to notice him. Instead, he focuses on Mo Ran, something inscrutable in those eyes. It makes him feel like he is being measured against something he does not understand. He hopes whatever Chu Wanning finds when he finally looks away is in Mo Ran’s favor. “Yes, I am,” Chu Wanning says, slowly with a deliberation in each word, “and I think I would like to stick with Mo Ran, please.” Hua Binan makes his best attempt to stifle his disappointment and fails miserably. Mo Ran beams with joy. “That’s great,” Mo Ran says. He turns around to reach behind the desk for the clipboards, and takes a very satisfying second to shoot Hua Binan a victorious grin. Hua Binan returns it by scrunching up his face into an ugly expression. It brings a bit of joy to Mo Ran’s heart to see a beauty like Hua Binan can look ugly too. He makes sure to return his expression back to normal when he turns around to Chu Wanning. “We’ll need to get you to sign some release forms and pay for a deposit, but after that it’ll just be a matter of giving me time to sketch up a design for you. ” Something like a smile flickers across Chu Wanning’s face. “Don’t forget that discount you promised.” “I won’t.” Mo Ran laughs, and ushers Chu Wanning over towards the couch. “Though you have to promise me you won’t forget your end of the deal.
Percie really felt like she'd gotten close to Piper over knowing her for the past hour or so. Granted, she technically knew her as Peter for a lot longer than that, so perhaps the better way of phrasing it was knowing her as her, instead of as Percy. So, when the daughter of Poseidon launched into a cavalcade of promises and flattery, in an effort to let the gorgeous child of love agree to let her drive her dad's Hummer, she figured there was at least a chance of success. Not enough of a chance, as it turned out. Will shared several amused looks with Percie as the two of them stood out next to the massive vehicle, waiting for Piper to grab everything she would need for a long road trip. Along with the usual assortment of items: nectar, bottled water, and a pickle jar that had been labelled "in case of gryphon attack", Piper made sure to leave a note next to her dad's bed explaining where she'd run off to. It wasn't nearly the truth, by any stretch, but telling Tristan his daughter had left with her friends to get away from the madness of Hollywood was a lot more reassuring than explaining that she'd be hunting down a long-dead general while fighting the astrological signs, plus a creepy demon-snake lady. What could you do? Fathers could be weird like that. "Keep frowning like that, and your face is gonna get stuck in that expression forever," Will joked, which only pulled Percie's lips even further down into a glare. "I mean, I'd get it if we were going across the country," she complained, "but it's literally just across the city! How much trouble could I really get into behind the wheel over the course of an hour?" The healer's look of deprecation, plus her own self-honesty, answered that by themselves. "Fine," Percie acquiesced, stomping over to the passenger side. "I'll make do." Will shook his head. "Sorry Percie, but you got shotgun last time. I didn't put up an argument because I needed to keep watch over Mr. McLean. This time, we're on our own." He jutted his thumb at the back. "I'm getting the view this time." "I think I liked you better when you were being all compassionate and motherly." "Most people do; but don't think the sun can't have a darker side, too." Percie rolled her eyes. "Take that conversation any further, and the poetry's gonna come out in full force. And trust me; I'll throw myself into the LA traffic before I hear one more limerick about some dude in Idaho." Will smirked. "Then I guess shotgun is mine." "You're evil." "But charming! That's important." Mumbling under her breath about Apollo and his diabolical spawn of poets, Percie leaned against the back door of the Hummer, waiting for Piper without any more talk passing between her and Will. As frantic as Percie had been about tracking down this world's Demosthenes as soon as possible, Will had reminded her that they had come to California to hunt down the other members of the Seven first. Piper had been the original target since she would be the easiest one to find; Jason and Leo were not so simple. In the first real bit of luck Percie could recall in a while, the daughter of Aphrodite could answer the question as to the location of the former; while he was technically studying at Edgarton's, Jason tended to trek out on his weekends, usually to track down something related to his mother, Beryl Grace. Beryl had been an actress in her prime, so a lot of Jason's searches took him into Hollywood, where he always made some kind of connection with Piper if he knew she was in town. Piper had assured both Will and Percie that it was strictly for his own safety; if anything went wrong, he wanted people to know where he was. Percie doubted that, herself. Sure, Jason probably did want to take some precautions, being a child of the Big Three alone in the world, but there were plenty of folks in Tinseltown who could get ahold of Chiron, or someone else in either camp. The fact that he went out of his way to make that liaison Piper each time seemed too... exact, to be written off as a coincidence. She knew Peter and Janice had broken up; it was mentioned offhandedly during one of the reunion parties, then never brought up again, no matter how many times Percie gave Peter the sad-puppy eyes. And she was good at them, too. Nothing. Everybody's lips were sealed, which didn't satisfy Percie in the slightest. To make the whole thing even more aggravating, everybody except her and Alister seemed to have some sort of idea about the breakup, but always clammed up whenever she or the son of Athena tried to broach the topic. Maybe meeting the son of Jupiter this way could finally give her the window of opportunity she'd been looking for. "Sorry about taking so long, guys," Piper opened with, finally exiting her dad's room, loaded down with supplies. Katoptris hung at her side, the Mirror sending waves of impatience down Percie's back. She'd been so close to Alister... and couldn't push it through. The quicker they found Jason and Leo, the quicker they could head back to Camp Jupiter, where Annabeth should have already brought Hazel, Frank, and Reyna up to speed with Nico. Piper's theory sounded good; the Mirror could only cross the dimensions fully if one was speaking to their counterpart. And if that was true, that dagger needed to get into Annabeth's hands as soon as possible. To finally open a wavelength where Alister could hear her... she couldn't hold back her energy at the thought. In addition to putting Percie's heart at ease, a two-way communication between the children of Athena would be a vital step in fixing this problem. Surely Alister had his own ideas about how to resolve it; why else would he have let Willamina keep him in New Rome while Percy took off for New York? "No worries, Piper," Percie answered her, her foot tapping against the pavement of the parking lot. "We're ready when you are." "I'm ready," she affirmed, and all three demigods piled into the Hummer. Will couldn't hold back a cheeky grin as he got to enjoy the luxury of the passenger seat, and Percie briefly considered if Nico would let her get away with hitting his boyfriend in the face with a mallet. She held back, partly out of respect for the son of Hades, and partly out of fear. She had promised to keep the young man safe, after all. Hitting boys with giant construction tools tended to muddy the waters when it came to protection. With Percie nestled in the middle of the back seat, Will leaned his chair back, putting both hands behind his head. "So, where are we heading, exactly?" he asked. "I got about as far as Barnsdall Park before you ran out of the room to write that phony note for your dad." Piper huffed, turning onto the highway. "Beryl Grace was a bit of a... what's the polite way to phrase it? Total deadbeat? For a successful actress, anyway. Drinking problems, narcissism, classy things like that." "No one ever accused the King of the Gods of having good taste in women... or men, for that matter," Percie half-whispered, more to herself than anyone else. It didn't matter how much danger the world was in; both Zeus and Hera would have smote her for that comment. Hence the subtlety with the delivery. The child of love gave no hint she'd overheard. "Even though she gave him up as an offering to Juno, Jason couldn't stop himself from wanting to find out more about his mother," Piper continued, hands on the wheel tightening. "Every time he gets a chance away from Edgarton's, it's right back here, to dig up more dirt on Beryl." "Is that such a bad thing?" Will questioned, looking over at her. "Despite her... shortcomings, she was still his mother. Never really got the chance to meet her; as much as he hates her for what she did, I can't say I'd feel any different." "Nor I," Percie admitted from the back. "As much as I might complain about my dad's inaction for most of my life, inaction is always better than actively taking steps to ruin your kid's life. I always had my mom; Jason didn't even get that." Piper went quiet for a moment. "No... he didn't, did he?" she muttered, her eyes going to a faraway place before focusing back on the road. "Where was I? Barnsdall, Will?" "Yeah." "Right; Jason's already tried most places his mother frequented, when she wasn't doing insane publicity stunts or drinking her problems away. When he spoke to me last, he said he'd be spending most of his time this weekend at the Los Angeles Municipal Art Gallery, which is Barnsdall Park. Apparently Beryl tended to stop by the area whenever she had a rare moment of self-reflection." "How'd he learn that?" Percie asked. Piper stifled a snort. "Got that from his mother's old agent, or so he told me. Old coot could barely string together a sentence without mentioning he used to handle Beryl Grace. Just about had a heart attack when Jason told him who he was." The conversation died out shortly after, Piper clamming up on Jason. The rest of the drive continued with only scant small talk passing between Percie and Will, oohing and aahing at the weirdos they saw on the Hollywood streets pass by. New York was still in a league all its own when it came to odd mortals, but Hollywood pulled its own weight. The best one was a fifty-something year-old woman walking some twenty-something guy on a leash, wearing a banana hammock with the phrase "What you see is what you get" plastered on the front. The guy; not the old lady. "It's sights like that that make me question why the Mist only bothers to cover up the monsters and the godly powers," Will moaned, as they pulled into Barnsdall. "I've fought giants, vampire wannabes, literal Titans, and even a cheese-monster named Gordy, but that still takes the cake for the strangest thing I've ever seen." Percie couldn't help herself. "Gordy?" "I didn't believe him either. The poor thing actually stopped, mid-fight, to produce his birth certificate just to confirm that yes, his name really was Gordy. Then Nico stabbed him in the back. Do you have any idea what cheese smells like after it gets perforated by Stygian iron?" "Uh... no?" "Think of a high-school locker room, but one that gets used by the Laigstronian Giants' Lacrosse team." With that disturbing image, and smell, now fresh in her mind, Percie followed Piper and Will into the park, trying not to let her imagination flood her with the odor that would accompany such a place. "So, the Municipal Art Gallery," Percie refocused, shaking her head. "Jason said he'd be here?" "Yeah," Piper confirmed. "Place is pretty big, so we might need to spread out once we get inside." Will made a noise at that. "Spread out? Like... split up? That never goes well, for anyone." Percie sighed. "No, it doesn't... but I'm inclined to agree with Piper." That got her two shocked expressions. "What? You two can stay together; I love you, Will, but you're not exactly the most domineering fighter." As much as that comment must have offended the healer, he didn't argue, only looking at her in frustration. "I can take care of myself," Percie continued. "At the very least, anything that surprises us is sure to draw some attention. If it decides to go for me, it'll only take a few seconds for you two to hear me yelling, and come assist. The same goes for you; if anything pops up and tries to eat your face, just give a yell." "Yell... that's the big plan?" Will finally asked, incredulous. "Yep; it'll let me know something's going on... and it's sure to get Jason's attention, too. You'd be killing two birds with one stone," Percie countered. Neither of her companions really looked fond of the idea, but Piper technically had suggested it first. She nodded, and while Will seemed a lot more reticent, he ultimately ceded the point to Percie as they entered the art gallery. It was a pretty impressive place, both on the inside and outside. The pillars and overhang leading to the main entrance gave the whole thing a very Greek vibe, and once they'd gone in, Percie breathed in the relief of air conditioning replacing the California heat. A few larger statues and pieces stood in the middle of the floor, some more abstract than the others. Aside from those exhibits, most of the mortals inside were roaming around, gawking at the multitude of paintings lining the pristine white walls. "Seems as good of a place as any to clear your head," Percie whispered, gazing down the corridor at a blue deer that appeared to be made out of Styrofoam. "Okay, I'll go this way; you two take the eastern part of the building. And remember; if any monsters, or nosy art collectors start bothering you, just give a shout." Really, either one was a pressing concern. Monsters might try to kill them painfully, but art collectors were in their own league of viciousness: Percie had heard River complain on more than one occasion about how frustrating it was to haggle with a collector about his work. Despite being the son of a multimillionaire, even he could only pull so much weight with them. "Look for Jason, and yell if anything happens," Piper droned, a wrinkle of stress coming into her face. "A plan that Odysseus himself would quake in fear at." "I'm glad you agree," Percie snarked, walking off before she had to trade any more sarcastic quips when they had things to do. Despite being rather late in the day, the gallery was still crowded with people, most of whom were too busy trying to take pictures of the art instead of looking at it for themselves. Yes, the big chess table made out of glass was really pretty, but you could look up images of the gallery's collection on the Internet. Why bother coming out if you weren't going to get the full in-person treatment? Percie was so busy judging strangers, she momentarily forgot she was supposed to be looking for Jason. However, the moment she refocused on that, she lost focus on her surroundings, and bumped right into an older lady in a black velvet evening gown. "Sorry, ma'am," the demigod offered immediatly, making a move to keep going, but when the woman turned, Percie slowed down. She didn't recognize the mortal; about sixty, but still very attractive, rocking some purple earrings in the shape of doves, and a golden necklace embedded with pearls. "No need to apologize, dear," the woman returned, a pleasant smile crossing her face. "This place can be awfully stuffy, to newcomers. Can I help you find anything specific? A work by a certain artist, perhaps?" Did this lady work here? She seemed too overdressed for that; gazing at her, Percie couldn't shake the feeling that she was missing something; doves... and pearls. Where had she seen those together before? "I'm not really looking for a work, ma'am," Percie answered, leaning back on her feet. The way this woman was looking at her... it put her off. Like she was sizing the demigod up for... something. "I'm actually looking for someone; a boy, about my age?" "A boy," the woman purred, now very intrigued. "How adorable; young love is something I do miss." "Oh, he's not my boyfriend, miss. Just someone I need to talk to." The woman pouted. "Oh, drat. And here I was, getting all excited for you. Well, no matter. What does he look like? I may have seen him earlier." Percie tried to formulate an image of a what a male version of Janice would look like in her head. "Uh... blonde, blue-eyed. Tall, muscular... might be wearing glasses? You'd probably assume he played football, if you saw him at a distance," Percie guessed, hoping she wasn't too far off. "Sounds like a stud muffin," the elderly dowager cooed. "And just my type; all-American, sweet, and enchanting. You're in luck, dear. I saw a young man fitting that exact description just a few minutes ago; he was keeping to himself, and was headed for the section marked for June Edmonds. You'll find directions on the compendium posted to the wall." Okay... watching an old woman clearly get a little too... invested in Jason was enough for Percie to cut this talk short here. "Thanks, ma'am," she said, spinning around in one swift motion. "Have a nice day." "You as well, dear. You as well." Percie couldn't believe she was thinking this, but as she scanned the compendium for the June Edmonds exhibits, she couldn't help feeling like that the woman she'd just met would prove to be even weirder than the woman walking the dude in the banana hammock. Now that she thought about it, the daughter of Poseidon was pretty sure the old lady had been pumping Botox into her face for decades, because she couldn't recall a single wrinkle anywhere on the woman's skin. Either that, or she'd made some sort of dark pact with a creature beyond the stars. This being Hollywood, she couldn't rule anything out. The Edmonds exhibit was easy enough to find, thanks to the very helpful arrows that had been printed out on every marked sign in the gallery. Weaving in and out amongst the crowd, and the rather impressive paintings, Percie spotted the man she'd been looking for. The blonde hair was her biggest clue, since he was facing away from her, staring at a painting depicting the eruption of Vesuvius over Pompeii. Once she got closer, the smaller details all fit, too. Jason was a few inches taller than Janice, but still managed to put out that leadership aura. The tattoo on the under-side of his left arm was another big giveaway, and he even had her glasses, too. At least this version of Janice could remember to wear them; the daughter of Jupiter had to be reminded constantly back in Percie's own world. She didn't have Piper or Will along with her, since she'd had them go off together. She'd said it was to keep Will safe, and while there was some element of truth to that, it wasn't her full justification. Getting the chance to speak with the child of Jupiter alone afforded Percie the chance to ask him about his relationship to Peter- er, Piper. Maybe... if she did it away from the others, he might be willing to break the proverbial ice. Sliding up next to him, she paused for a moment, pretending to study the painting memorializing the tragic deaths of a couple thousand people. Jason either didn't notice her, or didn't pick up on the fact that she was no mere mortal. "So... get hit in the head by any bricks lately?" she innocently asked. That did it. Jason's head shot her way, clear bafflement in his blue eyes. "Excuse me?" he sputtered. "It's not really that big a deal," Percie continued, doing everything in her power not to break out in guffaws at the look Jason was giving her. "I mean, one time I saw an art student hit the Lord of Time in the eye with a blue plastic hairbrush. At least bricks were proven to be effective weapons in the Home Alone movies." Jason blinked at her, leaning forward on his heels. "Do... I know you?" "You mean you don't recognize me?" Percie put on her best offended face. "Maybe this will clue you in." Doing her best not to draw any extra attention to herself, the daughter of Poseidon let the façade of humor slip from her face. "I'm not telling you it's going to be easy, I'm telling you it's going to be worth it." With one sentence, everything clicked. She could tell, because Jason's mouth dropped beyond the point Percie would have thought possible. That, and he took his glasses off to get a better look at her. "P-P... Percy?!" "Close, but no cigar, Grace. Good to see you." The poor man scrambled for a few seconds more, clearly trying to come up with some sort of explanation for why one his closest friends was now looking a lot more... feminine, than last time he'd seen him. Percie cut off his gasps of shock by putting a hand up, motioning for him to follow her right outside one of the side doors. Doing so got them away from the crowds, which meant the child of the sea could finally breathe a little. "I can give you the short version, or the director's cut," she told him, straightening up in the fresh air. "Have a preference?" "Are you kidding?" Jason blustered, eyes wide. "Full details; nothing spared, if you please." "Okay. You asked for it, though." By the time she'd finished, the sun was beginning to set. Jason had already been completely gobsmacked when Percie started with the two worlds, and the time she turned Alecto into a dust pile. Before she'd reached the Minotaur, the son of Jupiter was sitting down, his head in his hands. Kronos' rise, and eventual defeat, got him pacing the length of the outdoor path. Once she'd reached Gaea, he was back in front of her, hanging on her every word. Percie concluded with the earth mother's defeat, and her own wacky adventures after Lamia's spell jerked her into this world. Jason paled considerably at her trek through the Underworld with Will, and had to stop her while she was recounting Erebos' talk about what had happened to her dad. Janice's kindness had certainly carried over, since Percie's voice broke several times trying to get through that one. "You don't have to go any further on that, Percie," he said, his voice gentle. "I get the gist." There wasn't much after that: the Mirror, talking to Percy, and coming here to find him, so they could hunt down their Demosthenes. The son of Jupiter shook his head, not saying anything for a minute. "You always get the weird ones, Jackson," he finally led with, eyeing her with sympathy. "Aside from... well, everything you've just told me, how have you been holding up?" "A mixed-bag," she confessed. "It's wonderful, getting to meet the other versions of my friends... but doing so has given me plenty of time to reflect on my own relationships with my original ones. All I can say is that I have a lot of dirty laundry to air once I get back." "Don't we all?" Jason drifted off, looking back into the gallery. He had to be thinking of Piper; this was her best chance to open the door to that little mess. "I know this is kinda brusque, and out-of-nowhere, but can I ask you something?" she said, linking her fingers together in her lap. "Fire away." Percie chewed on her lip for a second. "So... I know you and Piper... aren't really a thing any more." She was expecting the hurt look she got. That didn't mean it didn't tug at her heart strings. "Yeah," Jason mumbled, looking down. "I take it our... other selves split, too?" "Yes. But... no one ever told me why." She was really invading his privacy here, but she had to know. "You guys were so... close, back on the Argo. How could something that strong end without anyone being willing to reveal why?" The son of Jupiter sucked in his cheeks, holding back... something. Tears? Anger? Percie couldn't tell. "I wish I could tell you that, Percie," he said, his voice shaking. "But I can't." "Why? I'm your friend; sure, you only just met me, but I got really close to you during the quest to defeat Gaea. You were there for Neeks when I couldn't be; if you're worried about trusting me with it, I can promise you-" "It's not about you, Percie. It's about me. I can't tell you why Piper and I broke up... because Piper never actually told me the reason herself." Percie's diatribe died out. "Wait... what? How does that-" "That's literally it," he emphasized, looking broken by his own words. "All she said was that she didn't think it would work out, and was more than willing to keep being my friend. You, and Percy, didn't get an explanation... because I didn't get one. You'd have to ask her." Well, wasn't this just a fine boil of emotions and conflict? The one person she thought could give her an answer without putting herself at risk of painful injury had no clue as well. Sure, she could always ask Piper... but the child of love was really sensitive about her relationships, be they platonic or romantic. She'd seen Peter shut down multiple times around his own cabinmates, and no amount of nail polish or pictures of gorgeous women could snap him out of it. Peter, and Piper by extension, was about as far from a child of Aphrodite as one could get while still being the goddess' kid. "I'm sorry," Percie uttered, looking back inside the gallery so she didn't have to face her friend. "It was rude of me to just ask you that out of the blue, especially since we technically just met. It's just... been eating at me for some time now." Jason sighed. "You're not alone, there. I've been trying to figure it out myself, but love is something that tends to destroy anything it doesn't jive with. And I've seen Cupid in action, so I would know." He waited for Percie to respond, and when she didn't, he put his hand to her shoulder. "Don't worry about it; I know your heart was in the right place." Jason actually managed to smile at her, despite the circumstances. "It's okay: you can say it." "Good thing. Otherwise I'd be dead, if it wasn't in my chest," she croaked, disbelief coming into her head as the son of Jupiter somehow got her to smile at her own stupid joke. How he pulled off the loveable yet dangerous paragon, she'd never know. The mood lessened considerably, and Jason looked back towards the gallery. "Well, you found me. Guess it's time to go in and face the music with Piper and Will. We've got a wily demigod to find, and an ancient general to interrogate." Both of them sounded hard, and likely to result in death. So, a normal Friday for Percie. The two demigods headed back, the late time of day meaning many of the mortals crowding the hallways had dispersed elsewhere. Percie hadn't heard any terrified screaming of any kind, which meant nothing must have accosted Piper and Will while they explored the gallery. Rather, Piper was accosting a man in wired spectacles standing near a giant blue ball made out of... something really shiny. Will stood behind her, his face on his palm, clearly not having a good time as Percie approached with Jason in tow. "No, I'm not interested in modeling for you!" Piper sneered, shooing the man away from her. "And find a better opening line! No woman will ever pose for a guy who leads with 'Want to join my harem of abstract ladies of the brush?'" Getting one more scorching critique of his sales pitch in, the daughter of Aphrodite wheeled on her heel, rolling her eyes so hard Percie feared they might jump out of their sockets and chase the poor fellow out the door. "We're just making a lot of friends today, aren't we?" Percie called out, watching the artist dash away with fear in his face. See, this was why Percie was hesitant to broach anything regarding Jason with Piper. "Always," Will answered, giving Piper a moment to cool down. The healer's expression melted into a smile as he saw Jason. "And you found him! Great; I was worried we'd have to start asking around the sculpture of the human mouth. Everyone in there was a tad too... interested in skin, if I may be so bold." Jason chuckled. "I've heard it said that no artist is ever completely sane; I wager the same could be argued for art's admirers, as well. How are you, Will?" "Just fine, all things considered. No one's tried to kill me in at least two hours; feels like a record, at this point in time." The others all shared in the joke, minus Piper, who gathered enough of herself to acknowledge Percie before averting her eyes away from Jason. The son of Jupiter swallowed at her, clearly searching for something to say. "Piper," he finally settled on. "Jason." "Doing okay?" "As well as I can be; you?" "Hanging in there. Like always." "Good." "Okay." "Okay." That would have to do, since neither one of them picked up anything beyond that. Will tossed a questioning look Percie's way, and the child of the sea just shook her head at the healer. This could get really awkward... well, more awkward than it already was, anyway. "So, we've got our second goal achieved," Percie said, eager to move on from the uncomfortable silence. "Now we need to find-" "There you are, my dear!" the old lady from before announced her presence by coming up right next to Percie, a wide grin on her face. She studied Jason with vigor. "I see... so this was the young man you were looking for. He is quite fetching; a shame so many others don't see him that way." That was enough to draw all four demigods' full attention to her. "What do you mean by that, lady?" Piper grunted, clearly annoyed. "Yeah, what do you mean?" Jason seconded, looking suspicious. "You talk as if you know me." "But I do know you, Jason," the woman answered, a mischievous look coming over her face. "Once I realized Piper here was going to be on the lookout for you, I made sure to hang around. Just in case either of you needed a little nudge to find each other again." Will blanched. "Uh... how does this woman know both your names?" "It's my job, Will," she answered for them. "Besides, considering my connection to Piper, I'd be a laughingstock if I didn't know her name, at the very least." Percie felt that same sense of deja vu from earlier come back. She'd never seen this woman's face before, but clearly the old lady knew them all. How could that be explained? Piper must have figured it out, because she suddenly tensed up, hatred plastered all over her face. "Really? You just had to pick now to stick your nose in my business again? We're kind of busy here, in case you haven't noticed." The dowager flounced. "Oh, poppycock! I went to all the trouble of picking out a form even you wouldn't recognize me in, and this is how you treat me? I think I handled myself rather conservatively, thank you! Not even one big display of affection!" As she finished, the woman glowed with a soft light. The few mortals in the room all stared in amazement for a moment; Percie had no idea what they were seeing, but as she too realized who this lady was, she wished she could see it to. The old woman's flawless skin glittered as her face and body changed. Where there had once been a very attractive older woman, there was now an absolutely stunning young lady. Blonde curls fell around a dress that showed just enough of her cleavage for it to be eye-catching. Percie couldn't help noting that the woman she was seeing resembled an older, more manicured version of Annabeth. But, that was just how she was appearing to the daughter of Poseidon. Everyone else was seeing their own ideal woman in place of the goddess. "Mother," Piper growled. Aphrodite snickered, an adorable sound that made Percie want to squee in delight. "Hi, sweetie! Long time no see. We've got a lot to discuss; all of you."
≫ i am selfish, i am broken, i am cruel. The summer broke in time – Espresso was using only a cane now, and even then, sparingly. This meant that it was time he got his strength back – a test of his reflexes, to see whether or not he was as good as he used to be. So far, he was – for the last hour, neither Latte nor Madeleine have been able to land a hit on him, the Mage diving between the swings of Madeleine’s sword and Latte’s sigils, moving like water. “Your issue, Madeleine, is that you project your attacks,” the Mage called, stopping to raise his hand, catching Madeleine’s blade between his index finger and his middle finger, a dull glow emanating between them, perhaps a tiny shielding spell so that the blade would not break his skin. “I can see the direction you’re going to swing your sword before you actually do. An observant opponent can catch on to this,” Espresso released the blade and backed up several paces. “Are we training you, or are you training us?” Latte teased, loping somewhere behind Espresso. Espresso scoffed. “Madeleine, swing at me. Watch my eyes. Watch your stance.” Silence. Espresso’s eyes were fixed on the tip of Madeleine’s blade, and he was going to swing to the right. Suddenly, the blade came from the left instead, and Espresso almost didn’t dive out of the way fast enough. Madeleine guffawed – “Excellent!” Espresso called from his place splayed out on the dirt, “You almost got me there. Keep that up; always make sure you’re not projecting what you’re going to do next. For someone like Latte, it’s a bit harder to not project your next move, considering how writing sigils takes time. That is why you always ensure your opponent doesn’t know what you’re doing. Want to try?” Espresso offered to Latte, heaving himself up with only a tiny stumble. “I’ll break your collarbone again,” the Coffee Witch joked. “We don’t need any more injuries before we leave. That reminds me – Eclair’s letter.” “Yeah, you’ve had it a while but never let me get a look at it.” “Let me change that,” Latte, with her usual peppiness, hopped over to where they left their stuff against a bench, alongside little six-month-old Creampuff, who Latte greeted excitedly. Even though Latte was Creampuff’s mother by-birth, she was taking on more of an aunt role for the little one. Espresso wanted them to have a sort of relationship or bond anyways, especially because Latte could be such a positive influence in her life. Espresso watched them for a long moment, his chest swelling with warmth. He and Madeleine gave up everything and had absolutely nothing, but just over a year later, they had everything they could’ve possibly wanted. From nothing to the universe in the palm of his hands in nearly an instant. Latte hopped back over with a grin on her face, in her hands a neatly-packaged envelope with a glittering red seal bearing an elaborate, runic pattern. One of Espresso’s ravens flapped down to his shoulder. He raised a finger to let the bird play with his hand. Latte stopped in front of Espresso, delicately removed the letter from its envelope, and presented it to him. The letter was written on fine stationery, the borders embroidered with gold flake detailing – complimented only by the careful calligraphy on the paper itself, readable but ornamental and loopy. The letter read; ‘ Dearest friends and strangers alike; Your words come to me as a great shock. The Ruins of Eden? Real? A physical place and not some literary invention or the remnants of something that could easily be explained away as a lost temple? It sounds almost too good to be true – I will express to you this disbelief now, my hands shaking joyfully at your words. I want to believe you, but I am in so much shock that I simply cannot, not until I see those grand ruins myself. If you are telling the truth, you have made my career, and I owe you everything I have. If you are not, however, why couldn’t you just outwardly tell me you wanted to spend time together? I could have bought tickets to ship you and your friends right to the camp I’m currently stationed at. I am skeptical, but I also believe you would not lie to me. I have left my current project studying the ruins in Archmage’s Cairn in the hands of my second in command. When I arrive, I hope that we may discuss where I will be staying and where I will procure a team for the reconstruction project, and also where we may get funding from. In addition, I will contact several institutes with which I am on good terms to provide some funding and lend some of their equipment for our use. I am excited to see you again and to meet your newest friends. But, above all, since it has been that time, I am excited to meet the child you bore for your aforementioned friends. Looking forward to whatever is to come. Eclair Corbin Little-Raven New Parfaedia Institute of Anthropology, Archaeology, Paleontology, and Histories (NPIAAPH) Archmage’s Cairn, Silvermoon Mountains, White Lily Kingdom Head Appraiser’s Tent (Tent No.3)’ At the bottom was the man’s signature, almost as ornamental and decorative as the letter itself. Espresso sighed. “So, he’s coming?” Latte nodded. “Yeah.” “But he doesn’t fully believe the claim that we know where the Ruins of Eden are.” Latte confirmed again with another nod. “Yeaaaah…” “He sounds like a nice guy, kind of a nerd, though,” Madeleine piped up. “Dreadful. Hate those nerd types.” Espresso, quite loudly, cleared his throat and elbowed Madeleine sharply in the side with a dreadful look on his face. The Paladin didn’t feel the Mage’s elbow but instead heard it against his armor. “What?” The Paladin threw up his arms. “I guess you’re the only exception…” Espresso shook his head, a smirk on his lips as he turned his gaze to Latte. “We should head to the cafe and organize a game plan,” Espresso suggested, rolling his shoulders and glancing over to where Creampuff lay in her stroller, sleeping soundly. Everything he did, he did for her. For Madeleine. After Espresso was finished at the cafe with his companions, he was summoned to the Ruins. Both of his ravens accompanied him this time, perched elegantly on his shoulders and stock-still as if waiting for something, or someone. The Wanderer accompanied Espresso, pacing back and forth along that grand ruined foyer, the King occasionally looking up at that statue of himself or the old faded designs on crumbling, overgrowth-choked walls. “I wish that I remembered,” the King began softly. “I wish I remembered these ancient halls, and how tall this Palace was before it collapsed down the cliff below. At least, I would assume that’s where the spire went.” “How do you remember the spire?” “I disguised myself as that Wanderer fellow, and I traveled. I met many people and heard many stories, and saw many artistic renditions of my once-proud Palace. I may have lost my memory, but I am no idiot. I am fully capable of formulating my own assumptions and predictions.” Espresso gazed wistfully at the crumbling dome ceiling, a hole allowing in a beam of light that fell on the King and made him glow. The ravens were somewhere above, playing among the vines and the canopies of trees that burst through the floor and rose up high to the ceiling. Espresso whistled, and both birds flapped down to his shoulders, twirling through the air as they did so. “...Do you think they remember?” Pure Vanilla suggested, stepping towards the Mage and raising his finger towards Muninn. The white raven regarded him closely. “I don’t know. There’s stories that these two ravens accompanied yourself and Dark Cacao. You were the white raven. They say that the ravens would fly across the world and realms beyond by day, and return to your side by night and tell you of what they saw. Whether or not these ravens could speak, I have no idea.” Pure Vanilla beamed so widely that his eyes wrinkled shut. “Have you tried actually speaking to them?” “Of course I have. Nothing but either typical raven noises or silence.” “I see. Give them time.” “They could just be ordinary ravens for all we know.” “I do not think they are just ordinary ravens. I cannot remember anything beyond ten years ago, only vague feelings and hazy feelings. Nevertheless, these birds are familiar to me.” Silence. Espresso watched his ravens, and they watched him. “What are we going to do about finding Dark Cacao?” The Mage said suddenly. “I don’t know,” the King responded, “I hope that… seeing him again might… help me remember.” Espresso nodded curtly – “I see. He is, after all, your husband.” “I miss him,” the King confessed. “I remember when we met again ten years ago. The passions we shared. When he approached me, he was heavy with child, which surprised me, because at the time, we had just emerged from his Tomb, so there was no way that I or anyone else could have laid with him in the last three thousand years.” Espresso sat on one of the fallen bricks from the ceiling, easing into the cold stone carefully. The King sat beside him, and continued – “He explained how before we went into our Tombs across the world from each other, we laid together one final time, and that was what made him pregnant. He went into that age-long sleep, suspended without aging or starving, as if he was frozen in time. Three thousand years later, he awoke, traveled for eight months searching for me in disguise, and met me in Eden. A few weeks after we had met, he had Custard in the fields just outside this Palace. At least, that is what I remember and what he recounted to me.” Espresso nodded slightly. “That is how I know for certain that Custard is my son. There is no other way.” There was a long silence between the two before Espresso spoke again – “Your ascension back to the throne. We can’t exactly march around saying a lost, godly King returned, especially considering the old legends and old prophecies. That would be a disaster. Last thing we need is a bunch of people freaking out about, I don’t know, the end of the world?” Pure Vanilla offered a soothing chaff. “That is why I have remained hidden.” A pause. “You know,” Espresso began, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed the cathedral down near Breezehaven Hall. That I ordered the construction of for my lover as an engagement gift. We wish to be married in it, but there’s nobody we know who is willing to officiate it.” “I will offer, if you’ll allow me,” the King nodded, “In fact, if you did not alert me to my son’s condition, I do believe we would have lost him. It is, after all, the least I could do. Give me a date and a time, and I will be there.”
It wasn’t long before Zemo and Ava passed out curled around one another still and Bucky was excited at the opportunity to get to see his lover sleeping. Normally Zemo was far too alert to be caught like this and generally woke if he stared at him too long. He and John shared a smirk as they watched the other two sleep for a while. It was still early in the evening and they weren’t drunk so they weren’t drifting off yet. “Well that was something,” John whispered as he rested his head on Ava’s shoulder. “How are you, Buck? Buddy still sleeping?” “I’m alright,” he whispered back as he wrapped himself around Zemo. “It was a rough day but better than-- Well, you know. Hard to beat yesterday.” “Do the punishments leave-- uh,” his friend asked awkwardly with a frown. “Damage?” He shook his head silently much to John’s apparent relief. “Good,” John sighed heavily. “Are you going to be okay when we go to Siberia? And no bullshit answer, please. I need to know what to be ready for.” “It’s going to be rough,” he admitted reluctantly. “I don’t even know what it will do to me now. Going back wasn’t-- It didn’t fuck me up too badly the last time, but it was a much different context. I was going to an abandoned facility then. Now we’re going to one inhabited by our worst nightmares.” “We’re going to destroy them, Buck,” John promised as he reached over and shook his shoulder slightly. “For everything they’ve done and everything HYDRA's done. And when we’re sure they're all dead, we’re going to blow that base sky high. Sound good?” Bucky smiled slightly and let his head drop down onto the pillow. “Sounds good, John.” “Sleep well, Buck,” John murmured as he also relaxed. “See you in the morning for handling their hangovers.” He snorted slightly in amusement and closed his eyes. It took him some time to finally drift off but, once he did, he found the sleep to be blissfully empty. No nightmares and no dreams as his other half continued to wind down in their head. Between the soothing darkness of his mind and the radiating warmth from his family, he wound up falling deeper asleep than he had in some time. And, when his eyes flickered back open, he felt truly well rested for once. It was still dark in the room and his family was still breathing evenly beside him. He looked up at the ceiling as his eyes adjusted to the darkness but, when he tried to roll over onto his back he found he couldn’t. He frowned and tried again but couldn’t even lift his head. In fact, he couldn't feel his whole body and the only thing that seemed to obey him was his eyes and eyelids. Was he having a nightmare after all? His heart sped up as he tried to figure out what was going on. Then, all at once, it felt like cold water doused his consciousness. He felt someone behind him where the bed was indented from the weight. He could hear their slow, steady, but awake breathing. Who the fu-- “Добрый вечер, Зимний Солдат,” a female voice said from beside him and his eyes darted as far to the side as he could manage before a hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled it roughly so that he fell onto his back. A woman was sitting beside him on the bed in the darkness. The only things he could make out was the shine in her eyes and the white of her teeth as she smiled down at him; then the gun she lifted to his temple. He could hear someone else on their way up the stairs as his heart began racing and he tried again to just fucking move. “Месть за моего отца, ублюдок,” she snarled at him and pressed the barrel harder against his temple as she prepared to fire. In a panic to react, he realized his vibranium arm could move and he pulled it back to punch her directly in the stomach with as much force as he could manage from the awkward angle. It wasn’t much but it was enough to force her to cough and stagger back while dropping her gun. The door to the room burst open as Yelena came flying in to try to land a kick directly to the woman’s chest. The unknown woman dropped low to duck it and kicked Yelena’s other foot out from under her which forced her to land on her hands to spring away. The intruder stood and lunged for the gun beside him, but he thrust his arm back out to block her. She sneered at him and gave up to instead withdraw a long combat knife from her thigh. Behind her Yelena came back up to aim a strike at her shoulder. She blocked the hit with a armguard and spun around to try to slash Yelena’s throat. Her knife only managed to slice through some strands of hair as Yelena dodged and struck the woman in the flank with a quick jab. The assailant didn’t even flinch as she slashed and stabbed in Yelena’s direction while she advanced forward and hissed, “Предательская сука.” In the light from the outside now, he could see she had short blue hair and a murderous expression on her face as she continued to try to kill Yelena. There was nothing at all subtle about her which was rare for a Red Room graduate. It was briefly all Yelena could do to dodge the attacks as they came too rapidly for her speed to outdo. Whoever the woman was, she also seemed to be enhanced just like the Wolf Spiders. But everything about her was younger and modern from her hair to her clothes. She tried to land a high kick but Yelena blocked it, though she staggered slightly as she lost further ground. Yelena tried to pivot to an offensive push but quickly had to resume defense as the hits just kept coming. Her style seemed more wild and untrained than what his other half taught in the Red Room so she probably wasn’t one of his. Tarasova, he realized as his stomach clenched. Yelena’s back hit the wall and her eyes widened so much that Bucky could see it in the darkness and his heart sped up even faster. In the same split second, the other woman drove the knife forward with the intent of going right through Yelena’s eye socket. Instead, she hit drywall as her weapon and fist went right through as Yelena dropped into a crouch with a triumphant smirk on her face. With no hesitation, Yelena sprang back up and delivered a blow so forceful to the woman’s outstretched elbow that Bucky could hear the snap of bone from across the room. Half a second later, he heard her scream in pain as she wrenched her arm free from the hole in the wall. The knife was missing from her grasp. The woman staggered back to put distance between her and Yelena who was now striking with less speed but more accuracy. She was unarmed but her hits were connecting with confidence. Her head snapped back as she was caught under the chin with another strike but Yelena wasn’t there when she lashed back out. Yelena fought with all the grace he remembered of the little ballet dancer his other half trained and it was beautiful. Her dodges were smooth and her hits sure and quick. The sound of more heavy footfalls coming up the stairs forced the woman to look around in fury as she tried to dodge the brutal assault coming her way. Bucky’s heart surged with pride as Yelena delivered a rapid series of weak blows meant to distract before quickly kicking the woman’s weight out from under her with a blow to the knee. Her stance gave way and she began to fall. The woman tucked into a roll as she fell and used it to propel herself towards the door and out it. Yelena dove to grab one of his guns and fired it after her as she vaulted over the railing at the top of the stairs to jump down below into the living room. Clint and Taskmaster swung around the top of the stairs just in time to miss her as she jumped. They both jumped after her immediately as Yelena turned back to Bucky with a panicked expression. “Are you alright?” she asked urgently as her eyes roved them quickly. “Are you all alright?” He couldn’t speak but he met her eyes intensely and darted them towards the door to tell her to go as he used his vibranium arm to point wildly. The threat wasn’t dealt with yet. She caught his eyes and nodded before sprinting out of the door to give chase as the sound of shattering glass and yelling filled the penthouse. With the assailant out of the room, Bucky was finally free to listen closely and started counting breaths. He could hear Zemo, John, and Ava all breathing fast next to him. Awake then, but also unable to move. His body wasn’t numb but he also felt like he couldn’t feel anything. Whatever it was likely wasn’t fatal or else she would have had no reason to use a gun, but that was a small comfort right now. He wanted to rear up and survey his family for any wounds. Though he, thankfully, didn’t smell any blood. A panicked Kate came running up the stairs to run to their side. “Are you all okay? Say something please!” He met her eyes too and tried to convey that they were not injured but couldn’t do much more than stare. She reached up and touched his face carefully as she tried to move his head a little from side to side. It rotated freely but he was stuck in the position she stopped him in. “Oh fuck. Are you drugged?” she wondered with a frantic look around. “Um-- What do I do? Bucky what do I do?” “You move, Hawkeye,” Yelena said as she stalked back into the room with a fierce frown on her face and something in her hand. “Тарасова uses very specific tools on her enemies; not drugs. I can help.“ As she approached she picked up a metal object from near the foot of the bed and showed it to him. “Nano-tech grenades. They're specialized nanobots contained in an aerosol grenade. They’ve entered your bloodstream and are blocking electronic signals from reaching your muscles. Complete paralysis-- Except your prosthetic arm I suppose. There must be something in the wiring of your nerves.” She placed a small object on his neck with an apologetic look. “Sorry, Джеймс. Or Зима. I can’t tell at the moment. Your face isn’t moving. This will be unpleasant.” Bucky surveyed his other half and found him close to the surface but stuck out of sync and panicking. He realized suddenly he was holding onto control like it was a life or death matter and he wished he could smack his forehead. His other half was probably terrified. He held onto it for the moment until they were fixed but tried to radiate as much comfort inward as he could manage. The sound of yelling had stopped and he couldn’t hear fighting so he assumed she’d escaped. Yelena moved along and placed something on each of them before murmuring to Ava, “And sorry to do this to you twice in three days.” She pulled back and warned once more, “This is going to hurt.” Bucky steeled himself as she took out a small device he remembered Natasha using against him. Oh, fantastic, they were going to get shocked, he thought as she pressed the button. The electricity pulsed through every nerve in his body causing him to spasm and twitch as Kate gasped in horror. The bed was vibrating from the feeling of all of them being electrocuted at once but his limbs immediately regained their feeling even if it was the feeling of pain. The shocks stopped quickly and Bucky had lost enough focus that his other half shoved into control out of fear with rapid blinks and a rush of adrenaline. His eyes tried to make sense of the dark room as he woke to the feeling of his muscles spasming and their body reacting to what felt like a fight. He looked around wildly and tried to make sure all of his family was safe. “S’fine маленький,” Bucky slurred as his tongue tried to wake back up. “Sstory. Explain in minute.” Zemo seemingly pushed through the remaining muscle spasms to sit up with wild, furious eyes that bled to panic as he grabbed Bucky’s face in his hands. “Are you-- Okay? Ssafe?” Bucky nodded as much as he could even though he felt his other half’s frightened expression. “G-good,” Zemo murmured before checking both Ava and John too. Once satisfied, he staggered out of bed to go for his gun and growled, “Zničím ju.” “She’s gone, Baron,” Yelena breathed in frustration as she dropped down onto the bed. “Right off the balcony.” Zemo hissed in fury before standing up straight and going cold as he muttered, “We need to-- We’re not safe here.” It struck Bucky then that Zemo was still drunk as he swayed slightly and his words slurred. He scrambled out of bed and grabbed his lover gently to steady him. Zemo turned in his arms and leaned into him. Behind them, John was quietly checking Ava as well and tending to her. He scanned his handler’s face and asked urgently, “Are you alright, sir?” “F-fine, маленький,” his handler stuttered with an angry expression. “It was-- f-foolish of me to r-return here. We m-must go. Now .” Bucky realized the implications as the words sunk in for everyone. Within seconds, the room was a flurry of activity as they rushed to get into their gear and get out. They worked in tandem to help dress as their muscles didn’t cooperate properly. He helped prop up Zemo and John helped him. Kate and Yelena rushed downstairs to collect everyone else too while they threw all of their personal items back into their duffel bags. Zemo took Tarasova’s gun and packed it too with a sneer on his face as he looked at it. Before five minutes had passed, they were downstairs ready to leave and the rest of them were there too with their own gear. “Let’s go,” Zemo muttered as he led them out of the penthouse with a truly dark expression on his face. Bucky put down his duffel bag and wrapped his arms around him as they made their descent on the elevator. His lover looked up at him with a slightly exasperated look and murmured, “Let’s forgo drinking on missions. I can-- I can’t even focus .” “What happened while I was asleep, sir?” he wondered softly as he tried to get a handle on his still racing heart. The fear he’d gone to sleep with was still there and now there was more. John sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Well, buddy, we were, uh-- We were letting you rest while we cheered Zemo up. Then we got him and Ava drunk, so… Um, who was she?” Bucky wanted to slap his forehead as he glared at John for bringing up Tarasova. “We don’t need to worry about that. Маленький, we were taking care of Zemo and Ava. Everything is going to be okay.” He could sense the lie in his other half’s words and dropped his head slightly to ask, “James… Was it her?” “...Yes,” he admitted with a frown and felt their heartbeat back up. “Was she…?” He wasn’t sure what he wanted to know but his heart was filled with profound sadness as his shoulders slumped. Лена put her hand on his shoulder and murmured, “Она - потерянное дело, Зима. Не трать свое доброе сердце на тех, кто не вернет тебе нежность. Ты не виноват в том, что с ней случилось. Отпусти её.” “Я не могу…,” he whispered as John put an arm around him and the elevator reached the ground. They stepped out and Bucky took a look at their vehicles in suspicion before saying, “We can’t travel far in these. We can’t trust them not to be tracked.” “I’ll take us to a friend,” Yelena said as she stepped up to a motorcycle and gestured to the other vehicles. “Just follow close.” Bucky nodded and they shared a look as their family got into the truck and Clint, Kate, and Echo took the smaller car. Taskmaster hung back and chose the other motorcycle. As they slid into the truck, Bucky felt the shock finally begin wearing off as he realized that Tarasova had found them in their safehouse. Suddenly the dread filled his stomach and twisted it into knots alongside the sadness permeating them from his other half and the muscle twitches still happening from being shocked.. Where the hell was safe now?
Thank you all for your kind comments, I was pleasantly surprised! I felt under pressure to make this one at least comparable to the first...but I can't really tell how I did to be honest. So once again, recommendations are always appreciated...though the warm fuzzies were delightful too. :) Enjoy! -Enithermon * Jairus stood in the darkest corner of the room becoming progressively more menacing as he stared unblinking at the frightened sweating man before him. He was waiting for an answer. The man fluctuated between fear and anger, his face turning white and red accordingly. The ultimatum he had received was not something to be taken lightly. Jairus was understanding enough to be patient, though his supply of patience was limited, he had no intention of sitting around all night waiting for him to make up his mind. He had a job to do. "So this is it then, is it?" The man demanded harshly. "That son of a bitch Callum just crooks his finger and I'm dead? Is this where we are? Over what? A council seat...a trade deal? The man is crazy if he thinks he can do this." He ran a hand through his tussled hair. It was late in the evening, and Jairus had woken him rather rudely with the point of his blade and led him to the privacy of the man's office. He was still wearing his night clothes and he paced the smooth marble floor with bare feet. "Well?" He asked stilling himself momentarily and glaring at his unwelcome visitor. "I have told you all that I plan to tell you Councilman Ryder. I think I've been very obliging, so please, oblige me and make your choice." Ryder's eyes practically bulged out of his head. "Obliging?" His voice was a near shout and Jairus raised a single finger slowly to his lips. The man sputtered, but lowered his voice. "How the hell have you been obliging? You barge into my home and kidnap me at knife point then..." Jairus cut him off with a dark look. He spoke slowly and carefully letting each word fall with heavy resonance, "I came here with only one objective. Make Ryder disappear." Ryder paled suitably and cast a fearful glance at the curved blade that rested conspicuously against Jairus's thigh. "I've decided to let you decide how that will happen. But if I were you, I would leave. Leave tomorrow by dawn, tell no one but your wife where you will go, and, if you like, have her decide to move away to escape the pain of losing her late husband." Ryder sighed heavily and sunk into his desk chair. "There is no way I can convince you? I'll pay double...or more what he's paid you to make this go away...please." "No." "Then I'll pay you to kill him. We can say I hired you first, I'll even pay others in the guild to sa..." Jairus shook his head. "I would be in conflict." "How noble of you." Ryder growled. "No. Merely professional." He paused and watched his mark try to think his way out of his predicament. It was unfortunate for him, but there was no way but the two presented to him. "Choose." "Fine, fine. Yes, clearly I have no choice, I will leave. But you will do one thing, I beg you..." Jairus tensed slightly, though he was sure the man didn't notice. "I know I can't pay you to harm Callum...and I know who hired you even if you won't say...so how about this, I will pay you not to harm my family, and to steal Callum's collection of rare Valarin paintings.' "And deliver them to you?" Jairus arched his brow curiously. It was an unexpected request. "No, keep them, dump them in the canal, make a bonfire out of them, I could care less. If I can't literally rip his heart out, then I'll do it by proxy. That fat pig will cry like a little girl when he finds out." He grinned maliciously. Then blinked and looked up and stared at Jairus intently. Will you do this?" Jairus sighed imperceptibly and mulled it over. It was a grey area, but he didn't much care for Callum, and he knew the paintings Ryder spoke of, and had heard they were heavily guarded. It might be an entertaining challenge. He nodded. Ryder stood, his chest puffing proudly as if had just accomplished a great feat. He moved around the desk and pushed back a false panel on the wall revealing a small safe. He withdrew a small but hefty looking bag of gold and tossed it to Jairus, who caught it deftly and weighed it in his hand before letting it vanish under his cloak. Ryder then grinned darkly and pulled out a necklace of silver that wrapped itself like filigree around smooth jade and coral stones. Even from across the room he could see the workmanship was fine and that it was worth a great deal. "You can't sell this here, it's too rare, some one will know where it is from, but it is worth a great deal...and this is what I buy my family's life with. Swear you won't harm them, ever." Jairus nodded and accepted the necklace. "As you wish." Ryder nodded and swallowed. "That's it then. I will be gone by morning. I suppose I should go tell my wife." Jairus watched as his glee faded once more into fear and sadness. "You know it probably would have been easier to kill me..." He said as he reached for the door. "I know." Ryder nodded and turned away, closing the door behind him. Jairus allowed himself a mild smile and exited the way he'd came, dropping silently beside the ancient stone portico of the back gate, unnoticed except for a grey cat who hissed at him in displeasure from his sentry atop a garden wall. Callum's little 'palace' was set on the outskirts in one of the few gardens in the city, a testament to his wealth in an over populated and water logged city such as this. The city itself had aged into a twisting maze of narrow roads and canals, and was difficult to navigate quickly. It was good that the night was still young enough, he would have time. And, he conceded, he'd always liked pre-dynasty Valarin work. The new stuff was a bit garish for his taste. It was a good thing Callum had an excellent eye. * The next evening arrived far too slowly. All day as he slept, or rather attempted to sleep, Jairus's dreams were plagued with frustrating images of women just barely out of reach. Or rather A woman, as there was always just one. One with doe eyes and dark Auburn hair. He couldn't stop thinking about how he'd come upon her, tied to the post before the fire. It had been as if she was left there for him, knowing he would be coming that very night. Strange that she, of all people, should have been the one they singled out. But, he supposed, it was her unusual coloring among such fair folk that had set her apart. It had been surprising to see her face across the fire, to hear her voice call out to him. She was no stranger to him after all, though she would not have recognized him. He had tasted her blood before. More than once. Many times more. He rarely took from anyone twice. Anyone but her. She had been his inexplicable exception. For some reason he found he had great difficulty staying away. And now she was suddenly within his grasp. Almost. How extraordinary that the world could still astonish him after all these years. He heaved a sigh and got up, he would get no sleep. He pulled the delicate necklace from his pocket and wondered how it might look against lightly tanned skin. He clearly remembered the first time he'd slipped into her room. She'd been much younger, a woman, though just barely. She couldn't have been more than twenty, at most. He'd seen her dark hair first, odd in that village, and she'd turned with a sigh and stretched out on her back, her head falling towards him illuminated in a stray shaft of moonlight. She looked almost mystical, with her strong features and soft red mouth, and her arms stretched gracefully over her head. He'd stood there quite a while, lost in the sight, before he'd willed himself to move. He could remember her scent, no perfumes or flowers, just her, and the taste of her skin. After all this time both of those things had remained wonderfully unchanged. And then there was her blood. The thought made him take a shuddering breath. The things it did to him. He was lost in his thoughts when a knock came. He was sitting already at the little table, the only furniture besides a narrow bed, and simply looked up and called for them to enter, tucking the necklace he still held carefully away. It was Marcus, his youthfully middle aged intercessor, whom he expected. However, he was followed by a very angry looking Soman Callum whom he did not expect. Jairus resisted the urge to smile. Before either of the other two could say a word Callum burst out. "Where the hell are my paintings?" "Good evening Marcus, good evening Councilman." Jairus returned blandly. "Paintings...where..are..they?" He puffed. Callum with his rotund figure, opulently and rather brightly dressed, looked absurd blustering red faced in the small stark room. "You can't steal my paintings, that's against the rules...tell him Marcus!" He gestured wildly at both of them. Marcus gave Jairus a side long glance. "Technically Councilman, he only agreed not to do you bodily harm at the mark's behest....that is IF he took the paintings." He added carefully. Good man, Jairus thought and returned Marcus's anxious looks with stoic ones. "He took them. Two unconscious guards and nine more who saw nothing, who the hell else did it? I demand you return them immediately." Jairus fixed Callum with a hard cold stare and stood, extending himself to his full height, which was a good half a head taller than anyone else in the room, and took a step forward, putting himself within arm's reach of the upset councilman. This had the desired effect and the man physically shrunk away from Jairus, his eyes darting subtly and his anger shriveling into petty consternation. "I assure you councilman, I did not take your paintings." His steady gaze dared him to argue, and Callum only coughed and looked away in reply. "Well, then, I need you to find out where they are and get them back." "That's not the sort of work I do councilman, you will have to find someone else." "But I paid you to..." Jairus raised his hand. "You paid me to make someone disappear. This I have done. We have nothing more to say to one another, unless you've..." Jairus too was interrupted by a commotion outside and a young page yelling "master, master!" The boy was let in. He froze when he saw Jairus and seemed to lose his momentum. "Speak boy" Marcus prodded. "Ah," he blinked and looked away to Callum, "Master", he breathed remembering again his purpose, "The paintings, they found them." Callum beamed. "Where? Speak son, Where?" The boy looked nervously at the other two men who were watching in silence. "Th-the river sir." Jairus repressed another smile and watched as Callum reduced himself to jelly in mere seconds. It was as if the bones had left his body. He literally quivered. "River?" He gasped. "No. Oh god no." He whimpered and staggered out of the door sobbing tearfully as Ryder predicted he would. Jairus tried to enjoy it for him in his absence. Marcus turned to him after the sounds of Callum's heartbreak were out of earshot. "You threw priceless art into the river?" He sounded horrified. "No, I threw some ugly ninth century forgeries into the river...I just changed the frames first." He smiled grimly at Marcus, letting the points of his teeth show ever so slightly. His eyes glinted as Marcus averted his eyes and swallowed hard. "You're a little bit twisted you know that?" He chuckled lowly. "So you've said before." He felt suddenly morose and sighed. "I suppose it comes with the job. Speaking of which..." he pulled his purse from behind him and drew out a number of coins. "Here's your cut." Marcus frowned at the coins while accepting them. "I already got mine." "This is for the Ryder job." "The paintings?" He nodded. "I didn't get you that job." "But you are going to keep quiet about it." Marcus smirked at him."You seem unusually chipper...should I be concerned?" Jairus shrugged and sobered. "It happens." "Yeah. Alright. Where you going?" Jairus had started for the door. "I have an expensive art collection to ship, and I have no desire to remain in this sewer of a city any longer than necessary." "Before you go, I've got a big job lined up, fuzzy details, but they want to meet in two weeks...can you do it? It's a big, lots of money, tracking, not much information, but it seems sensitive. It may need subtlety, so they want you to handle it." Jairus had worked with the guild longer than Marcus, and the combination of experience and natural predilection saw that most of the difficult jobs came his way. Of course calling it "the guild" was really only a euphemism. It was really just a series of mercenary cut-throats and the disreputable agents who arranged their services with what Marcus cheerfully referred to as their 'clients'. Marcus was such an agent, and a good one, and Jairus was a very special and unusually talented sort of cut-throat. They generally did very well for themselves. "If I am so subtle how it is everyone seems to know about me?" Marcus grinned. "It's not like that, they just said they needed whoever did the Gower job." Jairus snorted derisively. "That was a botched job." "That's why people know about it. It wasn't that bad though...they still officially ruled it suicide, and the client was happy." "I'll be back in two weeks." He waved dismissively and left, content to be on his way. He'd come to despise this city. Fifty years in one place will do that to a man. It would be time to move on again soon. He hardly knew why he'd ever returned to this sad corner of the world in the first place. He had had good reason to leave it. 'I suppose I thought time would improve it' he thought bitterly, but even a couple centuries were clearly not enough. He made his arrangements to have several crates shipped, Tim, would pick them up in a town far enough away from home that it would not lead anyone into his territory. That he could not abide. If old age had done anything to it was make him possessive. Like an aging wolf defensively guarding his dominance. It was a little depressing if he thought about it too much, immortality loses its charm and romance faster than one imagines. So he turned his mind to other more pleasurable things. Torturously sweet things. These new thoughts sped him quickly and almost happily home. * Thea's woke up in a sweat, gasping for air. There was a knock on her door, and she flinched. "Yes" she called out weakly. "Are you alright?" May popped her head through the door. "You cried out." "It must have been a night mare, I'm sorry for waking you.." "Oh I was already awake I wouldn't have heard you if I wasn't passing by." "Oh, well, thank you for your concern, but I'm quite alright." She desperately wanted her to go quickly, fearing that somehow she'd read the truth in her eye as Jairus seemed to be able to do. It was another reason she'd found to keep her distance, despite the tentative friendship they'd seemed to have developed. To her relief she did leave with a friendly nod. Thea flopped back onto the bed and sighed heavily. She had been having a rather vivid dream, but she wasn't sure it qualified as a night mare. It was the first time she'd had that dream since she came here, but she knew she'd had it before. She must have forgotten it after waking in the past, but this time it was clear in her memory, almost as clear and real as an actual memory, and not as faded and disjointed as her dreams normally were. In her dream she'd woken up back in her little cottage. Everything was as she remembered it. The fireplace burned low under a small cooking pot, her broom and cloak hung in the corner by the door, herbs hung against the chimney to dry, and she sat curled up in her small, worn, but cozy chair dozing in front of the fire. At the door there came a knock and she rose, and walked slowly over, wondering at the lateness of the caller. As she approached her dread grew until she was barely able to lift a hand and open the door. It swung open slowly of its own accord the moment she touched it, and beyond the door was inky blackness. She didn't need to call out to know there was something out there. She stepped back into the warm ring of light emanating from the fire, and was overwhelmed by the sense that this had happened before. A face appeared, familiar, and yet not, pale in the darkness. The man, for he was a man, entered, his dark cloak swirling around him. 'Hello again' he whispered. 'Again?' she whispered back. Had they met before? 'I don't know you.' He stepped forward and she stepped back. One step at a time until her legs bumped the back of the chair. She froze as he came to stand a hand's breadth away. She stared up at him and he gazed down at her. He was tall she thought absently. His eyes seemed to glow with unearthly light. Those eyes...maybe she did know him. He raised his hand and lightly touched her face. 'You do, but you won't remember.' 'Why not?' His red mouth curved slightly, parting and revealing long teeth. She gasped and tried to pull away, but his arms were already encircling her, pressing her against him. 'Because I'm only a dream.' She opened her mouth to call for help, but no sound came out, and those long teeth came down, piercing the skin of her throat, his face buried in the crook of her neck. There was pain and it made her whimper softly. But the whimpers soon turned to moans as her senses were flooded with an erotic heat that made her whole body quiver. The man growled into her throat and crushed her against him, running his hands over her body. Down her back, her hips, squeezing the smooth round globes of her rear, making her groan against him and grind her hips into his. One hand slid lower grasping her thigh and hitching it up against him so that his own leg pressed between and hard up against her now throbbing sex. He released her thigh only to run his hands up her sides slowly, cupping and lifting her breasts, squeezing with a growl. His mouth wandered from her throat, and she felt herself lean away to give him access as he kissed and bit his way across her chest and down into the valley of her breasts which his fingers had nimbly exposed, nipping and pulling at the electrified flesh. He pushed the fabric away carefully, sliding the lacing apart until he'd exposed one pale round breast. She looked down and watched in aroused silence as his hand slowly traced the curves of her and the small pink nipple hardened to a point beneath his touch. He too watched and slowly lowered his head, taking the nub into his mouth and sucking gently. She groaned again and clung to him watching as he pulled away and extended his fangs once more, sinking them into the tender flesh, her body exploding with lightening sensations. It was then she'd woken up. She must have cried out when he bit her in her dream. She blushed hotly. Not just at the thought of having someone hear her, but because recounting her dream had made her once more aroused. She tentatively slid an experimental hand under the covers and discovered she was indeed quite wet. She flushed, but did not pull her hand away, and instead slid two fingers along the slick folds and pressed them against that same intense spot that Jairus had found that first night. Jairus. She closed her eyes and pictured his face, imagining he was back in the room with her, and that it was his fingers gliding over her. She even dipped a finger ever so slightly into her virgin slit as he had, and marvelled at how hot she felt. She dipped again this time a little deeper and shuddered in pleasure. She worked her finger slowly inside herself, sliding deeper and deeper until she met with resistance. She stopped then, eyes still closed and focused on the very new and incredibly exciting sensation of having something buried inside of her. Slowly her hips began to move, as if her body was searching for more, with our without her consent, and she gave in, sliding her finger in and out until she could feel herself build to something. Boldly she added another finger and stifled a low moan as her fingers pushed against her inner walls and she stretched around her fingers. She was softly panting now and lay prone on her back, her knees bent, using her fingers to pleasure herself to orgasm. When it finally came she gasped hard against the gut wrenching pulses that made her back seize and her hips jerk against her hand. She gasped for breath and rode her hand convulsively squeezing her thighs tightly until the sensation passed and she just lay there in a haze of stunned satisfaction. She pulled her hand away, wiping the wetness on her leg and closed her eyes until the heat had passed. It wasn't until she'd cooled down significantly and had begun to clean up and dress herself that the significance of her dream occurred to her. Before in her dream, that dream, the face of the man had been vague and fuzzy. Only the eyes were ever familiar, but when she thought back to this last dream she couldn't escape the fact that he had clearly resembled Jairus...and still had had those same eyes. She joined the others for breakfast and sat silently as they planned their day, and discussed when Jairus would return, as he had been gone already four days. She wasn't listening really; her mind was preoccupied with the burning eyes in her dream. She'd never remembered the dream long enough to give it much thought before. It was one of those dreams one only remembers when they dream it again. But it seemed curious to her now that she would dream of a vampire, and that her mind would know to add the burning eyes into her dream. Her thoughts continued to wander as she tidied the kitchen and swept out all the rooms. She paused at the door to Jairus's room. She hadn't entered more than a few times since her first night here, and it made her anxious, though she knew he wasn't there. She squared her shoulders and entered, briskly sweeping the room out and spending as little time thinking in that room as she could. Somehow she knew it would be dangerous. However once she left the room and let her guard down the uneasy thoughts came flooding back. She could have added him into the dream she mused, and only remember the creature in her dreams as a vampire. It was a possibility, and would make more sense. But then, she felt so sure that the dream was the same. Each dream perhaps was slightly different, in fact the details were difficult to hold on to, even last night's dream was beginning to fade from her memory, but the one thing that stayed the same were the eyes... and the teeth. No, it was definitely the same dream. She had no idea what to do with that information. After her few chores she usually borrowed a book and sat outside in the sunlight. The shapes of great trees she'd seen were a great stand of ancient looking oak, spaced wide apart with a pleasant carpet of grass and meadow flowers growing beneath, it was a soothing place to walk or sit and be alone with ones thoughts. Today was no different. She'd dusted yesterday and scrubbed the floors the day before, so there wasn't much more for her to do. She wasn't hungry and after an early supper eaten alone in the kitchen she borrowed a book she'd been reading, a book of history of the northern peoples, the Huroth, a race of dark haired giants and warriors supposedly, and she'd taken an interest partially because she suspected her father may have been of their ilk. All she knew of her mother was that she'd been a stubborn child and had left home as soon as she might to follow an army camp. She'd come home pregnant and widowed, and died in labour. There was little her grandparents could tell her of her father, other than that he had been a large man, and military of some sort, but her own stature and strength told her that. She walked to a little ridge she'd found and settled herself into the grass, resting her book closed on her lap. She'd chosen this ridge because it opened onto a gap in the trees that gave her a view of the expanse of forest beneath her. From here she watched the sun set and the twilight dim to a velvety star studded night. Far in the distance were the feint wisps of chimney smoke from the nearest village. There were something wistful about the curling grey tendrils. She'd not been there yet, but from what she'd been told it sounded much like her own village, and therefore held little reason for her to want to visit, except perhaps out of sheer boredom. Her mind wandered to the village and she wondered if Jairus had ever fed there. He must have she reasoned, though he said he must be careful, so he likely didn't do so very often. Another thought occurred to her, he'd been passing by her own village when he found her...was he perhaps intending to feed there? Has he fed there before? A strange tingle ran up her spine. He'd said that his victims didn't remember him, or thought he was a nightmare...or dream. Had her dream...had he? Her breath caught at the thought. She had lived alone, and in a cottage near a heavily wooded area at the edge of the village. There would have been few witnesses, just her, alone at night. It seemed almost improbable to her now that he hadn't. But if he had did he do more than just feed, like he had in her dream? Her mind flickered back to the first time he bit her and her response then...what might have she behaved like if she thought she was dreaming? She shivered. What was it he'd said to her in her dream? She struggled to remember. When he first came through the door...his greeting...something about it seemed incredibly relevant to her at this moment. "hello again' "Yes! That's it" she cried, hello again...the 'again', he'd been there before, he'd said she wouldn't remember... "What is IT?" She yelped at the voice, then realized it had been the voice that had greeted her. Her mouth fell open in surprise and realization as she gazed up at the tall shadow of a man beside her. It was as if a flood gate had been opened and various and sudden memories of being locked in his embrace, his hands and mouth on her body, washed over her. She closed her eyes to shut them out, but they were insistent. "Oh god" she groaned. There was a hand on her shoulder and she jumped in her skin. He was kneeling next to her, frowning. "What's wrong?" She gasped a breath and shook her head, pulling away and standing. "N-nothing, ah sorry" she quickly pulled herself together, "I was just thinking and you scared me...that's all." He was giving her a funny look and she turned her eyes away, knowing that he was looking for answers in her eyes again. "You're sure, you seem...upset." "No really, I'm fine." She glanced into his face and saw an expression that told her he didn't believe her for a second. "I'll leave you then, and see to the others." He still frowned as he turned away and melted quietly into the trees. But she had to know, and before she could stop herself she went after him. "Jairus?" she called into the shadows. A shadow moved and became a pale face, moving towards her. She had to control herself not to let out a cry at the sight, so like her dreams, a sight that pulled the terrified voice inside her out from its hiding place. "Yes?" "There's, ah, something I'd like to know...need to know" he was silent but attentive. "You.." now how was she to say this? "You came to me before...didn't you?" He was very still and looked at her a long time. She wondered if he'd understood her. "Jairus?"' "Yes." "I was just asking..." he cut her off gently with a wave. "I understood you. 'Yes' was my answer." She blinked at him. "oh." She hadn't totally expected such an easy admission. "You remembered?" he asked softly, still standing very still in the shadows. "Well...sort of, I thought it was a dream, and then I remembered certain things and everything seemed to point in that direction." "How much do you remember?" She looked at him carefully, was he trying to discern how much she knew about what he'd done to her. Had he even...no, she remembered feeling that she was intact this morning. That thought caused her to blush profusely. He must have taken her expression as an answer because he looked at the ground. "I see." "H-how many times" she asked, not sure if she wanted to hear the answer. He sighed. "Well, I'd say, at least... eight. " "Is that normal...for a single person?" the number seemed high to her, for all his talk about taking care and not bringing attention to himself. "No." "Then why" she asked stepping toward him, her hands clasped in her skirts. "You were alone, and far from the village. Your home is not too far from here, an easy trip for one night." "I see. Is that all?" His face changed subtly, and he opened his mouth to speak and seemed to think better of it, and looked down again. She waited watching him. "No" he said finally. "Then why me?" she winced inwardly at the plaintive quality of her voice, but she couldn't help herself. All her life she'd been tormented and picked on and singled out, and now she found that he'd been doing it too. For some reason that stung a little more than it should have. He must have heard the crack in her voice as well because his face softened suddenly and he moved toward her, his eyes full of pity and remorse. His fingers lifted and grazed her cheek lightly. "I'm sorry Thea, I never meant to harm you, or upset you. And for taking the liberties I did." He dropped his hand. "I know it's not much of an excuse, but I ...couldn't help myself. It's rare that I return to the same person twice, but I let myself and twice became three times, became four." He made a vague gesture. "But why? Why me?" she could feel her eyes begin to burn and she quashed the feeling with great difficulty. He sighed. "The truth?" "Please" "I liked you." "Liked me?" that wasn't what she expected to hear, though what she was expecting she couldn't say either. "Yes. At first you were always asleep. I never did anything...well, I just fed, but I liked you. The way you looked, and especially the way you...tasted." She flushed a little at that, and he straightened looking her in the eye. She could see him remembering, and she could see the little flames flicker to life in his dark eyes. Her own breathing deepened in response. "Then one night I woke you, and I heard your voice, and saw your eyes. As I said before," he said turning his eyes away once more, "the effects are different with everyone, and I would be a liar if I said that that didn't also draw me back, despite my better judgement." "The way I responded?" she asked thickly, embarrassed. "And my own response to you." "That changes also?" "It does. It also makes it harder to control that response when...well, when it begins to go too far" "I see." There was a long pause and neither spoke or looked at the other. "What will you do now that you know this?" "I hadn't thought that far." She admitted to her shoes. There was another long pause as she tried to sort out in her head what was happening. He had been coming to her in the night, touching her, taking her blood, without permission, and then had taken her from her village; Taken her from certain death and loneliness. He'd used her. He liked her, perhaps even desired her. She wanted to growl with frustration. If she kept giving him her blood, could she control herself? She knew deep down she could not, and if he couldn't either...well then this wasn't going to work. It would be torture to even try. "Shall I leave, and let you decide?" She nodded, feeling more lost and forlorn than she'd ever before.
I know some of you were happy where it ended last chapter, and who can blame you, so feel free to leave it at that...however, if you want to see how all this ends, stay tuned. Same bat-time, same bat-channel. yours -enithermon *********** Thea woke into a dream. The windowless room was dark, too large to be her room, the tapers had burnt themselves to nothing and the fire had nearly died and smoldered only very gently, casting the faintest of glows into the room. The chairs were outlined by the fires dim light, but the rest of the room, including the bed was lost in shadow. There was no way to know what time it was in this windowless place, but something told her it was day. The room was cold and dark, but the bed was comfortable, and the sheets still warm from her body. She tucked herself more deeply into them to escape the chill and found her body wasn't the only one warming the sheets. Her hand brushed something smooth and warm. She reached out and followed the length of it. It was an arm. She stiffened. Her fingers found fingers, and she breathed in wonder as they wrapped around hers and contracted. Her heart fluttered, and she fought the fog of sleep that hung over her and felt out the shape of her memories as they came flowing back to her. "Oh" she whispered softly. She remembered. She remembered all of it. She pulled away and sat up. She was naked. She covered herself with the blanket and looked down at the body next to her. It was too dark to see his face, but she didn't need to, and she wasn't sure she wanted to. She slid out of the bed and looked for her dress in the darkness. She tiptoed around the bed, not finding it on her side. She tried to be quite, but the cold on her bare skin and the aches of her body, and the call of her memories made her breath hard. To make matters worse she nearly tripped over her clothes once she found them. She bent down to collect them and felt a hand grasp her wrist. She could make out the arm in the darkness as her eyes adjusted, but the mouth that spoke fell into the shadow that her body cast over it. "Where are you going?" His voice was a warm whisper. She shivered. "It's day...I have work..." She could only whisper back, but she was grateful her voice had not betrayed her by trembling. "I see." was all he said and his arm returned to the darkness. She saw him lay still, his eyes glinting briefly, then turn away. Thea felt her throat close and an inexplicable sensation run through her. She had to get out of there. She almost dashed to the door her sudden apprehension causing her to forget she was still nude. She pulled the dress over her head quickly and found the handle in the gloom. She cast one last look to the bed and saw nothing to give her fear or comfort. "sleep well" she whispered softly into the darkness before slipping quickly out the door. The hall was, to her relief, empty. She pressed her back against the door and heaved a shaking breath. Why was she so afraid? Or was this fear? What was this tightness in her chest? She shook her head to clear it, but to no avail. She felt bleary and light headed. From sleep, or blood loss, or something else, she couldn't tell. She pushed away from the door and walked stiffly to her room, closing it softly behind her. This room was even colder. She lit the fire and sat frozen in the little chair before it. Her hands began to tremble, and she fought to still them. Her breathing became rapid and the trembling flowed from her hands to the rest of her as she was barraged by a sudden onslaught of thoughts and emotions, none of which were coherent, but which were powerful enough to make her whimper in submission to them. Had she not gone there thinking that this was what she wanted, that he was what she wanted? Everything had just happened, felt right, felt incredible...but now? Now, again, she wasn't sure how it felt. All she knew was that the moment she let herself think about it she had trouble breathing, it was too much. He was too overwhelming; she could so easily lose herself in him. He would drown her. She'd started it though, hadn't she, and not him? But, then, he'd certainly finished it. Her hands began trembling again. She still couldn't believe she'd kissed him like that. It was as though she'd lost all control over herself, the impulse was too great, she had needed to touch him so badly. He had been so kind to say the things he said, and the caring, the pain in his voice when he'd said it had made her fall apart and destroyed her reserve. She'd been like a cup over-filled. But then the things he'd done to her afterward, said to her, those weren't gentle...the things she'd wanted to do to him, begged him to do...she flushed. What must he think of her? Then again, what had he already thought when he stole into her cottage all those nights before? She'd never felt so raw, so vulnerable. This unnerved her more than anything else. What would she say to him, what could she say? How could she look him in the eye? It was hard enough already to remain calm, to keep her control. She knew the minute she'd see him she'd fall apart. "How am I to face him now?" she murmured. * Jairus rose early. He hadn't slept again after she'd left and taken the warmth that had eased his chest with her. Her brief words and quick flight had brought back his previous heaviness, and he'd lain awake feeling the menacing icy fingers wind through him once more. As he dressed he contemplated his circumstances. She had come to him, told him she'd stay, despite what he'd been doing to her, kissed him, let him take her, and he'd promptly turned into a wild bloody animal and scared her off, just like he'd been dreading he would. Was he trying to test her limits? Did he actually want her to go? "You're doing a damn fine job of it then." He growled at himself as he straightened his jerkin and grabbed his cloak. There was something tucked inside. He pulled out the necklace. He'd completely forgotten about it. Should he give it to her? No. If she stayed and he earned her trust, he'd give it to her then. He'd feel like he was trying to buy her if he did now. Or worse, she'd think he was. He threw his cloak over his arm and made his way to the library. He still couldn't help the small smile that fleeted across his face as he passed her room. Even tainted with fear and regret, last night had still left him feeling a little light headed. She had seemed so willing, so responsive...had he just imagined that? He sighed and settled himself into a chair and stared off at the far wall. He heard a skirt rustle behind him and his gut lurched a little before he sensed it was May. "'How're you today master?" He could never get her to get rid of that 'master' habit. "Just Jairus, May." That didn't mean he wouldn't stop trying. 'Master' made his skin creep, it's what slaves called those who whipped them. "As you say Master" He heard the smile in her voice and rolled his eyes. She was still lurking behind him. "Is there something you needed?" "Not at all just, checking to see if our young lady came back yet. She left a while ago and we haven't seen hide nor hair of her since. I thought she'd want something to eat since she skipped her other meals. She doesn't eat nearly enough." His gut did clench then, and he resisted the urge to jump from his chair. Gone? So soon? He closed his eyes and calmed himself. What did he expect? He swallowed. "Did she say where she was going?" "No didn't say anything. Nothing's wrong, is it?" He turned to look at her over his shoulder and she gave him one of her less than subtle looks. He'd accuse her of being nosy, but then they hadn't been all that quiet last night. He almost smiled again, but the urge was quickly quashed by the fact that she'd left and hadn't returned, and there was still another hour before it was reasonable for him to leave. Even at twilight he was pushing it, but she had half a day's head start, and who knows which direction she could have gone. There were at least three villages she could get to on foot not including her own. He turned away. "When did she leave?" He asked, forgetting her question. "Not more than three hours ago I think." "Thank you May." "Certainly." He heard her shuffle about a bit more before returning to the kitchen. His fingers bit into the arms of the chair. three hours. He could certainly find her tonight then, she couldn't have gotten too far, and she wouldn't be that hard to track, he knew her scent. He would find her. He would apologize, and if he had to he would get on his knees and beg. He may have been able to let her walk away last night...maybe, but not anymore. Now he'd had her, all of her, and the having only fueled his desire. There was no way he could go back now, and he had absolutely no intentions of being reasonable about it. She would just have to accept his apology and come home or....well he hadn't gotten that far, but he had at least an hour to come up with something. * She'd been walking the woods for hours, but her head still didn't feel any clearer. Thea sighed for the fiftieth time and kicked at an acorn with the toe of her boot. It was hopeless. She'd managed to calm herself down since the morning, but she still couldn't shake her apprehension. Hadn't she already had this conversation with herself? That was why she went to him in the first place...of course she hadn't expected everything that happened last night, well everything after she'd kissed him that is. All that had been...well, there wasn't really a word that came close to describing it. Even the pain had been...well there wasn't a word for that either. What blurred memory she had was a warmth in her body, she'd been contented even, so why all this angst now? "You are the single most foolish creature I have ever known Thea." She muttered to herself kicking another acorn. It wasn't so much what had happened so much as what happened next, this much she had figured out. What happened when she became so attached that she couldn't tear herself from him, and what happened after that when he finally grew bored with her. He was a vampire after all. He'd told her he was old, and yet he retained his youth. She would not, and he would no doubt find someone else to amuse himself with. This was a thought she could not bear. If she let herself become too attached...which she would if she kept this up, and if he pushed her aside, then it would have been better if he had never cut her from that post in the first place. She kicked another acorn despondently. This one made a funny sound and she looked up enough to see why, then looked down again with a blush. "Ah, um, good evening" she said to the boot that had stopped her acorn. "Good evening." His voice was barely more than a whisper. It flowed under her skin and made her warm from the inside out. 'See!' Cried the little voice, 'see what he does to you.' She cleared her throat. "I'm just heading in." She ventured to raise her eyes, though only to his chest. "Are...are you headed out for the evening?" "I was." She nodded. "Then I'll leave you too it." She took a breath and walked past him, forcing herself to not veer too far around, lest she appeared as nervous as she was. She made it past without breaking down and was relived until she felt a hand grip her arm. She forced herself to turn, to look him in the eye. They were dark and inscrutable. She looked away again. "You're staying?" "I said I would" She almost added 'last night' but was afraid for her self-control if she conjured those images in his presence. His fingers were warm through her sleeve. He didn't let go, and she didn't pull away. He looked so normal again, so calm and reserved. Perhaps it wouldn't be so hard to keep her head around him she considered. He took a step toward her, standing over her, his body leaning into her. Then again, perhaps not. "There's no need to be afraid of me Thea" "I'm not" "Your shaking ." "It's cold." "Thea..." he warned. She blushed at her stupid lie, it was the warmest evening they'd had in a week. "I'm not afraid." 'of you' she qualified silently. "Then why do you tremble? Why won't you look me in the eye?" She reluctantly met his gaze again. Oh god he had amazing eyes, the deep brown centers practically glowed with intensity. She tried to keep her breath from quickening, but did a poor job of it. "Thea...last night, if I hurt you, frightened you, I'm sorry." It was his turn to break his eyes away. "My...enthusiasm got the better of me." "I...I'm fine. It's fine." she said feebly. He gazed down at her, his eyes searching hers once more. She wanted to tear her eyes from his, to hide, to curl up in a little ball. She couldn't bear the thought of him seeing her desperate desire, her pathetic need, written in her eyes. So she did the only reasonable thing and straightened her back, tipped her chin up and met his gaze as calmly and coldly as she could, doing her damnedest to shield her heart from his eyes. He held her a moment longer than dropped his hands and stepped away, creating a gap between them that Thea tried not to feel too deeply. He took another step back and also straightened himself, his own eyes turning cool to match hers. The warmth of his touch, his gaze, fled and she was more than half tempted to run after it, to throw herself into his arms and lose herself in him like she had last night. She remained rooted to the spot and watched in silence as he nodded to her and slipped off once more into the night. She thought, for a moment, that she read an emotion in his features, a pain, or sadness perhaps. But she might just have wanted to see it, to convince herself he had not walked away from her quite so easily as he seemed to. Jairus watched her from the shadow of an ancient leaning oak as she slowly turned away and made her way back. He'd been stunned and more than pleased to find she had not left. So stunned he'd said nothing until she had already moved past him. His 'apology' had been less than satisfactory. He had thought of much better things to say as he'd waited for twilight to darken, but those thoughts fled when he'd felt her shaking with fear in his hands. How could she fear him that much? Had he hurt her so badly? And the way she'd looked at him, suddenly reserved and detached, had made his chest ache. She did not forgive him. But she was not leaving. He leaned against a tree and stared off into the space where she had once stood. It might be enough that she would stay he assured himself, it was hope. Even if it meant he would have to stay away from her then he would do it. Maybe she just needed time. Maybe he could still make her love him. Love him? He wondered where that thought had come from. He whispered it aloud. It sounded strange on his lips. The last time he'd used that word he'd said it to the woman who'd turned him, and that was over two centuries ago. He'd said it before then, but he'd never believed he meant it. He smiled wryly at the memory. 'But, I love you' he'd said as he'd begged her to stay. It was less than a year before she'd had her fill of him and had turned her thoughts to others. He'd found her with one of them. He'd chased him off, and she'd gotten angry with him for spoiling her fun and had left. When he told her he loved her, she'd only laughed. 'Jairus,' she'd murmured in her deep honeyed voice, 'love is such a dirty word.' Her laughter had rung in his ears for years afterward, but soon enough he found he was laughing along. This didn't seem quite so funny. Did he love this proud young thing? He no longer believed he had ever loved his sire, just lusted after her, held in thrall as very young men some times are by incredible beauty and voracious sensuality. She had been, and still was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but her effect on his body was the only thing she held in common with Thea. Sweet, earnest Thea, whose incredible sensuality was a blessing not a weapon. It was more than possible, he admitted after a long moment. * Thea was used to seeing Jairus for no more than an hour or so each night, with the occasional rare exception when he didn't go out at all, but it had been five nights since their brief encounter in the woods and there hadn't been a single sign of him. She'd been glad of it at first, not willing to face him again until she'd gotten her emotions under better control, but by the third day the desire to be near him was quickly out weighing the discomfort her attraction to him wrought, and her emotions were no more under control than they had been two days before. Today she'd done nothing but put herself into a tizzy thinking about him, wondering if he had already tired of her and her foolish behavior. It wouldn't surprise her. She was certainly tired of it. It was beginning to show. May, who had taken to being something of a mother hen, seemed to be doing her best not to pester Thea, though she did give her some rather pointed looks. It wasn't until Thea dropped the kettle for the third time, this time on her foot, that May had asked her what was wrong. Thea of course brushed it off as a bad day, but she'd felt them all watching her the rest of the day...or at least she imagined she did. She wondered how much they knew, and that uncertainty made her avoid all company, all save the one person who didn't seem to be around. Now she stood at the end of the downstairs hall watching as the main door clicked shut, and watching Tim as he looked up at her, holding her eyes a moment and nodding towards the door before going in for dinner. She waited until he'd gone then half ran down the hall, slipping through the still unlocked door. She had thought she heard his voice and came down to try to catch sight of him, only to find him already gone. The weather had turned cold again, and she hugged her arms as she walked out into the crisp evening, the curled dry leaves crunching noisily beneath her feet. The moon was high and bright, but he was nowhere to be seen. Of course she knew from experience that he could still be close, he seemed to meld into shadows even under the brightest moons. "Jairus, are you there?" She called softly, hesitantly. She waited. There was no answer. Even the night itself was silent, as if it too was listening for an answer. She sighed and turned back. It was no use, clearly he did not want to speak to her. She wondered suddenly if he'd been feeding elsewhere since he hadn't come to her. The thought annoyed her. She pushed it out of her mind. She had no reason to be annoyed. It was none of her business, and besides, it wasn't his fault she could make up her mind. Thea decided to skip dinner and shut herself into the library instead and curled up in one of the larger chairs with a random book she pulled off the shelf. She opened it and let her eyes trip over the neatly printed black letters as her mind wandered elsewhere. * He gauged it was at least two when he returned, having done little more than prowl his territory aimlessly. He was between jobs, and wasn't in the mood to go looking for blood, even though he could feel the cravings begin to itch at the corners of his mind. He didn't want to bother Thea, but he couldn't bring himself to go elsewhere either. Jairus opened the study door and knew she was there the moment he entered. His hunger rose at the scent of her. He suppressed it and looked around the back of a chair to find her asleep, her arms and legs pulled against her body so that she was curled in on herself. It didn't look very comfortable. He leaned in and gingerly slipped his arms beneath her, lifting her and pulling her against his chest. Her eyelids fluttered and she made a mewling sound, but remained asleep. He could feel his fangs extending automatically at the nearness of her, and he shifted her quickly to a nearby settee before he decided to take advantage of the situation. He removed his cloak and covered her, moving away. He watched her a little longer, though from a safe distance, trying desperately not to think of the warmth of her body, her hot blood, smooth skin...he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Jairus?" The breath caught in his throat and he looked slowly up. She was sitting up, looking down at the cloak then back up to him. "Yes?" She didn't answer. Her eyes seemed to shine, glinting with something that made his heart begin to pound in his chest. She stood slowly, draping the cloak conscientiously over the back of the couch. She approached him, but stopped when she was just out of reach. He wondered if that was intentional, or just instinctive. "Have you fed?" she asked softly, looking up at him with her soft shining doe eyes. "No." He watched an odd expression flit across her face. "You should." They stood there, staring at each other for what felt like an eternity before he nodded in agreement and began to turn away to excuse himself. He didn't trust himself. His blood was pounding a little too hard in his ears, her scent was filling his lungs, making his mouth water. She stopped him when she raised her arm. She held it out in front of her, fingers curling into her palm, wrist up turned. He gazed down at the pale blue vein under white skin and choked back a groan. His gaze traveled up her arm and into her face. She looked calm enough, if not a little flushed. His eyes lowered to her mouth. Her lips parted slightly, as if they felt his eyes on them. He lingered there, remembering the feel of them against his, imagining his tongue sliding between them. He swallowed and tore his gaze away, only to have it linger on her throat instead. In the periphery of his vision he saw her arm lower and she took another step toward him, then another. She pulled her hair to one side and tipped her head slightly. He closed the gap and reached for her before his thoughts registered his actions, his hand stopping just before he touched the smooth flesh, tracing the curve of her neck through the air just above the skin. His hand shook imperceptibly as he brought his mouth to her, hovering less than a breath away. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He could hear the quickness of her breath, the rapid pounding of her heart. His hunger was ready, waiting. With a barely audible moan he gave in, capturing her neck with his fingers even as the skin broke around his fangs and the searing blood welled up from the opened wound. Thea couldn't contain the low groan that emanated from her as she felt her blood begin to flow. She was already electrified. She had been since he`d open his eyes and she`d seen the look he gave her. She hadn't really needed to ask if he`d fed, the look in his eyes had been the same one he`d had when he`d watched her naked on his bed. That thought had spurred her on. Even when he`d turn away, she couldn`t help but offer herself. She wanted desperately to feel him, feel his heat inside her, one way or another, whatever the cost. When his hunger won out and he moved to claim her, she almost whimpered in relief. This time instead of fighting it, she relished the heated arousal that pumped through her and sighed with pleasure, wrapping her arms around him, threading her fingers around his neck. This must be what silk feels like, she thought as she smoothed the short locks of his hair that caressed her cheek. He nuzzled the crook of her neck, his mouth and tongue coaxing a steady stream of appreciative sounds from her as he drank. Her heart pounded in her ears and set the rhythm for the throbbing of her body. She could feel the room dissolve and her legs give out as the first red wave washed through her. She closed her eyes and let the wave buoy her up, or drown her as it pleased, letting it sweep her away. He should never have waited so long to feed. It took every ounce of his control to pull slowly and gently from her. As elated as he was that she had melted so easily into his arms, her apparently willingness and the intensely arousing sounds she was making were rapidly destroying all his good intentions about trying to take his time with her. He groaned as he felt her fingers press him to her, caressing his jaw and neck absently, unaware of the effect her caress was having on him. She leaned into him, and he released her throat just long enough to scoop her into his arms and get them both into the nearest chair with her settled snugly in his lap. He paused to collect himself, an attempt which was again spoilt by Thea as she leaned into him and leisurely opened her eyes into his. They radiated desire. He ground his jaw as he felt himself pressed hard and throbbing against her thigh. She leaned in closer until their breath mingled and he felt her soft breasts crushing up against him. 'One kiss won't hurt' he rationalized belatedly as his mouth moved softly against hers. Her honeyed mouth parted for him and he accepted the invitation eagerly, sliding his tongue slowly and suggestively between her rose petal lips only to find her own moving enthusiastically to meet his, mating with him with long sensual movements. He captured and sucked at it, making her moan, and making his own hips grind upwards into her warm bottom. She was emanating heat, her whole being a flame that he was irresistibly drawn to. He broke the kiss and returned to her throat, though a little more voraciously this time, sucking at her neck, leaving little red marks of desire before reopening the wound. Thea thrilled as she felt his hands begin to explore her body and intentionally shifted her hips to press herself against his rather prominent erection. He groaned against her throat and she sighed with pleasure at the sound. He couldn't be all that upset with her she thought with a dark smile and shifted again, sliding her hand between them and pressing her palm against the bulge there. Her fingers were pulling at the laces, seemingly of their own accord, just as one of his hands began sliding up her thigh. She managed to fumble open his breeches and slip in her hand awkwardly, her fingers finding and wrapping around the searingly hot and wonderfully smooth prize she found there. His hand found her heat at nearly the same time, sliding over and between the already slick folds of her sex. Someone gasped, and someone moaned, but she couldn't really tell where one was beginning and the other ending. Their bodies seemed to melt together and their hands collaborated instinctively seeking the others pleasure. Thea wondered fleetingly if she knew what she was doing, or how to do it, but he appeared to be content to let her continue. More than content it seemed. His mouth found hers again and his kiss was almost bruising in its ferocity. She tasted blood and realized it must be hers, still lingering on his tongue. The thought made her even more electric, if that were possible, and she writhed in his lap, working her hand rhythmically around his arousal and whimpering against his mouth as he slid two fingers deeply inside her. His thumb moved against that sensitive place he seemed to good at finding and her whimpers turned to breathy gasps. She was already so worked up that it took no more than a few firm thrusts on his part before she broke their desperate kiss and buried her head against his neck and panted as her body clenched and jumped against his hand. He kept moving inside her, prolonging the body twisting contractions that wracked her until she clung to him making wild incoherent sounds. It took her a moment to recover herself and she breathed shakily as his hand slid wetly from her. Her hand, she noticed, was still gently squeezing his still very hard cock, and the way it pulsed made her heat up all over again. She began stroking him more rapidly, her head still tucked against his shoulder, and soaked in the low growling purr that came from his chest and reverberated through her. She could feel him breathing harder, and she watched in fascination as he jerked in her hand. She was so enraptured with what she was doing that she started when his hands grabbed her wrist and stopped her. "Thea.." He groaned breathlessly, "you're going to have to stop that." Jairus held himself back as he tried to pry her hands gently from his aching cock. Gods but they felt good wrapped around him. She looked up at him from her shoulder, her eyes wide and black, her mouth swollen and ravenous and he almost lost it again. "Am I doing it wrong? It's not good?" her voice was a throaty whisper and he felt his cock twitch against her hand again. He was having trouble getting her to let go. "A little too good. If you don't stop now I'm going to make a mess of you." He tried to smile, but it felt like a grimace. "Can I do something else?" She asked, all intensity and eagerness. For the love of god woman, he thought, you're killing me. He repeated the mantra of 'go slow' 'be gentle' over and over in his head, but that still didn't keep his eyes from slipping briefly to her red lips with a longing glance. He wasn't sure if she noticed the glance, if he'd said something without noticing or if she just read his mind but she pulled away and tilted her head at him and arched a brow. "My mouth?" He opened his mouth to speak and nothing came out. A small smile twitched the corner of her mouth and she slid off his lap and onto the floor, taking him in hand, as it were, and looking up at him uncertainly. Finally he coughed and managed to find his voice. "You don't have to do that." He grabbed her shoulders to pull her back up to him, but stopped short when her little pink tongue whipped out and lashed the swollen head. He froze and swore. He watched, still gripping her shoulders as she lapped at him again drawing low sounds from his throat. She continued, licking at him like a cat with a bowl of milk. He shuddered and closed his eyes releasing her shoulders and running his hands through her hair instead, letting himself enjoy her cool wet tongue as it both soothed and inflamed his painful arousal. He could only smile at the purring sound she made as he caressed her hair and face. Definitely like a cat, he thought, then gasped sharply and opened his eyes, watching in a haze of desire as her lips engulfed him completely. His fingers clenched in her hair and his hips moved unconsciously. 'Gentle' he warned himself and growled as he forced himself to be still and unclenched his fingers. He swore again and strained against the urge to thrust back as her mouth slid down his length and up again. He'd be lucky if he stood another ten seconds of this. It wasn't even as if she was doing anything in particular to push him over the edge, it was just her. Her mouth wrapped around him. Her dark shining eyes looking up at him. Her sweet little body writhing on the floor in front of him. Her. His ten seconds was more than up. He gripped her hair again. "Thea," he warned, "I don't think I can.." She pushed down as he spoke, sucking at him, and he never quite got the words out. He came with a jerk when he felt his head press against the back of her throat. He heard her make a sound like a squeak and released her hair so she could pull away. She didn't and he rolled his eyes in his head as she swallowed with his pulsing arousal still deep in her mouth, gripping him almost painfully. After a moment she released him, dragging him slowly from her mouth. He saw a streak of white on her tongue as she pulled away and breathed with a hiss at the sight. He thought he could feel himself begin to harden again it was such an erotic image. He looked into her eyes, which were wide and dazed, and felt instantly guilty, his instantly renewed arousal forgotten. He pulled her up then and back into his lap, tucking her up against him. She rejoined him willingly and curled into him, laying her head on his shoulder, her eyes drifting shut. He liked how she felt in his arms, and her warm smell, it was oddly comforting. He shook his head slightly at himself. 'You're getting soft old man' he thought wryly. Her breathing was much slower, and he thought she must have fallen asleep. He rose grudgingly, knowing he should probably get her to bed. It was late and she looked a bit pale. Maybe May was right, she probably wasn't eating enough. He left his cloak and carried her up to her room, adjusting her slightly and pushing it with her shoulder. He felt her hand reach up and touch his cheek. He looked down at her as he laid her on the bed, leaning down, so that her fingers could linger on his skin. He was loathe to pull away from it. But he must. Even after all that he was in danger of getting carried away and demanding even more of her if he didn't put some distance between them. "You look very serious, are you still upset with me? She asked softly. He frowned. "Why would I be upset with you?" "For my poor behaviour." He let out a dry laugh. "If anyone should apologize it's me Thea." She shook her head at him and yawned. "You did nothing wrong." "I frightened you." She shook her head again. "Then what are you so afraid of?" She didn't answer, only blushed and looked away. "See. I can hardly hold that against you though. I promise to be more careful." She looked at him again with furrowed brows. "But.." He cut her off by kissing her lips gently. "Go to sleep." He pulled the blankets over her and she sighed. Giving in and curling up. He allowed himself one last caress and smoothed a stray hair from her forehead. "Sleep well" She murmured from under the covers. He smiled back at her and closed the door softly behind him. Thea woke up with a pounding headache and a growling stomach. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and blinked at the ceiling. She'd had another dream about Jairus. It had started out like some of the others, only this time it was in the library, and she'd actually used her mouth on him. The memory of the dream was vivid and exceedingly arousing. She frowned. Hadn't she been in the library? She didn't remember going to bed...she flushed. It hadn't been a dream at all. He'd brought her here. That explained why she was still in her day clothes. She arose, still groggy and fully dressed and washed up quickly, her thoughts fluctuating rapidly between happy excitement and her previous nervous anxiety. She changed into something less wrinkled and made her way to the kitchen, determined to overcome her hesitation and accept what life had thrown at her. Why shouldn't she have pleasure after all? So what if it was short lived, at least it was better than more loneliness. Her mind made up, more or less, she set about her late breakfast like a starving woman, and went about her chores with a much lighter heart. She even had a rare conversation with Tim about rabbit snares, and he very politely listened to what she had to say on the matter over dinner. May just beamed that Thea had finally shown up to eat. That made Thea feel more than a little guilty. It was so easy to please the woman, and her morose self-pitying had gotten in the way of that. After dinner Thea went to the library hoping to catch Jairus before he left for the evening, just to be certain that she hadn't imagined most of the previous night. It didn't take long and she heard him talking to Tim out in the hall and went to investigate. He was standing by the door, dressed to leave. They both looked up and saw her. Timothy said something she couldn't hear and went outside, Jairus just stood there watching her. Slowly she approached, until she stood so close to him she had to look up to see his face. It was back to its standard stony expression. "I'm leaving for a few days." She nodded, and they continued to stand there looking at one another until a throat cleared behind her. It was Barin leaving the kitchen and heading upstairs. He gave them a quick glance as he turned the corner, and she thought she saw him smirk. She sighed and moved to turn away herself, only to find his immovable grip on her wrist. She blinked down at the hand then up at his face. He was still unreadable as he pulled her back toward him. His body bent over hers and his mouth brushed her lips in a gentle but lingering kiss. He pulled away and neither spoke as he let himself out. Thea was quiet when she returned to the study, but she couldn't quite wipe of the silly grin plastered on her face. *** "So, are those Neanderthals in the corner my men?" Jairus watched the group of five Huroth warriors huddled conspiratorially at a table in the corner of the dreary tavern. "Not a great lover of the Huroth?" asked Marcus curiously. "Not especially. I can only imagine what they want with me." "What does anyone want with you?" "Point taken." "At any rate, your audience awaits." Marcus gestured for Jairus to enter into the backroom of the tavern and strode out cheerily into the main hall to collect the clients. Jairus sat and waited, propping his boots up on the table. He wanted them to taste his derision the moment they walked into the room. It was infantile of him, but some bitter tastes never quite left ones mouth. He didn't like them. He had good reason. He was one of them. Or had been. They entered, and he was pleased to see the dark looks they gave him when they entered. It was a great insult to show the souls of your boots to another man. They had a lot of idiot traditions like that, and were quickly and easily to annoyed. It was one of the reasons they rarely came south into the empire, keeping to their barbaric wastes where they jealously guarded their traditions and codes of honour. Their tempers usually got them jailed for starting fights over imagined insults. He saw one of the hotter heads make like he was going to try and put Jairus in his place, but another, the one clearly in charge, stayed him with a guesture. Too bad, Jairus thought. Three of the men stood, the third took a chair that did not face Jairus's boots. Jairus wondered where giant number five was hiding. "I want you to find and kill someone." If there was one thing he could say in their defence, it was that they never said more than they needed to. "Do you have a name?" Jairus asked from under his hood. "No. She'll be a woman. Twenty four. Her mother was fair, small, named Maria. Her father was one of us. She has kin in the villages south of here." "That's not much to go on." Jairus felt his stomach tighten. Why did these so called warriors feel the need to have a young woman assassinated? The man sneered. "They said you could do it with less. I knew they were exaggerating." Jairus smirked under his hood. "I only mean to suggest that you're holding vital information back. If you want me to find and dispatch the target, I would suggest you learn to be a bit more forth coming." The man bristled. "This is not to be spoken outside these walls." He looked to Marcus, who nodded. "I am Darius, of the house of Sevrin." He paused to wave back an objection from his men. " Her father was Belok..." "House of Dareth, and she is the only surviving heir of Jarith, that you know of, and you want to finish the job you started in order to control the remains of the house you helped destroy. Am I correct?" Jairus knew he was correct. For all his distaste for his cousins, he was always strangely curious to find out how it was they were getting along without him as the centuries passed. Recently, twenty four years ago to be exact, there had been a coup held by Darius's house against the reigning Cheif, the head of a house that had reigned for hundreds of years. Now it appeared they were tying up loose ends. Darius was giving him a very odd look. "If you knew who I was then why did you want to hear it?" "I didn't know. But now I do." "You seem well versed on our histories." "I make a habit of knowing things." "I see." He glanced to his men who stood still glaring at Jairus, then turned his eyes back to him, trying to peer under the low hood. "Will this be a problem?" "I don't see why it should." He nodded. "Then this is the last piece of information." He slid a piece of paper over to him. "This is a pendant the mother, one of his mistresses, was given by the late Cheiftan. This information was discovered recently from an elder woman who was once a camp follower. You may question her, but I doubt you will find more than we have." Jairus unfolded the paper as Darius spoke. The tightening in his stomach turned into a knot, and he sat up slowly, removing his feet from the table. He knew this pendant. He'd seen it recently. In a little box, under a floorboard. It was simple, three small golden circles looped together like a flower. It was a simple design, any number of women could have it. Any number of twenty four year old women. Any number with kin in the southern forest towns. Any number who were unusually tall and darkly coloured. Thea. He stood slowly and the three standing men shifted their right arms. He looked down at the seated figure. "I will need time to look into it."
Hi everyone! Whether you're a returning, or new, visitor, welcome! I'm very excited to get back to writing this series, and I promise I am here to stick around! I've decided to re-write the Finding His Mate series, as when I initially wrote these stories, I was incredibly young (just turned 18!) and had absolutely no life experience. Nonetheless, I hope you all enjoy the remastered Chapter 1, and please be on the lookout for Chapter 2! Cheers! PP ****** His hands run over her chest, causing a silent moan to escape her lips as the rough callouses on the back of his fingers meet the soft flesh of her nipples. She bites her lips as his fingers squeeze them, causing a shock to run down her spine. His hot breath first reaches the back of her neck, his lips quickly following behind to add to the already intense. He does this each time they meet: toys with her. Obviously, he gets pleasure from this; however, she wonders why he refuses to go further. She reaches up in an attempt to move his hands down her body and groans when he bites her neck as a form of discipline. "Not yet." The vibrations from his voice raise her body temperature, which grows even higher when she feels the full length of his body press against her back. His soft lips place kisses down the beginning of her spine. "When?..." Madison groans as the blaring sound of her alarm clock going off fill her ears, alerting her of the start of the day. She begrudgingly rolls over onto her back. "Fuck." She stares up at the ceiling and places her hand in her panties, which were soaked. She keeps having the same dream about some mysterious man seducing her. At first, she thought it was a one-off dream prompted by her lack of a sex life. However, the frequency of this dream intensified to the point she can bet money each night that she'll have it. At this point, it was starting to torment her more than it was providing her sexual release. She closes her eyes and tries to gather her thoughts. It's Friday, the worst day of the week. Luckily today, she isn't working both of her jobs, which gives her some relief and a slight glimmer of optimism. As she stretches her body, in an attempt to relieve the pressure from the day and night before, she lets out a groan once her eyes catch the time. One thing about Madison, she is not a morning person by any means. A grinch in every sense of the word. What she hates most about the mornings is the fact time decides to move so quickly. It's like one minute it's seven o'clock and the next it's damn near nine. The sound of her alarm brings her back to reality, reminding her of the impending doom-day ahead of her. Reaching over to the end table, she slaps her phone in an attempt to stop the alarm, practically knocking it off the surface. She takes in the comfort of her bed one last time before sucking in a deep breath and rocking herself off the edge, wincing as her feet touch her cold hardwood floors. This is another reason she hates the mornings: the constant reminder that she needs to buy a rug. Walking into her bathroom, she stops at the mirror. "I look like shit." Working two jobs is starting to catch up to her. While her circles weren't the darkest she sees daily, they're definitely getting there. This gig life isn't for her. "Just a few more months, and you'll be good." Remembering the time, she quickly takes off her pajamas and hops in the shower. "Oh my..." she moans. The tension in her body that her bed, and mystery man, didn't relieve is definitely being addressed by the scorching hot water that's hitting her body. As she soaks in the mini massage the showerhead is giving her, her mind drifts back to her mystery man. Truth be told, while he is a tease, Madison looks forward to him. It's unnerving the amount of pleasure he provides her, almost as if he knows her each pleasure point on her body. The orgasms he gives her are by far the best she's ever had if she's honest, which says so much about her sex life. However much she loves the mystery of her fantasy man, she still has this little thought that perhaps he's real and somehow visiting her in her dreams? Madison laughs out loud at this. "What the fuck? You need some dick, girl." She reaches down to turn off the shower and steps out. As she's brushing her teeth, she hears the echo of her phone's ringer coming from her bedroom. Running over to the table, she answers the phone. "What Tiff?" Her friend's laughter fills an otherwise silent room. "You know... I would think by now you would be a morning person, seeing that you continue to choose jobs that start early as shit." Madison closes her eyes in an attempt to hold back the slew of cuss words she wants to string together. "Tiff. Why do you insist on calling me every single morning to remind me?" Tiffany scuffs, then giggles. "Because it's fun, Maddy. You should know this about me by now. But that's not why I called. Get dressed so we can go get breakfast before your shift." Madison unplugs her phone from its charger and starts putting on her uniform. "We gotta make it quick. My shift starts at ten... I think..." she goofily looks around for her phone before realizing it's in her hand, "... Yes. Let's go with ten. If it's not ten, then it's gonna have to be ten. Let's meet at Marty's, yes? "See you there, bitch." She looks at the time after the call disconnects. It's already a quarter to nine. Today may be the day she finally gets fired, which Madison doesn't entirely oppose if she's honest with herself. It's about time she stops breaking her back for a measly paycheck. Running to the bathroom, she quickly puts on a small amount of makeup to hide the fact she's a few weeks from turning into a zombie and runs her hair through her thick trestles. "Easy wash my ass." After many meager attempts to get her curls just right, Madison gives up and returns to her bedroom to finish getting ready. "Keys.... check. Phone.... got it. Wallet, watch... sanity... all slightly in check." Stuffing everything into her bag, she swings open her front door, slamming it shut behind her. The door has definitely seen better days and is on its last leg, becoming even more evident each day she attempts to lock it. Jiggling her key around, the key slips out, causing her hand to catapult back. "Fuck, Maddy." She watches as Ryan rubs the beginning of a sore nub on his forehead. "Oh shit. Ryan, are you okay?" His forest green eyes flash dark emerald for a brief second before turning back to their natural color, an enticing contrast to his skin. Since meeting him, she never gets over when his eyes do their strange flashing colors act. He continues to insist that it's purely genetics. Madison never bought it but plays along since it's obviously a topic he's avoiding discussing with her. "It's all good. You definitely almost took me out, though. In a rush... again?" Ryan soothes the spot where her hand hit him as he leans back against his door. Madison was always running late. He always jokes with her that she's going to be late to her own funeral. "You know it, Ryan. Always. When am I ever not in a rush? What are you doing up so early, though? You're usually vamping, not exiting your lair until sundown." His eyes flash again. While Ryan knows Madison is saying something to him, but he isn't listening. He watches as her deep brown eyes gleam mischievously and figure whatever she's saying, it's either sarcastic or sly. He's more interested in the way her lips are moving than the words coming out of them. There's something about this woman that gets him going. Ever since the first day she moved in, he's wanted her. Badly. The sun enters the hallway window, bouncing off her smooth caramel skin and glistening hair. Oh, her hair. He loves how big and thick it is. He can only imagine what it must feel like pressed against him. Probably like silk. Her body chemistry and lavender lotion begin to mix together and stimulate his senses. "Ah. I've made it part of my routine now to see you off and ensure you're well." Madison smiles a bit at this. While she doesn't see Ryan beyond a friend, it feels good to know a man is looking out for her. "Oh, stop it, Ry. You're gonna make me blush." Ryan feels the heat emanating from her body and internally smiles. He knows he's starting to tear down what little walls she has up for him. He's tried multiple times to get her attention, but she never seems interested. At first, he thought she's taken but was upset when she told him she wasn't. If he's honest, he wouldn't have cared if she had a boyfriend because he had to taste her at least once. He has a feeling that after one taste, his addiction to her will only increase. "Well, that is my goal. What are your plans for tonight?" Madison starts to answer his question when her phone rings. She doesn't have to look at the screen to know who is calling. "Ah. I have to meet Tiff in a few minutes, and she would kill me if I'm late. I'll let you know later!" Madison quickly walks past him, running to the elevator. She pushes the button a few times before realizing it's broken. "Gotta take the stairs." She looks back at Ryan, who's still leaning against his door, and smiles. "How long were you gonna watch me struggle?" He presses his fingers to his chin as if he is thinking of an adequate answer. "Eh. Probably until you started cursing and kicking the door." An un-ladylike sound erupts from her throat. "Fuck you, asshole." The sound of rubber meeting wood fills the hallway as Madison races down the stairs. She storms out the front door and looks down at her phone to check the time for the one hundredth time today. "Shit!" She's definitely going to be late. As she weaves through the crowded street, she tries to send a text to Tiffany while simultaneously not hitting one, but quickly fails once her ass hits the wet pavement. Slightly disoriented, she looks up and watches as a tall figure in a tailored suit slowly turns around, glaring at her. "What the fuck?" People side-step around her as she searches for her phone. Great. It's cracked. First, she's late, and now her phone is broken. Pushing herself off the ground, she wipes the dirt off her ass and angrily turns to the walking statue. Her anger quickly dissipates. This man is gorgeous. There's an overcast over the city, yet somehow the sun is shining directly onto him. His tailored navy suit envelopes his body sensually. She sees his mouth moving to tell her something; however, how can she pay attention to his words when his jaw-line is so.... strong and chiseled. Her admiration comes to a halt as he snaps his fingers in front of her face. "Hello? Are you even paying attention?" Azeil watches as the tiny woman continues to stare at him as if in a daze. He had just exited his car when he felt something, or more like someone, run into his back. And not only did she run into him, but she now has the nerve to be angry with him for running into him. How does this even make sense? He waves his hand in her face again and sees the glaze over her eyes disappear. "What the fuck? Have you not been listening to what I'm saying?" Madison's shock quickly wears off as her brain registers what he's saying to her and the fact he dares to snap his fingers in front of her face as if she's somehow under him. "The least you can say is excuse me or sorry. You broke my fucking phone." She says curtly. "Why are you standing in the middle of the street, anyway? Who stands in the middle of a street when they know there are who knows how many people in this city?!" Azeil watches as her tiny frame puffs with anger and would laugh if she didn't just talk to him crazy. Closing the distance between them, he bends down as close to her ear as he can get. "I don't know who the fuck you think you are, but you will not talk to me like that. I'm going to tell you once and only once: don't fuck with me." He rises back up and straightens his suit. "And watch your fucking step next time." Madison's breath hitches in her throat. Again, she didn't hear a word he said because she was so focused on his voice. There's something familiar about it that she can't pinpoint at the moment. "Well, look here. I don't know who the fuck you think you are, but I'm not the one to be talked to like that. I don't give two shits about your little idle threat. You can try me if you want." They stare at each other until Azeil hears someone call his name behind him. "Azeil. Kano is arriving at the office soon." Azeil turns around to his partner Gino and nods his head. Looking back down at the woman, he watches as she looks down at the now broken screen and groans. He can tell she's late somewhere and can't help the urge to take up more of her time. 'Serves you right.' Rising to his full height, he stuffs his hands into his pockets and smiles. "Can you move out my way? I have somewhere to be." "Yeah... I can." Madison waits for him to move. "Dude. What the fuck? Move out of my fucking way!" Azeil tilts his head to the side and can't help the laugh that escapes his lips. This woman is a hothead. Bending down once again, he hears her breath labor as it gets closer to her ear. "You better watch your mouth when you're talking to me. I'm not gonna remind you again." He moves to the side to clear her path, watching her closely as she continues to her destination. He knows it's wrong but can't help his urge to look at the sway of her hips and the way her firm ass moved. Licking his lips, he turns his attention to Gino, who is grinning at him. Azeil knows what he's thinking and shakes his head. "Let's go." He looks back down the street and watches as the woman is still looking down at her phone. She'll never learn. "What!" Madison sighs. By the time she arrives at Marty's, she's fuming from her little encounter with yet another mystery man. She immediately tells Tiffany what happened as soon as she sat down in their booth, half expecting some type of support. Yet, Tiffany is more worried she didn't get the mystery man's number than she is about the fact that said mystery man cussed her out in the middle of the street. "Ugh, Tiff. Please don't make me relay the story again. The guy was a bastard and caused me to break my damn phone. I mean, look at it." Tiffany takes the phone from Madison's hand and examines the shattered screen. "Hmm... it's honestly not bad. I know someone who can fix it for you for like fifty bucks if that. Especially if I show him a little titty." They both wince as shards of glass fall off-screen as Tiffany places it on the table. "Actually, I take that back." "Fuck me, man. When am I gonna catch a break?" Ever since her move from Los Angelos, Madison hasn't had any luck with, well, anything. First, she moves from her small town to Los Angelos to make it 'big' with her art. Then she moves from Los Angelos to New York to, again, make it 'big.' And now she's stuck with no real plan for anything. She can barely get any of her pieces to catch people's eyes and feels defeated. That little voice in her head telling her she isn't going to make it keeps popping back up in her head. "Oh, Maddy. Don't beat yourself up. Remember, my friend Dom? It took her damn near ten years for her art pieces to get some fire under them and look at her now. The girl makes like ten grand from each piece. And between you and me, those shits aren't even that great." Madison watches as Tiffany pours syrup on her pancakes. "Girl... is that not enough syrup? Damn." Tiffany throws a pointed look at Madison before continuing. "As I was saying, don't give up. Your pieces are exquisite. You just have to dedicate more time to the marketing aspect and put yourself out there. Gotta stop creating and keeping it locked up in that small ass one bedroom you have." Madison turns and looks out the foggy glass window. Tiffany is right. She does need to do better at promoting her work, but she always gets stuck. Hell, she barely has names set in place for her pieces. "I know, I know. It's just... difficult, I guess." She grabs her phone and looks at the time. "Look, I have to go. My shift is starting soon. Do you have the bill?" "You're a struggling artist." Tiffany reaches for her hand. "You know I got you." "Aren't you a doll?" Madison slaps Tiffany's hand and scoots out of the booth. She waves goodbye as she exits the diner, tightening her jacket around her as the brisk fall air makes contact with her skin. She loves when Tiffany agrees to have breakfast at Marty's because her job isn't a far walk from the diner. While she's making her way to work, she can't help but think of the guy from earlier. Hopefully, he visits her in her dreams because she doesn't mind getting a one-off orgasm from him. 'Maybe he's the guy?' She laughs frighteningly loud at this thought, causing passersby to look at her warily. Perhaps it's a coincidence he sounds exactly like her nightly lover? As she rounds the corner, the neon lights of Moe's appears in the distance. The sign alone gives her a headache. Moe's is the most touristy of tourist spots in the city. You would think the dingy seventies decor or questionable sanitary procedures would be a deterrent for visitors. However, according to Yelp reviews, that's what makes it 'so New York.' Truthfully, Madison didn't have faith most of these customers knew the difference between their ass and the next persons. She walks to the back of the diner, dodging the muddied streets, and sneaks in, hoping her boss doesn't notice her arrival. As she walks into the back-room, she overhears a few of her co-workers complaining about the morning rush that's spilling over into the brunch/lunch hour. This is honestly the last thing she's looking forward to dealing with today. Tying on her apron, she turns around to exit and practically runs into her boss. "Well, well, well...if it isn't Ms. L.A. You know this is the fifth time you've been late this month?" Moe always makes it his point to remind her that she's a transplant not cut out for what considers the 'city of all cities'. It's either that or his futile attempts at getting in between her legs. "No. It's not the fifth time I have been late. I have only been late once, and the other times it was all your fault. You keep holding me up for no reason." She says through clenched teeth. He runs his stubby fingers through his thinning hair and smirks. Moe is the generic Italian man featured in low-budget movies. He's a short man with thinning, smelly, oily hair and wears the same oversized suit of different variations every day. He insists that customers respect him more when he dons something 'professional' than when he doesn't. Truly a delusional man. "So, again, you've been late five times, and you have one of two options. You can either quit or, I can deduct it out your pay." He takes a step closer to her and looks her up and down. "Or... you can just take me up on my previous offer, and all of this will do away." It takes everything inside of Madison not to punch him in his face and knock a few more teeth out. But she needs this job. At least until her art pieces start selling, whenever that will be. "Can you please just move out of my way?" He takes one last look at her before moving to the side and letting her through. "I'm not done with you... Ms. L.A." A chill runs up her spine as he says this. Moe is the slimiest man she's ever encountered, and one she never wants to be left alone in a room with for an extended period, time. She hears too many stories of the things he tries to do to the women he employs. Surprisingly, someone hasn't beaten his ass yet, which leads her to question who he knows that's protecting him? There's no way a man like him continues to be a predator otherwise. She enters the main dining area and grabs her notepad and pen. Her co-worker Maria stumbles past with a tray of food. "Let me help you." "Yes, please! It's been terrible this morning. I'm not sure what's going on, but people have been ordering plates of food and keep pouring in like ants. It's damn near lunchtime, and this shit hasn't slowed down even for a minute." "Ah. Good ole Moe's. Let's hope someone gets sick so they can finally shut this place down." They both laugh and head over to deliver the plates to their respective patron. As they approach the table, Madison almost drops the dishes as she hears his laugh. Sitting with his back to her is the mystery man. She's not sure what fucked up shit she's done, but karma was certainly two-piecing her. Of all places the asshole can have breakfast, he decides to have it here? Maria stops and looks back at her quizzically. "What's up? You alright?" Madison nods her head and resumes walking. As they approach his table, she sees the same man he was with earlier, who must recognize her because his eyes instantly light mischievously. "Alright boys, I've got the grand slam with cheesy eyes, bacon, sausage, wheat toast, oatmeal, and a ribeye steak. And she has the porterhouse steak with four over-easy eggs, a Belgian waffle, sausage, bacon, and wheat toast." Madison hurriedly places his dishes in front of him, avoiding as much contact with him as possible. She hopes he doesn't remember her or their little encounter earlier. "If there's anything else I can get for you two, just let me know. My name's Maria." Azeil nods his head and cuts his eyes toward Madison. "And your name?" It's at this moment Madison wishes she didn't have her name-tag on because she definitely would lie. "Madison." "Madison." He says her name as if he's trying to store it in his memory and licks his lips. "Thank you, Maria.... and Madison." She turns on her heels, practically running away. Goodness. Not only does he know where she works, but he also knows her name! What's next? Is he going to find out where she lives? She hears footsteps behind her and feels Maria's hand grasp hers. "Hey, hey. What's up? Are you okay? Do you know him?" Shaking, then nodding her head, Madison closes her eyes and takes in a few deep breaths. "It's a long story, Ria. Let's just say, he's an asshole who can go to hell." Madison looks back at his table and locks eyes with his. How long has he been staring at her? She quickly averts her gaze and gathers herself together. "Maddy! Table ten is ready for you!"
1 November 2001 – 25 July 2011 Aya Potter was an orphan. But unlike many would imagine, she wasn’t particularly bothered by that fact. How could she, when she didn’t remember what it was like to have parents in the first place. Even more so, if what her aunt told her about them was true. Apparently, when she was fifteen months old, her parents and she got into a car accident. According to her aunt and uncle, they were drunk. They didn’t survive the impact, but Aya did. Then, the rescuers found her, got her out of the wrecked car and contacted her aunt Petunia Dursley, her mother’s sister, and her husband. She’s been living with them and her cousin Dudley for the past ten years. And she was happy with her life. She could tell her relatives didn’t particularly like her, but they tolerated her and treated her like a decent human being. She was never allowed luxuries like her cousin Dudley, and whenever they went on vacation, she wasn’t invited along, but she was never hungry, she had her own clothes, although modest and few, and she even got a present or two a year. And the Dursleys trusted her enough to take care of the house and herself when they left her to her own devices. Of course, she had to clean her own room (and her cousin’s room) and do a few household chores to help her aunt, but she was never punished or mistreated, even when she did better than her cousin at school. Instead of being punished, her aunt and uncle tasked her with helping Dudley study. This resulted to be a challenging task, because Dudley really didn’t like school work, so she mostly ended up doing his homework as well and tried her best to make sure Dudley understood enough for a test to get an average grade without struggling too much. If by the end of the school year, Dudley’s grades were average or slightly above it, she was given a budget and she could choose her reward within it. She usually chose a book or two, maybe a piece of clothing or a pair of shoes, or simply saved the money for later. One never knew when it might come in handy. Yes, she was happy leading a normal and simple life as the ward of the Dursleys. That’s why it came as a big surprise when one morning, when she went to get the post, there was a letter addressed to her. She had a few acquaintances at school, but never had anyone ever written her a letter before. She returned to the kitchen where aunt Petunia had just finished preparing the breakfast and was setting it on the table. As she handed the stack of envelopes to Vernon, she said, “Uncle Vernon, there seems to be a letter for me, but I don’t know the sender.” Her aunt and uncle stared at the envelope she was referring to and paled visibly. They quickly exchanged looks. “I thought that since there hasn’t been any unnatural incidents with her, those freaks wouldn’t come to disrupt our lives with this mumbo jumbo,” spat uncle Vernon regaining colour, only to get red from anger. Aunt Petunia was speechless, looking at the address. “I … don’t know what to say Vernon. But we can’t just ignore them. Look, they even know the exact room she’s in. They might send more or come in person. Imagine what could happen then.” “I’m not having a freak in my house,” insisted Vernon, containing his fury. “If she managed to live normally until now, I don’t understand why she can’t continue to be normal until she’s old enough to leave the house.” Aya didn’t understand a thing, but what she gathered from their reactions was that the letter was trouble and since it was concerning her, she might also be part of the problem. If that was the case, she was more than willing to let whatever was written in the letter go, and not upset her guardians. They’ve managed to live in peace so far, they can continue to live in peace. And nothing was worth sacrificing the peaceful life she was living. Dudley started to whine, demanding to know what his parents were talking about and for once, Aya was grateful for her cousin’s outburst because he was asking the questions she wanted to ask, but would never have the courage to ask them herself. But aunt Petunia changed the subject and managed to calm Dudley down with food and asking him if he wanted to go anywhere for the holidays. Spain, Italy, Greece, or Hawaii, perhaps? In the meantime, uncle Vernon crumpled the unopened letter in his fist, although it was more than obvious to Aya that he wanted to rip it in tiny pieces and burn those pieces so that nothing but ash remained. … Nothing was mentioned about Aya’s strange letter for the rest of the day. And honestly, even Aya had forgotten about it, after being completely absorbed in a science fiction book about human experimentation and genetic transmutation. She was in a middle of a particularly gruesome scene when someone knocked. “Come in.” She marked the page she was at, and settled the book on her lap. Aunt Petunia entered. Aya waited for her to close the door again, and sit next to her on the bed. After a long silence, Petunia started talking. “Your uncle and I have been discussing how to approach this conundrum with this morning’s letter,” she said with hands in her lap, “and we have decided that … you should know what is going on.” There was anxious anticipation blooming in Aya’s chest, but she didn’t dare say anything, so she simply nodded her understanding. “First, I want you to know that I don’t know all the details, so if you have any doubts and questions refrain from asking anything. Is that clear?” Aya nodded. “Now, I should probably start by saying that … you aren’t normal. You never were. You’re a …” she pressed her lips in a thin line and a grimace appeared on her aunt’s face. “Witch.” There was shocked silence. Aya simply stared, wide-eyed, at her aunt, thinking she’d misheard what she said. Her … a witch? What did that even mean? She cleared her throat, and for the first time ventured and said, “I don’t think I know what you mean by that.” “You can do magic,” answered Petunia. “As did your parents.” Hold on. Magic? “What do you mean magic?” she inquired confused. “Magic only exists in books and movies. There’s no such thing as magic.” Petunia smiled. “If Vernon could hear you now. He would be proud of your words. At least something good came out of these past ten years we’ve had to deal with you. But I’m afraid that … as absurd as it sounds to you, you are indeed a witch and can do magic.” Aya was completely dumbfounded. Amidst questions swirling in her head, she remembered another piece of information she learned that night. “You said my parents could do magic as well?” she asked carefully. Another grimace crossed Petunia’s face. “Yes, they did.” As she was trying to connect the dots and make sense of what she was being told, a strange realisation struck her. She frowned in confusion. “There’s something that doesn’t make sense. If my mother was a witch and performed magic, and she was also your sister … how come you don’t seem to do magic?” A self-deprecating smile appeared on Petunia’s lips. “I suppose I wasn’t special enough to be granted such a thing. But I am happy with my life as it is. I have a husband and a son, and I myself am alive …” a malicious grin split her face. “The same cannot be said for my dear sister and her husband now, can it? If she hadn’t been so eager to be a part of that world she would still be alive. But no, she had to stick her nose where she didn’t have to and got herself blown up by a madman.” Hang on. Blown up? This wasn’t what she was told all those years ago whenever her parents came up in a discussion. She wanted to ask, but … Did it really matter? If the story she was told so far was a lie, the fact that both her parents were dead didn’t change, did it? Whether she believed them to be irresponsible and drunks as opposed to just irresponsible didn’t really make that much of a difference to her. So, she let it be. A rustling caught her attention and her aunt handed her the crumpled letter. “Open it … and read it.” She took the envelope, opened it and read the contents in silence. With each word on the parchment, because that couldn’t be regular paper, her anxiety levels built up until she felt dizzy and she had stomach cramps. “A school for magic?” she whispered disbelievingly. “How can I go to a school for something I have no idea how to do? Besides, you and uncle already chose a school for me, I can’t just not go.” “That is something I cannot help you with,” concluded Petunia with finality and went for the door. “Whatever you choose to do, you should let Vernon and I know.” As she was about to leave, she turned around with a final piece of advice. “Oh, and whenever you want to talk anything about that place,” she motioned towards the letter, “never use the word magic or anything similar.” Aya nodded absentmindedly and returned her gaze to the letter. This was too much. She was not prepared for this. She didn’t want any of this. Sure, magic sounded cool in fantasy books and comics, but to actually possess the ability to do magic and not know how to actually use it just didn’t go well with her. With emotions and doubts running high, she took out a piece of paper from a notebook and set out to write a formal refusal letter to Deputy Headmistress Professor Minerva McGonagall. Dear Professor McGonagall, I am writing to you in response to the letter I have received this morning. I am honoured you have offered me a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but with my sincerest apologies, I have to decline my position at the school. First, up until today, I did not know I was capable of performing magic, nor had anything in my childhood pointed to me being … out of the ordinary. As such, I am sure you can understand magic is a completely new concept to me and I find it very difficult to believe. Furthermore, with no magical knowledge forming part of my childhood background, I fear that my lack of it will put me at a disadvantage. Second, even with a list of school supplies, I am at a complete loss of where to even acquire them, nor have I the means to afford so many items. I truly am sorry; however, I think it is for the best that I do not attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. My uncle and aunt have already chosen a school for me as well, and it would be rude and ungrateful not to accept it. I hope this matter can be resolved quickly and without complications. I wish you all the best. Yours sincerely, Aya Potter Glancing over the letter one more time, she folded it quickly and wondered where to get an owl to send it. She didn’t even know the address. And really … owls? Just which century did these … people think it was? The Middle Ages? Well, an owl must have surely delivered the letter to her in the first place. So, unless it had flown away, tired of waiting for a response, the bird should still be somewhere in the vicinity of 4 Privet Drive. She looked outside the window. It took her a minute or so to adjust her eyes to the darkness outside, but on a hedge not too far from her window an owl was perched like a mini soldier. She opened the window and waved the letter towards the owl. The animal flapped its wings and flew inside her room, startling her in the process. She waited for it to stop moving and tied the letter with a string around the extended leg. When it flew away, Aya quickly closed the window and the curtains, and heaved a sigh. Now, hopefully, the magic people will accept her refusal without much fuss, so that she could continue to live her normal and simple life at the Dursleys.
Song I listened to for this chapter: The World I Know by Collective Soul Bella wakes up the following morning and groans as she tries to move. If she ever gets her hands on Jake he will see the wrath of Bella Swan! At least Seth told her what happened to him last night. After apologizing to her for five minutes straight without letting her say a word. Bella sighs, Jake probably forgot again. He has been quiet and withdrawn, again, after their last try at dating. Each time Bella tries to tell him it won’t work out, but he insists and they try again. She is hoping that the Jake she loves will be here, not Jacob. It breaks her heart to see him try so hard. But, she never feels anything but friendship for him. She always feels like there is someone out there for her. However, lately, she is thinking of just giving in to Jake and just faking loving him for the rest of her life. Bella gets out of bed and grabs her robe as she makes her way to the shower. Inside the bathroom, she sighs in pleasure over the design of it. The bathroom was done in dark colors, yet the walls, for some reason, make her think of water sheeting down it. There was a bathtub area that had live bamboo growing behind the sunk in tub and a turquoise skylight done as some sort of leaves all over it, with the light pouring through the leaves. There are curtains on the side that could be closed to give her privacy if she wished. And during the night, there were soft lights to keep the turquoise glow continuing. The walk in shower and the rest of the bathroom followed the scheme throughout, having bamboo or similar plants grown all around, with the lighting the same. Bella walks over to the shower and turns it on. As she waits for the water to get hot, she unpacks the towels and her shower stuff. Looking up into the mirror, she studies herself as she cannot seem to get away from the morose thoughts going through her head. Why can’t she just fall in love? With anyone? Jake definitely deserves it after him relentlessly chasing after her all these years. But something about him, rubs her wrong. They are great as friends, but when he tries to be close; her whole body feels like it being touched by the most disgusting thing in the world. Her skin actually crawls. And when he kisses her, she wants to gag. Jake is great looking, all her friends have tried to get her to notice that he has this rockin bod, a sweet smile and loves her to death. And won’t take no. Luckily they haven’t gone far, mostly due to her backing off from him, but Bella is worried that he will not back off if they ever get that far and she says no. Sighing, Bella turns back to the shower. At least with this new house, no one but she has the keys. Jake has been in and out of her house in Forks all the time, and it was really creeping her out. He has started to ignore boundaries, almost as if he is hoping to find her undressed. She locks her windows and even got black out curtains after he has made some remarks. Here, the windows are large, but there is an alarm system, and the windows are supposedly strong. The best thing? The metal shutters that are on all the windows in the house. This is the first time in a long time she can sleep feeling somewhat safe from prying eyes. Bella starts washing her hair and thinks of the good times, the reason why she remains friends with him. When he isn’t pushing for a relationship, like how he is backing off right now, he is a lot of fun to be around. Thankfully her step brother Seth listened to her one night as she poured out her fears to him. He tries to be around her as much as possible to prevent Jake from making her uncomfortable. And as long as he is there, Jake acts like her best friend, the one she knew before the summer of her first year here, when he had been so sweet. After that time, he had a growth spurt that you would never believe and he bulked out. That was also when he started to get a little possessive over her. And when it seemed like everything in her life fell apart. Bella reached out and gripped the wall beside her as the sobs ripped through her. She cried, the pain of losing a loved one never quite leaves you. Her therapist told her she had to let go of it and then she will begin to heal. But then, Bella has never been normal. She slides down the wall and hugs her middle as she cries. When she finally stops, Bella lifts her head up and lets the water hit her face and body, relaxing her. Maybe this is why I don’t allow myself to love anyone. I get people hurt or killed. Bella finally gets herself up and finishes her shower. Walking out of the room, she grabs a towel and dries off, then tries to towel dry her hair as much as possible. Shrugging on her robe, she moves into the bedroom and grabs one of the bags on the floor. Getting out a grey thermal and a pair of jeans as well as her underwear, she gets dressed quickly. Bella has learned in the past that when she gives in to her emotions like that, she needs to keep busy or she will crawl back in bed and not move for at least a day. Walking through her house, she heads to the kitchen for some coffee. Once the coffee maker is started, she folds her arms around her and looks out the windows. It is still darkish outside. Shaking her head at how she can’t seem to sleep in anymore, Bella grabs a coffee cup, fills it up, and then turns around to start unpacking the kitchen. She has awhile until the time Alice wants her over. Alice frowns over the vision in her head of Bella crying. What has happened to her to make her that upset? For the first time, Alice wonders if she did the right thing in delaying their arrival. But all the problems she had seen had made it seem like there was too much drama for them. And Edward, poor Edward. All of the torture he has put up with through the years would have been worse if they had come here earlier. Jasper wraps his arms around his mate and asks, “What is wrong, pixie?” He nuzzles into her neck, trying to sooth her and he sends his love to her, as he blocks the pain from next door. As of yet, he cannot do anything about that. Turning in his arms, she kisses him quickly and asks, “Can we go for a quick hunt?” She knows Edward is not here, but she does not want to worry Emmett. Jasper is only here since there was a chance that someone would have seen him on his bike in the sunlight. Rosalie and Edward are on their way. Jasper pulls back from her and studies her eyes. She hunted last night, why does she want to hunt again already? But he answers her, “Sure. I take it Emmett will be watching over Bella?” Alice nods and she pulls him up and with her out the window as she calls back, “Emmett, watch Bella!” After seeing what he will answer affirmatively, she takes off with Jasper right behind her. After they are beyond the hearing distance of everyone, Alice stops quickly and then flings her body into Jasper’s arms. “Jasper, I just saw Bella sobbing in her bathroom. Something happened to her, and I-” Jasper quickly put his finger on her mouth and asks her, “Are the visions still true?” Alice cocks her head to the side and then seeing the outcome she has watched for 23 years appear, she nods. Relaxing, Jasper moves his hands to frame her delicate face and steps up next to her, saying to her as he looks down at the reason for his existence, “Alice, you are doing what you can. From what you are telling me, everything would have been so much harder on everyone if we would have come earlier. Now, now everyone will be accepted. You have done what you can even for Edward. I do not envy him or his choice. But he is willing to do this.” Jasper puts one finger under her chin and raises it up so he can stare into her honey colored eyes. “Alice, we will do all we can to make this happen. You know I support you; I cannot stand how the family has been… torn apart. You tell me Bella will make it all better, heal everything. And for that, she already has my love. I already consider her my sister.” Jasper lowers his head and he kisses Alice with his love on his face, open for the world to see. Their lips move together with the familiarity of years, but with the passion of soul mates. Edward drives up to their house with Rosalie following behind him. This is the hard part. Well, one of them at least. There will be one other who has no idea what is going on, why he may act oddly to her. And they want to keep it that way. For now at least. Edward looks down at the sweatshirt that Jasper had brought him last night. He has spent the past couple years trying with all he has in him to not attack Bella. His Singer. Edward stops the car and sits there, his fingers pinching the top of his nose. He has seen in Alice’s visions how important Bella is to him. Without her, his life will be one of even worse torment than it is now. And now, now he needs to go inside, and soon make friends with his Singer, the one person on this earth that their blood sings to him, that is made for him to drain. Edward sighs and wishes that something would come easy for him. A knock sounds at his window and he glances up. Rosalie is standing there looking worried. He breathes out, grabs the sweatshirt and inhales the scent that makes his throat burn even worse. When he can control himself, he opens the door. Rosalie stands there, watching him carefully as he inhales the air around him. When he freezes, she gets prepared to tackle him and hope Emmett can get to her to help restrain him before Edward can attack Bella. Then Edward relaxes and looks up at Rosalie. She watches the black drain from his eyes and the rise and fall of his chest. Edward has passed the first test; the first time that Alice’s visions show him trying to kill Bella. Standing Edward tells his sister, “Thanks, Rosalie.” She smiles at him and tells him softly, “No problem, Edward. We are all here to help you. Just let us know if you need it and we will get you somewhere safe.” Safe for Bella, not for him. There is little that can hurt Edward physically. Edward looks at her and tells her, “If I go crazy, call Carlisle. He will be the only one who can protect her. Especially if he sees her for the first time and I am threatening her. He won’t be able to help himself.” He knows what will happen, but he would do that for his oldest friend. It would actually be the least he has done for Carlisle. Rosalie freezes. “Edward, you have to be kidding. He will tear you apart. We can deal with you. Carlisle will be here soon enough.” She is panicking; she cannot lose her oldest brother this way! Then Rosalie hardens with resolve that Edward will not have a chance to hurt Bella. Looking at his sister, he lets some of his misery out and tells her, “If I kill Bella, he will end me. You know this. And I will want him to.” The stark honesty on his face shakes her to her core, making her resolve even more to protect him. Rosalie woke to this life in anger. But watching her brother and the misery that is his life, made her where she can never hate him. He has taught her to be more loving and forgiving. And he helped bring Emmett into her life. Edward had been getting ready to go hunting when he heard her crying as she ran with Emmett broken and bleeding in her arms, her half of the mating already began. He ran to join her, and seeing Emmett so close to dying, he had taken him from her arms and rushed to Carlisle. Without his greater speed, Emmett would have died. Instead, he woke to this life, saw her and they mated instantly. For his sacrifice, Rosalie will do anything for her brother. Rosalie walks with Edward to the house. When they get close enough, Emmett throws open the door and has her in his arms. They cling together and then Emmett tells her softly, “I missed you, Rosie.” Edward watches them, his face and body becoming still. Then he sighs and walks inside the house, unable to watch their love in front of him. Alice is standing in the foyer and watches her brother. They are doing this all for him too. His misery is only shown when Carlisle is not around, and for a long time, he hid it from everyone. Until Rosalie came in and broke down his barriers. She was the first one, and now they all are the confidants of Edward. But, even more importantly to all of them, they are also here for Carlisle. Edward, most of all, wants this for Carlisle. She looks at him and tells him silently, She will be here shortly. I will in fact be leaving to go get her. She has been up for awhile unpacking. Edward nods and he answers her, “I will be in my room. Have Jasper on the stairway in case I can’t control it.” He starts up the stairs to his room, he can smell his belongings. Alice nods and she softly calls to him, “You will be fine Edward.” He stops and then nods his head as he continues up the stairs. He knows she means more than just the intended meeting. Bella has completely unpacked her kitchen and her personal rooms. She will need to go shopping to get some things, but looking around, she feels like she accomplished much today. Then her phone rings, Werewolves in London. She has no idea why Jake has chosen that ringtone for himself, but he laughs each time he hears it. Bella stares at the phone and then goes to answer it, unsure of which Jake she will have. “Hey Jake.” “Bells! I promise I didn’t forget! I am so sorry, I tried to be there, but I got hung up by a tribal meeting and-” Rolling her eyes, happy he is the old Jake, she tells him, “No problem. You owe Seth a favor since he called me last night to make you guys’ apologies already.” “Sure sure! I will grovel at your feet, his feet, whomever’s feet, as long as you forgive me. Bella, I never want you mad at me.” Jacob’s voice was dropping, as is his wont when he is trying to convince her to love him. Oh well this respite didn’t last long. “Jacob. We have already talked about this. There is nothing between us.” The tiredness of the argument is clear in her voice. “Why Bells? I love you. Just give me another chance!” Jake’s voice is pleading with her. Then there is a knock on the door and Bella tells him, “Look Jake. I gotta go.” His voice sounds anxious as he asks her, “Who is there?” Bella frowns and she tells him, “None of your business, Jake. I will call you later.” Jake’s voice is practically growling as he demands, “Bella. Who is there?” Her temper is getting worse, and she snaps back at him, “None of your damn business!” And she hangs up. She walks to the door and throws it open to reveal Alice. Her phone starts to ring with the same ringtone. Alice is surprised by the look on Bella’s face. She cocks her head to the side and starts to think. Then she hears the ring tone. She lifts an eyebrow at Bella. Bella shakes her head and tries to calm down. “Morning Alice. I would say it is a good morning, but…never mind. Let’s go.” Alice asks softly, not wanting to spike her anger, “Do you want your phone?” Shaking her head, Bella tells her, “No. Let’s go, please?” Alice silently steps back and she calls to Edward silently, There is something really wrong Edward. Whomever that Jake is, it sounds like trouble. Can you read her mind? Her vision flashes and Edward looks confused then shakes his head no. We need to be careful. She is really upset! I don’t know what it is, but her anger… She sees Edward concentrate and then nod. Yes her anger is odd. It is too intense for a human. During this conversation with Edward, Alice had been bubbly telling Bella about how great it is to move. And that they had decided to redecorate the house before they moved in, leaving buying the furnishings until they got here. Bella for her part is replaying the conversation in her head. She realizes that Jake is beginning to lose it. He never cared in the past about other people in her life. But he had sounded so possessive… she makes a quick decision and stops. Alice stops along with her and asks, “What is wrong Bella?” Bella looks over at her, “Can I borrow a phone?” Unconsciously, her arms start to wrap around her middle. Alice thinks and tells her, “Mine is dead as is Jasper’s. But I think Edward or Rosalie has one, just come inside and we will get you one. They just got here a little bit ago.” Alice watches Bella and her visions. Rosalie hears Alice and asks below a frequency that Bella can hear, “Edward’s? You want to expose them to each other now?” Alice answers back the same way, “Yes. There is something wrong. Edward can track her now somewhat. But after he meets her, her scent will become unforgettable in any form or fashion. The only one who will be better is Carlisle, and that would be a bad idea. The worst idea in the history of bad ideas.” She hides the shudder at the vision. By this time, Alice has opened the door and gestured Bella to precede her. Jasper is at the stairs as agreed upon earlier, and Emmett is on the couch with Rosalie cuddled next to him. Bella looks at all of them, and feels dowdy. They were all so perfect! And she is so ordinary… Emmett bounds up and sweeps her into a hug exclaiming, “Belly! You need to meet my Rosie!” Bella grunts and she grasps out, “Breath… I need to breath, Emmett!” Emmett is shocked and he hastily puts her down. “You ok, Belly?” He checks her out, anxious that he may have hurt her; he already considers her part of the family, his little sis. Bella takes a deep breath and then smiles at Emmett. “I’m ok, Emmie.” He grins back at her, moves back to the couch to help Rosalie up, and turns to Bella. “This is my Rosie.” The love for his Rosie is very evident in his voice. Rosalie shakes her head as she reaches out to shake Bella’s hand. “My name is Rosalie, but you can call me Rose. Emmett here has talked nothing but you since I got here with my two brothers. Nice to meet you. Now if you can keep him from his video games, I will appreciate you even more!” Her golden eyes twinkle with laughter, hoping that the woman in front of her will be a friend to her. Alice is a little wearing with all the bubbliness. Bella’s smile grows bigger, but Rose sees that it does not meet the expression in her eyes. Her eyes, they seem so dead… Then Jasper clears his throat and walks toward Bella. He nods his head to her and welcomes her, “Hello Bella. Alice has told me all about you and how you guys are going to be best friends. Guess that means I will be seeing a lot of you. Name’s Jasper.” He smiles and sends calming waves her way. The pain she is feeling along with the anxiety worries him. Bella smiles, feeling calmer in his presence. She watches him put an arm around Alice and his laid back presence is perfect match for Alice’s overindulgence in happiness. “Hi Jasper, Rose. Nice to meet you.” Then there is a noise and Bella looks up. And sees a young man, standing casually at the top of the stairs, staring back at her. His hair is an odd sort of bronze color, looking like he has ran his hands through it many times. He is wearing a black thermal with dark jeans and has the family trait of pale skin. Then Bella notices that it seems he is holding onto the balustrade tightly. And his eyes are black, not the honey color of his siblings. Edward is momentarily overwhelmed with bloodlust as he stares down at his Singer. He grits his teeth and feels Jasper trying to help him. Luckily Alice’s plan seems to be working. Because Edward is not too sure he could have prevented himself from attacking her if this was the first time he smelled her. He closes his eyes for a second and centers himself. Then he moves from the landing and starts down the stairs, aware of his family being there supporting him. Bella just watches him, warily. She is not scared of him, but something tells her that he is important. But with everything going on with Jacob, she does not want another love interest! Edward stops and stares down at her. Then he reaches his hand out, holding the cell phone she had wanted earlier. As she stares down at it then back at him, he tells her sheepishly, “My window was open and I heard you ask Alice. Let me introduce myself, my name is Edward Cullen.” Bella looks at him and says, “Hi Edward.” Realizing that she needs to make that call she swallows her pride and informs him, “Thanks for the phone; if you will excuse me, I need to make an important phone call.” God, she sounds like she is so hoity toity. She needs to relax, but right now she is too stressed out. He nods and watches her as she leaves the room. They hear the phone being dialed and then, “Seth?” “Hey Bella! Look I said I was sorry last night!! How many times are you going to make me grovel? And who’s phone is this?” A young man’s cheery voice rang through. Alice starts talking, so that Bella doesn’t think they are listening, as they paid close attention to her conversation. Bella sighs in relief as she hears them talking, then tells him, “Seth, Jacob is bad. Please come here, I’m… worried. Just for a couple of nights.” She is trying so hard not to plead. She cannot let go of her pride for even the feeling of safety. But then what else did she have other than her pride? Edward jumps up and stares at Alice, pleading with her to tell him that Bella will be ok. The rest of the family is staring at Alice also, their faces all showing the worry they have for her. Alice frowns and then grows more worried as she can’t see Bella. She looks at Edward, her face expressing her panic as Jasper’s arms wrap around her to calm her as she continues to babble, covering them. Seth’s next words worry them even farther, “I can’t, sis. I will make sure he is here though. I will try to get up there as soon as I can. You have an alarm on that house right? Set it and do not open the door.” They can hear the worry for Bella clear in his voice as well as the frustration that he is unable to be there for her. Bella feels her heart drop. However, she sounds normal as she imparts to him, “Its ok. I am probably overreacting. I gotta go. I don’t want to use up this guy’s minutes. Thanks Seth.” And she hangs up before he can say anything. She couldn’t hold it together if she let him talk to her anymore. Her last beacon of hope is gone for tonight. She takes a second to gather herself, forcing her mask into place. She then walks out and hands the phone to Edward, “Thanks.” She is working hard to keep her emotions in place. Edward is feeling… protective of her. And he knows the rest of the family does too. But he has no idea of how to ask, how to help, how to do anything for her, when Emmett bluntly asks, “Are you in any sort of trouble, Bella?” Bella looks up at Emmett and can see the concern on his face. She mentally reminds herself that she does not know these people that well, they just met yesterday! And even though she has this feeling as though she belongs here, to trust them; her life and more importantly Jacob has taught her not to trust. She shakes her head and tells them, “No. But, I need to go. I have some errands I need to finish today.” And with that comment she immediately turns around, leaving out the front door. Bella is moving as quickly as she can to the safety of her house to fall apart. She doubts that she will be able to hold in her emotions if she delays too much longer. Jasper lets out a deep breath. Everyone turns as one and stares at him. He raises his hands to placate them and to have them give him a moment. He frowns and then looks up at Edward. He advises him, knowing everyone was listening, “She is scared. Very scared and worried. In addition to that she is so, so confused. She feels like she can trust us and Emmett’s question almost broke down the walls she has built. She… shit Edward, she’s a mess. She is keeping it all bottled up and she needs to let it go before she hurts herself. But from what I felt this morning, she let it all out just a few hours ago, and it didn’t help. What is going on?” His voice portrays his frustration in not protecting her. Jasper could not believe all the emotions she went through in the short amount of time she was here. If he didn’t know any better, he would say she is in the midst of mating. But how can that be? Alice looks down and starts berating herself again. I should have kept a better watch on her. But she kept disappearing. I thought it was because I didn’t know her… what have I done? Jasper starts and whips around to his mate. He has never felt the loathing and condemnation coming from her. That normally comes from Edward. He immediately sends her the love not only from the family surrounding them, but his own love, his own desire for her. Edward also starts hearing her and he verbally answers her, “Alice, you did the right thing. Remember, I saw what and more importantly why you did what you did. I also saw the consequences if we had gone against your request. And, yes it would have been bad. She was dead in a lot of your scenarios, by my own hand a lot of the times. This way I have had years to get used to her scent. And all of you also had the time to get used to it. You had even seen Jasper ready to kill her in your visions, no doubt driven there by my own bloodlust added to his own. “ Edward moves forward to his sister and holds her arms gently with his own. She looks up at him and he tells her gently, “Alice, you have done more than anyone could ask to make this turn out right. It is not your fault. But, I do not understand, what did you mean she disappeared? I thought you saw her once she was born.” He is worried; they all thought Alice would see if Bella would need them sooner. And if she did, and was in enough danger, they would make sure she was safe before anything else. Even if it came down to telling Carlisle, they would have. Alice closes her eyes, searching as always for where their missing members of the family are. Finding everyone, she relaxes. She opens her eyes and seeing the gratitude in Edward’s is enough for her. She smiles and tells him, “I have. Up until she was 17, that summer she started to disappear from my visions. The ultimate vision never wavered, never changed. So I was not as worried, and came up with the idea that I needed to get to know her. Maybe I hadn’t been looking as close in the past for her?” She starts to worry that she has failed them all… Edward shakes his head, “No, Alice. You have kept a very good eye on her for her entire life. There is more to this. And you said you saw her disappear from your visions for awhile tonight?” He is trying to get to the bottom of this. He is having a bad feeling that there is more to this than they think. The worry came back into her eyes and she murmurs, “Yes. After the phone call with Jake. Someone made a decision.” Rosalie folds her arms across her chest as she leans back on Emmett, needing to feel him and his reassurance. She thinks for a second and asks, “What are we going to do? Call Carlisle? Have Edward go over? We have done so much for this, not to keep her safe.” The pain she has seen in Bella’s eyes had shaken her, no person should suffer that. Alice tries to picture the scenarios and tells them, “I have no idea. She is not ready for Carlisle. And Edward, she will not accept him either right now. No one, not even Emmett and I can do anything. The best thing is to keep an eye on her. She is still gone, but Emmett and Jasper are gone also. I think they are the ones that will be guarding her.” She has an idea though that she sees will work for the rest of the day, and will start the bonding process… Edward straightens and asks, “Why them?” He needs to be the one keeping her safe. This is going to be his trial to suffer through. Shrugging, Alice answers, “I really don’t know. Edward, you need to concentrate on being her friend. Get to know her. She will trust me, but she really needs to trust you completely.” Then she looks quickly up at him and asks, “What was she thinking?” She remembers his confusion on his face from her vision earlier. Edward looks away. After a minute, he answers, “I can’t hear anything from her. Nada. Zip. Zilch.” They all look at him horrified. Edward’s ability is the one they are hoping to be able to help keep an eye on her, to make sure they don’t overwhelm her with. And he is telling them he can’t hear her. Bella sags against the door after she has shut it. This is just happening too fast for her. She cannot trust them, she has only just met them! Her head hangs down, feeling defeated before she can even start. Why? Why can’t I be normal? Would this even be happening to me if I was normal? Why can’t I just fall in love? These questions are the same questions that have run through her head most of her life. Don’t get her wrong, Bella loves. She loves her parents and she loves her friends. But the love she is craving? The love that she has denied Jacob and has now driven him mad; those she cannot feel. And how she has tried, she has done everything. Bella doesn’t want to be the one that shatters hearts. She cares too much for that. However, Bella always feels like there is something, someone out there. To be honest though, Bella is tired of being the empty one. The loner, the odd one out. To be the one laughing as her tears roll down her face, to fool everyone into thinking they are tears of happiness. Sick of it all, the move here is also a blessing. She can just concentrate on college and get through it. After graduation, she has no idea what she is going to do. Pulling herself together, Bella heads for the kitchen and grabs her keys. She cannot just sit here waiting for Jacob to show up. Since she needs to get her vehicle, she will head to the dealership. Bella goes to the front door, and there is a knock. She jumps and barely manages to hold back the scream. She calms her heart and then walks to the door, taking a deep breath, she opens it. Standing outside it is Edward and Alice. Edward has his head bowed as he leans against the wall and Alice is standing there bouncing. She looks excitedly into Bella’s eyes and informs her, “We wanted to get to know you better. And since you said you have errands, I was hoping that we can join you.” Alice leans close to Bella and tells her in confidence, “Edward lost a bet. He has to go shopping with me and do whatever I tell him for an entire day. Help me out and let me get back at him for all the horrible pranks he has pulled on me in the past. Please?” Alice bats her eyes at Bella, begging for her to allow them to come along. Bella looks over at Edward and then back to Alice. She really didn’t want to have company, but maybe it will keep her mind occupied. But, what about Edward? She looks at him, he lifts his head and looks back at her and seeing her expression, winks at her. This helps her decision and she turns back to Alice. “Sure.”
Little Pokemon Academia Chapter 46 Tomorrow ~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~ Akko waited, barely able to contain herself from spewing out the question she had been dying to ask all day. The lock on the bathroom clicked, and the water turned on, flashing the green light for the eager trainer. Now that Sucy wasn't able to overhear, she had approximately twenty minutes before the researcher would rejoin herself and Diana. It was the first time they'd been alone since Diana had asked her not to use Eevee in her battle against Amanda. Having had Sucy join them for dinner shortly after they had entered the dining hall. “Why couldn't I use Eevee?” Akko blurted gracelessly, fingers digging into her exposed thighs from where she was sitting cross legged on the floor in pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt. Diana blinked, looking up from whatever she was reading. The other trainer was always a bit of a workaholic, but today seemed to be worse than usual. Every time she wasn't directly engaged in conversation, she'd sneak out her pokedex and start scrolling again. “Pardon?” Diana asked, and from her expression Akko was nearly positive she had missed the question, caught off guard by the sudden verbal explosion. “Earlier,” Akko reiterated, “You said I couldn't use Eevee to battle Amanda. Why?” She asked, and Diana looked over at where Eevee was grooming herself atop Akko's pillow. Why the fox needed to do that there, was beyond Akko. It was possible she did it because she knew it annoyed her trainer, but after more than a decade, Akko had eaten enough hair to not care anymore. There came a certain point in every pokemon owner's life, that they gave up when it came to the eternal battle against fur. It was times like these Akko wondered what it would be like to be a rock pokemon trainer like Brock. He had no idea what he was missing. Diana worried her lip, nail on her forefinger picking at the edge of her pokedex screen. “I have a theory, and I just need a little more time to prove it.” Akko noted the small frown and hesitated, if she didn't know any better, she'd swear Diana looked like she felt guilty. But, if she felt bad about not talking about whatever it was, why wasn't she willing to talk to her about it? “Is Eevee okay?” “Of course,” Diana responded instantly, “It's nothing like that, I promise.” Akko let out a relieved breath that made her feel a little better. She had assumed that wasn't what it was, Diana would have told her if it was. Would have encouraged her to take Eevee to see Nurse Joy right away. So if there wasn't anything wrong with Eevee, then what was it? “Maybe I can help,” Akko offered, watching as her friend shifted and set her hands on her ankles, legs crossed on the bed and hunching her shoulders. Diana was doing her damnedest to school her expression, and the response made the hair on the back of Akko's neck stand on end. She hadn't seen Diana this shut off from her since they had talked about her parents. Whatever was bothering her, it was big. “It's not that I don't think you can help,” Diana replied, fingers tightening their grip, unable to meet Akko's confused look. “It's just,” Sighing, she shook her head, “Tomorrow, I promise. Sucy will be done soon anyways.” Akko wanted to ask more, or to offer to go for a walk where they could talk in private but decided against it. Instead she put on her biggest smile and nodded, “Okay, I trust you.” Diana returned the gesture with a small, appreciative twitch of her lips and looked to the bathroom when the water shut off. A moment later Sucy came out in her pajamas and flopped down on her bed, “Alright, you ready?” She asked and Akko nodded. “Yep!” The trainer responded, flashing Diana one last smile before going to sit across from Sucy while the researcher explained a card game to her. Sucy had said it was one of the favourites in the group of kids she had grown up with, and mentioned wanting to play. Of course when Akko said she hadn't played before, that brought out a mischievous grin and an offer to teach her. Sucy started to shuffle the cards before hesitating, scrunching up her nose before grumbling, “Are you sure you don't want to play?” Diana looked over, mid way into working herself into a more comfortable position so she could continue with her reading. “No, it's alright, I still have a lot to read. Thank you though, next time.” Sucy nodded, trying to hide the look of relief from Akko who was looking at her teammate with a wide grin and overly excited puppy eyes. “Softie,” Akko whispered, making sure it was quiet enough that Diana wouldn't hear. “Shut up,” Sucy retorted, smacking the trainer with her pillow who only laughed in return. ~o~ “Psst,” Akko whispered. She had tried to ignore it, really she had. By the time she and Sucy had finished their game, Diana had already fallen asleep and Akko had been careful not to wake her while she slipped under the covers. The relief she felt upon her success was quickly diminished when Akko realized this would be the first night Diana wouldn't give her a kiss good night since their first. Every night and morning, like clockwork, had been punctuated by the affectionate act and it left the trainer pouting while she watched the steady rise and fall of Diana's slumbering breaths. It was silly, she should be able to sleep without a kiss good night. That was what she had told herself, until nearly an hour later, during a peak moment of frustration. “Dianaaa,” Akko pestered, resting her chin on the other girl's shoulder. When her companion didn't move or respond, Akko's pout amplified to the point where her bottom lip was borderline big enough to trip over. Letting out a humft and a rush of air, Akko grumbled, “And you say I forget.” “You were busy,” Diana mumbled, barely coherent and she let out a large yawn, rolling over. Without opening her eyes, the drowsy girl found the crook of Akko's neck which had become her favourite sleeping nook and pulled the other trainer closer by her t-shirt. Flushing, Akko tried to slow the sudden hammering of her heart and swallowed quietly. Diana still managed to leave her completely flustered no matter what she did. Shouldn't she get used to this at some point? Or wasn't the goal to find someone who you never got bored with? Did that mean this was always going to be an issue? “You're thinking too loud,” Diana complained, slipping her knee between Akko's legs and nudging her to move impossibly closer. Thinking too loud? Was that even a thing? Akko scrunched up her nose, or was she talking out loud without knowing it? Kinda like how she apparently talked in her sleep. Speaking of which, what did she say? Oh, crap. What if she dictated her dreams, like how some people listen to audio recordings of books. Diana was still the subject of a lot of her dreams, what if she said something super embarrassing! Diana laughed softly, reaching up to grip the back of Akko's neck and gently pulled her down. With sleep laced languidly, Diana gently pressed her lips to her worried friends and smiled before pulling away, “Now go to sleep.” Akko grinned and nodded, lifting her chin so Diana could worm her way back into her nook, shivering at the feather light peck that was touched to her neck. Closing her eyes, she barely caught the whispered question, “Did you mean what you said earlier?” By the tightening grip that was plaguing her shirt, Akko could tell Diana was nervous about her response and tried to puzzle out what she meant, “When you said you wouldn't leave me?” Diana elaborated, voice betraying how much the question meant to her as it wavered. “Not even when you're sick of me and begging me to leave you alone,” Akko chuckled, and was relieved to feel Diana's lips twitched into a small smile against her skin. “Good night,” Diana whispered, dismissing the conversation. Akko wanted to ask again about what was obviously bothering her, but suspected it had something to do with why Eevee couldn't battle. It left her feeling nervous, and she took comfort in the feeling of the small fox curled up in the small of her back. She just had to wait until tomorrow. One more day, she could do it. “Good night.” ~o~ “Are you sure you want to do this?” Croix asked, walking beside her friend with her packed bag slung over her shoulder. “You still have time to change your mind, we'll find another way.” Chariot shook her head, 'no' watching her partner carefully as he hopped along on the top of the fence that separated the road from the parallel front lawn. The tiny Pidgey was happily bouncing along, hopping onto his trainer's flat palm so she could ferry him to the next length of fence when they reached the walkway. “We've talked about this, this is the quickest way,” Chariot repeated, not taking her eyes off the bird pokemon. “You agreed,” She reminded, pouting slightly and flicking her glance at her friend for the briefest moments. “I know, and I understand why you want to take the trials.” Croix frowned, looking at the Pidgey, “Competing as a trainer is the easiest way to get the funds to travel across Kanto and look for more ruins. But, what are you going to do when you actually have to fight the Gyms? I know you think kindness and being unreasonably stubborn is the answer to everything. But—” The worried girl was cut off when Chariot lunged to catch her companion. Stumbling after a misplaced hop, the Pidgey started to fall, letting out a surprised squawk and flapping his right wing futilely, the left remaining still against his side. Successfully catching her friend, Chariot let out a sigh and raised the disgruntled bird to rub her nose against his beak and smiled. “That's exactly what I mean,” Croix groaned, “Alcor can't even fly, how do you expect him to fight?” Chariot shrugged, placing the Pidgey atop her head where he nestled down so he could look around from his vantage point. “We'll figure it out,” She beamed, “Besides, shouldn't you be worried about your research topic?” “Stop changing the subject, Chariot! I'm serious!” Croix pleaded, “So far we haven't traveled that far from home, and we're fortunate that Cerulean is surrounded by pokemon that are gentle. But you're going to need to capture other pokemon if you want to challenge a gym, have you thought about that? How are you going to do that when Alcor can't help you?” Frowning, Chariot hummed to herself, “Maybe a wild pokemon will be charmed into joining us by your positive personality?” She teased, poking her friend in the ribs and flashing her trademark grin that could melt icecaps. “It'll be fine, I have you, remember?” “Akko!” “Oh, so you want me to complete the program as a researcher, and fight your gym battles for you?” Croix countered, shifting the strap of her back pack, “Better hope whoever is assigned as our teammate doesn't want me to compete in contests as well.” “Akko, wake up!” “Oh!” Chariot exclaimed, forming a plan, “I think—” “Akko!” Diana yelled, shaking her friend's shoulder roughly with a look of concern. Eevee yipped by her trainer's ear, trying to help in the effort to rouse her. Akko awoke with a start, looking around, breathing hard and surprised when the room was still dark. Confused, she looked around and noted Sucy standing beside her bed with a frown on her face. “What's wrong?” Akko panted, reaching up to try and soothe her worried fox who was sniffing with fierce determination at her ear. Sucy looked at Diana who had her mouth slightly open, concern apparent even in the dim lighting. “Are you okay?” Diana asked, moving when Akko made an effort to sit up so she wasn't looking up at everyone. “Yes?” Akko replied, slowly mind still reeling, she had been dreaming about Chariot and her friend. They were talking about taking the gym challenge, and finding more ruins. Akko scrunched up her nose, looking down at her hands. There was something else, some important detail she was missing. It was a haze, which was strange because the dream had been so clear. More so than any she would remember having, it almost felt like one of Mew's visions. Looking around the room, to make sure the legendary pokemon was indeed not present, Akko frowned. “You were talking,” Sucy said, folding her arms. “So?” Akko asked, “Diana said I sleep talk sometimes, and you and Lotte both told me it was true when I asked after.” So why were they looking at her like she had just risen from the dead, or something else equally as terrifying? “So, when you sleep talk it's usually barely coherent, intelligible mumbling. Usually about cookies. That make little to no sense.” Sucy responded, gesturing to Diana for help. Taking Akko's hand, Diana tried to force a smile, “This time it was completely clear, and your voice was changing. Like it was two people talking.” Akko blinked, looking between her two friends. So what? She had been literally dictating her dream as it had been happening? Was this because she had been wondering if it sounded like someone reading a book out loud? “I don't understand,” Akko mumbled, before letting out a breath and putting on a smile. “I'm fine though, it was just a dream. I will admit it was a weird dream though,” She chuckled, trying to dispel the worry filled tension. “I'm sorry for waking you,” Akko apologized, and Sucy nodded, seeming reluctant to accept the explanation. “I'm fine, I promise,” Akko reassured, putting on her biggest smile, barely tipping the scales in her favour. The researcher went over to her bed, using one arm to lift the covers to slip in and the action triggered the detail Akko had been struggling to remember. “I dreamt Alcor couldn't fly,” Akko said. Sucy looked over at her teammate and snorted, “Figures it was about Shiny Chariot. But you're right, that is a strange dream, seeing how Alcor can definitely fly.” Shaking her head, Sucy rolled over to face the wall and tried to go back to sleep, “Good night. Try not to have anymore fever dreams about Chariot, or Diana might get jealous.” Akko stuck out her tongue at her friend, Diana wouldn't actually get jealous about something like that, right? Glancing at her friend, Akko tried to gauge whether or not Sucy's teasing held any merit. Diana was staring at the blankets with a thoughtful look, brow furrowed. Crap. “They aren't like, uh—” Akko scratched at the back of her head, “You know. They are just usually Chariot putting on a show.” Wait. Akko blinked, and Diana turned to regard her with a look of confusion, “Wait! Not like that kind of show! Like—” “Huh?” Diana mumbled, her focus shifting from her thoughts to what Akko was suddenly very nervously rambling about. Across the room, Sucy let out a booming laugh and decided to assist via explanation. “What Akko's trying to say is that her dreams about Shiny Chariot are about her idol putting on a private show for her,” Grinning, Sucy ducked when a roll of socks were aimed at her head. “Sucy!” Akko exclaimed, flushing and puffing out her cheeks, “That is not what I said!” “Oh, really?” Sucy taunted, “Do I need to show you that recording of—” Before she could finish her sentence, Akko had launched herself across the room and was trying to snatch away her teammate's pokedex. Not that stupid recording! It was so embarrassing! Sucy promised she wouldn't show Diana! Eevee joined the mix a moment later, excited by the surprise play time and landed on top of the blankets, slapping at kicking feet and yipping. “Two on one isn't fair!” Sucy protested, fending off the fox while barely keeping her fingertips on her device. Grabbing her pillow, Sucy whacked Akko with it before the pillow slipped from her grasp, soaring across the room to hit Diana in the side of the head. Both teammates halted, turning to regard their roommate who had yet to respond. The projectile fell to sit where Akko had been laying a moment ago, and Diana turned slowly with narrowed eyes. “Sorry,” Akko squeaked. “Eevee,” Diana said, and the fox spit out the blanket she had been chewing on, wagging her tail and looking at the other girl. “You're on my team, now it'll be two on two.” “What,” Sucy deadpanned, watching as the fox jumped off the bed and trotted over to Diana, responding to the command with diligence. “Eevee! You wouldn't do that to me, right?” Akko pleaded, and her partner looked back, tilting her head before jumping on her bed and sitting beside Diana, earning a scratch behind her ears for her loyalty. “Now, how does this go again?” Diana mused, grabbing another set of rolled socks and handing it to Eevee. Taking the offered weapon, Eevee summoned an energy ball to her mouth and fired the makeshift cannonball with pinpoint accuracy. Her targets dived out of the way, Sucy holding up the blankets as a shield as the second great sock-er ball war began. ~o~ “Alright, you know the rules,” Lt.Surge barked, standing in a pose so similar to the previous day that it made Akko wonder if he wasn't a cardboard cut out that was simply moved to the next spot. “Complete the course within the set time, fail to do so and you're disqualified. There will be no do-overs, is this understood?” The assembled group voiced their acknowledgement, Akko doing so at a much lower level of enthusiasm. Stupid, pompous, muscle-man! She couldn't wait until she and Eevee got to wipe the floor with him. Starting tomorrow he was accepting challengers, and then he'd regret being so rude. Especially when Diana got her shot, there's no way he'd be able to call her pathetic or anything else after she finished tromping him. Akko grinned, enjoying imagining the image of the large man crying on his knees while Diana still looked gorgeous as always. “What are you snickering about?” Amanda whispered, elbowing the other trainer in the side. Akko blinked, she hadn't realized she had been laughing out loud. Opps. “Nothing,” She responded, blushing lightly with embarrassment and keeping her fantasies to herself. “Well, whatever,” Amanda shrugged, one eye on the demonstrators as they walked through the course. “I was thinking for round three, we take advantage of the beach since we won't be here long and have a game of volleyball or something. Loser has to buy the winner dinner.” “Round three?” Akko mumbled, round one was the battle, two was the race. “Yeah, we can't leave it at a tie,” Amanda chuckled. Figures, Akko thought to herself with a grin. Still it was nice to have someone to have these little competitions with, it was fun. Plus, beating Amanda was always enjoyable, “So?” “I'm in,” Akko nodded, “Oh, but I can't tonight.” After this she had to meet with Professor Ursula, and Diana had said they'd talk today. It had been driving her insane. All she wanted to do was break down and beg for answers for an explanation but she had made a promise. And even if it took all of her will power, she was bent on keeping it. “Oh?” Amanda grinned, low and feral. It reminded Akko of the look Eevee fixed her with when she smelled food. Eyeing her competitive friend, Akko scrunched up her nose. Something was brewing, “Got a hot date or something?” “W-What?” Akko laughed breathily, looking away to where Diana was watching the demonstration, a look of concentration on her face. “Pssh, me? N-No, of course not,” Akko responded, waving her hand, voice a little too loud when she snapped her gaze back to look at Amanda. Oh, crap. Please let that be convincing. “Diana and I are just friends—” Akko rambled, trying to keep the volume of her voice under control. Amanda raised an eyebrow, grin widening, “I never mentioned Diana.” She cooed, enjoying watching the other girl squirm. Crap! Akko glanced back at her temporary teammate and tried to swallow the lump in her throat. They really weren't—Well, no. Diana had asked her to go to dinner, but she hadn't mentioned anything about it since they had left Cerulean. Still, there were the kisses now. So that was a good thing, right? But they hadn't really talked about it, them? At all. “Shut up,” Akko grouched, crossing her arms, “I'm just meeting Professor Ursula, she's helping me with some training.” “Oh? I never would have taken you for someone to go after older women,” Amanda chortled, earning a glare and a spat out tongue in response. Why hadn't they talked about it? Akko frowned, the noise of the instructors talking drowning into background noise. Diana had asked her to dinner, so that means she must like her, right? At least a little bit. Diana wouldn't go around just kissing anyone, would she? No. Of course not. Akko shook her head vigorously, tensing her shoulders. So then, why? Maybe she was waiting for Akko to say something? After all, Diana had kinda been the one to initiate everything. From hand holding, to cuddles, to kisses. Even the suggestion of going out on a date had been her doing. Compared to her, Akko felt a bit like she was just sort of fumbling along and nodding to whatever was suggested. Alright then! Akko nodded, grinning and determined. Then she'd just have to let Diana know how she felt. Maybe that was what had been bothering her, and she was just nervous because she'd never actually said how she felt. But what did Eevee have to do— “Kagari!” Lt. Surge barked, and Akko jumped, looking around. “Y-yes?” Akko responded, trying to figure out what she had missed. Oh, they were all waiting for her. “We're going in order of completion from yesterday,” Amanda muttered, shoving Akko gently on the back. Akko walked up to the starting line, and Sucy said it wasn't a race. If it wasn't a race, then why did they record the completion order? She'd need to remember to tell her, maybe she'd win an argument for once. The course was set out in an 'S' pattern, folding back and forth with a multitude of different obstacles. Starting off was a mud crawl, with a mesh set up to crawl under. Following that was a wall climb, monkey bars, more hurdles, a rope climb and finally tunnels. Topping it all off was more mud, the entire course was thick with it. Shoe stealing, foot swallowing, mucky mud. Akko grinned, this was going to be fun. ~o~ “Urg,” Akko groaned, trudging her way to where she was set to meet with Professor Ursula, “Maybe I was too quick to say I wouldn't be too tired for this.” The course had proved more challenging than she had expected, each step had taken effort to rip her quickly sinking feet from the all consuming muck. It was over though, and everyone had passed. Truth be told, it was rather humorous to see everyone in the mud. Especially Diana, not that Akko would ever tell her that. She liked her head attached to her shoulders. Actually, what ever happened to Diana telling her why she had been so muddy that last week at Cerulean? “Oh,” The Professor exclaimed, “You're here. I was sure you'd want to reschedule.” The older woman teased, noting her young pupil's exhausted trudging. Akko glowered at her teacher, too tired to think of a snippy reply and flopped down on the grass, looking over what was set up. Which was, nothing? “Eh?” Akko mumbled, scrunching up her brow. Hadn't the Professor insisted they wait until today specifically so she could set up? Confusion apparent and written clearly across Akko's face elicited a small chuckle from the Professor who tossed a pair of gloves at the young trainer. “Put those on,” Professor Ursula instructed, and Akko noticed the same padded gloves already on her hands. The older woman had her hair tied back, glasses gone and Professor jacket replaced by tight shorts and tank top. “They'll protect your hands,” She elaborated. “Alright,” Akko pulled the gloves on, finding the backside of the fingers padded, the material was stiff and thick. Along with protecting her hands, they would also soften any landed blows. Fastening the strap around her wrist made it difficult to bend, and Akko pushed herself back onto her feet. Eevee looked up from where she was enjoying the sunshine and watched as the two began. “First thing's first, we need to work on the basics,” Professor Ursula began, “You need to make sure your foundation is solid, try this.” The older woman spread her feet, shoulder width apart and bent her knees slightly, gesturing for Akko to do the same. “Why?” Akko asked, what did that have to do with being able to punch someone? “Because,” Professor Ursula said, stepping closer and gently pushing just below Akko's collar, causing her to stumble backwards. “If you don't have a solid center, you'll be knocked over or backwards too easily, and you'll be left open.” Akko blinked at the Professor, caught between responding or commenting on how strong the other woman was. She was a Professor, why was she so strong? “Like this?” Akko asked, shifting her feet. “No, that's too wide—” Professor Ursula corrected, nudging her student's foot a little. Akko let out an exasperated sigh. “That's barely a difference,” She protested, letting out a yelp when the Professor bumped her leg and she was thrown onto her rump. “Ow,” Akko groaned, wincing, “What did you do that for?” Frowning, Professor Ursula held out her hand to help Akko up, “It's the same as battling, Akko. If you don't learn the basics properly, small mistakes are what will cost you in the long run.” “Fine,” Akko grumbled, trying again. This time she received a nod of approval before her teacher once again tried to push her over. However, unlike last time the push didn't feel as strong and Akko held her ground. Still, she wasn't convinced the professor wasn't tricking her, putting less effort in this time. “See,” Ursula asked, smiling softly, “Good job. Now, let's work on how you make a fist.” “I know how to make a fist, Professor,” Akko assured, it's not like it's hard. All you do is close your hand. “Actually,” The Professor interjected, “If you hold a fist like how you punched the tree yesterday, you're going to end up breaking your thumb. Try like this instead,” Gently, the Professor nudged Akko's fingers so that her thumb was on the outside and squeezed until her thumb touched her ring finger. They continued, going over the basics of how to properly deflect and avoid, each time Akko would protest she'd end up on her rump. By the time they were through with the exercises, she could feel the tell tale sign of already forming bruises and bumps. “Try again,” Professor Ursula urged, looking at the panting and tired girl across from her. “Urg,” Akko groaned, “I've been failing at this for over half an hour, can't we try something else?” They were working on deflecting, but no matter how hard she'd try, Professor Ursula was too strong. It was irritating, there had to be another way. “Akko, sometimes your opponent is going to be stronger and bigger than you, you want to learn how to defend yourself, right?” The Professor asked, impressively still maintaining her patience. “Yes,” Akko pouted, she just was getting a little tired of ending up in the dirt. First the mud pits, and now being knocked on her ass more times than she could count. “How do you think Eevee feels each time she gets into a fight?” The Professor asked, and Akko frowned. What did that have to do with anything? “She's small, even by the standards of other Eevees. She wins because of her ability to dodge and avoid, the benefit of your learning self defense is that it will make you a better trainer. You'll be able to look at how battles work from a different point of view, it will help you understand her and the rest of your partners better.” Akko looked at Eevee and considered what the Professor said. It made a lot of sense, both Eevee and Mizar had taken on much larger opponents, “Alright.” Akko nodded, she could do this. Brushing off her legs, Akko took her ready stance and waited for the jab. Right on cue, Professor Ursula slid her foot forward, swinging for the jab. Light enough that even if it landed, with the protective padding it wouldn't hurt much. Akko shifted, pushing the arm out wide and trying to grip for the counter she had been taught. Grinning, Professor Ursula flexed and shifted her hips, knocking Akko to the ground. “Oh, come on!” Akko whined, rubbing her hip and getting up, “Now what did I do wrong?” “You forgot that sometimes things don't go the way you expect,” The Professor laughed, helping her glaring pupil to her feet. “Again,” She commanded, stepping back and Akko smirked, nodding her agreement. ~o~ “Are you ready for your gym challenge?” Professor Ursula asked, tossing a water bottle at where Akko was sprawled gracelessly across the grass. “Huh?” Akko asked, “Oh, ya I guess so.” She nodded, taking a long drink, the cold water doing wonders. She was sore everywhere, even muscles she didn't know she had. When Professor Ursula said she knew, 'a little bit' she was lying, Akko was sure of it. The older woman knew a lot more than she let on, and made Akko feel like a fumbling child. Tossed around like a rag doll with what seemed like very little effort. It did give her some new ideas to practice with Eevee though. “Anything you want to talk about?” The Professor asked, noting Akko's distracted glances, sitting down on the grass and stretching out her legs. “Um,” In truth, the chat she was about to have with Diana was putting her on edge. It probably wouldn't be anything bad, right? “Honestly, I'm not even sure what it is I need to talk about,” Akko chuckled, scratching the back of her head. “Diana has been acting weird, and she promised we'd talk tonight.” “Oh,” Professor Ursula responded, looking surprised, “You two have gotten rather close.” “Ya,” Akko flushed, looking down at her dirt speckled legs, “I guess we have.” That was right, they had gotten a lot closer. Whatever it was that had been bothering Diana, they would be fine.
Dream was blissfully unaware of what happened yesterday when he first woke up. He stretched out, reaching for where George usually was. But, there was no one there. He sighed as the events from the day before slowly rolled into Dream's sleepy mind. He grit his teeth in regret. He needed to go say something, anything to get them out of this awkward spot they found themselves in. If he could just explain himself to George, he's sure everything will work out. Besides, Dream could talk his way out of any mess he made, even some kissing attempt that he still had mixed feelings on whether or not he was actually going to go through with it or not... That didn't particularly matter right now. Dream put off facing George and the unfortunate consequences of his actions, not sure what he was even going to say for something like this. Finally, Dream stood up, determined to get them out of the uncomfortable he pushed them into, no matter the cost. He strode into George's guest room, focused, opening the door so vigorously, it hit against the wall with a jarring bang. Okay, a little too enthusiastic. George stirred from the bed slightly, letting out a confused noise of question at the sudden intrusion. Dream didn't give him a chance to say anything or even wake up fully. He planted himself on the bed, twisting around slightly to look at George. Dream took a deep breath, immediately blurting out the words he prepared to say to George, no warning, no introduction. "About what happened yesterday, I didn't mean to do that. I took it way too far, I understand that, I wasn't really thinking, and, well, I guess I never really do, but, I shouldn't have done something like that just to mess with you so-" Dream rambled as George sat up tiredly, cutting the other off by pushing a finger against Dream's lips. "Let's just move on, okay?" George said, laughing softly at Dream's squished lips. "Well, I-" Dream started and was interrupted by George shushing him, gently shaking his head. "It's fine, Dream. I'm not upset or anything." "O-oh, okay," Dream breathed in relief, nodding slowly as George pulled his hand away. "It wasn't a big deal, it was just unexpected and took me by surprise, is all," George chuckled with a shrug. "And, I mean, you did tell me to actually use my own room for once." "You're always welcome in my bed, though. Just so you know," Dream offered quickly. "Yeah, I know," George giggled at Dream's concern. His face became serious a moment after, swinging his head up to look directly at Dream, "Oh, shit. Wait, what's today?" Dream scratched his head, trying unsuccessfully to think fast enough, "Umm. I think, uhhhh, Thursday?" George was glad for the diversion, successfully changing the topic that he didn't want to talk about to something more exciting. "Don't you know what's happening today?" Dream looked at him blankly, not knowing if he had planned anything specifically for them and just forgot. "The 12th?" George prompted, his face full of amusement at the other's expression of no thoughts, head empty. That's when Dream got the memo, "Oh, right, my birthday." "You're such an idiot," George laughed warmly, "Happy birthday, Dream." George found himself pulling Dream towards him, wrapping his arms around the other's neck in a tight embrace, too engulfed in the feeling of actually spending this day together for the first time after so many years of knowing each other, he couldn't seem to stop himself from extending out the affection. "I must have been really distracted by you to forget about this national holiday," Dream murmured, gently pressing George against him with his hands on the other's back. George pulled back, smiling brightly, "So, what do you wanna do today?" "Is it too soon to say birthday sex?" George groaned. "It's always too soon," he said exasperated. "Then, I dunno. I usually don't really do anything for my birthday. Unless someone else plans something." George gasped in exaggerated horror. "No! That's so sad! We have to do something super special, especially since I'm here." "Okay," Dream agreed easily, putting up absolutely no complaints on letting George do something for him, indulging in all the attention, as he always did. - "So, you're not telling me where we're going and you're driving? This could very well be my last birthday." "Shut up," George huffed with a smile, starting the car. "I know, generally, how to drive, I've played mario kart." Dream groaned, dragging a hand over his face. "That is not a comforting statement. Is this even legal? Can you see what colors the stoplights are?" George shrugged nonchalantly, "You'll have to guide me on that, Dream. Make sure I stay in the, uh, it's the right lane here, isn't it?" That only made the concern in Dream grow, "That's horrifying to hear, I'm driving." "If you do then I'm making you wear a blindfold, that's the rules of surprise." Dream sighed, long and weary. "If I'm a passenger, I'll be able to see where we're going anyway," he pointed out. George seemed to consider that for a moment, then brushed it off, "How am I supposed to get better at driving if you never let me practice?" "When did I become your driving instructor?" "To be fair," George relented, since Dream seemed adamant on not letting this happen, "I've taken driving lessons, so, I actually know what I'm doing, I just need some, you know, gentle reminders on which pedal is the gas or the brake." Dream looked like he was about to pass out. George laughed at him, switching the car into drive without any trouble, "See? It's fine, I can do it." "Do you know if a lawyer is needed to make a will?" George rolled his eyes at Dream's dramaticisms, though, the other seemed slightly more relaxed as George smoothly exited out of the driveway, even still, Dream was still gripping harshly onto the 'oh, shit' handle. "Drama queen," he muttered, driving slowly towards his desired destination, Dream being overly cautious as he directed them the entire time. - "Okay," George began, pulling into the parking space, "Here's our first stop." "First? How many stops are we going to have?" Dream asked curiously. He didn't know George planned the whole day, truthfully not expecting much about their trip today. "Just three," George reassured, climbing out of the car. "I'm excited about this one, I've always wanted to go here," George giggled as Dream followed him into the mall. Dream side-eyed him, "Hey, is it my birthday or yours?" "Oh, I'm sure you'll love it." - Dream stared at the bright colors, cartoon style decor, and various bins inside the store George took him to. They were in a Build-a-Bear. "This is my birthday surprise?" Dream whispered incredulously. George chuckled, "Yeah! I wanna make one, too." Dream shifted, feeling slightly self-conscious. "I feel out of place here. Everything is so... short." George pulled him towards the bears, "Come on, crybaby. How about I pick one out for you and you'll choose mine? That sound good?" Dream nodded, letting George lead him over to the multiple bins of unstuffed bears. He spent a long time examining all the various toys, wanting to pick a good one. He finally settled on a pink pastel kitty, wanting to make it clearly stand out against the contrast of someone like George owning it, though he knew the other was going to like it anyway. George refused to show Dream what he picked out, saying he wanted to surprise him. They both did the record your own voice thing, making sure the other didn't hear what they said. Then, onto the stuffing machine, both of them barely being able to not burst out laughing or make any inappropriate jokes with the poor worker who was just doing her job of stuffing a toy for two adult men. But, the tube did go right up the cat's ass, I mean, come on. Dream got George the ambiguous 'Rainbow Magic' scent, placing it inside the cat before they stitched her up. George picked the birthday cake one for obvious reasons. He shooed Dream away to the clothing section, still keeping his present a secret. Dream grumbled, shuffling over to the overwhelming amount of outfits he'd have to choose from. He decided to get a red silk robe and heart patterned underwear for the lols. Dream dressed up George's kitty, getting more excited as they finished up the stuffed animals. Dream named the cat 'gogy' as he waited for George to finish. George ran over a little bit later, giddy and blushing, holding the bear behind his back. "Okay, are you ready to see what I picked for you, Dream?" "Yeah." George presented the bear. It was a pastel fairy bear which he dressed with a green shirt that had a smiley face on it with a devil horn headband and a red cape. George giggled and Dream laughed softly. "It's cute. Thank you," he said fondly. They chose matching ones, without even trying, Dream realized, his chest filling with soft amusement. George blushed a bit more, beaming at the praise. "Let me name it real fast." He chose the name 'simp'. Dream was less amused at that. They also picked out two little bear masks. Their stuffed animals had to be responsible in this pandemic, too. - They walked back to the car with their new stuffed animals in their little cardboard box houses. "Alrighty. Phase one was a success." George said, sliding into the driver's seat. "It actually wasn't a bad idea," Dream admitted. "See?" George giggled, "I know what I'm doing. Put more faith in me." Dream sighed, smiling, "Okay, I trust you, George." George smiled back at him, pleased. - They drove out to the seaside, the sun dipping low as they pulled up to a beachfront restaurant. "This is actually stop two and three," George admitted as they walked inside. Dream was a little taken aback by how nice the restaurant George picked was. "Oh, it's fine," he reassured, a little breathlessly, "This is way more than I expected today." George smiled sweetly, sitting down at the candlelit table for two with an ocean view. It was pretty, and, honestly, fairly romantic. They talked, laughed, and ate, both happy to be in each other's company. It was another moment that Dream never wanted to forget. This was special, something he was so glad to be able to share with George. Dream even got a free slice of cake when George mentioned it was his birthday to the waiter. "Here," Dream said, cutting a piece off and extending it to George, "You can have the first bite." George smiled, opening his mouth as Dream fed him a bite. They locked eyes for a minute at how intimate this all was, lost in each other for a moment. George broke the tension, shoving a much larger bite into Dream's mouth. "Happy birthday!" he giggled. Dream rolled his eyes, but couldn't stop the softness in his gaze. - After they finished, they walked out to the beach, walking into the shallow water with their shoes in their hands, watching the sun set. Dream sighed, happiness filling him to the brim. "Thank you, George. This is genuinely a birthday I'll always remember," he said softly. George laughed, a bit breathless, "I'm glad. But, it's not over yet. I still have some plans for tonight." "Really?" Dream grinned. "Going to offer up your body as I requested?" he teased. George kicked water at him. "I would say something mean, but, since it's your birthday, I'll be civil." Dream smiled, hugging George gently from behind, feeling something he knew he shouldn't, but was starting to let himself anyway. - George wanted to play minecraft tonight. "But, with a twist," he grinned. "Which is?" George pulled out two bottles of alcohol from some secret stash he somehow had. "Drink when you take damage." "We might actually die, George," Dream laughed. "Shh, it'll be fun!" After a little convincing, since Dream didn't actually drink, George played the card of 'I want to be the first to get drunk with you', which Dream replied with some dirty joke, all the usual, they set up the game at George's delight. At first, especially with Dream's competitiveness and drive to complete challenges, they just genuinely tried to play to win. "I'm gonna make you take the first drink," Dream said confidently. "Hitting should be cheating," George grumbled, trying to get away from Dream as fast as possible. Dream got in a hit, and, as he was basking in his victory, George hit him as well. "Dammit," Dream groaned. "But, I still hit you first. Now drink," he demanded, pushing the bottle to George. "Ugh. I knew you were gonna play dirty," he lamented, opening the bottle. "And, you can't stop until I say when," Dream smirked. "No! That was not in the rules. You'd make me drink the whole bottle if I let you." Dream rolled his eyes. "Fineee. But, a good drink, George. No wussy sips," he scolded. He did exactly that, entirely unfazed to the bitterness, all thanks to his British lad days in university, of course. George gleefully handed the bottle over to the other, watching intently, an evil grin on his face. "Ew," Dream huffed, pulling the bottle off his lips, scrunching up his face in disgust. "This tastes bad." "I don't know what you expected," George laughed. They continued the game, getting more and more drunk which only made them take more and more damage, creating an obvious unending cycle. It got to a point where neither one of them could focus on playing anymore, too busy joking and laughing at each other. Soon, they abandoned the game to lay on the floor, talking and giggling. "Trying to get me drunk, George? Hmm?" Dream teased, slightly slurring as he twirled a finger in George's hair, his head resting on Dream's lap. George looked up at him, a lopsided grin on his face. "Maybbeee," he giggled mischievously. "The old get-your-friend-drunk-then-get-into-their-pants trick. You're not sly, George," Dream scolded, wagging his finger. George sighed dramatically, "You caught me, Dream. This was all an elaborate ruse to see how big you actually are," George teased. Dream shook his head in exasperation. "Bad boy, knew you were up to something." After thinking for a moment, and his already nonexistent filter completely destroyed at this point, Dream found himself admitting, "I have to say, though, I've always... wanted to, like, do it, while being inebriated and all." George sat up, sitting up cross legged across from Dream. "Really?" he breathed, curious. "Why?" Dream shrugged. "I dunno, always sounded kinda fun. Even just to get drunk and, uh, jerk off," he tried to explain, making the jerking off motion with his hand. George stared wide-eyed at the movement, licking his lips. "But, what would make it different than usual?" George slurred, confused. "Just one of those things, I guess," Dream struggled to describe what he was thinking to George. "Since I never have, I've, like, you know, always wanted to try it," he fumbled over his words, his face flushing slightly at this embarrassing admission he found himself blurting out in this state. George nodded slowly, his eyes dilated and looking a little dazed. "So, what? You genuinely just like the idea of it, or, are you using this as an excuse to ask me to have sex with you?" he questioned, a subtle smirk on his face as he teased Dream. "I dunno. Both." "Hmm, I can't deny that I'm considering it." Dream looked shocked. "Really? You would actually have sex with me?" "No, no, having you test it out, 'jerk off', as you said, so you can tell me how it feels," George giggled. Dream's face fell, pouting. "Don't see why we can't do it together." He didn't get a response to that, as George had already fallen into a fit of laughter, ending their entirely too improper conversation. Dream asked what he was even laughing at and George replied through his tears that Dream's face looked funny. Dream pouted even more at that. "Oh, wait," George said, getting up suddenly, somehow reminded of what he needed to get to move this story along. "I forgot about your present!" he exclaimed, wobbly walking to his room. He came back, clutching an article of clothing to his chest. "Here, Dreamy," George murmured. "Made this just for you," he said, handing over the gift. It was a gradient green to blue hoodie with various patches, stitches, and small drawings placed over the sweater. Dream let out a surprised noise, "Oh, I thought everything else today was my present. This is so cute!" He clumsily tore off his shirt, wanting to wear this as soon as possible, sliding the hoodie on as George watched, his eyes lingering on Dream's chest. Dream smoothed out the material, looking at all the little designs George put on. "I bought some patches that, like, represent us, I guess." George explained. "And, then I stitched a few words and phrases on the sleeves and hood," George rambled, pointing at all the hidden work he did. There was a patch of the George goggles, a Dream smiley face, a green block, some various minecraft items, and a computer with some accessories. The words: Georgenotfound, Dream, dnf, and a few little quotes were stitched on the inside of the sleeves and hood. There were also some little doodles on a few of the seams and at the bottom of the hoodie. Dream looked at every little detail, excited at all the little secrets. "George!" Dream exclaimed. "This is so cool! You actually made this for me?" he said, the alcohol making him a little over emotional. "Hehe, yes. I'm so glad you like it!" George beamed, pleased with Dream's reaction to his gift. Dream tackled him into a hug, pushing them both on the floor. "No, I love it, George. And!" he said, pressing his face into George's chest, "I love you." George chuckled softly, gently rubbing Dream's back. "Love you, too, Dream," he said softly. Dream pulled back in surprise. "You actually said it!" he exclaimed in awe. George laughed, "Yeah. I did. It is your birthday, after all." They drank a little more, tumbling onto the bed when all of it, the drinking and late night, started to make them sleepy. George started clumsily stripping off his shirt and pants. "So hot," he complained, slurring his words as he flopped down on the bed. Dream stared at the half-naked George with his mouth agape. George lifted his head up. "Hey, I can see you staring," he tsked, wagging his finger at Dream. "Can't help it. So hot," he repeated George's words back at him. George rolled his eyes, crawling up besides Dream, making himself comfortable at his side. "You know," George said, so soft Dream could barely hear him. Dream tried to focus on the words the other was saying, his head feeling so foggy. "I can still offer up my body as your present," he whispered hotly into Dream's ear. That got Dream's attention immediately, whipping his head around, dumbfounded at what George just said. "What?" he asked, looking for more clarification but George was already passed out, snoring softly next to Dream's face. -
Han hates it inside the base. Every chance he gets, he volunteers for recon missions and supply runs, which, to be honest, doesn't sound like him. Chewie thinks it's funny. A few months ago, Han would've scoffed at the thought of being asked to retrieve supplies or do anything for the Rebellion. That was before the kid came along.That was before sun-bleached hair, shining blue eyes, and optimistic determination -like nothing Han's ever seen- crept into the smuggler's life. So yes. Now, Han jumps on every opportunity to run missions for the Rebellion. "I'll do anything if it means five minutes out of this damn bunker." is what Han says.But what he really means is, "I'll do anything if it means an adventure with you, kid." But this time, Han is left to his own devices, stuck and stir crazy in the depths of the rebel base while Luke runs a supply run without him. "Look, highness, I understand that you don't want this pretty face roughed up but you know I don't like being cooped up in here." Han rolls his eyes, shifting in his position sitting on the bed in his quarters. Leia scoffs in the doorway. "It's a supply run. In a deserted Zabrak village. It's easy and quick. The general only needed five volunteers and you didn't make the cut, sorry." Leia sure doesn't sound sorry. Luke made the cut, though. The kid jumped up and nearly hit the ceiling when the general asked for volunteers. He always does. Han snorts and averts Leia's cold gaze. "I'm gonna take a nap. Tell me when the kid gets back?""Yeah, yeah." Leia smiles and leaves Han to sleep. But Han doesn't fall to the grips of unconsciousness easily. He has to work for it. It happens often when Luke is away on a mission without Han. Han has to shake away the thoughts of bad things happening. Wrong turns, bad people, dangerous wildlife, and anything else that Luke could face that Han wouldn't be there to protect him from.Leia's reassuring words echo in Han's mind and chase away the worried thoughts. It's a supply run.In a deserted village.Easy and quick.Easy. Han is roused from sleep he doesn't remember falling into. Leia's hand is almost gentle as it jostles his shoulder. Almost. "Alright, alright. I'm up, princess." Han rubs his hands down his face. "The kid back?" Han asks, immediately remembering why he wanted Leia to wake him. "...Yes." Leia softly says after a moment's hesitation. Han doesn't know why that hesitation makes his heart cold. "And?" "And?" Leia looks at him, confused. "And what?" "What else?" Han glowers. Leia narrows her eyes. "There's something you're not telling me. What?" "There's nothing else to tell. Luke's back. You asked me to tell you when he arrived." Leia shrugs defensively. Han can see right through it. There's something else. "Okay." Han shakes off residual sleepiness and slides past Leia. Han takes long quick strides to the hangar, where Luke often stays to debrief after a mission, and where Luke likely is now. Han is uncomfortably aware of Leia trailing behind him, saying nothing. Strange. When Luke is nowhere to be seen in the hangar, Han reels back on Leia. "Alright, what gives?" Han places his hands on his hips, his tell-tale tired-of-your-bullshit pose. "Where's Luke and why are you acting so weird?" Leia sighs. "Okay. Keep your head on your shoulders. Look, before you blow up, just know that Luke is fine." Han sputters like a glitching hologram. "Fine- wh- what the hell do you.. why wouldn't he be fine!?" "They had some unexpected company on the supply run. A few stray imperial troopers. Nothing they couldn't handle." "Okay?" Han tries to slow his breathing. "And Luke's fine?" Leia smiles nervously. "...Yes." Han squints. "I don't like how you said that." "Okay, he caught a blaster shot in his side trying to knock one of the other men out of the way." Leia spits the words out fast. Like pouring vinegar in a baking soda volcano, she waits for the explosion. "He what!?" Han's hands fly up to his head and start frantically carding through his hair.Maybe those thoughts he pushed away in leiu of sleep weren't so irrational after all. "He's fine!" Leia laughs. "I promise!" She laughs. She laughs like everything is okay. Han is very far from okay. Leia barely has a chance to notice that Han is briskly stomping towards the medical bay. She jogs a bit to catch up with him. Han is anything but careful with the doors as he throws them open and starts weaving his way around medics and reaches a sight that makes his heart twist. Luke is layed out haphazardly on a bed, fists clenched and knuckles white at his sides. His pilot suit is still on, the orange fabric is burned and tattered around his side. A medic is applying bacta patches to a startlingly large blaster wound on his hip. "Han!" Luke beams up at his new visitor like he hasn't just been shot. "What the hell happened!?" Han's hands are back on his hips, his eyebrows are furrowed. "Oh, we ran into a little bit of trouble at the Zabrak village. It was quite the s'rprise." Luke smiles, unphazed, and obviously trying to ignore dubious bouts of pain. "Yeah, I can see that." Han grumbles. "Why didn't you call me on the way back!?" "Because then you would've sat here and worried for even longer." "Is it bad?" Han ignores Luke's statement. "No," Luke is quick to answer, knowing how Han tends to over obsess and worry beyond reason. "No, it didn't hit anything important, thank the force." "All of you is important!" Han shrieks back, appaled at how calm the kid can be at a time like this. Han has to squeeze his hands to stop himself from grabbing fistfuls of his own hair. The thought of even coming close to losing Luke is too much for Han to try to handle. He can hardly begin to entertain the thought of not having the kid around. Luke laughs. "Heh, I told Leia to try and prep you, keep you calm n' stuff. Keep you from blowing up." Leia chuckles from behind Han. "Yeah, I told you I wouldn't be able to do anything." Han is floored. He's still trying to get his heartrate back to a healthy pace. But right now, it's still trying to beat out of his chest. "Deep breaths, cap'n. Try not to burst a blood vessel." Leia grins. Han glares at her. "I'm perfectly fine, your majesty." Han sneers at Leia. "I'm not the one in the medical bed." Han turns back to Luke. "It's fine, Han, seriously," Luke's beginning to struggle to hide the pain. Beads of sweat begin to form along his hairline and his voice sounds ever so slightly strained. Han immediately turns to the nearest medic hovering over Luke. "Have you given him anything for the pain?" Han doesn't ask gently. "Not yet, sir. Skywalker insisted he could wait until the patches were appl-" "Well obviously he's in pain! Why don't you get on that right now?" Han smiles sarcastically. "Han," Luke looks flushed. It could be embarrassment, or it could be from pain. Probably both. "Stop, it's okay." Han's not done. "And get him out of this damn suit and into something more comfortable! He doesn't even have a pillow. Have you checked him over for any internal injuries or are you just-" "Han, please stop!" Luke blushes, pulling his hands up to his face to cover the embarrassment. Leia can hardly stifle her laughter. "They'll get you something for the pain." Han says softly to Luke. When Han's done berating the medical staff, he pulls up a chair next to Luke's bed. He seems to have calmed down a bit. He's still somewhat of a mess, but at least he's talking at a normal volume. He hardly even registers that he's grabbed Luke's hand in his. Exhausted from worry, Han rests his forehead on Luke's shoulder. "Next time, you let me come with you." Luke laughs. The smile stays on his face for longer than he should've let it.
A year later Hisana had been on the road for quite some time now, she had already seen parts of Earth Country, Tea Country, Fire Country and soon she would visit some of the smaller Countries in between before she crossed over to Suna. Her publisher had wanted to organize a safe journey for her now that her books became more and more popular and he made a lot of money through her but Hisana had vehemently declined. She enjoyed the spontaneity of deciding from one moment to the next to change directions or to stay longer in one place furthermore she definitely didn’t need a babysitter. The black haired and brown eyed woman loved her new occupation. Being a writer had turned out to be a lot more interesting than she had first thought. Early on Hisana had decided to concentrate on children books and fictional novel, writing books about serious or academic topics would only draw the attention of the wrong people. And so she rewrote the already published stories of Earth to fit into the Elemental Country culture and adapted the ones with a hidden message to spread her own believes while keeping it very subtle. She even started on writing her own, original series between the adapted versions and to her delight they were just as popular if not even more so than her plagiarized stories. To speed up the publishing process Hisana had begun to send the finished chapters per Hawk messengers back to Torika. Said birds were stationed in every bigger town and would transport messages or documents for a reasonable fee between the biggest cities. To be able to receive updates about her book selling’s and also to get the fan mail forwarded, Hisana also always included her next bigger destination as a forwarding point for her publisher, this sort of communication had worked out surprisingly well. Answering her fan mail had started to take on a pretty large part of her time because she felt the need to read every letter and write at least a short reply or thank you note to the well thought out ones. This had led to her developing a minor circle of pen pals; the majority of them had picked up on the hidden messages in the books and since then Hisana enjoyed political and ethical debates with educated people around the Elemental Countries. To her consternation nearly all of them were male, she had only two female conversationalists that were just as political savvy as the rest of their male counterparts and both of them were already in their early fifties. And so Hisana was sitting in the tea shop of a border town of Fire Country and read through the letters that she had received the day before. Sighing she rubbed her eyes, a pressure headache had been building since this morning and she was only one loud noise away from just abandoning the letters and hiding under her bed covers to just sleep the day away. When she reached for her next later she stopped short, this one was a lot thicker than the other generic ones. Slightly paranoid from Hermione’s encounter with Bubotuber puss during her Hogwarts years she moved the envelope as far away from her face as possible and slit it open. The envelope contained two written sheets and a couple of sketches. Suddenly Hisana wasn’t so tired anymore and the headache was slowly receding, it was from Jiraiya. That old pervert had held his word and had written her more or less regularly since their first meeting, and now it wasn’t uncommon to receive one or two letters a month, often accompanied by more or less perverted sketches. The two also had started to meet up regularly every three to four months. In the first two days of their meetings they would either drink themselves stupid or complain about the publicists before their conversation turned to much more pleasant topics. Like the different travel routes they took or the latest political faux-pas of the nobles. Concerning the nobles of the Elemental countries the white haired Konoha shinobi had a rather dangerous vice; he had this bad habit of including the dirty laundry of the Elemental countries ruler families into his books. Those were of course hidden and nearly made unrecognizable but they were still there for everybody to read about. If that ever came to the light it could mean Jiraiya’s death, after all the nobles didn’t particular like to be made fool off. It took Hisana only two chapters into his newest book at that time to cotton onto the older author, since then she sent him gossip about the nobles whenever possible. It was just too amusing to see potential epic black mail turn up in a surprisingly well written porn book without the masses realizing it. Hisana and Jiraiya also had started a habit of proof reading the work of the other after their third meeting. A second opinion often helped them to improve their writing styles and solve their writing blockades even though the two were in completely different genres. Dear Magnificent view, She snorted, he couldn’t let go of that could he? In the time they had spent together it had become a sort of ritual. He badgered her about drawing her and using her in his books and she showed him exactly what she thought of that idea when she pulled at his ear and long hair more or less gently. it has come to my attention that you are participating in the book convention in three months in Fang Country, what a coincidence, so will I! Tze coincidence, that word didn’t exist in Jiraiya’s vocabulary, he had arranged this without any doubt! Hisana was relatively sure that there hadn’t been an Erotica book exhibit planned. What irked her was how he always seemed to know where her manager would be sending her next. After all she had only gotten the notice about the convention the day before! Want to meet up? Maybe in the hot springs of the Maruno spa resort? I always find my inspiration stimulated when I visit this resort! And maybe I can entice you to become the new star of my latest novel? In his dreams! Your travel guide has been very helpful my dear, I look forward to more! Hisana was glad that he liked it. Between writing her books the brown eyed young woman had started to assemble all her notes about the different Elemental country travel paths in a travel guide. Hisana had sent this book along in her last letter to the white haired shinobi and she had been anxious about his critic. Somehow the perverted shinobi had managed to make Hisana care about his opinion, that sneaky bastard! Concerning travelling, I happen to be in the north of Fire country at the moment and I found this lovely place called,… Yours Jiraiya Finished with reading the letter the female author contemplated the information she had just received. Well at least Hisana could be sure that the book convention wouldn’t be boring. Any convention involving Jiraiya could be anything between slightly amusing to downright hilarious! After finishing with his description of the landscape and spa scape of the northern Fire country a second time she noticed the changed address on the bottom of the letter. As always Jiraiya had sent her a new forwarding point. Oh well, she knew he was a ninja and a particular famous one so it made only sense to change address regularly. Coming to the last few pages she took the drawings into her hands… That pervert, he had peaked at her again!!! Hisana couldn’t help herself but laugh. On every page she was drawn in a more or less exaggerated way. Seriously she wasn’t sure if some of these drawings would even be able to walk with the amount of cleavage weighting them down. That knucklehead,… childish as always, seriously! She took the sketches in one more time, Jiraiya was talented there was no doubt about it. Even if he exaggerated too much and his comments to each picture were hilarious! Throwing those away would be a waste, so she folded them and put them and the letter in a special scroll dedicated to Jiraiya’s and her letter conversation. Now what to write as an answer??? Jiraiya Interlude Finally home! That was the only thought Jiraiya had when he entered the gates of Konoha and made his way to the Hokage tower to report to his old teacher that he was back and leave the package of important intel to be evaluated by the T&I. Anything else would have to wait until tomorrow, he had made a grueling pace to reach Konoha and deliver this vital information by hand and now the only thing that he wanted to do was sleep! The next morning he was almost chipper after sleeping for twelve hours straight. Jiraiya made his way to the Hokage tower with only a quick stop at the newly upgraded public bath. There he scouted for new vantage points to catch glances of the female population of Konoha while they were bathing. After arriving at his old teacher’s office he gave a more detailed report from the short version yesterday in front of Nara Shikaku, the Jounin commander, Yamanaka Inoichi, the head of the intel division and Morino Ibiki, their torture specialist. This was followed by covertly handing over the newest volume of Icha Icha to the Hokage, after all his sensei was an avid reader. When they had concluded their discussion of the more pressing matters, Sarutobi asked him with a grave and concerned voice if he could make sense of one of the letters of his informants. The T&I department had been trying to decode that particular letter for more than three weeks and couldn’t make heads or tails out of it. Some of the more driven members were close to a mental break down because the letter was eating up all their free time. Slightly concerned Jiraiya asked for said letter to take a look himself but as soon as he saw the elegant script he burst out in booming laughers. Yamanaka Inoichi was slightly miffed, what was so funny? His people had been working day and night to make sense of it and Jiraiya was laughing? Calming down to sniggers Jiraiya grinned at the shinobi in the room and said, “Ah well, this is no report. This is the answer from a very dear acquaintance of mine; I must have given her the wrong address.” The ninjas in the room sweet dropped. Inoichi who had practically learned the letter by heart blushed slightly and coughed into his hand. Still grinning Jiraiya read through the letter. Dear Peeping tom, do I even want to know how you found out about my schedule? Again??? No wait don’t answer that. The north of Fire sounds beautiful, by the way you describe that particular landscape I take you have been visiting often, give me a recommendation where I can hide from my manager, the old fart is driving me crazy again. As soon as that thing in Fang is over I’m going on an extended vacation. What do you say, do you have time to visit or will you have to gather ‘ahem’ IMPORTANT information in a resort? ;) Concerning the drawings, …haha… can those “improved” me’s even walk straight? Because I kind of doubt that! And as always the answer to your question is NO. Seriously do you have any idea what my Torture expert of a publicist would do to me if somebody recognized me in your books? After that I would have to seek refuge on an island in Water Country or something similar. So don’t even think about it! Ugh and you were right, Kusa was damn boring, everybody was so stern and frankly the Daimyo is a dick! I’m so glad that I’m back in Taki! By the way how is that book coming along, still having a writer block? Just a hint, in three weeks in Tea Country is the opening of the biggest spa resort of the country, it’s probably worth checking it out. Oh and I expect a copy of your newest book! After that stuck up Daimyo I need something to amuse myself. Yours Hisana Smiling slightly Jiraiya looked up, his sensei was watching like a hawk. Than the old Hokage coughed and asked, “A fellow writer, maybe even in the same genre as you?” Jiraiya’s smile became even wider, “Sadly no, funnily enough she writes children’s books most of the time but she proofreads my work when we meet up and she also gives some very good advice concerning the female point of view! She is very talented for her age!” “Her age?” now Sarutobi’s left eyebrow wandered upwards. With a loud laugh Jiraiya looked back at the letter and then said, “Yes she is only twenty three after all!” “WHAT???? Jiraiya-sama are you sure that she isn’t somebody sent to become close to,…”, with a hand wave Jiraiya interrupted Inoichi’s sentence. “I very much doubt that. I’ve tested her chakra network before I showed her some sealing tricks. She had never used her chakra before that point, her channels were completely without tears and of course I had her background checked after we met for the first time.” said Jiraiya in a resolute voice. Now Sarutobi glanced worriedly at his student, “Now wait Jiraiya,… maybe Inoichi is right, she doesn’t have to be a ninja to be a spy.” Sighing annoyed Jiraiya and sent a wordless apology to Hisana, “Her name is Yamaguchi Hisana and she is twenty three. She is the only daughter of a wealthy merchant, deceased and lived in Bird Country until she was nineteen. From what I have found out she had a pretty thorough education during her childhood and was engaged to be married when she turned twenty to the local blacksmith son. Shortly after she turned nineteen a rock slide took out the complete village with the exception of initial three survivors. They were brought to the neighboring village for medical attention; Hisana was the only one that survived the journey to the village and the treatment. After her recovery she was taken in by a business partner of her father’s who brought her to the capital where she did a blood test to be recognized as heiress. Apparently her father was a bit paranoid. The business was sold and Hisana began to travel and until today she hasn’t stopped.” Sarutobi nodded and asked, “How did you two meet, I mean you two don’t seem to travel in the same circles from what I gathered of her background.” Now Jiraiya coughed, “Uh, well you see,… I was researching in Fuku Gai when she entered the hot springs and well I may have drawn her attention…” “And she screamed and hit you?” Ibiki dead panned. “No, or I wouldn’t have found her so interesting. No she stood up and flashed me.” Jiraiya said in good humor while he thought back at their first meeting. The eyes of his fellow shinobi popped out at that sentence and Jiraiya couldn’t help but grin salacious before he continued, “She told me later that she had had a bad day and didn’t have the patience left to deal with an idiot.” At that Jiraiya scratched his head while he grinned to himself, her answer had remembered him a lot of Tsunade at that time. “And what happened then?” Shikaku asked interested, personally for himself this would have been too troublesome. “,… well I passed out and after I woke up she had already left. I met her later that evening again when she entered the soba bar I sat in and asked me how the view was… she is quite an interesting one, not so boring submissive like normal civilian women!” the white haired shinobi explained smiling slightly. Now all men in the room were more or less amused, they could understand why such a meeting had endeared Hisana to Jiraiya. “Well, Inoichi I still want you to take a look at her but I don’t think that she is an immediate threat, if she is even one but you can’t be too careful. Dismissed.” The Hokage said before the shinobi left his office.
In the state they’re in, it takes them over five hours to reach Floukru lands. By the time they stumble through the trees into the orange glow of the evening sun, they are all tired, but two of their number most of all. Harper, who has not yet recovered from the marrow drilling, is nearing collapse, and Echo is ill with blood loss and exhaustion. Monty and Murphy support Harper as she walks, keeping her upright with her arms slung over their shoulders. For the last two miles, Bellamy has carried Echo on his back. Her impatience and reluctance are clear, but Raven knows she’s too weak to protest. Emori has taken both of their backpacks in addition to hers, citing a lifetime of nomadic movement as far more difficult than carrying three heavy bags. Raven, for her part, hasn’t yet given in to her exhaustion, but stabbing pains shoot up her leg with every step, and her limp has grown so bad that she has nearly fallen twice. When they break through the tree line, however, all of them draw to a halt in awe all the same. They have emerged onto a clifftop dotted with sparse grass and tiny pockets of wildflowers. Below them, the ocean crashes against the cliff base and stretches, vast and powerful and endless, to the very edges of the world. Raven can’t help the way her mouth drops open; in her peripheral vision, she can see that the others are similarly awestruck. She has seen pictures, saw Earth’s oceans every day from the windows of the Ark, but nothing prepared her for its expanse. At the edge of the ridge, a Beta woman dressed nearly identically to Luna in linen trousers and long-tailed coat stands waiting with four horses. She receives them with a short bow, which Luna returns. “Welcome, new Floukru,” is her pleasant greeting. “I am Yana. I expect you are all tired, so we will waste no time. Four horses were all the farmers were able to spare, so you will have to share.” As exhausted as they are, it is all the group can do to murmur their thanks, moving in to choose their mounts in a weary daze. It is in this way that Raven finds herself atop a horse stepping lightly down a steep trail through the forest, Luna’s arms firmly about her waist. As tired as she is, fighting the stabbing pains in her knee, Raven finds herself studying the woman behind her intently. Her interest has been flickering, now, for several days, but missiles and wars and treaties have kept her growing fascination at bay. Now, not preoccupied with whatever war or strategizing might come next, she is free to mull over the entity that is Luna without distraction. She is tall, Raven realizes, noticing it for the first time as she leans back into her. Her hands are rough and strong where they clutch the reins, browned by the sun and weathered at the knuckles. They, along with her smooth, angular features, give Raven no indicator as to Luna’s age. Her best guess hovers somewhere around thirty. Luna is confusing, too, in a way that Raven doesn’t quite understand. Her breasts are soft where they press into Raven’s shoulders, and she can feel, too, the hardness brushing her lower back. Such physique should indicate a female Alpha, but Raven can discern no clear answer in her scent. She smells of earth and wood and salt wind, and of an odd, flat neutrality that seems at once a combination of every designation and yet none of them at all. It leaves Raven completely befuddled and yet oddly calm. Whatever Luna’s scent means, she finds that it is one to which she is undeniably drawn. Perhaps it should bother Raven, the fact that she is feeling attraction to someone so soon after Finn’s death. It should bother her that she’s feeling attraction to anyone other than Finn at all, but somehow, she finds that it’s strangely easy. She stopped seeing Finn as a lover when he cheated on her with Clarke; when he murdered a village, she saw him as less than that. She misses him, wholly and desperately, but Raven finds that as the days go by, she misses Finn as the boy who was her family, and little more. Luna, on the other hand, is easy to be attracted to. Her complex scent eddies in Raven’s nose, swirling down into her chest where it settles with the sea breeze. The feeling of her body against Raven’s is a pleasant one, and her hold is friendly and warm. Perhaps it should bother her, the rapidity of this, but Raven finds that she has no real reason to deny herself. Besides, being treated like a human being for once in her life is undeniably hot. She sees it, too, in the others; sees how the lifting of war from their shoulders has brought out the sides of them that have been repressed for so long. The depth of the bond she shares with her fellow Omegas speaks to that. Never, a week ago, would Raven have believed that she might find siblings in Harper McIntyre, John Murphy, and a spy from Azgeda. She wouldn’t have believed, either, the sincerity of the bond she feels with all of her companions. A day ago, she knew these people as strangers at best, enemies at worst; she was left alone after Finn’s execution, with no one save whatever odd, antagonistic connection she might share with Abby. In the span of fewer than twenty-four hours, Bellamy, Echo, Harper, Monty, Murphy, and Emori have become her family. She is not the only one who feels it, Raven knows. A curious camaraderie has arisen among them. On their long walk, Emori shouldered Bellamy and Echo’s packs voluntarily and without complaint; Monty shared his water with Murphy. Bellamy gave Harper his sweater even though Echo already wore his jacket, leaving his own chest bare to the autumn chill. Echo was the first to reach out a hand to Raven whenever she stumbled and fell. The bonds that are forming, too, should surprise her with their rapidity, but Raven finds that they make a curious amount of sense. Harper and Monty are already mates, have been since their first week on the ground, but the others are growing close with unprecedented speed. She watches Murphy and Emori bicker and trade elbow jabs, sees the careful way Bellamy holds Echo upright on their horse, and senses that they will all be mated within a few months at most. Raven feels the rock of Luna’s hips behind her, breathes in the smell of the leather coat she wears, and decides that perhaps her friends are not the only ones who deserve a shot at peace. Luna’s village is sprawling, dotting the hillside and the bluffs and edging down to where the grey water meets the shore below. Like in Tondisi, the houses are small; cottages surrounded by gardens and stables, one story high, Luna explains, to combat the high winds. The wharves are busy this time of day, crowded with fishermen returning with their catch. At the sight of the boats, Raven hears Emori declare her delight. A crowd welcomes them as they arrive, calling out greetings in Trigedasleng and gonasleng alike. Luna smiles, responding to all brightly. The travelers don’t pause long, however, and Yana leads them past a small square down a narrow dirt road that lines a cliff bank. “There will be a welcome feast tomorrow at dusk in your honor,” Luna informs them all when Bellamy expresses his confusion. “For now, though, you should all rest and recover from your journey. Some villagers have prepared food for you and left it in your cottages.” Emori tears her attention away from the boats. “Our cottages?” She seeks the clarification that all of them, Raven senses, are wanting. Surely the Floukru aren’t going to — “Newcomers to our clan of course receive homes,” Luna replies as though such extravagance is perfectly reasonable. “We are a small clan, so there are usually cottages to spare, but if there are not, the villagers will gather together to build them. They make quite an event of it. Of course, you may build your own later if you wish, but my people enjoy sharing what they have.” There is a note of contentedness to her words, along with something a little like pride, and Raven is struck, not for the first time, by Luna’s calm and quiet leadership. It is clear that Luna loves her people. “How many of them are there?” Monty asks quietly. Craning her neck to look at him, Raven sees that he is careful not to wake Harper, who is sleeping against his back. He sounds vaguely trepidatious, and Raven knows that he, like some of the rest of them, is remembering the cramped quarters of the Ark. Clarke, whose family had three whole rooms to themselves, was practically royalty; the rest of them made do with much less. Luna sends him a smile. “Four,” is her response. “You and Harper are a mated pair, so of course you should have your own space. Echo and Bellamy, I know that you stated a desire to share a living space— ” “That is right,” Echo confirms softly. “ — and Murphy and Emori will share as well,” Luna concludes. “As your group is odd-numbered, you will have your own, Raven, though of course everyone may feel free to rearrange themselves as they wish.” Four homes for seven people. It is more than twice as much space as any of them had on the Ark. Monty’s family, she knows, shared quarters with Jasper’s; the McIntyres lived with the Millers. The Blakes lived alone, though in a single room, and Raven and her mother did the same. A cottage to herself will be more space than Raven knows what to do with. She isn’t even surprised by the assertion that Bellamy and Echo will be living together. After Echo’s altercation with Indra, the Azgedan Omega’s actions make more sense. She is a little like Murphy, Raven decides; stubborn, but inclined to serve the presence of someone who can guarantee her protection. It doesn’t surprise her that Echo is drawn to Bellamy. Perhaps growing up caring for Octavia and their mother is what made the difference, because despite having been raised on the Ark, Bellamy is unlike the other Skaikru Alphas. He is gentle, and respectful, and attentive. For Echo, who Raven now understands to be a little more broken than she’s willing to show, his presence must be a beautiful relief. Bellamy will be good to her. Echo is tired, and hurting, and on the precipice of her heat, and Raven would yearn to soothe her with nuzzles and hugs if Bellamy weren’t already doing so. The sweet, doting respect he lavishes on her is not unlike the way that Anya treats Clarke. Both of them, Raven has noticed, treat Omegas with a reverence that somehow manages not to undermine their independence. Octavia is a little different with Lincoln, her mate being a Beta, but her attitude is the same. It will do Echo good, Raven thinks. Even now, she leans into Bellamy’s chest, more relaxed than Raven has seen her before. By the time the sun is sinking over the edge of the earth, turning the water rosy where the waves crest, Raven is feeling similarly content. The others are neatly installed in their cottages in pairs, disappearing with brightened eyes and squeals of delight to examine their new homes. Raven’s cottage is next door to Murphy and Emori’s, but she’s yet to set foot inside. She lingers on the porch, watching Luna fish for the keys. She’s happy for her friends, but she wonders if she’s destined to always be the odd man out. She wonders, too, why Luna has taken it upon herself to show her personally to her cottage. The others were brought as far as their doorsteps, but Luna seems intent upon bringing her in. For a moment, it occurs to her that she probably seems like she needs the help. She feels a frown settling at the thought. “I have heard that you are good with machines.” The words are the last that she expects to hear come out of Luna’s mouth. Surprised, Raven swallows whatever defense she has prepared. “I — yes,” she grants. Luna is fiddling with the front door. “Like I said, I’m an engineer.” Luna hums. “There is a machine shop by the docks,” she tells her. “We use it to build and repair boats, but we have not had a reliable mechanic in several years. I will show it to you and Emori tomorrow, if you would like.” She doesn’t wait for Raven to reply. Swinging the door open, she steps back with a sort of flourish, and Raven’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. The cottage may be small by grounder standards, but for one person, it is quite large. A spacious room holds a kitchen at one end and a comfortable living space at the other. All is light and airy, glowing red with the sunset that streams through large windows. The furniture is light, too, made of wicker and what Raven is fairly certain is driftwood. A number of plants sit on the windowsills, and the table is set with a meal neatly arranged on brightly colored ceramic. At the back of the room, she can see two doors that presumably lead to a bathroom and bedroom. “Holy shit.” Luna laughs aloud at Raven’s astonishment. “I am glad you like it,” she says amusedly as Raven continues to stare. “It is an honor that you have chosen to live among my people, Raven. If you ever need anything, you need never be afraid to ask me.” Raven closes her mouth. “You’re doing all of this for me because I’m an engineer?” she questions. She can’t suppress a tiny flicker of suspicion — after the treatment she has grown up with on the Ark, this all seems too good to be true. But Luna only quiets her laughter, and composing herself, takes Raven’s hands in her own. “We are doing all of this for you — for all of you — because you are people, Raven,” is her firm reply. Those chestnut eyes are deep and sincere. The touch of broader hands on her own makes something in Raven’s chest flutter traitorously. “You are all people who deserve happiness and have been deprived of it all your lives. You may begin your healing here.” Raven bristles; she tugs her hands away. “My leg isn’t — ” “I wasn’t talking about your leg,” Luna contradicts smoothly, voice still low and quiet, “though I have noticed that it hurts and we can certainly do things to ease your pain. I meant your heart, Raven.” Raven stares in what she’s sure looks like utter shock, but Luna merely fastens her with a small smile. “The Floukru are a peaceful people,” she continues quietly. “Among us, you will not have to fear war or politics or exile. If you contribute to our growing people, you in turn will become one of us. There will be food and livelihood. That is not to say that it won’t be a hard life; every life is hard. But perhaps it will be one you wish to lead. I think the sea will do much for bringing us all peace.” And with another tiny, gentle smile, she presses herself out the door, leaving Raven to stare at the empty space on the floorboards that she leaves behind. Bellamy has a hard time falling asleep that night. It’s the first time in a while that he’s slept in a bed. When Octavia went to prison and their mother was floated, he moved into the singles’ dorms on Mecha Station. The hard little dorm bunk was the last one he slept in before reaching the ground. Ever since, he has constructed sleeping spaces out of jackets and tree branches, none of them very comfortable. To sleep in a bed, with sheets and furs nonetheless, is strange, but to sleep next to someone is even stranger. Echo falls asleep not long after they finish eating. The Floukru food looks excellent, and smells even better, but Bellamy waits for Echo to begin eating. He has noticed, in the past few days, that it is a grounder custom to let Omegas take the first bite. It’s not what he grew up with, but then again, Bellamy grew up raising an illegal sibling in an isolated box in space. Some things will have to stand a little adjustment. He doesn’t think it’s what Echo grew up with either by the way she hesitates. She casts unsteady glances at him all through dinner, assessing him shrewdly, he realizes. He keeps forgetting that she’s a spy, and has likely had him figured out since the moment they met. He doesn’t mind; there’s nothing about himself he’s afraid to have her know, nor is he too worried about them being on uneven footing. If anything, it’s a good thing. Echo will learn that she can trust him, and he can take the backseat for once. It will be fun, he thinks, to uncover her life in little bits and pieces as she chooses to reveal them to him. The fact that she holds all the cards doesn’t concern him too greatly — if she was going to kill him, he figures she would have done it already. He takes the fact that she hasn’t to mean that she doesn’t want to — even though she turned over a fellow Omega, the Commander’s mate, someone of significantly more importance than Bellamy, to a brutal death — and muddles over what that implies. After dinner, Echo wanders off to take her first bath in weeks, and Bellamy sits on the porch outside. There are a few chairs out there, all wicker and soft wood, set around a small table that he thinks must be carved of bone. The smooth ivory of it shines in the pale moonlight. From the porch, it’s a short step down from their little stone cottage into the garden. Raised garden beds — tended to in the growing season, Luna has explained, by volunteers — dot the flower-strewn grass. There are several trees, too, at the side of the house; apple, by the look of them. They peter out into the woods that rise up on the sharp incline behind the house. In front, the little dirt road bends down the steep cliff, wending its way through crowds of more cottages whose thatched roofs whisper softly in the dusk. Down below, the ocean sprawls before them, vast and dark and endless. It merges with the sky at the edge of the earth, and Bellamy decides that but for the absence of stars, the depth of the water is as great as the depth of space. Soft footsteps break him from his contemplation. Melting out of the open door, Echo emerges like a phantom conjured from the dark. She pads out on bare feet to stand beside him; when she pauses at his side, Bellamy catches the scent of snow, clean of blood and fear, an underlying earthiness to it that wasn’t there before. Her hair is damp, her face clear of blood, dirt, and the last traces of her warpaint. She is clad in a tank top, one of the first he has seen on the ground, and a pair of linen trousers like some he has seen around the village. The Floukru must have donated clothes. “Aren’t you cold?” It’s not exactly what he means to say, but it comes out regardless. In the dark beside him, Echo coughs out an amused sound. “This is not cold,” she snorts. “I am from the Ice Nation, Bellomi.” He sees her amusement, and cracks a small smile. They linger in silence for a few minutes, both their gazes resting out where the starlit waves break against the shore. Her scent drifts closer to him on the light wind, and Bellamy’s heart aches with it. “Bellomi.” Echo’s whisper blends into the breeze. Turning to her, he sees that she is not looking at him, eyes instead on the stars high above. “Did you — was your home really among the stars? I did not see your ship fall, but I heard the stories, and I — it does not seem possible.” She’s possessed of the same quiet trepidation that he’s seen in her before, together with flashes of stubbornness. He can sense, too, a distinct brattiness buried deep, something that it will be fun to tease out. Her hand twitches at her side, and before he can cage the impulse, Bellamy reaches for it and brings it to his lips. Echo looks to him with widened eyes, her lips slightly parted, but she makes no move to withdraw. “It doesn’t, does it?” he muses. He doesn’t have a real answer for her; of course they came from the sky, but he can understand her incredulity having not seen it for herself. He’s not sure he would believe it, either. Then again, he’s not sure he can believe that he is currently actively making a home with a woman he met several days ago. Funny, the way life works sometimes. Echo breathes out quietly; in the dark, he can hear the subtle shifting of her feet. It says something to him that she’s willing to showcase her hesitation around him like this. He’s under no delusions that she couldn’t conceal her emotions from him perfectly if she wished. “And you . . . are certain — that you want me here?” There it is, he thinks. The tight, almost trembling whisper comes through clenched teeth, and Bellamy understands. Echo may not think he wants something from her, may have read him well enough to understand that his intentions are pure, but her confusion is reasonable. Echo grew up in a culture that enslaves people of her designation, considering them fit only to breed. Of course she doesn’t understand. “Yes, I am,” he replies quietly, turning in his chair to face her. She’s staring down at him, her strong-boned features wary and furrowed with confusion. He says nothing else, sensing somehow that with her, less is more. This woman is a spy, accustomed to reading between the lines. Sometimes, he thinks, simplicity might be what she needs. Perhaps he can grant her that. The straightforward response seems to be all that Echo requires; she doesn’t even ask him why. Still, her face is crumpled with lost bewilderment. She has lost the wary look to her, but there is genuine puzzlement in the set of her lips. It makes Bellamy’s heart give a painful squeeze. Seeing Echo struggling to comprehend the simple fact that he likes her is heartbreaking. “Do you want me here too?” Perhaps if he puts this into her terms, lets her see her own feelings as the same as his, she will understand. The lines of her forehead smooth out. “I do.” The surety of it is steady, unmarked by emotion, but Bellamy cracks a smile at it. Her eyes flicker a little in surprise at the expression before she gives him a tiny nod, and he feels a flutter in his stomach at the sight. Stepping up beside the chair, she moves into his space. Her scent follows her: meltwater and light flowers breaking through the snow. Her hand slides into his hair, and Bellamy hums, leaning back into her touch, to acquaints himself with the feeling of another body near his. He can feel Echo’s heartbeat through the palm of her hand. Simplicity. Their room is still dark when Clarke’s eyes flash open. Startled by the suddenness of waking, it takes her a moment to orient herself even with Anya’s subtle scent in her nose. Though the sky is pitch black, a faint amount of moonlight drifts through the open window along with the light breeze, dusting the corners of the room murky-pale. Without even tilting her head, Clarke can see the square of black sky framed by the window, stars glittering and impossibly bright. She’s still not used to seeing them from Earth after looking out the windows of the Ark at them her whole life. On another night, Clarke will bother to feel nostalgic, but in this moment, all she knows is need. When the uncertainty of her location dissipates, the first thing that anchors Clarke to reality is the sensation of Anya pressed against her head to toe. Lying like this, her back pressed to Anya’s front, she can feel every inch of her Alpha behind her. Their legs are tangled together beneath the thin sheets, her hips nestled snugly into the cradle of Anya’s. She can feel the rise and fall of her mate’s stomach with her easy breath. Anya’s arms are curled around her, one hand resting gently on her ribs. As she registers all of this, Clarke becomes irrevocably, painfully aware of the insistent arousal stirring in her blood. The well of deep and desperate longing in her body has not abated; if anything, she is even needier than before. It is no longer merely in her belly as it was this afternoon; with the set of Anya’s teeth into her neck, her heat has transformed into a living force occupying her head and heart and lungs. She can feel it simmering under every inch of her skin, every particle of her body straining to let the feeling blossom and deepen. Without moving, she can tell that her inner thighs are slick with need. Twitching a little, Clarke shifts her legs on the mattress. Her clit throbs, her nipples ache; motionless, the sting is nearly unbearable. Movement offers minimal respite. She has no sooner readjusted than the burning returns, deeper and more insistent than before. The throbbing has settled into a deep ache, and Clarke bites her lip against a whimper. A moment later, she gives in with a sigh of discomfort. If she could only get off once, just enough to fall back asleep — The sensation of fingers digging into her hip nearly makes her jump out of her skin. As it is, Clarke can’t restrain an embarrassingly loud whimper. “Sorry,” she whispers sheepishly once she has shaken off her surprise. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” A light nip to the nape of her neck quells her protests and earns a mewl. “If you did not wake me for this, I would be missing out,” comes Anya’s amused if somewhat sleepy retort. Her voice is rough with sleep, and the sound of it sends another bolt of arousal through Clarke’s core. “Besides, I am in something of a . . . predicament myself.” She shifts a little as she speaks, and Clarke is made instantly aware of the hardness pressed against her lower back. Instinctively, she arches back a little, and the motion earns twin whimpers from them both. “I — ” Clarke attempts to explain herself, but is cut off when Anya’s teeth dig a little harder into her skin, this time at the junction of her shoulder. Immediately, the Alpha is soothing her bite with a delicate kiss, and the feeling of soft lips upon her skin causes Clarke’s eyes to flutter closed. The need in her belly sharpens to a knife-point. “Hush,” is Anya’s gentle command, reinforced by the bite of her nails in the curve of Clarke’s hips. Clarke falls quiet on the instant. “Just lie still and let me help.” Before Clarke can even think of something witty to say in response, the hand at her hip moves to press warmly at the juncture of her legs, and all rational thought leaves her head. “Oh, little one,” Anya murmurs; long and delicate, her fingers slip through slickness with scarcely any friction. When her palm catches the Omega’s clit, she lets out a quiet hiss as Clarke curls instinctively forward in her hold. “Fuck, niron, you are so wet.” “Anya,” Clarke murmurs, but she finds that she can scarcely register the movement of her own lips. The world dissolves at the feeling of her Alpha’s touch, stocking the fire higher and yet soothing it all at once. Without faltering in her movements, Anya curls her ankle around the Omega’s, nudging her legs farther apart, and maneuvers her gently half onto her stomach. Content with the way the full lengths of their bodies press together, she settles back against her mate and resumes her touches with purpose. It is all Clarke can do to bite back a scream as two fingers press into her, slow and deep. Even then, she can’t restrain a shaky sigh. The sound earns her the slow drag of a palm against her clit, and she struggles to hold in a whimper. Anya, it appears, is having none of it. “Let me hear you,” is her murmur as she slips a third finger in easily, causing Clarke’s hips to twitch further open. “Show me how good it feels, hmm?” Gasping, Clarke nods frantically. The movement displaces them a bit for a moment, but Anya settles her by bringing up her other hand to brush her hair aside. A moment later, she is laying soft kisses on the mating bite that still burns fresh in Clarke’s skin, and Clarke can no longer restrain a throaty moan. The sound turns choked when Anya curls her fingers deeper. It’s soothed with another kiss, and settling back, Clarke relaxes into Anya’s arms and lets herself feel. It’s a slower build than yesterday, the pleasure drawn from somewhere deeper than before. Clarke’s whole body is alight with it, caught up in the fevered glow of need that only Anya can ease. Anya’s lips, her hands, the press of her skin against her back; all of it stokes Clarke higher, burns the heat brighter in her blood. A fumbling kiss lands on the back of her head; a murmur in Trigedasleng, incomprehensible so close to her ears. The soft brush of Anya’s hand against her clit and the stronger, slow pulse of her fingers within her drags the very air from in Clarke’s lungs. Her legs are shaky, her fingers trembling as they scrabble for purchase in the sheets. It doesn’t take long; it’s an embarrassingly short minute later that Anya stills her hand, fingers pressing hard into the sweet spot within Clarke that’s so good it hurts, and Clarke snaps. She arches sharply, hands fisted so tightly in the pillowcase it nearly rips, going still before curling in on herself with a trembling cry. Anya drops delicate kisses to her shoulder blades as the pleasure seizes her body, her thumb brushing soft circles into the bite on her neck until she can breathe evenly once more. Clarke is still shaking with the cresting waves when Anya is rolling her onto her back and replacing her fingers with her cock. The sound that rips from Clarke’s throat is unrecognizable to her own ears. One hand flies back to twine in the curls at the nape of Anya’s neck, getting tangled with Anya’s arm as it snakes around her back and pulls her tightly into her embrace. Anya is hot within her, the feeling of fullness welcome with Clarke’s heat still burning through her blood, but no less overwhelming despite it. Clarke surges and struggles for breath; gasping, she prepares to surrender to the rough rhythm of being taken. What she doesn’t expect is for it to be slow. Instead of rocking into her immediately, Anya takes a moment to settle, coming to rest on Clarke with her full weight. With one arm beneath her and the other braced around her head, Clarke is surrounded. The shelter of Anya’s arms blocks out even the dimly lit room, until all that Clarke can see, feel, sense, is the warmth and stillness of the Alpha above her. Her heartbeat thunders in her ears, her body braced on the edge of movement. Having Anya in her helps to quench the burning in her heart, but it still isn’t enough — Clarke’s thoughts are cut off by the sensation of soft lips meeting hers. Not expecting to be kissed, Clarke can’t help her shuddering exhale. Immediately, the frantic, all-consuming lust quiets as though settling into sleep, the flutter of butterflies rising up in its place. Her breath catches as she tilts her head; Anya follows the movement with purpose, and the thudding of Clarke’s heartbeat eases to a slower staccato when the Alpha coaxes her to part her lips and allow their kiss to deepen. Even now, after so many kisses, it still dazes her how good Anya is at this. Clarke hadn’t quite forgotten, but with the haze of her heat now shifting into a subtler desire, the shock of being in love is firm throughout her body. She could enjoy Anya’s embrace just as much simply as an Omega in heat, Clarke knows, but she is in the arms of the woman she loves. That, she has decided, makes all the difference in the world. The fire of her heat, unquenchable even a minute ago, has slowed to a deeper and steadier simmer. The fullness lingers, but as Anya kisses her so slowly, so deeply, Clarke finds that she can scarcely do anything but breathe. It is easy to let go beneath the all-encompassing weight of her Alpha. Anya’s lips steal the very breath from her lungs, and Clarke lets herself become small and pliant. The warm weight of submission fills her soul with joy; as her bones soften with it, Clarke allows her mind to grow quiet and the Omega within her to settle deeper into its rightful place within her heart. When Anya’s hips give a gentle roll, the remembered feeling of her mate inside her makes Clarke gasp. Anya scarcely breaks their kiss as she moves, pulling back enough only for them to breathe against the warmth of each other’s lips. Clarke shifts, melting into the mattress to allow her Alpha to settle further into the cradle of her hips. The movement causes Anya to sink deeper, and Clarke’s head falls back into the pillow with a low moan. Gentle fingers cradle the nape of her neck. Another gentle rocking motion, and a flutter of her inner muscles transforms into a desperate squeeze. Anya surges, and the groan that’s ripped from Clarke’s chest is muffled by her lips as the slow rocking of their hips eases into a languid roll. The strong arm around her steadies her as her back bows with the rush of feeling. Stars flicker behind Clarke’s eyes, their heat matched only by the way her blood seems to shatter with every thrust. The slow, deep press of her mate’s cock is overwhelming. Even so, the weight of Anya over her keeps her grounded. Clarke is enveloped, the sense of her mate on her and in her and around her the only thing that keeps her from flying off the bed. As it is, when Anya finds the rhythm that means her cock is hitting the sweet spot in her on every slow thrust, Clarke can’t keep the tears from forming in her eyes. “Gods, you are perfect.” Anya sounds more wrecked, almost, than Clarke feels as she covers the crook of her neck with open-mouthed kisses. “Do you have any idea how wanted you are? How precious you are to me?” Her voice breaks. “I adore you, little one.” Gasping at a particularly deep thrust, Clarke scrabbles for her hand. When Anya catches it in her own, she lets her eyes close against the magnitude of the love that swells in her heart. She is reduced to soft, broken sounds as her mate guides her into pleasure. Anya wraps a hand around her hip to fill her more deeply, and Clarke’s hands tremble harder where they tangle in golden hair. Her Alpha’s strength is soothing as her body surrenders, the Omega in her heart seeming to know without words to give herself over and trust her mate with the pleasure that surges through her. The waves that bow and break her body are overpowering, but her trust and love for her Alpha is more so, and Clarke lets the vulnerability and relief fill her to the brim. It’s too much, too good, and as Anya draws that exquisite pleasure from deep within her bones she chokes out a soft cry that breaks halfway through on a pleading sob. Anya is whispering sweet things against her hair, her voice reduced to a reverent murmur. “Beautiful, beautiful, just like that, let go for me sweetheart.” A fluttering kiss to her temple, and Clarke buries her face in Anya’s neck to hide her tears. As the whole world narrows to the loving words and hands and lips that surround her, she can only surrender herself to it and hope that Anya will hold her together when she breaks. When Clarke falls apart, she shatters. She comes with a quiet gasp, her face hidden in Anya’s neck, as her being bows to the pleasure more powerful than anything she has ever known. Her hands shake where she clings to Anya, the scent of her Alpha surrounding her like a protective cocoon. Anya’s arms encase her, her lips on the crown of Clarke’s head, murmuring loving words into her ear as Clarke surges and gasps with her lips pressed to the mark in her Alpha’s skin. “With me,” is the quiet plea choked out as a receding wave allows her to breathe, and Anya turns her head to bury her face in Clarke’s hair as she falls apart with a shaken cry. She trembles, and then, curling over her mate, she lets her body go soft and still. Clarke is still gasping, her breath stolen by the waves that continue to roll through her. Anya is still holding her hand, fingers entwined with hers, and somehow, the simple act feels like an ember of warmth that even the trembling aftershocks don’t surpass in strength. Shaking above her, Anya presses her deeper into the sheets. The scent of her mate is a balm to Clarke’s oversensitive skin, and feeling it stir in her chest, her body at last begins to relax. The world around her feels close, too close and too bright and new on her skin. “Oh,” Clarke breathes out shakily when at last she is able to speak. “That was — I didn’t know that — ” She is embarrassed to find that there are tears in her voice. The sound is foreign to her, unanticipated; she never expected to become so overwhelmed. The moment she is able to move, Clarke squirms insistently in Anya’s arms until she’s tucked completely beneath her. She hides her face in her mate’s throat, nudging the underside of the strong jaw until Anya’s chest is vibrating with purrs. Suddenly, it’s all too much. In all of the intimacy they have shared, with all the budding anticipation of the last weeks together, somehow Clarke never expected to have this. Even after a few days of being home, the reality has still managed not to hit Clarke until this very minute. Something about being beneath Anya like this, holding hands, small and protected beneath her mate, has wrenched free something within Clarke that feels older than time itself. This is something that Clarke never thought she would have, a freeing of instincts so deeply buried she didn’t even know that they were there. Without even realizing it, one way or the other, a part of her has wanted this since the moment they met. Back then, on the bridge where they first met as enemies, Clarke was new to it all; to the ground and the long-buried feelings newly coursing through her. She knew, even on the Ark, that a part of her yearned to be loved like this, but it has taken a life on the ground to show her the true depth of her desire. Clarke holds her submission in the deepest, most cherished part of her soul, and she has longed so desperately to give it to someone. It’s almost embarrassing, but the relief of being loved after so long makes her weep. “Ai niron,” Anya murmurs, but Clarke only shakes her head and buries herself deeper into her Alpha’s chest. It’s long minutes before she is able to speak again. For a while, Clarke merely breathes, content to press her forehead against her Alpha’s skin and feel both their scents surge with protectiveness. Anya’s hand rubs soft circles on her upper back as their breathing calms, and Clarke allows her eyes to close. “I love you,” she whispers eventually. A softness has risen in her, one that smoothes out the edges of the dark into a cradle for her weary body. She feels the woman above her still, then tremble with relief. It seems she is not the only one who did not know that joy could be so bright. Bellomi is not in bed in the morning when Echo wakes. She can sense it before she even opens her eyes, his missing presence more noticeable to her than she should expect this soon. Not even a full sun cycle has passed since their arrival in the Floukru village; between last night and the night before, beside the victory campfire, they have spent only two nights in each other’s company. Certainly, there were the uncountable hours spent in that godforsaken mountain, but time there was of no consequence. All that mattered in the room of cages was that, after countless hours spent waiting for her own death, someone promised to return for her. Then, even more incredibly, he did. Perhaps it shouldn’t surprise Echo, the shocking strength and ease of this pull between them. She is an Omega, after all, and perhaps the Trikru have moved past the relevance of such status, but Echo is Azgeda, and in Azgeda, designation still means something. It dictates the sway of one’s life course, inseparable from every action, every thought. Echo may have been raised otherwise, may have been trained from childhood to be a tool and a weapon rather than a human being with a designation, but she was not raised separated from the general public. She has always been privy to the ways of life outside the court; she has heard things and seen more. She has noted how Alphas and Omegas walk together, the latter always one step behind; she has heard the switch in tone when they address one another, recognized how easy it is to eavesdrop because a room with an Omega in it is empty in the eyes of the Azgedan Alphas. It wasn’t until yesterday, when she discovered she was going to survive, that it occurred to Echo that Azgeda would consider its disgraced spy the same way. Bellomi, it would seem, is most definitively not Azgeda. That much is laughably apparent. His voice is too mellow, his gaze far too soft, his touch too respectful. That isn’t to say that he is weak; Echo knows better than that. She has seen the ferocity with which the skai Giva has defended his friends and sister. She knows that his easy tone can turn firm and commanding and his dark gaze hard and fierce. What takes her aback is that, for the most part, he seems to prefer to emulate a quieter breed of strength. Perhaps she should be wary of him, but Echo has found that it is something she cannot do. The dip of the wide mattress where Bellomi lay is cool to the touch; he has clearly been up for a while. Upon waking Echo takes a moment to absorb it: the solitude, the stillness. Even with her eyes closed, she can feel the foreignness of the place. The patterns of morning light behind her eyes are unfamiliar, the smell of the wood and thin sheets similarly new. The sounds, too, are alien to her ears. On the eastern shores of Azgeda, the waves and ocean wind do not sound like this, not so salty and fresh. Up north, they are harsher and crisper and colder even in their very pitch. Echo can’t decide whether she hates it or not. She rises before wakefulness has seeped fully into her body. Though not late, she can feel from the temperature of the air that it is long past sunrise. That alone is an unsettling reminder of her new life. It has been decades since she has risen after dawn; even after her training was completed, most of her tasks necessitated being on the move well before sunup. Even if they didn’t, the training she received has been drilled firmly into her daily habits: to be abed while the sun is up is to be a target, and Echo has never been able to afford such a risk. She wonders what it means that she was able to sleep so comfortably for so long. Bellomi did not touch her in the night, sensing, she thinks, that to do so would be pushing a boundary that neither of them is yet ready to cross. Still, he was not inattentive. She even caught him swapping their pillows so that the softer one was on her side of the bed. Ridiculous. Once she’s up, it does not take Echo long to ready herself. In the oaken chest of drawers in the corner of the bedroom, someone has left spare clothes. They are not all perfectly sized, but after minimal rummaging she unearths a pair of linen trousers and a loose sleeveless tunic of the same material. Leaving her feet bare — it is still only autumn, after all — she allows the morning air to settle against her skin and steps out into the sunlit main room. Bellomi is not here, either, but he has been recently. His scent lingers in the cool air; when it hits Echo’s nose, she cannot help inhaling a little deeper. It curls into her lungs, and she finds that as much as she wants to resist, her shoulders lose a little of their tension. Shaking off the feeling, Echo takes in the room fully for the first time. Last night, they did not do much exploring of their new home before collapsing into bed. She only registered in her cursory glance that it was small but homey. Daylight reveals it to be not as small as she thought; the main room is large, made of bright wood and large windows. A kitchen takes up the left side as she exits the bedroom. A large oaken table stands in the middle of the open space, separating the kitchen from a collection of comfortable-looking furniture arranged around a fireplace on the opposite side. Other than the farmhouse she was born in, her memories of which are woefully unclear, Echo has never lived somewhere so spacious. Her quarters in Nia’s palace were shared with all of the other guards, warriors, and spies — better than the servants’ quarters in the basement, but a crowded, noisy room of bunks, cots, and pallets nonetheless. It will be strange to share this home with only Bellomi. As she understands it, he too has led a life of cramped, shared quarters. The luxury of having space will take some getting used to. Crossing the room, Echo emerges onto the sunlit porch, and is arrested by the sight that greets her. They’re all out in the garden: her new kru. Monty is fiddling with something — a talk box, Echo thinks — beneath the shade of the old oak tree that stands sentinel at the corner of the garden. Harper is on her knees in the dirt weeding a row of radishes. Just inside the gate on the stone path, Raven and Emori are talking animatedly as they deconstruct what looks to Echo like a shapeless piece of metal machinery. Echo’s eyes, however, are drawn to Bellomi. Out of all of them, he is the closest to the cottage, resting a foot and an elbow on a shovel stuck in the dirt. Clad in a pair of the lightweight trousers the Floukru seem to favor, he has rolled his shirtsleeves up in the heat of the seaside autumn sun. His arms are tan from the work he has done since his ship’s landing, Echo notices; muscular. He and Murphy appear to be in the middle of a heated argument about how best to remove a stubborn tree stump from the yard. The insistent gestures Murphy is making with his arms almost make Echo smile. The first to notice her appearance on the porch is Monty, who looking up gives her a smile and a wave. The motion attracts the attention of the others, who drop their various tasks to salute her. She doesn’t miss the way that Bellomi’s dark eyes light up at the sight of her. “Sonop, az gona,” Emori calls. It takes a moment for Echo to realize she is teasing; she bristles a little at the mention of her old home before the friendly tone registers. As a spy, Echo has learned much of the private opinions of the other clans, and she’s well aware of Azgeda’s reputation. Her clan is not popular, and she’s heard comparisons made often between the icy lands of Azgeda and its people’s general temperament. In her experience, it isn’t true. Certainly, many of their ways may be harsh, but Echo holds any number of memories of warmth and beauty and kind villagers devoted to their nation. She wonders when she will tire of defending her old home from the judgement of those who have never known the crispness of its air. Emori, though, is smiling at Echo from the gate. She’s still holding the piece of machinery, and at the sight of her exposed left hand, Echo is reminded that she, too, is not much beloved by the people of the Kongeda. Perhaps they have something in common, after all. “Sleeping Beauty rises,” Raven adds teasingly from beside Emori. A chuckle escapes Monty, and the rest of the sky-born smile, but the reference is lost on Echo. “I only just woke up too,” Harper says companionably. “It was a little overwhelming to finally sleep in a real bed.” At that, the rest of the Skaikru defectors let out groans of agreement. “I think I went into a little coma,” Raven agrees, and once again, Echo is lost. Whether it’s due to differences in technology or in language, the phrase means nothing to her. For a brief moment, with the sun soaking with unfamiliar strength through the soft linen of her tunic, she is overwhelmed by the strangeness of it all. Well-traveled though she may be as a result of her occupation, Echo has never lived anywhere but the snowy plains of her former home. Azgeda may have been harsh, but at least it was a known entity. Everything here feels foreign: the scents, the sounds, the cadences of language, and especially the presence of these newcomers to their lands. Then again, without it — and without the sky-born — Echo would have nothing left at all. She has not forgotten that but for Bellomi, her body right now would be torn to shreds by ripas beneath that cursed mountain. Even as she thinks it, Bellomi pushes himself off his shovel and comes to lean up against the railing with a sunny smile. “Good morning.” She forgot, in the few hours since they’ve last spoken, how deep his voice is. Like his scent, it is warm and rich; firm like the strength in his arms. “I’ve left you food,” he continues lightly. “You were still sleeping when I made breakfast, so I left yours covered on the table.” With the railing as high as it is, he’s resting his chin on his arms, looking up at her through long eyelashes that flutter slowly as he blinks. Up so close, Echo finds that it’s hard to ignore his earthy Alpha scent. It eddies in her lungs as she breathes, crowding her heartbeat hard up against her ribs so close she’s afraid he’ll see it beat. His smile is startlingly brilliant in the morning light. “You could have woken me.” Perhaps it isn’t the most gracious response, but Echo wouldn’t know. She is out of practice responding to kindness from Alphas — from anyone but Roan. It has been decades since anyone has made her breakfast. “You were sleeping so soundly,” Bellomi reasons, “and I figured that what with that damn mountain, it’s probably been a long time since you got some decent rest. I didn't want to disturb you.” There it is again, the unprovoked thoughtfulness, and Echo is left floundering for a second time. “I slept well,” is what she settles on at last, because that at least is true. She hasn’t rested so comfortably in years. She suspects that it may have something to do with the Alpha who slept at her side. Bellomi took the side of the bed nearest the door — not, she suspects, because of a natural preference for the right side in larger beds, which he has apparently never slept in, but in a calculated move to put Echo more at ease in an unfamiliar place. As strange as it is for her to fathom, it was sweet of him. “Shit, I slept more last night than I have in years.” Murphy has sidled up to the porch. There’s a certain degree of swagger in his stride that Echo doesn’t recall being there yesterday; in the background, she can hear Raven snickering. “Yeah right you did!” she calls out with a smirk. “You forget my cabin’s next to yours. Discretion is the better part of valor, Murphy.” “Discretion is dead,” is Emori’s retort. Even this far away, Echo can see the faint hint of a blush in her cheeks, but she too is smirking. “John murdered it.” “That’s not the only thing I — ” “All right, let’s say we give Echo a minute to wake up before she has to field comments like that from you three.” Bellomi’s gruff voice breaks in; to the others, he likely sounds stern, but Echo, who has scarcely looked away from him once since he drew near, can see that he’s fighting back a laugh. “Murphy, you’re absolutely disgusting.” “Shameless,” Harper confirms from the other side of the yard. Murphy doesn’t look put-out in the slightest. “Just because I’m getting some, Mister Righteous,” he begins, only to receive a solid cuff on the back of his head. Another follows, but he’s anticipating it this time, and manages to duck. Echo only lifts an imperious eyebrow. “You two tried to lead your people together?” she scoffs. She can’t imagine anyone less likely to get along. “We tried to hang each other,” Bellomi corrects without a hint of sheepishness. “Twice,” Murphy adds with a self-satisfied smirk. “Clearly, neither of them are any good at,” Harper contributes. She's shooting Echo a grin. There’s a hint of mischief behind her eyes, and Echo remembers that despite her gentleness, her sister Omega was among the criminals sent down from the sky, and fought viciously to defend the Hundred when their camp was under siege. Octavia, it seems, is not the only warrior among the defectors from the Ark. As Echo watches, Harper begins to stand, only to stagger slightly as she raises herself off her knees. In an instant, Monty is at his mate’s side, supporting her with a hand under her arm until she is able to balance. The Omega has paled considerably, and at the sight of her, Echo is reminded that they are, none of them, quite well. Though some suffered considerably more than others, yesterday was a harrowing day for them all. Frankly, she thinks it’s a miracle that they all made it to the seaside in one piece. “What are we doing today?” She’s a little surprised to discover that she is the one who has uttered the words. As reluctant as she is to be assertive in this new environment, the newness of their situation has Echo feeling distinctly ill at ease. It is Monty who answers, one hand still on Harper’s back to steady her. “Luna says we should weed the garden one last time before harvest,” he explains. “We’re trying to figure out how.” Echo blinks. “Just this garden?” she queries. Perhaps the cottage she shares with Bellomi has the largest yard, but the others have vegetables to tend to as well. As comforting as their presence is, she doesn’t understand why they have all chosen to congregate here. “Monty and Harper went for a morning walk and wanted to say hello,” Bellomi explains. His voice draws Echo’s attention back to the man before her and the way he’s looking up at her. Bellomi’s gaze burns fiercely into her skin, more piercing than the sunlight that refracts off the distant waves. “Murphy heard talking and felt left out, so he and Emori joined, and then Raven wanted to talk to Emori about the broken boat engine Luna left for them this morning.” Echo is significantly distracted by the sudden discovery that his lips are fuller than she remembers, but she shakes it off to consider what she’s heard. Bellomi’s explanation is reasonable, but she senses the underlying thought he doesn’t quite need to express: the others are just as lonely and shaken up in this unfamiliar place as Echo is. They have each other for companionship, but based on the way they’ve all congregated in Echo and Bellomi’s garden, it seems that in this new and unexplored place they’d all prefer to be together. It’s just as well; without them here, Echo’s not sure how she would manage to fill her day. Perhaps the others are hoping to embrace their newfound freedom immediately, but Echo is uneasy. She’s not accustomed to having time to do with as she likes, and facing a day full of nothing but, she finds that the prospect is a little daunting. There is no schedule here, no order, no hierarchy save the designations that most of them seem determined to upend or ignore. Echo has never faced such an unorganized way of living, and quite frankly, she finds it deeply unsettling. She wonders how roles here will be determined, whose command they will all fall under. Despite the fact that they have been nominally accepted into the open arms of the Floukru, for Echo to call herself that doesn’t quite seem right. She is Azgeda-born, after all; no matter how long she lives here, she doesn’t believe that she will ever truly be able to shake the roots of such a different way of life. She’s not entirely certain that she wants to. It must be much the same for the others, she realizes. They are, all seven of them, outsiders in a new clan, defectors; unable to return to where they’ve come from, but not fully belonging anywhere else. For Echo, it is a bit simpler than it is for the rest. She could, she realizes, return to Azgeda if she so desperately desired, to be treated as a slave and a disgrace for the rest of her days. She might be miserable, but she could go back. Perhaps Emori has the same luxury, but by the sound of it, there is nothing of worth for her to return to. The Skaikru defectors have nothing at all. Their Ark, the place they grew up in, the only home they ever knew, is no more. Perhaps together, even here in their new home, they are their own kru. Echo doesn’t know what such a motley assemblage might be able to accomplish if left to their own devices. There are seven of them, to be sure, but none used to being in any remotely longstanding position of leadership, and only two or three above the age of eighteen. Their ranks are composed of a spy, four criminals, a space mechanic with a permanently injured leg, and a frikdreina who has been forced to steal all her life. The singular goal of every single one of their lives has been survival, with everything else falling by the wayside. Many of them are ill or injured, five don’t speak the native language, all are underfed, and none of them have any sense of familiarity with the land on which they now find themselves living. That isn’t to mention that their assortment of designations is absolutely nonsensical: two Betas, four Omegas, and a solitary Alpha. Privately, Echo has to admit that without Luna, there would be absolutely no hope for any of them at all. Then again, she decides, eyes roving the six people assembled before her, they do have something going for them. Whatever else they may lack, this group is certainly a determined one. The decision to leave behind their clans to join a new one took courage, Echo realizes, and not a small degree of defiance. They have survived wars, falling from the sky, being drained of blood and marrow, and unquantifiable abuse and ostracism; they are nothing if not resilient. Feeling the weathered planks of the porch settling beneath her feet, Echo observes each of them in turn. As she looks at them now, Echo sees that despite the oddity of their group, they appear to have one thing in common. Though Harper is pale with exhaustion, she stands with the set of her shoulders firm, her hands already bearing the dirt of their new land from tending a garden that isn’t hers. Monty, with his open, boyish face lined, is looking at her with an expression in his eyes far softer than adoration. Raven and Emori hold their motor with one hand each; Emori’s twisted left hand presses to Raven’s elbow to relieve the strain of her full weight on her injured leg. The sharp angles of Murphy’s face are brushed with fondness when he looks at Emori, protectiveness evident when his gaze transfers to Harper. Beside him, Bellomi’s scent is quietly soothing to the four Omegas among them, and he has cooked breakfast for a woman he met a matter of days ago simply because he stopped to consider her needs. They are loyal, Echo realizes, and loyalty, at least, is something that she understands. There are certainly worse people to be among. “Do you think you’ll ever take another seken?” Clarke asks quietly in the dark. It is deep night, but only the close of the second day of her heat; no longer consistent, the burning need has died down for now, though she’s certain that it will take hold of her again soon. In the meantime, Clarke is taking advantage of the reprieve to absorb being present in her new home. All of it is new to her, all mildly unsettling and wonderfully unfamiliar. A light breeze flutters through the open window and alights in Anya’s hair. It stirs the corners of the covers, lifting their scents and curling them together in the dark. Patterns of moonlight shift across the floorboards, and the movement holds her mesmerized. Clarke grew up with a very different sense of movement, of spinning yet perpetual stillness. This sense of everything constantly shifting, settling, fascinates her. Anya rolls to face her with a soft whisper of sheets. A little sweaty from their last bout of lovemaking, they have kicked the furs down to the foot of the bed where they huddle like a shadowy pet. “I do not know.” The corners of her face illuminated by moonlight seem to shift with the breeze. Caught up in the vision of her, Clarke is momentarily absorbed in the way her eyelashes cast tiny shadows on her cheeks. When she remembers, she softly echoes, “You don’t know?” Anya sighs quietly and shifts to lie on her back. She folds her hands over her belly, eyes on the ceiling; Clarke follows her gaze. The roof is made of wide beams that look like entire trees have been laid above them. Clarke wonders, not for the first time, how it is that Anya built this house alone with her bare hands. “I have raised two little girls, in one sense or another,” Anya says finally. “I gave them a home and family and helped them grow up, knowing all the while what I was training them for. It was an honor to do it, but I . . . there were other ways of life I would have liked to teach them, and were this world a different place, we would have had that freedom,” she explains at last. She doesn’t sound choked up; she rarely does, but Clarke can detect the slightest strain around her brow, the most minute tightening of her scent, and she knows that this is something Anya carries close to her heart. She thinks she understands. Down the hall, adjacent from their open door, the little room is still crowded with Tris’s things. Her clothes are in the open closet, her books and hair ribbons discarded on the floor. On one wall, near the head of the bed, Lexa once carved a drawing that looks to Clarke like a raccoon. The echoes of these two little girls remain, one gone, one no longer a child but an entity of myth and power beyond description. One glance at the crude etching and the child-sized boots, and Clarke is haunted by what those women could have been. She can see how strange it must be for Anya to have raised two children not for herself, but for a cause; to love them and teach them and train them, and then to send them off, one way or another, into the unknown. “I think,” Anya continues with slow consideration, “that someday I would like to teach someone other ways, not out of honor for a nation.” It might be a convoluted way of saying it, but Clarke understands her meaning. The traces of Tris and Lexa will never fade from this place, as they shouldn’t, but they can be built upon. This cottage and its garden, this beautiful home that Anya built, should know childhood without the constraints of a Coalition. Anya should have the opportunity to raise a child to be nothing but another human being. Unconsciously, Clarke finds that her hand has fallen to rest upon her stomach. Her skin has cooled with the night breeze, but the heat within is just as sharp and deep as ever. She knows that what Anya says about her being young is true; in all likelihood, she will not fall pregnant this first heat. Still, the hope is there, steady and true. She will bear pups for the Alpha at her side, and her mate will get to raise them not for a nation, but for gift that doing it will be. “You know,” Clarke says after a long silence, “over five hundred people have died by my hand alone.” Anya shifts again, an uptick in her scent. “It feels ridiculous to think that I could deserve to give life after that.” She thinks that Anya will understand. Life on Earth means that blood will be spilled; it is the way of life here, and largely unavoidable. Still, Clarke has killed so many. She has killed children. To bear her own and raise them in peace after taking the lives of someone else’s babies seems terribly unjust. “There is a Trikru belief about life and death,” Anya says slowly into the hushed quiet of the room. “Our beliefs call for family and clan above all else. That means that when one is lost, you replace.” A light, whispering rain has begun to fall. The pattering on the roof is pleasant, the air sweet, and Clarke finds that there is an unspoken magic to it that she could not have known from space. The sound of rain is the calmest one she has ever known. “I am Wanheda,” she whispers up at the ceiling. “I am the Commander of Death.” Filtered by the quiet drumming of the rain, the title doesn’t carry quite the same thrill of horror as before. Maybe that is part of the whole idea, Clarke realizes. Perhaps Wanheda is not a god, but a feeling. In a place of death and destruction, the title brings fear and victory and bloodshed. Here, in the stillness of this little bedroom, Wanheda is at rest. Here, she is only Clarke. “You are Commander of Death because you bring death upon our enemies, but also because you keep it at bay,” Anya tells her, and Clarke is reminded of Lexa’s words outside the mountain. “Our redemption does not come all at once, Klark, but rather little by little. You are a healer, are you not?” she continues, perhaps sensing Clarke’s wordless uncertainty. “You command Death by healing people, and by giving life. Those who died for their sins are gone, and now we are left to live. We will raise children, and heal people, and that is a beginning.” “Five hundred,” is all Clarke can find it in her to murmur again. “How can I possibly redeem myself from so many?” “You cannot,” Anya says mildly. “But it is not about redemption. It is about doing better than what we have done before.” In Clarke’s peripheral vision, she can see Anya crack a small smile. “I know a good place to start.” The space between them over the blankets is vast, but Clarke crosses it with the grip of a gentle hand. “How many pups do you want?” The whisper escapes Clarke before she can consider whether or not it might be appropriate, but as it leaves her mouth, she finds that she doesn’t mind. They are mates now, and they have both agreed that this is something they want, whenever it comes to be. She wants to know her mate’s hopes for her life, all of them. Together, hopefully, they can see them fulfilled. They are deserving of that much. A tiny noise leaves Anya, whose hand squeezes hers back in the dark. “It is your body, Klark,” she points out softly. “Whatever you are willing to give me is what I want.” Despite herself, Clarke almost rolls her eyes at that. It doesn’t surprise her in the least that Anya is being noble about this particular subject, but the contrast between that and the snarling Alpha knotting her half an hour ago makes her want to laugh. “It’s your family, too,” she points out. “What if I wanted twenty?” She adds it teasingly, but gives Anya’s hand a squeeze to let her know she’s serious. Anya’s palm is warm against her own. Through the gentle and forgiving dusk, Clarke hears her mate begin to purr, and she settles back into seriousness. “I want more than one,” she continues as she brushes tenderly over Anya’s knuckles. “There were no siblings on the Ark besides Bellamy and Octavia. I want a family, a — a big family that we will love and create together.” She doesn’t miss the way that Anya’s breath hitches. “How many?” The whisper is breathless and tight with hope. Clarke thinks. She has never been able to consider such a question before, and the sudden possibilities overwhelm her. She has always been a little awed by and envious of Bellamy and Octavia’s relationship; she’s thrilled at the prospect of being able to give her own pups siblings to grow up with. Still, she has no frame of reference. She’s heard stories growing up ranging from her Earth-born great-grandfather, who was one of nine children, to many others in the family who had none. What on Earth is a reasonable limit? “Three pregnancies,” Clarke decides finally. It’s arbitrary, but reasonable, she thinks; subject to change of course, but a good place to start. Beside her, she can hear Anya breathe out quietly, shakily, as though she has been holding her breath. “And if you are to have triplets every time?” she teases. Clarke rolls her neck over to look at her. Her mate is watching her with playful eyes alight with the shallow glow of moonlight. Clarke raises an eyebrow. “Then you’d better get busy, Alpha,” she says easily. Hunger steals back into Anya’s eyes, and Clarke feels heat light up again in her belly as her mate rolls onto her and presses her back into the bed. The second time Anya wakes, it is to the soft-pressure thump of something landing on their bed. The edges of the sky are beginning to lighten enough that the room is beginning to take shadowy form; Anya squints into the darkness at the fluffy grey creature at the foot of the bed. A pair of yellow eyes stares balefully back. She exclaims in delight at the same time that Clarke flails out of bed with a startled squawk. Anya’s laughter brings a disgruntled crinkle to Clarke’s nose; at the foot of the bed, the cat looks on with eyes full of reproach. “Anya, stop laughing at me — there’s an animal — why are you not — ” Clarke’s alarmed confusion only makes Anya laugh harder. “Anya.” The note of genuine fear in her voice finally quells her mate’s amusement; rolling over, Anya extends a hand to pull her to her feet. “There is nothing to be afraid of, strikon,” she assures, swallowing the last of her laughter at the sight of Clarke’s wary expression. “His name is Orion; he is a pet.” Clarke doesn’t follow her beckoning back onto the bed, eyeing Orion with apprehension. “A pet?” she repeats hesitantly. Anya reaches out to the cat with one hand, fumbling for Clarke’s fingers in the dark with the other. “A friend,” she elaborates. “Pets share our homes with us; our food, our affection. They often sleep at our feet or in our laps. We love them like family.” Part of the pinch in Clarke’s brow smoothes out, but she continues to regard Orion dubiously. Seeing that she remains unconvinced, something occurs to Anya. “Clarke, other than horses, have you ever met an animal before?” Slowly, Clarke shakes her head. “We ate a panther at the drop ship, but it was already dead by the time I saw it,” she says carefully. “I’ve never seen a live one before.” Anya pulls at her hand, coaxing her back onto the bed; Clarke follows, but remains crowded up against Anya, as far from Orion as she can get. “I have had him for nine winters. Both Lexa and Tris grew up with him and loved him.” Anya nestles the Omega under her arm, but keeps her eyes on Orion. “He has been living outside while I have been gone; he will be feeling neglected. He is bound to be huffy with me for a while, but he will eventually forget his irritation and want us to pet him. See? He is already considering it.” For with a languorous stretch, Orion has begun to make his way up the bed. Clarke’s shoulders twitch a little at that. “He — does he bite?” She can’t quite hide her anxiety at the prospect; Anya bites back a smile at her unfamiliarity of this new entity. “He might nip if he wants attention,” she concedes, “but his teeth are small. He will not harm you. He only wants your affection.” Orion has reached their feet; blinking slowly up at them, he makes to crawl between them. Clarke shies away. When Orion noses her hand, seeking to be touched, she jumps a little, then freezes at the feeling of the cat nudging his head beneath her fingers. “Oh, it — he’s soft.” A glimmer of awe takes hold of her expression, replacing the alarm. Anya chuckles. “He is.” Between them, Orion has begun to purr. Clarke jolts a little at that, but then resumes tentatively stroking between the cat’s ears. “He likes me,” she muses, and Anya smiles. “Perhaps he knows that you are the reason I came home to him,” she suggests. “He can sense that you love me, too.” Clarke continues to marvel over the purring cat, but she pauses for long enough to shoot Anya an impish smile in the gently gathering dawn. “I guess he and I will have to form an alliance through you, then,” she comments lightly. “After all, it worked out pretty well the first time around.” Anya hums and leans her head into Clarke’s temple. “I think that that could be arranged.” Their welcome party isn’t what Raven expects. When the seven defectors make their way down to the beach that evening, it is with not a little uncertainty. They have cleaned themselves up for the occasion; while none of them were particularly shabby to begin with, changing into the clothes left in their cabins by the Floukru has Raven feeling distinctly more presentable. Not all of the clothes fit everyone, so when Bellamy suggested a communal clothing swap, everyone readily agreed. The result was the seven of them going home with clothing better suited to their personal tastes, if slightly altered and more sophisticated than before. Combining that with everyone having bathed, the resulting transformation is almost shocking. They really look quite unrecognizable, Raven decides as they assemble on the dusty cobbled street outside their new homes. Despite not fully altering their appearance, the Floukru garments have given the defectors a refreshed look. Harper, who Raven has previously only known clad in grimy denim and leather, looks more relaxed in linen trousers and a tunic. Echo is similarly dressed, her hair free of her usual braids, loose and wavy down her back. Her clothing is slightly more conservative, but she looks significantly more comfortable all the same. Emori, Raven is amused to see, has discovered a pair of overalls. Her hand is still wrapped, but less obviously than before; Raven is fairly certain that it is only to splint her broken finger. Like Echo, she is barefoot, which Raven takes to be common among grounders — Harper, too, seems to have embraced it. The boys are all wearing shoes. Bellamy and Monty have both found simple collared shirts, the likes of which Raven never saw on the Ark — such material would have grown far too frayed by the time it reached their generation. Raven herself has donned a pair of trousers she’s fairly certain the Skaikru would refer to as cargo pants, along with a loose shirt. It’s Murphy who has really surprised her: from somewhere in the clothing pile, he has unearthed a long, high-collared cloak. It looks to be made of navy felt, trimmed at the wrists with an intricate gilt pattern. Someone — Raven suspects Bellamy — has cut his hair for him. The effect makes him look significantly older, and a good deal more put-together. In short, they look nothing like their old selves, and everything like them at the same time, and it’s a moment before Raven understands that they look like Floukru. They descend through the streets together in the gathering dusk. Luna told them that there would be a celebration of welcome on the beach at sunset; what that entails, none of them know. Despite their unfamiliarity, it doesn’t take long to wend their way down from the cliffs into the main part of the city, and from there to follow the sounds of people gathered down below the bluffs. The crowd congregating there is significantly larger than Raven expected. In fact, if she’s not mistaken, every inhabitant of their new home appears to be in attendance. A number of large bonfires crackle to life in the twilight along the beach, throwing flickering shadows along the edge of the water where dark, low waves creep up onto the shore. Hundreds of people, most clad in linen and leather garments similar to the defectors’, mill about between the fires and a long, low table that has been set up along the sea wall. On second glance, Raven sees that it is groaning under a rather obscene amount of food. The group descends through the gathering dark down a narrow stone staircase that Bellamy locates on the far side of the street. Murphy barrels down ahead, tugging Emori by her left hand. Directly behind them is Monty, who though more composed, appears equally eager to join the festivities. Raven follows, supported at the elbows by Harper and Echo, her brace making every step halted and unsure. Bellamy brings up the rear, and calls out to Murphy to cool it, man, shaking his head with an indulgent grin. Frankly, the lack of attention to their arrival takes Raven by surprise. With all the pomp and circumstance of the Kongeda proceedings over the last few days, she half expected a dedicated ceremony. The lack of such an event, however, does not dismay her. More eyes on them, more introductions, more of being the center of attention, is the last thing Raven wants. It occurs to her that what Luna referred to as a celebration is, in fact, just that: a party to welcome them, and not another instance in which they need to pose before a new people and defend their right to a peaceful home. Characteristic of what Raven has noticed to be her usual attentive self, Luna is waiting for them at the base of the stairs. She welcomes Murphy, Emori, and Monty with a sly grin as they stumble to a hasty halt at her feet; over Raven’s head, she fixes Bellamy with a respectful nod. She speaks warmly to Echo and Harper, and then steps forward. Raven restrains a wince at the thought that she might be about to offer her assistance descending the final steps, but her apprehension is unnecessary. Luna stands, hands folded in front of her, and waits patiently for Raven to maneuver her stiff knee down two more steps and onto the softer sand. “Welcome, new Floukru,” she greets pleasantly. “I am glad you could come.” She is addressing all of them, but her eyes rest on Raven the longest. Even after she looks away, Raven can feel the lingering heat of her gaze. “As you can see, we have quite the meal prepared, as well as a rather large collection of alcohol.” She flashes a roguish grin at Murphy and Monty’s celebratory whoop. “I would like to mention several of our customs before you join in the festivities, for even the Earth-born among you are new to our clan,” she continues, and Raven can sense even Murphy grow slightly stiller as he directs his attention towards her. “First of all, you will notice that it is Floukru custom to greet one another with a kiss on the cheek; I would suggest you do not resist. The Floukru appreciate displays of affection, and they will not hesitate to share them with you even before you may have fully warmed up to them.” “Excellent,” Emori declares, a little loudly, and Luna chuckles. Raven smirks; she can absolutely anticipate Emori being a boisterous and affectionate drunk. She’ll be interested to see who bears the brunt of it; if it’s Murphy, there will be an excellent source of entertainment tonight. If it’s Echo or Bellamy, it will be even better. “Second, and perhaps more importantly,” Luna goes on, “I know you all may be adjusting to how Omegas are treated under Heda Leksa’s command. You will find that there is a little less emphasis on designation here. The Floukru pride themselves on equality.” As she says it, Raven’s attention is drawn again to her scent: mixed, though neutral; powerful yet soothing. She finds herself wondering, once again, about the Floukru leader’s designation, but tunes back in to absorb what Luna has to say. “Omegas are, of course, treated well here. Our Alphas and Betas take great care to ensure that they have everything they need. You will certainly find that you will be treated with the utmost respect. That expectation will be extended to your Alphas and Betas; we ask that you respect our ways as you learn them.” Solemnly, Monty, Bellamy, and Emori nod. “Lastly, and most importantly of all,” Luna adds, and now there is a definite note of mischief in her voice; Raven braces herself, “I must warn you: you will discover that the Floukru, once they are sufficiently drunk — which never manages to take very long — have an insuppressible penchant for skinny dipping. I would urge those of you disapproving of public nudity to simply avert your eyes.” “Woo, these are my kind of people!” The shout comes from Emori, who looks positively gleeful at this new information. Without meaning to, Raven barks out a laugh. Murphy looks delighted, where Echo’s eyes seem about to pop out of her head. Bellamy’s eyebrows are fully raised, and the sight of them only makes Raven chuckle harder. “Now that that’s settled,” Luna declares, grinning, “I suggest that you all avail yourselves of the food and liquor and take the opportunity to socialize with your new clan. They are your people now, after all.” As Luna predicts, it doesn’t take long for the Floukru to get rip-roaring drunk. The new defectors have scarcely been in attendance for half an hour when the first gleeful yell erupts from a crowd of partygoers near the fire where Raven is eating. An alarmed glance in their direction reveals four members of her new clan, young and old, sprinting down the beach with wild abandon. They’re naked by the time they reach the water, and Raven cringes a little, imagining the cold as they crash raucously into the waves. Delighted cackles follow the spectacle, and it’s scarcely a minute later that eight more such merrymakers follow. At the tail end of the stampede, another participant joins in, and Raven suppresses a snicker of her own to see Emori shucking her clothing into the sand as she goes tearing off down the beach in pursuit of the crowd. The Beta isn’t the only one who’s enjoying herself. Throughout the past half hour, Raven has noted that her fellow newcomers seem to be inserting themselves into the group quite well. Monty and Murphy are in their element. Twice, she has spotted them laughing uproariously within a knot of Floukru. Monty appears upon further observation to be entertaining the crowd by doing impressions of Murphy while wearing a brilliantly orange top hat. Murphy, to his credit, has twice laughed hard enough to almost vomit. The last time Raven saw Harper, she was engaged in a serious and highly drunken debate with a young Floukru Beta over the best way to dry-roast jobi nuts. Sometimes Raven forgets that her friends are teenage delinquents. Even the more mature among them appear to be losing a little of their uptight composure. Bellamy is a short distance away, and while not visibly drunk, is deep in characteristically earnest discussion with an older Floukru man. Even Echo is keeping a group of twelve-year-olds enthralled with a rather gruesome tale from her days of espionage. Already, they seem to be fitting in more seamlessly than any of them could have anticipated. Raven has to admit that she’s enjoying herself more than she expected. It still seems surreal to participate in a fully-fledged party without the fear of hunger or war. In fact, Raven’s not entirely certain that she’s ever been so fully assured of her own safety. It’s wildly unsettling, to say the least. After everything they’ve been through, all the terrible things they’ve done to achieve peace, it seems incredible that they finally have it. It makes her think, with a pang, of Finn. This was the life Finn wanted. The wars, the violence, Raven knows, were things he thrived on only because they led to the golden hour where they would all at last know peace. Even through the beginning days on Earth that were filled with fear and panic and uncertainty, Finn wanted them all to notice the beauty. He was brilliant, and hopeful, and though Raven no longer loves him the way she once did, doesn’t miss him as the lover he once was, she thinks he deserved something more. Finn the murderer, the crazed man he became, deserved the end he got, but Finn the boy deserved to know a happier time. He strove for it, fought for it; believed in it when all the rest of them could see was violence. Now, at last, they have peace; it isn’t fair that he isn’t here to see it. “May I join you?” It’s Luna; of course it’s Luna. Perhaps she has sensed Raven’s glum mood, for though her countenance is untroubled as she gestures to the empty patch of sand, something in her stance is hesitant. Luna is a firm leader, steadfast and self-assured. In the short days that Raven has known her, through all the conflict, she has not faltered nor shown any flicker of uncertainty. She seems possessed of almost reckless poise, but for all Luna’s confidence, in Raven’s presence, she shows her first sign of hesitation. It’s as though she is afraid, somehow, that Raven will not want her near. Recognizing it, Raven indicates the sand beside her with a sigh. Softly, Luna folds herself into it, and they sit for a long minute in silence, neither one of them moving. “Finn would have loved this,” Raven cedes eventually. The background whisper of the waves seems to suck the words right out of the salted air. “He wanted to see us at peace. I know the clans only know him as a murderer, but who he became in the end wasn’t who he really was.” Even with the fire so near, Luna’s profile is but a flickering shadow in the dark. Raven can scarcely make out the set of her jaw, surprisingly not tight with disagreement. She lets the words filter from her lips and rest, heavily, on the sand between them. Luna does not speak. The sound of the water and the intermittent shrieks of the far-off naked revelers lap up against the dark. In the distance, Raven can see Monty, Harper, Murphy abandoning their conversations and shedding clothes down to their underwear with their companions. “This is what he wanted,” she goes on eventually in a whisper, and somehow, it seems to carry more easily. “Finn sought out joy in everything; all he wanted was for us to have that. He would have given his life for it.” She’s prepared to allow the bitterness to enter her voice, but she finds that she has none left. Where confusion once was, where Raven once held anger at Clarke and the clans over Finn’s death, now there is only a faint, acute sense of grief. “Didn’t he?” Luna’s words surprise her so much that she turns fully to look at her. As she twists her body, the movement tightens her spine, and Raven grimaces as her knee spasms. She braces for Luna to reach out, but the movement doesn’t come. “What?” she says finally. Luna is watching her out of heavy eyes, but they are not laden with the pity she expects to see. Instead, they hold a glow that is almost reminiscent of joy. Their vibrance is startling, and confuses Raven so much that for a moment, she forgets what has been said. “You say Finn would have given his life to bring you all peace,” Luna echoes, holding her gaze. “Did he not do precisely that when he chose to go peacefully to his execution, knowing it would bring about the ceasefire that would let you free your people and end a war you could not have hoped to win alone?” As Raven only stares, Luna shifts upon the sand and allows her expression to soften. “If that is truly what he chose, do you not think it a waste of his sacrifice if you fail to enjoy it? If he gave his life to bring you peace, and you have it now, what more is there left to grieve?” Raven stares at her, unblinking. In the space between them, the air has gone dry, the salt thicker where the water cannot reach. Beyond Luna, the black water brushes against the earth and sends vibrations through the sand that crowd up through her chest, in her heart, behind her teeth. In the dark, the vastness of the ocean looks like space, where Raven once walked; where Finn pretended to have gone so that he would be arrested, executed, in her stead. With her scarcely realizing it, Finn has given his life for Raven more than once. The realization feels like stepping out into zero gravity; her blood light, the air empty, but all of it endless and unexplored. “You are young, Raven,” Luna murmurs. “Do not let your pain deepen your years.” Her voice is lower than before, more earnest; this time, she is the one looking out across to where hordes of Floukru are now frolicking in the open waves. Something in her voice tells Raven unmistakably that she is no longer speaking of Finn. Even sitting down, her hands are clasped before her in a manner that Raven has only ever seen from Heda. The distant look in the little Raven can see of her eyes holds the same depth that Lexa’s held when she handed Clarke the torch to light the pyre that held their fallen. She won’t ask to hear Luna’s story now, but there is something else she wants to know. “What’s your designation? I can’t figure it out.” She doesn’t mean for it to come out sounding quite as rude as it does, and winces, wishing at once that she could rephrase. Luna, however, doesn’t seem in the least offended. Shaking the last shadows from her eyes, she sits up straighter, more attentive. “I don’t know,” she says mildly. Her hands are clasped at the wrist over her knees, her blue gown draped over her figure and across the sand like the waves that pull there at high tide. “It has never been clear to me, either.” Raven blinks. “Oh.” It’s not the best response, but it’s the only one she can think of; Luna’s answer isn’t one she was expecting, or has otherwise ever heard before. Luna seems to understand, for she fastens Raven with a knowing look. “Most people, as I’m sure you know, present at around twelve or thirteen,” she said simply. “I hadn’t yet by then, but as I was a natblida, I was called to participate in the Conclave when I was fourteen. I knew Leksa was going to win. I didn’t expect to live past that night, so I figured I was merely a late bloomer, and didn’t consider it further. The thought never really crossed my mind. Then I . . . then I came here, found my people, became their leader. After that, it never seemed important.” “Never seemed important?” It’s not the most interesting part of Luna’s explanation, but it’s what Raven chooses to focus on, because how can she not? Designation has always had a huge impact on her life; her station, her job, her family, her health, her food. She can’t imagine it not mattering. Luna offers her a tiny quirk at the corner of her mouth that appears to be a smile. “I never had a reason to wonder,” she says simply. “There was never someone close enough who wanted to know.” There’s a blank simplicity to the words, like it doesn’t matter, like it’s okay with Luna that she’s never had anyone close enough to know such a personal thing. Raven doesn’t quite get it. Luna’s . . . Luna’s Luna; how could she possibly have no one? “What would it change, anyway?” Luna continues before Raven can voice any of her turbulent thoughts. “If someone likes me, they like me for me. Designation doesn’t matter.” It sounds simple enough, but Raven gets the distinct feeling that Luna’s not just talking about herself. When she looks up and makes eye contact, it holds. “No, it doesn’t.” Raven would consider saying more, but just then, an outburst of laughter draws her focus. Murphy and Harper, mostly naked and sopping wet among a crowd of Floukru, have descended upon Bellamy and are urging him to join them while Echo watches in mild but poorly concealed amusement. As the two Omegas tug at his arms, insistent, Bellamy stubbornly resists. Raven watches as Harper attempts to cajole him, to be met with continued refusals. Bellamy stands with his arms folded, shaking his head, his amusement evident but clearly unwilling to budge. “Murphy, I’m warning you, you’d better — run if you want to beat me!” Bellamy suddenly rips his shirt over his head, and before Raven can even register the movement, he is pelting down the beach in pursuit of Murphy and Harper as they run shrieking towards the waves. A glance over at Echo shows that she is blushing visibly scarlet in the dark. Raven hoots with laughter at the sight of her. Down at the edge of the beach, not knowing how to swim, their friends are only splashing about in the shallows, but kicking up an impressive amount of chaos nonetheless. They are far from alone; by now, nearly half the crowd has made their way into the water in varying states of undress. The rest are enjoying a round of hearty laughter at their expense as they continue to ply themselves with food and liquor. The entire scene is one that, a few days ago, Raven would have had to see to believe. How is it possible that they went from war and the brink of starvation to such a demonstration of absolutely carefree living? “Why don’t you join them?” Luna’s quiet question draws Raven’s attention back from where Bellamy’s antics have Echo staring hard at the sand in an attempt to conceal a smile. Luna is watching her with a look in her eyes that seems to suck the oxygen right out of Raven’s lungs. When she can draw breath, Raven tears her eyes away to nod at her leg brace. “Can’t exactly run down the beach,” she explains with a halfhearted shrug. Luna watches her for a moment, and then offers her a piece of information that Raven has never heard. “Sometimes, when our people are injured, we use swimming to help them regain the muscle they have lost,” she says nonchalantly. “It eases pain, as well; if you are hurting, it may help.” Now that is an appealing thought, as much as Raven doesn’t want to admit it. Though the bed in her new cottage is more comfortable than any other she’s ever slept in, she has been unable to sleep, tossing and turning all night in an effort to find a position that doesn’t cramp and send sharp pains shooting up her leg. The prospect of relief, however minimal, is almost too good to ignore. Except — “I don’t know how to swim,” Raven shrugs. “On the Ark — ” “It wouldn’t have been possible.” Luna nods. “I understand.” She doesn’t sound the slightest bit judgmental, as Raven feared she would. While no one has been particularly rude about it, Raven has noted the Trikru’s expressions of surprise when they’ve learned about this particular deficit of Skaikru’s. She understands their disbelief, of course — it’s equally hard for her to imagine having never flown above the earth, as they have never done — but their reaction only serves to heighten her awareness of just how out of place all of them are on the ground. It’s marvelous to be on Earth at last, but the realization of just how much they have to learn is overwhelmingly daunting. Far from being fazed by Raven’s lack of experience, however, Luna only seems determined. “Of course, many of those who have been hurt have someone support them in the water,” she continues. She’s no longer directly meeting Raven’s eyes, which gives the Omega the distinct feeling that she’s trying to convey a subtler message. “If you’d like — ” “Can you teach me?” It takes a moment after Raven has blurted it out for her to realize that she is the one who has spoken. She wasn’t aware that the request is what she has been wanting. All she knows is that, suddenly, she can’t bear to hear Luna complete her sentence. Casual or not, help is help, and Raven is loathe to accept it. Asking for it, she decided years ago, is better than it being offered. Even more powerful though, she has discovered, is her growing desire to enjoy herself and find the fulfillment that will honor her memory of Finn. Part of her still feels discomforted by it. The notion of enjoying herself, of allowing herself to become absorbed in life and fun and, god forbid, someone else still seems utterly wrong. In the firelight, though, Luna’s words have brought to her the reconciliation that she was actively avoiding seeking. Finn would have wanted her to do all of the things that she hesitates to revel in. He gave his life for the joy that Raven sees on the beach all around her in the dusk. Perhaps her hesitation, she realizes, has nothing to do with Finn, and everything to do with only herself. It seems as though the peace the clans have struck will hold; if it does, the revelry will not end tonight. Whether she is uncomfortable with embracing it or not, life is going to go on. From the looks of it, it is going to be a joyful one. Raven doesn’t want it to go on without her. The bright grin that spreads across Luna’s face is all the answer that she needs. At the sight of it, Raven braces her hands behind her in the sand and begins to struggle to stand up. Luna is standing more rapidly, extending a hand, and Raven barely hesitates before taking it and allowing herself to be pulled to her feet. They hardly exchange a word as they set off down the beach; Luna matches her pace, stepping easily across the cool and moonlit sand. At the water’s edge, they pause. It is a little laborious to strip down to her underwear while balancing on one leg, but Raven manages it. She doesn’t miss the way that Luna fastens her eyes politely, determinedly elsewhere, and the sight of the powerful leader of a clan averting her eyes from a simple sports bra almost draws a laugh from Raven’s chest. Her friends aren’t nearly so considerate of her privacy; as she straightens up and tosses her shirt to the side with a flourish, a delighted whoop sounds from down within the waves. Several catcalls and a shrill wolf whistle follow, and this time, Raven actually grins. “Your friends are . . . appreciative,” Luna comments, eyes still focused on the sky. Raven huffs out her amusement. “That’s definitely a word for them.” Straightening fully up, she intends to comment further, but at the sight of Luna, the words die in her throat. Somehow, in the time that she was unfastening her brace, stripping down to her shorts, and refastening it over her bare skin, Luna has managed to rid herself of her clothes without Raven noticing. Unprepared, Raven is arrested by the vision that she makes, clad only in her undergarments against the backdrop of the dark water. They’re almost matching, which would amuse Raven were her throat not quite so dry. Luna’s bindings, while typical of grounder garments, showcase the broadness of her shoulders and the strength in her arms. Her stomach is chiseled, soft-looking but muscular, ending in the elastic of her boxer shorts. The slightly visible indication of what’s beneath them brings a dull blush to Raven’s cheeks. To her great dismay, it doesn’t go unnoticed, and Luna follows her gaze down before meeting her eyes again with a mild expression that almost succeeds at hiding the hint of a smirk. “I told you I don’t know what my designation is,” she says nonchalantly. “There are, at least, some clear indicators of what it is not.” Ignoring the fiercer blush that implication evokes, she steps forward across the dampened beach. So close to the water, the sand is firm beneath them, and the dull impression of her footprint fades before Raven can make herself look away. The edge of a wave brushes up along the side of her foot; though the air is warm, Raven shivers. Luna’s eyes are the color of the waves in the moonlight. The fractals of it send an odd thrill through Raven’s ribs; a moment of consideration, and it occurs to her that after so few days on Earth, it is a color she has never seen. “Shall we?” There is nothing expectant in the query, no underlying compulsion for Raven to make a choice. It is the freedom of it, Raven finds, that makes her want. Luna’s eyes are only open, along with her arms. Like the hatch to a spacewalk, Raven breathes, and lets herself tumble through. The rush of the foaming water around her shins is chilling as they wade out. The first contact with it makes her teeth chatter, but swiftly, even as the rest of her still shivers, the part of her that is submerged glows warm. When a wave crashes against her side, it makes her shriek. She dodges sideways as much as her brace will allow, only to be drenched on the other side by another wave. Luna’s laughter is bright as she squeals. The freezing force of the water shocks a brief stutter into her breath, and as her heartbeat edges into faster motion, Raven laughs at the unexpected delight of the adrenaline in induces. With the rush of the ocean loud in her ears, Raven almost doesn’t hear Luna approaching until she’s upon her; even then, the feeling of hot arms against her chilled, wet skin makes the muscles in her stomach jump in surprise. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” Raven can scarcely hear the low murmur over the pounding of the water underscored by her heartbeat. Luna’s breath is hot against her cheek. Her lips brush the side of Raven’s ear, and it’s only after an unfocused moment of concentration that she registers the feeling of their heads pressed gently together. The flutter in her stomach that it elicits, not unwelcome, is no longer even surprising. “The water gets much higher here. Just lean into me and let me hold you up.” Raven couldn’t disobey even if she wanted to. True to Luna’s word, the waves are increasing in their height so that when each one hits her, the bottom of her binding is caught and drenched. The cradle of Luna’s arms, when she leans back, is warm and steady, and she finds that her pulse has eased to match. They both go silent as the pressure of their bodies against each other steadies beneath the surface, the ragged breaths of the water churning up the shore out of their vision. The water that surrounds them is dark, limitless; above, the starlit sky mirrors its depth. In Luna’s arms, the weightlessness of water feels like zero gravity. Heda may sit upon a throne of swords and spears, but Clarke has a carpet. The braided rug on the living room floor is thick and wooly, cushiony and wonderful for sitting cross-legged. When she is drying her hair before the fire, or when they are too lazy to set the table for a meal, she steals over to it whenever Anya isn’t looking and eats curled up on the bright fabric. Anya laughs at her at first, unable to understand why she prefers sitting on the floor with a perfectly good couch at her back, but Clarke’s logic has a solid foundation. There were no rugs in space. Even if someone had been selfish enough to use up so much fabric, there was never any need. The entire station was perfectly climate-controlled every hour of every day for ninety-seven years. The change in seasons, even the simple fact of weather, has been hitting many of the Hundred hard, but Clarke revels in it. It makes each day exciting not knowing whether it will be cool or warm, sunny or raining, and while Anya smugly predicts that she will tire of it during winter, Clarke happens to disagree. She understands, of course, why the grounders don’t. Storms, rainy seasons, and droughts all hurt crops, endanger pups, and damage houses with fires and floods and fallen trees. Still, the novelty keeps Clarke engaged. She likes the freedom of it, of knowing that each day will be a little different and bring more experiences she has yet to have, more Trigedasleng words for natural phenomena that she has yet to learn. She’s hardly fluent, but when Alma comes and visits them on the fourth day of their self-imposed heat isolation, Clarke discovers that she is significantly more conversational than she thought. In the five moon rises and four sun cycles since Clarke’s heat hit, they have not left the house. They have moved, in Clarke’s hazy memory, mainly between the couch, the bathtub, and the bedroom, with occasional trips to the kitchen to raid the stash of food that Alma prepared for them. By the waning of day four yesterday, they were both beginning to tire, but Clarke has found upon waking this morning that her heat has largely abated and her energy returned. It has been, she decides over her omelette, a sort of honeymoon. After weeks of waiting and longing, days uninterrupted in Anya’s company was all that Clarke wanted, and that’s exactly what she has gotten. She has had days and nights on end alone with her new mate, and it has proved enervating for them both. The opportunity to affirm their bond has been a long time coming. Clarke has taken every advantage of it, enjoying every minute. When they finally come back to Earth, it is late morning, and they are putting the living room to rights when a knock sounds on the door. Startled, Clarke looks up, unused to such customs, but Anya moves quickly to the door and is greeting Alma before it’s even open. “Alive, I see,” the older woman says with a shrewd grin. She’s beaming, bearing in her arms a large empty basket. “I know how new mates are, and I wouldn’t bother you except that the market has a new haul in from Podakru today, so I thought I would see if you two had decided to surface.” A faint blush tinges Anya’s cheeks. “Nana,” she mutters, but Alma has set her eyes on Clarke before she can begin to voice her embarrassment. “You’re looking well, my child.” Alma’s voice softens; instinctively, Clarke feels her shoulders lower with ease. There is something about the timbre of the woman’s voice that is comforting in the same way Jake’s was: a warm, familial gentleness. Glancing down, she can see what Alma means. Clarke’s hair is properly clean for probably the first time since she was arrested, and she’s dressed in new, unripped clothes for the first time in her life. Anya’s leggings that she’s wearing are a little too long, but the soft, cropped shirt she dug out of the back of a drawer is quite comfortable. It fits her snugly, the low collar showcasing the mating mark on her neck. Her heat has infused her body with a satiated glow that still lingers beneath her skin. Most of all, she carries high within her heart and on the crook of her neck the new assertion that she is wanted; cared for. Alma’s right, she is looking well, and Clarke can safely say that that’s a first. “Thank you,” is her sincere reply, though she can’t keep herself from blushing a little at the compliment. “Your granddaughter has taken good care of me.” She can sense Anya’s embarrassment increase as Alma’s grin broadens. “That is because my mate deserves it,” Anya adds pointedly, “and what kind of Alpha would I be if I did not give her what she deserves?” She stands proudly taller at that, and the image would be amusing were last night’s memory of her giving Clarke what she deserves not quite so fresh. “Not so fast,” Alma tuts loudly as Clarke sends her mate a warm smile. “Does your mate deserve some clothes of her own, or have you so little need for them that you’ve decided to spare yourselves the laundry and go without them for a while?” Anya glares as Clarke stifles mortified laughter in the couch cushions. “Did you just come here to heckle us, or did you have a point to make?” she huffs. Alma is close enough that she leans in to swat at her granddaughter with the basket. Anya ducks, but not fast enough, and Clarke chuckles again at the way the cuff to the back of her head stands Anya’s hair on end. “My point is that there is a full market awaiting your endless need to spoil your new mate, and if you don’t get there soon, Linkin’s young branwada of an Alpha will take it all before you even arrive,” Alma warns. She directs her next words at Clarke, ignoring her granddaughter’s petulant frown. “That reminds me, Klark; young Okteivia has a message for you from one of your Hundred,” she tells her. “She says that your friend Miller and his healer mate stopped by yesterday on their way to Luna’s village. They left one of those talk boxes they all use, and are bringing another with them so that you can all talk into them at each other when everyone is too busy to pay a visit.” She says the unfamiliar words in gonasleng, and as Clarke struggles to understand her meaning, she realizes that it sounds out-of-place because up until this point, they have conversed entirely in Trigedasleng. She’s scarcely even noticed. It occurs to her, however, that if she is to improve her ability to speak at all, total immersion is precisely what she needs. “I have a request,” she begins, and then pauses as soon as she has their attention, intending to switch into Trigedasleng and considering how to phrase what she wants to say next. After a moment’s contemplation, she settles on, “Nou chich gonasleng raun ai noumou,” and hopes it conveys her meaning clearly enough. “My dear, if you wish to hear no more gonasleng, your wish is granted,” Alma acquiesces happily. “This old head has struggles enough. What it does not have,” she declares, turning to fix her granddaughter with a pointed look, “is that new hat you promised me before you went gallivanting off to fight a pile of children who fell out of the sky. I believe that Podakru are selling some excellent ones today if Maud from the bakery’s gossip is reliable, and I must say that it usually is. Now, if you are quite finished canoodling, I’m sure your mate would love a new wardrobe and a walking tour. Bants!” With that, and with a final fond pinch of Clarke’s rosy cheek, Alma sees herself out the door. Anya watches her go with a pained look in her eyes. “I wish I could say her behavior will improve,” she laments, sounding slightly strained, “but she has been like this for as long as I can remember. It can be truly aggravating.” “I think she’s wonderful,” Clarke says softly. “She clearly loves you very much.” Anya shakes her head, but she cannot dispel the fond exasperation lining the set of her mouth. “Perhaps,” she grants. Clarke takes the opportunity to move into her personal space, turning the Alpha’s head to face her with two fingers to her jaw. Immediately at her touch, Anya softens. A wave of her scent rushes over Clarke, subtle in the morning air; Earth and ozone, a heady new combination of them both. Clarke bites her lip. It breaks her heart to realize that in the war they fought, in the escape they fled, any other choice could have led them to death. They are a mere breath away from a world without Anya, and it hurts Clarke in this moment to realize how easily they could have never known one another beyond anything but enemies. A purr rumbling to life in her chest, she crowds Anya back against the counter, pressing kisses to every inch of exposed skin, nuzzling into the neck and heartbeat of the woman she has come to love. “I can think of someone else who loves you, too.” She says it more quietly, low enough so that Anya has to duck her head to hear. Stretching up on her tiptoes, she drops a kiss on the Alpha’s cheek and watches her flush pink at the gesture of affection. Anya’s eyes are bright when she leans down to kiss her properly, but she pauses to whisper against the curve of Clarke’s cheek. “I think I might know the feeling.” When Clarke encounters Octavia in the middle of the market in the square, it is as a much different woman than the one who rode into Anilin days ago on the heels of war. In her dark deerskin leggings and sky-blue leather jacket, with the top of her hair pulled partially back, Clarke looks younger and calmer than she did when Octavia last saw half the village kneeling at her feet. A glimpse of a strappy black shirt is visible beneath her open jacket, baring half her stomach — the Trikru aren’t particularly partial to being fully clothed, Octavia has been delighted to discover — and the fresh scar of her mating mark is peeking out from the jacket’s collar. Her hair shines, her skin and eyes glowing. When she spots Octavia, a grin spreads across her face and she begins picking her way delicately across the square on bare feet, unaccustomed to the hard ground. It is, Octavia realizes, the first time she has ever seen Clarke smile. She’s not the only one who is happier, Octavia acknowledges. In the days that Clarke and Anya have been closeted away since their arrival, Octavia has done some settling in as well. Having the time to absorb her new surroundings in peace has been good, though she has missed the action and intensity of training. She was delighted to discover that the small home she’ll share with Lincoln is not only two stories tall, but also has windows. Not that she plans on spending any amount of time inside, but Octavia lived for too long without being able to see anything of her surroundings. Sleeping on the second floor, with a skylight right above the bed, has almost made up for the sixteen years she spent beneath the floor. It’s not the only aspect of her lifestyle that has drastically been altered. On the Ark, had she not been an illegal second child, Octavia’s Alpha status would have earned her better treatment after she presented. It wouldn’t have been overt, of course, but she would have eaten better all the same. The fact remains, though, that she has never been well-dressed or well-fed. The last few days have altered that. She’s excited to acquire new clothing today. For the past few days, she’s been able to borrow some hand-me-downs belonging to Jean’s sister, but she’ll be eager to have her own. She knows that she already looks less like Skaikru than before, but it will be a relief to finally shed the last vestiges of the clan to which she never truly belonged. Like Clarke, she’s already visibly different. She has kept her hair in the braided style designated for her rank. The warm day has her clad in a sleeveless shirt, baring her newly tattooed shoulder for all to see. Clarke notes the tattoo with appraising eyes as she approaches. Like Anya’s, it is geometric, a pattern of lines crawling up from Octavia’s bicep into the crook of her neck. The points of several of them end at the base of her mating mark. While not the design she would want, nor the location, Clarke decides she wants one eventually, too. “You have a horse?” Surprise makes the question come out in gonasleng; recognizing this, Clarke stops and rephrases in Trig, “Yu gada hosa in?” Octavia grins as she dismounts. Clarke envies the way she lands effortlessly in the dirt; while the arrow wound in her own leg is nearly completely healed, it still twinges enough that she struggles a little to stay balanced on impact. She hopes that she’ll get more used to riding. The horse doesn’t even wear a saddle; Octavia has been riding bareback, her hands tangled in the horse’s mane. She looks like she’s ridden one her whole life. “Sha. His name’s Helios,” she says proudly, gently slapping the horse’s flank as Clarke rushes forward to stroke his nose. “He was Lincoln’s cousin’s, but Ollie hurt his leg in a logging accident last summer and can’t ride. No one’s been riding Helios since — have they, sweetheart?” she croons, and Helios bumps her hand with his nose. “So, Ollie told me I could have him as long as I ride him enough. I’ll need him to go back and forth to Tondisi this winter anyway for training.” “Readying for war, then?” Clarke queries mildly. Her eyes are averted as she continues to pet the horse, but Octavia senses her unspoken question. “Not really,” she shrugs. “It’s mostly basics to get me caught up with the other sekens — you know, practice for guard duty at Kongeda meetings, get me trained up in case anyone else falls out of the sky. Things are looking pretty tense with Azgeda; it’s only a matter of time before things come to a head, but Indra says it’ll probably stay limited to the circle of Kongeda ambassadors. Queen Nia will throw out some challenge or another, and then Heda will finally have an excuse to supplant her with her son Roan. Bit of a sexist shmuck, but apparently he’s not too awful.” She doesn’t miss the way Clarke wrinkles her nose, and laughs. “It sounds like anything’s better than Nia,” Clarke muses. “I haven’t heard many good reviews.” “Nor are you likely to.” A hand slipping down to intertwine with her own informs her that Anya has escaped the clutches of Alma, who waylaid her when they were halfway to the market with more specific details regarding her envisioned new hat. Her other hand slides around to stroke across the bare skin of Clarke’s stomach, and Clarke blushes involuntarily at what after her heat feels like a much more significant touch. “Nia’s standard for the treatment of Omegas is abysmal. From what Echo said, though, it sounds as though Heda may have some raids to order on Azgedan villages in the coming months. You may find some skirmishes to train for after all, Okteivia.” Ignoring Octavia, who looks positively thrilled at this rather grim prospect, Clarke meets her Alpha’s gaze to find Anya smiling down at her with an ease that doesn’t quite suit her morbid predictions. “But enough of Nia,” she says. “Are you ready to explore the market, ai niron? I saw some boots a few stalls back that ought to fit you well.” “New clothes!” Octavia’s shout only widens Anya’s smile. “Shit, Clarke, I don’t know about you, but I’ve hardly had anything new since I was, like, six. Mom just kept letting out my dress until I got arrested. Prison was kind of great, actually. I finally got a set of clothes that actually fit. More space than under the floor, too; I could actually lie down without scrunching up.” Anya, Clarke notices, is mildly overwhelmed by this onslaught of examples of mistreatment. Not for the first time, it strikes Clarke how normal such conditions once seemed to her. Ignorance is bliss, she supposes. “My seventeenth birthday was my last outfit exchange, I think,” the Omega considers. “I suddenly stopped fitting my old things after I presented, so I got to do it sooner than usual.” At her side, she hears Anya let out a rush of air, along with a muttered word in Trig that Clarke doesn’t quite catch. “Brace yourself,” Octavia advises, giving Helios’s ear a little tug. “Anya’s about to storm the entire market until you need an extra bedroom just to hold all of your clothes.” Clarke’s cheeks redden. Through all of their conversations about acquiring her a new wardrobe, it hasn’t occurred to her until now that she has no way to pay for it. The realization makes her heart sink a little. She has been looking forward to leaving her dingy Skaikru clothing behind for good and finding something better suited to a life on Earth. Anya’s clothes, though comfortable, don’t quite fit her right. Her mate is taller than she is, her hips and ribs narrower, and while trying on options this morning, the difference showed. Clarke feels heavy and awkward in Anya’s clothes, and with the way her body is filling out with better nourishment, her old Ark garments are uncomfortably tight. It looks, though, like she’ll just have to make do. “I have no money,” she admits, dropping her eyes from her mate to continue stroking Helios’s nose. Anya guffaws. “Neither has anyone else, apart from Azgeda. The clans have not used coins in nearly a hundred years. We trade,” she explains. Clarke only lifts a shoulder. The excitement of the morning has diffused somewhat with the realization that she won’t be able to indulge a little, after all. At least Anya can still take her on a walking tour of Anilin. “I have nothing to trade,” she counters. In front of them, Octavia is for once displaying an ounce of tact and fiddling determinedly with the hem of her shirt, trying hard not to draw attention to herself. Clarke follows her lead and tries to look as though she’s fully absorbed in the white splotch marking Helios’s forehead. The short hairs there are fine and soft beneath her suddenly clammy fingertips. Exhaling roughly, Anya’s huff makes her cringe a little. Now, on top of everything, she’s managed to annoy her mate. How did this morning go from wonderful to discouraging so fast? “Klark.” Anya catches her chin with a gentle but insistent hand and angles it so that Clarke has no choice but to face her. She does, however, let her eyes drop to the space between them on the ground. Feeling a blush of shame light her cheeks, she curls her bare toes into a clump of grass and swallows hard. “Klark, please. Do not be ridiculous. Of course you have something to trade.” That catches Clarke’s attention. Despite herself, she glances upward, and finds Anya watching her with something immeasurably soft in her eyes. The look makes her breath catch somewhere deep in her chest. Somehow, even after all the intimate ways they’ve shared themselves with each other over the past four days, the emotion in Anya’s eyes when she looks at her still manages to make Clarke melt. It has the immediate effect of making her breath come easier and her tensed shoulders relax. She begins to speak, to question, but when Anya takes her hands in hers, her words fly out of her head. “Klark, you delivered these people from an evil that has stolen their loved ones from their beds for over half a century.” Anya’s voice is low, earnest in a way that makes Clarke squirm a little even as she bites her lip in disagreement. “That is trade enough for a lifetime. Besides, soon you will be a healer here, and the care you give will be traded for goods. People in roles of service like those, like healers or Heda, pay with the good they do for the community.” Clarke bites her lip harder, considering. The exchange sounds reasonable, but she can’t shake the feeling that she’s taking advantage, somehow. Maybe it’s a remnant of growing up on the Ark, being taught never to ask for anything, to always take less than her share. To accept something without immediate payment feels like cheating. She can see Octavia nodding out of the corner of her eye, though; she sighs. “All right,” she acquiesces. “As long as I can make it clear to them that they can come to me for anything once I have some of Nyko’s herbs to start out with.” “Of course,” Anya agrees instantly. There is a tiny quirk at the corner of her lips, more mischievous than usual, and it sends a thrill of suspicion through Clarke. “However, it is irrelevant. You will not be trading today — I will.” The suspicion dissolves into an intake of breath, and Clarke tugs a little at their joined hands. “Anya, you don’t have to buy me things — ” A sharp yet gentle pull brings her reeling back from her attempted escape. “I want to,” is the unrelenting response. “Will you deny me that?” Anya’s eyes are sparkling at her; her whole being is lit up in brilliant sunlight, godlike in the mundane circle of Anilin’s hitching posts, and for a moment, Clarke is completely enraptured. There is something so ridiculously surreal about the fact that this untouchable entity of light and power dressed up in Trikru clothes is hers that Clarke is struck dumb. The feel of Anya’s hands, the taste of her in her mouth, the twinning souls that Clarke can feel residing in her chest; all must be the manifestation of some magnificent and elaborate dream. How on Earth is she supposed to hold a conversation when the only thing that commands her attention is how lucky she is? “I — ” Clarke begins, and then recognizing the place of honor she is attempting to argue with, absolutely gives up. “I love you,” Anya declares simply. She gives Clarke’s hands an earnest squeeze. In the light midmorning air, the words sound almost unremarkable, but Clarke’s heartbeat still stutters. “Is that not reason enough?” When Clarke only stares at her, half helplessly and half in utter adoration, Anya chuckles, and then her gaze softens to match. “Let me spoil you, Klark,” she murmurs. “I have wanted to for longer than you know.” The hope she radiates is painful to behold. At the sight of it, Clarke finally caves. Anya, she remembers, has spent the past seven summers without anyone to dote upon the way she so desperately wants to. She recalls the Alpha’s fierce joy upon Clarke’s admission that she wanted her. She thinks of the attentiveness and affection she has been showered with over the past days, recalls Anya’s promises to prove her devotion. She remembers the Trigedasleng meanings of Alpha and Omega, and feels sympathy settle within her. All this time, she has wanted to embrace, fully, every aspect of her designation and what it means. This, she realizes, is Anya doing the same. “Okay,” she agrees. “I’d like that.” Anya grins brightly at her, eyes lighting up, and Clarke is struck by how youthful she looks. She reminds herself that twenty-seven is, after all, still very young. “Plus, a first heat is cause for celebration.” Sensing the uptick in mood, Octavia has rallied back into her usual exuberance. “Getting presents after your first one is like, a thing Clarke.” The intensity of the moment is broken by Anya’s laugh. “That is true,” she affirms; “a first heat is typically honored with gifts, or — ” “Drinking,” Octavia supplies; a glance at Anya confirms that she is right. With a roguish grin shot in Clarke’s direction, she takes up Helios’s reins and indicates a distant market stall. “All right, Griff, I have to go. I lost to Jean at drunk wrestling last night, so I owe him lunch and a joyride on Helios.” Across the heads of market-goers, Clarke can see Jean waving wildly in front of a cobbler’s shop. “Happy shopping, though. We should all eat together soon. Maybe take a picnic to the river?” “That would be nice,” Anya concurs. Nodding her agreement, Clarke suddenly feels like laughing. A month or two ago, they were both awaiting death in a cage in the sky, and now they’re planning group dinners like they’re real adults. It occurs to her that maybe they are. They have mates now, and homes, and within days will be situated in the community as a warrior and healer. It’s funny, she thinks, where people end up. Octavia is studying her with an odd expression. “Peace looks good on you, Griffin,” she says after a moment of consideration. Clarke can feel her smile burn in the tops of her cheeks. “Peace feels good,” she declares. Octavia’s smile mirrors her own, more genuine than her usual teasing smirks. Then she clucks to Helios to move, and with a parting wave, disappears into the crowd. As she leaves Clarke and Anya behind at the hitching post, skipping along the cobblestones with Helios’s reins warm in her hands, the lightness in Octavia swells even bigger and brighter than before. It is a relief to see her friends looking so well. Clarke smells content, Octavia noticed when she arrived. She looks well-rested despite being at the waning of her heat. Anya, too, looks more relaxed than before, more settled in herself and at peace. Their bond has deepened; Octavia can see it. The relief of being loved has done much to steady their healing hearts. Octavia still can’t quite believe that they’ve gotten here. After all this time — all the wars and fear and uncertainty — all of them at last are home. Such an outcome challenges everything she has ever been taught to expect. What, after all, would her future back on the Ark have held? She knew as young as three or four years old that she could never go anywhere, do anything, be anyone; that she would be condemned to live beneath the floor forever, unknown and unwanted by anyone but Bellamy and Aurora. While both loved her and taught her to recognize joy when she felt it, neither ever bothered to teach her to hope for something better; not when there was nothing to hope for. Part of her is glad she never learned to hope for this. It only makes it that much more of a gift. The bright-eyed fascination with which Clarke drinks in the market is almost worth the wars they had to fight to get there. As Anya leads her new mate through Anilin’s central square, she looks upon the market with fresh perspective. She has spent her entire life in Anilin; she knows its sights and sounds and the feel of its cobblestones by heart. She has been to markets, too, in Polis and Tondisi, in smaller Trikru villages up north, and to the Floukru fish markets by the sea. Clarke, though, has never seen such a spectacle, and her excitement and curiosity are unbelievably endearing. She marvels at displays of crafts laid out by traveling vendors, gapes at stalls overflowing with fresh produce. Her eyes sparkle as her fingers catch on bright fabrics as they pass clothing stalls, and her wonder makes a pinch of affection rise up sharply in Anya’s throat. It is criminal, she thinks, that her mate has been denied such simple pleasures all her life. Anya leads Clarke through the series of stalls, talking her through seasonal clothing and the merits of good boots. It has never been clearer that life on the Ark was vastly different from the world Anya has always known. Clearly unaccustomed to being able to select her own possessions, much less new and numerous ones, Clarke remains almost frustratingly frugal. It takes a good deal of coaxing and insistence from Anya for her to be persuaded that she isn’t accepting too much. Ultimately though, with a little intervention from Lincoln and Callum, who pass by on their way to the paddocks, Clarke is convinced, and Anya satisfied. By high noon, they have accumulated a reasonable assortment of outfits. Anya has twice been tempted to trade for an exceptionally fancy pair of gloves, but a pleading look from Clarke has been enough to quell her impulses until colder weather sets in. She cannot be dissuaded, however, when they come upon the last vendor in the line, far out at the end of the square. Anya’s plan, with Clarke’s new wardrobe secured, was to take her on a walk around Anilin to give her a proper introduction to the village. She intended to lead them through the winding back streets to the community garden, and from there to the little training grounds she set up years ago. Her plans are put on pause, however, when they pass by the last market stall. In the back of it, she can see the vendor, Jerome, arranging a bundle of clothes hangers on racks. Hanging from every wall is a beautiful array of dresses, most for autumn and winter, but with a few spring and summer pieces left. Clarke says nothing as they pass; she doesn’t have to. Anya sees the look in her eyes and halts before either of them can take another step. When Clarke looks to her questioningly, Anya gestures to the dresses. “You should take a look,” is her light suggestion. “Jerome is from Podakru, but he brings wares from dressmakers in Louwoda Kliron Kru, and they are known for being high quality. I have some myself.” She can see the wheels turning immediately in Clarke’s brain, followed by the slightest widening of her eyes at the thought of Anya in a dress. The Alpha bites back a smirk; Clarke has never seen her in such attire. Often busy with training and her carving, she doesn’t often indulge — preferring practical clothing — but she does enjoy the few times that she chooses to wear dresses. Perhaps she will have to do so for Clarke’s . . . enjoyment. She fully expects Clarke to protest the need for such indulgence, but to her surprise, the Omega only nods with poorly disguised eagerness. She approaches the racks of dresses with shining eyes. Anya notices that she gravitates toward the brighter colors, and reminded, makes a note to herself to collect later the paints that she enlisted Alma to stealthily obtain while they’ve been busy fussing over clothes. She realizes that it’s another thing space was probably missing: color. Clarke, she sees, has stopped before a rack of late summer dresses, one hand frozen where it’s outstretched. “Can you — how do sizes work?” she queries. Something about the question is stiff, like it’s taken particular effort to force out. The awkward hesitation in her tone puts Anya immediately on alert. She quirks an eyebrow in response, not entirely understanding; hand dropping back to her side, Clarke sighs. “I’ve only worn one other dress before,” she explains. “But I’ve uh — heard that it can be hard to fit in them when you’re — not a certain size, and I — ” She cuts herself off at the feeling of Anya’s hand taking her own. As Anya rubs her thumb softly over the back of her hand, the Omega fidgets with the corner of her jacket. She seems to be waiting for Anya to speak, wanting to say more but uncertain how to phrase it. Anya allows Clarke a minute to collect herself while she considers how best to proceed. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see that Jerome has paused with his hangers in his arms. “I don’t agree with this,” Clarke prefaces after a little contemplation, “not anymore. Not here.” There is an undercurrent of earnestness to it, as though she is determined to prove it to Anya. “On the Ark,” she continues carefully, “no one ate well. We couldn’t; I know I’ve told you that.” Wordlessly, Anya gives a nod of encouragement. “You have,” she affirms, giving Clarke’s hand a gentle squeeze. Clarke echoes her nod. With it, she seems to gain a little conviction, as though having Anya’s acknowledgment makes what she is about to say hold less power over her. “Since food was tightly rationed, people were always hungry, some more than others,” she continues after a breath. “Sometimes people stole. Sometimes they got caught, and if they did, they were floated, but it was hard to prove. Mostly, you could tell because someone looked a little healthier than everyone else — if they were a little less pale, or if a child was a little less skinny than the others. It was — shameful to look like that, to be eating more when everyone else was starving. It was . . . a visible sign that you were taking more than your share, and — and for an Omega, more than you were worth.” The last part is a whisper; Clarke has lowered her head, and Anya doesn’t even have to look to see the burn of a blush in her cheeks. With their new bond tying her to Clarke’s scent, she can sense the Omega’s emotions almost as well as her own. That Clarke doesn’t believe the truth of the words she has uttered is clear, but that they wring heartache from her nonetheless is equally so. A confused torrent of emotions swirls in Anya’s heart; fury, first, and then sadness as she is reminded once again of the ways in which the livelihood of being an Omega was stolen from her mate for almost eighteen years. That things are different on the ground goes unsaid; she knows that Clarke knows. In the past five days alone, Anya has seen her embrace her designation to the fullest. Having known from the moment she landed on Earth the poignancy of what she has been missing something, Clarke has made up for her lack of opportunities with relish. Anya’s presence has helped, but for the most part, Clarke has taken it upon herself to discover everything she can be. She is having fun. The rest of Skaikru are learning, too. No doubt they will someday come to embrace it as Clarke has, but the process is slow, and Anya doubts that they have the same drive that has led Clarke to seek out joy so avidly. She knows that Clarke is determined to cast aside Skaikru’s old beliefs and enjoy being an Omega in every way. It doesn’t stop her from wanting to assert how much Clarke has to look forward to; how the world she has chosen to live in will treasure her exactly as she is. “The Skaikru may have seen being underfed as a mark of duty to their people,” Anya counters firmly, keeping her grip on Clarke’s hand gentle, “but here on Earth, to eat well and to show it on your body is to thrive. Especially for Omegas. Carrying pups is difficult; one must be strong. Whether ones chooses to bear pups or not, that weight the Skaikru see as so undesirable is a mark of health. It is the sign of a strong community, but more importantly, it is what you deserve.” It is difficult to convey the intensity of what she means without sounding angry, but Clarke’s eyes are blazing with equal ferocity. “I like what I look like,” she declares with surprising fierceness. The light squeeze she gives Anya’s hand is a gentle contrast to the fire in her voice. “I feel like an Omega in this body. I know that I’m healthy, or getting there, at least, and I like that. It’s just — I’m used to being told that everything about me is wrong. Hearing that I’m allowed to take up space is just going to take some getting used to, that’s all.” “I doubt you will encounter a single person outside of Azgeda who would say otherwise,” Anya states assuredly. “Skaikru’s beliefs are understandable, but holding onto them will not be reasonable here on the ground.” She pauses for a moment, before adding, a little gruffly, “Besides, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” Clarke’s mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. The sharp blue of her eyes has gone misty, reminding Anya with a glow of warmth in her heart of the fields of cornflowers near their home in the hazy autumn dawn. A tiny tremble catches at the corner of her lips. “Did you know that I love you?” she murmurs at last, a little helplessly. Anya smiles at her, and something about the expression feels gentler than any other she has ever worn. “You only told me recently,” she says lightly, “but I do enjoy hearing it again each day.” Clarke lets out a watery chuckle at that. Her smile is slightly teary, but the shimmer in her eyes is deep and warm. Caught up in her gaze, Anya feels their bond flicker stronger at the edges of her heart. Then at the back, Jerome drops his clothes hangers with a clatter; he curses, earning a laugh, and the gossamer threads of moment are broken. Chuckling, the two of them rip themselves away from each other with tangible resistance, and Clarke flits back to the dresses she was eyeing with a small smile. “All of that being said, I think that anything on this rack would fit you,” Anya decides after a quick appraisal. “Would you like to try any on?” Clarke’s eyes land immediately on a peach-colored sundress, and the smile on her lips sets and broadens. “This one.” There is a place to change between two curtains Jerome has hung in his wagon, and Clarke disappears into it with the dress and her smile lingering in her dimples. While she’s gone, Anya tries to fight the itch that her absence produces, even as near as she remains. It’s normal, she knows; new mates always struggle to be parted. They have spent almost the entirety of the last four days wrapped in each other’s arms — and closer. Their scents have altered to complement each other. A new awareness of each other’s emotions connects them more deeply, and with each thud of Anya’s heartbeat, the essence of another pulse beats in time. Being so newly, intimately bonded has left Anya feeling more protective and more affectionate. To be separated from her mate after Clarke’s first heat is unsettling to her soul. Soon enough, though, Clarke emerges, and when she does, Anya’s heartbeat has a whole new set of problems. The way she stares is probably impolite, and certainly draws a guffaw from Jerome — a Beta, to whom their mutual flare of pheromones will only smell amusing — but Anya absolutely can’t find it in herself to give a damn. Jerome may have high-quality dresses, but Anya thinks that the person the dress is on, not the garment itself, is the source of the radiance before her. Light, silky fabric perfectly frames generous curves, hugging hips and shoulders and falling softly past Clarke’s knees. Sun-kissed skin glows against the dark peach of the material, bringing the sky blue of sparkling eyes to a deeper navy. The swell of her breasts is soft beneath the low neck, the sheen of her mating mark brushed by the edge of a strap. Clarke looks stunning, and by the way she leans a shoulder against the side of the wagon with an unmissable smirk, she is well aware. It should probably evoke something more risqué in Anya than pride, but looking upon the starved, neglected woman who fell from the sky standing before her in clothes she feels good in, Anya feels like it’s justified. Clarke looks lighter than she’s ever seen her. Anya gapes, her arms hanging limp and useless by her sides. It’s hard not to feel foolish standing next to someone who looks so much like a being born of sunlight. It’s a good thing that Jerome is distracted around the back of the wagon, because it’s equally hard not to rip the elegant dress off of Clarke’s beautiful body right then and there. The smirk only begins to morph into curiosity when Anya is crowding her up against the high wagon box, hands stroking appreciatively over every inch of exposed skin. Clarke doesn’t have time to do anything more than gasp as her back hits the wood before Anya is kissing her into oblivion. Instantly, though, she throws her arms up around the Alpha’s neck. It doesn’t last long; before Clarke can relax into the pace of their kiss Anya is breaking it, nuzzling down a graceful neck to press feverish kisses to where the neckline of her dress frames the tops of her breasts. A gentle nip to the soft skin earns a sharp whimper. Then Clarke registers that Anya is mumbling something incomprehensible into her cleavage, and she laughs. “What are you talking about down there?” she teases her fondly; when Anya doesn’t respond immediately, she gives the collar of the Alpha’s shirt a tug. “Come up here.” She gasps again as Anya kisses her way back up her neck, the feeling of hot lips against her mating mark sending a jolt of need between her thighs. “I said I love your body, strik Treja,” Anya mumbles against the shell of her ear; the feeling of her so close makes Clarke shiver. “I love your curves. I love your thighs and your hips, I love the bow of your lips and the freckles on your arms. I love you, gods.” Were she less wrapped up in Clarke, Anya might feel embarrassed at the way her voice cracks, but the way her Omega preens at the attention only evokes satisfaction. Her pheromones drag Anya deeper into her orbit, and despite what sounds like an attempt to choke it down, Clarke begins to audibly purr. “You also love the dress then, I take it?” Jerome speaks up from around the corner, and while Clarke jumps a little beneath her skin, Anya only presses closer. Jerome may be a Beta, one she has known for a large portion of her life, one with no particular attention towards Clarke whatsoever, but Anya’s possessiveness of her mate has grown too strong over the last few days for her to not feel the urge to assert the slightest bit of dominance. She won’t restrain Clarke from doing as she wishes, but Clarke has been interfered with enough over the course of her young life. Now that she is at last within the safe and freeing circle of her arms, Anya isn’t about to let her lose that, as unreasonable as any perceived threat may be. But Clarke only laughs at her rare display of overt Alpha behavior, craning her neck around Anya’s head to slap her on the shoulder and smile unashamedly at Jerome. “We’ll take it,” she calls. Anya can feel her chest shaking with laughter as she buries her head deeper in the crook of the Omega’s neck. “How much?” A light tsk follows, and though she can’t see him, Anya is certain that Jerome is shaking his head. “For you, Wanheda? It is my honor.” He says it so solemnly that Anya is at last enticed to pull back. She pauses in her lavishing of affection, lips hovering just above a freckled collarbone. Against her, she can feel Clarke breathe deeply once, twice. Then her body straightens, and something in her seems to calm; not as though the weight has lifted, but as though the shoulders that bear it have settled in their strength. “The honor is mine,” Clarke replies steadily. Her Trigedasleng is accented but clear, equal deference low in her tone, and if Anya thought she knew all the reasons she loves her, it turns out that she is woefully, wonderfully wrong. A number of market stalls are spread out down the cobbled back streets of Anilin, more devoted to trinkets than clothing or food. Anya explains that they are more permanent installations, kept by locals but contributed to by the Podakru market when it makes its rounds through Trikru territory. It is all Clarke can do not to devote hours on end to looking at all the wares on display. Anya, to her credit, waits patiently as she marvels at it all. “I would like to show you something.” Anya speaks up only after they’ve spent nearly ten minutes lingering at one stall. Registering her Alpha’s voice dimly through her wonderment, Clarke tears herself away from an array of whittled candlesticks done by a Podakru artist. As she moves, though, her eyes fall upon a series of paintings hung along the front of the stall. All show variations of the same scene: lakes against a backdrop of mountains and clear skies. “Are those Podakru lands?” she wants to know. Anya follows her gaze. “Sha. That is a lake in the heart of their territory, near the sunflower fields they harvest in the summertime,” she explains. Wonderingly, Clarke lifts a hand as though to touch the paint, though she stops with her fingers hovering over the canvas. “Can we go there someday?” She scarcely realizes that she’s asked it until she hears Anya’s soft laugh.“Of course we can. We can travel to the lands of many of the clans, if you would like; you should see them for yourself. But for now, come; there is something I would like you to see,” she repeats, and this time, though with some reluctance, Clarke allows herself to be pulled away. Attached to Anilin’s row houses on its left side, the little building sits at the end of a narrow back street, its exterior open to the waving grasses of the western meadows. When they pause in front of the last door in the row, Clarke sends Anya a puzzled look. The Alpha only gestures for her to open it, and steps back with her hands clasped. The wooden door creaks on worn hinges as Clarke pushes it open. A breath of cool, musty air washes over her, bathing the exposed skin of her cheeks and stomach with the scent of aging stone. The interior is dark, the shutters on the windows of the little house closed, and coming in from the bright sunlight, it takes Clarke’s eyes a moment to adjust. When the dimness begins to filter away and objects take form, her breath stutters in the back of her throat. Like their home, the little room is all wood and stone. A wide, deep fireplace yawns to the left, the mantle fashioned of thick, polished oak. A marble-topped wooden table and a straight-backed chair — rudimentary but sturdy — take up the back corner of the room. In the center, a long counter fills the dusky space, and under the windows in the right wall, the frames of two bed pallets stand unmade. Innumerable shelves line the back wall, half-empty, some housing an assortment of dusty bottles and tins. Above, the broad roof beams are lined with hooks from which baskets and several bunches of dried plants hang. Her post-heat nose twitching at the tickle of must and herbs, Clarke tries to understand. When Anya snared her attention away from the art displays at the Podakru stalls, she explained that there was something Clarke needed to see. Clarke expected another market stall, or perhaps the waterfall that she’s heard lies to the north of the village. She’s wholly unprepared for the apparent significance of this quaint little building that makes her spine shiver with inexplicable anticipation. Her fingers curl around the cool wood of the door jamb; swaying a little for balance, Clarke casts a glance over her shoulder at Anya, who stands with her hands in her pockets in the sunny street. “What is this place?” She speaks softly so as not to disturb whatever petrichor-dusted whispers linger in the corners of the stones. “It is yours.” The crooked smile Anya sends her is a laughable contrast to what Clarke is sure is her own absolutely flabbergasted gawking. Stepping up beside her in the doorway, the Alpha reaches around her into the room. After a moment of fumbling and the hiss of a match, a little tin lantern flickers to life, throwing dancing shadows all along the rough walls. “Anilin’s healer Janine was taken by the Maunon last season; this was where she held her healing practice. As our new healer, it now belongs to you.” Clarke opens her mouth, and then closes it and breathes deeply. The coolness of the air is sweet in her nose. Between one blink and the next, Anya is facing her, her delicate, callused fingers cradling Clarke’s cheek. “You told me once that taking care of your people by defending them with violence goes against everything you are,” she whispers, “that your instinct is to heal rather than to fight.” Her fingertip traces the apple of Clarke’s cheek, leaving a burning trail in its wake. “You can do that here.” Clarke nods on another slow, deep inhale. Then, turning her head, she presses a swift kiss to Anya’s palm and steps further into the room beyond her. As she observes the space, new visions rise to life beneath her gaze. It is easy to imagine the cots on the far wall made up with clean sheets, the expansive shelves filled with equipment and bottles of medicine. A roaring fire on the hearth in winter would warm the space nicely, keeping the herbs hanging in bunches from the ceiling dry and ready for use. Even as Clarke is overwhelmed by the magnitude of Earth remedies to be learned, the neglected space seems to whisper with promise. The prospect of the work to be done, rather than being daunting, causes a surge of eager anticipation to rise within her. If not redemption, Clarke thinks she might find in this room the satisfaction of giving back to the clan that took her in as their own. Here, she can forge something new, a life not overshadowed by what has come before. Perhaps here, as Anya suggests, she can at last care for her people in the way that she has always wanted to: not through violence, but through healing. If she can command death here, in this room, by healing her people, Clarke thinks she might be proud to be Wanheda, after all. “Nyko will be here in a week’s time to teach you our medicines.” Anya tears her from her vivid imaginings of where she might hang some of Podakru’s paintings on the walls. “If you require other supplies, perhaps tek from Arkadia, they will be easy enough to acquire. Runners will be sent between Arkadia and the major Kongeda cities in the coming days to trade knowledge and new laws; one of them could certainly bring you anything that you might need.” Poised in the doorway, half of Anya’s figure is caught in shadow, the light catching in the amber of her eyes and across the tops of her cheekbones. Turning back to her, Clarke studies her for a moment, and then steadily meets her eyes. “Bond with me.” The frankness of the request comes out sounding almost like a demand, but the edges of it are warm with love. Anya raises an eyebrow in quizzical amusement. “We are bonded, little one.” “No, I know that,” Clarke acknowledges; she takes a step nearer. “I meant — marry me. You know, a bonding ceremony; our family and friends, dancing the night away, like you said in Tondisi.” For a moment, Anya only stares at her, but unlike the twinges of uncertainty she felt back at Camp Jaha before their bond was fully formed, Clarke feels no measure of doubt. She merely waits, patiently, for her words to be absorbed. Then after a beat, Anya is crossing the room in two quick strides and kissing her hard. “Of course,” is the answer whispered against her lips. “I would love to.” The back streets of Anilin are quiet. Hand-in-hand with her mate, it is Clarke’s first real opportunity to absorb the sights and sounds of her new home; she saw a little when they first arrived, but her nascent heat left little room in her mind for sightseeing. Anilin isn’t tiny but any means, but it is certainly less populous than Tondisi. Its central square, shaded by oak trees, is smaller than the square in Tondisi that was razed by the Maunon’s missile. Tondisi, Clarke has heard, will be rebuilt slowly over the coming months before winter’s breath hits. Those who lost their homes to the missile will be given places to stay with friends and family, and builders from Boudalan and Yujleda will assist with the repairs. Clarke is glad that the inhabitants of Tondisi will receive the help they need, but she is equally grateful to not be faced once more with reminders of the destruction the Maunon have wrought. Here, she senses that she will be able to set the memories aside and be surrounded by reminders of a more pleasant beginning. Though it holds its fair share of warriors, Anilin is not a central hub of Kongeda activity like Polis or Tondisi. A training pit that Anya says she and several others constructed for training sekens lies to the south of the village, but it is small, and has been left unattended for long enough that new grass has begun to sprout. They will continue to train there, but only for practice; not for war. Anilin is quaint, peaceful. The cobbled streets are narrow and wind between houses adorned with blooming flowers of which Clarke will begin to learn the names. The meadows to the south and west are adrift with waves of blue and violet and early autumn gold. The wind is soft, the air sweet, and everywhere they walk, they are greeted with deferential nods and friendly smiles. Again and again, Clarke blinks hard, half expecting to find herself waking from a vibrant daydream, but Anilin stays solid in her vision, and Anya’s hand is firm within her own. At the edge of the village, they pause. The fields of asters and cornflowers and wheat wave under the midday sun; out among the flowers and the grasses, whooping and yelling, Octavia, Jean, and Callum are racing on horseback. Lincoln watches from the shade of a nearby tree in patient amusement. He has the radio beside him, likely having been speaking to Luna about how the defectors are settling in. According to Miller’s report when he and Jackson stopped by to bring the radio, they are all doing just fine. The Skaikru who came to the mountain have returned to Arkadia, and similarly, Jackson reports, everyone is alive and well. For the first time, Clarke realizes, there is nothing to fear. At last, there is no threat of anything; of starvation or persecution or mechanical failure or war. Clarke isn’t so naive as to believe that they will exist in this beautiful balance of peace forever. Surely, in their lifetime, there will be more trials. There will be skirmishes, fears, disappointments; lives will be lost to hunger and winter and over needless quarrels. It will not be perfect, but with Anya’s hand in hers, Clarke thinks, for the first time, that it might be worth it. For the first time, there are things to look forward to. There is peace, and hope, and the promise of a future that two months ago, Clarke could have never foreseen. She can scarcely believe that she almost missed this; that she might have gone her whole life without knowing this comfort and ease. She feels empowered next to Anya, wrapped in her scent for everyone to note, and not as the leader of the Hundred and Ambassador to the Skaikru. Not as the legendary Wanheda who delivered humanity from the terror of the Maunon, but as Clarke; as an Omega who has finally found her place. The Earth is stable beneath Clarke’s feet, and with the soft kiss of the sunshine on her shoulders, she feels her soul beginning to sink in and take root. With her heart fuller than she has ever known it, Clarke turns and wraps her arms around Anya, hugging her hard. Pulling her close, Anya presses her lips to the crown of her head. “What is it, ai niron?” she asks softly. Face buried in the front of her jacket, Clarke closes her eyes. “I love you so much,” she whispers. The arms around her tighten. “Ai hod yu in seinteim.” This is the life she has been hoping for. For all the rain that she has seen since her arrival, Raven has yet to witness an actual thunderstorm. She has learned about them, of course, in Earth Skills and in her science classes on the Ark, has seen storms from above, but none of that has quite prepared her for how loud they are. She wakes in the middle of the night to the first thunderclap, startled. Even with an understanding of how such storms operate, it takes a minute to realize what’s going on. She’s only ever seen a thunderstorm from above. They were all taught, of course, about thunder, but as no one alive on the Ark had ever witnessed it, the fact that it makes noise somehow got lost through the generations. It’s only after a lightning bolt darts across the sky outside her window that Raven is able to understand where the rumbling that vibrates the cottage’s floor is coming from. Despite knowing precisely how thunder works, the noise is unsettling, and Raven finds that her nerves are left on edge. Even if they weren’t, the hard twinges in her leg that make themselves known upon waking are too fierce to allow for further rest. She lies awake, hot and prickly beneath the sheets, trying to ignore the jump in her muscles that makes her leg seize harder every time thunder rolls across the open ocean to the east. The dark is odd, heavy, and the sound of the rain pattering on the roof, while soothing, is too novel for her to ignore. It’s clear after a half an hour of tossing and turning that further sleep is impossible, and grumbling, Raven swings her legs from the bed and fumbles for her brace in the dark. That’s a new thing, too; the pervasiveness of darkness after sunset. The lights on the Ark were set to timers to mimic an artificial day, but even then, one could switch a light on whenever it was needed. There are lanterns here of course, but like the rest of Skaikru, Raven is still uneasy around open flame. Fire on the Ark meant danger, death; it’s hard to reconcile that with the gentle flicker of candles that the Floukru use to light their homes. With her brace fastened, Raven makes to leave, then reconsiders and snags the woolen blanket from the foot of the bed to bring along. Wincing at the pain in her leg, she makes her way to the living room clumsily through the unfamiliar house. Her new home is small, but she’s unused to navigating any territory in the complete darkness, let alone a new one. It’s a little easier for her to get her bearings once she’s in the main room. The windows there are tall, taking up most of the front wall, and allow lightning flashes to illuminate the space. Cursing at the way her leg spasms sharply with each movement, Raven throws herself down on the couch with a huff. By her best guess, it’s only around two in the morning, and she sees no hope of ever getting herself to fall back asleep. The sky is too loud and too bright, and even if it weren’t, her leg is hurting too badly for her to concentrate on anything else. In the dark between lightning flashes, huddled on the couch, Raven allows herself a moment of self-pity. It doesn’t help that she’s no longer accustomed to being alone. Back on the Ark, she lived in the singles’ dorm; the almost complete lack of privacy wasn’t her favorite, but she grew used to the comforting presence of the nine others in the room. At the drop ship, resources were too scarce for anyone to have a tent to themselves. Most nights, she slept tangled in a pile with Harper and Clarke. This is the first time she’s been wholly alone in many years, and despite the luxury of having a cabin all to herself and the knowledge that Murphy and Emori are right next door, she can’t stop a small burst of agitation. Being alone reminds her of the days on the Ark before Finn found her and started looking out for her. It’s hard not to associate isolation with neglect. The ache of those days lingering despite being over a decade past, Raven shivers, and before she can stop them, several tears slip traitorously from behind her closed eyes. The cramped muscles in her leg are screaming, sleep weighs heavy in her head but too lightly in her eyes, and the thunderclaps that shake the little cottage jolt her skin. The fact that she’s indoors for once rather than in one of the leaky makeshift tents at the drop ship is scarcely comforting. At least at the drop ship she had the comforting presence of Clarke or Harper or both, along with eighty-odd others in the vicinity. This is better than the Ark, to be sure, but in her misery, Raven isn’t particularly inclined to make positive comparisons. What she really needs is a hug — one of those bear hugs Bellamy likes giving everyone, maybe. Or a drink. Or both. The tears begin to pool hotter, but just before Raven can give in and allow them to begin to fall in earnest, a knock sounds on the cottage door. Unsure that she’s heard correctly, Raven stills, listening. The only sound is the lashing of the rain against the windows, the hiss of the wind around the chimney — but then it comes again, louder this time: definitely a knock. Throwing the blanket off her shoulders, grumbling a little, Raven swings herself off the couch and crosses the dimly lit living room to unbar the door and tug it open. On her doorstep stands Luna, a covered mug in her hands. She’s wearing a type of garment Raven has never seen before, a long jacket made of thin material that looks to be perfectly effective at repelling the rain. Even with it, in the downpour, her hair is soaked with rain; the russet tendrils plastered to her cheeks. Her eyes match the wild pitch of the rain-lashed night behind her; turbulent, but warmer than the rocks Raven has lain on by the edge of the sun-soaked sea. “What are you doing here?” Perhaps it isn’t the most polite way to greet the leader of her new clan, but the arrival of the object of her very confused affections at her door in the middle of the night during a wild thunderstorm has thrown Raven so completely that she is unable to compose herself to better coherence. Luna’s pheromones are all over the place, fluctuating wildly like the undulations of the lighting out over the water. It has Raven’s skin tingling with the crackle of ozone. “How did you know I was awake?” For the first time, Luna looks oddly hesitant, but the set of her expression is as tranquil as always. If Raven didn’t know better, she would almost call it bored. She knows better. “You were calling to me,” Luna says simply. Raven quirks an eyebrow. “Pretty sure I was sitting crying silent tears on my couch; I think I would have noticed if I was yelling for you,” she retorts. A lightning flash silhouettes Luna as she shakes her head. The rumble of thunder that follows sends a shiver through Raven’s shoulders. “Not out loud,” she explains. The timbre of her voice raises goosebumps on Raven’s skin. “I woke to the thunder, and I felt — agitated, so I listened, and I could feel you. Hurting.” It’s telling, Raven thinks, that she’s not as irritated with Luna’s ability to unseat her dignity as she ought to be. Never has anyone else been so bold as to be this absolutely frank with her. She almost admires Luna’s audacity, if only because it so closely resembles her own. Pursing her lips, Raven eyes the mug in her hands. “Is that alcohol?” “Tea.” Raven studies her for a moment. “Close enough,” she grants, and steps aside to let her in. Luna, it turns out, has been in this house before. Leading Raven back to the couch, she presses the mug of tea into the Omega’s hands before busying herself in the kitchen. She moves with easy familiarity through the little kitchen, rummaging through cabinets and pulling out jars to set on the counter. Raven didn’t even know there was anything in the cupboards. “Honey and lavender will help you relax enough to sleep better,” Luna comments, reaching for a mortar and pestle. “I know the storms must be unsettling.” Raven shrugs and takes a sip of the tea; she’s surprised to find that it’s sweet. “Just unfamiliar,” she concedes. Luna may have a unique ability to read into the most vulnerable of her emotions, but Raven isn’t about to disclose them herself without a little coaxing. She’d like to think she has more resistance to Luna’s weirdly charming brazenness than that. She doesn’t, but she’s no more ready to admit that than she is to admit how much she’s afraid she likes it. Letting Luna see that she’s hurting is one thing; admitting it out loud is wholly another. Raven may be an Omega, may yearn for comfort in the way Omegas are often wont to, but she’s not going to go begging for it. She isn’t Clarke, who is embracing the needier side of her designation with relish in the arms of her Alpha. She isn’t open like Harper, or shameless like Murphy, or even as hesitantly accepting of affection as Echo is. She may be starved for it, but she’s not going to ask. If Luna offers it, though, she’s not sure that she’ll be able to say no. It’s not going to be easy for any of them to embrace being Omegas, Raven thinks: herself, Echo, Harper, and Murphy. They don’t have the best history with it, any of them. Until recently, it never even occurred to Raven that her designation could be something to embrace. On the Ark, she fought hard for the position she held, fought to leave the shackles of her designation behind so that she could have the life she wanted to lead. Clarke flourishes under her Alpha’s doting and attention; Raven, on the other hand, once thought that she personally might flourish by being left the ever-loving hell alone. She’s not certain if she’s ready to admit that that might be changing. Her fellow Omegas, she think, all want something that their mates can easily provide. Clarke wants to be doted upon and someone to dote on in return, she thinks; Echo longs to serve, Harper for a companion, and Murphy for a protector. Though she understands their satisfaction in it, Raven can’t reconcile herself with someone who needs something in the way they do. She has spent her whole life building something for herself, of herself; by herself. To feel completed by someone else doesn’t quite feel right. She thinks that Luna, of all people, might know that. Rather than giving Raven what she needs, Luna seems oddly determined instead to give her a way to find it on her own. Lost in her thoughts, the appearance of Luna right in front of her almost startles Raven into spilling her tea. “Jesus, you move silently,” she comments, but Luna ignores her jumpiness in favor of gesturing at her brace. “May I?” Raven stares. “May you what?” That brings a tiny quirk to the corner of Luna’s lips. “Raven,” she says gently, and Raven rolls her eyes before she can finish. “Fine. Go ahead,” she acquiesces, and sets her tea down on the little wicker table beside the couch. That’s how she finds herself leaning back into the couch, her shoulders losing their pain-wrought tension as Luna’s strong, gentle hands smooth the healing oils into her knee. The hot tea warms her body, soothing the angst that rumbles in her chest. Whatever salve Luna has concocted doesn’t erase the twinges in her leg, but the cramped muscles ease beneath her touch. It’s the most relaxed Raven has dared to feel since falling asleep in the pile of her Omega siblings after the mountain fell. Luna doesn’t speak a word as she works, focus devoted solely to her task, but the little dances of her fingers up the inside of the Omega’s leg send Raven’s heart skittering nonetheless. Luna is strong, and fierce, and so achingly careful that it almost brings on another wave of tears. It’s unfair, Raven thinks, how attractive she is; in the flickering light of the lamp she has lit, Luna’s wind-scented skin glows dark golden. Her salt-spray hair grows tousled as it dries, reflecting the cracks of light that peek through the windows as the lightning dances away out over the ocean. The line of her jaw is strong, her deep-set eyes fiercely gentle. It reminds Raven of the first time they spoke at the edges of the bonfires in Tondisi. Then, as now, she wasn’t expecting to be so disarmingly, utterly enamored. It’s unsettling, but when Luna pauses and looks up, sending her a smile that seizes her breath, Raven finds that she minds a lot less than she thought. The weightlessness she feels in Luna’s presence, rather than setting her adrift, buoys her up; with Luna’s eyes piercing her, her cold-tipped fingers cradling the back of her knee, Raven swears that it’s almost easier to breathe. Maybe she knows how Clarke feels, after all, except that Clarke found freedom and joy on the ground. Raven thinks the sea might be more her calling. Life has, Raven decides, been a series of uprooted expectations. This certainly isn’t what she thought would happen when she came to Earth to rescue her people and find the boy she loved. She didn’t expect for the boy she loved to commit mass murder and be executed for his crimes, or to go to war to defend not only her people, but also the former enemy that killed the boy she loved. She didn’t expect to be treated with respect and reverence by the people who she was obligated to hate for what they had done to her friends, or for them to solicit her aid in their war. She didn’t expect to leave her people behind to live with new friends among an unfamiliar clan who live a peaceful and fulfilling life. She didn’t expect to ever see the ocean, or dig a garden, or feel the blast of sunlit salt spray on her cheeks. Most of all, she didn’t expect the sight of this powerful leader on her knees in front of her, dropping a quick and feathered kiss on the inside of her knee, devoting her attention to a woman she scarcely knows whose pain she is determined to ease. Luna has ceased to knead the oils into her skin, but she has remained on her knees nonetheless. It may be the first time that Luna kneels before her like this, but something tells Raven that it won’t be the last. She's looking forward to it. Anya is wrenched from sleep with a cry and the phantom sensation of the blood draining from her veins. For a moment, even with her eyes open, the stark image of the harvest chamber remains imprinted in her vision. Her heartbeat drumming in her ears isn’t enough to drown out the remembered sound of her people’s cries for help, the scent of the clean night air not quite enough to dull the memory of the stench of their suffering. The gentle rumble of a throaty purr is what eases the ghosts from behind her eyes. The night is cloudy, rendering it too dark for Anya to actually see Clarke, but there is no need. Her mate’s presence is as steady and reassuring as it has been since they crowded onto a narrow bed in a bunker mere hours after trying to kill each other. Clarke has maneuvered them so that the full length of her body is draped over Anya, their legs tangled together beneath the sheets. She has nudged the crown of her head beneath the Alpha’s chin. Clarke’s left hand is holding hers; Anya can feel that the right has slipped beneath the top of her shirt to press over her heart. It’s almost funny, twined together in their bed in the home they share, to feel the echoes of the day at Tondisi so short a time ago when she was little more than a stranger Clarke protected like a mate. Her dream’s leftover dread still lingers in the pit of Anya’s stomach, but when Clarke shifts to press herself a little more firmly down upon her, it lessens enough that she is able to let the last tenseness in her muscles melt away. “Klark?” She tries to breathe it out quietly enough to not wake her mate if she is still asleep. A quiet sigh deepens the vibrations of Clarke’s purrs. “‘M here, s’okay.” The sleepy grumbling is so endearing that Anya can’t help smiling. “We’re home.” Warmth floods Anya’s heart to hear it articulated, by the woman she has longed to bring here no less. They’re home. The nighttime sounds outside their bedroom window are the sounds Anya grew up falling asleep to; the creaks of the house she built settling on its foundation are as familiar as her own heartbeat. The quilt that is over them is the one Alma made for her when she become a seken, and the love of her life is wrapped around her with a fresh mating bite on her neck and their new scent on her skin. It would be too good to believe if they hadn’t fought so hard to get exactly where they are. “‘M sorry you’re having nightmares.” Clarke sounds a little more alert, though not much; Anya can sense that her eyes are still closed. She knows Clarke can feel the way she swallows at the words. “I get them too.” Beneath the sheets, Clarke’s hand slips down to grasp Anya’s wrist where the IVs pierced her skin, and Anya’s heartbeat stutters. “I told you I wouldn’t let them take you again.” She’s definitely more awake now; Anya can feel it in the way Clarke holds her body above her. “I’m sorry that I didn’t keep my promise,” she says, and Anya instinctively opens her mouth to quell her, but closes it when Clarke adds, “But I also said I wouldn’t let them hurt you again, and they won’t.” The statement rings a little louder than it should in the hush of their bedroom; in it, Anya can hear just as clearly the words she isn’t saying. The Maunon are gone because Clarke put her people, put Anya, above all else. Perhaps it shouldn’t be this comforting to be loved by someone who committed genocide, but Anya is alive to hug Alma and attend the market and tend her garden and sleep in this bed another day, and the reason for it has pledged to love her for the rest of her life. “Octavia said that Omegas will do anything to protect the people they love,” Clarke murmurs. Her lips brush against Anya’s collarbone as she speaks, sending a tingle up the Alpha’s spine. “You have cared for me in ways I never thought anyone would, but it goes both ways, Anya. That’s how Alpha-Omega bonds works. We defend each other. I am the Commander of Death, and I am an Omega, and I will protect you with my life because of what I am, but also because I love you.” At that, Anya’s eyes fall closed. For a moment, she merely allows herself to bask in their matched, slow, easy breathing. Clarke has put words to what Anya has known since the mountain fell. She has acknowledged what Anya instinctively knew to be true, what the clans have always known; what the Skaikru still fail to recognize. It may appear to them that taking care of an Omega means the material things like providing nourishment, and warmth, and comfort, and respect — things that Anya has provided, things that are important, but that are only symbols of what devotion to the most important members of their clan truly means. What the Trikru knows to be important, and what Skaikru does not — what Anya has given Clarke — is simpler than that: to empower an Omega to embrace everything they are. As much as Anya has provided for her, she knows that Clarke has been wanting to provide, too; to ease Anya’s loneliness, to give her heart and head a place to rest. She has that now. Anya has fed Clarke, and kept her warm, and given her a home, but more than that, she has given her someone to love and defend, a reason to let the Omega within her reign free. The woman Anya met on the bridge who was so out of touch with her designation has emulated everything an Omega is. Anya has given Clarke what she has wanted to give her, at last. The only thing left for them to do is love. When she opens her eyes, her mate — fiancée, she supposes, though the Trigedasleng equivalent is not so complex — is looking back at her, chin resting on Anya’s collarbone, barely visible in the darkness. “You are everything I have ever wanted, did you know that?” In the quiet, sacred space between them, it is more simple and reverent than a prayer. Clarke’s eyes glow back at her with the fire of the stars she was born among. “I know.” Her kiss, when it comes, is a benediction. Clarke smells of the wind that stutters Anya’s heartbeat and sweeps her body up from the earthly bounds it has always known. The purpose in her touch takes Anya’s breath away. When they part for air, there is something in Clarke’s eyes deeper than love, not unlike the look of knowing certainty Lexa’s hold. The glow that surrounds her is ethereal, and not for the first time, Anya finds her mind drawn to the Trikru beliefs about life and death, about their souls being among the stars and the timeless, ageless entities that guide them. She thinks of the stories of Wanheda, Bekka Pramheda, the Spirit of the Commander, and feels the soul of the woman above her, grounding her, sink into her own bones and make them its home. If there are gods, Anya decides, they are not born, but made. Either way, this body is her altar, and Anya will kneel before it and hope this goddess has mercy on her soul. “I never thought to hope for this,” Clarke says quietly above her. Anya shifts a little, feeling the blood in the veins of her wrists warm beneath her mate’s touch. “I thought I would die in space on my eighteenth birthday; I never imagined that I would get to live, on Earth, happily.” She breathes deeply, and holds Anya’s gaze. “But if I had thought to hope for something, you are everything it would have been and more. You have given me a life worth living, and I intend for us to live it well.” It is something close to a miracle, Clarke thinks, if only for the fact that she would have never thought it would be possible. Somehow, in the last few days, Anya has ceased to be a stranger with whom she has fallen in love. Instead, it is as though the soul that has intertwined itself so deeply with her own has been there her whole life. Anya’s scent, her pulse, her very breath, are as familiar as her own, and when their fingers tangle together, Clarke feels the sense not of coming home, but of at last being whole within her body, fully present, completely settled and in sync; consumed with the overwhelming sense that her body and soul, at last, are one. Time stretches before them like the grey light of dawn, limitless, and for the first time, it is filled only with hope. Clarke doesn’t know what it will bring, but with Anya’s eyes locked on her own and their bond warm in her heart, she’s ready. The weight of love is endless, but at least she will not have to bear it alone. It is, she decides, the beginning of something beautiful.
Project Robeast Research Logs Entry #513 Dated three and a half months before the return of Voltron Prisoner 682-9875* was the most extensively-modified test subject to date not belonging to a feral species. Behavioral modification and extensive neurological enhancements created an impressive warrior out of what is otherwise a predominantly pacifist species. The success on this front is due largely to advancements founded on observations of the feral-type subjects transferred here from Vel-17. Yesterday Lord Zarkon called Prisoner 682-9875 to Commander Sendak’s ship for a special assignment. Despite performing to expectations, the subject was killed by Prisoner 117-9875, informally referred to as “Champion.” 117-9875 has begun preliminary modification while Lady Haggar petitions Lord Zarkon to transfer him to Project Robeast. *Pidge’s note: Keith recognizes the description of this prisoner as a Balmeran who fought in the Arena. None one knows anything else about them, including their name. I’ve decided to call them Zakar. Inside the Black Lion was darkness unbroken by any star. It was not the void of space, nor the shadows of sleep, nor a cloud of uncertainty or indecision. This darkness was the darkness of a mind at rest. Tranquil, confident, unbothered by the worries of the physical world. A light blossomed in the darkness, and two minds shied away from it. In this space, light was an intruder. In this space, light blinded. You could not see the deep truth when your eyes were attuned to the brighter, more fleeting games of truth and lie that mortals played. I am mortal. The Black Lion rumbled at this assertion. Mortality had no foothold here. This was the deep, dark well at the center of the Black Lion’s soul, and only that part of her paladins which was immortal could enter here. That part of her paladins that lived on in her spirit after their bodies had passed away. I am not yet dead, Allura reminded the Black Lion. My body sleeps within yours. I have no body. I am the sky. Allura sighed—a pale imitation of what it would have been in the living world, and not nearly a sufficient expression of her impatience. Her father had taught her about the Hearts of the Lions—immaterial planes connected to each of the five lions and accessible only to paladins who had surrendered themselves entirely to the bond. Alfor had told her of the Hearts’ existence, but he had no more first-hand experience with them than did anyone now living. The lions may have permitted him to pilot them, but he was not a paladin. This space did not belong to him. It didn’t belong to Allura, either; she was a stranger here, and her presence rankled the Black Lion with uncomfortable reminders that not all were as vast and still as she. I’m sorry, Allura said, willing the words into being. There was no sound here, any more than there was heat or motion. Just darkness, stillness, and the occasional star bursting into life and then dying as Allura remembered why she had come here. Shiro. Thoughts of Shiro set off a cascade in the sky overhead—it was overhead, and Allura had a body, or something like it. She stood on solid ground covered in a thin layer of water so still it reflected the sky overhead with all its millions of stars. Reaching up, Allura could almost touch them. They exploded as she turned her mind toward them, white pinpricks spilling over with the colors of a nebula as she remembered. A hand on her neck. Yellow eyes. A laugh, dry and rasping, as Haggar took him away. Tears. Shouting. A hole in the heart of the castle where her partner should have been. The Black Lion crooned, the non-sound rising inside Allura’s body like a tide, building upon itself more and more until she was sure she could not hold it without breaking. Help him. I’m trying, Allura said. That’s why I’m here. Her plan spooled out above her, reflected in the water around her feet, and a gusting wind ruffled the surface of the great glass sea. Allura turned and found the Black Lion looming over her. They had emerged from the Heart now, come into a liminal space at the joining of paladin and lion. Black did not face Allura directly, and Allura turned to the place where her gaze fell. The sea calmed, and there, at a point equidistant from both Allura and the Black Lion, there was a hole in the reflected stars. Perfectly round, infinitely dark, it seemed a shadow cast by an invisible body. A sense of familiarity and peace emanated from the dark hole. Help him. Allura could not cry in this space, but she desperately wanted to. She could sense Shiro out there, somewhere among the stars. Distance or Haggar’s influence kept her from finding him, but she knew he was still alive. She knew his mind was still his own, even if it was plunged beneath the surface of Haggar’s control. You helped me once, Allura said to Black, her eyes still trained on the void in the heavens. On Berlou. Haggar tried to seize control of him, and you connected us somehow. I helped him fight her off. She came close to asking the question then, the question she’d come here to ask. But she hesitated, and new stars were born overhead. The water beneath her seemed almost radiant with their light. The Black Lion understood, of course. She was the aspect of spirit, as Green was the aspect of mind and Blue of heart. She understood without words and saw without sight, and she shivered, adding her own stars to the constellations above. It will be dangerous, the Black Lion said. A star as bright as any moon appeared on the horizon, stinging Allura’s eyes with its light. She blinked, and caught a glimpse of death—her own, she thought, though it might have been Shiro’s. They were so closely tied together in the Black Lion’s mind it was difficult to tell them apart. I am not afraid, Allura said. It will not be easy. A band of stars like a silver sash streaked across the sky, each a whisper of pain, of fear, of loss. Allura’s mind could not hold them all, but she knew each star represented something that could go wrong with this plan. Allura looked her lion in the eyes as the night lit up around them. I will fight for him. You may lose yourself. More stars, thousands upon thousands, millions upon millions, appeared, overlapping, bleeding together, until all around was white, white, white except for Allura, and the Black Lion, and the dark hole in the sky with its reflection on the water beside Allura. I’ll lose Shiro if I do nothing. Suddenly, the lights went out, plunging Allura into darkness so deep she wondered whether she herself had simply ceased to be. She could not feel the ground beneath her, or the water lapping at her feet. But she sensed the Black Lion as a rumble in her chest, and she sensed the comforting, agonizing hole where Shiro had been. Would be again. We must help him, the Black Lion said, a note of finality in her words. Go. I will give you what aid I can. Allura came back to herself slowly. She sat in the Black Lion’s cockpit, in the Black Lion’s hangar. The aches of battle hit her first—a low burn throughout her body from the fight on the Galra command ship as Pidge hacked the sentry beacon; a slight tenderness in her neck where Shiro ( not Shiro) had nearly strangled her; a sharper, fresher pain in her hip from where she’d taken a fall in the middle of their hasty recon mission. She could see, now, that she’d let her fear get the better of her. Communing with the Black Lion had reestablished some of her usual calm, and she almost regretted letting the younger paladins sweep her up in their frantic rush to find Shiro. Almost, except that she knew it had been necessary. It had been less than three hours since Shiro had been taken, but every minute seemed an eternity. Allura checked the ticker in her armor and saw that only a short time had passed since she’d sent the other paladins up to the bridge ahead of her and delved into the Heart of the Black Lion. She would have done it no matter what, of course, but she was glad she hadn’t given the others much time to worry about her. Patting Black’s console, Allura stood (how strange it was to sit in the pilot’s chair once more, when for the last several weeks she’d mostly stayed at her own station just behind Shiro’s) and headed for the exit. At the bottom of the ramp she slowed, catching sight of her reflection in the shiny silver metal of Black’s muzzle. Hesitating only a moment, Allura removed her helmet, then tugged at the black undersuit until her neck was bare. She’d checked it earlier, of course, after she emerged from the brief healing cycle in the cryopod, but she couldn’t help thinking that she’d convinced herself the burn had healed more than it truly had. But when she tilted her head just right, she saw that her memory was mostly accurate. There were still three small, shiny burns—still slightly pinkish at the center, but edged in smooth brown scar tissue where the cryopod had nearly completed its work. It no longer resembled a handprint so much as welts sustained from a training rifle. Guilt welled up in her. She should have realized what this wound would do to Shiro without needing Keith to spell it out for her. She’d linked with Shiro often enough to know him inside and out; she knew how he had felt— still felt—about the other people he’d failed to save. On Yaltin, on Maorel, even in the Arena. He blamed himself even when he’d had no choice in the matter. Maybe especially then. She willed some of her Quintessence toward the burns and watched as they healed a bit more. They’d already begun to scar, of course, so it was too late to completely erase what Haggar had done through Shiro, but she would minimize it as much as she could. “You still worried about that?” Allura nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of Lance’s voice. She spun toward him, tugging the collar of her undersuit up toward her chin even as she did so. “Lance! What are you doing here?” She realized too late how that might sound. They hadn’t talked on the way down to the cryopod room earlier, and Lance had already been gone by the time Coran ended Allura’s cycle. She wondered if he was still upset at her for blaming him for what happened. She wondered if he still blamed himself. He stalled several paces away, staring at his shoes, and Allura expelled her tension on an exhale. Well, as much of her tension as she could, given the situation. “I’m sorry,” she said, clasping her hands at her waist. “You startled me.” “Sorry. I just wanted to make sure you were holding up all right. You seemed… distracted.” Distracted. What he meant was that Allura looked like she was walking an edge, but he thought she might shatter completely if he said so outright. Meri had done the same thing the day after Allura sat vigil for her mother. The castle had been too cold, the air thick with the kind of grief that bit into you and tore. Meri had found her sitting in the shadow of the Blue Lion and had joined her without a word. She didn’t acknowledge the thousand other things Allura should have been doing instead of drowning her grief in her mother’s lion. Meri’s lion, by then. I figured I’d find you here. You seemed distracted when you left. I thought maybe you’d want some company. Neither Meri nor Lance was wrong to worry about her. Sometimes Allura saw so much of Meri, and of Lealle, in Lance that it seared her to the core. Sometimes, like now, she was glad for it. She sighed, letting her shoulders slump, and when Lance wrapped her in an embrace she didn’t fight it. “He’s been through enough already,” she whispered. Lance didn’t have to ask who she meant. “I wish… I wish I could take his place.” “Me too.” Lance ducked his head, and Allura realized his hands were shaking. “When it was just me and Haggar in that control booth, you know what I thought? I thought, if this was a trap for Shiro, I’m glad I sprang it before Haggar got her claws on him.” He laughed, a diamond-edged sound. “Guess I can’t even play the sacrifice right.” Allura pulled back, staring at him in horror. “Lance...” Feeling the change in mood, Lance straightened up. A mask slid down over his features, all cocky smiles and twinkling eyes and a generous swagger in every line of his body. This was the Lance she’d seen more often than any other these last few months, but it was a mask this time. Maybe it always had been. “Anyway,” Lance said, before Allura could figure out how, and what to say. Play the sacrifice? What was that supposed to mean? “We should get going up to the bridge, if you’re all set? Pidge wants to brief us, and I think the Red Duo might start smashing windows if we don’t find some druids for them to take their anger out on soon.” They needed to talk about this, about Lance. Allura knew that, knew there were wounds that had been festering here for too long without anyone seeing them, but she was in no state for a heart-to-heart. Shiro was missing, and the team needed Allura to be strong. Lance’s fingertips ghosted along her elbow, a gesture at once comforting and commiserating. Their eyes locked, and Lance’s smile said he understood. He seemed far older than he’d been that first day when she’d fallen out of the cryopod into his arms. That boy—the incorrigible flirt, the jokester who wanted no part of the staggering duty laid at his feet, who seemed incapable of taking anything seriously… That boy was gone, and Allura wondered how she hadn’t noticed the change. “Are you ready?” Lance asked. Allura nodded, grieving what her fellow paladins had lost in taking up this mantle—but grief would have to wait. Shiro needed them now. “I’m ready,” she said, and followed Lance to the elevator. Carmen Mendoza was tired of grieving. It had only been two months since Lance’s death, but those two months felt as though they spanned a lifetime. Two long months full of paparazzi, memorials, well-wishes from strangers, the death of Carmen’s daughter, a mostly-silent feud with Karen Holt… It was too much. When Akani Kahale called her up out of the blue, Carmen had come within inches of hanging up on her. (As it happened, Carmen’s sister-in-law Rosario had hung up on Akani not ten minutes earlier.) Akani couldn’t have known she was calling on Lance’s birthday. It was just one of those divine mysteries that came along every now and again and told you to sit up and take notice. And on the day Lance would have turned eighteen, quite simply, Carmen had needed a shoulder to cry on. Never mind that this shoulder was three thousand miles away in the home of a complete stranger. Your nephew was my son’s best friend, Akani had said. Just that was all it took to set Carmen off. The week that followed had been hell in every sense of the word. There were still bills to be paid, still school to be endured, and everyone did their best to carry on, however much they all wanted to cry. Carmen still had a shirt wadded up in a plastic bag in her closet, Val having thrown it there while shouting that, “Lance digs through my apartment all the time, Mamá, I can’t hide his present there!” Carmen honestly thought Lance would have just assumed the shirt—a black tank top with a cartoon alien colored pink, purple, and blue and the word bisexualien stamped underneath—was Val’s. But Val had insisted, and so it hand ended up in Carmen’s closet next to the laser pointer Lance had wanted for stargazing and the download code for Lance’s favorite band’s new album and the new skeins of yarn for Lance’s next knitting project. She couldn’t bring herself to get rid of it, so there it sat, collecting dust, waiting for a party that was never going to happen. News that Akani and her wife were coming to Carlsbad had been a shock—but not an unwelcome one. And when they’d showed up on Carmen’s doorstep and invited her to dinner with Mrs. Holt and her little crew, the ones who had taken Val— Carmen had simply been too tired to fight it any longer. It had been four days since then, and Carmen had done her very best to focus on work, and on making dinner, and on teasing Sebastian out of the silent shell he’d pulled around himself after they lost Val. She was over at her in-laws’ for dinner when Akani called with her second invitation. “Feel free to say no,” Akani said as soon as Carmen picked up the phone, and if that wasn’t a bad omen, Carmen didn’t know what was. “Say no to what?” Akani huffed out a short breath. “Eli—Lana’s brother, you met him on Saturday? He’s going out of town. And, well, that means there’s room at the table.” “I’m sorry.” Carmen shook her head, glancing over her shoulder to where Mateo sat watching TV. “Mateo, turn that down!” He rolled his eyes, but did as she said. (That was something, she supposed. Lance’s siblings were healing faster than the rest of them—though Rosario had confided that it was mostly because Val had told them Lance was still alive. They hadn’t yet let go of that hope.) Carmen turned her attention back to Akani. “What is it you are trying to ask me?” “Dinner,” Akani said. “Thing is, I’m used to cooking for the dinner rush, and now it’s just me and Lana and two others, and I was wondering if your family wanted to come over.” Her voice so far had been bright, but it turned strained now. “You don’t have to. I know how… with Karen and all…” Somehow Karen Holt’s name still had the power to drive a hot nail into Carmen’s chest. She’d met the woman now, knew Karen was only trying to bring down the man who had killed her family, had killed Lance and Val. Karen was mourning, the same as any of them. She wasn’t a bad person. Carmen still couldn’t bring herself to like the woman. “It would be nice to hear a familiar voice,” Akani said softly, and Carmen’s resolve shattered. “I can’t promise anything for the rest of them,” she said. “But… I’ll ask.” In the end, it was just Carmen and Sebastian who went. Marco had a fundraiser for work that night, and Rosario stoutly refused to hear the request. Carmen couldn’t fault her for it, so she hadn’t pushed. But Sebastian had hardly left the house since coming home from college. His friends were all in California still, so there was nothing to distract him from thoughts of his sister except for Luz and Mateo. Rosario found any excuse to have him watch them—for which Carmen was grateful—but it wasn’t enough. Her son had always been quiet, but this apathy had her worried. He hadn’t even argued when she told him he was coming along, only sighed, rolled off the couch, and dragged himself upstairs to run a wet comb through his shaggy hair and put on a less-stained shirt. Akani greeted Carmen at the door with a hug, the scents of dinner drifting out around them. “You came!” Akani’s voice held more relief than Carmen might have expected. Mrs. Holt lingered in the living room with the Shirogane boy as long as she could, letting Akani and Lana monopolize the conversation with the Mendozas. Or with Carmen, at any rate. Sebastian headed straight for the table and dropped into a chair, crossing his arms on the placemat and fiddling with the silverware as the others talked. “You said Eli’s out of town?” Carmen asked when they ran out of pleasantries. Lana grimaced and knocked back half her bottle of beer in one gulp. Carmen’s beer was still mostly full, and the others had all stuck to water. Carmen was glad for it. This was one gathering where a buzz was more likely to sharpen an edge than take it off. They’d survived the first dinner with awkward silences and a quick exit, but Carmen knew that the Kahales’ buffer couldn’t last forever. Akani glanced nervously at her wife, but summoned a smile for Carmen’s sake. “Protests,” she said shortly. “Just little things, but Eli thought if he could sell the footage to enough news stations, it might get more people interested in the story.” Story. Carmen’s hand tightened on her beer bottle in distaste. Was that all this was to these people, a story? No. Val had been a journalist. She’d done just this—drum up interest in a story, play up the drama. It was all part of the media game, a flashy dance to catch the readers’ eye. But just because they played the game didn’t mean they didn’t genuinely care underneath it all. Val had cared. So, too, did Eli. “Protests?” Carmen asked when she trusted herself to speak. “What are there protests for now of all times?” “You… probably don’t want to know,” Akani said. That, of course, only made Carmen more curious, but Lana and Akani remained tight-lipped. “More people have gone missing.” Akira stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes on the floor. He shot a guilty look at Akani, but went on speaking. Karen lingered just behind him, her wary gaze fixed on Carmen. “We’ve only just started hearing about it, but… Val wasn’t the only person looking into the accident who’s disappeared.” A vice closed around Carmen’s chest. Behind her, Sebastian shifted, his breath rasping loud through his nose. “What?” Akira closed his eyes, sighed, then crossed to the fridge and pulled out a beer of his own. He popped the cap off and took a swig before answering. “More and more people have been looking into what happened, especially since Val disappeared. Not just in Carlsbad, either. All over the place. Some of the most vocal activists online started disappearing, but people figured they’d just lost interest. Happens all the time, right?” “Except three families came forward this week saying a loved one went missing after a visit to the Garrison,” Karen put in. She sent Carmen one more, timid look, then straightened up. “There are half a dozen more reports from around the globe—all of them in cities where the Garrison has a presence. Mostly people who were vocal critics of the Garrison, though the last two I saw didn’t seem to have a connection.” “Coincidence?” Akira asked. Karen shook her head. “Probably, but even without them—” Akani held up her hands to put an end to the conversation. “I don’t think this is something we really need to be discussing right now,” she said, forcing a laugh. Anger flashed across Karen’s face, but it vanished when her eyes fell on Carmen, and she backed off at once. Akira, in contrast, only scowled deeper. “Iverson’s already doing enough to bury this story,” he said. “I’m not going to help him.” Tense silence fell over the group, but it was soon interrupted by a knock at the door. Akani turned at once to answer it, but the door was already opening, an unfamiliar voice calling out, “Did you hear what fucking Iverson’s doing this...time?” The new arrival appeared in the kitchen doorway at that moment, her voice trailing off as she caught sight of Carmen and Sebastian. She froze, eyes going wide, short, reddish brown hair snapping at her chin. “Oh.” She said. “Um.” Akira sighed, scooting closer to Mrs. Holt. “Guys, this is Naomi. Naomi—” He paused, then waved around the room. “Everyone.” Lana arched one eyebrow in his direction, but he just sipped his beer in silence while Naomi floundered in the doorway. Akani finally took pity on her, holding out a hand for the woman to shake. “I’m Akani—Hunk’s mom—and this is my wife, Lana. You’re Akira’s friend, right? From the Garrison. He mentioned you.” “Uh. Yeah.” Naomi’s eyes hovered on each of them for an instant, then flickered right back to Carmen and her son. “I take it that makes you two Lance’s family?” Carmen nodded, but it was Sebastian who spoke, his voice low and scratchy and laced with confusion. “Do I know you?” Akira tensed. It was almost imperceptible, except that Karen laid a hand on his arm, as though to hold him back. But why? “That depends.” Naomi shoved her hands into her pockets and strolled into the kitchen, dropping heavily into the chair across from Sebastian. “You visit Lance at the Garrison often? I work there, so you might’ve seen me passing by?” Sebastian frowned, but he didn’t offer an argument, just shook his head and went back to resting his chin on his arms. Carmen studied Naomi for a long moment, searching for a flash of familiarity. She found none. The silence stretched just long enough to be uncomfortable, and then Akira sighed, dropping his arms to his side. “If you’re here to tell us about the other disappearances, we already know.” “Then you know to be careful,” Naomi said, a warning in her voice. “If Iverson is behind this, he might decide to get rid of the burrs in his side.” Her pointed look told Carmen those burrs were the very people in this room. “He wouldn’t dare,” Carmen hissed. Naomi just looked back at her blandly. “Lady, you don’t know the half of it.” Pidge was glad Lance had gone to find Allura, but at the same time they couldn’t help being a little bit bitter. It was impossible to sit still with the raw edge of Shiro’s kidnapping gnawing at them; a quick jog down to the Black Lion’s hangar might have helped expel some of their jitters. But Lance had been faster, so Pidge had to content themself with pacing the perimeter of the bridge while the others looked on—Hunk slumped in his chair, legs jiggling with Pidge’s same restless energy while Shay rubbed his back, her eyes far-off; Coran and Ryner conversing quietly by the controls, tension making the lines around their eyes stand out more than ever; Matt and Keith perfect mirrors of each other in the corner, Keith drumming his claws on the hilt of his sword, Matt muttering to himself, or maybe to Keith. The sound of the elevator door opening drew every eye, and Lance faltered at the sudden attention. Allura stood beside him, smooth-faced and straight-backed. She laid a hand on Lance’s shoulders, then met every gaze in turn as she strode toward the holographic projector. “All right,” she said. “What do we know?” It was as simple as that. The paladins all slipped into the briefing easily—they’d been waiting for this for a good ten minutes now—and Pidge took center-stage, as they’d spent the short trip back to the castle-ship reviewing what they’d been able to dig up on the Galra servers. “Haggar is here.” Pidge tapped the screen projected from their gauntlet, sending the coordinates to the ship’s main computer. “Not much in the area except for other Galra ships. It’s pretty deep in Zarkon’s holdings—not far from the old Galra homeworld, actually.” “There’s a Galra homeworld?” Lance asked. Keith spun the hilt of his deactivated sword in his hand, the slap of its grip meeting his palm marking a steady rhythm. “I doubt Zarkon’s been there anytime in the last few thousand years. It’s basically all slums and wasteland at this point. The only people who live there are the descendents of people too poor to leave when the planet died.” Hunk twisted in his chair to gape at Keith. “Died?” “That doesn’t matter right now,” Pidge snapped, and Keith nodded appreciatively at them. “The point is, Haggar’s withdrawn somewhere she feels safe. We can wormhole in, obviously, but I doubt anyone else would risk it. Once Haggar knows we’re there, we’ve got maybe five minutes before reinforcements show up. And lots of them.” They tapped their screen again, and the nav computer plotted the last known location of two dozen warships within shouting distance. Ryner crossed her arms, frowning at the display. “This is a trap.” No one bothered to argue. “I’m sure Haggar’s also pulled back in order to carry out whatever sick experiments she wants to do on Shiro,” Pidge said dryly, then hurried on when Matt turned green. “But, yeah, mostly it’s a trap. We still have Allura to pilot the Black Lion, so Zarkon needs to take out at least one more of us before he removes Voltron from the table.” “Or take the Black Lion,” Allura murmured. Pidge fidgeted at the reminder that Zarkon—Murder McScarface himself—had once been a paladin. But that didn’t matter now. “We’ll have to go in cloaked,” they said. There was no more argument over the fact that they were going to charge straight into the trap than there had been over the fact that it was a trap. “One or two lions should be fine, since we’ll need to go after Shiro on foot.” “Don’t want to get caught up in a space battle, anyway, right?” Hunk asked with a feeble laugh. Lance, meanwhile, was pacing a broad semi-circle around behind Allura, Coran, and Ryner, his eyes riveted to the hologram. “Two lions,” he said. “That ship’s big enough to hold an army; we’ll want a distraction so some of us can sneak in the back.” Matt glanced at Keith. “As long as we’re on the team that’s headed for Shiro, the rest of you can do whatever the hell you think is best.” “Lance is right,” Allura said. Lance jolted a little at that, staring at Allura like she’d just said his hair was made of noodles. She ignored him and swiped a hand across the display. Three Lions appeared as her hand passed. “Lance, Pidge, Hunk, and Shay will go in first,” she said. The Green Lion flew toward the spot Pidge had marked on the map, and a model of Haggar’s command ship appeared there. “We won’t know Shiro’s exact location until we arrive, but you four will enter as close to him as possible.” “As close as possible?” Pidge asked, frowning. “Don’t we want to draw attention away from the rescue?” Lance crossed his arms, looking thoughtful. “If you show up on the other side of the ship, Haggar will know it’s a distraction, and the others will have a harder time sneaking in on the direct route.” Allura nodded. “Precisely. Ryner, you will remain in the Green Lion. If all goes well, the rest of us will be able to get ourselves and Shiro out without raising an alarm, but the first team may need a quick exit.” “Okay,” said Keith, “so they all go in using the Green Lion. Why are we taking two?” “And why the Black Lion?” Shay added. “Did you not say Zarkon desires it above all else?” Allura waved her hand again, and the Black Lion came to a stop some distance from the command ship before shimmering and disappearing. “I may have a way to fight Haggar’s control over Shiro, but I’ll need Black close if it’s going to work. But you’re right, Shay. I don’t think Zarkon will be here, but Haggar certainly will be. If she knows Black is near, she will try to take her. That’s why I’ll hide my lion some distance from the ship, then come in with Matt and Keith on Red. Ryner, you’ll also need to keep an eye on our lions. They’ll be vulnerable while we’re inside the ship, and Coran will have to keep the castle-ship on the other side of a wormhole. We’ll need you to tell us if the Galra make a move against Red or Black, or if reinforcements arrive.” “Understood,” Ryner said. “Is that it, then?” Matt asked. “Seems straight-forward enough.” Coran nodded. “Simple plans are usually better. Fewer things that can go wrong.” He glanced at Lance as he spoke, and Lance just rolled his eyes. “Hey, that strategy was a work of art! Or… Well, it would’ve been, if I’d managed to pull it off.” Pidge arched an eyebrow, then decided they were better off not knowing what that was about. Allura, apparently, felt much the same. She frowned at Lance, and then at Coran, then shook her head. “At any rate, yes. That’s the plan. One last thing: I don’t know where Haggar will be. She may come to stop you,” she said to Pidge, Hunk, and Shay. “Or she may be with Shiro when we find her.” She nodded at Matt and Keith. “In either case, we are not here for her. When we face Haggar, we’ll do it on our terms, when we have a solid plan in place. If you see her, get away as quickly as you can.” Around the room, heads nodded. Allura straightened, her hands balling into fists. “Then let’s go.” Five minutes later they were in position, and Pidge’s nerves were running too hot to be soothed by Ryner’s presence at the other end of the bond. Coran was several thousand light-years away, watching the sector for signs of movement; Allura, Matt, and Keith were somewhere out of sight, waiting for Lance’s signal; and through it all Ryner was as quiet and steady as a forest. Pidge felt more like a turtle, plodding forward when all they really wanted to do was pull back into their shell and wait for disaster to strike. Ryner sent a calming thought through the bond—hardly the first since the three lions had emerged from a wormhole in the shadow of a distant planet. Even moving swiftly, keeping the gate as small as possible, and arriving more than a light-day from their target (four times the distance from Earth to Kerberos), there was no way to erase all signs of a wormhole. They’d spent thirty tense seconds waiting for an attack, and when it hadn’t come, they’d breathed a sigh of relief moved in. Well, everyone else had breathed a sigh of relief. Pidge was wound tight enough to snap, and even the smooth approach couldn’t ease their nerves. They weren’t ready for this, none of them. Lance was still exhausted from his last brush with Haggar, Hunk was on the verge of a panic attack, Shay had barely spoken since Shiro was taken—and that wasn’t even thinking about Keith and Matt. Pidge was still halfway surprised the Red Lion hadn’t dropped all pretense and started blasting Haggar’s ship out of pure pent-up rage. And Pidge. Pidge was the worst of them all, possibly because they knew exactly how unprepared for this they all were. Matt and Keith were going to get Shiro, but neither one of them had been able to move a muscle when Shiro attacked Allura. Pidge hoped it would be better this time, but what if Allura’s trick with the paladin bond didn’t work? If they had to fight Shiro to get him back, would either of them be able to do it? Pidge wished desperately that they’d had the time to find a master switch in the code of Shiro’s arm, something that would shut it off entirely. They might have pushed for just a little more patience if they’d thought they could have made progress in an hour or two. It was probably for the best that they hadn’t bothered. In all likelihood they’d have surfaced from the code to find the Red Lion gone and two more paladins in Haggar’s hands. “Anyone else starting to think we should’ve just formed Voltron and smashed through whatever reinforcements Haggar tried to call?” Pidge asked. They spoke out of pure nervousness—they knew exactly why destroying a ship that held Shiro was a bad idea—so it was just as well no one paid them any mind. Anyone but Lance, who squeezed their shoulder and offered a thin smile. “You guys running into any trouble on your end?” he asked. “All clear,” said Allura. “I’m almost in position.” “Perfect.” Ryner gave Pidge a mental nudge, and her seat, which normally sat to one side of Pidge’s, in front of the modded weapons controls, slid toward the center of the cockpit so Ryner could take over as pilot. “Heading in now.” Lance muttered something under his breath, then flushed when Pidge raised an eyebrow at him as they turned their attention to the comms system. Rover was plugged in, and Pidge used Green’s transmitter to send an access code to a hangar door near Shiro’s location. “It’s nothing,” Lance said quickly. “I’ve just got a bad feeling about this.” “Why?” Hunk asked. “Nothing’s gone wrong. Yet,” he added, almost as an afterthought. Lance grimaced. “That’s the problem. It’s too easy.” “We came in quiet and we’re cloaked,” Keith said testily. “Easy is exactly what we wanted.” Humming, Lance let the matter drop, but his fingers kept drumming against his leg, a rapid ta-ta-ta-tap not far from Pidge’s ear. There was no time to worry about whether things were going too smoothly or just according to plan. The hangar doors opened, and Ryner took them in. Lance and Pidge led the charge, Hunk and Shay close behind, Ryner’s call of good luck echoing over the comms. They barely made it out of the lion before they met resistance. Keith started the countdown as soon as Ryner gave the signal—or maybe it was Matt who started it. Keith wasn’t sure it really mattered. They needed to give the others thirty seconds to draw the guards’ attention before going in themselves. Thirty seconds hadn’t seemed like such a long time when they were outlining the plan back on the castle-ship, but now, with the bond a fire in Keith’s blood, every second seemed a small eternity. “You’re sure it’s him?” Matt asked. It was just the latest variation on a theme that had carried them here from the wormhole, a thousand repetitions of can you feel him? and is he hurting? and everyone remembers the plan, right? Allura, to her credit, remained as patient as ever. “We’re positive. The Black Lion knows her own.” Keith tried to take comfort in that. Shiro was here. Shiro was alive. Haggar was almost certainly still controlling him, but he was here. Allura had refused to elaborate on Shiro’s condition beyond, “It feels… odd,” and the uncertainty in her tone resonated in Keith’s head, and in Matt’s head, and in the raging inferno between them. There was a part of Keith that remained rational, and this corner of his mind was aware that he and Matt were feeding off each other, an escalating loop of anxiety and the urge to act. It danced in their bones, made hands fly across controls to check and double-check every scanner. If Allura hadn’t at that moment eased the Black Lion into position and called for Matt and Keith to pick her up, Keith couldn’t honestly say he wouldn’t have just taken them in. Ten seconds couldn’t really make that much of a difference, could it? Instead they eased Red toward the Black Lion—visible only on their radar, as both their cloaks were already engaged. Keith watched Allura’s signal separate from her lion’s. A moment later she appeared, flickering into being among the stars, the black sections of her armor fading into the void. Red scooped her up in her mouth a second later, and with the silent countdown drifting into the last few seconds, Keith and Matt turned and headed for Haggar’s ship. Allura joined them in the cockpit as they neared the hull, skimming close as they watched the BLIP-tech readout for an uninhabited part of the ship to serve as their point of entry. Keith’s trigger fingers itched to simply tear Haggar and her troops apart, but he resisted the temptation. They had to stick to the plan. They had to go in quiet. Keith would do that, would tamp down his anger and hope he never got the chance to beat up even one enemy soldier, however much he wanted a target for his rage. He would gladly internalize this frustration if it meant getting Shiro out safely. “There,” said Allura, arm outstretched beside Keith’s head (no, Matt’s head) toward the BLIP-tech display. Both red paladins saw where she was pointing: a small maintenance hatch on the hull. The scans were barren for a good distance in all directions. No guards, no mechanics. Red was already changing course toward the hatch. She flared her boosters to slow her approach, and almost before she stopped, Matt and Keith were on their feet, leading Allura out into the vacuum of space. Keith kicked off the bottom of the ramp and sailed, head-first, toward the hatch, activating his sword as he went. The tip sank easily into the metal, the resistance just enough to slow him before he cracked his helmet open. Matt arrived an instant later, grabbing onto Keith’s shoulder to steady himself and bracing his feet against the hull. The magnetic anchors in their boots activated with a thought, and Matt turned to catch Allura as Keith quickly cut through the hatch and into the ship beyond. Air began to leak out as he worked, and when, with one final twist of his sword, he pried loose the square he’d cut out, a gust of wind buffeted him. It passed in an instant, and silence reigned once more. Keith leaned forward, staring down past his feet into the hole he’d made. A narrow corridor stretched down into the depths of the ship below him, bare metal catwalk surrounded on all sides by pipes and power cells. The space was dimly lit, but it was also abandoned, at least as far as the airlock waiting twenty feet below. Disengaging his mag-boots, Keith grasped the edges of his make-shift door and propelled himself into the ship. As soon as he passed the hull, artificial gravity caught him, and what had been down became forward. Keith landed in a crouch, gave himself a moment to reorient, then headed for the airlock controls while Matt and Allura joined him. It was inside the airlock, waiting for the ship to equalize pressure, that the reality of the situation came crashing down on Keith. Shiro was here. Shiro, but not Shiro. Haggar was pulling his strings, and she hadn’t hesitated for an instant to use Shiro to attack Allura. The same would be true this time, as well. Shiro was here, and Keith was going to have to fight him. Distract him, Keith corrected, silently, as the airlock released them into the slightly brighter but no less empty corridor beyond. I just have to distract him until Allura and Black can do their thing. It’ll be just like sparring. Lance led the charge to punch through the first line of Galra defenders. Pidge and Hunk came in close behind him, bayards spraying neon-bright light through the gloom of Haggar's ship. They'd punched through into a hangar initially, but the clawing vacuum of space had soon forced the fight out into the corridor, where there was no danger of suffocating—or being pulled out into the void. Still the Galra were pressing in on all sides, almost too many of them to count, guns popping with bright light, swords flashing. Lance was already beginning to regret not bringing along any of their front-line fighters. Normally, they counted on Keith, Matt, Allura, and Shiro to get in among the enemy and hold them off so the ranged fighters could breathe a little bit. Now they only had Pidge to serve as a buffer, and as terrifying as Pidge was, they were no tank. Their bayard zipped out, impossibly bright in the subdued purple hues of the corridor, and lashed around a Galra soldier sighting on Hunk. With a cry, Pidge yanked hard on their bayard and flung the man to the side, using him as a living bludgeon to take out a good number of his friends. Hunk hollered a thanks, then turned his own gun on the crowd, mowing down a dozen sentries in one merciless barrage. Lance kept quiet, his nerves still running on overdrive as he picked enemies off one by one. Something was definitely not right about all this. He still hadn't been able to put his finger on what, exactly, it was that was bothering him. Not that it was too easy, not anymore. They had to have taken down at least forty guards already, and they hadn't even been here five minutes. Sure, those had almost all been sentries, and sentries were both crap soldiers and expendable as all hell. But still. Maybe that in itself was the problem. The response from the ship's crew had been quick, but not suspiciously so. They'd been on alert, probably. Haggar would have had to expect a rescue mission of one kind or another, even if she couldn't know exactly when or where it would happen. But a Voltron Lion crashing through your hangar doors wasn't exactly something you could overlook. Lance and the others had barely made it out of Green before they were neck-deep in Galra. Ryner had pulled out sometime after they gained the corridor; Lance had heard her talking over the comms, though the words were slow to penetrate. Something about how Allura, Keith, and Matt were on the move. Lance hoped they moved fast. No, so far everything had gone according to plan. Bust onto Haggar's ship, draw the attention of every Galra in the vicinity (hopefully), make a good show of trying to break through, as if they really were here for Shiro. The corridor they were in was barely wide enough to fit three of them shoulder-to-shoulder, so Shay lingered in the back. She had her shield out, but she held no weapon. There had been some question of whether she should be the one to stay outside in her Lion, so Ryner could come in and provide extra firepower, but ultimately the team had decided against that. Shay was the only one of them who knew any real field medicine, and on a mission like this—storming a fully-armed command ship, with Haggar on board—made injury more than a fleeting possibility. They pressed forward, lasers flashing all around. A soldier opened fire on Pidge, and Lance yanked them behind him, raising his shield to catch the barrage. Hunk gunned down their attacker, and Pidge took advantage of the moment of chaos that followed to dart out, close the distance to the army, and cut down three more Galra. The line broke before their onslaught, Galra and sentry alike beating a hasty retreat as the paladins continued to shoot them from behind. Lance felt an itch between his shoulder blades like he was being watched, but when he spun to find the source of the sensation, all he saw was empty corridor painted in cool tones, dead bodies and sparking robots marking their progress. "Hey, Ryner?" Lance asked, shaking himself and turning to follow the others onward. "How's it looking?" "Fine," said Ryner. "There are still a few guards near where Shiro is being held, but most of them are converging on your location." Lance couldn't help but frown. Wrong, wrong, wrong, screamed something in his veins. "And... no sign of anyone going for the Black Lion?" "It's fine, Lance," Keith growled. "Just focus on your job." Lance bristled, but he was wound too tight, even, for a retort. Something was wrong. It taunted him, a shadow lurking at the edge of his vision. If he could only figure out why everything about this ship was screaming at him to turn around and run the other way. The corridor spilled out into a larger room. A storage area, or a cargo hold of some kind. Boxes were piled up around the edges of the room, colorless tarps thrown over them, and the Galra had taken shelter behind the stacks. Crystals glowed around the edges of the ceiling, casting the room in faint shadows. Aside from the corridor they'd come through, there was only one other exit, a pair of doors on the far wall. Lance didn't have time to worry any longer about his bad feeling. There, in the center of the room, was a very familiar druid. "Looks like we found Haggar," Lance muttered, pitching his voice low so the witch wouldn't hear him. There was silence on the comms for the space of two heartbeats, and then Allura blew out a long breath. "Good," she said. "That means the path to Shiro is that much clearer. Stall her for as long as you can, but be ready to run the instant anything changes, all right?" Lance nodded to himself, then raised his rifle toward Haggar. His hands were shaking, his breath quick and shallow, and he hardly noticed when his rifle glowed blue and reformed as his grenade launcher. “Where’s Shiro?” he asked. He would have liked for his voice to be low and threatening, the kind of thing that would tell Haggar he meant business, but it trembled rebelliously. Haggar smiled, her sharp teeth flashing white. “Are you hoping to join him, little lion? I would have thought you’d had enough of my magic after today.” His muscles tensed in remembered pain, but he gritted his teeth. Blood hummed in his ears. “Give him back!” His voice cracked on the last word, a dangerous, out-of-control sound. Lance could feel Hunk and Shay staring at him. Pidge, on Lance’s other side, had their eyes trained on the shadows around the room where the soldiers lay in wait. Why had none of them attacked? Lance shook himself, glaring at Haggar. He needed to get control of himself. He couldn’t show his fear, never mind that Haggar had almost killed him just a few hours ago, never mind that she was one of the most powerful people he’d ever met and she had enough backup to take out all the paladins together. “I gotta say I’m surprised,” he said, pumping his voice full of every self-aggrandizing lie he’d ever told. “All this power, all these soldiers, and you’re still too much of a coward to face us without a handicap.” Haggar’s smile faltered for just an instant, her lip pulling back in a snarl. “Impudent little brat. It’s a wonder someone like you ever became a paladin.” “Oh, you’d be surprised,” Lance said. His eyes were moving now, flickering toward every tiny movement around the room. “Maybe if you’d captured the Blue Lion instead of Red you’d have realized—she’d annoy you way more than I ever could.” Haggar snorted. “Given her taste in paladins…” she muttered, but didn’t finish the thought. Her smile was back, as chilling as ever, and Lance felt his false confidence waver. “I’m afraid your journey ends here, paladins.” With a roar, she thrust her hands forward, and the scent of storms filled the air. Allura kept her mind open as she moved, casting herself outward toward Shiro’s presence—still distant, but growing ever closer. The Black Lion rumbled inside her, an even sharper presence than Shiro’s; where Shiro was hazy, his mind unfocused and whisper-soft, Black was a shout, a beacon on the horizon so bright Allura didn’t even have to strain to see it. She’d never maintained the bond over such a distance, but her mind and Black’s were bent toward the same goal. Shiro needed them. They needed each other if they were to bring him back. So although the bond quivered with the strain of holding it like this, Allura knew it would not fail. She wouldn’t let it, and neither would Black—mostly Black, Allura had to admit. It was the lion’s Quintessence flooding Allura’s mind, the lion questing ever outward toward Shiro. Allura’s spirit was strong, but not this strong. “How much farther?” Keith whispered, pausing at a corner to peer around. They had proceeded quickly thus far, avoiding the few patrols who hadn’t gone to face the other paladins by the entrance Green had made. It wasn’t fast enough, though. Allura felt the drumbeat in her chest telling her to hurry, and if she felt it, she knew Matt and Keith must be holding themselves back only by a very great effort. Allura considered Shiro’s presence before she answered. It was difficult to pin him down; his mind seemed to be sliding away from her touch, fanning out over a broad area. It crept into the bond and slid toward Allura, toward Black—but it was not Shiro himself. Not his consciousness. She wasn’t certain he was conscious in any real sense. “We’re close,” she said, wishing she could be more precise. Feeling Shiro like this made her queasy, like it was her own mind breaking apart under the weight of Haggar’s compulsion. Her skin crawled at the thought, and she grit her teeth. It was a shame Haggar had gone to face the others; Allura would have very much liked to tear her apart. Keith gestured to let them know the next hallway was clear, and they took off at a dash, keeping low to the ground, swords and staff ready in their hands. They hadn’t yet had to fight their way through, and Allura hoped to keep it that way at least until Shiro was safe and whole once more, but all three were ready for any surprise Haggar thew at them. They passed a door, so unremarkable Allura wouldn’t have spared it a thought if something within hadn’t grabbed hold of her heart and tugged. She stopped, breathless. “Shiro.” Her voice was soft, but it might as well have been a shout. Matt and Keith staggered, already spinning toward her, identical looks of fearful hope on their faces. Allura opened her mouth to reassure them, but she couldn’t find the words. He is close, whispered the Black Lion’s voice in her mind. Help him. Allura didn’t need to be told twice. Spinning on her toes, she raced back to the door they’d passed, through which she’d felt that tug. She dropped her shoulder as she approached and turned her head away, shifting into a Galra form. The metal buckled beneath her strength, and she staggered through into the room beyond, already raising her staff to meet the guards she was sure were waiting for her beyond the door. She’d been expecting a prison cell, or maybe a lab of some kind. But the room she found herself in wasn’t empty or cold. It wasn’t stone floors or metal walls, wasn’t putrid filth or the sterile scent of a lab. It was a bedroom. The door Allura had knocked off its track had fallen into a small closet that held black uniforms and silver armor. A desk had been built into the wall, a simple stool tucked into the space underneath. To the right, there was a bed that might have been plucked out of Shiro’s room on the castle-ship. It was a small bunk with plain, thin blankets that were neither threadbare nor luxurious. Shiro lay there atop the sheets, arms folded beneath his head, eyes closed as though he’d fallen asleep. His head turned slightly toward the door as Matt and Keith stumbled in behind Allura though, one corner of his mouth pulling upward in a shadow of a smile. “Was that really necessary?” he asked, and by the ancients, it sounded just like the Shiro she knew. Matt’s breath hitched, and Allura ached to cross the room toward him, but she didn’t need Keith’s outstretched arm to hold her back. The Black Lion was roaring in her head in fear and hatred. That’s not Shiro. Shiro breathed out, a short, almost sad sound. “You’re going to make this hard, aren’t you?” Not waiting for an answer, he rolled off the bed, uncurling like a lion ready for a fight, and opened his eyes. They burned yellow, as they had before, and the sensation of wrongness rolling off of him redoubled. “Good. I was starting to get bored.” Then he was moving, faster and more fluidly than any human should have been able to move. Allura raised her staff to meet him, but Keith was faster, sliding in between Shiro and Allura. His sword shrieked as it met Shiro’s glowing hand, the force of the collision driving Keith back several inches. Matt grasped Allura’s arm as he hurried to help Keith, locking eyes with her for the barest instant. “We’ll keep him busy,” he whispered. “Just hurry.” Allura nodded, though Matt was already moving on and probably couldn’t see her. She fell back, reaching out for the Black Lion, and gathering her Quintessence in preparation for a different kind of fight. She hoped this worked. Lightning flashed past Lance's head, and he yelped as he ducked for cover. "Lance!" Hunk shouted. Lasers flashed somewhere just out of Lance's line of sight. Things were going... okay, all things considered. The Galra waiting around the edges of the room were actually proving to be less of a problem than Lance had imagined they would be, which was somewhat disconcerting. Oh, sure, it was all well and good that none of them were attacking, but why? Why just stand there and watch, when the three paladins were so busy dodging Haggar's attacks that they would have been easy prey for any not-Haggar person in the room? All Lance could figure was that Haggar had ordered her soldiers not to attack for some reason. Who knew. Maybe her druidic magic required blood sacrifice, and Haggar had promised to take the blood of anyone who killed the paladins before she managed to. Whatever the case, they still stayed there, watching from the shadows, guns lifted in something that wasn't quite a threat, and Haggar kept blasting away with that lightning of hers—the normal yellow this time, not Quintessence-draining purple. It seemed to Lance that that should have told him something, but he couldn't figure out what. "I'm fine, Hunk," Lance said. He found his balance, raised his rifle, and aimed carefully at Haggar, who had turned her attention now to Pidge. Lance fired, and Haggar disappeared at the same instant, reappearing directly behind Hunk. Pidge spun, slashing forward with their bayard. "I don't think so!" The bladed tip shot out across the open space toward Haggar even as Hunk danced aside, swinging his own bayard around. But Haggar just teleported again, chuckling softly like this whole thing was some kind of game. Hell, to her it very well might have been. It had been five minutes since the paladins stumbled into this room. Five minutes since the door sealed shut behind them. The Galra gathered around the edges of the room never moved, except when one of the paladins strayed too close to one door or the other, and even then the Galra only fired a warning shot or two, letting up the instant the offending paladin drifted back into the center of the room, where Shay lingered, her eyes wide with fear, her shield active on her arm. Not a single one of Lance's shots had hit its mark; Hunk barely even had a chance to take aim at Haggar before she whisked herself away. Shay had once come very near to punching Haggar when she teleported directly in front of Hunk and Shay panicked, but that was just about the most damage they’d done. And if laser guns couldn't hit Haggar, then Pidge's little grappling hook didn't stand a chance, lightning or no. But Haggar hadn't landed a hit, either—though in her case, Lance doubted it had anything to do with a lack of skill. She was toying with them. But why? She had to have realized by now that three paladins were unaccounted for. Were there other Galra out there closing in on Shiro's position? Had Haggar set a trap to stop them on their retreat, after they were already tired from fighting Shiro? Or was she just that confident in her oh-so-special 'Weapon' and her ability to maintain her control, whatever Allura tried? Lance fell back closer to Shay, trying to get his racing thoughts to fall in line. He could hear nothing of interest over the comms; reinforcements had begun to arrive a few minutes ago, but they hadn’t spotted the lions yet. They were just… waiting, and Ryner and Coran had begun to plan the exit strategy once the rest of the team made it out. Allura and them were even quieter; there had been nothing at all since they found Shiro. Grunts, shouts, the occasional cry of pain. Nothing to say how much longer it would be until Allura broke through Haggar's control. Nothing to say whether or not any guards had joined the fight. It didn't make sense. Pidge slashed at Haggar, forcing her to teleport away, and Lance took aim at the wisp of black smoke that preceded her arrival near one dark corner of the room. She was still too fast for him, teleporting away again, but Lance just turned and shot at that smoke, too. Maybe if he was lucky he'd annoy her into showing her hand. "She has to have something up her sleeve," he muttered, so low that only Shay seemed to hear. She turned toward him, brow furrowed, but Lance didn't bother to elaborate. How could he put it into words? Haggar had no reason to keep any of them alive, unless she was stalling for time (but for what?) She was strong enough and fast enough and ruthless enough that she should have run them into the ground by now. Even if he hadn't had Keith and Shiro's stories of all the horrible things Haggar had done, Lance had faced her before. He knew exactly how vicious she was. Lance hadn't lasted ten seconds with her without having to run away—and sure, he had backup of his own now, but even so... It was the smallest slip, a mistake so slight Lance doubted anyone else noticed. He just happened to be in the right place at the right time, sighting along the barrel of his rifle as Pidge snuck up behind Haggar, who was hemming Hunk in with lightning on both sides. Pidge swung, and Haggar didn't even see it coming. She couldn't have. And yet, somehow, she teleported away just as Pidge's blade made contact. Just as Pidge's blade made contact. If Lance had blinked, he might have assumed it was the same as any other time—Haggar's reflexes were just too damn fast for the paladins, or her magic gave her some kind of precognition, or something. Except he was watching, and he saw the instant Pidge's blade phased through Haggar's back. The robes around the wound rippled for just an instant, wavering like a mirage. Wavering like Haggar’s illusory clones did when they were struck. Then the smoke came, and Haggar’s clone vanished, and when it reappeared there was no blood, no wound, no hole in her robes, nothing to say she'd been hit by a diamond-edged blade snapping with electricity. All at once, Lance understood. It wasn’t Haggar here, but a clone. The paladins hadn’t landed a blow, and Haggar hadn’t landed a blow, and the soldiers around the room hadn’t bothered to stop in—because this wasn’t a battle. It was a distraction. And Lance had fallen for it. Horror flooded Lance's veins, and he lowered his rifle, his lungs freezing in his chest. "Guys," he whispered. "Guys! It's a trap! Haggar's not here—she’s headed for you!" Matt felt as though he was watching another man fight. It was his body that moved, his lungs struggling for breath. He felt each of Shiro’s blows radiate pain up his arms and into his shoulders, aggravating the crystals growing near his joints. His weak leg throbbed in time with his footsteps, and he knew he would have collapsed if not for the brace he’d built into his armor. Yet it all seemed to be happening to someone else. Matt wasn’t fighting his boyfriend. That was ridiculous. Shiro wasn’t evil, and Matt… Matt wasn’t that strong. Surely this was a dream, or a hallucination. Maybe all of it had been a hallucination. Maybe he was still locked up in the E-dep chamber back on Vel-17, and everything he thought had happened since was only real inside his head. (He almost wished that was true, because then, at least, there was a chance that it wasn’t Shiro whose body was being used against his will.) Keith roared as he charged back into the fight from where Shiro had thrown him. They’d somehow managed to keep the fight contained to the bedroom, though the bed was in splinters, the contents of the closet strewn across the floor. Shiro circled them both with a predatory grace, reminding Matt somehow of a wolf assessing a threat. Yellow eyes turned toward the doorway where Allura knelt, eyes closed, lips moving silently. Keith had demanded updates for the first minute or two of battle, but once Allura snapped at him to stop distracting her, he gave up and focused only on keeping Shiro away. That was something else surreal about the whole thing, Matt decided. Keith fighting Shiro in earnest. They trained together often enough, but this was different. This was feral desperation from Keith, who faltered every time his blade came close to striking flesh, and cold disinterest from Shiro, who batted his best friend away almost lazily. And so, somehow, it always came back to this: Shiro and Matt facing off across a wrecked bedroom, an ugly sneer twisting Shiro’s face. Until Keith charged in and Shiro caught his sword in his hand. “Pathetic,” Shiro spat, and though Keith’s face remained paralyzed in a rictus of fury, his shoulders tried to crumple at the disgust in Shiro’s voice. “What are you even trying to prove, Keith? That you belong here? You’re Galra. You’re never going to belong with them.” Keith visibly flinched at the words and faltered long enough for Shiro to kick his legs out from under him, pivot, and send him flying back toward the bed, where he landed in a tangle of sheets and broken wood. “And you.” Shiro turned back to Matt, arms loose, stance relaxed. He stuck his left hand on his hip and gave Matt a perfunctory once-over before snorting. “I should have put you out of your misery a year ago.” The words might have stung, had any of this felt real. But it wasn’t Shiro who spoke them, and it wasn’t Matt to whom he spoke. Matt felt himself blink, curl his lip, and charge back in. It didn’t matter that Matt (not Matt) was weaker and slower and less practiced than Shiro in all forms of combat. It didn’t matter that Matt (not Matt) was not a warrior, was in fact barely average in the combat simulations Allura had them all run. It didn’t matter, because Matt (not. Matt.) could never have stood aside and let the man he loved be used like this. Shiro stepped back as Matt charged, but it wasn’t a retreat. He was only stepping back so that he could catch Matt’s strike on his forearm, the sparks snapping at both their cheeks as they pressed close, straining for the advantage. Shiro was taller, stronger, but he wasn’t fighting as hard. He only held, and leaned in closer to Matt. For an instant, his face changed. Gone were the hard lines and cruel smiles. The yellow of his eyes never dimmed, but as long as Matt didn’t look at them, he could make himself believe that it was his Shiro smiling back at him over the white-hot boundary where sword met arm. “I love you, Matt,” Shiro whispered. “I wish I didn’t have to kill you.” The words stole the breath from Matt’s lungs and the rhythm from his heart. I love you, Matt. I love you. It was the first time Shiro had ever said the words—and it wasn’t even him who said it. Rage swept over him, turning his vision white around the edges, and he kicked out, putting space between Shiro and himself as he drew back his sword, ready to end the fight. (That wasn’t Shiro. It wasn’t Shiro.) He screamed as he swung, and Shiro’s smile flashed cruel and cold once more. Then he froze, hand halfway raised to block Matt’s attack, his face going blank as Matt’s sword collided with his breastplate. Shiro staggered with the hit, armor cracking with a horrible nails-on-chalkboard shriek, and Matt stilled, watching in confusion as Shiro fell. He didn’t even try to catch himself. A soft violet glow surrounded him, so dark it was almost black, a shadow that clung to his skin without obscuring Matt’s vision. Matt stared, blinking slowly as his rage faded, leaving his mind to try to work through what he was seeing. Keith, struggling free from the bed, laughed in disbelief. “She did it,” he whispered. “She actually did it.” Matt spun toward Allura. She still knelt in the doorway, eyes closed, hands resting palms-up on her thighs. The same black-violet glow surrounded her, pulsing very slightly as she breathed. Hope pounded in Matt’s chest, hope he hadn’t dared cling to since he’d seen Shiro’s soulless eyes. “Allura?” he asked. “Allura, did it work? Is he--?” Matt turned, searching Shiro for signs of a change. He lay on his back, arm still glowing faintly where it lay at his side, eyes closed, brow furrowed. He seemed almost to be dreaming. Hardly able to breathe, Matt returned his attention to Allura. He needed her to confirm it, needed her to say the words. He’s okay. We’ve got him back. A shadow fell across Allura, yellow eyes glowing beneath a deep hood. Matt’s mind short-circuited, and he hardly heard Lance’s voice in his ear. It’s a trap! Haggar’s not here—she’s headed for you! No. No, this wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. They were here. They’d found Shiro. Allura had gotten through to him! Behind Matt, Shiro laughed, only it was Haggar’s laugh, thin and dry and taunting. The light around Allura changed, threads of crimson spreading through it as Haggar stretched one hand over her head. Matt stood frozen, Shiro’s laugh like ice in his veins. He knew he should move, knew he had to stop this, but he didn’t know how. Slowly, as if she was fighting the motion, Allura’s head tipped back, eyes opening until she was staring at the darkness growing in the palm of Haggar’s hand. “Thank you so much for opening your mind to me, Princess,” Haggar said. “I never would have been able to take you otherwise.” Allura breathed in, one ragged, pained breath, but it was enough to shatter the shock cementing Matt in place. He shouted something—nothing—everything—and sprinted forward with no thought in his mind but to get Allura away from Haggar. Haggar only smiled, and Allura’s eyes began to glow. By the time Matt reached her, it was too late. She stood with the same predatory grace as Shiro, taking up her staff in the same movement and smacking away Matt’s sword. It spun out of his grasp, reverting to its inactive from before vanishing in a flash of light, and Matt summoned it back to his hand as he retreated. Allura followed, an ill-fitting smile pasted on her face. Her eyes were fully yellow now, glowing as bright as Haggar’s, and the aura that had surrounded her faded. Her glaes seemed to bleed, their shape becoming more angular, their color darker, until the woman standing before him seemed a total stranger. The next step brought Matt back-to-back with Keith, who stood facing Shiro. For an instant it was as though they sat in the Red Lion’s cockpit. Matt could almost imagine he was looking through Keith’s eyes as Shiro advanced, arm glowing white-violet and humming with power. “Vrekt,” Keith hissed, and Matt agreed with every bone in his body. Ryner hadn't always been a commander, but she'd never been a soldier. She’d already been an old woman when war came to Olkarion, and though she’d taught herself to fight, a gun was never her first choice. She watched. She planned. She set traps and built defenses and organized the younger Olkari to fight at her command. Sitting by and waiting to see whether all the preparation had panned out had never gotten easier. The Green Lion hummed beneath her hands, Quintessence eddying in anticipation of a fight, engines purring with pent-up energy. Her cloak still held—Ryner and Pidge had tinkered with it once, when they needed a break from their other projects, and had managed to coax a few more minutes from the assembly. Knowing that—knowing they were invisible to Galra instruments—didn’t make it any easier to sit quietly as an armada gathered around them. “I know how you feel,” Ryner muttered, patting the console. The paladins all knew their lions were sentient, but she wondered sometimes whether they realized just what that meant. Green was restless, and she worried for Pidge, and though she knew she was one of the most powerful creatures in the universe, she still sometimes wished she could adopt a smaller form so she could stand at her paladins’ side when they left her to fight. And Ryner knew all too well that longing to be on the front lines. They were needed here, though, to watch and to wait, to rescue the paladins on Haggar’s ship should things go awry and to protect the silent lions waiting a quarter-rotation around the belly of the ship. Ryner’s eyes went to the display screen out of habit, even as she reached out with her Quintessence and accessed Green’s senses directly. The lions were all linked somehow, in a manner Ryner hadn’t yet figured out. They were all aware of each other constantly, so Ryner knew instantly that Red and Black were still roughly where their paladins had left them, though Black had drifted somewhat to stay as close to Allura as possible. The younger paladins’ voices drifted through the comms, and one part of Ryner’s mind followed them, cataloging relevant information for consideration and discarding the rest. Another portion of her mind scanned the region for signs of attack from the new arrivals. A third hailed Coran on a private channel and asked whether he’d seen anything on his scans. “Nothing,” said Coran. “They’re all still just… waiting.” Before Ryner could relax at the report, Lance’s voice shot through her concentration, high and strained. A trap. Haggar had played them all. At almost the same moment, Green bucked, roaring as something foreign shot through the Black Lion. She shuddered, a roar filtering through her connection to Green and on into Ryner’s mind. A machine should never have sounded so frightened. Ryner and Green turned toward the Black Lion, contingency plans tumbling through her head just below the surface. There were no Galra fighters in the air around the lions, no sign of activity on the ship itself except for a pair of bay doors sliding open. Ryner shot forward, ready to haul the Black Lion out of danger, but Black was quicker. She rounded on Green, red wing-like thrusters flaring as her cloak fell away. Then, tail lashing, she spat a laser. There was no time to doge. Green was nearly atop Black by this point, and Ryner was too slow to pull her aside. The laser shattered her shield, momentarily shorted out the generator holding the cloak. It recovered a moment later as Ryner and Green both turned their minds toward the damage, but the armada had spotted her. Lasers filled the air around her, and Ryner had no choice but to flee as the Black Lion disappeared into Haggar’s ship. This was a dream. It had to be. There was no way in any universe Matt could have actually come to this point, alone in a fight for his life against two of his closest friends and Zarkon’s second-in-command with only Keith at his side for aid. Somewhere, distantly, Lance and Pidge were shouting—promising they were on their way, demanding to know what was happening with Matt and Keith. Matt couldn’t answer. Couldn’t form a coherent thought. (Shiro and Allura. It wasn’t possible.) As for Keith, he seemed more eager to fight than to talk, his motions edged now in terror, too quick for precision and too reckless for any sort of defense. Haggar stayed only a moment, and then a lion’s roar echoed through the ship. With a smile that chilled Matt through, she vanished in a puff of smoke. She left Allura behind, though Allura seemed content to stay by the door and prevent them from leaving. Matt circled around behind Shiro while Keith held his attention, waiting until he had both Shiro and Allura in his line of sight before he ventured an attack of his own. But Shiro wasn’t playing around any longer—Matt’s stomach dropped into his feet at the realization that everything up to this point had been a game. He moved now as Matt imagined the Champion had moved: too fast to see, fluid and dangerous and ceaseless, and even Matt and Keith together couldn’t keep up with him. Their only hope was for Lance and the others to get here soon and stop the fight before-- Shiro leaped back to avoid Keith’s latest charge, pivoted on the ball of his foot, and grabbed Keith’s sword hand with his left. His right pulled back, its light going dark. In the next heartbeat, the arm began to glow again, but it was no longer white-violet. Instead, the metal turned pitch black, blacker than a starless night, and crackled with all-too-familiar violet lightning. Shiro smiled as he thrust forward, his fingers punching holes in the smooth surface of Keith’s breastplate. Lightning snaked around Keith’s body, flashing so dark it seemed to sear Matt’s eyes. Keith screamed, his back arching as the lightning continued for two interminable seconds. “KEITH!” The shout echoed in Matt’s ears, and he recognized Lance’s voice. There was a commotion at the door, Allura shouting in a voice that hardly seemed her own. But Shiro was turning, the black of his arm turning the same liquid gold that burned behind his eyes. Matt had time to take a single step backward, and then Shiro drove his fist into Matt’s gut. Light flashed as agony consumed Matt’s world. Lance swore, every profanity he knew in every language he’d ever heard tumbling out of him in a tangle of fear and grief that still wasn’t enough to stem the tide of emotions inside him. Keith wavered on his feet, black lightning still crackling around him, making his fur stand on end. Beyond him, Matt was wreathed in yellow, screaming a sound of pure animal torment. “Matt!” Pidge yelled. Allura stood between Lance and the scene of carnage, but the fact that she hadn’t yet moved to interfere told Lance something had gone horribly wrong. Haggar. Haggar had been expecting them. Lance didn't slow as he approached the doorway, simply dropped to his knees, skidding under Allura’s swinging staff. As he passed, Pidge’s bayard shot out, wrapping Allura in electric green. She screamed, and Pidge roared, and a sigh like a death rattle passed Keith’s lips as he collapsed. Lance barely caught him before he hit the floor. Lance’s first thought was, He’s already dead. Keith’s lips were parted, his eyes half-lidded and utterly devoid of light, the yellow glow replaced with an opaque, brownish surface that glistened with tears. Around Lance were shouts of pain and anger and frustration. Beside him was a corona of yellow. Matt had gone silent, but his breath was ragged and uneven, his feet kicking feebly as Shiro lifted him off the ground. Whatever sliver of Lance’s mind was still able to see the battle as a whole and not just these small, horrific bits of it, saw a bleak field. Pidge and Hunk still fought Allura by the door, and though Pidge was screaming for their brother, they weren’t going to be fast enough to stop Shiro before he killed Matt. Keith shivered in Lance’s lap, clutching once at Lance’s arm before his grip went slack. Inside, Lance screamed, but outside was the calm of shock. His body felt cold as ice as he summoned his bayard and brought it around, no thought in his mind but that Matt would die if Shiro didn’t. In the instant before Lance pulled the trigger, Shay charged past him, roaring defiance. She barreled into Shiro, knocking him to the ground as she snatched Matt away from him. The last traces of electricity flickered around her hands, glowing even more brightly than the blue light of Quintessence as she cupped Matt’s face in her palms. As they slid to the ground, Lance caught sight of Matt’s face—his mouth open in a new scream, his eyes wide and blazing blue. Patches of crystal like scales spread across his skin. It was only a glimpse, but the image burned itself into Lance’s eyes, and he looked on in horror as Shay bent over Matt, whispering frantically, “I am here, Matt. I am here. You will be fine. Please...” “Shay!” Hunk cried. “Look out!” She looked up as Shiro charged toward her, murder in his hollow eyes. Lance wasn’t sure if it was Shay he meant to kill, or Matt, but either way Shay was dead unless she moved. She did move—but not away from Shiro. Face hardening, Shay planted herself in front of Matt, down on one knee, one arm still glowing blue as she cradled Matt against her side, one arm raised as if she meant to catch Shiro’s arm with her bare hand. There was a flash of light somewhere behind Lance, and then the yellow bayard appeared in Shay’s hand. It glowed brilliantly for a split second, and when the light faded it had become a shield, six feet tall and nearly as wide. Its crystalline surface glittered like diamonds, and veins of blue ran through the metal beneath. Shiro roared, bringing his fist down onto Shay’s shield. For an instant, the ship held its breath. Then, through the silence, a horrible cracking sound. The shield pulsed yellow, flinging Shiro backwards away from Shay and Matt. A dark, jagged crack ran up his cybernetic arm, the edges glowing furiously, the light in the rest of the arm faltering. Shiro skidded to a stop, then dropped to his knees, breathing hard. “What…?” Shiro whispered. “What am I…?” At that moment, Matt let out a shuddering gasp, and Shiro’s head snapped up. His eyes—grey eyes, ringed in white—locked onto Matt’s convulsing form. “Matt?” Shiro looked around, from the shattered furniture behind him, to the fight at the door, which had fallen silent in the moment when Shiro’s arm cracked, to Keith—still and silent in Lance’s arms. All the while, Lance could only stare at Shiro, heart breaking as realization washed over his face. “Oh god. Oh, god. What did I do? What did I—?” He broke off, howling as he collapsed in on himself, clutching his head between his hands. Keith roused at the sound, his dull eyes fluttering open. “Shiro…?” Before Lance could find his voice, dark smoke coalesced behind Shiro, and more at the edge of Lance’s vision, where Allura stood motionless. Two druids appeared, their faces hidden behind bone-white masks. The druid behind Shiro grabbed him by the arms, and in the instant before they disappeared, Shiro looked up, tears streaming down his face, and met Lance’s eyes. “You have to stop me,” he whispered. "Please." And then he was gone.
Yet again Maura found herself at Jane’s apartment, the night getting late. They were in the kitchen. Jane had just finished making herself a grilled cheese when Maura took out the bottle of wine Tommy had given her. Despite Jane’s reluctance to have such a superb wine with such a simple, greasy dinner, Maura picked up the corkscrew. Jane approached the counter. “Listen…” Jane said with resignation. Maura frowned, but avoided her eyes, busying herself with opening the wine bottle. She could tell by the change in Jane’s voice and her body language that she had something to get off her chest. “I don’t want to stand in the way of a great romance. Okay?” Jane continued. Maura felt her heart palpitate. What great romance? The only romance Maura wanted she would never have because she couldn’t dare risk it. There was no way Jane was talking about that. “What do you mean?” she said, looking at Jane inquisitively. “You and Tommy.” Jane said, wondering for a split second who else Maura could think she meant. She had been trying to get used to the idea of Maura seeing her brother. Jane’s face curled up with distaste as an image of her brother kissing Maura popped into her brain. “Clearly, opposites attract.” “It’s an evolutionary strategy to ensure healthy reproduction.” Maura stated matter-of-factly. But what was really a strategy—a survival strategy—was Maura’s defense mechanism. She hid behind her expansive knowledge of science factoids whenever the situation was unfamiliar or, as in this case, uncomfortable. Still, Maura managed a smile, already guessing as to the response her comment would elicit from the tall brunette. “Why do you got to go straight to breeding?” Jane said with irritation, “Alright? With my brother?” Maura laughed lightly. “Look,” she said taking a breath, forcing herself to say only what was necessary, what Jane could handle, “I like Tommy. A lot. But I love you. And I hate it when you hate me, so I don’t want to do anything to compromise our friendship.” And what she said was true. She never wanted to risk her friendship with Jane ever again, for any reason, no matter how troubling. Images of that week flashed through Maura’s mind as she looked up at the detective with a determined expression. The way Jane had looked at her when she found out what Maura had been hiding about Tommy being a suspect. The stab in her heart at the sound of Jane’s angry, disbelieving voice. The pain and betrayal so visible in her warm, coffee brown eyes. She never wanted to experience anything like that ever again. It didn’t matter how much Maura panged to express to Jane all that she was feeling, all that she was struggling with. She could never risk losing her as a friend, no matter how much Jane made her heart flutter and her stomach fill with butterflies. But Maura shook those thoughts from her mind. She had to focus on rebuilding their friendship. It was taking a lot of work, but they had almost returned to their normal amount of openness and playfulness. Jane looked at her with a goofy smile, “Good, because I hate it when I have to hate you.” Jane had wanted to say, ‘I love you too,’ but for some reason the words seemed too strong, too intimate. That wasn’t to say that she didn’t love Maura, because Jane surely loved her best friend more than anyone else in the world. But that was just the problem, ever since Maura had told her about Ian being the love of her life, Jane had started to feel strange whenever the topic of love came up. Jane had held Maura in her arms that night, trying to soothe her quiet sobs. But as she did Jane slowly became aware of the ache in her chest. Maura’s words rolled around in Jane’s brain, “love of my life.” She wondered what that feeling was that was festering deep in her gut. Could that be jealousy? Jane had pushed those worried thoughts into the back of her mind. But the questions had remained lurking in the edges of her consciousness ever since. And now, months later, when she heard the words, “I love you” she felt oddly resistant to use them in return, just in case her words ended up meaning more than she could understand. Still, Jane was pleased to have her friend back. She had missed being open with her, being close to her. And, for now, she would ignore the nagging voice in her head that wanted to know why. They both giggled, Maura pouring them each a glass of wine. “Sip it slowly.” Maura said softly. She watched Jane closely as she brought the glass to her lips. An appreciative smile spread across Maura’s face as she watched her friend. But then Jane looked up at her. The grimace on her face gave Maura the distinct impression that Jane was just about to vomit. Maura watched in astonishment as Jane spit the wine directly back into the glass. Jane’s eyes were wide as she wiped her mouth. “How much was this?” she said with a look of disgust. “Six-hundred and twenty-five dollars—did you just spit out a ’94 chateau?” Maura said looking at her incredulously. Jane made a mocking sound at her, wishing she could get the acrid taste from her mouth. She took the bottle from Maura, looking at it in shock, “Yes. My—gah—some smart shopper Tommy is! Why did he waste a month’s rent on a bottle of rancid vinegar and old garlic?” She put her hand to her sternum, willing her food not to come back up. “No,” Maura said, swirling her glass, “it just needs to breathe and release its tannins.” “Really?” Jane said, leaning forward on the counter, watching expectantly as Maura took a sip. For a moment, Maura maintained a straight face as the red wine slipped into her mouth. As she swallowed her lips puckered and her face contorted. She made a high-pitched objection, frowning and shaking her head. “Yeah.” Jane said, taking the wine bottle from the counter. “Ew!” Maura responded. “You might be right.” “Mm hm…” Jane said pouring the wine carefully back into the bottle. “What are you doing?” Maura said with a frown. “I’m going to pour it back in the bottle so Tommy can take it back.” “They’re not going to take it back!” “Oh, they’ll take it back.” Jane said with a resolute expression. Maura laughed. She had dearly missed these moments with the detective. Jane had a way of making everything seem light and carefree. And her smile—she missed her wide, toothy smile and the sound of her laugh, an honest, guttural laugh that made Maura’s stomach do summersaults. The way Jane’s deep russet colored eyes sparkled when she smiled made it nearly impossible for Maura to look away. Maura blinked at her friend dazedly, vaguely aware that she was saying something about her grilled cheese sandwich. Maura didn’t mean to ignore her, but she found herself lost in an exploration of the tanned, defined features of Jane’s face. The harder she tried to look away, the more she didn’t want to. Her eyes settled on Jane’s pale lips. “Hey, Maur, you okay?” Jane said, frowning at her. She shifted uncomfortably, wondering if Maura was staring at her or through her. “Huh?” Maura said, shaking her head slightly and blinking at her. “Oh! Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired I guess.” “It is getting late.” Jane said, looking at the clock on the microwave, it was nearly eleven. Though it was Friday, Jane figured Maura would be getting up at the crack of dawn tomorrow, just like any other day. Jane went to the fridge to grab a beer to go with her grilled cheese. She was sure she was going to get a wise crack from Maura about her choice of a late-night snack, but Maura said nothing as Jane popped open the bottle and returned to the counter. “Maybe you should get some rest, it’s been a long week.” Jane said, taking a sip of the cool, amber liquid. She didn’t really want Maura to leave, but Jane was worried about her. Maura had been acting strangely the past couple months. It seemed as if something was bothering the doctor, but Jane had not had the courage to bring it up. Ever since Ian had flitted in and out of Maura’s life, Jane worried about what else Maura might be hiding from her. Jane was concerned for her friend and she wished Maura would be more open with her. “It has been a long week.” Maura confirmed with a sigh. She glanced at Jane briefly, noticing the beer for the first time, “You know, you really have horrible eating habits.” “Now that’s the Maura Isles I know and love.” Jane quipped. Shit. Jane rebuked herself harshly, Stop blushing, it’s just an expression! There that word was again, why did it seem so horribly intimate all of a sudden? Jane quickly took a bite of her sandwich, hoping to distract Maura’s attention away from her cheeks by chomping on her food enthusiastically. “What?” Jane said indignantly through a mouth full of greasy cheese and bread. “I’m hungry.” Maura was looking at her with a raised eyebrow and a judgmental expression. “You know, eating too quickly causes the swallowing of air leading to excessive gas--“ “Ew, Maura!” Jane said, dropping her sandwich back down on her plate. Thankfully, her little ploy had worked, unfortunately it had led to Jane losing her appetite. “What?” Maura said, innocently. Honestly, she did not understand how Jane could be so upset by normal bodily functions. Jane looked at her friend quietly for a moment. She wondered for a moment why they were such good friends anyway. Sometimes, the two of them seemed to be such opposites. Other times, Jane thought, the two of them fit perfectly together, like yin and yang. Jane smiled at this thought. Then she looked up at Maura, “Well, are you at least going to have a beer or something?” She turned to grab one from the fridge. “Well…” Maura said, reaching out for the beer instinctively. Her brain was telling her no, but her heart was telling her yes. She stared at Jane with a half smile, as if stuck between two conflicting thoughts. All she wanted was to be with Jane, but she wasn’t sure if doing so would be a good idea. The last night they had spent together, Maura had started to become increasingly uncomfortable with the lack of distance between them. Normally, throughout the evening they would somehow come closer and closer, starting out with them sitting on each end of the couch watching a movie, to them snuggled together, asleep, on one of their beds. In the beginning, Maura had enjoyed these gestures of intimacy, but lately she had become uncomfortable with the way they were making her feel. Last week, noticing her heart fluttering wildly as Jane sat next to her, their thighs touching lightly, Maura had restrained herself from resting her head on Jane’s shoulder. But Jane, who had her arm in its customary place behind Maura, had scooted closer to her, causing Maura’s honey colored curls to fall unto Jane’s t-shirt. Maura had gulped as her glance dipped down to Jane’s breasts. Jane let out a contented sigh as she squeezed lightly on Maura’s arm. Maura tried to oblige Jane’s obvious request for their usual movie-watching cuddle, but as she placed her head on Jane’s shoulder Maura could think of nothing more than Jane’s thumb affectionately rubbing on her left arm. Finally, unable to bear it anymore, Maura had suddenly stood up and mumbled something about using the restroom. But, considering Jane had come over to her house that evening, there was no running away from her. Instead, she went to her bedroom to get into her nightgown. And nearly half-an-hour later she still had not left the master bedroom. Instead, she was pacing back and forth, the sound of the movie leaking in from the living room through the cracked door. Maura had just sat down on her bed with frustration when the sound quieted from the surround-sound entertainment system downstairs. “Maur,” Jane called out, “you okay?” Maura scrunched her eyes closed. The movie was probably over and now Jane was wondering where she had gone. She started to panic. She did not want Jane to come looking for her; she had no reasonable explanation to give her. All she knew was that she could not muster up the courage to ask Jane to leave. The door creaked slightly as Jane peeked into the master bedroom. “You asleep, Maura?” Jane whispered. Maura had her eyes closed, sprawled with her back on the bed. She was in her pajamas, but the bed was still made beneath her. Jane frowned, that was unusual for Maura. She had wondered if the honey blond had been feeling okay, she had been acting very strangely while they were watching the movie, and it was unlike Maura to head to bed without offering her the guest room before turning in. Jane approached the bed slowly, placing her steps carefully as to avoid waking up the doctor unnecessarily. She peered down at Maura curiously. If she was asleep, then she was not having a good time of it, because her face was tense and her brow slightly furrowed. “Maur?” Jane said softly, “What’s the matter?” “Nothing.” Maura said, opening her eyes but avoiding Jane’s. She turned over, her back to the brunette, “I’m just tired.” “You’ve been acting strangely.” Jane said, placing a hand on Maura’s arm in a comforting gesture, “Is everything okay?” “Yes, Jane, I’m fine.” Maura said flatly, staring at the opposite wall, trying not to let her voice falter. “Are you upset about Ian?” Jane said, taking a wild stab in the dark. Perhaps, Maura was still upset over him leaving. Jane hadn’t wanted to bring it up since that night, but Jane was concerned for her friend—she was clearly struggling with something. “No!” Maura said, shrugging Jane’s hand from her shoulder. She had not intended to sound so hostile, but the thought of Ian had sent a stabbing pain into her heart. Yes, she still loved him, but she had tried not to think about him since he left—it hurt too much. Instead, she had been focusing her attentions on all of her conflicting emotions for the detective. Frustratingly, that had only led to more trouble. “Please, talk to me.” Jane said in a pleading voice, which was clearly filled with pain as well. “You’re my best friend, Maur. You can tell me anything.” Maura was silent for a moment. For half a second, she thought of telling Jane about all the feelings rushing around inside her. How all she could think about was being near to her, how she thought about touching her, kissing her, how she longed to know if Jane ever felt the same impulses. But when she turned and looked Jane in the eyes, she could not make herself do it. Maura could not risk ever losing the way that Jane looked at her like she did at that very moment, her eyes so full of love and concern. “I’m sorry.” Maura whispered, fighting back tears. “Shh…” Jane said, lying down beside her, wrapping her arms around Maura comfortingly, “…it’s okay.” They remained like that for a while in silence. Maura nestled her back into Jane, letting Jane’s hand fall to her waist. She felt Jane’s breath on the back of her neck, slow and steady. She closed her eyes and tried to savor the moment, tried to prevent her mind from wandering into fantasy, to just let herself enjoy this moment beside her best friend. “Jane?” Maura had said after a deep inhale of breath. “Yeah, Maur?” the brunette said, lifting her head off the pillow. “Could we just… stay here…like this?” Maura said, feeling Jane’s hand rubbing her arm soothingly. “Yeah,” Jane had said, laying her head back down on the pillow and pulling her body closer to Maura, hugging her from behind, “of course.” Maura’s mind returned to the present as Jane posed that question again, “You okay, Maur?” Maura looked down at the open bottle of beer in her hand. She had not even taken a sip. Jane, on the other hand, had finished hers and grabbed a second. Her grilled cheese lay unfinished on the plate on the counter. She was too concerned with Maura to bother finishing it. She watched Maura carefully. Where had the joyful, laughing Maura gone? The honey blond suddenly looked serious, almost sorrowful. Jane thought back to the other night, wondering if Maura would ever tell her why she had fallen asleep crying. Not that the doctor had been weeping when Jane held her, but she had sensed Maura’s distress, and she had seen Maura’s eyes water. She had sniffled some, wiping her eyes carefully, as to not bring attention to herself. But Jane had noticed, and it had left her heartbroken, wishing she knew how to console her friend. Maura’s crying had soon ceased, however, as her breathing slowed ,and she quickly fell asleep in her arms. Jane had spent a long part of that night staring at the back of Maura’s neck, wondering what was coming over her. Lately, she had been feeling a strange magnetism calling her nearer to the doctor whenever they were close and alone. Presently, it was that magnetism that caused Jane to scoot around the counter and stand in front of Maura, looking at her facial features closely. She wished she could read Maura as well as she could read a perp, maybe then she would have some inkling as to what was bothering her. But the doctor was not a perp, and her emotions were unreadable, as jumbled and complex as her fascinating mind. Jane rubbed Maura’s arms comfortingly, wishing her friend would speak. She remained patient, however, because she knew that Maura was simply searching for the words. “Jane, I…” Maura said, finally looking her best friend in the eyes. She owed Jane an explanation, she had waited patiently for nearly a week, but what could she tell her? For a fleeting moment she wondered if the look in Jane’s eyes could possibly be that of love—not just friendly love but something deeper, something far more intense. She shook her head, chasing those thoughts from her mind. She swallowed, trying to fight the urge to lean forward and touch the lips she found her eyes glued to. Jane frowned at her friend, watching the internal battle play out in her hazel eyes. Jane watched as her gaze kept flicking down. Was she staring at her lips? The detective’s heart faltered, her breath catching. She suddenly became aware of the doctor’s body heat radiating toward her, the sweet smell of her perfume. Jane felt Maura shiver under her hands, still at her shoulders. Maura’s honey colored hair tickled at Jane’s fingers. “Yes?” Jane said breathlessly, swallowing nervously. She could feel her heart pounding in her ears. Her eyes darted to Maura’s lips, suddenly curious what they might taste like. Did I just lick my lips? Jane thought frantically as she felt her finger curl into Maura’s soft, silky hair. Damn, Maura, what are you doing to me? Maura could not bear the aching in her heart. She desperately longed to just blurt it out, just spill her guts right then and there. I love you! Maura screamed in her head, Can’t you see that? Don’t you know that I love you—that I’m in love with you! Then Maura saw Jane look down at her lips and lick her own. No! She had just imagined it, she told herself. Jane did not, could not, feel the same for her. Jane was not comfortable with her sexuality like Maura was. Jane was attracted to men. She had never shown any interest in Maura, or any woman for that matter. Jane’s hand wandered to Maura’s neck, the tips of her fingers caressing the muscles running up from Maura’s collarbone to her jawline. Jane’s eyes were watching her hand with an almost dumbfounded expression on her face, as if her body was moving of its own accord and she was powerless to stop it. The detective breathed in quiet gasps, as if having to consciously will her lungs to function. Finally, Jane’s eyes met Maura’s. The doctor shivered at the look in those dark brown eyes, a look of desire. No! Maura thought, stepping back suddenly. She was surely going mad. Her fantasies were spilling into her waking moments. Maura quickly turned to leave. She could stand to be under Jane’s gaze no longer, not without saying—or rather doing—something she would most likely regret moments later. No matter how much she wanted to, she could not risk their friendship for any reason. But Jane caught her by the hand. The detective spun her around dizzyingly fast. Maura stumbled forward slightly. Jane felt her hand slip behind the doctor’s back, not to catch her, but to pull her closer. She caught Maura’s parted mouth with her own, muffling a small gasp from the honey blond. Every muscle in Maura’s body relaxed as Jane wrapped her arms around her waist, pulling Maura taut against her muscular body. For a brief moment she let herself believe that the moment was real, that Jane’s tongue on her lips was not simply part of yet another wet dream, the detective really did step forward, causing Maura to bump onto the counter behind her. Suddenly, Maura broke the kiss, dropping her hands from where they had pulled yearningly at Jane’s neck. She looked up at her friend with her eyes wide, her mouth open in shock. Maura blinked, wandering if she really had the ability to imagine something so vividly. Jane looked at her with just as much shock. She stepped back, releasing Maura’s waist. Her mouth moved, but nothing came out at first. Her heart was pounding wildly in her chest. What had she just done? Where did that come from? (to be continued)
It’s early when Buck first wakes up - he can tell by the angle that the sun is filtering through the curtains at. He follows the rays of light, and doesn’t even bother to stop the smile that curves at the corners of his mouth when his eyes land on Eddie. He’s sleeping soundly, sunlight making his skin glow and setting fire to the lighter strands of his hair. He looks younger when he’s sleeping, all the worry lines and tension in his face smoothed out. He looks vulnerable, and not for the first time Buck marvels at the fact that he gets to witness this side of Eddie that no one else is allowed to see. The house is completely silent, and for a moment Buck just lies there watching his love. Eddie has a hand stretched out across the bed, reaching for Buck always, even in his sleep. It makes Buck’s heart ache in the very best way, and he’d reach out and take it if he wasn’t certain that it would wake Eddie. But they had a rough shift last night, and Eddie deserves all the sleep he can find, so Buck is sure to be gentle when he climbs out of bed. He pulls on a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants. He’s not sure whether they’re his own or Eddie’s, and at this point there isn’t really a difference anyway, they share basically everything. And that’s just another thing that blows Buck’s mind - how seamlessly he has slotted into Eddie and Christopher’s life, and how much he was already a part of it even before they dared to love each other out loud. Buck steals another glance at Eddie - still sleeping peacefully - then tiptoes out of their room and down the hallway. He loves early mornings like this, when the house is quiet and he’s the only one awake to navigate it. He loves the chaos too, of course, when the house is packed with all the people that they love - but there’s just something about these moments. It makes Buck feel like he really belongs here with the Diaz boys, like this is his space and home too, like he’s trusted to watch over them while they sleep. He glances at the clock on the kitchen wall, and he knows he has at least an hour before Christopher will even begin to stir. He could wait for the kid to wake before he starts making breakfast, but he decides against it. He and Eddie don’t get many quiet mornings to themselves, and while he’s up he may as well make them breakfast in bed. Summer is starting to come to a close, and when Buck opens the window above the sink an almost-cool breeze swirls through the kitchen. It’ll warm up later, and maybe they’ll take Chris to the park for a couple hours, but the cool is refreshing while it lasts. Buck is humming the soundtrack to Hamilton under his breath and flipping over the bacon when he hears footsteps shuffling into the kitchen behind him. He doesn’t even have time to turn around before he feels arms winding around his waist and a chin resting on his shoulder. Eddie presses a gentle kiss to the spot just beneath his ear, and Buck smiles. “Morning angel,” Eddie whispers. “Good morning mi amor,” Buck says. He leans his head back on Eddie’s shoulder and turns to look at him. His hair is all over the place, his eyes are still sleepy, and there’s a crease along his cheek from the pillowcase. He looks soft and warm, and Buck wants to drown in him - wants to stay wrapped up in his arms and live inside of this moment forever. Sometimes he still can’t believe he gets to have this. “Smells good,” Eddie says, looking at the stove to see what’s cooking. Buck elbows him playfully. “It was supposed to be breakfast in bed.” Eddie chuckles, and Buck doesn’t need to look at him to know that he’s rolling his eyes. “I appreciate the thought baby,” Eddie says. “But I’m up now.” It’s Buck’s turn to roll his eyes now. “Well go sit down,” Buck tells him. “I’ll bring it over when it’s ready.” Eddie raises a hand and uses two fingers to turn Buck’s face towards him, then plants a sweet, chaste kiss on his lips before reluctantly going to sit at the table. Buck would pretend to be mad that his plans got ruined, but it’s kind of hard when he’s blushing like a middle-schooler with a crush. Whatever. He gets back to cooking breakfast - flips the bacon and the pancakes, scrambles the eggs, flicks the switch on the coffee machine. And when he’s done he carries it all to the table and places it down in front of Eddie. He’s gonna be tired later because he got up so early, but it’s all worth it for the look on Eddie’s face. “You didn’t have to do all this babe,” Eddie says, but starts loading food onto his plate anyway. “Oh, well if you don’t want it I can-“ Buck reaches out to pick the dishes back up but he doesn’t even get close before Eddie is slapping his hand away. “I didn’t say that,” Eddie tells him, somehow frowning and smirking at the same time. Buck just laughs and sits down opposite him, starting to fill his own plate with food too. They eat in companionable silence, occasionally sharing glances and smiles, letting their feet tangle together beneath the table. And it’s strange, because Buck used to hate the quiet - when it was too quiet Buck’s thoughts would get loud. He would retreat into his head, and his head wasn’t a very nice place to be most of the time. But things are different now. Because sometimes Buck’s head is a little stormy, sure, but most of the time it’s filled with other things. It’s Christopher’s parent teacher conference and his hospital appointments, it’s the next time they’re having dinner at Abuela’s, and what time Maddie, Chim, and Jee are coming over. It’s the way Christopher’s eyes filled with tears when they watched Luca last week, and how it feels to wake up next to Eddie every morning. So the quiet is different for Buck, now. The silence is filled with all the things they don’t need to say, but can feel instead. And the biggest thing of all is love. So much love that Buck feels entirely surrounded by it, for the very first time in his life. It’s addicting, that feeling of belonging somewhere - of having people who want you to stay, who love you because they can’t imagine doing anything else. Buck feels like the luckiest person in the whole world. “What’s got you smiling?” Eddie asks around his last bite of food. That only makes Buck smile wider, and he squeezes his ankles together around Eddie’s foot. Eddie’s cheeks flush. “Just thinking.” “About anything in particular?” “You,” Buck confesses. Eddie’s eyebrows shoot upwards, and one side of his mouth curls up in a smirk as he runs his foot up the back of Buck’s calf. “Oh really?” Buck laughs and shakes his head. “Not like that,” he says. Although he does think about Eddie like that very often, especially when he looks at Buck with those eyes. “Just, us, I guess,” Buck continues. “Our lives. How lucky I am.” Eddie’s smirk softens into something gentle, something that still gives Buck butterflies even after all these months. He’s looking at Buck so intently that he almost wants to shy away from it. “Come here,” Eddie says, his voice quiet and rough. He pushes his chair out from the table at the same time Buck does, and when Buck gets closer he opens his arms for him. Buck doesn’t hesitate to slide into his arms and onto Eddie’s lap. He’s probably too big for this but they’re practised in it by now, so he slots himself comfortably against Eddie’s chest, and sighs when he feels arms wind around his waist. Eddie rests his forehead against Buck’s shoulder and presses a kiss to the top of his arm. Buck can’t help but wrap his arm around Eddie’s shoulders, tangle his hand in the hair at the nape of Eddie’s neck and tug gently until he looks up at him with his big, brown eyes. “Hey handsome,” Buck says, and Eddie laughs. “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me and Christopher, we’re the lucky ones,” Eddie argues. It makes Buck’s heart swell in his chest, because he already knows just how loved he is by Eddie and Christopher, but hearing it still manages to steal his breath every single time. Buck moves his hand from Eddie’s hair to his cheek, swipes his thumb over his cheekbones and the soft swell of his lips. It’s like he’s holding the whole universe in his hands, and he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to deserve the way that Eddie looks at him. “I love you,” Buck tells him. He’d struggled with those words for a long time. Every time he’d opened his mouth to say them they would get lodged in his throat, trapped behind his teeth like they weren’t ready to be spoken. Like they knew Buck was too afraid to say them and really mean them. But then on an early morning just like this, Buck had woken to find Eddie already watching him, tracing patterns on his bare chest. And they slipped from his lips so easily, like they couldn’t bear to be kept a secret any longer. Since that moment, the taste of those words has never left Buck’s mouth. He says them in the morning, and on the way to work, and before they attend a call, and when they make it back safely. He says them before dinner, and before they go to sleep, and in the middle of the night when nightmares startle them awake. He says them so many times they must be tattooed onto Eddie’s heart by now. “I love you so much,” he says again. Eddie’s smile is blinding and Buck doesn’t ever want to look away. “I love you too.” Eddie tips his head forward, catches Buck’s mouth in a kiss so tender that he almost wants to cry. When they pull apart they keep their eyes closed and rest their foreheads together, letting the silence surround them. It’s Buck’s favourite place in the world, to be here with Eddie in the quiet of their home, just revelling in their closeness and each other’s company. There’s nothing more he could want. “Ew,” a voice says from somewhere behind them. Eddie groans and Buck laughs, lifting his head up and looking over Eddie’s shoulder to see Christopher standing there watching them. He’s rubbing his eyes tiredly and yet still manages to look like he’s judging them. “Good morning superman,” Buck greets him. “You guys are gross,” he complains, then seeing the spread of food on the table, says, “Oh, breakfast.” Eddie meets Buck’s eyes and shakes his head, and Buck has to agree. Their kid is amazing, but he’s growing up so fast they can hardly keep up. It feels like if they blink they’ll miss his whole childhood. “Help yourself kiddo,” Eddie says. Buck starts to move off his lap, but Eddie won’t let him go without first giving him one last kiss on the cheek. Chris makes a noise of disgust, but when they turn to look at him he’s grinning cheekily as he shovels forkfuls of pancakes into his mouth. “Dude, watch the attitude,” Eddie jokes. “Yeah dude, watch the attitude,” Buck teases, and Christopher tips his head back and laughs. Eddie shoves at Buck’s hip and mouths traitor at him, so Buck winks and blows him a kiss before starting to clean up what’s left of their breakfast. Christopher immediately launches into an explanation of the dream he had last night and both of them listen with rapt attention. The quiet of the early morning is gone now, and it’s been replaced with sound of Buck’s boyfriend, and their son, and when Buck catches Eddie’s eye, he feels so overwhelmed with love for his family that he can’t help but laugh quietly. He hopes he gets to keep this forever.
Dream's eyes slowly fluttered opened, blinking as he looked around. "You're awake." The blonde turned, seeing a familiar brunette with Sapnap on his back, "...George..." "Hello. Welcome back to the land of the living." Sapnap made a worried noise. George smiled at Sapnap, "I'm teasing." Sapnap sighed. The brunette then looked at the blonde, his face going back to his neutral, calm, cool, collected self, "You've been in a coma for 2 months." "Huh?!" Dream went to sit up before groaning, laying back down. George put Sapnap down and walked to the windows. He closed the curtains, blocking the sunlight, the ravenette running over to Dream and whining. George then sat on the other side as Sapnap hugged his hand. "O-Ow, ow, ow..." The brunette gently pushed him to lay down, "Lay down and rest. You just woke up. You need to recover your strength." Sapnap nodded, smiling. George hummed, looked at Sapnap, then looked at Dream, "You know, your husband is quite attractive." "Yeah, he is." Dream smiled, eyes fluttering, "Most attractive..." "I see why you married him. I would do the same." Dream chuckled, "Everyone would... It's why I swept him off his feet first..." He then fell asleep. When he woke back up, Karl was there, smiling and offering some food. Dream slowly recovered his strength, though his sword was chipped from the last fight. That didn't matter, as he was told he wouldn't be getting any missions anytime soon. So, instead, he trained with wooden swords. He built his body strength back up, he gained back the healthy weight he had lost. "My, my, it's only been a month and you sure are working hard!" Dream paused his training and turned, seeing Karl smiling at him, waving a bit, "Yes. I need to!" If I want to turn Sapnap back. Not to mention, that one breathing technique I used against Daki... He stood up straight, Where... did that come from? Karl walked over, smiling, "I'm so glad you're here, you know. You remind me of Xander." "I... do?" Dream blinked. "Mhmm!" Karl giggled. "Oh... um... who's Xander?" "Oh, right! XD! He goes by XD if he trains you, but his real name is Xander!" Dream blinked before he widened his eyes, "W-Wait! You're saying I remind you of XD- I-I mean, Xander?! N-No way!" "Yes way!" Karl laughed, "Xander used to be the Wind Hashira. His boyfriend, Hayden or HD? He was the Water Hashira before George. And George's brother!" "Really?" "Yeah! Both of them were the strongest Hashiras ever! Hell, they developed their breathing techniques together! HD would adapt his movement and suddenly, he was doing both a water and a wind move! Or XD would increase his heart rate and suddenly water and wind was surrounding the battlefield! It was so amazing to witness!" The brunette's smile then fell as he sighed, "...But then, one day... The two were up against an upper rank demon... Hayden used his strength to save Xander. And Xander..." Dream looked down, "...Is that why he wears a mask...?" "No one knows what happened... Not even George. Xander just... he went back to Master Eret's home, carrying a bloodied and dead Hayden while wearing a mask. Apparently, he didn't stop until he got there, because he passed out once he arrived on Eret's steps. Everyone of course wrapped Hayden's body in the most respectful way, and they gave George his sword. When Xander came to, he explained what happened in between tears, apologizing to George like it was his fault. George didn't blame him, of course. Xander explained the fight, he explained they managed to stall the demon until sunrise, but by then... Hayden had died. After we had the funeral, Xander resigned from being a Hashira. Everyone tried to get him to stay, George saying he was training to be the water one, but Xander shook his head. 'I don't want to fight on the battle field without him. It will remind me everyday of what I planned to do but never got the chance.' He said while holding a small black box." Dream's eyes widened, "...He planned to propose." "After they got home, he was going to. But never got the chance. So, he retired. Instead, he trains swordsmen now." Karl smiled, "Like you. I say you remind me of him, because you have the same energy. Same posture. Same demeanor. You both strive to protect the ones you love most, you both are stubborn as all hell and will continue to push even when on the last thread! And, you both play with the wind!" He giggled, "So, it makes sense!" Only to you. Dream thought, but chuckled anyways, "Well, it's good to hear that I take after such an amazing teacher." Karl nodded before he gasped, "Oh, I almost forgot! Sam wanted me to give you this!" "Sam? Didn't he-" "Yep, him and Ponk retired! But, before he returned home, he said to give you this!" The brunette held out a book to Dream, who took it. It seemed old, flipping open the pages revealed dirty and hard to read paragraphs. But the pictures... "He said he wanted you to have it because he recognized the technique you used against Daki. Apparently, this is the only way to learn it? I don't know, just repeating the message." Karl then smiled, "Anyways, I'll be around! Sorry to interrupt!" The other jogged away. Dream stared at the pictures. He put the book down and took a deep breath, remembering what he did on the roof. "Hinokami Kagura; Dance!" * "Karl, do you happen to know if a sword came in the mail for me?" Dream asked, "My last one got chipped pretty bad." Karl sighed, "Yeah, I know. Unfortunately, no. Oh! But you know what! You could totally go to the Swordsmith Village and talk to the chief! George is there too! His sword got chipped too!" "Oh, I would hate to be a bother-" "Nonsense!" Karl giggled, "Trust me, the swordsmith love when us Demon Slayers visit! Let's them see how we fight using their amazing swords they crafted for us!" "I see... Well, if it's no issue..." A day or two later, Dream was dressed and prepared to go, with Sapnap in his box strapped to his back. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance." The woman bowed, "The master has approved your request to go to the village. I will be your guide." Dream smiled and bowed back, "Pleasure to meet you. My name is Dream Anderson. Thank you for helping me." "As your guide, I am not allowed to give you my name. But know I look forward to serving you. You will also need to put these on." She offered a cloth and some plugs, "A blindfold and earplugs. The village is hidden and I will also need to carry you on my back. And because you have an acute sense of smell, you will also need nose plugs." Dream nodded and put the blindfold on and the earplugs and nose plugs in his ears and nose respectively. He obviously couldn't see or hear (or smell) where he was going, but he could tell that it was a really big secret, as the person carrying him would stop and he would get on a new person's back. He made sure to always wish the guide a safe travel back down, even if he couldn't hear their response. Eventually, he was put down and the earplugs were grabbed. "Ah-" "Don't worry, we're here." A woman's voice reassured, "You may remove the nose plugs as I take off your blindfold." Dream did just that and looked up, amazed, "Wow, it's so pleasant and friendly looking!" He smiled, "The buildings are amazing!" "Everyone says that their first time here." The woman chuckled. Dream sniffed the air, "I know that smell! A hotspring is nearby!" He gasped as movement came from Sapnap's box and excited squealing. "A-Ah, Sapnap, careful, the sun is still out!" Dream and the woman laughed. "You're both more than welcome to go to the hotspring if you'd like." The woman said, "But first, you're going to want to go up ahead and turn left and talk to the chief. It's best you greet him before doing anything else." "Right, I will. Thank you." "Of course." She then bowed, "I must go now. I wish you the very best." "Thank you and travel safe!" Dream exclaimed as he then left to greet the chief. * After visiting and talking to the village chief, Dream made his way to the hotsprings. By that time, it was nightfall, so Sapnap walked beside him, hand in hand. One of the swordsmith has given them towels and pointed to the path they had to go to. They smiled as they walked up the stairs and to the hotspring. Once there, Dream widened his eyes. "George?" The brunette turned, humming, "Ah, Dream. You're finally here." "When did you get here?" Dream asked. George hummed, "Went on a mission and got here a few days ago. My own sword also got chipped." "I see." Dream smiled, "So, guess we're in the same boat then?" "Not just you guys!" Dream turned and gasped as another brunette appeared from behind some rocks. He smiled, his light blue eyes staring at the blonde. "You're-" "Skeppy! The Insect Hashira! My sword is pretty much completed so I will probably have to leave the village soon!" He then sat beside George, resting his head on the other's shoulder, "Buuuuut wanted to enjoy one last bath! And who better than to enjoy it but with Mr. Grumpy Pants!" George rolled his eyes, "Well, are you getting in?" "Oh, right. Sap-" The blonde turned and saw the other was gone. He looked into the water and Sapnap had stripped and was already adjusting to the water, "Seems you're ahead of me, huh?" Sapnap hummed, his bamboo gag still in his mouth. Dream undressed and joined the water, the three swordsmen sitting in a circle as Sapnap hid behind a rock. "What's with your husband?" Skeppy asked. "He's a bit self conscious about his body when new people are around." Dream explained, "When we lived with my parents before moving to the mountain, he insisted on covering his arms and legs constantly. Always black too. And we lived in a village that was always boiling hot. Not to mention the humidity." The blonde turned and looked towards where Sapnap was hiding, "...There was a reason, after we married, we moved to my grandfather's place. And not just cause his health was declining." Sapnap came around and sat beside George, leaning on his shoulder with a hum. The brunette smiled and gently pat his head. "Woooooah, George can smile?!" Skeppy teased. "Shut up." The brunette said, looking at him with a cold face. However, that distracted him from petting Sapnap, the ravenette whining. George looked back at Sapnap, his smile returning, "Sorry. There." "So, like, is Sapnap a Love Demon or something? Is he using his Blood Demon Art?" "I said shut up." George flicked water at him. Sapnap giggled. Dream smiled and grabbed the ravenette's hand, "No, he's just a ray of sunshine." He hummed, "Won't leave you alone until he made sure you're okay and smiling." He then looked at George, "Oh, by the way, George, may I ask about Hayden?" Skeppy stiffened and looked at George, who had stopped, both their eyes wide. George looked at Dream, a look of malice on his face, "...Where did you hear that name...?" "I-I'm sorry! K-Karl told me I r-reminded him of Xan- X-XD and told me about Ha- H-HD and I-" "I should have known. That man can never keep a secret." George closed his eyes, calming down, "'My words bottle up inside me until they bloom, I can't help it, George.' That's what he'll say when I get back." "I-I'm really-" "No, it's fine... It's..." George struggled to find the right words, "It's just always a sore subject. I mean, I'm sure it's the same when remembering Sapnap is technically a demon." Dream nodded, "...I just... Our parents... they were hard workers. Dad was a swordsmith, Mom worked in the village. One day, she got ill. Mom was laying in bed, Dad went out. Then, a demon came. It killed our mother and HD managed to kill it. We waited for Dad to get back but..." He sighed, "...he had fell off a cliff trying to get the herbs she needed. All I had was HD. HD eventually learned to become a swordsman and he taught me how to fight, taught me Water Breathing, he was the best big brother." Dream smiled softly, "He sounds amazing." "He was..." George closed his eyes. Skeppy hummed, "I met HD only once, but he was super nice. Always smiling, teasing, super sarcastic and funny!" He then poked George's cheek, "Unlike his doll of a brother!" "Didn't I tell you to shut up?" Dream, Skeppy, and Sapnap laughed. * After the hotspring bath, Skeppy had to leave. His sword was fixed and he was quick to leave to his next mission. Meanwhile, George and Dream stayed for a couple of days, training together. They spared and tested one another, keeping each other on their toes constantly. After staying in the village for about three days, they were eating dinner together. "My sword is almost finished." George hummed, Sapnap sitting in the middle of them, humming and bouncing his head to whatever song he hummed, "I'll have to go on my next mission soon. Shame, i was enjoying your company. Both you and Sapnap." "More like you were enjoying Sapnap and just so happened to have me close by." Dream teased. "Well, I did not want to be the one to say it." George chuckled, "It's strange, though..." "What is?" "...I don't know... The way I feel about Sapnap... I just... I get a nice feeling. It's hard to explain." Sapnap suddenly stopped. "Oh? Is something the matter, love?" Dream asked. The ravenette stared at the door before his eyes turned red, headband extending. The door slid open and a crying demon crawled in. George and Dream grabbed their swords as red, orange, and yellow vines decorates Sapnap's skin. He jumped onto the demon's back, headband wrapping around it's throat. "P-Pleaaaase, stop t-tormenting me!" It begged, "I-It huuuuuurts!" "Shut up." George said as he sliced its head off easily, Sapnap stepping back. "Stay alert! Upper Ranks don't always decapitate easy!" Dream held his sword up as George and Sapnap stepped back. Everyone widened their eyes as the demon split in two, the two demons younger. They were both tall and muscular young men with long wavy black hair. One had red eyes with "Upper Four" carved into his eyes, two curved horns on their forehead with markings under his eyes that resembled cracks, his ears pointed and nails sharp. He wore a dark kimono that was split in the middle, the right half being covered in a pattern of flowers and lines, with the left half being dark and lacking any detailed features. He also wore dark hakama pants and sandals to complete the outfit, carrying a khakkhara. The second demon also had the same curved horns on his forehead and crack-like markings under his eyes, the same pointed ears and sharp nails like most demons, though his eyes were green with "Upper Four" carved into his eyes. He wore nothing but dark hakama pants and sandals, accompanied by a Yuigesa harness, holding a giant leaf-shaped hand fan. "I got this one!" Dream exclaimed, going for the red demon, George going for the green one. However, the green demon lifted up his fan and, with a simple wave, a blast sent them flying. Sapnap grabbed Dream and the edge of the broken building. "GEORGE!" Dream called. Sapnap went to grab him with his headband, but cried out, holding onto the building before he and Dream also flew away. The brunette flew back, "I'LL COME BACK AS SOON AS I CAN!" He yelled as he flew past the trees. Sapnap growled but nodded. Once the wind dissipated, the two stood on the roof, glaring at the two new demons. "Hahahaha! This is turning out to be pretty fun! Did you see how far that pipsqueak went flying?!" The green one laughed, sticking out his tongue, the word 'Pleasure' engraved into it, "Huh, did you, Sekido?!" The red one growled, his tongue having the word 'Anger' etched into it, "There's nothing fun about this! All I'm feeling is uncontrollable rage!" He growled, "Karaku, I despise being lumped in with you!" "Ohhhh, is that right?" Karaku chuckled, "Good thing we got separated then!" Sekido growled and lifted up his staff before slamming it back down, lightening shocking and coursing through Dream's veins. The blonde cried out, unable to move as he was electrocuted. Sapnap jumped towards the demons, kicking Sekido's head off and stopping his attack before tearing Karaku's head off, throwing it back. Dream gasped for breath, panting and looking at what Sapnap did. He gasped, "Babe! No! They're just going to multiple, they're counting on us to decapitate them- AAHH!" Sapnap screamed, running over and trying to grab him. "AHAHAHAHAHA!" Dream looked up, seeing a harpy demon with yellow eyes, 'Upper Four' engraved into his eyes, carrying him as it flew up, "THIS MAKES MY HEART SING! IT'S BEEN SO LONG SENSE I WAS LAST SPLIT OFF!" His tongue had 'Joy' engraved into it. "SAPNAP, TAKE CARE OF THEM, I'LL BE BACK SOON, I PROMISE!" Dream screamed. Sapnap hesitated, shaking, wanting to go after him. "SAPNAP, LOOK OUT!" The man turned and a demon with blue eyes used his spear to stab his stomach. "SAPNAPPPPPP!" Dream struggled. "You must be pretty confident to be worrying about someone else right now!" The Joy Demon laughed, opening his mouth. Dream looked up and quickly cut the leg the demon was holding onto him with. Not before the demon screeched as loud as it could, Dream shaking as his eardrums were ruptured from the sound. However, he recovered as much as he could, grabbing onto a branch and easing the fall. Fuck, that hurt... He groaned, My head hurts, my ears are ringing. Shit, come on! Get up, Dream, you have to help Sapnap! He managed to sit up, not before sensing an evil presence. He turned around and saw the leg he cut off grew a head. The head opened its mouth to screech again, but Dream sliced it in half before cursing at himself. I just created more, DAMMIT! He watched as they regenerated before confusion set it. They weren't normal, they barely looked like a human, let alone a demon. They looked like flesh with eyes, their tongue having the same emotion carved into their tongue. Joy. He was quick to stab the two in the mouth, stopping their attacks as he smirked, "So, you can only split into four main emotions. Anger, Pleasure, Sorrow, and Joy. Anything else and you become weaker." He stood and looked up, seeing the main Joy body coming towards him. Dream dodged the sonic blast it tried to attack him with and smirked, "Alright, now I get it." It flew down, extending it's legs to attack Dream with his talons, "How do you like my talons?! Aren't they swift, aren't they sharp?! They are strong enough to break diamonds! Now tremble as your blood gushes out of every orifice!" It was a cat and mouse dance as Dream tried to slash at the demon while also dodging and blocking its talons. The demon flew up in the air and then swooped down to try to attack, also making sure to dodge Dream's sword. I have to get back and help Sapnap! But how?! Sapnap, hang in there! * Sapnap growled, kicking back Aizetsu, the Sorrow demon. Like the rest, he had the same curved horns on his forehead, the same "Upper Four" engraved into his eyes, the same pants and sandals. However, he also wore a black kimono with white lines running through various areas of the clothing and rope-like accessories tied around his shoulders, grabbing his spear from the demon. "How sad, how troubling, you'll make me cry." Aizetsu whimpered. Sapnap growled and used his spear to slice his head off. Karaku ran over, ripping Sapnap's arm off that was holding the spear. The ravenette cried out before it grew back. He went to grab the green demon as his arm grew back, but it grabbed him instead, holding him still. "Awwww, you're adorable! A baby demon with not even a drop of blood thinks it can defeat us!" Karaku cackled, "Heeeey! Seeing as you're so cute, I might just keep ya!" "Just dismember him already! I'm growing more annoyed by the second!" The red demon yelled. Sapnap growled as he struggled in the green demon's hold, Karaku giggling, "Keep your hands to yourself, he's mine! And besides, you have to admit, he's pretty fun!" "His struggling makes me sad and-" Aizetsu paused, "Oh, how troubling..." "What?" Sekido hissed. "A ring. He's married. Must've been to a human. It makes me want to cry, knowing his partner will perish soon. If they haven't already." Sapnap went still at the thought, tears coming to his eyes, Dream... "Oh, he stopped?" Karaku kicked his leg through his stomach, "Awwww, how boring! Hey, Sekido, I guess you can have your fun! Let me dismember him and then blast him with electricity!" "That was my plan all along you imbecile!" Karaku grabbed Sapnap's arm, the ravenette growling. He kicked Karaku's head, leaving it hanging on by a a small bit of skin. He then ripped his arm away from the green demon, the blood spilling all over the other. Sapnap growled, Blood Demon Art, Exploding Blood. Right as Karaku's head regenerated, Sapnap's blood exploded in flames, the demon crying out. Sapnap grabbed his arm and twisted, jumping back as it was ripped clean off. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! FINISH HIM!" Sekido screamed. Sapnap lifted the fan and flapped it, Karaku screaming as he flew back. He lifted the fan again to send a wave towards the other two, but Sekido slapped his arm with his staff. Before Sapnap could react, the man plunged the end of his staff into his neck, sending electricity through his veins. Sapnap went stiff, falling to his knees as he shook, his whole body stiff. Dream... Sapnap thought, Please, come back, I need help! I can't do this alone! "There. It was that easy. Of course that idiot couldn't do anything." "Please, Sekido. Karaku tried his best. And I'm sure Urogi is dealing with that human-" Aizetsu was cut off as the yellow demon, with Dream hanging onto him, flew through the wall of the building, the human's sword plunged into his stomach. The blonde looked up and saw Sapnap, who was on his knees, being electrocuted, and he gasped. His blood began to boil, "How dare you do that to my husband?!" He ran towards the other. Sekido growled, "Infuriating, INFURIATING!" He screamed, another staff growing out of his hand. Before he could impale Dream, the blonde dodged it, lifting up a severed harpy leg, one that belonged to Urogi, the Joy demon. Dream growled, lifting his sword and slashing Sekido's face, making sure to damage his tongue. The demon faltered, giving the blonde enough time to slip by, grabbing the staff from Sapnap's neck (using Urogi's foot), and removing it. Sapnap gasped for breath as Dream held him close, "You okay, my love? I'm sorry it took so long..." Sapnap smiled under his gag. They went to stand up before a ton of pressure suddenly slammed into their back. "You guys look like your having fun, you wouldn't mind if I joined, would ya?!" Karaku exclaimed as his fan worked. Sapnap turned his head as much as he could, glaring. Karaku smirked, "Too bad, you were super cute!" The two fell through the floor, Dream falling unconscious once the pressure was gone. Sapnap sat up, shaking a bit, his eyes back to blue, trying to recover from the attack. "Oooooh! Look at those eyes! They match Aizetsu!" Urogi chuckled, "Are you running low on power, baby demon?" "If you join us, we can give you some!" Karaku chuckled, "I'd be happy to share a body with you!" Sapnap glared more, cringing at the thought. "You cannot just say that!" Sekido yelled, "Only the Master can approve of someone being an Upper Rank!" "I didn't want him to be an Upper Rank, I just think being merged with him would be more fun than it is with you guys!" "I agree with Karaku!" "That makes me so sad. You'll make me cry..." Aizetsu whimpered. Sapnap quickly grabbed Dream while they were distracted and stood up, beginning to run. However, it caught their attention, making the red demon growl, "Stop trying to flee like a pesty gnat!" Sekido screamed. Sapnap dodged the lightening as Dream recovered, his eyes opened wide, "That smell-" They screamed as lightening struck them, the ravenette falling to his knees. Once the lightening stopped, Dream picked him up bridal style, quickly picking up where he left off. Karaku jumped down, blowing his fan, trying to slow the two down by destroying the building. It worked as the building crumbled, Sapnap grabbing Dream's sword as the rumble buried him. Dream groaned, laying on his back. When he opened his eyes, he waved the smoke away from his face, seeing Sapnap holding his sword, cutting his hands and staining it with his blood. The blonde gasped and grabbed the handle. "Sap! Okay, babe, it's okay! Let go of my sword and I will get you out, just-" He tried to pull it away, but Sapnap growled, "Sapnap?" His husband continued to cut his hands, covering the blade with his blood. Once his blood was covering the sword, he lit in on fire, Sapnap's eyes turning red. Because of the rising temperature, Dream's sword slowly turned red, the flames cackling and covering the flame. Sapnap let go and smiled at Dream. The blonde was in awe and shock, staring at it. He smiled at his husband, "Our combined power, our combined love. This is Exploding Blood Sword." He smirked, "No matter what, together, we can win." Sapnap nodded before turning his head towards the demons. "You'll be okay?" He nodded. Dream nodded back, "Okay, I promise, I'll be back as soon as I can." I know. The blonde's eyes widened, hearing Sapnap's voice in his head, You always come back, you always protect me. I trust you. Tears came to Dream's eyes, but he quickly blinked them away. The happy thoughts had to be put on the backburner for now. He raised his sword, glaring at the demons as they turned around, facing the human. "Haha!" Karaku snickered, "You're gonna need more than cheap tricks if you want to beat me!" "You can slash me all you want but I'm not gonna feel a thing!" Urogi laughed as he flew towards the blonde. Dream lifted up his sword, taking a deep breath, "Hinokami Kagura; Sun Halo Dragon-" With his new sword and Sapnap's combined power, the blonde ran forward, continuously moving his sword in quick succession, not giving the demon's any time to attack, "-Head Dance!" Once he finished, he had completely beheaded Sekido, Karaku, Aizetsu, and Urogi. He then stood up straight, eyes narrowing, But that smell... What is- Sapnap suddenly came running, humming. "What is it- Wait, how did you-" Dream paused, seeing the ripped part of his kimono, "Did you hurt yourself to get out, babe? Sap, please don't-" "Mmmmn!" Sapnap pointed forward before holding up five fingers. Dream widened his eyes, "...Then, you sense it too, a fifth demon. The main body..." Sapnap nodded. "Gaaaaah!" They turned, seeing Karaku standing, holding his head, "What the hell kind of attack was that?! I can't regenerate! And the pain! It's excruciating!" "We will regenerate! Just shut up! It takes time!" Sekido hissed. "Sapnap, can you fend them off for me?" Dream asked, "If I can find the main body, we'll be fine." Sapnap nodded, eyes turning red. "You're perfect, you know that?" Dream smiled, kissing his cheek. Sapnap smiled back under the gag before the blonde ran off, using his nose to sniff out the fifth demon. As he was running, he kept feeling like he was close. He groaned, getting frustrated, looking down before- A tiny demon, probably about the size of a field mouse, was there. He was a short and frail man with a very thin, skeletal body, covered in veins and wrinkles. He had a large bump on the top of his head, accompanied by two curved horns, staring at Dream with an expression of terror, mouth open to reveal "Fear" written on his tongue. He had the same dark shoulder length hair as his clones, wearing a dark kimono split in the middle. The right half had a pattern of flowers and lines while the left was simply dark, not details or anything to it. He also wore black hakama pants and sandals, matching the others. Once it realized he was spotted, it began to run, but Dream was faster. He lifted his sword, "You're not getting away!" His sword engulfed in flames and he brought it down, trying to cut off the demon's head. However, before he could, he flew back, Sapnap flying into him with a scream. The two hit a tree and groaned, looking up. Dream gasped as a new demon stood in front of them, wooden snake-like dragon heads stretching up into the sky behind him. This one was younger, almost like a child, but he was extremely muscular, just like the others. He had short black hair that spiked up at various angles with golden eyes, "Upper Four" engraved into them. Behind him, seeming to float, were a series of drums, each connected to each other, the word "Hatred" displayed on each of them as he held a bone-like dagger in his hands. He glared, "And here I was, willing to give you a chance, baby demon." "Another one...?" Dream groaned as the two got up, "How many more are there?!" Sapnap shook his head, holding up four fingers. He then crossed them and held up one, trying to communicate. "...Fused? Is that what you're saying?" Sapnap nodded. "Damn..." Dream hissed, "The younger the clones, the stronger they are." He smirked, but we got this, Sap!" "You brutal fiends who attack the weak." The demon hissed, "Atrocious. Offensive. To the extreme." He lifted his hand as he glared, a ball of wood protecting the main body, "Damn you, awful villains." "Awful villain? Who are you calling awful villains?" "You. Because you torment the weak. Just now, you tried to slash a small, weak being who could fit in the palm of your hand. Only a pure fiend would do that." "Small and weak being, eh?" Dream clenched his sword more, stepping in front of Sapnap, a scowl on his face, "Are you small and weak then? The scent you're giving off... It's a mixture of the 100 or even 200 hundred, hell, maybe more, humans that you've devoured! The lives you took, the pain you cause, the heartache you brought upon not just your victims, but their families too!" He hissed, "What he hell did those people ever do to you, huh?! Did they do something they had to pay for with their lives?! Don't you dare play the victim card! Especially after you killed and ate so many innocent people! You're the awful villain! Picking on the small and weak! And for that reason-" Dream yelled, "-I'LL BE THE ONE TO BEHEAD YOU!" The boy glared, "Were any of the humans I devoured your family?" "Does it matter?" "If not, it doesn't concern you." "Bullshit! You took innocent lives! It doesn't matter if they're family, friends, or strangers! You still killed innocent people who were smaller and weaker than you! You're the atrocious villain here!" The demon hissed and hit a drum. The wooden snakes came after him, Sapnap dodging as Dream slashed at them. Dream dodged all the lightening and soundwaves sent towards him, slashing at the wood, trying to figure out a weak spot as Sapnap used his blood demon art to light a lot of the wood on fire. Dammit, there's no way to get in! Not without getting hurt! Dream growled, trying to figure out a strategy. However, each time he got close, it was as if something else appeared. Lightening, the pressure from the wind, a sonic blast, something or the other. Suddenly, Sapnap screamed, making Dream pause and look up, seeing his husband was grabbed by one of the dragon heads. "SAPNAP!" "Leave it to me!" The demon, Dream, and Sapnap looked up. "Insect Breathing! Butterfly Dance; Caprice!" They watched as someone came from the sky, lunging at the wooden dragon. They unleashed a barrage of straight, short thrusts before ending with a stronger thrust, breaking Sapnap out of the dragon's hold. They grabbed Sapnap and jumped up, a gigantic butterfly of light replacing where they were as they jumped. As they dived down, the butterfly dissipated, their sword stabbing the ground and cracking the surrounding Earth, making the Hatred demon fumble as a large crate knocked him off his balance. Skeppy, holding Sapnap, walked over to stand by Dream, "Illusory Light." "Skeppy..." Dream was in awe. "Phew, sorry I'm late!" The brunette giggled, putting Sapnap down, "Good think I was stationed near the village! Don't worry, I'm here now and we'll do this all together!" "Hold on, that kid?" Dream lifted his sword, "It's not the main body. It's protecting the main body." "Alrighty, then you and Sap go for the main body, I'll distract the kid." Skeepy whispered, smirking, "Ahhh, it's been so long since I fought side by side with someone! I soooooo gotta ask for a mission with Bad again!" He then walked forward, smiling, "Heeey~! It's my turn to have fun, Mr. Upper Rank!" "Shut up, you ugly dimwit." "Awwww, so meeeeean!" The demon slammed against the drums, the wooden dragons snapping forward. "Insect Breating. Dance of the Bee Sting; True Flutter!" The demon widened his eyes as Skeppy dashed forward at blinding speeds, stabbing at the wooden dragons. He glared and continued trying to attack the human with the wooden dragons, but he continued looking around, eyes widening. Where did- He saw Dream and Sapnap running west, following the main body, Damn pests! Blood Demon Art- "Not so fast~!" The Hatred demon turned and quickly dodged Skeppy's attack, slamming a drum to create another wooden dragon from the floor. The brunette was quick to dodge,giggling. "Sorry, but your opponent is me! So stay focused!" Meanwhile, Dream led the way to the main body, his sense of smell helping them lead the way. Eventually, Sapnap found the small demon, lifting his hand to slash it. However, the thing was just too fast and was quick to evade. Damn! He's so fast! How can we catch up?! Daybreak with happen soon, Sapnap will need to go in his box, and I doubt these demons will stick around for the sunlight, making it so we loose our chance! Skeppy can't keep up with the Hatred demon forever! We need a fast solution, we need- He widened his eyes, Wait! Fast! Lightening! "Punz, I hope you don't mind." Dream took a deep breath, focusing all his strength into his legs. The next step he took, he went flying, as fast as lightening, catching up with the demon in no time. He lifted his sword, flames coming out of his mouth as his sword also engulfed in flames, swinging down. The demon screamed in pain, but its head was as strong as steal, it wasn't cutting. Dream focused all his energy in trying to cut off the demon's head, even if it was as strong as steel. "Don't you at all-" The demon spun it's entire head around like an owl, "-feel sorry for me?!" "Not at all, you evil demon!" Dream yelled, focusing more. That was the wrong move, as the demon, in the blink of an eye, grew far taller than the blonde. It towered over Dream as its hands completely covered his mouth, fingers reaching the back of his head. "'NOT AT ALL?!'" It repeated, screaming, "DON'T YOU DARE BULLY THE WEAK!" It began to squeeze, cutting off Dream's breath. The blonde struggled to continue to cut and groaned as he felt the demon squeeze. Sapnap screamed, cutting his arm and letting the blood cover the demon's head. He then snapped, the blood immediately turning into flames. The demon screamed in pain, especially after Sapnap easily ripped his arms completely off, allowing Dream to breathe again and focus on the task at hand. However, the demon wasn't giving up, as it began to stumble back out of the woods, screaming in pain, trying to get away, trying to run, it can't die, it won't- It stepped off the edge of a cliff, Dream moving with him as his sword was still lodged into his neck. Sapnap cried out under his gag, jumping after them. The three landed on the ground, Sapnap and Dream unconscious for a moment. However, the blonde shakily looked up, his sword gone. He groaned, seeing the demon walking away, his sword still in its neck. He sniffed the air and gasped, No! There are people nearby! I need to kill him. The demon turned around, seemingly in shock as the blonde stood up. "I said I'd kill you..." Dream panted, groaning, "I said I'd kill you, and I meant it! You need to pay for what you've done to all those innocent lives!" "DREAM!" The blonde turned, a sword landing at his feet. He blinked, seeing George, who was injured, his outfit shredded, "I'm sorry I'm late, but use that sword!" The brunette groaned as he fell to his knees, "D-Damn..." "George..." Dream blinked before looking at the sword. He looked at the brunette, who was panting, his eyes glazed over, using his sword as a cane to stand. The blonde smiled and grabbed his new sword. He spread his feet apart, looking at the demon, who was now running, trying to get away from the blonde while also trying to eat the humans. Total Concentration- He shot towards the demon, focusing on his legs. He was combining both Punz's Thunderclap and Flash technique as well as the Hinokami Kagura; Dance techinique. Dream's sword met the demon's neck and, with a high powered slash and total concentration, he managed to slice its head off. -Dancing Flash. Dream sighed, turning to face the decapitated body. He smiled before he gasped, looking out. The sun was beginning to rise over the mountains. Sapnap... He turned around and began running towards where his husband was. He watched as the man stood up, rubbing his head before looking up. His eyes widened, screaming into the gag as he ran towards Dream. "NO, SAPNAP, THE SUN, GO IN THE SHADE!" Dream caught the man, who tried pushing past him, "SAPNAP, YOU'LL DIE, GO-" Sapnap screamed into his gag, pointing out. Dream followed his finger and widened his eyes. The demon's body was still moving. The demon's head laid on the ground, the word "Resentment" engraved on his tongue. That was not the main body. "B-But how?!" Dream shook his head, "No time to think, I gotta stop it!" Sapnap nodded and they began to run. But then, Sapnap screamed. The blonde faced him, his eyes widening in horror, smoke and steam coming off Sapnap's body as he screamed in pain, being burned. He tried desperately to cover himself, his arms burning. "SAPNAP!" Dream cried, standing in front of him, blocking the sun, "SAPNAP, MAKE YOURSELF SMALLER, SHRINK, LOVE, SHRINK!" Sapnap sobbed in pain, shaking as he shrunk, as if to fit in his box. He sobbed and shook from the pain, Dream covering him, running his fingers through his hair, whispering sweet nothings. The sun is not even up all the way and look how bad it is! Dream thought, tears in his eyes, trying to calm his husband. He heard a scream and turned, seeing Urami, the Resentment demon, still chasing the humans. Dream shook, frozen. I-I... I have to help them! But if I leave Sapnap, he'll burn to death! B-But if I stay, the demon will also burn! But the villagers! They won't survive, the demon will kill them before the sun fully rises! But Sapnap... I can't just leave him. What do I do?! What do I do?! I can't just leave him, all my hard work, everything! I need him, I can't just- The sun continued to rise as Dream felt legs press against his stomach. Before he could think about it, he was kicked up in the air. His green eyes looked down, seeing Sapnap, continuing to burn from the sunlight. Yet, his husband, his loving, caring, protective, bubbly husband, smiled under the gag. He still shook from the pain, but he brought his hands up, creating a heart and then clenching his hands into fists. He smiled through it all. Sapnap wanted Dream to protect the villagers, protect the humans from the evil demon, even if it meant dying himself. Tears came to Dream's eyes, but he smiled back. He landed on his feet, running towards the demon. Sniff it out. It can't have gone far. He began running towards the body, tears blinding his vision. He closed his eyes, relying on nothing but his nose. For Sapnap. Sniff it out. Find its shape, its color. Its nearby, I can tell. He continued to run, relying on nothing but his nose as his tears fell down his cheeks, hitting the green Earth. It's inside the body, yes, I can see you. He opened his eyes, now right behind Urami's body. Hiding in his heart, how ironic. Hesliced the body in half, revealing the tiny main body. "You're finished." Dream hissed, his sword engulfing in flames as he slashed the demon's head off, "This is for all the innocent lives you have destroyed and devoured." The demon cried out in agony as Dream's sword cut through his neck. There was a little resistance, but Dream fought through it. When the head was finally sliced off, the blonde panted, choking on air, choking on his tears. He faced the three villagers, who were all safe now. He smiled, "Are you guys okay?" One nodded, "Y-Yes, but sir-" "G-Good, that's... that's good..." Dream fell to his knees, unable to hold back his sobs anymore, "I-I'm glad I s-saved you, b-but.. my husband..." He looked at his ring, which sparkled in the sunlight. He cried harder, his tears hitting the grass as he looked down, clenching his fists, "I-I failed him again! I-I was suppose to keep him safe, to help him turn back!" "Sir!" The three crowded him, one grabbing his shoulder. "I promised him! I promised I would keep him safe! And I failed! Not once, but twice!" "Sir!" They gently shook him. He shook his head, sobbing more, "To turn Sapnap back into a human, t-that is why I came this far!" "Sir, please, turn around!" Dream looked up at the three. He blinked before turning his head, his tear filled green eyes widening as they met ocean blue eyes. He shook, not believing his eyes. In front of him stood Sapnap, his bamboo gag falling off in front of him. His raven black hair flowed with the wind along with his headband, his blue eyes staring at Dream with such admiration and love. He smiled softly, healed from all injuries, including the burns he should be getting from the sun. Sapnap smiled more, "G-Good morning." Tears streamed down Dream's face as he scrambled to get up, running to the other, "SAPNAP!" He grabbed his shoulders, trying to control his sobs, hiccupping a bit, "Thank goodness! A-Are you alright, my love?!" Sapnap smiled, "I-I'm fine, s-sweetheart." He giggled, "V-Voice sore. H-Haven't used- Oh!" He gasped as Dream hugged him tightly, the blonde sobbing into his shoulder, squeezing him as tight as he could. Sapnap smiled, hugging back, one hand running through his blonde hair, "Are you alright...?" "N-Never better!" Dream choked out a laugh, "N-Never better. Y-You didn't t-turn to ash and die! I-I though you would die! But you're okay!" He continued to cry happily, "You're okay! Thank goodness!" The villagers were moved as well, crying with Dream, "Thank you, both of you, for saving us!" "We never would have forgiven ourselves if Sapnap died!" "You both are amazing!" Dream pulled back, a few stray tears falling down his cheeks. Sapnap wiped them away, as well as the blood from his lips. He then leaned forward and kissed Dream's lips, the blonde happily kissing back. He pulled back and smiled, "I-I know we s-said we'd do that a-after I became h-human, but I c-couldn't help myself." Dream smiled, resting his forehead on Sapnap's, "I don't mind..." He then groaned, falling forward. Sapnap caught him, "S-Sorry... I-" "Take a break, my love." Sapnap cooed, putting the other on his back as him and the villagers began walking back to the village. "Dream! Sapnap!" The group turned and saw George running over, the brunette in shock. He caught up with them and just... stared. "...Sapnap... You're... in the sun." Sapnap nodded, smiling, "N-Nice weather for a p-picnic. Warm w-with a good breeze. D-Don't you think?" George just stared. "HEY, YOU GUYYYYYS!" The group turned once more, seeing another brunette running over. Skeppy leaped into Dream and Sapnap, giving them a big hug, "We won! We won! You guys did it, we did it, we did it together, good job, Dream and Sap- WAIT!" He stepped back, eyes wide, staring at Sapnap, who smiled, "WAIT, HUH?! WHAT'S GOING ON?!" "I'm not sure. His fangs are still there, and his headband still has the flames, and I'm sure if he got angry his eyes would turn red." Dream hugged Sapnap tighter, "But he's here! He's alive! He's in the sun! I don't care what happened, I don't care what the reason is! He's alive, and that's all that matters!" Sapnap giggled, "I-It's nice to pr-properly meet you, Skeppy. You a-as well, George!" Skeppy smiled, "Nice to meet you too." George was silent, just staring. Dream chuckled, "He's cute, right?" Sapnap smiled, "You really save our asses back there, George. To thank you, I can give you a kiss~!" He flirted. George's whole face turned a bright red, looking away, "N-NO, NO, THAT'S O-OKAY!" Dream and Skeppy widened their eyes and the brunette laughed, "Oooooh, George has a cruuuuush~!" "I-I do not!" George blushed more, covering his face, composure completely gone, looking away for the three. Sapnap looked at Dream, the blonde rolling his eyes and nodding. The ravenette stepped forward and kissed George's cheek. The brunette's face turned even a brighter red, his ears and neck also turning red. He quickly began to speedwalk to the village. Dream, Sapnap, and Skeppy laughed.
The USJ was an impressive behemoth of a building located at the far edge of UA's massive property. The doors dwarfed even Shoji as the students made their way inside and assembled at the top of a set of tiered stairs leading to the central plaza. The plaza held a fountain and four road-like paths branched out in the cardinal directions. North was the entrance. East led to a large cluster of destroyed buildings and a walled off hill. South, through a large grassy field, the pathway terminated between the base of a small mountainous zone and a huge dome with smoke blackened windows. West housed a lake that made the sizable yacht floating in the center look small and another dome with rain hammering the glass panes. Throughout the green space between zones trees and shrubs dotted around, making it seem as if they were still outside. Before Izuku could fully take in the view his attention was grabbed by a figure stepping forward next to Shota. A wheeze from Hitoshi told the greenette that he wasn't seeing things. Thirteen stood in all their space suited glory, emanating a sense of cheer despite their helmet not allowing them to emote. Uraraka squealed quietly from further down the haphazard line the class had formed. The two teachers held a brief and hushed conversation before moving down the stairs to the middle landing, gesturing for the teens to join them. "Welcome to the Unforeseen Simulation Joint, USJ for short!" The Space Hero waved a hand in greeting. Their androgynous voice was bubbly as they launched into a rambling speech about quirks and using even dangerous ones for rescue. The greenette was riveted, fingers twitching as he wished he had a notebook. He wanted to analyze Black Hole in person and he suspected Hitoshi would love an autograph. They were his friend's second favorite hero after all. But he figured there would be other opportunities if Thirteen taught at the school as well. For all his hero knowledge, he wasn't aware of every UA staff member. His attention, and the attention of a few others, drifted to the plaza when the air above the fountain seemed to ripple. As he watched, several dark spots appeared in the center of the distortion and rapidly expanded vertically into swirling circular disks that touched the ground. Gasps and shocked expressions caused the teachers to whip around and notice the anomaly. Shota tensed and grabbed his capture weapon while Thirteen threw their arms out to the sides to keep the students back. A sense of unease at their reactions made Izuku grip Hitoshi's arm and inch backwards. This wasn't part of the training. Dozens of figures emerged from each portal, all looking less than friendly as they ranged out. Some took off towards the various zones while a cluster of roughly twenty formed a semicircle at the base of the stairs. A pale figure decked out in disembodied hands stepped out onto the edge of the fountain, presumably the leader since they placed themselves above the others. A humongous humanoid shambled from a portal next to the leader. Izuku didn't dare think of the massive beast as human, feeling queasy as he took in the blank bulging eyes, beak filled with jagged fangs, and bared brain. Last but not least, the portals shrank and coalesced into an imposing dark figure made of shadows on the leader's right hand side. "Where's All Might?" A slightly raspy masculine voice inquired. The central figure scratched at their own neck, fidgeting in place with obvious irritation. "The schedule said he'd be here. So where is he?" They repeated, turning to look at their shadowy companion through the fingers of the severed hand on their face. Messy pale blue hair swayed around their ears with the movement. Shota stepped forward while drawing his goggles over his eyes. "He's not here. Identify yourselves." Clearly he anticipated a fight despite their objective being absent. Something about the person rang a bell of recognition in Izuku's head. The voice, the hair, and the mannerisms all seemed familiar but he couldn't place his finger on how. Shoving the puzzle aside for later he glanced over his shoulder. A floating pair of gloves behind him gave him an idea. Slowly, he drifted back to stand next to them, not wanting to draw attention from the crowd below. "Hagakure, take off your gear and run for the door. The bus should have a radio. Get help. I'll try to send Iida after you." His voice was a low murmur. The invisible girl hesitated but then gave a thumbs up. "Right. This doesn't seem to be part of the training." Off came the gloves and utility belt. Her boots stayed on to protect her feet while running. As he watched they turned and darted away. He let out a sigh of relief when the door opened just enough for a small frame to slip through before closing again. A couple of his classmates that overheard the plan twitched but successfully resisted looking. The villains seemed none the wiser as the leaders seemed to reach a decision. The pale haired person finally shrugged and made an absent gesture in the air with a hand. "We're the League of Villains. We are the ones who are going to kill the Symbol of Peace. Maybe if we take out a few kids he'll show up. Kurogiri." On cue the villains began surging up the stairs towards the group of students. Aizawa darted forward, flinging himself at them to cut them off. Izuku's stomach flopped with fear at seeing his guardian up against such high numbers. A glance at Hitoshi showed a similar pinched expression of worry. Thirteen barked sternly for the class to retreat but as the teens turned to flee a heavy security shutter began to lower over the exit. "Iida, run for help!" Yaoyorozu shouted over the commotion. Clearly she had the same thought Izuku had. After a moment of hesitation the blue haired boy revved his engines and took off at top speed. The shadowy villain appeared in front of him, trying to block the way but Katsuki leapt forward to level a pair of explosions point blank at their face. It was followed up by Ashido flinging gobs of acid at them. In the confusion Iida slid under the lowering barrier and out of sight. Two students had escaped! The dark form wavered to avoid the attacks, not seeming to have a corporeal body until an enraged shout erupted from them when some of the acid hit near their neck. "Enough of this. Be scattered and die!" Before anyone could react their body seemed to explode, shadows erupting outward to crash down around most of the students like a suffocating shroud. Panic gripped Izuku as his vision went black and frigid cold briefly enveloped his body accompanied by the sensation of falling. In less than a second he hit the ground hard and rolled down the now sloping terrain until his back hit something solid. Blinking open his eyes, he found himself surrounded by crumbling buildings. The glass dome of the USJ was still overhead, giving him some sense of relief that he was still in the compound. It appeared that the warp villain had landed him in the ruins area. A few yards away someone groaned, drawing his attention to a tangled mess of limbs. Uraraka stood first, having landed on Shoji. Thankfully she was light and didn't seem to have done much damage to the larger boy. As he climbed to his feet his tentacle arms morphed into eyes and ears, craning around to check their surroundings. The girl perked up when she saw Izuku, trotting over to help him up. "Thanks." The greenette patted himself down before taking out his stun baton in anticipation of a fight. "Are you hurt?" Both of his companions shook their heads. Uraraka made to speak but Shoji cut her off. "Ten people incoming. I don't think they're friendly." "Right." The brunette grabbed a small chunk of concrete from the ground and slipped into a shaky fighting stance. "We need to get back to the others. Sensei..." She trailed off with a worried frown. "Sensei can handle himself. Thirteen was ok so he has backup. But you're right." Despite the vote of confidence for Shota, the greenette gritted his teeth. Fear ate away in the back of his mind as he recalled all the villains still at the plaza. Even two pros would have trouble. To say nothing of not knowing where Hitoshi was. Forcing the thoughts away, he tensed as menacing figures came into view from around and inside the broken buildings. "Shoji, can your limbs make you fly?" "No." The other boy grunted as one of the villains charged at him with what looked like a wild boar mutation. Izuku pulled down his cute zombie filter to give the encroaching enemies a good look at the sharp teeth lining his secondary mask. A hulking woman with four arms scoffed and ran forward while her two companions hesitated at the display. The greenette ducked under a grab and rammed the end of his baton into her exposed side, pressing a button to activate the hidden cattle prod. She jerked with a scream and fell over twitching but before he could savor the minor victory the other two rushed to back her up. One shot metal nails from their palms and the other moved to tackle him while spewing toxic green gas from his mouth. Izuku stopped breathing and lashed out with the baton, cracking the villain across the face before they both went down. A punch to the side of his head made him growl as it jarred his vision and made him drop his weapon. Blinking rapidly, he scrambled for his taser and jammed it against the villain's jaw as he leaned in to force him to breathe the quirk gas. He convulsed violently and slid to the side, letting Izuku crawl out from under him. As he did so a few nails hit his arm and back but couldn't penetrate the leather of his costume. He saw some hit the downed villain as well. These people weren't trained. They were just cannon fodder to keep the students busy and away from the plaza. The thought made him grimace even as he rushed towards the nail guy. When he was close enough he threw sand at his face and kicked him hard between the legs while he was reeling and unable to see. The villain's face went pale as he crumpled to the ground and hunched in on himself. The greenette didn't get a reprieve as something slammed into his back, drawing a startled grunt as he was forced to the ground. When he tried to move his arm he found that he couldn't. A quick glance showed a blade embedded in his shoulder. It withdrew before plunging back in a spot he couldn't see but he could feel his shoulder blade crack and the grating sensation of metal against bone. There was a throbbing ache deep in his chest but it was ignorable as he surprised his attacker by pushing himself upwards, impaling himself more in order to leverage the weapon out of the villain's hands. Twisting around, he sent a vicious kick at their knee. There was an audible and satisfying pop as the cap gave under his metal soles, sending them screaming to the ground. "Izuku!" Uraraka sprinted over, looking pale and a touch nauseous as she stared at the sword skewering him. "Y-you shouldn't move like that." Shoji joined them a moment later, eyes wide as he took in the situation. Waving them off, the greenette experimentally wiggled the length of blade sticking out his front. It didn't budge much when he tried pushing it back where it came from. "It's fine. Though I need to tell Maijima-sensei to reinforce the fabric when we get back." The last was muttered as he fingered the cut leather on his shoulder. Though, to be fair, they probably hadn't thought to rate it against swords. "Oh, can you pull this out, please? I promise I'm fine." The larger boy seemed to shake himself, drawing in a deep breath he walked around Izuku to grip the handle. After a moment to psych himself up he yanked it free and let it fall to the ground. "We need to get back to the plaza before any of them recover. I'll carry you." He crouched so that Izuku could climb onto his back. Normally the greenette would protest but an idea struck him as he peered down the hill the zone was on. "That's a great idea. Uraraka can you make us lighter? Shoji, you can't fly but you could glide." That thought aside, the multiple arms wrapped around him were rather cozy. The other boy was an amazing hugger. Steeling herself, the brunette nodded as she caught on. She touched all three of them with her quirk active before joining Izuku. "I'll release it when we're close." The boy took a running jump and made a startled noise when the lack of gravity sent them flying. He hurriedly let go of his passengers to spread all of his arms, the membrane between them acting to stabilize and keep them on course. Izuku frowned as they got closer to the plaza. Most of the lesser villains were incapacitated but Shota was fighting the leader and appeared to be struggling. Thankfully the hulking abomination still stood stationary by the fountain. Ashido, Jiro, and Ojiro were harassing the shadow villain to keep them from interfering with the teacher. Thirteen was prone and unmoving on the stairs. The trio landed roughly in some bushes edging the plaza as Uraraka released her quirk. Just in time to see the hands villain grab Shota's arm at the elbow. Where they touched, clothing and skin began flaking off into grey dust and blood. The hero grunted and pulled away, kicking the villain in the face and jumping back to put distance between them. They exchanged words that Izuku couldn't hear before the villain turned his back to the hidden group to look towards the other side of the area. Near the lake three pale faces peered out of the bushes. "Nomu, deal with this hero. I've got other things to kill." With that they darted towards the students. Izuku wasn't aware that he was moving until he was already springing onto the edge of the fountain and diving at the villain's back. They went down hard with Izuku's arms wrapped around their knees. An angry growl escaped them as they kicked and tried to get the greenette to let go. Their pants began sliding down during the scuffle, revealing the swell where lower back met backside. He held on with all his strength and did the only thing he could think of as a hand whipped down to try grabbing his head. Opening his jaws wide, Izuku bit down hard, digging the sharp teeth of his mask in to help tear off a chunk of flesh. The body under him went rigid as a pained yelp escaped them. After a shocked pause the villain redoubled their efforts to escape, finally succeeding in kicking Izuku and shoving him away. The teen let them go and scrambled back, heat flooding his face as he chewed on the stolen meat. An almost inappropriate noise eeped out of him as he registered the flavor. It was amazing. Like eating a five star meal after a decade of dumpster scraps. Naturally warm and moistened by equally fresh blood. He was so enraptured by it that he almost didn't notice the villain recovering. "You! Fucking! Bit! Me?!" The rage filled shriek probably carried all the way to the main campus. Murderous crimson eyes zeroed in on the student happily munching on their flesh. During the melee the hand covering their face was knocked away, revealing premature wrinkles and scars. Blinking, Izuku swallowed his prize and beamed, already feeling his previous wounds healing with the fresh pick-me-up. "Sunflower-san!" That's where he knew this villain from. He climbed to his feet while trying and failing to lick the blood from his mask. "You taste delicious! Oh, what are your pronouns? I should have asked at the arcade." Their features contorted between surprise, confusion, and fury. They were shaking and a hand reached up to claw their own neck until it bled. "N-Nomu, kill this one!" The beaked horror paused in its efforts to smash Shota through the concrete, dropping the broken hero like a discarded toy. As it stepped towards Izuku a deafening crash echoed throughout the building. "I am here!" All Might stood in the rubble of the ruined entrance, other teachers fanning out behind him. He wasn't smiling. In the blink of an eye the number one hero stood between student and nomu, easily soaking a punch that would have crushed Izuku's small frame into paste. Scrambling to get away, the greenette rushed over to Shota and was met at his side by Yaoyorozu, Asui, and Kaminari. The class president unabashedly ripped open her top to produce a stretcher from her torso, laying it beside the hero. Uraraka ran over and touched his arm, quirk activating so they could shift him onto it with less strain on his body. Kaminari and Shoji lifted the stretcher and the others circled it protectively as they sped towards the heroes. All Izuku could focus on was Shota's blood stained face and twisted arms. Now that he was out of the fight reality crashed into him, leaving him feeling jittery and faint. His guardian might die. While Izuku was having fun with the hands villain Shota was fighting for his life. With that realization he had to swallow hard to keep the meat down. He looked around wildly and let out a relieved whimper when he saw Hitoshi sprinting along the edge of the dome alongside Katsuki and Todoroki. All of them were soaked to the bone and they slumped to the ground behind the line of heroes and next to the group surrounding Shota. Without hesitation the greenette threw himself at the indigo boy and held on desperately. They only peeled away from each other when the villains retreated, letting waiting paramedics hurry in. They scrambled to follow Shota as he was carried outside and transferred to a gurney. When they made to follow him into the ambulance an EMT blocked their path. "I'm sorry but there's no room and we need to go now ." A mild force pushed them away before the doors slammed in their faces and the vehicle sped off. Eyes growing blurry with tears, Izuku had to be led away by an equally distressed Hitoshi. They rejoined their classmates who were huddled together near the bus. More paramedics were looking them over and tending mild wounds. Thankfully it seemed that none were hurt too badly. One rushed over with a medical kit and started examining Izuku. Through the numbness that settled over him some confusion stirred. "He's not hurt. It's just his quirk." Hitoshi waved the woman away before gently swiping a thumb across the greenette's cheek. It came away smeared with red. Oh, right, he was crying. That would be disturbing for people who didn't know how his body functioned. He let the indigo boy remove his mask and closed his eyes when an equally gentle kiss was pressed to his other cheek. They kept to themselves in a miserable embrace, Hitoshi glaring at anyone who drifted too close. Eventually someone approached and wrapped them in a firm hug. Cracking a tired eye open, Izuku noted the tan trench coat before he even looked up to see Naomasa's face. The man looked haggard and stressed, not noticing the odd looks he was getting from everyone for the display of affection. After several moments he pulled back to look them over. "I need to stay here but Snipe will drive you home." His voice was soft and tightly controlled as he tried to regain a veneer of professionalism. "I'll call you guys as soon as I can with updates." Not wanting to cause the man any more grief, they nodded and let themselves be herded onto the bus with the rest of the students. Everyone was silent and several of the teens were crying. Izuku was dimly relieved to notice a floating blanket wedged between Ashido and Sero. He'd feel even more terrible if Hagakure was overlooked in the chaos. Snipe and Cementoss accompanied them back to the main campus, the rest of the staff staying to help wrangle the villains that were left behind. The two pros led them to the locker rooms and stood guard as they changed out of their costumes. Aoyama and a soot stained Sato stepped into the showers but the rest just wanted to leave as quickly as possible. Recovery Girl was waiting outside the doors giving healing kisses and gummies to everyone as they filtered out. After having a brief conversation with his colleagues, Snipe gestured for Izuku and Hitoshi to follow him. Silence reigned for the walk to the parking lot. The two boys opted to climb into the backseat together while the cowboy slid behind the wheel. He paused for a few moments before sighing and passing his phone back to them. "Give me your numbers and text yourselves so you have mine. If ya need anything before Naomasa gets home y'all call me. I'll have to get back here after dropping ya off." Izuku fumbled with the device as numb fingers struggled to work. He finally managed to start a group text to expedite the contact sharing. The ride was quiet aside from soft American music playing on the radio. It only took about ten minutes before they pulled up in front of the building. After giving the hero his phone back and exchanging subdued farewells they got out and trudged up to their empty apartment. Once they got rid of their backpacks and outdoor wear Hitoshi sighed and scrubbed a hand through his damp hair. "Go get a shower. You're covered in blood." Despite that he pulled Izuku into a tight hug. "I'll watch the phones. It'll be fine, Shota's too salty for this to get him." The attempted joke was weak but prompted a tiny smile. Craning up, the greenette kissed him lightly before stepping back. "Yeah, you're right… I'll try to be quick so you can wash off too." His shower turned into a thirty minute trial. At first he broke down and cried some more in private. That alone only took ten minutes. A further ten was spent scrubbing himself down until dirty pink water ran clear. The last ten went by in a shell shocked daze as he stared at the remains of a shampoo bottle that had crumbled to dust when he tried to pick it up.
All Might wiped the blood trickling down his chin from his split lip. This boy, Midoriya Izuku, or rather his other persona, the one he had dubbed The Beast, was strong. It was so ridiculously overpowered it was not even funny. Toshinori groaned as he felt his spine tingle and his lower body not responding correctly. Plus, if what they had both said was true, All Might could not even use his Quirk. But maybe that was a trick. And what if it was not and he gave this monster some more ammunition? Convoluted thoughts circled in his mind, thoughts which Toshinori immediately crushed. When in doubt, act cautiously, but always with justice at heart. The creature was merely observing him with those antediluvian eyes, seemingly regaled with his plight. An amused smile was plastered on its face as All Might bended over, in the position of an athletic runner on the starting blocks. His hands gripped the sand firmly, and once he had breathed in deeply, releasing a steady breath, he bolted toward the beast. Even though he was not using his Quirk, his speed was still nothing to be scoffed at. It was a gamble, but lots of Quirks worked with visual confirmation, taking for instance Eraserhead’s. When he reached the boy (monster,) All Might swiped his hand and threw the sand he had taken and kept in his closed fist – dishonorable as it was - irritating the boy’s eyes who instantly closed them for a few seconds, recoiling. All Might cocked back his fist, his muscles bulging and straining with the concentrated power. Sorry, young villain, All Might thought internally. But he was too dangerous to be left alive. Toshinori would weep later for a life unjustly bereaved. And he would bear the weight of the guilt of this crime until the day he breathed his last. “Detroiiiit Smaaaaash!” Blood spurted from All Might’s mouth. His fist impacted the boy’s chest. It caved inwards, his shattered ribs puncturing his lungs as the boy’s body was catapulted backwards. Blood sprayed from his opened mouth like a miniature geyser as he sailed through the air, colliding with heaps of debris. He was still propelled as he smashed apart the garbage heaps, shattering his spine, breaking his neck, splitting his head open. He came to a stop some two hundred feet farther, his head lolling awkwardly as he laid unmoving, unnaturally still. It was at that moment that Toshinori realized the depth of his sin. He had mauled, absolutely destroyed a kid not even old enough to go to High School. He had trampled his dreams, broken his life and his shattered his body beyond repair. All Might fell to his knees, tears rolling down his cheeks, and he cursed the heavens for making him perform such actions. He cursed fate for having made this boy suffer so much, he raved at the injustice of it all. Two thin arms wound around his neck, embracing him from behind. A soothing voice whispered in his ears. “It’s okay. You did what you had to.” And in a flash of insanity he thought it had been his sensei, crawling back from the tomb to comfort him. But it was not, because when his head turned, what greeted him was not her compassionate face, but two luminescent green orbs swimming in wretched pleasure, pupils dilated on an empyreal high. And panic, sheer terror gripped his insides as the creatures squeezed the arms coiled around his neck like twin constrictor boas. “S-Shit, you…” All Might choked out in English. Toshinori bashed his head backward, hearing a satisfying crack as the cartilage of the boy’s nose broke with a muffled noise on his part. He felt something wet drip down his nape and the arms ensnaring him became loose. Taking advantage of the momentum, All Might span, his hand immediately coming up to cover the boy’s eyes, the appendage spread wide enough to cover almost all of his face as he did so. Then he hefted him with this hand, and slammed him against the cool sand. “Alaska Slaaaam!” He felt the bone structure shatter as the back of the boy’s head made contact with a rocky structure jutting out of the sand slightly. Even his hand was tingling from the shock. This was instant death. There was no possible way for someone to survive this, even All for One would not be able to. Then something shifted behind his palm as bones rearranged themselves, filling out. A distant scream echoed in All Might’s ears, and then when he focused he realized it was him, Toshinori, who was screaming. Because this was unnatural. Because it was impossible. Because it was no Quirk. No Quirk could bring back from the dead, of that he was positively, one hundred percent certain. It was the work of an eldritch creature, something far beyond the constraint of mortality, something which scoffed at life and its frailty. So Toshinori let loose this wail of terror even as a thin hand gripped his wrist gently, prying Toshinori’s hand off the boy’s face. The green-haired boy took a huge gulp of fresh air as he was reacquainted with the concept of breathing. Freed from his constraint, the child quickly jumped back on his feet, cracking his neck and stepping back. And then, the boy laughed uproariously, holding his sides to try to contain his demented laugher. Tears gathered at the corners of its eyes as The Beast gazed at him, hilarity conveyed within its hollow verdant gaze. A grin split its face, showing far too many teeth, and then it spoke at last. “I think I’ve left you quite a fair chance to defeat me, have I not? I’ve not even used any Quirk, except for the first blow against you. Hmm, talking about Quirks, how about I use yours?” No… “Tartarus!” But it was too late, and All Might was too shocked to react as the boy unleashed his own move against him. “Smaash!” His fist did not even make contact with All Might’s body as he was sent flying. Not only that, the sand was whipped up and when the attack was done, he had cleared the beach from the garbage, and All Might’s body was lying face down on the beach, the water from the rising tide wetting his face. Izuku walked calmly, his steps measured and even as he got closer and closer. Once he was close enough, his legs folded as he crouched and he lifted All Might’s unmoving head by pulling on his hair. Toshinori asked with the last of his strength. “H-How? I-I thought you needed visual confirmation to copy a Quirk? You did not see me activate it.” Izuku smiled mischievously, hiding his lower face behind his hand to conceal a grin. “Oops, was I supposed to need it?” W-What? His face got closer, close enough that he could feel his hot breath warming his ear. “Let me tell you something interesting. I don’t need to see Quirks. I don’t need for them to activate. Remember? I’m a liar. But this is the truth. I only need to be in the vicinity of a Quirk for me to copy it.” Toshinori could see at the corner of his eyes the boy bit his lip, struggling to keep his hilarity contained as he croaked out. “You wouldn’t believe how funny, how side-splitting it was to see you struggle, thinking you had a chance when from the start, you had as much chance to succeed – to destroy me - as a snail has of outrunning photons. “I was humoring you! How does it feel? How do you feel? Is it unfair? Do you feel cheated? You humans are such interesting creatures and my curiosity is burning, swallowing me whole! Tell me, tell me, TeLl ME-“ His words were growing more distant, faint whispers in a galaxy cluster too far away to reach. And Toshinori’s eyes closed as he was drained of his strength. His body sagged as darkness claimed him. Justice lost. The universe shriveled and cowered as the Beast grinned.
♈ ♌ ♈ ♌ ♈ “He’s going to kill you one day,” Erica says, shaking her head when she sees that Stiles is putting chocolate into Jackson’s drink. Heaven forbid the workout god ever enjoy life and have some chocolate. He’s going to freak. Stiles gives her a smile. She rolls her eyes. “Your funeral, Stilinski.” “Please. He loves it,” Stiles says, grinning. He moves over to the other end of the counter and hands Jackson the hot drink. “For you, Jackie.” “Quit calling me that,” Jackson sneers. “Did you get it right for once, Stilinski?” “I’m sure you’ll let me know if I didn’t,” Stiles says, with a bright smile. “How’s lacrosse been going?” Jackson stares at him like he’s stupid. The truth is that Stiles has been crazy about Jackson ever since Heather’s End Of High School party two years ago. Jackson had gotten so, so drunk. It’d been adorable. Stiles had also been almost as hammered, and they’d somehow ended up alone in a bedroom together. Erica’s heard the story enough times that whenever he brings it up, she mouths the words with him. But Stiles can still remember how good Jackson had felt grinding up against him in the dark. It’d been a year after that party before they’d run into each other again. Now, Jackson’s always coming into the coffee shop that Stiles works at and grumbling because Stiles never gets his order right. The first time had been a mistake. He’d been so nervous with Jackson…hot, attractive Jackson, standing there staring at him. He hadn’t been paying attention. Then Jackson had stormed back to complain about his order. It’d been such fun talking to him that now Stiles does it occasionally just to get a rise out of him. “Lacrosse is fine. Why would you care about that?” Jackson demands. Stiles feels redness crossing his cheeks. He had thought he’d done such a good job at playing it cool. He tosses his hands in the air. “Listen, dude, I was just making conversation. Sorry if that upsets you.” Jackson watches him, as though he’s waiting for a catch. Then he sits down on the stool at the counter and says, “It’s alright. McCall isn’t doing so badly either. He’s your friend, right?” “Brother,” Stiles corrects. “Technically, step-brother. His mom and my dad got married.” There’s a small nod of acknowledgement and then Jackson lifts the drink to his lips. Stiles holds his breath. Here it comes. But then Jackson’s setting the cup down. “The chocolate’s not so bad.” Stiles’ lips part and then he says, “I thought you should mix it up. I mean, your drink order is so boring.” “At least I don’t drink my coffee black,” Jackson says. “Like Erica does? God, I know. It’s so gross. I only ever do that if I’m pulling an all-nighter to write an essay. I can’t sleep with that awful taste in my mouth,” Stiles rambles. “I think it keeps me up more than the caffeine does.” Jackson shifts on the stool and looks down at his coffee cup. Quietly, he says, “I have to go to class.” “Right.” “Stiles!” Erica says from the other side of the counter. “I’m getting a bit behind here. As much as I am all for your littlething you two have going on, I need some help.” “Coming!” Stiles says back. He looks at Jackson and nods. “See you tomorrow?” “See you tomorrow.” Before Jackson stands up though, Stiles asks, “Why do you keep coming back if I always mess up your order?” Jackson meets his eyes and says, “Maybe I don’t mind so much.” Erica’s yanking Stiles back to his station and Stiles is watching Jackson leave in a confused daze. Erica snaps her fingers in front of his face. “Stiles, Stiles. Don’t get useless on me.” He jumps as if he’s waking up, and launches into action. ♈ ♌ ♈ ♌ ♈ “Stiles, can you just get my order right for once?” Jackson asks, holding out a cup towards him. Stiles takes it and shrugs. “I could. But it wouldn’t be as much fun.” Stiles starts making Jackson’s actual order. “You seem stressed out today.” “I have a huge final tomorrow. I don’t feel prepared because lacrosse has been taking up so much of my time. I can’t seem to concentrate in the library,” Jackson tells him. “Try studying here. I can’t study at the library because it’s too damn quiet. It makes it hard to focus. I find public places are easy to tune out,” Stiles suggests. He shrugs. “You don’t have to though.” Jackson taps his fingers against the counter and then shrugs. “What the hell? It can’t hurt, right?” He settles down at the end of the counter, spreading his textbook, papers, and laptop in front of him. Stiles sets down his correct order and hums when he goes back to work. Strangely, it was nice for Stiles to have Jackson sitting there. Every so often, he’d look over to see that Jackson was still working. Stiles wonders, not for the first time, if Jackson ever thinks about that night at Heather’s party. The panting, the moaning, the secret touches, and the light kisses. Stiles is not going to get hard at work. But Jackson is biting down on the end of his pen and Stiles has to turn away. “How are you doing, hot stuff?” Erica asks, keeping her voice low. She doesn’t look at Stiles as she cuts a piece of cheesecake for the hottie in line. “You’ve been a little quiet today.” “I’m good,” Stiles answers. “I just can’t help it. He’s so attractive and…I just wish I could redo that night.” Erica looks at Stiles now. “Honey, he got spooked. It has nothing to do with you.” Spooked is one word for it. Stiles glances at Jackson. Fuck, things had been getting so hot and heavy and then…then Jackson had been shoving him off and having a mild panic attack about how he wasn’t gay. Stiles knows that he’s not homophobic in the least. Jackson had once beat up a guy for making nasty comments about his best friend, Danny. That had been in grade ten. No one had messed with him or Danny after that. But apparently, the thought had never occurred to Jackson. Stiles had sworn he’d never tell anyone about it. Of course, he’d told Scott. And Erica. And Allison knew because of Scott. Plus Lydia knew. But that’s it. That’s where it ended. His friends didn’t blab to anyone. “I know,” Stiles murmurs. Still, he can’t help but wonder if he had slowed things down for Jackson instead of rushing…maybe Jackson wouldn’t have felt it was going too fast. Maybe he wouldn’t have panicked. Maybe the night would’ve ended on an entirely different note. “Here you go, handsome,” Erica says, smiling at the customer in line. She gives him a wink and leans forward to say, “I wrote my number on the inside cup if you want it.” Stiles waits until the hottie finds a seat in the corner of the coffee shop before he says, “Since when are you giving your number out to boys? You have a strict rule about that.” Erica shrugs. “He comes in here all the time and he always makes my panties wet by smiling at me. What can I say? I’m a sucker for that face of his. And body. Look at him.” Stiles does and he makes a noise of approval. No one else is in line so he touches Erica’s arm as he passes her. He makes his way over to where Jackson is studying and bends down to pull out a plate. “How is it going?” he asks. Jackson glances up. “It’s better than the library.” “That’s good.” He drops a brownie onto the plate and pushes it in front of Jackson. “Have a snack.” “I don’t–” “I know you don’t. It’s Erica’s and she’ll be very upset if someone rejects her baking,” Stiles teases. “C’mon, one brownie isn’t going to kill you or your healthy diet. Besides, you always drink coffee. That can’t be much better for your system.” Jackson lets out a laugh. “What can I say? Coffee is one addiction that I can’t seem to give up.” “Aw, damn. Here I was hoping you always came in here for me,” Stiles teases. “That too,” Jackson says as though it’s not a big deal at all. Stiles stares at him and Jackson shakes his head. “Stiles,c’mon, you must have known that you’re the reason I keep coming back here.” “Uh, no. I most certainly did not.” “Stiles there are about fifteen coffee shops in between my place and the campus. Why else would I keep coming back to the one where the barista always gets my order wrong?” Jackson asks, smiling at him now like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You make a very good point,” Stiles tells him. “Why didn’t I ever consider that?” “I don’t know. Why do you always mess up my order?” Jackson asks. “I kind of thought we might be…friends or something.” Stiles grins at this. “I just like having an excuse to talk to you again.” Jackson rolls his eyes. “I’ve wanted to talk to you about this for a while now. At Heather’s party…” “It’s okay, dude. No need to explain. You weren’t ready,” Stiles says, shrugging. “I went too fast. I’m sorry.” “It wasn’t you who was going too fast. It was me.” Jackson shakes his head and says, “It doesn’t even matter. What matters is you were so cool about it and none of my friends heard about it.” “Of course not–” “And I want to say thank you,” Jackson says. His voice has dropped quite a bit and Stiles leans on the counter. He looks away, and Stiles can’t stop staring at him. “I know we didn’t really get along in high school.” “Dude, that’s over and done with. Forgotten.” Stiles’ entire body hums. “And now? What would you like now?” “I’d really like to take you out on a date sometime. Or maybe…skip the date and pick up where we left off two years ago?” “Erica!” Stiles shouts, without taking his eyes off Jackson. “I’m leaving early!” “What! You can’t do that. You have four more hours on your shift, Stilinski!” Erica calls back. Stiles takes off his apron and lifts the counter so he can get to Jackson’s side. Jackson shoves all his stuff into his backpack. When he’s got his bag on his back, he slips his hand around Stiles’ waist. “Stiles, get back here!” Erica shouts. “God, you suck!” Stiles glances back to see the hottie come up to the counter and offer her help. “Should you stay?” Jackson asks. “Nawh, she’ll be okay. We have two years to get caught up on.” ♈ ♌ ♈ ♌ ♈
"Zanpakuto Talking" "Mental Talking/Parseltongue" "Kido/Zanpakuto/spells" 'Thoughts' "Hollow/wraith/horcrux Talking" As Harry opened his eyes, he felt shooting pains through his body, causing him to wince and groan as he sat up. Looking around slowly, he realized that he was in the hospital wing with wrapped around various parts of his body. "What happened?" groaned the boy. "I believe I should be asking you that Mister Potter," said Madame Pomfrey as she walked up, "you've been unconscious for the past week. What were you thinking? Diving into the chamber to fight a Basilisk without a rooster all by yourself? You're lucky the headmaster came when he did, though how you got second degree burns across most of your body is beyond me." "You should have seen the other guy?" offered Harry sheepishly. "Hmph," grumbled the Matron, "I would have hoped that, after your First Year, you'd have learned to avoid such situations that would lead you to end up here." "I have been trying," said Harry before picking up on something that the Matron had said earlier, "Wait, you said that the Headmaster was the one to rescue me?" "Indeed I was," said Dumbledore as he walked into the Hospital Wing, "Poppy, if you could give us a moment or two?" "Just remember," said Madame Pomfrey as she got up, "Mister Potter is still recovering, so don't push him." Once the Matron had left the room, Dumbledore conjured up a chintz armchair and sat himself down by the young Visored's bed. "I believe it is about time we had a talk, Harry," said Dumbledore as he steepled his fingers, "mainly about the events in the Chamber…and about what happened in the third floor corridor last term." Harry inwardly groaned, the Headmaster had been trying to corner the young Visored in order to discuss the events of his battle with Quirrellmort, and it looked like he had finally found the ideal moment to do so. "It does not seem that I have much choice in the matter, Headmaster," said Harry dryly. "I am simply curious as to why I found you in a rampaging bestial form with your dead body lying on the ground beside you," said Dumbledore, "also how you survived dealing with a basilisk with only burns across your body." "I'm afraid I can't tell you, Headmaster," said Harry, "those techniques are a family secret." "I don't recall the Potter or the Evans line ever having such abilities," said Dumbledore. "My parents are not my only family," said Harry firmly, "you should know that quite well, as it is because of you that they had to rescue me." "Harry my boy…" began Dumbledore before the teen angrily cut the old man off. "Honestly Headmaster," said Harry, saying the man's title with a touch of venom, "it is no business of yours what my family chooses to teach me." "Harry," said Dumbledore kindly, "if said techniques are a threat to Hogwarts…" "You mean a threat like a cursed diary that let loose a gargantuan Basilisk?" interrupted Harry, "Or how about hiring a teacher that had the wraith of a Dark Lord sticking out of the back of his head? Or even something like housing a bloody Cerberus in the third floor corridor with only a mundane lock on a wooden door to keep students out? You see Headmaster, it seems you've been overlooking threats to this school that are far worse than what skills I may know. And don't forget, I dealt with two of those threats myself, when teachers should have been there to do so." "Harry…" said Dumbledore as he tried again. "I think you should leave, sir," said Harry with finality as he lay down on his bed and turned away. Closing his eyes in frustration, Dumbledore rose to his feet and swept out of the room, his mind filled with his thoughts as he wondered how he was going to get through to Harry. xXsceneXx The rest of the year passed without too much happening. Harry was bedridden for another few weeks as his injuries healed, much to the young Visored's dismay. Because of this, the Hufflepuff team ended up losing the Quidditch cup to the Gryffindor team and the Slytherins won the House Cup. Eventually, the year came to an end and Harry found himself riding the Hogwarts Express back to Platform 9 3/4 to meet up with his new family. As they arrived, he spotted Hachi and Rose waiting there and quickly hurried over to greet them. "Harry-kun," said Hachi with a smile, as the two Visored hugged their young charge, "how have things been at school?" "There were some eventful things that happened," said Harry in Japanese as well, "I'll tell you all about it back in Karakura." "If you say so," said Rose. The three of them then headed off to make the walk to Urahara's London Shop, from which they could make the jump back to the Visored manor via Urahara's teleporter watch. xXsceneXx "So Harry," said Shinji once the group had gotten situated in the training room, with the youngest Visored scratching Norberta behind the ear ridges, "what kinds of adventures did you get into this year?" "Well," said Harry casually, "I ended up having to destroy a cursed diary that was sucking the soul out of a girl after fighting a giant Basilisk that wanted to make me it's dinner." The Visored were silent for a moment before Shinji sighed, "I'm seriously questioning the competence of the teachers at that school." "Indeed," said Rose, "to think such a beast was loose in a school full of students." "I wonder if the Board of Governors knows about what's been going on at the school?" muttered Love. "So," said Harry as he tried to change the subject, "what has been going on with you guys?" xXsceneXx Meanwhile, Albus Dumbledore was dealing with issues of his own as he was now having to deal with the Hogwarts Board of Governors questioning his competence as a Headmaster, a valid concern considering the two incidents that had happened under his nose during the past two terms. He had managed to lessen their ire toward him, but he could tell that Lucius Malfoy was still gunning for his head. Considering the man's choice in friends and tattoo artist, what else was new. "Perhaps I'll have better luck convincing the Wizengamot to allow Hogwarts to keep a majority of the Basilisk remains to help refinance the school," mused the elderly wizard. The phoenix perched near his desk gave him a look of admonishment that was ignored by the wizard. "I'd best start preparing," said Dumbledore as he got his papers together and popped a lemon drop into his mouth. While this happened, across the sea, a letter was delivered to the Urahara shop in Karakura. The letter bore the seal of the Wizengamot and the Minister of Magic and was addressed as follows. Harry Potter Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter Urahara Shop Karakura, Japan
This morning was an optional skate for the Falconers -and, as they had won a game the night before, no need to say not many players were there. Bitty had come to the game, and spent the night, and he had almost managed to talk Jack into skipping practice to stay in bed with him (wink wink). Almost, because Jack realised quickly that Bitty was himself trying to skip his morning class. Well, perhaps Jack had forgotten his jog to instead lounge in bed with his boyfriend a little, but he kicked Bitty’s butt to the eight AM train and he went to the optional skate, with a few fresh pastries in his arms. The rink was still quite empty by the time he arrived, and he only crossed paths with a few people from the staff -including Sarah, his favourite trainer, whom he saw in the hallway near the nook. She sighed heavenly when she saw him, or more like, when she smelled the lemon bars he was carrying. “Jack, if you don’t marry your girl, I will,” she moaned, between two bites. “Haha, sorry, I don’t plan to let my girlfriend go,” he replied with a laugh. His smile was strained, but she didn’t seem to notice. She took another bar and winked at him, and left. As soon as she was away, Jack’s face dropped. “Hey Zimmboni! Why so sad?” Jack blinked a few times and turned his head to see Tater, standing a few metres away in the nook’s doorway, in his workout clothes. “Hi Tater. It’s nothing.” “Good, then you come and you bring the food before Snowy arrive and eat all,” Tater beamed, going back inside. Not impressed, Jack followed him in the nook to see that they were the only two people in there; but, at least, while waiting for company, Tater had been busy and he had prepared a thermos of tea and a few mugs, set on the table in front of the couch. It smelled really good, unlike the tea packs that were laying around and that everyone was using. “Brought my own tea. Homemade. Russian Earl Grey, the good shit. Goes well with the pastries you always bring after home games; at least I think, I know nothing about tea and pastries.” “Great, Tater,” Jack said with a genuine smile before sitting next to him on the couch. “Too bad others not here, because we gossip about them then. Let’s trash Marty’s new haircut.” Jack took the mug of tea that he was offered, and blew on it a little bit before taking a sip. Indeed, that was some good shit. “It would be mean of us to mock his hair,” Jack smiled. “But it’s meaner of him to force us to see it.” Tater had a good laugh, spilling a little bit of the mug he had in hand. “I like it! You are so bad, Zimmboni!” “The only bad person here is the hairdresser who made him pay for that.” “Haha! Yes, it’s so bad. Who do she think we are, football players?” “It’s North America, Tater. We call it ‘soccer’ here.” “Animals.” “Just use the correct name for things, haha.” Except for your boyfriend. Tater didn’t notice that Jack’s mood suddenly turned sour. He was busy trying to guess which lemon bar displayed in front of him was the biggest to take it, and when he found the rare gem he bit in it with a sinful groan. Snowy chose this time to enter the room, and he shot him a judging glare before going straight to the trainers’ room. “It’s so good. Your girlfriend -she is amazing. You keep her, Zimmboni.” “Yeah. They bake a lot.” In the grand scheme of things, it was nothing to say that. He didn’t even use “he”, or the word “boyfriend”. But Jack, eyeing Tater, saw it as a challenge. A first step. Tater didn’t seem to react, at first, but under Jack’s glare, he frowned. And after a few seconds, he said- “Oh.” At this moment, Jack knew. He fucked up. He hated Jack from five seconds ago like he never hated anyone before. Why did he do that. Why couldn’t he suck it up. Why- “I get it, Zimmboni. You’re like me.” And then, in the greatest calm, Tater resumed his eating, oblivious of the fact he had just dropped the biggest bomb on the corner of Jack’s face. “You… You too?” “Yeah! I know I don’t looks like this -but I’m very happy. Very in love.” Jack was flabbergasted. Did Tater just… Did Tater just? He quickly snapped out of it, though. He could hear Thirdy and Liver in the hallway. Snowy was right next door. “Hey, Tater, do you want to come over for lunch? So we can talk?” “Yeah, sure,” Tater said before gulfing down another bar (was it his third? It was his third.) “Will there be dessert? Made by your (he winked) girlfriend?’ And when Jack replied by the positive, he winked too. Sweat-pea 💕👟 , Bud(gie) 💞🐥 >> I told someone. About us. > !!!!!!!!!!! >😮😮🤯👏 > Really?! Who >> Another player. And I don’t know how much was me telling him and how much was him guessing. > And you don’t give me names because…? >> Because he told me he has a boyfriend too. > 😮😃🤩🤯!!!!!!!!!! > !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! INCREDIBLE > SO GREAT!!!!!!!!! >> We’re meeting at home for lunch so I’m going to tell him more about you specifically. >> It’s… I’m excited. I never go to do so. > Haha! Like I gush about you on Twitter? >> Haha maybe. I’ll ask him if I can tell you about him. > That’s great love > Go meet Queer Friends After morning practice, Tater stopped home to get a change of clothes -giving Jack enough time to himself change and begin to throw together something in the pan for lunch. It was -how original- chicken breast, but with some spices just to say he isn’t always eating the same thing. (He always used the same mix of spices so honestly, it was just to please Bitty and his mom.) Tater arrived way before the chicken had cooked, and he joined Jack in the kitchen, looking at him cook as he sat on the table with a cookie from the always-full jar in his mouth. “Don’t eat sweets before lunch, you won’t eat anything after. Also, please seat like a human being, on a chair.” “You think you are my mama now, Zimmboni?” “Someone has to be,” he replied with a laugh. Tater looked at him work for a while -Jack had never been one to multitask, even if it was just talking while doing something. Thing is -there were so many things he wanted to say, that he wouldn’t know where to begin. It, literally, was the first time he could gush about Bitty. This friends in Samwell obviously knew all about him, and the only other people on this earth knowing about them were his parents. And there were some topics that you don’t want to talk about with your parents. His teammate quickly gulped down his cookie, and finally, he took pity on Jack’s inability to start a conversation and said: “So, Zimmie… I wouldn’t took you for the type. But yes, no question why you wouldn’t talk about your girlfriend-“ That was a bit stereotyping, Tater. You could gain much from a conversation or two with Shitty. “- of course, it’s because you had two girlfriends.” Jack smiled. And dropped in the pan the spatula he as stirring the meat with. And blinked. Three times. Slowly, he turned around. “I… What?” “Yeah? Two girlfriends?” “Tater, I do not have two girlfriends?” Jack was looking at Tater, horrified. His friend only frowned, asking: “Three girlfriends?” Gobsmacked, Jack was gobsmacked. “Tater? What the hell?” “Four?” Tater asked, stunned, and counting on his fingers. “Tater. Tater no. One. I have one boyfriend and he’s time-consuming enough.” Tater just made a little ‘oh’, and Jack was looking at him, full of regrets. “But why you say ‘they’ if only one boy? Why not ‘he’?” “Because you can use ‘they’ as a singular?! If you don’t know the pronouns of someone, want to hide their gender, or if the person use ‘they’?” Jack studiously recited, even if still blinking of bewilderment. “What? It’s a thing you do in English? I didn’t know!” “Yeah, crisse, neither did I before college.” Jack joined Tater at the table, six feet under. Only the sound of the cooking chicken could be heard for a while. “I didn’t know you were gay,” Tater finally said to break the silence. “I asked if you are het and you say ‘yes’, so.” “I’m bi actually, and never, once in my life, have I ever told anyone that I were straight.” “Yes you did! It was like, beginning when we were friends.” It was a truthful heart-to-heart. So, Jack felt like he had to tell Tater his second best-kept secret. “Tater… Sometimes, your accent is so strong that instead of asking you to repeat a third time when I don’t get what you said, I just randomly reply ‘yes’ or ‘no’.” “You are a little bitch, Zimmboni.” “Sorry.” The meal had finally cooked, and Jack took the time that he was serving the plates and that they begin to eat to try to gather his thoughts. He was totally running off-script, here. Not that he had much of a script before, but at least he had a vague idea of where the conversation was supposed to go. “So, you got a boyfriend, uh?” Tater asked, munching his vegetable stir way too hard as always. “Yes,” Jack replied, playing with his chicken. “Do I know him?” “I… I don’t know. My old team came a few times to games, but I don’t know if you ever talked with him.” “Oh! He’s a hockey player? Of course he is. You’re Zimmboni.” Tater was beaming and really, actually interested. And he was teasing him. Jack softly smiled. ”I could totally get someone who don’t like hockey if I wanted to.” “But you don’t want to.” “Hey!” The awkwardness had vanished a little bit. Good grief. They were back to good ol’ chirping, as it should be. “And so… You? I guess it means you don’t have a boyfriend?” “No, I… I have two girlfriends.” “Oh.” “Oh.” “So you’re… Polyamorous? That’s the word, right? I always mix it up with polysexual.” “Yes, that is the word!” Tater smiled. “Do I know them?” His teammate laughed a little, a bit sour. “I wish, Zimmie. But no. They’re not coming to any after-games.” Yes, Jack understood the feeling. Even if Bitty did come to games, most of the time he was drowned somewhere in the stands and no one but them knew he was even there. At least, when other people from Samwell also came, he had an excuse to bring them all to the locker room and get them good seats. But yeah. Far from the other WAGs. “Tell me more about them,” Jack asked to change the subject. “I have one girlfriend, Jenna, she has a fiancé -he’s a nice guy, good bro. Jenna, her, she’s very pretty, and likes cinema a lot, and musicals. Always brings me to see the best plays and movies. They wait a baby together, I am godfather. But I’m sad because she’s very pregnant now, so I see her less…” “Oh. That’s tough…” “No, no. It’s normal. We still love us. And other girlfriend, Ina -she’s artist. Always making things; jewels, plushes, paints. She was one who teach me polyamory. She has no other love right now, she was dump not long ago, so I see her more because she’s sad. Now you, you tell me about baker-hockey-lover boy…” Sweat-pea 💕👟 , Bud(gie) 💞🐥 >> Can I call you ? > Is it urgent? There’s tadpoles in the reading room, and can go to the basement if you need to call >> No text is fine. > Good I didn’t want to move from my bed. > So, how did it go? > I felt so stressed for nting 😰 considering that youre both in the same boat LOL >> Well >> Uh > ???!!!??!?? >> It was a big misunderstanding ? > WHat???????? What does that mean???????? > How >> Well turns out he doesn’t have a boyfriend at all. > How, boy >> Well I talked about you this morning, using ‘they’ pronouns… >> So tater took a few seconds and said ‘yeah, wink wink, we the same zimmboni’ > So it’s Tater? Alexei Mashkov? > Didn’t tickle my admirable gaydar. >> Yeah it’s him. So- >> Your gaydar is the most awful thing on this earth, Eric ‘I-fell-for-a-straight-boy’ Bittle > Did you really stop in your explanation to chirp me Mister 🐥🐥 >> - so, I’m really happy, he’s really happy, so I asked him to come over, he comes over. >> And well. Turns out he doesn’t actually have a boyfriend. >> And that he isn’t queer. > ? Please tell me it wasn’t an ambush or smtg >> No, no. He… actually has two girlfriends? > So how that, ‘we the same?’ > oh! Yes! They pronouns. Ok > oh > well my gaydar aint that bad >> It is. Truly. > it is not >> MIKA > it is > so wow. Two girlfriends > he has a schedule just like yours how does he manage >> I haven’t asked >> You can ask next time you’re here, he invited us to dinner. The five of us > ok so question >> One of the girls is allergic to nuts and the other is pregnant but I don’t know what pregnant people can and can’t eat > what should I bake > lol > You know me too well 💕
Disclaimer: If Merlin was mine, it would probably suck. Thank god it isn't. Summary: When the knights take Merlin for granted after a hard day, although he knows he can never tell them everything, he decides to put them in their place, especially one kingly prat. Angst, angst, and bromance. No slash. Who is Merlin? The knights sat around their fire, disappointed that what was meant to be an exciting chase through the wood only ended with their prankster and traitor falling on his own knife. To make up for it, the men decided to share their best stories from before they met. Gwaine had plenty, but since they all ended the same – with him either in jail or in someone else’s bed – the others shut him up. Leon had some interesting tales of prisoners who had escaped, and a woman he had fallen in love with who, shockingly, revealed himself as a man. Elyan told them of his first few years travelling after he had left Camelot. Percival said he didn’t have much to say, but eventually opened up to regale them with a fantastic fishing tale from his youth. Arthur, like always, didn’t tell many of his own full stories, but interrupted others to one-up them. Merlin sat a ways away, watching the darkness of the wood for any more threats. The ‘prankster’ had actually been an assassin sent by Odin to kill Queen Guinevere before she could produce an heir and to weaken Arthur. Merlin had discovered the plot when the disguised man had attempted to glean information about the king and queen’s chambers. No matter how skilled, Merlin always managed to find a way to stop them before it was too late. In the nights after close calls, Merlin would lay awake, not daring to get up, but afraid that if he didn’t, he would miss something that would cost his friends their lives. In the cool dry night, Merlin shivered. He had almost looked over the trap set for them if the assassin failed. Merlin had realized just before the feast that every meat pie set on the table had been enchanted. Without him, live crows buried in the pies would have sprung to life, impossible to kill, and would not rest until Arthur and Gwen were dead. Merlin wasn’t prepared to undo the enemy’s entire spell, but was able to at least redirect the birds to escape the hall as quickly as possible. When that plan failed, the kitchen boy tried to attack the king, foolhardily thinking he would be distracted enough to allow him to slip past Arthur’s guard. Needless to say, when this too failed, he ran. Arthur gathered the knights and they followed the trail the boy had left. In secret, Merlin had gone ahead to confront the sorcerer. When a magical fight ensued, Merlin ensured it ended with his opponent impaling himself. That is how the knights found him in the light of day, believing the coward too afraid to face them. Merlin could only shake his head in disgust. Whether that disgust was for himself for killing such a young boy, or for the knights who had such large ego and a thirst for a hunt, he didn’t know. Maybe it was both. He half-listened to his friends, not wanting to join in the fun just yet. “Merlin, my friend, join us!” Apparently he didn’t have a choice. Not that he would deny Gwaine when he called him so directly. After he had sat down in their circle, Merlin steeled himself to a night of mindless chatter. His silent wall didn’t last long. “What’s the matter, Merlin; did those crows earlier give you a fright?” Arthur had stopped Elyan’s story to pick on his manservant. “No, Arthur, it’s just that your stories always put me to sleep,” Arthur could see Merlin was trying to joke, but it seemed he couldn’t pull himself out of whatever funk he had been in the past two days. Without acknowledging his king any further, Merlin gestured for Elyan to resume. Arthur sat back, unsatisfied. Later, when the got back to warmth and no escape routs, Arthur would corner him and get his friend to spill. Until then… “No, that’s alright, nothing much happens after that.” Elyan waved off his story. Arthur sat up, expecting a new branch in the conversation. “Why doesn’t Merlin tell us one?” Arthur slouched again, disappointed. “Merlin doesn’t have stories. Even if he does, I’ve heard them all twice before.” Smirking, he looked over to his manservant, who seemed more and more unhappy with every word. “I mean, come on,” he directed this at Merlin, “I know everything about you already!” Merlin, however, had a very different reaction than the king expected. He barked out a hollow, chilling laugh and said, “You don’t know anything, Arthur.” Then he froze, as if he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “What are you talking about?” The rest of the knights had gone silent, clearly wishing not to be a part of their suddenly tense conversation. “It’s just that anything relevant you know about me all came from circumstance, not from me actually telling you.” A few tentative glances were thrown Arthur’s way by the knights.“That’s not true!” “What’s my last name?” Arthur froze. Everyone but Merlin was staring at him. The man who wasn’t looking at him stared into the flames, not angry or accusing, just asking questions. This was the look every man feared. It wasn’t anything but disappointed. Every man present felt true remorse, even if the question hadn’t been directed at them. But the damn had broken. More questions followed. “Who was my first kiss?” He didn’t know. Perhaps someone in Ealdor? “What was the name of the girl I fell in love with after coming to Camelot? How did she die?” What? Merlin… in love? He hadn’t even realized. His chest ached for his friend. He had lost his love and bore it alone? “Who is my father? When did I meet him? How did he die?” This one too surprised Arthur. Merlin had once said he never met his father, now he said he had and that he had died.“Who was the first man I killed? Who was the most recent?” Merlin’s pained tone slammed Arthur with guilt. The first time he had killed, Morgana, Leon, his friends, even his father were there to assure him. Merlin had only Gaius, and perhaps not always. “Why did I come to Camelot?” Arthur knew this answer, and tried to say so, but for the first time, Merlin looked at him. “Why did I stay?” Arthur hoped he knew the answer, but was no longer sure. “What is my greatest fear? What is my highest hope?” Merlin faced him, head on, eyes glinting and emotionless. He didn’t know, damn it all. He didn’t know when the man next to him really was, at the heart of all things. “What thought gets me up in the morning?” Arthur gave up trying to console himself. Arthur thought the barrage was finished, but Merlin had one more, one that cut him to the heart. “When I lie to your face, and you know I do, what’s the truth?” The king hung his head, realizing he had never earned the title of Friend. That Merlin didn’t trust him, above all else, hurt more than he could say. He stared at the ground, waiting for something to happen, but hoping nothing did. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Merlin stand and leave their group. The knights remained silent, each pondering where they had gone wrong. Arthur, however, knew exactly when. He remembered the days when Merlin had only just joined him, and more. The boy had gotten a horse and followed him into danger, saved his life once or twice, and had always given him advice that, although he would ignore it, had been right every time. The king ran a hand through his hair. Had he honestly believed he knew everything about Merlin when he had never, in all their talks and long hunts and adventures together actually asked Merlin about himself? True, Merlin never stopped talking, but that didn’t mean he ever said anything. As Arthur’s thoughts progressed through each question, he stopped himself before the last one could be put into light. He stood, mimicking Merlin, and tramped through the forest after his… friend? He found Merlin sitting on the edge of a high bluff, feet dangling and eyes just looking into the stars. Arthur didn’t want to scare him, knowing the clumsy man might very well fall off the edge. “It’s alright, Arthur, I know you’re there.” “Why are you hanging over a cliff, Merlin?” Arthur’s palms were sweating just watching him. “It’s like in a fight, you realize you can’t spare time for those things that don’t matter. Your body only tries to keep you from falling. It stops you from thinking too much.” Arthur said nothing, but very slowly sat down next to him. “I’m sorry.” Merlin started so violently Arthur threw out a hand to stop him slipping. “Seriously?” “Don’t get used to it.” “Yes, sire.” Arthur held back a relieved sigh. Merlin wasn’t really angry, but that didn’t mean Arthur still hadn’t messed up royally. “Tell me.” “What?” “Tell me everything. Beginning to end.” The man next to him shifted uncomfortably. “And no getting out of it, Merlin” “But… It’s cold!” “What did I just say?” Merlin harrumphed, but wiggled himself into a comfortable slouch to do exactly as he was told, with a few exceptions. So began the twisting tale of Merlin’s childhood and how he came to be in Camelot. The first man he had killed had been on the way to Camelot, when Merlin had seen highwaymen attacking a group of women and their children waiting for the men to come in from planting. Somehow, Merlin had driven them all off except one, who used one of the young girls as hostage. The story didn’t match up with the Merlin he knew, who couldn’t wield a blade to save his life, but would certainly endanger himself for any stranger. Arthur found himself almost tearing up at the stories of Freya and his father – which was so vague in context it didn’t reveal much at all. Arthur heard every pause and stutter where Merlin made a split-second decision to leave something out, but he let it go. Perhaps that was a question neither of them wanted answered out loud yet. When they returned to their camp, the fire was low and the knights were asleep, even Elyan who had volunteered to take first watch. “Get some sleep; I’ll keep watch for now.” Merlin got his bedroll out and prepared for sleep after building up the fire. Arthur thought he was out when he heard a quiet, “Thank you, Arthur,” come from his – now he knew he could say it – best friend. The End
When it came to Billy, sometimes, Steve thinks that silence is golden. Maybe, on the odd occasion, when Billy is in one of his moods it would be better if he was seen and not heard because when Steve really thinks about it, Billy is a lot like a bratty five year old a lot of the time. Just a five year old that drinks. This kind of silence, though, when there’s an air of uncertainty and Billy is calm, far too calm, sitting beside him and Steve can’t figure out what’s going on inside of his head? It’s unsettling and Steve is torn between letting the silence eat him alive or risk a change in Billy by asking which would put him at the receiving end of his wrath. He’s almost grateful, when he pulls up outside of a pharmacy, to be out of the car and he feels a weight lift from his shoulders and he contemplates how he’s going to ask about what happened, if he even will, as he rummages through shelves of first aid equipment looking for something suitable to patch the other up. Drug stores smell too much like hospitals for Steve, too clean, like a toxic mix of bleach and a plethora of medication and Steve has to wrinkle his nose as every inhale tickles the inside of his nose. He thinks about how waiting in line, with an unnerving feeling settled in his stomach, is not much better than being in a car with a weird stagnant atmosphere around Billy. Honestly, Steve isn’t even sure why he’s doing this, why he’s purchasing a couple of first aid supplies for his friend, considering the very real possibility that it would go un-appreciated. It wasn’t like Billy was even all that hurt, a busted lip and a welt forming around a small cut on his cheek was minor but Steve was too caring for his own good and one look at Billy was all it took for that need to help to kick in. Besides, it wasn’t like rubbing alcohol and butterfly bandaids were all that expensive. Leaning against his car when he returns outside is Billy, puffing his way through another cigarette. Steve notices the way the setting sun casts Billy in orange and pink hues, illuminating his pronounced jawline and shading the line of his upper lip. Steve hates how beautiful that sight is, even with a bruise forming on his cheek. He sighs, keeping that thought to himself as he approaches as not to inflate Billy’s already rather large ego. Steve wonders, as he chucks the bag of supplies at the other, if that confidence is really all bravado and a front to deal with what Steve had seen through the window of Billys home. It breaks down every pre-conception that Steve has had of the other thus far, as up until this point he had been sure that everything he’d seen of Billy was very real and just the way he was. To see a crack in that, it kind of shook Steve to his core. “What’s this?” Billy asks as he roots through the bag, pulling out the butterfly bandaids to examine them, balancing the box and his cigarette with one hand. There’s a confused expression painted on his features and Steve can’t believe how calm he still is, so quiet even, a mere fraction of how loud and obnoxious he typically is. “Patch yourself up,” Steve replies, circling around the other to lean next to him against the car. He watches Billy for a moment, as he brings his cigarette back to his lips and drops the package of bandaids back into the bag. “I don’t need your help,” Billy utters, though he doesn’t sound too convincing and Steve just shrugs, adding quickly. “Well, you’re getting it anyway.” A few moments of silence fall over them then, with only the swoosh of smoke being blown and the soft tattle of Steve rolling pebbled stones beneath his feet to fill the void. They stand watching the sun disappear into the horizon, because Billy isn’t moving or saying anything and Steve doesn’t really know what to say or suggest otherwise. To anyone else it would seem romantic, considering how the pair feel about each other, but in reality it’s almost awkward. A short span of time that feels more like an hour, dragging with every second until finally Billy breaks it. “Let’s drive somewhere.” ************** The second drive is better, Steve allows Billy to go through his glove box where a few cassettes lay. They were compiled of random songs that Steve had heard at parties or in Billy’s car and had recorded them from the radio. They all had a good beat and for the most part sounded positive and Steve could damn near feel the tension lift from Billy as soon as the music started pouring through his speakers. For the most part though, Billy is still silent besides the way his hands drummed against his knees to the percussion of the track. When he song stops, so Does Billy and Steve watches him from the corner of his eye for the moment as his idle hands move to the bag by his feet to grab the first aid supplies. “Max caught me, in California,” Billy starts and all Steve can do is glance over at the other very quickly before his attention turns back to driving. He’s listening though, intently, waiting for Billy to continue. “With a guy. Max caught us and my dad found out, so he shipped us here. To fucking nowhere Indiana.” Steve isn’t hurt by the comment about his home because really, he thought the same most days. “Why?” He asks, like he’s compelled to. It’s a simple enough question but Billy is pre-occupied pouring rubbing alcohol against the bottom of his shirt, lifting it to press against the wound on his lip and then his cheek. Steve expects him to wince, to show some sign that he can feel something but Billy is stone cold. “No son of mine will be a faggot,” Billy mocks, laughing afterward. Steve can’t understand it but he hears that undertone of something sinister and it makes him nervous. “Funny, he thought moving us to a small town - I wouldn’t meet anyone. I wouldn’t fit in. Look where that got me.” “So he hit you?” Steve asked, and Billy pauses for a moment. Like he’s not sure he’s ready to admit that kind of vulnerability, to let that facade of being the tough guy completely crumble, to let Steve know that maybe, just maybe, he feels hurt and maybe cries. Eventually Billy just nods. “Respect and responsibility,” Billy mocks again, and Steve imagines his father saying that with such malice and a clenched fist and it sends a ripple of something, an uncomfortable shiver, right up his spine. Then Billy is quiet, though there is a storm brewing within him because Steve senses the tension rising. Suddenly he’s all fire, throwing the capped bottle to the floor with such force, following it with a few kicks to the glove box and swift punches to the door. Steve let’s him ride it out because after all the confusion, he finally understands - something inside of Billy is hurting, it’s deep and hidden, it’s why he needs cigarettes and whiskey and music turned up so loud he has no room to think. Killing the hurt, even for a short while, is sometimes enough for Billy. ************** Once Billy had calmed, settling and slumping in his seat, Steve sets a course for home. It’s a safe space, where his parents will disappear indefinitely leaving the pair of them to settle and be on their own. For the night at least, he refuses to let Billy return to his own home, a place that Steve had marred with danger in his mind. While Steve had assumed in the beginning that Billy was some kind of unscrupulous monster by every definition, no care or feeling, in reality he was so much more than that. Here he was, with a shield for a heart and a sword for a tongue, created out of abuse and hatred put upon him by one of the few people that are supposed to love and care for you as you grow and deep down, Steve almost felt bad for taking Billy at face value then. Steve allowed himself to hate someone for a while that now, he didn’t feel deserved to be hated. Behind that wall he’d build up, Steve had found someone much more gentle and almost compassionate and that was something he intended to nurture by loving him, even with all of his flaws, because while he was a risk he was the most certain thing that Steve had come to know. It was easy to slip by his parents when they arrived home, heading through the french doors at the back of the house. It helped, also, that they were sleeping and would probably stay there, on the couch, in a house that was theirs but probably didn’t feel like it much anymore due to their penchant for being away. Steve found comfort in that, how much easier he had it compared to Billy, and in a way he felt unsettled, even guilty, for feeling a certain way about his parents when really he’d much rather have an absent father than one that instilled fear into him with every raised fist. Steve turned back to Billy as they entered his room to find him glancing around curiously, he watched as Billy moved to the far wall to look at the posters and few photos he had strung up here and there. Steve was about to say something until Billy was pulling a photo from the wall and lifting it into view. “Nancy, huh?” Billy starts and there’s that light hearted tone, the kind that came laced with sarcasm, the kind of tone he was used to. Billy was smiling and it was genuine and suddenly Steve didn’t mind that the other was making fun of the photo. “Still got feelings for the one that got away?” “No,” Steve replies earnestly, it’s so fast, no hesitation behind it and Billy is kind of surprised. Anyone would have expected that his pensive expressions and unrelenting moping were due to still being heartbroken over Nancy but no, he was lonely and he put it down to that. His heart, however, was elsewhere. “Shut up and come here.” Billy obliges, setting the photo of Steve and Nancy down on his desk before following Steve to his bed. “Trying to seduce me, pretty boy?” He asked to the roll of Steve’s eyes, a near knee-jerk reaction to anything the other had to say. Billy laughs as he sits, Steve’s hands in the bag from the drug store, grabbing the butterfly bandaids. Billy watches him the entire time as he pulls a couple of the bandaids from it’s box, Steve can feel it, can sense the smirk as he’s staring. “Didn’t anyone teach you it’s fucking creepy to stare?” Steve asked, finally catching Billy’s gaze and the other laughs, his lips curling up as his smile brightens and fuck, Steve is enamoured by that smile. Even as his lip cracks where the blood had dried, opening up the wound again. Steve leans back to grab a tissue from his bedside table, because what teenage boy didn’t have a box of tissues by their bed. There’s something soft about Billy’s features when he turns back, offering up the tissue so that Billy can wipe away the blood that’s trickling down to his chin. “You’re something else, Harrington,” Billy says, still staring and there’s something behind his eyes. A little mischief, lust and it makes Steve shiver. It’s hard to comprehend the huge shift in their dynamic from how things were in the car to now, like Billy finally feels safe enough to be himself again. To be sarcastic and vague and a pain in Steve’s ass. Then he wants to ask what Billy means but the chance never comes because he’s closing the gap between them, pressing his face into Steve’s neck and kissing with such fervour, hands pushing frantically at his jacket to get it off. There's desperation behind it, of Billy wanting Steve out of his clothes and writhing against the mattress and god does Steve want it too. Because as much of an asshole Billy could be sometimes, there was no denying there was something in this. It was magnetic, the way Steve was constantly drawn back to the other - they're a little more than friends and a little less than lovers, though getting closer to it, scrambling to feel something together while everything else around them seemed to be going up in flames.
She was now deemed by her protectorate to be ready for the transformation, the critical time had come, unknown to Raven all the necessary preparations had been made long ago. She was different, that she knew already, her senses had always been keener than other children, she had always been quicker, brighter, more mentally agile than most others including many adults. This fateful night would see the beginning of her transformation from a seemingly normal young woman into an incredibly powerful entity. For many years know her father had told her she had a mysterious latent ability which some day would be revealed. Recently in herself she felt different, a new fire burnt within making her feel more alive and vibrant and more stronger. Lately she had found increasing difficulty sleeping at night and had spent many dark hours awake nursing a strange insatiable hunger that dissipated oddly with each dawn. Near to midnight on this the eve of her eighteenth birthday her father came to her in her rooms. Raven noted how he seemed strangely disturbed and agitated as he asked her to come to his study at once. Her father indicated he had something very important concerning her past to disclose. Hand in hand they walked hurriedly to his study, Raven found that could sense his emotions quite easily. His thoughts were full of anxiety and discomfort; she could not imagine what could trouble him so. Over the past few months she had found herself growing increasingly adept at reading other peoples thought-trains, at first she had dismissed it as chance but she came to realise that her budding ability was factual. She had started using it to her advantage, she could tell when a person was telling the truth, or lying, quite adeptly, all the signs pointed to her father's sincerity. Seating her in his own favourite leather chair he began to quietly relate the truth about her origins. At first she sat stunned in disbelief but as he talked things began to fall into place; seemingly unrelated or odd incidents took on a new perspective. Speaking to her quietly and soberly he told of how she was no mere mortal, how within her a power of unspeakable magnitude slumbered. Revealing the truth about her mother's abduction by the followers of a demon in Siam and her subsequent rape and pregnancy. He tearfully told Raven how her natural mother had died at the moment she was born and how the temple had looked after their welfare since. Openly he spoke about everything even of how the temple had made him marry her stunningly beautiful stepmother Lien who was barely five years older than herself. Now Raven realised why Lien had always been so excessively attentive to her stepdaughter. Finally he spoke of the great things she could attain and the incredible power that was hers for the taking if she desired it. He added at the end that her power and abilities would come with a heavy price, he hoped she could harness the temptation and use the power that would be thrust upon her wisely, but he would support her anyway should she err. Normally she would have dismissed all he said as rubbish but tonight something deep inside her had stirred and recalling other recent phenomena she knew instinctively what he told her to be true. Her mind raced as the information sank in; excitedly she toyed with new enthralling possibilities as she struggled to fully appreciate exactly what her father had just revealed to her. When he was sure that Raven understood him, and she calmed down a little he told her tonight was to be the night her power was awakened, in a way it would be her first test. Crossing the study he revealed to her a door that was cunningly concealed in the rich oak panelling of the wall. Ancient and well worn stone steps disappeared downwards into the inky darkness within. Without any light he beckoned for her to follow him into the darkness. As they descended Raven noted how she seemed to be able to see well despite the fact their was no light. Slowly she began to appreciate just how acute her senses had grown as faint whiffs of incense and other deeply sensual aromas caught her sensitive nostrils. Straight on past the perpendicular junction of two other passageways they went down a passageway with many closed doors on each side. The large double doors at the end were open and they passed through them and descended further still down wide slowly turning staircase for some time. As they went Raven began sensing the emotive force of the massed gathering of people long before they came upon the chamber excitedly she felt the exquisite hunger beginning to gnaw at her insides. At last they reached their goal, they entered through a great stone arch Raven stared down upon the gathered throng from the high vantage point at the top of a steep flight of stone steps. All around the tiered D shaped chamber she swept her eyes over them as they fell to their knees in sudden silence. Respectfully many of the throng close to them bowed low in reverence then came forward one at a time up the staircase. In well-rehearsed manner they knelt to kiss her slender hand and swear enslavement to her. Amongst them were her oriental stepmother, several relations, friends of the family, their servants and others Raven knew not. Sensing a strange commotion growing within herself as some deeply buried force fought its way out Raven realised the innocent teenager of yesterday was being driven out by something unknown and very powerful. The chants of the adoring throng encouraged her acceptance as the transformation sped up. A bolt of intense pain burst through her unprepared nervous system as the first true stage of her metamorphosis occurred and she screamed aloud. About her a great murmur of concern and excitement rippled, as the pain receded Raven cautiously relaxed a little and gazed about her, suddenly as if through new found eyes she perceived her surroundings differently. An intense ache of eager anticipation for the as yet unknown power she had been promised spread through her unchecked. Casting her new found gaze over the chamber eagerly she absorbed every minute detail even noting the ornate tapestries hung on the walls. All were adorned with symbols and runes which seemed to come from many races and cultures histories. She felt as if she was searching for something until her eyes fell on the great fabric screen hung high about the rear half of the sunken central area of the chamber between the supporting pillars of the chamber roof. It was not what Raven saw drawn upon the ornately embroidered screen that stunned her for set in a large niche in the wall behind the screen a life size gold female statue towered dominatingly. Though she could see but the top third of it the image she perceived shocked her incredibly for her own countenance stared back through sightless gold eyes over the gathering. The statue was naked as far as she could see over the screen and huge golden wings towered to the high roof of the niche behind it. Without instruction she descended the steps to join her stepmother Lien and several others who had gathered on the chamber floor before the screen. Strangely enough Raven felt no apprehension or concern, as her beautiful stepmother was undressed before her eyes by two naked well-endowed blonde haired girls who were clearly twin sisters. Obviously Lien was high in the pecking order Raven noted by the other peoples reverence for her. Raven then watched as her step-mother's body was anointed with fragrant oils and carefully painted with a series of patently erotic symbology. As she watched the ritual her interest in one of the two girls grew. A queer longing ate at Raven's soul as her eager eyes fixed avidly on the nearest of the two blondes, her heart pounded in her breast restlessly and she began to shake with a new until now unexperienced excitement. Her nails hurt and her teeth itched and her skin felt as if it was alive with electrifying jolts that drove her to distraction, she did not know why or how but she wanted the girl. Confused and scared by her own reaction she restrained herself from reaching out and touching the girl though it took some force not to set the demon within free. Her anguish eased a little as the girls moved away reverently averting their gaze as they backed off with heads bowed. Her stepmother moved slowly toward the screen and the crowd quietly chanted rhythmically as Raven started to follow. As she approached it the screen was cut loose falling heavily and noisily to the stone floor of the central area of the chamber she and many of the gathered gasped in amazement. Fully revealed to her and the crowd the golden sculpture was indeed what appeared to be. On a high pedestal in the niche she beheld a truly stunning image of herself. It was winged and sat cross-legged, a long serpentine tail coiled about the statue's base, but jutting upwards from between it's crossed legs it had an enormous erect convoluted penis. For a few seconds she stared wide-eyed upon the golden effigy in awe before her gaze was drawn lower. A faint gasp escaped her quivering lips and her pulse raced erratically. The obscene statue was not what had fired her new found excitement, for directly beneath the statue stood an ornately carved stone altar. Raven swallowed nervously for a moment as the soon to be obliterated innocent teenager rose to the surface from deep within her momentarily when her eyes beheld the offering presented there. Bound and naked a pale, red haired young woman lay upon the altar. As the implications of what she beheld began to sink in Raven was filled with sudden excitement, feeling the irrepressible craving that had plagued her recently as she stared at the voluptuous blonde surge up unstoppably in her now eager trembling body. Showing no signs of fear and making no attempt to struggle the girl lay calmly on the altar, her arms were symbolically bound by her sides to the perforated stone slab on which she lay with crimson cord. Her long shapely legs too were tied up, but they were held wide apart above her. Her slender ankles secured by long crimson cords that looped though bronze rings suspended from the caverns high roof. Her head hung over the lip of the altar top nearest to Raven, the girl's luxuriant long red wavy hair cascaded gloriously in waves around her beautiful upturned flushed face. Through wide inverted bright blue eyes the girl gazed adoringly at her and smiled in eager welcome. Realising she recognised the girl Raven almost smiled in response, she was Katrina, one of the estates numerous serving staff but Raven had never had to speak to her before. Common sense told her that this was insane, she must be having the strangest of dreams but she wasn't. The inexperienced teenager was unable to fight the intensity and irrefutable power of the alien force that surged unstoppably through her. As some realisation of what she may be becoming dawned upon her Raven screamed as she struggled hopelessly with her confusion. Turning to her stepmother she gazed imploringly at her, in turn Lien directed her view back to the altar reverently. Doing as instructed but still unable to fathom out why, she found herself hungrily eyeing the delicate offering that she found invitingly laid out before her, to her bewilderment. The force within advanced, her perception shifted again and her mind slid away from its previous thought patterns even more. Her mind raced excitedly and Raven found her now ravenous eyes drinking in the offered delights shamelessly, as she pushed the puzzled confused young girl to the back of her mind. Her heart pounded as she was scanning the girl's voluptuous firm breasts with their swollen aroused rose pink teats. A peculiar mix of sexual arousal and peculiar hunger grew rapidly within Raven as her eager eyes roamed down the girl's firm belly to the thick fiery red hair nestled between her thighs. The throng fell silent as Raven responded instinctively when the bound girl's soft lilting Irish voice beckoned her to her through excited lips. "Take me Goddess I am yours to do to as you wish." Needing no further invitation to quell her misgivings Raven moved towards the bound girl, torturously the raging lust pounded through her as she drew closer to the altar to eventually stand before the bound girl's inverted eager face. Without thinking and with no trace of modesty Raven's hands reached up and tore her own night-dress from her trembling excited body. She was surprised at her own strength as the garment ripped asunder, her eyes locked eagerly upon the girl's heaving breasts. Raven became absorbed and totally unaware of anything else in the chamber than the offered girl and her own feverous excitement that was raging within. Feeling the girl's panting hot breath blowing over her thighs she reached out cautiously to cup the redhead's heavy firm breasts with both trembling hands. Hearing the low sigh of pleasure from the girl as she tentatively squeezed the firm flesh spurred Raven on further. Her strangely long nails nipped at the aroused rubbery flesh of the pink nipples making the girl cry out softly. Caressing the girl gently Raven became aware of the delicious hungry kisses her victim was showering on her thighs and instinctively her hands fell down to caress the girl's slender neck. Her sex ached like never before, she had never experienced such an intensity of arousal. Slipping beneath the girl's neck her long fingers tangled in the Katrina's long and naturally red curly hair then suddenly they urgently gripped around her neck drawing the girl's head upward instinctively. Obeying some primal instinct Raven spread her legs and lifted the girl's head to force her face between them crushing the girl's eager mouth against her hairless aching sex. Grinding herself wildly at first against the girl's face Raven calmed down a little as she felt the girl's enthusiastic response as she began licking, sucking and biting hungrily at her engorged labia. With tongue, lips and teeth the girl frantically attacked her and gorged herself voraciously on Raven's flowing excitement. Within what seemed but mere moments Raven's unbelievable arousal had overflowed and she was climaxing wildly throwing back her head she let loose a primal animal scream as she crashed headlong into orgasm. Her mind swam in waves of ecstasy as the powerful tremors tore through her. As the waves of pleasure slowly subsided the girl worked on relentlessly between Raven's sweaty quivering thighs. Loosening her grip around her neck Raven gingerly prized herself away from the still sucking mouth and looked down on the now panting girl. The girl was still desperately trying to caress her and gently Raven stroked her upturned face. Her long fingernails traced lines in the sticky wetness of her own arousal on the hot skin of the girl's face. Big blinking blue eyes gazed up adoringly and excitedly at her as Raven began to move around the altar gently caressing the girl's hot and sweating pale skin as she did so. Upon reaching the other end of the altar Raven's gaze fixed immediately on the girl's highly aroused sex. Stroking her fingers up and down the soft skin of the girl's long pale legs Raven examined the beckoning flesh that lay between. The large and swollen fleshy pink lips oozed with excitement as they nestled invitingly in their thick curly red bush. Tentatively at first Raven's fingers touched the hot wet flesh feeling the girl twitch and whimper with pleasure in wanton response to her caress. Gently she began to stroke the soft swollen wet lips with her finger tips and the girl squirmed against her hand gasping excitedly as Raven's touch became bolder. The hot excited flesh seemed to suck at her long middle finger as it caressed the folded valley between the slippery inner labia. Raven responded by plunging two fingers deep into the girl's vagina, a thrill sped through her on hearing Katrina cry aloud with pleasure as they sank easily into the wetness right up to the knuckles. Then three fingers were inserted easily into the redhead's writhing body and Raven began to thrust them back and forth. Soon the girl was squealing frantically with excitement whilst thrashing eagerly against her bonds as Ravens fingers rhythmically pumped in and out of her. Totally entranced by Raven the girl was incredibly receptive to any form of pleasure administered by her tormentor. Finding her newfound senses were gradually becoming attuned to the other girl's psyche Raven began to appreciate the astounding power to control she had been given. As she absorbed the masses of sexual energy given off by her victim her hold over the girl increased tenfold. She could sense her victim's slightest thoughts and feel the girl's heart excitedly pounding as she torturously manipulated her. The sensations flooded into her receptive brain astounded her, opening her mind recklessly intent on sampling the girl's excitement fully Raven gasped as it poured into her. Impetuously Raven enjoyed her first taste of the intoxicating sexual emotions that flowed from the girl without realising she was actually feeding on them. From now on Raven would come to crave the emotive energy of her conquests as much if not more than food and unbeknown to her at this moment she would need to consume the emotions of her prey to fully flourish in her new found form. Her keen senses reeled overwhelmed as she greedily gorged on and savoured the exquisite sexual energy given off by her victim as she relentlessly teased the wailing girl to unbelievable levels of excitement. At first Raven drew the resulting excitement from the girl relentlessly draining her, each wave she drank in made her crave the next more. The effect was fantastic exhilarating and wanting more and more Raven fell to her knees and hungrily sank her mouth over the engorged glistening lips of the girl's mound. Licking furiously at the girl's aroused labia she savoured the excited juices the girl released before instinctively plunging her tongue deep into her flowing orifice. Entwining her arms tightly around the writhing girl's thighs to maintain her position she once more plunged her tongue deeper and then deeper yet into the sucking flesh. Raven could hear the uncontrolled cries of pleasure her inexperienced tongue was causing the girl to emit and it drove her on. Her tongue seemed to grow bigger, longer; it probed deeper and deeper into the girl. Licking probing and sucking on the writhing girl's pussy Raven toiled on until at last she felt the girl begin to convulse again and the shock wave of sexual emotion hit her full on. Screaming with pleasure, thrashing wildly in her bonds the girl burst into an unbelievably intense orgasm that overwhelmed Raven with its intensity. Writhing wildly against her face Katrina wailed and squealed with incredible ecstasy. The mad frenzied creature clamped between her thighs hungrily drank down the pumping excitement that she exuded and absorbed every scrap of emotion that she emitted. Reeling drunkenly Raven rose from her knees lifting her flushed and glistening face from between the girl's thighs and stretched up. She closed her eyes enjoying the amazing effect the new power caused within her as her changing body soaked up the raw energy she had consumed. Looking down on the gasping exhausted girl she became aware of a new unknown hunger rising within her. Moving around the altar without conscious thought she bent close to the panting girls sweating face and the girl raised her head eager to kiss her goddess. As their open lips met and their tongues entwined Raven became aware of the growing high frequency whistle that grew to a howl in her skull then an agonising pounding throb began to march down the length of her spine and on through her whole body. Her skin itched strangely, her nails hurt, and even her teeth began to ache more painfully than before as the change took full hold of her for the first time. She found herself kissing the girl more fervently as she reeled in agony. Soon enough the pain passed and she sensed a new unnatural eagerness blossom in the girl. Without thinking Raven drew the girl's bottom lip into her mouth. Gently Raven nipped the soft flesh between her teeth and without intending to hurt the girl one of her razor sharp fangs sliced deep into the tender lip making the girl cry out ecstatically into her mouth. As the first small spurt of blood washed over Raven's taste buds her whole body began to convulse wildly. She fell backwards twitching onto the marble floor as her whole nervous system erupted in an electric overload. A sensation akin to the most powerful orgasm imaginable but excitedly more exotic engulfed her as she lay helpless on the floor. Gathering her senses quickly she rose and returned to stand over the prostrate girl, she wanted more. As their eyes met she saw the fleeting flash of terror in the blue eyes before they locked upon hers. Katrina's gaze softened from one of abject terror to adoration in an instant, as Raven stooped they closed and obligingly the girl exposed her pale throat to her. At the sight of the red haired girl's delicate pale arched throat Raven was drawn like a moth to a flame and trembling with anticipation her red lips kissed the hot skin of her victim's throat. Things had slipped beyond her control long ago, the demonic lust roaring within her easily vanquished the pitiful misgivings her fading mortal soul had about taking the girl's life. Instinctively her trembling lips and tongue sought out the engorged pulsing jugular that throbbed beneath her victim's excited creamy flesh. The girl's moans and sighs of ecstasy further spurred her on as her lips clamped down and her teeth sank easily into the yielding flesh. The girl cried out aloud lost in an unbelievably pleasurable oblivion of her own as the first spurt of her hot rich blood squirted into Raven's eager mouth. Gripping her willing victim more and more firmly in her long talons Raven's senses reeled as she greedily swallowed the hot intoxicating blood. It pumped in wave after wave from the wound she had inflicted. Her feasting was sloppy blood spouted and spilled from the wound messily bathing everything in its slippery film. Finally, gorged she broke away looking down on the smiling whitening face of the weak girl. Raven bent to kiss the pale bloodless lips tenderly and was surprised to feel the eager response from the dying girl as she kissed her back passionately. The intensity of the girl's passion mashed their mouths together cutting Raven's lips against her own fangs as they kissed. Feeling the girl convulse as their mixed life-forces ran into her mouth Raven allowed a small amount of blood to flow and the fading girl swallowed it readily. Seconds later Raven felt the girl's ragged breath falter and with a pathetic whimper she suddenly stilled and grew heavy in her arms. A small tear welled in her eye as she rose from the still girl sorrowfully realising that she had taken the girl's life and also knowing she could never return to the innocent young girl from what she herself had become. Dismissing the last vestige of her previous self Raven desired to enjoy her new found power and eyed the throng around her seeking the pretty blonde girls that had first fired her hunger. Her thirst for blood was sated but the fire that burnt inside lusted for further satisfaction. Her keen vision scoured the crowd and locked on the twins. "Bring them to me!" she demanded as she spied the girls amongst the throng, "now!" The girls were dragged down without delay, it was clear they were terrified, she beckoned them closer enjoying their fear as much as she had relished the late Katrina's arousal. They drew close holding one another for comfort, she found it highly amusing to torment them before taking them. There was some malevolent edge to her power that she must learn to control but for now she wanted to play with her newfound force. "You!" she hissed at one of them, "come here girl!" "Yes, Goddess," the girl whimpered as she approached, she knew she had no choice. Raven drank in the girl's growing terror eagerly as she approached her. She took hold of the girl drawing her the final few feet to her. The girls terror filled blue eyes stared at her as Raven forced the girl down to her knees without speaking. As the blonde set to work eating her out Raven beckoned the other trembling girl closer. "You are to clear that dead girl from the altar, do you understand slave?" "Yes Goddess, I understand you fully," the girl whimpered terrified. "Good, for when you have done so I want you to do something else for me!" "Of course Goddess anything you desire." "Take her place!" "No Goddess please!" the girl wailed terrified. "You will do as I demand slave," Raven hissed pulling the other girl that had been pleasuring her to her feet roughly, "or I will feast on your sister here then I will kill you in the most painful slow way I can imagine!" The girl scuttled tearfully away to attend to her task and Raven released the other girl pushing her after her sister. She watched the pair of them unfastening the dead girl's bonds then go to lift her from the blood spattered slab. As they took the weight the corpse moaned and twitched as life returned to her inanimate form. Lien dashed across to the altar excitedly attending the supposedly dead girl. She called over assistance, several people responded and eventually took the girl away. The chamber was abruptly all buzzing with chatter and cries of wonderment as Lien declared it a miracle. Amazed at the unbelievable occurrence herself Raven dismissed the girls who thankfully scuttled away she swept from the chamber feeling suddenly very tired and bewildered as the demonic energy waned and allowed rational thought to return. She consulted with her father and Lien about the incident amongst everything else that had occurred over the past incredible few hours. Apparently if she were to believe them her blood had revitalised the dying girls life binding her for ever to Raven making her a dependant weak form of the powerful creature that Raven was turning into. Raven had a friend and dependant that would care and love her for as long as she lived!
Death comes to the Resistance but not in the usual way. There is no battle, no time to pull a blaster from a well-worn holster and pray that you won't miss the only shot you'll get. There is no blood spilled, no bomb splitting her world into parts so small Rey can barely feel them. Death slinks through the camp, quiet and calm, staying just long enough to steal Leia away. Death turns out the light. Death leaves with a whimper. -- She feels it before Finn tells her. After all, the heaviness in her blood could only have one cause. It is not the peace she felt when Luke faded into the stars. It is not the fear that haunted her when Han fell. It is numbness, plain and simple. It is grief that weighs her down as she sees proof of what she already knows. -- The medic says the General’s passing was painless. Such a comforting thought is little consolation -- There are sobs in the hallway. She can hear them through the walls as what is left of the command tries to pick up the pieces. Poe leads their number now and they do as best they can to follow. Messages are sent to their allies, however few remain. Plans are made for the future, no matter how bleak it seems. General Dameron comforts every member of their crew. He holds a despondent Lieutenant Connix as she cries. -- He is a good man. General Leia chose her successor well. -- There is a funeral held at the first opportunity. There is a body dressed all in blue. Rey wears the clothes the General made her, the armguards and vest that had kept her warm on Ahch-To, though they are not nearly fine enough for the occasion. But they are the finest things she has so she supposes they will have to do. Chewie, the last vanguard of the old rebellion, is given the honor of lighting the pyre. It is one he accepts but clearly never wanted. He lets out a wail once his work is over, the worst thing she’s ever heard. The flames begin to flicker and the General disappears one final time. The crowd filters out and the war goes on as normal. Finn and Rose leave hand in hand, carrying the burden of each other’s sorrow. Poe leaves with a somber look on his face, carrying the burden of the Resistance on his shoulders. Rey keeps watch until the fire goes out. -- Ben is in her room when she returns, seated and staring at the wall. He is still, his shoulders hunched over and his hair hanging in his eyes. The air around him is bitter and cold, so piercing that it cuts to the bone. She sits beside him and reaches for his hand. It is the first time in weeks he has worn his gloves. She hates the leather, the different touch of a different man, but still she holds on tight even if his hand is limp. Rey does not need to tell him what happened. It is clear he already knows. -- When he speaks, his voice is quiet and small. "My mother’s body," he says. "What did they do with it?” She can’t remember the last time he called the General anything other than her given name, but the air grows colder still. "We burned her,” she tells him. “I stayed with her until it was done.” “Good,” Ben says with a note of finality. “That was her people’s way of doing things. Alderaanians always burn.” She knows nothing of his mother’s home, knows far too little of the woman who saved her, and so she simply takes his word before squeezing his hand. There is no reply. Her fingertips and nose are nearly numb. “She loved you,” Rey says. “She never stopped loving you, Ben.” "She’s just ash now,” he says. “What good did it do her?” She lets her hand fall away and the chasm between them grows. “Your mother died believing you’d come home,” Rey says. “She believed in you.” He snorts and the hairs on her arms stand on end. “Then she died believing in a lie.” His voice is clearer now. Crueler. It is a voice that scares her. It is a voice she knows too well. “Rey,” he tells her. “Look at me.” She does as he commands, no matter how painful it is. He turns to face her, and she can barely recognize the man she sees. There is no anger in his eyes, none of the resentment she had been expecting to find there. There is only numbness, the stare of someone who is already gone. “My sainted mother sent me away believing I had become a monster,” he tells her. “She died knowing she was right.” The cold lingers and so do they. She grieves even if she doesn’t know who she mourns. Tears, bitter and weak and silent, sting her eyes but she lets them fall silently and hopes only that he doesn’t notice. It is a hope that quickly fades. He reaches out toward her, not with the same eager hesitation that spurs each new exploration, but a resolute stiffness. It is a dutiful touch, born of obligation, and it brings her no comfort at all. Ben brushes her cheek, catching one of her tears on his thumb. The leather is cold and unfeeling, just as he aspires to be. “No tears,” he says quietly. “You’ll get to burn me too.” Then he is gone, torn from her in an instant, and she sinks slowly to the floor. There are sobs but they soon fade into nothingness, just as she will. Just as they all will. The sky glows orange and even now as the darkness surrounds her, it is still so beautiful. -- The war rages on. Everyone on the base rededicates themselves to the cause and swarms of others join with every passing hour. Leia’s name is a beacon now, burning and resilient, and even those who once ignored their call take up arms in her honor. What should be utterly destroyed has already been rebuilt. Hope remains. Its fire burns. -- Ben appears to her still but never for long. He is a phantom, barely speaking and growing fainter by the hour. He is fleeting, only a vision and never a constant, and each time she draws the courage to reach out, he is already gone. -- And still the war rages on. Their pilots find a First Order outpost on a planet only hours away, somewhere hot and barren and exactly like the lost world she abandoned not so long ago. It is barely hidden, the winning side hardly has a need for caution, but it is a triumph nonetheless. The first sign of the enemy being anything less than secure. The first sign that the tide can turn in their favor. They all take turns lurking in the dunes, staring at the rotting castle the First Order have commandeered, and reporting back to the base with any signs of life. She volunteers for as many shifts as she is allowed, always the first to raise her hand. Always the first to leave once Poe gives a nod of approval. She blames her passion on the familiar landscape, a craving for sun and sand when they can go days without seeing the sky. She blames the need to serve on Luke, the man who yielded so they could do the impossible. Some call her brave. Some call her foolish. She tends to agree more with the latter. -- Each time Rey leaves, she leaves alone. Each time she packs, she brings everything with her – the broken shards of a borrowed saber, every scrap of clothing she has- and pretends such a practice is merely habit. Rey burrows in the sand, covering up every inch of skin and wearing goggles that have gone untouched for months, and watches the enemy hideout. The appearance of every new figure has her reaching for her staff, her blaster, and even then, she keeps still, waiting until the day where the First Order has more effective killers patrolling the grounds. She doesn’t see him among the rabble. No matter how hard she looks. And so she looks some more. -- The sun shines bright overhead on the day she is found out. Rey is finally noticed, spotted by a boy younger than she is with medallions gleaming on his chest. She hears him shouting at his comrades, urging them to follow him out onto the sand. She hears them getting closer, hunting in a pack like junkyard rats, and her body remembers what it is like to flee. She grabs her staff, gripping her blaster as she runs. Her hand feels empty without the saber, useless and worthy of destruction, but the rest of her body hums with the anticipation of what is to come. There will be blood spilt. The dark within her cannot wait. One of them, the stupidest of the lot, aims his weapon. He’s a poor shot but it comes close enough to stop her in her tracks. She can see the Falcon in the distance, minutes away if she only gave into the demands of her legs, but rage gets the better of her. As it always does. Luke’s voice flits through her thoughts but it is quickly silenced as the blaster is torn from her attacker’s hands. A scream is torn from her throat and the boy’s hands wrap around his neck as the sun burns overhead. His skin turns purple, blue, and then suddenly he crumples. She can’t tell if he’s breathing. None of his comrades seem to care. They all aim their blasters at her head and she holds her staff aloft, waiting for the inevitable. The one furthest from her looks delighted, befuddled at his good fortune. “That’s definitely the girl,” one of them, the boy with stupid medals on his foolish chest, barks. “The Supreme Leader wants her alive.” Something almost hopeful rises in her stomach but it disappears nearly as soon as it makes its presence known. None of them lower their blasters and so she aims hers right back. She feels the saber’s ghost on her hip and her entire body aches with needing it. “The General wants her dead,” another one says, glaring at the boy with an obvious scorn. “And he’s the one who’ll pay us when she is.” He pulls the trigger and Rey cannot say what happens next. -- There are shots, frenzied and desperate, and all she knows is that nobody else is running after her by the time she makes it to the Falcon. It’s only when she’s on the ship, the door sealed behind her, that she realizes one of Hux’s men was luckier than she thought. -- She’s bleeding. She can’t stop bleeding. The wound doesn’t seem fatal but that is the extent of its virtues. There’s no way she’ll be able to fly out now, not for a day at least, and the slow, stilted walk to the nearest of the Falcon’s cots is so excruciating that she starts to fondly remember the days where it was only hunger that slowly killed her. It’ll hurt to sit but it hurts far more to walk so she forces herself down before all of her strength leaves her. It’s either that or collapsing on the floor. Her lap grows redder by the second and any minute now, she’ll start to drip onto the blanket. She tries to tear the fabric of her shirt to clean up the mess, but her arms are too weak to do anything other than get in the way. The world around her spins and her breathing is heavy and labored when Ben slowly creeps into view. -- If she had any strength left in her, she’d make him look away, tell him to return to whatever corner of the sky he’s hiding and rule over his mountain of corpses. He had to know she was searching. He had to know she was close enough to wound. But she was weak enough before he got there, even worse now that there is a witness to her folly. She meets his eye and speaks his name and she is lost once more. Ben doesn’t say a word. He tears his shirt sleeve without a moment’s hesitation, revealing most of his pale forearm before sinking to her level. He kneels on the floor in front of her, sitting between her parted legs, and meets her eye. There is nothing heated in his gaze, only something lost and terrified, and if she had the strength to ease it, she would. But she only has strength enough to nod and so that is what she does. Ben slowly tugs down her pants and they both pretend he isn’t shaking. It is not how she imagined him undressing her for the first time. His hands aren’t those of a lover, but a fellow soldier, another casualty in the never-ending war between them. Part of her, a part that grows smaller with each spilled drop of blood, regrets her choice of undergarments. It’s not as though she has anything finer, no lace or silks to ensnare him with, only the same sexless pair she’s always worn, but that is a worry that can be dealt with at a different time. Her thigh is exposed, bloody and raw, and he lets out swears that only Han Solo could have taught him as he yanks the fabric lower still. Her pants get caught on her boots and she has to lift her hips so he can take them fully off. Ben looks at her with apologetic eyes and she remembers he is just as ill-equipped to deal with this as she is. He is older, sometimes only by years, sometimes by centuries, but he is just as unpracticed, just as lost when it comes a body beyond his own. He takes the torn sleeve and staunches the wound. She barely sees the blood marring the fabric as he mops it up and realizes then why he is always dressed in black. “Who did this to you?” Ben asks. “Tell me.” There is only purpose in his voice, stable and deliberate, and it is already far more deadly than his rage. “You know perfectly well who did this,” she says through gritted teeth. “I’m sure you’ve already got the mission report.” He is being gentle, oh so gentle, but the feeling of anything other than the air on her skin is near enough to make her scream. She knots her hands in the blanket and tries to ignore the pain. “I’ll kill them,” he says solemnly. “I don’t care if General fucking Hux shines their boots, I’ll destroy them.” “They’re already dead,” she spits out, and he seems relieved and disappointed all at once. She holds his shirt fabric onto the wound and their fingers brush against one another for the briefest of moments. He rips the other sleeve, more carefully this time, and brings it to her face. He brushes away the sand on her brow, the sweat drenching her forehead and neck. It would be better if it were damp, but it soothes nonetheless. His is the touch of an embalmer, diligent and practiced, but even now his body is unsteady. Every one of her movements is enough to make his shoulders tense and even when the bleeding slows, he still looks at her as though every moment together will be their last. “You need to see a medic as soon as you can,” Ben tells her. “I don’t want your leg getting infected. It’s not a very pleasant way to die.” She nearly smiles, even now, and the hurt that accompanies is more than worth it. She grips his arm and he allows it, letting her explore the plains of his skin with her ruined fingers. “I’m not dying,” she tells him. “I promise.” She meets her eye again, but he isn’t any less troubled. He lets the cloth on her brow fall away and she watches it drift to the floor. “You’re not allowed to die,” he says quietly. “I have no desire to outlive you.” The steadiness in his voice is all but gone, and something lurches in her chest. She leans forward and so does he and they rest with their foreheads pressed together. He cups her face with the same hand he had been tending her with and his skin radiates against hers in the most pleasing way. Her eyes flutter closed, and she breathes him in, allowing herself the simple pleasure of closeness, the dream of having him near. She will give herself this until the cruel moment he is gone. She will stay weak until she is recalled to life and all those who fight for it. -- But the Force takes pity on them. The Force gives them more time -- The adrenaline slowly wears off and she can barely keep from collapsing. She gingerly moves herself fully onto the cot, her breathing still heavy as she finally lays down. She doesn’t allow him to help, no matter how much he might feel compelled to, too frightened of her weakness to even allow him the chance. He joins her without a word, slipping one arm underneath her chest with the other holding her waist. It isn’t a Bacta tank, but he is warm and he is there and she is safe, so it is more than enough. “I wish you could stay,” she says, voice fading even faster than her resolve. “I don’t want to be alone.” He says something in reply, something hushed and soft, but there is not time enough to ask what it is before she falls asleep. -- He is a monster and so is she. She tears his limbs from his body and drinks his blood. He cuts her open and devours her heart. They destroy one another and the universe is better for it. -- He is there when she wakes, still beside her on the cot that is almost too short for his legs. The sound of the engines echoes in her ears and she wonders if he can still recognize their hum, wonders if the Falcon’s siren song still beckons him to run away. They’ve shifted in their sleep, he’s on his back and her limbs are sprawled haphazardly in every direction but their proper one. Her leg is not as much of a burden as it was, more of a dull pain than a biting one, but it is enough to make her wince as she tries to better adjust. She has no idea just how long they’ve been allowed, whether it has only been minutes or hours. She only knows it is more than she could have ever imagined. She cradles her head against his chest, listening to his pulse while she still has the opportunity. The rhythm is even, steady at time where her heart is surely racing, and it is the only lullaby she wants to remember. The only sound she needs to sustain her. It is easy to imagine he is actually there with her, stranded in his father’s ship. It is far more pleasant than remembering the truth. -- Ben wakes before she realizes it, opening his eyes and catching hers before she has time to feign sleep or indifference. They study one another silently, too bewildered to do anything more than watch. His heart is racing now, and she forgets the world beyond the cot just as easily as she forgets herself. Rey slowly inches her face towards his, craning her neck until they are only a breath apart. She has examined him before, has dedicated hours to the study of his body, but this is something new, something dangerous and unexplored. His full lips are parted, and his body is solid and hot from where it is trapped under hers. If she’s not careful, she’ll burn to death any minute now. There’s never been a more appealing prospect. She closes the distance between their mouths until her lips are pressed to his. It is quick, almost done in an instant with her lips just barely open, and her heart sinks into her stomach when he gently pulls away. His eyes are not unkind but that is not enough to numb the pain. Moments pass, the only sound their breathing and the hum of the engine, before Ben even dares to speak. “I need you to want this, Rey," he says in a hushed voice. He swallows the air and her heart skips a beat. "All of it. Everything it means." His voice is hoarse, and his eyes are crusted with sleep, and he is so beautiful, so real that her heart hurts just to look at him. His words are a warning and invitation all at once, and she knows right then which one to heed. She leans in and her lips find the scar cutting his cheek before she finds the courage to answer. “I need this,” she whispers. “I need you, Ben.” And then she kisses him again. He kisses back this time and she moans before she can stop herself as he knots his hands in her hair. Their teeth clack together and her lips are chapped and dry from days of languishing in the sun. Her thigh still hurts too much to do anything more than cleave to him, but that hardly matters when he kisses her the same way he has done everything else. He feasts on her lips and tongue, devouring her like a man on the brink of starvation. They consume one another as though it is their only chance. -- It is graceless. It is perfect.
“Miranda. We are going out tonight.” Miranda leaned back in her chair and shot her most intimidating glare at her long-time friend. “I’m not going anywhere.” Nigel sat on the corner of the desk and boldly closed the Book, Miranda was working on. Ignoring the deadly expression on the editor’s face he repeated calmly. “You and I going out tonight.” “I have work to do. I’m not in the mood. I hate you. Choose one or all as my reason to decline your offer and leave me alone.” She returned to the Book, hoping Nigel would take the obvious hint and disappear. But he didn’t budge. After ten minutes Miranda had had enough. “Are you going to sit there and keep staring at me?” she growled, without looking up. “I’m sure you can spend your Friday night more fruitfully than that.” “All right.” answered Nigel “You asked for this. FIN.” Miranda snapped. “No, no. You can’t play the FIN card. “Yes, I can and I will. It’s not against the rules.” “It’s not but…” “No ifs ands or buts Miranda. One year. I’ve spent the last twelve months being your companion in your crazy journey. I didn’t ask any questions. You told me to jump and I did. Literally. Not once but three times. Volcano bungee jumping in Chile. Base jump in Venezuela. Zip lining in Puerto Rico. Did I ask for an explanation? No. Also, I didn’t ask about the Mexican wrestling, the robot fighting show, swimming with sharks in a cage. I sat with you in the Ellen Show’s audience for hours. I made a snow angel. Naked. Did I ask why? I didn’t. And you didn’t have to play the Friend In Need card, because I would have done those things for you regardless.” Although he didn’t raise his voice or sounded overly agitated, Miranda knew him well enough to understand his state of mind. He was upset. And he was right. He’s been such a good friend, followed Miranda’s lead obediently, without batting an eye. Yes, they had been going through the list. However he knew nothing about it. Nor anyone else. Doing the list was what kept Miranda sane these past months. The journal was her sanctuary, her last connection to Andrea. Dropping her glasses on the table she rubbed her forehead. Nigel deserved better. She considered going out with him as a small favor, hardly enough to repay her debt, it was a good start though. “All right.” She said “When and where? I’ll give you the same courtesy and won’t ask why.” She didn’t have to ask. Nigel was more than eager to share. “I met someone. And” he added quickly “it’s not what you think. Or maybe it is. I don’t know. I like him. I really do and not in the, I just want to get in to his boxers kind of way.” “Oh, that’s new.” She teased him “I’m happy for you Nigel.” “Yeah, there is one little issue though. I’m not sure he is interested. Hell, he might not even be gay. Also he is your greatest fan, so be prepared.” “Nigel.” groaned Miranda. “Please tell me that this is not going to turn into another Gerard situation.” Nigel threw his arms into the air and cried out dramatically. “One mistake. One little mistake and you never let me hear the end of it.” “I wouldn’t call it little. It was quite impressive if I remember correctly. ” “Absolutely true. For a tiny person he was really well… developed. Such a waste.” He sighed. “I promise you Miranda that Doug won’t show up at your house wearing a kilt.” “It wasn’t a kilt Nigel. It was a Versace skirt from the Closet and it wasn’t his size, and that’s putting it nicely. Poor Carina was in shock for days after his visit. I almost lost my housekeeper, thanks to precious Gerard.” Nigel had never been too lucky with men. Although his relationships were always short term and, almost all ended in disaster, he never gave up. He was looking for the happily ever after and five years ago it seemed that he had found it. Gerard was handsome, charming, sophisticated and apparently a cross dresser who only used Nigel to get close to his obsession Miranda Priestly. “Doug is nothing like him. He appreciates your fashion icon status, however his admiration is based on your charity work.” “I don’t follow you, Nigel. My “charity work” is not a public knowledge. How would he know about it?” “He is an accountant at Anja’s Cerulean Scarf Foundation.” Miranda inhaled sharply, her naturally pale skin turned even whiter. Coping with the foundation didn’t provide the same comfort as the bucket list did. Quite the opposite. Albeit, she sent a donation regularly, she stayed away, never associating with it directly. Spending time with someone who worked for the foundation seemed like an impossible task to fulfill. “Nigel. On a second thought…” Nigel didn’t let her finish. “I’ll pick you up at seven.” He slid off the desk and rushed out before Miranda could cancel their evening. “Wonderful.” murmured Miranda. She gathered the Book and called out for her first assistant. “Emily. Coat. Bag.” Nigel was ten minutes early, whilst Miranda was running late. She’d been never late before, so it was no wonder that Nigel eyed her warily, as she approached the car at half past seven. Miranda shocked him even more by muttering a half-hearted apology. Miranda Priestly never apologized. Ever. “Everything all right?” he signaled the driver and the town car eased into the heavy evening traffic. Pulling up the privacy window, he asked again. “Miranda? Is everything all right?” Miranda nodded, forcing a smile. She had decided earlier, that it was time to talk to Nigel, about the bucket list, about Andrea and about how Miranda lost her heart to someone who might only have been an illusion. She clutched her bag, where Andrea’s journal was hiding and hoped that her oldest and dearest friend wouldn’t turn his back after hearing her crazy story. “I believe we have a marvelous evening to look forward to, Miranda.” “Do we? You never revealed our destination.” “You’ll be pleased, don’t worry. Your favorite restaurant is hosting a private event. Very low key, no press, you can sit back and enjoy a quiet evening.” Nigel’s words slowly reached her brain and generated an alarming realization. Her favorite restaurant. Where she first met Andrea. Where she hasn’t visited since then. This was not going to work. “Nigel, I don’t think…” but it was too late. They had arrived and Nigel quickly got out of the car. She was led to the restaurant, and seated with Nigel grinning like an idiot when a young man approached them. “Excuse me?” “I said.” repeated Nigel “This is Doug.” Doug was cute and Miranda concluded that Nigel was indeed an idiot if he thought the man wasn’t interested. He obviously was, if his hungry, admiring look was any indication. “Doug?” Miranda raised an eyebrow. “Well it’s Douglas.” Answered Nigel, catching the meaning of the question. “Ms. Priestly. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” “Douglas. Call me Miranda.” Miranda leaned in and kissed his cheek. Doug almost fainted and joined Nigel in the, who can grin more idiotically contest. “We are so honored, that you are here.” ‘We?” “This,” he motioned around “is my friend’s special project. Tonight she is showing vignettes from her new record. All the money from the sales will go to Anja’s Cerulean Scarf Foundation. We all know how the foundation was born, thus we are grateful for your presence. Excuse me now, duty calls.” He hurried to the temporary stage in the middle of the dining area and grabbed the microphone. “Ladies and Gentleman. Dear friends. Tonight we remember. Remember those who fought but couldn’t win. Remember our loved ones who we lost. Tonight we celebrate. Celebrate their courage. Celebrate their life. And celebrate those who survived and are still here with us.” Doug paused and waited until the applause that followed his speech lulled. “Tonight, our friend who herself fought her own battles and won not once but twice, will take us through an incredible journey with her music.” Nigel turned to Miranda and whispered behind his hand. “His friend is a spectacular young woman. In the past one and half years she has been in coma twice. Somehow, no one really understands, she recovered miraculously.” “Ladies and Gentlemen. Andy Sachs.” Miranda’s sharp cry was swallowed by the loud applause that greeted the young woman, stepping to the small podium. Miranda closed her eyes. No. This wasn’t possible. Andrea was dead. DEAD. Opening her eyes she looked at the woman. There was no mistake. Her hair was longer, her skin complexion improved greatly, the ghostly white color was gone. She looked healthy. She looked alive. She was indeed alive. “Thank you.” Andy smiled sweetly and waved at the audience. “Thank you, Doug.” Doug quickly hugged her and retreated. Andy sat at the piano and pulled the attached mic closer. “Don’t worry guys. I’m not going to sing.” There were some giggles and someone clapped. Andy laughed. “Come on. You’re not supposed to be that happy about it.” She winked and her responsive listeners laughed again. “All right guys. First of all, thank you for coming tonight. Anja’s Cerulean Scarf Foundation is close to my heart. They work hard and make a great impact in our community. They need all the help they can get, and that’s why the earnings from my new record, The Woman of Every Season, will go exclusively to them. Enjoy.” Frozen in place, Miranda couldn’t take her eyes off Andy. The music was magical. Their first kiss. Their ride in the park. The sunset in the shore. Everything they went through together was there in those tunes. The melody of their story, every unspoken word. The love they never expressed. It was overwhelming. Painful. Devastating. Yet Miranda wished the moment would never pass. Miranda felt the first unmistakable signs of the disaster that was coming. Out of nowhere her heartbeat sped up and a sudden chill run through her body. Hot flushes. Panic attack. Did it matter? Both started the same way and there was not much difference in what followed either. She stood swiftly, excused herself and hurried toward the bathroom. Behind her the music came to an end and there was clapping and cheering. Someone whistled. An appreciative audience, no doubt. She dropped her bag and leaned against the marble sink. Despite her condition she didn’t miss the irony of the situation. The same bathroom, the same misery. Closing her eyes she inhaled deeply. Suddenly, a cold, wet cloth was placed on her neck and someone gently squeezed her arm. “Breathe slowly. You’ll feel better soon.” Andrea, Miranda’s eyes popped open and she spun around. The fast movement made her lose balance and she reached out to steady herself. Fragile fingers held on to her and she stilled, trying to gain back her stability. “Hey. It’s all right. Just breathe slowly.” The young woman frowned. “Umm…. “She let out a nervous laugh “Have we done this before? I just had one of those weird sensations…you know, déjà vu?” Not trusting her voice, Miranda shook her head in denial. She had to get out of there. Reaching behind, she took hold of her bag and shaking Andy’s hand off she stepped forward. Andy moved at the same time, and they collided. It wasn’t the Hallmark type meeting in the middle. It was more like a clumsy bumping into each other from a B movie comedy. Jumping backwards Andy stumbled and not so gracefully landed on her ass with a muffled thump. The bag slipped through Miranda’s fingers and fell in Andy’s lap, littering her with it contents. “And again,” muttered Andy, “have we done this before?” She lifted the bag and her eyes widened. She looked up at Miranda, then looked back to her lap. The pink journal. Her journal. Her life. Memories. Miranda. “Oh my God.” She whispered “How?” Miranda sighed and flopped down, next to Andy. “I don’t know. You tell me.” Andy shook her head. She caressed the journal with trembling fingers. “I remember you. I remember everything. But that’s not possible.” “No, it’s not. Yet here we are.” They were sitting there quietly, because sometimes you don’t need words to express how you feel. Sometimes all you need is someone you can sit with. It could be a friend or a stranger you just met. Or a stranger who wasn’t really a stranger and you loved her anyway. There was a loud knock on the door and someone called out. “Miranda? Andy? Is everything alright?” “We have to go.” “Yes. We do.” Yet neither moved. “Where do we go from here?” Miranda took the journal from Andy and opened it. “How about we go on with your list? Starting with # 180?” Andy glanced at the page and grinned. “I’m game. Let’s go.” Gathering their belongings they stood and holding hands they walked out of the bathroom. They were immediately stopped by Nigel and Doug who were waiting for them anxiously. “Miranda?” asked Nigel. “What’s happening?” Miranda shoved the open journal at his chest and declared happily. “#180. That’s what happening.” Doug’s eyes followed the giggling couple until they were out of the door, then poked Nigel, who just stood there with his mouth open. “Let me see.” Nigel held up the journal. # 180: Living Happily Ever After
* "Ten more, ladies!" the fitness instructor shouted at the spandex-clad class of women with their knees pointed to the ceiling. The gathering was being put through their daily paces of calisthenics by Miss Armstead, the blonde cropped-haired trainer lovingly dubbed Matilda the Hun by the attendees. The group had finished their daily squats and was now on to sit-ups. The daily regimen concluded with no less than twenty-five of the core-crunching maneuvers but most of the women stopped at ten. Annette Simmons smiled as she reached number twenty. Twenty-five was a walk in the park for her when it came to sit-ups, normally hitting fifty during her personal workouts. When the instructor blew the whistle, Annette threw five more quick reps in for her own satisfaction, but Armstead showed her displeasure. "Simmons!" the gruff trainer shouted. "The whistle means stop! I don't need you pulling a muscle and screwing up your session!" "Sorry, Matilda..." Annette said under her breath with a smile. "I didn't quite catch that, Simmons!" Armstead hollered as her eyes stared daggers into Annette's shapely frame. "I said 'Sorry, ma'am'," Annette replied as she laid back on the cushioned gym mats covering the floor that used to be one of the conference rooms at the now-shuttered casino. Hawks Casino and Resort was once the largest gaming establishment outside of Las Vegas, but the virus and the subsequent economic downturn had seen to it that the monolithic structure would never host another bet, concert, or hotel guest. Not until the OEA had renovated and designated it a welcoming station would the enormous parlor see people once again roaming her halls. Miss Armstead turned her attention from her subordinate trainee and addressed the class. "Ladies, most of you have been doing very well these past three weeks but there are a few of you that must pick up the pace if you want to fulfil the terms of the agreement. Let's push ourselves to do better! Be here tomorrow at 7am SHARP! Dismissed!" At that the ladies picked their sweaty selves from the floor and wandered toward the exits. "Christens! Norman! Simmons! Velasquez! Front and center!" Armstead shouted before the women could reach the doors. The four ladies did as they were told and stayed behind as the throng filed quickly out of the large meeting room. "Ladies," the trainer began, "I have your appointment dates here." She held up a clipboard with attached paperwork to emphasize her point. "Instead of coming here for your workouts, you will refrain from overly strenuous activity until after your date has passed. Understand?" "Yes, ma'am." All four women stated in unison. "Good." Armstead replied then pulled the pages off the clipboard and began reading the sheets aloud as she passed them to the corresponding woman. "Christens, June 19 . Norman, June 21 , Simmons, June 12 . That's this Wednesday if you weren't aware. Velasquez, June 26. That's all, ladies. Dismissed!" The four ladies left the meeting room then huddled outside of the large double doors. Bubbling with excitement, the quartet of young women couldn't contain their giddiness as they conversed. "Annette!" Velasquez exclaimed as she put a hand on her roommate's shoulder. "You get to go first! Wednesday! That's tomorrow!" "I know, Carrie," Annette replied to the young Hispanic woman. "I wonder why they want me to go so soon?" "Are you kidding?" Christens, a tall brunette who was no fan of the daily calisthenics, retorted. "Look at you. You're in better shape than any of us here, even Matilda. They know you're ready. Those Nebulans probably can't wait to get their tentacles on you!" "Do you think they really have tentacles?" Norman, a short young blonde with curves in all the right places, questioned. "I mean, like an octopus?" "You guys worry too much," Annette said. "This is going to be a cake walk. You'll see. I'll go first and set all your minds at ease. I'll..." "Simmons!" a shout from behind them startled the group and they all turned to the doors to see Miss Armstead staring at them. "A word, please." Velasquez mouthed to her roomie as the group disbanded and Annette slowly made her way over to where her fitness trainer stood. "Yes, Miss Armstead?" Annette said as she stood in front of the tall blonde muscle-bound woman. "Simmons," Armstead began, "the higher-ups wanted me to let you know that you are not to relate your experience to your peers while in gestation. All experiences are different and we don't want anyone going in with any pre-conceived notions." "Of course, Miss Armstead," Annette said and gave a slight curtsey to her trainer. Annette was quite certain that Armstead was a lesbian and that she had the hots for her. Annette played that to her favor by showing more and more skin as the days went on and made sure to bend at the waist often enough to catch the instructor's eye. Annette didn't want anything from the blonde Amazon, she just wanted to try to see if she could make her squirm with her obvious sex appeal. "Be sure to arrive at the designated spot at the designated time, Simmons." Armstead said as she looked up and down Annette's luscious frame. "Dismissed." Annette started to salute the gestapo-like trainer then thought better of it. She turned to leave and swayed her hips and backside a little more seductively than usual. Annette didn't look back- she didn't have to. She knew that Matilda the Hun was watching her shapely ass bounce in her leotard. Annette could almost feel her eyes burning holes in her taut butt as she sashayed toward the staircase that led to her floor of the defunct casino. She could barely contain her excitement as she climbed the steps to the third floor then down the hall to her room. It was all happening in less than twenty-four hours. She would accomplish everything she wanted. She would get the money owed to her so that she and Mac could finally buy their dream home and start a family, but more than that, she would be able to fulfill the fantasy that she had been dreaming of since she turned eighteen and was eligible to participate in the breeding process. Things were finally starting to look up. She just had to convince Mac that everything was going to be all right. ++++++++++ Mackenzie Simmons, for his part, was keeping up the appearance of a supportive spouse. He let on to almost no one that he had his doubts about the Nebulans seemingly benign plans. However, he had spoken with a couple other men that shared his views on the extraterrestrials' true motives on Earth. On the morning before his wife's appointment with her designated Nebulan partner, Mac and his two new friends were walking the courtyard and discussing their next move. "We can't just try to take over the place, Mark" Danny Davison said after a heated exchange between Mac and their other companion, Mark O'Meara. The two were arguing about the best way to expose the outworlders as the frauds the trio were convinced they were. Mark preferred the direct approach- his theory was that the three of them could steal some guns then hold the higher-ups hostage until they admitted what the Nebulans were really up to with their women. Mac proposed a stealthier alternative. The three would take turns sneaking out of their rooms and reconnoitering the grounds after hours to find where the aliens were taking the women and then take some clandestine photos with Danny's smuggled-in cell phone. "What if we get caught?" Mark asked the other two angrily. "We won't have any way to defend ourselves. I would feel much better with at least a sidearm if not one of those automatics those Marines out front are carrying." "No. No guns, man." Mac answered matter-of-factly. "We don't know for sure anything crazy is going on. We don't want to go blasting away at the first thing that moves because three of us think the aliens have ulterior motives with our women. No, we have to be smart and be undercover on this." "What about the pills?" Danny asked Mac. All of the men were required to take what the government called essential supplements. The official explanation was so that the men could be in tiptop form for their wives and girlfriends when they left. Some of the men though, including Mac, Danny, and Mark, thought there was more to these supplements than the government drug-pushers were letting on. "There's gotta be something to these things," Danny continued. He held out his hand to show his daily ration that he had somehow gotten around taking that morning. "I swear these are not vitamins. This one here," he pointed to a long yellow pill, "I think that's a Valium or some sort of tranquilizer. And the pink one, I couldn't swear to it, but I think it's Ketoconazole. It's an erection suppressant. It inhibits the production of testosterone so you don't get a hard-on. It's been used on patients that have had reconstructive surgery on their penis and groin area. Postoperative erections can be painful so they give them this shit. Have either of you had a boner since you started taking these things?" Both Mac and Mark shook their heads in the negative. "I tried to the other night but couldn't get it up," Mark said embarrassingly. "I just miss my Dana so much..." Mac put a hand on the dejected man's shoulder for comfort. "I know, Mark. Don't worry. She'll be fine." "How do you know?!" Mark said, his anger returning and refocused on Mac. He shrugged Mac's hand off his shoulder then grabbed the supplements from Danny's hand. "It's these things! They're making us crazy!!" he began to shout then walked quickly to the steps of a raised reflecting pond at the center of the courtyard. "We've got to quit taking these things or they'll kill us all!" Mark's voice became louder and attracted the attention of both the other guests at the welcoming center that were outside and the guards that patrolled the enclosure. "I'm not taking this crap anymore!" Mark shouted to the other men milling about the yard then threw the pills into the pond. "Come on, guys! Follow me! Don't take those pills anymore!" Three camouflage-clad guards hurried to the pond to subdue the dissenter. Mac and Danny quickly strode the other way, hoping the soldiers hadn't noticed that Mark had been walking with them a moment before his outburst. "Looks like it's just you and me, Danny." Mac said to his strolling companion as the soldiers dragged Mark away into a side door of the hotel. "Mark and his wife are sure to be thrown out of here now." "You know he's right though," Danny replied. "We can't take those pills anymore. The Valium is slow-acting but powerful. I can't stay awake past 8pm after taking them. I haven't taken them for three days now." "I know what you mean," Mac responded as they walked away from Mark's fracas. "I fell asleep in my chair before nine last night. Back home, I..." Mac stopped mid-thought as he saw Annette come into focus. She was wearing a blue and white lace-trimmed dress and looked absolutely radiant, her auburn hair gleaming in the Michigan summer sun. He tugged at Danny's shirtsleeve then the two crossed to intercept Mac's wife and her companion, a dark-haired Hispanic woman a few years Annette's junior. It had been nearly three weeks since Mac had seen Annette and he was desperate for any contact with her. When Annette saw Mac coming her way she picked up her pace to meet him. When she finally closed the distance between the two, Annette embraced and kissed her husband, causing many hard looks her way. "Mac!" She cried as she held him. "I'm so glad to see you!" Mac hesitantly pulled his wife off of him and put a little daylight between them. "You know you're not supposed to do that." Both Mac and Annette had signed paperwork stating that they would not have any physical contact with each other for the duration of their stay. "Well, you my husband, aren't you?" Annette replied. "I've missed you, baby. Haven't you missed me?" "Of course I have," Mac answered. He, in fact, missed her desperately. He wanted nothing more than to take his beautiful bride into his arms and kiss her deeply. But he knew what that might mean. It would most definitely mean expulsion from the welcoming center and they would miss their chance at the money and their new life together. "Are they treating you OK, baby?" Mac asked Annette, forgetting about their respective companions. At that moment, there were but two people and no extraterrestrials on the planet as far as Mac was concerned. "Oh, I'm fine." Annette responded flippantly. "Guess what? My appointment is tomorrow! We'll be one step closer to our dream, babe. We'll be... Mac, are you OK?" Annette saw a dejected look on her husband's face. "I'll be OK," Mac replied softly. "We had better keep moving. We don't want to draw too much attention. I think someone is starting to take notice." Mac tilted his head to the right to get the group's attention toward a guard staring their way. "I love you, sweetie..." Annette said as her friend pulled her away and continued their walk around the grounds. Mac said nothing in reply, only picked up his pace again with Danny by his side. "Tomorrow..." he said to his walking partner. "Danny, I don't know what to do. We have to get moving on seeing what's really going on here." "We'll start tonight," Danny answered as the two walked toward the doors of the hotel. "And no more of those pills. Do what you have to do to get them out of your system but don't take any more. Go back to your room and sleep now if you can but be wide awake after dark tonight. We need clear heads for what we're going to do." ++++++++++ Mac woke with a start when he heard the knock on his door. He looked at the digital clock on the wall and the red display announced to him that it was 11:17pm. He had fallen asleep just before nine and missed his rendezvous with Danny to check out the inner workings of the hotel/breeding station. Terror ran through his body at what he imagined might be on the other side of the door awaiting him and he froze halfway out of bed. Another slight rap on the door shook him to his foundations until he heard his new friend and spy partner's voice. "Mac..." Danny whispered through the wood and brass hotel door. "Mac, are you in there? It's Danny. Let me in!" Mac found his feet again and hurried across the room to the door. When he opened it, Danny raced through the opening and shut the door quickly. "Mac, oh my God! I'm glad I got here before anyone saw me!" Danny said as he caught his breath. "I thought I was going to get caught a couple times. I was so sure the guards had spotted me! Did you fall asleep again?" "I'm sorry, man," Mac apologized to his friend. "I tried to stay awake. But those pills..." "It's OK, bro," Danny said as he placed a hand on Mac's shoulder. "I got down to the area where it all happens." Danny rolled up his left pant leg and reached into his white tube sock, pulling out a black shiny cell phone. "And I got a few pics of the facilities, and even one of the aliens themselves. You're not gonna believe this!" Danny fired up the device and thumbed the Gallery icon. He found the correct album in the app and began to show Mac the pictures he had taken. He got nearly to the end then looked at his counterpart. "Ready for this?" he asked Mac. Mac said nothing, merely nodding as Danny swiped the screen to the left. An image of a creature appeared the likes of which Mac had never seen nor imagined before. The creature was translucent black with a few red undertones beneath what could be called its skin. It reminded Mac of a human brain but much larger, around the size of a medium-breed dog. There were small appendages at the base of the beast that most likely served as its means of motion. There were no facial features to distinguish what end was its front or back, but one end of the alien had a larger tentacle-like appendage protruding from it. Danny pointed to that part of it to make reference. "I think that's what they use to impregnate the women." He said, pointing to it numerous times for emphasis. "Mac, I think that's what they stick in them to..." "I get it, Danny!" Mac cut off his friend abruptly. "I don't want to think about that right now, OK?!" "Sorry, Mac..." Danny apologized. "I forgot that Annette's session was tomorrow. Do you know what time?" "No," Mac answered dejectedly. "We never got any farther than 'hello' this afternoon. What am I going to do, Danny?" "Well," Danny replied, "we can try to get down there in the morning before they start the next rounds. It was easy getting in there but not so much getting out. Did you know they were doing sessions around the clock?" "No, I didn't," Mac responded half-heartedly. He had begun to lose hope. "I don't think there's any way we can stop this." "Set your alarm for five tomorrow morning," Danny told his down-and-out friend, "then meet me at my room. We'll sneak in to the area then hide out until we either see her or figure out a way to stop whatever is going on in there. Go back to sleep and try not to worry, OK?" "I'll try, man..." Mac, on the verge of tears, replied. Danny said no more, only opened the door, looked both ways down the hall, then slinked back to his room. Mac laid down on the double hotel bed and hugged one of the oversized pillows as a child would a favorite stuffed animal. He knew he would not sleep again tonight but set his alarm as Danny had requested. The thought of the ugly monster in the cellphone picture violating his sweet Annie was too much for his fragile state of mind to allow slumber. He stayed in his original position wide awake until the alarm rang through the sterile room. ++++++++++ Annette awoke approximately twenty minutes after Mac's alarm went off in another wing of the hotel. She smiled as she roused from her slumber then excitement overtook her senses as she trembled slightly with glee. She thought as she swung her legs off the bed and her feet hit the carpeted hotel floor. She padded barefoot and nude (rarely did she sleep clothed) to the bathroom and started the shower. Still shaking a bit with giddiness, Annette stepped into the shower/tub and steadied herself by grasping the handle bolted to the slick tiled wall. She showered quickly but took her time with her razor, carefully scraping the stubbly hair from her legs, underarms, and pubic area. The Nebulans had specified that all the women remove unnecessary body hair. Annette, who diligently groomed herself daily, complied easily with the aliens' request. She finished and gave her toned body a once-over with her hands, making sure she was as smooth as silk. Annette hesitated at her pubic mound, nearly moving her hand to her tingling clitoris, but stopped short of touching the buzzing button. If what she had been told was true then she would be feeling in a couple hours would be unlike anything she had ever experienced before with Mac or by herself. She thought back to the conversation she had nearly ten years before when she spoke with mother about her intentions to volunteer for the next breeding opportunity. ++++++++++ "Mom, I'll be twenty-two in a few months!" Annette shouted in the small kitchen/dining area of her mother's home. Her face became flush with anger and exasperation. "I want to do this! Why are you having such a hard time with this?" "I just think you should think everything over before you sign the papers and commit yourselfto this!" Her mother replied in a similar tone. "Why won't you listen to reason for once?!" "You can't stop me, you know." Annette countered her mother's question with defiance. "I'm an adult and I can do what I want!" "I know I can't stop you, Annette," her mother conceded as she sat down at the small table in the corner of the room. Her voice becoming more subdued, she pleaded with her only daughter to join her. "Annette, please sit down and listen to what I'm about to tell you." "Why should I listen to this?!" Annette shouted. "You're just going to try to talk me out of it and get me to do what you want. It's what you always do with everyone! Is that why Dad left?!" "Annette," her mother continued, "if you'll sit and listen I'll answer that question and maybe give you a little insight as to why I'm concerned about you volunteering for the program." She pulled out the chair next to her and motioned with her hand for her daughter to sit. Annette rolled her eyes and stood motionless for a few seconds then reluctantly took the seat next to her mother. "Thank you," her mother replied. Allison Perry may have been a demanding, overbearing woman, but she did so with grace and politeness. Now it was time for her to drop her defenses and speak plainly to her daughter. "What I'm about to tell you goes no farther than this table, OK? You have to promise me this, Annette." "Fine," Annette said exasperatedly while rolling her eyes once again, "I promise." "Good," Allison said as she reached into her pocket for her cigarettes and lighter. She lit up the nicotine transfer vessel and inhaled deeply. "Those things are going to kill you, y'know." Annette stated as she watched her mother tap ashes into the glass tray on the table. Allison ignored her daughter's admonition and began to speak. "Do you remember that time when you were about ten where I was gone for a couple months?" Allison asked then took another drag from her smoke. "Yes," Annette replied. "When you went to help Grandma after her heart attack." Allison shook her head and continued, "Your grandmother didn't have a heart attack, Annette. I went to Washington D.C. to participate in the first breeding project." Annette's eyes widened with surprise as she took in the revelation, "But I spoke to you and Grandma both. I remember speaking to the both of you..." "Grandma went with me," Allison responded to her shocked daughter. "She didn't participate, of course, but she went with me for moral support. I was allowed to have one person with me. I had asked your father to go but he was dead set against the whole thing. Still is if I'm not mistaken." "He's not a fan of it," Annette confessed. "I didn't tell him I was interested in volunteering though. I just brought up the subject the last time I saw him to feel out his response. He... made himself perfectly clear on how he feels about the project." "Well, he was even more clear back then." Allison continued as she stubbed out the end of the cigarette filter then drew another white tobacco-filled cylinder from the pack. She knew her daughter was right about the smoking but she knew she'd never quit. "Your father told me that if I went then he would not only leave me but that he would also take you away and I'd never see you again. Of course he didn't do that, but he did leave. Eventually..." "Daddy left because you volunteered?" Annette questioned her mother for clarification. "Not just because of that..." Allison confessed then revealed her secret over draws off her cigarette. "Your father was a good man, a good provider, and a good lover, Annette. He was all I wanted in a husband. When we made love he made me feel like the only woman on Earth." "Mom!" Annette cried. "Do I really need to hear this?!" "Yes, you do!" Allison retorted. "You need to hear it because one day you may be in the same situation I was. Your father was a good lover. But the Nebulans..." "What about them?" Annette queried. "The Nebulans have something..." Allison replied. "They have something, something that 'manipulates your pleasure center' is how they described it to me. They made me feel so good that it was like a drug, Annette. I was bred three times during my stay and I loved every moment of it. I didn't want to leave. I thought about stowing away on one of their ships when they left. I didn't care about going home or seeing your father again or even seeing you. It was an incredible experience that no human male could possibly replicate. And, unfortunately, your father came to realize that soon after I returned home." "Daddy left you because he couldn't... he couldn't give you what the aliens did?" Annette asked, modifying her question. "I'm afraid so, honey," Allison said as she took her daughter's hand. "Your father is a good man, but no man could compete with that feeling. And one day you'll have a man that makes you happy like that. And then, if you go through with the project, you'll have to face what I did: that you won't be able to forget that feeling of total euphoria and you'll never be able to recreate it. Not with a man, not with your hand, not with a vibrator. You'll never experience it again because when and if they return in twenty years or so, you'll be too old to volunteer again, like I am now." "Did it hurt?" Annette asked. "When you delivered the... alien. Did giving birth to it hurt?" "Not nearly as much as giving birth to you," Allison answered with a smile. "There was extraordinarily little pain. More a discomfort. But I wouldn't trade either experience. Annette, I'm just trying to protect you, can't you see that?" "I know you are, Mom," Annette responded, "but I have to have my own experiences. I can't make decisions based on your life. And I hear they're going to offer women a lot of money for volunteering. Did you get any money when you volunteered?" "Yes," Annette's mother said as she crushed the orange glowing embers from her cigarette into the amber glass ashtray. "But it wasn't nearly enough for what happened after I came home..." ++++++++++ Annette stood with the water from the showerhead spattering off her as she cried. Her mother had succumbed to lung cancer two years after that conversation. The funeral was a spectacle itself as Annette's father broke down and wept at the casket and had to be taken out of the funeral home by Annette's uncles. Annette brought herself back to the here and now and shut the water off in the shower. she thought as she stepped from the tub and dried herself with the hotel towel. She dried and styled her hair the way Mac liked because she thought the alien might also like it like that, but she had no idea what the creature might like. She dressed in a flowery yellow sundress and wedge sandals. Annette decided to forgo her undergarments. She was quite sure that they wouldn't be on long anyway so she didn't bother with a bra and panties. At three minutes past seven, Annette took a look in the hotel bathroom mirror, fussed with her hair for a quick second, then left her room and boarded the elevator. All the elevators were shut off at 10pm and subsequently turned back on at seven, and all of them had military attendants to make sure people got to the correct floors. As the sliding double doors opened, Annette boarded the car and the attendant addressed her. "Good morning, Mrs. Simmons." The khaki-greed clad soldier stated. "Heading to the basement?" "Yes, Corporal..." Annette looked at the soldier's nametag stitched into his uniform, "Saunders. Basement. I have an appointment." "Yes, ma'am," Saunders said as he pushed the floor button marked . The butterflies began to stir in her stomach again but she was determined to see this through. Not her father, not her mother's words, and not Mac's protestations would stop her from the once-in-a-lifetime experience she was about to commence in the bowels of the expired casino. No one could stop her now. ++++++++++
Jaskier wakes up alone on the balcony. He would feel bereft if not for the sounds of laughter coming from below. He sleepily rolls over until he can glimpse the white hair running through the halls below - Geralt chasing Ciri, Ciri laughing in glee, and above it all, Vesemir grumbling - and Jaskier softens at the sight. He remembers, years ago, Geralt’s insistence that he didn’t need anyone - “and the last thing I want is someone needing me” - and now he was a veritable father to the girl that he swore to reject. The evidence of change, of love, of acceptance, fills Jaskier with a curious hope in his chest. He lies there for a moment - or, more than a moment - recalling their lovemaking last night. Geralt bestowing him with words for once. Now he knows Geralt can voice such deep desires, he finds that he craves them. He wants to hear Geralt confess to his every whim, his every want, his every need. It is folly to wish for this vulnerability outside the bedroom he knows; that it would require Geralt learning to lower his walls and actually put words to what’s there, but he finds himself longing for it nevertheless. - While the witchers train Ciri outside, Jaskier starts to familiarise himself with Kaer Morhen. The old fortress is mostly derelict, with many passages and doorways leading to nothing but rubble, but the witchers have done their best to keep the intact rooms liveable. A new, sad, song starts pulling at his mind as he wanders the empty hallways. It’s like he can feel the ghosts of the boys here. “There are wraiths wandering the halls even to this day,” Geralt had said upon their approach to Kaer Morhen and Jaskier doesn’t doubt it. He heeds Geralt’s advice and backtracks a couple of times when the feeling of another presence grows too strong, or when he sees abandoned alchemy equipment, remembering Geralt’s specific warning about laboratories. He tries to imagine Geralt growing up here but it’s at once both too distressing and too distant for him to envisage. However, amongst the old boys’ belongings he finds himself more clothes and, curiously, a recorder wrapped in linen. He turns the small wooden instrument over in his hands and wonders when the poor thing was last played. It’s perhaps a century old, he can tell that, just from its design - no joints, simple shape, very little in terms of curvature - probably carved by a woodworker, not a professional. It’s dusty and the mouth is a little chipped but when he plays a rudimentary scale in the lower register, it seems perfectly in tune. He ought to leave it be, he knows, but he looks at this old forgotten instrument and is filled with such pity that he simply must take it with him. - It’s a beautiful day as it turns out, the late autumnal sun bearing down on the courtyard as Geralt puts Ciri through her paces. Triss is studying in the library and Vesemir is preparing food in the kitchen so Jaskier can take his sweet time watching his witcher and his ward in the sunshine. Sun is at its highest and Jaskier has a basket of food to appease them but he doesn’t want to interrupt, not yet, as he sits on the ramparts and watches them. He doesn’t often have the opportunity to watch Geralt like this. Normally when Geralt’s swinging a sword it’s at something that Jaskier is desperately running away from, and by the time he’s turning back, that something’s insides are now on Geralt’s outsides and the sight isn’t nearly as pleasant. Here, now, he has time to admire the way Geralt’s wrists twist with the movements of the sword, the way his body moves as gracefully as the most talented dancer, and the firm but gentle way he teaches Cirilla. It’s really quite captivating. Geralt is… lovely. Jaskier has always thought as much but it wasn’t until the whole ‘tossing more than a coin’ rumour started that he realised why. In retrospect, it should have been obvious. He was enamoured with Geralt the moment he saw him in a way that is normally reserved for hard and fast crushes. He followed him around for two decades even though Geralt was - and still sometimes is - frequently unpleasant to him. He had been infatuated, immediately and wholeheartedly, and, naturally, because it was the most impactful and most meaningful relationship in his life, Jaskier had somehow managed to overlook the fact that he desired him otherwise. As soon as Jaskier had realised the fact, it was like a dam had come crumbling down. It was sheer desire at first. But then, as soon as that desire had been quenched amongst the ruins and Geralt brushed his lips so softly against his… Jaskier knew he desired more than just space in his bed. He tried to initiate several casual touches between them while they were on the road to see if he’d be open to more and although Geralt didn’t dissuade him, he also never encouraged them, and never initiated touches of his own. When they parted ways some days later, Jaskier had made peace with the fact that sex was all it was to him. He was okay with that, especially when Geralt invited him to Novigrad and gave him more than he thought he’d ever have. But, now, between all of Geralt’s little silent gifts, the lines are starting to blur, and Jaskier cannot help but look at Geralt and feel overwhelmed by possibility. It would be so easy to let himself love the man. Jaskier now has another hundred years or so in this realm, and as he watches Geralt, he can see himself trailing after him for all that time if he were so permitted. But that’s all it would be… trailing after him, begging for scraps. If Geralt truly is only interested in sex, then soon he will tire of him just like everyone does, whether it be a day, a week, or a year from now, and then they will return to being friends-but-not-friends just as it had been all these years previous and Jaskier is no longer sure if that’s something his heart can take. But, today is too beautiful to ponder on such dire eventualities. He must savour every minute that he is permitted by Geralt’s side and if that means his eyes linger for longer than necessary on Geralt’s flexing muscles and talented hands then so be it. He doesn’t know how long he stands there before Geralt dives to block Ciri’s attack and his shirt slips just so to reveal the reddened skin underneath. Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat at the evidence of their lovemaking. He thought it would have healed by now. Geralt’s certainly not showing any signs of pain from other aspects of their coupling last night… but, then again, perhaps he didn’t take a potion at all, perhaps he is feeling the effects and just… Geralt’s eyes lock onto his and Jaskier flushes at having been caught out. His lust must have spiked at the thought. Jaskier breaks the gaze and holds up the basket of food as a peace offering. Geralt’s lips curve to the side in that half-smile of his before Ciri takes advantage of his distraction and tackles him to the ground. Jaskier laughs at Geralt’s surprised grunt and makes his way down towards them as they start wrestling in the grass. “Eat,” he commands them, and lobs an apple at Geralt’s head to underline his point. The bastard catches it one-handedly with a smug grin, but obligingly, ceases wrestling and drags Ciri upright with him. “A picnic, bard?” he asks, eyeing the wicker basket. “You’re spoiling us.” “Hardly,” Jaskier says, tossing Ciri some cured meats wrapped in linen. “I merely anticipated the struggle of dragging you two away from your swords long enough to eat something and came to the inevitable conclusion that bringing the food to you would be considerably less of a bother.” Geralt grunts in a way that means thank you and bites into the apple. He’s not expecting Geralt to make conversation so he’s caught off guard when between one bite and the next he asks, “You found more clothes?” Jaskier nods, swallowing the handful of dried fruit in his mouth with difficulty. “Belonging to some of the old boys, I fear. Vesemir suggested that I should but if you-” “No, it’s fine,” Geralt interrupts. “We’ve all done it,” he comments with his head indicating to Ciri’s own amended cotton trousers. “Waste not, want not.” “Right,” Jaskier says. “That’s what I thought.” The clothes are scratchy and entirely unflattering and their age is evidenced by the smell of damp if nothing else, but Jaskier long ago learned that he couldn’t afford luxuries on the road with Geralt and until he could purchase new silks from a merchant this was all he had to hand. It helps, too, that he had that hideous knitted garment Geralt gave him to wrap around his shoulders when it gets cold. It was warm, and sentimental, and still smelled faintly of Roach. It’s all he needs, really. The three of them eat in companionable silence, bar the occasional thought that comes to Ciri’s mind or the occasional snippet of music that comes to Jaskier’s. When Ciri eventually grows tired of their silence and goes in search of Triss, Jaskier tilts his head up at Geralt’s perpetual frown and dares ask the question that he’s been skirting around for some days now. “I’ve been meaning to ask,” Jaskier starts, and waits for Geralt’s answering hum of acknowledgement before continuing. “It was never planned for me to come here. To Kaer Morhen. I’ll happily stay if that’s what… I mean, if it’s useful to you, but I know it’s…” his fingers start twisting restlessly in his hands as he tries to find the words to phrase this. “That this is difficult for you,” he says, leaving Geralt to interpret whether he means the location or the undefined thing between them, “So if you rather I go then-” “The first snow will fall soon.” “Right…” Jaskier says hesitantly, trying to translate the unrelated sentence into the simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ that he needs to hear. He wanted to give Geralt the option to bow out now if he is overwhelmed by his presence, or bored of his presence, or generally give themselves the opportunity to stop this thing from developing into something that Jaskier won’t be able to recover from, but it’s not a decision that Jaskier can make on his own. He just wants some indication, one way or the other, if Geralt still means what he said on King Niedamir's mountains or if he actually wants him around. At this point, he doesn’t even care if it’s just for sex. He just wants to be… wanted. He risks a glance over to Geralt and finds his amber eyes looking at him, steady and unreadable. “Stay,” he says, and Jaskier feels the word to his bones. Stay. His eyes close in an attempt to bury the emotions that word evokes. He relishes the word like a gift - buries it in his heart where the others reside. Stay. It might be the most beautiful word he’s ever heard. He understands that the word doesn’t have the same weight for Geralt, that he spoke it out of practicality - “the first snow will fall soon” - but it is still unbelievably lovely to hear. “If you want,” Geralt adds belatedly. He wants. Oh, how he wants. Jaskier doesn’t trust himself to speak, afraid he will say something that he is, himself, unprepared for, and instead reaches out until his hand covers Geralt’s on the grass. Stay. - That night the four of them are up late, discussing tactics (or, in Geralt’s case, fretting about Yennefer) and fall asleep in the boys’ bunks in the main hall. Jaskier doesn’t realise he’s fallen asleep until there’s a warm, gentle, hand on his arm and a whisper in his ear, and Geralt is tilting his head towards the back of the hall in a way that even his sleep-addled brain can translate as do you want to get out of here? Jaskier grins and tries not to seem too eager as Geralt leads him, not towards the kitchens, but towards the towers. Trepidation begins to creep in at the edges of his excitement when he realises that once again, there is no oil in Geralt’s hands. Although Geralt obviously enjoyed last night, they’re going to have to have a conversation if Geralt thinks Jaskier will take him roughly every time, not when he’s seen behind his walls to the softness that resides within. But as Geralt keeps leading him further and further away from the hall, Jaskier suspects that’s not what he’s intending at all tonight. Geralt closes the creaky wooden door behind them and lights the torch nearby with igni until it illuminates the derelict round room they stand in. A stone spiral staircase crawls up the interior of the tower as far as the eye can see. “I fucked Yennefer here,” Geralt states bluntly, and Jaskier is brought back to the ground very quickly. It’s a test, Jaskier knows. He can tell by the way Geralt is looking at him. But Jaskier doesn’t get jealous, never has done, he gets horny. And if this is how Geralt chooses to miss Yennefer then he’s definitely on board. He smiles coyly and steps towards Geralt until their chests are pressed together. Geralt must be able to smell the desire rolling off him if his flared nostrils and black eyes are any indication. “Where?” Jaskier asks with a deep, seductive voice. “Show me.” Geralt growls and without further ado lifts him off his feet. Jaskier instinctively wraps his legs around his waist as he’s carried across the room and pressed against the cold stone wall. An unconscious whine leaves his lips as he does so; he didn’t realise he enjoyed being manhandled quite as much as this, but then, he realises that before he actually knew Geralt intimately, this is how he imagined it would always go - forceful hands and wordless demands and being fucked roughly against the nearest surface. It was unbelievably lovely to discover that that’s not how Geralt is at all behind closed doors but he also finds that this sudden realisation of his initial fantasy is doing things to him. “Here?” he asks as he’s pressed against the wall. His voice comes out just about as wrecked as he feels as Geralt allows his feet back onto the floor. “Like this?” Geralt nods against his neck, teeth nipping at his throat. Ah. Still in the possessive mood then. Very well. Jaskier swallows down some of his desire before he can get overwhelmed and asks, “What did you do? Tell me.” Geralt growls, his hips canting forward and grinding himself against Jaskier, like he just can’t help himself. Jaskier rakes his fingers through his hair, rewarding him, because he loves Geralt when he gets desperate and uncoordinated like this and he can’t believe he’s already there. He wants to say something teasing about Geralt’s obvious desire for a threesome but then Geralt is falling to his knees and any such taunts are banished from his mind. “I put my mouth on her,” he says as he draws down his breeches, and okay, maybe Geralt isn’t the only one turned on by this. “Fuck,” Jaskier swears as his head falls back against the wall. He gets lost in the sensation for a good few minutes - because Geralt is being relentless - before he manages to ask, and it sounds fucking strangled when he does, “What did she taste like?” Geralt moans against him and breaks away with deep, telling, breaths. “Sweet,” he says succinctly. “Dangerous. Good.” Jaskier groans, lost in the fantasy, picturing them fucking in this very spot - how Yennefer would look, how Geralt would sound, how it would taste - and he finds himself coming with a surprised, wordless shout not a moment later. Soft kisses along his neck bring him back to himself and he draws Geralt into a long, slow, kiss. “Did you do this too?” he asks breathlessly. “After?” “Hmm,” Geralt says thoughtfully, like he’s trying to remember. “No, she got distracted.” “By what?” Geralt chuckles against his throat and Jaskier bathes in the sound but before he can recover, Geralt is saying the utterly insane words, “By you.” Jaskier’s thoughts come to a screeching halt. They had talked about Jaskier mere moments after they had fucked. Jaskier tries not to get ahead of himself but it’s very hard not to with knowledge like that. He must look as startled as he feels because Geralt takes one look, laughs again, and then explains. “She appreciated the gift you gave her.” Jaskier looks at him quizzically - what gift? - before Geralt brings one of his hands to his shaven face. Ah. In Novigrad. He had shaved Geralt in Novigrad with the very excuse of how much Yennefer would appreciate it. Finally an answer as to why she didn’t kill him in Talgon. Jaskier flushes at the implication. “What did she…?” he’s so red now that he can see Geralt’s mouth twist in amusement as he forces himself to finish his aborted sentence, “What did she say? Exactly?” “Hmm,” Geralt says again, recalling, as he traces his fingers over Jaskier’s face and lips and… “That she wished to thank you,” he says, “that you were…” he smiles then, deep and beautiful, “‘a good boy.’” “Holy Melitele...” Jaskier breathes, and feels himself get impossibly hard again. He can hear those words in her voice; feels the praise as if she’s there with them. Geralt chuckles, apparently still very amused by Jaskier’s flustered attempts at speech. “I told you she had other qualities.” Jaskier hits him playfully, remembering all too well the barbs he had exchanged about Yennefer both in and out of her company. “She definitely does,” he murmurs, remembering the soft look in her eye as they lay together in Talgon, remembering how she saved his damn life without so much as a complaint. Something warm finds its way into his chest. “Hmm,” Geralt agrees, but there’s an impatient edge to it that causes Jaskier to realise that he let himself get distracted from Geralt’s own pleasure. He looks down to see Geralt’s hardness pressing against his naked thigh and traces his hand down Geralt’s back just to feel him shudder under the touch. Then, he returns to the game at hand. “So what did you do afterwards?” Geralt’s eyes flutter closed, but not in the blissful way that Jaskier has learned and loved, but in a pained way. He can tell by the furrow of his brow. “I fucked her.” “And you...regret it?” Jaskier hazards. Geralt’s eyes remain closed as he shakes his head. “No. It’s not… We were, at the time, not permitted to… She did not want to indulge in her feelings. I obliged.” “Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier says, running his hands through Geralt’s hair and feeling him relax at the touch. Geralt craves affection. He thought Yennefer knew this too, but perhaps things between them were complicated by the djinn. He can’t imagine ever denying Geralt’s gentle touches. He can understand how they would be overwhelming though; he feels himself shaking apart every time Geralt’s calloused fingers bestow him with a single touch. Is that why Yennefer denied him so? Jaskier kisses the tips of Geralt’s fingers and asks sweetly, “How would you do it now? If you could?” Geralt sighs and digs his head out of Jaskier’s shoulder long enough to look him in the eye. “I would…” he says, his eyes searching and sincere. “Enter her slowly. Take her deep. Tell her that I…” his eyes are still locked onto Jaskier’s, “That I love... her.” Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat, longing to take the words as his own. Instead, he curls his fingers into a circle and places it against his hip in an invitation. “Show me.” Geralt looks at him with curiosity and disbelief and Jaskier resolves it in the only way he knows how: by taking his lips between his own. Geralt sighs into the chaste kiss and then Jaskier feels his manhood pressing against his fingers. Geralt makes love to his hand just as sweetly as he had described. When Geralt spills between them sometime later with a strangled sigh and open lips against his hair, Jaskier feels tears prick his eyes, craving the words that he so freely gave to her. - Geralt either doesn’t notice or doesn’t comment on Jaskier’s reaction. They return to their bunks, hands entwined, and Jaskier is surprised when Geralt takes the one next to him and looks across at him with wide, soft, eyes. Jaskier’s heart aches at the sight and he can’t take it, turning away to face the wall instead. He knew Geralt loved her, the words shouldn’t have cut him so deeply, but it was the way Geralt looked at him when he said it, so fucking earnestly... it destroyed his entire perception of the witcher. He knew Geralt was capable of love - Roach being the most prime example - but he didn’t think he was capable of expressing it, not with words. But, there was the evidence. Geralt shamelessly declaring his love for the witch when he hasn’t so much as apologised to Jaskier for… for - If life could give me one blessing, it would be to- No, he scolds himself viciously, he does not need to think about the fucking mountain right now. He told himself that Geralt had made amends, that he had apologised in the only way he knew how - through action, through kisses, through these little silent gifts of his - but, no, turns out, Geralt can speak otherwise and just hasn’t done him the courtesy of doing so. The thought burns him as he curls into himself and feels tears slip silently from his eyes. He wants those words. He wants them. - By the next morning, the hurt has done what it always has done, and turned itself into song. - Days at Kaer Morhen follow a similar pattern. There is training in the morning and lessons in the afternoon and time together in the evenings. Sometimes Ciri will be occupied with Triss all day and it will be Vesemir duelling Geralt in the courtyard instead, or sometimes the witchers will leave to go hunting, or they will take Ciri’s lessons into the mountains. It’s a quiet, studious environment, and Jaskier does his best to fit in. To keep busy, Jaskier finds himself untaking housework and preparing dinner, though, he frequently finds himself distracted by the compositions in his head. He’s been awfully inspired lately between the desolate setting and his affair with Geralt and it’s showing in his emerging repertoire. Composing also keeps him out of trouble; he fears if he didn’t keep his hands busy with the lute, he would frequently disturb the studious atmosphere of Kaer Morhen by dragging Geralt indoors for a quick fuck. He does, though, by night. If the others have noticed their frequent disappearing acts after sundown then it’s not commented upon. Geralt’s unwavering passion is flattering but all their intimate moments are stolen and secretive and he’s starting to miss the lazy lovemaking that they could enjoy in Novigrad. It’s also more apparent here that carnal activities are all that Geralt craves - there’s nothing given to indicate romantic intentions. There’s the occasional passionate kiss as they pass in the hallways but they read more like a promise for later than actual kisses for kisses sake. Jaskier doesn’t know if it’s because Geralt is genuinely only interested in bedding him, or if it’s because he just doesn’t understand how to express physical affection otherwise. It’s not like Geralt is particularly forthcoming about his past lovers, or even about Yennefer, so he doesn’t know if this behaviour is normal for him or whether Geralt is drawing some kind of line specifically with him. He wants to ask, wants to push the boundaries - take his hand while walking, or brush a kiss against his cheek in greeting - but he’s also so afraid of pushing him away that the bravest thing he commits to is the occasional, lingering, hand. Instead, he takes whatever Geralt gives him, and tells himself not to expect more. - By the eve of the third full day, the witchers are playing gwent and the girls are reading, and Jaskier sits amongst them on the long table, unwrapping the wooden recorder from the linen sheet. He has been taking her out once or twice a day, just readying the instrument, introducing her to the new climate and the moisture of his breath. He hasn’t played the recorder in many years but he remembers how delicately you have to train a new (or in this case, old) woodwind instrument and he daren’t rush the poor girl. He barely has his lips over the mouthpiece, a couple of rudimentary notes sounding, when Geralt’s tankard clatters to the floor. His stool screeches against the floor as he jumps to his feet, eyes full of flame and fury, and then a sudden, unbearable silence falls over them. Jaskier instinctively (stupidly) tries to fill it. “Not a fan?” Geralt’s jaw tenses, his lips twist into a growl. Jaskier hasn’t seen him this angry in years. Not since - no, don’t think about it - and this time he doesn’t even know what he’s done to deserve his wrath. Geralt strides towards him and snatches the instrument out of his hands. Their eyes meet and there’s something happening behind the walls that Jaskier can’t even see yet alone interpret. Jaskier has gotten so used to reading him that the sudden guardedness stuns him from even protesting as Geralt marches out of the hall and into the cold night outside, the old recorder in his hand. Jaskier’s heart aches and he feels sick with it as he’s so callously transported back to that damn day and that damn dragon and if life could give me one blessing - Jaskier looks back at Vesemir, stunned, in search for an explanation. The old witcher shrugs, uncaring for Jaskier’s heartbreak. “Don’t take it personal, kid,” he grouches. “Some things should just stay buried. That damn flute included.” “It’s a recorder,” Jaskier protests weakly. Vesemir merely shakes his head and downs the rest of ale. - Jaskier nearly goes after Geralt countless times that night. He can imagine him strolling the mountains by moonlight, or just sitting in the watchtower wistfully, or lying on the cold ground, letting the insects crawl all over him, and he can’t stand the thought of any of them. He doesn’t know what he’s done but he wants to fix it and he can’t if Geralt doesn’t even give him the courtesy of his company. Jaskier is angry and hurting and by all rights should want to punch Geralt for his brutish actions - and, okay, maybe he does a little - but he’s mostly just fraught with worry. Something must have triggered that reaction, something that he doesn’t understand. Eventually, the doors creak open and a solitary figure steps through; his steps burdened, his fury long since dissipated. Jaskier is unsurprised when he walks past the bunks and towards the library. His safe space. Worry gnaws at Jaskier until he can no longer resist the temptation and pads towards him in his stockinged feet. Geralt is hurting and he doesn’t know why but the instinct to pull him into his arms is still the same. He has one foot on the base of the ladder when a voice calls down, curt, and meek, and hurt - “Don’t.” Jaskier sighs, his forehead resting against the vertical wood, as his heart aches and aches and aches. Geralt hasn’t rejected him in so long - not since... no, don’t think about it - and he almost forgot how much it hurt. Rejection is an old wound of his, one that he never really learned how to heal from. He told himself that he had forgiven Geralt for the harsh words on King Niedamir's mountain but seeing that anger directed at him, again, and just as unwarranted, brings it all back to him. He hasn’t forgiven him at all, he realises, he has just let Geralt kiss the pain away like balm on an open wound. “Not tonight,” Geralt amends. A little of the hurt eases in his chest even as tears still sting his eyes. Not tonight, is not forever. He breathes out shakily, trying to dislodge the sob that is caught in his throat, and turns back to his cold, empty, bunk. He barely sleeps at all that night, tossing and turning, remembering and hurting, and nearly returning, and it’s torturous. He saw the walls again. He heard the anger. Things that he thought were behind them. But seeing them again makes him question what the fuck he’s even doing here; makes him think that all those little things that implied Geralt cared about him were a lie, that may this is just a fuck to him - insignificant and fleeting - and he hates it. He’s been in this godforsaken fortress for three days and cried twice and he resolves that if Geralt pushes him to it a third time then he’s leaving - snow, or no snow. - The next morning, he writes another song. - It takes Geralt two full days to come to him. It’s cloudy but dry and Jaskier is funnelling his heartache into lute strings as he sits amongst the crenelations in the ramparts singing softly amongst the birds. He almost doesn’t notice Geralt at first, not until a shadow falls over the notebook from which he composes his masterpiece. Jaskier swallows his nerves and cranes his head to look back at him. It is some consolation that the witcher looks about as wretched as he feels. If he felt any less smarted by his rejection, he might even fall for those puppy-dog eyes. But then, Geralt tilts his head towards the castle in an invitation. Of course. The man wants to fuck this out. Of course he fucking does. Otherwise he’d have to use his damn words to communicate for once and Melitele knows we can’t have that - “I’m not in the mood,” Jaskier bites, and returns to his composition, pen scratching against the page in a way that he knows irks Geralt. He didn’t think there would come a day when he would reject Geralt’s advances, but lo and behold, all it took was the banishment of a beloved instrument and two days of silence for him to remember what a brute his friend can be. “If you want to explain or godforbid apologise for your ill-mannered behaviour then you’ll have to use some damn words for once,” he demands with another flick against the page that makes Geralt wince. “I know you’re capable. You can communicate very well when you put your mind to it,” he says bitterly, trying not to remember how verbose he was when it came to Yennefer. He hears Geralt sigh and shift his weight from foot to foot but Jaskier won’t deign to look at this pitiful routine, mostly because he knows he will crack if he sees it; his instinct always to ease Geralt’s awkwardness, not be the cause of it. In fact, this whole “ignoring Geralt” thing comes entirely unnaturally to him - even after the rejection on King Niedamir's mountains Jaskier had continued singing Geralt’s praises - but this time, Jaskier will not be so forgiving. A moment passes. Then another. Eventually, Geralt steps forward. He sits before Jaskier, nestling between the wide crenelation with him until they face each other, their backs braced by stone merlons, their bent legs meeting in the middle a hair’s breadth apart. Geralt doesn’t acknowledge this closeness, instead looking out over the ruins and the valley before them. Jaskier realises, belatedly, that the wooden recorder rests in his hands; Geralt’s fingers are moving over it meditatively as he summons his words. “I’m sorry.” Jaskier narrows his eyes. He wanted that word, but he wanted it to sound sincere at least, he wanted it to have depth. Jaskier tosses his notebook aside to lie with his lute, ready to pry out every single word from this taciturn man if he has to. “What else?” Geralt’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t like being rushed. “It was… unexpected.” Jaskier sighs dramatically, resting his head back against the tall merlon. “Geralt, please tell me I’m entitled to more than a three word apology. I’ve heard more than that when I was balls deep inside-” “Jaskier,” Geralt growls, and it sounds pained enough that Jaskier deigns to look him in the eyes for the first time during the conversation. What he sees there sparks a little guilt within him. Geralt’s brow is furrowed and his lips are twisted and his eyes are pained, and it’s enough for Jaskier to conclude that Geralt is clearly struggling to say something very important here. He’s trying to address whatever it is that lies beyond his walls. “Sorry,” Jaskier concedes, “Take your time.” He looks down at the folded hands in his lap so he doesn’t have to look at Geralt as he takes however long it takes to say what he needs to say. Patience. He can practice patience. He doesn’t know how long passes as the birds sing and the breeze ripples Geralt’s shirt but, eventually, he speaks. “The recorder belonged to a witcher named Callum. He was… my friend.” “Oh,” Jaskier says, numbly. The last remnants of his anger towards Geralt fade as the meaning penetrates. “Geralt, I’m so sorry.” He’d been so wrapped up in his own demons that he hadn’t paused for longer than a single moment to consider Geralt’s. He said there were ghosts here. Jaskier should have listened to the words being spoken between that; known that those ghosts were his. “I acted thoughtlessly,” Jaskier apologises. “I assumed the ‘waste not, want not’ philosophy applied to everything here. That was naive of me. I should have asked, I should have-” “When you…” Geralt interrupts fiercely but then his sentence just trails into nothingness; his face twisting into something unnameable. Jaskier frowns, trying to puzzle out the meaning. He drops his voice to a whisper and asks gently, “When I… played?” he hazards, indicating the instrument still cradled in Geralt’s lap. Geralt shakes his head, eyes closed, and Jaskier doesn’t want to imagine the horrors that he sees. “When you touched me…” Jaskier’s voice catches on the meaning. He doesn’t mean any touch, he means the touch, when Jaskier was feeling brave and foolish in Novigrad and his fingers had trailed down in the bathtub… leading to the beautiful discovery of how sensitive Geralt is inside, how he dearly loves to be fucked. He remembers Geralt’s reaction at the initial touch. He had frozen. Entirely stock still. Jaskier had assumed in distaste or repulsion until he saw Geralt’s eyes, black as midnight, and realised it wasn’t in fear at all but in a desperate, buried want. He had never spared a thought to consider exactly why Geralt had buried that desire so deep. “It was the first time,” Geralt confesses. “Since him.” Jaskier’s eyes fall to the instrument being turned over and over in Geralt’s hands and sees it in a whole new light. It had belonged to Geralt’s lover. And he had thoughtlessly taken it for his own. No wonder Geralt reacted so instinctively, so violently; no wonder he tore the thing from Jaskier’s hands. His anger, this time, was perfectly warranted. “What, uh,” Jaskier tries, and finds himself parched, “What happened to him?” Geralt shrugs and looks out over the keep. “What happens to all of us, eventually. He got killed. A griffin, I think it was. I only heard the account second-hand but… I visited his grave once. Townsfolk were kind enough to give him that at least. Lyria. On the road between Scala and Aldersberg. The outskirts of a village named Junna. A mound and a stone plaque. There were little white flowers already growing on the soil. By now it’s probably at one with the earth.” Jaskier can't help the sad smile that pushes at his lips, only Geralt would include a detailed description of a gravesite amongst such a confession. “How old were you?” Geralt’s eyes don’t stray from the horizon. “Young. We were barely more than children when we started-” he moves his hand in a gesture that Jaskier is probably meant to interpret as something intimate. “At the time, it meant little to either of us. It happened often, in these walls, on the road… sometimes brothers in arms formed a new meaning. It was permitted as long as we didn’t grow ‘attached’. It is difficult for witchers to form emotional attachments in any case so -” Another abandoned sentence transformed into a hand gesture that no doubt Jaskier is meant to gleam something from. “He had only been on the path for a few years. I don’t think he was even thirty when he passed.” “Fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier says, at a loss for words. “I’m so sorry.” Geralt shrugs, again, like his pain is just something to be dismissed. “It was a lifetime ago. Near a hundred years have passed. And, as I say, it was not as - I did not feel as-” he hesitates again, this time his hand moving between himself and Jaskier. “The sight of it - your playing - was unexpected,” he repeats. “But not… necessarily… unwelcome.” Jaskier smiles at the genuine apology; at the sheer volume of words given to him and him alone. Geralt disclosing his ghosts to him with such loquaciousness is unheard of. Then, something even more monumental happens as the instrument is very carefully, very reverently, offered to him. “Geralt,” he cries, “I can’t-” “He would want it to be played again,” Geralt assures him with earnest eyes. His walls are down again and Jaskier can see past to the tenderness below. He genuinely means it. “It would not… hurt you?” he asks, even as his gaze covets the instrument, “To hear it again?” Geralt shakes his head and moves incrementally until his leg is resting against Jaskier’s. The warm weight, the gift of it, is all it takes for him to be truly forgiven. “I want to hear it. I want to remember.” Jaskier nods his head sincerely and reaches forward to take the proffered instrument. He reveres her with a whole new appreciation now he knows the instrument’s owner and its history. He wonders if he can give Geralt a gift in return. “What did Callum used to play?” Geralt frowns as he tries to recall but Jaskier is pleased to see there is much less sorrow in the furrows of his brow than there was a scant few minutes ago. “Music from his homeland. Skellige.” “Which clan? Do you know?” Jaskier asks. He had studied Skellige folk as it happens but he remembers that there’s a cultural difference between the islands, each with their own stories and musical preferences. He wants to get this right, if he can. Geralt closes his eyes this time, as if he needs to delve deeper in his memories to retrieve the information. “Clan Drummond, Ard Skellig.” Jaskier nods as he tries to recall the fingering for music he has not played in nearly a decade. He’s a man of many talents though, and as the first note sounds, the tune seems to come back to him. It’s a mournful but hopeful song, one that he hopes eases Geralt’s distress. He plays only a handful of bars, testing both Geralt’s resolve and the instrument’s capabilities, before returning the recorder to his lap. Geralt has the most curious expression when he looks back at him, his eyes are closed again, as if he’s somewhere else entirely, but when they open, they pierce directly into his own and are so earnest, it seems impossible that he was anywhere else but here. “Hmm,” Geralt murmurs, but Jaskier is able to translate it as familiarity. Jaskier smiles sadly and leans his leg further against Geralt’s, letting him know that he’s here with him. “There’s words to the song. Did Callum ever sing it to you?” Geralt shakes his head but his eyes are pleading in a way his voice never is. He wants to hear it. Jaskier is happy to comply, he always is, as he begins to softly sing the words he remembers. Some of them are lost to him, and Melitele knows it’s not his best language, but he can recall the phrases in Common at least, and the general gist of the sounds outside of it. When he’s done, Geralt is looking at him with the same earnest eyes. He cares for this man, he really does. Jaskier wants nothing more than to hold him for the rest of his days. Keep him safe. Keep him happy. And in this tender moment, he allows himself to believe Geralt might want that too. He shakes the sentiment away as Geralt asks, “What does it mean? It sounds… sad.” Ah, Geralt. Sad. The only word his limited vocabulary no doubt has at hand. “It’s about a woman whose lover goes to war… or, to fight in general... I don’t really remember if I’m being honest. But she misses him and as much as she wants to support him she also wants him safe and to be with her. It’s less ‘sad’ and more yearning, I suppose.” Geralt grunts but it seems thoughtful, not dismissive. Their legs are still pressed tight together as they look out over the valley. The sun will set soon. It will become too cold to sit outside much longer. Jaskier bumps his knee against Geralt’s and when he has caught his attention, inclines his head towards the interior. Geralt frowns, as if he’s trying to work out what Jaskier is offering and if he wants to partake. For once, he doesn’t think sex is what either of them need. “I thought you might like to go to the library while the others are occupied,” Jaskier explains. “It’ll be quiet.” Geralt’s face twists again and Jaskier hates that he still can’t read the expression, but then, Geralt is leaning forward and taking Jaskier’s lips softly between his, and Jaskier realises that the pained, confused expression was Geralt trying to express his thanks. Then, Geralt holds out his hand in invitation. - They climb the stairs to the library and Geralt lets Jaskier stay with him for hours. They mostly lie there in silence, sometimes touching or kissing, sometimes Jaskier singing softly while Geralt dozes. It’s soft. Peaceful. Jaskier revels in it, and in the knowledge that Geralt wants him to stay. These little moments of affection are what Jaskier has been missing. He knows he has a reputation as the type to enjoy one activity and one activity alone but he loves this too, especially with people that he’s come to care for. When they’re tangled up in each other, exchanging nothing but lazy kisses and reverent touches, Jaskier can almost delude himself into thinking that they’re courting, not just fucking, and it sends a nervous, fluttering, warmth through his gut. Geralt is waking up from a doze, his lips tracing sleepily over Jaskier’s collar bone when he murmurs, “I didn’t know you played other instruments.” Jaskier smiles into his hair. “I take my profession seriously, Geralt. If you can wield more than a sword, then it cannot be that much of a stretch for you to imagine that I play more than a lute.” Geralt’s hand runs across his chest, threading through the soft hair he finds there, until his arm is entirely across Jaskier’s chest. There’s a small smile on his lips that Jaskier has missed dearly. “If you play instruments like you play your lovers, bard, then I will not be surprised to hear you have a score of them.” Jaskier flicks his fingers against Geralt’s back in protest but it feels more like hitting rock than making any real impact. Geralt retorts anyway, biting his teeth playfully against Jaskier’s nipple. Jaskier cuts off the curse word that surges to his tongue and tugs Geralt’s hair between his teeth instead. “You are right,” he admits, as the assault turns into a caress, “In that I have had a few dalliances-” Geralt snorts. “-with various instruments. But I only make room in my heart for a few. And I only, truly, love one.” Geralt hums against him - the metaphor no doubt lost on him as it always is. But that’s okay; it makes the confession safer, secretive, and Jaskier can taste the word ‘love’ on his tongue like the first draft of a composition; just to know how it feels. - That evening, Ciri and Vesemir get into an argument about “what is necessary for her education” which Geralt and Triss naturally weigh in on, and Jaskier is left sat there, gormless, by the sheer idea that so many people care about her education when his parents didn’t even congratulate him when he got into Oxenfurt. Eventually, they stumble across the crux of the matter. Vesemir’s academic teaching can be very… dry. Ciri longs to be in the mountains or in the courtyard, honing what she feels are more “practical” skills, and not wasting time on “dull, dusty tomes”. Triss is arguing, “Your knowledge of history came in handy in Talgon,” when Ciri retorts, “I knew the story of the gems from a song, not a textbook,” and an epiphany dawns on him. “Oh,” Jaskier says, as the solution becomes apparent. He feels their attention turn to him as he asks, “What was the subject today?” Vesemir grunts. “Wraiths.” “Alright,” Jaskier says, nodding, as the plan formulates in his mind. “Give me the book and by tomorrow, you’ll have your song.” Vesemir frowns but nods towards the library where the book must have been abandoned. Jaskier takes his silent permission and leaps to his feet, lute in hand. He used to partake in challenges like this all the time in his days at the Academy. You’d be given a topic and a structure and have to compete against your peers for the honour of being crowned the best songwriter. It was exhilarating to write under such pressure again, trying to pen at once both the most educational and most artful verse. He must get lost in composition, working by candlelight, because the next thing he knows, Geralt is pushing a tankard of wine into his red, swollen, fingers. A silent instruction to take a break. Jaskier replaces the lute willingly with the tankard as he takes several mouthfuls of the offering, and, shockingly, it’s as he’s doing this that Geralt presses his lips against his hairline. The softest touch. Barely a whisper. It could be disguised by his movement to kneel on the floor beside him, an accidental meeting of lips and skin, if Jaskier was not so painfully optimistic. “Others asleep?” Jaskier asks between mouthfuls. “Hmm,” Geralt says in the affirmative. And then, because this whole thing wasn’t bizarre enough, stretches his arm behind Jaskier. Jaskier leans into the proffered support, his back aching from being hunched over his notebook so long, and embarrassingly might let out a whine of contentment at the sudden comfort it brings. “How’s it going?” Geralt asks, indicating to his open notebook, and by this third sign of uncharacteristic behaviour, Jaskier is beginning to think he may be dealing with a doppler. But, no, he looks across to Geralt and sees him looking just about as awkward by this discussion as he expected, and it reassures him somewhat. “I’m nearly there,” Jaskier replies, having disconcerting amount of difficulty in tearing his eyes away from Geralt - cheekbones torchlit and delectable - and eventually succeeds. “I just, uh, need to write the verse about moon wraiths.” “Hmm,” Geralt says, pondering. “Do you need me to check for accuracy?” Jaskier twists in his arms, unable to contain his excitement. “Would you?” Geralt has never offered such a thing, probably because it would involve actually paying attention to his music, but now Geralt shrugs as if it’s no trouble at all. Not always, Geralt had said in Novigrad, and it felt like a confession. Here, now, is further evidence. Geralt doesn’t seem to mind his compositions at all. Wary of their sleeping comrades, Jaskier sings under his breath, the lute as quiet as he can make it, and is pleased when Geralt only has seven notes for him. Seven, for Geralt, is barely even a criticism. When his eyes are failing him and the composition is as finished as it can be in the hazy hours of the early morning, Geralt tugs him up the stairs and into his bedroll. He falls asleep to the sound of Geralt’s slow, steady heartbeat. - Ciri sings the song all morning long and Vesemir doesn’t grumble as much as usual and Geralt gives him this secret, proud, smile, that makes Jaskier overflow with an emotion he daren’t name. - Jaskier’s been at Kaer Morhen for nearly two weeks now and he feels like he’s adjusted fairly well. He’s allowed to spend his days composing if he also undertakes chores. He has written Ciri another two songs and Vesemir is even starting to toss him textbooks the day before to aid his compositions. Since their discussion about Callum, Geralt has become almost tactile with him, and it’s becoming routine to let their hands linger when passing weapons or to curl up in the same bedroll at night. In fact, Jaskier is more likely to receive these kinds of attentions than the carnal kind now. He loves it more than he can say. He feels bold enough, even, to brush a kiss against his cheek in the broad light of day and it feels like he's won the grand tourney when Geralt readily accepts it. Of course they’ve snuck away a few times to indulge their base desires but whatever desperation that seemed to have possessed them soon after their arrival seems to have dissipated. - It’s the first clear day all week and the witchers have been focusing on target practice. There’s dummies set up in the courtyard and across the ramparts and a whole host of weapons to hit them with. The others are in the courtyard when Jaskier is strolling across the ramparts, trying to find a word to rhyme with “striga” when he nearly trips over the basket of arrows. Beside them lies a beautiful, old, longbow. It’s been awhile since Jaskier was last cajoled into an archery competition but he remembers the mechanics of it well enough. He glances over to the courtyard, checking that all residents are present and accounted for, before he lifts the weapon into his hand and notches an arrow into the string. The first arrow lands, but into the right-hand side of the dummy’s chest, which is rather tragic considering that Jaskier had been aiming for its head. Every bow is different however, and for the second arrow, he adjusts his aim to the bow’s preference, and is pleased when it lands solely in the centre of the head. Jaskier grins and is about to boast his success to the witchers in the courtyard below when he feels a warm presence behind him and then hot, rapid, breaths against his neck. Fuck. Did Geralt just sprint all the way up here? Jaskier huffs in amusement and leans back against the hard, familiar, chest of his lover. He knows all too well the conversation that is to come and heads Geralt off at the pass. “Yes, darling, I know how to shoot an arrow.” There’s a puff of hot air against his neck that might be disbelief or amusement as Geralt’s hands come to rest against his on the longbow - the weapon still held before him horizontally, ready to load another arrow. He answers the unasked question, “I’m of noble birth, Geralt,” he reminds him because, yes, the witcher knows this but it’s on the unspoken list of banned conversation topics like Blaviken and that time Geralt walked in on him passionately fellating a count. “I had to train in a sport and considering my ineptitude at swordsmanship,” which Geralt definitely knows first hand from their first and only training session in that arena, “and the utterly barbaric sport of jousting, I chose archery.” There’s a grunt against his neck and Jaskier is about to drop the bow and turn round and demand that Geralt verbalise for once before Geralt presses his body closer against his and Jaskier is bestowed with a different kind of present. Geralt is hard. His manhood is pressing against Jaskier’s buttocks in a very enticing manner and it renders Jaskier momentarily speechless. Geralt’s hands are still on his and carefully, ever so carefully, he moves their joined hands until the longbow is clattering to the ground, forgotten, and his arms are wrapped around Jaskier instead. “Oh,” Jaskier breathes shakily. He hadn’t understood before. Not really. But there’s no mistaking Geralt’s interest now. Jaskier thinks back to Geralt’s stunted words regarding his languages, his curiosity about his education, his black eyes after killing a drowner, the way he stopped talking mid-sentence when he saw his armour being mended, his unreadable expression when he penned that song about wraiths. Geralt wasn’t surprised by Jaskier’s talents; he was turned on by them. Fuck. Jaskier aims for light and teasing when he says, “You know, I’m starting to think you have a bit of a competence kink,” but his voice shakes and the tone doesn’t land, especially not when Geralt’s lips start trailing up his throat and his hips grind purposefully against his. “Use my bow,” Geralt growls and the words are so fucking insane that Jaskier has to ask for clarification. “Longbow doesn’t fit in the saddlebags,” Geralt says. “Can’t take it on the road.” “Right.” “So have my crossbow.” “Have?” Jaskier squeaks, his mind battling with both the absurdity of Geralt giving him yet another gift and the somehow even more absurd implication that Geralt intends for them to be on the road, together, for the foreseeable future. Geralt grunts in affirmation and drags his teeth over Jaskier’s pulse point in an utterly delightful way. Jaskier snakes his arm up around them to push his fingers into Geralt’s hair, and he makes that little sigh of contentment that undoes him... “We should…” Jaskier murmurs, trying to grasp the last of his sanity, “Take this inside. Before your ward takes notice.” He inclines his head towards the courtyard, reminding Geralt that he cannot, however much he would like, be ravaged in broad daylight on the ramparts. Unusually - especially considering his obvious interest - Geralt doesn’t immediately jump at the opportunity. Instead, he runs his hands up and down his waist and Jaskier leans his head back on his shoulder so he can glimpse at his concentrated frown. “In a moment,” he murmurs. “But first I want to…” he starts, and Jaskier watches the process of thought being translated to words. He wants to hear them; trusts that Geralt will speak them now too. Give your heart to me, I will keep it safe. “Tell me,” Jaskier whispers his encouragement. He assumes something filthy is about to fall from Geralt’s mouth so he’s surprised when Geralt softens - in multiple senses of the word - against him instead. Geralt closes his eyes and wraps his arms back around Jaskier, pressing them together tightly. “I wanted to apologise.” Jaskier frowns. “For your outburst the other day? Geralt, I told you, it’s fine, I-” “No,” Geralt says firmly. “For before.” “Before?” Jaskier frowns and finally turns in his arms to face him, needing to see every aspect of Geralt’s expression. “Before what?” Geralt sighs, his eyes still closed, but his brow furrowed. He always needs time to process emotions, that’s okay, Jaskier will wait as long as it takes. He cups Geralt’s face as he waits, thumbs stroking over his cheeks as if to reassure Geralt that he’s not going anywhere, because he is, in fact, not going anywhere. Eventually, Geralt opens his eyes and looks at Jaskier sincerely, though his jaw is clenched in a manner that betrays the difficulty of the conversation. “Before… here. In Talgon. For thinking that you can’t take care of me. You can.” “Geralt-” Jaskier whimpers as his heart aches at the confession, all his hopes spill out messily between them. Geralt trusts him. It doesn’t matter if Geralt is referring to his skill with a crossbow or his skill with his heart - he wagers the witcher prioritises these things differently anyway - but the acknowledgement of their partnership makes the little rivlets of hope take flight. “I will,” he promises sincerely. “I’ll take care of you-” But Geralt is shaking his head viciously, not done yet, it seems. His hands are clenching against Jaskier’s sides as if he can’t decide whether he’s clinging on or trying to let go. His face is twisted in anguish and it looks like he wants to bolt, and Jaskier has no idea what could be tearing him apart so utterly until he forces out the words, “In the fucking mountains, after the dragon hunt-” Jaskier sucks in a breath. He is not equipped for this conversation. Nope. No way. He’s been suppressing for almost two years. It’s not something that can be casually- Geralt rests their foreheads together and the movement is enough to dislodge his panic and actually see the earnestness in Geralt’s eyes. Remembering that day isn’t easy for him either. “I was cruel to you. Unnecessarily. I was angry-” “I know.” “-and hurt-” “I know.” “-and I didn’t mean-” “I know,” Jaskier says, letting a little laugh escape as he cradles Geralt’s head in his hands. “And I’ve forgiven you-” “No, you haven’t.” Jaskier sighs, not expecting to be caught out in the lie. He wanted to. He has tried to. But given his reaction to Geralt’s outburst the other day it seems that he hasn't forgiven Geralt as much as he'd thought. “No,” he concedes, dropping his hand. “I suppose I haven’t.” Geralt’s hands are on his waist again, stroking in that reassuring way of his; his silent little way of urging them through this. “I…” Jaskier starts, but then finds he can’t look at Geralt as he confesses this. “It hurt. What you said. It made me feel like…” he shakes his head, trying to suppress the tears. Unwanted. He had felt unwanted. He licks his lips and tastes salt and knows that he has failed. “I never wanted to be a burden to you.” Geralt slips two fingers under his chin and encourages his head to rise until their eyes meet. But when they do, Jaskier is also surprised to find their lips pressed together. “You’re not,” Geralt assures him afterwards. “You never were.” Jaskier huffs in disbelief, remembering how cheerfully ignorant of Geralt’s wishes he had been in the first few days, or even years of their acquaintance. “I mean it, Jaskier,” Geralt says gruffly, and Jaskier looks to his eyes again, needing to see the truth in it. “I appreciate your company. Even when I don’t show it well. I…” his fingers trail across his cheeks and Jaskier’s eyelids flutter closed of their own accord. “I acted like it never happened and that was an insult to both of us, I’m sorry.” For the first time, it sounds like a genuine apology. Jaskier can feel the sincerity to them in a way that is normally reserved for desperate kisses. He can’t stop looking into his eyes. He wants to fall into them. Geralt kisses him again. He feels light. Like a weight lifted. Like he could soar with the wispy clouds above them. He doesn’t ask what brought on the apology, in the same way he didn’t need to ask why Geralt has taken to sharing his bedroll at night. He had been so raw and vulnerable with him that day they discussed Callum that it shed a light on their first coupling here. “It’s this damn place,” Geralt had said, “And you.” It made no sense at the time but now he sees the importance of it. This place was his home, and he had invited Jaskier into it. The walls have fallen. Any boundaries dismantled. The vulnerability Jaskier never thought he'd see is now bestowed upon him with words as well as kisses, as if Geralt trusts Jaskier to keep them safe. “You are not a burden, Jaskier,” Geralt reassures him sometime later as they lie naked and entwined, “You are a gift.”
Aizawa feels like his head is killing him so he leans his head against Yamada’s shoulder as they walk through down town, towards a festival that was going on; Sadly Shirakumo couldn’t make it yet since he had classes but he asked them to bring him a souvenir from the festival. Yamada clutches to his arm tightly as they walk pass booths, glances at the items and stops him when he spots something and drags him over to the booth. “Look how cute these are!” He holds up cat charms for him to see. “There’s a black one and a white one. Want to get matching charms?” “We can.” Aizawa says, reaching into his pocket to buy the charms; Once the charms are paid for, they go to a bench to attach them to their phones. Yamada holds his phone up to let the charm dangle and smiles, turning his attention to his boyfriend as the other rub his thumb against the cat like charm. “I think we should get a cat once we’re out of college.” Yamada says, nudging him with his elbow. “You know, after I convince you to move in with me.” “Using a cat as a bribe?” “I know how to play dirty when I need to.” The blonde winks, making Aizawa playfully elbow him back. “So you’re thinking about us living together after college?” Aizawa asks, leaning forward and runs his hand over Yamada’s thigh. He could only imagine how nice it would be to live with the other man, how it would be to wake up next to the other every morning and do domestic things like cooking dinner, shopping... “Yeah. Why? Don’t want to?” “I would love to.” Aizawa reassures him, looking up towards the festival. “Think we should find Shirakumo something now? I’m not even sure what he’d like.” “I’m sure we can find something.” Yamada says, patting his back before getting up. “Are you wanting to stay and watch the fireworks after it gets dark?” “If that’s what you want to do.” Aizawa mutters as he gets to his feet too and shoves his phone back into his pocket. ~*~ Aizawa leans against Yamada’s side in the grass, both watching the fireworks as sparks of color erupt through the sky. Aizawa’s hands covers Yamada’s but turns his head when he feels someone sit down next to them. “Shirakumo, you made it.” Yamada smiles as their friend sets his legs out in front of himself. “Took me forever to find you guys, there’s a lot of people here.” He lets out a sigh, staring up at the sky. “Did the firework show just start?” “Yeah, made it just in time.” Aizawa says just as another giant firework was set off over them. Yamada reaches into the bag he brought with them and pulls out a star charm, offering it to their friend. “I was joking about you guys getting me something.” Shirakumo laughs lightly but accepts the gift; He holds it in hand with a soft smile on his face. “Thanks though.” “I’m surprised your roommate didn’t try to tag along.” Yamada half-heartedly laughs, getting a eye roll from the other. “I’m surprised I didn’t run into him, he’s been here all day.” Shirakumo says, slipping the charm into his pocket and leans back to watch more fireworks. “We haven’t seen him either.” Aizawa says, picking up his tea to take a drink. Hopefully it’ll stay that way because the last thing he wants is some creepy fanboy trying to get up close and comfortable with his boyfriend. He didn’t need to be kicked out of the festival for punching some stranger. “Let’s hope it stays that way.” Yamada huffs, brushing his hair over his shoulder and playfully brushes his arm against his boyfriend’s. “I think some of the booths games are still open, want to go play some?” “Only if you want to get your butt beat by me.” Shirakumo replies slyly, already getting up and dusting over his pants. “You’re on, man.” Yamada says, hopping up as well and helping his boyfriend to his feet. “Loser has to bring snacks to our study sessions for a whole week.” “Oh, you’re definitely on.” They both run off ahead of Aizawa, walks casually after them; How did someone like him become so close to these two, who were so outgoing and energetic was beyond him. He shoves his hands into his pockets, watching the other two at a booth with a happy expression on his face but pauses when he spots a familiar face among the crowds... The roommate. He’s watching Shirakumo and his boyfriend from a fair distance before turning to look in his direction, they have eye contact before the guy turns away and starts walking in the opposite direction. Aizawa narrows his eyes at the other but turns his attention back to Yamada and their friend, no point dwelling on it if he’s not going to be a bother. Then it clicks...he looked like he was going to approach them until he saw him standing there as well. Ah, so the man doesn’t like him. This makes him huff as he comes up to his boyfriend’s side to watch the two toss rings but can’t help but to glance in the direction the guy went, he can’t see him in the crowd anymore...but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still around, waiting for a chance for Aizawa to be absent. Was he being paranoid and too overprotective? Aizawa bites the inside of him mouth and looks at his boyfriend because what if he’s smothering the other man without even realizing it? Yamada is fully capable of defending himself if he needs to, the blonde has proven that many times they wrestled together. Yamada has kicked his ass more times than he likes to admit so he should relax, Yamada isn’t in any danger, specially from such a scrawny man. Shirakumo cheers in victory as Yamada runs hand through his hair, letting out a sigh. “Guess ring toss isn’t really my game.” He says before patting their friend on the back. “I guess that means I lost.” “Don’t be too bummed, it wasn’t much of a match.” Shirakumo jokes, taking the stuff animal from the vender. “You’re lucky Shouta is here to hold me back or else I would have kicked your butt for that.” Yamada laughs, playfully shoving him before wrapping his arm around his neck. “You should give that bear to your crush.” “What?! I don’t know about that.” Shirakumo turns red as he looks down at the bear he had won. “Don’t know if Kan’s into that sort of thing.” “Is he here? We can ask him to join us and it can be a double date.” Yamada grins as the other tries to hide his flustered face behind the stuff animal. “I may have seen him with a group of friends before meeting up with you guys.” Shirakumo says, peeking around the bear. “Then let’s go find him.” Yamada says dragging the poor guy along as he desperately begs Aizawa for help.
A common misconception among humans: humans and bonobos are the only species to engage in sex for purposes other than procreation. Science is proving otherwise - in bats, dolphins, lions, bears, oh my! (Also horses, goats, cheetahs, cattle, hyenas, and most primates.) Acts like oral sex and masturbation have been observed in a multitude of species, including tortoises. Sex acts and reasons for sex are varied - and what fun for us that it’s so, huh? The door hadn’t even closed all the way when Mycroft’s mouth descended upon Greg’s. Greg grunted as Mycroft pressed against him and pinned him to the wall beside the door. The kiss was nothing like the one they had shared in the forest. Ravenous, his tongue explored the inside of Mycroft’s mouth, pushing past the man's own tongue, touching the upper palate, barely scraping along his teeth. He switched direction just to suck on Mycroft’s lower lip and then lick along across the upper while Mycroft released an open-mouthed groan. The following series of kisses fueled the heat between them, their desire obvious with the press of their groins. Greg fisted Mycroft’s jacket while Mycroft slid his hands around Greg’s hips and grabbed his ass. Mycroft’s erection pushed against Greg through the thin material of his sweats and sent a new sting of arousal singing through his body. “Bedroom?” he asked. As much he wanted to drop trou and then to his knees to service Mycroft’s cock, he wanted even more to spread the man out on his bed and ride him. “Yes, yes please,” came Mycroft’s breathless reply. “Come on, then.” He pushed Mycroft from him, grabbed his hand and led him to the stairs, his heart thumping and his cock as hard as nails. Up in his room he pulled off his top. Mycroft stared at him like a man starved at a feast and the want in his eyes sent shivers down his spine. “I want to ride you,” Greg said. “Is that okay?” Mycroft’s eyes widened and took a breath. “Yes.” He pulled off his jacket, and by the time he was unbuttoning his pants, Greg had removed all of his clothes except for his briefs. He kneeled before Mycroft, who gasped to see him there. He unzipped Mycroft's pants and peeled the briefs down to reveal a sizable cock, pale on the shaft and blushed red around the head, several bluish veins like lines of tree roots along a path. Greg followed that path with his tongue to find the treasure at its end. “Oh god,” Mycroft groaned. “Yes, oh yes. God.” Greg enveloped the glans with his mouth and gave it a gentle suck, watching as Mycroft moaned, tossing his head back. Taking in as much as he could without gagging, Greg bobbed his head and laved the underside with his tongue. Mycroft whimpered as he pulled off and stroked it with both of his hands - up and down, up and down, Mycroft’s hips thrusting along with the rhythm. When the man’s knees and thighs began to tremble, Greg removed his hands from Mycroft’s cock and placed them over his thighs, soothing him with long strokes. “On the bed?” “Yes,” Mycroft said as he opened his eyes to look down at Greg with his round face and a rosy flush to his cheeks, his eyes heavy-lidded with want as a loose curl made an appearance over his forehead. Greg hadn’t seen something so beautiful in a long time. Then, his eyes holding Greg’s, Mycroft cupped his cheek with one pale palm and said, “You’re so beautiful.” Greg turned his face away, though he blushed with pleasure. “I was just thinking the same of you,” he returned in a rough voice. “Come on.” Greg helped him get the rest of his clothes off and pushed him down on the bed. “I have condoms. And lube.” He crawled over the long-bodied man. “I want you however you want it. I’ve been thinking of riding you, but if you’d rather the other way around -“ “Oh good god, man, either. Any way. Any way you’ll let me have you.” Mycroft reached up and framed his face with his hands. “I usually top,” Greg said. “But -“ “Anything, Greg. Anything you want.” Mycroft released him as Greg reached into the nightstand and pulled out the condoms - checked the date, still current, thank the universe - and the lube. “I want to ride you.” “Yes. Yes.” Mycroft stroked his obliques, and then traced his fingertips around his nipples. Greg bucked and then groaned. “God, you have no idea how good that feels. 'M sensitive.” “I love watching you. I love making you squirm.” The man’s voice was sex. When one of Mycroft’s hands left his nipple, he whimpered but then shuddered when that hand found his dick. Mycroft gave him several strokes. “God, you’re a beautiful man.” Greg lowered himself to Mycroft and crushed their lips together. Mycroft kept stroking his cock, the other hand tweaking his nipples, and Greg widened his thighs as sparks of arousal shot through his nerves. He pictured Mycroft’s cock inside him, and he thrust his hips in response to that imagining as electricity seemed to zigzag across him. “I need you.” “Yes.” Mycroft let go of his cock. Greg sat up on his heels and opened the condom packet. He placed the condom in his mouth, the edges carefully framed by his lips and teeth. He lowered his head over Mycroft’s cock, and swallowed it down, carefully placing the condom. When he sat up, Mycroft watched him with an arched eyebrow. Greg grinned, winked, and Mycroft laughed. Greg threw the torn packet to the side of the bed and grabbed the bottle of lube, squirting it over Mycroft’s cock and smearing it with his fingers. He straddled Mycroft’s hips and pumped lube onto Mycroft’s palm. The squelch of Mycroft’s fingers spreading it around his fist was soon followed by the sensation of those fingers sliding over his balls - ecstasy - and then he felt the first insertion. He bore down, the finger easily sliding inside his tight channel. Mycroft added a second finger. Precome dripped from the tip of Greg’s cock and onto Mycroft’s stomach. As Mycroft rubbed along the walls of his rectum, Greg moaned with the building sensation and whined when Mycroft pulled his fingers out. Through unspoken agreement Greg pumped more lube onto his fingers. Mycroft pushed as much of the lube as he could into Greg’s ass. When Mycroft’s cock nudged at his entrance, he lowered himself, slowly. With incremental movements and deep, steady breathing, sliding down on the shaft wasn’t too bad even if the stretch was accompanied with a hiss of pain. He opened his eyes to see Mycroft’s face in a furrow of pleasure, his lips parted and irises shrunk, his head against the pillow as he watched the juncture of their bodies. His eyes seemed to hold a sense of awe, as if he saw something precious in Greg and was sinking into this experience with the intention of putting everything to memory. When those eyes met Greg’s, Greg nearly gasped with the intangible connection he found there. Me too. This is happening for me, too. His eyes traced the crevice of Mycroft’s mouth and traveled across the sheen of the man’s brow and the soft lines around his eyes. The worshipful gaze of the man lying below him. Greg pushed down a little more. “You’re perfect. You fill me so well,” he whispered. The stretch burned but Greg welcomed it, knowing the pleasure always followed the pain. The slide was finally complete as Greg’s balls lay on Mycroft’s groin. He waited, letting himself adjust. “Sorry, it’s been a while,” he said as he let out a shaky breath. “Take all the time you need,” was Mycroft’s gentle reply. He rubbed Greg’s thighs as his eyes watched Greg’s face. “You look glorious, taking all of me like this.” “God,” Greg groaned. “You’re so fucking sexy. You feel so good.” Mycroft’s face quirked with amusement at that. “You’re unbelievably sexy.” He said ‘sexy’ as if he wasn’t used to saying it at all. “I almost tried to avoid this.” The Brit was balls deep in him, and he didn’t want to contemplate anything else. “I’m glad you didn’t.” “God help me, I am, too,” Mycroft said as he hit his head against the pillow. Greg began to rock his hips up and down, lightly, slowly, testing the rub of Mycroft’s dick along his walls. The pain was abating, so Greg moved faster and faster. Mycroft moaned with the movement. Greg grabbed his hands and placed them on his hips. “Fuck me,” he demanded. Mycroft held tight to Greg and fucked up into his body, his feet planted on the bed and his hips snapping in quick thrusts. Greg gasped and whined with the force of it. Whenever he caught the look on Mycroft’s face, Greg felt exalted, embraced in a fevered spiral of a worshipful, whirling dervish. The competing sensations coiled deep in his belly as his prostate was pressed again and again. Mycroft sweated, panted, gripped Greg’s hips so hard he thought they might bruise. He hoped they would. The pressure in his groin built and crescendoed into a long cry from his throat as semen spilled from his cock and puddled across Mycroft’s belly. The waves of orgasm moved through his body as his dick spurted. Mycroft began to pull out from beneath him, but Greg made him stay. “No, you can - you can come. I can take it.” Mycroft almost protested but Greg shook his head, sweat dropping from his brow. “Do it.” Mycroft fucked him, bouncing Greg up and down as he chased his own orgasm. Greg was sensitive and it was almost too much, but he wanted to feel it - to feel alive. It wasn’t long before Mycroft arched up, grunted and cried out softly, emptying his balls into the condom deep inside Greg. His hips fell back against the mattress and Greg collapsed over Mycroft. When Mycroft’s cock slipped out, Greg rolled over onto his back beside his lover. Lover? After that? Definitely. Has to be. “Holy fuck. I haven’t come like that in a long, long time,” Greg said, and blew a bit of hair from his forehead. His limbs were watery, floppy as fish. “Neither have I.” Greg couldn’t help but think that the British accent was definitely a turn-on. “It was rather...invigorating.” Greg snorted with laughter. He rolled into his side, and cringed when he saw the pools of come on Mycroft’s lightly furred belly. “Let me get you something for that.” “Heavens, Greg. I should be taking care of you. Are you quite alright?” “I’m gonna be sore later, but it’s the good kind.” Greg grinned as he stood up. “Be back in a minute.” When he returned, Mycroft was propped up on his elbows as his eyes traveled around Greg’s room. He refocused on Greg as Greg approached with the towel. The condom was off, and Mycroft held it between two fingers, already tied. “Allow me,” Greg said as he took it and turned to drop it into the wastebasket. He wiped most of the come off of Mycroft, who then stood. “If I may use the facilities.” “Please.” Greg waved a hand in the direction of the stairs. He ran his hands over the sheets to test for any wet spots, and not finding any, threw himself down on the bed. God, now what? Will he stay? Was it just a one off? He must feel it, too. I can’t be the only one feeling it. Mycroft returned from the bathroom. He looked a little shy, and his eyes found his clothes crumpled on the ground. Greg cleared his throat. “Would you like to stay awhile?” Mycroft’s eyes didn’t quite meet his. “Well, I had hoped we might visit the owl nest this afternoon, if you’re available.” “I’m available.” Greg grinned. “Get in here.” Mycroft smiled and slid into bed beside him. Greg snuggled up beside him, pulling the sheet over both of them. He took the opportunity to look at Mycroft more closely - a scar from a scratch below his collarbone, soft ginger-colored chest hair, and freckles, freckles everywhere. He kissed Mycroft’s shoulder on an impulse. Mycroft’s eyes found his. Whaleskin grey, if he had to pick a color. “I think I might drift off,” Greg told him. Mycroft smiled, soft and sweet. “I’m amenable to your agenda.” Greg giggled. “Most excellent.” It wasn’t long before the two men fell asleep, pressed along the lines of each other’s bodies, like the strata of the earth. Greg awoke to the slightly sticky warmth of another person beside him. His heart expanded in his chest like the clouds opening for the sun when he remembered what had happened, here in this bed, with this man beside him. Sap. He heard Damien’s voice in his head. He grinned. Well, if nothing else between them happened, he’d just experienced a spectacular and mind-numbing orgasm. I hope there’s more to come. The juvenile urge to giggle over his unintentional pun caught him by surprise. He hadn’t spent a lot of time laughing to himself lately. Mycroft stirred, a slight twitch of his shoulders and a change in the pace of his breathing. Greg watched as his eyes opened, slow to focus on the ceiling above them. A wrinkle disturbed his smooth brow and he turned his face to Greg’s. “Hi,” Greg said. The smile that spread on Mycroft’s lips was slow and his face seemed full of wonder. “Hi,” came the soft response. Greg’s stomach rumbled. “Uh, so I haven’t eaten lunch yet,” he said, unable to stop his goofy grinning. He turned his eyes away. “Can I offer you some peanut butter and jelly?” He looked back at Mycroft, who snorted, and raised an eyebrow at Greg. “I beg your pardon?” “Granted, but no need to beg.” Greg laughed and nuzzled Mycroft’s shoulder with his nose. The skin there was exposed to the air and cool to the touch. “Only the best here at casa de Greg. PB and J, or I could offer a fluffernutter.” Mycroft’s mouth gaped. “A what?” “My man, is it possible that you have never had a fluffernutter sandwich?” Greg sat up. “I’m not entirely sure what you’re referring to.” His face showed a confused mixture of horror and perplexity. “A fluffernutter sandwich is the perfect mix of sugary marshmallowy goodness combined with creamy peanut butter between two slices of bread.” “That sounds abhorrent.” Myroft propped himself up onto his elbows. “And not at all what I imagined.” “Do you like marshmallows?” “They are a bit sweet...I do like sweet things.” Mycroft’s face blushed. “Do you like peanut butter?” “Well, while it is quite fattening, it is very filling.” Greg exhaled as he shook his head and rolled his shoulders. “It’s filling, and it’s fattening, and it’s delicious. Come on. This is a sandwich worth eating.” He hopped out of the bed, naked. He looked over his shoulder at Mycroft and winked. “And you know, we can work off the calories later.” Mycroft sniggered, one hand over his mouth and nose. Greg grabbed his robe from the hook on the closet door. “Um. why don’t you use this? I’ll just throw on a pair of boxers.” He liked the thought of Mycroft wearing his things. Mycroft stood and accepted the robe with a long-fingered hand and a shy smile. “Thank you.” “My pleasure.” In the kitchen Greg made a grandiose presentation of creating a fluffernutter sandwich, while Mycroft shook his head and arched a brow here and there, and acted generally put upon and overly tolerant of Greg’s quirk. When he took that first bite, though, he lowered the sandwich to his plate with a bowed head and a deep sigh. “What? What do you think of it?” Greg leaned over the table in a giddy sense of anticipation. “Greg. I don’t want to like this. It’s made with corn syrup.” Mycroft flicked a hand toward the jar of fluff on the counter. “It’s despicable. So, why, why must it taste as if it were the gods’ own ambrosia?” Greg slapped the counter as he whooped and laughed, his mind sparkling with an elated sense of satisfaction. “Ha! See? You Brits don’t know what you’re missing.” “Ninety-one calories per ounce, apparently...and thirteen grams of sugar?! ” Mycroft had grabbed the jar and read the label. Greg snatched it from him. “Listen, the peanut butter I have is all natural and no sweetener added, so they cancel each other out!” “You are going to be very bad for my diet.” Mycroft leveled him with an almost serious stare. Greg’s heart suffused with glee. “Am I?” Mycroft’s gaze sobered. He licked a crumb from his lip. “I think so.” “I am going to be good for burning calories, though,” Greg said as he waggled his eyebrows. Mycroft barked a laugh, stuttered, as if he were surprised by it, and then laughed some more. Greg beamed. Then his phone buzzed with a text message. Shit. He’d entirely forgotten. “Shit, shit, shit.” Greg grabbed his phone. “It’s Jo. We, uh, we do this family thing every Saturday. A yoga class.” He held his head in his hands, his right pressing the phone against the crown of his head. “I forgot to text them.” “Oh,” Mycroft said. “I didn’t mean for you to -” “Nope. This is entirely my fault.” He read Jo’s text. She was just asking him where he was. He typed out a response. Sent Sorry. Something came up and I got sidetracked and forgot the time Received Oh. So ur not coming? Sent No, not at this point. I’ll explain later. Sorry. Tell Peri I said sorry. Received Tell her urself :-P Sent I will. All my love. Received Love u 2 “There.” He put the phone back on the table and looked at Mycroft. “All set.” “I don’t wish to prevent you from spending time with your family,” Mycroft said quietly. “It’s alright. We sometimes don’t get together. I mean, when I have Peri, she and I go to the class, and every once in a while, Jo can’t make it. Every once in a while, I can’t make it when she goes with Jo. And there have even been a couple times where Peri had other plans. So, no biggie.” He sat back on his stool. “The opportunity’s already gone, anyway. The class will be over in forty-five minutes.” “Mm.” Mycroft broke off a piece of the fluffernutter sandwich and put it in his mouth. He closed his eyes as he chewed. Greg smiled. “I happened to notice a guitar in your living room,” Mycroft said after he swallowed. Greg pursed his lips as he gave a nod. “Haven’t been playing much lately, but it’s been with me for almost twenty years. Do you play an instrument?” “Cello.” “Oh! Have you and Sherlock played together, then?” Mycroft smiled, though it seemed distant. “We have.” “Why don’t you two get along now?” Mycroft’s face did something complicated - a shadow of doubt or a hint of impatience, but it passed and his expression returned to neutral. “I’m never entirely sure, but there have been...obscurities between us that have led to a natural sense of distrust. Not to mention, we did have the tendency to be more...antagonistic with one another when opportunity presented itself when we were young.” “Hm, I know what you mean.” “You have a brother. He doesn’t live around here, though, does he?” “Yeah. How’d you know?” “Lucky guess. I did notice a photo of you and him together. Remarkably similar in looks.” “He’s two years older. Has two kids who are great. Nate and Evie. His wife died years ago.” “How - unfortunate.” Mycroft paused in breaking off another piece of the sandwich. “Can I get you some milk to go with that?” “Please.” Mycroft smiled at him and it made Greg’s heart flutter about like a hummingbird. “Yeah. He didn’t really talk about it. He doesn’t talk about her, period.” Greg poured him a cup of milk and placed it on the table. “How did she die?” “Cancer.” “And the children?” “They were young. And kids are elastic. I mean, they miss her, but their concept of her is kinda...limited.” Greg took a bite of his own sandwich which had been long ignored. “You know what I mean?” “I can guess.” Mycroft licked a bit of marshmallow fluff from his thumb. Greg’s eyes couldn’t pull away from tracking the movement of Mycroft’s petal-pink tongue. “Greg, there is something I must tell you.” Greg’s heart seized. This is it. This is where he tells me he’s got a boyfriend back in England. A pause. Then, “A fluffernutter has a very different meaning in the UK.” Oh. Greg tilted his head. “Yeah?” “Well, to fluff someone -” “Oh, yeah, porn.” Greg laughed. “The guy who keeps the porn actor hard between shots by giving him a bj.” “Er, yes.” His cheeks pinkened at that and Greg’s insides melted a little. “But, someone who fluffs too well…” It flashed upon Greg like a lighthouse warning away sailors. “Wait, someone who is too good at the job is called a fluffernutter ?” “Mm.” Mycroft smiled, and his blush grew deeper. “You’re putting me on,” Greg said, knowing his jaw hung open but not caring in the slightest. “I am not.” Mycoft made a small noise in his throat and looked Greg in the eye. Greg guffawed and doubled over, holding his belly. When he righted again, he kept on laughing as he said, “Well, that is a very different kind of sandwich!” Mycroft erupted into giggles, his whole face shining with mirth. “Oh!” Greg realized. “The look on your face when I asked if you wanted a fluffernutter sandwich!” Mycroft laughed harder, his hands holding the edge of the table as he bent forward first, and then threw his head back, his shoulders shaking. Greg wiped the wetness from his eyes. “That explains so much!” They settled, eventually, chuckles escaping and eyes meeting and darting away. Greg admired the way his robe settled on Mycroft’s shoulders, the opening across his collarbones exposing curls of ginger chest hair on pale, freckled skin. The man was exquisite. “Wait, actually,” Greg said. “That explains why Sherlock acted so oddly when I once offered him a bite of my fluffernutter sandwich.” Mycroft flashed him a look of horror, and the two broke into uproarious laughter once again. The rest of the day was spent in and out of bed, stroking one another’s arms and hair and talking. The floodgates were open for physical touching, and both men seemed starved for it. They also asked each other questions about personal history. Greg learned that Mycroft went to boarding school, while Sherlock was homeschooled. He attended university at sixteen and studied Political Science and Philosophy. His Masters was in Public Administration, and he’d gone on to get a doctorate in Diplomacy and International Affairs. He was cagey about his early work in military intelligence, Greg noticed. But he was open about his work as a civil servant in the UK’s form of government. “Well, you’re slumming with a scrub like me, then,” Greg laughed, though it was self-deprecating. “I have a degree in environmental studies, but it ended there. I went to a community college for a year first, up in Maine. I lived in a podunk town and attended public school. I ended up in Connecticut because of my friend Damien. We met online, in an AIM chatroom if you can believe it.” “Oh, I believe it.” Mycroft gave a little snort. “Anyway, Damien convinced me to come down here. It was a little more open to gay people. Most people where I’m from are too polite to be homophobic, but the other option is to not talk about it at all. It doesn’t mean I never run into any homophobia, but there is a larger population of LGBTQ people here. I mean, just look at the nature center. There’s three of us who aren’t straight.” “I imagine for someone coming from an isolated town in Maine, this was very important to you.” “Yeah. It was...freeing. Damien was really good for me. I ended up going to college and getting a degree. I met Jo, and the three of us were like the three musketeers. Or misfits. But we fit well together.” “Where is this Damien now?” “He lives out on Cape Cod. I usually spend the Fourth of July weekend with him. It’s become our tradition. He visits the area in the winter for the holidays to see his parents, so I get to see him then, too.” “Mm. Was it your time in Maine that drew you to work as a naturalist?” Greg grinned. “You’re really good at that.” “Good at what?” “At guessing things about me. It’s like you always know more than you let on.” Mycroft’s smile was small and secretive. “Maine is not a densely populated state and you referred to your town as,” he inhaled and enunciated, “podunk.” He traced one finger along Greg’s arm. “It was not so difficult an assumption to make that you might have grown alongside wild places, given your choice in livelihood.” “Right.” Greg grabbed his hand and pulled it to his chest. They were lying in bed together again, not to get each other off, but to drape themselves in skin to skin sensations. “But you’re right. I spent a lot of time alone in the woods. My mom wasn’t always a happy person and Dan was her golden boy.” He twitched a shoulder in a show of indifference. “I preferred to stay out of the way when I could.” Mycroft deftly maneuvered the conversation from the subject, much to Greg’s pleasure. “And does your daughter enjoy the outdoors as much as you do?” “She used to. But now she’s a gamer and she runs this YouTube channel with a friend that’s all about game reviews. It’s not that she doesn’t enjoy the outdoors. It’s more like she has less time now. Other priorities.” “Mm.” Mycroft squeezed his hand and placed his mouth on Greg’s tricep, curling his body in and around him. “We had plans to hike parts of the Appalachian trail after her senior year. But she hasn’t said anything when I mention it, so...I don’t know. It’s a couple years off.” “You hike together?” “Almost every Saturday I have her, after yoga.” “My goodness. You paint the very definition of a wholesome family.” “Almost. Except for the part about the high and drunken one night stand between Jo and I, and that we were never romantic partners.” “Greg. That hardly matters. The part that matters is that you and Jo co-parented, very successfully I might add from what I’ve gathered, a marvelous young woman. Give yourself more credit.” His reply was half muffled by the proximity of his lips to Greg’s arm, but Greg got the message. “Thanks. I, uh, suppose it’s time to go see the owlets.” “You mean get out of bed and dress like civilized people?” “Ha. I don’t want to either.” Greg rolled away from him. “But, it’s no guarantee we see them anytime we go, so if we miss them today, we can try another day.” His voice was tentative. This isn’t a one-off, right? “So, you know, we should take the chance.” Mycroft smiled benignly. “I suppose you’re right. And after, allow me to take you to dinner.” Greg lit up like a Christmas tree. He winked, and said in his best and poshest English accent, “I am amenable to your agenda.” He ducked when Mycroft threw a pillow at his head, laughter curling through the air of the bedroom.
CHAPTER TEN: Trust and Tribulation + As Exalt Emmeryn promised, Sir Frederick collects Robin at noon on the dot. He is an imposing grizzly of a man, dressed in blue and silver armor without a single crack in its polish. Were he not so stern-looking, his brows pulled to harsh angles above his eyes, she might find him handsome. Charming, even, by the way his dark, wavy hair is haloed in a few twists of frizz, unused to the dryness in the air. He does not bow, but she would not expect that of him. His allegiance is to the Ylissean Crown, not the golden eyes that rest above her own, digging faint pricks of red into her skin. “Good day, Princess,” he says. His voice is low and firm—it matches him. “Sir Frederick, I take it?” Robin asks. He nods. “Milady the Exalt has asked me to escort you to her suite.” “Then lead the way,” says Robin, gesturing to the hall. “I look forward to seeing the East Khan’s side of our accommodations.” Frederick winces, and Robin realizes it’s the word our that’s stung him, the way she’s dared to group the two of them, a Plegian princess and an Ylissean knight, under one possessive. It is a deep wound for so small a word—it speaks to the power of them. Things quiet between them. They walk out into the courtyard, and Frederick chooses the path around the gardens. It will snow for tonight’s opening ceremonies, they say, but this morning, the sun is burning through a sheet of white clouds, giving way to opaline flecks of blue. “Is the Western half of Plegia so barren as its East?” Frederick asks as they cross a small bridge over a dried-up canal. “There is much green where I come from on the coast,” Robin replies. She envisions the thumb-sized illustrations in her atlases and histories, ones of people bent over in a verdant mire marsh grass, of gloved hands pulling fish and crabs from the brackish. “But there is too much salt in the soil to grow anything we might eat.” “You may not believe it, Princess, but Ylisse was once a hungry country. It certainly was when I was a young boy living in the mountains,” he says. “Exalt Emmeryn has done much to fix that. I am lucky to have grown up in her service.” “Why are you indulging me in a story, Sir Frederick?” Robin asks. “You seem much more the ‘brooding in silence’ type.” “I am not telling you any sort of story. I simply want you to know your enemy as they really are—not as your King’s rabid cult tells you they should be.” She stiffens, though it’s better Ylisseans think Gangrel is the Grimleal mastermind, and not her father. “Do you feel wronged, Sir Frederick?” “You recall it was King Gangrel’s army invaded us without warrant, and not the reverse,” he says. “Though, I surmise someone else was pulling at the strings.” Your Grandmaster. It goes unspoken, but Robin feels it in the acid of his tone, so caustic it burns her skin. She doesn’t know whether to swell with pride or wither like a moonflower in high sun. It was foolish declaring war so early. She knows it was. But Gangrel would always have his way. By his pen, her plans. By her plans, the blades of thousands of men, rushing into a war that would be an infernal trial to win. But Robin was born for trial. The only reason her father tests her so often, plunges her into battles of poison and fire and wits, is because she cannot bring about their ruin if she has never felt it for herself. “If it is secrets you want from me, Sir Frederick, I’m afraid I have none to give,” she tells the Knight. “I am only the Princess of a far-flung duchy; my voice is quite small in the League. I am here for no reason other than to represent my people.” “Then you and Her Grace should have much to talk about.” They enter the Eastern side of the compound to find it much like the Western—dark drapes, airy décor, simple furnishings. The decorations must be of some historical value, she thinks, curated by a single discerning eye. Frederick stops her on the second floor, where a protrusion of painted screens cleverly hides the alcove entry to a suite. Frederick brings a fist to the door. “Your Grace? I’ve brought her.” The doors open, and Exalt Emmeryn herself stands in the threshold. She is as radiant as the stories say, her gold-spun hair draped into two perfect drills over her shoulders. Her dress is spun from creamy wool, each sleeve hemmed in a froth of white fur. A green stole bearing magic sigils—ancient numbers, one for each major tome of the Upper Incantation—falls loose about her shoulders. The Exalt smiles, waving him and Robin inside. “Exalt Emmeryn, may I present the ambassador from the Plegian League, Princess Daraen of the Western Coast,” Frederick says. He makes a wide gesture towards Robin, but there’s a stiffness to it. As custom, Robin kneels at the Exalt’s feet, and she bows in return, her halo crown catching a swoop of pale winter sunlight. “That will be all, Frederick.” Frederick arches his eyebrow, and Robin feels a peculiar flash of worry. But Lady Emmeryn is immune—she shoos him out the door like a child might a nosy parent, her bone-thin arms delivering a surprisingly hefty push to his back. The door clicks closed, and Emmeryn resumes her place before Robin. “Do stand, Mage Grandmaster. I intend to speak to you as my equal.” Robin doesn’t; shock rivets her to the floor. “How did you—” “I saw you in the courtyards, speaking to your guardsmen. It reminded me of…another commander I know,” she says. “And I’ve heard women don’t last long in the Plegian League—yet Her Eminent Shadow seems to endure.” Robin rises, stirred by the sound of her title on the Exalt’s tongue, the way it is not cajoling or mocking, but reverent. Deep with respect. “Come, sit down,” says Emmeryn. She motions to a wooden tea table near the foot of the guestroom bed. “Tea is in the pot there, and I’ve ordered some cakes and sandwiches I hope will be to your liking. I’ve looked forward to speaking with you alone for a while, now.” Robin joins her at the table, though they’re hardly alone. Another guard, clothed in the billowy pants and gold-plated armor of an Ylissean Pegasus Knight, sits on the side of the bed, a whetstone and lance in hand. Emmeryn notices Robin’s drifting gaze and grins, her green eyes crimped to perfect crescents. “You don’t mind Phila here, do you?” she asks. “She’s my wife—not a guard.” Phila drags the whetstone up her lance-point. “In this moment, I’d consider myself both.” “That won’t be necessary, my heart,” the Exalt tells the guard—her wife, The Knight Regent of Ylisse. As much as it grates against her instincts, Robin indulges a flurry of joy for them. “This is a diplomatic talk. Right, Grandmaster?” Robin nods. “As was agreed to.” “I’d hoped you’d tell me about your life in Plegia. I haven’t been there since I was newly crowned.” “You invite the tactician of your enemy’s army to tea and the first thing you ask her is about her life?” She pours Robin a cup of tea—something soft and flowery, with a warm curl of spice. It smells wonderful, but Robin knows better than to drink it, despite Emmeryn’s promise of benign intentions. “We are people before our titles.” “Well, if you insist, Your Grace, it’s excessively dull when there’s not a war going on,” Robin says, which somehow draws another laugh from the Exalt. “I don’t leave the palace much, but to tend to my troops.” “Something of a gilded cage, isn’t it?” Emmeryn muses. “Hardly gilded,” Robin says, perhaps too quickly. Castle Plegia is a cage, but it is not made of gold; it is made of stone, and iron, and the rot-black viscera of a beast that will one day consume her from the inside out. Emmeryn takes a sip of tea. “Would you do anything about that?” “There are riches other than gold, Your Grace.” “You know what I meant,” says Emmeryn. “Let us speak of your King. Gangrel. His bloodlust is not a strategy—as I understand, the army stays afloat by your battleplans. And your father, the Duke, Leader of the Grimleal. There are no stories of his power. But I have heard the stories of yours. You could unseat them both in one blow. So, why haven’t you?” Robin grits her teeth. This is her enemy—perhaps a greater one than Chrom. She will not tell her of the nights she’s dreamt of drowning her father in Thoron’s light, or thought of slicing Gangrel’s throat with the very sword he gifted her, or spent her midmorning prayers wishing them both to the grave. Instead, she will tell her why she knows better. “The people need their king, and a faith needs its prophet,” she says. “Who am I to deprive them? Besides—we are a country at war. People are hungry, uncertain. They are not ready for the upheaval that is a Queen.” The Exalt nods. “I understand.” “What of your father, then? The Ravager Exalt, Alechsander,” Robin counters. “He tortured my people. Called them infidels, savages. Slayed more innocents than fighting men. Was there nothing you could have done to unseat him?” “I believe in peace.” “Yet just a moment ago, you were stoking me to regicide.” “Perhaps I see in you a strength I did not have.” Silence gels between them. With mere a smile and an untouched cup, she has reached through the cracks in her armor and broken it like the black lacquer shell of a scarab, baring Robin for all that she is. “I want to end this war, Grandmaster,” says the Exalt. “And very soon. Before it grows into something none of us can control.” “You should pass that along to your brother. He clearly has no qualms about following in the Ravager’s footsteps.” Emmeryn tenses, a ripple in her calm. “Chrom is nothing like our father,” she says. “He is…passionate, angry at times, but he wants peace as much as you and I.” “I’ll believe that when I see it.” “He’s here, you know. Likely at the training grounds. I could arrange a meeting between the two of you, though I’m afraid Frederick and Phila would have to supervise.” A shing of metal sluices across the room—Phila narrows her eyes at Robin. “I have no wish to see Prince Chrom,” Robin says. “And if we do cross paths, I…well, I won’t be so amiable with him as I am with you.” “That’s a shame. I see much of the same fire in you two. Nonetheless, I’d like to talk again with you, someday.” Robin bristles, curling her fists in her skirts. “I can’t make any promises.” “But would you like to?” Emmeryn asks, leaning closer. She takes a sip of her tea; it says trust me. Help me find another way. Robin can’t. Not as much as she wishes she could, not as much as she’d like to wedge an unending sea between their countries and drown their needless war in its tide. But she tells her yes, she’d speak to her again, if only to keep Ylissean eyes off her back. + By the time she returns the west side of the compound, Robin is sweating under her cloak. The sun has pierced the clouds in bright, decisive rays, and her blood is still pounding from Emmeryn’s words. The low entry stairs are clouded in a mass of black and gold armor—her father’s retinue. She tamps down her dread and marches up the stairs as the soldiers part, revering their Grandmaster with a bow. The only one who does not move is Validar, halfway inside before the sudden rustle of armor stills him. “Master Validar! When did you arrive?” Robin asks. Her father turns. “Not an hour ago.” He descends through the flanks of soldiers, waving them away. “I sent for you, but your little retainers told me you’d gone out. Care to tell me where?” “Just to the other side of the compound,” Robin answers, unwavering. “I wanted to see how Khan Flavia decorated.” “Pithy. You don’t care for such things.” “This is all very different for me,” she insists, gesturing to the building behind them, the snow hiding un-melted in the shadows of the awning. “Surely you don’t fault my curiosity.” Validar nods towards the open doors. “Come inside. I’ve brought something for you.” Robin follows him up the stairs and through the coffee-colored halls of the west compound’s mezzanine, around to the backstair. His chambers are on the third floor, facing out to the gardens. It’s a terrible view to waste on someone who will only keep the windows drawn. Two soldiers close the doors on them, and Robin follows him through the maze of his belongings to his window-side desk. He inspects the wood with a blood-black fingernail. “You’ll be attending the opening ceremonies tonight, correct?” he asks her. “Of course, I will,” she says, schooling the excitement out of her voice. He doesn’t need to know that she’s been looking forward to all the music and dance, the acrobats twirling lances helmed in fire. “Good. There’ll be a gala to follow on the arena floor—you’ll use that time to scope the way into the underbelly,” Validar says. “Perhaps you could find yourself a guide.” “A guide?” “Oh, Robin. For a girl with the blood of hundreds on her hands, you really are naïve,” he says. “Simply ask some Feroxi soldier boy to take a walk, show you around, maybe find someplace secret. He’d be a fool not to oblige a Princess.” “You’re talking to the wrong daughter,” Robin snaps. “I’ll find my own way in.” Her father laughs her off, finishing his march around the desk and depositing himself in the high-backed chair. The sunlight pouring through the windows turns him to nothing but a feather-edged shadow. “What was it you wanted to give me again?” Robin presses. He stretches his arm across the table, then slides a discreet glass vial from the flute of his sleeve and into Robin’s hand. She rolls it around in the hollow of her palm—the dark violet liquid takes on no light. “It’s a sleeping hex,” Validar explains. “Once you have Gules in hand, break the glass against the ground to cover your exit. You’ll have around five minutes to escape before it reaches you. Anyone pursuing you will be plunged into weeks of nightmare-addled sleep.” Robin pinches the vial at its neck and swirls its contents. “Well, that’s unpleasant.” “Need you be so dry?” “Blame the dresses—I can’t take anything seriously when I’m dressed like a pastry,” she says. “But I am rather thirsty, actually.” Validar gestures to the door. “Go on, then. And keep that somewhere safe.” Robin closes her fist around the vial. “I will. Don’t worry.” “I never worry about you,” he says, and in his warmthless tone, there lies the unspoken: Because I do not care. + When Robin returns to her chambers, Henry is curled up by the window, watching some little black bird peck in vain at the glass, and Tharja lies on her bed, idly thumbing through a tome. They both stand at attention as Robin moves into the room. “How did it go?” Henry chirps. Robin doesn’t say anything. She wants to tell them the truth, but worries someone outside could be listening. Tharja takes her silence as bad news. She comes closer, places a hand on her cheek. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?” “Not at all,” Robin says. “The Exalt and Knight Regent were as kind and inviting as expected.” Henry wiggles his eyebrows. “Was Prince Chrom there?” “I didn’t come back covered in blood, now, did I?” Robin teases. “Ah, on that note—Gaius came by while you were gone,” Tharja says, stepping back. Robin doesn’t miss the way her face sours. “There’s a letter for you on the desk.” It’s almost embarrassing, how quickly Robin grabs the letter from where it rests among her maps and missives. Dear Robin, Do you believe in ghosts? I do. I think they’re everywhere. The dead watch us—sometimes, I think they judge us more harshly than Naga herself. If you’ll oblige me, Grandmaster, let me tell you a ghost story. It begins with myself and my retinue in the woods, and ends with a phantom blade through the gut of Simia, Bearer of Balmung. What happens in between is inconsequential—I am more concerned with the after, in which the ghost that saves my life leaves me with only his name and the grim declaration that he comes from a place of ruin. He wears the halidom’s colors, and he calls himself after the Hero King, Marth. He is young, and strange, and yet I feel as if I’ve met him before. Or perhaps, I am meant to know him, someday. Regardless, the memory will not leave me. I wonder what you’d make of such an encounter. I wonder if you’ll even believe me at all. Perhaps in your next letter, you could tell me. Maybe offer your own story in return. Unfortunately, I find myself with little time to write, so I will leave you for now. Stay well, and sharp be your blade, Chrom “Oh, he is the dumbest man on this gods-forsaken earth,” Robin mumbles. Tharja rolls her eyes. “And what else has he done to prove that?” “He met another sword-slinging Ylissean boy in the woods and thinks it was a ghost, when it was clearly Basilio’s champion” she says. “Seems the boy must have a penchant for throwing himself into Risen-infested woods.” Robin trawls the paragraph again, and this time, it is not amusement that fills her, but horror. “Wait. Simia, Bearer of Balmung…could the Deadlords have really made it this far North?” “Beats me,” says Henry. “Well, it’s not like they have to eat, or sleep,” Tharja offers. “They’re dead.” A pearl of sweat slides down Robin’s temple. “Then they could truly be anywhere. Regna Ferox, Plegia, Ylisse—only the gods know what kind of havoc they’re wreaking.” Relish this, a voice whispers within her, dark and bubbling like acid. This is the chaos you long for. Let the pain till the earth for our harvest of ruin. Robin shoves her head in her palms, smothering the voice, twisting her fingers against the bruise-ache of her Brand. “Father…what have you done?” + By midafternoon, the snow-clouds return from the North, and a raw, wet chill blusters its way through the city. Chrom is grateful when his walk with Khan Flavia takes them back indoors, into the firelit expanse of her study. Her bookshelves shoulder more weapons than books, but in the moment, it’s the encompassing warmth, smudging the cold out of his cheeks, that he admires the most. She seats him in a plain chair across her desk and offers him a cup of hot mulled wine. He declines pleasantly—they have business to attend to, and there will be plenty of drink to go around at the gala, tonight. Flavia opens the top drawer of her desk. “I’ll tell you the truth, Chrom—there’s a lot I can do for you,” she says. “But I can only do it if you win.” Chrom nods. “I understand.” “Here are my terms,” Flavia says, unrolling a long parchment scroll between them. “In my first measure as ruling Khan, I’ll establish a formal wartime alliance between Regna Ferox and Ylisse. We’ll be able to supply you with men and munitions, but we would like to see an increase in the foodstuffs trade on your end.” “Emmeryn can arrange that,” he says. “Very good,” she says. “And Ferox will get a cut of the victors’ spoils?” “We’ll negotiate that when the time comes,” he says. If we win the war, his thoughts chase. “But there will be a boon—I promise that much.” “You make good promises, Princeling.” “And I intend to deliver.” Flavia rerolls her terms and hands them over to Chrom—he deposits the scroll in his lap, a bit unsure of what else to do with it. “I’m sure you know our dearest Khan Basilio has been consorting with the Plegians,” Flavia continues, taking a sip of her wine. “Diplomatically, I mean. If it were another kind of consorting, with anyone, he’d be hearing from me.” “I…did not know this.” “That’s right. So, don’t let his choice of an Ylissean champion fool you. You’re only getting help in this war if you win tomorrow night.” Chrom tenses his fists, crackling the roll of parchment between them. “We’ll win,” he assures her. “The tournament, and the war.” + The opening ceremonies begin with a song Robin once heard in a dream—either a dream, or a memory long out of reach, like a smooth, oiled jewel that keeps slipping through her fingers. She does not understand the language, but the melody calls to her, rivets her somewhere out of space and time and body, far from the crowded stands of Arena Ferox. As the music changes, and Robin comes back to earth, a troupe of dancers dressed in scant, gauzy costumes comes leaping to the center of the floor. They whirl about with silk-draped rings in their hands, clanging them together on the beat, drumming up the rest of the instruments. At the front of them, a dancer dressed in white—the only one, a swan among cardinals and jays—leads with inimitable grace. From Robin’s arena-side seat, she can see the lead dancer is undeniably beautiful, her pink hair flowing behind her in a regal plume. Yet even with her beauty, not once does she turn her eyes on the audience. She is scared, Robin realizes. The crowd is her greatest fear, and yet she commands it with fluid ease, drawing every eye to her dance. They are much alike, to that end. Robin worries ceaselessly that her ruse will crumble, that there are a hundred clever Emmeryns in the compound, but even as a princess, she is a strategist, and she will bend every half-drunken soul in this arena to her will, if she must—Prince Chrom, included. Robin almost misses the dancers when they’re gone. She watches the rest of the ceremony unfurl in a listless haze, paying only idle attention to the theatrical performances and soaring battle hymns—even the fire-lancers draw little excitement from her. Her thoughts are racing, now, and she must attend to them. It is only when Khan Basilio and Khan Flavia take to the center of the arena that she returns to the present. Flavia introduces Basilio as the ruling Khan, bidding everyone to stand from their seats and bow. Then, Basilio steps forward and announces his champion. Robin was right. His champion is Marth, Chrom’s bespoken ghost, a lean, blue-clothed waif of a boy, his eyes hidden behind a mask wrought in the shape of a butterfly. As Basilio’s half of the audience cheers for him, he remains stoic and unmoving. One gloved hand curls the hilt of his sword, and when Robin squints, she can see that it’s shaking. But she, too, is shaking. She knows what comes next. Flavia will introduce her own champion, and Robin will be mere feet from the man she’s sworn time and again to kill. At the sound of his name and title, Prince Chrom of Ylisse bursts forth from the crowd and bounds across the arena floor, his cape flowing a white, tattered banner behind him. Robin digs her nails into her pants—the pressure leaves dark crescent moons in the silk. Chrom greets both Marth and Basilio before embracing Flavia, then turning out to the audience. The man behind her letters, her nemesis, her fated prey, is right in front of her, and to Robin’s lurid horror, he is as devastating as his miniature portrayed. Perhaps more so, with the way he beams at the crowd, flashing a toothy, roguish smile that would look like certain heartbreak if he weren’t so earnest. Instead, he is warmth, and light, and hope, and Robin wants to reach inside his ribs and crush the life from him. She feels suddenly lightheaded, and it dawns on her that she hasn’t taken a breath since Flavia called his name. Chrom’s gaze roves the stands, and Robin’s pulse leaps into her throat. This is too dangerous. Surely, they will meet eyes, and he will know from one glance at her that she is not Princess Daraen, but Robin, the Grandmaster, and he will draw his sword on her while she has no weapon to her person but a tiny emerald dagger. She must go. Now. And if she is to face him again tonight, it will be only when she has the power of her words—her lies—to still his sword. + It isn’t right to take congratulations for a battle one hasn’t yet won—but Flavia’s supporters foist their praise on Chrom, anyway, shoving him around with pats on the back and boisterous cheers. A few sling mud at his opponent, and Chrom is quick to worm out of their way, not wishing any ill will on the boy he’ll face tomorrow night. Really, he just wants to thank the kid—who is very much alive, to his relief—for saving him properly. But just as he did in the woods, Marth has slipped away. Maybe Chrom should do the same. Even with the cold air overhead, the first flurries of snow drifting down from the dark of the sky, the arena floor is stifling. He could go for something to eat, but there are too many people crowding the tables with the food, and he has no desire to go pushing them out of the way. So he walks. Past the Khans, past the throngs of wine-drunk nobles in their furs, past his sisters and Phila and Frederick, until the crowd tapers off and the fires blaze without shadows, and there is nothing between him and the fresh air but a young woman in violet. Chrom stops in his tracks. For one fierce, horrible second, he sees her silver-white hair, her Plegian dress, and wonders if it’s her. If the time has come, here and now. But she can’t be. This woman is far too beautiful to be Robin. The firelight molds to her features like liquid gold: her eyes are a honeyed amber, her skin the soft, bronzy color of rain-cooled sand. She wears a look of gentle surprise, and as he finally musters a step towards her, she takes one in turn, the space between them a meager eternity, a bridge between lives he knows were destined to meet. He is wordless before her, if only for the way he yearns first to hear her voice.
“I’m—Maura I’m so sorry!” Jane finally stuttered, “I don’t…I don’t know what I was thinking…I just…” Jane was unsure of what to do with her arms; they seemed oddly empty without Maura. She scratched the back of her head, watching the doctor nervously. When Maura said nothing, Jane ran her hands over her face anxiously. She could feel herself starting to shake. What the fuck were you thinking, Jane?! She cursed at herself. She wished Maura would speak, but she was silent, her hands gripping the counter behind her, her knuckles were white, and her arms were trembling slightly. Jane was sure Maura was going to cry. “God, Maur!” Jane said, wishing she could wrap her up in her arms, but she feared nearing her would make Maura even more upset. “I’m sorry—damn it I always make things worse!” She cursed herself loudly. “Why?” Maura said in a barely audible whisper, still staring at the floor. “Why?” Jane said tossing her hands up in the air with angry resignation—not at Maura, but with herself, “I don’t know Maura, I’m just a complete ass!” “No…” Maura said her voice quivering, tears spilling from her eyes as she finally looked up into Jane’s eyes, “Why did you kiss me?” “Why did I kiss…” Jane said, her eyes wide. Why the fuck did you kiss her? Jane thought to herself. Because I didn’t want you to leave… because it just happened … because I wanted to so badly. Jane looked at her friend at a complete loss for words. “You kissed me.” Maura reiterated, more to reassure herself than anything else. You did not imagine that… that really happened. She thought, peering up at Jane. “But… why?” “I don’t know.” Jane finally whispered. “I just…” How could she explain this to her friend? How could she make Maura understand what she didn’t understand herself? All of this tension, it just kept building and building. They didn’t talk about it—no Jane purposely avoided talking about it, ever since that whole thing with Giovanni. Jane hadn’t thought much about it at first, but in light of recent events, the whole conversation about Giovanni and whether or not Maura was attracted to her seemed a little strange. Jane had been trying to convince Maura not to see him but had not succeeded. Then Maura suddenly compared her to him. “Well so are you.” Maura had said, pointing out how different the Maura and her were, and how alike her and Giovanni were, “Except for being an auto mechanic, and we’re best friends.” “Yes.” Jane had conceded. She had given Maura a smirk. “But I’m interesting… and…” she said looking at Maura expectantly, “you don’t want to sleep with me.” Jane had been surprised to see Maura cock her head to the side in a suggestive manner. Surely, she was simply being playful, Jane had thought, but for a split second she worried that Maura was actually considering the idea. “You don’t, do you?” Jane had said in complete awe of even a hint of curiosity on Maura’s part. Now, after all that happened tonight, Maura’s claim that she wasn’t attracted to the detective did not seem so sincere. She wondered if Maura had lied to spare Jane embarrassment or discomfort. But it wasn’t like her to lie, even if it was to spare someone’s feelings. Then again, maybe Maura hadn’t been interested at the time. Maybe her feelings had changed since then, grown. Jane looked down at her clearly distraught friend with empathy. Maura was more open about her feelings—her sexuality. Maura had obviously been able to think rationally about what she was feeling. Despite her tears now, just a moment ago Jane had felt Maura’s hunger. The feel of the doctor’s desperate grip on her neck, the lingering taste of Maura’s mouth on her lips, they told a story of longing, of consent. Suddenly, fear stabbed her right in the gut. What did this mean? Would this change their friendship? Could they ever go back to the way it was? Jane wasn’t sure of anything except that she didn’t want to be without Maura ever again. The kiss—these feelings—threatened their friendship. Jane couldn’t have that. “Maura, I’m sorry, I never should have done that.” Jane said, trying to place a comforting hand on Maura’s shoulder. Maura looked up at Jane in horror. Her heart shattered into a million pieces. For a fleeting moment Maura had hoped, had prayed, that Jane had acted out of a desire for their relationship to be something more. Suddenly, Jane wanted to take it all back. She shrunk away from the brunette, looking up at her in disbelief. She wiped at her face, trying to compose herself. Instead, Maura found herself growing agitated, even angry. If Jane didn’t feel that way about her than she never should have kissed her in the first place, she thought. “I have to go!” Maura suddenly hissed at her, she darted out of the kitchen and collected her things as quickly as possible. “No! Maur, please don’t go, not like this!” Jane called, following her. She tried to make Maura look at her, but the doctor pulled her arm away fiercely. Jane pleaded, “I’m sorry, I never meant to hurt you! I swear!” “Well, you did.” Maura seethed, pushing Jane off her and refusing to look at her. Maura slammed the door shut behind her as she sprinted from Jane’s apartment. She pressed fervently at the elevator button. Jane’s door opened, and she ran towards her. Maura headed for the stairs, ignoring Jane calling after her. When she made it to the street, she hailed a taxi before Jane could spot which direction she had gone. She slammed the door closed just as Jane reached the car. “Please,” Jane hollered through the window, banging on the locked door, “can we just talk?” Maura didn’t look at her and the driver sped off down the street, eager to leave the frantic detective behind. Maura couldn’t help but glance in the behind her briefly. Jane stood in the middle of the street, blocking several cars. Her hands were thrown up in desperation and in the glimmer of headlights Maura could see she was still yelling after her. Maura closed her eyes. She desperately wished that that wouldn’t be the last image she saw of her best friend. Honestly, though, she didn’t know how she was ever going to face Jane again. Jane watched the taxi’s taillights disappeared into the Boston traffic, exhaust fumes left in its wake. The detective hollered down the dark street, but Maura was gone. She threw up her arms in furious resignation, several cars blaring their horns behind her. “Oh fuck off!” Jane yelled agitatedly, spinning around and banging her hands flat onto the hood of the car behind her. “Hey!” the driver screamed out the window, “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Jane ran her hands through her hair. “I don’t know.” Jane mumbled to herself as she headed back to her apartment building. Had she been able to think rationally, she would have let Maura be, let things cool off. She knew she should just cut her losses and take the weekend to think things over, but her mind was racing, her heart pounding. Jane took out her phone and speed-dialed Maura’s cell. No answer. She called again and it went straight to voicemail. Frustrated, she pressed end without leaving a message. She tried Maura’s house, but still no answer. She’s not even home yet, Jane! She scolded herself, slamming her apartment door closed behind her. Jane dropped down onto the couch letting out a loud, frustrated sigh. “Maur…” she lamented to the empty apartment. Jo Friday hopped up next to her. She set her head down on Jane’s lap, whining at her sympathetically. The dog looked up at the detective with her puppy eyes, wagging her tail encouragingly. “Don’t you go getting attached to me, Jo—I’m nothing but trouble.” Jane said patting the small dog lightly on the head. Jo Friday barked at her and stood up, as if rebuking the detective for her self-loathing. She pushed the dog off her in agitation and headed for the shower. “How are you going to fix this one, huh?” Jane mumbled to herself as she peeled her clothes off, waiting for the water to heat up. Jane stepped into the shower, letting the hot water run down the tense muscles of her back. She let the water run into her hair, over her face. She rubbed at her eyes, fighting back tears. The image of Maura crying flashed into her mind. She watched helplessly as Maura sobbed, the memory playing over and over. Angrily Jane slammed her fist on the wall of the shower, tears hidden by the steaming water running down her face. How could you have done that without thinking? Thinking about the consequences—thinking about why you wanted to do it in the first place? the detective thought furiously. “Why?” Maura’s trembling voice resounded in Jane’s mind, “Why did you kiss me?” “Because…” Jane said to the shower, her voice softening, as if Maura was there to hear it. Jane wracked her brain. Images flashed through her mind. Maura’s smile, the sweet sound of her laugh, the cute look Maura gave her whenever she made a sarcastic comment. She remembered Maura soft lips—she could even recall their taste—her shimmering hazel eyes, her silky, honey colored hair. Jane vividly recollected how the curves of Maura’s waist felt as she slid her hands around them, the way Maura breasts felt as they pressed against her own, the way her heart had pounded in her chest as Maura grasped passionately at her neck. The words spilled from Jane’s mouth of their own accord, “…because I’m in love with you.” (to be continued)
* * * I allowed myself a small squawk of triumph as I landed. Waking up so early had been it. I'd just claimed one of the best perches on the whole seafront. It had an eye-catching position on a slight promontory, overlooking a busy section of the promenade. And best of all, there was only one other perch on this corner - and that currently empty - meaning I shouldn't have much competition for attention. This wasn't going to be a repeat of last year. Last year I'd arrived late - much too late - and had been forced to settle for a fourth-rate perch at the unpopular north end of the promenade, almost hidden from sight behind a large thorny bush. I hadn't mated with a single female year. I looked myself over and chirped in embarrassment. The early start and hurried flight hadn't left time for grooming and there were feathers sticking out at odd angles all over the place. Prime location or not, I wasn't going to woo anyone in state. I began the slow, methodical process of putting myself in order, preening my feathers into their proper arrangement with my beak. "Ahem." I looked up. A female, staring at me quizzically. I was, at that moment, in a particularly unflattering position, bent round upon myself almost beak-to-bum to preen my tail feathers. I straightened so quickly I nearly unbalanced myself. "Ah... sorry about that," I said. "I wasn't expecting anyone so early." "What can I say? The early bird catches the stud." Stud? I shifted nervously from foot to foot. "My name's Stud. Seppiae! My name's Seppiae!" I felt my neck feathers fluff up in embarrassment. "Well then Stud, or Seppiae, or whatever your name is, why don't you show me what you've got?" "Why not? Here I go..." I spread my wings and began. The mating display is a freeform art, but the aim is - in essence - to show off your natural assets and try to hypnotise the female with your beauty. I'd practised hundreds of times in front of a mirror, and I was determined not to make a muddle of it now. I began very traditionally, weaving my body from side to side and letting my wings waft up and down. My voice warbled through a serenade I dearly hoped sounded lyrical and enticing, but half feared actually sounded reedy and confused. I was horribly conscious of my unfinished grooming, but nevertheless I was optimistic. My plumage had come out well this year. Just a few months back I'd been the same nondescript brown as any female, but that had all changed now. Breeding plumage came in many shades, but mine was green. My wingtips were green. My eyestripe was green. True, my back remained a stubborn brown, but my breast and throat were a pleasing pistachio shade. It was my tail feathers, however, that were my foremost pride. They were a deep, dark green shot through with patches and swirls as bright as spring leaves in sunshine, producing a most magnificent display when fanned out and wiggled. Turning my tail on her, I fanned out and wiggled. They were - I was almost certain - irresistibly seductive little wiggles. Once I felt I'd wiggled enough to get any female salivating, I spun back seaward to claim my admirer. She was walking away down the promenade, eyeing up another male a few perches down. I drooped. Was it my incomplete grooming? My singing? My dancing? Perhaps there was something wrong with my plumage? Was it my wings? My tail? My crest? Belatedly, I remembered to raise the tall crest of emerald feathers on my head. I couldn't I'd forgotten to raise my crest. No wonder she hadn't been interested! I'd just about finished my grooming when a flurry of wings announced an arrival on the corner's other perch. "Well met, neighbour," said a smooth male voice. "Well met," I said before turning to regard my new competitor. I squawked in dismay. He was . His feathers were vivid orange and red. orange and red, without even a hint of brown, giving him more the appearance of a flame than a living thing. And he was . Not a single ruffled feather anywhere; his shape sleek and streamlined; his beak a polished alabaster curve. He bowed and spread one wing, flashing scarlet feathers. "Allow me to introduce myself. Quiriprotelytix." I wilted a little further. Even his had mine outclassed. "Seppiae," I replied. "Quiriprotelytix, did you say? That's quite a beakful." "Isn't it, though? Do call me Quiri, if you prefer. Either will sound just an sweet to me in your melodic voice." "Quiri it is, then." I bowed back, feeling a little more comfortable now that my name was no longer being overshadowed. "Best of luck in the mating, Quiri," I said without meaning it. "Oh, I just it's going to be a good year for me. I'm eyeing someone up already." His sharp black eyes grazed over me. "I think you could be in for a good year too, Sep." I was beginning to doubt that very much. * * * Every good perch was occupied now by males of all hues and shades, lining the edge of the sandy bay like gaudy sequins sewn into the hem of a rippling brown sheet. Females passed up and down the grey stone promenade, eyes sliding greedily from one male to the next. Snatches of warbling song glided through the air now from my left, now from my right. A flurry of wings a little down the shore and a female flew up with a smug-looking male close on her tail, heading for the privacy of the woods behind me. A few minutes later I heard squawks and moans of pleasure spilling through the trees. Other couples, less modest in their passion, had dotted themselves across the broad sands of the bay, dots of flashing colour in that drab, watery landscape. Oh, how I longed to be one of those lucky ones. But things were going badly. Quiri was stealing the attention of every female who passed by. I thought my own plumage quite fine, but placed next to Quiri I looked positively drab. We both perched with our crests raised, our wings slightly unfolded to give just a cheeky hint of the bright colour within. But his wings were so much brighter, and his crest taller, and everything about him so much more dazzling, that of course the females all homed straight for him like bees to a flower, barely giving me a second glance as they buzzed around him. One thing gave me some comfort: his technique was far from perfect. His stance, for instance, wasn't quite right: he should have been facing straight forwards to face the passing females, but instead he was perched at a bit of an angle so that only I got a full view of his best side. And everyone knew it was important to make eye contact with females, but Quiri seemed to spend more time watching me than looking at our prospective mates. He didn't even bother to display when asked, just shook his head politely at the many, many requests. Despite this appallingly amateurish behaviour, he was still putting me in the shade. I considered relocating, but all the good perches had gone already, with a flock of males circling overhead waiting to pounce on any freshly-unoccupied spot. Damn Quiri and his red feathers! Of course the females were drooling over him. Hell, I was male and could barely keep my eyes off him. But... maybe all wasn't what it seemed? "Hey Quiri," I said at a quiet moment, "is that plumage natural?" "Every feather just as Nature has blessed me." "I don't believe you." He regarded me with those deep black eyes and tilted his head in question. "No?" " has plumage like that. You have dyed it." "I promise you I haven't." "Of course you have. I've got you figured out. That's why you're not displaying. If you started shaking yourself about, you'd splatter everyone with red and orange dye, and there goes the illusion. Or are there brown patches where you couldn't reach under your wings?" In answer, Quiri unfolded one wing for me, revealing untainted orange and red feathers, if anything more dazzling than the rest. He flapped the wing a few times. No dye splattered out. "An elegant theory Sep, but wrong. I'm just as you see me." "I still think it's dyed. It's a nice job, but it has to be fake." "Do take a closer look if you fancy it." He offered the wing for inspection. I hopped off my perch - keeping a close eye on it in case any opportunist started towards it - and approached. Pointedly ignored the proffered wing I chose a different patch to inspect, a suspiciously scarlet band on his nape where most males had brown feathers even during breeding season. He bent down obligingly and I nuzzled my beak into those feathers, sniffing. They had an ordinary, unremarkable, distinctly male scent, and nothing else. I stuck out my tongue to lick one plume. It tasted like feather. It remained scarlet. "...These natural." "Every single feather." He shook himself, ruffling his plumage. "But I've no objections if you want to nose that beak of yours wherever you like, if you want to make sure." "No, I believe you now." I returned to my perch. Nuzzling my beak against his neck had left me with an... sort of feeling. "So why you displaying? You could have mated three times already today, if you'd wanted to." "Oh, I'm waiting for someone really special to ask me." I puzzled over that. Some of the females he'd turned down had been desperately beautiful. Almost as beautiful as he was, I found myself thinking, and then puzzled over that thought too. "But why aren't displaying, Sep?" "Why aren't displaying?" My crest twitched in irritation. "I'm not displaying because no-one's interested. No-one's interested because the most stupidly handsome male in the whole province is perched right next to me. Why would anyone be interested in when right there?" He gave me a careful look. "Sep, did you just call me the most handsome male in the province?" "Of course you are! Just look at you!" He glanced casually over his vibrant plumage. "Well, perhaps I am the handsomest. But you're the prettiest." "I... what?" "And I know at least one person who's interested in you." "Oh really? And who might that be?" But before he could answer we were interrupted by a female voice. "Oh, you are just . You're coming with me to make an egg. Right now." I turned to her, vaguely hoping this comment had been directed at me, but of course it wasn't. Her eyes were feasting on Quiri. She was a particularly attractive specimen, with sparkling intelligence in her eyes and wonderfully fluffy, mottled plumage down her breast. So I was surprised and slightly peeved when Quiri once again turned her down. "A most flattering offer, my lady, but my attentions are currently engaged elsewhere. Perhaps, however, you'd consider my companion Seppiae here for this honour instead, who is as amiable and eligible a male as you're ever likely to meet?" She turned her attentions to me, looking uncertain. Her eyes raked through my plumage. "Hmm. I don't know. He's not I guess." She shrugged her wings. "Alright then Seppiae, let's have it. Dance for me." I spread my wings and performed my mating display again. I felt particularly self-conscious with Quiri observing me as well, giving me the feeling I was displaying to two instead of just one. But I delivered a solid performance with no major mistakes, and a better-than-usual attempt at song. I remembered to keep my crest raised. And after I'd wiggled my tail feathers at her and turned back round, she was still there. "Not bad. Not too bad." She looked at me thoughtfully. My heart raced. "But... no. I can do better." She bowed to both of us. "Best of luck, gentlemen." And she was gone. I stared discontentedly at the ground. "I suppose you found that rather amusing.". "Amusing? No. I'm genuinely disappointed for you. She clearly has deplorably poor taste. But, I'm also quite relieved." "Relieved?" I glared at him. "Well I wouldn't want to lose your very pleasant company." "Hmm. Right." "If it helps, I thought your mating display was rather cute." " " I bristled. "It's not supposed to be " "Well that's where you're going wrong then. You cute. Cute as a bug on a bush." "But I don't want to be cute. I want to be handsome and virile." "Oh, there's nothing wrong with being cute. Lots of females cute. like cute. You'll have better luck if you stop trying to fluff yourself up as big and masculine and just let your cuteness blossom." "And how do I do that?" "Well, take that mating display of yours. Very cute. But that tail wiggle at the end..." "That's the best bit!" "I couldn't agree more. But it could be even better." "How?" "Show it to me, and I'll talk you through it? I only got a side view last time." It felt odd to face my rump towards another male and fan my tail feathers, odd to allow him a clear view of my cloaca. Odder still to make myself perform the same wiggling seductive dance that was usually reserved for female eyes. "Mmm, that is a treat for the eyes. But maybe... stop wiggling around like that?" I stopped wiggling. "Sep, has anyone ever told you that the pattern of colour on your tail feathers looks like a deep, rich forest with sunlight dappling through the canopy?" "It... it does?" "It does. And the effect would be all the better if instead of wiggling, you moved like a forest." " What are you talking about?" "Think of how a forest moves. It sways. It rustles. Sway for me, Sep. Rustle for me." "Like this?" "That's better. But slower." I felt a wingtip resting on my rump, guiding me. "Like this. Sway. it. Nice, gentle, soothing motions. Perfect. Looking at you now, I can imagine I'm in a green and pleasant woodland. It calms the soul. Draws the eye in, nice and welcoming, towards the pink spot in the centre. cute." I swallowed, nervously. Of course I wanted to draw the female eye towards my vent, but I wasn't sure I wanted ogling me there. Although, there a strange tingling excitement to know he was looking right at my privatemost point. "Have you seen enough now?" I asked. "Heavens no, I could watch this for hours." I decided enough was enough, and turned back to face him. "How did you become such an expert on mating displays anyway?" He shrugged in false modesty. "Just a natural talent." "Oh really?" "Really. Every single person who's seen my mating display has mated with me. I've never had even one rejection." I eyed his plumage again, and could believe it. But I wasn't going to I believed it. "Unlikely! But I think I see now why you're not displaying to any females. You're no good at it, are you? Plenty to say about other people's displays but hopeless at your own, is that it?" His eyes met mine, a challenge in his gaze. "Would you like to see my mating display, Sep?" "I think I would, yes." His crest perked up. "Finally! I thought you'd ask!" He spread his wings out full, and for a moment he stood perfectly still. His vivid red flight feathers framed the warm orange of his breast nicely. When he began to move it was in quick, flashing motions. If my own plumage resembled a forest then his certainly resembled a flame, and he moved like one too. His wings darted up and down unpredictably, one moment a low and crackling blanket of fire close to the ground, the next blazing up into the air in an inferno. His voice was a hot, bright crackle and whistle that soared and leapt in time with his wings, the sound melting through me and warming something inside. His whole body leapt, twisted and danced; flickering, wild and all-consuming; except for his head which stayed perfectly motionless. His black eyes like smouldering coals burned into my own. It was hypnotic. I couldn't have looked away if I'd wanted to. It was only gradually that I realised the dance was over, that he was still once more, regarding me inquisitively. "Well? What do you think?" "That was..." I struggled for the right word. "That was hot. Really, really hot. I can see why you've never been turned down. Damn it, I'm male and almost want to mate with you." " " He looked aghast. "I see I have to try even harder." And he began to move again. It was a different dance this time. Very different. Where the first had been fast and flickering, this was slow and smouldering. His wings and body rippled and sinuated in subtle but suggestively sexual motions. Turning his left flank to me, he let his tail feathers fan out wide. They were brightest of flaming red at the tips, changing to fiery orange further in, finally fading to hot yellow and incandescent white nearest to his rump. He spun about 180 degrees, quickly, so quickly that I caught only the briefest flash of pink as his tail display streaked past my eyes. He swung his tail back the other way, and I watched with surprising eagerness for that cheeky glimpse of pink. Now at last he let his rump face towards me and linger, his tail feathers spread wide in every direction. He wiggled them in a shimmering motion, and my eyes were drawn irresistibly in through those concentric circles, first of red, and within that orange, and within that yellow, and within that white, and within that the stems of his quills circling his juicy pink cloaca like a crown. The display over, he turned to face me once more. "How about now, Sep?" "Quiri, I..." I struggled to find the words to describe the hot, sticky need his display had aroused. A need I'd never before felt for another male, but that burned just as bright as any other. There was no point denying it, or evading what must happen next. "Let's go have sex." * * * We settled in the sandy mud of the bay, just above the waterline. My talons sank in with a soft squelch. We'd flown there by a most circuitous route, chasing each other through the air and nipping at each other's tails, flashing and flirting as we flew in joyful interlocking spirals. Quiri draped one wing over my back, rubbing his warm flank against mine. The curve of his beak nuzzled my neck while his tail twitched teasingly against my own. The promenade and the world beyond seemed impossibly remote. The only sounds were the whoosh and tinkle of waves on the sand and the slide and rustle of feather on feather. "Did I ever tell you how cute you are, Sep?" I felt his words tickle the feathers on my throat. "You did. Repeatedly." "Good. Let me say it one more time, just to be sure. You're cute, Sep." "Thanks. Did I ever tell you you're gorgeous?" "You didn't! But better late than never." He rubbed his beak against mine. "You're gorgeous, Quiri." "We're both gorgeous." He stuck out his tongue to run along the underside of my beak." "So... what happens next?" He moved his beak away and questioned me with his eyes. "Have you never done this before, Sep?" "Only with females." "Oh, that's alright then, you already know what you're doing. Just pretend I'm female." "I don't want to pretend you're anyone except yourself." "Aww, you don't just look cute, you talk cute too!" He rippled his beak through my crest. "Would you prefer to be on top, as you're more used to females?" "Only if you don't mind?" "Oh, I don't mind. With you, Sep, I'd happily do it on top, on bottom, back-to-back, upside-down, mid-air, side by side... anything you can think of. Or all of them, one after the other. But let's start with you on top, shall we?" He sat down in the sand with his tail towards me, and began to perform a seated variation on his mating display. His wings fanned up and down, and his neck bent round to let his black eyes meet mine in invitation. But my attention was fixed on his magnificent tail feathers, which were once more spread out and upwards, presenting their concentric circles of shimmering red, orange, yellow, white and pink. I'd barely wanted anything so badly as I wanted to rub myself against that pink spot, and it was only an effort of will that held me back from throwing myself on top of him straight away. But I didn't, not yet. I'd mated with a few females over the years, and I'd learned some things. One of those things was that they enjoyed a bit of beak play before the real mating began. I moved my head into the shadow of his tail so that first the red tips of his feathers disappeared outside my field of view, then the orange parts too. I was left staring at just his yellow and white inners with his pink bulls-eye an inch in front of my beak. I pushed two inches forwards, nosing his softest spot, making him twitch. I inhaled. He smelt thickly masculine. I worked him just as I knew to work a female, rubbing the curve of my beak up and down over the moist pucker of his vent. And just like with females, it worked a treat. He let out a warbling murmur which crescendoed to an urgent rippling cry. Not only could I hear his pleasure but I could feel it, by the twitching, pulsing heat building in his loins. And I could smell it too, with the sweet stench of sex rising off him like steam. Rub, rub, rub. Up and down, in quick, slippery little motions. It didn't take long, to bring him to a climax. He emitted a broken squawk; I felt his cloaca twitch, and a moment later it exploded in a gush of hot seed. It splattered all over my beak in an instant, some travelling up as far as my nostrils. I snorted instinctively, clearing my airways and returning some of his seed in a fine spray delivered across his tail feathers. I kept my beak firmly pressed against his cloaca until his last dregs of orgasm had squirted their way out, and then pulled away. Cum flowed from the point of my beak in a thin white stream, painting strange hieroglyphics onto the clean brown sand. I opened my beak to say something and a volume immediately slipped inside, tasting intensely salty. Raising my head, I gulped it down. Quiri, panting slightly, regarded me with some amusement. "Well, well. Cute full of surprises. Aren't I the lucky one?" "Not as lucky as me." "Oh, you're too cute for words, with your beak in that state. Mount me right now Sep and indulge yourself on me. I insist." I didn't need asking again. I hopped onto his back, my talons finding firm purchase amongst his flaming carpet of feathers. Spreading my wings for balance, I lowered my rear - his tail sweeping up and to the left as mine press down and to the right - until, after only a moment's trial-and-error to find the right spot, our genital openings met. I'd thought it would feel different, with him being a male. But physically, everything felt just like with females I'd mated with in the past. It was the same position, the same bubbling thrill, the same perfect feeling of our orifices conjoined in an intimate cloacal kiss. As I began to hump him there was just the same blissful sensation from our vents rubbing together as if I were humping a female. The squawks and trills he let out were the same, and so were mine. I could have closed my eyes and quite comfortably imagined I was mating with a female. But I didn't close my eyes. I stared down in wonder at the brilliant fiery plumage beneath my, gazed in rapture at the flaming red of his crest feathers bobbing about in front of me. My beak still dripped, leaking tiny drops of white cum over the red feathers of his nape. There was a whoosh and sigh of water, and a far-reaching wave made it far enough up the sand to lap at Quiri's wings and breast, white foam discolouring his feathers. The tide was coming in fast. I paused uncertainly. He bent his head round and blinked at me, puzzled. "Why've you stopped? I was enjoying that." "I think you're going to get very wet if we don't move further in." Another wave tickled against him as I spoke. "The sea can get me as wet as it likes, Sep, just you concentrate on getting me nice and wet under the tail." I gladly resumed my humping after giving him a tender nibble with my beak. I kept an eye on the waves as I worked him, wondering if each one would be the last before my own rising tide flooded out into orgasm. The sea lapped against Quiri's breast, seeping into the soft orange feathers. I was nearly there... The next wave parted around him and met on the other side, trickling back out through his plumage and soaking him completely. Close... so close... I felt him sway as the wave hit his side, the sea surrounding him and not retreating, leaving him an island. I squawked. I squirted. I felt my seed gush out of me, gush against his own vent and - finding no ingress - gush down into the sea with a trickling splash. A few weaker squirts - and weaker squawks - followed, and then all was still and quiet. The next wave carried globs and lines of white suspended in the water like spectres as it flowed out. We retired further up the sands, out of range of the rising sea for a while yet. I looked at Quiri and laughed. His whole underside was sopping wet, with sand and the odd bit of sea debris lodged in his feathers. The downy feathers below his vent were matted white with my seed, and his own seed was dripped across his nape and sprayed across his tail feathers. "Not so gorgeous now, huh Sep?" "Oh, you're still gorgeous." He was. Somehow, through it all, his vibrant plumage still dazzled. "Do you want to find somewhere to dry those feathers?" "I do. I was thinking I might dry myself off by jumping on top of you and rubbing myself all over you, if you don't mind a new experience." I didn't, and to show him how little I minded I dropped to the sand right there and then. I'd barely got my legs tucked away comfortably before he was leaping on top with a shrill cry of delight. I'd never been on this end of a mating before. The wet weight of him, the firm sharp grip of his talons on my back, set me quivering. He eased down into position, sighing contentedly as his vent settled once more against my own. I felt his beak nibble at my neck. "So Sep, how would you like to be taken?" His voice was a warm whisper. "Like this. This is good. Very good." "Ah, but there's still an important decision to be made. I know four different styles of mating for this position, and I'm a master at them all." "Four?" "Four. Would you like to sample them?" "Just get on and hump me, Quiri." "With immense pleasure." He began thrusting his rump, pushing his vent firmly against my own and pulling slightly away in rapid pulsing kisses. I moaned. Our cloacae, well primed with seed already, made a rude little sound as he moved. He paused. "That was the first style. Felt good, didn't it? I know it felt good, because that's what you were doing to me a few minutes ago and it felt . But it's not the only way to mate. Would you like to feel another?" "Anything," I said, needing him to start moving again. He did, but this time it was different. He shifted his whole weight backwards and forwards on top of me, drawing his vent across mine in an up-and-down stroking motion, making my tail feathers twitch upwards with every forward thrust. I dug my talons into the sand, stretched back my neck and trilled in pleasure. "Mmm, you like this do you?" he crooned gently. I nodded, and gave me a few more enthusiastic rounds before pausing again. "That was number two. Would you care to try number three?" "Yes..." He kept his body still this time, and waggled his tail. He waggled it from left to right, sending his vent slipping from left to right against my own. The motion was much slighter than the hearty rubs our cloacae had shared in the previous style, but he made up for it in frequency. Quiri could waggle his tail from side to side very fast indeed, and every movement sent a little shiver of delight through me. "Enough!" he said, stopping suddenly. "I can see you liked that too. But I have one more to show you." "Yes! Please!" This time it was circles. He shifted himself in subtle serpentine ripples that made his opening rub against mine in sensuous circles of pure pleasure. My whole body shook, and I let out a feeble little "whee" sound quite unlike my normal voice. "Which is it to be?" he asked, pausing once more. "How would you like me to carry you to your next orgasm? Number one, two, three or four?" "The circles," I gasped. "Keep doing those circles, you crazy thing." He nipped me affectionately. "Circles it is, then." The circles were no less marvellous on their second helping. I tried to join in, to move my body in rhythm with his own, but my position beneath him afforded me no freedom of movement and I resigned myself to being a passive partner. But there was no question that Quiri was enjoying himself just as much as me. I heard the trilling gasps as he approached an orgasm, and then the circles abruptly stopped as he pulled his vent tight against my own and shuddered. His seed was hot and wet and it tickled my pucker as it squirted out, trickling down into my plumage below. "Exquisite," he sighed. "Are you close, my pretty one?" "I'm close." "Then let's continue as we were." He carried on working me in the same wonderful little circles, and it didn't take long to bring me to my own second climax. He was still circling as I spurted, his motion rubbing my sticky seed into our feathers on every side of our vents. Only when my last feeble little trickle of cum had left me did he stop moving. There was a wet squelch and a pull of suction as we moved apart. I thought that'd be it - that after coming twice he'd be ready to rest - but I'd underestimated his stamina. As I stood trembling and panting to my feet he rolled over onto his back to lie upside-down on the sand, with his wings spread out flat to either side and his legs sticking up in the air. A comical position, but I was too busy staring at his seed-splattered pucker, raised heavenwards, to find it amusing. "Hop on," was all he said. I was still tired and tingling from the second orgasm but as I regarded him there - resplendent in soft, vivid orange, his dark eyes blinking invitingly - I knew I'd find the stamina for a third. I hopped on. My legs wrapped around his hips, and my vent pressed very easily against his vent in this strange position. I stared into his eyes and they stared back. We touched beaks. Circles. He'd rubbed me in circles, and I wanted to try it out now I was in control. I began to work him clumsily, struggling to reproduce his motions that had seemed so effortless. "Sep, Sep, stop, stop." I stopped. "Not good?" "Oh, it was good." We touched beaks again. "But stop trying to do moves. I want to see moves." "Um... I'm not really sure what my moves are." "Oh Sep, my little green beauty. Sway for me. Sway like a forest." I nodded. I closed my eyes, tried to picture the way a forest moved, then opened them again. And I began to sway. I swayed slowly, shifting my weight now from left to right, now forwards and backwards, like a sapling in a gentle wind. Every movement caused our vents to rub or kiss in tiny, subtle motions. My wings spread and rustled like a restless canopy of leaves. Quiri gazed up at me as I swayed, and I gazed down at him. I felt the rise and fall of his breath beneath me, and adjusted my swaying to fall into soft rhythm with that. "You make such a beautiful forest, Sep," he murmured. We touched beaks, and I began to pulse my rump in a more insistent motion, but slow, slow, like the creak and shiver of ancient boughs. Quiri sighed in appreciation as I ground against him, our vents locked as tightly together as an oak is rooted to the earth. I swayed. I rustled. I ground. Quiri's legs twitched, and his talons sank into the feathers of my breast, pulling me closer. He lay beneath me like a carpet of autumn leaves. Feeling the sap building in my loins I let myself grind a little faster; it was no gentle wind that blew through my branches now but a mighty gale. I moaned like tortured timber. His claws tightened on my breast. I rustled my wings one last time, then with a convulsive shiver I felt my seed spurt out in an ecstatic liquid pulse of pleasure. But right as I came, so did he. We squawked in rapture at just the same time - our eyes flickering but never leaving each other for a second - and we let loose our juices at the exact same moment. My seed spurted out and met his trying to spurt in, welled up for an instant and then shot out from the point of contact in sticky white jets. Again and again we spurted, soaking our feathers and the sand beneath. At last I slumped, exhausted, his breast rising and falling beneath me in rhythm with his panting breath, his beak murmuring back and forth through the feathers of my crest. * * * "So what'll you do now?" I asked him "Oh, you know, what I always do. Prowl the promenade, try and find the second-prettiest male and corrupt him utterly." "Only the second prettiest?" "Well I've already corrupted the prettiest." He nudged me playfully. We stood preening each other with our beaks, teasing out the sand, the debris and the white snakes of dried cum. It was a big job; we'd made quite a mess of each other. "You know... if you want to leave the second-prettiest alone and spend more time with the prettiest, you're more than welcome." "Oh Sep, that sounds lovely, but I've kept you from the females for too long already. You need to use some of this seed of yours to plant a few eggs, make sure the cute genes make it to the next generation." "I... I'll try." "Don't try, succeed. Be cute, be confident, and they'll be swarming all over you. The season's young, and you're quite a catch." The preening was done at last. He was back to his untainted blazing glory, and I was back to my brown and green neatness. "Well, Seppiae." He nodded at me. "Very well met. Very well met indeed." "Any you. Thank you, Quiriprotelytix. Thank you for everything." "It was my pleasure. All the best of luck." And with that he took to the air in a flap of red wings. "We'll catch up next year!" he shouted down from the sky. "And we'll see what new tricks you've learned!" I watched him fly away until he was no more than a red dot. Then I returned to the promenade. All the perches were taken, except one. It was at the unpopular northern end of the promenade, almost hidden behind a large thorny bush. I settled onto it with a sigh. There were no females in sight. But then suddenly there were. A female touched down in front of me, then another. And another, and another. This crowd was - inexplicably - heading straight for me. "Are you Seppiae?" asked the leader of the deputation. "I am." "It was you who was out on the sands with the orange and red male, wasn't it?" My neck feathers ruffled in embarrassment. "Ah. You saw that, did you?" "Saw it? We couldn't keep our eyes off it. We were watching. That was seriously hot stuff." "Um... thanks?" "Now, I've heard that your friend only goes for males. But how about you?" "Me? I'm... um... flexible." "Reeeeeally?" The females looked at each other significantly. They seemed to be trying to puff themselves up, all trying to catch my eye. "Would you display for us, Seppiae? Please?" "Well, if you insist..." I spread my wings. And I swayed like a forest.
In the early, early morning in their resort hotel room, Tony shook Peter awake. “Breakfast then let’s hop in the shower, but not too much soap, okay? Definitely no fruity stuff.” “I feel so 1998.” Peter looked to the outfit Tony forced him to wear. “Ha! You look great in anything! Life’s not always about skinny jeans you know.” Peter was wearing seriously vintage drab olive cargo pants with serious cargo pockets. His shirt was a plain black tee with a little pocket over the chest. Tony was dressed down as well. Jeans and one of his faded vintage band tees. Still classically cool. “Why, Tony! Why?” “Surprise! It’s a surprise! Now come into the kitchen with me.” Peter obeyed and stepped into the hotel room’s kitchenette where Tony proceeded to fill Peter’s cargo pockets chock full of… Bok choy. Tons and tons of Bok choy. He filled every single pocket including the little pocket on the shirt. He stuffed his own pockets too. Then he brought bags of more bok choy and watercress and cilantro for Happy to carry. “Whoa! Must be a pretty serious safari if we need a bodyguard.” “Happy? Um…yes.” Tony started to snicker. “Yes. If things get out of hand today, Happy is the man for the job.” Tony laughed and kissed Peter’s cheek. Happy did not seem excited about the trip but dutifully carried the extra vegetable bags as if they held the most precious valuables Tony Stark had ever entrusted him with in his career. “Tony, there aren’t a whole lot of people on this ferry? Is this the earliest one?” “Yes, Pete.” “Could we have picked a later one?” “Yes, but no. You’ll see.” The view was beautiful. The sun rose as the ferry took them over the water to a quaint little island with a sign that read: Okunoshima Island “What is this place?” “This island manufactured deadly poisons during World War II.” “Is that why we’re here?” “No, Peter. The chemical plants are long since closed. Since then, in the 70s a school class left their class pets there, about a dozen rabbits. Well, you know what they say about rabbits-!” “Wait, Tony is this that famous island with all the rabbits?! Is this Rabbit Island?! Are we here on thee Rabbit Island?! For Real?!” “I was hoping you would be excited about that.” “OhMyGOD, Tony! I've always heard about this, but I never thought I’d get to see it for real! This is the best thing ever! I can’t believe this! The vegetables make sense now! I can’t wait to see the rabbits!” “Can’t wait to see your hundreds of new best friends!” Tony chuckled and laughed admiring Peter’s pure joy. It was a momentous arrival for sure. Sleepy rabbits looked liked clouds swarming to the landing to greet the first-morning ferry and Tony and Peter were the first visitors of the day. The gentle nibblers surrounded Peter who fell to his knees and laughed until tears ran down his cheeks. “Oh, Tony! They’re just so precious! I’m so happy! This is the best!” He sang as he tossed veggies to his new hungry buddies. The friendly swarm seemed to swallow him whole! The young man was lost in a cloud of fluff as the rabbits nosed their way to the veggies in Peter’s pockets and licked and kissed the salt off of his cheeks. “Oh my God! It tickles! I’m dying! It tickles!” “This way, Peter! There are more rabbits this way! I want you to see the buildings too!” Tony knelt down to rescue Peter from the mob. Poor Happy grumbled as he carried the bags of extra veggies and food. The buildings told the story of a forgotten war. Tall dilapidated cement factories now overtaken by vines and plants had signages that told the stories of how they once made poison gases. Peter used one hand to continually toss greens from his pockets to the animals and used the other hand to reach for Tony’s. The ironman had a thousand-yard stare. “You know, a million atrocities have been committed under the Stark name, but this place gives me hope. From war and poison to…this.” he pointed to the happy chubby bunnies tugging at Peter’s pant’s leg. “You’re well on your way, Tony. Your arc reactors provide clean, renewable energy and you yourself are seen as a pioneer for human rights. People see you and see Ironman and think of good things.” Peter leaned in for a soft kiss that had him feeling almost as warm and fuzzy as the critters surrounding him in that moment. “Hate to kill the moment, but we’re almost outta veggies, Tony.” Happy shouted. “Oh no.” Peter looked into the eyes of the dozens of rabbits. “It’s more than okay, Peter. More ferries will come throughout the day with more and more people with more food. These guys will be okay.” “Are you sure though? I mean what happens if the ferries don’t come? And what happens if they get sick? Is there a vet on the island?” “Well…Actually…I don’t know. That’s a good question.” Peter began to work himself up with worry. The more he questioned the more he feared for his hundred new best friends. “I’ve heard about rabbit viruses. Do you think they’re vaccinated? Oh, Tony…” “Tell you what Peter. I can tell this is important to you. We won’t leave this island until we’ve set them up with a nice veterinary hospital, okay? Happy and I will make some phone calls and get a building crew started today.” Tony winked. “Really?!” “Really. It’s nothing when you’re Tony Stark. Now let’s take some cute pictures with your friends by pink trees, okay. I have a surprise for you back at the hotel after all of this. But I know you’d never have fun with me if you were worried about these guys.” Tony crouched down to pet a friendly rabbit who nuzzled his palm in response. “They are awfully cute.” “You really area good guy Tony,” Peter said with a kiss to Tony's cheek. “You make me better, Peter Rabbit” Peter and Tony were sweaty and dirty for the ferry ride back to the mainland but too joyous to care. They cuddled laughed and looked at all of the silly photos they had taken with the bunnies until they had arrived back at the hotel. “Thanks, Happy!” Peter sang. “No problem, Peter.” He cracked what looked like a genuine smiled and shook his new rabbit shaped beer bottle key chain at Pete as he headed for his own hotel room. “Hope you aren’t too tired Peter Cottontail.” “No!” Peter giggled at the nickname and squirmed in Tony’s arms. “Good! I have a surprise and after last night, I think you might like it. Of course, if it’s too much just tell me and we can dial it back a little.” “Dial it back?” “It’s…a little hardcore? You’ll see.” Now Peter was intrigued. Tony had showered and was dressed in one of his classic suits with a set of his classic thick-rimmed glasses. He sipped a martini in the hotel room kitchenette while he waited for Peter who stepped out of the shower, fresh and clean, ready and waiting, in just a fluffy, hotel towel. Little did he know, he was about to get fluffier. “Give Daddy a kiss?” Peter turned a half smile. On their last vacation, he had been the one to put Tony over his knee. But he liked this role too! He sauntered over to the fully dressed, overly dressed Tony wearing only a towel making such a lewd contrast and placed his arms around his neck before kissing him a tender, wet kiss. “Such a good little bunny.” he growled with a wink “Tony!” Peter giggled. “That’s Daddy to you, Peter Rabbit.” Tony firmly took Peter by the hand and led him into the bedroom, there waiting for him on the bed was a red and blue Playboy bunny corset. With a little spider over the bosom. Peter’s jaw hung open. He gasped. “Spider-Bunny! What do you think?” Tony moved behind Peter and delicately caressed his waist while kissing the sides of his neck. “I love it! It’s so cute!” “I’m so glad, Baby Bunny. Now, we can just do the costume and be done with it or if you’re up for it…there’s more.” “More?” “Try it on.” Peter picked up the bodice feeling the softness of the material. It felt so good against his skin. He couldn’t wait to put it on! Slowly and carefully he eased into the one-piece corset with the huge fluffy bunny tail attached right over his muscular yet soft buttocks. Tony cupped his chin as Peter obediently pouted for him. Tony rolled up a tube of deep red lipstick and applied an ample amount before kissing most of it off. He then smudged a little on his thumb and smeared it on Peter’s cheeks in place of rouge. “You’re such a pretty little doll for me, aren’t you?” Tony gave Peter’s ass a hard smack “Aren’t you?” “Yes! Yes, Daddy.” Peter fell into Tony’s chest with the smack. Tony cupped Peter’s chin again bringing his eyes to meet his. “Is this okay?” his concern genuine. “Yes! I’m having fun. I think I need ears, though.” Peter smiled and kissed a red kiss on Tony’s neck. “I have more than ears, but only if you want.” Peter turned around to see that on the bed, under where the corset had been was a set of rabbit ears. Tony picked them up and placed them perfectly, completing the look, but there was more… A black faux-leather collar decorated with red lace and little white fabric roses. In the center was an oversized obedience ring with a red heart-shaped padlock dangling from it. “Oh, Tony!” Peter squirmed grinding his buttocks against Tony’s suited crotch. “You’re…okay with it?” “I’m okay. It’s for me isn’t it?” Peter felt Tony’s arms surround him possessively. “Yes Baby. Tonight, you’re my…Pet.” Tony smothered Peter’s neck with kisses before sliding the collar into place. He took a step back to get a good look. Peter reached up to adjust his rabbit ears, the motion made his body look long and impossibly cute. Tony couldn’t resist pulling him in for a bearish kiss. He reached down cupping Peter by his buttocks that was partially exposed by the revealing outfit and picked him up into his arms, snuggling his Peter Rabbit. “I have just a couple more things, Little Bunny,” Tony whispered into Peter’s human ear. “I can’t wait.” Peter nuzzled Tony’s neck the way a real rabbit would, letting himself get into his new pet-play role. Tony set Peter on the bed and pulled out a roll of something black and shiny and fabric from his coat pocket. “I hope you like these. Not the traditional Playboy Bunny costume, but I wanted to see you in them.” He delicately grasped Peter’s ankled and started unrolling the silk stocking up to all the up his thigh revealing the intricate lace design at the top, before tickling the sensitive skin with tender kisses. “Oh! I love them!” Peter gushed as Tony slid the high heels in place over the stockings. “There's only one more thing…and this is what I’m worried about.” Tony took Peter by the hand and walked him over to the full-length mirror in the room. He then unwound a long black leash from his suit pocket and clipped to Peter’s collar. With a kiss to his fiancé’s temple, he asked: “Too much?” Peter took a moment to study his appearance in the mirror. He smoothed his hands up and down the corset then down to the silk stockings. He turned around and gave the fuzzy bunny tail a little shake. Finally, he tugged on the leash a little bit testing his Daddy. “No. It’s not too much! No Daddy. I’m having fun.” Pete gave the tail another shake and twitched his nose making Tony melt. “My little pet bunny?” “Mmmhmm! Whatever you want me to be.” Peter wrapped one leg around Tony’s waist. Tony gave a gentle tug on the leash guiding Peter in for a kiss on the lips. “I think my pet deserves a treat for that! Come. This way!” Tony walked next to Peter but continued to guide him with the leash. It was exhilarating for Peter. He had to watch Tony’s every move and this new level of submission was such a turn on. “Here Baby!” Tony stopped and laid back on the bed. “I need my little bunny to hop on top of me. I want you, Peter Rabbit, to put your fuzzy tail right here.” Tony pointed to his glasses, “Can you do that for me?” “Daddy!!” Peter blushed. “I-I’ll break your glasses.” Tony removed the glasses and set them on the bedside table before returning to his prone position. He gave the leash a little tension guiding Peter towards him. “I-is this still okay, Sweetheart?” The ironman’s tone changed. Peter took a moment to ready himself and get into character… “Anything for you, Daddy!” Peter hammed it up in his most sultry whisper as climbed over the top of his finance on the bed. The high cut in the seat of the corset made even Peter’s fit backside look plump and round. His creamy skin contrasted perfectly with the horizontal lace from the silk stockings as he straddled his lover. All with the silly fluff ball tail like the bow on the gift wrapping at the top. Peter felt Tony’s hands graze his thighs then grip his cheeks before giving his ass a firm slap. While his partner couldn’t possibly hurt him, the sound did startle him into a cute little shake. “That’s what Daddy likes!” Tony slapped and squeezed Peter’s backside and thighs bringing blood to the skin causing a cute pink glow. Peter arched his back, bending forward and placed his hands on Tony’s thighs. He felt Tony push the fabric of the corset slightly over exposing his hole. Tony’s hands gripped Peter’s hips. Peter could feel the heat of Tony’s breath before the sensation of his warm, wet tongue teased his rim accompanied by the tickle of his prickly facial hair. “Oh, Tony!” Peter was met with a smack to his ass. “Daddy!” He corrected himself. “Daddy that feels so good!” Tony licked deeper into Peter’s rim, pleasuring him with his tongue while massaging his thighs and muscles with his hands. Peter was in heaven. He looked and saw that Tony’s erection was throbbing with need and making a tent in his slacks. He reached to massage it. Tony responded by bucking his hips upwards into Peter’s touch getting more friction. “Oh, baby. You think you could bounce up and down on my cock?” “Daddy!” Peter acted coy. He heard the pop of a cap before Tony inserted a lubed finger into his hole. He was ready and loose after Tony’s tongue treatment. Peter positioned himself over Tony still wearing his bunny outfit with the seat pulled over exposing his plump ass. “Here, Babe. Tony gently pulled Peter onto his erection as he penetrated deep into him. “Oh yeah!” “Mmm! You’re right on my spot!” Peter grunted as he took more of Tony’s length. Peter moved up and down taking all of Tony’s size. “That feels amazing, Pete! I love it!” Tony used his hands to help lift and lower Pete onto his member. “Think you can come with me, Babe?” “Yes! This silk material is really teasing me!” Tony reached to massage Peter over the silk causing an intense feeling. “Wait! I don’t want to ruin the outfit!” Peter gasped nearing climax. “I’ll buy you 10 more! One in every color!” Tony worked Peter’s erection as Peter worked his in perfect rhythm. “I’ll buy whatever you want!” “I just want you, Daddy!” Peter howled as he came spurting come into Tony’s hand and his new silk costume. Tony slammed Peter down on his cock one last time as he spent his load too with a groan. “Oh, Peter!” he immediately pulled Peter close to him for a long and passionate kiss. “You were incredible! I love you so much!” “I love you too!” Peter panted as he rested his head on Tony’s chest. “What a day! This is the best vacation ever!” He squeezed his fiancé tight. “And we’re just getting started."
"So," said Ginny, sliding onto the bench next to Harry, "you and Malfoy, huh?" Harry blushed and kept his eyes fixed onto his steak and kidney pie. "What about us?" "A little birdie told me they say you two-" Ginny gasped melodramatically- "holding hands and maybe even kissing last week." "Maybe we did." Harry's eyes now migrated to his shoes. They needed a wash. "Oh, Merlin," Ginny said. "You're bright red, Harry!" She laughed under her breath. "Piss off, Ginny." Harry felt his cheek. Merlin, he could fry an egg on his face. Draco had him whipped. "Why aren't you in the kitchens with him?" Ginny aaked. "He wasn't there," said Harry. "Probably in the Hospital Wing again." "Didn't use your map to stalk him this time?" Ginny smirked playfully at him. Harry rolled his eyes. "No. I trust him. Besides, where else would he be at this time?" ••• Draco reached out a hand. Slowly, he inched forward and gently touched the big brass handle. He was surprised that it wasn't burning hot but instead cool and smooth. The door looked the same too. It was almost as if the fire had never happened. Almost. He wasn't even aware that he had been pacing in front of it at first. He had only been searching for a quiet place to pace (and scream). Then, out of nowhere, he heard the familiar crumbling of the stone walls as the Room of Requirement appeared before him. Draco opened the door and walked into a small, round room. A posh sofa sat next to a nightstand. There was a cup full of thin black straws on top of it. Ever since he was little, Draco had a habit of chewing on things when he was nervous: his bottom lip, his fingernails, and plastic straws. It relaxed him. And right now, Draco was very nervous. His mother had owled him two days ago, informing him that they were to visit his father today. Neither of them knew about the Mark on his wrist. He hoped it stayed that way. Nightmares of his father smashing through Azkaban's stone walls with his bare hands and skinning Draco's right forearm down to the bone plagued him at night. He plucked a few straws from the cup and chewed them until they were pale and broken. ••• Harry was walking to the Library to study with Ron and Hermione when somebody grasped his hand suddenly. Recognizing the touch at once, he smiled and turned to face his boyfriend. "Hey," he said. He then frowned. "Draco, are you okay? You look sick." Draco smiled weakly. "I'm fine. Just...Mother and I. We are going to Azkaban today. To visit my father. First time I'll be seeing him since the trials." Harry squeezed Draco's hand. "Holy shit. When are you leaving?" "In exactly twenty-seven minutes." Draco had begun to chew his lower lip. "Hey," Harry said. "You're going to be okay. He's wandless and behind bars. He can't hurt you." He got on his tip toes and kissed Draco. "Trust me: everything is going to be fine." "Can I get another kiss? Just for luck?" Harry threw his head back and laughed. "You're such a fucking sap." Nevertheless, he gave him a long kiss. He began to walk away, but Draco tugged him back. "And walk me to the train station?" "I was supposed to meet Ron and Hermione at the library." "They'll be there when you get back, Harry," Draco persisted. Harry rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. "Alright, fine." They walked in comfortable silence through the couple inches of snow leftover from last night. When they arrived, they stopped a few yards from the platform. Narcissa's blonde hair and green robes stood out against the white and brown background. "I'll be waiting in the Common Room for you when you get back," Harry said. Draco nodded. They kissed good-bye, and Harry watched until the train was no longer visible. ••• Draco shivered and wrapped his coat around him tighter. Azkaban was freezing during the summer; in the early winter your breath nearly turned to ice cubes in mid air. If it wasn't for the rythmetic tapping his mother's finger did the whole ride there, Draco would have thought she had actually been frozen by the winds. She was sitting completely still, her eyes fixed on the tea stain on the seat across from them. "We've arrived," said the female Auror assigned to see them there and back. They would be handed over to the Dementors once inside. One of the guards would cast a Patronus to keep them from having their souls sucked out. Draco swallowed the bile in his mouth thickly. Making sure his wrist was completely covered, he stood and followed the Auror to the entrance. "You will get a total of one hour for your visit," she explained. "The only reason we haven't confiscated your wands is because you might need to defend yourselves from the more violent inmates or the Dementors. We can't have more deaths here; the paperwork is horrendous." Draco huffed. Typical. They didn't give a flying fuck if either of them died. They would probably snap photographs and dance if the Demontors Kissed them. He felt the Dementor's effect on him immediately. Every happy memory and thought was sucked out of his brain. He felt the audden urge to bury himself in one of the snowbanks and suffocate to death. His breathing quickened nervously as they walked down the cellblock. Prisoners jeered at him, showing him their middle fingers or yellow teeth when they sneered. Finally, at the end of the row, Draco saw him. His father. Panic blossomed in his stomach and writhed around like a snake. "Your one hour starts now," the Auror informed them. "Good luck." Draco's feet wouldn't move. Despite the cold, sweat dotted his forehead. "C'mon, Draco," whispered Narcissa. She placed a hand on his shoulder. "Your father's waiting." She nudged him. Draco shook his head gently and inched forward. When he arrived at his father's cell, he sighed heavily and looked up at him. Lucius looked terrible. He was no longer the handsome and composed man that Draco had always known. His hair was long and wild and so caked with filth it looked almost brown. He needed a shave, and his eyes darted around the room like a madman's. "Narcissa. Draco." His voice, unlike his composure, was calm and collected. That unnerved Draco more than the Dementors standing four yards away from them. "Lucius," Narcissa said to her husband. She reached out a hand to clasp his. "I'm-I'm so sorry. This was the best deal we could get you. We thought it was better than the Dementor's Ki-" "Spare me your groveling, Narcissa," interrupted Lucius. "Don't waste our time here." Narcissa nodded, wiping the cold tears from her face. While Draco stood to the side, ignored, his mother informed his father of who had been captured, who was dead, and other nonsense. "Ugh," Draco said. His right arm had been itchy all day. "Granger's cat got into our dorms again." He rolled his sleeve up to his elbow and scratched himself without thinking. His father chose that moment to acknowledge his prescence. Lucius's nostrils flared like a dragon and his eyes widened for a split second before he turned back towards his wife. Draco, confused, looked down at his arm. All the oxygen left his lungs. He had forgotten about the Mark. It was very visible, even with the red streaks his fingernails had made. "Narcissa, darling," Lucius said suddenly. "Could I have a moment alone with Draco?" Narcissa, looking a bit miffed that she had been interrupted, nodded. She looked at Draco and cocked her head towards Lucius, instructing her son to walk closer before she walked back to the entrance. Her heels made echoes bounce off the stone walls. Terror clawed at Draco's insides, tearing his skin and bones to shreds. He thought his heart might burst from beating so hard. "Show me your arm," Lucius commanded. His voice was dangerously quiet. Gradually, Draco lifted his arm until it was directly in front of his father's eyes. He made the mistake of looking up. Anger was etched into every centimeter of Lucius's face; his knuckles were white from being tightly clenched. "Who is she?" Draco didn't answer. "Is it a pureblood?" Draco shook his head. "Goddammit, Draco!" Lucius slammed his palms against the wall to his left. "You were supposed to court and marry Astoria. You were supposed to produce a pureblood heir! Not go and get mooney-eyed over some other filthy Mudblood girl!" "It isn't a girl." The words slipped through Draco's lips before he could stop them. "What did you say?" "I said, it isn't a girl." Draco lifted his chin defiantely as Harry's words from that morning came back to him. His father couldn't hurt him. He would never be free from prison to harm Draco ever again. "It's a fucking man. Surprise, father. I'm gay." "Who is he? Huh? Who the fuck is he, Draco?" Lucius was almost shouting at him now. His face had gone tomato red. "Harry Potter." Just saying his boyfriend's name filled Draco with warmth and courage. The Dementors started gliding away from him slowly. "I'm in love with Harry sodding Potter," Draco said shakily. He stuck out his chin and glared at his father defiantly. "And there's nothing you can do about it, father." He spat the last word out as if it were poison. "The hell I can!" Fast as lightning, Lucius reached out and plucked Draco's wand from his back pocket. He backed into his cell, out of reach from Draco's desperate hands. "Give me back my wand!" "No! I won't have my only son being a disgusting little blood traitor." He pointed his son's wand at Draco's left eyebrow. "You will go back to Hogwarts. Once you get there, you will end whatever you and the Potter boy have." "No. Stop this." Draco bobbed and weaved, but Lucius's arm followed him. "You will break his heart and forget all about him!" "No! I won't do it!" There was a tingling behind Draco's eyeballs. His emotions were becoming clouded. He was losing control of his own mind. "You will court Astoria." "Stop this! Please, father!" Draco begged. "Stop resisting, Draco," said Lucius. "When will you see that love is a disease? Especially if it's for somebody dirty like Potter." "Father, stop this!" Draco's hands snapped upwards and clutched his head. He clawed at his hair, trying to scrape away Lucius's magic. He squeezed his eyes, trying to shut his father out. And suddenly, it was over. Draco stood still, his face slack and his eyes blank. Satisfied, Lucius lowered his wand arm and said, "You know what you have to do, don't you, Draco?" Draco nodded. "Yes, father. I must forget about Potter. He is nothing to me." Lucius smiled coldly. "Good." He handed Draco his wand back and watched his son walk to his mother's side. ••• Harry couldn't sit still. He kept looking at his watch, tugging on his curls, or tapping his knee. He was anxious for Draco to come back. He wanted to hear how the visit had gone. Everytime somebody opened the Common Room door, his head snapped towards it. He was very disappointed everytime it wasn't Draco. Finally, after he had been gone for almost four hours, Draco walked through the door. Harry's mood instantly brightened. "Draco!" He waved him over to his chair. "How was your trip?" Harry asked. Draco shrugged. "Uneventful, really. Mother did most of the talking. I have to tell you something." Harry was thrown by the sudden change of topic. "Oh. Um. Sure. Go ahead." "We can't see each other anymore." Harry blinked. He must not have heard him correctly. "C-can you repeat that?" He asked. "We can't see each other anymore, Potter. This thing between us is over for good." Hot tears stung in Harry's eyes. He didn't understand... "Draco, I...I don't understand." Harry stood up. Draco backed away from him. "We were fine this morning...w-what changed? Was it something I did or said?" Draco shook his head. "I was merely using you, all this time. I never wanted your friendship or this relationship; I only needed your protection." "N-no." Harry's hands were shaking. "You don't mean that. I know you don't, Draco." Draco frowned slightly. "I do mean that." Harry didn't understand how Draco could look so normal while every word stung him like a knife. "No. We had-have something. I know we do." Draco sneered nastily at him. "You're so naive. Nothing I told you was real. Did you seriously think that I would ever love you? You mean nothing to me, Potter." "You...you don't mean that." "Of course I do, Potter." Harry was sobbing, tears splashing onto the front of his T-shirt. "Where is this all of this coming from, Draco? W-we were fine this morning!" "On the way back from Azkaban, I simply realized I didn't need you anymore. You've fulfilled your purpose. Now, if you excuse me, I'm going to eat dinner. Don't follow me." He began walking towards the door. "Draco, wait!" Harry ran after him, almost tripping over Crookshanks. He grabbed Draco's arm and yanked him backwards, turning him to face him. "Draco, I know you feel what I feel," Harry said in between sobs. "Please, this isn't you. I...I love you." Draco shoved Harry forcefully. He fell onto his arse and hit his head on an armchair. "I don't love you," Draco snapped. "Forget everything that happened between us these past months and leave me alone. I won't ask you nicely again." "Draco-" Harry tried getting up, but Draco whipped out his wand and aimed it at the tip of Harry's nose. Harry flinched. "Leave me alone," he said. "Don't talk to me or go looking for me. I better not see you in the kitchens during meals. We aren't friends, and if you try to be my friend or more than that, I will hex you." And with that, Draco thrust the door open and left Harry with his head in his hands, crying his heart out on the Common Room floor. •••
Mark had passed out from the creature stimulating every inch of his skin, keeping him subdued and controlled as it carried him across the ground. Waking up and opening his eyes Mark could feel his body being jostled under the creature as it carried him. The creature, while carrying its newly captured cargo was careful to avoid hitting it on the rocks as it passed over them. With every step it took of its eight stiffened latex legs it never released or slackened its grip on Mark, holding him tight within its self, its tentacles completely surrounding his limbs, torso and head. More than that though it forcefully kept him hard and stimulated, each tentacle forcing pleasure into its prey, its thin skin covering Mark kissed his skin, stroking his body all over. Mark groaned as the hollow tentacle surrounding his shaft continued its slow, hard sucking. He could feel smaller tentacles play with the base of his cock as well as their incessant stroking over his balls. Mark again tried to bring a hand to bear on the tentacle, to pull it off and try to work the thing off him, but the rubbery tentacles coiling over his arms holding him in a hogtie under the creature refused to let go of its prise. Just then his cock was subjected to a powerful suction and vibration as the creature milked him. Clenching his eyes shit Mark was helpless to stop his body betraying him, orgasming hard and feeding the creature more of his seed. As Mark shuddered hard and inhaled hard, he felt two more tentacles ending in sultry lips as black as the darkest night kiss and suckle on each of his ear lobes and neck. Groaning, Mark again felt the tentacle imprisoning his cock continue with its unstoppable sucking upon him, his last thoughts were of latex sliding between his fingers and gripping his hands tight in a pseudo compassionate gesture, and then blackness. * His eyes opened slowly... a dim, blurred light greeted him as he slowly woke up. Blinking, Mark slowly focused on his surroundings, and situation. The creature had carried Mark to its lair, a cave not far from the hill on which it was waiting for its prey. Mark managed to turn his head and spy the mouth of the cave and its proximity, allowing some diffused light in from the setting sun and illuminating his own predicament; the creature had taken up residence by attaching its self to the roof of the cave and hoisting itself and its prisoner up off the ground, again slinging Mark horizontally under and inside it. Mark was high enough to conclude dropping to the floor would be bad for his health. However there was no chance of that happening. Mark tried to move his feet, to at least straighten them out and stretch them but found he couldn't... and nor did he want to - immediately he felt the creature surrounding him resume its sucking and massaging of his cock and body, eliciting a whimper from his lips. Mark stopped thinking and accepted his arousal with perverse annoyance. Looking over his own body he could see his new skin was still a part of him, and that many tentacles surrounded it, keeping him secure and unable to slip away. Concentrating on the tentacles pleasuring him, Mark tried to find recognisable features of the creature. As he looked, the slid into his view and smiled before leaning in to kiss him with passion, its rubbery tongue snaking over his lips and forcing its way into his mouth, causing Mark to gag a little. Marks eyes opened wide as he the voice inside his head. It said as kissed him softly. "What... who are you?" He groaned out as his prison massaged and squeezed him gently It repeated. A broad smile formed on the pair of hovering lips before pressing in to Mark again, silencing him with a deep passionate kiss. Unable to pull back from the lips Mark groaned before returning the kiss to the creature, sucking a little on the ever lengthening tongue. Mark groaned under the assault of the living latex monster, his hands gripped the small solidified latex tentacles between his fingers before feeling his cock forcefully receive some attention. The latex paused, the lips on his face pulled back as if in thought. Mark again groaned as he shot another load into the relentless tentacle enslaving his cock ... Mark looked up around to see the cave had darkened due to dusk. The latex responded to his thoughts by tightening around him, eliciting another groan For hours after Mark was subject to the unrelenting attention and excitement forced into him by the creature holding him captive, milking him again and again. Blissful unconsciousness was a lie, somehow Mark was never again able to black out from the latex creatures attention. Between its demands Mark watched the light fade away and eventually totally replaced with blackness equal to his captors own form. Still Mark fought to free himself of the creature, and each time his efforts only bought the attention of more tongues encased in lips against his skin, distracting him, making resistance, let alone escape, all the more difficult. Hours? Days? Mark had no idea how much time passed in the night. Daylight was again at the cavern mouth, allowing Mark to again see his new home. A quick kiss on his lips was followed with a smile Marks jaw hung open as he listened to the creature, licked and kissed at his lips. A thick latex tentacle slipped gently around the top of his head and forced him to look down As Mark watched he could see the liquefied latex monster twitch, then churn a little but growing in intensity below his stomach. Mark watched in fascination, ever smiling and peppering his face with kisses Mark groaned and shuddered as the latex around his stomach slowly pulled away from his body, eight symmetrical tentacles forming into a central sphere no bigger than his fist. The tentacles hung below the sphere before it itself detached from Marks prison and drop to the floor, spreading its new legs to land on. Mark watched in fascinated horror as the little latex creature picked itself up and scurried towards the mouth of the cave. Mark cried out in frustration before being silenced by the latex lips now kissing him deeply, his cock and body again subject to torturous pleasure. The latex tentacle around his head melted and flowed down over his face, blinding and deafening him as continued to kiss him, cutting off the outside world completely. * The newly formed creature lifted itself up on its eight legs, a form inherited from its progenitor. Able to see, even with no eyes, it looked up and saw its parents. Its Birther and Seeder, locked in each other's embrace at the top of the cave. It noticed the Birther's bulk of liquefied and solidified latex, and how to alternated its form between the two so easily. It shuddered in anticipation of what was to come. It looked at the embraced Seeder, seeing how its form was all solid and restricted both naturally and by its Birther surrounding it. It trotted out of the cave and into the growing dawn daylight in its quest for fulfilment.

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