#this is my 100th fic on ao3 i need to go lie face down in a pond for a little while and think about my life choices | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

damienthepious · 4 years

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hello loves. I knew this was going to be my last Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday offering until december, so I wanted to make sure it counted. My goals for this month? Finish that little one-two punch fic from earlier, publish a 100th fic, and...

well...

finish this. So. Here we go...

Scattered On My Shore (Chapter 19 - End)

[Ch 1] [Ch 2] [Ch 3] [Ch 4] [Ch 5] [Ch 6] [Ch 7] [Ch 8] [Ch 9] [Ch 10] [Ch 11] [Ch 12] [Ch 13] [Ch 14] [Ch 15] [Ch 16] [Ch 17] [Ch 18] [ao3]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla, Sir Damien/Rilla, Lord Arum & The Keep

Characters: Rilla, Lord Arum, Sir Damien, The Keep

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Pre-Relationship, (for the three of them. it’s established r/d), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Injury, Injury Recovery, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, (this will also be), Enemies to Lovers, (for damien and arum eventually lol), Mutual Pining, canon typical Arum ignoring feelings

Fic Summary: Strange things wash up out of the lake near Rilla’s hut, on occasion. But this monster… this monster is certainly the strangest.

Chapter Summary: Stay 'till you can breathe like normal people do / I've got room in my house for you

Chapter Notes: End of the road, huh? Never dreamed this fic would get this long, never dreamed it would mean this much to me. This is the longest piece of fiction I've ever written, and the longest work I've ever completed by a country mile. Thank you for hanging in there with me. Thank you for reading. Thank you for every kudos and comment and bookmark. Thank you. Chapter summary from the song Midland, by The Mountain Goats. Have I ever shared my playlist for this fic? See the end of the chapter notes, I'll stick a link there.

The first night on the road home is probably the most difficult.

It's-

It's the first time that Rilla has gone to bed without Arum in literal shouting distance in… in months.

She doesn't say anything about it. She doesn't know what to say about it. Arum is safe, and she and Damien are going home, and they're going to see him again. They are. It's stupid to get all emotional about the fact that they- they're just going to need to deal with a little separation, for a few weeks or so.

Damien douses the fire as Rilla steels herself, flattening her face, arranging their bedroll. Damien comes to lay down beside her, and when he slips his arms around her, she tries to sigh, and- her breath catches.

Damien does not flinch. He presses his lips just above her brow, and she can feel the sympathetic tension in his arms as they settle in the bedroll, curling against each other, as close as they can manage despite the heat.

"I know," he whispers, and Rilla grits her teeth. "I know, my love. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she manages. "Nothing to be sorry about."

"Of course it will be a challenge, this journey," Damien murmurs into her hair. "Especially this night. He is still so close, speaking relatively. So close we can still see that subtle, mellow glow from his swamp on the horizon. So close, and yet… riding away from him aches in my heart like a betrayal. We must, of course. Our duties, our lives… and I miss the Citadel as well. Miss the safety and warmth of your hut, miss… ah," she feels his lip curl into a small smile against her temple. "Ah, but there is the other side of the dilemma, yes? It is so difficult to think of your home, now, without…"

Without Arum there, too.

Rilla sniffs lightly, readjusting her grip on Damien beneath the heavy cloth, and then she pokes him in the side, making him exhale a gust of laughter.

"Faster we fall asleep, faster we'll be on the road again," she mutters. "Faster we're home, faster we'll find out exactly what the hell that plant he gave us actually does."

"Ah- right. I suppose you're right, my love."

"Just-" she clocks her head off his cheek, pursing her lips when that makes him laugh again. "Shush. Sleep now, mope later."

He hums an agreement, soft and soothing, and settles beside her. "Goodnight, my flower. I love you."

Rilla manages the ghost of a smile, feeling one of Damien's hands gently caressing up and down her back. "I love you too. Now go to sleep already."

He nods, light laughter still on his lips, and then he kisses her cheek one more time before he closes his eyes, and Rilla sighs and closes her eyes as well.

She doesn't exactly take her own advice, though.

The discomfort, the worry, the knowledge that she can't just call out and make sure that Arum's still okay- her mind won't slow down enough for sleep to take her, not for what feels like a long time.

It's okay, though. It's okay.

Damien is here with her. His hand keeps up that steady rhythm, his palm soft as his fingers trace up and down her back, gentle as rain, and clearly he's not exactly drifting off either.

They don't say anything else. Rilla thinks they both know it won't do any good, won't make them feel any better. They don't speak, but they can still hold each other, silent and longing despite themselves, and eventually, eventually, they will sleep.

And tomorrow they'll be another step closer to home.

The temperature in the Keep is the same as it always has been, but Arum finds himself cold, more often than not. The remainder of his injuries itch . Amaryllis left him with a number of salves to apply, to reduce the scarring, to speed the already-sped healing process, but it is… strange, to apply it himself. It felt different, before, smoothed across the ragged scabs by her soft, attentive, confident fingers. His own scales are cool. His own fingers do not hold the same softness. It feels perfunctory, now. Awkward and stiff. And-

When she finished tending to him, rewrapping bandages or checking his temperature or applying salve, Amaryllis would always… touch him, then. A gentle tap, on his shoulder, on his elbow. A silent signal, accompanied with a smile, to let him know she was done, before she would stand straighter and turn to attend to other tasks.

Once, when he is done smoothing his fingers across his fading wounds, he reaches across his body and taps his own elbow, hesitant, and then he feels so utterly foolish, so strangely empty, that he-

He does nothing. He simply hurts, for a long moment, before he sighs and sets the salve aside.

The Keep tries, in its way, to soothe this pain as it is soothing his actual injuries, but it is… not precisely the same. He is grateful for the Keep's attempts at physicality, grateful for the touch of vines, grateful to sleep cocooned in soft, oversized petals, even if it makes him feel like a coddled hatchling again.

("You're healing," Amaryllis says, stern and gentle. "Being rough on yourself is only going to make it take even longer. Just- let me take care of you, you big stubborn idiot.")

He misses her. He misses them both. He knew he would, before they left, but-

He spent so, so long missing the Keep. He is quite tired of missing.

During the day, they ride.

They can travel much more quickly, without needing to worry over the wounds of an injured monster. It will make the return trip substantially faster, but-

Neither of them feel as if it is truly going faster.

It reminds Rilla of paradoxes. It reminds Damien of a chiasmus, the reversal with new perspectives. Neither of them discuss it, though they both urge the horse faster, both eye the horizon with skeptical intent, as if it is widening from them deliberately.

It is a relief, not to worry over Arum's safety while they ride, not to have to duck their heads and avoid the eyes of other travelers, not to need to lie. They don't need to slow down to check him over and make sure none of his injuries have started bleeding, they don't need to break from travel to find a safe place hidden far away from the road to rest in each night. It's another odd overlay- the hurt of leaving him behind shaded by the relief of knowing that he's safe, and home, and healing. Rilla can't stop herself from mentioning where she thinks he'll be in his recovery day by day, based on her estimates considering how the Keep seemed to be accelerating the healing process.

Last of the bandages off, today, I'd bet, she says, absent as they ride, her eyes distant, and Damien nudges the horse a little faster.

Replacement wrap for the crack in his horn, today, I think, she says, and Damien remembers the elegant curves that grace Arum's head, his throat aching.

He should be shifting to the next set of exercises for his wrist around now, she mumbles as they sit beside the fire. He'd better've remembered, she adds with a frown, and Damien pulls her even closer.

Rilla does not say that she misses him. Not in so many words. Damien follows her example, though he often finds himself glancing back the way they came, watching as the distance between the pair of them and Lord Arum grows, clutching his heart to stifle the bittersweet pang at his center.

In the small stolen bits of time when they are not riding, eating, or sleeping, Rilla likes to examine Arum's gift. She gently lifts the wrapped plant out from the saddlebag that has become its temporary home, settling it in her lap and squinting at it, observing the structure of the leaves, the colors, carefully easing her fingers into the dirt to determine the root structure.

She hasn't seen anything exactly like it before, she explains to Damien, and the intensity of her focus makes his heart thrum with fondness and familiarity. She narrows her eyes at the small stalk, the waxy purple and green leaves on the trio of branches at the top (Damien remembers Arum's glossy green scales, his violet eyes, and he aches again with longing), and she purses her lips. Native to the swamp, she decides. It must be. It doesn't… seem magical, so she isn't sure what Arum could have meant when he gave it to them, but- well, it's not like Rilla has any of her more delicate instruments here on the road with her. She can't exactly test it, or put some cells under a microscope. She just does her best to water it enough to keep the soil wrapped at its base at a consistent moisture level, and she turns it over in her mind while she's prevented by pesky lack of resources from turning it over in reality.

Neither of them mention their fondness for the plant, either. It reminds them both of Arum, of the Keep, of the swamp, and even while Rilla frowns at her lack of knowledge, that reminds her of Arum too. It makes her scowl, and smile, and she wishes he was here to smack him for leaving her with a mystery deliberately, the sly monster that he is. She wishes he was here for a number of other reasons, too, but that's beside the point.

Damien, for his part, cannot say if he has ever had so many new verses dancing in his head at once. The plant is such a beautiful little metonymy, such a hopeful tether, and though he cannot help but yearn, his yearning still feels safe, like a source.

The nights…

The nights remain difficult. The midpoint of their journey is especially so- as distant from Rilla's home as they are from Arum himself, the night particularly dark this deep in the wilderness, comforted by each others arms and little else besides.

They wake bleary, but relieved to have put another night behind them. The help each other to their feet, and they ride.

The representative is halfway between the border of the swamp and the Keep when Arum finally allows the denizens of his swamp to do as they wish, to descend upon this unfortunate creature and chase him back out the way he came.

Arum steps from the portal just at the edge of his territory, just as the faun stumbles the final few steps backwards over the loose remnants of the border wall Arum and the Keep have been slowly dismantling, and the monster falls halfway into mud with a yelp and his hooves in the air.

Arum lifts a hand, and his denizens abandon their pursuit, birds and amphibians and mammals retreating back into the swamp and returning to their lives, and Arum looks down at the creature. He folds his arms primly behind himself, glaring hard over his snout until the faun notices him in his scrabbling.

He yelps again, losing his grip on a vine beside him and planting his face in the mud, and Arum tilts his head.

"No, no," he says, his voice low and murmuring and magnanimous. "By all means, take your time."

The creature pants, staring up at him, and then he scrambles backwards and rolls up on his hooves, his frame hunched in obvious terror.

"… Well?" Arum drawls after the panting silence draws long. "I don't expect you would have come this far for nothing, hm?"

The faun blinks, blank, and then he shakes his head quickly and his furry fingers fumble at the satchel at his side. "I- yes I- I have been tasked to deliver a m-message and-"

Arum takes a step closer, and the creature's words fly from his tongue, the muscles in his legs bunching as if to bolt. "A message…" he repeats slowly. "How… interesting."

The faun opens his mouth again, trembling, but the words seem to catch in his mouth as Arum looms.

"You, little creature," Arum says, very slowly, "look as if you have seen a ghost. Why, may I ask, would that be the case?"

"I-" the monster bites his tongue, glances aside as if hoping for some sort of help, and then he looks to Arum again. "I was told- I was- you were supposed to be-"

"Dead?"

The faun flinches, and Arum does not let himself feel guilty, considering that this poor little fool is only adjacent to the situation. The point needs be made, and since Arum cannot safely make it to the Senate in person this will have to do. He does soften the glare in his eyes, though, coiling his tail as he waits for the creature to respond.

"I am- I am to seek the current ruler of- of-"

"I am Lord Arum, ruler of the Swamp of Titan's Blooms," Arum says, flat and mild. "Will that suffice for you, then?"

The faun stumbles back another step, his shoulders hitting a tree. "I-I-I represent the Senate a-and they have- have sent me to-"

"The last creature who spoke to me on behalf of your Senate tried to plant a blade in my spine." Arum tilts his head in the other direction, leaning down and close so he may hiss his next words eye-to-eye with this creature. "She missed. Do you believe that your aim will be more true?"

The faun swallows, visibly, his eyes wide and his hands trembling, though he seems too frightened, now, to try to move at all. "I… I am not- not an assassin, I am simply-"

"Delivering a message, as you said." Arum straightens, raising an eyebrow as he stares down his snout at the monster. "To the current ruler of the swamp." Arum grins, a conspicuous display of fangs. "I am he. What missive did the Senate intend for me, then?"

With shaking hands, the faun pulls a scroll from the satchel at his side, and holds it out.

Arum takes the parchment gently, though the faun still flinches, and he reads the letter with careful attention, his brows climbing. He snorts, eventually, folding the paper between his claws and giving the courier an amused sort of look. "The previous ruler of this swamp was killed in the effort to eradicate the human infection," he parrots with half a laugh, and then he shakes his head. "I suppose that is one way in which to spin the truth. Was killed. A delightfully overt lack of active perpetrator in that claim, hm?"

The faun opens his mouth as if to reply, but then he simply gives a sharp nod, fear still obvious in his stance, in his eye, and Arum sighs.

"Well. You may tell the Senate that if they wish to broker an alliance with the Lord of the Swamp, they may come to entreat him personally . As things stand, The Swamp of Titan's Blooms and its residents are no longer a part of the effort to eradicate humanity, nor do they acknowledge the leadership of the Senate. If the Senate wishes to plead its case they may do so here, where their deceit shall not find purchase. Otherwise," Arum growls low, "my lands may simply find other allies. We may still, regardless of whatever overtures the Senate decides to make."

"Y-you- you want me t-to- to tell them-" the faun's eyes widen to saucers, his heartbeat approaching hummingbird speeds, and Arum decides to take pity.

"Hm. Yes, well. I suppose that there is no reason to give them excuse to blame the messenger. Wait a moment, then. Keep, parchment and ink, if you would."

The Keep does as asked, and the faun's eyes flick to the vines that appear from apparent nowhere to hand him his tools. The monster's body is prey-still, leaving aside the trembling.

Arum writes out his letter rather quickly. He has been thinking this through for long enough that he does not need more than a single draft. He rolls the parchment and slides it back into the case he had pulled the Senate's own letter from, and then he holds it out.

"Perhaps," Arum says, his voice low, "you should endeavor to leave the room before they read that particular note, hm?"

After a long moment faun lifts his hands, nods, and gingerly tucks the letter back into his satchel.

Once he is safely back within his Keep, Arum laughs until tears prick at the corners of his eyes, laughs until his ribs hurt, and it doesn't even matter how the Senate responds. Arum cannot find the place within himself to care. He will find a way to survive, to thrive, regardless of whatever those miserable fools decide to do about him.

Arum laughs, the last lingering ghosts of his injuries twinging at him, and he feels foolish, and wild, and free.

The hut sits just as they left it.

The windows are dark, the herb garden has grown a little scruffy around the edges, the flowers across the trellises drift slightly in the wind, and Rilla squeezes her arms around Damien before she swings down from the saddle. She lifts Arum's plant from the saddlebag as Damien dismounts as well, and he gives her a soft, tired smile before he leads his horse off towards her tiny one-horse stable by the edge of the trees.

There's a small, childish, illogical part of Rilla that expects Arum to be there when she creaks open the door. It's stupid, obviously, which is why she doesn't let herself feel disappointed when she finds the hut exactly as empty as it should be. She sets the plant aside first, dumps the rest of her bags in a corner, and goes to light the hearth.

When Damien finishes settling his horse and comes inside with the rest of their bags, Rilla has nearly finished moving the pile of notes in the corner of the kitchen to a new spot on one of her bookshelves, and she grins a little manically at him as he sets his bags down.

"I think I've got a pot big enough to replant this thing. Help me bring it inside?"

He smiles, and they're both exhausted but this is too important to wait. For both of them.

She scoops up some turned earth from the garden to mix with the wrapped soil around the roots of Arum's plant (no more than half again, she remembers, and she's very very careful about that particular measurement), and she and Damien maneuver a large, oval shaped pot into the space Rilla has cleared, at the corner of her kitchen and out of sight of the windows.

It looks so strange and incongruous there, purple and green and wild, and the scent of fresh earth mingles with the reassuring scent of the flames in the hearth, another unfamiliar addition. Damien rests a hand on Rilla's arm, his other hand pressing over his heart, and when he sighs Rilla feels her heart stumble as well.

"Well," she says quietly. "He said it would bloom quickly, but obviously it's not going to bloom right now." She lifts a hand, gripping Damien's hand and squeezing. "C'mon. Not gonna waste time watching for the pot to boil. Let's unpack, and put something together for dinner, yeah?"

Damien squeezes her hand in return, gives the plant one last lingering look, and then turns away to help her put their home to rights again.

Arum feels the Keep buzz through with excitement, hears it pull the portal open at his back, and he barely manages to set his tools down rather than simply dropping them to clatter on his workbench before he spins to see-

"-miss him," Amaryllis says softly, and through the portal Arum sees her sat at their table in the warmth of the kitchen, sees Damien beside her, sees their foreheads ducked close together, Damien's arm wrapped around her shoulder, Amaryllis' hands cupping his face, their eyes gently closed. "Just- it's so quiet and-"

"I know," Damien says, and Arum's heart feels as if it fluoresces within his chest at the poet's voice, finally- finally. "I miss him as well. But- patience, love. Surely, surely we can be patient." Damien nudges their foreheads together, smiling wryly, and the arm around Amaryllis' shoulders tightens as the doctor sighs. "We will see him again. We will."

"Sooner than you think, perhaps," Arum manages, mildly smug that his voice only shakes a little, and the humans both gasp, whipping their faces towards him, all shock and wonder and- delight. His throat goes tight, then, but he still manages to speak. Barely. "Amaryllis," he murmurs, too much feeling in his voice. "Honeysuckle."

They spring to their feet, and Arum cannot help himself. He rushes forward as well.

They collide just in the threshold of the portal, Amaryllis' barreling into his chest and knocking the air from his lungs, Damien's arms flinging around him with a joyous laugh, and-

And perhaps it does not matter, that Arum feels tears at the corners of their eyes. Not if the humans' eyes are bright with tears as well.

"You," Amaryllis growls, her arms tight and fierce around him, and then she leans back enough to swipe a hand over her eyes and scowl before she starts poking at him. "Don't think you can waltz in all dramatic and get around me checking in on you- have you been applying-"

"Every single salve you left me with, like clockwork. Following the doctor's orders to the letter," Arum says, his voice an indulgent purr as Amaryllis' hands skate over his midsection, as she presses a palm over the scar on his back, examining him with critical, warm attention. He would attempt to hold up some degree of indignation about this, if he were not so undeniably, breathlessly happy to hear her complaints again at last. "As if I could possibly ignore you, as if I could not feel the threat of your ire from miles and miles distant-"

Damien breathes something like a sob, his forehead pressed to Arum's shoulder, and Arum make a small, sympathetic noise, curling two arms around him and holding him tighter.

"Oh, little songbird-"

"Missed- missed even your arguments, my lily, I-"

"I missed you as well," Arum admits in a hiss, nuzzling into Damien's hair. "Missed you both, so much more than I knew I could."

The Keep sings behind him, a melody of teasing exasperation and fondness and delight, and Amaryllis leans back to grin, lifting a hand to touch the curling vines of the portal.

"Keep," she says, and she sounds so equally fond that Arum cannot help the little stab of adoration. "So, has he been taking care of himself, then?"

The Keep warbles, affirming and warm, and Amaryllis turns her skeptical, playful gaze back towards Arum, her smile tilting in such a way that he thinks that perhaps she is content with his Keep's answer.

"So that's what the plant does, then? It lets you make a portal- nevermind the distance, weeks and weeks of travel away?"

"That is not it's function, precisely," Arum says. "It has no function, it is simply… a piece of life, from my swamp. If I merely wished to grant myself a doorway to you- the plant itself… it was not necessary. The soil would have sufficed, in truth, for a short time at least, but-"

"But?" Amaryllis asks, looking up at him with more joy on her face than Arum knows what to do with.

"But this seemed… better. More… decisive. A scattering of dirt may be swept aside. I care far more for the both of you than such a simple gesture. This-"

The plant in the wide oval pot by Amaryllis' fireplace is vibrant, glossy, a stab of floral familiarity, shocking and incongruous in this place that Arum grew to know so well.

"You shared your home with me," he says, slow and certain. "It seemed only fitting to give you a piece of mine." He inhales, and he smiles as he continues. "Its roots are taking hold here now, just as mine have, alongside your own."

Damien makes another choking noise, and then his arms tighten around Arum even further, and he presses his lips to Arum's neck. "Let us grow together," he breathes against Arum's scales in a shaking voice, and Arum knows that cadence in his voice, knows the ringing of a poem in Damien's voice. "Twined roots, fruits shared- bite by bite." Damien smiles, lifts his head, cups Arum's cheek in a hand as he continues, his voice so warm and musical that Arum can hardly focus on anything besides. "We tend to that which heals us," he murmurs, "each vine another trellis, braiding lines, lifting- towards the light-"

Arum is too stunned by the words, hit too closely by them, and Amaryllis recovers more quickly, reaching up to brush the tears away from Damien's cheeks, pressing a kiss there as if to replace them.

"I think that's my favorite of the new ones," she whispers. "Thank you."

"Honeysuckle," Arum manages, after another moment, and then he leans down to echo Amaryllis' kiss on the poet's other cheek. "How you craft such beauty… it is quite beyond me."

"With such inspiration before me," Damien says in a quavering voice, "the words practically weave themselves."

"Will that stay?" Amaryllis asks suddenly, gesturing towards the portal.

"I could dismiss it, summon it back when it is needed," he says.

"Cool," she says, and Arum barks a shocked laugh as she tugs at his hands, pulling himself and Damien back towards the table, maneuvering them to sit and folding herself against his side with a hand on his chest, her fingers tapping in a rhythm that it takes him a few moments to realize-

She's tapping along to the beat of his heart. Her fingers drum a little faster, after that.

Arum swallows roughly, and then he nudges the Keep with his mind, and as it closes the portal, leaving the little plant behind in the corner (she placed it precisely where he suggested- he will need to prod her later, discover where she fit that ream of notes and theories instead), Arum is grateful to still feel just the barest hint of the Keep's presence at the edges of his mind. The magic will settle here, yes, just as he did. If they want it to.

He exhales slowly, holding the both of them in silence for a long moment.

"I…" he murmurs eventually, uncertain. "I admit that I… worried, after you left, that perhaps this would be… a step too far. Too presumptuous, to grant myself a door directly into your home, but-"

"No-" Amaryllis shakes her head, lifting away enough to meet his eye. "Arum this is incredible- can you just summon a portal anywhere?"

"Not anywhere," he corrects, mild. "Only within the Swamp of Titan's Blooms. Which…"

Amaryllis looks to the plant, more vivid purple now than it was when he gave it to her.

"You… you literally gave us a piece of… you literally gave us a bloom from your swamp."

"Oh Arum," Damien keens, pressing another kiss to his throat. "Oh-"

"I… yes. It seemed the only thing to do," he says, ducking his head, flustered with his frill fluttering. "I… I knew…" he stops, furrows his brow, tries again. "The Keep is my home, my family. And I… I know, now, that I… I've grown to think of this place… I want this place to be my home as well. I want to be close by your sides. I want- you. I want to be a part of your lives."

"Good," Amaryllis says, but even in her nonchalance her voice is- trembling. Her hand presses hard over his heart, and the she presses her mouth to his in a lingering kiss. "Saints- Arum, we want you too."

"Want you always," Damien adds, tearful. "Oh, to be a home for you- to tend our garden together- oh Arum, oh lily we will hold you if you want us- we will keep you safe, warm-"

Damien interrupts himself, clearly shocking himself with a yawn, and Arum and Amaryllis both laugh at the look of mortification on his face.

"You are…" Arum presses his snout against Damien's temple when he can't find the words to voice what, precisely, Damien is. "Ridiculous," he settles on. "And clearly exhausted. The plant bloomed much more quickly than I was expecting, I think," he mutters, glaring in its direction without any heat. "I can still smell the road on the both of you. Have you gotten any rest whatsoever since you've been home?"

Amaryllis rolls her eyes while Damien purses his lips in obvious guilt, and Arum stifles another laugh.

"Well. It seems it is my turn to act responsibly for once. To bed with you. You certainly won't be rid of me so easily that you shall miss out on a single sleepless night of my presence. To bed," he repeats, "and I shall find mine as well."

Damien blinks, surprised again, and he and Amaryllis meet each other's eyes for a moment, something passing between them.

"What?" Arum grumbles. "What is it? I do not intend to let you wear yourselves out further for my sake. Certainly you would not allow the opposite, were the tables turned."

"You- you want to sleep in the exam room again?" Amaryllis asks, her tone careful, and Arum-

Arum did not realize that there was another option open to him. Would she like for him to- return to the Keep?

He presses his expression flat, unbothered, and then he says, "Where… else?"

Damien and Amaryllis lock eyes again, and this time he can read a note of fondness before Amaryllis turns her attention back to him.

"Well…" Amaryillis trails off. "If you want to sleep in there, you can. I haven't touched it since we got home, so it's still set up the same as when you left it, but-"

"But?"

Amaryllis ducks her head, then looks up at him through the fall of her hair, her smile soft and easy. "You… aren't my patient, Arum," she says, and he blinks. "Not anymore. If you want that to still be your bed here- I understand. You spent ages there, I get it if that's where you're comfortable. But… we love you. We love you, and there's room in our bed for you, too. If you want it."

"If…" Arum trails off, his mind still catching on the belated realization that he- he may exist here, uninjured. A guest, not a patient, as he once imagined. "You… want me to…"

"We love you, Arum," Damien repeats, his tone unspeakably tender. "We want you. Every inch, every moment we may share is a treasure, a gift."

"Did it bother you to have us share your bed?" Amaryllis asks, and Arum wrinkles his snout.

"Ridiculous-"

"Exactly. So…" she bites her lip, and then she leans up, and kisses Arum on the cheek, her lips soft and warm against his scales. "Come to bed with us?"

That feeling again, as if his heart is glowing and warm, as if the light should be pouring out in shafts between his ribs. He presses his mouth against her own, an invitation, a request, and when she hums another kiss against his scales the light within him pulses hot.

"Please," he whispers, and with these two creatures in his arms, with the Keep a gentle presence at the edge of his mind, Arum knows that this is where he belongs.

The monster is barely conscious before he starts trying to pull the both of them closer.

Rilla can hardly blame him. If she wasn't worried about waking him too early, she would have tugged him into her arms ages ago. He's too tired to do much more than give a mumbled breath, though, his greedy limbs stretching out to tug weakly at Rilla and Damien's sides. Damien hums himself awake at Arum's touch, and he smiles so, so wide before his eyes blink muzzily open, and then he looks down at the monster in his arms, and then up at Rilla with a watery smile. She grins right back, and then she obliges Arum's sleep-slack, greedy hands, and she folds herself against his chest, angling her chin up so she can press a kiss to his neck, and Damien embraces him from the other side, strong arms looped around Arum's chest, fingers tracing the ridges of his scales.

Arum murmurs something incomprehensible through his teeth, his eyelids fluttering, and as Rilla kisses him again he hisses a contented sigh, his violet eyes slitting open to meet her gaze in the gentle light of morning.

Rilla is so shockingly in love that her heartbeat stumbles, and Arum and Damien are safe within her arms.

(He’s so pleased, radiating such obvious contentment, and he is so entirely stunned to wake with them holding him. His cheek rests on her hand and he presses his face into it as he rouses, his scales already warm from their radiant heat and his breathing going sharper through his smile, and she feels a fierce sort of satisfaction at that, at the idea of soothing him awake like this again, and again, and again)

He growls lightly, nipping at her fingers and tugging the both of them closer against his chest, rumbling with a deep, inhuman purr.

She almost can't believe there was a time when she thought of him only as a monster.

In their arms, in their bed, in their home. He is their monster. Safe, and healed, and loved.

End notes: Thank you. I love you. Thank you. For further feelings, my playlist for this fic lives here.

also? this note has been sitting at the end of this document since it was only three lines of goofy plot ideas.

[……… profit????]

#hold breath hit post cry into your pillow day fam #elle's fanfic #the penumbra podcast #second citadel #rad bouquet #lizard kissin' tuesday #lord arum #sir damien #amaryllis of exile #the keep #scattered on my shore #it's done. it's done.#it's 90k and it's DONE

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gumnut-logic · 4 years

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okay so i have been having bad brain lately and struggling with life but i just took a deep dive into your ao3 to catch up on all your wonderful words and needed to let you know how brilliant you are (again) bc it’s been a while. thank you for writing the dentist. it’s such a beautiful heartbreaking story and you handled the mental health stuff so very tenderly and carefully and the way virgil’s brothers care so much and so differently, my heart just !!!! (1)

i know we’ll be home for christmas wasn’t my secret santa gift but it truly feels like it when you bless us with injured virgil and beautiful scenery and pure unadulterated fluff. what a beautiful world you have created. sotto voce is just. phenomenal. there are no words for how much it blows me away every time i reread. the prince who would be king?? i don’t normally read medieval stuff but this???? is everything!!! (2)

shooting star hurts so much but in the best way, you are TOO GOOD to us. finally. i will stop soon dw, but listen, live, lie, laugh, learn & love??? honestly probably my favourite fic ever. i come back to it often and just weep every time because it’s a masterpiece and virgil is so perfect in it, i am just so in love with your writing style. every time you post i get a happy leap in my chest & i get inspired to write my own so thank you for making me love writing again. you’re the best xoxo (3)

-o-o-o-

I woke up to these this morning and oh my god, I have just reread this so many times trying to work out how to do justice and answer such lovely words ::hugs you so much::

I really couldn’t have written what I have without this wonderful fandom to keep me going. You, in particular, have always been so encouraging and amazing to me, how can I not keep writing? I stumble across your comments from time to time while rereading fic and they are just so encouraging ::hugs you madly::

I’m sorry to hear that life is being nasty to you ::offers you a Virgil to hug:: I hope things improve as soon as possible. ::more hugs:: I’m glad my fic helps just a little bit. I know I’ve used fanfic in the past to get through rough patches, so I’m really just returning the favour.

Regarding the fics you mention: (wherein Nutty babbles about behind the scenes of her fics)

The Dentist - My most recent actually started out as supposed to be funny, but I’m never in control of these things. I drew from my own phobic experiences (though not of dentists and certainly not caused like Virgil’s). I grew up in a, shall we say, unsympathetic environment to a sensitive child (I am sensitive to a whole bunch of things - side effect of my artistic abilities, I guess, has it’s up and down sides) and developed at least two phobias that messed with my life. The only thing I ask is if someone says they are scared of something, please respect that and assist them in working with it rather than mocking them. It may seem stupid, but the fear is real and terrifying. And yes, Scott Tracy, I’m looking at you - treat Brains with a little more respect, you arrogant flyboy. Not everyone has the same talents. Thank you so much for your kind words and for reading through what turned out to be a very emotional fic ::hugs you lots::

We’ll Be Home For Christmas - I feel Secret Santa is really a gift to everyone. We all enjoy reading each other’s fics and I’m so glad you are enjoying this one. This one has been magical for me. I have learnt so much researching it and I feel I’ve been on the voyage with the boys. Poor Virg, though, I had to injure him just to get the plot moving. I am so mean to him :D I will finish this fic. It has to be finished. I’m enjoying it far too much for it not to be finished. As to the world, I didn’t create it ::hugs:: The beauty of it is that it actually exists just north of New Zealand. I have watched so many videos of this amazing place, I will have to share when the fic is finished :D

Tales of Sotto Voce - This series will always have a big place in my heart as it impacted on my writing like no fic before it. I learnt so much and enjoyed it so much. I really need to finish The Price because John needs to have the last say in this saga and boy, does he have a lot to say. Thank you so much for rereading it. It is always wonderful to hear that my archived words are still being read ::hugs::

The Prince Who Would Not Be King - I’m a little scared of this one. It could essentially become a novel and it would be a steep learning curve for my writing skills. The amount of work involved is daunting and honestly it is tempting :D But not until I finish Shooting Star, We’ll Be Home For Christmas and The Hero :D It seems I can write things at the drop of a hat, in fifteen minutes, at lunch, before work, early in the writing piece, but each story gets to about the three-quarter mark and then I really have to start thinking hard to make sure I tie up all the loose ends and deliver what the story demands - this can’t be done at odd minutes, so gets relegated to time off work where I can focus, hence the delays. Plus my frickin’ muse often refuses to behave ::glares at it:: I’ll wrangle with it and will win eventually ::glares at it some more::

Shooting Star - I was looking at this one yesterday. I have the conclusion worked out, I’m just trying to segway into it. Muse wouldn’t co-operate so I wrote Together instead. This was supposed to be a simple Virgil-John chat fic. It blew up in my face. The emotions in this one just hurt. But I feel it is a conversation the boys had to have. Scott would not just leave his brother up there with a potentially murderous AI. There has to be a reason why it all worked out...and some how or other I now have to illustrate exactly that ::headdesk:: How do I get myself into these situations? But anyway, some more is written, I just have to make it work properly. Thank you for sticking with me as I stumble through my brain working things out :D

Listen, Live, Lie, Laugh, Learn & Love - I have always loved the 5 + 1 fic format, but had never written one. At this point I wasn’t sure I could finish such a challenging format (yeah, look at my long fics now, but back then I was terrified I didn’t have it in me). I also had no idea where the fic was going until about halfway through, was totally new to the fandom and to Virgil’s character and to this day still worry I bent his character oddly with the choir boy bit. It is true that canon Virgil has never sung on screen (that I’ve been able to discover) so this fic is possible, but I’ve never been entirely confident I pulled it off well. So yeah, lots of doubt hovering around this early piece, so your words mean ever so much to me, particularly about this fic ::hugs you lots::

But most of all, the best thing you’ve said in all this is that you are inspired to write. I couldn’t ask for more. There is never anything more wonderful than knowing I have helped another artist pick up a pen or brush or take that step to push their ideas out into the world. The world is so much better the more art and creativity unleashed upon it. The world is crazy about science and technology, but the truth of the matter is that art and creativity and innovation underpin everything our species has ever achieved. That and art can offer such relief from a crazy world that does not lend itself to the natural rhythms of life.

::grin:: I’m not a coffee drinker like the Virg, but you wanna see Nutty devolve into a similar bearhead to the sans coffee Virgil, just see what happens when I’m denied my creative time. You get fic cos Nutty needs to exercise her creativity everyday. It keeps me healthy. It comes in many forms and media, but at the moment it is writing and TAG and yay, lots of fic :D

Aaaand, I’m babbling. Apparently I like to talk about myself ::ducks head shyly:: Sorry :D

But thank you ever, ever so much for all your support. It means ever so much to me and the only way I can really express it is to write more fic. :D

Which reminds me - I do take prompts, do you have something in particular you would like me to write? I’ve just come up on my 100th TAG fic on Ao3 and I should celebrate. I don’t think I’ve written you a special fic. Would you like to make a request?

::Hugs you ever so madly and sticks marshmallows down your shirt::

Thank you so much for reading and being so kind and putting up with my crazy.

Nutty

(off the edge, learning to fly, ignoring that damned migraine I had this morning and worshipping the almighty paracetamol)

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theclaravoyant · 7 years

Text

AN ~ Surprise, @unlessimwrongwhichyouknowimnot! I actually got you for BOTH Secret Valentines! (And you’re also my 100th AO3 fic!! Happy Valentines Day to me too!) I hope you like it :D

Prompt: Aro!Jemma and Ace!Fitz in a queerplatonic relationship celebrate Valentine's Day in an unconventional way

If it’s love, and we decide that it’s forever no-one else could do it better. If it’s love, and we’re two birds of a feather, then the rest is just whatever. - If It's Love, Train

Read on AO3 (~2800wd). FS, light T, est. rshp.

Birds of a Feather

In a grand hotel room, two tangled figures stumbled through the doorway, wrapped up in each other’s arms. Gold stiletto heels heedlessly crushed the luscious carpet beneath them as a jewel-pink dress dropped to the floor, and lengthy, sensuous legs kicked up around the trousers of a fine Italian suit. As the two lovers collapsed onto the bed together, the music swelled and the camera panned up, and it became clear that this director did not intend to cut to black.

Jemma felt a flush down the back of her neck, and opened her lips a little to catch her breath. At the same time, behind her, Fitz made a quiet humming sound of discomfort. Jemma smiled with tight lips, as amused as she was irritated by the interruption. She snuggled deeper into Fitz’ chest, shifting lower, and took her eyes off the screen at last to roll over and peer up at his face.

“Sorry,” Fitz murmured. “I know I promised I wouldn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t,” she pointed out. “Technically.”

He sighed.

“It’s just –“ a fruitless handwave at the television. “I mean, really? They’ve known each other what, an hour? And that’s where they go?”

Jemma laughed.

“No-one’s doing anything wrong, Fitz,” she assured him. “They’re just having fun!”

Fitz screwed up his nose.

“Doesn’t look like much fun. I mean. That looks like more fun.”

Jemma followed where he pointed, to see that somebody had just been shot, and was falling dramatically backward into the swimming pool.

“Really?” Jemma pressed. “You’d rather get shot than have sex.”

“Well I was talking about the bit before that, with the swimming, before all hell broke loose, but –“

“Okay, so you haven’t completely lost it -”

Fitz rolled his eyes.

“You’re great,” he insisted, “and there are plenty of things it is better than. Y’know. Cleaning the shower drain. Setting rat baits in the attic. Dissecting a frog.”

“You threw up last time you dissected a frog.”

“My point exactly.”

“You’re hopeless.”

“We’re missing a perfectly good gunfight. Oh brilliant, here comes Miss Legs. Naturally, she’s going to have to fight in her underwear, of course.”

“Now I’ll admit that’s a little ridiculous, but she can fight remarkably well.” As the character vaulted over the bonnet of a car only to have her opponent throw her into a trash can and send her sprawling over the sidewalk covered in garbage, Jemma winced. “Oh, that poor stunt double.”

They returned their attention to the movie after that, but the banter continued. Together they poked fun at poor special effects, melodramatic one-liners, and flat tropes. Fitz explained or guessed at how various explosions and fight damage had been constructed. Jemma lamented and promised herself, for the fiftieth time, that she would learn martial arts one day. Maybe krav maga. The human body was truly a remarkable contraption.

“Well this human body’s getting remarkably uncomfortable,” Fitz returned. “I’m getting a drink. Want one?”

“Water, please.”

Jemma nodded, and yawned as she stretched herself out and climbed out of the nest she had created for herself between the couch and the cushions and Fitz. He disappeared to the kitchen and she to the bedroom, where she changed into a loose top and took off her bra. When Fitz returned with the water, he looked tired enough to collapse, like a switch had been flicked and all of a sudden he was struggling to keep his eyes open. Jemma hummed sympathically.

“Working hard?” she purred as he slumped onto the bed, eyes closed and forehead creased, limbs tensed with frustration.

“Coulson just emailed,” Fitz murmured, a silent groan in his expression. “They’re upgrading to a new model after all, so half the coding I did today is out the window. At this rate I’m going to be another week on this bloody thing."

“You shouldn’t check your emails before bed,” Jemma scolded gently. “Aside from the effects of screen brightness on sleep, there hasn’t been a day this week it hasn’t put you in a foul mood.”

Fitz grunted, wishing he had taken her advice, but read them he had and in a bad mood he was.

“Go to sleep, babe,” Jemma insisted. “You can deal with it in the morning.”

She crawled onto the bed beside him and snuggled into his side, letting one arm drape over his chest. She hummed softly and breathed smoothly until she felt the frustration drain from his body. Fitz’ own breathing evened out eventually and Jemma realised she’d lulled him to sleep on top of the covers. She slipped off the bed and retrieved a heavy fleece from the lounge, which she pulled over him, and then she snuck back into her place, careful not to disturb him as she stuck her feet under the covers.

Knees drawn to her chest, back against a stack of pillows and the headboard, Jemma looked down at Fitz’ soft expression and floppy hair and smiled tightly. He was working outside both her jurisdiction and her expertise, so he didn’t often talk about this particular project with her and she was unsure what to do to help him most of the time. And today was an especially unfortunate blow. He’d thought he’d finally been done with this project, and with the difficulties and secrecies that it entailed – hence an afternoon of lazy strolls, cooking, and amusingly predictable movies. After all the work he’d done so far and thought he’d put behind him, another week might as well have been another month, another year, another decade to his tired mind, and his heart that hated not sharing with her.

Jemma sighed. It seemed she had just as much of a penchant for putting herself in a mood before bed as Fitz did. She pulled her biomedical journal prints out from under her tablet to distract herself, but her eyes refused to train themselves on the words. Her brain refused to let go the thought that there must be something she could do, should do, would do for him. What was in a week’s time? Valentine’s Day. There must be loads of things to do on Valentine’s Day. Restaurants would be open, cinemas would have extra showings, events would be on all over the place.

So it was decided then, she thought to herself as if she could bargain with her own brain. She would arrange a nice day out for them on Valentine’s Day, to celebrate at last and to get his mind off that blasted project and to allow him to share with her whatever he might have felt he’d been lacking or needed to make up for. Surely, with that framework in mind, she could cast aside the journal reading and just go to sleep, ready to start planning proper when it was more appropriate.

Or.

Or, she could shuffle down under the covers and stare at the roof, and her mind could start buzzing with suggestions, and her heart could leap in her chest at the good ones and at the thought of being able to bring Fitz some peace. She could, in short, lie restless for a good few minutes and eventually give up on the attempt to sleep altogether and instead, do what she did best – plan.

“Is the blindfold really necessary?” Fitz asked as Jemma guided him by the shoulder down into the passenger seat of the car, a week later.

“Not strictly, but I didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“Surprise? I thought we were going to a restaurant, y’know Italian or something nice and romantic and then go to a movie, and then a hotel room after that with candles and rose petals everywhere…”

Fitz trailed off, grinning. He could feel Jemma’s glare through the blindfold.

“Oh please,” she huffed. “You know me better than that. Besides, if I have to hear one more terrible pun or even worse love story or watch those waiters moon-eye at us like they did last year, I’m going to vomit.”

“Hey, you love puns!”

“…Yeah, alright, maybe the puns aren’t too bad.” Jemma rolled her eyes as she moved the car into gear and started driving. Fitz was alert, looking around and listening. Trying to figure out her surprise.

“You’re not going to see it coming,” she insisted.

“Well of course I won’t, I’m wearing a blindfold, aren’t I?”

Jemma guffawed with laughter, and had to remind herself to keep her eyes on the road. Fitz grinned victoriously beside her and continued trying to map out where they were. He was terribly unfamiliar with the area, and after a while, they pulled out onto a long, straight road without much traffic and he lost track of how long they were on it.

“Still think you can pick us, Lassie?” Jemma teased. Fitz crossed his arms.

“We’re somewhere in New England,” he grumbled. “And I don’t appreciate the reference.”

Jemma shrugged. “It was either that or Skippy.”

Suddenly, Fitz bolted upright and slapped the car door excitedly.

“I smell the ocean! Right? We’re going to the seaside, aren’t we?”

“’The Seaside’.” Jemma laughed. “You’re so British!”

“You’re Britisher!”

“I bet I am, Mr ‘second grade math’.”

“Excuse you Little Miss ‘footy squad’.”

“We have footy squads!”

“Oh, 'we' do now, hm? And when did you suddenly get an interest in the Dons exactly?”

Fitz cut himself off when Jemma cut the engine and stepped around the car to open his door. The banter had successfully distracted him from a cacophony of sounds: money jingling, children screeching with laughter, and the unmistakable crank-accordion sound of carnival music. When Jemma finally pulled his blindfold away, she stepped aside to reveal a small fair set up on the jetty and grassed area near the beach. The water shone, a dark but luminescent backdrop for the coloured lights and flapping flags that announced festivity with the humble pride of a small town.

“What do you think?” Jemma asked, trying to get a read on Fitz’ stunned expression.

“I – um – why?” Fitz spiralled as he walked through the entrance, his eyes trained on the triangular penants flapping in the breeze above his head, and the stars far beyond them.

“I wanted to get away from it all,” Jemma explained, following him into the fairgrounds and guiding him out of the way of incoming strangers as he looked around, awestruck. “You away from that bloody project of yours and us away from the base for a while – and not to mention away from all that awful Hallmark tripe. It took me a while to find something interesting but then…I found this! I would’ve run it by you first but like I said, I didn’t want to ruin the surprise. Do you like it?”

“Jemma!” Fitz gasped. “I love it! Fresh air. Space. Fairy floss!”

He grabbed her face, as if to kiss her, but got distracted. He ran past her instead, to a truck offering fairy floss, popcorn and deep-fried potato spiral

“What’s a deep-fried potato kebab?” Jemma wondered, trailing him, and catching up just as he accepted an armful of food from the vendor. A tub of popcorn, a stick of fairy floss, and two of what could only have been the potato spirals. They were, in all, potatoes, cut somehow into a spiral and deep-fried onto a kebab stick. Simple, self explanatory, and unashamedly bad for you. Of course.

“What?” Fitz asked, when he saw her staring. “It was a long drive.”

They walked around the grounds and ate and talked, and in all honesty the simple fact of fresh air was enough of a gift to last them both all night. Jemma became increasingly gladder that she hadn’t caved in the end and chosen a restaurant; it was such a rare opportunity to be out of the base, and out of a city, without having to look over their shoulder all the time. The quiet life, she thought to herself, was underrated.

With occasional assistance from Jemma, Fitz polished off most of the food he’d bought initially in a fairly short span of time, but once he had a hand free, he held Jemma’s funnel cakes willingly and with great restraint as she engaged in some of the carnival activities. She tested her strength on the hammer, and both of them laughed when she barely managed to reach halfway. In the real world, she’d have jumped on the sensor instead, but a game was a game. She tried throwing balls into the clowns’ mouths and did a surprisingly good job, eventually winning a small stuffed seal made of gold and green fabric, which she gave to a passing child later in the night. When they got to a booth for shooting cans with a BB gun, Fitz jumped at the chance.

“Okay okay, this one’s mine.”

“My hero!” Jemma feigned a swoon, and took her funnel cakes back as Fitz made an enjoyably macho show of taking the gun and preparing himself. He was a good shot, but this was a carnival game. A notoriously difficult one at that. At least the attendant seemed to be getting a laugh out of his grand performance.

Fitz managed to down two cans. The attendant applauded, his eyebrows high, impressed. He gestured to the row of choices Fitz had for prizes, and Fitz picked out a larger-than-life daisy made of some sort of felt-like material, with a smiling face sown in where the seeds would go and wire in the stem, for posing.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Jemma,” he said, presenting it to Jemma as seriously as if it were a bouquet full of roses.

“Oh, babe, you shouldn’t have!” she crooned, stroking its petals as if it were as sweet and fragile as a lily.

“Ah, the lovebirds,” the attendant called, applauding again. “I’ll give the lady three shots for free, eh? My little Valentines gift to you all.”

Jemma grinned, and passed off her funnel cakes and the precious daisy to Fitz. She picked up the gun and fired, fired, fired, and the attendant howled and clapped his congratulations when three cans tumbled from their stand.

“The highest score all night, Ma’am,” he congratulated her. “Have your pick of anything on the board!”

Eventually, they retired to the beach.

They walked for a while, until the sounds of the carnival had faded into the distance and the soft roar of the lapping waves took over. Fitz sat, and brushed a patch of sand beside him so that Jemma could adjust her skirt and sit too. It was a graceful practice oddly out of place, as Jemma had the cartoonish daisy wrapped around her arm like it had grown there, and Fitz had a monkey with absurdly long arms and Velcro for hands hugging his neck, and the most recent phase of dinner consisted of a corndog each, and an absurdly large cup of ice-cream they were sharing.

Jemma sighed in satisfaction as she looked out across the sea, where it reflected the shimmering silver moonlight.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Fitz,” she murmured, nuzzling into his shoulder. It was cold, and she’d left a jacket in the car, but she preferred this method of keeping warm.

“Thanks for bringing me here, Jemma,” Fitz replied. “It was very inventive of you. I had fun.”

“And you got to show off.”

“And I got to show off.” Fitz laughed.

“You’re a great romantic sap, you know that?” Jemma teased. “Defending my honour against those nasty stacks of tins.”

“They were looking at you funny, I swear.”

Jemma laughed and rolled her eyes. “Next year, I’m buying you a sword.”

“Really?!” Fitz jumped, and almost sent Jemma’s corn-dog flying.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Jemma promised.

Fitz stuck his now-empty corndog stick into the sand and adjusted his position so that he could put an arm around Jemma’s shoulders.

“Aren’t you cold?” he wondered, looking at all her bare skin. Jemma shrugged.

“Not with you.”

Fitz snorted. “And I’m the romantic sap.”

Jemma batted her eyelids at him.

“Would the sap like to get my jacket from the car? Pretty please?”

“Always.” Fitz kissed the top of her head and leapt to his feet, and Jemma hurried to pull the ice cream out of reach of a flurry of sand he kicked up as he headed up the beach and back to the car. When he returned with a jacket and a picnic rug, Jemma salvaged the ice cream once again and they set themselves up for a long and beautiful night under the stars.

#fitzsimmons #thefitzsimmonsnetwork #aospositivitynet #fitzsimmonssecretvalentine #aro!jemma #ace!fitz

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