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itmeansofthesea · 3 years

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Moving Day

Well this one got me all in my feelings. This was supposed to be lighter and funnier and somehow it got away from me. Instead it's this beautiful thing?? Maybe I'll try to write a funnier version later, but thanks to @dobega for reminding me of the domesticity conversation that led to the end. Any longer and I would have to make this a series, but if that's something you're interested in I think I could swing it. Enjoy, y'all.

Warnings: like one curse word? I think that's it... It's also overwhelmingly sweet imo so just be ready for that.

Had Charles Vane known that becoming ally/friends with James Flint would involve helping him, his boyfriend, and his boyfriend’s wife (his girlfriend?) move into their new house, he might have just gone ahead, taken the warship and let Peter Ashe hang Flint and be done with. Not really, but… maybe?

He honestly isn’t even really sure how he got roped into this. It was a couple of weeks ago when he, Jack, Anne, Max, Flint, Thomas, and Miranda were all sitting at a table upstairs in the brothel having dinner. Billy was out showing Abigail around Nassau and Mr.s Gates and De Groot were just trying to get a moment’s peace at some smaller tavern at the other end of town. Silver and Madi were out having some sort of alone dinner thing (Jack had called it a “date” and then called Charles a “heathen with no sense of romance”), and this all left the motley crew to sit around with whatever the brothel’s cook had dreamed up and a metric ton of ale to wash it down.

Charles didn’t fully understand the situation Flint had with the Hamiltons, but whatever it was clearly made Flint happier than Charles had ever seen him. He was all smiles and laughter and joy. It warmed Charles’s heart (just a bit) to see his friend so happy, because they certainly had become friends. He mentally joked about leaving Flint to hang, but to be honest it would be difficult to imagine his life without the people sitting around the table with him now. At least, it would be difficult to imagine something resembling a happy life.

They’d stopped to refuel in Savannah after Charlestown and somehow or another word got to Flint about a plantation full of the disgraced sons of London’s elite that were now more or less enslaved in the prison colony. If there was one thing Charles was always down to do (and there were many things he was always down to do), it was hunt down a slave master and free people from bondage. They’d split when they got to the plantation- Charles after the master of the house and James off to find Thomas. Finding Mr. Smith hadn’t been difficult and dispatching him was even easier. Once that was finished, Charles made his way outside to find Flint in the arms of another, taller man and both of them appeared to be weeping. He felt like an intruder watching them, so he busied himself with checking the plantation for anyone else who may need to be released. When they made it back to the ship, Miranda leapt on the man who Charles realized must be Thomas, and after a minute of holding on to him she grabbed Flint into their embrace.

In time all of the introductions were made, and suddenly the Charles/Anne/Jack crew expanded to the Charles/Anne/Max/Jack crew and the Charles/James friendship expanded to include Charles/James/Thomas/Miranda. They also intercepted Abigail Ashe on the way, and James and the Hamiltons promptly adopted her on the spot. She and Charles had some reacquainting to do outside of Eleanor Guthrie’s influence, but he at least thought they were making progress. She didn’t seem nearly as terrified as she’d been of him when she followed Eleanor through the gate, so that was something.

Fast forward a few weeks and here they all were finishing their chicken and ale when Jack began asking about where the Flint/Hamilton/Ashe family intended to live. Miranda’s house was too small now that they had Abigail, and Billy had attached himself to Abigail as an older brother figure so usually where one of them was, the both of them were. Of course with Billy came Mr. Gates as his surrogate father, and while they’d made it work for the last couple of months, everyone was feeling a bit cramped.

Jack and Max volunteered to host them at the brothel, but they politely declined. Charles half considered offering to let them stay at the fort, but figured that may not be the best idea considering they also had Abigail to consider. Not that he couldn’t keep his men under control, but he also knew that she had memories of that fort that she may not want to be surrounded by all the time. He certainly knew that was the case for him, and yet he stayed… for some reason. Maybe he should take Jack up on the offer to move into the brothel…

Thomas mentioned that they’d been asking around and found a house a bit more inland from Miranda’s that had been abandoned for the last several years. It would take a bit of fixing up, but they planned to go ahead and move in and then work on it as they lived there. Before Charles fully knew what was happening, Jack had volunteered Charles, Anne, himself, and Max to all help them move with the added bonus that he and Max would help with the decorating if Miranda so desired their assistance. Max enthusiastically agreed and elbowed Anne in the side prompting her to shrug a shoulder in agreement. Jack looked at Charles with those wide puppy-dog eyes and before Charles even knew what he was saying he’d agreed to help. The look on the Flint/Hamilton’s faces almost made it worth it.

At the time.

That was then.

Now it’s moving day. What on earth had they gotten themselves into?

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When Charles and company arrived at Miranda’s house early the next day, one cart was packed and Thomas, Billy, and James were in the process of loading another one. It was decided that they would stay behind and the Ranger crew plus Max would go with Miranda and Abigail and get things unloaded. Mr. Gates was out helping Mr. De Groot careen the ship again since the last time was a bit of a disaster.

The moving crew pulled up to a slightly rundown looking two story house with columns on the porch and an overgrown garden to the side. Miranda smiled and squeezed Abigail around the shoulders before jumping off the cart to start unloading. Abigail took the key to the front door and unlocked it, but had a little trouble pushing it open since the summer heat made the wood swell in the jamb. Jack went to help her push it open while Charles and the others started getting things off the cart.

“Just put everything in the front for now, we’ll get it sorted later,” Miranda instructed as she pulled a crate of books from the back. She passed it to Charles who noticed the copy of Reflections by Marcus Aurelius on the top. He recognized it from a conversation he’d had with Flint on the way to the plantation. That was his and Thomas’s book, the one object that kept them tethered together to all this time. Flint’s book with Miranda was Don Quixote, which he also noticed on top of the stack. It’s not that Charles couldn’t read (Teach made sure he could), it had just never been particularly useful to him. You don’t have to know how to read to split logs, haul rope, navigate the stars, or fight the English Navy. Besides, he’d never really had the time to sit down and rest long enough to read. Maybe he should change that. He set the books down to the left of the open door and went back out for more stuff.

Max and Anne pulled down a trunk of clothes and carried it into the house together. Charles volunteered to switch with them, but he was told in no uncertain terms that they could handle it themselves thank you very much, so he left them to it. He passed Miranda and Abigail carrying small crates of what appeared to be dishes. Porcelain. Hadn’t he and Flint had that conversation just a few days ago? About how fragile porcelain and books were, and how fragile a civilized life was, and how it all came down to capitulation and letting society numb you into obedience? Now he was willingly helping Flint settle into that obedience. Is that something a real friend should do? Charles wasn’t sure, so he jumped into the back of the cart, pushed a trunk to the edge, and hauled it out of the back of the cart to take inside.

Miranda stood in the foyer with her hands on her hips trying to put together what each room should be when the furniture arrived. Charles motioned to the trunks on the floor and at Jack who was just standing there in slack jawed awe.

“Would you like us to move these upstairs?”

Miranda turned and smiled up at him. “Sure, thank you, Charles.”

“Jack, let’s go.” Charles barked and jerked his head toward the trunks.

“You can’t honestly expect me to be able to help you carry that upstairs.” Jack raised an eyebrow and looked at Charles like he’d lost his mind. Charles scowled and opened his mouth to reply when suddenly-

“Good thing we got here in time then,” Flint’s voice sounded amused coming from behind him, and he turned just in time to see Billy and Thomas carrying in a table. Miranda’s smile widened as she directed them to the right and Flint walked over to Charles to help with the trunk.

“My hero,” Jack cooed jokingly at Flint before catching Charles’s eye and backing away. “Yes, yes, I know. Fuck you, Jack. I’ll let you save your breath.” Jack raised his hands and walked away to follow Miranda and see if he could start setting the table or something.

Charles just rolled his eyes and grabbed his end of the trunk.

“On 3?” James asked. Charles nodded. “1, 2, 3,” James counted off and they both lifted at the same time. It was heavy, even for the two of them.

“The fuck’s in this thing?” Charles grunted as he started backwards up the stairs.

“I think these are Abigail’s… From what I understand, women’s clothes are far more complex than ours,” James laughed.

“Not here, they aren’t…” Charles thought back to Eleanor’s outfits, but also realized that Abigail and Miranda were nothing like Eleanor, therefore they would likely be dressed more like Max, in which case it made sense. Thank God they weren’t like Eleanor. Nassau couldn’t handle another one.

“So, if you can’t understand why a man would want domesticity, why are you helping four of them move into a house?” James looked amused, and Charles honestly wasn’t even sure he had an answer.

“I still don’t understand it. To the left,” Charles moved to get his back to the doorway and James moved with him. “However,” they set the trunk down inside the room and straightened. “I think I am starting to understand wanting peace.” He sighed. “And I don’t know, maybe I do understand it. I tried to tell Eleanor that we could take part of the gold and settle down, have a life, a couple of kids… but she would never have that. I told myself that wasn’t me wanting domesticity, that was wanting someone else to depend on me, but…” he took a deep breath and walked out onto the landing where he could see Jack and Anne below him. James wordlessly followed. “Maybe I’ve had other people depending on me for a long time. Actually, I know I have. It’s why Jack wouldn’t come with me when I left with Teach- he didn’t want to have to depend on me when he’d built something of his own here. I didn’t expect that to hurt as much as it did.”

“But it did,” James whispered beside him.

“It did. I guess because I was hoping that our friendship would be enough for him to come with me, but in the end his need for independence won out. I can’t blame him, especially after all the shit I put him through with Eleanor-”

“Excuse you, you both put us all through that,” James smirked and bumped Charles’s shoulder. He earned a grunt in response. James just chuckled and noted the small grin gracing Charles’s face out of the corner of his eye. James knew at one point that comment would likely have resulted at him having a knife in his face. He was thankful they’d progressed past that.

“Anyway,” Charles emphasized the word, “seeing you with Miranda and Thomas, and even adopting Abigail. It seems peaceful. Maybe that’s part of domesticity, maybe it isn’t, but either way, it looks nice. It’s not something I can have in that fort probably, but…” he trailed off.

James waited a beat before asking, “what?”

“I am happy that it’s working out this way for you,” Charles whispered. “If anyone deserves all of this, you do. You all do,” he ignored the water welling up in his eyes as he put a hand over Flint’s over the railing.

Flint didn’t even bother ignoring his tears. He just let them go as he watched his family make their home together for the first time in a way that included all of them from the very beginning. He whispered, “thank you. So do you, you know?”

Charles chuckled humorlessly and swiped a hand across his face.

“I’m serious,” James looked at Charles who turned his head in response. “They are my family, but you are now, too. You don’t show up to save my life from the man who ruined my life, help me blow a port city to hell, kill its governor, and then stop me from murdering Jack Rackham for taking the Urca gold I’d been after for years without earning the title of brother. Even if you did steal my ship first.” James smirked and bumped Charles’s shoulder again.

“Yeah… I’m not sorry about that.” Charles shook his head and laughed.

“Wouldn’t expect you to be,” James chuckled, “brother.”

Charles looked at his family and back at James. “Brother.”

#black sails #charles vane #ranger crew #anne bonny #jack rackham #bs max #james flint #flinthamilton #thomas hamilton #miranda hamilton

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heresyourramen · 3 years

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Seo Changbin - Green Eyed Monster

Halloween was ages ago but I still wanted to post this one.

Changbin x female reader insert (Heavily tattooed y/n, she’s strong too since her job is a personnel trainer, idk whatever)

5.9 K Words

It does contain SMUT/EXPLICT CONTENT

Warnings: A horror house, a lot of angst, pretty vanilla sex some light oral, jealousy, some fluff.

"Its charming!" your voice echoed through the cold night air.

The old mansion or at least what was left of it was probably anything but, though like anything if you looked hard enough you'd find the quirks. the gothic architecture had fallen apart, the steel spires and some old grey, rotten wood all that remained its steel spires and a very creaky weather vane that's rooster shape became somewhat ominous in the darkness of the night, well that and the sounds of people screaming inside every now and again probably also didn't help.

"It's probably haunted and we're all going to die," Changbin's monotonous voice came from beside you and you saw Felix clutch onto your boyfriends arm tighter and you half wished your love for all things spooky had remained a secret so that you could be the whiny baby but alas, Changbin had met you on a day you were wearing your favourite oversized Freddie Kruger t-shirt and therefor that was an impossible feat from the start. Han was clinging to your puffer jacket sleeve, Minho stood beside you his face impassive as he also stared ahead, out of the corner of your eye you saw Hyunjin sneak up on him from behind, he breathed down the back of Minhos neck, you've never seen someone go so pale so quickly but as soon as Minho turned around Hyunjins own fear was prevelant on his face as he flinched away from Minho who nearly put him in a choke hold.

You let out a small sigh, when you thought touring the haunted house would be a fun little activity for pre-Halloween festivities but when the boys thought they'd be able to manage wandering with you they'd obviously forgotten the last time they let you pick the movie for the designated movie night. Your hope of cuddling with Changbin had been thrown out the window at the first jump scare, Felix claiming a spot on his lap instead and Han clinging onto you like a koala, his flailing had caused you to miss half of the movie itself. Chan had sat quietly enduring the movie his hand sneaking to hold Jeongins hand in his own for comfort, Hyunjin and Minho had clung onto each other desperately and Jeongin had watched with the same level of interest as you and Changbin. Chan was stuck recording with Seungmin and Jeongin on a new vocal unit track, keeping them away from tonight's little adventure and leaving and your boyfriend as the only two who might actually enjoy this horror show.

"Thanks sunshine." You rolled your eyes, you loved him but sometimes he was insufferable. You stepped forward walking through the crooked iron gate along the path lined with different carved pumpkin lanterns, Han either to scared to let go or too busy looking around for the monsters his imagination was conjuring followed after you. You were a few steps in and the other shuffled through as well, following in your wake.

The massive door lay turned in against the wall and if it wasn't for the small lights decorating the tickets table it would've looked like a big mouth of darkness waiting to swallow you whole and the entryway was deserted only some graffiti and stupid kids names carved into the ancient walls. You felt Han shiver most probably because of the breeze but you took his hand and gave it a gentle and what you hoped was a centring squeeze, not wanting the activity to induce a panic attack for him although that might be impossible because of what could be waiting around every corner. When you looked back to check that no one had tripped over some old sticks and trash that was blown onto the porch, your eyes immediately met Changbins his face was as impassive as ever but his brow had a small furrow to them as it moved from your face to your hands now hidden by Jisungs sweater paw and you turned your head back not really feeling guilty about it.

Changbin was a naturally cuddly person with his members but for some reason he had kept PDA and clinginess with you to a minimum , rarely even holding your hand and only ever giving you a hug as a greeting in front of his members. Of course as the relationship progressed the boys saw you often enough to be comfortable with you as well, they'd be affectionate in a friendly way but often the affection you received from the younger boys felt more than that, that Changbin would show you.

In private it was like his hands were glued to your body, always touching you in some way, hand resting on your thigh if he was busy otherwise he'd be cuddling you and peppering you with kisses 90 percent of the time. It hurt you that he didn't want to do the same for you in person but you'd left it alone knowing he would have good reason but it also meant in your perspective he had to accept that being affectionate was part of your nature, and babying the boys was part of your natural trait as 'the mom' friend. Han squeezed your hand as you passed under a not so stable looking archway and into a room with an old fire place following the neon arrows taped to the floor. Suddenly Minho- and Hyunjin's petrified screeches came from behind you and you saw a white hand come from underneath a table clutching onto Hyunjins ankle Minho screeching because Hyunjin nearly tackled him to the ground in his dramatics. Hans other arm wrapped around the one holding his hand as he suctioned himself onto you, Felix also practically now being carried by Changbin.

When you turned to lead the way into the new room a clown towered over all of you in the middle of the entryway, its plastic hatchet raised and a terrible grin with sharp teeth painted on the mask, your eyes widened and you couldn't help but giggle this however was inaudible thanks to the howls the boys sent up at the sudden shock. You lead Han around the clown, the actor in the suit only allowed to turn as he follows you with his scary smile as you walked passed.

This was how the rest of the evening continued a jump scare coaxing wails and terrified screams from everybody but you who simple giggled at the outrageous costumes and Changbin who's expression remained mostly passive. When you exited the massive doors Felix and Han was practically dragging you and your boyfriend out and into the cold night air again. When you all piled into your car Han having called shotgun the boys immediately started rambling loudly over the pop hits that played on the radio. When they mentioned they should do it every year you rolled your eyes at the outrageous suggestion.

"Hey Noona, why do you like scary stuff so much." Han inquired eyes wide as everyone's attention shifted towards yourself and everyone else in the car went quite as you scanned the street to park so you could get ice cream, you sighed and parked at the end of the street.

"Because it's fun." the truth is that it had become a comfort much like getting piercings or tattoo's had, the pain, the adrenaline rush, they all clouded your brain in a new way that your sadness didn't and since then each of those items had become associated with feeling better, and even though your mental state had changed since a few years back it didn't change the fact that it was important to you. Changbin new this was the real reason, dammit it was one of the first conversations you had when you started dating and that's when he noticed you awkwardly shifting around the smiley with your tongue as you smiled uncomfortably he announced that he really wanted ice cream and diverted the attention away from you successfully. You got out and made sure the car was locked as you started walking until suddenly you felt someone jump on you, you heard Felix giggle and you grinned hooking your arms under his thighs as you carried him on your back an easy feat thanks to the hard work you put in the gym on the daily the few meters to the front of the late night ice cream shops entrance, conveniently located on the same block as their apartment. You've spent many nights here, post date night, post gym, heck even post sex but it didn't matter because it was Changbin who had made this place one of those things that help you feel better, but it was probably because he made you feel better. Felix hopped off and you looked over to your boyfriend eyeing the two of you with that same look he had given Han clinging to your side, before directing everyone to the counter.

You all sat happily eating the ice cream, laughing at the boys making fun of each others expressions when they got scared. You giggled along with them your legs resting on Han's lap who had claimed the seat beside you in the booth before any one could give it a second thought, you licked at your own ice cream the metal of your tongue ring against the creaminess a sensation you'd never get used to yourself. At first you were confused when Changbin had approached in the gym at what seemed to be the end of a session with Chan, your friends who had used to train with you telling you that you often looked more than intimidating when doing your workouts, which you understood, you were the definition of the modern post break up stereotype, hair dyed nearly white except for your dark roots, tatted from your neck to your fingertips, pierced and hitting the gym nearly two hours a day with thigs big enough to crush skulls in between them, except your last break up had been two years ago and you hadn't felt the need to date again. Well, until Changbin who had nervously shifted himself from side to side and asked you to go for coffee with him, you had barely answered your eyes scanning at the veins that lined his big arms, looking bigger thanks to the pump from working out. You swore some drool had escaped your mouth as you ogled him and quickly said yes, truth be you had admired him plenty of times from across the weight section, I mean who didn't, he was beautiful. Point is you were beyond out of place with the sunshinyness of the boys, only ever somewhat looking like you could maybe fit in when you stood next to Bang Chan and Changbin with their monotonous outfits of black. But they had all warmly accepted you, with zero reservations, as if the piercings and tattoos barely even existed, something you appreciated in a culture it was so seriously frowned, them treating you not like an outsider meant the world to you.

But you thanked whatever deity existed everyday for all of them, no matter what, because for now you could say you wouldn't be getting new piercings or tattoo's soon at least not for the reasons you were used to getting them. When you were done, saying good bye to each of the boys, with soft pecks on the forehead from Felix and Jisung and a timid wave directed at them as they walked away, you released a deep breath the air foggy as it left your nose.

Changbin taking your hand, hooking his pinky with yours as he walked with you back towards the car, it wasn't unusual for him to go home with you after a day out. When you got in the car instead of your usual comfortable silences after busyness of a day there was an uneasiness to it, you shifted in your seat uncomfortably before driving to your place only a few blocks away. Changbin sat looking out the passenger side window not even trying to change the music on the radio like he usually would and you swallowed hard. It's been a long time since your previous relationships and they almost always ended in a week of this type of suffocating silence, with a goodbye and a 'I've found someone else', your knuckles turned white gripping the steering wheel hard as you nibbled your bottom lip, but you felt your body relax as his hand softly rested on your thigh. The warmth a comfort to your anxiety, his thumb rubbing slow circles easing away all the bad with each rotation.

He got out and patiently waited for you to grab your gym bag from the back of the old SUV before making your way back towards him. He wrapped his arm around your shoulder and tucked you into his side as much as your thick puffer jackets would allow. Your apartment wasn't big but it had a loft that allowed a little bit of separation and when you made your way upstairs your anxiety sparked once more when Changbin didn't follow you up and immediately flop down on your queen sized bed like he usually would.

Changing out of your jeans and into some leggings and one of his old fluffy pink sweaters you slowly made your way back downstairs, despite your intense and obviously intimidating appearance you hated conflict and honestly you wished your anxiety would vanish so you wouldn't have to worry about talking about whatever it was that caused this uncomfortable silence. As you set about rinsing all your shake mixers in hot water while some water boiled so you could make coffee you felt his intense gaze on your back from where he sat at the small counter that separated your kitchen and living room area. When he cleared his throat you froze, hands still half in the soapy water as you waited.

"Y/n we can't avoid this conversation." you sighed audibly tongue poking at your smiley as you turned around again.

"Changbin I'm avoiding it because I don't even know what the conversation is going to be about." your tongue pokes at the side of your cheek irritation bubbling inside you for some reason and you fold your arms over your chest but quickly let them fall to your sides trying to stop yourself from creating a defensive wall. Changbin's jaw flexes visibly as he bites down in frustration, this wouldn't be your first argument and you had a feeling it probably wouldn't be your last but it still didn't mean it was something you wanted to do at almost midnight after a long day. Your arms automatically crossed across your chest as you leaned against the sink and Changbin stood up from his seat to stand right in front of you his hands resting on your biceps tenderly.

"I don't like seeing the guys so affectionate with you, and before you say something-", he held up a pointed finger as you prepared yourself to interrupt him mouth already open but shutting quickly at his gesture, " - I know that's something I'll have to discuss with them and not you but I wanted to tell you how I felt."

"Well Binnie it would help if you didn't give them any space to do so." Your brows furrowed as you looked up at his only slightly taller figure, his eyes scanned your face confused a silent question asking what you meant by that. You huffed eyes diverting to the ground and away from his gaze, your hands cupping your elbows instead of defensive you came across scared.

"You don't show affection towards me around them." You mumble and quickly look at him his gaze still confused but he didn't step away his hands were still softly gripping your arms.

"Binnie you cuddle them and let them cuddle you all the time when I'm around, there's no space for me to initiate any type of PDA between us and besides I wouldn't initiate it because they're your friends and I don't want you or them to feel uncomfortable. " His grip on your arms tighten for a second before his touch leaves you completely, Changbin takes a step back and crosses his arms.

"You're right I don't want them feeling uncomfortable, that's why I don't do it Y/n, you are a lot to take in and we need to give them time to get used it." You felt a pang in your chest he's never once said anything negative about your appearance, never even hinted that it bothered him and him using it as an excuse made a different kind of anger bubble inside you.

"Well I'm pretty sure they've warmed up to me by now judging by how you're getting jealous ." You didn't even try to keep your tone neutral every word dripping with sarcasm a you stared him down, hard. "Jealous?" he rolls his eyes up exasperated and chuckles and places a hand on his chest, " I'm not jealous."

"Oh? Then what are you?" you quirk a brow a smirk tugging at your lips. this was exactly why you avoided conflict, you knew yourself, and you knew you didn't fight fair.

"I'm tired of my girlfriend hanging on my members like she isn't already in a relationship and acting like she'd rather be having them fuck her into the mattress." Your gaze darkened and your face turned into an ugly snarl.

"Changbin, listen to yourself." Your tone was low and an obvious warning, he didn't know much about your previous relationships, but he knew how you felt about cheating. He ignored it, taking a step back into your personal space.

"Gee I bet that'd be nice, huh? Dating two famous stars at the same time." Your eyes that had been screwed shut as soon as he'd stepped closer shot open wide. Never once had you ever said anything about dating him because he's famous or done something to actively make his life even more difficult as an idol sure you were active in the industry you were a fucking dietician and personal trainer for a variety of stars but he knew how you felt about mixing your personal life with your work.

"What . The. Fuck. Changbin?" you two both stood glaring at each other you never thought you'd see the day that jealousy could turn the man in front of you this ugly. You were looking for something in his eyes in the form of remorse or even a little bit of guilt but nothing but anger and something you could describe as jealousy darkening his gaze and staring your figure down.

"You better give me a very good reason as to why I should still let you stay the night and not make you get a taxi right now." Your eyes lowered into a glare a hungry and angry fire in the pit of your stomach as you pointed in the direction of the door. When he crashed his lips onto yours it was hard and messy and you mumbled inaudible protests into his mouth that was still devouring your lips. Your brain went static when his one hand laced through your hair and the other your waist and in other scenarios you wouldn't have minded but now you hated it, he'd hurt you, and you were mad but his kisses had the ability to slowly melt your fury into lust a weakness he seemed to exploit.

His lips detached from yours, messy and swollen red from his harsh biting and you gasped finally breathing, as he planted open mouth kisses past your jaw and down your neck, you can't remember when your hands had gone to his chest but you didn't mind your hands sliding down and under his t shirt finger grazing over his hard abs and back to his hard pecks. The way he moaned against your neck set off a bunch of butterflies in your stomach, and you smiled dumb. His hands roamed across your body and finally found resting place under your ass that he tapped softly ordering you to jump, and you did so legs wrapping around his waist out of habit his lips back on yours furiously devouring you once again. He only did so until he reached the stairs, pulling back to make sure he wouldn't fall on your way to the bed, you took this as ample opportunity to strip, as you tugged off the sweatshirt leaving you bare and Changbin paused his ascent with a pretty whine, before placed a tender kiss in between your boobs right on top of the blackout rose tattoo on your sternum, before biting at the same space and you bit down hard on your bottom lip to suppress your own whine.

He continued making his way up, knee's almost buckling when you sucked and nibbled at the space on his neck right under his ear. When he got up the stairs he put you down softly before adjusting you roughly so your head was on the pillows and he was removing the tights and panties at the same time, he quickly took his shirt off after but before you could reach out and touch him his arms immediately went to your hips as he hooked them under your legs the only part of him in reach, his head.

He started biting and nibbling down the inside of each of your thighs soothing each new little bruise with an open mouth kiss getting teasingly close to your dripping core before suddenly pressing his tongue flat against your clit and suckling on it your moan tore through the room and replaced your pants as he continued sucking and softly nibbling on it slowly pumping two fingers in and out of your wet pussy.

Gripping at his hair hard in an attempt to ground yourself you nearly tugged his head hard enough you thought you might've pulled out strands, when he curled his fingers inside you as you unleashed a whine, but he only groaned deep in his chest the vibrations through your clit causing a different wave of pleasure to move through you. The way your walls clenched around his fingers almost sucking the digits he was scissoring in deeper, as you came closer to your release he detached himself from your clit and pulled his fingers out abruptly.

The snarl you unleashed as your head whipped up made him smirk, you knew exactly what he was doing, Changbin was a motherfucking tease and after arguments he seemed to enjoy it even more as he wound you up till you were nearly teetering off the edge, dragging you further and further away from your orgasm until it'd suddenly crash into you , and crash over you hard. Using your hold on his hair you pulled him up so his face was hovering over yours again and you had to work hard to repress the shiver running up your spine at how absolutely breath taking he looked, swollen lips pulled in a smirk and dripping with the evidence of your arousal, his full cheeks covered in it, half lidded eyes looking down on you pleased with himself and the hard hold you had on his dark tresses. You were debating flipping him over, fucking him stupid and then leaving him high and dry like he often tries to do with you but he stopped all thoughts of doing so when you heard a belt buckle and a zip as Changbin pulled back to stand and take off his pants and boxers your grip loosened on his hair at the implication of the sounds. He made his way back over you, the same lazy smirk still on his face some part of the fuzziness started fade and you lowered your gaze into a glare.

"The silent treatment?" he said quirking a brow, as he reached over to your bedside drawer and took out a condom your eyes following his actions and your hands resting next to you on the sheets, fisted them hard in an attempt to contain your body's neediness.

"It's okay baby, you wont stay like that for long." as soon as the condom was on he was positioned between your legs and he was pushing inside you slowly, inch by inch. You bit down on your lips hard enough to draw blood as you tried to contain your whine as you clutched the bed sheets beneath you, no matter how many times Changbin's size was always almost too much to handle but the pain always became a brief memory as soon as you adjusted.

"Shhh baby," he cooed softly in your ear as he brushed sweaty strands of hair out of your neck as placed more opened mouth kisses down where his fingers had softly grazed before, his breathing heavy at the tightness around him as he waited for you to signal that he could move. When he pulled back your eyes fluttered open and you gave him a stern look and you felt him pull almost all the way out before thrusting back into you slowly.

The pace made it feel like he was never ending but eventually his hips was once again flush against yours his head poking at a specific spot inside you that had you shuddering a moan escaping through your lips your eyes screwing shut. This time he pulled out thrusting back in hard and your lips went wide open in a silent moan as his finger directed your chin so you faced him, your eyes fluttering open.

"Come on baby, I want you to say my name..." his voice is deep and raspy in your ear as his fingers gripped your jaw trapping your head so you could only look up.

"I want to make sure you know who's making you feel," he thrusts into you hard and your back arches so your chest is pressed against his.

"...this..." another hard thrust and your moaning, borderline screaming, loud enough you know your neighbours will be complaining the next day.

"...good." this thrust felt so deep you were sure if you looked down you'd see him poking through your stomach and your hands flew nails digging into his back and legs wrapping around his waist in encouragement. He starts a relentless pace his hips slapping against you harshly as he hits continuously hits the spot that has you moaning, tears welling up in your eyes that are screwed shut and your hands move to desperately clutch at his hair again, his grunts and own moans right by your ears making you keen, he shifts his arm hooking under your knee pushing it up and almost against your chest and suddenly he's deeper.

"Binnieeee!" your scream echoes of the walls off your otherwise silent apartment your back arching as stars start to enter in your peripheral and your moans become louder.

"See baby," he mumbles, panting against your exposed neck as you toss your head back in sheer pleasure as he continues his relentless pace, "that wasn't so difficult." he planted open mouth kisses on your neck, nibbling at already bruised and marked skin, purple over the blue ink that decorated your throat. His high was approaching even faster as he watched you fall apart beneath him and by the way your walls were fluttering he knew your own orgasm wasn't far away.

His arm unhooked from underneath your leg but you were to far gone too even notice, your brain had gone blank your vision white as he brushed his fingers against your clit. You came hard, shuddering and Changbin felt himself cumming as your walls squeezed him dry as he rode out both your orgasms. He pulled out of you and you whimpered at your own sensitivity, he discarded the condom and came back pecking your forehead.

"Go get ready for bed baby, I'll change the sheets." His voice was gentle and as you grabbed something to sleep in you felt a heavy weight settle on your chest, your fuzzy and tired brain not quite comprehending it as you cleaned yourself and got under the clean sheets. Even as Changbin came back from his shower his front pressed to your back arms squeezing you tightly against him, his lips kissing the back of your neck goodnight before cuddling you till you fell asleep the weight didn't go away.

You had woken up sore but not nearly as sore as you thought you'd be, when your alarm went off at 5 a.m. you had quickly switched it off, Changbin's snores the only sign he was indeed alive and not a corpse, with the way he was able to sleep through anything you often ended up checking his breathing on days he didn't even make a sound. You peeled yourself out of bed grateful that you had showered after your promiscuous activities, albeit half-assed and sleepy. You jumped up an down as you pulled up the teal coloured yoga pants and slipped a big black hoodie over the matching sports bra. You busied yourself with your usual routine, making your breakfast, blending the protein shake and then making your coffee and leaving Changbin's on the bedside table just before you left.

It wasn't unusual for you to leave him alone at your place after he stayed the night it was rare that you didn't have a client in the early mornings but you felt that nothing was resolved. In fact as you drove to the gym you felt that frustration bubble again, you were hurt and mad that Changbin had gotten his way when he had no right too. After your session with your first client you felt somewhat better, the endorphins from working out helping you feel better even if it was only a little.

The days that followed allowed for numbing routine to push your unease to the back of your head Changbin had mentioned they'd be busy the days that followed your weekend but you thought you'd at least be able to spot them in the gym, better you didn't because you wouldn't know how to act. When you got an invitation for dinner at their apartment for tomorrow you were half surprised and half relieved, it had been five days of silence and work, not completely unusual but he'd at least send an 'I love you' or an 'I miss you' text when he was super busy.

Only when you drove to his place after getting ready after work did the nervous jitters set in and you tapped away at the steering wheel before pulling into the underground parking lot. The lift ride felt like an eternity and you couldn't decide if it was unnaturally cold because of air conditioning or because it was winter and you wondered if the fluorescents were always that bright? You took a centring breath and lightly tapped the door, you heard heavy foot falls on the other side and then the door swung open and Felix was tugging you inside he'd helped you take off your jacket while you slipped off your sneakers and gave you quick side hug before having you follow him into the living room. It was dark all the curtains drawn and some red fairy lights were strung up alongside some fake cobwebs, some bat cut outs and what looked like skeletons you'd find in a biology class room, on the floor was a pile of blankets and cushions Jeongin, Minho, Hyunjin and Han sat on the floor in front of the tv different bowls of Halloween themed candy in front of them as they chatted away, Felix who had left you came back out with cookies decorated in orange and black icing and Seungmin following with two big bowls of popcorn.

You heard Changbin and Chan's familiar giggles as they made their way from their room you assumed and your shoulders dropped the tension disappearing at the fact that Changbins smile remained even when he saw you. He made his way over to you and he tugged you into a tight hug tilting his head back and pecking your lips tenderly. Your brain stopped working for a second, his lips like a pause button for your thoughts and you couldn't help but melt as all your senses became filled by Changbin, his cologne filled the air around you and his arms created a safety bubble around you, when he pulled away and you felt the red rush to your face you realised what he'd done. He took your hand pulling you to sit on the couch next to Chan and Felix, when he tugged you down you nearly fell into his lap and when you tried moving away he pouted and tucked you into his side as he looked down at you, the other boys chatting away without a care in the world.

"What's going on?" you whispered blinking confused and eyes wide.

"We're celebrating Halloween and you get to pick the scary movie." Changbin said and handed you the remote.

Your brain was still trying to focus on the fact that he was being affectionate in front of everyone else and you quickly selected Scream, not too scary and a movie you watched religiously every year for the holiday.

Seungmin sat back and handed you one of the big popcorn bowls and immediately Felix, Chan and Changbin greedily stuffed their hands into the bowl as the movie started. For the most part the boys remained in their own seats allowing you and Changbin to cuddle in peace him lying on the couch with his back on the arm rest and you draped between his legs, head resting on his chest, there was still flailing about and screaming loudly at the murders and jump scares, but seeing as Felix was seated next to Chan he got to Koala someone else and Seungmin and Jeongin acting as the calm for the others antics. It was nearing the end of the movie, the build up featuring an array of dramatics and Han turned facing the two of you his hand grabbing yours that was dangling down the side of the couch past Changbins waist and trying to hide behind it. You smiled sweetly but your eyes went wide as Changbins arms wrapped around you and he sat up slightly.

"Yah, this is my girlfriend hold your boyfriends hand." he said in an aegyo like tone his chin nodding jokingly in the direction of Minho, Han giggled and turned to face the screen but didn't let go of your hand and you looked up at Changbin who sat smiling at the screen and you had to contain your giddyness, nuzzling your face back into his chest as you smiled like an idiot. When the movie ended and the boys started talking animatedly about their favourite parts and getting up to fetch more snacks for the next one you felt Changbin shift.

"Y/n?" Changbin says and hum looking up at him, he looked extremely uncomfortable and you could see how he forced himself to look you in the eyes.

"I'm sorry, I know this doesn't make up for what I did or how I made you feel, I had no right too, I know I manipulated the situation. Jealousy just got the best of me, but I'll do better for you." His voice sounded pained, every word laced with regret and you adjusted so you could hold his face between your hands squishing his cheeks, almost surprised that he let you but his neediness to be babied obviously cancelled out his anxiety.

"You're right what you did wasn't fair, but lucky for you I can't stay mad at you for long." his shoulders relaxed and you pecked him softly on his lips and when you pulled back you could've sworn you saw the galaxy in his eyes.

#stray kids #stray kids imagines #stray kids smut #skz smut #stray kids changbin #seo changbin #skz fluff #halloween #skz angst #skz Felix #skz chan #skz minho #skz lee know #skz hyunjin #skz seungmin #changbin smut #binnie

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kaaramel · 5 years

Text

Of course, not every archon is perfect. Sometimes they stumble and fall from the path they’ve chosen; sometimes they choose to reject the ways of archons; and sometimes they are ejected from the celestial ranks by their brethren... Since archons are naturally forgiving creatures, it takes some incredible foolishness for an archon to fall completely from the grace of Mount Celestia, never to return.

-- AD&D Monstrous Manual

uhhhhh time to run with it and be melodramatic i guess,

could not always organically work in narration explaining the ostensible pov char’s bizarre anatomy so i guess i’ll just remind you up front he has entire snakes for arms

tw: nonhuman/unconventional self harm

The shop is in its usual state when Chuubo steps through the door: empty of customers and full of magical odds and ends. There's more inventory than there is space to hold it, and all of it meticulously organized to some standard only the proprietor knows. Jasper is flitting and bobbing restless spirals around the crumbling stone lantern that she rests in to pretend she's a more ordinary magical lamp in front of customers; Chuubo's best friend is behind the reinforced sales counter, where their host usually sits, looking nervous and withdrawn.

"Everything okay?" Chuubo asks. Sometimes people mistake Seizhi for human, but Chuubo knows them better than that; knows them well enough to see they’re pale under the scatter of dark, scaly 'freckles' across their cheeks.

They shrug unhappily. "I dunno. Leonardo's upstairs."

"Did something happen?" Chuubo passes the neatly-wrapped parcel in his arms over the counter, tongues flicking out involuntarily after it at the scent of raw meat inside (three carnivores in one household meant a lot of trips to the butcher's).

Jasper bobs closer and volunteers, "He looked upset, coming in, but he didn't say anything. I didn't want to pry."

"I can go talk to him," Chuubo says, and Seizhi looks relieved, and perhaps a little guilty about being relieved.

"He listens to you more than us," they say, and, "Good luck."

There are three levels to the shop. The cramped front room is only a portion of the ground floor, with the rest given over to storage space for extra inventory, including the stranger and more valuable items Leonardo doesn't allow ordinary customers to see. Upstairs is mostly dominated by a sort of workshop for alchemy, crafting, and ritual, now with two cots intruding haphazardly into the tangle of devices and components and wards. Leonardo's own room is a cramped and spartan little attic, which Chuubo has only been permitted to see once or twice. With no other choice at the moment, he picks his way carefully through the workshop level, studiously careful where he places his long tail, and knocks. There's no response, but no lock, either; after a long moment, he pushes the door open and steps through.

His first impression is of a gently shifting ball of fire, and then the sight resolves into Leonardo's wings, a blaze of sunset colors that somehow catch the weak light of the barred windows so perfectly they're nearly glowing. He's curled up inside them somewhere, making soft little noises, almost birdlike, nothing a humanoid throat should produce. When Chuubo's tongues flick out nervously, he tastes something metallic and sharp in the air.

"Leonardo..?" Chuubo ventures closer, a step, and then dashes forward to grab clumsily at the devil’s hands. Leonardo snarls and recoils, tugs easily out of his grip - Chuubo hadn't wanted to bite down - but at least it's stopped him from methodically pulling out his own feathers, for the moment. Scraps of orange and yellow and red are littered carelessly over the floorboards, like dying embers.

"Go away," he chokes out, in a raspy contralto, and Chuubo is startled to realize he isn't wearing any of his usual faces. Rather than the shorter jet-black hair he favors, pale-gold locks fall over features too smooth and perfect to be mortal, and he's crying, gasping little chirps and trills of distress as tears flow down those lovely cheeks.

"You're hurting yourself," Chuubo says, plaintive, and coils his arms around Leonardo's wrists more gently, holds them in place. "Please, did something happen?"

He takes a deep breath; flexes his hands, but doesn't pull away. "A-archon," he manages, and then dissolves back into wordless keening.

"Jasper?" Chuubo asks, anxiously. His tail curls gently around the shaking erinyes, not tightly, not pulling him closer, just supporting.

"No - " frustrated, insistent, almost a shout, and then quieter - "In, in the market. A messenger. A..." He says a word in some lilting, melodic Celestial dialect, halting and uncertain from disuse. The sense of it arrives in Chuubo’s mind anyway, and the word he understands it as is trumpet.

"And... they said something to you?" Chuubo guesses, uncertain.

Leonardo leans in, unexpectedly, takes Chuubo into the circle of his wings, buries his face against the yuan-ti's chest. His tears are almost unbearably hot.

"The message was for me," he whispers, and not aloud; Chuubo's heard that baatezu have a form of telepathy, but de Montreal has never used it around him. His audible voice is still letting out soft, warbling birdsong-sobs against Chuubo's scales as he continues, "If I'm willing to apologize, seek penance and atonement -" a long, high note, that trails off into more ordinary weeping - "The gates of Mount Celestia could open for me again. They'd take me back."

Chuubo coils a little closer, holds him with arms and tail, lets him chirp and wail for a few moments longer. "Are you crying because... because you want to go? Or because you don't want that?"

Leonardo makes a choked noise that might be laughter, if laughter had no humor behind it. "Y-you - didn't - see," he tries, aloud, and then resorts to telepathy again: "You didn't see how she looked at me, at Sigil, at everything. You didn't see how quickly she left. Couldn't stand to be here, talking to me."

He pushes Chuubo away again, tries to reach for a frayed patch on one wing, almost convulsively. Chuubo holds him firm, and sweeps up one of the discarded feathers from the floor with a dexterous flick of his tailtip; holds that out instead, insistently, until Leonardo takes it. It's longer than his palm, rich golden-yellow shading to orange, and when Chuubo cautiously releases his hands, he runs his fingertips over the soft vanes with repetitive, mechanical focus.

"I wanted to ask if there had been troubles with the lanterns," he continues, in a more even tone, emotion more tightly controlled. "If other petitioners had gone missing, or if Jasper was unique, or if Celestia knew she was missing at all. But she recited the message and was gone."

"So she was in a hurry," Chuubo says, gently. "Now you know they've forgiven you, you can go there and ask directly. You could escort Jasper home yourself!"

"Not without giving myself to them." He scrubs the back of one hand across his face, harshly, mental voice full of bitterness. "Not without begging for absolution, accepting demotion, slotting back into their pretty little hierarchy, thanking the holy tomes for their mercy. I'd be down to a lantern again myself, probably, until they finally decide they can trust me again..."

"Shh, shh." Chuubo rocks back and forth, tries to soothe away the pain and agitation practically radiating off Leonardo’s words. "How do you know? It's paradise, isn't it? They'd want you to be happy. Maybe if you explained -"

"They can't imagine I'd be happy any other way," he says, flat. Plucks at the feather in his hands, trying to pull it apart. "I know because I know Celestia. Everything has a place and a purpose and a reason. It's beautiful. It's perfect. I don't want it back."

"You deserve it, though, you know. Even if you don't think so."

Leonardo lets the feather drop, rests his head against Chuubo's shoulder. "I've done terrible things. I've been terrible to you."

"You've been kind. In ways that count. And you're already trying to make things up." He nudges the brass amulet around Leonardo's neck with the snout of one hand.

"I don't want to give up this body," Leonardo admits. Draws his wings tighter around himself and Chuubo. "Looking how I want to look. Vain. I'd be confined to the mountain. Selfish." A long, shuddering breath, and then, aloud, "I'd be leaving you."

Chuubo has no response for a long moment, just holds Leonardo close, tongues flicking to take in the dry, sulfuric, Baatorian smell of him, the acid of his tears.

"Not just you," he continues. His voice is thick and clumsy but he persists. Maybe he’s afraid to give too much away. It’s harder to read his emotional tone now than it was when coming straight from his mind. “You, Seizhi, everyone I’ve met. All the places. All the planes. I’d be giving that up for some - some narrow little ideal of paradise. Where I know I wouldn’t be happy. I already tried that. I don’t want to bounce back and forth between the h-heavens and hells for eternity. I just want Sigil. I want -”

He squeezes his eyes shut and leans into Chuubo's arms, in a boneless, exhausted slump.

"...Then you should have that." Chuubo nuzzles against his forehead, light and brief. "Are the archons going to be upset if you turn them down?"

"Probably be glad," Leonardo mumbles.

“Then stay. They don’t know what they’re losing.”

He sniffs, makes a show out of pointedly rolling his eyes, but the sarcasm loses a lot of sting when he’s still cuddled close, his wings warm and soft against Chuubo’s back.

“I need to clean up,” he says, eventually, reluctantly. “Go back downstairs and tell Seizhi I’m not kicking you out, before they fret themself to pieces.”

“Aw, we know better by now.” Chuubo disentangles himself slowly, lets Leonardo sit up, pull away, resettle his wings behind his back. “You haven’t kicked us out yet, you’re never gonna.”

#how far from any semblance of the canon storyline can i pull this thing. we find out together #ending feels awkward but ive never written a good ending in m'life and i don't want to sit here all night fussing with it #planescape: chuubos #cant stress enough : it's like 90% planescape by volume at this point #karma writes things #nightmares angel #the wishing boy

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rambleverse · 5 years

Text

The Golden Dream

((The following is a part of Ouron’s transition to an Oakvale Warder. You can find the prelude here.))

Ouron's feet hurt so bad that by the time he finally met the foot of Oakvale's barrier groves the thought of sudden, violent death held merits he could not wholly reject. Walking splintered his shins up through his knees, and pulled his hips from their sockets like an axe chipping at stump. His feet, damp in their socks, shuffled him forward despite every inclination otherwise--past one tree, another, another--he started to hate them. He hated walking. He'd spent his whole life avoiding the business for this very reason. He the hated walking; the walking and the quiet.

Each footfall thumped below him, leading his breathing in sloughing huffs. Rolling his shoulders forward, hunching in the cold, the traveler cloak about his neck was more soft than warm--lying thing. His head shook as he squinted backwards toward the Dawnspire. So far-too far. The Ivory Spire and the citadel rose above the haze of a war for younger elves. On the fifth day the fear of pursuit left him: no sound of trailing marches. “She expects me to die,” he thought then. As he walked this day, the only thump--the only sound--the only sound of thump and croaking lungs passed unnoticed beneath the boughs about him. His only guide lay in the green. Old sentinel pines and oak, elder trees.

In an age he lost the Dawnspire to the knotted crook of path winding between the forest's ancient host. The northern sunleaf found no root here--a thing of children's meddling-- heirloom ashenvale oak instead towered as a testament of his father's father's work. Ouron looked about the undergrowth, to the canopy, to roots as large as the arch of the Sun Gate. There in the chilling shade his ears folded back beneath his hood, his bottom lip dropped in grimace in parts pain and pride. He glowered at the dirt in front of him. Even in a wood of giants and gods there was a place for small things, for dirt, for him.

In this cathedral of root and branch he found plenty space to make his camp. His hands went to his long coat pocket, and with a little shiver to his fingers he unfolded a scrap of paper. Mouthing the words bedding, roof, fire, Ouron parsed for the fifth time the list given him by the pathfinder secretary. So he set to work, feet still cold, gathering leaves and twigs and other humble woodland stock to make himself a mediocre home for the night. All the while the noises of the woods, the cracks and pops in the dark, set his ears twitching and eyes flicking as he worked. The ghosts of Oakvale, whether embittered by their defeat by the Legion or trapped in the vortex at the forest's sanctum, remained invisible to the senses for the time. But as Ouron collapsed into his blankets the it was not fear of any living threat that rolled him in unease.

With his piddly fire burning Ouron lay wrapped in blanket over blanket. The ground's chill sank through leaves and sheets until Ouron lay in the dark too tired to stoke his fire, too cold to do anything more than whimper and pity his lot. Fantasies of night traffic over cobblestone, smoldering hearths, the soft euphoria of a crystal, the steam of a kettle all glowed in and out of thought. Consciously he fought against the dark--watching shapes in the smoke, behind the fire. Figures wandered grim and tall from shadow to shadow, in his mind he felt their eyes upon him. His lids fell shut when the last exhausted ember of fancy left him to surrender alone and cold to a dreamless sleep.

The next morning he awoke with the forest. His ears filled with the groan of oak and chitter of birds. He greeted them in kind with a gurgling sneer and plugging his head against his bedding. Grumbling and shaking the dew from his sheets, Ouron slogged about with leaden feet and bent back while he packed. He mouthed again: bedding, pot, clothes. On the last item he checked and re-checked the bag holding his precious cargo. “Clean. Good.” Belore hung scattered through the leaves above him when at last he returned to the road.

The wooded gate of Oakvale opened to him after hours of griping curmudgeonly trekking through brush and gnarled ankle-snatching root. He greeted the sight of a true path with a sigh and a shrug. A mile ahead his goal finally rose into view. Roaring above the green the calamity of the collapsed Engine tore and spun ground in a maelstrom of every magic. Waves of magic robed the light in many colors, fluttering and swirling in winds refracted through planes invisible to mortal eyes. The catastrophe rocked the ground with a slow knock left to right. Magnificent and terrible, it brought a frown to the defunct old elf's face.

In some deep part of him Ouron pined for the colors unseen. To his mundane eye Imper Crelulis would never again flare in passion, nor Urzon'th lurk in tones unfathomable and dark, nor Grenesynth shimmer along the edge of innovative thought. The colors that wrapped Silvermoon in extraordinary majesty played wild here to minds like his, but not to him.

Instead brown, red-brown, green-brown, black-brown, brown-brown! A kaleidoscope of mud and dirt more banal than the last caked his vision. Today for the first time in centuries the Eternal Kingdom and its sun choked in clouds, overcast clouds. He shook the sight from his eyes and furrowed his brow to the gravel below him. Lost in all ways but one Ouron walked slowly into the pandemonium.

At the storm's edge the noise rattled his hand on his walking cane. After a minute of further assault on his comfort Ouron broke his silence. He cursed and bickered in the din with no one to hear him; he shouted spittle and hate to the wind until his face bloomed purple and his cane spun about his wrist like a weather vane. The storm neither capitulated nor cowed to the anger of one old elf, kicking dirt and grass into his mouth. When he could shout no more he tucked his ears to his head and chin to his throat clear unto the Shrine of Order.

Built by ancient, wild hands more wizened and wild than himself, Ouron took a moment from his fuming to turn his head in admiration. Unquestionably simple, but even without his powers the elf knew he stood at a great locus of power. In a large circle archways of granite figures--moulded as if made of blown glass--marked the major astromagical points of the heavens. He traced a finger following their gestures. Together they raised the sun, cradled the moons, laced star to star in seamless clasped hands. Circling infinite forever their unity implied the great system of their reverence, and at their center hovered a testament to their truth. A portal blue, white, and violet rippled impossibly above the dias leading elsewhere. To Ouron it meant hope, healing, opportunity. Everything. Ducking behind an arch he disrobed.

Ouron hunched over his traveler's pack, busily setting bedding, waterskin, tinderbox, pot and other chaff to the ground. Down to his small clothes he unlatched the class at his innermost bundle carefully kept through his journey. He peeled layer after layer of leather aside until it glimmered in the light.

To another mage the robes of black and silver might be impressive, might be overblown, might be a bit much. Ouron rested his eyes on the silk, their darkness cast itself on his face. His ears twitched at their furthest points. His mouth opened for air as his throat tightened. He lifted the shoulders with the length of his hands, bringing them close to his forehead, pressing the thin skin against a soft estranged friend. They were peerless. They were powerful, dignified, magnificent to their core. He would not cry here. These were not the robes for grieving, but for work. Passing his arms through the sleeves brought old form back. He tossed his wrists to the air, squeezed fingers tight into his palm--the mantle was lighter than he remembered. The robe twirled about his feet as he turned a hell, lofting its edge just above the grass. Nodding he walked to the center dias, feet moving with strength, and passed through the portal.

At once the light assaulted him, casting his rich black robe into a true faded blue, blanching his wrinkles, blinding his eyes. Ouron shook the shock from his head, squinting about the keeper's workshop. Around him works older and more powerful than even his mightiest delusions bustled and busied themselves on tasks unknowable to him. Great columns of metal and steel shaped from arcane--made of runes, magic to their core--built this place of marvel and invention. In time Ouron could easily make a home here like dust beneath a desk; if not for its discriminating stewards

The secretary droid apparated in the entryway before Ouron chanced to lay a curious oily finger on anything.

“Cease! Cease! Stop this immediately! How did you get in here? Go away!” the droid buzzes, jutting its aperture into Ouron's face. Ouron puffed himself up by his throat, ready to deliver a drubbing the faulty little-

“Trollkind, northern Tyr variety, aged-” the Observer noted as it circled Ouron faster than he could follow, “severely aged. Sterile, thankfully. Scarring indicates Elementium poisoning, botched chronomancy--mortals always poking at delicate magics with sticks don't they--and..what is that above your navel?”

Ouron opened his mouth to shout.

“No-no. I've changed my mind. I refuse to commit memory to handling that query. You are mumbling. Oh no, the poor thing can't speak. Can you write? Maybe some kind of signing--no, pictures,” the Observer said before flashing holograms of common wildlife at Ouron.

“Can you identify any of these? Bird? Dog? Quetzalcoa-”

“WE HAVE MET BEFORE.” Ouron shouted. The Observer floats silently for a breath.

“I don’t like your tone, rude little troll.” said the droid.

Ouron's face mixed into a pioneering combination of indignant plum and irate burgundy. “Hhe-” he said trying to take air past his snapped mouth.

“I'm sensing stress-tension-indiges--NO NO NO. NOT HERE. OUT! OUUUUT” the droid shrieked before forcibly teleporting Ouron to the shrine on Azeroth.

The sanctum's entry portal roils within its arch. The Observer squints its aperture at the anomaly.

When Ouron walked back through the portal, into the sanctuary, the Observer once again bolted just in front of his face.

“Can you not hear me, you wrinkled corpuscle?! I said be gone” it commanded in a shrill and tinny shriek. Ouron stood with hands hanging at his sides, palms flat against his thighs. His jaw clenched and chewing at his tongue, he spoke quietly through a tiny gap in his lips.

“I am here to seek audience with the keeper Valgannar.”

“KEHHEHEHA,” the droid laughed, rolling over and over itself in the air. “I seek an audie-KEHHAHAHAHA. No, no-no-no. Go away.”

Ouron blushed at the ridicule, nearly snapping the tip of his tongue off inside his mouth as he choked on a millennia of crotchety pride.

“I--understand the keeper must be busy--” he sputters. An old, ancient schoolboy instinct drew his hands together in front of his chest, bony fingers lacing nervously. “But the matter is very-”

“The MATTER is that you are rejecting any and all chance of even PRETENDING to hold an audience with the master, bag. Now I have told you--”

“Please.”

The droid blinked its aperture, “Emotion,” it says, lens flicking past him for a moment, “Now--now there's no need for that. You should apologize. You have no idea how difficult this is for me.”

The passed through Ouron's chest in stops and starts, his eyes glassed, searching the room for nothing. He takes a sharp breath through his nose, blinking at the gatekeeper.

“Please…”

A grinding sigh comes from the Titanic Observer.

“No. You have my sincerest apologies that you are upset. If you do not leave within the next thirty seconds I will have you classified as a threat.”

Ouron's eyes lost their focus.

“Goodbye sir or ma'am.” the droid said, turning away, drifting promptly to its world of wonder.

---

On the third day Ouron opened his eyes.

The shrine remained, the trees remained, the storm remained.

He remained.

The hunger pains strung his guys on hooks, rolling and tugging until giving up as well. The air blew the cap to his waterskin. It droned low and light, “toooooooooo.” The bruises on his joints swelled to sores that screamed against the matted grass outside the shrine. When he could stomach no more pain, no more cold, no more hopeless defeat is when he stood.

Meters away the maelstrom of the woods still tore at the earth. Conflicting powers twisting for dominance roiled over and over as he stared ahead, thinking silently. Ouron took his first weak steps, back and shoulders shaking. He closed the distance slowly. Dirt stung his eyes. Wood and wind sliced at his skin. The roar of the chaos took his thoughts away in the noise.

Only steps.

Ouron felt a tug at his sleeve. He pulled his arm forward, and still he felt the snag. He turned his head expecting branch and instead--

--instead he found a hand.

Spectral and green--it bent the light like an empty bottle--and grasped his sleeve with crystal fingers. Ouron turned his eyes up, part terrified, mostly exhausted. The other elf could not be alive in the same tenuous sense Ouron could claim, but despite its body of emerald light it existed. Hunger, thirst, and age could not create this from any of his memories. It looked young for a ghost. Ears inching just past several hundred years, a face and form shorn of any sex in death. They pulled at Ouron's sleeve again, pulling him away, pulling him somewhere.

Since he had nothing to leave, Ouron followed.

In death the ghost still bore the grief of clothing. Ouron knew the garb; the mix of clothing, leaves, and bones marked this soul as an ill-fated Warder. Led by little more than a memory, Ouron followed the spirit again into the winding woods. His body failed him more than once. He braced against trees, buckled to the dirt, groaned like the forest around him. No matter how long he faltered the spirit only stared and waited. Ouron dragged himself along for an hour, maybe more, away from the path the Legion tore months before. They walked until the trees grew too strong for paths. Only when he could barely follow the green ghost ahead of him did his guide finally stop.

The spirit gestured at a knot of roots at the forest floor. With so little power left to him, Ouron crawled among the twigs that shredded his legs with their bramble. With gnarled hands his rose to his knees.

Over a gap barely bigger than a fox hole, but far too deep for any fox, hung a silver talisman of Elune. The image of his father flashed in Ouron's mind. He turned to the ghost for guidance, but found only the stars shining above the trees. Too cold for clouds, the mother moon waxed triumphant over her neighbor's lands. Ouron rolled to his back to stare at the moon.

“What do you want?” he asked her.

“I cannot hear you.”

“I never could.”

“I never wanted to.”

“I never will.” he finished, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. The stars above him doubled, Elune made herself a twin.

“You do not listen.” said the hole. Ouron yelped, flushed from his pity with a flurry of robe and bony elbows. He stared into the hole. He glanced to his sides. In Her light Elune hid little for a stranger to hide. He turned again to the burrow.

“You do not listen, Ouron.” said the hole once more. Ouron's head and ears snapped back. Swallowing the spit in his mouth hurt his throat.

“I-I do not like that you know my name.” he finally said.

“I do nonetheless,” it sounded back. The voice was quiet, warm. Warm enough it carried hot breath out of the ground. Ouron craned his head to let the light pass into the hole. Nothing met his glare.

“I will not hurt you, Ouron,” said the voice.

“You say that,” Ouron snapped, “but I cannot see you. How should I trust what I can't see?” he said into the ground.

“You were a mage,” it said.

“I am a mage!” Ouron spat.

“You trust magic, even now?” the voice asked.

“Always.” he said, pulling himself up to talk down at the voice.

“Yet you cannot feel it now?”

Ouron opened his mouth, tongue rising to holler, but the air stopped in his throat. Coughing bitterly into the dirt, Ouron bent at his elbows as his body shook. His face fell to the roots. He found his breath before he found his thoughts.

“I will again” he said.

“You will. If you wish.” the voice called up. Ouron turned his ear to the hole, talking in a rushed tone.

“What does that mean?!” Ouron asked.

“The people of this place. They are your brothers, your sisters, but you do not know them.”

Ouron shook his head, “The druids here are dead, hole. They cannot help me.”

“No more than your magic. With time, with sacrifice, perhaps the world will know both again.” the hole called back.

“What does that MEAN?!” Ouron snapped again.

“With an oath, the warders can live again in you. With a vow, you may earn your place again.”

“I am not a druid.”

“No. You are not.”

“So--why,” Ouron said, brow clenched, “what do you-”

“The Vale can only live through its people. They are gone. You are not. If you would guard their pact as your own--”

“Eh-” Ouron started.

“I cannot teach this lesson to a traveler, young thing. You were once a mage. You know the strength of words. Swear, and the path opens. You may walk it then, or you may turn away.”

The moon on his back put Ouron's face in shadow.

“Why should I do that?” he asked.

“Why else are you here?” the hole asked back.

Ouron stood. He stared at the hole, paced it, shook his head, rubbed his eyes. He set his hands to his hips in the dark. The voice in the hole said nothing more while he crooked his face at it. He looked to the woods around him, to the trees that surrounded this place. He could not see the storm, the spire, or any road anywhere. Letting the last huff of consternation blow to the earth, he spoke.

“Fine. I swear it.”

“You do?” the voice asked. Ouron swore he could hear a chuff behind it.

“I said I swear it!” Ouron hollered, stirring the weary birds above him.

“Very well.” said the hole, roots about its mouth spreading it wide, wider still. Ouron turned to run as the roots grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him deep below the earth. With one last shout the woods went quiet once again; the birds fell back to sleep.

#ouron nethermoon #oakvale warder #the sunguard #prestige class story

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virmillion · 6 years

Text

Some Kind of Magical - Chapter 5

Chapter 4 / Chapter 6 / Masterpost / ao3

Warnings: Fire, burns, spiraling thoughts, let me know if you have any more

Words: 4289

To say that Virgil is worried would be akin to saying a raging forest fire in the middle of summer is a tad bit too warm for comfort. Virgil is terrified out of his mind, and not just for what Than said, but for how his stupid self reacted to it. Now the others might interrogate him about it, and he’ll either have to come clean, or he’ll have to lie, and he’s already had to lie so much, and—

A gentle hand comes to rest on his shoulder, kindly but firmly yanking Virgil from his spiraling thoughts. Connected to the hand is an arm connecting to a shoulder, down from which Patton smiles at him.

“We won’t press it.” A promise, as evidenced by Patton’s outstretched pinky. Virgil links it with his own, praying to Ceth that the fingers on his shoulder aren’t crossed.

“Do either of you have a particularly excessive amount of homework tonight?” Logan, still crouched by the patch of fur, looks up. Roman keeps his gaze turned down as he kneels beside Logan, poking at the clump. “We both have minimal work remaining, so if all of us can inspect this trail, I presume it would be best to do so now, as we’re already here.”

“I’m game. Virgil?” The hand on his shoulder gives a careful squeeze, twin to the careful expression on Patton’s careful features. Virgil wishes he could know what lives beyond those eyes, to know just how Patton actually feels about an overly emotional nobody like him. If Virgil had proof Patton hated him, he could sever all ties without a second thought. Quick release, quick clean up, and he wouldn’t have to fear hurting him like he did Than.

“Whatever.” With that not-quite-consent in hand, Logan pushes himself off the ground, dusting dirt from his pants. A twinge of mirth sparks in Virgil at the look of disgust from Roman when some of the debris gets on him. Maybe following this path is one of the last things in the world Virgil wants to do, but at least he can mock Roman on the way.

“Roman, pop quiz. What type of feather is this?” Logan snatches a finger between two fingers as it drifts down from a tree, pinching the shaft gently.

“I’m not in a birding class.”

“Never said it came from a bird. Virgil?”

Virgil sighs in an over-dramatic tone to rival Roman’s before taking the feather from Logan. He turns it over, observing the shine of the vane, the disconnect of particular barbules from their hooks. “Flight feather from an alphyn. Probably molted, since it’s too separated to trap any more air without adding unnecessary weight.” Logan seems happy enough with this answer, explaining to Roman the defining characteristics of the feather that helped Virgil come to his conclusion.

Underfoot, the clumps of fur grow more frequent as they progress along the unintentional path, smacks of dirty grey hair coughing back sunlight. They stick like pebbles between the treads of Virgil’s well-loved shoes, making them look like a dirty, wearable duck than actual footwear. Lining the makeshift dirt path they follow are all matter of flora on either side, the last signs of life finally surrendering to the approaching autumn. Rotting berries litter the ground on a bed of yellowing leaves, crunching feebly in protest as the boys trample along. Barely, just barely, the ruddy red of the roses shines up, framing Patton’s warm face in earthier tones. The crimson color is rivaled only by the tick marks marring Patton’s fingers, which Virgil lifts with his own.

“They’re healing,” Patton murmurs, watching Virgil inspect the scars. “Scraped them on some loose concrete a little while back. I tripped.” Virgil doesn’t bother with a dubious eye roll, certain Patton’s dad was fed the same lie. If Patton doesn’t want to share, the least Virgil can do is let him keep his worries close to heart. After all, the silent agreement goes both ways—don’t prod someone else for uncomfortably personal information, receive the same courtesy in return.

“Hey, guys?” Roman’s voice floats back, a dull knife splitting the quiet between the two pairs. “You, uh, you might want to pick up the pace over there. Like, now.” It’s not really Roman’s cryptic words that grab Virgil’s attention. It’s the mangled mess of tones laced through each word, sparkling excitement and overhanging fear and maybe, just maybe, the barest sliver of a call to adventure. Of course, Patton running to catch up certainly helps Virgil speed up with his internal debate of whether he should join them.

“—lucky Cethyphyirr itself doesn’t drop another shard on your head right now,” Logan is saying. His arms are crossed and his torso is turned away from Roman, but Virgil recognizes that gleam in his eye. Logan wants to explore whatever they found just as much as Roman does. A pit of dread yawns open in Virgil’s stomach. He fills it with some miniature candies from his pocket.

“Cethyphyirr has better things to do than worry about my meddlesome nature, and besides, there’s no proof that any more shards have popped off it since the Ejnathryk,” Roman retorts.

“As far as we know, but there’s no proof that it hasn’t happened, either.” Their mouths curve upward, a surefire sign of a brewing debate. Patton wedges himself in the space between, the mock-tension dissipating in the wake of his cheerful smile.

“So! Roman, what’d you find?” Roman snaps his fingers, as if he’d completely forgotten about telling Patton and Virgil to hurry up. He rushes to a smattering of trees and bushes that seems to block whatever remains of the path. As Logan looks on in defeated resignation, Roman walks straight into the greenery at full speed. Patton’s fingers fly up to cover his eyes, dilated pupils peeking out between them as he waits for cuts and bruises to appear on Roman’s skin.

The plants offer no resistance to Roman, who walks straight through the center of a tree trunk without so much as flinching. Virgil blinks, and his friend is gone. More concerned with Roman’s safety than with danger, Patton follows close behind, leaving Logan alone in the clearing with Virgil.

“Any explanation for that? Rehabilitate parents don’t really deal all that much in unexplored research.” Logan barks out a laugh that, to an uninterested onlooker, might seem real, might seem convincing, but Virgil knows better. It’s too wobbly, too uncertain. Logan is scared.

Virgil directs his gaze to the retreating sun. “If you can still see Cethyphyirr up there, it means you’re still here, still alive, and magic is too. Even in the skeptics like you.” Logan’s eyes follow the drifting clouds, watching them obscure the sun. With his features schooled into a poker face of impassivity, Logan extends a hand to Virgil.

“Into the magic, then? I can’t imagine Roman is feeling too terribly patient right now.” Virgil takes the hand, watching the ghost of worry on Logan’s face. Through the trees and bushes, the world turns green, a vibrant hue that emanates life as if nature itself were a pulsing heart. Virgil feels the thrum of it all trickling through him, a living world in which he can never belong, but whose beauty he can absorb and admire in passing.

“Magic, indeed,” Logan murmurs, releasing Virgil’s hand as they exit on the other side. Pops of green dot the edges of Virgil’s vision.

“How did you even figure that out, Roman?” A mixture of confusion and awe rests on Patton’s face.

“I was looking at the ground, and kind of walked headfirst into a tree?” Roman laughs, a vain attempt to hide his embarrassment. “It was so dark that I just kept going, and ended up over here.”

“Couldn’t see an inch in front of my face,” Logan agrees. Virgil stays silent.

“So where is ‘here,’ exactly?” Patton nods his head toward the mass of boulders, a cave of some sort. The entrance, if it can even be called that, is too tall to see beyond or through, leaving the boys with no idea how big it might actually be. Nothing so merciful as a flicker of life shines within.

“I think ‘here’ is something to explore, maybe include in our projects.” Logan glances back at the gate of trees and bushes. “Stumbling upon magic has to at least be worth extra credit.”

“That’s the spirit!” Patton exclaims, marching cheerfully into the entrance. Never one to be shown up, Roman is right on his tail, shoulders thrown back in an imitation of bravery.

“Be great if that magic could extend to me being able to snap my fingers and create fire so we could actually see something,” Roman mutters. To demonstrate his circumstances being a complete tragedy, he snaps with far more enthusiasm than necessary, earning an exhausted sigh from Virgil and a resounding echo from the cave. “Pitch black in here.”

Virgil doesn’t bother to mention how easy it would be to see once their eyes adjusted, bringing up the rear as Logan enters third. He curls his lip as a drop of water splatters from the top of the cave to his head. The walls of the almost cave, not quite solid enough to be man-made, stand cool and hard to the touch. Virgil rests a hand on the side, tracing his finger down scores of claw marks from an extremity that could easily cover his face with room to spare. The phantoms of old flames lick patches of the walls, burnt black as charred cinders fall to the dirt. The piles of ashes on the floor, while a point of interest to the Research-savvy Logan, is immediately destroyed by Roman. He walks with his arms stretched beyond a point of reason in front of himself, kicking right through the ashes without so much as a second glance.

Deeper into the cave they tread, until the natural daylight fades to a pinprick behind them. Virgil’s fingers continue following the wall slashes as the darkness refuses to yield, a guaranteed path marked to get back to the entrance. Besides the small crack dripping water on their heads from where they came in, the cave is stiflingly dry, as if a fire were being lit at the far end. The air is warm enough to make Logan tug his shirt collar away from his neck, stuffy enough to force Patton’s inhales to be louder. Roman tries to let out a cough to get air going again, but as they descend further into the inky unknown, it sounds less like a cough and more like the cave stealing his air away. Virgil’s eyes, abnormally adept at seeing without light, begin straining as they follow the cave’s path, the claw marks growing more frequent all the way. The dripping water at the entrance is such a whispering softness, it could easily be worlds away. Virgil wouldn’t know the difference. Were it not for the reassuring—albeit ominous—white noise behind him, there’s a highly probable chance he would have convinced himself the walls were sealing them in. The silence is just that deafening, but it’s tolerable enough.

It’s when his hand phases straight through the wall that it becomes a problem.

Before he can even call out a warning to his companions, Virgil feels his momentum gaining as his center of gravity shifts in protest. He clamps his mouth shut to avoid eating dirt as his shoulder scrapes against the wall, his chin following right behind. He twists his body to avoid whatever window of resistance might appear as he falls farther, faster. The odd tingling sensation returns, twin to that from when he passed through the tree. His arm tingles quicker, so quick that it vibrates, getting warmer and warmer until he isn’t sure whether his fingers aren’t on fire, and still he presses through the wall. As it swallows his eyes, he pushes off the foot that’s still firmly planted in the cave. If there were any time to get stuck in a wall, this would not be it.

The colors bounce by faster this time, shifting from dark brown to a murky mud to burning dirt and fiery green, until his fingertips escape to kiss cool air. The colors pass slower as Virgil squeezes himself through the last of the wall, watching the fires of color fade into the same green clearing as before. Almost the same, anyway. Where earlier there were rolling berries and dying leaves, everything here is still very much alive. Dandelions stretch to the sun, drinking in its rays as the grass beneath stays wet with morning dew, which definitely should have already dried out by this late in the afternoon. Virgil feels a bead of sweat teasing the nape of his neck, and only slightly regrets wearing a hoodie. At least his arms are covered. The other flowers, proteas and rhododendrons and tansies, each and every one seems to turn toward Virgil, living entities interrupted by an unwelcome intruder.

“Yeah, that’s fair,” Virgil mutters. A blade of grass cleaves itself down the middle, snapping in twain as the stem splits at its root. Clouds roll in faster than they have any right to as the apparent illusion shatters. Virgil claps his hands over his ears as the rest of the grass peels, the softest of shrieks emitted from them like so many nails on a chalkboard. He clenches his teeth together, struggling in vain to combat the awful scratching and tingling that courses over his skin. Vibrant greens give way to burning reds and scorching yellows, as some flowers curl in on themselves, others wither away, and still more crane their neck-like stalks to leer at Virgil. The wood of the trees moans as the bark drips away, melting down the side and spiraling into the dirt. He watches, nails digging into his scalp, as the offshoots of burning wood blaze a trail of light underground, the path of the roots aglow in the roasting grass. The fire crawls closer, licking at Virgil’s shoes. The acrid smell of burning plastic assaults his nose as he waits for his body to engulf itself in red and orange. He shuts his eyes, feeling the warmth spread, bracing himself for when it becomes unbearable.

It doesn’t.

The heat doesn’t get worse.

He lets his hands fall cautiously from his ears, blinking up at the clouds. Their rushing speed slows to a crawling hover, freezing for just a moment, two, three, until he blinks. The sound of a snap somewhere rings off the groaning trees, and the clouds fly backwards. Virgil watches in stunned awe as the wood smacks back onto the trees, as the flowers stop wilting, as they stop staring at him, as the grass zips itself back together, as the flames redede. It isn’t until the far-off whistle of birds and wind returns that VIrgil realizes how silent the clearing had been, how loud that snap had seemed, how deafening.

“That doesn’t—you should’ve—it didn’t touch you,” a voice splutters, audibly baffled. When the ache of his clenched fingers loosens, Virgil lifts his eyes from the unharmed dirt to see Than. Both boys grimace at each other.

The haughty squint in Than’s eye is far overpowered by the scorch marks crawling from his hairline down into his shirt. The skin seems to ripple, a sheet of bubble wrap that someone tried to pop with a sledgehammer. Than holds Virgil’s gaze for only a moment, a desperate attempt at maintaining his composure. He fails spectacularly.

Virgil forces his eyes away from the raw, ragged face, Than’s protruding cheekbones only enhanced by how much of his skin has worn away. With visible discomfort, Than manages a half smile. A wince tangles itself into Virgil’s face. “So how do I look?”

“Terrible as ever. What happened to you?”

Virgil knows it’s in his head, but by the placebo effect or paranoia or an act of Ceth itself, he swears he can hear the lining of Than’s mouth tearing as he speaks, can see shreds flaking off. “Followed you guys, beat Roman to getting through the tree first, fell through the cave wall. Bam, fire everywhere.”

“That’s not how magic works.” The corner of Virgil’s mouth quirks up as he watches Than fumble for a more believable excuse. This, from the guy who used to be his closest friend. If he weren’t so stubborn about keeping the past in the past, Virgil might admit to counting out the same nine seconds it always takes for Than to come up with something. But the past stays where it belongs, and Virgil doesn’t count the seconds, and he definitely doesn’t feel a familiar bubble of warmth rising in his chest, and it’s absolutely in no way fondness for the guy. Not at all.

“So that’s not what actually happened.” Than’s voice takes on a more confident air, too immediate of a switch to be believable. Virgil’s known him too long for that. “There was this naga—”

“Nope, those aren’t impervious to fire. Try again.” Two lies down, probably one or two more to go before Than can get to the truth.

“A pegasus came down and—”

“Not native to this region. Wrong climate.” Virgil puts on his best impersonation of Logan. “I’m not an idiot, Than, and I don’t know why you insist upon taking me for one. I already know what it was, based on everything you’re refusing to tell me.”

Than exhales. If Virgil weren’t so proud of himself for the admittedly mediocre bluff, maybe he would have noticed how bits of Than’s face float away on the breeze. “A zburator. I saw a zburator, and I was running away, hit the cave wall—guess it lives in there or something—and it was already smoking at the snout when I—”

Virgil doesn’t hear anything after ‘zburator.’ He had a hunch, an inkling, but he didn’t want to believe it, didn’t want to trust Than, not here, not when the others couldn’t help him, not when he could mess up and Than would see and Than would spread it because Than knows and if he’s being honest now then he might decide to tell the truth later and put his friends in danger because Virgil was too busy wishing for what used to be with Than instead of getting away from him because he was poison, Than was poison Virgil is poison Than is poison Virgil was poison Than Virgil poison Than poison Virgil poison poison poison—

He coughs. A loud cough. A harsh cough. A hack. Virgil blinks. He’s on the ground. He wasn’t on the ground before. Was he? Than is gone. Where is Than? Virgil isn’t gone. Is Virgil gone? He doesn’t know. Should he know? He should probably know. He coughs again. Something hits his back. He coughs. Where is Than? His fingers wiggle. Did he do that? He doesn’t know. His chest hurts. His head hurts. He coughs. The grass is wet. The grass is on the ground. He wasn’t on the ground before. Where is Than? His fingers are cold. A breeze hits his face. He doesn’t feel it. It’s too cold. Where is Than? He coughs. Than is gone. Where is Virgil?

Zburator.

Virgil shoots to his feet, uncertain as to whether he was even sitting in the first place. Than recoils, his hand hovering over Virgil as he straightens from his crouch. Of course it was a zburator, that explains the scorch marks, the fur, the magic gates, how did he not recognize it sooner, he was being so foolish—

“I need to help them,” Virgil realizes. He ignores the look of confusion on Than’s face, grabbing his wrist and running headfirst for the solid cave wall. Before either of them can acknowledge the trampled chrysanthemums under their feet, they’re crashing through the wall of the cave, greens and yellows and reds whipping by at breakneck speeds. Virgil might admire it, were it not for the complete and utter panic flooding every last one of his senses.

“Dude, we’re gonna hit the—” Than’s words echo dull in the midst of the passage back into the cave. Virgil’s shoulder slams through behind it. “—wall.” With a tingling arm and rattling teeth, Virgil brushes dirt from his sleeve, ignoring how hard Than squints to see in the dark. Moreover, he ignores the look of pain on Than’s face from aggravating his still-pink skin. Still sizzling.

“Roman?” Pure instinct on Virgil’s part to call Roman first, knowing him to be the loudest person in the cave, if not the school. Virgil’s shout bounces heavy off the walls, creating a chorus of one for itself with a resounding lack of harmony. He calls out again. “Patton? Logan?” The only answer is that same dripping water at the entrance, slower now, too loud for Virgil to hear his own echo, too loud to even hope for a response. Than’s voice, gravelly and strained, joins in the cry.

“I’m here, too! Better come find me before I do something stupid! I have Virgil here, you’d better hurry up!” Than sounds more taunting than Virgil might prefer, but it’s not of terrible importance. What is important is the trembling hand on Virgil’s shoulder—Than trying to discreetly tug him out of the cave.

“What are you doing? We have to make sure they’re okay, we can’t just leave!” Virgil despises the tint of panic making his protests quiver.

“Or they’re already outside, and we’re tiptoeing barefoot on a knife’s edge.” Than continues pulling on Virgil, and it takes only a moment for Virgil to cooperate. Only a moment for a blast of heat to smack the boys in the face. Only a moment for a dot of yellow to grow into a blooming whirlpool of oranges and reds, racing toward them. Only a moment for them to flatten themselves on the grass just outside the cave, as pillars of fire singe the tips of their hair.

“Virgil? Than?” Logan and Roman peer out from behind a tree, concern on their faces.

“We thought you got out and went for help! Where’s Patton?” At the terror in Roman’s voice, all color drains from Virgil’s face. Patton is still in the cave. Virgil has to go back into the cave. In the same moment that fear seizes him, so too does a pair of hands, then another. Logan and Roman yank Virgil toward their tree shield, literally out of the line of fire before he can run back in.

“Wait, where’s he—” Logan trails off and releases Virgil, who turns to see Than’s lanky form disappearing into the inferno.

“Than, wait!” Virgil throws out a hand, desperate to follow, but no, he can’t, the combined strength of Logan and Roman is too much. Virgil can’t help Than. Virgil can’t help Patton. Virgil has to wait and hope.

The spurts of fire trickle to a stop, having hardly harmed the surrounding nature, not even skimming the tree they hide behind. Only the dirt by the entrance appears effected, smoking and crackling. The clearing falls silent. They wait.

And wait.

In silence.

Waiting.

Watching.

Waiting.

When smoke starts pouring from the mouth of the cave, Virgil shifts his feet to a wider stance. Accompanying the smoke is the ragged coughing of burning lungs, followed by Than, who trudges out with Patton draped over his shoulders. With the added weight, Than’s limp—as described by Logan—is even more prominent, and the mess on his face looks even worse. The pair collapses at Virgil’s feet, choking on the surge of fresh air.

Virgil forces himself not to help Patton, to be the bigger person and check on Than. Logan and Roman can handle Patton, even if it hurts to not be there with them. Blisters pop on Than’s face as Virgil moves to his side, running a light hand over the unmarred areas. “You impulsive little idiot, what were you thinking?” Virgil mutters, more to himself than to Than.

“Sorry about—” Than interrupts himself with a wheezing cough, quickly followed by a wince at his own overstretched face.

“Shut up, let’s just get out of here.” Virgil offers Than a hand, which the latter actually takes, much to Virgil’s surprise. He almost wonders why Roman makes such a miffed sound in response. With a little two fingered half-salute, Than disappears through the gate of trees and bushes. Virgil doesn’t comment on the action Than adopted from him, doesn’t even run after the guy. He keeps a cool walking pace as Logan and Patton give chase, knowing Than will already be long gone. Roman lags behind with him, making some asinine comment about Than appearing out of nowhere, much like the fire itself. His mouth spills all of his thoughts in a hushed whisper, of the cave, the flames, the unsinged trees and leaves, the overwhelming darkness as they pass through them. Virgil squints at the brightness in between.

“So how about his face? What did he say to you, did he do anything? What was he even doing here?” Who might be asking these questions once they come out on the other side is anybody’s guess. The overlapping voices and questions mingle in Virgil’s mind, but he doesn’t hear any of it as they head for the familiar path home. He only watches the patches of fur blow away in the breeze. He almost bothers to wonder how he didn’t notice the telltale scorch marks on their tips. He shivers when a strand brushes over his face, languidly drifting into the sky against the vanishing sun. And he waits.

Chapter 4 / Chapter 6 / Masterpost / ao3

#sanders sides #virgil sanders #patton sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #fire mention tw #burn mention tw #spiraling thoughts tw #some kind of magical #labhwrites #mine

7 notes · View notes

thinkofduty · 6 years

Text

; patrol

No Imperial patrols cross their path until Ala Ghiri.

The lie is so well-rehearsed by both of them by the second day that both Orella and Ingvald could answer questions in their sleep.

We've come from the Fringes. We went there to hunt. Others were with us. Three men. They'd helped us hunt the bears and then left for Bittermill. We came back north of the Velodyna. There was plenty more they couldn't carry. The Resistance had the gates of the Castellum blocked to travellers. We married eight years ago. She came with me to help, as is her wont. Have you ever met an Ala Mhigan woman? All bite and - well, plenty of bark, too...

The first sight of Garlean colours nearly has both of them forget every lie they've thought up like dust on the wind.

Behind the patrol, Ala Ghiri yet stands as though Theodoric's standard still flies. Rhalgr's purple hangs from the gates instead of the Empire's white, and the Garleans are few enough that they pose no threat to the village. The crystal embedded deeply in the rock looks almost as a protective arm curling around the village, hiding them from the very worst Gyr Abania has to offer.

"Look sharp," Ingvald says to her, but there's no need. The moment they espied black-and-red in the distance she'd felt her breath come short, had pulled herself tall and tight, and reached for Ingvald's hand. He'd let it happen without protest; this was their deception, after all. Her lips are thin and her face grim. The force of her grip belies how deeply uncomfortable the Garleans make her feel.

Privately, he thinks the very bones in his hand are shifting.

There is no point in them stopping. If they have seen the patrol, the patrol will have seen them, and there is naught more dangerous than a small travelling party refusing to engage with the Imperials - and suspicious, besides, with Resistance purple hanging so close by. Not to mention they are both weary from a hard pace wordlessly set through harsh sun and cold nights. No stranger to the march are either of them, but that does not make the ordeal easier. A single night in an inn cannot kill them.

"Keep breathing," he murmurs as they walk up to the soldiers. Their welcoming party has fanned out to prevent their passing, all seven of them, all men, all tall enough to rival Orella, who stands a neat six fulms and carries herself as though she's closer to seven. The only indication he gets that she's heard him at all is, incredibly, a squeeze of his fingers.

"That's far enough," one of the patrol calls out to them, and they stop on the same step. They're close enough that they can see the Garleans' eyes beneath their helms. Beside him, Orella shakes her head so hair falls in front of her face. She's stopped slicking her hair back since they crossed the Wall, and the idea of brash, headstrong Orella Steelhand hiding from anyone is laughable to him.

Ingvald, with his hair cropped short, doesn't have the luxury of stepping back. He realises that she has the heavier load strapped to her back, and his heart stops-

They ought to have stopped to trade packs. Ala Mhigan women are strong, but they're pretending to be less than themselves, and a trader's wife would not be that strong-

A Roegadyn, sallow-skinned and well-muscled - the opposite of Ser Zartosht in almost every way, he thinks, and has to force that comment to the back of his mind or laugh damningly - steps forward. "State your business," he says in Garlean, sounding bored. HIs gaze drifts over Orella and fixes upon Ingvald, the man, the de facto leader of their merry band of two.

None of the soldiers are looking at her, as though she is naught to be considered, and that is what pushes him to anger. He has to remember to keep breathing.

"Here for trade, ser," Ingvald says. Every word tastes like twenty years of oppression. "We came from East End, we're here for-"

"Shut up," the soldier says. Ingvald does so. He does not want to pick a fight with a man with an axhead wider than its owner's broad chest while he stands unarmed. "From the Fringes? The seven hells you need to go so far for?"

Almost before he even finishes his question, he's shaking his head. "Not you," he says, and Orella closes her mouth. Her hand is shaking in Ingvald's. He can't tell whether fear or rage courses through her veins. "I'm not interested in listening to some savage whore's drivel. You, farmer," he says to Ingvald, and crosses his arms. "What's in East End? Where are you from?"

"... From the capital, ser," he says carefully, and takes another deep breath to calm the blood pounding in his ears. "We're traders. East End holds more for us. No point in selling salt when you come from the Lochs. We wanted furs. And claws can be sold for medicine. Right? ... Honey?"

The pet name drips off his tongue insincerely, and he winces, knowing it sounds false. Movement at his side means Orella has turned her attention from her feet to him. Knowing her, she's displeased with the choice of epithet.

Hang her displeasure. There are more important things at hand.

Thankfully, the Garleans don't seem to notice their silent squabble. Two of the men are talking amongst themselves; another's attention is directed at the sky; the others look bored. The big Roegadyn steps forward, arms still folded, an impassable presence that seems to almost blot out the sun with his bulk. Ingvald is not a short man, and this soldier looks down at him. Power and height make one terrifying combination.

"Get your wares out."

They're able to set their packs down and unwind the twine holding the furs tightly wound, displaying everything they'd taken from the bear. What flesh remains on the fur is starting to smell bad, Ingvald notices with a frown. A task for later tonight, scraping the remains away and doing their best to dry them before setting off in the morning.

The woollen tunics they'd taken from the Sandsea pale in comparison to the meat and the other trinkets arrayed before the soldiers. For the first time, Ingvald is relieved that Orella had the foresight to go after the bear, despite the foolhardy way she'd gone about it. And that's not the only thing she'd thought of: a linkpearl in either of their ears would have been noticed immediately, as would have mail under their peasant's clothes.

And they think her beneath notice.

"This is it?" The Roegadyn toes the edge of one square of fur roughly; a claw is nudged out of place and he kneels to pick it up, to turn it over in his big hand. The claw is almost dwarfed by the size of his hand. "Hardly worth coming back at all for this pitiful lot. Three furs? And badly cut, to boot. Didn't bother to clean 'em, dry 'em... and they stink. Are you really traders?"

Ingvald's mouth has gone dry, his heart racing. They'd practised their lies, but he hadn't thought they'd be scrutinised like this so quickly.

Beside him, Orella's voice is quiet, but firm. "Well, we're obviously not hunters."

"Damn straight," Ingvald says, and perhaps it comes out a little too forceful, for Orella's hand finds his again, and they cling to each other without shame. Ingvald no longer cares for the bones shifting in his hand, for he knows he returns the favour.

"Well, the meat's not rotten yet," the soldier says, and Ingvald prays he doesn't look too closely, for they have been preserved with simple ice spells he'd learned in Ul'dah, "And the claws aren't tarnished. Could get a pretty price for these," he adds, and pockets the claw he'd picked up. Ingvald crushes Orella's hand as she opens her mouth to protest. "A tax," the soldier says, and has the audacity to leer at her. "You don't need that much money, even if you are bas. And if you're that desperate, then I've the cure for what ails you. And we'll pay," he adds, as though that makes his proposition more attractive.

And they are yet unarmed: Ingvald with his spells cannot hope to take on all seven of the Imperials, and Orella will fare little better than he. He yanks on her arm hard enough he feels something pop out of place, and she yelps, but follows the movement sharply, and the tug means that the arrow whistling through the air misses her and lands in the dirt a fulm before the feet of the Roegadyn.

One full second passes. Another. Everyone stares at the arrow, distracted from Garlean threats by its sudden appearance. Its fletching is unfamiliar to the natives, the vanes the colour of a hornbill's back and yet bound to the shaft in a way neither have seen before. Clearly, it means something to the soldiers.

"Resistance," the Roegadyn calls, and rips his axe free of his back. The patrol comes alive, pulling their weapons free, and Orella pulls Ingvald off the road with all her might.

From where they cower together, hands enjoined as though they have never existed as separate entities, they have a fantastic vantage of the slaughter that ensues. The Garleans are overwhelmed from the start, outfitted with fear and confusion as they are. They're no match for the handful of fighters all wearing nondescript green, faces covered with what look like imitation griffin masks. And there's all shapes and sizes, unlike the uniformly masculine silhouette of the patrol. A skinny Miqo'te with a longbow as tall as she stands, plucking the bowstring effortlessly, every arrow flying fast and hard. A Lalafell, back straight, wand extended, blowing flame as though the Amalja'a's primal ought make offering to him. The telltale scaled tail of an Au Ra, menacing in his size, made more menacing by the long-barrelled gun in his hands. At the head of the group, the stocky shoulders of an Ala Mhigan used to the lay of the land.

Orella yet trembles like a leaf in the wind, but her eyes are bright, and she does not once look away from the fight. "What do we do if they turn on us next?" she whispers to him, and Ingvald can only shake his head. He has no answer for her anxieties, can only try to quiet his. They can only hope the Resistance is as well-meaning as the stories have made them out to be. And there have been plenty of stories on the road.

Whatever the Resistance are, they're well-trained enough that within minutes the Imperials are lying dead or dying on the dusty Abanian road. The Miqo'te's bow quickly finds them as a new target, though its owner is not so hasty that she plays the song of death for them. Orella and Ingvald stand, slowly, free hands raised to display their innocence.

But only the archer keeps her eyes on them. They are but an older, unarmed couple; nothing compared to seven armed Garlean men desperate to keep their lives. The Highlander turns his back to them, saying something too lowly for the wind to carry to them, and the small group breaks apart to clean up after themselves. The Lalafell and the Auri man start riffling through pockets and find the stolen bear claw - longer than the Lala's entire arm - and after another moment's careful consideration, the archer lowers her bow. She stands aside to let her commander approach.

"Well met, sister," he says in the rough eastern dialect native to the Peaks. It's familiar in a way Orella can't quite place, and not just because she'd grown up speaking it before her days in the Kingsguard. "And you, brother. They didn't bother you overlong, I hope."

Orella is too busy trying to place the voice, face screwed up in thought, so Ingvald answers for the both of them. "Just questioning us, though I fear you stepped in at the right time."

The archer turns her griffin's mask toward Orella; they can see the grim line of her mouth. "Imperials like to make the hinnies queb it. Y'ain't hurt, lass?"

She shakes her head, which seems to satisfy the archer, and she offers a salute to the Highlander before joining her comrades' casual thievery. "We're going to the city to trade," Ingvald says, and gestures at the furs still unravelled on the dirt. "Thought we'd detour to Ala Ghiri to rest."

"Not a bad plan," their saviour nods. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you what lurks in the dark out here."

"We both grew up here," Orella offers suddenly, and finds herself under careful scrutiny. Still, she doesn't shrink back from the focus the Highlander trains on her. "Besides, nothing's more dangerous than the Garleans."

"I'll be damned," the man under the mask says. "You're that one from Ul'dah, aren't you, sister? I always wondered what happened to you."

There's a pregnant pause where Orella considers carefully, and frowns as she speaks. "... Horrick," she says, and the Ala Mhigan beams.

"Ul'dah?" Ingvald asks, lost.

"Your lady got put behind bars," Horrick says, and wrestles with his mask. It's more than just a mask; white leather covers the ears and neck and covers the helm beneath. Impressive work. He's tanned from the high Abanian sun, chin darker than the rest, a beard doing its best to try and sprout. "Near enough a full twelve months ago, now. Good piece of work, from what I heard."

At Ingvald's side, Orella makes a swift, jerking movement that he cannot quite see in his peripheral, but has been on the receving end of enough times to know what she's doing. She gestures furiously, drawing her hand before her neck. In all the years he's seen it, Ingvald has never quite known whether she means it to mean stop talking or I'll kill you. "I don't think I heard that," he says mildly, and the moment he turns his heard to look at Orella she quits the motion.

As expected, she's looking anywhere but him. Guilty as charged.

"Were you ever going to tell me this?" he asks, exasperated, and Horrick bursts into laughter.

"True firebrand, ain't she, brother? Well," and he offers Ingvald a lazy wink that goes unnoticed. "All's fair in love and war, and you look like you've seen your fair share of both. More one than th'other, I'd wager, if miss murder here's anything to go by."

"Orella..."

"Major," the Lalafell says, walking up and offering the bear claw to Orella, who has to bend to take it. With his hands free, he salutes, looking every bit as though he doesn't feel dwarfed by the Highlanders around him. "We shouldn't hang about. Gotta make it look like the patrol's gone missing. You know the drill. Has to be natural."

"Natural," The Au Ra agrees from a few paces away, and Horrick nods.

"Aye, that it does. You two fancy lending us a hand? We'll escort you to Ala Ghiri once we're done here. We've a safe house you're more than welcome to."

Orella's still ignoring Ingvald's pointed stare. "Really? We wouldn't want to impose, and we do have to reach the city..."

"A night in a bed won't do you any harm, sister. Rest awhile. Ala Mhigo will still stand on the morrow."

That it will, though with the Riskbreakers likely hot on their tail, Orella can't be sure how long that statement will ring true. Still, the idea of a bed as opposed to some sheltered rock is an attractive prospect, even if it is only for a night. They have time enough to reach the city, and time enough to keep the peace.

"Orella," Ingvald says, desperate now, "What did he mean by miss murder?"

And Horrick laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

#RAEV

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