My (Dead) Fan Page for DnDorks

Fall had always been one of Skog’s favorite seasons.

It isn’t hot and just bordering on cold, giving him an excuse to wear the sweaters his mom makes him, and when he wears suits, he doesn’t feel like he is in an oven. He loves the colors of the plant life as the leaves fall, and the warm smell of spices in the air.

To him, fall is quiet and comfortable, but the same could not be said about his boyfriend.

Glib Murphy was in his last year of getting his Ph.D. in Magical Probability, which is time-consuming enough, but he is also Ranger Blue of the Rangers of Power. The Rangers of Power, as Skog understands it, are the magical police of the area, chosen by artifacts left by the founders. Years ago, when the concept was explained to the businessman, he had no earthly idea why a college town would need magically-selected guards to protect it until he visited the town and saw giant clay monsters destroying the buildings only to get held back by these magic police.

For some reason, every year the monsters become less frequent during the summer months, as if giving the rangers a break before coming back twice as hard during the fall. Combine the increase of monsters and the new classes of the fall semester and Glib is absolutely wiped by the time he makes it home. If he makes it home, that is. There have been many days where he passes out in the library while doing school work, or in the streets after fighting a monster.

But today, he makes it home. Skog hears him stumble through the door from the study where he is sitting in front of the crackling fireplace, reading The Complete History of Sailing in Vontral in his tall back red chair with a cup of honey lavender tea and eating handfuls of chocolate, cherries, and almonds.

“Skog?” Glib calls weakly, accompanied by the sound of his backpack thunking to the floor and his stumbling footsteps.

Skog notes what page he is on before placing his book on the table next to him, gently wakes their two sleeping cats -Anchor and Squid, black and grey brothers that Glib begged Skog to bring home, and Skog is weak to resist his pleas- in his lap, and swiftly stands up. “In here, Glib,” the orc says as he walks to the doorway. Skog pauses as he examines his lovely boyfriend who is battered and bruised; coated in clay, dirt, and blood; exhausted to the point of near delirium; but he is home in one piece. “Welcome home, my love,” Skog says as he crosses the room in two strides to the smaller.

“Hey,” Glib says tiredly. Skog reaches out to hug him and Glib leans away. “I’m fuckin’ coated in monster slime,” he explains. “You’ve got a nice suit on, I don’t wanna ruin it with this bullshit.”

“There are cleaning charms for a reason, Glib,” Skog says as he scoops the smaller up and into a tight hug, the fight leaving Glib’s body immediately. His hands tighten into the pinstripe shirt and his legs weakly wrap around Skog’s hips, clinging to his boyfriend as tightly as he can.

“I need a shower,” Glib says into Skog's shirt.

The orc nods and carries him up the stairs and into the master bathroom. Using one hand he holds up his boyfriend while the other starts a warm bath. He picks up a bottle of a viscous teal liquid and pours it into the filling tub, the liquid almost immediately turning into white bubbles.

“Bubble bath? Really? I’m not fucking five,” Glib grumbles as he watches Skog work, face pressed into the larger’s shoulder.

The orc pauses and looks down at him. “Would you like me to take out the bubbles?”

There is a long pause before Glib quietly says “No.”

Skog smiles as he continues setting up the bath.

Once the bubbles are at an acceptable level and soaps, towels, and pajamas are laid out, Skog gently detaches Glib from his hip, though with some effort as the vampire clings to him.

“Do you want to bathe on your own or would you like me to help?” Skog questions after Glib’s feet are steady (enough) on the floor. He knows the answer, but he wants confirmation before he does anything.

“I want you to help,” Glib says tiredly, his eyes already drooping closed.

Skog gives him a kind smile as his hands drop to the front of Glib’s clothes and lingers on the bottom of his shirt, waiting for Glib’s approval before pulling it over his head and gently ridding him of the rest of his garments. Dirt and monster clay fall from him in chunks, and the smaller is clearly fighting the urge to scratch at the irritating substances coating his pale skin. The orc tries to keep the worry from his face as he sees all of the cuts and bruises littering all of his thin body. Some of these are probably days old and certainly not treated properly. Skog elects to deal with one problem at a time as he places his hand on Glib’s shoulder, leading him to the bathtub and helping him step in.

The smaller practically melts into the water, the stress and anxiety instantly getting lifted as the water surrounds him. He makes a pitiful but happy noise as Skog begins to wash his hair, relaxing fully into his boyfriend’s touch. Once the day's worth of grime is pulled from his brown hair, the orc moves on to washing the rest of his body, using the medicated body wash -given to him by Specs- around the wounds and Glib’s favorite scent everywhere else.

Skog cleans and double-cleans Glib’s entire body before deciding that he is spotless. He gingerly lifts the younger from the now brownish-greenish-redish water and towels him dry.

Getting the vampire clothed is harder than removing the ruined garments because he is almost completely limp in the orc’s hold.

“Love,” Skog says gently once his fuzzy blue pajamas are secured onto him.

“Hm?” Glib asks, barely lifting his head in acknowledgment, his eyes staying glued shut.

“You can’t fall asleep yet, you need to eat first,” the orc chides quietly, using his large fingers to tilt Glib’s head up. The vampire blinks blearily at him before slowly nodding. Skog gives him a soft smile before picking him back up and carrying him back downstairs.

They reenter the study, Squid darting around Skog’s feet, meowing and purring for attention while Anchor barely lifts his head in acknowledgment.

“Yes, yes, hello, Squid,” the orc grumbles. “I promise he’s fine, now will you please-” He picks the cat up with his foot and gently sets him to the side, “Get out of my way.”

Squid makes a “mrrph” noise as he’s moved, but dutifully keeps away from the orc’s feet, choosing instead to settle on the warm stones of the fireplace.

“Hello, Anchor,” Skog says as he looks down at the cat lying in his seat.

Anchor slow-blinks at him.

“Will you remove yourself from my seat?”

Anchor stares at him for a long moment before slowly getting up and stretching as she walks to join her sister by the fire.

“Thank you,” he calls to the cat before carefully settling in his seat, taking great care to not crush his boyfriend’s legs. Glib is completely lax against the bigger. “Glib,” he says softly.

The vampire groans in response.

“Can you sit up for a moment?”

He weakly nods as he leans back, tittering with imbalance, and never opens his eyes.

Skog picks up a vial from the table, it looking tiny in his large hand as it is no bigger than his little finger. It glows with a soft red glow and pulses warmly as the pink liquid swirls and glitters inside. He pulls the cork from it, the smell of candy filling the air. He gingerly presses it to Glib’s lips and the small opens his mouth just enough for Skog to pour the liquid into his mouth. Once the liquid is gone from the bottle, the deeper wounds begin to heal over as the smaller ones fade away completely.

As the healing potion does its work, the orc sets to work on his clothes. With nimble fingers, Skog takes off his suit jacket and undoes his button-up, and discards both to the floor.

“Alright, you can lay back down.” Skog doesn’t even get to finish the words before Glib is falling, full force, into him. The orc lets him relax for a minute, rubbing soothing circles into his back before he asks, “Have you eaten today, my love?”

“What do you think?” Glib snaps before immediately following it with, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“You didn’t mean to snap,” Skog finishes. “I’m aware, and I’m not mad. You’re tired.” Glib nods slowly against his shoulder. “Now, can you answer my question? Have you eaten today?”

“No,” he says quietly.

Skog moves one of his hands to the back of Glib’s head and moves it to the base of his neck.

“You sure?” Glib asks even though his fangs are already brushing the jugular vein.

“Always,” Skog says, fingers playing with the damp hair of his boyfriend. “Orcs were bred for war and fighting, it's good for me to bleed.”

Glib, satisfied that their little ritual has been completed, bites down, lapping up the sweet blood instantly. He hums in appreciation of the hints of lavender and honey tea paired with almonds, cherries, and chocolate. Skog picks his book up off the table and flips back to his page, reading while Glib has his dinner. This goes on for nearly five minutes before Glib slowly pulls off and grabs the rag from the table and blots the blood.

“Are you sure that’s enough?” Skog asks, leaning up to kiss the vampire’s cheek as he takes the rag from his hand and cleans the wound himself.

After the first few times they had done this, Glib stopped pulling off before he was full. It took much reassurance, but Skog was able to convince Glib that he really didn’t mind the activity, especially since it kept Glib healthy drinking from a live source.

Glib nods as he settles back into the orc’s hold, laying his head on Skog’s broad shoulder.

The older simply reads while he waits for Glib to fall slack in his arms, but after several minutes, the vampire is still awake and looking up at him with slightly glassy eyes.

“Is something wrong, love?” Skog asks, putting the book back on the table.

“Why?” Glib says quietly, staring up at the older as if he has all the answers in the world.

“Because you should be asleep by now, but you look like you want to cry?” he answers with a cocked eyebrow.

“No, I mean why do this?” the smaller asks, voice small and weak, shaking and boarding on cracking.

“Do what?”

“Take care of me,” Glib says as tears begin to fall from his dark green eyes, nearly glowing red in the low light. “Why put in all this fucking effort when you know you’ll just have to do it all over again in a few days?”

That catches Skog off guard. He looks at his lover for several seconds, choosing his words carefully before deciding on a simple, “I love you and I want you to be healthy.”

“But why?” Glib laments, tears falling faster. “You work all day and then have to come home and take care of me because I can’t fucking take care of myself!”

The orc buries his hand in Glib’s hair and plays with it while the vampire cries, full-body sobs wracking his body.

“Why? Why?” he asks over and over, a mantra to calm his mind while his nails dig into the fabric of Skog’s undershirt and draw blood from his thick skin.

Skog waits until Glib is less hysterical and says simply, “Because I like taking care of you. It's how I prefer to destress.”

“But why? I barely talk and- and I rely completely on you for fucking everything-” A sob rips from him and breaks his sentence. It takes several moments before he has his composure back and can say anything more. “It's just a fucking chore for you.”

“No, it’s not just a chore to me,” Skog corrects quietly but firmly. “Nothing is a chore when it comes to you.”

“But my parents-”

“Am I your parents?” Skog interrupts. Glib shakes his head. “To them, you may have been a chore, but not to me, not when it’s you.”

Glib lays limply against the bigger, his tears still wetting the front of Skog’s shirt.

“I love you,” he says quietly.

The orc smiles at him. “I love you too.”

There is silence for a minute before Glib says it again, voice a little more stable, “I love you.”

Skog dips his head down and kisses the top of the vampire’s head. “I love you too, more than anything.” He cuddles with the human for a little longer before picking his book back up and settling back into their night routine.

“I love you,” Glib says one last time as his eyes droop closed, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to him.

“I love you too. Now get some sleep,” Skog responds softly. There is a quiet hum from the smaller before he is completely still against the larger. Without doing the motions of breathing, the vampire is effectively a corpse.

Skog waits for another few minutes, deciding to complete his chapter before standing up with his sleeping husband.

Callisto wasn’t a flirt. He never really saw the appeal in hitting on people who were just going about their day, hell he’d berated people for doing it before.

However.

He couldn’t help himself when it came to Prophis. He’d honestly been a little ashamed of it the first few times it happened because they weren’t exactly friends. Just classmates who happened to click easily and decided to study together. It didn’t help that Prophis was so hot that when he first walked into the library they had decided to study in, Callisto dropped his coffee and had to scramble to clean it up.

It had been on the third of these little library meet-ups -not dates, no matter what Aldor called them in his irritated monotone- that Prophis murmured, “Gods, this library is hot and there’s no glasses nor water anywhere.”

“You should drink me like a glass of water,” tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop it. His ears burned as his face swiftly became a bright crimson, but before he could stammer out an apology, Prophis was laughing.

“Smooth, Cal.” He paused and looked at the human before asking, “Can I call you Cal?”

Callisto tried to say something but no words came out of his mouth, so he shut it with a click and nodded rapidly.

Since then it became somewhat of a tradition for Callisto to teasingly hit on Prophis (“Hey handsome,” “You can quit bouncing that leg and I can give you something else to bounce on”), but Prophis only barely played along, often just letting Callisto say whatever he wanted before redirecting him to their work.

Callisto had checked several times if he had crossed any boundaries, only for Prophis to tell him that he was quite amused by it.

“Then why not flirt back with me?” Callisto had asked once.

Prophis smiled at him. “I like watching you try to say lewd things with a straight face, and if I play your game, you would never get any work done.”

So they continued their “game,” and today is no different.

“If I finish my work before 7 will you finally give me that kiss I’ve been asking for?” the human asks, knowing damn well there’s no way he can finish ten pages of notes in an hour, but it does seem like a good challenge.

Prophis slowly blinks at him before checking the time with a smile. “Actually, we have to end today’s session early.”

Callisto just barely catches the actual hurt that nearly flashes across his face and replaces it with overdramatic distress. “What?! Why?! How could you leave me like this?! How am I meant to finish my work without my handsome carrot on a stick?” he cries and Prophis shushes as a student walks past them, shooting them a dirty look.

“We can finish studying in my room, the library closes early today, remember?”

Somehow it had completely escaped Callisto's mind that today was the day that the library was closing early for its bimonthly deep clean, but that thought is quickly discarded as he realizes what Prophis just offered him.

“Your room?” he says slowly, pointedly ignoring the blush that creeps up his cheeks.

Prophis smiles his signature blinding smile as he watches Callisto’s confidence get yanked out from under him. “Yes, my room.” He leans in a little bit, smiling as he hoods his eyes slightly, “Oh, you know, just the place you’ve been begging to see for the last two months.”

“I wasn’t-” Callisto begins, voice small as Prophis inches closer and closer.

“Ah, but you were, pretty boy.”

Oh, that one was new and was certainly not doing the blush on his face any favors as the light pink quickly turned fiery red. It was always “Cal” or “Callisto,” it had never been any other pet names.

“P-pretty b- …?” he tries to repeat but his words fail him as Prophis stands from his seat and leans across the table and down into Callisto’s face.

One of the elf’s slender fingers gently pushes Callisto’s hair from his face and tucks it behind his ear before letting his hand linger on the human’s cheek. “My, my, aren’t you hot?”

“I- uh-”

“And your cheeks are quite warm, are you alright, darling?”

The statement and yet another pet name causes Callisto’s brain to short-circuit.

Prophis smiles as he trails his fingertips lightly down his face and neck before grabbing a fistful of the human’s collar and yanking him up so their noses nearly touch. The action causes an embarrassing noise to fall from Callisto’s mouth.

The elf makes an appreciative noise. “If that’s how you sound startled, I wonder how you’d sound under me?” Callisto’s jaw falls open.

The carefree, happy personality that Callisto had always associated with the elf was nowhere to be seen, and in its place was a personality that oozed confidence.

Prophis tsks. “What? Not going to flirt back? You have what you wanted.” His smile makes the human’s knees weak as he tries to sputter out a reply. “Unless,” he begins, slackening his grip. “You don’t actually want me.”

“I do!” Callisto says, slightly louder than he meant.

Prophis’ grip tightens immediately. “That’s what I thought.” He dips his head down as if he is going to kiss the dark-haired man before stopping and whispering, “Come on, pretty boy, play with me.”

“P- play?” he stutters, nearly desperate to get that kiss that he’s been asking for.

The elf pulls back and grins at him. “You know, flirt with me. You were so keen on it just a few moments ago.”

Callisto’s brain reboots before coming back online, though he has certainly lost his footing. “Of course, I’ll give you anything you asked if it means I can finally get a piece of that ass.” He aims for his casual smooth but misses the mark just barely, and Prophis grins wolfishly at him.

“Oh, come now, do you really think you want to be on top?” the elf asks, arching one of his naturally pristine eyebrows.

Callisto swallows his internal panic. “Of course, why wouldn’t I want to fuck the hottest piece of ass in all of Vontral?”

“Because you want to spread your pretty little legs and get fucked like a good whore for me,” Prophis answers as easily and confidently as he’d say the sky is blue. “And you know you’d do anything I asked.”

“I’m not that submissive,” Callisto lies through his teeth.

Prophis’ look hardens slightly and his voice lowers as he says, “Get on your knees.”

Callisto doesn’t hesitate as he drops to his knees and stares up at Prophis with his wide-blown pupils. He wants to be mad at his reaction or at Prophis’ audacity for making him do that, but when Prophis says, “Good boy,” all the fight is drained from his body. It’s at that moment he decides he really would do anything Prophis asks of him if it meant getting some praise in return.

The blonde smiles at him. “Now gather your things, we’re going back to my room so I can study the blush of your skin when you cum screaming my name.”

Glib is old. Not physically, he stopped aging a millennia ago, but mentally.

He’s seen cities rise and fall, walked the streets of plague-ridden villages, and held the hands of dying soldiers who were shot in a war they never wanted to fight. He’s known the corrupt rulers who are too arrogant to fear death, the coughs of children too young to understand what it truly means to die, and young men who call out for their mother on their death bed, only to meet him. He’s buried everyone in his family, all the people he grew up with, and all of their kids several times over.

He was the first to become a God, and he was just unlucky enough to become the permanently immortal God of Death, doomed to walk Vontral alone.

Except he’s not quite alone.

Sure, there’s Callum, the insane God of Dreams, but there is also a certain half-elf mortal who gets reincarnated every 200 years, and always seems to come back with an infatuation with death.

“Those are bad for you, you know,” Glib says as he pulls his hood off his head, his brown hair falling limply in front of his deep green eyes while he steps out of the darkness from beside the man. The setting sun casts long shadows across the buildings, giving an ethereal, almost spooky look.

“So you’ve said,” the mustached man says nonchalantly. He’s leaned against a brick building in Bowenburg, watching the mostly empty streets while blowing smoke from a cigar that hangs loosely from his lips. His eyes stay transfixed on the unaware people in front of them, unbothered. He knew Glib would come to him.

The god scowls as he grabs the cigar from his mouth and puts it in his own, sliding to stand next to the taller man. The smoke fills his mouth and floods his airless lungs before he lets it slowly seep from his mouth like a dragon. “I mean it, it’ll fucking kill you,” he growls.

“Death doesn’t scare me,” he says cheekily.

“I should,” Glib says snappily. “Most people are fuckin’ terrified of me.”

“Well, I’m not most people, now am I?” he shoots back, mirth twinkling in his coal-black eyes.

For a moment, Glib considers telling him everything, the reincarnations, the old love, the lifelong relationships, all of it, but he stops. “No, no you aren’t,” he settles on instead.

“Besides,” the half-elf begins slowly, grabbing the cigar back from the god, “An early death just means eternity with you sooner.”

“Goodbid,” Glib growls, though all his previous names sit heavy on his tongue. Lawrence is always the first to come to his mind because it was the first, followed by Naethan, Plutos, and Milburn, but this time it’s Goodbid. Johnny B. Goodbid. “You’d be with me for eternity anyway, why are you fuckin’ wasting the time you have among your friends and family.”

“My family won’t talk to me no more, not since I began workin’ in your bidness,” Goodbid brushes off easily. “And Mr. Goodbid works alone, I ain’t got friends other than Death himself.”

Glib growls, but knows there’s no way to convince the half-elf. There never is. “Why are you here anyway? Aren’t your stomping grounds Riftreach and east of it?”

“Yeah, but I heard a rumor of this dope ass horse that walks the town at night.” The taller looks at him with a cheesy grin. “And I want him.”

“Her,” Glib corrects, “And you can’t be serious, you came all the way out here to try to catch a horse?”

“What? I’m a man of style and that white horse is stylin’!” Goodbid jokes. He snuffs the end of his cigar on the brick wall as the sun disappears over the horizon.

“Let me get this straight, your plan is to what? Stake out here until a pretty white pony comes prancing through town and then you are going to try and what? Catch her?” he questions, his irritation at the plan slipping into his words.

He has to admit that it does sound like something that he would do.

Every iteration of him always loved horses, and Milburn, the reincarnation before Goodbid, had a gorgeous brown and white horse that he lost on the coast just east of Bowenburg. The horse was given to him by his father the Friday before his death, so Milburn named her Friday and treated her like royalty, often better than he even treated himself, so losing her was the worst thing imaginable for him. For nearly ten full years, Milburn searched for that horse day and night, begging Glib every night to promise him that Friday hadn’t died yet and that there was still time. The search for her killed the half-elf, but the horse never did die. Well. The horse, unless she gained immortality through magical means, died sometime after Milburn, but Glib pointedly refused to check because an angry part of him would try to take his wrath out on an innocent horse who got spooked in the middle of the night and ran off.

Distantly, Glib wonders if Goodbid’s infatuation with this infamous white horse is the past echoing through him.

“Hey now,” the mustached man begins, bringing the shorter out of his train of thought, “I thought you promised me you ain’t a mind reader!”

“Goodbid,” Glib groans, using a bit of irritation to mask the fear that he would lose this reincarnation to horse hunting as well.

He laughs. “What? I think it’s an excellent plan, thank ya very much.”

The Death God levels a flat look at him before shaking his head and stepping back towards the shadows, drawing his hood up.

“She doesn’t come out until about two,” Glib explains. “You might want to sleep until then.”

Without hesitation Goodbid sits down in the alleyway with his back to the brick wall.

“What- no- I meant-” the Death God sputters.

“I ain’t gonna spend money on a bed if I’ll just have to kill the staff that sees me,” Goodbid, ever the penny pincher and hitman, reasons. “I ain’t exactly supposed to be in Bowenburg.”

“And the better option is to just sleep in the alleyway?” Glib questions, gesturing to the many ways that he could be spotted and captured.

Goodbid just smiles up at him. “But my guardian angel wouldn’t let that happen, would he?” he asks cheekily, already settling against the wall and closing his eyes.

“I’m not your fucking guardian angel!” the shorter retorts, but it doesn’t come out as hostile as he intended it to.

“Then why are you always here for me?” Goodbid questions, sleep edging into his voice.

Glib is silent for several minutes, as he watches the other’s chest rise and fall until it evens out into sleep before he answers. “Because you’ve always been here for me.”

Despite himself, the human mutters a small spell that would redirect anyone’s attention away from the alley, fulfilling his role as guardian angel as he settles against the opposite wall, alternating between watching the half-elf sleep and watching the empty streets of the college town.

A chill settles in the air after a while, causing Glib to drape his cloak over the sleeping man to keep him from shivering in his dreams before he tilts his head back and bathes in the cold air as it blows across his icy skin. He lets his eyes drift up to the sky and traces over the stars that have been named and renamed by every new generation of scholars.

He thinks about old times when he and Lawerence- no, it was Naethan then- used to star gaze. The half-elf would name the stars and constellations easily before asking Glib for their old names, and in every language the old god could think of.

He stares silently at the sky until his mind inevitably wanders into the song that seems to live within his brain.

“Lily, o’ lily of my valley won’t you stay the summer long?” he sings softly, remembering the first time he sang it to Goodbid.

“Fall leaves me tired and winter is cold without the sweet ring of your bells to keep my body warm.”

Although he had been Plutos at the time.

“Your lips are poison and your love leaves me dizzy, o’ lily of my valley, won’t you just kiss me?”

He had been so nervous to show him the words, worried he’d understand what it actually meant.

“Summer grows near, your time comes to an end, and until springtime, I can’t kiss you again.”

But Plutos was none the wiser.

“Lily, o’ lily of my valley can’t you stay this summer long?”

He had asked Glib to sing it to him whenever he was upset, like a lullaby.

“Lily, o’ lily of my valley, I will miss you while you’re gone.”

And he had it sung to him on his deathbed.

“Beautiful song,” Goodbid says groggily as he sits up, causing Glib to jump.

“Jesus!” he hisses.

“Nope, just Goodbid, but I’ll give it to ya, Mr. Death, you were pretty close,” Goodbid teases.

Glib swallows the uneasy feeling of being called “Mr. Death,” but it’s not like this Goodbid knows any better. Glib stopped telling them his name in hopes that one day he would remember on his own.

“What time is it, anyway?” the half-elf asks, stretching like a cat, the Death God’s cloak pooling in his lap as it falls off his shoulders. “Do I got time to catch a few more Z’s?”

Glib looks back to the sky, tracking the moon. “No, your internal clock was fucking spot on,” the Death God mutters. “It’s nearly 2 a.m. exactly.”

“Well, hot-diggity-dog!” he says with a manic grin. “Well, let’s get on movin’!” He stands up, straightening his clothes and mustache as he throws the cloak back over the short man.

“Mustache, do you even have a clue where you’re going?” Glib says as he steps out of the alley behind Goodbid.

“Not even a little,” he says as he weaves through the streets. “But I’m sure I’ll know it when I see it.”

“Goodbid,” Glib growls. “Tell me you actually have a-”

As if cued in by Glib’s annoyance, the sound of hooves clopping on the stone roads draws both their attention.

Before the Death God can stop him, Goodbid is racing towards the noise. The Death God follows close behind him, muttering swears in every language that he knows -which is all of them- as the tall man almost certainly runs headfirst into a guardsman on horseback.

They burst into a plaza, illuminated sparsely by floating magic lights, but standing in the center is a beautiful white horse with a long flowing mane that ends in electric green. She is larger than a normal horse and has an otherworldly calm about her. She stands patiently, white hair covering most of her eyes, before she turns and calmly trots away.

The pair stands gobsmacked for a little too long before Goodbid is back to running after her. A feeling washes over Glib that tells him something is amiss here. This horse has never allowed herself to be seen so clearly by anyone before, only flashes of white hooves and green tails trotting between streets. The fact that she let them see her leaves a funny taste in the old god’s mouth.

“Goodbid!” Glib hisses as he too runs after them. “Something isn’t right!”

“Not now, Death!” Goodbid whisper-shouts back. “We’re hot on her tail!”

Glib makes an annoyed sound but resolves to ignore his discomfort as they weave through the streets. They’re right behind her, step for step, and seemingly gaining on her, until they burst back into the open plaza from before, and the white horse is nowhere in sight.

“Damn it!” Goodbid swears. “I thought we had her!”

Glib scans the streets as he mutters, “This is probably for the best.”

Goodbid sighs dramatically. “Why can’t I have a snazzy horse?” he jokingly pouts, though Glib can spot the genuine disappointment in his face.

“Because I don’t think that was a normal horse,” Glib explains looking back up at the taller. “Trust me, something was up with her.”

“Well, now, I personally think a bounty hunter riding a ghost horse would be even cooler than a bounty hunter riding a pretty white horse-”

“Goodbid-”

Their little “argument” is cut short by the sound of hooves, though this time they are moving much faster and growing louder instead of softer.

The pair look around frantically before spotting the white horse barreling at them with her head low.

“Shit, shit, shit-” Glib screams as the massive horse hooks her head between Goodbid’s legs, throwing him onto her back and biting into the Death God’s cloak, lifting him easily off the ground.

A white and green mist forms around them as the horse continues barreling forward before in a flash of white -and a wave of nausea- they are suddenly somewhere else.

It resembles a weird amalgamation of Riftreach and Bowenburg, with the sleek style of Bowenburg buildings and the layout and height of Riftreach. The streets are impossibly clean and the sky is blindingly white, bathing the entire area in the same otherworldly glow that surrounds the horse.

Glib roars in anger, more at the audacity of the animal bringing them here than the fact that they are actually here. Thick black fog begins to billow from his cloak as his skin turns ghostly transparent, revealing his skeleton. His eyes become unearthly black as a sickly grey and poisonous purple swirl around his hands, but before he can fire off any of the spells he has, the horse drops him flat on his back.

“That will not be necessary,” the horse says, her voice carrying that same ethereal calm that surrounds her.

“You fucking talk?!” he shrieks, rage still boiling in his blood.

The horse gives him a flat look. “Yes, I am Friday, the Goddess of Fate, and I can talk.”

“Friday?” Glib echoes, bewildered. He stares expectantly at the horse for answers, but she offers none. Surely this can’t be the same horse, but the name is too convenient.

Goodbid awkwardly slides off her back and helps Glib stand up before half-hiding behind him. “Ms. Friday, this ain’t some kinda punishment for trying to catch you, is it? Because I didn’t know you were a sentient horse, and I do treat my horses quite well-”

“No, Mr. Goodbid, it is no punishment, I just needed to step in to make sure what needed to happen, happened,” she says to silence his ramblings.

“And how’d you reckon that?” Goodbid asks, a naturally curious man.

“Your vanity and love for horses would surely draw you to Bowenburg if you heard of an impossible-to-catch white horse,” she explains simply.

Goodbid is silent for a long moment before nodding slowly. “Well, now, I guess there’s no use in arguin’ with a goddess of fate now is there?”

Friday laughs, though it sounds more like church bells ringing. “No, no, there is not, I know what is fated to happen so I know what has already happened.”

“Yeah, yeah, that sounds about right,” Glib sighs.

“So, what are we here for then?” Goodbid questions. “You say you brought us here to make sure fate don’t change, but I don’t see much changin’.” He gestures around them before looking more closely for seemingly the first time. “And, uh, where is ‘here’?”

The goddess shakes her head. “Walk with me,” she says simply, as she begins trotting towards a large building at the end of the street.

“Well, you heard her,” Goodbid says after a moment of vaguely confused silence before he begins to march after her, Glib reluctantly following.

“This is a place known as the Order Realm,” Friday explains. “It is much like the Death Realm that your friend there comes from.” Goodbid looks at Glib before turning his attention back to the horse. “The Primordial of Order once lived here, but was killed by their creator, the Nothing. Butinstead of letting their power be destroyed, they and their seven siblings -in their respective realms- created thrones which would distribute power to any mortal who sits in them.”

They have reached a tall white cathedral with green and grey stained glass windows. Friday easily trots up the stairs and into the building, walking towards a strange-looking chair at the far side. It’s made of metal and gears with tubes full of green liquid running up and down the sides.

“The four possible powers of Order are Fate, taken by me; Peace, taken by an older God named Vaktaan; Knowledge, taken by a man named Aldor; and Law,” she stops speaking as she reaches the throne before looking at Goodbid. “Who is meant to be claimed by you.”

“Me?” Goodbid asks, stopping nearly ten feet away from the chair. “Why me?”

Friday gets a pensive look to her face, well, as pensive as a horse can be. She looks at Glib, but only for a moment before carefully saying, “Fate works in mysterious ways, and you are fated to be with another immortal.”

“Ain’t no way an immortal would choose to be with me,” the half-elf counters. “I’m just Mr. Goodbid.”

Glib snickers at that, earning a confused look from the taller. “You have no idea, do you, Bid?”

“Mr. Death, are you telling me that you’ve been holding information back from me?” Goodbid asks, sounding more betrayed than accusatory.

Friday steps in to save Glib needing to explain. “He has only withheld information that you would discover in due time, as you have every time.”

Goodbid stares at her for a long moment. “What do you mean ‘as you have every time’?”

“Sit on the throne and everything will become clear,” she says, gesturing at the chair with her head.

“Why should I trust you?” Goodbid counters, resting his palm on the hilt of his short swords. “You’ve done nothin’ but kidnap me and my friend and talk in damn riddles.”

“Goodbid,” Glib says. “Trust her, sit on the chair.”

“I thought you had a bad feelin’ ‘bout this!” The hitman snaps back.

Glib tries to stay calm as he explains. “I had a bad feeling because you came to catch a magic horse with no plan and we were actively being led into a trap to get us here.” They hold intense eye contact for another few seconds before Glib says, “You’ve said it yourself, you aren’t afraid of death.” Another few seconds of silence before the death god growls, “Sit on the throne.”

Goodbid looks between Glib, Friday, and the chair for another few seconds before hissing, “Fine, what’s the worst that can happen?”

He walks over to the throne with a clearly fake confidence and sits down on it, crossing his arms.

For about three seconds, nothing happens, but then the gears begin turning, and the sound of metal clicking rings through the air. The liquid in the tube swirls and pumps faster before metal arms on either side of the chair clasp down onto him. The room fills with blinding white and green light.

“What the shit?!” Glib yelps, stepping forward, mind racing on ways to get the half-elf free before all the noise comes to a stop, and the metal arms slowly retract.

Sitting in the chair is still the half-elf, though his suit is now white with a green tie and pinstripes. He looks around, mildly confused, flexing his hands as he tries to adjust to the increase of power.

“I’ll leave the two of you alone,” Friday says, as she turns and begins walking towards the doors at the far end. “You’ll have much to speak of.”

“So,” Glib says, drawing his attention to him once the horse is gone. The light of recognition dances in the taller’s eyes, yet it’s different from five minutes ago. “How do you feel?”

“Glib?” he says instead.

The human’s stomach drops, and butterflies erupt, the contrasting feelings nearly knocking him off his feet.

“No,” the death god says, deep in denial as hope blooms in his chest. “No fucking way you remember.”

The half-elf grins at him, though it’s not the typical smile of his persona. It’s a genuine smile that softens his eyes in a way that makes the human’s heart speed up and time slow down. “Glib Murphy,” he says slowly, as if savoring the way the name fits in his mouth. “I remember you- well, I remember everything, but most importantly, I remember you.”

“Lawrence?” Glib says quietly. The hope spreads like fire through his veins and settles like hot coals in his hands. He wants- no- needs to lay his hands on the half-elf, but he can’t bring himself to move, as if he is afraid that if he moves too quickly, or speaks too loudly, this moment will shatter and his Lawrence will return to being “Mr. Goodbid”.

“That’s the name, Mr. Murphy.” He holds open his arms as he adds, “And I hope you’ll wear it out.”

Glib’s legs are moving before his brain comprehends it, and he crashes headlong into the taller’s open arms.

“I swear to fucking god if you die and I lose you for another two-hundred fucking years-” Glib says into Lawerence’s new white suit.

Every year, Callisto swears he’s going to quit working at Bowenburg Academy, and every year, Prophis convinces him to stay, but this really might be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. He stayed late grading papers and helping students with work as they came in and out of his office -having a strange admiration of the teacher that Callisto cannot for the life of him understand, but Prophis always laughs and shakes his head whenever the dark-haired man mentions it- and when he finally decided he should pack up and head home it was nearly 8:30 at night. And to top it all off, it was raining hard enough for the raindrops to sting as they struck Callisto’s skin.

He is power walking home as fast as his 6’5” legs will allow him which makes him look like a grey-and-black blur zipping through the town. Most of the world is simply white noise to him, the only noise being the pounding rain as everything else that is sensible is hiding somewhere dry.

Or at least, that’s what he thought.

As he rounds a corner, sharper and faster than is safe given the very slick concrete, he stumbles forward as his heel steps on something far too soft, and said soft thing begins yowling and crying loudly. Callisto spins around and sees a tiny black and white kitten, drenched to the bone, and, even to Callisto’s untrained eye, severely malnourished.

The man pauses before the guilt -and some of his animal-loving husband’s consciousness- overwhelms him, and he steps under a nearby awning and clicks for the kitten as he crouches down.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to step on you,” he apologizes quietly, feeling a little ridiculous talking to the tiny creature as he digs into his bag and pulls out his half-eaten salami sandwich, offeringsome of it on his palm to the little thing. The kitten quickly eats it out of his hand before looking up at the tall man expectantly. Callisto gives him more with a small smile.

He offers everything he can to the kitten before standing up. He is beginning to shake with the cold and wants to get back to his husband. He nods to the kitten and turns to walk away before noticing that the kitten is still following him.

“Go on, go home,” He tells it sharply, trying to sound mean and drive it off, but instead he is given an honestly pitiful meow. “Oh, you’re quite cold, aren’t you…” he says quietly. He intends on taking another step away, but his legs don’t seem to be listening to his brain as they instead bring him closer to the sopping wet cat, and his arms seem to be listening even less as they reach to grab the kitten.

He feels around its neck for the collar, deciding that he can deliver the kitten back to his home before coming to the upsetting conclusion that there was no collar.

He straightens up and looks at it for a long moment before sighing heavily. “Alright, then, I suppose you’re coming with me.”

He gently picks up the black-and-white mess of fur. The kitten begins purring as hard as it’s shivering and Callisto can’t bring himself to put the kitten down. He gently wrings the excess water out of its fur and looks at him pensively before tucking him down the front of his grey sweater.

Though he was certainly walking fast before, he nearly doubles his speed as he barrels home, feeling the need to deliver this kitten to safety. He silently gives his thanks that their house is not that far from the campus, and he bursts through the door to their little home in only five minutes.

“Callisto!” Prophis yelps, jumping straight up from his seat. “What on Earth are you-?”

“Cat,” Callisto says bluntly, fishing the mewling thing from his sweater and holding it straight out.

The elf stares at him and the kitten for a long moment before quickly approaching and swiping it from his husband’s hands.

“Oh, Callisto, where did you find this poor little dear?” he asks, immediately fretting over the kitten.

“On my way home,” Callisto explains as he peels off his drenched jacket and drops his bag by the door. “I accidentally stepped on its tail.”

“You what?!” Prophis exclaims, turning sharply to look at his husband as if he had said that he had punted the cat.

“On accident,” Callisto rectifies quickly. “And I apologized, and fed it half my lunch.”

The elf inspects the kitten twice over and gives a satisfied nod. “Well, other than being a hungry little fellow, he seems unscathed.” He pauses and turns his gaze to his husband, and the dark-haired man knows that look.

“No, Prophis,” he says with as much conviction as he can muster in the face of his husband. “We cannot keep it.”

“Why not?” the elf pouts. “He’s perfectly fine and well-mannered!”

“Prophis,” Callisto all but pleads.

“Oh, come on, you can’t be as heartless as to cast the little one out into the rain!” Prophis doubles down, putting his bleeding heart on full display as he cradles the kitten closer to his chest. “He wouldn’t survive the night and winter is just around the corner and-”

“Alright,” the human says tiredly.

“Alright?” Prophis echoes, the hope edging into his voice.

“Yes, alright, we can keep it.” Before his husband can properly cheer he adds, “Just until we can find someone who can take care of it instead.”

Prophis has a look on his face for a moment, one that Callisto recognizes as his “I’m plotting something face” before he nods with a smile. “Well, if he’s going to stay he needs a name.”

“A name?” Callisto echoes.

“Yes, something to call him instead of just ‘the kitten,’” Prophis reasons.

The human considers it for a moment before he concedes with a nod. “I suppose that much can be true.”

The blonde holds up the black-and-white mess of still-soggy fur before saying, “Mr. Business.”

Callisto smiles at his husband’s choice of naming. “We can’t call it that, the Monopoly Man would steal it.”

Prophis sighs. “Fair point.” He walks into the living area and gently sets the kitten down on the table, looking at him intently as if the cat will tell them his name.

Callisto follows his husband after a moment. He looks at the kitten before thinking about his lesson on the Greek mythos this evening. “What about Clio, after the muse of history and heroic poetry, from the old tales?”

Prophis snickers. “That’s truly a you thing to say, but look at him.” He gestures at the cat. “That’s not a hero of old.” As if cued by his words, the cat tries to walk off the table.

The history professor watches with bemusement as his husband scrambles to save the kitten before considering his comment. “You may have a point.” He pauses, weighing his options before smiling as he says, “Dionysus then, the old god of intoxication, that seems to fit the cat’s,” he trails off, looking the tiny thing up and down before landing on, “Everything.”

“I still feel a god’s name is too clever for him,” Prophis points out.

Callisto nods, watching as the kitten tries to eat a strand of his husband’s long white hair. “I suppose you’re right,” he says slowly.

“What about,” he trails off before grinning. “Spot? After the three-headed dog.”

Callisto pauses for a long moment, looking at his husband before slowly saying, “Did you just-? Do you mean-?” But the hopeful look in Prophis’ eye causes him to stop. “Alright, love, Spot it is.”

“Yay! Spot!” He stands up with Spot and spins around. The cat, to his credit, is completely unbothered, just lazily looking around as the 6-foot elf twirls around with him.

Callisto chuckles. “I don’t know what I expected from you,” he says before shaking his head. “Scratch that, this is exactly what I expected from you”

Prophis doesn’t even respond as he stands there with the kitten, smiling and laughing. He is on cloud nine with this little thing in his arms because he loves animals, but that’s not the only reason. While Prophis may love animals, Callisto does not, and one of the compromises they made when getting married and moving in together is that they wouldn’t have any pets in the house.

His husband snickers before deciding to be dramatic. He sniffles and pulls his, still-wet, cardigan closer around him. “I was out in the cold rain too, you know. The kitten’s not the only one who needs cuddles.” He huffs and turns to walk towards the stairs. “I suppose I’ll just go curl up in bed under the blankets.”

Callisto barely finishes his sentence before Prophis wraps him in a tight, one-arm hug. He litters his face in kisses, muttering “I love you” between each one. In his other hand, he holds the kitten away from Callisto in an effort to not smash the tiny thing.

“I love you too, darling, but I really should go dry off.” Prophis huffs, but does not let go, causing Callisto to chuckle. “Let me dry off and then we can cuddle, sound good? Wouldn’t want you getting all wet, considering you’ve already had your bottom surgery,” he teases, tapping Prophis’ hip.

Prophis slowly blinks as he processes that Callisto is still dripping wet and slowly steps back. “I somehow missed that- yes, yes, go dry off. I’ll be here taking care of this little guy.” He kisses his husband's cheek.

“You were offered cuddles after a long day of being home alone, and dove for the opportunity, my fault really. I’ll be back in a moment, darling.” Callisto walks off to the bathroom, but a second later his head pops back into the room. “I’d like to point out that ‘Spot’ is also soaking wet.”

Prophis nods and follows him into the bathroom, sits down on the floor with a towel, and dries the kitten off while cooing at him while Callisto dries up.

Callisto tries to wring the water out of his hair and clothes before mumbling “To hell with it” and completely stripping and snatching Prophis’ fluffy pink robe off the wall. He carefully pulls it on before loosely tying it in the front and burying his nose in its soft sleeve. The exhustion of the day begins to catch up with him as his eyes droop and his shoulders sag.

Prophis sees him out of the corner of his eye. He slowly stands up, still cradling the kitten in one hand, and gently readjusts the robe on Callisto with the other.

“Pink is your color, love,” Prophis hums, mirth alive in his eyes.

“Shh,” he mumbles into the sleeve. He lifts his head just enough to see his husband. “It smells like you, okay?”

The blonde trails his hand up to Callisto’s face and gently twirls one of the strands of brown hair around his fingers. “Mhm,” he hums. “Is that why you steal all my clothes?” he questions. Spot meows and Prophis briefly redirects his attention to the kitten, curling it closer to himself and making sure he is still securely held before giving his attention back to his very suddenly sleepy husband.

“Yeah, you have a nice smell, and furthermore, it’s the smell of my husband. I’d love your smell if you smelled like rancid garbage, but luckily for me you smell like vanilla candles and warmth.” Callisto rests his head against Prophis’ chest, but the cat's tiny tail keeps smacking him in the nose. He makes a disgruntled expression while shifting to rest his head in the crook of his husband's neck.

Prophis snickers as he gently puts the cat down, and wraps his husband in a proper hug before swaying them there. “I still think I smell like stale food, but I appreciate the compliment nonetheless.”

Callisto scowls against his husband’s neck. “You do not smell like stale food, this is a hill I will die on.”

The elf laughs, squeezing his husband a little tighter. “I know, we ‘argue’ about it once a week.”

“Yes, yes, we do.”

Prophis sighs. “How about this, let’s call this argument a draw and go to bed for some proper cuddles?”

Callisto nods with a loopy smile, the need to sleep finally winning.

“I love you,” he says quietly as the blonde leads them to the bedroom.