#I love you Lid man you beautiful traitor

[emile-hides]

My personal target order for Splatoon 3 Salmon Run, I feel like everyone’s letting the Fish Sticks get away with their little song and dance for far too long

[staar5384]

Miscalculation

kavetham angst; mentions and brief descriptions of torture; strays slightly from canon. barely proof read

Alhaitham's plan was perfect.. so how did Kaveh end up in Azar's office?

When Alhaitham had made his plan to overthrow the Sages and free Lesser Lord Kusenali, he had thought of everything. It was almost as if he predicted exactly how each event would played out. Well, until he was in the Grand Sage’s office, and lying on the ground before him was his roommate, or more accurately the man he had fallen in love with, Kaveh.

The blond’s clothes were completely torn from head to toe, blood staining whatever was left of the shredded cloth. His once beautiful face was caked in dried blood, cuts and bruises. He looked almost unrecognizable. The damage didn’t stop there though, many of those same gashes and bruises were scattered on his body.

The boy was barely conscious, his eyes half-lidded as he stared thoughtlessly out at the office. His skin was much paler than usual, from blood loss one could only assume.

“Kaveh,” Alhaitham breathed out, staring at his roommate.

“Ahh I see you two are well acquainted,” Grand Sage Azar said in a mocking tone. “I knew I was right for plucking him up.”

“What does he have to do with this?” He glared at the Sage. “Why are you dragging innocent people into this problem?”

“Well, Alhaitham, since you decided to run away, to betray me, I decided I needed something as.. leverage.”

“I didn’t betray you. I brought the damn Traveler and her floating friend with me. I did exactly as you instructed, so what’s the point of bringing Kaveh into this?”

“Because I knew you had some ploy brewing up. You were going to ‘betray’ the Traveler here, right?” Azar crossed his arms, his eyes piercing into Alhaitham’s shaking gaze. “After all, I got eye witness reports of you and the Traverler in the Caravan Ribat. Instead of bringing her here, you escaped into the desert. If you were really working with me, you would have brought her immediately. I’m assuming you also met up with General Cyno, did you not? Anyone would assume you would have betrayed us with a little persuasion?” Alhaitham, a man who could always quip back instantly was stuck.

His whole plan had fallen apart the moment he saw Kaveh’s disheveled body. He forced himself to regain his composure, “Regardless, this is always baseless guesses and not facts. I brought you the Traveler and gave you my report. Bringing Kaveh into this was nothing, but a way for you to vent out your frustrations.”

Azar laughed, “My my you are hopeless, Alhaitham. You are so upset over this, aren’t you?”

Alhaitham’s hands began to shake, the more Azar spoke the more he was ready to betray their plan. By the amount of blood leaking from Kaveh’s body, the man could die at any moment, “It doesn’t matter what I say, you’ll see me as a traitor regardless,” He scoffed.

“Whether you impugned me, it would have little affect on you. There was no need to go to such lengths to get me back.”

“Ahh, but you’re mistaken. See, losing our Scribe would be a big loss to us. It would effect the entirety of the way the Akademiya functions. Though.. compared to our current project, things like this are trivial at best.”

Alhaitham had enough of Azar’s rambling and his lack of care for human life, “You say I betrayed the Akademiya, but that was all you Azar! You betrayed Sumeru and its archon.”

“So fight has turned to flight at long last,” He glanced around at the men surrounding the area. “Guards! Seize Alhaitham!”

Alhaitham knew what he needed to do, what the next step was, but if he just let himself get arrested without helping Kaveh, he was going to die, “Wait!” He slowly stepped forward, guess it was time for him to improvise.

“What is it Alhaitham?” “Take Kaveh to the infirmary and get him treatment, then I will go with you peacefully,” The plan would almost work perfectly, but he still needed to swap the knowledge capsules.

“Fine. It’ll make this quicker,” He snapped at two of the guards. “Carry the architect to the infirmary for treatment.”

The two guards swiftly picked the blond up, carrying him out of Azar’s office.

Alhaitham watched them intensely as the three disappeared. As long as Kaveh was safe… He reached for the Divine Knowledge Capsule and activated it, allowing the intense knowledge to flood his mind. It was all consuming, but luckily, he knew how to not let it affect it.

His breathing suddenly became erratic as his Akasha flickered between red and blue, eventually landing on the deep red color. He stared up at the Grand Sage, a great hatred flooding over him. Not just for what happened with Lesser Lord Kusenali, but for him having the courage to touch the man most precious to him.

He stumbled forward, his head throbbing and vision blurring. Still, he pressed forward, he had a job to do, "Azar…" The capsule fell to the ground below him.

Azar's eyes moved from the seething man before him and to the object that landed on the ground, "So you were the one that stole that Divine Knowledge Capsule…" He flicked his eyes back to Alhaitham, who was slowly inching closer. "I should have known you wouldn't go out so easily. All you cared about was saving that architect."

"Traitor… You traitor!" Alhaitham yelled at him, pushing past the terrified guards to charge the sage. A guard pushed Azar out of the way, a moment later and Alhaitham most certainly would have caught the man, and from there, who knows what would have happened.

Alhaitham collided with the desk on impact. Perfect. He carefully switched the Knowledge Capsules, his plan now finally coming together. He spun back around to chase Azar once more, but the guards finally acted. They blocked him from moving any further. "He's gone completely insane," Azar scoffed as he adjusted his monocle.

A guard came up behind Alhaitham, using his spear to knock him out with a good whack to the back of his head.

The man fell to the ground, unable to focus on anything but the spinning feeling clouding his mind. "Take him to the matra and have him exiled to Aaru Village."

Everything was going perfectly to plan now. Alhaitham was tugged onto his feet and dragged out of Azar's office. However, he still couldn't help, but worry for Kaveh.

That idiot better be alive.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Kaveh awoke, he didn't expect to find Cyno standing over him with a clear look of concern. If anything, he expected himself to be dead.

"Kaveh, you're awake," Cyno said, letting out a loud sigh of relief.

He sat up quickly. Bad idea. "C-Cyno?" As soon as the blond spoke, he began to cough violently and blood spewed from his lips. He wiped the liquid from his mouth, the red staining his bruised arm.

"Careful there. You look like shit," Cyno eased him.

Kaveh laid back down, staring up at the ceiling. How did any of this happen?

"Kaveh, what happened to you?" Cyno asked, though it was clear he already knew exactly what happened, just based on inference. He took a deep breath, a burn piercing his lungs as he did so. It was going to be almost impossible to speak in this condition. Cyno took note of it, "Alright new approach. I'll ask yes or no questions and you use your head. Sound good?"

Kaveh nodded.

"Perfect," Cyno adjusted himself, sitting on the chair he had placed beside the bed moments prior to Kaveh waking up. "I'll be blunt, you look like you were tortured. Was this Azar and or his men?"

Another nod.

"I figured as much. Did this have to do with Alhaitham?" Kaveh nodded once more. He could recall everything that had happened, down to the pain he felt as they tore his skin apart each time he said something they didn't like.

"Can you do your best to tell me what happened? I'll need it for my investigation."

"I-I can try," His voice was still hoarse, but at the very least he was speaking well enough. "I guess I can start when I returned home from the desert…"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kaveh had finally made it home a few days early after spending days stuck in the desert for a project. He wasn't complaining one bit, the project tired him out and he was ready to sleep in his own bed for once.

When he opened the door, it was noticably silent, though Kaveh wasn't complaining. He assumed Alhaitham was away from home, it was common for the Scribe to be incredibly busy.

Before he could even reach his room, there was a knock on the door. Immediately, his head went to the worst. Someone saw him come inside. The last thing he wanted was for someone to know he lived here. He groaned loudly, hesitantly making his way back towards the door.

As he opened it, he was ready to throw himself deeper into debt and beg this person not to tell a soul about this, but to his surprise it was the matra at his door, "Uhh, can I help you?"

"We need you to come with us, Kaveh."

"What? Why?" He asked, confused. He had only just returned, what could he have possibly done to set off the matra?

"Grand Sage Azar wishes to speak with you. He requires your presence right this instance."

Kaveh went from confused to anxious as soon as Azar's name left the man's mouth. He was definitely screwed, "Alright… Did he tell you why?"

"He will answer your questions," The matra guard shook his head. "I'm afraid this is all I can say."

Kaveh hesitated, but followed the matra out the door and to the Sage's office. His heart was racing, trying to figure out what he could have possible done to piss off the Grand Sage.

As they entered the room, there was a sudden shift in energy. All at once, Kaveh was terrified.

And terrified he should be. He didn't even get a chance to make it to the desk before he was pinned down and tied up. "What is going on!?" Kaveh cried out, trying to shake the guards off of him.

"Kaveh, wonderful to see you. I have a few questions regarding your.. roommate? Is that what I would call it, or should I address you two as something more?"

"What about Alhaitham?" He ignored the uncomfortable question regarding their status as "friends". "If you wanna know something why don't you ask him yourself?"

"You see I would," Azar stepped closer, each stepping becoming heavier than the last. "But I cannot seem to find him. He's gone completely off the radar. I was hoping maybe you knew?"

Kaveh shook his head, "I just got back from the desert. I don't know a damn thing about where Alhaitham could have crawled off to."

Clearly, the answer was unsatisfactory. A blade was pressed against Kaveh's throat. He gasped, staring at the sharp knife, "I-I swear I don't know where he is!" He was shaking, fear overwhelming him.

Azar let out a sigh, "How unfortunate I have to resort to this," He turned his back to the blond. "Torture the answer out of him. Don't stop until you get what we need."

That was exactly what those guards did. Every "no" Kaveh uttered resulted in a punch, a kick, a snap to one of his bones, and if he was incredibly unlucky, a blade tearing into his skin.

This torture lasted for what felt like hours. Constant paining coursing through his body and he almost wished they would just kill him. It was clear this went from a brutal questioning to the men getting some sick satisfaction from seeing the blond writhing in pain.

By the time they had concluded this torture, Kaveh was barely conscious and his body had gone entirely numb. The last thing he remembered was Alhaitham's voice uttering his name. After that, it was all blurry.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Azar is a despicible man," Cyno growled and his fists trembled in anger.

"I genuienly didn't know," Tears filled Kaveh's eyes. "I don't understand why this happened."

"I can explain everything later, okay? You should get some rest," Cyno rose from his chair. "I will come check on you later, okay?"

Kaveh nodded in response. He didn't want Cyno to leave, however. All he wanted was context, reasoning. Why did he have to suffer like this? And where the hell did Alhaitham disappear to?

His eyes closed, his body having spent all of its remaining energy on the conversation with Cyno. As soon as they closed, he was fast asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The wait in Aaru Village felt like an eternity to Alhaitham. He had no way to confirm Kaveh's condition, or if he was even still alive, and it was eating at him.

When he was finally able to head back to Sumeru City, he moved as fast as he could. The desert sand collected in his shoes as he ran, but the feeling barely affected him. His mind was focused on one thing and one thing only: Kaveh.

After hours of running, he made it to Sumeru City, and just as quickly he was at Kaveh's bedside.

The blond was breathing normally luckily, but he wasn't conscious. Alhaitham slumped down in the chair, pulling off his sand filled boots. He tried to catch his breath, his lungs burning and throat coarse. All of that running tired him out more than he wished.

He focused his attention back on Kaveh, tears forming in his eyes. He quickly wiped them away. He had no intentions of crying, not now. Alhaitham extended his hand out to carefully grasp onto Kaveh's hand. It was cold and pale, the skin damaged from whatever torture he had to undergo on Alhaitham's behalf.

As he caressed his thumb on the top of his hand, tears finally fell. This was his fault. It was a complete oversight, a miscalculation in his plan. Though, he couldn't have forseen the architect returning so soon, or that Azar knew anything about Alhaitham's feelings.

Kaveh began to stir, his eyes fluttering open. They quickly made contact with Alhaitham's and his eyes widened, "Haitham..?"

Kaveh's broken voice twisted Alhaitham's heart, and he continued to remind himself this was his fault, "Kaveh you're alive…" He spoke, trying to hide his emotions.

"Shockingly," The blond took notice of their hands. "What the hell happened..?"

"I can explain later. It's a lot of information to take in right now."

Kaveh let out a deep sigh, "I don't understand why this had to happen, Alhaitham." Guess the nickname wasn't staying long. "What did you do that made them torture me?"

"They were using you to get to me," Alhaitham tilted his head toward the floor. "They knew it would arise a reaction out of me."

"Why? What in Teyvat could they possibly get out of you from torturing me?"

"Because I…" Alhaitham hesitated. Now wasn't the right time, but it was the only way to explain why this happened. "I love you, Kaveh. Azar knew this somehow and he dragged you into this to provoke me."

"You love me?" Kaveh stared at him, letting out a hollow laugh. "Don't say that, Alhaitham. I can handle the physical torture, but I don't need this kind of mental pain."

Alhaitham leaned down, connecting his lips with Kaveh's. It wasn't the best kiss, not by a long shot, but the two yearned for this closeness, this warmth. Even with Kaveh's bruised and swollen lips, the kiss was perfect to them both.

When Alhaitham pulled away, he stared intently into Kaveh's eyes.

The blond's face was flushed red, his eyes glossed over, "Do you mean it, Haitham?"

The silver-haired man nodded, "I do."

"Then I love you too."

Alhaitham squeezed Kaveh's hand gently, "I swear I'll protect you. This won't ever happen again."

Kaveh smiled slightly, "I trust you."

"I'm glad you do."

[oneprompt]

Hello!

I don't know if you write for kabuki man Kanjuro. But if you do may I request #5 from fluff promt for him?

Thank you!

authors note : kanjuro is such a fun character .. so , i was so excited to write for him ! please enjoy <3

Kanjuro x Gn! Reader : “ I find you terrifying. “

note : reader is also a villain / traitor.

You fastened the ribbon of your kimono along your waist, letting the tight knot blissfully crush your waist. The fabric was donned with images of the kaizo-ji, pastels colouring the entire ensemble. You couldn’t help but stare at yourself in the mirror, inspecting every inch of yourself. You couldn’t help but doubt yourself and your abilities. Each and every one of the scabbards were so tall, so large. Especially in comparison to you. Even with your brawns and brain, you felt meek in the presence of the samurai’s. You’d bring endless shame to Orochi, to Kaido and even Kanjuro.  Surely, you’d fail... Wouldn’t you?

             “Y/n!” A large body entered your room, his hands sliding your door open. You craned your head towards the door, offering your fellow spy a slight smile. 

             “Kanjuro, hi.” You brought yourself up from your knees, flattening out the silky fabric that covered your figure. “Has the banquet begun?” You asked, only to earn a shake of head. 

            “No, we still have a few minutes. At least thats what Kiku said.” Kanjuro looked you up and down, admiring your lack of simplicity in your kimono. “You look nice.” He smirked a bit at you, “cute, even!” You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at him, 

           “Don’t call me such a powerless thing. I just figured i could at least dress nice for tonight.. I mean, it is our last night with Strawhat and the other samurai’s.” To be honest, you were more sentimental in comparison to your partner, as you often expressed your own form of fondness to the Kozuki clan. I mean, you felt it was right to treat people delicately before their deaths. It was a better send off, in your eyes. 

         “Powerless?” Kanjuro stood there, dumbfounded. He leant down towards you, letting a hand run through your hair. “Oh, Y/n. You are incredibly powerful.” You leant into Kanjuro’s touch, letting him twirl your hair around his finger. You loved these little moments with him. It was a fun little secret among all the cruel ones in your life. Stealing kisses from each other when no one was looking, hands rampant on one another when the room was scare of people... 

You leant closer to him, eyes half lidded. “Oh, Kurozumi Kanjuro...” You felt his free hand hold your shoulder, drawing you closer to him. You failed to bite back your smile, giving him a dally glance. “Do you really think i’m powerful?” You spoke fondly, never breaking eye contact with the man. 

         “I, for one, find you terrifying.” Kanjuro leered as you placed your fingers under his chin, your siren eyes shut as your lips met his. His painted lips moved against yours, the texture of his lipstick smearing across yours. Like wild paint being flung at a blank canvas, it smeared and smudged, replicating the look of a Picasso art piece gone wrong. Yet, the kiss was beautiful in its own way. Just like your romance with Kanjuro.

Even if you two were murderous fiends, deceiving others for the sake of your own vendettas, you could still muster the will to love. Perhaps it was your mission that brought you two together, or your unnatural levels of apathy, or even your shared thirst for blood. Regardless, you two melted into one another.

You drew away from the kiss, taking in a few gasps of air. “I’ll put on a terrifying performance tonight, just for you...” You murmured under your breath before diving in once more, further smearing Kanjuro’s lipstick. Your lips were stained with the scarlet colour, throwing off your colour coordinated outfit. Oh, how bold that lipstick shade was against the light hues you wore.

A knock brushed against your sliding door. “Y/n, Kanjuro!” Kikunojo’s voice was muffled from outside of your room. “Are you two ready?” She asked, slowly sliding the door open.

You shoved Kanjuro off of you, in a fit of fear. No way could anyone catch you two like this...! It was a secret, your secret! Sure, maybe not your worst one but still...! Your ego relied on this secrecy.

“Y/n, Kanju- Oh.” She looked at the two of you, her eyes brimming with curiosity. Kanjuro was flat on the floor, groaning in pain. And you... your mouth was covered in a shade that matched Kanjuro’s lips. Kikunojo couldn’t help but giggle, immediately catching on to what was going on. I mean, only a moron wouldn’t piece all this evidence together. You two were totally a thing, and Kiku knew that.

“My, i had no clue things were that way.” She laughed softly, hiding her grin behind her hand. The moment you opened your mouth to retaliate to her comment, she completely cut you off, quickly blabbing to cover up any arguments you had. “Y/n, clean up your face and meet us in the dining room, deary. Come on, Kanjuro!”

You watched your boyfriend leave with Kikunojo, leaving you behind. You stood by yourself, once again staring at yourself in the mirror.

Maybe you wouldn’t feel bad about hurting those scabbards anymore, after such humiliation.

[nanshe-of-nina]

Wizarding Russian Empire and USSR || GIF sets: Melanippa Ippolitovna Chernyshova

“Upon meeting Melanippa Ippolitovna Chernyshova for the first time, I thought she was a rather effeminate man. When we were introduced, she smiled at me overly friendly sort of way and then hung on my every word all night. I was embarrassed to find out that she was actually a woman, but she only laughed and insisted that she took no offense. Still, she then quickly developed the habit of regularly showing up at our apartment during the day. I couldn’t imagine what on earth she wanted, but when I complained to Yermolay about it, he immediately seemed to know, but declined to tell me the truth.

It was Efah Saulovna who let me what was going on, or rather, she gave me a warning. She informed me that Chernyshova was a lesbian and, more pressingly, she already had a lover who lived in Lysaya Gora; another Zhnets by the name of Alena Torkanovna Cheremisina. This Cheremisina was exceedingly jealous and Efah Saulovna informed me blankly that she found out that her precious “Melanyushka” had taken a liking to me, things would not end well for me. In 1924, you see, Cheremisina had discovered that Chernyshova was sleeping with some Chechen and flew into a jealous rage, bombarding her lover with howlers and was only appeased after Chernyshova had the Chechen arrested and exiled to Central Asia on fabricated charges.

I later met with this Alena Torkanovna around 1926. I’d imagined some sort of glamorous beauty, but instead, she was pudgy and bespectacled with large front teeth. She was, however, obviously utterly enamored with Chernyshova who clearly relished Cheremisina’s worshipful devotion. That, however, that didn’t mean that Chernyshova made any move to assist Cheremisina in the slightest in 1937 when she was arrested on trumped up charges of treason and trying to poison Valery Vsevolodovich. ...

Chernyshova’s elder sister, Antiopa Ippolitovna, resembled her, being tall and black-haired with heavily-lidded eyes, though less emaciated. She went gray early, wore thin-rimmed glasses, and had the look of an old spinster librarian. They were both the two youngest daughters of an Orthodox priest from Mordovia and had four living older sisters (two had died already), but were estranged from them. They both enjoyed discussing how they’d been disowned by their conservative family, Antiopa for eloping with a Jew (who just so happened to Efah Saulovna’s older brother, Gavril) and Melanippa for her political beliefs.

Gavril Saulovich and Antiopa had two or three daughters, one of whom ended up marrying Alsu Andreyevna‘s son, which just goes to show you what an tight-knit group they were, and they remained so until they were all liquidated in 1940. I am not certain whatever became of Sofoniya Gavrilovna and Azgar Borisovich’s baby.” 

— An excerpt from the memoirs of Pelagiya Yuriyevna Vartanian, second wife of Ksantip Kiprianovich Zelinsky

Extracts from Chernyshova’s original written confession:

“… I helped destroy my former comrades, Vishnevskaya, Kardos, Klyukvin, Zhovnirenko, Sadovskaya, Ozolina, Malinina, Geyer, Plaksenko, Kalnietyte, Liepa, Krukovskaya, Khristoforova, Saranchina, Baltais, Arkhipienka, Saranchin... I also destroyed Cheremisina, a woman I lived with for years and whose bed I shared. I used to call her my chubby little bunny, you know…. I’m sure Valery Vsevolodovich and Alsu Andreyevna will try to use that as a trump card against me, but I’m not about to deny it. Yes, I loved Lena once and yes, I betrayed and destroyed her all the same.

So too did I destroy Aurors, writers, Vedmas and Vedmaks, current and former members of the SK, Babushkin’s comrades in arms; yes, even ordinary witches and wizards. I can still hear them screaming and weeping even now, begging me to believe that they weren’t spies or traitors. Little did they know that I often did believe them; I just didn’t much care. There was precious little evidence in most cases, but denunciations and confessions that we extracted from torturing them half to death and threatening their families. Some went to their deaths thinking that they were dying for some higher purpose. At one time, I too believed that the killings were necessary to safeguard our land and our people. Yet, I can only conclude now that they all died for absolutely nothing.

Kulchytskaya used to tell us that, as Zhnetsy, we were like family and while we existed primarily to protect the party, our people, and our motherland, we also had a duty to protect each other. And I have failed in my duty, completely. I cannot see how anything I’ve done in the past four years has helped protect anything. This was not killing and terror for the sake of a brighter future and it has almost certainly destroyed our future, not saved it.

The reality is that if war is coming, then our party and our land and our people are unquestionably doomed. Should Grindelwald and his army invade, our motherland will be conquered and all people, both magic and zemlyanin, killed or enslaved. There is no section of society we haven’t decimated, uprooted, and decapitated, so what hope do we have to even fight them now, let alone defeat them? All I can see for our future is darkness and destruction on an even greater scale.

I did not betray my people or my motherland in the way you say, with treason, coups, or espionage, but I could not have done more harm to them if I had. I will not plead for my life, for I have no desire to keep living any longer. I can barely sleep and when I do, the nightmares are too much to bear. Nothing brings me joy anymore and I cannot imagine that it ever will. I want to be killed as soon as possible, because I cannot live with myself knowing that I helped destroy everything that I swore I would protect.

Chernyshova, Melanippa Ippolitovna; 4 February 1940 ”

[ gifs originally by @lyrabelacquad ]

[justasillybear]

Is that a Dog?

It all started, as did many of the things that went wrong in Percy’s life, by not asking the right questions.

In his defence, it hadn’t seemed necessary to ask Grover anything other than “Can I have one” when his best friend and roommate had pulled out some freshly baked brownies from the oven.

First mistake.

The second mistake was sneaking two more brownies while Grover hadn’t been looking.

It could be said, as Percy would later point out, that Grover was the one responsible for everything that happened after that. Months later Percy would look back on that moment and realise Grover hadn’t even attempted to warn him that there was weed in the brownies. Then he’d shake his head and think wow Grover really screwed me over. But that was months away.

In the present, Percy felt like he was floating, everything felt bright and new, and Grover was driving him to go get a milkshake. How could he be mad at Grover when he was the reason Percy felt so at peace? He could hear Grover’s Michael Franti CD playing, and his soft voice singing along, not quite drowned out by the loud honks of irate drivers stuck like them in New York traffic. If he were in a clearer state of mind, Percy would likely have realised that Grover had also eaten one of the brownies and shouldn’t have really been driving. But he wasn’t, instead he let his eyes drift out the window up towards the perfectly blue sky. So blue it almost looked like the ocean and Percy wondered if he just reached up would he fall in and-

What?

Holy. Shit.

“A puppy!” Percy screeched, starting out of the window and at the car a few places ahead of them to the left. He turned to Grover and pointed to the little golden retriever that was poking its head out of a car window. It’s tongue was hanging out of its mouth and Percy felt his heart clench at the sight. He hadn’t known it before, but now he realised that was what he’d been missing in his life.

“Nice spot, what a cute dog.” Grover approved, peering over, his eyes looking slightly red and heavy-lidded.

“He looks... Like he gives good hugs”. Percy mused. He desperately wanted to test out his theory. Percy sent up a quick prayer asking for help, and was elated to find the traffic moving. He waited with bated breath while their lane moved forward until they were parked next to the dog. “Fuck yes!” he virtually screamed. Today was the best day!

“He's so tiny?” Percy mused, eyes continuing to stare dreamily over and then… the puppy looked at him and BARKED. And Percy just knew he was calling out to him. Asking to be petted.

Percy unbuckled his seat belt and rolled down the window, decidedly ignoring Grover’s confused exclamations. “He wants to be petted!” Percy offered as he reached out to touch soft golden fur. The dog yipped happily in response, pushing his small wet nose into the offered hand. Percy could feel his eyes growing misty again. He loved dogs so much. He’d always wanted one growing up, but Gabe had never allowed it. His mum had felt bad about it, getting him a fish instead which he’d loved - but it wasn’t the same. Don’t get him wrong, fish were awesome and that gift had been one of the reasons he was now studying marine biology. But… no fish had ever given him this moment. The moment where they look at you with adoration in their eyes and promise to love you forever. Percy hoped the puppy knew that Percy felt the same way.

“Um, Luke. A stranger is petting your dog.”

Percy looked up from the deep blue eyes of his new ride-or-die bestie and saw a blond girl who looked to be around his age staring at him like he was crazy (which Percy thought was a little rude.)

“Is he your dog?” Percy questioned, reluctantly removing his hand away realising that he should probably have asked the owner’s permission before sticking the upper half of his body out of the car to pet their dog. Even a dog as friendly as this, with beautiful and kind blue eyes.

“No. He’s-“

“Mine.” A deep voice cut in, pulling Percy’s attention to the driver seat of the car, where a young man with bright blue eyes, soft golden hair, and a truly wicked smirk was staring at him. The guy looked around 19 with a gnarly looking scar trailing down from his eye to his chin. Which … Damn! The scar should have detracted from how unfairly attractive he was, but instead, it made Percy want to lean over and touch it. He wondered how it would feel. If it would be rough?

Focus Percy!

“Wow, Annabeth, you didn’t say he was cute”. Percy felt his cheeks flush, and he could hear himself spluttering out nonsense for a good few moments, searching for an appropriate response.

The guy kind of looked like his dog, which was weird. What was even weirder was that the realisation made Percy want to reach out and pet his hair too, to see if it was just as soft as his dogs.

“Uuuh, noo..what, not? I’m not… you’re the one that’s. I don’t – cute! Grover. This guy thinks I’m cute?” Percy managed eventually, much to the growing amusement of the man in question. He quickly averted his eyes, turning to Grover who stared back giggling softly. Traitor.

“Percy, you’re very cute. Now you need to sit back down. We could move at any moment.”  Grover managed between breathy giggles. He didn’t sound very concerned, so Percy decided it was safe to ignore his warning for now. If Percy had to choose between personal safety and the opportunity to spend time with a cute dog and an equally cute owner, well, safety didn’t stand a chance.

“Okay, Grover,” Percy said in a peaceful tone, turning back around to once again pet the head of the puppy, “but I’m in the middle of something very important right now.” At this Grover’s laughter got louder.

“You!” Percy pointed at the driver, “Have a nice face. And smile. And eyes. Grover and I are going to get milkshakes, would you and your puppy like to join us? We could hold hands and talk about your dog and how all three of you are rocking the blond blue eyes thing-”

“Percy the traffic is moving…” Grover butted in.

“Grover, a moment!” Percy begged, yelping when Grover started to inch the car forwards with the traffic, Percy’s torso still half out of the car. Luck seemed to be on his side today however as the other lane was also moving slowly alongside them, so Percy decided to just continue to pet the dog's head. He shot a quick glare at Grover for good measure though.

“Hey idiot, you need to listen to him and get in the car. What if traffic picks up?” the girl warned, mumbling to herself about high idiots.

“Percy is it?” the driver asked, drawing Percy’s attention away from Grover and back to his unfairly handsome face. Percy could feel a grin stretching across his lips.

“How’d you know my name?” he wonders, feeling pleased. He liked the way his name sounded coming from the older guy, all deep and slow like he was savouring each syllable. The guy laughed at the question.

“Your boyfriend there’s said it a few times.” He explained, and Percy nodded vigorously in understanding, and then begun to shake his head equally as energetically. “Grover? No! He’s like… a brother. Definitely not my boyfriend.” Percy explained forcefully, He really didn’t want the hot guy to get the wrong idea. Grover was his best friend, but he’d rather jump into the harbour than date him.

“Why the harbour?” the guy asked through chuckles. Percy hoped he’d keep laughing, the sound was making his head feel as light as the brownies had.

“Did I say that out loud?”

“Yup, green eyes, you did. And I’m sorry, I’d love to hang out more, but I need to drop my sister off at her girlfriends.” He said, pointing a finger at the girl in the backseat. Percy turned to look at her with sad eyes. The girl with golden curls looked like she couldn’t decide if she should smile or scowl. He was disappointed to note her eyes were more grey than blue.

“Oh, that’s sad.” Percy pouted, retreating back slightly into Grover’s car. Before he was fully in, the guy reached out a hand to stop him. He had nice hands, they were large and calloused, and Percy wanted to hold one.

“Wait. Um, maybe I could give you my number, so I know you got home alright? My name's Luke Castellan. C-A-S-T-E-L-L-A-N. We could get that milkshake another… less traffic-bound time?” Luke asked, looking nervous for the first time, making Percy grin. He quickly whipped out his phone and typed in Luke’s details.

“yes! .” He cheered, once to Luke, and then once again to the dog who was still nuzzling his hand. “So, I’ll see you both soon?”

“I’ll hold you to that, Percy.” Luke teased and Percy felt himself nodding.

“Promise,” Percy said firmly, sliding back into the car to Grover's relief. He waved at Luke once the window was rolled up, pleased to see the guy was still staring over at him. He looked like he was saying sometimes but Percy couldn’t tell what. Whatever it was, it made the girl in the backseat lean forward and smack his shoulder. Luke waved one final time before turning his eyes back to the road. His face looked bright and carefree, and Percy wanted to look at him forever. Then the traffic moved and Luke, and his puppy, were gone.

Percy tried not to feel too sad, but he wished he’d taken a picture.

“Only Percy-fucking-Jackson could get a guy’s number after molesting his dog while high in traffic.” Grover giggled, and Percy allowed himself to be dragged away from his thoughts.

“What can I say. I’m irresistible”. He stated, smirking over at his best friend. Grover just continued to giggle. Laying back in his seat he looked back up to the perfect blue sky and thought of Luke's eyes. Luke Castellan, Luke Castellan, Luke-

Maybe he wouldn’t blame Grover after all.

[malfoymanortings]

lavender and velvet //part one

SUMMARY: she had her fathers eyes, his aristocratic looks, her grandmothers spite, her mothers heart, but the one thing she didn't have was the love of her father that her god brother received. juliet black finally meets her father who has already decided who his child is.

PAIRINGS: to be decided.

quite frankly, this idea will not leave my head. juliet has begged me to write her story, so here we are. now, sirius is slightly out of character for this, as if he really did have a child i would like to think he would want to do better than the parents he had. but, thats just not what this imagining will look like. hopefully you guys like it! if, by chance, you would like to be added to a taglist for this story, let me know xx

“I want to meet him,” Juliet said quietly, looking down at her hands. “I deserve as much, don’t I?”

Remus paused. “Of course. I just… love, he isn’t-”

“I don’t have very high hopes for him,” interjected Juliet, scoffing slightly. “He’s been out for two years now. He hasn’t attempted to see me once.”

“Jules, you have to understand,” Remus placed a hand on her shoulder, his face seeming to age years within that moment. “It hasn’t been easy for him.”

“Right, ‘cause it’s been so easy for me.” she said the words under her breath, not wanting to fight with Remus again. 

They had been fighting far too much lately. The cause of it was her father. The man who had fathered her years ago before being locked up for a crime he didn’t commit. When he finally did get out, it took two years before he thought of seeing his daughter.

“It hasn’t been safe enough for him to see you,” Remus pressed on, crossing his arms behind his back. “With the ministry still believing he was responsible-”

“For the Potter’s murders, it was too risky for him to come see me until everything was settled with the order,” Juliet recited, rolling her eyes. “Yet he saw Harry third year, didn’t he?”

Remus sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. “Juliet. We are not having this discussion again.”

“Perfect, that means I can have it with him.” Juliet said decisively, walking over to the fireplace. “Let’s go.”

“Now?” Remus asked, pausing in his pacing. 

“What better time than the present?” 

“Well, Harry just got there-” Remus cut himself off, wincing as Juliet’s temper flared.

“Harry’s there, yet I can’t go meet my own fucking father?!” she yelled, fists clenched at her side. “Fuck this.”

Juliet turned, grabbing a fistfull of floo powder. She tossed it in, ignoring Remu’s protests, and spoke clearly.

“Grimmauld Place!”

She arrived in a flurry of green flames, with no one around. She could hear voices down the hall of the unfamiliar place, and she faltered in her step slightly. She felt out of place, although she shouldn’t. Her father lived here. This was her father’s house. 

It should have been her home.

A door opened somewhere, and footsteps sounded loudly through the hallway. Remus poked his head into the sitting room, where Juliet stood in front of the fireplace feeling rather out of place.

“Come on, then,” Remus motioned for her to follow, his tone kinder than it had been before.

“Professor Lupin!” Hermione came out of nowhere, Ginny following close behind. “It’s good to see you.”

“Hello, Miss Granger,” Remus grinned, and Juliet was the only one to notice it was off. “Lovely to see you again.”

“Jules!” Ginny shouted, running towards her friend. Juliet opened her arms, engulfing the beautiful redhead in a hug.

“Hi love,” said Juliet into her hair, pulling back to examine her friend. “You’ve grown, haven’t you?”

Ginny gave her a funny look, laughing. “Juliet. It’s been a month since I saw you last. I doubt it’s possible I’ve grown since then.”

Juliet shrugged, looking past her to where she could hear more voices grow louder. Fred and George appeared then, twin grins on their faces as they hurried over to greet Juliet.

“There’s our favorite serpentine girl,” Fred grinned, ruffling her hair. “Good to see you.”

George slung an arm around her shoulder, pressing a kiss to her temple. Before pulling away, he put his lips near her ear. “Calm down darling, it’ll be fine. He’s in the kitchen with Harry and mum.”

Juliet nodded, giving him a quick squeeze back. George and Fred were well aware of Sirius being her father. She had confided in them on more occasions than one. Those two and Ginny were her closest friends out of the Weasley family. 

Ron appeared next, Harry beside him. From behind the pair, came a man with her eyes and her smile.

Juliet took in a sharp breath as she examined the man she had hurt over all these years. He had shoulder length brown hair, wavy and streaked grey with age, and a neatly trimmed moustache. His cheeks were hollow, his features aristocratic like her own. He had tattoos peeking out from the edges of his buttoned shirt, and walked with a slight limp.

He was Sirius Black, the man who had only existed for her in photographs.

“Dad,” Juliet breathed, walking towards him. 

Sirius looked as though he had seen a ghost. He looked to Remus, and back to Juliet. He watched her as she walked forward until she stood in front of him, and he hadn’t moved. 

“That’s Juliet, pads,” Remus said from behind them. “Your daughter.”

“My daughter,” Sirius said, the words sounding foreign in his mouth. “Of course. You take after your mother in looks.”

“I’ve been told I’m a Black through and through.” replied Juliet, feeling a little awkward standing in front of him. She was waiting for a hug, for something, but nothing happened. He just stood there, staring at her.

“Well, hopefully not,” Sirius cleared his throat, forcing a chuckle. “The lot of them were dark wizards, straight from Slytherin house to the Death Eaters.”

Juliet felt her cheeks flame, and she felt deflated. “I’m in Slytherin.”

Sirius paused, clearing his throat again. “Erm, right. Harry mentioned that.”

She felt her anger grow again. She tried to fight it, but it bubbled over the lid she kept concealed in. “Of course you did. Instead of meeting me for yourself, you would rather hear second hand from Harry. God forbid you put effort into meeting your daughter.”

“Now, that’s not fair,” Sirius raised his hands, backing away from her. “It wasn’t safe for me to be out in the public yet- it still isn’t.”

“That didn’t stop you from sending letters to Harry though, did it?” Juliet bit out, balling her fists up and digging her nails into her palms. She was dimly aware of the others leaving the room, Remus and Harry the only two left behind.

“He needed me,” Sirius defended. “He had no one but those muggles, I’m his godfather-”

“You’re quite literally my father,” shouted Juliet, shaking her head. “I needed you too, and you were never there.”

“Juliet, that’s not fair,” Remus interjected, placing a hand on her shoulder. “He was in Azkaban, he wasn’t able to be there due to no fault of his own-”

“I know the story, Remus,” snapped Juliet, glaring at the man. “But when did he break out? When Harry’s safety was at risk. Not for me, not for you. Only for Harry. I apparently wasn’t worth the risk or the attempt.”

“Juliet, I-” Harry began, but she quickly cut him off. 

“Harry, stay out of this,” chastised Juliet, holding out a hand. “For once, this isn’t about you. This is about me.” she looked at Sirius, who merely looked back at her with a heavy look. “This is about what I did. What Molly did. What Remus did. What you didn’t.”

“Juliet, I’m sorry,” Sirius tried again, running a hand through his hair. “But Harry needs me now. You have all those people behind you, and he only has me. He’s got to deal with Voldemort. He needs someone to confide in.”

“Like a father,” scoffed Juliet, turning away from him. “Even though you’re supposed to be mine.”

“Juliet-” Remus was quickly cut off by Juliet.

“I want to go home.”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Remus looked uncomfortable now, and gave her an apologetic glance. “You’ll be staying here for the remainder of summer. I have things to do for the Order, and it’s not safe for you to be unprotected at home any longer.”

“You’re fucking joking.”

“Language,” reprimanded Remus, once again looking older than his years. “I’ll pack your things and bring them here. Please… try to get along.”

Juliet raised her middle finger to Remus, turning back to Sirius. “So, do I get a room? Or are they all reserved for Harry?”

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “That’s no way to act. Of course you get a room.”

Juliet laughed at his words. She thought it was funny, how he had so easily cast her aside for Harry, and yet now seemed to be attempting to parent her. She refused to let him do so. It was all or nothing, and he had clearly chosen nothing.

“Kreacher,” Sirius called behind him, and with a crack a scraggly looking house elf appeared. “Show Juliet to her room.”

Kreacher gave Sirius a dirty look, glancing over at Juliet appraisingly. He grumbled to himself, only a few words audible.

“Kreacher will show master’s brat to her room… blood traitor… Gryffindor… filthy… mistresses house..”

“Without the commentary, you dirty thing.” Sirius rolled his eyes, turning away from the house elf. 

Kreacher glared at Sirius, before walking up the staircase. Juliet followed, not bothering to cast a backwards glance towards her father. It was obvious he had no interest in her. Why should she care, anyways? She had gone by fifteen years without him just fine. She would be just fine.

“Dirty Gryffindor..” Kreacher muttered, pointing a crooked finger towards an open door. “Sharing with the other dirty blood traitors, nasty Gryffindors.”

Juliet scoffed, crossing her arms. “Kreacher, is it? My name is Juliet. And, I’ll have you know I’m not a Gryffindor, I’m a Slytherin. The superior house, if you ask me.”

Kreacher paused at that, his mumbling ceasing. He once again eyed her appraisingly, this time without dislike. “Kreacher apologizes to Miss Juliet. She is not a dirty filthy Gryffindor like the rest of the brats..” again, the decrepit looking house elf trailed off in his thoughts, wandering down the hallway wringing his hands.

Juliet sighed, and stepped inside the room. She could tell from the items inside, that Hermione and Ginny already had claimed the two beds. 

“Kreacher?” Juliet called, poking her head out of the room. 

Kreacher turned, eyeing her again. “What does young mistress want?”

“Is there another room,” she paused. “Or another bed?” 

“Kreacher can make another bed for mistress,” Kreacher hobbled back over, stepping into the room. With a snap of his fingers, another bed appeared, identical to the others in the room. 

“Thank you.” 

Kreacher looked shocked at her words, and he nodded to her before wandering back down the hall. 

Juliet sighed, sitting gingerly on the bed. She plopped backwards, staring at the ceiling. She expected to feel mad, or sad, but instead… she felt nothing.

“How are you holding up, love?”

She turned her attention to the doorway, where George stood leaning against the doorframe. She shrugged, and the ginger haired boy came into the room, sitting on the bed next to where she lay.

“I think you two have just got to get used to each other,” he said quietly, taking her hand in his. “It’ll all work itself out, in the end.”

“Ever the optimistic, huh Georgie?” noted Juliet, moving so that her head rested in George’s lap. “Tell me about your summer so far.”

As George launched into an explanation of the different joke shop items he and Fred had been experimenting with, Juliet listened intently. He wove her fingers through her hair as he spoke, and Juliet found it was easy to let of her tension as they conversed.

Fred slipped in the room at some point, and began explaining their plans with George. Their voices calmed her, and she felt more at peace with the two of them in her presence.

Even if her father didn’t want her, she had her boys. They wanted her.

two

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[keichanz]

Rest

saw this post and the idea wouldn’t leave my brain until i wrote it. so enjoy the random Inukag and moroha family fluff i guess.

yep i totally forgot to tag everyone sorry my bad

@lavendertwilight89 @born-for-eachother @mandirox89 @arcprz @bluejay785 @malditamigs @xfangheartx @bluehawaiicat @zelink-inukag @clearwillow @wenchster @anabananaxq @superpixie42 @midnightsilver16830 @heathersmusings @theinuyashareader @danycontreras90 @liz8080 @blairex @lordofthechips @itzatakahashi @sailorbabydoll92 @raisinraven @sticky-llama-perfection @dangerouspompadour @digital-art-monster @joaniemae @boostyourmind-blog @anxietyaardvark @simply-zerah @nsr0716 @caribmiko @witchygirl99 @mamabearcat @redflamesofpassion @tuxedochevaleresse @umacaking @hnn-wnchstr @juliatheanimelover7 @lemonlushff @eringobroke @youarenotmyhomelandanymore @hikaruwrites @horriblehowl @lady-dark-69 @sssuperbartola @eternalnight8806-3 @morganashimi83 @shnuggletea @pinkpigeonstudio @memusicmuse @cyncyn981 @yurawiththegoodhair @kagometaishostory @chickpow @ladyphoenix0711 @the-rebel-alchemist @nartista @soliska @cammysansstuff @karina-inuphantom

“C’mon, Moroha, I really don’t want to do this tonight...”

With a heavy sigh, Kagome swept aside the reed mat to her home and wasn’t at all surprised to find it empty aside from her lightly dozing husband. He sat against the wall in his usual fashion, legs crossed, arms tucked into his opposite sleeves, and he stared at her with curious, but tired eyes.

Kagome huffed and crossed her arms. “Where’d she go?”

“She?”

She gave him a look. “I know I saw her run in here. Did she climb out the window again?”

A slow blink. “My eyes were closed, wench. I didn’t see anything.”

Kagome wrinkled her nose and tried not to pout because as much as she wanted to believe otherwise, she knew her husband spoke the truth. He and Miroku had just gotten back an hour prior from a week long demon slaying trip and a single glance as he’d dragged himself inside their little hut had told her of his bone-deep exhaustion. He’d shaken his head at her inquisitive look and she hadn’t pried, figuring he’d explain all that had happened tomorrow morning after he’d gotten some well deserved rest and they had a little time to themselves while Moroha slept for another hour or so. So she’d merely smiled, kissed his cheek, and left him to rest while she wrangled up their hyper-active toddler to get ready for her bath.

But of course, true to form, Moroha was anything but compliant, the resulting happiness from her father’s return making her energized, hyper, and consequently turning everything into a game. 

Ergo, why Kagome was now searching for her hyper-active daughter after the child had darted away with mischievous giggles, evidently deciding that a game of Hide and Seek sounded like a great idea.

Kagome disagreed.

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Kagome jutted her hip to the side and pinned her half-demon with a look of weary tolerance. Inuyasha likened it to fond exasperation.

“You’re lucky I love you.” Dark eyes glinted impishly at him and the corners of her lips twitched.

He fought a grin. “And here I thought you only married me for my ears.”

The look she gave him that time was coy and her smile was even more so.

“Among other things,” she said leadingly and had the audacity to drop her gaze somewhere lower than his face. 

Inuyasha’s lids lowered and he beckoned her over to him with a jerk of his head. “C’mere.”

Kagome bit her lip and took a single step forward before halting herself and narrowing her eyes at him.

“No.”

Black brows rose into silver bangs. “No?”

“Yeah. No, because I know that look, you need to rest, and I need to find your kid so I can give her the bath she’s avoiding.” 

“My kid, huh?”

“Yes, your kid. Because no child of mine would ever be this stubborn and hyper-active and suddenly think bath time would be a great time for Hide and Seek.”

“Really.”

She suppressed another smile. “Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?”

“Ain’t that what we’re gonna be doing in a couple hours, anyway? Sleep?” Inuyasha rejoined, quirking a brow.

Kagome rose both her eyebrows at him and tipped him a small smile that spoke volumes.

He couldn’t do it. He grinned at her. “Keh.”

Kagome snickered and tossed him a little wink. “Get some rest, dogboy. You’re gonna need it.”

“Cheeky.”

“Only for you.” She smiled, blew him a kiss, and ducked out the door, calling for their wayward daughter once again. 

Chuckling, Inuyasha shook his head and released a yawn. 

A few minutes passed and then suddenly a little nose poked out from behind the curtain of his suikan sleeves, sniffing once, twice, three times. Inuyasha watched, amused, as his daughter tentatively peeked out from behind the large draping sleeves that hid her from view and surveyed their home for her mother. Finding the room empty, Moroha giggled in triumph and slithered out from her father’s lap to land on the floor in a wriggling heap, relishing in her victory. 

Inuyasha gave her a deadpan stare.  “You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

 Moroha grinned at him. “Nooo, Papa help me!”

“You used me, runt.”

“Noooo!” she giggled and got to her feet.

“You gonna let Mama give you a bath?”

“Nooooo.” Vehement head-shaking followed.

“Will you let Papa give you a bath?”

“Noo!” More giggling as she stomped around in circles.

“You ever gonna stop answering everything with ‘no’?”

The devil-child grinned at him. “Nooo.”

Inuyasha’s ear flicked and he nodded sagely. “I see. So then you don’t want the gift that Papa got for you while he was away.”

Moroha’s eyes widened. “N--” She stopped. Blinked. Furrowed her brow as she thought hard for a moment before her eyes brightened. 

Nodding her head rather enthusiastically, she said, “No.”

Inuyasha balked. Blinked. Then narrowed his eyes. “You brat, that’s cheating.”

The toddler smashed her hands against her mouth to hide the obvious grin as she danced in place, bouncing up and down in her excitement.

“Noooo,” she denied amid her giggles, apparently having far too much fun with this particular “game.”

Cheeky. Just like her mother. Keh.

Inuyasha tried to keep the stern look on his face as he shifted his position, moving as if he was getting ready to get to his feet and being deliberately slow about it.

“Alright, runt, you have three seconds to make yourself scarce before you learn how to swim like your old man did and not how your mom wants you to.”

Even at such a young age, Moroha knew it was an empty threat but she acted like it wasn’t anyway, releasing a high-pitched squeal of laughter before turning around and darting through the doorway with more giggles.

Inuyasha sank back down with a grunt and released another yawn as his ears picked up the sound of a gasp, small feet scrambling in the dirt, and then a triumphant “Gotcha, you little sneak!”

Seconds later he heard the melodic sound of his little girl’s laughter as she was “punished” by way of The Tickle Monster, aka, her mother. Softer, throatier laughter joined in before the woman herself stepped through the doorway once more, their daughter tucked beneath her arm like a sack of rice with her little dirty feet kicking merrily in the air.

Placing her free hand on her hip, Kagome arched a brow at him and said dryly, “Didn’t see anything, huh?”

“I was an unwilling accomplice. I’m innocent.”

Kagome snorted her opinion of that. Moroha echoed the sentiment.

Inuyasha frowned at the little backside wiggling in the air at him. “Traitor.”

Said wee traitor giggled, clearly unrepentant.

Kagome couldn’t hold back a smile. “Where was she?”

He stared at her for a minute before resuming his earlier position. Crossing his legs, he stuffed his hands into his sleeves again and cocked a single brow at his wife. 

Kagome gaped at him. Then at their daughter. 

“You sneaky little demon!”

Moroha giggled and squirmed in her mother’s grasp. “Sneaky!”

Inuyasha chuckled.

Kagome pointed at him. “You’re in trouble.”

He grinned.

She narrowed her eyes. “Stop that.”

He stopped.

Rolling her eyes, though unable to keep her lips from twitching upward, Kagome flapped a hand at him as if in dismissal.

“Go to sleep. You’re annoying me.”

“Excuse you, you’re the one who barged in here and disturbed my beauty sleep.”

“Inuyasha, no amount of beauty sleep in the world will--”

“Finish that sentence, wench, and you’ll find the runt and yourself taking a nice little evening swim in the cold river.”

Kagome promptly sealed her lips and smiled as she batted her eyes at him. 

Inuyasha snorted and stuck his nose in the air, closing his eyes. “Beat it. I need my rest and you two are loud.”

Finally giving in with a soft laugh, Kagome shook her head then knelt down to set their daughter on the floor. She whispered something to the toddler and with a bright smile, Moroha obediently scampered on over to her father.

Inuyasha waited until she’d reached his side before dipping his head. He received a soft kiss to his cheek with a soft, “G’night, Papa,” and small arms wrapping around his neck. He hugged his little girl back, wrapping an arm around her tiny body and dropping a kiss to her head. 

“Night, babygirl,” he murmured. He was rewarded with a bright smile - her mother’s smile - before his daughter turned and toddled back to his wife.

Kagome hoisted their toddler up into her arms, bestowed her husband with a soft, loving smile, then turned and left their home to finally give their daughter her long-overdue bath.

When Inuyasha woke, it was fully dark out and a small hand - a familiar hand - was lazily stroking his ear. Said ear flicked, there was a brief pause, then the gentle massage continued. One by one his sense came back online; the smoke and burning wood from the fire pit was the first thing to register. Next was the soothing sounds of two heartbeats, one slow and steady with the rhythm of slumber, and the other calm and nearby. Lastly was the feeling of something warm and soft leaning against his bare back, skin against skin, warm lips pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

He sighed, deciding he was content enough for the moment to relish in the warmth, the feeling of his wife’s body against his own, her forever intoxicating sent surrounding him as she stoked his ear. But then she started kissing his neck and he abruptly decided nope time to move.

A shift, a tug, and then he had her under him, bare and beautiful and smiling. Her hands pressed against his chest and he leaned down, kissed her nose, her jaw, her chin.

“Miss me?” he murmured and laid his forehead against hers, eyes twin pools of heated amber gold. 

“Yes.” No hesitation, no pause; just open honesty, genuine love in those dark eyes. Hands curled around the back of his neck as she tilted her face up, a silent request.

“Show me,” he whispered against her mouth before claiming it in a slow, languid kiss that had he been aching to give her for days. 

His wife, the mother of his child, his beloved Kagome happily returned it, her passion soft but urgent, heady but contained, hot but maddeningly slow. She whispered his name, kissed him one more time, then promptly rolled him onto his back so she could do as he bade and show him how much she’d missed him.

[dangermousie]

Things I am loving so far:

1. Heroine likes to occasionally wander into an empty dungeon and rest since it’s the little bit of solitude and privacy she gets.

2.She is so fed up by being controlled and having no free will, she has gotten to thinking as long as she could get a few antidote pills, she’d leave because even a few months of freedom before she dies, would be worth it. She doesn’t want to tame demons and be at beck and call of valley master, she just wants to see the world. I honestly like that she’s a prisoner almost as much as all the demons are.

3. Man, she is def there for demon dick:

Ji Yunhe slowly stepped in. His head was hanging down and his waist length silver hair shielded half of his face. But even so, Ji Yunhe could not help but find this demon too beautiful. Excessively beautiful.

Heh.

Also, she is not fond of all the torture, especially because she (a) doesn’t think demons are just for enslavement and (b) she is a prisoner herself. So she fixes his tail. I love.

Ji Yunhe walked up to the cell and looked through the thick bars full of talismans. The jiaoren hung by his hands and his body was covered with wounds. Large iron hooks pierced through his clavicle, and the chains wrapped around his blue and white tail confined him from all movements. His blood dripped down, soaking the chains, and his face looked as pale as paper under the moonlight. Even though Ji Yunhe had been in the valley for many years and witnessed many gruesome scenes, she still could not help but feel chills right now. Along with the chills, she also felt a bit lost in his appearance. There were always some people or things in this world that could touch the heart, whether they were in bloom or in wilt.

Own your domme tendencies, lady! You are contemplating how beautiful a bloody, hooks through collarbones guy is. Oh, web novels are glorious!

4. I love that the author makes the parallels explicit.

The two pairs of eyes met, each one deep in thought. Ji Yunhe did not know what the jiaoren was thinking, but she had an eerie feeling that her current situation was very similar to his. Entrapment.

and

What was the difference between him and Ji Yunhe? Lin Haoqing and Lin Canglan, the former was defensive and suspicious of her and wanted to get rid of her, the latter used her in every way possible and could not squeeze enough blood out of her. If she were to escape from the valley, the poison in her body would activate, not to mention the entire world under royal power would regard her as a traitor. None of the four major demon master quarters would accept her again. Between the jiaoren and Ji Yunhe, one was a plaything under the power and one was a pawn. They were both prisoners.

Though I am not sure why she takes time out to notice how muscular his abdomen is. Girl, you are thirsty for that particular raw bar item!

5. This author likes torture like het Meatbun.

The lightning strikes that had disappeared briefly started up again. Black iron full of inscriptions flashed with blinding light, striking onto the jiaoren again and again. The demon hanging in the air seemed to have no more reaction to the pain. His muscles autonomously spasmed a bit then became still. His head hung low and his long silver hair scattered across his body in a bloody, sticky mess. Like a lifeless ragdoll. Ice blue eyes were now hidden behind his lids, no one could see any expression.

And then he manages to take down torturer dude anyway and everyone skedaddles, leaving the torture mechanism still turned on UMMMM I hope he drowns all you guys.

This novel is mad fun!

[samanthaa-leanne]

25 Dates of Christmas: Day Seven

To say you loved the snow would be an understatement. There wasn’t a single thing you hated about it. You loved watching the snow fall from the clouds, always trying to find two snowflakes that looked the same, but catching them with your tongue when that inevitably failed.

“YN, look! It’s snowing!” Bokuto yelled as he ran out of the gym, you hot on his heels once you heard the word snow.

“Did you say snow?!” You yelled, running outside to see that it was indeed snowing outside, heavily at that. “Keiji! It’s snowing!” You shouted with glee as you turned around to look at the man who had captured your heart. 

You had been bestfriends with both boys since your first year at Fukurodani. You had been recruited to be the volleyball teams manager by a third year and they’ve been in your life ever since. When you first laid eyes on the dark haired setter there was an instant attraction, and the more you got to know him the deeper your feelings got, until you undeniably fell for him. 

“It is indeed.” Keiji said, propped against the door to the gym watching you and Bokuto frolic around, his heart beating in his chest as the snow stuck to your hair making you look even more beautiful. 

“Don’t just stand there! Join us.” You gleefully yelled as your eyes met his. 

“I’m okay just watching.” He said with a shake of his head as he continued to watch the two of you enjoy the weather. 

Before you could plead you felt a ball of wetness hit your back. Quickly turning around you spotted Bokuto with a sinister smirk on his face as he shrugged his arms. “I wonder who did that.” He pondered as the smirk stayed on his face. 

“You want to go? Get ready, you just started a war!” You shouted, dipping down to make your own snowball, throwing it forcefully at Bokuto’s head. 

A war is exactly what he got. The other teammates coming out to join you once they heard Bokuto’s squeal from the snowball he took to the face. You all teamed up against Bokuto throwing as many snowballs at him as you could. Until he went emo mode and made everyone feel bad for him. In the blink of an eye suddenly you were the lone wolf with Bokuto’s crazed eyes staring back at you, your backstabbing ex-teammates standing beside him. 

“Traitors!” You yelled as you prepared to run for it. 

As the guys got their arsenal ready you felt a hand grab yours as you felt yourself being pulled in the opposite direction. You looked up and saw Keiji looking down at you, a plan forming in his brilliant mind. You didn’t need his words to know that he wanted you to run, so you let him pull you away from your crazy teammates, until you were safely hidden behind a building. 

“Thanks for the save, Keiji.” You sighed out as you looked around the corner to make sure you were still safe. “I totally didn’t want to get hit with all those snowballs.”

“YN?” He whispered his voice shaking as he looked down at you, waiting for you to return his gaze. 

The tone in his voice made you instantly turn to look at him, only to find his face inches from yours. Both your cheeks darkening as you realize just how close you were to one another.

“Yes?” You managed to choke out, continuing to look into his eyes. 

He squeezed your hand that you hadn’t realized he was still holding before lifting his free hand up to wipe a stray snowflake out of your hair, the action causing your cheeks to become impossibly more red. 

His eyes dipped down to your mouth before looking back at your eyes, the small action told you everything you needed to know. Not trusting your words you nodded as you looked up at him with half lidded eyes. He let the hand holding your hand drop as he placed both hands on the sides of your face before pulling your lips up to meet his. 

A quick peck of the lips, testing the waters, before the kiss deepened. A state of hunger consuming you both as you tried desperately to hold on. It was like he was your lifeline and if you let go you would surely drown. Your lips moving together in perfect harmony.

Both your hands moving simultaneously. Light caressing soon turned into him gripping your waist to pull you tight against him. Yours went straight for his hair, pulling lightly, gaining a gentle moan from the man before you. 

Breaking apart after a few minutes for some much needed air was hard. Your body demanding to be close to him once more. 

“Wow.” Keiji whispered as he pressed his forehead against yours, struggling to regain his breath. 

“Wow, indeed.” You sighed with relief, pulling back to get a look at him. “What was that for?”

“You just looked so beautiful. I’ve been in love with you for so long, and it just felt right.” He answered as he brushed a stray piece of hair from your eyes.

You looked up at him and saw nothing but love looking back down at you. Your heart swelled at the amount of adoration you saw. Knowing your love was reciprocated was the best feeling in the world.

Leaning in you pressed another kiss to his lips, bringing your hands to hold his face as you kissed him over and over. Each kiss holding a different promise for the future. As the snow fell around you, you forgot about everything else that was going on. The only thing on your mind was the man in front of you and making sure he knew exactly how you felt about him. With each stolen kiss that’s exactly what you did.

Masterlist

Taglist: @moonlightaangel​ @dabilove27​ 23 spots open

Beta reader: @class1-a

[otonymous]

A Bolt From The Blue (MLQC Shaw - NSFW) - Part II: Formal Introductions

Description: A stranger finds himself in a strange place Warnings: NSFW/18+: Explicit/graphic language & mature themes — reader discretion is advised.  Potential trigger warnings: mild depictions of injuries, police, profanity Word Count: 1328 words (~7 mins of tension and the beginnings of love) Author’s Notes: First of all, I just wanted to give everyone who read, liked, reblogged, and/or commented on Chapter 1 of this fic a massive THANK YOU!  It has been an absolute joy to read through your reactions to the story so far, and I hope you will continue to join me on this wild (and eventually, sexy) ride! 😂 That being said, here’s Chapter 2!  Hope you all enjoy the read 💖

Tagging: the lovely @op-peccatori​​ 

Jump to Chapter(s): One | Three | Four

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“Ahh—!”

A large hand clamps over your mouth to muffle the scream of shock when you wake to a pair of amber eyes staring intently into yours.  Then you remember that you had given up your bed to the man you now knew went by the name of Shaw.

At least that was what was on the ID card you found in his wallet.

“Finally awake, Sleeping Beauty?  Care to tell me where I am?”

Once assured you had sufficiently calmed, Shaw lowers his hand, turning his attention to your tiny apartment.  You straighten up from where you had fallen asleep, kneeling on the floor beside the bed with your head slumped on the pillow just next to his face.  Cheeks burning, you bite your lip to distract from the way your skin still tingled in the places he had touched.

“You’re at my place.  But don’t worry, I live alone.”

“I figured that much,” he says, trying to prop himself up on his elbows before his face contorts in pain.  You quickly rearrange the cushions and pillows behind him for support.  Shaw reaches towards his bare abdomen, hand trembling slightly as his fingers trace over the bandaged stitches holding it together.  “How did you…?”

“My next door neighbour did it.  He was a doctor back in his home country and owed me a favour.  I figured it would be a bad idea to take you to a hospital given…given everything that’s going on.  You can trust him, he’ll be discreet.”

Shaw heaves a sigh; even that seems to hurt him.  “How long have I been out?”

“Almost two days.”

“Shit.”  His brows pinch together.  “Do you have my phone?”

Nodding, you make your way to the kitchen counter where it sat along with the things that fell from his pockets when you undressed him as per your neighbour’s instructions: his wallet, a pack of cinnamon gum, a key and a guitar pick.

The phone lights up at your touch when you hand it over.  You pretend like you don’t notice the photo of the two young boys on the lock screen — one taller than the other, both wearing matching smiles and big, amber eyes.

You watch from the side, waiting with bated breath as Shaw scrolls through the messages with an impatient hand, the expression on his face growing darker with each swipe until he’s throwing off the sheets, pale lips trembling in pain as he tries to maneuver off the bed.  “I have to go.”

“But, wait…you’re not fully healed yet!  The doctor said it would likely be another day or two before you should start moving about—”

“I ain’t got that time.”  Feet finally on the ground, Shaw looks down, seeming to realize for the first time that he’s completely naked save for his boxers.  “Could you, um…pass my clothes?”

His cheeks grow pink.  You clear your throat.

Knock, knock.

Freezing in the midst of gathering his belongings, both your gazes shoot to the door when a muffled voice on the other side calls, “Loveland City Police!  Anyone home?”

Tossing Shaw the bundle in your arms, you push him back into bed, holding a finger to your lips for silence before you throw the covers over him.  Running sweaty palms over disheveled hair, you breathe deep, opening the door just enough for the chain to pull taut.

“Good morning, Miss.  I’m Detective Lai and this is Officer Wong from the Loveland City Police Department.  We’re currently conducting an investigation in the area.  Have you seen either of these men around here lately?”

Putting away his badge, Officer Wong holds up several large photographs, one a grainy picture from what appeared to be security footage, and a couple of mugshots.  You keep your expression flat as you pretend to study the one of Shaw’s face.

“Doesn’t ring a bell, I’m sorry.”  

Shaking your head for emphasis, you try to ignore the heat prickling beneath your collar when Detective Lai leans against the doorframe, gaze sharp as he sweeps the space behind you before finally relenting.  “Sorry to have disturbed you, Miss.  Please don’t hesitate to inform us if you notice anything out of the ordinary.”

Quickly shutting the door, you slide to the tiled floor of the entryway, shaking so hard your teeth chatter.  Suddenly, a hand thrusts into your field of vision, making you jump: Shaw is standing before you, one arm outstretched to help you up as the other hovers over his bandaged abdomen.

“You should be resting.”  The words leave your lips in a whisper.

He doesn’t budge.  “Don’t worry about me, I’m stronger than I look.”

And when you finally place your hand in his, the smile that brightens that handsome face brings one to your own.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You win.  Looks like I’m not going anywhere anytime soon with the cops crawling all over the place.”

Shaw’s voice drifts to the kitchen from where he lay on your bed.  Avoiding a cloud of steam when you lift the lid from a pot on the stove, the comforting smell of ginger and scallions wafts to tickle your nose as you portion out a single serving of congee, bearing it over to him on a tray.

“Here.  It’s not much, but it’s easy on the stomach.  Careful, it’s hot—!”

The congee splatters onto your sheets when Shaw drops the ceramic spoon, hissing as he sticks out a burnt tongue like an accident-prone child.  Biting back a chuckle at the discord between the man before you now and the one who had valiantly saved you during the robbery, you quickly reach for the glass of water on your bedside table, watching him gulp it down for dear life.

“I know it’s no Coke and Pepsi, but I hope it’ll do anyways.”

He laughs, and the sound tightens around your heart before he almost chokes on his water, coughing violently into the crook of his elbow and breathing deep to ride out the wave of pain radiating from his torso.

“Wow.  So she can tell jokes too in addition to saving lives.  Impressive, just like the lies you told the cops.  I have to say though, I’m surprised you noticed my drink of choice.  All those nights I came in, you barely even looked at me.  I was starting to wonder whether or not I was invisible.”

A smirk curls upon his lips; you wondered how they would taste.  Then, after a beat of silence, he says, “Thank you.  For everything.  I owe you my life.”

His amber eyes hold yours, completely devoid of sarcasm.  Counting to three before the intensity forces your gaze down to the fraying edges of your house slippers, the fierce beating of your heart makes you feel faint.  

“I’m just repaying a favour.  I haven’t thanked you yet for saving me that day you took out the robber with your skateboard.”

“Was nothin’.  Just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”  He shrugs, running a hand through his hair before extending it to you for the second time that day.  “Name’s Shaw, by the way.”

You stop breathing when your hands touch, hope your cheeks won’t betray you with their traitorous red when those long fingers tightened to hear you say yours in return.

“I know.  I’ve seen it on the tag on your uniform many times now.”  He repeats your name, soft and with intent, as if the tip of his tongue held something of infinite importance.  “It’s nice…suits you.  I like it.”

Raising a spoonful of congee, Shaw puckers his lips, blowing gently to cool it off first this time around.

“I like your congee too.”

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Thanks so much for reading!  Hope you all enjoyed it and please stay tuned for part 3 because there is only one bed! 😱😆

Jump to Chapter(s): One | Three | Four

Check out more of my work here! 📚 (Please do not repost/copy/alter my work.  Reblogs, on the other hand, are a-ok and much appreciated! 👍🏼💖)

[littlefreya]

The Way to Hell - Part 6

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it or parts of the source material and claiming it as your own*

Summary: Post Mi6 - August manages to escape with his face intact and just won himself the title of being the most dangerous man on earth. With every agent in the world on the hunt for him, life became a living hell, but that’s okay because hell is where he reigns.

Too bad for the woman who’ll stand in his way.

Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10| Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 |

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Ingvild) | August Walker x ofc Suzy

Word count: 5K

Warnings: Dark themes, rough oral sex, gagging, hinted anal, mentions of rough sex, and August twisted thoughts.  

A/N: The adventures of August and Ingvild continue 💖 thanks again for reading and giving me your feedback, it keeps me fueled so keep it up :D! Of course thanks @agniavateira​ for editing my work and being my muse.

Title: Stargazer

The love boat sets sail through the icy water of the North Sea. The apostle, Knight_of_Cockn3ss, or whatever that kid’s name is, wasn’t joking when he mentioned a romantic cruise.

The traitorous sun hangs mid-sky as August trails across the deck. A beige fedora covers his dark curls and a matching cream-coloured suit over his sturdy body. In his right hand rests his laptop, he is not daring to leave it out of sight even for a minute. His eyes observe the surroundings; he must be the only single person on this trip, surrounded by timid couples on the verge of divorce and sugar daddies with their sugar babies.

‘At least the young girls are pretty.’ August greets a tall blonde, holding one hand behind his back and giving her a small bow before continuing on his way.

He’ll have to endure this trip for a couple more days, which isn’t ideal by any means, but he can’t risk getting caught or killed. Airports all over the world are swarming with security guards, agents, and assassins on really fucking high alert by now, all of them waiting for him.

The irony of the situation is that a long time ago used to be one of them. A wanted target on a scale of world catastrophe would spin a web of agents worldwide and Agent Walker would always get there first. That’s why they called him “The Hammer” - he nailed each target on the head, among other things.

No one cared about torture and extreme violence. He once brought back a target in such a dire condition that Erica was forced to send him to psych evaluation. He bluntly told the psychiatrist he enjoys the violence for no particular reason why, and then fucked her over the desk.

He scoffs at the memory, breaking into a wolfish grin.

Standing on the rail, his gaze is glued to the blue horizon, following the trail of sea-foam left by the boat as it slices through the water, disturbing the peaceful life beneath the sea. Slowly, his chaotic mind begins to drift, reveries of the CIA reminding him of her.

Golden locks of hair glow like hot sand on a summer day. Sweetly, she jokes about buying a yacht, telling Erica to fuck off so they can leave everything behind, and sail into freedom.

Memories are perfidious. Why has she been on his mind so much as of late? She’s been dead for years, flesh eaten by worms and the insects.

She is no more but a sack of rotting bones.

To condemn her memory is more than she deserves.

August’s nostrils flare. For whatever reason, his mind wanders to the girl who lived. Gently snorting, he shakes his head, remembering the condition of how he left ‘poor little’ Ingvild; half-naked, wrists tied up to the bed, probably crying to whatever father figure she has.

After what he did to her, she’ll probably retire from Icarus.

“I’m coming after you,” he mimics her voice in his head, and laughs while making his way toward the stack of beach lounge chairs. The section is nearly empty as most of the lovebirds are dinning in the main hall and unlike the degenerated visitors of this cruise, he is here solely on business.

Much work is left to be done. “Knight” has promised to meet him in London’s sky tower, suggesting he may or may not have a source of plutonium. Whether he’s a broker, a source, or a possible troll matters very little to a man on the run. Desperate times are ahead; he may be sticking his neck out, might be stepping into an obvious trap, but choice is scarce at the moment.

‘This is not the type of anarchy I dreamed of.’

That little girl, Ingvild, was the first to come. There will be others, endless more until the world will fall apart.  

“I’ll keep coming after you.” Her voice hinges on his troubled mind.

He opens his laptop with a groan, trying to ignore the truth that lies on his mind like a pile of heavy brick.

‘You should have left her pretty face to die in the bottom of the lake.’

“Oh, but to miss out on all the fun that followed in that bedroom?” he speaks to himself quietly, unlocking his laptop with a retinal scan.

Luckily, his old drive is still accessible on the cloud he encrypted. Years of work and dirt collected on the CIA and the government nestles on a single server. The ugly truth, the lies, the corruptness. Thick and black like a pit filled of tar.

Erica Sloane has her own dedicated special folder. Personal vendetta was never on his agenda, it was never about revenge, it was about a cause but sweet Erica deserves whatever damnation he could think of. He hopes that when he detonates his nuclear bombs, that once this world falls apart, she’ll sit on a front-row seat to see her failures raining down like fire from the sky.

A vicious smirk paints his face as his fingertips slide onto the touchpad. August scans through his many folders, seeking a specific one regarding illegal weapon deals. It would be a lovely afternoon at the CIA had one of these recordings or documents would find their way to the public eye.

August slides the cursor around, entering one of the CIA’s subfolders when his smile fades away.

He thought he deleted her folder a long time ago, but it seems like mistakenly, he placed it in another section instead.

And now here it is. A name he thought he’d never see again: Lacey.

Strange, he hardly remembers what she looked like. How long has it been? Six? Seven years ago? In his dreams, she’s nothing but a rotting corpse, but the mind has a tendency to alter one’s memory, doesn’t it?

Was she even sweet at all?

‘Manipulation was her strongest trait anyway.’

Without mustering a mother breath, he deletes the folder, and proceeds to search for the files he means to leak. He muses if they caught up with the notion that it was him who poisoned the well this entire time. Years of stirring chaos while sitting with his laptop of his bed while Sloane and her high-ranking management freaked out and did all that’s in their power to cover shit up.

It was so hard to keep a poker face and pretend he is trying to help. One particular time, he got so ecstatic he had to go and jack off in the men’s room.  

‘That was a good one.’

Something abruptly disturbs his attention, making his heart nearly drop.

‘It can’t be, is that...?’

A petite brunette passes through the lounge, joyfully trodding along the deck. Her hair is tucked back into a ponytail. No, it can’t be her, not in the situation he left her at. By what sort of dark magic would she exactly appear here out of nowhere?

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the little Valkyrie turns out to be some sort of a witch.’

The brunette feels his gaze upon her figure and turns. He is met with a brown, warm gaze, rather than the sharp icy lustre that is Ingvild’s trademark. Less pretty as well, but looks about the same age, perhaps a year or two younger.

Another sugar baby, weary and discontent.

August realises he must have been staring with a dumbfounded look as she decides to smile back and make her way to him.

“Good afternoon,” she greets in a Midwestern accent. August’s eyes focus on her painted lips and in his mind, he imagines wiping that cotton candy pink lipstick by his thumb.

“Afternoon,” he smiles kindly, tipping his fedora with a welcoming bow.

Always the gentleman.

The young woman moves to sit on the seat in front of him, crossing her legs together as she takes in his sight. She observes and assesses how old he is and how much money he must own.

Probably looking for a new target.

‘Not old enough to be your daddy, but you can still call me that if it floats your boat.’

“Are you a secret agent?” She jokes, peering at his laptop before he smooths his hand on the lid to shuts it. He pretends to be intrigued by her senseless, obvious seduction when his mind once again forced him to go back and compare her to living-dead girl.

It seems like he can’t get away from her. Perhaps her threats were a curse? Even halfway across the sea, this total stranger reignites his curiosity.

‘Does Ingvild has any values? Any empathy toward others?’

She did experience fear in those little moments when his knife penetrated her soft little gut - that look in her eyes; like a virgin, fucked extremely rough for the very first time.

Thinking of those big, terrified eyes light up a snarl on his bewhiskered lip.

There was an inch of vulnerability in that sweet farewell kiss, a sense lost look on her face as if she couldn’t fit that emotion into any drawer inside her brain. It made her look so much more beautiful.

He wonders what she would have looked like if he went ahead with his besser urges and fucked her.

‘Maybe she’d finally break into tears. Fuck, I’d love to see her cry.’

“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” He interrupts the sassy brunette as she speaks of Lord-knows-what. It seems that she doesn’t even realise he wasn't listening to her for the last 5 minutes she been babbling . The girl smiles sweetly, tucking a brown lock of hair behind her ear. The diamond bracelet that decorated her wrist dangles as she does.

“Suzy.”

“Suzy,” August repeats and smiles charmingly before giving his lips a quick flick of a tongue. “Would you like to join me in my room?”

The brunette pretends to blush beneath the layers of foundation on her face and fakes an argument inside her mind as if she actually considers refusing his bold suggestion.

~*~

Back in his room, he pushes the petite brunette to her knees. He wipes away her makeup, smearing the pink paint with the crudeness of thumb. Suzy giggles, thinking she probably had men do worse than that by now.

‘Oh, darling, we haven’t even started yet.’

August’s large hand traces her rounded face, knuckles brushing against her cheek tenderly while running down to meet her lips again.

“Open up sweetheart,” he commands in a relaxed voice, his index finger demanding entrance to her velvety mouth. She spreads her lips open slowly, allowing him to slip in his long digit to explore the wet cavern while his thumb caresses her chin. Much to his delight, she sucks on his finger obediently, moaning as he slowly pumps in and out of her hot mouth.

“Good girl,” he praises, his free hand reaching to unbuckle his belt urgently and free his aching cock from his trousers. He tugs at himself for a second, staring how she suckles on his finger with fake devotion. She probably do want his cock, but it’s his money that she’d care for more later.

‘Oh, how disappointed you are going to be once I’m off this boat, baby.’

“How about I’ll fuck that pretty little throat, hmm?” August asks and without waiting for an answer, pulls his soaked finger away and clasps his hand around the hollows of her cheeks instead, forcing her to keep her mouth open.

She voices no protest, only her eyes staring at him wide and helpless. He pays no attention, preferring the sight of his cock sliding in between those puffy lips and pushing into the warm depths instead. A prolong groan slips out of his mouth, emphasising the relief of finally getting his dick wet.

Usually, he loves to watch, yet he lets his eyes roll back and shuts them tightly this time while she in the background. It only makes him fuck her throat more vigorously, his hands cradling and saddling her head, forcing her to meet the violent thrust of his hips.

“Don’t touch me,” he rasps breathlessly, as her her dirty paws snake for his waist. Terrified, she pulls away, intimidated by his voice. August’s eyes remain shut yet he can feel the wetness on her cheeks as his thumbs dig into them. Those tears are enough to send him over the edge, and he comes into her throat without any warning, grunting a couple of times and lingering inside her mouth to make sure she’ll swallow him clean.

‘That’s right little Valkyrie angel, you’ll take what I’ll give you.’

The mists of fantasy fade as August blinks his eyes open. Debunked by the plastic-type of woman. Slowly, he pulls his cock out, impressed by the mascara that’s smeared beneath Suzy’s now glassy red eyes. He wipes her lower lip clean and then gives her chin a gentle pinch with a soft grin.

Suzy gives out a weak smile in return, trying to look satisfied while remaining on her knees. He can tell that her little brain is pretty much half-through into realising she made a mistake by following the devil into his room.

Tall and menacing, he looks at her drenched by vile mischief. August moves to sit on the queen sized bed, petting the empty spot next to him. She follows, fighting her instinct to put a hand on his knee as she is used to, afraid that he will bark at her again.

“Tell me, Suzy,” he coaxes, reaching for the wallet in his pocket and drawing out a Trojan condom.

“Have you ever tried anal sex?”

****

“Ingvild,” the old man calls her name once he brings her to her new home. It’s a simple, minimalist apartment with naked walls and generic black IKEA furniture.

Silent, she peers at him, holding her small luggage between sinewy fingers. Everything that she possesses in the world is in that suitcase; a bunch of plaid skirts, white buttoned shirts, and a few books about fairies and monsters.

This man called Liam, is he to be her new father? He never even offered her a smile and hardly bothers looking into her eyes. Instead he grunts and sighs while making his way around the house and gesturing for her to follow.

At least he is kinder than Mother Superior. At least in here, no girl is going to pick any fights with her and get her into trouble.

“This is your room,” Liam gestures. The pubescent girl sneaks closer, peeking inside with curiosity. It’s not what someone would call a girl’s room by any means, very much like the rooms they had at the orphanage. It contains a single bed with a thin mattress and white metal bars and on the bed rest some casual clothes for her to wear.

At least she won’t have to wear skirts anymore.

As little Ingvild continues to scan the room, she picks on a small library housing some books and a learning desk with a computer. Probably for her to gain some knowledge of the world. She never had any of that at the orphanage, just the bible and the “forbidden” books of fairytales she stole from one of the nuns.

“Today you can rest,” Liam speaks, watching the little girl as she moves to place her luggage inside and sits on the bed.

“Tomorrow, you will start your first day of training.”

‘Training?’

Ingvild says nothing, only glares at him back quietly. It’s quite clear no woman is present in the house which makes her wonder; the orphanage doesn’t allow single parents to adopt, especially not men. Was Mother Superior this desperate to get rid of her that she decided to throw her at the first person who asked?

“Just so we’re clear, girl,” Liam grumbles, “I am not your father. You call me Liam and that’s that.”

She nods silently and watches him leave the room, shutting the door behind. Sighing, she falls back to the mattress, her silver eyes fixing at the ceiling in wonders of what sort of new life has she been sold ito.

“Ingvild...”

A low, velvety voice calls for her again, the mattress dipping, shifting with the weight of the one who joins her. As she turns her face aside, she is met with hungry eyes and a smile so cold it makes her heart shrivel.

August.

*~*

A loud thud wakes her with a sharp inhale. Though her face remain stoic, quickly readjusting to the sight of moving ground as the plane’s wheels make their landing. ‘Arrogant August Walker, invading my dreams’, she curses but pays no more thought to why he was there. Analysing dreams was never her thing. They were just memories of random things that happened to her in her childhood and August is no different as he had been on her mind for the last 72 hours.

He was a job.

One that she needed to get over with.

Liam was at her throat with this one specifically, nagging her like an old shrew. He wasn’t used for her taking her time with it, not his special girl.

Massaging her strained neck, she waits for the last person to leave the plane, observing the empty cabin and noticing how used it appears with all the crumpled, empty snack bags lying on the floor.

‘Ungrateful’, she thinks before exiting her seat and tip-toeing to get her luggage.

The arrivals terminal is infested with agents. Having been trained for years, she sees right through their casual attire, so fake they almost look like B-movie actors. It’s those badly selected outfits and their observant gazes - eyes obsessively fixed on every gate. Every airport in the world must be the same right now, desperate to catch this nightmare of a terrorist.

‘As if he would be stupid enough to travel by plane.’

With a high profile target like August on the loose, it almost feels like the world is on the brink of war.

‘Is that what he wants? To be an anarchistic god that plows chaos everywhere?’

Maybe that’s why he gave her back her life, to humiliate her, to show her how easily he can twist everyone’s life and disrupt the world people know.

‘Mephisto, Lucifer, Hades, Hel.’

“Remember that you’re only alive because I have allowed it.”

A sudden shard of pain sears through her torso, the wound reacting to the phantasm of his low timbre which plays in her mind. It makes her slow on her steps and chews on her inner cheek to suppress a moan that has been begging to escape her lips since yesterday afternoon.

“August Walker”, the name rolls on the tip of her tongue.

Her very first failure, the very first man who killed her.

It almost feels like a bond now, intimate and twisted. August went deeper than any other man ever did - he fucked her internal organs.

‘Is that is why you “performed” for him in the shower? Why you thought about him, slipping inside you with his cock rather than his knife?’

Ingvild huffs tenderly and passes in-between a couple reuniting with passion, her shoulder sharply bumping against the woman, who yells at her while she remains indifferent, never bothering to look back.

Putting on her shades, she continues to head for the exit. The wound in her gut throbs even further, all of a sudden and just when she is tempted to give into the pain and acknowledge it, the new mobile device in her jacket’s pocket begins to vibrate.

Liam, who else?

“Papa?” She answers, the big exit sign finally flickering in front of her eyes.

She can see Liam rolling his eyes without having to see his grumpy old face.

“What progress do you hope to make with this lead? Someone says they saw him in Singapore yesterday, you should be following these threads instead.”

Ingvild holds her breath, knowing very well the lead is false. August was with her a night ago, so close she tasted him, so near his fingers dug deep into her flesh, leaving an imprint on her bones and even though there is something quite demonic about him, she doubts he can be at two different places at once.

“I need access to his world, I need to pick up the clues,” she explains, yet the sad truth is that she has no idea what to look for. August is not a rookie idiot, he did a fine job leaving zero clues back at the bed&breakfast room they “shared”. Not even the receptionist who ogled her oddly when she left could tell her where he was heading.  

“Just get it done, Ingvild. You’re acting like a child, this isn’t like you,” Liam mutters before hanging up.

‘He is right, this isn’t like you.’

Ingvild feels hooks clutching her guts, not just the pain August inflicted upon her, but something deeper, something desperate, leaving a void in that same spot. The fact that he slipped between her fingers seems to torments, just as much as the fact that she lied to Liam for the first time. It makes her feel like a rebellious teenager. She never keeps secrets from him and there she is, lying through every word.

Absentmindedly, her fingers press against her lips as she exits the airport.

~*~

The address led her to a small suburban house in southern London. It’s the type of house that has large glass windows where anyone standing outside can ogle freely. Rich people houses, as she likes to call it. She had a few missions in the past with people living in homes like this one - always an easy kill.

A blond woman meanders about inside the house, wearing a grey silk nightgown, preparing for bedtime probably. According to Walker’s file, she’s the most recent ex - Sydney. They broke up a couple of months before he decided to go on what he thought would be his final mission, his deathstrike.

‘If only.’

Glancing from the gravel path that leads to large metal doors, she learns the woman’s delicate manoeuvres, her mind reciting every graceful gestures as she crouches down to place food for a large Maine coon cat.

‘Is that the type of woman he likes?’

August would strikes her as a man who would fuck anything with a heartbeat but he did have more than a few relationships. She can’t help but wonder if he has a type, noticing how Sydney is more of a woman than a girl; solid income, big name lawyer, a woman who can take care of herself, a woman to start a family with.

Not that she imagines Walker starting a family anytime soon.

She is pretty too, with her mid-length straight golden hair, bright eyes and a shapely body. Ingvild looks at her own outfit: jeans, sneakers and a black sleeved shirt, nowhere as classy as beautiful Sydney.

The hour is late, still she walks toward the door and rings the bell.

“Can I help you?”

Ingvild is greeted by green eyes and a subtle Welsh accent. She gives her one of her fake smiles, trying to look as charming and pleasant as a sweet doll.

“Sydney Bedford?” She asks, while briefly scanning her body. She tries to imagine what August liked about her the most; her figure? Her angelic face? Her emerald stare?

“I have some questions about August Walker, he used to…”

Sydney shakes her head vehemently, waving her hands in the air. Something in her eyes drastically changes the moment the name “August” slaps her across the face.

“Are you MI6!? Please, I don’t want to speak about that psychotic loser anymore.”

Ingvild smiles calmly, a soft chuckle leaving her throat.

“Oh you see, he disappeared…”

“Good riddance!” Sydney replies, her eyes filling with anger, her face turning red within seconds. “Listen. I already told them everything I know.”

“Please,” Ingvild begs, batting her long lashes and tilting her head like a cute little kitten. “I’m new in this and my superior will be mad if I don’t at least speak to you. May I please come in? It’s important for my investigation.”

The same childlike charm that works on men might as well work on women, for different reasons in this occasion. Sydney is a single 36-38-year old woman who lives alone with her cat.

She must have wanted a family, perhaps with Walker, no wonder she’s furious.

Leaning against the door frame, Sydney scrutinises the young girl, believing she is younger than she really is with that pale smooth face and big innocent greyish eyes.  

“Come on in, dear.” She opens the door wide, letting Ingvild step inside before closing it behind her.

The main entrance leads into a large living room, furnished with a black leather sofas and a glass coffee table. She owns a TV that is larger than Ingvild's entire living room and the walls are moulded with grey bricks, shiny from some cut stone.

Ingvild imagines how lovely it would feel to crack the shimmering stone with August’s skull.

“Would you like some tea?” Sydney offers while heading toward her luxurious kitchen.

“Please,” Ingvild answers, walking around the house and examining every corner to learn of the woman who invited her in. She nearly stumbles as the large cat rubs against her foot. “Oh,” she exclaims, lowering herself to pick the chubby feline to her arms.

She never owned a pet. Liam said it’s unnecessary.

“So like I said,” Sydney calls from the kitchen, putting the kettle on the stove. “I don’t know anything about August and where he is. All I can tell you is that he was weird.”

“Weird? How?” Ingvild asks, stroking the cat behind his ears and while it purr against her chest.

Sydney places two mugs on the black marble counter in the kitchen and opens a cabinet, looking for some tea bags. “He would disappear and then return after weeks, telling me not to ask any questions. Then, he would go away and come back in crazy hours. He was a gentleman of course but arrogant and demanding, never taking no for an answer.”

Ingvild turns to look at Sydney, arching her eyebrow as if she is surprised to learn this about the man who stabbed and drowned her in an icy lake. “Is that so?”

“Yes!” Sydney shouts back, her chest heaving as she throws the bags into the mugs and turns toward Ingvild.

“Everything had to go his way, and I won’t be surprised if he had a mistress or another family, or god! Maybe an illegal drug practice.”

The cat jumps down from Ingvild’s embrace, and she brushes the grey hairs off her black shirt. “What makes you think this way?”

“Like I said; disappearing in the middle of the night, coming back... I knew something was off so I went and... wait I… I shouldn’t tell you this, you’re an agent!” Sydney looks around her, as if she’s afraid someone might be listening to their conversation.

Ingvild takes a step forward into the kitchen, her grey eyes seeking Sydney’s, giving her a warm, kind smile. “You can tell me anything Sydney, you are not in danger, I promise. We just want to locate Walker, he hasn't reported to HQ in a while.”

Sydney observes her gaze, trying to determine her personality. She thinks the young woman seem gentle with those unique eyes and the hair that’s tucked back to a strict ponytail.

“I had him traced,” she whispers. “I know I wasn’t supposed to because he is CIA, and trust me I was scared but I had to know.”

“How did you do that?” Ingvild asks, tilting her head with curiosity and slight disbelief. It seems odd that a man like Walker was bugged by some dumb lawyer woman.

“I did his laundry, it wasn’t hard to hide something inside the pocket of his jacket. I mean, inside the fabric, where he can’t find it.”

Ingvild can’t help but let out a small snort, amused by the fact that the infamous CIA agent got made so easily. She covers her mouth with her fist, shyly smiling into it, but it’s noticed by Sydney who stands in front of her, staring oddly.

“Where would he go?”

“Some place in South Kensington, almost every day for the last month of our relationship. He would vanish there for hours and then come back. I have the address, hold on.” Sydney leaves the kitchen and walks through a long corridor.

Not bothering with politeness, Ingvild follows her, easy off her feet like the big grey cat, carefully exploring this new territory. She imagines the fights August would have with this woman and then the passionate sex afterwards while her hand runs against the texture of the garnet.

“Oh!” Sydney exclaims, confused to see Ingvild in the doorway of her bedroom. The young woman looks around curiously, trying to find any memorabilia from August; a photo, a clothing article, man cologne. It seems like he was never even been here, though there is a certain coldness in this room that feels strangely familiar.

‘No, not August, his touch is warm.’

“He did trading or something,” Sydney says as she hands her over a small yellow note that was hidden in her purse. It has the address to August’s “secret lover”.

Ingvild takes the notes, memorizing the address before placing it in her jeans pocket. “Trading? Can you elaborate?”

She shrugs. “He asked me to not disturb him while he was doing some dealing, I don’t know what it was… it looked fishy but it might just be CIA stuff.”

Ingvild nods silently, scanning the room again and again and eventually taking in the sight of the empty bed. Her mind fills in the gaps, painting an image of August fucking Sydney into oblivion, his muscular body ramming into hers, one leg held over his shoulder while the blond little bitch screams in ecstasy.

“How was he in bed? Would you say he performed well?” Ingvild asks, her eyes gesturing toward the mattress.

Sydney frowns, giving her a slight repulsed face as she finds her question remarkably rude.

“How is this relevant to the investigation?”

She means to berate her when she witnesses Ingvild’s kind smile growing remarkably cold.

The young woman remains silent, taking a step closer and making Sydney almost stumble back as sudden fear creeps in. Grey frigid eyes, like icy shards, her nostrils slightly flares as she catches up the scent of her expensive perfume.

“How is this relevant to the MI6?!” Sydney asks again, trying to dismiss the tension yet continues to draw distance from the young agent.

“I never said I am MI6.”

Sydney’s back hits the wall with a soft thud, she attempts to flee but Ingvild’s hands lock around her shoulders, forcing her against the wall with a thud. As small as this woman is, she is way stronger than she appears.

“How was he in bed?” she repeats, her voice becoming more demanding while her glare threatening to spear into Sydney’s skull. “Would you say he satisfies you?”

Puny gasps peal from Sydney’s mouth, her green eyes becoming moist with pure fear.

“Please, don’t... He was... Rough.”

“Bondage?”

“He... he..he choked me,” she answers in a trembling voice, her lower lip quivering, much to Ingvild’s delight.

“He was too rough, he was big and he didn’t care, it was as if he enjoyed my pain...”

Ingvild licks her bottom lip, imagining Sydney thrown on the bed with August treating her like a rag doll, wrecking her completely. Bruises left everywhere, tattoos on her skin for the world to see this fine artist’s work. A cold flame licks at her spine, crawling down to the small of her back.

She’s uncertain why.

“Would you say he loved you?”

Sydney’s peers at her quietly, thinking of her answer for a few seconds while Ingvild’s fingers bury into her collarbone, voicelessly demanding a response.

“August Walker is incapable of love. He is dead inside.”

________________________________________________________

Disclaimer: I don’t own August Walker or the Mission Impossible Frenchise

[oldshrewsburyian]

King of the Khyber Rifles (1916)

Who wants to hear about the absolutely unhinged WWI-era adventure novel I binge-read recently? Great! This bizarre and fantastic spy story reads either like an H. Rider Haggard novel or a sort of James Bond avant la lettre, depending on your point of view. I am perhaps its ideal audience. I say this because 1) I had my literary tastes shaped by reading a lot of Kipling, Conan Doyle, and even H. Rider Haggard in my adolescent years (honorable mention to Anthony Hope Hopkins and the Baroness d’Orczy) and 2) not entirely unrelatedly, I grew up, went to grad school, and did a lot of reading about power, gender, and race in the British Empire. This book is a penny dreadful adventure/romance that obviously needs to be adapted into a miniseries if and only if the production team has read Homi Bhabha on ambivalence and is ready to get subversive. That said... get ready for a tale of heroism! romance! and very large explosions!

Our eponymous hero is Captain Athelstan King, officer in the Khyber Rifles. Despite having the most English name possible, he has lived in India all his life, like generations of his forebears. And it is precisely because of this background, and this cultural fluency and sympathy, that he is picked for a Dangerous Top-Secret Mission. (India is described as having “pickled his heritage” by English officers who also think he is weird because he sits around reading books.) In response to the general giving him his orders:

King grunted with the lids half-lowered over full dark eyes. He did not look especially handsome in that attitude. Some men swear he looks like a Roman, and others liken him to a gargoyle, all of them choosing to ignore the smile that can transform his whole face instantly.

Gargoyle-hot! culturally-hybrid! This is the kind of hero I signed up for. 

Since WWI is happening, Britain wants to guard the Northwestern Frontier; Punjabi troops are racing westward to France and there needs to be a Raj for them to come back to. Do I want to be on the production team for a miniseries that introduces the independence movement into all this? yes. King’s mission is to quell or prevent the rebellion and/or invasion that threatens from what is now Afghanistan. And to do this, he must work with Yasmini, the biracial widow of a rajah, now a dangerously knowledgeable, infamously capable spy. King is given her photograph:

King took the package and for a minute stared hard at the likeness of a woman whose fame has traveled up and down India, until her witchery has become a proverb. [...] The general watched his face with eyes that missed nothing.

“Remember--I said work with her!”

It was at this point that I texted my sister and said that I would riot if this did not lead to torrid romance. In beginning his mission, King proceeds to:

stuff his face with curry to avoid awkward questions (relatable)

be subtly insulting to English officers

use Hindi honorifics for local railway clerks

get an assassin arrested

avoid getting stabbed by a second assassin

keep Assassin #2′s knife, the handle of which is molded in the shape of Yasmini’s body

(yes really)

Having arrived in Delhi, he proceeds to form a very flirtatiously charged alliance with a young Rajput warrior, whose elegant wrists and figure are dwelt on at such length that I promptly concluded that either 1) this novel was, whether intentionally or not, much queerer than supposed or 2) the Rajput was Yasmini cross-dressing. The author is too coy to give us explicit textual confirmation of the latter. But the Rajput’s eyes are described as “hot pools of mystery,” a twin challenge to the seductive dancing girls with which “he” surrounds King. Ahem.

Our hero then forms a partnership with Ismail, the Afridi warrior who is assigned to him by Yasmini as a guide and guardian, and proceeds to break 30 tribesmen out of a British prison, which he can do because 1) Yasmini (still cross-dressing) has given him a talisman 2) he speaks Pashto and Hindi, and the jailer doesn’t.

Accompanied by his lively and now at least conditionally devoted retinue, King ascends into the Hindu Kush, but not before contemplating it in “wan, weird moonlight.” He arranges a meeting with his younger brother, which gives rise to the following delightful dialogue:

“Glad to see you, old man,” said Athelstan.

“Sure, old chap!” said Charles; and they shook hands.

“What's the desperate proposal?” asked the younger.

“I'll tell you when we are alone.”

He then disguises himself as a Rajasthani doctor, discovers a secret passage, and proceeds to penetrate the stronghold of Yasmini, which is a cave (subtle.) He still wears the knife next to his skin. But he is playing a dangerous game between the faction of those who openly hate him, and that of her men, and which way she will throw herself in the political balance is uncertain. He narrowly escapes death at the hands of angry warriors by displaying his brother’s severed head to them, and then narrowly escapes death crawling over a mountainside in the dark. He is told that unless he flees for his life, he will cease to be himself. He then meets Yasmini in her own person (“Touch and scent and confidence, all three were bewitching; all three were calculated, too.”) The romance, it is TORRID. And it takes less than half a page to get from “the delirium of human passion loosed and given” (HELLO) to “You think because I love you, you can feed my love on a plate to the Indian government?” I enjoy adventure novels precisely for this reason.

Yasmini writes a letter to King’s superior officers informing them that he is a traitor (obviously wrong, also bad.) King is then captured by the large, brutal, and cynical warlord who is leading a campaign down into India (arguably worse.) He is still successfully passing himself off as a doctor (having done all that reading-up on medicine and surgery in the early chapters. Love a bit of narrative payoff.) At the warlord’s direction, he writes a letter to Yasmini... but he writes in Urdu, a language the other man does not read; he praises her beauty and her wisdom, begs for her loyalty, and pledges her his devotion (swoon.)

Then Yasmini -- still dressed as the Rajput warrior -- shows up and tries to kill him. They proceed to have a very sexually-charged fight, after which King gloomily concludes that Yasmini must be this “other man’s” lover. (Is our hero really that oblivious at this point? Apparently!) Fortunately, Ismail shows up helps set in motion King’s Cunning Plan™ of winning over the hostile army by which he is surrounded. It helps that he’s been tending their wounds and curing their ailments for the past few days. With this secret secondary mission, he marches back to the mountain stronghold in the power of the enemy warlord. Said warlord proceeds to march into the stronghold... and Yasmini blows the whole thing up using her stockpiled dynamite. It is at this point that King figures out who the slender warrior who tried to kill him is.

Reeling with exhaustion and a sense of anti-climax, King and the disguised Yasmini and a miniature army of men with their households behind them tramp down from the hills. King’s friend Courtenay, at his request, allows him to take a bath, but is so stand-offish in his manner that King asks why, only to be informed that he’s been put under arrest for treason. This is only resolved after the following astonishing sequence:

And then the general came and did not wait for King to get dressed but burst into the bathroom and shook hands with him while he was still naked and asked ten questions (like a gatling gun) while King was getting on his trousers, divining each answer after the third word and waving the rest aside.

I just... I just like this weird book. King tells his tale to the general, breaks the cross-dressing woman who loves him out of jail, and eats bread and cocoa while debriefing. And that’s the end! except that the readers who have hung on through all of this are promised that “the chances for intrigue are almost infinite, given such combination as King and Yasmini and a love affair.”

--The End--

[giingers]

I have a second request, “I can’t sleep, can I stay here?” with Tommy.

Enjoy my love!!

17: “I can’t sleep, can I stay here?” 

Insomnia seemed to be a horrid and clinging side effect of war, and the wretched spell of sleeplessness had clung itself to Tommy Shelby completely. His mind never rested without the sultry lull of opium, and even then it was short lived, the deep metal clack of shovels against dirt echoing deafeningly through his surroundings and breaking up any temporary peace he could find.

He had spent the last few hours tossing and turning tirelessly, his limbs aching in that bone deep way, but still his mind would not delve into the promise of sleep. He had sat by the fire and had hoped the heat would swaddle him in a comforting embrace, one that would eventually cause him to droop into slumber. But that hadn't worked either.

So now he was confined to an insomniac's prison; mind springing livily with each step while his body screamed at him with an unrequited request for sleep. But he knew no matter how much his tired limbs needed the peace, he didn't really welcome the thought of becoming vulnerable and allowing himself to be a vessel for his nightmares to materialise in.

He couldn't bare the thought of waking up sweating profusely and grappling for an anchor that would bring him back to reality. He couldn't bear to see Freddie's face behind his lids, dirt scattered across his cheeks and a terrified look in his eyes. He didn't want to see Danny's face contort with fear or hear his dull screams again.

So the empty streets of Birmingham became his distraction away from war torn night terrors, and he focused solely on the click of his shoes against the cobblestones and the soft drip of the gutters that the nights flash of rain ran through. Tommy walked for a while, long enough to see the sky change from obsidian black to a dull navy, the world changing with the promise of sunrise. But he walked on, not really knowing where he was heading to, but when the front door of your house loomed towards him he knew exactly why he'd come here.

He knocked gently after a moment of hesitation, but he could tell you were awake since there was a dim glow coming from the window where the fire was lighting and a flicker of movement caught his eye behind the eyelet curtain.

The door was pulled open, and there standing in a ruby red robe, hair cascading down her face and eyes widened as she took Tommy in, was the only person who could dispel all thoughts of France. Shovels digging against dirt, the ripping sound of bullets against flesh, the cries of men and the smell of blood dissipated with one look at you.

"Y/n" Tommy sighed wistfully as if he was only meeting you for the first time. But in truth he'd known you since you were a girl, nothing but a slip of a thing with a wild look in your eye and a talent for mischief. But now before him stood a woman who had his heart completely even if you didn't know it.

"Tommy, is everything alright?" you asked him, checking behind his shoulder for any other infamous members of the Birmingham crime gang but no one else was stalking the shadows.

"I can't sleep, can I stay here?" he asked you in that rough voice of his, his words trickling with a deep sadness that caused the muscle in your chest to twitch.

"Come in" you held the door open for him, knowing full well you'd never deny him the comfort he so often found in you.

Nothing romantic had ever happened between you and Tommy, but there was a naive hope buried within you that told you he felt the same way. But men like Tommy weren't actively in touch with their emotions so mixed signals were often a barrier in your relationship. You'd known him most of your life, since you'd been Ada's best friend for years, but something about Tommy had always caused you to gravitate towards him. And he to you.

Before he went to France a moment between you two had happened that had caused you to believe there would be an abvious shift in your relationship; but the tolling bells of war had rang out clearly, and with them all the men you cared for deeply had been shipped away with the promise of gallant glory bestowed on their shoulders.

Not all of them had returned.

Tommy stepped inside and took off his hat as soon as he walked into the parlour, the flickering glow of the fire casting itself against his face. You took a step closer to him then, your eyes taking in the pale pallor of his skin and the ghostly look in his eyes.

"How long has it been since you slept last?" you asked him caringly but like always Tommy deflected from the conversation, instead turning his eyes towards the stack of letters that were strewn against the table.

He could make out his own scrawl and he fingered the crackly paper as he picked a letter up, one of the many ones he had written to you while he was away. He had written you countless letters during his time in France and you had kept him updated about business back home and all the seemingly mundane affairs that were happening in Birmingham. Your letters had kept him sane, and he had hunkered down in the trenches, holding your letters close and wishing he had told you he loved you before he left.

But perhaps it had been for the best, since the man that had loved you was long gone. And all that was left was a traumatised shell of a man who's violent nightmares were taking control of his sanity.

"You kept all these?" Tommy asked you softly and you slid up close beside him, your warmth soothing him more than you'd ever know.

"Every one" you smiled at him "I think I read each of them a hundred times the day I got them. I felt close to you somehow, like you were still here in England and not.....there"

Your voice cracked at the end and as Tommy shuffled through the letters on the table he came across one that caused his heart to still.

My dearest sister, it began, the men grow weary in this camp, and talk of being home for Christmas is all that can rouse them. I hope that what they say is true and that I too will be home in Birmingham before then, perhaps by then this war will be done with and I will be back home......

"He was a good lad" Tommy stopped reading the letter, placing it down on the table with the others and turning to you. He noticed then for the first time that your eyes were rimmed red and your face pale. You'd been crying, he could tell.

"Yeah, he was" you whispered, your eyes falling onto the signature of your brothers name that rested at the bottom of the letter. It bore into you like a hot iron of red, and pierced you with cuts that stung achingly in the place your heart beat.

This war had been hard on all of the men that had trekked to the front lines, but the women who were left behind to mourn their families were torn with anguish too. You had lost people you'd loved, and with that thought, Tommy brought you close to him with strong arms.

"He was a brave kid. Braver than most men twice his age, and he did all of England proud" Tommy told you softly, running a hand through your hair as you cried against his chest.

"Brave and stupid" you almost laughed, wiping tears from your face harshly as you looked up at Tommy, his beautiful blue eyes piercing into you.

"Aye, us Birmingham lads are all a bit stupid" Tommy said with a smile, his hands coming to cup your face.

"I don't sleep so well either, you know. I just found myself sitting here reading these letters and thinking of everything and I've tried to sleep but I can't seem to" you told him, pulling away from him to fetch a cotton handkerchief that lay on a chair to wipe your eyes.

"I don't think I've slept properly in a year" Tommy confessed to you, his shoulders drooping with the weight of everything that has been weighing him down "but you've always helped me feel better, no matter what"

"I'm glad you came home, Tommy" you said to him, the pricking of traitor tears stinging your eyes.

"You're the reason I came home" he said softly, his eyes shyly meeting yours to take in your reaction, but you just stood there motionless for a minute as you took in his words.

"What do you mean?" you whispered to him, your voice shaking as you spoke.

"Every time I felt like giving up I'd think of you, or read your letters, and I knew I wanted to come home to you. I should have told you before I left how I love you, but I'm saying it now because when I can't fucking sleep or when things get too much its you I go to" Tommy confessed to you, a rare look of vulnerability in his eyes when you didn't answer right away ".....ah I don't know what's brought this on, just forget I ever said anything. I haven't been sleeping so I'm not thinking straight"

"You love me?" you asked him in disbelief, staring at him across your dimly lit parlour.

"Ever since you burst into our house, giggling with Ada on your arm" he said "we were kids, but I knew I loved you as sure as I know I love you now. If you don't love me too, I won't pursue you or torment you. I still want to be your friend, and hope that you don't feel like this has to stop you being a part of the family"

"Oh Tommy! I love you too" you rushed forward into his arms, and when he caught you against him it didn't take him a moment to place his lips on yours.

He kissed you softly and lovingly at first, but more passion was ignited in his lips when his rough hands came to your face. You clung to him desperately, never wanting to let him go, but he pulled away gently after a minute and allowed himself to take you in. His eyes studied every crevice of your face up close, and how your eyes sparkled with the light of the fire.

"Let's go to sleep, my love" he whispered to you, his thumb tracing the red jut of your bottom lip. You nodded, taking his hand in yours and leading him towards your room.

He lay in your arms that night, weightless with the peace of sleep that had eventually clouded over him. You just watched him as he slept, stroking his handsome face gently while not knowing how each loving caress of yours dispelled any nightmares in Tommy's head, replacing them with dreams of you.

[ofdeath]

OFF THE DEEP END.  ( 1 / ?? )

His eyelashes fluttered slowly, lids painfully pulling themselves open to the sight of this thin ray of sunlight passing through a hole in his prison. It took the pirate a moment to recover his senses as the buzz in his skull faded bit by bit ; first, he heard the sea and the waves that carried the ship he was trapped in, the footsteps of a crew upon the board and then incomprehensible orders being shooted over all that cacophony. The man’s hand came to his forehead and something warm coated his palm, the rare lighting illuminated the deep red stain. Well, he thought, a hit to the forehead with the butt of a gun sure was meant to leave at least a bruise, didn’t think that bastard would take such pleasure in it and hit a couple times more. The pirate attempted to sit up but the chains attached to his wrists kept him from moving as freely as he would have wished, the same chains also connected to his ankles with a boulder at the end of them.

His dark red hair stuck to his forehead where the wound bled and where sweat and saltwater made his skin shiny ; he let his ears travel, above the constant hum of the waves the man singled out the order to drop the anchor alongside approaching footsteps. A sneer escaped the restrained prisoner.

So they had finally decided to come collect me, huh?

“Blimey! Ah, here they appear into me humble lil’ hold!” The pirate’s lips curved in a sinister sharp smile and revealed the sight of golden canines that matched the hue of his eyes. His amber gaze looked as if it was piercing through the darkness of his cell and directly stared into the soul of the two men that presented themselves to him. “The lily-livered traitors that decided to make me fish food, ay?” 

His cold eyes fell upon the youngest of the two men and the one that seemed the most uncomfortable, he fidgeted with his fingers and bounced from one feet to the other awkwardly while avoiding any eye contact with his former captain. He didn’t seem quite alright with the decision of the other guys but, during a mutiny, anybody caught siding with the captain is meant for the same fate as he. 

He still found the young man pathetic.

“What’s the matter, fella? What’s got ye lookin’ so down?”

“Captain…” The young man, who was also the shorter one of the two, seemed to try and choose his words wisely while the other one kept his eyes focused on the chained prisoner ; a certain emotion in his features. “The guys ain’t lookin’ to throw ye out to the sea if only ye choose to step down with no fight. This can still be changed.”

The former captain erupted into terrible laughter in their face, his head rolled back against the rotten wet wood as uninterrupted chortles left his throat ; it took him a moment before he settled down again. Bet even the others up on the deck could have heard that.

“Me name’s Rhaast, the man known as The Red Reaper, captain of the Red Death. Ain’t no one gonna hear me beg or plead for livin’ me life. Ye better kill me and keep me dead or else I’ll come hauntin’ ye assholes ‘round the damn world.” 

That grin was synonym of threat and the crewmates knew it better than anybody else and they also knew that the discussion would lead them nowhere therefore they left the pirate to await the moment of his execution.

Said moment didn’t take much time to present itself, the significant noise of keys clicking against one another and bars being pushed open pulled Rhaast from his mind and he looked up to see the one that had robbed him of his status. A mouth opened and words were being spewed but the pirate cared little about listening and instead he spat at the ground near the man’s feet. It said enough about his thoughts.

All he remembered before the dark engulfed him was being roughly shoved towards the plank trapped in a tornado of screams and swears before being thrown into the saltwater. His restraints dragged him to the deep and the pressure strangled him. The salt began to burn Rhaast’s eyes although he was able to catch the sight of the ship’s anchor being lifted off the sea bottom before his consciousness left.

He wondered how death would feel like and if he would arrive into a land that resembled nothing he had seen of the world before. He hoped he would be reincarnated as a ghost so he could haunt the living.

And yet when the man opened his eyes he wasn’t met with the sight of the underworld or wherever the dead was supposed to be sent to, he was met with another pair of eyes that stared back at his ; big, round eyes that resembled two jewels left at the bottom of the sea, eyes that were not quite human at all with slits as pupils and black in the place of the white. Rhaast was about to speak but a sudden cough shook his entire form and he rolled to the side in order to throw up the water still filling his lungs, the salt still burned his insides which was proof enough he was still in the world of the living.

“I believe you should remain still,” A voice came to his ears and he found it to be quite calming with an elegance that contrasted the ones he’s heard for years, it sounded almost like a melody where each word followed a precise rhythm. “Humans are such fragile creatures, with bones that break as easily as seashells and skin softer than anything I have ever felt.”

“What?”

Rhaast’s body rolled on his back again, the wet sand rubbing against the back of his neck, finally his gaze wandered to the being’s features who was leaning over him while observing him curiously. Besides the infinitely deep eyes, he caught the sight of iridescent scales in the place of skin and gills to each side of a long neck framed by a wild white mane that almost looked transparent in some places. The pirate’s hazy mind dug into some of his memories, tales of creatures of the sea and among them the word “mermaid” surfaced among others. 

“Ain’t yer kind called mermaids?”

The mermaid nodded.

“Came to eat me, huh? Steal me soul or somethin’?”

“If those were my intentions do you believe I would have waited for you to wake?”

An amused exhale escaped him through his nose, a slight smile moving his lips as his amber gaze turned to the waves crashing against the shore not so far from them, licking at the tips of his red hair spilled against the sand like a pool of blood. 

“I have seen you fall into the sea, pushed from your ship into the deep. It made me wonder…” Slowly, the mermaid adjusted her position as she leaned away from the pirate, her long tail now coming into view. If the scales around her face were already quite beautiful to look at, the ones that decorated her tail were maybe even more ; they reminded him of sun rays hitting a necklace made of pearls. “Do humans love killing each others in such cold ways?”

Rhaast released a hoarse chortle and immediately regretted it as pain stung his lungs, he was amused at her question nonetheless.

“Cold ways? Tis’ just the norm with pirates, beauty. Ye either live or get turned into shark bait, these bastards caught me off guard and threw me overboard out of me damn ship.” Yet, a grin full of teeth decorated his lips that contradicted the tone of his words ; he was supposed to be dead, he was dead back there but for some lucky reason fate had given him another chance.

The pirate sat up and he felt like he took a blow to his head all of a sudden which caused him to black out once more ; thankfully the mermaid had been quick enough to catch him with her tail in order to keep him from further wounding himself by hitting his head against a rock. 

A sigh. She had especially told him to not move yet.

“Humans truly are frail creatures.”

[notapaladin]

tell the world that we finally got it all right

Instead of asking Acatl’s permission to court Mihmatini at the end of SotU, Teomitl asks Acatl’s permission to court him. When Acatl accepts, he finds himself falling in love over fierce determination, infectious smiles, and eminently practical gifts.

Also on AO3!

-

“I still have to get your permission to court you, after all.”

Acatl was absolutely sure he could not have heard right. Maybe he’d hit his head in the fighting and was just now realizing it. Maybe he’d fallen asleep and this was a dream. Maybe he was dead. But the city spread out below him was still lit by torches for the funeral vigils, and there was none of the acrid smell of Mictlan in his nose. He stared out at the light reflecting on the canals, felt a breeze ruffle his cloak, and tried to form words. “You want to what,” he managed, through numb lips that didn’t seem to be attached to the rest of him.

Teomitl was still looking at him, and still smiling like the dawn. “You heard me.”

He opened his mouth. He closed his mouth.

Now, it wasn’t unheard of for priests to marry; they were not allowed children, and were still prohibited from unions that could result in them, but for two men or two women to marry was an acknowledged...well, not precisely a loophole in the vows, but certainly a long-established and permissible bending. His own mentor’s husband had died before Acatl had met him, but the man had worn the single red-wrapped braid of a married priest until his own death. Still, it was one thing to know in theory that it could happen, and another for it to be happening to him. He was High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli. He dealt with rituals, and his temple, and the bodies of the dead. He did not—had never even thought he might, no matter his most secret desires—deal with the bodies of the living. And now Teomitl, the bright and beautiful youngest brother of the Revered Speaker, was casually bringing up the idea of courting him as though it didn’t turn his world upside down.

He took a breath. Good, he could still do that and not feel like he might faint. “...Why?!”

Alright, that sounded more like a strangled parrot, but Teomitl didn’t seem to mind. His gaze softened when their eyes met. “You’re brave. Intelligent. Patient. Considerate. A diligent and honest and honorable man, and I don’t meet very many of those.” Then he grinned, sharp. “And you’re very, very handsome, which doesn’t hurt.”

Acatl heard himself make a sound that wasn’t connected to any kind of word. His face felt like it was on fire.

“...That,” Teomitl added matter-of-factly, “was the short version. I can come up with the longer version once I’ve had a bit more sleep.”

He thinks all that of me—wait, he thinks I’m handsome? Me? Me?! An objection reared up from the stunned blankness of his mind. “I thought you were interested in my sister.” Yes, that made sense. Mihmatini was beautiful and strong, after all, and Teomitl should be interested in her. Not in him, a man of no great looks or fame or physical prowess.

Teomitl looked almost embarrassed at that. Almost. “...Your sister is very pretty, and I’m very impressed by her magic. But she’s not you.”

And it’s you I want, he didn’t say, but Acatl could feel the shape of the words between them. He willed his heart to dislodge itself from his throat. Yes, part of him was...was interested, he couldn’t lie about that, but there were more considerations at hand than just his feelings. There had to be. “And you still want me to teach you the magic of living blood.”

Now Teomitl actually looked embarrassed. Acatl wished he didn’t find it endearing. “You...are all those things I just mentioned. I know I need—that is, if you want to teach me, I want to learn from you. It’s just that...in addition...well.”

In addition, he wanted to court him. Acatl swallowed a few times until he thought he could speak without being half-choked by the shock of it. “...I’ll think about it. When this evening is over.”

There were still vigils to stand, after all. Teomitl seemed to relax at that, surprisingly; Acatl wondered if he was as nervous as he was at the idea of courting someone. If he was, it showed only in the new set of his shoulders. “Right. Let’s go, then.”

They went.

Unfortunately for Acatl’s peace of mind, the chants for the souls of the dead were something he could recite in his sleep, and so they provided absolutely no distractions. His head still felt like it was spinning, like any moment he might fall over and need Teomitl’s strong arms to hold him up. And he does have very nice arms, came a particularly traitorous thought from the back of his mind. He sternly told it to shut up. True, Teomitl was an attractive young man—he was sworn to Lord Death but he was neither dead nor blind, and had definitely noticed rippling muscles and that bold, warm smile—but that didn’t make marriage a good idea.

Even if he was brave and bold and honest. Even if he’d made arrangements for that old woman, Mazatl’s grandmother, to be provided for. Even if that smile had made an answering one curve at his own lips. Even if Acatl, as a High Priest, was surely a worthy match for a youth of imperial blood.

Even if…

When he finally went to his mat cold and alone as he always did—it had never bothered him until then, until someone had asked to share it—he closed his eyes and saw Teomitl’s smile on the inside of his lids. He thought of magic like sunlight, skilled and confident hands, a determination to live up to a dead mother’s valor that had led him to Tlalocan by his side. And he knew what answer he’d be giving Teomitl in the morning.

“Yes,” he’d say, “you can court me.”

&

Teomitl did not, surprisingly, fling himself into Acatl’s arms when he told him the good news, but he looked very much as though he wanted to. Acatl felt himself blush all over again at being the source of all the joy in his face, moreso when he bowed and said simply, “You honor me, Acatl-tzin.”

They were alone in the courtyard of Teomitl’s rooms at the palace. If they’d been a man and a maid, they would have had a chaperone; Acatl was intensely thankful that they weren’t and didn’t. If he’d had an audience for what he did next—what, in fact, he’d been thinking of doing since waking up that morning—he might have actually died.

He stepped forward, reached out, and took Teomitl’s hand lightly in his own. It was calloused and warm and fit perfectly against his, and he never wanted to let go. Teomitl’s head snapped up and his lips parted and Acatl thought oh no but resolutely ignored it long enough to say, “If you’re serious about courting me, shouldn’t you be calling me Acatl?”

Teomitl’s throat worked as he swallowed. “...Alright. Acatl.” Gods, he was flushed and a little stunned and it was...he was…

Lovely. Acatl met his eyes and felt a little like he had in Tlalocan—like he should be drowning, except somehow he was still breathing air. He was suddenly very aware that there was, technically, nothing separating them from a kiss. With difficulty, he forced that awareness down and made himself continue with what he’d planned on saying. “I’ve thought it over, and if we’re going to do this properly, we need to set some rules.”

Teomitl’s expression changed, and he held himself a little straighter—a warrior, not a young lover. Some part of Acatl’s brain applauded his choice. “Name them.”

Acatl had to look away, though he kept his hold on Teomitl’s hand. He’d come up with the rules that morning and had felt very smart then, but now the words seemed to be slow in coming. “You can’t give me anything worth more than two cotton cloaks.”

“That’s hardly anything at all!”

“It’s quite a lot for the average person, and I don’t have any use for needless luxury. Practical gifts only.” When Teomitl—pouting slightly—nodded, he continued, “While I’m giving you lessons in magic, I am your teacher, not your lover, and I expect you to take those lessons seriously. No flirting until we’ve put our supplies away.” He’d decided after considerable thought that he wouldn’t mind flirting in general, but there had to be limits for safety’s sake if nothing else. Heightened emotions and sharp objects didn’t mix well, even before you added magic.

That got a mildly incredulous look. “Of course.”

Huh. I’d thought he’d put up more of a fight about that. “No parading our relationship around at the palace until we’re—if we’re married, I won’t have your standing damaged by association with me—”

Teomitl choked, fingers tightening around Acatl’s to the point of pain. “Damaged by association—Acatl!” And now he was glaring at him, though there were no threatening jade ripples in his eyes.

Acatl blinked back at him. “...You have to have noticed Tizoc-tzin hates me.”

He grimaced, waving a hand. “Tizoc has fine qualities, but the ability to see past his own nose is not one of them. You are wonderful, Acatl, and anyone who doesn’t see that isn’t someone whose opinions I care about.”

Acatl’s blush returned with reinforcements. “I. Uh.” Then he shook himself, tried to gather his thoughts again, and came up with, “When Axayacatl-tzin dies, Tizoc-tzin will almost certainly be Emperor, and then he’ll be the one who decides whether you can marry at all. Please, Teomitl. Don’t antagonize him.”

Teomitl sighed. “...Very well. Though really, I think you sell yourself far too short. I did promise you the long list of reasons why I want to court you, didn’t I?”

“...That’s not necessary.” Mostly because he was pretty sure he’d spontaneously combust if one was produced, and he was starting to suspect that Teomitl was the sort to fulfill his promises to the letter.

Teomitl still didn’t look pleased, but he nodded. “If you say so. What else?”

He drew in a slow breath. Here was a rule he’d wrestled with, but it seemed fair enough. “...Absolutely no public displays of…” He gestured with his free hand, since it didn’t seem like Teomitl was going to let his other one go anytime soon. “Affection.”

He watched as Teomitl’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully and therefore saw the exact moment he spotted the gap Acatl had left in his words. “Hmm.” Then he took a half-step forward and tilted his face up, meeting Acatl’s gaze head-on. “We aren’t in public right now.”

Even though he’d been expecting it, the words still made his skin warm in a way he couldn’t blame on the sun. “No,” he agreed. “We aren’t.” And he’d known they weren’t, but having the knowledge laid out so plainly in front of him was a different beast entirely. He couldn’t tear himself away from the warmth of Teomitl’s eyes or that of the hand in his. Almost unconsciously, his gaze fell to the fullness of his lips. He’d never been kissed before, but he was very willing to try.

A pink tongue slipped out to moisten lightly-parted lips, and Acatl’s blood roared so that he almost missed Teomitl breathing a question into the air between them. “Can I kiss you, then?”

He swallowed hard. One kiss, whispered his mind. You can afford one kiss and still keep your self-control, still comport yourself with the dignity of a High Priest. But Teomitl was so close, so warm, and his mouth looked so terribly, terribly soft and tempting. He might take that one kiss—it was an impropriety allowed for a courting couple, surely—but he didn’t know if he’d want to stop.

So he stepped back and pulled his hand away, fighting back an urge to smooth his unruffled hair. His heart was still thumping erratically inside his chest. “...Maybe later. After we’ve seen if I can teach you anything at all about magic.”

&

It would have been easier if Teomitl was a terrible pupil. If he was rude or impatient or disrespectful, if he dismissed the very real risks of working the magic of living blood. Then Acatl could have looked at him, shaken his head, and declared that they would not suit—that his heart would be remaining safely ensconced in his chest, thank you, and not held out tenderly on a platter for someone else to tear apart. Of course he wouldn’t have been happy about it, but it would have been easier. He was used to being alone. He was half expecting it, anyway; surely a proud young warrior of imperial blood wouldn’t be willing to lower himself for so long, especially not in front of someone he wanted to court.

And so of course, Teomitl proved all his expectations false. While it was blazingly clear that he could be rude, impatient, disrespectful, and generally as abrasive as the rough side of an adobe wall, it was also just as clear that he was trying to temper all those bad habits. Not very successfully sometimes—there were times when he made comments that, if Acatl had been a much sterner teacher, would absolutely have earned a slap—but there was effort being made there. And it was equally clear that he was approaching his lessons with the sober and careful air of a man who was determined to learn, and who wouldn’t let himself be distracted for long even if he found himself visibly and adorably flustered each time they brushed hands. It was a reaction Acatl couldn’t blame him for; their lessons necessitated that they touch frequently, and frankly he wasn’t the only one affected. Teomitl was simply…

Well.

He was nothing like Payaxin. Payaxin had been eager and enthusiastic, each new lesson a grand adventure; Teomitl was eager, true, but his eagerness was tempered by a grave and intense determination to get each spell right, and the way his brow knit when the magic spiked out of his control or fizzled prematurely made Acatl long to smooth it for him—an impulse he most certainly had not had with his last apprentice. Then again...well, he hadn’t been courting Payaxin, and he was rapidly discovering that some things were very, very different when his apprentice was also the man who made it clear he wanted to marry him.

The man who greeted him with a smile and tucked errant locks of hair behind his ear. The man who he was not only allowed but encouraged to look at when he stretched like a young jaguar—though when he did that, Acatl couldn’t have torn his eyes away whether he’d been allowed or not. The man who not only listened to his lectures on spellcraft but made serious, well-reasoned suggestions for improvement. The man whose laugh made him want to grin back, joy sitting new and unfamiliar in his chest.

They still hadn’t kissed. It had been a month, and they hadn’t kissed. Oh, they were growing closer in other ways—after each lesson they would sit and talk or sometimes go out to the markets for more supplies, and Acatl would learn that Teomitl disliked monkeys, loved the color green, and enjoyed both watching and playing tlachtli, though he refused to bet on the results. Sometimes he would share the better stories of his childhood, and Teomitl would smile and share some of his own. Every time they touched, his heart rolled over like an otter in a stream. Yes, they were definitely courting.

But after that first day, Teomitl hadn’t asked to kiss him again. He was being as respectful and courteous as Acatl could wish for, and at this rate it was going to drive him mad. He heard his voice, watched his lips move, and thought Do it. Grant me permission to want you.

But he didn’t.

Granted, at the moment Acatl thought this they were winding down a lesson, and it was probably difficult for most people to work up the desire to kiss someone when you were actively bleeding. Acatl wouldn’t know. He’d woken up thinking about the sinuous curve of Teomitl’s spine and the dip where his shoulder met his bicep, and the images hadn’t left even while he was paying his devotions to his gods. He’d thought he could probably have driven the knife into his chest and not felt it.

Presumably, Teomitl was more easily distracted. He was currently trying to wrap a bandage around his bleeding forearm one-handed and doing a terrible job of it. As it slipped again, he swore and muttered, “Oh, come on—”

Acatl stepped forward and willed his hands not to shake. “Let me?”

It wasn’t the first time he’d patched Teomitl up after a lesson, but every time—no matter the nature of the wound—the sensation of warm, bare skin at his fingertips sent a shockwave through him. At first he’d dealt with it by being as careful and professional as possible, but…

He’d been so good. He’d denied himself so much. And Teomitl said he wanted to court him; surely it was alright to thrill over the feeling of his skin under his hands. So when Teomitl, leaned over, looking put-upon but trusting, he let his fingers trail over the sturdy bones of his offered wrist for a moment before pressing a fresh pad of dayflower to the short cut a few inches above it. Teomitl’s shiver had nothing to do with pain.

“...Acatl-tzin.” Acatl had heard his name spoken thousands of times, but never like that.

Against his better judgement, he lifted his head to meet Teomitl’s eyes, and the warmth in them struck him to the core. It was a good thing he could wrap and bind wounds in his sleep, because there was no possibility of him being able to tear his gaze away. Teomitl was gazing at him so softly, so—yes, he could think the word, longingly—that it felt like his chest had been hollowed out and refilled with warm honey and butterflies. He drew in a long, aching breath. Teomitl, he thought, and couldn’t bring himself to say the name aloud. They were much closer than he’d realized.

Teomitl licked his lips. “I…”

I could kiss you. He could. Teomitl was right there. And he was catching his bottom lip hesitantly between his teeth, which frankly made Acatl want to bite it for him. He could do it, too; all he would have to do was lean in.

“Can I…?” He barely recognized his own voice, never mind whatever he was actually saying, but it must have reached Teomitl’s ears anyway, because he tilted his face up, a flower towards the sun, in the clearest invitation Acatl had ever seen.

He lowered his head, feeling warm breath tickle his lips...and stopped. He couldn’t make himself close the distance, couldn’t make himself presume that far.

Teomitl whispered his name again. “Acatl.”

Yes, he thought. Yes. Call me by my name when you’re about to kiss me.

They were so close.

“My lords!”

The slave who’d burst into the courtyard looked terrified—as well he should, because Teomitl was glaring not just daggers but all manner of weaponry at him. Still, he held his composure admirably as he continued, “Tizoc-tzin and the Revered Speaker request your presence at once. Both of you.”

Acatl could cheerfully have committed regicide in that moment. He took a deep breath and stepped back, letting go of Teomitl’s arm with a pang. For a long moment, he had to stand with his eyes shut and his hands on the handles of his knives, praying for calm. It almost worked.

Then Teomitl muttered, “Surprised it took them this long,” and his equanimity vanished.

Irritation rose with a nasty, sick feeling of betrayal hot on its heels as he spun to glare at his betrothed. “Excuse me?”

Teomitl had the grace to look sheepish. “Ah. I. Uh. From what I’ve heard—of course they don’t talk to me about it—Tizoc has been trying to turn Axayacatl against you, except I don’t think he’s gotten that far since nobody’s actually forbidden me from seeing you, and it’s not like we’ve been doing anything that would give them cause to think—you won’t even accept gifts from me—anyway. I’m sure Axayacatl will continue being reasonable.”

“You could have warned me,” he snapped.

Teomitl bristled. “I was going to!”

The slave cleared his throat hesitantly. “Ah, my lords?”

Teomitl waved a dismissive hand. “We’ll be there soon. Leave us.” When the slave’s footfalls had died away, he fixed his gaze on the ground. “I didn’t think you’d care,” he gritted out, and Acatl had to strain to hear it. The breath he drew sounded like it pained him. “You didn’t seem particularly enthused about this whole thing in the first place.”

He wondered, distantly, if the sharp pain in his chest was how it felt when your heart broke. “Teomitl.” Further words failed him, so instead of relying on them, he reached out and squeezed Teomitl’s hand hard. You little fool, how could you think I don’t care? Can’t you see my heart in my eyes when I look at you?

Teomitl jolted, twisting so that for a moment Acatl thought he’d pull away—but then his head snapped up, and he fixed him with a glare through suspiciously shiny eyes. “Tell me I’m wrong!”

Ah. Evidently Teomitl couldn’t see his heart in his eyes. He inhaled, thought back over his actions of the past month, and had to admit that...well. Perhaps he had been a bit too hesitant. If Teomitl wanted him—and he clearly did—he would be twice and thrice a fool for denying himself what he wanted in return. His lips almost ached where they’d gone unkissed. “You are wrong.” His voice was low and even, and he was proud of himself for that. “I care very, very much. I would never have agreed to any of this if I didn’t. You are brave and honest and smart and yes, sometimes you infuriate me, but getting to know you has been the most…” He shook his head, unable to come up with the right words, and settled for the simple truth. “You make me feel alive.”

Teomitl looked stunned. There was joy leaking around the edges of his expression, but his face clearly couldn’t decide whether to start beaming yet or not. “...Truly?”

“I will never lie to you.” His heart was strangely steady; now that he’d said what needed to be said, it seemed his body had decided there was no need to panic. Besides, from the look on Teomitl’s face, his betrothed needed him to be the calm one, and that felt right. He couldn’t do much for him in this world of imperial politics, but he could do that. “Let’s see what your brothers have to say about us, hm?”

“...Alright,” Teomitl whispered back.

They held hands the entire walk there, discretion be damned.

It was quite a trek, which unfortunately gave Acatl ample time to regret his earlier display of confidence. I’ve never met Axayacatl-tzin, but Tizoc-tzin hates priests in general and me in particular. I can’t see this ending well. Even if Axayacatl-tzin approves, there will be a rift there, and it will be my fault. I’ll tear another family apart, just by existing.

When they arrived, laying their sandals neatly by the door, the audience chamber was empty of other petitioners. There was only them—and, at the far side, Axayacatl and Tizoc. The Revered Speaker sat beside a golden screen, not behind it, and when they knelt he bade them rise with a wave of his hand. He looked pale and shrunken, the skin stretched tight over the planes of his skull, but his eyes were clear. “So, you’re the man Our youngest brother intends to marry. The High Priest for the Dead. Cicuacen Acatl, wasn’t it?” His voice was a phlegmy-sounding rasp that made Acatl wince.

“Yes, my lord.” He kept his eyes lowered. They weren’t holding hands anymore, but he was acutely aware of Teomitl’s presence besides him.

He was also aware of the way Tizoc was glaring at both of them. No—at him. The glare was definitely aimed at him. “You see, my lord brother? Look at this—at this priest, who thinks he can meddle in the affairs of our family.”

“Tizoc—” Teomitl began.

“I see the priest,” Axayacatl said dryly.

Tizoc turned the edge of that glare on his own brother, gesturing between Acatl and Teomitl as though they’d committed some great crime. Acatl supposed that by his standards, maybe they had. “Then you must understand why this...travesty cannot be allowed to continue.”

“It’s been a month, and if We had not seen it for Ourselves We wouldn’t have known they were courting at all. They have been most admirably discreet. In fact…” He leaned forward, peered at Acatl for a moment, and nodded firmly. “This is the first time We have met him. Hardly the actions of a man seeking his own power and glory.”

Temporarily stymied, Tizoc changed his battle tactics. “Teomitl, you can’t possibly be serious about lowering yourself to—”

“I am,” Teomitl snarled.

With all three brothers in the same room, the resemblance was so obvious that Acatl couldn’t imagine how it had taken him so long to spot it. But where Tizoc’s anger was a sick, vicious thing, the snapping of a wounded dog’s jaws, Teomitl’s rage shone like the gold of a jaguar’s coat. It made him want to kneel again, but instead he took a long breath and thought Oh. That’s the sort of man I’m marrying.

“You want to marry him? To bring him into our family? That—that peasant’s son?!”

Axayacatl didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. “That peasant’s son is still the High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli. Regardless of his origins, that makes him more than a fit match for Our youngest brother. I daresay his age may even make him a steadying influence, which We think Is sorely needed.”

“But he—”

Axayacatl ignored him. “Teomitl. You’re sure you want this man for a husband?”

“I do.” There was no hesitation at all.

“My lord,” Tizoc said. He sounded horrified.

The Revered Speaker continued to ignore him. All his attention was on Teomitl, who he favored with a smile even as he sank back on his throne. He had to clear his throat several times before speaking. “You have my blessing. You’re both dismissed.”

Tizoc’s eyes narrowed, fists clenching before, with something like a spasm, he made them relax. He looked as though he might have quite liked to tear Acatl limb from limb. Acatl remembered the sham of Neutemoc’s trial, remembered the way Tizoc had sneered at him, and felt the shadow of his own rage stir in his breast. Stir...and then subside, because Axayacatl was coughing and looked pained and he remembered with slowly rising dread that a man’s blessing meant nothing if he died the day after giving it.

But they’d been dismissed, and so at least Acatl wouldn’t show fear in front of his enemies.

They stepped into the next courtyard, and he realized he was shaking like the reed he’d been named for. Teomitl was steady and tense and immovable by his side, unaffected by how close they’d come to a disaster. He almost couldn’t breathe, never mind think. I knew this would happen. I knew Tizoc-tzin was going to oppose us. Now Axayacatl-tzin is dying and Tizoc will be next in line and when he’s crowned—when he’s crowned…

“...Acatl?” Teomitl’s voice held the careful, wary note of a man who wasn’t sure of his partner’s emotional state and didn’t want to see it get worse.

He didn’t bother to soften the blow. “I told you this would happen.”

Teomitl sucked in a breath and met his eyes. “Acatl—”

But now that the floodgates had been opened, he couldn’t stop. “Tizoc-tzin hates us. You for marrying beneath you, and me for having the temerity to rise above my station in life. You heard him—I may be the High Priest for the Dead, but to him I’ll never be anything more than the son of peasants. And you saw how Axayacatl-tzin looked; it will only be a matter of time until the council’s voted in Tizoc-tzin to replace him. He’ll never allow us to—” To live together. To be married. To be happy. I was a fool to think otherwise. He didn’t get a chance to say any of that, because Teomitl stepped into his personal space and grabbed his arms so that he couldn’t twist away.

Teomitl’s eyes burned, and his voice when he spoke was a growl like a jaguar’s. “I don’t care what he’ll allow,” he snarled.

And then he kissed him. Hard.

When he’d imagined his first kiss, he’d pictured something sweet and careful, something that slid against him like warm water. This...was not that. This was messy and rough, Teomitl’s tongue licking into his mouth and his fingers digging hard into his biceps, anchoring him to the earth as surely as the foundations of the Great Temple, and while his body had absolutely no complaints whatsoever his mind scrambled to catch up. He wasn’t sure what he ought to be doing with his own tongue, for starters.

Teomitl drew away, mouth red and wet. “I’m going to marry you. I swear, I don’t care if Tizoc is next to become the Revered Speaker, if he tries to separate us—”

Acatl kissed him back. It was the only possible outlet for the feelings raging within him, and he put into that kiss all he couldn’t say into words. I want you on my mat and in my life. I want to tie our cloaks together. I want to wake up next to you every morning. If you say you won’t let us be parted, I want to trust you...no, want doesn’t enter into it. I’m going to trust you. His arms slid around Teomitl’s waist and yanked them together, that lean body hard as stone against him, and he had to pull away for a heartbeat to breathe before sealing his mouth over Teomitl’s again. I might...gods, I might love you. Either way, I am never letting you go.

When they broke apart, chests heaving, he breathed, “Axayacatl-tzin has given his blessing. Let’s marry before we lose it.”

Teomitl stared at him, eyes wide. Then he sighed out, “Duality, I love you,” and all Acatl could do was kiss him again.

&

The first courting gift was not delivered to Acatl’s house, but to the temple; three palace slaves arrived early one bright morning to hand over a silver plate embossed with owls and spiders. Acatl, who had expected something pretty and impractical despite trusting Teomitl’s word of honor that all his gifts would serve a purpose, couldn’t even be upset at the expense. A trifle embarrassed, admittedly, but not as much as he probably should have been. It shone like a mirror, so clear and unblemished that he could see his face in it.

It wasn’t a terrible face, he supposed, but he really couldn’t understand what Teomitl saw that made him call him handsome.  

Anyway, after he properly expressed his appreciation for that—really, he’d meant to only give his thanks, but Teomitl had beamed like the sun and then he’d had to kiss him—more gifts began to arrive. Jade hearts, magically imbued knives, warm cloaks for the dry season and straw cloaks for the rainy season. Things that would be useful for his priests, if not the kind of soaringly romantic jewels and flowers that a man in love was supposed to give his intended. Each time he took inventory of whatever Teomitl had sent him this time, he felt himself melt with the sheer rightness of it; the knowledge that he was being courted by a good man settled in his chest like a sleeping hound.

He wasn’t the only one. Ichtaca had begun to smile every time he saw Acatl, which might have been a touching reassurance that he was doing a good job if he didn’t strongly suspect it was more due to his choice in marriage partners. When a finely carved heart of celestial turquoise was delivered one morning—and where Teomitl had gotten his hands on that, Acatl couldn’t even begin to guess—Ichtaca announced it in the same tone a man might use for the birth of a new child.

He lifted his head from the ledgers he was reviewing. Gods, nobody had warned him that the life of a High Priest involved so much paperwork. When he shook out his writing hand, he thought he could have throttled Ceyaxochitl with the other. “That will be useful for when we need to track creatures from the heavens, at least.”

“Indeed.” Ichtaca hummed his approval. After a moment, he added, “Teomitl-tzin is...very generous.”

More generous than you know. Oh, their lessons still continued and Teomitl had kept those strictly and scrupulously professional—gods, Acatl admired him so much—but when their tools were set aside it was a very different story. Then they were free, and Teomitl spared no effort in showing him how much he wanted him. Acatl’s face burned in memory of how heated some of those kisses had gotten. “You think highly of him, don’t you.” The thought filled him with some measure of relief; it would have been a terrible thing to have a husband his Fire Priest disapproved of.

“A High Priest should have a husband,” Ichtaca said simply. “And Teomitl-tzin has shown himself to be considerate and kind. You’ve chosen very well, Acatl-tzin.”

He found himself smiling. I have. Gods, I have. “Thank you.”

And then of course, because he couldn’t have nice things for long, Ichtaca continued, “Oh, but I actually came to tell you that the Guardian is here for you. She’s awaiting you in the receiving room.”

Grimacing, he got to his feet. Ceyaxochitl never brought good news with her. He only hoped it wasn’t another senseless murder or room full of blood. Or another god in the Fifth World. Please, please let it not be that. “...I’ll go and speak with her, then.”

Delaying the advent of trouble didn’t make it better when it finally arrived, after all.

The Temple of Mictlantecuhtli’s receiving room, much like the rest of the complex, wasn’t especially ornate, but it had walls and a ceiling with a skylight, so it fulfilled its function. At present, it also had the Guardian of the Sacred Precinct waiting for him with a slight frown on her lined face.

She neither rose nor bowed. “Acatl.”

He inclined his head politely. “What news do you have for me?”

“Ocelocueitl is dead,” she said bluntly.

It took him a moment to place the name—it meant “ocelot skirt” or “jaguar skirt” and had been astonishingly popular among the young men of his calmecac days—but then he remembered the old priest of Huitzilopochtli and took a deep breath. Well, he told himself, you knew she would bring bad news. It’s only the shape of it that’s a surprise. “...I see.” He hadn’t known the old man well, but that didn’t make his death any less an upheaval. He didn’t really want to think of what it would mean at the palace.

Ceyaxochitl wasn’t giving him a chance to ignore it. “Tizoc-tzin has already appointed his successor, young Quenami. His father and uncles are all Eagle Knights, and his grandfather was Master of the House of Darkness.” A noble, then. She set her walking stick across her lap and met his eyes. “You should be prepared.”

He grimaced and had to swallow down the old familiar tide of bitterness accompanying the mental snarl of I didn’t ask for this! No, he hadn’t. But now that it was put in front of him, he would do his job to the best of his abilities. Still… “You knew I was ill-suited for politics when you put me forth for this position,” he muttered.

She was smiling. That was never a good sign. “Ah. But your husband isn’t, is he?”

The blush felt like it was spreading all the way down to his toes. He opened his mouth, made a slightly strangled noise, and tried again. “My—he’s not—” There were rituals. Ceremonies. Knots to be tied and incense to be offered, and he and Teomitl hadn’t done any of that no matter how much every one of the man’s sunny smiles and glorious kisses made him yearn for it.

She made a little humming noise, unrepentant. “Your intended, then. I admit, this isn’t what I meant when I said a close relationship with him would be to all of our benefits, but I can’t complain about the outcome. Good for you.”

“I…” It was entirely possible that he was never going to stop blushing. His face might be stuck like this for the rest of his life. Teomitl would just have to marry a tomato.

For a moment she seemed to be considering patting his hand sympathetically, but clearly thought better of it. “A word of advice from someone who’s been there—yes, Guardians can and do marry, wipe that shocked look off your face, you look like a concussed deer—is that everyone will fall over themselves to give you advice. Ignore them.”

He swallowed back the first, second, and third questions that sprung to mind and settled on, “I suppose you’re going to say that your advice is best.” Strangely, her meddling did make him feel a bit better; anything was preferable to thinking about his marriage and what came afterwards in front of her.

She shrugged. “My husband and I were married for ten years until his death. We never went to bed angry with each other, and we managed that by talking. If you keep your words bottled up inside, they fester and rot. That’s all I have for you, and I hope you take it to heart.”

He closed his eyes and remembered how he’d thought, so foolishly, that Teomitl could read the secret language of his heart when he didn’t let it show. No, he wouldn’t make that mistake again. “...Thank you.” He made to rise, and Ceyaxochitl didn’t stop him. “I ought to see to Ocelocueitl’s funeral as soon as possible.”

“Mm. Bring Teomitl with you.”

He stiffened. “I don’t need his protection.” Teomitl was strong, brave, and making great strides with his magic, but he was High Priest for the Dead and could take care of himself. He wouldn’t marry the man just to hide behind his shield.

Ceyaxochitl hummed noncommittally. “...Maybe. Maybe not. But you want his company, don’t you?”

He was glad he’d already turned away so that she couldn’t see his face, because he knew she was right. Yes, if he was going into a den of snakes, he wanted Teomitl’s light and warmth by his side.

At least it was a short walk to the palace with a small escort of his priests, though it did require him to change into his formal regalia. He hated his formal regalia. The dry season was cooler than the rainy season, but not cool enough to make the heavy cotton of his cloak comfortable, and the less said about his feathered skull-mask headdress the better. It never fit quite right, and tying it to his belt just made it smack against his hip with every step. He wondered if the bruise would be permanent.

Then he saw Teomitl heading out of the palace gates and promptly forgot all of that. It had been days since they’d been in each other’s company; he’d been busy with the temple, and Teomitl had had his other lessons. The sunlight rippled faintly where it hit the shifting web of magical protections over him, but that wasn’t what made him radiant.

No, that was all due to the way his face lit up when he spotted him. “Acatl!”

An answering smile tugged at his own lips. I love you. He hadn’t said it out loud yet, but he would. One day. “Teomitl.”

Teomitl bounded up to him, gazing at him with such open warmth that he briefly wished they weren’t in public. “What brings you here? Not—not that I didn’t miss you, but I know how busy you are.”

“The High Priest of Huitzilopochtli is dead. I have to collect his body. Ceyaxochitl thought there might be some...trouble...with his successor.” Even saying that last part made his face twist. Politics. Gods, I love my temple and I love Teomitl, but I could happily have gone the rest of my life without thinking of politics. The boundaries are far more important than our petty mortal concerns; is it too much to hope for fellow High Priests who see that?

All at once, Teomitl’s joy vanished, and he was once again the young warrior. When he squared his shoulders, Acatl found himself thinking of his imperial relations and wondering how he might look in turquoise and gold. “Not while I’m here.”

He didn’t know the way to Ocelocueitl’s chambers, but apparently his half-dozen priests did; they swept ahead of him, leaving him and Teomitl nothing to do but follow along in their wake. Acatl found he didn’t mind; it gave them a chance to talk uninterrupted, and when Teomitl took his hand he didn’t pull away.

Teomitl murmured, “I knew this would happen eventually.  Ocelocueitl-tzin was old when I was born. Still, I wasn’t expecting it now.”

“Do you know anything about the new one? Quenami?”

He shook his head. “Nothing beyond what sort of family he comes from. You?”

“No.” And that worries me.

He didn’t say it, but apparently Teomitl could read it in his face just fine. “I’ll do my best to stop him from making your work harder.”

“I shouldn’t think you could make it any easier, with all the gifts you’ve been giving me.” There was no heat to it,  though he couldn’t help the faint scolding tone that crept in; really, the courting gifts were wonderful, but he was sure it had to be making a dent in the imperial treasury.

“Those were for your temple.” He flashed Acatl a smile like the reflection of the sun on water. “I have a better gift for you. I hope you’ll like it.”

Despite his intentions, he smiled back. By now he was almost accustomed to the sensation of his heart turning somersaults in his chest. “I’m sure I will.”

But then they were ascending a broad set of stairs, and there was a man waiting outside a closed entrance-curtain with the familiar expression of someone who’d been politely-yet- firmly ushered outside while preparations went on. Acatl normally wouldn’t have given him more than a second glance, but that second glance revealed blue face paint, gold in his ears, and a fresh headdress of heron feathers set on top of long and tangled blood-matted hair, so he felt his heart sink.

The man looked them over with the same expression he might have used for something found on the bottoms of his sandals, and then he started to smile. It didn’t improve his looks. “Ah, the famous Acatl and his intended. Your priests have already taken charge.”

He dropped Teomitl’s hand, straightened his back, and wished he was just a handspan or so taller. “You are Quenami?”

“Mm. Such a pleasure to meet you both.” There was an attempt at a bow. Quenami was tall and lanky with a face that put Acatl in mind of some sort of malevolent heron, if herons had hooded eyes and a smile that didn’t reach them. “I look forward to many happy years of working with you.”

Acatl had been in his presence for half a minute and wanted a steam bath. Even his accent set his teeth on edge; it was the rounded, perfectly enunciated one of a man who’d grown up speaking the noble dialect all his life, and it made him want to check the hem of his cloak for field muck. “Indeed.”

Quenami’s smile only widened. “And might I congratulate you, Acatl, on your upcoming nuptials? Such a coup for one of your...humble origins. My lord Tizoc-tzin doesn’t think so, but never fear; I’m sure he’ll come around eventually, perhaps once Teomitl has finally proven himself as a warrior.”

Teomitl stiffened, hackles rising like a dog. Before his valiant, foolish lover could cause a political incident, Acatl laid a hand on his arm and took a deep breath. Quenami’s been High Priest of the Southern Hummingbird less than an hour. I will not punch him in the face. “He’s already proven himself admirably in my eyes, and since I am the one marrying him I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”

“As you say, Acatl.” And he was still smiling. Gods, Acatl hated him already. “I truly hope you don’t regret it later.”

They watched Quenami walk away. Acatl’s shoulders felt wound tighter than a drawn bowstring. Ah, he thought dully. Ceyaxochitl was right.

Teomitl broke the silence. “...He’ll be a problem, won’t he.”

Acatl nodded. He didn’t yet trust himself to speak. A problem was certainly one way of describing Quenami, but he could think of a whole string of others.

Teomitl sucked in a breath and met his gaze. “I won’t let him touch you.”

“You might not be able to stop him.” Such was the way of the world, after all. Not everything could be planned for. Not everything could be protected against. And Quenami, as High Priest of the Southern Hummingbird, would in all respects be his superior—a man with far more magical strength and noble connections than he could ever hope to have, no matter who he married.

His mouth twisted as though he’d tasted something sour. “I’ll try.”

“...I know you will.” Teomitl looked stubbornly valorous, and it made him want to kiss him. Since he couldn’t, he settled for touching his hand instead and hoped that his eyes spoke for him.

Apparently it worked, because his gaze softened. “I was actually on my way to give you a proper courting gift when we ran into each other, you know. I might as well hand it over now.” From the back of his belt, he pulled out a sheathed knife. The sheath wasn’t anything special, just dark leather, but when Teomitl pulled it out an inch or so the blade gleamed with a bright, metallic sheen. Copper? But copper made mediocre knives at best—

No, he realized in shock. Not copper. “This is…” As Teomitl pressed it into his hands, he almost dropped it in shock. Tarascan bronze. Expensive beyond the dreams of even some nobles, bronze wasn’t nearly as sharp as obsidian or flint, but it was so durable that you could throw it off the top of the Great Temple without making so much as a dent. And Teomitl was giving it to him.

“You deserve it.” Teomitl said it like it was a natural law. The sky was blue, water was wet, and he, Acatl, deserved a knife worth a king’s ransom.

He swallowed. He couldn’t form words. “...You know, I think I recall asking you to keep your courting gifts within a certain budget.” Well, not helpful words, at any rate. He could have kicked himself.

Especially because Teomitl was drawing back, brow knit with concern. “Do you not like it?”

“I do.” He inhaled, staring down at the knife. When he drew it out, the sunlight made the blade look like fire made solid. He didn’t need to test the edge to know it would be lethally sharp. A knife. He could have gotten me jewels or precious feathers or garlands of flowers, or beads to be braided into my hair like he’s always saying he wants to do for me. But instead he gave me a precious blade that can last forever, so that whenever I am armed I’ll think of him.

Inside the room, his priests were beginning to chant. He needed to be there. Grimacing at himself, he sheathed the blade and met Teomitl’s eyes again. “I love it. This is...gods, Teomitl, this is perfect. But I have a funeral to prepare.”

“Go. I’ll be waiting for you later.” His voice went soft. “I know how important your work is, and I’ll be the last one to keep you from it.”

Ah, he was in love. That was the feeling like a flood rising within him, the rich warmth that spread out to the tips of his fingers and made his blood sing. I love you. I love you, I love you. You’re growing so patient and diligent and good for me; how could I not love you? When you take your place in your brother’s court, your smoke and mist will fill the world. But it was too much to say, so instead he stepped forward, tilted Teomitl’s face up with a gentle finger under his chin, and pressed the briefest kiss to his lips.

When he drew back, Teomitl’s eyes were wide. Acatl had to smile at him. “I’ll come find you after this is done.”

Then he went inside Ocelocueitl’s chambers and joined his priests in the first steps of laying the old man to rest. And if his face was still a little flushed, that wasn’t any of their business.

&

They were married on the first day of the rainy season. It was a date that had taken some planning and a surprising amount of arguing between the royal calendar priests and the matchmakers from his calpulli clan, each of whom had a different opinion on the most auspicious day to make a good match between his Six Reed and Teomitl’s Ten Rabbit, but eventually they’d settled on the closest of their choices. Teomitl had warned him that Tizoc was still seething, but once they were married, there was nothing he could do about it.

That wasn’t the only logistical hurdle they had to overcome. He’d never imagined that so many people would have an opinion on where a High Priest married to a youth of imperial blood ought to live, but apparently they did and felt compelled to share them with him. At length. Even Mihmatini asked if he was going to move into the palace, and he’d shuddered so hard at the idea—gods, there was nothing, not even Teomitl’s love, that would induce him to share a roof with the other High Priests no matter how far away his rooms were—that she’d never asked again. When he put the question to Teomitl himself, the man surprised him yet again.

“I’ll move in with you, of course,” he said, and Acatl had been so overwhelmed with fondness that all he could do was kiss him.

Then there had been endless supplies that needed to be prepared—maize and beans and wild game for the feasting tables, flowers and feathers for decoration, entirely new cloaks and loincloths that needed to be woven. At least he hadn’t been expected to have an opinion on those. No, his function as the one marrying in was to wait patiently until the day before his wedding, when the first banquet was held. There was rich food, but he barely tasted it. There was tobacco, but he barely smelled it. There were fine gifts, but he barely saw them even when the Revered Speaker of Texcoco brought in a caged quetzal bird. All his awareness was on the fact that he was sharing the same mat as Teomitl, who smiled at him sidelong and, when a lull in the festivities permitted it, leaned over to whisper, “I can’t wait.”

He shivered, warm from more than just the hearth fire, and moved the hand nearest him so that just the sides of their pinkies touched. Neither can I.

And after the banquet ended in the small hours of the morning, his cousins descended to scrub him within an inch of his life while his uncle—his father’s eldest brother, taking the place his own father would have—recited what felt like the world’s longest speech on his responsibilities as a husband. After that came the rings of crimson parrot and pink spoonbill feathers pasted onto his arms, and then he was forced to hold very, very still as his face was adorned with glittering bands of pyrite flakes. He suddenly understood, intimately, why maidens were expected to spend the time before their wedding in prayer and contemplation; there would be no chance of him getting comfortable sleep that night. Still, at least he managed a doze.

He had a feeling he would need his energy for after the ceremony.

When night fell again and he was dressed in a variation of his formal regalia—a necklace of silver owls at his throat, jade flares in his ears, absolutely no skull-mask in sight—he was escorted outside to find his siblings waiting for him. Neutemoc was sporting the full garb of a Jaguar Knight; though his helmet was fashioned in a perpetual snarl, the face looking out from between its jaws was calm and set. Acatl found he wasn’t sure what to say to him.

Luckily, Neutemoc broke the silence before it could get awkward. “I never thought this day would come.”

“Neither did I.” He’d imagined contentment in a job well done. He’d imagined the security of knowing his place in the world. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined Teomitl.

“...Our parents…” Neutemoc began, and then shook his head. “It doesn’t matter how they’d react. What matters is that you’re getting married. If Teomitl isn’t a good husband to you…”

He thought of bronze knives and baskets of good, sturdy cotton cloth. He thought of a drawn sword and a sweet, bold smile. “He will be.”

“He’d better.” That was Mihmatini, resplendent in a bright red skirt and heavily embroidered blouse. The effect was spoiled somewhat by the deadly serious expression on her face; she looked as though she was going to a war, rather than a wedding.

Acatl smiled despite himself. Even though he was perfectly capable of handling his problems like an adult—he’d keep Ceyaxochitl’s words in his heart, for one—there was something deeply reassuring about the knowledge that his siblings stood in his corner.

“Come on, Acatl-tzin.”

Unlike him, Ichtaca was dressed in his full regalia, with stripes of black paint across his face and a cloak embroidered with spiders. He was smiling as he stepped forward to escort Acatl to the litter currently being supported by six strong men; it had been decorated with hanging curtains and a canopy of feathers, and Acatl had secretly thought it was far too much of an expense. Still, given that he wasn’t a maiden to be carried on a matchmaker’s back and of course he wouldn’t be walking to his own wedding, it would have to do.

He settled himself in the chair, closed his eyes, and—for what felt like the first time in a century—let out a long sigh of relief. Soon. Soon...I’ll be married. Teomitl will be my husband. We’ll be shields and swords in each other’s hands, and nothing and no one will part us in this life. He thought of Huei and how marriages could crumble, allowing himself a moment’s fear, and then he thought of Teomitl facing down his own brother’s rage and shook his head decisively. I won’t let that happen to us. Neither will he.

He had faith in that.

The trip to the palace gates passed in a haze. No matter how calm he was, his nerves apparently hadn’t gotten the memo; they were all but buzzing under his skin, and he had to clench his fists very hard and mentally recite prayers to his patrons until his heart and lungs remembered how to work properly again. Except then he was newly aware of the itch where the feathers had been glued on his arms, and that was somehow worse than pain would have been. Pain was an offering to the gods. Itching was just an annoyance.

But then there was torchlight penetrating the curtains, and his litter was being set down gently. As the curtains parted, Neutemoc and Ichtaca took one hand each to help him to his feet. He barely noticed them.

Ahead of him was the Revered Speaker’s grandest dining hall, and standing in the doorway was Teomitl in all his finery. He’d never seen the man in so much gold; it glimmered at his neck, his wrists, his ankles. The rings on his fingers were turquoise and jade, and his earrings were formed in the shape of eagles’ heads from which dangled golden flowers. The orange-and-black scorpion cloak he wore almost looked dull in comparison.

He took Acatl’s breath away.

“Acatl-tzin.” His voice was barely even a whisper. “You look…”

He cracked a smile. “Ridiculous?” He felt ridiculous. Traditional they might be, but wedding adornments really didn’t suit him.

But Teomitl looked awestruck, so he supposed he was wrong. “Incredible.”

Now Acatl was blushing, so to cover it—and to push down the sudden, fierce desire to kiss him—he cleared his throat and muttered, “Come on. Let’s get married.”

Incense had been burning for hours, but the torchlight still reflected brightly off gold dishes and the jewelry of the invited dignitaries. Acatl kept his gaze resolutely forward; all the guests had been at last night’s banquet, and it was none of his business what they thought of him dressed for his wedding. Teomitl enjoyed the view, and that was enough to light a hot little coal in his heart. Together they stepped up to the wedding mat past the fire that had been lit, and took their seats on either side of it.

The speeches began. Axayacatl gave the first one, mercifully short, but then it was his uncle’s turn, and after that one of Teomitl’s innumerable paternal relations started talking in a voice like a thousand droning bees. Then another one. Then another one. Grass grew. The waters rose. The Fifth Sun burnt out and nobody noticed. Acatl’s sole anchor to reality came when Teomitl reached over and took his hand.

It was a relief when Teomitl’s elder sister, standing in for his mother, knelt and laid their new cloaks and loincloths before them. Their old cloaks were removed, and the new—blue and green as the lake for Teomitl, gray and black as the dancing shadows on the wall for Acatl—were knotted over their shoulders. Acatl’s fingers shook, and he balled his hands into fists to stop them.

When the corners of each cloak were tied together, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. This is it. We’re married.

The rest were formalities, really—washing his mouth out, eating four bites of tamale, feeding four more bites to Teomitl who took them with trembling hands. The rest of the guests would feast, but not them. No, they were married now, and so they were being escorted to Teomitl’s chambers. As they walked, he felt the pull of his husband’s—his husband’s!—cloak as though it was attached to his heart instead.

And then they were alone. For the next four days, they would not be disturbed; at the end of that, unless something truly catastrophic happened between them in the interim, they would rejoin society as a married couple, and Acatl would wear a slender braid wrapped with red ribbon in his hair for the rest of his life.

But first, there was this. Their wedding night. He’d thought about it with increasing heat over the past few months, but thinking about it meant little when it was actually here. Acatl found himself swallowing down a spike of nerves. It will be fine. Teomitl loves me. Everything else can be dealt with. “So,” he said awkwardly. “Well.”

The look on Teomitl’s face said he felt the same way, which was a little reassuring. “Well,” he echoed. And then, slowly, he started to smile. “I’ve been looking forward to this for a very long time, you know.”

“...Have you.” He swallowed again, feeling his skin heat. His heartbeat suddenly sounded very loud in his own ears.

“Mm-hmm.” His husband stepped forward into his space, gazing up at him. His smile took on a teasing, hungry edge that made the memories of past kisses tingle against Acatl’s own lips. “I had a very...illuminating talk with a priest of Xochipilli to prepare myself. Did you?”

He hadn’t. It had seemed entirely too embarrassing to discuss with a stranger, and besides he was perfectly aware of the basic mechanics. But now Teomitl was looking at him and smiling like that, and there was a thick new sleeping mat just in the corner of his vision, and it was occurring to him that there may have been some gaps in his knowledge. “...I did not.”

“Well.” Teomitl set a hand on his chest over his heart and slowly—achingly slowly—started to slide it downwards. His eyes were molten. “Would you like it if I taught you some things for a change?”

He let his hands come to rest at Teomitl’s hips, suddenly exquisitely aware of the space between them. “Yes,” he whispered. His lips were dry. He licked them and watched Teomitl’s eyes follow the motion. “Yes, please.”

Teomitl kissed him, long and sweet. They made it to the mat together somehow, with his hands in Acatl’s hair and his own hands at Teomitl’s waist, and rolled until all Acatl’s feather decorations came loose with the movement. When they stopped Teomitl lay on top of him, so close their noses brushed, and smiled like the dawn. “Gods,” he breathed, “look at you.”

Acatl drew in a long breath. The air still smelled of incense, even here. “I’d rather look at you,” he whispered back. “Every day for the rest of my life. I love you, you know.” It slipped out so easily, between one breath and the next, that he knew it for the truth.

“Oh, Acatl.” On his husband’s lips, his name sounded like a prayer.

There was very little talking after that.

POSTSCRIPT: meeting the family

They were sitting in the open courtyard of Neutemoc’s home under the eyes of half a dozen slaves, servants, and whoever else happened to be passing by, so there was no impropriety in the gesture—but still, when Teomitl leaned back against his chest and beamed up at him, Acatl had to fight a blush. “Mazatl and Necalli are adorable,” his intended informed him. “I want a dozen of them.”

Acatl found himself smiling indulgently. He was allowed to curve an arm about Teomitl’s waist, and so he did. “And how many wives will you take for that?”

Teomitl jerked back, red all the way up his ears. “I—uh. Um, that is...”

Gods, he made his stone heart want to melt. “I wouldn’t mind.” He thought about the way Teomitl had roughhoused affectionately with Necalli and endured Mazatl’s endless curiosity. No, he wouldn’t mind his husband taking other spouses at all.

“I do!” Teomitl huffed. At least he was looking Acatl in the face again, eyes shining with conviction. “Acatl, you have to know I’d never marry anyone you didn’t want me to—I would never want to make you unhappy or let you feel like you’re anywhere but first in my heart.”

“I know,” he murmured. “But when you decide you want children of your own, I will be honored beyond measure to help you raise them.” He knew that his legal and social status would be more like a favored uncle than anything else, but he also knew Teomitl. Any children of his would be theirs.

“...Well.” Teomitl took a deep breath and relaxed back against him, starting to smile once more. This one held a teasing slant he knew well. “You don’t have to start worrying yet. I think I want you all to myself for at least a year or two.”

Then he was blushing in earnest, and Teomitl was chuckling, and the world around them was spun gold and honey.

[sheepish-uwu]

my dear, you are an absolute god at angst. could i get more of that sweet sweet doc x lion angst ,??

thank you my dear 🧡🧡 and yes, yes you may!  

Doc/Lion / / roughly 2k words / / angst, hurt/comfort. / / mostly just feelings and emotions / / alternatively, you can read this on A03!!

Olivier has always struggled within the night. He wouldn’t really call himself an insomniac - or at least not compared to someone like Ryad; who’d roam the empty halls of Hereford like a ghost, running from a rampant demon that haunted his every footstep.

No, Olivier on the other hand, remained still during the precarious nights; shivering in the brisk air of his apartment despite the thickly layered bedsheets and duvet that lay bunched up around his crossed legs as he willingly allowed his rampaging thoughts to tear him apart piece by piece. Molecule by molecule. He’d always found it difficult to run away from the debilitating demons. Or at least while sober.

Olivier winced at that thought, breath hitching in his throat as a certain itch he thought he’d long gotten rid of inflamed throughout his frame, incessantly gnawing at his innards. He felt uncomfortable and constricted in his own skin; his heart pounding in his chest like a large fluttering bird trapped in a tiny cage, and he could almost hear the sound of his own blood pumping in his veins hot and heavy. 

He felt trapped. Imprisoned, in his own self-loathing body he’d grown to despise, the feeling growing intangibly throughout the many years but nullified through nights of intoxication - and now he didn’t even have that crutch to ease the overbearing despair that bombarded his senses, overflowing until Olivier was just a puddle of emotional vulnerability heaving at the chest.  

Olivier, after sitting up fervently in his bed, took in a deep gulp of air, hoping the cold mid-autumn air filtering through the room would ease the flaring hatred that flamed in his gut, before sputtering out the inhale as a sob slivered through his self-restraint. It unleashed a flood-gate he nearly choked on to hold back. His throat burned from his efforts of holding back stuttering breaths that could be considered almost wails, the sounds equally as pathetic. 

There was movement next to him; a meek shuffling of blankets and thin sheets that momentarily distracted Olivier, anxiety bubbling in his gut turning him stiff as stone. Olivier held his breath as he watched Gustave, his beautiful tanned body dancing nimbly with each flex of his muscles as he stirred in his sleep, his features highlighted under the dim moonlight that crept through the pale curtains and blinds draping their bedroom window. An inquisitive hand jostled his forearm roughly making Olivier flinch as Gustave let out a long breathy exhale, one of the man’s many clues before he’d wake that sent Olivier in a panic mode - dreading the thought of Gustave seeing him in this state. 

Luckily for him, Gustave still seemed to be teetering on the edge of consciousness, his dark eyes drowsily half-lidded as he side-eyed Olivier sleepily. “Go back to sleep,” he heard Gustave mumble quietly, voice muffled underneath the thick pillow half his face was smothered by and seemed unaffected by the raging typhoon that stormed around Olivier. 

Olivier didn’t respond and made no effort to do so much as lay back down to appease his lover’s wishes, and merely gazed distractedly at Gustave - expression taut as he fought down the tight feeling that bubbled in his chest. 

“Olivier?” Sheets were discarded as Gustave tentatively rose his head, eyebrows furrowed and eyes narrowed as he adjusted to the darkness that drowned the room and obscured Olivier’s forlorn expression. Gustave’s features immediately shifted into concerned alarm when he saw the dread encapsulating Olivier’s eyes; a darkness where there once was vibrancy in his pale blue eyes. “I - wh - are you okay?” The confusion and uncertainty intermingling in Gustave’s worried expression made Olivier feel like a stray cat; as if approaching him would potentially scare him off - or bite. 

But, little did Gustave know, Olivier didn’t have the energy to run or fight anymore.

“Yeah, o-of course,” Olivier said, the shaken whisper of his voice betraying the facade of nonchalance in his words. The edges of Gustave’s lips twitched downwards before the other French man moved, squeezing past Olivier’s frozen frame to turn on the bedside lamp atop the small table, eyes darting to the illuminating clock that read in bright-red criminalizing text: 02:42. 

“How long have you been up?” Gustave murmured, shifting back until he could look Olivier in the face. Olivier frowned in dissatisfaction, his lamp casting betraying shadows among the meek light that betrayed the melancholy undoubtedly painting his pale face like a canvas. Traitor.

“Not very long,” Olivier lied quickly, momentarily averting his eyes as a wave of shame rushed over him - the feeling kicking him in the gut and making him nauseous. Another fault of his - and god, he had so many.

Lying had always come embarrassingly easy to him, the sinful nature of deception often eating him alive. He’d been trying to fix this habit, and yet it always came back to him as a pseudo-crutch that, if he was being honest, only made his self-hatred flare up even worse. He just couldn’t help it. All his life he’d learned to lie in order to selfishly suit his needs; from small things like lying about not eating his sister’s birthday cake to lying about his alcohol and drug habits he developed early on in his teens, and he’d gotten so good at it that nobody batted an eye until it all brewed up inside of him and spilled out, the eventual truth having far more dire consequences than it would have in the beginning of his lies. 

“Right,” Gustave mumbled, dissatisfaction etched in his tone that made Olivier’s breath hitch, a fire-hot redness burning on his cheeks. “You say this but it looks like you haven’t slept at all.” Olivier couldn’t bring himself to reply, his mouth tingling in shame that kept his lips firmly pressed together. At a lack of response, Gustave let out a disappointed sigh, his brown eyes darting to Olivier’s hands that were twitching nervously. 

“Why won’t you talk to me?” The words, spoken so softly - almost as if Gustave was speaking to himself rather than Olivier despite it being directed to him - nearly went unheard but the pain that flourished in Gustave’s trembling voice was as loud as mortar fire. “Why?” This time the words were slightly louder and sharper, the pain inhabiting the previous question versatile and lost as a fit of surging anger pierced through. 

“I don’t know,” Olivier lied again. Oh, he knew. He knew how distant he tended to be to emotions, especially ones surrounding Gustave. It was just so easy to pretend like they didn’t exist. It’s all he’d ever done when he was younger, even if the path of suppression had lead to nothing but heartache. He knew explicitly the fear that held him back from truly trusting and committing to Gustave that stemmed from something much deeper than the internalized homophobia Gustave had assumed it was. 

Truth be told, love was something very foreign to him. What he had with Claire was something he’d hesitate to have called love. It consisted of a plethora of emotions with most of them being negative; the rage, sorrow, and curiosity that trademarked both of their bitter teenage years bringing them together in an almost symbiotic relationship where truthfully neither party benefitted. Sure, Olivier cared about Claire, and he didn’t have any regrets about what they had, but she had never been an island of security to Olivier. She was another outlet Olivier would turn to as a distraction; the downright ridiculous and negative emotions that’d bubble up inside of him momentarily soothed by their ‘love’ he felt he was starved of. 

Gustave was different though. Gustave is safety. He is warmth. He is an intricate force. Delicate, dainty, and thoughtful with an almost war-torn roughness. He is calloused hands running softly along soft bare skin, gentle and steady that leaves Olivier trembling with a desire for something more than physicality. Gustave is home. He is love.

And he is terrifying. 

He’s an uncertainty that leaves Olivier speechless, fearing the worst that would come if he opens his notoriously loud obnoxious mouth. He’s never really feared losing someone like this, and it opened up a helplessness in his aching soul that remains unappeased. What if he scares Gustave away? Or, definitively far worse, what if he somehow hurts Gustave? A thought that’d have made him scoff and cackle at nearly a year ago - before he’d gotten to know his fellow countryman on a deeper emotional level. Sometimes a more morbid part of Olivier wishes he could go back to that time. It’d been easier and less stressful when he didn’t have Gustave. 

Another lie.

“Come on Olivier, you know. What’s on your mind, my love?” Gustave whispers after moments of terse silence, cold steady hands snaking their way to grip Olivier’s quivering ones, the reassuring squeeze sending a wave of comfort through him that eased the almost choking grip that constricted his chest. “Please?” Olivier doesn’t miss the moisture that begins to glisten the other man’s eyes that mirrored his own, a streak of scorching wetness sliding down the noble curvature of his face that falls on the sheets underneath them as Gustave brings a hand close to him, planting tentative kisses on each knuckle. 

“I just - it’s hard,” Olivier admits, the thickness clogging in his throat that’d previously prohibited him from speaking clearing up and allowing him to shakily speak the words, though his limited phrasing did little to match up to how incredibly difficult it was for him to even speak his overbearing emotions holding him back. No words in French or English could even begin to compare to the pressurizing feeling that left him suffocating in his own despair. “I’m sorry.” 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Gustave dismisses with another squeeze to his hand, eyes inquisitively flickering to Olivier’s downcast ones thoughtfully. “Here, let me just ah,” Gustave mumbles disconnectedly as he shifts, hesitantly bringing Olivier close to him - uncertainty radiating off the man that almost makes Olivier snicker teasingly. Gustave was not known for his spectacular ability to comfort, but the act still nonetheless makes Olivier melt against Gustave’s chest. Olivier hid his face in the crook of Gustave’s neck, relishing in the feeling of Gustave’s embrace as the man slowly wraps his arms around Olivier, sheepish hands gingerly resting on his back. “Take your time, I’m here with you. Just - promise to tell me when you’re ready.” 

Olivier makes a small sound of acknowledgment that rumbles in his throat and the careful hands resting on his back move up and down in a seemingly endless cycle that locks Olivier into an abundant vortex ignorant to everything except for them. It leaves Olivier in an almost blissful state as he nearly slumps into Gustave’s body, the other man’s warm skin muffling the sound of his sniffling and trembling exhales that undoubtedly echo throughout the silent room. Gustave doesn’t try to pry anymore even when Olivier practically drenches his shoulder in tears, his deep lilting tone whispering soft reassurances into his ear that slowly aids to pacify him like soothing honey. 

“Thank you.”  Olivier breathes out long into the night when the intangible darkness subsides into the lucent glow of the upcoming dawn, and Gustave’s hands have long fallen by Olivier’s side, his head resting on his chest as he lets out soft snores. Olivier knows Gustave can’t hear him, and yet there’s an intangible freedom Olivier feels as he murmurs his thanks into the lonely void of night. 

For once, as the bright electronic clock reads 04:54 and the room’s atmosphere is encapsulated by a riveting longing that tugs at Olivier to bring the man he loves closer to relish in the warming glow he exudes, Olivier can finally breathe easier.