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blankdblank · 3 years

Text

Ash Pt 3

Uses Paper Crowns by Alec Benjamin, song this series was inspired by.

...

Where the library once was your chosen bed back again you went to your new apartment and closed the door behind you for a private tour of the place. Each room was checked again until you paused at the sight of a servant who had come in to light your fires after having lit the King’s and Lord Glorfindel’s. They nodded their head to you and slipped out once they were through to move onto their next stop in this wing.

Once completely alone to your kitchen you went to find it empty of any supplies. From your side you lifted your bag and opened the top from where in a wiggle of your fingers above it all the pots, pans and dishes you had been using in your former prison flew out to their new homes. Next around each room in each of the empty candle holders you eased long thin fire crystals that with a gentle blow on the tip ignited with orbs of light to cast gentle glow into the apartment. All far more reasonable than wax candles that would eventually burn out, each able to last centuries without any wear if used properly. The study, once empty with what seemed to be a hundred shelves was filled with the books you had been reading and rereading, not all of the hundreds of thousands trapped inside the bag but as many as could fit that you would rotate out seasonally or however you would choose to.

The closet was next. Like a geyser the almost endless sea of colored clothes you had along with dress shoes and boots alike were arranged and sorted with care until at the end your hand landed on the warm white and grey fur blanket your mother had given you with black spots. In your fist it was pulled out and to your chest clung to in your body’s drop to fold around it to the start of the start of your tears. They couldn’t have known that was his plan you kept repeating to yourself. She couldn’t have wished that fate for you no matter the price. And now they would hear, if they were still alive, that your supposed kingdom was drowned and gone and their only child with it. That was, if you were their only child. She was still young and it wouldn’t have been impossible to have conceived that son he wanted, especially when there were ample funds to have afforded fertility potions if that was the reasoning as to why you were their one and only child.

A distant gong of a bell however snapped you from the pit of despair. And to your new bed you went in a sniffling half tear blind mess. To fling the blanket across the bed and to add your own pillow, a pair of handmade sock dog dolls and a stuffed crochet tan goat that you had been given by your grandmother before she had been forced out of the house for reasons you were never allowed to know. From your simple dress you changed into a pair of knee length pants and a loose tunic with hair braided back for a simple ease into the first actual bed you had slept on since before you were taken. That is if a pull down cot from a panel in the wall could be called a bed compared to this four poster canopied wonder. You never anticipated being a Queen, and what you had gotten was far from what you had been promised for.

Beyond soft this cloud of a bed melded around the body that sank into it and only lured out more tears to your plummet back into the constant pain the daily tasks had distracted you from wallowing in. The silence let it shriek and scream and berate you for your idiocy and failure to somehow not being enough to have not been treated that way. Somehow you made yourself a target and had gotten yourself locked away to that demon and now were living off the pity of a King and his people until you could earn your keep and place here. Beaten and bloody you woke again to the invisible scars and open wounds of that pain with glass lined eyelids opened to find this new place at least was not a dream. With a final stubborn tear to plummet over and from your nose to roll over the frozen trails its siblings had left on their way to make a wet spot on the pillow you had left nail marks in once again last night. Remorsefully over each tear your fingertips slid with golden glimmers stitching each one back together without a trace of the wound you had inflicted upon the lifeless thing.

“It has to end,” you muttered to yourself, every book you read and every world suffering thrived it always there was an end for its victims. Splashes of warm water were smoothed over your face with some salve from a small vial that you smoothed across your face to refresh your skin and eyelids to reduce puffiness and blotchiness to seem at least that you hadn’t spent the night weeping into your pillow. You had heard again that Dale would be open again for another Elven visit and had woken up accordingly to the earliest public meal available beforehand.

Without the folded skirt as the rest of those you had were lace over your black pants and the bottom of your sky blue tunic was a navy and black layered knee length skirt of overlaid embroidered strips that would help to disguise the wider hips and more pronounced backside and shape of your thighs that seemed to be more toned than the Elleths here. The obvious curvature of your bust could not be disguised but could be squished down a bit with your black vest with silver accents to keep from any possible risk of an unplanned reveal. Another way you stuck out almost making you wish that you had arrived more closer to the Dwarves in height as they were properly plump with most having thick voluminous hair closer in texture to yours. But comparisons aside even not common in shape to these tall silent people who had kindly taken you in seemed to simply accept you for your differences, or at least not let it be known to your face that they didn’t.

Over your necklace and rings you paused at your nightstand with bangs easing from behind your left ear across your face. You didn’t want to put them on again but would regret leaving them behind, so you simply closed your eyes and lifted them to secure it around your neck. In a shake of your head on your heel you turned and made for the front door collecting your bag as you went you shouldered to make your way out into the hall. Where across the closing door you eyed the new symbols etched into the wood underneath the panels of swans in a lake that were there at your tour. Later on you’d figure out what those symbols meant and two blind steps afterwards a chest was what stopped you. Half asleep the now stopped Prince with a sudden snap of wide eyes caught your flinch of a grin and apology filled step around the grass and tree scented body you had bumped into. Just a moment he lingered there then continued on to his apartment beside his father’s to bathe and sleep while you focused to not slam into anyone of the other silent giants in this kingdom on the way to your meal.

A paper crown

And a heart made of glass

A tattered gown

And her kingdom of ash

She walks alone

She can never look back

The story of a queen whose castle has fallen to the sea

Back and forth from shop to customer deliveries were taken with a few spare deliveries by nearby shops added on along the way to add to your purse. Queen or not the focus of the new citizen while Dwarves especially while not raising you to the level of public reverence as when Thror would join them yet not a one skimped on even a simple show of respect for your title in passing and upon accepting deliveries. No one questioned your work ethic and in each pass through the winding streets of Dale you crossed off a good deal of the city now to grow a map of sorts for it inside your mind. Strangers however from the Men in town had taken in tries to place themselves upon those pathways to stir up a sort of conversation. None more than the nameless to you Lord of Dale himself who to the amusement of those watching had been thwarted in convincing you to join them for lunch as you had accepted Grunnd’s offer to eat with him and his spouse and their children.

She'll make it out

But she's never the same

She's lookin' down

At the scars that remain

But you hold your ground

Though your kingdoms in flames

'Cause it's the story of a queen who's castle has fallen to the sea

Knowing there's no one who will be

A king that will come and save his queen

Small friendships. Tiny smiles. Friendly encounters. None of that did anything to hide the pain still in your eyes and the occasional caught brushes of fingers along the necklace or rings as good as a brand from the dead prison warden of a husband that stung more than one in passing deeply. No one could bear the lost distant gaze off to the ground that would come over you in moments of pause that spoke so loudly for them on the raging sea hidden in plain sight. And on the evenings you now traded deliveries to work in the Smith’s shop again each smoky sight of you paired to those distant gazes had people swear they could hear the sounds of those screams and flames that had torn through your now sunken home.

When all she needs

And all she wants

When all she finds

When all she is, and ever was

Is compromised

'Cause there's no one to love her when

You built your walls

Too high

And there's no one to love you when you build

Your walls

Too high

Right out of your daydreams the sight of the Prince snapped your mind in his place to the side of the Captain of the Guard who had headed the transport again silently beckoned you over to him and returned your respectful nod, “Your Majesty.”

Legolas responded, “Prince Legolas is an acceptable trade of names between us outside of friendship bonds both formally and cordially.”

“Right,” you said softly and his eyes scanned over your face.

“I came to ask how you are finding Greenwood as your home.”

“It is a very lovely kingdom. Thank you for-,”

A bit softer he stated in a try to be less formal sensing he was being misunderstood, “I was not seeking a reiteration of any gratitude upon your part. Merely, how are you finding your employment here rather? Do you find deliveries and errands a sustainable career for yourself so far? As we have an endless supply of fields open for you to explore, even our own guards should you wish it we would be grateful to train you to know our forest and how to defend it and yourself.”

“Oh, well, my parents were tradesmen, and I delivered things and did errands.” Gaining a nod from the Prince and Captain you glanced between, “I never knew anything else, for now it pays, I am not certain if it pays well, compared to others but it is what I know.”

Tauriel nodded her head and stated, “Should you ever become curious of a new profession you are free to ask at any time, there will always be someone available to train you personally as long as interest prevails it is how we live, a great many of us try at so many professions before we find our paths.”

Legolas chuckled and said, “We had a great many fires before Tauriel traded a blade for baking against her uncle’s trade.”

She grinned and held back his countless tries to find his own way and simply said, “And had our Prince pursued painting as he wished in childhood our palace walls would be a great deal more colorful. Though less tolerable for guests to stomach in regards to his preferred color palate.” That had you chuckle to yourself and glance away for a few others in passing to see an elusive smile full on that retracted when you caught their gaze and she said, “There is time.” At that they bowed their heads and turned to leave you to head off to bathe and ready for supper.

She's looking out

From the war that's inside

She's screaming out

'Cause no one survived

But when you're all alone

You wait and you hide

'Cause it's the story of a queen whose castle has fallen to the sea

Knowing, there's no one who will be

A king who will come and save his queen

A roll of thunder had your eyes raise from the pillow you woke up staring at in a tear from your nightmare on all fours. Hard pants left your lips and to another growl like roll of thunder you leapt from bed and raced out of your apartment through the halls past confused guards on watch until to a wall of rain across from the stables you halted and tried to catch your breath. Wide eyed the sight of the line of horses filing into the large building from the storm you had misinterpreted as a dragon attack each breath brought you back down to earth. However dripping wet from the rain Lord Glorfindel came into view with a cloak draped around his shoulders and chest completely aware of the lingering fear in your eyes that to the sight of the King in blackened ooze stained armor echoing pings to every rain drop that collided with it darted away in a sharp turn back to your room.

Two hallways later however Lord Glorfindel alongside the King both came into your path with eyes in search over your face for what the problem could be, both the source of the trail of water droplets from their former place in the rain. However the foot that came out from underneath the cloak had you point and say, “You have a foot,”

Lord Glorfindel answered, “Yes, Prince Estel, ward of Lord Elrond, has arrived with the young Lords Elladan and Elohrir from a visit to their grandfather Lord Celeborn in Lothlorien.”

King Thranduil however asked the burning question they yearned to know as the source of those tears that had broken free down your face to the drip of water from his head to his toe that his skin felt each one in their cold departure from where they had it him down to his feet. “Are you unwell?”

Haltingly you shook your head and raised your hands to the feel of the tears to wipe your cheeks, “Rain. Over a thousand years, no rain. Just, forgot, how loud it can be.”

You didn’t mention the dragon, but the both of them could see that there was more you weren’t saying. “There you are,” The voice turned your head and the soaking wet twins who looked you over nodded their heads in response to yours.

King Thranduil spoke the answer to their unasked question, “Boys, allow me to introduce Queen Jaqiearae.” To you he named the pair, “Princes Elladan and Ellohrir.”

Elladan, “Ah, Ada will be pleased to know you have discovered a title to go with such a stunning new arrival.”

“Ada?” you asked Thranduil whose eyes were still fixed upon you that almost made your breath hitch in notice of that.

Thranduil, “Ada means father.”

“Ah, interesting.” After another nod of your head you said to the King, “I am interrupting. Mind your puddle.” You said then walked around the King who bit the inside of his lip to keep from shouting at you to stop and merely turned when you were a good ten feet ahead to follow behind and ensure you made it back to your apartment on the way to his. An act that had the curious twins behind him in wonder for just what their father’s friend had expected from said curious stranger.

It wasn’t until you had gotten to the door of your apartment you had seen they had followed you and Thranduil in a few steps closer spoke again to steal another chance to say anything to ease any worries from the storm. “During rains like this we do not travel to Dale. Next week will be our next scheduled trip to Dale lest we risk wounding our horses or damaging our wagons.”

“Oh, thank you.”

Lord Glorfindel in a glance between you said to break the silence spoke up, “Sleep well Your Highness.”

“Good night,” you said after a sweeping glance over the group then through the door you opened behind you they watched you walk and close it behind you unable to think of what else to say to the puddle spreading King who simply turned for his apartment at the seal of the doors. In his absence the curiously smirking twins glanced between one another and the dripping Lord who carried the sleeping Prince to his nursery before heading for a bath and to change for the night.

When all she needs

When all she wants

And all she finds

When all she is, and ever was

Is compromised

'Cause there's no one to love her when

You built your walls

Too high

And there's no one to love you when you build

Your walls

Too high

Breakfasts came with more offers for work including more nonsensically cluttered rooms that fortunately for you the tasks took up a good chunk of your days that left your evenings post bath to simply relax. Most often you relaxed on a lounge that looked over a garden with a view of some Elk roaming through the trees in the light drizzle that to each distant rumble of thunder you stretched your tense legs, arms and back. Hints of soreness from the hard work named the following day as your day off to rest. A voice on your left however had you jump and look up to the apologetic messenger who bowed his head and stepped closer with the letter extended in hand. “Your Highness,” after a glance at the letter you accepted hold of it and he said, “A letter arrived for you by hawk.”

“Oh, thank you.” You said with a grin that he took as the sign to turn and return to his own rounds of delivering the arrived mail. When alone your eyes lowered to the letter with those same sigil from your apartment door with more across the flap above the wax seal on the back of the envelope with a symbol you had seen often in Dale but couldn’t name. Under the flap your nail eased to help break the seal to bring out the folded pages coated in a language you couldn’t understand. In a sigh you muttered, “Great…mystery letter…”

Onto your aching feet you stood and bit back the tension in your back and legs and strolled back into the Palace and curiously wandered the halls until you spotted the familiar face of Tauriel in the halls speaking to another guard. Softly in what seemed to be their move to break apart to move on about their days you approached and said, “Um, excuse me.”

With lips parted she took notice of you in the head bow of the other guard and bowed her head asking, “Yes, Your Highness?”

“I, got this letter, that I can’t read. Um, can you, read this language?”

In the pass off of the letter the guard said, “I will pass on your orders, Tauriel,” and slipped away with another bow of his head you returned with another flash of a grin as Tauriel accepted the letter she merely glanced at then returned to you parting your lips.

“I apologize, this is Dalion. King Thranduil would know what this says, few of our people read this tongue, usually those in Dale write in Silvan or Westron for our ease.”

You shifted the letter in your grip and turned with a shift of your outer sheer layer of your skirt on your dress that hung lower than the thick velvet sash accented layer to not trip on its shift to settle around your beaded slippers that matched the beaded off the shoulder top many an Elf stole glimpses of. Including the Seamstresses who went out of their way to get a glimpse of the new styles to draw inspiration from. Upon notice of your means to follow behind her Tauriel slowed to have you catch her pace and asked, “Is this your first letter?”

“Yes,” you said in a glance up at her. “Most I have received is a few slips of paper with addresses in Dale. Do you get a lot of letters from Dale?” her eyes shifted to meet yours, “Or is this a bad sign to get mail from Dale?”

That had the corner of her mouth quirk up, “I do not travel to Dale outside of wagon duties. However I do receive ample letters from my cousins who guard Lothlorien’s borders and a distant third cousin in Rivendell. Many from those who work in Dale receive letters from friends and co-workers. Were it bad news most often King Thranduil would receive that notice not you.”

“Right, then he would dish out punishments no doubt.”

Tauriel couldn’t help but chuckle, “Most likely were the subject about you there would be no punishments. A King cannot justly inflict punishment upon a Queen amongst our people. She must relent that she is in the wrong and pursue mediation herself with the King as a middle man of sorts until peace in jointly claimed.”

At the end of a winding path through the Palace you came to a stunning Throne Room where Thranduil was lounged in his throne sideways with his ankle propped on one knee listening to a series of Lords in a half circle taking note of his final orders on the issues they had brought to him including Lord Glorfindel and the twin brothers. The snap of the King’s eyes and his inch up at the sight of your approach with his hands moved from their taps together atop his lap to the arms of his throne. “Queen Jaqiearae, Tauriel, is something the matter?”

Tauriel once upon your arrival and stop a few feet from Lord Glorfindel’s side she joined the dispersing Lords in exiting the Throne Room that had his eyes scan over your gown as the remaining trio did to the shimmer of firelight off the beading work on it. After you stole a glance to her back on the way out you flashed him a grin and said, “Nothing is wrong, I got a letter, and Tauriel says it’s in, Dalion? And that you could translate it for me?”

Right out of his Throne in the slide of his foot off his knee he rose and strode down the steps with ease straight to the bottom with hand extended for the letter you offered to him. Light as possible he accepted the weight of the letter that on his palms with a thumb was unfolded with his eyes widening upon the opening scrawled upon the top of the page to a quickening of his breath. By the second stanza of what seemed to be a lengthy poem addressed to you his eyes flinched from the page to yours then down again in a clear of his throat. “To My Star Draped Madame,” The words had your brow tick up and he continued to read in a fight against his body’s urge to have his chest heave in frustration he couldn’t explain as the outpouring of adoration was being read aloud by himself.

Though in his intense focus to simply read the letter in its entirety the three Lords caught your own change of breath in the wave of your hands in a loss for words to make him stop. And it took the hop from you onto the second to last step and grip on his elbow to lean around his side to reach for the letter. The contact and fall of your hair onto his arm had him stop and mouth left open to look from you to the letter you folded the top page down asking, “All of it? All of it is this, poem? Who wrote this?!”

Thranduil shifted the pages to the back of the final page and read, “Lord Girion of Dale.”

“Who?” You asked that had his eyes fall on you again in a sharp inhale at the realization that you had no clue even who had written this or why they would have written it to begin with.

Lord Glorfindel stated, “Lord Girion is married with a grown son and a child on the way. How could he write this to Queen Jaqiearae?”

When you straightened up Thranduil’s body turned to face you partially in the drop of your hand off his arm, “Is there a response you wish to send to this?”

“Yes,” you said and from his stack Elohrir brought over a blank piece of parchment that Thranduil accepted with the writing plaque and quill filled for him that he readied to copy your words exactly. “Lord, whoever you said,” the words already had the corner of his mouth tick up in his dictation, “While I should find such,” your head tilted slightly in thought of words that had Glorfindel ease his fingers across his lips to hide the grin trying to split across his lips to Elladan’s clear chortle. “Flattery, complimentary, having received them from a married man with multiple children to whom I have no acquaintance with only will be met with questioning of character and distrust of intent of said flattery. I thank you for this insight upon your person and highly encourage you to direct those attentions upon the selfless woman who has bourn your children and is in dire need of such affections while time is precious and sleep is plentiful and free from the cries of an infant.” Thranduil lifted his gaze at your fingers tapping your forehead, “May your stanzas never outnumber precious moments and sentiments for the Esteemed Lady of Dale to whom you have sworn yourself upon your honor and good name.”

Thranduil chuckled to himself and he stated, “The Lady of Dale is very esteemed.”

That had you let out a breathe, “Oh that’s good, I thought beloved might be a stretch. No one said anything about any Lady of Dale in all my time there,” you said moving closer to watch him write the same runes for your title and name that in an offer of the quill you signed, ‘Q J.P.Pear’ in a style and unknown runes that had the King eyeing in apparent awe. Between the twins an envelope was fashioned and addressed to Lord Girion that was folded around the letter they used a nearby torch to heat the wax Thranduil used his own seal he drew from his pocket that bird from the branches above swooped down to carry off to Dale.

“Thank you,” you said in a sheepish glance to the King whose eyes scanned over you with a hint of a smirk on his lips for how you had responded to this issue. “I don’t know if he does this often, or if I did something,”

Lord Glorfindel spoke, “You did nothing. Even Lady Luthien had admirers but none would have dared to dishonor their spouse who is with child or had birthed their children. He is wrong in this you share no blame.”

You nodded and stepped down the steps and said, “Well, I will leave you to your business.”

To your back he replied, “Upon your consideration of your own crest,” he said and you turned to look back at him, “Our Smiths will craft you your own seal.”

“This was my first letter,”

“All the same,” he replied, “A seal is required as a Noble for a great many reasons.” You nodded and he returned the nod the others parroted and gained one from you in the turn to head back to your room to go put the letter away and lay down at the headache brewing from this nonsensical letter.

You had no clue who this Lord was. Why he had imagined to have been just in sending the letter at all. All of this weighed on the past with your former husband’s words that convinced your parents to ship you off to spike into the forefront of your conscious again.

There is no one

Who is strong enough

To save your love

There's no fairytale

“Rabbit door, turtle door, badger door,” you had strolled past your own apartment doors and turned down the given hall and were in search of the apartment you had been asked to clean for the day. Elves had been shuffling the task around as the usual maid was still recovering from her birth and bonding with her baby boy that you barely could see a toe on in the flow of Elves that took turns to greet and swoon over the first child born in what you were told was centuries since Tauriel’s younger cousins a few years younger than her had been birthed.

“Ah,” you said upon reaching the doors and let yourself in having been told that it would be empty at this time of day. “Agh,” you muttered to the first boot by the door in what seemed to be a trail of clothes and belongings and crumpled up balls of parchment between shredded squares of scribble coated parchment silenced with their secrets unless pieced back together again. Swipes of your fingers gathered the paper and boots that hovered behind your hunched self in the task of gathering wraps, long robes and shawls upon your bent arm to pin to your chest. You didn’t expect this and had worn a dress at the promise that you wouldn’t need to scrub the floors merely to tidy up a bit. Now with the material pinned to your thighs small kicks helped to keep your skirt and the lengthy clothes from tripping you.

A pass beyond the kitchen had the scrub brush lift up to begin washing the dishes left there itself and towards the bedroom you went. “What?” You squeaked in eying the giant hot spring in the middle of the flower like apartment kept warm by that and the lit fires in a few of the rooms you had passed. Against the edge of it a pile of clothes laid that you wagged a finger and they floated behind you.

A bedroom was found, though not the one you had expected, across a massive fur coated bed there was a lump from a little boy slept mostly hidden except for half his face by a nap conquered game of hide and seek. “Hell of a nursery,” you murmured and walked on towards the open closet where the largest pile of clothes was found yet. The job was clear, tidy up and set any clothing that seemed to be damaged or stained in the bins you had brought along the wall outside the front door when you were done and the laundry staff on duty today would pick them up on their rounds.

From the jumble in your arms each piece was hovered and inspected with sleeves raising themselves and the robes to turn around them flew off to where you sent them. Wraps elegantly folded themselves again to line the shelves they were meant for and pants from the pile yet to be worn folded and hung themselves back up on their usual hangars. Robes went this way and that with a few tongue clicking missing buttons to spoil a few garments explained now as to why they had been cast on the floor. Quite easily the task was done and boots bounced themselves home again for a grin at mastering the defiant mess.

A study came next with papers all over the floor that to the mess of runes you couldn’t decipher you simply organized the piles a bit so at least someone could stroll between what seemed to be a floor based filing system of nonsense without knocking them over. A splash however turned your head and your heart race spiked in wonder if the child had gone for a swim unsupervised. Over the papers while the books on the shelves straightened their toppled selves you hopped and strode into the bedroom with skirt in hand.

Wide eyed however the naked man exiting the hot spring with towel bunched to ruffle through telling dripping white locks that had you turn and call the clothes bins to you. The motion wasn’t missed by the stunned King who lowered the towel to hang in front of his chest and down to his upper thigh at enough to hide the family jewels but little else of his silhouette that watched a body with a bin on a shoulder to block sight of him on its way to the door. Unable to help it a smirk eased out across his lips in recognition of the telling unique style to the gown the Queen amongst his people who was gone with the click of a distant door and not a word of parting thanks to the bin between you.

When all she needs

When all she wants

When all she finds

When all she is, and ever was

Is compromised

'Cause there's no one to love her

You built your walls too high

And there's no one to love you when you trap yourself inside

Pt 4

All –

@himoverflowers, @theincaprincess, @aspiringtranslator, @thegreyberet, @patanghill17, @jesgisborne, @curvestrology, @alishlieb, @jogregor, @armitageadoration, @fizzyxcustard, @lilith15000, @marvels-ghost, @catthefearless, @imjusthereforthereads, @c-s-stars, @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore, @mariannetora, @shes-a-killer-kween, @ggbbhehe4455

Hobbit/LotR – @abiwim, @jotink78, @pastelhexmaniac

X Thranduil - @evyiione, @sweetlytenacious25, @tigereyesf, @pastelhexmaniac, @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore

x Ash - @fandomsstolemylife00, @lilith15000, @devilishminx328

#New Kingdom #New Rules #New Friends #Nightmares #Rain Storm #Thranduil #Glorfindel #Elladan and Elohrir #the Hobbit #Lord Girion #The Poem #Tauriel #Legolas

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omniswords · 4 years

Text

Chronicles of a Parisian Dumbass 12

happy Chronicles update! I know I waited a while to post this one, but I feel like I’m in a good place to share it now. so, I hope you like it! it’s... an interesting one.

from: itsdjbubbles 29 July, 19:30. La Tortue. you and your group got a setlist?

to: itsdjbubbles i… could have a setlist. and we’re more of a band than a group.

from: itsdjbubbles hell yeah, dude. you’re in.

–––

just saw adrien agreste in person. In Person. i don’t think i can even afford his aura. or, like. the CO2 he’s breathing out?

no, i’m not going to say where. i’m not a total dickwad. just sometimes. mostly because my sister would come for me if i didn’t say so.

also, fellow parisians, who hopefully are not or have not been as much of a dumbass as me: watch this space for an announcement, maybe.

Adrien Agreste is right. There. In all his swoopy-blond-hair, thousand-euro-smile, million-euro-clothing glory. Hanging by the doorway, and seeing him standing at the register like an actual human being, and laughing like an actual human being, and paying with a debit card like an actual human being, is like looking into the goddamn sun. Or like standing in the weird static, plasma dimension that exists between the TV screen and real life. Or both.

Okay. Luka will admit that, for a time that now feels both distant and delirious, he… probably entertained a celebrity crush on Adrien Agreste. But it was short-lived, and it felt more like a warm fuzz in his stomach whenever he passed by those radiant advertisements for perfume, men’s clothing, even underwear. Really, the more he thought about it, the more he was just admitting that Adrien Agreste had a certain charm and attraction because he, like many people in Paris, had a functional pair of eyes.

It was… fantasy, really. Self-indulgent. The way most infatuation tends to be. Observation with a cause; he heard it once in a song.

Adrien Agreste is still standing right. There. At the register. And Luka hasn’t moved from the entrance. Not even when the door hits him unceremoniously in the back and the bell above it mocks him as it announces his arrival.

And then Adrien Agreste turns on his heel, slipping his wallet into his back pocket with one seemingly perfect hand and gripping a pastry box with the other, and Luka’s body reminds him to step aside. He does, still dumbstruck despite how Adrien Agreste literally smiles at him and says good morning, and the door closes behind him again, and not for the first time in his life, Luka forgets what words are or how to string them together.

When he comes to his senses and makes peace with the fact that he just shared the same breathing air as a real-live supermodel, he notices—even from this far away—that Marinette is wearing that expression again. The one from the park. The one he wishes never existed—because even if this is another observation with a cause, he at least has the good sense to know that Marinette Dupain-Cheng does not deserve to look so sad, no matter how many smiles she layers on top of it.

Until now, it seems like Marinette’s only been looking past him, but when her eyes finally settle on him, she perks up a bit from her place at the register. “You dyed your hair,” she says by way of greeting, and he swears her face starts to glow. Or maybe it always was glowing. Maybe it wasn’t because of him.

“Uh,” he replies, because when has he ever been smooth when she’ s looking at him like that? or at all? “Technically, Jules did.” He says it hurriedly, so neither of them has to worry about it or talk about it, but then she has to go and tell him that it looks good on him, and his words have to get stuck on his tongue again when he says, “Thanks, I grew it myself.”

Kill him. Now. He’s ready. Juleka can have his guitar.

“So,” he goes on, a little perkier than he means to, but it’s probably for the best. “That was, uh… that Adrien Agreste guy, huh? You know him or something?”

Marinette’s expression is almost unreadable. It is hard to tell if she regrets knowing Adrien, or if she thinks Luka must be living under a rock because everyone knows who Adrien Agreste is. She snaps back to herself soon enough, and she’s browsing the pastry cases as though it’s her responsibility to find something good for him. “We used to go to middle school together,” she explains. “Just for a while. I even used to have this mondo crush on him. Can you imagine?”

“Yeah,” Luka says, because he can’t count how many times he’s imagined her in love, much less how many times he’s imagined other people in love with her. “Huh. I pegged him as the type to get homeschooled or something.” He tosses a glance behind him, just to see if the limo is still there, but it’s long since peeled away. “What… happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“You…” He pauses. “You said, ‘used to?’”

“Oh,” she says, half-flippant, with a sheepish laugh to match. “Y’know.”

Luka narrows his eyes. “No, I don’t,” he says. “That’s… why I asked?” Even though he maybe, definitely shouldn’t have because it maybe, definitely isn’t his business.

Marinette shrugs, busies herself with boxing up a selection. He doesn’t even have to ask. (Is it good that he doesn’t have to ask?) “I switched schools. That’s all. Turns out absence doesn’t really make the heart grow fonder after all.”

It doesn’t sound like that’s all, especially if the bittersweet look on her face has anything to say about it, but who is he to push? Who is he to do anything but peek into her life and feel grateful, privileged, for what she’s allowed him?

“Anyway,” she goes on; it’s mesmerizing, watching her multitask. The grace with which she can open herself up, so clipped, while taping a box shut. “Our friend is making this music video for a summer class he’s taking. He’s really into film, you know? And we’re playing opposite each other in it. I guess he wanted to come by and chat about it, but I think he had something else in mind.”

Luka’s brow furrows.

When Marinette turns, box in hand, her lips scrunch up awkwardly. Like she’s the one who doesn’t know what to say this time. “Now he’s the one who…”

Oh. Well. Fuck.

“I turned him down,” she adds with a shrug. “In high school. And we’re still… sort of friends. We text and stuff, have a couple of mutual friends. I just get the sense those feelings—his, I mean—never really went away. There’s just… something I can’t shake. Do you know what I mean?”

Does he know what she means? Does he feel? He nods, dumbly, and maybe this moment separated by a counter and a cash register isn’t supposed to be as deep and twisted and thorny as it is. But it is, and it feels that way because he feels, and he wonders if she feels it, too. If there are parts of her that never went away, either.

“Sorry,” Marinette blurts out once the moment ends—too soon, as far as he’s concerned. “You didn’t ask to hear all that.”

“I don’t mind.” Luka offers her a smile because it’s the best thing he has on him. “Life stories, remember?”

She smiles back. It’s slow, and knowing, and it makes him melt in his shoes. “Are you gonna make a song about it, Music Man?”

Okay. Okay. Wow.

Maybe it was worth staying alive for literally this one moment.

“I could write a song about it,” he says; it’s a miracle he doesn’t stammer. “Would you come and listen to it?”

“In the park?”

“At a gig.”

Marinette looks surprised, and then impressed, and damn if he doesn’t want to keep doing things that make her make that face. “Maybe I will,” she says, almost demure, like he asked her on a date or something. (Did he? Ask her on a date?) She looks just past him, and when he follows her gaze it lands on a bulletin board by the door. “Maybe you should swing by with a flyer or something.”

“Maybe I will.” Wow, two for two. He takes the box, reaches for his wallet. “I’ll watch that video, too, we’ll call it even—”

Her hand is on his before he can even pull out his card. And it isn’t until after she’s pushed his wallet back toward him that it finally registers that she’s touched him. “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “It’s on the house. Just bring the flyer, and then we’ll call it even.”

Luka looks between her and the box a number of times, too many questions on his tongue to get any of them out. Why is she being so nice to him? why does she insist on giving him things he hasn’t worked for, or finding loopholes to prove that he did work for it? Is she flirting with him? Or does she pity him? Or is she just being nice because he’s one of her parents’ regulars? Or does she… does she, maybe…

He holds his breath, and searches her eyes, and gets lost in the music he’s still sort of trying to place. He slips his wallet into his back pocket all the same, and he takes the box from her, and it’s ridiculous how fiercely he wishes he could feel her fingers brush the back of his hand again. “You got a deal,” he murmurs—mentally kicks himself for sounding so out of touch. He backs out of the store like it’s illegal to tear his eyes away; it feels like it is, when she’s smiling at him like that. The Not For Customers smile.

Admittedly, he wonders if she ever gave Adrien Agreste that smile, once upon a time.

Maybe he shouldn’t have wondered, because his back bumps right into the door, and the bell above it jingles as though it’s annoyed. But Marinette isn’t; in fact, she giggles behind a hand, and she gives him a little wave like she’s going to keep the memory safe in the pocket of her apron. He manages a weak laugh, and a wave of his own, and then he’s stumbling out the door and walking his bike to the first open bench he can find. He needs to sit down. Put his head in his hands for a while.

Because he thinks she just flirted with him. And he thinks he flirted right back. And he knows she just touched him, in spite of everything she told him about Adrien, in spite of him being right. There. And it’s all finally, finally sinking in, and the world is spinning in a way he’s not really used to, and…

Maybe he just needs a sugar boost.

Shaking his head and sighing, he pops the seal on the pastry box, fully prepared to find a half dozen napoleons inside. There aren’t—only two pastries.

One napoleon.

And one pear tart.

His heart stutters. Makes up for how he didn’t before.

That’s how it gets him.

hey mom? mr. president? deity of indeterminate gender?

how do i go about legally changing my name to Music Man?

you know. hypothetically.

#miraculous ladybug #lukanette #luka couffaine #marinette dupain cheng #fic: chronicles of a parisian dumbass #oh boy.

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varyen · 3 years

Text

home is wherever i’m with you

I wrote a little Childe x Zhongli fic last night. Here’s the AO3 link. Under cut because of lenght.

It’s the rain, Zhongli thinks, the rain does something to people, especially at night. It has a way of washing away facades and lies and oftentimes brings out confessions between people … — lovers.

The rain is heavy in Liyue this night.

Zhongli doesn’t remember when the rain started nor does he know when it will end — in his humble opinion, it shall not. There is something peaceful about the rain, the steady sound of drops hitting the soil and the soft smell of rainwater lingering in the air. It’s something so simple and yet so eternal — the rain has always been while the rest around him evolved and changed.

The streets are empty and cold in Liyue this night, the rain and the freezing wind keeping the people in their homes, tucked away behind their fireplaces and spending the time with their loved ones in privacy rather than out on the streets.

It’s the same for Zhongli; he likes to believe himself to experience something mortal this night. The simplicity of it; it crawls under his skin.

The window is cracked open just a bit but there are no noises coming from the outside; there is no turmoil, none of the busy noises that usually go hand and hand with Liyue Harbour, the sound of the crowds and people and work. Tonight, there is just the rain.

Zhongli sits on the bed, a cup of tea on the nightstand next door to him, the book in his hands open but both long forgotten.

His attention lies on Childe and Childe alone — the Fatui Harbinger of danger and wrath, sleeping peacefully next to him, his breath even and his legs tangled with Zhongli’s. He’s relaxed against Zhongli and his body rises and sinks in a slow rhythm. His slender fingers are wrapped around Zhongli’s wrists softly, barely holding on.

The delicate sound of the rain falling outside and Childe’s deep, rhythmic breath creates a melody in Zhongli’s head so full of yearning and love that the Archon almost can’t recognize himself.

Is this mortality?, he wonders, his eyes wandering over Childe’s relaxed features, a faint smile covering his face.

Is this what mortality will be like? Moments so precious like this — in all of his long life Zhongli cannot remember being soft. He’s always been as hard as stone, had to be, even with peace among the land, he has been hardened and formed by centuries of war and slaughters. Softness was never a luxury Rex Lapis could afford — Ah, Zhongli stops himself, a faint smile on his face; but he no longer is Rex Lapis. The burden of his Gnosis, the burden of his name, the burden of the divine; it was all lifted off his heavy shoulders. It finally feels like he’s able to breathe.

And now, with Rex Lapis deceased and bygone, will he, Zhongli, be able to afford the luxury of softness, of vulnerability? Maybe, he thinks to himself and eyes Childe.

“Your tea still warm?” Childe’s sleepy voice rips Zhongli softly out of his thoughts — the Fatui has one eye open, staring at him with sleep still smudged all over his face.

“I’m afraid not”, Zhongli answers, his lips still carved up slightly enough for Childe to recognize his smile.

He yawns and turns around, resting his head on his hands. His eyes are sharper now, more perceiving but his face is still made soft by sleep. “It’s late, Zhongli. You should go to sleep.” - “I find much more rest in watching you”, Zhongli replies and finally closes that book in his lap and puts it away — he’s lost his interest in it as soon as Childe fell asleep.

“It’s a peaceful night”, Zhongli adds, his head making a slight movement towards the open window. The rain hasn’t stopped or decreased and Childe hums in acknowledgement, his everblue eyes throwing a quick glance outside — the orange light of the lanterns is almost magical in the wet night, clashing against the dark, warm and yet cold at once, a paradox that cannot be explained — just like either of them, Zhongli and Childe, in their own ways, and without so much as having to look at each other, they know that they’re both thinking the same thing.

Childe leans upwards, his hands running over Zhongli’s arm like a faint whisper. “I don’t know for how much longer the Tsaritsa will let me stay”, he whispers against the rain. Childe’s voice is tainted.

The night is peaceful until Childe decides that it isn’t.

Zhongli’s eye twitches but the rest of this face remains as neutral as he can manage. It’s the rain, Zhongli thinks, the rain does something to people, especially at night. It has a way of washing away facades and lies and oftentimes brings out confessions between people … — lovers.

Zhongli tilts his head — in all his long, long life he’s never met quite a challenge like Childe — everything about him is surreal; his decisions impulsive and his emotions reckless in a way that it moves something deep within Zhongli — he can’t quite grasp it, he can’t quite comprehend it. It must be love, Zhongli thinks to himself. It must be the kind of love only a god can give.

“What about you?” Zhongli asks, looming over Childe like a dark shadow, eyes narrowed.

Within Childe, something seems to crack — his features derail and he looks away, as if ashamed, and suddenly he’s much smaller.

“I wish I could stay”, he whispers so quietly, Zhongli almost mistakes his voice for the rain.

“You can”, Zhongli replies simply. There is a certain warmth in the Archon’s voice, a certain tone that rings right through Childe and punches a dagger in his heart.

Childe looks up to him, eyes wide open, cheeks flustered and his mouth slightly agape.

“And if you cannot, well… I can follow you to Shneznaya. I am no longer bound to Liyue”, Zhongli stops for a second and smiles again. “Home is wherever I am with you.”

Childe just stares back at him — the Harbinger looks so vulnerable in this moment, so fragile, Zhongli is sure he could break him with less than his fingers. He could swear that Childe’s eyes swill up with tears but the Harbinger blinks away quickly.

“I have nothing to offer you”, Childe suddenly breathes, his fingers wrapping tightly around Zhongli’s wrists.

Zhongli is quiet for a moment, processing what Childe just said before he chuckles low. Really, Childe is one of a kind but Zhongli knows a thing or two about patience.

“I have been worshipped, Ajax”, Zhongli starts and Childe’s eyes open wider as if he’d only now realize who Zhongli is and what power he holds, still, even without his Gnosis.

“I have been worshipped in blood and sacrifices and many more things worse. I have slaughtered and taken. I have led and protected. I built Liyue and watched over it for thousands of years. The people have given me everything over these millennia and there is nothing I want except you.”

His hands slowly cup Childe’s cheeks, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin underneath the Fatui’s eyes.

“You never will have to offer anything to me. Quite on the contrary, I offer myself to you.”

Childe inhales sharply.

“Will you accept the devotion of an old man like me?”, Zhongli doesn't smile but Childe recognizes a faint glow in the Archon’s eyes that gives his amusement away anyway.

“I desire nothing else but the gift of your love”, Zhongli adds, and he leans toward to press a gentle kiss against the corner of Childe’s mouth. He can feel Childe’s heart skip a beat, his breath shuddering in his throat.

Childe groans, his fingers pressing hard into Zhongli’s skin; like he would float away if he didn’t hold on tight enough; or like Zhongli would slip away from him.

“You will be the end of me”, Childe whispers. “You’re killing me.”

Zhongli’s eyes light up on that, like the eyes of Morax, clear and sharp Amber. Yet another reminder for Childe to not forget who Zhongli is — or was.

“Do not think about the Tsaritsa now. Instead, think about me and what I can do — Gnosis or not.” And after six millennia of being a god, there is a command in Zhongli’s voice which is undeniable and, more importantly, not negotiable with. His words have been the law for a very long time and who is Childe to disobey the God of Justice, the God of War?

Childe swallows and all he can do is nod.

Deep within himself, underneath layers and layers of lies and betrayal, Childe knows, he knows, that if Zhongli called, he would answer. His devotion to the Tsaritsa started to thin in the very moment Zhongli gave his Gnosis up — without a fight he handed it to Signora, freely, and he seemed almost relieved to be rid of it. Childe knows this in the very abyss of his soul; and so does Zhongli.

“Will you still require blood and slaughter?”, Childe asks, half joking, half serious. “I can give you both.”

Zhongli snorts which catches Childe so off guard that his jaw drops — he never heard Zhongli making such a sound.

“The times of war and battle have long passed. I am no longer an Archon. I am no longer the god that I needed to be. I may not be as mortal as you are, my love, but mortal enough.” Zhongli turns to look outside, the rain still heavy, still falling.

“In all this time of being alive I never felt so alive.”

His gaze flatters back to Childe but he remains silent then. Childe’s heart pounds so fast and so loud that he’s sure Zhongli can hear it. His blood rushes through his veins like a wildfire and ignites something beyond passion and desire.

Childe closes his eyes and lets his head bump against Zhongli’s shoulder.

“You’re right”, he says then, finally giving in, his lips trailing over Zhongli’s skin. “It’s a peaceful night.”

Zhongli finds himself leaning into the touch, into the warmth, and he hums. He presses a kiss on Childe’s forehead.

“It surely is. And we have many more ahead of us.”

#Zhongli is so soft for Childe #Childe is insecure #They share a very sweet and very real moment together #genshin impact #zhongli #childe #tartaglia #genshin impact fanfic #genshin impact fanfiction #zhongli x childe #tartali #chili #rex lapis #my writing

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dearlazerbunny · 5 years

Text

If/When/Then

Pairings: Kyoya Ootori x Reader

Genre/Ratings: Five Times trope; G, mentions of severe anxiety

Words: 4200

Summary: Or, five times Kyoya didn’t kiss you (and the one time he did)

WARNING: the last bit gets a little angsty

One

“Kyoya. I swear to god. Can we please just-” you rub your eyes exhaustedly, trying to get the harsh blue glow of your laptop out from under your eyelids- “take a break? Or better yet, call it a night?”

The boy sitting across from you on the sofa glances up, his work reflected in his glasses. “How many words do you have?”

“Kyoyaaaaaaaa-”

“Y/N. How many words?” His tone is partially amused but mostly paternal, like he’s asking a small child how many candies they snuck before dinner. If you weren’t so brain dead it’d piss you off, but as it is you’re mostly just petulant.

“Um… three thousand and… something?”

A slender finger pushes his glasses further up his nose. “And the minimum word count is…?”

“You damn well know,” you mumble, before letting your head drop into your hands. One of your elbows is resting on your keyboard, leaving a long trail of jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjs across your half-finished essay.

“What was that?” A socked foot aims a kick at his shin, but your aim goes wide and he dodges it easily. “I believe the answer is six thousand.”

You give a long, heartfelt groan.

Kyoya sighs. He can easily knock out an essay in under an hour, while you require a little more effort- and a lot more bribery. Even if English is one of your best subjects, he knows sitting here for the past few hours laboring over a boring political comparison has to be dragging on you. And he’s been too caught up in his own work to even try to keep your spirits up- something he’s now regretting, seeing the usual sparkle in your eye dull to something uncharacteristically quiet.

“Here.” He reaches over the edge of his perch and feels for the basket of blankets he knows will be sitting there- his sister has a fondness for being wrapped in a minimum of three layers at all times. Carefully, as so not to disturb his own precious computer, he reaches over and drapes a loose-knit woolen beauty over your lap. He even takes a second to tuck the ends over your toes. You watch, fascinated, so used to his fingers tapping out mile-a-minute documents in a harsh staccato that this moment of softness seems unreal. Maybe you’ve already fallen asleep and are dreaming, or it’s a particularly nice sort of 2AM hallucination. Kyoya notices you staring- of course he does, he notices far too much about you nowadays to try and convince himself he only values you as a friend- and very pointedly looks anywhere but your gaze. He’s not sure he could look away if he caught your eye now, hazy with sleep and reflecting starlight from the nearby open window. “Better?”

“Um- yeah.” You settle a little further into the cushions. “Thanks.”

He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

Of course, when he glances over at you not ten minutes later, you’re fast asleep, laptop precariously close to toppling to the floor. He rescues it and saves your work before shutting it down. There’s a slight smile on your face as you dream, and the overwhelming urge to lean over and press a kiss to your forehead makes Kyoya stop still.

His fixation on you has grown over the past few months, that much is clear, but he hadn’t predicted them to progress this quickly this fast. He has his grades to maintain, a club to run, and a company to prepare for. He shouldn’t have time for silly distractions, like categorizing exactly how peaceful you look curled up next to him, or reaching out and brushing a piece of hair out of your eyes.

He shouldn’t. And yet, he does- he always will, for you.

Two

“Remind me again who said this was a good idea?” You squint your eyes as you turn your face towards the sky, which is lit by a brilliant sun. The Host Club is hosting on location this time- a beautiful stretch of beach peppered by towels, umbrellas, waiters offering fruity drinks, and a couple hundred squealing girls. You know. Relaxing. “I think I might like to punch them.”

“You might talk to Mori about a healthy and productive way to manage your rampant anger issues.” You snort and roll your eyes, which in turn makes the corner of Kyoya’s mouth tick up. He’s under an umbrella nearby, neatly marking down figures on his notepad. “Besides, I thought you liked the water.”

“I do, when it’s not so…” you gesture to the gaggle of twenty or so girls nearby, all primping and twisting in their bikinis to hopefully catch the eye of their favorite host- “crowded.”

“Ah.” He can sympathize with that. The smell of salt and brine takes him back to childhood, with the two of you making castles in the sand and pestering the other with seashell-finding competitions. Beach days were lazy days when your parents couldn’t be bothered to have either of you in the house, but to the two of you they were worth their weight in gold. Today, as he watches you stretch into the heat, his childhood friend is overshone by the you of here and now. You’re gorgeous in a simple one piece more stunning than any of the frills the other guests are wearing and hair in a sea-woven braid dangling down your back. Likewise, the Kyoya of here and now is having some thoughts that his five-year-old self have would never even dreamt of.

“I’m going swimming. If I don’t come back in an hour, tell Tamaki it’s his fault for dragging us all out here.”

“Hm? Oh,” Kyoya clears his throat. “Yes, of course.”

You throw him a glance- is he acting strangely? You can’t quite tell; it might just be the heat- before jogging off towards the waves, well away from the party as a whole.

He watches you go, and thinks about going with you, before a guest trills his name and his attention is dragged back to where he doesn’t want it to be.

At the end of the day, the crowd has left, and the club gets a precious hour or so of pink sky and calm surf to themselves. Hikaru, Kaoru, and Haruhi are searching the shoreline for shells and sand dollars; Mori is hauling damp sand for Honey’s massive sand castle; and Tamaki surveys all of them like a proud father. You and Kyoya are sitting a little away, just close enough to the water to let it kiss your toes. “This is more what I remember,” you murmur, a smile on your face, and Kyoya digs his fingers into the sand so they don’t accidentally wind their way around yours like they want to.

“Oh, here.” You pluck your friend’s glasses from his face and use the towel draped loosely over your shoulders to wipe the lenses. When you hand them back, Kyoya has a bit of a stunned expression on his face, making you giggle. “Sorry. They had salt on them. Seemed like it would annoy you.”

“Indeed,” is what he says, willing his tone to be nonchalant or at least neutral. What he wants to say is, do you remember when we were eleven, and you tried the same thing? You ended up getting knocked over by a wave and lost them in the ocean. I was so mad at you, but I still had to hold your hand on the way home so I wouldn’t fall. You didn’t let me trip. Not once.

If he were a braver, bolder, better person, he’d kiss you right now, and see how you taste like salt and sunshine and memories. But he isn’t, so he doesn’t- he lets the Hitachiin twins, who are sneaking up behind you, douse you in water instead. He lets you shriek at them and take chase, threatening to drown them both, breaking the moment and leaving him sitting by the sea alone to remember what was and what might be.

Three

It’s safe to assume that Valentine’s Day is never a dull affair in Music Room 3.

Everything is decorated with lace and delicate crystal trimmings; the roses are even more bountiful and in every color the human eye can see. The attire is more formal than usual, the cheeks rosier and the lips pinker, and it tends to be the one day when the hosts receive more than give.

Each of their tables is piled high with gifts, cards, baked goods swirled with elaborate frostings. Even though Tamaki keeps insisting that the girls should be the ones receiving sweet nothings, not the hosts, you can tell he’s more than pleased by the growing mound of sentiments slowly dwarfing the other boys’. As it should be, Kyoya supposes.

Honey’s haul is mostly sweets, naturally, and this year Mori also has a surprising armload- apparently one of the only times his admirers hear him speak is when he says ‘thank you’, leading to multiple gifts just so they can hear his voice more than once. Hikaru and Kaoru’s combined mountain looks more like a dragon’s treasure horde than a pile of presents. Haruhi adamantly refused everything until one guest brought her a particularly excellent platter of fish, based on the way she’s been sitting in the corner with her cheeks stuffed for the last twenty minutes.

Kyoya notes all of this with a vague smile, adjusting his calculations and trajectories for the next few months to match the turnout. Valentine’s Day is one holiday he can generally sit out. Sure, there’s a small stack of cards and remember-me’s on the sofa next to him, but his persona as the analytical and aloof host tends to leave him further down in the ranks than the other boys. Which is just fine with him, if he’s being honest- he has manners, but being constantly charming is tiring at best and egregiously aggravating at worst.

“Mother Dearest, it appears you have another card to add to your beautiful collection!” Tamaki flounces over in his wine-colored suit, at least thirty guests in pursuit. “It doesn’t come with a giver, unfortunately- oh! Perhaps you have a secret admireeeeeer!” He wiggles his fingers excitedly and hands over the card with a flourish. “How exciting! A mystery for Valentine’s Day!” His groupies sigh and fan their faces, overcome with the romance and intrigue of it all.

“Thank you, Tamaki,” Kyoya says drily, nimbly plucking the proffered gift from the boy’s fingers. “Please, don’t ignore your guests on my account.”

“I would never! Each and every one of my princesses mean the world to me!” As he and his followers fade back to the other side of the room, Kyoya props his glasses back up on his nose and curiously slides his thumb under the flap of the envelope. It’s a plain white paper, not embellished with hearts or gemstones or ribbon or any of the other garish decorations usually attached to such a thing. The card is similarly simplistic, with only a pencil-sketched heart on the outside and a greeting that reads, “To My Favorite Host.”

Interesting. Perhaps there’s a mystery here after all. He flips it open, not sure what to expect- and immediately has to keep himself from laughing outright. Inside is a crude sketch of two stick figures- one has comically large glasses drawn on its blank face to helpfully distinguish itself as the Kyoya of the pair- and note in chicken scratch: You’re such an asshole, but I guess I love you anyways.

Only one person could be responsible for such a thing. After all, you were never renowned for your artistic talents.

…

“I got your… note.”

You don’t look up from the book you’re paging through out in the courtyard underneath a spectacular old tree. The leaves frame you beautifully against the afternoon sky. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mmm. I found the art particularly museum worthy.”

Now you smile a bit. “Well, you’re a museum worthy sorta guy.”

“Favorite host is quite the compliment.” He’s getting dangerously close to… something; toeing a line he hasn’t touched before, and it’s making his heart race.

“Don’t get too cocky. Mori’s still got like, an eight-pack.”

Kyoya sits beside you, careful to leave several tree roots between you and him. “Why a valentine? I see you every day; you could have just told me yourself.”

“I dunno.” He fixes you with a look, one that says sure, I believe you. You give a halfhearted shrug, shoulder almost brushing Kyoya’s. “I went by the music room. Everyone else had, like, mountains of stuff and I just… felt like you were under-appreciated, that’s all.”

“I see.” A beat passes with nothing but the wind ruffling your hair. “That’s… kind of you.”

Now you do close the gap between the two of you, nudging your knee against his. “You’re welcome, asshole.”

Four

Your laugh, Kyoya thinks, is the best thing he’s ever heard.

You’re draped over the edge of his bed, head towards the floor, giggling wildly to yourself as you mutter an inside joke that only make sense to you. Your cheeks are flushed, and the bottle of alcohol you snuck into Kyoya’s room is sitting a few feet away, half full. He’s had a few sips, but he isn’t much for relinquishing his mental faculties so easily. It’s tempting, though, what with you so lazily tapping his shoulder or nudging his side to get his attention- it’d be so easy to demolish all his carefully crafted walls and drown in you.

But someone has to be the responsible one- and if he’s honest with himself, the thought of you or he regretting what happened in the dead of night come light of day makes him sick to his stomach. So he sits primly against his headboard, the computer on his lap a boulder pinning him to his spot, only glancing at you every so often to make sure you haven’t tumbled off the bed completely, despite your absolutely intoxicating mood coaxing him closer and closer to throwing caution to the wind.

“-and you’re just… you’re just a good person,” you continue, meandering through your thoughts. “Like, seriously. Why do you have to be so amazing. It’s so goddamn annoying.”

He desperately hopes you’re too out of it to notice the reddening of his own cheeks. “I am hardly what anyone would call ‘good.’”

“Lies! Lies. And. Slander.” You emphasize every word with a poke to various parts of his body- his big toe, his elbow, his knee. “Like- okay. What are you working on right now?”

In actuality he’s browsing through the Ootori Group’s latest research and development journals, evaluating their recent findings and sifting the unimportant from the extraordinary. But you’re most likely far too gone to actually understand any of that, so instead he just generalizes: “refining new data from the company.”

“Yeah! You wanna be a fucking doctor, that’s like- that’s amazing!”

Kyoya quirks an eyebrow. “You do realize my entire family is in the medical profession.”

“No, your entire family throws their money at the medical profession.” You wave a finger in the air like a drunk scientist hypothesizing their theories. “There’s a difference.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“No, listen you jerk!” You haul yourself up and place yourself face-to-face with your best friend, close enough that Kyoya can see the intensity in your eyes. “It’s one thing to pay for shit, it’s another to actually be in the room when someone is having a heart attack and wanting to save their life. You care. More than anyone I know. And that makes you amazing.” You let out a rush of air, the sudden verve in your words having worn you out. “I dunno. Maybe that doesn’t make any sense. Whatever. I’m gonna lay down.” You curl up next to his knee and half heartedly arrange a blanket around your legs before falling asleep.

Meanwhile, Kyoya’s gaze has never left your face. The words may have been spoken by a loose tongue, but anyone could hear the honesty in your voice and see the passion in your eyes. You really think that much of him? Or rather, could you possibly think as much of him as he does of you?

He wishes he could shake you awake and ask you to elaborate. He wishes he could tell you that if he’s amazing, you’re a supernova. He wishes he could get drunk and fall asleep next to you while pressing lazy kisses anywhere he can reach.

His reaches for the bottle, but his fingers barely brush the glass before changing course and clicking off the lamp instead.

Five

God, I hate these things, you think to yourself as you tug on the straps of your dress. You’re not quite sure if you’re referring to the pins sticking your scalp, the uncomfortable formal gown you’re squeezed into, or the entire event in general- actually, it’s most likely all of the above. As much as you love Kyoya and the rest of the boys, you adamantly refuse to attend any of their grand balls. You’re not a fussy person, so the general pompous air of the things always gives you a headache, and you hate wearing dresses anyways. But today you zipped yourself into a slinky black sheath number that’s long enough to hide tennis shoes under the hem, forced your hair into something presentable, and even threw on a little mascara.

Because of Kyoya.

Kyoya, who mentioned in passing that this was the best celebration he’d ever planned, and seemed extremely proud of it to boot. Kyoya, who always grumbles as he slips on his suit, wishing he could spend the night with his charts and figures instead. Kyoya, who always returns to school the next day more stressed than usual, a tight smile plastered on his face as he fends off hordes of fangirls.

The things you do for this boy.

It’s immediately clear when you arrive that you stand out in your ebony gown, a wisp of smoke and night sky amongst a sea of flouncy pastels. Luckily, each of the boys steps up to greet you- a sweet hug from Honey, carefully avoiding wrinkling your dress; good natured teasing from the twins; a particularly extravagant complimentary poem from Tamaki. Eventually you meet Haruhi at the table laden with food, grateful for someone down to earth to laugh with.

After an hour, you’re almost convinced Kyoya finally worked up the nerve to skip the event altogether when there’s a delicate gap on your shoulder. “Would you care for a dance?”

“No,” you say, because that’s what you always say when Kyoya asks you to do something (even if he knows you’ll do it anyways). He smiles and takes your elbow, ignoring the whispers and glares from the other guests- who is she? What makes her so special? Everything, he wishes he could tell them. So many things he it would take him years to count them all.

“I thought you hated these things,” he says when you’re safely tucked in his arms on the dance floor. The fabric of your dress shimmers softly, as though marking you as something uniquely precious amongst all the other attendees.

“I do,” you reply. You’re slowly taking his lead, following the waltz music played by a six-piece orchestra. “But I think you hate them more, so I figured if anything I could help put you out of your misery.”

“Hm. Poisoned boutonnière, perhaps?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of hiding up in the rafters with a blowdart gun.”

Kyoya chuckles, sweeping you along. You’re not a bad dancer, all things considered. “I appreciate the thoughtfulness, though that might be difficult given your choice of attire.”

You grin at him playfully, raising your hem up just enough so he can see your battered old sneakers on your feet. “Nah, I always come prepared.”

It’s such an odd juxtaposition- this beautiful girl in the sinful dress accessorizing with sharpie-covered shoes that are peeling rubber- he can’t help but laugh, a real laugh, perhaps the first one he’s given since the night began. Even out of your element, you still maintain something that is so quintessentially you. He wishes he could tell you how beautiful you look. He wishes he could nudge your sneaker with his dress shoe in a secret invitation to follow him somewhere quiet, to steal small fleeting moments that would make the whole night worth its while.

He thinks about this every time you scuff your feet, hearing the slight squeak of rubber against the polished tile floor.

And the beginning…

“Stop it, Kyoya,” you grit out through a clenched jaw, using all your strength to unfold your friend’s fingers from his bloody palms. His fingernails have dug so far into the skin they’ve left bright red crescent moons dotting his hands. You focus on those, trying to soothe the sting with the fabric of your shirt, because if you look at his face and the tears crawling down his cheeks you’ll start crying too, and that’s not what either of you need right now. “Just talk to me. Please.”

No response. He’s trembling as though there’s a blizzard only he can feel, so you sit him on your bed and wrap him in every blanket you have, leaving his hands free so he can clutch at yours like a lifeline. “Just focus on me, okay? Everything is fine.” You try to keep your voice steady as you murmur anything reassuring you can think of, trying to coax life back into his eyes. You knew his anxiety had gotten worse, but this… this is the most catastrophic yet. You sit cross legged in front of him, so close your knees brush his, and hold onto his fingers for dear life. “Keep breathing. I’m here. It’s all okay.” Please please please come back to me. Come on, Kyoya. Don’t let the demons win.

Slowly, piece by piece, something in him seems to uncoil. His grip lessens just a little, and his breathing becomes audible enough to reassure you he’s still with you. Gently, you put a hand to his forehead, then cheek, testing his temperature. “Hey. You with me?”

Something like a sob escapes his lips, thin and heartbroken. Your own shatters along with it. In an instant you have him in a hug, arms as tight around him as you can possibly manage. Kyoya tucks his head into the crook of your neck, practically collapsing on top of you until you aren’t sure where he stops and you start. He says your name over and over and over again, a hymn only he can hear. You press your lips to his temple just to reassure yourself he hasn’t left you and let him cry; only able to offer comfort in presence and spirit. “Thank you,” he murmurs against your skin, and you hold him tighter.

“I’m always here. You know that.”

He sniffs and wipes away a tear with the heel of his hand, wincing when the salt burns his cuts. “Idiotic. I apologize for… all of this.”

“Stop,” you say firmly. You bring his eyes up to meet yours, so he can see the fire in your gaze. “You have nothing to apologize for. Ever. Okay?”

Kyoya stares back at you, feeling small and worthless against the monsters in his own brain. Every second spent with you banishes them a little farther back into his mind, loosening the vises wrapping his chest and letting him breathe a little easier. It has almost consumed him today, so he ran to the only safe place he knows- you. And you had held him and wiped his tears and not for a single second judged him for falling apart.

It occurs to him you are one of the few people on earth who see him for who he truly is, and will still hold his hands anyways.

Ever so gently, he presses his lips to yours- soft, tentative, and barely there. It’s a thank you, and offering, and a question all at once. It’s not the grand romantic gestures he’s planned late at night, wanting to sweep you off your feet in a shower of confidence and joy, or even really a conscious decision- it’s instinct, want, and something like bittersweet love.

You blink at him, eyes wide. “Kyoya… I-”

He stills. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, bringing a hand up to press your fingers against his cheekbone. “Don’t ever be sorry,” you say again, and then you kiss him back. You kiss him like it’s all you’ve ever wanted to do; like you’re saying to him what took you so long, you idiot?

He doesn’t know. But he won’t ever make that mistake again. He’ll kiss you every day for as long as he lives to make up for all that lost time, all those late nights and seaside musings and dances with a hand on the small of your back.

When the sun rises, it illuminates a world of a thousand new possibilities.

#Kyoya Ootori #kyoya x reader #Kyoya x you #ohshc kyoya #reader insert #ohshc fic #ohshc fanfiction #ohshc angst #ohshc fluff #kyoya ootori angst #kyoya ootori fluff #kyoya imagines #kyoya ootori imagines #ohshc imagines

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romionestinyballoflight · 4 years

Text

Alright y’all, I think I’ve done all of the tweaking I can do to this oneshot so I’m finally posting it.

Just a little disclaimer, I really struggle with describing scenery sometimes and I feel like you can kind of see it in this one (this is also the first fic I’ve written from start to finish in about four years). However, I did my best with it and I really think it gets better once you get into the meat and potatoes of the story.

And another disclaimer, this oneshot definitely lays it on a little thick with the fluff. But I definitely think it was appropriate and I feel like it works, given the subject matter.

Also, one more thing, this was meant to be told through Hermione’s perspective and I really hope that I executed that well.

So, without further ado, here is the sequel to Looking At the Other Half of Him.

___

Setting Her Heart on Fire

Summary: Hermione finally learns why Ron has been acting off lately.

It was still days before winter technically started, and London already looked like a winter wonderland. An unusual front had come through a few days prior, bringing in a snowstorm that left London white. The early snowfall had encouraged many London residents to get into the Christmas spirit, and break out their superfluous amounts of decorations and lights. As Ron and Hermione were eating dinner with her parents, it started flurrying heavily again, which added to an already thick layer of snow. Upon leaving her parents house, Ron suggested a walk through their favorite park to admire Christmas lights and the beautiful blanket of snow on the ground before Apparating home. Loving this idea, Hermione happily obliged.

It had finished snowing just minutes before they left her parents house, and Hermione could not believe how much snow they had gotten already. Between the moonlight and Christmas lights, the snow had a beautiful glow to it, and it made her almost sad that they were disturbing it. The park was completely deserted, and the snow seemed to add to the quiet atmosphere.

As they walked hand in hand, Hermione could not help but think about how differently Ron had been acting over the past couple of days. Nothing that set off alarm bells in her head and nothing she felt she had to fret over, but he just hadn’t seemed himself. He had been a lot quieter than usual and a little jumpy like he was constantly alert. And no matter how much she tried to figure out what was going on, he would insist everything was fine and there was nothing to worry about.

Her mind drifted back to the dinner they had just finished having with her parents. It went as normal as it usually does with nothing really out of the ordinary happening. Well, except for the fact that Ron had spent a lot more one on one time with her father than he usually did. Obviously, Ron and her father got along extraordinarily well. Much better than she ever could have hoped for. But while Ron usually hangs around the kitchen, waiting to be spoon fed food that needed to be tasted, he had joined her father in the den and Hermione and her mother were left to their own devices. Even when Ron and her father had been called to the dining room table, it still took a minute or so for them to come out and join them.

Knowing all of this, Hermione began to feel a little anxious. She could normally read Ron like a book, and it was kind of frustrating not being able to figure out what had been going on with him over the past couple of days. She wanted to trust that there was nothing wrong, but she couldn’t shake the feeling he was hiding something from her.

Finally tired of her mind going in circles, Hermione stopped dead in her tracks, making Ron come to a halt as well. Confused, he turned to her and asked, “’Mione? Is everything okay?”

Before she could stop herself, she asked, “What’s going on with you?”

Ron opened his mouth to respond, but she continued speaking before he could get a word out, “And don’t try telling me it’s nothing, because I know it’s something. I have known you for ten years now, I know you almost better than I know myself, and I know when something is up with you. You’ve been really quiet over the last couple of days, you’ve been weirdly alert, and you spent more time with my father tonight than you ever have in the four years you’ve known him.”

After staying quiet for a moment, Ron let out a sigh. “I wanted to spend more time with your father tonight because I wanted to talk to him about just how much I love his daughter.”

Hermione was stunned. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was expecting, but it sure wasn’t that. “What?” She asked breathlessly.

Ron nodded. “I was telling him how much I love and care about her, and how I would do absolutely anything for her.”

Was this about to be… no, it couldn’t be.

“I was telling him that she makes me happier than I ever could’ve imagined being, and I was determined to spend the rest of my life making sure she felt the same way.”

Oh, shit.

With her hand still in his, he reached into his coat pocket with his free hand and withdrew a small object. As he was doing this, a light snow began to fall. Not seeming to notice the flurry, he continued, “I’ve been walking around with this for about a week now, making absolutely sure nothing happens to it, trying to figure out the perfect time and the perfect way to give this to you. But I realize now that I don’t need to make a really elaborate plan, I don’t need to do this in some over the top way. I realize now that I couldn’t ask for a better night than tonight. Because all that matters is you knowing just how in love with you I am, and just how much I want to spend my life with you. So, with that being said…”

Hermione started crying before she could stop herself. This was why he had been so quiet. He didn’t want to accidentally blurt all of this out before he actually wanted to. This was why he had been a little more alert than usual. He wanted to make sure he didn’t lose sight of the ring, as well as make sure she didn’t actually find it.

With her hand still in his, he knelt in the snow and revealed a small but stunning ring in a velvet box. In the most even and comfortable voice she had ever heard him speak in, he began to ask, “Hermione, will you…”

Before he could finish, Hermione leaned down, grabbed him by the face, and kissed him as deeply as she could. When she finally broke from him, she exclaimed through tears, “Yes, yes. A thousand times yes!”

Ron smiled bigger than she had ever seen him smile, slid the ring onto her finger, and stood back up. With tears in his own eyes, he placed his hands on her neck, and kissed her passionately.

When they finally broke apart, Ron pulled her into a tight hug and whispered into her ear, “I love you.”

Hermione closed her eyes and smiled. “I love you more.”

“That’s not possible.”

As they continued on their way, a strong gust of wind suddenly came through, bringing in a heavier flurry. Ron wrapped an arm around Hermione’s shoulders, pulling her in close as they walked. “I don’t want you getting too cold.”

Hermione, however, did not feel the least bit cold. Ron had set her heart on fire.

#Romione #Romione oneshot #Romione fanfic #Ron and Hermione #Ron + Hermione #Ron x Hermione #Ron Weasley #Hermione Granger

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artoodeeblue · 3 years

Text

A Lady on Paper

Find the French version along with my other original writing on this blog!

I can barely remember my birth. My first one, anyway. The cornerstone. It is shrouded in mist, cloggy like the swamp of my cradle-town. Someone must have fathered me – towers and spires rarely sprout up unannounced, I have gathered. In the echoes of my nave, I still hear the scratching of quill over parchment, the heavy bangs of the hammer, the heaving of my creators’ breaths.

The little details give me real life. I take my first breath when Gaultier chisels his initials on one of my rib vaults. His upturned tongue sticks out, almost touching the freckles on his nose. The light bounces through his walnut hair and lands on my freshly-carved stones.

“Hello,” I whisper, gently caressing his mind.

“Hi.” He smiles. Wipes the sweat from his forehead. His voice is tentative. He doesn’t quite know what he’s doing, but his tender name glows, etched into the millennia.

“Pleased to meet you, Gaultier.”

With a professional hand, he scratches another layer of mortar on his stone. In the growing mass that will become my visitors, the sound is both grounding and appeasing. Painfully, heavily, I rise.

“Me too, my Lady.”

Someone must have sired me, but my loyalty has always been to my children.

They give me jewellery and thorn crowns, which I accept like a mother concedes to her child’s present. I don’t need them, but if they reassure them – if they can feel less alone in this world – I can carpet my walls with a thousand tapestries.

Gaultier is long gone, but his laugh still echoes in the choir. It spins around, playfully blowing out candles and raising my children’s hair. His parting gift to the generations.

They give me eyes. I count three, round and gleaming. They flash with pastel, sketched with a delicate mix of stone and glass. With them I see my cradle-town. I see the steaming chimneys, the palace, the paved dampness of the city. I finally see my children, immersed in pink and blue light. Kneeling, muttering, singing. Confessing. They come in processions, light candles most cannot afford, speak a language I do not understand. I pray as well – that they find the answers they ask of me.

They add more intricate buttresses, for fear that I fall. I chuckle. Of course I will fall. I will burn down and crumble and fade until I am nothing more than a lady on paper. But Raymond will have none of this. He gives out orders, holding his parchment, counting steps and scratching on his board.

His touch is firm and steady. He pats me like his pet, running his fingers in the tiny creases between the stones.

(He misses Gaultier’s carvings, which I hide covetously.)

“You will become the most beautiful temple ever to stand upon this earth,” he tells me. His pompous language never fails to pry a laugh. “You will be thin as a sheet of parchment, yet your towers will stand strong until Judgment Day.”

“My sisters have not,” I try again. “Can you not hear their screams, as they fall to pieces and flames in the East? Only their ruins will see the sun rise on Judgment Day.”

“Not you,” Raymond insists. “You are better. You are good. You are holy.”

“Holier than the entire civilisation your people slaughtered in the name of God?”

His blue eyes glint with stars and hubris. He jerks his chin upwards. “Yes.”

My children are strong, and proud, and will burn themselves for a touch of the sun.

I wonder if this was how my sisters felt in the East.

They plunder my crypt, behead my kings and saints, but I never knew them anyway – they are all mere faces tattooed without my consent. Fake jewels. Kings never come to say hello; they just waltz in, kneel, smirk, and declare war over heretics.

Julien’s little kick is nonchalant, patronising.

The pavement is coated with a thick layer of blood. It swirls around me, inside me, churns my stomach and stares at me. They don’t do much to me – maybe, underneath the harsh gaze of the Raymond they so despised, they can hear Gaultier’s murmurs of hope. I never really understood hate, but I know it quickly dissolves under permanence.

“Not so powerful now, huh, girl?”

He wears a blue and red tricorn which awkwardly frames his childish face. He cannot be over twenty, yet his tongue sticks out as if he had finally brought a lion to its knees. Still, it has been decades since I have spoken. I nudge him back.

“Never,” I answer.

Julien smirks, and waves his little flag. “We control you now,” he gloats. “You’ll never hurt anyone else again. You’ll be forgotten, just like every other part of the Old Regime.”

“So will you.”

With a giant, heaving swing, the rod comes smashing towards St Thomas. His head explodes, and the fragments scatter through my bowels.

“I despise you,” he snarls. His breath is ragged, and his chiselled jaw twitches in its socket. “You’re everything that’s evil in this world.”

I am only rocks, I want to tell him. How can stone, oak, mortar and carved initials rival with the bloody smoke-trail of a musket?

But he is already gone, running on the pavement, carried by youth and homicidal optimism.

They change my name – it belongs sometimes to Reason, sometimes to the Supreme Being, sometimes to Liberty. My children are creative, and fickle. Anything to prove that they have changed.

But a few chopped off heads do not change the tell-tale glimmer in your eyes.

A man with almond eyes and a high forehead like mine pushes through my heavy door. His steps break my trance-like slumber, and I stir. Shy sunlight cracks through my unused eye. I blink. Slowly.

Gaultier’s laugh is no more than a whisper now. It has lost its music – has grown as lethargic as mine. Raymond’s promise flies over me like the angel of Death.

The man blows, sending a streak of fresh air over the piers. Dust materialises in the diffused rays. He stumbles around the half-ruins littered on the floor.

Electricity courses through his fingertips as he brushes my stone. I shudder. I haven’t been touched like this in centuries.

There’s an aura around him. Not divine – not like the few priests who still roam my sleepy aisles. Something rich and brown, scented with paper, ink and starlight. His eyes seek, blink, and dart in rhythm with the turn of the earth. His feet are posed firmly on the checkered tiles, yet his posture is light and dream-like. Grounded, physical, yet full of wonder. Not broken – not yet.

He smells so intensely, decidedly human.

I take a breath, and guide his hand towards the tiny alcove I made. It hides in the joint between walls, covered by dust and inconsequence. His breath gets caught in his throat, Adam’s apple bopping up and down. He religiously traces around the tired G, the sloppy H. It stings up to my spire, but tickling nerves feel much less lonely than numb inattention.

“Six hundred and fifty years,” he murmurs. “We must look like insects to you.”

I brush his skin, watching his eyes light up with Muses. Deep in the bowels of my bells, a slow rumbling comes to greet him.

“I think you look like giants, Victor.”

Out of everyone who said hello, he’s the only one who comes back broken.

“Look at you, all pampered,” he says. “You’re a proper lady on paper now. On your way to your old beauty.”

“It is your doing, my love. Your beautiful story set the spark.”

Victor smiles, a weary, tentative thing that contrasts with the navy bags under his eyes. His back is hunched, shoulders drawn tight under his jacket.

Sometimes, Victor reminds me so much of myself it sends sparks of pain down to my crypt.

“I am so very sorry, my dear.” I send him a tender sunray, but he recoils – flinches – away. He takes a shuddering inspiration.

The clangs and thrusts of the renovation scaffolding reverberate inside the nave. Victor’s knee fidgets back and forth, up and down, synchronised with my heartbeat. His breath comes in long, trembling sighs. He dips his head a little more, letting his brows cloud his gaunt expression with shadows too old for his age.

“She was…” Victor falters. “My Leopoldine, she was only nineteen.”

He whimpers, shoulders trembling. Never in his life could he withhold emotions from his features. My Victor has always felt everything so viscerally, so fiercely, that the force of a hundred hell fires could not possibly restrain him.

His hands are linked together and his eyelids close – a small, awkward attempt to connect to something far above my spire. I stay silent.

“You’re supposed to know everything.” His mouth moves, yet his voice comes from another realm. His brow twitches. “If you’re so omniscient, can’t you at least tell me… Tell me why?”

That is the one question I cannot answer, that I can never answer.

“Why can’t you bring her back?”

His broken sobs do not echo. Neither do Gaultier’s laugh, Raymond’s hopes, Julien’s fire. They are absorbed in the scaffolding above, in the heavy oak framework, in the centuries-old mortar.

Sometimes I wish I could speak to God. After all, am I not named after his mother?

Perhaps I am condemned to share her fate, forced to watch my children break and die, suspended to the cruel post of Time.

Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la cathédrale… Je partirai.

It feels…strange, to say the least. I am smaller, lower. Reduced.

Smoke and ashes fly from my spire over my cradle-town, my beloved light-city. My children are cut from me, staring powerless behind murmuring firemen. They pray, they sing, mutter words of comfort that I barely catch over the screaming in my mind.

It aches. The intricate carpentry consumed, the flames licking up my roof, the crashing water relentlessly boring into my shoulders. The tireless wind ramming against my walls, whistling between my towers. It carries the bystanders’ collective gasp as they watch my spire crumble and impale my flank.

A young fire woman fixes her gaze on the brazier, a stoic jawline firmly maintaining her illusion of control. I can barely discern the tell-tale glimmer of her eyes through the smoke.

“You must be in so much pain.”

Maybe, but my pain is not unbearable. My children’s is.

“Don’t worry. We will protect you.” Her voice is wobbly, with a higher pitch than usual, yet her hand on the hose could not get any steadier.

When the sun rises over my still smouldering body, I hear relief, and I hear grief. The city, my radiant, proud, boastful people, hang in exhausted silence. It drapes over me.

My close call to destruction caused thousands of individuals to turn their heads towards an old remnant of the Regime.

“We will rebuild,” they say. From my undamaged eye, I spot their leader, surrounded by a shifting mass of microphones and cameras. “We will restore Our Lady to her former glory, and make her even more beautiful. We will make these stones alive again.”

Raymond’s voice resonates through millions of television sets. His eyes bore straight through the country.

I think of Gaultier’s sweat-filled affection, of his cheery compassion.

Of Julien’s anger at the vices of the world, of the passionate curve of his eyebrows.

I think of Victor the writer, of his beautiful smile and his magnificent tears, of his unconditional love for humanity.

I think of the three or four billionaires I have never met, who will claim to adore me by bedecking me with fake jewels, by cajoling me with impersonal wood and long-dead cold stone.

I think of my other sisters in the ocean, in the forests, in the air. Cathedrals that will never be rebuilt nor remembered, in the small scheme of political power. Monuments older than my cradle-town disappearing with the snap of two fingers, never to be seen again. Killed by hubris, disdain and general disinterest.

My stones do not make me alive. Just like you, they decay, wither, and burn.

No. I do not remember the placing of my cornerstone.

I took my first breath when a young, gap-toothed bricklayer chiselled his initials on the slabs of my rib vault.

#writing #Notre Dame de Paris #short story #my writing #reblog if you like? please? <3

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gryphonablaze · 3 years

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hello and welcome to gryphon’s crackshit crossover corner

I’ve already talked about my theory that httyd is set in the very distant, post-apocalyptic future. that theory was originally inspired by ‘what if httyd and horizon zero dawn crossover?’ My brain said things and for some fuckforsaken reason I listened.

TL:DR I can smash together a crossover of so many different fandoms and media. It’s stupid. I’m crazy. I love it. This is what ADHD makes me think about when I zone out

Anyway, first thing; the portal games could cross over with virtually anything. Portal-lands (borderlands). Portal age of wonderbeasts. How to Portal Your Dragon. Portal and the Princesses of Power. Portal: Zero Dawn. Portalverwatch. Portales of Arcadia. Fuck, if I really wanted, I could make the portal series crossover with Star Wars. This is because the time gap between portal one and two is spectacularly, deliciously difficult to pinpoint. If I shuffle it around, I could align the times during which action and dramatic events occur to line up with Chell finally escaping the facility. She walks through the wheat field and immediately encounters a megabunny, or a herd of grazers and striders. Or she trips on a rusted null sector carcass. Or her first night on the surface she’s staring at the moon and the star-filled sky, until she hears a slowly mounting screech and a flash of lightning. Or after a couple days she encounters a migration of creatures with stone skin, because they’re going to New Jersey and wanted to stop in Michigan to visit the great lakes, I guess. Or a couple weeks in to her new life, there’s a bright flash in the sky, and now she’s glowing? And has weird glowing tattoos on her arm? And can set things on fire? Or a year or two after she escapes, a spaceship? touches down? and out comes a catgirl, a lady with prehensile hair, a weird tall white guy, but not, like, a typical white guy, his skin is literally snow white, and someone who appears to be (???) normally human????? With portal, anything is possible. Bonus points that technically any and all fanfiction, AUs, the like etc. of portal are canon, thanks to cave literally reaching through the multiverse, thereby making all of those alternative realities possible.

So if I wanted, I could stick portal in anything. Like how salt can be used in virtually every cuisine.

But oh, my dear brain did not stop there. This is a crackshit crossover corner, after all. If I fuck around enough, I could frankenstein together almost all of these. The events in HZD take place approximately one thousand years after the apocalypse, which occurred mid-2000s. As in 2050s-60s, not 2005. Kipo Age of Wonderbeasts takes place about 200 years after their mutepocalypse (also it took me an embarrassingly long time to realize that ‘mute’ was shortened from ‘mutants’ and has nothing to do with their ability to speak), and we’re not sure when that happened. We could hazard a guess that Gaia was able to rebuild the world and some of humanity after Faro’s fuckup, but maybe went a liiiiiiiittle too far with the Artemis sub-probgram, and the mutepocalypse happens almost immediately. Oopsies. World goes on for 200 years post mutepocalypse, events of the series of Kipo Age of Wonderbeasts occur. Anknown amount of years later Hades decide’s that’s enough and wipes Gaia’s slate clean for her to start over again. She gives it another shot, but this time limits the amount of historical information that she gave to the humans that she released. Might’ve been a bit inaccurate, because do you know just how much human media insisted that vikings had horned helmets? (Could also explain why somehow Tuffnut knows some spanish). Whatever. This time she tries dragons. Things are actually going pretty well for a couple hundred years, Gaia always thought the ancient mythological tales of winged fire-breathers were cool, why not try it out? Until--are you kidding? The dragons disappear to hide underground? From the humans? Seriously? Wow. Wooooow. All that effort, wasted. Hades decides it’s time to try again. This time? Screw it. Robot megafauna. Hades can’t eat that. Around half a millenia later, Hades gains sentience, goes about trying to commit genocide, events of the HZD game occur. For fanfic funsies, Chell could wake up literally any time in there, because why not add another layer? These all coexist in the same space-time. Same universe, same timeline, but unfortunately not at the same time. Oof. -----> This crackshit combines Horizon Zero Dawn, Kipo Age of Wonderbeasts, and How to Train Your Dragon. (*portal optional)

Or how about somehow, some way, the whole prehistoric ‘peopling of the earth’ (deadass the name of a textbook chapter) was more like accidental colonization of the earth? The rest of the six galaxies moved on and kind of forgot about them, so Borderlands doesn’t necessarily have to be in the distant future of earth’s timeline. Some millenia ago, the Destroyer was going around, doing its thing. The Eridians didn’t like that, so they found a planet with natural capabilities they could take advantage of, asked some sirens for help, and turned it into a superweapon. After all, as typhon says, most Eridian things run on crystals. And sirens’ powers are often elemental--who’s to say the runestones on Etheria aren’t their collaborative work? Along the way they probably make an enemy because of course they do, so why not give the Heart a test run @ Horde Prime? Until Mara rebels, and yeets Etheria and its moons (and presumably star) into Despondos. Well, fuck. Horde Prime mentions ‘one thousand years’ of waiting, but when traveling through space, time can get fucky. Anyway, Now they have to come up with an alternative way to eliminate the Destroyer. It might take a few millenia of hopping around, leaving their mark on various planets, but eventually they come up with the idea of creating a cage, creating pandora... After all, the architecture of the First One’s ruins in SPOP and the various Eridian Ruins in the borderlands series aren’t super different. It’s reasonably possible that their stylistic design choices changed over time--whose hasn’t? Gothic architecture wasn’t hanging around from the dawn of human time. Anyway, we know that since they began building Pandora, the Eridians knew what it would entail. So when Nyriad killed them to power the Machine in the Pyre of the Stars, it’s not like they hadn’t prepared to die. The guardians, their own creations, have heath bars made entirely of shields, implying that they are beings not of flesh but of energy. And who wouldn’t want to at least attempt to preserve their culture, at least a shred of it? Many statues that are presumably in the Eridian’s likeness have only two arms, but some have more. And what energy-based lifeforms (from tales of arcadia) have a majority population with two arms, but a select special few with four? What is their planet called? AkiRIDIAN 5. It is implied that not even Nekrotafeyo, the Eridian’s home planet, is technically the place of their origination, so it’s not all that out of the question for them to make (and possibly fail at) a couple of planets they could put their extra-sentient lifeforms on. ‘Alright, We are called Eridians. This is the fifth planet we made for you. Have fun, we have to go die.’ How often is history not warped by time? Particularly the pronunciation of things? And of course if they’re starting over with a completely new place and no template to work off of, the architecture they come up with is not at al likely to resemble that of their progenitors. Also note that Luug and other Akiridian creatures seen, like those weird ass energy bugs, look fucking weird. You know what else looks fucking weird? The fauna of Nekrotafeyo. In this version, Mara’s story in She-Ra and the Princesses of Power is the very distant early history of the Eridians, before even Nyriad, who is presumed to be very long-lived. The ancient history that the Eridians themselves left behind is in turn the prehistory of the people of Akiridian 5. And again, if u want, portal. That said, the end of SPOP S5, the end of BL3 (currently the latest borderlands game), and the end of the Tales of Arcadia series could not only exist in the same spacetime, but also at the same time. ---->This crackshit combines She ra, Borderlands, and Tales of Arcadia. (*portal optional)

#gryphons crackshit crossover corner #crackshit crossovers #borderlands #portal #portal 2 #horizon zero dawn #hzd #kipo age of wonderbeasts #how to train your dragon #she ra #spop #overwatch #tales of arcadia #my adhd specifically daydreams about my oc #either rose from eden 6 or someone (not lumina) from arcadia inheriting tyreen's powers and kicking the shit out of the arcane order's ass #in like five minutes. Other daydreams include that after eating the moon and exploding Lilith encounters Angella floating in nothingness.#This nothingness is the dimension Lilith (and glimmer) moves through when she teleports and phasewalks. Also the one maya reaches into the #*into to phaselock. I've decided that that dimension is the shadow realm from toa because the shadow realm is the space claire moves thu #when SHE teleports/uses portals. so I'm deciding that all three of them use the shadow realm whether they really know it or not. anyway #eventually either tannis or claire reach into the shadow realm and yoink lilith and angella out. this will presumably happen #after my girl hands the order's asses to them on a silver platter and the world is saved. since rise of the titans hasn't come out yet I'm #just gonna keep daydreaming this do occurr before it #for fanfic timeline purposes

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julemmaes · 4 years

Text

Lucie, my love

“I thought I’d lost you.”

Matthew Fairchild and Lucie Herondale angst/whump one shot

This turned out way fucking longer than I expected, but I cried while writing (both from exasperation that from despair because of what happens in this os) so I hope I’m gonna make everyone suffer like I did, expecially @clara-sm. This is for you. Sorry if this took so long, but I had some connection problems.

(If you want something specific don’t hold back and dm me everything and whenever I have time I’ll gladly write that for you. If you want to be added to my very-short-nearly-non-existent taglist let me know in the comments and I’ll add you)

Word count: 4,735

Lucie was in the Herondale Lounge at the London Institute that night. She was laughing carefree with Cordelia. Initially the idea had been to sit at the table to write something, and she had succeeded in her mission, for twenty minutes, but then Math and her brother had entered, followed by her parabatai, and focusing on anything other than the caresses of her future husband on her arm had become impossible. They talked about the upcoming wedding for a couple of hours before the boys went out to the Devil Tavern with Christopher and Thomas, leaving them alone to talk about what they would call “girl stuff”.

“So.” Cordelia said looking at her with a lively glance over the edge of the cup.

“So… what?” Lucie asked, sipping her own tea.

“Oh, I know I’ve already asked you a billion times, but I really need to know, or I’m gonna go crazy. What did Matthew get for Jamie?” she asked with a shrill voice, tormenting her hands, “I’ve bought at least twelve books in Persian, but I’m sure he will not like half of them.” said Cordelia desperately, bringing her right hand to hold the daisy-shaped pendant James gave her right after their wedding. Lucie had almost cried when she saw it.

She sat still, fixing the foldes of her dress, “I can’t tell you,” she said taking another sip of tea, “because he didn’t tell me either. I know dad has something to do with the whole plan, but he’s been avoiding me for a week.” bewildered she shook her head, “He seemed so happy to have to leave today and not have to lie to my face every day. Unbelievable.”

Cordelia sunk even deeper into the chair, puffing, when the living room door slammed against the wall, causing her to snap. She brought her hand to Cortana so quickly that Lucie didn’t even notice when she pulled it out, she only saw a golden glow, but then she felt it. She felt as Cordelia’s mood changed, while dropping the sword to the ground. She looked at the door ready to fight whatever thing had gotten into the Institute and her stomach fell under her feet when she saw James holding himself with a bloody hand to the door and his face almost unrecognizable. He was wheezing, like he had been running, but it was visible how much even that slight movement of his chest was hurting him. Normally pink skin was pale as ivory under that dry layer of blood, and golden eyes now shone, bright with tears.

She felt, rather than saw, Cordelia moving between the chairs and reaching for Jamie. She was gonna ask him what the hell had happened, where the others were, but he beat her to it, “Matthew…”

Lucie held her breath as the doors opened wide and Thomas and Christopher entered, a body hanging between the two of them, and that blonde hair, which she could recognize in the midst of a thousand heads, was dark, covered with blood. By the Angel, there was so much blood, so much… She squeezed the cup so hard that her knuckles turned white, and she didn’t recognize her voice when she asked, “What happened?” she still couldn’t get up. She was motionless in that wooden chair that had never seemed so fragile, as if at any moment it would break under her weight. Christopher looked at her with a pleading look and she saw with horror the cut across his right cheek. An image of another night, two years away from that moment, formed in her head, but she immediately put it away.

“Move everything, we have to put him on the table.” said Thomas grunting, but Lucie didn’t move. She couldn’t bring herself to. “Dammit Lucie, move that teapot!” there was an edge in Thomas’ voice, Lucie had never heard it before. Cordelia called her and she moved her head to the side, looking at her, but not really seeing her. James held an arm on Cordelia's shoulders and they were moving towards the couch, his wife the only support of his brother in that moment. Just as she had been Jesse’s only support the night those Kuri demons had hurt him so badly that she had struggled to recognize him when they’d found him.

“Luce I need you to do me a favor and move all the things on the table so Tom and Kit can lay Matthew down. Please.” Cordelia’s voice betrayed her, breaking on the last word, but that was enough to startle Lucie. She remained silent while with a single movement she threw everything on the floor. If something broke, she didn’t care. She heard Thomas swearing and then her heart tightened in a press so tight that she thought she was dying, because Matthew had just woken up. And he was screaming. Christopher pushed him on the table and Lucie walked away with her hands on her mouth to stop a sob, as her sight blurred.

“Shit! James!” Thomas turned to her brother as his body bent over Matthew’s to keep him down. Matthew, who was shouting so loudly with his mouth wide open that it was difficult to be heard over the noise and that with his hands closed, was trying so hard not to faint. Lucie wouldn’t have been surprised if he had half-moon marks on his palms the next day. “James, you have to come over here and make him an iratze! Mine aren’t working!” Thomas was trying to stay calm, but holding Matthew down was getting too complicated.

“I-” James looked at him and the desperation imprinted in his features almost made Lucie scream, “I’ve already tried. I couldn’t… mine didn’t work either.” He was crying when he finished talking. Cordelia’s hand holding the stelee on James’ skin stopped for a second, long enough to glance at the table, before resuming her task faster.

Christopher went running out of the room, saying he was going to call someone, anyone. Thomas turned to Math when he stopped screaming, started whimpering. Lucie approached slowly when he began to whisper and move his head frantically. His legs kept kicking, but his body was relaxing enough to make Thomas move away so she could see the situation better. The agonizing expression, so similar to that Jesse had had in the last minutes of his life…

“Jamie. Jamie, where are you?” Matthew was saying, “James.” he sobbed, opening his eyes and reaching out to his parabatai. James tried to stand up driven by the voice of the other, and when the wound on his waist prevented him, he sat down again and closed his eyes, “I’m here, Matthew, talk to me. I’m here.”

Lucie, taking a deep breath, stood beside him, holding a hand to his cheek. When he turned to her, leaning completely on her touch, he said, “Luce, my love,” they sobbed together. She knelt beside the table and took one of his hand with the other, holding as tight as she could, trying to draw his attention to that contact and not to the pain he was feeling.

Matthew grimaced, closing his eyes when Thomas ripped his shirt off, but Lucie kept her eyes fixed on his face. If she looked at her future husband’s chest, she would lose all hope, she knew, she had to stay focused on his features, his eyes. She was going to ask what happened, but Tom put a piece of rolled up cloth in front of his mouth, “Sorry, Math, but you have to bite this.” Matthew looked at him, appalled, shaking his head slightly, “You have a bone that is not where it should be, and I have to put it back in before I can do anything else.” He said, “Bite it, please.” Thomas’s eyes filled with tears and at that point Lucie could not resist any more, she burst into tears taking the piece of cloth from her friend’s hand, caressing one last time her boyfriend’s cheek. “Open your mouth, love, for me. It will all be over before you know it, I promise.” she smiled despite the tears.

“Promise me?” he asked, frightened, inhaling abruptly.

“I promise you, now bite it.” she said, making him open his mouth. “Take my hand. Stay here, stay with me.” she looked at Thomas from above her shoulder and felt Matthew stiffen as Tom touched his knee. He nodded his head, and she gripped Matthew’s hand tighter, holding back the tears when both Matthew and James shouted and Thomas put Matthew’s bone back into its place, straightening his shin with the torn shirt.

Math was crying again, clenching his teeth as hard as he could. He turned his head to his side, toward his parabatai, and tears fell on his nose and temple as he looked at James and took one last breath before he passed out.

“Math? Math, Matthew.” she said, shaking his shoulders. She glanced at Thomas, looking for help, but his friend was looking at Matthew as one looked at a lost cause, and took a step back. No, no. she wouldn’t have allowed it. “Love you have to wake up. You have to keep your eyes open.” she whispered to his ear. A sound of frustration escaped her control and she finally allowed herself to look at the chest of the boy lying on the table, when he gave no sign of hearing her. No, she sobbed and her sight blurred once more, not again. Three cuts… No, three claws, those wounds could only have been made by claws. Three claws so deep that Lucie could see the bones in all that shredded flesh. She choked another sob, wondering how he still had vital organs inside his torso. Another wave of panic poured over her and closing the gap between her and James in a few strides, she took the stelee from his hand and quickly returned to Matthew, starting to draw as much iratze as she could, wherever she could find a spot that wasn’t reduced to minced meat.

“Lucie,” James tried to call her.

She burst into a desperate cry and could no longer stop, while every rune she drew disappeared immediately afterwards. She tried to stop the blood from pouring out with her own hands, resting them on his wounds, and when Matthew gave no sign of feeling that either, she screamed. She screamed until Thomas put his hands on her shoulders, taking her away from Matthew’s body. She tried to free herself from his grip, but he held her tightly, and kept pushing her further and further away. Further and further.

Only when Cordelia touched her elbow did she realize that Christopher had returned and with him was Ragnor Fell. The warlock took in the surroundings wide-eyed and bleached, and signaled everyone to go out, but Lucie was still crying and would never have been able to leave Matthew alone.

“Luce please, he can’t focus if you stay here and,” Christopher’s voice interrupted her thoughts and she finally managed to detach her gaze from Matthew’s chest, which was moving more and more slowly, “you need to calm down. Stressing yourself so much won’t help you. You have to stay stable in case you need to bring him something. You could make yourself useful.” Kit put his hand on her back, pushed her out, and Lucie knew what he was doing, he had done it two years before, when she had lost Jesse. Jesse. Raziel, she would’ve lost Matthew, too.

“I can’t get out.” her voice stuck in her throat and Thomas joined her on the other side, “You have to come out. Come with us, you’ll make an iratze on my arm, and as soon as he’s done, you can see him. Now come.”

“No you don’t understand. It’s already happened, I can’t go out. If I go out he’ll die and it’ll be like with Jesse, again. I, I can’t… He can’t.” she took a trembling breath and saw Thomas and Christopher exchanging a look of understanding. They tried to move her, but Lucie couldn’t.

“Lucie?” At the sound of her brother’s voice she looked up and when he smiled at her, she sighed. If James smiled, it meant that there was no danger of death. However, she looked over her shoulder towards Matthew and it was not possible that he would make it. “Lucie.” James called back, “Come with me. Let Ragnor work.” He took her hand encrusted with blood, Matthew’s blood, and carried her out with the help of his friends.

Once in the hallway she leaned against the wall and with his brother, she let herself fall to the floor. She looked at her dress and squeezed the heavy red cloth between her fingers. James’ hand landed on her knee and she looked up at him, seeing how his wounds were closing. Why were iratze working on him? What had hurt Matthew so badly?

She turned to the others and was surprised to see Cordelia, laying the stelee on Christopher’s neck. Thomas was resting his head on Alastair’s shoulder, who in the meantime was drawing healing runes on his left arm, next to the real tattoo. He must have arrived with Christopher. Not that she really cared in that moment.

“What happened?” her voice came out much harder than she intended.

“We were going to the tavern and we met Alas on the way there. We… I greeted him and a pack of werewolves passing by saw us. They’ve started making unpleasant comments.”

Answered Thomas promptly, his face hardening while staring at Alastair the whole time he was talking. Now that she was paying attention, Lucie had never seen her parabatai’s brother so pale in his life. He had not yet said a word, and it was rare that he did not comment on everything as he did since he joined their group.

“Matthew did not take it well and we had already had a drink on the way. A fight broke out.” James ended up for him. Lucie sighed, typical of Matthew.

“Why is he the only one who’s not healing?” she asked. A moment later, Cordelia was at her side and, like Lucie, she had a confused frown on her face. She stooped to check James’ wounds, but he moved her gently, trying to look Lucie in the face.

“The leader of the pack has targeted him and must have had something on his claws, because they glowed. Christopher noticed, but it was too late.” said James.

Lucie was on her cousin in an instant, “What was that? Tell me, Christopher, or I swear on the Angel I’ll rip your arms off and-”, he put his hands on her shoulders looking at her a little scared. “I’ve already told Mr Fell everything. He knew what I was talking about, but he needs silence to focus and be sure to get all the poison out of Matthew’s body. You just have to be patient.” Lucie lifted her chin, making a small nod of assent, and sat down next to her brother again.

She was still worried and the second she saw Matthew she would burst into tears, but at least someone was healing him. She closed her eyes counting the breaths she took, as Uncle Jem had taught her to do every time she got upset. One, two, three, four… she did not reach the fifth, that a ghostly presence attracted her attention. She opened one eye and almost jumped up when she saw Jesse’s ghost across the hall. She excused herself before heading to the common room next to the entrance. She didn’t dare opening her mouth until they were totally alone and out of reach of prying ears. Her friends knew about her power, but she didn’t want them to know that Jesse was there.

He was looking at her from the window, where he sat down, as usual, and smiled down at her.

“Hey.” He murmured to her like a prayer.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” she asked, smiling shyly, feeling all the fatigue of that evening overwhelming her in an instant. She leaned on the door.

“You called me a couple of times. It’s not as if I could decide whether or not to come.” He replied, “Is that your blood?” Lucie noticed a note of concern in his tone, but she didn’t give it much thought.

She shrugged, “It’s Matthew’s.” He nodded, reducing his lips to a thin line, as if that explained everything. What had happened and when. Why.

“Are you all right?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that.” A trembling breath came out of her as her eyes circled with silver. Jesse made to move, but he froze, as if he remembered that he couldn’t touch her anymore, and he sat straight back down.

“He will recover, you’ll see.” he tried to reassure her. She looked at him, making a nervous laugh slip away.

“You said that to me the night you died. Oh, but I’ll be fine, you’ll see.” She said imitating what sounded more like the voice of a Silent Brother than an 18-year-old. He burst into laughter, and to Lucie it seemed a little forced, but she didn’t care about that either. He was just trying to cheer her up.

“I don’t have that voice. And he’s really going to recover, I can’t see him. Or feel him, for what it is.” he said running a hand through his hair. To Lucie that gesture looked so normal, so alive, that it seemed to her that the world was shaking for a second. And then, “I miss you.” Jesse held his breath, “I miss you every day. And every time he goes out and comes back with a black eye or… or his belly completely open,” she said gesturing to the salon where someone was taking care of Matthew, she sighed, “I can’t help but think that one day he won’t come back. And I’ll have to relive it again. And I can’t do it, J. I can’t.” she said, starting to sob. The other remained silent starring at her and, as if he had never been there, he disappeared. Lucie bent in two when the pain in her chest seemed unbearable, closing her mouth so as not to be heard, when someone knocked on the door and it opened slightly. Cordelia told her that they had moved Matthew to their rooms and that if she wanted, she could go to his bedside. Lucie quickly wiped her tears away with a final sigh of relief. If they had moved him, it meant that the wounds had been cleaned at least. And maybe now they could have put come iratze.

Thomas had already warned all the adults with various fire messages and in a few minutes they would all be here, asking them all kind questions, so she might as well have gone next to him and enjoyed those last moments of peace before the storm.

***

Matthew had never felt worse in his life. He had spent the last three days in a state of half-sleep that had stunned him. He vaguely remembered Lucie’s hands on his chest as she changed his bandages and the cold tip of James’ stelee when he was able to stand to draw some iratze. He remembered the voice of his brother Charles, who offended him for not being responsible enough, and his mother’s gentle touch on his forehead when she told him she loved him.

In all of this, Matthew could only agree with his brother. He had been a fool and a reckless. What exactly did he want to do? Fighting against an entire pack of werewolves, breaking the Law? Raziel, the Accords. His mother would have killed him.

The thought made his head spin and he grunted when the light blinded him. He felt someone move beside him and someone else taking his hand, on the other side of the bed.

“Math? Are you awake?” Jamie asked, whispering, as if he were afraid to scare him.

“No, but I was dreaming of you and I had to share my sorrow.” He joked, bringing his free hand to his face, to protect himself from the sun. He heard Lucie laughing and his heart stopped, and then started beating faster again. Only for her.

“Idiot. You really are an idiot. Next time you do something like this, I’m not gonna let anyone cut your chest open. I’m gonna do it myself.” When he finally saw his parabatai, he had a band around his arm that held it close to his chest, but he was smiling widely, despite the dark circles under his eyes. He turned his head to the other side and nearly cried at the sight of his future wife.

Lucie was staring at him with a shy smile on her lips, as if nothing had happened, and as if she had not stayed by his bed for those long and endless days. But darker circles than her brother’s told Matthew enough about how she must have spent all that time. He gripped her hand before looking at James again, making him understand that he wanted to be alone with his fiancée, and he, after having left a kiss on his head, that Matthew noticed only in that moment was bandaged, went out.

Matthew saw her, staring at her finger where their engagement ring shone and biting her lip thoughtful. He had never noticed it before, how often she did it. It was a nervous tic that she had acquired after Jesse’s death, of that he was sure, but lately it had become a daily occurrence, and Matthew knew that it was partly his fault.

“I thought I’d lost you.“ she said suddenly, staring at the ring. Matthew wasn’t sure how to breathe anymore. He went to talk, but she stopped him, “I thought I’d lost you. And that I would never touch your hand again.” she repeated. She looked up at him and he saw that her eyes were filled with tears. “I would have lost you, but I would have kept seeing you, because I would have called you every single moment and you would have appeared and this time I wouldn’t have moved on.”

He reached out a hand, brushing her cheekbone with a thumb, removing what was left of her crying, “Luce,”

“No, Math, no Luce here, Luce there.” She said in a sharper tone than she intended, “I spent almost four days watching you turn in your sleep and repeat my name and that of Jamie and your mother.” She grasped Matthew’s hand before she took it back and put them both in her lap. “You’re gonna have to change your way of having fun, or the next time you do something like this, I’m gonna leave.”

Matthew snapped to a sitting position, and the dizziness almost made him fell to the side, but her quick hand grabbed him by the shoulder. He looked at her wide-eyed, gasping, looking for the right words to say to her to make her understand that without her, he would not keep living.

“I tried to make you understand that this kind of life is not good. Not for me, not for Jamie, not even for you. And you go on and on exaggerating every damn time.” Her voice broke, “I’m done with this bullshit.” he flinched at the use of that word. Not that she wasn’t right, but he never thought he would hear Lucie say it with such spite. “I’m letting you decide Math, it’s me or the alcohol. I’m giving you one last chance.” she got up from the chair taking the Fairchild ring off her finger and giving it to him. All without looking at his face. A traitorous tear slipped on her cheek, but she was quick to remove any trace of it. Matthew first looked at the ring and then at her, and then again at the ring. He gently lowered her hand, “No.” he said.

“No?” she asked, wrinkling her forehead.

“No. I love you Lucie and, and this thing, this disease I have…” he was struggling, looking for the right words to say, “You know.” He looked for her eyes and when she finally looked back at him, Matthew started talking again. “You know what happened. You know about the baby. I can’t stop, there’s no solution to that kind of mistake, and if I can’t fix it, then I have to forget. Because if I don’t forget, Luce,” he interrupted and caught his breath, “If I don’t forget, I’ll go crazy. And I don’t want to go crazy. I don’t want to go crazy.” he was starting to repeat himself, and Lucie knew that when he started to repeat himself, it wasn’t a good sign. It meant he was spiraling down his thoughts.

Closing her eyes and gathering her last strength she picked up the skirt of her dress in her arms and made a sign to scoot over to her boyfriend.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m getting into bed with you, what does it look like? Now move.”

Matthew did, and she sat beside him, circling his shoulders with one arm and carrying his head on her lap. Now he was curled up on her side, and she was passing her hands through his hair, being careful not to bump the bandage, “I’m sorry, Math.” she whispered to him.

“No Lucie don’t, I should be the one apologizing. I should apologize for the way I am, for the way I’m acting. For being the worst friend and fiancé a person could have.” he murmured, “I’m terrible.”

“You’re not terrible. And I love you, Matthew.” She said, taking his chin and making him turn towards her, “I love you because you are the most extraordinary person I know, and I would not have anyone else beside me. I’m not telling you that I want to leave because you’re a bad person, I’m saying that if you decide to deal with this problem, I will deal with it by your side and I will never leave you alone. I’m saying I can’t be the one to make this decision, because it has to start from you.” Matthew sat down in front of her, his lower lip trembling, and when she touched his cheek, he melted on that touch, like every time she grazed him. “I’m telling you I’m here, if you want me, but if you don’t see that there’s something that needs fixing, then I can’t be a part of your life. Do you understand that?” He nodded, always with his face on her hand. He took hers in his and kissed it before looking at her and reaching out to her face. They were about to kiss each other when a sharp pain in his chest caused Matthew to bend over. He groaned for the pain and brought one hand to his side, while the other went to his head, which had just slammed against Lucie’s. She, in turn, started giggling and massaging her forehead, “Yeah, you’re really terrible.” she teased him. When Math didn’t answer, she started to worry. He started breathing irregularly and his shoulders were shaking, but she didn’t think he was hurting that bad. The wounds were almost healed.

“Math?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine. I think it’s the heart, you know. The fact that you’re not wearing the ring bothers it.” He finally said, raising his eyes lit with fun on her face. She made an exasperated noise, pushing him to the side, before grabbing the ring left on the chair and putting it back on her finger. Matthew took her hand smiling and like a few seconds before, kissed the finger with the family ring on it.

He leaned on his back and brought her to his lap, “I’m so lucky to have you.” He kissed her cheek and she blushed to the tip of her feet. There were few who made her blush with the demonstrations of affection and unfortunately for her, but fortunately for the playful side of her future husband, he was among them.

“And I’m lucky to be loved by someone like you.”

She took his face in her hand and finally, after days of waiting, she was able to kiss him.

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daisylincs · 4 years

Note

Hear me out, 15+69 for staticquake. Could be interesting.

15 = Criminal AU, 69 = Flirting Under Fire

You're right, this could definitely be interesting! And quite a lot of fun, too, especially after I added a fakeout makeout (I couldn't resist.) As always, thanks for the great prompt, Grace 🤗

Daisy is a lieutenant in the local police force, and part of a crack police team known in the station as the Shield. Their team, specifically, is famous for handling those cases most other teams would crash and burn in. (Shield never crashes and burns - except maybe Hunter's one-liners. Those should be treated with a fire extinguisher and a ten-foot pole.)

Anyway, today's case is a fairly standard one. Daisy's done this kind of thing a thousand times before - she's pretty sure she can do it with her eyes closed. After all, what's so hard about finding and arresting someone when you know exactly what they look like? Especially if it's just one guy.

So, no, she's not worried. Which is of course why this case blows up in her face.

It starts out well enough. She goes to the location an anonymous tip-off alerted them to, and finds her guy pretty quickly.

And, God, it's almost insulting how easy this is. Here her guy is, going through his bag of stolen goods in broad daylight, in the alley behind a Walmart, of all places.

"Hands in the air," she tells him, drawing her gun. "And please step away from that bag. Your amateurishness is hurting my professional pride."

He turns around slowly, raising his hands, and she does a kind of appreciative double take. CCTV feeds really don't do him justice.

Too bad he's a criminal, she reflects, shaking her head at her own rotten luck. Why is it that all the cute guys I meet are criminals?

"Ma'am," the guy says, jolting her from her thoughts. "This isn't what it looks like, I promise."

"So you're saying you didn't just steal that stuff from Lai Shi Labs?" Daisy asks with blinding sarcasm.

He winces, ducking his head. "Okay, yeah, this looks bad," he admits.

Daisy is already getting out her handcuffs. "Yes, yes it does."

"I did steal this monoalkenicterrigenoethynol from the lab," he confesses, and Daisy takes a step back just because of that word. Damn. Jemma would be impressed.

"But," the guy says, and something in his sincere blue eyes stops her from handcuffing him immediately, "I'm not a thief."

Daisy has to shake her head at the sheer ridiculousness of that excuse. During her time as a cop, she's heard a few wild ones, but she's pretty sure this one beats them all. He admits he stole the… unpronounceable science thing, but now he's saying he's not a thief? Really?

"Dude," she says, "you're kind of insulting me here. How dumb do you think I am? Most thieves I go after at least try to fight me, not explain to me why they're not thieves."

"I don't think you're dumb," he says earnestly.

"Then why," she asks, channeling her best May-like deadpan stare, "are you trying to convince me you're not a thief while holding a bag of stolen goods in your hands?"

He winces again. "Okay, I can see how this looks really bad. But you haven't arrested me yet, so that's a plus, right?"

"That's just because I've been too caught up in despairing over how bad a thief you are," she says. (Oh, snap. Hunter should really take notes.)

"Ma'am, listen," he says, and there's some urgent layer in his voice that makes her pause. "This stuff I stole - I helped invent it. You're not really a thief if you're stealing your own product, right?"

He doesn't wait for her to reply. "But the point is, I helped make this. I know what it does."

"Okay, I’ll play,” Daisy says, putting her hands on her hips. She can always arrest him later. “What does it do?"

The guy hesitates, then starts to explain in a rush. "It's monoalkenicterrigenoethynol. It alters the biomolecular structure of the host's DNA, causing a total change in the macromolecule arrangement of the -"

His eyes go wide half-way through his last sentence (which is fine, Daisy was understanding, like, nothing that came out of his mouth, other than the word the.) "Shit," he breathes, looking at something over her shoulder.

Daisy whirls around and sees a red SUV with the words Lai Shi Labs emblazoned across the side pulling up next to the Walmart.

Okay, just how long has he been wasting her time if the owners are already showing up? She glances down at her watch and yelps. "Shit, okay. I don't care how cute you are, I really have to arrest you now."

"No," he says, grabbing her arm. "You need to run."

"Are you crazy?" she exclaims, yanking her arm away with an incredulous glance. "I'm arresting -"

But she's cut off by a shower of bullets hitting the ground just inches from where she's standing.

She turns to the thief-not-thief guy with wide eyes. "Okay, running sounds good right about now," she says, following him around the corner and into the next alley.

And because she's not stupid, she radios for backup on the way.

But she knows it'll be a while before they can get to her.

Which means she's currently stuck huddled behind a dumpster with a guy and his bag of stolen goods. Yay.

Oh, and did she mention the part where they're getting shot at? Double yay!

"Do you believe me now?" the guy yells at her through the rain of bullets.

Daisy snorts an incredulous laugh. "Believe you? Uh, no!"

"Why not?" he yells back.

She rolls her eyes. "Because, genius, you stole their stuff. Of course they're mad."

But she can't deny that a reaction like this is a little… extreme.

Okay, a lot extreme.

Fine, he has a point.

"So, what's your name?" he calls once there's a momentary lull in the rattle of bullets against the dumpster.

"Daisy," she says distractedly, trying to peer around the dumpster without, you know, getting her head blown off.

"Pretty," he says, and she can just hear the smile in his voice. "Like you."

She turns around to give him an incredulous look. "Are you really flirting with me while we're being shot at?"

He grins at her, and she thinks it's quite unfair how attractive it makes him look. "Why not?"

"I don't know… oh, yeah, bullets? Impending death? That ring any bells?" she asks, trying to get back to her assessment of the situation.

But this guy doesn't give up. "You haven't asked me for my name yet."

"Maybe that’s because we are about to die.”

He gives her a heart-meltingly warm smile. "Isn't that the perfect time to flirt, then?"

“Uh, no,” she says, as though it should be obvious. (It should.) “The perfect time to flirt would be after we’ve gotten out of here, in a nice little coffee shop.”

She can practically hear the grin in his voice as he replies, “oh, so you’re saying you would flirt with me at another time?”

Daisy splutters. “I didn’t say that!”

“You kind of did,” he argues, blue eyes sparkling playfully.

“You’re delusional,” she scoffs, peering around the dumpster again (and though she would never admit it, it’s partially to hide the blush creeping across her cheeks. He’s cute, okay?)

“And you’re pretty,” he says to her back.

She turns around to give him a deadpan stare. “Are you ever going to quit with the flirting?”

“As soon as you ask me for my name,” he answers cheerfully.

She shakes her head, but there’s a grin tugging at her lips despite her best efforts. “You know what? Fine. If it’ll shut you up… what’s your name, guy who is totally a thief despite not thinking he is?”

“I’m not a thief,” he protests for the two-hundred-and-fortieth time. “I helped create the monoalkenicterrigenoethynol, and it’s my call to say it shouldn’t be released into the public.”

“Right, so you’re a hero,” she says, the amount of sarcasm in her voice enough to knock out a full-grown elephant. “Forgive me if I don’t fall at your feet in worship.”

“I’d rather we go out on a few dates first,” he says, and oh my God, he did not just say that.

“Do you know my friend Hunter?” she asks him. “Because that really sounds like something he’d say.”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” he says, then adds probably just to spite her, “Daisy.”

“I’m going to regret giving you my name, aren’t I?” she asks with a long-suffering groan.

He grins cheerfully at her. “Oh, yes.”

“At least tell me yours so I can return the favour,” she says, because come on, fair’s fair. (She can just see Jemma’s smirk at this point, and she mentally tells her no, Jemma, I’m not flirting back, don’t be dumb, it’s just to shut him up.)

The guy seems to think differently, if the way his eyes light up in amusement is any indication. “I’m Lincoln,” he says. “Really pleased to meet you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, rolling her eyes and directing her full attention to ignoring the little pleased glow she gets in her stomach.

He looks like he’s about to say something else, but luckily for Daisy’s sanity, the dumpster chooses that exact moment to blow apart, a bullet whizzing between them and narrowly missing both of their heads.

“Okay, time to go,” she says, taking charge instinctively and dashing down the alley. Dead end. Crap.

“Through here,” Lincoln says, grabbing her hand and tugging her towards the rusted steel gate she missed in the shadows.

She takes the lead again, keeping a hold of his hand for practical purposes. (Oh my god, stop smirking, mind-Jemma.) Maybe they can lose the Lai Shi guys in the mess of alleys behind the mall.

They almost succeed. They're right about to come out into the main road when they see the red SUV pull up.

Now, Daisy is a police officer, trained in one of the best teams in the business. She specializes in taking stock of a situation and acting on what she assesses, fast.

That's exactly what she does. She sees the SUV, sees the corner of the alley as a potential barrier between them, sees how it can trick their enemies into passing right by if they just add a little distraction.

The first thing that pops into her mind is a stupid, cliché idea that has absolutely nothing to do with how she and Lincoln have been flirting-not-flirting, and even less to do how she thinks he's really cute. All there is to it is that she's a good officer, and she saw an opportunity for a good distraction. That's all. Definitely.

But as she pushes him against the wall and kisses him, deliberately positioning it so that her hair blocks his face, she's really not complaining about this particular distraction.

They keep kissing even when they hear the SUV take off again - just to be sure they’re safe, of course. That’s why.

Just as they have to pull apart, out of breath, Daisy’s walkie-talkie crackles. “I’m here, Dais,” her partner Mack says, with just a hint of amusement in his voice.

Daisy turns around, and sure enough, there’s the familiar police car. She can feel her cheeks burning as she steps away from Lincoln, even though she knows she has nothing to be embarrassed about. It was just a distraction, after all.

"Need a ride?" Mack asks, rolling down the window and shooting her a shit-eating grin. Oh, wonderful. Distraction or no, the teasing about this is never going to stop.

“Come on,” she grumbles, tugging Lincoln into the car by the hand and ignoring the way Mack hides a grin. “Let’s go.”

The ride back is one of the most awkward of her life - she and Lincoln have no idea what to say to each other after, well, that, and it doesn’t help that Mack keeps smirking at them in the mirror. Daisy’s almost glad when they get to the base.

Coulson is waiting for them inside. “Oh, good, you got the criminal,” he says when he sees Lincoln step out.

Daisy coughs, not wanting to meet Lincoln’s gaze. “Actually, sir… it’s a little bit more complicated than that.”

“Oh?” Coulson’s eyebrows fly up.

Daisy coughs again. “Yeah… he says he kind of had to steal it, to prevent it from being released into the public.”

“That would be a disaster, sir,” Lincoln supplies helpfully.

“Well, Fitzsimmons will be able to tell us soon enough,” Coulson says, reluctantly motioning for Lincoln to come inside.

Daisy would never admit it, but she’s tense as she waits for Jemma’s results. (Judging by Mack’s knowing look, though, she’s not fooling anybody.)

When Fitzsimmons have finished working their magic, Daisy almost melts with relief when their faces are serious.

“Sir, this is one incredibly dangerous substance,” Fitz says, his blue eyes serious.

“It’s actually really, really lucky you stole these vials when you did, Lincoln,” Jemma tells them seriously. “If this stuff had been released into the public, well… let’s just say it’s better not to think about it.”

Coulson’s face is wry as he turns to Lincoln. “I hate to say it, but Mr Campbell is... not a criminal.” He gives Lincoln a grudging nod, and Daisy has to bite back a grin at just how grudging it is. “It seems you’ve done us all a favour.”

Lincoln nods, keeping his face serious for Coulson’s benefit. “Thank you, sir.”

But as soon as everyone else is out of the room, he turns to Daisy with a fully I-told-you-so smirk. “That’s a date you owe me.”

She folds her arms. “And how did you come to that conclusion?”

“Well, you said you wouldn’t worship me as a hero until we’d gone on a few dates,” he reminds her.

She keeps up her unimpressed facade. “Pretty sure you said that.”

He ignores her and takes a step closer. “Well, now that I actually am a hero…”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s biting back a grin. “Alright, alright, hotshot. We’ll go on a date.”

“Really?” he asks, and the simultaneously surprised and shyly delighted look in his eyes is so sweet it completely melts the glare off her face.

She reaches for his hand. “Really.”

(The rest of the base can tease her all she likes - Daisy’s finally found a cute guy who’s not, you know, a criminal. Though they do have a very funny story to tell all their friends about that…

It’s not the happy ending Daisy expected. But it’s a good one.)

#tropes mashup #criminal au #flirting under fire #fakeout makeout #staticquake #bullet-point fic

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365daysoftododeku · 4 years

Text

26th December 2019

Author: Karma

________________________________________________________________

Under a sea of lanterns and firework jellies (I see your dragonfly heart take flight, ignite)

“Have fun! Be safe! LINE me when you get home.” Izuku sighs as his friends disappear into the crowds.

Ochako had promised Tsuyu some goldfish, and Kaminari and Iida had a whole date itinerary planned out. The Kendo-Pony-Momo-and-Kyouka quartet were already off on their own double date.

Leaving Izuku as the lonely, singular wheel wobbling down the road. It’s a better existence than the unnecessary third or fifth or even ninth wheel, but being extra always stings at gatherings like this.

Izuku would go home, but there are fireworks to be had, and a surplus of sparklers to light and watch die out.

Heaving the bucket with him, Izuku walks for a long while, until he reaches the old Hachiman shrine that’s leagues away from all the festivities. The worn, faded white torii is settle atop one of the scarce hills in the middle of town, and as such it is always Izuku’s preferred firework viewing spot. He climbs up the grassy incline, clutching his yukata and sparklers close, and slips only once on the wet grass as he goes; he thanks the god of the shrine for the green color of his festival-wear. Finally, Izuku settles well above the line of most buildings, and the world with its busy routines and individual stories passes him by makes him feel small and invisible in the best of ways. His spot, being as far away as it is from the festivities, is completely unoccupied except for himself, and he relishes in, at least, the solitude that the area grants him.

If Izuku weren’t feeling so damn lonely and miserable, he might even feel giddy over the fact that he gets this view to himself.

As it stands, he’s just counting down the minutes until the light show starts.

Start it does, with a few test shots to draw Izuku out of his own head.

The light show is fantastic, as it is every year. Fireworks launch to musical numbers and themes, and two shows even do the same song, a Halloween classic if his American friends are to be believed.

The one that steals his breath, however, is the one set to delicate piano music. Fireworks pop in place, then another, and the effect almost looks like a dragon chasing something in between and around the stars. Firework shells hover and float gently across the night sky, and at one point there are so many of these shells in the air that it seems like a group of fireflies have been unleashed, or like the stars are being brought unto the earth itself. It’s magnificent, it’s mesmerizing, the way the wind blows and curls the smoke around him makes his world feel small and foreign, exotic and the flickers of colored smoke that drift down from the fireworks only add to the mystique of the show’s magic.

Eventually, however, that show ends, and Izuku is left half-listening to the introduction of sponsors and themes for the next group.

Something soft tickles his nose; it seems like one of the parachutes that held the fireworks aloft had come to say hi.

It’s kinda cute, Izuku thinks, it almost looks like a jellyfish. A few bob on the wind in front of him, and he tells them, “A firework jellyfish! That’s what you are!”

As the wind picks up, more of these so-called firework jellies drift downwards toward him, and soon it feels like he’s ended up in some sort of jellyfish field. Some of them still carrying glowing embers and ashes, and the way the small lights from the mirage echo throughout the thin paper makes Izuku feel like he’s opened his eyes to a world underwater in the middle of the day. Lights dance and flicker like candlelight or sunbeams over the thin caps of the firework jellies, and each jelly picks up the light from the next, so that light is everywhere with no definitive source.

It’s only when the sounds of the festival change that he starts trying to escape from the sudden swarm. There’s a snarling nearby that makes Izuku think of the frequent warnings that have been coming about bear sightings, and for one second he’s terrified that one of the beasts has made it into the heart of town.

But as his sight clears and the swarm of jellyfish depart, he sees that the snarling thing is no bear at all. It looks like a flying worm, with a mane of furious red and white hair down its body and teal scales sprinkled in amongst the silver.

It looks almost like one of the dragons of legend.

Izuku hadn’t been aware that a dragon kite had been part of the parade. Or that they had been made so flexible and mobile in the past year.

Something splatters on his cheek, and pieces of paper whap him in the face as the dragon passes over head.

The liquid turns out to be blood, when he drags his fingers through the wetness to examine it, and the papers? Little people cut out of rice paper that take off into the air when he peels them off of him. One of them flutters angrily at him when he pinches its tail to take a closer look. He lets it go in fright, and it immediately soars off after its fellows.

“Ah! Sorry!” He calls after it, but it is impossible to see against the shroud of night.

Izuku peers once more at the blood, and frowns. Was the dragon real? Was it hurt?

Izuku decides, in the small part of his brain not currently occupied with screaming about the existence of dragons, that yes, it must be real, and yes, it must be hurt. That small piece of brain also concludes that it might be the fault of those paper men, and so Izuku hurries to grab his sparklers and lighter.

He sets a handful of them in a fan pattern, and yells for the dragon. “Mr. Dragon! Down here!”

By some miracle or breath of wind, his words are carried up to the dragon, and it arcs into the sky before nosediving at him. Izuku ignites his sparklers and holds them in the sea of papers that trail the dragons, and soon enough, the whole flock is aflame. The dragon hovers behind him and admires his handiwork.

When the sparklers have run their course and the little monsters not but soot and ash in the breeze, Izuku drops the spent impromptu weapons into the water bucket. He stiffens when he realizes that the dragon’s snout is now right behind him, and he can feel breath both searing and freezing through the back of his thin, sweaty summer yukata. His hair stands on end, but after a moment’s stillness, during which the dragon chooses kindly not to eat him, Izuku slowly turns to look into its eyes.

“Wow, even your eyes are two-toned…” Izuku mutters in awe. Because it’s true. Where the dragon’s mane is red and white, where its scales are silver and teal, the dragon’s eyes are brown and blue and striking. All fear is forgotten, even though teeth as big as Izuku’s forearm are hovering near his heart, and instead Izuku chooses to gawk awkwardly at the magnificent creature before him. Even when it opens its maw, the fear does not return, though Izuku isn’t sure if he’s been bewitched or is simply shocked stupid.

“Human.” Comes a soothing voice.

“Uh, ah, yes?”

“You have saved me.”

Izuku scrubs his head, and his hand comes away sooty. “Not really? I just, felt kind of bad that you were being attacked?” A huff of that hot-cold breath has him opening his mouth before he can think his words through. “You’re a dragon, and you can breathe fire, right? Why didn’t you use that to defend yourself?”

The mismatched eyes blink at him. “Because that is exactly what those infernal things were designed to do. I refuse to breathe the fire I inherited from my sire.”

Izuku quickly translates that into normal human speak. “But, but, your father isn’t the one breathing fire for protection here, you are?”

The dragon snorts, and gradually raises its massive head into the night sky, graceful and slow as any swan. “I wouldn’t expect a human like you to understand.” He coils like he’s preparing to launch into the dark shroud around them.

“Wait!” Izuku calls. The teal eye peers down on him. “You’re still hurt. Can I see? I may not know how to treat dragon wounds, but I’m still first aid certified, and I wouldn’t feel right letting you leave without having at least checked out your injuries, and I may not be able to help, but at least you’d know-“

The dragon cuts him off. “Very well.”

Izuku blinks. “Really? I mean, okay. Can you come back down here so I can get a closer look?”

The dragon swoops down once more, obligingly. “You’re a funny little thing, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know, I mean, uh, maybe?” Izuku busies himself with looking at the scrapes and paper burs on the dragon’s snout and behind his head. Some of the redness in his mane is from blood, and with a careful hand, Izuku scoops a small handful of water from his bucket and pours it carefully over the non-wounded but bloody parts. Eventually, the ruff of fur runs clean, and Izuku steps back. “All good, sir.”

“…Shouto.” His voice resonates deep like thunder, and comes out of nowhere.

Izuku jumps a little; they’d been silent for so long he hadn’t been expecting a response. He’d figured the dragon would just leave once he gave the all clear. “Shouto, sir.”

The dragon’s form… gurgles? It bubbles and rolls, and soon the dragon explodes into a thousand paper petals. What’s left is a man about Izuku’s age, with striking red and white hair, and eyes that are equally as mismatched. He stands primly in a kagirinu, and he stares in Izuku in way that can only be described as mystified. His voice, when Shouto speaks, is far less thunderous, but no less soothing and mellow. “How did you come to the spirit layer, Izuku?”

Izuku can’t recall having ever given the dragon his name. “I… don’t know? There were firework jellies and then…”

“Firework jellies?” Izuku sees Shouto’s lips and nose twitch.

‘Yeah? The little caplet things that float down after a firework has gone off.” Izuku feels kind of silly for naming them, now.

“No, no, I understand.” Shouto sighs, looks around, and holds out his arm to Izuku. “Would you… like to be shown around? I can give you a tour before you return to the human realm.”

Izuku looks around for the first time, and takes in the world. It is night here too, and a blood red, full moon hovers overhead, low and heavy and dripping into the shimmering black waters below it. The world is aglow in flickers of candlelight and red festival lanterns, and Izuku can feel the beat of drums and whistles of the flute inside his chest just as much as he can hear them. “Yes, please!”

Shouto holds out an arm. “Then, allow me.”

Izuku takes it delicately, and is immediately swept down into the heart of the town. The crowds milling here feel the same in energy, but appearance-wise differ so much that Izuku would have to be blind and dumb to miss it. If the dragon-human standing beside him wasn’t proof enough that he was in a different world, then the sight of these bird-headed, many armed, and multicolored peoples would certainly be proof. Several greet Shouto, and gaze curiously at Izuku, but they hardly stop to talk.

“You mustn’t stay longer than the dawn, but there’s much to be seen at this time of year.” Shouto whispers into his ear. They’re moving towards the water, Izuku can tell by the way the moon looms closer in all its red glory.

“That’s okay! I have to go back at some anyways, my friends will worry!” They settle onto some pavement with a view of the lake, or maybe it’s an ocean?

“Mm.”

More of the strange people flutter around, in the stalls and streets behind them, on the shore below, across the water. “Shouto, do you know why I’m here?”

The dragon huffs, and doesn’t look him in the eye. “No.”

“Are you sure?” Izuku leans forward to catch his gaze, to no avail.

“No.” The dragon nods to a feathered man who approaches them, who immediately backs away. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“The show is starting.” Drums start pounding in unison rhythm, and they steal the breath from Izuku’s chest before he can continue with his line of questioning. It’s difficult to talk and even think, when the world trembles so under the weight of the percussion. Screaming whistles accompany shrieking burst of wind, and light filters slowly onto the water. Izuku is so mesmerized by the way the warm firelight interacts with the red light of the moon that it’s only when Shouto places a clawed hand under his chin and guides his gaze upwards that he notices where the secondary lights are coming from.

Ships sail across the water, shallow boats with large masts, but instead of being buffeted across the water by sheet sails, lanterns fill the spaces instead. An unmanned fleet of these pour into view, and they swirl once within the waters before heading to shore. As the boats reach the shallows and the ‘sails’ loom overhead, the wood flats morph into animated stick-like men, who pass the masts to waiting people before shambling back into the water.

The men carry their new acquisitions through barely-there paths in the crowds, and as Izuku watches them bounce along the road, embers spark and fly into the night sky.

“Come on.” Shouto tugs him to his feet, and they join the ensemble of people who follow the impromptu parade down the road. As they move, music joins the layers of drums and flutes, and soon the lantern sails start swaying in time. The crowd’s moving gains a cadence, and soon the dancing begins. Izuku is dazzled by the swirling colors, but a hand on his elbow draws his focus back to his companion.

“May I?” Shouto murmurs, chin tucked into his chest.

Izuku feels the swaying at his back, and wants nothing more than to join the dance. “Please.”

Shouto takes Izuku’s hand in his, puts the other on his waist, and twirls them into the flow of parade, and Izuku decides to rely on the dragon to guide him and his steps.

Fireworks, small and intimate, launch into the air just overhead of the crowd, and when the cinders float down they don’t burn at all. The contrast of the dark ash and the glowing flickers in Shouto’s hair, with his multitude of colors, only heightens the brightness of his appearance, and the entrancing vision has him stumbling over his feet.

Shouto, thankfully, has quick reflexes, because he pulls the two of them immediately from the crowd and into a side alley, allowing the milling dancers to move past them seamlessly. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, you’re fine. I mean, I’m pretty. Wait, no, you’re pretty fine- Gah!” Izuku’s tongue trips, and he sinks to the ground in mortification.

Thankfully, the dragon doesn’t appear to be offended, because he joins Izuku on the ground, his lips twitching.

“You’re laughing at me.” Izuku moans.

“Perhaps a bit.” The dragon’s eyes crinkle. “You think I’m pretty, huh?”

Izuku groans, and curls into himself further. “You’re a bully.”

“I’m not hearing a no.” He rises to his feet. “Come on, there’s still a bit of time before you have to head back.”

Izuku peeks out of the shelter of his arms, to see a hand stretched out to him; his face lights up even as a grin splits his face. “Ugh, fine.” He remains hidden until he can school the grin off of his face, but the redness won’t go away.

The hand tugs him to his feet when he grasps it, and then the two of them move back into the crowd. The sails have long since moved on, but their light bounces back across every surface, so that the world remains aglow in fire. The dance has shifted, to something light of foot, and now there’s a layer of people dance through the sky above the ground. It makes for quite a sight, and also for a less crowded street.

Shouto must follow his gaze, or at least see the way Izuku can’t look away from the partiers above them, because he asks, “Do you want to go up there?”

Izuku feels his breath catch. “Could we?”

Shouto nods. “Give me a moment.”

Wind tugs at Izuku’s curls, gentle at first, then fiercer and fiercer, until the two of them stand in the midst of a gale. It steals the gravity from them, and weightless Izuku is carried into the sky. Some of the revelers around them shout in outrage, but others seem to enjoy the sudden onslaught of wind. The music swirls in the air around them, just as audible as ever, and Izuku wonders if there’s magic even in the sound here.

“Once more?” Shouto says. Izuku turns back to him, and his silly, hopeful eyes. Like Izuku can answer any other way.

“Of course.”

They dance their way across the night sky, above everyone else, the music and the sparks and the lights chasing their footsteps through the stars. But all too soon, the wind is letting them down towards the earth, and Izuku realizes that they’ve returned to the spot where Izuku first met Shouto.

Looking around, he can see that the eastern sky is indeed gaining some pink light, so distinct from the festive glow of the earth below them.

They delicately alight on the hill, Shouto still supporting him from their dance. They separate, and Shouto slowly, physically turns him, so that Izuku’s back is facing him. “Turn around, face the sun. Put your back to this world.”

Izuku does as he’s bidden, but he can’t just let the night end like this. “Will I ever get to see you again?”

A heavy breath whooshes over his hair, though it’s not enough to hint at a fully sized dragon. Which means that Shouto really is just that close. “I wished that someone would come. That they’d look at this droll, boring world of mine with new eyes and see as something other than my prison. Thank you, Izuku.” Something soft presses into his hair, and Izuku can hardly dare to hope. “Stand on this hill, the night of the full moon, face the west, and we may meet again. Now, close your eyes.”

Izuku does so, thankful that this isn’t a goodbye. That there’s more to come.

The sound of rustling paper returns, and when next Izuku opens his eyes, he’s back in his own world, facing the quiet of sunrise.

The kiss in his head burns and freezes, and Izuku knows it will follow him around until he next sees Shouto.

He can hardly wait.

#Story #altered-karma #TodoDeku #365DaysofTodoDeku #TodoDeku365 #365 Days of TodoDeku #tddk #Shouto Todoroki #Todoroki Shouto #Izuku Midoriya #Midoriya Izuku #Boku no Hero Academia #BNHA #My Hero Academia #MHA #Todoroki x Midoriya #Shouto x Izuku #TodoIzu

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izaswritings · 4 years

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Title: Faults of the Mind

Synopsis: Having escaped the perils of the Dark Kingdom, Rapunzel finally returns home—but all is not well in the Kingdom of Corona, and the black rocks are quickly becoming the least of her troubles. Meanwhile, over a thousand miles away, Varian struggles with new powers and his own conscience.

The labyrinth has fallen into rubble. A great evil stirs in the world beyond. The Dark Kingdom may be behind them, but the true journey is just beginning—and neither Rapunzel nor Varian can survive it on their own.

Warnings for: blood, violence, and death (NOT any of main characters), injury, some cursing, references to past character injuries, PTSD symptoms and the lingering effects of trauma. If there’s anything you think I missed, please let me know and I’ll add it on here.

AO3 version is here.

Arc I: Labyrinths of the Heart can be found here!

Previous chapters are here.

Chapter III: The Puppet

As the stranger danced to silence, the Sun opened her mouth and began to sing.

It was a song unlike any other, a melody created on a whim for this lovely woman and her lonely dance. For a single moment the song hung in the wind as the woman twirled upon the seas; for a single moment they were in harmony, and all the world held its breath at the sight.

Then the stranger realized what had happened, and froze upon the raging waters. At last, for the first time, she saw the Sun. Her dance stilled; the song, too, fell silent. In an instant their eyes met.

The Sun reacted first, an apology rising to her lips—but it was too late. The stranger, frightened by her audience and her heart moved by the beautiful song she had so briefly witnessed, was overwhelmed and fled. The Sun reached out and cried for the stranger to stop, but already the woman had vanished away into the dark, gone as if she had never been.

And so it was that the beautiful Sun met the lovely Moon, and chased her away…

For the second time in under a day, Varian makes his way through the fields back to Port Caul.

It’s early, still, and the whole world reflects it: dew and frost weighing heavy on the long grass of the fields, the sky bright with the pale colors of sunrise. The clouds above, wispy and thin, are lined with a delicate gold; the breeze still carries the heavy chill of the midnight ice. Despite the misty night, the ground is frozen solid from frost. With each step, the iced greenery crunches underneath his worn boots.

Still struggling to wake up, Varian pulls the collar of his coat closer and shivers. The fields outside of Port Caul are endless and sprawling, and in the light of the rising dawn, near breathtaking. The far-off silhouette of the city is gilded by the sunrise, the blue buildings shining soft with a pearly glow in the creeping dawn. Despite the bite of cold and the frosted edges, there is something soft about it all—a winter tempered by coming spring, ice thawed to a chill, something brisk and fresh and clean.

It doesn’t make it any less fucking cold, though.

They must make quite a sight, the two of them, to any strangers who see them: the woman, Yasmin, older and stern, with short dark curls and a confident stride—and a boy, Varian himself, tripping behind her, ragged and worn and trying desperately to keep up.

“How much farther?”

To say Varian is exhausted is a gross understatement. He is bone-cold tired. Numb to the world. A walking dead in the making. His late night has done him no favors, and this long walk back through the twists and turns of Port Caul’s farmlands drains what little remaining energy he has. His mouth is dry and sickly, his head stuffed with cotton, his limbs heavy and shaking with fever chills. The winter sun burns down on the back of his neck, the sunshine bright and as piercing as ice. Before him the wide expanse of the world unfurls at his feet, the fields of the Port Caul countryside near infinite to his eyes. Every time he looks to the horizon, to that distant shadow of the city proper, he feels even more tired than before.

Farther ahead, Yasmin walks with sure strides, making a confident pace through the overgrown paths. Despite her age and small size, she is damnably spry. Varian, still lagging behind despite all his best efforts, squints blankly in the sun and hurries to keep up. It’s ridiculous. He’s barely a head shorter than her, so how does she keep getting so far ahead?

“Hello?” he tries, when she doesn’t answer right away. The exhaustion frays his already thin temper; his fatigue makes him bold. “…Are you ignoring me?” he asks, and frowns as he says it. He’s not sure whether to be annoyed at that or not.

Yasmin, still a few paces ahead, heaves a very pointed and visible sigh.

“We’ve been walking for hours,” Varian points out, refusing to be cowed. He’s tired, she’s a jerk, and he does not care about what she thinks of him. Not at all. Nope. He’ll be as rude and spiteful as he wants to be, damn it. “Seriously, how much farther?”

Yasmin gives another heavy sigh. “Until we reach the city.”

“…Seriously?”

“What, was that not funny? I thought moody teenagers were all about sarcasm.” Yasmin stamps the ground with her foot, crushing stray grasses flat. She doesn’t even bother looking back at him. “We will get there when we get there, boy, now stop asking and start walking. Bah, these roads are awful…”

Varian gives the distant horizon a desperate look. It is so far. “Why couldn’t we take a cart?”

“Because I do not own one, clearly.” Yasmin shakes her head. “Walking is good for you.”

“You sound like Adira.”

“Vexing though she may be at times, she is, unfortunately, also often right.” Yasmin pinches at the brow of her nose. “…We will reach the city in another half-hour or so, if we make good pace. May you cease pestering me now?”

Considering the fact they’ve already been walking for about two hours, Varian thinks he deserves to be put-out by that—but he bites back the rude comment rising on his tongue before it can slip free, and takes a moment to breathe. She’s awful, but he’s better than this—or, well, he’s trying to be—so Varian settles for a dark scowl at her back, instead.

Still. He is so bored with walking. He turns his scowl to the ground and kicks a pebble on the road with all his might, smacking it with all the anger and force he can muster. The pebble rolls three measly times and then gets caught in the grass. It’s barely moved an inch.

Typical.

Varian scowls harder.

He misses Ruddiger. He wishes he’d thought to run up and wake the raccoon before he left, but the rapid exit and Yasmin’s swiftly retreating figure had panicked him, and he hadn’t realized he’d left alone until they were already ten minutes down the road. Now Varian is stuck here with a stranger he doesn’t know and doesn’t like—with no raccoon to keep him company.

The day has only just started, and Varian is already certain it’s going to be a miserable one.

Which sucks, because it’s looking to be a lovely day—not a glimpse of clouds on the horizon, a day so blinding and bright it nearly hurts to look at. The sheer shine of the morning is so intense he almost expects a summer heat to match it, but in contrast the wind blows cold, bitingly numb against his exposed face. The grasses sway and bend in the breeze, the fields awash in dark green and winter blue, frost scalding the pebbled wagon road.

In any other circumstance, probably, the view would be beautiful. But Varian’s head is aching and his eyes are sore from lack of sleep, and so instead of appreciating the sight he rubs his bare hands together and shoves them in his sleeves, and thinks only of how goddamn grateful he is that he didn’t forget his coat, too, along with his raccoon.

“Chin up, boy,” says Yasmin, at his silence. “We will be there before you know it.”

Varian directs his bleary frown to her back. Easy for her to say. She barely looks bothered by the cold at all—is it that she’s used to it, Varian wonders, or is it that she’s just pretending to be unaffected to annoy him more? He… really wouldn’t put it past her.

Still, though, Varian knows better to speak those thoughts out loud. “Why are we even going to the market?” he asks, instead, curious despite himself. “And why do I have to be there?”

Yasmin doesn’t answer right away. Like Varian, she is dressed for the cold, in a long trench coat buttoned up to her neck and a heavy dress lined with fur; she tucks her hands in her sleeves and takes a moment to fuss over the fabric. “That is a rather layered question. I am not sure where to start. Let us say… Adira has somehow convinced me to help. Doubtless this is not what she meant, but she is paying me to do my job, not to listen to her. My help takes many forms. For Adira, it is information. For you?” She shrugs. “Market.”

“I don’t need help,” Varian snaps.

“Nonsense child. Who on earth taught you that silly lie? Everyone needs help. Do not take it personally—I still do not like you. This is not pity, or whatever your knotted mind has conspired. This is simply what I do. If it helps, you may consider my help as part of my job to you.”

…Varian doesn’t even know where to begin responding to that. “That’s…” He throws up his hands. “That doesn’t make sense! What even is your job?”

He gets another side-eye for that one. Yasmin scowls at him, her eyebrows drawn low and twisted. “…Let me guess. Adira did not mention that either?”

He stares at her. “No.” Obviously.

“Bah, of course she didn’t. Why do I bother?” Yasmin slows a bit, letting Varian catch up, and glances down at him. “I am… I am not sure how to explain this. I suppose I am something of a dealer of information, and of rare goods. I know many things, and can find a great many more things, and for the right prices I can be encouraged to share them.”

Varian frowns at her, mind whirling. “Like, an information broker? Or a spy?”

“Hm. You make it sound so ill-advised. But yes, both, that is about right.”

“…Isn’t that illegal?”

Yasmin blinks at him, slow and deliberate. “Yes,” she says. “But so says the wanted criminal.”

Varian turns red, and for a moment he thinks to argue—it’s not like he actively chose to become a criminal—except, well, maybe, yes he had, but…

He gives up. There’s nothing he can truly say against that, though he thinks he is starting to understand Yasmin a little better now. He doesn’t know much about spies or information dealers, just that they exist, but he imagines they tend to be pretty secretive. And if Varian really is a known wanted criminal to the rest of the world…

He turns his head away, not wanting to follow that train of thought any longer. “Is Ella, too—?”

“No.” Yasmin’s voice is curt and cold, shutting down the question before he can finish. “Ella is… she is not involved in my work, though she knows of it. She is a singer, actually. Perfectly legal.” For the first time, something of a smile touches her lips. “My dear wife can hold quite the tune.”

Well, okay. But something she’s said stands out to him. Varian frowns. “How do you know Adira, then?”

“Boy, for Moon’s sake. You have traveled with her for months. What about that woman makes you think she cares one lick for legality?”

Varian briefly flashes back to the last six months. Jumping carts, breaking into caravans, sneaking into cities guarded by soldiers who weren’t convinced by Adira’s sheer force of authority… yeah, no, stupid question. “Is that how you met her? Breaking the law?”

Yasmin snorts. “Nothing so grand. I met Adira through other circumstances.”

“What other circumstances?”

“Tsk. Question after question with you, isn’t it? Yet rarely any answers in return. This is why I despise scientists.” She rolls back her arm, an absent-minded stretch. “It is none of your business, frankly.”

His head drops. “I was just curious,” Varian mumbles, and at his side, his fists clench. He feels a little shamed. It probably was too rude a question, but—this is more than Adira has ever told him. For all of Yasmin’s prickly answers, they are answers.

Yasmin is quiet for a long moment. Then she mutters something, the words too low for Varian to catch, and raises her voice for him to hear. “We were… Adira and I came from a similar place, you could say. Running from the same thing. I always thought her plans foolish, but… well. What are friends for, if not to encourage foolish ideas?” Yasmin glances away. “Though I am beginning to regret that. I have been too accommodating, I think. But that is how I know her. I find her whatever strange item or legend she needs, and in return she keeps me updated on the comings-and-goings of whatever country she’s tromped through this time.”

“Oh.” Varian’s mind whirls, putting together the slim pieces he’d eavesdropped from Adira’s conversation with Yasmin just last night. Their talk of a kingdom… Adira’s frustration. Yasmin, her voice low, to Adira: The kingdom died twenty years ago for me and Ella, though I see for you the death is recent.

He’d known Adira was from the Dark Kingdom—it wasn’t exactly hard to guess, what with that stupid symbol on her hand and all—but for the first time, Varian looks at Yasmin and tries to imagine her there too. Yasmin, and Ella, and their little house in the fields… he thinks of the labyrinth, and the ruins he and Rapunzel found in the depths, and still cannot fathom it. Even for someone as prickly as Yasmin or Adira, it’s hard to picture anyone once calling such a desolate place home.

Unaware of his thoughts, Yasmin’s voice lowers to a mutter. “Of course, this arrangement works much better when she bothers to stay in touch. A little head’s up, a small warning, hello, Yasmin, sorry for the year-long absence, just letting you know I am not dead, and also I am forever grateful for your friendship and the many favors you do for me—” She cuts herself off and clicks her tongue. “Ah, never mind. But that is how it goes. In the end you are just another odd job she has thrown my way.”

Varian hums, distant, and the conversation drops into silence. He lowers his eyes and watches his feet, step after step after step. It’s easier than looking at the horizon. The sheer distance to the city is just starting to depress him.

“…That reminds me, actually,” Yasmin says, apropos of nothing. “I forgot to ask her, and Adira did not mention it—did she say anything to you about a flute, boy?”

Varian looks up, his face scrunching in confusion. “Um… what?”

“A flute.” Yasmin gestures, miming an object far longer than any instrument has a right to be. “Grand old thing, carved from amber, looks quite pretty in sunlight? Lovely music, curved a bit like a hook, so big it is frankly ridiculous? Loaded with religious importance? Took me months to find and secure? Yes? No?”

Varian stares at her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he admits.

Yasmin’s lips thin. “I see.”

There is a beat of silence.

“If that woman has left my priceless religious artifact in that goddamn kingdom, I am going to strangle her with her sash,” says Yasmin, thoughtfully, and then she turns back around and marches on down the road without another word.

Varian hurries to catch up. Despite himself, and despite the wariness Yasmin still inspires, he finds his lips almost twitching in a smile, a vague sense of relief. It’s good to know he’s not the only one Adira drives bonkers.

…He’s probably being a bit unfair to her, Varian thinks, with sudden flash of guilt. Adira isn’t that bad. She… she has helped him, in a way. Maybe not the way Varian wanted, or the way he expected, but she has. She’s tried to teach him fighting. She’s kept him clothed and fed and moving in these past six months. He thinks he should maybe thank her, at least for that. As frustrated as he is, Varian is—here. He’s here.

That simple fact means more, now, than it ever did before. After the labyrinth, Varian hadn’t… he hadn’t known what to do. Where to go. What next, or where to now, or even if he wanted that. He’d been free, but he’d been lost, too—and maybe Adira hasn’t given him the direction he wanted, but she has at least gotten him moving.

Varian’s smile fades at this thought. He looks down at his feet, throat suddenly tight. He remembers the way he snapped at Adira, barely a day ago, and squeezes his eyes shut. A headache pulses behind his temple. He—he should apologize, probably. Maybe. He doesn’t think he can, now, but maybe later… maybe if she apologizes first…

His thoughts drift. The wind picks up, a chill striking through him. Varian shivers under the layers of his coat and yawns into his elbow. He feels tired, worn, too aware for the exhaustion dragging at his bones—like the wind itself is all eyes, watching and waiting, boring into the back of his skull.

One step, then another, then again. The wind howls in his ears. The shadows stretch and warp in the sunlight. His heartbeat feels very loud, all of a sudden—like the droning thud of the drums of war, pounding like marching feet against his skull.

All at once, a sudden dread overcomes him. A chill that strikes down to his bones. Each step sends his stomach plummeting. His ears ring. He feels as if ice has been dumped down his back, and his breathing has gone shallow. His heartbeat is rapid-fire, faster than a bird’s.

Don’t go.

He steps toward the city. He moves through the fields. He walks.

Don’t go there.

His mouth is dry. His vision swims. With each step, his heart beats out of tune. Varian looks up in the direction of Port Caul, and thinks, for one blinding moment of clarity: You don’t want to be here.

“Are you alright?”

He startles, near-jumping out of his skin. Yasmin is frowning at him. She stands silhouetted against the sunrise, the shadows cast long and deep across her face. Her brow is furrowed. She is looking down at his right hand.

Varian follows her gaze. His hand is—he’s holding it, he realizes, he’s gripping it tight in a vice, his thumb digging into the soft flesh of his palm as if to burrow beneath the skin. It hurts. It hurts with a dull, solid ache, like pressing on a bruise.

As soon as he realizes this, Varian snaps his hand away. His veins feel tight and cold, stone under his skin. He blinks fast. “W-what?”

“Does your hand hurt?” Yasmin almost looks concerned, in her own irritated way. “This is the second time I have seen you do that. Is that why you cannot sleep?’

“That’s—I—I don’t know.” He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. Varian hunches under the attention, and hides his hand behind his back. But even as he does it, his skin crawls, his right palm itching terribly. He has to fight not to claw at his skin. “How did you—wait, why does it matter if I can’t sleep?”

In the distance, the city looms closer than before—they are practically upon the city gates. The wall towers over him, a cold shadow, and beside them a horse and cart rumbles by through the wrought iron gates. The road, beneath his feet, has turned from soft crushed grass to actual paved stone. Varian’s head spins. How long had he blanked out for?

Yasmin scans him up and down, her brow knotted. “That is why we are here, of course,” she says, at last, looking a little reluctant at the shift in subject. “You said to me this morning you have issues with sleep, and I have little remedies for such in my house… so to the market we go.” Her lips press—but then she seems to let it go, shaking her head with a weary breath. “Well. If not an injury, then what is it? Can you not fall asleep, or is it that you cannot stay asleep?”

Varian scowls at the dirt path and stubbornly does not think of dark hallways and darker rooms, the moonlight streaming through the window. “Why does it matter?”

“I have agreed to help you, but I cannot help if I do not know what is wrong.” Yasmin is scowling, but it is a distant thing, not directed at him. She looks vaguely frustrated. “I do not like you, I have made no secret of it; you dislike me too, and you have made no secret of that, either. This is fine. We do not have to like each other. But I have tried to be honest with you, thus far—so please, do me the favor of being honest with me.”

She is frank, she is annoying, she is a bladed voice and angry words—but she has told him more in one conversation than Adira has in months. And it is this honesty that makes Varian duck his head, but it is this truth that finally makes him admit it: for all that he dislikes her, Varian is terrified of the idea of continuing to face the dark alone.

Still. It is so hard to admit it, to put voice to the fears inside him. His words come out a teeth-clenched whisper. “It’s—it’s just—” He doesn’t know how to say it. “It’s just too dark.”

It’s shameful, almost. Childish, certainly. Varian is afraid of many things, but the dark, oddly, has never been one of them. He has always felt so secure in the science of the world that the monsters of myth had been dismissed as easy as breathing. And he still feels that certainty. He still feels utterly secure in the fact there is nothing in the closet, nothing under the bed. It’s just—

It’s just too dark, now.

It’s just too much.

“I see,” Yasmin says. Her voice is quiet too. Another cart rumbles by them, the creak of the wheels almost deafening in the silence. The murmur of voices and the rasp of the sea breeze drifts in from the city gates. Varian looks away from Yasmin and up at the gate, and shivers in the shadow. The whisper comes back to him again. Turn back. Go away. It’s not safe here.

“I see,” Yasmin repeats, and her voice breaks Varian from the spell. “Well then. Just to be sure—you are an alchemist, yes?”

Varian lifts his head, blinking echoes from his eyes. “U-um, yeah.”

“I do not own any alchemical equipment, but I have enough bobbles to get you by, I think, if you choose your ingredients wisely.” She turns to the gates and Varian follows, reluctant, as she pushes through the iron doors. “Come along, boy. In the end it may do little, but if darkness is your issue… then I recommend building yourself a light.”

Eugene leaves the castle that night.

His reasoning is simple: there’s no real reason to delay. Eugene has no desire to draw out this parting any longer than he has to. With his goodbyes to Rapunzel said and her letter weighing heavy in his vest pocket, Eugene returns to his allotted rooms and picks up the travel bags he hadn’t even bothered to unpack. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be gone, but it’s best to be prepared.

That isn’t to say he rushes, oh no—Eugene takes his sweet time. It’s almost like planning a heist, in that way. The devil is always in the details, and Eugene considers details to be the most important step. Missing one crucial item in a theft can be deadly, and in a way, well… this isn’t all that different.

The preparations take him the rest of the day. In the hours following his talk with Rapunzel, Eugene repacks his bags and prepares to leave the castle behind. He chooses new clothes, picks up fresher food, slips in a few items he thinks will serve as a welcome gift for Lance. He finds the daggers he’d stashed away when he first moved in and hides away the finer cloths that would get him mugged five feet out from the castle walls. He has a job to do, after all—and for all that Eugene isn’t the most serious individual, he is most certainly a professional. Either he does this right, or he does this not at all… and doing nothing is no longer an option.

By sunset, he’s all ready to go. Eugene hides his belongings in one of the castle’s many nooks and crannies, goes to bother Maximus in his own silent way of saying goodbye—and, when the daylight has faded and the shadows cover his path, slips inside the guard barracks and goes to find Cassandra.

He finds her in her room, thankfully—he’s not sure he could sneak by her new post in the dungeons without being caught, and he definitely doesn’t want to deal with that kind of drama right now. But his luck is holding true: he’s managed, from the sounds of things, to catch her right before she heads off for her post. Her door is half-open, the lock unlatched, and Eugene knocks on the wood frame with one hand as he toes the door open.

The room is as empty as his was; the evidence of an eight months absence. It’s cleaner than he’s ever seen it, no stray weapons lying about or anything, and her bed is made so well the cover corners look sharp enough to cut. For all that Cassandra served as a palace maid, and took her duties seriously, her own rooms are usually where she throws all tidiness out the window. This, more than the shadows under her eyes, tells Eugene all he needs to know. Apparently Rapunzel isn’t the only one with insomnia today. Cassandra probably hasn’t slept one wink since they got back yesterday morning.

She looks it, too. He’s caught her in the middle of preparing for her shift, armor half-on and hair an absolute bird nest. She’s always been pale, but today the pallor is almost ghastly, the shadows of her eyes rivaling even Varian’s. There’s a new scab on her lower lip, a wound never quite healed: she’s bit her lip hard enough to bleed.

Cassandra glances over at the open door, helmet in one hand like she’s trying to decide whether it’s worth trying to pry it over her bush of curls. It takes her a moment to realize he’s there, but as soon as she realizes her face twists in a scowl. Her glare is practically automatic, but whatever sting it might have held is dulled by the bloodless pall of her face.

“What do you want, Fitzherbert?”

Bad mood, then. The last name thing is always an indicator. Eugene’s lips thin. He’s not upset. He can’t even blame her. She looks…

She looks how he feels, really. What a mess. “Long day?”

Cassandra gives him a dirty look for that. Eugene winces. “Yeah, okay. Too soon?”

She throws the helmet on her bed, looking about to snap… and then sighs, her shoulders slumping. Her eyes squeeze shut. In the darkening sunset light streaming through her narrow window, the shadows under her eyes seem bright as bruises. “Sorry.”

Eugene snorts and leans back against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s fine. You realize I’ve dealt with your prickly temper before, right?”

Cassandra rolls her eyes. “Oh, ha-ha.” She rubs at her face and turns away, sitting down hard on the bed. “Still, sorry. I’m not… I just…” She shakes her head, her teeth gritting.

Eugene can only imagine. Demoted to prison duty, after once having been the top detail of the future Queen? It’s more than a slap on the wrist—it’s a bona fide royal punishment, and it’s going to give her a bad rep, too. And that would be bad enough, perhaps, but that she’s being punished because of the situation with Varian…?

Yeah. Yeah, no. There’s no good ending to that story.

They haven’t talked about Varian, really. They’ve barely said his name at all these past few months, beyond the whys and hows of his disappearance after the labyrinth. There is an understanding between all three of them—a looming fight that Eugene can almost taste in the air whenever the topic is broached, and all three of them have been ignoring the problem of Varian entirely rather than risk the argument it might spike. So while Eugene can’t say he knows how Cassandra feels about Varian… well.

He has a pretty good guess that it’s nothing good.

He doesn’t blame her; some days, Eugene feels much the same himself. His nightmares have come and gone these past few months, ebbing and rising like a tide, but though most are filled with dark stone and the knife-like smile of a terrible god, some are older still. A campfire, halfway burning. Arrows in firelight. The way Rapunzel fell back, the sound of her skull snapping against the stone, and most awful of all: that brief, terrible moment when he thought she’d never get up again.

He knows Cassandra dreams of much the same.

“It’s a bad situation,” Eugene settles on, finally. “As expected.”

“Being right about it doesn’t make it better, Eugene.”

“Uh, yeah, no. Yep. Bullseye on that.” He sags his weight against the doorway, heaving a sigh so heavy it makes his body sink with the sound. He rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, by gods, I sure didn’t miss this. Politics! Hah!”

The briefest hint of a smile curls at Cassandra’s mouth, almost reluctant. “Oh? And here I thought you liked the idea of being king.”

“Yeeeeeah, about that. Sneaky.” He points a warning finger at her. King, hah. It’d been Lance who’d finally told him how succession worked in Corona. Rapunzel gets crowned Queen—and Eugene, marrying into the family, would not be a king, but rather a Prince Consort. Which is a fine fancy title in its own right, but still. “When were you going to tell me that isn’t how it works?”

“When it was funny.”

“Oh-hoh! Fuck you.”

That pale smile flickers to a true grin. Eugene leans back against the door again, pleased with his work. “But seriously,” he says, humor fading to sincerity. “Things may seem like a shitshow now, but… It’ll blow over. Eventually.”

The grin fades. Cassandra looks away. “Sure.”

“Still sucks, though.”

She exhales hard, pointedly. “Eugene. Why are you here?”

This time it’s Eugene who looks away. He taps his fingers against his arm, the uneven rhythm of a bar song that’s been stuck in his head since winter began. His lips press in a thin line. He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, then pushes up against the doorway, bracing himself.

Well. No more stalling it, he supposes.

“I’m leaving.”

He senses rather than sees Cassandra go still. “...What?”

“I didn’t come here to get lectured,” he warns her, straightening up, finally meeting her eyes. She looks as furious as he expected. “I already told Blondie. I’m heading out tonight. If you need to get in touch, the Snuggly Duckling is your best bet.” He hesitates, then exhales heavy through his teeth. “Look, I—I get it. I know what you’re going to say. But I’ve been thinking about this for a while. I… I need to do this.”

“We just got back.” Cassandra’s voice is low. “Just got back, and with things as they are— and I can’t even see her— and you’re leaving her alone?”

“I can’t help her here.” Eugene tries to keep the words even, accusation-free, but he can’t quite keep the coldness out of his voice. He knows this already. He knows, and it's already eating at him, and he doesn’t need Cassandra digging in the knife. “I can’t— I won’t sit here and be useless.” Not again, he thinks, but he bites that part off behind his teeth.

Cassandra scowls at the ground. Her expression has turned dark.

Eugene looks away too, hating the knot in his gut. He rubs at his chin and sighs, leaning back heavy against the doorframe. “Besides,” he says, finally, trying to keep his voice light. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that whole ‘no-contact’ clause part of the punishment. This is Rapunzel we’re talking about. I’d bet good money she’ll find a way to break out of that room and into here in about… oh, three days. Tops.”

“She shouldn’t.”

“Well. It’s Rapunzel.”

Cassandra hums at that, tuneless. She still isn’t meeting his eyes.

Eugene holds back another sigh and shakes his head, dipping one hand in his pocket. “...I didn’t just come to say goodbye, either.” He draws Rapunzel’s letter from his vest, holding it out. “For you.”

She goes to take it, but Eugene pulls it back out of reach. “Cass, before you read it—”

She glares at him.

“You don’t have to do this,” Eugene says, undeterred. “Not if you don’t want to. I know how much this job means to you.”

Something in the tone of his voice must get through, because her hand stills. She’s quiet for a long moment.

“…Will it help?”

He’s not sure how to answer that. “It’s something.”

“Then yes.” Cassandra meets his gaze, her expression tense. “I want to help.”

He thins his lips, but hands it over. He’s not sure what to make of the look on her face—the odd pinch to her eyes. Cassandra takes the missive warily, breaking the seal and scanning the page within seconds. Eugene watches her face, trying to put a name to what he sees there.

Cassandra’s expression doesn’t even twitch. After reading, she folds the letter carefully and lays it flat on her lap. With one hand, she rubs the corner of the parchment between her fingers, her eyes dark in thought.

“You understand, don’t you?” Eugene says finally. His voice is quiet. His eyes unwavering. A flash of clarity has struck him. “Standing aside, watching everything happen… I never want to be there again.”

At long last, Cassandra looks at him. She doesn’t move, but in this moment, he can finally read her. In this, he knows for sure. The labyrinth has left its mark on all of them, in its own way—and for the two of them, it has left the same scar. It has united them in the horror of being left behind and helpless.

Cassandra’s eyes drop. The anger has faded from her face—now, she just seems tired. “...I’ll look out for her.”

“She doesn’t need it, I think. But thanks. I hate the idea of leaving her alone.” Eugene straightens, waves one hand in a mocking salute. “Good luck,” he says, gentling into something genuine. “Cass.”

She meets his gaze again. A smile twitches at the corner of her mouth, and this time, it’s almost real. “You too, Eugene.”

Eugene gives a winning smile back and slips out the room without another word—no need to make this sappy, after all. He closes the door soundlessly behind him, and feels something almost like pleased. The conversation didn’t quite go as he wanted—but he thinks it was a success regardless.

He sticks his hands in his pockets and slips back in the comfort of the shadows.

It is child’s play to get back outdoors undetected. He picks up his bag from the hiding spot and slip it over his shoulder, tilting back his head in the night air. He’s got a long walk ahead of him—a long few weeks to go—and he takes one last second for himself, to settle, to be sure. Taking one last moment to breathe.

Oh, gods. Is he really going to do this?

He looks up behind him, one last look at Rapunzel’s tower room. The window is dark, all the lights gone out. But he can still see the silhouette of a figure on the balcony, the flickering shine of golden hair swept up in a breeze.

He lifts his hand, wondering, a quiet wave. He thinks he sees the figure wave back.

He already misses her. But Eugene turns away from the castle regardless. He slips by those castle gate guards without any issue at all, and just like that: there he is, on the road once again.

His heart is tight, but Eugene manages a smile anyway. Rapunzel will be okay. Cassandra, whatever she decides, will be there for her regardless. They have things handled here—and Eugene’s place, for now, is elsewhere.

He’s got work to do.

It takes him an hour to leave the city behind. By the time he reaches the woods it’s gone completely dark outside. The woods are all shadow at this time of dusk, foreboding and eerie, but Eugene palms his dagger and continues on without worry. Even without a sure light, the moon and stars are bright above him—and he’s always been an old hand at sneaking in the dark.

He walks for most of the night, well on to midnight. The time makes no difference, however—even at this hour, he can hear the Snuggly Duckling before he sees it. Laughter, and roaring music, and then distant light through the trees. Eugene shades his eyes against the startling shine and has to physically bite back a grin when he hears the singing. Oh-hoh, he knows that voice.

He rushes to reach the doors before it’s too late, moving fast as the song and music begin to reach its finale. He makes it just in time.

Eugene throws open the door just as Lance finishes a truly impressive solo, and lifts a hand to his ears with no time to spare. “Good gods, men!” he says, as loudly as he can. “I came here to get a drink—but who let a banshee in this place?”

The music stops. Someone’s cup drops and rolls. The Snuggly Duckling falls into a hushed and reverent silence, and Lance falls off the table.

Eugene stares at the stunned room of thugs. The stunned room of thugs stares back.

“...Surprise?”

Lance’s head pops up from the floor. “Eugene!” he shouts, delightedly, and tackles him in a hug.

Like Lance’s word was the stone to break the glass, the whole bar erupts into noise.

“Hey!”

“It’s Fitz!”

“Welcome back!”

“Where the hell have you been, you slippery bastard?”

Lance spins him around, cackling loudly. Eugene yelps, arms suddenly pinned, torn between laughing and hissing at him. “Hey, hey, hey—!”

“You’re back!” Lance drops him on his feet, beaming fit to burst. He looks—he looks good, Eugene realizes, and it makes some secret weight on his heart lift. It’s just been bad news after bad news for so long, that he’d worried… but Lance is here, his smile wide and true, and he looks happier than Eugene has seen him in a long time. He’s dressed in a new outfit, a snazzy black vest with a red cotton undershirt, a new piercing in his left ear. There’s a glow to him, a veil of health that speaks of regular meals and good care. In contrast to the gloom that haunted the castle, Lance’s presence lights up the room. His hand on Eugene’s shoulder is warm. “Long time no see, Eugene.”

“We’ve gone longer,” Eugene says, an automatic answer, but inside, he agrees whole-heartedly. It has been—too long. Far too long. His returning smile is helplessly fond. He is so glad to see Lance. “How are things?”

“Oh, booming,” Lance says, and he says it casual, but there’s a smile on his face that Eugene knows well— that beaming pride, curdled warm, but this time there’s something softer to the edge of it. “It’s, uh—going really well, actually. I meant to say in the letters, but—well, I got the bar!” He gestures to the Snuggly Duckling. “The whole lot of it.”

“Done good work too!” one man yells, and the tavern shakes with the ensuing roar of agreement. Lance laughs again, looking touched. Eugene looks around at the sea of bright and drink-rosy faces, the warm lanternlight and crackling fire of Lance’s Snuggly Duckling, and grins back.

“Lance!” he says, punching his shoulder. “Buddy! That’s wonderful!”

“It’s been a journey,” Lance says, trying for humble, but there’s a brightness to the words, a disbelieving joy that hasn’t quite faded. “I’ll tell you later. What about you, eh? It’s been ages since your last response!”

Eugene’s smile flickers. Lance immediately pauses. “Oh—”

“You’re never going to believe this, Strongbow, old buddy, old pal.” Eugene slings his arm around him, cutting off the inquiry before the rest of the bar can catch onto the shift in mood. “The number of things I saw across the sea, good man, I could fill a book!”

Lance blinks, rapidly, and for a moment his face is terrifyingly blank—and then his eyes go wide in realization. Thank gods. It’s been awhile since they used that code, but the memory of childhood bonding over Flynn Rider books reigns eternal even now.

Lance slings an arm around his shoulders and grips him in a one-armed hug. “Then I, Strongbow, shall most definitely help you write it!” The word-for-word quoted response. Then Lance winks, and the next bit is all him. “After a drink, of course.”

“Of course,” Eugene echoes, wryly, and manages to grin back.

Lance pushes him through the bar, somehow keeping Eugene from the crowd without making it suspicious, laughing and cheering and chattering like it’s a normal Tuesday. Before Eugene even knows what’s happened, he finds himself in a back room of the tavern, drink in hand and Lance sitting across the table, the room as quiet as any rooms in the Snuggly Duckling can get.

“This is as private as I can give you,” Lance says, sitting back in his chair. His smile is bright as ever. His voice, warm as Eugene remembers. But there is a tightness around his eyes, a worry Eugene reads clear as day, and when Lance leans in, he is as serious as he ever gets. “Okay, buddy. Spill. What happened? And how can I help?”

This is why Eugene came here. This is why Eugene needed to leave. Because he’s good. He’s really good. But he’s always been better with someone at his back—and he’s at his best with Lance by his side.

Gods, he’s missed him.

Eugene drinks deep from his flask, sets down the empty cup, and prepares to tell Lance everything.

“What do you need?”

The sun is high in the bright blue sky, and the Port Caul market in full unbridled swing. Stalls line the main city road, stretching on from the docks to the shopping district, their owners shouting wares from across the street. Vegetables, cheeses, smoked meats and cloth and flowers and trinkets—everywhere Varian turns, there is something new to see, some new dizzying sight to catch his eye. He’d thought the crowd from yesterday had been intimidating, but this one puts it to shame. The sheer amount of people and goods makes his head spin. This is nothing like the market in Old Corona—this is more like the capital than anything, or even the science fair. The amount of people out and about for a daily market is mind-blowing.

“Child, eyes on me.” Yasmin snaps her fingers in front of his face. Varian looks to her reluctantly, fighting the urge to keep gaping at his surroundings. “What do you need?”

“What?” Varian asks, too dazed to follow her questions. His eyes drift to the market again.

Yasmin frowns down at him. “Keep up, boy. For a light. What do you need?”

Oh. Varian blinks fast, thoughts muddled by the market, his own exhaustion, and the constant dread that is stillbeating away at the edge of his mind. He says the first thing he can think of. “Matches?”

Yasmin stares at him. Varian slowly flushes, scrambling to get his thoughts in order—nope, nothing. He tries again. “…Fire?”

“That was not a trick question. I meant—a more permanent light, a manufactured one. A nightlight. Something to help keep the dark at bay without being too bright to wake you.” Yasmin rubs at her forehead. “What do you need to make something like that?”

“Oh.” Well, that makes much more sense. Varian blinks hard, rubbing at his eyes, trying to get his thoughts in order. He feels like he’s wading in molasses, an exhaustion that drags at his thoughts and eyelids. A permanent light… something he could hold, maybe. Something bright enough to let him know he isn’t in the dark but quiet enough not to keep him awake. A soft glow. Unwavering…

“A vial, maybe?” Varian murmurs. “No, glass, breakable, bad idea. Stone… too opaque. Gem, too expensive—”

“Crystal?”

Varian blinks, startled from his thoughts. Yasmin is frowning again, but not at him—just off to the side, looking lost in thought. “Would that work?”

“I…” His mind whirls, thoughts tangling. “If it could hold something—was hollow inside—I think so? I need a space to put in the materials, and then I gotta seal it up after, so—”

“Yes, yes, let me handle that—I am not completely bereft of supplies. I am sure Ella has a jewelry clasp somewhere. We will figure something out.” Yasmin tilts her head. “What would you need to make the light?”

He lists ingredients in his head, remembers the likely lack of equipment, and shoves aside all but a few. Lists down his fingers. “Let’s see… um, distilled water, definitely. Probably some sodium carbonate, luminol… ammonium carbonate, copper sulfate pentahydrate… maybe some 3 percent hydrogen peroxide, or would just using zinc sulfide work better?” He frowns at his hands. “I should probably test that, the zinc sulfide might be too weak to last, but the other mixture might—”

Varian cuts himself off, his hand dropping. At once he realizes he’s been rambling. He flushes, his confidence faltering. There in the market cheer he feels abruptly out of place, too obvious, too seen. His skin crawls. He swallows hard. “Um. But I… I don’t think I’ll find all that here, it’s—”

“Do not worry,” Yasmin says, surprising him silent. She looks almost bemused by his sudden bit of word vomit. “Port Caul markets sell many things— and things like that for rather cheap. You would be surprised at how many children like to play at alchemy.”

Varian splutters. “It’s not playing—”

Yasmin has already turned away. Her coat flaps at her heels as she strides deeper in the market crowd. “Hurry along, boy. Let us go! I haven’t got all morning.”

Varian yelps and rushes to keep up.

It must be market day, he thinks; the place is busier than it was yesterday, and the crowd is nearly dizzying. People shouting, people selling, laughter high and bright in the frozen winter air. They’ve arrived early enough that the sun’s rising warmth hasn’t thawed the streets yet—the cobble roads are slick with frost and sea-spray salt, the wind brisk against his skin, the breeze as sharp as knives.

Varian tugs up his borrowed coat collar and follows Yasmin best he can, tripping in his too-big boots even with his layered number of socks. In contrast to Varian’s hesitation, Yasmin maneuvers the market like a king in court, eyes sharp and scanning, seeing all the market has to offer and dismissing it just as quickly.

“This way,” she says after a minute, and tugs Varian to the side, near a small stall off the corner. The covered wagon has a table with a velvet cloth, small glittering gems and jewels shining on the dark red fabric. The man minding the stall is tall and round, and when he sees Yasmin approaching he sits up with a smile.

“Yasmin! Been awhile. How’s it been?”

“Lovely, Marin, thank you. Have you any crystals?”

The man hums. “All sorts. What are you looking for?”

Yasmin puts a hand on her hip and turns to Varian. He stares back, blank, then jumps when the man looks at him too. “O-oh. Um.” Their eyes make his skin crawl. Yasmin has already recognized him for what he is. What if this man, too—? “A, a hollow… hollow center. If you have that. And, um… clear would be—be best—”

“Of course.” The man’s interruption is kind, his smile unsuspecting. He leans down and rummages at his feet, the clink of precious stones in the air. “I’ve a few like that. Take your pick.”

Varian surveys the offered collection of crystals, ranging in sizes from small to unwieldy, and finally selects one near the middle—not the cleanest cut, but a nice size, fitting well in his palm. It has a hollowed center like a shallow shot glass, the opening just barely big enough for a finger. Hopefully easy to seal closed, once he’s made the light. “T-this one’s fine.”

“Great. That’ll be five gold crowns, then.”

Varian freezes, color draining from his face. Five gold crowns? He doesn’t even have copper. Oh, gods, he’s forgotten money was a thing that existed again. “I—uh, I—”

“I have it.” Yasmin sets the gold down with a sharp click, the coins stacked in a perfect tower. “Take care of yourself, Marin.” To Varian: “Come along. Next stop.”

“Come back if you need any more!” the shopkeeper calls. “I’ll have a lot more next week, if those trading ships finally make it to harbor!”

“I will think about it!” Yasmin is walking away, but Varian doesn’t move, and after a moment she glances back at him, eyebrows raised. “Hello? What is wrong. Why are you not moving.”

He stares down at the ground, eyes burning. “I didn’t ask you to pay for me.”

Yasmin tilts her head. “I am the one helping you, and this is my idea. I would not make you pay for it. In a roundabout way, I am being paid to help you. There is no loss here.”

“I—”

He can’t find the words, the anger rootless, his frustration smarting. He is sick of feeling helpless, of feeling like a drain; he hasn’t asked to be taken care of, to be treated like a child. But he doesn’t yet know how to put it into words, and all he can do is glower at the ground and seethe.

Yasmin considers him. Something in the hard lines of her face softens.

“…Come here.”

He goes reluctantly, stepping out of earshot from the shopkeeper. Yasmin places a hand on his shoulder, steering him away, and when she speaks, her voice is not softer but somehow gentler. “Listen. I do not know what brought you here, nor do I care. But you are here. And it is clear to me that you need help.” She looks down at him. “Boy, you do not need to like me. I still do not like you. But I am not here to hurt you, or slight you, or whatever it is you think I am doing. My dislike does not mean I cannot do you a kindness.”

Varian doesn’t answer. Yasmin draws her hand away. “If it bothers you so deeply, you can plan to pay me back in your own time. But for now—can you accept this?”

He looks down. The anger, rising, turns ashy on his tongue, cold and empty. “…Okay.”

He sounds tuneless even to himself. In the back of his mind, the dread hums like a lightning strike. Turn back. Go home. It’s not safe here.

He swallows back the anxiety and shuts his eyes tight. He hears Yasmin exhale, soft and tired.

“Chin up, boy,” she says, half-way to gentle. “I am sure you will like this next part. Come along.”

Varian, doubtful, sets his jaw and bravely follows after her.

She leads him further into the market, closer to the docks. The scent of salt and sea fills his nose. The crowd is a little thinner here, easier to navigate, and the sudden breathing room helps unwind some of the tension from his shoulders. He tilts his head in the breeze and breathes deep.

It’s the smell that hits him first. The burning hiss, the sudden bitterness on his tongue like ash—

His eyes snap open. He sees it almost at once.

The small wooden stall. The bright pink banner. The small jars, the neat little labels. The smell in the air, even in this crowded and clustered market place, a sour snap like citric acid, like the tang of metal—

He knows the stall even before he sees the sign. This—this is an alchemy store.

Varian races ahead, pushing past Yasmin and nearly running right into the stall. It has been so, so long since Varian has seen alchemy, even longer since he’s done it properly. The road isn’t appropriate for intensive experiments, and Adira never willing to buy materials, and Varian never quite confident enough to ask for them. After six months of nearly nothing, the sight of the stall is enough to make his eyes prick with tears.

Even the memory of his last alchemy experiment can’t bring down his mood. In the labyrinth, this skill was the one thing that brought Varian some comfort. Some denial of fate, some way to fight. Through alchemy, Varian found a chance to breathe. Through alchemy, Varian defeated Moon’s golem.

And now, this alchemy stall—the sight of those elements, neatly bottled, the equipment, newly shined—it makes his vision blur. Varian’s smile nearly splits his face in half. He puts his hand on the table and leans up, beaming at the shopkeeper, a woman with a heavy afro pulled back in a bun and a no-nonsense alchemical smock. “Is this all yours!?”

“Every bottle of it.” The shopkeeper puts down a vial, a latest experiment of some sort. Her gloves, heavy and dark and made of solid stitched leather, make Varian’s own now-bare hands itch with envy. “Why, you interested?”

“Yes.”

She grins. “Well, then. Nice to see someone who appreciates the art! What are you looking for?”

“Something for a light, if you have got it.” Yasmin walks up from behind him, sounding bemused. “What was it? Zinc sulfate?”

“Sulfide,” Varian corrects, automatic. “Zinc sulfide, and also some distilled water, and I was thinking maybe…”

He lists the ingredients off from memory, counting them off his fingers to be sure he doesn’t forget any. “…and some 3 percent hydrogen peroxide, if you have any?”

“Easy enough.” The woman tugs off her gloves, nodding thoughtfully. “How much of each?”

Varian does quick math in his head—some extra needed if things go wrong, enough to make two batches if things go right—and rattles off the amounts in grams. The shopkeeper hums when he finishes, looking vaguely impressed. “Can do. It’ll be a blue-ish light, in the end—should last you a couple months before you’ll have to remake it.”

Varian abruptly pales. The shopkeeper blinks. “Is something wrong?”

Blue, Varian thinks numbly. Blue light. Right. He hadn’t thought of that. He struggles to answer. “Um—I—that is—”

Yasmin touches at his shoulder. Varian looks up at her, but Yasmin is speaking to the shopkeeper instead when she says, “Is it possible to change the color of the light?”

Something like pride smarts in his chest.

“Of course,” says the shopkeeper. “Easy,” Varian scoffs, pointedly, at the same exact time.

There is a beat of silence. Yasmin rolls her eyes. “Scientists,” she says, disgusted. “Would you need an ingredient for that?”

“Alchemists,” Varian corrects, annoyed, and then blinks as the rest of her words sink in. Oh, right. He turns back to the shopkeeper. “Do you have any pigments?”

“I have all the pigments. Could even mix a few powders, but you’ll have to be exact on the color if so.”

Varian bites his lip, considering. Yasmin looks down at him. “It need not be a difficult discussion,” she says. “The intended use already removes a few options. White, too bright; black, destroys the purpose of having a light at all. Red would be… garish, I think. Sort of bloody. Hmm. What about orange?”

He makes a face, unable to help it. Orange has never been his favorite color, and after the amber… “No.”

“Tsk. Green? Violet?”

Violet is too close to blue; green reminds him of the automatons beneath the castle, and what he did with them. Varian shakes his head.

“…Yellow?”

Golden shine and searing heat, the numbness broken apart by a light that burned as bright as a sun—

Some of his thoughts must show on his face. Yasmin stops herself before Varian can even think to interrupt. “Not yellow, either. Hmph.” She considers, cupping her chin in one hand. “…What about pink?”

Pink. Varian considers it. It’s a pale color, and a soft color, like they wanted. If he makes the glow very quiet it won’t hurt his eyes at all. And pink… there is nothing he associates with the color, no light-based trauma to invite nightmares. Pink is sunrise and sunset, soft flowers in spring fields. It’s a color that reminds him of happy things.

“…Pink would work.”

“Pink it is.”

The shopkeeper nods. “I’ll wrap it up.”

They get the ingredients wrapped in small paper bags, and as Yasmin counts out money for the cost Varian shuffles through the wrapped ingredients with a giddiness he’d almost forgotten. He feels renewed, refreshed, the ever-present exhaustion dulled by a joy that could almost burst out of him.

He tucks the packets away in the satchel and tilts his head into the wind with a soft sigh. His smile is a small thing, barely there—quiet and thin, hidden in the light of the winter sun. The market moves around him, warm and whispering. The noonday sun is melting the frost.

And it is then, in this moment, as the crowd swells silent and the market murmurs soft—that is when the screaming starts.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

Cassandra closes her wardrobe hard, hearing the weapons knock around inside. It is three days after their return to Corona, and Cassandra’s patience is nearing its limit. Outside of her window, the setting sun burns gold at their backs, casting a long shadow across Cassandra’s entire room. “Yes, Raps. I already said I was.”

“I know. I just—”

“You worry. I know.” Cassandra takes a breath, holds back a sigh. She’s not annoyed. She’s not. She’s just—

Gods, she wishes Rapunzel could just let it go.

It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate the gesture—to be honest, she’s fully expected this. Of course Rapunzel would come to check in on her, especially after the last few days. Eugene’s skipped out of the castle with a plan he hasn’t even told Cassandra about, Rapunzel has been avoiding her parents best she can, and Cassandra—

Cassandra is right back where she started.

She supposes it could be worse; the king could strip her of the guard title entirely. Being demoted to the dungeons, being forced to avoid Rapunzel… these things aren’t good by any stretch of imagination, but as far as limitations go, they aren’t so bad. Take this, for example—for all of the King’s grandiose orders, here Rapunzel is, only three days later having already discovered a path through the tunnels that leads right to Cassandra’s quarters.

It could be worse, Cassandra thinks, and ignores the way it feels like she’s trying to convince herself. It could be worse.

“I just… I want to be sure.”

Cassandra turns, straightening up in full as she pulls on the last piece of armor, strapping her arm guard in place. Clunky, bronze, degraded, demoted. She misses the golden shine of the armor for Royal Guards. “And I’m telling you exactly what I told Eugene. It’s fine. There’s obviously something wrong, and—and you need my help. And if what you overheard was true…”

It’s the reason for Rapunzel’s visit, after all. Cassandra had woken up to sunset, blearily about to get ready for yet another awful night shift—only to find the resident Princess and future Queen leaning over her face like a fretting hen, eyes bright with a stolen secret.

“I’m almost certain,” Rapunzel says at once. “I know it was Nigel talking, he’s got… a distinctive voice. And he sounded worried.”

According to Rapunzel, just this morning while on her way to meet with her parents for yet another awkward not-quite-conversation, she’d passed by a hall and heard Nigel talking with a messenger. Which isn’t anything unusual—advisors talk with messengers literally all the time—except the contents of this conversation had been a little… stressed. A deal in the making, a big agreement between the King and another party—only whoever and whatever this deal was about, it didn’t seem to be about anything good.

Still, Cassandra is content to play devil’s advocate for this. “The kingdom makes deals all the time, Raps. Compromise, trade, agreements… that’s what running a country is all about.”

Rapunzel isn’t swayed. “Trust me, okay? This wasn’t like the usual. The way they were talking…” She bites her lip. “Cass, it sounded… bad. Almost like they—Corona, my dad—were running out of other options, but also like accepting the deal would be…”

“Like a deal with the Moon?”

“Or Zhan Tiri. Just. Bad.”

“I believe you,” Cassandra says, finally. She places one hand on her sword. “But that’s why, if it’s really as big as you say, we need more information, if anything we do is going to stick. So, if this is what’s needed…”

I want to help, she doesn’t say this time. She’d already said it to Eugene, two days and a night ago, when he stopped by her room and pressed a letter in her hands.

“You don’t have to do this, Cass,” he’d said then, letter in hand but holding back. “I know how much this job means to you.”

“Will it help?”

“It’s something.”

“Then yes,” Cassandra had said, cold and trying hard not to seem desperate, and she’s spent every night after thinking about that letter and what it meant, and the look in Eugene’s eyes when he gave it to her. Like he knew. Like he suspected.

King Frederick had been cold when he’d demoted her, near icy in tone. In contrast, beside her, Cassandra’s father had been spitting mad on her behalf, only just holding his tongue, his face dark with an anger that the King hadn’t even batted an eye at. Cassandra had taken the sentence with her head high and her heart burning. She’d known what this was really about, even then. It’s not about the secrets. It’s not even about Rapunzel’s silence, not really. It’s this—Rapunzel, flinching and quiet and different behind the eyes, the attack Cassandra can’t elaborate on and the prisoner who escaped, Varian vanished into the wilds.

In the eyes of the king, Cassandra has failed. Never mind that Varian got a chance to attack because Rapunzel let him. Never mind it was Rapunzel who let him go. Never mind that—

But even then. Even then, that hadn’t shaken her. But when the King had demoted her, when that golden shine of royal armor was replaced by lesser bronze—Cassandra had stared down at gloved hands, and wondered what the hell she was doing there.

Standing in line, she thinks. Guarding locked doors. She’s traveled across two continents, she’s traversed the ruins of a kingdom long dead, she’s looked a god full in the face and snarled—

And here she is. Back again in the kingdom, with armor that doesn’t fit quite right and a restless burning beneath her skin, the whisper of opportunity lost.

When did I outgrow you? she wonders, absently, picking up her halberd, putting the helmet under her arm. She draws the sword and looks at it, the person staring back. When did I lose this?

But she doesn’t say that. She can’t, not really—she hasn’t the words, and a little bitter voice in her gut says that Rapunzel won’t understand anyway. Besides, Rapunzel has her own issues to deal with. Her own struggles. Cassandra doesn’t want to become another burden—not any more of a burden, at least.

When did I become so weak as to be used against you?

But those are quiet thoughts. Cassandra shoves them away, locked back in the corner of her mind where they belong, and turns to face Rapunzel with both hands on her hips. Rapunzel is sitting quiet on the bed, head bowed, gloved hands folded in her lap, and at the sight something in Cassandra’s chest eases. She crosses over, and kneels down before her. “Hey. Raps.”

Rapunzel looks up. Her eyes are dry, the green of her irises cold and clear. Her mouth is set in a mulish sort of stubborn. That tight knot in Cassandra’s chest eases further, and she manages the barest hint of a smile. “Look,” she says. “I get it. I do. And you’re right. It’s—a lot.” Which is a nice way of saying basically treasonous, but hey. “Look. It’ll work out, okay? I’ll do a scan on the dungeons when I can, get info like you requested—” As per the letter still in her pocket, anyway. “—and yeah, sure, it’s… dangerous.”

“Treason. If you get caught. And my dad—”

“Yeah. But Eugene has the right idea. Don’t tell him I said this, but… look. You can eavesdrop on the nobles. Eugene is doing…whatever he’s doing. And me?” Her lips thin. “I can see what the prisoners say. I can walk around and listen, and see what they know. And maybe it’s dangerous, but if it gets us what we need to know, gets us where need to go…” She trails off, pointedly.

Rapunzel dips her head. “I’m worried,” she admits, quiet. “And you’re right, I don’t know enough. But—Cass, what if you’re right about this, too? What if it’s nothing? What if it’s not worth it? What if we just make things worse?”

“Yeah, okay. Good point. But you’re doing this anyways, right? So… I—I don’t want—” Oh, how to word this. Cassandra blows out a breath through her teeth, hard and hissed. “I can’t just sit here, Raps. I can’t do nothing.” Her hands curl, unbidden. “Don’t shut me out again.”

The set to Rapunzel’s jaw eases, just a bit. She reaches out and squeezes Cassandra’s hand, brief and firm despite how the pressure on her injuries makes her face twitch with an echo of pain. “I won’t,” Rapunzel says, and a pale smile flickers across her face. “I… I did promise, after all.”

“You did,” Cassandra replies, neutral.

“Okay. Okay. I’ll lay off. If you’re sure.”

“Very sure.”

The smile on Rapunzel’s face settles, a little stronger. “Thanks, Cass.”

“It is literally the least I can do,” Cassandra informs her, dryly, and stands up with the creak of new armor. “Now get out of my room before your new guard realizes you're missing, yeah? Elias is skittish, but he’s going to realize you used your hair as an escape route sooner rather than later, and if I have to go guard the sewers we’re all going to suffer.”

Rapunzel’s smile widens. “Right!” she says, and scampers up, heading back for her newfound secret entrance to the tunnels. Seriously, how does she keep finding those things? “I’ll try and visit again soon. There’s this dinner party with my parents, and I think I might be able to ferret out a few details on this mysterious deal. I’ll let you know!” Something in her face gentles. “…Please take care of yourself, Cass.”

“Only if you do.”

Cassandra watches her go, and manages a small wave and a weak smile when Rapunzel looks back. She waits, patiently, until the stone door of the secret entrance latches shut, and then lets her hand falls with a sigh.

For a moment she just stands there, basking in the silence. Her hand goes to her pocket. The missive Rapunzel wrote and Eugene gave her sits heavy by her side.

I’m sorry to ask this of you. I know my father is your King. But I need you, Cass. I need to know if you’re with me. You don’t have to say yes now. You don’t have to answer at all. And I will never, ever be angry if you say no. You’re my best friend, now and forever. But whatever you’re willing to give. Whatever secrets you find willing to share with me…

If the time comes to choose, if circumstances force us to make a stand—will you stand by my side?

Cassandra has never been readier. But still—

For some reason, the knot remains, cold and heavy in her chest.

She marches out of her room to her new guard shift with her chin up and back straight and proud. Some heads turn when they see her pass; some faces creases in sympathy, others tight-lipped. Odd, she thinks, and remembers vividly Eugene’s offhand comment on the castle’s reactions. She thinks again of her father’s face when the King stripped her of rank, the anger he didn’t even try to hide, and her lips thin further. There’s something wrong here after all—she just hopes it’s not the internal battle she’s starting to suspect it might be.

She turns another hall, pushes open the last door. Cold, rank air blows against her face. Her nose wrinkles.

Once, in a different age, the dungeons of Corona had served as part of the castle proper. In the start of Corona’s great history, King Herz der Sonne had walked these halls and eaten in these empty rooms, enjoyed food and rest in the grand circular hall that has become the main prison pit. These stone walls were filled with history and majesty, until an unfortunate winter earthquake fifty years after his reign brought the whole castle tumbling down.

The castle was rebuilt, of course—better this time, and it has withstood every earthquake since for the remaining hundreds of years. But of that first, lonesome castle, only the tunnels and this hall remain—the tunnels locked down for fear of constant collapse, and the rubble of the first castle become one of the worst places in the whole kingdom.

The point is that the dungeons are a place of history—and at the moment, Cassandra feels as if she’s experiencing each one. As she marches through and down the enclosed halls, the cold deepens, the stone growing soft with age and dark with a grime built up over centuries. Voices murmur low and bitter through the grates as she passes, and the stench of rot and mildew and waste is so heavy she almost struggles to breathe. There’s a slick moss crawling stubbornly through the cracks in the mortar, and as she passes down to the last and final floor, the old stone sagging and heavy, the ceilings low and strained under the weight of the years, even the voices fade out. There aren’t many prisoners here. In truth, there’s very little here at all. Something wet and watery drips down the wall. The cells are silent and empty. Cassandra, standing all and alone in a dark corridor, takes a deep breath and regrets it almost at once.

She’s in full guard armor, the bronze polished and shining, her curls forced under the tight helmet. Her gloves are crisp on her hands, the halberd stiff in her palms; her stance is straight and her eyes unwavering from the door. Every few minutes she’s to turn from her post to pace up and down the corridor for a routine check before she returns back to the door at the end of the hall.

It’s a joke of a job. It’s a job for newbies and rookies and guards with their heads too full of pride for sense, and here she is. Stuck here until Rapunzel either breaks her silence—unlikely—or until the King cools his temper, which…

Well.

She’s probably going to be here for a while, she knows, and as she stops before her new post, she closes her eyes, breathing in deep through her teeth.

Gods, she has no idea what she’s doing here. Cassandra is skilled and she knows it. She’s wasted here, and the fact she’s only been posted here as punishment for Rapunzel’s actions only furthers the insult. She’s not—resenting it, really, or at least she’s trying not to. It’s not Rapunzel’s fault. That the King is punishing Cassandra in order to punish Rapunzel… it’s more than insulting. It’s downright infuriating.

Not to mention being replaced by Elias, of all the guards. The boy is… new is almost too kind a term. He’s barely not a trainee, and while he’s not a bad kid, Cassandra suspects that kindness won’t stop him from reporting Rapunzel’s every action to the King.

They’ve been back for only a scant three days, and already, most of Rapunzel’s worries are proving justified. If this is destiny, Cassandra wishes she could punch it into submission or something. First the Dark Kingdom, now this—for gods’ sake, don’t they all deserve a break?

But no, of course not. And so Rapunzel’s confined in the castle and Eugene’s walking on so many eggshells he decided running was the better option, and Cassandra is here: stationed in the deepest, darkest, most boring corridor in the dungeon, waiting for nothing.

She closes her eyes. “Look around,” Rapunzel had said. “Keep your eyes open. Maybe you’ll find something everyone else missed.” But gods, how is Cassandra going to find anything if she’s stuck miles underground for eight straight hours a day? She’d mentioned the idea of wandering around to listen in on the prisoners herself, but in the secret depths of her mind, even she can admit it’s basically a worthless task. Who on earth would spill the beans when guards lurk around every corner?

She wants to help, but this—

It feels terribly like being shunted. All. Over. Again.

Cast aside and left in the dark, something in her whispers, dark and bitter. Cassandra sets her jaw. There isn’t even a guard on duty to take over once her shift ends— there’s nothing here to guard at all. This job is a joke.

She turns hard on her heel, walking away. To hell with it. If she’s stuck down here, she thinks grimly, she can at least explore. As useless as it is, at least those cells aren’t empty.

The air is like ice around her; the winter cold turned something subzero in the freezing hold of the underground stone. Each breath puffs like fog before her. In her armor, the metal is so chilled her fingers flex on impulse to get blood flow going. She turns down the twisting halls, eyes passing blind over the shadowy cells and water-rusted metal, the withered skeletons of the ruins of the ancient castle. She breathes in, breathes out. Nothing appears. Nothing happens.

Nothing’s ever going to happen.

Who is she even kidding? She’s going to be down here for hours, for days, for weeks. She wants to help but she couldn’t even see Rapunzel herself; the princess had to find a way to her instead. Rapunzel may be trapped in her room, but she already knows how to slip free— and Cassandra’s chains are so much tighter. She has so much more to lose.

And if things do go wrong, guess who’s going to suffer for it? Her, probably. Definitely. She loves Rapunzel, gods know she does, but so much of this mess is just—!

Why did she let Varian go? Why didn’t she ask them? Why hasn’t she explained? What little Cassandra knows of the labyrinth is just that—just the little. Just the bare minimum. She’s not asking for a play by play, but if Rapunzel is going to release known criminals, couldn’t she at least give a real reason? She’d said it was because it didn’t feel right, but what had that even meant? Feeling has no place in politics. No place in acting queen, or princess…

Even after everything, she’s still weak.

Cassandra stops mid-step.

She feels struck, stunned still by her own thoughts. Her hand rises to her head. A wave of dizziness overcomes her, shame like a blooming poison in her gut. The cold of the dungeon bites at her skin like a beast.

That’s… that’s a cruel thing to think. Sure, Rapunzel is a little much at times, but she’s been growing too, changing, becoming more and more sure of her place every day. More confident in herself, even if Cassandra doesn’t agree with all her choices. And—and Cassandra knows that, she understands that, so why—?

“…Cassandra? Is that you?”

She jumps, just barely avoiding dropping her halberd. She whips around, breath caught, weapon raised—and the confused face of a guard blinks back, almost bemused.

She stares at him, mouth open in shock—lowers her weapon rapidly, heat climbing in her cheeks. “I— sorry. You snuck up on me.” She pauses, abrupt. “Wait, what are you doing down here?”

The other guard frowns at her. “Cassandra, this is my post. Aren’t you stationed in the lower dungeons?”

“I…” She looks around, rapid, and realizes he’s right—the walls are lighter, the stink stronger. This isn’t her post at the lower dungeons. This is the first sector—the private prison, for top-priority prisoners, serious threats to the kingdom. Once upon a time, Varian had been kept in this sector, only one floor above her. When had she…? “Apologies. I got lost in thought.”

His scowl deepens. “Look, I know the demotion must sting, but that’s no reason to leave your post. What would the Captain say?”

Cassandra flushes, her lips pulling away from her teeth. “Look, I didn’t mean to—”

The guard is glaring.

Abruptly Cassandra remembers herself. She cuts herself off, breathing in deep through her nose. Her fingers clench white-knuckled under her gloves, curled tight and shaking around the halberd. “…No, never mind. You’re right. I apologize. It won’t happen again.”

She turns away hard before he can say anything more, marching off down the stairs. She doesn’t look back. The guard shakes his head and turns away, pulling the door latched behind him, back again at his post.

She leaves the private dungeon behind, and slams the door tight behind her. She walks quick, her stride furious. Her footsteps echo off the walls. Just like that: alone again.

Water drips uneven on the withered stone. The darkness slithers and seeps in the corners. The lanterns flicker. Unknown even to herself, Cassandra shivers once, and hugs her arms tight.

And in the darkness of a cell just out of view, someone else watches her seethe—and smiles.

“Oh, yes,” the prisoner says. Their voice is nothing but a hoarse whisper; their smile bares feral in the lanternlight. “I agree.”

Cassandra opens the final door, the exit to the prison floor. A sharp, foul gust of air howls through. The lantern flickers. For one shining moment, the prisoner’s eyes glint bright and green.

“She’ll make a wonderful disciple.”

For a moment, Varian doesn’t understand what he’s hearing.

He stands there, before the market stall, hands cold and heart growing colder; the screams, distant, are indistinct to him. It could be cheering, he thinks. It could be celebration. It could be nothing at all.

Except then Yasmin grabs his arm and yanks him back, and people have started to run, and then all at once he hears a boom like thunder and sees shrapnel fly, and he thinks—cannons—and he realizes.

The harbor is under attack.

A whisper drifts by his ears, paranoia crystalized to reality. The wind hisses like a curse. I warned you, child. Now it is too late.

The ground rocks with the force of the explosives; Varian stumbles sideways and just barely keeps to his feet. He can hear laughter, distantly, in the crowd, faint above all the screaming, mingling with the shrieking steel of sword against sword as the guardsmen of Port Caul rush in. But that doesn’t make sense, he thinks—how could it all happen at once, so soon? Or had these attackers planned this, had they snuck in with the market crowd and waited amongst the people for the attack to begin?

Another blast of cannon fire shakes the stonework, cutting his thoughts short. This time Varian isn’t so lucky—he falls hard on his knees, unable to stand on the shaky ground.

A hand grips his arm, nails digging into his shoulder—Yasmin drags Varian to his feet, supporting him against her. In the alchemy stall, the owner has vanished. Varian lists sideways in her hold. “What—”

“Pirates,” Yasmin hisses, and they both stumble when the ground rocks again. Cracks line the street. “I knew they were getting bold, but this is—!”

The jeering grows louder, closer to them. Yasmin pulls him up to his feet, and this time Varian needs no instruction. The pound of blood in his ears, a looming threat coming ever closer—he knows this feeling, this metallic tang in the air.

The labyrinth has etched this lesson into his bones.

He runs, and Yasmin runs with him. The crowd, once comforting, has turned confining; bodies shifting like a living thing, people on the ground, someone crying. Varian shoves his way through, trying to get away. A piercing scream makes him falter, then push on, but Yasmin turns back, vanishing momentarily in the crowd.

Varian stumbles, stopping too, turning back less because he wants to and more on instinct. Panic coats his tongue. He pushes through the mill of people, searching—and finds Yasmin on the ground, kneeling down to help someone up.

“To your feet!” Yasmin is saying, pulling the poor bystander upright. “Hurry! Get others off the ground! We will all be trampled at this rate.”

“Yasmin—!”

“Boy, what are you standing there for? Go hide!”

“I—” He wants nothing more than to run, but her moment of altruism has sent a cloud of shame through him. She’d stopped at the screams and cries for help. He had not. “I can, I can help—”

“I think not.” Yasmin grabs his arm, pushes him away; the crowd swells and ebbs around them. “Go to the buildings, you are small, hide by the crates—this crowd will kill you if the pirates don’t get there first, now hurry and—”

A shrieking sound rets the air, the awful screech of metal sliding against metal. Yasmin cuts herself off, whipping around; Varian stares over her shoulder, numb and horrified. There is a body in armor fallen to the ground, and red smeared across the cobblestone. Above the body there is a pirate, pale like a fish’s belly and smiling with teeth like tombstones, pulling free a crude sword dripping with blood and gore.

Varian claps a hand over his mouth, bile sour in his throat. The sight of blood makes his head spin. He’s never—he’s never seen someone die before, he realizes. Not like this. Not so brutally. He’s never…

Yasmin grips his arm so tight her hand spasms, hard enough to bruise. The pain grounds him, and Varian pulls his eyes away from the dead guardsman with difficulty, swallowing back the sick. Yasmin tugs him behind her, as if to shield him, and herds him back as she steps away from the scene, moving out of the pirate’s line of sight slowly and silently—

And the money pouch in her pocket, still untied and hanging out from her pocket from when she’d opened it, minutes ago, to pay for Varian’s alchemy ingredients—dips, opens, and spills bright golden coins all across the street in a clatter.

Yasmin freezes, her eyes going wide and horrified. Varian’s breath slams shock-still in his throat.

The pirate’s head snaps up. He stands, sword in hand.

He looks right in their direction.

Yasmin says a foul word in a language Varian doesn’t know, grabs his arm, and turns to run.

Varian scrambles to follow, his heart stuck in his throat. He can hear the pirate behind them, beginning to laugh, cackling with a bright and bloodthirsty sort of glee, drunk on something far worse than wine. “Pretty lady!” the man coos over the screams of the crowd and the cannon fire. “Pretty lady, you look like you might have gold!”

“Fuck,” Varian says, distantly, and then Yasmin shoves him into an alleyway. Crates and barrels and open buckets of produce line the dirty side-street, and despite the lack of people it’s nearly a maze to his eyes. Varian dodges crates and spilled fruit, following Yasmin’s sprint best he can—and he thinks, in that moment, he will make it. He can see the other side, the open street, and he is close, so close—

He bursts out of the shadowy alley into the sunlight—and then the ground tremors with a force more than cannon fire, and sends Varian crashing to his knees.

His vision flips. White bursts like stars behind his eyes. The ground rushes up to meet him and he catches himself badly on the stone, cobble scraping up his hands, the street rocking beneath his palms like a bucking horse. Small cracks break through the rock. He doesn’t understand. This can’t be from cannon fire. This is—this is—an earthquake?

He can’t see Yasmin anymore. His head is spinning. Varian pushes dazedly to his feet, and feels so turned around he falls right back down again. His breaths rasp distant in his ears. His hands are shaking. He gets to one foot and lists hard to the side, stumbling sideways until he falls heavy on the thick glass window of a shopfront.

Varian fumbles blindly for purchase, and his fingers catch on the window frame. He gets one hand on the shopfront wall and pulls shaking to his feet, standing hunched and wheezing in the burning daylight. The glass of the shop window shines cold in the sun. He looks beside him, and the shop window reflects back at him, a distorted image of himself. In his reflection he can see the blood on his face, the shadows under his eyes. The fear and confusion clouding his expression.

And behind him. Behind him—

The man. The pirate. Blood on his coat and a smile like death. He is still laughing. Still standing. It’s as if the earthquake hasn’t touched him at all. His eyes burn green in the windowpanes. His hand is raised, and his sword glints bright in the winter sun.

Varian should run. Varian should fight. He doesn’t, though. He can’t. He feels cold. He feels frozen all the way to his bones, all the way to his navel. Like an icy cord has been pulled taut—like a hand on his neck, holding him in place. A weight in the air that is more than fear… an anticipation that is almost supernatural.

All those dreams. All those sleepless nights, trying in vain to fight the exhaustion and the dark. All those whispers in his ears. The memory of it chokes him. The memory holds him still.

The pirate lifts his blade. In the window, Varian’s reflection shimmers like a ripple effect. For a moment, someone else stands in his place. A woman, terrible in her familiarity, with stone-dark skin and eyes glowing yellow like a moon.

Hello, child.

The pirate swings.

Did you miss me?

His right hand is searing with pain. His veins feel like molten metal. The world flashes white, and the pirate’s laughter, behind him, cuts off into a scream.

And like something from Varian’s deepest nightmares—the black rocks begin to grow.

They come out of nowhere: the dark rocks bursting all at once, a starburst of deadly intent. They spear through the cobblestone like a hot knife through butter, crisscrossing and tearing up and down the street in a deadly wave. Dust bursts up in the air like a fog, the streets turned to rubble and ruin. Through the distant ringing of his ears, Varian can hear the rising screams like a final curse.

In the mirror, the Moon smiles. The icy touch at the back of his neck burns like a brand. His hand spasms with a pain white-hot and bleeding, and Varian drops to his knees.

His vision whites. Exhaustion hits him like a physical blow, the drain so sudden it makes his head spin. He blinks, and then—just like that—she’s gone. It is just him in the mirror, now. Just Varian, staring wide-eyed and horrified at his own reflection, blue eyes gone empty and cold with remembered terror.

“—get up!”

A hand pulls at his shoulder, and Varian fights on instinct, struggling to pull away. His limbs are weak, his body aching—he bites back a sob and tries to throw himself back. He hears someone curse.

“Boy, snap out of it! We need to go!”

At last, familiarity seeps through. That voice. He recognizes it.

“Varian!”

Yasmin.

His eyes clear, and he finally recognizes her. Her grip on his arm is almost bruising in its force. Her eyes are wild. There is blood on her cheek.

“Hurry!”

This time, when she pulls him up, he does not fight her.

Varian stumbles to his feet, wavering back and forth. He feels very far away. He feels like he’s drowning. He’s barely breathing at all.

Yasmin is running. Yasmin is dragging him with her. The satchel thumps heavy against Varian’s side like a promise, or a reminder. His hand hurts, but the pain is fading, needle-like piercing turned to dull aching. He feels cold. He feels so cold. He doesn’t want to know.

He looks behind him anyway.

People are crying. People are still screaming. It rings in his ears like the distant toll of a bell. Smoke and dust cloud in the air and drift soft like a fog onto crumbling streets. People are lying still. People are lying silent. He cannot see the pirate at all.

There are rocks, too. Black rocks torn through the ground like a spiny crown, ripping apart the streets. They are everywhere. They are tearing through the city like they once tore up his home. Needle-like and deadly, and each and every last one of them is pointing right at the sea.

His hands are numb. He feels so cold. In the back of his mind, he can hear laughter on a distant breeze, and for the first time he’s not sure if it’s only a memory, or perhaps something more.

Something worse.

Hello, child.

Varian looks away.

In a grand ship by the eastern coast, Lady Caine watches the distant sprawl of Port Caul go up in smoke.

Her hand is outstretched, reaching—her fingers curled as if to grasp the air itself. Her lips have peeled back from her teeth; her dark scowl cuts into her pretty face. The ship is empty but for her, her crew gone out to battle—armed only with their swords and a spare vessel for cannon fire. She is alone here. She is the only one watching. The only one to see exactly when the battle started… and the only one to see how it ends.

It is only Lady Caine that sees the rocks rise up, black towers hanging heavy over the city skyline. Only Lady Caine that sees her crew fall back to the sea, their numbers gutted, their white shirts turned red from bleeding.

She drags her hand away from the water, and her scowl turns to a snarl. She watches, white-knuckled and furious, as the black rocks rise up over the city. Tens upon tens of deadly spears, that lethal black stone slanted and sure, each and every needle-tip edge pointing right towards Lady Caine in her ship.

“Is that a threat?” she hisses, and turns away from the sight, pacing furious across the deck. “No one said the gods would be involved.”

She pivots on her heel, the wind whipping at her hair. Her eyes fix bright and poisonous on Port Caul. Her muttering darkens. “What happened to the Moon being too weak to make an appearance, anyway? I thought she needed a conduit for that. But that fucking moonstone is gone, and all reports say she’s an avid hater of mortals, so how…?”

She trails off, the words falling short. Her pacing stills. She holds herself tall and stiff in the shine of the winter sun, and her hands clench tight into fists. Her nails cut deep in her palm.

Something shudders across the deck. A shadow, a cloud over the sun. The boat creaks and groans like a rusty hinge. Frost crawls along the side of the boat. The wind whispers. Lady Caine closes her eyes in thought.

“Maybe,” she murmurs, the rage falling slowly to contemplation. “Maybe she did choose a mortal vessel. For some reason. Against all reports of her personality.”

A pause. Lady Caine tilts her head.

“And, say, if the Moon did choose a conduit...”

Her eyes open. She looks at Port Caul with fresh eyes. She traces the path of the black rocks. That deadly slant. That unbreakable sword. Those cruel, uncontrolled towers, and the unerring accuracy of their direction, the blade pointed right at her.

Slowly, surely, Lady Caine starts to smile. She watches as her men flee like cowards, running from the dark rocks like cities from a plague, and laughs under her breath. “Someone who can summon the dark rocks, hm…? Sounds like someone we could use.”

Another pause. She tilts her head. She turns to the shadows, to the empty air beside her, and smiles with all her teeth. In the midday shine, the green of her eyes nearly seems to glow.

“Well?” says Lady Caine. “What do you think?”

#tts #tangled the series #varian #rapunzel #rta #rapunzel's tangled adventure #tangled #cassandra #eugene fitzherbert #tangled varian #tangled rapunzel #iza fanfic #fic: labyrinths of the heart #fic series: the long road back to home #fic: faults of the mind

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silence-and-tears · 4 years

Text

all the things that we call home

“Aydin,” he says.

“Hi, Mason,” I say to the sky.

There’s a moment of silence, and then Mason clears his throat. “Clare was wondering where you were,” he mutters. “I think she's a bit worried.”

“Huh,” I say. “I thought that was your job.”

“Please shut up,” Mason says, earnestly.

I laugh, a little, and something eases around my chest. Not a lot, just enough to breathe properly again. Mason makes a pleased sort of sound, a little happy and a little young.

We’re still in their suits, just took our helmets off. The aliens here are cautious but friendly- we’ve been communicating with them for a while now, but no humans have ever actually been to the planet. Until now, I guess.

We watch the sky together, moments ticking by. Can I still call them moments? Time goes by faster on this planet, half a year on Earth each hour. What will Earth be like when we get back? If we get back? If? If?

Will Mom still be there, in our house that always smells like geraniums? Nadia would be- what, by now? Twenty? Yeah. Twenty. I’ll have missed her birthday.

“Aydin,” Mason says awkwardly. He’s too young for this- we all are. His voice cracks- he’s only been on T for a month or so now.

God. He’s only been transitioning for a month.

“Aydin!” Mason snaps, now, more commandingly. “Snap out of it!”

I turn to look at him.

The sun here is bright, too bright. It’s blue, and it’s light flickers off Mason’s face like the Aurora Borealis I’ve always imagined. I’ve always wanted to go see them. Not that I will.

“You were thinking too much again,” he says.

“You think too much,” I say.

“I can’t believe I like you,” he grumbles, and throws himself onto the ground with more force and drama than necessary. The ground catches him, bounces, stills.

Mason’s always been like that, in the almost five years now that I’ve known him. Adapts to life and the things around him easily. I think the only thing he’s ever been persistent on is his gender and his dream to be an astronaut.

The coms crackle. “You there, Aydin? Mu?”

“Oh, shut up, Clarissant,” Mason complains. “I’m not the only one with a bad name here.”

“Call me that again,” Clare says sweetly, “and you can deal with the rest of negotiations.”

“Sweet Jesus, you two,” Cintan joins in, but we all know they don’t mean it.

“Anyways, negotiations are over for today. Their day, I guess. Where are you guys?” Clare says. She’s focused, as usual. I don’t think she ever really stops working. If she has, I’ve never seen it.

“Outside, by the cliffs,” I say, and Cintan groans.

“Why did you walk so far out?” he complains. “Okay, I’m coming.”

“The sun’s going to set soon,” Mason observes, a little thoughtfully.

“We should get some rest,” Clare says. “C’mon, guys. Get back to your rooms.”

She’s tired, tired and irritable. I can hear it in the edge of her voice, the sharpness she tries to hold back.

“Does no one want to watch the sunset?” Mason protests.

“We’re not here to watch sunsets, we’re here to negotiate and get back to our families. Not that you’d know what that’s like.”

I hear Mason’s breath hitch, and Cintan inhales a little surprised noise over the coms. I startle.

There’s a ringing silence, and Mason starts to tense. Half rises, face drawn. The light draws long shadows around his eyes, and his shoulders hunch over. Clare’s crossed the line, one of the few that Mason has, and we all know it.

She sighs. I can see her in my mind, slumping against one of the pillars here- everything is pillars, here. She’s probably pinching her nose, pulling herself together.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “That was uncalled for. We can watch the sunset.”

“Nice!” Cintan says, voice a little high pitched. “Okay, I’m on my way, guys! Almost there!”

He clicks off.

Mason sits back down. Gingerly, this time, quiet and small. I turn the coms off and shift closer to him.

“She didn’t mean it,” I say. “You know what Clare’s like. All bark and no bite. She’s just tired.”

“I know,” he mutters. He’s probably turned his coms off, too. “I should’ve helped more today.”

‘Dude,” I say, with feeling. “You, like, did everything you could. You’re our pilot and part time mechanist, you just got the basic training in negotiations, like- you don’t have to-”

I falter. Don’t have to what? Don’t have to fill in every role, don’t have to feel this need to do everything? To fix everything?

He smiles at me, small and a little sad. “Yeah,” he says, voice too quiet. “I kinda do.”

But then he nudges me. “Let’s make a deal, huh? You don’t have to fix everyone, I don’t have to- I don’t have to be me?”

I don’t know how to answer that. The silence is heavy now, and Mason begins twisting his hands together, awkward and anxious and upset. He isn’t looking at the sky anymore, stares down at the ground instead, starts sifting through the grains of sand-like material here. The whole place is some kind of sandy material, though the aliens here say that further North East there are tree like things and water- water.

Four thousand three hundred twenty four light years from home, and they still have water.

“The ground sparkles,” Mason says suddenly. His voice is strained, but at least he’s talking. “You see?” He holds up a handful of the stuff, and in the light of the sun it does seem to sparkle, a little. When I squint it seems a little blue, but maybe that’s just my human eyes.

“You wanna bring some back to ship so we can test it?” I ask, and he shrugs.

“Just a hobby. ’Sides, dunno if Clare’ll be okay with it.”

“‘Course I’d be okay with it, Mu,” Clare’s voice comes from behind us. Mason startles. Cintan is jogging behind her, trying to keep up even though he started out earlier. She turns to glance back at him. “Hurry it up, slowpoke!” She calls, voice endless against the plains of rocks. “You’re going to miss Mu’s sunset!” He answers in huffing gasps, annoyed and maybe a little amused.

“Got you one of those rocks you like so much,” she adds stiffly, and I turn away so she won’t see my grin. For all her bluster, she really is a softie. Mason’s lips tug up a little as he takes it.

“Thanks, Clare,” he says.

“Nothin’ to thank me for, Woodhead,” she mutters, and sits down beside him. Woodhead’s a little joke running between them- Mason’s Chinese name means wood, and the first time they met he found out that she knew Chinese and so here we are. They still speak Chinese to each other sometimes to tick Cintan off.

Mason rolls the stone between his fingers, looking thoughtful. “Huh,” he says. “look at this- the layers are all blurred.”

“What?” Cintan gasps from behind us. “I’m just the poor head mechanic, I don’t know rocks.”

Mason waves it at him. “Look!” he says, more excited. “I was wondering what the gravity difference and sand and wind would do to the rocks that can form here, and you know how on Earth-”

“Nope,” Cintan says, popping the p. He flops onto the ground and pats Mason on the shoulder. “Let’s watch your sunset first, ‘kay?”

“Hmph,” Mason grumbles, and Cintan laughs. “Mason,” he says, “I promise I’ll listen to all your ramblings about rocks and rocks and other rocks tonight as long as you want, but right now I want to watch this sunset.”

He leans onto me, eying the sky.

“Y’all got here just on time,” I say. “The sun’s-”

Clare’s head spins around to stare. Her ponytail’s half falling apart, and her fingers are frozen in the act of tightening it.

“Aydin,” she says, “did you just unironically say y’all.”

I wave at her wildly- having everyone here is giving me more energy, and I’ll probably be more tired later but right now there’s something light in me. It feels like it’s glowing.

“IF YOU CAN HAVE YOUR BOOKS-”

“Oh my god, you’re so loud-”

“I CAN HAVE MY Y’ALLS, CLARE, LET ME LIVE-”

“I hate Texans so much-”

But she’s laughing, giving up on her ponytail and I can feel myself grinning, and Mason’s snorting into his hand and Cintan throws his hands up in the general symbol known in NASA as I give up, why is this my life- and I’m fond of them, suddenly, so fond, something in me bright and warm and constant.

“Sit down, Aydin,” she laughs. “Sit down and watch this gosh darned sunset.”

“Our next operation,” Mason says thoughtfully, “should be to get Clare to swear.”

“You can try,” she says haughtily.

“I’ve heard her swear,” I say, suddenly remembering. “It was-”

“SIT DOWN AND WATCH THE SUNSET, I SWEAR TO GOD-”

“Mission leaders shouldn’t swear, Clare!” Cintan says, and scrambles away as she tries to kick him, and Mason’s laughing as he grabs them and holds Clare back at once.

The laughter dies down, finally, into a silence warm and soft. It wraps around us, a little like the stories Mom used to tell at night.

“And you say I’m the loud one,” I say. Mason snorts again, and Clare groans, long and exasperated.

“I hate this team,” she says, but she’s smiling, bright like the world.

“Nah, you dont,” Mason says. He’s lying down now, peering up.

“Nah,” Clare agrees, softly. “I don’t.”

She lies down too, and so do I. Cintan squints at us and leans back onto the ground too, muttering something about joining our circle of miserly thought. I swat at him.

“It’s not a circle,” Mason hums, “it’s a- it’s a dragon!”

“A dragon,” Cintan says disbelievingly.

“Figure it out in your heads,” Clare grumbles, and they settle.

We’re all quiet for a while. Something warm settles in me, somewhere in my ribcage, and it spreads through me- all the way to my fingers and through my legs. It’s comforting, like a constant friend or the shrieking birds of spring- familiar and a bit like what I think love would be like.

The sky is blue, blue, blue- I’ve never seen that many shades. Streaks of bright light, and something thin and a little darker edging the horizon. The sky is one of those books Clare loves to collect- the paperbacks left back in the twenty first century.

Open me, the sky says. Open me. I have stars and blues and moons and life in me, and I am infinite.

I miss the snow, Mason says, except I don’t realise he says it until a moment later.

Clare sits up on her elbows.

“Huh,” she says. Just that. Huh. And then, “I miss the rain. And our moon. And stars I actually know the names of. And chocolate. God, I miss chocolate.”

“Well, now you’ve taken all of mine,” Cintan complains.

“Was this a competition?” Clare asks.

“Well, now you’ve made it one,” Cintan announces. I’m not sure to who. The world? Except who’s to hear it, but us?

Maybe he just wanted to say it.

We let him think, and I guess I expect something funny and lighthearted from him, but-

“I miss drawing,” Cintan mutters. “You know, I wanted to bring my sketchbook out here, but mission control said no- I get it, any extra weight can tilt it off, and, you know, bring us to a fiery death, but. I would’ve liked some things to bring back for Ana, if she’s still there by the time we get back.”

“I’ll collect rocks for her,” Mason decides immediately, like generosity is nothing to him. “I’ll collect all the rocks for her, and then we’ll ditch you guys and go discuss rocks for the rest of our lives.”

“You can’t steal my sister!”

“Watch me.”

And Cintan laughs, a little. “Thanks, Mason.”

The sun’s setting fast now. Our shadows are long and dark, like the watercolours back home. The whole world’s turning blue, and if I close my eyes and ignore the suit, pretend it’s not there, replace it with a T- shirt and jeans, I can almost pretend I’m home.

“I miss home,” I say. “Just- home.”

I could say other things, maybe. I could talk about Ronnie and Luis, I could talk about Nadia. I could talk about Mom and Dad and their farms.

I could talk about a boy who grew up on those farms, yardwork by day and mapping the stars by night. I could talk about how that boy left his home by choice, or how his mom hugged him before he did and cried, and maybe he cried a little too. I could talk about Luis, who didn’t cry because that means I’m giving up on you, Aydin, and I’m never going to give up on you, bring back some stories for me, huh?

You drama kid, Ronnie had tod him, and then hugged me once, tight and hard and whispered, come back when you’re done chasing the stars.

I don’t. They know- they were there with their own families, and Mason had watched, a little sad. Cintan’s mom had given him truffle for before we left, and Clare had been quiet with her dad- tall and grim and a one- armed hug and a whisper in her ear.

“Yeah,” Cintan says. “I miss home.”

“Home is a feeling,” Clare says, and Mason snorts.

“Didn’t take you for a poet.”

“Yeah, well,” and Clare pauses, a little, “I wanted to write before I decided to go into space and yell at people.”

There’s more to the story, but none of us press, just laugh a little.

“I’m glad you’re all on my team,” Mason says, and yawns.

“Thanks for the sunset,” Clare tells him.

“Mhm,” he hums, half lidded eyes peering up into the sky.

There’s a comfortable silence, and the sun starts falling faster, ‘till it’s just over the mountains in the distance- it hangs, there, for a moment that’s longer on Earth, and the universe holds its breath.

It slips down, and the world exhales.

The last beams of light recede, night coming dark and stars blinking down.

“Alright, back to your rooms,” Clare announces, and gets up. Cintan pulls Mason up, and I follow, Clare in step for once instead of rushing ahead.

Mason rubs his eyes and stumbles his way, and Cintan grumbles sleepily and Clare is softly quiet, steady footfalls and messy hair.

And maybe I could find a bit of home in them.

@flashfictionfridayofficial thank you!! sorry this is so freaking long ugh

#my writing #space

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twokinkybeans · 4 years

Text

Jar Of Dirt Chapter 9: Cinnamon Orange [Starker Fanfiction NFSW/18+]

Kink/Sexual Warnings: Daddy Kink, Praise Kink, Thigh Rubbing, Sauna Sex, Teasing, Only Peter gets off Other Warnings: Tony's having emotional struggles

All Chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10 ... Masterpost (More to come!)

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Chapter 9: Cinnamon Orange “What’s this?” Tony says accusingly as he holds up the Swissy in front of Peter’s face. The boy is sitting on the couch with his legs crossed, studying for the midterm he has in two hours. After that, Tony said he would take Peter on a fun little trip abroad, refusing to say where exactly. Peter had packed his bags earlier this morning, and now they’re here. “Well, since we’re going on a mystery vacation, I figured that’d spice things up?” He looks up at the billionaire innocently. He knows damn well what he’s done. Tony sucks at his teeth and shakes his head with a scoff. “No. No, we’re not bringing the Swissy, we’re not bringing the jar. We’re gonna relax for a week, okay?” Peter frowns. “Having sex doesn’t relax you?” Tony groans loudly and puts the Swissy on the coffee table, sitting down next to it. “Pete, we discussed this. I’m scared. Okay? I want to be a hundred percent sure you’re not going to lose yourself like that again before I even try anything.” Peter pulls in his legs and looks away. “It’s been three weeks, Mr. Stark. I’m fine again! Been swinging through New York and helping old ladies cross the street just like I always did. I’m back!” “Well, I’m not.” Tony stands up again, taking the Swissy with him. “No sex, Pete. Not yet.”

Peter’s frustrated. Obviously. After a few days of numbness, everything went back to normal, but Tony can’t help himself. He’s scared he’ll break the boy like he did before and he doesn’t want Peter to experience it ever again. It doesn’t matter how many times Peter said it was the best sex he’s ever had. It frightened Tony. And the guilt was still there. He knows Peter gets himself off in the shower every night now. He can literally hear it, the boy isn’t exactly quiet. And Tony’s pretty sure the cheeky bastard is not holding back his moans to entice Tony to join him in the shower and fuck him hard. Like they both want to. But Tony can’t. He just can’t.

Tony has spent many hours in the gym, lifting weights, running laps, taking the coldest showers. But fuck, he can’t stop being hard for Peter. He won’t allow himself to get off. He’s saving himself for when he’s ready again, but both his mind and his body are working together to eat at his willpower. Not to mention Peter’s working very hard for it too. Leaning over counters, sticking out his butt just a little more than necessary. When they watch a film together, Peter constantly “accidentally” lets his hands roam a little too low. Heck, Tony even caught the boy pretending to be asleep while being the big spoon, rubbing himself against Tony’s ass. But he’s got this. He’s going to get through this. All he needs is for his subconscious to stop being scared and then both he and Peter can experience all the pleasure they want. Tony wishes with all his heart that his feelings are set straight soon. Not just so that Peter can get what he wants. No. He wants to rail his little slut.

Peter’s mouth hasn’t shut since they’ve arrived at the exclusive Italian spa. He’s in awe of the place and can’t help but stare open-mouthed at the stunning design. It’s in the middle of nowhere, on an otherwise deserted island, and only the richest moneybags can afford the luxury of this place. Tony is one of those rich moneybags. Peter feels like a commoner in the VIP lounge of the most exclusive club he can think of. In essence, he kind of is. And it makes him only slightly uncomfortable. The place is beyond imagination. A gigantic building, no- a temple, with marble and chandeliers and fountains and lush greenery everywhere. The island is covered in smaller temples, each containing their own baths, saunas and treatment rooms. Massive Corinthian pillars hold up the structures and the marble floors are broken up by the most intricate, symmetrical mosaics. The gardens are never ending, filled with statues, and from what Peter could gather, the number of guests that are there can’t be more than thirty. This place is really only for the richest people. Everything about it screams abundant luxury. And everything is delicate. Expensive.

Peter’s worn sneakers tap the floor awkwardly as he waits for Tony to finish up at the front desk. Peter tends to forget how much Tony is in his element in these kinds of situations. He’s rich. He knows it. He flaunts it. Tony knows exactly how all of this works and Peter can’t help but admit that, fuck. He’s hot like this. Sunglasses, mysteriously hiding his eyes as he nonchalantly leans on the counter, using his large, rough hands to enunciate the words he speaks. Peter’s not even listening anymore. He’s just hearing Tony’s deep, low voice as he arranges all kinds of massages and- Peter caught Tony’s words and his interest peaks. A private sauna? Peter presses his lips on top of each other and shifts, hoping no one notices his hard-on. A private sauna… Peter smiles mischievously at his feet, conjuring up his evil plan.

That evening, Tony smiles at Peter on the other side of the fancy dinner table. The boy looks absolutely adorable in the tux. It’s the same one he wore at Tony’s party three weeks ago. The same bow tie to go along with it. “So, how did the exam go? I completely forgot to ask.” “Oh, I think I did okay!” Peter starts. “I mean, I wasn’t exactly sure about the question where we had to estimate how much energy would be deposited into the Earth if it is hit by a one-tonne meteor traveling on an orbit around the Sun with a semi-major axis of 20.0A.U, but I tried and I think I nailed all the other questions!” “Was it moving in the same or opposite direction as the Earth’s orbit?” “Opposite.” Tony quickly grabs his phone to calculate the answer. “Alright, so if this... is the velocity, then it should be… 2.59 ×10^12 Joules?” Peter’s face lights up and Tony can’t help but smile along with that contagious little grin. “That was my answer! I nailed the test!” Peter exclaims happily, sitting back in his chair smirking. He realizes that there are people looking at them, so Peter giggles and tones his voice down a bit. “If I’m correct about the other questions too, then… I got a perfect score.”

Tony puts his phone away again and raises his crystal wine glass high in the air, looking at Peter. “To the smartest man I know.” “That’s you,” Peter laughs, his eyebrow raised. “No, Peter. You. I’m smart, but I��m only keeping up with you because I’ve had all these years to study. If you go on like this, you’ll be a thousand times smarter than I’ve ever been. You’re so intelligent it’s almost scary.” Peter feels his cheeks flush and he lowers his gaze to his glass of wine, raising it as well, clinking it against Tony’s. He knows he’s smart. Hearing it come from Tony’s mouth adds a different layer to it though. He can’t imagine ever knowing more than him. But then, Tony usually knows stuff like this.

Being in a fancy restaurant once again reminds Peter of the last time they were at one. He’s already having a hard time keeping to his new self-made rule. No teasing Tony until the sauna. It’ll be hard. Very hard. But waiting these three little days are going to be worth all of it. Besides, he gets to enjoy all these massages and whatever Tony booked for them. It’s not like he’ll be bored. Not teasing Tony has proved to him just how much he actually teases his boyfriend throughout the day, and he has to consciously stop himself from doing so. No jokes about tiramisu. Sadly.

Peter’s brushing his teeth in the bathroom closest to their bed - yes, the hotel room has more than one bathroom - while Tony gets comfortable in the large king bed. They’ve had two full days of extreme relaxation and Peter’s pretty sure he can’t feel half his muscles anymore. In a good way, this time. He walks out of the bathroom, toothbrush hanging from his mouth as he pulls up his cotton pajama pants. Tony’s scrolling through his phone, the lower half of his body covered by the thin sheets. His chest is bare. Toned. His arc reactor glows dimly. Peter loves the little faces Tony pulls when he’s reading, but Tony soon looks up, raising an eyebrow, silently wondering why Peter’s looking at him. “So, what are we doing tomorrow?” Peter asks innocently as he takes the toothbrush out of his mouth. He knows what they’re doing tomorrow. Oh, he knows. “Not much, to be honest.” Tony puts his phone on the nightstand and crosses his arms. “I was hoping we could have a nice sleep in, dive into one of those mint baths and then head to the private sauna.” “Oh, yeah, the sauna! Forgot about that.” He didn’t. “What time was that again?” “The appointment’s at four. We got loads of time.” “Cool!” Hot. Peter rushes back to the bathroom to hide his excitement. He needs his dick to calm the fuck down. Only one more day of no touching. No teasing. No nothing. Tony must have noticed his behavior. There’s no other way. He hasn’t commented on it, though. Which makes Peter slightly worried whether or not Tony will agree with Peter’s plan.

When he feels like his cock has softened up enough, he puts away his toothbrush and takes a breath before walking back into the bedroom. The size of it is insane. It’s not just a bedroom. It’s a whole apartment. Multiple rooms, sitting areas. Four bathrooms, excluding the two extra baths that are in the living spaces. There’s a gigantic, solid mahogany dinner table that could fit at least fifteen people. No idea why they would need it, but it’s awesome nonetheless. Peter flops onto the bed face down, limbs spread outward, making Tony laugh. “I wish I could still do that,” he jokes. “Tones, you’re not that old, you should try it.” Peter turns and curls up into himself, staring at Tony from his side of the bed. He’s a safe distance away from the other man. No chance to lose composure. “The masseurs are gonna have a tough time tomorrow if I did that, Pete, I’m good where I am, thank you.” “Such a superhero,” Peter quips, tugging at the sheets. He sits up straight again and looks around the room for the umpteenth time. The frescos on the wall are intricate and the sheer detail of the woodworks on the bed posts could keep someone entertained for hours. “Just look at this place, mister Stark!” “I have. More often than you’d think.” Tony cocks an eyebrow. “I’ve been here with my parents, so I’ve seen every corner of this island.”

Peter turns his head to look at Tony, who’s suddenly evading Peter’s stare. “That… Must’ve been a while back,” Peter says quietly. Tony takes a breath and nods. “Yeah, I know. I’m old.” “No, I didn’t-” “I know what you meant, kid.” He sucks at his teeth and sighs before opening his arms to Peter. “Come cuddle, please? Bedtime.” Tony’s great at avoiding topics he doesn’t want to talk about. They’ve discussed Tony’s parents often enough for Peter to know the whole story and as Tony respects Peter doesn’t like to talk about his own parents, Peter opts to do the same.

There’s a new issue at hand, however. Cuddling. Peter sucks at cuddling. Well, right now, at least. Why? Because he loves cuddling. And being as touch starved for Tony as he is, this is gonna get really hard really soon. And with this, he means he. Peter complies, though, not liking the sad, nostalgic look on Tony’s face. He shuffles closer and gets under the sheets, next to Tony. Like a key finding its lock, they embrace each other. Peter rests his head on Tony’s chest after they scoot down further under the blankets and he closes his eyes, breathing softly and listening to Tony’s gentle heartbeat. It’s weird, but Peter loves feeling the glow of Tony’s arc reactor on his face.

One of Tony’s hands rests on Peter’s head, his thumb rubbing slow circles in the boy’s hair. His other arm is curled around Peter’s waist and… Shit. Peter wriggles slightly in an attempt to push the lower half of his body away from Tony, who’s trying to tangle their legs together. The slight awkward situation causes Tony to laugh softly. “Where’d your legs go?” He chuckles. Peter sticks them out the bed on the other side, his wheel of excuses turning fast. “Feet are hot. Not nice. Out of bed,” he says quickly. Tony scoffs a single laugh and pulls the boy’s upper body closer. “Alright then.” Peter knows Tony knows he’s lying, but he’s grateful the man doesn’t ask any questions. Both of them could probably hold a contest for who has the bluest balls right now. Neither want the physical contact to lead to anything more than cuddling and he wants to give Tony a chance at the space he’s been asking for, so this is an odd compromise. It feels silly. Probably looks silly too, Peter thinks. But hey, tomorrow’s the big day.

Tony groans content as he and Peter set foot in the hot sauna. The heat immediately attacking them both inside and out. Peter has been in a sauna with Tony a few times before, as Tony has one at home, but the ones in this spa have all kinds of herbal infusions to stimulate the senses. Upon Peter’s request, the spa arranged for some dried oranges and cinnamon to give the sauna a sweet and spicy feel. Ha. Spicy. Tony sits down at the lowest level first, aiming to work his way up. Peter immediately goes to level two, to sit behind Tony. Drops of sweat are already forming on their skin and when he sees Tony relax, he goes in. He leans forward, pressing his hands on Tony’s back. He slowly works his way up, squeezing the skin and massaging gently. He smirks when Tony lets out a stifled moan as Peter reaches his neck. He rubs gentle shapes onto the man’s skin, before pushing his hands even further up, into Tony’s slight curls. Tony’s head nearly falls back under the attention, so completely relaxed he seems unaware of Peter’s wicked scheme. The boy massages Tony’s scalp and leans even further forward, until his mouth is right next to Tony’s ear. “S’hot in here, isn’t it, Mr. Stark?” he mumbles. The man lets out a low hum in response. A hum that goes straight to Peter’s dick. “Wanna come up to level two?” Tony huffs, not really wanting to move under the boy’s attention, but he nods and gets up, stepping up the bench to sit next to Peter.

They sit there for a little bit. The strong scent of the orange and cinnamon filling their lungs as they become damp with their own sweat. Tony has his eyes closed, smiling, knowing his boyfriend is right next to him. He’s been so sweet to Tony, giving him the time and space to get his mind cleared up from all the overstimulation stuff. Maybe he’ll finally give Peter what he wants tonight, Tony decides. The boy’s been too good for him. However, what Tony hadn’t noticed, was Peter standing up from his seat, turning himself so he’s right in front of Tony. The man has his legs slightly spread and his eyes open wide when he suddenly feels Peter sitting down on top of his left leg. “Hello, there,” Tony quips, clearing his throat. Peter leans in to press a wet kiss on the corner of Tony’s mouth. The man doesn’t move. “Hi, daddy,” he whispers, his eyes fluttering. “I thought we discussed this, Pete.” Tony cocks an eyebrow, but doesn’t move Peter off of him, like he did all the other times Peter tried. Peter smiles innocently, taking it as an invitation to start moving. Slowly, he grinds himself into Tony’s leg. He’s already achingly hard after not doing anything for three days. Tony simply leans back, letting the boy do his work. The kid’s jacked himself off for weeks now. It’s not like getting off on Tony’s thigh will get him that deep into subspace again. Especially since Tony won’t actually be touching him. Peter’s just getting himself off.

This is fine.

Tony’s mouth turns dry when Peter starts whimpering. His hips roll effortlessly over Tony’s sweaty thigh. The older man is almost embarrassed at how fast his dick turns hard, watching his good boy trying to find his release. Tony shouldn’t enable this. But fuck. He wants to. “Peter, please, you’re not making this any easier for me,” Tony breathes out as he fights his urges to touch himself. Or Peter. Or both. Peter leans in, sucking on the skin just below Tony’s ear. “I don’t want you to hold back, daddy, I want to make this…” His hand creeps to Tony’s shaft, cupping it for a second before moving up to flick one of Tony’s nipples. “...hard, for you.” The boy continues to rub himself on Tony and he leans back to show himself off as he starts playing with his own nipples, using his sweat to glide over the buds. “Besides,” he moans. “If you won’t touch me... “ His hips move fast and his pants are quick. “I’m just gonna touch you.”

Tony swallows. He’s pretty sure he’ll come untouched if Peter really decides to get off right then and there, in a technically public but for now private sauna. Peter moans obscenely as his hands roam over his own body, touching all the places that make his cock throb. “Aren’t I pretty for you, daddy?” He sighs with his eyes closed. His mouth hangs open and his rolls speed up even further. Tony can’t help but moan himself and he closes his eyes in the hopes of blocking out what’s happening. Peter notices and smirks as he stops holding back altogether, moaning and whimpering loudly with every roll of his hips. “I know you’re so hard, daddy, I can see it, I can feel your cock throbbing from here, I can feel it, daddy-”

Shit.

How did Tony never realize that? Peter can feel the wind outside high rises, he feels when Tony stands behind him, simply through a shift of air. He can feel Tony’s cock without touching it. The realization hits Tony with a wave of pleasure and he squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t hold back anymore. He knew Peter was planning something, why else would he be so physically distant the past few days? Tony didn’t know it would lead to semi-public sex in a cinnamon-orange sauna on a deserted island in Italy, but he’s done complaining. Peter gets his wish. Tony’s groan turns into a pained chuckle. “You planned this, didn't you?" He growls as he opens his eyes to watch his slut ride his thigh, desperately searching for release. "Made me miss you so bad that I would have no choice but to throw you on your stomach in this sauna and fuck you deep and hard?" "Y-yes, daddy, want you to fuck me so badly," Peter gasps, realizing Tony finally gave in. "Well, too bad now, boy... I'm not going to touch you. Not unless you come rubbing your cock on me. Go on then, keep grinding, show daddy your cum, get off on my thigh like the desperate little slut you are."

Peter sucks in a hot breath, Tony’s words shooting through him like a missile. He increases the speed of his movement, his moans becoming more and more desperate. “Can- Can I hold you?” Peter asks suddenly. Tony’s taken aback by the innocent question, but realizes how touch starved the boy is. They haven’t done anything like this for weeks and shit, the boy has been holding back for three days now. Tony would love to remain the composed dom in this, but it would be too cruel to deny Peter this now. “Yeah, kid, wrap your arms around me, use me, baby.” Peter immediately envelopes Tony, not even kissing him, just pressing the man against his chest. They’re both sweating, panting messes, heating each other up even further.

“Daddy’s got you.” Peter whimpers, angling himself a bit differently to get more friction. He gasps, digging his fingers into Tony’s sweaty skin. “M-Missed this,” the boy chokes out. Tony groans at Peter’s nails clawing into his skin as he realizes that fuck, yes, he’s missed this as well. “Missed you too, sweetness. Oh, you’ve been such a good boy for daddy, haven’t you?” “Y-yeah!” “My sweet boy, so hot, you should see yourself, baby,” Tony growls. He can feel how Peter’s rhythm is slowly falling apart, how he’s just rutting down, chasing his high. “I-I need you, daddy, need to cum, I can’t hold it off one more day.” “You can, honey, you can come all over me. Show me how much you want this, I want to see you fall apart.” Tony’s struggling. He wants to just flip them over, wrap his fingers around that pretty little cock and watch how the moans would increase with every flick of his wrist. He wants to push Peter down on his knees, fuck, fuck. “You’re fucking with my head, baby-” he growls, “-do you feel how hard I am baby, you already thinking about tonight, when we’re in bed together? I’m gonna fuck you, sweetie, I promise. Gonna give you what you’ve been waiting for.”

Tony wants it so bad, he can’t help himself. He reaches for Peter’s pretty ass, gripping it tightly and helping the boy set a solid rhythm again, taking over. Peter surrenders to his guidance within seconds and it has Tony gasping. The hot, cinnamon orange air stings his lungs in the best possible way. “Peter, you close baby?” “Y-Yes, Tony, so c-close! Don’t let go of me, please, please.” “Never again, I promise.” “I’m gonna hold that a- Oh fuck, daddy, I can’t- ” Peter closes his eyes, falling into Tony’s chest as he cries out in pleasure. Tony groans as he feels how Peter comes all over his thigh, his entire body shaking within Tony’s safe embrace. Tony stares at him, his pupils blown wide.

Peter’s perfect. His hips riding him through his orgasm, his cock twitching against Tony’s skin. Peter’s eyes are still closed, brows furrowed together. The boy leans down, panting heavily as his forehead rests against Tony’s arc reactor. “Yes, that’s it , aren’t you my pretty, sweet, little boy, Peter?” Tony feels his eyes sting with tears. Peter looks so fragile, so sweet and angelic against the soft, shiny, blue light. “I-I am…” Peter whispers. “Yes, you are. You’re so good for me, being a little brat to help me overcome my fears.” Tony kisses the top of Peter’s hair, and the boy then looks up at him, a playful sparkle in his eye. “I’m only obedient if it’s in my best interest,” Peter says, gauging Tony’s reaction. When he sees Tony’s eyes light up at the joke he giggles. “You sneaky little thing.” “Hmmm, don’t pretend you didn’t like it.” “Never.”

Tony cuddles Peter for as long as he can still manage to take the heat of the sauna. Whispering sweet praise into his ear, how much he loves him, how grateful he is for Peter trying his best to give him space. How he’s going to ruin him tonight. Because fuck he will. Peter’s not escaping that one. He’s drying himself off with a big fluffy towel after taking the cold shower that Peter talked him into. Yes, he knows he’s supposed to take the cold shower but he usually just sits outside the sauna for a bit. He couldn’t ignore the hopeful, playful look on his boyfriend’s face, however. Peter laughed out loud at all the faces Tony pulled when the freezing stream of water hit his skin. He barely lasted three seconds before jumping away from it and wrapping the towel around his shoulders.

“Pete, come on out, you’ll get ice burns.” “It’s not that cold, Tony.” “Yes, it is. Come here, I want to wrap you in this fluffy thing,” Tony says, referring to Peter’s towel, “-then carry you to our room for cuddles. And food. And more sex.” Peter chuckles and turns the shower off, running his way into Tony’s arms. Tony gasps when Peter’s icy-cold body wraps around him. “Peter!” “It’s for your own good!” “Honey, please, a heart attack isn’t good for my health,” he laughs, trying to push the boy off him. Only to realize how much he missed this as well. Not having sex, meant not being as close. As playful. As goofy. He smiles. He’s past that now. “Hush it, I can hear your heartbeat. You’re doing just fine.”

Tony snorts, lifting Peter’s chin up and kissing him slowly. Their soft lips melting together. The older man closes his eyes, trailing his fingers across Peter’s cheeks as he keeps on kissing him. His lips slightly parting, Peter taking the invitation and their tongues meeting in the middle. It’s so warm and gentle that it has Tony’s heartbeat speed up. Peter sighs against his lips, his hands walking up towards Tony’s shoulder blades to hold him tight. They just stay like that for a while, making out soft and gently, their bodies locked into their embrace.

--- More: Chapter 10 Masterpost

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