#i fire it on a whim when the mood strikes

[funereel]

Couldn't decide what to draw in my new sketchbook so I took the safe route and did one of those inventory thingies people like to make. I still cannot be arsed to draw the hunter pistol in detail though so I did the saw cleaver instead. It has served me well early on. 

[gremlingottoosilly]

very surprised that the lovefool AU didn't have König spanking the reader while making her count every hit in German, starting over everytime she messes up 😵‍💫

GERMAN LESSONS

Your kidnapper decided to refresh your knowledge of German numbers. Unfortunately for you, Konig doesn't appreciate failure. TW and tags: Spanking, non-con, kidnapping, power imbalance, controlling yandere Konig, size difference, fingering

You messed up. 

At this point, you’re not even sure what set König – your kidnapper, as you learned to never forget – off. It might have been some slightly bratty comment, maybe your smile wasn’t cute and girlfriendly enough, maybe you were sleeping a bit too tight and refused to give him hug as he always made you do. It’s hard to predict him, with his mood swings going from almost being a loving boyfriend with an affinity for making you warm and nice for him up to a torturer who wants nothing but to punish your holes as harshly as possible. 

You messed up, and you don’t even remember how – perhaps, this is what made your punishment even worse. König has a desire to make you answer to his every whim, and when you’re as much as resisting even one small thing…

— Fucking brat. I was too soft on you, ja? 

He drags you to his lap, but it’s far from his regular affection. You could have expected kisses, maybe something else soft and pretty, maybe his hands hugging you firmly – but he drops you on his thighs like a dead weight, harsh hand pressing between your shoulder blades to make you lat flat. Ass up in the air, little clothes you had – only his shirt, of course, König fucking hated seeing his little captive girlfriend in actual clothes and not another of his sexual fantasies. 

You sob, you whimper, and you’re trembling because this is the first time he is like this. Violent and cruel in the bedroom – yes, he was kinda beating you up in his basement, but you thought that he wouldn’t drag this to your shared bed. You hoped that the worst punishment you could take is his dick up your ass or a very violent mouth fucking – not this. You hoped for a punishment to be sex, not pain. 

Not his huge hands striking you across your ass like you’re a bratty kid in need of a lesson. 

— I thought you could be a proper girl for me, Schatz. I trusted you. 

You’d say he sounds hurt, but you can recognize the sadistic gleam in his voice. König doesn’t even bother with preparing your skin first, he strikes as hard as he can – and you cry every freaking time because, oh god, it feels horrible, and you’re going to be sick, and you don’t know what to do except for crying your eyes out with every harsh slap across the plush flesh of your ass. Your skin jiggles with every strike, and his cruel laugh almost feels as painful as his hands. 

— I’m sorry! Pl…please, don’t…god…

You whimper, crying, just a dumb girl for big bad König, who has all the power over you now. Giant hands enveloping your asscheeks only to strike harder, to land blows equally on both sides of your ass. There is nothing sexy about it – you only feel a burning sensation and sweet numbness every time they hit lands somewhere new, not tearing already exhausted flesh with new pain. 

It’s like your bottom has been set on fire – he is preparing you for something far worse, you know, not even counting each strike. 

He drags his hand all across the redness of your ass, making you whimper from pain. He chuckles, knowing just how utterly pathetic you look right now – poor girl, can barely even think about getting your mind in place as you can’t even try to think about his hands doing all of this. You want him to fucking stop touching you, but you know that the chances are slim. Non-existing even. 

— Now, Schatz, it wasn’t that bad. Just a preparation. 

If that was a preparation, you don’t want to know what a real one will feel like. You whimper, trying to get up from his lap – maybe, if you cry loud and long enough, he will think about stopping hurting you. Maybe, if you’re pathetic enough, you’ll have the chance for mercy. Maybe, if you’re able to distract him from hurting you, he will think of other options for your body. 

Your hands are trying to reach his crotch – you don’t want to fuck him, but his dick is a far better punishment than his hands. You feel dirty when your hands are trying to hold onto his pants, taking them off as if you’re nothing but a depraved slut in need of a good pounding. Each ounce of dignity gets washed away as your hands softly palm his erection through his pants. Bastard is hard – you knew he was getting off from your pain, but being reminded of this so explicitly…

Only but he is striking you again, harsh palm against already swollen flesh. You yelp. You squirm. You cry. 

Of course, he doesn’t really care. 

— Being a slut won’t help you, dumb thing. 

You sob, hands retracting back to being awkwardly placed in front of your face. Your position on his lap makes your cheeks burn – both of them, which is even more embarrassing. At this point, you aren’t even sure if you’d prefer him cutting your limbs off. Maybe it would at least feel less humiliating. 

— I’m s…sorry, König, I…

He places a hand on your ass again. Softer this time, if only for a bit – your skin still stings as he continues to stroke your aching skin in a feeble attempt at reassuring. His hands are burning, and you don’t want to be touched like this, but even the slight human interaction is probably the only thing that will keep you sane right now. It might be pathetic, but just like a cat, you are crawling to meet the hand that has the power to softly cradle you. Like a domestic pet König made you to be, you hide your claws and present your rear to his touches. Maybe, he had enough. Maybe, this is over. 

His hard-on pressing in your tummy tells you another story. 

— Let’s do it this way, Schatzi. 

His other hand goes to dig in your hair, holding your head high enough to make sure you’re listening. You whimper from pain pulsating in your scalp but don’t make a sound – terrified of making this moment of kindness short-lived. 

— W-what? 

You give him the answer because you’re a good pet, a trained one, because your captor expects nothing but perfect obedience, and you would do anything to make the pain stop. Too bad that your “anything” isn’t even nearly enough. 

— Let’s teach you how to count, ja? 

He tried teaching you German, bit by bit. Dragged you a bunch of kid's books, the simplest expression took you days to learn because every mistake would mean an even rougher round of fucking, and every perfectly pronounced word would mean yet another round of “lovemaking” – soon, you learned to stagger your progress perfectly, being the most mediocre captive student this country has ever saw. You might be dumb, but…ah, no, judging by König’s standards, that’s it. 

You lick your lips, preparing for the worst. He is rubbing your ass softly, gently, but his touches aren’t bringing you relaxation – you can only wait for his to continue, to make you suffer more like he didn’t kiss you like a lover just a few days before, softly cradling your head on his chest and promising to bring you very nice cake if you’d continue to be a good girl and warm his dick with your pussy. 

— For every strike, I expect you to count. If you mess up, we will start over. 

— H…how many times? 

— Let’s start with ten, ja? You don’t look too strong right now, Katzen. 

You never looked strong, this is the sole reason why you’re even here. Not a proper soldier, not actually a fighter, just a fucking domestic girlfriend for a bastard like König, who has nothing but his ego and a rank that made you sick from how much power he had – people like him shouldn’t be in charge, even if he is a merc and not an actual commander. Even if he is nothing but a bloodthirsty hound, he still has way too much power over little ol’ you. 

You nod, but that’s not good enough. You grunt in acknowledgment, but it doesn’t satisfy him either. 

— I…I understand. Sir. 

— What are we saying to be polite, Katzen? 

— Please? S…spank me. Bitte. I promise I will count. 

You can feel his fingers twitching, trembling. He doesn’t like this little game either, it probably feels too artificial and awkward – you’d rather just be beat up by him, but alas, if he needs to take off some steam at the expense of your body…you aren’t exactly fine with that, but it’s not like you really have an opinion on the matter. At least it’s not needles and knives in your sensitive places – just his hands and your sore bottom. 

Then he strikes. 

First time, it felt like the worst pain in the world. Your ass, already sore and bruised, was heated up again – you cut down your scream because you know that he doesn’t want anything but counting. Nothing but your obedience, your pain, you might not want to be a spectacle for someone like König, but you don’t have even an illusion of choice here. You yelp, the only thing you allow yourself to do. 

You start counting. 

— E..ein. 

— Good girl. 

His fingers suddenly slip down to find your pussy, already wet and fucking messy for him. You can’t help it, it felt too wrong and too right at the same time – his hands on your body, his voice praising you like he didn’t just [unished you for as much as fucking existing. You whine, your body trembling with fear as he launches at you again – another harsh smack forcing you to remember all the numbers like your life depended on it. In some way, it really did. 

You lick your lips, biting into soft flesh to suppress your little cries. You can be stronger than this, you need to be stronger than this. 

König strikes your ass quickly, second and third time – you are keeping up as much as you can. Sobbing when he drags his hand lower, his fingers landing somewhere between our cheeks. There is still a lot of clean skin to uncover to reveal new pain – you’re sobbing between rounds, only allowing yourself to breathe when he pushes his fingers down your folds and plays with your core. 

It’s somehow worse than normal spanking. The pain was numbing, allowing you to slip into some other dimension. The pleasure is overweening, fucking with your brain like you should be thanking König for being so nice and stroking your clit between the rounds of punishment. 

You moan as he pushes a finger in, quickly forcing another slap on your already swollen ass. You don’t miss counting, but you do feel like your head is going to explode. Mind isn’t working enough to actually produce something meaningful – only pathetic chants of numbers and his name mixed properly. You feel like you’re going to suffocate. 

König appreciates the view – his darling, precious girlfriend, he never knew you could be any more beautiful but here you are, laying on his lap like a good kitten you are. With his hands bruising you, he should have punished you sooner – you have become so bratty lately, forgetting your place and who is wearing pants around here. He should have brought you across his thighs way sooner, maybe turn this into a regular thing and have you moan his name as you’re pathetically sobbing and begging for him to stop. 

He strikes you a few times more, his other hand two knuckle-deep in the wetness of your cunt. Such a slut for your boyfriend, you shouldn’t get off this kind of punishment – but of course, he can’t really blame his precious girl for being this fucking needy. He appreciated moving you from the basement, it’s much easier to be with his girl when you’re not rotting on some old mattress – yet, he feel that you started to get out of line as he allowed you too much over and over again. 

It’s a good thing he will be able to punish you even more. 

— It’s the fifth one, Liebling. Want a break? 

You consider your options, he can see your adorable face scrunching in, not understanding if he is for real or not. You’re pretty, too pretty to be this alone, small, and scared – he can’t help but lift your head again, hearing you groaning from pain as he strains your hair just so he can press his mask against your forehead. Mockery of a kiss, but he doesn’t want to face you right now. 

This whole fucking thing wasn’t comfortable enough for him. If only he could, he would just make you obedient through less awkward ways – but you’re so fucking bratty, it really is impossible. König smiles, pushing two of his fingers deep into your hole, stroking your folds as gently as possible. He is weak – he can’t stay mad at his favorite girl for long, no matter how much he wants to try and stand his ground this time. God, you’re too fucking adorable to resist.

— Please? You’re so cute, he might as well let you get out of your punishment. It’s not like him to be this soft, but he already turned your ass into a bruised mess, and if he comes any further, you might actually start to bleed – oh well, he doesn’t want this. Oh well, you will pay for this later – on your back, ass high in the air. Maybe he will try your ass today, just so he could have a nice and tight hole around him. A good way to make you shut up, for sure. 

You whimper when he is holding you close, soothing you like a desperate kitten – you cling onto him, all the brattiness going out of your body, just like he intended. So, so pretty for him, he doesn’t know what he will do with you later. 

He spanks you one last time just to hear your precious whimpers. 

God, just how much he fucking adores you. 

[ptn-imagines]

i'm afraid i'm the most common type of ptn fan: insanely down bad for zoya, so... nsfw headcanons with f!chief? 🙏 🥹

Oh, I feel you. I've been so incredibly thirsty for Zoya lately that it's not even funny. If the length of these headcanons says anything...

NSFW F!Chief x Zoya

Zoya and the Chief enjoy an incredibly loving and healthy relationship. They adore each other endlessly and are, without a doubt, the very definitions of “soulmates.” They fit together so perfectly that one could be forgiven that they were once one composite being, torn apart by the whims of cruel fate.

Of course, the cute, adoring, romantic side of things is not the only aspect of their relationships. Zoya and the Chief both have healthy sexual appetites that, frankly, neither of them have enough time to satiate as much as they like. They make do with what they can.

Most people who know of their relationship would expect Zoya to be the more dominant partner, and the one “on top.” Most days, they’d be correct, although the Commander of the Legion is no stranger to being a power bottom if the mood strikes.

Even when sex between this pair starts off gentle, it rarely ever stays that way. Zoya’s to blame for that; her appetite for the Chief is truly insatiable, and she can’t resist leaving her marks behind. The Chief is hers, and it’s something she declares to the world with the amount of bruising love bites she leaves all over her lover’s body.

(Or she would, if Chief didn’t just wear concealing clothing and makeup over the bites. One day. For now she’ll just have to content herself with the knowledge that they’re there.)

Sometimes, when lost in the frenzy of passion, Zoya bites down a bit harder than she means to and draws blood. The first time this happened, she was horrified – until she realized that the Chief was blushing and that her gasp of shocked pain melted into a moan. She had liked that!

Zoya is still cautious about intentionally drawing blood, but she does take advantage of this discovered masochism in other ways. She manhandles Chief like a mannequin doll during sex, biting and scratching like a feral animal, and Chief loves every second of it.

(Chief loves this primal side of Zoya – she loves it when her lover flips her over onto her stomach and goes to town with a strap until the pillow is soaked with the Chief’s tears and she’s howling Zoya’s name. Thank god for soundproofing.)

When they’re not so horny for each other that all they can do is fuck each other like animals in heat, Zoya and the Chief are prone to roleplaying in bed. They like recreating their first meeting in various different ways, sometimes involving bondage restraints like rope, handcuffs, gags, and blindfolds, and sometimes not. Zoya likes to tease Chief about how into being kidnapped she is but the truth is, it brings her just the same thrill. It often takes every ounce of her control not to devour the Chief when she looks so cute like that.

What comes as a surprise is that some days, the Chief takes the dominant role in bed. It’s usually the result of a power struggle following one of the days where the Chief isn’t quite in a mood to be submissive and obedient; Zoya actually loves those days and losing excites her. Seeing the fire that blazes in her lover’s gaze in these moments is so fucking hot.

The Chief is the only one Zoya would trust to have control over her, too, and they both know it. The display of trust is something that touches the Chief deeply, and there’s been a few occasions where she’s been so overwhelmed by emotion from that that it’s turned into making out rather than sex. But it does usually end up with them fucking.

Zoya also enjoys being restrained, but not in the same way the Chief does. Rather, the pair have discovered inappropriate uses of the shackles that they are not shy to use; aside from the obvious use of the red thorns as a form of physical restraint, the two have also discovered that it can be used to form an impromptu collar and leash.

The one item of actual bondage gear that typically gets used on Zoya is actually a dog muzzle (designed for humans, of course). She’s super into being talked down to like a feral, mindless animal by the Chief, and while it might seem like such a thing would be beyond the just and upright Chief’s morals, the truth of it is that once she gets into that dominant stride, she’s more than happy to talk to Zoya like she’s her prized mutt.

The aftercare is bliss, and never neglected. For them, it’s typically soaking in a bath together before falling asleep naked in the same bed, limbs entangled, murmuring praise and sweet nothings to each other until they fall into the embrace of Hypnos.

(Zoya is always very disappointed about the fact Chief rarely has time for round two when they wake up.)

[lavenderbexlatte]

day 27 - gags

txt 1.6k words gender neutral reader insert Reader x Choi Yeonjun NSFW

🖤 warnings: affectionate shit-talking, the tiniest bit of degradation if you squint, finally getting yeonjun to shut his stupid mouth jfc 🖤

kinktober masterlist

connect with me! / masterlist

It's a good thing that Yeonjun is a good sport about pretty much everything, because he's also unmatched in pretty much everything.

Just in general. He's got the most striking catlike good looks you've ever seen. He's tall, he's lithe and strong and slim like a model. Energetic, unstoppable. He's flexible enough, literally and figuratively, for all the games you want to play with him, for every whim that strikes you.

If he was picky, or too demanding or too settled in roles or wishes, on top of looking and being the way he is? You'd have a difficult choice to make, in that case: put up with him (which is nearly impossible when he's in a mood), or miss out on a hell of a lot of fun.

You know in your heart of hearts that you couldn't give him up, though. Not Yeonjun. He's just too good.

There is, however, one thing about Yeonjun that you would change if you could.

His fucking mouth.

Not physically, or anything, because he's got gorgeous thick downturned lips that give him a fantastic perpetual pout. You don't need that to change at all.

But if he could learn how to shut up? God, civilization would be saved.

He's a good sport, though, agreeable and sweet even when you're less than patient with the more abrasive parts of his personality. It's not like he's trying to annoy you, most of the time, but he's also not trying to stop himself. He knows very well what he's like, and you know that he thinks it's charming. He's usually right.

So when you finally do crack after another onslaught of rapid-fire commentary and jokes and obnoxious impromptu singing during what is supposed to be sex and break out the secret weapon that you've been saving for a night like this, Yeonjun isn't angry.

He just holds up the bit gag, dangling it from his accusatory pointer finger by the strap, and says, "I think this is a hint."

"Yeah, you think?"

"I mean," he sniffs, and fuck, you can already feel the Shakespearean performance incoming, "How else am I supposed to take it?"

"In your mouth," you deadpan.

He frowns at you, all sarcasm. "Ha, ha."

"I was just thinking we could try it out," you say innocently.

"On me or on you?"

"On you, obviously."

Yeonjun spins the damn thing around his finger, clattering it gracelessly. "I dunno, I think this should be decided democratically."

"I really want to see you in it," you wheedle.

He gives you a sidelong smirk. "Think I'd look good?"

"Yeah, super good. Seen and not heard. Ideal."

That beautiful, incredibly noisy mouth changes expressions in an instant, this time a full-force pout, lower lip downturned and dramatic and admittedly adorable. He glares at the gag, as if the poor silicone tool is singlehandedly responsible for all this. He turns the glare on you, next.

"I could make noise around this," he muses.

You nod. "You know what, I'm sure you could, a little."

"No, no, I bet I can be much more annoying with this on."

He's kidding himself, with that one, but you're willing to let him tire himself out. "Does that mean we can try it?"

"Sure," Yeonjun agrees.

Perfection.

By the time you've gotten him to surrender the gag back to you, and wheedled him into the bedroom, and let him try smooch and charm and babygirl his way into being allowed to talk all night, instead - pretty please, (Y/N), you're gonna miss listening to me - you can tell that Yeonjun is actually kind of nervous.

He's nude and he's beautiful, sitting on the edge of the mattress, and he's chewing on his thumbnail with wide glassy eyes like the world's worst pinup, as you fit the bit gag around the back of his head and adjust the straps.

"I'll be able to breathe, right?" he asks, dubious.

"Baby, the company would be in deep shit if their toys suffocated people."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Yes, you'll be able to breathe. Unless you, like, swallow it."

"Can that happen?!"

He has to be putting you on. You lean around to look him in the eye, and sure enough, he's grinning. Dumbass.

"Not unless you chew through the bit?"

Considering it's a piece of solid silicone molded into a thick cylinder, built to hold between the front teeth, or just the lips, to stuff someone's mouth shut, you doubt that even he could manage that.

"I've got strong teeth," he mutters.

"Not that strong."

"Why's it look like that, anyway?"

"You're full of questions today," you say, working on the auxiliary strap that goes over the top of his head to keep it all in place.

"Answer them, then."

"It's a bit gag."

His smile is terrible. "A bit of what?"

"A bit," you repeat, ignoring his joke. "Like a horse bit? The thing they put in a horse's mouth?"

"I'm a horse to you?"

"The way that I plan on riding you, yes."

"Oh, that was awful," he grimaces.

"Consider it a taste of your own medicine."

It's like he's trying to get all of his words in right now, before he's not able to speak anymore.

"Hey," you say, as you finish fitting the strap and take the whole thing off him.

"Yeah?"

"If you don't like this, we don't have to do it."

Yeonjun's face is pink-tinted, flustered already, but not upset. Calm. Open.

"No, we can," he says.

"Just giving you the choice. It's always a choice."

"You say, as if I would ever be quiet about not liking something," he grins.

"As if you would ever be quiet, period."

"That's the objective, here, isn't it?"

You have to match his smile, at that. "It is."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

That's a good question.

You fit the gag around his head again, and ease the rubbery bit between his pretty lips. His eyes widen even more at the sensation of it, keeping his mouth open but his motions stifled, as you make sure that the straps are comfortable but secure.

"Anything hurt?"

Yeonjun goes to answer you, but the sound that he lets out is indistinct, not quite a fully articulated sound. His eyebrows fly up.

Maybe he wasn't expecting this to be as effective as it is.

Slowly, he shakes his head to indicate no. No, nothing hurts. His cheeks are even pinker now, betraying his fluster, his self-consciousness.

"Is it okay?" you ask. "If it's even a little bit weird or scary, I can take it off, and we can try again some other time. Or not at all."

But you've barely finished speaking before he nods firmly, and holds up one hand with the circle and extended fingers of an "OK"

"Okay," you hum.

He's breathing a little heavier already, chest heaving and the gag moving a little as he adjusts his teeth, his tongue behind it. You don't think it's that suffocation he's talking about, though. You think he probably likes this way, way more than he expected.

"You can't talk well, so...let's do, what, three good taps on my shoulder if you need to stop? Like a safeword?" you suggest, reaching out to tap your finger on his bare shoulder to show him.

He nods again, and does it back, three firm taps on your clavicle.

"That's good," you assure him.

Confident that he's going to be able to communicate, you think it's time to start in earnest. He's comfortable, seated on the bed, and as you step back to admire him finally shutting his big mouth for once, you can see that he's hard and leaking, cock betraying how into this he is.

"You talked some big game about being annoying," you say. "When's that gonna start?"

Yeonjun mumbles against the gag.

"That's not very annoying."

You pet his hair, running your fingers along his scalp, a soothing motion that he usually likes, although right now the straps of the gag are in the way. You tug on the strap gently, and you smile when Yeonjun yelps at the feeling of the bit jostling in his mouth.

"That was closer."

You have all the time in the world, to stoke down his pretty jaw, tensed around the gag, and over his thin chest.

"D'you want me to touch you?" you ask lightly.

Yeonjun nods.

"Where?"

He tries to say it, the sound muffled by his gag. The pink tone of his cheeks spreads to his ears. Usually he's shameless about dirty talk, about playing along, but not being able to do it at all seems to be getting to him in a whole new way. You're delighted.

"I'm sorry, I didn't understand that," you coo. "I can touch you here?"

You run your hands over his shoulders, stiff, as he sits with perfect posture though you hadn't asked.

He mumbles something else.

And slowly, he raises a hand, and goes to grab for his own achingly-hard cock. If he can't tell you, he's going to show you, and that's no fun.

"Hands down, please," you request.

He groans, but obeys, hand returning to the mattress.

"You need to use your words," you tell him.

It's mean, and you know it, and he knows it.

As clearly as he can, he whines the word around the gag. You could almost make that one out, and of course, you know exactly what he's saying, but what fun would it be to give in so easily?

"I'm sorry, baby, I can't understand you." It's your turn to pout, pity and provocation. "Speak up."

[krankittoeleven]

WIP Wednesday

For this WIP Wednesday I present a chunk of the intro for chapter 12 of Water of Life. Nothing explicit/nsfw in this snippet (though later in the chapter, oh boy LOL But that's for another time). This is mostly world building and mood setting. (as always, this draft is still in a rough state and subject to change at the whims of my muse LOL)

There are at least two inches of snow on the ground in Snottingham, but inside the cave the fire pit and the many dozens of candles and torches cast their light and warmth upon those that have gathered there. It feels like a warm summer evening, just as Vili had predicted.

Rotating over the fire is their Yule offering to Freyr, a wild boar that had often been spotted near Hemthorpe, to whom the seers had left food offerings to in the forest, so that it would grow big and strong and impress the god when it was offered to him. His father had killed the boar with a well aimed strike of his spear Isbjorn after tracking it for nearly two days. All were in agreement that Freyr would be pleased.

Being seated on the dais next to his father is a strange point of view for Vili. Traditionally Jarls sat on their own, a subtle indication of their power over their sphere of influence, but also, Vili thinks, an indication of their isolation. Snottingham, however, is not his father’s seat of power, and there two thrones had been constructed, though Vili knows that if his mother were still alive, it would be her who sat beside Hemming, and not him.

Throughout the night the boar turns and roasts, and they are visited at their table by faces both familiar and unfamiliar to Vili: Skarde and Ella; a representative sent by Halfdan in his stead, since he had his own festivities to oversee, and all manner of craftsman and merchants and farmers. Some stay and join the feasting, others stop in only to wish their Jarl a good mid-winter before returning to their own quieter, family lives. Vili is glad that Trygve is always near by to help him with the names and faces he doesn’t remember or know. His father, on the other hand, acts like he has known everyone there since they were born, and somehow remembers everyone’s name.

“The bees stay mostly inside the hive in winter, but all signs point to healthy colonies that will survive the cold.”

“Skal to that,” says Vili as the man who cultivated much of the honey used in Hemming’s mead finishes his report, though he does not hear the final bit of what the man has to say because there is a slight commotion at the passage that leads out to the docks.

Standing, Vili leans over the table slightly, to get a better look, then sits again, quickly, as if he had been pushed. What mead was left in his horn splatters on the ground but he manges to keep a hold of the drinking vessel itself.

Suddenly, he is finding it very hard to breath, though he forces a slow breath in and out anyway, and Vili has to make a conscious effort not to break the horn in his grip.

Vili blinks, once, twice, three times once he looks up again, but Ubba is standing there every time, and Vili feels like prey trapped in a predator’s gaze.

“Are you going to welcome your friend, or should I?” Hemming asks, his whispered words unexpectedly at Vili’s ear.

Vili nods, and swallows hard.

“Ubba Ragnarsson,” he says in loud, drawn out syllables, trying his best to sound as if his heart had not taken up residence in his throat. “What brings you to our humble hall?”

As if he didn’t know.

[hiddenqveendom]

if you were a deity, what would you be the god of?

i was tagged by @impales​​ and @fragilestorm​​ to take this quiz for some of my ocs. i’m randomly ragging @stanshollaand​, @starlit-ocs​ , @emilykaldwen​, @victoriapedrcttis​​ ,@guardiansofheroes​​, @nolanhollogay​​​, & anyone else who might wanna give this a try!

creation and light:

 you’re youthful and vivacious. your followers often have an aura of freedom and positivity surrounding them. you give them the fire to illuminate the dark and free themselves. even the thought of you is a great source of inspiration and courage.  

nightmares and discord:

your intensity is fearsome. when you feel hurt you don’t often seek out equal and fair revenge but rather drown them in hysteria and watch them burn. you’re temperamental and your emotions are on display for the world to see. you’re the last one any human would want to upset, because even though death would not directly befall them, doom and chaos would ensue, surrounding their life until their death.  

balance and revenge:

another seemingly intimidating figure. some only know you for revenge and fear you. however, you’re fair and provide justice and balance to your worshippers. you are regarded as the judge, jury, and executioner and no one can escape.

weather and calamity:

 tempestuous and fearsome. your moods are hard to read and you strike on a whim. not a soul can avoid you as disasters strike across the land. you have your own standards for what makes sense and what you value and if anyone dares challenge you there will be nowhere for them to run. 

[mxvladdy]

Hello! I love your writing and I may have a prompt, if it strikes your fancy. I'm aware it might not be entirely lore-friendly a request, but I love relationship shenanigans in Obey Me, so I got to ask: how do you think Luci, Diavolo, Satan and Beel would help their anxious SO adjust when MC begins demonstrating mad prowess in witchcraft right after they first spend the night together? Sex, power and pacts seem to go hand-in-hand in related media, but no one really planned for it in their case!

Awww thankie and sorry for the long wait! I’m glad you like my writing! I hope you like this! It gave me big thirst lmaooo

Lucifer

Mmmm you smell of him in the morning. He positively oozes from your every pore. Rich and spicy, like amber and freshly turned earth.

Good. Let it be known to all that you were claimed. Thoroughly.

He put his daily routine on hold for you this morning. He was weak to your pouting.

He’ll stay in bed for a little bit to indulge you. But duty calls and work waits for no demon

Neither of you really pay attention to how hard you are clinging to him when he tries to extract himself to get dressed

You both just kind of chalk it up to neither of you want to part

The day goes on as usual for him, meetings, paperwork, meetings, punishing Mammon, meetings

But the whole time something was nagging at him. He just couldn’t put his finger on it. He just felt like he forgot something important

But that’s impossible-

The wall explodes out behind him cutting Lucifer off mid-sentence. The rubble and great ball of flames miss him and Diavolo by mere inches only because of the latter’s quick reflexes. “Are you alright my friend?” Diavolo asks golden eyes alight with surprise. Lucifer could feel the prince’s defensive magic prickling his skin in response to the pungent magic wafting out of the hole.

“Of course-” Lucifer steps back, straightening his jacket’s lapels, the near-miss ruffles his feathers. Both men step closer to the hole. His hackles raise.  The power emanating from the crater was far too familiar. Someone dares to use his magical signatures without permission.  Snarling into the abyss he marches forward. He ignores Diavolo’s calls to wait and strides through the hole. His wings flare up from his back along with his temper. He walks through each wave of magic that washes over him. With each destroyed wall he steps through more and more of his demonic form comes forth till he is more beast than man. Strolling through the final hole he stops. His red eyes sweep across the scene in front of him. As the seconds' tick by his mood morphs from rage to shock, then to a sense of blinding pride.  

“Well-” He crosses his arms and smirks. He turns his gaze to the epicenter of the damage.

“Luci, I am so so sorry.” You mutter aghast behind your fingers. “I-I don’t know what happened.” You were never the best student in any of the practical classes. The teachers made exceptions for you and your lack of magical prowess. In this class, the teacher always paired you up with Solomon or Luke so they could help you prepare the necessary spells and runes. But you felt so different today, stronger and sharper. Damn near unstoppable even. Just the thought of someone else doing your work made something deep inside you seethe. You didn’t need help, you’ve seen and heard the incantations a thousand times before- it wouldn’t hurt to try…Well, let’s rephrase that, it didn’t hurt you to try.

The classroom was totaled. Dust, rubble, and burning pages all float around you like a post-apocalyptic snowstorm. Soot from your uncontrolled spell blacked your clothes and skin, next to you Solomon stands rigid in shock white brows disappearing into his hairline. Quietly you lick your thumb and forefinger and put out the small blue flame singeing his bangs. “Thanks.” He spits out around a mouthful of ash and grit.

Lucifer coughs to draw all eyes back to him. He takes inventory of the room, making sure all the other students scattered about were still breathing. Satisfied he beckons to you with a finger. “Come.” You jump into motion, scrambling up and over the rubble to grab his outstretched hand.

“Lucifer.” He cuts you off.

“Not here,” He smiles warmly rubbing at some soot staining the tip of your nose. “Come let’s get you cleaned up.”

_____________

“Should I be worried?” You ask, stepping out of Lucifer’s private showers wrapped in one of his sinfully soft towels. “I’m not going to blow stuff up on a whim now, right?” You plop down on his bedroom’s couch. Lucifer hums noncommittally by his liquor cabinet.

“I doubt it. How do you feel?” He takes a seat beside you handing you a glass and grabbing your legs to drape them over his. You take a swig from the glass, the heat of the liquor getting rid of the lingering shock from class. How did you feel?

Your bones hum with some unknown energy and there was a fire coursing through your veins. “I feel like I could take on the world. Like I dominate half of the Devildom.” Lucifer’s smile was nothing short of smug.

“Good.” He sips his drink.

“Good?” You lean forward expectantly.

Lucifer strokes your cheek coming in to inhale your fresh scent. The commingling of his and your own was beyond arousing. “There is more than one way to seal and strengthen a pact, my beloved.” He pulls you into a chastened kiss, feeling your cheeks heat with a dawning realization of what he meant. “You have now given yourself to me in both body and soul. The- bonus perks were inevitable.” He parts from you, reaching for his glass.

“Will it go away?” You honestly didn’t know if you could handle any more curveballs down here.

Lucifer laughs swirling the dredges of his drink before downing it in one go. “Ideally no- but over time if it isn’t reinforced it will weaken and disappear on its own.”

“Reinforced?” The heat of your drink seems to dip lower down your body. Your demon scoffs giving you a knowing look.

He drags you onto his lap. “Are you truly satisfied with just a night with me αγαπούλα μου?” A gloved finger tugs at the hem of your towel. “If I had my way I would keep you full and drunk on my power for all eternity.” He captures you in a searing kiss draping you over the cushions of his couch, his eyes turning predatory. “Do not worry about the side effects.” He purrs caging you in. “We have all the time in the world to get you accustomed to them.”

Diavolo

He knew. This bitch knew before he ever got you in his bed-chamber. Just think of the entertainment value~

So when he sweeps you up into his quarters for the night day weekend, he just forgets to mention it to you

He is curious about how his magic will affect a human of celestial descent. Will it show up all at once? Or over a long period of time? He hopes that your blood doesn’t cancel out his claim on you

He watches you like a hawk for a while- and nothing…

Hmm. Perhaps it just didn’t take the first time? No matter, try-try-try again as the saying goes. He certainly doesn’t see you complaining

But as the week passes he slowly puts it on his backburner as his work begins to pile up again

You on the other hand are having a time. One day you are fine and dandy and the next you can read and write in languages you’ve never even heard of.

Then you started seeing some frankly crazy shit. Had the ghost at the house always been this active?

The last straw for you was accidentally freezing half of the house’s rose garden with a sneeze. To say you are panicked is an understatement

Frazzled you run to the only mage you could (kinda) trust

“It’s not funny!” You hiss frantically staring bewildered at your friend. Your look of panic just makes him laugh harder. “Stop seriously Solomon! Gods, what did I do?” You scrub at your face hard. If you made yet another freaking pact with a demon you were going to lose it. Seven idiots were enough for several lifetimes.

Solomon howls at this, drawing curious and rude looks from the surrounding tables of the tea house. You swat at his shoulder hissing like a cat. “Sorry- sorry” He hiccups. “Your turn of phrase was just so fitting.” He collects himself by taking a sip of his tea. “Tell me, what have you been doing of late?” He smirks around the rim of his cup.

You squint at him not getting it. His keen eyes drift down to land on the garden of purple and blue bruises littering your neck. You slap a hand over your hickeys. He smiles leaning over conspiratorially. “What’s it like to sleep with a God? The perks are amazing no?”  

You shook your head. “I-what perks?”

“Oh~ Loverboy didn’t warn you of certain side-effects?” The mage leans back in his chair. He was going to have a great time today. ___________

Unbelievable. You march up the walkway to the palace, your mind absolutely reeling. Did he know about this? Of course, he did-how could he not! Did he just forget? No- Diavolo was many things, smart, cunning, conniving, but never forgetful. You knew him well and knew he had to be on the lookout for “side effects” as Solomon put it.

Fine, two can play at this game.

“Ah! Mio Giglio! How are you?” Dia glances up from his mountainous amount of paperwork when you throw open his office door. He rises in one fluid motion to scoop you up in a tight hug. Now that you know what to look for, you hone into the way he holds you. His large hands run down your back and sides possessively, he clings to you rubbing his bulking frame on you like a cat marking you. He leans in close to rub the bridge of his strong nose up and down your clavicle and neck. You feel his hot breath on your skin when he exhales. How had you not noticed this?

“Good, and you?” You smile into the fabric of his shirt. Carefully you wrap your arms around his solid waist. You hug him lightly so as to not give away your little surprise.

“Better with you here.” He chuckles stepping back to return to his desk. You follow closely behind waiting for the perfect time to strike. “What have you been up to?” He asks innocently, going to sit back down. “I haven’t seen you in a few days.”

You hum nonchalantly coming up behind him to rub at his tense shoulders. “Nothing much.” He nods closing his eyes as your fingers dig into sore muscles. “Usual school week, made some new friends...Went shopping with Asmo and Luke this morning. Bought you some treats, hidden from Barbatos of course.” You drop a quick peck on his cheek. Diavolo smiles sinking lower into his chair. He hopped it was something with lemon or orange, they were in season now. Barbatos had been on the warpath with his sugar and carb intake of late. “Then I had tea with Solomon and he filled me in on some very interesting facts.” You kiss his hairline.

“Mmmm?”

You pull away from his warmth to come around to straddle his lap while he is distracted. He jerks at your sudden weight on his lap but relaxes almost immediately. He opens a golden eye, not even realizing he had closed them. Your demeanor shifts when his gaze is fully set on you, all sweet innocence gone. A cheshire grin spreads across your face. “Funny you should ask if I’m feeling ok. I have been feeling a bit off of late.”

Diavolo tenses. “Are you well?” He tries to reach for you, his arms coming off the armrests of his desk chair. You strike like a viper, your small hands wrap and lock around his thick wrists pinning them to the chair. His eyes bulge in shock. You watch coyly as his biceps bulge under his clothes. He tries to break free for a few minutes before settling back. “I see-”

Leaning in you brush your lips across his ears, heart racing with excitement. “You forgot to mention quite a few things, Dia.” The low purr he emits shakes both of you.

“My apologies.” He admits. “You know I love a good show. Shame I missed it.” He throws you a rogue smile. “Forgive me?”

You slide closer until you rested chest to chest, legs wrapping around his to pin him down further. His purr drops down an octave. Locking eyes with him you remove a hand from his wrist daring him to move. He doesn’t. You move slowly and deliberately resting your hand on his strong neck. His reaction was instantaneous. His pupils dilate, and the gold of his irises turn molten. You start to feel his magic seep out, you match it, giddy with excitement that you could. “Only if you work for it.” You smirk.

Diavolo nods readily, licking at his dry lips in anticipation. He was more than ready to atone.

Satan

He is a good noodle and has the decency to tell you what will happen beforehand

It’s only polite to give you a heads up before he breaks your headboard

You both are curious about how it will affect you. He at least is excited to teach you some practical magic

Plus the idea of you pranking Lucifer with magic? Sublime.

He smells it blossoming under your skin while you sleep.

It’s sharp and minty with a smoky finish. Then the power hits him like a brick to the face. He is in awe.

It’s like an electrifying feedback loop that just energizes and excites him and you feel it too. He’ll lose himself in you and your body again, hyped up on the headiness of it all.

Once he has *cough* cleared his head *cough* he takes you out to try out your newly found powers. He has so many things he wants to teach you.

Satan kneels beside you nodding his head in approval at your chalk markings. Your lines weren’t exactly steady, he could see how your hand shook as you copied his paperwork but you followed it dutifully. He finds your nervousness adorable as if he would let anything bad happen to you. At his go-ahead, you get to your feet. Turning your palms down towards your summoning circle you recite your spell and watch in amazement as your runes glow bright green underneath you. In a flash of blinding lights and smoke, you sense the pull of the creature emerging from your rune work. Delighted you look down at your handy work.

“Congratulations my darling, exceptionally done.” He grins proudly from his perch by his bookshelf.

You bend down and pick up the little critter. “What is it?” It looked like a blob of flan but firmer. Its squishy form shivers in your palm when you poked it. Its body giving way under your gentle poke. It was dark green but lightened to an electric green at its base. It was surprisingly warm.

You feel Satan coming up behind you to rest his chin on your shoulder. “It looks to be a lesser familiar, not bad for your first time summoning ever.” The jelly wiggles at his praise even though you couldn’t find any discernible features on its smooth little body. You turn it this way and that in your hand, even though it didn’t have eyes you could sense it was sizing you up to.

“What can it do?” You raise a brow at your companion. His arms circle your waist, his grin turning mischievous.

“Let's find out.”

________

Your lungs burn, each breath coming hard and sharp while you run. The sound of your pounding feet was swallowed up by the rush of foot traffic around you. Satan drags you behind him ushering you both around the throng of students. “Quickly!” He looks over his shoulder and flashes you a brilliant smile. “The further away from his office we are the less likely he could blame us.”

You laugh breathlessly along with him.

________

“What Belphie say?” You lean onto Satan’s shoulder to peek at his phone. The two of you sit, crowding in on each other's space underneath a desk in one of the unused classrooms.

“It’s glorious. Everything is covered. He says it looks like magic won’t remove it either!” He cackles showing you his screen. Belphie sent him a selfie. He is grinning devilishly from ear to ear throwing you both a peace sign through the screen. In the background, you could clearly see a very irate Lucifer. His face was red with fury and his clothes covered in green goo. His office was wrecked. Your little jelly did a number on it, you hadn’t expected it to expand as large as it did. Your familiar popping on the edge of Lucifer’s desk wasn’t intended either, but totally worth it. “Think you can summon another?” Satan asks, darkening his screen. You shake your head, whatever power you had earlier today had been drained after your little stunt.

Satan nods in understanding. “Shame- imagine what one of your jellies could do to Diavolo’s office.”

“Satan-”

He chuckles wrapping an arm around your back. He plants a loud kiss onto your forehead. “Alright-alright. Perhaps after a bit of a rest and recharge?”

You poke his leg playfully and laugh. “If you wanted to have sex again you could just ask.”  

He dips low and kisses you. “Well then- if you are up for another round of delinquency…”

Beelzebub

Sweet baby didn’t know-

Well, he knew about it. Lucifer had given everyone “the talk” about it a couple of millennia ago.

He never really thought about it before you because he didn’t sleep with humans often (Him so big, human so smol if he isn’t paying attention it could be...bad)

So when you drag him into your room he just doesn’t think about it. You are both so oblivious

He doesn’t think about the shift in your scent, your kisses were just as sweet as always. If there was a peppery aftertaste to your kiss he chalks it up to something you had for breakfast

He doesn’t think anything of it when you practically drag him from your bed to shower together before school

He doesn’t think about it when at lunch your appetite starts to rival his

He starts to think about it during P.E. when your dodge ball puts a demon down for the rest of class

He definitely notices when you pin him down to steal his sandwich during your picnic date

Now he’s freaking out, whether it's because you are showing inhuman strength or the fact that you stole his food who knows

You nab yet another one of his sandwiches and start munching away with a hum of happiness. “Hey, babe.” He rumbles beneath you. “You feeling alright?” He wraps his large hands around your waist. Your weight was warm and comfortable over his prone form. He had whisked you away for an afternoon picnic, something to spend more time with you alone. After last night he craved being around you more than anything. He had packed enough food for him in mind. But it looks like it wouldn’t be enough. Odd. Beel rests his head back on the thick blanket protecting you both from the slightly damp grass underneath.

“Hmm?” You swallow down a mouthful of ruben. “Yeah! Famished though.” You lean back on his strong hip and swipe your finger around your mouth to brush off some crumbs. You reach for the other half of his sandwich to devour but pauses when you catch Beel’s kicked puppy look. With a huff of amusement, you offer the other half to him letting him chomp down with a fanged smile in thanks.

He chews in silence, watching you pick up a bowl of fresh fruit. Hmmm… He runs his rough palms up and down your thighs and hips ignoring your squirming and giggles when he runs over the thin skin of your sides. He squeezes you lightly. Huh- Your muscles were firmer than this morning, now that he was looking closer he could see that your frame was a bit sturdier too. Still his perfectly lovable and squishy human but more solid around the edges. In a last-ditch effort to figure out what has changed, he reaches out for his pact mark.

He jerks forward, upsetting your position on his lap, causing you to tumble backward, fruit flying everywhere. “Beel!” You shriek. He shushes you, squeezing your cheeks between warm hands.

“I forgot.”

“You forgot?” You repeat. “What dessert? I’m pretty sure the fruit was part of it...but I mean. If you want grassy cantaloupe it’s all yours.” You eye the remains of the seasonal fruit laying around you and then at the basket. You were pretty sure you saw some pastries at the bottom of it too.

“We had sex.” He blurts out bluntly, and quite loudly.

Your face heats. “Yes, thank you for the reminder.” You push him off sitting up on your elbows. “Please, why don’t you yell it out for all the wildlife to hear too.”

Beelzebub shakes his head groaning. “No-I forgot to warn you about our pact.”

Ahh-oh. You eye him wearily. If he was stressing you were stressing, it wasn’t like him to get so bent out of shape. “Ok-is it, like bad?”  What were you going to die? That would be a big thing to just forget. “How about you fill me in big guy.” You listen enraptured while he jerkily explains how you have strengthened your bond exponentially without even realizing it. Magic, super strength, the appetite, all because you jumped his bones.

Nice.

It sounded so cool- but then overwhelming all at the same time. Was it permanent? What if you lost control and actually hurt someone for real.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think about it-I just. You felt so good.” He wilts. “I should have been more careful- this is the first time I’ve done this.”

“Beel-”

“I swear.” He bulldozes over you. “I didn’t mean to keep this from you.”

You cut him off, combing your fingers through his hair soothingly. “I believe you, Beel.” You smile reassuringly. “It’s not like it’s gonna hurt me...right?”  He thinks about it for a minute then grunts, shaking his head. You grin brighter stretching out your arms. “And I get some cool powers right?”

He nods again. “For a bit yes.”

You get up off the ground excitedly. “Right then! You’ll show me the ropes right? I’ve never done anything magical before!” You look at your palms as if fire or sparks were going to fly out of them. Beel rises to his feet too.

“You sure? I doubt I will be as good of a mentor as Lucifer or even Belphie.” He looks around the large grove of trees and sprawling grassy acreage around you both. You both were far away from the populated areas of the mountain pass and town. He could practice with you freely and without worrying about damaging anything important. “Not the date I promised, but if you really want me to show you some stuff…” He offers you a shy smile. He did have a few cool tricks he could show you. You nod already rolling up your sleeves. Well- if this was what you really wanted then he would be glad to show you.  

[whimsicallyreading]

Eight Second Ride

Part Three-

(Part Two)

“So you are telling me-“ Aedion scowls from the other side of her bed, “you ditched me for a sweaty bull rider and didn’t even last an hour into the date?”

Aelin shoves a spoonful of cookies and cream ice cream into her mouth and sniffles. “That’s all you got from my story?”

He slings an arm over Aelin’s shoulders and she lays her head on his chest gratefully. She’d caught an Uber back to her apartment where Aedion was already camped out waiting for her.

One look at her mascara smeared face, and he’d made a pillow fort on her bed. Complete with ice cream and “Little Women” playing on his phone.

“No, I got the whole chauvinistic asshole, bit.” Aedion stabs his spoon into the container and breaks up a particularly large piece of Oreo. “I just decided to focus on the part that doesn’t make me want to leave you hear and go and kill him right now.”

“I thought cowboys were supposed to be classy.” Aelin watched Jo play with her sisters in their attic on Aedion’s tiny screen. “Take city girls into the country to ride a horse and show them a bigger purpose in life, kind of shit.”

“Hallmark is such a liar.” Aedion huffs and squeezes her shoulder a little tighter. “I’m sorry, Lin. I know going out tonight was a big step for you. It’s a shame he acted the way he did.”

It was rare Aelin acted on a whim these days. Not like she used to do when she was in high school. She felt a pull to go with Rowan, but her gut had led her into a situation that could have gone south very quickly.

It’s a hard thing when you can’t trust yourself.

“No. I shouldn’t have gone. Especially not alone.” Aelin’s feels her thoughts drifting. Creeping towards that iron box of memories she keeps locked tight. “It’s my mistake.”

“No.”

The fervor in Aedion’s voice draws her attention up to his face, and Aelin is jarred by the intensity of his expression. “Aedion-“

“It’s not your fault.” His voice is gravely, and his blue eyes flicker like the heart of a flame. “I don’t give a shit what that bastard thought you accepting his invitation meant. You don’t owe him sex because he buys you a drink.”

“Aedion-“ Aelin tries to interrupt again. A new wave of tears burns her eyes, but Aedion is on a roll and he isn’t going to quite down until he gets out what’s on his mind.

“You don’t deserve to be treated like an object that can be bought.” Aelin can’t look him in the eyes any longer, but a calloused hand guides her face to the crook of his neck.

“His friends are shitty. He should have made them shut up. Ogling you, and making you feel unsafe and uncomfortable aren’t funny jokes.” Aedion goes on as Aelin sniffles into his shirt.

“You deserve respect. It doesn’t matter what you are wearing, what he buys you, or what his expectations are. His behavior isn’t your fault.” Aedion whispers against the top of her head.

Aelin wraps the arm that isn’t squished under her, around his waist. “I love you, Brother Wolf.”

“I love you too, Fireheart.” Aedion kisses her forehead and tugs her closer, the old terms of endearment are exchanged between them with ease.

“I know you are still dealing with everything that happened a couple years ago. I’m happy to remind you how worth it you are whenever you need.”

Aedion was an island of safety in the turbulent ocean of her life. Even when Aelin was small, she’d often go to him before her own parents with her problems. He was steady, and calm. The exact opposite of her own personality.

After the incident, he hadn’t rested until she was safely at his side again. Aedion stood by her faithfully as she picked up the broken pieces of her life and held her hand as she tried to make something new from them.

“How come you already had this movie downloaded onto your phone?” Aelin teased lightly, trying to lighten the mood. “Did you suddenly develop a sense of taste?”

Aedion purses his lips. “Lysandra said this movie is, and I quote, the most accurate depiction of the female experience.” He shakes his head. “I’ve tried to watch it three times, and I still can’t figure out what it’s even about.”

“You are a simple minded creature, cousin.” Aelin grabs her spoon and scoops a melty bite of ice cream into her mouth. “Thank you for coming over.”

“Anytime, Lin.” He leans his cheek on her head as the scene on his phone shifts from the cooler grey tones of the present, back to the warm colors that represented better days. “Anytime.”

~~~

The day started off better than she expected.

Aedion was gone when she woke up- he had to rise at an ungodly hour to make it to the fire station on time.

Yet, he set her alarm clock for her so Aelin woke up in time to get ready for work. He’d also set a glass of water and an Advil tablet on her bedside table to curb the headache she was sure to have from crying.

Aelin made it out the door with enough time to stop and get coffee on the way. She even splurged and got a chocolate hazelnut Frappuccino with enough sugar to smooth her wounded feelings.

It was going so well, Aelin should have known it was the universe winding up to screw her.

It was only a couple hours before she closed shop when Lorcan Salvaterre stepped through her front door.

“Holy shit, it’s you.” Were the first words from his mouth. His dark eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Rowan is going to flip when I tell him I actually found you.”

“What are you doing here?” Aelin’s slammed a stack of books on the counter.

Lorcan looked pensive. “Rowan said you mentioned owning a book store-“ he drags a hand through his dark hair. “I felt like I ruined his chance with you, so I thought I maybe if I apologized-“

“Let me stop you there,” Aelin didn’t bother looking at him as she labeled books and organized them into stacks. “You didn’t ruin anything, you didn’t help, but he screwed up all by himself.”’

“He realizes that,” Lorcan quickly defends, his voice gruff with irritation. “If I can give him your number I’m sure he will grovel for himself.”

Aelin rolls her eyes and slides another stack to the end of the counter. “You don’t get it.”

“Get what?” She can tell he’s losing his patience with her. Lorcan’s remorse only went so far, apparently.

Aedion’s words from earlier rang in her ears as she repeated them back to the man. “He was overbearing the entire time. Had double standard opinions about my life, and disrespected my boundaries.”

Aelin watched as Lorcan shifted on his feet, itching to say something but obviously refraining. Measuring his words carefully he looked her dead in the eye. “Look. He was just trying to impress you. Rowan doesn’t go out often. Don’t you think you are blowing this a little out of proportion?”

Red. Aelin saw red. Tasted it. Like iron in her mouth. Or maybe that was just the blood from biting her tongue so hard. “I’m working right now. You don’t strike me as extremely literate, but I have to ask for you to either buy something or leave.”

Lorcan glowered at her. “Fine.” He turns to walk out, but Aelin hears him call her a bitch under his breath.

Just then, Elide walks inside the shop doors. A backpack slung over her shoulder, finished with her classes at Rifthold U and prepared to work the evening shift with her.

Aelin is relieved for the interruption and about to take full advantage of it, when the small, brown-haired girl catches sight of Lorcan and beams like a rutting lighthouse.

“Lorcan! I didn’t know you were coming into my work, what a surprise.”

Elide. One of her best friends, runs up to the six-two tower of misogynistic cow boys and flings her arms around him. Hugs him.

Ellie she recalls the name being thrown out last night. She hadn’t put two and two together. Ellie was a common name. Of all the people in this city it had to be Elide, Aelin mentally bemoans.

She wonders if Elide knew how her cowboy behaved when she wasn’t around.

It doesn’t matter. Lorcan is all too aware of Aelin’s eyes boring into his skin, and knows he needs to make a quick get away.

“Ellie,” Lorcan pulls away from her. “I just had to see this book shop you are always talking about.”

He kisses her head, and looks at her with feigned remorsefulness. “I must have gotten your shifts mixed up in my head, though. I’m afraid I have to go. We booked a training time for six and I need to brush down Nettie before we start.”

“Oh,” Elide says, a look of genuine disappointment on her face. “That’s fine. Are we still on for a movie tomorrow?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he promises. He pecks her one more time on the lips and tips his chin towards Aelin. Anger still bubbling in his eyes. “Good day, ma’am.”

Aelin releases a breath when the doors close behind him.

“I’m so sad I missed him.” Elide frowns, tossing her back pack behind the counter. “At least you got to meet him. What did you think? He’s absolutely dreamy, right?”

Aelin chokes back a gag. “Yeah. He was really charming.”

“And get this,” Elide smiles. “He’s a cowboy. Like an actual, real life cowboy. He rides pulls and does team roping. It’s sexy.”

Aelin can’t hide the grimace this time. “You are like my baby sister. I never want to hear the words sexy from your mouth again.”

At least, never in the context of Lorcan. They’d had plenty of boy talk before.

“He even carries a rope.” Elide wags an eyebrow. “Better to tie me up when we-“

Aelin holds a book over her face. “I’m not listening to this! I will file a report with HR.”

Elide laughs. “You are the boss, Lin. You know we don’t have an HR.”

“I need to get one now,” Aelin grumbles. “I don’t need an image of yours and Lorcan’s naked asses in my head.”

She wanted Lorcan out of her head entirely. Along with Rowan and the rest of their cadre.

“Fine,” Elide sighs wistfully. “One day you will be in love and I won’t hold it against you when you want to talk about whatever babe you wind up with.”

Her eyes get a mischievous glint. “Actually- Lorcan has some really cute friends. I could set you up with?”

Aelin’s brain banks. “No. No thank you. I like being alone. I’m more than enough company for myself.”

“Come on, a double date would be fun!” Elide whines and tugs on her arm. “You never go out any more. We could have a great night out.”

An image of the twins cutting lines on the bar flash across her mind and make her shudder.

“I said no, Elide.” Aelin says a bit more harshly then she intends, but Elide gets the point and backs off.

“Sorry. I won’t mention it again.” Instead of anger she looks at Aelin worriedly.

She kind of hates that more.

“Thanks.” She shakes her head and tries to clear the residual stress from her head. “I have to set up a new shelf display. Want to help?”

Elide lights back up at the prospect. She loved designing and organizing. They have a great time setting displays up together and Aelin knew it would take her mind away from the tension she’d created.

She just really hoped that Elide dating Lorcan wouldn’t drag any drama into her own life. Aelin didn’t care what half asses excuses Lorcan made, she wasn’t interested in seeing Rowan again.

Hello! I’m so glad I got this posted today. 😂 I’m hoping to get the next chapter of DRNS out tomorrow. After that, my birthday is next Tuesday and I reaaallly want to do a mass update of all my fics then as a hooray to 21. (Yes. That is what I’m doing for my 21st 🤣) Hope you enjoyed it!

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[a-libra-writes]

Salt & Snow - Chapter 5

Ships: Ned Stark x Reader, Brandon Stark x Reader

Summary: The daughter of House Caspian begins to realize her place in a world of strict tradition and hierarchy. A tragedy strikes Winterfell, bringing her closer to the Starks.

The brush slid across the thick paper, making a beautifully straight line. The black paint was bold against the paper, which wasn’t completely white, but it was the closest she’d seen, almost as white as snow. What a wonderful birthday gift. Y/N had a thin wooden palette that she perched on her lap, allowing her to take the paper anywhere and paint what she saw. She already had ideas of what to send Ned, although transporting a painting without damaging it would be troublesome. Maybe it was best to just keep it in Winterfell until he came back? He had to return soon, he was seventeen. It had to be soon.

It’s what Lyanna talked about often, and Y/N didn’t blame her. She wanted him back too, though maybe for different reasons. She was pleased he still kept writing to her, entertaining her childish whims, although she didn’t feel childish anymore. They didn’t talk about ‘childish’ topics, either, it was always… all sorts of things. Y/N  could write to Ned about anything on her mind, and he did the same.

I hope we can talk as easily. What if he comes back and I don’t know what to say? Y/N wondered if that was a silly thought. She refocused on her painting, dabbing a small brush into the paints she’d set up beside her. There weren’t many colors to work with, but that made it an interesting challenge. The training yard was busy this late, so she had plenty of subjects to observe. Painting moving figures was a new challenge. It wouldn’t be a perfect still life, instead, she’d try her own composition of movement and action.

Y/N hummed to herself as she worked. She had only two hours before the sun would set, but she was confident she could finish the rest of it in her room.

“Don’t most girls paint flower fields and vases?”

“I’m a lady,” Y/N responded. She didn’t look up from her painting right away, wanting to finish a few more brush strokes. “You should always be gracious to a lady, especially if you’re a future ‘Lord Stark’.”

Brandon grinned. “I was going to scare you, but I decided to be nice instead. That’s very gracious, I think.”

Now you sound like your little brother. Y/N set her brush down next to the paints. She observed Brandon was still in his traveling clothes. “When did you return?”

“Just over an hour ago. It was a slow ride, Ser Roderick wouldn’t let me go ahead of the escort.”

“There’s a reason for that.” Y/N smiled at his impatience. “How was the Rills?”

“The same as always. Next week I’m going to see Lord Manderly. While I’m there, I could stop by your family’s castle. Perhaps I could bring a gift to them.”

“That would be wonderful. You know they would love to have your company, my lord.”

Brandon’s smile was infectious, Y/N had to admit. Thank the gods he was over that irritating phase he had before, acting like he was too grown-up and superior to bother with Y/N and his younger siblings. Well, he could still be irksome to Benjen and Lyanna, but they paid him back tenfold with their usual mischief. Y/N was just pleased he acted like the lord he should be around her. Pleasantries made things easier, and it really would be kind of him to bring her father a pelt or her mother a rare book.

Right now, he was leaning over to see what she was painting, as he’d often been doing the past year. She knew he had no interest in art, but he still made a point to ask about what she was working on.

It’s good for him to at least feign interest and learn about others. Maybe all those scoldings from Lord and Lady Stark are finally sinking in. Y/N thought. She showed him what she’d been working on, groups of men at swordplay. “They’re finally used to my sketching, I think. At first they gave me peculiar looks.”

“It’s because you were staring.” That charming smile turned to an amusing pout. “You shouldn’t be staring at strange men, Y/N, or drawing them.”

“They aren’t strange at all! I know their names, and they’re sworn men, besides. Are you just upset I haven’t drawn you?”

She was teasing like Lyanna and Benjen did, but he didn’t respond like she thought. Brandon actually huffed. “Better me than some old guardsman.”

“Sit down, then.” Y/N gestured to the seat next to her on the bench, the side not covered in paints and paper. “Portraits are always good practice.”

Brandon looked at the spot, only waiting a moment before taking a seat. He was still windblown from the road, smelling like horses and leather, but it wasn’t too unpleasant. Y/N fought the urge to smooth out his hair — it was such a mess, but he wasn’t a boy. Even Benjen was getting too old for her fussing.

“So you know, I’m not the sort to embellish.” Y/N said, her hand darting across a blank piece of paper. Messy sketches were fine for something like this. “So I will be drawing that unruly hair and those red ears.”

“They aren’t red,” Brandon grumbled and rubbed at the ears in question.

Y/N didn’t look up from her drawing. “They are. So are your cheeks. Are you cold?”

“I’d be a poor Stark if weather like this got me cold. Shouldn’t you be concentrating?”

“I am.” Y/N had to glance up to make sure the eye shape was right. Brandon had such an amusing expression, it was making her work difficult. “If you could be still, it would be easier.”

Brandon said nothing to that, only furrowing his brows further. It was startling how much he looked like Lord Stark, while Lyanna took after her mother. Benjen was a clear mix of the two, but all of them had that long face and dark coloring. She pictured Ned’s face in her mind, trying to remember the last time she saw him. Gods, was that three years ago? Maybe four? He must look so different now. Taller, with a proper sword and the skills to back it up - and what about those grey eyes? Would they be darker or lighter? Did he finally cut that brown hair, to better fit in with the Eyrie, or did he keep it long and Northern?

“What are you smiling about?” Brandon asked.

“Oh, nothing.” Y/N said Someone in the distance drew her attention away, which she was grateful for. She waved at him. “Ben!”

Brandon scowled at his little brother walked up. Benjen was already taller than Y/N, thanks to his spindly limbs. He looked around at the art supplies and Brandon’s awkward posture. “I hate it say it, but you’d be better off with a different subject, Y/N. There’s only so much you can do with this one.”

Benjen dodged out of the way of his older brother’s grip. His reflexes were nothing to sneeze at. “Big words from a skinny rat!” Brandon said, getting up to grab at his brother again, but Benjen was too quick. The older Stark may have been as big as his father now, but he had a certain … lack of grace. No doubt he was tired from the trip, too.

“Should I use smaller words?” Benjen easily danced around him.

“Do this somewhere else!” Y/N laughed. That was the end of the little sitting session, then. Brandon couldn’t be still after getting riled up; he was like a dog in that way. “Be careful, would you?”

“I’m just going to teach him a lesson—!” Brandon said, finally getting Benjen in his grasp. He cursed when his brother easily twisted out of his grip and hit his nose. It wasn’t a real punch, but it still hurt, and Brandon shook his head while Benjen unhooked his sword from his belt.

“Thanks!” Benjen scurried off, carrying the sword that was too heavy for him to actually wield. Y/N rolled her eyes at how Brandon predictably ran after him with a fresh new string of curses. He had only been home a few hours before he was going back to silliness with his brother. Lyanna would have joined in too, had she been here. Their latest pasttime was stealing the beautiful new sword Brandon was so proud of. Benjen just liked to stir up trouble, but Lyanna was sour she couldn’t have steel of her own.

What has she been doing today? Y/N hadn’t seen much of her friend today. Lyanna didn’t enjoy the last feast, which was a small affair - only half a dozen families were there, and not all their members - but she was still put off. Y/N hadn’t known Lyanna to retire before her, but that night, she did. It was usually the fatigued Lady Stark that was the early departure, not her fiery daughter.

Thinking about it now, Lyanna was unusually quiet through breakfast this morning, and she had been riding most of the day. Y/N considered that maybe she should have gone with her, even if being near a horse still made her shudder. She could have at least sat on the edge of the riding field and watched Lyanna. Maybe she wanted to be alone. If she really wanted me there, I know she would have dragged me.

With all her art supplies carefully packed up, Y/N returned to the castle and planned to find out what Lyanna’s mood was. I could be overthinking everything. We’re women now, four and ten years, we don’t have to cling about each other anymore.

Y/N nodded to the servants and guards when she saw them, giving a smile to those she knew well. They had long been familiar, pleasant faces that she relied upon. It recently occurred to Y/N that she knew them better than the servants of Whitetide, whose faces were rapidly disappearing from her memory. Maybe if her parents didn’t visit twice or thrice a year, and if she didn’t love them so much, she’d begin to lose their faces, too.

Their shared bedchamber was warm from a low-burning fire in the hearth. Y/N set her supplies down on her desk before shedding her thick cloak. It was fastened with a lovely silver manta ray that had a tiny pearl for an eye, a gift from Lady Stark herself. Y/N’s name day had passed a few months ago, and while her parents couldn’t visit, her second family was right there beside her. Lady Stark’s hands had become pale and thin, but she still wanted to fasten the pin herself after presenting it to Y/N. Then she patted her head like adults did to children, but Y/N couldn’t mind it.

Y/N was so caught up in turning the little manta ray in her hands, she didn’t hear the bedroom door open and close. The stomping of feet made her jump, and she swiveled to see Lyanna yanking off her riding boots and shaking the snow off them in the most unladylike way.

“So you were riding all day,” Y/N said, setting the pin into her modest jewelry box. She offered a smile. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

Lyanna didn’t respond right away. She pulled at her cloak instead, tossing it on one of the chairs by the hearth. Y/N’s smile fell. There was an obvious dark cloud around her friend. Lyanna kicked her boots aside and huffed as she sank into an overstuffed chair. She was becoming too leggy to curl up into it like a child.

“Why in the seven hells can I not wear riding trousers?” She said irritably. “I’m sure the washerwomen are sick of cleaning the smell out of my dresses.”

Y/N sat in the chair across from her, settling herself into it. “And the horsehair.”

“It itches terribly. If I had a tunic, it wouldn’t be so bothersome, nor would the branches in my way.” Lyanna picked a leaf off her sleeve. Trouble was brewing in her grey eyes. There was fire in them even without the hearth lighting her face, a natural energy that possessed her entire person. Lyanna was more wolf than any of them, and when she hunched in the chair with her long legs drawn to her chest, she looked like a trapped one.

Y/N waited for her to speak first. There was something on her friend’s mind, but she had to find the words. Once she had them, Lyanna said, “You weren’t bothered at that feast. The last one, with the Karstarks and Glovers and Cassels.”

It was strange for her to bring it up now, but Y/N had just been thinking about it as well. Overall, Y/N would dare to say she enjoyed herself, even if the Karstark boys were too blunt in their desire to dance with her.

“I wasn’t too bothered. It wasn’t as crowded as it usual; I could hear the music for once. I was able to dance for a while, and the lords and their sons behaved.” Y/N didn’t know what else to say. “You left early. You didn’t want to dance?”

“Of course not!” Lyanna responded so sharply, it startled her old friend. “Why would I? Why would you?”

Y/N had no idea what Lyanna meant by that. That embarrassing dance with Roose Bolton a year ago had made her self-conscience of how clumsy her movements were. Lady Stark was delighted that Y/N took an interest in learning grace and how to carry herself better; and didn’t it make sense to test it out? Now that she didn’t overthink the steps, she could enjoy the exercise and the music. The company was good, and when she was tired, she japed around with Benjen and little Jory.

With all those racing thoughts, Y/N simply said, “I enjoy dancing, if that’s what you mean. What’s the matter with that?”

Lyanna shook her head, her brown hair falling farther out of a braid that was already coming undone. She’d lost another set of silk hair ribbons. “I don’t know how you stand it. You’re just a prize to them, you know, a bauble. You shouldn’t even amuse them. Neither of us should.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“The men! The lords or their sons, whichever! We’re just stupid little brides to them. Didn’t you notice them looking at you? Shoving their sons at you? Lord Karstark had them all lined up! And even if they’re married, they’ll leer!”

“That’s… that’s ridiculous, Lyanna,” Y/N stammered. “Where did this come from?”

“Y/N, we’re women grown now!” Lyanna was bursting with energy and frustration that she couldn’t get out fast enough. “My mother married at six and ten! It’s nearly time for us, time for arrangements! Soon every lord will be nibbling at my father’s heels to take me off his hands, and no doubt your own lord father has received letters from all the ones you danced with.”

“Lyanna. Did someone tell you something?” Y/N asked. She was already trying to avoid thinking of the future, and Lyanna had never discussed it with her. She thought her friend didn’t think of it at all. “Before you, Brandon will marry, and that hasn’t even been discussed.”

“Of course it has! Why would they tell us? They can marry me off without finding him a bride, and without asking what I think.” Her cheeks were burning with red anger now. “I’m a Stark, so I can’t stay in the North. They’ll send me away somewhere — somewhere South, because where else? I’ll have to leave Winterfell, while my brothers and everyone I love stay!”

Y/N went to Lyanna, taking her hands in her own. She squeezed them tight. “Where did all this come from? Have your parents been talking?”

“No one needs to tell me. It’s the truth, isn’t it?” Lyanna said, looking Y/N right in the eyes. “That’s what we’ve got to look forward to, Y/N. The feasts aren’t meant to be fun for us. Maybe for the men, but not for us. We’re there to be picked and chosen, like prize fillies.”

Lyanna squeezed their hands tight, so tight it hurt right away. She stared at Y/N’s clean nails and smooth palms. Except for the occasional smudges from paint, they were always like this. Lyanna looked at her own, already becoming calloused at the palms and thumb, often edged with dirt around her nailbeds.

Y/N was at a loss. Her friend’s harsh words were true enough; she was well aware of what their duties as women were. It crossed her mind now and again, the thought of marriage and that she’d have to return home eventually so her parents could begin to plan. She’d push those thoughts away, hoping the day would come slowly. She didn’t want to leave Winterfell, or her dear friends.

Still, she said, “It… It has to happen eventually. Our parents aren’t cruel, they wouldn’t give us terrible husbands, and they’d talk to us before any arrangement. When we have to leave Winterfell —”

“You won’t.” Lyanna pulled their hands apart. “You’ll be staying here, Y/N, and I’ll be sent away.”

“What? No, when my parents are ready arrange a match, they’ll call me back to Whitetide.”

“You aren’t going back! Isn’t it obvious? You’re going to marry one of my brothers!”

After that statement, the only sound in the bedroom was the crackling of the fire. Lyanna didn’t back down. In this light, her Stark eyes weren’t grey at all, only hot steel.

“How do you know that?” Y/N said. With the loss of Lyanna’s hands, she nervously tugged at end of her long sleeves. “Did … did someone say —?”

“No one has to! I thought you knew! You’re fourteen, a woman grown, and my parents haven’t sent you back, nor have your’s asked for you. When they meet, they’re always whispering and glancing around. Brandon will marry outside the North, as the oldest son, and Ned will marry inside, as the second. Benjen will serve Winterfell. It’s how these matters are done, Y/N.”

Y/N’s throat closed as she choked up. Her blood was rushing in discomfort. She didn’t want to fight, she wished they could just change the subject. What brought this on? She’d never seen Lyanna in a mood like this. “You don’t — you don’t know that. Maybe my parents will send for me in a month. We don’t know.”

“Maybe they will, but when it’s time for you to leave, they’ll send me away, too. There’s a reason mother doesn’t care if I spurn the lordlings here.”

Lyanna’s anger had broken again, now it was just frustration and sadness. The two girls stood in silence. The flames of the fire made shadows in the room, and that was the only thing that moved for some time. The shadows seemed to grasp at the two of them, little fingers reaching for their dresses and hair. Y/N was the one who stepped forward, wanting to make it better.

“We’ll always be friends,” Y/N said, trying to keep her own choked up voice steady. “No matter what. I won’t ever forget you. I’ll write you a dozen letters a month if you get sent to the south.”

Lyanna was tired. She couldn’t attempt a smile, but she said, “That’s more than you write to Ned. If he ended up in a green field instead of a mountain, would you have sent more?”

“No, the dozen is only for you.” Y/N said, even if she cursed the slowness of her letters to the Eyrie so many times, it felt like a mantra. She touched Lyanna’s shoulder. “Let’s ready for supper, Lyanna. You’ve been riding a long time.”

Lyanna only reluctantly went along with her. After dinner, they changed into their nightgowns and brushed each other’s hair, as usual, but there was no laughter and joking this time. When they huddled under the furs, Lyanna faced away, still deep in her thoughts. Y/N didn’t know what else to say, if anything at all would help, so she closed her eyes.

“What are you reading?” Benjen’s long hair swung back and forth as he hung upside down.  Y/N looked up, wondering when he managed to scramble right above her. Just a few minutes ago he was struggling to get on the first branch.

“A letter,” Y/N said, “Although I think you already knew that.”

Benjen grinned. “I did, and I know who it’s from.” He swung back up on the branch and easily moved himself to a standing position. He reached for another branch and lifted himself with ease, starting his disappearance into the leaves. With each branch he climbed, a few leaves fell down. Y/N pulled one from her hair.

She rested against the trunk and returned to her letter. Ned was writing about Robert’s attempt at jousting. He much preferred the melee, but ladies preferred the jousting, he said. Y/N was pleased Ned stayed out of all that. He also tried to doodle a little manta ray, in response to the direwolves and cats and deer she often drew on the margins of her letters. They were… arrow-y looking. Close enough.

I’ll have to pick up some skills from you the next time we meet. I don’t think I’d be a good student, but just watching you paint with my own eyes would be enough. You’ve written about it before, but I think hearing you talk about it would be much different. I want to you to tell me.

Y/N closed the letter hastily, wondering if her beating heart and sweaty palms were showing on her face. She glanced around and caught eyes with Brandon. She kept noticing his staring in the past hour, even though he was across the training yard trying to practice. It was a little strange. Are there leaves in my hair again? She touched her hair from the top of her head to her pearl. Brandon seemed annoyed, so she’d prefer he kept his gaze to himself.

The tree branches shook above her, and she heard feet scuffling around. “Ben, be careful!” Y/N called upward. “You shouldn’t climb so high!”

Benjen either didn’t hear her, or was pretending to not hear. Y/N sighed, folding her letter, stashing it in her belt and standing up. She craned her head, trying to spy the wiry boy through the leaves. He may have been a year younger, but she fretted over him from time to time, thinking of her little brothers back in Whitetide.

“Maybe he’ll climb high enough to catch a cloud and float away.” Brandon was beside her before she knew it, and Y/N was glad he didn’t seem as bothered as she thought. On the contrary, he was amused.

“Maybe,” Y/N giggled. She heard more rattling, but it didn’t sound like leaves. It was metal chains, and coming from a different direction. Behind the two of them, the maester approached them as fast as he could, the old man breathing hard as the chains swayed around his neck. He didn’t seem to care about the mud dirtying the end of his robes.

“What’s happened?” Brandon asked while the maester tried to catch his breath. In all the years she’d been here, Y/N had never seen the man so harried, and it seemed neither had Brandon. For a panicked, irrational moment, Y/N thought there was a raven from Whitetide. Dark wings, dark words.

“Lady… Lady Stark has … a … an illness.” The maester took a deep breath, attempting to compose himself. “She has been … weak, as you know, but … it’s far worse than I thought. She needs to be kept apart from everyone else at the Keep. When was the last time you spoke with her, children?”

Brandon took a moment to respond. “This morning, I talked with her, she— she hugged me, but —”

The maester shook his head. “And you, Lady Y/N?”

“Last night, at dinner,” Y/N said quietly. “She took my hand…”

She remembered the kind gesture, and now weary and pale Lady Stark looked. That night, her eyes looked especially tired. She’d begun to hold onto her husband or one of the servants when she walked to and from her room, the place she stayed in the most nowadays. No one seemed to want to talk about her worsening condition, not even the Lady herself. Out of respect to her, no one mentioned it openly.

The leaves danced around them as Benjen swooped down from a low branch. “Can’t we see her?”

“I just said you cannot,” The maester said. “She will be kept away from here on, and we will burn her things and anything she has come in contact with. Now, if the three of you will come with me, I’ve already spoken with Lord Stark and Lyanna…”

Lady Lyarra Stark died within a week. The children heard of the passing suddenly, as her husband was the only one who could visit her through her last days. No amount of guards or a maester’s lecturing would keep Lord Stark from her bedside.

Y/N stood next to Lyanna at the funeral, allowing her friend to clutch her as they all prayed in the godswood. Lady Stark’s bones had been kept in a beautifully engraved wooden chest, and they would be moved to a place of honor in the crypts, but that was little comfort to the children she left behind.

Y/N said some prayers aloud, mouthed others, but kept her head down the entire time. She heard the servants of Winterfell crying and praying, and clearer than that, Lyanna’s crying into the fur draped around Y/N’s shoulder. Her voice was muffled, but Y/N could still feel her body shaking. Y/N herself was trying to keep her tears from rolling down her face. The warmth of them stung her cold cheeks terribly.

Benjen was quiet on the other side of her, staring up at the red leaves like he was in a daze. Brandon seethed beside his father, who was as old as the stone lords in the crypts. Y/N was anxious to see Lord Stark’s expression, knowing it would either scare her or make her tears come faster.

The Starks stayed behind to keep vigil while the servants and guards returned to the keep. Y/N didn’t know how long she stayed kneeling in the snow. She listened to Lyanna’s quieting tears and remembering the kindnesses Lady Stark had given her. Anytime Y/N missed her own mother, Lady Stark was ready to speak with her, to teach her something, or hold her for a while. Y/N couldn’t imagine how the others felt. She thought of her mother now, safe in Whitetide, and desperately wished she could see her.

“Return to the keep,” Lord Stark said after some time. Y/N still didn’t know how long they’d been outside. “All of you.”

“Father —” Brandon started.

“Go.”

Their lord father’s voice was hoarse and hard. He didn’t look at any of his children as they slowly stood around him. Y/N’s legs had gone completely numb from both the cold and kneeling. She wobbled, and Lyanna tried to help her stay upright, no doubt just as weak-legged herself. Benjen found his way to his sister’s side, holding onto her like she held onto Y/N. It reminded Y/N of when he was younger, tagging alongside the two of them.

Y/N glanced back, noticing that Brandon was still trying to linger by his father. She didn’t know if they exchanged words, but eventually Brandon caught up to them as they walked back to the keep.

They all walked slowly, and the Winterfell that greeted them was eerily quiet. The kitchen staff worked with no cheer or haste, the smith’s anvil was quiet, there were no carts or wagons being pulled through the gate. At the feast hall, the candles were burning low, and there was only one servant tending to the cleaning the floors. Her scrubbing was interrupted by intermittent sniffling.

Ned couldn’t be here, Y/N thought not for the first time. Her heart sunk into her gut, making her feel sick. She knew the others were thinking the same. What could I say? What could I possibly say?

She mechanically walked to the main parlor, sitting down at the windowsill. Lyanna sat by the hearth, Benjen sat beside his sister, and Brandon had split off from them quickly. Y/N looked out the window, glad it faced away from the Godswood. She had a feeling if it did, she’d see Lord Stark still kneeling in the snow. She recalled Ned told her the Eyrie’s godswood was more of a little forest, and her heart ached even further. It almost made her cry again. How are the gods supposed to watch over him? Or hear him when he’s in trouble?

She would wait for Lord Stark to send word, if it hadn’t already been done, then she’d send a letter to Ned herself. She’d paint something, too, something special. She’d do anything, if only she knew what that was. Why couldn’t he be here? Y/N rubbed at her raw eyes and rested her head against the cool glass of the window, letting the chill hit her dizzying, exhausted head.

Y/N stirred and sat up slowly. Her head was aching from the awkward angle she fell asleep at. She squinted out the window, but there was only darkness. Across the room, the fire was low, and a chill was settling in the room. Y/N pulled her fur cloak closer around her and shivered. Where was everyone?

She slipped off the windowsill and wandered the halls. If it was dinnertime, no one woke her up, and she didn’t smell meats cooking as she entered the great hall. Y/N stepped outside into the fresh snow, wondering if the day had all been a terrible dream.

It wasn’t, though, and she couldn’t hide from it. People died all the time, especially women and children. If it wasn’t this sickness, Lady Stark may have died in childbirth. That was a far more common fate, something Y/N would have to worry about herself one day. Some day soon.

She sighed heavily and hesitated at the edge of the godswood. The darkness was all around her, with the warmth and light of Winterfell far behind. She took a step forward, letting her boot sink into the snow. The moon was waning, giving off the slightest light. The white bark of the trees and the snow glowed on a full moon, but tonight, they disappeared.

One foot in front of the other, the snow crunched below Y/N’s feet. She kept thinking about Ned, imagining his expression, what he would say — she would never know, of course, and that made it worse. She could only write and draw, there was no holding and comforting. The thought of holding him hit her so strongly, her body ached. Lady Stark held her when she worried about her uncle at sea, when she caught sick or when she hurt herself. Y/N wanted to hold Ned like that, even if he was far bigger than she. Maybe this was a stupid, girlish, childish thought. Maybe it was, but stupid words on paper didn’t seem like enough.

There was a clear path that let to the heart tree, but the darkness didn’t help her navigate, a strange noise did. It made her jump at first, but there were no wolves in these woods. She listened carefully. There was the distinct sound of someone shuffling around in the snow, like they were standing up. Y/N anxiously wondered if it was Lord Stark. No, he can’t be here still. It’s been half a day …

She jumped out of her skin when she heard a voice call out, echoing off the snow and the trees. “Who goes there?!”

“I-It’s only me,” Y/N started, ready to apologize to Lord Stark, but the voice sounded off. Too young, too angry. “…Brandon? Is that you?”

The person didn’t respond, but she heard boots trudging clumsily through the snow. She felt a presence next to her, and finally she could see his outline. Y/N reached forward and was surprised to not touch a fur cloak or thick surcoat, but a fairly thin tunic that was frigid cold, and the stiff muscles underneath it. Brandon didn’t flinch away from her, so she kept her hold on his forearms.

“Brandon, come inside.” Y/N said. Her own voice was weak, she realized, and she was already shivering. “It’ll get colder, and it’s already so dark. How long have you been here?”

Brandon sniffled, both from the cold and the tears, she assumed. “Father hasn’t come in. I was waiting …”

Y/N shook her head. He must have come right outside after realizing it was dark and Lord Stark still hadn’t returned to the keep. “You can’t stay out here all night. Come inside. Please?”

Brandon didn’t seem easy on his feet, and he was trying to keep his teeth from chattering. “I-I have a vigil to keep. I have to — father is, s-so I should at least try…”

“You’re cold, and exhausted, besides. You ran out here without anything, you fool. Why aren’t you wearing a cloak?”

He mumbled something in return. Y/N pulled the tall boy toward her, wanting to urge him toward the light in the distance. She was ready to give him her modest cloak, just enough to serve until they reached the warmth of Winterfell, but then he wrapped his arms around her. Y/N let out a noise of surprise as his head slumped on her shoulder. Brandon was heavy, but she kept steady. For a moment, it was all still: The godswood around them, Brandon in her arms, the night above them.

Y/N was about to speak, but then she heard a noise, like a deep gasp. Brandon shook from the cold and his own emotion. Y/N wrapped her arms around his shoulders and let him cry.

Robert shook his leg impatiently, causing the thick heel of his boot to tap against the floor again and again. Normally Lord Arryn would chastise him for his restlessness, but the two of them had been quiet for days. Robert didn’t like quiet, or gloominess. He didn’t want to stay like this a minute longer.

“Has he left his room yet?” Robert asked for the third time.

“Be patient, Robert.” Lord Arryn replied expectedly. “Recall that terrible day you endured.”

He didn’t have to recall his own parents’ demise. Robert thought about it often, a wound that was still fresh, and it only closed up when he drank enough or when a pretty girl sat by him. It’d come back afterward, though, and then he had Ned to talk to.

He shouldn’t have to go through the same thing, Robert thought irritably. The worst part is, he knew Ned wouldn’t want a drink or a pretty girl, or a fight, or a new horse. He would just sit in his own sorrow, brooding in that way he did. The young Baratheon huffed, shifting his restless energy to tapping his fingers on the table. Ned was always talking him out of trouble and listening to his worries — the only person he’d ever spoken to about them. But what did Robert ever do for him?

The Baratheon heir growled in frustration and stood from his seat abruptly. Lord Arryn only glanced up a moment, but Robert was already gone.

He barged into Ned’s room, and was half disappointed Ned wasn’t there — he’d been sitting vigil at the Eyrie’s godswood for too damned long, but that made this next part easier. Ned had several of his girl’s paintings up around his desk, where anyone could see them, but Robert knew where he kept the letters. He opened the bottom drawer and in a wooden box with the direwolf sigil, and there they were.

Robert had read some before. Sometimes Ned would read things aloud, sometimes Robert snuck in here, but they were never that exciting. Always talking about Winterfell or what the horses were doing, nothing salacious like a proper love letter should be. Still, they made Ned happy. Robert picked a few out and tucked them carefully in his doublet.

The grass crunched under his boots as he entered the godswood. The fiery red leaves and snow-white bark looked out of place amongst the rocky Eyrie, he always thought, especially when there was bright green grass and regular trees around the weirwoods. He spotted Ned at the same place he’d been for hours, kneeling. His head was lowered slightly, some of his long brown hair falling around him, and Robert wondered if he was asleep. Then Ned raised his head and turned it.

“Robert?”

“Brought you something.” Robert said. Ned wasn’t getting up, so he awkwardly knelt beside him. Gods, it was murder on the knees, and even in that position he was far taller than Ned. Robert retrieved the letters from his doublet and handed them over.

Ned looked at them with hope, then confusion.

“They aren’t new,” Robert said, chuckling. “I just … I remembered you liked these ones. Y/N was writing something about a festival? And Lyanna stole a sword off your brother. Y/N wrote about her dress, and something about a horse…”

He trailed off, wondering if this was a stupid idea. He was terrible at this. These were the letters with the most pictures, giving life to what Y/N wrote about, as clear as any maester’s history book. Ned stared at the papers in his hands, lightly touching a rare self-portrait Y/N had done of her new gown.

I worked on it for two weeks, although your lady mother helped me several times over. It’s the first one I’ve sewn by myself, and I hope I do it justice. This may not be interesting to you, but I’m proud. It’s cerulean and white.

Lyanna wanted me to draw her with Brandon’s sword. She thinks it’s very funny. ‘How can he call himself a lord when he can’t keep hold of his own sword?’ I thought Benjen was the thief, but Lyanna can be just as clever. It took him all day to realize she’d replaced his with a dull training sword.

Do you remember when you found my pearl? You couldn’t forget, I know, but I still think about it when remove it to brush my hair. I’ll never forget that kindness, Ned.

He smiled for the first time in a week. To Robert’s excitement, he made an expression for the first time in days.

“You can go back home,” Robert offered, wanting to keep the mood up. “Even if it’s just for a short time.”

They were men grown, ten and seven years old. If anything, they should have left the Eyrie by now. Both of them knew it was only a matter of time, though Robert didn’t want to go back to Storm’s End after all these years, having to finally take his lordly duties seriously. Ned was a second son, his duty would be commanding the household guard or visiting with minor houses.

Robert had a feeling if Ned left now, he wouldn’t come back to the Eyrie.

“Perhaps.” The Stark said quietly.

Their easy days had to end eventually. Why did it have to be on such a damned sad note?

Robert looked up at the heart tree. Its eerie, foreign face stared down at him. He had no prayers to give, only a quiet request that when Ned returned to Winterfell, it would be safely. The only noise for a long time was the wind rustling the branches of the white trees and the shuffling of the letters as Ned re-read them.

[the-angst-chronicles-fanworks]

DRACO’S WISH [PT 4/14]

<< | < | > | >>

WORD COUNT: 2817

PAIRING: Drarry

TAGS:

hidden identity

Down and Out Draco Malfoy

Pretty Draco Malfoy

Talented Draco Malfoy

Auror Harry Potter

Smitten Harry Potter

Harry Potter Being an Asshole (just for a while)

Angst

Fluff

Angst with a Happy Ending

Falling In Love

Torture

Skipping Meals/Hunger

Cold Weather

Libraries

Hot Chocolate

SUMMARY: Draco does a good deed and is granted a wish - 12 days of anonymity in a world that hates him CHAPTER SUMMARY:    Potter shows up and insists on buying Draco a drink

on FF.net

on AO3

STORY:

December 11th , 2007

Draco wakes to an absolutely frigid morning and cold sun in his eyes, but for once it doesn’t dampen his mood. He’s positively chipper as he hurries through his morning shower and pulls on his stiff, cold clothes. He manages to get his stove working and, though he’s skipping breakfast today, he boils plain water in lieu of tea. He just barely waits until it’s cool enough before sipping it from a chipped mug, enjoying the warmth it brings.

He briefly flirts with the idea of trying a warming charm for the apartment, but it’s not a serious consideration. Why potentially waste an extinguisher when he now has a perfectly warm library available to him instead?

There’s no reason to dawdle around his apartment so he doesn’t – he slips into the empty hallway and then down the stairs and out to the street. It’s a cold but quick trek up Knockturn and then onto Diagon where the harsh weather prevents him from spending too much time admiring the splendor.

The street is less busy today, likely as a result of both the temperature and the early hour, but it’s still lively. Draco thankfully has no run-ins with Potter today on his way to the library.

The warm, familiar smell of books and ink greets him as he pushes into the building. The librarian, sitting behind the counter today, looks up and nods to him in greeting.

“Good morning,” Draco returns with a polite smile. He makes a beeline, this time, straight to the back where he’d found the volumes on wandless magic yesterday. He’d just reached the section of the book dedicated to harmonizing energy, magic, and intent, when he’d had to leave yesterday, and he’s eager to return to it.

He spends several hours there, reading theory and running through the practice exercises in the book. They’re not spells, not really, just exercises to learn to handle his magic better, and they’ve nothing to do with heat besides, so he’s not particularly worried about starting fires. They are, after all, designed for beginners, and therefore start small. A pleasant result of this, he finds, is that he’s not exhausted or hungry after practicing. Well… okay, he is hungry because he’s always hungry, but he’s not more so than usual.

People come and go from the library, but nobody pays him any mind and nor does he pay them any. Despite the steady traffic, the library is quiet, and Draco is well able to ignore them all and descend into his study.

So his day goes, until just after the library clock strikes 2 o’clock. That’s when Potter and Granger show up. Draco doesn’t see them, but he hears their voices, easily recognizable from being so often on the wireless – Granger is chattering about wizarding law and magical creates, and Potter is humouring her with one-word answers. Draco’s head shoots up, pure panic searing through his veins.

He glances wildly around but doesn’t catch sight of them – they’re somewhere else in the library – and he’s already half out of his seat and considering how best to make a break for it before his mind catches up with him. He pauses, taking a calming breath. Right, he’s being a fool again. They won’t recognize him. To them, he’s just a stranger in a library.

Draco forces himself to calm down, tentatively perching back on the edge of his armchair. He flicks open his book again, his muscles still tense as he looks unseeingly at the pages. But minutes go by and nothing happens, and Draco feels himself relaxing again.

His fingers loosen their grip on the book, and he allows himself to sink further into the armchair and actually start reading again. It’s interesting stuff, the theory behind wandless magic and the changes that must be adjusted for when not using a conduit. He lips move along silently as he reads a passage about the delicacy of shaping and directing magic by will alone.

There’s an exercise here too, walking him through the steps to produce harmless sparkles and then working through controlling the amount, shape, and intensity of them. It’s not a direct, straightforward endeavor, of course, where one simply follows a series of instructions and achieves a result. This is more nuanced, the instructions more abstract, requiring interpretation and creativity to apply them.

But Draco has had a lot of practice working with his magic, and many of these concepts come easily to him now. He feels he’s progressing though the book faster than he would ordinarily, had he not spent so much time reaching into himself and trying to guide his own magic.

The text expects that it will take several days of practice to even pull one’s magic up far enough to get sparkles, but it’s infinitely easier than heating charms and Draco has them dancing around before him in a matter of minutes. Changing their properties is more of a challenge, one that Draco dives into with enthusiasm. He spends the better part of an hour learning how to make sparkles bend to his whim.

He’s having fun making little sparkle fireworks when he looks up and sees Harry Potter standing there and staring at him. He lets out a surprised squawk, the sparkles fizzling out unceremoniously.

Potter flushes and scratches at the back of his head. “Sorry about that,” he says. “You’re the bloke from yesterday right? The one I ran into?”

Draco’s mouth opens and closes uselessly, not sure what to say. Potter remembers him, from bumping into him in the street. Potter is talking to him. Normally. What the fuck?

The silence hangs, awkward, for a beat before Potter fills it. “I really am sorry you know,” he says, and it’s no less awkward now that he’s speaking. Draco casts about for something to say.

“I…it’s fine,” he settles on faintly. He’d said as much yesterday hadn’t he? He distinctly remembers babbling nonsense of that sort at Potter.

Potter shakes his head, scuffing his strange muggle shoes against the warm carpet as he peers at Draco again. “You ran off so quickly yesterday,” he says, surprisingly unsure. “I didn’t get a chance to offer, but I’d like to buy you a drink. To make it up to you.”

Draco frowns, opening his mouth to tell Potter, again, that it’s fine, but Potter heads him off. “I know you said it’s okay,” he says quickly, “but it would make me feel better.” When Draco still doesn’t answer, he tilts his head, gives him a beseeching look that makes him look a little like a baby Crup, and says “Please?”

“Umm…” Draco replies intelligently, clutching his book hard and holding ut in front of him like a barrier. He shouldn’t accept, he really shouldn’t. He’s already decided it best that he stay far away from Potter, no matter how cutely he’s behaving at the moment. If Potter remembers who he is, it will ruin everything.

But Potter is offering him a free drink that isn’t water, and maybe Draco can get him to throw in a bit of food that won’t deplete his meagre stash…

Draco’s stomach turns restlessly, reminding him of how perpetually hungry he is. He knows that he shouldn’t, but he can’t resist.

“Throw in a bagel and I’ll consider it,” he decides, and Potter’s eyes light up.

“Brilliant!” He says eagerly, bouncing slightly on his heels like an overexcited kid. He gestures at Draco’s book. “Let’s get that checked out and we can go,” he says.

He wants to go right now? Draco looks at him in shock, but he seems perfectly serious, still looking over at Draco’s book.

“Oh, erm, never mind that. I’ll just…” Draco trails off awkwardly, nodding toward the shelves. Potter waits as he gets up and re-shelves the book.

Potter takes his arm as soon as he’s finished putting the book away, half-leading and half-dragging him toward the front of the library. They take a small detour to the section on wizarding law, where Granger is browsing the shelves with single-minded determination, so that Potter can call his goodbyes. He barely waits for her reply before he’s leading Draco away again.

They walk down Diagon Alley for a way, passing half-a-dozen little cafes that Potter shows no interest in, and then turn off onto another little street. It’s also a commercial street, but it’s smaller than Diagon, quainter and quieter. It’s still resplendent with Christmas lights, but it has a different air; the quieter atmosphere lends a sense of magic to the air that catches Draco’s breath and causes him to gaze about in awe. It’s such a mundane thing to be excited about, something his younger self would not have even noticed, but now that his life consists of the drab, bland, dankness of Knockturn Alley, he doesn’t take such beauty for granted.

Potter draws them to a stop then, and he turns to see him watching Draco with a smile. Draco quirks an eyebrow, but Potter merely shakes his head, before turning and gesturing to a tiny shop.

“I know it doesn’t look like much, but they have the best drinks here. I swear it.” Potter says. He pulls open the door and holds it for Draco, who feels oddly flustered at the gesture. He ducks his head and murmurs his thanks before he steps inside, moving out of Potter’s way and looking around.

It’s tiny and cramped, with mismatched furniture, scrubbed wooden floors, and pale-yellow walls. It’s not fashionable at all, but it’s bright and warm and Draco likes it. A young witch is behind the counter, chatting with a wizened old man, and other than that the store is empty.

Potter steps up beside him and turns a warm smile on him. “What would you like to drink?” He asks, gesturing to the menu written in chalk behind the front counter. Draco looks over to it, but there are so many options – the board is covered completely with cutesy writing declaring the names of various drinks – that he can’t decide. Tea is a treat for Draco these days.

Potter is still looking at him expectantly, and he burns in embarrassment at failing such a simple task as deciding his drink. “Surprise me,” he hedges. Potter nods, starting to turn away, and Draco adds hastily, “but make it sweet!” He feels his cheeks flush again as Potter chuckles.

“Alright, something sweet,” he says, his green eyes impossibly soft. Draco has never seen those eyes look at him with anything but hatred, and having it now sends electric sparks through his body. Draco shudders, forcing the thought away.

Belatedly, he realises Potter’s saying something to him. “Sorry?” He asks. His face is going to be permanently red at this point.

Potter raises his eyebrows, but he’s smiling. “I said, why don’t you get us seats and I’ll get the drinks.”

Draco raises an eyebrow of his own and looks pointedly around the empty café. “That may be a hardship, what with this crowd, but I’ll try my very best,” he cheeks. Potter outright laughs at that.

“Alright, Mr. Sass, just go sit down,” he says. Draco smirks but turns to comply, while Potter approaches the counter. He hears, from behind him, the girl at the counter saying “Harry! Back so soon?”, and Potter answering with something too quiet for Draco to hear.

He chooses the little round table nearest to the front window and sits, looking out at the twinkling street. Once upon a time, he would have looked down on a place like this. Now, he barely feels that he belongs, with his holey gloves and tattered, baggy clothes. He privately thanks Potter’s apparently overly active sense of remorse that’s led to him being here.

Potter soon comes back, levitating a mug of something steaming, that’s topped generously with whipped cream, and a freshly toasted bagel in front of him. It’s soon followed by a platter of pastries that slides into place between them. Draco blinks at these and then looks questioningly up at him. “What are these then?” he asks. Potter flushes.

“They’re – ah – something sweet,” he explains haltingly, scratching at the back of his head. Merlin, no wonder his hair was a mess. Still, it’s an exceedingly decent thing of Potter to do, and certainly not anything he’s used to.

“Thank you,” he replies, quiet but honest. Potter beams at him, and Draco smiles back as he sips at his drink, which he is delighted to find is hot chocolate.

“So…” says Potter, sliding into the seat across from him, “I never did get your name.”

Draco freezes – can he give Potter his own name? Will that break this anonymity he’s been granted? He’s not sure, and he doesn’t want to chance it.

“Emory,” he says, thinking of the dashing love interest in the romance novel sitting on his bed. “Emory Hughes.”

“Emory Hughes,” Potter repeats, smiling. “I’m Harry Potter.”

“I know,” says Draco without thinking, then clamps his mouth shut, eyes widening. Luckily, Potter doesn’t seem suspicious.

“I had wondered,” he says instead, laughing, and Draco is struck again by how handsome Potter is. He swallows nervously and, to distract himself, takes a pastry and pops it into his mouth. It’s good – incredible really – flaky, buttery, and filled with sweet cream. Draco can’t help his moan, closing his eyes in pleasure. Merlin, and he’d just wanted a bagel!

Potter has stopped laughing somewhat abruptly, and Draco opens his eyes to see him picking up his mug and taking a huge gulp. He then immediately flails, sputtering “Hot! Hot!” and dripping hot chocolate from his mouth and probably from his nose also.

The sight of Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, dribbling hot chocolate is too much, and Draco can’t hold in his delighted laughter. Potter manages to get a hold of himself, dabbing at his mouth with his serviette and blushing furiously as he glares at Draco, but that only makes Draco laugh harder. Potter glares for a moment longer, and then he is laughing too. “I’m not usually this clumsy, honest!” Potter defends once they’ve both calmed down.

Draco shakes his head, tearing his bagel apart and smirking at Potter. “I don’t know,” he replies, “first you bowled me over in the Alley yesterday, and now this.” He sighs dramatically. “I think you will just have to accept the obvious – you are an utter klutz”

Harry pouts. “I hope you’ll accept all of my flaws then,” he says, and Draco grins.

“If your flaws continue buying me hot chocolate and pastries, I might just be persuaded,” he returns easily. He sips at said hot chocolate to make his point and smirks at Potter.

“Such a hardship,” Potter says. “How will my flaws and I manage?”

Draco throws a crumb of toasted bagel at him. “How dare you,” he sniffs. “I’m a delight, I’ll have you know.”  

Potter gives him a once over, smirks, and says, “I see that.” Draco sputters, red-cheeked. Is Potter flirting with him? No, that can’t be possible, he’s reading too much into it. That’s just to be expected when nobody’s talked to him like a human in years, he supposes – a single modicum of human decency is shown to him, and he thinks he’s being flirted with.

Draco inwardly rolls his eyes at him self and pops a bite of bagel into his mouth. “Well, good to know those glasses are good for something then,” he says at length, far too late. Potter doesn’t call him out on it, though his green eyes are amused as he sips his hot chocolate.

Potter proves surprisingly easy to talk to, a notion that once would have sent Draco into a conniption. He’s always thought the man fit, but now as he sits chatting with him, he finds that his company is honestly pleasant as well. The afternoon passes faster than he realises, and by the time they get up to leave, the sun is hanging low and painting the sky bright with colour.

Potter walks with him back to the library, where he needs to meet up with Granger, and Draco is almost regretful as they arrive.

“Thank you, Potter,” he says, stopping just inside the library door.

“Call me Harry,” Potter insists. Draco frowns – that’s decidedly too weird. It’s not as though they’re going to see each other again anyway.

“Goodbye Potter,” he insists instead. Potter opens his mouth to argue, but at that moment Granger emerges from the stacks and catches sight of them. She makes a beeline toward Potter, and Draco nods a greeting at her and steps out of the way. He catches sight of Potter’s pout in the corner of his eye and grins to himself, feeling lighter than he has in years as he makes his way back to the wandless magic section.

[austennerdita2533]

A/N: My contribution to the KC New Year’s Day Exchange for the lovely Charlotte. (Modern P&Pish/The Hating Game AU + All Human + Romcom Tie-ins)

(AO3)(FF.net)

xx Ashlee Bree

(Spite) of Their Lives

For the past ten months, the routine has been this: Monday through Friday she avoids his eyes, claps back when he crosses a line at the office because it’s only a matter of time before he does something rash and destructive and she has to help fix it - again. Saturday she ignores his emails and text messages. A bevy of unreads she collects like bills, like love letters. However, not because she wants them or anything but so she has an excuse to ream him for his you can’t avoid the devil forever, sweetheart 😈 assholeness later. Like, come on, get a hobby. Or a girlfriend. Or a freaking life outside work already. Seriously. And Sunday…Sunday she reminds herself of all the reasons why he’s the biggest pain in the ass she’s ever met.

A right charming prick, really.

He’s the kind of man who, with a natural blend of arrogance, genteel good looks, cunning, money and rapier’s wit, knows just how to poke and pinch at every last nerve she harbors beneath her skin until she wants to scream. Until she does. Until she’s cursing the name Klaus Mikaelson before her first cup of coffee in the morning and after her last sip of wine before bed at night.

To call him a colleague is a stretch for Caroline. A big one. Let alone a friend, at least not in the conventional sense.

They clash more often than they collaborate on anything, after all: with him demanding speed and severity when it comes to finding ways to cut their competitors off at the neck; and her countering with options that preserve dignity, that allow for diplomacy as well as smooth transitions of power that begin and end with a cordial handshake. Theirs’ is a total conflict in tactic, in personality. A spark of opposition that means business—you know the type. It’s ugly courtesy mixed with innuendo that slides into begrudging respect twenty-four hours a day, fifty-two weeks of the year.

They’re opposites in every sense of the word, but it works.

Together they make for a surprisingly prosperous combination in the corporate world, and it’s one that just so happens to help them rake in diverse clients on top of big bucks revenue.

So where Klaus snarls at almost everyone, Caroline beams. Likewise, where she's poised and reliable in the midst of a crisis, he rages. Sometimes throws things. Expensive things. Once or twice at people’s heads, though that “rumor” lives in the Do Not Discuss Or Else vault with all of those shady concerns about certain members of his family.

Since she’s neither short on smiles nor sociability either, it follows that he tends to be gruff in comparison. Or as most other employees like to whisper, as grouchy as a wealthy Brit has any right to be.

Needless to say then, the muscular tick along his jaw is a measure of his mood. It’s a physical marker to watch for so one knows when it’s okay to broach a sensitive topic with him or when it’s smarter to bow out, zip it, lay low, waiting for a better time to tackle the issue at hand without any measure of solvency. Caroline’s become an expert at dissecting it. That little quirk. She knows precisely what to look for. Figured it out in matter of weeks. Not to boast or anything.

(Hint: the key is in the rapidity with which the tick comes, its root cause. Next comes deducing how long it’s likely to last. Minutes? Hours? Days? Weeks? Calculate the potential damages. Then follow up accordingly.)

So now she knows to attack in the evenings, negotiate in the afternoons, and relent in the mornings. She’s learned what strategies to unleash on him and when.

Call it an Unwind the Big Bad Prick science, if you will. A crash course on all Mikaelson whims and asshole-isms.

The truth is Caroline’s not afraid to provoke him. To rattle him. She never has been, never will be.

She’ll call bullshit directly. to. his. smug. face. when he deserves a good tongue lashing or needs a simple lesson in civility, which just so happens to be much more often than one would think.

Summa cum laude honors, and unmatched organizational skills aside, she knows that’s one of the reasons why the Mikaelson siblings had Klaus hire her in the first place. She’s the hip check he needs. The temperate balance to his foul, distrusting moods and impulsivity.

There’s an entire arsenal of cutting glares at her disposal for him now. A challenge that sits on the tilt of her nose when they arrive somewhere simultaneously, both intent on being the first in the room. It doesn’t matter where it is, with whom they’re meeting, or why. The point is to compete…to be the one who’s holding the ace in her palm.

She aims to outsmart, outthink, and out win him in as many schemes as possible. In as many days, too, if she can swing it.

It’s how Caroline has come to carry arguments in the strum of her fingers. Wear them in the slight curl of her upper lip when they disagree. Her hair flip’s perfected, a real asset. A true silencer when she needs it to be. Like when he tries to pull rank or won’t listen to logic at all. (Which, again, happens more frequently than it should. May even prompt an eye roll or two. Sometimes three - you know, if the chip on his shoulder starts to burnish gold and he downshifts into being ruthless and impossible again.)

Not to mention the fact that her verbal comebacks slap harder than Klaus’s do since she smiles as she delivers them, the effect as disarming for him as it is satisfying for her—and oh, boy, can she sure deliver a line! Then watch as it lands like a whap across his cheek.

None of that has anything on the swivel of her heels, though. Or the sashay of her retreat which she enacts only once she’s successfully shaved him down a peg or two, knocking his ego back down to planet earth where it belongs. At least for the rest of the day.

It’s safe to expect that it’ll be back in tact by tomorrow - it always is - but she still lives for the dimpled purse of his mouth, anyway. That rough swallow of his Adam’s apple. The sag in his seat which precedes the defensive crossing of his arms that lets her know she’s one-upped him, and he’s impressed. Intrigued. Put out in a way that makes him borderline congratulatory…almost flirtatious, really.

(Except they can’t stand each other so she brushes the latter thought into the back of her brain where it can asphyxiate and die. Like - as soon as possible.)

A backward wave of her hand is the only thing Caroline leaves behind as her red-soled heels click down the hallway afterwards. Headed back toward her own office. Sometimes she steers toward the elevators afterwards because it’s late, because she now has something to gloat about on her ride home.

She prefers to abandon him when he’s at her mercy like that: stunned, speechless, reeling, his head still turning over her last competitive taunt.

It makes him look boyish even though he’s pushing thirty. Pleasantly caught. Not to mention a smidge more attractive than she wants him to be with those rumpled blond curls and abandoned tie, his sleeves cuffed up to the elbows.

Klaus seems to derive some kind of twisted satisfaction from the leveling of odds between them regardless. And why the hell not? So does she.

It’s adrenalizing, plain and simple. A grin always seems to snake its way onto their faces at the same moment. Win or lose. Every time.

Wrapped up in their little game of professional chess, though, Caroline is too full of plans and spite to worry over what that zing she feels between them means.

                                                           _ 

Klaus is fond of endearments. And he uses them.

A lot.

They tend to be ridiculous at best, his pet names, downright inappropriate at worst. And he knows it. Designs it so, his grin stretching wider at the edges while he gauges her reaction to his latest assignations.

They slide off his tongue freely, suggestively, relentlessly, until they’re an avalanche of  “love,” “queenie,” “venomous cupcake,” “Care-ella de Ville” monikers that fly in her direction more often than not as they go toe-to-toe over some work issue or find themselves cloistered together in the Brainstorm Wing, alone, far too long to be considered tolerable.

He talks and teases. She mostly ignores it because she’s focused, determined - a freaking whiz at professionalism - though he does win a scoff every now and again over their electronics.

That’s simply the way it is between them. How it’s always been.

Occasionally Caroline will threaten to set his pants on fire or will offer to drown him in his most expensive bottle of bourbon for extra measure. Anything to shut him up. Anything to curb his persistent interruptions whenever they’re up to their elbows in files, arguing, warding off a loss before an important meeting or a deadline. But it never works. It never sticks.

Seriously, nothing phases him.

The man is either impervious to rebuff of any sort or his encouragement hinges on the one stupid traitorous blush (one!) that seems to accompany any glare Caroline fires in his direction. (A weakness she’s more than desperate to delete from her physiology.) His audacity is incredible to witness in person. Absolutely incredible.

Suspicion rankles in her gut because it’s as if Klaus has no other targets even when there are other associates present, which doesn’t make sense. It’s just her. Just this. Just endless time and opportunity to pun her to death.

Talk about sucks!

Can’t someone else be his designated prey instead? Why her? Why now? How’d she get to be so unlucky as to have to put up with him all the time?

Rifling through documents one evening in late November, forced to work in tandem per their boss and CEO, Elijah’s, request, the two of them nibble on Chinese takeout and work. Bicker. Pour over contracts. Plot strategy in the B-wing late into the morning hours.

“I know you’re loath to admit it, sunshine,” Klaus says with a yawn after they concoct a one-two punch right as the clock strikes three; it’s a killer solution on all fronts, “but you and I are good together. We make a formidable team.”

“Oh, stop with that.”

“Stop with what?”

“You know it annoys me,” she frowns. “Come on.”

“Annoys you? It was an observation, Caroline. I was under the impression those weren’t illegal.”

Tossing her iPad and color-coded notes aside, she runs a lazy hand through her hair before leveling him with a look, “I wasn’t talking about the team comment and you know it.”

“Weren’t you?”

“No.”

“Pity,” Klaus says with a sigh and a stretch, raking her over while amusement dances in his rimmed eyes. “I’d hoped we were on the same page for once.”

“Well, we’re not.”

“Clearly.”

“An apology would be welcome at this juncture, you know. I’m open to hearing one,” she suggests.

“An apology?” Caroline waits. Taps her monogrammed company pen on the table’s ledge. He smirks before unhooking another button at his collar and angles closer. “For what?”

With a huff, “We’ve talked about this and you can’t just—how dare you keep—I—”

“Yes?” Klaus doesn’t say it but another endearment hangs from his smirking lips. It waits to shoot her way any second. “Go on then. State your grievance with me.”

“There’s no point.”

“Why’s that?”

“You already know what it is,” she says.

“Do I now?”

Growing perturbed, she ignores the flutter in her belly under this intense scrutiny, his expression a mixture of steady, sarcastic, and softly admiring. “This whole conversation is ridiculous!”

“Fair point. Though, personally, I disagree.”

“You…” she says, fighting back a blush and a laugh then shaking her head, “you are the actual worst.”

“Funny. That almost sounds like a compliment.”

“It wasn’t meant as one.”

“Perhaps not, sunshine,” he dimples, slumping back casually before interlocking his fingers behind his head, and sighs, “but I’ll take it as such anyway. Just this once.”

Caroline scowls. Flattens her lips. Mumbles something about “endearment harassment.” Resists another blush as well as the urge to strangle him before the paperwork for this deal is done.

Instead she decides to re-send him the Merriam Webster definitions of impertinent and dickhead from her phone again—you know, for clarity’s sake. Then she asks demurely, all eyelashes, her hands folded flat, if Satan has happened to set the date for his coronation into hell yet.

“Why?” Leaning over the armrest with his chair wheels squeaking against the floor, Klaus is all cheek and attentiveness and spicy cologne. “Care to be my escort for the big event?” he says without missing a beat.

With a snort, “In your dreams, Mikaelson. But so help me, if you don’t knock it off and focus so we can finish preparing for this meeting tomorrow, then I promise I’ll find a way for the devil to come and collect you early himself. Got it?”

“Sure thing,” he nods. “Can’t have you wanting to push me off the roof later now, can I?”

“Who’s to say I’m not already tempted?” Caroline mumbles.

He swivels to face her, all levity, with one eyebrow raised. Meanwhile she focuses on organizing their files into separate stacks. “Are you?” he says.

Shrugging, “I wouldn’t push it any further if I were you. Better to be silent but productive than flippant and airborne, don’t you think?”

A chuckle. A soft press of his palm over her wrist.

“Well played, love. I don’t know if hearing that leaves me feeling more wounded or paranoid, but…well played.”

Warm, certain, Klaus’s touch lingers far too long after he draws away.

                                                            _ 

—Archived Twitter messages from FIERCE AND WE KNOW IT SQUAD group chat on December 5th, 10:42 P.M.

thiskatRAWRS : i said find his celebrity doppelgänger for us, caroline. wtf !!

crowned caroline: i did

thiskatRAWRS: no, you defected. like a coward

crowned caroline: did not!

thiskatRAWRS: did too

thiskatRAWRS: besides, i think we both know there’s a better selection to be had here

enzobites: oh - this outta be good, lusty (or is it katTHRUSTY now?)

thiskatRAWRS: *middle finger emoji*

crowned caroline: ugh. don’t provoke her, okay?

enzobites: bugger me for wondering at Elijah’s reaction to his ladylove’s ranking + assessment

enzobites: of

enzobites: his

enzobites: younger

enzobites: brother’s

enzobites: sex

enzobites: appeal

thiskatRAWRS: i still have eyes, don’t i? just gotta keep my hands to myself. not that it’s anyone’s business but mine and Elijah’s if i do or do not 😼

enzobites: …and you wonder why you were reassigned from HR, love

thiskatRAWRS: *double middle finger emoji*

bonnie-b-is-me: Kat told me Klaus has an up-to-no-good Jude Law look about him. is that semi-accurate, Care?

bonnie-b-is-me: (me = works elsewhere = totes out of loop) :(

crowned caroline: nope

crowned caroline: i stand by my original choice

bonnie-b-is-me: which was?

crowned caroline: *inserts internet meme*

bonnie-b-is-me: 😯

enzobites: wut…why Grumpy Cat?

thiskatRAWRS: i told you ^^^ doesn’t count, pick a human

crowned caroline: but the resemblance is astounding! it’s uncanny, really

crowned caroline: look here, i’ll prove it further: *inserts another three memes, one with a side-by-side photo comparison*

enzobites: wicked Santa hat there, Klausy

bonnie-b-is-me: lmao

crowned caroline: Klaus is literally Grumpy Cat in human form bc 1) he’s surly 2) he’s miserable and repressed af 3) he’s one explosive hiss away from taking another corporate life at all times

bonnie-b-is-me: so let him be known, 4eva more, as Grumpy Corporate Klaus

enzobites: i dig it

enzobites: GCK ftw then, yea? ;)

crowned caroline: 👍🏼

thiskatRAWRS: sorry, but all i’m getting from care’s explanation is “overlooked sex kitten” vibes. so if that’s how you view Klaus then idk how to break this to you, girl, but…

enzobites: BOW CHICKA WOW WOW

thiskatRAWRS: exactly !! one of them is gonna pounce on the other before long—ruffled feathers and all of that meowww

bonnie-b-is-me: bets, anyone?

enzobites: count me in, gorgeous ;)

thiskatRAWRS: ditto

crowned caroline: OMG SHUT UP ALL OF YOU

bonnie-b-is-me: did either of you hear something?

thiskatRAWRS: sounds like denial chirping to me

enzobites: or uh…hate could be their preferred foreplay

crowned caroline: THIS ISN’T FUNNY

bonnie-b-is-me: wouldn’t be the first time

thiskatRAWRS: and def not the last !!

bonnie-b-is-me: *inserts YouTube link to “Dangerous Woman” by Ariana Grande*

crowned caroline: WHERE IS THIS COMING FROM??? I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS, WTF

thiskatRAWRS: *inserts “You Can’t Handle the Truth” gif*

enzobites: from the way Klaus verbally paws at Blondie here in the office, to the longing look in his eyes when she speaks (or flirts) with any good-looking bloke who isn’t him, i wager it’s only a matter of time before—

crowned caroline has left the chat

                                                           _ 

A natural curiosity is there, of course. Call it a fatal flaw. A susceptibility. Whatever.

She’s only human.

No use in haranguing her about it forever, you know?

                                                           _ 

It’s a passing thought or two when the workload is mounting, when Caroline’s eyes blur numbers into scratchy colors of highlighter and her days are spun into spools of navy blue suits and unsigned contracts and poorly worded emails and coffee cart lattes plus beignets which she needs to keep her standing upright for another few hours or else she’ll peter out mid-sentence, toppling into the nearest chair; only to then find what she craves deposited, like a gift from the gods, onto her desk the exact instant she feels herself deflating into putty. No evidence at all that someone had been there. Not an item out of place. No note attached anywhere.

There’s also that prickle against the base of her neck sometimes. A tingle of awareness that tells her Klaus is either close by or he’s peering at her through the glass walls again, idly. Watching her with some soft and introspective intensity Caroline doesn’t understand let alone question thoroughly.

It’s a collection of moments.

Looks.

Coincidences.

Things that happen by accident because their schedules align - because, for example, they’re seated side-by-side on their way to the New Orleans airport one afternoon to catch a flight back home after closing Gerard Enterprises when the car swerves. The driver’s caught in a blast of turbulent traffic, and without thinking, she crosses the invisible boundary between them to curl against his side, her fingers fisting in his unworn seatbelt. Her head tucks against his clavicle, her eyelashes flicking over the buttons on his shirt. Their breaths heavy but in time.

“Are you alright, love? Are you hurt?” Klaus asks, his mouth burring like an ember against her crown of golden hair.

“I’m okay,” she breathes. In then out. In then out. “Just a little toppled and caught unawares is all,” she adds as his pulse slows beneath her ear, his hand hot on her bicep. “You?”

“Heart in my stomach, woman in my arms, so otherwise fine.”

“Good.”

“Yes - quite.”

Then there are the private conversations Caroline overhears. Like the one where he informs a slimy potential de Martel client the two of them are “a package deal” and that she is “not one to be trifled with, disrespected, or undervalued.” Or another where he confesses to his sister, Rebekah, that they’d “be bloody lost without her here.”  

It’s how, any time they cross the street together, Klaus’s hand presses against the small of her back as if he wishes to offer another layer of protection. Almost like it belongs there.

It’s when, after a bout of flu descends like a hammer, leaving her phlegmy, feverish for days, and unable to work, a knock sounds at her door to reveal him standing on the other side. Looking sheepish, a shopping bag full of get well tea and medicinal items hangs from one of his arms while chicken noodle soup is Tupperwared in the other. To top it all off a fresh bouquet of sunflowers perches in the crook of his elbow, which he places in a vase with water before he leaves so she can rest. So she can recover her strength and faculties.

And even though everyone at the office whispers that Klaus only cares about himself, and about what comforts he can afford, Caroline knows he pays the secretaries’ bonuses directly out of his own pocket. He also offers use of his car service when the hour is late or the weather gets too dicey to walk to the subway, so he can’t possibly be that awful, can he? Can he?

                                                            _ 

These passing thoughts accrue over days, hours, weeks, to leave an imprint large enough to make her wonder. To have her questioning their so-called triviality.

Caroline hates to think it but - freaking hell - what if her friends are right? Is the in like vs. in spite line between her and Klaus really that thin, or is she only now realizing to admit so will change everything in ways she cannot begin to fathom?

Swipe left to descend into Emoville✔️

Swipe right for Distraction City✔️

(Both options suck equally for her, as it turns out.) (So she guilts Enzo into paying for drinks for the next three Saturdays and processes in true Forbes fashion: with lists a’plenty.)

[prairiesongserial]

12.7

Johannes was beginning to regret taking his shoes off. He had the thought that he was going to have to put them back on very soon, and the idea of hauling ass back to the truck with shoes full of sand did not sit well with him.

His mood was approaching a dramatic downturn - entirely his own fault. He had been tuning out the Catholic business. He hadn’t realized that anything was wrong until he’d noticed the way Weep-Not and her people were taking the communion wine into their mouths. Several of them that he could see had held it in their cheek rather than swallowing, an expression Johannes knew well from years of experience of hiding things (coins, jewelry, flammable liquid) in his own mouth. Seeing that expression on so many faces had stirred a feeling of alarm in his gut, and by the time the congregation was spitting out the wine, Johannes had slipped into the shadows beneath one of the beach houses, concealed behind its stilts and rotting lattice fence.

The wine was probably poison. Johannes had no real sense of what was going on here, but he was sure of that much. Even from yards away, he could see that Val had become unsteady on his feet, wobbling from side to side as though a strong wind could blow him over. Another moment, and the congregation was on him, covering him like a wave crashing over his head, making him vanish from sight.

Johannes held his breath, pulse pounding hard in his ears. The congregation broke apart again, shortly, to reveal the image of Val’s body lying prone and still in the sand.

A chill ran through Johannes, and he pressed a hand over his mouth, biting down hard into the meat of his index finger to keep from swearing out loud. This had all happened so fast, too fast for him to even realize there was real danger here. He couldn’t tell if Val was breathing, and hated the thought that this was his fault somehow, that he had taken the preacher out on a whim and managed to walk straight into trouble.

“Where’s the preacher’s friend?” someone asked from the beach. The congregation was milling about, taking down the table they had set up and giving a relatively wide berth to Val, now that he had dropped into the sand.

“I don’t see him anywhere,” someone else responded. “Should we look?”

“Not now. Get the false preacher into the boat,” Weep-Not said from somewhere nearby, close enough to make Johannes jump. He leaned a few inches out of his hiding space to see that she was ascending the stairs of the house he’d hidden under. “Sea-Mercy, go and gather the torches, as many as you can carry. Bring Joy-In-Sorrow with you. Fear-Not will take the first boat, with the preacher, and the rest of us will follow to the island. Wake the horses when you get there. I’ll bring up the rear, to make sure the preacher’s friend doesn’t follow. Fear-Not can lead the ceremony.”

Her voice was sharp, in a way it hadn’t been before. It had the hardness of someone accustomed to giving orders, and seeing them be followed. Johannes had gotten the sense before that Weep-Not was in charge, and he felt that even more now.

“Should we tie him up?” someone asked, from the beach, where several of the congregation members were still hovering over Val.

“No need,” Weep-Not said, dismissively. “He won’t be in his right mind until the fire starts.”

Heavy footfalls thundered over Johannes’s head - she was going up the stairs. 

Johannes felt a chill run through him. So Val was alive. Having that information felt worse, somehow, especially with the congregation - the cultists, Johannes supposed - talking about torches and false preachers. He was beginning to suspect that these were not the same people of Kill Devil Hills that his mother had put on revival shows for, but more than that, he was beginning to suspect that he was going to have to go to a disgusting amount of trouble to save Val’s life.

The cultists in Johannes’s admittedly limited field of view began to disperse, two of them grabbing Val and dragging him down the beach. Johannes imagined that there was a pier or a dock somewhere, given the talk about boats, and that he was going to have to find it relatively soon, to reach the island Weep-Not had mentioned. That would be the easy part, as far as he was concerned. All he would have to do was follow the shoreline, or the footprints that would assuredly be in the sand.

The hard part was the fire. For that, he was going to need a change of clothes.

Once he was sure the cultists had moved farther down the beach, Johannes eyed the underside of the next closest house, gauging the distance. It was probably about ten yards away, and he would be exposed for as long as he was sprinting towards it. Not ideal, when the houses themselves were tall enough to provide excellent vantage points for catching folks running around on the beach. But he had to move now, before Weep-Not came back down the stairs, and the houses were his only hope of cover when it came to getting back to the car.

Johannes didn’t give himself any more time than that to think it over. He ran for the next house, his feet kicking up the hot sand, and threw himself into the shadows underneath it. He was sweating through his shirt already, and there was what felt like a cobweb stuck in his hair, but that was something to worry about once he was back at the car. He crept to the very edge of this house’s underside, eyed the next one, and then sprinted again.

He continued like that along the shoreline, until he reached the head of the trail he and Val had taken from where they’d parked the truck. Hopefully the tall grass and weeds would provide cover - if not, he’d have to hope no one noticed him and sounded the alarm. Just in case, he took the trail at a run, still barefoot. Fuck the shoes. Putting them on would slow him down, anyway.

Sand sprang up under Johannes’s feet, stinging his eyes as he threw himself carelessly down the trail. There was a lingering voice in the back of Johannes’s head, a very practical voice that he was willfully ignoring, telling him that just driving back to camp would be much easier than going off and trying to play the hero, here. Who cared if he only got three-fourths of the Hemisphere bounty? That was still more than the circus made in a good year, even if Ezra was never going to let him hear the end of it for letting a bunch of deranged gentiles kill one of the only four people they were supposed to protect.

On the other hand, maybe this wasn’t about the bounty anymore. God knew that the visceral stab of fear Johannes had felt seeing Val’s body lying so still, possibly dead in the sand, had nothing to do with the bounty.

On a third hand, maybe Val would die and then Johannes wouldn’t have to think about the fact that this was no longer about the bounty. That might be nice, he thought bitterly.

The truck was exactly where he’d parked it, and Johannes threw himself into it, already unbuttoning his shirt as he flopped into the truck bed and landed hard on one shoulder. One of his buttons popped off and rolled away from the force at which he was undressing. He ignored it, tossing his shirt aside and wriggling out of his pants sitting down, not realizing until it was too late that he was now effectively sitting in the truck in his underwear. He hadn’t even looked for the clothes he hoped he had packed - but he did so now, approaching one of the costume crates on his knees.  

He was sure he had fire-retardant clothes around here somewhere, both for the fire hooping act and for setting off flashbangs to scare muties. He’d thought they were in the same crate as the priest outfit had been, but his search came up empty. Pulse pounding in his ears, Johannes searched the next crate, and then the next, feeling dizzy with the idea that he had been wrong, that he would have to save Val without anything to protect himself from the cult.

He searched the crates a second time, and then he saw it, a bright pink and gold bundle shoved to the bottom of a pile of costumes, with a pair of heat-resistant gloves folded on top. The gloves were utilitarian, made of thick, brown fabric, but the jacket was the same gold-sequined jacket he had worn on the first night he’d met Val, back in New Orleans. That was fine, Johannes thought, already thrusting his arms through the sleeves. This was shaping up to be a ridiculous rescue mission. Why not add sequins?

Johannes finished changing, throwing on his newfound pants and boots that were free of sand, twisting a colorful scarf into a headband to keep his hair out of his face. As an afterthought, he strapped on a pair of knee pads that had been clattering around in a box full of miscellaneous costume supplies. He wasn’t sure what he would need them for, or if they would come in handy at all, but who knew with cultists? They certainly detracted from the gold tassels on the fire-proof pants he’d chosen. When he finally climbed out from the truck bed, he was somehow even sweatier than he’d been when he’d started.

“Der mentsh trakht un got lakht,” he muttered to himself, setting off for the beach again. His pace quickly increased from a brisk walk to a jog, and finally to an all-out sprint. Man plans, and God laughs. Wasn’t that the truth.

The beach was empty when he returned. Johannes squinted into the sun and saw a procession of boats being rowed towards a dark shape on the horizon - the island Weep-Not had mentioned, he supposed. This all felt like a lot of trouble to go to for one preacher, like the  communion had really only been one step in a much longer ritual Weep-Not and her people had in mind. Johannes was beginning to believe that their previous church had not, in fact, burnt to the ground on account of a lightning strike.

He followed the shoreline like he’d had a mind to before, the wet sand sucking at the soles of his boots. The thought of having to row a boat was already exhausting him even before he saw the pier that jutted out into the water like an outstretched finger. There were still a number of boats cluttered around it, bobbing unevenly this way and that where they had been tied to the posts of the pier. They all looked old, crusted with dirt and algae, wood rotten with age. Johannes doubted some of them were technically seaworthy.

Someone was boarding one of the boats as Johannes approached the pier, and he was unsurprised to find that it was Weep-Not, now dressed in a flowing white blouse over her white dress. Something large was tucked under her arm, but Johannes didn’t spare it more than a glance - he hit the pier and broke into a sprint, knowing the heavy footfalls of his boots would both startle her and alert her to his presence before she turned around.

“Hey!” he said, sharply, hoping she would turn around.

She did. Weep-Not’s eyes were wide with surprise, maybe at the fact that he was there at all, or the fact that he was still running full-tilt towards her. Johannes didn’t stop, let the momentum carry him all the way towards her, and chopped his arm hard against her neck.

The clothesline made Weep-Not crumple to her knees on the pier as though she was made of paper. Johannes could hear her breathing shallowly and knew that he hadn’t knocked her out - which was a problem, if he didn’t want her to come after him.

“You’re lucky I don’t kill you,” he told her conversationally, not particularly meaning it. He picked apart a few of the knots lashing boats to the pier, and brought the ropes over to Weep-Not, who was just beginning to struggle back to her feet.

Weep-Not scoffed.

“If you were going to kill me, you would have done it,” she said, her voice rattling in her throat as little more than a wheeze.

“Oh, wouldn’t I?” Johannes asked cheerfully, grabbing Weep-Not’s wrists with the aim of binding them to her ankles, so she couldn’t walk. She struggled in his grip, but he’d gotten her windpipe good, and could hear her still struggling to get a full breath. He leaned down so that his lips nearly brushed her ear, grinning. “That preacher belongs to me. And if you think I’m about to let you and your people take him, you’ve got another thing coming.”

He double-knotted the ropes, and got up to see about commandeering one of the boats he’d already set free. Only then did the object Weep-Not had been carrying under her arm catch his eye. It was laying on its side on the pier - Johannes nudged it upright with the toe of one boot and was entirely surprised to find that it was a mask, made to fit snugly over one’s entire head and neck. It was crudely made out of twigs and scraps of driftwood, and Johannes couldn’t tell for the life of him what it was supposed to be, until he picked it up and found himself staring into the empty eye sockets of what was now clearly a horse.

“Huh,” Johannes said, turning the mask over in his hands. “I can work with this.”

12.6 || 12.8

[a-rebellious-waffle]

Humans are Wolves

Humans are oddities.

They are complex curiosities, like many-sided puzzles. They have a wide range of reactions to the same events, often depending on mood- they can survive incredible things and die from lesser ones almost on a whim.

Their society is strange in that it is not uniform. It is a mess of many different evolutionary paths. Different cultures will glorify and shame different things- for instance, those that call themselves Germans pride themselves on tolerance.

Their technology is incredible in that it is unusual. They achieved spaceflight long before they found fusion power. Their spaceships evolved from cylinders and cones into angular hexagons and rectangles.

Yet nothing compares to the ecosystem of the Human Marines.

They are an entirely unique evolutionary path that was forged by only the most eccentric of the Humans. The 'biggest' four nations of Earth- Russia, America, Australia, and Canada- seem to have all committed their unique nuances to the Marines. America committed their skill at arms and love of weapons. The Canadians, their insanity under fire and courage in battle. The Russians, their strength of mind and body, and the Australians- their borderline-insanity in everyday life, almost their culture.

They consume mild poisons for sport in 'drinking contests' and push themselves to exhaustion and physical pain in the name of their 'training.'

And this, these barbaric practices, they yield results that surpass anything the mightiest warrior race could do.

These Humans will charge across open fields against Hhrirth invaders and strike them down in teams of four. They will fight on and on and on, pulling stunts like jumping motorbikes in motorized patrols and strikes and parachuting out of spaceplanes to land behind enemy lines in 'hot-drops'.

And yet, as one is struck down and dies? Do they forget him as another casualty like the Shiaja or the Hhrirth and continue?

No.

This is where my main point comes in. Humans are pack animals. Humans are like Wolves. One wolf alone is dangerous, yes, but not a menace upon the worlds. He is little in a large universe. But the strength of the wolf is the pack. Humans in a tight-knit pack are powerful. They are incredible. They are hunters and killers but they are also scholars and wizards.

Humans 'scuttle their dead.' That is, they take their fallen comrades with them. One central tenant of the Marines is to never leave a soldier behind. They remember them.

Once I was on a tour of the warship HSS Martial. In the medical bay, I found four Marines giving last rites to their fallen comrade- a salute each, then being covered with the flag of the Human government. They were all very serious but none of them looked like they were grieving.

"How did he die?" I asked. One of them, a lady with red hair, told me. He had jumped on top of a grenade to save his squad and died when it exploded.

"I take it you would not do the same thing?" I asked rather foolishly. All of them shook their heads.

"He did what any of us would have done. He was just closer than most," one responded.

And this is when I realized how Humans work. They work in packs because they are strongest together. That squad lived because one man died- but that one man alone would not have fought and won the day. This is why Humans can charge across falling bridges and through failing airlocks to save those that they call friends. They know that without others, they are nothing.

They know that the strength of the pack is the Human, but they also know the strength of the Human is the pack.

[boogiewrites]

Choking On Sapphires 85

Characters: Alfie Solomons x Genevieve (OFC)

Title & Song: Breakdown

Summary: Genevieve’s behavior comes to a head and Alfie is forced to act as the harsh voice of reason. He's left to act in his personal life as he does in his business where he does the things no one else wants or is willing to. But he'd do anything for his Genny. Song is Breakdown by Tom Petty.

Warnings/Tags: Language. References to assault and violence. PTSD. Angst. Drug Abuse. Trauma. Self Hatred. Fighting, verbal and physical. 

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There had been a shift in the energy of the house after Claire and Genevieve’s altercation. Genevieve was trying to behave but finding it nearly impossible. The pull of the promise of relief from her medicine was too seductive to deny for long. Each dose was reacted to like some rare delicacy, with closed eyes and moans. She couldn’t control herself. Her mind was crowded with so much the more time passed. More memories and complicated waves of emotions she didn’t understand, left her feeling overpowered no matter what she did.

She was trying and it could be seen by everyone, but she would drop everything for her medicine and it was obvious there was still dependence there no matter how little they gave her. A nervous tick when it got close to the time for it, nose twitching and eyes fluttering, trying to stay still and waiting for someone to mention it because she knew she couldn’t first. Then she’d be given that look again, and she hated the humiliation that came with it.

She tries to fill the shame, the hurt and the anger with something. She studies, but that leads to headaches and a sore throat. She paints and the things that come out are dark and twisted and make those around her uncomfortable and worry about her. She dresses up, trying to see herself how she was, but it all felt like a sham. There was no confidence where it once lived. She eats and bakes, finding a productive distraction and gaining a slight bit of weight from where she’d lost it. But her appetite was still lackluster, the medicine saw to that. She wasn’t ready to try to add her former most favorite vice, sex, to the list but at least she could fathom the idea of it without becoming physically ill. Maybe things were getting better. But the voice in her head told her no as soon as the thought passed. That she was still very much broken and a failure, feeling slow in both mind and body still it was hard for her to be positive about anything. The depression was starting to set in.

With a memory that left something to be desired still, she’s grown the tendency to be forgetful. Clumsy and forgetful was preferred to hallucinating and passed out to everyone but her. The constant state of being aware of controlling herself left her exhausted most days and always on edge. She has the occasional tantrum, it couldn’t be helped, and with the lack of medicine given to help her calm down, it only made her angrier and fueled the fire of her fits. They were less often now, but more intense when they did happen. Big sweeping mood swings that took her wherever they wanted and she was was left to be used by her whims, whether the actions she took were something she wanted to do or not. They left her a crying mess. She only wanted to feel normal again. She didn’t know who this woman was that she’d become. She hates the anger she felt about her cravings for the medicine. She hates the flux of the ups and downs from it, but in her desperate moments, it’s the only thing that gives her some stability. She didn’t want to need it the way she did, another layer of anger born from shame. She felt weak and that was something she didn’t have much experience with.

On an afternoon spent dressing herself up for no reason, just passing time and listening to music to keep herself in good spirits she’s met with an undiagnosed stressor that had slipped between the cracks. A gossip hound by the name of Dorothy who did not have Genevieve’s best interests at heart. She was paid for information, not to tell that she was doing better. A saboteur sent in by one of the posh Jewish elite who did not approve of the Alfie and Gen’s underground lifestyle. Striking while the iron was hot and they were both at the most vulnerable they’ve ever been, Dorothy was there to make sure things didn’t run too smoothly for too long. Coming from the former biggest gossip in all of London’s employ, she knew how to stir a pot. And poor Gen, trusting those around her, as she had no other choice but to in her condition, never saw it coming.

“The horn section is lovely isn’t it?” Dorothy states, dusting around the gramophone.

The use of the word makes Gen’s nose twitch just as the maid knew it would. “Yes it is.” she answers with fluttering eyes and reaching for her large powder puff to fan herself with.

“I say, you’re looking rather glowing today, Miss. Like an inner light is coming out. I’m sure Mr. Solomons loves that you’re putting forth the effort in your appearance, hmm?” she makes casual sounding backhanded compliments as she moves around the room.

She sees Gen’s body language tighten and she keeps smiling as she works.

“You’ve put on some weight too I see. Filling out nicely. Looking healthy. All good things.” she chirps. “One would think there could be a little Solomons on the way with how you’re looking.” she gives an innocent scrunch of her nose and a kind smile. “Absolutely radiant.” she ends with a flourish. “And wouldn’t a baby be lovely? An excuse for all those sweets you’ve been making!” she lets out a light-hearted laugh. “Afterall, not many men would’ve stayed around through all this. You’re so very lucky to have Mr. Solomons. What a patient man.” she speaks softly.

“Yes. I am.” she mumbles, face turning downward now.

“Well, I’m finished in here. Anything else you need miss?” she asks putting a hand to Gen’s shoulder.

“No. Thank you.” she replies softly, eyes not meeting the maids, staring at her reflection in the vanity mirror.

“I don't care what anyone else says, I think you’re progressing just fine.” she gives a supportive nod. “Especially for what you’ve been through. My goodness. What a tragedy to befall such a woman who had such strengths. Surely a test. One you’re still working on mastering. We’re all waiting and watching...rooting for you Miss Durand. Have a good afternoon.” she says trotting out of the room, knowing the seeds were planted to make an eventful evening.

Every line had felt like a slap to the face for Gen. Every worry she had, some she hadn’t yet, all brought back out to the surface in a single conversation. If Gen had been herself she would’ve been impressed with the woman’s skill. Then she would have killed her of course for saying such things, but in this emotional state, she only felt sorry for herself. She looked at herself in the mirror. Were her breasts bigger? Was she getting too fat? Everyone was waiting for her to screw up again, she knew it. Apparently people were saying she wasn’t healing fast enough, but of course, they were. She wasn’t. And poor Alfie...he had been on the sidelines, merely a bystander in all this. It truly was a miracle he was still around. At this point he would be better off without her she thinks. She was only making his life harder.

Her eyes trail down to her stomach and she feels it flip with nausea. She had asked the doctor every time they were alone if her not bleeding was normal. There were no signs of pregnancy he said and the body can react wildly after trauma. That there was nothing he saw to worry about. But it didn’t stop the panic rising in her chest and bubbling up and out her throat in a choked sob. What if she was? What if a constant reminder of her weakness and this awful period of time we’re sitting right there. Taking root. It was her greatest fear and Dorothy had played into it seamlessly. All she had wanted before was to be pregnant. A happy accident, despite her timing the inward emissions of Alfie in her favor. Her mind had been all babies and happy thoughts attached and now it was of shame and upset. By far the biggest trigger of them all. She thinks of the children she’s seen. Wondering if they were a sign. Her dreams came true on occasion, so why not hallucinations?

Her hands clutch at the dress she wears, feeling sick rise in her throat. She gets intrusive thoughts of the time held captive again. Blood. So much blood. These were new, these weren’t her normal violent flashbacks, her eyes well up with tears and she starts to sob, feeling it all over again. Why was there so much blood she wondered? She feels it as if it’s real. Blood thick and caked on her skin, from her temples to her thighs, the sticky and awful feeling, the constant reminder of how battered she was. The constant worry there was too much of it, that was something was wrong with her. That panic takes hold of her and she starts wheezing, not catching her breath, holding her chest and gasping. She raises, wild-eyed and tries to make it to the bed to lie down, count like the doctor told her. But it was no use. This was too strong and she was too weak she thought. She knew what she needed.

She races in her tiny heels to the back innards of teh house to Aggie’s room. She’s in such a state she doesn’t hear Alfie calling for her as he sees her making a mad dash. Of course, his instinct is something is terribly wrong. And in a way it was, so he follows suit. He finds her on her knees with one of her hairpins in Aggie’s locked door.

His worry is replaced with hot anger, having to watch Gen give in and relapse in front of his eyes. “Gen!” he booms out and she doesn’t even notice. She barrels through the door and rummages loudly through Aggie’s things, finding the bottle of Morphine and finding it severely lacking in its contents.

She whimpers and whines, shaking it over her gaping mouth as she cries, mascara running down her face. She keeps wheezing, now at a total loss for how to handle herself.

Alfie barges in like a bull, one big swipe knocks the bottle out of her hands and it breaks against the wall. Her eyes turn large and terrified to him, but he doesn’t feel sympathy in the moment, only disappointment and anger. “Fuck’s sake Genevieve! Get ahold of yourself!” he says loudly as she cries, looking back over to where the bottle had broken.

“I can’t! I need it! I need it to STOP!” she wails loudly her head shaking back and forth dramatically.

“Gen!” he shouts again and she doesn’t stop, hands in her hair and groaning.

She was so desperate to make the fear and thoughts stop. But she just saw him there, silhouetted by that shifting yellow light over her. “I’m too weak. I can’t. I’m pathetic. It won't stop.” she pants, her face contorted into an ugly mash of pain and confusion.

“Get ahold of yourself woman!” he shouts, grabbing her tightly by the arms, making her stop hurting herself.

The rough handling of her snaps her from her self pity and kicks in her fight response. Her head snaps up, eyes dilated and black, intense as they glared into his own. “Don’t touch me!” she screams and struggles.

“I can’t fuckin’ trust you can I? Ya gonna fuckin’ hurt yaself!” he growls back as they wrestle back and forth. She was a lot stronger in the moment that he thought she could be in her condition.

“Stop it!” she fights back, kicking at him as he holds her up from falling and hurting herself, hitting something on the way down to the ground.

“No!” he yells angrily. “Look at you! Gen! Fuckin’ ‘ell girl CALM DOWN!” he roars, having to haul her back onto her feet.

She stops struggling and stands, face now full of betrayal as she shakes with the underlying anger.

“You need to get a grip on yaself Genny! Look at you! Why are you actin’ like this? Like a fuckin’ fiend! Are we going to have to lock you up next? Can you not be trusted anymore?” he asks with a low brow and harsh delivery.

“Let me go.” she demands, struggling against him mildly, her eyes looking more her old self in their fury.

“Fuckin’...NO! Why would I? Look at how you’re actin’! What is wrong with you?” he groans out loudly as her jaw clenches and she slaps him across the face, resulting in him very calmly letting her go and clenching his hands into fists at his sides. His nostrils flared and his eyes remained shut. He wasn’t going to hit her back. He wasn’t that sort of man. But she was bringing out the worst in him. They were bringing out the worst in each other.

“Don’t fucking touch me like that!” she shrieks, adjusting her dress. “I have a reason for acting this way! What about YOU?” she responds, shoving him out of the way and running off down the hall.

With her dress pulled high, she needed to escape. She needed out and away. She heads straight for the door, Joseph tottering after her as the staff had gathered cautiously to see what was happening.

“We’re going to London Joseph.” she announces with wild eyes and confidence to her face she hadn’t felt and no one had seen in some time.

“Miss I don’t think-”

“You are going to drive me to London or I will fucking DO IT MYSELF!” she screams as he hunches down and does as he’s told. What other choice did he have? “I’m not staying here. I can’t. I need to get out of my own head. I can’t stay. I can’t do it.” she mutters to herself, head shaking back and forth as they drive off as were her orders.

“Why are you just standing there! Go after her!” Aggie shouts in Alfie’s face, him standing where Gen had left him as he rubbed his temples.

“Send some of my boys after her. Watch her. We know what she’s fuckin’ doin’.” he shakes his head, his voice quiet and even.

“How are you so bloody calm?”

“Aggie... sweetie... calm is the last thing I am right now.” his voice was a deep hiss, his eyes almost hidden behind low brows. “But I...in my line of work have MUCH practice in withholding my true emotions. And I am using it to its full extent right now.” his jaw is tight, speaking through clenched teeth as he cracks his knuckles.

“But she’s ran away?”

“No. She’s going to get well pissed. That’s what she’s doin’. There wasn't enough of this fuckin’ JUNK to ease her and now she’s reverting to her immature behavior.”

“She’s not well Alfie, you need to remember.”

“IT’S ALL I FUCKIN THINK ABOUT YEAH?” he shouts in anger before composing himself and Aggie takes a step back. “I want to be so fuckin’ furious at her for this. I know I should be sympathetic. I know she’s not herself. But I am so close to just fucking off right now. And I know I don’t want to do that. And it’s all making me MORE angry because I can’t fuckin' control it. I control things Aggie, that’s what I fuckin’ DO. And I can’t her, right?”

“Neither can she. Remember that.”

“Oh, I do. And it just makes it worse.” he throws his arms up in the air. “I’ll go get her. Fuckin’... AGAIN.” he sighs and shakes his head. “I was prepared, yeah? To deal with the healing. I can grasp that. I can respect it. But this…” he motions to the broken bottle on the floor. “I’m having a bloody hard time respecting this.” he says with a groan. “This is just... weakness. This isn’t her. She’s not Gen when she’s on this shit.” he tells, walking around the bed and crunching the glass under his work boots. “There’s no more of this. Fuck that!” he says pointing to the same spot. “I’m done wif it. I ‘on’t care if the doctor says it’s helpin’, it’s fuckin’ not, right? Don’t get no more. Those are orders. You hear me? I know you’re soft Aggie but it’s time for some tough love for the old girl. Don’t ya think?” he asks, leaning over the small woman as she scrunches her face in a scowl. “This soft fuckin’ treatment innit doin’ a fuckin’ thing. She HATED bein’ coddled before. Remember? Do any of us ever remember fuckin’ BEFORE now?” he sighs and groans, rubbing his face.

“Yes sir.” she says coldly.

“Oh don’t give me that.” he responds with an aggressive nod. “Do you not think it’s time to reign her in?”

“I do. But I don’t like it.”

“Well, I ‘on’t fuckin’ LIKE it either! You think I want to be cruel to her? The woman I’ve promised to care for? To respect and protect?”

“It’s hard to tell with you lately.”

“Well, I fuckin’ don’t. But with someone like her…” he points in the direction Gen fled. “In a situation like this, perhaps sympathy isn’t what is needed. She needs a swift kick to the arse to make her see how she’s actin’. And I’m the only one what will tell her what she don’t wanna hear.”

“I hope you’re right. I’ll call the doctor and tell him no more medicine. In case she tries to get it herself.”

“Good girl.” he says giving her a strong pat the back and sauntering down the hall with hard steps that make his shoulder sway even more than usual.

-----

Genevieve had done exactly as Alfie knew she would. His men were out on alert for her in the city and they found her quickly. Out getting pissed at some east end shit hole where she didn’t have to pay for a thing.

“Alright. She’s had enough.” Alfie instructs, putting his watch back into his coat pocket. “Bring her out.” he orders with a flick of his wrist. “Be gentle but...make her. Try to appeal to her vanity. That usually works.” he states with a stern point of his finger to the lads given the job.

Gen, of course, did not want to leave. She didn’t want to see Alfie or hear about him or any man really. She wanted to be lost in the sounds and movements and be young and wild and free again. But the reality that she could no longer be any of those things, truly, would always come knocking. And in this instance, it was a few of the big boys of Alfie’s she knew. The muscle.

“Miss it’s time to go.” one says in her ear.

“No.” she declares defiantly. Like a child, really.

“Miss I must insist. We’re here on Mr. Solomons orders.”

“Fuck his orders.” she sass’s back and turns away and he takes her by the arm.

“We can take you out of here kicking and screaming but what would the gossip sound like if word were to get around, eh? So why don’t you walk out with us, and no one has to be any wiser as to what’s happening.”

She gives him a look that would normally make him worry, as he had heard about the things she’d done. “Don’t fuckin' touch me.” she growls, jerking out his grip. “Where is the bastard?” she spits out as she begins walking towards the door.

He waits, and it does take longer than expected. But there she came, mad as a wet cat, stomping, and hissing just the same towards his vehicle. She was uneasy on her feet, not stumbling but a drunken sway that told him he’d stopped her at just the right time.

He sits in silence, his hat on, cane in hand and posture straight as he makes her sit with her thoughts as they travel down the road. He eventually turns towards her and she’s pouting out the window.

“Gen, look at me.” he orders.

She, of course, doesn’t even acknowledge him. Sitting with her arms crossed and body language very clear she wanted nothing to do with him.

“Genevieve…” he warns. “Can you even hear me? Ya fuckin’ pissed innit ya?” he scoffs and waits.

She lets out a defiant huff through her nose.

“Fuckin’ look at me, woman.” he moves and takes her by the chin. He met with glossy and unfocused eyes and pouting lips. “Look at you…” he shames her and her lip quivers. “Fuckin’ mess.” he tsks and shakes his head. “Can you even respond to me ya little drunkard?” she speaks nothing and tries to move out of his grasp but he’s holding onto her too tightly. “Fuck’s sake Genny.” he presses his lips and sighs.

“I can.” she snaps back. “But what’s the fucking point?” she snarls.

“Because I asked you a fucking question dinnit I? Because you should explain this childish behavior. You’re not a fucking child. You’re not even that young, you’re a grown woman. You know better.” he speaks intensely but with a smooth delivery that makes her wants to slap him again. He was being too condescending. So patronizing it made her sick.

“Clearly I don’t.” she ejects back with a rough turn of her head that knocks her chin out of his grasp. He returns it slowly to the top of his cane.

“You’re some fuckin' junkie now and you’re just gonna give up? One bad thing happens and you just roll over and let your jellied brain just fuck you, eh?” he delivers harshly, knowing the words would hurt her, but it was his role to put the wild thing in her place before, and it only made sense he’d be the one now. He could handle her hating him. More people hated him than liked him, it wasn’t a bother to him. He knew that if she’d see a true relfection of herself, that she’d thank him one day for the honesty.

“One thing?” she shouts. “One fucking thing?” her voice cracks with emotion as she begins speaking with her hands. “My life has been nothing but bad things Alfie!” her voice was exhausted. ”One after another. Every fucking day!” she turns on her knees and screams at him. “I was there for DAYS, the things they did to me?! And you want to say it was ONE thing?” her French accent comes out, her finger pointing in his face as she let go of all that was building up inside her that the Morphine wouldn’t let her feel or communicate. “When you know how I was raised? What my father and his friends did to me? The kind’ve men I’ve had to get close to? The shit I’ve had to eat because of being a woman. ONE THING?” she screams in his face.

“And what good is complainin' and throwin’ a tantrum like a fuckin' little girl gonna do, eh?” he keeps his calm, and it makes her angrier. He should be as upset as her she thought. It wasn’t fair he got to be unbothered and she was left a mess.

“Fuck you Alfie!” she barks, sitting back and crossing her arms, looking out the window.

“I’d rather hear that then you feeling sorry for yourself.” he snarks with a raised brow. He was proud of her, actually. This was the most she’d talked about what had happened. She needed to feel these feelings, get them all out and that medicine had stopped it, stunted her and left her in an emotional purgatory.

“We can’t all have steel traps up here can we?” she replies, tapping her temple “We can’t all be fuckin’...made of stone and just push forward no matter what happens. Some of us are SOFT and FEEL things.” she answers with a quieter voice, but that did not mean she was less angry.

“If you think I don’t feel things you’ve not been payin’ attention.” his voice even, and lips pursed.

“So your reaction to my problem is to shake me and shout at me? To give me barked orders like a dog?” she questions incredulously.

“You haven’t listened to anythin' else.” he gives her a side-eyed glance and he can feel the heat radiating off her towards him.

“What else have you tried lately Alfie? Huh? I don’t even remember when I first came home, and I don’t remember you being soft with me once as of late. You’ve just given me that… fuckin’... look.”

“A look?” he answers a mild chortle.

“Yes like that! Like a disappointed father. Like you don’t even want me anymore. I’m just some burden to you.”

“Genny this behavior is a burden for a man like me.” he speaks plainly and it cuts her like a knife.

“Then why don’t you just fucking leave? If you hate me so much?” her eyes welling up with tears now, the anger shifting into hurt.

“I don’t hate you, but you’re actin' like a daft cu-.” he sighs. “I don’t hate you. If I did I wouldn’t be here right now. I wouldn’t have been dealing with the things I have for you... from you.” he answers with a curt tone, his hand laying out his point as he spoke.

“Do you think what a woman like me needs right now is cold indifference?” her head shakes back and forth, in disbelief at how he was speaking to her.

“I don’t know what the fuck you need any more to be honest. This whole thing has turned you into someone I don’t know.” his eyes were more honest now, she recognized it.

“I could say the same.” she glares back, hiding the swell of emotions inside her. She didn’t want to break down again. She didn’t want him to have the satisfaction. And that was exactly what he had wanted out of her. He didn’t care if she had to use him and spite for him to gain the want to control herself. He just wanted her to control herself.

She sulks the whole way home, the anger fading, turning to sadness with the tiredness that overtook her body. He followed her into the bed room, as if nothing was wrong.

“Why are you staying around me?” she snaps as he sees the softness in her face.

“Because I have to, love.” he replies as he takes off his coat. He knew another flare was incoming.

“Why are you being so mean?” her hard exterior breaks and tears start to fall.

“You want to know? Truly? Can you handle it Genevieve?” he asks with a mean face that shows so sympathy for her tears.

She nods, “Yes. I can.” she says defiantly through tears.

He takes a deep breath and gives her the truth. “Because I just want my Genny back.” he admits with a shake of his head. The brief softness in his eyes making a sob bubble up in her throat. “I don’t know who this drugged up woman is that runs off in the middle of the night.” his voice lacked bite, but still felt harsh as it came out. “You did it once, and I was sympathetic, your sister passin’ ‘n all. But not with this. Not after all this time.” his face hardens, straightening his posture and looking her up and down, judging her. “You’re smarter than this Gen.” he says with exasperation. “You aren’t who I agreed to be with right now. And I just fuckin’ want some relief, I just want my Genny back, love, that’s all.” his brow was hard, his words even more so as they hit her in the chest like a kick.

“I am your Genny.” she sobs, voice so small. Her heart was broken, her faults laid out plainly for her to see. She could no longer ignore them. “I am. I’m just... I’m…” she breaks down and begins to cry. The fog she’d been in gone, the cold reality of her behavior hitting her now. Feeling every little thing, most importantly shame for the right reasons for the first time since the incident.

“But you’re not though are ya?” he leans towards her, his face still cold to her. “You’re not her right now, sweetie. Cause my Genny? She wouldn’t do any of 'is.” he motions to her, half bent and sobbing into her hands as he begins to walk away to leave her to her catharsis.

“I am your Genny!” she shouts and her voice breaks and cries, tears and snot and the whole mess, months of backed up and delayed revelations coming at her, feeling alone and ashamed. She watches him leave the bedroom as she calls out, not seeing the hurt on his own face for putting her through this. But he knew it had to be done, it was his role to be the one to do the things no one else wanted or could.

He sleeps in his old room that night, giving her time to wail it all out. And she did. She cried herself sick. But she didn’t drink, she didn’t ask for medicine, she didn’t ask for anything. She sat in front of the fire, thinking about the past few months and let out everything in wails and sobs. A cleansing she’d desperately needed.

——-

The next morning Alfie's conscience is weighing heavy. It didn’t happen often and he hated the feel of it. But he’d slept like shit and heard her crying all night and had to deal with the dirty looks from Aggie and Claire as he rose from the spare room. He wanders into the kitchen, asking for Genevieve’s favorite tea and sweets. It isn’t questioned and he shuffles his way to her room with the serving tray balanced in his hands. House shoes scuffing the stone floors while his pajamas slicked together from the soft fabric Gen insisted on them being.

She’s asleep in the floor, laid out on pillows and blankets in front of a dying fire. Her hair was covering her face and most of her body, a silk nightgown just visible underneath the veil. He stokes the fire and feeds it, then standing over her and clearing his throat, causing her to stir.

She whines and rubs her face, pushing her hair out of the way of seeing before focusing her eyes on his shoes.

“Oh.” She says sleepily, “It’s you.” She lets him know she wasn’t too keen on seeing him.

“I brought ya your tea and biscuits.” He offers in a friendly voice. Much more polite than anything they exchanged the night before.

“Thanks.” She grumbles, pulling herself off the floor and onto the couch.

“Would you like me to make your tea? Fetch you a robe?” He inquires.

“No.” She answers quickly, moving to prepare her tea herself. “I don’t want to be fucking coddled.” She forced out through a smart tongue.

He doesn’t find himself annoyed at her behavior. Even though that was clearly the case for her towards him. She was a crumpled, sickly looking mess but she was indeed herself. And that’s all he’d wanted. He’d missed that spark, that justified emotion, even anger towards him. He knew she was feeling more herself with her demand and he felt a small glimmer of hope.

“How are you feeling this mornin'?” He inquires with a tilted head her way.

“Like hell.”

“You do favor it, sweetie.” He says with a rub of his chin.

She raises her eyes in a glare his way but finds his face not aggressive. ”You look just as well Alfie.” She snarls back.

“I’d not only agree but say I feel much the same.” He nods and purses his lips I’m hesitant agreement.

“I’m going through withdrawal and dealing with a bastard of a ma What’s your excuse?”

“Dealing with a woman going through withdrawl and being a right bastard.” He retorts.

She actually felt inclined to smile at the remark. That would’ve been the first in months. The first non-drug induced one anyway. Normally the comment would’ve been met with a laugh and a little pinch of the cheeky man. Perhaps even a kiss for the self-deprecating humor. But all he saw was a flash of sarcasm in her eyes, but that was indeed enough to satiate him for now. A “Mmph.” nodded is all he is given in the meantime.

“Do you need anythin' this mornin'?” He asks cautiously. She always asked for her medicine with breakfast when it was not freely given.

“No.” She sighs out, teacup resting on her thigh. “I’m afraid I don’t have an appetite for much of anything else anymore.” Her voice is even but her hands shake. Her color was poorly, dark circles under her eyes and a pale complexion. A light cast of sheen from sweat on her skin. Her stomach growls and she rubs it with a wince. “Just send Aggie in. I’m feeling rather weak in the absence of the medicine and I’ll be taking to my bed today I believe.” She rises and puts the back of her hand to her mouth for a moment, nausea sweeping about her insides.

“Will do, love.” He says with a polite bow. “Any cause to call the doctor?”

“No. There’s nothing he can do for this.” She shakes her head. “I’ll just have to suffer until it’s out of my system. And what is more suffering for a woman like me?” She shrugs and looks his way. She was tired, bless her, in so many meanings of the word.

“It is nothing for a strong woman.” He states supportively.

She lets out an amused laugh, a single forced exhale of “Ha.” A scoff really. “When I see one I will be sure to give her my problems.” She rolls her eyes and rubs her stomach again as it growl and squeals.

“Mirrors in the bathroom.” He motions and she shoots him a side-eyed glance. “If you need me further I’ll be only a phone call away.”

“I won’t require you.” She answers curtly, not looking his way. It was the first time she’d not pouted when he mentioned leaving.

“I will be home for tea. Perhaps you will feel up to having it with me?” He questions as he moves toward the door.

“Perhaps.” She calls out in response. She pauses in the bathroom doorway as he does the same to the hall. “Perhaps not.” She says with a shrug and an almost sarcastic face.

He only gives her a nod in response, shutting the door behind him. He should’ve felt a burn of her being cold. But he didn’t. He knew she’d be mad with him for some time. But he was ready to weather it. She could be as angry as she liked, didn’t matter to him. Not when their well being, their business, and her recovery were at stake. He’d take all the anger from her in the world to get his Genny back.

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[ofindcmitability]

the umbrella academy au ( landon )

              + @frcmashes @geminislegacy @chosenlonely @enflamedxtouch 

       on the 12th hour of the first day of october 1989, 43 women around the world gave birth. this was unusual only in the fact that none of these women had been pregnant when the day first began.

         will always thought of himself a proper freak. actually to be more proper, a second-generation freak. his father being the first and one of those children born on that date.

         funny thing about jack. he started up the evil league of villains. not their actual name, no, but might as well been. there was klaus mikaelson, kai parker, katherine pierce, (so many freakin k’s) and of course, malivore. all of them provoked some kind of terror, they were all mass murderers and all that. but malivore was by far the most mysterious, no one even knew his true name. funny enough, they all had kids too. sort of, at least. there was klaus mikaelson’s daughter, ironically named HOPE. kai had his two nieces, twins ran in his mother’s family and he and his sister jo had melted in childbirth. legit, MELTED. while she had an affinity for ice, her twins were somehow born with her brother’s flames. they melted her. katherine pierce had a daughter named nadia but will had only met her a handful of times, she was a bit older then the rest of them, and onto much different things then listening to her mother (her mother, will would note, who looked younger then her). then there was landon kirby. the newest edition to their supervillain parent club.

          hope knew him a bit, she told him as much. said landon could be TRUSTED. the thing was though, will struggled with the whole trust thing. he trusted the twins and hope with his life, and with the plan to FLEE. a plan they had been building towards since 3 years ago when they realized they couldn’t escape their parents otherwise. if landon allowed it to slip that they’d been planning a runaway there would be hell to pay. hell for will, that is.

          klaus mikaelson had a kill count larger then some towns populations, but he would never allow harm to come towards his daughter. kai would come after the twins with an axe if the mood striked, but that was because he was a psychopath, it was without actual malicious. then there was jack, who had malicious in every mood he made. they didn’t know though, not the extent of it. will couldn’t allow them to know, to try and help. he couldn’t let them risk themselves for him. he’d rather run away and never turn back.

          what he didn’t need though was some loser ruining this plan.

          “he needs us!” hope insisted to him, and well fuck him when hope mikaelson set her mind to something how was he supposed to say FUCK NO and expect not to be punched for such efforts?

           “i don’t even know the kid, and you don’t know either.” will pointed out (and he was fairly sure this was the third time they had this discussion). “how could we trust him? he’s an unknown entity.”

           “to start with on the many reasons you need to hear me out, he’s not a kid. he’s my age.” a single year older, woopty doo (though, somehow, hope having that extra year and experience made her their impromptu leader, among other reasons.) “he’s been through hell and i... i actually knew him a long time ago.” he’s been through hell and she didn’t rescue him. those were the words will read in what she spoke. hope mikaelson and her damn hero complex. “we could trust him, he could-”

             “okay.” there was no getting in her way, will could see it. it was a uphill battle and he would LOOSE.

             plus there was something nice about seeing that satisfied smile upon the shorter girl’s face.

               “so you must be will then?” ugh, he hated socializing. though will reminded himself, he’d be practically living with landon if all went according to plan. better start getting used to him.

                “yeah, thats me.” he nodded, and then landon offered his hand was that something people did? ( yeah, he didn’t have much experience with people beyond the trio of girls and super villains. )

               “you’re supposed to shake it.” landon prompted, though he seemed almost unsure of saying so himself. will stared for a moment, hesitant. then, he reached, and he gave it a light shake.

               landon chuckled. it was a bit awkward, yes, but it was... wasn’t horrible.

                then, he heard lizzie saltzman let out a proper GROAN. “why does your hair have to look so much like a sponge?” she asked of landon, only for hope to slip a hand into hers and instantly the girl soothed. she was nervous, will could tell. he knew lizzie saltzman well. she’d been his first and only crush, his first kiss. and maybe there would have been something if she wasn’t so horribly in love with hope mikaelson. hope mikaelson who returned her affections and became an absolute mess when lizzie turned on the charm.

               they were cute, and will was happy for the girls. though he and josie did sometimes make barfing sounds when they were being lovey dovey to the GUG degree.

              lizzie would flip them off.

              fuck, will didn’t know what he’d do without them. he didn’t know who he’d be with only jack’s influence, without the girl’s he called his family. and now there was someone else part of that family, someone else to protect. and protect them, he would.

              “so tomorrow they’ll be leaving to rob a bank.” hope began. “i overheard my dad talking about it. that is when we move.” they had to be gone when it happened, whether it was love or possessiveness, the kids were all too aware their parents wouldn’t be happy with them leaving.

            when hope said the words ROB A BANK. it didn’t mean an actual robbery, but rather an outing. their parents were hush hush on the horrible deeds they commited, so lizzie in her greatness decided ‘yeah, they’re probably robbing banks. ski masks and everything.’

             so yeah, robbing banks.

              “so, i uh, i know i’m the new guy,” a groan from lizzie, a chuckle from hope and an eye roll from will himself.

              “we really are prepared for this,” josie piqued in. “and if you don’t think you could handle this and need to stay behind that’s fine but--”

               “wait wait,” landon interrupted, a chake of his head. “not what i was getting at, i was moreso gonna say we should ya know... prepare.” prepare, and it was said in such a way that landon had been through this before. huh. “maybe we could make back backs and hide them? hope filled me in, that we have money-- but money won’t last forever and we should prepare. food, blankets, lighters, everything that we might need and could carry with us. i mean... we will be on the streets, roughing it. and it’s better then being here, but still. we need to be prepared for it.”

               “oh my god, you were a trashcan baby.” classic lizzie saltzman, truly. still she was probably right. landon spoke like he had all too much experience in the narrative of it.

                “guess you didn’t tell him everything,” will had figured hope would fill him on it.

               hope gave a shrug. “i was meaning to, it just didn’t happen yet.”

               “okay, so what am i missing?” landon asked, bewildered.

                once more, josie spoke up. “her name is penelope. she’s second-generation just like us... and she’s going to bring us to our dad.”

                 alaric saltzman, their savior. a man who wanted to be in his daughter’s lives til their uncle stole them away on a whim. according to josie, he contacted the twins three months ago. that was when the plan fell into play. alaric had resources, and since his daughters were two fo them, he did all the research he could. apparently he was in touch with something called THE UMBRELLA ACADEMY, and they would protect them. all of them. they just needed to get the destination pick up point first.

                  so it went remarkably well. they did actually pack, because the journey to the umbrella academy would be a few days and they were on foot. he knew the girls well but landon... landon was a constant surprise. it was weird, having pleasant surprises by someone. landon was all sorts of weird but... will found himself enjoying it.

                  it was their third night, and tomorrow they would arrive. at least, according to josie’s calculations. for the past two nights they had managed to boy two motel rooms, and yes he kept sharing with landon. landon who snuck, of all things, candy into his bag. who kept asking will if he wanted any. and will, who always said, sure.

                then josie checked how much they have left and apparently it worried her. she wanted to be safer, spend less. thus, one room this time. the three girls squeezed into one bed together (poor josie, will thought, or maybe poor lizzie and hope. unable to get it on with josie right there). but it left he and landon to share a bed. funny thing was though, will hadn’t shared a bed with someone ever before. and when a tired landon rolled onto him he hadn’t had the foggiest what to do. so, he fell asleep, and hoped that upon waking up the situation would resolve itself.

               it did not.

              they were snuggling. and it was... nice. actually. really nice. huh.

             “disgusting.” that was a voice whispered in his ear, one that sounded remarkably like jack. except it wasn't in his head, oh no- a knee was his chest, forcing him down--- making him stay. then jack was reaching over and no no no--

              the thing was, about jack. he was remarkable in many ways. knew ways to kill so many people, knew how to use so many weapons, but when it came to it his power was basically his favorite thing.

               death touch.

               his hand clasped landon’s throat, and landon’s eyes flew open. and will--- he’d known landon less than a week. it was stupid, they were barely even friends. yet, as the life drained from his eyes, will felt like the world was ending. no more stupid jokes, no more awkward pauses or candy. no more offered candy. no more landon.

              will SHRIEKED.

             he heard the sound of the sound of one of the girls falling off the bed, and then jack was jumping back because there was FIRE and will--- fuck, was he sobbing? he’d never done that before. not even on jack’s worst days. he’d never shaken like this before, unable to stop, unable to breathe---

              “will.” hope said, taking his arm and pulling--- but no, he couldn’t leave landon’s body-- no-- “will!” hope said again. his eyes connected with hers and the sight of her felt so damn blurry. the world was fucking spinning. “give him a moment.”

             a moment? a moment? for--- a large GASP, came from the boy before him. landon sucked in air as if he hadn’t breathed before, well, this WAS his first breath after dying.

            “oh my god.” landon’s blue eyes connected to his, and despite the fire, despite the death, despite it all, he smiled.

            “hey.”

            “hi.”

            epilogue i’m too lazy to write: wll uses his own killer touch to knock jack out, (hope fought him for a bit btw, she has preflex). they make it to alaric and the umbrella academy. it’s not happily ever after, but it is better then it was before. and will has landon now. he’s happy.

[snootysith]

Chapter 3 (5/5) Note: [Enter Vowrawn, the bastard.]  Vowrawn and Gravus’s less than stellar relationship come to light. (Warning: emotional abuse.)

- Check the notes for links to previous installments -

* * *

Brandy splashed directly into Gravus's face.

Unsmiling, Vowrawn held up his now empty snifter, waiting impatiently as Gravus mopped up the dripping mess with his clean glove. At least Gravus had the prudence not to speak though he looked for all the world as if Vowrawn did geld him, forcing him to refill his glass like one of his many servants. As well he should. 

Gravus handed him a fresh drink, eyes averted, tight-lipped, bracing for another faceful of bitter retribution, and Vowrawn let him stew with that for several long minutes before he finally took a sip.  

“Where do I begin?” he asked. “Better yet, where do I end this?”

Gravus’s jaw clenched.

“Go on then. Explain yourself.”

“It was the heat of the moment.”

An ugly emotion threatened to crack Vowrawn’s expression. “You are a mongrel. He is not a bitch you can mount and mark. You’ve ruined–”

“I have already apologized–”

“Fat lot it will do to me! You will apologize to the boy!”

“He should apologize for striking you–”

“– Because you were arsed to restrain yourself!”

A touch of color rose from Gravus’s neck as his temper warred with his hard-won restraint. “Now Khomir…”

“You've robbed me of a perfectly agreeable orgasm. My patience is thin, Maximian.” Nothing put anger in the heart of the mighty Darth Gravus than uttering his birth name, stripped of prestige, an everlasting reminder that he was another mere mortal. He’d have the whole galaxy believe he sprung from the emperor’s head fully formed if he could.

“It really could have been much worse.”

The gall. Vowrawn had half a mind to marry him just to divorce him again. “Max…”

“Don't you start.”

“How long will it take for you to break this habit, hm? Another fifty years?”

“Old habits–”

“Shall I gag you? Will that make you behave?” Vowrawn demanded. “The boy is here as my guest. For as long as he stays under my roof, I extend every courtesy including personal safety and at least a modicum of respect.”

Gravus gave a short bark of laughter, high and cold. “Do you fear I’ve painted you a liar? You're proficient at that without me. When have you ever truly cared for your pets?”

Oh, the man could still make his blood run hot. Vowrawn loved and hated him for it. It was so easy to shed pretense and sling his words at him without the silk cushion; to be gloriously and hideously real for once. There was something about it that made him giddy, made him snort and laugh as he hooked deep into old scars and tugged.

Max was so smug, standing there with his arms crossed, smiling like a tomcat. He always acted like he was above it all, wanting to pretend that he outgrew his instincts, escaped his ignoble upbringing but Vowrawn knew better. It always came down to him mopping up the worse of Max’s mistakes and he had the audacity to take all the credit as if Vowrawn hadn’t scooped him out from nothing by the grace of his generosity.

Horrid. He was always so horrid and spoiled rotten and callow and so bloody ungrateful. But Vowrawn forgave him for it. Adored him for it even. Because he cared, don't you see? Of course I care. I married you, didn't I? Four times. That you were incapable of mastering yourself was a shortcoming of your own design, fickle, stupid Max. Why did you have to gnaw on the damn boy? Do you know how much time, how much effort– don’t you dare speak over me. 

Perhaps you weren’t worth the time and effort. 

Perhaps I have finally outgrown you.

Thundering silence answered Vowrawn.

Gravus trembled, inarticulate, apoplectic with rage, his muscles coiled tight as if poised to strike, and mercifully, finally, Vowrawn threw back a mouthful of brandy to chase down the last of his spite before Gravus forgot himself and the night went from bad to worse.

Vowrawn sat at the foot of the bed and patted the spot beside him.

It seemed for a moment that Gravus would object but he moved, albeit slowly, resentment rolling off him in waves as he sat down an arm’s length away. Sighing, Vowrawn bridged the distance and cupped Gravus’s taut jaw, tilting his face into the light and observing every spot and dusky vein, old and new, that littered the landscape of wizened flesh. Oh, his Max was far past his prime but he was a hard habit to shake once bitten. In more ways than one. The scar on Vowrawn’s shoulder was testament of that.

“Max…” Vowrawn’s voice softened to fond exasperation. “I tolerate your insolence because you deserve some respite from your search. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you still haven't found Thana’s replacement. The boy can be our happy middle ground." He glanced over at Cytharat’s prone form.

Gravus drew back, his eyes narrowing. “I get your leftovers? That is your brilliant solution?”

“Don’t be cheeky with me. Not everything I do is malicious, you know. At least one of us has the capacity for affection.”

“Laying the blame at my feet again? As if you are perfectly innocent? I wasn’t the ‘corruption’ that merited an entire faction to resist your appointment to the Dark Council! And I certainly did not dally with the son of my would-be assassin on a whim!”

“What the boy doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Vowrawn said dismissively. “Without me, he would no doubt follow his father into an early grave. Without me, you wouldn’t have been able to rein in that hideous temper. Who helped you cultivate the image of a cold-blooded dignitary, hm? Who elevated you from a mere merchant’s son?”

“Yes, because you did so purely out of the goodness of your heart and not to thumb your nose at your parents," Gravus retorted. “As if you trust another man not to stab you in the back when you're frisky.”

A vision took shape in Vowrawn’s mind in that precise moment, crimson, ludicrously tall, and prickly, and his mouth closed into a tight smile.

Gravus’s expression hardened. “Who is it?”

Vowrawn said nothing.

“Who is he, Khomir?”

Vowrawn’s smile only widened, wicked pleasure thrumming in his blood.

Minutes ticked by. Korriban turned on its axis. Cytharat whimpered in his sleep. And Gravus stared at him, his breath quickening, his eyes dark and unfathomable, and Vowrawn waited impatiently for him to react– to strike him or hurl abuse so that Vowrawn could take a face for an eye.

Instead, Gravus rose from the bed, silent as his moniker, straightened his robes and left, the Force twisting in a maelstrom of anger in his wake.

Perfect bastard.

His perfect bastard.

Setting down his glass on the floor, Vowrawn moved further in the bed until he sidled beside Cytharat, his arm propped up to rest his head as he observed his tranquil face. So much more well-behaved. Perhaps too well-behaved but, unlike Gravus, open to change.

Vowrawn smoothed back Cytharat’s hair and pressed a kiss to his forehead. It was time for him to tuck in as well. Not here. Never here. The bedchamber served as pageantry. Comfort was found in his office and so he padded out the door in only a bathrobe, passing by servant and apprentice alike in the hallway without a care, and curled up in the plush couch that Qet– dear thing– lugged all the way from his office in the Citadel.

He slept as well as he ever did, light as a feather. But the incessant chime of the office door at the crack of dawn did no favor to his mood as he lifted his head from the armrest cushion and blinked owlishly in the gray-blue light.

If it was Qet, he would twist his ear and make him run laps around the circumference of the planet five times. If it was Gravus– fifty laps.

It was neither.

“I apologize, my lord, for accosting you so early in the morning,” Cytharat said, eyes lowered. “But it is imperative that I speak with you.”

Vowrawn leaned against the doorframe and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, barely able to suppress his annoyance. Cytharat expected him to hold his hand and be the perfect, attentive host but he could hardly find his face before his first cup of milk tea let alone summon the patience to answer a deluge of questions after Gravus scattered it to the winds.

“Step inside,” he said. “I’ll have a small breakfast sent over.”

“I do not intend to overstay my welcome,” Cytharat said as they settled into the couch.

“Your trials are as good as finished, are they not?” Vowrawn asked. “Or have you come to miss your overseer’s hospitality?”

Not even a hint of a smile.

Vowrawn’s mouth thinned. “Allow me to apologize on Darth Gravus’s behalf. I should have dealt more firmly with his imposition and now…” Though Cytharat was fully dressed, there was no missing the raised outline of a bacta patch on his shoulder. They’d have matching scars in a few day’s time. “If it still brings you discomfort, I have a medkit on–”

“No,” Cytharat cut in. “Or… or rather, yes it does but a medkit is not necessary.”

“Don’t be silly, it’s but a trifle. I’ll just be–” Vowrawn moved to rise but for the second time, Cytharat’s hand shot out to grab his wrist, halting him and throwing another log into the fire of his rising displeasure. Goodness gracious, hadn’t the boy learned never to look a gift plesine in the mouth yet?

“I tolerate the pain.” Cytharat’s fingers twitched nervously. “Permit me to speak freely, my lord. And then...” He took a deep breath. “And then we will see if I deserve succor.” He was determined then to suffer, to wallow in his agony in some misguided attempt to impress him. Who was Vowrawn to deny him anything? “I have been thinking about the future. My future with you and it has led me to wonder about many things.”

“Such as?”

“What am I to you?”

Vowrawn cocked his head. “An initiate with raw potential. A Sith pureblood with impeccable tastes. My guest.”

“Do you intend to make me your apprentice?”  

There was a strange intent in his eyes that Vowrawn could not quite put his finger on and he grasped for clarity, his awareness shifting gears, sharpening and concentrating on Cytharat’s every sideways glance or twitch. He was missing something important. “Have I given you reason to believe otherwise?” he asked.

“I do not– I do not know. An apprenticeship means carrying out the will of my master and learning how to better myself by their example. Anything more than that is unfamiliar to me. Are those… acts we performed together expected of your apprentices?”

“Do I treat Qet as I treat you? Is that what you are truly asking?” Was it shame? Did the boy spend too much time alone fiddling with his moral compass? Perish the thought.

Cytharat held his eyes and said nothing.

“No,” Vowrawn said. “I’ve never bedded him. Not once.”

There was a flash of surprise in Cytharat’s expression. “The way he acts–”

“He has always been protective of me. I find that to be an admirable quality, don’t you?” Though it wasn’t for wholly selfless reasons. Romance didn’t enter the physical realm for Qet but Cytharat didn’t need to know that.

“How long has he been your apprentice?”

“Let me see…” Vowrawn hummed thoughtfully. “I brought him out of the academy right around the time that Ord Mantell business began so that would put it at… seven– no, eight years now. My, how time flies!” He noticed as Cytharat gave a start. “Is something the matter?”  

“I– I have never heard of apprenticeships lasting so long before.”

“I suppose. But Qet has always been a special case.”

“Doesn’t he deserve to grow into something more?”

Something was wrong. Something had happened. Something before the unpleasant events of last night. Cytharat was not nearly this intuitive to the finer details. He had carried a similar air of melancholy during dinner before Gravus’s untimely arrival, one that Vowrawn had attributed to the rigor of academy life but now he wasn’t so certain.

Vowrawn wore his best smile and edged closer to Cytharat, wrapping an arm snug around his waist. “Tell me what really troubles you. You know I hate to see you so unhappy.”

Cytharat fell silent, emotion warring in his eyes, but it wasn't long until his courage returned. “There has been much weighing on my mind of late.” He reached up to touch his right shoulder but flinched away at the last moment. “I must be more than myself, much more, and follow the Sith Code in both letter and spirit. Only then I feel I can restore my family’s honor but I... I forget myself when I am here.”

“Is that so terrible?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I– I mean, it is possible that…” Cytharat took a deep breath. “You have provided endless generosity and kindness but now I must ask for something more before I ask my final questions: your honesty.”

Vowrawn gave a short, incredulous laugh though it quickly tapered into a polite cough at the sight of Cytharat’s earnest expression. “Of course, dear boy.”

“Who is Darth Scelero?”

“Wherever did you hear that name?”

“My lord, please.” There was a thread of desperation in Cytharat’s voice.

“Darth Scelero was my predecessor,” Vowrawn said with a quizzical smile. “The former head of the Sphere of Production and Logistics and a fuddy-duddy that could give Darth Marr a run for his money. Is something wrong, dear boy? You’ve gone rather pale.”  

Cytharat swayed. “I heard whispers about you and your rise to the Dark Council. You must understand, there is much I do not know of the circumstances surrounding my father’s demise a–and if even a kernel of truth exists in these whispers then I will have it for myself.”

Dear, oh, dear.

“At dinner, when you left to deal with your relic, Darth Gravus spoke of the target of my father’s mission. That he was a candidate for Darth Scelero’s seat on the Dark Council.”

Vowrawn hummed noncommittally as he considered several different methods of drowning Gravus in the toxic sludge of Taris.

“I mention this… I mention this because… because…” Cytharat’s fingers curled and uncurled. “Because I wonder if that candidate was you, Darth Vowrawn.”

There it was. Someone had planted that seed in his pretty head, someone with enough clearance or clout to unearth that precious bit of history he’d squirreled away. 

Vowrawn embraced Cytharat and tucked his head under his chin, ignoring how his body constricted at his touch. “My dear boy, who has put such hideous thoughts in your head?”

“Is it true?” Cytharat blurted. “I did not believe it. I did not wish to believe it but my father was a devout patriot whatever his crimes and he told me– he told me he operated under the auspices of the greater good, to expunge corruption from the Dark Council–”

“There were many candidates for Darth Scelero’s seat and yet you accuse me of corruption? You wound me. After all we’ve shared together, am I so low in your esteem?”

“That does not answer anything!”

“Do you not trust me?” Vowrawn asked softly.

There was only the sound of Cytharat’s shaky breathing in the stretch of silence that followed and Vowrawn took the time to bury his nose in his hair, breathe his scent, and steal several winks of sleep while the young man collected his thoughts. Reason would win out, of course. Cytharat had to see the benefits of an apprenticeship under his tutelage outweighed any misgivings. It wasn’t as if he had concrete evidence of what transpired all those years ago and to allow his conscious to carry him aloft through the Empire was nothing short of madness.  

Finally– finally– Cytharat lifted his voice. “You have been most gracious to me. Any acolyte would be honored to have you for a master–”

Oh, don’t you dare.

“– but I do not think that I am worthy of being your apprentice.” Cytharat quickly added, “That is to say, I believe the Empire would benefit more if I applied myself to a different Sphere.”

How fortunate that Cytharat could not see his face nor the glimmer of something truly magnificently ugly. “Which Sphere did you have in mind?” Vowrawn asked, calm as a dead sea.

“I–” Cytharat was a loss. “I… I don’t know yet.”

“Defense of the Empire perhaps. Darth Marr has a veritable army of apprentices but he has an eye for these things. He always delivers the best Sith. Would you like that?”

“I... I think–”

“Ah, but what am I thinking? Expansion and Diplomacy!” Vowrawn went on as though Cytharat hadn’t spoken. “Granted, it takes skill to pacify Ravage but you can manage that. Of course you can. No mincing words here since Ravage does love playing war. Well?”

“I think…” Cytharat raised his head and finally looked at him, mouth pursed, golden eyes wide with uncertainty. “I think I should leave now, my lord.”

Of course, because one pet running away from home wasn’t enough. “Already? Wouldn’t you like a bite to eat first?”

“No.” Cytharat rose to his feet, letting Vowrawn’s hands fall away from him. “No thank you. I need to… sort my personal affairs. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me and spend time with me. I had expected—” He shook his head but as he turned to leave, Cytharat was not nearly quick enough to see the smile vanish from Vowrawn’s face.