#the other half is with all the earnestness of a golden retriever

[late-to-the-party-81]

Finders Keepers - Chapter Four

AN: How are we enjoying it so far? Feel free to inbox me or screech in a reblog/tags. Any predictions? Anyway, welcome to Chapter 4. Everything that happens here was supposed to just be the first half of the chapter, but it ran away with me, so I’ve identified an extra prompt and upped the chapter count of this story by one. This unbeta'd chapter is from Bucky’s POV. 

Likes are loved, reblogs are golden.

Dividers by @firefly-graphics and moodboard by me.

Bingo Fills - @buckybarnesbingo Square C1 - Hydra

Join my tag list here

Master list | BBB Master list 

Chapter Three

Relationship: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Chapter word count: 3.8k

Chapter CW: Bucky Barnes POV, angst, protective PepperRhony, hand-wavy sci-fi and computer stuff, canon typical violence, Hydra, feels.

Chapter 4 - The sins in my wake

In Potts’ Diner

Bucky schooled his features as you glared furiously and hurled your meagre stash of credits at him. Did he feel like the world’s biggest douchebag? Yes. Would he do it all the same if he had to do it again? Probably. Because no matter how frustrating you were, how much of a thorn in his side you were being, the truth was that it would be too easy to let you in. You were clever and funny. Resourceful and focused. And far too good for this life. If he didn’t make it hard for you, you’d fall even further in and he knew from personal, painful experience that no good came from going down that road.

You spun on your heel and stormed out, and Bucky watched you go. It was only when the door closed shut behind you that he moved, using his feet to nudge the credits on the floor into a pile and then retrieving them. He stacked them up on the table and then stood, only to find the three owners of the diner staring at him, scowls plastered on their faces. The hostess - tall and willowy, with strawberry blonde hair - stepped forwards, arms folded defensively across her chest. Her two husbands - the shorter server with sharply trimmed facial hair, and the tall, serious looking cook - crowded at her back.

“I don’t know what game you are playing with our girl,” she cautioned him, “but it stops now.”

“I fail to see how this is any of your business,” Bucky growled back and tried to shove past them. The cook stopped him with a firm hand to his shoulder.

“It’s our business because we say it is,” he replied, firmly. “That girl is like family to us. And we don’t let people hurt our family.”

Bucky didn’t even hide his eye roll. “Really? The shovel talk? You know who I am, right?”

The server, whose badge announced that his name was Tony, stepped into Bucky’s personal space and jabbed a finger into his chest. “Of course we know who you are, wiseguy. It’s only because of your normal, sparkling reputation, that we haven’t thrown you out yet. But this is your one warning. Leave her alone. She’s had it tough and doesn’t deserve to be treated like shit by you.”

Bucky wanted to retort that you weren’t the only one who’d had it difficult, but in the end all he said was “I know,” then he pushed past the trio and out into the mid-morning light. All your credits, more than were needed for the check, sat on the booth table.

Bucky still remembered the first time he met you. Although he hadn’t shown it at the time, he’d been impressed with how you’d managed to get past his forcefield. In fact he’d only noticed your presence by chance. If he’d been at one of his other sites he’d have been none the wiser to your invasion. Yes, he’d been irritated by the fact you were there, but that was more with himself for obviously not having adequate security, but the rest of his attitude? Well that was all down to a more visceral reaction to you. Because you were just so god-damn open and earnest, and he’d known what you were going to say as soon as you opened your mouth. 

But Bucky Barnes didn’t do partnerships. He’d been burnt by that before and he just couldn’t risk it all going wrong, especially with someone as sweet and innocent as you seemed to be. And, in any case, you shouldn’t be down here, with the likes of him. You should be living higher up, in one of the towers, zipping around in a personal transport vehicle above the mist.

Any hope that he’d harboured after that first meeting that you’d just back off was short lived, because two days later you were back, practically sniffing out the edge of his territory, slow and cautious. His sensors and alarms tipped him off to your presence and he went up to one of his favourite high spots to observe you. You’d then impressed him once more by somehow sensing his gaze, working out where he was and then giving him a mock salute before turning back the way you’d come.

Over the next few days you’d worked out the size and shape of the area he claimed, and each time you also identified where he was observing you from. Again, Bucky hoped this would be the end of your curiosity, but it wasn’t. You were testing him, and away from prying eyes he couldn’t help but smile and be amused by your antics. The truth was that sometimes you were actually getting in and out without him noticing - he’d only realise later when he reviewed his sensor logs and saw the discrepancies.

Part of him knew he should stop you for your own good, but then he’d imagine the satisfied grin on your face when you’d thought you’d gotten away with it, and it made a part of him, long thought dead, warm. Maybe you would be okay? Maybe this life wouldn’t grind you down, chew you up and spit you out? Maybe one day he would be brave enough to let you in?

Then the rumours started - rumours of Hydra’s return to this part of the city. 

After the botched grav-train robbery that had left a guard dead and Bucky mutilated, Pierce had ordered Brock and his goons to withdraw and focus somewhere else. Too much attention had been drawn by the discovery of the still warm corpse at the next station. Luckily Bucky’s accident hadn’t been linked to it - he’d just seemed to be the victim of an unfortunate accident and the city security hadn’t questioned him too much. He’d been found by some passers-by and Bucky himself had been hazy on the details when interviewed at the hospital. He’d been on his own after that. Ma had passed away a year before his accident and then, because he wasn’t able to look after them while recovering himself, Becca and Ruthie had gone to live with an Aunt and Uncle upstate. He hadn’t seen them since, although he did send money. They were better off without him.

It was only with the clarity that came with a near-death experience that Bucky realised how bad things had gotten with Hydra, and how deep he’d gone with it. At the beginning, as a lost boy on the cusp of manhood, the gang had seemed like the answer to all his problems. Mr Pierce had acted like a kindly uncle, praising him and ruffling his hair whenever he achieved whatever task had been set for him. Brock, Jack and the others had seemed like brothers and cousins. It was all so exciting. But as the years went by the jobs got harder and less ethical, and there were physical reprimands for failure. Brock displayed a cruel, capricious streak, taking pleasure in meting out punishments, but by then Bucky thought it was just normal. He hadn’t signed on for murder, though, and while he wished he hadn’t lost his arm, he’d never regret getting himself out of that situation.

His recovery had been slow but he was able to use money he’d originally squirrelled away for Becca and Ruthie to pay towards his prosthetic. However, he’d still been in a mountain of debt and had started off doing odd jobs like fixing electronics just to make ends meet. Fixing items soon evolved into finding items, and it wasn’t long before he’d built up a reputation for being fast and fair. As bad as Hydra had been, being with them had given Bucky some valuable skills, and it seemed only right that he make use of them now to help not only himself but the local community.

He was a self-made man now and if the Hydra gang thought they could waltz back in and pick up where they’d left off six years ago they had another thing coming. However, he was mostly worried about you. You were still in the game and there was no way he wanted you to fall prey to Hydra’s clutches. He had no doubt that they’d approach you and try to pull you in. He also thought that you’d probably tell them to go to hell, but the problem was that he also knew that they wouldn’t take no for an answer. There was nothing else for it - he’d have to force you out and fast. No more mister nice guy.

He sighed as he walked away from the diner and headed back home. He’d known you’d been lying yesterday about not finding what you’d been after, and it hadn’t been hard to track you this morning when you went to deliver the PADD. He hadn’t even had to really follow you. Having identified where you lived early on, Bucky knew you’d come back after you’d made your delivery and probably celebrate with a proper meal - it was exactly what he did. All he had to do was wait by the closest diner to your apartment block. Hopefully now you’d get the message - back away from Finding and start over in another line of work that wouldn’t attract Hydra’s notice. You’d be safe and Bucky wouldn’t be distracted while trying to run Hydra out of town.

It was that plan he started to work on as he neared his home. He needed to check his sensors and vid-feeds, and then talk to some associates about any sightings of Brock and his boys. He unlocked his door with his thumb print and shucked his leather jacket, letting it drop onto the scruffy easy chair in his main living space before making his way over to a wall of monitors and consoles. He’d programmed his computer to search for sightings of Hydra symbols in the city camera system and there had only been a few over the last couple of weeks. 

There were several today.

With a rush of anxiety, Bucky’s fingers flew over the main console, bringing up the sightings on a map. His heart sank into the pit of his stomach. They were all on your side of the city, and in fact the one with the most recent timestamp was just around the corner from the diner, on one of the routes towards the apartment building where you lived. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

He spent the next several hours working through the code and finding his way through the firewalls to get access to the full camera network. Once he was in he had to find the right feeds, a task that was far more arduous than he’d anticipated and his jaw ached from clenching it while he worked. Finally though, he found what he was looking for - the camera that cross-referenced with his own sensor readings - and he downloaded part of the recorded feed. Turning to another monitor he started to watch it and his blood ran cold at what he saw. As he’d thought, you hadn’t joined them. He’d anticipated that upon your refusal that Brock would just kill you, but he didn’t. They stunned you and took you instead. Maybe they had hopes of ‘persuading’ you. Maybe, and that thought turned Bucky’s stomach, they were just going to play with you. Either way, you were still alive and if Bucky had anything to say in the matter, you’d remain that way. However, he had to find you first.

Bucky went back over the last few weeks of sensor readings, and started a correlation algorithm. It was strange that there were no sightings after you’d been taken. Using the camera system he managed to follow Brock and the others for a few blocks, but then he lost them, and no other camera’s picked up the symbols on their jackets. They’d gone from subtle to obvious and then back again and he couldn’t work out why. It was as though they knew they were being tracked and were taking steps to hide their movements apart from when they were taking you. What could they possibly gain…

His thoughts suddenly crashed to a halt, piling up one behind the other as realisation washed over him. They wanted whoever was watching to know they had you. 

You were the bait. 

For the watcher. 

For him! 

They wanted Bucky to come find them. If that was the case though, there had be clues as to where they were actually hiding out.

The computer chirped, signalling that the algorithm had finished analysing all the sightings. Bucky looked over the results, and smiled slyly. He knew where they were. He knew where you were. He ran his eyes back over the information to be certain and then pushed his chair back harshly, standing up. He grabbed his jacket again and then a pair of stunners, checking they were both at full charge and then set off. There was no time to lose.

Bucky walked briskly. It would take him about an hour to get to the warehouse he’d identified as Hydra’s current HQ and Brock had had hold of you for far too long now. He dreaded to think what might have been done to you and his left hand whirred as it tightened into a fist. He might only have brought stunners with him, but he was willing to take more permanent action if required. The sky darkened as he walked, and he was thankful for the cover that it would give him.

As he made his approach, Bucky slowed down. First he had to walk around the outside of the building and work out the best way of getting in. He’d need to act swiftly when he did get inside - neutralise the threats and get you out safely - so being cautious now would pay off in the end. Bucky spent another thirty minutes reconnoitring the warehouse and by the end of it had a good idea of the layout. At one end of it there were lights on in a few small offices and Bucky could hear low, deep voices coming from inside. The other end of the building was dark, but he could hear the low hum of an active forcefield. That was probably where you were, but it was also the part of the building furthest from any entrance. Off to the side was the main warehouse area, but it didn’t appear to be in use. 

Having circled the building and identified there was only one viable entrance Bucky realised he had no choice - he’d have to go into the area where Brock and his boys were, take them out and then find you. He worked his way back around and positioned himself in the shadows to the side of the door. 

There was a camera above it, the red power light blinking regularly. Bucky knew that if he tried getting in with brute force, he’d be spotted easily and lose the element of surprise. Therefore he’d just have to wait.

He hated waiting.

Time passed in a haze as Bucky stayed pressed against the side of the building. The only sound was the background hum of the city and the only illumination was the glow of thousands of neon lights reflecting off the clouds and the light streaming from the two warehouse windows. Eventually the door slid open and one of the Hydra thugs stepped out, heading straight towards the city. Probably to go and get food, Bucky thought. He acted fast though, moving silently and swiftly from his place to slip in through the open door before it slid closed again. He sighed with relief when he saw the unmanned surveillance station, and crossed to it quickly. There were only two camera feeds active - the one above the door he’d just come through and one that was pointing at a cell. There you were, kneeling as close to the forcefield as you could get, switching your gaze between the dimly lit corridor and the camera itself, as if you were trying to work out how well you were being watched. With the press of a button he cut the camera. If you were watching that closely hopefully you’d know something was happening - that you’d know he was here and coming to get you. Now it was time to deal with his former gang.

It wasn’t hard to find his quarries. Light spilled out of two rooms, offset on opposite sides of the corridor from each other. Bucky stopped outside the first, and listened. He identified at least three voices coming from inside, one that he recognised and two that he didn’t. None of them were either Brock or his second in command, Jack. They must be in the other room, but he wouldn’t be able to get past this one without being seen. He’d just have to deal with it. Bucky un-holstered both stunners, took a deep breath, and then jumped through the doorway.

There were five occupants in the room. Two went down before they even knew what was happening. As the other three turned and stood, Bucky dove across the room to take cover behind a desk, knowing that the stunners’ whine would have attracted the attention of whoever was in the room on the other side of the hallway. Chairs and tables were upturned as Bucky’s immediate adversaries made their own cover. A different pitched whine sounded and a scorch mark appeared on the wall above his head. A phase pistol and it probably wasn’t set to a low setting either. He’d have to make every shot count.

Another deep breath and Bucky stood, aiming in the direction the phase pistol shot had come from. He hit his mark but saw another goon take aim from the corner of his eye. He twisted his body and the pistol shot glanced off his left arm. There was some feedback through the prosthetic which stung, but luckily didn’t actually do him any harm - there had to be some upside to having a metal arm after all. He turned back and hit the shooter, centre mass, on the highest stun setting and the guy went down.

“Barnes!” A voice roared from the doorway and Bucky hit the deck, curling up behind his inadequate cover as shots littered the wall behind him. Rumlow had entered the fray and he obviously wasn’t happy.

“Not glad to see me, Brock?” he called out.

“You’re the one who came in here, all guns blazing. Doesn’t seem like you want to talk,” came the gruff reply, although the pistol fire came to an unexpected halt.

“What’s a little stunner fire between friends?” Bucky snarked back, all the while listening for any movements that might help him identify how many people were left standing and where they were.

Rumlow snorted. “We ain’t using stunners.”

“So I gathered.” There was barely a heartbeat between Bucky answering and standing back up, stunning the last of his original opponents, satisfying himself that only Rumow and Rollins remained and then ducking back down to avoid the expected hail of return fire.

“The problem with  stunners, though,” Rumlow drawled as he carefully stepped forwards, “is that they run out of charge mighty quick, especially on their highest setting.”

Bucky waited in a crouch behind the desk, muscles poised, because Rumlow was right. His stunners were out of power and now all he had were his wits and his fists. However, Rumlow was also predictable and as soon as his shadow started to loom over Bucky’s cover, Bucky shot up, knocking Rumlow’s right arm, and therefore the pistol, to the side with his own left arm and then punching Rumlow directly on the nose with his right. 

Rumlow staggered back, momentarily blinded and Bucky vaulted over the desk, taking advantage of Rollin’s own disorientation to crack him across the jaw with a metallic left hook. Rollin’s head snapped back and his eyes rolled. He was unconscious before he even hit the floor. Dazed, Rumlow shook his head, droplets of blood splattering over the floor from his broken nose and he dropped his pistol before raising his hands and gesturing for Bucky to come at him.

“You wanna be the big man, Barnes? Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Bucky cracked his neck to the side and then circled his left arm to re-calibrate it. The servos whirred and he couldn’t help but grin at the slight flash of concern that passed over Rumlow’s features.

“Worried, Brock? You’re the reason I have this arm, so you only have yourself to blame.” Bucky surged forwards, jabbing out towards Rumlow’s bloody face with his right fist, but his former friend just blocked it. However, in doing so, his body was left exposed and a reverse jab to his ribs left the big man winded.

“That train guard didn’t have to die,” Bucky bit out, realising that this was the first time since the accident that he’d seen Rumlow to confront him over what had happened.

His former friend wheezed at him through a bloodied grin. “He was in the way. And people in the way are always disposable. Just like your girl. Let me tell you, she’s a feisty one. You know how to pick ‘em. Cries so prettily as well.”

Bucky knew that Rumlow was trying to goad him, get him riled up so that he made a mistake, but he couldn’t stop the veil of rage that settled over him as he heard the man speak about you. He didn’t know yet what had been done to you, or what state he’d find you in. His feelings must have been writ large over his face because the smug bastard couldn’t resist taunting him further.

“She seemed to think that you didn’t actually care for her, but I knew she was wrong.  You wouldn’t be here otherwise. What have you been doing with her? Staying away out of some tortured sense of nobility?” He spat a mix of blood and saliva onto the floor. “You’re too soft, Barnes. You gotta take what you want in this life and damn whoever gets in your way. You’d still have two proper arms if you’d just accepted that sometimes there’s collateral damage.”

“Brock? Shut the hell up.” Bucky renewed his attack and the two men fought savagely. Rumlow was older and more experienced, and Bucky wasn’t able to block every blow - including one that glanced off his right cheek bone and made him see stars - but Bucky had years of repressed rage and a prosthetic on his side. Thinking back later, it was as though he entered some kind of fugue state, where he was acting purely on basic instinct, but when the world suddenly became clear again he realised he was straddling Rumlow’s unconscious body, beating his face bloody. 

Bucky pushed himself away and up in disgust. The man was barely breathing, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He had to find you and get out of here. The first guys he’d stunned would be coming round soon and the one who’d left might return any moment, and he didn’t really want to go hand to hand again if he could avoid it.

Exiting the office, he turned down the corridor that would lead to the forcefielded room at the other end. As he jogged down it, he could hear movement, but he couldn’t place it. It wasn’t the regular sound of someone walking or running, but more like an irregular stomp. Then he rounded a corner and saw you, clinging to the wall and hopping as fast as you could. He didn’t know how you were out of your cell - the hum of the operational forcefield still filled the air - but somehow you were. He sped up, desperate to get to you but could only watch as you lost your balance and tumbled to the floor. Desperate sobs reached his ears, and Bucky swore his heart ached from the sound.

“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this, doll,” he said softly. “I’m getting a sense of deja vu.”

You turned on the floor and when Bucky saw the relief flood your features he couldn’t help but fall to the floor and pull you into his arms. You fitted as though you’d been made to be there. When your quiet voice wavered out a stunned “You came for me?” Bucky felt something inside his chest crack open. He pulled you in, just a little bit tighter, and whispered into your hair “Always, doll. I’ll always come for you.”

Chapter five

Tag list: @christywrites, @alexakeyloveloki, @wolfsmom1, @doasyoudesireandlive, @sonatabee-blog, @goldylions, @galactusdevourerofworlds, @apenny4thots, @km-ffluv, @wheezy-stucky, @mrs-illyrian-baby

[lavenderbexlatte]

day 7: in the club

kard 2.1k words female reader insert Reader x Matthew Kim (BM) x Kim Taehyung (J.Seph) NSFW

🖤 warnings: semi-public sex, penetrative sex (f receiving), getting it on w/ ur homeboy, threesome~ 🖤

kinktober masterlist

connect with me! / masterlist

Eventually, one of them will give up.

It's worked out like that the one or two other times you've been pursued by more than one person in the club. At some point, one of them sees you with another and gives up. Easier than ghosting, less confrontational than trying to explain that you found someone else. Problems take care of themselves, in this context.

So you enjoy the attention of both men, one on each side of the crowded club.

The first man is a playful, solid-built guy with clear features and a pervasive air of shyness, despite how bold he's being with you. His ears and neck drip silver jewelry, and his denim-on-denim is distressed black fabric from his fashion cap to his designer sneakers.

He dances with you, a gracious amount of space between his body and yours even as his fingers sneak into your back pocket, and he doesn't say much. You like him, though, as much as you can like a random guy in the club.

You think you'll be going home with him, until you cross the club to find one of the friends you came here with, and your attention is caught all over again.

The second man is huge, tall and broad and masculine, dressed in loose leather pants and a plaid shirt over a tank top that hides nothing of his chiseled physique. He talks an awful lot, slang and bad jokes and insistence that he buy you a fresh drink - right into your hand from the bartender, safe and respectful - and then hold it so that no one fucks with it.

He's class-clown attractive, fuckboy attractive, but he's so sweet and earnest that you wonder how he was given a Doberman face with a golden retriever soul.

They're both excellent options, so you don't really care which one ends up scaring off the other. It'll take care of itself.

You weave your way back across the packed dancefloor, back to Cap Guy from Tall Guy. Cap Guy is right where you left him, leaning against the wall, sipping from a half-empty beer.

If this next set doesn't have a song that you like, you might just ask him back to your place right away instead of heading back out to dance. You're getting kind of tired, and you could really use a night like this.

But as you reach Cap Guy, a hand on your shoulder lets you know that you've been operating with unfortunate tunnel vision.

You did not notice that Tall Guy has been following you.

And here he is, right behind you, looking clean over your head at Cap Guy.

They're looking at each other with an expression that you can't begin to understand, something like understanding but also a twinge of what you swear is humor. Cap Guy is nearly grinning.

"I..." you start, unsure if talking will help but unable to stop yourself. "I'm-"

But Tall Guy cuts you off. "Dude."

He surged forward and meets Cap Guy's outstretched hand in a high-five so resounding that you can hear the slap of it over the bumping club music.

"Wondered where you'd been all night, bro, this is nuts," says Tall Guy.

"Should've known," Cap Guy replies.

"You two...know each other, then," you say weakly.

Tall Guy leans fully on Cap Guy's shoulder, comfy and relaxed. "Sephy is, like, my best fuckin' friend."

They're best friends.

"You have good taste, no lie," he adds.

They don't seem mad, which is a relief. You wouldn't want two big guys pissed at you for two-timing them. But you're still in for an awkward departure, here. So much for problems fixing themselves.

"Still," you say, forcing as natural a laugh as you can, "Still, a little weird. Sorry."

Tall Guy looks at Cap Guy - Sephy? "Weird? S'it weird?"

"I should be heading home soon, anyway," you excuse.

Hopefully they'll give you the graceful out, and not make a scene about the fact that you've been-

"Home? Already?" asks Cap Guy.

"Yeah, yeah, my friend was looking a little drunk, and-"

"Means you don't wanna have any more fun with us?" Tall Guy asks.

"Us?" you echo, nonplussed.

"Unless you're not down for that," says Cap Guy.

"Us, like..." you point back and forth between the two of them.

Cap Guy nods. Tall Guy is just watching you, tongue poking between his teeth in a dangerous grin.

You're dumbfounded, which means honesty falls right out of your mouth. "I did not think that would be an option."

Tall Guy laughs. "C'mon. I know a place."

He charges off, cutting a clean path through the clubgoers with his significant height. Cap Guy shakes his head, and leans into you, a gentle hand urging you forward after his friend.

"Matt is just like that," he says. "If you're down, though, he does kind of know a place."

"Matt," you repeat.

"Matthew. Or Matt. And you can call me Seph."

They sound like codenames or something, fake names, but you're not about to press them about it.

Matt weaves his way around one of the large circular platforms around the dancefloor, the last one before the dark hallway that leads to the bathrooms and back of house. There are two gorgeous go-go dancers on the platform, young women in complimentary outfits and dark makeup, and as Matt passes, he reaches upward. One of the girls, all shaggy hair and long dagger nails, looks at him, looks at you following behind him, and daps him up.

"Don't make a mess!" she yells, deep voice carrying from her podium.

The other girl, a vision in a tiny skirt, rolls her eyes and waves at Seph as he leads you past.

"Friends of ours," Seph tells you needlessly. "They work here, so no worries about getting...interrupted."

You wonder what you've just gotten yourself into.

'Knowing a place' turns out to be something more like 'being aware of the employee lounge.'

That's what it looks like, at least; a closet-sized room with a mini fridge, a half-broken neon sign with beer logo on it, and a busted couch. Two sets of handbags and cosmetic pouches and spare clothes on a table to one side suggest that maybe those two go-go dancers use this room. It explains the demand not to make a mess, anyway.

"S'okay with you, right?" Matthew checks again, as you tentatively step into the little room.

"What? This?"

"Yeah. We ain't about to pressure you into nothing."

The atmosphere is tense, loaded. This room is right next to the bathroom, right down a very short hall from the dancefloor. The music is still loud in here, thumping bass through the walls and the same kind of hazy air as in the rest of the place. It's dark, it's just slightly too warm, and it's so small that you're already pressed to Seph's side.

It's new. It's exciting.

Not to mention that both of these guys are so incredibly hot, you don't quite understand how you got both of them in here with you.

"Yeah, I'm good," you say.

Matt grins again. "Then what're we waitin' for?"

You expect him to make the first move, considering the difference between his personality and Seph's, but you're mistaken.

No, it's Seph who has the door slammed shut and your back pressed to it in an instant, one of his arms propped over your head and the other holding you by the chin, strong hands but gentle grip. He's completely blocking your view of Matt, which is just as well. A hand sneaks over and takes the cap off Seph's head, revealing messy brown hair that falls into his eyes.

Better for you. Nothing in your way, as Seph tilts your chin up and kisses you, firm and certain but still so gentle.

When he pulls back, you can see Matthew again, looming, wearing the cap backwards over his bright blue hair. He looks far too pleased with the scene in front of him, and suddenly you're self-conscious, ducking forward to hide your face in Seph's collarbone.

Music still shakes the walls, the beat quick and loud. Maybe reggaeton.

"Still good?" Seph asks.

You feel the question in his chest as you hear it, something reassuring to the solidness of him, and despite your nerves, you answer, "Yeah."

"Good."

He turns the two of you around just for more hands to catch you, Matt's grip firm on your waist, guiding you one, two, three steps back before he sits heavily on the couch. You follow him down, and his ridiculous height and musculature means that he has you arranged just right, straddling his lap, before you even know it.

You can't help but consider that their comfort comes from experience.

How often do they do things like this?

You voice that question, tentative under Matt's intense gaze, and he laughs. "'S' happened. Y'know. Whenever it seems like a good time."

Unhelpful.

"What's a broship if you haven't seen each other naked, anyway?" Seph adds, and Matt laughs again.

"Speakin' of..."

A brow quirked, he goes for the hem of your top, and it's with a few words of encouragement and a brief retreat to be able to wrestle buttons and zippers that you find yourself stripped to your underwear and back on his strong lap.

"This isn't seeing each other naked," you point out, when your senses return.

Both of them, the one beneath you and the one hovering within reach, are both still fully clothed, and it makes you a little self-conscious.

Matthew nods. "You're so right."

He takes Seph's denim jacket by the back collar and yanks it down his arms unceremoniously, far cry from the way he's handling you. Seph shrugs the garment off, nonplussed.

It's taken in turns from there. Matt's flannel shirt, the undone belt and popped button on Seph's jeans. Your bra, leaving you still the most exposed by far. Matt's pants, finally, but amusingly, not his tank top. Your panties.

"Still only me," you complain again, when you're fully nude in the thick air of the lounge.

Grinning, jostling you on his lap so that you can feel the shape of his hard-on against your thigh, Matt takes Seph's cap off his own head and puts it on you, instead.

"There."

Maybe it's the sweet, silly gesture, or maybe it's how Seph's expression changes just a little bit into something hungry and fond, but suddenly, you're not nervous anymore. It's your turn.

Back against the door you go, standing, pulling Seph close, and guiding him to press you against the thin wood.

"I wanted you, first, anyway," you tease, loudly enough that Matt protests from back on the couch.

A glance proves that he's not bothered in the slightest, though, lounging just how you'd left him, hand dipping into the waistband of his boxers.

The cap doesn't fit well, but Seph adjusts it on your head anyway as he tugs his jeans down - not off, but down just enough...

As he's sliding home - an easy slide, too, you've been worked up for ages, hours - with one hand holding your thigh up over his hip and the other bracing himself against the door so that his weight pins you there, half-suspended, it happens.

The doorknob turns, fruitlessly, since there's a fair bit in the way of it opening.

The music is still pounding outside, the quick eight-count of what is most definitely reggaeton, but much closer than that, you can hear a woman's voice.

"I wouldn't if I were you," Matt calls.

The doorknob stops moving.

"You're not serious. In my club?" the girl on the other side complains.

"So serious," Seph adds.

There's a noise, maybe a scoff, maybe a gasp, at how close his voice is.

"We're busy, Minny, take your break later," says Matt.

"Busy," she said, venomous, the voice of an exasperated sibling.

All the while, of course, Seph has been pumping into you shallowly. Torturous, in your opinion. Extremely unfair. You'd prefer not to embarrass yourself right now, but he's leaving you without many options.

"Tell her," Seph says, and after a second, you realize he's looking at you, talking to you.

You blink at him.

"Tell her how busy."

It doesn't even cross your mind to say no.

No, instead, you try. "We're a - a little b- ah!"

The last part is a garbled moan, too loud and half-swallowed at the same time. It's Seph's fault, a well-timed, deep-and-dirty grind into you, pelvis against your clit for just a second, and you really can't help it. You hear the girl on the other side of the door sigh, resigned.

"Come to the bar when you're done. Drinks are on the house, for dealing with these two." With the way that Seph is all but holding you up now that your legs threaten to give out, the way that Matt is standing now, watching with unabashed hunger in his face, you think you're definitely going to take her up on that.

[extrasteps]

30 and 74 - DNF

George scowled at the rude email he’d received the night before from his client. He’d been stewing over it all night, and it didn’t look any less annoying in the cold light of day. Not even the grande vanilla bean creme frappuccino that was currently sitting next to his mouse was enough to cool his ire.

He took a long drag of the sugary goodness and then set it down, cracking his fingers before resting them over the keys.

“Here is a list of all the ways you are wrong,” he typed in reply, ennunciating each word as he typed. “First of all…”

He wrote like a demon possessed, itemising every reason for why no, the code he’d sent this moron was not, in fact, incorrect, and did, in fact, do everything he’d promised. He included screenshots of the stupid fucking code working perfectly on his end, even going so far as to use photoshop to draw large, flashing arrows to the relevant places.

It was sarcastic and even utterly scathing in some parts, as he all but called the client an incompetent baboon for being unable to run such a simple code within his program.

With an evil smile, George reread his work and then, satisfied, clicked send.

“Suck on that, idiot,” he said, glancing over the e-mail address. What kind of a dumb name was Dream anyway?

The rest of his drink tasted like victory, and was all the more sweet for it.

***

“George,” Skeppy said, popping his head into his office. “You got a minute?”

He hummed an affirmative, fingers moving rapidly over the keys as his eyes tracked the code he was building for a different client.

“Earth to George?” Skeppy said.

He typed one last line and then sighed, letting his hands fall from the desk. He looked over at Skeppy. “What is it?”

Skeppy rolled his eyes. “Bad says he wants to see you in his office in five.”

George waved him off, mind already back on his current project. He did flick a glance down at the clock though. Bad was a good boss. He didn’t want to piss him off.

Four and a half minutes later, he sat up and stretched with a loud groan, locking his computer before getting up and making his way down the hall.

Bad’s office door was already cracked open, so George let himself in. There was a strange dude sitting across from Bad already, with a bunch of dumb curls twisting in every direction and shoulders that were more broad than they had any right being. George disliked him on sight, and ignored him as he turned towards George.

Instead, he dropped down into the other chair, giving Bad an expectant look.

“George,” Bad said. There was a hint of warning to his voice and George internally sighed, sitting up from his slouch and raising an eyebrow at Bad.

Satisfied, Bad turned towards the other man.

“Dream, this is George. You mentioned that you had some concerns with the coding he sent to you?”

George’s head whipped to the side. This was the incompetent baboon who had disparaged his work?

Dream had the grace to look a touch embarrassed as he turned to meet George’s icy glare.

“Um, yes. It’s very good code, of course, but it doesn’t seem to be compatible with our program,” Dream explained hesitantly. “I’ve passed it onto our IT guys, and, best they can tell, there was an update to our program only a few days ago that didn’t play well with George’s code.”

Bad nodded and hummed thoughtfully. “Did you raise this with George?” he asked.

Dream’s shoulders turned in slightly. “Not exactly,” he hedged. “That’s why I’m here, in person. I wanted to apologise.”

He turned to face George more fully, the earnest look on his face bringing to mind some big, dumb Golden Retriever. 

George was more of a cat person.

“For what?” he asked brusquely.

Dream brought a hand up and scratched at the scruff that covered the lower half of his face, looking sheepish. 

“Well, you see, I’ve been told in the past that my emails come across as really rude-”

“Understatement of the century,” George muttered.

“-so my company hired someone to uh, vet my emails, as it were,” he continued, either oblivious to George’s comment or deliberately ignoring it. “Well, they rewrite them, to be completely honest.”

George didn’t respond, just staring at him, silently urging him to get to the point. He loathed wasting time like this, even to talk to idiotic dog boys with big hands.

“I normally just write the email and schedule it to send, and the intern rewrites them before they’re due to go out at 5pm. Unfortunately, I didn’t realise until it was too late, and I’d received your reply, that she had left early yesterday.”

“Oh,” Bad said. “Well, that sounds like just a misunderstanding then. George has worked here for a long time, and I know his reply would have been understanding.”

George suppressed a wince. Understanding was definitely not a word that could be used to describe his response to Dream’s email.

Dream glanced at George, his lips thinning.

Oh God, George thought. He was totally going to rat him out.

“Of course,” Dream agreed.

Wait, what?

“But I still thought I should come and apologise in person. The error in the code wasn’t George’s fault, and I didn’t want him to feel responsible when I requested for it to be redone,” Dream explained.

“I’ll add it to the schedule,” Bad assured him, and the two of them rose, shaking hands across Bad’s desk.

George stood up as well, nodding at Bad before trailing after the ridiculous giant. Dream paused and turned to him, but George stone walled him, stalking past him to make his way back to his office. He didn’t realise until one of those ridiculous hands stopped him from closing his office door that Dream had followed.

“I am sorry, you know,” Dream said, giving a rueful smile as George continued to ignore him, flopping into his office chair.

“Whatever,” George said dismissively, unlocking his computer. “I’ll do you stupid code. Just get your people to send me the new version of your program.”

“Of course,” Dream agreed easily. He still hovered in the doorway, looking expectantly at George.

George turned to face him. They both looked. And looked. 

Reluctantly, George mentally noted that Dream’s body was built like a triangle and he wanted to climb him like a tree.

“There will be an extra fee included,” he said to Dream eventually.

Dream’s eyebrows rose. “A fee? For what?”

George turned away from him, fingers moving over the keys already. “To take me to dinner.”

Dream let out a hoarse bark of laughter. George ignored him, checking his emails. There was already one in his inbox from Dream’s company with the new program specs included.

George closed down his previous project, pening this one instead while Dream let himself out.

A smirk dancing on his lips, George started typing.

[azurdlywisterious]

Tell me your fave vaults

Okay, I somehow narrowed it down to a top five (honorable mentions are basically every single other vault) (except Vault 81) ( i wish the experiment actually happened and the overseer didnt shut it down i wanted the psychological horror :/ )

Vault 77- This is the crate of puppets vault, featuring the crate of puppets guy. This Vault wasn't a part of any game, rather it is from a comic that was promo material for fallout 3. and like, penny arcade understood the assignment on demonstrating how fucked up vault-tec is in thirty six panels. Like my one critique is that it's so short, but with the direction they went with the plot and the topics they tackled and it being 2008, it was probably for the best. Anyways the whole comic is free on the Internet Archive and its a nice snappy read (almost to its detriment like straight up plz someone get ari aster on the phone he'd make a fantastic adaptation of one man and a crate of puppets legit)

Vault 112- ooh hoo hoo unlike most vaults that I just remember from reading the wiki blurbs back in high school, this one was fully brought to my attention in a game of magic where i exiled a ridiculous amount of my library to get a winning card and also my missing dad (shout out to adventure costs!!!) and in that game i vowed to find it. I didnt know that it was a part of the main plot of fo3 yet but that didn't take long to find out. This is the creepy simulation one that i see as almost a proof of concept for the evil within vibes-wise (i fucking love the evil within series but thats besides the point). Legit terrified me in a way that should not have been possible (maybe im the one with unchecked issues that people being saccharinely nice to me sets off alarm bells in my head but it could also be that i had to get into a vr pod first) (who knows?) Anyways I proceeded to ignore like half of it and I'm looking forward to the next time i play and actually interacting with it a bit more (also one of my twelve fallout ocs is from this vault i made it work given this vault's canon ending)

Vault 11- Oughhhhhhh epistolary enviromental just altogether wonderful storytelling. the posters. The Posters! The ones that read "I Hate Nate" but the deeper down you go the more you find that have been graffitied to read "I Hate Kate" perfect wonderful amazing. Not to mention granting us with "Don't Vote Glover He Has A Family" which idk I love that out of context but I do. In context it's downright horrifying and the absurdity of it actually adds to the horror. Love love love Vault 11.

Vault 108- Gary. Gary Gary? Gary! Okay in all seriousness the story of this one is bonkers and also I'm a sucker for cloning (I had a cloning phase in third grade). Like, they found a guy that was going to die in a few months to be overseer so that there would be a power vacuum. Okay, normal social experiment for vault-tec. This eventually leads to them cloning a guy named Gary and then all the Gary clones killing the rest of the dwellers so now the only people in the vault are Gary clones. For the life of me I do not remember the chain of events that led to it and no i will not look it up it's funnier this way.

Vault 88- Look this one is boring to most people. Its a mix reviewed Fallout 4 DLC but dammit, I like getting to design my own Vault. As someone who got into Fallout because of the Vaults it was incredibly appealing to get to be the villain for once. And then I saw that my victim was this sweet guy named Clem (and also I was playing a goody two shoes but thats besides the point). Like I can tell they wanted to write Clem to be annoying so that you felt less bad basically torturing him but I found him so sweet and earnest I just couldnt. I fucking love Clem I would die for Clem hes like if a golden retriever was a person that I wanted to make sure kept his agency and autonomy. Plus it was really fun getting to piss the overseer off with some actually decent written dialogue. Like bonus points for that. And I still havent finished building the vault! amazing. absolutely wacky but also amazing.

[tanjir0se]

As the World Caves In, pt II

Pairings: Rengiyuu (Rengoku x Giyuu) Words: 5.4k (7.8k total) Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Everybody Lives AU Warnings: (full fic) Graphic depictions of canon-typical violence, medical procedures, blood, bodily injury

If you let him live, I’ll tell him everything, I swear. 

It was now or ever. And now he’d gotten so close to never, closer than he’d ever thought he’d get in all his wildest nightmares, that the unbridled fear of it now carried the words unspoken up his windpipe, threatening to burst. 

“K-Kyojuro,” Giyuu began. And Kyojuro looked at him with those stunning, earnest eyes--eye--and Giyuu’s next words fell from his mouth in a huff. “Damn it,”

This is part 2/2. Read the previous part here!

You can also read the full fic on AO3!!

“You ought to be more careful, my friend!” Kyojuro chided as he unbuttoned Giyuu’s uniform. “Look, you’ve ruined another uniform shirt!” He was referring to the large slash on the shoulder of Giyuu’s uniform, courtesy of the demon they’d just taken down together. Though they’d only known each other a few months at that point, Giyuu had learned that Kyojuro apparently preferred to dress his wounds himself despite Giyuu being fully capable, and he knew Kyojuro better than to try to argue. 

He said nothing while Kyojuro frowned at his bare and bloody chest, appraising the long but superficial wound that spanned across his pale skin, coming to a stop at the hollow of his throat. He did tilt his head slightly back to allow Kyojuro to inspect the full extent of the wound, his quiet way of thanking him. Kyojuro hummed to himself. His golden eyes suddenly flicked from Giyuu’s wound to his face, stealing away Giyuu’s breath in a surprised huff. 

“Does this hurt?” he asked, abruptly serious. Giyuu shook his head. Rengoku had a habit of making him lose his train of thought when he looked at him like that. “You shouldn’t have jumped in front of me. I would have been alright!”

Giyuu stared at him. The demon they’d been fighting had prepared one vicious strike right after another, while Rengoku had been finding his footing from the previous. Rather than allow the strike to land on the Flame Hashira, Giyuu had stepped in with dead calm, both sparing Kyojuro from the attack and causing it to fall on himself. 

To Giyuu, his actions made perfect sense. Kyojuro was obviously the superior Hashira. He felt it only natural to protect the greater asset to the demon slayer corps, even if it meant putting his life on the line. 

Kyojuro raised an eyebrow and cracked a small grin. “I know that look.” He said. It was the look Giyuu did when he was about to try to argue with him on something: brows slightly furrowed, gaze steady with heavy lids, lips parted. Realizing he was caught, Giyuu relaxed into a half smile and allowed Kyojuro to gently dab dirt and debris away from his wound. 

“You may be reckless,” Kyojuro began, “But I have to admit, that eleventh form is incredible! How on earth did you learn something like that? Ah, I bet I could practice for a hundred years and never even get close!” His gaze now focused on Giyuu’s wound, he didn’t notice how bright pink his friend’s face had become. Kyojuro spoke highly of everyone, but praise of his swordsmanship coming from someone as incredible as him was still a high compliment. 

Kyojuro continued. “Such fantastic work, I’m truly lucky to be on your good side!” He laughed and patted Giyuu’s chest with one hand and retrieved a first aid kit with a suture needle with the other. His hand was rough but warm against Giyuu’s permanently cold skin. 

“For now.” Giyuu joked back. Kyojuro blinked once, surprised and a little disbelieving that Giyuu had actually cracked a joke, but after noticing the tiny upward tilt of his lips, smiled even wider and laughed even harder. 

“I’d better toe the line then! Otherwise I’ll be the one needing stitches!” He laughed at his own joke while stitching his wound and Giyuu actually smiled along. Few could melt through his icy silences like Kyojuro could. Few understood what he was trying to say even when he was silent like Kyojuro did. “Ah, you always know how to make me laugh.” Kyojuro added with a sigh that made Giyuu’s heart ache. 

Kyojuro’s half-open eyes saw white, made hazy by tears clinging to his dark lashes. White drifted above him, and for a moment he drifted with it, unaware that he was even conscious, just floating. Once his mind returned to him he tried to blink to dispel the haze but found himself unable, paralyzed, flat on his back and floating through nothingness. For a few moments he believed himself to be dead. Until the pain struck him. 

He considered himself no stranger to pain, but this was unlike anything else. His entire body felt shattered. Even something as simple as breathing was a battle, as if his lungs and the walls of his chest themselves were locked in combat against one another. If he was indeed dead, this must be hell. 

He thought so, until he heard a distant voice reaching to him from beyond the endless white oblivion around him. There were gentle hands on him, as if bringing him out of the haze and back into reality. 

Someone was cradling the back of his head, tilting it slightly upward as they removed bandages from the left side of his face. The light changed slightly as they did so, though nothing came into focus. Fingers brushed lightly over his left eye. Whoever the hands belonged to, whoever was nursing him, sighed. 

The bandages were replaced. A warm rag brushed against the aching skin of his arms. A hand rested lightly against his chest, directly over his heart, feeling it beating steadily. Kyojuro still couldn’t move or speak but whoever was tending to him apparently didn’t mind. The voice was silent while they worked but the silence was as gentle as their hands. That silence, its softness, the coolness of the hands on his body reminded him of something…

The haze slowly began to lift, as if his nurse’s gentle tending was pulling him back up out of the nothingness and into reality. As his mind cleared he groped for anything to anchor him back to the present; he remembered a cold wind, a column of flames. 

“Another letter from Tanjiro today.” His nurse said quietly over the rustle of papers. “And…one from Uzui.” 

Kyojuro would have leapt out of bed, if he could move. The kids! The train! The upper rank! I’ve got to get back there!  Kyojuro wanted to reach out, tell the speaker I don’t care about a bunch of letters when Tanjiro and the others could be in danger— 

A letter from Tanjiro? He’s alright?

“Uzui’s letter first, then?” The voice said. More rustling of paper. A clearing of the throat. “Dear Rengoku, I apologize for my absence, since this damn mission is taking longer than I expected, I’m absolutely certain you’re beside yourself with grief that yours truly isn’t there with you—” the speaker scoffed, and Kyojuro would have laughed too, if he could move. “Anyways, I’ll spare you the non-flashy details and regale you with the full story when I can see you again. Please get better soon, the mansion is too boring without you. Tengen.” 

In full earnest now, and with little else to do but lie there, Kyojuro tried to remember what had happened. The last image he could conjure was the electric flashing of blue and pink, a crazed laugh, and distantly, someone crying and calling his name. 

He assumed he was recovering in the butterfly mansion, but how long had it been since he’d fallen unconscious? Long enough that he was getting letters. He wondered if he’d gotten any from Senjuro. Or Giyuu. 

Giyuu. 

He’d just been dreaming about Giyuu. One of the first times he’d noticed Giyuu blushing at him, one of the many times Giyuu had made him laugh. That’s what the silence had reminded him of. With great difficulty, with everything he had, Kyojuro managed to grunt softly. 

Halfway through Tanjiro’s letter, the voice stopped. Even unable to see, Kyojuro could feel eyes on him, knew them to be deep and indigo and discerning. He sucked in a labored breath against the pain wrapping around his ribs, and this time managed a groan. 

“Kyojuro?” 

God I’d know that voice anywhere. 

Kyojuro’s eyes slid closed, then open once again, still heavy-lidded, still teary, but open. The fog around him lifting, the first thing he saw was his nurse, pale skin, a mess of raven black hair and a set of indigo eyes. 

In spite of everything, he smiled. “Giyuu,” he murmured. 

Giyuu felt his heart stop in his chest, his relief so intense it nearly paralyzed him. Kyojuro was looking at him. Kyojuro was alive. His world had crashed back into orbit again. He grabbed his friend by the arms and held him there tightly, desperate not to let him go again. 

“Kyo! God—” Thank god, thank god you’re alright! I was so worried, I was lost without you! His throat was so tight he could hardly breathe let alone speak. “You’re awake.” He managed stupidly after a moment. Kyojuro opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out for a moment. For once, Giyuu actually spoke instead. “Kyo…” he found himself saying again. 

Kyojuro lifted his head and tried to sit up, straining against the unbelievable pain that shook his entire body. He caught a glimpse of a large, blood-shadowed bandage over his abdomen before his forehead suddenly bumped into Giyuu. He must’ve been closer than he’d thought. The unexpected bump sent him back down against the bed with a groan. Giyuu still hadn’t taken his hands off of his arms. 

“Please don’t try to get up.” Giyuu murmured. “Your depth perception is probably quite off.” 

Kyojuro frowned at him and opened his mouth to ask why he’d say that, but another bright pulse of pain behind his left eye answered the question for him. Giyuu watched him with an expression Kyojuro had never seen him wear. His eyes were wide, tearful, endless. His pale lower lip trembled along with his hands, though he didn’t say anything.  There was about a million things Kyojuro could ask: What happened? Where are the kids? How long has it been? He decided on something different. 

“Kyo, huh?” He asked, his lips turning slightly upward into a smile. Giyuu stared. “Where’d that come from? I like it.”

Leave it to Kyojuro to say something like that at a time like this. That little smile on Kyojuro’s lips made Giyuu want to smile with him, to laugh and grab him tightly and never let him go. But he remembered the feeling of those lips against his, the taste of blood as he breathed for him, and the beginnings of his smile faltered. He came so close to never seeing that smile again. The weight of that knowledge pressed down on his shoulders so heavily that Giyuu dropped his head down and pressed his forehead against Kyojuro’s arm, as if in prayer. Overcome. 

Kyojuro watched him and his heart ached. He’d never seen Giyuu this upset, or at least he’d never shown it this plainly. It seemed like a fairly strong reaction to a simple battlefield injury…there must be something more to this situation he didn’t understand. He called Giyuu’s name softly and waited for him to look up. “I’m alright.” Kyojuro said, softly for once, his throat dry and raw. “It’s alright.”

Giyuu looked up. “No, Kyo, you’re not. You were dead.” His brows fell heavily over his eyes in apparent anger. “I had to beat your heart for you, I—I had to breathe for you!” His voice was low, tightly measured because if he spoke any louder or with any more ferocity he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep tears from falling. 

There was a brief silence while Kyojuro appeared to consider what he’d said. “And the train passengers? The kids?” 

Giyuu’s eyes briefly widened in shock, but his brows were quick to pull down again. “Are you not hearing me? You were dead. It’s nothing short of a miracle that you aren’t dead now!” Kyojuro looked at him, still waiting for his answer. Giyuu’s frown deepened but the quiver in his lower lip betrayed him. “Will you worry about yourself, just for one moment?” 

Though Giyuu had pulled away, Kyojuro still found an errant strand of his hair to curl between his fingers. “Why would I do that, when you do it so well?”

“Kyojuro, please.” Giyuu begged. “You—” he dropped his gaze again and struggled to conjure the words he meant. “You’ve been in a coma for more than three months. An upper rank had his arm through your solar plexus!” Kyojuro managed to look down at that shadowed bandage on his stomach, then back up at Giyuu as he continued.

“Kyo, you may never wield a sword again. You came very close to never breathing again! And I—” he snapped his mouth shut and averted his gaze from Kyojuro’s. 

Still fighting through shockwaves of pain, Kyojuro watched as Giyuu stared at the bandage on his stomach. “Giyuu.” He said gently, cautiously. He knew Giyuu to have a temper, but he was acting differently than Kyojuro had ever seen, like there was something he needed to say but couldn’t find the words. “If I would have died, I would have done so gladly! It’s the risk we take as demon slayers—” he fell into silence as Giyuu looked back up again, his eyes filled with tears. 

“Am I supposed to have been glad, too?” He asked bitterly. “You talk about yourself like your life is not worth anything! As if—” he stopped again. His breaths were coming faster and faster now. Giyuu did not continue, so Kyojuro did. 

“My life isn’t worth any more than anyone else’s…” he began. Apparently on a roll of surprising him, Giyuu cut him off. 

“Well it isn’t worth any less, either!” He exclaimed, not shouting, but with an intensity that rivaled Kyojuro’s. “God you remind me of Sabito!” He added in a huff. 

That stopped Kyojuro dead, all attempts at argument shut down. Giyuu never mentioned his family. Not even silently. He’d only learned he’d had a sister after they’d already known each other for more than a year. Sabito and Makomo he only learned of through Urokodaki. He watched Giyuu’s face and waited for him to continue. He did, though silently. 

Giyuu looked down and shook his head, his brow furrowed. You’re making this so difficult. Kyojuro watched his jaw clench and unclench, his mouth opening for a moment before clamping shut again. I need to tell you something. Fat, heavy tears fell from his eyes and onto the backs of his hands, which tightened themselves onto the blanket near Kyojuro’s forearm. It’s killing me. 

Looking down, head bowed, Giyuu was thinking of the bargain he’d made. If you let him live, I’ll tell him everything. He felt as overwhelmed as he was when he’d first come to the horrific scene at the train crash, his world spinning. His foolish and hopeful and frightened heart cracked deeper and deeper and threatened to come apart altogether as he tried to find the words to make Kyojuro understand.   

It was a long time before Giyuu spoke aloud again, and when he did, his voice shook. 

“Kyojuro.” he finally said. “You think to be brave is to be selfless. As if you have no regard at all for your own life. That isn’t bravery. It’s self destruction.” He remembered the feeling of Kyojuro’s ribs snapping beneath his hands. He remembered feeling Sabito’s, too. He couldn’t meet Kyojuro’s gaze, knowing without trying that the look he found there would burn his resolve away in an instant.

“You may think your life isn’t worth more than anyone else’s, but—” closing his eyes, Giyuu breathed out a sigh. “It is. To me.”

That was a surprise. Kyojuro stared at him, his shaking hands and the gaze that refused to meet his. He was even more surprised to find a faint pink blush spreading over Giyuu’s cheeks and nose. 

They fell into silence while Kyojuro watched Giyuu’s blush deepen. 

He’d always loved Giyuu the same way he loved anyone or anything else: loudly. My friend, how wonderful to see you! You always know how to make me laugh! Every compliment, every smile, Kyojuro was saying it over and over without ever saying it. I love you I love you I love you. 

But Giyuu had never been the type to do anything aloud. He loved quietly, privately, almost invisibly if someone wasn’t paying attention. Knowing his order at their udon cart without asking. Stepping in front of him to spare him a strike from a demon. Gripping onto the blankets of his cot, unwilling to meet his eye, unwilling to let go. I love you I love you I love you. 

Kyojuro was more than glad to allow their I love yous to remain unsaid, unspoken but still there, always there. He had become fluent in Giyuu’s body language, the soft silence that fell between them when they were together. 

But now the silence was uneasy with tension, as if there was something aching to be said. 

If you let him live, I’ll tell him everything, I swear. 

It was now or ever. And now he’d gotten so close to never, closer than he’d ever thought he’d get in all his wildest nightmares, that the unbridled fear of it now carried the words unspoken up his windpipe, threatening to burst. 

“K-Kyojuro,” Giyuu began. And Kyojuro looked at him with those stunning, earnest eyes--eye--and Giyuu’s next words fell from his mouth in a huff. “Damn it,” he cursed, moving as he spoke, finally releasing the blanket and grabbing instead onto Kyojuro’s arm. 

Before Kyojuro could ask what he needed to say, Giyuu had closed the distance between them, taken him gently but quickly by the sides of his face, and kissed him.

Kyojuro was so surprised he didn’t have time to move or react, just let Giyuu kiss him, his hands gripping tightly onto the sore sides of his bandaged face. Eyes wide open Kyojuro watched Giyuu’s brow pull up, his eyes tightly shut as if in great pain. 

And he was. Giyuu had never felt such agony, such elation, such horror at feeling Kyojuro’s lips on his again. It had never occurred to him until that moment that Kyojuro may not feel the same as he did, that his friend—could he call him a friend?—may be shocked, or worse, disgusted. But he couldn’t bring himself to care, now that Kyojuro’s lips didn’t taste like blood anymore. 

The ecstasy of finally letting out what had been clawing up the inside of his throat since the first moment he ever laid eyes on Kyojuro, bright and beautiful in the Master’s garden, and the fear of losing him, the trauma of coming very close, raged a battle in his chest that crashed through the rest of his body until he finally was forced to pull away, gasping. 

Kyojuro didn’t dare speak, just watched as Giyuu slowly let his breath out and leaned back. 

“I can’t lose anyone else I love.” Giyuu concluded. His voice was no louder than a whisper and yet it echoed through the room as if he’d shouted it. The fear eventually coming out on top in the battle raging in his aching heart, Giyuu tried to move fully away, to stand and brush off his haori and regain whatever dignity he had left. Once again Kyojuro’s hand came down on his wrist, stopping his escape. 

Kyojuro stared into his face until Giyuu looked at him, marveling at what he’d just done. Kyojuro had known for a long time that he loved Giyuu. And he’d known that in his own, quiet way, Giyuu loved him too. But now he’d said the quiet part out loud. What bravery it must’ve taken. Kyojuro looked at Giyuu’s lips, pale and thin and pressed into a hard, nervous line. He looked down and stared at Giyuu’s wrist in his hand. He released it, but captured Giyuu’s hand instead. 

He kissed the back of Giyuu’s hand, his fingers, the inside of his wrist, the back of his forearm, pulling him down and down again until their faces were inches from each other, indigo eyes meeting gold. All those times he’d watched Giyuu flush pink at something he’d said, all the tiny moments he’d noticed the tiny changes of expression on his face, and Kyojuro had never dreamed of kissing him. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he’d accepted long ago that they would always share something unspoken, and that would be enough. 

They stared at one another, breathing heavy. Giyuu watched as Kyojuro’s eye traveled down his face and landed on his lips before Kyojuro pulled him down far enough to kiss him back. 

It was as if he’d never been injured in the first place. All the pain that had rattled his ribs just moments prior was gone and it was a hundred times worse. His chest no longer ached and it ached more intensely than ever before. In fact he’d never felt more aflame, Giyuu’s icy cold lips on his burned away any other thought besides Giyuu’s name. 

He felt Giyuu take a breath and relax against him. He felt his lips part slightly beneath his. And then in spite of himself, in spite of everything, Kyojuro smiled. 

Giyuu felt Kyojuro’s lips turn upwards against his, then felt him shake slightly as he began to laugh. Giyuu opened his eyes and found Kyojuro’s closed in joy, his head thrown back as far as he could manage while still lying in a cot, laughter beginning to peel from him like church bells. If it were anyone else, Giyuu would assume they were mocking him. But not Kyojuro. 

“What could you possibly be laughing at?” Giyuu murmured, resting his hand on Kyojuro’s cheek. Kyojuro tried to stifle his giggles and Giyuu realized how red his friend’s face had become. 

“All that time,” Kyojuro began with a sigh. “All that time I wanted to kiss you…Who knew I had to do was die!” He laughed again despite the pain in his stomach. Giyuu frowned at him, trying very hard to be serious. 

“That isn’t funny.” He chided. Kyojuro just laughed harder, louder, stronger, as if Giyuu’s kiss had healed him. Giyuu rolled his eyes, but for once he didn’t think about how close he’d come to never hearing that laugh again. He didn’t think about how Kyojuro’s eyes had been staring blankly up at nothing, how his golden skin had paled and his chest fallen still. That laugh was like the sun parting through clouds, and for once Giyuu just sighed and chuckled with him. The sound of his laughter made Kyojuro laugh even harder until they both devolved into giggles. 

Since Kyojuro’s laughter was both very distinctive and quite loud, it was bound to attract attention as other inhabitants of the butterfly mansion began to follow the sound. Giyuu leapt nearly a foot in the air when he heard a voice from behind him. 

“Mr. Rengoku?” Giyuu quickly moved back from Kyojuro, who released his hand, though both relaxed when they saw Tanjiro standing in the doorway, his eyes already filled with tears. “Mr. Rengoku!” Tanjiro shouted, and sprinted forward. 

“Young Kamado!” Kyojuro grinned at the way Giyuu moved back to allow Tanjiro in beside him. “Ah, how good to see you!” 

All Tanjiro managed to say was his name as his eyes welled with tears. Kyojuro put his hand on his head. “Don’t cry, I’m alright!” He said softly. “Besides, I don’t want you tearing that belly wound open again!” 

Tanjiro looked up, then at Giyuu, whose face was neutral and measured. “Mr. Rengoku, my stomach is all healed. It’s been three months.” 

“Ah. So it has.” Kyojuro shifted and tried to get a better look at the boy. Without speaking, or having been asked, Giyuu slid his arm beneath Kyojuro’s shoulders to help him sit up. 

Tanjiro couldn’t help but let out another sob. “I’m so glad you’re alright! Mr. Tomioka hasn’t left your side since you got here!” Though escaping Tanjiro’s notice, Giyuu went bright pink and set his jaw. Kyojuro grinned at him. 

“That doesn’t surprise me at all.” He said softly, speaking to Tanjiro but looking at Giyuu as he helped him settle in the new, more upright position.  

Next to follow the sound was Shinobu herself, who was so surprised upon appearing in the doorway to find Kyojuro looking up adoringly at Giyuu, holding him by the shoulders, his face bright pink, that she actually froze for a moment. It did not take her long to realize what Giyuu had done, and she smiled, blinking away tears. Finally. 

Then she put her hands on her hips, blinked the tears away, and gave Giyuu the chiding of a lifetime for daring not to tell her that Kyojuro had awoken. Inosuke appeared next, already yelling, leaping onto the foot of Kyojuro’s bed and declaring Kyojuro the master of death itself. Zenitsu was quick to follow, carrying a half-awake and tiny Nezuko with him. Once her bright eyes fell onto Kyojuro’s she leapt from Zenitsu’s arms and joined Inosuke on the foot of Kyojuro’s bed, her delighted voice muffled by her muzzle but still clearly excited. 

Any Hashira who wasn’t on a mission joined them. Mitsuri’s bright—if shrill—sobs of joy briefly drowned out anyone else’s attempt at speech, Sanemi sternly but firmly put his hand on Kyojuro’s shoulder, his jaw clenched tightly, Gyomei offered a prayer of gratitude. But the room stopped when Senjuro arrived. He stared at Kyojuro in the doorway for a long moment, as if disbelieving that he was really awake and breathing. It took both Shinobu and Giyuu to keep Kyojuro from leaping out of bed to greet him. Senjuro ended up sitting on the bed beside his brother, handing him letters that Giyuu had handed him and helping Kyojuro catch up on three months’ worth of missed correspondence. 

It was only then that Kyojuro’s attention was jarred enough from Giyuu to look around at the scene surrounding his sickbed. On a table behind Giyuu was a stack of letters, cards, and notes. Beside the letters were gifts, wrapped in colorful paper or fabric, stacks upon stacks of bento, boxes of candy, several vases of flowers, several more wilted bouquets of lying on the floor beside his table. All of it had been carefully organized; The notes had all been gently unfolded and stacked in chronological order, the bottom boxes of bento had been opened, likely emptied of their contents before they could spoil--it had been three months, after all--rinsed and replaced on the table. The flowers had clearly been traded out for fresh ones each time the previous bundle wilted. Kyojuro couldn’t help but smile even wider at Giyuu the more he noticed his work. There he was, saying it over and over without anybody but Kyojuro knowing. I love you, I love you, I love you. 

Though typically Kyojuro never seemed to tire, he had just cheated death after all, and so much commotion from so many well-wishers was becoming difficult to keep up with. Shinobu was quick to pull rank even on other Hashira and clear the mansion out when she noticed his eyelids becoming heavy. Only Giyuu and Senjuro lingered while she caught Kyojuro up on his injuries. 

“I'm sure you’ve already noticed the injury to your left eye. It was ruptured. We treated it with medicinal ointments and managed to close the wound, but your pupil doesn’t react to light anymore…I’m afraid that eye will be permanently blind.” Kyojuro nodded slowly, remembering feeling Giyuu changing the bandages there before he was fully awake, remembering how he’d bumped into Giyuu’s head with his new lack of depth perception. 

Shinobu continued, though her voice became gentle and slow. “The wound to your solar plexus was the most severe. It went all the way through your torso and damaged your spinal cord.” She told Kyojuro. Senjuro and Giyuu had already heard this from her, but it hurt a little to watch Kyojuro’s reaction to the reality of his injuries. His eyes wandered down his own stomach, across the bandage, and toward his feet. “It caused damage to the nerves that control your left leg. So far it seems like it still moves, but I don’t know how strong it will ever be.”

You may never wield a sword again, Giyuu had told him. Kyojuro had breezed past the statement at first, just glad to be alive. Now, staring at his left foot and trying to wiggle his toes, finding with a strike of fear that he could only manage to move the foot a matter of millimeters, Kyojuro swallowed but set his jaw, stiff-lipped, trying to look strong in front of his brother. 

“I see.” He managed. 

Shinobu laid out an aggressive rehabilitation plan for him, to start as soon as he was ready, then parted with an oddly knowing look that made Giyuu squirm just a little. Nothing got past her. Senjuro lingered a bit longer, but as intuitive as he was, nothing really got past him either. He could see his brother’s head beginning to nod as exhaustion overtook him. And he could see the way it nodded toward Giyuu’s faithful and unwavering hand on his shoulder, his cheek falling against the back of Giyuu’s palm. Senjuro slid off of the bed and invented an excuse to leave, letting Kyojuro begin to drift. Before he left though, he met Giyuu’s eye. 

“Thank you, Mr. Tomioka.” He said quietly. Giyuu nodded silently at him; he’d been thanked by Senjuro several times before during the blur of these three months, once the boy learned how his brother had managed to survive the battlefield. Senjuro’s eyes were on Giyuu’s pale hand as Kyojuro’s cheek fell against it. “Thank you for saving my brother.” Senjuro continued in a whisper. 

Giyuu nodded again, though this time it was because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. Senjuro left the two alone in the wing of the butterfly mansion, the light of evening turning gold around them. Giyuu nodded a third time, this time just to himself, because he couldn’t think of a way to say Kyojuro is the one who saved me aloud. 

He felt Kyojuro sigh against him and looked down. Kyojuro’s good eye was open again, looking down at his own feet. “What’s going to happen?” He asked, mostly to himself, trying to move his defective left leg and frowning when he failed. After a moment he looked up to meet Giyuu’s gaze. 

“I don’t know.” Giyuu admitted. With a defunct left leg and no depth perception, it was quite clear Kyojuro wouldn’t be wielding a sword any time soon, perhaps ever again. He’d be forced to retire as a Hashira. He swallowed and watched Kyojuro, who seemed to be thinking very hard. 

He’d been born a Hashira, the blood was in him from the start. He’d always thought he’d die a Hashira, too. It wasn’t just the cornerstone of his identity but the very basis of it; everything else was built up from there. His entire concept of himself was going to crumble without his sword, without the flames curling from his lips as he wielded it. Without the knowledge, the certainty that he would eventually die in service of their cause. Now, Kyojuro didn’t know what he was going to die for. 

Kyojuro looked into Giyuu’s eyes and watched them carefully as they began to shine. His ivory skin was glowing in the dying evening light, his hand was cool and soft against his cheek. He looked past Giyuu at the stacks of gifts on the table, the letters Senjuro had read for him and left for him. And he smiled. And he kissed Giyuu’s hand again and he smiled even wider, lips still against his cool skin. 

“Me neither.” He said softly. 

He did know what he was going to live for. 

Evening fell into night with Giyuu by Kyojuro’s side, where he’d been all along and would be as long as he allowed him to remain. Their hands eventually entwined again, Kyojuro every so often kissing Giyuu’s as if in awe that he could. Each time Giyuu felt a little more faint. Each time he watched Kyojuro’s chest move up and down he relaxed a little more. By the time the sun had slipped down over the horizon Giyuu was practically asleep too, leaning against Kyojuro’s cot. 

Kyojuro watched the back of Giyuu’s head, tiredly carded his hand through Giyuu’s mess of black hair, couldn’t keep from smiling. 

“I love you.” He whispered aloud to Giyuu. Because he could just say it now, because he still had breath to whisper it into the dark room, because his heart had kept beating long enough to see Giyuu turn slightly to look at him, eyes heavy. 

“I love you too.” He whispered back, aloud. The words came as easily as breathing now. He settled his head back against Kyojuro’s cot, keeping his neck craned back so he could look at him for just a little long before sleep overtook them both. I love you too, he said, silently.

[mypunkpansexualtwin]

Hello 😳 I’m here for the himbo bard please 🤲🏻

Yes!! Hi Lou! The lad himself! Thyris Awe Griswold, bard extraordinaire (kinda) and Lucy's other future spouse because he and Thaavia are kind of a package deal. (Don't let those first two rough photoshops fool you, he's definitely not short, he's 6'0, he's just also a sucker for the absurdly tall, prickly ones.)

He's fun! Raised by a pair of halfling shepards along side their daughter after losing his biological family to an ambush as an infant. He's been hunting down leads on the biological family (doesn't consider them his real family, his real family are the folks who raised and love him) after finding out at about 15 years old that he's technically more magical than your average tiefling and he wants to know what the fuck is going on with his bloodline. He's got some strong blue draconic sorcerery that is the sole source of his magic (given that our setting doesn't have True Bardic Magic, it's a lost art, his "bard" levels are flavored as his sorcery turning bard shaped through his own practice).

He's very sweet and earnest, an utterly devoted hopeless romantic who finds something to love about half the people he meets, especially Thaavia and Lucy. (As mentioned, he's a sucker for a tsundere who's actually taller than him, and being 6' with a penchant for high heels, that second bit isn't the easiest standard to meet.) Not full on stereotypical slutty bard, but not far off either. He walks the line between Himbo and "was probably a golden retriever in a past life" like an acrobat on a tightrope. Skilled player of the hurdy-gurdy and the wooden tongue drum, uses his music to enhance his storytelling, uses his magic to enhance his music, and uses his overall vibe as a performer to come across as unassuming and unthreatening as possible. Definitely no slouch in a fight, though, and can be downright vicious when cornered.

First met Thaavia about 10 years before campaign start after he got his nose broken by the father of his latest lover (admittedly after talking the man down from outright gutting him) and Thaavia fixed it. By walking up to him and resetting it without so much as a word of greeting or warning. After the pain wore off, he offered to buy her and her brother breakfast as thanks, mentioned they were traveling in the same direction, and after a lot of warming up to him, they've been completely devoted to each other ever since. He and Thaavia are in an open relationship given that their respective goals keep taking them in different directions, but plan on settling down together eventually.

First met Lucy (sorta?) in the battle royale we had over the last month or so, except the Lucy he met was a future AU version of the man who was a time wizard and had already been married to Thyris for A While. In-game, they haven't actually met yet, but it's definitely gonna be interesting having them meet up and have Thyris half recognize Lucy as he is as the weird older tiefling calling him pet names and saving his life from the weird alternate dimension arena and all the shit in it that wanted to pull him apart like a twizzler.

Jury (and by that I mean the DM) is undecided on whether or not he and Thaavia have a daughter, but regardless of what happens in regard to that decision, their 8 y/o goliefling daughter Velita will always have a place in my heart.

[dreamingsnowflake2013]

While at this point pretty much the whole world knows Issei has fallen head over heels for Hayame, the adorable puppy hasn’t figured it out yet; however, not because he wouldn’t know how he feels. On the contrary, he can describe his feelings for her quite clearly and eloquently that even his friends can tell he has it bad, it’s just that he has troubles to name them. 

His previous girlfriends used him for his money and status, to mooch off him and show him off, just like Megumi in episode 1, and he always knew so when they left he didn’t give a fuck because he never cared about them nor has he ever wanted a woman to like him so desperately. Until he met Hayame.

And how could Issei’s friends not tell, when he rushes to her right away to sneak into the ryokan and wait for her until she finishes work like the devoted puppy he is as Koya doesn’t fail to fittingly note because Issei totally looks like a faithful dog who follows his beloved mistress wherever she goes and would do anything for her. 

Seriously, he even reacts to her name and the mere sight of Hayame like a Pavlov dog! And the way he gazes at her - all besotted, smitten and gooey eyed - you half-expect him to purr or drool. With that hair of his, he even looks like one, a golden retriever - golden, fluffy, huge and strong but soft, and sometimes resembling a sniffer dog following a trail with his penchant for lurking, stalking and eavesdropping. HA! I suppose that explains his embedded Hayame radar.

Also, how awesome is it that Issei once described himself as Hayame’s owner only to end up being owned by her in the end?! LOL!

It’s precisely this unwavering devotion and unfiltered earnestness which would viscerally attract someone like Hayame to him who was so deeply hurt by infidelity and fickleness of another man. 

She once told Issei she thought Masahiro was a nice man but then noted that a nice man wouldn’t cheat, on the other hand, she keeps calling Issei a good/decent person, without any objections, inadvertently drawing parallels between both men while pinpointing the difference between them - a good and decent man like Issei would never stray. 

Kataoka Issei, Hayame’s overgrown golden guardian puppy loyal to a fault, so soft with her but feral when someone dares to hurt her.

[asweetprologue]

the process of rewarming

Octoberfest 6: Hypothermia (whumptober #21)

Read on ao3

Kaedwin was sharply beautiful in the winter. Every surface glinted like polished crystal, the world coated in a fine layer of ice and snow. Blankets of white muffled the countryside, broken by the intimidating bulk of the northern mountains. The thick pine forests were heavy with snow, the trees bowing under the weight of winter in full swing. Above them, the sky was a steel gray that promised more harsh weather to come. 

The path that they walked was narrow and slick, the unforgiving mass of the mountain rising on their left and sloping downwards treacherously on their right. Jaskier paused, his breath puffing out before him as he spared a moment to look out over the countryside. The entire scene was cast in sharp black and white, the snow, trees and mountains beyond forming a stunning but severe monotone. It was bitterly cold, the icy fingers of the northern wind stabbing under each and every gap in his thick winter clothing. 

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice came from ahead. Jaskier looked away from the view, though the sight he turned to face was no less stunning. The witcher was just as bundled up as Jaskier, his armor traded out for a thick cloak and a padded coat, the rest of his usual gear loaded onto Roach. He looked even larger than usual, the bulky clothes adding extra breadth to his shoulders. His golden eyes glinted in the light reflecting off the snow, though the rest of his face was cast into shadow by the hood he had pulled over his head. Roach snorted beside him, shaking her mane out and tugging at the reins in Geralt’s hands. The path was small enough that Geralt had to walk her, not willing to risk a wrong step. “We need to keep moving,” he said, nodding up the mountain. “If we don’t reach Kaer Morhen by night we’ll be stuck in the snow.”

The clouds above did seem to be growing ever darker. Jaskier nodded, jaw clenched to hide his chattering teeth. Geralt’s eyebrows came together in a frown when he didn’t respond verbally, but Jaskier could do little to assuage his worries.

This was the first time that he’d been invited to travel to Kaer Morhen with Geralt, and he wasn’t going to fuck it up by complaining about the cold. If Geralt thought Jaskier couldn’t handle the journey, he’d never let him come along again. So yes, his fingers were nearly numb and his eyes were burning from the wind and his feet were clumsy as he followed Geralt up the path, but he wasn’t going to complain about it. Not if it meant Geralt taking back his invitation in future years. 

So Jaskier hunched his shoulders and continued after the witcher in silence.

They were, Geralt said, no more than an hour or two away from the Kaer Morhen valley, and from there it was an easy walk up to the keep itself. The path that they currently walked was the most difficult part of the journey, made worse by the fact that they’d gotten a late start. Geralt had been finishing up a contract near Oxenfurt, and they’d only barely made it to the pass before it was closed for the winter. The snows had begun falling in earnest a week ago, and by the time they’d made it to the northern mountains they had been well and truly covered in ice and snow. There was nothing for it, however, so they’d started their reluctant way up. They’d been at it for a few days, but this area was clearly the riskiest. Jaskier had seen how Geralt’s mouth had gone thin when they discussed the last leg of the journey, but he hadn’t commented on it. 

They walked in silence for another half an hour or so before the path leveled out, splitting again into two diverging trails. The first led downwards, into what looked like a thin vale. As Jaskier followed Geralt along the other path leading further upwards, he could see that the trail below widened into a small valley. There was a river that ran parallel to their track, and here it widened into something almost large enough to be a lake. The water moved fast enough that it had not completely frozen over, only the edges glinting with sharp ice. It was some twenty feet below them, the mountainside sloping downwards sharply to meet the pool. The frigid waters reflected the light of the low hanging sun, throwing a shifting mosaic onto the cliffside across from them. It was a stunning scene, begging to be captured through pen or song. 

Perhaps it was because he was so taken by the environment that Jaskier stumbled. One moment he was staring out over the small valley, and the next his feet were rapidly sliding out from under him. The patch of ground in front of him that he’d assumed was solid crumbled beneath his heel, snow tumbling away and taking him with it. The thick blanket of snow on the path shifted, moving to fill the space abandoned through Jaskier’s misstep. He found himself slipping, drawn towards the edge of the cliff as if a tide was rushing over him. Jaskier fell, already half over the edge of the cliffside and headed towards the valley below.

Suddenly he was being tugged roughly up and to the side. Geralt’s hands were insistent, grabbing the front of Jaskier’s coat and pulling. Jaskier could feel the snow and ice beneath them still slipping, and he met Geralt’s eyes in a panic. If Geralt didn’t move, they would both go over with the crumbling mountainside. 

Geralt’s face was set with determination. With a heave, he pulled Jaskier up and twisted at the same time, shoving Jaskier out of the way even as Geralt tumbled over the side of the cliff.

“No!” Jaskier launched himself forward, trying to catch something - a sleeve, a hand, anything - but he met empty air. The snow under him shifted, and Jaskier scrambled backwards again to avoid going over the edge. He stared at the blank space where Geralt had been, dread making his breaths come in stuttering gasps. Across the decimated path, Roach snorted, pawing at the ground in agitation. 

Jaskier stumbled to his feet, heart in his throat. It wasn’t so far of a fall, he thought. Geralt could survive a twenty foot drop easily, especially if the snow had cushioned his fall. He was probably fine. Jaskier just had to find a way to get down to him, as quickly as possible. 

Once he’d managed to retrieve Roach, Jaskier swiftly backtracked down the path until he found the spot where the two roads diverged. He urged Roach down along the other trail until it began to widen out, leading into the little valley. The snow here was thick and heavy, having fallen from the nearby cliff sides and collected below. Jaskier had to shove himself through it, feeling the damp powder making its way into his boots. He ignored it, making his way as quickly as he could back towards the lake. Roach followed behind him slowly, her reins gripped tightly in his gloved hand. Geralt would be fine. He had to be. Jaskier just had to find him, and then they could continue to Kaer Morhen and he would have all winter to convince Geralt that this was all just a spot of bad luck. It would be a good argument. Jaskier just needed to find him. 

It took longer than he would have liked to make their way to the side of the pond. Jaskier began to look around frantically, trying to figure out exactly where Geralt had gone over. The upper path loomed above them, seeming higher up from this angle than Jaskier remembered. The snow was disrupted in many places, probably from various animals passing through the valley. Jaskier couldn’t tell where Geralt had come down, he couldn’t see anything but the snow, already covering up his own tracks, let alone any signs of Geralt - 

There was a cough. 

Jaskier sprang into action, abandoning Roach as he rushed toward the sound. There was a small overhang on the west side of the vale, against the wall their path had been on. When he neared, he could see that there was a line drawn through the snow from the side of the lake, as if something had been dragged through it in places. Jaskier felt his heart crawl up into his throat. Until now, he’d refused to think about what would happen if Geralt had fallen in the lake. He ran towards the overhang, following the shallow path through the snow. 

Geralt was slumped under it, in a small clearing where the snow had been unable to fully reach because of the overhang. Jaskier could immediately see that something was wrong as he crashed to Geralt’s side. The witcher’s skin was even paler than usual, his lips tinged blue. His white hair fell in frozen sheets around him, and his wet clothes had already turned icy in places. He looks dead, Jaskier thought suddenly, and it was the worst thought that he’d ever had. Bile pushed up into his throat, but he forced it back, instead cradling Geralt’s face in his hands. His skin was so cold Jaskier could feel it through his gloves. Holding his own breath, he moved his face close to Geralt’s slightly parted lips.

After a long moment, he felt a puff of air against his cheek. Relief hit Jaskier like a punch in the chest, his fingers tingling with it.

Witchers could survive low temperatures better than humans could, he knew, but he also knew that the process of warming them up was troublesome. Their hearts were so slow - a blessing and a curse. It would keep him alive even as his limbs shut down, but it would be harder to get him back to a normal temperature for the same reason. 

Alright. Alright. He had to focus. One step at a time. Geralt’s cloak was in a pile next to him, one edge slightly singed. He must have been trying to light a fire, Jaskier realized, but the cloth had been too saturated. Step one, he thought, forcing himself to concentrate on the problem at hand. Wet, freezing clothes had to come off. Jaskier hated the idea of exposing Geralt’s pale, damp skin to the open air, but he knew that the stiff coat he wore now wouldn’t do him any good. He reached out and started prying the fabric away, one layer at a time.

It was hard work, much of the clothing already coated in thin sheets of ice. Jaskier pulled and tugged and shifted until he finally wrestled Geralt out of his thick, useless coat. The layers underneath were just as soaked, but not yet quite as frozen. Jaskier stripped Geralt down as quickly as he could, leaving him bare. He didn’t even shiver, just lying on the cold ground with his breath barely forming clouds in the cold air. Jaskier hurried to Roach.

They had extra clothes in their saddlebags, cotton shirts and pants and a few blankets. Jaskier grabbed them without looking, arms piled high with material as he fell back to Geralt’s side. He pulled two shirts over Geralt’s head, and then laid down a blanket to protect him from the cold ground and rolled him onto it. The freezing earth would leach heat away from him just as surely as the snow or wet clothes would. Satisfied with Geralt’s position, Jaskier fumbled with his pants and socks until he was at least mostly clothed. 

Step one completed. Step two: shelter. The ledge was something, but they were still exposed to the elements. He didn’t have the time to go hunting for branches to make a lean-to, and there was very little foliage this high up the mountain anyways. They had a wax treated canvas sheet rolled up behind Roach’s saddle, but he had to find some way to mount it if he wanted to keep the snow off of them. 

Roach, bless her, was standing utterly still, clearly aware that something was going on. Jaskier headed back to her, and unclipped Geralt’s swords from their place against her side. They were all he had to work with in terms of any sort of scaffolding, so they would have to do. After grabbing the canvas, Jaskier shuffled through the path of snow back to Geralt. He leaned both swords against the back wall of the cliff, near Geralt’s head, spaced a fair distance apart. The canvas he dragged out and looped over each sword, the heavy weight of them pinning the rough fabric to the wall and holding it several feet above Geralt’s head. The other end of the canvas he dragged out until he reached the snow, half a foot or so away from Geralt’s toes. It was easy work to find a couple of stones to hold the end in place, resulting in a sloped little shelter. 

It would have to do for now. He wanted to make step three a fire, but Jaskier had to admit that he wasn’t great at starting them on the best of days. He never had to; Geralt always just snapped a finger and the kindling was crackling merrily away. They could make one later, when Geralt woke up and was cross about how cold their little tent was. They could always do it later. Grabbing the rest of the blankets from Roach, Jaskier gave her a quick kiss on the nose. He felt bad to leave her saddled and free to wander around, but he had to trust that she would be alright. Geralt needed him.

Decided, Jaskier scrambled inside of the makeshift shelter, careful not to pull too hard at the canvas. Geralt lie on the blanket inside, still absolutely still. Jaskier could see that his chest was rising and falling shallowly, but it didn’t truly assuage his fears. Tugging off a glove, he laid a hand on Geralt’s cheek and nearly winced. The witcher’s skin was freezing, as cold as the snow outside. 

There was nothing for it. Jaskier began tugging off his own clothes, wincing at the frigid air as it assaulted him. Geralt needed body heat to warm up, if they couldn’t have a fire. He left his boots and pants on, but everything else came off. After a moment of consideration he laid the coat and shirt along the seam of the canvas, blocking more of the harsh wind from entering their delicate abode. That done, he shucked off Geralt’s twin layers of shirts as well, now that they were no longer so exposed to the elements. Grabbing the remaining blankets that he’d pulled from Roach, Jaskier covered the both of them fully and laid down next to Geralt in the small, cold space he’d created. 

It was like laying down next to a block of ice, like one of the dazzling sculptures that sat in the square in Novigrad during the yule festivals. Jaskier wrapped his arms around Geralt’s bare chest, gooseflesh erupting across his skin as it met Geralt’s. He was so cold, Jaskier thought, shivering as he huddled with Geralt beneath the mess of blankets. How could anyone survive being this cold? He felt dead already, his slow heartbeat even slower now as it sluggishly tried to keep his blood pumping. Jaskier tucked himself close, putting his head under Geralt’s chin as his own heart seized in his chest. He didn’t know what he would do if Geralt wasn’t okay - not just how he would get down this fucking mountain, or face Geralt’s family, or, fuck, how he would tell Ciri. He didn’t know what he would do, if Geralt wasn’t there anymore. A crushing void threatened to open in his chest just at the thought of it. 

And it would be his fault besides. All for forcing Geralt to take him on this bloody journey to Kaer Morhen, where he’d never even asked Jaskier to come. Jaskier had asked, begged even, said, But I want to meet your family and Ciri needs someone who knows how to tell a good story and I miss you, when we’re apart. And Geralt had caved, eventually, allowing Jaskier to come along where he wasn’t even wanted. Now he was going to freeze to death in the middle of nowhere, because of Jaskier. 

A sob fell from his lips before he could stop it, a few stray tears sliding from his cheeks to land on Geralt’s collarbone. The small space under the blankets was growing, if not warm, then something less than freezing, so hopefully his tears wouldn’t freeze in place. Sniffling, Jaskier gathered Geralt’s hands in his own, still icy to the touch, and pressed them between their bodies. Geralt would be furious if he couldn’t wield a sword anymore because of something as silly as frostbite. 

It felt like they laid there for ages, and Geralt did not wake. Jaskier was anxious to the point of nausea and bored besides, wanting to pace and fret but unwilling to move an inch from his spot by Geralt. The occasional flurry and the cold ground under them ensured that the space never grew truly warm, but Jaskier found his skin becoming sticky with sweat where he was pressed to Geralt. How often had he thought of this, he wondered, on nights when they would share a bed or a bench in the tavern? He’d feel Geralt’s bulk against him through his clothes and his heart rate would pick up, his cheeks flushing as he thought about what it would be like, to feel Geralt skin to skin. To be held by him as a lover. They were silly thoughts. Geralt wasn’t interested, Jaskier knew that. He barely tolerated his presence after all these years. It wasn’t Geralt’s fault Jaskier couldn’t keep his heart to himself. 

After an age, Geralt started to shiver. Jaskier breathed a sigh of relief; it meant the worst had passed. 

Jaskier scrambled out of the small tent as soon as he was relatively sure Geralt wouldn’t immediately die without him there. Step four: fire. Before heading up into the mountains, Geralt had filled a burlap sack with some light pieces of wood, explaining that the terrain provided little by way of kindling along the mountain path. Jaskier tugged back on his coat and gloves and retrieved the sack from Roach, who was waiting with an air of impatience outside of their shelter. Jaskier dumped the bag to the side and set about clearing an area to put the fire. The extra snow he piled up around the little area, building a short wall that reached about halfway up to the overhang protecting their little spot. Hopefully it would help shelter them from the wind and keep the fire lit. 

It took him forever to get the flint and tinder to agree with him, even using a clean, dry shirt from his pack as tinder. His fingers were clumsy and numb with the cold, and he was inexperienced with the tools. Eventually a spark flew from the stone in his fingers to the fabric and caught, and Jaskier hurriedly leaned down to blow on it gently. Once the piece was well and truly burning, he pulled a few of the smaller sticks from the bag of kindling and added them until a little fire was casting odd shadowing against the wall of the cliff and Geralt’s unconscious form.

Sitting back with a sigh, Jaskier gave himself a brief moment to warm his fingers before he refocused on Geralt. The warmth of the fire would reach him better without the canvas in the way, and with the pile of snow now blocking more of the outside air, Jaskier felt it was better to expose him somewhat. He moved one of the swords holding up the canvas tent cover until it was open on one side, letting the warmth of the fire into the small space. 

Finally finished, Jaskier stripped his coat back off and huddled under the blankets with Geralt once again. Over the next hour or so, he stirred only to put more kindling on the fire, trying to keep it at a small, steady flame that wouldn’t burn through their supply of wood for too long. They would need it to last them through most of the night. 

He was dozing slightly when he felt Geralt shift beneath him. Instantly he was wide awake, shooting upwards and almost knocking over the canvas. He stared down at Geralt, who was blinking up at him sluggishly. The little tent was almost warm now, the heat of the fire trapped at least partially within the makeshift walls. Geralt moved as if he was going to sit up, but Jaskier put a hand on his chest to still him, the movement agitated. 

“Don’t,” he said, quietly. “You - Are you alright? How do you feel?”

Geralt was still looking at him with a confused expression on his face, like he was trying to piece together exactly where he was and what Jaskier was doing there. “Jaskier,” he said, his voice full of gravel and grit, “what happened?”

Unable to be anything but blunt, Jaskier said, “You fell in a lake. My fault, I’m afraid. Can you feel your toes? I’m terribly worried about them.”

Geralt made a face. “They burn, so yeah,” he said with a grunt. In the small space between their chests, his fingers twitched. Jaskier forced himself not to flush. “Witchers don’t get frostbite,” Geralt continued, still shifting here and there as if to assess the damage.

“How does that track,” Jaskier said faintly. The relief he felt was dizzying; now that he was awake, Geralt seemed to be recovering even faster. His cheeks had a slightly pink tinge to them, and Jaskier could feel that his heart rate was elevated. 

“We heal from it, if we get it,” Geralt replied. “Roach?”

“Just outside,” Jaskier said, unable to stop a fond smile from flitting across his lips. Of course Geralt would be more worried about the horse than his own health. “Very cross at us for making her stand out in the wind, I’m sure.”

“I should take a White Raffords, probably,” Geralt mused, almost to himself. He looked tired; his eyes had that half present quality they sometimes did when he came out of a long meditation session. He met Jaskier’s gaze again, tracing over Jaskier’s face and then down his neck and chest. Jaskier swallowed. “Are you alright?” Geralt asked him, tone subdued. 

Jaskier felt a spike of anger and grief shoot through him, forcing him to inhale sharply. He wanted to box Geralt around the ears a bit, and only refrained because the man was in a delicate state. “Of course I’m alright, Geralt, you self sacrificing piece of horse shit! I’m the one you shoved out of the way and fell into a frozen lake at the bottom of a ravine for!” He fisted one hand in the blankets around them, mortified to find tears pricking at his eyes. He looked away, trying to hide the evidence of his guilt. 

He felt cool fingers suddenly on his jaw, forcing him to turn back towards Geralt. The witcher’s face was soft, eyes hooded with exhaustion and what looked like affection. Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat. “I’d do it again,” Geralt said, tired but full of conviction. 

“I’m not worth it,” Jaskier said, sniffling. Geralt’s palm was warming up on his face, more and more alive with each passing moment. Jaskier wished he could do that all the time - give Geralt more warmth and life and love just through a touch. “Not your life.”

“You are,” Geralt said, with a finality that brokered no argument. His fingers skimmed down from Jaskier’s jaw and over his shoulder, until it stopped to rest against the center of his back. Holding him close. Leaning up, he pressed a soft kiss to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth, a barely there press. His lips were still a little cold, drawing a shiver from the bard. When he collapsed back, he pulled Jaskier with him, curling around him beneath the blankets. “You are,” he said again, into Jaskier’s hair. “I wouldn’t have asked you to come with me if I wasn’t prepared to protect you.”

“You didn’t ask,” Jaskier said, blinking against the skin of Geralt’s neck. He was a bit dazed, still feeling the phantom of the kiss like a cool burn. “I did.”

Geralt huffed against him. “I said Ciri missed you,” he said, his fingers spread wide and comforting on Jaskier's back. Tracing around his spine in soothing circles. “I said you’d beat Lambert at gwent, and that Eskel would like that egg thing you make in the mornings, and that you would find a million songs to write about Kaer Morhen in the winter. I thought I was clear enough.” Jaskier felt a puff of warm air against the top of his head, a cold nose in his hair. “Sorry. Will you come to Kaer Morhen with me?”

Jaskier laughed, a sound half choked by tears. “It’s a bit late in the year,” he said, shuffling closer. “A bit of a big thing to spring on a fellow at the last minute.”

Geralt hummed, a sleepy sound that Jaskier knew meant he was dropping off. The little shelter around them was warm, and he knew they would be alright until Geralt woke again. “Next year,” Geralt murmured into his hair, “I’ll ask sooner.”

“And then maybe you won’t fall into a ravine because there’s so much damn snow,” Jaskier said, sighing as he tucked himself deeper into Geralt’s side. Next year. 

“Melitele willing,” Geralt said, and Jaskier felt warm all the way through.

[jonnyvangelis]

brass & peaches: chp. 2

in which jonny and brian actually talk. and everything’s dusty all the time. and the author commits accent crimes. also there's a horse. 1300 words, light swearing.

Jonny squints down the road and pulls back on the reins slowly, giving a pat to the horse’s withers and sliding off in front of the main gate- a rusting sign hangs over top, ironwork bent to read,

BRASSMITH & SON

The scruffy man stretches, a hand coming to press at his lower back, the second coming up to his mouth to call out an “Anyone home? It’s Jonny V- d’Ville, heard you needed work.” He squints again, cursing his lack of a hat (though he spent his hat money on food for the horse).

A copper puff pops up from the orchard just the other side of the fence- then the head attached, Jonny registers that it’s hair, and Brian scowls for a moment before he recognizes the man and horse (from his description in a letter a few days back) and a grin splits his face. He waves Jonny over and calls something that gets lost on the wind.

Jonny stands frozen for a moment, blinking.

Oh no.

He’s cuter than a fucking puppy.

And Jonny realizes a half-second later that the man with the golden retriever grin who greets him as his feet take him through the gate is metal, and his eyebrows shoot up as he takes a step back. He regrets it immediately as Brian’s smile falters, and Jonny steadies himself, swallowing hard. He offers a hand when he’s close enough- firm, jaw set tight, and nods. “You’re Brian, yeah?” He lowers his voice purposefully and levels Brian with a look that’s probably meant to be tough.

The taller man tips his hat low over his eyes and nods curtly (if Jonny didn’t know any better, he’d say the man was blushing. How the fuck the bastard can blush, Jonny’s not sure.) “That I am,” and Jonny’s hit with another shock— Brian’s accent is English with a twang matching his own, like Irish but a bit to the left. “I meant to send you a letter ‘bout it, but you showed up before I could send it. My father ain’t around this summer, something came up business-wise and he made a run for Cincinnati. You might have more work than I can pay you for, if you want to dip early, I—”

“It’s alright, man, I don’t got anywhere else to go. Bed and food on the table’s all I ask.” Jonny offers his sweetest smile (a cringing little thing, his face wasn’t made for subtlety) and fidgets with the reins still held in his hand, unsure how to properly placate the anxious man towering over him.

Brian takes a shaky breath and brings his hat down to his chest, running his free hand through his hair, and looks down at Jonny with a questioning look. “You’re sure? I wouldn’t want you feeling undervalued, your work’s worth proper pay.” 

“Promise I won’t sell myself short, being this far from home’s payment enough.” Jonny’s smile turns genuine. Brian seems to soothe, then, his shoulders losing some of their tension, though his easy smile doesn’t quite return.

“I’ll… show you to your room then, yeah?” Brian offers his hand and Jonny’s brow furrows before he links elbows with the taller man, letting him lead on with a nod.

(Jonny lets the horse into the paddock first, pulling all her tack off and making sure she’s alright with Brian’s mare before leaving her be.) 

The house is dusty, once-white siding now chipped with decades of wear from the valley’s wind. The porch is covered, curtains sit in the window, and a few pots of perennial flowers bloom and buzz by the railing; it all leans to one side if Jonny squints (and he’s always squinting without a damn hat), lists just barely to the right and brings the tin roof down with it. A squat barn sits a little ways down the path, wider and taller than the house by a good fifty feet, and Jonny can hear the huff and bustle of the cows before he can smell them. Chickens peck at the path and dry grass in front of the house— fluffy little bastards that only come halfway up his calf and orange as the hair of the man he clings to. Their run, he figures, is at the back of the house.

Brian shoulders the door open with a creak from its hinges and a soft grunt (hangs his hat on the rack), leading Jonny through a small front room and heading for a hallway just past the ice box. There’s a gas stove, counters that were probably at one time shiny, tile floor in the corner that could, politely, be called a kitchen. An overstuffed couch sits facing the kitchen table, a comfy-looking armchair opposite it, and a rug that looks older than the two men combined protecting the wood floor from the heavy furniture best it can. Atop the shoddy coffee table is… Jonny figures it’s a radio, with the speaker in the front like that, but it’s small and boxy and looks to have a handle and all manner of dials and whatnot. Between the couch and kitchen sits a tiny round breakfast table, two chairs, and a mason jar full of pressed flowers. His attention is dragged away from the living room when he realizes Brian is looking down at him with an amused concern, and he startles some, trying to drag his attention back to what Brian meant to show him.

The room is small, but the bed is big. He takes a tentative step forward, Brian releasing his arm at the barest tug, and he takes a seat, eyes widening then falling shut as he feels himself sink just enough to be comfortable. He lets himself fall back, his legs still hanging off the bed, and lets out a soft groan, wriggling his shoulders a bit in an effort to bury himself in the soft fabric. The quilt is Heaven on a sore back, and he hasn’t felt such soft a surface in weeks. He cracks an eye open when he notices a strange huff, and blushes hard upon realizing that Brian’s trying in earnest not to laugh. He sits upright like a sprung trap and hikes his shoulders up, swallows hard, and tries to stammer out something about second hand saddles when Brian just shakes his head and smiles that easy puppy-grin and placates, “You’ve been riding a while, from the sound of it. You deserve the rest.”

Jonny opens his mouth to protest, but can’t think of a proper one to give. “I… could do with a nap.”

“Then take one, I’ll make lunch and wake you when it’s done.” Brian takes a step back and rests his hand on the doorframe, walking out the room with a nod as Jonny sets about stripping some layers, kicking his boots off by the dresser and closing the door so he can get his shirt off and dust his jeans nearly clean.

He winces at his reflection in the standing mirror. His long hair’s a ratty mess from riding in the wind so long— Hell, it’s a problem that it’s long at all, he’d had it shaved back with Jack— his goatee’s nearly a proper beard, and his undershirt’s a sweaty mess. His arms are a good two shades pinker from the elbow down (same with his neck and face), not that it’s any surprise, but he reckons he looks pitiful. He scrubs his hands over his face, instantly regrets it as the rough skin on his palms grates on his tender cheeks, and tugs off his undershirt, falling on top of the blankets of the bed and curling up for as long a nap as he can manage.

He rests easy for the first time in a long time.

[ashe-hallow]

Manuscript search tag game

Thanks for the tag, @isherwoodj! I haven’t done one of these before, so I hope I’m doing it right 😊

Fall

Master Astorem reached into his golden box and retrieved a second rune. It was carved into the shape of a cat. Its outer coat was a translucent brown that slopped around like a muddy riverbank. Beneath that layer was a rolling ocean wave. The cat's nose was black and misty, like the Noxan Wail. When Master Astorem tossed the cat in the air, it took the shape of a bird. Its wings broke the fall, and the rune flittered onto his desk.

Fear

"I think that maybe...I was afraid. Of you and of myself and of...Sotex. One wrong move meant that I could die. Or worse, that I could lose you."

"When you live in fear, you don't live at all."

Zia ran her fingers through my hair. She leaned in and pressed her lips to mine. Then held me close to her chest. I thought over her words. Had I been living in fear? It didn't really feel that way. But when I looked back in earnest...I couldn't call it bravery.

I feared my father. I feared Lemonade. I feared failure. Athagio and the other schoolboys. Failure. Myself. This destiny I'd been saddled with. Failure. Malinus. Ludos. Mistress Prosegna. Failure.

I was crying now. Shaking, even. The thing I feared most was Zia. And how much power she had over me.

Frail

The dragon wrapped its body around me and squeezed. Like a boa constrictor. A voice, frail as crumbling autumn leaves, whispered into my ear. The minty, frostbitten breath tickled my delicate skin.

Fade

Mistress Prosegna pulled a handkerchief from her pocket. She dabbed at her eyes, then looked to see that half her face had come off too. She ran an old, shaking hand through her faded hair. Then she crumbled up the handkerchief and laughed into her fist.

I’m not sure which of my mutuals are into tag games, so I’m leaving the tag open for anyone who wants to do it  😊 The words are storm, tower, grave, and ocean.

[flowerflamestars]

Would you write a HC of Nessian being that childhood enemies to lovers in high school? I can only trust you with it

Trust accepted and golden. 

-Okay, okay, so on the very first day of first grade, Cassian met the prettiest girl in the world. Little Nesta was absolutely one of those tiny polite children who has a vast hidden well of rage and imagination only displayed when playing witches with Elain in their mother’s garden. She’s quiet at school, utterly shy.

Cassian, meanwhile, is a gremlin. He’s energetic! and sweet! Dimples and curls, an enormous smile. He runs right up to the new girl on that rainy late summer day to introduce himself.

And trips. The Prettiest Girl in the World- as he tells Az, later, while they hide in Rhysand’s treefort- gets mud all over her perfect first day of school dress. 

- Baby Nesta is not okay, okay? She has no idea what to do with this friendly boy. She wants him to stop talking to her. She’s sure her mom is going to be disappointed when she comes home with her white dress ruined, and it’s her first day at a new school without Elain.

Cassian keeps apologizing, but it is Not Okay. 

-Nesta decides she hates him.

- Three years later, Nesta destroys Cassian in the spelling bee. Cassian begins to tip from the Prettiest Smartest Girl in the World is incredible to, the Prettiest Smartest Girl in the World keeps beating me at everything and I want to win JUST ONCE

Once, because he’s pissed. Once because then she’d be looking. Cassian just wants Nesta to look at him, and by sixth grade this feeling goes from earnest to furiously incandescent. 

HEAVY ON THE FURY

- Jump ahead, to the very end of middle school, the Archeron’s mom dies. 

Cassian is a happily adopted foster kid, former orphan who just barely remembers his parents. He finds out, and carries around this horrible heavy feeling in his chest all day like he can’t swallow. 

He wants- he doesn’t know- he wants to say something. But Nesta isn’t at school, and they aren’t actually friends, but he just wants to say: someday. He wants to tell her what his foster moms told him: that it’s okay to cry. (He cannot imagine perfect, smart, Nesta Archeron crying). Whatever you feel is okay.

Entirely by accident Cassian runs into her at the local library. Outside, crying on the sidewalk, arriving just in time to watch her hurl her water bottle at the cement.

Cassian, being Cassian, brings it back to her. 

It turns out pretty girl tears are terrifying.

So he very quietly hooks it back onto the pretty lavender backpack Nesta has carried around for the last three years- his is purple too, not at all to be weird, just because- and sits down on the sidewalk too, a couple feet away.

And Nesta is Not Okay. Her mom is dead, and she doesn’t know what she feels because it’s huge and terrifying. Everything hurts and she’s so, so angry and that stupid water bottle lid doesn’t really fit anyway, because it’s actually Feyre’s lid on Nesta’s bottle, because their Aunt doesn’t know anything and doesn’t know them, and Nesta only has that stupid baby backpack because their Dad spends all his time at work so he doesn’t know that before Mom got sick Nesta and Elain got new backpacks every year, whichever they wanted, and they always matched, but Elain’s ripped last summer and their dad had his assistant get a new one but it’s pink and Elain hates pink and it clashes with Nesta’s-

Cassian watches the Pretty Perfect Girl curl in on herself and scream. 

This, in the end, is when Perfect Girl becomes Nesta.

Cassian is is panicking, okay? PANICKING. His ability to comfort other people is 85% knowing when Azriel is overwhelmed and 15% hugging his dog during thunderstorms. He doesn’t know what he can possibly do for Nesta- so he just grabs her hand. 

Holds on, like Az did without laughing at him when Cassian cried that his adoption had gone through.

And Nesta hangs on, so hard it really actually hurts. He doesn’t ask her what’s wrong, or why, and Nesta is so grateful that hurts too. He’s always so loud and laughing, and Nesta has always hated it a little, thinking he was laughing at her.

(he was not)

The complete simplicity of that sweaty grip is just enough that Nesta can think. And poor baby Nesta thinks. 

She has to go inside and return all the sisters books so they don’t have a fine. She needs to figure out how to cut Feyre’s bangs because she’s running around like a sheepdog because Dad didn’t remember to schedule her a haircut. Elain will help. And Nesta will help Elain water the houseplants because Mom loved them and Dad told the maids they’re fake but they’re not, only the ones in the living room are. 

And Nesta- Nesta has a plan.

-They go in the library. If the volunteer behind the desk is making faces at Nesta’s tearstained face or grubby, iron grip on the boy beside her, Nesta isn’t going to acknowledge it, because Mom always said rude people didn’t deserve attention.

Nesta picks out her books, Cassian silently follows. And then he walks her home. They live in the same neighborhood, so it’s fine- but whats not fine is Nesta still hasn’t said anything, and Cassian just wants to say something-

But what happens it this- Nesta carries half the books in a grip so hard it looks painful. Cassian knows its probably painful, because she’s really hurting his hand now. 

Cassian will look later at the imprint her tiny fingertips had made and feel like his whole body is fluttering- but now, now, she’ll steal his half of the books like it’s nothing and stomp up the porch steps of her house, right past a wilting delivery of lilies slowly dying before her front door. 

She won’t say thank you. Cassian won’t say goodbye.

But Cassian will think it’s okay, it’s okay- because Nesta wasn’t alone like he’d been alone.

The blue door slams shut, and they don’t speak again until junior year of high school.

- Nesta Archeron is seventeen and ready to eat the world raw. She’s top of her class. She has goals, she has terrifyingly perfect hair, and she is not going to let anything stand in her way- especially not the fact that she ran for junior class president and tied, with Cassian.

-Cassian has become very, very Cassian in the intervening years. He’s popular but kind, a loud laugh that echoes down halls. Smart, but not a stratospheric over-achiever like Nesta. College is a year away, but everyone know’s he’s going to get an athletic scholarship. 

They run in very, very different circles.

-Listen, it’s not even on purpose- it’s just that something about Nesta’s horrified expression and color-coded organization and perfect fucking red lips makes Cassian his most insane golden retriever self. He can’t help himself. 

They have to work together. They fight constantly. 

But Cassian’s fighting, at seventeen, is like 80% teasing and 20% very real, very earnest flirting. 

And maybe- maybe Nesta knows that and it makes her even grouchier.  She has a plan, okay? She’s on track to graduation top of her class. She’s going to Standford, then Harvard. She’s going to be a surgeon. 

It’s not so far away she can’t still be there for her sisters. Elain wants to go to Berkley and obviously will because she’s brilliant- Feyre will only be alone for one year, but she’s already all set for that to be her study abroad year, so she won’t be trapped at home in their empty house. She’ll be in Spain, and then she’ll go to art school. 

All three Archeron sisters will be of age to pull from their enormous inheritance left from their mother- they will never need to ask anything of their absent, silent, bastard father ever again. It’s just a matter of waiting.

Nesta is on track, and she can’t get distracted.

But Cassian- Cassian really seems to think Nesta doesn’t remember him. As though she could forget, as much as she wants to, that absolute disaster of a boy who was the only person in the world who made Nesta feel like she wasn’t responsible for everything.

Of course, that little boy grew up to be beautiful. 

Of course, now he’s a goddamn menace who’s a clear foot taller than her with broad shoulders to match. Of course, that enormous kind smile sits even more tantalizing on an older face. Of course his dimples are so deep they flash when he grimaces at her student council timeline, broken down for the next two years.

- Azriel, Nesta’s AP chem lab partner, bound forever in respect by mutual silent competence and scorn for the assholes who sit behind them who keep lighting things on fire, says nothing about any of this until Nesta comes into class holding an enormous rainbow concoction like it’s going to explode.

Together- perennially left to their own devices by a teacher who really does not know what to do with them, and maybe fears they both know the coursework better than she does- they stare at the rainbow sprinkled whip cream mountain, slowly melting into the equally bright froth of the drink. 

Some of them are heart-shaped. 

Azriel breaks first, and asks, “Cassian?”

And Nesta, sweet baby ice princess Nesta, numb from being swooped upon by a giddy, grinning, blushing 6′4 quarterback who darted out of the culinary building to force this into her hand and run back away says: Does he think I’m a lesbian?

This is the moment Azriel’s soul actually leaves his body. 

The visceral cringe is so apparent Nesta keeps talking: I mean, the rainbows? why? 

It’s just close enough to a wail that Azriel decides to take pity on this whole new level of romantic idiocy. He proceeds to explain it’s a unicorn frappuccino? maybe? probably? not that he could advise actually consuming anything Cassian makes.

Nesta’s big What the Fuck face does not fade, so Az finally goes: he’s trying to get your attention. 

Nesta: He has my attention. I see him every day. 

Azriel, thinking about how much fun telling Lucien about this will be, imagining his very beautiful boyfriend howling with laughter: Right, and why would he want more?

Nesta: Because he’s a menace?

Az:

Nesta:

Az:

Nesta, glaring with heartfelt intensity at the melting hearts and stars, food coloring weeping: Because he wants my attention. That- that bastard.

Az, opening his mouth, only to be cut off by Nesta furiously unzipping her bag:

Nesta: that stupid fucking- are you kidding me? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? He- HE- he made me go to a soccer game last week and called it OUTREACH. 

Azriel, watching Nesta tap her phone at top speed: Are you...texting Cassian?

Nesta: that motherfucking, stupid, college admission essays- I’m going to-

Az: Nesta??

Nesta: Do you know how much of a disaster he is? Do you know how much of my time he has wasted? He wants my attention, he has my fucking attention. Why didn’t he say so?

(In the background, the boys behind them have, indeed, started another fire)

Three buildings away, Cassian, vibrating with a frequency that can be seen from space: Mooooor, you don’t understand. She’s so smart, she’s going to be trauma surgeon.

Morrigan, trying in vain to get a full rainbows worth of food coloring off her pearlescent manicure: Cas, you literally want to be a nurse. 

Cassian: Exactly

Morrigan gives up on her nails, distracted from Cassian’s lovelorn expression by his silenced phone flashing repeatedly: Who’s sparkle heart sparkle heart bomb peach firework sparkle heart? 

Cassian, flailing: 

Nesta, here expressed as sparkle heart sparkle heart bomb peach firework sparkle heart: Coffee. 3pm, Sunday. Yes?

Cassian, chewing on the inside of his cheek: Yes! Did the senior class shunt all their work down again?

Nesta: Not to work.

Cassian, life flashing before his eyes, thinking it was the sprinkles?!!

Nesta: A date.

Nesta: Is this supposed to taste like sour candy? 

- They go on the date. Cassian overcomes his transcendent nervousness by getting into a pretty squabble with Nesta over the book they’re currently reading in AP English. 

(The entire argument is a false premise, he loves Jane Austen. Nesta knows this.)

- Nesta takes him to this beautiful coffee shop that is like 70% just a lush tropic garden. 

(Elain sees them coming and has to literally duck behind the counter to laugh. Lucien, her shift partner and dearest friend, watches the whole song and dance of ordering, sitting under a flowering tree and staring at each like lunatics with utter glee, ready to rely every detail to Az)

The Thing is, they keep fighting. They keep fighting, but Cassian’s smile gets softer and softer, his laugh brighter and brighter. The arguing is turning into banter and Nesta is actually? having? So much fun?

- The thing is, Nesta needed a plan to survive. 

But maybe- maybe Cassian was there all along. Maybe, if she can’t be distracted, the obvious answer is to stop letting him make her crazy and- and let him in. 

Maybe, she can hold onto responsibility for everything and still let someone else have a little responsibility for her.

Maybe, Cassian is exactly what she needed. 

[phantomdelver]

Much before any servant could have entered his sleeping chambers, drawn back the thick curtains and let the first rosy streaks of day sneak in, Ares had slipped outside.

The new day was still young, a rose-gold yawn, promising, he thought, another sweltering summer morning.

Clad in only white undergarments  matching white linen trousers, goosebumps soon were crawling up his arms and spine.

It mattered not.

Whether broken darkness, black-pit dark, or early bronze – he cherished those hours. Silent moments, silence meandering. Sometimes, somewhere, there was the twitch of birds. In between shrubs, briars and trees looming large.

Only then, it was just him, sword in hand, polished rigorously by the dimming embers at hearths of yesterday. He kept his most treasured one in a chest in his room, from which he had retrieved it earlier; the key always on a gold chain around his neck.

His tread, though he was barefoot, resounded strong, even, certain. He knew he wanted to train; if he did not, did indeed miss even one of those sacred morrow rites, Ares would feel on edge throughout, until next he would rest his head.

And why not, he mused further, for the weight of his blade in his hands, rough hands, his calluses made to fit for this very hilt – nothing was more right than this.

Once the training dummies came into view, he cautiously stepped up to them. Swinging his sword, a full, strong blow from above, he swiftly spun his blade, mimicking the heavy blows that had saved his life many times in battle. 

This is a full-body attack; the stern voice of his mentor ringing in his mind. The longsword’s primary attack. He did exactly as he had been thought as a boy, as he had done countless times on the battlefield. There was the momentum, carrying, growing, rising – into a strike. Never easing on the onslaught.

How he longed to be on campaign again, marching, sharing scraps of food with his soldiers at a kindled fire. Campaigning meant war, meant tedious stratagem, meant death; but he belonged on the battlefield. Amidst the noise, the chaos, the clash of steel thick with screams, and soil saturated with viscera still warm.

It was grim, it was dark, it was what his sister loathed the most.

“My Lord,” came the voice, just as he was about to grip his sword once more and practice more. It was Iris, his wet nurse, and his mother’s closest companion.

When he glimpsed over his shoulder, however, Ares paused. Usually, her amber eyes were lively, kind, fond – there was nothing there, nothing of her, of what Ares had known for so long. Only shock. Surprise?

“Have I not told you countless times not to address me as such?” he chided in playful tones, a smile so earnest it reached his own eyes.

“There are horsemen on the way to the castle,” she hastened on, vowels and consonants clashing, shaking, because now she was wringing her hands, again and again, trying to ground herself.

Ares stiffened. His jaw tightened.

“Enemies?”

“Their flags bear the Queen’s mark.”

The Queen? His white eyebrows drew together, creases deep and dark in between. What could his sister want? He was only summoned for matters of conquest, sieges, and tax collection through his own soldiers.

“I shall expect them in the courtyard. Give word to the stable master.”

***

After a race back to his rooms, to have servants dress him in attire adequate to receive men of the Queen’s guard, he was standing in the very heart of his own courtyard, tall and straight, as a man who had led other men into victory and defeat, likewise, ought to.

Here, clasping onto composure and proper posture, he had to bite the inside of his left cheek. Always, inside him, the urge to pluck and pull at such garments uncoiled. He was in a dark, tight coif, his sleeves inlaid with golden thread, his shoes from costly-tooled Spanish leather.

As a boy, he would often fuss at his formal tunics, scratch at his skin – such things were made for status and show, not for comfort. Alas, he was no longer a boy who could get away with childhood-day-foolery.

There, the sound of hooves, the neighing of black palfreys. They were riding into the courtyard, one of the knights coming to a stop a few inches where Ares and his attendees were already waiting.

This knight dismounted, practiced, all grace and poise, pulling off his helmet.

Eris.

“Eris, come, please tell me the meaning of this visit. Surely my good sister the Queen is not this determined to compel me to obey her schedule, is she?”

Off somewhere, in the distance, an owl shrieked.

Hark.

Eris’ features, always an ode to mischief, were wooden, cold.

Hark.

She did not say anything. She was looking at him, as if through him, the other knights spilling out at her sides like tall, towering shades in their dark armor.

“The Queen,” Eris said.

The knights’ faces next to her were bellmen in and of themselves: pallid, bloodless, silent.

“The Queen is dead.”

***

The journey to the capital stretched out and out and out. At first, after Ares had been ushered into the carriage, Eris had spoken to him. Attempted to. He had seen her lips move, forming words, yet the sounds had not reached him. She had soon realized he was elsewhere, somewhere unreachable, and grew silent. He was glad for her company, because he did not need to grasp at poseurdom or poise. She had seen him ruined, ravaged, remade – there was not a single crack or blemish she had not come to know intimately.

He wasn’t crying.

No, tears were sorrows unbecoming of any man, even for the likes of him. In lieu of ennui or rage, Ares was staring outside, watching as verdant meadows and tree crowns up high drifted him by, merging into blurs of nature.

Athena.

The Queen. His sister, his rival, his confidant.

She had always seemed larger than all of nobility, a goddess almost, untouched by ordinary worries and ordinary failures. She had waged wars, won wars, conquered cities – all for the good of their kingdom. And once Ares had accepted he would never be anything or anybody other than the younger brother of the Queen, Athena had often taken his side over that of a noble.

To think her gone, torn from here, with him left behind… it was wrong, was what it was.

Athena had never been expendable, one of a kind – whereas there were plenty of bachelor royal sons of little consequence.

Like him.

Hadn’t he told her, hadn’t he told her he should lead instead of her?

“Ares, listen.”

He was about to ask what he was supposed to hear when he did hear.

Faint, at first, like sounds under water: then, gradually, growing louder and louder. Against protocol, he withdrew the curtains and peeked outside. Common folk lined the streets. Women were tearing at their clothes and hair; screams and cries and wails – the lamentations of a people mourning for their Queen. The men, on the other side, had taken their practice spears of yore.

In perfect synchronization, the butts of their spears beat and beat and beat on the earth, a slow staccato rhythm soon mingling with their keening. Yet between all those marrow-deep screeching sounds, there were other voices forming, quite distinctly, one word in unison.

His name.

“Have they gone mad?” he asked.

Eris said nothing.

 ***

“Nephew,” Poseidon said at once, with emphasis, rising from where he had been sitting the moment Ares entered the room.

When he had drawn nearer, his uncle lay a hand on his shoulder, firmly, whether to reassure him or himself, he could not say. He gave him a long look: pitying, comforting, steadying.

“Uncle Poseidon,” he began, carefully,” might I inquire to know why I’ve been summoned? I am greatly saddened by the news, as you may know, yet I am uncertain if I am able to assist, here. The funeral arrangements are the responsibility of the successor, are they not?”

There was a pause.

Ares lifted a brow.

Pauses, silences, quietude – those had never been associated with his uncle, much less his domain. His presence was loud, booming, oftentimes overwhelming; it was not for him to say nothing.

And here he was, all quiet, all still.

“The successor will be announced by the council shortly,” was all Poseidon mustered, before he gestured towards the seat opposite his.

Athena’s.

“No,” he answered, instantly, his jaw taut and tight, bile on his tongue.

***

“The Queen has left a succession will,” proclaimed Apollo, donning his holy insignia and robes: the white dalmatic, bright-gold-embossed, billowing always in the wake of his striding steps, the cincture, he remembered, a kind of rope tied at the middle; god thread, jewel-adorned.  His half-brother reveled in his station, and had never shied any expense to wear clothes that exuded his importance.

He made a practiced, graceful hand gesture, after which they all sat down.

Ares did not know why he was there. He had only ever seen the inside of this room when Athena had required his insight and rapport with the soldiers, sometimes when she required a second opinion on her stratagems. Surely, those new lands could not have fallen into disarray this swiftly, could they?

“I, Athena the Queene, proclaim that the imperial crown of this realm of Olympia with all dignities, honours, prominences, prerogatives, authorities and jurisdictions to the same annexed or belonging should be to my dear brother, the prince Ares, and any heirs he may sire, that is to say, the firstborn of his body between the prince, my heir, and his future Queene, and that His Highness should and might give, will, limit, assign, appoint or dispose the said imperial crown and other the premises to what persons or person, and give the same person or persons such estate in the same, as it should please His Highness by his gracious letters patents under the great seal, or by his last will in writing signed with his most gracious hand; as by the same act among divers other things therein contained more at large it doth appear; since the making of which act, I, the Queene,  have no issue of my body lawfully begotten any heirs, and thus have it be known, in this legal and binding will, that only my good brother the prince may and shall succeed me, as no other hath claim to the throne of Olympia. Furthermore, that the appointing of advisors of his Majesty’s government falleth only to my successor and that he may choose whomever he pleases to serve the kingdom and its interests, which, until His Majesty hath chosen a government that pleases him, releases my chosen government advisors from service immediately. I bequeath to my advisors 5.000 gold each, as thanks and in honour of their most loyal service to the kingdom.”

“This must be a joke!” Erebus exclaimed, banging his fist on the table.

But Ares was still processing. He had heard Apollo’s sonorous voice, smooth, silk, sweet as only the practiced oration of a studied man.

He, the heir?

He, the successor?

“No,” Ares said, not thinking, shaking his head vehemently.

“There you have it,” Erebus interjected, his nostrils flaring, his words blaring, like war horns, deafening any other assent or dissent.

“Surely the ancient and noble line of my house, Cthonisia, is much better suited to the task than some philandering, dilettante half-wit of a princeling? Do we want Queen Athena’s efforts and victories to have all been for naught?”

Apollo’s gaze flitted from his fellow cardinals to Erebus, a flash of green across the room. As always, that look, that gaze, that glare – it was gaining momentum and might until, afeared, Erebus looked away.

“The will of the Queen is binding, irrespective of how willing or unwilling her successor may be,” he began, glancing briefly towards Ares.

“It is, however, binding for all – disobedience or disregard of the wish of the Queen, whether alive or not, is treason. And treason, my dear gentlemen, is a death sentence.”

There was truth to his words, sickening as it was to Ares. The only truth spoken today, he mused. This meeting was a waste of time, if he had to think about it. Yes, this served as a means to convey Athena’s last will, but it was predominantly for these ministers to try on their sycophant costumes like good little nobles grabbling for authority. 

                                               ***

“I don’t want it. I’m no king!” came the fusillade of rage, the torrent, the wrath. Once he and Apollo had retreated to the private library of the Queen, Ares had done what he always did when he lost himself. He grew warm, then hot, then blazing, a flame; a fire engulfing everything, from right to reason, leaving only cinder, like the fire from years before. The city fire, from when nearly everything had burnt to the ground.

His fists were shaking at his sides, trembling with that dangerous, incendiary current. He was seeing only white, brilliant white, his teeth bared, sharp, a warning.

Apollo had him against the wall within seconds, his right hand wrapped around his throat. He was staring at him, staring him down, predator to a predator.

“Stop behaving like a petulant child before I forget myself!”

Apollo had that effect on him. Apollo knew how to tame a beast, it was said, as one of the swiftest, deadliest hunters aside from his twin sister Artemis. Tame him he did, in that moment.

Ares took a deep, deep breath, his chest heaving with the effort of it. He closed his eyes, breathed in again, breathed out, opened his eyes again.

“Whether you like it or not, you will be crowned king in the coming days. I will help and guide you as best as I can as a servant of the Mother, and my function as a member of your council. But you must exercise self-control, or the nobles will skin you alive, and I will not disgrace myself and save you from yourself.”

                                                     ***

  Night had settled in the castle, in silence and dark. Only silvery moonlight was slipping in through the high windows, which cast a cool light in the hallways. It was that quiet that made him cautious. The cicadas, their distant song, the lonely winds, even the owls and their hooting – yes, those were noises fit for the sleeping world, but not footsteps.

Ares tiptoed through the shadows, sneaking down the same path he had first sneaked down when he had turned fifteen. A secret passage, for their way, because it was only known to them.

There she was.

Once Ares had emerged from the confined space of the passage and out into a dimly-lit chamber, his gaze found hers.

She was standing there, in the center of the room, as though she had been waiting for him. Expecting him. Clad only in a white linen nightgown, the shape of her round breasts sharp against the cloth, she took a step towards him, and stretched out her hand.

Ares smiled, tiredly, gladly. For her. He took her hand. He let himself be let towards and then onto the bed, where she pushed him into the pillows, gently, before laying down her head on his chest.

“How are you feeling, my heart? Honestly.”

Ares gave a huff.

“Honestly?”

Aphrodite raised her head and looked up at him, firm and stern.

“Honestly.”

And how could he lie to her, who already knew too much of him and had seen too much?

So he heaved a deep sigh, ruffled his own hair, and squeezed his eyes shut.

“I keep wishing to wake up to find this has all simply been a figment of my imagination, a bad dream… but, alas, it seems real.”

A shiver snuck up and down his spine, then; there was pressure at first, light, lighter, lightest, the warm wetness of her mouth against his closed eyelids. Kisses for him. Ares could not keep a crooked smile from turning his mouth corners upside. She always found new places to plant her love.

“Indeed it does, my heart,” came her affirming whisper, close to his ear.

“Any king needs rest, however, so you best not worry your pretty little head all night for now and close your eyes now like a good little boy.”

                                                       ***

 The morning broke just like any other morning; yet golden-young and bronze-drowsy from a reclining night. Where he would have snuck outside yearning to swing his sword at the practice grounds, Ares was miles and miles away. In the capital, at court, sat upright in bed. In his old sleeping chamber. Back when he had begrudgingly remained. For Athena, for Aphrodite. Before the glaring, opulent ballrooms and indulgent banquets had all been too much. 

Sleep had evaded him throughout, even though exhaustion had not. His limbs and mind were still heavy and aching. Even though Aphrodite had stayed with him, her breathing a calming, soothing lullaby; but even she could not alter reality.

Looking out of the small window, he edged closer to sit on the sill. He leaned forward to gaze outside.

Tiny gull and pigeon dots were hopping over meticulously trimmed meadows. In only a few hours, he would be stepping inside the parliament chamber to meet the council. Where ministers of high birth would cajole and trickle sweet, tempting promises all over him. A gamble, of course, to retain their positions and influence. Just because Athena had favored these nobles, it didn’t mean Ares would. It was up to him to shape and form his council however he saw fit.

Power was not everything in those rooms, he had learned. Although the decision ultimately lay in his hands, it was a small comfort.

Apollo would be there, as was his duty and right as a high priest of The Mother. But this first trial of kingship, he had to face alone.

Dread twisted his insides; cool, cruel, gnawing.

Ares flinched a little. Slender arms still warm from blankets and cushions and their shared body heat wrapped around him from behind. Rosy locks came into his vision, tickling his bare skin.

“Be on your guard, my heart. These ministers will not shy away from deceit or manipulation, especially now that you can control their fortune.”

Ares gave a non-committal grunt.

She would know, wouldn’t she?

                                           ***

After Aphrodite had tiptoed back to her chambers through their secret passage connecting their rooms and assisted in putting on his robes for the day, he had made his way to the west wing. He had servants to call on, but he had never much enjoyed their demure eyes and quiet, lurking nature. He did not need help for the simple act of dressing himself. But having Aphrodite help him into his tunic was different. She knew him, knew what suited him, specifically; knew the impetus of style, and how it could be just as much a weapon among nobles as a sharpened blade in battle. 

He was standing in front of the parliament door after wandering aimlessly for a while, after one last, wistful look at her.  But, there it was, that door: Old, dark wood adorned with owls, door knobs shaped like Aegis, gold-embossed and imposing. Apollo was beside him, his hand already on those knobs.

“Ready?”

“Yes,” he muttered, raising his shoulders to attain the proper posture. Tall, towering, looming.

The door opened with a loud, resounding creak, ancient as it was, and immediately, every seated minister rose to acknowledge his entrance.

Before they could walk to take their positions, however, Nyx strode forwards above everyone else present. She was donning her House colors: a gown of deep, deep blue velvet, endlessly flowing. Her dark strands of hair were spilling over her shoulders, dark as ink, adorned with small jewels to resemble stars.

“Your Grace, we are all deeply sorry for your loss, and mourn our most-beloved Queen. Although her absence shall be most keenly felt by us all, you lost a sister also. Her death must succeed you two-fold.”

Gradually, as words after words poured from her lips, his smile grew sharper. She was smiling a smile of sympathy, though her eyes were cold.

“If ever I or my children can lessen the burden on your shoulders, I ask you to please make use of us as you see fit. As surely you are aware, our Houses are linked through a rich history of marriage, loyal service, and fruitful cooperation. We would be humbled to see it thus continue.”

There it was, he thought, consciously trying to control his composure and face. He felt the faint pull of his mouth corners, the twitch, down and down – the hint of disdain.

“My Lady Nyx, I thank you for your most soothing words, for they bring me great comfort. Truly, I am grateful for your continued support. I can surely count on your unconditional loyalty to the crown as well, I hope?”

“But of course.”

Nyx must have awakened their collective ambition from complacency, for throughout the meeting, more and more ministers were hovering around him. They all waited and waited, a hunger in their looks. Predators, all of them, who interrupted each other or agreed loudly when it suited them. Appearances, appearances, appearances.

                                                         ***

 Once the last member had been ushered outside and left, spewing vacuous condolences in their wake, Ares shut the door firmly behind their back. He lurched over, collapsed into the nearest seat, and let out an exasperated sigh.

“I do not trust any of them.”

He leaned further back so that he could cast a side glimpse at Apollo, who was looking out of the faraway window.

“Did Athena?”

At his question, Apollo stirred. His impassive profile crumbled. Ares knew his brother knew how to conceal his own secrets, was expert in this, always bright, blinding, blazing and warm. And just as his skin was sun-caressed, freckles scattered on his cheeks, so, too, bright was he and his mind.

Apollo, full of light and joy, could just as easily drape himself in darkness: scathing remarks, glacial glares, and then, his features were an inscrutable mask.

Now, he allowed Ares to see him. Not the devout priest, not the legitimized bastard of the late King, but him, his half-brother who, too, had lost a sister.

“That is the price of ruling. No one can be trusted, least of all any of Athena’s ministers. The most obvious being, in your case, because they loathe you.”

When  Ares only grunted by way of reply, Apollo sighed before coming over to claim the seat next to him.

“You must root it out, one by one, elect new ministers you can trust to a degree.”

His gaze dropped away, straight to the middle of the long table. His words merely a beat before had warned him against trust or sentiments. This was a miasma between them, a gaping gulf, their expressions the same: grim. Tense shoulders both.

“It would be unwise, however, to yank them all out. Choose which are the lesser evil, who can be controlled best.”

Ares drew a deep breath.

Already pressure was building behind his eyes, the faint pulse and drum an ache that could hardly be eased, or stopped.

“Thank you for your counsel. For now, I wish to retire to deliberate this matter in private.”

Which was to say: he needed a goddamn drink.

                                               ***

 Where drink freely flowed, rippling like stray raindrops into cups, Dionysus was not far. Indeed, Ares did not have to scour long for his half-brother when he entered the main hall. A circle had formed at the edge of the currently empty dancing floor. The musicians who had travelled far to perform at court were resting now, their conversations gentle whispers permeated by gasps and giggles from the crowd.

Dionysus was trying his coin trick of yore on a high-born lady when he stepped closer to watch him with a raised brow. As he had conjured the gold coin countless times before, he did so in this very moment. Accompanied by the free, loose laughter of the lady half a beat later. Dionysus curtsied deeply and winked at her with glee and mischief alive in his eyes.

It did not take him long to spot Ares in the crowd, however, which prompted him to curtsy once more, even deeper this time. The tip of his nose was barely inches away from marble.

Ares could not help but scoff at the display. Discomfiture wrapped around him; the taste of bile in his mouth. Burning, as their glances, into his consciousness.

“There is no need for such formality between brothers, Dio.”

“Oh, my little vulture, I must insist there is! How could I not pay proper homage to my soon to be king?”

He laughed; loudly, boldly, quite unlike any mirth befitting of a man of his station, bastard or not. Dionysus was always laughing in spite of this, always with a twinkle in his eyes, crinkles underneath, and dimples in his cheeks – as if his lover, Hypnos, had pressed his thumbs into his skin and left a permanent mark.

And so, too, his whole posture loosened, opened, came alive. His brother had that effect on others, no matter the situation or standing. A spell, a craft, finely honed.

It was this magic he needed, he decided. 

“A word?”

Dionysus bowed again, all elegance and decorum.

“I am, as ever, at your disposal, my most illustrious king and sovereign ruler.”

Ares scoffed at those pompous airs he put on, revelling in his discomfiture; but he put it aside, tolerated it. He gestured towards the study outside, at the far end of the hallway. 

Athena’s girlhood study was a small room, practically a broom closet compared to the size and opulence of every other room. It was this simplicity, this lack of wealth Ares could well appreciate it. Just dark shelves of oak lining the walls, stacked with books of all themes. Political theory, history, mathematics, science and so much more. All under a vaulted ceiling, wide and spacious, like a plain. 

“As you know, I have spent the last years at the estates in the countryside, far removed from court. I know it has been much the same for you,” he began, leaning forwards in his chair, hands folded on the writing desk.

“However, you have been travelling throughout the kingdoms, performing at various courts. Listening. I trust you have learned a thing or two of the innerworkings here and there, have you not?” 

Dionysus smiled his lazy smile, though his eyes were awake and alert as he reclined in his chair, crossing his legs.

“You know what they say about bards, my little vulture. No one ever suspects them,” he replied. His lips curled into a smirk. As unloved sons both, legitimate or not, they knew the value of obscurity, of irrelevancy. 

“I will be glad to write up a summary of the juicy bits I’ve heard, if it helps.”

“It certainly will. Thank you, Dio.”

                                          ***

 That night as many nights and afternoons before he had retreated to the country estate, Ares found solace in the arms of Aphrodite, nuzzling his face into her hair, the scent of myrrh and rose water in his nose, and her warmth, always her tender strength and unfailing warmth. He told her about the meeting with the council, about Nyx’s protestation, about the dread in his guts and the hungering wolves sat around him, dressed in fine silks and golden jewelry to flaunt their wealth and status, about how vulnerable he felt in their wake, even though he was the one wearing the crown.

“Well,” she murmured in his ear while he was on the threshold of waking and dreaming,” I say you should follow your heart, hm?”

It was.

It was.

A yearning, a craving, little praying  – a wanting he could no longer allow. Never could he abandon his loves the way Athena had, sacrificing and sacrificing and hurting, for the good of the lands; but he had to tear parts of him apart, with stained hands, scrape off the dried blood from under his fingertips, and gaze out the balcony. Those houses, far, far away, silhouettes closer to the mountains, he had to think of too, now, not only his own indulgences.

He sought out Apollo the next morning, having been helped once more by Aphrodite to dress in robes conveying his rank, and found him already waiting in the throne room.

“I take it you have already at least partially made up your mind on whom to elect as a minister?” he asked, knowing, because Ares was nothing if not predictable in such matters.

“Yes,” he said, trailing off, letting silence turn stilted, pulling them further apart. His brother was unreadable, always, and as their eyes locked, Ares was none the wiser about his thoughts.

“I am releasing Thanatos from the tower to have him take the place as one of my close advisors.”

Apollo nodded instantly.

“Yes, this should please the House Cthonisia and ease the tensions between us for a while.”

He paused. Grew silent. His eyes, bright and hard and seeing, on him, searching for something, finding it, and still Ares did not know what Apollo wanted with this knowledge. What he would do.

“But, Ares, we cannot release him until after your coronation. You are not officially king yet, after all, and acting in opposition to Athena’s will, while legally possible and constitutionally your right as her successor, is... unwise.”

He swallowed, audibly, leaning his back against the stone-brick wall. Cool, yet steady. Of course, Apollo was right, as he often was. Infuriatingly so. He did have the authority to do as he pleased now that Athena’s will had been spread, and her old council informed. Many would think it callous to stride around handing out orders and pardons before Athena, still the Queen in the eyes of the common people, was even buried. It was his duty to give their sovereign, his sister, the funeral she was due. As a royal lady, as a ruler, as his friend. The people should grieve and mourn and find comfort in the following games. To remember her, to reminisce, to keep her alive in their memories for one last day. 

“How is he?”

Apollo gave him one of his avuncular smiles. It was pleasant, it was charming; it did not reach his eyes.

“Thanatos is the second oldest son of an old, noble House. I assure you he’s received the best accommodations and care one can ask for, his confinement notwithstanding.”

He strode to the nearest window, peering outside. 

“For now, I advise you to focus on immediate concerns, namely Athena’s funeral arrangements, along with the games in her honor. Do not take this lightly, brother, for our foreign ambassadors at court have sharp tongues, and will not look kindly on the next ruler of Olympia if they find your arrangements lacking.”

                                                     ***

He had been poring over papers and waving off ambassadors and merchants eager to make some coin and, already, he could feel it. The pressure of tension throbbing behind his temples, imbued by a dull ache. It was not the worst he had had, though it was consistent, pulsating from his head down to the soles of his feet.

“Don’t despair, my heart,” Aphrodite crooned; honeyed, forgiving, patient. She ambled over to a servant girl holding a tray with ale, bread, and some cheese. She gave the girl an appreciative nod and a smile before allowing her to return to her other duties. Again, she made him smile, too. Just watching her was a pleasure. And those ostensibly small gestures were what made Aphrodite shine. Commoners, nobles, ambassadors. She knew how to act around others according to their station, and though her words and motions were calculated, her defiant warmth towards all never felt like a scene from a play.

She carefully set down the tray, then claimed the chair next to him. Without so much as a mischievous gleam in her eyes and a little smirk, she took his hand propping up his head and shoved the ale at him. 

“Your determination to get this right is all quite endearing, darling, but you have to take care of yourself. When did you last eat, hm?”

Ares grunted noncommittally, but took a quick swig of the ale in his hands. 

“I’ve barely made any progress since midday.” 

She smiled.

“This is why I brought someone along.”

Almost as if they had planned it to the very second, Dionysus burst in, leaving his guards stupefied in his wake. He lurched towards them, towards the round oak table, raising a hand as a nonchalant welcome. 

“I’ve heard you need some help with a little planning, my little vulture?”

Ares sighed.

“This is supposed to be a funeral arrangement. Please be decent, Dio, if you must help.”

“Oh, I absolutely must.”

To his surprise, his half-brother did have a penchant for planning and organization, even if it largely pertained to the games, which would be held after the ceremony at the church. There was to be a race, a tournament, and a play on the final day. The latter, so Dionysus said, would be a homage to Athena’s reign, her victories, a snapshot lane of a dearly beloved queen. They had had relative peace under her, after decades of vicious fighting among noble Houses. It was not without reason that, besides many other honorifics, she had been the Saviour Queene.

There was some consolation in the thought that his sister, their sister, would be celebrated as she had lived.

                                            ***

The morning of the funeral had dressed in dreary grey; heavy clouds, gusts of wind, hidden sun. Many priests in the temple had solemnly reassured Ares this had to be an omen. A good one, for it seemed even the Mother was mourning the loss of a faithful servant who had mended her earth with years of peace and prosperity. Athena’s bier had taken weeks to craft by the finest artisans, expedited by spells of speed thanks to the kingdom’s mages,  adorned with gold and precious jewels befitting of her status as sovereign. Ares, on horseback, was riding behind the bier as her successor, through the busy streets of Olympia. People of the capital had poured outside to bid farewell to their Queen. Some of them had opened their windows, leaning on window sills for a better vantage point. The women gave way to their grief in loud wails. They were beating their chests in one unrelenting, cruel rhythm, tearing at their hair and clothes. 

A keening sound resounded throughout the journey from the streets of the town to the abbey, where all kings and queens would rest eternally. A keening sound. It was their song of woe. Sobs and wails and loss and fear. Too soon for the people to have forgotten the succession wars that had ravaged the lands and taken their sons and daughters in summons to fight for their queen and her claim to the throne. There was uncertainty in this banquet of glances, Ares knew, as he rode past. Athena had brought order. What, they were thinking, would her brother bring? 

But even a queen who had executed traitorous, ambitious nobles and passed bill after bill to leave little possibility for another war once she would die could not strip those oligarchs off their essence. They would always poke and prod at the pillars she had so thoughtfully built, until there were ruins once more. There was uncertainty in those looks. He was well-liked among the army and the common folk, yes, because he was their prince. A prince, at that, who had dared to elevate ordinary men and women into offices. They had a voice in government, now, and because Athena had not opposed and granted his recommendations for those offices and posts, they were of consequence. 

Tensions between old and new had not subsided.

They would have to see whether this successor of hers was up to the task to unite them.

It was Apollo who addressed the crowd to give his funeral speech. His voice, an echo throughout, silvery and strong --- the mark of an expert orator, his verbiage deliberate and vibrant; a recounting of Athena’s accomplishments. 

How she had ended the succession wars that had drained the coffers for all and left the farmers either gutted or starving while the opposing forces would take their lands. How she had stabilized the succession and royal family to banish tragedy into plays, onto stages. How she had pleaded and succeeded in more equality. 

Indeed, she was laid to rest not a mortal, but a goddess.

The funeral games followed and lasted three days. 

Commoners, too, were permitted to participate in the race vying for a medal and a prize of thirty gold.

It was a commoner who won. A father of three, with lanky legs and nimble feet. However swift he had been, however, Ares could not help but doubt whether he could have outrun Hermes, had he been here. 

Hermes, sent running a year ago, to liaison for House Olympia at the court of Titanus. A spy, what else, who had dared further still to love above his station.

Ares tried not to think about it. 

                                               ***

Even though the funeral rites and games had barely ended, Apollo was already preoccupied again. His mind had once again filtered out everyday trivialities, focusing instead on Ares’ fast approaching coronation. 

Evidently, this was not simply over and done with putting the crown on his head and waving to the assembled nobility.

Everything from his wardrobe to his gait towards the throne fell under patronizing scrutiny. Everything was wrong, nothing was right. He did not have the poise Athena had naturally possessed, nor her knowledge of etiquette. Even he had attended such lessons, with a stern, grim-faced lecturer, who had often slammed a wooden stick on his bare hands, laid out on the table like an offering. It had brought deep, dark welts, red skin, a glaring impress of discipline; but there was a wildness in him. He was a wolf, an animal, ravenous always. It had been unbecoming of a prince then, and it was humiliating now. 

Again and again he had been walking back and forth, striding back and forth, all under the unrelenting eyes of Apollo. Again and again his brother had told him, harshly, exasperated, that he could not move like a foot soldier. His posture was not as outrageous as it could have been, had he not been trained to become a fighter, a soldier, and a commander early on.  He was standing straight and tall, a sense of authority undeniably in the way he was holding himself.

He was a king now, however, somebody who was supposed to stride into any room, linger in any crowd, and still leave everyone speechless. Because his presence should be its own force, its own might, like their infamous warships at port.

Ares huffed audibly, loudly, before collapsing into his chair. Apollo gave him a foul look when he sat down, abandoning his lessons and practice, but he pretended not to see it.

“This is impossible and ridiculous,” he grumbled.

Before his brother could throw a scathing remark back at him, one of the guards entered his chambers.

“Your Majesty, the dowager queen Hera seeks an audience.”

Ares lifted a quizzical eyebrow. This formality. Unnecessary. His mother would burst into any room she wanted, whether he were a king or a stable boy. It was sweet, this sensation, this realization his mother would have to obey, whatever he said. He nodded dismissively. Apollo rose to his feet, giving Hera the slightest nod of acknowledgement as he strode past her.

“Mother,” he said, cautious to keep his voice neutral. 

Hera strode to the chair opposite him without invitation or permission. 

“I have come to discuss the topic of securing a suitable marriage for you now that you are going to be king, son.”

He frowned.

“There is nothing to discuss. You know who I’m going to marry.”

Fury. He could see the transformation on her face, could watch as her dark look grew darker, sharper, colder, her lips thin and pale - and her nose scrunched up in disgust.

“Surely you cannot mean to marry this girl, my dear? I will not protest if you wish to keep her as your mistress, it is your right after all, yet Aphrodite is unsuitable to be your queen.”

A sigh elicited him at her crude, callous words, none of which were new. Her wrath against Aphrodite had begun after her introduction at court a few years ago. She had spent her childhood abroad at the court of Queen Persephone. A common practice for daughters of influential men, which Aphrodite’s foster-father undoubtedly was.

Soon, their gaping silence had opened up like an ever growing gulf. With nothing to breach this distance, this glacial disapproval in his mother’s eyes, it became unbearable. Desperate for words, for sounds, any sound, his lips parted, ready to just speak; but Hera held up a hand, motioning for further silence. 

She was not quiet for long.

“Ares, now that you are king, you cannot live your life freely doing whatever you desire most in the moment. She...may have her charms, and I see she pleases you,” she conceded, her mouth corners downturned,” however, take into account our difficult relations with the neighboring kingdoms. It was not long ago that we were fighting a bloody succession war, in which many people perished. It would be in your best interests, therefore, to take a bride that will strengthen foreign connections and appease the other ruling monarchs.”

Again, he inhaled, deeply, through his nose; again, he exhaled, shakily, through his mouth. He leaned further back in his seat. His mother was a clever woman. Had she been Queen in the age of Athena and Artemis, both revered queens in their own right, she would have made a better head of state than his father could have ever been. She could have steered this country towards golden dawns instead of charcoal dusks. Like his father. She was showing this in this very moment. She had a personal stake in keeping Aphrodite from becoming queen, yes. Her hatred was a cold, twisted thing she had never bothered to hide. Though more than anything, more than her rage, Ares saw a mother who did not want history to repeat itself. 

He was his father’s son.

In the end.

“Thank you for your counsel, mother.”

With this, he rose. After this, he needed to be away from this wretched castle, this wretched court. 

He went outside, to the gardens.

                                         ***

 All too quickly, he saw he was not alone.

Perched on a little stool with a canvas before him, a man was painting the very heart of the labyrinth: a tall marble statue of the Mother. At her foot, a crown of flowers bloomed. White roses, brighter even still in the noon light. Ivy was coiling around her long, slender limbs, too, though Ares did not remember seeing it the last time he had been there.

“heard you, you know.”

The man glanced over his shoulder, a smirk clearly on his face.

“You have good ears, then,” he said, and took a few steps forward until he could take a proper look.

He was smiling, dimples popping; but it did not reach his gaze. His dark, brown eyes were inscrutable, impenetrable, like depths of unknown waters. His matching brown hair was a mussed up mess, wind-kissed, and his white tunic was hanging loosely off of his left shoulder.

“You always were pretty awful at remembering faces, boss.”

Ares frowned. 

This knowing smile, those features - there was a vague familiarity to them. He edged towards him, still frowning, coming to a stop right behind the stool on which he was sitting. He was looking up at him, with that smile, as if he knew, as if he held all knowledge.

He remembered.

Boss.

“Hermes.”

At the sound of his name, his smile dispersed. There was a mischievous sheen to those eyes, though, which had never dulled or gone in all the years he had known him.

“Got to say, did not think you’d remember this quickly. Always on the slower side there. Good on you, Ares. Though I guess it’s your Highness now, isn’t it?”

Ares’ face twisted into a grimace. Without waiting for Hermes to scoot over on his stool, he lay down in the grass, staring up at the sky above.

“So you’ve heard,” he muttered. He shook his head, slowly, pointedly not looking at Hermes.

“It’ll always be just Ares to you.”

“Barely a day back and already receiving special privileges. That’s pretty quick, even by my standards.”

His mouth went dry. 

He shifted slowly, carefully, so that he could prop himself up on his elbows and look at his old friend.

“So you’re back?”

His body tensed, was heavy. Those words had tumbled out, without thought. The hitch in his voice, this breathy note - his silly little boyhood hope. 

“Yupp. Been summoned by none other than Apollo himself. There’s a job that needs doing, he said.”

Hermes did not seem to have noticed anything. He narrowed his eyes just so, his gaze dropping away. 

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

There it was again.

His smile.

“What do you think?”

                                                 ***

Even though he would learn why Hermes was once again at court, he guarded his secret expertly. Apollo, too, had very firmly shot down his questioning, claiming his coronation took precedence over the matter of Hermes’ new position. It had always been like this, with him. Conspirators, the both of them. Always, indelibly, donning secrecy as other nobles would finery.

It did not bother him, not knowing.

He would never ask him for truth. 

Hermes without secrecy was only one half of him. Incomplete, inherent. So they had agreed, when they had both been students under Chaos, that Ares trusted him to speak when there was something he had to know.

Despite this, despite their promise, he couldn’t deny he was curious. Apollo did not leave him many moments to dwell, however, adding one lesson after the next in preparation for his coronation that he was nearly spending all his mornings, afternoons, and evenings with his brother.  

They had retreated to the private library of Athena. Day had reclined further and further until light summer skies had collapsed into soft, orange evening. Apollo was striding up and down the room, hands clasped behind his back. Aside from the occasional withering looks when he would stumble over a word, or mix up the exact vernacular, he did not acknowledge him. Only his own voice was reverberating in the study. A tired, tired drone. Disembodied. Dull. Dry.

“Could we end these lessons now?” Ares asked, after he had recited his speech for the fifteenth time this evening alone.

Apollo paused, turned, glimpsed at him. Those golden eyes, always warm according to the people of the court, were blazing. Blazing eyes, blazing attention - burning him, who was the focus of that look, that glare. 

“Ares,” he said. 

It was not to address him. 

It was not to reprimand him. 

It was a warning.

“For better or worse, the crown will land on your head. As you may recall, your tutelage under liege Chaos was solely lacking, because you could not be bothered to take your duty, nor your education seriously. I will make sure, personally, you will not be an embarrassment to the crown. Am I making myself clear?”

He always was a good little soldier, wasn’t he?

He knew how to follow orders.

Knew how to kneel.

Ares stared blankly at the filled notebook lying open on the tabletop, his grip around his quill tight. Very, very tight.

“Yes.”

The night before his coronation did not belong to him. Tradition demanded penance, in this dusk, this twilight, between old and new. It was why he found Apollo sitting on a chair by his bed, the bound, embossed holy scripture of the Mother yet unopened in his lap. He watched gingerly when Ares climbed into bed. Only a priest could take his confession, to give him absolution for his sins in the name of the Mother. As the highest member of her priesthood, it fell to Apollo to ease new sovereigns into their reign. He was a listener to the living and the dying, steady and unyielding in his duties.

“Son of the Mother, what do you wish to confess?”

His hands tightened around the cool, silken sheets. He could not meet Apollo’s condemning eyes, too harsh a judgment late at night, when the Mother herself was listening in.

“I have ended many men's and women's lives on the battlefield. It was to defend my kingdom, my family, and my home, but I have shed blood still, and I have taken their lies in spite of these circumstances.”

Apollo was sitting very still, unmoving, one hand laid on the holy scripture. Throughout his telling of fields ravaged and turned into graveyards, he had made no sound, not even one of dissent or disgust. He had only listened.

“Do you ask forgiveness?”

Ares nodded.

“For this, I ask the Mother for forgiveness, and if she wishes to meddle in my case, I wish she only judge it justly.”

Slowly, tentatively, Apollo reached out for his hand, and placed his palm on the scripture, which he was now holding up high.

“You are forgiven.”

Intricately drawn runes coiling around Apollo’s arms and dipping into his palms flickered with light, softly, as dawn after night. Laying his own hand atop his, Ares winced just so. It was the gentle mark of the Mother upon her priests, the warmth of it, that was touching and encircling him. His fears had dulled, had quelled to concern; his fear, it did not cut and twist deeply in his mind anymore.

Silence, too, had unfolded. Only the tiny trembles of the torchlights tumbled through, all soft light and half-shadows and relief. 

This was no deafening silence, no sentence, no tilted punishment. Here, now, Ares did not feel ill at ease in his brother’s presence. 

“I don’t believe I’m of the same regal cloth as Athena, Apollo. I’m not sure I’m up to it.”

He had expected assent, callous and cruel as his brother always was. When it did not come, when instead he simply sat, hands once again on the scripture, his head slightly tilted downwards, Ares wanted to see him off quickly.

It was then his brother spoke, when he had not been bracing himself for his voice.

“When our father made the decision to legitimize me and include me in the succession line, I was overjoyed. I truly thought he had found an heir worthy of him at last.”

Bitter, those words unsaid, Ares thought, proper black in mood. The only triumph he had ever held over Apollo was his own legitimacy, to be the son of Hera, a true queen. Apollo and Athena both had been immortal. Free from flaws. As children, as adults. Apollo, whose soul had bathed in molten specks of the Mother’s light, who could prophesize and entice all nobles to vye for even one favorable glance from him alone. 

And Athena, whose intellect had soared and soared and soared, above any scholar or scientist. 

He, he knew, had only ever been an ugly thing of shadows, rotten rage residue child of two royals, ruins themselves, who could have only ever made one thing: terror.

“When I embarked on my quest to gather enough support to have our father up my place in the succession, so that I would’ve succeeded him, Hyacinthus had been my closest confidant and advisor. Although it was a terrible risk, I sent him to one royal family who had always borne only ire towards our royal House, to plead my case, but…,” Apollo trailed off, the first pause in an otherwise terribly dull tone. 

It sounded like a monotone, something rehearsed, a speech to which he had only begrudgingly agreed. 

“You know, you do. They found him a few days later, gutted like some thug from the streets.” 

Anger had made his enunciation slip, had made it sharp; but this anger was old, aged, like fine wine. 

“Power corrupts, Ares. It is why I refused my claim on the throne and gave my soul in service to the Mother.”

They were silent again, sharing squirt together, not against one another this time. In truth, Ares had suspected Hyacinthus had been the reason for Apollo’s sudden pilgrimage and subsequent retreat to the temple. 

He had never asked, though, never prodded. They were not close. They did not share such fierce hurt. 

Ares, though, understood wounds. 

He had not asked.

When Apollo’s light had gone from golden to garish, then blazing, hurting, Ares had looked away, pretending not to see. 

They all had.

“One of the reasons I believe Athena was not entirely mad when she thought it necessary to make revisions to her will is exactly that. You possess a quality I do not have, which shall enable you with the ability to act for the right reasons, and for the good of the people, not to advance yourself, not for glory nor riches.”

Before Ares could turn those lines around in his head, ask for the truth of it, Apollo had risen abruptly and left his chamber without looking back.

Apollo and him, they had one bond that bound them indelibly: 

They never lied.

                                                   ***

The transition from one sovereign to the next, from old to new, from dead to alive. Saturated in tradition and history, laced with deliberate dramaturgy to have one day last and linger. An eternity in a day, trespassing the paths of time. If not forever literally, then all attending had to remember, and remember fondly, passing the memory from one generation to the other. There was a reason why Apollo had drawn out the rigorous lessons from his childhood and taught him anew the importance of such ceremonies.

It began with this:

before dawn could break and the day yawn light, Ares was already dressed in his ceremonial garb, waiting on his bed. Gradually, Apollo poured into his chamber as the night before, succeeded by other, lower ranking priests. It was Apollo also, who shifted sideways on his feet to dip his hands into an ornate ceremonial bowl filled with holy water. He strode up to Ares, shook his hands mid-air. Lukewarm water dripped on his cheeks, down the curve of his mouth. Rose water, myrrh, the scent of earth after rain. 

Apollo then held out his other hand and helped Arise rise.

On they strode, out the palace grounds and onto the streets. Every step, Ares recalled, was symbolic, on this untrodden path from palace to temple, where he would be crowned.

Every step on this road, this path, resembled the unknown way ahead. 

He had to stay silent. 

In the eyes of the Mother, Ares was in limbo: not yet a king, yet no longer a subject. Not yet living, for the former queen had crossed over, but he had not yet become. Beings in between worlds did not speak, did not haunt with word or sound,  as apparitions and wraiths would. 

Throughout this, throughout their procession, Ares was borne by one priest, Asclepius, and a member of his council. Thanatos.  Secular lords and lieges proceeded in their wake, displayed high on gilt trays. His grand marshal, Eris, carried her staff pointing downwards.

Once in the temple, Ares walked into the centre, where a likeness of the Mother’s eye stared back at him in colorful mosaics.

“Will you, my good people, honor and support me during my reign?”

The throng of people roared, tickled lions all, triple acclamations, from priests and advisors and nobles and the people:

“We will! We will! We will!”

                                                ***

“Enough sleeping already, we have work to do.”

A groan elicited him at the cacophony. Too early. Too soon. For words. For communication. On instinct alone, he squeezed his eyes shut. Darkness was enveloping him, his limbs tangled up in cozy warmth. Surely, Apollo could wait.

“Ares.”

 But this was not Apollo’s cool voice. 

The tone, gruff and raw, yet soft. 

Ares sat bolt upright in his bed. Instantly, he threw off his cushions, his blankets; wanted, needed, had to take hold. 

“Thanatos,” he whispered.

There he was, sitting at the edge of his bed, with the same stern gaze he had thrown his way too often and not enough.

“Hello, Ares.” 

He stared, was staring, had been staring. One year. He had not seen him in  one year, had not heard him say his name in one year, had not been near him in one year. And Thanatos, held in the tower, in confinement, a front row view for the gallows. Because of him, because of how much he meant, because he was the second oldest son of House Cthonisia. 

Thanatos scoffed, shaked his head, drew him near, kissed him and kissed him and kissed him. Gave him what he wanted, in that moment, when Ares could not ask for it. How he had done the same for Thanatos before, how this man had come to know him so intimately, so honestly.

It was too short, this reverie, his caressing, cool fingertips gone before Ares could ease into their shared physicality. 

“Before you ask: I am fine, no, I don’t want to talk about it. And… get dressed. We have a meeting with Apollo.”

                                                  ***

This was an official meeting, Ares realized, as Thanatos led him down the stairs to the council chamber. Apollo was already seated and waiting, along with Hermes, who was restless as ever. Up and down he went, with his bouncing steps and fast gait.

Before they entered, Thanatos stepped beside him, their hands brushing seemingly by accident, before interlocking their fingers for just a beat, just a breath. He squeezed his hand, steadying him as he had always done. Just as accidental as it might have seemed, however, Thanatos released him, and strode purposefully towards the seat opposite Apollo, to the right,  at Ares’ place.

“Before we address the reason for Lord Hermes’ return, I find it necessary, indeed inevitable, I should say, that Lord Thanatos and you, Ares, receive a first briefing on the political climate and current circumstances at court.”

Ares frowned.

“I thought all was well under Athena’s rule? It’s predominantly the reason why the people are calling her the savior queen, no?”

Apollo’s mouth twitched suddenly; he was looking at him as a tutor would at his student who had just asked an obtuse question.

“Things are never as straightforward as they seem in politics. Yes, the kingdom now knows what stability is truly like thanks to Athena’s reforms and mending of foreign relations, but the climate remains...tense. Let us not forget the succession wars ravaged our lands and dried up our resources less than a decade ago.”

Hermes gave a hum, then a nod. His tread slowed, gradually, before his steps faded into quietude once more. For once, he was completely still, unmoving. Ares followed his movements, took in his body and his expression. Anything for a cue, anything, to learn what was happening in this sharp mind, ever abuzz with ways and more and more and more.

“Remind me, why won’t you, how exactly the queen died?” Hermes asked.

Nothing in the way he had turned around and was now appraising Apollo suggested to Ares that Hermes didn’t already know. The sweet, daming allure of him was this: secrecy, secrets, guessing - only ever the faintest, vaguest shade of knowing. And yet still, Hermes himself was never ignorant or unknowing. He knew things, somehow, more than anyone else in any room would ever know.

“Ares’ estimation not to take the threat of the rebellions of the north lightly was correct. Athena, however, dismissed it as a simple, disorganized uprising of commoners and servants untrained in combat. They proved quite the opposite, in fact, according to the reports in the wake of Athena’s injury and subsequent death. She intended to simply starve them out until they would inevitably surrender, but they did not surrender. They attacked, under the cover of night, and Athena sustained an injury. She lived for a while, but alas the wound became infected and, regrettably for us all, she passed.”

Again, Hermes hummed, his joyous tone almost dissonant, almost taunting. Apollo was recounting his sister’s death. His sister, who had fallen, bled, and suffered. Cut open like the still warm carcass of a deer during one of Artemis’ hunting parties. 

“Curious, isn’t it, that this uprising was just like any other of the minor ones up north, and so soon after Athena had changed her succession will.”

Beside him, Ares felt Thanatos tense.

He had been sitting upright and proper, a posture without flaw; but now, his golden eyes had widened, his jaw clenched. Ares himself was biting down nausea, his stomach in knots, with marrow-deep fear at the forefront. 

“How would you know this, Olympia? This was a government matter of utmost secrecy, not some trite drivel one could easily pick up from the common folk,” came the retort from Apollo, without pause, without propriety, which Ares had always seen him uphold. No, now, there was a quiver in his voice, a threat poorly veiled. Hot fury. 

“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” Hermes quipped. He meandered forwards a step, with a leisurely gait, then bounced back and forth on the soles of his feet when he came to a halt shortly before Apollo.

“Because I know things I shouldn’t know.”

                                          ***

Hasty treads, two of them, steps mingling into one sound, one beat: Hermes and Ares, in a faraway alcove, only inches apart.

Ares was looking down at him, an unsaid prayer in his eyes, beseeching hands on narrow shoulders. He was gripping him tighter than he wanted to, he saw, because Hermes flinched. Still he pressed deeper, until there was no skin under his palms, but the outline of bones.

“Is it true, Hermes? Is it because of me Athena...did I…,” he began, stopped, trailed off, stopped. It was a question he could not pose, could not voice. There was nothing but his query, however, because Hermes would never tell him how he knew. Asking for truth alone, from Hermes of all people, was sacrilege. 

“Nobody knows why she chose you, Ares,” he said, evenly, and placed his hands atop his. His palms were warm, Ares realized, his presence light, feathery, never heavy. Hermes leaned in further, closer, on tiptoes, so that he could whisper into his ear. It was just as well, Ares conceded quietly, to himself. He had forgotten caution in his own consternation, in his horror, and once more he knew he needed Hermes at his side more than ever.

“Found something that leads me to believe  word got out about the change to the succession will while I was liaison to Olympia at the Titanus court. Didn’t sit well with some, you know.”

Hot breath against his skin, the brush of his mouth, the scent of memories while he had revealed something. Of sandalwood and nights in the forest during summer rain, the sweet tobacco he sometimes smoked so he would not fidget with his never still, never idle hands.

 Ares’ breath hitched. 

No.

He had to concentrate on what he was saying. 

Reaching out and placing a hand against Hermes’ chest, he pushed back so he could look him in the eyes. He breathed in, breathed out.

“Hermes.” 

No response.

Just those dark, deep eyes, dark hooks, dark, looking back at him.

“Tell me who.”

[cauldronoflove]

“Do you want to talk about it?” + msr 🥺

A lilac duvet and navy blue pillowcases, a plot of bronze lamplight. Scully laid her jacket out over them both, itself petal-crushed violet. Her shoes crawled under the bed one by one, and her phone clattered on the nightstand--in the dark room of her mind prints hung out to dry of squat hotel room nightstands of yore, black-and-red light on cedar and ash; spruce and pine and fir.

Tucking one leg underneath herself, she eased onto the edge of the bed. The springs coughed up phlegm and final breaths, pinched her shins in crustaceous retaliation suited for the sand still collected in the soles of her shoes. She batted at the quilt uselessly with the tips of her fingers as if to press the springs back in line, and succeeded only in advancing the timeline on her next tetanus shot. Her arms already pricked with phantom needles.

From the nightstand--catalogued as B-1D-4, for the material and the drawers and the commonality--she retrieved her phone to tuck to her ear.

"Two FBI agents walk into a restaurant," she started as soon as the line clicked.

"Oh, I've heard this one."

"Really? I was thinking about going into prognostication, but in that case you beat me to it."

"Give yourself some credit; in mine it was one agent and he was already standing outside his partner's room with dinner."

She smiled with half her face, the corner of her mouth raising overhead hands in righteous awe. There truly were no bounds to Mulder's whims, nor to the pleasant surprise that she still felt, even now at six months in the field with him under her belt.

She looked to the door, thinking of each grain that separated her from him, cutting his outline in life-size. She'd have left him out there if she wasn't so damn hungry.

"One FBI agent opens the door for another," she amended, pacing across the room on legs pulled taught from her earlier sprint. Her stockings slid unfortunately over the coarse carpet, making her toes curl.

On the other side, his hair was still wet from the shower, a water drop sliding down past his ear and steadily marking for the worn collar of his t-shirt of which he had a jacket tossed off-set over. He raised a greasy bag of something god-sent with a sheepish smile. Oil and fat and salt pollinated the air, leaving her off-kilter at how deep her hunger ran.

"Can I come in?"

"Depends."

He showed his other hand, carefully cradling two drinks--white plastic with a purple cuff that made the carbonation burn all the way up into your nose. One stretched his palm to full width and the other chapped the soft skin on the inside of his elbow, each showing dark cola through the foggy lid.

Her mouth curled up silently at the other end, an apple peeled in one long strip and scattered for divining on the floor. She pushed out of the way to let him through.

Before she could get too far away he put a burger wrapped in slippery-thin paper blotted in grease marks between her hands. It was lopsided, leaking processed cheese slice and juices from browned onion, but it was a welcome sight. She could barely get it undone through her shaking hands. Hunger overtakes--and it takes and it takes and it takes.

He kept to his side of the room, propping up in the squat chair shoved under the window like a fire hazard. He had his burger, had the bag rolled up at his feet and the drinks on the table between the chair and the door. First was the main course, then the entree. She scarfed down half of hers before he ever even got his up to his chin for inspection.

They worked through their burgers in meantime, chewing quietly to accommodate the volume and length of thought balling up their brows. When it was done, she crumpled the already wrinkled wrapper and tossed it underhanded to him, where it bounced harmlessly off his stomach and rolled right off his lap and between his splayed legs. He batted it between his boots, a fast-food, fast-tracked game of Pong that petered out once he had a wrapper to add to the mix.

Scully eyed the rest of the food with intent, waiting, childishly, for Mulder to realize what she was doing and remedy it. Instead, he pulled the bag up and sat it on his thigh where it tilted toward the door like a man on the run.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" he asked quietly, teeth and lips and stubble on his chin all separate parts she couldn't piece together. Her eyes ached, trying to make Monet into Renoir.

Her eyes ached, because she had a concussion. His face, every long line and press of skin, snapped into focus, and she took a seat on the edge of the bed to rid herself of his earnestness.

"No, I want my fries."

He was good at bartering with her already, understood that she didn't take well to flat out denial, but if he tried he could get her to give a little slack on the line. His offer then, paddle to the air and blazing black number, was to carefully roll the sides of the bag down so as not to rip and drop it between them when he sat on the bed too.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see golden-crisp fries obscured only by fat ketchup packets ready to be torn between her teeth. She could see, too, him making himself comfortable, shoving a drink toward her so her could clasp his hands over his middle.

The ice was melted a little, just the way she liked it. She framed her teeth around it and sipped through the impossibly thin straw, each bit of syrup and chipped ice rejuvenating down to her blood.

He never repeated the question, and she didn't offer an answer. Jaw set, eyes tracing the push and pull in the carpet, she reached for a handful of fries. She ate them all, one by one; every fleck of salt and sash of tomato, down past the core and then deeper. Until the pounding eased in her head and her stomach felt like it was on this side of alive.

"Better?" he asked, his tight smile smug and his eyes searching her profile for confirmation.

She thought about leaning back across the end of the bed and focusing on the ceiling, turning the white ridges in stars and the lumpy mattress into a ship's deck. The nausea would be the waves lapping against starboard and she would be somewhere else instead of in her burning coat of shame. But that, something in her grated, would be inappropriate with him still propped against the headboard, looking at her from underneath hair flat on his forehead and eyelashes still damp from rain.

"Thank you for dinner," she said instead, which answered his question quite nicely.

"Okay, one last party trick, but then I'm out." From the inside pocket of his jacket he pulled an oblong cardboard box that was cinnamon and consolation made. He tossed it over and even through the packaging it burned her fingers, but it was perfectly intact. On the side was scribbled peach in hard black letters.

She shot him a look, quickly head on, before prying it open, already scrabbling at the flaky crust and rushing steam with a smile. It was only in the second before she bit down that she thought to offer him some, but he shook her off.

"I'm more of an apple pie man myself."

[takingcourage]

A Bushel and a Peck

Pairing: Jaime x MC

Word Count: 1,850

Summary: After receiving payment for a job, Jaime and Arden get a little more than they’ve bargained for.

Note: Thanks, as always, to @krishu213​ for her request of “The smell of nutmeg and cloves around every corner” for Jaime and Arden. The prompts you choose are always so much fun! : ) 

Fiddling with the drawstring on her jacket, Arden raised her eyes toward the seasonal menu. It was all for show -- she’d known exactly what she was getting before she’d set foot in the shop -- but Friday afternoons always left her a little antsy and eager for home. As the woman in front of her stepped aside to wait for her drink, Arden exchanged smiles with the barista behind the counter. 

“The usual?”

“Please. Thanks, Stephanie.”

“Extra shot today?”

Arden’s lips pursed with momentary indecision. “Sure -- why not?” 

“It’ll be out shortly.” 

After completing her transaction at the register, Arden migrated toward the other end of the counter. A subtle vibration came from the front pocket of her bag, and she quickly withdrew her phone. 

Any plans for the weekend?

She smiled instinctively at Jaime’s text. Did you have something in mind? My schedule is surprisingly flexible. 

Good to know. 

Her brow was still crinkled at the cryptic text when she went forward to retrieve her drink, and things only grew stranger as she made her way back out of the shop and into her vehicle. If she’d been in a more present state of mind, she would have noticed the hints of nutmeg and vanilla that wafted up from the tiny hole in the lid when she took her first blissful sip. As it was, her thoughts were too trained on the mysterious message from her husband. 

Care to share?

I’ve got a project in mind for tomorrow. 

She swallowed a bit too much with her next sip. Had she been a less-experienced drinker, it might have burned on the way down, but she’d been immune to the heat for years. When her phone remained still, she settled back against the seat, slotted the keys into the ignition, and made her way toward home. 

Jaime was waiting for her in the kitchen, his hand slicing the air as he beckoned her in to join him. “You know those repairs I was doing for Mrs. Ellis this week?” 

Arden nodded and kicked her shoes into the corner of the dining room. 

“She couldn’t stand not being able to pay me for them, so she found another method of compensation.” 

That method became abundantly clear as Arden tiptoed onto the tile. From wall to stove, their counter was covered with heaping paper bags. “She gave you a kitchenful of apples?” 

“Two bushels,” he confirmed. 

She crossed to the nearest bag, hooking the side with an inquisitive finger. “Does she think we’re feeding the whole city? What on earth are we going to do with two bushels of apples?”

“I misspoke earlier -- it’s not actually quite that many. I did manage to give  a couple dozen away...”

“We’re two people, Jaime!” she interjected, turning away from the counter to face him. “I don’t think it’s possible for us to eat this many apples if we tried.” 

Jaime rubbed the furrow from her brow with a gentle thumb, then braced a hand on each shoulder. “That’s why I thought we could make a challenge out of it: we’ll see how many things we can make with them in a weekend. Apple butter alone will get us through at least a quarter of them, and we can make applesauce and pie filling too.” 

At the glimpse of his earnest brown eyes, the hilarity of the situation somehow caught up to her in a breathless laugh. “Jaime, this is ridiculous. We can find people to give them to --” 

“Or,” he countered, pausing for a moment in apology for cutting her off. “Or we can make them into something special before we give them away. But I need you with me on this. I don’t know if I can get through them all on my own.”

It was a hollow statement; Jaime was eminently capable of getting through anything he set his mind to, but she wasn’t going to leave him to drown in apples on his own. 

“We need a game plan,” she replied, words already a little distant as she circled the room in search of a pad of paper. Finding an unopened envelope on the table, she began making a list. “If you find the recipes you want, I’ll write down the ingredients we need. We can make a quick run to the grocery store, then pick something up for dinner.” 

Chinese. 

Arden chuckled at the silent interjection. “...then pick up Chinese for dinner. Are you trying to appease me for putting up with you?”

“Nope.” This time, his words were audible. “I’m just taking care of my wife.”

By the end of the evening, they’d accounted for every single apple. Double checking the recipes over cartons of takeout, the two of them shared more than a handful of giggles over the sheer absurdity of the situation. 

“What have we gotten ourselves into?” 

-----

By noon on Saturday, they'd enlisted her father’s help with peeling and slicing -- a process that would have been much faster if the Harry hadn't insisted on tossing pieces of discarded peel to the floor for Opie instead of into the bag for composting. Between the dog's valiant attempts to catch them and Jinx's determination to steal them from under his nose, the whole scene became very distracting.

Even so, there was no denying that his presence made the process go faster. Their last batch of applesauce was finished by 3:00, followed by apple butter some hours later. When the time came to break for dinner, they'd lined their counter with several jars to give away. 

"Just pies left to go," Jaime noted, consulting their list from the night before as Arden and Harry cleared dishes from the dining table.  

"I think that’s my cue to head on home. I don’t know the first thing about pies, except that I love eating them.” 

Arden resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she loaded their plates into the dishwasher. 

“We’ll bring one over tomorrow,” Jaime promised. 

Offering a half-hearted farewell over her shoulder, Arden’s eyes glazed as they fell back onto the final bag on the table. The pads of her fingers felt swollen from the repetitive motion of the knife, and she’d started to worry that no amount of handwashing would ever remove the sense of stickiness from her wrinkled palms. Even after the brief time away, there was a phantom tremor between her thumb and pointer finger. 

“I can finish these up tomorrow.” Jaime sank into the chair across from her, his own hand strong and steady as he reached for her leg under the kitchen table. “I really appreciate all of your help today. I'm glad we did this.” 

Eyes darting upward, she caught the smile she’d heard in his voice. His warm eyes sparked golden when she met his gaze. “I might swear off apples for the foreseeable future, but this has been fun.” With renewed vigor, she glanced back to the bag beside her. “And I’m not leaving you to do these on your own. We said we’d finish these tonight, and that’s what I intend to do.” 

He squeezed her knee, chuckling beneath his breath. 

“Stop!” she urged with an insistent whisper. At his raised brow, she clarified. “You’re thinking about calling me stubborn again -- I know you are.” 

Jaime rose and motioned for Arden to vacate her chair as well. “We can finish tonight, but I want to switch out. I’ll take care of the peeling and slicing. You can measure out the dry ingredients.”

“Deal.” 

Tucking her hair behind both ears, she set to work gathering ingredients and whatever clean utensils she could find. Most of their small stash of measuring cups and spoons had been used for previous recipes, and improvising was easier than washing what was dirty. 

“Are you using the 1/3 cup?”

Flicking the remaining crystals into the mixing bowl, she flashed the tin cup for his inspection. 

“To measure 16 cups of sugar?”

Flushing more from embarrassment than indignance, she scooted the 1/8 measuring teaspoon out of his sightline. He didn’t need to know her plan for the spices. “Don’t make me lose count!”

I could if I wanted to. 

His thoughts cut in, and she very nearly lost track of the scooping despite herself. Offering what she hoped was a stern expression, she retrieved her phone and found a playlist of pop music that had fallen from the top 40 charts a decade before. As she finished preparing the ingredients, she couldn’t help giggling at the memories attached to many of them: trips to the pool in the summertime, dances at prom, basement jam sessions with their very short-lived band phase... 

Jaime brought the bowl of apple slices to the counter, nudging her out of the way so that he could access the dry ingredients and the stovetop. She kept him company as he cooked and cooled, legs dangling from her seat beside the oven. 

Though the raw materials were much different from his usual medium, there was the same undeniable magic in watching him bring them all together. Under Jaime’s care, what started as a few basic ingredients no longer felt ordinary or simple. True to his intentions, the unexpected gift had become something special. 

Finally, the last bag had been sealed and the counters had been wiped down. With one concluding look around the room, Arden cranked the dial on the dishwasher and breathed a sigh of relief. Weariness grew with each step, culminating in a sense of fatigue that prompted her to collapse onto the mattress as soon as she’d made it to their upstairs bedroom. 

“What a day.” Jaime stretched out beside her, sounding much more energetic than she felt. 

Drowning a yawn, Arden tried to recover by taking a deep breath. Her nose shriveled as she realized her mistake. “Everything in our house smells like apples,” she moaned, tossing an arm over her face to try to block the scent. “I smell like apples.” 

He burrowed closer on the bed. “You smell like autumn. I’m getting notes of nutmeg and cinnamon...maybe a hint of clove. I’ll be dreaming of applesauce and pies all night.” Jaime kissed her ear playfully, then pulled away with a soft laugh. 

“Ughhh.” Showering would mean postponing bedtime, but she was starting to think that the delay would be worthwhile. 

“You have a bit of peel in your hair. Here.” He brushed aside a few strands to locate the tiny sliver. 

Prying open her eyes, she turned to face him. “And you’ve got cornstarch...or something... on your ear.” Arden swiped at it with a thumb, relieved when the substance came away easily. 

He caught her elbow as she dropped her hand, his thumb etching gentle circles into her skin. “We make quite a pair, don’t we?”

Arden’s eyes flashed with amusement; she knew he’d intended sentimentality, but the setup was too much to resist. “I have to say, that’s not quite the fruit I was thinking of,” she countered, already bracing herself for the well-earned complaint she knew was coming. 

With a well-deserved groan, Jaime leaned over to capture her lips in a sleepy kiss. 

[kyndaris]

Suddenly Thirteen

When I was younger, one of my favourite films starred Jennifer Garner acting like a teenager who was pretending to be thirty. In high school, all I wanted to do was grow out of the phase of terrible acne and finally be able to get my driver’s licence. I had a thousand dreams. Each one more fantastic than the next. One day I would want to be an actuary, a researcher or an astronaut.

Fast forward a decade and a half, and I was still single, stuck in a job that I hate with a passion with no long-term career prospects as well as up to my eyeballs in debt. When had my life gone off the rails? Where had all the hopes and dreams flitted away to?

I glanced at the time down in the bottom right of the screen. It was two in the morning on a worknight and the only thing I could bring myself to do was scroll through Facebook, bitter and miserable. A glass of shiraz rested on my bedside table. It probably wasn’t a good idea but I needed some comfort after my explosive break-up with the man I had been dating for the last three months.

So, of course it seemed the perfect time to trawl through all the positivity that I could never have. A photo of a mouth-watering dinner from an acquaintance in the grade below me. Another Dungeons and Dragons post from old primary school friends that I had drifted away from over the years because life had felt it necessary to get in the way.

I was full of regrets and I had just barely hit thirty. A deadlier combination I knew not as I morosely pondered what could have been.

It was roughly two thirty in the morning before I closed my laptop and settled into bed. I knew it was a bad idea. Going to bed drunk and at so late an hour. Work would be hell when I woke up. The hangover would only serve to dampen whatever enthusiasm I had that it was a Friday. Maybe, though, I would be able to get away with calling in sick.

There was always a first time for everything.

My eyes had barely closed when my alarm sounded – loud and incessant – in my ear. Telling me that I needed to get out of bed if I wanted to arrive at work on time. Groggily, I reached for my phone on my bedside table, hoping to hit snooze. It wasn’t there. Frowning, I sat up and looked around my room.

Was it me or did it seem smaller? And had my bed been moved to the side?

Before I could make sense of what was happening, my door slammed open. Standing in the frame was a man that I had not seen for many years.

“Come on, Sharon, let’s get a decent breakfast in you. Don’t want to be late and starving for your first day at high school.”

This couldn’t be. I had to still be dreaming. Or perhaps my drink had been spiked. I pinched myself. Hard.

Pain lanced up my arm and I knew that this was no fever dream. Oh God. What was happening?

Sensing something was wrong, dad approached me. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

“This isn’t right,” I blurted. “Am I still dreaming?”

Dad frowned at my response and crouched down next to me. “I know high school can be frightening. You’re going somewhere new. But it’s also exciting. Think of all the friends you’ll make and the things you’ll learn! Now, I’ll see to the waffles. Don’t want them to burn. Come out when you’ve changed, all right, sweetie?”

I sat in silence for several minutes, trying to wrap my head around everything. Dad was here. And alive. A sharp stab of longing pierced my chest. Even if I was still asleep and dreaming, I didn’t want to waste the opportunity of seeing him again.

Hastily, I climbed out of bed and padded over to the wardrobe. My old uniform sat neatly folded on the dresser. Within a minute, I had zipped up the skirt and buttoned up the crisp white shirt.

It was time to brush my teeth, wash my face and go down for breakfast.

Catching my reflection in the bathroom mirror, it took a few heartbeats for me to understand that I had been blasted back to when I was thirteen. No longer was my hair platinum blonde. Instead, it was the original muddy brown of my youth. My teeth were in disarray and my face was covered in freckles.

I shuddered at the thought of going through puberty again.

This wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare.

Dad called my name again as I was just finishing up my ablutions. After taking one last look at my younger self in the mirror, I dashed down the stairs.

“Well, isn’t someone a little more chipper now?”

I didn’t say a word as I plonked down at the breakfast table. Dad was true to his word. Waffles, drizzled in maple syrup, sat before me. All of it seemed so surreal. I grabbed up fork and knife and began to eat in earnest, savouring each bite, even as I told myself that none of this was real. It couldn’t be.

Within minutes, I was finished. By 7.30, my bag was packed and I was in the car, waiting to be driven to the nearest bus stop.

A part of me was nervous as we drove down the familiar streets of my childhood. It had been years since I moved and I had never looked back. Yet, sitting in the car with my dad, I was reminded of all the wonderful moments I had shared.

Before I knew it, we arrived at the station. Dad came with me, looking as proud as ever, as we both waited for the bus. There were other children as well. Many that I recognised. To my right was Blake Johnson, short and skinny. In a few years, he would go through a growth spurt that would have him towering over even the teachers.

Seated on the bench, with her mum, was Floris Yu. She had on a thick pair of glasses and she had her hair tied up in twin pigtails. It was hard to believe that by the time we were all in university, she would have slept with half the boys in the grade.

It was nearly eight when the school bus finally pulled up.

“God, sometimes I wonder where the years went. You’re a big girl now, Sharon. Have a good day at school. Mum will be here to pick you up. But you’ll have to tell me everything that happens on your first day, all right?” Dad said as I was just about to board, tears in his eyes.

I hugged him tight, relishing his warmth. “Be careful on the roads, dad.”

“I will, sweetie. Now, go on.”

Taking an empty seat near the back of the bus, I pressed myself up against the window and waved desperately at him. Dad smiled and waved back. As the bus began to move and turn around the corner, dad stood there, as if imprinting this moment in his memory.

--

The first day passed by in a blur. I met my teachers as well as my future friends. Despite the fact that Olivia was now back to her awkward twelve-year old self, we clicked just as easily as the first time. Danielle was as chatty as I remembered her. Oliver, on the other hand, seemed lost and a little preoccupied. I wasn’t sure what was bothering him. Had never really paid it much attention because by the time we became fast friends in Year 9, he had got over that bump in his life.

Mum greeted me when I got off the bus. Before I could do or say anything, she grabbed hold of my schoolbag and slung it over one shoulder. “So, how was your first day? Make a lot of new friends?”

Smiling, I answered her. We talked until we reached the car and then we talked even as mum drove us back home.

I was still regaling mum with tales of my adventures as we walked through the front door and the phone in the kitchen rang. Mum went to pick it up. Her face went through an entire gamut of emotions. A feeling of dread welled up through me. Oh God, how could I have forgotten?

Gingerly, mum placed the phone back down. As if frightened it was going to turn around and bite her. She looked at me, eyes wide and her face as pale as death.

“What’s wrong?” I asked even as I cursed myself for being a fool. Caught up in living the fantasy that I found myself in, I had wiped away all traces of Patrick and his failing health.

“We need to go to the hospital.”

Without even changing out of my uniform, I clambered into the driver’s seat, adjusting it for my considerably shorter legs. Mum stared at me, lost for words when I asked for the keys. How could she just stand there when Patrick was on life support and awaiting the final decision to euthanise him?

“Come on. We need to go, mum. Now. I’m the better driver. Just throw on Google Maps on your phone and direct me.”

“Sharon, you’re thirteen. And what’s Google Maps?”

Cursing under my breath, I realised my error. It was supposed to be a dream, but it was damn near too realistic for my liking. “Forget it mum. I’m sorry,” I said as I climbed into the passenger’s seat. “Let’s just get going. Patrick needs us.”

Mum nodded mutely and got in the car. She turned on the ignition and effortlessly put the car into gear. I knew she had questions. But she had the wisdom to set them aside and concentrate on more immediate needs.

Within ten minutes, we turned into the driveway of the veterinary hospital. I hopped out of the car as soon as we came to a stop, unbuckling the seatbelt and flinging open the door. Mum shouted after me but I ignored her as I raced to the open doors where dad was standing.

“How’s Patrick doing?” I asked.

Dad shook his head. “He’s having trouble breathing. Doc says he’s on his last legs. We’d better hurry in.”

I pushed past him. My feet took me down the familiar corridors until I reached the operating room. Looking through the circular window, I spotted Leanne. She was easily recognisable. Despite the gown she wore, I could identify her blonde streaks that had been tied into a neat bun.

Lying still on the table was Patrick. He was my first dog. A golden retriever that had been my protector and friend for as long as I could remember.

Was he already gone? But then, his chest rose. Within seconds I was by his side, holding his face in my hands. Perhaps he sensed me there for his tongue came out to give me an affectionate lick.

“You’re going to be fine, Patrick.” I didn’t know if I was saying this to him or merely to console myself after witnessing the same event twice. It wasn’t fair.

A hand came to rest on my shoulder. It gave me a comforting squeeze. “I’m so sorry, Sharon.” Dad. It had to be.

I gently patted Patrick’s muzzle and gave him one last forlorn look before I sought the shelter of dad’s embrace.

“Why did it have to be him?” I said into his chest as we were gently ushered out. A part of me resented the fact that I couldn’t be there when Patrick took his last breath. Only Leanne bearing witness to his last moments. But she was the vet. And it was her job to see it through.

--

We arrived home, sad and despondent. The last few hours had stained the days in hues of grey. Dinner was a quiet affair. I went to bed early, unable to shake off the loss I felt, though I should have remembered it all having experienced it before. Somewhere over the years, the pain had healed. Now, the wound had torn open again.

If mum had allowed me, I would have preferred going to sleep with a glass of rum. Unfortunately, my mum had always been a stickler for rules and in this dream of mine, I was underage.

Oblivion was difficult to find. After tossing for what felt like hours, I fell into a fitful slumber – unsure of what the next day would bring and hoping that I would wake up in my proper time, where things made sense and the pain that felt so raw now was only a distant memory.

But when I blearily opened my eyes, I found myself again in my old childhood bedroom. Instead of tastefully selected paintings, there were a myriad of posters. Most of them featuring Disney Princesses. A part of me wanted to scream. The more adult part felt deflated – resigned to the fact that I was trapped in the wrong time period and forced to relive my teenage years.

I wasn’t sure why that was the case. More than likely, it was some cosmic joke.

Dad came in with a tray topped up with breakfast around seven. “I know yesterday was difficult, Sharon. It was hard for me as well. Patrick was with us for so long. But you need to eat. And when you’re finished, let’s have a talk. I can call up the school. Get you the rest of the week off.”

His offer was tempting. And in my previous past, I had taken him up on the offer. But this was supposed to be a dream. Or, at least, I believed it was. Curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to see where such a choice would lead me as I already knew the alternative: bound to the bed for six days and moping around the house. It had meant playing catch-up when everyone else had picked the friendships that would last for more than a decade.

It was with great effort that I pulled myself from the warmth and comfort of my covers and slipped once again into my school uniform. Though I had experienced the death of Patrick before, the pain of his loss was still as visceral as ever.

Dad understood that when I gave him my bravest smile and said, “I can do this. Patrick wouldn’t have wanted me to be crying my eyes out all day anyways. Just because I’m at school doesn’t mean I won’t miss him.”

“That’s the spirit.”

It was a near thing, but I managed to scoff down breakfast, get dressed, pack my bag and arrive at the station just as the school bus trundled up. I got on, determined to have a good day at school. Even though I might have appeared as if I was just thirteen, I knew that in my head I was a grown woman that had already gone through a whole host of experiences.

With time, I knew, that the pain of losing Patrick all over again would dull. It was simply a matter of putting on a strong façade for the rest of the day.

The second day of school went by as quickly as the first. Before I knew it, the final bell had rung and I was on the bus back home. For a short while, as I was relearning the names of my teachers, I could forget that I was trapped in a different time and that my loyal dog that I had known all my life had passed away the day before.

Never before had I thought high school as a place to forget my woes. My memories of the teenage years had been filled with confusion and angst and worries about the changes my body was going through. Coupled with the pressure to perform and the mountain of homework that I always left to the last minute, it seemed like a miracle when I finally graduated.

Yet, here I was, putting aside the grief and pain as I socialised with the teenager versions of some of my oldest friends. It was striking how far we had come. From precocious students who dreamed of the world to weary adults, caught in the grind of the corporate machine even as we hid our misery by posting edited photos on Instagram and Facebook.

When I walked home from the bus stop later in the afternoon, I felt better than I would have thought given the recent death of Patrick. Rather than desiring to curl up into a foetal ball, I was filled with the determination to change my future.

It was to these thoughts that I fell asleep, after having completed my homework. For close to an hour, I had tried to figure out the maths equations that had never had any bearing in my position as a slave to capitalism.

--

Rays of sunlight peeked through my window when I jolted out of bed. I glanced towards the alarm clock, hoping to glean the time, but it was missing. Instead, an iPhone sat in its place and it was ringing shrilly. I picked it up. The time read 7:30AM.

Still muddled by sleep, I had just shimmied out of my pyjamas when I realised that things were not quite right. Back in high school, I didn’t have a smart phone. It would still be another year or so before Steve Jobs would announce his creation to the world at the Macworld convention. And it wasn’t until my first year at university that I had acquired my first Samsung S2. Purchased, of course, with my own money earned from a part-time job.

Nor had dad come in to check if something was wrong.

Looking at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I confirmed my suspicions. Thirty-year old Sharon stared back at me. Hair, dyed blonde at the tips with dark roots threatening to undo all my good work. I was back in my time. The strange dream that had held me hostage had ended.

A part of me felt bereft. The halcyon days of my youth were gone. A second time.

I let out a frustrated breath and checked the time and date on my smart phone again. Now was not the time of reminiscing over what could have been. I had an hour to shower, get dressed and head to work. Another day in the cubicle, earning the money I needed to survive in a cold and unfeeling world.

God. I needed a coffee. And I needed it yesterday.

--

The day passed as slowly as a snail. By eleven, I was jittery, wishing for the day to end. My earlier musings of what to have to lunch replaced by the monotonous repetition of office busywork. Jenny, one of my work colleagues, seemed to sense my mercurial mood.

“What’s up, Sharon? You don’t seem to be blazing through your cases as quickly as you usually do after your banana bread and skim latte combo.”

“Just got a lot of things on my mind, Jenny.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” I said as I opened up another spreadsheet that reduced a person’s life into a series of indecipherable numbers.

She took the hint and kept quiet until lunch time finally rolled around. And before she could invite me out for a walk and offer to shout me some sushi from the restaurant down the street, I was already out of my seat, headed for the elevators. Luck smiled upon me and I managed to get into one of the death traps on my lonesome. But despite the myriad of choices for lunch along the street where my work was situated, I didn’t feel hungry. Instead, I simply let my feet lead me through the labyrinth of streets in the bustling central business district of the city – searching for something I could not quite name.

I returned, five minutes after the prescribed end of lunch. Jenny looked up from her desk, eyebrows arched into a question that I purposely ignored.

As soon as the time on the bottom right of the computer screen hit 5PM, my bag was packed and I was in the first available lift.

Within thirty minutes, I walked through my front door. The keys went to their usual tray, my bag landed precariously on the dining room table and I plonked myself on the sofa. Hunger had my stomach growling but I could not bring myself to start preparing dinner. Exhaustion tugged at every limb, despite the fact that I had done little in physical exertion. It was easier to just let the lid of my eyes close and allow my mind to drift.

When next I woke, morning light was shining through the blinds. Groaning, I sat up and stretched – trying to rid myself of the kinks. Having missed lunch and dinner the day before, I was starving. Still half-asleep, I went to my bag to fetch my phone and take a gander at the time.

But no matter my efforts, the screen remained black. Shit. After what felt like ten minutes, I managed to find my charger. At the very least, today was a Saturday and I had no plans beyond a property inspection. If I was lucky, I could squeeze in some time to finish the detailing on my next costume for the convention next month.

The day went quickly, even though I lounged around the apartment for most of the day. A quick jaunt onto Facebook only helped further my apathy as I scrolled through posts filled with fun and laughter. In my head, I knew that many of the pictures I saw were curated. Did I not do the same when I tried out a new café? The image of who I was on the internet was never quite the perfect representation of who I was in reality.

By 8 in the evening, I was ready to slink back into bed. Just as I was about to shut my laptop, Facebook Messenger popped up with an alert. Curiosity won out and I clicked it open without first glancing at the name.

Hey! How’s it going? I know it’s been a few years, but damn, how’s life treating you?

My gaze drifted to the profile picture in the upper left corner and the name emblazoned in bold white letters. Simon Lau. After we had gone to different universities, studying distinctly different degrees – he had studied medicine, whereas I had wasted most of my loan on a diploma in business – it came as a bit of a shock.

Hi Simon. Life’s been good for the most part. What about you? From the pictures and posts I’ve seen it seems as if you’ve been keeping busy.

Yeah. It’s been hectic. Finally managed to get tenure at my local hospital. Being a doctor isn’t easy. The hours are long and the pay is pretty lousy.

Well, I do believe congratulations are in order. Becoming a doctor is no small feat.

What about you?

I stared at the words, wondering how much of my life to reveal. When I compared myself to the achievements of many of my other friends, it felt like I had done little. An anime and boardgame fanatic with a flair for the dramatic.

I’ve hardly achieved anything of note.

That can’t be true. The Sharon I knew in school was a powerhouse. Sure, you might not have gotten the best grades, but I’m sure that you would have achieved anything you set your mind to. In fact, I’m kind of envious of the cosplay photos you’ve been putting up.

A smile broke across my lips. I had missed the conversations I used to have with Simon. We had met in fifth grade, as part of a gifted and talented initiative held by our school. From the moment he had shyly introduced himself one recess early in Term 2, we became inseparable as we poured over our love for Neopets and Little Figher 2.

Somehow, we chatted until midnight as we reminisced over the old days. Before I logged off for some much-needed rest, we exchanged mobile numbers and set up a meeting point for the convention that would be in town for the long weekend.

I fell asleep, grinning from ear to ear.

Within moments, I was rudely awoken by my alarm clock. With a groan, I sat up in bed and reached one hand to shut it down. As I yawned and blearily looked around my room, I was shocked to find myself once again in my old childhood home. I was back in the past again, reliving my time during high school.

--

For months, I lived two lives. One in the past, and one in my current time. Just like the first time I had ventured into my high school days, I was able to change small elements and make better decisions. When Floris came to me, dishevelled and shaking from an encounter she did not want to talk about, I was able to offer her a shoulder to cry on rather than be consumed by my own selfish problems.

It made me understand her a little more and see why her path so swiftly diverged from mine back in Year 8. In my present, there were also slight differences. As if somehow my actions were like the beating of a butterfly’s wings. Or perhaps I was simply seeing through different eyes. After all, having the ability to go back in time and make changes for the better seemed farfetched and I still wasn’t entirely convinced that I was having incredibly lucid dreams.

But what mattered during the second chance I was given were the moments I spent with dad, as well as being able to see my classmates in a different light.

All of that changed, however, as I was wrapping up work and my phone buzzed. I was back in the present again, after enjoying two weeks of school holidays where I had messaged Simon almost every single day. Frowning, I glanced down at the caller id that was flashing on my screen. It read ‘Beau.’ For a moment, I was confused. Only a few days ago, I had been scrolling through Tindr as the sole occupant of my apartment. My rooms had been a mess. Every spare surface covered in various pieces of fabric in a desperate bid to complete my costume before the upcoming event.

After all, I was going as my favourite character from a popular video game franchise.

Curiosity won the best of me. I accepted the call and was surprised by the voice I heard on the other end.

“Good evening, milady. Did you have a good day in the office?” asked Simon Lau. “I’ll be home around six and can come over to help for the last stretch. That okay with you?”

I was at a loss for words. Was Simon my boyfriend? It didn’t seem quite real. Yet, as I searched through my memories, new ones overlaid the old. After dancing around each other all throughout high school, we officially entered into a relationship during first year of uni. And though we had the occasional fight here and there, there had only been one instance when I had seriously considered of breaking up with him.

Simon was my second half. He knew me inside and out. Just as I did him.

“—Earth to Sharon. Are you still there?”

A smile slowly curled the tips of my lips upward. “Sorry. Just remembering how lucky I’ve been to have you by my side.”

“Of course. I wake up every day grateful I can see a handsome doctor with impeccable musculature in the mirror each day.”

“Narcissist.”

He chuckled. “Hey, you’re the one that brought it up in the first place.”

“I only said that I love having you by my side. Looking back, it almost seems predetermined,” I said. A giddy moment passed before a faint memory flitted across my mind that left me feeling hollowed out. “Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if things had gone differently. The thought chills me to the core.”

“There’s nothing to fear, Sharon. I’ll be back over before you know it. Just wrapping up the last of my shift,” said Simon, seemingly to sense my doubts and wanting to allay them. He was wasted as a doctor in the local hospital. But it was his passion to help and render assistance to those that needed it the most. And who was I to stand in the way of his desire when it was the thing that drew me to him? “Can you hold on until then?”

“Yes. I’ll see you soon.”

“Love you.”

With that, I ended the call – my heart lightened. God. What was wrong with me? Wondering what life would have been like if Simon wasn’t with me? The mere idea was inconceivable.

I stared at my phone, and the nickname I had given Simon, for several minutes before I pocketed it away. Dinner. And then, when he came, I could resume the work on our cosplay outfits for the event the week after next.

--

The dreams continued, though they mostly played out like memories of a time that sat parallel to what I knew to be true. Yet, they seemed so real. Back in my high school days, I lived a different life to the one I knew. Simon, for one, despite my best efforts, seemed to drift away from me. We had different circles of friends and pursued individual interests. The childhood connection we had was not strong enough to keep us linked.

Each morning I would wake up, covered in sweat, and glance to the spot next to mine in bed. On the days he stayed over, he was a warm presence by my side and my fears were allayed. For the nights that he had a particularly late shift, I had to wrangle my anxiety into submission with relief only brought upon by hearing Simon’s voice.

It was a dangerous line I walked.

And it felt like I was losing my mind. The mismatch of memories weighed heavily on my mind as I went through the motions of work and putting the finishing touches to both my and Simon’s costumes for the convention that was the coming weekend. After all, we were going as a pair from an animated show, though I had the feeling I had initially wanted it to be from my favourite video game.

Alas, the work would have been too great. At least for Simon’s outfit, as I had no access to a furnace if I wanted to ensure complete and utter accuracy. Foam was great and all, but nothing could beat a proper metal chain.

We finished the costumes just a day shy of the big event. To my great joy, as we tried them on, to learn that they fitted as well as a glove – although mine was a little tight around the chest. Simon, on the other land, looked impeccable. Once he had the wig on, he would be nigh on indistinguishable from the character he was cosplaying as.

I, on the other hand, was a little too short to be a perfect representation of my character. It didn’t matter though. What was important was that we were matched in perfect synchronicity and that others knew that we were together.

“Looking good. I could almost mistake you for an elf,” said Simon.

“The ears will go on tomorrow. I don’t want to risk damaging them.” Slowly and carefully, I tugged off my boots. “What about you? Ready for the big day?”

“You know it,” he said with a grin. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need the bathroom. And while these trousers are sublime, it’s going to take me a while to wiggle out of them.”

As soon as he disappeared down the hallway, the phone that he left on the coffee table lit up. I knew it was rude to take a look. Yet I feared that Simon would be called away for another shift at the hospital. So, risking a glance towards the bathroom, I picked up his phone and read the text message.

The words within immediately pierced my heart, shattering it into a thousand pieces. I tried my hardest to rationalise it all away. Surely, it was a joke. Or perhaps it had been sent to the wrong person.

But a second look only confirmed my worst fears. Why, on God’s green Earth, did it have to be Amy Fletcher?

Looking through the memories that weren’t my own, I knew she had been Simon’s girlfriend ever since Year 12 prom. During first year of university, they had broken up over something that most would have considered silly or stupid. At least, that was the rumour I’d heard on the grapevine as I focused on my own achievements. They had got back together in third year and everywhere they went, people said that they were inseparable. The perfect couple.

Yet, in my timeline, none of that happened. Simon was my boyfriend. Had been since high school. So, why the Hell was he receiving texts from Amy? And ones that seemed to border on what decent people might label licentious?

“What is this?” I demanded when Simon came back from his trip to the bathroom.

He looked at me, confused. “My phone?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Simon,” I snapped at him, fuelled by righteous anger. “Why is Amy fucking Fletcher sending you texts?”

“We bumped into each other last Friday. One thing led to another and we had coffee. Then, I don’t know, we exchanged numbers,” said Simon, his tone defensive. “Nothing came of it. It was just an innocent and casual catch-up.”

I didn’t believe him. How could I? The evidence was right there. In my hand. “Then why is she asking for pics, Simon?”

He stepped up to face me, his face red as a tomato. Before I could react, he snatched his phone from my grasp and looked at the screen. A minute passed. Maybe two. All I heard in the deafening silence was the sound of my heart beating an erratic tattoo.

Then finally a giggle. A bit of a chuckle and before I knew it, Simon had thrown his head back as he laughed and laughed and laughed.

To say that I was shocked would have been an understatement. Here I was, with evidence of his infidelity, and all Simon did was find amusement at my own expense. It was enough for me to see red. Desperately, I tried to swipe his phone back. But he was taller. His arms much longer.

He dangled his phone just out of reach, as if it was all a game. Each time I jumped Simon would duck under my grasp. And when I shouted obscenities, he ignored them with an easy smile.

It was only when I had tears trailing down my cheeks, threatening to walk out and throw the costumes I had laboured over for countless hours into the nearest dumpster, that he finally stopped. The expression on his face now serious and concerned. “Oh, come on Sharon. Can’t you see? She was asking for our cosplay photos. Just innocent and harmless fun. Stop acting like a baby. You’re better than this.”

“Why? Amy has never cared for the ‘geeky’ stuff. In ninth grade, she said anime was for little kids or people that hadn’t grown up.”

“Give her a bit of credit, Sharon. Not everyone has to be into pop culture. Sure, they can watch a couple of shows on Netflix, but you shouldn’t deride them for liking things like The Christmas Prince instead of Die Hard.”

I knew he was right. It was Simon, after all. But I didn’t like it. I fell into a sullen silence. Intractable to any of his overtures for peace.

“Goddammit, Sharon. Don’t just shut me out,” he said as he changed into his shorts and a ratty old t-shirt he used as bedwear. I was already under the covers, after having spent a good forty minutes in the shower. He tried to cuddle, but I was having none of it. With a sigh, Simon turned away. I knew I was being spiteful, but I couldn’t help it. The rage was still there and it would not be appeased.

It was as if it had taken on a life of its own. One that screamed vengeance at the wrong that Amy fucking Fletcher had done to me by texting my boyfriend.

Even when the lights turned off, I lay in bed, brain in overdrive as I pondered my next steps. Amy Fletcher would not get away with this.

--

The next day dawned. Though I had not slept, I was still buzzing with nervous energy. Jittery, almost, in anticipation of what was to come. Simon kept mostly busy with convention preparations, pausing every so often to look at his phone.  He didn’t notice. Not when he saw the texts Amy sent his way. I wanted to wipe that giddy-looking smile off his face. How could he do this to me? I was his girlfriend. Not Amy.

Even as I seethed, I was reassured by the plan that had come to me overnight. The old memories – of another time – had provided the answer I sought: Amy Fletcher’s address. It wasn’t far. It was only a ten to twenty-minute drive away. Given the traffic, it was plenty of time to get there, do what I needed and return before we set out to the convention.

Just to ease the burgeoning anxiety within me, in case things should go horribly wrong, I had slipped out of bed at three and Googled the address in my head. The Street View of the house matched several photos on her Instagram and Facebook. If I was wrong, I would simply play it off as mistaken identity.

I couldn’t say it was a good plan. But it was the only one that I could come up with that would satisfy the raging beast inside me.

“Where are you going?” Simon asked when I headed to the door at a few minutes past seven.

“Hardware store,” I replied. “Picking up a few more things that I forgot. It’s for the costume.” And then, I made the error that would cost me nearly everything. “You know, glue gun refills. Just in case something falls off.”

Perhaps if I had stayed longer, I would have seen the consternation on Simon’s face. Focused solely on the goal that I had set for myself, I hurried to the car. In my bag, I had my phone, keys, wallet and a sharp knife that I filched from the kitchen.

Traffic was light and I arrived at Amy Fletcher’s house with time to spare. For several long minutes, I sat in the car. My mind was a cacophony of noise. A part of me wanted to abandon the crazy idea that had seized me. The other, louder part, wanted to push on. It was unable to rest easy knowing that there was a threat to the perfect image of Simon and I.

When my hands had steadied, I opened the car door and walked to the white front door on stiff legs. Just to the side, hidden in a small alcove, was the doorbell. I pressed it.

Every second that slipped by felt like an hour. Until the door opened and standing before me was Amy Fletcher, her long brown hair, with blond highlights, was tussled and she was dressed in pyjamas covered in cartoon rabbits.

“Hi. You’re Sharon, right? Simon talked a lot about you when we caught up the other day. He said that you were going to a convention today. What brings you here?”

“Well, I heard you lived close by and I was in the neighbourhood,” I said, ducking underneath her arm as I forced my way inside. “This place is lovely. Did it cost a lot? God, I’m kind of envious, y’know. Simon and I, well, we haven’t been able to afford a house yet.”

“Hold on. Stop.” Amy Fletcher called out after me as I took a look at her two-bedroom house, situated in a quiet and idyllic suburb. “You can’t just come barging in. I know that we used to go to high school together, but it’s still very early in the morning.”

She caught up with me as I arrived in the kitchen, puffing a little. Her hand landed on my shoulder: a warning and a threat. It was enough.

I whirled around, one hand digging deep in my purse until my fingers had curled around the handle of my sharpest kitchen knife, and then I plunged the blade into her chest. Thirty fucking times.

Her screams were delicious as blood spurted. The beast, lurking with me, was appeased at the sight. As Amy Fletcher lay on the ground, her heart pumping out the last few litres of blood, a feral grin stretched across my face. I had done it. Simon was mine.

As I headed to the sink to wash up, I heard the first faint sirens. I dismissed it at first, until my phone rang.

Beau.

I picked up. What else could I do? Simon was my one and only. I didn’t know who had ratted me out, but I knew that I had to tell Simon. He would understand. He would be there for me.

“What have you done, Sharon?” were his first words to me. “I called the cops as soon as I noticed the missing knife. Tell me you haven’t done anything to harm Amy.”

Red. All I saw was red at his words.

“I’ve removed her from the equation,” I said with murderous glee, hoping to wound him with my words. How dare he accuse me when I was trying to salvage our relationship? If I hadn’t acted, Amy Fletcher would have inserted herself into our everyday and ruined our lives. “Don’t you understand, Simon? She was a fucking homewrecker. I did you a favour. I did the fucking world a favour.”

“You’re mad.”

Me? Mad? Simon thought I was crazy?

I laughed at the insinuation. Simon knew nothing of my madness. Of what I would do just to keep the world mine. The lengths I would go…

But as I looked at the dead body before me, the reality of my situation came crashing down on me. I know I shouldn’t have found it funny, but I could not stop. One I had started, all I could see was my future slipping away because of the mess I made. Tears pricked at the corner of my eyes. Why had I let all my fears and anxieties take control? Amy Fletcher, despite all her faults, did not deserve what I did to her.

The police found me in the kitchen, murder weapon in my right hand and my phone in the left.

As they dragged me out, handcuffed, I continued to laugh. Even as the world faded to laugh, all I could hear were my high-pitched cackles of depravity…

--

With a groan, I woke up, and blearily blinked at my surroundings. It took me a moment to recognise that I was still seated at the kitchen table, my face pressed against the keys of my laptop. Beside me, was an empty glass of red wine. As for the bottle itself, it had rolled to a stop on the counter-top and seemed ready to plunge over the side. Luckily, I had corked it or else I would be cleaning up the stains for a few weekends.

Shit. Stiffly, I got out of my seat to rescue the still half-full bottle. As I picked it up, I managed to catch a glimpse of the label.

Devil’s Touch: Let your inner desires come alive

I scoffed. Yeah right. More like my bloody nightmares. Running a hand over my face, I wondered if anything had been real or if it had just been an overactive imagination fuelled by the alcohol I had ingested. Probably the latter, I decided as I placed the bottle into the fridge.

Glancing quickly at the time, 3:50AM, I packed up my laptop and headed to my bedroom.

Just as I was about to grab another two or three hours of oblivion, I was startled back into full awareness when I heard a sharp rap on my apartment door. There was no mistaking the sound, however hard I wanted to try. I looked at my phone. It had ticked to 4 in the morning.

Grousing, I slipped into my robe and padded on sock-covered feet to see who had come calling in the early hours of the morning. Whoever it was, they had better have a good explanation for disturbing the rest of my pitiful night, I thought, as I opened the door.

[peonybane]

Agape and Pragma: Chapter 6

Pairings: OT7 (BTS) x Reader

Word Count: 2.4 k

Genre: Hybrid AU, Fluff, Angst, Sci-Fi, Crack (?), Smut (eventually)

Chapter Specific Notes: Little bit of fluff, lots of angst.

Summary: Your entire world had be torn asunder by just one lab test. Time heals all wounds, but does it really? What will it take to feel whole again?

Hybrid Types: Peacock Jin, Serval Yoongi, Golden Retriever Hoseok, Gray Wolf Namjoon, Scottish Fold House Cat Jimin, Great Dane Taehyung, and French Lop Eared Rabbit Jungkook

a/n: So after the two massive chapters, 6 is going to be short as hell. TL;DR: I wrote it in one day and my best friend is currently helping me out, editing it. Chapter 6 is full of angst and therefore I would like to thank my best friend, @ropeseok for helping me edit this chapter. I wouldn’t have been able to write this chapter without her. Special guest appearance of Kai from EXO.

<— Previous (Chapter 5)

As the stewardess did her spiel on what to do in an emergency, you couldn’t help but clench your fingers around the armrest of your chair. This business trip was much needed. You needed space from your roommates who were pushing you over the edge. They had been, quite frankly, fiends. Namjoon had progressively gotten worse. For instance, the moment you two were in public together, his hand would either go to the small of your back, or the back of your neck, stroking it possessively. Instead of feeling angry, like you know you should, you feel… at peace. And that’s the most upsetting part: you’re not bothered by any of their behavior, at least, not a baser, emotional level. Intellectually though, you’re utterly distraught by the changes.

After a week in another country to meet in person with one of your authors (they had invited you as partially a social thing since it had been far too long since you had last seen each other), you were finally heading home. As much as the seven of them had been annoying the snot out of you, you still missed them greatly. Their nightly calls (or early morning for them) were precious to you. Even half way across the world, you felt protected.

Except for right now. You normally weren’t bothered by plane rides, having to take several a year. But the flight in did a number on you. There was an unusual amount of turbulence. It was so bad that it ended up throwing a stewardess around the cabin at its suddenness. That had freaked you out more than you cared to admit. So here you were, clenching your armrests for dear life, your eyes screwed shut as you inhaled slowly, and exhaled even more slowly. 

As the plane lurched forward, you jumped slightly. Suddenly, a hand was grasping yours and you heard a soft… purring. Opening your eyes, you looked over at your row neighbor. You had only taken notice of him when you sat down, but otherwise had ignored him, too stressed to really take note of anything around you. 

Quite frankly, he was… beautiful. Angular jaw, long face, small nose, gentle eyes resting above a sweet smile and under a concerned brow. His hair was ashen colored towards his neck and it faded to black towards the top, which cushioned a set of black cat ears. You couldn’t help but blush and look down at his hand that was grasping yours. While his arm was pale, it faded to more tanned skin just above his wrist, similarly to a Siamese cat. 

You met his gaze once again. His voice was sweet. “You feeling a little better?”

Swallowing, you nodded, but didn’t remove your hand from his. It felt… it felt comforting. Just like how Yoongi or Jimin would grasp your hand out in public. “Thanks.”

He blushed a little. “First time flying?”

You didn’t answer for a minute as the plane began to ascend into the air. Once you had reached a nice cruising height, you answered him, “No, far from it. Just, the last time I flew, the stewardess got thrown around. It scared me more than I care to admit.”

He started to rub your knuckles with his thumb soothingly. “Fair enough. I’m Jongin, by the way.”

You smiled and gave him your name. “It’s nice to meet you, Jongin.”

“You know, I’m surprised. Most people pull away, especially women, when an unknown man, a Hybrid at that, grabs their hand.”

You let out a small chuckle. “Well, my roommates are all Hybrids. They’re all very touchy. Kinda know when I or the others need that contact. So, I don’t really mind. If anything I appreciate it.”

Jongin smiled. “How many is that? I don’t really smell any prominent Hybrid scents on you.”

You bit the inside of your mouth. Somehow, you felt guilty at the mention of lack of scent. “Seven. And I’m on my way home, actually.”

Much louder than he intended, Jongin almost yelled, “Seven!?”

The shushing and dirty looks made him shrink in on himself, heavily blushing. “S-Sorry.”

It took everything in you not to laugh. “Yes, seven. But it’s alright. Everything’s surprisingly… peaceful.” Not a lie… mostly.

“I can’t imagine. I have a group of eleven friends, well seven or eight that I see regularly, but that’s beside the point. There is no way we could even live as neighbors with each other without taking each others’ heads off.”

You giggled at this, which earned you a small smile from Jongin. “What about you? You heading home or going somewhere?”

“Home. Finally. Been traveling for months.”

Jongin told you about himself. And you, him. It was sweet. Relaxing. Distracting. You spent the rest of the flight like this, talking about your lives.

^~^~^~^~^ 

“You sure,” Jongin asked as he handed off his bag to his friend, Sehun.

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, Jongin. I’ll be fine. You’ve done more than enough distracting me on that flight.”

“But seriously, Sehun and I wouldn’t mind driving you home.”

“I know. But I’m sure you both are absolutely exhausted.”

“Alright. Fair enough. But, why aren’t your roommates here?”

Jongin looked around the pick up area, not seeing any Hybrids matching the description you gave him of them. “Jongin, it’s the middle of the night. On a weekday. And they all work. Like hell, I’m making them come pick me up.”

He looked at the ground, his hands stuffed in his pockets as his tail flicked, mumbling, “I’d pick you up, day or night.”

Your gaze on him softened just as your Uber pulled up to the curb. “Well, this is me.”

Your driver got out and helped you load your luggage into the trunk of his car. Before you could step into the vehicle, Jongin grabbed your arm. Looking over at him, startled, Jongin stared at you with heated eyes. “I— I don’t want this to be the last I see of you. I really, really like you. And… I’d like to take you out.”

Swallowing, you gnawed on your bottom lip. It struck you in that moment, as he looked at you with complete and utter earnest, did you realized that you had never dated a Hybrid before. Not entirely sure why, you just never really had anyone approach you. It had always been normal men. But they always left when they realized you could not bear them children, or they didn’t want to deal with your occasional nightmares, or your roommates. 

Maybe… maybe this was a chance. This was someone who couldn’t have children himself and didn’t expect you to bear them, this was someone who was truly sweet and understanding, this was someone who didn’t seem threatened by your roommates. 

“Yes.”

His eyes grew large in disbelief. Taking out your pen from your purse, you pulled his hand to you and wrote your number on his palm. You smiled shyly at him, before sitting down in your Uber. Just as you were to close the door, Jongin reached in and grabbed your hand, kissing your knuckles. You blushed brightly, prompting him to smile mischievously at you. He pulled away and closed the door. Your Uber got out of there like a bat out of hell, leaving you in near silence as you contemplated what you just did. And honestly, you didn’t regret it one bit.

^~^~^~^~^ 

After the Uber driver helped you get your stuff out of his car, you thanked him as he drove away. Dragging your suitcase behind you, you yawned, wanting nothing more than to leave your stuff in the foyer and trudge up to your room and pass out. You might not even make it there, electing to maybe settle for the couch. One of your roommates no doubt would carry you to your room at some point in the night when they’d find you.

You found yourself startled awake at the sound of yelling. Practically running to the house, you pulled out your keys, frantically trying to shove them into the lock.

Once you had the door unlocked, you rushed inside, abandoning your bags in the hallway and your keys in the door. You rushed towards the yelling. It was… Jin yelling. Like actually, yelling. Not the usual loud voice he used when he was responding to the others making fun of him. It wasn’t the usual frustrated rage. It was unadulterated, malicious rage. It terrified you.

“—The hell, Jungkook! How could you do this? It’s perverted! It’s wrong. We— You shouldn’t be hoarding her dirty underwear!”

The moment of anger at him for stealing your underwear quickly died at the sound of a scuffle, followed by more unintelligible yelling. The yelling was coming from the laundry room. As you entered the hallway, Namjoon, Hoseok, and Yoongi were just… standing there. Jimin and Taehyung nowhere nearby. It took a moment, but you heard the faint sound Jimin yelling. You only assumed that Taehyung was with him to keep him from rushing in to try to diffuse the situation. That was the scuffling you had heard.

The sound of Jungkook’s voice broke you out of your shock. “What? Like you can talk. I’m the only one with the guts to actually take what we all want. At least I don’t shamelessly call her name in the bathroom when I don’t think anyone else can h—”

Jin let out a guttural noise. The sound of a fist colliding with flesh flew you into action. You rushed to force your way past Yoongi and Namjoon, but Namjoon, the bastard, must have known you were already here because he grabbed you around the waist, stopping you. 

“Namjoon! Let me fucking go! We need to stop them!”

“No, this is something they need to figure out themselves.”

You continued to thrash against Namjoon’s hold. Jin managed to dodge a hit from Jungkook then pinned him to the wall; you wiggled out of Namjoon’s grip during the brief distraction.

Everything seemed to slow down for you as soon as you were out of his grip. You dodged Hoseok and Yoongi as they grabbed for you, calling your name.

With strength you didn’t know you had, you grabbed Jin by the nape of his shirt, pulling him away from Jungkook. He turned to you, the beginning of a squawk rose in his throat before his gaze fell on you. His brow knit together, his gaze softened and his face flushed.

Jin called your name, reaching out to cup your cheek, stroking it with his thumb. “Sweetie… it’s nothing. Jungkook and I were just messing around. Nothing to get worked up over.”

For a moment, you believed him. But looking past him at Jungkook’s face, you knew that wasn’t true. Between the seething heat behind Jungkook’s eyes and the split lip, your anger flared up again. “Like hell it is, Jin! ‘Nothing’ is not hitting each other. ‘Nothing’ is not screaming at each other. ‘Nothing’ is not using me as an excuse to throw fists!”

Jin sighed and reached with his other hand to stroke your hair. “Sweetie—“

You smacked his hand away. His face immediately fell, brow knit together and lips pouting. “Don’t you ‘sweetie’ me. I don’t entirely understand what made you two fight, but I know it’s about me and I hate it! I hate seeing you two fight!”

Hoseok reached a hand out to you, his ears flush against his head. There was a hot acidic feeling rising up in your throat and you smacked his hand away, not done pouring your angry, exhausted heart out.

“All of you! Get out! Go to your rooms! I don’t know what the hell is wrong with you, all of you!” Hot tears battled their way to your eyes, threatening to fall at any moment. “Is it something I’ve done? Am I causing you all to act like this? You’ve been weird to me! You’ve been a-aggressive to each other. I-I’ve had enough!”

Tears started to slide down your cheeks as you marched past them. Yoongi called your name and grabbed your arm. Immediately, you yanked out of his hold. “No! I-I don’t want want to be the reason you all are not yourselves.”

You raced up the stairs, tears falling freely. As you reached the top of the steps, Taehyung and Jimin stood there, having heard the commotion. They both muttered your name. Once again, you pushed past them. Taehyung bellowed your name. You shouted back, “No! Not now— I just— I need to be alone! I need to be away from all of you. I just— I don’t know anymore.”

You marched towards your room, Taehyung on your heels. As you slammed your door behind you, you heard Jimin call Taehyung’s name, telling him you needed time right now. He paused at your door, tempted to defy Jimin. You made the decision for him, locking your door. Taehyung sighed from the other side of the door before leaning against it, he whispered your name. “Please. Don’t be mad. We’d never do anything to hurt you. Things… things are changing right now, but it’ll be alright.”

As he walked away, you threw your weight against your door, sliding down it until you sat there, knees to your chest. A cry scratched its way out of your throat. You finally let loose, bawling into your knees. After a few minutes you were reduced to sniffles, letting your head rest against the door. 

You were too wired now to sleep, so instead, you settled for listening to your roommates, take themselves off to bed. It was amazing really. You knew who was walking where just based on the sound of their gait alone. You held a breath when you heard Namjoon’s footsteps stop at your door, paused for a moment, then reconsidered, making his way over to his room.

Breathing a sigh of relief, you wondered… was your relationship was even vaguely salvageable? After all, you had yelled at them and said such horrible things. Could they forgive you for your words? You knew some of them would forgive and forget easy, the others… you weren’t so sure. One thing was for sure, though: your relationship had changed.

It was a matter of figuring out now if it was for the better or not.

As always, reviews, comments, asks, and tags are always loved! ~Peony

Also, please note that I do NOT do tagging lists. Please see my FAQ for why.

Next (Chapter 7) —>

Agape and Pragma Masterlist

Masterlist

All rights reserved. © Copyrighted 2019.