#there is nothing to fear for my sake little nonny ^^

[pocketramblr]

AU where Gentry and Katy set their differences aside and star the hunt of certain Deer deity.

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[a-mellowtea]

Why is it that so many people immediately grabbed onto the fascist terminology when it came to Ironwood? I hate to ask to have it explained like I'm five, but... I sincerely do not get it, and was hoping maybe you'd have some insight.

[deep breath] Are we doing this? I guess we're doing this.

Buckle up, folks, because I am about to drop a light academic paper's worth of frustrated analysis on your dashboards. I have been asked similar questions before—that is, to explain what makes James Ironwood not a fascist character—and it is never not a little... distressing, to see such terminology used so carelessly, but I’ve not been able to get my emotions in check and thoughts in order long enough to speak to it thoroughly. I hope I can do so now. 

And please, nonny, don't worry; this isn't specifically aimed at you, but if I'm going to have any hope of answering your question properly, we need to delve into the broader scope of things first.

To begin, any discussion of fascism and its potential portrayal requires an at least loosely agreed upon definition, and here, clean out of the gate, is where we encounter our first hurdle. For as surely as there are stars in the night sky, there are varying definitions of how broad or narrow the term “fascism” is and how it manifests. To quote George Orwell, the democratic socialist author of famously anti-authoritarian works “Animal Farm” and “1984″, 

“The word Fascism has now no meaning except in so far as it signifies “something not desirable”...In the case of a word like democracy, not only is there no agreed definition, but the attempt to make one is resisted from all sides. It is almost universally felt that when we call a country democratic we are praising it: consequently the defenders of every kind of regime claim that it is a democracy, and fear that they might have to stop using the word if it were tied down to any one meaning” (Orwell, Politics and the English Language, 1946).

Indeed, as with the word “democracy”, if we try to nail down a definition of “fascism”, no matter how close we think we have gotten to arriving at a concrete version of its meaning, there will inevitably be those who raise their noses to declare their own definition; one that suits their own personal beliefs and biases and, though not always to mal-intentioned ends, one that they uphold as true in so far as it is comfortable for them. As Orwell posits, if there was one meaning for these charged political terms, we would not be able to apply them so liberally and frivolously, and we would have to make some uncomfortable admissions.

However and despite this, for the sake of discussion and debate, let’s try. With the first meeting of Fasci Italiani di Combattimento in Piazza San Sepolcro in Milan in 1919, Benito Mussolini coined a new mix of dangerous pre-existing authoritarian ideals and laid the foundations of fascist ideology (or, perhaps, anti-ideology). He believed firmly that democracy was a failed system, and that anything that might impede national unity, including individual freedoms, had to be gotten rid of through violent means. Wrote journalist Stephen Moss in a short piece for The Guardian in 2002,

“Fascism is essentially oppositional: it opposes Marxist materialism, Tolstoyan determinism, economic liberalism, Enlightenment individualism. It is founded on nihilism, irrationalism and social Darwinism: nations must be perpetually at war, men must be tested, the state is the source of truth, individual liberty counts for nothing” (Moss, Beware The F-Word, 2002).

While fascism is fluid in variation through its regimes, certain elements tend to remain the same. Its core principle is always the strength of the nation, which lends to its expansionist and purely nationalistic principles. To achieve national unity and mass enthusiastic support, sophisticated propaganda and democratic censure are used to discourage and punish dissenting voices and alienate those who do not align with the desired image of the nation. Individual rights, civil liberties, free enterprise and democracy are rejected; there is often violent exclusion of a particular group or groups (ex. Jewish and Romani people, the Bolsheviks); militarism, state security, corporatism (that is, state protection of corporate power) and conservative economics are brought to the fore; and one leader, typically male, is uplifted into the role of national savior and showered with vigorous praise.

The definition of fascism seems then, as per these common elements, to only truly be described as a melting pot of radical -isms, with the ultimate goal of national superiority via those violent means.

Additionally, the term is generally applied with heavily charged historical connotations to those who are credited as creating the violently authoritarian ideology, and perpetuating some of the most despicable acts in modern history under its banner. Very rarely does one apply the terms “fascist” or “fascism” without the likes of Mussolini and Hitler in mind, and the vague notion of what one intends in referencing these figures follows into a similarly broad understanding of what is meant without having to define it. That broad-strokes understanding is ill-advisable in practice, but it bears mentioning that the word in modernity has quite a lot of baggage associated with it.

Since we now have something of a working definition, we can begin looking at the crux of this, and the original underlying questions: do these elements apply to James Ironwood as a character, and why do people in the fandom space believe that they do? 

The answer to the former is simply and resoundingly ‘no’, but it’s not entirely for the narrative’s lack of trying. The Kingdom of Atlas as a setting has a frankly startling veneer of fascism, but one that does not go beyond a paper-thin front of smoke and mirrors that dissolves upon so much as a second glance. 

Certainly, we have Atlas’ staunchly-portrayed nationalism and militarism. Whereas the rest of the world relies on Huntsmen and volunteer militias in times of conflict post-Great War, Atlas is stated to be the only one that maintains a standing military. Not only that, but where other Academies encourage students to follow their own paths, Atlas Academy is said to “indoctrinate” (in quotations to indicate wording used in the writing, not to criticize its use) students into joining the Special Operatives division of the military. Strength of arms as an Atlesian ideal and its criticisms are a consistent talking point within the show; the line “there will be no victory in strength” and its variations are restated almost ad nauseum. There is the discussion of military reach, appropriate or not, in so far as early Volumes with the Atlesian fleet’s presence in Vale, to consider, though this in and of itself is not indicative of nationalist expansionism. Cordovin is a character clearly designed to be a caricature of staunch fascist nationalism, through vocalized ideals and violent action. Moreover, when we first begin to get a look at the Kingdom itself, in an episode rather pointedly titled “The Greatest Kingdom”, the classist and conservative economic divide—favoring the wealthy elite over the middle and working classes—that has also been repeatedly referenced in Volumes prior is clear.

However, this handful of elements and their lean towards fascism are swiftly undercut by a lack or flat-out counterbalance of others. In Volume 7, there is an entire subplot (arguably main plot) about the democratic Council elections in Mantle, which are influenced not by Atlas or any internal authority that would seek to make them irrelevant, but by corporate and malicious external meddling. Corporatism as it applies to Atlas also bears mentioning, as the Schnee Dust Company is demonstrably favored and has quite a bit of power unto itself but is not protected by the state, nor is it a nationalized asset. There is no control of mass media or propagation of propaganda, nor is there a violent push for national unity, and the scapegoating of a selected group is notably absent. There is racism, and the Faunus seem to make up the majority demographic of those living in squalor in the slums, but that is very different from the historical precedents that have informed that oft-genocidal element of fascist practice.

By all measures it seems as though there were recognizable parts of fascism, or the loose notions of them, that were intended to be applied to Atlas as a broad-strokes swath of classism, inequality, militarism and nationalism; yet were not taken to the extreme required to truly categorize them under the ideology. Were Atlas a fascist Kingdom, it would have looked quite different, but enough of the aesthetics are there to give it an uncomfortable air of almost-familiarity.

And so, we are left with Ironwood himself and, contentious a character he has become, the term “fascist” cannot, in equal measure, be applied to him either; not even in Volume 8. He never espouses any hyper-nationalistic ideals or goals towards Atlas’ superiority as a Kingdom, much less through violent means. The cult of personality that is such a staple of fascist leadership does not hold true either and, despite the imagery presented through “Hero”, it is never reinforced as anything more than an internal savior complex, rather than an external one imposed on the populace. Ironwood is clearly stated to be fully cognizant that the people do not view him favorably and, in opposition to fascist principles, this is not a factor for his character. The fascist principles of glorification of violence and war are directly countered by his support of unmanned technology on the battlefield and opposition towards wasting lives.

As with the broader setting of Atlas, cherry-picked elements that are, together, uncomfortable, such as the inherent classism in his view of Mantle; firm militarism, violent silencing of dissent specifically in Volume 8, and expectation of loyalty; and the aforementioned personal savior complex accomplish much the same thing—an almost-familiarity, a tug on that vague understanding of what fascism is generally agreed to mean without having to say it.

Though his actions in Volume 8 are reprehensible and as a character he has many flaws, including the treatment of Mantle, none of these elements make Ironwood’s character fascist. It is, with as much objectivity of definition as we have established, not an ideology that the character held, espoused, nor fulfilled the requirements for serious consideration of from an analytical standpoint.

All that remains is the initial question, and the latter half of this broad analysis: if Ironwood is not, by definition, a fascist character, then why has the terminology of that ideology been so liberally applied?

When otherwise well-informed people in the RWBY fandom apply the term “fascist” to Ironwood, and in equal measure to those who criticize the writing around and / or actively defend the character, they are not doing so from an analytical perspective, but rather using it as a catch-all condemnation. To once again quote George Orwell, this time from his writings on fascism itself,

“By ‘Fascism’ they mean, roughly speaking, something cruel, unscrupulous, arrogant, obscurantist, anti-liberal and anti-working-class” (Orwell, What Is Fascism?, 1944).

By this definition, there is a sudden degree of clarity to its application in the fandom space. It is synonymous with “bully”, with “someone to be disagreed with”, and it becomes altogether less confusing and far more innocent in what it’s meant to be saying in these contexts.

As clear as this makes its true meaning, however, this is dangerous. We have become so diluted in our modern thinking so as to twist loaded terms to our benefit, to be deployed when so ever it suits us. Indeed, in many situations, “fascism” is used more often as a political insult than as a historically-informed analytical term, but it remains a very specific thing. It is not a name for someone you simply disagree with, nor ought it to be used whenever an authority figure acts incorrectly.

The unfortunate thing is that the people who use it so frivolously are unlikely to stop, regardless of how distressing it can be to have it applied to something or someone it has no business acting as a label for. Language is everchanging, and terminology that carries very serious connotations can be watered down into drivel. So, I leave you, nonny, with one last quote from Orwell, who seemed to have a decent grasp on the whole affair,

“All one can do for the moment is to use the word with a certain amount of circumspection and not, as is usually done, degrade it to the level of a swearword” (Orwell, What Is Fascism?, 1944).

Sources: 1. Orwell, What Is Fascism?, 1944 2. Moss, Beware The F-Word, 2002 3. Orwell, Politics and the English Language, 1946 4. Weisberger, What Is Fascism? (LiveScience), March 2022 update 5. Paxton, The Five Stages of Fascism, 1998 6. Waxman, What Is Fascism? (Time), 2019

[purple-babygirl]

First of all… who told you that you could toy with my heart over your latest work: SamBucky and the injuries Little. Talk about the angst but fluff. Just mwah!

But will all that angst especially with Sam and Bucky—they are just a perfect combo, btw. I now am needy for angst to fluff (oops…). All I can think about is an insecure little who think that her daddies don’t love her after a misunderstanding, so she pack up her things and runs away. (But a happy ending is ensured) when Sam and Bucky are able to find her

Love you.

Pairing: SamBucky x little!f!reader

Word Count: 2,796

Warnings: polyamory, ddlg dynamics, a dash of angst, and a pinch of fluff

A/N: Hello, Nonnie! Thank you for reading, and thank you for sharing this idea with me and allowing me to toy with your heart over it!💜💜 I was a puddle writing this one. I'm really sorry if this took me too long; I hope it's to your liking and I love you too *ghost kisses*💜 please enjoy xx

~~

unwanted

“That's enough. Go to your room.” Sam demanded angrily, looking down at the cheerios covering the kitchen floor that he now would have to clean up.

“Papa-”

“All you do is cause trouble and I'm done! To your room, now!”

She's been bad again. It was the third time this week. She has been disobedient and impatient. Whenever Papa and Daddy told her to do anything she somehow managed to mess it up. Sam had told her not to touch anything but she wanted to help nevertheless. She couldn’t reach the cupboard though and ended up spilling the box of cereal all over the place.

Her gaze dropped and she walked to her room without another word and a few minutes later, Bucky came to give her lunch and collect her phone and tablet, taking away her screen time for the day.

“But daddy-”

“No, doll. I'm taking them away. You never listen anymore and it needs to stop.”

Papa and Daddy are mad at you. They don't love you no more. They're sick of you. You never listen and you're always bad. They could be so much happier and calmer if it wasn't for you always riling them up. They were done. It needed to stop. They don't love you no more. They don't want you no more. They don't love you. They don't want you.

She sat wallowing in her room, tears gathering in her eyes as her own mind attacked her. Maybe it was all true. All she does is cause trouble.

So maybe if she left…

She got up and got her big girl backpack out of the closet.

Maybe if she left Papa and Daddy would be better off without her.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she gathered and pushed items into her bag.

Maybe if she was gone they would be less angry.

She zipped the bag up before sloppily slipping her socks on and picking up her stuffed friend.

Maybe if she escaped the house she could escape her thoughts too; leave them all in her room and go.

She wiped her cheeks, tiptoed out of her room, found her shoes by the front door and quietly got into them. She could hear Daddy and Papa lowly laughing together while they got things done in the backyard. Leaving really was the right decision then; they were happier without her.

Taking one, last, tear-blurred look at the house, she stepped outside and quietly closed the door behind her. She held her small white bunny to her chest and sniffed before taking off, walking to the only place that would bring her comfort.

~

“She's going to be so happy. I can't wait to see her face.” Sam smiled proudly, hands on his waist as he took one last look at the swing he and Bucky have put together for their baby girl in the backyard.

“I really hope she likes it.” Bucky smiled back in agreement before opening the door for Sam and walking inside behind him.

They felt they were too hard on her that morning and she was usually a good girl, only intending to do good for her Daddy and Papa. So they decided to build the swing earlier than they’d previously planned to lighten things up again.

“Is it just me or is it awfully quiet in here?” Bucky murmured, bringing the water bottle down from his mouth and looking around the living room in slight suspicion.

“I mean, she is in a timeout and you did take away her phone,” Sam reminded him, trying not to let himself panic as he got himself a water bottle from the fridge.

But it wasn’t that. Bucky could still hear her presence no matter how quiet. He could hear her crayons gliding on paper when she would sit down to color. He could hear her hum as she organized her toys around the table for tea parties. This quietness wasn’t normal.

Bucky jogged up the stairs to her room and just as he feared, she wasn't in there. Her sandwich was untouched. Her closet was open and her backpack and favourite blankie were missing.

“Sam!” He called for his husband, taking long strides to their bedroom to find she wasn't there either.

Sam ran up the stairs at Bucky's freaked tone and saw him pacing through the hallway.

“She's not here.”

“What?” Sam’s heart sank into his stomach.

“I can't find her.” Bucky shook his head at Sam, running his fingers through his hair in growing panic.

“Hey, calm down. We're gonna find her.” Sam rubbed a hand down Bucky's back, trying to hide his own fright for Bucky's sake as his mind ran to every single place she knew how to get to on her own.

“How? How are we gonna find her? We don't even know where she went or if she's okay-”

Sam put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, the other cupping his cheek.

“Hey, breathe,” Sam instructed, slowly breathing so Bucky could copy him, trying to send away the panic attack ready to take over him. Bucky nuzzled his palm, his breath coming out shaky.

“That's it, Buck. In and out.” He moved his hands to Bucky’s.

“But she was so little when we sent her to her room and she probably doesn't even have any ID or money with her-”

“Bucky,” Sam squeezed his husband’s hands.

“We can't lose her, Sam. I can't- I took her phone away- if she's in trouble, she won't be able to-”

“Bucky, baby, we're gonna find her and she's gonna be okay. I promise.” Sam reassured him with words he himself wasn't sure would turn out to be true, his large palm stroking up and down the tense muscles of Bucky’s back, “I need you to keep breathing for me.”

Bucky tried to manage his breathing, slightly calming down to the thought of getting to hold her again.

“She couldn't have gotten that far, so we're gonna look around and I'm gonna call Steve, okay?” Bucky nodded at Sam's words, glossy eyes closing as Sam planted a kiss to the side of his forehead, “okay, baby. Let's go.”

~

Sam took the car, driving slowly, roaming the neighborhood to see if she was anywhere around the area. He was asking anyone and everyone who passed by his car if they've seen her. But apparently, no one has. Not even the old couple at the end of the street with the dog she loved to pet so much.

Bucky chose to go on foot as he walked in the other direction, preferring to depend on his enhanced senses instead of talking to other people. Even if he did talk to them for help, no one would understand that while her picture looked like that of a grown lady, she was a mere baby. They would never understand their panic.

Sam rubbed his forehead in frustration, leaning it against the wheel. He’d just hung up with Steve. He said she didn't come to his place; didn't even stop by. In fact, he hasn’t heard from her at all and got worried when Sam called. He took an uneven breath, trying to maintain his cool before he lifted his head up and started the car again.

~

Leaning back on the big tree, she wrapped her soft blankie tighter around her frame. It was getting kind of chilly and she was starting to regret leaving now that it wasn't that sunny anymore. The tears drying on her cheeks made her shiver even more and she sniffled, kissing her bunny's head and tugging the stuffed animal under her chin. She hoped Daddy and Papa were feeling better now that she was no longer there with them.

“Doll?” She heard Bucky's voice and before she could wonder if she'd imagined it, she was pressed to a hard chest.

“Oh, thank god,” Bucky sighed, kissing the side of her head over and over again, his hands tight around her back, holding her and her bunny close to his frantically beating heart.

“Baby, why'd you leave like that? We were so worried! We looked everywhere, we called everyone.” Bucky kissed her forehead a bunch before “-oh right!”

He got his phone out of his pocket with one arm, the other still firmly holding her to his chest. She kept holding onto her bunny, not really getting what was happening. Was she in trouble for leaving unannounced or not? Why would Daddy and Papa want to find her? She was nothing but trouble.

“Sam, I found her! We're in our secret place in the park.”

At Bucky's call, Sam took a sharp turn, stepping on the gas to get to the park as fast as he could.

“Are you okay, doll? Are you hurt anywhere?” Bucky asked her after hanging up, anxiously checking her head, face, arms and legs for injuries.

She shook her head silently, fresh, hot tears burning at the brims of her eyes.

“Thank god.” Bucky hugged her to his chest again, “we were so scared, doll. We were so scared.”

He kissed her damp cheeks and chin as she kept biting her lip, quietly sniveling.

She'd scared them. She'd worried them. Why was it always that she did something wrong while trying to do anything right? She was no good.

“It’s okay, love. I found you. I’m right here.” Bucky kissed her eyelids, then her nose, thinking she was crying because she was lost alone.

He pulled her on his lap and adjusted himself in her place, his back to the tree trunk as he held her close, fearing she’d disappear if he were to loosen his grip around her.

“Sugar!” Sam’s voice echoed through the empty part of the park when he saw her burrito-wrapped body in Bucky’s lap.

“Papa’s here, doll. It’s okay.” Bucky whispered to her when she didn’t stop crying.

She turned around and her eyes met Sam’s watery, brown ones.

“Hey, sugar,” Sam greeted softly, getting down on his knees before her.

Her lower lip jutted out further as new tears soaked her pretty face. It hasn’t even been a whole day and she’s missed Papa and Daddy so much. How was she ever planning on running away from them or being without them?

“Aww, no, no, baby, it’s okay,” Sam cooed, bringing her to his chest and engulfing her in a protective hug.

Her blanket fell in Bucky’s lap and she dropped her bunny to cling to Sam, barely quieting her sobs.

Not able to hold himself together any longer, a tear escaped Sam’s eye his gaze met Bucky’s. He buried his nose in her hair and squeezed her closer to him, sighing in relief that they’ve found her. His mind kept torturing him with scenarios of her getting hurt and not getting help. He didn’t know what he would’ve done if they’d actually lost her.

“You’re okay, sugar. Papa’s here with you. I’m sorry it took us so long, baby. We were looking in a lot of places.” Sam sniffled, pulling back to pepper featherlike kisses all over her face.

“You wanted to find me?” Her small, brittle voice asked, doe eyes staring up sadly.

“What? Of course we wanted to find you, baby! Why would you think otherwise?!”

“But I was bad. You w-were done. It needed to stop,” she repeated his and Bucky’s words on him and Sam felt shame cover him from head to toe, Bucky not any different as he bit down to stop his tears.

“Doll,” Bucky went to hold her hands only to find they were freezing.

“Shit! She’s too cold,” he told Sam, who immediately started taking off his jacket.

“Dada, bad word,” she softly reminded Bucky, covering her mouth with her hand before Sam got out of his jacket.

Sam slipped his warm jacket on her and pulled the zipper up, her small hands disappearing inside the long sleeves.

“Good girl, sugar. It is a bad word.” He rolled the sleeves back just enough to get her palms out so she could still hold her bunny.

“But you don’t see me asking daddy to leave because he was bad, do you?” Sam asked tenderly and she shook her head no.

“Exactly, I’m not. You know why?” Sam pressed kisses to both of her hands multiple times, rubbing them between his palms to warm her up.

“Why, papa?” she asked as he carried her in his arms; Bucky gathering the rest of her stuff.

“Because I love him so much." Sam wiped her tears. "And both me and daddy love you so so so much, sugar.” He pressed a firm kiss to her temple.

Bucky handed her the small bunny back after patting any dust or leaves out of it.

“We never want you to go, doll.” Bucky pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

“Even when I’m really really bad?”

“Even if you’re really really bad,” Sam guaranteed, kissing her temple again.

“But- I thought papa and daddy would be happier and not so angry no more if I left,” she mumbled innocently as Sam started walking to the car with her in his arms.

“That could never be true, doll. We’re only happy as long as we have you,” Bucky reassured her, opening the backseat door so Papa could slip in with her on his lap.

“And you still love me?” Her pout, teary puppy eyes and words were just killing both men inside.

“Of course we love you, doll! We will always love you. We can never afford to lose you,” Bucky told her, his eyes searching hers to offer them comfort.

“Baby, we love you so much it’s uncountable, remember?” Sam ran his thumb over the knuckles of her stuffie-holding hands.

She nodded, her eyes teary but her smile comforted and reassured. “I love you too, Papa,” she mumbled, grabbing onto Sam’s thumb, her eyelids barely staying open.

“I’m sorry I left,” she sniffled.

“It’s alright, baby. We’re all together now and we're going home.” Sam kissed her forehead once more, wanting her to forget all about it and know everything was okay again.

“Told you we’d find her,” Sam said, drawing Bucky inside the car by the cheek and brushing his lips against his.

“You did.” Bucky nodded, pressing his forehead to Sam’s and kissing him again.

Bucky pulled back and smiled adoringly at her sleepy eyes fighting to stay open as she leaned onto Sam's chest before getting in the driver’s seat to take them home. Sam was caressing her hair and before she knew it her eyes were fluttering closed.

All the crying all day had drained her and her body could finally give up and relax now that she was in Papa’s hold; she was out like a light.

“You’re so important to me and daddy, sugar. Never ever forget that,” Sam whispered against her forehead before pressing a slow kiss to her skin.

She might've had no idea how adored and cherished she actually was, but that was okay. Sam and Bucky had a lifetime ahead of them where they could show her again and again that they loved and needed her just as much as she did them.

~

“Dada! Papa! Wake up! We have a swing!”

She’d fallen asleep pretty early in the car last night and neither Sam nor Bucky had the heart to wake her up when they got home. So they took her shoes and socks off and tucked her in in their bed.

Now they had to deal with her waking up way too early. She’d gone to the bathroom on her own like a good girl before her stomach hungrily grumbled. And when she got to the kitchen for a cup of water and maybe the plate of fruit in the fridge, her eyes fell on the swing showing outside the small window on the kitchen door.

Bucky rolled over and opened his eyes first, her jumping on her knees on the bed beside him pulling him out of his dreams. Sam, however, didn’t move a muscle. The man slept so soundly that sometimes Bucky was jealous. How heavy of a sleeper could a person be?

“Yes, we do, baby.” Bucky chuckled. “Me and papa built it just for you.” He smiled sleepily at her excited face before annoyingly poking Sam’s back, “Sam, wake up.”

“Tank you, dada.” She settled back on her ankles though still buzzing with joy.

“You like it, sugar?” Bucky opened his arms wide for her.

“Yes, I love it.” She nodded happily before perching herself on his hard chest, cutely kissing his jaw, “and I love you, dada.”

“Sam.” He affectionately punched his sleeping husband’s shoulder, smirking when he heard him groan, “she likes the swing.”

[bvccy]

Hi!!! Hope you're doing great

Can I please have a mix between number 2 from the soft and 8 from the dark one

Thanks, lost of love ❤❤❤

Thank you so much, nonnie! I am so sorry this took so long, I meant to post yesterday but it wasn’t done. Also, the 8th dark prompt was requested just before you sent in this one, so that is filled separately here.

I tried to do the mix you asked for, and I took the liberty of writing this with Bucky (specifically 40s!BB), and I hope that it’s ok. It’s a bit of a more specific story, actually, that I’d wanted to write for a while. I also did a kind of first for me, because it involves Steve x reader as a backdrop 😂 Anyway.

Lots of love to you too, my dear! 💗💗💗

— PAIRING: soft!dark!Bucky x Reader • preserum!Steve x Reader — PROMPT: Asteria - gazing at one’s object of affection, from afar + Prassius - an impossible desire, and unclean love — LINKS: Masterlist • love stones prompt list — WORDCOUNT: 2.5k

It had taken long enough, and sometimes it seemed like it would never happen, but he finally found Steve a girlfriend — or rather, his girlfriend found him one. Dottie had exhausted several of her close friends and most acquaintances, but she knew how tired Bucky was of seeing his friend mope around, feeling like a third wheel, getting into trouble to pass the time. And honestly she liked Steve too, just not like that — but, wonder-worker that she was, Dottie found a girl that did.

She agreed to come on a double-date one night, and she and Stevie hit it right off. It was the first time Bucky met her too, and he didn't think much of the girl. Small, shy, not quite sickly-looking but not far from it, shoes a bit scuffed, clothes a bit too big for her and smelling of plain soap — in a word: perfect. She was perfect for his sickly, skinny friend who nobody else wanted, and by the looks of things, nobody had wanted her either because she seemed to have no idea what to do around a dance hall. As they were returning home that night, he even heard her confess to Steve that she had never been to one before.

They went out on two more dates, all four of them, within as many weeks. Bucky loved to dance, and Dottie too, but Steve and his girl weren't so fond of tripping over their feet and being laughed at. So they sat together at the table like a pair of broken toys, sharing an ice cream sundae, swinging shoulder-to-shoulder with the music when they liked the tune. Bucky waved at them when their eyes met, and they waved back and cheered at his dancefloor performance, but that happened less and less as they got caught up in each other. Steve would start to sketch things on the napkins while they chatted: the band, the sea of dancers, the fancy chandeliers, and eventually her.

"She said nobody's ever drawn her picture before," his friend said dreamily as they walked back, after they wished a good night to the girls. "Can you believe that?"

"Sure can…"

"She almost didn't let me do it. But she's so pretty, Buck."

"Mhm, nice girl."

"I mean yeah, she's no Dottie, but… I don't know, there's just somethin' I like so much about her… I guess her eyes, the way they look when she's smiling, or how her hair looks when the sun shines on it…"

"Get a load a' you," he grinned, wrapping his arm around Steve's shoulder in a playful grip that moved his friend's whole body. "One dame's sweet on you, and all of a sudden you're Romeo."

"At least I'm not a punk like you," Steve teased, slipping from his grasp.

"You know what I like best about her?"

"What?" he asked, with a hint of jealousy.

But Bucky smirked without a care. "How she keeps you out of trouble."

It had, indeed, been a while since Steve got in an alley brawl, and by their fifth date his last few bruises healed. He'd almost gotten into one by a cotton candy stand at Coney Island, but his girl was there to pull him back.

"Stevie, leave him alone…"

"You heard what he said?!"

"Who cares," she sighed, clinging to his arm and throwing the other man a hateful look. "Come on, didn't you want to win me that stuffed teddy bear?"

"Better listen to your girl, pal."

"Oh go find a sty to wallow in," she hissed.

"I ought'a smack some manners into you, you two-bit broad!"

"I'd worry about my own manners if I were you, buddy." Bucky slipped between them, coming from behind, standing now close enough to punch the guy if things got heated. But, seeing himself outnumbered, the other man cursed them and left. Just then, Dottie finally caught up.

"What's going on?" she asked, a little out of breath.

Bucky turned around, and was met by the heart-melting sight of Steve and his girl holding each other, her hands on his cheeks as she quietly chastised him, but loving enough that it made him smile and giggle. She closed it with a kiss to his cheek that made the boy blush, and a kittenish rub of their noses together.

"Nothing, everything's fine."

It was around the time they went to see a movie together that Bucky's joy for Steve turned into something else. They sat in the back while some musical played, and through the flashing lights and the corner of his eye, he could see his friend with his sweetheart holding hands on top of her lap throughout the whole performance. Meanwhile Dottie kept rubbing up against him, sometimes leaning her head on his shoulder, daring in the darker scenes to kiss his neck, but when she tried to get more of his attention —

"Buckyyy, what's wrong?"

— he shook her off. Hearing his name spoken by her voice suddenly felt disappointing.

He caught himself staring more and more, and not just when they went out together. Sometimes, the girl came by and spent some time with Steve, looking at his newer sketches, trying her hand too — oh and how disgusting they looked, Steve taking advantage of the situation to sit behind, and wrap his arms around her, and whisper in her ear. The pair greeted him cheerfully when he stepped through the living room and caught them, and he grinned back at them as he took a glass of milk, but all his appetite was gone.

And when they walked together through the park, and he saw them holding hands again… When Steve dug for some change to get her an ice cream, and they giggled stupidly as they made a mess of sharing it… When she fell asleep by his side one night at the dance hall, and Stevie woke her up with a tickle down her cheek, and she shivered and murmured like a bird and hid her face in his unworthy shoulder…

"Why don't you ever wanna dance, doll?" he asked as they were fetching drinks.

"Not much good at it, I guess," she shrugged. "The fast ones make me dizzy and I always trip."

"I can teach you. It'll work out great! Stevie teaches you to draw, I teach you how to dance… What do you say?"

The girl seemed to think, but shook her head. "Hmmm… No, not right now. Thanks," she smiled politely. "Besides, what would Stevie do meanwhile?"

She told him no just for the sake of keeping his scrawny little friend company, and Bucky had never felt more insulted — not that she wouldn't dance with him, although that hurt enough, but that he couldn't remember the last dame that gave something up just to stick with him, or got into fights for him, or kissed his wounds away, or held his hand in hers with no ulterior motive, and he'd found a girl that did that, and he wasted her on Steve.

So what if she was a little on the smaller side? So what if her dresses didn't fit right? So what if she came down with the cold at every change of season? He put up with it for Steve and he wasn't half as charming. The girl, instead, looked very delicate, more feminine in her own way, like when she braced her fingers on a table as she talked and mindlessly swung back and forth, animated in whatever she was saying, and her digits bent in such a childish way he feared they'd break, and it only made him want to kiss them. Or when she took her shoes off when she came to their apartment and he could catch a hint of shapely ankle, just perfect for his grip, or a peachy pink instep small enough to fit his palm. And when she fell asleep on their couch that one time and Bucky saw her all curled up, and noticed the arch of her hips and the cinch of her waist and pictured how good it would feel to hold them, and angle them upward, and…

Slowly, he started to appreciate some of what his friend had said that night, because she did have lovely eyes, and hair that looked so soft and warm, and her scent, unburdened by perfume, was sweet and girlish, and her lips looked kissable, and her wrists and knees and ankles too…

"Going out again, tonight?" he asked as the blond boy fixed himself in the mirror.

"Yeah, she wants to try this new place we —"

"Alright, alright…" sighed Bucky, already sick of hearing more. "So, that's all you're gonna do?"

"Well… yeah."

And then he voiced an evil thought. "Don't you ever want to… you know?"

"Y-you think we should?" Steve asked, turning away from his pallid reflection.

Bucky sat sprawled across the couch, and shrugged. "If she really likes you, she'd be up for it, don't you think?"

"I don't know about that, Buck."

"No? Ok," he nodded. "After all, what do I know?"

The aftermath of this particular advice was a draught of dates for poor ol' Steve, because just like Bucky had expected, the girl shrinked at the suggestion and couldn't stand to see him. For a while.

"Can you believe it, Buck?!"

"Yeah…"

"She'll see me again!"

"That's great, Stevie."

"What's wrong? You're lookin' real dour today."

Bucky knew he shouldn't. "I just…" He knew that it was wrong. "Look, it's great that she's forgiven you, but you gotta be realistic about this, pal." He had been happy for Steve at one point, long ago.

"What do you mean?"

But that was before he saw just how much love a girl could give, and realised he'd never felt it.

"Just don't delude yourself this is anything more than what it looks like, ok? She's only forgiven you because she knows nobody else will have her."

"That's mean, Buck."

"Yeah, well… I'm just looking out for you. You're my best friend, you know that. I don't want you getting hurt." It stuck in his throat to say it, but the bitterness stuck more.

And after Steve went to bed that night, Bucky took out the box of candy and the pricey perfume he had bought for her, threw them in the trash, and firmly promised to himself to never wait too long again.

But as he learned a bit later on, when they went back to double-dates, he might not have had a chance at all, because there was an unwitting element of truth to this cruel tirade.

"I can't exactly blame you, honey," Dottie consoled her as they stood in line for the ladies room, not knowing Bucky was just behind the thin divider leading to the men's. "If he does something like that again, I know this other fella —"

"Oh no, Dot, please… We're fine now. He explained things and… he's really sweet, I think he just had a moment of —"

"But just let me introduce you to Jim, see if you don't like him better."

"I… I don't know."

"He's a real charmer," Dottie grinned, "and he has these big, broad hands, jaw like an anvil. He just broke it off with Marcie cause she was a flirt."

He didn't hear anything next, but the girl must've shook her head cause Dottie asked, "You're sure?" and "Really? Well, if you change your mind…"

"Thanks, Dot," she lightly laughed.

"I don't know why you're so stubborn though, it's not like he's that far out your league. You just need to fix your hair a little bit and get a better brand of powder."

"It's not that easy."

"It's all it took me to get Bucky on my arm. That, and a better set of heels," she laughed.

"Yeah but you've always been pretty, Dot. Like, really pretty, and you know it. I guess some girls are for the James Barnes of this world, and some are the for the Steves."

She giggled as she said it, with not a hint of anger or resentment, and that's what stung the worst.

Bucky arranged to go see a late night movie with Dottie after that, while Steve and his girl went back to the apartment to listen to a boxing match on the radio and have some cherry sodas. Dottie went ahead to buy the tickets while Bucky walked them home, and after wishing him good night, she went upstairs to set things up. Steve was meant to go to the store and buy the drinks, but he stayed to chat with his friend a while.

"I can get some eggs and milk as well while I'm at it," he offered, swinging on his heels with his hands in his pockets.

"Sure."

"Or do we have enough for breakfast tomorrow?"

"Go ahead and buy them, pal," Bucky smiled, pretending to be less tired than he felt.

"Ok. And what about — darn!"

"What is it?"

"I just realized, I forgot to give her the keys," he said, taking a hand out of his pocket and holding them out. "I gotta get to the store, can you go up and give them to her?"

"Er, why don't —"

"You know I always trip on the stairs when I'm in hurry, Buck, they haven't changed the lightbulb yet. Don't make me do it."

"Fine, I'll go."

"I owe you big."

"You always do," he grinned, and took the keys from him.

Steve made off for the corner store, while Bucky started the long slow climb upstairs. It was completely dark inside at that hour, and the few candles some neighbours left to light the way had all gone out.

"Stevie, is that you?" he heard her call, standing right outside their door.

He kept one hand against the wall and walked his way toward her, stopping as he heard her whisper, "I think I lost the keys."

Blindly, she moved her hand forward, coming right across his chest. He felt her jolt at the unexpected contact, then burst into a giggle. Bucky could already feel the fanning of her breath right at the level of his chin. With an unseen smile, he took her hand, and placed the keys within it.

"Oh," she laughed. "You had them."

As her hand closed around them his own moved up her shoulder, fingers threading around her hair, and as he touched her jaw he felt her tilting slightly upward, shivering under the feeling.

"Is everything alright?" she asked.

He felt the warming tickle of her breath as he leaned close until, through the pitch black, he touched his lips to hers. Bucky did it lightly, just a little, just enough to taste and sip a kind of love he'd never really had. She stood surprised but took his kiss, and he felt her smiling into it, even beginning to kiss back just as he was parting from her.

"Your lips are softer than before," she giggled, in a sweet but altogether crushing way that made Bucky's heart beat stronger. "Stevie?"

Her hand moved through the air to touch him but felt nothing anymore, and down the stairs the heavy steps echoed, moving downward and away.

[lunaastoir]

Heyhey! May I request a childe x reader where the reader simps for him but he doesn’t know? Like what if she was online best friends with the tsaritsa but the reader doesn’t know the tsaritsa is the tsaritsa so she constantly simps for childe to her. Like “OMG HE’S SO CUTE.” AND STUFF LIKE THAT. So since she’s like besties with the tsaritsa the cry archon decides to set her up? Thank you :>>>>

AAAAA NONNIE holds your hands gently this is so cute i love it :,) 

genshin doesn’t have internet/technology but for the sake of this ask shhhhhh we’re gonna pretend they do

i hope i interpreted your ask correctly, if i didn’t just lmk <3 

crack, fluFF- LOTS OF IT???

the tsaritsa’s meddling

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all you wanted were groceries. that was all you wanted. you were standing in line behind the stall as you counted the items you needed to get. salt, milk, sugar, fowl, what else? you were lost in thought as you prayed that you had enough mora to buy everything - god knows how hard eating is as an adventurer. which was why, when you dropped your precious mora, your mind immediately went into panic mode. not now, not now, please don’t let the line move, you begged internally. in hindsight maybe if your mora hadn’t dropped, maybe if you weren’t at your wits end as a broke adventurer, maybe if you had just bought those damn ingredients sooner, you wouldn’t be in this position. as you breathed a sigh of relief after collecting your money and returned your gaze back to the stall, the only thing you could do was stare. where...did everyone go? instead of simply turning around and fleeing which should’ve been your first instinct considering how deserted the place was, you stood there trying to process the information. that was, until you saw a head of auburn hair peak up out of the stall. startled, you almost dropped your mora again. as the tuft of hair gave way to a very tall, handsome, blue eyed man, your brain short circuited. 

oh god how you wished you had run when you had the chance. you imagined you must have looked quite comical; mouth hanging slightly open, the list of ingredients fisted in your hands while mora was hanging precariously from your fingers. after what seemed like an eternity, the man seemed to finally notice you. 

“oh hey, you must not have noticed but this stall is sold out for the fatui” 

the sentence accompanied with his signature smile practically brought you to your knees. that smile? aimed at you? you would be surprised if you weren’t drooling. 

determined to not look like an absolute idiot you flashed him a smile of your own before saying, “sorry my bad, i must not have been paying attention” while doing what little you can to get some semblance of balance. tuck the mora here, try to balance your list more gracefully, move that piece of hair from your face. 

his eyes surveyed your undoubtedly disheveled appearance, before making a quick decision. 

“what items do you want, i’m sure i can spare a few ingredients for someone as pretty as you” 

one blink. another blink. did he just call you pretty? oh my- 

“oh no, it’s really ok, i can just get these later - it’s not that important anyway” you lied through your teeth. you needed those ingredients or you were most likely going to starve on the road but he didn’t need to know that. 

“don’t worry about it, as a harbinger i’m sure my subordinates can overlook a few missing ingredients” he smoothly said before gesturing you towards him. 

“i’m childe by the way, if you didn’t know” his eyes flicked up to meet yours.

“y/n” you offered while handing him the list. 

as he looked over what you needed, you tried your best to keep your breathing steady while your mind raced. if you didn’t know? of course you knew who he was, who didn’t? you would know better than most considering how often you thirsted about him to your mutual. if anything, you should’ve been the one saying that line to him. as an adventurer, you tend to not spend much time in liyue harbor, chasing down ruin guards and running errands was how you would rather keep yourself busy. however, ever since you saw childe in liyue, sharing a pot of tea with zhongli of all people, you started swinging by the harbor more often. fascination was what kept you seeking him out wherever you went. you had heard about the infamous eleventh harbinger, supposedly the youngest of them, all while being quite easy on the eyes. you had brushed off all the talk you had heard to just that - talk. international affairs wasn’t something you cared for and if anything, seeing the fatui made you wary. however, your curiosity grew after seeing him whenever you were in town. you chalked up your eyes subconsciously seeking out his figure to the fact that he was just an interesting guy. nothing wrong with wondering about a peculiar fellow, right?  you went through excuses upon excuses until finally, you had concluded that perhaps, maybe, you had a little crush on him. tiny, you assured yourself. just a tiny crush on a very attractive man. 

that crush then trickled over to your time spent talking to your mutual. it started off with little hints of “oh there’s this guy i saw and i thought he was kinda cute” to full blown hysteria of “PLS SEND HELP HE LOOKED SO GOOD TODAY.” @cryogoddess definitely had a lot of patience putting up with your thirsts over a man she didn’t even have the name of. you felt horrible sometimes since more than half of your conversation was about the newest detail you had noticed about childe - however your protests on boring her were met with reassurances about how no, you weren’t boring her, and yes, this is the most lighthearted talk she’s had her entire day so please keep going. you weren’t exactly sure what this woman did, or even how old she was. all you knew was she was someone who was constantly stressed (maybe a fellow adventurer?) and she was quite honest (which you happened to appreciate). despite how busy she was, she seemed to always make time for your texts which made you feel like you could trust her with anything.

“is that all? do you need anything else?” childe’s voice interrupted your mental tirade as you owlishly looked at him. 

“oh! yes that’s fine thank you” you smiled before taking the bag from him. grabbing the mora, you rushed to hand out the correct amount before he stopped you. 

“don’t worry about it, it’s on the house” he laughed slightly before waving your mora away. 

it’s on the- excuse me? did he just give you all this for free? is this what fatui hospitality is like?  

rushing to close your mouth, you quickly recovered while slurring out a quick “thank you so much” before shouldering your bag. your brain was currently running on fumes and you were very sure that if you stayed there any longer you might just combust. 

“well, i’ll be off then, thank you again” you shot him another smile before quickly scurrying away. 

without turning back to look at his expression, you moved as fast as humanly possible while trying not to seem like you were about to jump out of your skin. you didn’t know what was more embarrassing, your thumping heart or the dopey smile on your face. there was no way you were ever going to get over this, not with the way he looked at you the entire time. sighing, you put your bag down near a bench and pulled out your phone. at least you had an update for your friend that consisted of something other than just mindless thirsts. 

your mind was still reeling over from what happened as you texted her with shaking hands. the reply was immediate: “wow, you finally got up the courage to talk to him huh.” you rolled your eyes playfully at her blunt message. “bY ACCIDENT- IT HAPPENED BY ACCIDENT,,, guess he couldn’t keep himself away from this sexiness 😩” another blunt reply: “right.” smiling softly, you responded: “thanks for hyping me up bestie i really appreciate it <3 ok but maybe childe and i belong together??? is this a sign from the archons???” you stared waiting for her reply, however you were met with a read 8:45 pm. you’re lucky i love you bestie, leaving me on read during my crisis you whispered to yourself as you shouldered your bag once again to head home. at least you won’t be starving tomorrow on your commissions. 

as soon as you entered your house, your phone lit up. “wait. as in childe, eleventh of the fatui harbingers, also known as tartaglia, feared by many on the battle field, currently stationed in liyue, major pain in the ass, and is currently ignoring some of his paperwork???” - @cryogoddess. your eyebrows furrowed as you read her message, “yes that’s him but why do you sound so freaked out and how do you know sm abt him?” another notification: “i can’t believe you’ve been thirsting to me abt CHILDE.” you: “KDJKSFJ YOU DIDNT ANSWER MY QUESTION - also??? i thought i told you his name did i not??? 😀” her: “no??? wow this definitely is...interesting” you: “BESTIE ANSWER MY QUESTION DO YOU KNOW HIM???” her: “i’ve gotta go, work is calling.” 

you sighed in frustration as you tossed your phone on your bed. why was she so freaked out? you weren’t dumb, you knew there was something she wasn’t telling you but you trusted her enough to know she’ll let you know if it was important. you wondered as you pulled the covers over your head, if you’ll meet childe in your dreams and if you do, hopefully, in a less embarrassing scenario. 

the next morning, you awoke to a barrage of texts from none other than @cryogoddess. they were all along the lines of you should go to bubu pharmacy and stock up on medication this evening (i heard they’re having a sale). you responded back with a maybe, if you had time today after your commissions and if xiangling didn’t stop by with some food. however, your mutual made you promise you would visit in the evening, even if it’s just for a few minutes. you gave in because a) you never could say no and b) she made it sound like it was urgent so maybe she was obsessed with medicine? hmmm you would have to figure out where she lived so you could send some to her. 

you walked toward bubu pharmacy while tiredly sheathing your weapon, loosely taking in your surroundings. kids playing near the pond, teenagers chatting at the steps, adults keeping a watchful eye over their kids while laughing about the day’s events. your eyes studied the sign outside of bubu pharmacy. sale? what sale? there doesn’t seem to be anything regarding a sale?

“y/n?” a mildly familiar voice called your name. you whipped around looking for whoever uttered those words before your eyes fell on none other than one blue eyed harbinger. he was holding a few silk flowers in his hand as he stared at you with a sheepish smile. 

“hi” you stuttered out. your mind was blank, what was happening? 

“oh sorry, these are for you. i don’t mean to make you uncomfortable but i heard that you might be interested in me? you caught my eye at the stall yesterday, so i was wondering if you would want to grab lunch from the third-round knockout and then go watch the sunset at mt. tianheng? there’s this really cool trick i can do with my hydro vision where i can make the sunlight dance across the waypoint.” 

you stared at him as you wordlessly took the silk flowers from his hands. the golden light of the setting sun cast his face in a beautiful sheen, softly showing off the gentle blush on his cheeks and the brilliant blue of his eyes. his auburn hair seemed to grow alive at the touch of the fiery light and all you could do was stare. 

childe’s confidence seemed to wane with every passing second that you gazed at him, open mouthed, so he decided to save himself the embarrassment before hesitantly opening his own mouth. 

“yes, i would love to” you quickly said. you smiled gently up at him. 

“i would love to watch the sunset with you” 

you felt your cheeks burning up as you looked at him with soft eyes. when he returned your expression with a dazzling smile of your own, you could feel yourself relax. yes, your heart rate was off the chart right now, but you were content. the sunset, childe, and the silk flowers was something you never knew you needed, but were glad you got. you had enough time later to worry about the oncoming mortification of how he found out you liked him. 

a single notification appeared in your phone as the two of you walked laughing towards the mountain. 

“you’re welcome <3″

BONUS: 

“i know i’m too sexy for you to not fall in love with me” childe sighed dramatically as he leaned against you for support as the two of you went up the stairs. 

you promptly rolled your eyes and pushed him down the steps as you walked ahead with his protests falling on deaf ears. 

[autumnsnuggling]

“Wait here I’ll go run a bath” or “can I hold your hand?” For the drarry headcanons!!

Hi Nonnie! Okay, so, this is not a headcanon, but this sprang into my head! Hope you enjoy. Thanks to @rockmarina for the beta! No warnings other than strong language, just figuring out life after the war :)

It was stupid. So fucking stupid. And yet it was true.

He, Draco Abraxas Malfoy, was on the verge of tears thanks to a fucking muggle play! 

Okay, fine, the fact that it was muggle wasn’t a big deal anymore, and maybe he’d been curious about muggle things for a while now, but still! It was the principle of it. He was a Malfoy, for Morgana’s sake! A member of a once well revered, esteemed—even feared family. He was supposed to be above the atrocities that plebeians called ‘emotions’, and yet here he was, allowing some confounded nonsense called The Lion King to make him weep! Thank Merlin his father wouldn’t hear about this.

It was all Professor O’Neill’s fault. If she hadn’t insisted on taking them to a performance of the bloody thing for Muggle Studies, he would have continued on merrily through life without ever watching Simba realise that the life he’d known had suddenly ended, the dreams he’d planned to make reality with relative ease were unobtainable, and his world was now irreparably destroyed. 

But he had. 

And now he was a stupidly shivering wreck, fighting to hold back tears.

Stupid fucking play, he cursed silently, desperately staring anywhere but the stage. With its stupid fucking wooden animals, and stupid cunt fucking story.

But cursing didn’t drown out the chilling music chasing Simba from the pride-lands, and still Draco’s eyes stung. Re-evaluating the worn, faded carpet as a glorious runway to freedom, he forced a hard swallow, when it happened. Right beside him. Mere inches away. 

He sniffed.

Seconds stretched for centuries as Draco barely dared to breathe, waiting, listening, but no sound came. Slowly, the pounding of his heart slowed. But as a build-up to another ridiculously happy-clappy song began, unbidden, his eyes slipped sideways just in time to catch another decidedly wet sniffle shiver through that scrawny chest. His mouth fell open. 

Harry Potter, slayer of Moldy-Voldy himself, was crying—crying—over a stupid fucking muggle play.

Just like him.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” 

Potter’s exhausted voice cut through the raucous cacophony of chatter and laughter that was the intermission, practically making him jump out of his skin.

“Wh—what? Er, I mean,” Draco cleared his throat, “I’ve absolutely no idea what you mean, Potter.” 

“You were staring at me,” Potter sighed, not even bothering to spare him a glance. “After Mufasa died. Which means you noticed I was upset. And you’ve always had something to say about everything I do, so, whatever it is, just get it over with,” he muttered bitterly, staring at his stupid knobbly knees. 

Of fucking course, Draco rolled his eyes. Of course Potter’s ginormous ego would convolute everything so that he was the centre of attention. How could he just assume that he—Draco, divine and sublime in every sense of the word—would have anything to say to him? Why would he have even noticed anything about him in the first place?! It was ridiculous. Preposterous! Utterly and completely—

“Can I hold your hand?”

Fuck.

In the instant it took Potter’s head to snap to him, Draco prayed to no less than 17 deities, twelve ancestors, and the soul of Albus Dumbledore himself for the ground to swallow him whole. But, as usual, either no one listened, or they unanimously decided to ignore him. Bastards.

“What?” Potter asked, after an excruciating century, finally sounding half-way alive.

“I said I have nothing planned, Potter!” he snapped frantically, brushing his trousers clean of imaginary lint with a little too much force than necessary. 

“No,” the Chosen Sod said slowly. “You asked if you could hold my hand.” Draco’s stomach churned sickeningly. “Why?”

But for once in his life, the ability to form words had apparently fucked off entirely. Realising he was gaping codfish-like under the searching gaze, he turned resolutely to the stage, cheeks flaming. But still, the prick watched him.

“If you have a problem, Potter,” he spat, fists clenching. But finally, with the dimming of the lights, the pillock reluctantly dropped his gaze, and Draco forced a very measured breath in an attempt to get his stupid shoulders to return to their normal level. 

He needn’t have bothered. 

As deafening applause assaulted his ears, hot, calloused fingers grasped his, slightly sweaty yet sure, as their owner stared directly ahead, jaw tight, breaths trembling. 

Staring at the bitten nails, Draco could barely swallow past the heart thumping in his throat as Potter adjusted in his seat and ignored him entirely. Yet as lush scenery morphed into a chilling, emaciated land, he knew the grip tightened slightly.

Breath stuttering in his chest, he dared squeeze back.

[nerajaana]

Hello, not your recent rude anon. I just wanted to drop in and say that I love your work! It's so gorgeous, I don't have enough words to describe how good it's. I envy your talent (nothing malicious tho). Also, you make this fandom a better place so thank you. (Definitely envy your irl friends too) I was just wondering what are your favorite moments/scenes with Arya since she's your favourite.

Nonnie staaahp you’re wayyy too kind pls thank you ily💚💚💚

Arya, oh how I adore her my darling girl🥺💓😩😭💕 George for the love of all that’s in existence at the very least release the braavos novella as a companion piece to twow or something I need some happy Arya chapters gimme Arya hanging out with her friends in the marketplace

I just realized I had answered a similar ask a while ago😅 but I think I’ll do a part 2 (there’s just.....so many moments argh how I love her, she owns my heart istg)

In no particular order:

Arya screwed up her face in a scowl. “Jaime Lannister murdered Jory and Heward and Wyl, and the Hound murdered Mycah. Somebody should have beheaded them.”

Ned stopped and looked at her. “Arya, what are you doing?” “Syrio says a water dancer can stand on one toe for hours.” Her hands flailed at the air to steady herself. Ned had to smile. “Which toe?” he teased. “Any toe,” Arya said, exasperated with the question.  (Too cute I cri)

When at last she slept, she dreamed of home. The kingsroad wound its way past Winterfell on its way to the Wall, and Yoren had promised he'd leave her there with no one any wiser about who she'd been. She yearned to see her mother again, and Robb and Bran and Rickon . . . but it was Jon Snow she thought of most. She wished somehow they could come to the Wall before Winterfell, so Jon might muss up her hair and call her "little sister." She'd tell him, "I missed you," and he'd say it too at the very same moment, the way they always used to say things together. She would have liked that. She would have liked that better than anything.

Yes, it’s you who ought to run, you and Lord Tywin and the Mountain and Ser Addam and Ser Amory and stupid Ser Lyonel whoever he is, all of you better run or my brother will kill you, he’s a Stark, he’s more wolf than man, and so am I.

"Lommy, you keep Weasel here." He grabbed the little girl by the hand and pulled her close. "What if the wolves come?" "Yield," Arya suggested.

She would make much better time on her own, Arya knew, but she could not leave [Gendry and Hot Pie]. They were her pack, her friends

Alone, she slid through the shadow of the Tower of Ghosts. She walked fast, to keep ahead of her fear, and it felt as though Syrio Forel walked beside her, and Yoren, and Jaqen H'ghar, and Jon Snow.

“Harwin, it’s me, don’t you know me, don’t you?” The tears came, and she found herself weeping like a baby, just like some stupid little girl. “Harwin, it’s me!” Harwin’s eyes went from her face to the flayed man on her doublet. “How do you know me?” he said, frowning suspiciously. “The flayed man … who are you, some serving boy to Lord Leech?” For a moment she did not know how to answer. She’d had so many names. Had she only dreamed Arya Stark? “I’m a girl,” she sniffed. “I was Lord Bolton’s cupbearer but he was going to leave me for the goat, so I ran off with Gendry and Hot Pie. You have to know me! You used to lead my pony, when I was little.” His eyes went wide, "Gods be good," he said in a choked voice. "Arya Underfoot? Lem, let go of her.".... "She broke my nose." Lem dumped her unceremoniously to the floor. "Who in seven hells is she supposed to be?"…........"The Hand's daughter." Harwin went to one knee before her. "Arya Stark, of Winterfell." (Ugly sobbing)

The Tickler backed away. Arya could smell his fear. The shortsword in his hand suddenly seemed almost a toy against the long blade the Hound was holding, and he wasn't armored either. He moved swiftly, light on his feet, never taking his eyes off Sandor Clegane. It was the easiest thing in the world for Arya to step up behind him and stab him. "Is there gold hidden in the village?" she shouted as she drove the blade up through his back. "Is there silver? Gems?" She stabbed twice more. "Is there food? Where is Lord Beric?" She was on top of him by then, still stabbing. "Where did he go? How many men were with him? How many knights? How many bowmen? How many, how many, how many, how many, how many, how many? Is there gold in the village?" Her hands were red and sticky when Sandor dragged her off him. "Enough," was all he said. He was bleeding like a butchered pig himself, and dragging one leg when he walked. (Only pain nothing else)

Arya watched and listened and polished her hates the way Gendry had once polished his horned helm. Dunsen wore them now, and she hated him for it. She hated Polliver for Needle, and she hated old Chiswyck who thought he was funny(he was laughing about participating in gang rape). And Raff the Sweetling, who’d driven his spear through Lommy’s throat, she hated even more. She hated Ser Amory Lorch for Yoren, and she hated Ser Meryn Trant for Syrio, the Hound for killing the butcher’s boy, Mycah, and Ser Ilyn and Prince Joffrey and the queen for the sake of her father and Fat Tom and Desmond and the rest, and even for Lady, Sansa’s wolf.

Arya stared at the face carved into its trunk. It was a terrible face, its mouth twisted, its eyes flaring and full of hate. Is that what a god looked like? Could gods be hurt, the same as people? I should pray, she thought suddenly. Arya went to her knees. She wasn’t sure how she should begin. She clasped her hands together. Help me, you old gods, she prayed silently. Help me get those men out of the dungeon so we can kill Ser Amory, and bring me home to Winterfell. Make me a water dancer and a wolf and not afraid again, ever.

Winterfell, she might have said. I smell snow and smoke and pine needles. I smell the stables. I smell Hodor laughing, and Jon and Robb battling in the yard, and Sansa singing about some stupid lady fair. I smell the crypts where the stone kings sit, I smell hot bread baking, I smell the godswood. I smell my wolf, I smell her fur, almost as if she were still beside me

Even sewing was more fun than tongues, she told herself, after a night when she had forgotten half the words she thought she knew, and pronounced the other half so badly that the waif had laughed at her.  My sentences are as crooked as my stitches used to be. If the girl had not been so small and starved, Arya would have smashed her stupid face.  Instead she gnawed her lip.  Too stupid to learn and too stupid to give up. (My baby is the the epitome of perseverance)

"Thank you," Sam told the girl when they were gone.........."Are you truly in the Night's Watch? I never saw a black brother like you before." The girl gestured at the barrow. "You can have the last clams if you want. It's dark, no one will buy them now.”

Have a lovely day ahead nonnie💛

[meetmeatthecoda]

Okay so, I wanted to offer my two cents on that ask about Liz’s reaction in Luther Braxton: Conclusion. This is NOT meant as an attack on anyone—I find it 100% valid that the OG nonny (and anyone who related to them, including you dear Coda 💖💖💖) feels the way they do; they can’t control how they reacted to Liz any more than I can control how I reacted to that ask. Plus like, this is all fiction so no harm done? I purely wish to share my perspective, not ~present a counterargument~ or anything like that. :) Apologies in advance for how long this got. 😅😅😅

I get why you would react negatively to Liz’s screaming at Red, but I feel like?? That incident of all the times she’s treated him unjustly was (one of?) the most reasonable. Now, how she continues to act afterwards (regarding the Fulcrum but also, like, for the rest of the show welp) is 100% a continued bad decision in so many ways on her part and reflects terribly on her character, but her reaction in the immediate aftermath?? IDK, I feel the need to kind of defend her, probably because I absoluuuutely saw myself in her when she did that. I’ve (I shamefully admit) yelled, shoved, and even kicked at loved ones when they just wanted to comfort me but their attempts made me feel cornered and small. I’ve made logically unbased and ethically/emotionally unfair accusations against people who’ve done nothing but try to help me when I just needed something to get them away (literally or otherwise). When I just needed to attack something—take out my frustrations and confusion and fear and anger on someone. (And if Liz was like that, she might have latched onto Red as her target because he was the closest thing—physically, emotionally, and even in relation to the cause of that confusion and anger itself.) I have inflicted real harm on people while in an unsettling or unfamiliar mental state—harm that I couldn’t take back even when I could look back with a clear(er) mind and realize I never should have said/done any of that.

(Also, side note: when I first watched that ep and I saw Liz screaming at Red not to touch her?? I’d actually thought they were depicting her as being touch-averse due to the trauma and/or overstimulation, and I was?!! Like, call me badly coping but I appreciate seeing characters not being comfortable or straight-up being aggressive about being touched, even for just a moment, because that is me 24/7. Then of course a few more seconds and it turns out it’s not actually that?? Liz is just repulsed by Red’s Bad Guyness again apparently?? Whenever I rewatch the ep I still choose to see it as overstimulation though because, well… my heart is clearly very talented at choosing comfort characters for me. 🥲🥲🥲)

So speaking from personal experience, coming out of a trauma (or revisiting an unresolved one) is so stressful that it’s only natural to react explosively—even to the extent of unfairness and unreasonableness—in an attempt to protect or heal yourself, whether that attempt be justified or not. And honestly, I could even make the argument that for Liz, her attempt was to some extent justified. Of course Red would never hurt her, but sometimes a person needs breathing space. Like, literally needs. Maybe for the sake of her mental stability/health, Liz should have had her first moments coming up from her trance to herself. Does that make sense?? IDK if I made any sense there; I just know that while I never could have gotten to the place I’m at now without the EVENTUAL professional and personal support I’ve been blessed with, I also can’t fathom how much more mental anguish I would have experienced if I’d had people who knew me (or like, the “closest person” in Liz’s case) see me in the immediate aftermath of my trauma. Just… The state I was in? Yikes, am I glad only I saw myself pull myself together; I’d have had so much more to worry about with others seeing me like that. That might just be me and totally inapplicable to Liz of course, so I digress!

I’m not saying Liz isn’t responsible for her words/actions simply because they happened while she was in utter emotional upheaval and under mental and physical duress—Red definitely did NOT deserve that treatment from her. He did NOTHING WRONG. But with that kind of complex angst comes the inevitably mixed but nonetheless potent reactions of fans, I completely understand that. Everyone has different experiences and thus different viewpoints, and that’s fine and totally healthy in my book. Still, something about that discussion struck a chord with me—you can (and should) hold someone accountable for the harm they do while mentally unstable, but it’s possible and also healthy to do that without, yourself, harboring anger or resentment against them, you know? I had to teach myself (and those around me) that, so I guess I just wanted to put it out there. Again, I don’t mean to start anything and I’m so, so sorry if I inadvertently have. I hope it’s okay that I came here to explain my thoughts (and so wordily too, ack I’m sorry), and if not, I won’t anymore. Thank you for hearing me out this time though, I really appreciate it. :)

Dear anon!! 🤗🥰❤️ Firstly, I want to thank you for your kindness & respect for other's opinions!! This ask was worded in the sweetest, most considerate way & I appreciate it very much!! There's absolutely no need to apologize for having your own opinion & perspective, especially when you share & explain it so nicely, so never fear!! 😊❤️ Moving on to the meat of your ask - which is in regards to this previous one - you make such a good point!! When you look at it that way, the Luther Braxton Post-Memory-Unearthing Screaming Explosion is perhaps Liz's most justifiable negative reaction in the series LOL I guess looking back from where we are now - knowing all about & being completely fed up with all of Liz's awful writing & characterization in the subsequent seasons - it's easy to dismiss her reaction in Luther Braxton as something unreasonable & irritating & unfair to Red (which, to some extent - as you graciously allow - it is). But - as you generously point out - while that's a valid way of looking at it, it's also definitely worth examining from another point of view!! And I think your point of view (in everything ofc, but particularly in this) is so valuable!! I can relate at least on some level... I have definitely snapped at people, even those trying to help me, verbally & otherwise, when I lost my temper & just needed some space!! In fact, I think that's a pretty universal stress reaction & it's not necessarily something to be super ashamed of (but definitely something to be aware of & work on - a good reminder for us all!!) & it's definitely not a stretch to imagine Liz was going through something similar after being effectively water-boarded & having her memories so unceremoniously rifled through!! And, after all, Liz has one thing we generally don't... a perfect, convenient, willing catalyst for all the negative things in her life: Red (however undeserving of that title he may be.)

(And re: sidenote of touch-averse!Liz - Omg, I definitely thought about that being their angle at first too!! While I don't usually default to reacting that way myself [kind of the opposite for me usually LOL] I know that plenty of people do & it's 1000% valid as a coping mechanism & honestly??? A touch-averse Liz would be one of the more realistic reactions she's ever had 😂😭 especially considering the circumstances!! And hey, no shame about gravitating towards that interpretation bc it's 1) less painful for you & 2) you like comfort characters bc you 👏 do 👏 you 👏 but also?? I can't say anything bc the reason that I like that interpretation??? I love the angst of an overwhelmed & touch-averse!Liz unintentionally shattering Red's heart by completely rejecting his well-meaning physical comfort anddddd I'm not sure what that says about me tbh 😂😂😂)

Long story short, anon, you made perfect sense here, not to worry!! You were so respectful & cognizant of others' feelings, thank you so much for that, it doesn't go unnoticed!! You bring such a good point to the discussion with your perspective & outlook & I'm so thankful you chose to contribute!! I loved reading your thoughts & don't worry at all about the length, I appreciate your thoroughness!! (Plus, we all know I'm hardly one to talk, I never use one word when twenty will do 😂) Please don't hesitate to come back to my inbox any time to discuss whatever you like, I always love a little bit of friendly TBL conversation, especially since the show as we know it is so abruptly & unexpectedly over 😭 Yes, still grappling with that, in case you were wondering 🥲 Anyway, thank you again for your lovely ask, anon, I appreciate you greatly, & much, much love to you, of course, my friend!! ❤️

[malereader-inserts]

That’s My Old Man!

Fandom: Harry Potter Pairing: Remus Lupin & Son!Reader Summary: You have a large amount of love for your old man. Word Count: 1,186 Request: “I would LOVE to read more of Remus being a father like I NEED IT I'M SOFT” A/n: so do I nonnie, remus lupin deserves to be soft in his woolly cardigans and be a FATHER

Here’s a thing that Remus never thought he would be.

He’s a worrisome father.

Yet, if you had asked all his friends during his time at school they could predict what type of parent he would be. He’s a worrier, naturally, strict (no surprise there) and of course, loving. But, if you ask his son what he is as a father, well, he’ll respond with; “How long do you have?”

(Y/n) loves his father to bits, he has a love for Remus for both of them. Sirius remember when you were born, so he was surprised when he had seen you when you thirteen. When you were younger, you looked all too much of your mother, but as you become older you had turned to look like your father. 

Sirius wasn’t able to get a conversation in with you to talk about how great Remus is but was ecstatic to see you come around when the order had formed and used his home as the base. 

You were standing tall as Molly had been going on about your massive growth spur during the fourth year, not as tall as Ron who was reaching six foot but Hermione and Ginny had mentioned a few times that you were taller than Harry. But, what Sirius had noticed that you were somewhat just like your father and yet you weren’t.

You had a rebellious streak in you, like Remus had - always the sneakier one in the group, barely caught in the pranks as you were often seen with an innocent glint in your eyes, but Remus knows better, and if Sirius knows Remus - you had definitely picked it up from your Maurandering father.

However, you weren’t as smart as your dad. You were above Ron and Harry, though they weren’t hard to beat in the sake of grades. Whilst Remus had earned majority O’s and the odd E’s, you were majority E’s with the odd O’s and sometimes A’s - but Sirius doesn’t blame you, History of Magic was always a bore and hard to get a decent grade. 

Remus is levelheaded, he listens to reason, he gets two sides of the story. You, on the other hand, must have got it from your mother, you were slightly hot-headed. You were the tempered one in the group, perhaps more so than Harry. Remus likes to believe it’s an effect of him being a werewolf but Sirius has seen how your mother reacts, it’s definitely from her.

“So, (Y/n),” Sirius sits next to you one dinner time with Tonks sliding in on the other side of you, “Think we need a conversation about your old man.”

The confused look on your face had brightened up at the mention of your dad, Tonk’s heart had melted at your pure love for your dad.

“Oh? What do you want to know?” You asked excitedly, as you stuff your plate with Molly’s cooking.

“Well, I haven’t seen my best friend for twelve years and I’m sure Tonks would love to know more about your dad,” Sirius winks and nudges you as Tonks’ hair turned into an embarrassing shade of pink.

“Pink suits you, Tonks,” You say offhandedly, shrugging your shoulders as you scoff food into you, “I think you’re great for my dad, never mind what Molly or anyone says.”

“Oh,” As Tonk’s cheeks had flushed red as well as her hair, “Well, I’ve passed one daunting thing and that’s your approval.”

“Well, my approval doesn’t mean anything, at the end of the day it’s dad’s choice whether or not he wants to get with you,” Typical teenage response of impolite words, “I know he does. I haven’t seen him look at anyone like that since mum passed. Dad’s a cool guy.”

“Isn’t he?” Sirius asked excitedly, finishing a leg of chicken, “Does he still-”

“Wear odd socks? Swears like a bloody sailor? Wears sweaters that are far too big for him? Manage to roast people with his witty snidey comments? Yes to all,” You nodded excitedly, “He’s currently rereading his favourite book, loves chocolate bourbons and will never give up his love for coffee.”

Sirius’ smile grew, “Is he still saying ‘I’m not mad, just very disappointed,’ but you can still see he‘s restraining a smirk?”

You nodded, stuff your face with mash potatoes, “Every time, I try to take him seriously but you never want to see him angry, beyond pissed.”

Tonks see the horror in both yours and Sirius’ eyes as the two of you share a shudder of fear simultaneously.

“But, he’s caring and understanding,” You gushed, a proud smile overtaking your lips as you sat up straight, “I want to be like dad, he’s calm and compassionate, I’m abrasive and hot-headed. He tries his best to provide for the two of us, and I would never be ungrateful for what he’s done for me. I love him to bits, you know, he’s my old man and I’m proud to share his name. I’m a Lupin through and through.”

It seemed like the conversation had ended there, as the two Black relatives allowed the growing boy to finish his meal and race off with his best friends. If Tonks wasn’t already falling for Remus, you had seemed to win her over. Sirius had been beaming all evening, so when Remus had returned for his mission that very same night - Remus was one to question it.

“You’re smiling, Sirius,” Remus says tiredly, “What have you done now?”

“Why would you accuse me of that?” Sirius asked, offendedly, hand on heart as Remus rolls his eyes at his best friend, but there was a clear loving fun smile appearing on the werewolf’s face.

“Sirius was interrogating your son, Lupin,” Kingsley mentions as he walks past the two of them in the drawing-room.

Remus’ eyes narrow at his best friend, “What did you say?”

“Nothing bad!” Sirius answered nervously, forgetting that Remus is very protective of his boy, “He loves you, you know, the kid looks up to you.”

Sirius had suddenly felt a wave of calm overtake him, as Remus raised an eyebrow, looking confused as he tilted his head.

“You should have seen him, Rem, he’s proud to be a Lupin, he’s proud to be your son. He loves you and he wants to be like you, no matter how much you dislike what you are or how you are - he will never look at you differently.”

Remus sighs, shaking his head before smiling softly, “I know, Sirius, if he could, (Y/n) would be telling me the same thing every day. He says it a lot, during the days I can’t love myself - he has enough love for me. He’s a pretty cool kid if I say so myself.”

“You’re only saying that because he’s yours.”

Remus chuckles, “They say I’m a little bias.”

So, when the next morning comes around. Remus wraps his arms around his zombie-like son tightly, kissing your hair. No one has really seen someone perk up so quickly without caffeine. Then again, everyone was aware that you really did love your old man.

[matth1w]

I was wondering if you could write this please: Imagine being Lucifer Morningstar’s long term girlfriend but as a result of fearing the relationship isn’t going anywhere she leaves him. Then after some time she’s a witness in an investigation and Lucifer later will propose to her? Thank you!!

Witness

Pairing: Lucifer Morningstar x Reader

Summary: After the fear of your relationship going nowhere, you end things with Lucifer. End of the story, right? Well you just so happen to witness a drive-by and get wrapped up in the Devil again.

Warnings: Breakup, angst, language, some anxiety/panic

Rating: Everyone

Word Count: 4,715. Yes, you read that correctly, 4,715 words.

Note: This is mostly sad but does have a happy ending. I hope you enjoy this, Nonnie. It certainly took a life of its own!

Tags: @kittenlittle24

As a wedding photographer, you were definitely put off with the whole overpriced over the top wedding culture that infected LA. And you had to deal with a plenty couples and guests that were just straight jerks, entitled brats, and thought they could do your job on the freaking iPhone 4.

That said, sometimes it did get to you. You wanted it. Well some of it. None of the family arguments or drama but the ability to stand with your partner and dedicate yourselves to each other in front of your family and friends.

But alas, that didn’t seem to be in the cards for you. You and Lucifer had been together almost five years now and there was nothing that indicated he wanted to take the next step with you.

Sure marriage seemed trivial when you were with the literal Devil, but you couldn’t help but want something more. Of course you trusted him, you knew his flirting was harmless and he would never think of acting on his - or someone else’s - desires.

But… still

Sure you should talk to him like an adult and tell him how you were feeling but that doesn’t always happen.

You had come home after a Sunday wedding, a Catholic one nonetheless. With a full mass. And a reception across town from the ceremony. To say you were exhausted was an understatement.

The only consolation was that the couple was going on a technology-free honeymoon for a few weeks and wouldn’t be bothering you for photos tomorrow like some clients.

Sore feet, a slight headache, and just general annoyance were plaguing you. So it’s no wonder a fight broke out.

You were pouring yourself a glass of water when the elevator doors opened, revealing Lucifer. You paid him no mind but apparently he had other plans.

“Another wedding?”, he sighed as he gave you a once over.

You frowned at that, “Yep”, you bit back with a touch too much of bitterness.

“I don’t understand why you insist on doing those silly things.”

You slammed your glass down.

“Silly?” You spat. “Silly, Lucifer?”

He was looking at you, shocked but annoyed at your outburst.

“Yes, silly, darling. They’re just excuses to party and for women to pretend like they’re the most important princess in the world.”

You stepped forward and pointed your finger at him.

“Newsflash, Morningstar. Some people just want something more than being boyfriend and girlfriend for the rest of their lives.”

“Rest of their lives? Is this about us? It’s only been five years, Y/N.”

“Yeah, and some of these fucks get married after one. It’s been five years, Lucifer, and nothing has changed. You haven’t mentioned marriage once aside from criticizing my clients.”

“And what? You want to get married? Is that what this is about?”

“Yes, for God’s sake!”, you shouted.

“Well why didn’t you just say that?”

“Because, Lucifer, I know you don’t. And seemingly never will.”

His eyes narrowed at that. “And you’re so sure of that? Without having even spoken to me?”

You crossed your arms and looked at him accusingly.

“You want to get married?”

Lucifer paused at that, mouth open but saying nothing.

“That’s what I thought.” Tears started to build up in your eyes. “Well. I think that shows this isn’t meant to be. Wish you wouldn’t have wasted so much of my time.”

“Y/N….”

“It’s over, Lucifer. I’ll get my stuff and get out of your life by the end of the week.”

You didn’t look back as you stepped into the elevator and let the doors close.

— — —

15 months later...

‘Oh fuck’, was your first thought.

Not because there was a dead person in front of you, but because you witnessed it. And because you witnessed it, you’d need to go down to the station. And you just knew you would run into Lucifer.

You looked down at your phone to send a text to Dan. You hadn’t spoken since you and Lucifer broke up so you kept it brief. Hopefully he’d give you a break.

-Just witnessed a drive-by on 15th & Hill. Can I give my statement at a later time when you know who won’t be there?-

Your phone rang and you cursed. You thought about just shutting off your phone but you knew that would just cause more trouble.

You clicked accept and brought the phone to your ear.

“Hey D-“

“Are you alright, Y/N? Are you still on the scene? Stay where you are. We’re on our way.”

“Dan! I’m fine. I’m fine.” You pressed.

“And who do you mean by we? I’d prefer to not have to see anyone I don’t need to.”

“Sorry, Y/N, but Chloe and Lucifer are already on their way to the scene. I can be the one to take your statement but I won’t be able to get there before them.”

‘Great’, you thought.

You sighed, “That’s fine, Dan. See you soon.”

“See you soon.”

You hung up and looked around. A small crowd had begun to form.

‘Might as well try to blend in’.

You spent the next few minutes on your phone, trying to blend in with the crowd and keep your head down.

A throat pointedly cleared behind you and you knew who it was before you turned.

You met the eyes of Lucifer, unable to look away. He was trying to mask whatever emotions he was feeling and gave you a fake sugary sweet smile.

“A little douchie told me you witnessed the shooting. I have to say I’m glad you’re alright but I’m rather surprised you called Daniel. Actually, I guess I’m not since you blocked my number and all that.”

You looked down. You didn’t want to just go out and say ‘I was trying to avoid you because I was - and still am - broken hearted’, so instead you just looked away.

“Lucifer!”, Chloe yelled from her place above the body.

She looked at you and smiled with a visible amount of pity clear on her face.

“Well. If you’ll excuse me, Y/N.” He said with a huff, shrugging his suit jacket and straightening his cuff links.

Cuff links, you noted, that weren’t the ones you had gotten him for your third anniversary and had worn ever since.

You let out the breath you had been holding and slumped as he walked back to the scene.

Thankfully, Chloe was able to keep Lucifer preoccupied for the next few minutes until Dan arrived.

You felt mixed feelings seeing your old friend and ex-boyfriend’s coworker but relief overcame everything else.

At least you could get out of there.

Dan walked over to you with open arms. You accepted the hug and gave him a thankful smile.

“Well, wanna hop in and head over to the station? Shouldn’t take more than an hour.”

You shrugged, “Sounds good. Thanks again, Dan. Hope I’m not being too much of a bother.”

He waved his hand, “Nah, gives me a chance to get some fresh air. Plus I haven’t seen you in forever.”

You gave an awkward smile at that and didn’t comment. You didn’t know what all Lucifer had said about your breakup and realized how awkward the situation was.

Biting your tongue, you walked to the car and hopped in. Thankfully, Dan was pretty silent, turning on the radio to instead fill the air.

Once at the station, you walked in and were hit with a wave of memories. You would often come down to grab lunch with Lucifer, help celebrate birthdays, or bring treats to help when the team was dealing with a difficult case.

You tried to steel your face but Dan was already looking at you.

Thankfully he didn’t say anything. Opting instead to lead you to the interrogation room.

Once inside you sat down at the metal table. You took a moment to breathe, just trying to get through this then you could go back to how things were.

When you looked up at Dan, you saw him standing by the door, looking somewhat nervous.

“Hey, uh, can I ask you something?”, he asked while moving to sit down across from you.

You nodded. Fairly certain what he was going to ask about.

“What happened with you and Lucifer? I mean... you guys seemed lso happy.”

“Lu didn’t tell you?”

“Nah. None of the details anyway. Just that you had some big fight and he was an idiot about it.”

You chuckled dryly. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it. I mean, I was too. Probably more so than him.”

You cleared your throat, “Anyway, that’s behind me. I mean it’s been over a year, it’s time to move on.”

“You really think so?”, Dan asked.

“Yeah. Well I’m sure he already has. And then some. So I might as well...” you saw Dan looking at you like you sprouted another head. “What?”

He laughed, “Nothin’. I just...” he cocked his head and paused, trying to think of how best to phrase it.

“Between you and me, that’s not the case.”

You gave a half smile, knowing what he was trying to say.

“And who knows? It might be worth trying again.”

“I don’t think there’s any fixing things.” You sighed and lowered your head.

Dan gave you a gentle nudge on the shoulder across the table. Like he had so many times before.

“People reconcile all the time. I mean, look at me and Chloe.”

You looked up again at that.

“You two are officially back together?”

“Yeah,” he said with a laugh. “Surprisingly it’s thanks to Luc-“

He coughed awkwardly. “Well. Anyway... want to get into your statement?”

You sighed. Relieved to be talking about the shooting rather than hear more about your ex.

— — —

You stood up after giving your statement to Dan. He went to open the door but paused.

“Hey, I know things... you know... Anyway, it was good seeing you, Y/N. Even under these circumstances. You don’t have to be a stranger.”

You smiled sadly at that.

“Yeah. It was good to see you too. I’m happy to hear about you and Chlo.”

Dan smiled and pressed the file in his hands.

“Well, ready to go?”

“Yep. No offense but I just want to go home.”

He laughed in response to that, “Yeah I get that. Lucifer always said you never liked the whole crime thing.”

You started to laugh but fell silent, realizing how easy it was to fall back into your friendship with Dan and just how much you missed your old life.

Dan opened the door for you and you walked through. Unhappy but not surprised at the sight before you. Lucifer stood on the bottom of the stairs.

“Hey, you good?” Dan muttered to you, placing a hand on your shoulder.

You kept your eyes on Lucifer, who prickled at the sight of Dan touching you.

You looked away and smiled at Dan.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

You walked up to Lucifer and smiled briefly before having to take your eyes away. It was hard just being near him. Looking into those beautiful brown eyes was simply too much.

Lucifer smiled softly at you, that cautious, nervous smile he wore when you two had first started dating.

“Let me drive you home?”

You wanted to agree but then remembered home wasn’t what it had been for so long. Now you were in a new home. And you were unsure about letting him inside it. It was a sanctuary from him. You tried desperately to focus on life without him and it helped having a place he had never been.

“I...” you were unsure of what to do until you saw the pleading look in his eyes. You relented.

“Sure”

You walked side by side with Lucifer, and it felt so strange not holding hands or being close. You stopped once you entered the parking garage. For some reason your didn’t realize you’d be taking the Corvette.

You had so many memories in the passenger seat of that car. Driving through the hills and the wind flowing through your hair, late night drives with music blasting and singing together at the top of your lungs, holding hands on the shift, peppering kisses on his cheek and lips at red lights...

It was too much.

All too much.

Tears started to come forward and you sniffled, trying to conceal your emotions but only achieving in alerting him. I mean, you had stopped in your tracks at the sight of the Corvette and were now trying not to cry. But still, it was embarrassing.

And how would you ride in his car next to him? Being so close to him, in the car you two shared so many memories in, taking him to your new home.

House, not home. He was home. And nowhere you were without would ever be home.

Too much.

You wrung your hands, starting to panic. “I, uh, thanks for the offer Luci, but I actually forgot something inside so go ahead without me.”

It was a shitty lie that you knew Lucifer saw right through, angelic abilities or not. He looked down and tossed the keys in his hand before putting them back in his pocket.

“Right. Well, have a good night, Y/N/N.”

He tried to smile at you but it was just a pitiful look. You met his eyes once more, trying to ignore their shiny mistiness that matched yours.

You smiled one last time, knowing the dam would break any moment. You couldn’t trust your voice so you simply nodded and turned around to walk back.

Once you exited the garage and out of sight, you let out a sob as your back hit the concrete wall. This was all too much. There was too much pain, guilt, regret, and still... love.

That’s what was hardest about seeing him again. The love that was still there and would never leave.

— — —

Once the Uber dropped you off and you went inside your house, you slumped against the wall.

That night, all you could bring yourself to do was cry yourself to sleep.

— — —

The next morning you woke up to a missed call and voicemail. It was from the number you had blocked, then unblocked, then deleted, but never forgot.

You pressed the phone to your ear and heard the soft voice your heard a thousand times before.

“Hello, love. I’m glad to see my call went through. Though I suppose you’re still ignoring my calls. Or sleeping. You always were a sound sleeper... Anyway, just wanted to make sure you got home alright. The Detective said there’s nothing to worry about with the drive-by. Just a silly turf war so we passed it on the gang unit. So... I suppose we won’t run into each other again. It was nice to see you though, darling. I... I miss you.”

There was an extended pause at the end of the message and you expected more but were only met with silence as the voicemail ended.

You looked down at your phone, finger hesitating above the return call button. You didn’t move, instead letting the screen darken.

— — —

You had been avoiding your phone like the plague all morning and afternoon. Doing everything you could to avoid it. You cleaned the house, did laundry, and took a long shower. But finally, you gave in and grabbed it once more.

You saw no messages or missed calls and decided to make that call before you could think twice.

As it rang, your nerves grew.

‘What would you say? Would he even answer? Of course he would answer. He called you. Said he missed you. But would he answ—‘

“Hello?” His voice broke through your cycle of thoughts. Unprepared, you couldn’t reply.

“Y/N, darling, are you there?”, he said with a edge of worry.

You swallowed before responding.

“Yeah, Luci. I’m here.” Your voice broke at the last word.

“Are you okay, love?” Lucifer sounded understandably even more worried now.

You sniffled and nodded. Not trusting your voice but you realized he couldn’t see you.

“Yeah. I’m- I’m fine. I just uh, got your message.”

Lucifer sighed slightly, relieved you were alright.

“Yes. My apologies if I was too forward.”

You gave a halfhearted laugh, “No, it wasn’t.”

You paused. “I- I miss you too.”

Lucifer was silent. For so long you thought the call had been disconnected.

“Luci?”

“Yes. I’m- I’m here darling. Can I... see you?”

You smiled and sniffled again. Your tears slightly turning to ones of happiness.

“Yes. Of course. I would... like that.”

“How about tonight then? I’ll close Lux and we can order that Indian food you love.”

You smiled, “You don’t have to close Lux for me, Luci.”

“I’d do anything for you, darling.”

He cleared his throat.

“Anyway, tonight? Seven?”

“Yeah. I’ll... see you then.”

“See you then, my dear.” Lucifer said quietly.

As you pulled the phone away from your ear and ended the call, you felt lighter. Lighter than you had since...

You checked the time on your phone and decided to try to focus on getting ready, rather than think more.

— — —

At 6:55, you were standing outside Lux’s front door. With a shaky breath, you stepped inside.

True to his word, Lux was empty sans Lucifer sitting at the piano, playing an unfamiliar tune slowly. Lost in the song, Lucifer didn’t notice you until you had descended the stairs and were leaning against the bar.

He closed the lid and turned on the bench to you.

“Did you like it?”

You nodded. “Yeah. It was beautiful. Though, I don’t recognize it.”

He smirked. “Well I would hope not. I wrote it myself.”

You couldn’t help but be surprised. In all the time you had known Lucifer he hadn’t written anything. Especially not a full song.

He sighed then gave you a smile that you knew was hiding his true feelings.

‘Something about that song...’

Before either of you could continue, a man entered, carrying bags labeled with your favorite Indian place. Just as Lucifer had promised.

Luci climbed the stairs to greet him and grabbed the food. Slipping an extra hundred in the man’s hand as he held the door open for him.

You smiled at Lucifer as he came back downstairs. “You always were the best tipper.”

He laughed, “What, that? An old friend told me about the importance of tipping and I guess it’s been a habit ever since.”

You looked down and smiled. You remembered that. It was one of your first dates. Like Lucifer said, he was always extra generous after that.

“Anyway!”, he said lifting up the bags, “Ready to eat?”

You nodded, almost drooling. You hadn’t been to the restaurant since last year and you knew by the smell Lucifer had gotten your favorite.

Luci set the table, and by setting the table, you meant taking the containers out of the bag and opening the packets of plastic silverware.

You looked at the food on the table then back to Lucifer as he waited for you to sit. It wasn’t right though. You scrunched your nose without realizing and Luci laughed. That hearty laugh when you did something ridiculous.

“Oh, you haven’t changed one bit, dear. Come, let’s move to the couch.”

You smiled brightly at him, thankful he could remember your quirks.

You two sat down nearby each other, with some room in between, thanks to the large Lux couches compared to the ones he had upstairs.

You filled the air with happy noises of content and talking about what antics Maze and Amenadiel had gotten up to. It was light, fun, and exactly what you needed.

Once your bellies were full, you both sighed happily.

“That was wonderful, thanks Luci. I haven’t had them since...” you trailed off.

He nodded, “Me neither.”

You looked down at your hands, feeling the shift in the mood.

“About that, darling.”, Luci said, scooting slightly towards you.

You furrowed your brow, “Do we have to?”

Lucifer smiled at your whine. “Unfortunately, I think we do.”

At your silence Lucifer cleared his throat.

“I’ll start.” He looked at you and waited until you met his eyes.

“I’m so terribly sorry for everything I said and more so for the things I didn’t.”

You nodded, biting your lip and trying to hide the tears that were soon to come.

Lucifer scooted closer to you and placed his hand on your back, hesitantly and then more firmly after you hadn’t shaken it away.

“Darling, you have to understand the whole marriage thing was so foreign to me. And the whole swearing before Dad bit just seemed ridiculous.”

At your pointed look he stopped speaking for a moment.

“What I’m trying to say is that I didn’t realize it was so important to you. And I’m sorry. I should have asked. I assure you, if I had known I would have married you the day I met you, Y/N. I knew from the moment I met you you were the one for me.”

“Are you just saying that?”, you questioned. Somewhat insecure.

“No. Of course not, darling. You know I can’t lie.”

At your small smile he continued.

“After you left, I was broken, lost. And when I realized what a mistake I had made, I wanted nothing more than to make it right.”

“So why didn’t you?”, thankfully the tears hadn’t come and your voice was stronger.

“You looked happy,” he sighed. “You seemed to be doing things you always spoke about doing. I didn’t want to ruin that. I thought you were better off.”

“I wasn’t better, Luci. I was just as broken and lost as you were. The reason I was trying new things was because I had to distract myself. It was the only way for me to keep going.”

You leant your head against his shoulder with a sigh. “I’m sorry too, Luci. I should have spoken to you about it earlier. And I shouldn’t have blown up on you like I did.”

You pulled back to look up at him.

“I’m so sorry, Luci. I’m a terrible idiot.”

He smiled down at you and caressed your cheek softly.

“I forgive you, darling.”

The sincerity in his voice broke the dam and you let out a broken sob.

He pulled you in tight and let you cry into his chest, mumbling assurances that he forgave you every time you apologized.

You don’t know when you’d stopped crying. Maybe you ran out of tears.

All you knew was that you awoke some time later. Your throat was dry, eyes puffy, and neck hurt from how you had slept. But, you also felt relaxed. Lighter from the confessions and the tears.

You frowned as you were alone. You rubbed your eyes and picked up your phone on the nearby table. Underneath it was a folded piece of paper with your name written in Lucifer’s handwriting.

You opened and read the note.

My love,

My apologies for not being by your side as you wake up and instead having to leave this. I had to go to a scene. I tried not to but the Detective guilt tripped me. Awful thing to do, really.

Anyway, I assume you’re probably sore from sleeping on this couch. I assure you I tried to get you to come to bed or even on the more comfortable couches upstairs but, well, you know how stubborn and persuasive you can be. Especially when you’re half asleep...

I know you have things to do so I won’t expect you when I return. But I do hope to see you again soon, darling.

With love,

Lucifer

P. S. Maze insisted on watching you sleep. Not me.

You looked around and found Maze behind the bar. You jumped, she was always so quiet.

“Maze?”, you asked.

She frowned at you while she pushed away from the bar but when she approached she pulled you into a tight hug.

“I’m so glad you’re back. Lucifer’s been miserable without you.”

You laughed as you pulled away, “Sorry about that. But I’m not back.”

“But I thought...?”she said with confusion on her face.

“I mean... we just hung out last night. Nothing’s official.”

“Hmmph.” She smirked. “But from what Lucifer told me, you’ll be back.”

You shook your head in happy exasperation.

“Oh Maze. I could always count on you to say the things Lucifer was always too afraid to.”

Maze smiled proudly at that,

“Like how he wanted to marry you?”

You practically choked.

“I’m sorry, what??”

She shrugged, but had her signature smirk.

“Yeah...” she said with fake nonchalance, swirling her drink.

“He had a ring for over a month. But kept backing out because he was ‘unsure you would want to marry the Devil’.”

She added with air quotes at the end.

“And even though I’m dedicated to Lucifer for the rest of eternity, I totally take your side on this one. Dumbass said he didn’t need to talk to you about marriage and already knew how you felt. Saying you didn’t like weddings or something because you were always so sour after shooting them. And I told him, well maybe you were sour because you wanted to stop working them and have your own. But you know how Lucifer is.”

She rolled her eyes and took a quick swig of her drink.

“Once he gets a self-deprecating thought in his head, he can’t get it out. Ugh, daddy issues, am I right?”

You laughed, oh how you missed Maze.

— — —

“So are we doing this?”, you whispered into his chest as he held you tight that night.

He moved his head so he could smile softly down at you.

“Yes, I do believe so.”

You smiled back at up him.

“One condition.”

At his raised eyebrow you smirked.

“You have to ask me out again. You’re not getting off so easily, Luci.”

“Getting off, you say?” With a chuckle. But then he got more serious.

“But I’m afraid I can’t do that darling. Well, rather, I don’t particularly want to.”

Your heart dropped and face fell.

“What?”

“I don’t want to ask you out again.”

“But —“

Lucifer pulled away from you and reached into the pocket inside his suit jacket.

“Darling. I don’t want to simply be boyfriend and girlfriend again. I want you...”

He dropped to his knee, maintaining eye contact with you.

“I want you to be my wife, Y/N.”

You gasped, frozen in place.

“Darling, the moment I met you was the best of my life. And I’m so sorry for not asking sooner, but please. I’m asking now. Will you marry me?”

You stared at Lucifer on his knee before you, holding up a velvet box with an otherworldly beautiful ring inside. Your vision began to blur, and you hastily wiped the tears away.

Seeing him clear before you, nervous, in love, and vulnerable, you couldn’t help but laugh. You brought your hands to his face and gave him a searing kiss that spoke volumes, full of apologies, love, and dedication.

As you pulled back, lips lingering, and pressed your forehead against his, you opened your eyes to stare into his.

“Yes”, you whispered, nodding and smiling. Starting to tear up again.

Lucifer’s face lit up with joy.

“Yes?”

“Yes!” You exclaimed, your smile matching his.

You both looked down as Lucifer took the ring from the box and slipped it on your finger.

You admired its intricacy and perfection for a moment before looking up at your now fiancé.

“I...” you began, trying to quell the tears.

“I... thank you, Luci.”

He laughed at that, unable to stop smiling.

“Darling, I’m the one who should be thanking you. You’re the light of my life.”

You smirked, unable to help yourself. “That’s rich coming from you, Morningstar.”

He closed his eyes and groaned. Trying to hide his smile.

“Back to the puns are we?”

You laughed and automatically responded, “You love me!”

You paused. Partially at the old phrase and at his serious face. Lucifer stroked your cheek.

“I do, my dear. I never stopped and never will.”

[ladytrelaw]

His hands are red with his own blood and he’s trembling from head to toe, but he doesn’t cry. She suspects he’s simply too overwhelmed.

A couple of bloodied teeth knocked loose by the scythe glint in the snow next to him.

They’re his baby teeth. He still has his baby teeth, for god’s sake.

***

Full fic under the cut or on AO3! The events of, after, and leading up to That Night as told by my namesake, our lovely Lady Trelaw

Though they’ve been planning for this day for weeks now, the morning is still somehow frantic, from the very moment she awakes in his strong, warm arms for the last time. They flit through the house, adjusting already perfect arrangements, repacking already tightly packed cases, unable to meet each others’ eyes, unable to look away. She’s in their bedroom, a moment of stillness, when their son finds her.

“Mother?”

She turns, forcing her face into a semblance of a smile. He’s lingering in the doorway, fiddling with the ratty old comfort blanket he’s had since he was a baby, the tattered end of it trailing on the floor behind him. He’s still at that age where his eyes make up most of his face, huge and deep brown and round as two brass buttons. Her own eyes, filled with curiosity, gazing back up at her from under a mess of curls.  

“What’s going on? Where’s Nonnie?”

She closes her eyes as a wave of nausea overtakes her; she can’t help it. Eleanor, so much more than a housekeeper; assistant and confidant to her; friend to her husband; nanny and aunt in all but blood to their son. Hazlitt didn’t think the palace would stoop to the execution of a servant but they couldn’t be sure, and so she’d fled on their instructions last night, disappearing into the dark on the back of Hazlitt’s best horse. He wouldn’t be needing it after today. 

“We’re going away for a little while, my darling, so Nonnie’s gone back to her family,” she says, swallowing her fear - Eleanor is safe, she has to be, she has to be - and crouching down in front of him. His tiny brow furrows in confusion. 

“Where are we going?”

“We’re going all the way across the ocean, Gwynplaine, isn’t that exciting?”

Hazlitt appears in the hallway behind him, his voice warm and steady, as though it is simply any other day. He catches her gaze for the briefest of moments before scooping their son into his arms so fast that he squeals in delight, dropping his blanket.

“The ocean, Father? On a ship?”

“That’s right, my boy, on a ship, just like the one in your book,” he laughs, balancing Gwynplaine on his hip. They’d agreed not to tell him until the last moment - he’s too young, he won’t understand, and he’ll fight them. Better to let him believe they’re leaving together, to let his last moments with his father be happy ones. And they do look happy; so at ease in fact, so content, that she can almost forget what is coming. But when Hazlitt meets her eyes over the top of Gwynplaine’s head, reality sinks its claws back into her chest. They say a thousand silent words in that moment the way only lovers can; a whole conversation passing completely unnoticed by their son. They always knew it would come to this, or some version of it. But that doesn’t make the burden any easier to bear.

Hazlitt gives her a tiny nod of reassurance before fixing his grin once more and jiggling Gwynplaine so he giggles. 

“Shall we let Mother finish packing then? Big smile now, that’s it.”

It isn’t until later, much later, as they’re trudging through the gently falling snow towards the palace, that any of them remember the beloved blanket left lying on the polished wooden floor.

***

Perhaps it is her fault. Perhaps she was distracted, too busy trying to commit the last of her husband’s kisses to her memory, to press it between the pages of her mind like a flower in a book. Or perhaps they were being followed all along, and nothing she could have done would have prevented it. But when they are pushed into the chamber by that snivelling clown and Hazlitt’s eyes - eyes she had accepted she would never see again - widen in horror at the sight of them, she is overwhelmed by a wave of guilt so powerful she fears she might drown in it. 

Hazlitt fights for them, of course he does, but it is too late. Neither clown nor king pay his howling any mind. 

When the king announces their fate, a fate they had prayed only Hazlitt would suffer, she thinks that he is lucky that she was already shackled. 

If not, for the way he looks at her son, she would have torn him limb from limb. 

***

They walk in single file, flanked by guards. They’ve left Gwynplaine unbound, thank God, and he’s silent as he follows his father up the hill, clinging to a hand shackled in iron. She’s not sure if he fully understands what’s about to happen. She prays that he doesn’t.

There is little time for goodbyes. Hazlitt is torn away from his last embrace with his son, and in desperation she pulls free from the guards holding her and crouches down beside him.

“Gwynplaine. Gwyn, my darling, look at me,” she whispers urgently, but he seems hypnotised, unable to look away from his father as the clown slips a noose over his neck. With her hands bound behind her back, her voice is the only tool she has to keep him from witnessing such horrors, and she grows more insistent.

“Gwynplaine, please.” 

Finally he turns, the evening light through the thick winter clouds turning his skin a ghostly blue.

“Mother?” he whimpers, “Mother, I’m scared-”

“I know, my son, I know, come here.” she murmurs, shifting closer on her knees. He reaches out a hand, nervous eyes still darting back to his father, standing on the stool and gazing at them with something closer to defeat than she has ever seen in his eyes before. She nuzzles her cheek against Gywnplain’s cold palm. 

“You’ve been so brave, sweetheart, it’s going to be alright.” She tries to muster a smile. “We love you so much, my darling boy, so much-”

The guard doesn’t let her finish before he pulls her to her feet, dragging her backwards and forcing her up onto a stool parallel with her husband. The rope around her neck is painfully coarse but she barely feels it, eyes fixed on Gwynplaine kneeling abandoned in the snow, frozen by fear more than cold, staring helplessly between his parents like he doesn’t know where to look. 

Hazlitt, dear, brave Hazlitt, spends his last moments trying to comfort their tiny, terrified child. She watches as he pulls Gwynplaine out of his catatonic state by directing him through the sparring drills she’s seen them practice a thousand times before; with swords of metal in the training grounds of their estate, and with toy swords of wood as they danced, giggling, up the hallways of their beautiful house.

When the clown kicks the stool out from under her husband, as the rope snaps taught, she thinks she screams. She can’t be sure. Everything feels like it’s happening underwater. 

It isn’t until her son’s tiny hands are tied behind his back that she snaps out of her horrified reverie. Gwynplaine struggles as he’s lifted onto a stool beneath a noose that only a monster would build so low to the ground, and she starts babbling, begging desperately for the life of her only child. Hazlitt would do a better job of this, Hazlitt would know what to say, but Hazlitt is a body swinging in the breeze and the clown is raising a foot to murder her son and she screams-

“My LORD!”

The clown freezes. 

She doubles down, grovelling, appealing to a heart she’s not even sure exists. She has one chance, one opportunity to save him. And somehow, in what can only be a miracle, it seems like she might manage it. The clown’s demeanour changes and suddenly he’s untying her, helping her down from the stool, and Gwynplaine is free and clutching at his throat, and she dares to think they might make it out of this cursed place in one piece...

When the clown reaches for the scythe, she realises with dull horror that they were never going to be so lucky. She grabs at her son, turning to defend him-

and everything goes black.

***

It takes her a while to reach him even after she regains consciousness. The ground swims beneath her fingers and she doesn’t trust herself to stand, so she crawls on her hands and knees towards the softly whimpering ball that is her son. Gwynplaine is curled in on himself so tightly that his curls are brushing the icy ground, moaning so quietly that the noise could almost be the wind whispering through the trees. She grasps clumsily at his shoulder and he flinches, raising his head to look at her. 

It is perhaps only the concussion that stops her from screaming in horror. 

Monsters, she thinks. Only the cruellest of monsters could have done this to her child. His brass button eyes are wider than ever, but the whole lower half of his face is unrecognisable; a ragged mess of flesh dripping ruby rivers down his neck. His hands are red with his own blood and he’s trembling from head to toe, but he doesn’t cry. She suspects he’s simply too overwhelmed. 

A couple of bloodied teeth knocked loose by the scythe glint in the snow next to him.

They’re his baby teeth. He still has his baby teeth, for god’s sake. 

He moans, reaching for her, trying to speak, but she shushes him, trying to force her swimming thoughts into motion. The ship. They have to get to the ship, or they’re both dead. She tears a strip from the bottom of her skirt, tying it around her son’s face in a poor attempt at a bandage, murmuring desperate apologies as he cries out and struggles away from her touch. The fabric is soaked instantly, but it’s the best she can do, and she pulls him into her arms, burying her nose in his hair. 

She does not look over his head at the gallows. She fears that if she looks at the thing that swings there, the thing that used to be her husband, she may never move again. 

***

When they reach the ship and see that the gangplank is still down, she nearly sobs with relief. It had been an exhausting walk and her legs had failed her more than once, pitching them both into the snow. They’re dripping wet and freezing, but they might yet live. They might yet stand a chance.

Her head is still pounding, her thoughts still slippery and intangible. Perhaps that is why, when she boards the ship on unsteady feet, she lets the captain lift Gwynplaine away from her, reaching her now empty arms out to accept a helping hand from another crewmember. It is only seconds before that same grip turns to unyielding restraint.

As the captain starts interrogating her son she struggles desperately, though the crewman’s hold is unforgiving. She cannot get free, but equally she cannot lose Gwynplaine again. She will not survive it. She watches in anguish as he scrambles back down the gangplank, away from the captain who lunged for his bandage, away from the crewmen who shout curses at his retreating back. He’s only a child, she tries to say. He’s my child, let me hold him, give him back to me...

“He’s a bad omen!”

“An albatross!”

“He’ll fate us! Doom us! Sink us all!”

She sees him fall to his knees on the docks as the ship casts off, putting churning white water between them. She sees him reach for her, the distance between his hand and hers growing wider with every heartbeat. She sees him screaming her name through a broken grin. 

She has failed him. 

***

The storm takes them within minutes. The ship is battered, torn apart by raging waves and howling wind, and along with the other passengers she is pitched, screaming, into the boiling black mass of the sea. 

She tries her best to swim. She fights as best as she possibly can, with muscles already screaming in exhaustion and eyes that dance with stars, but it is not enough. Death has been hovering at her shoulder for hours, days even, and its weight is now too much to bear. She sinks, fingertips reaching for the churning, thrashing surface of the water...

Hazlitt is with her. 

“Gwynplaine,” she breathes, watching the bubbles from her lips rise to the surface. She needs to know. She cannot rest until she knows.

Her husband smiles. Time appears before her and wraps itself around her aching body like a scarf of the softest silk.

She’s on the docks, on her hands and knees, sobbing as her mother is torn away. She’s in agony, the pain seared across her face like nothing she’s ever known. 

Time shimmers once more, sighing a swansong in her ears.

She knows freezing cold and then the warmth of a fire, a kindly hand, the friendly snuffling of an animal. She knows burning, searing pain; she knows confusion and bewilderment and frustration. Sparks of brightness, of laughter, of songs, of love. The sting of humiliation, the acid tang of vengeful bitterness, the misery of betrayal and grief and then…

And then...

“He finds peace.” Hazlitt murmurs. “It takes time, but he finds peace. He finds clarity. He finds the justice that we couldn’t.”

“You promise he’s alright?”

“He grows to be an old man, my darling, older than we ever were.” Hazlitt says softly. He holds out a hand at the same moment that she reaches to grasp it. 

“I’ll take you to him.” 

Lady Trelaw smiles. And lets herself drift.

[jjba-hell]

Rock Bottom

Day 2 and the Prompt we going for was- Insecurity. And lemme just say I went ham on this one. Sorry for anyone who read my unedited version a few hours ago, my tumblr cue time is weird af... 

This is a bit of a mash up between backstory and insecurity but definitely ANGSTY AF! Really now, good luck.

There are ALLOT of trigger warnings so much, I dare say it’s rated. Drug use, pregnancy, postnatal complications (and death), ABUSE (emotional, physical, verbal, familial), prostitution (mention)...I probably missed allot but this one is intense. 

Gonna tag @a-nonnie-mousse (’cause you a sweetie) and @lasquadraweek2020 for this one and also @risottoneroo​ (though if Mel’s not your cup of tea, I’m so sorry but we mutuals now so sowwy UwU) 

2,4 K words- good luck ʅ（◞‿◟）ʃ

Looking at the mirror one morning Melone couldn’t help but breath a heavy sigh. March 22nd held a painful memory to him- which was why he was due at the graveyard at 9 for a personal meeting. Risotto had been kind enough to allow it but not without warning.

“Don’t get caught.” Was all he said.

“Yeah, like I’d allow another fuck up.” He scoffed as he tied his hair back to get ready. As if he hadn’t heard enough of that in his life. Gazing back at himself mirror- tired and defeated he recalled a younger version of himself doing and thinking the same thing a few years ago- looking back at the mirror and feeling the same way he did at that moment. It had happened after another fight with his mother.

“Stefan.” His mother hissed as she angrily loomed over his shoulder. “What’s this?” She tossed the physics pop quiz on the table in front of him- feeling panic set in his spine, wanting to jump out of his chair and hurdle his way out of her grasp. He had thrown that piece of paper away- he could have sworn he did. Right now, of course, he was wishing he had burned it instead.

“Nothing, mama.”

“Nothing is it? Because it looks like a C- to me.”

He swallowed, hoping she was a too tired to fight him today. “Most of the class-“

“I don’t-“she grabbed hold of the hair on top of his head and shoved his head down onto the table. “-CARE ABOUT HOW MOST OF THE CLASS DID! That is going on your report card!”

He kept his head down, nose bleeding into the algebra homework he was working on below him. Picking up his head now would only make her hurt him more. “Mama, it was a mock test.”

“So, this is how little you know. Did you cheat your way through your grades your whole life?”

He didn’t say anything, knowing there was no point in arguing with her when she was like this. 

Melone grew up in a household most people would find bizarre but he never labelled it abuse. Not until his university sweetheart held his hand and asked him. “Why do you apologize for everything you do?”

It wasn’t hard to figure out once he sat down and considered it instead of shoving the question aside in favour of a taking a bit of ecstasy and a willing side piece- a bad habit he had picked up after he left the hellish hole he called home.

“You’re just as stupid as your father.”

“You’re just as spineless as your mother.”

Two phrases interchanged by two people who didn’t love each other in the slightest and him in the middle of it all- wondering why nothing he did was ever enough.

Melone shook off the memory as he splashed his face with the warm water from the tap, only to end up being caught up in his own reflection again, by the gaze of his heterochromatic eyes- the mask he wore on the lay job forgotten on his bedside table. He had had many of his one night stands tell him he was gorgeous with the one blue and one green eye but he had spent enough of his childhood being told by his father what a freak it made him. 

He gazed back at his own bed, surprisingly devoid of the previous night’s endeavour. So, he pulled the sheets off and remade the bed, thinking on how badly he wished he wasn’t sober- numbing away the grief he was feeling with a little white pill and the pleasure of being praised between the sheets. 

The weather forecast called for a cold chill and some scattered showers, how fitting for the proper black coat and suit he left the apartment in. He got into the car with Ghiacchio without another word beside a simple greeting, not wanting to anger the blue-haired man beside him- he didn’t quiet feel up to the banter, or perhaps arguments was a better word, he shared with Ghiacchio.

The scenery melded from cityscape to countryside- reminding him of the first time he went to this graveyard. At the time, tragedy has struck his life like lightning and was burning down everything he had dared to hope for- the person waiting for him at the church connected to the graveyard was all hope he had left to save Bianca.

The life of the mafia was never really one he was completely ignorant of- the contraband he used to take like sugar pills was just one of the ways he already had his foot in the door- although at the time he simply deemed himself as paying for a product from a lackey. When he cleaned up his act for Bianca he thought he’d never have to delve that dark again. The straight and narrow path didn’t last long though and soon he came to realize that he had been surrounded by crime his whole life, only waiting to be inevitably swallowed by it. 

Ghiacchio pulled up a few blocks short of the graveyard gates and Melone handed him a wad of cash as payment. “That’s generous.” Ghiacchio commented but Melone didn’t answer. He simply got up and thanked him again. He would walk the rest of the way- which wasn’t far.

Melone bought a handful of Marigolds from the flower vendor on his way and continued to move through the gates- meandering through as he racked his brain as to where they were buried. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t care, it just hurt too much to think about often enough to remember. When he eventually found the white marble mausoleum he stepped in and found the two plaques on the wall where he inserted the flowers into their designated holdings. Bianca Regio and Vita Regio. 

Six years ago, shortly after he graduated his first-year medical school, he had gotten some news from his girlfriend Bianca- she was pregnant with his baby. He supposed normal students would have seen their whole lives doomed but the joy he felt overwhelmed his worry surrounding finances to take care of the child. It was most definitely not his plan, but he didn’t care. He felt so hopeful for the kid’s sake- a prospect he looked back at and cringed at his own desperation to give something he never had. He and his girlfriend loved each other. Even thinking on that phrase made his heart ache. She loved him. He loved her. They were going to start a loving family together. He could give them what he never had. It only occurred to him later on how contradicting that was but at the time, ignorance was bliss.

It didn’t last long of course- six months after Bianca told him she went into premature labour and then shortly after got a blood clot in her portal vein. Vita was born 3 months too early and was already in intensive care within hours of her birth and Bianca was getting weaker by the minute. The panic and desperation set into Melone the second she was moved into the ICU with no prospect of getting better.  Despite severing ties with his parents Melone knew where his bread was buttered. A broke medical student couldn’t wish to pay the medical bills Bianca was tallying up in the hospital.  He didn’t even think twice to call his father and admit his defeat. 

What his father told him would have shocked anyone else in this world- to hear your father say. “The capo that runs this town is at the church in Venicio- confession ends in an hour.” It suddenly made sense how his father could always afford the expensive cars or the expensive furniture in their home despite being a lowly state attorney while his mother worked as his assistant.

Melone took a cab as close as close to the church as he dared- true to his father warning-and ran to the find the man who could help him.

“Signore, I beg you. My love and our child are in danger.” He had begged as he dropped to his knees in front of the man. “I sell myself to you, my future, my life. It’s all yours if you would just lend me for the medical bills now.” 

The capo ran a hand over Melone’s tear-streaked face, pinching his chin between his thumb and forefinger. Melone was made to gaze up at him. The stern, unreadable expression made him tense up in fear of accidentally disrespecting him. But the capo turned Melone’s head as if to observe him. “I’ll consider it.” He grumbled as he reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a thick wad of cash which Melone took in disbelief. “I expect you at Libechio’s tomorrow afternoon, sharp.”

And with that, he moved past Melone.

He didn’t regret it, he never would. It only hurt that at face value it was in vain. The money spoke louder than his begging ever would and as it turned out- whatever treatment they gave Bianca allowed her to be moved back into a regular hospital room. He spoke to Bianca the very morning he was due at Libeccio’s- feeling hopeful that she’d recover. Even the capo took pity on him, saying he’d have handed him to a pimp that day if it weren’t for the news of Bianca’s position. At the time, Melone had no idea what the capo had meant- not truly. He thought the capo had learned more about him- about Biacna’s pre-term labour and her sudden illness but he understands now that they are usually not that giving.

Instead, Melone got an alternative deal. Melone would finish his medical studies full term on the capo’s good graces to fulfill the need for a medic in the mafia before he would be officially initiated.  since he lost Lucy and their unborn child in the same night.

The expensive treatment Melone had paid for gave Melome a solid two days before he had to give a painful, final goodbye to both Bianca and his daughter. The baby’s heartbeat was lost two hours prior to Bianca’s death. He had begged, pleaded for her to hold on just a bit longer but with tear-rimmed he said his final goodbye, grasping onto her like she was his lifeline. He didn’t let go of her until they escorted him out of the room- by then her hand had lost all its warmth.

Outside of the hospital he came face to face with Bianca’s family- having to explain to her parents what had happened to her. Standing in front of them was probably the heaviest thing he had been forced to do. Suddenly all the insecurities his parents ever made him believe were proved right. He wasn’t enough to take care of Bianca. He wasn’t enough to take care of Vita. He wasn’t enough to take care of himself. He wasn’t smart enough to have come up with a plan without his father’s help. He wasn’t smart enough to understand that he’d never be able to live the life he so desperately craved. 

After that he had to go home and clear away all her books and research she had left on his desk, the plans he had for the nursery, the applications for a home loan and eventually even the ring he wanted to propose to her with was pawned- anything to try and rid himself of any reminder of his failure. To forget the pain of losing all he had hoped for in one night.

“Stefan.” A voice called beside him.

“Mrs Regio.” He turned to Bianca’s mother who held a bundle of flowers in her hand. “You look well.”

“As do you, Mrs Regio.” He didn’t say anything else, simply handing over the envelope of cash he owed her family. 

Bianca and Melone turned out to have more in common than they truly knew. Bianca ran away from home when she found out her parents were involved in organized crime and Melone ran away only to find out his family did the same. Because the money Melone borrowed from the capo went towards Bianca’s treatment- it was her parents who let her slip away from their care and they therefor had to take on the debt Melone had made. He refused to let Bianca’s parents think lowly of him so that brought him here, paying off a year’s worth of debt every year he met with Mrs Regio. 

He turned to look at Bianca’s plaque one more, praying that she could forgive him for failing her and continuing to fail her as he continued to live as he did. His sobriety was thrown out the window the day he came home from her funeral. He kept up his promise of finishing his degree on whatever he felt like using until he had to be initiated- then he had to sober up just enough to do his job in the mafia. 

BabyFace came to be and so did his most lecherous self- which made eventually stop seeing victims and mothers as people but as faceless bodies. But when he woke up after a high of a kill all he could ask was: 

Was that all he was worth? Was that what his soul was made of? An intense hunger for still wanting to find the perfect mother, be a perfect father and create the perfect baby? Now thriving on make others understand how it feels to be deconstructed until they’re nothing- just as he had for so many years? Was this trauma always going to taunt him? Was he always going to be reminded of his insecurity within himself?

At first the stand seemed useless until he tried using his stand on a mission to take out a bastard who was behind on rent money. It was then that he realized it was better for murder than it was at helping him achieve the dream that haunted him.

“It wasn’t your fault, Stefan. You did more than we could.” 

“Not enough.”

The two stepped out of the mausoleum, closing the door behind them. “You’re a good man, Stefan.” Was the last thing Bianca’s mother told him before turning and walking away. 

Melone shook his head as he started walking back to the entrance of the graveyard.

“I never was, Mrs Regio.”

The second he got back into the car with Ghiacchio, he popped a pill and asked to wait a few minutes so he could take a smoke break and call an old friend of his…

“Yeah I don’t care who, just make sure she’s not new.”

[starstruckmyths]

Your mandalorian AU Steve is going to promise to keep his eyes shut and ask for a kiss isn't he?

I don’t know what you’re talking about, Nonnie, I would neeeeeeeever do anything like that🥺

(read below😇)

|X|

“Close your eyes, and do not open them until I tell you so.”

Was that a challenge? Steve leaned back a little, eyes sweeping up and down the appearance standing at the other side of the fire, not too far away. Though he felt tempted to speak up and ask him more questions, to annoy him with a mindless babble and push and pull until the very end of James’ patience, Steve cast one last look on the helmet before he did what was asked of him. 

His eyes fluttered closed, and the world went dark. All the specks of the late night sky, the flickering of the flames and all lanterns were gone, not a wisp of light to be found, and it was thrilling in more way than one. Though he never liked to keep his eyes closed if not for sleep, especially around others, it was not fear bleeding from his pounding heart as the footsteps approached. 

Right before his feet, that was where the steps stopped. There was not a graze of fingers, not the smallest brush of fabric of skin, but still Steve could feel him, as if he had embraced him with more than his earthly form. It was a kind of warmth and energy radiating from the other’s body, like a tangible aura not to be missed skimming the bare skin of his arms, leaving goosebumps in its wake. 

It was not sure if it was his brain compensating for his lack of sight, working all the other senses, dialing them up to their higher forms as to try and complete the picture, even when there was only darkness in front of him. His skin caught the warmth from another body, his nose the leather and metal of clothing not his and the ashes of the campfire, and his ears the breathing and even, perhaps, the faint beating of a second heart. A click then reached him, the echo of metal following. Louder puffs of air spun up; Steve knew James had taken off his helmet, and his breath caught in his throat. 

His mind whirled like a storm, thousands of faces from his past coming forth to try and match with the little he was given. 

A hot breath like a desert wind ghosted across his lips, the oh so light brush of the tip of a nose against his own before it retreated, and Steve could not move. He sat frozen in place, perched on his own log, eyes closed and his head tilted back as if all by itself, like it knew what was going to happen and it wanted nothing more. 

“You sure you want this?” the husky whisper of James’ voice asked, words and breath flowing across his lips like the waves of an ocean, “When you open your eyes it will only be my helmet that you see.”

Steve nodded faintly, head bobbing forward half an inch, trying, feeling. There was a graze of something soft, something so close and all there for him to take. He released a bit of baited breath himself, a shudder working up his frame and along came an almost pitiful noise as he had to keep himself contained. A hand came up to stroke his jaw, almost in response, as if it tried to soothe his inner turmoil of want want want and need need need. 

“I do not need to see to be sure,” Steve whispered back, “For it is my heart that knows what is right.”

Any other words he may have dared to utter had no chance to leave his mouth, for it was soon to occupied with the second piece that slotted against his own like a puzzle. It was a kiss like he had not shared many, so alike and yet so different. It was not an explosion of stars, of sparks in his belly or anything as such, it was familiar in a way only those of past lives could ever feel. 

His mother had told him often of the stories, of people so familiar despite never having met before, sharing a connection difficult to match with any other. Family, friends, lovers, like they had been something before, separated by time and mortality, only to find each other in a new life. 

The feeling of James’ lips on his own, touching so softly in a movement so exploring, capturing his bottom one and nipping it gently, the tip of his tongue darting out to lick the poor lip as if to soothe it. Steve moved back, only just able to keep his hands on the wood he was sitting on, tilting his head back a little further and parting his lips in an invitation, but James did not take it. 

“Let us hope your heart is right,” James said, pressing his lips to the corner of Steve’s mouth, slowly, softly, but almost as if to say goodbye, before he pulled back. “For the sake of us both.”

The same little sound as before - click - spun up at his ears, and Steve counted a few more seconds in his head before he opened his eyes. James was now standing much closer, but it did not matter much, as his face was once again hidden by the firm wall of metal, and all he saw was the Beskar Helmet he had grown to hold so dearly.  

|X|

🥰✨

[readingwritingcrying]

A good omens prompt? Crowleys a snake, and snakes dont sweat/are cold blooded. No way to internally regulate temperature. So maybe something about that? Overheating in the gardens or something?

nonnie, this prompt was absolutely galaxy brain of you. I’ve read several about him being too cold, but I haven’t seen any with him overheating and it was so much fun to write! Thank you so much, and I hope you enjoy!

Similar to how angels and demons don’t need to eat or sleep, they also don’t need to sweat. They don’t need many things a human might, as their grace (or equivalent demonic energy), was. However, there were still limitations. Their bodies could be killed, causing rather inconvenient discorperation. They could change physique depending on lifestyle, most things very similar to a human unless miracled to be otherwise. 

Angels, however, tended to fit in better, at least in terms of appearances. Demons tended to have more animal-like features. Crowley was no exception. His eyes, his tongue, even the way he walked was reminiscent of the beast he was cursed to be. He always hurt some in a human form, and most importantly to this moment: he had absolutely no internal temperature regulation. 

Sure, when Crowley’s flat was chilly, what was a little demonic miracle to warm it up? But when the whole of London felt like it was fucking melting, there just wasn’t much he could get away with.

Especially not now. 

Since the not-apocalypse, he and Aziraphale had to keep it light on the miracles. Little things, sure, after all, they weren’t hiding, just trying their best not to give Heaven or Hell any new reasons to be upset with them. So Crowley couldn’t just get rid of the heatwave, no matter how much he wanted to. 

It caused a whole lot of grumbling from him, at first. Crowley’s flat had air conditioning and heating because he knew it was necessary for himself. He may not have mentioned as much to Aziraphale when they had decided to move in together (a decision made after the second week where Crowley had refused to leave the angel’s side other than to tend his plants). He was a demon for- for Someone’s sake. It seemed silly to need such a thing.

He only regretted it this morning. Crowley’s eyes blinked opened slowly, squinting at the bright light that shone through the window. Normally, he would be content to bask in its warmth. But the whole blessed house felt like an oven. He groaned and sat up lethargically. The black silk of his bed was cool to the touch, and for a moment, Crowley was tempted to simply nap the rest of the day. But a breeze and the rustle of leaves reminded him of more pressing matters: his garden.

Crowley squirmed his way out of bed, dressing with a quick demonic miracle. Black leather pants with a black shirt to match - he had quite sensibly forgone the jacket today. It was worth it, with how hilariously flustered his angel would get whenever he showed a bit more skin than usual (really, Aziraphale’s sensibilities hadn’t changed in decades). 

As Crowley sauntered through the cottage, he realized Aziraphale wasn’t there. He froze quickly, horror flooding like ice through his veins. His slitted eyes darted around the cottage to check for any signs of danger until he spotted it. 

A little yellow note stuck to the door. It wasn’t actually a sticky-note, it was just a square of paper, but since Aziraphale thought it was, the paper found itself not minding being hung from the wooden door. 

‘Someone e-mailed about a misprint bible I’ve been just dying to get my hands on! I went to go meet them, and, well, I wasn’t sure if I should wake you up, you really did look quite peaceful my dear. I’m not even sure if you’ll wake up before I’m back since I won't be very long, I’ll be home for dinner, but just in case.

-Aziraphale’

Crowley’s face relaxed into an easy grin as he read the note. He could hear the words in his head as if the angel were saying them himself - even in a short note, he managed to have the same rambling quality to the way he said things. If Crowley were being particularly truthful, he would admit that he found it rather endearing. 

Letting the pleasant feeling sink into his chest, Crowley was soon out the door. He kept a sizable outdoor garden as well as the smaller one they had in an extension to their cottage. It was odd, modern, and not at all fitting to the homey style of the cottage. As well, it was quite ugly. But it was a decent sunroom, and nearly all the smaller houses seemed to have one. 

But since they ate in there, Aziraphale spoilt them absolutely rotten. It was a lost cause. 

Crowley walked slowly through the garden; face neutral. He glanced casually at the plants, inspecting them from afar with a carefully practiced disinterest as he decided on what he would need to do. Each plant would need careful watering, he could carefully snip at a bush here or a tree branch there, and with a furious hiss, he spotted a patch of weeds that had dared to grow in his garden.

Those he would destroy carefully, slowly, and painfully. Make an example of them.

Decided, Crowley got to it. He was utterly absorbed in it, as he usually was. The sun beating down on his back as he worked was almost forgotten. Each plant was meticulously tended to, checked for spots or for sagging leaves, or pests as the sun rose higher in the sky. 

He didn’t even begin to notice something was wrong until he stretched up with sheers in his hands only to drop them as pain seized his muscles.

He recoiled with a grimace as his muscles cramped, trying to move or breath in a way that didn’t flood his senses with a sharp stab of pain. Eventually, in what felt like hours but couldn’t have been much more than a minute, his body began to relax. 

If his body was that determined to be a snake, it would have to damn well wait, Crowley grumbled in his mind. Pain wasn’t unusual for him, but it usually wasn’t like that. As if he would let that from stopping him, of course.

He was rather busy at the moment, and couldn’t very well garden without arms. He wanted to finish, have Aziraphale come home, have dinner with his angel, and be some semblance of normal or at least of right.

And that was that Crowley pushed forward. The cramping didn’t stop. He was hot, and his muscles seemed to groan and tense with every small movement. And he was tired. It was something that shouldn’t really be possible. He hadn’t used great amounts of demonic power, and he had even slept the night before.

It really should be concerning. He was just too tired to be concerned. As another cramp shot through his stomach, Crowley knelt down in the grass. His skin was a burning shade of reddish-pink, his face was flushed, and his lips were dry. 

Crowley considered calling it a day and retreating to the shade of the indoors. Maybe he could take a cool bath, even. The thought was tempting enough after several minutes of feeling miserable on the ground, he decided to go along with it. A soak might help the cramps, even.

He wasn’t expecting the wave of dizziness when he stood. Crowley groaned a soft noise of discomfort, and steadied himself against the nearest tree. He waited for the odd spell to pass, but his head was still spinning, tilting, pulling his insides along with it. Everything was twisted all around in circles, making a mess out of his vision.

Cooling off in the shade would… well, it would have to do, he decided. Crowley let himself slide down, propping his back against the small trunk of the tree. An apple tree, of course. He growled in frustration as his limbs shook from the motion.

It was so hot and Crowley felt so… weak. 

Letting lethargy overtake him, Crowley let his eyes shut against the bright sun. He was breathing much too heavily, his heart feeling like it was starting to pound right out of his chest. He could barely hear himself think, and even if he could, it hurt his head too much to.

All too quickly he found even if he wanted too, he couldn’t move.

…

When Aziraphale returned from his outing, he could immediately tell that something was off. At this point, he had become rather familiar with the demon Crowley’s presence. Now that they were finally allowed to be together officially, they had hardly spent much time apart. Not that Aziraphale minded - he very much liked their current situation. He found the freedom to express his affections... well, quite honestly nervewracking at first. But aside from the lingering fear he would somehow mess things up, it was nothing short of heavenly. 

He, of course, noticed Crowley’s sudden clinginess as well. And Aziraphale knew that when his - friend? Lover? Crowley seemed so much more than just that - felt like it, he would let him know why. And until then, he was completely happy to indulge him. Actually, he always would be happy to indulge him. 

All of this is to say, Aziraphale was very much attuned to Crowley’s specific demonic presence. So when he arrived at their cottage, he was instantly worried.

It was still there, but it was so much weaker than it should be. He dropped his bag containing the book he had acquired and rushed inside the front door. “Crowley? Crowley, dear, are you alright?” His voice broke into a bit of a tremble. He wasn’t there. Aziraphale checked their bedroom, but there was no sign of him. 

At least the bed was messy, sheets pushed out in a way that confirmed at least Crowley had gotten up of his own volition. 

Aziraphale wrung his hands anxiously. Heaven and Hell couldn’t possibly have come for them yet, could they? Surely not in any organized manner, but if a stray demon ran across them, he feared it might be stupid enough to try and attack them. He needed to find Crowley. 

After confirming that he was not in the house, even in another form, Aziraphale walked back outside to check the backyard. 

Seeing Crowley was both relieving and even more worrying. 

He was awake, his eyes open only just, glasses slid down until they were hanging off his long nose to the point of being useless to actually conceal his eyes. They were all a golden-yellow that Aziraphale adored, but they stared out of focus, not yet seeming to register that Aziraphale was there. His skin was red and flushed, and even from here he could hear Crowley’s labored breathing.

Without a second thought, Aziraphle rushed to his side, kneeling down next to him. “Oh, Crowley, what happened, dear boy? Are you injured?” 

The demon only gave a small “Mn,” in response, and he couldn’t tell if it was a negative or positive answer. Feeling for himself, he was relieved not to find even a scratch on Crowley.

“You’re burning up,” he observed softly. His hands found their way to Crowley’s forehead, which should have been slick with sweat but it was completely dry. Snake, Aziraphale remembered. While Crowley had never mentioned it before, it was very much possible that he had no way of cooling down.

Crowley turned his head to the side, seeming to try and escape Aziraphale’s touch, muttering something incoherently. His eyes were clenched with fear, and with a start,, Aziraphle realized that he must not even recognize him yet.

If he was that disorientated, it couldn’t be a good sign. He could discorporate, even. Aziraphale had to cool him down, quickly. If he didn’t… well, there was no way in hell, literally, they were going to give him back. 

“I’m going to get you inside, but I’m afraid I’ll have to pick you up,” Aziraphale explained to the dazed demon. Crowley turned slightly, hearing him, but gave no answer. 

With a determined sigh, he braced himself, scooping up Crowley in his arms. Aziraphale’s heart broke a little at the panicked hiss he let out but held firm as he walked inside. His struggles were weak, and no match for the angel’s hold, but the fact Crowley was fighting him at all stung and worried him to no end. 

He would be okay. He had to be.

Aziraphale hurried back inside, making sure the temperature was suitably cooler in the cottage than outside. They were in the middle of a heatwave so different from the usual summers in England, and most of the houses didn’t come with any air conditioning. Most houses didn’t have an angel, and really, either could work the same if it wanted to. 

Gently, he sets Crowley down on the couch. Its brown leather was cool, and Aziraphale hoped that it would provide even a bit of relief.

He managed to find a thermometer (which they had gotten once they realized under unfortunate circumstances that Crowley, and most likely himself as well, could fall ill) and pressed the device to Crowley’s lips. 

They remained stubbornly closed. 

“Please open your mouth, dear. I won't hurt you, I promise,” he tried to reassure. Crowley’s gaze- his glasses had fallen off completely after Aziraphale had picked him up - was still clouded, but relaxed ever so slightly. Someone else might not have even been able to tell the difference. But knowing someone 6,000 or so years had its advantages. 

He was able to coax the thermometer into Crowley’s mouth, tutting when he read the final temperature. 40.7 degrees, entirely too high for his mortal form. 

Heatstroke, most definitely. He couldn’t let Crowley stay in those clothes - all tight, and entirely too warm, especially the leather pants he was so insistent on wearing. Even during a damn heatwave.

Aziraphale took off Crowley’s shirt first. He felt his heartbeat through his fingertips. It was fast, rapid, and weak. 

“Zziraphale…” Crowley whined in a panic. 

“Shh, I’m here,” he reassured him carefully. He spoke in warm tones, trying to keep Crowley from too much stress when his temperature was clearly too high for him to be anything but delirious. Eventually, the shirt was off. The tight leather pants were next.

It was a bit more of a struggle, with a much less willing Crowley. But at the very least the only Effort that was there was the effort Aziraphle had in maneuvering the leather atrocities off of him. 

Finally, Crowley’s skin was bare, pressing into the cool couch. His skin was still red with heat, and if he had been human, Aziraphale imagined he would be blistered with sunburns. 

Aziraphale was impatient. He simply couldn’t stand to see Crowley in such a poor state, still so defenseless and confused by his surroundings. An idea struck him. If he ran a cool bath - not freezing cold, he didn’t want to shock the poor demon and make the situation worse - it might do more good.

That, and draw less attention than constantly performing miracles to keep the heat down in their cottage.

With that in mind, Aziraphale quickly drew a bath up in their bathroom (which they really only had in case of human guests, and mostly because Aziraphlae really enjoyed the clever invention humans called bath bombs). After checking the temperature to make sure it was suitable, he went to retrieve Crowley.

He was lying on his side, curled up and looking dreadful. “Crowley, may I pick you up again?” Aziraphale lay his hands on Crowley’s back, encouraged by the fact he seemed to press into his hands instead of flinching away. 

Crowley murmured something that sounded nearly like a “sure,” and the slight nod confirmed this. Gingerly, Aziraphale scooped him up. He was muttering something that Aziraphale couldn’t quite make sense of, but that was really no surprise given his current state.

His plan was going rather well until they actually made it to the bathroom. When Crowley’s eyes blinked open, they stayed that way, staring at the water. Not noticing, Aziraphale tried to set Crowley in the bath.

Before he could think about what was happening, Crowley was struggling again, letting out a pained yell, hitting, scratching, whatever he could manage. “‘Ziraphale! Aziraphale! Angel!” he cried, his voice not managing to be loud even as he called for help. 

A wave of guilt crashed through Aziraphale as quickly as he realized what Crowley must have thought he was doing. He thought it was holy water, he didn’t realize it was Aziraphale and thought he was going to be killed. The cries of his love brought tears to his own eyes, although it shamed him to admit it. Too emotional. 

He set Crowley on the edge of the bath, safely dry. “Crowley, dearest, I’m here. You’re safe. Please, nothing will hurt you,” he said, repeating similar things until his desperate escape attempts settled, and finally, Crowley’s eyes seemed to actually settle on the angel’s, seeing him.

“Will you get into the bath please?” Crowley shuddered, his eyes closing with a shake of his head. How many times had Crowley been threatened with this, or whatever else hell had up it’s sleeve before the Trial that Aziraphale had gone to? He had been so caught up in his own fear of consequences, Aziraphale hadn’t realized how much it must have affected him.

To Aziraphale Crowley seemed much more careless, always showing up when he wanted him, and saying things that were far too dangerous, too fast. 

Only with his guard forcibly down could he see how he had been wrong. “You must trust me. Please, Crowley,” he all but begged.

A beat, and then, “Anything,” Crowley agreed. 

With a great sigh of relief, Aziraphale helped Crowly into the bath.

…

Crowley caught sight of the bath with the water, and his mind froze with fear. Whoever had him they. They must have found them. They must have found out, about their lie, and he was too dizzy and disoriented to properly fight, but damn if he wouldn’t try.

He thrashed about, calling for his angel, hoping by some miracle he would be heard, that they would make it out of this. His limbs ached and his head spun, but he couldn’t just submit. 

Please, please. I can’t leave him. I can’t leave him alone. 

They seemed to relent, hold relinquished, and the water at a safe distance away. It must be holy water, he could feel… he felt awful. But he could at least tell there was a holy presence and nothing in hell felt like that, so it must be holy water. 

“...dearest, I’m here,” Crowley heard, his heart lightening with a bit of hope. “You’re safe, nothing will hurt you.” 

Aziraphale. He came. 

“Will you get into the bath please?” Crowley’s mind felt fractured with confusion. Why would he ask him that? The angel was safe, he couldn’t want him to go into the holy water. That couldn’t possibly happen.

He couldn’t find the voice to explain it to Aziraphale though, his throat too dry, so he just shook his head, trying to ignore the way it made him feel the world spin. 

“You must trust me. Please, Crowley.” And that was so unfair. He couldn’t say no when Aziraphale used that tone of voice, and he knew that but why…?

Whatever the reason, Crowley could never refuse his angel, and in his feverish mind, not even this. “Anything,” he said, betrayal and confusion comforted only slightly by how soft and pleasingly cool Aziraphale’s hands were as he helped him into the water.

Crowley shuttered, letting out a low wine as he first touched the water, fully expecting to start sizzling away. 

He didn’t.

In fact, he was laying down, half-submerged, and he wasn’t dead.

It hurt to try and think about at first, but Aziraphale waited patiently beside him, comforting him with low voices and hums, and the occasional rubbing of his right shoulder with soft hands. 

Eventually, he had cooled down enough to think properly. Or at least, think, instead of bursts of realizations powered by blind instinct and emotion. 

“Angel,” he said, voice rough and dry. 

“Oh! Crowley, are you feeling much better?” asked Aziraphale, starting at the demon’s sudden inturruption. 

“Nngh. Could be worse. What…?” He trailed off, making a gesture, splashing a bit of water, to reference his current pradiciment. 

Aziraphale huffed. “You gave me quite a scare, you know. You were nearly passed out in the garden, and don’t you know not to work in such heat? And with black leather, too. You’ve been practically delirious for a good bit.” Although he tries to sound annoyed, Crowley can easily see through the weak front to his obvious worry and care.

He might feel bad for making Aziraphale worry, but that’ll have to wait until he stops feeling so bad himself. “Nn- uh, yeah,” he agreed, wincing at the sound of his own voice. Too damn loud, it is. His head is still pounding. 

“Is there anything you need?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley thinks about it. 

“Water?” He realized it seemed like a silly thing to ask for, considering he was in a tub full of it. “A cup. For, uh, drinking. Throat hurts,” he quickly explained. Aziraphale looks at him a little strangely, but before he can think, there’s a cup of deliciously cool water being pressed into his hands. 

He takes a long, indulgent sip, savoring how it soothed his dry throat. He could feel the cold as it traveled down to his stomach, making him feel just a bit better. “No need for a miracle, really,” he chastized Aziraphale, voice more tender than biting. 

Aziraphale chuckled self-consciously. “I hate seeing you this way, you know.” And Crowley does know. For mostly immortal beings, death isn’t a concept they deal with often, not for themselves. There’s always the assumption of tomorrow, and thousands of more tomorrows because they weren't really meant to end. 

And Crowley knew that when you had to consider it, it was more frightening and painful than he’d like to remember. He wanted to explain it, but that might’ve meant having to say some rather difficult things, and he was too tired for rather difficult things. “Sorry,” he offered instead, which might have been the easiest sign he still felt a little like shit warmed over. 

Aziraphale gave him a tender smile. “How about we get you to bed? I’m sure you’re tired.”

Crowley nodded and stood up. As he stepped out of the bath, he leaned heavily on Aziraphale. The water got the idea and got out of the way, not wanting to bother to two with any residual dampness. 

With his help, Crowley managed to stagger to their bedroom. He flopped on the bed, a small sound of comfort escaping his lips. “Commere, ‘ngel,” he said, voice muffled by the pillow. 

“I wouldn’t want to make you any warmer,” Aziraphale hesitated, luckily versed in Crowley-speak, with or without most levels of distortion. 

Crowley lifted his head from its comfortable spot and shot him a Look. He might not be able to resist any ask of Aziraphale, but Aziraphale had to surrender to the Look, so it was only a matter of time until a soft, shirtless angel was available for cuddling.

Crowley let the exaustion finally take its natural course, and he was soon asleep, possibly even followed by Aziraphale.

[mamabearcat]

72. “Just smile, I really need to see you smile right now.” - Inukag

Again, Nonny, sorry for the delay in this one. It ended up being a follow on from another ask prompt “Dogs don’t wear clothes...” 

Please note, this one comes with a warning. It mentions non-consensual touching of an intimate nature. 

 - if this is something that would be harmful for you, please don’t read it. It doesn’t go into detail, but I would never want something I had written to be hurtful to others. 

Inuyasha could feel Kagome’s weight slumped against his back as he jogged through the thinning forest, keeping his speed at an easy lope, not wanting to jostle her too much. Usually when he carried her, she moved with him as he ran, shifting her weight to help him as he jumped or turned. It was only the slight movement of her fingers on his shoulders and her head still being upright rather than resting against him that told him she was awake.

Her lack of movement worried him, but he reasoned that she was probably exhausted after being awake all night. Awake, and trying to deal with whatever that sick bastard had put her through while he was knocked out. He could still smell the faint metallic scent of her injuries and his stomach roiled with guilt and fear. Guilt that he hadn’t prevented her getting hurt and fear now that the danger had passed. Fear that it could have been so much worse; just another reminder of how fragile her life was in comparison to his.

Thanks to his half-demon heritage, his own injuries had nearly all healed as soon as the sun had risen – there was a vague ache around his ribs and in his gut where he’d been kicked repeatedly, but other than that, he was good as new. Kagome would have to wait for her human body to repair her cuts and bruises.

He was inordinately proud of her – she’d managed to handle herself well in what must have been a terrifying situation; finding out information and planning for escape when he wasn’t physically able to help her, but still… It shouldn’t have happened at all. He was seething with rage that she’d been hurt, and he’d meant it when he said to her that retribution against the Ronin that had attacked them was only postponed. But it could wait. He wanted, no, he needed to take care of her first.

Using his nose, it didn’t take him long to find the promised hot spring – only a small one, but plenty big enough for Kagome to soak in. The steaming water had a slightly pink tinge; the smell of iron and other minerals in the water was what had helped him find it in the first place. It was secluded, surrounded by towering pine trees and protected by black volcanic rocks on the eastern side.

He nodded. The rocks would provide shade from the mid-morning sun and protection from the cool mountain breeze, and the minerals in the water would help speed the healing of Kagome’s injuries. He squatted down next to the spring on a flat platform of rock, waiting for her to slide off, but there was no movement from her.

“Kagome?”

“Yeah, I’m still here”, she said quietly. She slid off his back slowly, staggering a little as she stood, and he turned quickly to grasp her arms to prevent her falling. “Sorry”, she said, with a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes, “I’m a little tired I guess.”

He didn’t quite know what to say to that, so he remained silent. He wanted to growl when he saw the bruising on her face again – her swollen eye, the mottled bruising on her cheek, the fat lip stretched over the cut in the corner of her mouth. He swallowed down the angry words and sounds, squeezing the tops of her arms gently before letting go. Instead, he squatted down near the water to test the temperature with his hand, watching out of the corner of his eye as she sorted through items in her backpack.

She pulled out her towel, a slightly dirty but unripped shirt and a pair of shorts. His ears twitched in sudden surprise when she angrily shoved the backpack aside with a word that often came out of his own lips, but sounded forced coming from hers.

“For fucks sake!” She tried to close the backpack, but the now broken clasp resisted her efforts, and she growled at it, as if her annoyance would make it suddenly comply.

“Kagome, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing!”, she hissed, turning her back to him and sitting down on the flat section of rock.

“Don’t sound like nothin’.”

He edged a little closer, trying to read her emotions, sniffing as quietly as he could. She was obviously upset; anger and… embarrassment? Anxiety? He could hear her heart rate escalating, the slight salt tang of tears in the air.

“Talk to me Kagome. Tell me what’s wrong.”

He edged even closer, shuffling so that he was sitting shoulder to shoulder with her. She hiccupped a small laugh that sounded suspiciously like it could be the beginning of a sob.

“I don’t… There’s no clean underwear in my backpack.”

Oh. Well, that was a problem he couldn’t really help her with. It wasn’t like he could share his fundoshi with her – she didn’t even wear underclothes like that. He’d seen them in her backpack on more than one occasion while he looked for ramen and ninja snacks, they were nothing like anything he’d seen in his time period before. He rubbed his nose a little self-consciously. “Could ya wash some in the hot spring, maybe?”

She huffed out an angry noise. “No. I don’t have any in my backpack. He pulled everything out, and I couldn’t find it all in the dark.”

That’s right. The Ronin had gone through her bag, looking for valuables. He remembered how she’d been crawling around on her hands and knees in the darkness, trying to find items to help them escape. He guessed it would have been difficult; and right then, their focus had been on survival rather than possessions. He knew she had plenty of those things she called panties in that clothing chest in her bedroom. She just needed something to get by until they returned through the well, he guessed.

“What about the one’s ya wearin’ – could ya wash those?” he tried helpfully, turning his head to look at her profile. He was totally unprepared for the way her expression suddenly crumpled, the back of her hand coming up to hide her mouth as hot tears ran down her cheeks.

“Th-They’re t-torn”, she sobbed, and a pure bolt of horror stabbed through his gut. He moved to kneel before her, hands hovering, wanting to hold her. Comfort her. Then the horror was pushed aside by the heaviness of guilt. His fault. He hadn’t been able to protect her from this.

“But you said he…” He could hear his voice quavering. “Kagome…”

She shook her head. “Wasn’t him”, she managed to get out between sobs. “Owner of the b-brothel. Wanting to ch-check her new merchandise!” she spat vehemently, raising her eyes to his. He was caught by those luminous brown eyes, unable to pull away. “She gave me a f-fat lip when I refused to undress for her. A-and then t-two g-guards held my legs o-open while she looked.”

Her chin dropped, hands twisted violently in her lap, knuckles white, nails scratching. Tentatively he reached out to place his larger hands over hers, gently prising the fingers apart before she could do more damage to her already abused wrists. Wordlessly, he pulled her into his lap, tucking her under his chin, curling himself over her as if to hide her from the cruelty of his world.

Her hands scrabbled in his suikan, grabbing handfuls and holding tight as she sobbed into his chest. He began rocking, rumbling a soft growl within his chest, hoping to calm her. He dropped soft kisses onto her hair, murmured her name. Fuck, he would do anything to take this away. Erase this from her memory. He’d failed her.

After a while, her sobs calmed, and she was silent, only the occasional hiccup from her and the wind through the pines breaking the silence.

“In a way, I was lucky”, she murmured, softly, her hands gentling their hold on his fire rat, stroking the slightly furred surface. “It was a busy night at the teahouse apparently. Some sort of local celebration and all the rooms were already full. So they didn’t need my services last night. Lucky me.”

“Kagome”, he said brokenly. She looked up, eyes widening at the tears in his eyes.

“Hey”, she said softly. “Don’t cry.” She shrugged, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “I’ll get over this. It’s not like I was raped or anything. In the scheme of things, it was nothing. I mean, so many women have it worse than me – so many girls in this era get pulled into that sort of life through no fault of their own. It’s just…” She sighed. “Last night I was so focused on trying to get away, make sure we both got away safely, that I didn’t think about it too much. And then, this morning when I had time to think about it, I sort of got stuck on what might have happened, and I got frightened. Let’s not waste any more time on this. It’s no big deal, right?”

She plastered a ghost of a smile on her face. “Smile with me Inuyasha?” She tugged at his cheek. “Just smile, I really need to see you smile right now.” Her eyes filled with tears again and her smile wobbled, until he managed to produce a wobbly half grin of his own.

He knew what she was doing, because he had done it so often himself. Denial. Diversion. Pretending that it wasn’t so bad, even though the pain was crippling. But even if she forced the memory away because it was too painful for her, he wouldn’t forget what had happened. He would remember, for her.

“Let’s get you cleaned up”, he whispered, his own voice seemingly blocked by the harsh knot of emotion in his throat.  

“Ugh. I’m so stiff, I don’t think I can move right now”, she muttered.

“Then let me help.” Dark brown eyes stared up at him, examining his expression, then she nodded, giving him a tiny but genuine smile, the first real smile he’d seen from her since dawn.

He picked her up, cradling her to his chest, then eased them both slowly into the hot spring, fully clothed. The spring wasn’t too deep, so he was able to sit on the bottom, resting his back against the rocks, with her cradled in his lap. She hissed a little when her injured wrists went under the water, then leaned against him. They stayed that way for about half an hour. Occasionally Inuyasha would drop his cheek onto her hair, rubbing gently, but mostly they sat in comfortable silence, finding no need to fill up the emptiness with meaningless words.

Finally, Kagome shifted in his lap. “I think I’m ready to get clean now”, she said softly. He helped her take off the ruined shirt and dirty skirt, wringing them out and placing them flat on the dark rocks behind them to dry. He took off his suikan, kosode and hakama, rinsing the dried blood from them, stretching them out on the rocks as well, leaving on his fundoshi.

Kagome made him stand still for a moment to make sure he had healed properly, and he rolled his eyes at her, but acquiesced grudgingly. Her fingers traced gently over where he’d been kicked the night before, pleased to see that there were only a few pale yellowing bruises to show for last night’s previously severe injuries.

He reached over towards her backpack, rummaging in it carefully, trying not to get things wet, keeping his back to her as she carefully removed her underwear, ducking down into the water so only her shoulder’s showed above it. He placed them both onto the rock to dry without comment, swallowing the growl that wanted to escape when he noticed the tear down the side seam of the panties, only a hastily tied knot in the fraying waist elastic holding them together.

“There’s no soap”, she said resignedly as he continued his search, “I already checked.”

“Wasn’t lookin’ for soap, I was lookin’ for this”, he said triumphantly, dragging out her second small first aid kit from a side pocket of her backpack. “Guess he didn’t find this one.”

“Do you know what you’re doing with that?” she teased, as he plonked it on the rock next to her.

“Keh. I been watchin’ you use it often enough. How hard can it be?” he grinned back. The grin faded as he looked at the bruising on her face again. He sighed, pulling a saline wipe from the packaging, then wiped it gently over her bruised cheek, and the cut on her lip. She winced, and he couldn’t help the small whine her movement of pain pulled from him.

“I’m so sorry Kagome”, he said softly, dabbing at her lip with a gentle touch.

Kagome frowned at him. “Inuyasha”, she said sternly. “Are you the one that backhanded me? Did you punch me? Was it you that treated my body with disrespect?”

His eyes flicked downwards to the bruising finger marks on the tops of her breasts, clearly visible under the water, then flicked away again, off to the side. He shook his head jerkily, ears flattened.

“Then you don’t owe me an apology”, she said firmly. Her smaller hands moved to his cheeks, making sure he couldn’t turn his head away from her. “You are my friend Inuyasha. I care about you, so very much.” She smiled a wobbly smile. “You do a lot to look after me, protect me. And sometimes, not so very often, I look after you. I get to try and protect you. And I’m happy to. It means a lot to me that sometimes you need me too. That’s the way it works, okay?” Her eyes held his. “I will not allow you to blame yourself for this. Are we clear?”

“Yeah…”

“Right then.”

He sighed, then turned his attention back to the first aid kit. He found a tube of ointment she’d often used on his injuries and rubbed it carefully onto her cheek and lip. Kagome restrained herself from telling him antiseptic cream would do little to help a bruise, knowing that he needed to do something physical to help. It couldn’t hurt, and if it helped him, then where was the harm?

They lingered in the hot spring until their clothes had dried, Kagome joking that usually he would have come and told her to get her lazy human butt out of the spring by now.

He mock glared at her. “Cheeky wench. It’s only because you and Sango sit in there and gossip. And there’s only so long I can keep a leash on Miroku ya know.”

Kagome giggled, only wincing slightly, and his heart suddenly felt lighter. He got out of the hot spring, making her giggle even more as he shook out his hair, shaking water droplets everywhere like a dog would. He silently placed a safety pin from the first aid kit on top of her torn underwear, then turned his back, shrugging on his own clothes.

As soon as Kagome gave him the all clear to turn around, he cleaned her wrists with a saline wipe, then put antiseptic and a bandage on each one, kissing each wrist carefully.

“Ready to go find the others?” he asked carefully.

The wide smile she gave him this time was genuine. “I’m ready.”

[theemightypen]

50. Arranged Marriage, eomer x lothiriel

So because I have -1000000 self control, y’all get a sneak peak of the arranged marriage AU I have planned for sometime in the next 8 years, where Eomer and Lothiriel end up having a political marriage pre-War

Anyways, here ya go, nonny!

–

“My lady! My lady, come quickly!”

Lothiriel blinks in surprise as Layfled all but yanks her towards the doors. It is not like the girl to be so improper, nor hasty, and alarm begins to set in.

“Layfled, what is so urgent?”

“Grima is needling Lord Eomer again! I fear he will not keep his temper this time.”

That is cause for fear, for there is no one in Edoras that Wormtongue dislikes so thoroughly as Eomer. Whether it is because of his renown as a warrior, his position as heir-presumptive to the throne, or the fact that there is no one in Middle Earth that Eomer dislikes so much as Wormtongue, Lothiriel cannot say, but he should no better than to tangle with the King’s slippery advisor. Grima has been amassing more and more power in recent months and there’s no telling what he plans to do with it, besides ill.

So Lothiriel hurries, heart in her throat, towards the main hall of Meduseld.

The sight that greets her is a terrifying one: her husband, with his arm at Wormtongue’s throat, hissing something so angry and so cruel that she nearly flinches, even though there is no denying that the sentiment was likely justly earned.

“Too long have you watched my sister,” she hears him hiss, “too long have you haunted her steps.” 

“Eomer–” She starts to say, so afraid for him that she can barely speak, but it is too late. Some of Grima’s men are already gripping his shoulders, pulling him off the slighter man.

“You see much, Eomer, son of Eomund,” the snake is saying, his tone filled with a hateful sort of glee. “Too much.”

Lothiriel gasps as one of the men punches Eomer in the stomach. “Stop! Stop this at once!”

They all turn to her, even Grima, and she forces herself not to flinch under his beady stare.

“Lothiriel,” Eomer starts, “go, do not concern yourself–”

“Do not–! You are my husband and my utmost concern,” she interrupts.

“Touching,” Grima drawls. “And good timing, my lady, for you will not have to hear of your husband’s punishment from any false source.” 

“Punishment? For what?”

“For warmongering, to start. For failing to serve his King in the way he requires–”

Eomer snarls. “It is not I who is failing him, wyrm–”

“No one can question his loyalty! He is Rohan’s greatest protector–”

“You are young,” Grima interrupts, “and biased, I’m afraid. Too long has your husband been given a pass on his more…questionable activities due to his cousin’s influence. But now, with Prince Theodred gone, our King’s eyes have been opened to what he truly is.”

Lothiriel’s hands tremble with the effort of not slapping him. “You dare. This is overreaching, Grima, even for one such as you.”

“Oh, I have only begun. I am glad you are here, my lady. It will spare me the trouble of having to inform you of your husband’s banishment at a later time.”

The air is all but forced from her lungs. Banishment!

“You have no authority here!” Eomer cries, struggling against the men who hold him. “Your orders mean nothing!”

“Oh, but this order does not come from me,” says Grima. He pulls out a roll of vellum and unrolls it with a gleeful flourish. “It comes from the King. He signed it this morning.”

“Theoden King would never,” Lothiriel says hotly, but the signature is there, stark against the paper, and she feels sick.

The men begin to drag Eomer away, looking far too happy to be doing so, and she darts forward. 

“No! This is not right! How can you justify this?”

“My lady,” Gamling is there, gently gripping her arm, “you cannot question the King’s will.”

“You call this Theoden’s will? Banishing his sister-son, his heir, his greatest captain? It is Grima’s will, not his!”

“My lady,” says Grima, smiling in that horrible way of his, “I assure you I am more than happy to send you with your husband, if that is what you desire.”

“No!” Eomer cries, still struggling against his captors and she shakes Gamling off long enough that she can reach for his hand. The men glare at her but her presence–her closeness–is enough to stop Eomer’s angry fighting. She reaches for him but he is dragged out of her reach, just for spite.

“Give us a moment, for pity’s sake!” She cries. “Have you no hearts?”

“Traitors deserve neither moments nor pity,” intones Grima. “Surely you, as a daughter of princes, should understand that.”

“Lothiriel, stay,” Eomer says, agony clear in his voice, “you must stay where you are safe, I could not bear it otherwise–”

How can I feel safe knowing you are not, she thinks, but that will not help now.

“I will stay,” she says, “and Eowyn will be with me–we will help each other, I swear–”

“You presume too much of your sister-in-law, my lady. Eowyn has responsibilities to her lord king, not to the foreign wife of a traitor–”

Eomer hisses again, something fierce and low in Rohirric and earns another swift punch to the stomach for his efforts. Lothiriel cannot help the whimper that tears itself from her throat. She steps up, unheading of Gamling’s murmur for caution behind her–how can she focus on anything else other than her husband, her mighty, brave, strong, good, husband, being so unjustly treated?

She takes Eomer’s face between her hands, ignoring the guards that keep her from embracing him the way she wants to. 

“Stay safe,” Lothiriel says, “you must promise me that you will be safe. That you will come back to me–”

“Lothiriel,” he starts, his dark eyes bright with what must be tears, something she never could have fathomed before now. But she never thought Theoden could have been persuaded to think so poorly of him, never thought that Theodred would truly fall, never thought that Eowyn would turn so brittle–

“I love you,” she manages to choke out, because if she does not say it now, she may never get the chance. “I love you, Eomer, be safe, please–”

She only gets one glimpse of his shocked expression before the guards haul him off in truth. Gamling is at her side faster than she can blink, standing steadfast between her and Grima’s malevolent stare. 

“Come away, my lady,” he says, putting his arm around her shoulders in a way that makes her miss her father so suddenly she nearly weeps, “come away, you should not have to see this–”

“Oh, but she should,” Grima murmurs. “Lest she forget that she is a guest of the House of Eorl. And must act accordingly.”

Lothiriel has thought Grima vile the entirety of the time she’s known him, but the hate that sears in her stomach now is like nothing else she’s ever felt. She will not let him see her hurt, her fear. Not now. Not ever. For Eomer, for Eowyn, she must do that much. She must stand tall and strong against this poisonous creature. 

“I am a member of the House of Eorl, Grima, son of Galmod. And a daughter of the House of Dol Amroth. I may not have the foresight that my cousin possesses but I say this now, without a doubt, that all the evil and pain you inflict on others will be brought back to you ten-fold.” At this, she smiles, in that razorsharp way Ivriniel has always tried to teach her and has remained out of her grasp–until now. Perhaps it can only be brought on by one so loathsome. “And I very much look forward to that day, my lord.” 

Grima still looks too smug and satisfied, but she can see that she’s shaken him, just a little. 

So she turns on her heel, head held high, in search of Eowyn.