#time's going by far too fast. listening to edge of dawn is making me emotional rn oh my god

[noxtivagus]

hmm

[jaskierswolf]

A birthday gift for the ever lovely @the-blondey! 🥳

Geraskier featuring courting gifts and a side helping of friends to lovers! (1.8k)

_____

Geralt hated shopping. He usually only bothered for ingredients that he hadn’t been able to find in between towns, or to drop into the blacksmith. He picked up supplies at the inns he stayed in, or ate what he could hunt or forage in the woods. He certainly never browsed the market like this, not without Jaskier at least.

But Jaskier wasn’t there.

Jaskier was still teaching a lecture at the university, and he probably had no idea that Geralt was even in town. This whole shopping business would be a lot better if he could ask Jaskier for help, but Jaskier was the one person that he couldn’t ask for help. He sighed, pressing his fingers to his forehead. He couldn’t even talk to Roach. She was safely stabled back at the inn.

“This shouldn’t be so hard,” he grumbled to himself. “It’s Jaskier. He likes pretty things and expensive trinkets.”

The only problem was there were a lot of pretty things and expensive trinkets on the tables, and the merchants were all claiming their goods were the best. There was so much noise, so many people. He growled under his breath and clenched his fists. It was too much. It needed to be perfect. Jaskier was too important for anything less than perfect.

He closed his eyes. Jaskier. His eyes, his scent, the wind blowing through his hair, the soft warmth of his smile. He took a deep breath. His head was still spinning but it was manageable. He glanced back at the table in front of him and then up at the merchant. The poor man was white as a sheet and he reeked of fear. Geralt hummed and then pushed through the crowd to the next stall.

Daggers.

“Hmm,” Geralt scrutinised the wares. They wouldn’t be up to the standards of witchers but they looked sturdy enough to kill a bandit or two. Most importantly, they were ornate, beautiful and glittering in the light of the sun.  The blades themselves were a variety of shapes and sizes, but Geralt’s eyes were drawn to a waved silver blade with Elder engraved along the length. His Elder speech wasn’t perfect, and he struggled to read the elven language but he understood enough to know the dagger was intended as a betrothal gift.

His fingers hovered over the hilt, eyes glancing up to meet the merchant’s gaze. Unless the previous merchant, they had a gentle smile on their face. Their posture was relaxed and their scent wasn’t soured with fear. He already liked them more than the first merchant.

“May I?”

They nodded. “Of course, but I’ll warn you witcher, it’s not cheap and hardly suited for your trade.”

“It’s not for me,” he grunted.

Light dawned in their eyes and their smile widened. “Oh well, in that case you ought to know the implications—”

“I know.”

He picked up the dagger and weighed it in his hands. The balance of the blade was good. He ran a finger along the edge, hissing as it cut into his skin. Blood seeped from the small wound before it healed without a trace.

The merchant’s slight hitch in breath gave away their astonishment. “Impressive.”

“A necessity in my line of work. How much?” he asked, praying to all the gods that he didn’t believe in that he could afford it. The dagger was perfect. Anything else he found now would be a disappointment.

“More than you can afford, witcher,” they admitted with a sad smile “but I might be able to strike a deal. I have work for you, if you’re willing.”

Geralt glanced down at the blade in his hands and then back at them. “I’m in.”

____________

Jaskier was scribbling away at his desk when the doors flew open. Larissa, was standing in the doorway, out of breath and red in the face. Their hair falling from the bun at the back of their head. Jaskier looked up from his notebook, tongue still stuck between his teeth. He scratched his cheek with his quill and smiled brightly at them.

“Larissa!” he greeted warmly and placed his quill on the desk, leaving the notebook open so the ink could dry. “What can I do for you, my dear?”

“You have a visitor, professor,” they gasped, wrapping their arms around their stomach as they tried to catch their breath.

Jaskier frowned. He hadn’t been expecting anyone and his open office hours weren’t until that afternoon. His students were normally better at giving him fair warning should they require him. He pulled on his doublet buttoning it up to his chin, just in case. He had been told off by the dean on more than one occasion and he was currently on thin ice. It didn’t matter how well his lectures did, one had to wear appropriate clothing. It was all incredibly dull. It made him yearn for the road, for Geralt.

He waved at Larissa, a flamboyant flick of his wrist. “Yes yes, please, show them in.”

Larissa nodded and left the room, leaving Jaskier to ponder who his guest could be. He tried not to hope, but his love was a burning fire that couldn’t be controlled and even the smallest chance that Geralt was here set his heart fluttering in his chest.

“Oh stop it, Jask,” he muttered to himself. “He’s not here.”

“Who’s not here?” came the gruff reply.

Jaskier felt his face light up and he bounded across the room just as the witcher appeared in the doorway. “Geralt!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt greeted him, a fond smile on his lips, his eyes softer than the velvet pillows that adorned Jaskier’s bed.

“I wasn’t expecting you so soon, witcher,” Jaskier laughed, putting one hand on his hip and cocking his head. “Did you miss me, darling?”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes and pulled Geralt into a hug. “Well, I missed you and your grunting.”  He pulled away all too soon and licked his lips, trying to still his beating heart. It was racing far too fast and he knew that Geralt could hear it. It was a miracle that Geralt hadn’t realised why already. “What brings you to Oxenfurt, Geralt?”

“I have something for you,” Geralt grumbled, not meeting Jaskier’s gaze. He pulled on the straps that held his sword on his back, and Jaskier would almost say that the witcher looked… nervous?

That couldn’t be right?

He’d seen Geralt take down all manner of monsters and men… why would he be nervous of him?

“Riiight, well… here I am, at your disposal!” Jaskier gestured widely and gave a little bow, winking at his witcher, trying to make light of the situation before his own nerves could get the best of him.

“It’s umm… well… fuck,” Geralt growled and pinched the bridge of his nose, then he pulled a bundle of cloth from his pocket and handed it to Jaskier.

Jaskier tentatively took the packet. It was heavier than he expected, solid under his fingers. He narrowed his eyes and glanced at Geralt. “What is it?”

“Open it.”

Jaskier nodded. That would make sense. It was a gift after all, but why would Geralt be giving him a present? It wasn’t even his birthday. He wasn’t sure that Geralt even knew when that was. “It’s not going to kill me is it?” he teased gently.

Geralt rolled his eyes and scoffed. “It might if you don’t hurry up and open it.”

Jaskier gaped. “Well now! That’s just rude! Impatient brute.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt warned with a low snarl.

“Ok ok!”  he snapped, his hands shaking as he pulled back the cloth. His heart would stop pounding and his legs felt weak. He gasped quietly as he saw the bejewelled dagger resting in the fabric. “Geralt?”

“Look closer,” Geralt muttered, his golden eyes were watching Jaskier with such intensity that he wanted to melt into the floor. It was almost too much. Whatever was sparking between them was about to change Jaskier’s life, he was sure of it. It felt too momental to be simply a gift.

He passed the cloth bundle back to Geralt and slowly unsheathed the dagger. The silvery blade glittered in the candlelight. Jaskier stopped breathing as he traced the inscription with his fingers. It was written in Elder but Jaskier had had the best education Lettenhove could offer, and with the rumours going around about his mother’s fidelity and the elves, no one was surprised that Elder Speech was one of the languages he’d been forced to learn.

He swallowed and finally sucked in a shaky breath. “Geralt… Is this? Do you know…” he trailed off, tears were welling up in his eyes and his voice failed him, too thick with emotion.

“I know,” Geralt said softly, bringing a hand up to cup Jaskier’s cheek.

Jaskier whimpered, leaning into the touch. “It’s. It’s not a proposal,” Geralt said quickly but continued before Jaskier heart could break. “More of a proposal… to propose?”

Jaskier felt like crying, honestly it was a miracle that he wasn’t already. He’d loved Geralt for years, decades even. He’d given up on Geralt ever loving him back a long time ago, and now Geralt was… courting him?

It was archaic, a tradition found only in the depth of the library of Lettenhove and Oxenfurt. He felt like he’d stepped into a fairytale.

“Am. Am I dreaming?” he stammered. It felt like the only logical explanation.

“Don’t think so,” Geralt said with a shake of his head.

Jaskier nodded, then spun round on his heels with his hand buried into his hair. When he met Geralt’s gaze once again he narrowed his eyes. “And you’re not joking?” he asked, waving the point of the dagger in Geralt’s face.

Geralt chuckled and gently lowered the dagger with his hand. “No, Jaskier.”

“Oh cock!” Jaskier swore and then clapped his hand over his mouth. “You really mean it?”

Oh praise Melitele! Fuck it, praise bloody Lilit too. Praise any good that was listening in.

“I mean it,” Geralt reassured him with a heavy sigh. “and I’d really appreciate an answer?”

“Fuck, bollocks, shit!” Jaskier whined. “I mean. Yes, on all the gods, Geralt. Of course, it’s yes! Do you have any idea how long I’ve loved you?”

Geralt winced, his smile faltering. “Sorry, it takes me more time. Never even thought I could, not until you.”

Jaskier giggled, fucking giggled, and placed his hand on Geralt’s cheek. “Oh darling, you have nothing to be sorry for. I would have stayed by your side and loved you in whatever way you allowed me to, even without shiny trinkets and nearly proposal.”

“Hmm,” Geralt smirked “shall I take them back?”

“Don’t you dare!” Jaskier shrieked and ran from his witcher, keeping his new engagement dagger safe and sound. “It’s mine now, Geralt!”

Geralt laughed and ran after him, only stopping when he had Jaskier trapped against a wall. The dagger remained in Jaskier’s firm grip, forgotten as their lips crashed together.

[ships-bynoa]

The Titans are almost back, bitches. aka 3x06

Guys, literally every time the titans are together-or even paired up-the episode gets ten times better, but in 6 episodes there is simply not enough Kory and Gar. I can easily forget that when I’m basking in the episode they are in, especially when they’re giving us family dynamics.

Kory:

“You’re not mad that I left. You’re mad I came back.” Kory’s face tells us Blackfire is right on the money, and who would know her better than her sister?

So, Kory, oh boy. Our girl is on edge. She is slowly unraveling and is super vulnerable and raw with Kom around and little sister is going to exploit it and her guilt, which I think she’s carrying a lot of. So far their dynamic has been fascinating because there’s so much to read between them and so many accusations being flung back and forth, from both. From Kory; you sense guilt and even contempt and from Kom there’s envy and resentment, but also there’s a sense of idealization for her older sister, too, which of course, with younger siblings, there always is an element of that. And as an older sibling, there is always an unspoken and sometimes spoken responsibility placed on them for their younger siblings. Parents often don’t realize it, but they can create a lot of tension within siblingships by assigning roles.

They remember home and family very differently, which is often the case, too. Kom was often thrown in the pit and to that, Kory attributes her sister’s constant rebellion as the reason, and yet, Kory herself was a bit of a rule breaker, sleeping with her guard, Fiddei.

Kory was being suffocated by the laws and customs of her home planet; one could say she rebelled by going on a mission, to escape her duties. Home did neither of them any favors because while one rebelled because she did not fit in, the one who did fit in was dying inside, surrounded by little robots and becoming one herself. Being told what to eat, wear and who to love or be friends with is yikes.

I was thinking Kom began her game of manipulation in the bunker, but she really started before that when she sent Fiddei to bring Kory home when she probably intended to kill him all along. After all she would’ve castrated him if she’d had the chance to for sleeping with Kory in the first place. Shortly after Fiddei’s death, Kory flamed out. No powers. Emotionally wrung out from the news her family was dead and now the culprit is here. These two know each other very well and know exactly how to get underneath each other’s skin. Right now Kom is getting underneath Kory’s and our girl is losing patience fast. 

I’m wondering when exactly Dick will tune into Kory’s anxiety-ridden state and step in to support.

Ultimately, I just want to see what truly happened to the girls on their planet and how we have the versions we have now. Like, Kory said to Rachel, “No one is born good or bad, we are defined by our choices.” I get the feeling Kory has given Kom so many chances to make a different choice and has become disillusioned, meanwhile Kom believes nothing she does will give her the respect she feels she deserves anyway, so she may as well blow shit up, figuratively and literally. At least then she’ll have Kory’s attention.

Gar: 

Gar losing it on Dick was so cathartic and yet he could’ve gone much further, considering Dick abandoned him last season to go jail and hallucinate Bruce. It ultimately led to Gar (and Conner) being kidnapped and experimented on by Mercy. It’s actually all the adults fault this happened, but as the leader promoting his family everywhere he goes, he needs to keep his eye on the ball. He would know if he spent five minutes at home with them that Gar is struggling. Last season Gar was #OperationSaveTitans and this season he’s #ThisFamilyIsDying. He’s doing what the adults should be doing, or at least leading the charge on it. He’s the glue, but who will hold him together?

He’s carrying too much emotional responsibility and Dick’s dismissal, because he is fully locked into Gotham and being Batman, makes me mad. Get your head in the game, Grayson. Gotham is going to eat your family while you retread the nostalgic steps of your past.

We all know Dick’s not good at expressing himself emotionally, though he’s usually forced to express something when talking to or being confronted by Kory, so I was proud of him for giving Gar the floor to speak. I just wish Gar spoke about himself, but then again, he needs more time and consistent offers to be heard. I’m happy Dick followed up the conversation up with a bonding/training session. There was definitely pride in Dick’s face because Gar really has come a long way in this group, but he needs MORE SCREEN TIME. I’d like to see the two of them out in the field together the way we’ve seen Kory this season with Gar and Conner. 

I wonder if Gar losing control is the start of all his trauma bubbling up to the surface, will being in Gotham, hunting down a friend be too much?

As a side, has the CGI tiger face gotten worse?

Kom (and Conner):

First thing’s first, what music are we thinking Kom listens to? Probably the kind of music she can break your tailbone to, like, Kendrick Lamar, J. Cole and Jay Z, or Prince, Jimmy Hendrix, Stevie Nicks and Led Zeppelin? Rihanna?

Kom is absolutely a villain this season and if she isn’t, what a waste that’ll be. A mastermind at mind games (see, her picking up the chess piece), who is going to drum up Kory’s paranoia and anxiety around her being there. Trying to kill her suspicion by guilt tripping her while simultaneously being a do good-er to the group, feigning interest in helping the Titans to earn her way in, a tip from our boy, Conner.

She says she wants acceptance and I believe that’s absolutely true, but she doesn’t know how to get that without using power, so she’ll continue to covet acceptance through and with power because according to Kory, she’s always been a climber. Add to that, being born the cursed child and the only royal member born without the gift of fire, something that differentiates them from the common folk, being too frail to participate in the same games as Kory, having a speech therapist be her only friend while being the object of ridicule and you have a villain origin story nicely set up.

I really enjoyed Conner and Kom’s exchange. The boy lit up when he spoke about seeing his family happy and it made me light up. He’s so genuine and has a big heart and Kom is going to take advantage of it, that’s not to say she won’t develop real feelings for him, but she can like him and still use him.

Conner’s “you have to earn your way into the family,” is perhaps an internal and personal struggle he has from sharing blood with Luthor. I think it may come from an insecure place because he was made a titan as soon as he woke up and no one questioned it, but as he’s only half of superman, he’s constantly trying to prove his usefulness for good, which losing Hank has rocked, leaving him vulnerable to Kom’s recognition for his otherness. Their otherness.

She gave us insight into her mind, but also she has likely seized an opportunity to use the vulnerability against Conner and to her favor by making him her kindred. Outcasts. Will she gain influence over him? He’s still young and learning, and trusting, too.

Her interest in him felt layered, ignoring the ugly customs of sex servants, she was also observing Kory’s relationships and ranking them in her sister’s life. Her being able to determine who may have Kory’s interest (which Kory gave away with her vulnerable display of worry over Dick’s welfare in front of Kom) will surely come into play at some point, right? After all, Kom did kill Kory’s last lover/royal guard. This may be me projecting. LOL.

Romantically, I’m waiting to see how they play it before I decide if I like it or not, but so far, they have a nice chemistry. Friendly.

Dick (and Barbara) :

What a lovable dumb ass. 

I was so happy Kory lost it on him and called him on his lone ranger shit, at least when it’s her, even when he’s being an idiot, he’s still listening. “Let’s go.” and I thought it was hilarious that he tried explaining himself, but when Gar called him out, he got all huffy with, “Excuse me, young man.”

Gar asking Kory not to have words with Barbara over Dick getting shot was so funny because Dick’s face seemed to ask the same when she asked how it happened. We love a protective Kory. I’ll be looking at him when it’s his turn to reciprocate.

I don’t like him dismissing their concerns about his personal safety and how it affects them, it’s like he’s learned nothing after running off alone to battle Trigon, or rather has unlearned his lessons of S2. I’d like to see some more permanent emotional growth from him by this season’s end. In his current state, he’s not an exuding leader. He can’t be when he’s still wrapped up in Bruce and all things Gotham. He’s not tuned into Kory’s anxiety, or Conner’s grief and insecurity, or Gar’s emotional burden. 

He’s started making it up to him, but he has much to do in taking Gar’s concerns and emotional needs seriously.

I’m not even going to try and work out the timeline between Barbara and Dick and Dick and old Titans in San Fran and S1. But it doesn’t bode well that Dick’s dream with Barbara ended in a nightmare. 

I wish they’d never did the whole Dick and Dawn relationship in S2 because they’re basically repeating some of the beats in showing us how they don’t work as a couple, only his relationship with Babs makes a lot more sense even though I don't care. Dick has unfinished business with that relationship, Bruce and Gotham and I can only hope he’s wrapped it up for good by this season’s end. I want to see relaxed, smiling and happy Dick in THE PRESENT. I still Babs will be the one to notice and point out Dick's feelings for Kory.

Barbara (outside of Dick) is being downplayed a little, no? Dismissing Dick’s suspicions about Jason when he arrived, showing no knowledge of Jason’s visits to Crane and then taking the bait and moving Crane after he got a light beat down. A commissioner who was also a very capable vigilante is tricked by a recording and goes to meet “Bruce” on her own. I really enjoyed that she could hold her own and the fight scene was really good, but it was a bit baffling that she fell for that ruse. So far, she’s not entirely good at her job.

Dick’s a distraction in his own right and her feelings clearly get in the way, which is why she keeps asking him to leave the precinct and Gotham; because she’s pining a fantasy and he’s ruining it. Lastly, I really like the way Savannah plays Barbara.

Why’d they do that to Tim?? :(

Overall, it was a better episode and I enjoyed it more than latter episodes, but they’re not quite there yet for me. I’m  still waiting for Team Titans.

[stargaze-sunflower]

✨Triplet bonding!!✨

Summary: Louie is worried that he's being left behind.

Ao3 Link     Word Count: 1913

Somewhere in another room in the mansion – somewhere far enough away so as not to startle him but still close enough to hear – a clock chimed midnight.

Louie was sitting huddled on the ground against the wall near the front door, his hood over his head and his phone in his lightly shaking hands, staring don at the lit screen displaying countless unanswered texts. He’d been trying to contact Huey and Dewey for hours; casually at first, but then growing more and more restless.

Sometime around noon, Huey, Dewey, and Webby had left the house, going somewhere to do something. They hadn’t told him where they were going, and they certainly hadn’t invited him, so it was safe to say that it was meant to be an adventurous outing.

And while Louie didn’t want to go, he also didn’t want to be left behind. He didn’t want to be in danger, but he didn’t want his family to be in danger either, so there was really no way to win. There was no angle out.

His siblings used to ask him if he wanted to go, of course, and sometimes he could get up the nerve to shrug and agree, but other times he’d feign apathy and decline. Somewhere along the way, ‘no’ became the only answer he could give, and he supposed that it only made sense that they’d eventually stop asking. He’d known that it would happen, he’d known for a while, but it still stung to watch them leave and not know why.

Huey or Dewey or Webby used to tell him all about their plans – which would surely go south, at some point – and then they’d invite him to come along. Louie would be frozen for several seconds, fighting with himself and trying not to let it show on his face. If he said yes, he’d spend the day choking on terror and wishing he’d said no; if he said no, he’d spend the day tense and worried and distracted, wishing he’d said yes.

The more he said yes, the more frequently bad things happened to him, and the more he wanted to say no. It was a vicious cycle and a dangerous game, one that he never seemed to win. He dreaded the question being asked, but he equally dreaded the day they’d stop asking – the day they finally gave up on him.

And that day had finally come, the realization dawning on him as he watched his siblings leave the house together with no indication of where they were going. His heart had plummeted to an all-time low, and it hurt even though he’d seen it coming.

He’d held out for about an hour before he gave in and texted to check on them. Webby didn’t have a phone, so he’d been left attempting to text his brothers on and off for the rest of the day, to no avail. His messages became increasingly frantic, in a lowkey ‘Louie’ kind of way. Eventually, he found Dewey’s phone in their shared room, because he’d apparently forgotten it in his rush to leave the house on an adventure that Louie hadn’t been—

Anyway. He focused his efforts on Huey, who continued to not answer. And that wasn’t normal, because Huey always answered, especially when it was family. Around the time the sun went down, Louie’s messages stopped sending altogether, and his panic had overwhelmed him so much that he’d sat on Huey’s bed for an hour just trying to calm down.

Then he’d paced in their room for an unknown amount of time before finally giving in and going downstairs to stand watch by the front door. He continued his pacing for a while, but eventually his knees became too shaky and his breaths were coming too fast and shallow, so he’d pulled his hood over his head and hunched down against the wall in an attempt to make himself as small as he felt, which in reality would be physically impossible without Gyro’s shrinking ray.

The clock chimed midnight, and Louie’s resolve to not completely break down crumbled. Walls only held for so long, after all, and his had been flimsy to begin with.

Tears collected in his eyes and dripped down his face, not at all deterred by him closing them. The ball of nerves that had been strangling his lungs expanded and squeezed tighter, writhing like a living thing, and he brought his hands up over his heart as if that would help, as if his hands could ever do anything but hurt.

His phone clattered to the floor, the screen going dark and leaving Louie alone in the shadows. He gasped at the sound of it hitting the ground, irrationally startled by it and it put him even more on edge. He buried his head in his knees, crying like he was five years old and Huey and Dewey had gone to play a game without him.

He missed them. He missed Huey, he missed Dewey, he missed Webby. He—

“Louie?”

He’d missed the sound of the door opening.

Louie stiffened at the voice, even though he’d been wanting to hear it for hours now. He stayed still for a moment, staring at his legs at he listened to the hesitant shuffling of the people who’d just come inside. He felt cold and too warm at the same time.

A gentle hand landed on his shoulder suddenly, and he jumped a bit, finally lifting his head to make hesitant eye contact with Huey, who was kneeling in front of him with a terribly concerned look in his eyes, which were not-so-subtly checking him for any kind of injury. Dewey was standing behind him, fidgeting from side to side. Louie looked away and sniffed, hugging his knees tighter to his chest.

“What’s wrong?” Huey asked, worry making his voice higher pitched than it usually was. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

Louie shook his head, certain that his voice would break if he tried to talk, and he wiped at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, making an effort to pull himself back together. Now that he didn’t have to worry about his brother’s safety, he could start worrying about how on earth he was going to explain what they’d walked in on.

“No, I— I’m not hurt. Nothing happened,” Louie said, and he cleared his voice when it came out weak hoarse. He tried for a wry smile, but was certain that it fell flat. “Welcome home?”

Huey’s brow furrowed, and he fully plopped down in front of him, sitting cross legged and moving his hand from his shoulder to hold Louie’s own, because Huey probably remembered that that helped, when Louie was overwhelmed.

“This doesn’t seem like nothing,” Dewey said, speaking up for the first time as he came closer. “It seems like a lot of something.”

Louie glanced at his brother as he dropped down to sit next to him against the wall, and without really thinking about it, Louie drifted a little closer.

“It wasn’t a lot of something,” Louie said quietly, when it seemed like no one else was going to talk. “It was more like— like too much of nothing.”

No siblings, no information, no texts. Nothing.

“Where did you go?” Louie changed course, trying to ask the question without making it sound like an accusation.

He couldn’t see it, but he could tell that Huey and Dewey had shared a look. Louie hunched a little further in on himself, already feeling like he shouldn’t have asked, even though chances were that his brothers didn’t mind.

“Okay, so, it’s kind of a long story,” Dewey began, a little awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. “You’ve seemed a little down lately, so we wanted to surprise you with, like, a cupcake or something, but then Webby saw a thrift store or antique shop or whatever it was, and she thought she could find you some shiny stuff you might like—”

“Long story short, we stumbled across a cursed object and dealt with the consequences for ten hours straight,” Huey interrupted, and Louie finally noticed that his brother was missing his hat. “The thing kept teleporting us to random parts of the world, and teleporting back to us if we tried to throw it away, and it was really just a whole mess. My phone was fried.”

“Oh,” Louie said weakly, unsure of which emotion to feel. There was warmth that his siblings cared enough to want to do something nice, and there was worry that even a simple outing turned dangerous so quickly, and there was sheepishness at how much he felt he’d overreacted. “I guess that’s why you didn’t answer the phone, huh?”

“You were trying to call me?” Huey asked, and Louie shrugged tiredly. “Why?”

“I was worried,” Louie said, which didn’t cover even half of what he’d been feeling, but he was too exhausted to really get into it. It explained enough anyway; Huey and Dewey would know what he meant.

“Oh,” Huey said, sounding a little guilty, and Louie squeezed his hand.

“It’s fine,” said Louie, heading off any apology at the pass. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Dewey grabbed his other hand, and Louie found himself leaning into him, smiling a little when Dewey switched to hugging instead. Huey was remarkably good at comforting Louie with words, but Dewey gave the best hugs. Not that he would ever tell him that.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Huey asked, and Louie opened eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed.

“…Not tonight,” Louie answered, blinking slowly and yawning, offering Huey a tired smile. “Sleep would be better.”

Huey met Dewey’s eyes above his head, a twinkle in his eye, and Louie didn’t have time to protest before Dewey was picking him up and slinging him over his shoulder.

“Wha— Dewey!” Louie hissed, as quietly as he could. ”Put me down!”

“Nerp!” Dewey shot back enthusiastically, shifting Louie so that he was getting more of a piggyback ride than a fireman’s carry. “We’re gonna hang blankets from my bunk and sleep in yours.”

Louie sighed and went limp except for his arms, which he linked around Dewey’s neck as they started to their room. Huey walked past them with an amused smirk on his face and fond eyes, and Louie glared playfully.

“Are we inviting Webby to this sleepover?” Louie asked sarcastically.

“Of course!” Huey said, smiling back at them. “She would’ve come in with us, but she wanted to climb through the second floor window.”

Louie chuckled a little, feeling his breathing finally return to a healthy speed.

“I was wondering about that,” Louie said, grinning a little. “I guess you didn’t lose her in some faraway place, then.”

“’Course not,” Dewey said lightly, completely unaware that he was about to say something very important. “No one gets left behind in this family! That’s like, the number one rule.”

Louie blinked, the last of the tension melting out of his frame. No one gets left behind. They weren’t ever going to leave him on purpose, and if one day they didn’t have a choice, then chances were that they’d come back. It wasn’t complete certainty, but it never would be, with his family. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough.

Louie fell asleep before they made it to their room, and he woke up surrounded by his siblings.

It was more than enough.

[ezrasarm]

For the requests 23. “Shh, it was just a bad dream. Just a dream, okay? None of it was real.” From the prompt list? Doesn't have to be the exact quote I just like the concept. Any character you want!

The Weight Of It All

Pairing: Din Djarin x Reader

Word count: 2.3K

Warnings: Angst (oops 🤭), mentions of violence and death, my failed attempt at redeeming it with fluff, severe lack of proofreading because I’m lazy

A/N: This was meant to be mindless fluff and cuddles and then whatever this is happened and I wound up accidentally incorporating @wille-zarr’s request too (I don’t know how this keeps happening). A huge thank you to @chaotic-noceur for beta reading most of this bad boy and of course for providing moral support, ideas and probably my favourite line in the whole damn thing and to @din-damn-djarin not only for providing the prompt (or at least one of them) but also for providing ideas for her own request cause I know that kinda takes the magic out of it.

gif by @lucy-sky

Din noticed something had shifted recently. You had been distant. More withdrawn. You thought you were being discrete but he had heard you rattling around the old ship in the early hours of the morning to quell your busy mind. You had been losing sleep, there was no question of that. But over what was still a mystery to him. He kept his inquiries to himself for the most part. Opting to observe your new habits and see what he could extrapolate on his own. He didn’t want to hit a nerve by asking you the wrong question.

Travelling alone for so long before he met you meant he wasn’t well versed in this kind of interaction. The kind that involved prying into another’s mind and picking apart their thought processes to try and understand their emotions. It all seemed too complicated. He knew how uncomfortable it could be when others tried to do it to him. Yet when you asked, it came so naturally. Like you could sense just when he was ready to broach those heavy topics that had been weighing on his mind for too long. 

As little as he expressed it, it always made him feel better once he got it out in the open. It was small things. A simple “You alright?” Or “What’s on your mind?”. Just a reminder that someone- you- were there. He wished he could do the same for you. Say a few words and make all your worries and problems disappear but he didn’t know how. The words never sounded right coming out of his mouth. And the longer he danced around the subject trying to figure it out, the longer you suffered on your own.

It was sudden when a jolt ran through the ship. Din had only excused himself for a few moments to go and check on the kid, leaving you at the controls. Lately, it was like the little green creature could sense your weariness and it was making him restless too. He kept acting up when you tried to put him to bed. Wailing when either of you left the room for more than ten seconds. It was as though he thought you were never going to come back. When a second jolt shuddered through the hull causing the entire ship to begin quaking violently Din was sure you were under siege or had entered some kind of asteroid field. He came scrambling up the ladder and into the cockpit as fast as he could but when he got there he found no such thing.

It was like muscle memory had taken over entirely as he flicked switches and pressed buttons frantically to get the craft back under control. His heart was pounding in his ears from the sudden kick of adrenaline when he turned to ask what the hell had just happened. There was actually a hint of anger that had swirled amongst his panic. He couldn’t believe you would be so irresponsible as to put all of you at risk- the child at risk- yourself at risk. But when his gaze fell on you, out cold in the captain’s seat, all those thoughts sublimated. There was a brief moment that he thought you had hurt yourself. That you’d hit your head in all the commotion and got a concussion. But when he was finally able to turn his full attention to you, he quickly came to the realization that that was not the case at all. You were asleep. For what he was sure was the first time in a long time. It suddenly dawned on him just how deprived you had to have been.

As mesmerizing as the view was, the Razor Crest’s cockpit was not a quiet place. He himself had troubles nodding off there if he willed it upon himself. He thought about how overwhelming the exhaustion must have been for you to fall asleep in the middle of all that and now all he could do was curse himself for not knowing what it was that kept you up at night. He considered moving you to his own bed where it was warmer and quiet and you could rest more comfortably but he also knew he couldn’t live with himself if he were the one to disturb your much-needed repose. Instead, he opted for tucking a spare blanket over your crumpled form and sitting himself down in the copilot’s seat to avoid a repeat offence of the crest’s most recent blunders.

Rolling his head against the headrest Din had just flicked the ship into autopilot and leaned back to try and get a moment of shut-eye for himself. He let his half-lidded gaze fall on your peaceful features, the soft curve of the junction between your neck and shoulder and the slight parting of your lips as your jaw hung open lazily. He focused on the subtle rise and fall to your chest as you breathed in and out each breath. He thought he was just on the edge of sleep when you shot upright. A sudden gasp escaped you as your eyes flung wide open. It was like your head had been held underwater for far too long by some invisible force and this was your first fighting breath for air. “Din,” you sputtered out in your terror, blinded by the sting of tears in your eyes. He didn’t have time to notice it was his name that slipped off your tongue subconsciously as you grasped for any semblance of safety you could get before he was kneeled in front of you, gloved hands gripping either side of your face, brushing the hair out of your line of sight so the only place your gaze could land was on him.

“Shh, it was just a bad dream.” He hushes in an attempt to soothe you despite his heart hammering against his ribcage. “Just a dream, okay? I’m right here.” He repeats quietly, raking his gloved fingers through your hair in an action that he wasn’t sure was more comforting to you or himself. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” He hummed through the static of his modulator when your stuttering breaths finally began to settle, resting the cool beskar of his helmet against your worried brow in what he hoped was an act of reassurance. He was just getting ready to open his mouth and ask what was troubling you when you beat him to it.

“I can’t make it stop.” You whispered through a shuddering breath, still clutched to the fabric that was peeking out from beneath his beskar for dear life when he pulled back to study your face. It suddenly dawned on him that it wasn’t that you couldn’t sleep. It’s that you were avoiding it. “Every time I close my eyes I see him and I-” Another sob cuts you off but Din’s mind is already racing with the possibilities. Questions of who this man was- what he had done to you- when he had even gotten the chance, were all swirling around his head twisting into a blind rage he didn’t know how to exert.

“Who?” He asks, disliking the way the urgency in his voice made you flinch slightly as a glint of a tear breached your waterline.

“The man on Jakku.” His heart dropped at that. He hadn’t even considered it. Last month the two of you had been on the desert planet for what was meant to be a simple job. Things went south and before you knew it a man was dead at your feet, a blaster trembling in your hand. Din had admired you for it. He had sung you praise over the way you handled it with such composure. But that didn’t help the fact that every time you let your eyes slip shut you were met with the cold dead gaze of your victim staring back at you. It hadn’t even occurred to him the kind mental toll it would take on you.

“You did what you had to-”

“I’m a killer, Din.” He didn’t miss the disdain laced in your voice at the mention of the word and he couldn’t help but wonder if you held that same contempt for him given the way he made his living.

“He didn’t give you any options, cyare.” He tries to reason with you but you’re too caught up in your own flurry of emotions for his words to reach you.

“He could have had a life- a wife to go home to- a family who depended on him-”

“And he was trying to kill yours!” He pleaded. It was the loudest you had ever heard him raise his voice before. He had regretted it the moment the words passed his lips but he needed you to hear him, to listen, to understand you weren’t in the wrong.

“I know, Din!” You cried back, your volume matching his own before he can even stammer out an apology. “I know.” You whispered once again. “But I’m not… like you.” There were so many things you admired about the man you loved and the way his dedication to his religion had shaped him. You adored his selflessness to do what was right for his people and to carry their name with honor and dignity. You cherished his devotion to provide for you and protect you by any means necessary with a reverence you weren’t sure he truly grasped and you understood that killing was a part of that. You would never ask him to stop but you knew you could never justify ending someone’s life in the way he did with such ease. “I wasn’t taught how to take a life and treat it like it means nothing.” The words held no malice and rationally he knew you meant no offence in saying them but they stung him just the same.

“Is that how little you think of me?” A soft croak to his voice that contradicted the empty visor gazing up at you unshakably.

“Din, that’s not what I meant.” You sighed. You could see the hint of a nod in understanding but it did nothing to quell the guilt swirling in your stomach. “I just… how do you make it go away?” You ask after a few more moments of deafening silence, your words weak and tired as you looked as they left your mouth. At that he lets out a heavy breath, rolls back on his heels and pushes himself into a standing position. For a heartbeat you think he might leave you here, alone to the thoughts you’d been so frantically trying to avoid but instead he takes your hands in his and pulls you up before turning the two of you around and dragging you down by the hips to sit on his lap. You don’t say anything for a while, too scared you’ll screw up like you did just a minute ago.

“After my first kill, I threw up.” He speaks eventually, securing his arms a little tighter around your waist. He had never told anyone that before. While he had been embarrassed by it for so long and feared what it implied about him as a member of his faith now he looked back on it with a kind of pride he hadn’t taken the time to fully consider before. “It was a rabbit. I had to snap its neck.” He explained, his voice now even but not empty of emotion. “I can still hear the bones cracking to this day.” He says. “These things don’t just go away, cyare. They stay with us. They keep us grounded.” Din explains just as his buir had when he had asked a very similar question as a child. He hated that he didn’t know how to protect you from this. From your own mind. He wished he could have shielded you from the whole ordeal in the first place but he couldn’t deny how much mandokar he saw in you now despite it. Your worries now only proved as more evidence of that. “I wish I could tell you it gets easier.” He says, brushing a stray strand of hair out of your face. “But I don’t think you would like the person you had become if it did.” He says with a hint of certitude to his voice that manages to assuage your grief more than you had been able to in the months since the incident had occurred. If nothing else now you were sure you weren’t alone. That the very feeling you thought set you apart most from your mandalorian turned out to be the one that coalesced you the most.

“Din?” You murmur wrapping an arm over his shoulder as you nuzzle your face into his neck and inhale a heavy breath of a scent you can only define as him.

“Mhmm?” He hums in return, his fingertips running up and down your spine gently when he tilts his head down to look at you.

With the way you were being crushed under the weight of your own guilt you couldn’t believe the amount of strength it took for him to carry not only his own burden but some of yours too. You don’t even know how to begin thanking him. So that’s where you start. With a quiet whisper of a ‘thank you’ and a kiss pressed to his shoulder. “I don’t know how you live with this everyday.” You mumble against the thick fabric, your voice still fragile as your eyes slip shut and you grip onto him just a little bit tighter.

“It helps having you here with me.” He goes to say, dipping his forehead to press against yours only to realize your breaths had evened out to a gentle snore and you had finally drifted off to what he hoped was a restful sleep.

•••

Cyare - my love

Buir - parental figure

Mandokar - the *right stuff*, the epitome of Mando virtue - a blend of aggression, tenacity, loyalty and a lust for life

Masterlist

Taglist: @agirllovespasta @chaoticspaceidiot  @engineeredfiction  @pedropascalito  @dreamgirl-67  @wickedfrsgrl  @hillarymurray4  @din-damn-djarin  @yespolkadotkitty  @wille-zarr @chaotic-noceur @oloreaa @this-cat-is-dea @marydjarin @roxypeanut @opheliaelysia @cryptkeepersoul

[cheeriecherry]

Space Between [Aizawa Shouta x F!Reader x Yamada Hizashi} [6/9]

EraserMic x Reader

Part 6/9

Warnings: none, a little fluff, some suggestive themes but nothing explicit

The next few days pass both quickly and slowly. Every time you look at the clock, mere minutes have passed since the last time, but when you spend your afternoons planning alongside other pros, it’s so fast-paced you can barely keep up.

Shouta and Hizashi made true on their words, calling in personal favours and putting together a capable team of trusted heroes. You supply them with as much information as you can, about Oracle’s visions as well as how Akuma works. By the end of the week, you’ve got an ambush plan in place.

You’ll be the one luring the villain out into the open, since you’re her prime target. You also know that she won’t show herself unless she has a clear getaway, so unfortunately the street where she attacks you has to stay open to the public. But with Shouta on standby in the vicinity, there shouldn’t be any casualties.

Hizashi and a couple others will be nearby, ready to add some extra hands to the fight if necessary, but if everything goes accordingly then Akuma should be in quirk-nullifying handcuffs in under a minute. Then she’ll be brought into custody, and she’ll be out of your life for good.

Still, you’re on edge. Akuma was well known in the underground for being clever and wily. There was always the possibility that something could go awry, in any way, shape, or form. For instance, if one of your team mates got caught in her tar, the whole plan would go to shit.

You sigh deeply and lean back in your deck chair, staring up at the afternoon sky. The closer you got to your supposed death, the more you felt like you were going to fall prey to it, like Oracle said people did. It felt like fate was swallowing you up, ready to consume you whole.

You have to want to come out of this, they’d said, but you were tired. So tired. Exhausted after years and years of horrific sights and fears. You knew you didn’t want to die, but…

“Is that the same thing as wanting to live…?” you ask yourself, not expecting an answer. Would not wanting to die be enough to free you from Akuma, should she catch you? Or was everything for naught, simply because you were having a hard time? What if all you were doing was walking straight into your own death?

You pinch your eyes shut when the sun becomes too bright to bear. Maybe you should have listened to Hizashi while you’d still had the chance; turned tail and run far away from Akuma, and kept running, and running, and running, and never stopping, never living, never slowing down. Ever.

“What is life without experiences,” you mumble, “if not sadness, if not laughter, if not love…”

Running would mean you’d be alive, but not living. Death meant you would be neither. But which was the worse choice, and for whom?

You just wished you had more time-

You pause, blinking your eyes open in surprise. I’m talking as if I know I’m going to die. Have I seriously condemned myself to this fate?

You frown. There’s hope. There has to be. Even if Akuma catches me, there’s hope…

Until there isn’t.

“Shut up,” you tell yourself, in an attempt to quell your cynical inner voice.

How do I fight without hope? Keep moving forward without hope?

Tears bud behind your eyelashes, though not from the brightness of the sky. You sniffle a little, trying to blink them away, but it’s mere seconds before they’re rolling down your cheeks in tidy little streams. Your body trembles with silent sobs, and you curl yourself tighter into a ball. When was the last time you’d even felt hope?

Hell, when was the last time you’d felt happy?

You let yourself cry for a few minutes, allowing your feelings to run their course and dissipate naturally, like your therapist had suggested you do. When your breathing begins to even out, and your thoughts begin to form again, you wipe your eyes.

When did I last feel hope?

“Coming home,” you whisper, “Seeing Shouta and Hizashi in the airport. Seeing them smile. Feeling safe in their arms. Sleeping a full night beside them, without any nightmares. Having them support me, and stand by me, no matter what.”

And imagining the future the three of us could have. Teaching, loving, living. Maybe getting married? Having a family?

It dawns on you then, a blinding revelation. If you found it hard to have hope and fight for yourself, then maybe you could do it for other people. For their hopes, their lives, their families. Protect them, and stay strong for them, until you found the strength to do it for yourself.

You’d survive, you decide. You’d come out of this for Shouta and Hizashi, for their love and their light, because you knew that with them you’d find hope, and a future, and all three of you were willing to fight for it.

----

Your boyfriends arrive home on schedule, to find the dinner table set and you bringing food out to it. Both of them watch you for a moment, taking note of the skip in your step and the smile on your face.

You greet them happily when you see them in the doorway, coming over to give them both a kiss. Shouta returns his gently, which Hizashi captures you in a hug and peppers smooches all over your cheek.

“Now this is a nice treat to come home to,” the blond says, finding a seat at the table. He at least has the manners to wait until everyone else is sitting before piling food onto his plate. “What’s the occasion, sweetheart?”

You shrug and shake your head, scooping a few things onto your own dish. “No occasion. I’m just...feeling good. Better than I have in a while, actually.”

Shouta gives you one of his rare smiles. “That’s good to hear,” he says, “what changed?”

“Dunno,” you reply. “Well, sort of. Something Oracle had said got me to think.”

“Oh?”

“‘If people don’t want to live, then fate will eat them right up’.”

“They said that?” Hizashi asks around a mouthful of dinner.

“I’m paraphrasing,” you tell him. “My point is… I have a lot of shit I need to deal with, a lot of baggage I need to unpack, and two weeks isn’t enough time to do that. So until I can find the means to be strong and hopeful for me, I’ve decided that I’m going to do it for you. To protect your futures, your lives, your hearts, all of it. Even if I don’t have hope now, I know that it’ll come back. I just need to work at it, and be patient.”

By the time you finish your little tangent, Hizashi’s eyes have gotten misty, and Shouta’s have an ill-hidden glint of pride. You reach out slowly towards them, and take one of their hands in both of yours.

“I love you both so much, you know? So much. I always have. And no one is going to take that away from me.”

----

You’re staring at the ceiling, the dark, dark ceiling, as the clock ticks past two. Shouta and HIzashi are laid on either side of you, wedging you comfortably between them. They’re both fast asleep, if their even breaths and quiet snores are anything to go by. Oh, how you envied them.

Instead, though, you’re awake. Very awake, counting the tiles above you for the fourth time. Your earlier pleasant mood has all but vanished, leaving you riddled with your more common anxiety and restlessness.

Careful not to wake your boyfriends, you shimmy out of bed and sneak into the living room, where you then slip outside onto the back deck.

Your intention was to find a cozy spot and watch the city lights in the sky for a while, but instead you find a familiar hooded figure hunkered down on one of the chairs, curled up tightly and looking extremely small.

You take a seat beside them, keeping your eyes trained on them while they catch their breath. Their shoulders are stiff, and their nails are biting into their palms from being curled into such tight fists. You know they wouldn’t have sought you out if they didn’t want to talk, but you still decide not to push them into conversation.

It takes a few minutes for them to speak, breaking the comfortable silence amassed between you.

“I keep seeing people dying,” they mumble, tucking their knees closer to their chest.

“That’s how your quirk works, isn’t it?”

They nod. “Yeah, but I mean specifically next week. Every time I warn someone, it seems like there’s two more visions that need sorting.”

“It sounds tiring,” you admit. “It must be exhausting having other people’s fates in your hands.”

Oracle sighs. They push their hood off and let it flop around their shoulders, finally letting you see their mop of dark hair. They haven’t got their usual mask on tonight either, and you’re sure that you can count a couple freckles splattered across tawny cheeks.

“It is,” they tell you, “not just the mental and emotional toll, but the physical, too. I have seizures every time I have a vision, y’know? I have medication that stops them, but...it also stops the visions.”

Your eyebrows rise into your hairline. You’re genuinely shocked that a quirk could have such an expensive side effect on someone, especially a literal kid. 

“Maybe you should take your medication-”

“Not until I have another way to help people!” Their tone is sharp, but they look abashed as soon as the words leave their mouth. “Sorry…”

“It’s fine, kid. I get it.” And you do. All throughout your life, you wanted nothing more than to do good and make a difference in people’s lives, no matter the personal cost. “But...it’s important to take care of yourself too, okay? Otherwise you’ll end up...well, like me.”

They pout at your words, and it looks like they want to make a sarcastic quip, but they decide against it and the two of you lull into silence. It lasts almost ten minutes this time, and for a minute you wonder if Oracle has fallen asleep.

But when you glance over at them, they’re staring at the dark cloudy sky.

“Is...is there any way you can move Akuma’s ambush to a more secluded area?” they ask, voice so quiet you can barely hear them. “Or close the street off?”

“I’m sorry, kid,” your shoulders fall and you cast your eyes downward. “If I could, I would. But this is the only time we know for certain where she’s gonna be. We can’t risk throwing that away. Not for my safety, not for the public’s safety.” Your voice is small and bitter when you utter your next words, “As much I hate to have that mentality, catching her now will save more people in the long run.”

You can feel Oracle’s annoyance bubbling off them, even from several feet away, and quite frankly you don’t blame them. It was an unfortunate way of thinking you’d had to adopt while you were undercover, to keep yourself from trying to save everyone. It was one of the most difficult things you’d ever had to learn, forcing yourself to put your mission and future lives ahead of the currently-suffering.

Every time you’d watched your superiors kill an innocent person, you’d silently promised them that they wouldn’t die for nothing. But it still drove you crazy.

“That’s a stupid way to think,” Oracle hisses.

“I know.”

“People matter. No matter how small their lives may seem, how insignificant, they matter.”

“I know.”

“So if you can’t change the ambush, then I want in on it. I know who I’m looking for. I can find them, and get them out of the area safely.”

You groan inwardly and let your head fall forward. “Kid, I can’t legally allow you to do that-”

“Y/N, please!”

“I said legally.”

They bite their tongue and quiet down, catching onto your plan quickly. You explain to them how the ambush is going to work, letting them know where everyone would be and what roles they’d all play. Oracle winces a little when they realize you’re basically the bait for the whole operation, but you assure them that you’re in good hands. You trust the people you’re working with, and you trust your boyfriends.

“Don’t wear your vigilante uniform either, you’ll be too easily spotted. But make sure you bring a mask in your pocket to protect your identity.”

They nod enthusiastically, hanging on your every word. You emphasize the fact that they need to stay out from underfoot, lest they interfere with the plan you’ve set in place. “And once all your visions are dealt with, you get out of there. You don’t stick around to try and help more people. Understood?”

“Yes ma’am!”

You roll your eyes at their childish demeanor, and silently wonder if you’ve made the right choice in letting them help, or if you’d just sentenced a kid to their demise.

A shiver wracks your body and draws you out of your thoughts, and you’re suddenly very aware that you’re only in thin shorts and a tank top.

“You should go inside,” Oracle says, standing up. “Wouldn’t want you getting sick. Besides, it’s almost three, and I have class at eight. I should go home before my dad scolds me.”

Your heart aches for them, for the stress they have bearing down on such young shoulders.

You stand up beside them, stretch, and shiver again. “What are you studying for?” you ask before they leave, hiding a smile when their face lights up.

“I’m gonna be an EMT!” they declare proudly. “I’ve always wanted to help people, even before I knew what to do with my quirk. I figured that since I work well under pressure, a high stress job would be suitable.”

You smile fondly at them, feeling some kind of almost-parental affection. “Keep working at it, then, and I’m sure you’ll get there. You’re a smart kid.”

They grin back at you with a cheeky expression. “The day that ‘Oracle’ disappears is the day you’d better watch out for me on the scene! I’ll be there, in the background.”

You bid your goodnights to each other after that, and you wait until they’re out of sight before walking back into the warmth of the house.

When you get in, you’re somehow unsurprised to find Shouta waiting for you on the couch. His expression and posture are both relaxed and neutral, but you can tell there’s something on his mind.

“How much did you hear?” you ask sheepishly.

“Enough,” he says. “You’re letting a vigilante help? Do you even know them?”

You take a seat beside him on the couch, falling sideways to cuddle up on his chest. He tosses an arm around your waist, pulling you closer and holding you safe.

“They’re the one who gave us this opportunity in the first place,” you chide, “without them, I’d be dead and you’d be getting a solemn phonecall about it. Besides, they would’ve shown up anyways. At least this way, they can stay out from under our feet.”

Shouta sighs deeply, a low rumble you feel against your body. His arm tightens around you ever so slightly, and you glance up at him.

“What’re you thinking about?” you wonder, reaching up to curl a few strands of his hair around your fingers.

“Oracle. They just...remind me a lot of my students, is all.”

“How so?”

“Young and naive, determined to the point of stupidity-” 

You snicker quietly.

“-but hopeful, and filled with potential. Granted they have a good guiding hand.”

You stretch up and lay a couple soft kisses along his jaw. “You’re students are lucky to have you,” you tell him honestly. “As am I.”

You lay there for a few more minutes, sharing idle thoughts and sweet kisses, simply enjoying each other’s company. You know he’s worried about the fight to come, about your survival, as well as the people caught in the crossfire. You know he’d never say any of it out loud, but you can feel it in the tension he carries.

Hoping to ease him a little, you deepen your kisses, moving your lips slowly and sensually, teasing him with the tip of your tongue. He makes a noise low in his throat, and before you know it he’s flipped your positions, caging you in beneath him.

You whine as he mouths along your jaw and throat, squirming a little against the weight of his body as his hands slip under your shirt to knead at your chest. His lips trail further and further downwards, and you eagerly press up against him, moving around so his thigh comes to rest between your legs. But just as you’re ready to fully submit to him, he pauses.

“The things I’d love to do to you,” he mutters, and pulls back. You make a noise of protest, wriggling a little to try and reestablish the delicious attention he’d been giving you.

He shushes you with a kiss.”Behave,” he tells you firmly, a thinly veiled order that only serves to spark your arousal. “You’re exhausted, Y/N. As much as I’d love to have my way with you, you can barely keep your eyes open.”

You hate to admit it in such circumstances, but you know he’s right. You feel heavy and hazy, and not just from his earlier ministrations.

He gives one last kiss to the crown of your head, and rolls off you, pulling you to your feet alongside him. You wander back to bed together, smiling when you find Hizashi still out cold, and slip quietly back under the covers.

You fade into sleep to the sound of soft goodnights.

----

You’re alone the next morning when you wake, as per usual. You vaguely recall your boyfriends kiss you good morning and then goodbye, but you had still been mostly asleep then.

You’re pretty certain you’d had some unsettling dreams, no different than usual, but it shocked you how quickly you’d gotten used to not having them. A couple good days in a row, and you were left quaking by the return of your nightmares.

There was the familiar imagery of your past, of course, it was something you dreamt of often. But alongside those thoughts were worries and fears of your future. At this point, you had less than a week until Akuma’s attack, and your nerves were starting to get the better of you.

Despite your earlier enthusiasm about ‘staying strong for other people’, you’re once again finding it difficult to imagine a happy outcome. Your therapist had mentioned you’d have high points and low points in your recovery, and that you couldn’t force yourself to feel or not feel either of them. But what if you were in a low point during the attack? What if you got caught and you couldn’t find the strength that day to get out?

What if ‘being in a low spot’ meant you’d die?

You grumble and pinch your eyes shut, rolling over in bed, but it’s too bright and you’re too alert now to fall back asleep.

Maybe you’d feel better if you did something today. You knew your schedule was clear for the afternoon, not having a therapy session until tomorrow. Maybe you could try and brave the mall again…

You weren’t sure if you’d be able to cope, should you get anxious, but a little piece of you really really wanted to try. Plus, you were running out of clothes to wear, and you’d already done the laundry twice.

Maybe you could get something for your boys, too…

----

The mall is less busy than the last time you’d ventured out, which you’re grateful for. Fewer people overall, and a quieter atmosphere made it a little easier to handle, but you still had a pair of Hizashi’s fancy headphones tucked away in case you needed some quiet.

You wander in and out of several stores, perusing the clothes and trying a few things on. You end up putting most of it back on the shelves, but you manage to find two or three things in every store you visit. It’s a substantial haul when all is said and done, and your arms are loaded with bags.

In the past, you would have smacked yourself on the back of the head for spending so much money in one sitting, but with the paycheck you’d gotten for your time undercover, you could afford to go a little overboard.

At least the commission hadn’t been stingy on it’s compensation, for all the shit you had to deal with now.

You set your purchases down on an empty bench and sort your clothes into just a few bags, so it would be easier to carry home. Part of you cringes when you look at the receipts, but you quickly shove them away. Out of sight, out of mind.

Then, just when you’re about to pack up and leave, a blindingly pink store catches your eye. Oh.

Well, you had wanted to get something for Hizashi and Shouta...and thinking back to the previous night, when Shouta’d had his hands up your shirt, you know that both of them would appreciate something like that.

So you wander into the lingerie shop, growing shy as you wander around the racks and look at all the options. You didn’t want something too difficult to remove, even though all the strings and straps would be sexy, and you didn’t want something too plain, or innocent. 

You think hard about it as you flip through clothes hangers and observe each set. Wrong colour, wrong shape, wrong size, too flashy, not flashy enough, itchy fabric...it feels like an impossible mission to find anything even remotely suitable.

You’re just about to give up and walk out, when your eyes land on one of the mannequins. It was unrealistically proportioned, but you were more interested in the lingerie it was displaying. Simple, classic, elegant, sexy...it was perfect.

You find your size on the shelf beside the display, and walk out of the store a few minutes later with another bag in hand, feeling remarkably pleased with yourself. You only hope your boyfriends wouldn’t tear the set to shreds when they finally got their hands on you.

[leda-x]

Ladybug has five minutes left with Chat Noir, and she isn't ready to give them up.

Ladybug woke in the cooking section of a library with the word “chance” tumbling from her lips. It was the ancient atrium of a newly modernized building. Like always, she was crouched down behind a bookshelf with Chat Noir at her side.

Far, far above her head, thin marble columns rose upwards, curving into graceful arches to meet in the middle. Early morning light shone through the enormous circular skylight positioned at the center of the atrium’s domed ceiling. It illuminated little specks of golden dust that had been disturbed by them seconds before. The room was empty, sound hushed.

Meeting her gaze, Chat tapped the screen on his baton and the numbers 04:58 began to flash. 04:57… 04:56... He reached down, flipping through a cookbook at his side, stopping at a random page. “Lobster tails meunière,” he read aloud to mark the attempt, green gaze flicking back up for her lead.

There were 2,000 recipes in The Escoffier Cookbook and Guide to the Fine Art of Cookery. That one was new. Ladybug took it as a good omen.

There was nothing but seriousness in Chat’s face right now. Seriousness and a rosy glow of determination and confidence.

Ladybug’s fingers drifted off her bracelet to cradle Chat’s cheek. Her gloved thumb followed the line along the bottom edge of his mask, right at the exposed part of his cheek. She watched the depth and vibrancy in his eyes. Could see a ring of eyelashes through the colored glass. Could feel the heat from his skin. He had a freckle on his upper lip. Not for the first time Ladybug realized her partner was beautiful. The first few times she had stopped to really notice she had cried. An ache started in her throat and grew until her entire chest was sore, until she was breathless with grief.

A blush colored his cheeks and his neck. She watched, with some fascination, the steady beat of his heart through the vein in his neck. It was throbbing quick. He was searching her face for answers now, lip pursing into worry.  “Uh oh… It’s that bad?” Chat joked.

She wasn’t ready. It wasn’t the right time around. Ladybug got up from her crouch and held out her hand.

Chat took it without question and allowed her to lead them both out of the atrium into a modernized foyer, then into an elevator. She pressed floor four. 

“What’s the plan?” he asked as the elevator doors shut. Ladybug could detect a thread of nervousness behind his grin. He was probably wondering why they were going up when the akuma was last spotted below.

Such faith. It cracked her heart a little further every time. Ladybug squeezed his hand, watching the elevator numbers tick so she didn’t have to look him in the eye as she admitted, “No plan.”

The doors opened to an art gallery absent of people.

She let go of Chat’s hand, even though she never really wanted to, and began walking through the exhibit. She could hear the soft sound of his footsteps following her. Extremely large images of sand flicked by in succession. Ladybug didn’t stop to marvel at them.

Chat always did. “Whoah,” he said and she glanced back, catching him craning his neck. “This isn’t a photo. Someone drew this.”

Ladybug used up a few of her seconds to watch her partner, feeling a wash of fondness as Chat placed his hands on his hips and tilted forward, nose scrunched, face inches from the canvas. “LB how long do you think this took to make?”

Years, Ladybug thought. Aloud, she said, “This way.”

Chat let out a low whistle as they passed by a total of ten drawings. Each one looked alike. There were slight variations, however, upon closer inspection. It was the variations in Chat Noir that Ladybug kept discovering that made it impossible for her to stop doing this. They had been here over a thousand times before. Each time was a little different, but always ended the same.

They wound a corner and ended up in a smaller room. Ladybug headed towards the back where a replica of the interior of an old-style french house had been built. There was a bed and a little TV where you could learn all about Château de Blois.

It was the best place she had found for this. She had tried a lot of places. She had already dragged Chat around the entire city of Paris looking for a solution. Not that this Chat Noir remembered any of that.

She gestured at the bed, ignoring the documentary that was playing softly behind her, “I have a lot to tell you and no time to do it. How are we, by the way?”

Chat Noir obeyed, sitting on the bed, cat ears perked straight up, eyes bright now and curious. His knee bounced with pent-up energy. He glanced at his baton. “Three minutes, forty-seven seconds. Why? What’s going to happen?”

“I need you to pretend that everything I’m about to say is true,” Ladybug began.

Chat Noir gave her a funny look like, ‘why wouldn't I?’

Ladybug couldn’t help but smile a bit at that. She crouched down in front of him, placing a palm atop each bouncing knee. “You are going to die in three minutes,” Ladybug said.

Chat froze.

“Your heart. It stops. An arrhythmia,” Ladybug continued, keeping her eyes locked with his, making sure he was following along. They never had time to go over it again. “We’ve been here a lot. Anything you are about to say I’ve tried.” She had tried every hospital, every ER, every doctor; had tried Lucky charm-ing a solution countless times. 

Chat’s eyebrows drew together. His eyes were still present in the room with her, though. They hadn’t glazed off or flicked away in fear. “What?” he breathed. He searched her for a long moment for the joke. 

Ladybug knew better than to so much as flinch or blink right now while he was looking for a way out. Chat’s denial came in different severities every time, but it was never helped by her saying or doing anything until he did first.

A stormy look passed across his face as he took that in. “So... I’m dead and there’s nothing anyone can do about it?” he summarized, grinning.

Ladybug nodded, relaxing a touch. In her experience him grinning was usually the best outcome, even though it did seem a bit deranged. She took her hands from his knees, giving him a bit of space despite every bone in her body aching to hold him close. Even though she had held him so many times, it was always new for him. Too much of her affection too fast could scare him off.

“Wait. What about the cure?” he asked.

“You know Ladybug can’t bring people back to life.”

Chat leaned back a touch. A clawed palm drew up to rest over his heart, expression a bit dazed. Ladybug watched as her partner’s brain spun, processing. Then he glanced back at her, eyes startled. “How… How many times have we done this?”

“Many,” Ladybug admitted. “Each time is a little different. Sometimes you don’t believe me. Sometimes you call your dad. Sometimes you call Nino. Sometimes we just sit together.”

“Nino?” Chat caught.

“I know you are Adrien Agreste,” Ladybug said and then waited to see how he would react.

Sometimes this revelation hit hardest. It was more real, more believable. Often the fact that she knew his name at all was taken as proof she was telling the truth about everything else. That realization typically followed with denial. Sometimes terror.

Ladybug watched closely as Chat’s chest heaved in panic.

A humming noise suddenly kicked off. It was only after it stopped that Ladybug realized the air conditioning had been on. The change shocked Chat back out of whatever place he had gone. “Do I know you?” he whispered.

“Do you want to?”

Suddenly he recoiled, gaze suspicious. “You’re not Ladybug,” he stated, as if the thought had just dawned on him. “This isn’t real.”

Ladybug’s heart sank.

He was standing now, stumbling backwards. His shoulder hit one of the wood beams of the replica, causing him to twist.

With a sigh she reached down and twisted the bracelet back into position.

. .

Ladybug woke again in the cooking section of the library.

Chat tapped the screen on his baton and flipped through the cookbook. “Eggs benedict,” he read aloud.

Ladybug was still reeling from last time. They had almost parted ways on terms she could (maybe) accept. But no— Chat had to get paranoid. Not for the first time she cursed all the replicas of herself that her partner had faced. Maybe if he hadn’t been tricked previously they would have a better chance at this.

“Ladybug?” Chat’s voice broke her out of her thoughts, worried. “What’s wrong?”

“Why do you wake up in the morning?” Ladybug asked, eyes locked down at the book in his hands. At the long pause she got out of her crouch and into a cross-legged position, chancing a look at his face. Sometimes his living face in all it’s animated glory really hurt to look at when seconds before it had been dead.

Chat was staring at her in uncertainty. After a beat he mirrored her, settling down at her side and putting down the book. “That’s a weird question. Why? Something to do with the akuma?”

“Yes,” Ladybug lied. “I need to know.” She needed a break. Even though she never grew physically tired, emotionally she was exhausted. She used up rounds getting to know him better, plucking up the courage to try again to say goodbye again.

He had a grin on his face now. “Usually because of my alarm clock.”

 . .

She was back in the library.

“Grammont pullet,” said Chat Noir, to her right. He set down the cookbook and tapped his baton.

Ladybug laughed. She laughed and then she cried. She wasn’t sure when she stopped doing the first and started doing the second. They sort of happened together, just like all of these second chances and all of these subtle striations.

Chat’s hands hovered beside her arms like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to comfort her. His ears flattened, green eyes distraught. However, when Ladybug leaned in his arms looped around her in an easy embrace, chin resting atop her head.

Eventually emotions passed and Ladybug went quiet, listening to the sound of Chat’s heartbeat and the rumble of his voice as he asked, “What’s the joke?”

“You started the timer after you read the recipe this time,” Ladybug said.

Chat’s grip shifted. He fell silent, as if weighing something, before he admitted, “I don’t get it.”

Ladybug reached up and patted his back. She hadn’t expected him to.

. .

This time around was coq-au-vin.

They had made it to the elevator. This time, Ladybug pressed ‘Floor 4’ right as Chat pressed ‘Basement’. The elevator suddenly had a choice, and it chose to go down, and instead of twisting the bracelet to start over, Ladybug decided to take out some of her own anger on the akuma.

The fight was over before it barely begun.

The umbrella Ladybug tossed to Chat skidded across the floor. Chat stumbled. Ladybug reached down and spun the bracelet before she had a chance to watch him fall.

. .

The last recipe was profiteroles. And it was only the last one, because Chat— like always— surprised her. Ladybug supposed it was only a matter of when, not if. She could only do this so many times before Chat turned it back around on her.

He was glaring at her now, green eyes bright and vivid, unobstructed by goggles. Ladybug internally cursed whenever Chat decided to transform back because it meant there was no more baton— no more timer— and she always felt a bit lost within these three minutes without it.

“How many times have you put yourself through this?” he was asking her, again, since she couldn’t give him a straight answer. Suddenly, and swiftly, he got up from where he was sitting on the edge of the bed and took two steps forward into her personal space before Ladybug had a chance to stumble back. “How many?” he repeated.

“I-I don’t know!” Ladybug answered truthfully, suddenly flustered beyond belief. This was the first time Adrien Agreste had had the audacity to step this close to her, to get this mad at her.

“Marinette,” Adrien realized, sounding a bit punched in the gut. “You’re Marinette. This whole time...”

Not trusting herself to speak, Marinette nodded, eyes wide. The amount of times they had both come to know each other’s identities were slim. Rarely did it ever get this far. From this point on was uncharted territory for Ladybug. This Chat Noir suddenly became very real, no longer this strange version of himself that repeated the same phrases and did the same things over and over. No, all the sudden this profiteroles version of Chat was wholly unique.

“If I die in three minutes—” he began.

“Any second now, actually,” Marinette corrected.

“—you’ll do what, exactly?” he finished.

Marinette knew how bad it sounded, but she said it anyway, “I’ll go back to when you’re not dead.”

Adrien’s eyes flicked to the Miraculous around her wrist for a second, brows scrunching. “And then what?”

Ladybug only had to meet his eyes for a brief second to answer that question.

Suddenly Chat had a strong grip on her arm, yanking it towards him.

It took Ladybug a full three seconds to realize what he was trying to do. “Chat. Stop. Chat, stop,” she hissed, veins icy, mouth dry. If he took the bracelet it was over. She twisted and ripped her arm out of his grip, stumbling back and away. A quick glance down confirmed the bracelet was still there and still activated. She kept it pressed tightly to her polka dotted chest, holding it with her other hand.

Adrien was shaking his head, bits of blond hair falling in and out of his eyes. “You can’t keep doing this,” he said, a little out of breath.

Marinette wondered if his heart had stopped and her fingers rested down upon the bracelet, but after a few seconds passed and he remained standing she let them drift away.

If Adrien noticed, he didn’t mention it. “Other people need you,” he accused. “Paris needs you.”

“Paris can figure it out,” she hissed.

Chat blinked, surprised. His face slowly morphed, surprise bleeding into understanding. “It’s ok, Bug. It will be ok.”

Her throat clenched and it felt like he had cleaved her entire body into two pieces straight down the middle. How? How would it ever be ok? When she thought of her future now she only saw darkness. There was nothing left.

“I know I can’t keep doing this,” she gasped, the words ripping out of her. “I know other people love me, need me. But you’re not the one that has to walk out of here alone." The word 'alone' made her own heart swell ten times too big until it felt like it would burst. She hoped it would. That would be a whole lot easier. She had wished a whole lot of things recently that would have appalled her younger self. “I’m not ready.”

“When will you be?” Adrien asked softly.

A hot surge of anger raced through her and she felt the insane urge to shove him or hurt him or do something because how dare he ask her that. How dare he! How dare he die in the first place! Ladybug was tempted to twist the bracelet just to get away from this Chat and go back to an earlier version who was still malleable and innocent. Just erase this attempt all together from his memory so she would never have to answer.

All she had to do was twist it. But then he’d be right. And if she didn’t twist it, he’d still be right. Because… he was right, regardless. And no matter how many times she could make him forget it, she would never forget it.

Adrien wobbled, taking a few quick steps back until he was slumping back on the bed, face pale. Time’s up.

Her anger evaporated and she was there, tugging him close into her chest, because this was the closest to Chat she had ever gotten in all her attempts. The crown of his head tucked underneath her chin, gloved fingers running through his hair, as she felt all the movement and life drain out of him. It was like this every time. Quick, quiet, sneaky. As quick as a switch. One minute the lights were on, the next they were off.

She had no idea how much time she had before her five minutes were up. If she had to guess it was down to seconds. Her fingers detangled out of blond hair and dragged along her side, along her arm, until they met her wrist and bumped against the bracelet. 

Was she? When would she be? Ready, that is.

[chaseatinydream]

pirate king (54) || atz

The night is utterly quiet.

It’s silent, almost eerily so. You’re seated on the rigging of the mizzenmast (Wooyoung’s favoured one, you remember glumly), rocking back and forth gloomily with your feet dangling in empty air, lost in your thoughts. Far beneath you, the glow of a few lanterns ripple faintly across the surface of the sea, moonlight fading in and out behind the clouds like a phantom in the night.

You follow the trail that the moonbeams leave behind, eyes glancing up towards the sky. It’s dark out, the faintest sliver of white peeking out behind dark, roiling clouds – storm clouds. It’s as if they’re heralding the coming of something ominous, something grim… you’re not quite sure if you should feel worried.

Something tugs at the edge of your consciousness.

You frown, eyes casually scanning the decks beneath you but your breath remains locked in the cavity of your lungs, your fingers absentmindedly edging towards the blade at your hip. It’s no surprise that you’re tentative, on the edge, almost, with how vulnerable the Treasure is and the natural wariness that comes with the night, but before your gaze can wander too far from the ship something near the forecastle deck catches your eye.

It’s Yunho.

He’s leaning against the railings of the forecastle deck, looking wistfully at the dark outline of the island before him, a solitary figure in the lonely night. You wish you could go to him, comfort him in some way, tell him it’s going to be alright, but he’s stinging with raw hurt and betrayal right now. It might not be the best time.

After all, you were the one who had knocked him out with a wooden mug.

You can see the weary sag of his shoulders, the way his fingers are clenching and unclenching around the railings of the gunwales. If you were closer, you’d swear that his knuckles have turned stark white, bloodless, but it’s too high up atop the mizzenmast and it’s nearly dark out.

You’re filled with worry for Yunho. The older of the two battlemasters is still suffering from the effects of the poison, rendered helpless as he watches the crew literally go on their way to kill the brother he loves so much. Gunho might have betrayed him, but you know Yunho. Not very well, but enough, at least.

He’s too kind for his own good.

Sighing, you grip the handle of your cutlass tightly, tracing the well worn leather grip with a finger. In this case, you have to be selfish, you think. You pray that they find the antidote, and if necessary, that they’ll be able to kill Gunho or Captain Kang to get it. As much as you’d hate to see Yunho suffer from the second loss of his younger brother, Yunho’s life is more important to you.

“Chin Hae!”

Nearly startling in shock, you glance around wildly for the source of the voice, frissons of panic running through you. To your relief, it’s only your captain, standing on the deck and waving up at you, seeming to be a tiny ant to you from above. “Can I come up?”

You frown a little in concern, remembering how awful you were at scaling the mast for the first time even with Yunho beneath you, waiting for you in case you fell. You’ve never seen your captain climb the rigging before, so you lean over and peer down at him worriedly. “Yeah, but do you need some he-”

Your words trail off into nothingness as you watch your captain leap to the ropes, scaling the rigging gracefully like it’s been his natural habitat all along and you fight the urge to smack yourself across the face. Of course your captain is capable of climbing the mast by himself, in addition to double wielding cutlasses in a battle, captaining a crew, and steering a ship. Why did you ever think there was something your captain couldn’t do?

“I actually feel so stupid right now.” You mumble to yourself glumly as Hongjoong heaves himself over the yardarm, settling himself next to you with his legs dangling over empty air. Your captain glances at you curiously.

“Why do you feel stupid?”

You wave him off in self-exasperation. “Oh, no matter… I was just wondering how you’re so good at so many ship related things. You’re just really amazing, captain.”

A pink tint touches your captain’s cheeks at your words and he presses his palms over them to hide his blush, a small, shy smile breaking out on his face. He’s clearly embarrassed by your unexpected praise and you smile. “That came out of nowhere.” He comments lightly in an attempt to take your focus off him and you laugh joyfully.

“I was just thinking that you’re really capable, captain. You must have a lot of natural affinity for this kind of thing.” You tell him honestly and Hongjoong sighs, shaking his head as he looks out across the waters.

“I’ve been learning how to do ‘these kind of things’ since young.” He says softly and your eyes widen in surprise as you turn to him. You remember that Mingi had told you about Hongjoong’s story when he was younger, your captain himself had told you how he had been left for dead as a child by his own father, but you don’t really know your captain’s story before he came to be on the high seas.

So you look at him beseechingly with wide eyes, wordlessly pleading with him to tell you and he laughs, humouring your silent request with a nostalgic, tight smile.

“My father taught me all of it.”

You can’t help the little gasp that escapes your mouth. He’s talking about his father? The same father that had abandoned him on a deserted island? The one that shot him in the eye and left him for dead?

His father?

Hongjoong must see the expression of utter disbelief on your face because he simply smiles sadly, turning away from you to stare at the moon half hidden behind the clouds.

“When I was young, my father used to bring me sailing with him every single day.” Your captain swings his legs back and forth absentmindedly, eyes lost in the past as he reminisces his younger days. “He used to be the captain of a ship called the Maelstrom before I was born, but it got caught in the midst of a massive storm one day… the ship and its entire crew were killed.”

You feel something sinking in your chest, a strange emotion that seems out of place. Your hand rises to grip the material of the shirt above your chest with a frown.

Is that… guilt?

Before you wonder exactly what you have to feel guilty for, Hongjoong continues, softer this time. “My father was the only one who survived that shipwreck. So from the time I was a toddler, he brought me onto ships, teaching me everything I’d need to know to survive. I really think… I think he really loved me then, you know?”

You don’t know whether he’s trying to convince you… or himself.

“He used to tell me that I was the most important thing in the world to him… the key to finding his treasure.” Hongjoong’s fingers tighten around his eyepatch with a bitter smile. “He said that when I grew up, I was going to go on the biggest adventure of my life… that I would fulfill the sole destiny I had been born into this world for.”

Something uneasy roils in your gut and you freeze, goosebumps trailing across your skin.

It’s as if someone is walking over your grave.

You search the black seas about you urgently, feeling tension building up in the pit of your stomach, tuning your captain’s words out. Something about this isn’t right, you feel – no, you know – that something is wrong, wrong, wrong-

“Perhaps my father was a little delusional after the shipwreck, because he told me that he was going to find the sea g-”

“Shh!”

Hongjoong almost flinches in shock when you hush him but immediately picks up on the mood, frowning as he mimics your actions, eyes searching the seas about you for a sign of what could have made you so uneasy. You don’t know exactly what it was, but something turns and twists in you like a massive coiling serpent, that simple, inexplicable feeling that something just isn’t right.

You can feel it in your very bones.

“What’s wrong?” Your captain whispers but you ignore him, leaning forward at the mast to stare at a tiny cove just at the side of the Cayman Islands. You don’t know why and you don’t know how, but there’s a near tangible force that pulls your eyes towards it, your fingers turning white around the rigging as you squint, trying to make out something in the inky blackness.

You don’t know how your mind makes this connection but it simply does, every alarm bell screaming in your head for you to just get it. You try to listen to your mind, try to connect the dots, but it seems utterly hopeless for a moment.

Then it hits you.

“The Crow.”

Oh no.

Oh no.

“Chin Hae?” Hongjoong glances at you, concerned, shaking you lightly by the arm. “Chin Hae, what is it?”

You turn to stare at him with panic stricken, horrified eyes.

“Where is the Black Crow?”

It takes a second for the words to sink in, but you can see the second that the implication of what you’ve just said dawning upon him. It seems so obvious, now that you’ve finally put the pieces of this seemingly simple plan together. They knew of and took advantage of the crew’s desperation to save Yunho.

It had been a trap all along.

“Chin Hae, fire the retreat flare!” Hongjoong shouts as he leaps down the mast, sliding down the rigging as fast as he can. His words blur around you like streaks of white noise, but you smack yourself out of your panic induced daze and fumble around in your pocket for the chemical concoction that Yeosang had been working on a few days ago, pulling out your flint and steel with shaking fingers.

Beneath you, the sound of a warning bell shatters the peaceful silence of the night.

You hear chaos happening on the main decks but you have no time to worry about it, frantically working to set up the flare. Just as you’re about to strike the flint, something else catches your eye.

Your breath catches in your throat and your mouth falls open in horror.

It’s a jet black ship, the shadows that had once cloaked it falling away as it leaves the darkness of the cove you had been staring at previously. Against the black sails you see the emblem of a crimson rose there, and even though you’ve seen the ship before, in the darkness of the night it truly looks like death itself has come for you.

The ship curves away from you and your heart drops in your chest, panic screaming in you as you can’t feel your fingers.

They’re numb with fear.

You don’t know how long you stay frozen there, but by the time you catch yourself, the Black Crow is pulling up beside the ship, a looming monster in the night. It’s the sight of the broadside cannons being wheeled out that snaps you back into action.

No. You can’t panic now of all times. You need to help, your captain has entrusted you with this task and you need to fulfil it before all of you die at the hands of the Royal Navy.

Biting down hard on your lip till the taste of copper and iron fills your mouth, you overwhelm your thoughts with pain instead, focusing at the task at hand. Your heart races a million nautical miles an hour and your hands are still shaking, but you manage to get a spark going right before the sound of cannon shot knocks you off your feet.

A scream nearly rips itself from your throat as you fall, wind whistling as you plunge towards the deck, suspended in air for an infinite second. Your hands flail about, reaching for something, anything, and by sheer dumb luck, you manage to cling onto the rigging with your fingers.

When you do manage to recover from your near death experience, gasping and heaving for air, you look up only to be greeted with the worst sight of your entire life.

Because standing at the bow of the Black Crow, sword drawn and head held high, is Yunho’s younger brother.

Jeong Gunho.

[its-sixxers]

A Night to Remember, I

A night drinking at the New Gnisis Cornerclub leaves Tandreth awaking somewhere far away, raising questions not only about his newfound predicament, but his feelings toward his traveling companion.

(Writing prompt given by @radbeetle and @ineed-to-sleep, based on the quest of the same name. Gonna be a multi parter as I get a chance to write. :3)

Tandreth woke to the sound of rushing water. 

It was enough to get his eyes to snap open. There was no rushing water in Windhelm, and Windhelm was where he last remembered being conscious. Opening his eyes too quickly fast proved to be a mistake, however, for the sun was in precisely the right position in the sky to nearly blind him. 

“Fetcher.” he swore, throwing his arm over his eyes and feeling a headache fast approaching. He was hungover - but he wasn’t bound. That was good. He’d woken up worse from nights of heavy drinking (so much worse he didn’t want to remember). The next time he opened his eyes he barely cracked them open, squinting out at the world around him.

To his disbelief, he was in Markarth. 

Markarth was across Skyrim from Windhelm.

Tandreth dragged himself upright, his body sore from sleeping on stone. He’d passed out in one of Markarth’s many alleyways, and by some miracle hadn’t been robbed or worse. A small waterfall cascaded down the rocks next to him, spraying mist onto his face now that he sat upright.

What had happened?

The last thing he could recall was drinking in the New Gnisis Cornerclub - he was short on coin, so when a stranger offered an enchanted staff as the wager to a friendly drinking contest he was all too happy to oblige. The man wanted no wager from Tandreth besides Idunn’s participation, and -

“Idunn.” Tandreth choked out, scrambling to his feet. Idunn was nowhere to be seen, and dread pooled in his gut - doing no favors for his nausea. The world moved beneath him like the deck of a ship in stormy seas, and he nearly stumbled off the stone path and down the cliff beside him. Markarth was a bad place to be in any state of inebriation, and Tandreth was beginning to wonder if he wasn’t still a little bit drunk.

He stumbled down the path, unsure of where to even go - he made it six steps before he was forced to bend over and vomit, aiming for a hardy patch of bush next to the path.

“Ugh.” Came a female voice from nearby, and after wiping his mouth Tandreth looked up to see a young priestess of Dibella emptying a pot of dirty water over the path’s edge. When her eyes settled on his face an expression of sudden nervousness crossed over her features, and she started to hurry back up the steps to the temple.

She’d recognized him. “Wait!” Tandreth shouted after the priestess, stumbling after her in a manner that was far too graceless for his liking. Even so, he was still able to climb the steps faster than she, and managed to catch up to her at the temple door.

The priestess whirled around with the vase raised, clearly ready to smash it into his head if the need arose. “Don’t! You didn’t get in last night, and you won’t get in today.”

“Last night?” Tandreth slurred in confusion. While he’d made use of the services of Dibella’s acolytes more than once, for the first time he’d found himself at a point in his life where he didn’t desire them. But if he’d drunkenly lost track of the Dragonborn, or worse, driven her away…

“Divines, you’re still drunk, aren’t you?” The priestess said, her nose wrinkling in a mix of displeasure and pity. “Yes. Last night. You were chasing a crying woman - drunk as you were - and she sought sanctuary from us. You didn’t like that.”

“Idunn.” he breathed. “Was she tall - hair like fire, cow-eyed, great big warhammer?”

The priestess looked like she regretted saying anything. “I’ll call the guard. She has sanctuary.”

“That’s fine.” Tandreth replied, shoulders sagging. “Listen, if it’s her - tell her I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did, but…” She was crying. Running from him. He’d no idea what he’d done, but the consequences made him feel even sicker to his stomach. At least he knew where she was - at least the hundred worst case scenarios that ran through his mind on waking proved to be untrue.

“Oh.” The priestess lowered her jug. While she still looked at him with suspicion, much of the venom faded from her gaze. “I’ll tell her if she asks, but it’s best you-”

Suddenly the door to the temple flew open, and a large red-headed woman nearly ran over the priestess in her haste to escape. An older priestess followed the woman, who’d just shouted “TANDRETH?” loud enough to make him want to cover his ears.

Idunn.

“I’m here!” he shouted back, trying to hide his smile at seeing how perplexed both of the priestesses were. 

Idunn spun around to face him, relief clear on her features. It was contagious, prompting the same in him. She didn’t hate him, whatever had passed by. The motion made her wince, and she placed a hand to her temple.

“You’re hungover too, then.” Tandreth observed, watching her approach him with a greater degree of clumsiness than usual.

“I don’t care about that.” she replied. “How in Oblivion did we get to Markarth? What day is it?”

“The fifth of Second Seed, if you’d only listen.” The older priestess scolded, catching her breath. “Dibella’s grace, you two are a handful. Calm yourself, Daphne - last night was emotion run high by drink. This woman has no need of our protection.”

“I can see that.” The young priestess - Daphne - huffed. 

The fifth of Second Seed. It was the night of the fourth when they were drinking in Windhelm. Which meant either a night had passed - or a year.

“What year?” Tandreth added, causing the older priestess’ eyes to widen.

“202, of the Fourth Era.” she answered neatly. “You didn’t bump your head, did you, dear?”

Only a night. They’d crossed Skyrim in only a night. It was much better than a year passing, but it suggested powerful magic on someone’s part. Selfishly, he had a more important question to ask. “What did I do last night?” He wasn’t quite certain if he wanted to hear the answer - but the older priestess’ remark had him hopeful it wasn’t anything terrible.

“You said my horse had a stupid name.” Idunn replied, flushing at the confession. “I suppose I was drunk enough to try and defend her honor, and we both know you can’t let a jape lie.”

Tandreth had to give his drunk self some credit, for he wasn’t wrong. Cabbage was a stupid name for a horse - but endearingly so. He guessed he didn’t phrase it quite so gracefully the night previous. “Oh. Well, my apologies, madam.” With a great and theatrical bow, he flourished his hand and held it aloft to her. 

With a grumble, she placed her hand in his, and in an over the top display of chivalry he kissed her fingers like he would a king’s. To Tandreth’s surprise, Idunn had a ring worthy of one on her finger.

Her ring finger.

The thing was gold and diamond, and Tandreth knew his valuables well enough to know it was genuine at a glance. Idunn realized it was there the moment he did, and snatched her hand back to investigate as he snapped upright.

“You mentioned something about being newlywed.” The older priestess piped up, while Daphne took her chance to slip into the temple and escape the nonsense.

Immediately Tandreth looked down at his own hands - and found his fingers bare. Somehow that was less encouraging than finding a matching ring. Somehow, between Windhelm and Markarth, Idunn had gotten married. 

She didn’t seem as bothered about it as he expected, staring down at the magnificent creation on her finger. The diamond caught the light in such a way that it was reflected in a rainbow within, the gold pale like winter sunlight. “It’s beautiful. Too beautiful for me.” she murmured. “Especially drunk me. Who do you think gave it?”

“Let me think.” Tandreth replied. It was difficult, with the ringing in his head. The last thing he could remember was a drinking contest with a man who wanted only Idunn’s participation as a wager.

Fury ignited within him, and it must have shown on his face for Idunn’s dazed smile faded immediately. “What?”

“Sam Guevenne.” Tandreth answered. “I’ll kill him - he must have wanted us inebriated, maybe he wanted me dead. My head feels like it. He wanted you involved. It must have been him.”

Idunn scrunched her face up with the effort of trying to dredge through her own memory, but soon understanding dawned on her face. Her mouth settled into a stony line of grim resignation. “We have to find him.”

“How?” he asked in exasperation. “I can’t remember a thing.”

The older priestess was listening to the two of them with growing concern. “Well, you did an awful lot of talking about Rorikstead.” She pointed at Tandreth. “Something about you stealing a goat. She wasn’t happy about it.”

Idunn levelled a look his way that suggested she still wasn’t happy about it, now that she was reminded.

“Rorikstead’s days away.” Tandreth sighed - his nervousness growing knowing that they’d made stops on their nightlong journey across Skyrim. That meant that whoever had put them in their predicament had been with them the entire time - and that retracing their tracks was the best idea.

“Then it’s a good thing it’s early.” Idunn replied, shifting her pack on her shoulders. “Thank you, priestess. We have somewhere to start.”

The priestess bowed her head. “You were quite polite, given the circumstances. I’m glad to help. Him, not so much. Dibella’s grace upon you.”

Tandreth’s eyes settled on the ring on Idunn’s finger. She’d said it was too beautiful for her. 

He didn’t think it was beautiful enough.

[imnotwolverine]

The Monster’s Lair - A Baptism of Fire

Vampire!Henry x Belle - multi-chapter

< Chap 11 | Chapter 12 - A Baptism of Fire 

Disclaimer: Dark adult fairytale, manhunt, blood, gore, death, vampirism, witchcraft, evil fairies, angst

Author’s note: It’s always so bittersweet to finish a long fic. For weeks it has been embedded in my brain, bubbling up on the most impractical moments. Business meetings? Yes. 3AM whilst trying to sleep? Yep. And of course.. once I found a moment to write, the muse was gone and I’d just stare at a blank page for a good hour. Now..after all those struggles..it’s finished. My baby’s finished! *sigh* THE POST-FIC VOID IS CALLING. 😩

Anyways, I’d love to hear from you, dear readers. Give me all your feelings, ideas, tips (and of course fic prompt ideas).❤️I love you and I hope you enjoyed the read!

Word count: 7.801

Reading music: Sowulu - Wulfwiga 

(Link to my Masterlist)

--

Something was there.

Like she owned a sixth sense, she knew when danger lurked. And lurking it did. But quietly. Far too quietly. Flicking her ears the deer listened in more closely, the cold forest sounds muted by the thick layer of snow that covered the earth and greens. Winter was at its deepest and coldest now, meaning hunger pushed the herd further to the borders of comfort.

Turning her ears again, her eyes unblinking, she watched with large doe eyes into the dawn. Another whisper sounded through the trees. Hard to discern. But there. Something was definitely there.

Her heart started to gallop, but her feet remained stationary. Nothing around her seemed to be out of the ordinary, the world as white and quiet as ever before. Perhaps it had been a bird or critter. And perhaps it was death.

Her ears pricked around her head, but neither eye nor ear could spot anything strange. All she could see were the slow sun rays that had started weaving their way through the pine trees, starting yet another day in winter wonderland.

Though it was no wonderland for her. More like a fuzzy white nightmare. As she stood there she felt a strange daze fall over her, her limbs no longer her own as her heart beat for two. Gnawing nervously on the patch of grass between her lips, she tried to figure out what was happening to her. Was it an evil spirit? An omen?

A twig snapped and fast as lightning her hooves spurred into full sprint, back to the safety of the herd that had also started to scatter, away from the invisible danger. With leaps and jumps she rushed over the icy planes and snow-heavy branches, hoping to outrun whatever was hunting her so silently.

Birds chirped and snow fell, the sudden rumour in the forest having caused a flock of birds to set off. Perfect for the deer, as their flight made a soft powdery curtain fall behind her tail, her trail temporarily hidden from her perpetrator. Her scent, however, was not hidden. Nor was her heartbeat; now loud as a war drum in her furry chest. With her small hooves she landed on yet another icy patch, its menacingly slippery mirror reflecting hell as it lapped at her ankles.

But, by a fickle sliver of luck, she got away again. Her perpetrator had also slipped and with the thunder in her heart she raced on, legs scrambling and eyes wild.

Move, move, move! Run, run, run!

Having now lost track of her herd, she felt that same strange buzz in her veins. Like she was possessed. And the spirit inside her whispered; “Go to the light!”

Full sprint she set off to where the trees cleared out, the hunt leaving no moment to ponder and hesitate. The fairy spirit inside her now took over, her long legs stretching in large leaps, near making her fly as a merry chuckle danced through her twitching ears. Here more sunshine managed to break through the canopy, its rays glowing warm and yellow over powdery snow.

When she reached the final trees, a beastly growl was heard behind her. Her perpetrator was obviously not happy with this new direction. Would he maybe shy away? Break off the chase? Had this fairy saved her?

She had no time to wait and see. And thus with restless hooves she jumped into the open field. A field which wasn’t a field at all. It was a garden. Large terraces were layered over a hill, with on the very top a castle that was long past its glory days. And despite that, it looked like heaven’s gates, the sun casting a warm hue over the mossy stonework, snow glittering on its window sills.

“Go, go, go!” The fairy ushered, spurring on the deer to run on. Higher and higher. Deeper and deeper into the garden. Until finally she reached the gates to this heavenly hell.

“Good!” The fairy cheered. “And now you die!”

--

‘Hahaha..oh like you would.’ Belle cooed, teasingly rubbing her foot up the Master’s leg, their chairs settled next to each other before the fire. In their laps lay books, but they had long been forgotten as the two bantered on.

‘Do not underestimate my..-’ The Master’s scoffing words halted as he flicked his head away from her, eyes looking up and over Belle’s shoulder.

‘Is the castle falling to ruin yet?’ Belle chuckled, unaware of what the Master had picked up on - it happened on occasion that his attention would fly off like that. His head tilted up to the ceiling as he kept scanning for the source, thereby presenting something Belle had not spotted yet. Beneath his carefully tucked cravatte two angry looking marks appeared. Bite marks. Purple and blue, little veins around them bruised and broken.

‘AI!’ Belle shot up from her chair, book left in the seat as she rushed to push the white cotton further down. ‘You are hurt!’ She exclaimed, the Master’s heaven blue gaze now turning back to her. With a hesitant swallow he nodded, arms reaching out to pull her into his lap, ears continuing to prick and look for more strange sounds.

Belle still didn’t notice much of any foreign presence, her fingers looping around the knot of the cravatte to untighten it. ‘You should have told me.’ She chided softly, fingertips grazing over the edges of the broken skin. ‘Tis nothing.’ The Master brushed off, but Belle’s expression made it clear that she did not believe a word of it.

‘If it were nothing it’d have healed by now.’ She retorted, referring to the Master’s ability to heal at a phenomenally fast rate. ‘Let me at least clean it for you!’ And with that she hopped off his lap, skirts flying out of the library in a flurry. Grumbling the Master followed, eyes taking one last look over his shoulder, finding the library’s contents still slumbering.

What was it he was hearing? Was it his staff pulling a prank? The icy wind outside? He thought he had lived here long enough to know every single one of the sounds in this castle.

Turning his attention back to the long hallway, he followed Belle, eyes not leaving her again as he admired her slender frame. It had taken weeks for her to finally accept and wear the great many gowns his wife had left behind. But here she was. Wearing a particularly enchanting, silverish white dress, her hair put up nicely and lips curled in a rosy smile. She looked like an angel, and he couldn’t help but think of what his wife had been like. But Belle was more. Not only was she here. She was livelier…. Happier.  

Happiness. It was a strange emotion to feel again. Even now the crooked pull of his lips felt awkward, foreign. But the pretty maiden before him didn’t seem to mind, her large brown eyes looking back at him as he trailed a few steps behind her.

‘Are you gonna hunt me down?’ She teased, eyebrow quirking with a challenge before she upped her step, dainty feet speeding down the long hallway. The Master chuckled.

Happiness. It was strange indeed.

--

‘Oh, you look at that.’ Plumette sighed dreamily, watching as the Master caught the giggling maiden before capturing her in a sweet kiss. The grandmaster clock grumbled something indiscernible, receiving a little gasp from the feather duster as she gave him a scornful look. ‘Say that again.’ She demanded, glaring at the clock that was close to a slumber - least to her amusement.

‘Time..’ He mumbled, before his eyes fully closed.

‘Time.’ She repeated, huffing slightly. “Time this, time that! ‘Tis a tale as old as time’ he says.” Ladieladiela! PFFT!’ She swivelled off to follow the two lovebirds as they hooked their arms around one another.

‘Well. I say it IS time.’

‘Time for what?’ The little teacup joined her from the kitchens, his porcelain body cleaned off and ready for a new serving. The duster eyed him as he panted to keep up, his porcelain foot hopping with great effort to follow her fast feather feet. With a dramatic twirl she halted and turned.

‘Oh..just look at how pitifully you run, dear boy!’ Her long lashes looked down upon him as the poor teacup shyly looked away, embarrassed by his inability to do what any young boy should be able to do. ‘I say, dear boy, that it’s time we get rid of this darn curse, that’s what!’

‘But ..but how?’ He asked desperately. He had long accepted that he would be a failure when it comes to young boys. He couldn’t play, couldn’t run, couldn’t climb trees. All he could do was hop and talk, hop and talk.

‘Well boy! It’s a curse! Curses can be done..and undone!’ And with that she turned back to watch as the Master tenderly folded a rogue hair back behind Belle’s ear, the sight making a small smile tug at Plumette’s pretty duster lips.

Well. That’s how.  

--

‘We are cursed!’ The butcher rose his fist in the air, making the crowd in the great hall of the Les Comtes roar in agreement. ‘First the drought. The hunger. Then the killing of Ismael’s men in the woods…’ He pointed at the seat where a dark haired lady sat, the Grandmaster’s chair next to her empty. ‘..and the sudden death of our Grandmaster!’ - ‘AYE’ - ‘Tis true.’ The gathered men wholeheartedly agreed. More fists rose in the air, before the room calmed again, the mysterious raven maiden standing up from her seat to walk into the middle of the hall, attracting the men’s attention.

With cool eyes she looked around her, the roars dying down until the hall was quiet as mice. She was a beauty to behold and it had been only weeks since they had taken her on as the grandmaster’s wife. With the sudden demise of their good grandmaster, they were left with this calm apparition of pure divinity, her looks closer to that of an angel than of a woman made of flesh and blood. Slowly her long sleeve rose, a pale hand appearing from the burgundy robe.

‘I grieve!’ She chanted, her chest rising deeply before she turned her eyes towards the butcher, his lips falling open ever so slightly - enchanted. ‘So now. What do you suggest we do, good sir? How shall we avenge my dear husband’s death?’ Her voice played her role of grieving wife perfectly, though her cool eyes sparkled with danger.

The butcher swallowed back a lump and stepped in, eyes searching his fellow men for agreement. ‘I’d say..fair lady..’ He bowed his head slightly. ‘..we must avenge him indeed. But first we must find our lord. Ismael! He shall lead us on, as ever he has done.’

The men didn’t chant quite the agreement he expected, his eyes nervously peering left and right as he heard timid whispers about. Finally one man stepped forward; ‘Say nay, is it not strange, that he is not here? Where is he?! Our Grandmaster?!’

The long sleeved arm rose up again, silencing the roaring whispers. ‘We know not.’ She raised her chin slightly, as if the next news was cause for more grief. ‘He is not in his rooms. His bed is unslept. I fear..’ She lowered her gaze to the floor. ‘..he was taken as well.’

‘Tis like the fires!’ A scrawny man with wild eyes stepped forward. ‘The beast is coming into our homes, stealing our wives..children..and now also our new grandmaster!’ The crowd roared in agreement, but then a woman appeared from behind broad backs, her face scowling and voice straining to silence the crowd. ‘NO! SAY NO LIES!’  The rowdy men halted their loud chants. ‘Me and my children were SAVED, not stolen!’

And with that she gave a menacing look at the scrawny man who huffed in annoyance. Another few voices mingled in and before long the whole hall had erupted in another loud quarrel. Nobody was quite sure who was right, and what had been the Beast’s doing. But they sure were ready to avenge themselves, one way, or the other.

--

Halting his step for a moment the Master looked back over Belle’s shoulder, the long hallway before them soon to reach the entree hall. With a mindless lick of his bottom lip he pricked his ears, still not quite sure of what he had heard just now. It had most definitely not been his staff. An..animal perhaps?

Belle’s curious eyes looked up at the Master, her lips still curled in a soft, relaxed smile. ‘What is it?’ She asked gently.

‘A..deer..’ The Master frowned. ‘..or something like it.’

It was unusual for deer to get this close to the castle. They knew well that a predator lived here. And one would only go to a predator’s lair if they were young and naive or..hmmm…Or..Or chased..

Fuck.

Like the devil heard the Master’s inward grunt, the front door was barged open, icy winds spewing a whirl of snow into the entry hall.

FUCK!

Without thinking twice the Master lifted Belle in his arms, his long legs making a sprint for the first room to his right, his brain not even thinking of blocking the doorway; they needed to get out of here. Now.

Was it back? Was it back?!

With all the speed he could muster in his legs he ran into one of the windows - which thankfully were on ground floor level, his shoulder turning forward to brace for impact as they ran straight through the thin glossy pane. Belle yelped in terror, her ever-present smile having melted like snow before the sun as a thousand small shards of glistening daggers now brushed past them, licking their skin. It was a near miracle that the cuts left them unharmed, before the Master landed onto the soft snow outside.

With bewildered eyes he started running, away from the castle, his gaze noting that he hadn’t been wrong. There was indeed a deer before him, her swishing tail pointed up as she too ran for her life, long legs bouncing through the powdery white.

A terror clenched in his heart as he made his way down the many garden terraces, his feet knowing blindly where all roots and bushes were hidden in this fine maze of natural traps.

Behind them the loud growls of a beast were heard, also just as he expected. A deer and a beast, right here in his lair. What was going on? Was he about to lose his domain? Right now, in the broad daylight? FUCK.

He wasn’t the only one whose curiosity peaked. Sweet Belle had finally overcome the initial shock of the sudden chase, her large brown eyes daring to look around as the cold wind cut into her expressive eyes. Tears started to well - be it of shock or the icy air - and as she looked over the Master’s shoulder, all she could see were blurs. It was as if death itself was chasing them, a dark menacing cloud jumping out of the busted window, the cold wind licking at its feet.

‘Sshh.’ The Master hushed, twisting his tiring arms so she could no longer see. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was feeling so sluggish, but with Belle twisting like this in his arms, her weight seemed even greater. Just his luck. On the very moment of a great chase his veins pumped lead and his feet weighed like marble. And no matter how hard he tried to speed up, his pace just wouldn’t quicken.

With a light pant escaping his lips he looked at the deer, the animal now slowly losing ground on him as her legs were far less familiar with this terrain. Her glassy eyes stared back at him with a strange gloss. Almost blue in hue. As if possessed. Strange.

What was going on?

Growling deep in his chest the Master hoisted Belle a little bit higher in his heavy arms, teeth gritting as the deer now finally lost on him, his long legs managing to surpass her before they reached the treeline. Everything in his body seemed to object. Where usually a sprint like this costed him a little effort by daytime, right now it felt like he was running in a fever dream. Pushing hard, but barely moving. Perhaps the sun was particularly strong today - their rays hidden by a thick white nothingness. And perhaps it was the deep snow he was plowing through. Or the cold. Or ..Belle.

He had to admit he had started feeling strange these past couple of days. Especially when near her.

Looking down at the fair maiden, shivering and shaking in his arms, he couldn’t even think of asking her to run for herself. No. If really he wouldn’t make it, he’d stop and defend them as best he could. Even if he felt like a bag of bones. Weak and shaking from running just a half a mile.

--

After what seemed like the longest few minutes in their life, the Master and Belle managed to escape. At least, for now. The Master’s pace immediately dropped to a slow jog, his complexion no longer its usual smooth marble. With a delicate finger Belle traced the heated blush that had crept up his skin, the sensation so foreign as his lips parted in deep exhausted pants. Her cold monster was running hot.

That never happened before, did it now?

Looking back ahead she noticed where they were heading; the Le Comte estate. Which confused her. Why would the Master seek out human interaction, especially now as they were being hunted? Why was he leading them here? Quietly she wrapped her hands more tightly around his vest, the cold biting harshly into their clothes. Perhaps he just wanted to hide out here. Use the presence of humans as a distraction.

But it wasn’t that.

The Master leaped over the small straightshorn bushes and hedges, the garden a pretty geometric pattern of white, before he slowed his pace even more. His long legs stepped onto the main path that led up to the..front door. The front door. He was moving to the front door.

Staring in bewilderment at the Master she wondered if he was as possessed as that weird deer they had seen moments earlier.

‘Master..’ She squeaked, pulling on his vest as he kept heading straight for the door. ‘Master what are you..’

A lacky appeared, opening the door for them, eyes looking down on their slightly disheveled attire and blushing cheeks. He raised his eyebrows, but the Master was quick to respond, lips curling in an apologetic smile. ‘Apologies for being late.’ The Master slowly settled Belle down, her eyes immediately flitting back to the forest - but no movement was seen. ‘I’m afraid the poor lady sprained her ankle and..’ He babbled on, but Belle didn’t listen, her eyes keeping a razor sharp focus on the treeline.

Why had he taken them here? And why were they .. “late”? What did he know, that she didn’t?

‘But of course.’ The lackey smiled, feet stepping back to make way for them to enter, his arm gesturing into the left direction, where the grand hall was situated. ‘They just got started.’ And with that Belle and the Master let out a soft sigh, the heavy front door being closed behind them with a firm shudder.

--

“O, my offense is rank, it smells to heaven;

It hath the primal eldest curse upon ’t,

A brother’s murder. Pray can I not,

Though inclination be as sharp as will.

My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent,

And, like a man to double business bound,

I stand in pause where I shall first begin

And both neglect.

What if this cursèd hand

Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood?”

The new king spoke after his counselor wished to discuss the matter of his late brother’s sudden demise.

Belle turned in her seat as the Master let out a small cough, eyes wishing to look away from the mouse trap and broom stick, who played rather convincing roles as King Claudius and Polonius. After years of begging, his staff had finally managed to get the Master to sit down and watch, the Hamlet play now being performed in full for the both of them.

With tender fingers Belle brushed over his hand, but his eyes once again evaded hers, his gaze instead turned to their entwined hands.

‘What is it?’ She asked softly, the scene now changing as more characters entered the stage.

‘A good play’s all.’ He curled his lips, but the smile didn’t shine in his eyes.

‘Can we continue m’lady?’ Hamlet asked.

Belle raised her finger, requesting a moment, eyes searching the Master’s frowning appearance.

‘Tis fine.’ He shook his head, eyes finally looking back at Belle. ‘Truly. Do continue.’

--

A brother’s blood. Only as they now walked through the hallways of the Le Comte estate, did the similarities click in Belle’s brain. She knew he was a Le Comte. But as they passed by a few stately portraits, the features were uncanningly close to his. It was near frightening.

Their arms entangled as they made way to the grand hall, where loud roars and cheers erupted from what appeared to be a large crowd. It made for a perfect, quiet entrance, as all attention was aimed at a pale skinned lady that stood in the middle of the hall, arms raised high in the air. ‘...His bed is unslept. I fear..he was taken as well.’

The crowd started shouting again, before another woman stepped in, her appearance easily recognised by the Master, whose breath choked. The woman he saved from the fire.

‘NO! SAY NO LIES!’ She spoke, breaking through the loud ruckus. ‘Me and my children were SAVED, not stolen!’ She roared, her eyes shooting bloody murder at the man who had stoked the disquiet with such disdain. He huffed as two more men stepped in to pull him back into the crowd.  

‘YOU!!!’ A new voice boomed through the air as people were roughly shoved aside, their loud yips and groans following the path that was cleared through the crowd. An enraged man had worked his way to the centre of the mass of people, dark hair hanging before his face. With a loud groan he straightened his back, broad shoulders squaring as a hand rearranged his hair. It took everyone by surprise to see who this wild man was.

Ismael.

‘Do you not see?!’ Ismael snarled angrily, the whole room gasping as they slowly took note of the terribly disheveled state of their Grandmaster. His eyes were bloodshot and veins were drawn blue on his pale skin. ‘HE’S HERE!’ And with that he pointed at the back of the crowd, straight at Belle and the Master.

Instinctively the Master grasped for Belle’s arm to pull her back, but she was ahead of him, feet stepping forward as she spread her arms wide, shielding him instead.

In seconds the whole room was staring at her..and the unfamiliar man behind her.

‘Leave him be, Ismael.’ She bit, her lower lip trembling as the whispers started again.

‘Is that Belle?’ - ‘Wasn’t she dead?’ - ‘Who’s that?’ - ‘Where’s the monster?’

Belle swallowed harshly as a new, wide path was created by the people, a lane of emptiness stretching out between her and Ismael’s feet.

‘Or what..pretty Belle?’ Ismael tilted his head, hands folding behind his back as he straightened his shoulders, returning to his usual haughty upright. ‘Are you going to run again?’ He taunted.

The Master snapped his eyes at the taunting smile of Ismael, lips wishing to curl up in a snarl, tongue already flaking out to ...to..He licked his lips again, then more specifically his teeth. Tooth after smooth tooth, they were all there. But different. Furrowing his brow he now realised why he had felt so out of breath in the forest. He was..he was..

With slow, measured steps the young Grandmaster started his way to Belle and the Master, chin tilted upwards and red burning eyes telling of the hellfire he had come walking from. He looked like a dead man walking, jaw tight and eyes deep in their sockets. Positively sickly.

As he slowly narrowed the space until there was just a few feet between them, he quirked his head again. The movement felt so unnatural. Almost as if he was possessed. The Master felt a shiver run down his spine, the worst of his nightmares coming true.

History repeats. History repeats. History repeats.

Belle didn’t notice him. Her eyes were instead transfixed on the strange being that Ismael had become. His nose inhaled, as if he had just stepped outside and the flowers were abloom, his lips curling in an empty smile.

Click.

It clicked in her head. This was exactly like the Master had been when she had just met him. Strange. Inhuman. Obsessed with smell. He was one too. Ismael was one too. And from the looks of it he had some trouble hunting, his skin as deadly pale as the Master���s had been after the long week without feeding. She had to run. To get away. To…looking around she saw all the people. Gruff bakers, butchers and clergymen, all staring at her with bafflement. They probably still thought she had something to do with the curse. No. She shouldn’t run. Not this time.

‘Looks like I’m not running.’ Belle finally spoke, the words escaping with a pent up little sigh from her chest. The crowds had gone quiet, whispers finally silenced, as none wanted to miss a single word.

‘We should go.’ The Master’s fingers melted around her waist, begging for her attention. But from the way she swatted away his hand, he knew that she was a lost cause. And he understood. Ismael had taken everything from her. From the night at the feast, where he chased her until bloody and broken. To the condemnation of her father, who now lay cold in the ground. And then there was the here and now. He was chasing her again. Wishing to take away what little she possessed.

Her sweet rose.

There was little the Master could do, his limbs heavy and feet nailed to the ground. The whole world seemed slow. Dull. Strange. He had lost it. He must have lost it. And now all he could do was hope that Ismael would make a mistake. Make the people turn against him. He did look sickly after all.

‘Did you take something that was not yours, milord?’ Belle cocked her eyebrow at Ismael, her pretty face a mask of calmth.

For a moment the Grandmaster didn’t seem to respond, death staring in his empty eyes. Or perhaps it was hunger. The Master knew that sensation all too well. He had been there. He had smelled the rich delight of fresh blood, he had heard the loud beating of a hundred hearts around him. To remain calm and composed in such a moment, was near impossible.

And so it was.

The young Grandmaster awoke from his contemplation, lips pulling back in a slip as long fangs were revealed. In a whirl of seconds the whole atmosphere changed and Ismael had chosen his fate. People gasped in shock and feet started to flee in all directions, wishing to get away, whilst others tried to find weapons.

The Master also chose his fate - hoping this would not be the day he’d regain life, only to lose it again so soon. Again he tried to pull Belle away, but she stood her ground, head shaking one solid “no”.

FUCK. Fucking stupid stubborn..stubborn...ARGH! His mind reeled at the sight of his Belle, her eyes feraly staring back in Ismael’s vampiric gaze. It both alarmed and aroused him.

Oh..Why after a long life of unmeasured strength, did the Gods choose for him to be weak as of right now?!

With widened eyes he sprinted off to a fireplace close-by, hands grabbing for a hot poker that lay abandoned in the roaring fire, feet evading the many people who ran to and fro in a messy hurry.

In the meantime Ismael had lunged forward, closing the distance between him and Belle, evil hands grasping at her face and hair, wishing to pull her jaw aside so he could go in for a taste. But Belle was fierce and headstrong. And definitely not afraid. With stomping feet and gritting teeth she fought back, nails digging into whatever facial feature she could reach - hopefully Ismael’s eyes.

And it wasn’t just the people that had started to become restless. Also the room itself seemed to fill with a certain disquiet. Windows trembled, before finally they swung open, long curtains drifting high in the wind. It was something out of a beautiful horror story, the vampire trying to sink his fangs in buttery skin, as long streams of heavy red velvet danced on the icy winds. Like blood. Flowing. Dancing. Licking.

Too busy with the struggle with Belle - and her smell - Ismael had lost sight of the Master as he hurled himself at his fellow vampire. Near ready to strike his fangs into her porcelain skin, a loud cry erupted from his lips instead.

The Master appeared from behind Ismael, the hot poker shoved mercilessly between cold ribs, aiming true. A vampire may be strong. But not invincible. And so as daylight lay dust to Ismael’s skin and blood bubbled on his screaming lips, Ismael let go off his tasty snack, poor Belle dropping in surprise from the dying vampire’s grasp. Anguish shrilled through the air as the monster yelped in pain, the hot iron firing straight through his icy heart. Ending his reign of terror. Ending his attempts at pouring poison on the lives around him.

For a long moment the world seemed to have gone mute. The people gawked at the heap of limbs and bubbling, foaming blood that dripped onto the stone, their young Grandmaster no more. And the wind continued to blow, though now far less menacingly, the heavy velvets drifting aimlessly through the curious crowd.

In a mere few weeks the people had lost not one, but two Grandmasters. And how! The first one drowned in his own bile. And the other? The other was a monster...a monster! And a dead one at that, his crimson lifeblood now seeping slowly onto the floor as slow whispers started to travel through the crowd.

Things started to click for the people as well. Gaps were being filled and questions answered.

Ismael had been the beast! It made sense! As of late he had been acting strange. In fact..vile! He had spoken in strange tongues, spat his wine at guests, gnarled like a wolf and roared like a storm. And before that he had lead his people in the wrong way on multiple occasions, the most vivid memory being that of the night of the fires.

And as the whispers circulated, the saved woman from the fires stepped forward again, hands pushing aside the crowds to get to Belle and the Master.

‘TIS YOU!’ The woman cried, her arms instinctively wrapping around his shocked frame. ‘Tis you. OH may God be with ye good lord.’ She looked up from her tight embrace, eyes watering. ‘You saved us.’ The Master swallowed awkwardly, not sure how to respond. He hadn’t been hugged by a stranger in..well..literally centuries.

‘Twas you who grabbed us from the fire, no?’ The woman then asked, realising she might be mistaken. Slowly the Master nodded, blue eyes looking down at her blushing face. ‘It was..I. Yes.’

‘OH blessed be!’ She exclaimed, her next attempt at hugging failing as a new person entered the little get together.

The fayen woman with the raven hair.

Her piercing blue eyes studied the Master as she pushed aside the last of the men who were standing in her way, her lips falling apart in a gasp of exaggerated surprise.

‘MY SON!’ She exclaimed, confusing the Master even more as he immediately recognised her as Morgana.

She was no woman! She was a witch!

Searching for Belle, he quickly pulled her into his side, her large brown eyes looking between him and Morgana to realise that he knew this strange vixenous woman. Fighting away from his grip yet again she stepped forward, brows furrowing as her finger pointed out at the Master’s “mother”.

‘You are his mother? You?!’ Her eyes lit with fire, and Morgana looked in amazement at the fierce little thing.

‘And who might you be?’ Morgana asked, her head quirking in bemusement.

Belle lowered her finger and balled both hands into fists, tongue flaking over her bottom lip. She had to try her best not to fly into the woman’s hair at once.

‘The one who didn’t abandon him.’ She growled.

Morgana smiled, then looked back at the Master. ‘Tis true then. You have returned from the dead and I embrace you warmly.’ She swiped past belle and hugged the Master, long neck stretching as she reached her lips out to whisper in the shell of his ear. ‘What sweet rose you bring.’

Belle watched in bafflement as the devious devil woman let out a theatrical shrill of joy, fingers tracing over her “son’s” cheek. ‘I lose one son, but welcome back another. What cruel faith this day brings. But oh, how joyous am I to embrace you again. You see..Such tragedies have befallen us…’ Slowly she disentangled her branchlike fingers from the Master’s mane, her attention now aimed back at the crowd.

‘..but no more!’ Her eyes trailed to the heap of limbs that had been Ismael - his mouth foaming with blood. ‘Today the tragedies end. And I say we celebrate!’

--

It was like time hadn’t passed. Like Belle was again at that party a few months prior, the whole village cheering and dancing because the beast was gone. And yet, everything was different now. Looking to her left it was not her father she saw. It was the Master, his eyes giving her a sympathetic smile as he listened to an endless stream of words that erupted from the woman he had saved from that fire.

And looking to her right, to the hallway where she had ran off the last time, there was again a light trail of blood - though this time it was Ismael’s blood, not hers.

She hadn’t felt like dancing then. And she most definitely didn’t feel like dancing now.

Even as the villagers deemed her and her handsome saviour as trustworthy, welcoming them with pats on the shoulder and small smiles, the atmosphere felt off. Like..something lingered here still. But maybe that was also just her projection. Her not daring to believe that it was over. Done. The happy end. Book closed.

Finally, the woman from the fires was pulled away for a dance, leaving the Master’s arms open for Belle to slide into, their feet not opting to dance, but to stay, her head leaning into his warm chest.

Warm..chest. Wait…

Settling back a little, Belle looked back up at the Master. In all the fuss and stress, she hadn’t noticed what he had noticed. Hesitantly brushing her finger over his cheek she could feel the gentle warmth that spread there. She could smell him. He had a smell about him. Which was both new, and refreshingly nice. The Master’s lips curled in a careful smile, allowing her to study his changed appearance, fingers touching and eyes studying.

And then, finally, her finger moved to the corner of his lip, her eyes searching his for confirmation before she carefully pulled it up. A gasp escaped her rosy lips.

‘It’s done.’ The Master nodded, his smile growing.

‘But..how?’ Belle frowned, the question remaining unanswered as the raven haired lady returned. Her sly act of motherly warmth not yet dropped as she procured a scarlet rose from her long sleeve, the crowd around them now starting a dance circle. People smiled, feet jumped, patterns whirled and the music whipped. But Belle, the Master and Morgana had little eye for them, as the three of them shared looks.

‘I beg you forgive me for our logy meeting, earlier.’ Morgana curtsied. ‘I do speak in honesty when I say you must be the most beautiful of the land. And, I understand wholeheartedly why my son has taken a liking to you.’ Her lips curled in a smile, but jealousy laced her words. Then, with a controlled force, she offered the rose to Belle, the poor girl yelping in surprise and pain. Its jaggedy thorns ripped through her palm, hot blood oozing from the wound.

‘Ai!’ Morgana expressed, not half as surprised as it was probably foul play from the start. With fascinated blues she watched as the Master grasped for Belle’s hand, soft lips kissing and soothing where it ached, the rose falling discarded on the ground.

So it was true. The curse was lifted.

With a wry smile she looked at the rose as it fell to the ground, blood glistening on its petals.

Too bad that..

‘What is this sorcery?’ The Master whispered through gritted teeth, his dark gaze aimed at her, disturbing her thoughts. Morgana chuckled, then shrugged her shoulders. Sorcery? Did he mean the curse she had lain on him? The deer she had sent his way? Or the ..rose?

Just as the thought whirled through the branches of her wicked brain, she watched as Belle started to wobble, her hands grasping for the Master’s chest as dainty legs gave way. Such a loss. Such a pretty girl.

Too pretty.

With a theatrical gasp Morgana watched as the Master caught Belle in his arms, her body hanging limp like a sleeping corpse.

Much better.

With Belle held in a tight embrace and tears brimming in the corners of his eyes, the Master looked back up at Morgana. The question he posed earlier couldn’t have had a better timing, Morgana mused.

‘Tis love.’ Morgana sighed, making the Master cry out in anguish.

Nothing could ever end well, could it? One moment he regained life. Only to lose it again a moment later. Feeling up Belle’s throat her heartbeat was but a whisper, face calm and restful like she was in a deadly sleep.

‘Hahahahaha.’ A sudden burst of laughter erupted from Morgana’s cherry lips, making the Master’s anguish greater. ‘Oh hush..my son.’ She taunted, then sighed. ‘I just required proof, ‘s all.’

The Master blinked in horror at the wicked witch. The whole world seemed to be unwilling to see what a grievous bitch she was. SHE was the monster. And she made her lair wherever and whenever it suited her. With a snap of her claw-like fingers she could enchant any and every man and woman. She did as she pleased. But he wasn’t sure why. Was she truly vile? Or had she good reason?

‘Proof of what?’ He bit through his tears.

‘Hmm..you know..what.’ Morgana gave him a cold stare, the laughter of seconds earlier melted away, making place for her true nature. With a click of her tongue she eyed Belle. So pale. So frail. So cold. ‘So..very pretty.’ She tutted.

It was then he had enough. With a careful bow he laid Belle to the ground, eyes having a hard time to break away from his dying love. ‘You killed her.’ He whimpered.

‘Well. Then bring her back.’ Morgana also lowered to her knees, head tilting in fascination as the Master’s watery pools of misery looked at her.

And the people? They continued to dance. Like enchanted. No. Possessed.

With a long sniff of the nose, the Master retraced his finger over Belle’s cheek, her heartbeat no longer to be found beneath her marble skin.

‘No..’ He trembled. ‘No please. Please Belle.’ Anguish tore through his breaking heart, his next movement rash and unpredicted. With a deadly force he picked and pushed the rose into Morgana’s chest, its sharp thorns cutting like knives into her pale skin.

‘You keep your vileness...mother!’ He spat.

In the initial wave of shock Morgana couldn’t help but laugh, the irony not lost on her before her laughter too died. With awkward sputters of her luscious lips she reached for slurred words, that were hard to hear even if you leaned in real close. ‘Tcan’t be.’ And with that she sank to the ground too, her face melting into one of eternal sleep.

So lost in his pain and tears, the Master did not notice how the people around him were unleashed from their magical chain, the whole world sighing with relief as the witch had been defeated.

No, all the Master could do was cry. His lips whispering wordlessly, he begged for Belle to come back. With rubbing hands he wished to warm her skin, wake her. But curses were evil. Hard to break.

Was she truly dead?

After centuries of agony he found his love, only to lose it by the prick of a fucking ROSE?! ARGH!! NO! No...no…

‘Belle..’ He begged, his hands lifting up her sleeping form, wishing to keep her as close to his shattered heart as he could.

‘Tis a witch!’ A voice cried behind him, making the angry anguish burn up in his chest. But when he looked up, he noticed what he had not noticed earlier. The body of Morgana was now no longer of lady-like form. Twisted and evil, skin wrinkly and warted, she looked as picture book perfect a description of a witch. Cursed by her own trappings, it had caused her demise.

More voices erupted from the disenchanted crowd, people rushing to come to aid, hands pulling away Morgana’s corpse to get to Belle.

Blinking away some of his tears, the Master looked back down at Belle. With a tender brush of love he kissed her cooling lips finally, one last time.

The poisoned rose crumpled and a clock rang.

It was a tale as old as time.

A tune as old as song.

For centuries he had felt the long minutes melt into hours. Into days. Into aggravating months, years, a lifetime. But time reminded him also of how precious it was. Or had been. The lone years had been forgotten so simply when he stood there one day in the forest, only to hear a sweet voice tinkle through the trees. For a moment he did not exist. He was like a bird on the branches. He watched her as she spoke, rosy lips curling in one of those dream-haunting smiles.

That day he finally reinstalled that darn mirror in the hall. Just one mirror. The rest still locked and stocked away. One mirror to remind him that he existed. That he was no ghost. He was real.

That day he looked upon his form for the first time in centuries. Sharp and pale. Fanged and broken.

Bittersweet and strange

Finding you can change

Learning you were wrong

Without fail he would listen to her then everyday. He would re-read her words in his lair. He’d even go out and trade with merchants far and wide to retrieve as many copies of her book as he could get his hands on; he would have them all if he could. At some point they stacked up high in his room, alongside the many other books he had read in hope that he would learn more about the female heart...and soul.

His every waking hour - which were many - was invested in learning. Reading. Reclaiming what little hold he had of life. Belle was his anchor, his lifeline. She brought a fickle sliver of hope back in his lonely days. She brought him a soul.

‘Please.’

Certain as the sun

Rising in the East

‘Please..’ A finger grazed up his cheek.Two large brown eyes looked up into his tear bleeding eyes and he wondered if he was dreaming, his eyes starting to blink furiously, but the eyes before him remained. What..? OH! OH my! She is awake! With a tremble of his lips he felt his dying heart revived, her lips curling a sleepy smile.

‘Anything Belle.’ He smiled in disbelief. She sniffled, still slightly hazed, before pulling his hand to her thigh, making his cheeks flush in mild embarrassment.

‘Belle..we are..’ He wished to alarm her of their audience, to which some people chuckled, whispers erupting in the crowd. It had always been a weird girl, that Belle.

And then the Master realised what she wanted him to find; his fingers felt the outlines of the book beneath her skirts. Of course. The book. He smiled and reached down her pockets - receiving some silent gasps from the crowd - before retrieving it. The people laughed even louder. Oh! And Belle and her books!! Oh, Belle!

Tale as old as time

Song as old as rhyme

‘You want me to read?’ The master chuckled.

‘No.’ She slowly shook her head and smiled. ‘Twas just that I was right.’

Beauty and the Beast

--

Church bells rang in the morning air, but for once they did not hurt the Master’s ears. In fact, he couldn’t imagine a more welcoming sound at this very moment. With sure strides he walked down the path, the crowding numbers on the square indicating just how packed the chapel had to be. Their faces smiled, and napkins waved in the air, as people wished to bestow gifts and well-wishes. But they would have to save that for later. With a practised, but well-felt smile, their new Grandmaster thanked them, his cheeks glowing with a thrilling buzz.

Before him the large wooden doors to the chapel arose behind side-stepping people, the path to his future cleared as the January sun warmed the back of his tailcoat.

Outside a grumpy old man awaited him, hand folded around his hip as beady eyes peered from beneath thick grey eyebrows. He smelled of wood and grime. ‘Twas about time!’ The man grumbled, tilting his head, gesturing the Master to step inside. ‘Thank you..grandfather time.’ The Master chuckled, offering the man a teasing wink before finally stepping inside.

‘Okay..GO GO GO.’ Lumiere’s wig bounced somewhere at the altar, the small man quick to spur the little orchestra into motion, a soft music warming from their strings and bells.

The Master smiled, halting his steps to allow his ever chaotic staff a moment to get a hold of the situation. They were still not entirely used to their regained human form, but the gladness did beam off their glowing cheeks.

And then, with a grounding breath, the Master prepared himself for the first day of the rest of his life.

It was time, indeed.

--

‘Are you catching up with that?’ Belle sniffled after their staff left the room. Soft candles casted a soft glow around their shared bedroom, a fire burning in the hearth.

‘What is that..wife?’ His smile grew even wider, making Belle chuckle. Without further ado the Master stripped himself of his shirt, the planes of skin and hair underneath unveiling a new life. Like Adam stood before Eve, he stood before Belle, her appreciative eyes travelling a long way down his muscular physique. A very naked physique. He had changed so little, and yet so dramatically. The shapes were the same. But the touch was different. He was no longer hard and marble, but soft and warm.

Though not soft, mushy soft. He made sure to flex his muscles teasingly as she looked back up his large biceps.

‘Very well..HUSBAND.’ Belle grinned and got up from the bed, her long hair falling in soft brown waves over her night gown. ‘I’m just saying that you haven’t stopped smiling since.-’

‘You.’ The master interjected.

The both of them laughed.

‘Ai.. Henry.’ His name still tasted so new and sweet on her lips as he had only dared to share it so recently. But he could keep no secrets from her. No more. They now shared everything. Heart, mind..soul.

‘Tis so.’ She smiled, breaking through his thoughts with a brush of her gentle fingers, Cupid’s wings fluttering in his heart.  

And with that they kissed sweetly, until death did them part.

The End.

Roll-credits reading music: Le Sextet à Claques - Laryngo-rhino-phraryngite

--

General Tagsquad: @harrysthiccthighss​  @magdelen69​ @thereisa8ella​ @mary-ann84​ @darkbooksarwin​ @summersong69 @madbaddic7ed @luclittlepond @maroonmolly​ @elinesama​

Vampire!Henry Tagsquad: @i-cant-remember-my-old-login @wednesdaybraids @othersideofforty @starstruckkittyangel​ @strangerliaa​ @omgkatinka​  

If you want to be added to or removed from my tag lists, shoot me a message!

--

Final author’s note: Thanks for reading my loves! Are you feeling the post fic reading buzz/blues? Here’s a few things to keep you entertained: 

Listen to The Monster’s Lair Playlist

Check out my vampy mood blurb that inspired this fic

Read the original version of Beauty and the Beast: Apuleius’ Cupid and Psyche

Make Lumière proud and read some Hamlet by ye good ol’ Shakespeare

Read another vampire!Henry long fic: @viking-raider​‘s Fangs Deep

[shyvioletcat]

Can we pleeease get Aedion meeting Rowaelin's kid for the first time???

Just a little thank you for everyone being so nice all the time. May or may not have cried a little bit writing this one...

~~~~~

Aedion had barely slept in two days. No one had. When Aelin had gone into labour the whole court had immediately been teetering on a knife’s edge. 

As Aelin’s bloodsworn, her protector, her cousin, Aedion had paced outside listening to the pained sounds coming from behind the door. He knew there was nothing he could do, that he wasn’t needed, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t there. There had also been a good amount cursing and swearing and threats to castrate Rowan when it was all over, that had made Aedion smile despite the raging anxiety within him. 

When he heard those first cries of a newborn his knees had almost given out on him and he gripped the chair where Lysandra sat to keep himself upright. Aedion watched the door unflinchingly. Long moments passed then Yrene appeared, face tear stained. 

“They have a little princess,” Yrene said, her voice showing her exhaustion. “Mother and baby are both well.”

There was a collective breath exhaled from those who had waited, as though every had been too scared to breathe. Aedion looked down to see his wife wiping away tears from her cheeks. He put his hand on her shoulder and Lysandra put her hand atop his. Aedion looked around, Elide was hugging Lorcan, Fenrys had a look of awe and relief on his face. Everyone else had gone to bed long ago or were dealing with other essential things. Like Vaughan, who was watching over Aedion’s own son and the young heir of Perranth. 

Lysandra stood and Aedion embraced her.

“I’m going to go check on Rue,” she murmured into his shoulder. 

“Alright,” Aedion said. 

“Coming?” Lysandra asked. 

Aedion shook his head. “I want to wait.” Lysandra nodded and Aedion took her chair. 

He was the only one left. Everyone else went off to bed, finally able to sleep with the knowledge that the Queen and baby were well and safe. It only took Aedion moments to fall asleep himself, sitting upright in the chair. He stirred when Yrene left the royal chambers and she gave him a weary smile, but then he was asleep again, not caring his back was stiff and his legs half dead.

It was just past dawn when he woke up again, this time it was because Rowan was shaking his shoulder gently. Aedion was immediately awake, rubbing at his face.

“I thought I’d been tracking you down in your bedroom,” Rowan said. 

Aedion looked up at him, even his immortal face was showing signs of utter exhaustion. But there was a quiet blissful joy in his eyes that Aedion recognised. He’d seen it on his own face in the mirror after his son was born.

“Aelin wants you to come in,” Rowan said.

“I can —“ Aedion cleared his throat, hoarse from sleep. “I can wait.”

Rowan shook his head, a crooked smile on his face. “I don’t think she’ll sleep until you meet her.”

That made Aedion smile himself as he stood. He stumbled a bit on his dead legs but managed to keep himself upright. He almost hobbled after Rowan for a few steps, swearing he’d never sleep in a chair again. Rowan led the way to his and Aelin’s bed chamber, his feet near silent. The door was already open and Rowan stepped aside to let Aedion in. 

Aelin was propped up against the headboard by a mountain of pillows, holding the baby all bundled up in a blanket of Terrasen green. Aedion already felt his throat begin to tighten as his emotions started to overwhelm him to the point it was almost painful to breathe. Aelin looked over at him, her face a bit pale but so incredibly happy. She patted the empty space beside her on the bed, silently inviting him next to her. Aedion kicked off his shoes as he sat down, then shifted over so he was beside his cousin. Suddenly he was taken back to when they were children, when he would sneak into her room when he knew she was upset or he’d managed to smuggle some treats from the kitchen, and they would sit up and talk for hours. They were far away from what they had been then, but still that bond between them held strong.

Silently Aelin passed him her daughter and Aedion looked down at her tiny face. She slept, her eyelashes brushing her chubby cheeks. She was beautiful. Aedion hadn’t realised he was crying until one of his tears dropped onto the blanket, right next to the Princess’s face. So gently, he manoeuvred his arm so that he could wipe them away before he disturbed her sleep. Aedion was aware of Rowan leaning in the doorway, witnessing his tears at this tender moment. But Aedion wasn’t ashamed.

“What do you think?” Aelin asked and Aedion glanced up to her, seeing tears gathering in her eyes. 

“She’s so beautiful, Aelin. She’s perfect,” Aedion whispered. 

“I can’t believe I did it,” Aelin said. “It’s all so surreal.”

Aelin leaned over and brushed her knuckle along the infant's cheek, she stirred, her nose scrunching. Aedion remembered feeling very much the same when his son had been born. He had no idea what he was doing, but what he did know is that he loved his son with his whole heart, his soul. As he looked down at the baby in his arms he felt very much the same. Maybe just a fraction less, but he loved this little princess already.

“Do you have a name?” Aedion asked. 

Aelin looked over at Rowan and smiled before looking at her daughter again. “Elspeth Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius.”

Aedion smiled and lent down to kiss Elspeth’s forehead. “Hello Elspeth, I’m your Uncle Aedion. I already love you so much you can’t believe it.”

There was a quiet sob from beside him and Aedion saw Aelin wipe away her tears. “Don’t make me cry any more, I’m begging you,” she said. 

Aedion passed Elspeth back to her mother and he kissed Aelin’s forehead before he moved off the bed. “I’m so proud of you, Aelin.”

Aelin wiped away more tears. “What did I say?” 

Aedion just gave her a knowing smile which Aelin returned. As he passed Rowan in the doorway he clasped his forearm before pulling him into an embrace. “Every happiness, brother.”

Rowan only nodded with a tight lipped, overjoyed smile on his face. 

Aedion was utterly exhausted by the time he reached his own sleeping chambers. Lysandra was fast asleep in their bed but Aedion walked through to the adjacent bedroom where his son slept. Rueben was asleep, tucked beneath his bedding. Aedion brushed his son’s dark hair from his face and kissed the three year old on his forehead. Then he went to his own bed, not bothering to change before he fell onto the mattress, content to finally fall asleep as he thought about the happiness the new Princess of Terrasen would bring.

~~~~~

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[sergeant-donny-donowitz]

Safety First (Hugo Stiglitz x Reader)

Requested by @cass-danvers

@owba-chan @war-obsessed @inglourious-imagines @tealaquinn @struggling-bee @frozenhuntress67 @kwyloz @sodapop182

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A/N: (p/n)=your pronouns :)

_________________________________________ Utivich was panicking as he cried out, "DO WE TAKE IT OUT OR LEAVE IT I-" Hugo pulled Utivich away from Wicki, who had a bullet in his chest, and blood pouring out his mouth. Hugo shook his head, and muttered,  "Don't do anything." "WHAT DO YOU MEAN DON'T DO ANY-" Donny was crouching by Wicki, "He's sayin' something in German. Hugo, listen!" Hugo sat by, and listened. "It's an address," he looked up at the others, all of which were as confused as him.  Aldo immediately turned to the last nazi they'd left alive, "Where the hell is that?"

The nazi raised a shaking finger as he stuttered some directions.

Aldo nodded, "Well, very kind of you, boy." He cleared his throat as he studied his newly acquired luger, "Normally we let one of you shit faces go with a pretty little mark on his face and a story to tell, but we can't have you tellin' 'em where we went, now can we, boy?" The nazi looked at Aldo with wide, terrified eyes. " An' that don't change the fact I got a man dyin' back there..." He raised the gun, and shot the last nazi in the face, as the basterds moved Wicki carefully. ******

It was nearly two in the morning when you heard a knock...no...a knock is polite. And unheard at such an ungodly hour. This was incessant, endless, deafening sound, threatening to break down the door.

Fortunately, you were wide awake, in a quiet room, hidden to the untrained eye, studying things that would be a death sentence if found by nazis.

You quickly and quietly hid the papers away, and pushed the bookcase back into its tidy space, hiding away your secret rebellions.

You sighed, knowing perhaps you were in over your head... Perhaps this would be the night your luck ran out.

When you opened the door and immediately saw a gun pointed directly between your eyes, you raised an eyebrow. You knew nazis would draw out their cynicism.

Then, you looked at the face behind the gun.

You recognized it from the newspapers, not so long ago.

Hugo Stiglitz.

In spite of an imminent threat of a bullet being lodged in your brain, you were no longer worrying, or even wondering what was wrong. His voice was demanding as he pushed the gun against your forehead. "Sind Sie ein Arzt?" 'Are you a doctor?' You nodded, and Hugo grabbed onto your collar, pushing you inside as what could only be the basterds, began to pour into your livingroom. "Schreie um Hilfe und du stirbst." 'Scream for help and you die.' "Notiert." 'Noted,' you smiled a bit smugly, then glanced past him, spotting a bloody man in their arms. "This way," you pulled away from Hugo, completely defying him and his threats...You knew the stories, and frankly anyone with half a mind in your place would be scared of him... But you weren't. You glanced at Hugo for a brief moment as you walked by and led them down the hall. That man was one of the most gorgeous people you'd seen in your life. And...he was stunned that you didn't even blink in the face of death. Hugo looked down at his thumb. When you pulled away from his grip, something on your collar had cut him. You pushed your bookcase aside, and turned on the lights. You pushed papers and maps away from a steel table, and turned on every lamp in the room. You pulled out a kit with surgical supplies, and pulled a cloth over the table. "Here." You turned, and saw the face of the basterd that was bloody and barely breathing. Your eyes went wide, and your heart skipped a beat. It couldn't be him... You shook your head once at yourself. No, this wasn't the time to be emotional. You had to act, and act quickly. There would be enough time for this nonsense later, you hoped. "That was fast..."Donny muttered as he and Aldo lugged Wicki onto the table. Smitty looked around, "Is no one going to ask what the fuck this place-" Aldo ignored him, and looked to you, "Is he going to live?" That struck you. Your half moment of hesitation took everyone's breath, and an uneasy, eerie silence blanketed the room. You turned to look at him, studied the wound for a moment, "Schwer zu erzählen..." 'Hard to tell...' you sighed, and Hugo caught on. He asked again. His tone was not quite as aggressive as it was minutes before. It was pleading, as you lingered by the doorway, on your way to wash your hands, Aldo following with a gun to make sure that was all you did. You turned for a moment, "Ich werde alles tun, was ich kann." 'I'll do everything I can...' You disappeared down the hall, and Omar asked, "What'd the doctor say?" "(P/n) will do the best (p/n) can." You ran back in, and started to lay out everything you needed. You looked up, "I have no morphine."

Hirschberg muttered something as he lit a cigarette. Aldo raised his gun, and kept it trained on you, making sure you did as you were told. "I need you to hold him down in case he wakes up." You set down a bottle of whiskey on the edge, and turned him over slightly. No exit wound... You nodded, silently hoping that bullet wound was shallow, and that  the bullet itself was in one piece. You felt a looming presence by you, and saw Hugo Stiglitz was standing over the wounded man, holding down his shoulders, just in case...though he seemed distracted, and distant. He was looking at you, with a gaze only a soldier could have. He'd seen much, but he was not ready to see his friend like that. You took a shot, "Sicherheit zuerst," 'Safety first,' which made Hugo’s expression soften. It was the closest thing to a smile as he made in a long time. Some of the other basterds circled around, ready to hold Wicki down if he woke up in the middle of it all, and also took a shot for 'safety.' You sighed, understanding how that soldier must have felt, placing his friend's life in the hands of someone he couldn't trust. Better yet, you knew you had to save Wicki. Because you didn't have time to explain that you knew him, and you had known him for most of your life. You had to save him because you had so many things to tell him. You had to save him because you wouldn't be able to bear life knowing that you didn't.  So, you sighed, and quietly explained everything you were doing, hoping that would ease at least Hugo Stiglitz. "Es sieht so aus, als ob keine Arterie oder kein Organ berührt wurde," 'Looks like no artery or organ was touched,' you glanced at him for a moment, and Hugo nodded once. You looked back down, patting away blood with a clean cloth. You shuddered as you took your scalpel, and took a breath. For years, you had stayed up late nights, wondering what had happened to Wilhelm. Now you knew. You met Wilhelm Wicki when you moved to the city as a kid. Wicki lived in the house next door. When you were older you moved out on your own, to the place where you lived now. Wil was your best friend, and he came over almost every day, always told you about work, asked you what he was doing wrong when his girlfriends were angry at him... One day, around 1938, you had a bit of a falling out, though nothing that couldn't  be fixed. He simply didn't show up. A day or two passed before you began to wonder about him. He didn't even answer the phone. Wilhelm wasn't one to hold a grudge, this just wasn't like him. So you marched down to his house, but he was gone... along with his mother and sisters. You feared the worst... you worried they'd been taken away. It wouldn't have been unheard of. You spent years looking for a clue, a sign, even a rumor. But you never found a word. So, you decided to do your best. You were a doctor, but that didn't mean you didn't have your own convictions. You wore a safety pin hidden by your collar, as many across Europe were doing as a sign of resistance. You built this hidden room to help people hide. You used maps and stolen documents to chart escape routes for Jewish families since you couldn't help Wicki. But now, as he was on that makeshift operating table, you realized you'd been looking for him on the wrong side of world. You smiled softly for a brief moment with a soft sigh. You whispered hopefully, "Wilhelm..." Hugo glanced at you, his eyebrow raised, wondering how you knew Wicki’s name. But, a gleam from your collar diverted his attention for a moment. His eyes widened, spotting the safety pin on your collar. He looked to Aldo, "Aldo, put the gun down." Aldo looked to Hugo, "What? But-" "The doctor's not a nazi." "How do you know?!" "Trust me." The basterds all looked at Hugo. He never said much, but when he did, they listened. You glanced at Hugo, and he looked to you, then nodded. Aldo lowered his gun. He sat on a nearby chair, and realized he was sitting on a few papers. He picked them up, and only took a few moments to realize who you really were. "Y'know doc, if we was nazis, you'd be sent to a firing squad by dawn," he smiled as he raised the papers up.   You chuckled, spotting what was in his hands, "I don't think so. That's far too much mercy for a traitor like me." Hugo whispered so softly, you didn't hear, but you felt his gaze fall on you again, "Wie wir." 'Like us...'  he referred to you, and himself. He knew you were right. He was tortured by the nazis as a traitor once, and for a moment, it horrified him to even imagine you going through something like that. In that moment, each and every basterd flocked to the table to hold down Wicki, who was screaming at the top of his lungs and beginning to thrash around. You focused back on him, looked into his wide, pain-struck eyes, and sweaty, palid face. "Just one minute more," you looked around as the basterds, just before you picked up the pace. Wicki's eyes feverishly focused on yours as you shook your head sincerely, and whispered "Es tut mir leid, es tut mir so leid, Liebling, nur noch eine Minute." "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, darling, just a minute more." His breathing slowed a little as you worked quickly, and he tried his best to hold still as you whispered, "Du bist in Ordnung. Du bist in Ordnung, alles ist in Ordnung, Wil." "You're ok. You're ok, everything's ok, Wil." Hugo  glanced up, seeing how gentle you were, and his heart sank a little, dismissing the fleeting hope that some day, someone somewhere would show at least an ounce of the kindness you showed to Wicki. "There, not so bad, was it?" You pulled the last stitch shut, and smiled wearily down at your old friend, who smiled through the pain, and murmured, "You're still here..." "I'd never leave," you smiled softly, as you patted sweat away from his skin. It was then that he looked up at you, "I'm sorry that I did." You shook your head, "That was so long ago," you smiled kindly at him, as Hugo looked on, wondering what had happened. "Y/n..." Wicki tried to get up, put you shook your head, "Rest now. We'll talk in the morning." Aldo asked Hugo, "What's goin' on?" Hugo glanced at you, then Wicki, then looked to his lieutenant. "Y/n...” He paused, and sighed slightly as he said your name, “Y/n  and Wicki knew each other once..." Donny shrugged, "Guess the address thing makes sense now..." **** It was decided later that night, in a relaxed and relieved circle littered with drinks, that Wicki was going to stay with you until he recovered. The basterds would come back for him. The next morning, Hugo was trying to think of something to say. He said something you already knew to be true, "We'll come back." "I know," you smiled softly, and it melted his heart. You were both quiet for an instant more than Hugo wanted. Normally, he was comfortable in silence, but, he liked hearing your voice. Somehow, it soothed aching memories that always lingered in the back of his mind. "I'm sorry if I scared you when-" You shook your head, "Don't be." "For yelling..." "I understand," You smiled a little again, poured him a drink, and handed it to him kindly. He looked at it, then at you. You both looked at each other for a moment or two, then couldn't help but to kiss. When it was over, Hugo opened his eyes a few moments after you did and remained breathless, and you giggled quietly as he smiled to hide a red shade of embarassment, It had been a long time since he kissed anyone. Longer still since he'd felt anything close to what he felt for you. "Can I make it up to you?" Suddenly, your expression changed. Something cunning, something lurking behind the kind smiles and soft giggles emerged in the form of a smirk and a twisted wink, "Bring me a nazi or two when you come back here." **** You and Wicki caught up, telling each other any and everything. Well...the one thing you didn't tell him was the time that you kissed Hugo. Some time passed. It was nearly four in the morning. You were halfway up the stairs on your way to your bedroom. Wicki had fallen asleep hours before, and was in another bedroom. Suddenly, you heard pounding at the door, and you stopped in your tracks. You sighed. It was a toss up between nazis searching your home again, the basterds coming back for Wicki, or a housecall for a sudden burst appendix. By the time you got downstairs, Wicki was already standing by the door, with a revolver in his hand. "Way to raise suspicions." He panicked for a moment, "If they're nazis, just...well...just say we're married an-" "That would never work! They'd know from records, first of all. Second of all, I wouldn't marry you." He rolled his eyes, "I forgot how mean you were." You both heard a familiar voice behind the door, "Wir sind keine Nazis" 'We're not nazis.' You smiled, and opened the door, finding the basterds there, Hugo up front, holding two nazis whose mouths were duct taped, and wrists were tied. "But we brought you a gift." You chuckled, "Come in, boys." You quickly shut the door so no one would see. Then again, only basterds like them would be up at that hour. "Gift number one, this boy here done broke his arm fightin' that nazi over there."  Aldo nudged Utivich over to you. The poor kid was holding up his arm, and seemed green from the pain. "How long's it been this way?" You asked as you started to feel for the broken bone. Utivich grimaced, "A few hours." "Come on," you led them all back to the sliding bookcase, and brought them all to the hidden room. "Sit there." You looked up, "Well the good new is, it isn't broken." Utivich shut his eyes as he rolled his head back, and muttered through gritted teeth, "Well it fucking feels like it." You nodded with a sigh, "I know but it's...oh shit...what's the word...." You glanced not to Wicki, but to Hugo. Wicki was stunned for a moment, but...he had suspected some things. By suspected...he saw you and Hugo kiss before the basterds left. He smiled, as you looked to Hugo and said, "Ausgerenkte?" He nodded, "Y/n says it's dislocated." "You're....you're gonna..." You saw the fear in the poor kid's eyes, and you smiled kindly, "It'll only take a second, don't worry. Take a breath,"  sure enough, as much as it hurt, and as much as he groaned, you remarked, "Don't scream too much, or you'll scare the next two." Hugo smirked, and looked at you. There it was again, that glint of something plotting...something vengeful beyond the gentle eyes and smiles. Once you were done fixing up Utivich's arm, you offered to put up the basterds for a few days so they could all rest. Once the basterds settled in, most of them fell asleep immediately. This was the first time they had warm, relatively safe beds to sleep in months. Only Hugo stayed awake, waiting until he heard you come upstairs. But he didn't. He heard the bookcase slide shut, and nothing after that. He looked for you, as soon as morning came, and in that hidden room, something unspeakable had happened. Something with an unmistakable flair for the macabre, and yet, with surgical precision. It was almost surreal. But revenge was revenge, and it was beautiful in Hugo's eyes, just as you were. He looked at your work, and the unidentifiable nazis, then at you. "This place is sound proof, isn't it..." That smirk was all he needed as an answer. He smirked right back. All evidence was expertly wiped down. The results of your experiment were left somewhere the nazis in the city could find as a warning, but not traced back to you. Soon, it was the basterds' last night staying with you. Hugo noted you were quieter, and a little distant. The silence wasn't so unnerving this time, just heartbreaking. Hugo kissed you, and you kissed him. There was an air of desparation shared by both of you, knowing that nothing was ever certain in the time you lived in. He broke away from your lips for a spare moment, and whispered, 'Ich werde zurück kommen.' "I'll come back." You smiled softly, remembering the last time he promised that. "Ich weiß." 'I know.' You looked up at him. Your quiet, soft smile fading into something more as you began to wrap your legs around him. He smirked at you,  shutting the bookcase behind him, as he wrapped his arms around you, winking about the sound proof room, as he remarked "Sicherheit zuerst," 'Safety first.'

[sennextheassasinkingoflight]

Redemption, My Love

Chapter 8 update Cross posted to AO3 Rated Explicit Important tags: In depth tags warning can be found on AO3)  Lancewain, Slowburn, Found Family, Eventual smut, Warnings for abuse (emotional, physical, mental) of a child, Rape/ Non Con, Self harm, and the rest of the tags that come almost implicitly with an Lancelot/Weeping Monk centered fic.  Side note: Everything happening with NImue and Merlin and the Fey takes place at the same time as the events from chapters 1-6. 

++++Arthur++++

Arthur is locked in discussion with the Red Spear. It is vital they become allies, he knows this, without her and her warriors the Fey would have been wiped out today. There would be none of them left in this group. He would have failed to protect them as Nimue requested.  He must convince them that the Fey are worthy warriors, capable of returning the support of the raiders. For now the most important aspect of discussion is the vulnerability of the beach. If a storm blows in or the tides change, they could be trapped here. Tonight, remaining on the beach is their only option with so many wounded, but tomorrow they must find a more formidable location. Perhaps they can go back to the woods. “We should send scouts at dawn. Then we may burn the dead. When the scouts have returned we will move our injured.” “Aye.” The Red Spear agrees, then continues, “ Supplies will be short with so many mouths to feed. What would you recommend for it?”

“We should ration, immediately. Send out hunters into the woods to bring back whatever they can to offset the difference. And send those who can pass for humans into the nearest town with funds to buy what we can.”  He stands firm beneath the intensity of her gaze. He could swear it's as if she is looking through him, or perhaps she is looking into him. Setting his jaw he forces himself to meet her gaze and finds himself captivated by the angles of her face and the odd jewelry she wears. Shouting pulls him from his distraction and he turns to face a young boy running towards him. “Arthur! It's Nimue, she’s returned with Merlin and Morganna. Hurry, she's been injured!” He follows the boy across red sand, feet pushing against a malleable surface, slowing him as he attempts to reach his lover as quickly as possible. When he turns to call an apology to the Red Spear he finds that she is keeping pace with them. The boy slows to a halt and pants just ahead of him. Pushing through the crowd he comes to a stop, nostrils flaring as he inhales and chest rising and falling quickly.  He watches as Yeva sends Pym to gather something for her and ushers two boys carrying Nimues limp form into a tent. The Moonwing casts a glance and Merlin and despite her obvious disdain for the man, nods, then shakes her head and enters the tent. Pym passes by him and he reaches out grabbing her arm in a vice-like hold. She meets his eyes and he loosens his hold minutely. “Will she be alright?” “We don’t know yet. I have to go and help.” She pushes his hand away and  moves quickly towards the tent. Not quite a run but far from a walk. Her red hair flies freely in the breeze where it has fallen out of its braid, and for a moment he is taken back to the first moment he met these two girls, singing in Hawksbridge. That day feels so long ago. “The girl they carried into the tent. She is Queen of The Fey?” “Yes.” “And is she more than that to you.” He nods, throat to dry from lack of water to speak, and constricted with fear to function. Frantic voices draw his attention and he glances towards Merlin who is speaking urgently with his sister. His feet drag in the sand as he makes his way to their side. “Morgana what happened? Why are you dressed like that?” “It’s a long story Arthur. Nimue was shot twice by Iris. There wasn’t… we couldn’t do anything. She fell off the edge of the walk and into the waterfall. Arthur, we barely found her. She’s freezing cold, cold as death.” “Yeva, is skilled. She will heal Nimue. I am certain.” Merlin suggests, voice shaken but firm in its conviction. “What about you? You're thousands of years old. You're her father. Why don’t you do something?”  Morgana snaps back at him furiously, face drawn tight, and arms wrapped tightly around herself. “ I have not practiced my magic in almost two decades. I'm not sure I can help her. Even if I was certain I wouldn't do more harm than good, Yeva will not let me work beside her. When she is done I will do my absolute best to repair any remaining damage. For now, we must be patient.” The wizard says, inclining his head and leaning heavily on the sword pushed into the sand. His staff gone missing in the fray. Arthur bares his teeth, ready to say something else, to argue, start a fight, but it leaves him just as fast when a hand rests gently on his bicep. His sister looks up at him and he pulls her into an embrace. “Are you hurt?” “No. No I am not. But I have done something I fear cannot be undone.” She trembles in his arms and he can do nothing more than pull her closer, he never could shield her from the world, and now less than ever. He wants to help, but without knowing what has happened he cannot. 

“Morgana? Morgana, what is it?” “Later my brother. Later. For now let us worry about Nimue.”  He mutely agrees and looks between the two as he formulates what needs to be done next. The next thing is the only thing he can think of at this moment or he will go mad. There is so much to consider, so much still to do. Instead he begins to lead them towards the center of the camp. They linger a moment looking at the healers tent before he speaks. 

“You two must be hungry. Let us get you something in your stomachs and dry clothing.”

 None of them will sleep tonight. Not well at least, even with dry clothes and full bellies. So, as they sit around the fire in silence, waiting for whatever news the morning may bring, Morgana and Merlin take their turns explaining what occurred at Uther’s camp. Morgana tells him about Nimue’s plan for her to flee with the sword and how she decided to come back. He listens as she tells him and Merlin about how she had met the widow, and that she had killed her. As he listens to his sister speak, the belief that she is hiding something from him rears its ever present  head and settles low in his gut. Their relationship is tenuous at best and he knows it, so he does not press for clarification or more answers. Just listens silently, idly drumming his fingers against his leg and casting furtive glances at the tent whose walls hide Nimue from them. Neither Pym nor Yeva nor the others have come to tell them anything. Eventually Morgana stops speaking and Merlin begins to explain what Uther has done. “Guinevier, The Red Spear, should hear this as well. She and her troops have agreed to help us, if we in return help them against Cumber’s men. It seems we have a common enemy in him, and now Uther as well.” “And the Paladins?” Morgana inquires looking between them and towards the direction of the raiders. “The raiders have been sacking their camps as repayment for raiding the cities before they get a chance. It is to our benefit.” He offers a small smile to his sister. “Nimue left you in charge, did she?” Merlin adds, looking into the fire. “Yes. She did, is there a problem with that?”  He raises his eyebrow in question and stares at the exhausted looking man. “No. I just find it curious is all.” He aches to slap the smirk off his wine drinking grin. Instead he sends someone to fetch the Red Spear. As they wait the sounds of the camp fill their ears. It is the sound of a war camp. The moans of the injured surround them on all sides in the dark of the night. The chill of the sea breeze billows the tent walls around them and carries the sound of death up the cliffs and over the fields. Whetstone on steel is a comfort against the cries of the heartbroken and injured. Morgana shifts to his right and he turns. “You wish to go help them?” “I would be more useful trying to save a life than sitting here worrying.” She agrees as she stands and disappears into the shadows. Merlin shakes his head and drinks deeply from the goblet in his hand.

When the raider joins them the three discuss the political game they have found themselves in. The Fey have their backs against a wall. If the Paladins, Uther, and now Cumber have sided with each other against them their only real hope is to side with the Red Spear and her raiders. Even then, there is little guarantee that any of them will survive.  

++++Pym++++

Even inside the tent it is cold. She shivers against the breeze and watches as Yeva sets up to begin working. She swallows away the tightness in her throat and approaches cautiously. “I want to help.” “Get her hair dry and get her out of these clothes. The last thing she needs is to catch cold.” The Moonwing bites out as she turns half way around to size Pym up. Half blind eyes meet hers and she wonders how this woman can still see to be a healer. Jumping at Yevas sudden proximity over the table she starts to unlace Nimues bodice with trembling fingers. It takes far too long to undress her friend and get her covered by blankets. Yeva works around her with little difficulty. She is grateful for that small mercy. If she were in the way she isn’t certain she could live with that. For now she stands at the head of the table they’ve laid Nimue on and towels long chestnut locks. 

She doesn’t take her eyes off Yeva as she works. It is inspiring to see old hands, twisted with time and tipped with talons work so delicately with the skin beneath their touch. The shoulder is the most logical place to begin as the arrow has already come loose but Yeva ignores it, looking instead at the bruising forming on Nimue’s head, and sides. She runs her hands over the young Fey’s arms and legs, feeling for broken bones, then down her ribs. “Feel this.” She speaks, low and raspy and Pym jumps again, not having expected for such a request to come from the matron. She extends her shaky hand and Yeva takes it, presses it against Nimue’s ribs and slides it up and down letting her feel just how real the damage is. “She must have hit a lot of rocks when she fell.” The whisper falls from her lips unbidden. It’s stupid. Surely, Yeva has already thought the same thing, but instead of telling her off the woman looks at her and asks, “Why do you think I haven’t started with the arrow wounds?”  With hesitation, Pym considers the options carefully. She isn’t really certain, but there is not a lot of blood which means she should be concerned about infection. “They aren't bleeding? So, it gives you time to look for other injuries?” Yeva meets her eyes and gives a nod. “Now what should we do first?” “Why are you asking me? You're the healer.”  Frustration fills her voice and she tries her best to keep it out but can’t. Her friend is dying and Yeva is standing there asking her questions instead of healing her. “You wanted to help. I am teaching you.”  The old woman answers calmly, turning her back to the girls and reaching for several supplies. Indignant, Pym comes to stand by her, crossing her arms and jutting her chin out. “Well then teach me something!” The glare Yeva sends her way makes her spine tingle, slowly she steps back and lets her arms fall to her sides. “Sorry.” She looks to the ground. “Do not apologize to me. Do better.” The woman says thrusting a bowl half filled with water at her. “Clean the wound on her shoulder.” “Shouldn’t I add something to the water?” “I already have. Now go on.” She doesn't waste another moment to do as instructed and sets about cleaning the wound as best she can. It isn’t very deep into the tissue of the shoulder but she can see the edge of the bone when the debris has been cleared away. “Yeva, I can see the bone of her shoulder. And the skin is hot to the touch.”  The Moonwing healer looks up from her concentration on the arrow lodged in Nimue’s stomach and lets out a long sigh. “Prepare a poultice of yarrow, beeswax and pepper for now. Apply it thickly and wrap it.” Moving away from the table, she finds the ingredients she needs on the table, the flickering light of the candles dancing ominously at the periphery of her vision. Focusing on her task she wills away the tears seeking to fall from the corners of her eyes away and mixes the ingredients. When she turns back around to apply the salve to the wound she finds Yeva cleaning the one on Nimues abdomen. This one does bleed. A lot. She knows from her time on the raider ship that the arrow was keeping the wound sealed. Applying the mixture to Nimues shoulder she watches the matron wipe blood from the entry site and flush the wound out with a mixture of herbs and water. When done she packs the wound with yarrow leaf and applies the rest of the poultice to the outside of the wound and wraps it tight. 

“We cannot stitch these, they are puncture wounds and there is infection in them. We must leave them open to drain. We will check them twice a day. Keep them clean and dressed until she is well. Until then we must keep her warm, and when she wakes keep her from pain as much as possible. Her lungs will ache, as will her leg.” “Her leg?”  The look Yeva gives her could curdle milk, still she does not look away. “What is wrong with her leg?” “It is broken.” “What can we do?” “Thankfully the bone does not need to be set. We must keep it still, until it has mended itself. Go and get the supplies for a splint. You know what's needed?” “Yes.” When it is done, the bone splinted, the wounds wrapped, Pym sits beside Nimue. She holds her cold hand in the darkness of the tent and weeps, keeping vigil until she falls unconscious with the first rays of morning light rising over the sea. ++++Percival++++ “What do we do?” He casts his eyes forward to The Green Knight, then turns to look up at The Weeping Monk. He can feel his blood run cold at the thought of being captured. He remembers the smell of hot iron and burning flesh, old blood and vomit that lingered in the tent he found Gawain tortured in, the one Lancelot rescued him from, and his heart hammers in his chest at it. He remembers the sight of blood, old and dried and cracking, splattered on every surface. The way Gawain looked, bloodied and half dead, slumped against the ropes in the chair. He blinks. Head spinning, he tries to settle his stomach. Someone is speaking but it's like they are miles and miles away and he can barely hear them screaming over the rapid pulse of blood in his ears. He feels like he’s drowning. He closes his eyes against the onslaught of noise and it makes it so much worse. He feels like he’s falling over. “Percival! Percival.” 

There is commotion around him and his right shoulder hurts as if someone has wrenched it behind his back but he can’t bring himself to open his eyes just yet. 

“Squirrel? Are you alright? Squirrel.”

He blinks and looks up at The Green Knight and The Weeping Monk, hand on his side and face screwed up in pain, both standing over him. He swallows and tries to take a deep breath as he attempts to sit up. “Careful,” Gawain says, voice steady and calm, though Percival can see the worry creased between his eyes. The Weeping Monk, looms over them both like an ominous statue, watching, he turns, takes a deep breath and winces. “They’re getting closer.” He says turning to look back at them. “Sorry,” Percival starts, looking between them as he runs his sleeve over the sweat on his brow, “What happened?” The shouting in the background grows louder. “We will talk about it later. We need to go. Come on, up you go.” Gawain pulls him along and he climbs up on the mare. He watches him turn to Lancelot. “You said five or six?” “Yes. But it's not exact. It’s never been exact.” “If we need to engage can you fight?” “Yes.” “Alright. We will try to slip away unnoticed. If that fails…” The Weeping Monk nods at him solemn and dark beneath his hood and they both return to the saddle. 

  “Are you going to give him the sword?” He whispers as he leans back against Gawain. He raises an arm up to block a low hanging branch, and The Green Knight does the same. “If I have to.” The response is breathed against his ear as they lean low. “Left!” Lancelot calls from behind, Gawain glances over his shoulder and Lancelot has already cut to the inside, putting himself in the lead. They follow another trail into a valley.  Gawain hot on his heels. When they reach the center, Lancelot breaks off and pulls his horse in a circle. It almost seems like he is looking for something. “Why is he circling like that?” “I don’t know yet.”  

The Weeping Monk comes to a halt facing them, both horses stepping side to side in excitement. 

“The woods are teeming with Paladins. The only way I don’t smell them is directly behind us, and that direction is about to be cut off.”  Percival swallows and tries to keep himself calm. The Green Knight tightens his hold on him for a moment before releasing him. “Then you recommend we fight our way out?”

Lancelot only nods, eyes never leaving Gawain's face. Percival inhales sharply and looks around the spot they have found themselves in. It’s not very defensible. “We need to get up higher.” He says automatically. Both the men with him know this, but he can’t help himself. They should be moving. “You’re right.” Gawain inhales sharply behind him and they fall into unmoving silence. “What are you waiting for, we need to go.” He feels Gawain shift behind him. “Here.” The Weeping Monk eyes the sword for a moment, before nodding slowly. Once the blade is in hand, they climb the otherside of the valley and lead the horses into a thicket. “Percival. Stay here with the horses. Do you understand?” The firmness in Gawain's voice is almost frightening as a heavy hand lands on his shoulder. “Yes. Green Knight.”  He nods urgently and tightens his hand on the hilt of his knife. 

Lancelot whispers something softly to Goliath and hands him the reins. “We should cut back across the valley and take them by surprise.” He watches as Gawain stands and meets the monks eyes again. The two stand at arms length to speak, they can’t give away their location now. “How many now?”  Lancelot adjusts the sword on his belt. “The initial six behind us, another four ahead, and two or three to the right.” “And further this direction?” Gawain points south. “A camp, from what I can tell. Too many to be a scouting or hunting party.” The Green Knight opens his mouth to say something but the monk moves quicker covering it with his hand and using the other to push Gawain further into the brush. Gawain retaliates quickly drawing a knife and pressing it against the others ribs poised to pierce his heart. Lancelot doesn’t flinch. Percival watches in horror as it unfolds to fast for him to help. When they’ve come to a stop barely a foot from him, Lancelot removes his hand from Gawain's chest and holds up an open hand, defensively and tilts his head to the opposite side of the thicket. Gawain, eyes wide, does not move the knife, but gives a slight nod. Lancelot takes a single step backwards and they listen in silence for what seems an eternity.  “Good catch today?” Someone asks. “Good catch? Those are the scrawniest rabbits I’ve ever seen. Barely fit for a stew.” Another supplies gruffly. “At least I caught us something” Another paladin says followed by laughter.  Lancelot tightens his grip on the sword hilt and Gawain does the same, dagger still not lowered, attention caught between the possible enemy and the certain enemy. Percival swallows, they can’t see how many there are. It would be reckless to attack now, but as time drags on the voices grow quieter again. He takes a deep breath. Looks between the two who are watching him and nods. He’s okay. He’s okay. He repeats the line over and over again in his head until he begins to believe it. “What if we wait till nightfall?” He whispers when there have been no signs of the paladins for a while. “Horses could give us away any minute. We need to move.” Gawain murmurs into the air between them. Lancelot nods once in agreement. Slowly the three of them start for the exit of the brushwood. Gawain lets Lancelot lead and Percival doesn’t understand why, but he trusts the Green Knight to know what he is doing. They make it back to the other side of the valley they had crossed before anyone speaks again. “Well then, Monk?” “It’s getting hard to sense their locations. It’s all bleeding together. Two of the groups must have come together here.” Lancelot says turning in a slow circle.  “I do not know which way is safest.” He shakes his head at them. “We need to continue southwest. We should press on, get as far from here as possible before nightfall.” The Green Knight states firmly. There is no room for either of them to argue, not that they would have anyways. The monk mounts his horse and follows beside Gawain in silence. Percival keeps his eyes peeled as they move slowly through the woods. He thinks they should be moving much quicker. 

Eventually they pass by a small stream and rest for a moment. It's at the edge of the woods. The sun is beginning to fade from the sky. Percival drinks deeply from the clear stream and stretches. He feels a little better, still uncertain, still sick to his stomach, and ignorant of how he got on the ground earlier. But the pounding in his head has stopped and while he hates to admit it he hopes he never has to see a paladin again for a very long time. “Should we keep going?” He finally asks when the horses have been fed, watered and tethered and the other two have had a moment to sit. “We will be too exposed in the field.” “We’re too exposed here.” The Weeping Monk counters, softly, voice low enough it would be easy to miss in the commotion of a camp. 

Gawain shakes his head in frustration. Even Percival knows The Weeping Monk is right. “What are the paladins doing all the way out here anyways?” Squirrel asks, trying for casual, but the waver in his voice gives him away and he shrinks under the appraising gazes of the warriors to either side of him. “Search parties most likely.” Lancelot responds offhandedly taking a sip from a waterskin. “Not a main camp then.” “No. More likely, it is a base they spread out from, but it would have no more than 15 or 20 men. Three to five forming a party.” “Hunting Fey.” Percival looks at the ground, even he flinches at the venom in Gawain's voice, but Lancelot does not shy away, “Yes.” The admission slips from his mouth like ash thrown in the air. Percival stands abruptly, panic flooding his body with adrenaline. “What about our prints?” He looks desperately between the two men who also make their way to their feet. They share a knowing look. In its wake Percival feels a stab of betrayal low in his gut as he looks up first at the Green Knight and then at The Weeping Monk. How dare they share something with each other and not him? Hasn’t he known Gawain longer? Besides that, they are supposed to be protectors and they’ve left him vulnerable. They are supposed to protect the fey. Protect each other, now. Protect him. “Percival.” Gawain starts, kneeling to look him in the eye, he pulls away from the hand that tries to rest on his shoulder and inhales harshly. The ring of steel forces him to turn, Lancelot stands facing them, sword in hand. Gawain is too slow. Percival feels a burn like fire across his face as blood soaks his hair and clothes. The ground meets his face and he rolls, instinctively getting to his feet. He turns and draws his knife from his belt but he can't see through the blood in his eyes. 

[raunchyandpaunchy]

tag game: 5 songs I associate with my main character/general WIP

Thank you to @slam-dunkrai for tagging me on this!

Since it’s my main fic, and holds a special place in my heart, and is one of only two ongoing WIPs that aren’t one-shots I’m going to choose The Edged Lexicon for this one. And oh, I have plenty of songs I associate with both TEL as an overall work and with its main protagonist, Nadine Rielle. I’m going to have A Time cutting them down, most likely.

For the good of everyone’s timeline, I’ll put my thoughts about my thots and their songs under a keep reading banner, so if you wanna read then click away:

Tagging @mimosasupernova, @randy-sensei, @tafferling and @captainmarkarth to do their own (if you feel like it—no pressure!)

Five songs I associate with my main character, Nadine Rielle

Björk - Big Time Sensuality: This song encapsulates a lot of what Nadine is - a hedonist, who loves people and revels in all of her relationships (both platonic and sexual) but who also dislikes any kind of hard commitment (which seems to be a sentiment Björk herself shares). It’s about closeness and sensuality, but also about freedom, and the courage to dive into those kinds of emotions headfirst.

First Aid Kit - My Silver Lining: This feels like the most Nadine song musically - I think modern AU Nadine would listen to a TON of First Aid Kit. I chose this particular song because it’s whimsical and kind of bittersweet; it has notes of optimism, and moving forward, but there’s also anxiety under there too (I don't know if I'm scared of dying / but I'm scared of living too fast, too slow) and to me it captures the constantly wandering, nomadic side of Nadine perfectly.

Janelle Monáe - Make Me Feel: Honestly I adore Janelle Monáe’s entire back catalogue, and there are so many songs I could have picked for Nadine, but ultimately this one felt the most fitting: a sexy, funk-synth-y bisexual anthem.

Sleater-Kinney - Modern Girl: At this point, the line “hunger makes me a modern girl” will forever make me think of Nadine. (Carrie Brownstein too, but also Nadine.) Hunger (for food, for knowledge, for sex, for experiences) is so much of what drives Nadine that it just feels like such a fitting line for her.

Marina and the Diamonds - Froot: Delightfully poppy and synthy and fun? Check. Various fruit- and sex-based metaphors? Check. Nadine to a T.

Five songs I associate with my general WIP, The Edged Lexicon

St. Vincent - Masseduction: “Can’t turn off what turns me on” is pretty much the Sanctum’s motto, and one of the overall themes of The Edged Lexicon - it’s a fic about kink discovery and exploration, and this whole song just captures it wonderfully.

The Velvet Underground - Venus in Furs: Yeah. Hi. I know this is just like, BDSM-themed playlist 101 but I absolutely Do Not Care. It fits. See also: the obligatory Nine Inch Nails song I put two songs down.

Bat For Lashes - Oh Yeah: This song is ridiculously sensual and charged that it made me forget how to spell “ridiculously” for a second there. It’s also got kind of a nice nature theme to it, which feels fitting for the setting? Idk, it’s like “fuck me slow out in the forest on some sort of stone plinth”, and if that isn’t what Skyrim is all about, then idk what is.

Nine Inch Nails - Physical (You’re So): Hey, at least it wasn’t Closer. ;)

Boards of Canada - Dawn Chorus: This is by far the most abstract song I’ve chosen so far, but it’s also one of the ones I associate with The Edged Lexicon the most. There’s no lyrics, but it manages to still be one of the most erotic sounding tracks I’ve picked (at least in my own opinion). There’s just a really gorgeous, dreamlike, almost disorienting quality to it, kind of like some electronic ambient orgy. Which I dig, obviously.

[stupidsexyfandom]

Atonement

@helsa-summer-event

Rated M: Mature themes, SFW // Angst

CONTENT WARNING: Major Character Death, Suicide

Twenty-five years later, a body washes up in Arendelle. 

Written for Prompt #4 of Helsa Summer: Gorgeously tan. 

The morning after the storm dawned cool and gray. Queen Elsa rose even earlier than usual after a night plagued by insomnia. She stood on her balcony, watching as the city began to stir. The sea lay still as glass, slate blue and impenetrable. She wished she could stand staring at it forever. Her mind had been greatly troubled, and today, she did not feel like speaking to anyone.

Unfortunately, she reminded herself, being queen left no room for fits of pique. She would have to go downstairs to tend to her duties eventually, as she had every day for the past twenty-five years. Casting a last longing look at the gray sea, she steeled herself to face the world.

Breakfast with Anna, Kristoff, and the children could always lift her spirits, even on such a dour day as this. Elsa supposed she should no longer think of them as children en masse. The oldest, Isolde, would be twenty-one in the spring. Watching her niece, Elsa could hardly believe she had become queen at that age. She seemed so young. Surely she herself had not been such a child when she had taken the throne? But perhaps she had been so young once. In any case, it was her prerogative as a doting aunt to remember all her nieces and nephews as babes in arms no matter how old they got.

After breakfast, she reviewed her itinerary for the day. The bulk of her time was occupied by a foray into the city to assess storm damage. The high winds and heavy rains of the previous night had wrought havoc on structures private and public alike. Beyond the usual cleanup, Elsa had to decide where to allocate funds for repairs and assistance.

She was accompanied on her inspection tour by the castle’s steward, Kai. He had worked in the castle since her father had been crowned. Although his hair was now white, he seemed to grow shrewder with each passing year. Elsa valued his opinion more than those of most of the diplomats and aristocrats on her advisory council.

Together they walked through the streets of the city. Elsa was pleasantly surprised. All told, Arendelle had weathered the storm much better than she had feared. She knew her people were strong, but the wind and rain had been particularly fierce. When the pair reached a damaged building, Kai would make note of it in his little book, and Elsa would do her best to help. Where shingles had blown off the baker’s roof, she created a patch of ice to keep the rain out. Where the upper story of a tenement sagged, she created an icy scaffolding to support it until repairs could be made. All throughout the city, she did what she could. It was times like these when she was thankful for her powers, and she could tell that her people were, too. Every snowflake was an atonement for what had happened so many years ago.

There was a small crowd gathering at the top of the cliffs overlooking the sea. They appeared to be looking at something caught on the rocks below. Elsa thought the wind must have blown something over something over the edge in the night, perhaps a signboard or even a cart. Perhaps she would be able to get it back for them with her powers. She and Kai joined the townsfolk in peering over the edge. At first, Elsa could see nothing. Then she caught sight of a flash of red and felt suddenly sick. There, where the waves were lapping at the rocks, lay a body.

She immediately conjured a staircase to the foot of the cliff, careful to give the treads an anti-slip texture. Kai was the first down it, moving nimbly despite his advanced age. Elsa followed. When they reached the bottom, they had to pick their steps carefully along the slippery rock. The body lay face down. Its hair had been the red that caught her eye from the clifftop. Kai knelt to check its pulse, although they both knew it was a vain gesture. Sighing, Elsa created a broad platform of ice beneath the three of them. She raised it into a pillar until they were even with the head of the cliff. Two fishermen rushed forward to carry the body onto solid ground.

They lay the dead man face up on a patch of grass. For the first time, Elsa could see his face. A chill of recognition ran through her, and she wrapped her arms around herself instinctively. When she looked down, she was shocked to see spirals of frost covering her cloak. She had not lost control of her powers like that in decades.

“Is something wrong?” She could feel Kai’s keen eyes upon her. With anyone else, she might have been able to pass it off as the shock of seeing a dead body so close. But Kai had known her for too long. He had seen the recognition in her eyes.

“I know this man,” she said haltingly.

“Oh?” Elsa had to think fast. She couldn’t let anyone know what she knew, not even Kai.

“I saw him yesterday. He told me the last time he was in Arendelle was for my coronation, and he wanted to pay his respects after twenty-five years.” This was not exactly a lie, although it was far from the whole truth.

“Did he tell you his name?”

“I believe he said it was Anderson. Hans Anderson.”

-

She had seen him in the town square. All around, the city of Arendelle was bustling with preparations for the oncoming storm. He was standing at a produce stall, examining the varieties of fruit. She might not have recognized him if not for his eyes. He wore the garb of a simple sailor, and his face was tanned and weather-beaten. But she would know those eyes anywhere.

She paused for a moment, uncertain of whether to approach him. Part of her wanted to ask why he had come here, or how he dared to show his face here at all. The other part of her wanted to turn away and forget she had even seen him. She had learned long ago the value of letting sleeping dogs lie. But soon enough the choice was made for her. He had seen her.

“You haven’t changed,” he said by way of greeting, and Elsa hated that he was right. Age had taken its toll on her, but its price had been lighter for her than for most. Her hair had always been white, and her time indoors had kept her skin smooth. He could not see the achy joints and stiff muscles that lay beneath the surface. Nor could he see how she had grown, no longer fearful and isolated. She had learned to be strong for her people, to make difficult decisions and navigate stormy seas.

“You have,” she told him, although she was not sure that it was true. He dressed coarsely and had clearly spent the last twenty years working under the sun, his red hair streaked with gray. He still carried with him a certain air of refinement, but his face held an open simplicity she had not seen before. Still, she was wary. He was an expert pretender, and it was likely the same frozen heart lay beneath this roughhewn exterior.

“I need to speak with you.”

“Then speak.” Her tone was chilly.

“Not here. Somewhere private.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“You only have to listen.” Elsa wanted to dismiss him out of hand, to tell him that she didn’t have to do anything. But there was something in his eyes that was both dangerous and desperate. She found herself assenting. He tried to give her his name and current ship, but she brushed them away. They would meet on her terms.

Sitting at her dressing table that evening, Elsa mulled over her choice. She was not going to allow herself to regret it. So much of her life had been stolen away by fear and regret. As she had grown older, she had learned not to let them dominate her thoughts and actions. But that evening, those emotions threw her back to the day she became queen. What’s done is done, she thought. And although she could not eliminate her regret, she could keep moving forward.

Lost in thought, she removed the pins from her updo and began brushing her hair. As she braided it for sleep, she realized the actions were pointless. She would be going out again anyway. But seeing the braid over her left shoulder gave her an idea. Standing, she replicated the first ice dress she had ever made. She had not worn one like it in many years, finding it too daring to be taken seriously at court. Now, she remembered the power she had felt when she first created it. Perfect, she thought. It was the same dress she had worn that day on the fjord. She wanted him to remember what he had done.

-

The wind whistled as she stole down to the side entrance. Elsa could see the backs of the leaves, but no rain yet fell. When she opened the garden door, she was surprised to find him already waiting.

“Did the guards see you?” The last thing Elsa needed was for anyone to know about their secret assignation.

“I climbed over the wall,” he said, gesturing behind him. Elsa could barely make out a patch of ivy growing over the stonework, and she made a mental note to have it cut back later. But tonight, it had been her ally.

She led him to the chapel. None of the lamps were lit, so the only illumination came from the moonlight streaming in through the windows. She set the lantern she carried on the dais. The flame cast weird shadows across the flagstones.

She whirled to face him and said, “Why did you come here?”

“You don’t know? I came to beg for your forgiveness.” A cold wind blew through the chapel, extinguishing the lantern. Elsa swore under her breath, any cutting response forgotten. She knelt to fumble with the wick, realizing she didn’t have any matches. That was the biggest problem with this ice dress: no pockets.

He was beside her in an instant, proffering a matchbook from his waistcoat pocket. As she reached out to take it, their hands brushed, and Elsa realized neither of them wore gloves. She wondered if it had been as long for him as it had for her. She struggled to light a match, finding the striking pad slick with ice. When a flame erupted at last, it fizzled just as quickly in her cold hands.

“Here, let me,” he said, gently taking back the book of matches. She watched silently as his tanned, agile hands lit the wick. They sat side by side on the edge of the dais, staring into the shadowy corners of the chapel.

Suddenly he said, “I hear the princess is married.”

“Yes,” said Elsa, “Happily married for more than twenty years now.”

“To the iceman?”

“Yes, to the iceman, Kristoff. They have several lovely children.” Elsa was stalling, not eager to return to the subject that had brought them there.

“Children? Will you tell me about them?” It occurred to Elsa that Anna probably would not want her to. Anna probably would be upset that she was speaking to him at all. She was ready to ask him what business the children were of his when he held up a hand.

“Please. Let me hear about the children that could have, in another life, been mine.” His words stung Elsa, especially because she often thought the same thing. She loved her nieces and nephews as though they were her sons and daughters. But sometimes, she imagined an alternate path, where she had loved and married and had children of her own. So she told him. She started with Isolde, who would be queen one day, and worked her way down. He listened with rapt attention, but his eyes held a sadness she knew too well.

When she had finished (with Wilhelm, age nine, avid collector of frogs and turtles), he asked, “And you? You have never married?”

“No. I discovered long ago that it was better to keep power for myself than to trust too easily and share it with anyone whose motives were uncertain. You taught me that. I suppose I never found anyone whom I could trust.” He barked a dry laugh and leaned back on his arms. Elsa studied his face among the harsh lamplight shadows, and she could see his expression soften.

“It is a shame, your Majesty, all that we have missed in life.” She wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that she had missed nothing. But instead she just sighed. They sat in silence for a while.

“You’ve never married either?” asked Elsa. She felt suddenly ridiculous. Here she was, making polite conversation with the man who had once tried to kill her. She wasn’t even sure what to call him. ‘Prince Hans’ seemed out of the question, for she was fairly sure he had been stripped of his title. Just ‘Hans’ seemed too familiar, implying a closer relationship. What else was left? The false name he had given her? But ‘Mr. Anderson’ seemed stiffly formal, like she was addressing a stranger. And whatever their relationship was, they were certainly not strangers. His voice interrupted her reverie.

“No. I’ve been at sea for many years, you know. No time for a wife.” Something in his tone told Elsa there was more to it.

“Many sailors marry.”

“Perhaps I was always too obsessed with what happened in Arendelle. I dreamed of it every night. Even in my waking hours, I could never be free of it. Each wave crashing against the hull seemed to call me to repent. Eventually, I could bear it no longer. I thought it might drive me mad. Perhaps there was a kind of madness in my coming here. But I knew that I could not rest until I saw you again. I could not go on without asking for your forgiveness.”

Elsa stood slowly, feeling stiff from sitting so low to the ground. She almost pitied him. Despite what she knew of him, he seemed genuinely repentant. Perhaps he had learned something in the past twenty-five years. That was what made this so hard.

“Do not ask for my forgiveness.”

“What?” He froze midway through standing up.

“Any wrongs you have committed against me pale in comparison to what you did to my sister. It is her forgiveness you must seek, not mine.”

“Then let me speak to her tomorrow. I won’t expect anything to come of it, so long as I have the opportunity.” His expression was tinged with eagerness verging on desperation. Elsa steeled herself. She had to protect her sister. She had been unable to do so twenty-five years ago when they had first met Prince Hans, and Anna had suffered for it. Now, Elsa finally had the chance to atone for that failure. She would not fail again.

“Princess Anna is happy now. She has a life and family of her own. The last thing she need is for you to dredge up the past.”

“But—”

“I sympathize. Do you think I don’t understand self-recrimination? She has finally managed to heal from what we’ve done to her. I won’t let you disrupt her life.”

Her words proved to be too much for him. He knelt before her, pleading desperately. She thought there was a touch of madness in his eyes.

“Please, I beg of you! If you will not let me see your sister, at least consider my plea for yourself. I don’t know how I can go on otherwise. I cannot live this haunted life.”

“I cannot help you. You must seek absolution elsewhere.” Elsa wished that things could be different. But she of all people did not have the right to grant forgiveness for what had happened at the coronation. Not when she herself had played such a large part in her sister’s suffering.

He threw himself at her feet like a child. She felt his hand on her leg, grasping at it like a lifeline. He buried his face in her skirts, and Elsa felt overwhelmed by his emotion. She noticed snowflakes drifting slowly downward and waved them away with her hand. Perhaps she was being selfish, letting her final act of atonement block his only chance at the same. But Anna’s happiness had to come first.

“Get up,” she said softly, pushing at his graying hair, “Hans. Get up.” He looked up at her, eyes moist but unwavering. Slowly he disentangled himself from her skirts.

“I can’t give you what was never mine to give. The most I can do is let you leave here in peace. I will not alert the Southern Isles, nor will I alert Arendelle’s guard. I have left you with your life. You must be content with that.” Her tone was kind, but she spoke with a sense of finality.

“A cursed life such as mine hardly qualifies. You have left me with nothing at all.” His eyes looked hollow, as if there were nothing behind them.

-

“Give us your best account of what happened last night, Captain,” said Kai. The body was laid out in the castle’s chapel. Because the dead man had no local family, Elsa had volunteered to take charge of the remains. Now a small group had formed there to try to figure out the cause of death. Elsa and Kai, her eternal shadow, stood on one side. The doctor and the bishop stood on the other. The captain of the St. Winifred, who had been found based on Elsa’s information, was the final member of their party. Elsa had worried that they might realize Hans’ true identity, but her secret seemed safe for the moment.

“The night watchman says Anderson returned around midnight, just about when the rain started. He didn’t go below decks right away, saying he wanted some fresh air. By the time of the one o’clock patrol, he was gone. The watchman say he thought Anderson went below deck, but the storm was getting intense by that point, so he wasn’t paying much attention.”

“Do you think he could have fallen overboard? Or could a wave have washed him away?” asked Kai. The captain considered for a moment.

“I would say either of those were possible, if not likely. Anderson was a competent sailor and very cautious. I doubt he slipped and fell. But in a storm like that one, anything may have happened.”

“Was he well liked among the crew?” Elsa could tell Kai was trying to be diplomatic.

“Yes, he got along with everybody. He was quiet and kept himself to himself. But he was always willing to pick up the slack, and that made him popular. I had offered him a promotion several times, but he always turned me down. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to harm him.”

Elsa was finding it difficult to keep her mind on the proceedings. She found herself staring at the corpse several times, fixated on how it compared to the Hans of her memory. Beneath its suntanned skin lay the pallor of death. Its eyes were closed, but she knew they must hold the same hollow look she had seen the night before. She longed to reach out and touch it. Would it be cold as ice? Would she even be able to tell? The bishop was speaking for the first time, and Elsa tried to give him her attention.

“What we must know is this: could he have done this to himself? We cannot move forward with the burial until we know whether he is worthy of consecrated ground.” The other three men looked distinctly uncomfortable. Elsa got the feeling this was a possibility they would all have gladly ignored.

The doctor spoke first: “All I can tell you is that he drowned. There were some abrasions from the rocks, but they were clearly postmortem. His body can give us no evidence aside from that.”

“I wouldn’t believe it for a moment,” said the captain with a bit of added bluster, “He just wasn’t the sort. Sure, he had his troubles, but so do we all. Doesn’t mean he’d do something so drastic.”

“Queen Elsa,��� said Kai, “you spoke to him the most recently out of all of us. Can you shed any light on his state of mind?” Elsa had only a split second to decide what to say. She knew her evidence would be damning if she answered truthfully.

“It was only for a few minutes. He just told me how little I had changed since my coronation. He seemed in good spirits, but of course I didn’t know him.” She hoped her lie would be convincing. It was the least she could do for him.

-

The investigation was over. They had reached a consensus that it had been an accidental death. Elsa was glad to be finished with it. At least she had spared Hans the final indignity of an unconsecrated grave. Despite the bishop’s protestations, she had insisted that he be buried in the royal plot. She was not sure what lay beyond the grave, but she hoped his spirit would be able to find some peace.

Now, she walked along the beach, looking out over the slate-colored sea. She turned, hearing footsteps behind her. It was Kai.

“May I join you?”

“Of course.” They walked together in silence for a while.

“You went to a lot of trouble to arrange a burial for that man,” said Kai. He was dangling the bait in front of her. She wondered how much he knew.

“A queen’s duty is to take care of her people. Besides, I feel partially responsible for his death. He only came to Arendelle because of me.”

“Queen Elsa, listen to me,” Kai stopped walking and turned to face her, “this was not your fault. If it was not an accident, he made his own choice. I suspect he made his choice many years ago. You don’t need to hold yourself responsible.”

Elsa appreciated Kai’s kind words and common sense. She hoped that this time she would be able to follow his advice. After so many years, perhaps she did not need another reason to atone.

***

Author’s Note: This fic is brought to you by the letter C. C for Cadfael, an endless source of inspiration for me. C for Culturally Catholic, which bleeds through into my writing sometimes. C for Content warning, which is not something I usually need for my fics. Oh yeah, and C for Completely missing the spirit of the prompt, sorry guys. 

I had to rewrite the entire middle portion because I thought Hans was coming across as too mentally well-compensated. Tomorrow I begin my apology tour. Thanks so much for reading! <3

[notgonnarememberthis]

A Compromising Engagement - Chapter 5

Inspiration strikes out of nowhere but here we are! Honestly I got this idea while on a trip a while back. It’s been sitting in my head for a minute but FINALLY the ideas started flowing. Once I get conversations in my head THEN I know it’s time to begin writing. Honestly, getting inspiration for this was rough recently because I have a new fic idea that absolutely will not leave my head. I was trying to force myself to think for this one instead so I could finish a work first but that’s literally the worst idea when you’re trying to write something. Once I stopped pressuring myself, BOOM, idea. I also had to watch an episode to get their voices straight in my head again but that’s another story. Hope y’all are staying safe!

Watson settles into her seat eyes piercing the suspect across from her. The woman is eerily familiar to her, a pompous air that resonates from her very being. An attitude calling that she can’t be caught.

The case is a rough one, triple homicide with no solid evidence. Even what they managed to obtain from witnesses is circumstantial at best. The woman knows that without a confession, she’d slide by in court. Enough money for a good lawyer and an alibi that she didn’t trust. She’d been at this for an hour and she’s growing weary. There’s absolutely no security footage of her where she claimed to be. It simply doesn’t make sense.

A scream cuts her question short. She leaps up into action, medical instincts taking over as people outside the door call for 911. She grabs the door handle only for it to remain still in her hand. She tries again and again only for the realization to dawn on her that she’s locked inside. “Sherlock?” She calls to her partner who should be just on the other side of the mirror. “Sherlock let me out so I can help!” Her heart sinks when there’s no response. “Marcus?” Again, nothing. “Abreu? Coventry?” Nobody’s on the other side. Great.

She pounds on the door hoping to catch somebody’s attention. “Someone! Let me out! I can help!” She shouts. A chuckle behind her sends a chill down her spine. Her eyes flash back to the woman in the handcuffs, Elana March sits where the woman once was. A wicked grin spreads across her face.

Action settles into her as she pulls out the keychain Kitty gifted her for her birthday. She presses the blunt end against the two way mirror turning her head as the spike inside shatters the glass. She hoists herself through the new opening, adrenaline rushing too fast to feel the glass likely piercing her palms. She reaches for the door only for it to stubbornly stay in place yet again. She looks through the window in the door hoping to catch anyone passing, even in a rush to assist but what catches her eyes sends her into full blown panic.

Two cups of coffee spill across the precinct floor. Marcus is leaning over an all to familiar form giving manic chest compressions. “Sherlock!” All sense leaves her as she slams her shoulder into the door, trying desperately to force it to swing open. “Sherlock!” She cries his name, tears spilling down her cheeks. A scream rips through her when Marcus sits back on his feet, grief consuming his expression.

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She shoots out of bed with a strangled gasp desperately trying to catch her breath. It takes her mind a second to catch up to her surroundings. A shadow passes across her room and her body moves unconsciously fetching her singlestick from her bedside drawer. She’s not quick enough, however, as the looming figure catches her wrist midswing.

“Watson!” Sherlock shouts, snapping her out of her state. He sits on her bed in front of her, worry etched into his face. She disguards her singlestick flicking on her lamp.

Her chest is still heaving from adrenaline as she tries to piece together what happened. “Why are you in here?” His brows furrow, confused.

“You were screaming my name.” His knees bounce trying to rid of the remaining anxiety in his own way. “I thought you were in danger.”

Her eyes close in both embarrassment and realization. Her nightmares had been recurrent since that night she stood up to Morland. They all ended the same with someone she cared about dead by the hands of someone she and/or Sherlock helped put away. This one, however, was the worst of the bunch. “You’re hurt.” His right hand is held close to him but she can tell he’s bleeding.

“I was doing an experiment when I heard you scream. I wasn’t careful getting out of it but it’s fine. Merely a scratch.”

“Let me look at it.”

“Watson.” He tries to bat her off again but she only looks at him. A look that tells him that she needs this right now. He obediently follows her to the bathroom for supplies and better lighting.

Once in there she determines that he is correct. It’s a painful cut but stitches are not necessary, thankfully. An apology is on the edge of her tongue when he speaks up instead. 

“What was the dream about?” She tenses not wishing to explain. Not when she’s had so many in the course of two weeks. He’d understand, of course he’d understand. The answer is simple.

“Make sure you wash this so it doesn’t get infected. I’ll go clean up the mess from the experiment.”

He catches her wrist as she tries to walk away. His grip is more gentle than before, his eyes begging her to talk to him. “Joan.” Her name makes her breath catch and for a moment, she wants to tell him everything. How she’s been extra on edge since Morland’s threat to remove his ‘extra security’ if there ever even was such a thing. It did its job, however, as she always brings her singlestick on cases now. She wants to tell him about how she’s worried he’ll take their whole livelihood away in one fell swoop. She knows he supports what she said that night, yet parts of her wish she could just take it back. Taking it back, however, would mean not standing up for Sherlock and that’s absolutely not an option.

“I’m fine.” She insists instead. It’s easier than explaining what he already probably knows.

He doesn’t push, thankfully. He only nods slightly with a sad smile. “Very well. I’ll clean up my mess. You get some rest, we have lunch with your family tomorrow, remember?”

“My mother won’t let me forget.” She jokes halfheartedly. He relaxes slightly at the return of the banter and it’s enough for now. She sulks back to her room hoping to reach a point where she’s tired enough to fall in a dreamless sleep.

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Sherlock keeps his eyes on her the next day. The rest of the night he’d kept quiet, listening for even the slightest cry. When none came he assumed she’d managed to fall into a peaceful sleep and resumed his experiment. However, when she came down the steps ready for lunch it’s more than clear to him that she hadn’t slept any more at all.

He makes no mention of it, only making her a cup of coffee before they set out which she gratefully accepted. She hides her exhaustion well with others but he’s more than familiar with it by now. With his habits of waking her up early he’s recognized her patterns at different levels of needing sleep. He tries to curb his concern when she drags her feet across the kitchen floor. He bites his tongue when she catches herself going to rub her eyes for the third time only stopping to not ruin her makeup concealing the dark circles under her eyes. He rocks when he has to repeat himself several times when she misses something he says about the experiment he’d conducted the night prior. She’s far too tired, is what he concludes. A type of tired where if they had a case he’d wait another hour before waking her lest he be on the wrong end of a snap in her exhaustion.

“You ready?” Her head lifts following the sound of his voice. He wishes he could give her more time for her coffee to kick in but they’re behind as is.

“Remind me why we scheduled this again? As if that brunch with my mother was bad enough now we have to answer to Oren, Grace, and Lin?”

“Come to recall I don’t believe Lin gave us a choice in the matter.”

“Right.” She chuckles dryly. “Let’s go.”

The ride to the restaurant is blissfully long. It gives Watson the time she needs to wake and him time to think. Not that he hadn’t done it all night but paired with the opportunity to observe Watson, it’s beneficial at least. She no longer seems shaken by the events of the night prior, also not shocking as Watson in the past has pushed back emotions for the lack of confrontation. 

Everyone is already seated when they arrive at the restaurant. Sherlock places a hand at the base of Watson’s back for the appearance but stays back when she goes in to hug her family. He waves politely pulling out Watson’s seat before taking his own.

Conversation flows naturally with the Watson family, all things given. She seems to forget her exhaustion as they discuss how they’ve all been recently, though she does order a coffee with her meal.

“I can’t believe I had to find out about your engagement through mom.” Oren laughs. Watson shifts in her seat a little only offering an apologetic smile.

“At least you found out through someone.” Lin challenges, “I found out via the engagement party invitation.”

“And she will never let me hear the end of it.” Watson shrugs. “Truthfully we were going to keep it a secret for the sake of professionalism and the danger in our jobs.”

Lin gasps, a realization hitting her. “Did you never tell Marcus?”

“No, we didn’t.” Sherlock provides biting the inside of his cheek.

“He’s going to flip when he hears about it. I mean, the whole precinct had a pool deciding when you two were going to get together but engaged?”

“They had a what?” Watson sits up a little straighter, “How do you know about this?”

“I’m the confirmation for when you two finally get together.” He and Watson both share a look of alarm.

“Did you tell anyone?” He asks, Watson’s hand grabs his leg under the table. He’s not sure if he’s grounding her or the other way around. The entire precinct knowing about their ‘engagement’ would complicate things in unimaginable ways. They’d already lied to Hannah at the gala. If that were to get out they’d be dealing with more than minor knowing looks from coworkers but actual anger and hurt from Bell and Gregson both. Dealing with wedding questions from family was bad enough. In the workplace? Sherlock can only grab her wrist in return in order to keep himself from spiraling.

“Of course not. I got Joan’s message loud and clear that I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone. Nobody has even asked recently so you’re off the hook.”

They both breathe a sigh of relief. He lets her go but Watson’s hand remains, though relaxing her grip. He’s caught by how natural the position feels. Simply holding each other was an action he’d never thought he’d find so comforting yet her hand just above his knee curbs his anxieties he’d been feeling having to pretend. They’re partners, afterall, how much pretending did they really need?

The rest of lunch is unremarkable at best. Discussion of wedding ideas fended off with excuses over how busy they’ve been with work. Lin threatened to plan for them and for a moment it didn’t sound like a horrible idea until he thought of how long that guest list would be.

He shakes his head when that thought truly settled in. How long had he been thinking like this engagement was real? Thoughts of actual weddings and Watson going dress shopping as if that weren’t something Mary and the whole Watson clan in general wouldn’t want to be involved with.

“I think I broke him.” Lin teases gently. He’s more than used to her at this point but he’s certainly overwhelmed. Watson squeezes his knee pulling his gaze to her.

“It’s ok.” She coaxes with a smile that could calm him instantly, “We’ll figure it out.” He offers her a small smile, if only she knew what he was trying to figure out.

When they say their goodbyes his hand reaches for Watson’s, his fingers interlacing with hers as they make their way to the car. Even as the climb in the back of a cab his hand covers hers in the drive finding the comfort he yearns for in the simple touch. He didn’t realize how badly he needed it until she climbed out when they arrived home and her touch was gone.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

He almost forgets about Watson’s nightmare in the panic that gripped his mind for the rest of the night. It’s not until Watson lingers in his doorway, her face more vulnerable than she lets most view her as, that he remembers the encounter. She schools her emotions so well most days.

“Any new cases?” Her voice sounds pleading and tired.

“I thought you’d be reading your book right now.”

“I finished it last night.” She admits with a sigh.

“Unfortunately nothing. It appears all the interesting murders have taken a holiday.” He jests, “I’d say let's take a trip to New York City but I believe they’re not quite keen on having me back any time soon.”

“Well you did lick what they thought was a deadly poison and made an officer faint.”

“Anyone with a sense of smell knew that it was italian dressing Watson.” She looks away when he meets her gaze. “Are you alright?”

“Fine.”

“Clearly not.” She shifts her weight from left to right and back again.

“You died.” He rears back, almost shocked that she relented so easily. “I was stuck in interrogation with a suspect and I heard screaming. I was locked inside and I couldn’t get out. I saw you on the ground. Marcus just stopped trying to save you. Nobody could hear me and I could’ve helped, I know I could but.” He’s up easily and in two steps he’s wrapped his arms around her. Her hands freeze in the air but when he holds her tighter she relents trembling in his arms like he could make it all stop.

“It’s alright.” He whispers into her hair. “I’m ok.” He feels her nod into his shoulder. He’s more than familiar with these nightmares, however. No amount of words can shake that uneasiness they bring. “Was this the only one?”

Her silence is enough of an answer as is.

“Only me?”

She tightens her grip but he can feel the just barely there shake of her head. “We saw your family today. They’re happy, if a tad relentless in pushing us to plan our fake wedding.” He feels her shoulders shake: a laugh, that’s good. “Kitty and Archie are likely cuddled up together after watching a Disney movie that Kitty pretends not to like but we both know she’s a secret softie hm?” A nod. “As for me. Well, you can stay in my bed if you’d like that way I’m right here if you need me.”

She stiffens and for a moment he believes he’s gone too far. She lets out an agonizingly long breath contemplating his offer. She swallows heavily, nodding more distinctly this time. It’s slow, almost giving herself the opportunity to change her mind. He guides her to the bed laying down first, controlling his breathing tightly so as to not make the smallest move that could scare her off.

She looks so small as she crawls in beside him. This woman that he associates with so much strength looking so vulnerable in this moment. He wishes he could take her pain on as his own. He’d do it in a second if he could. He opens an arm making the silent offer to her. A small smile that he hopes tells her if she doesn’t need it she doesn’t have to take it.

He has to force himself not to stop breathing when her head settles on his bare chest where she can listen to his racing heart. Her hand comes to rest on the base of his ribs content to just feel like slight expansion and contraction of his breathing. His own hand settles on her back, content to spell out meaningless formulas and ludicrous patterns until she’s lulled into a deep restful sleep.

He listens to her slow even breaths as his eyes drift closed.

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@tamarknott @averageinside