#why make it so different from the siblings??? I don’t think anyone was clamoring to demand that trio had a girl fourth

[eggs-love-loki]

Who on earth approved Enamorus’s design it’s so ugly 😭😭😭

[destiniesfic]

i hate everybody (but maybe i don’t) 1/3

This is my @jurdannet​ & @jurdannetrevels​​ Secret Snusband gift for @sevenfreckles-for-sevenloves​​! You tapped into a story I’d been wanting to write for ages, so you get three parts and three POVs (Vivi, Cardan, and Jude). Happy Holidays, I hope you like it. ♥ Thanks to @xdarkofthemoon​ for betaing!

This fic is rated E. Content warnings this chapter for excessive alcohol consumption, references to alcoholism, and (prescribed) antidepressant use.

Read on AO3 or read below:

Bars in Barcelona are not especially different from bars in the US. It’s a discovery Vivi has made over the course of her study abroad tenure: everything is different on the outside, but on the inside, not so much. She does like the outsides, though. She likes the tidy streets, the way the buildings don’t rise to blot out the sun as they have a habit of doing in American downtowns. She likes the cozy sameness of the facades, broken by the whimsical surprise of the odd Gaudí contribution. Like a lot of the European cities she’s visited there seems to be some unifying design principle, some common understanding. At home it’s anyone’s guess what the next office building or apartment complex might look like, a mishmash of styles as the cities clamor to reinvent themselves, modernist or postmodernist or deconstructionist or whatever.

Heather could name them all, if Heather were here.

But Heather isn’t here. Tonight, Vivi is out on the town with her two younger half-sisters, Jude and Taryn. Her twin baby sisters, although they hate it when she calls them that. The twins’ spring breaks overlapped by happy accident, so their adoptive dad, Vivi’s biological father, had sent them off on an all-expenses-paid Barcelona trip for a mini family reunion.

Taryn had been thrilled to go out. “I’m so excited that we can drink here,” she’d exclaimed, as she touched up her makeup in the AirBnB’s living room mirror. It’s a two-bed, two-bath apartment with an updated kitchen and certainly beats the dorms. Vivi was forced to give a silent, resentful thanks, Dad, but not out loud.

“You drink at home,” Jude reminded her from the bathroom, where she was trying to wrangle her hair into some style Taryn had sent her from Pinterest. “We have fake IDs.”

“It’s not the same,” Taryn had huffed, applying another coat of mascara. Vivi got that. It had not been the same when they came to Europe before, either, because they had been with Madoc, Oriana, and little Oak. Somehow parents at the table makes the glass of wine with dinner much less daring.

Jude had eventually settled on a high ponytail, and off they went.

Now they’re out at a bar not far from the AirBnB, with each of the twins perched on stools and Vivi leaning against the bar between them. Maybe it’s because she hasn’t seen them for so long except over FaceTime, but Vivi is shocked to notice that her little sisters aren’t kids anymore. They haven’t been little for a while, not since they overtook Vivi in height when they were twelve, but it’s one thing to not be little and another to be an adult. Taryn, who’s been yearning for adulthood since her tweens, finally looks more at home in the role. And Vivi doesn’t know how Taryn got Jude into that dark purple halter dress, which dips low in the front and lower in the back, but the way she wears that and her lipstick is a stark reminder that Vivi’s sisters are in fact nineteen, and no longer chubby, soft-faced children. It’s weird, and Vivi doesn’t like it.

Vivi gets hit on sometimes—with her undercut and piercings, mostly by “alternative” men and curious women—but the novelty of good-looking twins means Jude and Taryn shouldn’t need to pay for their own drinks. And they wouldn’t, except anytime a guy gets too close to Jude or Taryn, Jude adopts a laser-eyed glare and says, “No,” which is thankfully the same in both languages. Otherwise she might start speaking with fists.

“I don’t know why you won’t let us get free drinks,” Taryn pouts.

“The drinks are on Madoc,” Jude points out, nodding to the credit card Vivi puts back in her pocket. “They’re basically free.”

Taryn mutters, “It’s the principle of the thing.”

“You guys are such sisters,” Vivi says, taking a swig of beer.

“What does that mean?” they demand in unison.

Vivi grins and closes her eyes, shaking her head. For a second she just stands there, between the twins, and lets everything wash over her: the sibling bickering, the pungent smell of beer and whatever syrup is in Jude’s cocktail, and the music. Music is a strange experience in bars here. First there’s a Spanish song Vivi’s never heard, and then there’s Halsey, crooning over a Chainsmokers beat, and then back to Spanish with perennial favorite “Despacito.” It’s total whiplash. Vivi loves it.

It’s only because she’s listening so hard that she hears Taryn give a tiny gasp.

Vivi opens her eyes. Jude has gone very, very still. Her shoulders, which had been hunched up around her ears as she leaned over the bar, roll down her back, and the muscles there tense. Vivi is not sure Jude is remembering to breathe. She and Taryn are both staring at some fixed point across the bar, so Vivi looks too.

“Oh, hell,” she says.

On the other side of the bar—of the small space they are all crammed into—are four familiar figures. Three boys, one girl. Vivi has to blink to place them, because it seems absurd that four kids they went to high school with would show up in Spain while they, the Duarte sisters, are also in Spain, and also because they weren’t in Vivi’s grade. She knows them, though. Everyone knows Cardan Greenbriar and his trio of hot, mean friends, but Vivi knows them particularly well because of how her sisters have tangled with them over the years.

Taryn whispers, “What are they doing here?”

“I can go ask,” Vivi sighs. That group of kids has no quarrel with her. She and Cardan were friendly back in the day, meaning “ten years ago when Vivi would go hang out with Cardan’s older sister.”

“No,” Jude says, voice firm. Without taking her eyes off the interlopers, she picks up her cocktail and downs the rest of it.

Vivi doesn’t know exactly what happened, but Jude shed her fight-or-flight response sometime in high school. Now, she only has a fight response. Maybe Vivi took her flight response, because it was Vivi who was the terror until she turned eighteen, when she got the hell out of dodge. Taryn has always been in the middle, trying to keep the peace.

“We can go somewhere else,” Taryn suggests.

“No,” Jude repeats, setting her glass down on the bar a little too hard. “I’m not going to let those jerks keep me from having a good time.”

“Which I respect, and more power to you, but also, like, there are plenty of bars in Barcelona,” Vivi points out.

Jude glares. “I’m fine.” And then she holds up one finger in the bartender’s direction.

“You know those are really alcoholic, right?” Taryn says. Worry begins to seep into her voice like melting snow through cracks in a sidewalk.

“I know my limits.”

Vivi and Taryn exchange a wary glance. Jude might know her limits, but she has no problem blowing past them. Jude may not think Vivi remembers the tae kwon do tournament she sat through when Jude was eleven and Vivi was thirteen, but oh, Vivi does. Vivi remembers how her sister volunteered to spar until she had tired herself out to the point where she could no longer stand. Vivi also remembers Jude driving to school on a single hour of sleep after staying up to finish an extra credit essay in a class where she already had an A. Jude somehow didn’t crash her car, but she had been unbearable the entire day. Jude is a danger to herself and very occasionally a menace to society.

But Jude is also an adult and it’s not Vivi’s business.

“Suit yourself,” Vivi says, with a shrug. “It’s dear old Dad’s money.”

A few minutes later, Jude is nursing her second cocktail, and Vivi and Taryn are trying to carry on a conversation as though everything is fine. Any normal person would be well loosened up by now, but Jude retains that unnatural stillness like a dog who’s noticed a squirrel on the other side of a yard. Or, more accurately, maybe like a deer who’s spotted a human hunter approaching over the ridge.

Jude is no defenseless herbivore, but Vivi knows half a lifetime of being bullied has made her feel like a target.

“Hey,” Vivi says, jostling Jude with her elbow.

“What?”

“Tell me about your freshman year misadventures. Taryn won’t open up.”

Jude snorts. “What misadventures?”

“You have to have a few,” Vivi says. “I didn’t raise my sisters to be boring.”

“You didn’t raise us at all,” Jude mutters at her cocktail.

Vivi has never seen her sister anywhere near drunk before and is not sure she likes her like this. “What about boys?” she asks, gently elbowing Jude again. Then she raises her eyebrows. “Girls?”

“No. Nobody.” Jude finishes her second drink and, glaring across the bar, apparently makes the decision to switch to shots. “Vivi, is vodka still ‘vodka’ in Spanish?”

“I’m not answering that.” Vivi sighs. “What about you, Taryn? Anybody?”

“Huh? Um, no.” Taryn had been looking at their erstwhile schoolmates too. One of the boys, the redhead, is looking back. Locke. Vivi exhales. Bad news. There’s history there, the kind of history that shouldn’t repeat.

“Reeeeally?” she asks. “Nobody? Not one boy?”

Taryn blinks back to herself. “Vivi, I go to school for fashion design. They’re all gay.”

“Well, that can be fun.” Vivi gestures at herself. God, she wishes her sisters had brought Heather along. The hot lady bartender with the gorgeous tattoo sleeve keeps trying to catch her eye, and Vivi and Heather had established a “what happens in Barcelona stays in Barcelona” policy before she left, but Vivi doesn’t want a hot lady bartender. She wants her girlfriend.

“Yeah, they’re cool.” Taryn glances back across the bar. Now the blue-haired girl—Nicasia, Vivi recalls—is looking back, along with Locke. Not good.

Since Jude is negotiating for a shot of vodka with hot lady bartender in competent enough Spanish, Vivi lowers her voice and asks Taryn, “Are you feeling especially homesick?”

“We’ve kept in touch.” Taryn doesn’t meet her eyes.

Vivi would hold more of a grudge if someone had tried to sleep with her and her sister, but that’s very much not her circus or her monkeys. She asks, “Did you know he’d be here?”

Taryn shakes her head. “He said they were doing a European tour for spring break, but, like, it’s a big continent.”

“Good news,” says Jude, holding up a shot glass. “It’s vodka in both languages. Cheers.”

“You are going to be sick,” Taryn says.

Jude gives her a sarcastic shrug and then downs the shot. She coughs a little, which somewhat ruins the impression she’s trying to make, but swallows it all down.

“Jude,” Vivi says, beginning to worry, “we really can just leave.”

But Jude is looking at her old high school nemeses again. Cardan had been a particular thorn in her side, or he in hers; Vivi never made sense of that conflict, of who had started what. What she does know is that they’ve definitely been spotted now. The blond boy—Vivi doesn’t quite remember his name—seems to make a move to walk over to them, but Cardan reaches out and grabs his arm, shaking his head. Valentine? Valentino? looks sour, but doesn’t approach. Jude stares them both down.

“I have to use the bathroom,” Taryn announces. “El baño.” Taryn had taken French in high school.

“But—” Vivi begins.

Taryn has already vanished into the crowd. Vivi puts her elbows on the bar and cradles her head in her hands. “This is all going great.”

“Not how you pictured our night out on the town?” asks Jude, who has obtained another shot of vodka from God knows where.

“Yeah, not really.”

“Well, I can fix it.” Jude drinks her second shot and does not cough this time. “I’m going to go talk to them.”

Vivi picks up her head. “That’s a terrible idea.”

“So what?”

“Dad’s going to hold me responsible if anything happens to you.”

Jude fixes a level stare on her. “Dad never holds you responsible for anything,” she says. She slips a little when she gets up off her stool. Vivi wonders if she’s really thinking about fighting someone in those heels.

“You’re mean drunk,” Vivi tells her, trying to grab her arm. “Don’t go.”

“I’m mean sober, but nobody notices,” says Jude, which doesn’t make any sense. She shakes Vivi off. “Besides, I have a few things I want to say.”

And for the second time that night, Vivi watches as one of her sisters pushes her way into the crowd of people, unsure if she should follow or not. Maybe it’ll be good for Jude, in the end, to get some of this out of her system.

The guys across the room are watching Jude approach. Cardan especially. The blond guy is sneering, but Cardan watches Jude with the same strange stillness with which she’d watched him. Like he’s holding his breath until she gets there. Unlike Jude, he doesn’t seem that drunk at all, which Vivi notices because, well, it’s a rare day that Cardan Greenbriar isn’t drunk.

But he is too busy watching her and not his blond friend, who decides that he’s going to intercept Jude before she can even reach Cardan. He pushes over to her first and bars her way, and although Vivi is too far away to hear what’s said between them, she notices the squaring of Jude’s shoulders and the widening of the blond guy’s sneer. Because she is watching closely, she sees that Valerian is the one who shoves Jude first.

Valerian. That’s his name.

It clicks right before Jude punches him in the face.

The bar erupts. Cardan springs to his feet and tries to pull his friend away from Jude. A couple of nearby patrons try to save Jude from herself—Vivi could have told them it was a fool’s errand—by holding her back, not knowing Jude has sharp elbows. Valerian struggles hard and manages to break away from Cardan, only to find himself being grabbed by more pairs of hands. There is shouting in Spanish. Even the hot lady bartender is drawn away, trying to signal her coworkers.

The most Vivi-like thing to do would be to leave Jude to it and keep her nose clean. But Vivi remembers asking Madoc on the day of that fateful tae kwon do tournament, while they revived Jude with sips of Gatorade, why Madoc hadn’t stopped Jude when it became clear she was flagging. “Your sister needs to learn for herself when to stop fighting,” he’d said. “If I make those calls for her, she never will.”

Vivi has a lot of qualms with Madoc’s parenting style, and Taryn is nowhere to be found.

“Oh, hell,” Vivi says again, and she dives into the knot of drunk brawlers to pull her sister from the fray.

---

“I can’t believe you got us kicked out,” Vivi says.

Jude, drunk, hapless Jude, is sitting on the curb with her head between her knees, presumably trying not to barf. There’s still enough anger left in her to flip Vivi off.

“Unbelievable.” Vivi folds her arms and looks left, then right. It seems like a good quarter of the bar spilled out onto the sidewalk with them, a crowd of people chattering about what just happened. Forget kicked out, Jude’s lucky she wasn’t arrested. “Do you see Taryn anywhere?”

“What do you think?”

Vivi pinches the bridge of her nose. Taryn will be fine. She has the AirBnB address and a phone she can use on WiFi. Besides, as far as Vivi knows, she ran off with Locke. Vivi hasn’t seen the two of them come out of the bar yet, and she would not be surprised. She knows a bad decision when she sees one.

“You keep sitting down,” Vivi tells Jude. “I’m going to figure out a ride home.”

“Your face should keep sitting down,” Jude mumbles spitefully.

“Hey, guys? Vivi?”

Vivi cringes as soon as she hears the voice, because she knows the voice, and because in this situation the owner of that voice will only make things worse. Vivi doesn’t have any personal grudge against Cardan Greenbriar—they’ve even sometimes been friends—except for how her sister feels about him. Taryn’s always said he was kind of a dick, but Taryn doesn’t hate him like Jude does. Nobody hates anybody the way Jude hates Cardan. Vivi wonders if Jude has something to prove.

Sure enough, Jude’s head swivels at the sound of his voice like the kid’s head turning around in The Exorcist. “You,” she snarls, and then stumbles to her feet.

“Jude,” Vivi says, trying to catch her sister’s dress to pull her back, but Jude is already out of reach. With another sigh, Vivi stands too.

“What are you doing here?” Jude demands of Cardan, openly hostile. It would be funny, because Jude is a full head shorter than him, if Jude was anybody else’s sister. “We were all having a great time until you showed up.”

“It’s anybody’s city,” Cardan says, but he doesn’t seem to be mocking her. He holds up his hands to show her they are empty.

“Go the fuck home!” Jude yells, and shoves him, sending him back a couple of steps.

Vivi shouts, “Woah!”

“It’s okay,” Cardan tells Vivi over Jude’s head. “She’s not hurting me. Let her get it out.”

With a little cry, Jude pushes him again, and this time he only stumbles back a half-step, but he keeps his hands up and his stance somewhat grounded. The next time Jude shoves him he doesn’t budge at all, and Jude lets out a grunt of frustration, fisting her hands in his jacket.

And then she bursts into tears.

“Oh,” says Vivi, but Cardan doesn’t seem that surprised. She wonders if he’s used to people behaving badly while drunk or just being drunk himself.

“You’re so a-awful,” Jude says between sobs. “Everything’s awful all the time.”

“I know, Jude,” Cardan replies. He gently pries the jacket out of her fists so he can remove it and drape it over her bare shoulders. Jude grabs onto his shirt instead.

“Why do you hate me so much?” she asks, with a small hiccup.

“I don’t,” Cardan replies. His hand rubs circles between his shoulder blades. ��But I hope you’re too drunk to remember that.” He looks up at Vivi, and Vivi feels a brief flash of embarrassment, like she’s intruded on something intimate, before she remembers that they’re in public and, also, she has no shame. “Were you going to get a taxi? I can keep an eye on her while you do. I don’t think she should walk back.”

“Oh.” Vivi blinks. “Yeah. I’ve got it. Where’s your ‘friend?’”

“Sent him packing. He’s back at the hotel, or he should be.”

“Well… good.”

But Cardan isn’t listening. He’s already looking down at Jude again.

It turns out Vivi has, carelessly, let her phone die. She isn’t anal about things like that. Taryn’s the one who keeps a charger in her purse at all times, but Taryn has vanished, and Jude’s phone only works on WiFi outside of the States.

So they hail one of Barcelona's bumblebee-like taxis the old-fashioned way, and Vivi is the one who climbs into the passenger’s seat and tells the driver where to go in Spanish that’s fluent, if definitely not Spain-Spanish. It is deeply ironic that Vivi, the only sister without a drop of Duarte blood in her veins, is the one who speaks Spanish the best. But Jude and Taryn were only seven when their parents died. Vivi had been nine. Two years makes a big difference with these things, especially because memories are shaping and re-shaping themselves in the minds of children that young. As far as the twins’ brains are concerned, they only had their parents for a short time.

Vivi remembers more. She remembers sitting on the counter in the old kitchen, legs swinging, as her dad cooked on Fridays—the special day, the end of the week day—and pointing at things in the kitchen so Justin could tell her their names in Spanish and she could echo them back. Cebolla, onion. Queso, cheese, of course. Cuchara, spoon. The words had a favor of their own, different from the English words she learned in kindergarten. She remembers the smell of toasting coriander seeds, the bright songs her dad would hum, the vibrant melodies bursting from the CD player Vivi leaned her elbow on. When she got far enough along in school, she threw herself into Spanish, hoping the words would pave a road that would lead her back to the man who shaped her.

Sometimes Jude gets in a sulk about their awful twist of fate, or Taryn gets weepy, and Vivi just wants to yell Justin Duarte was my dad, too! She feels like her throat is raw from screaming it her entire adolescence. It was easier in the end to just move away for college.

She ended up in Spain because Madoc and Oriana weren’t keen on her going to Mexico. Oh, sure, they’d been before on vacation no problemo, but as soon as Vivi wanted to go alone it was game over. No matter how much Vivi told them it was very racist of them and a total double standard. Apparently Oriana didn’t want her getting kidnapped. Vivi, who has in fact seen the movie Taken, knows she can get kidnapped in Europe just as easily, thanks very much. That had not been a persuasive argument with Madoc.

So here she is, in Barcelona, where familiar words can have entirely different flavors, and that’s even before getting to Catalan, which she can now speak a little but not well. Most of the time, she’ll be honest, she does love it here. At this moment she’s not feeling charitable toward anything.

Cardan helps load Jude into the backseat of the taxi. The driver, looking in the rearview mirror, asks, “¿Su novio?”

“¿Qué?” Vivi asks reflexively. She cranes her head around to see Cardan sliding in next to Jude, his arm around her shoulder. She switches to English. “What the hell, dude?”

“She won’t let go,” Cardan says simply. It’s true; Jude is clinging to him like a very weepy barnacle, her shoulders still shaking.

“Alright, well.” Vivi turns back around. It’s good to have the extra pair of hands. She wishes again that Heather was here. “You’re the official Jude wrangler now.”

“Copy that. I just—” He sighs, and in the rearview, Vivi sees him rub his face with his free hand. “It’s my fault.”

“Sure is.” The taxi begins to pull away from the curb, and Vivi checks her anger. She amends, “Actually, no, it’s not your fault that my sister’s a lightweight and an angry drunk. But from what I hear, the years of prior psychological damage are totally your fault. So, credit where credit is due.”

Cardan nods. Jude sniffles forlornly. Vivi is intrigued by how gentle he’s being with her, how tolerant. His shirt looks like a regular cotton tee, but knowing him it probably costs about the same as a single night in their very nice AirBnB. He doesn’t seem to mind that Jude’s getting snot and tears all over it.

“Hate you,” Jude mutters, pressing her face into his shoulder. “Hate this.”

“I know.” He pushes a lock of hair that’s escaped from her ponytail. “What are you on?”

“Huh?” There’s a pause. Vivi is watching the road now, but she can imagine Jude’s confused blinking. “I don’t… drugs.”

“Meds.”

“Oh, um, fuck.” Another pause. “Zoloft. I switched this year.”

“You’re not supposed to drink on that stuff,” Cardan says, but it almost sounds like he’s teasing. “It messes you up. I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”

Jude sniffs. “It’s not like I’m operating heavy machinery,” she says, slurring slightly.

Cardan chuckles. “I did the Zoloft thing, too. I’m not on it anymore, though.”

“‘Cause you couldn’t drink?”

“Like anything would stop me.” He pauses, and Vivi looks into the rearview mirror to find him biting his lower lip in an exaggerated way, so drunk Jude is sure to get the joke. “No, there were... personal reasons.”

Jude is utterly nonplussed. “What?”

“Ah, you know…” He leans over and whispers something to her. Her eyes widen, and then she lets out a small, nervous chuckle. “Oh.”

“Yeah, I was like ‘If I can’t have sex, won’t that just make me more depressed?’”

To Vivi’s great surprise, Jude giggles. A totally surreal sound. She hasn’t giggled like that in years, if ever.

“There we go,” says Cardan, weirdly indulgent. “No more crying. Or, well—oh, okay,” he adds, as Jude turns her head and begins quietly sobbing into the sleeve of his shirt. “I guess some more crying.”

“You seem very sober,” Vivi remarks.

“Yeah, I’m trying it on. Just club soda for me tonight.” He leans over to rest his head on top of Jude’s. “It, cómo se dice, sucks.”

“Like your accent.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Vivi is beginning to get vaguely suspicious. She says, “But you are handling this well. Just used to dealing with a lot of drunks?”

“Huh? Oh.” Cardan’s dark eyes flick up to meet Vivi’s in the mirror. “This isn’t the first time. Jude got wasted at prom, after the stuff with Locke and Taryn came to light. Completely trashed.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“You were finishing up sophomore year, right? In like, Massachusetts? And it’s not like she would have told you. If she’s lucky, she doesn’t remember it. I loaded her into the Uber that took her home.”

Vivi’s stomach twists, but she channels the newfound sister guilt into suspicion and narrows her eyes. “Decent of you.”

“Yeah, I was trying that out, too. Got puked on for the trouble.” Cardan leans his head back against the headrest now. Jude’s sobs have quieted down. “But I still remember the Four Phases of Drunk Jude Duarte.”

“I’m glad somebody does,” Vivi admits. “What are they?”

“Angry, weepy, horny, sick.”

She snorts. “Basically Snow White’s shittiest dwarves.”

“Basically,” Cardan agrees. “But you’re not in danger of her getting sick yet, because we haven’t hit—ah. Um. Well.” He clears his throat. “Never mind.”

Vivi looks up into the mirror again to see Cardan plucking Jude’s hand off of him and returning it to her. “Did we just hit horny?”

“We just hit horny,” he says, his voice strained. Jude has her face buried in his neck again, but this time for entirely different reasons. The hand he had returned to Jude is already sliding back down his shirt. “Okay, hands above the waist. No, above—”

“Oh my God.” Vivi covers her mouth to stifle her laughter.

“Great. Very helpful, Vivienne,” Cardan says, grabbing Jude’s wrist and holding it still. It speaks to their relationship as nearly family friends that he can use her full name without invoking her wrath. “Your sister is outright molesting me and you can’t even tell her to knock it off?”

He doesn’t sound totally panicked, though. “I think you might want my sister to molest you,” Vivi guesses, turning around in her seat to look at him. Somehow, Jude has managed to thoroughly drape herself across him, but Cardan is showing admirable and frankly uncharacteristic self-restraint by keeping her from doing anything that can’t be undone. “Just a little.”

“When she’s sober. Jude, don’t bite my ear. Jude—”

Vivi snickers. The rest of the short ride passes like that, with Cardan deflecting Jude’s advances and Vivi deflecting the taxi driver’s questions about what exactly is happening back there and whether Jude is going to be sick all over his floor mats. They are lucky enough to not hit “sick” until Jude is out of the car and walking up the five stairs to the door of the apartment building. With Cardan’s warning in mind, Vivi is able to jump back in time.

Cardan, who is nearer to Jude, is not so lucky. She leans against the railing and doubles over it, but his shoes and the bottoms of his jeans are still caught in the splash zone. “Okay, great,” he says, gathering her back up. He does not sound entirely tolerant now, but he also doesn’t sound as angry as Vivi might expect. “That’s over. Feel any better?”

“No,” Jude mutters.

“You might in the morning.” He moves them both so Vivi can pass and open the door. “Man, is this really only the second time this has ever happened to you? I have to say, I’m jealous. Not of you in this moment, of course. Just in general.”

“We can’t all be charming teenage alcoholics,” Vivi says, propping the door open so Cardan can help her through.

“You hear that, Jude?” Cardan asks. “Your sister thinks I’m charming.”

“Uh-huh,” says Jude.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Vivi warns. “She’s almost out. Let’s get her upstairs.”

Jude doesn’t make it into the bedroom she and Taryn are sharing. They put her to bed on the couch, on her side, with Cardan’s jacket draped over her. There’s no laundry machine in the AirBnB, but Vivi finds some detergent in the cabinet and they fill the bathroom sink with lukewarm water so Cardan can wash his jeans. Vivi is not sure the right time for the conversation she should have is now, when Cardan is standing in his boxer briefs and Jude is passed out in the next room, but on the bright side, there probably isn’t a worse time.

“You know, I didn’t think we had this level of friendship,” Cardan remarks, dunking his jeans in the sudsy water. “Dealing with your sister must really be a bonding experience. You always liked Rhyia best.”

“Well, Rhyia’s cool.” Vivi folds her arms and leans in the doorway. She kicked off her boots when they got in the door, so Cardan now looks even taller, although certainly not very intimidating in his underwear. “Calvin Klein. Nice. You always struck me as more of a boxers guy, I have to say.”

“Sometimes. These jeans are pretty tight, though.” He looks over at her. “Do you need something?”

She shakes her head. “Oh, nothing. I just can’t believe you’re trying to fuck my sister.”

“I’m not trying to fuck your sister,” Cardan says, massaging his jeans in the sink in such a way that Vivi is forced to wonder whether he’s ever done his own laundry. “She’s wasted. And she hates me.”

Vivi frowns deeply.

Cardan asks, “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Vivienne Leigh—”

“Don’t you pull out my full name for this. You’re playing some game here and I will figure out what it—oh.”

“What now?”

Vivi squints at him. “Are you in love with my sister?”

Cardan lets out an exhausted sigh. “Taryn isn’t really my type.”

They both know they aren’t talking about Taryn. “What the fuck. How long?”

“Like a year. Or maybe my whole life. I’m not sure.”

“Does she know?”

“I really hope not.” Cardan grimaces at his reflection in the mirror, and then looks past himself to see where Jude sleeps on the couch. “She’d never let me live it down.”

“Okay, well…” Vivi pauses. This is more older sibling responsibility than she signed up for. “What are your… intentions?”

“I don’t have any.” Vivi purses her lips, and he adds, “I really don’t. I wasn’t expecting to see her tonight. I kind of thought I’d never see her again after we graduated.” He pauses and looks down at the sink. “I think, someday, I’d like to be a person she likes. That she’s capable of liking.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Huh.” He has it really, really bad. Vivi can’t imagine what Jude said or did to make him feel that way about her. Maybe it was her total lack of regard for him? “Is this why you bullied her for years?”

“I hope not!” Cardan exclaims, in a way that suggests this thought has occurred to him before, and moreover, that it actually bothers him. “I don’t know! I don’t want to be that fucking cliché, Vivi.”

“We’re all cliché in our own special ways,” Vivi says, glancing back at Jude. A vague plot is beginning to take shape in her brain. Jude is the plotter, Taryn the planner—there is a difference—and Vivi the pantser, normally. But there is something here that she thinks she can exploit. “Seeing as you have no pants, you should probably stay over. I don’t think any of our clothes will fit you.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. You can have one of the twin beds.” After a beat, she adds, “I’m not telling you which one is Jude’s.”

“Darn,” Cardan deadpans. “Now I don’t know which one to jerk off in.”

Vivi pulls a face. “That’s the idea.” And then, because Cardan is hopeless, she reaches forward and yanks the plug from the drain. “Rinse off your jeans in clean water. Otherwise they’ll dry all stiff and soapy.”

“Thank you for the advice, oh wise one.”

She rolls her eyes and leaves him to it. After checking on Jude, whose coloring and breathing are both normal, she heads back to her room and looks at her phone. Nothing from Taryn, even though it’s later than Vivi thought, but Vivi isn’t worried. Taryn’s kind of like a cat in that, somehow, she always manages to land on her feet. Vivi fires off a quick text to her, then stares at the glowing screen, thinking about the way Cardan had rested his head on top of Jude’s in the back of the taxi.

She texts Heather: sisters are a lot of work

And:

i wish you were here

It’s much earlier in New England. When the three dots pop up to indicate that Heather is typing a reply, Vivi smiles.

[georgemackayhey]

Rules For Falling In Love: #1

summary: In which George wants to get married. But... you're not dating. Why should you say yes?

a/n: Here it is I'm obsessed with this concept my dear friend thought up, so much so that I was inspired to write this multichapter fic about it all. Please let me know if I forgot to tag anyone, or if you'd like to be added to the list! And as always... feedback of any and all kinds are greatly appreciated!

w/c: 2k

Part 2 >

───※ ·❆· ※───

"Don't be a third wheel, come on now!" Dean's publicist shooed him away from where you stood next to George, counting down the seconds till the red carpet came to an end. You gave the guy a quick, twisted frown, as George's publicist pulled him further down the carpet, his hand holding on to yours, silently bringing you along.

This was just another normal Friday evening.

When the time came to flood into the award ceremony, you sighed in relief and reached for a drink from the tray of a despondent boy meant to stand right where he was for most the night.

"Don't you have any place better to be?" Dean laughed your way, thanking the waiter for the drink he swiped.

"We were going to go bowling." You shot George a look. You'd only made the plans as a joke, wondering how much shit either of you would get for ditching this stupid ceremony to go have a bit of real fun. But you'd made a promise to George long ago, to attend all these silly little Hollywood shindigs with him.

"And we will go bowling if we make it out of here alive" George declared with a nod, leading you toward the row of seats with your names on them. He hated these events almost more than you did. He insisted your presence aided to quell his anxieties these circumstances stirred up. And you couldn't tell George no, very often.

"If one of you ever did one thing without each other, I think hell would freeze over." Dean chuckled as you all settled into your seats. You looked to George again, and he looked to you and you both laughed, but Dean was probably right.

After the awards had been given out between long, sometimes painful speeches, the boy's publicists insisted they linger around the after-party for as long as they could manage. You kept your usual pace in between them, cackling over stupid old jokes and offering forced toothy grins to celebrities who asked if they could steal George away for photos and chats about the magic of acting- or whatever.

"You know, no one has even ever asked about us." You pointed out to Dean, sharing a piece of cake in the quietest corner of the party. "Showbiz people I mean. They just assumed right away. Even the times we've insisted we're only friends, they insist we're joking." You huffed a laugh.

"That's Hollywood for you, I suppose. But you've gotta admit... you and George-"

"Are just friends." You finished. Dean halted, smiling in agreeance to drop the subject, but clearly held back from stating his other points, whether they were valid or not.

After one too many sweets and drinks, George found you and informed his sister was on her way to give the two of you a lift home. You traded a few hugs with Dean, making rough plans to meet up again very soon, without all the cameras and microphones in the way.

///

"How was your date, then?" George's sister wondered as you clamored into the back of her car. George followed behind with an answer.

"It wasn't a date, it was work thinly veiled as fun."

"But you went together, which makes it a date."

"Nice try," You rose a finger, buckling in as the girl sped off toward the city streets. She'd always found sly ways to get you and George to admit there was something deeper to your connection. She'd introduce you to her friends as her brother's girlfriend. She'd address Christmas presents to the both of you, handing them out with a wink.

"I don't understand you two." She dramatically croaked now, as if your denial was her personal defeat. "You're catfishing the world!"

"We're not pretending to date." George reminded his sister, "And we're also not pretending we don't live together."

"Yeah so why aren't you dating? You do everything else together."

"We live to torment you. It's all to drive you mad" George falsely confessed.

"I wouldn't put it past you." His sibling let out a whine.

You and George shared a roll of your eyes, dulling snickers and exhausting explanations that weren't worth wading through. The midnight ride to your flat fell silent then. The night had been long, but it was a seemingly usual evening, these days.

By the time you and George shuffled up the drive, waved his sister goodnight, you were ready to forgo your usual routine and drop face-first into bed.

"I think my sister has a point," George mumbled, shutting and locking the front door.

"Hmm?" You encouraged George to go on, halfway in tune to listen, more so gearing up to head to bed after such a long evening out. George remained silent as you kicked your shoes off, and didn't speak again until he had your undivided attention.

"Let's get married," George said.

You tossed your head back in a laugh as you floated further into your shared home.

"I'm serious, y/n." George hurried along, moving to stop you from walking away, boring his sleepy eyes into yours.

"What?" You chuckled again, shaking your head, trying to keep up.

"We already live here. We've been talking about sharing a bank account. And it'll be so much easier to introduce as my wife than as 'my best friend who I live with but am not dating but go everywhere with.'"

"But that's the truth!"

"Marriage could be true! Think of how much easier life would be."

"George, how much have you had to drink?" You cackled as you pushed past him, into the kitchen for a glass of water. You clattered about the cupboards as he followed you, rambling still.

"I'm serious! We've planned out our lives together already. Future vacations, birthday parties, career deadlines, all accounted for with each other in mind. We should just get married."

"George! I will not let you lie at the altar. A wedding is for two people who want to commit every bit of their lives together for the rest of the foreseeable future."

"My plans for the weekend are always to ask you what you want to do the next. I'm your only emergency contact." George listed off these points as if they were dead giveaways.

"Okay, let's say we get married." You entertained, standing in front of George as he noshed on some deserts he'd brought home from the after-party. He raised a pretty brow, waiting for you to go on.

"Sure nothing changes at first, not really. You're already my ride to work, and I already promised to go to all those silly Hollywood parties with you. But what happens in five years when I want to move to France and you want to stay here? What happens in six months if some super hot mailman comes and sweeps me off my feet? What happens when you fall in love with some leading lady, George?"

"People get divorced all the time." He shrugged.

"That's a lot of money to blow. And for what? For a lousy label and some ugly rings?"

"So we pick out some bloody cool rings and promise to only get divorced if shit hits the fan. Neither of us can stay mad for long. Remember when I spilled wine on your great grandma's old lounge chair? I was fully prepared to be excommunicated. But you just hugged me while you cried." George chuckled, keeping his desserts close.

"Do you really wanna kiss me in front of your mother and the world and pretend that this is normal?" You tried to ask with a serious glare, but it was just too funny. You couldn't help but let out a little giggle of disbelief that this was the conversation you were having on an otherwise normal weekday evening.

"Y/n, we're practically already married."

"George I love you, but this is a stupid idea."

"I don't think it is, but I love you too. I'm taking this box of macaroons to bed, now."

"Okay goodnight you two." You laughed, pulling at the sleeves of your too-tight dress on your trek down the hall.

"Wait!" You called out, a few steps from your room. "Can you unzip this, please?" You took a few backward steps to meet where George had stalled in the hall, macaroon halfway in and out of his mouth, he balanced one hand on your shoulder and used the other to undo the zipper that hugged your spine.

"G'night!" You heard him mumble past his dessert as you gave him a wave of thanks and practically threw yourself into your nice warm bed.

///

You met George when you were kids. You grew up attending the same local festivals and schools. His acquaintance turned more familiar with each passing summer until you'd become rather inseparable. It was that fact that kept his number in your contacts when you moved to the city, and he went away to film more often.

You'd kept up lunch dates when he came back home, and celebrated holidays with his family every time they invited you to come round like they'd been doing for years. You'd even attended a few birthdays and dinner parties with his family when George was out of town, when you hadn't spoken with him in months.

You moved in with George some odd years ago, when the flat you rented threw one too many unfixable issues your way. His home was the closest to your work, and he was one of the only friends you trusted enough to reach out to for help. After occupying his guest room for a few months, George insisted you move your things into the place you'd already practically been living in.

His home was big enough, tucked away just outside of the city. It's high ceilings, warm decor and a manageable rent were easily and comfortably split between the two of you. It made sense. You'd been sharing most of your free time together for years, anyway.

You shuffled through the bright halls, past framed photos of George's family. Of you and George. There was no difference, you'd been close for so many years, your lives were complexly intertwined whether you liked it or not. Luckily, you did.

George was already in the sun-drenched kitchen when you entered, stretching into the new day.

After trading usual morning greetings you could practically hear George's silent, burning thoughts. He poured you each a cup of coffee and shot you a look you knew was meant to say much more than words could.

"Okay, what?" You asked in a warning tone, accepting the drink he placed before you at the table, before sitting in the chair at your side. You knew George had something to say, and he'd say it whether you asked him about it or not.

"My mum thinks we've been dating since Uni. You know we can't talk her out of it. If anything she'd be relieved."

Oh, he was really still hung up on this huh?

"So you wanna do this because of your mother?" You asked, watching the steam curl up from the drink between your hands.

"No. I wanna do this because being together officially would make all our being together anyway, so much easier. Bills, plans, excuses, rainy days."

You looked at George, his start blue eyes, his unkempt hair, that stupid withheld smile he got when he was focused on something. You loved him for longer than you had the patients to do the math for. You planned on loving him for a while, even when he pissed you off, you couldn't imagine struggling alongside anyone else...

"Earth to y/n."

"I'm not responding because you're starting to make sense and I don't like it." You pretended to pout. Then George went silent for a beat, his brilliant eyes searching your face.

"Do you still want to go bowling?" He pipped up as if he'd just remembered you'd said something about it a day earlier.

"Sounds fun, doesn't it?" You asked, hoping he'd join you in wasting a day having childlike fun. George bit back a grin, leaned in close to catch your eye, and said,

"If I win... we'll get married."

You wanted to curse his name through a laugh, but you very rarely could tell the man no. And you hated to admit it even to yourself, but the more you thought about it... the more you liked the idea.

"And if you win?" George mused, egging you on. But you didn't need to place bets to play.

"Let's go bowling, Mackay."

///

As you took turns knocking pins down, George brought up several valid points.

How his family adored you. How he'd drop anything to be there for you when you needed him. How you'd always talked about how scary the future seemed, but agreed it was better to face together, like always.

And you argued for a moment that maybe neither of you knew any better, how you were all each other knew since growing up.

But George pointed out that simply wasn't true. He'd traveled. Met girls, none of whom were around at all anymore. You'd dated and failed to find anyone worth keeping around. It was as if you and George were the survivors of some twisted game of life, having only managed this far because of how you relied on each other.

But you weren't on the same bowling team.

You were scoring strikes left and right a few solid points ahead in the game.

But George was close to beating you, one good turn and he'd wind up the winner.

All the while, George only stalled his passionate speeches to listen and laugh over yours. And as you considered how familiar his presence was, and the way you couldn't imagine living life any further apart, you'd made up your mind.

But every time you thought of voicing your decision, something stopped you. You bit your tongue and decided that you'd wait to see if your feelings changed soon. And after some serious thought, you could either tell George that you'd hate to let him down, but plan a movie night alongside his favorite dinner, to make up for your decline. Or you'd tell him yes, and agree to his stupidly sweet idea to get hitched. Because you couldn't tell him no.

He won the game.

But of course, George wasn't living and dying by the bet he made that coaxed you to play. And you never really agreed to it anyway. The two of you simply went on arguing on the way home, more or less about how you were on the same page, and just what to do next.

And while you made dinner together, your conversation stopped when you sucked in a big breath and spun on your heels across the room. You'd heard enough.

George raised a pale brow, sitting patiently at the table as the oven did its thing. Then he watched as you settled back to the seat across from him, placing a pad of paper and a pen down.

"If...we do this, I'm writing down rules."

George watched on, sipping tea as you scribbled away. Once you felt comfortable with the list of regulations you'd penned, you read from the marked-up note pad, one at a time.

"Okay, listen up..."

MARRIAGE RULES

one. No lying to family and friends. They get to know that this isn't conventional.

two. No lying to each other. We're only doing this to make things easier. We must remain every bit a team.

three. We must celebrate our anniversary because there's no point in not milking the chance to go on holiday.

"Now," You flipped the page to a new set of rules before George could go on smooth-talking.

DIVORCE RULES

"We can only get a divorce under dire circumstances. Which include the following..."

one. If we betray each other's morals or trust in a way that cannot be fixed or forgiven after a year's time.

two. If one of us is dying. Actively dying.

three. If one of us finds and falls in love.

"We've managed to work out all the bad shit together so far and I'm sure we can keep that up. A divorce is too much money to waste over one fight we end up resolving and remain otherwise together."

"So you'll do it?" George grinned, setting his drink to the side.

"Is this you asking me to marry you? It's very unromantic. Negative three out of ten." You laughed, George did too. But you needed to make yourself very clear.

"I'll think about it." You clarified. "You should too."

You’d tell him yes later. Because as much as it scared you... you'd already made up your mind.

───※ ·❆· ※───

taglist: @whenthe-smokeisinyoureyes @andux @imaginationandlove @velvetgoldsilver @queen-bunnyears @maria-josefin @dearevansamham @belledamsceno @nilletellsstories @haileymorelikestupid @loulouloueh​ @visionsofmelodrama

[inkribbon796]

The Emissaries of Death and War Ch. 2: Not So Different

Summary: After stopping Wil, old enemies get to talk.

Chapters: 1, 2

After a little bit of a chase and a struggle, Dark, Techno, and Philza were able to stop Wil. Techno being the one to physically knock down and keep a hold on the madman.

Dark sent Wil to the Void and held him there until he calmed down. It took a while but the next time Wil saw Techno he seemed to be fine.

Wilford was being brought back in while Techno was conducting something of a report on the fight.

“Not too bad, you raised a couple half decent fighters, well except for the new one,” Techno told Dark. “Or, I assume he’s your newest, the other two are better fighters, so . . .”

As Techno trailed off, Bim felt his face heat with shame. Yes, he was the youngest, but he was not the newest. He was Dark’s kid!

“Geez, Techno, you didn’t rough them up too much did yah[1]?” Philza cackled. “Hardly fair. We should’a gone ta find Tommy. That would have been more fair, man.”[2]

“Nah, against these three?” Techno scoffed angrily, “they would have torn through him like wet tissue paper.”

“Come on, mate, he’s not that bad,” Philza tried to defend from the other room.

Philza had paused to look at the large portrait in the hall, and smiled before only now starting to catch up with the rest of the group.

Techno took a couple steps so Phil could see his face and fixed him with a baleful glare.

Rolling his eyes, Phil added, “Okay, so he’s a shitehead[3] who’s done some shite[4] things, but he’s not a half bad fighter.”

“Uhh, brat was discorporated for the first time during a fist fight, you do the math,” Techno reminded coldly.

Phil frowned at him, huffing and looked around to see that the Entity was out on the back balcony. So as Wilford and Techno were talking with the three spawnlings, Phil decided he needed a change of company.

“How do you feel about anarchy?” Techno smiled at Wil, as Philza shook one of his wings and then pulled a bottle of Chardonnay out of it.

“What’s that?” Wilford asked with a huge smile on his face.

Techno gave a huge grin that Phil couldn’t help but copy that smile as Techno began to launch into — as Philza called it — his “fuck the government” spiel.

Instead of joining in, Philza walked out on the balcony to smile at Dark with his bottle of Chardonnay in his hands. “Come on, Ent, I’ve got your favorite.”

“I don’t get drunk anymore,” Dark warned, but summoned two glasses for them.

“Shame,” Phil chuckled. “You’re a fun drunk.”

“I have been rather reliably told that I become insufferable and impossible to deal with,” Dark corrected, opening the bottle and pouring out two drinks.

“By who?” Phil took the glass he was offered, swirling his aura in it a bit, Dark copying him before they both took the first sips. “You were a riot after Agra.”

“Exactly,” Dark pointedly didn’t answer the first question. “Besides, I have too much to worry about to get drunk on top of it.”

“Right, right, anyways I thought I saw traces ‘a[5] Phantom’s aura in town, thought he was with you,” Phil began. “What’s he up ta[6] these days?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Dark snarled.

“Ohhh,” Phil took another sip, “it was that bad huh? Sounds like yeh[1] traded up.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Dark warned.

“Fair,” Phil allowed. “So what’s the new pact mate like, you two dating? Seems like it, looks all domestic in here.”

“We work together,” Dark answered, “everything else is our business.”

“True, true,” Philza agreed. “I’m just curious, we come inta[7] town and find out you’ve got a new pact mate, some spawnlings, and a body. Wanted to figure out how much had changed.”

Dark didn’t give a real comment to that, sipping on his wine.

“How many you got?” Phil leaned in a bit.

Dark considered for a second if Philza was going to talk to Phantom, then he said, “Six.”

“Oh yeah,” Phil whistled, “I saw the painting.”

“I need to move that thing back into my office, two of Wil’s boys insisted it be on display in the hall,” Dark scoffed. “We don’t even have guests over, I don’t know who they expect to see it.”

“Six is a lot, mate,” Phil reminded. “Sounds like you’ve been up ta[6] some mad fun. How old are they?”

“None of your business,” Dark told him firmly.

“Right,” Phil agreed. “But I gotta ask because I have to answer someone else’s question, it’s not about your spawnlings, it’s about mine.”

“You do have a reputation of picking fights with every lord and vizier in the world, unsurprising,” Dark responded. “How many did you keep?”

“I had two, one is, uh,” Philza paused and downed the rest of his glass before reaching to fill it up again. “He’s dead, and the other is off doing his own thing. An empath and a glitch.”

“Hmm,” Dark hummed as he sipped on his wine.

“Which do you have?” Phil asked.

Dark thought on if he should tell the avian, but figured that anyone who looked at the Lost Ones long enough could probably figure it out on their own. “Two deal makers, a showman, and the other three are all empaths, I’m fairly certain.”

“Are they all yours, or did your friend split some ‘a[5] them off?” Philza asked, if he was surprised or impressed he didn’t show it.

Dark wasn’t going to answer, was about to brush it off, but the Entity felt a deep twinge of pain. It wasn’t bad, but it did hurt, and Dark fought the urge to cough.

Phil looked over Dark’s shoulder and smiled, “Hello, who are you? You one ‘a[5] his lot?”

Grabbing his chest, Dark looked around at his echoes, his red was fine, but his blue one was clutching his chest in obvious pain. But that wasn’t the real problem.

His echo didn’t look like him, he looked like Damien! Dark almost screamed in surprise but after a second or two of shock, his aura shot out and dragged his blue soul back in and the echo of course screamed and tried to fight him out of fear. The outside balcony lights flickered, but eventually everything was still and calm again and Dark told Phil, who was just staring at him, “Ignore him, that is not a spawnling.”

“I didn’t hit yah[1] too hard, did I, mate?” Philza asked in concern. “You splitting?”

“I’m fine,” Dark snapped, and slammed his fists down and her body changed to match her red one, forcing her blue soul deep into the back of their soul.

“That’s a neat trick,” Phil commented, “now I can’t see why you’re in a body if it does that.”

“Yes,” Dark stood up, “now, I think we’ve left the others alone for too long.”

Philza was quiet for a moment before he stood up as well, “Yeah, probably. Don’t know how yours are, but Techno’s usually good ta[6] leave to his own devices. He’s not the one I was always worried about.”

“Really?” Dark commented, her aura holding the door open for Phil.

“Oh yeah, anytime I left my two boys alone they always got into some trouble,” Phil smiled warmly. “Tommy still gets inta[7] trouble.”

“Spawnlings do tend to do that,” Dark agreed and they saw the group sitting in the living room as Wil was telling one of his stories and Techno occasionally cutting in with comments or his own stories.

Dark was able to stay calm and collected during the rest of the visit. Techno did give an eyebrow raise at her changed body but didn’t give any other type of comment. Wil did naturally fawn over her but after their guests left so did the Host, saying his goodbyes and Dark sent him back to the heroes’ base.

It was quite possibly the only time she was happy to see the Host go. As much as Dark cared for the young man, Host tended to be a bit nosy and he always seemed like he knew what was going on.

And Dark didn’t need that right now. She needed to sort out what had been bothering her aura. For weeks she’d been wondering, and now she knew.

There was something wrong with her blue soul! That’s what the problem was! Which explained why she could hide it better when she was using her red one.

Dark had let this go on for too long, and she had to act fast before her blue soul did irreparable damage.

Techno and Philza were halfway out of Egoton, heading out of the city through Brighton, when Illinois caught up with them. He wasn’t really trying to disguise his approach and Philza’s crows warned him the young man was following them before Techno heard him coming.

Techno’s sword came out and the voices began clamor for a new fight. “Round two then?”

���Nah,” Illinois was flipping his lucky coin in the air. “Just wanted to talk without my mom listening in. She tends to get a little antsy when I’m on my own.”

“Illinois right?” Philza smiled.

“Heh,” Techno snickered, “were you born there?”

Illinois took a deep breath, “I was born in Ohio.”

“Missed opportunity, then,” Techno chuckled, shrugging his shoulders.

“It’s a name,” Illinois defended. “Anyways, I came to ask you two something.”

“Sure,” Techno glanced at Phil.

“I kindly request you leave my brothers and sister out of whatever fight you have with our father,” Illinois told them. “You deal with him, and me, and that’s it.”

“Oh is that how it is?” Techno stared at Illinois with a fire burning in his eyes.

“You two strike me as the type to like a good fight, I’m more powerful, as you saw with my baby brother, besides me and Host they don’t really have a lot of aura worthy of a good fight.”

Techno thought on that for a second, “You know you’re starting to speak more of my language.”

Illinois smiled back, “So let’s leave the little kids out of it.”

“Careful Junior,” Phil warned and watched Illinois’s eye twitch angrily at the nickname. “Yer[8] a kid yourself. Don’t bite off more than you can chew.”

“We have a deal or not?” Illinois redirected the conversation.

Techno hummed, “That depends on how much of an iron-booted tyrant your old man is, but the fact that your brothers don’t seem to be all that beholden to authority is very intriguing.”

“Of course they wouldn’t,” Illinois scoffed. “They don’t have to help run the business.”

The two veteran warriors glanced at each other before Phil chuckled, “We’ll make yeh[1] a counter-deal, mate, your siblings don’t mess with us and we’ll pretend that Ent only has one kid.”

Illinois glared at them but flipped his coin again before stowing it back into his pocket. “I suppose that’s the best I’m going to get.”

“It is, now if you’ll excuse us, we have a train to catch and all,” Phil grinned and they left, Phil’s wings fluttering as he walked and Techno always keeping an eye on him.

When he was sure they were out of the city, Illinois returned to the Manor to talk with Dark, while Techno and Philza got on a train that led from Brighton to Northern Scotland where they were currently hiding out. Phil had paid extra to make sure their trip stayed as quiet and private as possible, in that if he had to he bought extra tickets.

The Blood God did have to make his face look a touch more human instead of the mask he always wore so they weren’t given much trouble.

Techno was settling down for a long nap, trying to calm the voices on his head enough to relax, and only sleep could grant that calm silence to him.

Besides them, the car they were in had a couple other people but their little four-seat section was empty apart from them.

Until someone came over to sit down.

Initially, Phil wanted to chew the guy out but he saw the green hoodie and the familiar face, along with the white smiley face mask in his hands. So instead he just groaned and poked his blood brother in the arm, “Tech.”

“Hnghmmm,” Techno groaned, still awake enough for Phil to rouse him back to consciousness. “What do you want, Dream? I was kinda busy sleeping.”

“Yes, I wanted to talk with you before you drifted off again,” Dream told them. “I need you two to come back to Gainesville. I need you to find someone for me.”

“Dude we just got on this thing, yeh[1] couldn’t have called us earlier?” Phil groaned, looking out the window. “We’ve got Tech’s dogs ta[6] feed back home.”

“You cashing in your favor so soon?” Techno smiled eagerly, leaning in. “You calling it in?”

“What?” Dream smiled deviously. “For something this petty? No, I just figured you might want in on this. But if you want to head back to Inverness, that’s fine. I won’t stop you.”

“So, what’s the problem, mate?” Phil sighed.

“There’s a Legate in Gainesville, I’ve been tracking his legion’s movements for a while now, and he apparently hates making himself known,” Dream explained.

“You sure it’s not just an empath with a ton of spawnlings,” Techno rolled his eyes. “Everytime I go to find and fight one it’s always some empath hoarding their kids.”

“Positive, I wasn’t sure a couple weeks ago, which is why I didn’t waste your time with it before,” Dream dismissed cooly. “But he’s real, and this Legion has apparently been operating in Gainesville for the past twenty-five, thirty, years or so. The Entity hasn’t even seen him, he’s that secretive. His legion is apparently seven strong.”

Phil hummed in uncertainty but Techno was all smiles.

“We’re still heading back home, got some things ta[6] sort out, mate,” Phil gave Techno a look.

“Fine, I need to train anyways,” Techno huffed, a nasal growl in his voice. “Don’t wanna[9] be rusty.”

“That’s fair,” Dream stood up, taking a fair sized green box out of his pocket and giving it to. “You two know where to find me.”

“If you can get me some scents, I might bring some of my dogs over,” Techno promised.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Dream gave him a huge smile and put on his mask before walking off the train.

Another five minutes passed and the train started moving. Techno took his much needed rest, and Philza settled down with a book in his hands as they train bypassed the barrier from the conjoined city and into the UK proper where it rocketed towards Scotland. The stars in the night sky above.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Accessibility Translations:

1. you

2. Hardly fair. We should have gone to find Tommy. That would have been more fair, man.

3. shithead

4. shit

5. of

6. to

7. into

8. You’re

9. want to

[yourdeepestfathoms]

Royal Purple, Moon Silver

pretty short, but i wanted to test out this friendship

Word count: 1873

——————

Ever since the kids came back, Sunday Sessions were a bit…difficult to put on. Most of the queens became busy doing things after shows or in free time with their children, and those who were left didn’t see a point in going when it would only be them and the music director. So the only one who ever showed up was the pianist, and she had to be the one to explain to the fans why there were so many delays. Most of them understood, others didn’t and were angry. She was angry, too. In fact, she found herself getting mad a lot more often ever since the kids waltzed into their lives. It’s like they owned everything now!

“Oh, poor baby,” A voice crooned.

Joan whirled around in her chair as Mary walked over. The ex-princess began to massage her shoulders with her nails dug in, making Joan wince.

“What’s wrong? The loneliness getting to you again?” Mary said in the voice Joan heard Cathy talking to Mae with. Baby talk.

Joan slapped her hands away, but they grappled onto her shoulders and held tightly.

“Don’t hit me, pest,” Mary spat. She cleared her throat quickly and then chuckled when she felt Joan quaking slightly beneath her palms. She sneered. “Shaking already? You truly are pathetic.”

“What do you want now?” Joan growled.

“Oh, nothing,” Mary said. She raised a hand to caress one of Joan’s cheeks. “Just checking on the most worthless person in this building.” Her nails tickled the skin on the girl’s face as she trailed her fingers down to her neck. “Surprised you aren’t hanging, yet.”

“Get the fuck away from me.” Joan seethed, But Mary just cackled her hyena-laugh at her attempts to be fierce.

“Oh, you’re absolutely adorable! Really!” She said. “Perhaps that’s all you have going for you now. Not that anyone sees this little lamb face anymore. Everyone is caught up and me and my siblings. Nobody has time for you anymore.”

Mary stooped down and leaned in close to Joan. Her hot breath tickles the music director’s ear.

“Face it, Joan,” She whispered. “You aren’t wanted.”

“What’s going on?”

Mary and Joan both turned to see Elizabeth and Edward standing in the doorway. Elizabeth stepped in cautiously, eyeing her older sister like a bomb that was about to detonate, then slid her gaze over to Joan. Edward stood by the door, his expression unreadable.

“Something wrong is going on here.” Elizabeth said slowly.

“Yes!” Joan suddenly yelled. She didn’t know where this burst of confidence came from, but it was bubbling up from her throat and spewing from her mouth before she had time to consider her words. “There is, and I can tell you what!” She spun around to Mary, pointing. “Your sister treats me like I’m some kind of alien! Do you know what kind of things she says to me?”

“Joan,” Mary warned. “Hold your tongue.”

“I will not!” Joan cried. She turned back to Elizabeth, eyes pleading. “Please! You have to tell your mums! They’ll never believe me, but if you could vouch for my claim—” She stepped forward and extended her hands to clasp Elizabeth’s, but was instead slapped so hard she fell backwards. Shocked, she froze on the floor, staring up at Elizabeth, who was shaking her hand in the air.

“Ow,” She muttered. “That kinda stung. Yikes.”

Joan’s cheek burned- Elizabeth had no idea how badly her hit really hurt.

“You’ll get used to it,” Mary said, gliding over to her sister’s side.

“Really?” Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “What, do you get callouses or something?”

“No, you just learn to focus on the pain you inflict than the recoil of the action.”

“Huh.” Elizabeth looked back down at her palm. “Interesting.”

“Y—” Elizabeth and Mary’s heads snap down to the girl on the floor. “You were in on it?”

“In on what?” Elizabeth echoed. “This wasn’t some grand scheme, Joan. It was a little joke. But yes, I was. And it was great! You should have seen your face!”

Joan’s cheeks turned dark red, but the area where she had been struck remained a deep shade of vermillion. She looked past the sisters to Edward, who was shifting on his feet and giving her a pitiful frown.

“But why?” Joan said. “You’re- you’re not like her. You’re good!”

“She’s ‘good’?” Mary chortled. She stalked up to Joan and stomped on her ribs with her boots. “And, what? I’m not?”

“You killed people!” Joan hissed and then keened in pain when Mary’s heel dug against her chest.

“She’s my sister,” Elizabeth interjected. Her voice is gentler than Mary’s, but it’s obvious she was irritated from the glint in her eyes and the way her arms were firmly crossed over her chest. “Of course I’m going to side with her.”

“Side with her on what?!” Joan spluttered. “Her hatred for me? It’s not a fight, it’s just some grudge this sociopath can’t let go of! You don’t have to get involved!”

“Don’t call her a sociopath.” Elizabeth growled, advancing on Joan.

“Well, she is,” Joan said. “And you’re no better by supporting her.”

Mary stomped on Joan’s chest again and this time there was a very distinct crack. Joan yowled loudly.

“Alright!” Edward suddenly spoke up. He hurried away and pushed his sisters away from Joan. “That’s enough!” Then, with a calmer voice, “She’s had enough.”

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose at her brother. Mary looked annoyed that she didn’t get the chance to pluck out Joan’s broken ribs and string them on a necklace, but she backed off.

“Never did have a taste for this, did you, Edward?” She said.

“Looks like I didn’t inherit that gene from Father.” Edward replied.

“You need-”

“I know, I know,” Edward cut her off, rolling his eyes. “I need to be all tough and big and scary. I’m royalty, I have to put people in their place, I know. But we aren’t nobles anymore. And she’s a pianist, not a masochist.” A small smirk tugged on his lips. “You’d be able to tell when someone is with ease.”

Joan winced and closed her eyes, expecting Mary to crack open Edward’s skull for that jibe, but instead she just clenched her fists, bared her teeth, and glared at her brother.

“Aren’t you sweet,” She crooned venomously. “Protecting the girl who-”

“-killed my mother.” Edward finished, rolling his eyes again. “And I sure appreciate it, because I get to hear it all the time now.”

Joan flinched and Edward flashed her a quick smile to relieve her of any anxieties on that topic. His head turned back to his sisters, a hard expression set on his soft features.

“Maybe Mae will be less of a disappointment.” Mary spat.

“You would try to teach a two year old to be a cunt.” Edward said.

Mary growled and then spun around, marching out of the room. Elizabeth followed her out, but not without a final glance over her shoulder. When they were out of sight, Edward’s shoulders relaxed and his face became a lot less threatening and more like a gentle chipmunk’s.

“They’re going to be so mean to you now.” Joan said, sitting up.

“Oh, no!” Edward gasped. “My sisters? Being mean? I’ve never seen that before! That will be so unexpected and out of character!”

Joan laughed softly, but winced when pain throbbed in the left side of her chest. Her hand flew upwards, tentatively touching the injured area. Edward knelt down next to her.

“Are you alright?” He asked worriedly.

“Yeah,” Joan grunted. “I think. They don’t feel broken. Maybe just cracked.”

“Ouch,” Edward winced. “I’m so sorry about Mary and Elizabeth. You don’t deserve this at all.” He reached a hand out to touch Joan, but pulled back, presumably thinking against it. “They can be real jerks sometimes. Or a lot of times in your case.” He gave her a sad frown.

“Why do they hate me so much?” Joan asked. “Or, why does Mary? Elizabeth just seems to be some kind of pawn. I’ve never done anything to either of them!”

Edward shrugged helplessly. “Your guess is as good as mine.” He said. “Mary has some, uhh...issues. Back then and now. But that doesn’t give her any right to treat you the way she does. Or try to break your ribs!”

Joan smiled slightly. She had never thought she would like any of the kids, especially Jane’s son, but something about Edward gave him a pass. He was different from his sisters, even the annoying toddler.

“You-” She began hesitantly. “You don’t think I killed Jane, right? I-I tried to save her, I really did, but-”

“Hey.” Edward clasped Joan’s hands in his. They were smaller, but warm and loose enough for her to pull away if she wanted to. “Of course I don’t believe that. I know you didn’t. My mum died from poor sanitation, not you cursing her vagina to tear and get infected or something.” He paused for a moment, then laughed. “That was a weird thing to say.”

Joan giggled softly. “Yeah. Kinda.”

“Don’t believe anything my sisters say,” Edward went on. “They like starting stupid stuff.”

“Are you really the only sensible one out of your siblings?”

Edward grinned. “Yup. That also makes me the best.”

Joan smiled back at him. She stood up after Edward released her hands, gritting her teeth through the pain in her ribs, but managing to get on her feet without tipping over. She set one hand on the injured area, massaging it lightly.

“Are you gonna be okay?” Edward asked.

“Probably,” Joan answered. “I’ve handled worse.”

That earned her a curious frown, but Edward doesn’t press the matter. He just twitched his lips a little and then nodded.

They both walked out of the dressing room. Somewhere down the Stairs of Doom, a few of the queens and their daughters could be heard clamoring about, probably getting ready to leave. Edward looked up at Joan with a friendly warmth in his eyes.

“Wanna come over for dinner?”

Joan is both startled and surprised. “Wh-what? A-are you sure?”

“I am!” Edward said. “I like you. You’re much better company than any of my sisters.”

“What about the other queens?”

“Catalina, Anne, and Cathy all have their kids. Cathy is the worst about it, though. She’s ALWAYS with Mae. I can’t remember the last time I saw her alone.” Edward said. “Mum is, well, my mum. I can’t exactly be friends with her. Kitty is...okay. Mum REALLY wants me to like her, but she can be loud and too energetic for me. And Anna is cool, but,” He shrugged. “I like you much better. You’re quiet and smart and funny, but not in a pretentious way.”

Joan blushed shyly and looked away. She couldn’t believe she was letting herself be flattered by a twelve year old. How pathetic could she possibly get?

“Thanks,” She whispered. “I’ve never- I’ve never, umm, been someone’s top choice for a friend before.”

“Then I’ll be the first.” Edward smiled at her. “Come on, let’s go before they leave us here! Oh, and don’t worry, I won’t let my sisters pick on you again.”

[ladynestaarcheron]

Like Pristine Glass - Chapter Nine

ao3 - ff.net - masterpost

(tagging these cuties: @humanexile @skychild29 @rhysandsdarlingfeyre @candid-confetti ​ @rhysandsrightknee @missing-merlin @azriels-forgotten-shadow @books-and-cocos@sezkins79 @city-of-fae @someonemagical @dusty-lightbulb @messyhairday-me)

hello hello! so here i finally am with chapter nine of lpg!! thank you all so much for staying interested in my fic during my two month disappearance hiatus! i’ve said time and time again how this fandom has the greatest community of readers in the world and i absolutely mean it. love you all<3

and also, thank you so much to my fabulous beta @thestarwhowishes for her help!!

enjoy!!

----

October 30 - 4 years after

Nesta realizes, as she readies herself for the day, that while Cassian had just arrived, and Elain had sprung herself and then Feyre on her, this is the first time for her children that she knows they are going to be meeting people for the first time. She wears her own regular gown, a light grey shade with purple trim, but vaguely wonders if she should choose something special for her children.

It’s a ridiculous thought, of course. The children don’t need to make a good first impression. Her sisters will love them anyway. And that doesn’t matter either, because that’s not what this is about. It’s for her sisters’ benefit.

But...perhaps it would be nicer...if they wore some of their newer clothes today....

Gilameyvan clothes, of course. Nothing anyone would wear in the Night Court. And nothing properly fancy; they’re toddlers with a whole day ahead of them.

But new. Nice. Nicer than what they usually wear.

She doesn’t want to think why she chooses those outfits for them, but they’re smart and they notice. Nicky asks her, and Avery and Ollie look at her expectantly.

“We’re...going to the park to meet some new people today.”

“New neighbors?”

Nesta smiles. “Not everyone is our neighbor, Nicky.”

“Why not?”

“Go get your coats,” she says.

Her children don’t argue; their attention spans too short to ever register when she distracts them with the ever-alluring proposition of going outside.

But they still remember, and they ask her when they’re all out the door. “Are we going to the park to meet our new neighbors now?”

“They’re not neighbors, Nicky,” Ollie reminds him.

“Who are they?”

“They’re...” Nesta hesitates. “Your aunts.” She prays to the forgotten gods with all her might in that moment, that they won’t ask what an aunt is.

But they are three, and they never stop asking questions.

“What are aunts?” Avery says.

Nesta steels herself, taking a deep breath before opening her mouth to answer--but Ollie beats her to it.

“They’re Mummy’s sisters,” he says, and his voice is nonchalant and nothing in his step nor in his siblings’ change as they walk down the pavement.

But Nesta falters. “How...do you know that, Ollie?”

“Ollie’s very smart, Mummy,” Nicky says earnestly, and she can’t help but smile despite the burning feeling in her throat. She and her sisters may have not spoken for years, but her children love each other.

Avery says, “I think I’m smarter. But Ollie’s better at coloring.”

“I think we’re all very smart,” Nicky says.

“You are,” Nesta says, laughing a little.

And so once again she is spared from finding a way to answer a question she can’t. She knows her luck won’t last forever, but it’s good enough for now.

They chatter on mindlessly between themselves (mostly Avery and Nicky) and on the way to work, her mind wanders to Cassian and her sisters and back to Zeyn in Sugar Valley, leaving her so distracted she walks right into him.

He laughs, easy and familiar. “Head in the books?” he asks, teasing.

She tries to smile but can’t. “My sisters are coming to meet my children,” she says.

His grin falters. “Oh,” he says. He bites his lower lip, which is so odd to see him do, because it’s normally one of her quirks. “Is...Cassian...still here?”

“He’s...yes. He comes and goes.”

“Comes and goes,” he repeats.

“I mean, he tells me. He has to go and, you know...military business.” Nesta isn’t sure why she’s making excuses for him.

“Right.”

“We schedule it.”

“Right.”

“Zeyn,” she says. She reaches her hand out and takes his; squeezes it.

He squeezes back, and her insides clench along with it as guilt takes hold. On whose behalf, she isn’t sure.

“I just need to do what’s right for them,” she says softly. “You know I can’t...deny them anything.”

“Of course,” he says. And his tone and demeanor are understanding, but Nesta think she can see a glimmer of something in his eyes.

“He’s not...a bad male,” she says, hating how the whole conversation is going. “I wouldn’t let him know them if he were.”

“I know,” he says. And here his eyes are firm. “I know that more than anything you’re a loving mother. But Nesta...just make sure this is the right decision.”

His words echo Amorette’s and Adil’s and Miri’s and she still manages to hear something different each time.

----

November 16 - Year of

Over a month had passed since she had entered Illyria, and she had settled into a routine that she couldn’t quite call comfortable--it was Fae, after all--it was no longer painful.

She did not have to avoid her sisters or any of Feyre’s friends because they were not there, and she did not feel bad about ignoring her sisters letters (left on the kitchen counter for her by Cassian) because she was still too angry at them. No one in Illyria initiated conversation with her, but they had grown used to her presence. They were not comfortable around her either, but they no longer balked in the streets.

Cassian’s very presence still irritated her, obviously, but he did seem busy with whatever it was he had to do around the camps and did not spend so much time bothering her. In fact, he seemed content to continue that strange newfound civility between them and no longer stood at her door, alternating between begging and annoying and pleading. If she saw him in the morning or in the evening, he would ask her how work was going, if she would join him for a meal. She answered him the same every time.

She didn’t like it. She didn’t like ignoring everything but she knew she wouldn’t like the alternative either. The thing she still desired most of all was to disappear, for her life to be undone, to never have happened.

It was not a perfect second, but she was making do.

Perhaps the most peculiar part of this latest version of her life was the camaraderie she and her employer shared.

They did not share meals every day, but sometimes they did, and Emerie would walk Nesta at least part of the way back to Cassian’s house every evening. They didn’t always talk, but the silence wasn’t grating. It was easy. It was...fine.

Fine was a lot for Nesta. It had been a long while since she’d had fine.

One day, as Nesta was finishing up her bookkeeping for the day, Emerie said, “Are you coming tonight?”

Nesta looked up. Emerie never had too drastic an expression on her face, and her only tell that she was asking a question was her chin slightly jutted out and her right eyebrow slightly raised. “What?” she said.

“To the bonfires.”

“What bonfires?” Nesta said, and it was a mark of how she valued this shaky relationship and respected Emerie that she did not immediately say no, for Nesta hated bonfires. It was always too cold outside, but standing by the fires was too hot, and she hated the smell. And there were always little children running around, which made her anxious. A little boy in her village had once gotten monstrous burns on his face at the bonfires celebrating the Summer Solstice.

“It’s just to have them,” Emerie said. “Not really a holiday. There are separate bonfires for females.”

“What do they do?”

Emerie shrugged. “There are some females with fire magic. They make shapes in the flames. There’s music. Food.”

“Sounds delightful,” Nesta said flatly.

“You should come with me,” Emerie said. “There are smoked desserts.”

Nesta pursed her lips. She didn’t want to go, obviously, but...if Emerie was asking her....

“All right,” she said. “I’ll go with you.”

Emerie didn’t smile, but she nodded, and her expression looked a bit less severe.

---

October 30 - 4 years after

The day is over all too soon, and her children are clamoring to go to the park and meet her sisters from the moment she picks them up from nursery.

“I want to go right now!” Nicky says. “I don’t want to go home first!”

“We have to go home and eat first, Nicky,” Nesta repeats herself. “I don’t have any food with me.”

“We can take a snack to the park!”

“We can take a snack to the park, but we still have to go home and get the snack.”

“Why didn’t you bring the snack with you?”

“I came here from work.”

“Why?”

Nesta normally entertains Nicky’s why game, but she’s too anxious to today. Instead she says, “Let’s go, you three.”

“What are our neighbors’ names?” Nicky says.

“They’re not our neighbors, Nicky,” Avery reminds him.

“Why not?”

“Because they don’t live here!” Ollie says, rather suddenly. Nesta hides a smile. Perhaps she isn’t the only one who doesn’t feel like playing Nicky’s game.

“All right, let’s go,” she says, herding them along.

“What are their names, Mummy?” Avery says.

Nesta swallows. “Elain and Feyre.”

“Is Appa coming?” she asks.

“Maybe...but we’ll see him for dinner.”

“He’s not coming to the park?”

“Maybe, Nicky.”

“Don’t ask why again!” Ollie says. He sounds almost angry.

Nesta looks down at him in surprise.

“Ollie, what’s wrong?”

“He’s always asking why about everything and I don’t like it!” Ollie starts tugging on his golden brown hair with his fists.

“All right,”  Nesta says, gently taking his hands. “Avery, Nicky, why don’t you go ahead? Not too far.”

She ushers them along and picks Ollie up into her arms. “Hey,” she says to him softly. “What’s wrong.”

Ollie won’t meet her eyes. He shrugs and tries to twist away, but she holds him firmly.

“Did something happen at nursery today?”

“No.”

“Are you hungry?”

“No.”

“Are you tired?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? You don’t want a nap before going to the park?”

Ollie shrugs again, but his eyes start to blur with angry tears.

“Oh, Ollie,” she says, hugging him close to her. She strokes his hair. “What’s wrong, my angel?”

“I don’t know!” he sobs. “I don’t want to go to the park.”

Nesta shifts him so she can see his face as she begins to understand. “You don’t want to go to the park or you don’t want to meet your aunts?”

He shrugs again.

“Why don’t you want to meet them?” Her heart skips a beat. “Do you...are you sad you met Appa?” She’s almost too scared to ask.

“No,” he says quietly, and exhales in relief.

“What’s the problem?”

Ollie rubs his eyes and says quietly, “I don’t want you to go.”

Nesta frowns. “Go?” she says. “Where do you think I’m going to go?”

Ollie’s eyes well up with tears again. “I don’t know!” he says. “You’re going to go and leave us with Appa and our new aunts.”

“Oh, Ollie,” she says, bringing him closer to her again.

“Like how you leave us with Amorette sometimes,” he says, slightly muffled.

“Just for a few hours, angel,” she says. “I’m never going to leave you for more than that.” She puts him down and crouches so that she’s eye level with him. “I know it’s...a lot of new people you’re meeting.” She brushes hair out of his eyes and wipes his cheeks. “But I’m still your mummy and your still my baby and at the end of every day, I’m going to be the one to tuck you into bed...all right?”

“Do you promise?” he says tearfully.

Nesta smiles at him. “I promise.” She kisses him on his forehead. “Let’s go catch up to your brother and sister, all right?”

She takes his hand and leads him forward to the end of the pavement were Avery and Nicky are waiting. Avery takes her other hand and Nicky takes Ollie’s.

“Do your eyes hurt, Ollie?” Nicky says sympathetically.

“No.”

“Not anymore?”

“No.”

Her sons keep their hands linked even when they reach they pavement again, and chatter amongst themselves, and so she says to Avery, “How was your day?”

“Good, I played with Emilia and Zehra outside and then I went back inside and....”

Before long they are at home again and she’s packing snacks for the park while they play in the living room, and then there’s a knock on the door.

“I want to open it!” Nicky cries and rushes towards it. She can hear him open it and laugh as Cassian walks in and lifts him up.

They clamber around him and he herds them into the kitchen. “Hey,” he says, walking in and setting Nicky down. “Ready to go?”

Nesta slips the bag she’s packed over her shoulder and keeps her expression blank and voice cool. “Ready. Go get your coats,” she tells her children, and they dash outside.

Cassian steps closer to her. “Nesta,” he says. “I...really appreciate--”

“Let’s just go,” she interrupts. The sooner this is over the sooner her heart rate can go back to normal.

Or not. But one can hope.

---

November 3 - 1 year after

Sorting through the books and dusting the shelves proved a harder task than keeping books for Emerie, because Emerie at least tried to keep her shop neat. The staff at Sugar Books clearly made no such effort.

There was no system, which Nesta knew must have affected sales, because people didn’t come into a shop for any book; they wanted something specific. And if there was no aisle for their preferred genre, and they didn’t have the time to sift through the mess to find what they wanted....

So even though it was not strictly Nesta’s job, she found herself drawn to sales. She’d try and figure out how much they were spending on books and how much they were making, but she didn’t yet know enough to guess and she wasn’t familiar enough with the marketing people to ask.

It was...enjoyable, she guessed, to just try and figure it out. She missed working with numbers.

Dusting was easily the worst part of her job. It had always been her least favorite chore and there seemed to be so much of it to do. On every shelf, between every book, even inside some of them.

But the highlight of her day, her distraction that she still had not received her sisters’ reply and everything she had left behind, and the reason she was most excited for the job was the reading. She had not been around so many books in over a year, and she had missed it terribly. There were so many things she had not yet read.

So whenever she could, in between dusting and jotting out ideas for sales, she’d pick out something that looked interesting enough and start reading. Adil had helped her set up a bank account and she was going to be staying at the inn until she could afford to rent an apartment (the female at the bank had set her up on a payment plan), and it was rather strict, so she knew she wasn’t able to afford any books now. But she had a list of some she’d like to buy, one day. Perhaps in a year or so, when she was already living properly on her own, and had started paying off the inn.

She was reading one such book, in a quiet corner of the shop, when one of the less pleasant aspects of working at Sugar Books appeared and interrupted her.

“Hi, Nesta!” chirped Zeyn. “What are you reading? Is that a J.M. Polister? He’s good, but I like his sister more. They’re twins. Twin writers, isn’t that something?”

Nesta gritted her teeth. “Hello, Zeyn,” she said, closing her book.

He grinned, his brown eyes twinkling. “Am I annoying you?” he said, laughing. “Sorry. I know you don’t like when I talk so much.”

Nesta never knew what to say when he said things like that. She never really knew what to say to the people in Sugar Valley in general. They were all so...nice. She wasn’t used to it.

“Oh, not at all,” she said. “I’ve got to go back to work.”

“Dusting? Let me help you.”

“No,” she said firmly. Then she said, “You have your own work to do.”

Zeyn said, “Oh...you’re right. I’ll come help you dust later. It’s not fair to make you do it all.”

“I’m being paid,” she said.

He laughed and walked away.

He did that often. Laughed at things she said.

He wasn’t horrible, but he was...irritating. No, not even irritating. Not in the way he used to irritate her. Just...slightly bothersome. Someone she could do without. A bit of a pest. But harmless, on the whole.

Nesta didn’t have time for harmless. Not right now. Perhaps...one day...if she ever felt that way again....

She didn’t think she would. She had another male’s mark on her, like it had been branded into her soul and the thought of ever being with anyone else sickened her to her core and she didn’t think she’d ever be able to stomach it.

This was a different pain than before. When she had been with all those males before, it had been, at first, in anger. Having meaningless sex to prove she could. Whom exactly she was proving it to, she wasn’t sure.

After that, it wasn’t exactly power she had found in it. But it was more proof. Proof she owned her body, proof it was still hers, even if it was different. Reclaiming herself.

Sometimes it was just to do something.

But then she’d ruined that outlet, by having sex that was by no stretch of the imagination meaningless. And now she thought that every time she felt a hand on her, she’d think of him, and it’d hurt.

So she did not encourage the irritating deer-satyr male. She honestly didn’t like him that much, anyway.

Even if he did bring her coffee sometime.

---

October 30 - 4 years after

Elain and Feyre are waiting for them at the park when they arrive.

Cassian can’t tell what Nesta’s thinking the whole way there. She keeps her face normal, or what normal is for her around the children. It’s still so odd to see her so...happy. Even during those few months between them, when they were...even then she was reserved.

But she is quick to smile. The triplets don’t see her upset, he doesn’t think.

He’s good at keeping his expression schooled how he wants it to, of course. So grins easily, swings Ava and Ollie’s hands as the walk.

But on the inside, his stomach is flipping around. It’s like everyday with his children and Nesta is better than the last, but harder, too.

This is so important. It has to go well.

Elain leaps up when she sees them. Feyre stands up after her and puts a hand on her shoulder.

“Are those are neighbors?” Nicky says.

“Aunts, Nicky.”

Nicky only laughs. “They look like Mummy!”

Cassian’s eyes dart to Nesta, but her expression has not changed.

“Hi,” Elain says softly, when they reach them. She looks at Nesta and then Cassian and then crouches down, so she is eye-level with the children. Ollie shrinks into Nesta’s leg. “I’m Elain.”

“And I’m Feyre,” Feyre says, joining Elain on her knees.

“You look like Mummy!” Nicky says again, sounding delighted.

Feyre and Elain look up at him, and his lips quirk upwards. “He says you look like Nesta.”

“You must be Nicky,” Elain says, smiling at him. “And you’re Avery...and you’re Ollie.”

Cassian watches Ollie clutch Nesta harder. She bends down and cradles him close to her.

“Why don’t you go and play?” she tells the other two.

Feyre, Elain, and he look towards Nesta. “You can join them,” she says. “Ollie and I are going to sit on the bench for a bit.”

They watch Nesta go and have a whispered conversation with Ollie. She peppers kisses on his forehead here and there.

“She loves him so much,” Feyre says, her voice so faint he doesn’t think she realizes she spoke aloud.

“They’re so beautiful,” Elain says. “I...is Ollie okay?”

“He’s a bit shy,” he says. “I’m sure that’s it. Come, let’s...why don’t you two join Ava and Nicky?” Because he’s not sure Ollie’s fine and he wants to sit down with him, too.

“What, just go and...?”

“Just join them over there,” Cassian says. “Help them on the slides. Or the swings. Climb up in with them. Ava will probably tell you what to do.” He smiles and nods at them encouragingly. He guesses they’re feeling about as nervous as he was the first time he played with them.

He sits down next to Nesta on the bench. “Hi, Ollie,” he says.

Ollie peaks out from Nesta’s neck. “Hi,” he says, his voice tiny and matching Nesta’s accent.

“Do you know, your Aunt Feyre can fly too?”

Ollie looks up at Nesta and she nods at him. “It’s true. She can.”

“Do you want to show her how fast you can fly?”

Ollie shrugs. He still has not let go of Nesta, and he feels a rush of gratitude towards her--she does not rush him, does not make him do things he is scared of, and then he feels scared, because what if he is afraid forever? He won’t love him any less, but what will happen to him? His world is terrifying; what if Ollie can’t ever be a part of it? Assuming this goes well, assuming Nesta lets. And dear Mother, what if this doesn’t go well? What if--?

“Why don’t we all go?” Nesta says, cutting into his spiraling train of thought. “I think Avery and Nicky want you to come play with them.”

Indeed, Ava looks completely content to command her aunts around, but Nicky has turned to call Ollie’s name.

Ollie mumbles his assent and they stand and walk over to where the rest of their party is.

“Ollie, come stand over here,” Ava says. “Behind me.”

“You ready to go?” Nesta whispers to him. “All right, then.” She sets him down and he climbs to Ava.

“What was wrong?” he says to Nesta.

“Later,” she says, under her breath. She is watching them all intently, eyes darting between her sisters and her children.

Elain seems thrilled, eagerly participating in whatever game Ava has created for them, though she clearly cannot understand half of what she says. Feyre seems more anxious but plays along as well. Briefly, Cassian wonders if she and Rhys have spoken of children, if they are trying or if they want any soon. He sees a vivid vision in his mind’s eye of sharing a Solstice morning with gifts and food in the riverfront home in Velaris, Nesta at his side and Feyre and Rhys and half a dozen children running around and his heart lurches. It’s a scene from one of Nesta’s human books, where people have cousins and big houses and--

He cuts himself off. He needs to get a grip on himself; this is getting ridiculous.

“They’re having fun,” he tells Nesta.

“Hmm,” she says, non-committal.

He hides a grin: it is going well. Nesta does not intervene, she only watches them, and he decides to stand by her side. She doesn’t mention anything about that, either, but she doesn’t push him away and she doesn’t leave herself.

His thoughts turn to the male. Zeyn. He’s in love with her, but is Nesta in love with him?

It doesn’t matter. That...that’s not what he’s here for.

Isn’t it, though? some wry voice inside his head says. Isn’t that exactly what you’re here for?

The sun has nearly sunk out of the sky when Nesta calls, “All right, five minute warning.”

“I’m going to run all the way over there!” Nicky yells back. He shoots off to the other side of the park and Ava follows, holding Ollie’s hand.

Elain laughs. She and Feyre rejoin them.

“Well!” she says. “That’s quite a workout they gave me! Are they always like that?”

“Like what?” Nesta says, voice cool.

“You know,” Elain waves her hand. “Energetic.”

“They’re three.”

“We didn’t mean in a bad way,” Feyre says. “We just...we haven’t been around children.”

“Well, that’s how three-year-olds are.”

“We know. Well. Now we know.”

Feyre looks at Cassian. He wishes she wouldn’t--he knows she doesn’t expect or want him to think of her as his High Lady in a situation such as this one, but it’s in his blood and he can’t help it.

But Nesta at his side is in his blood too. They know all too well what happened last time with both of them on either side and no one wants a repeat of that.

Luckily, Elain speaks again. “Do you play with them, too, Nesta?”

Or perhaps unluckily.

“Of course I do,” she says through gritted teeth.

“No, no,” Elain says hurriedly. “I meant, at the park. I just--because you didn’t--here, I mean--”

“They are  perfectly sociable,” Nesta says, clearly struggling to keep her voice normal. “Where do you think they learned that?”

“No, I’m sure, I just...I only meant...” Elain looks to Feyre for help.

“Oh, well, we don’t remember you ever liking to play outside when we were little,” Feyre says.

Cassian winces. That was the wrong response.

It’s easier for Nesta to be cold with Feyre than it is with Elain. “You’re aware of the fact that I’m their mother?” she says, her tone icy.

Elain pales.

“Of course,” Feyre says quickly. “We weren’t--just, we don’t really think of you--”

“Well, you’ve not known me as a mother, have you?” Nesta says, and her voice grows higher-pitched as she talks, like it always does when she’s angry.

“No--that came out wrong--we’re sure--we know you’re--”

“Please Nesta,” Elain begs. “This went so well, we had so much fun, please don’t...”

“Don’t what?”

Feyre and Elain fall silent. They look lost, Feyre searching Nesta’s face wildly, as if she can read the right thing to say on it.

But Cassian knows. The best course of action to take with Nesta is to stay quiet.

For a moment, he thinks they won’t say anything. They’ll part ways slightly upset, but Nesta will hear the children chatter about how they had fun and they’d like to play with their aunts again and she’d let them. Perhaps a bit bitter, but they would have more time to work at that.

And then Feyre blurts out, “It’s just odd to think of you as Mother.”

Her faces bleaches, and Cassian knows she regrets it as soon as she says it.

Nesta had told him of their mother. That was the exact wrong thing to say.

“Nesta, wait, I didn’t mean--”

“We’re leaving,” she says immediately, marching over to call back the children.

“Oh...shit, I didn’t mean--”

“Why would you say that--”

“I’m sorry, Elain, I didn’t mean--gods, Cassian, you’ll tell her?--oh, I know I--I didn’t mean it, I swear, she just looks so much like her! And watching her stand over there--”

“You shouldn’t have said anything!” Elain says, angrier than he’s ever heard her. 

“I know, I didn’t mean it!” Feyre looks as though she’s about to cry. “I know she’s...I mean...I’m sure...”

Cassian rubs his face. “All right,” he says. “I will...I will go and....”

“I’m sorry, Cassian,” Feyre says miserably.

“I know,” he says, voice heavy.

“I’m an idiot,” she says. “I...I’m so sorry. Tell her...at least tell her to let Elain see them again.”

“I’ll...let you know,” he says. “I’ll...I’ll...I’ll see you.”

He doesn’t linger to hear Elain berate Feyre anymore or Feyre’s apologies. He knows Feyre regrets it and he’s sure Nesta does too, but with Nesta, that’s not the point. The point is doing the wrong thing in the first place.

He can’t begrudge Feyre, though. And he hopes Nesta will forgive that, because if she doesn’t, then, well...what prayer does he have or her forgiving him?

---

November 16 - Year of

Nesta wrapped her cloak tighter around her, wrinkling her nose at the smell of the fires. She’s far enough away that she can’t make out the words of the young girls watching the shapes some of the older females are making in the flames, but she could hear their laughter.

“Here,” Emerie said, appearing at her side and thrusting a steaming bowl towards her. “It’s...smoked hazelnut.”

“How do you say hazelnut in Illyrian?” she asked, taking it from her.

“Luz,” she replied. “Come by the fire.”

They walked side-by-side, closer to the gaggles of young girls, and, sitting down, Emerie said, “Can you see the colors?”

“What?”

“In the flames,” she said, gesturing. “The white.”

And she could see, the white that tinted purple and blue deeper in the pits. “It’s fire,” Nesta said.

“There’s a story,” Emerie said.

Nesta had always loved stories. She didn’t say anything; merely looked on.

“It is said there was an Illyrian female,” she said, “who one day grew tired with her people and stole magic from the fires of her camp. When the people found out, they threw her in the pits, but the fire resisted burning her. Her bones are still inside. That’s what makes the flames white.”

Nesta was quiet for a moment. “That’s a horrible story. And you don’t tell it well.”

“If it’s such a horrible story, why does it matter how well I tell it?”

“You could have made it better.”

“These mountains are too cold to grant every female a happy ending.”

“A story doesn’t need a happy ending to be good,” Nesta said, “but you might have drawn it out a bit more. Spoke of her magic. You might have at least given her a name.”

“She has no name,” Emerie said. “Like you said, it’s fire. It’s white. She never existed.”

“Then why did you tell me the story?”

Emerie shrugged slightly. “It was told to me.”

They are quiet for a few minutes.

Nesta broke it first. “It has potential. A fire witch...whose spirit lingers on.”

“Are you a storyteller, then?”

“No,” Nesta said. Long ago, she had told her sisters stories before bed, or on rainy days, but so many years ago...she doubted Feyre even remembered. “I like to read.”

“Here, that’s more or less the same.”

“There’s no library or bookstore here.”

“There’s no need.”

“What makes you a warrior race?”

Now Emerie was quiet. “Just how things are.”

Nesta ate some of her luz. It didn’t sit quite right with her. She didn’t know why.

---

October 30 - 4 years later

Cassian is waiting for her in the living room. He leaps up from his seat when she enters. She ignores him and walks past him into the kitchen.

“Nesta,” he says, following her. “I--I know that didn’t...I know it didn’t go well.”

Nesta bites her tongue. She feels as though she is about to burst. She’s feeling so much, she doesn’t even know what she is feeling.

“Do you...understand...what my children are to me?”

“Yes--”

“Do you understand what I have sacrificed for them?”

“Yes, Nes--”

“No, you don’t! You think you can just waltz in here, come and go back to Velaris as you please, while I stay and--do you know what every day is like? It is not two hours at the park. You haven’t seen them sick. You haven’t seen any of them throw a tantrum! You haven’t seen them cry!” To her horror, as she says the words, Nesta can feel her own eyes start to burn--and is that something silver shining in Cassian’s, as well? “You have no idea, and you have no right--”

“I know, Nesta--”

“I am a good mother--”

“Nesta, I know! I’m sorry! I--you’re right; they shouldn’t have come.”

Nesta has opened her mouth to say more, but she promptly closes it. She wasn’t expecting him to say that. If she’s entirely honest with herself...she’s not quite sure she even believes her own words.

“And I...I stand by you, on your decisions,” he says, his voice weak. “I just...I want to be in your lives.”

He takes a step closer as Nesta starts to move back, but he takes her hands and pulls her closer to him. She doesn’t move away.

“Please, Nesta,” he says. “I’m sorry...for rushing this...you were right, this was...bad timing. Please don’t send me away, too.”

Nesta looks away. “I’m not going to send you away,” she says, and her voice is soft. “I want you to be with them.”

He looses a shaky breath. “All right. All right. Good. Thank you. That’s...all right.”

He doesn’t let go of her hands and Nesta doesn’t pull away. She slowly moves her eyes back to his face.

He catches her gaze and locks her in. “We’ll take a step back,” he says. “My...endgame...hasn’t changed. I still hope that you’ll want the same one day. But...on your time. I know you’re a good mother. I know...I trust you with them.”

She once might’ve picked a fight at his word choice, but she finally admits to herself: she does want to be a single functioning unit. Where their children are concerned, of course. So she instead she pulls her hands away and starts walking out of the kitchen and says, “You can...sleep in the guest room, if you’d like.”

He can’t stay forever, she knows. He’s not going to stop being the General Commander. She doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to stay; not this time and not any other times in the future. She doesn’t even know if he can be able to come at any set pattern. There’s only one way to ensure that, and she refuses to think about it.

So she’ll take what he can give them. At least for now.

---

Chapter Ten

[heathsbitch]

EPHEMERAL - t.b (i.)

A/N: There’s another A/N at the end of the imagine. Please read it because it explains this in more detail.

"Some princes don't become kings. Even at the best times I'm out of my mind, You only get what you grieve, Are you smelling that shit? Are you smelling that shit? Eau de résistance."

Her hand glided along the blade, careful not to cut herself. She was sat in the training grounds at a grind stone, trying to sharpen a friend's sword.  She was running an errand for Gendry, the blacksmith in Flea Bottom. He was a good friend of hers and she thought he was the closest thing she would ever get to a brother.

The reason why he wanted her to do it up by the palace instead of at his own forge was because he thought all of the equipment was better up there. And, maybe it was. But one thing was for sure, the grind stone was definitely more effective. It was quicker and less laborious.

The girl was busy in her work but something managed to catch her eye. She was not one to get distracted easily but, this was a sight. The two young princes, Joffrey and Tommen Baratheon. Their golden hair and red shirts glinted in the sunlight.

They were in the training grounds to practice their skills. But, Joffrey, as always, wasn't doing it right. The girl kept on looking up at the princes, careful not to get caught by them. She didn't want them to get the wrong impression. "And, what are you staring at, girl?" Joffrey had seen her staring.

She stuttered as she pulled the blade from the stone and stopped her actions, "Um, it's just that. W-well, you're holding the crossbow w-wrong, your grace." She did not want to offend the princes, let alone Joffrey. Everyone in the seven kingdoms knew about his temper and cruelty.

"Come and show me then, if you think you know what you're talking about." His words were smooth and he held out his hand, beckoning her towards him and his brother. Cautiously, she stood from her seat and made her way over to the princes.

She took a quick glance at Tommen, Joffrey's younger brother. She had always admired him, purely because he could keep his mouth shut. That was something Joffrey would have to learn from his sibling.

His eyes were trained on the floor and he cuffed one of his sleeves with the opposite hand. He played with them, embarrassed at his brother's behaviour. Tommen had said to ignore the girl that was staring. He didn't want trouble. And he certainly did not want the girl to get hurt by his older brother.

"What is your name?" Joffrey towered over the girl. From a distance, he didn't look too tall but up close, he was more intimidating than you could imagine. "Frejya, my lord. Freyja Baelish." She tensed when she told them. Both boys looked shocked at her words. They didn't expect such a gorgeous girl to be the daughter of that weasel.

"Daughter of Littlefinger?" Tommen had questioned, finally looking up from the floor. Freyja looked ashamed when she nodded her head to confirm. "That's no matter," He told Tommen. "So you're a Lady, then?" It was Joffrey's turn to quiz the girl.

"Yes, of sorts, my lord." Frejya glanced between the boys, shocked that they still wanted to speak to her. Joffrey nodded and then held his crossbow up. "Well, show me then." She carefully reached out her shaking hands to get Joffrey into a shooting stance. She began to place him in different positions. Her small hand glided up his back, straightening it out. She then moved them across his arms to raise them slightly.

He watched her like a snake watches his pray. Stealthily. People thought he was a lion, but no. He was a snake. Slithering in the bushes, just waiting for a poor unfortunate soul to stumble past him and straight into his trap.

Frejya stepped away from the prince and closer towards Tommen. Unbeknownst to her, both brothers had been watching her intently. Interested in the way she worked. She gestured for him to shoot and he did.

Unfortunately, he completely missed the target. He was too caught up in Frejya. She was different from all of the other girl's in King's Landing, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was about her. "Maybe you need help with your aim, Joff." Tommen joked and the girl laughed. "If you think that's funny, I'd like to see you try." Joffrey held out the bow towards the girl.

She took a quick glance at both princes before taking it and getting into position. Her movements were slow, cautious. She loaded the crossbow, aimed and fired. Frejya had hit the very center of the target.

Both boys looked at her in complete adoration. It was rare to see a girl as strong as her.

Frejya turned back to the boys and held out the bow to Joffrey. He took it, maintaining eye contact the entire time. She didn't want to be cocky or rude in any way. He would have her head if she was.

"It is a shock to see a Lady that has such knowledge and skill. Come to my chambers tonight, after dinner." Frejya was taken aback by his sudden declaration. "Your grace?" She questioned, still trying to be polite. "You and your father are invited to dine with us this evening."

"My Lord, I don't know what to say. Thank you." She forced herself to be polite to the teen prince. If she offended him in any way, she thought that he would hurt her in ways she couldn't even begin to imagine. "Please, call me Joffrey." He placed his large hand on the girl's shoulder and rubbed it gently.

The prince was scaring her. He was never polite or gentle with anyone. Why now? Why Frejya? It was clear that Tommen had the same questions as he raised his eyebrow at his brother's actions.

"What's going on here?" Petyr Baelish's voice rang through the training grounds, startling his daughter and the princes. "I-I was just explaining how to use a crossbow, father." Frejya's eyes dropped to the ground in front of her. "I'm sorry, my princes, for my daughter's stupidity," Littlefinger spat.

"We'll be going now. Frejya." He beckoned his daughter towards him. "My Lord, it's alright. Frejya was just teaching us, she was only trying to help." Tommen's soft voice told her father. She looked up to give the prince a small smile of gratitude before turning to her father.

He tutted, half-believing what Tommen had said. "Lord Baelish, I've invited you and your daughter to dinner tonight. I would like you to join us." Joffrey informed Petyr. "Of course, your grace. We shall be there," He got closer to his daughter, trying to hoax her into his arm, "Frejya, let's go."

"But, father, I have to give this back to Gendry." She persisted, holding the sword she had been sharpening close to her chest. Littlefinger tutted again. "That Flea Bottom bastard? Just be quick, you need to get dressed for this evening. I want you to be presentable in front of royalty. My Lords." He took a quick look of his daughter before bowing to the princes and leaving to go to one of his many brothels.

Frejya took a deep sigh and spun around to face the Baratheon brothers. "My Lords, I need to go. Thank you for the invite, Prince Joffrey. And thank you for standing up for me, Prince Tommen." She curtsied, making sure that she was being polite, and both princes nodded at her with smiles on their faces. Frejya returned a small smile before starting her journey back to Flea Bottom to see Gendry.

Almost as soon as she left, the princes turned to each other. "Why did you call her over?" Tommen asked his brother. "I thought she looked appealing. And it was clear that she was interested in us."

"She wasn't. You were using the crossbow wrong." Tommen replied. "Yes, well," Joffrey was almost lost for words. "She's coming to my chambers anyway. Surely, if she wasn't interested she would've declined the offer,"

Tommen kept quiet. He didn't know whether Frejya liked him or not. He thought that she might have been just to scared to say no. "I'm going to bed her." Joffrey said proudly. "What?" The boy prince was shocked. "I'm going to bed her." Joffrey repeated with the same amount of arrogance as before.

"What if she doesn't want to?" Tommen questioned his brother again. "What is it with you and questions today?" Joffrey lightly pushed his brother's shoulder. "I will get what I want and I will fuck her."

"She is not an object!" Tommen shouted, rage coursing through his veins. He had never met the girl before, yet he had already grown fond of her. She didn't seem intimidated by either of the princes and that was rare in King's Landing. She also knew how to protect herself and fight. Tommen knew she wasn't like all the other prissy girls there.

Joffrey tutted again, staggered by his brother's sudden outbreak. "I will get what I want, Tommen. We should be heading back to the castle. We have dinner to prepare for." He strutted away, crossbow still in hand. Tommen burned holes into the back of his head, vexed with the way his brother treated Freyja.

Freyja made her way down to Flea Bottom to meet with her friend Gendry, completely unaware of the prince's conversation about her. But, she couldn't wait to tell Gendry what had just happened. She knew he would struggle to believe it.

She could hear the clamor of metal as she walked down the street to Gendry's forge. "You will not believe what just happened to me." Freyja told the blacksmith as she rounded the corner to where he stood. "What happened?" Gendry questioned with a small giggle.

"First of all, here." She handed over the sword that she had previously been sharpening and sat down on a near-by workbench. "Thank you, Freyja. Perfect, as always." He beamed before getting back to the blade he was working on.

"I just spoke to the princes." The girl said. Gendry's actions immediately haltered as he stared at Freyja. "What? You mean Joffrey and Tommen?" His eyebrow was raised. "Yes." She nodded, confirming his words. "How? Why? Wait, what?" Questions came flooding out of his mouth quicker than Freyja could answer.

"I was sharpening your sword up near the palace, like you asked, and they came out to train," Gendry got closer to the girl on the workbench, eager to hear the next part of her story. "I was looking at them because I saw that Joffrey was using his crossbow wrong." He shook his head and lightly laughed. He knew Freyja was a perfectionist and she would always pick up on any mistake anyone made. Gendry knew she wasn't trying to be malicious, only helpful.

The girl told him the rest of what had just happened, including the invite to dine with the royal family and her father interrupting them. "Are you going to go?" Gendry asked, referring to dinner. "Yes, I have to. Joffrey will have my head otherwise."

A concerned look passed over her friend's face, "Just be careful, you know what he's like. If there's any trouble, you come straight to me." Freyja nodded, she knew that Gendry would be the best person to go to if anything happened. She trusted him with her life. "Yes, of course."

"I mean it. Fuck your father, I don't trust him." The girl laughed at his sudden outbreak of anger. "Neither do I," Freyja agreed. She held out her arms and he ran into her embrace. "I should get going. I need to get ready." She told the blacksmith as they pulled out of their hug. "Yeah. Like I said, come to me for anything. Oh, and thanks again for sharpening the sword." Freyja smiled at her friend before walking back to her house so she could get dressed for dinner.

Her palms were sweaty and her heart pounded against her chest; Freyja had never been more nervous in her life. She was unsure of Joffrey's intentions and had to pretend like everything was perfect whilst she dined. It was not going to end well.

Freyja and her father walked down to the hall where they were going to be eating. Her arm was linked with his and a smile was stretched across her face. "If you put one toe out of line... well, you know what I'll do."

Her heart rate doubled. Freyja hated to admit it but she was scared of his father and she knew that he could be lurking around any corner at any given moment, even if she couldn't see him.

The doors opened and music flooded Freyja's ears. She could hear laughter and goblets clinking together. The lights were low and smiles were on everyone's faces. All except the Queen, Cersei. Freyja was wary of the girl. She had never met her yet she knew that Cersei wasn't going to like her.

"Freyja!" A voice called out from the distance. Her eyes scanned the hall for the origin. They eventually settled on Joffrey. He was walking towards the pair with his arms outstretched. He embraced the girl. She tensed up but she hugged back out of fear. "Lord Baelish," Joffrey greeted the girl's father as they pulled out of the hug. Freyja noticed that, he too, had tensed at the action.

"Come, sit with my family." Joffrey grabbed the girl's hand and dragged her over to the table where the royal family was sat. "Your grace, I don't think we should sit at the table of the royal family." Littlefinger told the prince as he followed him and his daughter. "I am the prince and you shall do as I command," He snapped. Freyja put her head down and continued to follow the teen prince.

The girl looked at the table. She could see a three spare seats at the table. Two were situated in between Tommen and Cersei and the third was at the end, next to Tywin Lannister. "Littlefinger, you can sit next to my grandfather," The prince turned to Freyja, "We shall sit here."

He pushed the girl into the seat next to Tommen and Joffrey sat to her left, next to his mother. Freyja took a glance at Tommen as she sat down. He gave her a small smile of what looked like sympathy but she couldn't be sure. But, she returned a smile back to the teen. "Your grace." She said to him to be polite.

The time passed surprisingly quickly. Freyja had tried her best to ignore Joffrey all night and it had worked. She busied herself by talking to Tommen and, to her amazement, she actually enjoyed herself. She thought the prince was a kind and generous person and quite funny.

Joffrey noticed his brother and his guest getting along, though. He was not pleased. His hand would sneak onto the girl's thigh to try and divert her attention towards him. The hand unsettled Freyja but she knew his plan so ignored it. She knew she was making him angry, but she was having a genuinely nice time talking to Tommen.

Her joy was cut short when Joffrey stood from the table and turned to his mother. Before he stared speaking, he placed his cold hand of Freyja's small shoulder. "Mother, we shall retire to my chambers now," Cersei winced at the declaration. "Relax, mother. That is why I invited her and her wretched father," He turned to the girl who was paralyzed in her chair.

She didn't want to go back with him. Freyja knew that Joffrey couldn't be trusted and that he would try something. "Freyja." The prince held out his hand for her to take. She took it in her shaking hand and started to follow him out of the hall.

Before she left, she took a quick glance at the table where she was previously sat. She saw that both Tommen and her father had risen from their seats. Littlefinger's face was twisted into a scowl and his fists were clenched. Whereas Tommen's eyebrows furrowed and his lips were pursed.

Both were scared about what would happen to Freyja in Joffrey's chambers. Except, one knew what he had planned.

A/N: This is a Tommen Baratheon (Game of Thrones) x OC story. I'm thinking of making this into a series. I've had a really good idea for a while and I've finally managed to write it down and plan it all. If you guys want to see more, then please let me know because I've got a good feeling about this. Also, this isn't set in a particular timeline. Things won't be in the proper order for GoT and some things won't be accurate, just for the sake of the story. There will be more interactions with Freyja and Tommen once the story progresses, so be patient please.

Also in case you were wondering, the song lyrics at the start of the chapter are from a song called 'Stay Frosty Royal Milk Tea' by Fall Out Boy. It's a random name but it's a great song and I'll reference it throughout the chapter. I highly recommended you listen to it because it's genuinely such a good song.

[goodlucktai]

to be loved (and to be in love)

the moomins pairing: moomin/snufkin word count: 3358 read on ao3

x

It happens at one of Papa’s parties.

Snufkin is playing with the ramshackle band, leading their flutes and violins with his harmonica. His face is flushed, hair in disarray, and Moomin has caught himself staring more than once.

It’s just that it’s very easy to get lost in looking at him! Moomin will notice his freckles or a leaf in his fur and then goes on noticing things about him worth attention, until quite suddenly whole minutes have passed and Snufkin is giving him a funny look back and asking if there’s a hole in his smock.

There is, there always is, but Moomin wouldn’t be so fascinated by a hole in his smock.

“I’m in a puzzle,” he admits to Sniff, catching his little brother in the act of stealing sweets off My’s plate. “I want to go on listening to him play, at the same time I’d really like a dance with him. What to do!”

Sniff looks as though he’d rather talk about anything else, but gamely replies, “He’ll hop down soon enough for a drink. Just catch him before he crawls up a tree and ignores us for the rest of the night.”

Little My notices the theft of her sweets at that point and shrieks a war cry. Moomin removes himself from the scene swiftly and deftly. Mama can sense trouble like a bird can sense rain and he doesn’t want to be scolded along with his adopted siblings.

He finds Snorkmaiden taking a break and joins her. She beams at him as he sits in the grass beside her log and says, “I’ve not seen hide nor hair of you all night! Where have you been lurking?”

“By the band,” he admits. “I must tell you about my puzzle.”

She looks commiserating when he’s finished, giving a little nod. Moomin can always count on her to understand him.

“Oh! Here he comes now,” Snorkmaiden says, glancing over Moomin’s head. “It’s your chance.”

He turns, and sure enough, Snufkin is hopping down from his perch, harmonica stuffed into a pocket. He weaves unerringly through the crowd toward them, and Moomin is filled with a strange sense of pride that he passes so many other people without pause to greet the two of them with a smile.

Snorkmaiden pats the spot beside her on the mossy log, and Snufkin takes it without fuss. Moomin scoots across the grass once Snufkin is settled and leans back against his legs.

At once, he feels Snufkin tug gently on his left ear, and it’s as good as any warm greeting.

Papa’s parties are always a grand thing, attracting guests for miles, and sometimes one or two new faces will show up alongside friends and neighbors. Between the bonfire, and the carrying scent of food, and the handful of musicians in steady swing, it’s a simple matter for any stranger to make their way through the valley and join the merry-making.  

Snufkin has barely been sitting down for five minutes when one such stranger approaches. They’re a tall creature, with narrow eyes and feathered ears and a long, handsome face.

“You play wonderfully,” the stranger says, looking enraptured. “I’ve never heard that song before.”

“It was one of mine, from a few years ago,” Snufkin replies easily. He’s in an agreeable mood tonight. “I never did name it.”

Moomin isn’t quite rude enough to interrupt, even though there’s about a dozen things he’s come up with to talk to Snufkin about in the half hour since they last spoke. And he still has to ask for a dance before Snufkin changes his mind about being at the party, the way he tends to when such things drag on. Moomin tries not to fidget while the stranger praises Snufkin’s talent with composition, going on at length about the catchy melody and how his eyes shone in the dark and what a striking figure he made, perched at the top of his weathered stump, head and shoulders above the bigger and taller musicians.

Snufkin is talented, and he is striking— all of that is common sense. But a visitor couldn’t be expected to know that right away. So Moomin attempts patience, tilting his head so that his chin is propped on one of Snufkin’s knees.

From there Moomin has a clear view of Snorkmaiden, and he blinks in surprise. His pleasant friend is wearing a distinctly unpleasant look on her face. She almost seems offended, and Moomin is about to ask what’s wrong when the stranger says, “Forgive me if this is too forward, but would you care to dance?”

They hold out a hand to Snufkin, the way Papa will sometimes hold out a hand to Mama before he leads her in a dance, and Moomin thinks, Oh.

Oh.

And his insides turn to ice.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice cries out Unfair! He was going to ask for a dance, he’d been thinking about it all night long!

“I’m afraid I’m spoken for,” Snufkin replies without missing a beat. “But you might find someone else here who’d be happy to dance with you. Why don’t you stay awhile?”

The stranger is plainly disappointed, but they take it in stride. After a round of good-natured farewells, they amble off to another corner of the party, and Moomin has never been more relieved to see the back of someone in his life.

Snorkmaiden huffs, “What nerve! And to ask you right in front of—“

“Well, they could hardly know better,” Snufkin says quickly, rummaging his harmonica out of his pocket. He taps it twice on the palm of his hand, nervously. “I feel like playing again, Moomintroll. Let me up?”

“Oh— yes, of course,” Moomin says, scrambling out of the way. “What song will you play?”

“One you know,” comes the teasing reply, and then Snufkin is climbing back up the dead tree that serves as his stage for the evening, his fellow musicians clamoring when they realize he’s returned.

He sets the note, and begins to play, and Moomin recognizes All Small Beasts Should Have Bows In Their Tails within the first few chords. It fills him with something impossibly warm, something that pushes aside that unhappy surprise from moments ago with firm hands.

Sometimes, one has to just— sit quietly. And marvel at how much one loves their best friend.

Snorkmaiden sinks from the log to the grass beside Moomin. She takes one of his hands.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks.

Moomin doesn’t tear his eyes away from the band for a moment and answers her honestly. She laughs brightly, unsurprised. The question was probably just a joke to begin with.

The answer is usually Snufkin.

“What do you think he meant, Snorkmaiden? About being spoken for?”

“Oh, dear, don’t ask me.” She gives his hand a pat. “That Snufkin will tell you himself, he tells you everything else. He’ll get bothered by all this attention soon enough and slink off to some secret place to be alone, so you can ask him then.”

Moomin has to smile at both Sniff and Snorkmaiden knowing Snufkin so well. They’re right, too, because not even twenty minutes later the mumrik has made his clever escape, and Moomin leaves the swell of light and music and merry-making to follow him into the nearby grove of trees.

It’s an easy matter for Moomin to find him where he’s sitting by the peaceful brook. He makes a pretty picture there, autumn-colored creature that he is.

“I don’t know that I’m cut out for parties,” Snufkin says when he sees Moomin coming. The look on his face is just shy of apologetic, because this is simply how he is and they both know it’s nothing to apologize for.

“You lasted nearly half the evening! I think the trick is to stick you in the band so you forget the crowd.”

Snufkin laughs and it’s very much a gilded accomplishment as far as Moomin is concerned. They sit together comfortably, the space between them a familiar shape after all these years.

“Something on your mind?” Snufkin asks, always guessing these things rightly.

“I’m a little cross with that stranger,” Moomin admits. “I was preoccupied all night with how I might convince you to dance and they stole the question from me just like that, as easy as anything!”

“Oh, Moomintroll, you only had to ask. I’d hardly want to dance with someone I don’t know, but I know you better than anyone.”

Simultaneously pleased by the sentiment, and disappointed he wasted time dithering for no reason, Moomin asks, “So it wasn’t true then? What you said before?”

Snufkin blinks slowly at him. Moomin clarifies, “You told them you were spoken for.”

“Oh, yes. That’s true.”

Heartbreak is a physical thing, as it turns out. Moomin didn’t know that until now, looking at his best friend and great love and feeling like his whole chest is going to come apart.

“Oh,” he says. “I’m happy for you, Snufkin.”

“Don’t be too happy for me. It’s terribly one-sided.”

He might as well have tipped the world upside down, as calmly as you please, and Moomin has to really think for a moment to make sure he heard right.

Then he blurts, “You can’t be serious, Snuf, how could it ever be?”

Snufkin laughs again, richly amused, and tells him, “Moomin, I’ve very few redeeming qualities. I’m a tramp who refuses to be tied down to one person or place, who can’t abide crowds or too much noise or sleeping indoors for more than a night or two at a time. I can play a pretty tune, but only barely hold a conversation with anyone that isn’t you or your family.”

It isn’t said with bitterness. He’s still smiling as he gazes out over the dark water, eyes gleaming under the waning moon. He looks perfectly at peace with the idea that he will never be loved back, and that heartbreak from a moment ago has nothing on what Moomin is feeling now.

It must show on his face, because Snufkin says, “Don’t trouble yourself over it, my dear. I’m a difficult creature to love, that’s all.”

Moomin reels back from him.

“How could you ever say such a thing?” Moomin demands, feeling stung. “How could you believe it?”

Snufkin stares up at Moomin as though he’s never seen him before, and their difference in size is somehow more apparent than it’s ever been.

But Moomin’s mouth runs off without him, eyes hot and heart racing.

“Every spring when you come back I think I’ve never been so happy before in my life, and every autumn when you leave again you take my heart with you, so don’t you dare think that you’re not wonderful just because one person in the whole world is foolish enough not to see it! You’re not difficult! Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done!”

The empty woods seem to ring after his outburst, the heavy silence laying over them like a thick bed of packing snow.

Snufkin doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t go away either, which means he’s going to say something when he figures it out. Words like to escape him sometimes, those pesky things, and Moomin has learned to be patient while Snufkin catches the right ones.

But right now Moomin is so— angry! Or hurt, or— something else that makes breathing painful, like his lungs are full of sharp edges. And he thinks if he stays here for another second he’ll start yelling again, and Snufkin looks so small and startled that yelling at him any more is the last thing Moomin wants to do.

So he says, “I’m going back,” and starts off at a stomp. About halfway back to the party his anger deserts him, and by the time he finds Snorkmaiden he’s very near tears.

“Oh, no,” his friend says right away. Her face is full of sympathy. “I take it you didn’t get your dance.”

”I did something so stupid,” Moomin blurts. It’s almost a sob. Snorkmaiden’s hands come out as if to catch him. “Snufkin probably thinks I’m such a fool. He said something mistaken and I shouted at him and— “

God, the things he said! Moomin is still angry and hurt, but he’s ashamed and embarrassed, too. It’s not truly Snufkin that he was upset with, just the very wrong ideas that Snufkin had, and he handled it so poorly.

There are probably much better ways of convincing someone they’re loved than by yelling at them and carrying on.

“Remember all those afternoons we spent planning my grand confession?” he asks of her glumly. “I didn’t do any of those plans justice tonight.”

“Poor Moomintroll,” Snorkmaiden sighs. “I promise you it’s not as bad as you think.”

Moomin wants to say of course it is! and I ruined everything! and Snufkin is probably going to leave months early now because of me! but that last thought is such a miserable one that Moomin can’t bring himself to say anything else at all.

Snorkmaiden spends the rest of the evening with him, even though there’s plenty of games and dancing she could be joining in on. As the party winds down, Sniff and Little My and Snork make their way over as well.

The last of the guests are leaving, and Papa rounds the kids together for help tidying the yard. Mama is stacking empty plates and bottles and Moomin is carrying a bag around for garbage when Sniff says, “Hey, look who’s come back! Just in time to help clean up.”

My says, “Good, now we don’t have to hunt him down later.”

Disbelieving, Moomin turns with hope and uncertainty thick in his throat. And yes, Snufkin is there, picking his way through the yard, face half-hidden in his hat and his scarf, looking two seconds from turning to bolt.

When he catches Moomin’s eye, he squares his shoulders. The last few steps between them seem very daring, and he sticks out a paw the second he’s close enough.

Moomin is a very confused mix of happy to see him and sad all at once, but it’s impossible not to take Snufkin’s hand when it’s offered. So he does, their fingers interlocking. The rest of their family feels far away.

“I’ve been awful,” Moomin tells him, ears laying flat.

“Of course you haven’t been,” Snufkin mumbles. “You’re a sweetheart.”

The two of them don’t really have to say “I’m sorry” and “I forgive you” so plainly anymore. Part of knowing someone so well is knowing what they mean to say no matter how they come out and say it.

Moomin’s heart begins to settle, Snufkin’s warm paw in his as good as any poultice.

“I don’t feel like one,” Moomin tells him, aching from someplace deeper than his bones. “I shouldn’t have shouted at you. If you didn’t know I loved you before, it was a sorry way to find out.”

Tail lashing, Snufkin stands there for what feels like a long time without speaking.

Snufkin rarely says very much all at once. When he was a child, he could talk for hours about his favorite things, but as the years came on, that happened less and less. By now it‘s a rarity to hear that stream of consciousness babble out of him like a brook.  

Sometimes when it’s just the two of them, laying in the field under a glorious patchwork of stars, Snufkin will slip back into that very young mumrik Moomin first met.

Or still sometimes, when it’s very important, he can muster up enough words to make himself understood.

“Of course I knew,” he says, careful and particular with every syllable. “You love everyone. I just didn’t know if yours matched mine. I didn’t know if I wanted it to or not.”

Moomin stopped breathing somewhere around “yours” and “mine,” electric with hope. He doesn’t dare interrupt, not even to tell his nosy siblings off for eavesdropping from the other side of the table they’re supposed to be cleaning.

“A commitment like that must cost something, I thought,” Snufkin tries to explain, brow furrowed. “But how long have I loved you, without it costing me anything at all?”

Oh!

Moomin’s face breaks in a wide smile, and he seizes Snufkin’s other hand, too.

He’s known Snufkin’s love for him and his other friends in the valley since they were very small, since the years when they still hibernated together, but it’s nice to hear it said out loud.

“See there? You’re so easy to love, Snuf. We all love you, and I’m sure your secret swain does, too. Or if he doesn’t, then he will! And I’ll be happy for you, I swear it!”

Snufkin blinks at him. Somewhere behind them, someone mutters Moomin’s name like it’s a swear word. The noise of clean-up has stopped completely.

Moomin digests the full and heavy silence for a moment and then gasps so suddenly that Snufkin jumps.

“You don’t mean— it’s me?”

Snufkin looks as though he never wants to speak again, only existing in this space anymore because of Moomin’s tight grip on his paws that makes it impossible for him to run away. He’s hiding behind the brim of his hat, but Moomin can see how red his face is. Probably everyone in the yard can.

“Who else could it be, Moomintroll? The only place I come back to is here. Who else could I have fallen for without you knowing right away?”

“But me?” Moomin is laughing now, and crying, and deliriously relieved. “And you called it one-sided? How could you!”

Snufkin finally jerks into motion when Moomin’s tears start rolling, wiping them away with the end of his scarf and saying, “How was I to know it was the sweetheart sort of love you felt and not the sibling sort? One can’t just assume these things.”

Moomin spins him in a giddy circle. “Oh, but this is wonderful, isn’t it? Thank goodness we had that argument.”

“Never let it be said we do things the easy way,” Snufkin admits, strung along by him enough to smile. “I would have rather had that dance.”

A sudden noisy crackle has them both looking over, and Mama smiles tenderly at them from the table. She’s brought out the gramophone from the drawing room. A record is already spinning beneath the needle, and music begins to pour out over the yard.

“There’s always time for another dance,” she says wisely, reaching for Papa’s hand.

It’s the middle of the night and they only have the porch lights and a few lanterns and the stars to see by, and there’s still plenty to do before bed. But Snorkmaiden and her brother are laughing as they attempt to copy Mama and Papa’s waltz, and Sniff and Little My are twirling each other around energetically and bumping into chairs, and although it’s ridiculous, there’s absolutely no reason for Snufkin and Moomin not to join in. And that’s probably the point.

“We haven’t danced in ages,” Moomin says eagerly. “Since the last party, you remember?”

“A month ago,” Snufkin supplies, eyes catching the low light. He’s very warm, and solid in Moomin’s hands, and perhaps the most familiar thing to him in the whole world.

“Ages,” Moomin insists.

Snufkin finally gives in with a laugh. “It does feel that way, doesn’t it?”

So they dance until the stars wink out and pale dawn touches the farthest corner of the sky. Then they part in the early morning with a shy kiss, Snufkin fleeing to his tent and Moomin to his bedroom, and greet each other the same way when everyone drags themselves groggily to the lunch table.

And when late autumn comes around, Snufkin will linger a day or two longer than usual, but he’ll leave for his travels with a light step and a song in his heart. And Moomin will smile to see him go, knowing how sweet the spring will be.

And nothing changes that shouldn’t change. And everything changes that should.

[m00nslippers]

just because the batboys dont see themselves as siblings all the time doesnt mean they don't all have the same (adopted) father. at any one point in time, at least 2 of the boys have considered each other brothers

Just because you have a piece of paper that says something, that doesn’t mean the feelings are automatic. A document that claims them as ‘siblings’ doesn’t automatically give them a sibling bond, you have to earn that with actual sibling interaction, and until very recently in the canon, Jason did not have that with any of the other Robins. Jason also outright said he was ‘no one’s son’ in Under The Red Hood so at the time he pretty much rejected Bruce as his father, even if the history and feelings were still there. So calling them brothers in any capacity until very recently is just a technicality as far as I’m concerned. But for some people that’s a big important technicality so, okay let’s dissect this argument.

I think it’s a little silly that I actually have to discuss this, but let me ask you the question, ‘why is incest wrong?’  because actual incest is definitely wrong in my opinion but there are real reasons for why it’s wrong, and I’ll tell you why. It’s not just because a religious text or two said so. I like to think we’re beyond blindly following ancient texts to designate who is allowed to have a relationship with who. As far as I see it, there’s two main reasons why incest is bad:

1. Genetic issues with children. Basically if you’re blood-related and you have a kid, that kid has a substantial likelihood to develop a genetic disease just because of how gene inheritance and expression works. Incest relationships that produce children are bad for the gene pool and humanity as a species. Inbreeding is how we got dog breeds that can’t survive giving birth naturally or have a 90% chance of having spine issues and early deaths. It’s objectively bad.

2. Potential for abuse and difficulty in identifying abuse. Basically when you are raised together in the way siblings are, especially with one being older and in a position of power over the younger, there is a huge potential for the elder sibling especially to manipulate or abuse the other, possibly without even realizing what they are doing. Siblings are already supposed to and most likely will care for and love each other, and especially if you are young it would be difficult to tell if any romantic love between the two is because both parties want it or because one feels as if they have to, to maintain the sibling relationship or please the other whom they care about. It just gets really muddy, and difficult to navigate, and it’s hard to tell if the feelings are real or gas-lighting on someone’s end, so at least until both people are adults, it’s really just a situation that should be avoided to make sure everyone stays and feels safe. Avoiding a situation that has a high possibility of abuse is objectively a good thing. 

If you can think of another reason incest is wrong besides “yuck! I don’t want to think of my sibling like that!” then I’m all ears. But that being said, do any of these things apply to the batboys?

Well 1 is a non-issue because they aren’t blood-related and it’s mlm so they aren’t in a child-baring relationship. 2 could be an issue with DickDami or Dick Tim since they do have a decent amount of sibling-like interaction, but if the relationship happens when they are both adults I think it pretty much avoids the problems of number 2. But in the case of JayDick or JayTim is think it is a complete non-issue because they don’t have any relationship at all when growing up and they are all pretty much adults anyways by the time they meet again.

So as far as I can see it, the issues of incest are completely irrelevant to most batcest relationships. Can you wave around a piece of paper that says they are adoptive siblings and therefor their relationship is unlawful in a couple of states in the USA? Yeah, I guess you can, but that’s more a ‘follow the letter of the law rather than the spirit’, type issue. Culture/tradition in the past has said that a lot of things were wrong that if you looked at it objectively you’d see there wasn’t really a logical reason behind it. For a long time relationships between the same sex were seen as wrong but when it comes down to it most of the ‘reasons’ boiled down to “It’s different from what I’m used to so I don’t like it, also some religious person told me it was wrong” (By the way, I’m not against religion here, just against blindly following it and ignoring logic/reality and how certain practices can hurt people.)

Now since we are on the subject, let me just plug something that actually colors my feelings on this issue. When I was pretty young I used to watch a show called House M.D. and there is a particular episode of this show that relates to this subject and really kind of stuck with me when I watched it.

for those who don’t know, House M.D. was a very interesting show where a cynical asshole genius doctor and his crew of put-upon other genius doctors would solve medical mysteries ins a sort of Sherlock Holmes manner (the similarities between the name House and Holmes was intentional on the show’s part). A patient would come into their hospital with a complaint or sickness that no one else could figure out, they would dramatically spiral toward death as the crew clamored to figure out the cause and eventually House, being a genius, would diagnose the patient at the last second as save the day–but he was still a jerk so he was never happy.

In one particular episode, the wife in a young couple came into the ER. She was black and her husband was white, they’d run away and eloped, and been disowned by their families because they were a mixed race couple. But they didn’t care because they were deeply in love and had been there for each other since they were teens because they lived right next door to each other. So she is really sick with something and of course everyone scrambles to figure out what the problem is to save her and the whole time her husband is there for her and being loving and wonderful, refusing to leave her side.

Because that’s how this show works, there is a dramatic reveal that isn’t really relevant that is actually some genetic issue or something. But since their relationship was such a focal point of their situation, House had gleaned enough information about them to realize a disturbing truth–the loving husband and wife who were each other’s only support had been half-siblings all along and didn’t even realize it. The man’s father had an affair with the girl’s mother and they’d both hid it. It hadn’t been obvious because on the surface level they appeared to be different races, but they both had a rare color of green eyes. Their parents weren’t against the couple because it was interracial, but because it was incestuous, but hadn’t told either of them. The husband had to be tested for the same genetic issue as the wife and both were devastated at this realization. We don’t see what the couple decide to do, whether they break off their relationship or continue it. But either way, their feelings were real, their husband and wife relationship was real, and being genetically siblings didn’t change that. Neither of them did anything wrong, they just didn’t grow up as siblings, didn’t realize they were supposed to see each other as siblings.

Now, look. I know this is a fictional story, but it illustrates something that is true to life–sibling relationships are something you have to build. They aren’t automatic, they aren’t genetic, they don’t just happen as soon as you have a piece of paper that says you are siblings. And romantic relationships are something that occur between people who are compatible, regardless of technicalities in law or culture that those involved may or may not be aware of at the time. Judging people or relationships and having expectations about people and relationships based on arbitrary rules and technicalities like ‘technically they are brothers because Bruce adopted Jason and then later he adopted Tim after Jason was dead’  is dumb. It’s meaningless. It really just has no bearing on anything. In most states it’s not even illegal because making an issue of it is based on arbitrary, archaic rules. If someone can give me a solid reason why JayDick or JayTim is wrong or bad, then maybe I’ll change my opinion, (but I still wouldn’t be against people writing it because even messed up and really unhealthy relationships can be weirdly cathartic or interesting to read/write and also do happen in real life–PEOPLE CAN WRITE WHAT THEY WANT EVEN IF ITS ‘WRONG’ THEY DON’T HAVE TO JUSTIFY IT TO YOU OR MEET SOME MEASURING STICK OF MORALITY) but personally I just don’t see why it’s a problem for anyone.

[awritingrose]

Burn Everything You Love

(Then burn the ashes.) Celine is haunted from the moment she is born, and spends the rest of her life chasing answers.

Celine character study. 9.1k.

Warnings: abusive parent (non-explicit domestic violence, psychological/emotional abuse, racism); unhealthy coping mechanisms; toxic behaviors + relationships; illness/death/hospital scenes; this is not quite Dead Dove territory but we sure are pushing it

Read on ao3 or continue under the read more

Celine is haunted from the moment she is born.

There are creatures in the corner of the nursery that stare at her while she is paralyzed between waking and dreaming. She watches shadows try to suffocate Damien in his bed with their mere presence. She learns to speak from the spirits that whisper in her ears of dangers yet to come.

It makes her an eerie child, frighteningly intelligent, with raven hair and shifting hazel eyes. She watches the world around her with a flat affect, studying everything she sees.

Her father, simmering red, teaches her rage and defiance. Perhaps she should learn to cower instead, like her gray mother and blue-tinged brother. Perhaps that would make things easier. Keep her from spending the next twenty-odd years of her life always tense, always bracing for a fight—always looking for one. But she favors her father too much for that.

(She thinks, when they’re grown, that this is why Damien tries to control her in his gentle way. He favors their mother, in spirit and in face, while Celine is a mirror of their father’s sins. The heir he would have wanted, if only she’d been a man.)

By the time she is fourteen, Celine has grown so used to seeing the unseen that it barely makes her flinch. She learned quickly that no one else, not even her brother, sees the auras that cling to everyone.

(“Synesthesia,” the doctors call it when she is small.

“Hysteria,” they call it after she turns twelve, with an edge to their voices. If she were not rich, she knows, if her father’s name carried less weight, they’d lock her up in an institution and leave her to rot like the women that wail half-baked prophecies in her ears.)

She and Damien stand beside their father at a society dinner one night, dressed nearly identically in a white dress and white suit jacket. Damien takes to holding her hand at times like these, when she’s at her most unpredictable, half to comfort himself with her presence and half to try to rein her in.

(Later, she’ll unleash her temper on him for it. It’s the only time she ever does, because as angry as he might make her, she cannot stand the pain in his eyes.)

Tonight, his pinky is looped through hers. Despite his easy charisma, crowds still make him nervous. She and the voices in her ear both know that the world will eat him alive if she gives it half a chance. She can protect him from it, thrust her hand out and force everyone to hear her, but she cannot keep him safe from what really frightens him: the monster in their father’s skin.

“Arthur!” Celine watches their father’s spine stiffen at the sound of his name, echoing from the other side of the room. “There you are!”

The man coming towards them has his arms open as if he means to embrace her father. He radiates golden warmth from the top of his balding head to his stout legs, and somehow the kindness of it all makes her tense.

It is the daisy chain of three teenagers following him that truly captivate Celine.

The first of them is a boy, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with the whisper-thin beginnings of a mustache. Around him swirls a sunset corona, pinks and yellows in shades Celine never knew existed. She can barely resist the urge to try to bury herself in the colors. She can barely tear her eyes away from him and his infectious smile.

“I’d like to introduce you to my son, William,” The man says. He ruffles the boy’s hair, and Celine feels Damien’s pinky tighten around hers. “And my nephew, Mark.”

Mark is slightly taller than William, and completely clean shaven. There’s an intensity to his dark eyes that threatens to swallow Celine whole, just like the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. She recognizes a kindred spirit from the set of his shoulders and the faint circles under his eyes—he’s the older sibling like she is, always on guard, always ready to pack up everything he loves and run. A muted rainbow surrounds him.

“And who’s this?” Her father asks, not even trying to hide the disdain in his voice. “Another foster?”

The senior Barnum laughs, loud and from his belly.

(His name is William, too, whispers a voice. His wife is everything you will never be.)

“She might as well be!” He looks down at the girl with a fondness Celine has never seen in her own father’s eyes, and for a moment, she is struck with jealousy. “No, this is Tess. Grace is sponsoring her for all these parties—the debut balls, and whatnot.”

Tess, holding Mark’s hand, cannot seem to meet Celine’s eyes. Celine knows the trick of staring at a person’s forehead too well to not be able to recognize it. There are freckles across the other girl’s nose and cheeks, the kind that come from too many hours in the sun, the kind that Celine is always put into wide-brimmed hats to avoid. Tess’s cheeks are flushed with sunburn and not cosmetics. She’s not, Celine realizes, chained by the expectations of wealth, and again that dark jealousy rises in Celine’s chest. It’s beaten out, barely, by fascination: there is no aura at all surrounding Tess.

And around each of the teens’ throats is a writhing black tendril.

(Learn, cries her very soul.)

“I’m Celine,” she says. She steps out of her father’s reach. “Nice to meet you all.”

She lets go of her brother, and she does not look back.

The Barnum manor is silent, and for months, Celine thinks that is a blessing. It’s the only place she’s ever been where she can hear herself think, where there are not so many spirits clamoring for her attention that she almost thinks an institution’s sedation would be a relief.

“Let me show you something,” Mark says when she tries to explain this to him.

He takes her hand, and Celine is caught between the rush of heat it sends to her cheeks and the shock of how cold his skin is.

He leads her deep into the woods surrounding the property. If she were a different girl, Celine thinks, she’d worry about his intentions or her reputation. It’s the sort of thing Tess would focus on (Celine would call her prissy or prudish, if she hadn’t seen Tess and William sneak out of sight more often than Celine has ever been alone with Mark).

When they finally stop, it is in a clearing ripe with wildflowers and cloudy sunshine. There’s a humid haze in the air; she can taste a summer storm on her tongue. It’s the most beautiful place she’s ever seen, and the same part of her she’s tried to repress thinks of how dreamily romantic the whole thing is.

“William and Tess used to come here all the time. They said the birds sound prettier here,” Mark says. He looks at her out of the corner of his eye.

Celine frowns. She lets go of his hand to take a step further, eyes closed and head tilted to listen.

“I don’t hear anything,” She replies, turning back to him.

She can’t read his aura like she does everyone else, the soft colors giving him the appearance of experiencing every emotion at once. But she knows the flash of relief that goes across his face. It’s the same one that went across hers when Damien admitted he’d seen something in the darkness of their room one night. The relief of knowing you aren’t crazy. You aren’t alone.

“Exactly!” He grabs her hands again with a fervency that keeps the butterflies in her stomach from waking up.

He’s giving her a look that she knows is supposed to convey some deep meaning. He’s trying to tell her something that the writhing blackness wrapped like a noose around his throat will not let him say. She has no idea what it is.

(When it’s much too late to save either of them, she’ll understand. She’ll think about how prey animals fall silent when a predator is near. She’ll wonder what it means that the things she always thought were predators fall silent in the manor’s presence. She’ll find out.)

So instead, she leans forward and kisses him, because the consequences of that are easier to deal with than trying to understand why William and Tess hear birdsong in a place too perfect to be real.

That winter, she and Damien are invited to the Barnum’s second home high in the mountains. It’s not the first time they see snow, but it’s the first time they see so much of it.

Celine falls in love.

Damien can’t seem to put enough layers on to keep himself warm, while Mrs. Barnum (Grace, she wants them to call her) has to nag Celine to bundle up. She loves sticking her hands into the snow until her fingers burn and turn red.

(Someone should notice she’s self-destructing, but no one says a word, and so she buries herself deeper and deeper beneath the ice.)

She and Mark sit on the porch most of the time. They watch Tess run about up to her knees in snow, pelting anyone foolish enough to look away from her with snowballs. She shrieks with laughter when William dumps some down the back of her dress. Anger brings heat to Celine’s cheeks; it’s not fair that Tess is so free, but even holding hands with Mark seems scandalous.

On the third day, William rushes up to them. Tess runs past him into the house—Mrs. Barnum’s voice echoes from a distant room, reminding her to take her shoes off.

“Are you ready?” William asks. His aura rotates around him, like fairy floss at the carnival. It makes her nauseous, yet the intensity in his eyes keeps Celine from looking away.

“Ready for what?” Mark tilts his head.

William throws his hands up like they’re both missing something obvious, and a smile pulls at the corner of Celine’s mouth.

“Skating,” He enunciates each syllable carefully.

As if on cue, Tess appears in the doorway again, one hand carrying five pairs of skates by the laces, the other hand pulling Damien along behind her.

And though she’s seen it coming for months (even if she couldn’t see his aura flare pink anytime Tess looks at him, his cheeks doing the same would be enough of a giveaway), Celine can’t stop the ugly, unnamable feeling that rises in her chest.

“How thick is the ice?” Damien asks as they trek through the woods.

Tess shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s never cracked, so we don’t worry about it.”

“Thick enough,” William offers, with a wink that makes Celine roll her eyes.

They skate for hours in the silence of the frozen lake. Mark tries to help her get her balance at first, but Celine throws his hands off. He doesn’t try to force it; he simply lets her do as she wishes, and she loves him all the more for it.

The boys go to sit together in the snowbank when they tire. Tess turns dizzying spirals across the ice with her dancer’s grace that Celine envies. Celine circles the exterior of the pond, stubbornly pushing past her aching muscles.

“Watch this!” Tess calls to pull the boys’ attention away from whatever they’re discussing.

Celine watches something dark shift beneath the ice. It's as if some great fish were trapped within the lake. Yet nothing could be alive there, certainly nothing so large, certainly nothing with a half-rotten face that smiles at her as it passes beneath her feet. It comes to a stop under Tess, draws its melting hands back—

She thinks she screams Tess’s name. She’s never sure, even years in the future. But if she does, the warning comes too late; Tess launches herself into the air. The thing in the water slams its fists against the ice. The crack echoes like a gunshot when she lands.

There is a deafening roar in Celine’s ears as she propels herself towards Tess. The boys are shouting, Mark barely holding both Damien and William back for fear their sudden weight will plunge the girls through the cracks. They cannot see like Celine does. They don’t see the laughing face, the burning eyes, the creature that pounds against the ice, the thing that wants nothing more than to grab Tess’s ankles and drag her under.

And for all the things Tess does that Celine hates, Celine will not let her come to any harm.

She slams into Tess with a force she’ll regret later, but it is enough to throw Tess into Damien’s arms. A fraction of a second later, bony fingers wrap around Celine’s ankle, and frozen water fills her lungs.

(She thinks of those moments under the lake in the distant future, when she and Damien and Tess are thrown into an abyss. She takes them back to that moment. She tries to conquer the fear she felt, the echoes of her father’s voice that told her she would drag everyone around her to Hell if she kept acting the way she did, the realization that he’d been right.)

Celine wakes in the smallest bedroom in the house, lying in a cot and buried under a mountain of blankets. Tess sits upright in the second bed, similarly dwarfed beneath the covers. The ends of her thick hair are still wet, and that’s strangely infuriating to Celine, because Tess should be the only one without the bone-deep cold on her skin.

“What did you do?” Celine hisses. Her throat stings with the effort.

“Saved you!” Tess snaps back.

(She hadn’t hesitated; she’d wrapped her scarf around one wrist, handed the other end to William, and jumped into the water. The boys had pulled them out once Tess had a grip on Celine’s waist, both of them weightless in the ice. It was William, Celine finds out later, who pressed his lips to hers to help her breathe.)

“You shouldn’t have! I was trying to save you! You should’ve left me!” She shouts. It’s a little too close to a confession of something Celine isn’t ready to deal with. “You should’ve just done what you were told!”

(She hears her father’s words come out of her mouth. They taste like vinegar and blood. She does not try to take them back.)

“I don’t need you to tell me what to do!”

Celine has never heard Tess shout until this moment—she’s not sure she’s ever seen Tess pass a stage of “mild annoyance”. She always assumed Tess was too soft, too feminine, for something as uncivilized as anger. It feels…good to see Tess finally crack.

It’s good enough that Celine begins to laugh, though it quickly turns to raw coughing. Tess stews on the other side of the room. She doesn’t have to have an aura for Celine to feel the anger coming off of her.

“So you aren’t perfect,” Celine finally says.

Tess’s eyes widen with panic. “Shut up.”

“Why are you still pretending?” Celine doesn’t even lower her voice. She’s certain most of the house has heard them yelling. She’s surprised Mark or Damien hasn’t burst in to try to calm them down.

Tess looks away, fidgeting with the corner of one of her blankets. “They’ll get rid of me if I’m not.”

Celine knows about Tess’s attempt to run away—Mark had told her. He’d mentioned how lucky Tess was to be able to leave, how angry he was that she’d come back. Celine had agreed. If she ever had half a chance, she would throw everything she could into a bag and run. She wouldn’t look back. She never has.

But at the same time, she knows Tess’s fear more intimately than she knows anything else about the other girl. She’s felt it too. Tess made the choice to bend to it; Celine broke it.

“Can we...can we start over?” Tess asks softly, several hours later.

Celine wants to say no out of nothing but spite. To feel that rush again of seeing Tess break, of making her feel a fraction of the pain Celine has learned to live with.

(They’re not friends, Celine tells herself. They will never be friends.)

“I’m Celine,” she says instead. She smiles and stretches her hand out across the space between their beds. “Nice to meet you.”

The light in Tess’s eyes is a gift.

Celine falls through worlds only once.

The furniture floats away from her with the slightest touch. She rests her fingers on the keys of the piano and they begin to play a symphony from a memory that isn’t her own. The room on the other side of the door shifts as she thinks of all the places in the house she’d like to go.

It does not frighten her. It feels good. It feels right. This is what the power in her veins is meant for. She is meant for so much more.

Color returns to the world when she steps through the doorway and into the kitchen. That power still drums beneath her skin, though the counters do not move when she touches them and her fingers can no longer remember how the song began.

“Celine?” Mrs. Barnum’s voice makes Celine jump. The older woman stands over the stove, stirring something into the soup. “What are you doing in here?”

The real question is how she got into the kitchen. There is a look in Mrs. Barnum’s eyes whenever she asks anything like this, as if she already knows the answer and only wants to hear what the children will tell her. Celine has no patience for the games.

She has never gotten along with Mrs. Barnum. She’s a woman loved by her family, the heir to the Barnum fortune, so powerful that her husband had taken her name instead of the other way around. She’s everything Celine wanted to be as a little girl. She’s everything Celine will never be, and the voices are fond of reminding Celine of it.

(They are wrong—Celine is just like Grace Barnum, in all the worst ways.)

“Through the door,” Celine replies.

She won’t tell Mrs. Barnum of what she saw. She can’t stand to be looked at like she’s crazy, not again, not when she’s finally found a place she feels she belongs.

Mrs. Barnum’s brows lift. She doesn't point out that Celine's answer doesn't make sense. “I see. I thought I heard someone at the piano.”

Celine shrugs. “Must have been Damien. I can’t play.”

She can’t, not like this, but if she can only find that place again, she can learn. Learn everything her soul has ever needed to know.

(She spends another decade trying to find her way back. She doesn’t regret a moment of it.)

Her first attempt is with the ouija board, when she is fifteen, when she and Mark have finally declared to their parents that they are courting, when William still winks at her while no one is looking.

(Her father disapproves. Says that Mark isn’t a suitable match. She looks at her mother; she looks at Damien; she knows what he means.)

She smuggles the board into the manor with Mark’s help.

“My aunt hates those things,” he’d said, looking at it with a reluctance that almost gave Celine pause. She didn’t care if Mrs. Barnum didn’t like the board, but Mark’s obvious discomfort was nearly enough.

“Then I won’t let her see it,” Celine had reassured him.

He refuses to touch it, so Celine stuffs it into a bag and hides it beneath her skirts; Mark simply provides enough distraction to allow her to shuffle into the parlor.

William, Tess, and Damien are already gathered around the low table, Tess perched on a cushion she’s pulled into the floor.

Celine feels that power rush into her body as soon as she unveils the board. She does not feel the eyes that watch her; Tess feels them, Mark feels them, but Celine is too focused on finally, finally, getting answers to pay attention to their apprehension. The world shrinks to the thrumming in her veins and the whispers of the board.

William is the first to speak. “A seance?”

“Does anyone have any objections?” Celine’s tone makes it clear it is a challenge, not a question.

Tess and Damien trade a look that makes Celine want to roll her eyes. Tess speaks for the pair of them. "Are you sure about this?"

Instead of snapping, Celine smiles, soft and reassuring. “You know there’s something strange about this house, Tess. The spirits could tell us what it is.”

(She doesn’t mention that the spirits have never spoken to her in the manor before.)

There’s suddenly something strange in the way Tess is looking at her, too. That black tendril around her throat tightens and Tess reaches out for the planchette, her eyes glassy. It’s like she’s…empty.

The parlor door bursts open a second before Tess’s fingers reach the board, and Celine spins to face the door with a frustrated growl low in her throat.

Mrs. Barnum looks over the five of them. When her eyes land on the board, she flares such a bright red that Celine has to squint to see. For a moment, Celine is scared. She can’t recall the last time she felt anything other than anger or a crushing numbness.

Celine leaps to her feet when Mrs. Barnum snatches the board from the table, the heat of her own anger rising to burn against her skin.

“Give it back!” Celine shouts. “We didn’t even get started, there’s so much to--”

She feels the power draining from her fingers and she has to get it back, she finally has answers, she can find out what’s wrong with her, what all this means.

“You are done!” Mrs. Barnum shouts even louder, and Celine’s shoulders draw inward out of an instinct she’s not yet conquered. “Whose idea was this?”

Celine can feel herself start to shake with rage as all five of them look at one another. She wants to scream that it was her idea, of course it was her idea, and damn the consequences. Damn the fear in Mark’s eyes. She opens her mouth to speak—

“It was me, Mrs. Barnum,” Tess says from across the circle. Her eyes are cast downward at the floor and Celine sees her tense.

“Tess,” Damien whispers.

(They’re not friends, they’ll never be friends, they’re not friends, why does she do these things?)

From the look on Mrs. Barnum’s face, she knows it’s a lie. They all know it’s a lie. But Celine isn’t going to say anything.

Mrs. Barnum’s lips press together into a thin line. “Alright. I’ll have the driver take you home.”

Celine watches her go.

Their mother dies when they are seventeen.

Damien holds Celine’s hand again at the funeral. He stares into the distance, through the trees around the cemetery, into a spot that does not exist. He is trying not to cry.

Celine is glad for the mourning veil on her hat. It hides her dry eyes. It hides her rage. It hides her disappointment that the name carved on the stone is misspelled, and that she does not know enough of her mother’s language to fix it herself.

(She keeps the hat and veil. She dresses in black long after society says she should have put it aside. She is not sure there is a name for what she mourns.)

When the others speak of their futures, she speaks only of all the places she will travel to, all the people she will meet. All the spiritualists she will see and the questions they will answer. She glares at her brother and Tess when they trade looks behind her back.

(The voices in her ears scoff when she speaks of it. They tell her that she is the only one that has ever been like this. She is alone; she has always been alone.)

Mark is the only exception, the only one that doesn’t make her feel crazy, the only one that doesn’t question her. He simply smiles at her the same way he always has, like she hung the moon and the stars in the sky. Celine teases that perhaps, if he behaves, she’ll take him with her when she travels, and they will see the world together.

(“I can’t leave,” he snarls, in a rare display of temper that makes her skin prickle. She doesn’t understand what he means until she realizes the tendril around his throat has grown so large that she doesn’t know how he can breathe.

Something dark and ancient laughs when she decides that she will free him from it.)

It shouldn’t surprise any of them when William declares his intentions to volunteer for the war effort; he’s talked for months now about joining the service to find adventure in the world. Still, it grips Celine with a sense of panic that is foreign to her. All the news reports say that they are winning, that it will be over by Christmas, but the voices in her ears tell her they are lying. There are horrors to come that none of them could imagine.

He kisses her forehead at the train station and Celine finally learns what his aura feels like. It wraps around her for seconds that stretch into hours. It’s like the first time she got drunk on champagne; the bubbles had gone straight to her head, and she’d felt like she was flying, like everything was the funniest joke she’d ever heard, like the world was good and warm and she was finally happy. William feels like euphoria.

(It’s why she comes back to him, again and again, over the years. He makes her forget.)

While he’s gone, he sends letters home to Tess. She reads them out loud in the parlor. After the Barnums go to bed, she shows the rest of them the bits that she’s censored for his parents’ sake. They try to laugh at his stories of rats as large as cats that live in the trenches even as they pray he is only exaggerating.

And then influenza comes.

Tess moves into the manor permanently when her mother is the first to die. Damien is the one that found them, and Celine thinks it hurt him nearly as much to see Tess catatonic and staring at a corpse.

“I had to carry her out of there,” He tells Celine in a low voice. Mrs. Barnum gives Tess a glass of hot chocolate in the next room. “She was just...waiting to die.”

Celine has seen that hollowness in Tess’s face before, when the tendril around her throat tried to guide her movements. She is struck by the strange notion that the darkness is gorging itself on Tess’s sorrow; it grows larger and larger, though not nearly as large as the noose around Mark’s neck.

(Something cruel and ancient growls when Celine decides she will free Tess from it, too.)

The Barnums fall ill soon after, and Mrs. Barnum insists with a fervency Celine doesn’t understand that they go to the hospital.

It almost suffocates Celine as soon as she steps through the doors—screaming spirits, pain that smothers the world, so many emotions and colors and feelings that she cannot stand it. She lasts an hour before she begins to hyperventilate and runs from the hospital.

She is three blocks away, sitting in an alley with her knees pulled to her chest and tears streaming from her eyes, when she feels Mrs. Barnum die.

Tess grieves by working until she can’t feel anything at all, and Celine is happy to go with her. The second time she enters the hospital during the pandemic, she conquers her fear of it. She forces herself to breathe evenly. She puts walls up around herself until she can no longer hear the screaming.

She and Tess sneak out from the manor while Damien and Mark are at work. The boys would keep them locked up forever to keep them safe, but neither girl can stand it anymore. They’re starting to go insane from the solitude and volunteering as nurses seems like a good way to wash their hands of their guilt and grief. They learn quickly how to care for the dying. There is no saving most of their patients. All they can do is try to alleviate their suffering.

It works—until Tess collapses.

She’s been coughing for a few days, but Celine had ignored it; Tess had told her not to worry. Now she gathers Tess into her arms and drives her back to the manor because she doesn’t know what else to do. The hospital didn’t save the Barnums. But she can save Tess, if she can just channel enough power, and she’s strongest at the manor.

(If she can’t—if she can’t, this will be her fault, it was her idea to volunteer at the hospital, she’d just wanted to prove she wasn’t afraid and her selfishness will have killed Tess.)

“We need to take her to a doctor!” Damien shouts outside of the door to Tess’s room. Celine peers around the corner at her brother and her partner; they look half ready to tear each other apart.

Mark shoves Damien back into the wall. “I’m the master of the house! She stays here. The hospital is where people go to die.”

Damien storms past her on his way down the staircase. His permanently blue aura churns with streaks of red and purple. There is disgust in his eyes when they look at one another, though she knows it isn’t directed at her. He doesn’t say a word.

(She finds him later, at the writing desk in the study, penning a letter to William.

“He should know,” Damien says. “They didn’t let him come home to bury his parents, they’re not going to let him come home to bury--”

Celine wraps her arms around him for the first time in a very long time; he can no more stand to say the words than she can to hear them. He sobs into her shoulder.)

That last afternoon, Celine knocks on the locked door and waits for Mark to answer it.

“Chef has dinner ready. Go eat something. I’ll sit with her.” She leaves no room for argument in her tone.

Mark is too tired to argue, anyway. He shuffles out of the room and down the stairs like a zombie, his hair uncombed and his eyes red and sunken. Tess’s death will destroy him. Celine always found it silly that Tess was afraid Celine would take away everything she loved, but now Celine understands. Tess will take everything Celine has left with her to the grave. She has to stop it.

Tess looks terribly small in the bed, drenched in sweat. Her eyes flicker rapidly beneath her lids. If it weren’t for the blood and mucus drying on her lips, she would almost look like she was having a bad dream.

Celine sits down in the chair by her bed. She slips her fingers through Tess’s and gasps—it feels like Tess is going to catch fire. Celine wonders, for a strange moment, if that wouldn’t be better. Burn the manor down with them all in it. Die together instead of this long, slow process where they are damned to watch one another suffer.

She takes a deep breath. The power is there. She closes her eyes and thinks of how much she wants Tess to live.

(They are not friends. They’ll never be friends. This does not mean anything. She just—she just doesn’t know what to do without Tess, damn it.)

Nothing responds. Celine can feel it, so very close to her, just out of her reach. It gathers around Tess’s throat. It gathers in her lungs. It does not flow into Celine’s hands.

Tears roll down her cheeks unbidden. How dare she cry, how dare her power not obey her, how dare this happen again and again and again, this isn’t fucking fair—

(In the morning, Mark tells them that Tess is cured. She smiles at them all, but Celine sees that the darkness around her throat has hooks now, digging into her skin. Celine realizes she will never free Tess from that cruel, ancient, hungry thing.)

Mark takes her out into the woods behind the manor, back to that place that is too perfect to be real. He drops to one knee and pulls a ring from his pocket. The diamond is carved in the shape of a crescent moon, with smaller yellow stones on either side of it like stars.

“Marry me,” he says. It is not a question. There are no flowery declarations of love.

There are no voices in her ears to yell at her. Her stomach turns anyway, and every bone in her body screams at her to run. She is not the marrying type. She will never be a good wife. She will never be like Mrs. Barnum. It’s better to run now than to drag it out.

“Yes,” Celine hears herself say.

(She knows what he meant when he said he couldn’t leave.)

Damien looks like he might cry when he sees her in her wedding dress, even with her brows pinched tight at all the bridesmaids trying to help pin her veil into her short hair.

He shifts the tulle to lay flat over her back, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “I wish mom could see you. You look amazing.”

The reminder that he is the only family she has left makes her stomach turn. It isn’t much different from the rest of their lives; he’s always been all she has. But he’s always had so much more.

(“I won’t allow it,” their father had shouted when she’d told him about her engagement. She’d been foolish to tell him, she knows. Some stupid part of her she had yet to bury had wanted him to walk her down the aisle. Had hoped for it.

“I’m not asking for your permission,” she’d snarled back. It was the last thing she ever said to him.)

One of Mark’s cousins scrapes a hairpin against her skin and that’s all it takes for Celine to break. “Everyone out!”

Damien lingers. He’s never counted as a person.

“Will you--” Celine takes a deep breath and curls her nails into her palm. “I need you to send Tess here. And go help William get ready.”

She sees the hurt that flickers in his aura; it is the first time she has sent him away. But he is dressed, coiffed, picture perfect as he always is, and she knows for a fact that the best man is still drunk from the bachelor party the night before. William will need all the help he can get. Damien is the only person she can trust to take care of things. And there are—there are some things she cannot tell him.

Tess is a vision, even in her wheelchair. As soon as the dressing room door closes behind her, she is on her feet. The doctors may have forbidden her from standing for long periods of time, from walking, and from dancing, but she refuses to rest like they want. She usually has Damien or William’s arm to help her instead.

Celine knows that restless feeling. The chair is a cage to Tess, a cruel reminder that she can no longer do the things she loves--so she will do them anyway, and damn the consequences.

“Cold feet?” Tess asks gently. She takes the veil off of Celine’s head and frowns at the state of her hair.

Celine wants to hate how easily Tess sees through her. “No. ...Yes. I don’t know. I-I said yes, so I’m going to marry him, but I just—I don’t want to end up like--”

She chokes on the words. Like my mother. Mark is not her father, Mark is nothing like her father, Celine knows this, but at the same time, he could be. She’s seen that darkness in enough people to know that anyone could become a monster. And nothing scares her more than being seen and not heard, being buried in a grave with her name misspelled and no one able to fix it because she has been stripped of everything that made her her.

“Hey,” Tess says, resting her hands on Celine’s shoulders. Celine turns to look at her, and the determination in Tess’s eyes takes her off guard. “Listen to me. Tell me right now. Do you want to marry Mark? Because if you don’t, my car’s out front, and we’ll make a run for it.”

“He’s your brother.”

“And you’re my sister.” The love in Tess’s voice steals Celine’s breath away.

(They are not friends, they will never be friends, this is—this cannot be friendship.)

Celine takes another deep breath and closes her eyes. She focuses on the weight of Tess’s hands on her shoulders. Focuses on all the times she’s felt warm in Mark’s arms, all the times he has let her fight her own battles, let her rebel all she wants. Mark knows she is strange and eerie and cursed with wanderlust. He has never tried to change her. He loves her.

When she opens her eyes again, Tess is smiling at her.

“Alright. Then let’s get your hair fixed—what were they even trying to do?”

(Celine tells herself that Mark will not become a monster. She convinces herself of it, and she does not see it until it is too late.)

Damien walks her down the aisle. William cries when he sees her. Mark’s hands shake when he puts the ring on her finger. Tess leaps from her wheelchair to catch the bouquet.

For a moment, Celine is truly hopeful.

Everything is perfect for the first few years.

Mark’s career skyrockets. It makes him happy, and in turn, Celine is overjoyed. When he’s home, he hangs on her every word, does everything she wants. She can finally travel. There are no locks on the manor windows. She has a key to every door. Mark has never tried to control her.

She is free of the voices, too, now that she lives in the manor. They cannot reach her there.

Mark starts to throw wild parties on the weekends for his coworkers. Networking, he calls it. He doesn’t ask her to come. Celine is much happier staying on the second floor of the manor, setting up her work room or reading. He’s always been better at those sorts of things. Telling people what they want to hear. He comes to check on her periodically throughout the night whenever he has a party, kissing her forehead.

(After a while, it is Benjamin that comes to check on her, bringing her dinner and a drink at “the master’s” behest. She always thanks him.)

She sees when Tess meets Julian, when the man turns her across the parlor floor without any care for Tess’s breathing. His aura is golden and glowing, tinged with pink. It is love at first sight. It sickens her, though Celine can’t explain why. She retreats back to her study.

When they discover what Julian has done to Tess (when she turns up on the doorstep of the manor after not seeing any of them for weeks, bruises on her throat, tears in her eyes, carrying nothing but the clothes she’s wearing), it takes Mark and Damien both to hold Celine back. William paces the floor with his pistol in hand. Damien takes away their car keys, to keep she and William from driving to Julian’s home and showing him how it feels to be powerless.

When the man himself comes knocking, they hide Tess in the study with Mark and Damien. Celine and William greet Julian at the door. William’s pistol is in hand, and one of his medals is pinned to his lapel. It is Celine that steps forward.

“She’s not here,” Celine says. It’s clearly a lie, one they must tell as a sort of ceremony.

“I just want to talk to her. She’s been sick—I don’t think she’s in her right mind lately,” Julian replies. He runs a hand through his tousled hair. Celine supposes it is meant to be charming.

It infuriates her instead. He fooled her once. He will not do so again. Celine steps forward, into his space, and to his credit, he does not back down. His aura is brown with rot and black with pride.

“She isn’t here,” She repeats. “It’s a good thing she isn’t. Because if she ever tells me that she so much as thinks she sees you, I’ll kill you in your own bed.”

Something bubbles up inside of her. Power. Rage. He is just like her father. He hurt her pride when she realized he’d tricked her into believing he was good. He is not her father, but her father is six feet underground, and Julian is here, where she can reach out and strike him, where she can give him all the retribution he deserves—

Dry lightning strikes one of the trees in the yard and sets it alight.

Julian’s eyes are wide when he looks back at her. “You’re crazy. Where the hell is my--”

Whatever he was going to say is drowned out by a deafening gunshot. William has stepped out of the manor, his pistol pointed up at the sky.

“Oops,” he deadpans, as if he could’ve pulled the trigger by accident.

Julian runs, and he does not come back.

She dreams of his voice.

Celine is adrift in a void. She knows she is sleeping, but she cannot find her way back to consciousness. It’s almost pleasant in the darkness. Like she’s been there before. Like she’s always belonged there.

“Trust me, let me in, and I can make you happy just like Celine.”

It is Julian, and yet it cannot be. He should have no reason to speak her name, let alone make an offer like that in her dreams. It’s the sort of thing he’d say to—

She suddenly knows how to move through the void and she flies as fast as she can towards his voice. If he is here, if he has found Tess again, then surely he means her harm. Celine will kill him before he gets the chance.

Tess sits at a dinner table in the void, though there is no food in front of her. The man across from her looks like Julian. It should be Julian, Celine knows this. But the more she looks, the more Julian’s appearance falls away like water, and the monster beneath it is revealed.

It’s...formless. Endlessly shifting into shapes that should not exist, twisting around itself and inside itself. Millions of eyes blink lazily across it.

“No,” Tess says.

The entity surges forward to nearly envelop her. Celine watches the tendril that has always been around Tess’s throat tighten until the other girl’s lips turn blue. A thousand of those eyes see her all at once, and Celine realizes she must have cried out. She cannot move under its gaze, cannot help Tess, cannot save her—

Celine wakes and tumbles out of bed moments before Tess’s scream pierces the silence of the night.

(I know what you saw, Celine writes to Tess a few months later, after Tess has run far away, when Damien is the only one of them that knows how to contact her. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you from it. I love you.)

It is as if Tess was the last thing holding them all together. With her gone, everything begins to fall apart.

William is rarely around; some strange animosity has grown up between him and Mark. He is always in search of the next big fight, the next war to be won, relishing in the violence of it all. There are moments, late at night, when he and Celine are the only ones awake in the manor. They sit together on the kitchen counters like they did when they were teenagers. They don’t speak about his nightmares. They talk about her work instead, and how phenomenal he thinks her research into the manor is.

(Mark forbids her from speaking of it in his presence. That is the first time she packs a bag and runs.)

Damien is more upset by Tess’s disappearance than he wants to let on. Instead, he wants to talk about all the things Celine is determined to avoid. She doesn’t want to speak about their father or his death or the strange, guilty mix of joy and sorrow it left them both with. So when he needs to borrow money from her, it is a relief, and she does not ask why. She simply lets him take it from her half of the inheritance, or she gives it to him from Mark’s bottomless coffers. When things get too rough, she takes the money to the speakeasy herself, more comfortable amongst the debauchery than she’s ever been amongst high society.

(She knows it is cards. She knows his tells. But he does not ask for help to get away from it, and so she does not give it. Mark is both too rich and too busy to notice.)

And Mark—

Mark is not the man she married anymore. He is gone from the manor more often than not, and Celine tolerates it for longer than she thought she would. Even when he is home, he may as well not be. They do not go on weekend trips anymore; it's rare that she can convince him to leave the manor for dinner. He spends all of his time locked in his study with script pages scattered across the floor, obsessively going over his lines. Sometimes he stumbles to bed with ink smeared across his hands from whatever new writing project consumes him.

(They start sleeping in separate beds when she shouts that she is tired of him waking her up in the middle of the night.)

Celine feels as if she is drowning. The marriage was a mistake. She should’ve taken Tess’s offer to run before the wedding. It hadn’t been cold feet—it had been a prophecy. The world is not a good or kind place. The only person she’s ever been able to rely on is herself.

In hindsight, she thinks that she wanted to get caught.

William has the same wild spirit as she does. Neither of them have ever looked for safety. Every time he kisses her is like the time on the train platform, like being drunk on champagne, like the world fades away and reality doesn’t matter for just a little while longer.

He runs from the manor when she screams at him to go, blood streaming from his broken nose. It is smeared on Mark’s knuckles as well.

William would kill Mark if he stayed, she knows this. His temper is too unpredictable, his tendency towards violence more frightening than intriguing now. Still, when Mark turns on her, Celine almost regrets being alone.

He takes a deep breath and smooths down the wrinkles on his shirt. He's pretending to be calm when he looks at her. His hands still tremble with the force of his rage. Celine keeps her weight on her back foot, ready to run.

"Now," Mark says. His smile is too wide--it is deranged. "Let's talk about this. William has always been...well, jealous. I know you wouldn't hurt me on purpose. I know this is because of him, so why don't you and I let bygone be bygones?"

How is she meant to respond to that? His eyes flicker with manic energy. Something dark shifts behind his irises. it is like all the times she's seen Tess go hollow, only worse. She does not recognize the man she once loved.

"I'm leaving," Celine manages to say. She backs up to the edge of her bed and pulls out the bag she's kept packed for the past six months.

(She should have left the moment she packed it.)

Mark follows her through the house as she makes for the front door, a demon nipping at her heels. Like all the shadows and spirits she's never been able to outrun.

"What's this about, Celine?" He laughs. "Whatever you want, just name it! Is it a child? Will that make you happy?"

In the future, the only credit Celine will give herself is not hitting him. He has become the thing she fears, the husband that wants her beautiful and home and caring for his children; the husband that does not know the first thing about her. Or, worse, the husband that simply does not care.

He catches her in the foyer. He grabs her shoulders and forces her to turn and look at him. The tears in his eyes are half rage and half sorrow.

(That is how all things will end.)

"I'll die without you." Mark's voice breaks on the words.

He is an actor, Celine tells herself. He's made his living by lying to people. This is just another lie. Like all the times he's said he loves her.

So she looks up into his eyes, and lets out that awful part of her that always screams to go for the jugular. "I don't care."

He stumbles back a step like she's punched him. Celine finally breaks into a sprint towards her car.

She looks back, just before she peels away. Mark still stands in the doorway, staring at the spot where she'd been with the same stricken look. For the first time, she sees the full extent of the darkness that has wrapped itself around him. It winds around his wrists, between his ankles, chaining his limbs together and rooting him to the floor of the manor itself.

Save him, shouts the part of her that still loves him, that knows they are not themselves. She could save him. She has the power.

But that’s not her job.

Celine does not plan on ever coming back. She sees Tess and Damien in brief flashes whenever she stops off at home to retrieve funds. They are still dancing around one another. Nothing else has changed. She is growing, becoming more powerful, but everyone else is...stagnant.

Tess corners her only once about what had happened, and for a moment, Celine is angry that Damien told her.

“I wasn’t happy, Tess,” she says, and it is far too close to the truth than she ever planned to admit. “You of all people should understand that. I regret it, but I’d do it again. I had to get away from there.”

There’s a flash of understanding in Tess’s eyes that makes Celine feel almost guilty. No, she wants to say. It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t like you. I wasn’t a good person. But it is easier to let Tess think what she will.

She drives into the strange storm that lingers over the hills. The spirit in her passenger seat has a smile that is too wide. It urges her to hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, aren’t you curious?.

(She will have her answers.)

The void is no longer familiar as she falls through it. It is everything she’s feared; it is being forgotten and being lost; it is her soul severed from her body and a name that will be misspelled on a grave and no one left who cares enough to fix it; it is the light of every bridge she has burned along her way; and worst of all, it is Damien falling with her, clinging to her pinky like he always has even though this is all her fault—

The ice groans beneath her as she sits up.

It is not really the lake she fell through as a teenager, nor is it really that forest. It’s her mind, her power, this place, all coming together to make something of nothing. It flickers and distorts even as Celine tries to hold on to it.

Cracks form beneath her feet as she stands, spiraling out towards the two prone forms lying too far away for her to help. Tess, bloodied, sprawled, moaning weakly. Damien, eyes closed, silent.

“Celine?” Tess’s voice echoes across the lake. With it, the world around them shakes, and the cracks deepen. “Celine, I can’t—I can’t move, please--”

The lake remains, but the trees around them flicker and warp and twist into—into places Celine doesn’t recognize. When she tries to pull it back to the forest, to hold on to anything familiar, Tess sobs.

She sees Tess clearly, now. Her eyes are sunken and red, the skin around them turning grey; her cheeks are hollow and her lips are cracked. Blood and a thin layer of foam have dried on her mouth and nose. The blood on her chest is still fresh, still oozing from the wound.

(It hits Celine in a rush. Influenza Tess has died before Tess has been here before Tess is fighting me for control Tess has a stronger connection Tess will win and I will lose Damien--)

If she and Tess keep playing tug of war, Damien will be dragged to the depths. Celine feels her feet sink a fraction of an inch. She has to act. There is a choice to make and no time to make it.

She runs to Tess.

Tess smiles up at her and Celine wants to recoil from her blood-stained teeth and rheumy eyes. But she remembers that moment, a lifetime ago, pushing Tess to safety and taking the plunge in her place.

(They are not friends. They could never be friends. They are not friends, so why are there tears frozen on Celine’s cheeks?)

Celine jumps. The ice shatters. Tess has enough time to realize what Celine’s done and scream in terror before she vanishes beneath the surface.

A thin crust of rime forms over the cracks, and the ice no longer protests when Celine runs across it to pull Damien to the shore, to pull him into her arms. The world no longer resists as she forces it into as much of a shape as she can manage.

And by the time Damien wakes in that one-room cabin, Celine has nearly convinced herself she doesn’t regret a thing.

[forthelulzy]

Heaven By Violence: Chapter 2

How deeply are you sleeping or are you still awake? A good friend told me you've been staying out so late Be careful, oh my darling, oh be careful what it takes From what I've seen so far, the good ones always seem to break — “Sky Full of Song”, Florence + the Machine

The prisoner is unconscious, borne on a stretcher by the scouts, and the whispers have already begun. Herald of Andraste. Chosen of the Maker.

He wants it to be true. She’s something like the statues. Statuesque, at least: all hard lines and muscle. A warrior. But Andraste is depicted as beautiful, and she is… not. And that mark on her hand, while no longer flaring every few seconds, makes him uneasy. What would his reaction have been had the prisoner — survivor, must think of her as the survivor — been a mage? It doesn’t bear thinking about.

They take her down to Haven, and Josephine secures a cabin and servant for her. Well, really: most everyone is clamoring to accommodate the Herald, and the servant is beside herself with pride when she is chosen.

They wait, again, for her to wake up. In the meantime he and Josephine are brought up to date, and Leliana finally hits a lead on the identity of the survivor. She’s from Ostwick, a daughter of Bann Trevelyan. How she ended up with a mage husband, who he was, and what they were doing at the Conclave remains a mystery. Josephine advises against contacting the Trevelyans without Irene’s permission. In any case, she says, the House will find out soon enough. Word is spreading, though they have yet to formally announce the reborn Inquisition. They don’t even know if Irene will pledge herself to it; Cassandra said she had earlier, but Irene hadn’t known what she was getting into then.

Cullen hadn’t, either, when Cassandra recruited him. Before the Conclave blew up and an Inquisition proved necessary in the first place. Perhaps the Divine had some kind of foresight, to leave her directive with her Hands instead of placing all hope on the Conclave.

~o~O~o~

Cullen isn’t there when she wakes, but in the afternoon of the first day of the fledgling Inquisition, he’s finally summoned up to their makeshift war room for the first meeting including Irene. He is apprehensive. She had fought fiercely at the smaller rift, but brushed him off afterward. Cassandra’s report indicates she thrives on anger. He fears she is single-minded by nature, and not the leader the Inquisition needs. Perhaps, even, another Meredith. The thought coils low in the back of his head, nesting in with yet another headache.

Cassandra enters first, followed by the Herald. The blacksmith has crafted new armor for her, and the chainmail rustles as she walks. She’s… tired. Careworn. Her blond hair is neatly braided down her back and her face is freshly washed, but the skin is bright red and irritated from scrubbing too hard. He knows the feeling.

“Here we are,” Cassandra says, closing the door behind them.

Irene flinches when the door thuds gently into place. It takes a moment for her to force her stance to relax, though tension remains bunched in her shoulders and jaw.

“Before we begin, let me introduce the advisors to the Inquisition,” Cassandra says. Irene focuses on the Seeker, but she watches everyone else, especially him, in her periphery. He realizes he is resting his hands on his pommel again, and deliberately lets his arms fall to his sides. She relaxes only a fraction.

“Commander Cullen, who you met briefly on the way to the Breach.”

Her eyebrows knit together. He is not surprised she wouldn’t remember; it wasn’t even a meeting worthy to be called such. Nevertheless he says, “Only for a moment. I’m pleased you survived.”

She looks at him carefully, and Cullen can only determine it’s not anger or hatred, at least. That’s a start. Her gaze flits away when Josephine and Leliana are introduced, and he feels her attention leave like it had been a weight across his shoulders he hadn’t even known was there. She scrutinizes them, as well, and nods sharply when Cassandra is done. “All right. I guess you have questions for me.”

“What makes you think I haven’t already found everything there is to know?” Leliana asks mildly, and Cullen rolls his eyes.

Irene snorts. “If you did, we wouldn’t be talking, Spymaster. You would’ve made assumptions, correct or not, and we wouldn’t be nearly so friendly now.” She pauses long enough for Cullen’s mind to make up a half-dozen theories — Agent? Fugitive? Thrall to a bloodmage husband? — before continuing. “Ask your questions. I will answer, or I won’t. I am no master of the Game.” Her tone is resigned, but her posture thrums with agitation. She holds her head high, staring straight ahead.

Leliana clears her throat, putting on her neutral mask quickly but not so quickly Cullen misses her unease. It comforts him that even the Sister finds Irene unsettling. “Very well,” she says. “Where are you from?”

Irene scowls. “Ostwick, Free Marches. Bann Trevelyan’s fourth daughter. Don’t look surprised, it’s insulting.”

Josephine coughs politely. “Yes, I apologize. Leliana likes to start with questions she already knows the answer to.”

“Josie!” she protests, even as Irene huffs and says, “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what—” Cassandra starts.

“I know I don’t look or act like a Lady Trevelyan. I don’t want to. My father is a spineless hypocrite and my siblings are worthless yes-men. They are my relatives, but they are not my family. You can be the most stereotypical, Light-chanting noble and still be trash. And you can spend your whole life trying to get away from titles and still have them come back to bite you in the ass.” She shifts, mouth clicking shut. She seems to have surprised herself with her own vehemence on the matter.

Josephine is frantically scribbling a note on the little board she carries everywhere, and Cullen can only hope it involves never, ever calling the Herald Lady Trevelyan to her face, as she has been doing in private since Leliana dug up the information two days ago. Probably not ‘Herald of Andraste’, either.

Cassandra and Leliana share a look, and the Seeker says, “What were you doing at the Conclave?”

Something flickers in Irene’s eyes, and she swallows hard. The anger bleeds out, but not the tension. It takes a moment for her to gather herself. “I was only there because Colm was there. We were looking for his brother. We had heard rumors he was in the mage delegation, but… I don’t remember whether we found him or not.”

“What do you remember?” Cullen asks, though he suspects Leliana wants to get to Colm’s identity first. That was her and Cassandra’s most pressing question, but Cullen doesn’t want to step into that nest of vipers yet.

Irene turns to him, eyes going unfocused while she searches her memory. “I remember… the sky, the night before. It was cold and clear, and Colm was talking about how the stars were different in the south. Then…” She growls and shakes her head, braid whipping back and forth. “Nothing. It’s just gone.”

“You have no idea who the woman was? The soldiers who found you said they saw a shining figure behind you in the rift, before you fell out and it closed,” Leliana asks next.

“No. I’ve heard the whispers though. Herald of Andraste. I’m not— I don’t know. I don’t know why Andraste or the Maker would chose me as their voice. If anyone, Colm—” She cuts off, throat bobbing as she swallows hard. She doesn’t cry.

“Your husband? Was he devout?” Josephine queries, still scribbling notes.

Irene huffs a shaky laugh, blinking hard. She looks at the floor when she says, “Not in the way you all are thinking. Colm didn’t believe the Chantry should have as much power as it does.” She pauses, and though her voice is softer when she continues, she’s also lifted her chin to stare at them in turn. “What he did believe was in the power of kindness, and setting good examples, and— I can’t explain it properly, but… If anyone held the Maker’s light, it was him. If I was chosen, Andraste missed the far better candidate for Her will standing right next to me.” Silence falls again when she is done, but her words linger in Cullen’s mind. Her self-hatred is strong. Why?

“What did the voice mean, Colm was a traitor to his kind?” Leliana says, edging around the real question yet unanswered.

“I imagine… I imagine that refers to how he came to leave Tevinter.”

Josephine gasps. Cassandra practically snarls, “Tevinter?” Cullen’s hands clench around his pommel, cramping his hands and turning the knuckles white — he didn’t realize they had drifted back to their familiar resting spot. Leliana’s mask is firmly in place; she is the only one to not have a visible reaction. Instead she orders with a voice like steel, “Explain.”

Irene shifts her weight and crosses her arms. It is a defensive posture, but at least it gives them more time if she decides to reach for her greatsword. “It is a long story.”

“We have time.” Cullen is glad Leliana has yet to be truly angry with him; they may disagree on many things but he has never seen her this way, even right after the Conclave. To be the focus of her ire would be a deadly position.

Irene is not afraid; she seems to have prepared herself for this. “Colm is short for Columbus, and he and his brother Caius fled Tevinter following a scandal in which they helped a slave kill their father, a magister. That is the short of it. My husband admired Divine Justinia. He did not agree with many southern customs regarding magic, but he did not tolerate slavery or blood sacrifice either. He always believed there must be another way.” She pauses, lets her arms drop to her sides. “I can only hope to carry on as he would have wanted. He and I were very different people, but in his memory I will try to leave the world a better place than I found it, if at all possible. It is the least I can do.”

Silence falls again but for the soft scratching of Josephine’s quill. Cullen cannot imagine the diplomatic explosion-in-the-making Irene has given their Ambassador, but if anyone can defuse it, it is her. Cassandra and Leliana are exchanging looks again, the Seeker having relaxed a minuscule amount during Irene’s explanation and Spymaster clearly thinking ten steps ahead, as she always does. As for Cullen, he finds himself pitying Irene for the position she has found herself in. “I admire your honesty, Herald,” he says softly, before he thinks too hard about it.

Brown eyes dart to him, but she doesn’t rebuke the title. She seems… surprised? There’s another emotion flitting beneath, but the headache is rising to the forefront of his mind and he can’t identify it.

Leniana shifts, folding her hands behind her back. “Yes, you have given us a lot to think about. I believe we should move our discussion on closing the Breach to tomorrow. Agreed?”

Though Cassandra could probably go into the wee hours of the morning, she relents, and the date is set.

Cullen leaves the Chantry with his headache pounding away, and the late afternoon sun doesn’t help. But he soldiers on, as he always does, walking down with Cassandra in silence. He wants to be able to lie down in his tent with a pillow over his head and rest, but there’s recruits to oversee and reports to read. He will sleep when it becomes unavoidable.

~o~O~o~

It’s late and the moons have long since risen. Everyone but the guards (and Cullen) have gone to bed. The night shift may have a good reason to stay up, but Cullen should have forced himself to sleep hours ago. He knows this, he does. He still can’t bring himself to.

Working methodically, he transfers reports from his ‘unread’ stack, writes replies, and drops those in the crate for a runner to pick up in the morning. The headache lingers and makes it difficult to focus. He loses track of time — not that he ever has a good sense anymore. He reaches for another report and his hand hits the bare wood of his desk. Oh.

Cullen glances back at his pallet. The tent is relatively large, but most of it is taken up by the desk. It’s not like a fancy bed would help, anyway.

He gets up, feeling his bones creak from so much sitting. He is not old, but sometimes he feels the years. Most of the time, actually. He steps outside into the freezing Frostback night, taking a deep breath of the chilly mountain air. It is still, and, if he only looks north, peaceful. Southward the sky is dominated by the Breach. If he looks at it too long he remembers: green streaks of light, like mockeries of shooting stars, falling to the earth. The ground erupting with the impact, flinging his soldiers about like dolls. The shrieks of demons, that time blending in with all the other times.

A shadow moves near the gates. The guards are there, but they are looking out, not inward, and the shadow slips past them and circles around behind the tents.

Cullen gets his sword halfway unsheathed, but the warning shout dies on his lips when the shadow suddenly straightens up, and their cloak rustles in the wind. The moonlight glints off chainmail. The Herald? No other woman (and precious few of the men) in Haven is so tall, and he recognizes the dark brown cloak as the one Leliana gifted to her. Irene skirts towards the lake, walking fast. What is she doing?

It’s not hard to follow her heavy footprints, though he loses sight of her. She’s headed up into the hills, and he finally catches up to her some ten minutes later on a cliff overlooking the lake and Haven. He crests the rise and stops, realizing all at once what she’s doing. What he’s doing, too.

Irene is kneeling, gathering snow with her bare hands to pile onto a flat rock she’s placed a foot from the cliff edge. When she has shaped it to her liking she rubs her hands — Maker, they must be freezing — on her cloak and clasps them in front of her, bowing her head. She mouths something, ignoring the wind whipping her hair. He takes a step back, shamed blush creeping up his neck. She needed some time alone, obviously, and here he had to hunt her down. Hasn’t he left that life behind, mage or not? He’s about to leave her be and return to Haven, when she sits back on her heels and, without turning her head, says, “What are you still doing up, Commander?” It’s quiet, but her voice carries.

“I could ask you the same.”

She turns her head, a tiny smile on her lips. “I have been asleep for one of the last two weeks.”

“That is… true enough. I apologize; I will leave you alone.” He turns around, fully intending to do just that, but she calls him back. “Yes, Herald?”

“I wanted to ask you something.” She stands up and brushes the snow off her legs. “Do you believe we really stand a chance? Not only sealing the Breach, but restoring order as the Divine wanted?”

He blinks, turning the question over in his head. His first instinct is to answer with enthusiasm, but the look on her face begs a more measured response. She’s uncertain, but a woman like her will not accept blind optimism. Not that he would call it optimism — he considers himself more pragmatic — but he believes it. “Yes. If anyone can do it, it is the Inquisition. It’ll be hard, of course, but I believe it is the Maker’s will.” Something flickers in her eyes, and he adds, “Maybe not so obvious, but… I have to believe there’s meaning behind this.”

“I can understand that,” she says. “I’m— not the most faithful person. Yes, Maker and His Bride, but…” She shakes her head. “I know on some level prayer and putting myself in the hands of a higher power might make many of my issues better or even disappear, but I can’t. I can’t do it.”

Her parents might have something to do with that. “It’s something unique to each person. Or should be.” That’s all the comfort he can offer her without lying.

Irene studies him for a long moment. He tries not to fidget under her gaze. Finally she lets out a long breath. “I’m told you were Knight-Commander of Kirkwall’s Circle.”

It is an abrupt subject change, a topic he’s been expecting to come up — and it has before — but not so quickly. Not here. “I… yes. Knight-Captain before everything fell apart.” This time he does fidget, hands tightening — imperceptibly beneath his gloves, he hopes — on his pommel. It is a habit, and one that makes many people nervous, but she seems to have realized he’s not threatening her when he does it.

She makes a considering noise. “Caius was there briefly. Was taken in three months before… that.”

“He escaped?”

“Yes. We lost contact with him while he was in Kirkwall, thought he had died with everyone else when we got the news. It turns out as soon as Meredith made the announcement, he fled. Fade-stepped across the Waking Sea, according to the letter we got before he dropped off the face of Thedas again.” She shrugs. “Not sure if I believe it but… he always was good at that spell.”

Cullen shakes his head. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad he got away.” He means it, he’s surprised to find.

“I still don’t know whether he was at the Conclave or not, but if he’s still alive, he’s going to be devastated. They were twins.” She sighs, turns her face to the sky. It would be a beautiful, peaceful night, if not for the Breach still casting an eerie green glow over the place. “I wish I had more to remember him by. But memories will have to do.”

Cullen doesn’t know what to say, and the melancholy look doesn’t suit her, so he follows her gaze to the stars. They stand in silence for a long time, until she sighs again.

“Good night, Commander. I hope we can both find rest.”

[texanredrose]

Family Business

@antonslavik020 made a suggestion and I did my usual thing and ran with it.

Winter stared at the shop, straightening her tie by rote and watching as the last customer left the waiting area, taking his sweet time clamoring into his vehicle and driving off. The sun had already set and the lights were being shut off, everyone except the head mechanic and her sister having gone home for the day. It would be ideal to corner the woman alone, enough shakedowns had taught Winter that limiting her target's backup always provided results, but it would be hard to separate the siblings without direct intervention. 

"You two stay in the car," she said, popping open her door. "I'll handle this." 

"Winter-" 

"This is my job." She turned to look into the backseat, meeting her sister's gaze evenly. "You run the branch, Blake's your bodyguard, and I'm your enforcer. Ideally, no one will even know your name, much less your face." With a nod to the Faunus behind the wheel, she exited the car. "Go grab something to eat. This'll take an hour at most; meet me at the motel on the corner." 

"Be careful," Blake said, amber eyes darting towards the mechanic shop. "Valens don't intimidate easy." 

"That was before they met me," she replied, settling into a role she'd been trained to embody since birth. She didn't have the enigmatic charm Weiss possessed, the sort of imperiousness that could be endearing, but she did have the kind of set to her jaw and tilt to her shoulders than would make men twice her size back down, an unspoken sort of dangerous intent that even a blind man could see. Without lifting a finger, she could inspire fear, but not loyalty- not the way Weiss could. So, she would not be a leader in that sense, but she would lay the foundation for her sister to build an empire over her own in this country. Whatever it took.

ding 

"Sorry, we're closing up shop for the day!" A cheery voice rang out as the younger mechanic rounded the counter, a smile on her lips that faded as she noticed no cars out in the lot and no recognition sparked by the pristine white suit Winter wore. "I'm, uh, sorry. Is there... something I can help you with, though?" 

"Where's your sister?" The icy edge to her voice made the young woman flinch; between the two, the little sister seemed the least keen to interact with others, always a touch shy unless suitably distracted, rambling on about whatever caught her interest. "She's closing up." And then she seemed to steel her nerves, a frown coming to her lips. "I'm sorry, Ma'am, but you'll have to come back tomorrow." 

"Hey, Rubes, what's the-" Then the elder sibling appeared, jumpsuit stained with oil and who knew what else, grease smudged on her cheeks as lilac eyes fell on the newcomer. "Hold up... I'm sorry, Ma'am, but we're closed." 

"Yang Xiao Long." Winter clasped her hands behind her back. "I'm here regarding a business proposal from my employer." 

"Look, if you're part of that chain trying to buy us out-" 

"I assure you, I'm not some corporate lackey." Her eyes narrowed. "And you have much worse than being bought out to consider as a potential future." 

They held each others gaze, silence stretching thin in the shop's little waiting area. 

"Ruby, go home," Yang said, a note of urgency in her tone.

"But-" 

"Go on." The blonde nodded towards the door. "I'll take care of this."

Although reluctant, the younger of the two complied, grabbing the hooded cape she wore everywhere but at work and throwing it around her shoulders, the door bell ringing out as she exited the shop. 

"Smart move." 

"Shut up." Moving around the counter, Yang went and locked the door, closing the blinds along the way. "I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer but I'm not deaf. I've been hearing all the little whispers about a bid bad mafia family moving into town." 

"Then you're well aware of the wonderful opportunities I can offer you. On behalf of-" 

"Shove it." Now more or less in privacy, the mechanic turned back towards her, brows drawing together as she scowled. "I'm not rolling over, shilling out protection money to a bunch of crooks." She reached up, pulling apart the top portion of the jump suit to reveal a threadbare yellow tank top beneath, chiseled muscles of her arms on display as the sleeves were tied around her waist. Her core- just as defined- became visible with every breath, the tight material stretched to its limit as she settled into a fighting stance, both fists raised. "I don't know how many of you there are, but I know how many I'm gonna take down. All of you." 

"I'm not here to start a fist fight. You're an investment-" 

"Like Hell I am!" Anger and pride ignited in her lilac eyes, making them dance. "This is my terf, not yours. I'm not some cash cow for you to milk." 

"You're insisting on doing this the hard way, is that it?" Her expression didn't break, even with the little lilt in her voice. "You're willing to start a fight with me... with the hope that your sister will be waiting for you at home, safe and sound, when you're done."

Panic flashed in the blonde's expression, all her bravado thrown aside as real fear crept into her voice. "You wouldn't- she's my little sister, you wouldn't." And then the anger came back. "Don't hurt her!" 

Winter had done far too many intimidating shakedowns to count but this marked the first time she heard those words, and the first time she was snapped away from the present to relive a memory she'd thought she'd buried. Her entire life revolved around fear, intimidation, and manipulation- it would surprise no one that it extended to her home life as well. But she remembered, clear as crystal, the day their father gave Weiss her scar, the day she tried to be a real big sister and protect her... and she remembered saying those words just before she learned the hard way that doing the right thing meant paying a very steep price. 

"She won't come to any harm," she said, the words leaving her lips before she had a chance to process them, and she had to bite back a curse as she effectively dug a hole for herself. Too much emotion had slipped out- the words sounded honest and genuine and she meant them, and Yang didn't miss that fact. "If you cooperate." 

But it was too late. She'd shown too much of her hand and now the mechanic felt emboldened. "Oh, so somewhere in there lurks a real person, huh? You got a conscience under all that blood on your hands?" 

"I do exactly what you're doing now- I protect my family." 

"Bunch of criminals make for a lousy family." 

"So you weren't born to a mechanic?" She took a few steps away, shifting her attention to a picture on the wall- a father, and two smiling daughters, in front of the very same shop. "You came to this life of your own volition?"

"It's not the same-"

"Yes, Yang, it is." Winter looked back at her, trying to recapture the intimidation she'd had before, inspire the same fear. "This is the life I was born to live. I'm an enforcer- I work for my family to protect their interests. Become one of those interests, and I'll protect you, too." 

"What kind of family requires a weekly joining fee, huh?" Yang jabbed a finger at her. "Don't sell this as something it's not. You'd rather bleed us dry than get your own hands dirty." 

"Oh, I'll beat you bloody, if that's what you'd prefer." She brought her hands around to the front, made a show of cracking her knuckles. "Getting my hands dirty is my job. And the fee is just... upkeep." 

"Upkeep?" 

"Keeps police and inspectors away, encourages business- everyone who joins the family helps each other out. That's how it works." 

"And anyone who wants to move away gets erased from the records, permanently," Yang said, settling back into her stance once more. "I'm not that dumb." 

As much as she didn't want to admit it, she could admire the fire she saw shining in the woman's eyes. The courage, the drive- how could she not? But she had a job to do. 

"We're looking to build a... different sort of family here." She settled into a stance of her own. "We'd much rather handle things amicably." 

"What part of extortion is amicable, exactly?" 

"Do you know how they do things in Atlas?" Winter began to circle, keeping herself loose and watching for an opening. "First, they pick a place they like. Then, things start to go wrong there- all sorts of things. Slashed tires, broken windows, mysterious fires- enough to put a place out of business. And then someone shows up, and it all goes away... for a price." She offered a small shrug, as if the whole thing bored her. "I always thought it a bit extreme." 

"Oh, so this is the kinder, gentler mafia?"

"If you'd rather, we can go things the old school way." 

"How about this?" Yang shot forward, throwing a punch that moved as fast as lightning, and if she hadn't been anticipating such, she would've been laid out in one hit. However, Winter didn't expect the second strike- didn't think the woman could move quite that fast consistently considering her solid build, but she managed to block or dodge effectively. She'd been in too many fights by this point to be taken entirely off guard, and despite the elbow to her gut, she managed to sweep Yang's legs from beneath her. With the blonde landing solidly on her back, winded, Winter quickly put her forearm across the woman's neck. That should have been the end of the fight. Most people would stop there, because what was keeping Winter from killing her? But Yang saw the restraint and exploited it, used her superior strength to roll both of them over until she found herself trapped beneath the mechanic, arms pinned to the sides of her head. "No one's coming in to save you, huh?" Lilac eyes narrowed, anger still in her voice. "If one hair on Ruby's head-" 

"There's no one else," she said, struggling and failing to dislodge the woman atop her. "I came alone. I told you; we do things differently." 

"Why? Why did you come to Vale?"

Winter remained silent for a moment but caught in that lilac gaze... the truth poured from her lips. "We can't change Atlas. We can't save it. But if we set up a foothold here, we can stop it from happening again." 

"You didn't like the way your bosses did business, so you decided to come do it yourself?" The woman rolled her eyes with a sour frown. "How enterprising of you." 

"It's not that simple." 

"Than simplify it." The grip on her wrists tightened. "Or else."

"Or else what?" Winter raised a brow. "For all your disdain of criminals, you'll become one yourself and kill me?" 

"It's self defense." 

"Of course it is." She sighed, irritation plain in her voice. "It's almost like I ensured you'd have that excuse." 

"... what do you mean by that?" 

"If I'd come in broad daylight, spoke softly, let your anger be seen by others, would you have the same defense? Would anyone believe your word over mine?" Winter glanced down at her suit. "As far as the public's concerned, I'm the daughter of a businessman. And you're a mechanic who got mad at a customer- you do realize this could've gone very wrong for you, yes?" She tilted her head. "But now-" 

"Now I could just dump you outside and call the cops in the morning. Act like I didn't know a thing- you just got mugged and left on my doorstep." Her grip relaxed a little. "You're really banking on me not killing you, huh?" 

"I'm betting on you having a better conscience. You'd be surprised how few morals are instilled in children who grow up as part of the family." 

Slowly, Yang's grip relaxed even more as her expression smoothed out. "You don't mean you were just the kid of some low level thug. You were up there." 

"My father is the boss in Atlas. He took my grandfather's idea of building an alliance between businesses and perverted it into what you hold such a great disdain for," Winter said, weighing her options. She might regain the upper hand, regain her feet, but she couldn't beat the mechanic in a fair fight. And she'd really rather not shoot the woman. "My sister and I came to Vale because we know this is where he's coming next. If we can build up before he gets here, we can stop Vale from becoming another Atlas." 

Slowly, the pressure on her wrists disappeared entirely, though she couldn't quite get up yet with Yang hovering over her, lilac eyes searching her expression. "Lord help me, but I think I believe you." She sighed. "What would joining your family mean for me and mine?"

"We need a place to start laundering money. An honest business- you keep doing what you're doing and we'll just be using your books on occasion."

"And what's the price?" 

"You're one of our first partners." This part Weiss had explicitly ordered her to abide, despite her arguments that it would set a bad precedent. Still, she had to obey if they were going to get anywhere in Vale. "You can name your price." 

Yang seemed to mull the thought over before nodding. "Fine." And then she reached for Winter's tie, yanking on it to pull her up and into a kiss. Not rough or hard, not even that long, and it left her blinking in surprise and confusion as the mechanic pulled back. "There. Am I paid up for the week?" 

In that moment, she should've got angry. Should've lectured that this wasn't a game, that she should be taking this seriously. Should've demanded a real answer. Instead, she replied. "... no." 

One hand buried in greasy blonde locks, and she smelled of oil and sweat, but at that moment, Winter didn't rightly care. What they were trying to do was insane, she'd accepted that, but she'd yet to fall victim to the madness herself. Apparently, it would find her anyway, in her sister's insistence that they could beat their father at the game he created, in this mechanic willing to fight to protect her shop, and now in herself for wanting nothing more than those hands on her again, this time with less of an intention to bruise and more to soothe. 

Maybe madness was the only way to make sense of the world.

An hour later, Winter watched as Blake pulled up, getting into the passenger seat without a word and merely nodding for the Faunus to continue driving. "It's done; the mechanic agreed to be a front." 

"Winter, what happened? You look like you fought a grizzly bear." 

She winced, hoping that the details would be left well enough alone. "Nothing of import. Intimidation didn't work, so I had to use other means." Eventually, she sighed, passing a hand over her face. "And... the mechanic agreed to put us in touch with more places that might be open to an arrangement." 

"That wasn't part of the plan." Blake noted, those keen amber eyes drifting her way and staying for just a second too long. "Did you two decide that before or after the hickey?" 

"Hickey- Winter." Her sister leaned forward, noting that her disheveled state wasn't the byproduct of a fight, at least not entirely. "What happened?" 

"I let her name her price," she replied, reaching up to straighten her tie before remembering that she didn't have it anymore. "In hindsight, I should've taken into account that she's... very..." 

"Attractive?" The Faunus offered, that little curl to her lips indicating amusement. "Would explain why you insisted on handling it alone." 

"Don't you start-" 

"Both of you, stop it." Weiss pinched the bridge of her nose. "I can't believe this. But... she is on our side?" At her nod, the woman sat back and sighed. "I suppose that's what really matters. But be careful, Winter. You know this could be used against you." 

From the corner of her eye, she saw the way Blake's ears flicked and the pensive expression on her face. Winter felt tempted to call her sister out on being a bit hypocritical, but opted against it. After all, they'd gotten this far on madness; no sense in trying to apply logic now.

Meanwhile, at a little house just down the road from the mechanic shop, Yang stumbled through the door and plopped down on the couch, putting her face in her hands and sighing heavily. Already she could hear her sister coming down the hall, hurrying to the living room with relief evident in her voice. 

"Oh, Yang, I'm so glad you made it home, I-" And then she stopped dead in the entryway. "Yang... why are you covered in scratch marks? And bite marks? And... is that that woman's tie?" A beat of silence. "What the hell happened?" 

"Well... either the best thing to ever happen to me," she replied, turning slowly to look at her sister. "Or the biggest mistake. Jury's still out on that." 

And she really wasn't sure when she'd find out.

[vowel-in-thug]

therealautobotgirl replied to your post “This DACA decision makes me sick to my stomach. I was undocumented for…”

Someone please explain to me why we don’t just improve the process of gaining US citizenship??? Honestly curious

I certainly can! Sorry it's a bit of a history lesson.

So the important thing to realize is that, in the past as it is in the present, immigration policy was dictated heavily by popular opinion. Or popular opinion was swayed heavily by what the Government was saying. It's a feedback loop and always has been.

so before, back in the 19th century, there was little to know immigration policy. there was an industrial revolution! this country needed all the workers they could get. Many of these workers were Chinese men, looking to make some money to send back home. But once the railroads were finished and the gold mines in California had dried up, these men stayed in the U.S. and were willing to work labor jobs for less money than ""Americans"" were willing to work. This is also when the notion of immigrants "not assimiliating" to American culture. Which I'm sure sounds very familiar to what people say with today's immigrants. There was huge anti-Chinese sentiment sweeping the country.

In 1882, the government passed the Chinese Exclusion Act, the only non-wartime federal law which discriminates against an entire nationality. It banned any immigration from China, unless the person had a permit to work (remember this). So many of the families of men already in the U.S. were kept out, and whole families were torn apart for years.

But besides from China, immigrants from other nations were still pretty unregulated. At Ellis Island, they were much more concerned with making sure incoming immigrants didn't carry disease, and they had enough cash on them to not be a drain on tax dollars. They also had to have a family member or anyone able to pick them up from the island, again to prove they aren't going to be a drain on society (remember this too). SIDE NOTE: anyone who says their family's name was changed at Ellis Island has been grossly misinformed. Maybe their ancestors changed it themselves later, or it got changed before they even left their home country. But the agents at Ellis Island were only there to check the manifests of each ship and were VERY concerned about the names matching the person's documents. That was kind of the whole point. They didn't have the ability to change anyone's name, nor would they want to, as that would likely go against all their strict checking rules. But anyway.

Then came the Johnson-Reed Act of 1924. This instituted a national quota on immigrants, greatly reducing the number allowed from, well, everywhere. This was shortly after World War I ended, and again, greeaat concern about those pesky immigrants "stealing our jobs." But this was also a time when eugenics was becoming a popular theory. You can't say "all immigrants are stealing our jobs" but allow larger numbers of the "good" immigrants from Northern and Western Europe in, while not allowing the "bad" immigrants from Southern and Eastern Europe. I mean, you can, and they did, but their reasoning was pretty clear. It was all about racism, and white supremacy.

so for the next few decades, there was little to no immigration to the U.S. This would be the period in which Donald and his base refer to, when they say "Make America Great Again." Before Civil Rights, before the Hart-Celler Act. When it was all-whitey, all the time, at least in terms of who benefited from society.

So then, we have the Hart-Celler Act of 1965. This lifted the national quotas in place from the Johnson-Reed Act. Remember what I said before about public opinion? This law was passed right after the Civil Rights Act was passed. It's almost like the politicians in this country realized, "Hey.....maybe........people care about.............brown people?? as well as white????" and blew their fuckin minds!

Once that gate had been opened, there were new waves of immigration (especially from Asia), which of course brought back the sentiments of "They're stealing our jobs!!" but other than a few laws passed in the 80s and 90s affecting the immigrants already here, not much changed in the way of entry into the country.

And then 9/11 happened, and fucked this up for a whole lot of people

Because suddenly, people weren't just afraid of immigrants stealing their jobs. Now, all anyone could think about was TERRORISM, and immigration became heavily tied to national security. Things became much stricter, new ID laws were passed, an additional 850 mile fence was added to the U.S.-Mexico border (YEAH there's already a wall there, people don't just fuckin prance through), "suspected terrorists" were being detained and deported with "special evidence" neither they nor their lawyers were allowed to see. It's all shit.

But that's where public opinion comes in. The government works so hard to keep that rhetoric going, where we have to be TERRIFIED of anyone who looks different than us. so the public WANTS to keep people out, and then they can pass the racist laws that allow that.

right now, here is how people can get "on line" to come into this country. Well, first. It requires a lot of money to do it. That should go without saying. Second, they have to meet one of these three qualifications: they have to have an employer lined up willing to sponsor them, they have family already here, or they're in need of humanitarian protection. All three of these are very difficult to achieve.

I've never moved from another country for a job, but I have moved to another state and I've needed to secure a job, and that shit is tough!! A whole other country, where you have to get someone to hire you (without actually be allowed to go??) where the employer has to sponsor you? That's putting a whole lot of faith into someone you don't know from an entirely different country. The family thing? Is limited to only close family - spouses, parents, siblings, and children. You got a grandma or grandchild or uncle or cousin willing to sponsor you? Tough shit. That's not "family" enough for the USCIS. And the number of refugees allowed in this country is severely limited, and unfortunately humanitarian crises don't happen one at a time. Armed forces and natural disasters can affect whole countries, not just individuals, and they're all clamoring for escape. Not to mention poverty and economic crises don't count as a humanitarian problem.

So it's very difficult now to get here legally. And you're totally right, we do need it to change!! You'll see the phrase "permanent path to citizenship" tossed around. DACA and other are temporary fixes. The problem is, now, unlike in 1965, we have a government that is actively working against the popular opinion. The racist base of donald are not the majority, and recent polls have said that even many of them did not agree with ending DACA. But even before donald, you had a Congress unwilling to pass the DREAM Act or any other solutions President Obama put forth, and you know why they worked so hard against him at every little turn? (psst the answer again is racism)

so until we have a government actually working for the common interest of all, things are never going to get better. Which is why it's really, really, really, REALLY important that y'all vote in the mid-term elections and get a Congress that actually listens to the people they represent.

[vaalkyrja-blog]

// meta-a-day: Super simple today, but what do you think of Zofian society? Individualist or collectivist?

ooc.

at its root, zofian society — in all social tiers — is founded around the idea of duty, though it manifests more strongly within the upper class. in particular, there’s an emphasis on duty to family, and the importance of the family unit. tobin’s character most clearly reflects this; though he’s given the chance to make a name for himself in the war, his foremost concern is how he can use this chance to support his household. the way gray talks about alm, too, as “having always been different from us”, also seems to suggest a community-oriented mindset in which alm is a possible outlier, an “other”. there has to be something that he’s an outlier from, which suggests a sense of collective identity at least at the community level.

i think we see something similar in the upper echelons as well, though perhaps not as blatant. clive and clair’s closeness and especially clive’s sense of duty to watch out for his younger sister — yes, this is typical for an older sibling, but it’s rather enhanced in their case, i think, with clair being so protective of her brother and so opposed to mathilda — an outsider — entering into the established family unit. 

the utter devastation that fernand feels when his entire family is killed. of course, it’s a tragic event for anyone, but if we consider that familial duty is extremely important, his prolonged rage towards the perpetrators of the crime, to the point where it eclipses his love for country and friends, becomes more explainable. it could also shed more light on the fact that lukas’ family relation is so strained, and speak more to the development of alm’s preoccupation with not having any immediate family — such situations would stand out strongly in zofian society.

another subtle indicator: mathilda talks about how her four sisters, despite being fully grown, clamor for her to return “home”. though she’s close to being married and has been independent for many years now, there’s still an emphasis in the homestead, in the original family unit. it’s implied here also that her sisters all either still live with their parents or maintain close ties with them; even if some of them might also be married now, i’d be willing to bet that they still spend long stretches of time under their parents’ roof, if they don’t just live very close by.

of course, duty amongst the zofian nobility isn’t just to family, either, but also to country — the people, notably, not necessarily the king or whoever’s in charge. as i’ve mentioned before, both clive and fernand mention that a noble’s duty is to protect and guide the commoners, hence why they both find slayde’s behavior in shirking that duty to be abhorrent to his status as a knight.

so i guess in this sense, you could say that zofia is collectivist — it emphasizes responsibility to others beyond just the betterment of oneself. clive particularly talks about the class system in zofia as a “structure”, something that’s in place in order to maintain a reciprocal relationship of mutual reinforcement. the common folk support the nobility, who in turn protect them. i think that mila’s teachings also bring out this aspect of caring for one’s neighbor, etc, hence why so many of her followers are clerics, people who very literally sacrifice themselves in order to soothe and heal others.

so i guess the answer is that it’s collectivist around a community, whether that’s a small village or — more commonly — the family unit. the social structure is also designed to be self-sustaining. but outside of that, i can see where zofia starts to become more individualistic, with noble houses that vie for power and politics. i imagine that there’s less of a collective “zofian” united identity as there might be in rigel. it’s more that the collectivism is centered around these “factions”, which is supported by the fact that, right from the onset, the country is tied up in what begins as a civil war ( which is something i don’t really see happening in rigel ).

[incorrect-19-days-scenarios]

Guan Shan x He Tian Stripper AU

Leather jacket? Check. Mesh shirt? Check. Sequined booty shorts and marching thigh-high boots? Check and check. Mo Guan Shan had packed his bag, ready for his shift at the bar.

He hadn’t planned on becoming a stripper. Not at first. But money was tight and the job paid well, so why the hell not? Besides, it’s not like he was going to bump into anyone from school, not in this seedy place.

He arrived at the club and waltzed into the employees-only room to change. After struggling a bit to zip up his boots and throwing on some smoky eyeliner, he was ready to go.

The announcer called him out by his stage name, “The Fox,” and with a rhythmic “click-clack” Guan Shan walked out into the spotlight.

He knew what these people wanted, the middle-aged men sneaking away from their wives in the dead of night, the drunk college girls, the cute gay boys looking for a place free of judgment. He knew what they wanted, and he was going to give it to them.

He snaked his body up and down the pole, parting his legs, licking his lips. He wasn’t Mo Guan Shan. No, under these purple lights he was “The Fox,” the seducer of men, a fantasy that got paid in hundreds and could have anyone in the room.

He arched his back, ran his hands up his thighs, moved the pole seductively between his legs. In one swift motion he threw off his leather jacket, drawing applause from the crowd. He fed off their energy and gave them more, gave them himself until he was sweating and heaving, bills tucked into his shorts, the purple lights finally fading.

And in that moment he saw a sight that made his blood run cold.

He Tian was sitting not a foot away from him, arms crossed, a smirk on his face. “I didn’t know you could dance like that,” he said coolly.

Mo Guan Shan was at a loss for words. He scarcely remembered to grab his jacket before clamoring off stage, his whole body shaking, not even the hoots and hollers of “encore” deterring him. He ran into the back room without looking back, and slumped down in a chair.

He was caught, and he didn't know what to do about it. What would his classmates say when they found out? Would he be kicked out of school?

He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he didn't notice his manager walking into the lounge.

“Guan Shan, someone’s waiting for you in the champagne lounge. Looks like a big spender too. Don’t blow this.” And with that, he left.

Guan Shan wanted to run, but he wanted the money more. Besides, he had already been found-out. He might as well make the best of it while he could.

He took a deep breath, threw on his jacket, and walked over to the private room. He didn’t see He Tian anywhere in the main area. He probably left, he thought to himself, relived, before pulling the curtain back.

He felt his heart skip a beat. Inside sat He Tian, a wad of cash in his hand, the same smug expression on his face.

“Why are you here?” demanded Mo Guan Shan, turning red.

He Tian’s mouth curled into a smile. “Isn’t it obvious? I want you to dance for me.”

“You want me to what? Are you out of your god-damned mind?”

He Tian lifted his hands in mock defense. “Why, is that any way to treat a paying customer?” He asked, his tone easy.

Mo Guan Shan eyed the wad of cash. It was tempting, as much as he hated to admit it. He’d almost made up his mind to actually dance when He Tian said:

“If you don’t want to dance, it’s fine. Just sit down and talk to me.”

Guan Shan considered his offer. “I can’t afford to do that,” he replied.

“I’ll pay you.”

A moment of silence passed. “Okay,” said Guan Shan, sitting down. “What do you want to talk about?”

He Tian popped open a bottle of champagne and poured him a glass. Crystal. Expensive stuff.

“You.”

“Me? I’m not that interesting,” he said, blushing.

“Really? Living a double life as a stripper isn’t considered interesting?”

Guan Shan took a sip of champagne. “Nope.”

“Well I must be boring as cardboard then.”

“Yep. Have any siblings?” He felt his cheeks get hot as he downed another flute of the stuff.

“A brother, actually.”

“And what does said brother do?”

“He works as a body guard. For Jian Yi’s father if you would believe it. You should be glad you ran into me instead of him, he really would have done a number on you.”

“You act like you didn’t.”

“Nah, I like you too much to actually hurt you.”

“Sure doesn't seem like it sometimes.”

“I can stop, if it bothers you that much.”

Ugh. His voice was too earnest; it made it hard to think. Guan Shan downed another flute of champagne. “This is stupid,” he said, standing up. “Let’s just get this over with.”

He tried to take a step forward before falling and landing on He Tian’s lap. He regained his composure and readjusted his legs so that they were straddling the dark haired-boy. When he finally met He Tian’s eyes, he was blushing.

Heh. So he was capable of being embarrassed. Guan Shan took satisfaction in that before he stated grinding his hips, his hands cradling He Tian’s face. They had never been this close, and Guan Shan noticed his long, black lashes, the smell of his cologne, the soft cupids bow of his lips. This wasn’t the first lap dance he gave, and probably not the last, so he was surprised when he felt himself blushing too.

He’d never noticed it before, but He Tian was actually…cute? Maybe that wasn’t the right word for it, but Guan Shan felt something churning in his chest and he didn’t want it to stop.

They got lost in the moment, in the air and the ambience and the alcohol, and He Tian leaned in, his lips about to brush Guan Shan’s. But at the last possible moment he pulled back.

Guan Shan looked at him, his eyebrows drawn in a silent question. He Tian pointed to a sign. “No Physical Contact.”

Guan Shan frowned. “The sign doesn’t really apply to this room.”

He Tian cocked an eyebrow. “So you want me to kiss you?”

Silence. “Yes,” Guan Shan said in a small voice, his cheeks red.

He Tian studied him for a moment before softly brushing his lips with his.

It was much different from the kiss they’d shared earlier. It was gently, sweet, and like the champagne, Guan Shan couldn’t get enough of it.

Finally He Tian broke away.

“What’s wrong?” Mo Guan Shan asked, his eyebrows drawn again.

“Uh, can you….can you please get off my lap?” Asked He Tian, rubbing the back of his neck, sheepishly.

“You’re hard,” said Guan Shan mater-of-factly, not registering his own words.

“Yep,” he said.

His words finally hit him. Guan Shan jumped up, his face a new shade of crimson.

Silence.

“So…”

“Um…”

“See you in school, I guess,” he said, handing him a wad of cash. “And uh, don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”

Guan Shan was trying his best to avoid looking at his crotch. “The bathroom is that way, if you need to, uh, take care of… of that.”

“Thanks,” He Tian said, awkwardly shuffling out.

He stood there for a minute, not sure what to do.

Then he sat back down and closed his eyes. Despite how it all ended, he thought it’d been pretty fun. It felt almost like a…a date?

Ugh. He felt himself blushing again and covered his face. He reached for another glass of bubbly to calm his nerves, but all it did was intensify the butterflies in his stomach. As much as he hated to admit it, he wouldn’t mind if He Tian stopped by again.

[theviolaproject]

Keene siblings meet up in a bar

“So why am I here again?” Mani grumbled from behind his beer bottle.

“Because Inanna decided we needed to get together more now that I exist again,” Nyi told him chewing on the end of his straw.

“And why this place?” He waved a hand to the rest of the dingy sports bar. 

“Because not only could I get them to toss out any strange possible camera-toting people, it’s average enough that no one’s going to care who we are in here.” Inanna explained perfunctorily. “Remember, our brother still doesn’t technically exist.”

Mani gave his younger brother a look. “So when are you going to make your world appearance anyways?”

“I’d rather not at all,” Nyi harshly bit down before taking another sip of his soda. “No one else needs to know, let alone those bastards.”

“I think Kephri’s affected your speech patterns.”

Nyi snorted. “Mani, that’s because you’re the over-protective older brother. I was always the innocent one to you.”

“Well you were.”

“In some things that mattered, but not all. I also made sure you never found out anything I’d never hear the end of. Like now.” He gave him a pointed look. “Inanna, remember when I kissed this girl Leto found for a dare? And then she stalked the gates for a while?”

She smiled. “She demanded to be let in as she was part of the family now. You didn’t leave the house until Kephri shooed her off.”

“She tasted terrible, but I thought that was just how it was and I’d have to deal with it. I think I started to realize they weren’t for me then.” 

Mani just stared at him. “When was this?”

“I was fourteen, so you were well into college. I begged Inanna not to mention it because you’d either laugh or lecture me. Probably lecture.” Nyi shrugged. “I’m hungry.”

“Nyi, you’re going to break his brain again.” Inanna admonished gently, though amused by their older brother’s continued gape. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Couple hours maybe?” He finished his drink and waved down a server. “Refills?”

They ordered Mani another beer over his mild protests against it. He’d need the alcohol to relax the way things were going. Nyi also ordered a large amount of cheese and bacon fries to go with his soda and Inanna’s water.

“We’re not going to finish that much unless you’re taking it home,” Mani grumbled after the server left.

Nyi and Inanna shared a look. “Trust me Mani, that won’t be a problem.” Nyi assured him.

“He had a point earlier though,” Inanna said after a moment, “We can’t have you hiding forever. Someone’s going to figure it out and then it’ll be a giant mess.”

“I hate the media,” Nyi pouted. “Well I never thought this thing that far through. Any ideas?”

“The story will be huge even if we keep a tight lid on things.” Mani mused. “You should just give one interview and let them fight over the publishing rights.”

“This could also make someone’s career. The story behind Nyian Keene. People love the romance angle, which is basically the truth anyway.” Inanna added right before the drinks returned. Nyi claimed one of the trays of fries before passing on the water so she could mix it with the remains of her gin and tonic.

Mani poked at the other tray, considering whether he wanted the cholesterol heart attack. “So who do we know that deserves the attention?”

“I...may know someone.” Nyi said slowly, chewing on a fry. 

“Who?”

“Page Warner. He’s a journalism major at the Uni. He should owe me one, or at least Kephri.”

“Why’s that?” Inanna asked him.

“He tried holding us up with an airgun and Kephri nearly shot him.”

Mani groaned. “Don’t you meet anyone normally?”

“Well, I also saved his ass during that big court case last year. His girlfriend is Nithi Sanborn. Guess who her father is.”

“The celebrity lawyer.” Inanna breathed. 

“You got it,” Nyi gestured with a cheese covered fry. “That was an accidental disaster. But I spent the better part of a week with them and he’s pretty sensible. I’d rather talk to him than some gossip-monger. Only problem is I’d have to talk to Nithi again and she’s a pain in the ass.”

“Her sculptures are beautiful though.”

“I guess… She has way too much interest in my love life. The moment she finds out I finally nabbed Kephri there will be some inappropriate comment I swear.”

“Speaking of…” Inanna gave a sly smile. “I never did get any details on how you caught him.”

“And you're just as bad as her.”

“I’m family, it's different. So spill it.”

“Yeah, how many nearly got shot along the way?” Mani added, taking a swig from his bottle.

Nyi resisted the urge to kick him under the table. “It was just luck I found him. A job they needed volunteers for and Kephri's reputation for being an ass to partners. No one signed up but me. We went after a serial killer, and I fought back against Kephri's bullshit as well. Wouldn't let him get rid of me and continued showing him that I was his friend. And it worked.”

“And that's it?” Mani clearly didn't believe him. 

“And…” Should he mention it? Maybe it was better to shock him now while he had alcohol in him. “Well I also took a bullet for him, but it wasn't intentional. Okay it was kinda intentional but in the feelings way and not the trying to get killed way. Did not expect the psycho to get the drop on Kephri.”

Mani gaped at him. “And you just...ohhh I need to drink more…” 

“Yes it was insanely stupid. But I don’t regret it.” Nyi nabbed the other tray to finish it off. 

Inanna gave him a look. “And that was all he needed to kiss you?”

“Uh no. That didn’t come until much later, and I kissed him.” He paused to lick cheese off his fingers. “That was a disaster too...you know, I think I’m a disaster magnet.”

“Whatever could possibly given you that idea?” Mani snarked, still recovering from the last revelation.

“Ignore him,” Inanna ordered, as Nyi shot his brother a dirty look. “You know he’s still adjusting.”

“I don’t know how Geneva can stand him, but then she couldn’t understand why Kephri was so important to me.” Nyi commented anyway.

“What’s more surprising to me is that the one blind date he finally goes on, and he meets your best friend. How close we were without knowing it.” Inanna drank the last of the water, crunching on a piece of ice. “So are you going to contact Page tomorrow?”

Nyi squirmed in unease. “So soon?”

“Well in a few months it’ll be your birthday, and my kids are clamoring to hold you a party. I see no point in telling them no, but it would be easier on everyone if the media frenzy had died down a little by then.” She told him. “Mari told me it simply wasn’t fair you lost out on all those birthdays and she really wants to make sure you get something this year. Besides, it’ll be better for everyone if you just get it over with.”

Mani snorted in amusement. “And you think I was being too pushy.”

“Ugh, fine. I give no guarantees for tomorrow but within the next couple of days I’ll do something about it.” Nyi acquiesced, throwing up his hands. “And I reserve the right to complain about it a lot. You better be ready for the storm of bullshit coming our way.”