#you better believe that I’m going to be thinking about ‘too obstinate to die when it’s convenient for [his] enemies’

[age-of-moonknight]

“The Terminal Seconds of Moon Knight,” Moon Knight (Vol. 9/2021), #30.

Writer: Jed MacKay; Penciler and Inker: Alessandro Cappuccio; Colorist: Rachelle Rosenberg; Letterer: Cory Petit

[books]

Tumblr Exclusive: Forestborn

Do you like shapeshifters, epic quests, magic, dark forests, and obstinate princes? Well, have we got an exclusive excerpt for you!

Forestborn is an upcoming @torteen novel by debut author Elayne Audrey Becker. Becker graduated from Vassar College with a BA in classics and history. She is currently continuing her education at the University of Aberdeen in Scotland after time spent as an editor with a New York publisher. She grew up with a lake and woods as her backyard, spending long days outside and visiting national parks with her family.

Forestborn will be available at bookstores everywhere from August 31. Read the exclusive excerpt below, and thanks again to Elayne for sharing her inspiration moodboard with us!

Forestborn By Elayne Audrey Becker

One

I find her deep in the Old Forest, facedown in the dirt. 

Sharp pain needles my palms where I’ve balled my fists so tight, the nails have carved half-moon marks into the skin. Snaking across the twig-strewn ground, gnarled roots press against my boots like a warning as I roll the young woman onto her back. Best to be sure.

No, she is certainly dead. Cold, stiff, and hungry like the rest; even with forest debris masking much of her shirt, the threadbare cotton dips in unmistakable rivulets across her bony frame. I swallow my disappointment and push her eyelids shut, wanting to spare her kin the sight of those empty, pointless eyes.

“Sorry,” I murmur, sitting back on my heels. “I’m guessing you didn’t deserve this.”

Around us, the trees lean inward and down with ominous uniformity, leaves and branches straining against their holds, drawn to the dead woman as if tethered by ropes. The sway, the humans call it. I ignore the prickling in my belly. They’ll straighten out soon enough when the magic leaves her body. 

With a final nod, I push to my feet and wend my way back to the forest’s edge. It’s a close wood, with broad oaks in summer bloom crowding the grassy floor, their leafy canopy admitting shafts of sunlight that glitter like crystal chandeliers. All in all, too peaceful a setting for someone driven to madness to die alone. I breathe it in deep to savor the scent while I can, grateful that for whatever reason, these trees never seem drawn to the magic in my own blood. I’ve had enough of vengeful wilderness to last a lifetime.

“Well?” Seraline asks, her knuckles nearly white where they clutch the hem of her shirt. 

I shake my head. “Dead.”

Her shoulders sink. Though Seraline is sturdy as iron when she’s in her aunt’s tannery, shaping leather into draft horses’ yokes, standing a determined two paces behind the tree line now, she seems shakeable as snow.

“Come on,” I say, nodding to the stony town just across the open fields. “You’re going to be late.” I don’t ask if she plans to examine the body for herself. Seraline may have insisted on coming as a show of support, but our friendship has many limits, her discomfort with the dead and dying the least of them. 

After a brief hesitation, Seraline falls into step at my side, sweeping her seeing stick across the ground in broad strokes. “Poor thing.”

I nod, my jaw clenched tight. 

This time of year, the late summer air hangs heavy even in the early morning, enough that the back of my neck is already slick with sweat. The barley fields remain mercifully empty as we pick our way through the dusty rows, but still I plow forward with my head down and shoulders bent, half from habit and half spurred by the hour. Seraline isn’t the only one who’s running behind. 

“Will you not come with us?” she asks, her head tipping to the side as we near the town. “Aren’t you due back in Roanin, anyway?”

“I can’t,” I reply, making it sound like an apology. I’m not really sure why we still play this game when we both know it’s futile. “I have a few things to take care of first.”

“Today of all days,” she snorts.

“You know how it is.” In truth, I’d give my right arm to stay away from the capital today. But there’s no help for it.

“Her husband deserves to know,” Seraline adds after a while. “The two of them were inseparable.”

“He will know. The trail wasn’t hard to follow.”

Seraline is always trying to persuade me to talk to the deceased’s families. She believes I have a softer manner than many in uniform, and once she even called me heartless for refusing. That time hurt the most. But it isn’t my job to report any deaths I uncover to next of kin. Only to the king. And it’s not like she’s stepping up to volunteer, anyway.

Briarwend is a humble farming town that stretches all of three streets, a collection of squared off stone shops that deal in necessity rather than charm. Its weather-worn residents are the same. When I began seeking intel here four years ago, long days tending the surrounding fields made the people lazy and open over a couple of pints. Lately, they’re just hungry, poor soil and rising taxes leaving gaping holes that only tempers seem to fill. 

Each night under dwindling lamplight and over stained, sticky tables, the pub dwellers deal out anger and judgment like tossing seeds across the earth. The battered forest walker I helped home last night is not the only magical person I’ve found bleeding on cobbled streets. The humans’ anger is growing fists.

Seraline’s family is fixing their horse’s harness to an old wooden cart when we reach their cottage home. Most others have long since departed.

“Where have you been?” her mother demands, tightening the leather straps. The roan mare stamps a hoof, ears flicking nervously in my presence. “We should have left hours ago!”

“Lela needed my help. And you’re not ready, anyway.” Seraline shrugs.

“Nor are you. Breakfast is gone, so you’ll just have to wait. Go get changed.” She studiously avoids my eye, as if I’m not even there. 

Seraline bids me farewell with a light touch on the shoulder, which causes her little sister to quickly interlace two pairs of twisted fingers and pull them apart. The sign to ward off bad fortune.  

“You shouldn’t indulge my sister,” the dreadful Arden says once she’s gone, stomping over and swiping a greasy hand across his forehead. By far the weakest sibling in this family of four. “Seraline is delicate. She can’t be tramping about the kingdom with the likes of you.”

Which is ironic, really, since he was eager enough to sidle close last year, when he thought empty flattery might earn him a kiss. That was before a too-often empty belly soured his tongue, before he learned who and what I was. And though I truly could not care less what this boy thinks, I’m dismayed to find my stomach still burns with anger and something close to shame. My gaze drops to his pant leg, which bears splotches of dried blood from the night before. 

“Problem?” Arden sneers, white skin burned red from long days in the sun. 

A slow tingling feeling bubbles up from my core, threads of numbness that tiptoe across my arms and legs. I force myself to breathe deeply, to beat the threads back. “I know it was you,” I mutter. 

He traces his chapped lips with two fingers, beady eyes darting to his mother before he leans forward, his smile stiffening. “You know nothing,” he hisses.

“You forget I have certain resources at my disposal.” I raise a hand in front of his flaking face, where my nails have sharpened into claws. “And that I know where you live.”

I stare until a satisfying trace of fear tinges Arden’s expression before stomping away toward the town’s single inn, which is little more than a guesthouse with four creaking rooms. If Helos were here, he would tell me to not take the bait, that I’m better than that. What he never seems to understand is that I’m not better than anything at all.

[i-will-physically-fight-you]

"exhaustion"

(for the one word prompts)

Title: Rooftop Requiems

Word-Count: 1k

Summary: Hero, villain--it doesn't matter, the system is fucked regardless of what side you're on and Virgil is tired of playing the game. He isn't going to let himself get pulled back in, even if there's a pretty persistent kid begging him to be their mentor.

Pairing: Platonic Moxiety

Warnings: Superhero AU, Found Familyish, Crying, Arguments, Mild Angst with A Happy Ending

Just a fun little warm-up exercise! Enjoy!

-

Virgil's legs dangle over the edge of his apartment complex, his hands pressed firmly into the concrete. He looks out into the myriad of looming skyscrapers that make up the city, purposefully away from gleaming, naïve blue eyes.

"No."

"But--"

"Just no."

"You don't even know what I'm going to ask!"

"Oh really?" Virgil huffs, "You went through the trouble of tracking me down for a reason other than asking if I'd be your mentor?"

Virgil can hear the faint stomp of a sneaker across the concrete. "I--well--"

"I'm exhausted," Virgil tells the kid, "I don't want any part of it, hero--villain--it doesn't matter. Both sides manipulate and hurt people in different ways. I'm done being their plaything, and I refuse to let another person get hurt--"

He inhales sharply, his shadow flickering a brief moment.

"It'll be different," The kid insists, edging closer to him, "You can help me and--and together we can make things better!"

Virgil has heard something similar before. From a voice a bit older, from a person he once trusted most in the world. "C'mon Virgil, don't be a scaredy-cat. Together, you and I can change things for the better."

"That's what they all say," Virgil laughs, the sound of it echoing oddly around them, "Kid, I'm warning you now, stay out of it. You're too young anyways."

"I'm not a kid!" The kid growls, throwing his face in front of Virgil, "I'm sixteen, I'm practically an adult!"

Virgil stares at the kid's face that is still round and not quite defined. There is no way the kid is sixteen, too short and without any of the gangly teenage awkwardness. His eyes give it away, still full of that obstinate childish hope that there's always a happy ending to be found. He has to be at least twelve, if that.

Twelve is a dangerous age. It is the age that teeters between childhood and adolescence, the time where children believe they're practically grown-up when they're far from it.

"Sixteen, uh-huh," Virgil clicks his tongue, "Even if I believed that--which I don't--I'm serious, stay out of it. You're going to get yourself killed."

"No, I won't! I can handle it!" The kid shouts as his blue eyes start to glow an unnatural hue. Virgil's breath hitches.

"Kid--"

Several things happen. The lights on top of the apartment complex go out. A force of energy shoots out from the kid, towards the office building directly across the street. The nearby shadows amass into one entity, the energy wave colliding into it, crackling like a bolt of lightning. Virgil's hands shake, his eyes a burning violet hue.

The shadows threaten to disintegrate, to squirm away to their natural resting places. He does not let them, he wills them to stay, to absorb every last bit of the kid's energy bolt. Only when there is nothing left but a child collapsed on the ground, does he let his hands drop to his sides. The shadows drop, fading back to place as the lights blink once more to life.

'No you can't.' Virgil thinks grimly, regarding the kid's last words. But he doesn't say it out loud.

"Hey, uh, are you okay?" Virgil asks, reaching down to touch the kid's shoulder. The kid sniffles once, then launches himself at Virgil, clinging onto him for dear life.

"I'm sorry--I promise I can--you have to--I can do it, I can be strong--" The kid babbles into his chest, tears wetting Virgil's favorite hoodie.

Virgil should be upset, angry at the very least for the kid almost destroying a building and possibly causing the deaths of few dozen people. Yet, the emotion refuses to stir within him.

Not when the kid reminds him terribly of his younger self, so sure that the weight of the world rested on his shoulders when he was just a literal child who shouldn't have had to dealt with such worries.

He sighs, "Kid--"

"Patton."

"What?"

"My name," The kid hiccups, "my name's Patton."

"Ok then, Patton--look, your job right now isn't to be strong and save the world. Your job is to learn and grow, so you can one day be capable to help the world be a little less messed up."

"I can do that now--"

"But you shouldn't have to."

"Well, I don't do it, who's gonna?"

"Someone, maybe, but not you," Virgil says, "I mean it though, kid, about supers. The system on both ends is messed up and there's no fixing it. There's better ways to make the world better."

"Can you show me?" The kid--Patton asks. He looks up at Virgil, eyes still shimmery with tears. Virgil almost laughs about the way they circled back to what the kid originally asked of him.

"You know what?" Virgil says, letting the words fall from his mouth before he can take them back, "sure. I'll show you, if only to keep you from accidentally combusting a building from a fit of anger."

It's more than that though, it's for the pair of kids who didn't know better, it's to keep the past from repeating itself again in the ambitious, hopelessly obstinate kid known as Patton.

"Really?" Patton squeals, "thank you, thank you, thank you, you won't regret it, I promise!"

He thinks he slightly regrets it, from the way the kid is almost cutting off his oxygen with how tight he's squeezing him. He'll probably have a mild freak-out about being somewhat responsible for a child later, most definitely.

Right now, he just ruffles the kid's hair, saying, "Alright, alright. Lesson Number 1, kid, we do not hunt down literal strangers and ask them to mentor us. That's one, frankly rude and two, good way for them to manipulate and take advantage of you and three? A good way to die, so it's a good thing I'm not gonna do any of that to you, ok? You lucked out, got it?"

"Got it." Patton chirps, but he most definitely hasn't got it.

'This kid,' Virgil thinks, a weird mixture of both amused and terrified, 'is going to be the death of me, isn't he?'

[stardustprompts]

the poppy war - r.f kuang   sentence starters change tenses/pronouns as needed !!  some lines have been edited for clarity / length / ease of roleplaying tw :   drugs , death , murder , nsfw , prostitution mention , language

‘take off your clothes.’

‘why would anyone drug themselves before a test?’

‘you’re about to be a very lucky girl, sweet.’

‘wow that’s great. really great. Terrific.’

‘your folks are assholes.’

‘well fuck the heavenly order of things.’

‘don’t you have actual responsibilities?’

‘I don’t want to get on _____ ‘s bad side.’

‘you would make a terrible prostitute. no charm.’

‘what is so wrong with getting married?’

‘do you want to die?’

‘everything is spilling out of my head as quickly as I put it in.’

‘please do not commit spousal homicide.’

‘give me a way out of this shithole.’

‘hello, I’m praying.’

‘I seduced him with my nubile young body. you caught me.’

‘you can’t scare me into a confession, because I’m telling the truth.’

‘and that means you’re shit at your job.’

‘if you cross them—- if they even think you’ve looked at them funny—- they can and will hurt you.’

‘it’s easy to lose a language when you never speak it.’

‘you’re offending them with your very presence.’

‘they’ll make you an outsider, because you’re not like them.’

‘no matter what they say, you deserve to be here.’

‘I’ll kill you. I will fucking kill you.’

‘I went out in the sun once. you should try it sometime.’

‘oh, you’re the one ____ hates.’

‘you’d be a prick too if your family was both rich and attractive.’

‘honestly? I think he just comes in here to get high.’

‘I think you’re flattering yourself.’

‘unless you’ve got a weapon, don’t aim for the face. the neck’s a better target.’

‘we aren’t here to be sophisticated. we’re here to fuck people up.’

‘this is the only kick you’ll ever need, really. a kick to bring down the most powerful warriors.’

‘power dictates acceptability.’

‘he hasn’t done anything to earn my respect. all he’s done is act high and mighty.’

‘you’re nothing. you shouldn’t even be here.’

‘consider me bullied and intimidated, just let me sleep.’

‘he’s playing with her. he’ll end it soon.’

‘they’re good at fighting, but not much else.’

‘spend a lot of time looking at ____’s eyes do you?’

‘a betrayal of that sort would not have been out of character.’

‘come on, you belong here too.’

‘they’re not going to get rid of me like this. not this easily.’

‘I’m calm! I’m extremely calm!’

‘you’d rather kill your own people than let the opponent’s army walk away?’

‘you don’t let an enemy walk away if they’ll certainly be a threat to you later.’

‘he can’t stop raving about you.’

‘oh, don’t pretend to be bashful. you love it.’

‘you’re a walking disaster.’

‘anyone this obstinate deserves some attention, if only to make sure you don’t become a walking hazard to everyone around you.’

‘I heard he got drunk on rice wine last week and pissed into ____’s window. he sounds awesome.’

‘it’s me, your favorite person in the whole wide world.’

‘I do not have a problem. you are making up this problem for reasons unbeknownst to me.’

‘you’re killing the mood.’

‘they were weak as shit. scrawnier than you, even.’

‘you’re a real asshole. you know that right?’

‘your state of mind is just as important as the state of your body.’

‘sometimes you must loose the string to let the arrow fly.’

‘because I want to break his stupid face.’

‘he’s the most dangerous when he’s desperate.’

‘from this point on you’re just going to be a danger to yourself and everyone around you.’

‘you’re too reckless. you hold grudges, you cultivate your rage and let it explode, and you’re careless about what you’re taught.’

‘I knew I was the only one that could help him.’

‘they honed his rage like a weapon, instead of teaching him to control it.’

‘one urinating statue for my easily entertained friend.’

‘I don’t believe in gods. but I believe in power.’

‘one might say you’ve been obsessed with ____.’

‘don’t look to your left. pretend you’re taking to me.’ / ‘I am talking to you.’

‘we’re studying very weird things.’

‘I don’t actually know what I’m getting into.’

‘here is what happened: you called a god, and the god answered.’

‘you know that if you don’t get answers now, the hunger will consume you and your mind will crack.’

‘you’ve glimpsed the other side and you can’t rest until you fill in the blanks.’

‘supernatural is a word for anything that doesn’t fit your present understanding of the world.’

‘I’m supposed to take it as true that you’re a god?’

‘I’m not a god. I am a mortal who has woken up, and there is power in awareness.’

‘are we getting high? oh, wow. we’re getting high.’

‘ah. the law. so inconvenient. so irrelevant.’

‘we are not madmen. but how can we convince anyone of this, when the rest of the world believes it so?’

‘the price of power is pain.’

‘I understand the truth of things. I know what it means to exist.’

‘prey do not question the motives of the predator. the dead do not question the living. mortals do not challenge the gods.’

‘I killed for you. I would have done anything for you.’

‘I have seen the end of things. the shape of the world has changed.’

‘war doesn’t determine who’s right. war determines who remains.’

‘it’s alright. I know what you are.’

‘I thought I was the only one left.’

‘we have developed the power to rewrite the fabric of this world. if we don’t use it, then what’s the point?’

‘I don’t mess with that shit. it screws you up.’

‘I understand the appeal, I really do, but I like having my mind to myself.’

‘he’s a charmer. like a new puppy. you think he’s adorable until he pisses on the furniture.’

‘there’s no routine. no discipline. nothing you’re used to. am I right?’

‘so you’re the last of your kind. that’s sad.’

‘If you hold the fate of the country in your hands, if you have accepted your obligation to your people, then your life ceases to be your own.’

‘____ feared, and so he held you back.’

‘great danger is always associated with great power. the difference between the great and the mediocre is that the great are willing to take that risk.’

‘don’t ever let go on that anger. rage gives you power. caution does not.’

‘don’t give in... you’ve been so brave... but it takes more bravery to resist the power.’

‘the nature of this god is to destroy. the nature of this god is to be greedy, to never be satisfied with what he has consumed.’

‘so. screaming at rocks. is that, like, normal behavior here?’

‘fix this. prove your worth. do your fucking job or get out.’

‘I saved your life. doesn’t that make us at least a little square?!’

‘I was scared of you. and I lashed out.’

‘I thought I was better than you, and I’m not. I’m sorry.’

‘when I killed it, it felt like murder.’

‘look, I’m happy to discuss this, really, but I’m currently leaking life out three different wounds and I think I may pass out. would you give me a moment?’

‘well maybe ____ should get his head out of his ass.’

‘ ____ is more fragile than you think.’

‘look, asshole, I don’t need you to tell me what to do.’

‘they say he can read the future. shatter minds.’

‘you misunderstand the nature of our relationship. I am not your friend.’

‘he’s not human. he—- I don’t know what he is.’

‘but ___ was never allowed to be human.’

‘do you trust me?’ / ‘no. but that’s irrelevant.’

‘you don’t know what true suffering is.’

‘I have seen more than my fair share of suffering.’

‘that boy is beyond redemption. that boy is broken like the rest.’

‘I don’t want to be saved! I want power!’

‘that power will destroy everything you’ve ever loved. you will defeat your enemy, and the victory will turn to ashes in your mouth.’

‘we’ve missed something. something’s been laid out for us, but we can’t see it.’

‘fretting won’t make the dead come back to life.’

‘there was nothing human in those eyes.’

‘It was a nightmare, and I couldn’t wake up.’

‘I don’t need your pity. I need you to kill them for me.’

‘whatever it takes. swear it on your life. swear it for me.’

‘I won’t judge him. I don’t dare, because I don’t have the right. and neither do you.’

‘you asked me why I wouldn’t stop him. now you understand. you can’t stop an avenger. you can’t reason with a madman.’

‘I am afraid of what he might do in his quest for vengeance. and I am afraid that he is right.’

‘I am about to do something terrible. and you will have a choice.’

‘they give nothing to the universe, and the universe owes them nothing in return.’

‘you cannot survive my death.’

‘you’re trying to deceive me. you don’t get to deceive me.’

‘this is not the way. this path leads only to darkness.’

‘when are you going to stop being such a damn coward? what are you running from?’

‘you will turn the world to ash, and only demons will live in the rubble.’

‘you dress up your crusade with moral arguments, when in truth you would let millions die if it means you get your so-called justice.’

‘you have not cared about anything for a very long time. you are broken.’

‘I am terrified. but only because I’m starting to remember who I once was. don’t go down that path.’

‘your country is ash. you can’t bring it back with blood.’

‘I’m so sorry. I tried to warn you.’

‘you know the worst part? we’re so close to home.’

‘did you miss me? did you miss this?’

‘I just gave him some of his favorite medicine.’

‘resistance here means suffering. there is no escape. no future.’

‘you have nothing to fight for anymore’

‘what are you defending? you owe ____ nothing.’

‘we were disposable. we were tools. tell me that doesn’t make you furious.’

‘I am sick with fury.’

‘I will die on my feet. I will not die a coward. and neither will you.’

‘we could stay here. we could stay here forever. we wouldn’t have to go back.’

‘you’ll have to live with the consequences. but you’re brave ... you’re the bravest person I’ve ever met.’

‘I have lost everything I care about. I don’t want peace, I want revenge.’

‘I don’t need to sleep. I need to feel nothing.’

‘do you want forgiveness? I can’t give you that.’

‘we avenged him. he’s gone, but avenged.’

‘you have to believe that it was necessary. that it stopped something worse. and even if it wasn’t, it’s the lie we’ll tell ourselves, starting today and every day afterward.’

‘aren’t you supposed to be a seer? do you ever see anything useful?’

‘we have an enemy whom we love.’

‘I’m going to find and kill everyone responsible. you cannot stop me.’

‘oh I’m not going to stop you.’

[seventfics]

Love your writing. Prompt: Jaskier has abandonment issues, which he tries and fails to hide. Angsty shenanigans ensue

[Thank you! ☺️ I normally don’t do prompt requests but this is right up my alley of emotional suffering, so,]—x

So it’s true that Jaskier has everything anyone could ever want in life. He was born into comfort, held status and name, and had the fortune of education, though that last one was beaten into him mercilessly because he was not an easy child. He had it all—

He still has it all, if he wants it. Nothing stops him from returning to teach in Oxenfurt. No one will deny him his family title, of properties or inheritance. On the contrary, he’s earned even more renown by his lyrics and poetry and Continental ballads, his name known to every court and tavern. People flock to him for his tales of the White Wolf—and that too is part of his renown, for he turned the Butcher into a hero at no cost of his own but a few sore throats after eveningfuls of encores—

They invite him for festivals, banquets, courtly affairs. They propose to him, bed him, threaten him out of towns for having bed the wrong person. He is famous. He is the bard Jaskier. And when his fame and his charm are no longer a novelty, people are quick to move on. 

In Lettenhove, in his early years, there was a tutor who praised him for his sharp musical ear. The old man spent many hours of the day showing him the value of the arts, something that left an imprint in his very soul. Not a year later, his parents sent him to temple school to learn his letters. He never saw the old tutor again—

In Oxenfurt, there was a girl who loved him for his voice. She was beautiful and sweet, her laughter like winter bells. By Summer’s end, she found a painter who worshipped at her feet like a dutiful priest at the altar of the gods. He doesn’t remember her name—

There were many like that girl since, and every time, he learned to accommodate a little better to keep them longer, to no avail—

In Posada, there was a witcher who huffed and groused at his company, and yet allowed him to come along on his journey. He was kind in a guarded way, a way familiar to Jaskier—the echoes of someone who has given himself up many times, only to suffer loss and rejection. Heartbreak hangs about him like a cape. And it takes Jaskier some time but he accommodates, learning the witcher’s limits, his preferences, what’s a jest and what’s a jab at old wounds—

 “What’s this, you’re going to hunt the drowners now?”

The witcher is packing his bags neatly by the door. He offers a brief nod. “It’s early. They’ll be sluggish.”

“Give me a moment, I’ll come with.”

He’s given a strange look that says nothing of the sort will be happening. “No you’re not, bard. You’ll get yourself killed.”

Jaskier takes the threat of life in stride. “I’ll hang back, I swear, who wouldn’t want to see the great White Wolf in action!”

Sometimes the witcher huffs, indulging him. Other times, dreadful times, he orders him to stay put. So Jaskier waits in taverns, sitting on his hands. It’s the hardest thing for him to do. To wait. He does not sing, not while his gut twists and his fingers flutter nervously on wood. He simply waits and thinks about all the reasons why his company is but a burden on coin and travel, the witcher so used to traveling alone.

And every time Geralt comes barreling through the front door wet with gore, his mind and his chest empty of all aches.

“Oh thank the gods, you’re—still in one piece,” he says, because shouting you’re back, you’re alive, you didn’t die and leave me behind is far too much of a weight to throw on Geralt’s shoulders, he knows. 

Geralt merely grunts, shaking off some of the grime. “Of course I am.”

 It’s like that. The witcher leaves on a hunt, and on the times Jaskier cannot follow, he waits. Geralt always comes back—if not for him, then at least for the reward. It’s at the end of every crossway where they part face to face, never knowing if they’ll meet again.

And Jaskier continues his own journey, in search not of home, but its opposite. Of a place that will forever change to the years and the seasons and never bore him. Never bore of him. No one should know him any more than he is allowed to know another, except—

Except the witcher Geralt of Rivia who he meets again and again. Knowing him more with every meeting—

—A noise in the forest, distant, and Geralt gets up with his swords from camp.

Jaskier just fumbles, “You’re not just going to leave me here twiddling my thumbs in the dark, are you?”

“I’ll be right back, bard. I have to check—”

—A shared room on low coin, and never a problem between them. Jaskier stirs awake to the bed moving. 

“Sum’thing up? Y’have to go?” He tries to mumble through a dry mouth. Geralt nudges his head down.

“No, I just need to eat. You keep sleeping, Jaskier—”

—A storm, and they’re both holed in a damp cave. Geralt looks ready to throw himself out in the rain and hunt for the Kikimore queen anyway.

“Geralt, please don’t leave in—in this storm.”

Geralt does listen, perhaps because he sounds a bit more shaken than usual. They’ve already gone low on provisions because the rain soaked through their bags. They need the coin. And it would have been fine, if Jaskier hadn’t insisted they go through this town—

Foolishly, dangerously, he becomes attached. Years go by. A decade. Two. There is no one else Jaskier knows more in his life. Geralt’s mannerisms, his expressions, his disquiet. He knows them all in the silence across a campfire, and he hopes he is known in return. 

He hoped at the banquet in Cintra, barely whispering of a need that he dared not tell anyone else. 

He hoped in the chaos of Rinde, of the djinn and the witch, begging for the witcher to choose him first. 

And he hoped in the mountains of King Niedamir. 

And his hope is not enough.

Jaskier knows to bear smiles and jokes for the right crowds, and he knows how to be serious in certain company. He learned to accommodate a little better to keep people longer, of course, to no avail. Even with Geralt—

He should never have grown complacent, believing that things would be different this once. He became attached—beyond attached, beyond need, beyond affection—

“I'll go get the rest of the story from the others,” Jaskier says in parting on that mountain, because if he makes light of it, then it will sluice off his frame like water, undamaging. He can pick himself up to keep searching for that place—of that someone that will never bore of him, that will never forget him and throw him aside.

Despite his efforts, there’s a chasm in his chest. A breathlessness like a wound that doesn’t want to heal. And he lingers at the foot of the mountain when he sees Roach nibbling on dry grass, tethered by the inn’s poor stable poles. 

He doesn’t know how long he stays with her, petting her coat. She indulges him, preferring his company over the stablehand’s. There’s a joke there somewhere, about her being as obstinate as her rider, but he can’t bear to say it. Can’t bear to speak through the stone lodged in his throat—

And he shouldn’t be with her, not if he wants to avoid the witcher who so clearly and plainly told him to take off for good. But Roach is sweet. For once, she doesn’t bite his wrists. Instead she nickers, snuffling his dusty doublet. Maybe she’s learned to accommodate for heartbreak too, as it seems to follow where Geralt goes, whether caused by his hand or brought upon him—

“Jaskier.”

He freezes in place. He cannot turn. To see his blazing expression would be too much—

“Sorry. I won’t be staying. I’m just,” his voice fades as it starts to shake. How can he explain why he’s touching the witcher’s mare, for the simple comfort that she offers in not shying away from his touch?

“Jaskier.”

It is a demand for him to turn. He recognizes it in Geralt’s voice. Jaskier clenches his hands on Roach’s mane—

Refusing doesn’t work, as the witcher takes his shoulder to pull him back—

There are no fixed smiles left in him. No jest, no shrug. He hurts too deeply to put forth the effort. He is the bard Jaskier, but in front of Geralt of Rivia, he’s just alone. He has everything anyone could ever want in life, and not a lick of it matters with no one to stay for him, no one to call a friend—

But Geralt is not angry. He doesn’t quite look like anything except intense, keeping his wide yellow eyes on Jaskier’s own as he grips his shoulder tight. 

“Let me go,” Jaskier says because he cannot take being seen so deeply, so closely, and not being wanted—

“No.” Geralt’s grip turns painful. “You—don’t want me to.”

Something breaks in him at the words—the truth in them—and it burns in his eyes and it burns his throat—and burns to tears shed pressed to black leather, his hands scrambling at the hard surface of Geralt’s armor. 

He doesn’t want to be let go. Geralt holds him to his chest and he feels like stone cracking under pressure. Like gravel being crushed—

“I was angry,” the witcher says, swallowing against Jaskier’s ear, “I didn’t mean it,” tucking his face into Jaskier’s hair, “I don’t want you to go.”

And maybe it’s cruel or greedy but he wants for Geralt to ache like he does. To feel terror at being left behind. At it being Jaskier who walked away—hurting, choked by his own surging feelings—from the mountain first, by his offense—

Another part is relieved. Because Geralt does know him, after everything, after Jaskier’s efforts to know the witcher. He knows him well to strike where it hurts the most. He knew where to tear into with harsh words—

And that by doing so he went too far and tore into Jaskier’s heart too—

There are no apologies, but there are amends. There is a wavering conversation and one more stay at the inn.

At the crossroads they’ll part again, but not with goodbye. Not with tears or screams or hidden fears. They’ll meet again, like they always have. Better than they always have—

Because this time, and every time since, they part with a promise to see each other again.

[vidalinav]

Queen of Monsters: Chapter 3

Chapter summary: Nesta worms her way into the infirmaries and friendships are started. 

I don't even know what to say right now because you know the state of the U.S. is still up in the air but (shrugs) happy reading I guess! 

Chapter List, Masterlist 

~

“You’re going to catch a cold, if you keep coming here looking like a wet dog,” the Illyrian said, raising a brow. “And I don’t treat animals.”

Nesta merely lifted her head in greeting, not at all concerned with the fiery depths of her glare or the deep, authoritative note of her voice. She’d heard harsher, been harsher than the female in front of her. She’d withstood colder days than this one, too.

“I am here to work.” She repeated and the Illyrian scoffed, rolling her eyes at the phrase she’d heard every day since last. Nesta raised her chin at the challenge.

The Illyrian’s shoulders squared, the brown pelt of fur shifting to reveal a plain shirt tucked into pleats, and Nesta noted the chain around her neck with an emblem to match. The necklace decorated in obsidian beads.  

“I have no job for you here.” 

“Then I’ll wait.” She said, leaning against the tent walls, already prepared with a book in her hand.

The female sniffed and Nesta gripped the book harder. Her knuckles tight against the pages even if she didn’t so much as grimace.

She knew that look. The prideful nonchalance. The I am better than you turn of her lips. Arrogance and conceit. It reminded her of her mother. That stern look that made Nesta remember wanting her room, her door ready to hide her behind its wood, behind the slam of its hinges. Such comforting, familiar anxiety. Nesta wished she had the talent to capture the look, even envied Feyre for her skill to keep memories on canvas and across frames.

Her wings painted the morning in crisp amber veins, and the female seemed to grow taller right before her eyes. Nesta's temper rose to the occasion as she took a step forward.

Her mother always did say her worst trait was that she was stubborn. If Nesta didn’t want the porridge, she wouldn’t eat it, no matter how many times the maids put it in front of her. If she didn’t want to learn to waltz, she would sit on the foyer, crossing her arms, and not even the prospects of extra dessert or the lure of new toys would make her get up from the ground.

Nesta’s father on the other hand had laughed. Her antics reminding him of successful business deals across the sea. This was her best trait, he’d said, because he worked with others less headstrong than her and only, she could come out with an outcome so lucrative. When he had told her this, Nesta had made it a point to be as stubborn as possible.

So, Nesta did not back down even if the female pointedly glared, huffing in annoyance as Nesta refused to leave from her idle threats. She merely walked through the tent flaps, wisps of her dark hair flying behind, untucked from her scarf.

Nesta resumed her position leaning against the green material and began reading once more. Suddenly lost in dreams of ships going out to sea and porridge getting colder.

~

The infirmary was run by an Illyrian named Ira, Nesta learned. She had hailed from Dunravar, on the coast of the Great Sea and moved to Windhaven when her sister had married. And she had always been like that—no nonsense and just a tad crass.

“I was scared of her when I was young.” Emerie spoke. “Her long witchy fingers, the pointed nose. She’d poke and prod at me and I was certain she was feeling how tender I was so she could cook me later.”

Nesta sighed, resting her chin in her palm. “Whether she’s scary or not, I still want to work there.”

But the look Emerie gave her did not fill her with confidence.

Nesta couldn’t say she was either. She had been sitting outside that tent for weeks and she had yet to be invited inside. The last time she did enter, all she heard were yells from the female about minding her own when she’d inadvertently run in on a rather thorough exam of some war-torn soldier. Nesta didn’t have the patience that day to continue waiting outside. 

“Are you still going to the kitchens later?”

She nodded her head, her lips forming a thin line. “Yes, I work in the evenings, now.”

Emerie reached up, dusting the tallest shelf and Nesta couldn’t help but grimace as the flecks of dust sprinkled down on the freshly polished floor.

“And you still have to walk back?” Emerie offered incredulously. “Don’t you think that’s a little bit late for you to work?”

“Why would it be?” Nesta asked, her voice not at all looking for an answer. She’d heard this argument before, and the thought of his voice made her want yell vulgar profanities. So, what if she worked all day? Wasn’t he always complaining that she’d slept all day? Or that she drank all night? It seemed that it didn’t matter what she did, Nesta did everything wrong by his standards, backwards by her sisters’ standards, and thoroughly disgraceful to her sister’s buffoon of friends.

She couldn’t win in any likelihood and so Nesta wouldn’t try. Their approval an impossible task.

“Aren’t you ever afraid of being out at all hours of the night? What if something were to happen to you?”

Nesta snickered, “Like a beast runs out of the forest and eats me.”

“Like a male waits for you to be alone and corners you in some alley.”

Been there, done that, Nesta wanted to say, but she swallowed the remark.

“So, a beast runs out of a tent and eats me? Interesting.”

Emerie jumped down from the chair, stepping towards her as she placed her hands on her hips. The grey feathers still sprinkling dust down and down. Nesta had to resist the urge to kick the trash bin under the brush.

“You should be more careful.” The Illyrian warned sternly. Grumbling as she said, “Why do you even work in the kitchens, it’s not like your obligated to do it?”

Nesta leaned back on the counter, tapping her fingers on the glass.

It was a good question, one Nesta had asked herself many times and one she didn’t think she had the right answer to even now. In the beginning, it had been a moment to get out of the house and in another it was to piss Cassian off, because she’d learned he hated the chores. The obligation of them, and Nesta knew all about obligation. It had been her life for years before it was deemed meaningless women’s work that she shouldn’t be happy to partake in. Not that Nesta ever really did.

“Because one day Lord Devlon had asked why I wasn’t upheld to chores if I lived in this camp and was expected to be treated the same… and Cassian, he had told him I was not like them and I had wondered what he meant by them. By me and... you all. What difference did he see between us?”

“You are not Illyrian.” Emerie stated simply. Suddenly serious and not that female who opened her door and left it wide open the next time, when Nesta pretended she’d lost her gloves. She could see the difference even as Emerie didn’t seem too different before her now. But Nesta could tell.

It was in the eyes, she thought, and Nesta wondered what it all meant to be looked at like that. With bright, furious eyes.

“Does that matter?” She asked lightly.

“It matters to them—to us.” Emerie corrected harshly. “It matters to us because tradition is more important than glory. It is more important than even war though the males are raised to yearn for it and the females to encourage it. Perhaps the males train because that too is a tradition.”

Emerie whipped the duster towards her, pointing it as if it was her finger. The dust sprinkled at her feet, falling like ash and snow and Nesta kicked the dust aside, refusing to be buried under it. She noted the red in her cheeks, the purse of Emerie’s lips. It was a look she’d before in a mirror or two. Something undeniably bitter and angry.

"I say this just in case you believe you can change their minds by being obstinate.”

Nesta huffed a laugh. “Because doing chores is such an honor.” She gestured to the walls, the leather. “And I suppose owning a shop is child’s play. Mother forbid you give it all up now to go boil water and skin tomorrow’s lamb.��

“Many beings here would rather die than give up their ways… Including Ira. She’s one of the oldest beings in this camp. People say she saw Devlon when he was in swaddling.”

Nesta stared at her questioning, wondering for whom Emerie was talking and what exactly she meant by it all.

“A High Fae learning what your kind has always called simple and archaic? If you weren’t standing right in front of me, I wouldn’t believe it.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I took over this shop, what rightfully belonged to me based on my blood, and still they don’t want to visit. I have every cloth they might need, and no one is at my door. You may think you can go help in the kitchens or wait outside the infirmary at all hours of the day, but... don’t be disappointed if they still don’t let you in.”

Nesta felt the words settle in the pit of her stomach, felt them bubble up as she rose to stand. Emerie crossed her arms and Nesta glared, though she couldn’t say why the words agitated her so swiftly. But it made her nauseous and Nesta did not have time to swallow the bile that had risen up her throat.

“It’s not my fault they don’t want you.” She heard herself say.

Emerie’s gaze turned ferocious. The rims of her eyes turning red, and Nesta wanted to continue. To tell her that she looked equally as likely to cry as she did to attack. But Nesta did not get the chance to say this to the Illyrian whose chest was still heaving, her hands scrunched and shaking.

"Get out.” Emerie spoke. A quiet, stern phrase.

Nesta picked up her coat, as graceful as she could muster, her shoulders still poised and precise. She pretended to wipe the dust off it, though there was none that she could see, and Emerie merely watched her all the way to the door. Some vicious monster in her midst.

Nesta didn’t bother putting on her coat as she left the small shop, as she welcomed the frigid temperatures.

The cold had already become her dearest friend.

~

Nesta wasn’t sure why she always felt angry when she looked at Cassian. At first, he’d been nothing but a pebble in her shoe—irritating because he brought of things, he knew nothing about. And then, he became someone who made her temper swell into such fine-tuned fury that she’d wanted to scratch out his eyes and feed them to the crows she’d seen pecking away at Elain’s garden.

But somewhere between their cantankerous voices crescendoing into insults and ire, somewhere between all the noise... Cassian had been exciting. Finally, there was someone who could match her blow by blow and wipe it away like dust off an old book. He was in fact as bitter as she was. Even if he did smile and laugh like nothing at all was wrong.

He had cared for her then, promised things she never wanted to hear again, even if she heard those words incessantly. In her nightmares. In her dreams.

And Nesta had liked making him angry. The teasing turn of his lips filled with enough sensuality, she had wanted to reach up and find exactly what those words tasted like coming from his lips. It was fun to see his eyes burn when he looked at her—that look that made him seem to question whether he wanted to push her out the window or wanted to take her to bed. It made her feel... powerful, more so than any of the magic hidden in her veins. More so than even the bitter, rotting hate that allowed her to walk with a crown over her head, though it was indeed made of thorns.

She had gotten used to looking at Cassian, yearning for a glimpse of him. But now...

Now... as she looked him over sitting on the soft grey of the couch, his wings expanding behind as if he’d lounge there for eternity, Nesta could only think that she’d wished he’d suffered more. She didn’t know why she thought of such things, when she laid her body across his. Hadn’t she felt something then? Something other than her veins catching fire. But the thought itched all the way up to her ears, harmonized with the fire’s roar.

Nesta burned with it all, and quite enjoyed the warmth.

Cassian, turning his head to look at her, only wore a solemn face. A look she’d seen plenty.

“You okay?” He breathed.

Nesta didn’t answer his question. She looked at the walls, the shadows forming on the paint as if it oozed out of its crevices. The flames scratching up the wood. And the sound—gnarling animals and who knows what else devouring her whole, chewing on her bones. Emerie had been right to compare beasts and arrogant males.

Here sat one right in front of her. Tall and unknowingly malicious. Hungry, perhaps. Waiting for her to come back so he might just take one bite.

Her eyes scanned him head to toe, her hands bulging into fists, and something in her body snapped awake. Something in her body going, oh that’s right.

I’m here because of you.

~

Nesta could see her breath puff out before her. What she wouldn’t give to tell her father that she was made of smoke when he always believed she was fire incarnate. Living flames. Always burning. Angry to the core.

She held her palm out, collecting the flakes that settled on her gloves. Each speck of snow completely unaware that it had landed on someone without a home, without a job, and without any meaningful life. How it remained on the leather without melting to get away, Nesta would never know.

She had almost not come to the infirmary that morning, the words of yesterday blurring into tomorrows and she hadn’t gotten much sleep that night. With Emeries gaze still in her mind and Cassian’s... everything else.

It was always like this. It would always be like this, Nesta thought. How she wasn’t used to the disappointment by now, she didn't know. But it was the thought of forever's that made her stomach ache. Her hand pulling at her bodice when it was harder to breathe.

Eternity was a long time to hate oneself. She couldn’t imagine being a hundred, or two, or three, and still be here. Not this place, but in this body. In this head of hers that couldn’t move past yesterday. How she wished to take another one. Another face. Another name. Another being, entirely.

Nesta wondered if perhaps she was still drowning in that cauldron. If she had not actually emerged fae. Maybe she was still being pulled apart in its moving depths. Re-arranged. None of the pieces fitting back together but being stitched sideways and upside down and backwards.

Oh, how Nesta wished she’d only been made backwards. How easy it would be to rip herself open and sew herself correctly. A new name, a new face, a new being entirely.

But Nesta was here.

And though she often felt like she was sinking, the ground was solid as she stepped. The tent green and bright and not the dark, unknown parts of a world she could not hide from. Her toes might have been blue from where the snow seeped into her boots, but Nesta was not being grabbed by the feet, dragged further and further down.

This place was familiar.

Familiar she could handle. The sky a hue of blue with a single streak of orange? Nesta had seen that before. The tent flaps parted at the seams, Nesta recognized. But it was the light of the tent that had Nesta pacing forward. A sudden drop in her stomach that said she was late, late, late.

Ira must have been there already.

Nesta’s shoulders sunk at the thought.

This was not how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to stand beside the entrance way, a book at the ready and a stubborn expression permanently painted on her face. Ira was supposed to give her a glare, followed by a snarky reply. Nesta would tell her she wanted to work, and Ira would tell her no. Just like every other day she had done this. A comfortable and familiar routine.

Ira was not supposed to get there before her, and Nesta cursed herself for not coming in early, for not anticipating the move of her opponent.

Ira had won this game, Nesta thought, for catching her by surprise.

She looked towards that spot, the spot she’d proclaimed as her own for how often she’d been there. Nesta expected to find it empty. The space eerily cold without her body to fill it, but when her gaze crossed the premises, a stool had taken her place.

Nesta rushed to greet it, her face warming in the frigid air.

Sure enough, a stool marked her position, and she wondered if Ira had put it there to stave her off. If you will stand, you will not stand here, she could imagine her saying with that twisted smirk. Her long fingers tapping away any chances of her being welcomed inside.  

But as a stool stood there, so did a book. The leather a deep shade of charcoal.

Nesta picked it up, feeling the symbol etched into the surface, trying to make out a title in a language she couldn’t read. She could hear the bustle coming from inside the tent, but Nesta didn’t care to go inside. She plopped on the stool instead, her own book forgotten as she shoved her bag to the floor.

Nesta flipped through the book, flowers blooming in every page. She traced her hand on the etchings and imagined the unknown words planting themselves like seeds in her mind. Growing such deep roots that Nesta could hear them being whispered in her ears. The language soothed a wound that Nesta could only bandage up, and where a fire once raged, having only left smoldering ash, wildflowers sprung from the dirt.

Try again, the words said. 

~

Emerie’s brows crinkled like crumbled paper and Nesta’s words were tossed to the ground in littered thoughts. She didn’t know what to say to the female who stood on the steps leading down from her room. Her hair tucked into a braid; a simple apron tied at her waist. Emerie didn’t say anything, either. For all intents, they could have been frozen there. The mountainous winds finally catching up with the frigid winter skies.

“I was in the area.” Nesta began, cursing at herself for sounding so odd to her ears.

Emerie only nodded, “Alright…”

Nesta looked towards the book in her hands, some part of her already dreading the idea that Emerie knew more than her. She knew that Nesta had not just walked by. She knew that she was unable to stay away, that she had enjoyed her company even if she wanted to forget it all.

And forget it all, she tried.

The emblem at the front depicted a sickle, the weapon carving away at a plant she couldn’t name growing from the leather. She held it up for Emerie to see.

 “I was wondering if you could help me with this.” She spoke, sliding it across the counter as Emerie caught it with little effort.

The Illyrian flipped through the pages, her hands grazing against each picture as if she were in the forest herself, picking them stem by stem. Nesta had done the same, such a mirrored image that she couldn’t help imagining a world where she had met this female earlier. When she’d not been so disastrous and had wanted someone to talk to, to laugh with. 

But Nesta knew... There had never been a time like that. She had never been soft.

“What language is it?” Nesta asked in spite of wandering thoughts. For she had not seen such a language before. The letters curving into loops and lines. Such beautiful print for how harsh Illyrians seemed to her.

“It’s called Divumar.” Emerie replied, shutting the book with a thump and passing it back to her. “It means... voice of the sky people. Roughly—In the Common Tongue.”

“Can you teach me to read it?” Nesta asked, her voice edged with enough excitement she could barely hold it in. Just the word Divumar made Nesta want to float in space and she repeated it silently to herself.  How amazing it must have been to be free amongst the clouds, so much that the language sounded holy to her ears.

But it was not freedom that had trailed after Emerie, as she went to stand near the window. The snow burdening the dirt. Her wings drooping to the ground.

“Why did you come back?” She asked, her voice reticent and small.

Nesta could only knock her fingers against the counter. The sound pounding in her ears. She’d never been good with talking, even now as out of practice as she was. Her sisters made friends so easily and Nesta couldn't very well now embody sweet, pretty Elain who only needed to bat her lashes, or Feyre whose laugh made people join in.

Even her sister’s rambunctious, elusive friends were able to hold on to each other. Mor with her bright, happy gaze. Too much like the sun Nesta had wanted to hold a hand across her face and shield herself away. Rhys—she'd wanted to roll her eyes at. Her sister’s mate much too flashy and extreme. Much too pig-headed, too, she’d come to learn. And Azriel had been quiet, studious, veiled in ways that Nesta could understand, but could not empathize with. She was sure it could not be easy making friends with him.

No, Nesta had only one person she’d called a friend—or someone close enough to visit—and Nesta had taught Amren to hate her too. She was so good at being cold most days.

Emerie was not like Amren, though. Not like the Inner Circle, or Feyre or Elain... Not like any of them because no one knew her at all.

The thought made Nesta want to keep her—hide her away from the Inner Circle’s antics, from their judging stares, their obligatory smiles. The one person who was similar to her in ways she had only begun to imagine, who would know her and not hate.

But Nesta had to win her over first and she thought of Cassian in that moment. Though on instinct she wanted to curse his name, she’d seen the way he acted. People liked him, she considered. Always teasing, hiding away everything he felt in the brightness of his grin.

She could do that, she supposed. She could laugh to cover heartbreaks, smile to cover fear...

“It must have been the delightful company,” Nesta joked, her voice strained and forced.

Emerie was not amused. Her mouth set in a stern line and Nesta had to force herself not to back away into a corner somewhere. No, she would keep her head raised until the final moment.

Nesta shrugged, gulping down the insecurity like a scratch in her throat.  

“I didn’t have anywhere else to go.” She spoke, her words so quiet Emerie wouldn’t have heard them had she not been fae. Nesta almost wished she wasn’t.

“I can’t help you read it.” Emerie answered in turn, “I don’t know how.”

“To read?”

Emerie shook her head, “Not even in the common tongue.”

Nesta didn’t know what to say as Emerie shuffled back and forth, her hand clenched around the cream-colored apron. She turned over the book in her hands, the pages some of her finest jewels and Emerie watched her, a touch of envy in those furrowed brows. 

Stories had been her solace all these years. The voices, her many friends. It had always seemed a shame that she couldn’t see what worlds lied beyond the sea, but Nesta had books at least. Her world had not been so small.

The deep sorrow in her bones rivaled the feeling of when Feyre told her the same. A heavy weight like sigh drawing from every crevice. Her sister could not share in her joy, and Nesta didn’t remember ever offering her the chance. All the stories lost in their poverty.

There was no beautiful way to say she was sorry for their lives, that there were so many ways that freedom could be taken away from them. Starting from the first story to the simplest cut.

So instead, Nesta extended a hand, Emerie looking at it. A strange proposition in the midst of them that Nesta wasn’t exactly sure she was making.

“Even exchange of services.” She said, smiling as the Illyrian reached out cautiously. “You teach me to speak and I’ll teach you to read.”

~

Nesta stood outside the tent when two Illyrians were taken into the infirmary. Carried by a group of males, they were lugged through the open, awaiting tent. They groaned charnel tunes, and Nesta smelled the blood before she saw it drip two trails in the perfect snow. 

The wind blew harsh around them as if the sky, itself, knew who had made the wreckage, but the Illyrians paid no mind. One simply commanding orders as another nodded swiftly, hitching the male’s body up higher.

Nesta stepped far away.

The first male, clothed in leathers and fur, looked as pale as the winter morning. His foot pouring blood where it was caught in a trap, the mechanics still biting away at his limb. The second, though not making as much noise, hung dazed in his ragged clothing. His eyes empty and lost. Nesta had to cover her mouth as she took in the arrows logged into his back. His wings torn in places that brought back bad memories.

She wanted to throw up, wanted to huddle in the corner and rock herself as she closed her eyes. The picture of broken limbs and snapped necks, and headless bodies following her even now.

But Nesta did none of those things. She merely stood there, watching as she blinked. The world slowing down enough that even the noise was silenced.

She took a seat, the stool still planted by the entrance way, and picked up the book again. The words for plant, herb, and healing still floating through her mind. She repeated the words. Nabata, traven, and saluber. Nabata, traven, and saluber. 

It wasn’t long before the space was quiet again, the wind howling but unable to reach her where she sat. Nesta pointedly ignored the shouts from inside the tent, pretending that it was covered by music. The notes playing some tune she could barely remember.

She was lost to it all.

Until Ira walked out the room… a towel tinged pink in her hands. Nesta stood straighter at the female who grimaced but did not shy away from her gaze.

“You,” She pointed, her wings flaring and wide. Her back straight and indignant. She tapped her foot on the ground and Nesta thought she saw regret in her eyes, but Ira still parted the tent flap. “Do not get in the way.”

Nesta simply pursed her lips, raised her nose dismissively and followed her inside.

~

@my-fan-side  @ekaterinakostrova  @anastasia-orlov @lord-douglas-the-third @autumnsletters @soitsgorgeous @sjm-things @courtofjurdan 

(Let me know if you want to be tagged, I forgot to tag, or you don’t want to be tagged)

~

I plan to update every Tuesday btw. So far so good. Also more Nesta/Cassian contact in the next chapter, and some Azriel I think. YAY!

Anyways, like, comment, reblog, if you happened to enjoy and want to read more. :D

[kuroopaisen]

hi!! may i request for a headcanon to how oikawa would react after reuniting with his childhood friend turned fake ex-girlfriend after how many years at a common friend's wedding and to his shock he still likes her? thank you!

okay so i know you asked for a headcanon but i got carried away so,,, if you’d like me to redo it, please let me know. and this got a little angstier than i expected slkjfd

- admin rowan  

truth be told, oikawa hadn’t envisioned himself attending a wedding at the tail end of his uni years. why anyone would be getting married before graduating was beyond him. but sure enough, he and iwaizumi were standing a scant few feet away from the doorway of a church, about to seek out yahaba and give him their congratulations. 

“how do i look, iwa? do i look dashing enough?”

“shut up.”

“but i need to make sure i look my best for my re-debut. some of these people haven’t seen me in a few years, you know.”

“this isn’t about you,” iwaizumi said, looking over his shoulder. “it’s too late, anyway. we’re already here.” 

oikawa pursed his lips, trying to think of something to say in response. frankly, he was nervous. 

“don’t chicken out.”

“i’m not going to!” oikawa whined, sticking his hands deep in his pockets. 

why was he so nervous? sure, he hadn’t seen some of these guys since high school, and he certainly hadn’t spoken to a few of them since that final match with karasuno. but that was long since past. and yahaba surely wanted him there, despite everything. 

was it because yahaba of all people was getting married, while he hadn’t been able to maintain a consistent relationship all throughout his uni years? was that why he felt so off? 

“it’ll be fine.” iwaizumi was looking at him with the slightest of frowns. he spoke with such a gruff sense of surety that only he could pull off. 

“i know that,” oikawa huffed, running a hand through his hair. 

god, this was so unlike him. 

“then stop acting like a damn coward.”

“iwa-”

“and behave yourself.” 

“you don’t have to be so mean to me,” oikawa whined, his shoulders slumping. he took another step towards the door. 

there were more people than he’d anticipated – and he didn’t recognise most of them. he still wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or not. he sighed, running a hand through his hair. how long did weddings go for again? was he expected to stick around and socialise? he might’ve, on any other day — but something was just off. 

“ceremony’s about to start,” iwaizumi mumbled. 

oikawa took a quick moment to scan the room, looking for the least conspicuous seats. the less people who spoke to him, the better. 

a flash of teal caught his eye. he looked again, frowning. huh. who was that? they were too far away for him to get a better look at — and his contacts weren’t as strong as he would’ve liked them to be — and he could only catch the profile of their face. and yet…

“sit down.” iwaizumi pushed him towards one of the benches. 

“you don’t need to push me,” oikawa pouted. 

“then stop spacing out,” iwaizumi grunted, sitting himself down. 

oikawa sighed, settling himself into his seat. 

it really was a lovely ceremony. the bride looked stunning in her dress – pure white, and embellished with appliques –, and yahaba was positively glowing. 

but try as he might, he couldn’t stop his gaze from flitting over to that person in teal. it wasn’t unreasonable to assume they’d attended aobajohsai; how else would he know someone invited to yahaba’s wedding? and yet, there was more to it than that. something more familiar.  

this was going to drive him crazy. 

“hey, iwa?”

“what do you want?”

“that person over there,” he said, trying to point as subtly as he could, “do you know who that is?” 

“you don’t?” 

“should i?” oikawa frowned. “they seem so familiar, but i just can’t put my finger on it.”

“you’re such an idiot.”

oikawa gaped at him. he was used to iwaizumi being blunt, but usually such abrasive assessments had cause. “i haven’t even done anything wrong!”

“you seriously don’t remember?” iwaizumi raised an eyebrow at him. 

oikawa tilted his head at him. 

“good grief,” iwaizumi sighed, rubbing his temple. “come here.”

“wh–”

iwaizumi grabbed him by the wrist and stormed off. oikawa opened his mouth to protest, but it was much too late. iwaizumi led them through the small throng of people, marching with such distinct purpose that oikawa couldn’t help but wonder if this was how he was going to die. 

“hey.” iwaizumi had stopped abruptly, causing oikawa to stumble. standing in front of them was that person in teal. shit, did he know them? was he about to make a fool of himself by not remembering their name? was this about to get really, really awkward? 

the person in teal looked between the two of them, eyes wide and round for just a moment. 

“oh!” the stood up a little straighter, a smile starting to spread across their face. “hey guys.” 

oh shit. 

a childhood spent together, running around a backyard and chasing balls down the street. a constant cheerleader at his volleyball games, screaming from the stand with all their might. someone to temper iwaizumi’s rage at the best of times, and to make him smile at the worst. someone to tend to oikawa’s wounds, physical or otherwise, when he’d been overworking himself. 

how could he forget you? 

“hi,” oikawa did his best to smile, but he knew it would look vacuous. insincere as always, even though he knew you deserved better.

hell, you deserved better than what he’d given you. 

he could barely remember his reasoning for making such a stupid request. 

things had been fine until third year. great, even. he’d even had a girlfriend for the first few months, before he was mercilessly dumped for being ‘too obsessed with volleyball’. you were the person he’d turned to for support. you’d expected it, for the most part – he spent most of his day practicing, and the scant free time he did have was usually spent with you and iwaizumi. she’d spoken to you before it had happened; telling you that she wasn’t mad, she was just jealous. 

it was around then that he asked you to ‘date’ him. you’d been bemused – and on reflection, rightfully so. you felt bad about his girlfriend, about lying to everyone, about not being convincing. oikawa had been adamant that it’d be fine. nothing would change, right?

“how’ve you been?” you asked, looking between the two of them. “still playing volleyball together?”

“unfortunately.” 

“iwa!” oikawa whined, forgetting himself for a second. “but you said all those nice things to me in third year!”

“that was before i knew we were going to the same uni.” 

it had been okay, for a while. holding hands felt normal enough. he’d gotten used to giving you a kiss on the cheek or the forehead. and he liked it a little more than he should. people believed it. even iwaizumi had been fooled, at first. he’d even grouched that oikawa should’ve done something sooner. oikawa had barely understood it at the time, dumb and eighteen. these days, he knew exactly what iwaizumi had been talking about. 

“are you in your final year?” you asked, hands clasped behind your back. 

“don’t remind me,” oikawa mumbled. 

things took a turn for the worst a few months before graduation. the details were hazy, but one evening stood out with such startling clarity that he was sure he’d never forget it. 

you’d been walking around town after school, just the two of you. he’d been getting antsy back then; he wanted to spend more time with you, and he didn’t understand why. he’d also taken to holding your hand, even when no-one was around to see it. he knew now that it was because he was in love with you, but he hadn’t comprehended that at the time. 

you were just his scrappy childhood friend, not someone he could see himself in a genuine relationship with. things were too comfortable, too easy with you for that; your presence in his life expected much more than it was cherished. 

maybe that’s why it had happened. 

that evening, he’d kissed you. he’d walked you home as the sun set, spewing some bullshit about his future. he spoke with a confidence only beget to teenagers, and he hadn’t let you get a word in edgeways. and once you’d stopped in front of your house, he leant in and kissed you. 

he still didn’t know what compelled him to do that. it must’ve made sense to him at the time — maybe he was stupid enough to believe that the relationship was real. maybe it was his way of trying to tell you about that tangled mess of emotions that was rattling around inside of him. maybe he’d hoped you’d understand what he really felt, like you always did. 

but you cried. you looked at him, eyes glassy, and called him an asshole. 

you’d slammed the door before he’d had time to respond.

you ignored his texts, and you weren’t picking up his calls. he’d tried to ask iwaizumi, but he’d just told him he was stupid. no matter what he tried, you wouldn’t reach back over the gulf. 

next thing he knew, you were all graduating. graduation day was the first time you’d interacted with him in ages; you’d obstinately taken a few photos with him and iwaizumi, seemingly for your parents’ sake. as hard as he tried, he couldn’t look back on those photos and pretend you were happy to be standing next to him. he could see it in your smile. 

it wasn’t the one you were giving him now — full and joyful, adding a bit more shine to your eyes. you were happy to see him. 

he bit the inside of his cheek. why did his head feel so hot? he hadn’t even had anything to drink yet. 

you and iwaizumi were still talking. oikawa hadn’t even noticed that he’d zoned out of the conversation — what if you thought he was rude? what if you thought he hadn’t changed? 

you laughed. 

fuck. 

his heart stirred like it had all those years ago. like when you told him you believed in him, no matter what, while looking up at you with eyes so full of determination and belief that he didn’t know how to respond. like when you’d bandaged his fingers so gently and tenderly after he’d overworked himself in solo practice. like when you’d held him and called him tooru after that last match with karasuno. 

you’d think four years would be long enough to get over someone, he thought. but it seemed like life wasn’t ready to let him forget his mistakes. 

maybe it was because he was lonely. maybe it was because he’d missed you more than he’d thought possible. maybe it was because he hadn’t had even a single successful relationship in uni. 

he wanted nothing more than to take your hand and apologise. there was so much he wanted to say to you – so much he wanted to explain. but it had been four years. 

this was too much. 

“i, uh, i’m going to go and get something to drink,” he said, looking between the two of them. you and iwaizumi stared back at him, faint surprise laced in your expressions. why, he didn’t know. he turned on his heels, the faint buzzing in his chest getting harder and harder to bear. 

a hand gripped the cuff of his sleeve. 

“tooru?” 

his breath hitched. 

“i missed you.” 

[arsnovacadenza]

Day 7- Un Paradis Perdu

Characters: Napoleon, Jean, Duke of Wellington

Words      :  2748

Ao3 Link  : Here

Made for @kissmetwicekissmedeadly‘s Napoleon Birthday Prompt 2020

fangs

"Fuck!" The emperor spat in Jean's ear. "There's no other way to go is there?"

They were leaning dangerously close over the railing of the platform. The wind whipped furiously, drowning shouts from within the passenger car.

Wellington's men were closing in.

With no weapon in hand, how were they able to fend off their captors? Napoleon was too bold, too bold!— to grab Jean by force and create a commotion on a heavily guarded train. And with the metal beast traveling at breakneck speed, it was a foregone conclusion that whatever Napoleon had in mind would fail.

Jean was too shocked to push the other man off him, instead quietly stuttering words of prayer he hadn't uttered in a very long while.

"There they are!" He could hear Wellington cry above the mayhem. "Close in on them while you can."

Jean didn't have time to flinch when Napoleon's head suddenly pressed against his own.

"Forgive me." The other man whispered, cradling Jean's skull protectively.

Napoleon threw themselves over the railing, plunging them both from the moving train and away from the roar of the engine and the clamor of Wellington's guards—

And to the river down below.

Jean had long stopped believing in miracles.

His mind was devoid of praises of gratitude as he laid on the river bank where he'd been washed ashore. The sun was crawling towards the sky, signifying that some time had passed after their fall.

Or maybe it's the day after. Jean mused. After spending so many days held captive, he couldn't find it in himself to care about the passage of time. He didn't even remember how many months it'd been since he left the mansion to answer Wellington's call, which led to his confinement.

Jean even resigned himself to the possible fate of becoming His Grace's guest for all eternity. At least there was a certainty of permanent disposal once he outlived his usefulness.

But that would also mean spending the rest of his second life with the insufferable loudmouth of a friend.

The man had once been his mentor too. The thought sent him reeling back to the unfortunate circumstances that led him to believe that the dreaded conqueror of Europe was indeed as atrocious as the stories had come.

He promised to show me the new face of France. Jean rolled onto his stomach and took in his surroundings. Well, this is a side of France I've yet to see.

With little difficulty, he rose to look for his missing companion. Although it was tempting to walk away and rid himself of the boisterous ruler's presence, Jean concluded that it would do him more harm than good to traverse this unknown area with an enemy force hot on his trail.

And then there's the fact that Napoleon was a demi-human who could very well die.

I’m not one to abandon my comrades, Jean thought as he began his search.

Jean didn't realize that he had been holding his breath when he found the emperor downstream, alive.

Warily, he checked the other man's pulse and scanned him for cuts and bruises, which thankfully weren't many. The fall ought to hurt him more than me. After all, he shielded my body when we entered the water.

A shiver ran up his spine upon considering that he might have to resuscitate the unconscious man with his mouth. He'd heard of such practices from Sebastian, but now with the opportunity presenting itself, he couldn't bear the thought of locking lips with Napoleon.

Of all the deeds I can do to repay him, and this is what fate has thrust upon me.

In the end, he opted to shake him awake. "Oi," he called.

No response.

Jean's composure was dwindling. He pressed his fingers to Napoleon's shoulder with a little more force. "Bonaparte, Napoleon Bonapa—"

He withdrew his hands as the man roused, coughing and sputtering on his side. Jean moved back to give him some space.

"I—what." Napoleon looked around dazedly until his eyes landed on the other Frenchman. "Jean, you're alive. I'm alive. We made it."

"So it seems."

"Thank the stars! But," Napoleon finally took better notice of their surroundings. "Where are we?"

"I'm just as lost as you are."

"Ah-hem! Shit, this is horrible," Napoleon coughed up some more to clear the water out of his lungs. "We're lucky to escape from Wellington's clutches, but—"

Jean kept his distance as he tore off his drenched shoes and tousled his wet hair, hacking all the while.

"You're in better shape than I am," Napoleon protested. "That's hardly fair."

Jean could go on about how different lesser vampires were in terms of strength and endurance in comparison to a demi-vampire and remind Napoleon that he was still part human. But he decided to let the question drop.

"We need to move."

The sun was high up in the air when the moon decided to sit under a tree not far from the river and let their top and outer garb dry. Jean stared at the coats and shirts Wellington lent out to them, a far cry from the extravagant attire they wore back at the mansion.

"Are you not going to take off that eye patch?"

Beside him, Napoleon leaned back on the trunk, looking the most lethargic Jean had ever seen of him. Momentarily, he took a glimpse of the aged, battle-worn commander buried underneath the boyish facade.

"No." He answered curtly and turned his attention back to the clothes laid out on the nearby fence, wishing that sleep would overcome either of them.

We haven't talked much since that night in Smolensk.

His train of thought was rudely interrupted by a loud growl from his companion. Napoleon grinned at him apologetically.

"Well, it looks like I'm still craving for food after all," he laughed. "At least I'm still human."

Wordlessly, Jean took to his feet and walked towards the river.

"Where are you going?"

"Looking for fish," Jean replied without turning back. "I saw plenty of them."

"You know how to catch fish with your bare hands?"

The eye patched soldier faced Napoleon with a humorless look.

"I was taught by my brother." He retorted without thinking. "In our village, we—"

Jean's words came to a halt. Napoleon sighed, smiling despite the ensuing awkwardness.

"Thank you," his voice was gentle, as it should've been. "I'll be waiting."

Napoleon offered to light them a bonfire in exchange.

The sky was clear that night. The stars above made for a romantic ambiance, but it was clear neither men had the desire to talk. The moon was nowhere in sight.

Jean hugged his knees, contemplating the flame in front of him with subdued emotion. The recent incidents had reduced his long-standing trauma of fire into nothing.

Meanwhile, Napoleon poked at the fire with the sticks he used for cooking dinner. Jean obediently gathered him enough fish to last him the entire day, without partaking in the feast.

While listening to the chirp of crickets, Napoleon quietly pondered the best way to broach the subject that was lingering on his mind without offending Jean.

"Jean, you..." he murmured.

"Yes?"

His one eye bore down heavily on Napoleon, although that didn't deter him from advancing. "There must be a way for me to thank you."

"No need." Jean promptly replied, looking away and showing Napoleon his profile, radiant against the warm glow of the fire.

"I'm saying," the emperor repeated sternly. "You haven't fed at all."

Contrary to his fears, however, Jean merely regarded him with an unreadable gaze. Then, as he did this morning, Jean rose to his feet and slowly walked away.

"Wait, Jean! I didn't mean to—" Napoleon called frantically.

"I was thinking of hunting for small animals." Jean glanced back at him. "They should suffice."

"No, that's no—" It was a sound idea, especially considering Jean's aversion to feeding on humans, but to Napoleon, it was hardly sustainable. "You can't. Assuming you're able to hunt down every animal within this area, it won't sustain you in the long run. Eventually, you'll have to return to feeding on humans."

Jean flinched at the mention of humans, but he continued listening nonetheless.

"We can't walk back to Paris and have you attack some stranger along the way out of hunger," Napoleon argued. "But I know how to prevent you from starving."

"And what do you propose we should do?"

Napoleon's chest heaved as he prepared to make his offer. "Feed on me."

"What?"

"Feed on me."

The emperor's features remained obstinate despite his daring proposal. It was a precarious bid, one that Jean would loath to refuse or accept.

Ignoring the hesitance he sensed from the man, Napoleon pressed on.

"We have no one to rely on but each other," he asserted. "Think of this as an exchange; I'll give you my blood, and you can protect me while I'm resting or help me find food."

"I can rely on you for strength," Napoleon spoke carefully. "And I can get you through any situation where we need to interact with people."

He was correct to lay down his trump card as Jean's lone eye widened in realization.

"If you think I'm hesitating," Napoleon declared once more. "Then believe me when I tell you that I'm willing to do the unspeakable. I'm not, and will never be, afraid of taking whatever lengths to ensure we overcome this."

"So we can go back home to the mansion. Together."

Napoleon watched Jean intently, convinced that he had triumphantly swayed the other man.

"I understand." Jean conceded. "How should we proceed?"

"So," Napoleon rolled his sleeves. "Where do vampires usually do it?"

"I beg your pardon."

"I mean, which parts of the body do you usually sink your teeth into?"

Jean scrutinized his companion, clad in only his pants and thin undershirt, the collar remained unbuttoned, as always.

I can't help but feel unsettled with how much his chest reminds me of a woman's. The soldier squinted. What's the point of parading them?

The man, he thought, must be very proud of this new body he was inhabiting.

"Something the matter, Jean?" Napoleon noticed that he spacing.

"Never mind."

They sat facing each other by the campfire. The proximity allowed Jean to discern the lines of exhaustion etched on Napoleon's visage. His face was no different than the marble statues of his original self, chiseled by misfortune and eroding as time passed by.

When was the last time we had been this close?

That 'last time' had become a distant memory, during their mansion days before the ensuing estrangement. Long before this entire episode with Wellington.

"How about my neck? Or my shoulder? Isn't that where vampires usually bite their victims?"

"Don't be obscene." Jean flatly rejected, imagining himself digging himself into the thick muscles around Napoleon's neck.

"Then, my wrist?" Napoleon rubbed his pulse point.

"Are you sure it won't hurt? My fangs may sink deep."

Napoleon tugged at the white tips of his hair in frustration.

"Where else can I let you feed? My leg? There's plenty of skin for you to bite —oh."

Napoleon cleared his throat awkwardly.

"How about my neck? Or my shoulder? Isn't that where vampires usually bite their victims?"

"Don't be obscene." Jean flatly rejected, imagining himself digging himself into the thick muscles around Napoleon's neck.

"Then, my wrist?" Napoleon rubbed his pulse point.

"Are you sure it won't hurt? My fangs may sink deep."

Napoleon tugged at the white tips of his hair in frustration. "Where else can I let you feed? My leg? There's plenty of skin for you to bite —oh."

He showed the inside of his forearm.

"This part should be safe, I think." He tapped on an area near the bend of his elbow.

Jean was hesitant but grabbed Napoleon's wrist anyway and examined the patch of skin which Napoleon pointed.

"Once you've offered yourself to me, there's no turning back." the lesser vampire warned. "And don't thrash when I bite you."

"I'll be fine," Napoleon reassured him. "Just do what you must."

Jean nodded and dragged Napoleon's arm closer to his mouth.

"I will have to lick you. It's only customary."

"I don't mind. Take your time."

And thus, Jean darted his tongue across that tiny bit of skin. Napoleon could handle the ticklishness, but not the other sensation that was both pleasant and unpleasant at the same time.

"Can I do it now?" Jean inquired one last time.

Napoleon gulped. He knew his nervousness was anything unlike those of prey animals awaiting their death in their predator's jaws. There was no relinquishment of power, and there was no question of who had been stronger and who had been weaker.

As he had done countless times in his previous lifetime, he was gambling his trust in another man. Few put his life as collateral.

"Roll your hand into a fist," Jean instructed, his voice deep and oddly tranquilizing.

Napoleon closed his eyes as he felt sharp teeth piercing his skin. The fangs pushed down further, attempting to extract more blood from his veins.

His fingers grabbed the sand underneath them as he fought not to writhe even as the initial pain receded. His body recoiled as a different sensation invaded his senses.

Heat coursed through his entire being as the lesser vampire continued to suck on broken skin. The sound of Jean slurping and drinking grew distant as he surrendered to the all-encompassing delirium.

Losing himself in the grip of passion, Napoleon let out a stifled moan that ought to reach Jean's sensitive ears. Yet he refused to let go and kept latching onto his benefactor's arm.

Napoleon became acutely aware of Jean's fingerpad pressing on his skin. It would leave bruises the next morning, he knew.

All reason left Napoleon as he imagined the bite scarring, leaving a mark from Jean and this deed that would plunge them both into certain damnation.

The implications of this sick, perverted act were entirely lost to him as his mind screamed more, more more—

Jean withdrew his fangs and loosened his grip on Napoleon.

"I've had enough of my fill," Jean breathed laboriously. The deed drained him as much as it did Napoleon.

But his victim was too deep in his frenzy to notice that he'd stopped feeding. "Napoleon," he called.

At his friend's lack of response, Jean grabbed Napoleon's shoulder and shook it. "Napoleon!"

The man finally jolted and his eyes landed on Jean's still face. It was only centimeters away from his own.

"Are you alright?" the stoic man asked him cautiously. "Your skin is feverish."

"Am I?" Napoleon started, wiping his face. He realized that he was, indeed, sweating profusely.  

"Was it too hard on you?" Jean's concerned voice was barely audible to the dazed former emperor. "The wounds will need tending. If we don't stop the bleeding, you might—"

"Jean, I'm fine!" Napoleon snapped, unintentionally shoving the other man away. "I'm a vampire too! They should heal in no time, so if you just leave them that way—"

"You're not a full vampire, unlike us." Jean pulled his arm gingerly. "At the very least, allow me to dress them."

In the end, Napoleon obeyed. The two men silently sat as Jean started to rip some of their outer clothes apart.

"There," Jean patted Napoleon's arm as he finished wrapping the makeshift bandages. "Too tight?"

"No, it's perfect." Napoleon hurriedly replied. "Thank you."

He didn't wait for Jean to respond and retreated to his spot. Napoleon knew his behavior looked strange to the soldier, but he batted such thoughts away and laid down.

Napoleon knew he couldn't urge himself to sleep, especially since the feeding left certain parts of his body excited.

Cazzo. So this is what they mean when they say vampires possess the ability to seduce both men and women, regardless of their sex.

It was made worse by the fact that Jean was one of the most beautiful creatures he had ever encountered in both lifetimes.

Damnelu tuttu. How do I get this down—

"Bonne Nuit."

Jean quietly bid Napoleon good night, saving him from the panicked whirring of his mind.

"...you too." He piped.

Napoleon forcefully shut his eyes and waited for drowsiness to claim him. It had been a long day, and so will be the days ahead.

Both needed their rest before setting out on the road home, enduring the awkwardness and questions yet unspoken between them.

Uhhh thanks for sticking until the end. This long-ass fic is part of my Napoleon & Jean 1860s Tour de France AU, in which Jean kinda replaces the MC in Napoleon's route. There's a lot of kidnapping, violence, man-to-man bonding, and all that good stuff. .

Tagging @kisara-16, @thedollarstoresatan, @delicateikemenmemes, @ikesensrandomninjagirl24, @ashavazesa, @hokkaido-fox, @nuclearwinterexe, @lulu-the-hedgehog, @longingkisses, @weird-profiterole, @nafeary, @thesirenwashere (please notify me through DM if I missed anyone)

[atopearth]

Collar X Malice Part 4 - Shiraishi Kageyuki Route

Lmao that the way to get on Shiraishi's route is to be honest and call him strange hahah. Honestly, Shiraishi isn't my type, but I'm interested in him because he doesn't appear much in the other routes so he's pretty mysterious. I can see why Shiraishi is interested in Ichika though, especially considering he's involved in criminal profiling, it's like Ichika is such a normal girl, why exactly would Adonis be specifically interested in her? I liked how Shiraishi made it plain to Ichika that they needed to co-operate because she definitely wouldn't be able to find anything about a mole in the police force by herself, with no connections etc when others much more capable than her haven't been able to lol. It's actually cute how much Shiraishi seems to like cats, I agree that naming them as numbers is much easier to remember, but at the same time, to recognise 37 different cats? That's pretty amazing in itself lol. Honestly though, when he talked about it was nice to be a cat, getting to be lazy and free, but at the same time living with uncertainty and not knowing when you could die as a "price" of that freedom, it felt pretty sad... Is living freely better or living securely?🤔

Takeuchi (the teacher who taught the guys who died in the September and October cases) is so pretty! Anyway, I actually really like how much Shiraishi and Ichika bump heads with each other, especially considering how different they are, yet how "honest" they both are in the sense that Ichika doesn't hide her dislike towards him, and Shiraishi doesn't hide how much he's "interested" in people like her that he can't understand because they can empathise with others I guess. Personally, in terms of questioning Takeuchi, I would say that I have to agree with Shiraishi's methods, mainly because, I'm sure Takeuchi has been questioned many times, and there would have been many different officers, but probably not one as interested as Shiraishi and Ichika since they actually believe there's more to Hachisuka (the guy that was killed in the September case) than the "perfect" student. But I do think that if they want more information, then Shiraishi's methods would only let you know that there's something more to it, whereas Ichika's methods might get to her better? Anyway, what I really enjoy about their relationship right now is how upfront Ichika is about her feelings and thoughts towards him. I especially liked when she told him that he should remember her name because she felt that it was important for him to remember that so they could trust and respect each other. 

Lmao when Ichika thought she was joining some top secret coalition with Mukai but it was really just a complaining about Shiraishi group that comprised of Sakuragawa🤣 HAHAHA, I was wondering why would Sakuragawa hate Shiraishi but OMG it's super justified. He purposely bothered to have a chef make a "hamburger patty" out of natto just to see her reaction since she absolutely hates it lollll. I would hate him too. Honestly, I love Mukai, and how she handles Shiraishi because he totally deserves it lol. I find it funny how she can be so blunt with him, and lmao that she actually tried to kick him before but missed🤣 Shiraishi spending time every now and then to go and hear Mukai and them complain about him is so sadistically funny lol. Awww Ichika sleeping on his lap is super cuteeee. I wonder what Mukai and Sakuragawa are going to say since Shiraishi implied that they're in that sort of relationship and that's why they left the passed out Ichika (from accidentally chugging Shiraishi's drink) to him, I feel like they'd tell her to reconsider🤣 I wonder if no one ever thanks Shiraishi and that's why he was so surprised when Ichika thanked him for hiding the collar from Sakuragawa and Mukai for her lol. To be fair, considering his personality, I can't imagine anyone thanking him for anything he does lol. Lmao when Mukai and Sakuragawa interrogated Ichika about Shiraishi and her relationship loll, and now they want her to be a spy lmao. I don't know why so many guys like to think it's their responsibility to "teach" the heroine that it's either dangerous to let guys into their homes or to go to the guy's house alone, like seriously!! It's not that we don't think it's dangerous or anything, we just trust you! Like geez. Anyway, Shiraishi definitely went overboard pinning Ichika to the wall, regardless of his intentions, that's scary and unwarranted. Otherwise, I'm impressed Ichika wants to understand Shiraishi better after that. Anyway, I do feel like Shiraishi acted the way he did because he didn't know how to act towards Ichika. Usually he's met with people who either dislike him, don't care or outwardly dislike him, so I feel like Ichika being so nice to cook for him made him feel awkward and not know what to do and act since he's always so sadistic and cynical. I could be wrong though haha.

I forgot to mention it but it's interesting how it was Shiraishi's profiling that ended up catching the culprit 2 years ago when the attempted assassination on the Prime Minister was, since that was the case that changed Okazaki. I really liked how Ichika and Shiraishi finally communicated properly in the sense that they just bothered to talk to each other and try to understand each other. I guess considering his personality, most people would give up on him, so it must be surprising that Ichika is so persistent. I liked how he finally called her by her name haha. Awww, I love how they exchanged the cat straps they got from the gachapon machine. Imagining Shiraishi fiddling with one of those machines, never having played with one is pretty cute haha. Pretty hilarious when Shiraishi got flustered over Ichika saying she preferred him this way (not so weird lol) and he accidentally dropped a stack of papers🤣 I also found it pretty funny when she told him to be careful and he said he didn't need to, and Ichika was like you should practice what you preach since not taking your own advice is dumb😂😂 She totally got him hahahah. Aww Shiraishi thanking Ichika for trusting him was so cuteee. It was really sweet how Shiraishi acknowledged Ichika's efforts in the SCRPO, she really does try her best to listen to the people calling the police to complain and she really takes it all to heart, so it's nice to see how much he recognises her efforts. I wonder if Shiraishi's flashback means that he got experimented on as a child🤔 Anyway, I think I'm really warming up to their relationship. I think it's really cute how "normal" Shiraishi actually is lol. Him getting mad that Ichika was telling Sakuragawa and Mukai that she didn't feel anything for him, and then her running after him just to explain that she doesn't hate him, and then him getting happy and saying it back to her was just so adorable hahaha.

I feel so terrible for the counsellor lady (Uno) who got driven to suicide because of Hachisuka. Like, it was obvious Hachisuka wasn't as "clean" as his records said, but to think that he had so much power over the school because of his mother's "donations" and then couldn't hack that Uno rejected him (since you know she has a husband and kids, like c'mon dude) and then started threatening her + other mental torment from his groupies. It's just crazy to think that she ended up so ballistic (killed her husband and tried to kill her kids but failed and then ended up committing suicide) just because she refused a teenager's "love". That's just so sad.. It's nice to see more of Saeki this time around, it was so funny when he told Shiraishi to take care of Ichika because he believed in the rumours that they were dating. To be fair, he's eating dinner with her at work late at night sharing a lunchbox etc so it's hard to not think that even if they say they aren't lol. I guess those murderous twins are Uno's children? Anyway, I like how even though Shiraishi said a lot of mean stuff and crap to Ichika about everything being a lie, but Ichika decided to believe in the him she spent time with, and that if it was a lie, then he should show her his real self then. Ichika is pretty strong haha. Personally, I'm not a fan of the voice acting for Shiraishi, or maybe it's just Shiraishi himself lolll but I think I do like the progress with their relationship because of how blunt they are with each other. I think her honesty really works well with how sneaky and evasive Shiraishi usually is, since it's difficult for him to handle someone so genuinely kind and appreciative of him as a person haha. Well, Takeuchi's thoughts etc were pretty much expected, but very understandable, I don't think I could ever move on if I felt like I betrayed my friend and left her all alone just to protect myself. And her guilt would make her want to protect Uno's children now.. I'm not sure about Takeuchi's decision to tell Uno's children what really happened with their parents at the young age of 18 but I guess I can understand her thoughts of not wanting them to hate their mother. I guess she regrets it a lot now but yeah...that's sad..

Seeing the story of the Uno siblings was pretty terrible. Such a normal happy family getting crushed was terrible. I think the worst was definitely when their mother murdered their father right in front of them. Anyway, considering Shiraishi's analysis and everything, there's really no new information about their "story" so it's really just watching them struggle between their desires to live but also to die. I'm just glad the siblings had Takeuchi in their lives tbh, otherwise it would have been worse. When Shiraishi said that the feeling of someone needing you makes you think that it's all right to exist, I couldn't help but agree with that. I used to be obstinate with the idea that a person should create their own "value" and I guess their desire to live because in the end, you can't rely on others for your own life, and I guess I still think like that. But at the same time, I feel like there will always be times when another person can be your drive to live, and to make you think that you want to live because of them. Sure, it's not always the healthiest mindset, but at the same time, when you have nothing else to live for, at least having them makes you think that this life is still worth living to an extent even if other things suck. I'm glad that Takeuchi, Shion and Suzune got to properly talk it out and communicate their feelings, but I still find their reason for killing those three people to kinda like "free" Takeuchi rather...silly? Like I guess I can understand their perspective in the sense that they wanted to end things for Takeuchi, but even though they ended that part, they started another part where Takeuchi would feel guilty that her actions led to those decisions that they made. Anyway, I guess the main thing we can be happy about is that they understood well enough that killing themselves would torment Takeuchi much more, but it's still kinda funny that they can understand that but not understand enough to not commit murder. I guess their hatred and emotions needed some sort of outlet, and just because you understand doesn’t mean you won’t do it.

It's understandable for Shiraishi to love cats for their freedom, and I think that's what I love about cats too, well I guess more specifically stray cats or outdoor cats. They don't live according to anyone's schedule, they go out and do what they want, come home when they feel like it and are cute lol. Their lives are much more vibrant than mine and I think that's so interesting. I loved their cat observing date, it was so cute how serious Ichika was about trying to remember each individual cat and writing notes down just because she knew Shiraishi likes them so she wanted to be more engaged in it too. Them holding hands to the supermarket was adorableeee~ Lmao, I love how Ichika lured Kazuki to the office with Yanagi and them by stealing his guitar, I mean of course with how disobedient he is, he'll never go just because she told him so. I guess it's good that Shiraishi helped to make Kazuki more understanding of the seriousness of the situation. 

Hmmm interesting, when Adonis executives were leaked, I'm pretty sure it was Shiraishi, but killing Mikuni (prime minister's son in Adonis) in broad daylight? I'm pretty sure the "voice" Shiraishi talked to throughout the story was Mikuni and he seemed to have some kind of relationship with him that was relatively positive, so hmmm.. Did Zero do something to frame or manipulate Shiraishi? I see, Shiraishi's been brainwashed to practically follow Zero and Adonis... I really liked how there were flashbacks with Ichika and Shiraishi to kinda remind us of everything they've gone through, because even though Shiraishi isn't really a favourite of mine, I did enjoy Ichika and Shiraishi's relationship build up and I can understand why she would believe in the him that he showed to her rather than the him that Zero tells her he is. Hmmm I guess that "good ending" was interesting. I'm kinda disappointed with how things were revealed and how they ended though, like... I'm honestly rather mixed about the whole thing because I feel like Shiraishi's story could have been dealt with much better alongside his feelings, because I found his reasoning to kill Mikuni to gain the trust of Zero just to get Ichika's collar off I don't know...weird? There could have been better ways? But I guess this is how Shiraishi is in his own twisted and brainwashed way so it was understandable that he did it this way? But at the same time, I agree with Ichika about if he really loved her that much, why couldn't he find a method where they could live on together instead of this. Anyway, I wanted to call Shiraishi selfish for keeping Ichika with him when she was in a coma when she could have gone to a hospital etc, but knowing Ichika, I'm sure she would have wanted to spend as much time as she could with Shiraishi before he atoned for his crimes. And, he did seem to be in regular communication with Yanagi and them, so I'm glad Kazuki didn't have to think she died and stuff, but I’m still iffy because considering Kazuki and stuff, I wouldn’t trust this random with my sister lol. Anyway, it's a bittersweet ending, but I did enjoy how everything ended with the Christmas party they promised to celebrate together. That tragic love ending CG was really beautiful though! And I'm glad to finally see an ending where Ichika gets practically brainwashed and joins Adonis after failing to save Shiraishi, and inversely Shiraishi failing to protect her and her heart. Although I kinda still find it unlikely that she would be able to kill Yanagi and them but who knows, doesn't really matter I guess.

Overall, I have mixed feelings about Shiraishi. He's definitely not my type but I did enjoy how Ichika and Shiraishi kinda bounced off each other with their differences and personal values. They were always upfront with what they thought and honest about what they liked, what they didn't like and I think their relationship was done really nicely. They had a lot of cute moments such as visiting the stray cats and holding hands etc and I honestly feel like I should have liked Shiraishi, but I actually don't lol. Like, I guess I liked their relationship, but his story and everything didn't resonate with me. Personally, I feel like the greatest setback for this route was actually that it focused too much on building the romance and neglected Shiraishi's background with Adonis, his feelings and thoughts, and his relationship with Mikuni that ended up hurting him because he basically killed him to help Ichika. I feel like everything about Shiraishi and Adonis at the end was like an information dump about how Adonis takes care of orphans to raise as their officers or whatever, which imo felt kinda weird because supposedly so many of them exist but they’re never a part of the story in any way, and why do they bother trying to find people like Ichika to become executors other than to use them as scapegoats or something, but the core of the X-Day plans basically has nothing to do with these officers? Anyway, I just found the whole thing with Shiraishi and Adonis to be handled poorly and I think it could have made a bigger impact on me if they bothered to focus a bit more on it throughout the route instead of just at the end where it honestly didn't make me feel anything for him or the whole thing. I sound so slack lolll, but the biggest indication that I really didn't enjoy it that much was when I straight away went into Yanagi's story afterwards loll. I usually need time to digest when I finish a route, but yeah I think I was pretty disappointed with Shiraishi and his route. But I do like how it was different to the others since it's not really a "happy ending" considering he's a criminal etc, so that was interesting, but I feel sorry for the people that would have wanted something happier. Anyhow, really liked the romance development and their relationship but not so much the Adonis stuff surrounding Shiraishi, however the Uno siblings were nice “villains” for this route.

[goodlucktai]

i’ll find a ring if you’ll find a shaded tree

good omens pairing: aziraphale/crowley word count: 3203

read on ao3

x

There were plenty of ways Crowley might have imagined his afternoon going, if he had spared the idea any mind. It’s miserable out, the sky sponged gray all the way across with heaving rain clouds, so one could safely assume it would be an afternoon spent largely in the warm indoors until his dinner date with an angel later in the evening.

This assumption, if made at all, would be markedly dashed (pointedly, even, with a fat red marker and a pair of eyebrows raised above the clipboard as if to say ‘you really thought you’d get away with a quiet day in?’) by said angel himself.

The door jumps open, locked at all times but never at all for Aziraphale, and then closes again with two identical slams. There’s a brief stutter to Aziraphale’s hurried steps as he presumably tries to adhere to politeness and toe off his brogues in the foyer without losing any forward momentum.

“Crowley! I’ve been calling you, your stupid answer-thing is full!”

In the time it takes Crowley to sit up from his boneless sprawl on the sofa, Aziraphale is there in all his pale creams and butter yellows, as well as a criminally soft dove gray sweater vest Crowley gifted him four Christmases ago.

He’s lovely, as always, and there’s a happy, squirmy little creature in Crowley’s chest stirred to life by his voice and proximity alone; but he’s wearing a look of wide-eyed panic better suited a man at the wrong end of a firing squad, and working furiously at the signet ring that’s adorned his pinky since the actual beginning of time.

“Angel? What’s-- “ Crowley seizes up in some alarm when the angel keeps coming, piling onto the sofa with such disregard that Crowley has to either yank his knees up to his chest or lose them. “Oi!”

“Give me your hand,” Aziraphale whispers furiously, like a man afraid to be caught speaking in church. He catches hold of Crowley’s wrist, pushes the ring onto the traditional finger, and goes on, “Do exactly as I say, and for the love of all that’s holy, don’t ask questions.”

There is absolutely no way Crowley can abide these terms. If the threat of Falling wasn’t enough to keep his mouth shut in the Beginning, an Aziraphale-brand snit certainly won’t be, so-- just as soon as Crowley can get his jaw to stop hanging open, and kick his backfiring brain back into operating speeds, and do anything besides sit there and ogle Aziraphale’s ring on Crowley’s finger-- then there are absolutely going to be questions. Loads of them.

However, beating him to the punch, is the flashbang arrival of an Archangel.

Gabriel, to be precise.

Aziraphale tenses. Crowley’s hackles go up in as textbook a Pavlovian response as there’s ever been.

He feels his skin spring to scale, sharp canines lengthening, and the way the room swims into fuzzy, heat-based vision means his eyes have probably gone all yellow, too.  

‘And die already,’ Gabriel had said, to Aziraphale’s precious form. ‘Die already,’ like it was the last revision on an audit report and then he could clock out for the day and call it a job well done.

For what he would have easily-- casually-- taken from Crowley, there isn’t an end in sight to this wounded rage.

“Alright, dearest,” Aziraphale murmurs, putting a hand on the small of Crowley’s back. It’s so quiet there’s a good chance Gabriel can’t hear, and even with the thrum of nervous tension in every inch of Aziraphale’s corporeal form, he spares Crowley something soft. “It’s alright.”

“So this is where you’ve run off to,” Gabriel says, looking about in open distaste. “Who decorated this place, anyway? I love the empty space, don’t think I like the color.”

It’s the light pressure of Aziraphale’s hand on him keeping Crowley pinned to the sofa, and only that. He’s as good as chiseled from stone, mouth open only slightly to track Gabriel’s scent, to show off his teeth.

(He does make a mental note to change everything about the flat Gabriel even halfway approves of. No, scratch that, he’s starting over completely. He’s moving to Chelsea. Fuck you, onion eyes.)

“Well, I had to see it for myself,” the unwelcome creature goes on cheerfully. “Not that we didn’t believe you, Aziraphale, just that-- well, you’ve fudged the truth a bit before, haven’t you? No, don’t look like that, it’s forgotten!” He waves a hand over his shoulder, carelessly. “Let’s leave the past in the past, or whatever it is they say, I don’t know. And with Her approval, there’s not much room for argument from me is there?”

He laughs, inviting them to share in the joke. Aziraphale doesn’t even smile, and Crowley is actively waiting for Gabriel to come two steps forward and one to the right, where he would be just out of the way of the coffee table and well within striking distance. Aziraphale’s fingers bunch in the back of Crowley’s shirt as if to say ‘don’t you dare’.

“To think, we assumed you were fraternizing with the enemy all this time when you’ve actually been in love! There’s nothing wrong with love, is there? That’s as holy as it gets!” He sounds like a kindergartner describing their parent’s job exactly as it was described to them, with all the confidence and faculty of someone who has no idea what the words coming out of their mouth even mean. He either has no clue how to read a room or he’s bluffing his way through this uncomfortable situation like a pro. Clapping his hands together in a self-satisfied way he adds, “Make sure you save us a table!”

“It’s going to be a private affair, I should think,” Aziraphale says stiffly. “Close friends and family only.”

“Probably better that way, not too crowded,” Gabriel agrees with a commiserating nod. It’s as if Aziraphale slammed a door right in his face and he just chose not to notice. He turns to leave, and pauses, turning his hat in his hands. “I have to say, Aziraphale, I really am relieved this whole thing got straightened out. I thought you had lost your way.”

It’s an unexpected moment of sincerity. Aziraphale blinks, but Crowley isn’t so easily won.

“After six thousand years of making his life a misery, you want to extend the olive branch now? Now that you know he won’t drag you down with him?” Crowley bares his teeth. “How’s that for unconditional love?”

If a single lunch date at the Ritz watching Aziraphale eat both his and Crowley’s own vanilla custard and listening to him complain about some obstinate customer or another would cost Crowley absolutely everything, he would pay it. He would be a fool not to pay it. He can’t imagine the audacity of six thousand years wasted. All that time, all those angels were free to know Aziraphale, free to love him, and they chose not to.

As happy as Crowley is to fill that space, to take that spot, he’s angry it was ever left empty to begin with.

Gabriel is watching him with an expression that can’t decide whether it’s more startled or annoyed. Aziraphale’s free hand finds one of Crowley’s, working it free of its fist and threading their fingers together. His thumb rubs at the patch of shining black scales just under his knuckles, soothing. It’s as if he’s loosing plates of Crowley’s armor one by one, the way he did in Wessex once after a round in the tiltyard. He doesn’t speak but his body says hush.

Crowley bites the inside of his lip, so hard it almost draws blood.

“She said we could stand to learn a thing or two from you,” Gabriel says. It’s not so much annoyance as it is scrutiny, but that rankles even more. “I wasn’t sure what She meant before, but it’s love isn’t it?” He says it again like an animal mimicking a human word. The sound is almost right, except in its lacking of all meaning. “Demons aren’t supposed to know it, but you do.”

“Well, look at the time,” Aziraphale says loudly, not even pretending to look round at a clock or Crowley’s watch. “I can’t believe we’re nearly late for our appointment. I guess you’d better go, Gabriel.”

Gabriel lights up with the manic eagerness of upper management that every hourly employee knows to dread. “Would you mind giving a seminar? We could arrange a day-pass for you, and cater lunch! Aziraphale would like that, I’m sure. Just look at him.”

Aziraphale doesn’t react, but it’s a studied non-reaction that means the barb hit home. Oh, that complete and utter git.

Gabriel takes two steps forward and one to the right. Crowley watches with animal stillness as the archangel rounds the coffee table, saying something about PowerPoint presentations. He’s going to bite. One good snap. It’s Gabriel’s fault for coming over this way. You don’t just invite yourself into the snake’s den, do you? Not without a nasty repercussion, at least. And besides, Crowley’s not even venomous today. Probably.

At the last second, Aziraphale bullies him back against the sofa with angelic strength, an arm pinned across Crowley’s chest like an iron bar and his own body blocking access to Gabriel’s. Crowley hisses at him and pushes ineffectively at the solid weight of him, but he might as well have been pushing at the side of the bookshop for all the good he was doing.

“I really think,” Aziraphale grits out in the ‘we are very much closed for the day, no more sales I’m afraid, please make your way to the exit’ tone Crowley is intimately familiar with, “that you should leave now.”

“Al-right,” Gabriel says in his obnoxious accent. He looks disappointed, but bounces back too quickly for Crowley’s taste. “I’ll get back to you on that seminar. Maybe we can chat at the wedding!”

Aziraphale only sits up when Gabriel is well and truly gone, straightening his vest with unhappy tugs. Crowley remains coiled against the arm of the sofa, seething.

“Should have let me take off his arm, ” he mutters. “A hand at least.”

“It’s simply not worth the paperwork, my dear.”

Something’s wrong with Aziraphale’s voice. It wobbles a bit, in a way that sends alarm bells ringing in every square inch of Crowley’s form, and when Crowley leans forward to get a good look at him, sure enough-- there are tears in his eyes.  

The anger deserts Crowley as deftly as the light of the Host once did. Color returns to his vision, fangs retracting back into only slightly sharper-than-human canines, and the hands he reaches for Aziraphale with are smooth and scaleless.

“Angel,” he says hopelessly. “Hey, I’m sorry. I won’t bite anybody, swear.”

Aziraphale chuckles a bit, accepting the hands that curl around his own and squeezing Crowley’s fingers in turn.

“It’s not you who needs to apologize. I can’t believe I’ve done this.”

“The wedding sham?”

True, Crowley’s heart knocks a little harder against his chest than it has any right to at the idea of-- marrying Aziraphale, being married to him. There’s a ring on his finger and he can’t even think about that without a giddy, champagne-bubbles feeling making a nuisance of itself in the unguarded part of himself that’s been a lost cause since Eden. But…

Aziraphale nods, miserable. “They came to the bookshop to offer a performance review. A performance review, of all things, after a year-- anyway. Naturally, they want to know how we escaped their judgement, and all those clever lies we thought up just weren’t doing the trick, and Sandalphon started talking about going round to yours, and I-- panicked. I couldn’t let him-- “ He takes a fortifying breath, grip on Crowley’s hands tightening to the point that a mortal’s bones would have broken. “I made up some fanciful story about a union. I believe I called it a marriage of true minds,” he adds with a half-smile, and seems galvanized at Crowley’s amused snort. “Michael tried to call my bluff, had me sign the form and submit it right there with the four of them as witnesses, and…”

“And it worked,” Crowley surmises. He taps the back of Aziraphale’s hand with his thumb and tries not to think about ineffable plans or inscrutable mothers. He almost manages it.

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale whispers. “I knew it would work, I knew it would. I’ve known for… a long time. Since Hamlet, at least.”

Crowley feels himself go red, and abruptly can’t make eye contact anymore. It’s really quite something, to suddenly have to address the elephant that’s followed you room to room for roughly four hundred years. He gives a tentative tug at his hands, and Aziraphale absolutely does not release him.

“Please look at me, Crowley.”

He almost can’t. He certainly doesn’t want to. He’s babbling, he realizes with vague horror, saying something along the lines of, “It’s a human thing, Aziraphale, they made it up back when people first decided they needed heirs to inherit houses, you were there, we tried to talk them out of it.”

Lunch dates at the Ritz. Picnics in the park. Warm evenings in the back room, dozing under piles of worn quilts on a worn tartan sofa, the hearth left empty because fire in the bookshop makes Crowley twitch and Aziraphale can read him like any one of his precious books. Sharing chilled white wines and heady reds, cherry cordials that leave smudges on Aziraphale’s lips, thousands and thousands of years of stories they both remember a little bit differently.

It’s good. Better than Crowley knows how to ask for. He can’t stand the thought of losing it.

Fingers touch his chin, gently, and guide his face up.

“And furthermore,” Crowley insists hysterically, “it doesn’t have to change anything. You were clever to come up with it, and if it worked that’s even better, and we can just go through the motions, an addendum to our Arrangement. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Aziraphale says, “My darling, it means everything. Of course it does. Only this isn’t how I wanted it to go.”

His voice is tinged with tears again, but they seem borne of frustration rather than hurt. Crowley risks a nervous glance at him, heart surging up hopefully like some sort of stupid buoy.

“I wanted to do it properly,” Aziraphale is saying, brow furrowed, mouth all puckered. “You deserve champagne and flowers, all that fuss you pretend to hate. I see you get all misty-eyed at proposals, even ones on television commercials.” Crowley squawks, outraged at the flagrant slander, but Aziraphale goes right on, “There’s a meteor shower coming up that’s supposed to be the event of the century, and I had-- it was, I had everything planned. Your ring isn’t even ready yet. This is all horrible.”

Crowley stares at him. He thinks maybe he’s supposed to say something into this silence, but for the life of him, he’s got nothing. Aziraphale’s ring seems to burn on his finger. After the seconds melt into minutes, Aziraphale looks at him. His expression recycles its defeat into concern.

“Crowley? Sweetheart, what is it?”

The endearment sends a shiver all the way down Crowley’s spine. He opens and closes his hands like lobster pincers, to be certain he’s not gone actually paralyzed, and still Aziraphale doesn’t let them go.

“You said,” he says intelligently, and then doesn’t know where to go from there. “It wasn’t a lie?” he tries again, in a rather small voice.

“The marriage?” Aziraphale searches his face in the manner of a grad student desperately searching the footnotes of an incomprehensible text. “Of course it wasn’t. A fake marriage certificate would hardly have been approved by God.”

Crowley tries to say something and only manages to come up with a squeaking sound. Somehow, it betrays him entirely, and Aziraphale’s eyebrows come together.

“The proposal is meant to be a surprise, but I would have hoped we were on the same page with the engagement.”

Before he can make sense of literally any one thing about this situation, brain still struggling to jump the hurdle of the word ‘engagement’ in regards to them, Crowley finds himself so wholly embraced that he’s practically hauled into Aziraphale’s lap.

He sputters, puts up a token protest, and goes absolutely pliant when he feels lips against the crown of his head.

A halo used to rest there, shining like anything, but a kiss is much better.

They’ve kissed before, when it was culturally appropriate and even a few times when it wasn’t, but something is different about this time. Namely, that Aziraphale kisses him again, on the forehead this time, and then again on the bridge of his nose, and then again on the cheek, and then again right on the corner of his mouth, and Crowley is almost ready for it when their lips slide together, his breath almost doesn’t hitch when Aziraphale kisses him like they do in romance films, like he means to never stop.

They part because Crowley’s lungs have forgotten they don’t actually need air and because Aziraphale seems to want to gaze at him.

“I know I’ve said it before,” he says. “I know you heard me.”

‘They’ll destroy you.’

‘That was very kind of you.’

‘I won’t have you risking your life.’

‘I forgive you.’

‘To the world.’

“I heard you,” Crowley says, because he did.

He always heard Aziraphale, even when Aziraphale had no clue he was calling out. He heard ‘oh, you silly idiot’ and ‘you’re not as funny as you think you are’ and ‘please come in, please convince me to let you stay’ in a sidelong glare or the roll of his eyes or the downward turn of his mouth when they stood by the shop door.

And every lunch date at the Ritz and picnic in the park and evening in the back room was stuffed full of ‘I love you’s. A tartan quilt and an unlit fireplace and a cherry cordial, passed from an angel’s fingers to a demon’s mouth, were quiet, secret ways to say what it wasn’t always safe to say.

“Me, too,” he whispers.

“My Crowley,” Aziraphale says affectionately, another way of saying what he’s been saying for years, “I know.”

Desperately trying to get his footing back, Crowley rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand and sits back as far as Aziraphale’s arms will allow him to go.

“I still want that proposal,” he informs the angel. “During the meteor shower. With all the fuss you promised. I’ll be sure to act surprised.”

Aziraphale smiles at him. “You can’t act to save your life. I see right through you, you know.”

But that’s hardly Crowley’s fault. Six thousand years of being known would give away anybody’s edge. He rolls his eyes, and settles into where he’s obviously meant to stay for awhile, looping his arms around Aziraphale’s neck.

“The act is for everyone else’s benefit, angel. We know better, don’t we?” Crowley grins, crooked, and thinks of apples and flaming swords, freely given. “We always have.”

[miracul0us-multishipper]

Welcome to the back (Part 5)

First Chapter  Previous Chapter  Next Chapter

Thank you so much for all your sweet feedback!

This chapter deals a little more with Lila’s manipulations and their first effects, and both Chat Noir And Felix make a move. With varying degrees of success.

Also, Felix would literally die for Maman Cheng’s Quiche.

- - -

Lila was fuming when she arrived at home.

“Who does he think he is?!”, she spit out between clenched teeth. “He had zero proof!”

And not only had her attempt to win Felix over failed, Hawkmoth hadn’t even sent an Akuma for her! That, or this goddamn beetle had caught it before it had reached her.

“What a dutiful little bug, aren’t you, Ladybug?”, she seethed on. “Always looking out for butterflies. Well, newsflash: you aren’t perfect! And as soon as you let one of them slip through, Volpina is going to kick your ass!”

That brought her thoughts to another pain in her butt and she threw her phone away in frustration. If it weren’t for that pigtailed goody two shoes, Felix would be writing poems of admiration for Lila by now. All these beautiful words, lost because that stupid Marinette couldn’t leave Felix alone. He was unreachable for her now!

Taking a deep breath, Lila tried to calm down.

Don’t do anything rash. We’ve come so far.

She still had Adrien wrapped around her finger. That boy was so eager to believe her, he threw all reason away for some pretty fairy tale. And as long as his father was with her, she had Adrien handled.

Still. Loosing her chance with Felix had... hurt her. She hadn’t realized she’d looked forward to their relationship that much.

Sighing she fell on her bed and grabbed her phone, going through his poems. She’d pictured how everything would go from the moment she’d looked through his bag. He would’ve been smitten with her writing, her poetry resonating with his. Once they were on their date at the Eiffel Tower, he wouldn’t have been able to deny how pretty she looked with the sunset illuminating her face, the wind in her hair... He would’ve intertwined his soft, slender fingers with hers and confessed how connected he felt to her. She would’ve blushed and told him to stop, but he would’ve written her a poem about his feelings for her and kissed her hand. Then they would’ve kissed, just as the sun disappeared and the lights at the tower went on. The rest of the evening, they would have talked about their shared affinity for words and tales, how they both could spin their audiences in webs of emotion and wonder - even though they used different mediums to accomplish that. He would’ve realized that they were the only ones that understood each other, that they were made for each other, that they were soulmates. How they were better than these silly children in their class.

She groaned and turned her phone off, not bearing to see his pretty poems now.

It was all Marinette’s fault! She’d stolen that future from her and Felix!

Lila froze.

Wait a second.

Since when did she give up that easily?! This was Marinette she was talking about! That girl didn’t have enough brain cells to walk properly! She was no opponent for her, Lila Rossi, the cunning Volpina! She was the Queen of Lies, the Master of Manipulation, Gaslighting and Illusions! If she wanted Felix, she’d get Felix!

With renewed determination, she got in front of her computer. She had some research to do!

-

“There you are, Chaton!” Ladybug greeted her partner. She was still smiling from her encounter with Felix, and determined that this patrol would go smoothly. Chat Noir replied with his usual smirk.

“If you don’t look energized today, My Lady! Happy to see me?”

She chuckled and landed next to him, on the rooftops next to the Seine.

“Come on, Kitty! This city doesn’t patrol itself, you know?”

“Actually, can we wait a few more minutes?” her partner asked with surprising seriousness. “I wanted to talk to you.”

She wanted to refuse - she still had to catch up on her missed history lesson, time was precious - but the pleading look in his big green eyes made her weak.

“Alright” she sighed. “But only shortly! What is it, Kitty?”

He hummed.

“You always call me these pet names. It’s so cute!”

“Chat. Focus.”

“Right! Uh, my dad is... the owner of a business, you know? Famous and renowned across France. He always has to look super professional, or his investors run over to his rivals.”

“Okay?” Ladybug tried to follow, unsure where this was supposed to go.

“You kind of remind me of him, sometimes! You’re both smart, and very serious about your work, and usually too busy.”

She didn’t know if he wanted to compliment or insult her.

“Anyway, my mom and I are very similar, he always says. She used to work for him, as a model. And when they fell in love, my dad was a bit worried a relationship with one of his coworkers might look unprofessional. ‘What would everyone say?’, and so on.”

“And then?”

He shrugged.

“Nothing. They got married and it worked out fine. No problems whatsoever.”

“Huh.”

Chat looked at her, obviously expecting something, so she added: “That’s... a very sweet story. Your parents sound very lucky.”

He beamed.

“Yeah! And luck is just our thing, right?”

“Uh, yes” she agreed carefully. What did they have to do with his parents. “But why are you telling me this?”

“I just wanted to let you know... I understand how important it is for you to look professional. And that I support you, always. You don’t have to worry.”

“Thanks?” She was positively confused now. “I don’t think anybody doubts our professionalism, but... that’s reassuring.”

“You’re welcome.”

He probably meant well, even though she didn’t understand what he was playing at. So when he closed his eyes and leaned in, her mind had yet to catch up. Only when he was actually pressing his lips on hers, it clicked.

She slapped him. Hard.

“Ow! What the-“

“Oh no, that’s my line, Chat! What the fuck?!”, she hissed out, wiping her mouth with her wrist. Chat looked up, his face shifting from shock to betrayal.

“I-I thought-“

“You thought what?! You can just kiss me out of the blue after I repeatedly told you I’m not in love with you?! What don’t you get about that?”

If he looked hurt, she didn’t care. She was tired of this, tired of his advances. For once in her life, she wanted him to listen and understand her!

“I- someone told me you were worried that-“

“Why are you so quick to listen to some bystander, but refuse to hear my very! Clear! Answer!”

“Your answer isn’t clear at all!”, Chat Noir yelled back, getting to his feet. “You say you don’t love me, but you’re acting like you do! You call me pet names, you flirt with me, you kiss me all the time! So either you enjoy leading me on, or you’re lying to both of us about your true feelings!”

“Aaaargh!”, she groaned in frustration, clasping her hands above her head, “You’re impossible!”

“No, I’m simply making my feelings very clear for you! We are partners, and we’re supposed to be honest with each other!”

She tore her hair. He was so stubborn, so obstinate that that he could do no wrong. She wanted to scream.

“Chat, I honestly don’t want you to kiss me.” she tried to keep it simple, lowering her voice to prevent herself from lashing out. But Chat certainly didn’t help at that.

“That’s okay! We can just hold hands, if you want to. Or go for Ice cream.”

“No! I don’t want any of that! Kwamis above!”

“Then what do you want?!

If she didn’t get out of here, she’d do something stupid. Slap him again, probably.

“Leave me alone, Chat.”, she pressed out, her voice breaking.

“What? We’re partners! You- We need each other!”

“I’ll handle patrol from now on.”, she ordered, leaving no room for discussion. “Until you can accept that I don’t reciprocate your feelings, we should only work together when necessary.”

She swallowed, throwing her yo-yo.

“Please, Chat.”

Then she was off, disappearing behind the buildings of Paris. Leaving a stunned, upset Cat behind. It took him a while before he could move, and even longer before he reached his home. Detransforming had never felt so draining to him.

“What the everloving Fluff were you thinking?” Plagg raged as soon as the ring set him free. Adrien groaned.

“Not now, Plagg. I really don’t feel up to this now.”

“You don’t feel up to this?” Plagg snarled incredulously. “I don’t feel up to this! I don’t feel up to anything! Ever! And even I can’t let you do something like this!”

“How should I have known she’d react like this?” the boy defended himself. “Lila said-“

“Volpina-Girl! You know she doesn’t like Ladybug! But somehow you thought her love advice is more credible than the answer Ladybug has been giving you for months!”

“But she’s Ladybug! And I’m her Black Cat! We’re completing each other.”

Plagg shook his head.

“Right now, you overgrown airhead, you are about to loose even the most platonic part of her feelings for you. It’s simple: that or nothing, Kiddo.”

-

Where Ladybug was lonelier than ever, Marinette was soaring high. After Alya apologized for not believing in her innocence regarding the poems, the others soon followed - much to Lila’s dismay. And the compulsive liar got even angrier after seeing how much closer Marinette and Felix were becoming. Marinette found that she didn’t care.

Felix was... odd. He spoke clear and directly, not caring if he sounded rude. He didn’t like warm temperatures, preferring to hide on the shady yard. He listened to classical music, but had beaten Marinette more than once at Freestyle Clash 2.

(“Rap is poetry as well!”, he had defended himself when she teased him about it.)

He also didn’t like crowds, or people in general. But whenever Marinette was chatting with her classmates, she found him listening attentively, even if his eyes were glued to his book. While he didn’t want to be actively involved, he wasn’t antisocial either.

And to be honest, she appreciated his silent company more than ever when her other friends became... overwhelming. Being around Felix was easy. His mere presence was calming, as if everything was in control.

“Girl, are you there? ‘Cause if I’m not losing my senses you’re staring at Mister Icecold instead of Sunshine Boy.”

Marinette blinked, pulled back into the real world. Alya was looking at her expectantly, eyebrows raised so high they almost vanished beneath her hair.

“I didn’t!”, Marinette insisted, but Alya rolled her eyes.

“Come on, you’ve been hanging out with him and him alone for the past week! What’s up with that?”

“Nothing! I just really like Felix, that’s all. You know I have a crush on Adrien.”

Alya’s eyes were scrutinizing but playful.

“Hm... If you say so?” She chuckled. “I should be glad. Frosty is kind of scaring me, actually. He’s so rude!”

Marinette huffed with arms akimbo.

“He’s just... honest! And hasn’t been around people much. He doesn’t mean to be rude, he just doesn’t want to lie for politeness’ sake either.”

“I don’t mean that. At least, not only that. He’s been glaring at Lila whenever she tries to speak with him.”

Marinette sighed. They’d talked this over at least a dozen times already, and while Marinette didn’t call Lila a Liar openly anymore, she did like to give hints. Which Alya successfully ignored.

“Just... let’s get to class. I don’t want to be late again.”

While Felix hated nothing more than talking during the lessons (“It’s disrespectful!”) he did communicate from time to time. Over the course of the week, they had developed an intricate language of stolen glances and discreet expressions that was comprehensible to them alone.

When Marinette fell into her seat next to him and replied “present” upon hearing her name from Mme Bustier, he gave her a concerned look from her to Alya.

Everything okay with you two?

Marinette shrugged and rolled her eyes.

Just the usual disagreement.

He huffed, concentrating on the lesson, but not without nudging her leg with his knee. His gesture for showing support.

“Before we continue with Napoleon, let me make an announcement.”, Mme Bustier caught her class’s attention. “Since you’ve all been so eager and hardworking during Monsieur Agreste’s bowler hat contest, I’ve been looking for another opportunity to let your creativity run free.”

She smiled at the front row.

“Since Lila has so generously helped me out, You now have the chance to participate in a competition called “Journalism Junior”, hosted by Alec Cataldi and Nadja Chamack.”

The class cheered and Alya high fived Lila, who smiled as Adrien patted her on the shoulder. A sharp pang in Marinette’s chest made her look away.

“If you want to enter the competition, you’ll have to create a report on something that greatly impacted you, until next Friday,” Mme Bustier continued. “It can be about your greatest inspirations or fears, a problem you want to draw attention to or something you want to support. Copying is as always,” a sharp glance at Chloé and Sabrina, “strictly forbidden! This is about an honest and genuine insight into Paris’ youth, so be true to yourselves!”

As soon as Mme Bustier finished, the class was alive with the buzz of excited students.

“Journalism! Not really my specialty, but sounds interesting.”, Marinette beamed at her gloomy neighbor. “I think I’ll do something about fashion! Or baking? Or media design?”

Felix only huffed and Marinette stilled.

“Is... everything okay?”

He blinked and straightened himself.

“Yes, of course. Journalism just isn’t my cup of tea.”

He leaned his head sideways.

“You should do something about fashion. You’re talking about it constantly, and I’ve seen your room. If something has an impact on you, it’s designing.”

“You’re right!”, she agreed, already thinking about what sketches she should work with. “Oh, will you do the report on your poems? No, wait, they’re personal. Your music then? I’ve heard you play the violin in the art room, it’s magical!”

Felix’ cheeks appeared a bit more saturated for a moment, almost as if he were blushing, but it disappeared when he shook his head.

“I won’t participate at all.”, he clarified sternly. “I’ve had enough people trying to peak into my life. But I’ll help you with yours. You’re horrible with deadlines.”

“True”, she grimaced. “But I don’t get why the behavior of other journalists should keep you from trying something out yourself!”

His fingers twitched, betraying that this was about something entirely else. A bit gentler she added: “Are you sure you don’t want to do something of your own? It’s different if other people try to drag your personal life into the limelight, or if you willingly share something on your own terms.”

“Hm...”, he murmured, before giving her one of his rare smiles. “You are exceptionally smart, Marinette. I appreciate your advice.”

She rolled her eyes. He could’ve as well written her a thank you letter, as formal as he was.

“Thanks. But don’t think I haven’t noticed you’re deflecting!”

She backed down anyway. Felix obviously didn’t want to share his thought process with her, but hopefully, he just needed some time.

Or maybe she was just misinterpreting his behavior and blowing things out of proportion. Wouldn’t be the first time for her.

-

Felix might not look the part, but he did think about what Marinette had said. She was right, of course. There was a difference between someone stealing his secrets, and himself sharing them. But to him it had always been technical at best, a mere incongruence in terminology.

Insisting on being involved in Mum’s company from an early age on had put him in the spotlight far more than he’d anticipated, then. When he took up modeling – the only way to help he was given, his mother didn’t want him to “waste his childhood with adults work” – he’d become a minor celebrity basically overnight. It hadn’t gotten better when he grew up.

He’d always felt like some sort of public property, a puppet for others to project onto, or a fancy building people went sightseeing for on weekends. More than once his mother had to hire security people to ensure he had some semblance of peace outside, without being bothered by fans or paparazzi. His father’s position and... attitude certainly hadn’t helped to give him some personal space. So, at one point... he’d simply stopped going amongst people. And he didn’t mind that!

But the week he’d spent with Marinette, or even Aurore and Marc, had made him realize that while he could be on his own... he didn’t want to, anymore. Not always at least. They were so... generous with everything, sharing help or stories or simply their company with him. Especially Marinette, without ever expecting anything in return.

He wanted to return something, though. Anything to let her know he appreciated her. To make her smile the way she drew out his own.

So when school was over, he waited for her to pack up her things and get ready to go.

“You wouldn’t happen to be free this afternoon?”, he asked quietly. There where a few other students left in the room, Rossi and Agreste among them, and while he’d never concern himself enough with them to whisper, he wouldn’t push his luck either. This afternoon should go as smoothly as possible.

Marinette smiled and nodded.

“Sure! Want to come over for lunch again? Maman made Quiche.”

He saw Adrien perk up four rows further, and Felix himself found his determination waver. The Dupain-Cheng Quiche was a work of high culinary art, as he’d learned the last time he’d visited Marinette. But no! He had to stay strong! This was for Marinette!

“Actually, I’d hoped you came back home with me for lunch.”

He fidgeted a little, which was odd for him since it usually annoyed him on other people.

“It’s as you said, I should try to share things willingly, on my own terms, and you... make me feel like it can’t be that hard.”

Her smile was replaced by a look of surprise and he mentally kicked himself.

“You don’t have to! It was just an idea, but it doesn’t have to be today. Or ever.”

Why would she want to have lunch with him if her parents were already culinary deities? His mere invitation after tasting their creations was an affront to their craft.

To his relief, however, Marinette didn’t seem to mind his proposal.

“I’d love to come over! I’ll just have to call my parents before.”

She gave him one of her playful smirks that usually came before reading him.

“You actually listened to me? I’m impressed!”

His slight pang of disappointment that he wouldn’t get his beloved Quiche today was drowned out by his happiness to enjoy her company a bit longer. When she turned away to call her parents, he realized he should probably give his mother a heads up as well. He sighed. Mum would be over the moon once she heard he was bringing a friend over.

What had he done?

-

Lila was prepared. She was cool. She was completely fine with Felix asking the walking mess named Marinette out for lunch. And the pen she’d snapped would’ve broken anyway, she was sure.

Not that it mattered. Pigtails could revel in his attention all day, for all she cared. It wouldn’t last.

“Madame Bustier?”, she called the teacher as soon as the other students were gone.

“Lila! Is something the matter?”, the woman asked her new official favorite student. “I hope you didn’t mind that I thanked you in front of the class. I didn’t want to put you in the spotlights so unprompted, but you were a great help and that should be acknowledged.”

Lila smiled modestly.

“Oh, I don’t mind. I just like to help out.”

Herself, first and foremost. The contest was merely a puzzle piece in her scheme.

“Speaking of that,” she continued, “I wanted to ask for a small favor, if it’s no problem.”

“Of course, Lila. What is it?”

“It’s Marinette.” she began, putting on a sheepish face. “We didn’t have the best start, and her behavior last week when I proposed to change the seating again... I think she still holds some sort of grudge against me.”

She paused for a moment, to let the hint settle before she continued.

“I wanted to help her out a bit, so we can become friends! She’s always so busy as class rep, and I fear that the contest might add some weight to her load.”

“That’s so sweet of you! What were you thinking about?”

She had Bustier wrapped around her finger, now.

“Well, I obviously can’t help her with her report.” she mused out loud. “I don’t want to influence her in any way, so she doesn’t get disqualified for copying something by accident. So I hoped I could help her with her class rep duties! Usually, Alya does that, but she’s so passionate about her report and I don’t want to distract her.”

“Very considerate!”, she praised. “What duties would you like to take over for now?”

Now came the important part.

“Oh, Kim has been sick for a while now.” she reminded her. “I wanted to bring him some of the work we did, and inform him about the contest. And the swimming team asked Marinette to bring him the bag he forgot last time. Would it be alright if you gave me his address?”

She seemed to think for a moment before searching for a list in her bag.

“Usually, I’m not allowed to give out personal information.”, the teacher confessed. “But I think in this case, we can call it an exception, don’t we?”

“Of course”, Lila agreed dutifully as she skimmed the list Bustier held out to her. LeChien, Kim... there. And directly above: Leanne, Felix. Smiling, she typed the address into her phone. Felix’ address, of course. Max was already bringing Kim his homework, and the forgotten bag was a lie.

“Thank you so much, Madame!”, Lila said genuinely when she put her phone away and walked towards the door. “Oh, one last thing! Would you maybe... not tell Marinette I asked for this? I want to surprise her.”

“Don’t worry!”, Bustier said cluelessly. “I‘ll forget you asked me for anything.”

“You are the best, Madame! Good bye!”

She didn’t her her teacher’s reply, she was already out of the door. Her phone was on and she pulled up the pictures she’d taken of Felix’ calendar.

He was meticulous when it came to organizing his day, and she was more than grateful for it. He would be home by now, and lunch with his mother would last until 15 o’clock. He’d made a note not to disturb her from 15 to 16 o’clock, since Madame Leanne was in a meeting. From 16 to 18 o’clock, he’d be busy with his violin lessons.

Perfect.

But before her plan could be set in motion, she had another little tale to spin.

“Nino!”, she called when Adrien’s best friend came into her sight. “Wait for me!”

He was alone when she reached him. This was almost too easy.

“Wow, everything alright, dudette?” Nino asked, concerned that she’d hurried so much to catch up to him. “You look kinda rushed.”

She smiled and waved it off.

“I’ll be meeting Jagged Stone soon, and I don’t want to be late. I showed him your latest tape by the way, and he was really impressed.”

“Really?!”

“Yeah! But I really have to hurry now. Could you maybe tell Adrien from me that he doesn’t need to worry. You know, because of the Marinette thing.”

Nino frowned.

“Wait a sec. Marinette thing? Is she or Adrien in trouble?”

Surprised Lila put her hand over her mouth.

“Oh no, he didn’t tell you? Oh, I messed up! I’m so sorry!”

“What did you mess up? C’mon, I’m not telling anyone.”

She looked from side to side, as if worried others might overhear.

“I’m sure he meant to tell you.” she started secretively. “It’s just that... he’s been worried about Marinette. He thought she acted so weirdly over my proposal that Felix should sit with us in the front, that maybe she doesn’t like him. He thinks Marinette is ignoring, or outright bullying Felix.”

“What? I mean, that dude is giving me the creeps, but Marinette is super close with him.”

She forced a smile.

“You’re right, I noticed that too! But, you know, Adrien has been isolated so long... he just doesn’t know how to read the atmosphere, you know?”

“Yeah, he’s kinda oblivious.”

“I just wanted him to stop worrying so much. He was really concerned when he thought Felix and Marinette might not get along.”

Nino gave her a thumbs up.

“Don’t worry about him, I’ll soothe his nerves. You go meet Jagged Stone!”

“Thank you so much!”, she said, and meant every word. He was really useful, even though he made her cringe. “Oh, but maybe don’t tell him you heard this from me. He didn’t tell anyone else, and I don’t want him to think he can’t trust me.”

“Sure thing, dudette!”

“Bye-bye, then! And thank you!”

Lila smiled as she ran off. Everything was fitting perfectly together. The best tool to keep Marinette away from Felix was her crush on Adrien. The best way to use her crush was his dislike of Felix, and his assumption he knew what was best for his friends. The closer he thought them to be, the more he’d try to spread his animosity towards Felix onto Marinette, who’d do everything to please him.

Now Lila only had to wait.

- - -

I’m happy over every reblog, Part 5 is on its way. Here’s the tag list:

@crazycookie13o @a-6-yearold-inside @sinfulfoxbeast @kuroko26 @sternsneeze @zeyheartstaylor @elliecake5 @kristycocopop @yamadochie @sofmimis @enigmaticagitator @offically-over-it @earth-demon @juhavs @omgelisahagemanuniverse @owllover132 @kaydenth3gayden @janaikam @mewwitch

[mysterioh]

ᕼEᒪTEᖇ ᔕKEᒪTEᖇ - [2/8]

Pairing: Cop!Bucky Barnes x Cop!Reader

Summary: The year is 1989 and what better to prepare for the next decade than with a killing spree? A string of gruesome deaths has thrust the city of New York into absolute mayhem and terror causing intoxicating fear to settle within the niches of the city’s underbelly. Having used up every trick in the book and earning nothing, Police Commissioner Stark seeks the aid of the NYPD’s most elite task force.

A force of two.

A reticent genius and a cheeky casanova.

WARNINGS: Death, Murder, Graphic Depictions of Violence and Gore, Language, Usage of Drugs, All the makings of a Crime Show.

Written for @captainscanadian 1k Writing Challenge!

Masterlist

A Recording

11:22 AM

New York City Police Department - 88th Precinct

Brooklyn, NY 

Saturday, October 14, 1989

“You can’t do this!” 

Tony slams his fist on the desk in frustration. 

“I don’t see why I can’t,” Fury responds calmly through the phone.  

“This is my jurisdiction, I run things around here,” Tony retorts with a sharp edge to his words.  “I don’t need help, especially from two kids.” 

Fury sighs deeply. “Really now?” he asks with a mocking chuckle. “And how far have you come in your own investigation?” 

The line goes silent. Tony knows the answer, but he’s unwilling to reply. Despite his inadequacy, he remains obstinate in his opinion as he sits perched on his office desk. Teeth clenched. Lips tugged down into a scowl. Finger twisting around the telephone cord violently. 

“Have you found the killer?” Fury asks another question. “I’ve checked the files, you have nothing,” he snaps at him. “I want answers, Stark. I need results. I need whoever the hell it is that’s running around killing people behind bars. And what have you given me? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” 

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a slow exhale. “If you give me more time I know my team will be able to do it,” he assures. “I don’t need those two to do it.” 

Fury chuckles haughtily. “You’re new around here, Captain,” he states. “This isn’t sunny Malibu, this is New York.” 

“I grew up in Manhattan,” Tony replies boldly. “I know exactly what it is.” 

“Then I suggest you quickly learn to accept help when help is given,” his stalwart says firmly. 

“Those two are more than qualified for this job. They’re not kids, they’re fully trained and capable agents. Both the top of their class with mastery in the sciences and combat. They’re goddamn geniuses,”

Tony rolls his eyes and scoffs silently. 

“If anyone is going to crack this case, it’s them, and if you do anything to get in their way. I can assure you it will not end well for you,” Fury threatens with emphasis on each word. 

“Do I make myself clear?” 

Tony sighs exasperated and turns his head to look through the blinds of the window. His eyes narrow, shooting daggers at the two detectives. 

“Crystal.” 

------

“So the last shall be first, and the first last.” Peter reads off the photograph. “What does that mean?”

“It’s a bible verse,” Bucky tells him. “Written in the gospel of Matthew. It means that those who have prospered through wickedness will fail in the end and those who do good works will earn salvation.”

Peter and a few other officers stare at him, silent but judging in their expression. 

“What?” Bucky asks. “My grandma used to take me to church with her every Sunday when I was a kid.” 

You shake your head with a sigh and examine the photographs pinned onto the bulletin board. 

“Harold Tucker. Age forty-seven. Died October 6th.” you read off.

“Rebecca Reid. Age fifty-five. Died five days later.” 

“Louis Clark. Age forty-two. Died October 13th.” 

Bucky gasps. “And on Friday the 13th. What an unlucky day for her,” he shakes his head in pity.

“Oh god, don’t tell me you actually believe in that bullshit,” Tony growls as he approaches them. 

“I don’t,” he shrugs. “But it seems to be more than just a coincidence.” 

“Coincidence or not. They’re dead,” you deadpan. “Repeatedly stabbed in the chest and left to die.” 

“But the writing on the wall?” Peter asks again. “What does it have to do with them? They’re just ordinary people. Law-abiding citizens.”

“Did you run a background check?” Bucky asks, turning through papers in Louisa’s file. 

Peter nods. “Yeah, all clean. I think old Harry had a DUI somewhere but that’s about it.” 

“Maybe it’s something not written on paper,” Tony suggests, coming to stand next to you. “Something more personal?” 

“We all sin. Some more heavily than others,” he notes. “Maybe, the killer has his own sense of justice. He’s taking the law into his own hands.” 

“That’s highly unlikely,” you shut him down quickly. He glares at you. “In a city of over a million, how would you even know who to pick?” you question. “They aren’t mindlessly killing people. These are targeted victims.” 

“Y/N’s right, they must be connected in one way or another,” Bucky adds, “the writing on the wall speaks about justice but to the killer, it must mean more than that. It’s revenge. They are people who have done something to him and now it's his turn to get back at ‘em.” 

Rhodey shrugs. “Makes sense to me.” Tony elbows him in the arm. He looks at him confused. “What?” 

The captain sighs, returning to the board. “Moving on. Our lovely perpetrator decided to name themselves.” 

“The children of Oedipus,” Bucky finishes. 

“Oedipus was—” you started

“The man that killed his father and married his mother,” Tony interrupted quickly. “We know the story.” 

You huff, returning his earlier glare. 

“He had four children,” Bucky chimes in, trying to ease the tension between the two. “Eteocles, Polynices, Antigone, and Ismene." 

“Does that mean there are four killers?" Peter asks. 

You open your mouth to speak only to be stopped by the receptionist. 

“Captain, we found this box outside the station,” she walks to the group with it. “It’s addressed to you.” 

“Me?” he asks. 

She nods and hands him a plain cardboard box with a white name label plastered on the top. He takes it with a raised brow, looking at his comrades before ripping the tape off. He lifts the flap of the cardboard box to reveal a single Panasonic Cassette Recorder wrapped in a newspaper. 

He takes it out. “It’s a tape recorder.” 

Rhodey scans the newspaper. “This is today’s paper,” he states. 

“There’s a cassette inside,” Tony notes.

“Play it,” you tell him. 

He places it on the table and presses the play button. 

The black tape begins to roll and they all listen quietly to static, waiting anxiously for something to happen. 

“Heyo! It's me, Polynices!” a spritely boyish voice greets. 

“Don't forget me, Antigone!” a girl speaks from behind. 

"We are the children of Oedipus!" he informs with pride."Cursed from birth and doomed for destruction!" 

"Lemme guess your first question is who are we really?" Antigone asks. "Too bad, we can't tell you or it'll spoil all the fun.”

Tony scoffs with a turn of the head. 

“Now that we finally have your undivided attention and some new faces to help,” Your head whips towards Bucky to find him just as confused as you. “How about we play a game, huh?” 

"Let's play Cops and Robbers!” Polynices exclaims like a child. "Where you're the cops and we're the robbers. All you have to do is catch us. Sounds pretty easy right?” 

“Super easy!” Antigone chirps. “Since this is our first time playing, we’ll give you an easy riddle to catch us in the act.” 

"Let's see if you can get to 'em before we do, huh, Captain Stark?" she asks, her tone shifts dramatically from childish to taunting and dangerous. 

“Here's the clue for today,” she states. "What walks on two legs in the morning, then four at noon, and three in the evening and never stops?”  

“The hell does that mean?” Rhodey murmurs. 

“You have till midnight tonight to solve our riddle,” she states. You can hear the wicked smile in her voice as she speaks along with the devil snickering in the background. 

"Happy hunting!"

8:15 PM

Montague Apartments

Brooklyn, NY

Saturday, October 14, 1989

-

It's early morning, the sun comes out

Last night was shaking and pretty loud

My cat is purring, it scratches my skin

So what is wrong with another sin?

-

Music blasts from an old stereo that sat on the kitchen counter and bounces off the old stained walls of the apartment. High-pitched guitar riffs threaten the glass in the cupboards into cracking as the deep bass of the drums makes tabletops vibrate, rattling the objects around the house. 

Charlie, the orange tabby, digs his face deeper into the blanket left in a pile on the couch as the raspy voice of the lead singer screams in his ears. You sit next to him, slouched into the squeaky sofa, feet resting on the rickety coffee table, completely unphased by the music. Your eyes were glued to the wall that was stickered with photographs and red lines of thread twisted around thumbtacks running in every direction.

Three hours left and you still couldn’t figure it out. 

"What walks on two legs in the morning, then four at noon, and three in the evening and never stops?” 

Her voice echoes in your head. They both sound young. Filled with energy and a lust for blood. You were beginning to question yourself. Was there a motive behind it all or was it just a game like the Captain had stated? 

-

The bitch is hungry, she needs to tell

So give her inches and feed her well

More days to come, new places to go

I've got to leave, it's time for a show

-

Bucky walks down the hallway and catches the loud knock on the door. He opens it to find the landlady. A short, stout woman who swore she was still in her thirties, even when the wrinkles embedded in her face stated otherwise. 

The brunette leans against the doorframe and gives her a wolfish grin. His blue eyes gleam under the stale white light of the hallway, charming the old lady. Her heart beats rapidly like a teenage girl under his alluring gaze. 

-

Here I am, rock you like a hurricane. 

Are you ready, baby? 

-

“Mrs. P, how’s it going?” he asks smoothly. 

She straightens herself and clears her throat. “I’m fine,” she replies curtly. “I’ve been trying to catch you all day. I’m here to talk about the rent.” 

“The what?” he brings a hand to his ear, I can’t hear you! The music’s too loud!” 

He can hear her perfectly fine. 

“The rent! You have to pay me rent! It’s been a month!” she shouts over the music, “Please turn down your music! The neighbors are complaining!” 

“I can’t talk right now.  I’m in the middle of a very important case,” he replies, slowly closing the door. “It was nice talking to you though!” 

“No! No, wait!” she shouts before he shuts it in her face. 

He snickers as he crosses the living room and into the kitchen. He turns the music down, earning a snap of the head towards him. “Hey!” you protest with a shout.  

“Do you want the neighbors to murder us?” he replies, opening the fridge to find it like usual. 

Empty. 

He slams the door of the fridge in disappointment. There’s no real reason to be disappointed. Both of them were experts in neglecting their household chores.

“Y’know, we should go do some shopping soon,” Bucky says as he walks back to you. 

You grimace. “Someone is going to get murdered in less than three hours and you’re worried about food?”  

“Are you kidding me?” he retorts. “Look at me!” he exclaims, lifting his shirt to reveal a lean torso. “I’m all skin and bones! You’re starving me to death here!” 

You roll your eyes then get up. “I’m not your mother. Feed yourself.” 

“But it’s your job to do the grocery!” he protests with an accusatory finger. 

“Since when?” you ask incredulously. 

“Since we started living here,” he reminds. “Stop acting like you don’t know what I’m talking about.” 

You click your tongue, walking over to the pantry and take out a bag of potato chips. You throw them at his face and walk back to the suspect board. “Now shut up and let me think.” 

“Thank you,” he smiles warmly and you have a sudden urge to feed him a punch. 

He opens the bag and begins chomping. He comes to stand next to you in front of the wall. “So got anything yet?” 

“No,” you sigh. “You?” 

“You’re smarter than me, Sis,” he remarks. “If you don’t have anything, how do you expect me to?” 

“That’s not true.” 

Bucky snorts. “Whatever you say, Valedictorian.” 

“Shut the hell up, Salutatorian,” you smirked, side eying him. 

He bumps your hip with his, earning a chuckle from you. 

He enjoys the rare moments he can make you laugh. It makes him feel like a million bucks because if he can make the grumpy goth grandma laugh he can make every chick in the city laugh. 

"What walks on two legs in the morning, four at noon, then three in the evening and never stops?” You repeat for the umpteenth time. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s the question that the Sphinx asked Oedipus outside of Thebes.” 

“I know that,” you replied. “But what does it have to do with us?” 

“The answer was man,” he takes another chip into his mouth. “And it ended up curing the city and made Oedipus king.” 

You hum bringing a hand to your mouth in contemplation. “Wait a second,” your hand falls. 

“What?” 

“The riddle. It’s different,” you dash over to the bookshelf, scanning through them to find the collection of Greek Tragedies by Sophocles given to you by an old professor friend. Bucky comes over and looks over your shoulder. Flipping through the pages and skimming through the words with a finger, you stop when you find the scene of Oedipus and the Sphinx. 

“See,” you show him the passage in the book, “here it’s a four-two-three progression. The stages of a man’s life. An infant in the morning, an adult in the afternoon, and an old man in the night.” 

“They changed it,” Bucky says. "That means the answer isn't man anymore.”  

"The "never stops" in Antigone's riddle was clearly added," you pointed out. "So they are alluding to a place that’s open twenty-four hours." 

"This is New York!" Bucky throws his arms in the air in exclamation. "The whole damn city is open all the time!" 

"Runs at two in the morning, four at noon, then three at night and never stops,” you repeat softly. 

Silence settles in the room as the two of you dig deep into the crevices of your mind. Unfurling through files and tidbits of information that could give even a minor lead. 

tick - tock - tick - tock

The clock echoes the beat of your heart. Eerily calm. Heavy and systematic. Achingly slow. Reminding you that every passing minute wasted here was the countdown to someone’s last. 

Bucky’s head whips towards the map of New York hung on the wall by the suspect board. The bag of chips in his hand drops to the floor as he makes his way to it. Your eyes follow him in confusion. 

"2-4-3,” he murmurs, scanning the map.

"What?" 

"2-4-3!" he exclaims, turning back to you with a dopey smile. 

"Speak words dumbass!" you hiss. 

"Don't you get it?” he asks, a chuckle coloring his word. “The 2-4-3!" 

Your eyes grow wide in epiphany. "The 2-4-3!" 

Bucky runs towards the door, yanking his coat off the hook on the wall. "C'mon, let's go!" he shouts. "We don't have much time!"

A/N: No, I have not been listening to 80s music for the past three days. 

TAGLIST (OPEN): @murdermornings @chuckennuggets1213 @miraclesoflove @marshyrebelcloud​ @fckdeusername @undiadeestos @spiderrpcrker @welovecaptainamericaass​ @flyingowls​

[polandspringz]

Haru Gets Kidney Stones- A Balance: Unlimited Crack Fic

Did I write this? Yes. Do I regret it? Yes. Does it now exist? Yes. 

At long last, I return to the Balance: Unlimited fandom with my promised (albeit cursed) fic, and just in time for the series to resume its broadcast! This fic was suggested to me by my beta-reader, Tom, after I made him read two fics in which I broke Haru's ribs, and he suggested a more "creative" way for me to injure my characters. As much as I found this idea completely cursed, the response on my last fic was that people were interested? So, here it is.

This is a relatively short fic, so I’ll post it below. Please consider leaving comments on AO3 using the link in the notes!!! It will help my writing gain more readers, and you can find my other, more serious Balance: Unlimited fics there too.

“You know, Katou-san-”

“Shut it, Kanbe-san. I don’t want to hear anything out of you.”

Haru folded his arms and settled back against the pillows of the hospital bed, eye twitching as he glared down the white sheets that seemed to stretch on endlessly. Daisuke’s eyes skimmed over the IV tube sticking out Haru’s arm as it made a jostling noise with his movement, the plastic bag it was attached to crinkling when it knocked against the stand after being tugged.

“Katou-san-”

“I said be quiet, Kanbe.”

“Katou-san, unless you want the nurses to get mad at you again, I suggest you take better care of your IV. Or do you want them to have to administer the needle in your arm when you accidentally pull it out again?”

Haru shivered, the memory of the nurses jabbing him with the syringe making him cringe and he sunk further into the pillows. He did loosen his arms a little bit, letting them both lay flat on either side of him. Daisuke, who was still looming over him, sighed and pulled up the cheap plastic chair to sit down.

“You could get better treatment at one of my private hospitals. You could be back at work within a few hours if you really wanted to.”

“As if I would want to be anywhere near an institution you own,” Haru scoffed, “You’ll just peek at all my medical files and use it to lecture me on more things while we’re on a case.”

Daisuke felt it best to withhold the fact that he had purchased the hospital this morning, upon learning from the HUESC that Haru had been admitted there. He had not had time to switch the staff though, as he knew Haru would get suspicious if a new doctor was assigned to him coincidentally around the time that Daisuke arrived.

And he may have had a look at Haru’s medical records. But that was simply because he wanted to know whether he should force Haru to be airlifted to be treated by his personal doctor. Instead, he was met with a diagnosis that was…

“Besides,” Haru grumbled, “They said it’s better to see what they can find after the IV… you know,” he gestured with his good arm, “flushes it out. I don’t need surgery yet.”

Daisuke took a deep breath and folded his hands in front of his face, tapping his two forefingers against the bridge of his nose.

“I still cannot believe you got kidney stones.”

“Hey! It happens to a lot of people my age! And what are you surprised about?” Haru sat up in the bed and violently pointed an accusatory finger at his partner, “Weren’t you about to go on a tangent about this being because I eat ramen all the time?”

“While I was going to comment on your diet,” Daisuke said calmly and slowly, “I don’t think you should consider this ‘normal’ for someone like you.”

“The doctor said-”

“I know what the doctor said,” Daisuke held up a hand, and pinched in between his eyes as he felt a small headache ebbing at Haru’s shouting, “But Katou-san, you are a detective, and are quite physically fit. Even though you’re not in First Division anymore, I’ve seen you chase criminals down-”

“Yeah, meanwhile you’re watching from a car or some fancy helicopter-”

“-And it doesn’t make sense. Why are you always overworking yourself trying to do things the hard way?”

“You know why!” Haru started to sit up even more, folded his knees under him as he shoved the finger even more in Daisuke’s face, “It’s cause you never communicate with me! You’re always off doing things on your own and never listen to me! I’m older so-”

“-and stubborn, and I could fairly say you just as equally don’t communicate with me.”

Daisuke grabbed ahold of Haru’s hand and pushed it down so he could stop leaning away from the finger trying to poke his eye out.

“Katou-san, I respect you, I promise. But you are never willing to listen to what data I’ve gathered, which could significantly speed up our time spent solving the case.”

“That’s because your data is always gathered using stupid, disingenious methods with your money-!” Haru suddenly grabbed his stomach, and stumbled backwards. Daisuke stood up, hands following him to help him ease back into the bed, being careful of the IV tube that was still being dragged about carelessly by the older man.

“Do you want me to call the nurse?”

“Ha, no. I would rather die than let you see me weak.”

Daisuke’s eyes narrowed, and he placed a hand on either side of the hospital bed railing, caging the other man in.

“Katou-san, are you not feeling weak now? You’re sweating.”

“I am not!”

“You’re obviously in pain, and I am concerned. I came here before work to check up on you. Why are you being so obstinate?”

Haru raised his hand and pushed Daisuke’s shoulder, shoving him off, “Ugh, I get it! I get, okay! Stop being so weird about everything.”

“I’m only being weird, as you put it, because I am worried. I do not want to have my partner out sick more days than necessary.”

“As if you need me,” Haru scoffed again, holding his stomach as another sharp pain went through the back of him.

“Stop that.”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“Stop saying things like that. Stop acting as if you’re disposable.”

“Well to you I’m sure I am-”

“Katou-san, for the last time, listen to me.”

Daisuke was standing beside Haru’s bed like he was when he first came in, but something about his tone drew Haru out of his ranting and made him pay attention. Daisuke’s face was schooled though, the only place giving away any emotion were his gloved hands, clenching at his sides as he stared down at his partner.

“It is not good for you to keep acting this way. I know we may have different approaches to cases, but I truly do respect your opinion. I value you as a partner, and would be devastated if something happened because of your own stupidity and obstinance. Please understand, I just want you to start listening to me. I’ve been watching you for months now, and I’ve seen the way you throw yourself into every case. The little things, like you living off of ramen and junk food, it’s led to this. I’m not saying that those specific things will lead to your downfall, but if you keep running yourself ragged with no sleep and stressing out about everything, it’s going to add up.”

Haru blinked at Daisuke, stunned, but when Haru didn���t respond, Daisuke turned and started to stroll out of the room.

“Wait! Kanbe-san!”

Daisuke paused at the foot of the bed, hands in his coat pockets as he regarded Haru with a cold look.

“What?”

“Listen, I’m-”

“I’m always listening to you, Katou-san.”

“No, I-” He threw his hands in the air and groaned, “You know what I mean! Look, I’m sorry. You’re right, I’m an idiot, I’ve been eating nothing but junk for the past year or so, and now I’m stuck here. You’re completely right.”

“Alright,” Daisuke said, shifting his foot as he turned to face Haru again. He was waiting for more, and Haru tried to not let out another groan as he realized this.

“I’m in a lot of pain right now, but I promise I’m not just saying this because I don’t want you to use your money to make my treatment a living hell or anything-”

“Katou-san, if you think I would do that, then you clearly didn’t hear what I-”

“I promise, I’ll listen to you when I’m back at work. I can’t promise I’ll do it all the time, but I’ll make an effort to hear you out more.”

Haru looked to the floor beyond the bedside railing, “It’ll probably take some practice, I’m still going to be pretty opposed to your underhanded tactics, but if we start small, then maybe I’ll be less likely to run off without you. I know I’ve done that a few times.”

Haru lifted his head, and gave Daisuke a small smile.

“Understood, I’ll start by telling you when to start eating healthier.”

“Good. Now, Kanbe-san, can you do one thing for me?”

“Hm?”

“Get out of here so I can call the nurse without seeing your smug face.”

“As you wish,” Daisuke said, and as he walked towards the door, one of the doctors nearly banged into him.

“Oh, Kanbe-san! Good thing I caught you. Katou-san’s test results just came back and-”

Daisuke leaned over the clipboard as the doctor began to flip through the papers, and Haru rose like the dead off of his pillows as he grabbed the tissue box on the nightstand and chucked it at Daisuke’s head.

“I knew you read my files! Asshole!”

Haru ended up getting his IV reinserted for the third time that day.

If you liked, please consider click the link to AO3 in the notes to leave a kudos and/or a comment! 

[bubbletimestories]

Don’t take him away from me (Irondad)

Summary: Tony is obsessed with Peter's disappearance and wants to bring him back at any cost. He moves away from his loved ones, sinks into depression and asks for Wong's help to save Peter.

Warnings: Major character death (?), sadness

Themes: death, father-son relationship, magic, hope, sacrifice, love, Saving Peter Parker

Translated with Google trad ^^’

**********************************************************************************

Ashes became a phobia for some, an obsession for everyone. They refused to cremate the dead, and chimney fires became rare even in the coldest winter. How could it have been otherwise?

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark, but it’s impossible. As a guardian of the Sanctum, I cannot let you do it. ”

The whole world plunged into silence, as if the shock had taken people off the floor at the same time as their loved ones.

“We have to go ahead, Tony, to maintain a semblance of order. Take back your armour; we will be the Iron men. ”

A national mourning ceremony was organized when people ceased to hope. Captain America gave a long speech in memory of the missing, recalling that we had to keep courage, words without meaning, even for him. The world was not at war, it had lost without even being able to fight. They had failed. It was a month after the Purge.

________________________________________________________________

“The occult powers are not a toy, Mr. Stark, I cannot do anything for you. We all lost someone but that does not give us all the rights. I am sorry. ”

Bruce Banner embarked on research to understand where half of the Universe could have disappeared. He spent all his time there, perhaps to forget that he had lost a part of himself. But we had to face the facts: there was nothing to do, for Hulk as for the others. It was six months after the Purge.

________________________________________________________________

“Tony, you have to … that you stop feeling guilty about what happened. It was not your fault, it was nobody’s fault. Darling… ”

The remaining superheroes returned to service at the same time that the criminals woke up. A semblance of normality had returned, even though Absence was still strongly felt.

“No, Mr. Stark, I refuse to participate in that. The consequences are too uncertain, it is never good to play with life. We, guardians, learned it in pain. It’s no. ”

Thor had managed to find the survivors of Asgard and install them on a small planet to rebuild a kingdom, supported by Valkyrie and Korg. Despite his new responsibilities, he tried to return to see his friend as often as possible. Unfortunately, Point Break always found the genie in the same state: bitter, gnawed by guilt and obstinate not to see the truth. It was a year after the Purge.

________________________________________________________________

- Tony, that cannot continue. I cannot continue … to see you destroy youself. This obsession you have … It’s impossible.

Pepper looks at the impassive figure of the one she no longer recognizes, whom she cannot understand. She had tried with all her strength to support him, to push him forward, to overcome the horrors he had lived, but as much to speak to a wall.

The engagement ring tinkles on the glass table; this break up is different from the previous ones, it is an adieu. After taking a last look at the playboy, Pepper walks away to leave this room too dark, too quiet. Tony’s throaty voice suddenly stops her:

- Will you keep your word?

-Yes. If you succeed … he will officially be your heir.

She refrains from telling him once again that it’s madness. Oh what good would it be ? The door closes without Tony moving a centimetre. He knew it would happen, how could he blame Pepper after all he did? Somehow, it’s better that way, that they separate before…. he does what he has to do. Thoughtfully, he touches his side, where a long scar bears witness to the events of a year ago. A year already … and even more.

Outside, the sea crashes on the rocks under a stormy sky, as if the Sun itself was absent. Hard to believe he was hit by a moon… An umpteenth time, the superhero wonders how a single being could trigger so much chaos, so much suffering. But it’s no longer time to think about it, Tony Stark has never been one to feel sorry for himself, and he’s not going to start today. Not now that Wong has yielded.

The billionaire genie finally gets up, surprises his reflection in the bay window, the drawn features, the hair where pierce some silver threads, and especially his eyes surrounded where shines a flame of determination almost disturbing. To mourn, he can’t, not totally. Not while May Parker hates him. And rightly so: he was supposed to protect her nephew. Every day for months, she pursued him with her anger, her hate, and her sorrow, like a more seductive harpy. It was reminiscent of Tony Stark’s memories of Sokovi’s bitter victory and collateral damages. At the time, he wanted to use the government to fix his mistakes. It was not enough. He did not feel involved enough but today it’s different, he’s ready for anything.

The rain begins to fall while the man in armour joins the Sanctum of New York whose window shines like a gigantic eye watching over the city. Memories come back, his meeting with a man he could not know very long but who resembled him on many points. He, perhaps, has found a way to not die, floating for eternity in a parallel dimension.

- I’m sure your friend teleported to a beach in the Pacific, Wong. He looked smart enough for that.

Tony walks in the door, arranges his rain-soaked hair until the wizard deigns to arrive. It does not take long before he appears, frowning as usual, living figure of disapproval.

- You should refrain from this kind of joke or I may change my mind.

- I just made a guess, no need to come to the threat.

Wong does not answer anything, guides his guest through a series of corridors, the sound of their footsteps choked by oriental rugs. However, the mystic librarian ends up breaking the silence, visibly worried.

- Are you sure you want to do that?

Silly question, it’s been more than a year since the billionaire harassed him without his determination ever faltering and yet, Wong listed the risks more than once. But he supposes that for Tony Stark, life is a gigantic bet. His host does not even bother to answer, it’s so obvious. When the kid di …when he disappeared, it was as if he had taken some of his mentor with him, something broke and the man in armour wanted only one thing: bring him back whatever it costs. Banner told him it was hopeless, Captain asked him to mourn, but it was impossible. When it was not May who was shouting her hate, he saw the teenager’s face in his nightmares. Now he has planned everything. Pepper will run the business until he’s ready, Rhodey will look after him and train him with the other heroes, Banner will take care of the scientific part … He’s been thinking about it for months now and now that Wong has accepted, he will be able to bring back Peter. Wherever he is.

Where Tony expects to see incense, bones, mysterious symbols, in short, all the paraphernalia of resurrection, he finds only one manuscript and the master of the mystical arts donning a double ring. It would not be Wong, you could think of a scam.

- You’ll only have a few minutes to find it. After that, you will both be lost.

- Oh, I thought you were going to announce bad news ..., jokes Tony with a smile but without the spark of irony that always lit his eyes once. Not really knowing what else to do, he stands in front of the librarian, waiting, noting that the wizard carefully avoids his eye with emotion. It would be almost touching.

Wong takes a breath and circles in the air with his fingertips, articulating inaudible words for the man in front of him. This could be any teleport spell at first. But the sparks are usually of a color of fire and not of a deep blue, what we see through the portal is not a gigantic dark expanse. Tony stares for a moment, hoping to see something, a silhouette or even a shape but nothing stands out in the dark.

“Mr. Stark, is it too late to go to the bathroom?»

He probably would have said something like that … if he had been there.

To think thus of the teenager revives the determination of the hero, a moment frozen by apprehension, he turns to Wong to send him a last salute.

- Thank you very much and above all, take care of him. I do not want to have to come and kick your ass.

And without waiting for the answer of the wizard, he crosses the portal quickly, no hesitating anymore.

When Tony Stark had imagined this moment, he had envisioned an intense cold, the same that takes us when we die. But on the other side of the mirror, there is neither cold nor heat, only emptiness and an absence of sensations. All around the billionaire, a deafening silence spreads into the darkness, as if there was nothing else in the world than this visitor. After the shock of discovery, Tony decides to move forward, heart beating and thinking only of the one he must find at any cost. Under his feet, the ground is wrinkled like the surface of a pond but the billionaire is not careful, focused on his mission.

- Underoos !

His voice pierces the ambient calmness, scatters in the void before the silence falls. It is then that a pale color task is formed a few meters from the Avenger, blurry but very real, standing out against the dark background. Gradually, the task becomes clearer, as if you were focusing on it. Peter looks around him, a picture less and less flickering with each heartbeat. Looking as after a long sleep, he blinks, tries to understand where he is. On his face passes a flood of emotions as he remembers his last moments, the battle, the defeat, his death. His whole body trembles and he curls up, hiding nothing of his fear because he believes himself alone, lost forever. My god, he’s dead … so it looks like this after?

Tony slowly approaches the teenager, losing nothing of the confusion that moves him and makes him blind to what surrounds him. He kneels right in front of him, stroking his hair like a little child, making him jump.

- Mr Stark?!

The large hazel eyes express both surprise and immense joy in recognizing their hero and this reaction expresses such innocence that Tony’s heart is tightening. It is because of him that the little one suffers all this … but this ordeal ends, he will go home.

- It’s over…

Without really knowing why, Peter feels he can reassure himself, that his mentor has found a solution and that he can trust him. It’s Iron Man, he always succeeds.

The seconds go by and Tony knows they do not have a lot of time before … being separated again. Then he draws the young man against him, serves him in his arms with more emotion than he would like. No door to open to serve as an excuse, it is a real hug this time. Taken by surprise, Peter does not react immediately as this gesture seems strange to him on the part he admires. Then he puts his arms around him, gives him back his embrace, burying his face against the scarred chest. Nightmares can’t reach him now, everything will be better.

The portal reopens too early, far too early for Tony’s taste. Seeing the sapphire sparks, his first movement is to squeeze the boy closer to his heart, so that they will never be separated again. Then he regains his composure, pushes Peter aside to look into his eyes.

- You’re going home now. Your aunt must make a blood of ink.

- Mr Stark?

Something in the attitude of his mentor worries suddenly the teenager who scans the face of Tony in search of an explanation. It is at this moment that Wong passes his arms through the portal to catch the young man and pull him towards him. Reflexively, Peter clings to the arm of his hero, suddenly sensing that they will be separated.

- No, Mr Stark!

Tony smiles painfully, hoping to be a little reassuring even though he’s never been good at these things.

-It will be fine.

And with a sharp gesture, he recoils to let go of his protégé who screams, tears in his eyes.

-Dad!

The portal closes on him, leaving Tony Stark in the dark, alone but reassured. Now, the little one is safe.

[pineaberry]

Fictober: #21 and 22

SWTOR

STARRING: THERON SHAN as dumb slut in distress #2!

PART 1: [X]

PART 2: [X]

PART 3: [X]

PART 4: [X]

PART 5: [X]

Just came back from my trip! Here’s the promised continuation!

I’m definitely not behind on Fictober!

For @anchanted-one and @the-sith-in-the-sky-with-diamond. You keep me going through these trying times!

_________________________________

Theron hung from the ceiling in a dark cell as he awaited the Imperial Interrogators. He was familiar with the Empire’s holding cells but he had never had the ‘pleasure’ of experiencing one first-hand before dealing with the Gilded Lady. This was the second time he was being gifted with Imperial hospitality and he doubted there would be a miraculous rescue this time around.

Alright, lets think strategies… what are my options?

His implants were still frazzled from the deep scrub the virus left, and even if he could access them, there was probably a disruptor somewhere in the cell. They’d all but stripped him down and took everything on his person including a very incriminating data spike. They would kill him.

No. That’s not right. They’ll torture me first, then they’ll kill me.

His wrists and ankles were immobilized at an awkward angle making it just uncomfortable enough to make breathing difficult. His eyes closed and he clenched his fists testing the restraints. No dice. His jacket and everything else had been confiscated and were probably being analyzed for clues. Despite his better judgement, his brain decided to begin conjuring the possible tortures that awaited him.

The door slid open sharply and the sudden light blinded Theron. It was a standard interrogation method to disorient the victim, he played along as a tall Chiss man with a captain’s insignia on his uniform entered.

“Hey, hey you… you got the wrong guy!” he said mimicking what he’d heard a thousand times from small time thieves.

The captain did not respond and instead stared at him in mild apathy. Theron noted that the man did not display the blinding arrogance stereotypical of all Imperials.

“Why are you on my station?”

And so it begins…

“I told you! You got the wrong-” his words cut off in a sudden choking sound as electricity ran through his body.

“Why are you on my station?”

Theron took a shuddering breath as he twitched within the restraints. The SIS had trained him for this moment. He would die loyal. If he was particularly good, he would die giving up false intel. If he was brilliant, he would die setting the enemy up to fail.

The question was repeated over and over again. Sometimes his obstinance was punished through a jolt of electricity, other times it was a sharp blow from a metal cane, or a crack of a searing whip. Still the same emotionless voice droned on, wearing away at his resistance like an ocean wave against the boulder, it was only a matter of time. And still the man’s voice persisted.

“What… what was the question again?” Theron asked in a display of defiance.

“I was told you were funny. I am sure your handler finds you amusing,” the Chiss smirked before placing a case down on the table. “I have dealt with your people before. You lot have a… unique slicing method. In cases like these, the Empire authorizes any and all method of information extraction. Your tech is quite advanced.”

He opened the case and retrieved something that looked like a curved blade. Theron’s teeth clenched and his implants automatically released the last of his pain suppressants.

“I suppose a bit of introduction is necessary. You may call me Captain Astor. I was Lord Grathan’s chief scientist on Dromund Kaas. Together we created a method for extracting a human brain and encasing it within a droid’s body. It was… perfection. What luck that you’re already cybernetically inclined. Tell me, what color would you prefer your chassis to be?”

______________________________________

The ship was quiet without Theron. The only occupant drifted in space and prepared a hyper jump. As the Gilded Lady calculated the route she seemed to glare at the controls. Theron had ruined a perfectly clean getaway and for what? A few glowsticks?

He should have known better than to ruin his chances over sentiment and pride. It was his own fault for believing she would indulge his stupidity. She had what she’d come for and what’s more she had laid the groundwork for business contracts with the station. Having access to Reaver Station would open up her smuggling business to new clients.

It would be the peak of idiocy to throw all of that away because of a plaything’s whims. The new contacts were too important. The math didn’t work out that way and Theron certainly wouldn’t be expecting a rescue. He’d done this to himself. If anything, she should thank the Empire for tying off that particular loose end.

“Gods kriffing dammit.” Her fingers clenched around the controls before growling in frustration and turning the ship around.

She had been right of course, he wasn’t expecting anyone to rescue him. He struggled a bit as he was laid down on a slab of metal and his head was strapped down for extraction. The Chiss-red eyes betrayed nothing but cruel apathy as he picked up the bone cutter and held it before his captive’s gaze. “I suggest you keep still. This part is messy and the extraction has to be done in one piece.”

Theron tensed against his restraints before the door snapped open once more. Standing there was a Sith Acolyte looking pale and startled before he was cut down by a sharp slice of a lightsaber blade. The Captain dropped the instrument and reached for his blaster only for a black and blue crescent of light to dart forward and decapitate him. The flash of light snapped back and was caught by a black gloved hand.

Her gold mask glittered under the interrogation lights and Theron breathed a sigh of relief before relaxing.

“G.L. Right on time… you changed your mind…” he smiled.

“Change is annoyingly difficult,” she snapped as she holstered her lightsaber and disabled his restraints.

Theron hobbled to his feet only to slump back down when she tossed a lieutenant’s jacket and shoes at him. He smiled through bloodied lips up at her. “I knew you liked me.”

“Don’t test me. Put those on we have about five minutes before they realize I’m here.”

For once, he did as he was told and hobbled after her as she led the way out. As he walked through the hallways, he noticed the burn marks on the corridor and the bodies littered every step of the way.

“Wait, we can’t leave. The lightsabers-”

His rescuer turned around and grabbed him by the front of his jacket. “Are trinkets and you have no use for them. Leave them.”

“You can’t just let the Sith have them! If you help me… if you tried… We could have a chance!”

“A chance for what? To get killed?! They’re spoils of war, if the Jedi wanted to keep them out of Sith hands then they should have trained their knights not to die so easily,” she spat before shoving him away, “the ship is this way, come on.”

Theron frowned but hobbled after her. He was fairly certain he had broken ribs and numerous other injuries, but the pain killers were working as intentioned and he still had a few more minutes before their effects passed. His mind still churned with doubt. What side was she on? A lightsaber usually meant Jedi, but she killed without remorse and didn’t care for the Order. What was she?

“HALT!” a particularly brave or suicidal trooper appeared in front of the Lady and was quickly dispatched. No sooner had they turned the corner when an alarm rang.

“I have to know, please. I can’t… I don’t think I can keep this up unless you tell me. What are you? Who are you? Are you a Sith?”

“And if I am, are you going to turn away my help?”

He frowned and looked away as though he were searching for danger but in reality, he didn’t want to make eye contact. “I don’t think I have much of a choice.”

“That’s our cue,” she sighed and grabbed Theron’s arm before pulling him towards the hangar.

As was to be expected, her ship was surrounded by troopers all of which trained their sights on her the moment she stepped forward. He ducked under a cargo crate as the fight erupted. His implants flickered back to life as they finally purged the last of the virus from his system. He searched for opportunities and found them in the nearest terminal. He gauged the distance and bolted for it skidding out of the way of and dodging the red blaster bolts. Using his implants he sliced into the local defense array and used a quick override node to activate the turrets in the hangar ceiling. With them, he blew up the control tower and disabled the hangar gates.

The Gilded Lady kept the path opened and yelled at him to get onboard the ship as she held them off. Theron didn’t need to be told twice. Repair droids were already on the scene to fix the broken hangar doors and soon his slicing would be patched by the station’s AI. He ran up the gangplank and had very nearly made it to the door, when a blaster bolt clipped his side, followed by another that struck the back of his knee. The edges of his vision began to darken as he crashed onto the metal flooring. Distantly he heard the sound of blaster fire and someone calling his name, but the pain and shock won out. He wondered if he would ever be able to return to Coruscant, just before he passed out.

________________________

Original Fictober Promp List HERE!

[hayleysstark]

Hug

Words: 2405 Warnings: None Summary: Merlin had a tendency to say some strange things, but--

"You," Merlin jutted his chin out obstinately, and jabbed a resolute finger at Arthur, "owe me a hug."

--but this was by far the strangest. 

Notes: I have literally zero explanation for this bit of schmaltz, except that it occurred to me that, if Arthur had lived long enough to hear all of Merlin's magical adventures, Merlin would have 100000000% told him about the Fomorrah incident, and promptly demanded a redo hug once he heard about the one he didn't remember. GIVE MERLIN EMRYS A HUG 2KFOREVER ARTHUR.

Read on Fanfiction or AO3

Merlin had a tendency to say some strange things.

Well, he said stupid things, for a start, things like dollophead or clotpole or, once even goosebrain—words that weren't actually words at all, just a whole bunch of nonsensical gibberish, made-up, a few sounds he'd just smashed together when he felt he'd been using prat too much. He said treasonous things, too, of course, but that bit went without saying—he said things that could get him—should get him, if Arthur was being honest with himself, the things Merlin said should get tossed in the stocks or dungeons or even outright hung for even letting the words pass his lips—things like Arthur, if you get mud on your armor like this again, I'm going to kill you, or Arthur, if you try to go on that dangerous quest, I'll drug your breakfast and lock you in your chambers and I'll tell all the guards you're enchanted so they know not to listen to you, or once, even a Arthur, the next time you say we aren't going to get ambushed by bandits and we get ambushed by bandits, I'm going to cut off your mouth and sew it back on inside out and upside down—that one alone could have earned him about a thousand death sentences, but Arthur had been, much as he hated to admit it, highly entertained by it all the same.

Look, Arthur was trying to make a point here. The point was this. Merlin said things. Stupid things. Treasonous things. Things that would have had Arthur's father rolling in his grave should they ever reach his ears—I'm not going to enchant a flagon of ale that never runs out for you, Gwaine, or how about if I just turn Lord Rodney into a toad and be done with it, come on, Arthur, he's insufferable, or damn dragon's being cryptic again—

But. But Arthur had gotten used to it. Merlin had magic, and Merlin had a dragon—two dragons, sorry—and Merlin was, whatever the idiot's own insistence to the contrary, some kind of—err, royalty to other sorcerers. Ruler. Monarch. Lord, maybe. King, perhaps. Arthur didn't know, and Merlin outright refused to admit to it, even when the druids' ambassadors dropped to their knees at the sight of him, and he turned several different shades of red in quick succession.

Getting off the point. Merlin said strange things, that was the point, things about destiny and magic and spells and dragons and coins and once and future kings. Arthur really didn't want to get into all of it.

But this—

"You," Merlin jutted his chin out obstinately, and jabbed a resolute finger at Arthur, "owe me a hug."

—this was by far the strangest.

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?" Of course, prophesized warlock or not, Merlin could be a bit of a girl at times, but this was taking it a bit far, even for him. Maybe he was hearing things?

"You owe me," Merlin repeated, without missing a beat, and he seemed so indignant about the whole thing, Arthur was almost tempted to laugh, "you owe me a hug!"

Arthur blinked. All right, so he wasn't hearing things. "What?"

"You hugged me," Merlin said, the perfect picture of dignified affront, "you hugged me, and I don't even remember it!"

"Merlin," Arthur set the latest report from Sir Tristan facedown on the desk—he had a feeling he wasn't going to be getting to the end of it anytime soon—and leaned across the polished surface to get a better look at the man, "have you been on the cider?" It was a bit of a low blow, and Arthur knew it, what with all the times Merlin had never actually been in the tavern, but it was the only rational conclusion he could draw.

Merlin had a way of looking at people, sometimes, like he was seriously weighing the merits of turning them into a roach. This was one of those times. "No, I haven't," he said, with admirable composure. "And you know that, so stop being an ass, Arthur, it suits you a little too well."

"Merlin—!" Speaking of things that could get the man a thousand death sentences. Arthur decided perhaps the stocks were getting a little lonely as of late.

"Look, Gwaine and I were talking—"

"Oh," Arthur relaxed, and settled back in his seat. "That's it, then." He picked Sir Tristan's report back up. An invisible force plucked the paper from his fingers, and sent it fluttering out of his reach, facedown on the floor at Merlin's feet.

"Merlin!" Arthur glanced around for something to throw. Perhaps the inkwell?

"Listen!" Merlin put his hands on his hips. Had anyone ever thought to tell him how he looked nothing so much as an angry housewife when he did that? "Do you remember that time when we were out on patrol, and we got attacked by bandits—"

"Could you be more specific?"

"—and," Merlin continued, with another should-I-turn-him-into-a-roach look, "you and I got separated from everyone else, and I got hit by a mace, and then there was that big rock fall, and you thought I'd got lost—"

"Vividly," Arthur said flatly. It wasn't a day he liked to think about, to put it lightly.

"—only I didn't actually get lost, remember, I told you, Morgana found me, and she put that snakey thing in my neck that made me try to kill you and—"

"The point, Merlin."

The idiot must have realized he was rambling, because he stopped short. He even had the grace to blush. "Well." He huffed. "Gwaine tells me you hugged me."

Oh. So that's what they were getting at, then. Arthur's face began to burn like fire. "Gwaine," he said, as seriously as he could, and oh, he hoped to the gods Merlin couldn't see the flush crawling up his neck and flooding into his cheeks, "is about the most unreliable source in the entire kingdom, Merlin."

Merlin must have expected the resistance, because he countered at once. "He seemed pretty sure of himself when he told me."

"Yes, and how many had he knocked back by that point?" Arthur sniped. Logic told him he should just swallow his pride and cop to it—fine, all right, so he'd hugged Merlin, but it had been quick and one-armed and decidedly very manly, and also, he'd thought the idiot was dead for the past three days, so that had to count for something, right?—but logic also said that if he did swallow his pride and cop to it, Merlin would never let it go, and. Well. He couldn't have that.

"He was sober!"

"And you're sure it was Gwaine?"

"Arthur!" Merlin's hands were on his hips again. They were back to the angry-housewife stage.

Arthur bit back a sigh. "Look, Merlin, not that I don't love a nice stroll down memory lane every now and then, but I fail to see what this has to do with—"

"You hugged me!"

"That's still up for debate."

"And I don't even remember it!"

"Common occurrence for things that didn't happen." Arthur wondered if it was worth it to get up and get the report off the floor, or if he ought to just start on a new one.

"I don't believe it." Merlin collapsed into the seat opposite Arthur. "The one time you hugged me, and I don't even remember it."

"Merlin," Arthur dragged in a breath, and rubbed tiredly at the bridge of his nose, "if you're going to insist on spouting nonsense—"

The last dragonlord, the slayer of the High Priestess Nimeuh and the immortal sorcerer Cornelius Sigan and gods knew who else, the ruler-slash-monarch-slash-lord-slash-king to the magical community, the almighty warlock Emrys, gave what Arthur could only describe as a pout. "I deserve a hug that I remember."

Arthur ran out of patience. "I'm not going to hug you!"

The almighty warlock Emrys pouted harder. "I could die tomorrow, and if I did, I would go to my grave without even the memory of—"

"Merlin, you're immortal."

At least that seemed to pull Merlin from his sulk, because he snorted, and sat up a little straighter. "Yeah, I'm immortal if no one, y'know, stabs me, or poisons me, or shoots me, or starves me—"

"Yes, yes, I get the point," Arthur waved a dismissive hand, and tried not to dwell on the image the flippant words had conjured up of a bleeding and poisoned and arrow-ridden Merlin. "Look, I've got quite a lot of work to do, in case you haven't noticed, we can't all sit around practicing spells and riding dragons and getting worshipped by druids—"

Merlin turned red. "I-I'm not—!"

"—so, if you won't leave, why don't you make yourself useful?" Arthur nodded at his favorite pair of boots at the foot of the bed, the leather tops still crusted over with a fair bit of mud from their last patrol.

Merlin slumped from his chair, slumped over to the boots, slumped to the floor at the foot of Arthur's bed, and slumpily picked up the boots.

Slumpily. Arthur stifled a groan. Damn it, Merlin, you've got me using your idiotic made-up words now.

Arthur shook his head and returned to his reports. All thoughts of Merlin's terrible influence aside, maybe now he could actually get some proper work done and—

His thoughts scattered to a million different corners of his mind when the soft, unmistakable swish of coarse bristles on dirty leather met his ears. Oh, for gods' sakes, what on earth was the idiot playing at now—?

"Merlin," Arthur looked up, "what are you doing?"

"Er—?" Merlin lifted his head, his eyes decidedly on the hesitant side. "Polishing your boots? Like—like you said?"

Arthur frowned at the familiar sight—Merlin, sprawled at the foot of the bed, his back to the wooden frame, a polishing brush in one hand and Arthur's left boot balanced on his knee. It wasn't something he'd ever expected to see again, was it, not after—and he'd made it quite clear, hadn't he, he'd made it clear that Merlin could—? Well, perhaps he hadn't, it wasn't like they had really talked about it much, it wasn't like it was high on anyone's list of priorities when the truth had first come out, but—well—never mind, never mind, he'd set it to rights. "I—I don't mind, you know."

Merlin stared back at him blankly. "Mind?"

"The—erm—" Arthur held up a hand, and rather awkwardly wiggled his fingers. It wasn't anything like the baffling, complex, fluid sorts of motions Merlin did when he was casting spells, but the king was fairly confident it got the point across. "The magic. You can use the magic. To—to polish," he added, just to be absolutely clear. "I thought that's what—I thought that's what you'd—you know."

"Oh." Merlin looked down at the brush in his hands like he hadn't even realized it was there. "All right, then." He shrugged, and he went back to polishing the boots. By hand. With the brush.

Arthur ran out of patience. To be fair, it wasn't something he'd ever had in spades. "Really,Merlin?" He pushed his chair back from the desk, stalked over to the idiot—all crouched on the floor with his long legs tucked up to keep them out of the way—and snatched the half-done boot from his grasp. "For all your incessant whining about chores, I'd have thought you'd jump at the chance."

A small smile flicked at the corners of Merlin's lips. "Well." He made a wide grab for the boot, and missed spectacularly. His abysmal aim, his nonexistent coordination, his complete lack of athleticism—the only things about him that hadn't changed. The reminder that somewhere inside the all-powerful sorcerer who spoke six different languages and cast magic more extraordinary than any High Priestess could ever hope to achieve, somewhere inside Emrys, there was still Merlin.

"I like," Merlin said, softly, "to do it by hand. I'm happy to be your servant," he added, sincerely, not a trace of mockery or mirth in his voice. "Until the day I die." The smile bloomed into full, brilliant being across his face. "It's an honor to serve you, Sire."

It wasn't the first time Merlin had said something like this—of course it wasn't the first time Merlin had said something like this, the man was an absolute girl's petticoat at the best of times, always with the talking, and the feelings, and the heart on his sleeve sort of thing—but this was the first time he had said it with such feeling, and over something so simple. The immortal warlock Emrys called it an honor to clean the mud from his boots, and Arthur had to stop, and swallow hard, before he could speak again.

"You—" say stupid things and mad things and treasonous things and you have magic and two dragons and druids worship you even though you cry when you see baby rabbits and you could rule a kingdom but you want to be a servant, you want to be my servant, you think it's an honor to be my servant— "—are such a girl, Merlin."

And maybe Arthur was a girl, too, because—

—well, because he maybe pulled Merlin into a hug.