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rose7420 · 4 years ago

Text

Best of Friends

Summary: Loki becomes curious about the whereabouts of a certain tiny Avenger reader. Lots of fluff and some angst

I know I have requests to do but I had this idea and had to make it come to life, Enjoy my friends!

Loki walked into the kitchen of the Avengers Tower. The smooth white counter shone with impeccable cleanliness. He had been here for about two and a half weeks now and had barely spoken to anyone. He was very lonely but took no offense to the shunning of the superheroes. During his attack in 2012, he knew he had caused a lot of pain and loss. He had sat in his jail cell on Asgard contemplating his actions, regretting many of them. Finally, after two miserable years that held the loss of his mother, Odin had thought it a brilliant idea to come back to the very planet he had nearly destroyed and ask that he live with the very people he had fought violently against.

He reached the cabinet that held snacks of various sorts, ones he usually stuck his nose up to, and opened it to find disappointment once again. All junk. Releasing a deep aggravated breath he went to the refrigerator. Cold air grazed his face as he opened the door and found nothing there either. He turned to the counter and searched for the basket of fruit that usually was placed there. Holding red apples, bananas, and oranges the colors made an ugly mix. He reached for an apple and shined it on his shirt. Taking a bite out of it then swallowing, he relished the feeling of having food in his stomach. Those awful times he spent in the cell, the guards would often forget to give him his meals, he winces at the awful memory of a truly empty stomach.

His attention is drawn down to a small object near the bowl. He plucks it up and inspects it to realize it is a minuscule black boot. His inspection is halted from the sound of footsteps belonging to the Black Widow who enters the kitchen, most likely for another cup of coffee. She nods her head in greeting and continues her process of making the warm drink. Although distant to him, Natasha holds no menace in her gaze when she looks upon him almost as if she understood the predicament he was in while terrorizing New York. She takes a sip of her freshly brewed coffee and turns around to look at him when she notices the tiny object pinched in his fingertips.

“That’s Y/N’s.” She says motioning with her head towards the tiny boot as if finding a tiny shoe is a normal occurrence.

Loki is astonished that someone could even wear this boot, it wouldn't be able to even slide onto his pinky finger.

“Who is this Y/N?” He asks curiously.

“She’s like us, goes on missions, fights the bad guys but just in a more secretive way. Maybe she’ll come out for you to see her one day, doesn't like the attention from us big guys much often.” Natasha says taking another sip.

“What do you mean by “big guys” agent?”He asks although he thinks he knows the answer already.

“You’ll find out soon enough. Just leave the boot on the counter she’ll come back for it. Don’t bother keeping watch for her to come to get it, she’ll find a way to get past your sights.” She says walking out the door holding her cup. Loki is astonished to know that there is a tiny person living here with him, and he hadn’t even known. Not to mention that she goes on missions. He aches to find out more about this tiny being, but he will heed Natasha’s advice and not go searching for her. Something tells him that this little person is skilled enough to evade even the Trickster’s awareness.

True to Natasha’s word: The little boot was gone by the next morning

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Two days later, Loki sits at a table in the grand library of Tony Stark’s. Books cover the walls and reach up to the tall ceiling. Before Loki had started occupying this space he had figured no one had used this library in years from the heavy coat of dust that had lied on every inch of the room. What a shame to waste such knowledge. Books were splayed out in front of Loki of all he could find on “tiny people”. He had read over the term "borrower" and "fairy" many times already. Perhaps this tiny being had been a borrower and gotten caught. His curiosity was practically burning holes in him. A faint huff and oomph draw his attention, his gaze leaving the printed paper. His emerald eyes go wide when a positively tiny person drags themselves upon the surface of the wooden table. They appear to stand at only a grand two and a half inches tall carrying a piece of paper fit to their size along with a pen.

“Whatcha starin’ at big boy?” The tiny girl asks Loki fearlessly.

Loki snaps his jaw up to close his wide-open mouth. He, for the first time in a while, is at a loss for words.

“You’re a talkative one, eh?” Heavens be, this little being is full of sass.

“My apologies, my name is Loki. I presume you to be Y/N?” Loki finally says.

“You would be correct Loki. So you like to read. Huh?” Y/N walks up to the books splayed open and smiles widely at the title, “All You Need to Know About Borrowers”

“Little people, yeah? Well, I hate to break it to ya, but I ain’t no borrower or fairy. Wasn’t born like this if that helps any at all.” Loki blushes when she reads the title but listens intently to what she’s saying. She wasn’t born like this, as she shrunk? He wisely chooses not to ask her that question.

“May I ask why you are here?” Loki says, inquisitive to how could she attempt to read these books that are five times her size.

Y/N holds up the little slip of paper she carries and shows it to him.

“Stark takes the books I want and shrinks them down to my size so they’re a bit more manageable. Ain’t much to do for a gal like me other than to read and eat.” She says with a hint of humor in her voice. She doesn’t seem affected by her situation; embracing it rather than hating it. An idea pops into Loki’s head.

“Perhaps I could shrink it for you? Less hassle than having to wait for Stark.” Loki offers.

“That's right you’re that wizard dude, gotta lot of magic tricks huh?”

Loki laughs and he watches her eyes lit up with excitement as she hands the paper to him after scribbling another title onto it.

“Are you sure you can read my writing? It’s awfully small for your eyes.” And indeed the print is. The paper slip barely covers the pad of his fingertip.

“No worries about that,” Loki reassures her. He grows the paper to his size and goes to retrieve the books written down. He sets them down lightly on the table, watching as Y/N stumbles from the heavy load of them all. He apologizes but she waves him off.

“Are these the right ones?” He asks to make sure.

She strides towards the novels and looks them over from the spines that show, and nods with affirmation. He shrinks them to her size, watching as she bends down to gather them in her arms. They cause significant distress in her tiny arms so he offers his assistance.

He watches her pause with concern. After a few moments, she accepts and places the now-tiny books into the palm of his hand, watching as they slide towards the natural dip his palm creates.

“Would you like me to carry you?” He asks imagining the trip to be longer for her than it is for himself.

“O-oh n-no! I’ll be fine, if you don’t mind you could just follow me?” Her voice is high-pitched with obvious anxiety. He agrees and assures her there is no problem, watching her movements with fascination when she scales down the table leg.

The trip to her room is long, one step of his equalling ten of hers. Not to mention his trepidation of stepping too close, and accidentally hurting her. He also notices how every footstep of his causes her to stumble minutely. After about twenty minutes they arrive at her door. Which is normal-sized and puzzles him until he notices the tiny door situated in the middle. She steps in through her door then calls out to him that he can come in. He does so opening the normal-sized door and steps into her room. He searches for her form, whipping his head around at the non-furnished room until he comes across a dollhouse that sits on the floor. She walks across the floor and motions for him to come nearer.

“Could you uh, put the house on the desk? So it’s easier for you to see.”

He nods and sets the books he has in his hands down on the table. Standing what feels like a hundred feet over a dollhouse no bigger than a medium-sized box he truly feels like a giant. He picks the house up and sets it up on the desk. Ready to offer a hand for Y/N on the floor, he is surprised to not see her there anymore. Instead, he hears a voice call his name from the desk.

“Thank ya for helping me out, I really appreciate the books!” She says.

Noticing the awe on his face from the miniaturized objects she explains: “Stark shrinks everything for me, that’s how I get by. Got everything I need in here so I never gotta come out unless I need more groceries.”

Loki assumed that a life like that could get very lonely, but he said nothing as he had before. He only kneeled to be level with her carrying on a conversation that actually held his interest.

Soon after that day Y/N and Loki started hanging around each other much more often. Finding themselves in the library together, watching a movie of the book they had both read, or simply eating together. Her small stature proved to be no hindrance in their friendship, other than Y/N purposely avoiding his hands. One night as they sat down in Loki’s room (since Loki couldn't fit in Y/N’s) ready to watch a movie on the television that Y/N had practically begged Loki to put in his quarters. She sat on the arm of the deep green couch he had placed in his room, looking a tad uncomfy. She munched on a shrunken-down bag of Goldfish. Earlier, while in the kitchen she had dragged the towering bag towards him with pleading eyes. She perched on the cushion every time they watched films together but this time she looked lonesome there all by herself. With gentleness in his voice, he asked Y/N casually if she would like to sit upon his shoulder.

Y/N’s posture became rigid. But surprisingly she agreed. He figured she would start scaling his shoulder but she waited as if expecting something.

His hand.

He realized it when her eyes flickered towards the one closest to her so he obliged. Slowly as if approaching a scared kitten his hand unfolded to display flattened fingers that she could step easily onto. She stood up slowly and neared his index finger. Her impossibly tiny hand on his digit made him twitch minutely. He cursed himself inwardly for such actions that he could not control. She sat in the dip of his palm weighing nothing more than a feather, and his breath caught in his throat at her fragility. He lifted his hand slowly to his right shoulder and waited patiently for her to dismount onto the broad platform. Tiny grunts of effort reached his ear as she situated herself nearer to his neck, her movements raising goosebumps on his skin. The small noises stopped as she finally found a comfortable spot.

“Are you comfortable?” Loki asked, making sure to keep his voice low.

“Y-yeah, I’ve never been on a shoulder before. You’re really warm.” Her voice was very clear and easy to hear when she was right next to his ear. Perhaps he should do this more often. Loki smiled at her comment, happy to provide comfort for his tiny friend.

Y/N and Loki had criticized the characters and plot the whole way through the film. Well maybe halfway for Y/N as she had fallen asleep upon his shoulder. Little breaths and snores escaped her mouth bringing a smile to Loki’s lips. Gently he brought her down from his shoulder into his cupped palms, trying to not wake her. Her little frame was dwarfed by the immensity of his hands. Despite the big-boss attitude she brought he was reminded of her delicateness. He walked to her room with a careful gait and came upon her house. There was no way his entire hand could fit through the door, and he wasn’t going to leave her there on the floor. So he turned around and headed to his own room once again.

Perhaps on a pillow, she would be comfortable, but he worried she’d become cold as she had mentioned before how sensitive she was to the elements. Out of pure instinct because it was a rather warm and soft place he placed her upon his chest. As he did so he realized how much his breathing could affect her and immediately tried to restrict his chest from rising and falling. That caused his heart to beat even harder and faster thumping rapidly under Y/N’s body causing her to slightly move. Eventually, he found a normal rhythm in both patterns of his normal body functions and drifted to sleep.

Y/N awoke to an unfamiliar but comforting rocking and thumping sensation. Blinking her eyes open tiredly she looked at the undulating expanse of black cotton fabric that surrounded her. Her gaze snapped up to Loki’s face. He slept soundly, not disturbed by her awakening. The puffs of air from the exhale he released faintly blew her face. How did he not have morning breath? She wondered how she had gotten up here on his chest, or even in his bed. She remembered falling asleep on his shoulder but couldn't he have woken her or set her in her bed in her house? Then she realized: His hand was probably too big and Loki cared much for her sleeping schedule, and he would feel guilty if he had awoken her from slumber. Loki soon awoke and greeted Y/N with a sleepy smile. He said nothing about the sleeping situation. In the nights to come, Y/N would find her bed less comfortable than Loki’s chest, his hand atop her warmer than her fluffiest blanket. An odd comfort, yet, soothing in its gentility and peacefulness.

Y/N had rarely been outside. With a grand height of two and a half inches, the world outside was a much more dangerous place than here in the tower. But with Loki, perhaps she could change that…

“Hey Loki,” Y/N climbs onto the book he currently reads, leaving little footprints of dust behind from her dirty boots. Loki notices this and pinches her waist lifting her so he can close the book allowing her to stand on the cover.

“Yes, little Y/N?” Loki has taken a liking to the nickname and to his surprise, Y/N hasn’t commented on it either.

“Do ya think we could maybe go outside on a walk or something?” She asks with nerves in her voice, she doesn’t want her request to be rejected.

“I see no problem with that as long as you stay on my person the entire time. You can even sit on my shoulder, I’ll be able to cast an illusion to make you unseen to others’ eyes.”

Y/N beams and her mood is immediately uplifted, all anxiety gone.

“Oh my goodness yes! Let me go get my sunglasses and my sandals. Oh!” Y/N keeps naming off things as she sprints back to her room excitement in every step.

Loki laughs loudly at her rambling, a blush rising to his cheeks.

The sun warms Y/N’s body as she perches on Loki’s shoulder, true to his word, no one spies the two-inch girl. Loki’s gait rocks her with every step and she clings to his shirt collar for support. The sky is blue with a gentle breeze in the air cooling the warmness around them. Loki wears his black hair in a low bun; before they had walked outside he insisted on wearing it up, worried the dark strands would get in Y/N’s way. They enjoy each other’s company in a comfortable silence until Loki asks her if she likes ice cream. It had been a while since she had tasted the delicacy and sweetness of the cold treat. After her run-in with the whole shrinking episode, she had been on her own for quite a bit. Scavenging for food when it came, she was not picky in the slightest. Ice cream was a dessert she came by not too often.

“What is your favorite flavor?” She asks Loki before they walk into the small shop.

Loki ponders for a moment wetting his lips with a swipe of his tongue.

“I like vanilla.” He states, making Y/N turn towards him with astonishment.

“Vanilla! That’s like the plainest one yet! Come on, you gotta have a better one than that.” She exclaims.

Ignoring her disagreement with his choice, he asks: “What is your favorite?”

“Oh definitely, one hundred percent cotton candy.” She says without missing a beat.

“That’s terribly sweet don’t you think? I believe vanilla is the better choice here.”

“Hey! I like my choice very much, thank you!” She laughs lightly hitting his jaw, watching as his face lifts with a smile from their playful banter. The rest of the day played out nicely after they had both eaten their ice creams. Loki offered to shrink Y/N’s but she insisted she’d rather have more to eat. He had laughed a full belly laugh when she ended up falling into the mound of ice cream herself. He had used his magic to clean her up.

The next day Loki found out that Y/N and he were put on a mission together. Infiltrate an enemy base to get valuable information. Easy enough he thought. He was wrong. Turns out keeping an eye on a tiny person is harder than it sounds.

Halfway into the mission, Y/N’s voice went quiet on his headset. She had been tasked with exploring the vents for easier access to the archive room where the records they needed were kept. He had no way to physically reach her, because of his size. The best he could hope for was her voice to sound in his ear again through the headset. Anxiety pumped through him, his mind coming up with terrible scenarios that could’ve happened already. He tried to keep a clear head, focusing on the task at hand. He made it to a doorway held guard with two men carrying heavy guns. He simply illusioned himself as another soldier, using the keycard he had swiped off the soldier he was illusioned as of now. Making it into the security room he checked the cameras for any sign of Y/N. To his horror, he saw that they also had cameras in the air vents. Where Y/N had been previously.

He exited the room in a calm fashion while panicking immensely on the outside. Running his hands through his hair, he paced back and forth. He usually kept a clear head in stressful situations, but the thought of losing Y/N made him sick with worry and terror. That’s when he felt a weight hit his boot. He immediately looked down and saw Y/N’s panting, exhausted form sprawled out on the toe of his shoe. He knelt quickly scooping her up, bringing her to his eye level. She rolled over to meet his gaze.

“Are you alright, what happened? You worried me sick?” Loki blurted.

She held up a rectangular box showing it to Loki. The flash drive.

“Got it. But we gotta move, there are cameras in those vents, and I’m pretty positive they caught sight of a certain tiny person.”

Loki groaned with aggravation but was relieved to have his tiny friend back in his grasp.

He dropped Y/N into his pocket gently, he had asked that most of his clothes come with pockets from now on to hold Y/N safely with him.

“Remind me to never let you out of my sight again.” Loki jokes.

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That night after hot showers and a good meal Loki and Y/N were ready to go to sleep. Y/N laid peacefully on Loki’s chest, rising with his every breath. Loki lay down with a hand over his eyes. But a certain nagging question still held his mind from sleep.

“Y/N, how did you get to be…” He can't finish the last word, worried he’ll bring up unwanted emotions and memories.

“How’d I get so small?” Y/N finishes for him.

“You don't have to tell me if you don't want to.” He reminds with a gentle fingertip rubbing circles onto her back.

“No, no...I need to tell someone. I’ve been keeping it under lock and key but I trust you Lokesters.”

He smiled at the new nickname she had given him watching as she turned towards him, sitting criss-cross. He propped his head with his hands to see her clearly.

“I didn’t have the best parents out there. They struggled with bills, because they were too worried about getting their drugs, So one night when I was ten years old they took me to a restaurant. We never went to restaurants, kind of a fancy thing for me you know? I was excited and had gotten my favorite blue dress on to go. I started to realize they had lied to me when we passed the restaurant and kept driving. They took me to a HYDRA base, but I didn't know that at the time, all because they wanted money. So they gave me up for experiments and left me for their high.”

Y/N took a deep breath to stop the tears from coming and continued.

“The scientists or whatever strapped me down to a table and stuck me with this needle. Well, I guess you know what happened and they kept me for three years in a cage with all types of different tests to measure my strengths. They were tortuous, so I had to escape and I did. But when I was about thirteen and a half I was able to sneak away. I lived in boxes on the streets, outside under rocks, trying to scavenge by. Even met a couple borrowers like you were reading bout’. They were awfully nice fellows but were barely getting by themselves so I couldn’t take off of them. But one day I was stealing or whatever you wanna call it and got caught by no other than Nick Fury himself. Told me he needed little guys like myself and offered me a place to stay, food to eat, and a job of my own. So I took it and here I am.”

Loki was astonished by the strength of this small girl, how she’d survived through such hardships and still had a good heart and kind soul. He hugged her closer to his chest, careful not to smother her.

“Well little one, you got me now and I'm not going anywhere.”

Y/N popped her head out from his grasp and eyed with scrutiny.

“Even for the Tesseract?” She asked.

Loki laughed and hugged her again, watching as she embraced him as well.

“Even for the Tesseract.”

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Please reblog if you liked it! Lots of love ❤️

#giant loki #loki laufeyson #Loki fanfic #giant/tiny #tiny reader #shrunken reader #marvel #gt marvel

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astrawords · 5 years ago

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a symbol to remind you that there’s more to see

Characters: Jin Ling, Jiang Cheng, Wei Wuxian (& Co) Rating: T Warnings/Tags: No Major Warnings, Canon-Compliant(ish), Post-Canon(ish), Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Mild/Moderate Angst, Angst With Happy Ending, Yunmeng Shuangjie, Twin Idiots, Reconciliation, Jin Ling has too many uncles, Jin Ling deserves a hug, Jin Ling will save us all, excessive verbosity by yours truly

Summary: For as long as Jin Ling can remember, he has been immune to the majority of supernatural hauntings that plague the cultivation world.

Or: what if Jin Ling had received his first-month birthday gift.

Disclaimer: All characters and settings belong to MXTX and The Untamed. Set in CQL!verse. Before anyone asks, yes, I have read the novel.

Notes: HELLO! It has been a really long time since I ventured into full-on fic writing. This makes me nervous to post (I am @amedetoiles posting on my writing blog btw), but I was rambling to @winepresswrath about this and so of course I wrote it instead of doing productive adult things. Only this really got away from me. It was only supposed to be a short “what if” ficlet about Jin Ling, but Yunmengbros and their loud ass feelings got in the way, and it ended up being almost 10K D: Also, for @goblinish who was sad about jzasshole breaking wwx’s gift.

Basically, everything at Qiongqi Path still happened, but Wei Wuxian got the bracelet back before Jin Zixun crushed it (somehow), and it was delivered to Jiang Yanli shortly after the Wens surrendered (also somehow ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ PLOT? WHAT IS PLOT?). Not beta’d. We gonna die like wwx here.

[Read on AO3]

---

For as long as Jin Ling can remember, he has been immune to the majority of supernatural hauntings that plague the cultivation world. Any spirit or ghoul he has ever encountered would promptly redirect itself towards another target as if he were surrounded by an invisible barrier.

The first time it happens, he’s eight-years-old and accompanying his jiujiu to watch the YunmengJiang disciples get rid of a water ghost. In the midst of a coordinated luring, the water ghost had shot up right in front of him. Frantic, his uncle had thrown his arm out to shield him, only for the water ghost to hover above Jin Ling’s head with apparent confusion before diving back underneath the murky waters.

To this day, he still hasn’t forgotten the look on his uncle’s face.

(He tries to bring it up to his jiujiu only once, but Jiang Cheng had stared at him with a terrifying mix of fury and anguish that Jin Ling quickly learns to never mention it again, the same way he stops bringing up his mother.)

After a while, Jin Ling stops questioning it. Even if it’s a little strange, he can’t complain when it makes night hunting significantly more advantageous for him.

Of course, this doesn’t stop Jin Chan and his lackeys from mocking him relentlessly about it like they do with everything else. Their taunting comments that even the lowest of beings don’t want anything to do with him cut deeper than he pretends otherwise, adding to all the other still-healing wounds riddled across his chest. He punches Jin Chan partly in retaliation, but mostly because the throbbing in his hands makes him forget about the ache. At least for a while.

Silently, Jin Ling likes to think that maybe his parents are protecting him from beyond the grave, that perhaps their spirits are shielding him somehow, even if it’s a little farfetched. His memories of them are a gentle blur of gold and violet hues. On lonelier nights, they provide him with warmth when everything else is cold.

He carries his father’s sword with him like an anchor to that brief moment in his life when his family had been whole. The YunmengJiang bells are tied to his waist, marking him uniquely as an heir to two major sects. On his right wrist is his most treasured possession of all (though he will deny it if anybody asks)–the beaded bracelet his mother had left for him.

It was handcrafted. He knows from the hours and hours he’s spent tracing the uneven edges to the miniature nine-petaled lotus that sits at the knot and the intricately carved designs on the other beads. He isn’t sure who made it for him. From the little that he’s heard of her, his mother hadn’t been skilled at craftsmanship, and he has never been able to find anything similar in the markets. It certainly doesn’t match the golden opulence of LanlingJin to think that his parents had had it custom-made from a Lanling artisan.

Jiang Cheng skirts around the question whenever Jin Ling brings it up to him, but ever since that day on the lake, he’s caught his uncle gazing at it with eyes reflecting a confusing storm of unreadable emotions. Jin Ling tries his best to keep the bracelet hidden underneath his sleeve as often as he can, but he never takes it off, cherishing it like a lifeline–a symbol of a time when he’d been adored by the mother and father he never got to meet.

He tells himself it’s enough. (Sometimes he even believes it.)

As Jin Ling grows older and starts participating in more night hunts, he begins to realize that his immunity isn’t absolute. The fiercer the spirit, the more powerful the demon, the less likely his natural defense seems to hold. He still fares far better than the other disciples in his class. Partly because it holds up long enough for him to gather his bearings, and partly because his uncle is never too far behind, looming tall and threatening like the purple thunderstorms that roll through the Yunmeng skies during the summer.

It’s more comforting than he’ll ever admit, even if Jin Ling has a habit of running off without telling him. He wants to prove to his uncle that he’s strong and skilled enough to not need saving (and maybe a little bit to prove everyone else wrong, too).

But sitting in a room now trapped with a lunatic in a mask, even he has to admit that breaking into a haunted shrine was perhaps not the brightest idea he’s ever had. Being saved by Mo Xuanyu (if this man even is Mo Xuanyu–he certainly doesn’t act like the disgraced disciple he remembers) also hadn’t been on the list of things he’s ever wanted to experience.

If Jin Ling dies here, then his uncle is going to bring him back to life for the sole purpose of breaking his legs for not listening. (He might even admit to deserving it this once.)

Shuffling backwards on the bed, Jin Ling sputters angrily to hide the anxiety shooting up his spine as he frantically looks for an escape route. “You–! What were you taking off my clothes for? Where’s my sword? Where’s my dog?”

“Hey,” not-Mo Xuanyu says indignantly with his hands on his hips. “I just spent a lot of effort getting you out of the wall. You don’t know how to say thank you?”

Finding Suihua at his side, Jin Ling grabs it and raises it threateningly. “If it wasn’t for that, you would already be dead!”

“Alright, alright,” the man says, stepping back with a nervous laugh and raising his hands. “Listen. One death is enough for me. Be good. Put the sword down, okay?”

Jin Ling glares at him suspiciously but still lowers Suihua slowly to his lap. His sleeve rides up in the process, and not-Mo Xuanyu’s eyes travel to the bracelet on his wrist. The man freezes with a sharp intake of breath. “Jin Ling,” he whispers. “That bracelet…”

Jin Ling quickly covers it with his hand. “My mother left me this,” he snaps. “Don’t touch it!”

But the man doesn’t move, staring at Jin Ling with wide shocked eyes that he can see even through the mask. “Your… mother…?” he repeats, sounding strangled and winded, like he’s been knocked over.

“What’s it to you? It’s none of your business!” Jin Ling tells him hotly. Not-Mo Xuanyu doesn’t seem to hear him, standing so still that Jin Ling thinks he may as well have been stone if not for the way his hands were gripping at the skirts of his robes. Seeing the opportunity, he quickly puts on his boots and bolts from the room, ignoring the delayed shouts coming from behind him as he speeds away in search of his jiujiu and Fairy.

Predictably, Jiang Cheng scolds him loudly enough to echo through the dark empty streets for running off on his own again once Jin Ling finally makes his way back to the holding spot where the YunmengJiang entourage were waiting. Unpredictably, however, his uncle’s tirade gets interrupted by a now far-too familiar yelping as not-Mo Xuanyu falls out from an alcove with a string of exceedingly embarrassing whimpers, cowering into the ground as Fairy comes trotting along after him.

On the one hand, it all goes about the same as all the other demonic cultivators Jin Ling has watched his uncle hunt down over the years in search of Wei Wuxian’s returning soul, and yet, oddly, on the other hand, it’s not the same at all.

For one, he’s never seen that look cross his uncle’s face before when not-Mo Xuanyu finally removes his mask. For another, he’s never seen a cultivator unlucky enough to catch his uncle’s ire look back with such defiance.

Maybe that’s what pushes Jin Ling to lie to his uncle about seeing the Ghost General outside the village. That, and the man had saved him after all. No one besides his two uncles have ever bothered to do anything for Jin Ling, let alone dig him out of a cursed trap he unwittingly fell into on his own. (No one’s ever apologized to him either, and he’s left stumbling between embarrassment at being caught off guard and his practiced arrogance, completely unsure how to navigate around the strange almost proud smile on the man’s face that reminds him so much of his jiujiu’s rare satisfied grin.)

“That bracelet,” not-Mo Xuanyu says slowly. Jin Ling steps back, his hand automatically coming up to cover his wrist as he stares back with a narrowed look. The man rolls his eyes. “Ai-ya, what’s that look for? I’m not going to steal it, brat. I was just… wondering if you knew who made it.”

Jin Ling frowned. “I already told you, my mother gave it to me,” he says testily, still suspicious. “What’s it to you?”

“Ah, nothing, nothing,” the man says with a light innocent tone. “I just wanted to know where one might be able to find a bracelet like that, is all.”

Jin Ling scoffs, crossing his arms. “It’s an original. You won’t be able to find it anywhere.” Even though he’s never been entirely sure of that fact, there is still an unmistakable pride that colors his words as he says them.

“Hm,” not-Mo Xuanyu nods thoughtfully, lips quirking. After a beat of silence, the man says softly, “She must have loved you very much, Jin Ling. To want to protect you even after she was gone.”

Jin Ling flushes a bright red, taken aback by the bold words. Aside from the stories he’s heard from the nursemaids at Koi Tower who cared for him and what little he could get out of his jiujiu, no one has ever willingly spoken to him about his parents. And certainly no one, not even his uncle, has ever so matter-of-factly stated that his mother had loved him to his face. To think that this not-Mo Xuanyu, of all people, would be the first is ridiculously absurd, to say the least, even as his heart does something funny in his chest.

Belatedly, his mind catches up to the second half of what the man had said, and his head shoots up. “Protect me?” Jin Ling asks quickly.

Not-Mo Xuanyu hums again, turning away from Jin Ling suddenly. His voice sounds strangely thick when he says, “Of course. Why else would she leave you with spirit-repelling beads?”

Jin Ling starts in surprise. “Spirit-repelling?” he whispers as he lifts his wrist in front of him. “How– how do you know?”

The same smile from before was on the man’s face again as he looks at Jin Ling with an expression that feels strikingly familiar. “I can feel the spiritual energy coming off of them,” he says. “You’ll see. As your cultivation gets stronger.”

Jin Ling’s mouth forms a small oh but the sound barely leaves him as he stares intently at his bracelet as if seeing it for the first time. A burst of warmth floods into his chest, spreading all the way down to the tips of his fingers and toes. His mother, protecting him from beyond the grave, like he’s always hoped, has always dreamed. His head spins, feeling off balanced with his sixteen years long question suddenly answered by a man who shouldn’t have known anything at all, and yet…

A hand comes down on his shoulder, and he looks up, eyes wide. Not-Mo Xuanyu is smiling gently, his gaze soft. “She would be happy to see you doing so well.”

A lump forms in Jin Ling’s throat as his eyes burn, and he quickly shrugs off the man’s hand before he does something stupid like cry. “Who are you to say that to me?” he demands hotly, the tips of his ears going red from embarrassment. He quickly shoves away the revelation in favor of shouting at the elder for putting his brazenness.

In the days following, he spends an inordinate amount of time fiddling with the bracelet in a way he hasn’t felt the need to since he was thirteen, trying to concentrate on his qi to see if he could visualize the spiritual energy. After far too many hours, he is only able to catch the faintest trace of it, a crimson glow that fades quickly from his focus, but he feels so victorious as if he’s crafted the beads himself with his own bare hands. Perhaps that not-Mo Xuanyu is useful for something after all. He shakes his head, pushing all thoughts of that outrageous man from his mind.

But even as he tries, he can’t quite seem to forget how not-Mo Xuanyu had gazed at him with the same look in his eyes that his jiujiu has carried for all sixteen years of Jin Ling’s life.

Life becomes an unexpected whirlwind of chaos.

Jin Ling decides as he’s sitting tied to a rock on a poisonous mountain, being forced to listen to Jin Chan’s irritating complaining that, like everything else in his life, it is entirely Wei Wuxian’s fault.

Wei Wuxian, who not only murdered his father and got his mother killed, had then showed up at Dafan Mountain pretending to be that crazy Mo Xuanyu, setting his entire life into a downward spiral of unending problems, including but not limited to: his uncle’s ire, getting silenced by Hanguang-jun, creepy dead cats, fierce corpses, almost-poisoning, a sociopath and his murderous rogue cultivator-turned-corpse, and now kidnapping.

(The traitorous part of Jin Ling’s mind, probably responsible for the sharp burn of guilt in his stomach ever since Wei Wuxian had left Koi Tower bleeding from his sword, reminds him that the man has also guided him, protected him, and saved his life again and again. He had squeezed Jin Ling’s shoulders, looked at him with a proud smile, and told him his mother had loved him.)

Jin Ling gets into an argument with Jin Chan just to stop the storm of thoughts threatening to consume him. He isn’t entirely surprised when they’re interrupted by the same man who had set his life aflame, only for him to come save them all yet again.

He watches Wei Wuxian stand in front of a mob of cultivators all clamoring for his death with the same cool defiance Jin Ling has come to recognize, listens to his not-uncle expertly and systematically reveal Sect Leader Su’s secret treachery, and feels a confusing mix of delight and pride. When Wei Wuxian then throws himself into the line of fire as bait, exactly like he had in Yi City when he had protected them all from Xue Yang, it isn’t anger that fills Jin Ling but instead concern, worry–a fear that his… that Wei Wuxian might not make it out alive. He does, and Jin Ling doesn’t know what to do with the relief that floods through him.

The next evening Jin Ling leaves Lotus Pier without permission. Though he hasn’t seen his uncle all day, word of his uncle’s strange behavior has spread like wildfire through the YunmengJiang disciples. He tells himself that he’s sneaking out because he doesn’t want to get caught in his uncle’s temper and not at all because he maybe wants to run into someone who had left without even saying goodbye to him.

With the way everything has been tracking lately, it really shouldn’t have surprised him that he winds up where he is.

But it does, and he’s left trapped in a temple with two of the most powerful cultivators in the world now defenseless, and the man who has saved him time and time again unable to intervene, all while his own uncle orchestrates the whole thing without remorse.

He’s never been very good at following orders, so Jin Ling tries to escape as they’re pushed into the temple (his xiao-shushu can’t possibly be serious about killing Fairy, right?). He’s grabbed almost immediately by Su She. He struggles, yelling, and forcibly yanks his arm out of the other man’s grip, but his bracelet comes off his wrist as he pulls himself away. He watches, eyes going wide with horror as the bracelet soars into the air and lands on the ground, the impact scattering the beads all across the open courtyard, disappearing into the drenching downpour of rain.

It’s like a blade straight through his heart, and he stares, shock still, at his mother’s broken bracelet.

His vision is blurring with tears before he even realizes. “You!” Jin Ling screams angrily. Suihua is unsheathed and in his hands, and he swings it viciously at Su She. He’s deflected easily, and then freezes, feeling the points of several swords now at his throat.

“Su-zongzhu!” Wei Wuxian shouts, darting forward, but is stopped by two Jin disciples who grab ahold of his arms. “Get away from him!”

Su She sneers. “Yiling laozu,” he drawls disdainfully. “You’re not in the position to be giving orders.”

Something extraordinarily murderous flashes through Wei Wuxian’s eyes. For a brief moment, they almost seem to glow red with rage. “Su She, I am warning you, do not go too far,” he growls icily. Jin Ling gulps, shivering despite himself, and knows suddenly why his jiujiu and Wei Wuxian are brothers.

“Minshan,” Jin Guangyao interrupts calmly from the steps. Jin Ling swallows tightly as the swords are lowered, looking up at the man who has helped raise him, now staring at him with none of the warmth or concern he has grown up knowing, and feels hollow.

They’re pushed into the temple, and Jin Ling lowers himself onto the stone floor, Suihua cradled in his lap like a protective blanket. There are grey eyes across from him watching, pinched with worry, but Jin Ling doesn’t notice as he shakes with fury and anguish.

His wrist has never felt so bare.

Jin Ling sits on a pillar and stares morosely at the beads he’s gathered in his hands. Some of them are cracked, and the sight sends more pain lancing through his chest, sharper than any of the barbs anyone has ever thrown at him. The bitter angry tears finally spill down his cheeks.

There are more important things that he should be focusing on, like the millions of earth-shattering truths that have thrusted themselves upon his reality in the past few hours, but all he can see is the broken remains of his mother’s bracelet resting in his trembling hands.

“Jin Ling!”

He looks up and only barely catches sight of the black robes and red hair ribbon before he’s suddenly engulfed into a bone-crushing hug. Wei Wuxian (his uncle?) scolds him for being so reckless, an unbearable thread of frantic concern in his voice, and Jin Ling feels his face heat up. Even Jin Guangyao (resolutely, he doesn’t think past the name), the softer of his two uncles, had never been so casual and open with his care.

Wei Wuxian pulls back but doesn’t release him, holding him by the shoulders and frowning at him with an earnest worry that makes his face color even more. “A-Ling, promise me you won’t ever do something so stupid like that again.”

Jin Ling flounders, struggling to keep himself together in the face of this man’s unending onslaught of affection, but still can’t help but squawk indignantly. “You can’t scold me!” he throws back, a petulant frown forming on his lips. He pushes himself free, holding the beads close to his chest. “Go away. You’re going to break them even more!”

Wei Wuxian blinks down at Jin Ling’s hands, and then back to Jin Ling’s face, at his quivering lips, at the stubborn collection of tears in the corner of his eyes, and he softens.

“Silly boy,” Wei Wuxian admonishes quietly as he kneels down in front of Jin Ling. “What are you crying for?”

“I’m not crying!” Jin Ling retorts even as he wipes furiously at his eyes with his sleeve.

“Give them here,” Wei Wuxian says and takes all the beads into his hands. Jin Ling makes a sharp noise of distress, but Wei Wuxian shakes his head, “I’m not going to break them, A-Ling.” Reaching into his robes, he produces a new cord from his qiankun pouch, and Jin Ling’s eyes widen in surprise.

He watches Wei Wuxian thread each bead through the cord with nimble fingers, repairing the cracked ones with expertly drawn talismans that glow a very familiar crimson, and he knows.

“There,” Wei Wuxian says as he finishes tying the final knot and seals his work with another complicated sigil. With gentle hands, he slips the bracelet back onto Jin Ling’s right wrist and glances up at him with a soft smile. “See? Good as new.”

Jin Ling doesn’t move. There is a mad rushing sound in his ears. His heart is in his mouth. His vision is blurring.

Wei Wuxian reaches up, and he feels a thumb on his cheek, brushing away the stray tears that are falling. His uncle’s smile is immeasurably fond, tender, and also something achingly familiar that wrenches a sixteen-year old memory out of Jin Ling’s howling heart, making him think words like love and warmth and safe.

Across the courtyard, Jiang Cheng is watching them, his face reflecting that unreadable chaos Jin Ling has come to know so well (and has just realized why). Wei Wuxian looks over, too, but no words pass between the two brothers. Maybe there are no more words left to say. Maybe enough words are still lying on the ashy floors of the destroyed temple behind them. (Maybe they are all resting on Jin Ling’s wrist like they have for sixteen years.)

In the span of a few weeks, everything that Jin Ling has grown up knowing and believing has crumbled under his feet. He has come closer to death than he’s ever been before. His neck stings from betrayal. His head throbs from where he hit it falling onto the stone floor. His hands are still trembling.

He’s lost an uncle.

But somehow, kneeling in front of him, he’s gained another, one who’s been with him all along, who’s been protecting him for his entire life.

Seven months into Jin Ling’s term as the new LanlingJin sect leader, more than the sycophantic elders trying to curry his favor where before they had only looked at him with disdain, more than all the smaller clans trying to take advantage of his age and inexperience, and more than the overwhelming task of having to clean up after Jin Guangyao’s political mess (or the frighteningly painful shadows of the man he still sees everywhere at Koi Tower), it’s his two maternal uncles who are driving him slowly toward insanity the most.

“We could lock them up together until they finally talk,” Ouyang Zizhen suggests, after Jin Ling finishes regaling his friends over dinner with a tale of how a perfectly well-planned unassuming meal with both his uncles at Koi Tower had turned into an epic debacle. Even this morning, the servants were still trying to scrub away the damage done to his private dining hall.

“Do you want to die?” Lan Jingyi says through a mouthful of rice, still the most un-Lan disciple he’s ever met wearing the cloud-patterned forehead ribbon. “Because Jiang-zongzhu will definitely kill us.” He then adds, after a beat, “After he kills Wei-qianbei.”

Jin Ling groans and lets his forehead fall onto the table with a thunk. “Not. Helping.”

Lan Sizhui pats him on his arm. “Jin Ling,” he says, “it’s not your responsibility to make sure Wei-qianbei and Jiang-zongzhu get along.”

He’s right. Jin Ling knows he’s right, and not because Sizhui is usually right. Neither Wei Wuxian nor Jiang Cheng has ever asked him to embark on this solely self-decided journey to fix their estranged relationship. Both of them seem frustratingly content with the current status quo, only really maintaining some level of stilted cordiality wherever Jin Ling is concerned.

But he has gotten exceptionally tired of having to juggle around both of them. Neither of his uncles ever visit him at the same time, so he feels annoyingly pulled in two different directions and just ends up feeling guilty whenever he chooses one over the other. Never mind that after all these years, he finally understands a little of his uncle’s complicated feelings for his once sworn brother and the bracelet he had left for Jin Ling. Or the fact that, according to the YunmengJiang disciples, his jiujiu has gone from raging at people who dare speak Wei Wuxian’s name to snapping at anyone who thinks they can speak ill without impunity. And yet, the man still can’t have a civil conversation with Uncle Wei without it resulting in a shouting match.

Looking at them, Jin Ling feels a bone-deep longing to set right to what little family he has left. (He also wants equally as much to throttle both of their heads against the wall.)

“Ugh,” he groans, sitting back up and sliding his bowl of rice towards him. “Fine. But if they do try to kill each other tonight, you all better help me.”

The plan for their night hunt had started out so simple–a brief patrol through the eastern forests of Yunmeng to test out Jin Ling’s bracelet. Wei Wuxian has spent the better part of the past several weeks adding adjustments to it, struck by a burst of creative inspiration and spurred on by the necessity to keep Jin Ling safe as he settles into his role as the face of a sect that’s still awashed with scandal and many people looking at him to fail.

The concern thrums a warmth through Jin Ling’s chest that’s different than what he feels with his jiujiu. He has always been able to count on Jiang Cheng’s thunderous temper to shield him from anyone and anything that might harm him. Wei Wuxian, too, is unquestioningly overprotective and easily as exasperating as Jiang Cheng, but there’s also something sweeter, something softer, in the way he showers Jin Ling with constant teasing affection. He still isn’t used to it, but he can’t say he really minds that this is his family now.

He had briefly entertained the hope that he might be able to enjoy what would be an easy night hunt with his friends without his jiujiu interfering. But for some unknown reason, Jiang Cheng has been attaching himself to every night hunt Jin Ling has gone on where Wei Wuxian was supervising, regardless of how many times Jin Ling has tried to tell him he doesn’t need the extra supervision. This time is no different. (“Just because Wei Wuxian doesn’t have any sense of respect doesn’t mean you can just forget about rules and propriety, brat! Is this how a sect leader acts?!” “Jiujiu.”)

Both Jingyi and Zizhen stare at him with wary looks before going back to scarfing down their meals as if he hadn’t spoken. Sizhui smiles at him reassuringly though, so at least Jin Ling will have him as support tonight even if the other two abandon him like cowards.

Unsurprisingly, it all turns into an absolute disaster.

Jin Ling finds himself saddled with both his uncles right from the start after a suggestion to split the group off with one elder each is viciously slammed down by Jiang Cheng refusing to let Jin Ling go with Wei Wuxian.

“I am not letting you experiment on my nephew alone!” Jiang Cheng had snarled.

An extremely irritated look had flashed across Wei Wuxian’s face, and all the juniors had collectively held their breaths (the cold rage Wei Wuxian had unleashed onto Sect Leader Yao two months ago when the man had willfully omitted several important facts in his report to the Chief Cultivator regarding a haunting along the northern border of Meishan, namely that a collecting mass of resentful energy had risen to such severely threatening levels so as to cause a number of fatalities in the nearby villages, and got Sizhui gravely injured during an initial patrol, was still too fresh on their minds for them to believe that their beloved senior wasn’t just as prone to exploding as Jiang Cheng), but then Wei Wuxian had turned away and nodded with tense acquiescence. By then, Jin Ling already had a headache.

Predictably, Jingyi and Zizhen run away, taking Sizhui with them, who had looked back at him with an apologetic unsurety, leaving Jin Ling woefully resigned to patrolling their designated side alone with his two exasperating uncles.

Thirty minutes later, nobody has said a word, the only thing interrupting the tense silence is the sound of the leaves crunching underneath their feet as they walk. Wei Wuxian twirls his flute. Jiang Cheng glares at the trees. Jin Ling tries not to fling them both off the mountain.

Finally fed up, Jin Ling tries to speed ahead, but before he can even take a few steps, two voices call from behind him.

“Where do you think you’re going, brat?”

“Jin Ling, don’t run off.”

He turns around to see Jiang Cheng scowling at Wei Wuxian, who is suddenly finding the trees exceptionally interesting. “Are you both going to do this all night?” Jin Ling asks with a decidedly unimpressed glare as he crosses his arms. Jiang Cheng turns his scowl onto him, his mouth already opening to shout at him for his tone, but Wei Wuxian interrupts with a bright laugh.

“Hah?” Wei Wuxian says, advancing on him and brandishing his flute. Jin Ling’s lips twitch despite himself. “You’re getting quite mouthy these days, Jin-zongzhu. Just because you’re a sect leader now doesn’t mean I won’t plant you in the ground like a–” He cuts off abruptly, head whipping to his left as the hilarity fades immediately from his face. Jin Ling tenses, already half-unsheathing Suihua, but nothing happens, just the same rustle of trees above their heads as the evening breeze flows through Yunmeng.

“Wei Wuxian?” Jiang Cheng asks tightly, almost like an accusation, his face contorting into a mix of irritation and something a lot like worry.

Wei Wuxian startles as if shaken and turns back towards them. His brows furrow. “It’s… nothing. I thought I…” His shakes his head, looking strangely disoriented. It sends an uneasy feeling shooting up Jin Ling’s spine. He’s never seen Wei Wuxian, so normally brimming with bright humor and nonchalance (other than when he’s raining fire down on Sect Leader Yao’s head), look this rattled.

If possible, the tense line to Jiang Cheng’s shoulders stiffens even more. “What’s wrong with you?” he demands sharply.

“Da-jiujiu?” Jin Ling says frowning.

The address seems to pull Wei Wuxian out of his daze, something close to a normal smile spreading across his face. “Ai-ya, why are you both looking like that?” he says as he throws an arm around Jin Ling’s shoulders. “It’s nothing. Come on, let’s keep going.”

They fall back into step again, but the furrow doesn’t quite leave Wei Wuxian’s face. Jiang Cheng is pretending not to notice, but Jin Ling sees his uncle sending narrowed glances out from the corner of his eyes. As usual, Wei Wuxian teases Jin Ling until the tension bleeds right out of him in favor of annoyance over his childish uncle. Rolling his eyes, he huffs and speeds ahead again, keeping his ears trained behind him in case they try to kill each other.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Wei Wuxian is murmuring, exasperated.

Jiang Cheng scoffs. “You’re the one who froze like a headless chicken back there,” he snaps back irritably, but Jin Ling hears the gruff undercurrent of concern.

Wei Wuxian seems to hear it, too, because he says, in a tone that sounds like he’s rolling his eyes, “Jiang Cheng, stop worrying. I just thought I felt something.”

“I’m not–”

So engrossed is he in the conversation that if it hadn’t been for the sudden and grotesquely familiar smell, Jin Ling would have missed the loud rustling to his left. As it was, he only very narrowly manages to jump back in time before a fierce corpse leaps through the trees and lands exactly where he had been standing.

“Jin Ling!” shout both Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng.

Spinning away, Jin Ling unsheathes Suihua, his heart slamming into his chest as he faces the violent rotting corpse. Only the creature doesn’t move, head cocking in what appears to be confusion, its soulless eyes looking right through Jin Ling, almost as if it can’t see him at all. On his wrist, his bracelet warms.

“It worked,” Wei Wuxian says with a pleased sound as Jiang Cheng rushes forward and tugs Jin Ling behind them. The momentary victory is short-lived, however, as the low growls of an incoming onslaught of fierce corpses reaches all their ears. They flood into the clearing, joining their companion, numbering nearly as many as the wave that had attacked them at Burial Mounds over half a year ago, until they are all at once surrounded.

“You want to try telling me again how I shouldn’t worry?” Jiang Cheng growls through gritted teeth as both Zidian and Sandu flare to life in his hands.

Wei Wuxian somehow still has enough defiance in him to roll his eyes, Chenqing flipping easily in his hands as he raises it to his lips. He turns his head. “Jin Ling, stay back,” he orders.

Jin Ling bristles at the command, but the sharp look Jiang Cheng sends his way makes the retort die quickly in his throat. Scowling, he leaps into a nearby tree, crouching low on a branch and watching as his uncles move to stand back to back. Without Jin Ling’s bracelet as distraction, the fierce corpses seem to refocus on the two cultivators in front of them, snarling in anticipation of satisfying their bloodlust. He has no idea why the hell so many are hanging around what should be a relatively benign forest in Yunmeng. He hopes with an uneasy feeling that his friends are okay.

The first notes of a dizi fill the cold open air, sending an involuntary shiver up Jin Ling’s spine, as Wei Wuxian closes his eyes and pulls a high-pitched luring melody from his blackened bone flute with practiced perfection. A fierce corpse leaps from the crowd. Like a thunderclap, Zidian whips out and smashes it backwards into a tree, scattering loose leaves all around them as the battle begins.

Jin Ling watches with startled amazement.

He has seen Wei Wuxian battle with Hanguang-jun at his side, standing still, completely trusting, while the other man dances, wielding his blade with deadly precision. He has seen Jiang Cheng battle alone, a furious flurry of chaotic movements and the constant manic whip of lightning.

But this– this is different.

Wei Wuxian is a blur of ink, weaving seamlessly around Jiang Cheng’s swift attacks, as the fierce corpses disintegrate under the sharpness of Sandu’s blade, the electricity of Zidian’s purple lightning, and the black blur of spirits being called to battle by the master who commands them. Their movements are graceful and synchronized in a way Jin Ling has never witnessed, as if they are each an arm to one single soul. He’s suddenly and very keenly aware that this must be how they had each learnt to fight. Not alone, but together, standing back to back, as brothers–partners–the Twin Heroes of Yunmeng.

The fierce corpses are rapidly dispersed under their combined efforts, and the surroundings fall again into an eerie silence as both Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng survey the area for several more tense minutes.

Jin Ling drops back down to the ground, rushing over to them. His eyes frantically roam over each of them for injuries and frowns unhappily at the gash on Jiang Cheng’s arm. “Jiujiu! You’re hurt!”

“I’m fine,” Jiang Cheng says gruffly, placing a reassuring hand on Jin Ling’s shoulder.

“We should find the other kids,” Wei Wuxian says with a worried set to his lips.

Jiang Cheng jerks his head in agreement as he sheathes Sandu. He lets Jin Ling fret over the gash even as he rests a hand on Jin Ling’s head, repeating, “I’m fine, A-Ling.”

Distracted, neither of them senses the movement on their right until it’s too late. With a sudden furious roar, a lone fierce corpse soars from the shadows straight at them. It’s too close, moving too quickly–Jiang Cheng turns, instinctively shielding Jin Ling before he can even register what’s happening, but someone bodily shoves them both aside, sending Jin Ling crashing into the floor. The impact knocks the breath right out of him, and his head spins from the vertigo that follows. Above him, the familiar static whip of Zidian sounds, making the hair on the back of his neck stand, quickly followed by a sickening crunch some distance away, and then–a sharp, strangled gasp.

Jin Ling looks up and freezes.

There is blood sliding down from Wei Wuxian’s mouth as he sways unsteadily on his feet, blinking slowly. His hand comes up to his abdomen where the outer layer of his robes are rapidly darkening around a gaping wound.

Jin Ling’s heart stutters to a stop.

“Oh,” Wei Wuxian says, completely nonsensically, looking down at the blood on his hand in confusion. “Oh,” he says again, staggering backwards, his legs giving out underneath him. Jiang Cheng barely manages to catch him, sending them both collapsing to the ground.

Scrambling up, Jin Ling half-walks, half-crawls to his uncles, almost falling on top of them in his haste as a sharp unbridled fear spikes through his chest. No, he thinks desperately. You can’t take him, too.

“Idiot, idiot, idiot!” Jiang Cheng is shouting repeatedly. He looks more scared than Jin Ling has ever seen him, his eyes wide, all the color drained from his face as shaking hands come up to apply pressure over the wound. “What were you fucking thinking?!”

“Heh,” Wei Wuxian laughs, absurdly, through a mouthful of blood. “I guess I should make you a bracelet, too, eh Jiang Cheng?”

“Shut up!” Jiang Cheng roars angrily. His hands, still shaking, start to glow with chaotic bursts of purple qi. “What is a bracelet going to do when you’re such a fucking idiot?!”

Wei Wuxian coughs, wincing. “Hey, it protected Jin Ling, didn’t it?” he says, turning his eyes towards Jin Ling’s quickly watering ones. “Don’t cry, A-Ling. Your da-jiujiu is fine.”

Jin Ling glares at him through furious tears. “You’re not! Don’t lie!”

“I’m not lying,” Wei Wuxian says, reaching over and giving Jin Ling’s trembling hand a gentle reassuring squeeze. Jin Ling clutches it, feeling a heavy despair welling up in him as Wei Wuxian continues to pale despite Jiang Cheng flooding the wound with spiritual energy. Short labored breaths are falling from blue lips, and panic seizes Jin Ling’s chest as his uncle’s eyes start to droop.

“Da-jiujiu!” Jin Ling cries, frantically tugging on his arm.

Jiang Cheng grabs Wei Wuxian’s shoulder and shakes him roughly. “Stay awake!”

Jin Ling doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until Wei Wuxian blinks his eyes back open, and it flows out of him like choking relief.

“I’m not going to die, Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian says tiredly. Jiang Cheng flinches violently, and Wei Wuxian frowns. “A-Cheng…”

“Shut up!” Jiang Cheng snarls, his voice cracking. He’s trembling and glaring at his hands that are covered in Wei Wuxian’s blood. The purple glow of his spiritual energy illuminates his face, looking angrier and more lost than he had seven months ago, screaming at Wei Wuxian about his golden core. “You’re so fucking stupid,” he whispers. “What the fuck were you thinking? Going night hunting when all you ever do is attract trouble wherever you go.”

“Hey,” Wei Wuxian protests. “You’re the one who keeps coming along.”

“Of course I come, you idiot!” Jiang Cheng shouts at him, a sharp hysterical edge cutting through his every word. “When have I ever not come? When have I ever not fucking come?!”

The silence that follows is deafening. Jin Ling stares at them, wide-eyed, as Jiang Cheng heaves harsh broken breaths, and an unreadable expression passes over Wei Wuxian’s pale face. For a long, long moment, the brothers just stare at one another.

“Idiot,” Wei Wuxian finally murmurs. His tone is fond as his lips curve into a soft smile. Jiang Cheng’s face contorts with a miserable frown, and Jin Ling feels suddenly like he’s missed something terribly important.

Confusingly, Wei Wuxian reaches up with an unsteady hand and tugs a strand loose from the top of Jiang Cheng’s ever-present half-bun until it falls over his face, lips quirking at his brother’s wide startled gaze. “Haven’t you figured it out by now, you idiot?” he says, his voice slurring.

He brushes gentle fingers through Jiang Cheng’s hair, and Jiang Cheng’s face visibly crumples.

“You might be the world’s Sandu Shengshou,” Wei Wuxian’s breath rattles as he speaks, growing ragged, “but you’ll always be my didi.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes fall shut, and his hand slides from Jiang Cheng’s hair, landing heavily on the ground. It echoes through Jin Ling’s head, louder than anything he has ever heard. He shakes, cold shock flooding his chest as his once so lively da-jiujiu goes deathly, terrifyingly, still. His uncle lets out a strangled noise, and it feels like a scream.

“Wei Wuxian!”

Jin Ling has only ever seen his uncle cry once, at Guanyin Temple, because of Wei Wuxian.

The second time is still because of Wei Wuxian.

“We’re all going to die,” Lan Jingyi says after four days, and Wei Wuxian still has not woken up.

Jin Ling is inclined to agree with him and would have said so if he doesn’t still feel a little bit like throwing up. They are sitting by the water in the inner pavilions of Lotus Pier, hovering close to Wei Wuxian’s rooms like they’ve been doing ever since that disastrous night hunt.

Sizhui, Jingyi, and Zizhen had arrived not long after Wei Wuxian had passed out. Somehow, they had managed to get him back to Lotus Pier in one piece. Mostly, Jin Ling thinks, because his jiujiu had been as close to hysterical as he had ever seen him, even during the mess with Jin Guangyao, and had singlehandedly carried Wei Wuxian back on Sandu. Sizhui had immediately sent word to Hanguang-jun, who had arrived before dawn broke, looking windswept and so overcome with worry that even Jin Ling could see it plainly displayed on the Chief Cultivator’s normally expressionless face.

Since then, Jiang Cheng and Lan Wangji have sat by Wei Wuxian’s bedside in complete silence, both refusing to leave. If Jin Ling had thought the relationship between his uncle and Hanguang-jun had been strained before, then it was nothing compared to the tension radiating off both of them now, growing sharper and icier with each day that passes while Wei Wuxian remains unconscious.

Under better circumstances, Jin Ling would have crowed at the opportunity to finally see inside the Forbidden Room of Lotus Pier, his uncle having boarded up Wei Wuxian’s old room for the past sixteen years with strict orders forbidding anyone from entering or face his merciless wrath.

But right now, Jin Ling just feels ill.

“Wei-qianbei will be okay, Jin Ling,” Sizhui tells him, not for the first time, correctly interpreting his silence. Jin Ling nods, plucking miserably at the lotus pod in his hand.

Sizhui has been faring remarkably better than him despite how close he knows Sizhui is to his Xian-gege, spending a lot of time in the kitchens cooking up meals that he and Jin Ling both force Hanguang-jun and Jiang Cheng to eat. The cooking seems to give Sizhui something to do with his hands in the same way Jin Ling has been anxiously plucking lotus pods. At this rate, no lotuses are going to bloom in this portion of the lake come next autumn.

Zizhen throws an arm around Jin Ling’s slumped shoulders then and coaxes him into a game of Go. Halfway through their second game while Jin Ling is bickering with Jingyi over his stone placement, the brisk almost-run of YunmengJiang’s senior physician and her two attendants towards Wei Wuxian’s rooms have them all abandoning the game and sprinting off the pier after them.

Jin Ling bursts through the door, his friends quick on his heels, barely managing to skid to a stop before he crashes into one of the many disciples who are standing in the back. (It has occurred to him over the past few days just how truly well-loved Wei Wuxian still is amongst the survivors from the burning of Lotus Pier who remember their da-shixiong, especially now that catching Jiang Cheng’s displeasure is no longer exactly a consequence.)

“Lan Zhan…”

Wei Wuxian’s voice is clear even from the back of the room, and the sheer relief that floods through Jin Ling at hearing it almost sends him to his knees.

Jin Ling squeezes through the throng of people until he reaches the bed. Wei Wuxian has been shifted and is now lying on Hanguang-jun’s lap, looking pale, his eyes still closed, but awake. Hanguang-jun has his arms around Wei Wuxian’s shoulders, murmuring quietly, “Wei Ying, I’m here.” Beside them, Jiang Cheng is hovering, shoulders and back tense, while the sect physician performs a series of checks.

“Jiang Cheng?” Wei Wuxian says.

Jiang Cheng stiffens, and it visibly takes his uncle several moments to work the words out of his throat. “I’m–right here,” he grits out. “Idiot,” he adds.

There’s a flat line to Lan Wangji’s mouth, but a smile blooms across Wei Wuxian’s lips, and he lets out a short huff of laughter. “The kids?” Wei Wuxian asks.

“We’re fine,” Jin Ling says quickly, a little too loudly, and he flushes lightly in embarrassment when Hanguang-jun glances at him.

“Xian-gege, everyone’s safe. You don’t need to worry,” Sizhui adds, quieter than Jin Ling, but the relief in his voice is palpable. Jingyi’s and Zizhen’s loud clamoring additions behind them widen the smile on Wei Wuxian’s face, and he finally blinks his eyes slowly open to look at them. Jin Ling has never been so glad in his life to see the familiar teasing amusement in those grey eyes.

“Brats,” Wei Wuxian murmurs fondly.

The sect physician finishes and turns to bow to Jiang Cheng and Hanguang-jun. “Your Excellency, zongzhu, Wei-gongzi is recovering adequately, but he won’t be well enough to travel for some time. I recommend he rest for at least a week or more.”

Lan Wangji inclines his head, turning his attention back to Wei Wuxian. Jiang Cheng exchanges a few quiet words with her that Jin Ling doesn’t catch before she bows and leaves the room. A sweeping look from his uncle scatters the rest of the mingling disciples from the room, leaving only the three adults and the juniors. Wei Wuxian is in the process of pulling himself up into a seated position with Hanguang-jun’s help when Jiang Cheng comes back to stand beside Jin Ling.

“Xian-gege,” Sizhui says with a concerned frown when Wei Wuxian winces even with Hanguang-jun supporting him from behind. “You shouldn’t strain yourself.”

“I’m fine, A-Yuan,” Wei Wuxian reassures despite sounding winded. He rests his hand on the crown of Sizhui’s head and smiles. “I’ll be up running with you all again in no time, you’ll see.”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw clenches tightly, and Jin Ling glances at him warily–he can practically hear his uncle’s teeth grinding. Being in a coma for four days apparently hasn’t taken away Wei Wuxian’s ability to know when Jiang Cheng is annoyed either because he turns to look at his brother. Jiang Cheng’s face is a stony canvas of too many emotions, wound up tighter now than even these last few days of waiting for Wei Wuxian to wake up. The tension is suddenly so thick it could be cut with a sword.

“Jiujiu,” Jin Ling tries weakly.

Several things happen then at once. Swift and sudden as the crack of lightning, Jiang Cheng is swinging his arm forward. Startled, Wei Wuxian moves backwards as Jin Ling gasps and reflexively grabs his uncle’s other arm to try and tug him away. Faster than any of them, Hanguang-jun’s hand shoots out and closes around Jiang Cheng’s fist, stopping the movement instantly.

The ensuing silence reverberates so loudly against the walls that Jin Ling’s ears ring. For a moment, no one dares to breathe.

“Jiang Wanyin,” Lan Wangji says coldly, his voice sending warning bells through everyone’s heads. Jiang Cheng looks at him, and the temperature in the room cools several thousand degrees as the two men glare at each other.

“Jiujiu,” Jin Ling protests, tugging at his uncle’s arm. (How is he back this already?) Nobody moves.

Finally, Wei Wuxian reaches up and grabs Jiang Cheng’s wrist. “Lan Zhan, let go,” he says. Hanguang-jun turns to look at him, and even though his expression doesn’t change, his incredulity is clear. Wei Wuxian smiles, and not for the first time, Jin Ling feels like they’ve had a thousand conversations without saying a single word. “Lan Zhan,” he says again.

Slowly, Lan Wangji releases Jiang Cheng’s hand but fixes the man with a frosty stare, looking poised and ready to strike. Wei Wuxian, on the other hand, just tugs lightly at his brother’s wrist.

“A-Cheng,” he whines, his face taking on an absurdly deliberate pout even in the face of Jiang Cheng’s temper. Jin Ling would have been impressed if his heart wasn’t trying to slam out of his ribcage. “How can you try to hit me so soon after I wake up?”

“You deserve it,” Jiang Cheng says viciously, but there’s very little heat to his words. He hasn’t even bothered to pull away. His uncle looks angry and lost again, like he had back in the forest with Wei Wuxian bleeding under his hands because he had stepped in front of a fierce corpse to save them both. His uncle had screamed, had cried, had carried Wei Wuxian home and held vigil by his bedside for days.

Maybe that’s why Wei Wuxian waits now, patiently refusing to let his brother go. “I know,” he says softly, his lips curving into a gentle, knowing smile.

All at once, Jiang Cheng deflates, crumbling like a puppet losing its strings. Jin Ling watches with wide eyes as his uncle folds himself onto the bed and wraps his arms around Wei Wuxian in a crushing hug, curling himself tightly into his brother’s shoulder. A tender, watery smile blooms over Wei Wuxian’s face as his arms come up around his brother.

“Idiot,” Wei Wuxian says, and it’s fond again. “Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t going to die?”

“Shut up,” Jiang Cheng mutters, voice muffled. He’s shaking, just a little. “You’re the idiot.”

Wei Wuxian laughs, soft and warm. “It’s okay, didi,” he murmurs. “I’m here now.”

Jin Ling is rapidly trying to blink away the stinging in his eyes, aware that he looks ridiculous with his mouth threatening to split open with the force of his smile. But his chest feels so warm that he thinks it might burst from the strength of his joy.

Their next meal together is at Lotus Pier. (His drapings have been drenched with enough flung soup, thank you very much.) Wei Wuxian brings Sizhui along, and thankfully, not Hanguang-jun.

His uncles still bicker the entire time, but their traded barbs have become more teasing over the past few months than terse. There’s a relaxed line to Jiang Cheng’s shoulders now, who appears so much less wound up like he could snap at any moment, and his heart throbs with happiness to see his jiujiu so carefree.

Jin Ling asks his uncles cheekily if they’re ever going to shut up and eat and has to hide his smile when they both turn their threats onto him instead. He snickers with a giggling Sizhui as Wei Wuxian dramatically promises to plant them both on the ground like radishes. Beside him, Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes.

A loose strand of hair frames the right side of his uncle’s face. On his left wrist sits a bracelet.

Fin.

---

Bonus Scene:

It isn’t the first time he’s had his brother’s blood on his hands, and certainly not the first time he’s seen him bleed.

As children, his mother had worked them and the other disciples down to their bones, hours and hours of intense training that left their hands calloused and bleeding. Their friendly competitive sparring matches as they grew older always drew blood from the minor nicks they inflicted on one another (his brother never did injure him for real, until that last time). When the war fell upon their heads, the cuts and gashes turned commonplace, both of them taking turns dressing each other’s wounds after each battle so their sister wouldn’t have to see. Later, after he stabbed his brother on a mountain, he had cleaned the blood off his sword while trying not to vomit.

This shouldn’t have affected him.

But Jiang Cheng wakes up for the sixth night in a row to the darkness of his room, drenched in a cold sweat, an unbearable sensation of slick warm fluid on his hands and the bitter smell of copper in his nose. He swallows and looks down. His hands are clean, dry and still reddened from the number of times he’s scrubbed them raw since carrying his unconscious brother back to Lotus Pier. (Wei Wuxian dying in his arms is not how he had imagined his brother’s next visit to Lotus Pier would go, if Jiang Cheng could ever manage to shove aside his old bitterness to allow it to happen.)

A restless anxiety courses through his entire body, unable to shake off the feeling of stickiness on his hands even when he can see that they’re clean. He throws the covers off himself and puts on his slippers, escaping his room before the haunted shadows swallow him whole. Before Jiang Cheng even realizes which direction his feet are taking him, he’s standing in front of his brother’s room, and some of that old anger flares up into his chest.

He hates that he still loves him, as much as he’s always had. He hates that he still needs him, still yearns for his brother’s companionship, even after everything. He hates that his brother had thrown himself in front of Jiang Cheng for the millionth time, as if he hasn’t already accumulated enough debt between them that he can never hope to pay back, the last sacrifice still burning sharply in his lower abdomen.

He hates, most of all, that having his brother at Lotus Pier for the past week has loosened the tightly wound coil in his chest, blowing open the doors of his heart with bursts of sunlight that warms him all the way to his fingertips, in a way he hasn’t felt since the day he lost him.

It’s okay, didi. I’m here now.

He enters the room quietly, thankful that Hanguang-jun had been pulled away by duties and had to return to Gusu for the next few days while Wei Wuxian continues to convalesce at Lotus Pier. Without that man’s constant aggravating presence, Jiang Cheng feels less like he’s standing on the chopping block in his own damn home.

His brother is fast asleep, curled over on his side. The color has returned to his face, and the healthy flush eases some of the tightness in his chest. Jiang Cheng isn’t sure he will ever forget the way his brother had looked, laying blue and still on the forest ground, nor the cold terror that washed over him at the thought that he had lost his brother again after he had just gotten him back.

(He wonders what he would have done if he had really discovered his brother underneath that fiery mountain all those years ago–if he’d been faced with the indisputable reality that his brother was truly gone, would he have just disintegrated where he stood. Sometimes, he thinks the hope, the certainty of seeing Wei Wuxian again was the only reason why he survived.)

Jiang Cheng stands watching his brother sleep for a long time. He’s seen him now, he tries to tell himself. His brother is fine. He should turn around and go back to his room. He’s not a child anymore, seeking comfort from his siblings after a nightmare. He’s a sect leader. He’s been alone with the world on his shoulders for decades. He really, really shouldn’t need this.

But the thought of returning to his cold room, haunted by the phantom smells of blood and the echoes of his brother’s rattling breaths, keeps his feet stubbornly rooted in place.

He feels like a wound that’s never healed, smarting at every turn, every prod, every instance of his brother’s sunlit grin. He’s angry, exhausted, so weary that he can barely hold himself up from under the weight of all the years of mistakes and regret, but mostly, he misses his brother so much he could choke.

Go on then, A-Cheng.

His sister’s voice is sweet and encouraging, so familiar and clear that it drags a sharp stuttering ache across his heart. She’s always been able to unwind his stubbornness, his inability to just do what he wants without thinking of a thousand reasons why he shouldn’t, and it finally, finally pushes him forward now.

Wei Wuxian wakes as Jiang Cheng crawls underneath the covers. His brother doesn’t speak or ask any questions, shifting aside and letting Jiang Cheng curl himself against his brother like he hasn’t done since they were both twelve and afraid of thunderstorms. He trembles, only a little bit, when his brother’s arms come around and hold him close.

His brother’s heartbeat is a reassuring sound against his ear, a surety that he is wholly and invariably alive, returned to the world, to Jiang Cheng’s life against all possible odds–a second chance that Jiang Cheng probably doesn’t deserve but has been given anyway. It soothes away some of that old anger and settles the last of the anxiety fluttering through his veins. Slowly, he’s lulled into sleep by the steady sound of his brother’s quiet breathing.

Jiang Cheng dreams of lotus blooms and smiles.

---

Final Notes:

1. Title is lyrics from Imagine Dragons’ Whatever It Takes.

2. So there's probably like established xianxia/wuxia rules about what magical spirit/demon/ghoul-repelling beads actually do and how they are made, but I couldn't for the life of me find any credible sources, SO I just made it up. Yolo. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

3. I don’t know how well I executed what I wanted to do here, but I love (2) idiots, and I will die on this hill. Did I screw up everyone’s characterizations? Highly probable.

4. I really love Jiang Cheng’s one-sided bang in CQL. (CAN WE JUST BASK IN WZC’S BEAUTIFUL FACE?) It's an immense travesty that he stops wearing it when he decides he needs be an adult™. But Wei Wuxian secretly misses it, and I wanted to play with that symbolism of change a little.

5. Thanks to @winepresswrath for dealing with my incessant rambling and for the genius idea of the “Forbidden Room” of Lotus Pier. Lmao.

6. I know this was meant to be a Jin Ling perspective fic, but I couldn’t help writing the bonus scene and had to stop myself from turning it into a Jiang Cheng version of this, because I already have too many WIPs that I will never finish. (Dammit plot bunnies, leave me alone!)

7. Please feel free to come scream with me about cql/mdzs and yunmeng shuangjie on my personal tumblr. :D

8. Thank you so much for reading!! ♥︎♥︎♥︎ Stay healthy and well!!

#fytheuntamed #the untamed #mdzs #yunmeng shuangjie #!fic #!fandom: mdzs #!brotp: twin idiots #*

145 notes · View notes

rosesnink · 4 years ago

Text

The Damned Daughter, Part Two: Acts of Forgiveness

A/N: Hello, cuties! I’m sorry I haven’t posted much around, but I have been living mu youth and studies, so I have written down little. Only setting priorities, but during this No Content November, I shall write without pressure and taking small steps. There is also a new chapter of The Cursed Heiress that Sinclaire stans will absolutely love!

Summary: Thomas’s recent death makes Joanna’s future shatter in a million pieces // Joanna and her father have a heart-to-heart about losing a beloved one // Joanna decides to honour Thomas’ death // Thomas’s death is too much to bear on young Joanna’s shoulders // On Joanna’s weakest hour, she sees someone she thought gone forever.

Word Count: 3929

Rating: PG-13

December, 1814

The day of the mass for Thomas’s soul was one of the most shattering, soul-breaking things Joanna ever suffered. While the priest chanted about Heaven and Thomas’s soul, she looked at her hands, which days ago were full of blood. His blood. Her beloved’s blood.

Her mother hugged her all night, never leaving her and not moving an inch while she cried, wailed and grabbed her stomach of the big pain she was feeling. Heart-broken. Feeling like a thousand cuts were all over her body and only his presence could cure them. She held her portrait with him as she cried, all of her sorrow, sadness, depression, shallowness invaded her.

The third day, Mrs. Coleman visited her daughter-in-law and they cried, prayed and started to prepare his body. Then the priest named the price. Too much for the Colemans to afford. The beautiful, ethereal snow was now grey, like Mother Nature felt her pain. Elias was there, doing efforts to find the murderer, but no luck.

She had his favourite shirt on her hands, his essence still on it. She hugged it, hoping Thomas’s body would shape itself in it and they’d proceed with their wedding, ought to be celebrated the 3rd of June of 1815. But it would never happen.

At first she tried to blame the Elders, storming on their chamber and screaming and attacking at them, but they assured they never wanted him dead, just out of their way once she turned 20. The same age he died. A young man who started to live, now reduced to ashes.

She dropped on her knees that night, blaming herself for what happened. She grabbed her whip and started to spank herself, hard, on her back, insulting herself, damning the murderer, the Elders and their fucking schemes, the fucking destiny and their bullshit. She didn’t sleep that night. Nor the next one. Nor the next fifteen ones until she fainted in the middle of work for the big, burdening exhaustion and pain she was suffering. She woke up three days later, Briar at her side and telling her that the Colemans would keep Thomas’s corpse on his old painting room until they found money to afford his funeral.

Her mother was weak, not able to do much, and the Colemans refused any help from them or anyone, shutting themselves down.

Days later, they sent her all of his drawings, assuring her that he would’ve wanted her to have them.

She decided to ride to a gentleman’s house she knew in Moorfield, a day away from it. She didn’t tell anyone. She didn’t stop riding until she reached the village. People looked at her and her saddened and sorrowful face and red, brilliant hair. The hidden drawings.

Soon, a wonderful lady assisted her on finding this Maecenas that was so reserved and exclusive. At his door, she knocked with confidence and a man, probably on his late 40s opened the door “Joanna Mills, I presume?”.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you bring them?”.

“On my reticule, sir.”

“Come in and do not touch anything.”

She got into the cosy house, full of paintings dated on the 1300s, sculptures and miniatures. The man guided her to sit down and hand nicely the paintings and so she did. He observed them for long, humming and sometimes showing impression or amusement, but never something that could prove he was impressed and interested on the paintings.

“Hmm, you’ve brought me 105 paintings of all sorts, Miss Mills, and all of them have their uniqueness, however, most of them are about you or the countryside life and people like the sea. I shall take the ones of the countryside to a gallery that collects landscapes and the ones where we don’t see your face will be sold, for people have a thing now for red. The other 35 of them are all yours to hang or burn, however, this certain picture of you I assume is truly breath-taking. We see you on a perfect side, facing on one hand some sorts of creatures ready to kill you, and behind you, all good things: flowers, forest animals, wine… and that sword of yours is exquisite! I shall take this to the museum and negotiate a good place to hang it. What’s it’s the name of the painting again?”.

She mulled for a minute before looking up to him and smile “Vunera’s soul.”

“She looks like you.” The man observed.

“That is not me. See? The hair is redder and she is taller and with darker blue eyes. I was but an inspiration for her.”

“And who is this Vunera?”.

“… The Goddess of the Peace and Tranquillity. She who shall bring us peace to all the realms.”

“Hmmphh, I hope so. So, let’s discuss the price and what you’ll gain if the painting is to be hanged at the London Museum…”.

April of 1816

Joanna’s feet brought her to the library, her sanctuary and salvation when the voices were too loud and overwhelming. She had under her reticule her flawless portrait of her and Thomas on her 18th birthday, a month before his death. It was made by this raising artist that was very gifted. They were holding hands, grazing at each other and she was wearing a navy blue dress that showed a bit of cleavage and was open to her back. She was wearing a headpiece, the same one Thomas’s mother wore when she married Mr. Coleman and Thomas was wearing Grandfather Uzaric’s wedding attire: a golden one, making his eyes shine and every detail was there: from his big, calloused hands to her scars on her back and feelings perfectly portrayed on the canvas.

“That’s a beautiful portrait.” She spun around to find her father, observing the painting “He seemed like a good lad who truly loved you.”

She relaxed and softened on his presence “He truly was. Dedicated, willing and cheery. He could make laugh the most bitter man alive and had such a beautiful way with the easel. We ought to be thy wedded husband and wife, but he was…”.

“I know. I am deeply sorry for your loss. Losing a betrothed is the most heart-breaking thing to happen. I know how much you loved him.”

“I—thank you, father.”

He squeezed her hand and kissed her knuckles as he guided her through the library, assuring her that he had the perfect book for her: Lord Byron’s section.

He explained to her that his verses wouldn’t soothe her pain, but would make it understand it better. He also recommended to read Austen’s newest novel, Emma.

She smiled grateful at him and started to read, hours flying by as she got lost in Lord Byron’s words. In a way, she saw herself, saw the world, forgot about the pain, the memories… until she fell asleep.

31st of December, 1814

The days passed as she returned by portal from that village, getting herself to handicraft, thing that she found relaxing and a way to release her anger towards everything. She got marble and many tools of the money -that, considering her economic condition, she could’ve had a supper of nobles- she got from the man and started to build, day and night, sometimes even skipping adventures with Briar to finish her masterpiece. The last day of the year ended and she wiped the sweat off her face, smiling ear to ear.

She had finally a place to bury Thomas, at least temporarily. She called them five minutes before the new year, 1815, and everyone was in awe with the flowers she brought. Forget-Me-Not, Thomas’s favourites. Lilies, her personal favourites and red, orange and yellow roses, the bouquet she was going to walk down the aisle with. Everyone bid goodbye to him between tears and let her and the mother to mourn him on their own.

“What you did today… it was the most thoughtful, beautiful and light-hearted thing you’ve ever done for my boy, and trust me, you’ve done plenty.” The clock stroke 12 am and everyone back in the plaza cheered “Happy new year, Joanna. May 1815 bring you the peace in yourself and the enough will to forgive yourself.”

“…I will forgive myself when I find his murderer and kill it myself.”

She stood there for a long time, even when Mrs. Coleman said goodbye to her to put the little ones to sleep. She started to bury his tomb, crying in silence as she muttered “I don’t know who did this to you, but I’ll find them and kill them. I promise I will avenge you, my love. Even if it takes me a thousand years.”

1815

During that year, from the beginning to the end, she searched from all over the Earth, following leads and loopholes that always took her back to square one. That and during the year, her mother was getting worse and she couldn’t find a cure for it. She reached and reached, always threatening anyone and everything, never showing any hesitation.

Until one day, Elias confessed her to have seen Gaius Agustine stabbing someone who looked the same as Thomas and she lost it. She stood on her mother’s bedroom, crying and feeling useless. One person that she loved died and she couldn’t do anything and now the most important woman of her life was dying slowly and painfully and there wasn’t going back.

How many more do I have to lose to end this pain?

She stood there, on her knees and crying over her mother’s weak body, who couldn’t do as much as kiss her and assure her that if she was to die, she’d die with no pain. And she kept her promise.

Even after the revelation, she gave all her might to soothe the pain.

“Jo… you must go there. Your father is your destiny. We won’t see each other in a long, long time. That’s why I want you to make it count: fight hard, make art, never apologize for using your voice, make every day a new adventure. And make sure you live at least one big, worthy and epic love. And always be yourself, because when you do, the best of me shines in you. Live, my child. Wherever I go, my heart and soul will be with you, watching, and proud.” She coughed “One more thing. Tell Vincent that if his time ever comes, that I’ll wait for him by the shore, at dawn. He’ll understand the message.”

April of 1816

Joanna knew that moving to Edgewater would be a huge change, but she wasn’t aware of how even her own beliefs would change once she met her father. All he had to say, how gentle, kind and even sometimes clumsy he was with many things made her heart flutter with softness like she has ever known. They didn’t see each other much, but always made up by reading to each other out loud or even ride a bit and have long talks and even talk about Mary’s many lives during 700 years on the earth. She found amusing how sometimes he’d frown, scowl or even be caught on surprise when they commented Mary’s many lovers. Some made him curious, some made him a bit annoyed by how gross they were with his Mary and even he was impressed that figures like the Sultan Mehmed II and Elizabeth I were close friends of hers and had accords of her kind protecting humanity of monsters and themselves.

“I just can’t believe your mother could see anything in Hernan Cortez! He was a brute who did brutalities towards the poor indigenous!” He exclaimed, annoyed that Mary could eye someone like him.

Joanna chuckled “By that time she wasn’t Mary. Her name was Lavinia then.”

“And about her and Cesare Borgia… were they some kind of affair or…?”.

“They were good friends. Cesare’s eyes were unwaveringly set in someone else, but you already know who. Right?”.

“Of course I do! I know my history. Plus, it’s hard to ignore a history like his…”.

Joanna chuckled and reached for another sweet, stroking her father’s grey hair and caressing his old, rogue face “I know you and Thomas would’ve gotten along very well. He loved studying.”

“Tell me more about him and your long engagement. For what I’ve overheard of the people who come here to sell animals and supplies, he was a great man.”

Joanna nodded, nostalgic “He was. One of the kindest, funniest and most accessible people I’ve met. He was one of the very few people who weren’t horrified of me. He made me feel beautiful, not some kind of beast.”

“I never thought you loved him so dearly. I am truly sorry for your loss, sweetheart. I truly am.” He squeezed her hand “How did Mary take it? I thought mortals and immortals are forbidden to be together, no exceptions.” He frowned.

Joanna scowled “The elders saw it as some sort of small experiment, like someone temporal in my life that once you called for me, I’d just leave him and welcome anyone else with open arms. Like he were nothing.”

“But he was everything to you.” Vincent finished what her soul couldn’t.

She nodded “Every time I close my eyes, I see him. Either looking at me with so much love or either dying in my arms, helpless and in pain.” She choked a sob “And it’s all my fault.”

Vincent put his arms around her and she sobbed “I really hate the Elders. They used him as a pawn, like he was someone who I could replace, like—like our love as an impossible one.”

Vincent’s face fell “I know exactly how you feel.”

She looked up at him and understood that his father was also a pawn for the Elders, a disposable one “But you lived to tell the tale. Many men had died over the years at my family’s hands over less.”

“I have also been thinking how is that they haven’t killed me yet. My best guess, I am still a pawn at this game.”

Joanna sobbed “I hate this.”

“Mary died because she was willing to fight for us, to bet on it, and even if it was her choice, it still hurts.”

“I cannot forgive myself for what happened to him. I don’t think I’ll ever will.”

“…Me neither, my dear. Me neither.”

They stood in silence for a long time. They both had lovers who were willing to fight for their love and got caught in the crossfire, being living proof of this cruel, wretched and vicious world. Both the world of men and the supernatural world.

When they got back and Joanna escorted her father to meet up with Mr. Sinclaire, she stopped on her tracks and looked at him.

“Something wrong?”.

“Mama’s name. Mary Mills was an alias to blend in.”

“What was her name then?”.

“Odessa. Odessa Minerva Crochane.” She smiled weakly before leave to meet up with Miss Sutton for tea.

January 1816

Joanna always read in books about heartbreak. Crying on the floor, heartache, all that kind of foolishness she knew she would never suffer.

How wrong she was.

There she was, on his improvised tomb, laying on the floor, crying silently as memories flooded: Thomas laughing, kissing her, his hands on hers, his ragged breath when they saw the stars together… all now but a memory of hers. She always knew that heartbreak was one of the worst feelings in the world, but she never guessed that it would hurt this much, that she’d feel a thousand cuts, that every time she remembered him, it’d bring her joy and tears on her face, that it was now up to her to make possible to remember him for the rest of her endless life.

“I am sorry for your loss, Joanna. I truly am.” Even with her blurry vision, she could recognize it.

Her eyes were now red, and not because of the tears shed, but for the man who had the gall to come there and pretend he didn’t murder her beloved in cold blood.

“The disrespect… the nerve… the audacity!” She growled.

“I… what?”.

“Stop pretending, Gaius! I know it was you!”.

“That is ridiculous! Why would I murder a farm boy?”.

“Because you hate me… and you can!” With that, she threw him a ball of power. The man grunted as he looked at her… confused? Now he was playing dumb! “Don’t look at me like that! It’s your fault! All yours!” She kept yelling “You waltz here, burn down villages and turn people just because you can! You think you’re better than anyone, but you’re not!” She kept coming closer to him and pushing him, and he did nothing! What game was he playing?! “Why the fuck are you standing there?! Defend yourself! Fight me!” She kicked him high and punched him over and over, while the ground shook over her rage “Fight back, Agustine, FIGHT BACK!” She screamed with all her rage, sending him flying across the field and she got on his level, punching him with all her strength and screaming him to do something, his face bloody and healing in a second, letting it all out, with him doing nothing.

Elias grabbed her, separating her from him while he tried to calm her down, but with the ground shaking like it was a big earthquake and the wailing girl, she looked at the wounded man “You don’t know what you’ve done! Are you satisfied, Gaius?! Do you feel like a man?! Like a king?! Huh?! Come on, defend yourself! Be a man! FIGHT!” Before he could reply, Elias snapped her neck, and with that, she fell asleep, feeling in peace for a long time.

March 1816

Since the darkened Thomas stabbed her, Joanna lost sense of time. She lost her chance at do magic by expecting others to save her. How pathetic was that? Very, she thought.

“Joanna?”.

She whipped her head around to find the last person she thought she would see: Thomas. But not an evil one, but the real Thomas. Her Thomas.

“T-tommy?” Her heart started to pound against her chest, threatening to spill out. Tears welled on her eyes.

“In the flesh.” He smiled. Like, genuinely smiled.

She let out a breath and a weigh she was unaware she was carrying for… basically her whole life. She ran to him, hugging him tightly, making him chuckle “My love, my beautiful man… how did you find me?”.

“When you’re dead, the space-time knows no boundaries. I heard your voice and I though, nay, I had to come to you. To talk to you.”

She let out a sob, her lips wobbling “I’m so sorry…” She started to cry “Sorry for everything. Hiding things from you, not being the betrothed you needed, to be the responsible of your death—” She inhaled sharply “I’m so sorry for everything that happened… I feel… like I will never forgive myself for what happened to you.”

“Well, too bad, because I forgive you, Joanna. I forgive you because I know that if it depended on you, I’d still be alive… and your wedded husband, if you’re still up to it.”

She fell silent, the weigh of her heart now on her chest “Thomas, I—I have someone in my heart—doesn’t mean that I’ve forgot about you—”.

“I know. I’ve seen it. I saw everything. And I don’t mind, because if you’re happy, then… I’m happy too. Your happiness has always been my greatest goal, Joanna. That’s why I need you to forgive yourself. To stop punishing yourself with that whip when you think no one’s watching.” He cradled her on his arms, like a sobbing baby who needed comfort after a big nightmare “You have such a big heart, Joanna. You are capable of loving so much, but if you keep burdening yourself with something that wasn’t even about you, people will get hurt. They will get hurt.” He heard her gasp, realizing that he was right “I know it hurts, but it had never been your fault. I was just a pawn, but you are the queen of the chess. Only you can take down the king and save your army.” He grabbed her by the shoulders “Wake up, Joanna. Go back to them. I feel them close. Be strong. Be passionate. Be unapologetically yourself. Make love with whoever you please. Feel free to live by your own will and never let anyone, much less a man, get you down. Because you’re worth it. You hear me, Joanna? You are worth every death, every sacrifice, everything. And keep these words in your heart: I am not dead because of you. I am at peace knowing that you are the reason this world will survive as long as you’re in it. Remember this. Remember me. Remember us. And never be afraid to show your heart, because every time you do so, you honour my memory. Now, go, alright? Live a life for both of us and the children we never had like you would’ve wanted it. Save us all, Joanna, because when you do, soon you will find that home you yearn for. Not without pain, not without seeing a bit of death, not without putting a hell of a fight, but you will find it. And you’ll soon will realize that it was worth it.”

She nodded “I’d do it. I’d do all of it, all over again. I’d still choose you, I’d say yes again, I’d spend that afternoon in the cave again… and I’d choose you as my first love. Always and until the end of times, I will love you, Thomas Coleman. And I shall never love any other man as I love you.”

She grabbed him by the collar and kissed him, slowly, unhurried, sweetly, tenderly and with her heart now at ease.

“Wake up, my love. Wake up.”

She closed her eyes, falling into the darkness again to then go back to life.

The clash of swords almost ringed on Joanna’s ears, wincing and her hand hesitating for the first time ever since she had memory. Before her, stood the last person she wanted to hurt: Thomas. He had a wicked smile and his blue-ish skin highlighting his black veins.

“Not so brave now, love?”.

“Give up now, Thomas. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He parried before smirking malevolently “But I do.”

She dodged his attack and winced when he slashed her arm. She looked at him, perhaps for too long before he kicked her on the heel and she stumbled violently to the floor, his sword on her neck “I will cut off your neck. That will shut you up.”

She breathed without thinking “I love you.”

He scoffed, taken aback “Won’t you fight back?”.

He softened “Sometimes I forget how tender can you be.” He caressed her hair.

She seized the opportunity and stabbed him on the neck “Just as dutiful and effective.”

He gasped for air as he looked at her, his eyes now coming back to the ones she was familiar with “Wh..y…”.

Joanna bolted, gasping and breathing heavily.

She realised, she was dreaming yet again. But it seemed so real... Could she? Be capable to kill the man she loved for save other people who would never recognize her sacrifice?

And the most important thing… could she be able to live with it?

#playchoices fanfiction #desire and decorum #desire and decorum au #the damned daughter #oc: joanna mills #oc: thomas coleman #joanna x thomas #the damned daughter series

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eirian-houpe · 5 years ago

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Bluebell

Fandom: >Once Upon a Time (TV)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold

Characters: Belle (Once Upon a Time), Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Prince Charming | David Nolan

Additional Tags: Fluff, Flirting, Courtship, A Monthly Rumbelling June 2020 (Once Upon A Time), A Monthly Rumbelling (Once Upon a Time)

Series: Part 1 of The Language of Flowers

Summary: Belle has a secret admirer, one that leaves her pressed flowers inside random library books. when she figures out who, she sends him poetry in return.

Written for the June, A Monthly Rumbelling prompt: Secret Admirer.

Bluebell

The flowers were a cliché, the method of delivery maybe less so.

It wasn’t always the same flowers. Sometimes it was miniature red or pink roses, sometimes bright yellow jasmine. Other times, especially last spring, he’d gathered a single bluebell and with care had pressed it perfectly. The color reminded him of her eyes. Otherwise the color of the flowers didn’t really matter, what mattered was that he sent them, and that she received them.

He would transfer the carefully pressed flower in its tissue paper cradle from the back pages of the heavy tome in the back room of the shop to a slim note book he kept in the inside pocket, and then he would temporarily close the pawn shop, and walk down the street to the corner where the library stood, now open and welcoming. He would wait, of course, until a time when he saw several patrons enter the library, and slip in along with them, heading to select a book at random into which he’d transfer the flower, then carefully place the book along with other returned novels and reference texts to the top of the stack waiting to be shelved, one tiny corner of the tissue deliberately showing outside of the pages. Then he would leave. Not immediately of course, because that would be too obvious, but soon after. It was too hard to do otherwise.

It had been his ritual for so many years, he’d lost count of how many, to bring her a flower once a week every week, hidden in a book in the library. He tried to be patient, to wait it out and told himself that one day she would figure it out and that even he - heartless Mister Gold - could hope to win the affections of the lovely librarian, but each week that passed caused the pain and self loathing in his heart to grow, and his resolve to do no ill - beyond that which had already earned him is reputation - crumbled just a little more.

Belle sighed, an almost dreamy sigh as she stood in the library doorway, clutching the book to her chest as though it were the most precious thing in the world, her fingers barely touching the softness of the tissue paper that peeked from between the pages, and watched Mister Gold’s retreating back as he limped along the sidewalk back toward his shop.

She couldn’t remember how long ago it was that she’d worked it out, where all the beautifully pressed flowers she found inside random library books had come from, and where she knew others might have been mortified - repulsed, even - to think that the the Monster of Storybrooke was trying to secretly court them, she, Belle French, was moved almost nightly to tears that she couldn’t explain at the thought of it.

She kept each perfectly pressed flower, hundreds of them by now, and carefully mounted them onto acid free card-stock, together with greenery and other complementary flora, in images of beautiful bouquets. Beneath each bouquet she wrote in perfect calligraphy, a simple word or two that encapsulated her feelings in the moments she made them: passion, love, sunlight, and longing - yes, longing. The day on which she had received the tiny spring bluebell, she’d been filled with such yearning for a life with a man that loved so completely that he would go to such length to bring his beloved beauty, joy and happiness.

She framed and hung the pictures she made around the library apartment, the secret hope she harbored growing with each one she displayed, and each time she saw them.

Shall I come to you when the day is new born, casting the red blood of life around the world?

The note was unsigned.

Two lines of text, carefully written on a rectangle of fine vellum in perfect flowing script. Her penmanship was delicate, precise and as beautiful a hand written note as he had ever seen, but the words… It was the words that turned his belly in knots and set his breathing to quicken, put the flutter in his chest.

He had found the envelope as he opened up the door of the shop that morning, sitting just inside the door as though it had been slipped beneath. At first he’d frowned. No one ever left him personal mail, or at least the last piece of mail he’d received in person, and not through the Storybrooke post office, had been hate mail from a tenant he had recently evicted, and had been delivered via a brick through the shop window.

This… this was unexpected, but it was welcome.

With a smile he walked to the back room, to the vase wherein the few sprigs of lavender he’d plucked and set in water to keep before he pressed them, so that they were fresh and might retain their scent. He lifted one from the water, and brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply, his mind a whirl, trying to decide how best to answer. It had been weeks - years - since this floral courtship, as he now admitted to himself that it was, had begun, and it had taken until now for the object of his affection to show any reciprocating sign.

Was she truly so shy?

Still, having waited for so long, he was loathe to waste another moment, and was decided. He went back to the front, to a case he kept there and selected a tiny stoppered bottle, into which he tipped a small amount of water, and then carved the stopper so that it would fit around the stem of the lavender without causing it harm. Later that day he would deliver it to the library, and somehow ensure that she received his gift, but still without revealing himself to be the source, though he had no doubt that she would work it out.

Belle dipped the nib of the pen into the ink to which she had added the the barest splash of the essential oil she had obtained from the sprig of lavender that had appeared on the library desk in a tiny bottle to keep it fresh. The flower she’d taken and carefully set it to press, certain that it came from Mister Gold, though she hadn’t even noticed him come in. She wanted to add it to the latest picture she had made for them, that was almost ready for framing.

She paused in her lettering to consider the words she used. When did she begin to think of the pictures as theirs? With a shrug, she turned her attention back to her lettering. What did it matter the when of it. What mattered was that it was true, and that had to mean that her feelings also were true.

Or shall I come to you when day is done, and evening’s first blush paints all the world?

Setting down the pen, she examined her work, carefully so as not to smudge the ink while it dried, making certain the scent lingered in the ink, and when the poetic missive was complete, she slipped it into an envelope, pulled on her coat, and took in the evening as walked along the darkened street toward Gold’s shop. There, she paused as if looking into the window, when in truth she used the darkened window as a mirror to ensure that no one was watching, so that she would be unobserved when she slipped the envelope beneath the door.

True, they were no longer secret to each other, and were now more openly flirting with poetry and flowers, but from the rest of Storybrooke, she wished to keep their growing affections between the two of them alone; not because she was in any way ashamed of her feelings for Mister Gold, but because - until they decided otherwise - it was nobody’s business but their own.

She made the short walk back to the library, and her apartment above, with a lighter heart, and a smile on her face.

After he received the third of her short, poetic notes, Gold finally admitted, at least to himself, that he was afraid… a crisis of confidence, perhaps - a lapse into the self-loathing, debilitating depression he felt. A man who had lost everything.

The Thursday morning saw him staring morosely into his coffee cup in a booth at the rear of the diner, instead of up at the front in his accustomed place.

“Look, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what the problem is,” David said, he voice perhaps a little too loud in so public a place and Gold winced, reconsidering his course of action even as he pulled the carefully folded, much cherished piece of vellum from his pocket. David apologized, adopting, instead, a tone of confidentiality.

Gold didn’t have many friends, not in Storybrooke, nor anywhere else. He could count them on the fingers of one hand.

“Is that it?” David asked, as Gold stroked the folded sheet between his fingers. “What’s got you all riled up?”

“I am not riled,” he said through clenched teeth, “and would you please keep your voice down. This is a private matter.” As David raised an eyebrow, and gave a quiet apology, no doubt, Gold mused, thinking that he had rarely, if ever, seen the dreaded landlord behave in such a way, Gold sat slightly forward in his seat and quietly, succinctly and confidentially explained the entire situation to the only man in Storybrooke that he might consider a friend - whom he still saw, he reminded himself.

David sat back in his seat, whistling softly as Gold finished his tale. “That’s some commitment,” he said. “How come you haven’t approached her before now? In person, I mean.”

“Please,” Gold said, “With my reputation? Besides, I had no reason to believe that she reciprocated my feelings in any way.”

“Until now,” David said, and it was definitely not a question.

“Until now,” Gold agreed, and handed over the latest of the notes he had received that morning. He watched as the other man opened it, saw the way his eyebrow raised as he read, and knew the words by heart - almost literally - as even thinking them made its beat a birdlike flutter in his chest.

Shall I come to you in cascades of yellow silk, a delicate chain of gold woven into my hair?

“Wow,” David said, looking up from the note. “And you’re talking to me why exactly?”

“Because,” he began, surrendering to a moment of almost painful honesty, “after all this time, in spite of the longing I feel for this - to take this further - when it comes to it, I fear I have so very little to offer her. I can’t give her what she deserves.”

David regarded him without words for the longest time, meeting his eyes and holding him in place with only his gaze until, uncomfortable, he began to fidget.

“I think you need to let her be the judge of that.”

Belle shelved the last of the books from the pile on the circulation desk and a soft sigh escaped her. She had hoped, as before, that she might find a pressed flower, or a fresh one standing in its little stoppered bottle. There had been neither, and her heart was so crushed with disappointment that she felt her eyes heat with unshed tears.

Had her poetic notes been too much? Had the flowers merely been… what? Some cruel game to him?

She glanced at her watch. Five minutes before ten, and the library was empty, so it was close enough To closing time. She would lock up, head upstairs and drown her sorrows in a gallon of tea, and some trashy romance novel. Not at all her usual reading matter, but…

His soft voice began the moment she left the stacks to head back to the desk, rolling like a wave of warmth across the space between them as she came to a sudden halt, her heart beating so quickly it was like unto one continuous drum-roll.

“Or shall I come to you,” he purred, “bearing a garland of bluebells.”

He approached her slowly, and it was only then that she noticed that he had turned out most of the lights in the library’s lobby, and that in his hand he did indeed carry a woven garland of mixed bluebells and ferns.

“So that we may speak without guile, and only truth?”

She felt herself blush softly as she realized that she too had been moving toward him as they came to a halt together, in front of the circulation desk, where it had all begun. She looked up at him, noticing the sprig of matching bluebells in the buttonhole of his suit jacket, and the liquid warmth in his eyes as they met hers.

“Mister Gold,” she greeted him softly, a little breathless.

“May I?” he asked quietly, resting his cane against a nearby cart, and lifting the delicate garland in both hands.

Blushing more fiercely, she nodded once, and then stilled, even holding her breath as he placed the flowers onto her head, and reached behind her to arrange the lilac ribbon to adorn her hair in a cascade of color.

“Thank you,” she said quietly as he withdrew his touch.

She watched as he retrieved his cane, and then tipped her head in query as he offered her his arm.

“Would you care to take a walk, Miss French?” he asked gallantly.

She smiled, and slipped her hand onto his arm.

“I should like that very much, Mister Gold,” she said.

#rumbelle #a monthly rumbelling #fluff #flirting #courtship

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trxxrpg · 4 years ago

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Welcome, Lucent “Lucky” Lachlan to Tabula Rasa, He kind of looks a lot like Domhnall Gleeson please submit your character account within 24hrs

OUT OF CHARACTER NAME/NICKNAME/ALIAS: Slowner

AGE: 24

TIMEZONE: PST.

EXPERIENCE: Too damn long. 11-12 years. Started roughly when I was 11, writing my own stories and miniature novels. That progressed into literature based roleplays by the time I was 13.

IN CHARACTER CHARACTER NAME: Lucent “Lucky” Lachlan - His name directly translates into “Glowing”, “Radiant” and “Dauntless” in three separate languages, Spanish, Italian(Luciento) and Latin (Lucentine).

CHARACTER AGE: Roughly 26, doesn’t actually know his exact age due to being orphaned before any legal paperwork had been filed on him.

FACECLAIM: Domhnall Gleeson

GENDER: He’s a male.

SPECIES: They are a hybrid between a supernatural male being and a human female.

SUBSPECIES: Leprechaun

TRAITS: +++ Lucky, + Economically Inclined, + Efficient — Cocky, -Cheeky, -Coy (yes; those are all synonyms, no; you can’t complain.)

SKILL SETS: Lucent’s Luck is supernaturally modified by his Leprechaun heritage. Despite being a hybrid, most of Lucent’s biology and genetics were gained from his father - Resulting in a fairly potent and consistent stream of “Jackpot” style luck being present in Lucky’s life. These occurences are what ultimately earned him his monicre. Much like Domino from Marvel, Lucky’s luck is much more versatile than one would be lead to believe at surface level. In a practical sense, Lucent’s luck can provide a tangible and realistic field of awareness around him. Like a sphere of aura or energy, Lucky supernaturally and subconsciously affects reality to tilt the outcomes of events in his favor. From things as simple as rolling the right dice to something as elaborate as allowing one of his guards to be positioned in the perfect spot to cover his own blindspots. To be clear - A leprechaun’s luck affects observable reality to skew the chances of something happening or not happening. It affects people, places, things and thoughts on a nearly impossible to perceive level. Only someone who spends a lengthy and recurring amount of time in close vicinity to Lucky would begin to slowly begin to grow suspicious of how the man always seems to come out on top of any situation. Its uncanny and unsettling to some, but the ultimate ace up your sleeve to others.

Examples of “Luck” affecting outcomes: -Lucky is accosted by an aggressor, who mis-identifies him almost immediately as someone else, or said aggressor simply would trip over a crack in the pavement and fall flat on their face unconscious. -Lucky walks into a car lot and is told he is the 10,000 customer and is granted a free car. -In a fight, Luck is enough to see that Lucent dodges an attack completely or is able to misplace a normally fatal attack to a non-fatal area. A punch from Lucky, while being a punch from a biological human - Is packed with the physical manifestation of his ‘Jackpot’ - meaning if he hasn’t used his luck it becomes stronger. Since Lucent is not aware of himself being a Leprechaun, he wouldn’t be able to actively use or NOT USE his powers; Resulting in his luck averaging out to be noteably higher than other supernatural beings, but not high enough to garner Lucky any interest in most people’s eyes.

*His luck isn’t a slight tilt of the pinball machine, It turns the damn thing upside down.*

QUOTE/LYRICS: Personal: “Feelin’ lucky?” Philosophical: “Live for the moment lest you lose it forever.”

WRITING SAMPLE CHARACTER BACKGROUND: (I add bits of his background into the actual IC writing sample at the end of this app. I will mainly focus on the ideas and themes prevalent in his background in this section as we have discussed a lot about Lucky in person already.)

*Lucky was orphaned as a child. This results in him having severe trust issues, to constantly suspect people of betraying or abandoning him and generally results in his intolerant nature. If you can think of a young, impulsive irishman that is willing to headbut his way through things, that’s lucky in a nutshell. Hailing from Ireland, this is only further exasperating his short temper and spitfirey nature. He is mildly alcoholic and drinks as a coping mechanism for his depression and anxiety. He started drinking at 14. His mother left him on the steps of a wealthy businessman and politician’s estate. This decision ends up playing out amazingly in Lucent’s favor. At the age of 20 his adoptive parents pass away peacefully of old age and leave everything in their estate and portfolios to their son. Within 6 years Lucent would establish himself in the eyes of the public as a successful businessman and philanthropist. His casinos are widely considered the best around the globe and his name is often touted about in circles of celebrities and other high profile types. It stands reason that anyone with a gambling background would know of Lucky when he arrives. His opening ceremonies generate a rather large buzz, including celebrity style red carpet treatment and a “quality higher than anywhere else” guarantee. All of his employees seem happy and well paid. At least half of his success can be directly attributed to his supernatural luck, though it is worth noting that the man himself is also incredibly adept at getting what he wants from others.

CHARACTER BIOGRAPHY: Lucky is a half-leprechaun half-human hybrid. This means that he naturally retains the tenacity and adaptability of humanity as well as the deeply invested cultural beliefs and respects of an irish leprechaun. Honesty, loyalty and respect are what dictate his relationships and interactions with others. If people prove civil and abide by Lucent’s prestigious establishment’s rules then he generally is a kind and agreeable man.

However, Lucky is also a man with little to no patience for upsets to his perceived norm. People that stand out or rebel against his jurisdictions often get to meet the unpleasant side of him, a side that is fully aware of how deep the influence of his economical and societal status has. One might assume him a 'control freak’ on a surface level, but in reality Lucent simply has a plan in mind for how he wants things to go and gets frustrated when that plan is willfully ignored by others. As long as they do what is expected of their station or position, Lucent often lets his employees operate at a casual and comfortable pace - believing it instills a healthy work ethic and loyalty among his employees which shows to be effective as there have never been any scandals or secrets revealed about him or his organization.

Lucky runs a chain of Casinos with locations in popular tourist sites - His most recent endeavor has chosen Tabula Rasa as it’s destination. Lucky aims to bring the full experience of one of his casinos to the sanctioned city of Tabula Rasa. Why did he choose a city with unique political ties and perhaps abstinations due to it’s sovereignty? That much is simple - Lucky sees it as a ripe opportunity to perform two tasks simultaneously.

ONE: Open a casino in a predominantly supernatural economy, see how much money he can squeeze out of the 400-500 year old vampires with long lasting economic ties ;D or the werewolves that probably have drug money and fight ring money up the wazzooo. It’s a smart business decision.

Two: Lucky will have privatized cameras monitoring the internals of his casino. Potentially even some of the rentable rooms/suites. That’s right, Lucky may be planning to blackmail people if spicy shenanigans go down in his place of business. In addition to this, he has received contracts from several television companies wishing to get “an inside view” of the functionings of the supernatural city.

PARAGRAPH SAMPLE: Raindrops spattering against the blacktop, falling like tears from the very sky itself as a cradle lay at the foot of a door; mewling and balling - crying out into the cold, dark, unloving world. A child was orphaned that night, left alone without a mother or father by a woman weeping as she fled her shame. The shackles of guilt too much for her to bear she only hoped she could replace with the comfort of knowing she had picked a good home for her son. She didn’t look back, didn’t turn to have one last look at her child; for she knew that if she had, she would’ve ran back to him sobbing and begging for his forgiveness.

Or at least that’s how he liked to think it went. Cubes of ice stacked in fours clattered as they were swirled about in the glass clasped gingerly between his thumb, index and middle fingers. The next moment he banished the thought beneath a torrent of whiskey - hoping it was possible to drink oneself into amnesia, this was the typical Friday for the hotheaded irishman. His two-piece suit clung to his body, fitted perfectly to a pristine and refined crisp. Every crease was pressed that morning, both shoes polished independently. This man was dressed far too well to be muckraking at a bar, yet there he sat clanking his glass for another round.

“Again?” Called the bearded man from behind the bar, “That’s your twelfth in under 20. Trying to drown, buddy?”

“No ser, Just tryin’ not te’ think.” He raised his glass with as little effort as humanly possible before setting it back down. It would be then that the man did what every bartender did when serving him, They tried to cut him off. A large hand closed ontop of his glass and slid it from his hand.

“Well you’ll have to go not think somewhere else, you’re disturbing my business.”

“Disturbi- Oh… right.” The red headed male looked to his sides at the barstools full of his entourage; roughly six armed men dressed in deep black suits with verdant green ties and .45’s in their holsters. “Apologies, We’ll just make our leave then.”

And so they did, the seven irishmen stepped out from that establishment and would set out to their true destination - an establishment of their own. A right irish diamond here in the land of the affluent and esteemed. Gone would be the days of hoity toity bars with expectations and back would be the glorious days of pub crawls, brawls and throwing up in every bathroom stall from here to the piers! Though one thought kept rearing it damnable face in the recesses of his mind. And the words that haunted him were spoken in the voice he imagined for her.

“Nothing you do will ever be good enough. No matter how much you achieve, how far you go. You’ll always be undeserving of a mother’s love. Yer a right bastard ye know? Not even I wanted you.” The glass of a mirror in his suite would shatter later that night in response and within the fragments of glass he finally felt like he could see his true self; And he was a broken, bloody, mess of a man.“

#trrpgaccept #Human #halfling #Leprechaun #submission

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andyonthewold · 4 years ago

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Paint to play

By now every Warhammer 40,000 player will have heard that we have a new edition—9th edition—coming. And by now people will have heard of one of the most controversial decisions. Leaked pages from the new rules book include a rule that punishes people who don’t paint their miniatures.

It’s ridiculous. This stupidity must stop.

Now, first of all, I make no apologies for couching this in terms of “punishes people who don’t paint”. That’s exactly what it is. People are writing lengthy opinion pieces concerning “it’s not punishing people who don’t paint, it’s rewarding those who do”. That’s exactly the same thing. The rule is aimed at people who don’t paint, it’s aimed at making them paint, and it does so by not providing a reward if they don’t paint. Whether you take 10 VP from people who don’t paint or give 10 VP to people who do, the net effect is exactly the same.

Secondly, let me address a common misconception. There is a perception that the two sides of this debate are People Who Paint And Support The Rule vs People Who Don’t Paint And Oppose It Because It Disadvantages Them. Take a look down my Tumblr and you’ll see that this is bunk. I paint. In fact, in recent years, I have painted far more than I have played. I paint, and I hate this rule. I will never enforce it in any game I play. I will never play in a tournament where it is enforced.

The fact that the “you must paint” train has gained a hell of a lot of momentum recently, and tournaments have been enforcing some variation of these rules for a while, pretty much made me withdraw from tournament play. And that’s the larger effect of these rules: a lot of people will leave the tournament scene altogether. Some may even feel driven from the hobby itself. And why? Why do people get so uptight over people who play the game but don’t paint the miniatures? There is serious anger out there about this issue.

Most people would agree that there are, broadly, three sides to the Warhammer 40k hobby. I would argue further that the three aspects form separate, though related, hobbies. They are, of course, playing, painting, and the lore. The great Venn diagram of Warhammer 40k looks like this:

Fig 1: How this hobby works

Nobody cares—let me repeat that: nobody cares—where you fall in there unless you play but don’t paint. Like this:

Fig 2: Who we hate

This can be proven by a simple thought experiment. Imagine you walk into a Warhammer store and see a friend from work. They’re holding an Imperial Knight kit and looking at the Armiger boxes.

“Hey!” you exclaim, “I didn’t know you play 40k!”

“Oh, I don’t,” they reply, “My parents gave me the St. Celestine model for my birthday and I just loved it, the detail, the quality, it was amazing. So now I build anything I really like the look of. But I don’t play, that doesn’t interest me.”

No problem, right? You wouldn’t think any less of someone who buys models for the sheer love of making them and has never played the game because it just doesn’t interest them. Let’s be clear, the models are beautiful, and a joy to paint. You wouldn’t hold it against them that they don’t play, right?

And the exact same scenario plays out if your colleague is there to buy the latest Horus Heresy novel and they explain that they’re a fanatic for Black Library and just love the console games, but have never had any interest in the modelling side because they just don’t want to. Let’s be clear, the novels are pretty great, and the universe GW have created is enthralling. You wouldn’t hold it against them that they don’t play, right?

Combine them and it’s fine. A person who reads the novels and paints miniatures but doesn’t play the actual tabletop game is fine.

Let’s extend: Imagine your friend has an army and is playing. A Space Marine army in a blue-and-yellow livery with a snake emblem on their shoulder pads. “The Emperor’s Vipers”, your friend explains. “Oh awesome! Who is their parent legion? Who are they a successor to?” you ask. “Oh I never bothered with all that. I just came up with the colour scheme and emblem and started playing.”

Slightly odd, you might think, but you wouldn’t fly into a fit of high dudgeon and lecture them on how coming up with a backstory for your chapter is, like, part of the hobby. You wouldn’t quietly pull them to one side and advise them to spend some time writing because a lot of people just won’t play them if they don’t have a detailed history for their homegrown chapter. In fact, you’d find it quite unreasonable for a person to demand a player be removed from a tournament because they don’t have a self-published glossy Codex: The Emperor’s Vipers tome.

The only one that is demonised is Play-but-don’t-paint. Paint-but-don’t-play is fine. Read-but-don’t-play is fine. Play-but-don’t-read is fine as long as it’s Play-AND-PAINT-but-don’t-read.

And this is not new. I’ve been playing since Rogue Trader. I don’t remember this attitude in RT, nor in 2nd. In fact, during the 2nd Edition of 40k I played many games and a couple of tournaments hosted at my local Games Workshop store and saw unpainted armies by the dozen. Nobody cared. As I remember it, 3rd edition (or maybe it was in the run-up to 3rd) was where this really came in, along with a dark period in Games Workshop’s history when the Tyranny of Goblin Green came about. Ask the longbeards if you’re too young to know.

It was a dark time for painters but a curiously colourful one for base edges.

So that’s the “what”, what’s the “why”? Why do people get so bent out of shape over this?

Let’s be clear, the root cause is Games Workshop themselves. Read the rules books, White Dwarf, their website, and they are very clear: as far as they are concerned, painting is “part of the hobby”. Games Workshop has paints and brushes and all kinds of painting-adjacent products to sell, so of course they want to promote the painting side.

That explains where the idea comes from, but not why the question causes such irrational anger. I mean, try it, try arguing against paint-to-play and people get really intense about it. There is a way to find out why: keep on arguing.

Stock photo of an argument. Please don’t do this.

See, the paint-to-play argument usually starts off quite calm and rational. Proponents will usually start with the Games Workshop argument: painting is part of the hobby. If you chose to play, painting is just part of that. This argument falls apart almost instantly. Simply put, you do not get to decide what my hobby is. And I want to be crystal clear, here, it’s not that you have no right to make that decision, it’s that you simply cannot make that decision. You cannot decide what I do for a hobby any more than you could decide whether or not I like bananas. If I decide that I want to play Warhammer 40,000 and also decide that I do not want to paint, you don’t get to decide that painting is my hobby. You simply have no means whatsoever to make that decision. Your input is not only not required, it is not possible.

Proponents may fall back on the Games Workshop position, that—how is it phrased in the rules book? Something like—there’s nothing like seeing two fully-painted armies going at it on the tabletop? Okay, fair enough, and I even agree, but that’s an opinion, it’s a preference, it’s aesthetics. It doesn’t mean I must paint if I have chosen not to.

Proponents might then move on to attempting to show that, in fact, painting is vital to gameplay. This is nonsense. They may cite WYSIWYG rules: how are you to know what a figure is if it’s not painted? Well, call me weird if you want, but you could look. Back in the day, Warhammer 40,000 figures were a bit more eclectic. Without paint it might have been difficult to tell an Apothecary from a Chaplain from a Librarian, simply because there was no definitively established look for those types.

Think you could pick Kribins out of a lineup?

But two things render that argument moot.

The first is that the modern range is far more developed. A Space Marine Apothecary looks like a Space Marine Apothecary. You’d be very hard pressed to find a Chaplain that could, even in poor light, be mistaken for a Librarian.

The second is the question of imagination. When designing a new Chapter you are free to make stylistic choices. The Emperor’s Vipers from our thought experiment are a non-Codex Chapter. Their Chaplains wear white, to symbolize their purity. Their Apothecaries wear blue, the ancient colour of healers from their home planet. Their Librarians wear black, as a mark of their shame for violating the Edict of Nikea and the chapter’s belief that the Emperor’s word is eternal. If you couldn’t tell these guys apart when they were unpainted, them being painted the wrong colours is going to really confuse you.

And bear in mind that only Space Marines can possibly suffer from this. When your opponent brings an Eldar (I know, they have a new copyrightable name, but I’m old school) army there is no way you’d look at a Grim Reaper and think to yourself, “Is that a Swooping Hawk? I can’t tell, it’s not painted.”

An ordinary Seraphim, yesterday.

The normal reaction to the dismantling of the WYSIWYG argument is to then rely on a slippery slope argument. If you’re not going to paint, why bother sticking the models together at all? Why not just throw down a sprue? Or an unopened box? It’s the same thing as plonking down a load of grey plastic, right?

This is stupid. You can’t measure range to and from a sprue of unassembled figures. You can’t assess LOS or cover or unit coherency. You can’t remove casualties from a squad. You can do all of those things with models that are assembled but not painted. Assembly is vital to gameplay.

You might also hear “Why not just use wadded up tissues or empty Coke cans?”. My response to that is “I’ve played those kind of games with no problems.” It’s not a reason to require paint.

Let’s not forget that the 2nd edition Warhammer 40,000 boxed set came with a two-dimensional cardboard cut-out Ork dreadnought.

This was a real thing, and it was fabulous.

Proponents may try to show how reasonable they are. They don’t demand Golden Demon standard, they will say, just tabletop-ready. They don’t demand your entire army be painted, it’s enough that you can show you’re working on it. If you have a good reason for not painting, a disability or something, they’ll allow it. They will talk about how easy it is, with the new contrast paints, to produce a painted army. We’ll get back to the arrogance of these in a moment, but first we should note that these arguments are merely red herrings. It’s not about how hard it is, or whether you have a good reason, you have decided not to paint and that is your decision alone. Your reasons are irrelevant.

They may also play the reasonable card by pointing out that a lot of tournaments have been using paint-to-play rules for a long time, but are still free to use or ignore this rule as they see fit, as are you in your personal game. If this is the case (and it is, let’s be fair) why have the rule at all? And why is it being celebrated as if it were the end of a dark period in GW history?

We must touch on “net listers” because proponents surely will. Net listing is a boogeyman that proponents bring up a lot. The urban legend is of multiple players ruining tournaments by going online, seeking out the latest overpowered army lists (mostly posted by other net listers), buying the relevant models, assembling them, turning up and wiping the floor with the opposition thanks to their net list, winning the big prizes, and then recouping their investment by selling the army on eBay. Big money big money big money.

The Grand Tournament’s new banner.

Doesn’t take a genius to see the titanic hole in this argument. We’re not talking about blackjack in Vegas or high stakes poker in Atlantic City. Nobody is getting rich traveling the country dominating Warhammer 40,000 tournaments. Most 40k tournaments are for bragging rights, maybe a small trophy, or a Polaroid with your army on THE WALL OF CHAMPIONS at your local gaming store or on your gaming club website. If there is a prize it might be a small amount of store credit, or a boxed set. Maybe everyone chips in $5 to the pool and winner takes all. It’s small fry. People still play 40k almost exclusively for the fun and for the love of the game. Even the few “high stakes” 40k tournaments are for prizes in the $1000 range. The biggest tournament I could find with a search on Google had a $1500 prize. Is it possible that there is an underground tournament scene with 5 and 6 figure pots on the line? Sure, maybe. But the people who enter these tournaments aren’t looking for a fun Saturday afternoon with like-minded individuals. Their experience is not going to be ruined by some dude rolling up with the grey hoard.

And let’s compare and contrast with the “tournaments already ban unpainted armies” argument from above. If a tournament has paint-to-play rules, net listers are already out. If they allow unpainted armies, they are free to ignore this rule, and net listers are in. Net listing is a non-argument.

By this point in any online discussion you should be seeing a change in tone. I’ve slipped a few in here, did you notice? Pay attention because the truth is coming out. I used “why bother sticking the models together at all?” I described a person setting out an unpainted army in terms of “throwing down” and “plonking down” their armies. I described an unpainted army, not as an army, but as “a load of grey plastic”. I described a person arriving to play as “some dude rolling up with the grey hoard”. This type of phrasing is common in the latter stages of the argument. It is an attempt to paint (pun very much intended) the person with the unpainted army as careless, uncaring, slovenly. They don’t come to games, they “roll up” or “rock up”. They don’t set out their army, they “plonk it down” or “throw it down”. Their army isn’t a collection of figures, it’s a “load of grey plastic”. Proponents will take it further. They will tell tales of unpainted units being “chucked in a heap” on the table, the player moving them as a heap, removing casualties and “throwing them aside”. Of course these stories are crap. As the meme goes, “this didn’t happen so hard it actually made some things that did happen unhappen”. But it plays into the perception that people who don’t paint don’t care. The core of the “reasonable” argument above is that it’s easy to paint to their standard and you, not doing so, clearly cannot be bothered to put in the effort. You’re lazy. You probably have BO (trust me, they have those stories, too, of the stinky, greasy-haired, individual with the heaps of grey plastic stuffing pizza into his face and burping and farting their way around the store). You probably live in your mum’s basement and download illegal copies of the Codex for printing. You probably don’t even buy GW figures, you use a 3d printer. The only thing stronger than the stink of bullshit is the stench of ad hominem.

This one’s easy. Ask anyone who has been playing for a while and most will admit, however reluctantly, that one sure sign of a bad opponent is the presence of a meticulously painted army. I’m not saying everyone with an ‘Eavy Metal standard army is a cheater, a rules lawyer, a sulky loser or an insufferable winner, but I am saying that an awful lot of this type of player have well painted armies. Most of them do not play “the grey hoard”. I’ve often stated, and its amazing how many people agree with me on this, that if I were to rank every single game I’ve ever played in terms of how much fun they were, or on how I would rank my opponent as an opponent I would happily play against again, most of the top ten were opponents with unpainted armies, and most of the bottom ten had beautifully painted figures.

It follows that, as the game has evolved and more and more tournaments and gaming groups have brought in paint-to-play rules punishing unpainted armies (I’m sure you’ve seen those strategy cards with Duncan’s face on them giving an advantage to people with a painted army against an unpainted army), and given that the “it’s not hard to paint, especially with contrast paints” argument is correct (if irrelevant to the larger question), people who value winning games more than having fun are most definitely painting their shit.

BTW: “Paint your shit” is another emotional term used by people trying to convince you that they have the right to impose their beliefs on other people.

But we’re getting there. We’re getting to the truth.

Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.

Proponents are already, as their “reasonable” arguments get dismantled, starting to talk about their opponents as the bad guys. And of course, the other guys must be the bad guys because we’re the good guys, right? It’s an emotional reaction to any divide. And the discussion is most definitely becoming emotional. The discussion is becoming emotional because the reasons for the discussion are emotional. Some proponents are upfront about it, some will only admit it once they’ve been backed into the corner, but sooner or later you will hear the root cause:

I deserve this.

The phrase may be “It’s insulting when one player puts down a fully-painted army and their opponent rocks up with a load of grey plastic.”

The phrase may be “I put in a lot of effort in painting my army and it’s a slap in the face when someone plonks down a grey hoard.”

The phrase may be “It’s an insult to see this douche throwing down unpainted plastic when you’ve spent time making your army fit for the tabletop.”

The phrase may be “If I can manage to paint my army it’s insulting that you can’t be bothered to do the same.”

What the person is really saying is “I deserve your effort.”

And there’s really two levels: the pro and the amateur.

The first is “I honed my craft over many years, I watched all of Duncan’s videos, I bought all the White Dwarf issues, I learned at the feet of the masters, and I developed my own techniques, and here you are, you infuriating oik, without having even cracked a single pot of paint, and we are at the same table, at the same stage, of the same tournament. By you not putting in the same effort, you are insulting me. I should be rewarded for what I have done. You shouldn’t even be here. How dare you?”

The second is: “My painting sucks. My figures look like somebody ate a starter paint set and a bunch of figures and shat out the results. I did this because I believe in The Hobby and that Painting Is Part Of The Hobby, but you didn’t and here we are at the same table, at the same stage, of the same tournament, and you are proving that my effort was wasted. By you not putting in the same effort, you are insulting me. I should be rewarded for what I have done. You shouldn’t even be here. How dare you?”

I don’t know if there’s one of those long compound German words for “the feeling of self-betrayal that starts inward and turns outward into irrational anger when you realise that the effort you put in wasn’t matched by other people, and you get nothing extra for having put in the effort”, but there ought to be. It certainly applies here.

By-the-by, lets return to the arrogance I mentioned in the “reasonable arguments” section, because it’s a vital clue. They’ll claim “They don’t demand your entire army be painted, it’s enough that you can show you’re working on it. If you have a good reason for not painting, a disability or something, they’ll allow it.” The arrogance here is breathtaking when you stop and examine it. The sheer hubris of declaring—and doing so as if it’s reasonable—that you are the arbiter of whether or not a person is worthy of playing the game, as if they are but supplicants, lined up before you, presenting their humble efforts, and you must cast an expert eye over the figures they’ve painted since last we met and decide whether the progress is enough before holding out a thumb like Caesar’s to decide each gladiator’s fate. Get out of here with that crap.

Caesar, with that crap, at a gaming tournament yesterday.

And it’s not peculiar to Warhammer 40k, or to Games Workshop, or to wargaming. That attitude is everywhere. The phrase is “pay your dues”. In the music industry, artists who explode onto the scene because of some chance encounter are often looked down upon by artists who “paid their dues” by playing grungy pubs and dingy rec club halls and having to load the band’s equipment into Steve The Bass Player’s rusty old van and hoping to have enough petrol to drive home and then having someone from a bigger band spot them and give them a shot at opening for them when a scout from a record label happened to be at the gig and even then they were a minor signing for the label and didn’t really get much support and yet here we are, playing the same arenas, our records on the same radio shows, our records climbing the same charts. By you not putting in the same effort, you are insulting me. I should be rewarded for what I have done. You shouldn’t even be here. How dare you?

Pay your dues.

Paint your shit.

Let me be crystal clear: You do not deserve my effort in painting. The effort I put into painting is put in because I enjoy having a painted army. I enjoy the challenge of coming up with a way to convert ordinary Games Workshop models to represent Forge World models. I like having a unique army. I decide this. You don’t.

When we face each other over the tabletop, what you deserve from me is my gaming. You deserve that I play my best, that I am not distracted, playing with my phone or chatting up the ladies. You deserve that I have knowledge of the rules (unless we’re playing a starter game, that’s different) so we don’t have to suspend play every time I need to look something up. You deserve that I play fair, according to the spirit of the rules, and in the interests of us both enjoying ourselves. You deserve that I am gracious in defeat and magnanimous in victory. You deserve to have a good game against a decent player.

And I deserve the same from you.

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galla-xiv · 6 years ago

Note

Send me 💐 to give my muse a Valentine’s day gift from a secret admirer. 👀 (From Cyril, @lordofcrowns)

It was another holiday. It was a holiday centered love. Worse yet, it was a holiday about romantic love. There had been an honest attempt at being inclusive in the last couple of years, but over all, the streets of all three major capitals were awash in romantic sentiments and mooshy-eyed lovers. It had gotten so bad that Jessamine had holed up in her inn room at the Drowning Wench and wouldn’t come out, not even for her student. She had agreed to spend the evening meal with Rideck, but had demanded that they eat in her room and that nothing was to be said about the holiday.

The raven-haired grump was wrapped up in as many blankets as possible, reading a rather good mystery novel she brought out every year around this time. She had let herself relax for a bit, edging away from the tense watch she had put herself through for most of the morning and early afternoon; there was no peace to be had when one was known by the Wench’s regulars and said regulars imagined themselves in love with their female counterpart at the counter most evenings. Jess let out a sigh of relief as she turned a page in her book.

And then there was a knock at the door...

She tensed but stayed quiet. Maybe they’d go away?

Another knock, this one more insistent.

Jess let out a string of curses, setting her book aside. “Coming!” She sniped moodily and unwrapped herself from the safety of her blankets. Her linen pants and tunic were rumpled and messy. This did nothing to phase her. Hopefully whoever had dared to interrupt the sanctity of her hideaway ran away screaming at her untidy appearance. She mussed up her hair a bit as well, just for good measure. She reached the door and pulled it open dramatically...

Jess blinked back surprise as a porter handed her a single pale pink rose, settled into a clear glass vase. He also held out a basket that contained an orchestration roll and a small black box. There was a note attached to the top of the basket with a pink silken cord. She reached into a pocket, pulling out a small coin purse. She wordlessly took the basket and rose and handed the tip to the porter, shutting the door in his face.

She retreated to the desk in her room, sitting down and putting the vase on the desk. She fingered a petal gently, half stupefied and half indignant that she had been sent anything at all. Jess brought the basket up and took out the orchestration roll. This intrigued her the most, being a musician herself. Luckily she never rented a room without a device that could play music. She set it up to play and as the first few notes sounded on a piano, she inhaled a sharp breath. The haunting melody that was played was a song of her own creation. With a trembling hand, she grabbed at the note, tearing open the envelope. She read...

To the lovely lass I spied one day, playing a tune,

My apologies for coming off a stalker, but I could not banish your music from my ears. I had to send something to you in hopes of showing how deeply I appreciate such a musician as yourself. I hope you find my version of your melody to your approval.

Along with the orchestration, I’ve also sent a small token of my esteem and a flower to mark the day of delivery. I am hopeful as well that these are received without rancor. Think of them as a...miniature picture of the artistry and soul of your craft.

Regards,

Your Secret Admirer

Jessamine swallowed back a sudden thickness in her throat, sitting down and brought the note to her nose. She blinked and looked at the card. “Saltwater?” She mused softly to herself and shook her head, setting it aside. Next, she pulled out the small box, still unsure as to how to feel about this surprise. The woman gasped anew as she opened the box...

It was a charm, meant for a bracelet or necklace. She gingerly touched the tiny replica of her cherished lute and pulled her finger back quickly. The flowers. The music. And this tiny charm. All were highly personal things that had been gifted to her. Just how long had this secret admirer been watching her? Her brow furrowed. Or were they just very observant by nature...

It was a puzzle that would occupy her thoughts for the remainder of the day, pushing aside the desire to finish her mystery book. Who needed a book when you had a real life mystery to dwell on?

@lordofcrowns I wrote more than I thought I would, but I think it turned out okay. ^^ Thank you so much for the ask.

#Anonymous #Asks #My character #Jessamine Calidon #Valentine's Day

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lillaxtrigger · 6 years ago

Text

Young hope: Chapter 15

The clear night sky befalls upon a brightly lit manor. Its shine reflecting off the dozens of vehicles littered about its massive circular driveway. One more car joins their ranks, its simplistic design contrasting between the two luxurious automobiles it parks between. Out from its steel shell arose the blue boy and his family, dressed to partake in the Gala. “Wow. It’s so gorgeous. You really got lucky, Tore. Scoring the daughter of an eccentric trillionaire?” the mother compliments. “Eh, seems like kind of a bitch to me. Honestly think you could do better.” Mally remarks. “By the way, how did you and that Renee girl meet in the first place?”. Both ladies turn to Tore, the blue boy busy adjusting his tuxedo collar to keep from choking him. “Ah...Ya...Ya know…At-At...At school.” he boy tries to feign while loosening his collar. “Getting enough oxygen there?” Mally worries. “Yeah...Nnn, Fine…”. He finally adjusts his collar to a more comfortable hold, wondering to himself; “Why did Cayenne makes this thing so tight?’.

“Tore, come in. Have you arrived at the manor yet?” Kingsley’s voice rings through a hidden earpiece. Pressing down upon the communicator, he responds with: “Yep. Right when the fires are hot, too.”. “Okay, now when you get in. You know what to do, right?”. “Pfft, course. I do the thing with the- the other thing, then I...I walk around for a bit. Hoard the food. Dumm… Sneak out through the back and fly in the night sky like a sharply dressed glowing bandit.”. “You forgot it, didn’t you?” Cayenne guesses through the earpiece.”. “Nooo...That-that is it, right?”. “Not even close, you dumbass.” “Alright, listen. I’ll go through it, one more time. But you gotta do your best to remember while you’re inside.” Kingsley offers. “Gotcha.”

“Uh, Tore?” he hears his sister wonder. Ahead, he finds her and their mom gazing awkwardly towards the boy. “Who are you talk to?” “Oh, um, uh. J-just practicing my lines when I run into Renee’s dad. Gotta keep up good impression, he he...” Both ladies shrug the answer off and start to head inside. Tore letting out a relieved sigh as he follows close.

Not to long ago, the same blue boy stood in front of a mirror, being fitted for his snazzy navy blue tux. Cayenne adjusts parts of his suit so that it may properly fit, Tore complaining: “Agh. The sleeves are too stiff, the collar is so itchy, the waist is chaffing me… This whole monkey suit is unbearable! How do people stomach wearing these things!?” “Just suck it up, ya damn baby.” Cayenne retort. His discomfort causes him to glace towards Kingsley and ask: “Why do I have go to this dumb ball again, ya know aside from me...Nn, screwing up and stuff?” “Because, I have reasons to suspect that Renee might be going through some… Umm, parental problems, lets call them. And need you to be our eyes on the inside to catch the act.” “Okay, but why at this Gala thing?” “See, Rich parents are always super strict when it comes to their kids during big events like this. Heck, when I was young, my mom wouldn’t let me out of the bathroom until every detail was perfect. Every. Detail. One of Renee’s parents may snap at her in private and need you to catch whoever it is in the act.” “Rrr, but I don’t wanna go to some fancy mansion party. They’re not the fun kinda parties with the overly frosted cookie cakes with demeaning swear words and clearly drunken clowns juggling sticks of lit dynamite.” “What...kind of party are you suggesting?” “My 12th birthday. Now that was a blast.” “Well, maybe you should think of that next time you decide to crash into someones personal life.” Cayenne suggest. “But didn’t you try and do the same thi-” Before he could finish, Cayenne tightens Tore’s bow tie, choking the boy.

After loosening his collar, he than wonders aloud to Kingsley. “I don’t get it. If you think something bad’s happening to her. Why not just pull her out, asap?” “I’d love to, but you might’ve figured out by now that the Buxaplenty’s are a very rich family. They can by off lawyers and judges to free them from most kind of scrutiny, which is why we need to catch them on video. Because if there’s one thing they can’t buy off, its hard evidence. The boy genius then pulls out a floral pin, telling his agent: “This pin will give us video feed of the inside. Once we record it, we can work on getting Renee out of there. This situation will require you to have the upmost diligence if we wanna pull this off. Got it?”. “Diligence?...Diligence…That some kind of pickle?”. Frustrated, Kingsley lets out a sigh, deciding instead to rephrase with: “Just- just sneak around and try not to get caught.”. “Wait a minute...You mean like a secret agent?” Tore gleefully questions. Tore than revels in the prospect of being an undercover agent. Sneaking around facilities, gathering intel, ton and tons of nifty gadgets, famous tropes reminiscent of the spy film genre. An enriching fantasy that rapidly excites the blue boy, making him loudly giddy with uncontrollable enthusiasm. “Well, more of a mundane spy than and agent really, but-” Kingsley tries to deflate, but the blue boy was already far too thrilled as he readies to scream out. “I’m gonna be like James Bond!”. He flies out from the changing room in an eager rush, the sound of his cheering echoing in the proceeding halls. “We are so fucked.” Cayenne remarks. “I’m...Well...he might...Pull a surprise out of his pocket, um...who knows?”. He than finds the girl gazing at him with an unconvinced glare, making Kingsley giving out a nervous laugh before glaring back towards the corridor.

Entering the estate, the family is taken aback by the luxurious décor strewn about the entry hall. The golden chandler that suspends atop the ceiling, its own lights sparkling off its polished finish. The velvet red carpeting laid about the polished marble floor beneath their feet. The fancy platters sporting various miniature hors d’oeuvres ready to be consumed. The large hand painted murals that depicted their aristocratic hosts hung about the walls. All of it giving a such a sense of authentic elegance amongst the countless guests within. “Whoa…talk about pulling all the stops.” Mally comments right after blowing out an impressed whistle. The mother glances over towards the left staircase, noticing a middle aged woman beside the railing and exclaiming with a gasp: “Is that roller blading stunt girl Molly wheelz?”. Mally looks towards the opposite end of the hall, spotting a red headed lady, gushing: “Oh my god! It’s the skating champ, Red thunder!”. Both ladies waltz towards their respective ideals, leaving their blue boy to his own devices.

With a thickly posh english accent, Tore relays to his comrades: “This is agent bluebird reporting. I have successfully infiltrated the facility and ready to proceed with gathering intelligence. Do you copy, orange dingaling?”. “You don’t have use an accent, ya know? You’re not exactly undercover. Also, orange dingaling?” As he hears Cayenne mocking laughter in the background of the feed, he turns is attention over towards the platter table. “Just...walk around and see if you can tail either of Renee’s parents.” Kingsley commands. “Affirmative, proceeding to begin mission.”

The guests pluck from the gallery of hor d’oeuvres as they pass through. Tore lifts his head from under the table, gazing into the delicious array of savory snacks. He picks one from the delicate silver platter in the middle of the table, licking the tiny entree and coming to the obvious conclusion: “Detecting no signs of poison.”. With that theory confirmed, the blue boy proceeds to grasp the entire tray and loudly scarf down the rest of the hor d’oeuvres down his gullet. After swallowing the array of bite sizes snacks, he lowers the silver platter, exhaling a hearty sigh. He then notices some of the surrounding guests staring at him astonished and some with outright disturbed gazes painted across their faces. With a nervously guilty giggle, he lowers himself back under the table. Looking out from under the cloth covered table, he blots away when nobody is looking.

In his escape, he reflects to himself with the inner thoughts of: “That was kinda close. Probably best if I keep a low profile. Don’t wanna blow this whole thing by running into someone important.” As if the whims of fate read his mind like a best selling novel, Tore runs into a wayward blonde dressed in sea foam green. Shaking the crash off, he finds his faux mistress sat upon the velvet carpeting. “Oh man, so sorry!” he apologizes. Rising from the floor, he helps Renee up, asking the daughter of the host: “You okay?”. “Yeah. I’m- I’m fine. How are you enjoying the gala?”. “Oh um. It’s uh...It’s nice. Really fancy, very shiny. Mostly um...nnnnice... Oh who am I kidding. I’ve been here less then 10 minutes and I’m already bored out of my skull.” “Ugh. Tell me about it. Every year, my dad throws one of these stupidly massive balls in hopes of gathering more investors for the family. To be honest, I’d rather stay in bed and snuggle up with a good book.” “I hear ya. I’d rather go fly out and train somewhere than stand around these snooty stiff. Like that guy over there.”. Looking to where the blue boy was pointing towards, Renee’s fixates her gaze upon an elderly gentleman engaging in conversation with a fellow aristocrat. “Just look at him. Stuffy, looks full of himself, and probably paid to have the definition of fun surgically removed from his crusty ass brains. He’s- He’s like- He’s like “Excuse me fine gentleman, would any of you like to consult about the how many golden statues I possess to compensate for the fact that I have lost control of my bladder.” Tore jests with in mocking elderly tone. Some of the guests could hear the couple quietly giggling to themselves. The boy then spots another aristocrats in his sight, pointing over and telling Renee to: “Oh oh, over there! Look!”. Glancing in said direction, she spots a rather stuffy looking couple. “Bet you can’t do it.” “No. No. I-I shouldn’t.” “Come on. You know you wanna.” “Hmm...Oh I know. “I say honey. There is a rather awful smell coming from you’re twisted beard. By any chance have you been using gorilla snot as a hair gel?” “Why yes I have dear. And I dare say, you look rather horrid in your obviously fake eyelashes.” There giggling begins to grow louder, them trying their best not to burst out in laughter. Renee spots another potential vctim of their mockery and points over, asking: “Oh god. Look over there.”. She has her faux boyfriend look towards a rather overweight individual, his suit obviously to small to fit with the buttons struggling to keep it together. “Ooh ho ho wow. Okay, I got a good one. Listen to this.” Clearing his throat, the boy then lets out high pitched mocking tone: “Even everyone. Don’t mind me. I’m just trying to keep my buttons from flying off past Jupiter.” Both of them could barely contain their glee, threatening to burst out in laughing fits. The fat bloke who they mocked captures their attention, saying in the exact tone Tore had given him: “Well, I never. My tone is never that high and my suit is rather durable, thank you.” As the overweight bastard takes his leaves, Tore and Renee stare into one another before they could contain their laughter no more. The guest around them take note of the couples laughter, looking rather embarrassed just being near them. Their chortling dying down, Renee lets out a sigh, desiring: “Yeah...Honestly I just want this night to be over.” “Me too. But, luckily I got something to keep me from blasting through the roof, screaming bloody murder.” “What is it?”. “Ya see, there’s this plan that-” “Don’t tell her the plan, you dumbass!” Cayenne screams through the earpiece. “Ow! Why?” “Tore. We still don’t know what’s exactly up with Renee and her parents. And if you tell her, she might be unwillingly coaxed into spilling the beans.” Kingsley finishes in a much calmer tone. The boy complies, but not without a hint of reluctance. “Mm...Okay.”. “Who are you talking to?” he hears Renee question. Looking back, he finds the blonde staring at him with a worried gaze. “Uhh...”. Gotta think of an excuse fast. “My...My hand.”. Perfect. “You’re hand?”. “Yes. It has a lot to say. Do you want to hear?” he offers, presenting his palm. “Uh...No thanks.”

An uncomfortable pause passes between the two, both internally pleading for anything to break it. Come on, something happening already, please! A thought that loom in the blue boys head as he works up a nervous sweat “Hello children.” he hears a feminine voice greet. Oh thank god. Looking aside, they witness a well dressed blonde woman approach. Renee’s mom? “How are you two enjoy the gala?”. “Uh...It’s great.” the blue boy mentions. “Yeah, parties great mom.” Renee respond. “Great, glad to see you kids having a fun time. But, you two should probably behave yourselves. Everyone is watching you two.”. The daughter quickly withdraws her joyful demeanor, complying with: “O-Oh. Right...”. “I’d like you to come with me dear. There are some people I’d like to introduce you to.”. “Of course.”. Before walking off with her mother, she turns towards her faux boyfriend, ending with: “See you later.” Seeing the happiness quickly drain from Renee leads Tore to think: “Hmm...That was odd. Did Kingsley say which parent was causing her trouble? ...Meh, I’ll just spy on her and see what happens.”.

Watching as the blue boys exploits play out, Kingsley and Cayenne eye the monitor showing the feed within his lab. “So, which one do you think it might be?” she asks him. “Pardon?” ��The abusive piece of shit. Which one is it?” “Oh, uh...To be honest, I’m not really certain. For all we know, it could be the both of them. We’re basically going in blind as bats.” “Oh...Five bucks says its the dad.” Another moment of awkward pause passes, thankfully not as painfully long as Cayenne swiftly adds the follow up question: “By the way. How’d you manage to convince your folks to let you do all this?”. “I...I fed them the excuse that I needed to work on a school project and needed peace and quiet to focus.” Cayenne keeps a chuckle from escaping her lungs and questions: “You...feeding them a lie? Yeah, right. Doubt you of all people can lie. Come on, what did you actually do?” Kingsley fails to give her a response, only continuing to stare into the video feed with a worried glare. “Oh shit. You’re actually serious, aren’t you?”. Letting out a weary sigh, he answers: “Cayenne, it hurts that I have to lie to them just to pull all this off. I’m...scared, that this whole family grudge thing would make them force me to never speak to her again. And I can’t risk that. Especially now when Renee might be in danger.”. “Damn...You must really like her, don’t you?”. “To be honest, I’m praying that this whole parental...abuse thing to just be my own delusional paranoia. For one of the few times in my life. I’m hoping that I’m wrong.”

Atop the manor staircase, Tore slid across the 2nd floor balcony overhanging the hall like a crawling worm. He inches towards the railing and looks through the bars, scanning across the 1st floor among the countless guests. The boy spots his fake girlfriend alongside her mother, relaying with a couple of aristocratic gentleman. “They probably wouldn’t do it out the open. Could cause a scene. What to do?” he wonders aloud. Behind him, some of the passing guest could help not but stare at Tore, wondering why the boy was laying upon the velvet carpeting upon his stomach. “Might be best to tail them and wait for when they’re alone to catch em in the act. Yeah, that sounds like the perfect plan.”. Spotting both ladies walking off, he bounces up from the carpet and declares. “Uh oh, looks like they’re on the move. Better get going myself.”. The blue boy then vaults over the golden railing and drops down to the second floor. He spooks some of the guests upon landing on the marble surface, but ignores their shock and continues on with his noble efforts to stalk the hosts daughter.

Tailing the mother daughter duo through the home, he hides behind behind various furniture as they walk through the abode. He literally jumps behind one of the chairs to take cover, alluding at the very least Renee’s and her moms gaze. Seems like they didn’t notice him.

The boy then dives down under another table, looking under the cloth to find the pair still unaware of his near presence. So far so good. Ready to move, he hits his head on the table in his haste, rubbing his top whilst trying not to audibly scream. Tore than crawls out from under the table and dashes away towards his pursuit.

From behind something, Tore eyes his targets as they walk away. Looks like they haven’t noticed him just yet. This spy stuff is pretty easy, actually. Thought it might be more exciting than this. Just then, he feels the thing he was hiding behind begin to move, finding that it was in fact a bulky looking individual, who turned towards the boy with an upset looks. Tore nervously laughs as he backs away from the gentleman. Looking around, he can’t spot Renee our her mom anywhere in site. Shit. Did he lose them?

He hastily pushes himself through the crowd to try and catch up to the Renee and her mom, but fails to find either. Where did they go? Can’t really fly. That would throw stealth out the window entirely. Perhaps he needed another moment atop the stairs to find where they were departing towards. But before he can consider going back up, he spots Renee’s mother amongst the crowd, however with Renee herself nowhere near. Figuring that he might have lost his false beloved, he might as well tail her mom to see if he can pick up any context clues or for the chance she might meet up with her daughter once more. Who knows, really.

Pursuing the mother, he finds her walking beside a group of an aristocratic guests, chatting to one another about um… I don’t know. Something boring or money, stuff like that, who cares. All that matters now is tailing the misses without getting caught.

Going up a set of stairs, the group doesn’t spot their spy, hanging from the side of the case by one of the steps. As they pass through, he can’t help but hear in their conversation, which of course to him goes in one ear and out the other. Ugh, these people are so boring. Why can’t any of these guy talk about something fun for once? Like cartoons, ice creams, video games, an exploding clown, or the hordes of hell on mars, something dammit! Stop being a bunch of boring douche bags! Thoughts that cloud his mind as he’s forced to listen, failing to catch one of them unwittingly stamping on his fingers. He covers his mouth with his hand, to keep his screams of pain from escaping. Soon, he plummet down and hits the ground with a loud thud, catching the groups attention. They look down to what might have made such a crash, only to find nothing of the sorts. Shrugging off the thud, they continue up. Tore hiding behind the descending hall, rubbing his stamped on fingers.

Passing by a decorative cabinet full of priceless glass figures of marine life, they fail to notice the blue boy eyeing them from the atop the cabinet. Getting down from the cabinet, he is about to head out, when something within the cabinet catches his attention. It was tiny glass dolphin figurine irradiating rainbow colors. Oh my god, its so cute. No! Now is not the time to be admiring marine shaped crafts of glass workmanship! There’s a mission to be had. Breaking his gaze away from the crystal mammal, he continues to his goal of pursue the Buxaplenty wife.

Catching up, he finds the group of snobs to have seemingly broken off from the misses, Renee’s mother absent from their group. He looks about to in an effort to try and find her once more. Thankfully, he manages to spot her nearby. It looks like she’s talking to somebody. Please let it not be anymore stiff. Approaching from behind the corridor, he can hear the mother in the middle of a conversation with one of her guests. “Oh its no problem really. I’m happy you got to meet one of your idles.”. “It was really fun to get to know her. I’ve been a fan of hers since I was a kid.” the other guest mentions. He swears the person she’s talking with sounds incredibly familiar. Peeking out, he finds that Renee’s mom is in fact talking to his own. “Really, we invite tons of stars here every year. If our kids are still dating by around next year, we can arrange for some others you want.” “Just like that? You guys must live like kings. And you have such a charming daughter to boot.” “Oh yes. We’re quite proud of our little Renee. She’s been keep up with her grades constantly since we transferred her to public school to keep ahead of the curb.”. “She works so hard. I wish I could give her more time to do the things she loves.”. “Oh yeah. My kids are really something special too. Helping a lot of people and saving plenty more. They’ve grown to be so strong and courageous. It’s too bad Roy couldn’t make it here. Really I couldn’t asks for anything more out of my family...Except maybe for my husband to visit more. He’s never really around as much as he should be.” “Ugh. I wish my husband wasn’t around as much.” “Why’s that?” “Oh, its- its nothing.” “Nu-uh. There’s obviously something.” “No really. There isn’t. Honest.” “Come on. Are kids are dating, we might as well get into the juicy bits. So spill it.” With a disgruntled sigh, Renee’s mother opens with: “My husband is...very stressful to deal with. He’s always been so full of himself. Like I think he genuinely cares more about his wealth and family statue over his own family. Its gotten so bad, that...I...started seeing another man behind his back...” Near speechless, the blue haired mom breaks through, mentioning: “Really?...I...If it’s gotten that bad, than why don’t you divorce him?” “You’re kidding me? You want me to divorce from one of the richest business tycoons on the planet? Heh heh heh...Yeah, right. He’d destroy me in a legal case and take everything I have. Even poor Renee. I can’t bear to put her through any more then what she’s been through.”

Hearing all this, Tore retreats out from the corridor and away from the mothers. “Guess I had Renee’s mom pegged all wrong. She’s actually kinda nice. But if its not her, then that just leaves out...Oh no...” He hurries through the hall, hoping to quickly discover Renee once more.

And sure enough, he finds her, unfortunately with her father. Seeing both of them head down towards a less than crowded hall, he figures that this might be the moment he’s been waiting for. Glancing behind the corridor, he prepares himself with his fake accent: “Time for Agent Bluebird to do what he does best. Check to see if everything is in working order. Floral pin camera, check. Communications, check. Determination...Check-a-roony. Then I’m all set. It’s time to activate stealth mode.”

Back in the lab, Kingsley and Cayenne having listened to the conversation. “Well, guess the moms all clean, making the only abusive piece of shit to be...” Cayenne guesses. “Her dad. I should have known it was him. He can’t be pulling Renee away from the party without a reason. This might be it. I don’t think I can watch.” “Kingsley.” “You’re right. You’re right. Need to pull myself together. Okay, with the floral pin in check, it should be ready to record right about...” the boy relays typing away at his computer. With one more press of the button, a red circle appears on the upper left of the video feed. “Now.” “Damning evidence, here we come.” Just then, they hear the lab door open. Turning about, they see Kingsley’s mom about to walk down. “Hi pumpkin.” she cheerfully greets. Kingsley swiftly turns off the monitor and speaker, both he and Cayenne scramble through the lab in a panic.

When his mom comes down, she finds her son tinkering underneath a piece of machinery, Cayenne keeping up the heavy metal up so he can work. “Oh hi, Cayenne. Didn’t know you were down here.”. “Hey, Ms. S. Just helping Kingsley with his project.” she responds. “That’s so sweet. Um, sorry for the little intrusion, Kingsley. I just need to get something your dad left in here. I promise I’ll be really quick.”. “Aight mom.”. Under the large piece of construction, Kingsley pretends to be busy, the casting shadow hiding his nervous sweat quite well. “The fuck do we do now?” Cayenne whispers, trying to keep the mother from hearing. “Don’t worry. As long as the computer isn’t shut off, it should still be recording the footage. As long as Tore doesn’t screw things up on his end, we should be fine.”

In the lonely hallway, Renee and her father walk along through the well decorated corridors. The fixtures above shining upon the nervous sweat that was drip down her head. They however, do not notice their blue sneaking pursuer, who was quietly singing to himself the theme of mission impossible. Swiftly, he sneaks about the halls, hiding behind the fancy décor laid strewn about the hallway.

Seeing them turn the corner, he follows ahead, but bumps into a wayward stand with a priceless vase atop that was about to fall over. The boy tries to catch the vase to keep it from shattering upon marble floor, juggling it as he tries to keep a grip on the well polished piece of expensive pottery. Finding his grip, he quickly places the vase onto the pedestal and backs away from the worthwhile décor. Taking his leave, he does not notice the pottery falling to the ground with a shatter.

From around the corner, he notices one of the doors open quiet a crack. Approaching the door, he could hear the sound of scolding coming from the other side. Peeking within, Tore finds Renee father fuming at his daughter, Renee herself looking like she’s on the verge of tears. “The way you acted in front of the aristocrats was utterly appalling. Mocking our guests in front of everyone, such an embarrassment.” the father barked. “I-I’m sorry. I promise I won’t act that way again. Please, just calm down, I-”. Before she could finish apologizing, the father smack his daughter across the face, Tore shocked by the sudden attack. As Renee rubs the red spot the strike had left behind, she hears her father continue with: “I thought I taught you better than to act out in public. Are you trying to soil our families reputation?”. Angered by his response right after his assault, she barks back, questioning: “Is that all you care about anymore? Your precious family reputation instead of your actual family?”. Hearing his daughter talk back to him makes the raging father strike his daughter once more, enough to make the girl almost well up in tears. The site makes the blue boy tighten his grip upon the elegant wooden doorway, enough to quietly crack the engraved wood. “Where did you get the spine to talk back to me like that? You been drifting towards the realm of disrespect ever since you’ve been transferred to public school. You are going to straighten up this pitiful excuse for an act and apologize to for your rude behavior. Do you understand me?”. “No...”. “What? Young lady. I demand your respect right this instant!” the enraged father screams. “Why should I respect someone who demands for it? Someone who strikes his own daughter to force her to?”. That statement was the final straw. The fathers tighten his fists in a rage in preparation for one more strike. He readies to strike her with all he’s got, aiming his swing straight down towards Renee. It’s at this moment that Tore has run out of patients, refusing to watch this horror show of parental abuse no more. He burst through the door, dashing straight towards the abusive piece of shit. The father turns around wondering who dares interrupt him. Just when he sees Tore right in front of him, he’s met with a face full of the boys hard fist. The powerful swing was strong enough to send Renee’s father flying into the wall. The entire bedroom shook upon the fathers grizzly impact, lodging him in the wooden wall. Before Renee could process what transpired, Tore tosses her on his back and bolts away. A moment after their escape, the father opens his one bloodshot eye, a growling rage escaping from his lungs.

As they rush through the eloquent halls, Tore presses his finger upon his earpiece, begging: “Come on, someone pick up. Anyone?”. “Wait, were you talking into an earpiece earlier? Who are you even trying to even get a hold of?” the blonde demands him to answer. Hearing no one on the other line, he responds to her with: “Grr. No time to explain. Got find a way out fast. Where’s the nearest window?”. “Its around the corner, but what are you-”. Before Renee could ask a follow up question, Tore quickly turns the sharp corner.

She finds them heading towards a closed window leading out into the night sky. Concerned how her ride isn’t exactly slowing to a halt, she worries aloud: “Slow down, we’re gonna crash right through!”. Right when they were about crash through, the blue boy blast a hole in the wall. The dozens of guests in the backyard of the manor glanced towards the nearby explosion, including Mally and her mom. They watch as Tore leaps out from the smoke with his supposed girlfriend and takes off into the night sky.

Mally and their mom looked at one another and knew exactly what they needed to next. They need to make their escape right this second, before somebody pipes up. But before they could even move an inch, everyone hears someone screaming from inside the manor. The smoke clearing, everyone behold there eyes upon the host of the gala, his face red from not only the attack, but from the fuming rage irradiating form his being. Like this asshole looked like a messed up red beat, he was so fucking angry. Mr. Buxaplenty takes in as much breath as he possibly can and roars out: “That blue bastard flew off with my DAUGHTEEEEEEEER!!!!!”. His roar echoes passed the manor, blowing the leftover smoke surrounding him away. The mans breath returning, roughly turning into a low key growl as he shifts his gaze over towards the two ladies. Once he regains the strength to scream once more, he thrust his accusing finger towards them and shouts at the top of his lungs: “Those two….GET THEEEEEEM!!!!”. Dozens of well suited guards begin to pour out into the backyard and make their charge towards Mally and her mother. The guards on the approach, Mally herself pulls out the grapplyo that Hank had lent her to test. Guess now is a good time as any. She tosses the gadget towards one of the approaching security, slugging one of them right in the face. The yo yo returning, she finds not a single stretch on the wheel. Quite the durable piece of work.

Mally then throws her grapplyo towards another guard, the gadget entrapping the watchmen in her grip. The pixie dressed skater slams the patrolman towards his fellow co workers, all the well suited guards being thrashed down like a hit and run massacre, only the car being one another. Retracting the yo yo, she wonders how strong the gadgets string actually is. Hank, don’t fail now.

Looking towards the fountain, she soon is about to test that theory when she grabs her moms arm and starts to rush towards the decorative water spire. Mally throws her yo yo onto the fountain, and like Hank said, stuck to the drizzling spire like radical sticky tape. She than tugs hard upon the grapplyo’s end, flinging them around the fountain and past the security team. Landing upon the ground, they head down the side of the manor with the patrol on their tail.

In front of the manor, they try to look for their car, looking among the dozens of fancy automobiles. “Do you remember where we parked?” the mom wonders. “Not a clue.”. “Over hear!” a wayward voice calls out. From behind one of the decorative bushes on the side of the front yard, they see a hand waving over to them. With security closing in, they don’t have much choice but to run for the stranger.

Jumping behind the foliage, the security team spreading out to search for them. Behind the bush, they are greeted with the misses of the manor. “Mrs. Buxaplently? What are you-”. “Shh.” she hushes. After looking over the bush, she feels around the ground until grasping at a hidden noose under the grass. Pulling upon the rope, she lifts up the lid to a hidden passage way. “Get going.”. As the both of them climb down, the blue haired mother stops to asks the Mrs. Buxaplenty: “What about you?”. “I wish I could, but I can’t. Who knows what he might try if I run off too. Just get going. Hurry.”. Climbing down the tunnel, their savior closes the passage lid.

Kingsley mother digs around an assortment of gadgets in her search, Kingsley himself still pretending to work on his supposed project. The boy genius begins to get anxious, the thoughts of what he might be missing start swelling in his head. Cayenne hears him quietly groan to himself, whispering to him: “Dude, chill the fuck out. She might hear you.”. “I know. I’m just getting kinda nervous. Our agent is out there blind with no directions at all. Who knows what he might do without us.”. “Just relax, sure she won’t be in here for much longer.”. “But its nearly been 10 minutes. And who knows how much longer my mom might be in here.”. “Found it!” they hear her call out. The mom pulls from the pile a pronged fork like gadget. “Sorry for bothering you so much, sweetie. I’ll leave the two of you alone now.”.

As soon as the mom shuts the door behind her, the two of them rush towards the computer. Turning on the monitor, they see the feed showing them a birds eye view of the city. “What is...What’s happening? Why is he leaving the party?” Kingsley wonders. “Oh, what the hell did that dumbass do now?” Cayenne curses. Turning the microphone on, they ready to speak into the microphone once more.

Up in the starless sky, Tore flies through the city air with Renee upon his back like a flying chauffeur, healing the wounds her father inflicted. “You okay?” he asks her. “I think I am.”. The blue boy starts to hear is friend through his earpiece once more, Kingsley relaying with: “Tore, come in. Tore, do you respond?”. “Kingsley? Finally. Why’d you black out on me, man?”. “Wait, Kingsley? Was that who you were talk to earlier?” Renee sternly questions. “Is that Renee? Why are the both of you flying away from the party?”. A nervous giggle escaping his mouth, he begins to admit with: “So, I might have took the plan in a slight turn, uh...”. “What did you do?”. “Nothing much...Just...punched Renee’s dad into a wall is all.”. “What!” Kingsley exclaims. “Holy shit.” Cayenne laughs. “And I might have snatch his daughter away in my panic.” Tore continues. “Oh my god.” Kingsley groans. “Fucking hell.” Cayenne chortles. “Ahem!” the blue boy hears his passengers cough. Looking over, he finds Renee’s patients quickly draining, him only giving her a nervous laugh in response as he turns back. “Point being...We might need a place to hide...Like ASAP.”. “Uh...You know what, maybe you should just come back to the manor. Just...give me a moment to prepare.” Kingsley tells him. “Prepare for what?”.

“Kingsley Spicer! I cannot believe what I have just heard you say!”. In the lab, Kingsley was confronting bout of his parents, having just told them about his affairs with the Buxaplenty’s daughter. Obviously, they are very pissed, Kingsley drowning in a cold sweat facing their judgmental glares. Cayenne stands to the side, watching the entire shit show before her unfold. “How long have you been going out with the daughter of our bitter rivals behind our back?” she fumes. “Well...It’s...b-been about several months now. But I wouldn’t have to lie if I didn’t really like her.” their son tries to quell. “Buddy. Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?” his father sternly questions. Too nervous to respond, the only sound he could muster was a faint groan. “This is unbelievable. I didn’t even think you could lie to us like this. Just what other stuff are you keeping from us?” the mother wonders. “Nnn...we’re...not actually working on a school project.”. After a disappointing sigh, his dad asks the follow up question: “Then what have you been doing down here all night?”. Although he’s quite reluctant to show them, he’s got no other avenue to take.

On the monitor, they review the footage that Tore had acquired, watching Renee’s father not only scold, but strike his own daughter. The parents are left mortified, reeling back with every strike. Kingsley can’t help but clench his fist, the site of seeing his beloved being hurt like this. It truly awakened a deep feeling in his heart. Upon seeing their agent strike her father towards the wall, Cayenne whistles and remarks: “Damn. That had to hurt.”. With all that seen, Kingsley turns off the monitor and turns to his parents. “Now you see why I had to set all this up? I didn’t want to lie to you guys, honest. But the thought of the girl I love going through all of this. I...I just couldn’t take it! I had to do something, anything!”. Both of his parents hear their boy begin to whimper, the tears swelling from his eyes. “I’m so sorry about lying to you both, I-” the boy cries, tightly shutting his eyes in remorse. “Kingsley, stop, please.” his mom begs. The boy opens his eyes, staring at his parents as he hears his dad follow with: “You don’t have to apologize to us. We ain’t not mad at you anymore.”. “Someone you loved dearly was in danger and you did whatever it took to help them. You should never regret that.” his mom declares. Kingsley was truly relieved. Hearing his parents not only understand, but encourage him to follow his heart and rescue his love made him let out quite the euphoric sigh.

“Uh, by the way. If you two were down here all night, than who was capturing the footage?”. Just then, they heard the basement door swing open, looking over to see their blue agent in the doorway. “Evening ladies and gentleman. Agent Blue bird is back from his daring mission of undercover espoinaAAAGH!” Tore announces in the spy accent, but is quickly interrupted when he begins to fall down the stairs. All of them watch as the supposed spy tumbles ill gracefully down the set of step, landing on the basement floor with a loud audible thud. As the indigo agent moans on the ground, Renee walks past, sidestepping him in her worry. Kingsley draws his attention from his agent and more towards his beloved, happily exclaiming: “Renee!”. The platinum blonde turns her gaze away from her rescuer and towards her beloved exclaiming back: “Kingsley!”. The two rush towards one another, holding each other in their warm embrace. The site makes Kingsley parents hearts melt, their son with someone he truly holds dear. The mother gives a soft coo, letting her tears of joy flow through.

Cayenne check up on their blue spy, seeing him try to pry himself off the floor. “You doing okay.” she asks. “Yeah...Did I do a good?” he mumbles in his daze. She thinks about what to say for just a moment before concluding: “Ehhh...Sure why not.”. “HoOrAaaAAaAay...”.

Breaking form their embrace, Kingsley asks Renee: “Are you okay? How bad did he hurt you? Are there any bruises?”. “Kingsley, Kingsley, listen. I’m fine. I’m just happy to see you.”. In the background, the blue bird picks himself up on the floor and dusts off his suit. Kingsley mother approaches the young couple, greeting the blonde with: “I’m so sorry you had to go through all that. I’d never imagine that he’d get so much worse.”. Tore than adjusts his cuff links, waving his eye brows up and down towards Cayenne as he did so. Cayenne scowls at the boy, making the boy back away, smiling in a nervous sweat. “And to think. He’d do that kinda shit to his own child.” the dad remarks. “Honestly, I’m glad he didn’t find out about Kingsley and I. He would have exploded if he found out I was going out with someone from his rival family.”.

“Hang on. Something still bugging me about all this. Why is whole dumb family rivalry such a big deal anyway?” Tore interjects. “Come to think of it. Mom never did tell me what happened between all of you guys.” Renee mentions. “Yeah, whenever I asked the both of you, you guys always allude to something happening long ago. Just hinting that you crossed one another at some point. What gives?” Kingsley asks his parents. His mother gives a weary sigh and admits to her sons: “I guess its finally time you deserve to know what happened all those years.”.

Back when I was a little girl, both mine and Remy’s dad had set us up on countless dates to try and get us together. They figured that if our families joined, we’d be the most powerful multinational conglomerate in the world. Remy figured the whole ordeal was nothing short of fate. I felt otherwise. The plan fell through as I drifted away from him, his egotistical madness just too much for me to bear. Least to say, he didn’t take my rejection well. He swore that he would do anything to make me his. Over the years that threat drifted away in the back of my mind, especially when I met your dad. He managed to help me out of the hole of depression that I’d found myself stuck in ever since your grandmothers death and we’ve been happy ever since. A little of a rocky road at times, but we’ve managed to always bounce back. Remy than returned, seeing me not only with someone other than him, but happy with your dad, drove him insane. He couldn’t take it. In his desperation, he kidnapped me, saying that if he couldn’t have me, then on one else could. You’re dad quickly came to my rescue, engaging him for me in what seemed to be a long and brutal fight. Remy nearly won, on the cusp of killing your dad. That’s when I stepped in and saved him. Both of us worked together to put a stop to him escaping with our very lives. From that day, the Spicers and Buxaplentys have been bitter rivals to this day.

The children around the couple were enraptured by their dangerous history. Renee can’t believing that her own father attempted such a heinous act before her time. A lot of things were going through the blondes head, the first thing she says is such. “Oh my...god...I...I can’t believe my dad did all of that to you two. I’m...so sorry. I-”. “Renee, sweetie, don’t say another word. Everything that happened back than was your dads fault. You have nothing to be sorry about.” the mom tells her. “I’m just worried about what he might do to my mom with me gone.”.

All of them suddenly hear Tore gasp aloud, screaming: “I forgot about Mally and Mom! They could still be at the party! I-I-I gotta get back over there fast!”. Not a single step does he take before his phone begins to ring. Pulling it out, he finds his sister calling for him. A relieved sigh escapes his mouth before he answers, gushing with: “Oh my god, Mally. I’m so glad you guys are safe. I thought that you guys might have been trapped over at the-”. “What the hell did you do!” she screams, being loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, and the phone not even on speaker. “Um...Excuse me?”.

Over in an alleyway in the city, their mom was peeking out into the streets while Mally was talking to her brother. “We saw you bust through a wall and fly off with you’re girlfriend. Her dad came out screaming and sent security after us. If it weren't for Renee’s mom. Who knows what might have happened. And it turns out, Mr. Buxaplenty isn’t the only one after us. “What you mean by that?”. “Have you checked the news?”.

Upstairs, everyone turned on the living room television, where upon a news man chimed in, announcing: “You’ve heard it here folks. The eccentric trillionaire Remy Buxaplenty has just laid down a handsome reward for the return of his daughter.”. “Oh no.” Kingsley utters. “Earlier this even, the wealthy couple had thrown their annual Buxaplenty Gala, inviting investors and stars alike. Among them were a family of three, the eldest son claiming to be the daughters boyfriend.”. Upon that statement, a picture of Tore, Mally, and their mother had been displayed beside the newscaster head. “Aw man, I blinked.” Tore mentions. “The blue boy had assaulted Mr. Buxaplenty while discussing matters with his daughter in private, snatching the poor girl away from her loving father.”. Renee lets out a disbelieving sigh, remarking with: “Yeah, right. Loving.”. “Is this a case of a lovers affair, dare I say an extreme showmanship of elopement? Well we here can’t say. Regardless, everyone will be on the lookout for the blue boy and his family in hopes of claiming the 10 billion dollar reward.” “How much!?” Cayenne reclaims. “And they better hurry. Buxaplenty says this offer only lasts until midnight.”.

Kingsley turns off the TV and takes a deep breath. “Okay. Thi-this is fine. No need to panic. Just need to take this one step at a time.”. All of them watch as he begins to nervously laugh, which soon turns to panicked hyperventilation as he goes into the corner of the room. “Kingsley, Kingsley.” Renee goes as she approaches. She tries to calm her actual boyfriend down, hugging him while claiming: “It’s alright. Things aren’t as bad as they seem yet. We can think of away out of this. You just need to calm down.”. Kingsley’s breathing pace begins to slow down, coming to a more reasonable speed. “Right?” he utters. He turns back towards his friends and family and tells them in a far more calm manner: “So. We need to make plans to get Renee and Tore’s family out of town fast.”. With a phone to her ear, the mom worries with: “Nnn...Chloe’s not answering her phone. I hope she didn’t lose it.”. “It’s okay. As long as no one saw Renee come here, we should be safe...”. The boy genius turns towards his indigo agent, asking: “No one saw you fly here, right?”. “A couple. Why?” “Guys.” the dad rings out. Looking over, they find her staring out through the window, asking all of them: “Think you might wanna see this.”.

Everyone looks out the window with her, viewing around and wondering what the father wanted them to see. “See what?” Cayenne asks. “Out there.” he responds, pointing towards the front of the manor. Out from the distance, they could spot a cluster of faint glows amongst a crowd of shadows. “What is that?” Kingsley mom wonder. “Kinda looks like an angry mob.” Tore answers.

A closer look revealed his assumption to be correct. A large mob of people was slowly crawling towards the manor, armed to the teeth with sharp weaponry, torches, guns, some even sporting armed rocket launchers. As most of Kingsley and his friends look towards the mob with uncertainty, wonder, even fear, all Cayenne has to say to the entire matter was: “...Well, shit...”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Just something to close out a little story plot that I set up. Just to add a note here, the official map of Townsville was release after this Chapter was long finished. Though I suppose it largely doesn't matter.

#Young Hope #lillaxtrigger

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snidgetsafan · 6 years ago

Text

The Curse of the Black Roger: Prologue

Rating: G

Summary:

“You should start believing in ghost stories, Miss Swan – because you’re in one.”

When young Princess Emma found a pirate necklace on the baby rescued from the sea, she never expected years later to be swept into an adventure worthy of her favorite novels.

And she certainly never expected someone like the legendary Captain Hook.A

“Pirates of the Carribean” AU

Notes: Here is my offering for the CSSNS! Thanks to @amorecolorfulmoniker, whose pic set inspired this fic. Thanks to my betas, @gingerchangeling and @shireness-says who acted as a sounding board, a crying shoulder and grammar enforcers where needed. Thanks also to @slow-smiles, who created amazing art for this fic! Wonderful banner by @wingedlioness.

On AO3

“Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me…”

Emma leant on the railing at the bow of the Pride of Amphitrite, her gaze lost in the dense mist surrounding the ship while she hummed dreamily. This was her first trip abroad, and she had enjoyed it immensely, despite the circumstances in which she had taken the journey. She had spent her time on the ship observing the men working, exploring the deck and hold, and trying to spot dolphins in the water below. Now, on the last day of their return trip, she was trying to take advantage of their last hours at sea to feel the spray on her face and smell the salt in the breeze.

Her mother, Queen Ruth of Misthaven, and she were making their way back from her uncle and aunt’s memorial, which had taken place the week before. Her mother had been sad, because Aunt Gerda had been her sister, but Emma hadn’t known her very well. She had only met Aunt Gerda once, when they had gone to Arendelle to see her cousin Anna, who had just been born. However, she had tried to help her mother, by being well-behaved and entertaining her cousins, even if Elsa had refused to come out of her room. The young princess had missed her brother and father while she was gone, but David had come down with chickenpox three days before leaving, and he’d had to stay in bed, with their father taking care of him.

Heavy footsteps sounded behind her. “You shouldn’t be singing that song, your Highness, that’s bad luck,” Manley, one of the sailors, gruffly told her when she turned around. “That sort of song is calling for trouble, is what it is. Almost as bad as whistling, that damn song is.”

“I would thank you, Mister Manley, to watch your language around the Princess,” a disapproving voice told Emma’s interlocutor before she could answer. Grumbling into his red neck scarf about not needing any bad luck in this pea soup, the stocky sailor walked away as she looked behind her, seeing her mother and the Pride’s captain approaching. When they had come to within a few feet of her, the captain bowed to her, and continued, “While his language was quite inappropriate, he was right, your Highness. That song makes sailors nervous, and pirates are not to be admired.”

Clasping her hands tightly, Emma told him, “I think it would be quite exciting to meet a pirate.”

Her mother frowned while the captain smiled briefly. “Think again, your Highness. They are vile and vicious creatures, who thrive on the misery of others, and who have never worked a day of honest work in their lives. I’ll make sure any man or woman found convicted of piracy gets what they deserve: a short drop and a sudden stop.”

Emma gasped when she understood his meaning, as her mother hurried to her side and held her shoulders. “I’m not sure this is appropriate talk for a ten year old girl, Captain Cassidy.”

The man lowered his eyes, and then bowed to his Queen. “You are right, your Majesty. Please accept my apologies, it won’t happen again.” He turned to look at Emma. “I am sorry if I have shocked you, Princess, it was not my intention.” And with another bow, he was gone, making his way towards the stern.

Emma turned towards her mother, dislodging the Queen’s hands from her shoulders. “Actually I find all of this fascinating.”

“Yes, that’s what concerns me,” the Queen told her drily, raising her eyebrows. “A young lady should not find pirates fascinating or exciting. And she definitely should not know pirate shanties, nor should she sing them in public. Now, try to behave, sweetheart, we are almost home.”

“Yes, Mama,” Emma answered quietly, as Ruth turned to follow Captain Cassidy. She didn’t understand why her mother was so adamant she stop being interested in pirates. She knew, objectively, that they were dangerous outlaws. But they also lived a life full of adventure, sailing the Seven Seas and going where they wanted. What was not to like about that way of life? She had read every book on pirates she could find in the castle’s library, dreaming between her lessons of boarding enemy ships, taking their cargo and sailing towards the horizon with her crew, or battling legendary creatures to seize their treasures.

Emma had loved traveling on the Pride, feeling the wind and the sun on her skin and getting used to the gentle sway of the deck below her feet. Briggs, the ship’s quartermaster, had even taught her a few things, such as the difference between port and starboard and what the different parts of a ship were called. The princess had even learned how to knot what was called a “bowline” this very morning. The young girl also knew that the ship she was sailing on was called a ship of the line, and that it was the flagship of her father’s Navy.

Emma pondered all of this as she silently resumed her place at the railing, fiddling with the cord she had been practicing with all day and looking down at the mist hanging over the ocean, which looked black in the dim light. The monotony of the sight, however, was soon broken when an object came floating out of the fog. Emma squinted, trying to discern what it could be. She was surprised to find it was an umbrella, floating on its back. She looked at it, smiling slightly as it passed her, wondering how such an ordinary object had found its way here. Had it fallen off a passenger ship, a sudden gust of wind having ripped it off a lady’s hand? Or had it come all the way from the land? They were not far from Misthaven, after all…

Movement in the periphery of her vision made her turn her head, as another object floated towards her. A wicker basket bobbed on the waves not far from the ship, and came to within a few yards of where Emma stood, allowing her to see the basket was not empty, that some sort of fabric filled it. Her smile faded, as she wondered at the probability of two objects floating near the Pride, when there hadn’t been anything for days.

The young princess frowned suddenly, as she thought she heard a faint sound coming from the sea. Listening carefully, she leant over the railing, and heard it again, clearer this time. It sounded like an infant crying. Where was it coming from? Emma heard it a third time, and saw at the same time the fabric inside the basket move, as it began to sway harder on the waves. Her eyes widening in horror, she turned frantically as she shouted at the sailors surrounding her, “Help! There’s a baby in the water!”

At first, the men looked at her curiously, sure they had misheard. But once she repeated herself, yelling even louder, Manley, who hadn’t wandered far from her, hurried to the railing, and looked at where Emma was pointing. Thankfully, the baby cried again at that exact moment, and, with no hesitation, he started removing his jacket while calling out “Man overboard!... Well, a miniature one!” before diving off the side of the ship. The deck erupted into chaos as men burst into action, running towards where he had jumped, some readying ropes to haul them back on deck. Emma clutched the railing, leaning over to see better. Manley swam to the basket, clutching it to his chest after he had checked what was inside. Swimming one handedly back to the ship, he grabbed one of the ropes that had been thrown to him, and tied the basket by its handles. As men started to carefully haul the basket on board, making sure not to jostle it and drop its precious cargo, Manley gripped the other rope and began to climb the side of the ship, keeping level with his charge.

When she saw they both were about to reach the deck, she tried to get closer, but the men were so tightly packed around the sailors lifting it that she could not even get a glimpse of the basket. Her mother and Cassidy’s arrival granted her an opportunity to get closer, as the crew parted to let their captain and their Queen approach, but before she could follow them, she heard a nearby sailor swear profusely under his breath. Following his gaze, she saw the burning remains of a large ship emerging from the fog, the flames rising from its broken hull coloring the surrounding mist in red at it slowly sunk under the waves. Black smoke mixed with white mist, creating a crimson halo around the wreck that seemed to have a life of its own. A change in the wind brought the smell of burning wood to Emma’s nose. The smell also attracted the attention of the group surrounding the basket, and activity once again erupted on the deck.

Emma’s mother walked quickly towards her, and guided her with a hand on her back towards the basket, which she could now see clearly. “Emma, the baby’s in your charge, take it to the Captain’s cabin. I will join you in a few minutes.” Her mother looked quickly behind her, eyeing the gathered group of muttering sailors, before forcing a smile on her face. “Take care of him, sweetheart.” She gestured urgently to a cabin boy, holding a short conversation with him, before allowing him to lift the basket. In a louder voice, she finished giving her instructions to Emma, turning her towards the rear of the ship and giving her a small push to propel her forward, “Make sure the baby is warm and dry, and stay with it.”

Emma followed the cabin boy, opening the door for him and watching him put the basket down on a bench before leaving the room. She closed the door behind him, turning to approach the now silent basket. She peeked over the edge, where two curious brown eyes were gazing at her. The fabric she had spotted while on deck was a woollen blanket, embroidered with little swans on its edges. There appeared to be nothing else in the basket, which was slowly dripping on the bench.

Remembering her mother’s instructions, she carefully slipped her hands between the wickerwork and the blanket, feeling for any wetness. When she found none, she lifted the baby gingerly, making sure to support its head like she had seen midwives do at the castle. Once the baby was secured in her arms, she moved the blanket away from its face. “Don’t worry, you’re safe now,” she said in a soothing voice. A little fist was clutching a corner or the blanket, and Emma gently pried it away, seeing that a word was embroidered there. “Henry”, she read aloud, looking down into the little face. “Hello Henry, my name is Emma, and you’re on the Pride of Amphitrite, the best ship on the Seven Seas. You’re safe now.” She lightly bounced him as she walked around the cabin, stopping in front of a window. As she raised her eyes, she saw something glinting in the light. Tugging, she saw it was a golden chain with a heavy pendant at its end. She gasped when she saw the grinning skull engraved in the center. Looking back at Henry, she whispered “You’re a pirate!” She stared in wonder at the necklace. How did a baby end up on a pirate ship? Was he the son of one of the crew? Her wonder turned to worry as she remembered the Captain’s words. Surely he would not harm a baby?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the door handle turning. Not thinking, Emma shoved the necklace down the bodice of her dress, hoping the thick cotton would hide the strange bump in the middle of her flat chest, before turning and plastering an innocent smile on her face. Her mother stepped through the threshold, blocking the view of the deck. “How’s the baby?”

“He’s fine, Mom.”, Emma answered hurriedly.

“He? Is it a boy then?”

“Yes, his name is Henry, it’s embroidered on his blanket. Here, look.”

The Queen approached and leaned over Emma and the baby. “You’re right, and what a beautiful blanket it is,” she said, fingering the fabric. “Hello, little Henry, it looks like you were the only one lucky enough to survive.”

Emma looked at her mother, digesting her words. No one had survived the shipwreck? A shiver went down her spine. “What happened, Mom? Why did the ship explode?”

Raising her eyes from where she was stroking Henry’s face with her finger, Ruth looked at her gravely, pondering her words. “It seems the ship’s powder reserves exploded. We don’t know why yet.”

Emma looked intently at her mother. The princess had always been able to detect when someone was lying, and while her mother was not telling Emma an outright lie, the queen was not being entirely truthful. What was her mother hiding? Emma could see however she would not be able to get a straight answer from the woman if she pressed the issue now, and decided to drop the subject for the moment. Looking down at Henry, she wondered aloud, “Then what is going to happen to him? If he has no family, who is going to take care of him? Don’t we have a responsibility towards him?”

Ruth looked at her daughter, a fond smile on her lips. “You’re right, darling, we can’t abandon him. You found him; he is our family’s responsibility now. We will take him in at the castle as a royal ward, and we will place him with one of the nurses.” Tucking Emma’s hair behind her shoulder, the Queen continued, as she prepared to leave. “And as his savior, your first mission will be to find your charge a last name. Do you feel up to this task?”

Emma nodded, glad Henry would be taken care of. She would make sure he got everything he needed. The princess had barely known him for an hour, but she already felt an attachment to the little boy she could not explain. Looking down at him, the girl again approached the window, wondering what name to give the infant. Emma had to be careful in her choice - it would follow him his whole life. Henry chose that moment to wave his arms, making the blanket fall away from his torso. As Emma tucked him back in it, she rubbed one of the embroidered swans thoughtfully. Could it be this simple? Looking back into his eyes, the young girl tried it aloud: “Henry Swan,” she said. If the fact that it felt right to call him that had not convinced her, Henry’s shriek of delight would have done the job. Smiling, Emma told him “Welcome to Misthaven, Henry Swan.”

However, her joy was short-lived, as she remembered the medallion hidden in her bodice, which had been slowly slipping down her dress all this time, only being stopped on its descent by Henry’s body being pressed close to her own. Should she tell her mother what she had found out? Would her mother be as benevolent towards Henry if she knew his true heritage? Emma was afraid she would send the little boy to a family outside the castle, where she would not be able to see him. It made her decision easy: she would protect Henry and his secret from her mother and the Captain by hiding the medallion, so they would never know his true heritage, and he wouldn’t be taken from her. All the pirates on that ship were gone, no one would be the wiser. Taking out the medallion, she raised it in the light, looking at the symbols engraved on it. Before she could try to decipher them, or at least understand in what language they were, movement outside the window caught her eye, and she looked up.

She gasped, clutching Henry to her. The mist had parted for a moment, and Emma could see a dark shape sailing away from the Pride. It was a ship, or at least it looked like the ghostly remains of a ship. Its black sails were ripped in several places, and a large hole on the starboard side of its hull gaped just above the water line. Its skeletal appearance should have made it impossible for the specter to float, even less sail as fast as it did, but it swiftly cut through the water as if pulled by the god of the seas himself. It looked as if it were out of this world, and a shiver went down Emma’s spine. The last thing she saw before the fog swallowed the vision was its flag, a white grinning skull on a black background. Pirates! Emma thought wildly, pressing herself to the window, making sure not to crush Henry. But the ship had already disappeared, as if it had never existed.

Chapter 1

#snidget writes #cssns #cs ff #captain swan

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boyfriendshua · 7 years ago

Text

→ Royalty | Jeon Wonwoo

genre: fluff(?)

warning(s): none

word count: 2,401

a/n: thank you so much for requesting!!

”I was supposed to come to you, not the other way around.”

The library was silent, save for the soft echo of voices that stretched outwards through the many columns of books and upwards towards the tall ceiling that curved above the two of you. The sun streamed inwards from either sides of the room through the expanse of slender floor to ceiling windows, making the man feel warm despite the chill in the room. Wonwoo sighed softly at your small bout of laughter, spinning around him as he sat in his chair. He held a book in his hands, one thumb pressed against the page he was currently on as he cradled it in his lap.

“We can just start lessons early today,” you told him cheerfully, sitting down in the chair across from his, only separated by a small coffee table that barely reached your knees as you sat. He raised his eyebrows slightly, fingers lightly skimming along the edges of the yellowing pages encased within a blue cover. However, his eyes never left yours, the brown hue of them crystal clear through his circular reading glasses.

“You want to start etiquette lessons early?” he asked you. You shrugged nonchalantly, reaching out for the neat pile of three other books that your tutor had organized for later, after your lessons when he could hole himself up in his bedroom, indulging himself in the knowledge and imagination of others. You skimmed through some pages of the first novel as you spoke.

“This just means more time with you,” you said. The way you spoke was as though you didn’t have a second thought about what you were saying, like you didn’t know how they affected the man. A shiver ran down his spine, yet the cozy room was suddenly a little too warm for his liking. He pushed his glasses back up his nose, hoping that you wouldn’t notice the light pink dusting his cheeks as a result of your words. But, although you didn’t even spare a glance at him, you knew. You always knew.

Jeon Wonwoo had been your tutor for years, ever since you turned the age of 16. He had been brought in as a replacement for your previous tutor, a sweet old lady who had served her rightful time within your castle raising you, alongside your parents, the King and Queen. Wonwoo’s job was to teach you mannerisms, how to decide what was right and wrong. However, although you were a stunningly amazing princess who always went above and beyond standards, you had a mischievous side of you as well; a side that few people had seen. Wonwoo by now was all too familiar with it, and yet, it still flustered him to no end. Why, one may ask? Because every little remark, every sickeningly sweet little compliment that left your mouth was spoken for one sole purpose- him. Jeon Wonwoo, the man you wanted to make yours.

“Let us go to my room,” you suddenly spoke, drawing him out of his deep thoughts as he glanced back up at you. You had finished skimming through his miniature collection of books, placing them back in the stack he had them in. Wonwoo placed the one in his hands on top of them, and, deciding to come back later for them, left them on the table before standing. You gave him a sweet smile, but he saw the intention, the desire behind it.

He simply offered his arm to you, and you looped yours through it before you exited the library and made your way to your room. Wonwoo walked steady, but it was painfully obvious to him (and to you) how nervous he was, how he was shaking on the inside. He should have been used to these advancements from you, for it had been almost two years since they started, you now sitting at the age of 18. But he would never get used to you or your flirtatious eyes that lingered over him for moments slightly too long.

He escorted you to your room swiftly, leading you out to the balcony and the table that sat upon it. He pulled out your chair for you, and you thanked him as you sat down, him taking the initiative to push you closer to the table once more before taking his own seat. Soonyoung, a servant, soon brought you tea and cookies, bowing to you before making his leave. You took the initiative to pour his and your tea, and he eyed you as he stirred a sugar cube into the warm liquid.

“How are you handling the issues regarding the children in the town?” he asked you. You leaned back in your chair, but before you could speak, Wonwoo spoke up again.

“You must sit up, Princess Y/N. You should know this by now.”

“I apologize,” you told him, straightening your back. “It seems that I’ve become rather comfortable around you.”

Wonwoo nearly choked on his tea, clearing his throat as he set the teacup down on the small plate. You smirked, lips pulling up into a wicked grin as he wiped his mouth with his napkin, something like a disapproving scowl on his face, but his cheeks were burning pink again. The comment was rather innocent and lighthearted compared to others you had set on him before, but it simply struck something in his gut that caused it to flutter annoyingly. It was a feeling that was near constant when you were near, and he never knew whether to embrace it or desperately will it away.

“Princess Y/N, let us not do this today,” he pleaded with you quietly, unable to look into your eyes. He feared that he resembled the red roses in the small vase on your bedside with how sheepish he had become beneath your burning gaze, eyes shamelessly trailing across his skin as they had many times before. Your favorite view was not that of your garden, the beautiful dresses of silk you wore, the diamonds in your tiara. It was Wonwoo, the man who coiled up so delightfully at a simple prod of words aimed at him. Usually so calm and collected, you strived to turn him in a blushing mess every time you were around him.

“Oh, but why?” you asked him in fake remorse, a pretty pout on your lips.

“W-We must continue with the lesson.” He forced the words out of his stomach, placing a hand atop the white table cloth. He jumped when he felt your soft hand lay itself over his, eyes wide as he finally looked at you. Your expression was hard to read, neutral, and yet laced with such intimacy and curiosity, pure amusement at his reactions. Wonwoo wished he could breathe a little easier, wished his collar wasn’t seeming to choke him. He felt like he was on fire despite the gentle breezes that washed through his locks. He waited for you to say something, a teasing statement that would only make him even more red.

“You’re right.”

Your hand suddenly disappeared from his, and you placed the pair of them back into your lap. Anybody would have dismissed you for having a lack of interest, but Wonwoo noticed the small twitch of the corner of your lips, the glint in your eyes as you lifted your teacup to your soft lips that Wonwoo had spent years fantasizing about, how they would feel pressed up against his. You frustrated him, made him want to pull his hair out and hide away for a year. But you also made him crave the warm embrace of your arms, the tender touch of your lips against his lips, his forehead, anywhere. He wanted to know what it was like to make you his, hold your hand and kiss you in the middle of the dance floor at the balls your parents hosted. But, surely, you deserved more than him, a measly tutor. You deserved a prince, somebody who would unite your kingdom with theirs and solve all the problems in your world, somebody who would make a mighty king someday. But here you were, toying with him to no ends. He wanted you so badly, but he was holding back.

The lesson continued on, and eventually, you ended up sat beside him at one of the large tables in the meeting room. Wonwoo had pulled out several written documents and papers, laying them out for your eyes to examine as he came to sit beside you again. You spoke to him casually about actions you were hoping to take in relation to whatever issues were handed down to you from your parents, receiving approving nods from the brunette as he listened along. He remembered the days when he would have to walk you through what was right or wrong, the necessary actions you had to take in order to prove yourself as a worthy princess to the kingdom. Those days were long gone, for you had matured, and you knew what needed to be done. Wonwoo would never admit it, but he enjoyed listening to you talk your way through things, explaining your reasoning and motive behind every step, every little detail. It was better than any book he read, any person he had met. He would sit back and allow you to talk, your words wrapping around him like a wool blanket on a cold winter night.

“-and that should tie things up nicely in the village.”

You looked back up at him, Wonwoo nodding from his place beside you before looking into your eyes. Wonwoo should have been expecting it when you began to lean in a few long moments later, should have pulled away like he did last time you had tried to kiss him. It had been nearly a year ago, Wonwoo accompanying you on a stroll through the large garden behind the castle. You had leaned up for his lips, and although he so desperately wanted to give into your kiss, the desire you held for so long, he found it in himself to pull away just before your soft lips could meet his own. He denied himself of his own wants, his own curiosities, feeling as though a glass had shattered between the two of you as he stumbled backwards.

“I-I,” he had stuttered, cheeks bright pink and curling upwards to the tips of his ears, the skin on his neck that peeked out from below his white collar. I’m sorry.”

And you had huffed in frustration, glancing away from him as you straightened yourself out again. It was the first time Wonwoo had ever seen you in such an uncomposed state, and it left a nasty sinking feeling in his gut knowing it was because of him. You had always been so subtle in your approaches, and yet so head-on that it made it hard to breath sometimes. You wanted him badly, but he wouldn’t allow himself to give in, not then, not on that day.

Yet now here you were, one hand placed on his thigh as you leaned in, closer and closer. Wonwoo had frozen up, hands shaking as he gripped the armrests of his chair tightly. He didn’t remember closing his eyes, awaiting your lips upon his after endless years of chasing him. However, that feeling didn’t quite come, and instead your voice spoke out into the emptiness of the room, making Wonwoo’s head spin as it curled out from the darkness that the back of his eyelids provided him with, a shield against reality.

”Do you want me to kiss you?”

And Wonwoo was trembling, eyes now squeezed shut as though you would disappear if he opened his eyes. He took a stuttering breath, more of a gasp, before he forced out a reply, the singular word brushing against your lips and coaxing you to finally close the distance between you, a distance that had been all too much for the two of you for all the years you had known each other.

“Yes.”

Your lips attached to his gently, feeling like feathers against the pink skin as you tested the waters of what he wanted. Wonwoo barely had the mind to kiss back, distracted by the way you trailed your hands carefully over his arms before leading them to wrap around your waist, your own looping around his neck, hands gently digging into his soft brown locks. The kiss lasted for an eternity and ended in a second, and Wonwoo didn’t know if he wanted to sleep or run laps around the castle, his heart thudding wildly against his ribcage.

You gently cupped his face with one hand, smiling softly when he leaned into your touch. You leaned in for one more kiss, and Wonwoo kissed you back fully, arms drawing you closer against him despite the armrests between the two of you, but you didn’t care.

“This isn’t right is it?” Wonwoo asked a few minutes later, nervously playing with your fingers. He held regret in his eyes; not regret for the kisses, of course not, but for not being somebody better, more suited for you.

You placed the hand he wasn’t playing with over both of his, forcing him to look up as you smiled reassuringly at him. You knew about his insecurities, knew exactly why he held himself back for such a long time. You wanted to ease his mind, convince him that you could ask for nothing better than him. And that’s exactly what you did.

“You may not be a prince by blood, but, Jeon Wonwoo.”

You pressed a hand against the back of his neck, pulling him down so that your lips brushed against his as you spoke, nose nuzzling gently into his as you both closed your eyes, as though it would burn your next words even more into your brains, your hearts, your dreams.

“You are my prince, my knight in shining armor. You may not be perfect to everybody else, and yet, you are tailored only for me. So, accept me, kiss me and tell me that you’re mine if my love is what you truly desire.”

Wonwoo was the one to close the small gap between you this time, lips moving lovingly against yours before he pulled away, forehead pressed to your own.

“I am yours, and only yours.“

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#seventeen #seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #kpop scenarios #wonwoo #wonwoo scenarios #jeon wonwoo #jeon wonu

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geekprincess26 · 7 years ago

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Like Lights on a String

I wrote “Like Snow on Glass” as a one-shot. Then Jonsa Week, hosted by the amazing ladies over at @jonsa-week, rolled around, and my plot bunnies wouldn’t get out of my head till I wrote a sequel. I meant to post it in time for Day 4 (“Holidays”), but time moved faster and the fic got longer than I’d intended, so I’m posting it for Free Choice Day instead.

Without further ado, and with my sincerest apologies to those who were expecting the second installment of the series to be as brief as the first. I had such an expectation myself until I actually wrote the chapter. Sigh.

Sansa Stark had looked forward to a quiet week at her job during Christmas and New Year’s Day.

So much for that.

Granted, Winterfell University was not holding classes during the holidays, and the undergraduate students were gone. However, graduate students had rushed through the visual arts department in waves with scheduling questions and requests to have missing lab keys replaced and desperate begging for last-minute supply orders to be placed before the January term began the following week. Sansa had spent perhaps half an hour at her desk the entire week, and it was already Wednesday afternoon. Still, she managed to keep what she hoped was a friendly smile on her face as she turned from a belligerent exchange student who had spent the last ten minutes trying to get her to break the school’s key replacement rule and greeted the next student. Thank the gods this one seemed friendlier, she thought.

“Is there a Sansa Stark working here?” the girl asked before Sansa had gotten a chance to wish her a good afternoon. Sansa’s eyes widened. She didn’t recognize the petite brunette, which was a good sign, since she had no desire for contact with anyone from her old life in King’s Landing.

“Um – yes, I’m Sansa Stark,” she said. “How can I help you?”

The girl’s face lit up, and she looked as though she were trying to refrain herself from jumping up and down with delight.

“You’re Sansa Stark? Oh, it’s so nice to meet you! I’m Rhaenys Targaryen – ” she held out her hand, which Sansa shook without thinking – “also known as your biggest fan.” She gestured to the sleek scarlet-and-black patterned bag hanging off her shoulder, and Sansa recognized it almost at once. “You are singlehandedly responsible, or so I hear, for the best Christmas present I have ever gotten from my brother. I loved it so much, I made him tell me where he got it.” Seeing Sansa’s raised eyebrows, she lowered her hand and smiled sheepishly. “I hope you don’t mind. I’m not a stalker, I swear! I just loved it so much that I had to thank you in person.”

“Oh, you’re Jon Snow’s sister.” Sansa felt her face redden. She had ridden the same bus as Jon Snow to Winterfell University every morning for the past nine months, but they had only begun speaking to each other three weeks ago, when he had forgotten his glasses on the bus one morning and Sansa had run past two stops in the frigid northern wind to return them. That was the day he had noticed the homemade bag hanging over Sansa’s shoulder and asked her to make one like it for his sister’s Christmas present. Sansa had asked Jon to acquaint her with Rhaenys and her tastes, and Jon had been only too happy to oblige. Rhaenys, Sansa had learned, was actually Jon’s half-sister, although Jon had only mentioned that detail once and hastily moved on to mention that she was three years older than he and an MBA graduate student at Winterfell University. Jon had described her as driven and extroverted – unlike his half-brother Aegon, who apparently was as outgoing as his sister but far less driven.

“Oh, of course – I should have mentioned that straight away,” said the other girl apologetically. “Different last names and all. But yes, Jon’s my brother, and this is quite possibly the best present I’ve ever gotten from him. And it’s not just me. Half a dozen of my friends have said how much they love it and asked where I got it. Do you have an Etsy shop, by chance?”

Sansa, still trying to keep up with the rapid flow of words coming from the other girl’s mouth, shook her head.

“No,” she replied. “I – well, I haven’t made any of them for years – not for anyone except myself, anyway. I’m only glad you like the one I made you; I’m quite out of practice.”

“Oh.” The disappointment in Rhaenys’s tone was obvious. “I see. Well, I’d never send them to bother you or anything, but if you ever decide you’d like to do it again, please do let me know – oh, wait! I’ll see you at my aunt’s New Year’s party, right?”

Sansa could only stare in reply. “I’m sorry,” she finally said. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

Rhaenys’s hazel eyes went wide as saucers. “She didn’t even tell you?” she asked, clearly incredulous. “Or even Jon– and after the way he was talking about you, I’d thought for sure – oh, that clueless – urgh.” She sighed, and Sansa, who after all had grown up with three brothers herself, smiled faintly. Then she wondered what on earth Jon had said about her, and she felt the flush return to her cheeks. She’d mentioned little about her own family, and nothing at all about her life in King’s Landing, which meant she was leaving out all the parts anyone would find noteworthy. They’d mainly talked about sci-fi novels and obscure pieces of classical music and Trivial Pursuit and Jon’s fellow graduate students in Winterfell University’s computer engineering department – all right, they had talked a good deal, although Jon usually had seemed content to listen more often than not. And Jon could be forgiven for not inviting her to Daenerys Targaryen’s party when she had answered in the affirmative after he’d asked her if she had holiday plans. He could not be expected to know that those plans consisted solely of reading, Netflix, and lemon bars because she hadn’t seen or spoken to her family in years.

“So if they haven’t asked you, then I definitely will,” Rhaenys was saying. “It technically starts at six o’clock on Friday, but really, you can show up any time – and, of course, leave any time; every year we have people who stay the night.”

Just as she opened her mouth to continue, Sansa heard the clang of the office’s back door. Rhaenys turned on her heels just in time to see Daenerys Targaryen striding through it, tapping briskly on the surface of her phone as she did so. Sansa straightened her back out of instinct.

“Aunt Daenerys,” Rhaenys demanded without losing an ounce of sweetness from her tone, “why on earth haven’t you invited Sansa Stark to our party? She made Jon’s present for me!”

The older woman dropped her phone into her black leather purse. When she turned to regard Sansa, she actually smiled. Sansa could count on two hands the number of times Daenerys Targaryen had smiled at any of the office assistants.

“So you’re the girl my nephew’s been talking about,” she said, and if Sansa had not known better, she would have thought the older woman impressed. “Of course you should come. The rest of the family would love to meet you.”

The only appropriate response was a smile, so Sansa summoned one at once. “Thank you, Ms. Targaryen,” she said, thanking her lucky stars that King’s Landing had taught her how to keep the nerves out of her voice in any and every possible social situation. “Of course I’d love to come.”

-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-

That was how Sansa found herself perched two days later on the doorstep of a house that rivaled any of the mansions she’d seen in King’s landing. She had to take two deep breaths before she rang the doorbell. Fortunately, she only had to wait for the space of one more before the door swung open to reveal a young man of about her own age with platinum blonde hair and a platinum white grin.

“A Happy New Year to you, lovely lady,” he said and gestured grandly back toward the inside of the house. “Please, come in.”

“Thank you.” Sansa gave him a grateful smile and followed him through the door into a hallway that looked as though it had emerged straight out of a historical fantasy novel. The stone floors gleamed in the light emitted by a plethora of wall sconces shaped like dragons’ heads. The walls between them were studded with tapestries depicting various coats-of-arms, mostly depicting dragons and bears. Two sets of carved oak doors faced each other at the far end of the hallway. The only thoroughly modern element was an abundance of miniature white lights looped gracefully across the tables and over the doors.

“May I take your coat?” the young man was saying, and Sansa turned sharply back to face him.

“And any other burden I can relieve you of,” the man went on, flashing Sansa another grin.

Sansa smiled back wanly. “Where would you me to set the food?” she asked, holding out the pans of mini-quiches she had baked that afternoon. “It’s a bit hotter than I’d thought and I brought a trivet, but I’d hate to set it down in the wrong place and ruin anything.”

That clearly surprised Aegon, who took a moment before gesturing toward an open doorway behind him. “The kitchen, I believe, my fair lady,” he said, “although just there should do while I get your coat.” He indicated an ancient-looking wooden table whose legs were carved like bears’ claws and whose top was covered with a rough woven runner matching one of the wall tapestries. Sansa bit her lip as she set the dish down gingerly and prayed that the trivet did its job.

“The lady is a gourmet cook as well,” said the blond-haired man as he reached to take the sleeve of Sansa’s coat. Sansa was quicker and pulled the garment off herself. That startled the man, but he quickly resumed smiling when Sansa handed the coat to him. “What a tragedy it is that I have not had the pleasure of making your acquaintance before,” he added. He winked again, and Sansa noticed just what a bright shade of blue his eyes were – almost violet, she thought. He had to be wearing contact lenses of some sort.

“My name is Aegon Targaryen,” her host continued. “And what might yours be, gorgeous girl?”

Sansa cursed the heat flooding her cheeks, but before she could respond, someone trotted rapidly through the open doorway behind Aegon.

“Aegon!” A few more steps, and Sansa could see that the owner of the sharp, girlish voice was none other than Rhaenys Targaryen. “Stop hitting on the guests, and for gods’ sake go help Uncle Jorah with the roast – as if I haven’t asked you a dozen times already.”

Aegon waved her off with one hand. “Jon’s already got it,” he replied, and Rhaenys narrowed her eyes at him. Aegon paid her no mind.

“I have yet to finish introductions with this lovely lady,” he continued, “which you so grievously interrupted.” He turned back to Sansa, whose eyes had gone wider than usual. Aegon did not seem to notice.

“I must ask you to forgive my sister, my lady,” he said. “She can be a bit rude sometimes.” As Rhaenys rolled her eyes, he added, “For instance, she did not give me the chance to ask for your name properly.” He held out a hand, and Sansa took it out of instinct.

“I’m Sansa Stark,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Aegon raised both eyebrows. “The Sansa Stark?” he asked, winking at Rhaenys. “The talented lady we’ve heard so much about?”

Rhaenys, seeing Sansa’s eyes widen, rolled her own emphatically at her brother before setting a warm hand on Sansa’s arm.

“Don’t mind his exaggerations,” she reassured Sansa. “Jon didn’t share your life story or anything like it – just that you’re a talented seamstress and very intelligent. And you look lovely, by the way.” She beamed at Sansa as warmly as she had back at the office in the visual arts department.

Sansa blushed again. Even if being told that a man of Jon’s obvious intellect had complimented her own, her green wool dress with a black lace yoke, which she had thought would be fancy but not overbearing, seemed hopelessly overdone next to Rhaenys’s black skinny jeans and off-the-shoulder scarlet sweater.

“Well, I’m a bit overdressed, really,” she said. “I should have thought to ask, and – oh, the food!” She dashed over to the table where Aegon had placed the quiches, but he beat her to it.

“Allow me, Lady Sansa,” he said, and seized the dish before Sansa could finish warning him that the handles were hot.

“Son of a bitch!” Aegon dropped the dish at once and dashed through the doorway, and Sansa clapped a hand over her mouth. Rhaenys waved away her apology before Sansa could voice it.

“Maybe he’ll finally learn not to grab hot things at the tender age of – what? – twenty-five,” she said. “Here, though, let me help you with that – assuming you have hot mitts for it? And really, you didn’t have to bring anything. But you’re so lovely for thinking of it – here, let me show you to the kitchen.” She led Sansa toward the doorway. “And I apologize on behalf of my idiot brother. He’s harmless, really; it’s just that he thinks he’s the gods’ gift to women.” She rolled her eyes. “And they only know how that knucklehead could possibly be related to Jon.”

She led the way to the kitchen, chattering, and when they got there Aegon was still running cold water over his hands.

“Sorry about that, Lady Sansa,” he said. “I am not always so clumsy, I promise.”

Rhaenys grinned at Sansa. “Don’t worry. He is.” She reached into a nearby cabinet and withdrew a partitioned glass tray. “I think they should fit on this one.”

Five minutes later, Aegon and Rhaenys led Sansa into an enormous room lit by a black iron chandelier and filled with dozens of people chattering away with such enthusiasm that Sansa could not hear herself think. Most of them were swarming around the biggest table she had ever seen, which given her stint in King’s landing was saying something. It was loaded down with platters of fruit and bowls of bread and trays of finely cut meat and cheese. They were clearly caterer’s work and made Sansa’s homemade quiches look dusty and forlorn. At the center sat a brilliant silver platter bearing a mountain of steaming meat carved into thick slabs and arranged in the shape of a giant bear.

“Well, at least someone in this house can get a job done,” said Rhaenys gaily as Aegon rolled his eyes. “Oh! Uncle Jorah! Here, come meet Sansa Stark.”

She led Sansa to a very weathered but very handsome man arrayed in jeans and a red plaid flannel shirt. Rhaenys introduced him as Jorah Mormont, Daenerys’s husband. He gave her a firm handshake and a warm greeting, and Sansa liked him at once. Still, she straightened her posture at once when Daenerys Targaryen strode over to wish her a Happy New Year. Like her niece, Daenerys was clad in jeans and a sweater, and holding a bottle of craft beer to boot. Sansa almost pinched herself to ensure that a doppelganger had not stolen her no-nonsense, Casual Friday-eschewing boss. Daenerys, however, greeted Sansa gaily and bade her make herself at home before heading off to greet somebody else.

“Mmm.” Sansa turned to see Rhaenys chewing on something and moaning with joy. She was holding part of one of Sansa’s quiches in her hand.

“This is divine, Sansa,” she gushed when she had finished chewing. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about leftovers – oh, there’s Alysanne Swann! Pardon me, Sansa I have to return a book I borrowed from her.” She laid an apologetic hand on the younger girl’s arm, then turned to Aegon, who had just plunked an entire mini quiche into his mouth. “Behave yourself, Aegon.”

She swept off to greet a girl who had just arrived. Sansa stood next to Aegon and waited for him to finish his quiche.

“Delightful, my lady,” he gushed, “and completely worth the slight burn.” He swept one hand grandly toward the double doors at the other end of the room. “May I interest you in a tour of my aunt’s fine home?”

Sansa, who knew no one else in the room, saw no real alternative, and anyway, the house’s sheer age and beautiful architecture did intrigue her. She had barely had time to nod before Aegon offered her his arm, which she took with some hesitation. The last time she had decorated the arm of a man had been the night she had broken up with Joffrey after he’d given her one too many bruises at his mother’s spring charity gala.

This time, however, only Sansa’s ears received a bruising. Aegon swept through room after room, showing her hunting trophies and cases full of war medals and portraits of men and women with the same platinum blond hair and striking violet eyes he shared with his aunt. He introduced them as his dignified ancestors and gushed over the longevity of the family name. He could not, however, remember the names of any save the few men who had had distinguished military careers or won medals in the Olympic Games, nor could he tell her exactly where the family name had originated. He knew more about his own achievements at golf and skiing and all the best hills at the local snowboarding course where he worked; and when Sansa could get a word in edgewise to ask a question about any of the other portraits, or which Targaryen lady it was who had obtained the dragon statues about which Aegon spent five minutes boasting, he would usually shrug, apologize for not being able to answer the lady’s question, and move onto another room (“It was Jaeherys’s wife, is all I remember, my lady. I’m sorry.”).

At last, Aegon led Sansa down a flight of stairs and into a room covered with the most modern-looking carpet Sansa had seen so far. It had two pool tables, several dart boards, three pinball machines, a minibar, and yet more tables bursting with food and drinks. Aegon made a beeline for one of the pool tables, where several people about their age had congregated.

“Fancy joining us for a game, my lady?” he asked when he had finished introducing her to his friends.

“I haven’t played since I was in elementary school,” she demurred, but Aegon waved away her protest at once.

“It’s easily re-learned, my lady,” he said before she could mention that she was hungry and would prefer to visit the snack table. So she forced a smile and took the pool cue Aegon offered her.

At first, Sansa played as badly as she had worried she would. Aegon seized the opportunity to show her various ways to position her cue for better results. Much as his chatter had begun to annoy her, she found better success with one of the maneuvers he showed her, and actually managed to sink a ball into one of the table’s corner holes on her next turn. Aegon applauded loudly.

“Beautifully done, my lady!” he exclaimed. Two of the other girls rolled their eyes. Sansa, who had begun to feel like imitating them since Aegon had begun his tour, smiled back at him instead.

“Now,” Aegon said, “I’d suggest trying the seven there.” He gestured toward a red ball nestled near the closest side of the table. “If you tap the cue ball just like this – ” he positioned his cue to demonstrate – “it should go right in.”

Sansa turned to imitate his position, but before she could move her cue, she felt a sudden movement behind her. Before she could whirl to avoid whoever was behind her out of instinct, she felt Aegon’s hands encircle her from behind to join her own on her pool cue.

“You want to hold it more like this,” he said smoothly. Sansa barely heard him over her startled gasps. He was not touching anything other than her arms, but that was far more than enough for Sansa, who had not had such close contact with another person since the night Joffrey had nearly broken her ribs, the night his mother had grabbed her arm and hissed at her that she might act more grateful for having the arm of Joffrey Baratheon, which any number of girls would kill to enjoy.

So Sansa squirmed out of Aegon’s grasp as quickly as she could. She could feel the blood draining from her face but mustered a quiet, “Thanks, I’ve got it,” just the same.

“Well, here, I meant more like this,” Aegon began, gesturing toward the table with one hand and reaching to her with the other. Sansa had half a mind to make a break for the snack tables when she heard a familiar voice behind her.

“I believe she said she’s got it, Egg,” it said, and Sansa turned to see the welcome sight of Jon Snow standing at the corner of the table, owl-eyed glasses and all. She did not remembering his eyebrows being so bushy, but that may have had something to do with the way he was frowning at his brother. Aegon raised both arms in mock surrender.

“I apologize, Lady Sansa,” he said. Sansa nodded and turned gratefully to Jon.

“You all right, Sansa?” he asked, and she nodded again.

“I’m almost done here,” she said, and this time her smile was not forced. Jon nodded again.

“You’re welcome to join me in the other game room when you’re finished, if you like,” he said. “Of course, we have plenty more food in there, if you’d like something to eat or drink.”

“There’s another game room?” Sansa blurted, and Jon grinned as he nodded back.

“For the nerd games,” Aegon put in from behind her, and grinned at Jon, who rolled his eyes.

“He means board games,” he said to Sansa. “But if you’d rather go back upstairs, feel free. I know Aunt Dany’s got a wine and cheese table, and there are always boatloads of people playing card games.”

Sansa shook her head. “Well, you know how I am about board games,” she said, and Jon grinned at her.

“You’re welcome to join us,” he replied, and the look on his face reminded Sansa of Rickon asking his mother if he could have a friend over after school.

“I will,” she said, “once I’m done.”

Five minutes later, Sansa made a beeline for the tables, where she piled a paper plate with fruit and cheese and chocolate-covered pretzels before heading into the second game room. Jon beamed when he saw her and beckoned her toward the table at which he and several other people were crowded, which, like the other tables in the room, looked exactly like an appropriated restaurant booth. Within short order, she had been introduced to Sam Tarly and Gilly North, Jon’s two best friends in his graduate program, as well as their friends Pyp, Grenn, Alys, and Val.

“Do you like board games, Sansa?” asked Gilly, the young woman sitting next to Sam, when Sansa returned to the table, and Sansa nodded at once before settling herself carefully onto the end of the table, next to the other girl.

“I’m not very good at them, but I do like them,” she said. She had grown up on far too many long afternoons full of laughter and Monopoly and Chinese checkers with her siblings to care that Joffrey and Cersei and their lot had scorned such childish pursuits.

Gilly’s face lit up. “Perfect! Now we just have to keep Jon from staring at the ‘Risk’ box all night.” She grinned at Sansa’s puzzled look. “Jon’s been officially banned from playing it at any of Daenerys’s parties. Last New Year’s, he kept us up till almost sunrise because he ‘didn’t want to waste a perfectly good game.’” She lowered her voice into a scratchy rendition of Jon’s over the last several words, and Jon looked affronted.

“It was a perfectly good game – ” he began. Everyone else at the table groaned in unison.

“You’re still not playing it, mate,” said Pyp, another of Jon’s fellow graduate students, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “Now I vote for ‘Pictionary,’ just to watch Grenn here try to draw a stick figure to save his life.”

Grenn playfully elbowed him in the ribs. “Rather like trying to watch you beat anyone at ‘Monopoly,’ Pyppy,” he shot back. Jon burst into laughter. It started off so high-pitched that Sansa almost thought Gilly was the one emitting the noise, although it quickly deepened. Joffrey would have derided Jon for laughing like a girl. Mother would have said, Sansa thought with a stab of longing, that Jon laughed with character.

The group settled in to play first ‘Settlers of Catan,’ and after that a couple of games Sansa did not know. The others were only too happy to teach her, especially Jon. He listened carefully to Sansa’s questions and answered either by demonstrating the maneuver in question or by asking Sam or Gilly or whomever he considered the resident expert on the game to answer for him. A couple of times, when he saw her hesitate, he or Sam would remind her that she could ask again if she needed to do so. Their undergraduate students, Sansa mused, were lucky to have them. Gilly apparently thought so too, at least about Sam. The longer the night wore on, the more times she asked the shyer Sam for his opinion on this maneuver or that news science experiment, and any time she got up to refill her snack plate, she always took his with her. Sam, for his part, took on what Sansa’s grandmother would have called an “addled” look

Eventually the group got around to Trivial Pursuit. The others refused to let Jon and Sam team up; Pyp explained that they must have found a way to cheat when they did because the other team almost always lost.

They had just begun the first round when Aegon swept into the room and over to the table.

“What? I’m not above a nerd game or two,” he announced into a circle of blank stares. Before anyone could blink, he slid onto the end of one of the bench seats. That pushed him up against Sansa, who flinched and huddled to her left against Val.

“Gods, Egg, cut it out,” growled Jon, and Aegon shifted over at once.

“Sorry, my lady,” he said, smoothing back his hair with one pale hand. He had the grace to sound sheepish, but Jon continued to glare at him, and this time Gilly, Alys, and Val followed suit.

“Grab a chair and sit at the end if you’re so set on playing, anyway,” Jon told his brother, and Aegon complied. “And you’re on Sam’s team, with Gilly and Pyp and Grenn.”

Not having to deal with having Aegon on her team relieved Sansa. It also meant that her team won handily, since Aegon proved as hopeless at Trivial Pursuit as he was adept at pool.

They were cleaning up the board over Aegon’s protests about a rematch when Rhaenys burst into the room to announce that it was almost midnight.

“Oh, come on, the ball drop happens only once a year,” she said, her voice sweeter than the cotton candy Sansa had seen piled on one of the tables earlier, when Sam and a few of the others began grousing. Apparently, the only real requirement of Daenerys Targaryen’s New Year’s parties was that everyone gather in the room with the iron chandelier to watch King’s Landing’s famous 60-second ball drop on one of the room’s four big-screen TVs.

“Besides, the maesters are calling it the Year of the Wolf,” Rhaenys wheedled. “Can’t we all show a bit of Northern pride? You know, make all the lightweights in the South hear all the way from Wintertown how much noise just a few Northerners can make? You know you want to.”

She turned her sweetest smile to Grenn, whose scowl vanished almost at once, and then to Pyp, who followed suit and stood up. Jon rose and spread his hands in surrender.

“All right, all right,” he said. “But you have to promise it’ll only take a minute, Rhae.”

Both Rhaenys and Sansa groaned at his pun. Rhaenys reached over to muss her brother’s curls and kiss his cheek.

“Love you too, little brother,” she crooned, and turned to loop one arm through Val’s and another through Alys’s as she marched them out of the room. Jon raised one eyebrow at Sansa as Gilly helped a red-faced Sam out of his chair and followed suit, with Aegon trailing reluctantly behind them once he saw Sansa rooted to the ground at Jon’s side.

“See? Told you she couldn’t possibly be an extrovert,” Jon said with such a straight face that Sansa could not hold back a giggle. Nor could she hold back the shiver that swept over her now that she was not surrounded by warm bodies.

“Oh, here.” Jon whipped off his flannel shirt, which to Sansa’s amusement was covering a worn Star Trek T-shirt, and offered it to her.

“Oh, no, you don’t have to,” she protested, but Jon shook his head.

“I was getting warm anyway,” he said. “Besides, I can steal one of Egg’s if I’m that desperate. I’m sorry about him, by the way.” He fixed her with the same concerned look she had seen the day they had first spoken, when she’d yelled at him to get his attention so she could return the glasses he had left on the bus and she had flinched out of long-standing instinct. “He wouldn’t really hurt a flea, or else I’d have tried getting Aunt Dany to kick him out, not to mention reporting him. He just lets being the world’s biggest flirt go to his head. He overstepped, and he’ll hear it from me. Trust me.” His eyebrows had knitted together ferociously again, and Sansa stopped tugging the sleeves of his shirt up her arm for a moment. A hundred different words perched on her tongue, but the only one that found its way was, “Thanks.”

Jon’s scowl vanished in a heartbeat, and he reached back to rub his neck.

“So – if you want to go upstairs,” he said. “It’s – I mean, pretty much all we do is watch the ball drop and head back down here.”

When they reached the chandelier room, Daenerys and Jorah were standing in the middle, surrounded by their guests.

“Gods, I hope they don’t get as embarrassing this year,” Rhaenys was moaning to Val when Jon and Sansa approached them. Seeing Sansa’s questioning look, she added, “They make rather a big deal out of the whole ‘kiss at midnight’ tradition. Really, it’s more like ‘make out at midnight’ with them. Oh, don’t worry,” she added when she saw Sansa’s eyes grow wide. “Nobody expects anybody in here to do that. Most of the couples do, but none of them are nearly as bad as my blood relations.” She sighed dramatically and perched herself on the arm of a nearby couch.

Just then, Aegon swept up to them and sat down just as dramatically next to his sister.

“Alas, I still cannot find a partner,” he groaned, casting a sad stare at Sansa and Val, who stuck out her tongue. Rhaenys slapped him lightly on the side of the head.

“Good,” Jon growled at exactly the same time. He gestured toward the bar in the corner of the room. “I’d rather drinks anyway.”

“The usual for me,” chorused four or five voices around them, and Jon grinned and turned to Sansa.

“Would you like anything from the bar, Sansa?” he asked. “See, we nerds think toasting at midnight is a way better tradition than kissing.”

“I agree with the nerds,” said Sansa, and followed him to the bar. Jon rattled off a list of drinks, and they made their way back to the couch with their hands full. No sooner had the last drink been handed out than the countdown began. Sansa closed her eyes. Back when she’d been a little girl, she had made a habit of choosing one wish for herself to make for the upcoming year as the ball dropped. Usually, it had taken the form of good grades or a trip to King’s Landing. After she got older and moved to King’s Landing, she’d wished first for a scholarship she’d later narrowly missed out on, then for her career to take off. Last year, she’d repeated, Just let me get out of this place and away from Joffrey, for the entire 60 seconds of the ball drop. She smiled widely when she realized that was her first New Year’s wish that had ever come true.

“Ten!” Sansa opened her eyes to the roar of the crowd around her. They had reached “Five!” by the time Gilly pushed past a startled Aegon to grip Sam’s hand. Just as the ball hit the bottom of the pole, she leaped to her tiptoes to kiss him full on the mouth. For a moment Sam went stiff as a board, and Jon and Alys and even Rhaenys froze in shock. Then Sam dropped his drink on the floor, threw both arms around her, and kissed her back enthusiastically.

Pyp and Grenn whooped loudly. Sam went beet red but kept kissing Gilly anyway. Jon shook his head and held his glass out to Sansa, who touched her own against it.

“Happy New Year,” said Jon, and grinned at the remnants of Sam’s spilled drink. “Thank the gods it’s plastic.”

Sansa smiled. “Cheers,” she said. No sooner had she taken a sip than a loud bang sounded from somewhere just outside the house. Sansa squealed and jumped so hard that she caught the heel of her shoe in the ornate floor rug beneath it and tripped straight into a startled Jon, spilling her drink all over his shirt and glasses.

“Oh, gods, I’m sorry!” she gasped at the same time a shower of green sparks splintered into the night sky outside the window. Apparently Daenerys Targaryen’s neighbors were fond of fireworks displays.

“Don’t worry about it.” Jon removed his splattered glasses and carefully set them on an end table. “You OK? Sorry – the Manderlys do this every year.” He gestured toward the window and checked the old-fashioned watch on his left wrist. “12:01 exactly. I keep forgetting I’m used to it. They always manage to scare a few people.”

Sansa shook her head. “Just startled here,” she replied, “not scared.” She stared at the twin royal blue bursts painting the sky. She’d seen bigger fireworks displays all the time in King’s Landing, but only through the smog and the mist from the sea. The colors were crisper and more vivid and far more enchanting here, against the clear Northern sky. “Besides, these are worth a scare.”

She barely heard Jon’s murmur of assent over the gasps and cheers of the guests. It sounded like a pleasant hum. When Sansa turned back toward him, he was staring out the window and clearly unaware that his hand still rested lightly against her upper back from when he had caught her as she tripped. It felt warm and pleasant, like a cup of hot cocoa in her hands, and Sansa did not step away.

Cersei Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon would have laughed themselves silly, she thought, over the sight of her clad in a flannel shirt over her party dress and holding onto a plastic drink cup proffered by a rough-hewn Northerner in an old Star Trek T-shirt. But at this distance, she could laugh herself silly back at them, for now that she had left them behind, she did not even need a ball-drop wish to get her new year off to a happy start indeed.

#jonsa week #jon x sansa #jonxsansaff #jonsansaff #jonsa fanfiction #my writing #modern au #holiday au #drama #fluff #protective jon #fruitless flirting #flirtatious aegon #but jon snow will have none of it #poor sansa #game of thrones #actuallyjonsa #series: northern lights

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