#(I blame wine & a fic that's giving me grief)

[sansaorgana]

Hi! Please take your time with everything's that's going on for you at the moment and if you don't want to write this that's absolutely fine!!

Today marks the 1 year anniversary of me getting out of an abusive relationship that lasted 6 years so it's been ups and downs today with celebrating and grief. If it's okay, can you maybe write a Buck fic where he's there for the reader (his girlfriend) whose in a similar situation? I've spent the day binge watching MOTA and I just want a cuddle from Buck aha

I completely get it if you don't want to write this because I know its pretty heavy stuff and I hope everything gets better for you soon! Enjoy that bottle of wine!!!

hi, darling! thank you for your request and I'm terribly sorry you had to wait so long because I have just checked and you sent it to me in the beginning of April 🤧 it is a quite heavy topic indeed and I hope I did it justice... Buck and Reader are married here but she had a husband before – I thought this sort of situation would suit this time period the most 💝

my requests are currently closed 🙅🏻‍♀️

Buck’s day started as usual – getting ready for work in the morning as he shaved his face, combed his hair and put the clothes on that you had ironed for him on the evening before. He walked downstairs to have breakfast and spotted a plate of scrambled eggs with bacon and a toast already waiting for him with a cup of coffee. He smiled to himself and approached you standing by the window to give you a kiss on the cheek before sitting down by the table to eat. From the corner of his eye he noticed that you were quite nostalgic and sad this morning but he didn’t want to push you into telling him what was wrong because perhaps the answer was “nothing” and you were just tired.

However, you were unusually quiet, staring out of the window with a cup of your own coffee in your hand as you watched the birds outside on the tree’s benches but the beverage was long forgotten in your hand. Buck hadn’t seen you sipping on it at all and he was sure it was cold now.

“Is everything alright, love?” He asked as he raised his eyebrows at you.

“Yeah, yeah,” you nodded your head with a shy smile but the look you gave him was brief and unusually unfocused as if you were trying to avoid his gaze.

Buck decided not to push you, especially now when he was before work. He decided to ask you more in the evening if your mood would still be so odd. However, when he was finishing his scrambled eggs, you suddenly opened your mouth again.

“You know, today’s the day… It’s the anniversary of my divorce with… With him,” you sighed and finally took a sip of your cold coffee.

Buck’s shoulders stiffened at those words. He had no idea about the anniversary taking place today out of all days and every mention of your ex-husband felt like a punch in the guts. Not because he was jealous or something – he had no reasons to be and he knew that – but because he was aware what that man had been like and how he had been treating you.

You had been already divorced when you had met Buck and some people had been warning him about getting into a relationship with a woman “with the past” but Buck had known better. He had known you and he had known “your past” from you. He couldn’t blame you for falling in love and he couldn’t blame you for leaving a man like that son of a bitch. He hadn’t known how to appreciate a woman like you, he had been taking advantage of your love and devotion.

Buck was not like that. He was patient with you, he was understanding, he was protective. He had promised to take care of you, to help you heal as you were helping him to heal after the war. It was a peaceful and cosy marriage that had lasted about a year now but he knew that the demons of your past would sometimes show up. Just like his did – they liked to come back in sudden anxiety attacks or unreasonable fear of loud things like the fireworks on the Fourth of July. They liked to come back in dreams, too – nightmares, actually.

You always knew how to comfort him, how to calm him down, to make him feel safe again. But now he felt awkward and helpless when it was his time to do the same for you. He didn’t know how to react properly. Should he congratulate you? Or tell you to forget about it? Both options seemed kind of wrong.

“I see,” he only cleared his throat awkwardly before taking the last sip of coffee and standing up to approach you. He kissed your cheek again and rubbed your shoulder in a comforting manner. “I gotta go now… Do you want to go out somewhere nice in the evening?” He furrowed his brow. “Like a restaurant? You wouldn’t have to cook today.”

“I…” You hesitated. “I don’t know. It would feel like celebrating and even though I have reasons to… I don’t want to think of him at all. I want this day to be normal,” you looked at him and he nodded before pecking your lips and wishing you a good day as he left for work.

However, he knew that it was easier said than done. You would still think of your ex-husband all day long. It was inevitable and only natural. Buck felt bad for you and on his way back from work he stopped by the store and contemplated on getting you flowers. Once again he had a dilemma because it would be a nice gesture that would make you smile but on the other hand it would feel like a symbol of congratulations and a celebration. You wanted this day to be usual but you were unusually sad and quiet so he wanted to bring a smile to your face…

Walking back to the store’s entrance door, frustrated, he walked past the alley with the toys and then he stopped at the sight of an adorable teddy bear as he suddenly got an idea. He bought it and took it home, a little nervous of how you would react.

In the meantime, you were growing impatient because he was late and the dinner was getting cold. Staring out of the window, you finally spotted your husband’s car and you went to the hall to greet him.

“You’re late!” You pointed out and Buck smiled at you.

“I’m sorry. I stopped by the store,” he leaned in to kiss your cheek and handed you a teddy bear.

“What is it?” You furrowed your brows at the soft toy in your hands. “It’s adorable but… Why?”

“I was thinking… I mean, it reminded me of you because it’s adorable, let’s start with that,” Buck chuckled. “But also, I thought… I want you to have it so he’s watching over you when I’m out at work or something, you know. And when you’re sad, you can look at him and smile, yeah?” He scratched himself behind his neck awkwardly.

Your heart swelled in your chest at his words as the corners of your eyes pricked with tears. Despite your words from the morning that you didn’t want to think of your abusive ex-husband, he had been occupying your thoughts all day long. And you wished you had asked Buck to call his work and tell them he was sick, just to stay with you. But you would feel guilty if you did that. So, you spent most of the day dwelling on the past and trying to fight back the bad memories. And now, your husband’s sweet gesture meant the world to you.

You wiped your wet cheeks and threw your arms around his neck to hold him close.

“Thank you…” You whispered. “Thank you so much, I love you.”

“I love you, too, sweetheart. The most in the whole world,” Buck rubbed your back and kissed your temple.

“Go wash your hands and eat dinner now because it’s getting cold,” you took a step back and caressed his hair to fix the reckless hair strand.

You went to the kitchen, too and you sat the teddy bear on the window sill by the kitchen sink. He would watch over you every day as you cooked, baked or washed the dishes. You couldn’t stop smiling widely at it and Buck’s heart was growing in his chest out of happiness at the sight.

Sometimes he fantasised about finding your ex-husband – wherever he was now – and teaching him a lesson or two. Not even about killing him, no; dying would be too easy for that bastard. But he knew it was not worth it. He knew you wanted to let go of the past and your ex-husband was not worth going to jail for either. But seeing you, Buck couldn’t believe that someone had wanted to hurt something so lovely and pure. He just couldn’t comprehend how anyone could want to cause pain to his wife.

When he was done with his dinner, he washed the dishes in silence, not even letting you know that he had already finished because you’d insist on cleaning since he was “tired after work”. He didn’t want to interrupt you reading a magazine in the living room, so he washed the dishes himself and only then he joined you on the sofa.

“You’re done now, baby?” You looked up at him and put the magazine away to stand up.

“Stay,” Buck put his hand on your thigh. “I’ve already washed the dishes.”

“Oh, baby, you shouldn’t have! You’re so tired after work,” you pointed out with a pout.

“I’m completely fine,” he chuckled. “Come here,” he invited you to sit on his lap, so you happily did as you crossed your hands behind his neck and he pulled you closer. “Are you happy, darling?” He asked, more seriously now.

The question left you speechless for a moment but you knew where he was coming from. The bittersweet anniversary of your divorce had been occupying his mind as well for the whole day – not only yours.

“I am,” you nodded your head and bit on your lower lip. “The happiest,” you assured him. “Being your wife makes me feel happy, safe, proud and fulfilled. And I would tell you if something was wrong. Like we have promised each other to be honest and open,” you caressed his hair and leaned in to rub your nose with his. “And one day I’m going to have more wedding anniversaries with you than I have ever had with him and I’m going to forget his face and his voice completely and I can’t wait for that day. But perhaps I had to survive him to be able to meet you,” you shrugged your arms. “And just because of that, I can’t regret anything from my past because everything has been leading me to you.”

Buck only nodded at that before joining your lips together in a sweet kiss. He knew what you were talking about because he would go to ten more wars and survive ten more captive camps if it meant that he would end up as your husband.

MASTERLIST || BUCK MASTERLIST

[legolasbadass]

A Lifetime Apart [1/3]

Artwork by the lovely @gwen-ever​

Relationship: Thorin x OC

Summary: Thorin meets his One while still a young prince in Erebor, but their lives are torn apart by their families and the arrival of Smaug. 

Based on Alice Tynan’s interview with Richard Armitage in ‘The Vine,’ this fic was inspired by @gwen-ever’s wonderful art for the @tolkienrsb 2021! 

Warnings: Angst. Seriously guys, this is really angsty, get your tissues ready. (gwen and I are not sorry lol)

Rating: T

As always, the fic can be read on AO3. 

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 

There is a room in Erebor, a secret place where once their love bloomed in peace. All the memories of that place, where he held her and worshipped her with his lips, were forever engraved in his mind. It was there that, after months of struggling with his feelings, he had realized she was his One.

All Dwarves know that Mahal sometimes creates two of his children from the same stone, bonding them for life. Of course, not all Dwarves marry. Even those granted this honour by their Maker do not always choose to marry, for some value friendship above all other bonds, while others devote themselves to their craft. Still, as a young boy, Thorin had hoped Mahal would deem him worthy, and every night he had dreamt of the moment he would meet his One, conjuring their likeness like an artist who paints a picture and gives it life.

He had also wondered what it would feel like to meet his One. Would he know immediately? And how would he know? Perhaps it would be like in those romance novels his sister liked so much. A tender, all-consuming look from across the room, silently reassuring the other that they had found each other at last.

Perhaps due to long hours in the council chamber, Thorin had become more of a realist as the years went on. He always had to be on his guard, and he learned quickly that he could not trust his desires, for they could be manipulated by advisors and enemies alike. Romanticism was fine for artists but not for princes. The idea of a destined love became no more than a child’s fanciful dream, and Thorin grew gradually less opposed to the concept of an arranged marriage until the thought of it did not bother him at all. After all, his parents had been married for a political alliance and had still grown to care for each other. Thorin knew he would do the same.

At least, that was what he had told himself before he met Rúna, his dear Rúna.

He did not know immediately that she was his One, but from the moment their gazes met, he knew he would never again be the same. Her presence had so bewitched him that he had not realized he was walking toward her until she stood right in front of him. Then, stumbling over his every word, he had thought himself defeated, oblivious to the fact that she felt the same indescribable pull toward him.

“Thorin, at your service,” had been his first words to her.

“Rúna, daughter of Ragni, your highness,” she had replied with a curtsy, enchanting him all the more with her melodious voice.

“I hope you are having a pleasant time, Lady Rúna.” Already, he had loved the way her name rolled off his tongue.

“More pleasant than you, at least, seeing as you have found nothing better to do than stare at me from across the room,” she had replied teasingly.

Blushing furiously, he had attempted to remain formal and composed but, ultimately, had failed miserably. “I had hoped that would go unnoticed, or at the very least, that you would humour me and pretend like nothing had transpired. And just because I was watching you does not mean I am not having a pleasant time. On the contrary, my spirits were lifted by the sight of your fairness.”

Thorin could still remember the beautiful blush that had painted her cheeks. “Forgive me,” he had said hastily. “I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“I did not say I did not enjoy it,” she had replied with the most enchanting smirk.

That was how their conversations usually unfolded. Thorin, who always prided himself on being in control and always knowing what to say, would find himself barely able to think. He blamed her low-cut gowns and the redness of her lips for that.

They soon became inseparable. Every day, they would meet in their secret room, a haven where they shared stolen kisses and soft caresses. Âzyungel, she would call him, for she, too, had accepted Mahal’s will. She had accepted Thorin as hers, and in those moments, both of them had believed nothing would ever separate them, for they were destined to be together.

Deep in the caverns of his mind, a voice called out to Thorin, warning him against the intensity of his passion, but he did not listen. He found himself thinking of her at the most inappropriate times, and she haunted the nights he wished he could spend with her. When he closed his eyes, he saw her smile and heard her laughter, clearer than the soft splashing of water against limestone rocks.

What would it be like to spend his whole life with her, his Rúna?

Thorin thought with utter surety that he would soon know when they announced to their families their intent to wed. At first, everyone was overjoyed. Rúna came from a wealthy and respectable family, so the king had no objections to his grandson’s choice — not that any of that mattered to the couple. Ale and Dorwinion wine flowed freely as the news travelled through the mountain. The prince had chosen his princess.

Thorin and Rúna welcomed their families’ approval, but they secretly longed to be alone once more. When at last they found themselves in the comfort of Thorin’s chambers, they drank some more wine between languid kisses, committing the moment to memory. Fingers braided hair then caressed the skin they hastily revealed, their cheeks tainted with the soft glow of love.

That night, like their hearts forever bound, their bodies became one. Thorin was gentle, attentive to her every need, and even afterwards, he continued to bathe her in tenderness, scattering kisses all over her skin as they murmured promises of eternal love to each other, bodies entangled.

Rúna fell asleep to the soft lullaby of his heartbeat beneath her cheek, and though she never doubted for a second his sincerity and devotion, those promises were never fulfilled.

Rúna knew they should have been patient, and although she was usually very sensible, she had not known how to resist her handsome prince, especially not when his body had promised her glorious passion, now and for the rest of their lives. Besides, it was not as though premarital relations were unheard of. However, princes had to follow much stricter rules. And these rules had been carelessly ignored. And as the days went on, Rúna knew she would not have the luxury of keeping their transgression a secret, for inside her bloomed the product of her and Thorin’s love, but also the cause of their demise.

Even if it had not been for her growing belly, her morning sickness and alarmingly fluctuating moods would have given her away. And they did. She had never seen her parents so furious, and their disappointment pierced her heart. Her father shouted about her stained reputation and their ruined bloodline, leaving her in tears as she tried to scramble away in search of Thorin even as she knew it was hopeless.

She knew they would separate them.

King Thror, with the support of Thorin’s parents, banished Rúna from Erebor, never to see her beloved again. She tried to fight them, indignation festered inside her like a poisoned wound, the unattainable promise of Thorin’s love shattering her heart into a million pieces, but it was hopeless.

They did not inform Thorin of this, for it was their firm intention never to let him know about the bastard child. Instead, they told him she was bedridden while they conjured up a more permanent plan. And so, unaware that his One had been taken from him, Thorin brought flowers to Rúna’s door every day. He hated every moment he was forced to spend away from her — it felt unnatural — but he consoled himself by thinking that they would spend their whole lives together.

Then the dragon came.

Thorin had been out hunting in the woods with his siblings when a strong wind began to rattle the treetops. Then a roar like thunder split the sky, and the blood of Thorin’s veins froze when he heard a shout from afar.

“Dragon!”

Rúna.

Without so much as a glance at his companions, Thorin bolted toward the mountain, fear clogging his throat.

Refusing to believe this was real, he did not even stop when the gates loomed above him, riddled in flames, but the screams piercing his ears grounded him to the bitterness of reality. The air was wrought with the stench of burning flesh and the sorrow of a broken people. All around him, children cried in fright, and mothers wept while the distant ringing of useless steel announced their defeat.

No help came from the Elves that day, nor any day since; a betrayal Thorin never forgot. Even if there had been survivors still clawing for breath inside the mountain, they had no means to reach them.

Rúna.

Thorin searched for her everywhere, shouting her name until his lungs burned, but when the moon appeared, and she was still nowhere to be found, Thorin knew it was hopeless. Grief crashed over him like a hurricane.

He had lost her.

He wanted to tear the sky open and demand retribution from Mahal himself, but all his remaining strength he used to remain on his feet. He had to be strong for his people — what remained of them. His family had miraculously survived, but even that could not have filled the gaping hole where his heart had once beat.

Rúna, his dear Rúna. The memory of her lips against his turned to ash in his mouth. When he had last kissed her and held her, he had done so thinking he would have a lifetime to keep loving her. But she was now no more than a memory.

He forced himself not to think of that, for his people needed him now more than ever. Only once he was finally alone did he let his tears run free, and all through the night, he sobbed into his pillow, his only comfort the memories of their secret room, untouched by fire and blood. Thorin held onto those memories all through the years, never forgetting, never forgiving.

—

Khuzdul translations:

Âzyungêl: Love of Loves (used here to refer to the Dwarven belief in a single, destined soulmate)

Taglist: @lathalea @linasofia @fizzyxcustard @mcchiberry @bitter-sweet-farmgirl​ @i-did-not-mean-to​

Let me know if you’d like to be added to my taglist!

[neonponders]

I never thought I’d write a court jester!Steve x King!Billy fic, but here we are. I entirely blame @ghostofjellyfishforgotten and @drinkingbeerfroma for this 💋

The original king!Billy and jester!Steve fics are here~ (this is a gift for Ghost and meant to be read in tandem with their fics 🌹)

Drinkingbeerfroma’s fanart is here~​​ (the enabling source, send them some love 🌹)

P.s....you can probably tell how much of The Witcher: Blood and Wine influenced this for me lol Ch. 2 coming soon! Or, you know, some time!

Read on ao3.

• • • • • • •

Billy strolled into his royal chambers with a tune on his lips. Usually the rustle of clothing, the scoot of furniture, reacted to his whistle so that he could meet his jester right at the door. Or by the bed.

Then again, Steve did wander. Perhaps that’s why he worked as a jester: always the desire to move, to fidget, and it had lent into a natural proclivity for acrobatics.

Billy had never much cared for the athleticism of the job. Not that it wasn’t impressive, but the stunts were the bottom of his jester’s abilities. His Steve.

Steve, who was nowhere in the expansive rooms. Billy huffed a sigh through his nose. He began loitering around, investigating what his jester had left behind and what it could mean for where he’d gone.

Except…he’d left everything behind. Billy’s gaze locked on the sapphire and green velvet of the suit he’d gifted Steve himself, now left in a rumbled state on the bed. The gleaming silk fibers moved with the midday light of the window as Billy circled around the bed to touch them, as if to test that they were real. The fool as good as lived in the king’s royal chambers by this point, so he opened the dresser beside the large writing desk and—

Steve’s original suits and garments sat in the drawers, untouched. The yellow shirt Billy had torn—twice—until Steve left it in disrepair, tired of mending it. The red and purple suit which he’d first strolled into court wearing. His blue boots. The red boots. The god-awful yellow boots to go with that shirt apart from how stained they were from daily living.

What the hell is my fool wearing? Billy mused in disbelief, his amusement only checked by worry.

Amusement that snuffed out under the weight of a paper he finally saw on the desk itself. Both of Steve’s jester hats stood on either side of it, crowning the white square to garner Billy’s attention. More than once, Billy had marveled at his jester’s ability to read and write. This was not one of those times.

Majesty,

An emergency called me home. Nothing to worry about. I’ll return soon.

Yours,

Steve.

Billy read those four lines over and over again, worry tussling with indignant rage, and then confusion. He wanted more out of a note from Steve, which ought not be the prior concern in his mind, but there it was.

Why not address me by my name? This note is for me, nobody else. Who did you fear seeing it? In my own chambers? We’re far past courtly manners.

Largest understatement of his entire reign, but whatever. More annoying and concerning details eclipsed Billy’s focus.

He had no idea where ‘home’ meant for Steve. His Steve. Billy’s pride ordained that Billy is his home; what other place—or person—could have the audacity to yank his fool right out from under him?

Billy’s voice roared down the corridors outside his chambers. His staff was certainly used to making haste in their duties, but this was something else. The king had lost something precious to him, and hell would shiver until he had it back.

It is both a blessing and a curse that the lesbians in his court did not fear him.

“Would you shut the hell up?” Heather barked, swinging out of her room fully dressed in robes but hair a disaster. “Some of us like to do our own fucking now and again.”

“Where is Steve?” Billy growled, damned note in hand. “When did you last see him?”

“This morning,” she sighed with a tone that Billy did not understand until she added, “When he left with Robin. He warned me that you might be grouchy—”

“Grouch—” he began to seethe, but Heather took the paper right out of his hand to give it a look.

“He said he left you a note, your majesty,” she purred through a voice he now noticed to be quite raw. Overused. Her eyelids hung low like she was drunk, or three orgasms gone to the wind.

This only abated Billy’s nerves slightly. Steve genuinely left on his own?

“Where is home?”

Heather frowned at the lines. “For a musician, he isn’t great with words.”

“HEATHER.”

“Same home as my lady, Robin’s. They complain about their corner of the kingdom often enough,” she retorted while surrendering the note as if it had caught flame. “Good grief. How many months has it been? You really don’t pay attention. Your majesty.”

He grimaced pointedly at her lackadaisical manners this morning, but snatched the page up. The sour expression did not fade as he asked, “Who are you fucking if Robin’s not here?”

Heather’s groggy eyes rolled. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself many times over. You’re not the only one around here with an abundance of energy.”

Fuming and feeling too hot for his clothes, Billy marched back to his chambers, yelling orders about a horse.

* * *

More than one person urged against this decision. The more people who tried to talk him out of it, the more disheartening the whole point of secrecy became. Then again, roaring for the whole castle to hear, might not have been the wisest start.

So he sent a rider in one direction, on some pointless “errand for the king,” while he road in another.

It had been a long time since Billy wore commoners’ clothes. He also did not usually go clean-shaven, but he was a different person now. A lone rider on the king’s road, journeying his way to the edge of the kingdom. Two advisors had urged him to take an entourage, at most his best guardsman—but Billy is the best guardsman. First knight and crown prince under his father, The Tyrant. Every dawn stolen from him until the late king’s passing, utterly devoted to training hard, practicing consistent, and never, never losing.

Until the old bastard finally croaked from pneumonia. How simple. How mortal. And ironic, considering his playboy—rat of my blood—heir paraded around with open shirts whenever he was off duty. Constantly challenging gods and climate to do away with him whenever they wished.

The gods took a different king, though. Billy is the monarch now, and for a while, he will be nobody. A fool searching for his fool, and it was not lost on him how ironic his own death might become. But traveling alone on his own roads did not deter him. He’d been on these highways many times—hell, he’d even been assigned to designing and monitoring the reconstruction of the kingdom’s infrastructure.

His last steps on these roads occurred during the funeral tour for his father. An obnoxious tradition, but he’d made the journey in his first month as king. He wondered if anyone would recognize him now. He’d grown his hair out, and so often adorned his face with nothing less of stubble; often indulging in his own shaving kit to manage his facial hair himself and styled it differently whenever he wished. He liked the way lovers shivered against him when he touched their skin. When the lion pressed his lips against the lamb’s pulse.

He liked applying creams to Steve’s inflamed, beard-burnt skin.

He sighed over his horse’s even, medium paced trot. He was a fool, indeed.

* * *

The only thing keeping Billy from scolding himself for knowing so little about his jester, was the fascination of where he came from. Lady Robin entered court to jeers and teasing over her humble, bumpkin origins—before she rightly debated and venomously talked her way around every gnat who dared flaunt a lower intelligence over her.

Billy knew she and Steve got along, but not how much they had in common. Originating from one of the farming districts was one thing, but specifically the dairy and vineyard region proved a fascinating piece of information.

As well as a gorgeous journey. It took a day and two nights, but forests soon exhaled into rolling hills for lines of grape trees, pastures for cattle, sheep, and goats. Billy knew he was getting closer to the center of it all because grapevines began to line the road, with signs every couple of miles encouraging travelers to eat their fill, along with a number informing how far they were to more accommodating civilization.

The smell of shit and manure dampened the experience, but Billy could not claim ignorance over how his own city smelt during the summer. Even under royal decree that half the fleabags leave the capital in order to minimize summer fever and pestilence, the place still reeked.

The road began to veer down into a lush valley of hills; below was the bustling city of this region, and above stood a number of large homes. One ought to have appeared bigger than the rest, but such shared opulence suggested a wealthy middle class instead of one lord standing above them all. Economically, this was healthier. Socially, Billy felt utterly foreign to this hierarchal shape. His court was an uneven, pyramid hourglass. With himself standing on its point, a bloated pool of lords and deceit, then a strangled middle class before an even bigger pool of lower class just trying to feed themselves. It is a shape which cannot hold itself up, and yet he tirelessly managed it.

It’s not my fault, he defended to nobody. It’s what I inherited.

He pat his horse’s neck, feeling the silken grey fur that drew passersby’s glances. He had a beautiful mount: a grey so vibrant she looked blue under storm clouds. His saddle and bridle were humble; couldn’t very well walk around with his embossed leather saddle or a bridle glittering with the king’s golden medallions on every buckle.

When a woman gazed a little too long at him instead of his horse, Billy eased to a stop and smiled charmingly. “Excuse me, where might I find the House of Buckley?”

She adjusted the basket in her arms to hold it on her hip while she swayed coyly. “Peach-colored house on the hill, sir. May I ask what business you have there?”

“Visiting a friend.” Unless she’s in disguise too.

“Best to wait until evening time. Everyone’s in the market or out in the fields right now.”

Billy tilted his head at her. “Buckley is a noble house.” Nobody is working in the fields from that family—

Then she laughed. Laughed. “Are you from the capital?”

Billy’s charm faltered on his face, but he picked it back up easily enough. “Thereabouts. Why?”

“Because people from the capital believe everyone’s rich. Rich enough to sit or poor enough to not own a chair. We all work here, and we’re all in the market or the fields. I can tell you which are Sir Buckley’s, though.”

The little twit liked being a know-it-all, but it served Billy a great deal to be given the tour. Here, property decided who reigned, and property came in the form of land, livestock, or both. With that came a handful of useful names: Buckley, Hagan, Harrington, Wheel—

Billy’s eyes widened like a cat’s pupils dilating on prey. “STEVE!”

Because…there he was. His Steve, strolling right up the cobbled road from the hills and into the market with a donkey loaded with grape baskets beside him. He hadn’t heard his name, giving Billy the time to absorb every new detail about the man who vanished from his castle.

The white, puffy shirt held close to his body with a waistcoat. High-waisted trousers made his legs look long and lean over workman’s boots. He shoved up the colorful fabric ties around his biceps, holding up the shirtsleeves but failing due to all of the sweat from a day in the sun. A belt sagged a little diagonally around his hips, on which such things as pliers, shears, a garden knife, and a pair of leather and canvas gloves waited for use.

Steve took off a large sunhat and set it on the donkey’s head, combing both of his hands through his voluminous, brown hair—

“Steve!”

Billy began to walk his horse in that direction, having long since dismounted for the courtesy of his guide, but now the latter gripped his arm in warning. “That’s Lord Harrington to you.”

Billy blew a raspberry right into the air, scoffing, “Excuse me?”

The woman rolled her eyes so hard, she would have been thrown into a stockade for behaving like that to—well, to a king. But she let go of him and went on her way, leaving him to his fate.

So off he went. Billy walked his mount over to where a collection of people were attending to the donkey and the grapes, and Steve nodded in discussion with an older man.

“Lord Harrington, I hear?” he crooned in greeting.

Two heads rotated toward him, and Billy felt rather smacked in the face by the matching eyes and nose. Father. This is Steve’s father.

Lord Harrington. Twice over.

Steve’s features opened with shocked eyes and a dropped jaw. His eyes darted to his father’s frown, and Billy quickly backpedaled, “I apologize. I know the younger, but not the older. My name’s Billy Hargrove.”

He’d bowed his fair share as a knight, though the gesture felt far removed since he was out of practice. Never the less, Steve gaped at his king bowing slightly at the hips and extending a hand for Lord Harrington to shake.

Thing about being king, not many people actually know the monarchy’s family name. They knew William the Second. William of the Grove. Some whispered the Second Tyrant, but only because Billy was still young and new to being king. They were waiting for him to prove them right.

Lord Harrington shook his head with a glance at his son. “You didn’t say anyone was coming with you.”

“I didn’t think anyone was,” Steve answered bluntly, but he picked up the gist of Billy’s disguise easily enough. “Billy’s been a big help to me in the capital.”

“How so?”

Billy’s brows lifted, but before he could provide a veiled innuendo, Steve chirped, “Roommates. Got me a job. Kept me fed.”

“I did my best,” Billy crooned. He watched Steve’s apple bob in his throat.

Lord Harrington, with his similar, albeit shorter and silver, hair and weathered skin opened his arm to gesture Billy up the road. “You’ll be our guest, then. I’ll show you along. Are you staying at the inn?”

“No, my lord. I’ve only just arrived.”

“Very good. This way. Steve, remind Roger about the textiles. We’ve sheared the animals twice already this season. He needs to either wash it or sell it. We can’t hold onto it or else it will mold and be useless to barter.”

Billy peeked at Steve, who similarly veered to go on his separate way. He met Billy’s gaze for the briefest second, and he looked…not entirely happy to see Billy.

The king did not like that at all.

* * *

Billy looked around the Harrington estate, taking in every detail that Lord Harrington granted him. He had yet to see an inkling of whatever this emergency could have been to rush Steve out of the capital. Out of Billy’s bed. It made sense, now, why he had left everything behind, since he had a home and full wardrobe waiting for him here. Billy had not seen a glimpse of Lady Buckley, though.

People are supposed to ask my permission to leave, damn it. Or at the very least, inform him first. Not skip town like bandits.

The Harrington house looked out over the estate’s vast hills of grapes, goats, and sheep. It would have been endearing, the farmers using their canes to nudge the goats along the alleys of vines so they could snack on fallen grapes. Endearing, if Steve had been the one to show him all this. Billy wanted Steve next to him on this veranda—if it could be called that. The house and its balconies overlooking the city and hills were much smaller than his castle’s, of course.

Billy did not stay long in his rooms—room. Just a room. You certainly acclimated to luxury, he reminded himself. One of his first orders in the castle had been a complete renovation to his chambers. He would not live in his father’s rooms. Those were turned into a storage branch of the castle, and Billy had several walls knocked down to make way for the new royal apartments. Let the old bastard haunt the broom cupboards.

Billy trotted down the narrow stairs into what felt like an abrupt arrival at the dining room. Further down in the house would be the kitchen but there was a smaller, stewards’ pantry, of sorts, in which a woman stood and rotated upon hearing him. It took a second, but Billy remembered to bow.

“Am I correct in addressing the lady of the house?”

“You are,” smiled Lady Harrington. It came as no surprise that she looked at least ten years younger than her husband, but the blonde hair did catch Billy off guard. She offered her hand, which he took and kissed its back.

“For some reason, I didn’t think Steve took after his father so much.”

“In looks only. He has all his personality from me.”

Billy rocked a little on his heels, humming an acknowledging sound. He certainly did not voice his amusement that she might’ve just revealed more about her marital bed than she meant to. He simply replied, “I believe it. May I ask: Steve and Lady Buckley rushed out with hardly any explanation. Is everything all right?”

“Oh, everything’s no more out of the ordinary than it usually is,” she began, returning to her task of preparing what looked like a fruit-soaked wine for their dinner. She sliced up apples and peaches with a curved blade and a practiced hand. “However, our ordinary can be quite sudden and busy.”

A different hum came from Billy’s chest at that. “I understand. Is there anything I can do?”

“Well, if you’re offering, you can half those grapes right there.”

Billy sent the wooden bowl of fruit a dubious glance and then laughed breathily, “I meant—”

“I know what you meant,” she smiled. “For now, you can help me prepare the wine.”

A long dead growl moved through Billy’s mind. Woman’s work—

Stay dead, tyrant, Billy hushed with finality. He accepted the spare knife from her and did the task he was given. She couldn’t know that he was who he was, after all. No one in this town apart from Steve knew that Billy could supply the money, machinery, and manpower at a moment’s notice for whatever reason they might need—

Chatter and laughter moved like a reverse echo outside the house, blooming quickly until, of all people, Robin Buckley herself clapped on the stoop of the Harrington’s side door. Open as it is for the breeze to come and go, she waltzed right in, and stopped at the sight of Billy. Her laughter cut off only to be replaced with, “You!”

“Me,” he threw right back. He raised a brow at a woman of the royal court wearing trousers and boots.

Lady Harrington chimed, “Oh, so you are friends.”

Billy peered back at her. “Was there any doubt?”

“Oh, dear, you look like you’ve never worked a field in your life.”

Billy had never heard his jaw hit the floor until that moment. Robin’s chuckle arrived beside him as she ripped off a handful of grapes for a snack. “When did you get here?”

“Not an hour ago.”

“You could’ve stayed put.”

“You’re enjoying this,” he growled, hoping that she heard his meaning through the words. I’m still your king even if no one here knows it.

She smirked, hearing loud and clear. “Steve gave me the heads up.”

He matched her smile, tone dripping with charming venom. “And where is he?”

She shook her head at him, cooing a tone that was both soothing and condescending. “He’ll be around. You’re in…his house, after all. Thanks, Anne.”

“You’re welcome, dear,” came Lady Harrington’s reply, but Billy hardly heard it.

He was in Steve’s house. A lord’s house. Lord Harrington’s house…and Billy was just some nobody.

Robin really was enjoying this too much.

[darling-archeron]

this is as good a place to fall as any + feysand for the fic request thing? angst would be good (;

ask and you shall receive - i hope you like angst. I may have used this as personal catharsis and it came out as one of the rawest, and, in my opinion, most painful things I’ve ever written. Not super edited, but I hope you enjoy!  <333.

TW for minor mentions of suicide

Music in the Night

It was the end of another infinitely long day, and Feyre found herself on the roof of the townhouse. The same place she had spent lazy nights with Rhysand, curled up with the stars until dawn. They had once promised each other infinite nights like this, filled with love and whispered secrets and lazy touches.

This time, she was alone.

She had gone out into Velaris by herself today, walked the streets, and been with her people in a way that she hadn’t in years. It had left her bone-weary deep in her soul. After the war, when what was left of her family returned to Velaris, she had been too broken by her grief to mingle with her people. The only thing she was aware of was the emptiness of the void in her head where such life had once flowed. The funeral had been hell, numbness coating her mind and tongue when the priestess asked if she would say a few words.

After she had finally picked herself up, convinced herself to keep going, there was so much to be done. Simply going for a walk never seemed to make the list. Mor had kept Velaris running for years, but she didn’t rule the entire court. And Feyre had never run anything of the sort. It wasn’t long after he was gone that she realized how much Rhys had left to teach her, how much he had not known himself. It had been exhausting as she turned all her energy on fixing the Court instead of looking inward at the dark shards within herself.

 Learn as best as she could from Mor and Lucien what it took to rule, to heal rifts with the Hewn City, who barely recognized her as High Lady, and to Illyria, who only began to respect her once she showed what she was capable of. When they had time, she did physical training with Cassian. Continuing to explore the facets of her magic had been harder. The two beings who might have taught her something more about it were gone.

So for the most part, she gave herself over to her court. They deserved that much. It was nights like these when she allowed herself self-pitying, angry, sorrowful moments. Just her, the night sky, and a bottle of whiskey she had swiped from Rhys’s huge stash. The roof seemed as good a place to fall as any. To ask the Cauldron why so much of the good in her life had been taken. To ask why she always seemed to end up alone.

Because Rhys…Rhys had been taken from her. She had loved him with a passion and fury she knew had been called foolish. But the only foolish thing about their love was how she hadn’t seen the end coming, hadn’t realized that he would sacrifice everything he had to heal the cleaved Cauldron. And when Rhys was truly gone, and even trying to bring him back as he had done to her hadn’t worked – she didn’t reflect on those moments. Ever.

She had survived poverty, Amarantha, and being made, the Ouroboros, and the War. She had been born a fighter.

It hadn’t stopped her from reaching for a knife to turn on herself on that battlefield, in moments when everyone else was too distracted. Azriel had only just stopped her, and there were days she could still feel the sharp kiss of the blade on her chest.

Most of the time – most of the time she was glad she hadn’t done it.

A breeze came up, and Feyre shivered. The backs of her thighs were beginning to dig into the roof.

In the emptiness of the weeks that had followed, she found that she hated silence. Because there was never again going to be passed jokes and musings down that bridge of gold. Never again going to be music sent to her in her darkest moments.

The townhouse became emptier as well.

 Amren had sacrificed herself to end the war. Elain had eventually left Night to pursue a life of travel, slowly healing from the horrors she had witnessed. Lucien was building alliances on the continent, though only after he had been convinced that she wasn’t going to fall apart. Nesta…was complicated. She still lived in Velaris, off of accounts Feyre kept filled, but she barely saw her sister anymore. Feyre wasn’t sure which one of them was more broken, some days.

Mor needed out of Velaris too. Feyre knew she was losing her mind. Though no physical wards kept her here as they once had, she couldn’t abandon the duty she had. Because she didn’t think Feyre was strong enough.

Feyre still doubted herself every step of the way. Because in the end, she did blame herself. She had made a bad choice with what mattered the most, hadn’t seen that his final “I love you” was not a declaration, but a goodbye.

He had known what she would want to believe, apparently known her better than she had known him.

She had always been a fool for a happy ending. Had always wanted it for herself. Her mate had helped her believe that she deserved it until she saw it herself. She had been a dreamer in a Court of Dreams.

Feyre watched the city below, taking a swig of the whiskey. There was a revel in the streets a few blocks away, the beautiful, seductive music taking away the emptiness that lingered in her head.

The Night Court needed a strong leader. They deserved someone who dreamt of a better world, who wasn’t falling apart. And as much as she was unqualified, she knew she had to learn. And as much as she had wanted to let the world fall away as she descended into her grief – she had made a vow. To Rhysand, to her people, to herself. To deny that – it would make her an utter failure.

So, she had forced herself to become that person, and learn to lead, to play the games of Court. To heal wounds the war had ripped open. A leader with an iron heart and mask of steel.  

The one thing she couldn’t learn again was how to forgive. She couldn’t forgive Tamlin, or Hybern, or herself. No matter how much Mor and Elain beseeched her. Elain had dragged her to the same mind-healer that she had been seeing in Dawn. Not a daemati – but someone who focused on emotional and psychological wellness. After a few visits, she had stopped going.

She needed closure, Elain had told her. It was easy for her to say. Every inch of this place didn’t remind her of their father. How could you find closure when the wound was ripped open again every day?

Another swig of whiskey and the music grew louder. A sob hiccupped in her throat, and she pushed it down. She wasn’t drunk enough to stop caring yet, and if she started crying now she would never stop.

She wondered how the history books would be written, sometimes. Human and Fae alike. Would the fae praise how she had defeated Amarantha, or as time went on, would the ballads and stories be edited and brushed under the rug to hide how helpless the faeries had really been? Would they tell how she fought her way across that bloody plain, each swing of her sword for a better world?

Would the elegies they painted eulogize Rhysand properly?

Would they tell how she had let him die?

She shook her head violently, strands of hair shaking free from the tight braid she had pulled it back into. She had cut it to shoulder length a few weeks after the war – practically a cliché from one of the books she had read. Since then, she had never let it grow back out.

She wouldn’t let herself think of all she hadn’t done now. She had done that enough – days where nightmares tore her from sleep and she replayed those minutes on the battlefield over and over, trying to find a different way.

 Instead, she thought back to what that healer had told her at the Dawn Court. She had given Feyre breathing exercises she couldn’t remember now, and she had told her that it was okay to talk about them. It had all seemed so useless at the time.

Elain had found catharsis in it, though. She didn’t just talk about their father – she talked to him, she had confided.

Another swig of whiskey – longer, this time. It burned as it went down, and it made her buzzed enough to say what the hell.

“Rhys?” She whispered, so softly. She had never – never spoken to him like this. Screaming his name as she was torn from his arms in every last nightmare, yes. But this - she had always thought it would hurt too much.

“I hope that you’re happy, Rhys.” She knew that he thought he was Lord of Nightmares, that wherever he went after he died wouldn’t be pleasant. It was something she had been working to slowly changed his mind about, making him see that he wasn’t damned.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t stop you – didn’t realize until it was too late. I didn’t find any other way. I know – I know that you wouldn’t have had it any other way. That you didn’t want to stop me. But I’m so sorry and I will never stop regretting and hating myself for it –” Her words broke off with a sob as she finally let the tears come. “And if you can somehow hear this – I just need you to know that I will never stop loving you. And I’m trying my best to fill the void you left behind, to be the leader everyone needs me to be.” For a while, the only sound was her breathing and the distant music as her words were swallowed up by the night.

She sniffed a little. “Do you remember our last night up here? It was just a few days before we left. Did you know you wouldn’t be back?” Another long pause, like she was giving him time to reply. “I’m sure even then you were planning. But I just remember – we were up here, it was a night a lot like this. No wine or lingerie – it was just us, the stars, and the city. I fell asleep up here, in your arms. You told me stories of your adventures years ago. The time you and Azriel got lost in Malwich and – well, I never heard the end of it. I was so exhausted. Do you think Az would tell it to me if I asked him?”   

Silence echoed as the distant song wound down.

“I miss you.” She said quieter than ever, barely a breath. “You spent your last breaths telling me that you loved me…and I never said it back. Because I thought I would have a million more times to say it, and so you never heard it that final time even though I’m sure you knew –“ Snot plugged up her nose and she sniffed again, voice ugly and cracking. “I love you, Rhysand.”

She buried her head in her arms as the music slowly started up again. It slowly grew louder until she could make out a familiar tune.

Feyre could have laughed. It wasn’t the music Rhysand had sent her Under the Mountain. It was an echo of it, an answer to the original piece’s question. The haunting melody and drifting notes filled her head and her soul. They chased out the awful silence and made her feel new, if only for a moment.

She recalled back when she was human, laying in her cell as that music floated down. She had drifted somewhere in the clouds, seen faces she couldn’t make out. Just as it had been then – as she gazed out at the unclouded sky, she could have sworn she saw Rhysand peering back at her with love in his eyes – for just a moment.

Perhaps just a trick of her eyes, of a desperate soul. But as she gazed up at those bright stars, she didn’t stop the tears from falling.

I love you, Rhys. 

She stayed out there long after the music had died down until she could see a hint of dawn’s rosy hue rising over the Sidra. The memory of the song echoed in her head, keeping the silence at bay.

[antihero-writings]

Undead Memory (Ch1)

Fandom: Castlevania (Netflix) (Season 2)

Character Focus: Alucard

Summary: What happened during that month in which Alucard was alone in the castle?

Alucard dealing with the aftermath of S2, and trying to cope with the death—or, more accurately, the ghosts—of his parents.

Notes: First of all, spoilers for season 2!

Another Alucard-centric fic, but actually about the show this time!! Whoo!! I'm excited to finally start posting this one. 

Believe it or not, I started this idea a while before S3 started, wanting to write something for the time after S2 of Alucard being alone in the castle. Then after S3 I wanted to write it both more and less XD The idea of Alucard seeing ghosts brought up at the end of S2 is an interesting one, and one I thought deserved more exploration. As well as just that month where he's alone being something interesting to write about. 

This is one of those fics I wanted to post as a long one-shot, but ultimately got stuck and decided it would be better to break it up into chapters to make it more manageable for both reading and writing. I said it'd be 4 chapters above, but I'm not quite sure exactly how many it'll be. It just helps me to jot down a manageable ballpark number.

That being said, one of the reasons I hesitate to break things up into chapters, is because if people don't seem interested it severely inhibits my desire to keep writing that fic. So, it really does help my motivation a LOT when you comment and say you want to read more!! So just know that when you comment, you're helping more of this fic get written!!

Shoutout to @it-burns-when-i-pee for giving me the clock idea!

Chapter 1: Reminders

There were no graves. Dracula and Lisa didn’t get graves. The rest of the world would have said they didn’t deserve to rest in peace.

Antigone would say Polynices deserved to sing in Olympus all the same.

The only grave they got was a castle. And many would say it was better than most—that they’d take a castle over a headstone, a mausoleum, or the ground any day. They’d say a castle was a hell of a lot better than being dumped down the sewage grate.

And all that’s fair, but perhaps the bigger problem was this: there were no remains.

They both burned. One in holy fire, one in hell. (And who could say where they truly ended up, if there was a heaven and hell after all?)

All that was left of Lisa Tepes was a pile of charcoal on an altar to a priests own pride.

And all that was left of Vlad Tepes was a ring, and a soot stain on the carpet.

Most would say they got what they deserved; to die without chance at Olympus.

Adrian doesn’t know where to put his flowers.

Most children bury their parents eventually, but usually this is when they have children of their own to keep them company, and their parents have been bouncing grandchildren on their knees for at least a year or two, with white hair and crinkled smiles, barely able to walk, or see: sick and ready to greet the gods.

Adrian may look old enough to settle down, but he’s younger than most would surmise. And while he can certainly handle himself, he was not prepared for his parents to die within a year of each other…especially considering that the parent who was meant to be immortal died by his own hand.

He would have liked to have some respite in his own home.

But perhaps, more important than where to put flowers, there was most unfortunate side effect of the lack of remains, and the castle grave:

Ghosts.

And this isn’t the pearly white wraiths wandering around saying ‘boo’, or skulls that float about the head gnashing their teeth. Not even a chained apparition to remind one of their sins.

This is something much worse. Worse because they belong to the house’s owner. Worse because their true grave is his head.

—(And that place never rested)—

Their ghosts wander the castle, not just a graveyard. This castle seems to have an affinity for the undead.

Maybe not everyone could see them. He tries not to indulge the thought that maybe there’s nothing there at all, and they’re nothing more than undead memory.

Alucard has been seeing ghosts since the moment he was left alone in this place.

He’d rather have a grave to mourn them at, and converse with the memories, than watch their ghosts keep him up at night, unable to touch, or to talk to them.

He should remind himself to look up the definition of ‘torment’ later.

At first it was his father’s steps when he walked up the stairs. His mother’s smiles, his own young laughter when he sat in the study. When he sat at the table to eat, he watched the vampire king tossing a young boy into the air, both laughing like fairy wing beats, as Lisa watched on from the table. Alucard tried not to lose his appetite.

Then they were given voice: it was Father’s lessons when he looked for a book in the library. Mother’s stories as he sat reading, making him incapable of concentrating to his own book all the while. Baking cookies together in the kitchen. Father allowing him his first drink—(of wine or blood? Take a guess. He only needed one of them, after all)—as he walked through the cellar. Mother decorating the castle, making it look a little nicer, a little more alive. Not all of them were positive. Their arguing voices down the hallway. His own tears.

Father’s claws against his chest.

And he wouldn’t dare get close to that room. Because whenever he walks past the door, he can still hear his father speak to him like he did when he was still a child dressed in sunlight, and there was nothing but love.

Mother, father and…himself. As if he died long ago with them. As if the happy child he was within them is gone. As if he’s no longer the Adrian who sat with his parents, read with them, baked cookies, and laughed with them…but the Alucard who killed them.

And, well, maybe he didn’t kill his mother, but sometimes he didn’t know what else to think but to blame himself for the thought that he could have saved her.

And he did kill his father.

He still feels that stake in his hand when he walks by that room—(But it wasn’t a stake was it? It was the bedpost of his childhood bed, as if ripping his childhood at the seams and denying everything he was born as). He still feels its splinters in his fingers, the smell of pine, the feeling of it piercing his father’s chest, the way his heartbeat refused to stop—(he rested his head on his chest once, the constancy of the rhythm was comforting then). The warmth of his father’s blood draining over his fingers. The sound of his father’s ripping voice. The unearthly, ungodly howling of the souls trapped inside him—(was he really so bad?). He could still smell his flesh burning.

He still wakes up in the middle of the night with the image of his fathers face melting off its bones as it came closer to him, reaching out as if to to caress his son’s cheek, seared onto his eyes—(is this how Victor Frankenstein felt when the creature smiled at his window?)

But when the morning came, he took that ring and he wore it on a chain around his neck all the same, to remind him of a few things:

One: that love is one of those things that is free, but comes at a high price. If you take it lightly, it will leave you heavily.

Two, an addendum to one: that love is not soft. Love is not flowery words, or even the insatiable desires the romance novels say it is. Love is an insidious fire, when you have it, it rages, and you know what warmth is. When the fireplace is empty it aches, and when your heart breaks your chest gets cut on all the pieces. And underestimating it, calling it weakness, will always be your undoing.

Three—(one that was beginning to weigh heaviest): that living and immortality are not the same thing. Vlad may have been immortal, but he was only ever alive with Lisa.

Four: to always know where he came from…and where he didn’t want to end up.

Five, and final: that though he had saved lives, though it was noble, and the stories and songs would say he was brave, and though Trevor and Sypha would say it was for the greater good…he would always be the son who loved his father…and the son who drove the stake into his father’s heart.

All for love.

He can find respite from the memories sometimes. He finds himself spending too much time down in the Belmont hold, reading, organizing, putting away ancestors—(ancestors not of his, ones that didn’t come back). Learning, pursing his lip in disapproval, or laughing to himself at the thought of some of the things Trevor’s relatives did (making a mental note to use the story against Trevor when he next saw him). Thinking of his friends…and trying not to think of them, lest they become ghosts too.

He likes going out into the woods to get food, and water, and fresh air. He wavers there at times, wondering if maybe he could just… leave. He spends more time out there than is strictly necessary.

Sometimes he runs out into the woods—well, more precisely padding, cantering on paws—and other times flies—trying to make sure his tongue can taste freedom, and his wings can snare sunlight, before he turns back.

But he always has to return. Return to the stuffy, putrefied remains of the castle. The air where he hears his parents whisper sweet words that are gone, where memory reconstructed from fairy castles sweet worlds he’s ripped away.

Would it be so hard to just leave?

Surely we can let the poor wandering souls in the woods find refuge. It was a grave after all. Just let the lost rest against the headstones, though they know not whose skeletons lie beneath them.

He leans against Trevor’s tree, and sees a young boy playing on the branches—laughing, free—and smiles…before it becomes gasp and grimace, and he shakes his head, returning to the castle.

Not them too.

He thought he could take it. The grief. The ghosts. The wrath of the gods

But he can’t stay.

Not forever. That is to say, he can’t leave for long. Just to visit town, to see another person or two, to get out of his head, and pray the specters won’t follow him.

He slings his bag over his shoulder, along with the coat he always wore—the one that smells like the campfires he sat at with Trevor and Sypha—and sighs as he walks out the door.

He has another grave to visit.

[supercalvin]

There are few fic writers that have the talent, patience, understanding, and dedication to write heartfelt, emotional, accurate, gut-wrenching, amazing stories, but you are certainly one of them. I've been reading your fics on AO3 for the last 3 days straight and I'm nearly done. At first I wanted to tell you which were my favorites before I realized that ALL of them were. I'm ecstatic that I discovered your incredible writing. If I may, could I ask for a continuation of the farmer ficlet?

Can I just say that this was such a sweet sweet sweet message @daesmilewings  and I’m so sorry for the delay!! I hope I can make up for it with this ficlet! 

FARMER FICLET PART 1

Prompts + Ficlets

***

The only reason Merlin slept the rest of the night was because Gaius gave him a sleeping draught. He woke late and ran to get Arthur’s breakfast on time, but at least he was rested.

Arthur looked like he was about to yell at Merlin for being late, but he must have taken pity on Merlin for once, and didn’t say anything.

He went through the day in a haze, his mind continually going back to the farm in his dream and Arthur’s arm around him. Arthur kept glancing at him like he thought Merlin might keel over. Merlin excused himself more than once that day to find a chore on the other side of the citadel. 

That night he dreamt of Ealdor. He dreamt of Balinor and his mother. There was a small boy with dark hair running around Hunith’s feet, running into Balinor’s arms. Merlin startled awake, not sure whether guilt or sorrow was filling him more.

It was still early morning, but Merlin didn’t dare go back to sleep. 

The stables were quiet at this time. Merlin hushed Llamrei as he woke him, petting his nose with a gentle hand. “Come on, boy. Let’s go.”

Merlin rode out into the woods at a quick pace, hoping he could find the Druids’ camp before day break.

 ***

“Where have you been?”

Merlin had barely stepped into the royal stables, guiding Llamrei back into his stall, before Arthur was at his side.

“And with my horse too.” Arthur crossed his arms.

“Llamrei likes me better,” Merlin’s point was proven when Llamrei affectionately bumped his head against his chest.

“You run off without telling Gaius where you went. And I didn’t give you the day off. You could have been lying in a ditch for all I knew.”

Merlin didn’t look at Arthur as he fed Llamrei an apple, feeling something warm settle in his chest, knowing Arthur’s anger only came from concern.

“I’m sorry.” Merlin said, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Arthur opened his mouth then snapped it shut. “What is with you?” Arthur narrowed his eyes, “Gaius was oddly cagey this afternoon and you barely said a word to me yesterday.”

Merlin looked around as he brushed Llamrei’s mane.

“Is it…?” Arthur raised a brow, making a gesture which Merlin assumed meant magic.

Merlin nodded.

“We’ll talk tonight. Don’t think you’re getting out of it, either,” Arthur snapped, before striding off. 

***

That evening, Merlin barely closed the chamber doors behind himself before Arthur said, “Out with it.”

Merlin sighed, setting down the wine pitcher and Arthur’s dinner. He poured Arthur’s goblet, “I’ve been having visions.”

“What?” Arthur looked like he was about to bolt out of his chair.

Merlin held up his hand, “I don’t have the Sight. They aren’t nightmares either. I went to the Druids today to see what they knew about it.”

“Why didn’t you-“ Arthur’s question was cut off, as it often was with that question. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ had been a bit of a sore point over the last year. Merlin had urged that he hadn’t wanted Arthur to decide between his father’s laws and Merlin, but Arthur still believed Merlin had lied because he had thought Arthur would kill him. 

Arthur sighed, “How long has this been going on?”

“Only a few days,” Merlin said. “I didn’t even know they were visions until night before last.”

“What happened? If they aren’t visions of the future, then what are they?”

“They’re impossible futures,” Merlin said, not looking Arthur in the eye, “Things that people desire most, but will never be possible…”

Arthur frowned, “What did you see?”

“Morgana on the throne.”

Arthur nodded, his frown deepening. “That’s all?”

“I saw Gwen with Lancelot…”

Arthur flinched, and Merlin didn’t blame him. He and Gwen hadn’t been in a relationship for a few years now, but thinking of Lancelot’s sacrifice at the Door still hurt all of them.

“Gaius dreamt of peace with…. Well, she’s no longer living.” Merlin said.

“Who else did you see?”

“No one,” Merlin said. He had promised Arthur no more lying, but some lies were necessary.

“Can you stop it?”

Merlin nodded, “The druids said it was a type of magic that happens sometimes to those with powerful magic. They cast a charm they said should keep it from happening again.”

Arthur nodded, looking uncomfortable but pleased that it was at least being handled.

“Did you see your own impossible dream?”

Merlin hadn’t thought of it. He had been so wrapped up in Arthur’s, that he hadn’t even wondered what he would want. There were so many things he wished he had done differently. He understood that circumstances were out of his control, but that was what made it an impossible dream. But his true dream was still possible. To have an untied Albion, to have magic return to the land…and to be by Arthur’s side.

And Merlin suddenly realized Morgana's dream wasn’t his first vision. The night before, he had dreamt of Albion. He had been confused by the dream, but that was hardly odd, considering all dreams were irrational. There had been a feast, and he was sitting at Arthur’s side. Lancelot was there next to Gwaine and Percival. Gwen was seated down the line, next to Morgana, who had looked younger and happier than she had in years. Balinor had been sitting at the visiting dignitary’s table, a little white dragon draped across his shoulders. The dream wasn’t a memory. How could it have been? Balinor had died far before he reached Camelot. Morgana was young, not broken by her grief and pain. It was as if several versions of Merlin’s life had been jumbled together.

Merlin remembered he had drunk the mulled wine, not even thinking about the fact that he was sitting next to Arthur instead of serving him.

The dream had faded in and out, but it had been oddly real, just like the other visions. Merlin remembered Arthur taking his hand and leading him to the royal chambers. He had pressed Merlin up against the door, and kissed him thoroughly, as if he had been waiting all night for it.

Merlin had woken, not thinking anything of it. The feast was odd, and strangely real, but nothing too out of place for a dream. As for the kiss, Merlin certainly had had dreams like it before. He hadn’t even thought to connect it with any of the other visions.

“Merlin?”

Merlin was pulled from his thoughts by Arthur standing, “What is it?”

Merlin gave a weak smile, “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“You’re a terrible liar. How I never saw it before I’ll never know.”

Merlin sighed, “I just… I just realized that I had seen my own vision. I just hadn’t realized it.”

“What was it?”

Merlin looked away, “A feast. With everyone there.”

“Everyone?” Arthur paused and then said, “Ah. I see.”

Arthur crossed his arms, “You saw a vision of my impossible future, didn’t you? It’s why you’ve been so quiet the last few days.”

“I…” Merlin sighed and gave up on the lie. “I didn’t want you to worry about it.”

“Was it that bad that you had to hide it from me?”

“No, of course not, don’t be absurd.” Arthur was still frowning and Merlin sighed, “It’s going to bother you, isn’t it?”

“Well it obviously bothered you.” Arthur snapped, “You’ve been avoiding me for days.”

Merlin winced, “It’s not bad.”

“Well?” Arthur said impatiently.

“You were living on a farm,” Merlin said reluctantly.

“A farm,” Arthur’s brow furrowed, “Are you sure it was my vision?”

“You were the only one there. There were wheat fields and a vegetable garden. You had just fed the chickens, of all things” Merlin laughed and realized he was starting to sound too fond. He coughed, “Anyways, you wanted me to make rabbit stew and that was it. Nothing bad.”

“You were there?” Arthur asked, looking much paler, as if he just realized something.

Merlin mentally cursed himself, “I mean, obviously. I was there. You obviously need someone to do all the real work,” Merlin gave a nervous laugh.

Arthur looked at him for a long moment and Merlin tried not to fidget.

“You know, don’t you?”

“Know what?” Merlin asked far too quickly.

“Merlin, don’t play with me. You saw.  You saw what I want.”

Merlin swallowed, fiddling with his own sleeve, tugging on a loose thread. “You know, in all the visions, no one had ever interacted with me. I was like a ghost watching from the outside. But then you turned up, hands covered in dirt, pulling me along to look at some lavender bush that we had been fighting about because even in your dreams Arthur, we still fight.”

Arthur looked embarrassed, his red rising up his neck and ears.

Merlin thought of how impossible that dream was. How Arthur could never have it. “I’m sorry things can’t be that simple.”

Arthur looked away, “No. I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to see that. To be forced into my dream. I understand if you would like some distance.”

“What?”

“I didn’t have control over the dream, obviously, but I hope I conducted myself well.” Arthur’s face was becoming redder.

“You don’t care if you conduct yourself well with me in person, let alone a dream, what are you talking about?”

Arthur nodded, “Good, so I didn’t…Good.”

Merlin realized Arthur thought he had pushed himself upon Merlin in the vision. If only he knew what Merlin’s vision had been.

“Arthur, I didn’t mean… Arthur that’s not why I’m sorry.” Merlin stepped forward and tried to catch Arthur’s eye. “I’m sorry that as King you’ve had to sacrifice so much.  I would give anything to see you as happy as you were when you showed me that damned lavender plant. I’m sorry that your vision was just you being...”

“What?”

Merlin smiled, “Happy.”

Arthur looked away again.

“Arthur, look at me,” Merlin reached out, tilting Arthur’s chin toward him, locking eyes with Arthur’s. There was a sadness in them that Merlin never wanted to see again. “Every fiber of my being would give that to you, if I could. I would give anything to see you happy. I wish our lives could be like that simple farm. I wish we could spend our days in that bed.”

Arthur looked amazed, his mouth open and his wet eyes wide.

“In my vision, you dragged me to your chambers and you pressed me up against those doors,” Merlin nodded behind himself, “You’re not the only one with impossible dreams, Arthur-”

Merlin didn’t get a chance to finish. Arthur was grabbing Merlin's face in both hands, his lips clumsily pressing into Merlin’s. His teeth nipped at Merlin’s lips, and Merlin grabbed onto Arthur’s cape, desperate to stay upright as Arthur dragged him backwards. Merlin stumbled and realized Arthur had walked him backwards until he was up against the very doors he had dreamed about.

Arthur panted against Merlin’s lips. 

“Like that?”

Merlin nodded, looking up at Arthur’s eyes, “Yeah.”

Merlin threaded his fingers into Arthur’s hair and pulled him in again.

“I couldn’t give a damn about the farm,” Arthur said roughly against Merlin’s lips, his teeth dragging down to Merlin’s chin and jaw, “Being King comes with sacrifices.” He pressed his lips to Merlin’s earlobe, sinking down to press a soft kiss to Merlin’s neck, before tilting his head up to look at Merlin again, “The only thing I want is to have you by my side.”

“Then you have me,” Merlin said and let Arthur kiss him until he couldn’t think any longer.

***

(PART 1 in case you missed it lol)

Prompts + Ficlets

[cozcat]

Hi! What do you think marisa's daemon and stelmaria thought/felt when it was time to give up lyra? I wonder if they felt the same way as marisa and asriel did or if they would have preferred things to be different (also a sort of stupid question, would pan be considered their child or just their humans' daughter's daemon?)

I have been thinking about this message since it was sent because it is a tough one but Tonight Is The Nigjt blame the sav blanc for this unfiltered mess youre ablut to bear witness to

im also not gonna proofread but that's entirely for your entertainment

s O

stel we do see we see her in la belle sauvage we see her looking ta lyra in asriel's arms i think she and asriel would have been very muxj on the zame page theyd have known what had to happen and when she was an infant who was just that and not a fully formed human full of personality and contradictions and reminders of marisa I think there was that sadness for what could not be

or something more complex than that but words hard

whereas marisa and the monkey? try as she might marisa KNOWS that her monkey betrays her so even when there is a contradiction presented they're on the same wavelength. the monkey so often is what marisa does not want to say. when it came time to send marisa away, the monkey would have said what marisa thought, whethwr that was in words or in actions

I do hold that for marisa it was probably almost relief. she has a REASON to send lyra away she doesn't have to do this sbh doesn't have to raise a child who will only get in the way of what she wants to do

(side note one: for her, a child would have been a way to manipulate and to control edward, bit it probably would not be worth the cost. because having the knowledge that she was raising a child that was not edward's with his name and his money would be such a powerful secret to hold over him, but would it be worth it, to be having to actually raise that child? and had lyra grown up as edward coulter's daughter she would have been raised by nannies and tutors and probablt a boarding school but there is no question that having a child would be a detriment to marisa's career and a boost to edward's and I don't thknk marisa would consider it a worthy sacrifice just to have that life altering secret that ahe could spring on him at any time)

(side note two: I do not think that lyra was undeniably asriel's. I think it was a combination of marisa expecting to see that and looking for it, and the gyptians probably romanticising the story for lyra. better to say she looked too much like her father than to say her mother sent her away anyway. poor kid needs enough therapy as is and they may not have wanted to pile onto a preteen's trauma.)

I think maybe the monkey would have expressed Something - but ultimately, any grief, any regret that marisa may have felt if she felt any at all (which im unsure about and also - in the books, debatable, but in the tv show, probably, and therein lies a whole different debate about book characterisation vs TV characterisation vs fandom characrerisation that might find a different middle ground in each person) would be shown only by the monkey, and not by her

I did also write a fic about Lyra's birth a while back - little regret, but there's time for that after, if you are so inclined to think of marisa and her regrets regarding lyra. I don't think there'd have been much re giving her away. just a sense of freedom. the regret was twelve years later.

and the last thing! which is what prompted me to respond besides the wine. I asked sir Philman sorta about this at some ungodly hour and

so going from that, for dæmons, I thknk it would be that the singular entity of Lyra-and-Pan is their child. we don't know what it is to be in the mindset of two consciousnesses who are one - the monkey is Marisa, stel is Asriel, so Lyra is their child just as Pan is their child, and they are one and the same. but also I am just vibin that he responded to me

anyway thank u for waiting what must be two fuckin months for me to answer this You Gave Me A Lot To Think About I Promise I Did Not Forget I Just Could Never Quite Answer

[ayla-221bee]

In The Most Delightful Way/ Mystrade Shorts and prompt fic    ‘ A Journey of Mycroft Holmes's Bewilderment.’

DI Gregory Lestrade bothered Mycroft greatly.

It frustrated Mycroft to no end that he could not understand why he found Gregory Lestrade attractive, especially since the Detective Inspector was not his type...not that he had a type, of course.

Mycroft could not explain his attraction to Lestrade, especially as Lestrade was in some state of disarray when he ever saw him, often at the end of a difficult case and covered in stubble and wearing a two-day old shirt, occasionally a coffee stain on his tie depending on how long he had been working for.    

He had to walk out of Lestrade’s office the last time he arranged to meet up.  Lestrade had his feet up on his desk, a takeaway cup of coffee in one hand a doughnut in the other.  The crumbs were over the desk and in the corner of his mouth.  He looked completely unapologetic about it.  The grin that he flashed him as he entered the office somehow managed to make Mycroft’s knees feel weak.

Mycroft placed the files on the desk and quickly excused himself, disgusted that even when he had a mouthful of doughnut and crumbs on his face, Gregory Lestrade still looked ridiculously attractive.

It was difficult to be in a room with Lestrade when he did not look so rugged and was somewhat dressed up. It was almost a miracle that Mycroft had managed to sit through his monthly meetings with Lestrade.  Lestrade always insisted on the two of them going to dinner somewhere, he refused to be interrogated in a warehouse after their first meeting together.  

Worst of all was the fact that Lestrade always insisted that they ‘chat’ once business had been dealt with.  It was near impossible to sit through dinner at times,  Lestrade was always ridiculously charming and Mycroft felt his knees go weak as Greg flashed that ridiculously wonderful grin at him.    It made Mycroft have to list the Monarchs of England from the House of Wessex in his head in an attempt to fight the blush that threatened to come upon his cheeks. He managed to make it up to King William VI to recover from Lestrade complimenting on his appearance and then reaching across the table to remove an eyelash from his cheek.

Mycroft had hoped that these awful feelings for Lestrade would go away over the years. It had been easy enough to dismiss them at the start, Lestrade was a married man, even if somewhat unhappily.  It was highly unprofessional to be involved with a man who his brother worked with, he knew that it would cause Sherlock a great deal of bother, Sherlock would surely give him so much grief in return.

The best strategy was to act cold and distant and those awful feelings would go away eventually. It would save him from having to deal with the pain and heartbreak from a  man who would never look at him twice or even notice him without their shared connection with Sherlock Holmes.

There had been occasions when Mycroft had felt brave enough to say something to Lestrade. He did not know what he would want to say, of course, he had never been an expert when it came to matters of the heart. He rarely had time to pursue anything once he left university, the burden of being the older brother and work piled upon his shoulders.

He did briefly consider asking Lestrade out for dinner several times or he would try to compliment him and hopefully, things would have progressed from there.  He never did of course. The words were on the tip of his tongue on those rare occasions,  fighting their way out of his mouth, but he never said anything. His mouth was always firmly closed and the words dissolved so much that he could hardly talk.  He could feel his lips tingle with the anticipation of saying something, just anything. He never did though and instead painfully swallowed them down so many times, especially when caught a glance of someone considerably more attractive admiring him from the other side of the restaurant.

The most that he could do in those situations was to pass Lestrade the files over the table, avoiding the plate of dessert that had two forks in it, Lestrade always insisted that they should share, ‘it’s healthier if we split it,’ he always said.   He could occasionally utter out something, a pleasantry of some sort or an enquiry about Lestrade’s day.

It was the most that he could do and it frustrated him greatly.  He did not expect or particularly want someone as ordinary as Greg Lestrade to wander into his word and take a piece of him without even asking his permission.  Lestrade probably did not even know that he had accidentally taken a piece from Mycroft.

Unlike most people, Mycroft knew the moment that piece of him was stolen, for all he knew, he could have willingly given it away, he was just so exhausted being in Sherlock’s hospital room after all.

Lestrade just walked to Sherlock’s bedside and sat there next to him in an uncomfortable hospital chair.  Mycroft did not understand why he tried to make conversation with him or even smiled at him, but he did.   He did not have to bring him cups of coffee or share a cigarette with him outside in the attempt to keep him company, but Lestrade did without a word.

He must have stolen that piece of him when their hands touched when Greg passed him a takeaway cup of coffee. There was the feeling of electricity in that simple brush of their fingertips and Mycroft believed that is when Lestrade had unknowingly stolen that part of him and there was little sign of getting it back.

That frustrated him the most of the whole situation.  The problem that he could not solve, no matter how much thought he put into solving it or tried to act distant.  He could not stop his attraction to Gregory Lestrade no matter how much he tried, even if there was little chance of anything happening.

Greg was convinced that Mycroft Holmes did not like him.    It bothered him more than it should have done, especially when he didn’t know what he had done for Mycroft to dislike him so much.

He had moments where he thought that Mycroft liked him, usually when the two of them had dinner together.   Greg did not care much for fancy restaurants, especially ones where he could not pronounce half of the menu and the portions were too small for his liking, but he liked the company.  Those dinners were the highlight of Greg’s month, especially once business sorted and they started to talk about everything and nothing, usually after a glass of wine or scotch or two, and cake.

There were moments at those dinners when  Greg was convinced that Mycroft did not like him. There were moments where Mycroft sat in silence and seemed almost unable to speak to him. He would open his mouth to speak and promptly close it.  There was something behind his eyes, Greg could tell that he wanted to say something but was unable to do so.

At moments, Greg was convinced that Mycroft could hardly be in the same room as him.  That bothered him more than anything, especially when Mycroft could be unexpectedly warm and be extraordinary charming at times, then act incredibly cold and distant to him.  

It hurt him somewhat when Mycroft walked into his office, dropped the files on the desk and then walked out without a word.

He didn’t even need to get those files from Mycroft, he had only asked for Mycroft to bring them over to ask him out for dinner to sort things out between them. He didn’t plan for Mycroft to walk into his office when he was eating a doughnut, he wanted to ask Mycroft out in a more dignified manner.

He barely had the opportunity to wipe the crumbs from his face before Mycroft left.

Greg did not know what he was thinking or why Mycroft disliking him bothered him so much.  He couldn’t even remember why he had the sudden need to find out what Mycroft’s problem was.

He blamed the scotch he had to celebrate Sherlock and John’s engagement, even if barely had a sip.   It was a small party and he had occupied himself with Rosie and her tea set in the corner of the room.

Mycroft had walked in 221B and said his congratulations to his brother and John, and then looked at him for a long moment with an unreadable expression on his face.  Mycroft looked at him as if he had grown two heads as he pretended to drink the imaginary tea that Rosie offered him, and then without a word, Mycroft ‘had to take a phone call.’

Without a second thought, Greg handed Rosie back to John and followed Mycroft out of the door.   He went down the stairs two at a time and followed Mycroft into the street, wanting to sort this problem out once and for all. He hadn’t even spoken to Mycroft in Baker Street and yet Mycroft had skulked out of the room like an annoyed cat after looking at him for a long moment.

Mycroft did not seem to notice he was there or at least was pretending to not notice him, typing away on his phone. His shoulders slumped and a somewhat regretful look on his face once he had made eye contact with him, he seemed to be wishing that the ground would swallow him up.

“What on earth is your problem?” Greg asked instead of a proper greeting, he closed the black wooden door of 221B with more force than necessary, making Mycroft shudder.  

Mycroft immediately straightened up as if there was a metal pole up his back and slipped his phone in his pocket. The expression on his face was unreadable. “There is not a problem at all, Gregory,” he said, his voice clipped and overly polite for Greg’s liking. “I only had the time to pass my congratulations onto my brother. You know that I do not care much for social events.”

Greg let out a bitter laugh and crossed his arms across his chest.  “Well from the way I looked at things, it was my presence that made you want to leave so quickly that I could practically see the smoke coming out of your arse.”

Mycroft’s expression was unreadable, his nose wrinkled in disgust at his comment.  “I don’t know what I did to make you do that,” Greg said. “I don’t know what offended you so much about me having a pretend party with my niece.   You couldn’t get out of my office any quicker the other day, you dropped the files on my desk and left without a single word.  What have I done to bother you so much?”

Mycroft did not say anything for a long moment and he seemed to be selecting his words very carefully. Greg could practically see the cogs in his head turn. “You do not…”

Greg sighed and suddenly felt exhausted from this conversation.  He planned out this conversation since  Mycroft left his office without a word but he struggled to find the words to say. A part of him did not want this conversation and dealt with the rejection of Mycroft brushing him off and admitting his dislike for him.  

There were several moments that he was convinced that Mycroft liked him. Greg had never been sure of the ground where he stood with Mycroft and it seemed to shake frequently under his feet.   Greg, himself was more grounded and he had always liked Mycroft,  his feelings for him grew deeper of the years.

He wanted to say something so many times but he wanted to be professional, he doubted that Mycroft would ever be interested.  He had tried to move on from his feelings for Mycroft but had little luck. He found himself enjoying those monthly dinners with Mycroft more than he did with some of the dates he had been on.

Things had been going smoothly between him and Mycroft for years, he could almost call Mycroft a friend.  Mycroft had suddenly changed after Sherlock ended up in the hospital after a case went bad and started acting odd around him.  Greg had put it down to his concern for his brother but strange behaviour lingered and he started to act rather distant at times and had only gotten worse recently.

“It’s fine if you don’t like me, Mycroft,”  Greg huffed. “I would much prefer if you let me know what I did to annoy you so much.”

“I am sorry,” Mycroft uttered out eventually, his eyes glued to his shoes. “I never intended-”

“So what is your problem then?” Greg asked cutting him off. “Did I say something wrong? Things were fine before you went odd.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Greg wondered if he should have kept his mouth closed, he knew that Mycroft had probably exiled people for less. “At least let me know what I’ve done? I’m fed up of you playing hot and cold, I don’t know if it’s because you have the emotional range of a teaspoon.”

“There is nothing wrong, Gregory,” Mycroft replied briskly. “Do  not let me ruin your night, I’m sure that  Rosamund would be wanting you  back for imaginary tea and finger sandwiches.”

“I’m sure that she would love to have you at the tea party.”

The two of them stood in silence for a long moment. Greg refused to go back inside and Mycroft had an expression of confusion and exhaustion on his face. He sighed and pinched his nose. “You do frustrate me endlessly,” he said. “I doubt that you are going to drop the issue.”

Greg folded his arms against his chest and leaned against the window. “How do I frustrate you?” Greg asked with a bitter laugh, relieved that he was finally getting to the root of the problem. “Did I say something wrong? My grammar in my texts not good enough?  Do I eat too much of the cake when we are out for dinner? What is it?”

“Do you know how it is  frustrating being with you?” Mycroft asked in a low voice. “Out of all the people in the world, it had to be you.” The words seemed to have slipped out of his mouth,  Mycroft’s expression turned into one of regret.  “I should go…” Mycroft murmured.

Greg reached over and put a hand on his shoulder preventing him from leaving. “What frustrates you?” Greg asked quietly. “ We are both adults here, just tell me. I can handle it.”

It felt like hours until Mycroft eventually spoke, his eyes were plastered to the ground. He seemed to look somewhat smaller and almost just looked incredibly lost. “I do not understand how you can even look attractive even with doughnut crumbs on your face or drinking imaginary tea with a toddler,” he murmured. “It has been frustrating having to interact with you and knowing that nothing would ever happen between us. It is has been increasingly more and more difficult to ignore.”

“You could have just told me,” Greg said with a reassuring smile. “I have wanted to ask you out for dinner or something, I was convinced that you disliked me.”

“I do apologise for giving you that impression,” he said sincerely. “I would like to make it up to you, only if you are willing…”

Greg grinned and ran a hand through his hair, he felt like he was a teenager again and had been asked by a popular girl in school. “I suppose that a bit of dinner can help to make things right,” Greg beamed. “It is not your fault that you have about three hundred years of British emotional suppression in you. We can sort out things over some cake.”

Mycroft shuffled awkwardly for a moment, unsure what to do with himself. He blushed terribly as Greg placed a chaste kiss on his cheek. It was somewhat endearing to see the most powerful man in Britain to melt at the knees with just a kiss on the cheek.

“I’ve got a tea party to attend to,” Greg said, pushing open the door and offering his hand out to Mycroft. “I don’t know if you fancy attending with me? The imaginary tea is simply lovely and there is a spot on the floor next to me and Bumbly the bee.”

Mycroft thought for a moment but a small smile crept on his face  and accompanied Greg inside.

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

If anyone has any prompts then suggest away! They are always so much fun to write and help me massively!

[juliussneezerfics]

Solitude

Your wish is my command. I don’t really know exactly what you wanted here, but I hope I do it justice! I know this probably isn’t as funny as what you were asking for, but it was the only way I could think to write it in character!

Feel free to send in your fic requests! If you want to, specify if you want fluff, angst, anything!

Italy sat at his dining room table, idly sipping a cup of coffee. He hadn’t even gotten dressed for the day, gazing out the window as a cardinal flew past, relishing the wind. Italy drained the dregs of his coffee, standing and shuffling his feet across the cold tiled floor of his dining room, into the kitchen. He rinsed out his cup, idly singing a song under his breath and placing the cup in the dishwasher. He was just about to head upstairs to get dressed hen he heard his phone ring from the table. Italy paced over to the table, smiling as he read the caller I.D. onscreen.

“Good afternoon, Germany! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Ah, Italy…” Germany’s tone, despite being made tinny by the speakers, was obviously unsure. “I’ve made us some cake and coffee… would you like to eat them together?”

“At your house?” Italy asked, pounding up the stairs. “Of course I would! I still have to get dressed for the day, but I’d love to come over! I’ll be there in about twenty minutes!” Italy entered his room, pulling open his sock drawer.

“Oh, I see!” Germany grunted slightly as someone snickered in the background. “Wait just a moment!”

Italy, distracted by hopping around the room while he pulled on a sock, didn’t quite hear Germany. “Okay, see you in a bit!” He hung up, tossing his phone on the bed.

On the other end, Germany sighed and hung up the phone.

“Did he hang up on you, West?” Prussia asked, pacing into the kitchen.

“He sounded distracted.” Germany said, gathering the dishes on the counter and putting them int eh sink of hot water.

Prussia slunk over to the counter, grinning. “Don’t blame him! Who wouldn’t be after hearing you made your apple cake! Can I have a slice?”

“No.” Germany snapped, scrubbing the pan. “We have to wait for Italy.”

“Why would we? We never-” A look of dawning realization came upon Prussia’s features. “Oh, I see.”

“See what?” Germany grunted, focusing far too much on his wooden spoon.

“You want everything to be just perfect. Usually, you wouldn’t care if I just took a tiny slice. You like Italy, don’t you?”

Germany furrowed his brow at the dishes, not turning around. Prussia’s voice had taken on a very strange tone. “Of course I do. We are friends.”

“You know very well what I mean.”

Germany paused his scrubbing. He licked his lips, trying to think of something to say. He went back to his washing. “You make sure the living room is clean. We have a guest coming over.”

“The living room is always clean.” Prussia grumbled, walking away. He shut the door to the living room, standing in place as he processed the rather one-sided conversation he had just been a part of. He sat on the couch, resting his elbows on his thighs. Now, this made things complicated.

So. It appeared both him and his brother had fallen for North Italy.

What now?

The selfish part of Prussia wanted to have Italy for himself. After all, he had sacrificed so much for Ludwig, didn’t he? Raising him, teaching him to be a nation, and look how he turned out. A wonderful man, thanks to his teachings.

A wonderful man…

Prussia sighed. Who was he kidding? There was no way he could outright steal Italy from his brother in clear conscience. There was no way. But he also couldn’t fall victim to heartbreak. After living as long as he has, heartbreak got old very quickly. First losing Elizabeta to Roderich, and now…

He had been selfless then, right? He had seen that the two had loved each other and he had stayed out of their way.

But Italy did not love Germany… did he?

Prussia stood and paced the room. Did Italy love Germany? He was very touchy with him, sure, but he was that way to everybody. Discerning the romantic attachments of an Italian was almost as difficult as distinguishing a British man’s good friend from his acquaintance.

But if Italy did not love Germany. Then… did Prussia have a chance? Prussia stopped. Approached the window and looked out at their front lawn. Down the driveway. Therein lived the key to solving their little problem, right? There it was, right in Prussia’s gloved fingertips.

If Italy did not love one brother or the other, then surely, he was fair game. He knew that Ludwig was no idiot. He knew that if Prussia were to begin competing with him for Italy, then Germany would know and do the same. The two of them competing for Italy’s affection. Surely, this was fine. More than fair.

Prussia swallowed the slight feeling of discomfort that rose in his chest, allowing himself to enjoy, just for a moment, the peace of finding a solution.

About ten minutes later, Italy finally arrived.

Prussia bolted down the stairs, his clothes ironed, his hair combed… he had put on a little dab of cologne against his better judgement. As far as he was concerned, he was as ready as he could be. He rushed past his brother in an attempt to get to the door. “’Scuse me!”

He wrenched open the door, the doorbell not even fading out before he saw the face of Italy.

Italy was dressed casually but refined. A button-up shirt French-tucked into a pair of skinny jeans, his hair combed. His cologne, sweet but masculine, reached through Prussia’s nose and clenched its fingers around his heart and squeezed.

“Italy!” Prussia greeted, ignoring the pang in his chest.

“Prussia!” Italy lurched forward, wrapping Prussia in a hug. “How are you doing?”

“Better now that you’re here, Italy!” Prussia allowed himself the indulgence of scanning Italy up and down once again. “You’re looking good!”

“You’re looking good too, Gilbert! Did you do something different with your hair?”

Prussia reached up and brushed the thin strands sheepishly. “Eh, not really.”

Italy peered over Prussia’s shoulder, his face lighting up as he saw Germany. “Germany! Thank you for inviting me over! How are you doing?”

Italy passed Prussia and reached up, pulling Germany down for a hug.

“I’m doing fine, how are you?” Germany peered over Italy’s shoulder, frowning at Prussia. A silent question.

Prussia looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. If Prussia had happened to glance over at Germany again, he would have seen the glinting realization of what was going on. A harsh glint of what could have been jealousy, grief, or a toxic mix of the two.

Italy pulled away, beaming up at Germany. “It was so nice of you to invite me over for cake! I do so love your cake, Germany. Your coffee, too! Though I admit, it’s not quite up to par with Italian coffee.”

“Best coffee in the world, right?” Prussia asked, walking over to the two. “At least, that’s what I’ve heard.”

“Have you never had it?” Italy asked, surprised.

“Can’t say I have!” Prussia answered. “Perhaps you could take me to a couple Italian coffee shops sometime and give me my overdue education!”

Italy clapped his hands together delighted. “Oh, that would be wonderful! We should set that up sometime!” He beamed. “Now. Where is this cake of yours?”

Germany waved Italy toward the dining room, furrowing his brow at Prussia. The gaze wasn’t antagonistic, or even heated. It was more… betrayed. Disappointed.

Prussia hardened himself against the gaze. No. He had raised Germany from the ground up. He had never felt the pleasure of love and being loved in return. The concept was well overdue. And if it just happened to be Italy who provided that experience then… well… there were plenty of fish in the sea. Ludwig was a handsome man, surely it would be no struggle. Prussia crossed into the kitchen, starting up a conversation with Italy.

The three sat at the table, the slices of cake long since eaten.

Germany pushed himself from the table. “I’ll just excuse myself for a moment.”

“Okay,” Italy said. “We’ll be waiting for you!”

Germany left the room, leaving the two of them behind.

Italy immediately turned to Prussia, his brow furrowed. “Is Germany acting strange to you?”

Prussia swallowed, raising his coffee cup to his lips. It was empty. It didn’t matter. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh. I guess it’s just me, then.” Italy said, turning his head to look out the dining room window.

“You’re really kind.” Prussia said.

Italy turned his head to Prussia. “Hmm?”

“You’re very kind. Thoughtful. You put others before yourself.” Prussia leaned back in his chair. “That’s pretty awesome of you.”

Italy raised an eyebrow, resting his elbows against the table. “The awesome Prussia calling me awesome? I’m honored!”

“You should be.” Prussia said. His voice had… changed. Become softer. “You’re awesome.”

Italy’s gaze returned once again to the window. “You’re very sweet.”

Germany returned, three wine glasses in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. “I thought we could have a glass of wine.”

“Oh, that would be perfect!” Italy grinned. “Thank you, Germany!”

“Of course.” Germany rested the glasses on the table, pouring out an amount for the each of them. His own serving was noticeably smaller.

Italy took a sip, his gaze brightening. He lowered the glass. “What wine is this?”

Germany too lowered his glass. “Oh. Antinori.”

“No kidding!” Italy cried. “That’s my favorite wine!”

“Oh, really?” Germany asked, evidently surprised. “I’m glad you like it!”

Prussia studied Germany over the rim of his glass. Germany didn’t like wine. Hated red wine. Never drank it of his own accord. Even now as he sipped it, his disgust was only thinly-veiled. This was too strange to have been a coincidence. Germany had planned to have the bottle in his house when Italy came over. Prussia took a rather large swig out of his glass, hoping it would get rid of the bitter taste in his mouth. Hopefully it would take affect soon.

The three then walked in the yard, about the enter the back woods. They made their way into the forest, silent as they observed the sun peeking through the leaves and listened to the birds singing their songs.

Prussia happened to glance down at the ground, grinning as he spotted a pretty pink flower growing out of the ground. He plucked it, rushing forward to Italy’s side. “Hey, look what I found!”

“Oh, Prussia, that’s lovely!” Italy crooned.

Prussia pushed it behind Italy’s ear, brushing his soft hair with his fingers as he did. “It brings out your eyes.”

“Oh, you’re so sweet! Thank you, Prussia.” Italy grinned at Prussia, his long fingers brushing the petals of the flower.

“Of course! It’s the least I could do for the awesome Italy!” Prussia happened to catch a glimpse of his brother. He was looking away, apparently seeing something very interesting in the distance.

“Did you know that the tale of Hansel and Gretel was written by a German?” Germany asked, speaking very swiftly.

Italy turned to Germany, surprised. “Oh, really?”

Prussia furrowed his brow. Italy had been around for a very long time. He could recite his entire history in extreme detail, as well as the history of Japan and Germany. There was no way Italy didn’t know.

“Yes.” Germany said.

“It’s been a while since I’ve heard it.” Italy looked at Germany pleadingly. “Could you please tell it to me?”

The corners of Germany’s mouth lifted. “Of course I can.”

Germany told the story, his words occasionally punctuated by the amazed murmurings of Italy. Prussia stared ahead into the forest. Ludwig may not have been an idiot, but neither was he.

That evening, he stood in the shower for longer than usual. He didn’t know how long it had been when he had finally turned off the water and stepped out. He wrapped a towel around his waist, rubbing his feet on the shower mat. He studied himself in the mirror, leaning against the sink. From the hot shower, his pale skin was unusually flushed.

Prussia scoffed at himself. Who was he kidding? Italy had made his choice ages ago. And what had come out of Prussia’s actions? All he had managed to do was betray his own brother. Ludwig had always felt for Italy. Always. He had been stupid not to see it. Prussia shook his head, disgusted with himself. How had he been so blind? Even earlier today, when he came to the decision to compete for Italy, he knew what he was doing. He had swallowed that disgust and it had settled like a stone in his heart.

He wanted it out.

“Some ‘awesome’ brother you are.” Prussia growled at his reflection. He tore his gaze away from the mirror, getting dressed. He furiously scrubbed the water out of his hair with a towel and left the steamy bathroom. As he crossed his bedroom, he was caught in a beam of light from the moon. He strode forward and ripped open the curtains. Gazed down at his front yard, and down the driveway.

Was this really it? Was Prussia destined to live a life of loneliness by himself? Locked in his own solitude? Was he really supposed to chase friendships to fill a void in his heart? He sighed, his breath fogging against the window. If he was truly destined to be alone as he feared, then he could take comfort in the fact that he was because he was doing it for his brother.

He pushed open Ludwig’s door. “Knock knock.”

Germany was sat at his desk. He looked over to Prussia, his gaze furrowing. He stood. “What the hell was that today?”

“I know.”

Germany stood in place, his expression unchanging. “You know?”

“Yes, I know. It was a real dick move, everything I did today. I look back on it and wonder what the hell I was even trying to do in the first place.”

Ludwig’s face was blank.

“I just…” Prussia sighed. “God, why is this so difficult?” He grunted frustratedly. “I’m tired of being alone. Being alone sucks ass. To never have someone love you back is awful, okay? And I let it get to me. I shouldn’t have, I’m just being so damn emotional and weird.”

“You’re… not.” Germany said awkwardly. “I understand.”

“You don’t understand one goddamn thing.” Prussia snapped. “You’ve only ever loved Italy, and you’ve got him.” All at once, Prussia lost the energy to be angry. All that was left was… sorrow. Apathy. The emotion was not foreign to him, but it never got less heartbreaking. “And I want you to have him. Really, I do.”

Germany sighed, glancing out the window.

Silently, Prussia mused that they really were more alike than what most people realized.

“I don’t want to be with him.” Germany finally answered, turning to Prussia. “Not if it makes you feel this way.”

“It won’t forever.” Prussia tried for a winning smile. “I’ll get over it.”

Germany looked levelly at Prussia. “I’m not good at this. Never have been, probably never will be. But if being with Italy makes you feel like this all the time, I couldn’t do it in good conscience. There’s someone out there for everybody, Gilbert, and there’s even someone for you.”

Prussia scoffed. “Even for me, huh?”

“Even for you.” Germany said. “Get some sleep.”

“I kind of don’t want to sleep.” Prussia protested. “I kind of want to… get drunk off my ass, y’know?”

Germany smiled slightly. “Me too.”

“Let’s go, then.” Prussia slapped the door frame lightly as he left the room. “Your awesome brother will get the first round.”

“Who will drive us home?” Germany asked, following his brother out.

“France, probably.” Prussia said. “He’s so nice, I could get him to do just about anything.”

 The world meeting came around half a year later. Italy had taken his place on Germany’s right side, Japan at the other end of the table next to America.

Prussia watched his brother and Italy, his brow furrowed. True to Germany’s word, he made no romantic moves on Italy. Italy, in return, appeared to have been keeping his feelings in check. Anybody could see that the two loved each other. Everyone except themselves. Prussia looked down at his hands, idly drawing a chicken on the corner of the meeting’s agenda. It took him four months to realize where he stood with Italy. He had some time to analyze his feelings and the way he even thought about himself.

It wasn’t that he was in love with Italy. It wasn’t that he even felt for him in any way beyond friendship. It was that Italy, lovely, affectionate Italy, gave Prussia attention he wasn’t quite used to. Attention that could be interpreted romantically. And, like a school girl, Prussia thought himself in love with him. Really, it appeared he was in love with the idea of loving and being loved back.

So here Prussia was, doomed to be alone. That’s what it felt like, at least. He was disturbed from his dramatic internal monologue when he heard the sound of the chair next to him scooting outward. Prussia didn’t look up from his work.“Hey, Greece.”

“Hmm?”

Prussia blinked. That definitely wasn’t Greece. Prussia turned his head, looking up. In Greece’s usual place was Canada, looking confused and slightly embarrassed. “Oh! Canada.”

“Sorry, is it okay if I take this seat? Greece wasn’t able to make it today, and…” his already quiet voice lowered to a whisper.

Prussia leaned in so as to hear it.

“I’d rather not sit next to Russia, if you know what I mean.”

Prussia waved to the empty seat, smirking. “Well, well, so Canada does people he doesn’t get along with!”

Canada only shrugged slightly, the corners of his mouth lifting up. “Only if you can keep it a secret.”

Prussia smiled down at his hands again. He knew of Canada of course, they have both been involved in group conversation. The two had never conversed directly, though. Never got around to it, he supposed. Prussia didn’t expect to get a humorous streak from him.

“Nice chicken.” Canada muttered, pointing to the drawing on Prussia’s papers.

“Thanks!” Prussia responded.

“I didn’t know you were an artist.”

Prussia smirked over to Canada. “Only if you can keep it a secret.”

Canada bit back a shy smile before turning back down to his papers as a distraction.

Prussia found himself flabbergasted. Come to think of it, he’d never seen Canada smile so genuinely. He always had his polite grin, of course, but that uninhibited smile… those eyes so blue they were almost purple…. Oh no. In Prussia’s periphery, he could see Germany watching the two. Germany was no idiot. He knew what was going on.

Prussia ignored the gaze, however, turning back to Canada. “I’d really like to get to know you sometime, Canada.”

Canada, his face flushed, looked back and smiled.

Maybe Prussia wasn’t doomed to be alone after all.

[amuseoffyre]

Fic Review of the Year

Since I am verboten from writing anymore tonight, here’s my summar of stuff written through the year:

Marvel Cinematic Universe (including TV)

Rumours (Captain Marvel) First it was aliens. Now, Fury's ex-boss is back and looking for answers. 

Training Buddies (Daredevil/Captain America/Avengers) - Update only Matt Murdock pretends he doesn’t have a superhero and a fugitive assassin hiding in his bedroom.

Improvements (Black Panther) Sometimes, T'Challa gives his sister new toys to play with. 

To The Beat (Hunger Games AU) - Update only It was almost four years since Steve Rogers won the games. It was over two years since he’d last come home to the Victor’s Village in their district. Bucky Barnes wasn't the kind of person to let their friendship go. 

End of the Line (Avengers: Endgame) Sometimes, it takes a friend to know what's best for you.

Debrief (Captain America) When word comes in about a discovery in the icy north, Nick Fury knows there's one person who needs to be told. 

How Many Dreams  (Avengers: Endgame) Peggy Carter was not having the best of days. Two random strangers had apparently been seen waltzing around the compound. Hank was wailing about some vials missing from his lab and only five minutes earlier, some young thing from the R&D department came dashing in, exclaiming that the tesseract was missing. Several dots very clearly appeared to be joined. 

The Umbrella Academy

Brothermine Seventeen years apart and some things never change.  - Vanya & Five-centric.

Underworld

The Beasts at the Gates When Viktor laid a trap for Lucian with Sonja as bait, he did not imagine the bait would bite back. 

Good Omens (also known as oh good grief, help my brain is flooded)

The Bookshop In London, there is a very particular Bookshop. It doesn't look like much. It's small and old and rather dusty. But it's there all the same and sometimes, it's even open. - every chapter of this one is a crossover with a different fandom. Because I’m just that Extra :)

Crossing Paths Every so often, a certain demon and a certain angel ran into each other.

Anatomy 101       Two humans are enjoying some alone time. A demon has questions. An angel has answers. (Gift fic for @gingerhaole. Or blame-fic. Blame fic is more accurate :D)

A Little Bird Told Me       Faced with the wrath of Heaven and Hell, an angel and a demon seek refuge together, knowing that their only hope of survival is the cryptic prophecy of a long-dead witch.

Rest for the Wicked Some time after the Not-Quite-End of the World, Aziraphale discovers something he has never experienced before. 

Operation Nannycam       When working as part of an undercover childcare team, it is unwise to leave your bored demon unattended.

Give Me a Sign       Wherein Crowley is helpful in the worst possible way.

Hunger - 20+ part series A demon and an angel discover some new dimensions in their relationship.

Full Circle    The Antichrist was returning to Tadfield Manor - Adam & Sister Mary-centric.

Flights of Angels An angel, a demon, a lot of wine and an unexpected series of revelations.

Choice An angel wept once, for humanity and mankind, before a Fall and a world turned upside down. Too many questions, too many doubts, too many fears, too much standing between the wrath of Lucifer and of God and the small, helpless people on the earth. 

Where Help May Be Found       Everyone knows about the bookshop. No one really knows why, but everyone knows about it. You can go there, they know. It’s safe. You don’t need to be afraid.

Inverse Omens A reverse-role AU, covering the whole series and a lot more besides. Currently 172k including all additional scenes and extended AU bits.

Intrinsicate Knot       In a palace in Alexandria, a certain serpent had an encounter with a certain young Queen. It did not go as planned. 

Christmas Present      The run-up to Christmas seems to get earlier with every year. Crowley knows why.

Moments       In time, someone who was supposed to be an enemy can become something like a friend. (GO Gift Exchange fic)

Total published wordcount for the year: 514,285 Total written wordcount for the year: ???????? I have so much rubbish lying around I have no idea.

Just in case anyone wondered how I buggered my hands so badly *points up* THAT.

[rufousnmacska]

Goodbye and Hello - 7

Manon and Dorian said goodbye in Orynth. But for them, saying hello again is only a matter of time.

fanfic master list (includes the link to my fics on AO3)

Previous chapters:

Part One: I Wish…

Part Two: Another Day

Part Three: Those Two Words

Part Four: Breakfast in Bed

Part Five: Waiting

Part Six: Confessions (smut warning)

***

Part Seven: Old Friends

A knock at his door broke the heavy silence Dorian had been enjoying for the past hour. Flinching at the sound, he left a long streak of ink across the letter he was writing. He swore, and as he tried to sop it up with a handkerchief, a young page stuck her head into the room.

“A visitor, Your Majesty. Lord Westfall suggested you’d want to see him. Even though he has no appointment.”

Dorian smiled. The page, Kalla, was a stickler for etiquette and rules, and he suspected Chaol had employed her specifically for that reason. Dorian was always glad when someone else was on the receiving end of her disapproval. He nodded for her to show the guest in and was surprised to see Aedion enter his office.

Aedion glanced warily at the young woman as he walked past her. “I will be sure to arrange an appointment the next time,” he said in apology, then cringed as the door was closed just a little too loudly.

Dorian stood quickly and came around from behind his desk. “I can get you some bandages for the daggers she just shot at you,” he said, holding out his hand, a little unsure if or how the greeting would be taken. “It’s good to see you Aedion.”

The male gripped Dorian’s hand firmly. “Your Majesty.” His greeting lacked any mockery that might have been there in the past. With a deep laugh, he added, “I think I will survive. Barely.”

Waving towards the back of the room, Dorian offered Aedion a seat next to the large stone hearth. As he sat, Dorian got them each a glass of wine then joined him. Curiosity threatened to overtake him, but he forced himself to be polite and not pepper Aedion with questions. “This is a surprise. I’d thought the winter had already sealed off Terrasen.”

After taking a sip of the wine, Aedion said, “Not quite yet, but soon. We are on our way to visit Eyllwe. A mix of business and pleasure.”

“We?” Dorian prompted.

“Lysandra and Evangeline are with me.” Before Dorian could ask, Aedion said, “We’re taking the slow, scenic route since Evangeline gets seasick. We just got to the city this morning. They’re visiting old friends, so… I thought I’d do the same.”

Dorian had never thought of Aedion as a friend. An ally, yes. At least, since shortly before the war. But they’d never been friendly. He didn’t begrudge Aedion his hatred of Adarlan, or its previous king. He couldn’t even blame the general for disliking him. For far too long, Dorian had sat passively by while his father brutally conquered most of the continent.

Hearing the term now, he studied Aedion. More surprising than his presence and his offer of friendship was his demeanor. He was calm, composed. None of the underlying fire and ferocity that so characterized him before the war. Dorian had no doubt that it was still there, ready to be called upon when needed. But it no longer seemed to simmer just below the surface, threatening to rear its head at the slightest touch.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important,” Aedion said, breaking the somewhat awkward silence. He looked back at the large desk, overrun with stacks of papers.

Dorian thought of the letter he���d been writing. And blushed in a way he hadn’t since he was a young boy. The heat in his cheeks was due to a rather racy book of poetry he’d found the other day in a newly opened book shop. So many of the poems made him think of Manon that he bought the book and was now copying some of the lines into a letter to her.

“Judging from your expression, I did interrupt.” With a grin, Aedion said, “You know, I’d pay good coin to see Manon Blackbeak’s reaction to opening up a love letter.”

The redness grew over his face, but Dorian laughed. “We have that in common then, because I’d pay to see it too.” He knew he was taking a bit of a chance with this letter, especially since none of the others contained anything this risque. If nothing else, he thought she’d laugh. And that was a reaction he’d do anything to see.

“Have you seen her since…Orynth?”

The male’s hesitation was no puzzle. He’d meant to say since the war. Since she’d lost her entire family. Since he’d lost Gavriel.

Dorian hadn’t spent much time with Gavriel. Chaol thought highly of him. And while that certainly added to his opinion, Dorian had already grown to respect and admire the fae male during their time in Skull’s Bay. His quiet strength and steady presence. Dorian realized that was what he was seeing in Aedion now.

“I have actually,” he said. “We just met at the Ferian Gap.” Aedion raised a questioning eyebrow. “About the aerial legion we’re developing.” Those Ashryvver eyes didn’t blink and Dorian felt himself flushing again. “And trade agreements. Borders. All that… stuff.”

Aedion nodded, a smirk sliding across his face. “And you’re following up with some bawdy correspondence to solidify your agreements. And stuff.”

“I fear you know me too well,” Dorian replied, earning a hearty laugh.

Falling quiet, they booth watched the fire for some time. Just as Dorian was about to offer him more wine, Aedion asked, “How is she?”

Again, his meaning was clear, and the concern lacing his words made something warm ache inside Dorian’s chest. He’d gathered as many bits and pieces as he could about those long days of siege and despair in Orynth, understanding nothing he’d been told would do justice to what Manon, Aedion, Lysandra, and their forces had experienced. The fear and fatigue, the loss and grief, the never-ending dread of the army waiting each morning to destroy them.

“She is doing well,” Dorian replied, giving Aedion a grateful smile. “Still adjusting. But she’s keeping busy. Training the new aerial legion is a positive step I think.” Aedion nodded, genuinely glad to hear. “And, how are you?” Dorian asked.

The male’s eyes flicked away, back to the fire. Dorian wasn’t sure if he’d answer, but after a few moments, Aedion said, “Adjusting.” With a quick smile, he added, “It’s good to have the others around though. Lorcan and Fenrys and Rowan. They knew my father the best. They have endless stories.”

A smile crossed Dorian’s face as he thought of what Orghana had told Manon. Stories honor the loved ones we’ve lost. “I imagine you could write a few books of their adventures. I’m sorry you never had the time to know him.” A stirring deep inside prompted him to add, “And, I’m sorry for all my father did to you.”

Aedion met Dorian’s gaze. As before, he was surprised when there was no blaze of emotion. Instead, he was met with the thoughtfulness of an older man. They were all so much older now, he supposed, even though only a few years had passed.

With a slight nod of thanks, Aedion said, “And I’m sorry for blaming you for your father’s deeds.”

“I deserve some of it I think,” he answered, forcing visions of the collar from his mind. And failing.

Dorian had never gathered the courage to ask Aedion about that time. He could have sought out details after the castle was destroyed. But he knew no more than that the general had briefly been imprisoned. Which dredged up some particularly horrific dreams that Dorian couldn’t dismiss as just dreams. The sounds were too clear. The smells too pungent. He’d done those things to real people. Had he done them to Aedion?

As if reading his mind, Aedion said, “You saved me. Do you remember that?”

He shook his head, unable to speak.

“Before Aelin rescued me, I was in the dungeon, dying from an infection. You came to see me.” When Dorian winced, Aedion clarified, “Just that one time. You came to gloat if I remember correctly. I thought you didn’t notice the wound, but just as you left, you ordered a guard to get a healer.” With a grim smile, he added, “Which pissed me off. You screwed up my well laid plans to die before I could be used as bait.”

Huffing out a humorless laugh, Dorian asked, “I saved you so you could be publicly executed?”

“Well,” the general said with a shrug, “yes. But another way of looking at it is that because of you, I lived to see Aelin again.” Growing more serious, he continued, “I knew at the time it wasn’t really you, Dorian. But looking back on it, I can’t help but wonder if there was a piece of you, the real you, responsible for that.”

Dorian looked back to the fire, swallowing hard to contain his emotions, and to keep from arguing with him. To keep from admitting how powerless he’d been against the valg.

“You survived it,” Aedion said. “Just like I survived dark periods of my life. If you can, use it for something good. So it never happens again.”

It was as if the male had been reborn in some way, Dorian thought. Or perhaps, he’d just never been allowed to see this side of Aedion before. Hoping to bring some levity to the conversation, he narrowed his eyes and said, “I’m not sure how I feel about you becoming so…optimistic.”

Aedion laughed, standing to get more wine. “Something else we have in common.” As he walked by Dorian’s desk, he nodded towards it and said, “You should deliver it in person. Surprise her with it.”

Glad the contents of the letter were obscured, Dorian joined him, smiling at the thought of Aedion giving him relationship advice. Not that the male didn’t have expertise in this area. It was just that in matters of love, he’d always placed Aedion in the category of rival. This new friendship was strange indeed. But, happily welcome. Aedion filled his glass and they silently toasted.

“It’d take me forever to fly to the Wastes. Besides, I only just got back from the Ferian Gap a couple of weeks ago. Chaol would throw a fit if I left again.”

“Just use a wyrd gate.”

The wine glass almost fell from Dorian’s hand. “Excuse me?”

“A wyrd gate.” Aedion drew out each word before leisurely emptying his glass.

“Yes, I heard you. What the hell do you mean by it?”

Since Aelin had destroyed the keys and the way between worlds, Dorian had never tried to contact Gavin. He told himself it was because it would no longer work. But part of him was afraid. Despite all he’d been through, all the progress he was making, Dorian was still stung by doubt. Fearful that the old king would look upon him and see nothing but disappointment.

“Aelin used them to bring the Wolf Tribe and fae to the battle.” Face incredulous, he asked, “I thought you knew that?”

Godsdamn him. To hell with friendship, Dorian wanted to strangle the male. No, he wanted to strangle himself for being so stupid. “My gods. I’m a fool,” he moaned, dropping his head into his hand. “I could use them to be with her right now!”

“Do you know how to do it?”

“Yes!” Dorian growled, his face still covered. Then, after a second or two of thought, he said, “No. I was able to use the wyrd marks to contact Gavin a few times in the afterworld. Is it different to open gates between places in our world? Are the marks different?” He knew they must be, just not how.

“Yes, the marks are different. Aelin taught me how to open a door to a place. Or,” Aedion paused dramatically. “A person.”

Dorian sank down onto his desk, knocking a pile of papers over. “So stupid,” he repeated, as Aedion laughed. The male had the good sense to stop when Dorian shot him a nasty look. Still grinning, he slapped Dorian on the shoulder.

“I can’t speak for other instances, but in this one, you can lighten up on yourself. You’d need to know the entire alphabet to make a door to a specific person or place. And since Aelin barely knew how to do it for that final battle, I’m betting you aren’t fluent in wyrd.”

Dorian nodded in confirmation and released a long, heavy sigh, still angry at himself for never once considering the possibility of using the wyrd marks to visit Manon. Aedion’s assurance didn’t boost his mood. But his next question did.  

“Would you like me to show you how to get to your witch queen?”

 ***

The winds above Blackbeak Keep had always been treacherous. Manon remembered the thrill of riding them as a witchling. The sharp air whipping through her hair, the heart-stopping drops and dives, the rare warm updrafts that carried her into the clouds. Now, with a full grown wyvern instead of an ironwood broom, they were even more dangerous. Behind her, the two Crochan sentinels she’d agreed to bring along were having trouble remaining steady. New to wyverns, the winds threatened to do them in. If she hadn’t been so stubborn and impatient, she would have listened to her great-grandmother and waited until spring to come here.

Signaling to the other witches to follow her, Manon pulled on her reins and guided Abraxos to land.

She shouldn’t have doubted him, high winds or no. He landed smoothly on the largest balcony available, the one that led into the keep’s great hall. The same hall she’d walked through so many times.

As the others landed on either side - clumsily but without injury - she could see herself all those years ago. Strutting between the crowd of whispering Blackbeaks, a new red cloak drapped over her shoulders and a Crochan heart in the box she carried. Her grandmother watching her, unsmiling, sitting like a queen holding court. The memory stood out because at that time, the Ironteeth witches did not have queens.

How had she been so blind? So stupid?

Of course, she had been privy to her grandmother’s ambitions for retaking the Wastes and installing themselves as rulers. But she’d never once considered the lengths to which the matron would go. Allying with valg to destroy the world? And she never truly realized how precarious her own position was until she’d been sliced open by her grandmother’s iron nails.

Blind. She’d been a fool.

This guilt was nothing new. But she should have expected it would hit harder when she’d decided to come here.

The Crochans were waiting for her orders, so she told them to stay on the platform. Scouts had reported that the keep was empty. While that could have changed, Manon wasn’t sure what might be left inside, and the thought of finding Ironteeth trophies with a pair of Crochan witches at her side… It was nothing they needed to see.

Perhaps she’d have the place burnt down after she was done.

The thought eased the tremors inside her chest as she entered the hall. Dark and cold from long dead fireplaces, the place looked foreign. Like something from a bad dream she’d had lifetimes ago. She glanced to the end where the matron’s throne still sat, then turned her nose up at it and continued walking.

Luckily, the keep had not been looted. The few Blackbeaks who’d flown from here to join her grandmother in battle had left quickly. No doubt expecting to return soon, victorious and weighed down with the spoils of war. But that had not happened. So Manon was left alone with a keep still filled with the items of everyday life.

She and the Thirteen had taken the rooms of an entire hallway in the eastern wing, and she was drawn there as if pulled by a thread. Gliding up the stairs, she made no sound save for her thudding heart.

Just at the head of the hallway, she hesitated. Maybe the rest of the place was basically intact, but that was no guarantee that the Thirteen’s rooms hadn’t been ransacked. Especially after they’d left the clan.

There was only one way to find out.

Manon pushed at the first door she came to, Lin’s. Looking inside, she sucked in an icy breath. The room was in disarray. The bed was overturned along with two chests, their clothing strewn across the floor. She could see faded patches on the walls where broad swords and bows would have hung on the now empty pegs and hooks.

The same held true for some of the others’ rooms, and Manon supposed that with so few witches left here when they’d first been summoned to the Ferian Gap and then Morath, only weapons and essentials had been taken. Perhaps her luck would continue.

Slowly, Manon pushed the door open into Ghislaine’s rooms. While the witches had taken the weapons, the books still lining Ghislaine’s walls had been laregly overlooked. Breathing a sigh of relief, Manon walked all the way in and turned in a circle to survey the damage.

Like the others, the room had been trashed. Any weapons or treasure kept here were gone. Instead of bows and swords, shelves covered the walls here. Some books were still upright and in place while others had been pulled off and thrown on the floor. Whoever had searched it had learned quickly that there was nothing useful to war hidden among the shelves.

But the books were the treasure. Then and now.

Manon bent and picked up a few that lay haphazardly against the foot of the bed. Blowing off the coat of dust, she placed them on a table. She had no idea if there would be a book here to interest Dorian. Hell, she had no idea what his reading interests even were. But she was confident she’d know when she found it. So, beginning with the books from the floor, she began to stack them on whatever surface was available, spines out so she could see the title.

It didn’t take her long to find one that might work.

Most of Ghislaine’s books were histories or treatises on magic or nature. There were several on the constellations, a few guides to wildflowers and plants, even a thick volume on the history of the Southern Continent. She sat that one aside for herself. But there were many fictional stories in the mix.

One contained what looked like a variety of myths and legends, each chapter a different story with heroes and heroines, fearsome beasts, and evil villains. As she flipped through the pages, Manon wondered how these tales might compare to her own life story. Another book, surprisingly, appeared to be a romance. She found more, all tucked behind a monster of a book that contained potion recipes. Ghislaine had been smart to hide them. If she’d been caught with these, she’d have seen more trouble than if she’d been caught plotting to take over the clan.

In the end, she had four books she thought Dorian might enjoy, and three for herself. Though, no fun reading for her. They were to help her in her duties as queen.

Ultimately, it didn’t matter. All of the books, along with the few odds and ends she’d found in the others’ rooms, were going back home with her. Where they’d serve as the start of a new royal library for the witch kingdom.

It took forever to pack the books and haul them back to where the wyverns were perched. But when they were done, Manon found herself wishing she had more to do. Anything if it meant she didn’t have to enter the one suite of rooms she’d passed by.

Abraxos released a soft howl, as if he knew what she was avoiding. Manon stepped up to let him nuzzle her hand. “I know,” she said. “I need to be brave. Like you.” He replied with a hot breath of air. “Wait here,” she told her sentinels. “I’ll be back soon.”

A few minutes later, she stood outside Asterin’s rooms, hands balled into tight fists to keep from shaking.

Drawing what felt like every ounce of courage she had, Manon opened the door and walked in. Turning in a circle, she took in the room, not much different than the others. A bed, chests of ransacked drawers, racks and hooks that used to hold weapons. In the far corner, a door hung partly open. Forcing herself to breathe, and walk, Manon looked inside.

Old clothing was thrown on the floor of the tiny closet. Even an old pair of boots with the toes worn through. And there, practically hidden in the corner, a dark ironwood broom.

Manon reached slowly for it, wondering if she’d be able to feel Asterin in the object’s magic. When her fingertips brushed over the handle, she realized how silly that notion was. She felt nothing more than a surface polished smooth from decades of use.

Witches were responsible for carving their own brooms upon reaching maturity. It wasn’t until Manon picked up Asterin’s broom and held it in both hands that she remembered this was not her cousin’s first broom.

This one had been made during Asterin’s time with her hunter. When she’d been in love. When she’d been pregnant.

Not for the first time, Manon wished she knew where that cabin was. She had a vague idea, but even that idea encompassed an entire forest. Perhaps it didn’t matter, as she had no body to return to the place Asterin held close to her heart. She had the broom. But she already knew it would be going home with her.

Sitting down on the bed, Manon ran her hands over the handle, admiring its sturdiness, its power. There was a dull pulse of magic to it, as there was to all witch brooms. It just held no distinct sense of Asterin.

“Your Majesty.”

Manon looked up to see one of the sentinels standing in the open door. She made no effort to brush away the tears filling her eyes. The witch made no effort to hide that she’d seen them. Which, strangely, made Manon feel better.

“We’ve loaded the wyverns,” she said in reply to Manon’s encouraging nod. “However, the winds are picking up. Sybil said we should either leave soon or spend the night.”

Standing, Manon said, “We’ll go now. Head back and secure everything. Make sure the books are covered well in case of wet weather. I want to be at the Ferian Gap before nightfall.” The sentinel disappeared and Manon took a final look around Asterin’s room.

Despite the tears, Manon found herself ready to leave. Nothing of Asterin lingered in this place. The same held true for the others. With the possible exception of Ghislaine, who was so connected to her books they were truly a part of her.

She strode down the hall, paying silent respect as she passed each door. Asterin’s broom in one hand, and a small bag in the other. It contained all the remnants she’d found of the Thirteen. A small, sharp arrow head made by Vesta, a worn whetstone used by Sorrel, a wooden figurine of the Three Faced Goddess carved by Imogen. Lin, who so outwardly hated her mother, had kept a miniature portrait of the witch under her mattress. From the Shadow’s rooms, swatches of a dark, two-toned fabric that was clearly enchanted. Fallon and Faline had collected knives, which were, of course, gone. But Manon found sheathes the two must have been making before the last time they’d left the keep. And in Thea and Kaya’s room, a wooden box carved with intricate patterns that fit in the palm of her hand. It was locked, and Manon had no intention of prying it open.

In fact, a part of her felt odd about going through their rooms, even if they had already been largely picked over. But with each item, she’d felt a calm settle over her. Like with the place, these things weren’t her sisters. But they were meaningful parts of the greater whole. All of the things she’d collected were indicative of their owners - some obvious and unsurprising like Vesta’s arrow, others secretive and unknowable like Lin’s portrait.

And Asterin’s broom.

Manon could think of no better reminder to live her fullest life than that.

***

Dorian groaned with exhaustion as he entered his sitting rooms. A full day of meetings with lords and merchant guilds. That alone would have been hell. But he’d had to sit there knowing he could be with Manon in mere seconds.

After learning the spells and symbols to open a wyrd gate, he’d made the mature decision to not leave immediately. He’d had guests after all. Aedion, Lysandra, and Evangeline stayed for two days. Two days that, under other circumstances, would not have felt interminable. By the time they left, he’d become overwhelmed with the nonsense discussed during today’s meetings.

And both Chaol and Yrene had thoughtfully pointed out that walking out of a fire-ringed wyrd gate into Manon’s bedroom might not be the best idea. He’d write to her so she could decide where and when. The letter was already on its way.

But as he walked towards his bedroom, shedding clothes, his finger itched to trace out the marks. He was going over the alphabet in his head as he entered the room and stopped dead in his tracks.

Her scent. It was thick in the air. Warm summer breezes and meadows.

Spinning in a circle and finding the room empty, he ran into the bathing room. Only to find it deserted too.

Back in his bedroom, he noticed something on his bed. A stack of books with a small package on top. It was the only free place to put anything, as every other surface was covered.

Dorian sat the box of pastries aside and examined the four books. Three romances and one collection of fantasy tales. Judging by their wonderful smell, an indescribable book smell he loved, their old age was obvious. A piece of paper fell silently from one and he smiled even before he could read the writing.

Hello princeling,

While I appreciated your gift - especially Qara’s pastries - I prefer our usual greeting and so I thought I’d use my own paper this time.

You may be surprised to know these books belonged to Ghislaine. You knew she was a bookworm of course. But you didn’t know of my plans to return to Blackbeak Keep to retrieve them. I didn’t know it myself until I decided to try and outdo your gift.

Dorian laughed, looking at the books with new appreciation.

I hope I have succeeded. And that the pastries are still fresh. Qara refused to send the recipe. I suppose that means I remain her favorite.

Ghislaine had a small collection, which I plan to use as the start of a royal library here in Morrigna. Perhaps we can schedule an official visit in the spring for you to come and assist with its development?

-Your witchling

P.S. If Altai put this package where I told him to, you need better guards.

To be continued...

***

Note - I hate making up place names. But I grew too lazy to keep calling it Rhiannon’s City. And in the spirit of unity, I think the witches will give it their own name once they are settled (unless it already has some other canon name we were just never told). So I named the witch capital Morrigna. Morrigan is not just a character in the acotar series. She’s also an Irish goddess who is often described as a trio of sisters called the Morrigna. So...kind of like a three-faced goddess?? Maybe? I don’t know. I’m not sure how it’s pronounced exactly, but I thought the symbolism was cool. 

Thanks for reading! If you’d like to be tagged (or untagged, no offense taken) on future manorian fics, let me know.

@itach-i  @nestasbucket  @manontrashbeak  @blackhavilliard @chloe123love607 @bookishwitchling @jimetg98  @mis-lil-red  @sierrareads @yourfacesickens-me @awesomelena555  @monstrousloves-explodinggalaxies

[sailorshadzter]

Alright, since you brought it up 😂 the kidnapping plot. I cannot come up with any good resolutions for it. Everything I think of seems to clean (Sansa completely out playing Cersei), or to cliche (Jon riding in on a white steed to save her) so I was wondering what you think might happen with it. I am definitely ready to Sansa and Cersei to face off again though 💜

oooh okay yes!! i have lots of thoughts about the kidnapping plot!!

let me just say, my absolute dream plot line would be the stuff of fics (no really, im writing it lol) which involves pregnancy & an impromptu wedding the morning of the battle. but i think thats too far fetched for the show, honestly, so im going to let that live in fanfiction. 

as far as what i REALLY think… i agree with what you said about jon riding in on a white horse- so cliche. but on the otherhand, its what sansa had dreamed of with robb. that her brother would come riding in on his war stallion and save her from king’s landing. i think we’ll still get the fulfillment of jon rushing to her rescue without the cliche “knight on a white horse” because in the end, i think sansa will ultimately save herself in some way. or at least get her closure on the cersei chapter. 

personally, ive thought cersei would die in childbirth from the get go. as soon as we as an audience learned she was pregnant, i said to my hubby who i was watching with that that’s how she was going to go out. i think an important piece of her character is the loss of her 3 children and her inability to have another. much like i see daenerys’ lack of children beyond her dragons part of who she is, i see the same for cersei. anyways, i still think this but with a step further. 

i think its safe to say that sansa will be taken from winterfell the night of the battle against the nk. whether she goes willingly or is actually snatched like from her rooms or out of the courtyard, im not sure. i think i lean towards her going willingly, like to spare someone harm. maybe arya is being chased in the trailer by the golden company and if sansa goes, they’ll be called off. who knows. 

the timeline is funky to me here because i know it takes time to get back to king’s landing. the newest teaser “kind of” confirms that time passes- her braid looks much larger to me- and i cant decide what keeps jon from going at once. maybe no one knows who takes her, maybe he’s injured somehow and physically cant go (and the others are also dead/injured/??) or dany takes winterfell over completely and has him jailed or chained or just in general held prisoner yet again. 

anyways, once she’s back at king’s landing, i think at first sansa will be dealing with a lot of emotions. i think her first response is to be upset and possibly even dealing with a trigger of ptsd from all that happened to her there. cersei will put her into the chambers she had there the first time.

 she will have an audience with cersei almost immediately and realize she’s pregnant. they’ll talk and in the end, i imagine sansa realizing she’s not so scared of this queen anymore. we’ll get one or two of sansa’s epic clap backs and leave the conversation feeling confident. it wont be the way it was the first time. she’ll stand strong against cersei. 

i think cersei will lose her baby either that first night sansa is in king’s landing or the very next morning. it will be a few days before sansa sees cersei again and i think that talk is where we get the teary-eyed cersei drinking wine from the trailer. i think this scene will have a lot of call backs to their conversation when sansa got her period for the first time. “i hope you never have to experience this loss, little dove.” i can hear cersei say that to her and probably mean it. that’s one thing two women can bond over, regardless of anything else- the experience of a miscarriage is so traumatic and grievous, that one would never wish it upon the other. 

now, this is where my belief of cersei’s fate differs from what i had originally thought. i think she’ll drink poison out of her grief. i also think more happens- like a letter from daenerys, who is coming to storm king’s landing (if she’s alive that is) and she knows there’s nothing left. this once strong willed woman is knocked so low- she’s lost her family, her children, and the future she’d planned on building with this new baby. and now king’s landing would ultimately be destroyed or heavily damaged from the dragons. what was there left for her? we know she’d planned on doing this once before, when stannis was storming the city, so i dont see why she wouldn’t actually go through with it this time. i dont think it happens until the midst of the fight, when she knows its really over. 

maybe the sacking of king’s landing is where jon comes back into things. im still up in the air on dany’s fate post NK battle but i think with the newest teaser i can confirms she lives. i cant confirm her participation in the battle though. ive also thought for a while now that dany will abandon the NK fight when she loses another dragon (sorry rhaegal) and will return to dragonstone with whoever remains loyal to her. 

at this point, im not quite sure. there’s so many possibilities! jon could beg for dany’s help against cersei and in return he’ll give his support behind her taking the iron throne. or maybe dany never leaves the fight and once everyone is recovered enough to fight another battle, they merely join forces once again but this time to take king’s landing.

to be clear, if dany doesnt die at the NK fight, she does sacking king’s landing. game of thrones ends with her death. at least that’s how i think/feel. the targaryen name will die with her, because jon wont ever use it. even if jonsa isnt end game (lol) he wont take his birth name because that’s not who he is. on that note, i dont see him riding rhaegal into battle nor to king’s landing to save sansa. im hoping there will be no jon on a dragon at all. he will need an army or at least a strong group of soldiers on his side to storm king’s landing and take sansa back. thats why i guess i COULD lean towards dany storming king’s landing and jon using that to his advantage. when he says he’ll be out on the front lines fighting for dany’s crown, he breaks and rushes in to find sansa instead. im also not sure how much of a “fight” there would be- sure, cersei has soldiers and her own army, but dany will still have at least one dragon at this point… we know how that’s going to go. 

i guess overall i have strong thoughts on sansa’s side, but i just cant say 100% on how jon will get her back. i will say im excited for what the scene would be when he realizes she’s been taken. and watching him do whatever it takes to get her back will be incredible. 

so yeah!! thanks for the ask!! i could talk about this all day tbh. 

this is probably ALL OVER THE PLACE AND IM SORRY. we can blame it on my head injury lmao. 

[single-reactor-ignition]

(via https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T7-xzhMmlFo)

For Valentine’s Day - say it with superlasers.

(dear god I can’t even begin to explain this)

[pontmercyingtil]

Beds, Grief, and Carriage Rides (Queen’s Thief Fic)

In the past few months, the room where the Attolian royals eat their breakfast has heard a great deal of disagreements. Not the sort one might expect from royalty; shouting about power and wealth and privilege. Rather, these arguments, to an outsider, would seem both petty and ridiculous.

Which was exactly how at least half of the arguing couple wanted them to appear.

“Carriage.” The boy-king says, flipping a coin from hand to hand. He was draped over his chair, sideways, and offered his wife a lazy smile.

“No.” his queen replies. As always, her posture was perfect, and her expression was… the opposite of lazy. Her makeup had been applied with a painter’s precise hand, her expression, of unsmiling lips and narrowed eyes, only amplified the result.

“Two carriages.”

She shakes her head, glittering earrings bouncing slightly with the movement. Not rubies. Not today.

“Three!”

Her hand goes to her face, delicately pinching the bridge of her nose. She’d prefer to rub her eyes, but that would smudge the kohl and set her back a good number of hours.

“You’re injured,” he starts.

It is the exact wrong thing to say. “I’m fine.” The words comes out like a sword sliding from a scabbard.

The king’s eyes grow very wide, and his face turns young. Not too young to have a wife, but perhaps too young to have one who is so old. She knows she’s too old, too bitter, too much a harpy for him. It’s her fault. Her age and her coldness. That’s what’s to blame, for her tears last night and the night before, she reminds herself. Not his fault. But the words have already been said, and the pain already set into this expression.

“No, no. I mean. Ire-” he stops himself, just in time from using her name. “I meant, it was, a…”

“A mistake? An accident? Yes, I’ve heard both from the doctors.” She wishes it could be blamed on a doctor, on medicine, on anything except for the cruel capricious nature of life and death.

Now it is the king’s turn to close his eyes, and he, having none of the concerns she did for his appearance, rubs his face. She looks away, too afraid to see if there would be tears.

“I wasn’t referring to that. I was just joking. Remember? You stubbed your toe, yesterday, and I…”

She leans in, to whisper for his ears alone.“Some jokes land like shots fired, Eugenides. You of all people should know that.”

If it was possible for him to slump even lower in his chair, he does so.

The queen returns to her breakfast. The experts thought perhaps she needed to eat more fruits, to make the fruits of her womb blossom. She’d pointed out the goal was not for her to give birth to a garden, but today, she eats her bowl of fruit anyway. Dutifully, like she’s tried every other suggestion they’ve made.

The only part of this whole process she’s enjoyed has been the part she shares with her husband, an area that she certainly will not be inviting the expert to study. Her nights are hers and his alone. Even if that which they do at night is as important to the future of their kingdom as it is for the future of their own happiness.

Attolia needs an heir. In fact, Attolia the nation needs an heir more than Attolia herself needs to be happy. That’s what she tells herself, when the tears threaten, as she eats her fruit like a good patient.

Twice now, it had happened. The second, only two days ago, and the pain is still so raw. Had her husband truly forgotten with that slip of the tongue? Was the carriage really an offer of pity from him, rather than some silly topic to argue over, like the color of his robes?

Perhaps it was because he was a man. He didn’t know what it felt like to carry, and then to lose.

But she stopped that line of thinking with a single glance at his right arm. No. Her king knew a great deal about loss.

It was, she decided, that he was an optimist, and used to figuring out a way to win, no matter what. But there were somethings, like time that has passed and starlight and the growth of new life, that even the Thief could not steal for her. She speaks softly, “we will ride.”

He set his expression. “In a carriage.” His eyes flicked toward her, offering so many things, apologies and tenderness and yes, stubbornness, because he had, for whatever reason, decided they needed to take a damn carriage on this trip to a far-off lord’s estate.

“You have recently stubbed your toe, my queen, leaving you injured.”

What he was really saying flutters  beneath his words, like a tune played counterpoint. This is the joke I wanted to tell you. And, to prove his sincerity, to show he too suffered, he raised his right arm, and lay the hook on her thigh for a moment. “As am I.”

She ran one delicate finger over the metal curve, avoiding the honed side. “As are we,” she breathed out, “both.” It was his loss too, what had happened two days ago. She must force herself to remember that. But she’s suffered for so long alone, that it is a hard skill to learn, this sharing of pain.

So, she says, flippantly,  “Shockingly enough, one does not need both hands to ride a horse.”

“Oh really?”

And the queen, with that feeling that had become familarsince the moment she’d put those ruby earrings the first time, cursed whatever had possessed her to give him an idea.

The next day, the Annux got his carriage as well as a  very cross queen. From the other side of the closed carriage, she folds her arms and says “Telus informed me that you had quite the odd way of attempting to climb into the saddle this morning.” “Yes, you see, my queen tells me that I need no hands to ride, so I simply hopped from the mounting block. Oddly enough, without a hand to grasp the saddle, I fell.”

“Into the mud.”

“Quite.”

“Ruining the perfectly good outfit your attendants had made ready.”

“The grey outfit, my queen.”

“Silver.”

“More of a pewter, really, but the sort  of color of that metal that one might find in a bedpan;”

She closed her eyes, shutting out the sight of her husband, dressed in shades that any songbird might envy, across from her.  How strange it is to both miss him and wish to be away from him, all while he sits across from her.

An hour later, or perhaps an eternity, she speaks.“I enjoy riding.”

“Oh, I know you do.” he replies, and there was enough lavishness in his voice for her to blush, as red as her earrings.

She’s put the rubies in today. Little good they do her mood now.

Anything she said, any light swat she might have given him, no matter how deserving,  would only encourage him on that topic. In fact, just her blush is enough for him to add, “I find that my queen looks most beautiful when she is astride a truly handsome mount.”

Her cheeks burn darker than a ruby now, and she wonders if there have ever been carriage seats that might swallow one whole. If so, she deeply hopes these ones will do so, and soon. It's not the content of the joke, though she's glad no one else is there to hear it, but more... the matter at hand.

She's not sure she wants to try again. But she has to. They have to. They must keep trying, and trying, and perhaps someday... Someday. It is a far-off word, for a future that had seemed so close at hand only a week ago.

There is knitting to be done in the basket a well-meaning attendant has left at her feet. But there's no point in crafting a little blanket, when there is no one for it to keep warm.

A long silence, of only the lack of words, not the lack of sounds, passes. Wheels creek, straining as the great draft horses surge forward. Around them, the carriage walls shake and jostle with each bump in the road.

There are a lot of bumps.

“Were you really looking forward to the ride?” he asks, as if considering it for the very first time.

Her gaze is not on him, nor straight ahead. No, for once, it is out the narrow window of the carriage, watching the riders around them, each comfortably seated, reins in hand, in control of their own journey.

She sits, and she stares out the window, half thinking of freedom, and half of spilled perfume.

“Yes,” she says softly.

Their midpoint stop is a lord’s home. The lord is both old and heirless, which means his land will be swallowed up when he passes. It also means that her choice to rest there cannot be seen as a threat or a favor, as he has little but hospitality to offer his queen.

It was an easy choice to select him, but it is all too uncomfortable a reminder of how important heirs are. And how rare.

At dinner, Eugenides tries very hard to be charming, which only results in her face tightening, as if the meal is only made of lemons and the wine, vinegar. Because she doesn’t need charm.

She needs a king.

But that is not an argument to be had in front of others, though the tension between them over the matter lingers. It  is there in all the pauses where she would usually smile at his jokes, in all her silence as the dinner progresses.

It is there too, when the music starts, and he does not ask her to dance. She doesn’t look at him then, because she might break. They'd danced together so often, up until two days ago, in the privacy of her rooms, and in her bed. Learned all sorts of twists and turns to make with limbs and lips. They had been so in harmony, so happy, while the music had been sweet.

The carriage ride gave her too much time to think, and, more over, time to mourn a life that she had only begun to imagine.

The queen is both tired of mourning, and quite new to it.

Dinner ends, and so does the night.

“Your majesty, if you will follow me,” the lord’s head servant leads her, and Eugenides, and their guard, down a long hallway. “My lord has offered his own room.”

“I hope he washed the sheets first,” Eugenides mutters, just low enough only his queen hears.

The servant pushes open the door. It is a well appointed room, with only three high windows, and finely carved furniture. Her careful eyes see no threats, no assassin lurking in the shadows. Instead, they land on something more terrifying.

“Is there a second room, attached to this one?” she asks, trying hard to sound conversational.

“Ah, no, your majesty.” The servant bows his head. “But if you wish for your retaining staff to be nearby by, we can move them from the servant’s wing.”

Next to her, Eugenides shifts his posture like a cat, gone from lazing at an window to spying a particularly fat robin, just out of reach.

It is not a good sign. Few, however, watch him closely enough to see the way opportunity makes his eyes dance with fire.

The one attendant she has brought coughs. “Their majesties do, uh, prefer, the older Attolian tradition.”

But this servant is young, and does not understand. “Is there something the matter with the room?”

Oh, damn it all. Now to refuse will be to make this a diplomatic offense.

Delicately, she speaks. “I do not wish to sleep in the same room as my king. His mind is troubled with matters of state.”

No. Just filled with nightmares of her.

“Ah. I… see.”

“It is better for us both to be alone. In our own beds.”

Because this room has only one bed. It looms in front of her, offering both comfort and fear. The fear of this careful rude they have sliding away. The fear of showing just how much she needs her husband.

No one says anything. Suddenly, the silence, which has been her only comfort all day, is too much. “Do I make myself clear?” she speaks, now, like the queen who ordered death. Not the almost-mother who had to hold death in her hands. “I do NOT wish to sleep with my husband.”

Everyone backs up.

Even him. Shifting from stalking cat to kicked puppy, all too easily.

She strides forward, and shuts the door. Latches it tightly.

WIthout any attendant, she simply flings the pins out of her hair, not caring where they land, not caring even when the crown falls, and throws herself onto the bed.

It is plush and soft, and far too big for one lonely person.

Her sobs are as silent as the day has been.

The moonlight, streaming from the high windows, wakes her. She lifts her head to look. The moon, inconstant, changing, yes, but always there. Perhaps she should see if there is an old goddess of the moon. Someone who would understand how one can wax and wane, all in such a short time.

Does the moon miss its fullness, when it is a crescent? Or does it trust the time will come once more.

While she stares at the moon,  he drops down, from a high corner of the ceiling. So soft that anyone but her would not have heard it. “You,” she says softly.

“Me,” he agrees, but he does not come to bed. He stands there, and he hides his hook behind his back, the way he has not done in months. And when she reaches out, he trembles.

But he does not pull back, and she strokes his cheek, the one scar she feels she did not give him, of all of those on his body. She’s told him that before, and he’s cheerfully explained that the shackle marks weren’t from her, nor were a multitude of other small nicks and scrapes, but that does nothing to take the feeling from her.

All he does is make her feel, which, in many ways ways, is more than anything else in the world.

“I thought you might have meant it this time.” He whispers.

For a moment, he’s a boy and she is so, so aware of it. Of the youth he should have had to spend elsewhere, of the kisses from gentler people that he deserved, of the warmth and love and affection he’s been denied, all by her and her choices.

He makes her feel, and so, she makes him suffer.

Waiting there, waiting for his wife to invite him to bed. Suffering. He stands there, shifting his weight from soft-soled shoe to soft-soled shoe. It’s no surprise he’s brought what she considers his Thief gear, no surprise he found a way to her. And it’s not even a surprise that he doubted her love.

She could scold him. She could point out how the earrings still glittered in her ears while she sent him away. She could tease him, call him boy until he blushes.

But this time, she doesn’t. Her hand pulling him a little closer to her. They haven’t kissed for two nights. She’d been so angry, not at him, but at herself, at the stars in the sky. And, if she admits it, a little mad at him too, because she had not seen, before, that he grieved too. But his grief he hides with jokes and smiles, because he refuses to give her any indication he’s in pain. Refuses to burden her with any more than the heavy load she carries.

“I’d understand, if you did mean it,” he mumbles. “We don’t have to… you know. I could just… I could hold--” his voice breaks, and all that pain she’d thought he hadn’t been there erupts. Cuts across his face and into his words. “Hold you.”

Because the word hold brings up the memory of what happened the day before the loss. She’d walked in on him practicing cradling pillows laden with fruit, figuring out how to hold the most precious thing in the world with a weapon for his right hand.

“I want to keep her safe,” he’d whispered when he noticed her watching, her hand to her belly.

But in the end, neither of them could do anything at all to ensure safety for the one they waited for. Easier to plan against assassins, than simple facts of life and death.

Now, kneeling in that bed, too big for just her, she kisses him, soft, gentle, and so full of tenderness her  own heart aches. The heart he’d had to steal to remind her she had.

It takes him a moment to kiss back, but when he does, there is none of the boy in him. Just her husband, her king. Hers.

“You shouldn't be alone,” he whispered. “Not tonight.”

“I'm good at being alone,” she replies.

“Just because you're good at it, doesn't mean you should be.” His thumb brushes over the earring, and travels down her neck. Then, re-finding all his confidence, he kisses her like a drowning man fights to reach shore.

They fall backwards onto the bed, him always a little more careful than any other lover might be, with that bladed hook. Sometimes he doesn’t take it off, and she can see her reflection in the gleam of the metal, her eyes gone wide with passion, cheeks flushed with passion, mirrored by the object that came from her coldest moment.

Other times, she is the one to remove it, and kiss the skin beneath.

Tonight, the hook cuts through her gown, and it is he who kisses skin hidden, underneath all her layers of silken armor. Only his kisses can cut through the mental armor too, finding all that is tender underneath.

Her breathing melts into soft moans, little whispered prayers to gods that honestly are probably quite enjoying this spectacle, given how much work they put into making it.

She’s naked now, beneath him, spread out on the bed that’s meant for two. “Eugenides,” she whispers, both a prayer and his name, her fingers in his soft hair, tugging him up so she can kiss his lying lips.

“This is a much nicer bed than they gave me,” he muses, rolling over after the kiss, flopping back onto the mattress. “It feels… why it’s full of feathers! Mine is straw.”

“Fitting, for one as goat-like as you.”

He glares at her.

She raises an eyebrow.

“Well, feathers are suited for a harpy like yourself.” he says, putting one hand behind his head, looking up at the ceiling he’d dropped from.  There’s a small crack between that wall and the next. They’d both seen it, when the servant had brought them to the room. “We ought to get you a nest. You could curl up and…”

“Hatch my young?” she asks. It’s a tone that her advisors, and Gen, only know. Bitter. Not at the world, but herself.

“Irene. I…” He curses, pushing himself back up. The pain exists between them, though now, she realizes, she has carried all of it. Cradled it the way he sometimes cradles his right arm. Cradled, the way she still dreams of…

Like he dreams of opening and closing the hand she took from him. Is this the goddess’s doing then? To punish her, for taking so much?

But she’d taken what she’d found. It was the gods who led her to him, who… Her hand goes to her temple, because her thoughts have circled back around, swirling like poisoned wine down a drain.

His voice cuts through the twisting thoughts around her, as only his can. “Why do you keep me around, if I’m so good at breaking things?”

“You are not the only one who has broken things,” she reminds him. “Inkpot.”

His eyes flash in the darkness. “Goblet.”

“Dented.”

“Irreparably so.”

“Still useable.” In fact, she was rather fond of the dent, since the reason he'd flung it had been so adorable. He’d not know a woman’s mouth could do more than kiss his lips, the fool.

He replies, “mirror”

“Wait.” She paused. “I broke that.”

“Yes, we’re switching to things the other has broken.” He replies. Typical him. To change the battlefield to one better suited to his maneuvers.

“Fine then.” She waits a moment and then says, accentuating every syllable. “Glass. Windows.”

“My heart.”

“Oh come now, that's not even tangible!”

“Mm…” he nips her shoulder. “Come now? Is that an invitation?”

Her fingers twist in his hair and tug. “You broke my favorite chair.”

“You sit too much already. I did you a favor.” He nuzzles her neck. “What about that book of mine you spilled wine on?”

“You read too much. I did your eyes a favor. You, however, tore just tore a dress I quite liked.”

“Fine. What about the ceramic statue of my cousin’s great uncle? Hmm?”

“Oh? And My own great aunt’s pearl necklace?”

“It was glass! A fake. How was I to know?”

“Isn’t that your occupation? To be aware of the quality of the things you steal?”

But they’re both smiling now, and his fingers brush down her neck, her shoulder, slide lower.  Searching, so skillfully, for all that will give her pleasure. Then, they press, in that little dance he’s perfected, each fingertip like lightening to her skin. “Oh I am … very, very aware of such things’ quality.” “Mm. Perhaps you should inspect such things more closely.”

He smiles, and shifts his body down, kissing her hips, her navel, and then lower, until her fists are clenched in the pillows. Yes, he is impulsive and stubborn and so good at breaking things… but he is even better at putting them back to right. She gazes down at him, resting one hand in the tangle of his dark hair, and for the first time in two days, smiles.

He lifts his head to smile back at her. They don’t need to speak. Not now. He’ll steal this pain from her heart, replace it with all the pleasures he can give, and in the morning, they will both be better. They will be together.

Together, as they had been in the carriage. Only now does she see what he did. Beyond his equestrian dislike, of course, there was a second reason. With him, there is always a second reason, if not also a third, fourth, fifth, and so on.

Tonight, as with most nights, he counts her pleasure the same way. Not once, not twice, but more than she truly deserves, until he rests, his head on her thigh, his hand moving to relieve himself of the burden he earns from such generosity. He doesn’t ask for her assistance, and he’s done before she even can think to move. While he pulls himself back from his blissful half-nap enough to undo his hook, she reconsiders what the carriage ride might have been.

How he could have held her and whispered to her, and kissed away each tear. Undone the knitting together, rewound the yarn and tucked away safe, for another time, another try.

Because he had been right that morning. She was injured. Not fragile in body, as she’d thought he meant, but fragile in spirit. The sort of wound only he, and not the doctors, knew how to heal for her.

She turns then, and pulls him to her, as soon as he sets down the hook. Kisses him deeply. The sort of kiss that tells him exactly what she’d like from him.

“So soon?” he whispers.

“If you can,” she teases, and her voice is light for the first time in days. “I believe it is certainly possible though.” Her hand snakes between them, touching him lightly, coaxing him. “The benefits of a younger husband.”

“Not that young,” he mutters. The tips of his ears are red.

No. Not that young at all. Old enough to be a father, to a child that still may yet be.

Only after, when they’re tangled in the silk sheets, both skin and hearts bared once more, does he whisper. “Perfume amphora.”

“Oh, just shut up and kiss me, Gen.”

[poemsfromthealley]

[fic snippet] Gate of Horn and Ivory (Magnus-centric, T, 1/5)

Since I’ve been making noises about wanting more fic about Magnus, I figured I’d better deliver. Here’s a teaser: more to be posted soon.

*

After arguing with Alec about the Soul-Sword, Magnus finds that the day’s far from done with him. One of his own is in peril, and he must mount a rescue posthaste---with a little help from some friends.

(Basically one giant fix-it for 2.17 “A Dark Reflection”, plus warlock worldbuilding. Spoilers for that episode.)

*

I am the seeker at the gate I have knelt in the fane by the sea I have drained the starry cup I have picked the golden bough I have walked the spiraled path The way lies open before me

--- The Invocation of the Labyrinth (translator unknown)

*

There's a sensation at the back of Magnus's mind that feels like the color red. It raises the taste of rust in his throat. The next sip of whiskey he takes rinses it off, but it creeps back up every time, over the sticky minutes of the small hour.

The bottle of fifteen-year-old Laphroiag he's been working through is, most likely, to be blamed for his tarry comprehension. The Thursday night at the Hunter's Moon gives him a berth for the most part. You bother a warlock in a high temper at your own risk, and the High Warlock of Brooklyn least of all. When he turned up for his second refill, Maia slid the whole bottle across the counter. "I'm not supposed to, but you scare off a Seelie or two every time you stalk across the room."

Magnus, recognizing the only kind of sympathy he can tolerate tonight, slid her a generous tip and withdrew into his corner. The civilized thing to do would be to abscond home to the cats and his cabinet of old wines and brood in solitude. He sent Luke on his way hours ago. They'll meet with the Seelie Queen tomorrow. Magnus just needs to be sober by then.

Everything in the apartment reminds him of Alec. A paradox, that. Alec's had a few measly months to leave his imprint on Magnus's centuries-old existence. Tonight Magnus watched his cat drape himself over the pair of boots Alec forgot last week, hopelessly late if not for a portal Magnus opened for him. The kindness was trivial then. He amused himself with the image of Alec arriving in the Institute foyer in his socks, sporting unsubtle post-sex hair. Remembering it now mixes ire and grief in his chest. He hates the combination.

He'd nearly forgotten what it's like to fight with a lover. How it strips one bare.

"Sorry," Maia says, leaning over his table, "but I've got to close up. Unless you wanna help me put up chairs, I'd appreciate movement toward the door."

At a glance, the rest of the bar is vacant. He's drunk, but not yet so much he couldn't snap into a fair impression of dapperness. "Of course. Word on the street is that you might have somebody waiting?"

"Does word on the street have the initials L. G. and stick his nose where it doesn't belong?"

"You assume correctly." He raises his glass to his lips. Soft smoke fills his nose.

The aroma of the whiskey becomes misting rust, the feeling flaking and crumbling as he reaches for it.

The warlocks of New York City don't report their misdeeds to him. On a bad day he may not even know who all of them are. The ties that grow between them are individual more than communal, in a society of immortals who branch together and apart again over hundreds of years. Those who knit close, though, knit fast.

Last time he lost the sense of Dorothea's magic, she was far away, frail and twisted by Valentine's torture.

This time she's dwindling like a handful of sand he's let flow without even noticing. Somewhere in his city, one of his people is dying. One of his oldest friends is dying.

"The only thing waiting for me is a test on coastal ecosystems tomorrow, so---you okay?"

"Splendid." Magnus manages not to choke on the word. "Pardon me. I'm needed. Be a dear and put the bottle on my tab."

"Was gonna." With some temerity, Maia points at his raised hand. "I'll put the entire liquor shelf on your tab if you make a portal in here. Last warlock that did that, we picked bits of glass from the ceiling for weeks."

He drops the forming spell. The spatial feedback of a portal was, admittedly, the last thing on his mind. A more pressing question: where is he going? The connection he has to Dot is turning to grit and dust and he might be more drunk than he gave himself credit for. Linear thought warps into viscous spirals.

Sensing her magic won't help him track her. She's probably within Manhattan, but that's worse than useless to him.

She's close. She's fading. This is all he knows. Catarina's on night shift in the ER, saving ordinary lives. He can't call Alec. One warlock already died today, in his bookshop in Greenwich Village.

"Hey." Maia, again. Her hand's on his shoulder: a minor infraction of the friendly but casual terms of their acquaintance. "What do you need?"

"To focus," Magnus says, desperate enough for the terse truth. "Something of Dorothea's. I can portal to her place---if she hasn't changed her wards."

"And if she has?" Somehow, Maia's scampered behind the counter. He hears her rummage around. She probably doesn't even know Dot. The Hunter's Moon isn't much of a warlock haunt, Magnus himself being an exception.

"I can theoretically break them, but---" He doesn't think he has any fond mementoes hidden away at the loft. With Dot, he had the bittersweet gift of a good parting. They didn't meet for fifteen years, then let themselves fall back into a friendship by slow stages.

But he does have something. It will do.

"Pinch your nose," Maia says, in front of him again, "and swallow this."

Magnus spares no thought to the missed innuendo. He takes the sturdy, swirled vial she's holding---surely out of Catarina's apothecary---and eyes the jade-green liquid. A clear-head potion. This is not the moment to question a windfall.

"Works wonders on sloshed wolves. Warlocks shouldn't be that different, right?"

"Not principally. Thank you, my dear." Magnus sighs, then tips the vile concoction down his throat.

>> Part 2

[shebeafancyflapjack]

Thank You (A John Rant)

Okay so. I’m not over Sherlock. But I am over Johnlock...happening in the show. I accept that. Not the story they wanted to tell. Fine. There’s many, many questions about the choices they made if that was the direction they were going and things I have trouble liking but...whatever. I have fics and RPs, it will do.

But you know what I want now, if there is a Series 5?

I want John to tell Sherlock; “Thank you.

Thank you for curing me of my limp and giving me a purpose in life again.

Thank you for giving me access to your debit card after knowing me for a couple of months and taking cases that you know will give us money so I don’t have to worry about finances.

Thank you for saving me that time I was kidnapped and almost killed.

Thank you for going through two years of hell in exile, involving suicide missions and torture, just to save my life and a couple of our friends.

Thank you for saving me that time I was kidnapped and almost killed. 

Thank you for organising my wedding and writing the most beautiful best man speech and then saving someone else I cared about.

Thank you for showing me the truth about who my wife is and then persuading me to be with her, despite what she did to you, because you just wanted me to be happy and with the woman you thought and I loved and was carrying my child.

Thank you for shooting the man who was threatening to destroy our lives and thus sentencing yourself to yet another exile and more likely suicide mission. Additional points for not telling me about this to save me further grief.

Thank you for babysitting my daughter and being a good godfather because I have trouble remembering she even exists half the time.

Thank you for almost killing yourself and putting yourself in harms way all because my wife suggested it would be the only thing to pull me out of my grief after she died even though I wrongly blamed you for her death.

Thank you for comforting me and embracing me after I beat the shit out of you and confessed to having cheated on the woman you had tried so hard to protect for me.

Thank you for standing up for me to your brother and calling me family.

Thank you for saving me that last time I was kidnapped and almost killed. I doubt it will be the last.”

Where is this? Any of this, in the entire show? 

When does John ever show ANY gratitude or recognition for Sherlock as a person? The only moment I can think of is when he hugs him at his wedding, only after Sherlock has poured his heart out, and John has had some wine to curb his inhibitions. The rest of the time he just bitches and snaps about how much of a madman or inhuman monster Sherlock is. That’s when he’s not physically assaulting him. When are we going to get to see John do something for Sherlock?

Okay he saves him once in the first episode. Good...is that it? In four seasons, are we ever going to see that again?

We see him save Sherlock in TAB! But, oh wait, that’s all in Sherlock’s head.

We see him save Sherlock in TLD! Oh, except he’s the one who beat him up and abandoned him there in the first place. Also he apparently only went to save him because Mary: Blu Ray Edition told him to. Also, the policeman could have kicked that door in!

We are TOLD in TSOT that he’s saved Sherlock ‘so many times and in so many ways’. We’re only shown one or two of these times. And the other ways he apparently saved Sherlock...well, I don’t think we honestly see a lot of John trying to explain and teach Sherlock to be a better person, it’s just nagging and snapping and then implying that causes him to change. It’s hardly Beauty and the Beast. I’d argue Sherlock wasn’t that much of a monster to begin with. John is hardly a saint or someone who can tell others how to be moral either.

I suppose John does help rebuild Sherlock’s flat in the end....Call it even? :P

The reason I’m focusing so much on this is because, before watching that ‘Why Sherlock is Garbage’ vid, I was beginning to think I was alone in seeing how John was poorly used in this show. I rarely saw anyone else complaining at how many times this supposedly badass army doctor gets kidnapped and needs Sherlock to rescue him, especially in contrast to how often John gets to be the hero (almost never). But I got to see someone else rant about it at last and I hate it because he also pointed out how the show really is about making Sherlock out to be this superhuman hero rather than a clever detective. Watson goes from being a hero in his own right to being a tool used to show off how awesome Sherlock is.

And not just Sherlock, but Mary as well. In TST, Mary nearly takes John’s place, with Sherlock stating she is ‘better at this than him’. Because that’s what Holmes and Watson fans want to see! Watson being replaced and seen as useless! It’s the same anger I have in how they turned the three badass fairies whom I loved from Sleeping Beauty into three neglectful idiots in Maleficent; unnecessarily tearing down a beloved character in order to build up another.

But, despite this all, I do still love John Watson. Before Series 3 he was my favourite character. Maybe it’s Martin’s amazing acting or maybe it’s the potential I saw. Maybe it’s me confusing ACD!Watson (which is NOT fanon Watson, thank you!) with Mofftiss’ Watson. Maybe it’s because John starts out as the character we are first introduced through and who we are supposed to see their world through so there’s a need to identify and like this character. So I really, really want the writers to start giving a crap about John and stop sacrificing his potential as a good friend and true hero for the sake of making Sherlock the big, amazing Christ figure who always saves the day and everyone else is a damsel in distress. 

I love Sherlock too, I do, and I do like the journey his character has gone through. But it’s supposed to be a show about BOTH of them as heroes. And, you know what, it’s not even that big a problem if you do have John just as a damsel in distress. It’s kinda insulting to the original Watson but, whatever, it’s an adaptation and a new spin, you can do what you like. Lois Lane, April O’Neal, Xander from Buffy, these are likeable characters despite ending up needing to be rescued a lot. But if the character being saved can not even be grateful to the hero - then how we, as the audience, see them as worth saving, let alone remaining ‘best friends’ with?

If this is supposed to be a show that is about a great friendship - then make that friendship great! Because at the moment it feels painfully one-sided and the idea that this could be the last series, that the show could end with them in this unhealthy state, makes me way more sad than the idea of them not getting together romantically.