#Earth beneath my feet on ao3 my beloved <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[gillespiejr]

Ok so my winnix characterisation pet peeve (thank you for asking) is when people write dick as the one with severe internalized (and/or externalized) homophobia and write nix as someone who never had a problem coming to terms with his homosexuality due to his socialite hedonistic upbringing or whatever. Because that is honestly so out of character in my opinion. Hear me out. I fully believe that winters would take the Anne lister approach (God made me love my own sex therefore it is my god given right and duty to love my own sex) and be done with it. He has a full grip on his character, he knows himself inside and out and he is mentally strong and disciplined. Meanwhile for alcoholic divorced cheater epic failure (according to his father) demoted and disgraceful Nixon, homosexuality would be another reason to hate himself. He would be fucked up about "being the girl" and not being man enough. Whereas dick winters is fully confident in himself. Is anyone still listening to me. Anyways don't get me wrong I fucking love horrible amounts of self loathing and internalized homophobia (it's like fanfic msg. Or salt even.) but you have to give it to the right person!!!!

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

A king's pity

Day 3 for @manweweek

Prompts: The Children | Whispering Breeze: Manwë & Fingon

Pairing: Manwë & Fingon

Themes: A bit of Russingon | Happy ending

Warnings: Maedhros' imprisonment against a precipice of Thangorodrim | Fingon's attempts to grant Maedhros' plea by using his bow and arrow

Wordcount: 1.3k words

Summary: Manwë hears Fingon's prayer for pity, and must decide if he is to aid the exiled Noldor

Also available on AO3

This was requested by @melestasflight. I hope you like this!

“O King to whom all birds are dear, speed now this feathered shaft, and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need!”

Manwë listened attentively to the prayer that was carried to him on the swiftest wind. It was a plea for his aid, no more, no less. He peered into the heart of the one who called to him, taking care to shield himself from discovery. And he saw much: a barren land that reeked of death and worse, fell towers of black stone, skies darkened with black, acrid smoke, a steep precipice covered in soot and dust, and a lone elf hung by the wrist of his right hand upon the face of it. A stray wind lifted wisps of brilliant coppery hair, revealing a countenance so marred that it nearly made the king recoil in horror. Another elf stood far beneath that captive elf, bow and arrow at the ready, his cheeks and robes wet with his tears. Manwë, aggrieved by all that he saw, recognized the elf with the marred countenance and the elf that stood beneath him. 

It was Findecáno who called out to me, and it is Findecáno who wishes to free his kinsman from his agony, he thought. And he did not need anyone to tell him what the bow and arrows were for; he understood well enough. He yearns for nothing more than to grant Nelyafinwë the kindness of a swift and peaceful end. 

Ah, but there was more within that heart filled with kindness and mercy, Manwë knew. He heard many things, and he had witnessed a great many others with his own eyes: a touch that had lingered longer than it should have, a look filled with longing and hunger, words that held hidden depths and meanings. The king was no fool. Maedhros was more than just a beloved friend and kinsman to Fingon. Fingon was more than just a beloved friend and kinsman to Maedhros. Their bond was deeper and held within it more than one would find in an ordinary bond between kith and kin. While another would have openly condemned it, calling what they had a sin of both the spirit and the flesh, Manwë kept his peace instead, believing this bond, this hidden love, could one day end the strife plaguing the House of Finwë. 

I could answer him, he thought, rising from his throne. His bare feet made no sound as he descended the marble steps. And help bring this healing about. But there is the decree to consider. We swore to offer the exiled Children no aid.

The king, caught between the growing need to show pity and the need to be as unwavering as a king sometimes ought to be, made his way out to a balcony open to the sky. He peered at the slopes beneath Ilmarin and the great white clouds swirling peacefully around them. There was a mighty gust of wind, disturbing the clouds and bringing another prayer only the king could hear. This one was more insistent and desperate. Fingon’s arrow had missed its mark.

He is resolute in ending Nelyafinwë’s life, Manwë considered in astonishment. The one whom he loves over all others. 

Determined to learn more, he willed his mind to open fully. Fingon, startled by this unexpected intrusion into his thoughts, stumbled and fell to the stony earth. He tried to shield his mind, believing himself to be yet another victim of the unseen hand of the enemy. When Manwë made his true identity known, he sighed in relief. 

“Speak true to me, Findecáno,” the king commanded, though not unkindly, “and tell me why you are determined to do this.”

“I love him, my lord,” the elf returned swiftly but respectfully, for even in this new land, Manwë was king. “More than what has been allowed to us by both custom and law, as you have no doubt seen in my heart. I wish to free him from his torment.”

“I have indeed seen; long before you departed for these lands,” The king admitted and reflected on the elven prince’s confession. Then he said, “Tell me. Do you truly wish to free your beloved by ending his life?” 

“There is no other way”—Fingon trembled, despair cutting a fresh wound through his heart—“to free him from his torment, my lord.” 

"And this is what he wants as well?"

"It is what he pleaded for, my lord."

“You willingly do this, knowing you will have to live through the ages without him by your side?”

“If it means that he no longer suffers, then yes, my lord, that is the price I am more than willing to pay.” 

The king heard all he needed to hear and withdrew without a word of farewell. Then he stood as he was on the balcony, silent and unmoving, searching for the path he must take.

Do I abandon Nelyafinwë to his fate? He thought. Do I leave him to languish against that precipice alone? 

He considered the wisdom of aiding the exiled Children and acting against his own decree. He pondered for a great while, wondering if it would make him as cruel and unforgiving as his brother if he did nothing to aid Fingon and Maedhros in their hour of great need.

Could I truly do it? Forsake them at such a time and leave them with no hope? Manwë could not make such a decision lightly. And he did not have enough time to seek the counsel of his queen; she had departed for the timeless halls to aid others in their work. He turned to the creator of them all instead. 

“Show me the paths that lay before me in this great matter, my lord,” he pleaded wordlessly.

 Eru then revealed to him visions that had been hidden from his eyes until now. He saw what would happen if he aided Fingon, and all that could come to pass if he did not. He trembled.

“You know what you must do,” Eru returned after the visions ended.

“I do, my lord.” Manwë opened his eyes. His decision was made.  

And Fingon, now caught in a state of slow-growing uncertainty and despair, returned to his tent and waited. The new lights ascended and descended in turns once and then twice. He received no further visit from the king during that time, no word of his aid, no word of his refusal. Then, after the bright golden orb rose from its resting place a third time and painted the clouds the color of brilliant flames, he returned to his usual place at the base of the precipice, thinking Manwë’s silence alone was enough of a sign. The Noldor had been forsaken by all and were very much left to their own devices. He reached for another arrow and whispered another prayer, asking for forgiveness for what he was about to do. He pulled back the string, hoping against all hope that this arrow flew true to its mark and freed his beloved from his agony.

Can I succeed this time, he thought, when I have failed so many times before? A moment passed, and the elf hesitated, lowering his bow in shame. Fingon could not do it. He knew he could not. He was no Oromë; his arrows would never reach their mark, no matter how hard he tried. His beloved was doomed to hang upon the face of that accursed cliff until death and the Great Judge’s embrace finally claimed him.

Forgive me, my love, for failing you. He turned to walk away, grief-stricken and helpless, preparing himself to deliver dark news that would distress them all.

A strange, whispering breeze swept around him, carrying with it a barely heard command to "stop." Fingon halted mid-stride, his skin prickling and fear squeezing at his heart, when a great shadow fell over him. He looked up, thinking he had been discovered and that the enemy had sent a fell beast to hasten his demise. What he found soaring high above him, watching and waiting, prompted the faintest of smiles to tug at the corners of his mouth.

tags: @asianbutnotjapanese

[bakuliwrites]

Lunar Halo, Chapter 8- Yours Eternally

Rating: 18+ (for future chapters), Minors DNI!!!!!

Chapter Links: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, Ending 1, Ending 2, Ending 3

Fandom: Dark Souls

Relationships: Dark Sun Gwyndolin/OC, Dark Sun Gwyndolin/Chosen Undead

Tags for Whole Work: Major Character Death, Angst, Fluff, Smut, Romance, Grief/Mourning, Body Horror, Body Worship, Oral S*x, Penetrative S*x, Vaginal Fingering, Friends to Lovers, Bodyguard Romance, Blades of the Darkmoon, Marriage (and not in the Dark Souls 3 definition of it...), Marriage Proposal, Gwyndolin uses he/him pronouns, Falling in Love

Chapter Summary: SMUT AHEAD. Gwyndolin and his Beloved are wed, an event that is felt in the tenuous threads of the world. Read here or on my AO3

Gods do not require witnesses. So in the sanctity of the Holy Church of Anor Londo, Gwyndolin weds a mortal woman, a marriage that takes place with onlookers of sightless statues and eyeless stained glass figures. Yorshka is the only real guest to attend, acting as an officiant for this ceremony and beaming brightly at her brother as he meets her eye. The Dark Sun smiles from beneath his crown, his joy matched only by the elation of his Beloved. 

Wedding bells ring from the spires of the cathedral, the celebratory sound foreign to the ears of the residents of the valley. Despite such an unfamiliar chime, all who listen feel the weight of impending change. Legends will be told for ages to come, tales of the union of a mortal and a god. Some are whispered in disapproval, scathing recounts of a manipulative human worming its way into the heart of a deity. However, these rumors are often dismissed, replaced by hushed accounts that weave a bittersweet epic, one filled with hope and with everlasting love. It is one of the few precious, benevolent legends of the world. 

Veiled by cloth woven of moonlight, Gwyndolin guides his Beloved Star to the altar. Her robes are redolent of the night that enshrouds the earth, glimmering diamonds and sweeping swathes of indigo pooling around her feet as she glides up the aisle. Iridescent moonstone enamels her hand and with the promise of fealty, of love for eternity, the Dark Sun is wed. And a mortal has been anointed his wife. 

The consummation of the marriage between the Dark Sun and his Beloved Star binds not only body, but soul, as well. And in a world that hinges upon souls of all forms, the gravity of this union will be felt for ages to come. The Dark Soul of a human merging with the Light Soul of a god, while done in absolute privacy, will be felt in the fibers that weave this world together. Vibrations in a tenuous thread.  

In the sepulcher of Gwyndolin’s chambers, he strips away his robes of moonlight, casting them to the ground, making himself vulnerable for the first time in front of another. His Beloved Star sheds her cloak of night and reveals unto the Dark Sun every time-faded scar, every stretch mark, every beautifully human piece of herself. She is first to reach a timid hand out to ghost along Gwyndolin’s clavicle, her fingertips brushing along the bony protrusions of his ribs, and dancing gracefully down the knots of his vertebrae. She is gentle with Gwyndolin’s delicate frame, her kisses featherlight as she litters them along his jawline, down the slope of his neck, and across his chest. Her words are praising, uplifting, before she drags her tongue along the porcelain shell of his ear, complimenting the Dark Sun’s grace, his gentility. 

“Lovely Gwyndolin,” she whispers, a psalm hushed in secrecy to an adoring deity, “My most precious, Gwyndolin.”

He coos her name, an incantation imbued with ultimate devotion, with perennial love. In the dusky haze of this room, Gwyndolin and his Beloved are safe. Concealed from a harsh, unforgiving world. Moonlight guards them, silver and inviolable. 

When the Dark Sun rests his hands upon the skin of his Beloved, he feels the ridges of her hip bone beneath his elegant fingers, the knotted wires of tendon, the plushness of fat atop sinewy muscle. He finds himself lost in her humanity, drinking in her body, her soul like he’s parched. His touch meanders along her form, taking his time in memorizing every curve, every dip, every plush inch of her. Gwyndolin must know his Beloved in her entirety, and she, him. Each motion of theirs is meant to venerate the other, to worship and revere. The sheets beneath are hallowed in the union of dark and light. In the moon and the stars. 

Proof of Gwyndolin’s arousal grazes his Beloved’s inner thigh. She smiles coyly at him, pink feathering across her cheeks. 

“May I?” she questions, her eyes sparkling impishly in the sliver of moonlight cast across their shared bed. 

“Please,” Gwyndolin whimpers, desperation pooling between his legs. He ensnares her lips with his, moaning softly into his Beloved as her hands dip between his thighs. It is a sensation unlike anything the Dark Sun has ever felt before. She is attentive, languorous, each motion purposeful and sweet. He cannot help but sigh into her like a willow bending with the wind. She swipes her thumb over his tip, wetting him with the glistening bead of cum that sits atop it, dewey and warm. Her rhythmic pumps are slow and unhurried, sending voltaic shivers through Gwyndolin’s body. He feels lightning constricting his lungs as he rocks his hips in time with his Beloved’s motions.  

“My Star,” he manages through labored breaths as her mouth leaves its bittersweet marks: merlot lovebites painting his skin, skin stretched taut like canvas over bone, “I am yours, and yours alone.” 

She releases her grip, trailing kisses down his chest, her lips velvety and warm in the chill of the evening air. She tickles the tender flesh of his adonis belt with her fingernails, grazes his inner thighs with her teeth, before settling in between them. It’s all Gwyndolin can do not to buck his hips into her in his excitement, his hand flying to his mouth to cover his startled gasp. Graciously, she holds his legs to keep him in place, giggling at his eagerness. The movement of her tongue is euphoric: how it flattens against him, swirls around his tip, laps up his arousal, and drags up the underside of his cock. His mind is reeling with pleasure, his fingers tangled in her hair. Every nerve ending in Gwyndolin’s body feels as if they’re firing in deliciously overwhelming waves. 

“My Darling,” he huffs, his whole body flushed and rosy, “I beg thee. Let me please you.”  

He draws her up, his lips crashing into hers, kisses so terribly desperate and messy. She tastes of him and in some way it feels both deliciously sinful and potently sacred. She has sanctified him in her own way. Now, it is the Dark Sun’s turn to consecrate her. He lays kiss after kiss over her soft skin, attentive to each of the sensitive buds of her nipples, mouth closing gently around one and then the other. He revels in her needy moans, her stifled gasps as he reaches her heat. His tongue searches, circling when he finds a spot that makes his Beloved moan his name so exquisitely, Gwyndolin is convinced he could come right then and there. Her  mewls are salacious as his tongue teasingly darts in and out of her entrance. Lips wet with her arousal, Gwyndolin laps her up like he’s famished, his nose eagerly bumping against her with each rut of her hips. 

Gwyndolin truly does feel as if he has been starved of affection the whole of his life. Of praise. His Beloved’s celebration of the way he makes her feel is utterly enriching. The way their bodies move together is a gift. How is it that this human woman fits so perfectly against him? And he against her? 

The Dark Sun and his Beloved Star breathe as one. Their hearts beat as one. His lips find hers again, while his hand slips down to her heat, fingers slick with her arousal. With permission, Gwyndolin buries two within her, pumping slow and rhythmic. The tiny, aching whines that fall from her mouth only serve to fuel the Dark Sun’s passion. And he cannot help the soft, yearning moans that escape his throat. Wordlessly, she stays his hand and adjusts herself, ready to take him in. Slowly, Gwyndolin sheathes himself inside her, exhaling as he feels her tighten around him. She’s warm, so very warm, and feels so utterly perfect around him. When she’s had a moment to adjust, the Dark Sun and his Beloved star grind their hips in tandem. 

“My heart is yours, Dear Gwyndolin,” she breathes, the heat of her mortal flesh utterly intoxicating. He is coiled around her body, holding her close as he presses deep inside her, his tip pushing against the soft pad of her cervix. She dissolves under his touch, turns to ash in the cyclic passage of time. She is the last ember of a fading hearth, born in the womb of a dying star. She is a human wreathed in darkness, darkness warmed by ancient starlight. 

“My Dearest Gwyndolin,” she speaks through constricted vocal cords, her grasp desperate on his thighs as she grinds her hips into him, “I grow close. Please, I-”

Her words are lost when Gwyndolin captures her lips with his, fervent kiss after fervent kiss no doubt leaving behind their wine-colored marks. He can feel her walls pulsing around him, and he is not much further behind. Gwyndolin’s free hand reaches to her breast, massages and kneads. Her fingers tangle in his snowy hair, tugging gently to angle his head so she might have better access to the tender flesh of his neck. She suckles gently beneath his ear, delighting in the strained keens that fall from her dearest Gwyndolin’s pink lips. 

The world falls away to nothing as the Dark Sun and his Beloved Star bring one another to ecstasy. In an almost febrile haze, Gwyndolin feels the coil in her release. And as she brings him to completion, Gwyndolin feels himself unfold. Like she’s cracked open his ribs, carving out the hollow bone and scooping out the rot that has buried itself in the cavity of his chest. She nestles within him, blooming in the fibrous organs beneath his sternum. Together, they are a tangle of limbs, scales, moonlight, and constellations. Threads of shadow and lunar halos, flares of sunlight and tendrils of darkness. Should flame extinguish, it would not matter, Gwyndolin thinks. He and his Beloved can ignite flame of their own, kindling for a fire that knows nothing of the festering world around them.

In the silence and the bliss that follows, the Dark Sun presses his hand to his Beloved’s abdomen, and she to his. Gwyndolin wonders aloud to her if they should conceive children. If they should birth beings from the union of shadow and light. To carry out a primordial lineage. To let the world not fall to ruin. Surely, this would be their fate. Surely, some being somewhere would smile upon this union. Upon conception of a creature that houses both a Soul of Light and a Soul of Dark. 

Gwyndolin’s eyes fall shut in the murky twilight, comforted by his Beloved humming a tune long forgotten by the ears of man. She rubs gentle circles into his back and holds him close. His dreams at first are pleasant: images of a future with her. Little feet pitter-pattering through the grand halls of Anor Londo. The soft caress of his Beloved. Life lived at one another’s side, basking in the warmth of the sun. Love ingrained in every surface, every action, every word, eternal and unwavering.

And then the Dark Sun’s dreams turn to ruin. In them, foul beasts lurk in his dungeons. Massive shadows writhe in the dark, burbling forth from tombs disturbed, fetid and bloated, stinking of rot. He dreams most vividly of being consumed. Whittled away to nothing but bone and ruined flesh. A bolus of sinew and chewed gristle or a bezoar housed in the stomach of a grotesque creature bloated by unfathomable sin. And what of his Beloved? Hollowed, withered. Or perhaps consumed, herself. Gwyndolin, too weak to protect her. And she, too human to change the course of fate. 

He wakes with a start, gasping shallow breaths as if having been drowned in the depths of a deep, dark sea. His Beloved is beside him, drawing him close and littering his face with kisses.

“My Darling, what troubles you?” she questions, her voice muted with exhaustion. He does not know how to explain these terrible visions. Visions that felt so utterly real, he wonders if they aren’t prophecy. When Gwyndolin finally manages, his Beloved gently cups his cheek in one hand and leans her forehead against his.

“I will not allow that to happen,” she vows, letting her eyelids flutter shut, “And if it does, then I, too, shall be consumed. For my love for you does not end with death.”

A/N: We are nearing the end of this story. It is hard to believe! I've gotten a couple comments about what is going to happen at the end of this story, if the ending will be happy or sad. Worry not! I plan to do three different possible endings that you can choose from, one of which will be a happier ending :) I wanted it to be a little like a choose your own adventure. So the last three chapters (chapters 10-12) will be the three different endings. Those will all go up at once when it comes time. Thank you so very much for reading, for your support, and your comments! I hope you have had a wonderful weekend and have a wonderful start to the week!

[bottomlouisficfest]

We hope you’ve enjoyed the tenth week and final week of fics from the Bottom Louis Fic Fest! Every weekend, we’ve compiled all of the fics from that week into one roundup post so they’re easy to find for anyone looking to catch up on fics they missed. Enjoy these amazing fics and give them the love they deserve!

Late night devil put your hands on me (and never, never, never ever let go)

A fic by summerandsunshine on AO3 | sunshine_Iou on Twitter

12k | Explicit | Louis/Harry | Tumblr post | Twitter post

Harry is a demon that feeds off of people’s nightmares. He finds his next meal in Louis’ dreams where he changes and molds them to become scary nightmares. Soon harry learns Louis is a lucid dreamer- he can act on his own in his dreams. They interact in the real world and have sex in the dream world. when Louis catches feelings the devil, Harry promises to come back to earth once and for all.

No Easy Choice, But You’re Mine

A fic by alltheselights on AO3 | @alltheselights on Tumblr | alltheselightts on Twitter

45k | Explicit | Louis/Harry | Tumblr post | Twitter post

Louis’ feet pound on the pavement as he runs, and the echo reverberates through the alley behind him. He drops the gun near a trash bin as he passes, his gloved fingers ensuring that it will never be traced back to him.

He’s panting, his thighs ache, and there’s a cramp forming beneath his ribs on the right side, but all of that is nothing compared to the exhaustion clouding his brain.  

I can’t do this anymore, Louis thinks.

Or: Louis is an omega hitman with one last job that goes a little sideways. Harry is the alpha bartender that looks a little too closely and cares a little too much.

Joker Is Wild

A fic by Typosmyown on AO3 | @palosquared on Tumblr

19k | Explicit | Louis/Harry, Louis/Various | Tumblr post | Twitter post

Prompt 390: A reality show AU where Louis, Harry, Liam, Zayn and Niall are selected to stay at confined in a luxury mansion for 1 month, where they are required to have explicit, graphic sex at all times, like a porn Big Brother kind of show. Every week there are several different sexual tasks and trials that they must overcome together, which all ends in orgasms for all of them. When the boys all discover Louis is strictly a bottom, and a slutty one at that, they all can’t wait to get their hands on him. Bonus if other hot celebs are there too, like Shawn Mendes, for example. Includes lots of hard gay sex, rimming, blowjobs, gang bangs, ass worshipping (Louis ass, of course) and double penetration.

The Pirate and The Piper

A fic by jacaranda_bloom on AO3 | @jacaranda-bloom on Tumblr | jacaranda_bloom on Twitter

38k | Explicit | Louis/Harry | Tumblr post | Twitter post

Banished from Neverland by Captain Hook and the evil Siren Minerva, Louis is forced to live in the Other World. He makes a life for himself, resigned to the fact he’s never going to see his beloved home and Lost Boys again. Five years later he’s kidnapped and returned to Neverland, only to discover a far worse fate awaits him. But with an unlikely ally by his side, can he overcome those who seek his demise and restore freedom to his homeland?

 Or the one where Harry is Hook, Louis is Pan, and nothing is what it seems.

Coeur de Pirate

A fic by louizsv on AO3 | @ashleyjohnsonfanaccount on Tumblr | piccadillyplum on Twitter

34k | Explicit | Louis/Harry, Louis/OMC, Louis/Harry/OMC | Tumblr post | Twitter post

He tilts his chin up as the Captain strides across the deck, his footfalls falling loudly against the planks. The crew watches them from afar.

Stepping into his space, the Captain wraps an arm around Louis’ waist and pulls him in. He lowers his head to breathe his words against Louis’ cheeks. “I won,” he whispers, “I’ve come to claim my prize.”

if you're feeling lonely

A fic by ifthat on AO3 | @lovehl on Tumblr | omegalouis on Twitter

12k | Explicit | Louis/Harry | Tumblr post | Twitter post

The guest list is on the desk. Louis runs through it and stops a third of the way down when a familiar name catches his breath.

Harry Styles.

All he has to do is verify whether Harry Styles is the same Alpha whose scent beckoned him closer.

it's a game we play in the sheets

A fic by loubabyworship on AO3 | @strawbabyloucake on Tumblr | pillouprincess on Twitter

9k | Explicit | Louis/Harry | Tumblr post | Twitter post

“Louis is… He’s a boy I’ve been talking to.” He bit his lip, grin evident. “After I watched one of his videos during a Harry Reacts a few weeks ago I messaged him and…”

His sentence was cut short by the sound of a timid little “Hi” being whispered into his ears.

Harry closed his eyes for a second, pausing to take in the online presence of the real-life fairy, before he opened them and smiled. “Hey Lou. Ready to play with me?”

Mind Over Matter (You Under Me)

A fic by youreyesonlarry on AO3 | @youreyesonlarry on Tumblr | youreyesonlarry on Twitter

73k | Explicit | Louis/Harry | Tumblr post | Twitter post

It’s dark outside when Harry finishes practice for the day.

--------

Prompt 21: Harry stopped playing hockey (after 10 years of a professional career) because of a severe injury. The dream he worked so hard for vanished in the blink of an eye. His family insisted that he had to go to physical therapy, even if it only helped his health. Cue to personal assistant Louis, the most efficient and kind PA one could hire.

--

View the other roundup posts here:

Week #1 Fic Roundup

Week #2 Fic Roundup

Week #3 Fic Roundup

Week #4 Fic Roundup

Week #5 Fic Roundup

Week #6 Fic Roundup

Week #7 Fic Roundup

Week #8 Fic Roundup

Week #9 Fic Roundup

[codedredalert]

no lead nor steel shall reach him so [Golden Kamuy, Ogata & Yuusaku] -- gen oneshot

Ogata character study || 1705 words

A good marksman could swear blind that he knew a good shot before his bullet left the barrel.

Ogata was a good shot. The moment he pulled the trigger on Yuusaku, he knew he'd made a mistake.

Warnings: canon-typical violence, character death, Ogata is messed up and regrets nothing, this is not a nice softe redemption story.

A/N: written for @narramin​ 

(On Ao3)

===/\===

.

      1.

Ogata knew the rumours.

Second Lieutenant Hanazawa Yuusaku is the eight virtues personified, they said. No wonder he was promoted so young. No wonder he had the honour of bearing the flag.

Perhaps Ogata knew the rumours best  because they were spoken carefully around him— whispers like prey rustling the grass, catching his attention whether he willed it or not.

He's  that Ogata's brother, they said. No, reliably came the disbelieving reply. Can't be, no way, you've got to be lying, is it true? It's true, the Second Lieutenant said so, though Ogata tries to keep it quiet. Ah, well it makes sense,  he's the bastard after all, isn't he? Hah, in more ways than one…

Sideways glances between himself and their vaunted officer, not nearly as discreet as the men of the 7th Division believed themselves to be.

Have you heard? asked First Lieutenant Tsurumi in a conspiratorial whisper when he had Ogata alone. They say the Second Lieutenant is very principled.

Yes, Ogata has heard.

Shall we see for ourselves? proposed the First Lieutenant, hand outstretched, an offer.

.

.

      一.

"Life is a long road."

Grandmother taught this to him in a voice that was light to mask the weight of wisdom in those heavy words. After Mother's death, Grandmother had never faltered in her duties though she grieved, going through the funeral proceedings with head held high, and seeing to Ogata's every need with reliability that Mother had never managed, though she had tried.

"The longer one's road grows, the more places to stumble, and for impurity to rest on the soul. With time, every person falls to the suffering of existence."

She used one of her wrinkled, gnarled hands to smooth back Ogata's clipped-short hair, soothing and pleasant.

"It is just the way life is," she said.

.

.

      2.

Ogata approached Yuusaku for the first time since the young officer had first called him brother, and the younger man lit up with such unadulterated delight that it sent a shudder of disgust down Ogata's spine.

He had to be faking. No one got that excited about a night out with their bastard half-brother. But as long as the Second Lieutenant wanted to play the good brother, that suited Ogata just fine.

Ogata led Yuusaku to the pleasure district, watching with amusement as the younger man's delight turned to discomfort, to embarrassment, to distress.

"Brother… I'm terribly sorry," he said, bowing. And he  sounded sorry too, as if it physically pained him to refuse Ogata's first tenuous offer of brotherhood. His sincerity grated, as did his refusal. In one move, Yuusaku had both undermined Ogata's objective, and plainly made the grave insult that— however much he claimed to want Ogata for an elder brother— Ogata's wants and ways were beneath him.

With the trap now useless, there was no choice but to let him go, and Yuusaku walked out of the establishment as free and upright as ever.

But Ogata could be patient. As the war went on— as the acrid gunpowder, piss, shit, and anguish seeped into them all— Yuusaku would stumble. Ogata just had to bide his time and try again, try better.

.

.

      二.

His mother was beautiful in death. She had hundreds of admirers from the peak of her career, and many a swooning painter had captured her likeness. A portrait of her had been gifted to them, and it smiled bright-eyed and gentle upon Ogata from the family altar as she never had in life.

"It doesn't look like her," he remarked, as he stood side by side with his grandmother and offered incense. He remembered his mother's back as she stood in the middle of a room for long stretches of time, silent and unmoving. Her profile, as she stared out the window, watching for a man who would never come.

The joss sticks burned down to ash, and Grandmother lifted her head from her prayers. She bowed and turned away, gesturing for him to follow. He followed suit.

"People see what they want to see," she said, once she had closed the door behind them. Grandmother was very different from Mother, in that way. She always paid attention to him, even if she was silent at first. He just had to be patient.

"Men wanted her beauty, so they took whichever parts of her they found beautiful and painted over all the other parts to suit their tastes. They did not know her character, the hardship she went through. The  geisha, the  maiko… they suffer greatly for their success. But it was our hope that she would have a good life, a better life than the one we could give her. Not..."

Heartache. Deep despair. The delusion that roused her from bed only to make the same dish, day after day: a desperate, futile offering to a love that didn't realise.

Ogata understood.

.

.

      3.

"Superior Private Ogata. It appears that Yuusaku is a more gallant soldier than we imagined. He's won over the hearts of all the other men."

Ogata let out the breath he'd been holding for his shot and lowered his rifle. He could read between the lines and take the orders the First Lieutenant preferred not to say explicitly. Plausible deniability and all that. It's why the First Lieutenant liked him.

"So you're saying we're better off not killing him, sir?" asked Ogata, reloading and already looking for his next target. He didn't need an answer. "Understood."

Ogata led Yuusaku wraithlike over the fields where gunfire and screaming had reigned earlier that day. The night was quiet but far from silent, the sighing of the wind an unearthly substitute for the dead and dying soldiers' groans. Yuusaku's boots scuffed the earth as he followed. He made enough noise that Ogata could have shot him at fifty yards, blindfolded.

"I want to see you kill him," Ogata said earnestly, pressing his knife into Yuusaku's hands. Yuusaku flinched and his eyes slid away, looking for escape, looking anywhere but Ogata's eyes, anywhere but the Russian soldier gagged and bound at their feet.

"Father said I have to keep my hands clean," Yuusaku begged off, as if the word 'Father' could invoke more authority than 'Lieutenant General' or 'martial law'. Ah, but Yuusaku was a beloved child, Ogata remembered, and this was him trying to appeal to the filial respect that Ogata never had the chance to develop for the man.  

Something must have shown on Ogata's face.

Yuusaku embraced him and Ogata's blood swarmed like locusts in his veins, eating him alive with irritating discontent and a curious, persistent thought.

.

.

     三.

Mother's death was Ogata's first. A lot of customs went with it, though Ogata didn't really see why. When everything was over, Grandmother paid a priest to come bless the family and sprinkle salt at him.

"It's for your own good. Death is an unclean thing, we don't want its shadow over you," Grandmother explained when Ogata grumbled about some of it getting it into his eye. Her voice wavered ever so slightly, as she smoothed the front of her kimono. "Remember to do this after I've passed."

Ogata buried her the year he was conscripted. He didn't get the priest afterwards. There wasn't much point, on the way to a war.

.

.

      4.

It was so easy to find Yuusaku on the field, even in the chaos.

Gallant Yuusaku, leading the throng of soldiers eager to kill and die for the emperor and their nation. Ogata could frame them in his rifle sight like a painter drafting a standing screen. Yuusaku, marked by the rising sun.

It was so easy that it was a wonder how the enemy snipers hadn't gotten him first. The waving flag begged to be targeted. Did the Russians dismiss him for having no gun? For never drawing his unblooded sabre?

It was so easy to line up the shot.

What would happen if— ?

Ogata pulled the trigger.

.

.

      四.

Birds scattered as he missed, taking to the peach-pink sky above the fields behind the family house in Ibaraki. Ogata took aim for his second shot, but the timing was already so far off that there was no point. He lowered his grandfather's rifle instead of wasting another bullet.

He'd been over-eager, moving too much, and too fast. The light was gone now, and he would have to return home empty-handed.

.

.

      5.

Yuusuke's distant silhouette crumpled. His corpse joined the hundreds of bodies on the battlefield, lost in the chaos of the regiment as he went down, the bright white and red and gold tasselled flag falling slowly after him before it too disappeared from sight. Ogata lowered his rifle with a strange sense of frustration and ran his hand through his regulation cropped-short hair.

There was a strange absence of something he thought would be there, and with that... Disappointment. Profound disappointment. Like the shot when he was a child in the fields behind the family house in Ibaraki and learning to hunt, the birds scattering as he missed.

Yuusaku crowned by the sun, beloved.

He'd been overeager and now gallant Yuusaku would be forever gallant, forever pure. The impurity of death didn't seem to stick, and now Yuusaku was an immortal nuisance and Ogata still had no answer to the discontent crawling on his back.

Ogata's hand clenched on the butt of his rifle, white-knuckled with cold. This was the first time he felt  bad when he'd made his shot, bereft of something out of reach, which could have been his but never would. It was a pricking irritation similar to missing a shot. Even though he hadn't.

There were no answers here. There were no answers in the dead. Not in his mother, not in his grandmother, not in this man who called him brother.

Ogata turned and First Lieutenant Tsurumi was there. The First Lieutenant smiled in understanding and nodded in approval, as if knowing Ogata's thoughts before Ogata himself.

The father who only had enough love to raise one virtuous son. Yes, Ogata could just ask him directly. There was no point thinking about Yuusaku any longer.

Yuusaku was dead. That was the end of it. Ogata couldn't reach him anymore.

Time to turn to the living.

===/END\===

(On Ao3)  ( patreon ) ( kofi ) ( paypal )

[chatonne-rousse]

The Pole Kit and Kaboodle

Written for @smutember, Day 3: Striptease

@tsuki-chibi, I owe you one for all your encouragement and the great ideas you provided.  You’re the best!  ♥

This can also be read on Ao3.

They break apart for air, heaving breaths amplified in the silence of Adrien’s cavernous bedroom. Marinette’s hands still clutch at his back beneath his t-shirt; he lowers his head to her bare shoulder and sucks a possessive mark into her skin.

Her sundress is long gone, unbuttoned an hour ago by eager yet careful hands and parted reverently to reveal the lacy bra that now hangs from one shoulder.

Lips and tongue and teeth explore that same shoulder now, claiming every inch of skin up, up the curve of her neck and oh! The jolt of arousal that zings down her spine has her hips pressed to his of their own accord, while he soothes the spot his teeth have just nipped.

“You like that, Mari?” He purrs, huffing a pleased laugh against her skin before dipping back down to do it all over again just behind her ear.

She can practically hear the smug grin in his voice, but imagining it on Adrien’s sweet face seems wrong somehow. It’s a look more suited to a certain black cat, whom Marinette has no intention of thinking about while her boyfriend tugs her bra strap further down her arm and follows its path with kisses.

This is wonderful, of course, and her senses sing with delight at the smell of his shampoo, the taste of his minty lip balm still on her tongue, the delicious weight of his body between her legs and his soft skin beneath her fingertips. But when her bare thighs rub against his jeans as her hips search for more friction, it’s not difficult to notice the disparity in their states of undress.

He’s just freed her breast from its confines when she decides they need to even the score a bit.

Her hands glide whisper-soft down the plane of his back, and she’s gratified by the surprised gasp she hears (and feels) at her chest. She takes a quick detour just below the waistband of his jeans to feel the warm skin and tight muscles there before grabbing his t-shirt hem and starting to pull it up so it can join her dress on the coffee table.

It’s a shame he has to pause the magic his tongue is working right now, but the sacrifice will be worth it when she can feel their bodies pressed skin to skin, a pleasure she’d imagined in fantasy but still hasn’t gotten used to the wonder of in real life.

When he realizes what she’s trying to do, he makes a noise of disapproval against her skin before quickly sitting up and tugging his t-shirt back down.

It happens so fast that Marinette is left wide-eyed in surprise, the cool of the room making her still-wet nipple harden further.

This does not go unnoticed.

“I’ll be back for you,” Adrien reassures her bare breast, pointing a finger at it, “And I haven’t forgotten you,” he reminds the other, still tucked behind lace.

It’s one of the most ridiculous things she’s ever witnessed in her life, and she can’t stop the bark of laughter that bubbles up in her chest, cutting through the sting of his sudden retreat.

She quirks an eyebrow and gestures between them. “I'm feeling underdressed. Care to even things out?”

“Uh uh uh,” he sings, wagging his index finger dramatically like a ticking metronome. At the confused furrow in her brow, he deflates a little, his hand moving instead to the back of his neck.

“I, um, had an idea,” he says sheepishly.

“O…kay?”

His answering grin is pure elation, his playful swagger returning as he leaps from the sofa.

“I think you’ll love it!” She hears him call from the vicinity of his desk.

Her heart swells, her smile returns.

Oh, this boy.

She pulls her wayward bra strap back up onto her shoulder and resituates everything comfortably. Whatever he has planned will probably lead them back to the sofa - or the bed, or his desk, or the skate ramp - and her underwear will be added to the clothing pile in a few minutes anyway. At least, she hopes so.

Intimacy isn’t brand-new for them, but it’s still as thrilling as it was those first few times they’d explored each other’s bodies and discovered just how euphoric it could be to fall apart against the fingers and tongue of another, turning love into something tangible by way of racing hearts and trembling hands. Alone time in the quiet of her loft was eclipsed forever the first time she saw his climax cross his face at the same moment she felt it inside.

They’re still clumsy sometimes, still learning about sex and each other, but the shine hasn’t worn off yet, and she hopes it never does.

Peeking over the sofa, she finds him holding his desk lamp in one hand and scrolling frantically through his phone with the other. She smiles to herself when his face lights up upon finding what he was looking for. He lifts his head and finds her watching him, his eyes going soft with adoration at the same time his lips quirk in a sly grin.

Seriously. This boy.

He pushes the foosball table toward the corner with his hip before tucking the base of the lamp between the rows of players and setting his phone on the turf beneath their feet.

Looking around for a nearby plug, he has to push the table back in the other direction until he can find a spot the cord will reach. He finally switches on the lamp and maneuvers the adjustable neck to create his own spotlight as Marinette watches with amusement as the scene unfolds. That is, until he fumbles it and shines the bright light directly into her eyes.

She shrieks and hears him curse before running over to her.

“Shit!” he mutters again, placing a finger under her chin and tilting her face toward his. “I’m so sorry, Marinette.”

It takes a few blinks to clear the blinding spots from her eyes, but the relief in his gaze is a sweet consolation once her vision clears. She rises just enough from the sofa to press her lips to his and delights in his sigh against her cheek.

“I’m fine, Adrien,” she assures him as she settles into the sofa, tucking her legs beneath her and propping her elbow on the back cushion. She shoots him a cheeky wink. “You certainly have my attention.”

His lips quirk in a crooked smile and he rubs the back of his neck as he returns to the foosball table, reaching down and pressing play on the song he’d chosen earlier. A slow and sultry melody begins as he takes his place and strikes a pose that makes her giggle.

“Are you ready, Mari?” He asks with an eyebrow wiggle.

“You have the floor. Seduce me, beau gosse.”

His cheeks pinken but he catches the rhythm of the song’s intro and starts to sway his hips with the music. A moment later, he bends down to quickly untie his shoes, still punctuating each beat with a shake of his behind, even as he struggles with the laces.

Marinette bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing, thankfully keeping the warm smile on her face when he pops back up to meet her gaze again.

He shucks one shoe, which she watches sail toward his desk before landing with a thunk. The other shoe is kicked off just as the words to the song begin, but neither of them pay attention to the English lyrics as they watch the orange plimsoll head straight for the television. It clips the top edge before tumbling to the floor behind, leaving the giant television rocking precariously for several long, long moments until it finally settles back in place, unharmed.

Crisis averted, Adrien continues unfazed.

His socks are quickly discarded, mercifully without incident.

Next comes his t-shirt, which Marinette doesn’t think will be any trouble since she’s watched him tug it over his head by the back of the collar numerous times in their haste to undress and come together again.

She is wrong.

In the momentary struggle to remove his shirt from where it’s somehow become stuck on his head, Marinette is treated to the sight of his very, very chiseled abs, muscles rippling as he flails his arms above his head. She’s always wondered how on earth he got so ripped - when does he have the time? - but she’s definitely not complaining.

Finally free, Adrien gleefully throws the shirt to his solo audience member, who catches it with a laugh and clutches it to her chest like the prize that it is.

This striptease is proving two facts she already knew: One, he is an absolute doofus, and two, she loves him beyond measure.

Refocusing on her beloved doofus while shamelessly inhaling the familiar scent of his t-shirt, she watches him begin to unbuckle his belt and feels a little fluttery all of a sudden.

When a few sweet kisses while watching an anime an hour ago had led to roaming hands and discarded clothing and his body pressing hers into the sofa, the destination was clear. However, the entertaining detour of the last few minutes got her sidetracked. Suddenly, the clink of his buckle has her very much looking forward to the removal of those last few articles of clothing.

Buckle undone, hips still swaying languidly with the beat, he takes a moment to unbutton and unzip his jeans before whipping his belt from its loops with a flourish.

Just as the singer croons, “Throw your clothes on the floor,” Adrien’s jeans fall to the hardwood.

Marinette’s jaw is clenched, lips pressed tightly together, practically vibrating with her attempt to keep from laughing.

Undeterred, he steps from his jeans to the tune of “I’m gonna take my clothes off, too” and promptly trips, falling toward the armrest of the sofa and just barely catching himself with one hand instead of his handsome face, though his knees hit the floor with a heavy thump.

Marinette jumps up, nerves alive with adrenaline and worry, and rushes around the sofa toward him.

“Oh my god, Adrien! Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

He’s clearly mortified, blushing from the tips of his ears to the top of his chest.

“No, no, I’m fine,” he hastily assures her as he gets to his feet again and kicks his traitorous jeans under the foosball table, sending a withering glare in their direction.

Marinette perches on the sofa again, but she’s still wound tightly after watching him fall.

The song nears its end, trailing off in a medley of warbling voices. After a pause, the slow and sexy intro builds again as the song repeats.

Adrien matches the rhythm with his hips once more, now clad in only black boxer briefs, and dance-walks to the fireman’s pole.

"No..." she whispers under her breath.

"Yes!" he sings, drawing out the vowel on a long, dramatic vibrato.

He grabs the pole with one hand and leans away, letting gravity take over as he spins once, then twice around it.

In the next moment, he's shimmying to the top, only his bare feet visible beneath the mezzanine floor. Suddenly, his upper body drops through upside-down, his head missing the metal by inches. Right knee wrapped around the pole, his right hand grips loosely as he slides slowly toward the floor.

The look of sheer joy on his face is contagious. Marinette squeals with laughter and applauds his showmanship when he unhooks his knee and flips to the floor, throwing his arms in the air like an Olympic gymnast who's just landed a perfect dismount.

Clearly soaking up her approval, Adrien spins lazily around the pole, this time locked around it by the crook of his elbow.

Soon he scrambles up the pole again, calling down to her, "Hey, Marinette! I'm Père Noël!"

When he pops up against the mezzanine railing, he finds her face looking up at him scrunched in confusion.

"I'm at the North Pole!"

"Boo!" she heckles, rolling her eyes. "Two out of ten. You can do better."

He's still laughing on his next descent, this time going for a "Look Mari, no hands!" approach. He leans his entire body away from the pole and slides down on one hooked knee, using the core strength that must be hidden in those sculpted abs she enjoys so much to keep his torso nearly perpendicular to the pole.

Now, that's at least relatively impressive.

Marinette whistles her appreciation, judiciously ignoring his crash landing.

"Bravo, bravo!" She blows him a flurry of kisses as he bows. "You make a great case for why every child should grow up with a stripper pole in their bedroom."

His face falls into an indignant pout. "It's a fireman's pole and you know it," he huffs.

She waves her hand. "Semantics."

This is quickly devolving into a nearly-nude comedy routine punctuated by feats of strength and agility, but the sultry music still plays in the background, the song now entering its third encore.

Adrien shakes his head at his girlfriend in mock solemnity.

"I should've known you weren't ready for the pole shebang."

She bites back the immediate and obvious retort that comes to mind on a wave of red and black and green déjà vu. There's no way she's heard that awful joke before...right?

Marinette shakes the thought of her superhero partner from her mind and focuses instead on watching - okay, appreciating - Adrien's delicious backside when he bends forward and grips the pole with both hands. Although this current view of a muscled back, strong thighs, and black-clad ass that could've been carved from marble by a Renaissance master is eerily reminiscent of her longtime partner, she is absolutely not thinking about Chat Noir right now.

No. Way.

Except she is. She can't help it.

Because when Adrien hops from the floor and uses the strength in his upper arms to hold himself upside down, knee hooking around the pole, she knows she's seen this before.

Long ago, on a dark rooftop in La Défense, high above the city, two teenage superheroes out way past their bedtime talked and laughed and ate day-old pastries, sharing a thermos of hot tea.

"Hey, Bugaboo! Watch this!"

Famous last words, she thinks, giving him an amused half-smile and shaking her head at the disaster that's certainly to come. He's such a try-hard. Such a dork. No one could be a better partner than he is.

Chat Noir walks to a spot beneath an air duct that crosses the roof about fifteen feet overhead. He presses the button on his baton, and it creates a vertical tension rod between the ground and the metal above. He tests its sturdiness before cracking his knuckles and grinning at his partner.

It's almost impressive, watching him climb upward using only his hands and his Miraculous-granted strength, back and legs perfectly parallel to the pole until he gets to the top and slides back down in a curving arc to the roof below.

Ladybug claps politely when he bows but can't hide her grin.

"Well, what else can you do, Acrochat?"

"Ha! Good one, My Lady! Prepare to be amazed." He claps once to psych himself up before taking to the pole again, this time holding on with only one hand as he kicks out from the ground in a spin, whirling around the pole like a superpowered human tetherball. He catches the pole with his other hand after a few rotations and uses the momentum to bring his legs up over his head to hook one knee around the pole. Dangling upside-down, he spreads his arms wide with exuberance.

She giggles at his antics and claps again, this time adding a little cheer for good measure. It was a pretty cool trick, after all.

"That, Bugaboo," he says cockily, shooting her upside-down finger guns, "is the pole kit and kaboodle."

Ladybug rolls her eyes and groans. "That was bad, even for you, Minou."

She wonders how he'll get down from that position, but isn't left wondering for long. He grips the pole with both hands close to the roof above his head. This looks...precarious. When he unhooks his knee, he tries to hold himself up with his arms, but gravity is too strong for even a superhero sometimes.

He flops to the ground, then konks his elbow on the baton when he tries to stand up. He shakes out the tingles and grabs his staff with his other hand, shrinking it to its stowable size.

Howling with laughter, Ladybug whips her yo-yo from her waist and opens the communicator, typing the number 10 in a large font on the screen. When he turns to face her, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck, she holds it up high, hollering, "Woohoo!"

The true, celestial stars really aren't visible above major metropolitan cities like Paris. But tonight, Ladybug sees them in her partner's eyes as he laughs along with her. Moments like this with your very best friend don't come along every day, especially for two 16-year-old superheroes carrying the weight of the world.

"You might want to practice that dismount, Chaton," she wheezes.

"You know what, My Lady? I think I can do that."

It's a precious memory, and Marinette is reliving it right now.

Adrien's knee is hooked around the fireman's pole that's inexplicably part of the decor of his bedroom and not a superhero's baton wedged beneath a commercial air duct. But it doesn't matter. The sheer joy on his face, the way he spreads his arms wide and gazes at her upside-down - it's Chat Noir through and through. She didn’t know it two minutes ago, but she knows it now with an ironclad certainty.

And she knows exactly what he'll say next.

"That, my love," he declares, finger guns and all, "is the pole kit and kaboodle."

Marinette laughs because there's nothing else she can do.

When he grasps the pole above his head to prepare the dismount, Marinette reaches for her phone on the coffee table and opens the text app. This time, he lands on his feet, though he still konks his elbow on the pole as he stands up.

"Why does that always happen?" He mutters under his breath as he shakes the tingles out of his arm.

Adrien turns toward the sofa but stops in his tracks when she holds up her phone, a large-font perfect 10 lighting up the screen.

"You might want to practice that dismount, Chaton," she says softly, voice trembling with both nerves and the hysterical laughter she can barely suppress. "You did better than last time, though."

She watches the emotions cross his face one at a time - surprise, confusion, shock, and a dawning incredulity - before he looks from her eyes to her phone and back again.

"My...Lady?"

She nods, wide-eyed, blushing, her pulse roaring in her ears. There's no way this is happening. There's no way she's sitting on Chat Noir's sofa in her bra and panties.

Adrien stares at the floor and rubs the back of his neck. (Of course he does. In all these years, how did she not see it? How did she not see it in every little thing he did?)

"I..." he trails off, taking a deep breath. "I forced myself to get over you...because I'd fallen in love with you."

Marinette nods again.

"And I turned you down over and over because I was in love with you."

Forget him talking to her chest. This exchange is the most ridiculous thing she's ever witnessed in her life. Wild laughter bursts from her again unbidden, and this time she can't stop.

Hundreds of moments and memories of the past five years crash over her, friendship and love and heroic duty, anguish and joy and everything in between. Four separate lives become two before blending into one incredible relationship.

Holy shit.

She’s been dating Chat Noir for more than a year. She’s been sleeping with Chat Noir for six months! She is, in fact, intending to have sex with Chat Noir in approximately the next ten minutes.

She’s...truly, wildly, deeply in love with Chat Noir.

Of course she is. Of course.

Tears spring to her eyes even as she laughs herself toward hyperventilation.

Adrien - Chat Noir! - kneels on the floor in front of the sofa, his beautiful features painted with worry, and takes her shaking hands in his.

“My Lady? Marinette? Talk to me, please. Are you--?”

“I’m fine,” she manages to croak. “I promise.”

Several deep breaths later, she’s almost gotten herself under control. Her pulse is racing, but that’s probably not going to settle for quite a while, especially if he’s still amenable to what she’s now nearly-desperate to do in the next few minutes.

The relief in his eyes when she smiles and reaches out to caress his cheek makes her heart ache.

“I love you so much,” she whispers. The words are spoken without thought, as though they’ve come straight from her heart and bypassed her brain entirely, but the statement shines with the same truth it held the first time she said it to him and every time since.

“Still?” He asks quietly.

Oh, Minou.

“More,” she answers. “Always.”

He surges up on his knees, wrapping her in his arms and pressing his lips to hers in a kiss so full of passion it sends a shiver down her spine.

Marinette responds in kind, willing him to feel every bit of love she has for him, no matter what name he goes by.

This is beyond her imagination, and she'll undoubtedly freak out about it later, but right now, in Adrien's arms, it's shockingly easy to slot the two together, her partner and the love of her life. Of course they'd been in love with each other all this time. They're meant to be partners in every facet of life, it seems.

There is a very important discussion in their future, but it's already waited five years, and it can wait until they show each other exactly how much they love one another. Moments like these don't come along every day, especially for two young adults in love, who also happen to carry the weight of the world on their shoulders.

The blissful, lovestruck look on his face as he enters her is stamped on her memory anew each time they find themselves entwined like this. It’s so beautiful, and only, ever, always for her. Tonight when he fills her and she gasps, “Yes, Chaton!” against his lips - oh, his expression is priceless.

From the other side of the room, Boys II Men quietly sing “I’ll Make Love to You” on an endless loop. And Marinette delights in letting Adrien do just that.

[fortunatelylori]

The Winter Rose - A Jonsa fic

So, I have decided to post my @jonsasecretsanta2018 fic today. This is a Jonsa one-shot for @thescarletempress0208. 

I don’t know about you guys but I love Christmas. I love the tree, the ornaments, the caroling. I love waking up on the 25th and running to the tree to see what presents Santa left for me. I love it all. It’s the time where I really connect to my inner child. And there’s nothing my inner child loves more than fairy tales. Since this is placed within the ASOIAF/GOT universe, I didn’t center it around Christmas, as they have none but I sill wanted to make it really festive so I hope that shows through. 

I will post it here in its entirety but it will also be available on AO3, if you prefer that format. 

A special thank you to  @jonsasecretsanta2018 for this initiative. I had a really great time writing this and I can’t wait to see what everyone else comes up with. Lastly, Merry Christmas  @thescarletempress0208! I hope you have a great festive season and that you enjoy this! 

* word to the wise: I play around with the rules of medieval tourneys in this fic and also the magic elements are far more whimsical than in the source material. My excuse: this is a fairy tale! :)))) Also, this gets long, so sit down comfortably, grab a snack and enjoy!

                                          The Winter Rose

She stumbled over the stairs, struggling with the thick coat of ice that covered the stone and as she came out into the cold, winter air she breathed deeply, happy to have escaped the dank and musty crypts below.

All around her the charred and blackened ruins of the once great castle of the North laid bare and empty, covered in thick layers of freshly shed snow and, as she walked through the court yard, it scrunched beneath her feet, giving out hollowed echoes. It was a desolate place, to be sure. Even more so as dusk was fast approaching and she found herself alone, all the other tourists having long since left.

But as snowflakes danced all around her, nestling in her hair, melting on her cheeks, she had to admit there was also a strange kind of beauty to it. In front of her was the last of the towers that had remained tall and whole, aside from the caved in roof that had given it its name. It was like a sentinel among the crumbled ruins, with thick vines that encircled the ice laden stone, covering it with lush green foliage despite the time of year. Sprinkled throughout were the most beautiful blue roses, the shade of which she had never seen before, come into full bloom, their soft petals covered in thin shards of ice that sparkled in the reddish sunlight.

She drew a deep breath and inhaled the sweet floral scent that hanged thick and fragrant in the air.

“Do you know the story of the Broken Tower and the winter roses?”

She smiled at the sound of his voice, leaden with the thick Northern accent she had grown to love. She had left him in the crypts, pouring over the inscriptions even though he must have seen them a hundred times before. Yet she knew it wouldn’t take long for him to come looking for her. After all, they had only met three months before and leaving each other’s sight from that day had proved an impossible task.

She looked at him as he came by her side, and smiled. “To hear you speak,” she said, “you’d think every rock in the North has a story to tell.”

He laughed and shook his head. “You shouldn’t be so dismissive of your own people’s history.”

She rolled her eyes at that, even though he did have a point. She had been born here after all, though she held very few memories of the North. Her family had moved when she was ten and from that time, it was Braavos she had called home. She doubted she would even be here if she hadn’t met an utterly charming and all too handsome Northern archeologist on a train ride to Volantis and promptly married him.

“Is this another one of those stories of the ice zombies and three eyed ravens you’re so fond of telling me right before I go to sleep?”

“No,” he said, coming closer to her and taking her hands between his own. He started rubbing them and blowing hot air between her cupped palms, warming her frozen fingers. Her smile widened, still surprised at the care he showed for her in such small ways that she wouldn’t have been able to think of.

“This is a story that takes place after the Long Night had ended and the Night King was defeated,” he said, his voice low. “It was the time of the Long Summer when the Targaryen queen had taken the throne and ruled the Seven Kingdoms on the back of her dragon. She was hailed as the savior of the realm and all soon forgot about the bravery of the Northern men against the army of the dead, of the warrior that mounted a dragon and beheaded the Night King with the aid of his cousin, The Three Eyed Raven. All had forgotten but one … because in Winterfell, there was still one that remembered and held fast to those memories.”

“Who?” she asked, trying to contain her curiosity although she knew sooner or later she would fall under the spell of his deep voice.

“A princess,” he said, kissing the tips of her fingers. “Beautiful and brave, with long flowing hair that shone like fine polished copper. Her name was Sansa Stark and she was the Lady of Winterfell.”

“Sansa …” she said in mocking disbelief. “Her name was Sansa …” He was good, she had to admit. Very good indeed.

“After the Long Night had ended, winter was soon chased from the lands and with the coming of the dragons, summer settled over Westeros. At first the people rejoiced, as they set upon the task to rebuild what the war had destroyed, rising their holdfasts again and planting crops. But, in time, the earth grew hard and dry and the rains did not come to quench them. Crops began to wither and die under the scorching blaze of the sun, rivers shrunk and lakes all but vanished.

It was this that brought the great sorrow upon the princess. Justly and ably she had ruled for ten years, from the ancient seat where her father had once stood. But the North was a barren place and summer did not take kindly to the little food it had to offer. As times grew hard for her long suffering kingdom and men’s bellies went empty, her bannermen began to pressure her to marry.

“Marry, my lady,” they said. “Join the North to a great house that will bring prosperity back to our lands.”

The princess refused at first. She had been a child of summer songs and love once, wishing nothing more than to marry a handsome prince and bare him sons. But life had snatched those dreams from her and left only sorrow in their place. Twice she had been forced to marry before and twice she had been humiliated and abused.

But her bannermen’s voices grew ever more insistent. Each day they would find her and gave her no peace, proposing one high lord and then another. In time, the princess’ resolve began to falter under their unrelenting assault.

“If I am to marry,” she told them, “let it be to a strong and capable man. Do not forget, my lords, that he who shall be my husband will also become your liege and lord and such qualities are not easily found.”

The bannermen fell over themselves exalting the virtues of the man they proposed, one voice giving way to another until they seemed but a hive of agitated wasps, flying ever more dangerously close to her. She fought them as best she could.  

“I will not take the word of other men on the qualities of my future husband,” she finally said.  “I will see them for myself. We shall hold a tourney at Winterfell in 3 moons time. All those fit to bare arms are invited to join and the victor shall have my hand in marriage.”

Let the fates decide, the princess thought with a heavy heart. Let him be brave and strong and, if the Gods are not silent, let him be gentle too.  

But her bannermen were wily men, that could not be trifled with and for whom fates were but a child’s fancy. They pretended to accept the princess’ decision but in secret they sent out invitations only to the highest born of the land, their kin and allies, men they thought would rise their standing in life were they to become their lady’s lord and husband.

Winterfell had always been a beautiful place, with its sprawling court yards and glass gardens. Tall, proud walls of white stone rose high into the sky, springing rounded towers where they adjoined. Large, clear glass windows were cut deep into the walls, reflecting light and buried deep into the stone, a labyrinth of pipes pumped water towards the bathing house, giving the stone life and filling the outer walls with lush moss and ferns even as draught had dried all the greenery in the land.

The princess had loved it here once. When she was kept away, suffering at the hands of strangers, the thought of Winterfell had kept her hope alive, dreaming and praying to see it once more. But now, with all her family gone, with her bannermen watchful of her every move and the impending arrival of the Dragon Queen, who had insisted on joining the festivities, the hallways of her beloved castle seemed to close tightly around her, suffocating her. It was no longer a place of safety and refuge but a prison that kept her chained, at the mercy of other people’s whims.

As the contenders gathered in Winterfell, their high and esteemed coats of arms flung defiantly into the air when they passed through the gates, her bannermen’s ploy became clear. Still, as she stood in the court yard awaiting the Dragon Queen, her heart leaped into her chest anytime a new contender passed through the gates. Her eyes searched every new face to see if she could recognize the form that she hoped to find hidden beneath the armor. But all the men were strangers, some fair of face, others merely boastful and grinning with excitement. It made no difference to her.

The air was dry and hot that day. The trees of the ancient godswood twisted and shivered horribly as a gust of wind blew past. High above, the first screech of the dragon was heard, loud and piercing, and all the souls down below looked up to see the terrible sight before them. Black webbed wings that covered the sun flapped lazily as the great beast descended bringing its mistress down to the ground, making the earth shake beneath its huge talons. As it came down it gave a loud roar that had the people of Winterfell back away from its huge mauls and jagged teeth. Only the princess remained in place, her face marked in steel, holding her chin high against the raging mouth of the dragon.

As the Dragon Queen descended, the men and women of Winterfell bowed before her. But even as she bowed, the princess’ eyes roamed through the court yard where the queen’s retinue assembled behind her large, winged beast. Her stomach turned in painful knots. Surely he will come with her, she thought. The image of the long lost warrior standing once again in the court yard where he had grown and fought, filled her with longing but also despair for he would come to see her wed another.

Knights dressed in armor and savages wearing leathers came down from their great horses and the three headed dragon banner casted its large shadow over all of them. But her warrior was nowhere to be found and the princess’ heart grew heavy once more.  

As the first day of the tourney came, not even the skills of the puppet masters invited especially for the occasion could lessen her sadness. She sat on the dais, in the middle of the erected stands and watched as the tragic love story of Queen Naerys and her brother, Prince Aemon, the Dragonknight, was being played out.

The lords of her court knew of the princess’ love for the old tale and had brought the most skilled puppeteers in the land to honor her. But the whispered declarations of love and the Dragonknight crowning his love with the gilded flower crown held no more fascination for her now, for she knew the stories were false. Such things were to be dreamed of by the young who had not known loss or suffering.

All she could see were the men, high above the pretty colorful dolls, pulling on the strings in jerky movements, making the wooden creatures move about the stage in a ghastly dance, swoon and fall to their deaths with such aplomb as to make her shudder.

Still she did her duty and smiled, clapping now and again and chatting as amiably as she could to the Queen sitting next to her who seemed charmed by the spectacle of color and stiff dolls.

“One day, they will write songs of your own tourney, my lady,” she said.

The princess looked on as the stage was taken down and the limp dolls were carried off and nodded. “Perhaps … Let us pray I have equally skilled puppeteers to pull my strings when my time comes.”

The Queen was not wrong to note on the momentous importance of the Winterfell tourney. Tales of the princess’ beauty as well as the careful entreatment of her bannermen had brought no less than ninety-nine knights to the festivities. They were grouped according to rank and station, the noblest of them all competing against those of minor rank.

As the groups took to the field, standing on their horses on opposing sides, one sight, in particular, caught the attention and mirth of the audience. For standing alongside the lesser knights, was a fool. Dressed in steel as the rest he assuredly was but his motley patterned armor was colored in bright blues and reds and upon his head he wore a two horned helmet, adorned with bells at the tip. How he had managed to sneak in between such respectable company no one could say for sure. But fools were tricksters by nature, everyone agreed, and their amusement at the sight and the antics they would be likely to expect made them all agreeable to let the poor creature have his way.

Upon the signal of the trumpets, the knights spurred on their horses and rode to face off against each other, riding hard and fast until they clashed in the middle of the field in a frenzy of hooves and steel. Upon impact, many were thrown from their horses, their day of glory ended before it had begun but for those still mounted the fight went on through the afternoon.

The ground beneath them was dry and their fighting was so fierce and rough that dust rose all around them, engulfing them to the point where it was hard to tell man and beast apart. The sound of their horses was echoed by the grunts of the men and their cheers of victory every time they managed to defeat an opponent.

As one after another exited the tourney, the sounds dissipated until only the sporadic clinking of steel would announce the defeat of yet another contender. Finally, the dust began to clear and settle and to the audience’s great dismay only five knights remained mounted.

There was Ser Tywald Lannister, a man past his youth and strong of arm, who donned the red and gold armor of his house, one he had been raised to lead after the demise of his cousin Tywin and his children.

Ser Aegor Baratheon was also among them, a matter that enraged the audience although they did not dare voice their disapproval outright for they knew him to be the queen’s own preferred champion. But in hushed tones and whispers they called him by his proper name of Blackfyre, remembering that it was the queen that had granted him the ancient Baratheon name in order to take it from the bastard, Gendry Waters.

Lord Olymer Tyrell was as skilled with a lance as he was beautiful, with long golden hair and blue eyes that sparkled mischievously as he took down his helmet to gaze upon the princess as if he had already won the tourney.

The favorite among them was, without a doubt, Ser Harrold Hardyng, Lord Paramount of the Vale. The Knights of the Vale had steadfastly supported the North for centuries and their prowess in battle was legendary. The Young Falcon was handsome and charming, striking a dashing figure upon the field, to the approval of the ladies in attendance.

But the most outstanding turn of events was the identity of the fifth mounted knight. For it was none other than the fool. He stood tall and proud, with barely a scratch on his armor. As the five knights charged at each other again, meaning to settle the victory once and for all, the fool’s bells dangled in the air and clinked, causing the audience to burst with laughter.

But as soon as he raised his sword and fell upon Ser Aegor, all laughter seized. There was nothing amusing or awkward about the way the knight moved. He stood up in his stir-ups with ease and wielded the long sword as if he had been born to it. Ser Aegor was left with no choice but to retreat, holding his shield up to protect himself while he hunched over in order to stop himself from falling.

The fool’s ability and courage had even the princess gasping at his every movement. Enthralled, she watched him lean over the side of his saddle and cut the leather binding off of Ser Aegor’s horse. He then swiftly brought the pummel down upon the bewildered lord who came crushing to the ground with a loud thud that sent the crowd on their feet, cheering.

She found herself cheering as well, as her heart beat out of her chest only to freeze with horror as she saw Ser Tywald charging from behind, meaning to crush the upstart fool.

“Behind you!” the princess screamed, standing up from her seat. Her cheeks turned red as everyone in attendance took note of her reaction and sat down quickly.

“My lady favors the fool, I see,” the queen said with amusement, forcing the princess to swallow the choice remarks that were stinging her tongue. Yet she could not contain her sigh of relief as the brave fool heard her warning and turned around to face his foes.

In truth, she couldn’t quite tell what had sparked her reaction or her interest. Only that, perhaps, she was certain he had not come there at the bidding of her lords. Watching him as he rode in, fending off the lion’s charge with agile, almost effortless abandon caused her blood to sing and for a moment she was no longer the Lady of Winterfell, the daughter of murdered parents, the sister of fallen brothers or widow to untrue husbands. She was a young girl again, dazed by songs of chivalry and romance, watching a brave knight fighting to win her favor.

And fight her fool did until Ser Tywald’s strong arm began to slow. But just as he was about to claim victory, the great dragon began his dreadful song. He flew past the field, turning light to darkness and causing the dust that had settled to rise once again from the ground.

His piercing song continued loud and unabated and the princess saw with horror how the fool’s whole body began to shake. His sword slipped from his hand just as it was about to strike Ser Tywald from his horse and his arm fell slack at his side.

Seizing his moment, the Lannister fell upon the fool who desperately tried to fend off his attacks and pull on the reigns of his horse with his one good hand, trying to extract himself from the entanglement. If this was allowed to continue, the princess knew, he would be thrown into the dirt.

Without thinking, she rose once again from her seat and wordlessly bid the trumpeters to signal the ending to the day’s proceedings. They looked confused at the request but did their lady’s bidding nonetheless. The trumpets rang throughout the field three times putting an end to the fighting and drowning out the screeching of the dragon.

All four knights remaining looked up at her then but it was the fool she regarded most of all. “You have all fought bravely, my lords,” she said. “Rest now and enjoy the festivities. I look forward to your exploits tomorrow.”

Her decision had greatly displeased her bannermen and it took the better part of the afternoon to placate them. The Queen’s voice, however, drowned out all the rest in her displeasure at the princess’ decision. In secret she sent her men to search for the fool. As far as Hornwood and the Dreadfort they searched and yet could find no traces of him.

As for the princess, guards were instructed to escort her back to her chambers. For her safety, she had said. But as they urged her on through the corridors of her own home, she did not feel safe.

It was only when she locked the door to her chamber that she could breathe in relief. Despite it all, she could not help but think of the brave fool who had defied the high lords of Westeros for her.

She reprimanded herself for the thought. She did not know who the fool was, after all, and she had learned enough of men’s deceit to know that they are rarely who they appear to be. But still her mind wandered back to his deep and solemn bow to her from across the field. There was so little joy in her life now. What was the harm in dreams after all?

He did not remove his helmet as the other lords did, she noted and it intrigued her. A stubborn thought persisted in her mind but she chased it away as quickly as it came. It would be unwise to even dream of such a thing, she decided.

Soon the feast would begin and she needed to make ready. She busied herself with picking out her garments, settling on a long and modest Northern dress of green velvet embroidered with the direwolf sigil of her house. She had not worn it in years but she refused to dwell on why she decided to do so now.

As she went to her desk to pick up the pins she had discarded the night before, she noticed a most peculiar sight. Sitting on top of documents and books, was a beautiful, blue rose dripped in sparkling dots of ice. The princess picked it up with trembling hands.

Blue roses had grown in the glass gardens of Winterfell for centuries but she had thought them all gone since the dragons had returned. She brought the soft petals up to her nose and inhaled deeply. The sweet smell invaded her sense, almost making her dizzy.

It was perhaps the shock of seeing the flower again or a slip of her unsteady hands but one of the tiny thorns on the rose pricked her finger. The tiniest of blood drops fell upon the blue petals and it was as if the flower came alive. Fine silver threads snaked upwards, engulfing her. They moved and weaved around her, dancing in the fading sunlight as the princess looked on in amazement as what were only threads moments before became cloth.

When she turned to look at herself in the looking glass, she was draped in a magnificent silver cloak, so light that the slightest gust of wind made it bellow around her, the color so fine that it seemed as if the moon was floating above a sparkling lake. Entranced, she pulled the hood over her head to see what it might look like but before she could admire the sight, she found herself pushed towards the door, as if the cloak had a mind of its own.

Past the guards stationed at her door it took her, through the narrow hallways and into the Great Hall. Servants were quietly lighting up the last of the candles, bathing the room in pale silvery light that flickered and cast shadows on the walls. The long tables had been set up around the room and all manner of meats and vegetables placed upon them, their savory smells lingering pleasantly in the air. High up in the balcony, the minstrels were tuning their instruments as the guests began arriving, in groups small and large.

And yet, under the hood of her cloak, no one took note of her. The silver cloth carried her quickly through the hall as if she were a bird, floating and flying away, into the court yard and then further still until she found herself before the Broken Tower.

A single candle was flickering high above, from the last window atop the tower and the princess gave herself over to the cloak as it carried her through the winding staircase. By the time she arrived at the top she was breathless.

She moved about the rounded room trying to discern her surroundings. She had never liked it here and her stomach twisted as her shadow grew upon the wall. There was no light, save for the candle in the window and the moon above. It casted pale pools of light through the caved in roof.

“Hello?” she said, her voice echoing through the empty space. “Is there anyone here?”

There was no answer at first but when it came, the voice that spoke it sent shivers down her back. “I did not think you would come,” he said.

Her eyes searched frantically through the darkness, trying to find him. Next to the window, she saw a shape moving and she tried to focus on it but she could not make him out.

“Step into the light!” she commanded, trying to keep her voice steady.

He did as she bid and when the moonlight shone about his fair face, the princess’ resolve crumbled. It was the same, she noted. Long, solemn and guarded, a deep scar on his left side. The hair was the same as well: a pitch black unruly mane she had once run her fingers through.

But his eyes gave her pause. She had expected warm and gentle brown pools to gaze upon her but they were bright and fiery, as if flames were dancing inside of them. They frightened her and she stepped back.

“Do not go!” he pleaded. “I must ask you something.”

Ask her? What could he possibly have to ask her? He had abandoned all of them to leave with the Dragon Queen, never to be heard from again. Ten years had passed and he had not sent one word to her.

Not even when her younger sister, Arya, who had been as dear to him as any true sister could be, was threatened with death by the Queen for refusing to forsake her betrothed, Gendry, had he gone against her. When she ordered Gendry’s execution, fearful that his king’s blood marked him as a threat against her rule, he did nothing. And later when Arya had married her Baratheon bastard and fled Westeros, and the dragon had scoured the lands high and low looking for them, he remained silently at his Queen’s side, doing her bidding.

“You have no right to ask me anything.” Even as she spoke confidently, she could feel treacherous tears stinging her eyes, threatening to overcome her.

“I know. But I must ask.” He looked outside the window for a moment before turning to her. “The enchantment won’t last long. You can ask me three questions as price for one of mine,” he offered.

I have nothing to ask you, she wanted to scream. Nothing at all! But she found herself speaking nonetheless. “Who are you?”

“I am Florian the Fool,” he said, standing there in his motley armor.  “As great a fool as ever lived, and as great a knight as well.”

She remembered the story well. But it was only that: a story and she was no longer the young girl who believed in such tales. “Why are you here?”

“Because my curse must end where it began. A long time ago I stole a dragon. Took hold of his mind, used his fire to kill the Night King. When his brother discovered it, he bathed me in flame.”

She remembered well enough and her heart still twisted painfully at the memory. The black beast had seared the right side of his body. Left the skin bubbling and raw. Three moons it had taken her to nurse him, changing his bandages, holding his hand as the Maester peeled the dead skin away, sitting with him through the night as the fevers threatened to take him away only for him to leave as soon as he could get up from his sick bed.

“What you saw today on the field,” he continued, “happens whenever the dragon is near. My sword arm grows weak, the skin burns threatening to rip off my bones.”

He grimaced and the princess’ tender heart still softened, hearing of his pain. “What do you want of me?” she said, fearing what he might ask.

“Only what you are willing to give,” he reassured her. “Will you come away with me? Be my Jonquil and I will pledge my life to your service if you will but have me.”

The words washed over her, hot and cold at the same time, touching parts of her that she had hidden away long ago. Her whole body sprung with need but she did not move. “You are as brave as you are foolish, my lord. But I am the daughter of Lord Eddard and the lady Catelyn. I cannot give myself to a fool.”

She could see the pain that her words had caused in the lines on his face, the tightness of his jaw but he did not ask again. “You must help me then,” he said instead. “If I am to fight on the morrow, you will need to break the dragon’s curse.”

“I … I don’t know …”

“A kiss will break it.” He bowed his head and clenched his fist tightly. “If you can bare it.”

She regarded him for a long while, watching him clenching and unclenching his burnt fist. The skin wrinkled horribly and even in the pale moonlight, she could see the ugly pink and purple gashes. She remembered, too, his screams in the middle of the night, all that time ago and the deep red mark in the palm of his hand. Smoke would come out of it until the whole room smelled of burnt flesh. No, she did not wish that pain on him.

Slowly, she came by his side and took his hand. He flinched at the touch but did not pull away. His fiery eyes watched her as she turned his hand in the light of the window candle. The red mark was still there, sharp tendrils of smoke coming out and drifting into the air. She put her lips against it and, even though it burnt hot, she kissed it softly.

When she pulled away, the mark was gone and the fool sighed in relief, as if a great burden had been taken from him.

“Thank you, my lady,” he said, solemnly. “When I win the tourney, will you sing for me?”

She lifted her chin and spoke as coolly as she could: “Good fortunes, Ser Florian.”

She pulled her hood up and allowed the cloak to take her away, back to her chambers. As brave as the fool was, it was not he that the princess wanted.

That night the skies parted and the rain began to pour. It did not stop. As the second day of the tourney began, canopies had been erected to protect the high lords in the stands. Through the heavy vale of water, two knights came forth. Incessant and indignant at the fool’s audacity to defy his betters, Ser Tywald Lannister and Lord Olymer Tyrell had thought it only right to join their forces and crush him once and for all.

The princess sat on the dais, her hands digging into the arms of her chair, waiting for her Florian to appear and praying that his arm was strong enough to withstand his foes. But the fool did not show.

In his stead, a king dressed in armor of black and red, a three headed dragon emblazoned on his chest made his way towards the middle of the field atop a great black horse. His helmet was adorned with a simple, golden crown.

As soon as the trumpets signaled the beginning of the fight, Lannister and Tyrell charged ahead with murderous intent. The Dragon King did not move, waiting for them to come at him. The rains had the ground drenched and black water splattered everywhere as hooves dug deep on their charge.

The harder they pushed, the deeper their horses became entangled in the pools of black until they could advance no longer. Pulling as hard as they could on the reins, the knights tried to get their horses to move onward but all they managed was to cause them to slip, as they held on for dear life.

That was when the king fell upon them, punishing their pride and treachery. He drove his great black beast straight in between his two adversaries and moved swiftly, his sword arm striking again and again against their feeble attempts. Lord Olymer was the first to fall, as a wilted flower might drop from a shrub when the king used all his might to strike him in the chest. He used the length of his sword, wounding the lord’s pride more than his ribs as he came tumbling face first to the ground.

Such a shame, the princess thought smiling as Lord Tyrell struggled to stand up, mud dripping from his head. He was so very proud of his hair.

Ser Tywald proved a worthier opponent, managing to strike the king’s left arm as he turned to face him. His long sword left a gash in the armor and to the princess’ horror a thin stream of blood trickled from the slash.

As if it could sense this moment of vulnerability, the dragon appeared once more, circling the field, his song louder and harder than the day before. But it did not matter. The king payed it no minf as his sword clashed with Ser Tywald’s. As he pushed back against the Lannister’s brute force, the princess could not help but take pride at the thought that it had been her kiss that had given him the strength to fight as ably as he did.

It only took a small skirmish for the lion to attempt an ill-fated retreat. The king pursued him to the edge of the field of battle, striking him down in front of his own tent.

He rode his horse at leisure back towards the dais where the princess sat, while the crowd watched silently, some unsure of how to react, others, undoubtedly, disappointed at the loss of gold that they had incurred with the defeat of their champion.

But as the king passed in front of them, it was the Dragon Queen that rose to her feet to stare him down. Sansa’s breath hitched in her throat at the violent expression in her eyes and the fire that assuredly burned on the inside, threatening to overcome her.

“That is enough! Dismount!” the queen commanded, in a thunderous tone and as mighty and strong as the king was, it took only those words for him to submit.

“Lay down your sword and kneel!”

If the princess had any hopes that he might refuse, they were soon dashed as her king laid his sword on the ground and fell to his knees, as limply as a puppet cut off from its strings.

“Seize him!” she ordered at last.

Get up. Run! the princess urged wordlessly but it was no use. He remained kneeling on the ground, as if chained in place while the queen smiled victoriously. From the stands, guards rushed to the field ready to take him away. And he would have gone with them, as a lamb might go to slaughter, if she had not spoken.

“My queen,” she said. “The knight is attending the tourney under guest rights.”

The dragon queen turned to look at her then, suspicion and surprise etched on her face.

“No knight that attends this tourney,” she went on, addressing the guards, “may be taken unless he has committed a crime. To break guest rights is a grievous sin, sers.”

The queen had changed many things in the realm once she had conquered it, but she could not change men’s hearts or fears. They all knew the princess spoke the truth and were reluctant to damn themselves over a foolish knight whose only crime had been to wear a crown.

Angry, the queen turned on her heels and left. But once the crowds were dismissed and the princess made her way back to the castle, she came at her, probing and asking so many questions that it became all too clear that she had guessed the knight’s true identity. She, once again, sent her men to search for him. This time they went further than in search of the fool. The Last Hearth itself they reached but could find no traces of him.

When she arrived safely back to her chambers, the guards heavy on her heels, the queen’s words still rang in the princess’ ears. Why would he wear the colors of my own house and pretend himself a Dragon King unless to defy me? She feared for his safety and her own but the fragrance of the winter rose called to her as sweetly as a lover’s whisper and her nerves quieted as she found it laid on the desk before her.

She readied herself for the night in a dress of misty blue silk, adorned with rubies as would befit an audience with a King. When she was done, she took the rose and pricked her finger without hesitation, for now she knew that no magic ever came without a cost.

The small droplet of blood disappeared through the petal folds and in its stead a fine golden dust rose. It settled on her chest, her neck, it ran down her arms as gentle as summer rain, pooling on the ground beneath and rising once more until it formed a cloak of glittering gold, more magnificent than any cloth the princess had ever seen.  

The moon was already high up in the sky as she glided through the castle as swiftly and silently as a ghost. Past the guards singing a bawdy song and the kitchen maids fetching water for the guests she went, until she entered the Great Hall.

The music rang loudly and people danced all around her, spinning and jumping heartily, bathed in the golden light of the iron wrought braziers. The princess carried a sad sort of smile looking at the happy faces of young girls being picked up by their suitors and spun into the air, her heart longing to feel such lightness again. At the long tables the high lords sat, fat and satisfied, as they feasted on choice meats and roasted vegetables and the cup bearers filled their mugs with ale.

The cloak did not allow her to dwell, however, whisking her away outside, through the court yard. The rain poured all around her making her cloak glisten in the moonlight but she did not feel it. As the Broken Tower came closer into view and she saw the flickering candle perched in the window, she found her heart beating to the rhythm of the distant drums of the Great Hall she had left behind.

The long walk up the stairs felt like an eternity but finally she arrived back in the rounded room. As she walked towards the window, the darkness and the movement of her shadow upon the wall did not frighten her as much as it had done the night before. Nor did she call out for she could see the shape moving in the darkness just in front of her.

The King stepped into the pale moonlight, the simple crown still atop his head and gazed upon her, his posture hard and his eyes burning aflame. Her breath hitched in her throat at the sight of him. His hair was slick with rain and his beard covered in shimmering water drops. She longed to run her fingers through the curls at the back of his neck, trace the skin upon his fair face with her fingers but his fiery, red eyes gave her pause.

“Who are you?” she asked, breathless.

“I am Aegon Targaryen,” he said.  “The rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because I made a choice and that choice was taken from me. Winterfell was my home once. There was no place in the world I loved more. No other place where I wanted to be and I swore that once the war was over, I would never leave it again. But on the last night I was here, the queen came at me as I lay in bed. She said that, as punishment for deceiving her and taking her dragon, she would take something from me. I did not know what she meant then ...”

Tears pricked the princess’ eyes as she remembered the Dragon Queen hovering over his weakened and burnt body. She had sent her away from the room with a curt command but she has lingered behind the door, fearing the queen might hurt him. She could have never imagined that a few hours later, he would rise from the bed and follow her South without so much as a farewell.

“When morning came and she told me I was to come with her, I found that I could not refuse her, my body and my mind no longer my own.”

As his words registered, relief overcame her. He had not left her after all. Not willingly at least. Her heart leapt as she asked: “What do you want of me?”

“Only what you are willing to give,” he said, his voice tinged with hope. “Will you come away with me? Be my queen and the whole of Westeros will kneel at your feet.”

Part of her wanted to go to him then, curtsy as she had been taught to do as soon as she could walk and thank him for the honor of his proposal. But her feet would not move and she bowed her head sadly. “You are as brave as you are noble, Your Grace. But I am Sansa Stark, blood of the North and of the First Men. I cannot be a Dragon’s queen.”

His eyes closed sadly against her implacable words. “She knows who I am now,” he said. “Grant me your kiss so I might fight on.”

That she would do gladly for he was never meant to be chained. As she approached him, she remembered their last night together, the specks of ash that had come out of the queen’s breath and the way he had rubbed at his left eye all through the night, until it turned red and swollen.

Her hand cupped his cheek then and he leaned into her touch just enough for her knees to go weak. She kissed his eyelid softly and tenderly, feeling him tremble beneath her touch. A single black tear fell upon his cheek and when he opened his eyes, the fire in them had been extinguished.

She smiled for she recognized those eyes now: warm and kind, gentle pools of brown and amber that gazed upon her so intently as to make her quiver.

“Thank you, my lady,” he said, bowing to her. “Will you grant me your song if I am victorious on the morrow?”

Her voice was but an uncertain whisper: “Good fortunes, Your Grace.”  

She lifted her hood and gave herself over to the cloak that carried her back to her chambers. She had wanted to be queen once and wear a beautiful crown upon her head, sitting on the left side of her beloved King and husband. But as magnificent as the Dragon King was and even as the feel of his warm skin lingered on her lips, it was not he that the princess wanted.

During the night, the first of the summer snows fell. By morning, the field was covered in a heavy blanket of white. All the world, it seemed, had fallen still and quiet as the lords and ladies huddled in their furs for warmth, waiting for the final battle to commence. The queen shivered on her throne, her face barely concealing the discomfort.

The princess, however, did not mind the cold. She looked around in wonderment at the thin sheets of ice that formed upon the wooden stands, the icicles dripping from the canopies and the pure white snows of her childhood memories that glittered in the sunlight so beautifully. It was all so perfect that she thought it an enchantment.

Soon her untouched snow was tainted by heavy hooves marking the ground as Ser Harrold Hardyng advanced, dressed in his polished steel armor and helmet adorned with the falcon and the half-moon sigil of his house. Proud and tall he stood upon the field as he waited for his opponent.

When the man showed, he was no longer fool nor king. He was a warrior drabbed in a simple armor of stiff brown leather, save for his steel breast plate marked by two direwolf heads facing each other. His head was uncovered for all to see him, his hair tightly pulled at the back but none of the lords in attendance seemed to take note of it.

No one but the princess and the queen knew him and while one regarded him with warm, blue eyes, the other burned and seethed with barely contained rage.

As soon as the trumpets rang, the two men charged at each other, swords unsheathed. When they clashed in the middle of the field, the ringing of their steel pierced through the air as thunderbolts. They circled each other again and again, hitting shield and sword alike, in a dangerous dance that had the princess terrified.

When Ser Harrold pushed his sword forward it landed inches away from the warrior’s cheek and it became hard for her to breathe. Thankfully, he jerked his horse at just the right moment, avoiding the blow and quickly striking hard against Ser Harrold’s shield.

So hard was the blow, that the Vale knight’s shield broke in two and he staggered back loosening his grip on the reins of his horse. As the warrior came at him again, the animal spooked and rose on his back legs to defend himself, sending the Young Falcon to the ground unceremoniously, his helmet flying off his head.

The audience gasped at this sudden turn of events. Was the tourney over? they wondered. Their favorite had been dismounted and yet they were not prepared to give up their claim.

The princess’ rejoiced, preparing to stand up at once and declare the warrior the victor of the tourney and of her hand but, as always with brave men, things were never simple for the women that loved them.

A moment passed and the warrior dismounted. “Stand up, my lord,” he commanded. “I will not let a horse claim my victory.”

Bewildered, Ser Harrold scrambled to his feet, retrieving his sword from the snow. The warrior waited until the knight was good and ready but when he finally came at him, he parried his attack with ease, striking at the sword and swiftly moving out of the way as the Falcon drifted forward, hitting at air. Again and again, he tried to catch him but his sword met only the falling snow.

Only when he tired, his sword heavy as lead in his hand, did the warrior strike back. His response was hard and brutal. The white wolf pummel of his great Valyrian sword hit Ser Harrold flush in the stomach and he fell to his knees. He stood over him and asked: “Do you yield, Ser?”

The Young Falcon still had some fight in him and he stood up, on trembling legs, pushing forward with a loud grunt. So weak was his assault that the warrior pushed him back with one arm while the length of his sword hit at his calves sending the knight on his knees once more.

He placed the tip of his sword against Ser Harrold’s neck, forcing him to look up. “Do you yield?”

The proud lord’s eyes still held the look of defiance about them but when the warrior lifted his sword, meaning to strike him again, he grew desperate enough to lift his hands and scream. “I yield!” he said, terrified. “I yield!”

Ser Harrold was spared that final blow and the warrior lowered his sword slowly, before turning to face the princess.

Even from the distance, she could feel his eyes upon her, warm and full of longing and she smiled wildly. He had come back to her and she would never more be alone.

She wanted to ran down to him that very moment, embrace him and welcome him home but before she could do just that, the queen spoke out, in a hard cruel tone.

“That was quite the performance,” she said. “But the time for tomfoolery is over, ser. Kneel!”

The warrior stood still, his frame proud and unbending. “The only queen I plan on bending my knee to sits beside you,” he said.

“Why have you come here?” she barked. “What do you want?”

“I want only what was promised,” the warrior said, looking at the princess. “Lady Stark’s hand in marriage.”

A cruel smile spread across the queen’s face. “But that is impossible, ser. You are not worthy of such an honor.”

As her bannermen joined the queen in voicing their protests, the princess stood up quickly and faced them. “I have made a pledge, my lords, that the man who won the tourney would become my lord and husband. Upon my word as a Stark, I will honor that pledge!”

Her bannermen came at her then, speaking and whispering in her ear. “You must reconsider, my lady,” they said. “This man is not worthy of you. Who is he to deserve such a prize?”

“Do you not remember, my lords?” she said, smiling tenderly at her warrior. “He was your king once. He ended the Long Night and saved you and your children from the army of the dead.” With pleading eyes, she beseeched them: “Do not forsake us now, my lords, as we did not forsake you.”

But the bannermen were blind to their lady’s entreatments, all memory of the warrior long gone from their minds. “This man is nothing to us,” they said.

“Listen to your lords, child,” the queen said, her cruel smile still dancing upon her lips. “This man is nothing but a cur and a liar. It was surely deceit that won him the tourney.”

“The queen speaks truth,” the lords agreed. “It must have been his vile tricks that defeated the brave Ser Harrold. Otherwise how could one like him win against the Lord Paramount of the Vale?”

The princess could barely contain her disgust at the treachery of her vassals. Her last hope rested with the Young Falcon and she turned to the man who stood upon the field, still doubled over from the blows the warrior had handed him. “Is this true, Ser Harrold? Were you defeated by tricks and deceit?”

The Falcon hesitated for a moment but when he looked up at her, his face was a mask. “It is, my lady. I am quite certain of it.”

She swallowed back the bile at his untrue words and she regarded him coldly. “I had always thought you an honorable man, ser. I see now that I was mistaken.”

“I am sorry to hear of your low opinion of me,” he said, standing up straighter, his dull, blue eyes filled with pride. “I hope that once we are married, I will be able to remedy that.”

The princess swore as loud as she could that she would never marry him but the queen’s power seemed stronger than her will. “The lady is tired,” she announced, signaling her guards to come for the princess. “Please see her safely back to her chambers. She must make ready for her betrothal to Ser Harrold tonight.”

As the guards grabbed hold of her, her bannermen stood to the side and allowed them to drag her from the stands.

Only her brave warrior spoke out. “Unhand her!” he commanded and unsheathed his sword, running towards the dais.

“He means to attack the princess!” the queen shouted for all to hear. “Stop him!”

Before he had managed to reach the stands, soldiers and lords alike ran towards the field, intent on capturing him. As she was being dragged away, the princess looked back. Run, she thought. Run!

The warrior hesitated for a moment but, as she slipped further and further from his grasp, he finally turned and ran back towards his horse.

She could hear the clicking of steel as he fought to get away from the field and through the corner of her eye, she saw him ride away, as the queen’s men gave chase.

The princess did not struggle against the vice like grip of rough hands that dug into her flesh, when the guards pulled her back towards the castle. It did not matter now. They could lock her up behind a hundred walls. A thousand locks they could put on the doors. It did not make a difference. When night came, she would go to him and he would be waiting for her.

The sun had already set when the guards pushed her inside her chambers and instructed her to make ready for the feast. Unable to wait a moment longer, she went to her desk and picked up the blue rose that had been left for her. She caressed the petals gently before pushing her finger against one of the small thorns peppered along its stem. She let the drop of blood fall unto the silky folds, leaving a trace of red upon the blue as it slided downward.

She waited for the magic of the rose to rise and engulf her but as moments turned into hours, tears feel on the petals where the blood had once been.

Cry as hard as she could and stare at it for as long as she did, the rose still would not yield. There is no magic left, she thought, bitterly. She had healed his hand and his eye, lifted his curses and he had given her but a rose for her troubles.

When the guards pushed the door open, they found her sitting on her bed, dressed in her maiden clothes. Dutifully she had labored for months on them, with an unwilling hand. The heavy light grey cloth of her dress rustled and moved as she stood up, the weirwood branches embroidered on the skirts, glittering in the candle light from the mother of pearl beads she had patiently sown into the stitching.

Upon her shoulders she wore her maiden cloak. It was not cloth of silver or gold, but the white furs that encircled her neck gave her a dignified pure look that queens would envy. A large direwolf head was embroidered with silver thread upon the back, so determined was the princess that she should walk a Stark to her unwanted wedding. And in her hands she still held the small blue rose. It burnt her, scorned her and yet she could not let go of it.

As the guards escorted her to the Great Hall, her feet dragged upon the stone floor like a prisoner before an execution. But walk she did, holding her head high, her face still and quiet, unwilling to show her pain.

The queen and her bannermen had taken great pains that night to turn the austere Stark hall into a truly joyful, lavish place. Sumptuous silks had been placed upon the long tables and the chairs were decorated with wreaths of pine and winter flowers. Guests feasted on exquisite golden plates filled with delicacies brought from all corners of the seven kingdoms and so many candles had been lit that the whole room seemed bathed in warm light. The best minstrels in the North had been commissioned to play that night and their sweet songs filled the Great Hall, beckoning the guests to dance and swoon to the rhythm of lute and drums.

But as the princess was made to sit on the left side of Ser Harrold, the man whom others had proclaimed to be her betrothed, she found no beauty in any of the finery. Stiff she sat, feeling as if it was all but a cruel joke, one to be enjoyed at her expense. And none was more hateful to her than her betrothed. Proud and fawning as a peacock, he laughed and cheered with the lords around him, looking back at her from time to time with dull, blue eyes.

She turned her face from him, staring blankly ahead, not wanting to look upon his lying lips or think of what would come once morning broke.

The feast went on and the guests began to forget that she was even there. Her mind drifted as she aimlessly toyed with the rose in her hands, bruising her fingers but feeling nothing at all. Her thoughts turned to the Broken Tower where the fool and the king had waited for her, imploring her to come away with them.

Will you grant me your song, he had said. It was the one question she had not answered. I don’t know any songs. But she had known them once … A long time ago, her heart had been filled with them.

His question lingered in her mind, melding to the tune of the minstrels. Your song … grant me …Will you grant me your song?

Her feet seemed to know what to do before her mind did and she stood up, drawing the attention of the guests on her. Slowly the music died down as she made her way to the center of the hall. She looked up at the minstrels, sitting in their alcove. “The Winter rose,” she said.

The soft, winding tune began and for a moment she feared her voice would break but as she began to sing, a steady, crystal clear sound came out, so sweet and tender as to make grown men weep.

The spring was clear and it was here

Where Bael took his lady of the Winter

Her spirit wild, heart of a child yet gentle still

And quiet and mild and he loved her

 As her song began in earnest, the fragrant smell of the rose she was holding began to rise and float about the room. It settled on the silky table cloths and on the choice meats. Men ate it from their plates, and drank it with their ale, breathed it in their lungs. So sweet a flavor it was that they could not get enough.

And he would say:

“Promise me, when you see

A blue rose, you’ll come to me.

I love you so, never let go.

You will be my Winterfell rose”

 Lulled by the princess’ song, they stretched their limbs and laid back in their chairs. Even when the minstrels’ instruments began to creak and then fell silent, they did not notice. Their arms grew heavy and they sighed in contentment.

When all was done, he turned to run

Fading with the rising sun, as she watched him.

And ever more she thought she saw

A glimpse of him upon the snows forever.

 The princess’ voice grew stronger and bolder, like the gleeful song of a skylark in spring and she smiled as she saw her bannermen and all the queen’s men stretching out before her, heads on tables, drifting blissfully to sleep. The queen herself struggled to remain awake but finally gave in, her head gently laying against her pale white arms, an innocent, childlike expression on her face.

And she would say:

“Promise me, when you see

A blue rose, you’ll come for me.

I loved you so, a long time ago,

When I was your Winterfell rose.”

 Her voice echoed through the silent Hall long after her song had finished. All around her, the lords and ladies of Winterfell lay on the stone floors, spread out in their finery. Guards had fallen asleep on their posts, servants had laid down their serving trays and huddled in corners. On her golden throne, the queen slept, sighing from time to time as if in the midst of a sweet, summer dream.

 The princess pulled the hood of the furred cloak over her head and ran out of the Great Hall. In the court yard, squires and stable boys, horses and dogs alike slept in the frozen hay and not a sound was heard, save for the snoring of the dragon, coiled atop the Hunter’s Gate.

 Man and beast mattered not to the winter rose. All of the North slept that night as the princess ran towards the Broken Tower, gentle snowflakes dancing all around her, guiding her way.

 As she came upon the tower, she looked up towards the last window, expecting to see the candle flickering. But the window was dark and for a moment a sharp jolt rumbled in her stomach. It wasn’t until she heard the snicker of a horse, that her senses return to her. She ran, encircling the tower until she found him on the other side. He stood dressed in his brown leather armor, the sigil of their house still upon his breast as he gently patted his horse.

 When he heard the scrunching of the snow, he turned around and finally gazed upon her. His face lit up in such happiness that the princess felt as if his eyes alone could keep her warm and safe for the rest of her life. His arms stretched out and he ran half way towards her before she stepped back, smiling at him demurely.

 “Don’t I get three questions?” she asked.

 He stopped in his tracks, his arms falling at his sides but an easy smile rested upon his face and his eyes glimmered as he answered: “Of course, my lady.”

 “Who are you?”

 “I am Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell.”

 “Why are you here?”

 “I am here for you,” he answered, his voice strangled with longing. “You are my heart and no man can live without his heart.”

 “What do you want of me?”

 “Only what you are willing to give.” He came closer then, talking all the while in a low, hushed tone that made her tremble with joy. “Will you come away with me? I have no lands or titles but if you will have me, I will spend the rest of my life loving you.”

 Tears fell down her face as he came to wipe them away, his warm callused fingers gently tracing down her cheeks. “I am Sansa Stark, the Daughter of Winterfell,” she said.  “I have no need of lands or titles as long as I have you.”

 He sighed a ragged breath dropping his forehead to touch her own while his hands cupped her face. “Will you let me kiss you then?” he asked. “As you did on that last night?”

 She closed her eyes and nodded slowly, remembering the sweet taste of his lips on the night before he left when he had told her he was hers forever. He sealed his promise to her once more, as he tasted her lips, melting the snowflakes off her skin. He lingered in his gentle kiss until she felt weak in the knees and her hands wrapped tightly around his neck to pull him close, the blue rose she was clutching falling upon the snows. She made a promise of her own then. She would never let him go again.

 When morning came and the people of Winterfell awoke, the North remembered. They remembered their brave king and the Three Eyed Raven and how they had ended the Long Night. In vain they searched for their beloved princess and her warrior and great was their sorrow when they could not be found.

 None was as sorrowful as the queen, however, and none as angry in their grief. Her guards were dispatched across the seven kingdoms to find the lovers but none ever came back with news of them. So great was her fury that she took to her dragon and bathed Winterfell in fire, knocking down its white walls, flinging open its gates, raining blazing storms upon it until it fell in ruins and ash.

 But try as hard as she might, she could not bring down the Broken Tower. The place that had been her bane and her shame stood proud against her dragon’s flames and from the snows where the princess’ rose had fallen, strong, thick vines spread across the stone, blue roses blooming from fire and ice.

 From that day until this day, the blue roses bloom in Winterfell and, as long as they are here, the North will always remember,” he said, at last, dropping another kiss to her fingers as he finished his story.

 His voice still held her in its spell and she was unwilling to break it just yet. “And what of the princess and her warrior?”

 “All traces of them disappeared from Westeros but, further into the North, in the Lands of Always Winter, the free folk still tell stories about them. Of how they hid them in their caves and warmed them at their fires and how on a winter’s day, much like this one, their king, Tormund Giantsbane, took them to the place where the last remaining weirwood tree stood, to be married.”

 “So they lived happily ever after?”

 “They did.”

 “That’s nice,” she finally said, her arms curling around his waist. Her head rested against his chest and she hummed. “I liked this story.”

 He pressed a kiss to her forehead and held her close. When they parted, he stretched out his hand and plucked one of the blue roses from the tower’s vines. Carefully he picked off all the thorns before placing it in her hair. “The blue looks pretty with your red hair,” he said.

 She rewarded him with a wide smile and grabbed him by the waist again as they began to walk away from the tower. “Let’s go home, Jon,” she said.

In their wake, a chink of ice fell from where Jon had picked the flower and a new blue rose bloomed to take its place, filling the air with sweetness.

* a final disclaimer on this: I’m absolute crap at poetry! I can’t write it, my brain explodes when I attempt the simplest of rhymes but I really, really wanted Sansa to sing in this and I wanted to show what she was singing. So I used the song below as inspiration and just changed a few words around to fit with the story of Bael the Bard. So I essentially used it wholesale! :))))

Please check it out. It’s a beautiful song and Ritchie Blackmore is a freaking genuis!

[superiordragonlorde]

Dreams

Blarg! So I know this is day 3′s prompt for @futureherodekuweek and I’m so late, but it’s the only one that I’ve finished because the rest of them I got started on but then was either too busy to finish or hit a writer’s block with the rest... urg... and it’s the end of Deku Week, so... yeah. And I don’t know if late submissions will be accepted. If they are I’ll try to squeeze out a few more prompts. If not, I’ll finish up the prompts eventually and post them on my ao3.

Anywho, enough with the rambling. Let’s get started!

Warnings: blood, corpses, regurgitation, death (you know... the good stuff) (but don’t worry, it’s all under the cut)

I hope you enjoy my failed attempt!

     Screams fill and suffocate the air around him. They clamor over him, rake claws across his skin. Leave his mind scrambling to understand what they’re saying. What they’re crying out for.

     His body refuses to move as he stares at the crushed rubble beneath his bruised and bleeding face. Blood trickles into his eyes, leaving them stinging and blurry. His chest heaves and contracts as something inside of him stabs at his lungs and refuses to release its grip on them.

     Rolling over the screams is a voice. It’s deep, terrifying, assured, and victorious. It comes closer, speaking in a soft tone.

     A hand grabs the back of his head and yanks him up by his hair. He’s pivoted around to face the voice.

     A dark mask covering the being’s face and neck falls away to reveal a bald, eyeless face. A wide, tooth-filled grin stretches over the wrinkled skin. The mouth opens, and a laugh pours out of it, slamming into his face with a putrid stench of decaying bodies.

     The hand’s grip tightens and every nerve alights in a horrifying pain. Something is being ripped away from him as the being cackles and bellows and roars.

     The mouth stretches even wider, becoming a massive black hole. The hand slips away and he falls. His body turns in midair to see the being staring at him from the top of a building, watching his descent with that sickening grin. He looks over his shoulder to find the ground rising up to meet him, solid and terrifying. He knows he can save himself. He could if he tried. But that hand had ripped his safety away. It had taken what was his. What he’d sworn to protect.

     The ground comes closer. It grows uneven until the bumps and flaws in the earth turn into corpses. Their faces are twisted in anguish and fear, expressions he’s fought to alleviate from them all. Right below him, ready to accept him as one of their own, two familiar faces staring up at him with distant eyes. His mother and All Might. Their arms move and reach towards him. He’s about to fall onto them. Their fingers brush his face. They’re cold and stiff. He opens his mouth. A sound bubbles up from his throat.

     Midoriya feels the scream rip from his lungs as he shoots up in his bed. He shivers, panting, and clutches his sheets in a desperate grip. Sweat drips from his hair and leaves dark dots on the fabric. He bends over, failing to keep his roiling stomach calm. It heaves and flips, remembering the vivid images that are still flashing through his mind. More dots appear on his sheets, but they’re not just from his sweat anymore.

     He keeps his eyes fixed on his clenched hands, letting his heart pound against his ribcage. This hasn’t been the first nightmare he’s had this week about All for One. Actually, ever since All Might fought All for One, proclaiming on live television “Now it’s your turn” as he pointed towards the camera, similar dreams have plagued some of Midoriya’s nights. The nightmare comes and goes, each one more vivid and terrifying than the last.

     This last one was the most terrifying of them all.

     Midoriya swung his feet out from beneath the sheets, rubbing a hand over his eyes. It came back wet. There was no use laying in a dark room when sleep was as far out of reach as the stars themselves. That would just make him overthink and worry about the dream until his insides had twisted up so much he was racing to the bathroom to relieve some of the pressure.

     He took in a deep, trembling inhale before pushing himself off of his bed and opening the door.

     The dorms were dark and silent, just as they had been every other night Midoriya had strode through the hallways and rooms with little else to occupy his frazzled mind. No one in their right mind would be up at such an early hour when they had Aizawa as their homeroom teacher. Despite how many times the teacher himself would crawl into his sleeping bag and doze during his class, he never let his students have the same luxury.

     Midoriya felt a corner of his lip twitch up at the thought of the Underground Hero and his catnaps. The ghost of a smile fell when his mind flashed back to the dream and Aizawa’s mangled face in the pile of corpses. He gripped his chest and rested a hand on the wall to steady himself. His stomach churned and roiled. He shoved his thoughts somewhere else. To his friends. His mother. But they all circled back to that dream. Every body twisted, every face frozen in terror and pain, and every hand clawed for him, reaching out for relief or vengeance.

     Midoriya’s stomach surged and he clapped a hand over his mouth and stumbled to the bathroom. He almost missed the porcelain bowl as he retched and heaved. His body shook as tears spilled onto his cheeks and mixed with the partly digested food in his stomach. The faces still sped through his mind, prompting more acidic mush to shove its way up his throat and out his mouth. His lungs clawed for air, choking him in their desperation. His stomach clenched and twisted again. His heart constricted with each retch. The world was fading into black along the edges of his vision, tunneling until all he could see was his hands clutching the edge of the toilet and the food he was coughing back up.

     A hand brushed over his shoulder blades, but Midoriya’s frantic, panicking mind didn’t register it until his heaving stomach had given everything it had, leaving the taste of bile coating his tongue and clogging his throat. His head hung over the toilet bowl, energy spent and leaving him exhausted and shivering. The hand continued to stroke his back, and now he could hear a voice murmuring along with it. He turned his head just enough to look over his shoulder. Through the fringe of his hair, he caught sight of thin, gangling arms and a shaggy, blond mop. Sharp blue eyes watched him beneath peaked brows. Hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back until he was resting against a thin, fragile frame of a body. His body wouldn’t stop shaking as his lungs fought for more air.

     A soft towel was pressed against his face, wiping off the trails of bile and food mush. The towel dropped to the floor a moment later and the free hand carded itself through Midoriya’s saturated bangs. He rested his head on the bony shoulder, his hand reaching up to curl his fingers into the baggy white shirt. The long arms encircled him, pulling him closer. There’s no energy left in his body to sob and scream his fears. It was all spent clutching the familiar t-shirt as a damp stain grew under Midoriya’s face.

     “Midoriya,” the voice whispered, concerned. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling ill? Do I need to bring you to Recovery Girl?” Midoriya couldn’t find it in himself to shake his head.

     “No,” he croaked instead. “It’s... it’s not that, All Might.” Memories of the dream reach out and grab his throat in an iron grip. His trembling intensified. All Might’s arms pressed him closer as his fingers stroked through Midoriya’s hair.

     “What was it, then?” Midoriya curled closer to the Pro-Hero, his fingers tightening their hold on the shirt. The sobs building in his throat shoved themselves out in choaked hiccups. All Might’s hand gravitated down to his spine, rubbing his back in long, smooth strokes.

     “All for One,” Midoriya breathed, afraid his dream would smother him in its horrifying existence. He felt All Might stiffen beneath him, his hand faltering in its movements. “He- I- It-” the sobs were growing, stealing away his breath. His stomach twisted again, tighter this time, but there was nothing left in it that could be removed to alleviate the pain.

     “It’s alright,” All Might whispered, bending over Midoriya in an attempt to shield him from whatever terrors his mind had conjured. “Everyone’s alright. You’re safe, Midoriya. He can’t harm you.” Midoriya shook his head, his entire being shaking from the force of his sobs. The Pro-Hero’s words did little to chase away his fears, but feeling the steady heartbeat inside that frail frame helped to ease them back, at least.

     Maybe there would come a day where those dreams became a reality. Where Midoriya was useless and unable to protect everyone who depended on him. Maybe All for One would find him and take away the quirk he’d sworn to protect. But tonight, the villain was locked away, far out of reach from innocent lives and All Might. And the world’s beloved hero was alive, holding Midoriya to his chest and murmuring soft words of comfort to him. That knowledge was enough to calm Midoriya’s racing heart, but it did little to appease his frantic mind.

     “Let’s get you to bed, Midoriya,” All Might suggested, helping him stand. Midoriya shook his head, sniffling.

     “Can’t sleep,” he mumbled, drained of every resource of energy he had. All Might frowned, humming in thought.

     “Very well,” he sighed. “Let’s go to the lounge instead.” He wrapped an arm over Midoriya’s shoulders and steered him out of the bathroom.

     They both collapsed into the soft couch. Midoriya’s head lolled and rested on All Might’s shoulder again, an echo of their position on the bathroom floor moments earlier. The Pro-Hero made no effort to readjust or push him away.

     Midoriya’s gaze fixated on the wall ahead of them, eyes dull and sitting above dark, bruised lids. His mind was growing slow and sluggish, but it still refused to stop and rest, dragging Midoriya along on its tireless journey.

     “I’m going to take you to Recovery Girl tomorrow.” Midoriya blinked, snapped out of his thoughtless, existing state. All Might continued on, “And I’ll tell Aizawa you won’t be making it to your classes that day.” Midoriya struggled to sit up and look at him.

     “I can’t skip class, All Might,” he stated, locking his eyes onto his hero’s. All Might frowned.

     “When it comes to your health you can.” Midoriya opened his mouth to argue, but his brain scrambled for an excuse and All Might beat him to it.

     “It’s just one day, Midoriya,” he soothed. “Recovery Girl will get you something that can help you fall asleep and you’ll be as good as new the next day. And you can’t expect yourself to learn when your mind is so exhausted. It’s like overtraining the body: you’ll do more damage than good.” Midoriya tore his eyes away to glare down at his hands. A sigh passed through him, dropping his shoulders and the weight that was previously on them.

     “Ok,” he mumbled, leaning back into the couch and pressing himself into All Might’s side. The hero wrapped his arm around him and patted his shoulder, releasing his own sigh.

     “It’s ok to be scared,” All Might started. He hesitated before continuing on. “Just don’t let it get you so worked up again.” Midoriya hummed in understanding, returning to staring at the wall. All Might sighed again and rubbed Midoriya’s arm, content for the moment to sit with him in the dark, early hours of the morning.

Just gotta say... I love Dad Might.

Alright then, thanks for reading!

[capaldisrighteyebrow]

Angsty prompt from the angsty prompt list: “I haven’t been okay for a long time.”

So, this went in a different direction than I initially anticipated and became more about Rey than Ben? Hope it still hits the angst vibe! 

Set some time after TLJ. Warning: loss of parent angst ~3k

Now on Ao3

                                                          Tokens

The forest wept. Droplets of cool water pitter-pattered around her, falling from the dense canopy of towering trees in a soothing rhythm for the occasion. The hood of the white brocade cloak–an Alderaanian relic unearthed by Maz from an undisclosed location–repelled the moon’s unrelenting tears as she waited near the Falcon.

Over her years with the Resistance, Rey had curated an extensive color palette from the environments of strange, wondrous planets. Greens and blues and grays mixed together to form oceans and forests alike, but she’d decided a year ago that Endor’s appeal stemmed from it’s deep, lustrous browns: the trees, the vines, the soil.

The earth here had weight when held. It didn’t slip through her fingers like the sand of Jakku or scrape her skin like the bedrock of Ahch-To. This soil had heritage–eons of creatures and plant matter decaying in order to sustain new life. A person didn’t need to be sensitive in the Force to feel the magic of this place.

Rey hadn’t understood that at the time when Commander D’Acy had arranged to bring General Organa’s remains here, but she appreciated it now.

Her boots had sunk an inch or more into the soft mud by the time she saw his shuttle break through the stratosphere. At Poe’s request, she and Chewie had arrived hours earlier than the scheduled meeting to scout for potential threats.

“He is still the enemy,” Poe had warned her, finally granting official approval for the act he claimed was too compassionate for the leader of the First Order. “Promise me you won’t forget that.”

She hadn’t forgotten Kylo Ren was a threat.

She also hadn’t forgotten Kylo Ren had ordered a temporary reprieve from battle–a break which the Resistance had used to mourn, to come to Endor and entomb its revered, beloved general.

Across light-years, she had sensed him shake with wracking sobs and strike out in violence. She’d been too distraught at her own failure to protect the Skywalker matriarch, too incensed at Ren’s sanctioned attack–the one which had finally claimed Leia’s life–to speak to him.

During the days and months that had followed, she’d come to understand. At odd hours–in the quietude of her quarters or the solitude of the shower–she would hear him: begging for absolution, whispering pleas for something that would make him forget, that would make him remember, lamenting again and again for the blows he had dealt.

The words were never meant for Rey, only her.

With the anniversary on the horizon, Rey had finally extended an offer she hadn’t been authorized to give: Would you like to see her?

A single word had returned. Yes.

How one syllable could be so broken, she didn’t know, yet he’d intoned each letter with the chime of mourning bells.

Despite Poe’s cautions of duplicity and double-crosses, Rey knew it wasn’t Kylo Ren disembarking the shuttle at the edge of the wood. No mother had birthed the new Supreme Leader.

Leia Organa had only named one child: Ben Solo.

He strode forward, completely alone. Absent were the stormtroopers and personal guards who typically flanked his sides; not even so much as a pilot appeared in the shuttle’s transparisteel. He’d kept his promise, as she had trusted he would.

The ground beneath her shifted as he came to a stop two feet from where she stood. Her eyes roamed unchecked and unhurried, noting the changes in his appearance and attire in the same way he assessed hers. Time on the battlefronts had not been kind to either of them. His gaze narrowed at the scar on her throat–a close call indeed, she responded at his unspoken comment–while Rey’s mapped the lines permanently creased around his mouth, dragging down the edges of his full lips.

The scar she’d drawn across his cheek was no longer hidden by errant strands of hair. He’d twisted the locks at the top of his head, mimicking the style his mother had worn every day after she’d lost Han. Leia had explained the meaning behind many Alderaanian braids to Rey during the interludes between battles and retreats. To see Ben acknowledging his past was startling itself, yet her heart ached to know the occasion which had prompted him to learn this particular expression of grief. Had his mother shown it to him too?

Rey cradled the bouquet of wildflowers she’d scavenged together during her half-hearted scout and held out her free hand.

Ben stared at it, rolling his jaw in consideration. He made no move to take it, though his eyes darted up to hers and blinked softly at the offer. “You lead. I’ll follow.”

She didn’t push; her hand dropped back to her side, disappearing beneath the cloak. Her head turned to the side, glancing down the path that would lead them to Leia’s resting place.

A small gasp followed the movement: “Your hair.”

It isn’t so short anymore, Rey thought as she touched the loose ends curling against her neck. In a few more months, her hair would rest on her shoulders as it used to; for now, it only dusted them when she made a conscious effort. She tucked a strand behind her ear and stayed focused on the reason they were here. “It’s this way. Come with me.”

He fell into step with her, walking off of the narrow, trodden path, occasionally stepping over fallen logs or sidestepping massive ferns. From among the green foliage, light glinted off of curious eyes. Around the trunks, tufts of fur gave away the location of more concealed figures. Ben seemed determined to ignore the native population’s interest in their passage.

“They know,” Rey remarked, a small grin flashing from beneath her hood. “They know who you are.”

Ben regarded the creatures again, shaking his head in disbelief. “I was only a boy when my mother…” he trailed off, clearing his throat.

They didn’t speak again until they’d walked more than a mile deeper into the forest. Rey was glad for the cloak against the sudden chill in the damp air. The trees and undergrowth were thicker here, forcing Ben to walk so close their shoulders brushed.

“Just a little further,” Rey informed him, tugging the cloak from where it had snagged on a branch.

He hummed in acknowledgment, but didn’t make any other effort at conversation. Perhaps the journey through the forest had made him contemplative too. Rey had to stop herself from asking after his thoughts; she was here as an escort, not as a companion.

That distinction didn’t stop her from caring about the answer.

When they reached the heart of the ancient wood, Rey stopped in front of a tree trunk as round as the Millennium Falcon; it was almost as tall too, cutting off several feet above both of their heads. Gnarled roots thicker than her torso spiraled in waves around them, dipping beneath and breaking the surface of the ground like a sea serpent curling through water.

As impressive as the trunk was, the marvel of the location rested on top of the stump: a new tree grew on the surface, roots cascading over the sides of its predecessor, entwining like fingers around the dead wood before burying themselves in the rich soil. While it was new, it certainly wasn’t young. The sturdy trunk stretched impossibly high, pushing its leafy crown up into the canopy created by its neighbors to drink in its bit of sun.

They stood before a holy place.

“She would have complained,” Ben stated with a knowing smile, then added, “My father would have loved it.”

An archway had been carved into the massive stump, acting as an entrance into a hollow space which had been chiseled by the guardians of this place: the Ewoks. Leia had been something of a legend among their tribes, as Rey had come to learn. They’d kept watch over her tomb, making sure to never let the light of the small lantern hanging outside fizzle and die.

Rey lit a long, thin match using the lantern’s flame, then ducked into the entrance of the trunk. She touched the flame to the wicks of several candles mounted along the walls. Orange and yellow streaks licked up toward the ceiling, casting their warm glow around the small space and chasing away the shadows.

Before extinguishing the match, Rey turned to the gilded censer standing next to the smooth stone tablet marking the memorial. She’d watched Lieutenant Connix perform the incense ritual last year and followed the same steps. Heating the charcoal inside until it was red-hot, Rey finally snuffed out the flame before she sprinkled a mix of herbs onto the smoking brick nestled among the censer’s ashes. Soon wisps of aromatic smoke snaked through the air, filling the space with the scents of lavender and poppy.

She placed the bouquet of wildflowers at the base of the stone engraved with Leia’s name, then stood with her eyes closed, letting the incense waft over her as she waited quietly for Ben to join her. Finally, he stepped through the archway. With him beside her, the space felt no bigger than the cockpit of the Falcon.

“It’s quiet.”

Rey returned his earlier hum, agreeing with his observation. Within the trunk, sounds from the outside fell away completely. Chirupping avians, croaking amphibians–even the sounds of the rain–didn’t infiltrate the sanctum. Rey wondered if he found the silence unsettling.

“What is all of this?”

Opening her eyes, Rey followed his gaze around the room, trying to see it through his perspective: bits of flimsi and paper–scavenged from forgotten Rebellion archives–were tacked to the interior walls bearing handwritten messages scrawled in dozens of languages with dark ink. Other trinkets were placed around the chamber; some lined the bottom of the curved wall, while others hung from bits of twine. A few were left on the mantle of the stone housed in the center of the bisecting wall.

“Tokens,” Rey answered, remembering the procession of soldiers and command staff which had filed through the space to leave their offerings. The line had stretched beyond her sight.

Even now, she could discern a few of the items left in Leia’s honor. Poe’s flight wings, the first he’d ever earned as a Resistance pilot, graced the stand holding the smoking censer. A gleaming plaque Rose had welded together from spare datapads and pipe parts rested against the base of the stone; Finn had helped to etch its epitaph: Your hope burns within us. Chewie had hung one of his bandolier’s ammo pouches from the wall. Even Threepio had left the tip of one of his golden fingers behind, leaving his wires exposed.

Ben turned in place, taking it all in with solemn, glistening eyes. Facing the stone once more, he reached out to trace the imprint of Leia’s name. His fingers shook, ghosting over the letters. His mouth opened and closed several times without uttering a word, like a fish gasping for air while stranded on shore. Still lost in his thoughts, his hand came to brace against the mantle, brushing against another token: a thick band of dark hair, elaborately braided and tied off at both ends.

She sensed the moment he understood, that the connection was made in his mind. Her mouth felt dry as Rey defended the offering, “It was all I had.”

Rey had claimed only a few possessions as her own in her life–all repaired from broken wreckage or salvaged from the corpses of dead ships–nothing of value beyond her need for it. Joining the Resistance hadn’t granted her access to much more. She had the Jedi texts and a saber-staff she’d constructed from Luke’s broken legacy, but those things weren’t hers to leave behind.

Leia’s presence had brought forth a feeling from within her that she couldn’t transcribe into words and hang on a sheaf of paper. In the time they’d had after escaping Crait, the general had become her mentor and her confidant. Her friends had been there to listen to her troubles, but none had understood the sense of loss and longing nibbling at her tender heart like Leia. On the loneliest nights, they’d find a quiet corner of the ship or an unoccupied table in the mess hall to exchange stories. More often than not, Rey unburdened her worries and doubts on Leia’s shoulders.

That’s how it had started–with Leia stroking Rey’s hair, mumbling words in a mother’s patient, gentle tone when the pain had become unbearable, when the missing had overcome the anger.

“My mother had hair like yours,” Leia had praised, a fond smile on her lips. “Longer, but just as soft. Just as pretty.”

She’d shown Rey all she knew. How to twist it in variations practical for battle, and how to coil it tightly against her ears. She’d braided it in a crown around her head, and in another form between her shoulder blades. There were nights Rey had stepped into the fresher after Leia’s hands had woven magic and care into her hair and she hadn’t recognize herself in the mirror.

Each twine had been a kind of release, as if tying up their emotions in Rey’s hair kept them secure, out of the way of duties and missions.

Rey had learned much in her time away from Jakku, but Leia was the first person to teach her the art of patience. In the long hours when rest was uncooperative, Rey had practiced the new skill with the same level of dedication she used to train with her saber-staff or meditate on the Force. Her fingers became more certain of themselves with time, though they hadn’t been prepared for their ultimate test–when they’d combed and braided Leia’s hair for the first and the last time.

They’d trembled then.

Not long after, when Rey’s turn to choose her token had been at hand, it came to her naturally: she would give Leia the thing that had made her smile.

It was the least she could offer, the most that she’d had, and it still felt an inadequate tribute to the woman and the warrior she had come to cherish.

Ben turned from the stone to face her, raising a hand to brush against the ends of her hair. There wasn’t a need to explain her token; she could see he understood from the emotion floating in his eyes, tears flowing from the corners. Rey’s hand pressed his against her cheek, silently asking him to wipe her tears from her face as she brushed his away in kind. His caress was warm and familiar, though he’d only touched her like this in dreams.

“Did you bring them?” he whispered, coming close to resting his forehead against hers, but pulling back at the last second.

She nodded and slipped her fingers inside her obi’s pouch to retrieve the item he’d requested. Clinking as they bumped together, the golden dice fell into his waiting palm. His fist swallowed the pair before rolling them back and forth in his fingers, as if testing to see if they were real or if they would disappear. He breathed deeply with relief when they remained.

From his robes, he withdrew a scroll of parchment several layers thick. It was already sealed with a red band, but Ben looped the delicate golden chain around the center, crisscrossing the cubes to secure them in place.

“I was the one that drove them apart,” Ben said, kneeling in front of the stone. “I should be the one to bring them back together.”

He placed his offering on the mantle next to Rey’s braid, keeping his hand on the ledge for several long moments, unable to draw it away. His other hand concealed his eyes, attempting to squeeze the onslaught of fresh tears into submission. Soft, whiffling noises accompanied every inhalation, attempting to stifle his cries, attempting to hold back the emotions he’d hidden for too long.

Rey knelt beside him, the white cloak flaring out in a halo. “Are you okay?”

It was a hideous question to voice when the answer was so clear. But what else could she say?

“I haven’t been okay in a long time,” he confessed, red-rimmed eyes scanning up to meet hers. Inside their depths, Rey saw the boy lost to pain and anger, the one who yearned for his mother. He’d finally come home to her, yet it was too late–much too late.

Her arms slid across his shoulders and brought him close, cradling him as best she could. Sobs rattled against her collarbone while fingers grasped at the nape of her neck, clutching the ends of her hair. Rey channeled the most soothing presence she had known in her life and willed it to calm him.

They rocked together, suspended in stasis, cushioned by the damp earth beneath their knees. The smoke from the censer drifted down to envelope them, coaxing them to peace and rest as the cries trickled away. The only sounds were of their breathing and the rustle of their clothes as they moved.

When Ben flew away from Endor hours later, Rey touched the short, bristled patch by her temple. Another lock was gone, given with another solemn promise.

She’d told Leia she would bring Ben back, no matter how long it took.

The dark twist of hair resting in her palm–and the promise he’d given her in return–made Rey think it wouldn’t be much longer now.

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine fic - “One Hundred and One Nights” Chapter 2 (Rated NC17)

Blaine Anderson is King beyond the Sea of White Sand. He is a just and fair-minded ruler, but as a man, he is heartless and cruel. Burdened by a horrible past pain, he marries on a whim, keeping his spouse for one night only and then…well, no one knows what happens to the poor soul after that, but the rumors are varied and horrific. There seems to be no way to stop Blaine’s tyranny, no way to heal his sorrow and end this terrible practice, until one day, when he chooses a young girl named Rachel as his bride…and ends up with much more than he bargained for in the form of her brother, Kurt.

I want to say a thousand apologies, especially to @riverance, for not getting this up sooner, but as I am working hard to wrap up all of my WIPs, I have made this story a priority. I hope you enjoy <3

The art for this fic can be found here. Go look at it, then tell @riverance how amazing she is <3

Read on AO3.

Seventy-nine days.

Seventy-nine days spent traveling beneath the blazing, unforgiving desert sun. Seventy-nine days squinting at featureless stretches of gleaming white desert, an ocean of sand too hot to touch until nightfall. Seventy-nine days of his tailbone aching as he sat perched on the hump of a camel. Kurt wasn’t a weak man. Seventy-nine days traveling this dry land with very few civilizations in sight could drive even the strongest men to do desperate things.

Like go home.

Kurt didn’t so much want to go home, but he felt it was time. He’d been away for longer than he thought he’d be. But he didn’t intend on staying home. He never did for too long. The house where he was raised meant nothing to him; neither did the crowded city that harbored it. The moment Kurt left the house of his birth, home became wherever Kurt’s heart led him. So the white, baked-clay house that he’d be returning to wasn’t home because his heart wasn’t taking him there.

His head was.

Kurt wanted to remain steadfast in that belief, carry it like a shield proclaiming his indifference to all, but it was a bit of a lie. As much as he hated that house and that city, he did have one reason to return, one that his heart and his head both missed. One that he longed for these many months.

His beloved sister, Rachel.

Kurt could leave that house behind him and carry a torch for his father’s love all the rest of his days, but Kurt missed his little sister too much to bear.

And for love of her, Kurt had another reason for returning home. He had done exceptionally well these past few months, and he wanted to share that wealth with the one person he loved more than he loved himself. He wanted to shower her with gifts and books and music, and regale her with stories of the places he had been, the people he had met, the performances he had given.

In light of this, home should be a place he should want to be since he had already traveled enough to fill her head with stories till her dying day.

But he couldn’t make himself stay.

Kurt could square the fault on his father, but truthfully, even if home were the loving, caring sanctuary it should have been, Kurt was a wanderer at heart, a nomad, and he didn’t do well behind walls. That he got from his mother. His father simply gave him the impetus to climb on a camel’s back and go.

Kurt ran a hand underneath his turban and through his sweaty hair. He sighed, the hot breath from his mouth still cooler than that of the air around him. But he’d better get used to it. Once they passed through the city gates, it would get worse. Everything about the city of his birth was oppressive – the heat, the air, the stench, the buildings constructed too closely together so that one foundation made use of the one beside it. When one house leaned beneath the summer heat, the whole city leaned with it. Kurt always felt it an unintentionally romantic notion.

Ridiculous, but romantic nonetheless.

People from the city had seen the caravan approaching, and a group of them gathered to watch Kurt and his troupe enter. Anything out of the ordinary was a welcome change, and the troupe’s caravan – three large wagons painted in rainbow shades; camels adorned with brightly colored saddles, draping, buckles, and intricately shaved hides; not to mention their equally bedecked riders – were as far out of the ordinary as one might see at this time of year. The caravan entered the city to curious glances and shy smiles, and there they parted ways. Some had families there. Others were only visiting, and would look for a bath, a hot meal, and a place to bed down. Many in Kurt’s troupe refused to pay out of pocket for such things. Water was worth more than gold in the desert, but gold was still highly sought after and worked hard for. So they would perform for their supper, and the small city would enjoy a few nights reprieve.

Kurt was among the last to depart, not looking forward to the greeting he would get if his father were the first to receive him. He sat at the rear of the entourage, watching as camels and wagons took separate paths, branching out through the narrow paths of the marketplace. Mike, Kurt’s right hand man, brought up the last wagon. He was a jack of all trades in the performance business, almost as highly sought after as Kurt himself. He would act as keeper of the troupe’s most precious assets – their instruments, costumes, rations, and water.

“All right, Kurt,” he said, holding tight to his fiancée, Tina, “enjoy yourself.”

“And you as well.” Kurt reached out an arm for Mike to clasp. “Don’t spend too much, don’t drink too much, and don’t get yourselves arrested.” Mike laughed at his friend’s odd yet practical list of concerns. He knew that Kurt had more on his mind than he let on, bothering his head like tarantula hawks plagued the ground-dwelling spiders. “I’ll see you guys in a week.” Kurt thought again about his father at home, how the man would certainly watch Kurt ride up with a grimace of disgust. “Or maybe a day or two sooner.” Mike gave him a sympathetic smile, then turned his camel and wagon in the opposite direction and rode away, bathed in the golden light of the late afternoon sun.

Kurt sighed. On the bright end of things, for all of its unpleasantness, going home would finally get Kurt out of this blasted sun. Mike, Tina, and most of their troupe were blessed with tan skin, and dark hair and eyes that could defend against it. But Kurt was so naturally pale, he was as fair as the sand, his eyes the color of the mid-day sky. The only difference was the sand and the sky did not burn when touched by the sun; Kurt did, so he constantly slathered his skin in thick creams and lotions. They bled down his brow with his sweat and stung his eyes. It almost wasn’t worth the trouble.

Almost.

Every evening, when he bedded down comfortably beneath his blankets and fell immediately to sleep - no raw, stinging skin keeping him from it - he couldn’t be more grateful.

He considered stopping by a nearby bath house and sparing a coin for a long, cool soak, but he’d wasted enough time as was. If he avoided going home, he’d probably decide against it entirely.

If his sister found out, and should would as news traveled fast in their city, she’d be heartbroken.

Kurt turned his beast around, clicked his tongue, and ambled off on its back for home.

As a reward for putting his sister’s feelings before his own comfort, the homecoming he had been dreading was not the one he received. Instead, as the clop-clop-clopping of his camel’s hooves came to a stop on the hard-packed earth outside his house, he heard the gleeful trill of his sister’s voice calling from within, as if she had been expecting him for hours … or months.

“Kurt! Kurt! Oh, you’re home! Thank the Gods, you’re home!” Rachel bolted out the door, pink veils fluttering about her like wings as she ran.

“Rachel! My darling!” Kurt cried. He commanded his camel to kneel with a few staccato clicks of his tongue. He swung down from the animal, then bent once his feet hit the ground to accept her as she leapt into his arms. “Oh, my love! I’ve missed you so much!”

“I’ve missed you, too,” she said, weeping against his shoulder.

He gave her a spin and a squeeze, then set the giggling girl on her feet. “Okay, okay, stop fidgeting. Let me get a good look at you.” Rachel tried her best to stand still while her brother appraised her, but she couldn’t. For a girl of sixteen, she had the manners of a twelve-year-old - a beautiful, bare-footed wild child, part princess, part devil, but with the voice of an angel, a trait that she and he both shared.

“Now, now, what’s different about you?” Kurt raised a hand to his chin, stroking thoughtfully. “New sari? No …” He lingered on the word while she shook her head “… for this is the one I gave you when I came home last.” He bit his tongue against mentioning the three inches of dust staining the hem. He didn’t want to make her feel self-conscious. “Did you cut your hair? No, no, I don’t believe so. Have you grown?” She nodded like mad, and he grinned. “No, I don’t think so. I think you’ve stopped getting any taller.”

Rachel gasped. “You’re awful, Kurt,” she pouted. “I thought you said you loved me.”

“I do,” Kurt said. “I do. It’s because I love you that I am awful to you.” Rachel yelped and took a swing at him, but he stepped swiftly out of her reach. “No, but I’m only joking. You are the most beautiful young lady that I have ever seen in my life, in every place that I’ve traveled, and don’t you ever forget it.”

Rachel took her brother back into her arms and held him, burying her head in his neck. He felt melancholy within her, one that she was not sharing. He only hoped that whatever it was, it wasn’t anything serious.

“It would be easier to remember if you were here to tell me.”

“I’m sorry, my darling,” Kurt said, burdened with guilt and how sincerely he meant it. “I would stay if I could, but alas, I’m a performer …” Kurt twirled her around again, adding a dramatic flourish to his voice in the hopes that should would laugh. After a roll of her eyes, she did “… a storyteller, a singer, a …”

“A whore,” his father spat, making his way to the door at last to see to the state of his only son. The old man seemed miserable that Kurt did not look more poorly.

“Papa!” Rachel snapped her head around and glaring indignantly.

“It’s alright, my love. Don’t you fret about anything he says,” Kurt whispered in his sister’s hair, knowing that more insults would come.

“Look at him,” their father growled. “Look at this … this disgrace that pretends to be a man.” Their father stumbled forward, one leg limp, the other lame due to a sickness of his heart that the local doctor could find no cure for. Even in his travels, Kurt searched for one, if for no other reason than he felt it his duty, and for his sister, too young to leave their house just yet. But two more years would see her on the back of a camel, traveling the desert beside Kurt if he had anything to say about it. “You dress like a harlot. You paint your face. What do you think people say when they see you, hmm? Do you think the way you look commands any kind of respect from decent people?”

“Decent people?” Kurt huffed. “Oh, I know what decent people say …” Kurt tried to step from his sister’s embrace, but she held fast to him - to avoid a fight, or to keep him from leaving. Either way, he chose to stay with her. “But if you think me a whore, then I must be a good one, for I have brought home gold. See there, on my camel.” Kurt motioned to the animal waiting behind him. “That leather satchel he carries has enough money to ensure that you and Rachel are properly provided for for half the year.”

“That’s … that’s wonderful!” Rachel gushed from her place in his arms. “I’m so proud of you, Kurt!”

If Kurt expected similar gratitude from his father, he needn’t have.

“I don’t want your money,” the man growled, waving the offer of the sack away with a heavy arm. “I don’t need your filthy money.”

“It’s not filthy money,” Kurt said. “And I give it to you for the good of the family – my family, whether you like it or not.”

His dad scoffed, unimpressed by his son’s claims. “Did you at least have the decency to wash it before you tried to pawn it off on me? Or is it still covered in the sweat and semen of your customers?”

Kurt was struck dumb by that remark, not because he didn’t have an answering one for it, but because it contained language unfit for the ears of his beloved sister. Kurt’s father had insinuated for years that his son made his money lying on his back, but this was the first time that he’d said so plainly to his face, and in front of Rachel. In truth, Kurt had never been with anyone, man or woman, but that wasn’t a secret he intended to impart on his father’s bigoted ears.

Kurt wasn’t so much insulted by his father’s ignorant assumptions, but on his sister’s behalf, that she should have to hear such words cross the lips of the father she still managed to love.

“You know what? I’m going to put my camel in the stable,” Kurt responded with a bitter smile.

“There’s no need,” his father grumbled. “Why don’t you just climb on the wretched creature’s back and be gone? You are not welcome here.”

“Good luck with that.” Kurt watched his father hobble away and scoffed at the feeble man. His father could say what he wanted with all the venom he could produce, but he’d have no luck tossing Kurt out. Kurt’s father could call upon security, police, even the royal guard. None would remove Kurt. Even if they thought it was worth their time (which they wouldn’t, because the petty bickering of the common folk were rarely seen as important to the local authorities), money talked, and Kurt had plenty of it, along with charm, flattery, and other shallow assets that men in their city craved: Kurt smelled of fine perfumes, he dressed in lush silks, and had a feminine enough physique as to not be considered vile in the eyes of men who had a tendency to look sideways at young boys while drunk.

No, Kurt’s father could not remove him from the house, but he could make Kurt’s life miserable.

“Oh, Kurt,” Rachel whimpered. “I am so sorry he speaks to you that way.”

“It’s alright,” Kurt said, shushing her gently. “He can’t hurt me. And he can’t keep me from you.”

“I’m glad,” Rachel said sadly. “And I want you to know that I don’t believe it. Not a thing that he says about you. But it wouldn’t matter to me what you did, for you are noble and kind and have always been my favorite person in all the world.”

“Oh, darling. And you have always been mine. That is all I need in this world.” Kurt moved her veil aside and dropped a kiss onto the shiny crown of her messy head. “Nothing else.”

“Rachel!” their father bellowed from within the house. “Come inside now!”

Rachel exhaled long, and with all the irritation of a true teenager. “I do not want to, Papa,” she called back petulantly. The stomp of her small foot made Kurt chuckle.

“That was not a request,” their father roared back.

“Ugh!” Rachel groaned. “Papa’s trying to keep me away from you.”

“Well, I won’t let him,” Kurt promised. “You run on ahead, and when I’m through here, I’ll come in.”

“You swear?” she asked, looking at him with pleading eyes.

“Cross my heart. Now go, before he yells for you again and hurts something.”

Rachel giggled into her hand. She blew her brother a kiss, then skipped her way into their house. Kurt shook his head. It was so hard to believe that she was sixteen, a woman. Not the way she behaved. But mostly not because she was his little sister, younger than him by nearly five years, and so long as he lived, he would not see her grown. She would always be the same menace of a child who’d tug down his trousers trying to pull herself standing, climb into his lap when it was least convenient and ask for him to play, and fall asleep in his arms on blustery nights.

Kurt could see himself moving the sun, the moon, and the stars to keep her happy.

The only thing he couldn’t make himself do was stay.

Kurt turned back to his camel, which had lain on the ground amidst the arguing, having grown tired of standing.

“Come on, you lazy lima bean,” Kurt teased, since the one thing this blessed animal had never been was lazy. “Let me get you squared away.”

Kurt commanded the animal to its feet and led it away to his father’s old stable, where his father had kept his own camel when he had one, before it was sold to pay his debts … and to keep Rachel, then nine, from an untimely marriage. Thank the heavens the man had been sensible enough to head off that disaster. Arranged marriages might be common among the folks of their backward city, but Kurt absolutely loathed it. He would rather give himself up to debt collectors before he saw his sister sold.

Kurt was determined to see his sister comfortable and cared for until she decided to marry on her own to a man she loved, who was worthy of her, who courted her and treated her like a queen. And if that man did not pass Kurt’s muster, there were ways of ensuring that he disappeared. Kurt smiled thinking of some stuck-up, bastard, piece of human garbage bound and gagged in the rear of one of his wagons, being pulled across the desert to be sold away himself.

Kurt wasn’t a violent man, but he did enjoy a hand of well-played vengeance.

Besides, the troupe could always use the extra income. Maybe that was a service they could start offering – rescuing oppressed woman by dragging off their suitors against their will and selling them as slaves to distant tribes.

He’d have to look into it, see if there was a market for such a thing.

Kurt had been gone for barely twenty minutes, stripping his camel completely of its raiment and making sure it had plenty of fresh food and water, but when he returned, there was a member of the royal guard standing at the door. Kurt didn’t break his stride. There was no reason for him to. One of them belonged there; the other did not. But his eyes opened wide in surprise.

The man was perhaps an inch taller than Kurt, with hair the color of coffee; skin kissed by the sun, but still keeping a cool pallor; and eyes green as Kurt imagined ocean water to be green. Kurt would need to remember this color should he ever, one day, have the chance to compare them.

Holy hell! He did it! Kurt almost laughed. He actually did it! His father got a member of the royal guard to try and kick him out. Was that what he called Rachel into the house for? Did he send her off to get him? There was no way that his father could walk all the way to the palace to do it for himself, especially not in that small space of time. That son of a …

“Blessings, kind Sir,” Kurt said, heading the man off and offering him his most humble salaam. “Your presence graces our home. May I be of some assistance?” Kurt looked up at the guard through long lashes, smiling a slightly suggestive smile.

“Well, well, well, I have to say, that’s the most inviting greeting I’ve received in a long time,” the guard replied with a smirk and darker eyes.

“It’s not every day that a member of the royal guard honors us,” Kurt returned. “Would you please come inside for a cup of tea? Take your ease on this sweltering hot day?”

The guard looked Kurt over from the toes of his traveling shoes to his powder blue turban, which had managed to remain relatively spotless despite exposure to the sand-filled breeze. “I thank you for your hospitality, but I am here on official business. I regret that I cannot take you up on your offer. Perhaps another time?”

Kurt smiled with a relief that he hid expertly. “Perhaps.”

The guard bowed to Kurt, then turned and left with no mention whatsoever as to why he had stopped by, which chilled Kurt to the bone. A member of the royal guard wouldn’t just drop by their house for no reason. He had to have a reason. If that reason had to do with Kurt, why did the man not question him? Why did he not detain him? Why was he so cordial to him?

Because, perhaps, the guard was not there to see Kurt. Perhaps he was there for their father. What could the man have done while Kurt was gone that would call the royal guard to their house? He could barely walk!

Kurt turned to look for the guard, but the man had already gone, and Kurt began to feel ill.

“Rachel?” Kurt called, stepping into the house in search of his sister. She didn’t answer, and Kurt felt his stomach take a sharp turn. “Pa---Papa?”

Kurt didn’t have far to go to find the pair of them. Their father, standing in a far corner where the light was brightest, seemed to be reading a scroll, while Rachel knelt on the floor, eyes staring blankly with shock.

“Wh-what … what happened here?” Kurt asked. “What did that guard want?”

“He chose me, Kurt,” Rachel said, her lower lip wobbling. “He ch-chose me to be his next bride.”

“Who!?” Kurt asked aghast. “Who chose you as his bride? That guard!?”

Kurt ran back to the door, half expecting the man to have returned, but he was long gone. And to think, he had been flirting with Kurt when he actually came to lay claim to Kurt’s sister! Kurt knew that the royal guard took certain liberties in their city. He didn’t know that this was one of them!

That two-faced jackal’s ass!

Rachel looked up at Kurt, tears melting streaks through the dust on her face. She looked young, frightened – truly and sincerely frightened for her life.

“No,” she said, weakly shaking her head. “The King.”

Kurt’s eyes popped. “The King?”

“Yes.” Rachel sniffled.

“H-how do you know the King?” Kurt asked, thoroughly confused.

“I don’t. But it is custom for him to choose a spouse on a whim. He will marry me, have me, and then … he will kill me.”

From the corner of the room, Kurt heard his father snort. “Don’t be dramatic, child.”

Kurt wasn’t concerned with the mutterings of their father. Rachel was a headstrong and imaginative child, but she wasn’t foolish. “And why would he do this?”

“No one knows.” Her voice trembled. “It is said that he was scorned by love in his youth and that he chooses a bride or a husband solely to exact revenge on that first love that spurned him.”

“But why would he choose to marry you for revenge? You had nothing to do with it! You’re … you’re just a child!”

Rachel straightened to object, but then remembered that her brother, with his unintentionally insulting remark, was on her side.

“That will not matter when …” Her thoughts rushing ahead of her words, she could speak no longer, and crumbled, weeping into her veil.

“Oh, Rachel!” Kurt cried, dropping to the floor beside her. “No! Don’t cry, sister. This will not happen! I will not let it!”

“How does this concern you?” his father scolded, disgusted at the disgraceful display of two so-called adults. “This is a family matter.”

“Yes, it is a family matter, you pigheaded son of a …” Kurt’s words skidded to a halt when his sister wailed louder over their fighting. “And whether you like it or not, I am a member of this family.”

“Not a member of my family.” His father turned his back on them. “I made peace with losing you long ago.”

“Be that as it may,” Kurt said between his teeth, “Rachel is my sister, and I will see that nothing bad happens to her.”

“It is not your place to intervene. She has been chosen to be the King’s bride. This is not a time for weeping! It is a time for celebrating!”

“How can you say that!?” Kurt argued. “How can you sentence her to this!?”

“You listen here you shameless pervert! You Godless heathen! She may be your sister, but she is my daughter, and my word is final on the matter! The King has decreed that she will be his bride, and I have given my blessing.”

“A blessing to have me banished!” Rachel moaned. “Or killed!”

“Quiet yourself, girl. You know not of what you speak.”

“Then where is his last wife, Papa? Huh?” Rachel asked, hoping by the Gods that she was wrong, and maybe her father knew. Maybe the men of their city knew something that the women did not. “Or his last husband? There have been so many, taken away to the palace and then never seen or heard from again!”

“What!? No!” Kurt gasped, shaking his head. “This cannot happen! This … cannot … happen!”

Kurt saw his father move, crouching in on them with an agility Kurt did not believe possible in his father anymore.

“It will!” he said, baring his teeth so close to Kurt’s face that it frightened his sister to see. “It will happen because I say it will! Not you! You do not dictate what happens in my house, under my roof! Not when you spend months at a time on the back of a camel, spreading your legs for God knows who!”

“My mother’s house,” Kurt hissed, spitting the words into his father’s face. “My mother’s roof. And don’t you forget it.”

Kurt’s father flushed so deep a red, Kurt thought every drop of his blood had pooled in his face. He looked ready to slap Kurt, and Kurt would have welcomed it, if for no other reason than to have an excuse to slap the man back, but his father didn’t dare with Rachel in Kurt’s arms. Regardless of his edict, he couldn’t fault her for being frightened. Like Kurt and Rachel, he didn’t know what had happened to the women and men that the King married. He put his faith in Rachel’s pretty face, sweet temperament, and pleasant demeanor to win the King over so that he might make her his permanent bride.

Kurt and Rachel’s father wasn’t a wholly wicked person. It didn’t sit right with him to send his daughter off to a man who might take her head. But the King’s decree wasn’t a request. It wasn’t his place to say no.

As much as he loved his daughter, what choice did he have?

***

“Tell me about something good that has happened to you since last I saw you.”

After their father’s outburst, he retired early, leaving no instruction but knowing that whatever chores needed to be done would be completed before nightfall.

And they did get done because Kurt did them. He settled his distraught sister at the kitchen table and fed her a simple meal of cheese, fruit, and bread, of which she ate very little. Then he had her bathe and got her ready for bed. He anointed her with olive oil and brushed out the mats and knots in her long, brown hair until it gleamed.

“I … I’ve fallen in love,” she admitted reluctantly.

“Really?” Kurt felt his heart swell for her, and then sink for her. He wanted to be happy for her, but this was the worst possible time for her to fall in love. “And does the object of your affections return that love?”

“Yes,” Rachel said, blushing like the innocent girl she was. “I believe he does. But … that hardly matters now, does it?”

“You have to have faith, sister,” Kurt said, wrapping arms around her from behind and holding his sister close. “If the two of you are in love, then you have already won, for nothing can split apart two people in love, no matter how hard someone tries.”

“That’s just a fairy tale.” Rachel sighed, looking down at her hands. “Just one of your stories.”

“Some stories are based on fact,” Kurt argued. “It is true what I say. I have seen it. I swear that by God and all his angels in the heavens above that the King will not harm a hair on your head.”

“But … but how can you be sure, Kurt?” Kurt could hear the fear in her voice. “The King … he’s not a forgiving man. You don’t know what he’s like. You’re never around long enough to find out.”

Kurt winced, but she was absolutely correct. He should be around more. He didn’t need to be gone for quite so long this time. He should have been better at protecting her, instead of trying to rescue her after the fact.

He should have found a way to take his sister with him a dozen or more times.

“I know, my dearest,” he said, “and I’m sorry for that. But don’t worry. I will take care of you.”

“Do you have a plan?” Rachel asked eagerly, knowing from Kurt’s tales that there hasn’t yet been a scrape that Kurt couldn’t find a way out of.

“Yes, I do.” Kurt swallowed his grieving heart at the reality of lying to his beloved sister. He didn’t have a plan. Not yet. But he’d find one. He had to. “So I don’t want you to worry a thing about it.”

Rachel seemed relieved, which made Kurt’s temporary deception that much worse.

Kurt led his sister to her sleeping mat. He tucked her in and lay down beside her. He wrapped them both up in a new blanket he’d brought her. He’d hoped it would cheer her when he first picked it out, that it would soothe the sting of him eventually having to leave.

Those problems seemed miniscule compared to her troubles now.

“Kurt?” she said, resting her head on her brother’s shoulder.

“Yes, dearest?” Kurt smiled, knowing what she was going to ask.

“If you are not too sleepy, do you think you could tell me a story?”

“Of course.” Kurt buried his nose in his sister’s hair. “Oh … but I don’t think I know a story to tell you,” he teased.

“Yes, you do. You always have a new story to tell.”

“And you only ever ask for the same one.”

“That’s because it’s my favorite.”

“Alright,” he said. “Then I shall tell you that story.” He cleared his throat, but it didn’t work. The lump that had lodged itself there would not be moved as long as sorrow strangled his heart. How many more moments like this one were they likely to have if the King had his way? “Once upon a time, in a faraway kingdom …”

“A kingdom like ours?” she interrupted. Kurt knew she would. She knew this story backwards and forwards. He altered it very little. But she always interrupted, and always asked the same questions on cue.

“No, my darling. It was a kingdom of cool green grass, and skies filled with fluffy, white clouds; where rivers ran, and flowers of all colors bloomed. And in that magical kingdom of tall trees and sweet breezes, there lived a fairy so smart, so beautiful, and with such a lyrical voice, even the birds fell quiet to listen to her sing. She was gentle and kind, and loved by all. The flowers lent her their most perfect petals to fashion her clothes, and the vines offered themselves for her to tie back her silken hair. During the day, the creatures of the kingdom brought her offerings of food and drink, and she sat to break bread with them out of thanks for the meal. At night, the bees hovered close to keep her safe, and hummed her a lullaby.”

Kurt felt Rachel yawn, and he smiled a teary smile. She didn’t deserve this anxiety. She didn’t deserve to first be caught up in the war between him and his father, and now this turmoil. How Kurt hated that horrid decree, and the evilness of the King who declared it. That this man - who knew nothing of their family, nothing of their struggles and the heartache they’ve endured - could snap his fingers and take his sister away to an uncertain future was barbaric. If only they could run away, but there was nowhere Kurt could take her, nowhere they could go that the King wouldn’t catch up with them eventually. It was said, in their small, ignorant city, that he owned the world, but Kurt knew that to be untrue. Kurt knew about the lands beyond their desert. He’d walked their sands, breathed their air. Kurt knew a thing or two about Kings, too, and about those who were loyal to them. Even the vacant desert had eyes and ears. He also knew of a King’s vanity, and the lengths they would go to avenge a grudge.

Kurt couldn’t risk putting his sister in danger, even if the alternative was losing her forever.

Besides, he would never be able to persuade their father to go with them if they ran. Regardless of how much Kurt despised the man’s bigotry, he was still their father. Kurt didn’t want to see the man tortured and killed on their behalf.

Kurt barely got halfway into his tale before his sister fell fast asleep, breathing evenly against his chest. Kurt felt pangs of remorse and sadness echo beneath his breast with every beat of his heart – remorse that he did not return sooner, and sadness that that decision may cost Rachel her life.

The story Kurt had been telling Rachel he wrote for his sister – of a head-strong fairy princess who goes against her father’s wishes and, defying all odds, becomes a fierce warrior. He rewrote it as a play when he and his troupe found themselves caught in a rough patch without a coin in their pockets to split. Kurt considered it his good luck story since the character of the princess was inspired entirely by his sister, and she, to him, was the luckiest thing that had happened in his life thus far. The performance went over much better than he had ever dreamed. So popular was it that the audience were brought to their feet, and applauded and cheered for three curtain calls. It got to the point that Kurt wasn’t sure they would let him and the troupe leave.

But that was the power of a truly fantastic story. Kurt had observed it many times during his travels. It didn’t matter if people knew each other’s language or not, subscribed to one another’s beliefs, or shared their ancestry. Storytelling transcended all of that. It could build bridges, link gaps, made friends out of foes, brought moments of peace during times of strife.

Kurt had even seen a well-spun tale save a life. Stories held a magic like none other, and Kurt was a true believer, a devotee, and a practitioner, probably one of the best around.

A sudden spark of inspiration struck Kurt, so bright and enormous, he almost leapt from the bed.

That was it. He had it – a way to get his sister out of this mess. And it would work. If he played it just right, it had to work. It might require some sacrifice on his part, but he was willing to make it. He had to.  

There was none other alive he would make such a tremendous sacrifice for.

Kurt smiled and held his sister tight, apprehensive about the future, but almost impatient to see the dawn.

With the memory of that long ago night dancing through his head, the electricity that leapt from person to person during that performance, joining a group of strangers as one, Kurt came up with a plan to save his sister’s life.

[araminthe-ispwitch]

The Accursed Tale of Viktor Nikiforov

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: Yuri on Ice

Rating: K+

Pairing/s: Viktor Nikiforov/Yuuri Katsuki

Summary: 

Once upon a time, there was a man named Viktor Nikiforov. However, his story isn't something clear-cut like generic fairytales.

This is my birthday fic/song fic/attempted character study for Viktor Nikiforov a.k.a. that other dude born on December 25.

Emphasis on the "attempted" part.

Anyways, because he's on Christmas and Georgi "My Stupid Son" Popovich was born on Dec. 26 (can you believe the writers' cruelty???), I've decided that a short series of indirectly comparing them—going along with the theme of Georgi always being shadowed by Viktor—was a great idea.

(It's not actually, because now my other fics had to be put on hold.)

Cross-posted in: AO3 (don’t bother with the FFNet version because FFNet rejects songfics so I had to edit out this poetic fiction of mine there—but as if that’ll make me stop writing them because of the music industries’ logic)

Important Stuff to Note: 1) This Viktor-centric oneshot is very poetic—like REALLY poetic. Because it's a song fic—complete with lyrics and all that—I've tried to visualize it as an AMV of sorts, which is why the writing is like that and there's not much exposition (which, if you've read my other stuff, you'll know is my specialty).

2) Those lines centered, bolded, and italicized all together are the lyrics... and other stuff. ;D

3) There's a lot of time-skips here because we get to see how Viktor's life progresses.

4) I highly, HIGHLY encourage you to watch/listen to "Fairytale" by Alexander Rybak, the very inspiration for this and Georgi's own b-day fic. (The link I gave is his music video because you need to see how cute that fucker is, but okay that video's volume is low so here's a nice lyric video instead.)

5) Did you listen to it yet? You should. In fact, somebody should seriously fucking skate to it. I mean, it won Eurovision Song Contest 2009, didn't it? What do you mean it's not the greatest song ever?

6) I use the Victor-with-a-k spelling, so please get used to it.

7) Of course I don’t own YOI or Alexander Rybak’s song. T-T

The Accursed Tale of Viktor Nikiforov

Part 1 of the Two Sides of a Fairytale series

Once upon a time, a lone violin cry deafened the silence.

The spotlights from above grew warm and comforting.

The sound of ice being sliced coalesced into its own song.

And the world stilled to watch and listen.

Come.

Witness the tale of the Accursed Man.

Years ago, when I was younger

I kinda liked a girl I knew

Turquoise-colored eyes fluttered open with their beautiful silver lashes. The sight before them was familiar: a sea of indistinct faces, blurring into the colorful background behind the gleaming horizon of ice and light and white. Everywhere the eyes swept, the images couldn’t imprint on their memory long enough as the owner gracefully turned around and around and around. The dancing man outstretched his arms, beckoning to the empty air. To his precious audience, he was alone up on the glittering stage, but only the man could see the young feminine form coming to him, taking his hands.

Viktor smiled softly, his eyes only for her—for the beautiful creature who only ever answered to him. The girl laughed, eyes crinkling as the brilliant lights of the stadium bore down upon her veil of silver hair and moonlit skin.

They drew close, foreheads touching in a solemn, intimate prayer.

She was mine and we were sweethearts

That was then, but then it’s true

Then they backed away—fingertips still connected—and the mirror dance began.

I’m in love with a fairytale

Even though it hurts

Jump.

Spin.

Balance.

Glide.

Every movement, every action coursed through Viktor’s body as if they were natural to have occurred. And underneath the caress of the piercing music reverberating throughout the stage, they were. Viktor didn’t need to see if the girl was doing well—if she was copying him perfectly.

After all, they were one.

Their heartbeats were dancing to the same song—their skates gliding on the same ice.

They were one. And they will never let each other go.

‘Cause I don’t care if I lose my mind

I’m already cursed

They will always be with each other.

Every day we started fighting

Every night, we fell in love

“Don’t you think your hair is getting too long?”

Viktor blinked at his fellow skater, halting his brushing movements. His silver mane stilled as he did.

“What?”

“It’s not really fitting well with your look right now.”

Viktor blinked some more. “What do you mean?”

“Well… your body is getting more defined throughout the years…” the woman explained. “I think you would look better with a shorter hairstyle.”

“Yeah, I think so, too,” quipped another skater—a guy this time. “You’re past your puberty now, right? Having a mature look would get you more fans!”

Viktor barely heard the man’s encouraging enthusiasm, his hands restarting their brushing motion. His coach came into his view as the others chatted about how Viktor would look like in the future.

“Yakov…”

“Hm?”

Turquoise eyes lifted up to the old man, a glazed and unfocused look to them. “Do you think I should cut my hair?”

Yakov raised a brow.

“Really short, I mean?”

“Ah.” Yakov hummed in thought. He eyed his student’s suddenly-serious disposition. “It would make a good image on you, at least. You’ve never really had short hair before, right?”

Viktor nodded.

“Hairstyle changes can be good sometimes,” said Yakov with a shrug. He eyed Viktor carefully once again. “But it’s alright to not change anything. It’s up to you.”

Viktor nodded again, gaze staring past the floor’s pattern. His hands were busy with brushing, but every bristle of his mane against his fingers felt so keenly sensitive.

No one else could make me sadder

But no one else could lift me high above

“Isn’t your hair a bit too long?”

“You’re an adult now, aren’t you?”

“You should act more mature.”

“A manly sex appeal would suit you!”

“Just think of how the world would fawn over you if you changed your image!”

Darkness. A familiar space. Sometimes, there was color—and other times, it was a void.

A mirror was in front of him. It had always been with him ever since he could remember. It helped him see himself clearly.

His vibrant girl was staring back at him, as usual. But for once, they were wearing the same dull expression.

Unintelligible whispers were echoing throughout the space and every hiss reaching them made his girl shiver. But she wouldn’t openly show her fear. She was strong.

The garbled hissing wrapped itself around Viktor, but he didn’t need to understand them. He knew what they were all about.

Change.

Change.

Change.

Viktor was at the cusp of metamorphosis and he ought to change.

Ought.

The girl stayed silent, looking back at him with muted blue orbs.

But I like it long.

I don’t know what I was doing

When suddenly, we fell apart

Viktor didn’t know how and when the poisoned words—compelling, daunting, choking words—started to sear themselves into his skin like sentient tattoos, but sear into his skin they did, and Viktor quickly discovered that he was at the mercy of their cruelty.

A game of tug-of-war ensued—Viktor helpless to the pull of the invisible chains linked from his unwanted tattoos to the door outside his sanctuary, yet still stubbornly digging his feet into the ground as he battled to keep his fingertips on the mirror.

Honestly, it was no longer just a game.

His girl mouthed words only audible to him and he managed to add another fraction inch of skin on the reflective glass, at the cost of his curses cutting deeper into his body.

A light suddenly flew past him, startling both man and girl.

Viktor looked over his shoulder. A familiar figure was going ahead to the outside world, and a sense of dread started coiling itself into Viktor’s stomach.

Several more lights flew past the pitch-black sanctuary and Viktor realized with horror that… they were all leaving him behind.

The earth beneath him shifted and the familiar warm feeling of being watched—of being appreciated, of being appraised, of being acknowledged—left his skin like a cold mist settling in. The coiling dread spread almost immediately.

The buzzing in his ears grew louder, a mixture of his girl’s voice and the thousand voices of the outside world.

You can’t stay still.

They’ll get bored.

You need to evolve.

Viktor slowly turned back to his girl, finding her beautiful turquoise orbs filled with uncertainty. He lifted a hand and caressed the image of her porcelain cheek.

Nowadays, I cannot find her

But when I do, we’ll get a brand new start

“Oh, hey, Vik—oh, wow! You look great!”

Viktor squeezed the doorknob as several of his fellow skaters crowded around him to marvel at his new haircut.

“I told you you’d look amazing with short hair!” said the woman who’d suggested the idea to him. They all murmured agreements as they continued to ogle and croon at him.

Unseen to his audience, Viktor looked back over his shoulder, where light from the opened world spilled onto a landscape of darkness and coldness.

A lone mirror stands at the center.

She wasn’t there.

But the hissing and pain of his tattoos had stopped.

Viktor slowly closed the door. He turned back to the audience and forced the corners of his lips to stretch.

“I know, right?”

I’m in love with a fairytale

Turquoise-colored eyes fluttered open with their beautiful silver lashes. The sight before them was familiar: a sea of indistinct faces, blurring into the colorful background behind the gleaming horizon of ice and light and white. Everywhere the eyes swept, the images couldn’t imprint on their memory long enough as the owner gracefully turned around and around and around. The dancing man outstretched his arms, beckoning to the empty air.

It remained empty.

Even though it hurts

Snow fell softly on the dimly-lit garden. Seated, Viktor stared up into the dark sky, his arms around his beloved dog. The world was quiet and there was no spotlight or camera flash for Viktor to pose for. Not a soul was in sight for him to entertain.  

He was all alone.

But still, the air remained empty.

And deep inside, a hole in his soul grew larger as the days passed.

‘Cause I don’t care if I lose my mind

For every year that passed, the painful inward tugs of the coercive tattoos come and go. They were always the sign that Viktor needed to evolve even further.

His past self must die and be reborn to become stronger—better. He couldn’t let his rivals surpass him for long. He couldn’t let his audience feel bored.

But sometimes, when he’s alone with his thoughts, he would visit the abandoned sanctuary.

The mirror had become transparent glass.

I’m already cursed

Cameras flashed left and right, illuminating the proudly-smiling and charismatic face of Viktor as he held up his gold medal for the world to see.

But the low thrumming of the tattoos were just underneath his costume. He had to change—to unfurl as a new flower—once again.

I’m at the end of my rope. At some point, I’ll have to stop spinning for the world.

Viktor smiled just a little bit wider. He can evolve.

In the darkness, a faint cracking could be heard.

She’s a fairytale, yeah

“A commemorative photo? Sure.”

Viktor couldn’t help his eyes widening by a fraction when the bespectacled man he was one-sidedly talking to just turned away from him without any goodbye whatsoever.

Deep within his core, a familiar tug ached… and brought him back to a time when he lifted his fingertips off that glass.

Viktor turned back to Yakov and Yuri. Just another reminder of the past. Nothing to it.

At least the man had looked horrified at him before he left. That was a nice difference.

Even though it hurts

“Be my coach, Viktor!”

Viktor stared—gaped—unbelieving at the slurred words of the giddy Japanese man clinging to him—who had, only hours before, walked away from the five-time consecutive Grand Prix Final champion like said champion was nothing.

A resounding crack of glass—a shiver—reverberated through him—within him—and Viktor barely stopped himself from letting out an effervescent sob.

‘Cause I don’t care if I lose my mind

When he caught wind of a perfect copy of his winning FS routine for the Worlds already viral online, Viktor’s brows unabashedly cocked in surprise. That wasn’t anything new—some skaters had tried the same throughout the years.

But the way people were reacting to it piqued his curiosity.

Now, lying on his sofa with Makkachin resting on him as he watched the aforementioned video for the fifth time, Viktor understood and respected their awe.

Yuuri Katsuki was something else.

There was no music—only the song of his skates making love with the ice—and yet, Viktor could hear every single note of the familiar melody as if he was right there with him.

A swish of silver hair and tinkling laughter flashed before his mind’s eyes and his lips thinned, bitten inside to prevent him from making any noise.

The video finished too soon for his taste. Unbidden, a small voice asked—whispered—for another replay.

Viktor didn’t hesitate to heed it.

I’m already cursed

“I want to eat pork cutlet bowls with you, Viktor.”

Short silver hair swished to fully turn to Yuuri and turquoise-colored eyes widened in surprise and confusion at the wish of the skater.

“I want to keep on winning, and keep on eating pork cutlet bowls!”

Viktor blinked, the words resurfacing buried images in his mind—of the proud roar of a crowd, of the satisfying weight of a medal around his neck, of the wonderful feeling of his precious mane slipping through his fingers as he lets the rush of the wind toy with it.

“So I’ll skate to ‘Eros’!”

There must be something else I can do to surprise the world. The tattoos had tugged harder, urging him to think of anything. This can’t be the end.

“I’ll give it all the eros I’ve got!”

When Viktor had arrived in Japan, he had convinced himself that this was the path he had been seeking. Yuuri Katsuki had provided that with his drunken plea to him back at the banquet months ago, and after seeing him copy Viktor’s routine, the silver-haired man clung to this hope that he can still evolve—still change and wow the crowd—through this.

But now, seeing the Japanese man boldly declare to him that he was going to fight for a chance to eat with Viktor—to be with Viktor—well…

For the first time in a long while, the searing curse entwined around him and the seeking shadows of that long-abandoned sanctuary stilled for just a moment as Viktor smiled vibrantly, genuinely happy with Yuuri’s wish.

I’m already cursed

The tattoos curl around him for the nth time, and Viktor lets his previous smile linger into just a plain line as the stark whiteness of the outside world’s sanctuary—his new sanctuary—enveloped him completely.

I’m already…

The need to push himself—to extend the rope even further, to exert every last drop of his strength into staying, to hold on until he was forced to let go—curls around him.

Yeah…

His new mirror reflects the sickly white of the place. His hair looks almost non-existent amidst the light.

…

“I hate you.”

The mirror is silent.

No one’s home.

No...

“Viktor?”

No.

A tinkle of familiar laughter.

But when Viktor blinked at a worried Yuuri suddenly so close to his face, the laughter seemed so far away.

No…?

“Is everything okay…?”

Viktor couldn’t help the sudden, quiet intake of breath. Yuuri was a vision in blue. He’s seen the outfit several times already, but never in that color—and for once, he’s glad he let Yuuri choose the shade.

I’m… not?

He lifted his adoring eyes, sparkling in warmth when he notices the dark-haired skater’s pink cheeks.

“H-How do I look…?”

I’m not… cursed…?

Viktor laughs quietly, and the phantom pain from the past ebbs away even further.

“You look beautiful, Yuuri.”

No… I’m not cursed.

“S-So do you!”

Viktor smiles softly. Yuuri was getting nervous again. But this wasn’t something he couldn’t handle.

I’m not.

Now, on the glittering stage they both knew and love so much—with only the lights up above illuminating their story, Viktor inhales and holds his head up high.

Not while I’m with you.

When he fell for Yuuri Katsuki, he realized with shame how much of an idiot he actually is. The sanctuary of white was abysmal, at best, but all this time—even when he came to be with Yuuri and learned to love Yuuri—he never bothered to look around. It had been a self-punishment of sorts.

But just because he had torn himself from his old comfort zone didn’t mean that he couldn’t learn to make this new one comforting.

Viktor looked down. His breath hitched.

He was stepping on a mirror.

The entire floor was a mirror.

A long mane of vibrant silver swayed on the other side, and turquoise eyes widened as its younger version crinkled happily back at him.

Viktor took a step.

His long-lost girl took the step with him.

This time, Viktor didn’t bother stopping his sobs.

His precious girl never left—never disappeared when he did without warning.

She simply found another way to stay.  

So please…

“If I win this dance-off, you’ll become my coach, right?”

“I want to eat pork cutlet bowls with you, Viktor.”

“I’m going to become a super tasty pork cutlet bowl, so please watch me!”

“I want you to stay who you are, Viktor!”

“Viktor is the first person I’ve ever wanted to hold on to. I don’t really have a name for that emotion, but I have decided to call it ‘love.’ Now that I know what love is and am stronger for it, I’ll prove it to myself with a Grand Prix Final gold medal!”

“Don’t ever take your eyes off me.”

“Just have more faith than I do that I’ll win! You don’t have to say anything. Just stand by me!”

“I’ll show my love to the whole of Russia.”

“Please be my coach until I retire!”

“I-I’ll try my best from tomorrow on so… tell me something for good luck!”

“After the Finals, let’s end this.”

“Please stay with me in competitive figure skating for one more year! This time, I’ll win gold for sure!”

Please stay.

Turquoise-colored eyes fluttered open with their beautiful silver lashes. The sight before them was familiar: a sea of indistinct faces, blurring into the colorful—dimmed—background behind the gleaming horizon of ice and light and white. Everywhere the eyes swept, the images couldn’t imprint on their memory long enough as the owner gracefully turned around and around and around. The dancing man outstretched his arms, beckoning to the empty air.

Another pair of hands gripped them and Viktor squeezed back.

Viktor smiled softly, his eyes only for him—for the beautiful creature whose gaze stole his heart, whose voice woke him up, whose touch wiped his tattoos. The other man laughed, eyes crinkling as the brilliant colored lights of the stadium bore down upon his jet-black hair and creamy skin.

Yuuri wasn’t a replacement for his old dancing partner. Far from it.

Viktor could feel his little girl moving within him, eagerly shadowing his movements as they led their partner—lover—on this intimate dance.

Stay close to me.

And never leave.

Yuuri smiled up at him, drawing close as they switched places and he held Viktor tenderly.

Man and girl, one as can be, sighed in content… and embraced him back.

Yuuri is his muse—his life and love.

“Viktor! Long time no see! Wow, you look great!”

Viktor smiled at Yuko as he entered Ice Castle. They were back in Japan after training in Russia. “Hey, Yuko!”

“Oh, you’re growing out your hair, huh?”

At the mention, the skater’s hand went up to smooth his silver mane back, still unused to finding a hair tie on it. It’s been a while.

“Well, I found out that Yuuri really liked it long back then, so…” he trailed off teasingly, sharing a conspiratorial grin with Yuko as the aforementioned male joined them in the lobby.

“Hm? My hair?”

Yuuri nodded, leaning back against the sofa’s backrest as Viktor lied his head down on his lap, idly watching the television in their apartment’s living room.

“Why’d you cut it back then?”

Viktor’s answered the question so many times already that it comes almost automatically to him. But remembering that this was Yuuri—his Yuuri—asking, he paused and pondered on what to say.

“No reason, really. I guess I was just getting tired of it being so long and decided I should change things up.” In the end, he couldn’t think of a better-sounding answer.

Yuuri hummed in reply, carding his fingers through Viktor’s crowning glory spilled on his thighs.

Viktor looked up at him. “Why? Do you like it longer?”

Yuuri’s used to his teasing by now, but he still couldn’t play off the blush on his cheeks. “W-Well… I’m just remembering how beautiful you looked with it…”

Viktor pouted. His little girl giggled softly at his silly envy. “Why? Don’t I look beautiful right now?”

He expected Yuuri to flounder, but was taken aback when the other replied almost immediately, “You do.”

Turquoise eyes widened, and his girl and his heart both gasped in disbelief at the pure happiness the two words evoked deeply within them. His sanctuary flickered like a shining prism.

“So…” The fingers combing his head hadn’t faltered in their movements. “Do you want to see me like that again?”

Now they did. And Viktor found with glee that Yuuri’s expression reserved only for him never stops filling him with life.

“Why are you two looking at me like that…?” asked Yuuri warily, looking back and forth between the two. Viktor couldn’t help flashing him a mischievous grin.

“No reason…” he drawled with a wiggle of his eyebrows, twirling a piece of his silver locks that were already reaching past his shoulders.

Yuuri jolted, turning his head away—but his ears were obviously red.

“C-C’mon already! D-Didn’t you say you wanted to s-skate?!”

As Yuko and Viktor laughed at Yuuri’s frazzled composure, Viktor inwardly smiled and let himself be pulled back into his sanctuary.

He didn’t know when and how, but the old one eventually melded with his new one, a door no longer separating the two together. The mirror floor was as beautiful as ever, but unlike the ice, this one granted Viktor clear view of himself and the things in his sanctum. His girl was with him, as usual, and she started dancing to silent music as the colors bled and spilled into their place, ever-changing and vibrant as the lights hit them. Viktor stared down at her fondly, watching her skate along her side of the mirror.

The tattoos were slithering on him again—never truly erased—but this time… they compelled Viktor to join her.

To join him.

Viktor brought himself back to the outside world, where Yuuri was waiting for him on the rink. He hurriedly tied his laces with a smile on his face.

Funny, he thought to himself. His cheeks would always hurt from smiling too much, but this time, he didn’t mind it at all. He liked it.

Now, come, my love…

His excited eyes quickly spotted Yuuri as he entered the rink.

People say you can’t love someone else if you don’t love yourself.

Yuuri kicked off with his favorite triple axel, cleanly landing as his arms gracefully balanced his body.

Bullshit.

Viktor’s lips twitched when his fearless girl intoned her similar thoughts passionately alongside his.

I’ve never loved myself.

A hazy world filled with dimmed memories came to him and he didn’t fight it for once.

But you…

Then, hazel orbs caught his turquoise ones, and despite the distance and its poor eyesight, they held on to his almost stubbornly.

Oh god, you…

They sparkled when Viktor came closer, so much closer.

I loved you so much, I forgot what hating myself felt like.

Then they fluttered close and so did Viktor’s, as they let their unheard song guide their heartbeats on what dance to do.

Join me in this fairytale

And let’s never let it end.

This is the incomplete tale of the Accursed Man named Viktor Nikiforov—who thought that he was cursed, but it was only in his mind.

Come.

See the current dance finish in rapture.

Let the song of the ice soothe your souls.

Make the spotlights your allies in this wonderful stage we call life.

Now, as lover and lover spin slowly to a halt, tucking their blades into a dramatic pose…

A crashing crescendo deafens the silence.

And the crowd roars in applause, yelling for an encore.

A/N:

Right, you probably want my explanation on this mindfuckery now.

Well, when I first thought of a birthday fic for Viktor, I figured a song fic would be better and won't take much time. (It did, though. Fuck you, writer's block.) Since I'm too obsessed with Alexander Rybak's Fairytale, I immediately saw a good analogy for him there (and an even more literal one with Georgi, but I'll explain that on his own oneshot). This was inspired specifically by this post, about one of the headcanons on why Viktor cut his long hair. I waited for the anime to finish so that I could properly arrange my thoughts on this headcanon and how it would've affected his life until the end of Season 1.

Viktor's oneshot is the poetic, figurative, and symbolic side of the song Fairytale (while Georgi's is the literal). His little girl is his inner self, and I've applied this symbolism liberally—and now, whether it denotes his feminine side, his gay side, or his soft side is all up to you readers. All I know is, during his life as a skater, he had to give up lots of things or turn his back on them, and for me, one of that was his old self. (I like the idea that he sees her as his skating partner back then.) When he met Yuuri, he gained another view on life and managed to reconnect with his past. And now, he's happier and healthier inside, because he had never wanted to lose his past self in the first place. That's not to say he's lost his maturity or something—more like, when he was younger, he was so dependent on that side of him, but now that he's grown as a person and he reunites with her, he becomes even better because he can now clearly see so many things that he had ignored up until that point.

(Am I making sense? Maybe you guys can just chalk it up to poetic license.)

I took a lot of scenes and lines from the anime that fit so well with this. Think you can find them all? :D

Also, the last batch of monologue when Viktor joins Yuuri skating in Ice Castle is a tribute to this post. It had Yuuri saying those lines about Viktor, but we all know that it can also go both ways, right? :3

All in all, Viktor Nikiforov is a complex man and I can't wait to see more of him in Season 2. After all, this fairytale isn't over yet, is it? :D

Belated happy birthday, you silly Russian man.

(someone hold me writing this hurt my heart omg)

Georgi’s side (Part 2 of the Two Sides of a Fairytale series)