#I always thought it was one of the men placing the first foundation stone for their new home - but in fact it was Leila planting her crop 🌻

[sircesimblr]

As the steady rain seemed to lessen a little that morning, both mother and daughter whispered their good wishes to what was in front of them.

"You're doing so good, aren't you, little one?"

"You're going to do well, good luck, little one - "

And Leila knew full well, with planting one of her harvested corn cobs right here, under the sweetly rustling cottonwood tree on their new home lot, she also was planting hope. It had been a long time since she last tended crops, and she didn't know if this plant would grow fast enough to produce anything before fall. But if it wouldn't help them through the winter, at least there would be corn in the spring.

She could try to make corn flour. And bake buns over the fire. They could taste bread.

Next year.

prev < | ◦ beginning

[speaknow-sw]

•| ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ |•

Content : kissing, fighting, injuries, cult, mentions of nudity, knife throwing, TENSION,

A/N : chapter 4 for you, and I love this one. I think I did good with the tension. Hope you’ll like it. •| ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪᴠ : ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴀ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ |•

Even the sharpest mind can be dulled by devotion, for faith does not seek reason—it demands surrender.

BENEATH THE GILDED SURFACE OF ROME, beneath the marble temples and the deafening roar of the Colosseum, beneath the weight of empire and conquest, there are whispers. A name, a legend, a warning—The Cult of Romulus.

Few speak of them openly. Fewer still claim to know the truth of their origins. But in the shadows of the Eternal City, their presence lingers like the scent of blood in the sand. They are not men of politics, nor men of gods. They do not serve the Senate or the Emperor, nor do they pray at the feet of Jupiter or Mars. They serve only a name, a ghost, a myth that has never faded—Romulus, the first king of Rome.

It is said that when Romulus vanished, taken by the gods or swallowed by the earth, he did not truly die. His bloodline remained, diluted through centuries, hidden among the common-born and noble alike. The Cult exists for one purpose alone: to preserve that bloodline and to ensure that no false heir dares to rise. They believe the spirit of Romulus must remain undisturbed, that his sacrifice—the foundation of Rome itself—must never be undone.

Which is why he should not exist.

Anakin, the golden-haired barbarian, the lion of the arena, the undefeated gladiator. The one whose presence unsettles them, whose face stirs something ancient in the bones of Rome itself. They have been watching him for months, moving in the shadows, waiting for a sign, for proof of what they already suspect.

Now, they have seen enough.

Now, they must kill him before he remembers. Before he becomes what he was always meant to be.

The night is thick with the scent of burning oil and damp stone, the streets of Rome restless beneath the hush of midnight. The Colosseum looms in the distance, its arches gaping wide like the ribcage of a beast long since stripped of its flesh, waiting to swallow those destined for slaughter. The city sleeps, but danger does not.

Anakin walks at the center of a small procession, flanked by three guards. Unlike the other gladiators, he wears no chains. They do not need them. His reputation is enough to keep most would-be troublemakers at bay. The golden-haired barbarian, the undefeated wolf of the arena. A killer. A beast. He has earned his place in Rome’s bloody history, and yet, in the restless hours before dawn, the city whispers of something more.

They are watching.

They have always been watching.

The Cult of Romulus has been following him for months, moving in the shadows, gathering their forces, waiting for the right moment. Tonight, they strike.

It happens as they pass through a narrow alley leading to the outer gates of the Colosseum. The air is thick with the stench of piss and rotting grain, the streets silent but for the steady footfalls of the guards. Then, in a breath, the silence shatters.

A cloaked figure drops from the rooftops, landing with the grace of a panther, a blade flashing silver in the moonlight. A second follows, then a third. The guards barely have time to shout before steel meets flesh, the sickening crunch of bone splitting the night.

Anakin reacts before thought.

A sword is thrust toward him—he sidesteps, catching the attacker’s wrist, twisting hard until he hears the snap of bone. A dagger whistles past his ear, but he moves like a storm, relentless, brutal. His knee drives into a man’s gut, and as he doubles over, Anakin brings his elbow down on the back of his skull. The body crumples.

Another comes at him from behind—too slow. Anakin spins, grabbing the hilt of the attacker’s blade before it can plunge into his back. He wrenches it free and buries it in the man’s throat, ripping it sideways with a sickening shhk. Warm blood spatters his skin, the copper scent thick in the air.

But there are too many.

They are not common thugs. Their movements are disciplined, their tactics coordinated. They are here for him.

One of the remaining assassins steps forward, hood slipping just enough to reveal the glint of a golden wolf’s head embroidered into his collar. His voice is calm, even reverent.

"The blood of Romulus runs through your veins. The gods demand it be spilled."

Anakin snarls, launching himself at him before the words fully register. He fights with the desperation of a cornered beast, the instinct to survive overriding all else. But even as he kills, his mind races—who are they? Why do they speak of Romulus?

Why does that name feel like an echo of something lost?

Another blade slashes toward his ribs—he barely dodges in time, feeling the sharp sting of steel kissing his flesh. He has to move. Has to run.

He breaks through the last line of attackers, sprinting through the winding alleys, blood dripping from his fingers. The city blurs around him, the world reduced to the rhythmic pounding of his feet against stone, the ragged breath in his lungs.

Then he collides with someone.

Hard.

A body, warm and real, the force of impact knocking the air from his lungs. His hands snap forward, gripping their shoulders on instinct, ready to shove them aside—

And then he sees you.

For a moment, the world stills.

Your eyes, wide with surprise, meet his, and something in his chest clenches. He has seen you before. Not just in the forum, where you watched him bleed beneath a Roman whip. Not just in the stands of the Colosseum, where you looked upon him with unreadable eyes. Not under him, writhing of pleasure.

No, it’s something deeper. Older.

A memory just out of reach.

Then, just as quickly, his expression darkens.

"You," he growls, pushing you back as if your very touch burns him. "Of course you'd be here. Watching." His voice drips with hatred, but beneath it, there is something else—something shaken, something raw.

Behind him, the shouts of his pursuers grow louder. He doesn’t have time for this. Doesn’t have time for you.

But neither do you.

Because you have been watching, too. And for reasons you do not yet fully understand, you are not about to let him die.

The streets of Rome are a labyrinth of marble and shadow, narrow alleys twisting into grand avenues where torches flicker against towering columns. The city is alive even at this hour—merchants closing their stalls, drunk patricians stumbling home from lavish feasts, beggars lurking in the doorways of temples. But none of them see the two of you, running like hunted animals through the veins of the empire.

Anakin is beside you, breathing hard, his body still tense from the fight. Blood streaks his knuckles, some of it his, most of it not. His tunic is torn, and the moon catches on the sweat glistening over his skin. He’s fast—too fast for a gladiator who has spent years in chains—but you match his pace, weaving through the streets, slipping into shadows when patrols pass too close.

“You planned this, didn’t you?” he mutters as you turn sharply into an alley, pressing your backs against the stone wall to catch your breath. His voice is raw, hoarse with exertion. “Hired those men to test me? To see how well I fight?”

You almost laugh. “You give me too much credit.”

His blue eyes narrow, sharp even in the darkness, but there’s no time for argument. The Cult of Romulus will be looking for him—they might already be spreading through the streets. You grab his wrist and pull him forward, guiding him through the back ways, up a hidden stairway between two buildings, across the wooden scaffolding of a half-built villa.

Soon, the streets grow wider, the noise of the city softens, and the air carries the scent of blooming gardens instead of sweat and filth. You’ve led him into the Esquiline Hill, where the wealthy hide behind walls of carved stone and wrought iron.

Anakin slows, suddenly wary. He takes in the quiet opulence around him, the soft glow of oil lamps flickering from elegant windows, the fountains trickling in courtyard gardens. “Where are we?”

“Safe,” you answer simply, pushing open the heavy bronze doors of your villa.

The interior is grand—too grand for a woman who had walked unnoticed in the arena’s crowds. Marble floors gleam beneath the soft light of hanging lamps. Pillars stretch toward ceilings painted with the delicate brushstrokes of gods and myths. Fine tapestries soften the walls, and the scent of wine and myrrh lingers in the air.

Anakin steps inside hesitantly, eyes sweeping over the excess. He scoffs, running a hand through his tangled curls. “Of course,” he mutters. “You’re one of them.”

“One of who?”

“The Romans who watch men like me die for sport, then go home to silk sheets and fine wine.” His gaze flickers back to you, more cautious now, more closed.

You only smile, stepping closer, your voice low. “I never said I was Roman.”

Before he can press further, footsteps echo down the hall.

“Domina?” Your servant appears from behind a curtain, her expression shifting the moment she sees Anakin—his disheveled state, his torn tunic, the blood staining his skin. Her brows lift. Then, without hesitation, she tilts her head and smirks.

“Did you bring your boyfriend home?”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks before you can stop it. “He’s not—” you start, flustered, but Anakin’s low, irritated growl cuts over your words.

“I am not,” he snaps, his voice rough with anger, his glare sharp enough to cut stone. His posture stiffens, broad shoulders squared, jaw clenched. He looks like he’s ready to bolt—to run back into the streets rather than stay here, in this world of marble and wealth, where he does not belong.

Your servant, entirely unfazed, hums thoughtfully. “Then what is he? Your new guard dog?”

Anakin turns on her with a snarl, his frustration crackling like a storm. “I am not some pet you can collar—”

“No,” you interrupt, quickly stepping between them before he does something rash, though you can’t help but smirk. “He’s not my guard dog.”

Your servant raises a skeptical brow but says nothing, only waiting. You sigh, turning toward her with a knowing look. “Go check the temperature of the thermal baths. We’ll be needing them.”

She glances between you and Anakin, then nods, barely concealing her amusement as she disappears down the hall.

Silence lingers in her wake.

Anakin is still seething, fists clenched at his sides, but beneath his anger, you can sense something else—unease, restlessness. He’s never been in a place like this, never stood in a villa where everything is soft and warm, where no chains weigh his limbs, where no one is waiting to throw him back into the sands.

You tilt your head, studying him. “Relax, Anakin,” you say, voice lighter now, playful even. “No one’s going to throw you to the lions in here.”

His blue eyes flick to yours, dark and unreadable. “Not yet.”

You don’t hesitate as you step into the chamber of the thermal baths, your fingers already undoing the fastenings of your garments. The marble walls gleam under the soft glow of oil lamps, the scent of heated water and fragrant oils thick in the air. Steam rises in delicate curls, clinging to your skin as you let your tunic slip from your shoulders, pooling at your feet in a whisper of fabric.

You don’t think much of it—why would you? Anakin has seen you bare before, in dreams, in lifetimes past, in fleeting moments stolen under the watchful gaze of the gods. And in this life, men like him are hardly spared the modesty of others; slaves and gladiators are stripped of dignity along with their freedom.

Yet when you turn, expecting him to follow, you find him standing rigid near the entrance, arms crossed over his broad chest, his blue eyes locked onto the baths with an expression you’ve never seen before.

You arch a brow. “Are you coming in, or do you plan to stand there like a statue all night?”

His gaze snaps to you, sharp, wary. He shifts uncomfortably, his fingers flexing at his sides. “I don’t—” He stops, exhales sharply through his nose, then grunts. “I don’t know what to do.”

For a moment, you simply stare.

Anakin Skywalker, warrior, gladiator, beast of the Colosseum—reduced to a confused puppy before a simple bath.

The realization makes something warm bloom in your chest.

You suppress a smile, tilting your head. “You’ve never been in a thermal bath before?”

His scowl deepens, as if offended by the very idea. “Gladiators don’t exactly bathe in perfumed water.”

“Pity.” You lean back against the stone, the warmth seeping into your muscles. “Come here.”

He hesitates but steps closer.

“You wash first,” you instruct, nodding toward a bronze basin filled with oil and scented water. “Use the strigil to scrape away the dirt.”

He eyes the tool with suspicion, picking it up as if expecting it to bite. His fingers curl around it, testing its weight. “And then?”

“Then you step into the bath.”

Anakin huffs under his breath, but he follows your instructions, pouring the oil over his skin and running the strigil over his arms, his chest. The motion is awkward, stiff—he’s used to wiping off blood and sand, not indulging in luxury.

When he finally lowers himself into the steaming water, he exhales, the tension in his shoulders melting, his head tilting back slightly as the warmth surrounds him.

You watch him, your lips curving. “Better?”

He cracks one eye open, giving you a look that is half-glare, half-reluctant surrender. “It’s… acceptable.”

You laugh, letting the water lap around you as you move closer. “You’re adorable when you don’t know things.”

His eyes darken at that, but before he can retort, you reach for a cloth and dip it into the water, wringing it out before running it gently over his shoulder.

Anakin stiffens—just for a moment—before relaxing under your touch. His skin is warm beneath your fingers, solid, real.

In the quiet of the bathhouse, surrounded by the scent of myrrh and the gentle ripple of water, you wonder if the gods are watching.

Anakin leans against the marble edge of the baths, his arms crossed over his chest, watching you with that sharp, assessing look of his. His damp curls fall messily over his forehead, and the firelight flickers against his chiseled features, casting him in hues of gold and shadow. His eyes drag over you, studying, calculating—then, with that biting wit of his, he scoffs.

"What are you, anyway? Twelve?"

You freeze for a fraction of a second before giving him a flat, unimpressed look. “I’m twenty.”

His brows lift, amused, skeptical. “Right. And I’m the Emperor of Rome.”

You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “I am twenty.”

Anakin smirks, tilting his head as if to examine you more closely. “Could’ve fooled me. You look like a child.”

You roll your eyes, stepping closer, the silk of your robe whispering against the marble floor. “And you look like you’ve been fighting wars since the dawn of time.”

He lets out a short, dry laugh. “That’s because I have.”

You hesitate at that. There’s something bitter in his voice, something that lingers beneath the sarcasm. He turns his head away slightly, as if considering something, then exhales sharply.

"I'm thirty-five," he says at last, almost as if he's testing the words in his mouth. He shifts, stretching his arms, the movement making his muscles ripple. "I could be your father."

You scoff. "Hardly."

He smirks again. "I don’t know. You look small enough. Frail.” He leans in slightly, his voice lowering into something almost teasing. “Maybe I should start calling you ‘little one.’”

Your eyes narrow. “Try it and I’ll drown you in the baths.”

He chuckles, the sound deep and rich, but there’s something unreadable in the way he looks at you now—like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle that refuses to fit. “You don’t act twenty, little one.”

You tilt your head. “And you don’t act thirty-five, big guy.”

He gives a dry, humorless laugh. “No. I act older.”

Something shifts between you then, something quieter. He’s still watching you, but now it feels different—like he’s truly seeing you for the first time, searching for something beyond your face, beyond your words.

"You’re strange," he mutters finally, shaking his head. "I don’t trust it."

"Good," you say, smiling just enough to be infuriating. "You shouldn’t."

You work in silence, dragging the strigil over his skin with slow, deliberate strokes, scraping away the layers of grime, sweat, and dried blood that cling to him like remnants of battle. The water darkens as filth dissolves, revealing golden skin beneath—the color of sun-warmed bronze, marred only by the scars that speak of his suffering.

Your touch is methodical, careful. When you reach his back, your fingers still for the briefest moment, tracing the deep red welts left by the whip. Some are fresh, still raw, angry lines carved into his flesh. Others have faded into pale reminders of pain endured.

He doesn’t flinch when you touch them, but his shoulders tense.

You reach for a small alabaster jar resting on the bath’s edge, scooping out a thick, fragrant ointment made from crushed myrrh and healing herbs. You press it to his wounds, spreading it with gentle fingers.

Anakin hisses, his body going rigid beneath your hand. “That stings.”

“Good,” you murmur, working the salve into his skin. “That means it’s working.”

He exhales sharply, his voice edged with suspicion. “Why are you doing this?”

Your fingers pause for a fraction of a second before continuing their slow, soothing movements. You could tell him the truth—that something about him calls to you in ways you cannot explain, that he reminds you of a love lost to the hands of fate. That you are selfish, drawn to him not by kindness but by something deeper, something that pulls at your soul like a thread woven through time itself.

But you do not.

Instead, you tilt your head, offering him a small, unreadable smile.

“Because I own you now,” you say lightly, though the words taste bitter on your tongue. “And what use is a broken gladiator?”

His jaw tightens, his blue eyes flashing as he turns to look at you over his shoulder.

“You think I’m yours, little one ?” His voice is a low growl.

Your smile deepens. “Aren’t you?”

The moment the words leave your lips, something in him snaps.

Anakin turns, the water sloshing around his broad frame as he moves, faster than you expect. Before you can react, he cages you against the smooth marble edge of the bath, his arms braced on either side of you. The steam curls around you both, thick and heady, blurring the world beyond this moment.

You tilt your head up, meeting his eyes—blue like the deep sea, turbulent with something dark, something dangerous. His wet curls cling to his forehead, water trickling down his temple, following the sharp lines of his jaw, his throat, the ridges of his collarbones.

“You think I belong to you?” His voice is low, almost a whisper, but there’s no softness in it.

A shiver runs down your spine, though not from fear.

You smirk, your fingers trailing through the water, brushing against his submerged waist. “Would you rather belong to someone else?”

His jaw clenches. His hands press against the marble, trapping you in the heat of his body. “I belong to no one.”

You hum, letting your fingers trail higher, grazing his stomach, the firm muscles tightening under your touch. “No one?” you echo, voice laced with mock innocence. “Yet here you are, standing in my bath, letting me tend to your wounds. Letting me touch you.”

His breath hitches—just barely, but you notice.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmurs, his face dipping closer, lips a mere breath from yours.

You reach up, cupping his jaw, your thumb tracing the sharp edge of his cheekbone. His skin is warm, damp from the bath, from your touch. His breathing is heavy now, uneven. His eyes flicker down to your lips, then back up, hesitation warring with desire.

“I always win,” you whisper.

His control snaps.

Anakin crashes into you, his mouth claiming yours in a kiss that is all heat and hunger, his hands gripping your waist, pressing you flush against him. The water ripples violently around you as he deepens the kiss, his fingers digging into your skin, desperate, as if he’s trying to carve his presence into you.

You let him.

You match his intensity, your arms winding around his neck, nails raking through his curls. He growls against your lips, the sound reverberating through your chest, sending a thrill down your spine.

When he finally pulls away, breathless, his forehead resting against yours, his grip still tight on your waist, you smile against his lips.

“Tell me again,” you murmur. “That you belong to no one.”

His breath is shaky, his hands flexing on your hips.

His breath is heavy against your lips, his hands still gripping your waist, fingers pressing into your skin like he doesn’t want to let go. For a moment, he says nothing—just looks at you, eyes dark with something unreadable, something caught between defiance and need.

Then, his jaw tightens. His grip on you flexes.

“I belong to no one, little one,” he growls, the words rough, almost desperate.

You feel his breath against your lips, hot and unsteady, but he doesn’t move away. If anything, his hands tighten, his body pressing into yours as if trying to convince himself of his own words.

You tilt your head, fingers ghosting over his shoulders, the tense muscles beneath damp skin. "No one?" you murmur, your voice soft, teasing, but there’s a challenge in your eyes.

His breathing stutters. You see the war in him—the battle between pride and something deeper, something neither of you are willing to name.

And then, as if realizing how close he is, how much he’s given away, he pulls back, breaking the moment, the heat. His hands drop from your waist, his expression hardening. He turns away, stepping deeper into the baths, trying to put space between you.

But you see it in the way his fingers curl into fists beneath the water.

He belongs to no one.

The morning air is crisp, tinged with the faintest chill before the sun fully rises to warm the city. You wake slowly, the remnants of sleep clinging to your limbs, your body still steeped in the languid ease of the baths from the night before. For a moment, you forget where you are—lost between dreams and reality, between past and present. But then the weight of the world settles over you once more.

You rise from your bed, the silk sheets slipping from your skin, and pad toward the open window, drawn by the quiet stirrings outside. The city is already beginning to rouse—merchants setting up their stalls, servants bustling about their morning tasks, the distant sound of hooves against stone. But none of it holds your attention.

Because below, in the courtyard bathed in the golden light of dawn, stands Anakin.

He moves like something divine, his body carved from sun and shadow, the muscles in his back rippling as he shifts through each movement with practiced ease. His bare chest gleams with a fine sheen of sweat, his golden curls damp and unruly, catching the light as he breathes. His arms flex as he grips the weighted wooden sword—a rudis, meant for training—cutting through the air with sharp precision.

You watch, entranced.

He is not like the men of Rome, whose bodies are sculpted for decadence, for leisure. Anakin is built for war, for survival. Every inch of him is honed, sharpened by years of battle and hardship. His form is fluid yet unyielding, his muscles taut, his legs steady as he shifts his weight from one stance to another. He is practicing the drills of a Roman soldier—lunging, parrying, striking—movements ingrained into him through blood and sweat.

He turns slightly, his profile cutting against the morning light. The sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his throat, the beads of sweat trickling down the ridges of his abdomen—they all blur together in an image almost too perfect to be real.

You have seen gladiators before, warriors trained to entertain, their bodies sculpted for spectacle. But Anakin is different. He moves not for an audience, not for the pleasure of others, but for himself. There is something raw about him, something untamed. A man who refuses to be broken, who fights not because he must, but because it is the only thing he knows.

His breaths are steady, controlled. He swings the rudis in an arc, pivoting on his heel before thrusting forward, his entire body coiling like a predator about to strike. The sheer power behind each movement is undeniable. Even in stillness, he is a force—like a storm waiting to break.

The rising sun frames him in a halo of gold, casting long shadows over the courtyard. For a brief moment, he does not seem mortal at all. He looks like a god. A forgotten deity of war and vengeance, reborn in the flesh, cursed to walk among men who will never understand what he truly is.

And then, as if sensing your gaze, he stills.

Slowly, Anakin turns his head, blue eyes locking onto yours.

A shiver runs through you.

His stare is piercing, unreadable. He does not smile, does not speak. He only watches, his chest rising and falling with the ghost of exertion, his lips parting slightly as if about to say something—but he doesn’t.

Instead, he simply stands there, the sun at his back, the morning breeze rustling through his curls.

And for the first time, you wonder—who is truly watching whom?

You hear a sharp sound and then the air in front of you shift swiftly. You look to your right where a kitchen knife is buried in a concrete gap of the brick wall. You never saw him move. 

A warning. I see you.

Your breath stills. You should move, step back into the safety of your chambers, but you don’t. You can’t. His gaze pins you in place, unreadable, searing through the morning light.

And then—he smirks.

A slow, knowing curve of his lips, arrogant and wicked.

Heat floods your face.

You step away from the window, heart pounding against your ribs, but before you can collect yourself—

A knock at your door.

Sharp. Insistent.

Then your servant’s voice, hushed and urgent—

"Domina… the Emperor’s men are here. They demand to see you."

He was made of gold—not just in the way the sun kissed his skin, but in the way he burned, untamed and eternal, a man the gods themselves had failed to break the first time.

[cutieeva]

𝐂𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐞 𝐄𝐯𝐚. 𝐒𝐡𝐞/𝐇𝐞𝐫. 𝟐𝟏.

𝐈 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐠𝐞.

𝐌𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰.

𝐌𝐲 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐮𝐩 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : @cutieeva2s 𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥�� 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐨 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨. ⌜ 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 : 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬 ⌟

𝐌𝐘 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒

❦ Devil Wearing Angel's Facade

Murder out of justice is something civilians support and system despite. More so when the police force are blamed. Can they discover when reporter (Y/N) is far smarter to uncover the truth.

❦ Honey Comb Trap

Ignorant is a bliss, no wonder (Y/N) is in bliss as long as she stays like that.

❦ Love Of Blessing Or Curse In Hatred

Murder by the one he loved was a huge lesson he learnt along that his true love is always his wife not his mistress and he is adamant in not repeating the same mistake.

❦ Addicted

Addicted is a very specific feeling where one is high and attached and Light will forever chase this feeling than justice.

❦ Content

One day if one's wife vanish. Out of thin air, can the husband ever find her ? Well, he will search the end of the earth to do so.

❦ For Eternal

Starting anew in another town in hopes of moving on isn't easy, not when the leader of a certain justice gang has his eyes on her.

❦ Love Of Immortal

The ocean had never held a special place in (Y/N)'s heart, a sentiment that dated back to her childhood for some reasons. Little did she know, her apprehension was justified when beneath the waves, a world of treacherous creatures lurked, their domain hidden from the unsuspecting humans above.

❦ The Beautiful Lie

Beauty can be deceiving as much as smoothing to look. (Y/N) fails to follow the advise.

❦ God Of The Chisel

As a master craftsman of stones, this feeling is superior than any feeling. Shaping and molding the raw materials was akin to giving birth to a new creation. However what if the sculpture stirred, breathed, and pulsed with a life of it's own ?

❦ Enslave

Love can't be brought but riches never able to fathom such that's why he dared experience it in first hand by a mere dancer.

❦ Lost And Found (novelette)

Love is a vital component of any relationship. However, what happens when trust is shattered, even if love still lingers ? Can a relationship truly be considered intact when the foundation of trust has been compromised ?

❦ Worth A Terror

Rumors utters : The great king is known for his sheer passionate love for his queen and obsession that most often than not ends in bloodsheds. Hmm..well, again who begin the rumors ?

❦ Returned Home

Her husband is knocking at her door, standing fine on his feet. She is surprise because he was missing.

❦ Love Languages

What if such heartfelt love languages are twist into yandere, obsessive ones ?

❦ Horrors Of Love

It is what it speaks. Horrors of love that these men do to you.

❦ I For I Love You

She never before this certain incident met the council president Mizunuma Shirou so she doesn't have any thoughts of him until their paths are crossing and he seem to can't leave her. Oh, how she wish she saw the signs.

❦ Words Buried Under Florals

Days has passed, only here and there glimses of her lover could be seen leading her to the conclusion he is avoiding her. But Why ?

[always-outlander]

Outlander 7x02 Thoughts & Easter Eggs

Spoilers below the cut for “The Happiest Place on Earth”

Wow, what an episode! There’s so much to unpack here but I will start by saying that I deeply enjoyed this one. A lot of direct from the book dialogue, some plot that was reworked and-in my opinion-for the better. Brilliant acting by many but especially Sam and Cait. It had a lot squeezed into it but let’s get into it.

Alan Christie

To start, we finally had the resolution for Malva and learned that Alan not only assaulted and abused her for her entire life, but was also the one who killed her. This was such a sensitive storyline and to have those flash backs with Malva made me emotional. Jessica Reynolds is a wonderful actress and her Malva was perfect. This scene was the first one I could feel the pain point of having to end season 6 prematurely. The gap between Malva’s death, followed by the hiatus, to now reach the culmination here almost made the impact of Malva’s death take a back seat to the beginning of these new storylines. You can feel that 7x01 and 02 were meant to be a part of that ending, but what can you do 🤷🏻‍♀️ that’s me being nit picky.

But back to Alan. This was almost exactly what happened in the books and I was happy that Young Ian made such a brief appearance. That spacing between episodes likely made people forget that he had a little romance happening with Malva, but his honor once again rang true with his actions here.

Major continuity error with Claire’s wig though– only when she is burying Alan does her hair grow 3 inches, then magically is cut again for the remainder of the episode.

Mrs Bug

Book readers know the upcoming storyline with Mrs. Bug, and we set the foundations this episode when Wendigo and his men come to the Big House in search of gem stones. There they uncover Arch Bug’s hidden gold (which is very significant later on). I loved seeing this preview of what is to come.

Mandy’s Birth

Amanda Fraser is born and we get a very quick moment of happiness for this little family, when the hammer drops that she has a serious heart condition that Claire cannot fix. This is the impetuous behind the MacKenzie’s and the Frasers separating for what I assume will be majority of the season. The scene with them all at the stone circle was very touching and I felt like Cait and Sam’s acting shined brightly here. The best part for me was the quote from Jamie taken directly from the books where he tells Claire

“For your sake, I will continue–though for mine alone…I would not.”

I also deeply enjoyed the Disney tie ins from the book, the humorous moment where Jamie tries to understand how a giant rodent is meant to be fun for children, and his wishes to Jemmy to give a mouse named Michael his regards. All direct from the books, and delivered perfectly.

Bree meets William

The moment we’ve (I’ve) been waiting for, WILLIAM has graced our screens. Though it was short, I squealed when I saw him and Lord John together, especially him in his red coat. You can certainly see the resemblance and while we have yet to see his acting chops on full display, Charles appears to be a perfect casting. He has the cocky confidence of a young Jamie Fraser down pat, I’m curious to see what other nuisances he brings to the role.

Lord John and Jamie

This scene was touching and so well done, Sam and David have always had such great scenes together and really made this relationship between these two men such a beautifully complicated thing. John has long been trying to convince Jamie to do the right thing and fight for the British, but you can see his true intentions here more than ever. If Jamie fights for the British, he can protect him. When Jamie chooses to fight opposite John and William, he knows he cannot.

In a last act of love and friendship, John returns the gem to Jamie from his escape at Ardsmiur. Something we know meant so much to John. His love for Jamie will always win out in the end, and I loved that the scene had room to breathe at the end. John crying alone in his room, and Jamie’s pause outside the door and his watery eyes was perfectly done.

Claire’s Breakdown

In the last scene of episode 1, Claire and Jamie have a discussion about Tom Christie and his confession. In the show, they chose to end that scene with Claire going to sleep while Jamie takes revenge on Richard Brown (and what a badass scene that was). In the books, the moment ends with Claire and Jamie trying to be intimate again, and Claire having a breakdown.

The show has now taken that scene and moved it into episode 2, which actually felt a lot better to me having watched it this way. I was sad that this moment was removed from episode 1 but beyond happy to see it here because it was another wonderful showcase of Sam and Cait’s acting and Claire and Jamie’s love. In the books, Claire cries because she is sad for Tom, for Malva, for Frank. Jamie tells Claire to weep for them because you “canna keep a ghost at bay. He tells her to let them in and grieve for them so she can heal.

In the show, Claire cries for the loss of her family –Fergus and Marsali, the MacKenzies, and Jamie mentions Faith, Murtagh, his mother and brother. They have both lost so many, and he encourages her to cry for them. To me this was so much more poignant and relevant to the events of the episode. I really loved this change.

The Throwing of the Gem

Another iconic scene the we finally got to see brought to life was when Jamie gives Claire the gem stone and tells her that she can go with Bree, or go back if he should die. The acting in this was so perfect and in the books, Claire throws the stone far into the woods to prove to Jamie once again that she is never leaving him. I enjoyed his little jab that she should probably go and recover it.

Wendigo Donner

The return of Wendigo Donner finally closed the loop on the big house fire, and I’m so excited to see how the beginning of episode 3 starts. The highlight of this scene for me was the callback to season 3, when Claire is pretending to be abducted so that Jamie can get what he needs from Lord John Grey. In this scene (and in the books) Jamie is lying to Donner about not having gemstones in the house, but then changes his tune once Claire’s life is in danger. He leans into the ‘disgruntled husband upset with his wife’ tune and tells Donner that Claire hid all the stones while he was away, so she is the only one who knows there location (thus making it impossible to kill her). The humor in Claire’s eyes made me laugh in an otherwise tense scene.

We get much of the same dialogue and story beats as the books here but the one subtle change happens when Jamie finds out that the man in their house is in fact Donner and not some random group of men looking for money. As soon as he hears his name, he lunges for Donner to seek revenge on what he had done to Claire.

In the books, Claire slips out of Donners arms and lunges after him, with Jamie holding her back at the waist. They try to plot an escape but one thing leads to another and Jamie actually kills Donner with a knife before the ether explodes. In the books, it is because Young Ian lit a match to help illuminate the dark room everyone was sitting in. Big change, subtle change, but one I’m interested in seeing them explain next episode.

All in all I loved this one, I’m enjoying the changes made and the pacing of this felt better than the first episode. Would love to hear your thoughts!

[scribeforchrist-blog]

Walking in The Right Position

MEMORY VERSE OF THE WEEK

=========================

+ 1 Corinthians 2:5 So that your faith might not rest in the wisdom of men but in the power of God.

=========================

VERSE OF THE DAY

========================

+ John 11:10 It is when a person walks at night that they stumble, for they have no light.”

=========================

** SAY THIS BEFORE YOU READ; HERE’S SOME CHRISTIAN TRUTHS **

I AM IN THE RIGHT POSITION

I AM LOVING MY RELATIONSHIP WITH GOD

I AM NOT ALONE

I AM STRONG

========================

READ TIME: 9 Minutes

========================

THOUGHTS:

=======================

  Love is something that we all want to experience and want to feel from others. Sometimes, we don’t feel this from others because we search for it from the wrong people and places. A lot of times, we don’t display it because we don’t want to show this side of our sleeves without first getting this from someone, but what we must understand is that a lot of times, we won't get what we put in, a lot of people aren’t going to give you that back because they don’t feel they have to, it's like opening the door for someone when you do you do it to be courteous and sometimes we might open the door. Someone will say nothing at all, then we will open the door for someone at a different time, and they will say thank you.

  I was at Barnes and Noble yesterday, and I had a book in my hand. This man saw another woman coming, and he held the door open. The lady ahead of me looked at the man and she walked past him, and then he held it open for me, and I said thank you so much, sir. I appreciate it. I was thrilled and honored. Those doors sometimes can be heavy, so when he held it open, I thought it was kind.

Still, the lady ahead of me said nothing; that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t open a door anymore for anyone, and being the courteous person he is, no, that’s not what it means. It means a lot of people don’t feel the same obligation we feel to demonstrate the same love we have.

  We must learn to show love to everyone. We must learn that Christ walked this earth, and his main goal was to love. When he was going to go visited in one city the people there tried to hurt him in one city. He still needed to go back to that city to raise Lazarus from the dead, and he didn’t let the actions of others stop him, from doing what he knew what was right.

John 11:8-10 8 “But Rabbi,” they said, “a short while ago the Jews there tried to stone you, and yet you are going back?”

9 Jesus answered, “Are there not twelve hours of daylight? Anyone who walks in the daytime will not stumble, for they see by this world’s light. 10 When a person walks at night, they stumble, for they have no light.”

  See, he knew what he must do and didn’t let that stop him from going to his friend. When we walk in the Lord's light, we won't stumble; when we walk in the darkness, we will. If we do what we must do in the light of God, we will always be going the right way. When we start to do what others do, we will walk in darkness; we can't let the people and things around us stop us from doing what we must to show love.

  1 Corinthians 13:4-7 Love is patient; love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5 It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6 Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

  I said sometimes this week on 5 Mintues With God that this verse is the foundation of love when we think of love and how to love this verse should be something we use as a reference a lot of people want to know how to love and this is how we do it we have patience , we are kind  , we don’t envy , we don’t boast , nor do we be filled with pride and we always care for others and we don’t get easily angered , nor do we keep a record of how someone mistreat us either

We must do everything that’s the opposite of what we are used to doing because when we continue to do the things we use to do we start to corrupt our testimony that’s something we talked about this week we must not , we need always bring our ways to Jesus and ask Jesus to help us to show Him in us .

Like the verse said today if we walk in the light we won’t stumble we have no reason to bring that old ways out because Christ is trying to teach us to stay in the light , to stay doing what we know is right , others might feel the way we handle things is not of him but at all times we must continue to walk in the new light we have in Christ .

This week, we talked about pride. Pride is a sin that God hates, and when we take on this spirit, we are saying to God I can do everything by myself, and I have achieved everything by myself a lot of times, we try to do things on our own, but we must never forget that God has a will for our lives.

Without us asking him what his will is, we are not praying, mediating fasting, and reading our word, which is the daily maintenance we need for our lives, and without us doing those things, we will start to slow down spiritually. Sometimes spiritually, we are slow to pray, slow to fast, slow to read our word because we are depleted spiritually because we aren’t feeding our spirit man; it's like ourselves if we don’t eat, we don’t drink, we become weak because we aren’t taking in the proper nutrition in our body but when we take every day we work out we eat right and sleep the way we should we feel good, we feel energized because we have done what our body is craving .

What is your body craving? Is it craving a closer relationship with Christ, or are you out of alignment with Christ? Have you done everything you can to get back in the proper stance with God? Every day we feel different, and every day we won't feel happy; we won't feel great, but the days we feel not our sleeves, we must go to God and say, God, help me to get back into alignment with you, help me to dwell in your presence because let's face it some days we won't feel this way. Still, he will motivate us to push forward the days we don't. We must because the enemy will make us feel this way so that we will stop, but every time he does this, we must say enemy, you won't take my time with God. You won't rob me of my peace; don’t allow him to do this to you.

  ***Today, we learned that love is hard to express sometimes, but God wants us to do this even when we don’t feel this way. He wants us to love even when we think we aren’t receiving it back; sometimes we won't receive what we give back, whether it’s a compliment, a nice gesture, or anything we must be prepared to do the right thing without praise from others, we must do it because it's right, do you think Jesus did everything for everyone to see tons of times he told people not to tell someone, not to tell someone he did it.

  Alignment places us in the correct position, and sometimes, we can do things without knowing it, and it pulls us out of the position we want to be in. When this happens, we must get back to the correct position with God in our heart; sometimes, our heart can block our connection with God; we can be so prideful to think what we are always doing is the right thing, and it can be very well wrong, and that’s why we must go to God to make sure our heart stays in the correct position with him if you feel you're out of alignment with God ask him to help you stay in the correct position with him. ©Seer~ Prophetess Lee

========================

PRAYER

========================

Heavenly Father, please help us to stay in the correct position. Sometimes, we go off course, and we ask you today if we did, please show us how to get back to you and stay with you and not away from you! Lord, we love you so much we ask you to give us wisdom and knowledge so we may know your word. Lord, help us to apply what we learned in this devotional in our lives; lord, help us to hear your voice when you speak and heed it; in Jesus' Name, Amen

========================

REFERENCES

========================

+ Romans 8:28 And we know that for those who love God, all things work together for good, for those who are called according to His purpose.

 

+ Proverbs 4:26 Ponder the path of your feet; then all your ways will be sure.

 

+ Psalm 119:10 I have stored up your word in my heart, that I might not sin against you.

========================

FURTHER READINGS

=========================

Proverbs 24

Leviticus 24

Judges 9

2 Samuel 8

=========================

[vlxyrianclaws]

mxc.

maximus celtigar watched his sister with a mixture of satisfaction and disdain, his sharp gaze lingering on the faint flicker of relief that crossed her face when he stepped back. she was good at hiding her thoughts—he would grant her that—but not good enough to escape his notice. no one ever was. the firelight danced across her lilac eyes, hollow and cold, as though the sea itself had drained them of warmth. if there was anything left in the man, perhaps he would have felt some sense of pride in seeing what had become of her; a true testament to what it was to survive. she carried herself with a cold respect, that he knew.

“you will not fail,” he echoed, his tone flat but heavy with the implication of what failure would mean. “because you know what happens if you do. our house is built on the blood of lesser men, marcella. their weakness is the mortar that holds our walls together. i won’t have you chipping at the foundation.” he had lit the smoke and was blowing it, caring not if it went into her face; he blew as he always did, and she withstood the smoke as she always did when they were in the same room. he began to pace the chamber casually, his hands clasped behind his back, the fabric of his dark robe swishing faintly against the stone floor. his mind was already moving ahead, calculating, assembling pieces.

wylliam swann was no great figure, no titan of strategy or cunning, but he had the king’s ear—and that was power enough to be dangerous. maximus could not abide danger unless he was the one wielding it. a good man, he constantly called him; the world did not need good men. they needed men willing to make the world what it was supposed to be.

“a mistake,” he said, his voice curling with satisfaction as he repeated her words. “yes, a mistake. not something trivial, not something the king can overlook. it must be damning, cella. an error so glaring, so public, that even jaehaerys cannot defend him. something that strips away his dignity as a man and his authority as hand.” he turned to face her then, his lips curling into a faint smile that held no warmth. “and when it happens, it will not come from me. the courtiers will not murmur of the cunning celtigars pulling strings in the shadows. they will only see a blundering stormlander undone by his own doing.” it is not as though this were some surprise; all knew the stormlanders were wired differently to them, down even to the size of their skulls.

he stepped closer, the smile fading into something harder, colder. “but do not take too long, sister. the longer swann remains in place, the more jaehaerys begins to see him as indispensable. and we cannot have the king looking to him when he should be looking to me.” his pale eyes fixed on hers, unblinking. “find his weakness. twist the blade. and make it look like an accident.” he straightened, his voice softening into something almost conversational. “if you succeed, marcella, perhaps i’ll consider giving you a greater piece of the game. but do not forget your place. pawns can become queens, yes—but not without sacrifice.” and perhaps jaehaerys would consider looking upon his sister as a second queen; he would wish for his sister to be the first queen, if there were to be others. but there was a tully in the way.

she was not exactly sure why she wanted the title so much, whether it was fuelled by boredom or ambition. but marcella knew she wanted it, and that was all she needed to know. maximus was right. she enjoyed the role of puppeteer, of making a move and seeing people respond exactly how she expected. as if she was still a small girl playing with the dolls in the doll house. the same doll house that she had destroyed one day when it was taken from her chambers and put into her sister's chambers instead. she had never liked sharing her toys. she had chosen to see the broken pieces of the doll house burn in the hearth, never to be played with again, rather than it belonging to her sister. perhaps that was also part of the reason she wanted the position as mistress of whispers. maybe she simply did not want to see someone else take it, not when it was seemingly made for her and her set of skills.

marcella was used to the threats of her brother. as far back as she could remember, he had been the dagger pressed against her throat. but also the dagger that had protected her as a child. the older she grew, the more she understood that max did not care what blood he spilled to get what he wanted. hers or others. she was silent as she felt his breath on her skin, she could see every blemish on his skin, the dangerous look in his eyes. she never looked away from him in situations like these. her lilac eyes always on him when he threatened or hit her. there was an emptiness inside them. it was not that she did not fear her brother, it was simply that she did not feel much of anything. she felt so little that even fear had been diluted. but there were still remnants of it, a voice whispering in her mind to be careful. she knew the key to dealing with maximus: listen more, say less. the more people spoke, the more they exposed themselves for an attack, and her brother was very good at crafting words into a weapon, and striking at the right moment. she was not bad at it herself. it was how the celtigars had thrived all these years, along with some help from forces beyond them.

“i will not fail our house, brother ― and of course, i will report every whisper.”

cella let out a relieved breath as he backed off. she contemplated his words about the hand of the king. her focus had not been on wylliam swann before. he was not her kind, only some dull stormlander who had somehow convinced the king of his abilities. but if he was the target, she would strive to learn all about him that she could.

“a nudge? you wish to force swann to make a mistake that he cannot recover from, enough for the king to dispose of him as hand.” the wheels in her minds were already turning. “i can make it happen. every man has a chink in his armour, i will figure out his.”

[infinitehyperfixations]

Ribbons and Steel

When Metal Meets String - Piotr's POV

This is the first part of my Colossus x OC slow burn, enemies to lovers fic. I hope all of you enjoy!

Summary: Piotr, Ellie, and Professor X are invited to a fundraising gala for a mutant charity. The event is held in a museum in New York City which holds the world's largest red diamond - The Devil's Treasure. Piotr's hopes of having a peaceful night crumble before him when a thief crashes the gala.

(I apologize if the summary sucks!)

Rated T for language and violence

Word Count: 8.1K

Comments and Reblogs are love!

No one is what they seem.  

Piotr wished he would’ve listened to that phrase when he met her. Everyone hides details about themselves upon the first meeting - even he knew that. A strong reputation means nothing if someone is forced to use it like a mask. They may be too afraid to show who they really are because they believe that everyone will see them as they see themself.  

A Coward. 

A Monster. 

A Failure. 

It will require patience and trust to discover one’s real identity. Only when you look behind the closed curtain can you see their true self. Trying to coax out the smallest detail may take weeks even months but it will be worth it in the end. 

It took Piotr too long to discover what hid behind her mask and it almost cost her everything. 

-----

Three months after the events of Deadpool 2…

Much to Piotr’s surprise, it had been a quiet couple of months. Well, quiet as it could get for any superhero. There were always the rescue missions, the bank heists that needed to be foiled, and Wade’s endless chaos that needed to be tended to. On top of that, he was leading the newly formed X-Force team which only consisted of Cable, Wade, Domino and himself. (NTW and Yukio were considered junior members since they were not of age yet.) Of course, being the Art and Russian teacher at the Professor’s Institute brought in even more tasks for himself. He had assignments to grade, lesson plans to review, and school events that needed chaperoning.  

For three months, Piotr did not have to stop a world-ending crisis nor face a new threat to mutant kind. It was more than he could ask for after helping Wade save Russel a few months ago. It seemed the universe was finally giving him a break but he soon realized that it was just the calm before the storm. 

“Remind me why I’m here again?” Ellie groaned, looking longingly at the museum’s exit. 

Piotr and Ellie stood in the middle of a fundraising gala for the Drake Foundation that was being held in a museum in New York City. The foundation was a charity that supplied homeless mutants food, housing, and free education opportunities across the world. The Professor was invited to speak at the event and was allowed to bring two guests. Unfortunately, the X-Men were on a mission so Piotr and Ellie had to come to represent the institute with the Professor.  

The large, circular entrance of the museum was converted into an exquisite banquet hall for the gala. The hall was illuminated by bright lights with enormous stone pillars lining the walls. In the center of the room was a sea of tables that were covered in white table cloths and decorated with colorful bouquets. Directly above the center of the floor was a wide circular sky light that revealed the bright lights of the neighboring buildings. 

One of the first things that Piotr noticed when he entered the building were the huge banners showing the various exhibits inside the museum. The most featured one was the world’s largest red diamond - deemed The Devil’s Treasure according to one of the banners. He figured that the exhibit was under high surveillance and was closed off like the rest of the museum. 

“Because it was either this, or Wade duty,” Piotr reminded her as he gazed over the large crowd of rich people. He caught a few of them stealing glances at his metal form but thought nothing of it. He was used to people staring at him.

“Is it too late to trade places with Cable?” Ellie questioned as she tried to loosen the collar of her black suit. “I think I would rather deal with Wade than these people.” 

“Yes it is,” Piotr sighed, looking down at his trainee. “It is good we are here to represent institute.” 

“I mean, yes it’s good we’re here for that,” Ellie groaned, “but do we really have to wear suits?” 

Piotr couldn’t help but silently agree with her. He was worried that he was going to rip his suit (which was very expensive and annoying to get) in his metal form. Since the Professor wanted a representative from the X-Men, he requested for Piotr to be in his armored form at the gala because no one would recognize him in his normal form. He only agreed because if something were to happen, he wouldn’t accidentally ruin his suit as he changed into his metal form. 

“And you told me to not use my phone,” Ellie pointed out. 

“Socializing would be good for you,” Piotr joked, earning an eye-roll from the teenager.  

“Oh yes, because I am obviously the best choice when it comes to talking to snobby rich people,” Ellie whisper-yelled harshly. “Yukio picked a bad time to go visit her family.” 

Piotr simply rolled his eyes at Ellie, “You can just hide behind me and I will do most of talking.”

“Was already planning on it, big guy.” 

While the last minute arrivals gathered at their tables, Piotr and Ellie decided to stand near the Professor as he conversed with the other guests. The Professor answered most of their questions about the school while Piotr told them about working with the students. Ellie, much to her discomfort, was asked about her experience there and gave short and simple answers. When Piotr noticed how anxious she was, he made an attempt to escort Ellie to their table but stopped when he heard someone say his name. 

When Piotr turned around a man in a deep red and black suit (which was definitely more expensive than his own) greeted him with a friendly smile. He reminded Piotr of the male models on the book covers of horrible billionaire romance novels that some of his students read. He was young (Piotr guessed around his age) with deep tan skin, dark brown eyes, and jet black hair which was loosely combed back. He was nearly as tall as Piotr but he still had to crane his neck a bit. 

“Colossus!” The mystery man greeted in a British accent. His voice was deep but very welcoming. “Sorry to stop you and your colleague but I wanted to introduce myself.”

When the man held out his hand, Piotr noticed faint scars on his knuckles. They were similar to the ones Piotr would get when he trained too hard. He didn’t think too much about them since they seemed to be very old…but it was still odd. 

“My name is James Levine,” He said as they shook hands. His grip was strong enough to impress Piotr. “On behalf of my family and the Drake Foundation, I would like to thank you and the X-Men for helping mutants around the world.” 

“Thank you, it is our duty to make world better for everyone,” Piotr replied as the Professor turned to them. “Do you run this charity?” 

“My family and Drake Industries do,” Levine answered. “Our board of directors and myself are working on building a location in the U.S. to help mutants here. We have many scattered around Europe but we wish to expand.” 

“Mr. Levine,” The Professor greeted, moving next to Piotr, “it is a pleasure to finally meet you in person.” 

“Professor Xavier! Believe me the feeling is mutual,” Levine said as he peered down at the Professor. “Thank you for coming and bringing your X-Men tonight.”

“Thank you for inviting us.” 

Piotr took a moment to glance back at Ellie, who was using him as a human shield to hide from the crowd. He expected her to be on her phone (which he would have been fine with) but she was staring at Mr. Levine inquisitively. As long as Levine didn’t divert his attention on her then she should be fine. 

“Drake Industries would like to make a donation to your school,” Levine stated, as a woman - who Piotr didn’t notice before - stepped into view behind the billionaire. He assumed it must be his assistant. 

The thin woman wore a deep purple suit which complemented her dark brown skin and figure. Her lavender colored hair was wrapped neatly into small bantu knots. Despite the fact that she was barely tall enough to meet his shoulders, she was an intimidating woman. Her stern, dark eyes and her sharp eyeliner would have made any normal person nervous. Her lips were painted with black lipstick with a light purple center. A gold nose ring hung above her lips and matched the small golden hoops in her ears. 

“Mr. Levine,” The woman said in a dry tone. Her voice had a cold sound to it and Piotr couldn’t quite place her accent. “It is time to prepare for your welcoming speech.” 

Mr. Levine nodded and turned back to Piotr and the Professor. “My apologies, I must go with Miss Ba. I hope you enjoy your night.”

Levine turned away from them and followed Miss Ba through the large crowd. When he was far enough away, Ellie came out of her hiding spot behind Piotr.

“He seemed…nice I guess,” Ellie mumbled, “but his assistant is terrifying.” 

Since Piotr was tall enough, he was able to watch Mr. Levine weave through the crowd to get to the stage that was assembled in front of the tables. He trailed behind Miss Ba who went behind the stage. 

“It was nice of him to make donation,” Piotr said, looking down at the Professor. 

“Yes, it was,” The Professor agreed as Ms. Ba walked on the stage towards the podium. 

“Everyone,” Miss Ba announced with a fake smile, “please head to your seats so the evening may begin.” 

While everyone began to make their way to their tables, Piotr looked around the large room and noticed a few of the museum security guards that roamed along the walls. They had walkie-talkies attached to their vests and were armed with tasers and a baton stick. Most of them were calmly looking around the room and quietly speaking into their two-way radios. He assumed that there were other guards stationed at the exhibits - especially the one that held the Devil’s Treasure.

Piotr and Ellie followed the Professor to their assigned table which was close to the stage. There were three other seats at the table that were for some guests that Piotr did not know. He assumed they were gifted to the highest paying donors. A grimace fell on his face when he saw his seat.

“I cannot sit here,” Piotr said, trying to hide his mild annoyance. 

Ellie snapped her head up at the large metal man, “What do you mean?” 

“This chair,” Piotr said as he simply pulled out his seat to show its cheap metal legs, “I will crush it if I sit on it.” 

Piotr was used to a lack of accommodations for his heavy metal form and massive size; however, he expected an event held and paid for by a billionaire to have a reinforced seat for him. Of course, he could metal down but his suit would not fit his slightly smaller form as well. He assumed that the workers that set up the event must have forgotten about a reinforced chair for him. If he remembered correctly, the Professor requested one for him and the people that were in charge of the event reassured him that there would be one. 

“Ohhhh, I see what you mean,” Ellie said, tapping one of the chair legs with her foot. “Maybe one of the workers can get you the chair that the Professor requested.” 

“I hope so,” Piotr nodded as he began to walk away from the table. “I will be right back.” 

Piotr scanned the room for an available server while he did his best to carefully weave through the crowd of attendees that were trying to get to their own tables. Once he freed himself from the sea of tables and guests, James Levine walked up to the microphone with a welcoming smile. He tapped on it to grab everyone’s attention as they were sitting down. 

“Hello and welcome everyone to the Drake Foundation Fundraising Gala,” The billionaire greeted, resting his hands on the podium. Piotr stopped his search to pay attention to Levine’s speech.

“I want to thank each and everyone of you for donating and helping us provide basic necessities and education for all mutants around the world,” Levine began as he looked down at the table where the Professor and NTW were sitting. “I especially want to thank Professor Xavier and his X-Men for making the world a better and safer place for everyone.” 

The guests and workers began to clap while a few of them shouted their gratitude. Piotr winced when he saw Ellie shrink in her chair from receiving the guests’ attention while the Professor smiled at the attendees. He wished he didn’t leave the table so he could relieve Ellie’s anxiety. After earning an encouraging look from the Professor, Ellie attempted to put on a happy face but it looked more like a pained smile. Once the applause died down, Levine cleared his throat and began again. 

“Before Professor Xavier comes up here, I would like to-”

Before he could finish the room went pitch black. The only source of light came through the skylight from the lit up buildings that surrounded the museum. Piotr could barely make out the silhouettes of the people sitting in front of him without squinting. The guests murmured anxiously among themselves as the guards began to quickly radio each other.  

“Everyone calm down! I’m sure the emergency generator will kick in!” Levine yelled reassuringly. 

Just as promised the generator kicked in seconds later, illuminating the large room enough for Piotr to distinguish the faces of the crowd. Some of the guests were calming down while others looked around the room nervously. Before Piotr could make his way back to Ellie and the Professor, he heard one of the security guards frantically speak into his radio behind him. 

“Bill, what's your status?” There was a short pause before the guard used his walkie-talkie again. “Bill, do you copy?” 

Piotr was holding on to the hope that it was a simple power outage but after hearing the distressed security guard Piotr started to think otherwise. He quickly turned around and saw the security guard hiding from the guests behind a pillar. The middle-aged man was pacing as he squeezed the radio in his hand. It was hard to see due to his thick gray mustache but he was frowning as he stared expectantly at his walkie-talkie. 

“Is everything alright?” Piotr asked quietly to not alarm the guests. 

The guard jumped before turning  to face Piotr. Like most people, the guard had to crane his neck to look Piotr in the eye. With the guard facing him, Piotr noticed a small name tag on his vest that read, George. 

George shook his head, “No, my guy in the security office isn’t responding. I was about to go check on him myself but I need to help my men in here to keep the guests calm.” 

“The Professor and NTW can help them with that,” Piotr assured. “Take me to security office.”

George nodded and motioned Piotr to follow him. They walked to the otherside of the hall at a steady pace to not alert the guests of any possible danger while Levine tried to put them at ease. Before Piotr entered a closed off hallway with George, he noticed Ellie looking at him curiously. 

“Professor,” Piotr said loud enough in his mind for the Professor to hear his thoughts clearly through the anxious ones from the guests.

“Piotr, is everything okay?” The Professor responded quickly in Piotr’s mind. 

 “Not sure. I am checking out the security office with guard,” Piotr informed. “Tell NTW to be ready in case civilians are in danger.”

“Understood.” 

Once they were out of sight of the gala attendees, George and Piotr ran through the dimly lit halls. On their way to the security office, George explained that most of the emergency generator’s power was directed to keeping the museum’s security system online. However, someone could temporarily shut off the security system in any exhibit if they broke into the security office. 

After running past a few blocked off exhibits filled with priceless artifacts, Piotr and George reached a door labeled, “Security Personnel Only,” at the end of a hallway. Piotr didn’t see any damage around the door that would alert him to a break in. George quickly pulled out a key card and pressed it against the scanner that was next to the door frame. 

“Doesn’t look like someone broke in,” George said as the door unlocked with a click, “but someone could have swiped a key card from any of my guys.” 

Piotr let out a heavy sigh as he stepped through the door, “Let us hope not.” 

The door led into a short wide hallway that was barely lit due to what Piotr hoped to be a power malfunction. Attached to the ceiling were multiple cameras pointing at the entrance to the hallway and the security room. When his gaze fell on the office door, he quickly realized that whatever caused the power to go out was not a simple malfunction. 

Someone broke in. 

The metal door was slightly ajar and its handle was bent as if someone had kicked it open. When Piotr got closer to the door, he noticed that the door’s metal frame around the lock was damaged. Whoever kicked down the door was strong - very strong. 

Piotr kept his guard up as he approached the door, not knowing if the intruder was still inside. Piotr slowly pushed it open while George stood behind him with his taser ready to fire. When the entire office was in view, the only person in the room was a man slouched over in a chair in the center of the floor. 

“Oh my god, Bill!” George gasped as he ran to the unconscious guard. 

The older guard knelt in front of Bill and lightly tapped his face to wake him up. The unconscious man was definitely younger and thinner than George. He sported a thick head of straw-like hair and light stubble on his face. Piotr noticed his skin swelling up around his eye, indicating that the intruder must have punched him to knock him out. After a few moments, a few painful grunts escaped Bill’s mouth before he slowly opened his eyes. 

“Ow…” Bill groaned as he looked around the room in a dazed state. 

“Bill, are you alright?” George asked worriedly. “Did you see who did this to you?”

Bill blinked a couple of times when his gaze landed on Piotr’s giant form. His face slowly contorted into a bewildered frown - obviously not used to seeing a giant man with metal skin - before he looked down at George. 

“No…” Bill drawled as he gently rubbed his eye and winced, “the door was kicked open and everything went black.”

While George looked over Bill’s injuries, Piotr looked around the small office to see if he could figure out any information about the intruder. He was immediately drawn to the large electrical equipment that was setup across the room from the giant wall of security monitors. Against the wall was a large CPU (which was almost as big as Piotr) and another rectangular device that had various switches and a large keypad attached to it. Assuming it was the security system’s mainframe, Piotr scanned it for any foreign device that could have caused the power outage. 

His metal fingers skimmed the sides of the mainframe when he couldn’t see anything out of ordinary on the front of the device. When his fingers bumped into a strange object, he grabbed it and pulled on it gently so he could identify it. The second he yanked the device off the panel, sparks flew as the power came back on. 

“Finally! We can see!” George cheered, gazing at the powered lights. 

Bill fortunately came out of his dazed state and started to reboot the camera system. While the guards worked on that, Piotr took a moment to study the device in his hand. It was obvious that the intruder used the device to hack into the security system and shut off the power. The circular device was about the size of a baseball and reminded him of a hockey puck. The top part was protected by a sleek dark metal that received finger-shaped dents from Piotr when he pulled it off. The bottom part of the device had four small drills that were used to attach itself to the mainframe and allow it to dismantle the security system. The device’s design was exceptional and that would be the only compliment he gave to the intruder. 

“I found what caused power outage,” Piotr informed as he placed the device on the desk. “Any luck with security cameras?” 

Judging by the fact that all of the monitors were still blank, it wasn’t looking good. Bill was underneath the desk trying to solve the problem with the power cables while George scanned the monitors to figure out how to turn them on. With an irritated huff, Bill slid out from under the desk and shook his head. 

“We can’t turn them back on,” Bill sighed as he stood up. “Whatever that device did to our system seriously messed up the cameras.” 

Bill’s brow furrowed inquisitively when he looked down at the desk. His gaze landed on a red lunch box (which Piotr assumed belonged to him) and picked it up. He pushed around its contents in search of something and dropped to look around his desk. 

“Wait a minute,” Bill said quietly as he frantically searched the top of his desk for something. “My sandwich is gone!” 

“And I think I know who took it,” George announced as he picked up a sticky note that was stuck to a computer screen and handed it to Piotr. 

Sorry for eating your dinner!

It was delicious 

- M ♡

Piotr stared at the note in disbelief as he read it aloud. He had seen odd notes before (mostly from Wade) but this one bugged him a little bit. Judging by the silent entrance, the clean knock out, and the power outage, the intruder - “M” - must have been a professional or at least an overconfident rookie. The note indicated that “M” had enough time on their hands to stay in the office and run off before Piotr arrived. 

It was rather annoying. 

“And we have no idea where they went,” George sneered. “They could be anywhere in this damn place!” 

“I think I know,” Bill spoke up, peering at the sticky note in Piotr’s hands. “I think they wrote something on the back of that.” 

Piotr quickly flipped over the slip of paper and immediately crushed it in his hand after he read it.

I’ll be waiting in the Devil’s Treasure exhibit.

Hit me with your best shot, Tin Can. 

- M 

“Tell your guards to evacuate museum,” Piotr tried to say calmly but the guards behind him could hear the hints of anger in his voice. 

Piotr marched out of the room with purpose while carefully removing his tie and suit jacket. Piotr prided himself on being a calm and collected man but there was something about that note that irked him the wrong way. If M’s goal was to irritate him, it was working very well. Too good, in fact. 

And Piotr hated it. 

Piotr folded the jacket over his arm when he approached the door at the end of the hallway. He looked over his shoulder at the two guards, giving them a clear view of the scowl he was trying to hide. 

“This may get messy.” 

-----

When he sprinted into the museum's corridor, Piotr could barely hear George directing his men through his radio. Guards ran out of every room that he passed to head to the banquet hall to protect the guests. When he got closer to the gala, he could hear the echoes of the anxious voices of the guests. While he followed the signs to the diamond’s exhibit, he took out his phone to call Ellie and tell her to meet him there. 

“Do not engage the intruder until I arrive,” Piotr instructed with a strict tone. 

“Don’t worry, I promise I won’t,” Ellie assured before hanging up. 

By the time he arrived at the exhibit, all of the guests and staff were escorted outside by the security guards. There was a large crowd forming outside of the museum’s entrance which would only grow bigger once the police and reporters arrived.

Piotr was surprised he didn’t notice the entrance to the Devil’s Treasure exhibit when he first arrived at the gala. The exhibit was located on the top floor with its grand entrance in view of the banquet hall below him. Two large banners advertising the diamond hung next to the large doorway. In his defense, the gala’s stage directly below the exhibit’s entrance did take most of his attention. 

Piotr was only a few paces away from entering the room when Ellie caught up with him. She also discarded her suit jacket and tie just like Piotr. (Although, he was sure that she threw them on the ground somewhere while he folded his jacket up and placed it on a nearby bench. He refused to go through the annoying process of getting fit for a suit again.) 

“The guests have been evacuated,” Ellie informed in a quiet tone as she eyed the entrance to the exhibit. “Are you sure the intruder is in there?” 

“I’m sure,” Piotr said as he handed her the crumbled up sticky note. She smoothed it out to read it as Piotr scanned the entrance for any signs of M. “Where is Professor?” 

“Hiding in the entrance hall somewhere,” Ellie answered as she read the backside of the note. “He’s trying to find the thief telepathically but he’s not having any luck. He told me that they are blocking him somehow but he’s hoping to get a lock on them when we get them out in the open.” 

Piotr tried to seem unfazed by the fact that M could block the Professor from their mind. Very few could do it successfully and even fewer could do it without the aid of an object. Piotr hoped that there was an object or device that the intruder had to block telepaths. If there wasn’t, he feared that Ellie and him were about to face off against a powerful telepath. 

“Well, they seem cocky,” Ellie said after she read the back of the note. 

“We will use that to our advantage,” Piotr declared as he stepped toward the exhibit’s entrance. “Come, let us meet this M.”

When Ellie and Piotr entered the room, he carefully looked over the cases of the untouched priceless jewels that lined the walls. He frowned when there was no sign of the thief but continued to keep his guard up. In the center of the room, a small case that rested on a marble pedestal was illuminated by tiny spotlights attached to the ceiling. Velvet rope and a wall of lasers protected the case from being opened but when Piotr inched closer he realized that security measures were not enough. 

The Devil’s Treasure was gone. 

“Damn it,” Ellie growled, earning a disapproving look from Piotr for her use of language. “The diamond is gone and that thief was too scared to put up a fight.” 

“Oh, I promise you kid,” A voice called out behind them, “I will never run away from a good fight.” 

Piotr and Ellie almost gave themselves whiplash when they quickly turned around to face the woman that stood at the exhibit’s entrance. Upon his first look of her, Piotr knew he was dealing with a professional judging by her expensive and intricate look. The pale woman was dressed in an all black skin-tight suit and trench coat that was buckled around her waist. The coat was zipped above her belt and had a high collar to cover her neck. A silk, scarlet scarf was wrapped loosely around her neck with both ends of it resting next to her knees behind her back.  

If Piotr’s head wasn’t occupied with thoughts of her being a criminal, he would have been bewitched by thoughts of her beauty. Though the top half of her face was hidden by a black mask, soft strands of hair helped to accentuate her soft features. Her smooth and silky black hair was weaved into an elegant braid that ended just below her shoulder blades. A smooth metal that was decorated with small dark jewels wrapped around her ears. Her wide, confident grin that rested on her deep red lips and the mischievous glint in her dark brown eyes put Piotr on edge. He had seen the same look on Wade many times before but this was different…and somehow worse. 

“Who are you?” Piotr demanded, stepping in front of Ellie defensively. 

“Oh! How rude of me,” The woman chuckled as she did an unenthusiastic bow. Her British accent helped to carry the smoothness of her voice. 

“I am Maya Durand,” She smiled cheekily as she straightened her posture. “Most know me as Europe’s most infamous thief.”

“Never heard of ya,” Ellie jeered, shooting a glare at the thief.  

The grin on Maya’s face did not waver at Ellie’s remark. Instead, the woman simply rolled her eyes as she moved her gloved hand behind her back. 

“Oh, you will now.” 

Maya pulled her hand from behind her to reveal the deep red diamond that rested in her palm. With her arms in clear view, Piotr was able to see the silk ribbons wrapped tightly around her forearms. 

“Give us the diamond or this will get messy,” Piotr warned. 

Maya chuckled as she pulled out a small velvet case from the utility belt hidden beneath her coat. She carefully placed the diamond in the case and snapped it shut before placing it in her pocket. 

At this point, Piotr did not have a clue what her powers were so he kept his guard up. His fears of her being a telepath melted away as he watched the bottom half of her coat wrap around her legs. The coat’s fabric disappeared as it seemed to fuse with the material covering her legs. Without the bulky coat, her thin yet muscular body was put on display. 

“Oh, believe me, Colossus,” Maya spoke with a determined look, “I want this to get messy.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, the ribbons wrapped around her sleeves unraveled and fell on the floor. Piotr and Ellie stared at the woman in disbelief. Was she seriously going to fight them - a man with metal skin and a teenager that can produce atomic blasts - with string? 

“You’re seriously going to fight us with ribbons?” Ellie laughed, before nudging Piotr’s side with her elbow. “This is going to be easy.” 

Piotr was about to say the same thing before he heard Maya snickering as she grabbed a short poll that was strapped against her thigh. The poll was wrapped with a braided black leather and was about as long as her forearm. 

Before Piotr could calculate her next move, the ribbons on the ground began to spin around each other as they weaved into a thick rope. The smooth silk shifted into a rough and prickly material as the end of the rope connected to the tip of the poll which Piotr realized was a handle. Neither did Piotr or Ellie have time to react before Maya lashed out her whip at the teenager with a loud crack! Piotr barely had time to blink before the whip wrapped around Ellie’s leg. With an effortless tug, the teenager was thrown into the air and crashed into the hard marble wall. 

“Negasonic!” Piotr shouted before hearing a faint groan from his trainee. 

“What did you say about this being easy?” Maya quipped, looking over at the teenager. The tails of her scarf coiled around her body defensively when she brought her attention back to Piotr. 

“Colossus, try to bring her into the banquet hall so I can freeze her,” The Professor instructed telepathically. “I may be able to break past her defenses when I’m close to her.” 

“Understood.” 

Without a second thought, Piotr charged at the thief to force her to jump to the lower level. Instead of running to the balcony like he hoped she would, Maya stood still as she stared him down tauntingly. The tails of her scarf swiftly wrapped around her chest defensively almost as if they were her form of armor. He reached his arms out to grab her but she immediately jumped over him when he got too close. 

Piotr stumbled forward into the hallway and tried to regain his balance when he reached the balcony. Before he could, Maya flicked her whip around his ankles and pulled harshly. The giant man fell to the ground with a loud bang from his metal form. Piotr clenched his fists and snarled when he heard Maya’s mocking laughter. 

“When my employer warned me that an X-Man was going to be here, I thought I was going to have a challenge,” Maya taunted before looking down at Piotr with a displeased look on her face. Piotr slowly got on his knees and waited for her to get close enough to him.

“Needless to say, I’m disappointed.”

“That is enough!” Piotr roared as he grabbed her arm and threw her over the balcony’s ledge.  

Maya screamed, not having enough time to react to Piotr’s sudden move and crashed into the stage below him. Ellie came running out of the exhibit - presumably unharmed by Maya’s attack - as Piotr stood up. Deciding that taking the stairs would take too long, he jumped over the ledge and landed in front of the stage. 

(Piotr knew if Wade was present he would have made a comment about his superhero landing. Probably would have rated it too.) 

“Still disappointed?” Piotr called out humorlessly as he watched Maya slowly climbed out of the hole she made in the stage.  

Maya brushed the wooden debris from the stage off of her shoulder - sending Piotr a glare in the process. With a flick of her hand, her whip came rushing to her from the exhibit above them (she must have dropped it when Piotr threw her). Instead of lashing out with it, Maya used her powers to wrap the rope around her waist and slid the handle back into the holster on her thigh. 

“A little less now,” Maya admitted, spreading out her arms as the long strand of silk around her chest unraveled. 

The material responded to every move she made with her hands. Piotr watched curiously as the cloth seemed to grow longer as her fingers ran against it. She made fluid motions with her hands as the fabric spun around her body defensively. Her movements reminded him of the water benders from Avatar: The Last Airbender (he watched the show when he was learning English). 

With a snapping motion of her hand, the silk quickly wrapped itself around Piotr’s arm and pulled him to the ground. He let out a surprised yelp as he slammed into the marble floor. In a fatal attempt to remove the material, Piotr used his free hand to grab it and rip it off. Before he could, Maya spun in the air and flicked her wrist outwards. Following the motions of her hands, the silk threw Piotr across the room into the sea of tables. 

“You’re heavier than you look!” Maya teased trying to hide the fact that she was out of breath. 

Piotr groaned as he stood up from the table that he broke in half and took a moment to take in how far she threw him. He landed at the very edge of the cluster of tables which was at least thirty feet from the stage. It wasn’t an easy feat either since he was incredibly heavy in his armored form. 

“Bozhe moi, how strong is her fabric? How strong is she?” 

Maya didn’t waste any time for her next move when Piotr was back on his feet. As she slowly made her way to him, she used her long strand of fabric to grab anything and threw it at him. The first item was a glass vase from a nearby table which held a bouquet of flowers. Piotr was unphased when it collided with his head. In his metal form, it felt as if he was hit by a beach ball. 

When Maya realized he was unharmed, she decided to throw a chair at him instead - which Piotr simply blocked with his arm. The chair crumbled as it slammed into Piotr. Before he could make a witty remark, Maya sprinted to him with her line of silk surrounding her body.

With swift whipping movements of her arms, the silk repeatedly battered against Piotr. Piotr was pushed back with every lash against his raised arms. He was surprised that his metal skin burned after every hit. Growing bold, Maya released an aggravated roar as she leapt into the air with her trail of silk ready to lash out. Upon instinct, Piotr swung his arm and backhanded her, landing a direct hit on her ribcage. 

The excessive force of his swing threw Maya into one of the pillars. He was horrified with himself as he watched her body slam into the ground. He shouldn’t have hit her that hard. What was he thinking? He didn’t know the extent of her powers and he could have seriously hurt her. He could have killed-

Laughing. 

Maya Durand was laughing. 

She slowly got to her knees, revealing the silk wrapped protectively around her vibrating chest. Piotr was amazed by her fast reflexes. She must have wrapped the silk around her before he struck her side. If Hank was with him Piotr knew he would have been asking Maya about the properties and strength of her fabric. Piotr was curious about it too but he could wait to question her when she was behind bars. 

“You almost had me there, Tin Can,” Maya chuckled as she began to stand up. Her hand massaged the spot where he hit her, indicating that her fabric did not completely protect her. 

Before she could stand up completely, Professor X came out from behind the pillar with his hand reaching out to grab her. Piotr thought the Professor would have succeeded until he saw the grin on Maya’s face fall. With lightning fast reflexes, Maya spun around with her whip unraveling from around her waist. She shot out her hands, directing the rope wrap around the Professor’s outstretched arm and then his neck. With a sneer, Maya gripped the whip’s handle and yanked it down, hard. 

“Word of warning, Professor,” Maya growled with venom as the older man started to choke. “I do not like telepaths.” 

Before Maya could harm the Professor further, Ellie ran out from the hallway behind them and tackled the thief to the ground. With a vicious yell, Maya kicked the teen off of her and jumped to her feet. She spun to the Professor, shooting out her hand and rotated her wrist. In a flash the rope unraveled around the Professor’s neck allowing him to breathe once more before the material grew. It quickly tied the Professor’s arms down to his wheelchair and kept his hands in place so he couldn’t move. 

“Trust me, Professor,” Maya seethed, glaring at him, “you do not want to be inside of my head.” 

Maya turned away from the Professor to face Piotr and Ellie. In a matter of seconds, her frown melted away as if nothing had happened. She released an exasperated sigh before reaching into her pockets. 

“Now, this has been fun but I’m afraid I must go -” She froze when her hand reached the bottom of her pocket. Her eyes widened as she frantically patted herself down. “Where did I put that bloody diamond?” 

“Looking for this?” Ellie called out, holding the velvet case in clear view. 

Maya's scowl only lasted for a moment before her signature grin formed on her lips again. She almost seemed impressed by the teenager’s skill. 

“Good grab, kid, but that diamond is mine,” Maya snarled as she stepped closer to the teenager. “Give. It. Back.” 

Ellie stood ready to defend herself once she slid the case into her pocket. Before Maya could make a move for the case, Piotr stood in front of his trainee protectively.

“Negasonic, run,” Piotr ordered, glancing back at her. When she didn’t budge, he looked back at her again sternly. “Now.” 

Once she heard his serious tone, she ran off to the entrance of the museum. Before Maya could go after her, Piotr swiftly grabbed her arm and threw her to the opposite end of the room. 

Instead of crashing into the stage like he expected, Maya flipped her body around in mid-air and landed gracefully on her feet. When she stood up, the mischievous glint in her eyes was gone and was replaced by a fierce look of determination. He expected her to unravel the silk around her chest or at least form her whip again. Instead, she jumped off the stage with her hands outstretched as she sprinted to Piotr. 

Her fingertips grazed each table cloth in her reach as she charged at Piotr. Fearing that she was making an attempt to pass him, he darted his hand out to grab her but she quickly dodged his grasp by jumping to the side. She landed on the table beside him and crouched down to touch the cloth beneath her with her finger tips. He slammed his fist against the edge of the table to catapult her off of it but she swiftly jumped over him. 

Piotr spun around after crushing the table to make another attempt to grab her. He expected her to take a swing at him with her fabric but she was waiting for his move. It bothered Piotr for a second knowing that she was fast enough to strike him but didn’t take the chance. 

With olympic acrobatic skill, she consecutively dodged his attacks by jumping between the tables. After one of his futile attempts to capture her, Piotr got lucky and managed to grab her arm and throw her across the room. 

Maya landed on the cold marble floor with a loud thud. The thief groaned as she tried to pull herself up but her shaky arms wouldn’t let her. She hissed in pain when she managed to get on one knee as Piotr got closer to her. 

“Yield,” Piotr commanded, staring down at her, “you have been beaten.” 

Piotr stopped in his tracks when he heard a chuckle escape her lips. 

“Is that what you think?” 

Maya dropped her act and quickly stood up with her hands outstretched. Her grin once again formed on her face as Piotr watched her in disbelief. 

“You’re the one that has been beaten, Tin Can.” 

Maya threw her hands in front of her and raised them up. Piotr looked behind him and watched as the bouquet vases and dinner plates shattered on the ground as every single table cloth took to the air. He snapped his head back at Maya in shock.

“Did you forget that I can control any fabric that I touch?” Maya asked cheekily. 

Piotr’s stomach dropped when he realized he fell for her trap. She was deliberately dodging him so she could touch every table cloth. He shouldn’t have underestimated her abilities and now he was paying the price. 

Without another word, Maya pulled the fabric to her with a snapping motion. The cloths flew past Piotr at high speeds, disorienting him in the process as they spun around Maya like a tornado. Piotr watched as the tablecloths melted together to create one long train of fabric. With a flick of her wrist, the rough fabric turned into a scarlet silk that was similar to material wrapped around her chest. The finished product coiled around Maya as if it was a living serpent. 

Piotr didn’t have a chance to defend himself when a piece of the cloth lunged at him. Within seconds the smooth fabric wrapped around his hand and yanked his arm up as Maya directed the end of it to fasten around a pillar. With a simple thrust of her hand, another piece of silk tied around Piotr’s free arm and bound him to another pillar. A startled yelp escaped him when strands of silk wrapped around his legs and yanked him down on his knees. The numerous silk ribbons dug beneath the marble tile and chained him to the piping beneath the floor. For the finishing touch, Maya flicked her wrist and used her power to wrap around the bottom of his head to cover his mouth. 

Piotr’s growls were muffled by the fabric as he tugged at the silk to break free. Maya snickered at his vain attempts to free himself which only angered him more. If it was normal fabric he would have been able to tear it but the silk tied to him was strong as steel! 

“I would stop trying to break free if I were you,” Maya advised as motioned to the pillars he was bound to. “You may accidentally take the place down and I know the needles destruction of property isn’t a good look for superheroes.” 

Piotr seethed as he glared at her through knitted brows. He stopped pulling on his restraints with an aggravated huff knowing that she was right. If the building collapsed he knew the press would have a field day criticizing the X-Men and all mutants.

Piotr was thankful that Wade wasn’t there to witness his situation. He would never hear the end of it from the mercenary. He reminded himself that she did lose to him in the end - she didn’t have the diamond! 

“Oh, by the way,” Maya said with a smirk as she flicked her wrist to reveal the red jewel in her palm, “I had the diamond the entire time.” 

Piotr’s blood boiled with outrage as the thief gazed longingly at the diamond. As if she was a trained magician, she flicked her wrist again to make the jewel disappear.

“I’m a great actress don’t you think?” 

When she looked back at Piotr’s enraged state, she laughed as she swung her arm around his neck and pulled out her phone. 

“Stay put, I need to save the look on your face,” Maya joked as she pulled up the camera app to take a selfie. “Get it? Because you can’t move at all.” 

Piotr simply glared at her in response. 

“Oh, you’re no fun, Tin Man!” Maya said humorlessly before pressing her cheek against Piotr’s and raising her phone. “Smile!” 

Once she took the photo, she detached herself from Piotr and examined the picture. When she slid her phone back into its pocket with a satisfied smile, she spun herself around while waving her hand in the air. Once she steadied herself, her trench coat was once again covering her with her silk scarf wrapped loosely around her neck. 

“This has been fun but I must deliver the diamond to my employer so I can get paid,” Maya said, bending down to grasp Piotr’s chin. 

She tapped his metal skin with her thumb before letting him go with a satisfied hum. She swayed her hips as she stepped directly underneath the skylight. She extended her hand to the ceiling, shooting out a strand of ribbon that attached itself to the edge of the window. The ribbon quickly pulled herself up to the glass which allowed her to push the window open. Once she was through, she glanced back at Piotr and waved. 

“See you next time, Tin Can!” 

Piotr grumbled as he watched Maya run off with the diamond. Moments later, Ellie came running into the room cussing about the stolen jewel. Piotr ignored her vulgar words and drowned out the noise of the police cars and reporters that gathered outside the museum’s entrance with his thoughts. 

He allowed his overconfidence to get the better of him and his trainee and was publicly humiliated. Even worse, Maya Durand harmed the Professor under his watch. And he was defeated by a woman who controlled fabric. Fabric!  He was never going to hear the end of it when he returned to the institute. 

Piotr looked up at the skylight where Maya escaped, eyeing the strand of ribbon that she left behind. She wasn’t going to best him again or anyone else for that matter. 

Because he was going to take her down. 

-----

Tag list: @master-sass-blast @sadstonewrites

Tell me if you want to be add to the tag list!

[wkemeup]

Eclipse

summary: When a mission leaves you empty and broken, Bucky is determined to heal the wounds that linger deeper than the cuts on the surface.  pairing: bucky x reader word count: 8.4k warnings: canon level violence, hurt!reader, PTSD, dissociative episode, nightmares, a rapid switch from sweet/fluffy to pain, angst with a happy ending 

An eclipse finds its home in the darkness Thriving as it suffocates the sun and shadows her light In its passage she lays in wait Waiting— for the moon to give way and grant her morning

Bucky thinks he’s found heaven when he lays with you under the cover of thin, linen sheets; the soft, white of the fabric touching over curves and edges of exposed bodies, peaks and dips, like snowcaps nestled upon the crest of mountaintops. Lying flushed with heat, hearts beating a little faster, breaths a little labored, Bucky reaches out and traces the lines of your face.  

The tip of his finger brushes over your nose, slips down along your jaw, touches the sun kissed stream of light against your cheek as it seeps in through the sheet thrown over your heads. You giggle as he pulls you in for a kiss, chaste and sweet, his hand curling into the hairs at the nape of your neck and he tugs you closer. It’s the most beautiful sound in the world, the way you laugh to his lips, muffled in his kiss but still uncontained.  

Hidden under sheets, shared breaths between you in your own little world, Bucky decides he will be content if he stays here forever.

“I won’t be gone long, you know,” you tell him as you press lightly on his chest, just enough to get draw his attention away from the trail of kisses along your cheekbone and down your jawline. He pouts playfully at you, but you soothe your hand along his shoulder, recognizing the shift in energy as his eyes flicker a shade of hesitancy. “I’ll can handle myself.”

“It’s not that,” he replies quietly, voice soft, barely a whisper, as his smile begins to fall. It’s subtle, but you notice.  

“Then what?”

Bucky shrugs, swallowing back the anxiety that begins to pool deep into his stomach every time you leave on assignment. But he pushes out a smile, one you do not question, and he leans in to kiss the button of your nose.  

“I’ll just miss you, is all.”

You grin and it lights up wide across your face. The cast of sunshine behind you as it filters in through the sheets tossed over your body drapes down like a halo, an illumination of an angel, and Bucky commits the image to memory. Stored to a safe place in the back of his mind for the dark nights alone in this room. He’ll find you those moments, even when you’re miles away.  

“You’re a sap, Bucky Barnes,” you laugh, ruffling his hair as you toss the sheet up from over your faces and take in a deep breath of fresh air. It’s brighter in the room than you realized and you squint your eyes, tucking your face to the crook of Bucky’s neck to shield yourself from the sun.  

“Only for you, sweetheart.” He tries to ignore the bright red flicker of the clock beside you as he crawls out from under the safety of the bedsheets, the fantasy fractured by the reminder of your impending assignment; four weeks in a classified location, entirely on your own.  

A smile presses tight to his lips as you steal a glance back at him full of bright eyes and sunshine.

He does his best to swallow the anxiety though it churns like blades through his stomach.  

***

Bucky paces back and forth in his room, stealing looks at his phone as it sits face up on the bedside table. He taps the screen every few seconds, as soon as it dares to fade to black, so he can see your face again; the picture of you laughing behind an ice cream bar melting down your hand. A shimmering red bow and mouse ears on the top of your head from your trip to Disney last spring. He can still smell the melted vanilla and hardened chocolate when he looks at it and he tries hard to focus on the memory, but he knows it’s an excuse to make sure he doesn’t miss your call.

Tap.

Still nothing.

You’ve been gone over a week now and though he does his best to busy himself with time spent sparring with Sam in the gym, running out along the lake behind the compound, cleaning the kitchen until the stench of bleach burns up to the floor above him, you’re still at the forefront of his mind.  

He knows you’re safe. He knows that you can protect yourself and that you were capable of solo missions long before Bucky came crash-landing into your life, but it doesn’t stop him from worrying. It doesn’t stop the incessant twitching in his hands as he curls them to fists, doesn’t stop the frantic pacing and the wear he drives into the carpet, doesn’t stop the panic that skips the beat of his heart when it’s two minutes past check-in and you haven’t called.  

“Stop it,” he grumbles to himself, “she’s fine. Stop worrying. She’s fine.”

Another glance back at the phone. Tap-tap on the screen until it lights up with your smile. Nothing.  

Three minutes past check-in.  

He has half a mind to track down Fury himself when suddenly, the phone rings.

A ringtone you’d changed early in your relationship - a synthetic, almost electric, instrumental of Can’t Take My Eyes Off You right when the music starts to pick up and the trumpets are blaring and it throws him straight into overdrive.  

Bucky lunges it at, hands fumbling for the phone but it falls to the floor in his hurry. He hits his shoulder against the edge of the nightstand with a loud thump and collapses down to the carpet as the phone bounces down under the bed.  

“God-fuckin’-- ugh!”

He grips tight to the phone by the chime of ‘I love you, baby!’ and quickly brings it to his ear. He’s out of breath but he stills himself, takes a moment before he says anything and he hopes his voice is calmer than the rush in his chest.  

“Hi.”  

You snicker on the other end of the line and he knows in an instant he’s been busted. “Thought I told you not to wait by the phone, Buck.”

“I wasn’t.” A full faced lie. He grimaces as it comes out.  

“Sure, you weren’t,” you drawl, a laugh tucked sweetly into the hum of your voice.  

Bucky can hear floorboards squeaking faintly through the speaker between your breaths. Old wood, the whistle of the wind in the distance; a motel built in the early sixties with poor insulation and cracking foundations. He wonders where you are or if the image of you pacing amongst faded shades of burnt orange and green curtains, of once brightly colored comforters and pealing wallpaper only exists in his imagination.  

“You okay?” he asks first because he needs the confirmation. Despite hearing the even tones in your breath, the sweet laughter in your voice, he needs to hear you say it.  

“Always am, honey,” you respond lightly and Bucky lets himself take in a deep breath before you add, “I miss you though. It’s awfully cold here and I could really use a super soldier to keep me warm.”

It makes him smile; the first one that pushes up into his cheeks without force since you left. God, he misses you.  

“Don’t go calling Steve now, okay?” he teases, the anxiety draining from his body in gentle waves, cast out by the flow of ocean water through his bloodstream in the sound of your voice and the image of your smile as you tug your lower lip between your teeth.  

“Never. I prefer my men one-armed and dangerous.”

Bucky laughs as he sinks down further onto the floor, the carpet rubbing against his tailbone though he doesn’t mind. He’s grinning, listening to the sound of your voice as you tell him about how much you’re craving popcorn and chocolate chip movie nights and he feels like you’re sitting right next to him. He can see the creases in your smile, the lines by your eyes, the faint markings of old scars on your skin. He hears your voice and it reminds him of home.  

“It’s beautiful here, Buck,” you sigh and he wonders if you’re staring out a window to mountains or ocean or tundra. “I wish you could see it.”

“Where is ‘here’ again?”

You giggle and—God—it's the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard, even crackled and broken through the speakers of an old satellite phone miles away. “Nice try, baby.”  

The timer on his watch starts to ding and his heart clenches.  

“Time’s up, huh?” you whine playfully, but he can hear the disappointment in your voice. It’s never long enough, these three minutes that Steve allows for you, but he’ll take seconds if he can get them. Just long enough to calm his nerves, to give you the motivation to keep going on your own, without the possibility of the call being traced.  

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs, clenching at his hand. He brushes closed knuckles against his forehead, presses deep into his temples because he can already feel the pit in his stomach forming again. “Stay safe, alright? Come home to me.”

He pictures your smile, the soft edges and the curve of your lips.  

“Always do, don’t I?”

You do. He knows this.  

But his mind is cruel and it wonders when the day will come when you won’t.

***

“I’ll raise a Kit-Kat,” Bucky concedes nearly two weeks later with a tired huff, tossing a chocolate bar to the center of the table to accompany a handful of M&M’s and mini-Twix. It knocks over Natasha’s carefully constructed tower of Milkyways and she shoots him a warning glare.  

To his right, Sam snickers under his breath, a laugh too confident for a man with a dwindling stash of chocolate in front of him to the mountain sitting beside Natasha. He hides his face behind the fan of cards, but Bucky can still see the crease in his brow, the pinch of lines together at the center that tell him Sam is bluffing. Natasha is as stone cold as he would expect and he has no interest in challenging her resolve, so he decides to weed out Wilson first.  

“When’s your girl getting back, Barnes? Think you might need her around to console you after I obliterate your snack drawer,” Sam taunts, changing the subject abruptly. Another tell of his.

“End of the week, I think,” Bucky replies with a shrug, playing it off casually because he knows Sam is trying to throw him off his game.  

“As if you aren't counting down the seconds.” Natasha scoffs, a smirk pushing at pursed lips.  

“You're an absolute goner for her, you know that don’t you?” Sam says as he pushes a few more M&M’s to the center. Brightly colored pile at the center and he plops one from his own stash into his mouth.  

Bucky, meanwhile, chews on the inside of his cheek, avoiding Sam’s wandering eyes because he knows it’s true. You’ve only been together a little under a year, but he’s spent twice that loving you from a careful distance, just out of fingertip’s reach until he’d come back from a mission with one too many bullet wounds in his body and he couldn’t take the tension between you anymore.  

He could still picture the smile on your face as he told you, the way your eyes lit up and you jumped into his arms; IV drips and wires to machines and all. The press of warm lips to his cheek, his temples, his nose, his mouth. Sun streaming in through the window and casting a halo behind your hair. 

“Yeah, I know.”  

“Atta boy.” Sam nudges Bucky’s arm, grinning wildly.  

They turn to Natasha as she nods in approval before setting her cards down on the table with the kind of look in her eyes that tells Bucky the game was over before it even began. Royal Flush.  

“Not again!” Sam whines, slumping down into his chair.  

“It’s starting to feel cruel playing with the two of you.” Natasha reaches into the center and gathers the mountain of chocolate to drag it towards her towering pile. She starts to unravel a mini-Twix, keeping a taunting eye on Sam as he glares back at her. The chocolate passes behind parted lips and she bites down with a contented hum.  

Sam rolls his eyes. “You owe us drinks, ma’am.” He gestures to his empty glass.

Natasha smirks, conceding easily as she stands to grab their glasses. She turns to Bucky. “You want a refill, Barnes?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, sure.”

As Natasha makes her way back to the kitchen, Sam sneaks a few M&M’s from her pile and quickly plops them into his mouth with a cautious glance over his shoulder. Bucky begins to shuffle the cards and he can feel the burn of Sam’s stare even before he opens his mouth.  

“What do you want, Wilson?”

“When’s Y/n coming back? For real.”

Bucky glances up. Sam’s arms are stretched out along the backs of the empty chairs beside him. He’s relaxed into his position, chewing on the stolen chocolates as he raises an eyebrow.  

“End of the week... like I said.”

Sam leans in closer. “That a question?”

“No,” Bucky retorts shortly, though Sam clearly isn’t buying it. He exhales a tense breath as he bridges the deck. “She’s supposed to call tonight. Longest stretch without a checkpoint since she left.”

Sam nods. “What about the three minute calls?”

“Last one was four days ago. Same day she checked in with Fury.”

“You worried?”

Bucky slices the deck. Shuffles it for the fifth time. Bridge. Repeat. “Course not. I’m sure she’s fine. I’m not worried at all.”

“You sure?” Sam chuckles, leaning back into his chair with another quick grab of a few stray green M&M’s.  

“Fuck off, Wilson.”

That gets Sam laughing. He reaches across the table and snatches the cards out of Bucky’s hands before he can shuffle for a seventh time. He flashes Bucky a smile, dimples into his cheeks and all.  

“I’m dealing this round.”

Bucky nods, letting the tension slip easily from his muscles. He pushes out a smile. “Yeah, okay.”

But then, a glass shatters behind him and Bucky jolts up to his feet.  

“Nat? Are you--”

He freezes in an instant, tension burning through him like marble; the full force of a train straight to his chest and knocking the wind from his body, fracturing the stone to pieces around him.  

Natasha stands just a few paces ahead of him, her hands clasped at her mouth in an array of shock and horror, glass shattered at her feet. Ice along wooden floors and the smell of vodka burning into the air.  

Bucky almost doesn’t recognize you. There’s a slump in your shoulders, a far off look in your eye like you can’t quite focus on what’s in front of you, and a knife in your hand that won’t stop shaking.  

But that’s not the worst of it.  

You’re covered in blood. Deep red seeping into your hair, sticking thick and wet to your face and down your neck; trails of it along your cheeks like raindrops against a windowpane. It soaks into what remains of your suit, ripped and torn, exposed skin stained with grim and dirt. You look like something out of a horror movie.  

“Oh God,” Sam mutters out, pulling Bucky from his trance.  

He wants to sprint, wants to scream for help and sound every alarm he can find, but instead, Bucky only manages broken exhale as he slowly walks towards you. He moves with cautious steps, a hand out towards you defensively, like he’s approaching a frightened animal. It’s what you used to do when the line between him and the Soldier blurred, how you’d seek him out amongst the trauma and distortion and bring him back home.  

“Y/n?” he calls gently and finds his voice rough in his throat.  

You don’t respond, don’t even look at him as he stands within a foot of your reach. Nat and Sam are close behind, but they hold their distance.  

“Sweetheart, what happened?” Bucky asks as evenly as he can manage, eyes glancing down over your body in search of injuries. There’s too much blood and he doesn’t know how much of it is your own. He wants to tug you into his arms, tell you that he’s got you, that you’re safe now, but for the first time since Shuri removed the triggers from his head, he’s afraid to touch you.  

Your lips part, a few short blinks of your lashes, and you mumble out, “I came to find you.”

Your voice doesn’t sound like your own. It’s too flat, too void of emotion, and it rips Bucky right to his core. It’s a defense mechanism, he knows that. You’re still in there somewhere, he just needs to get you through this first.  

“That’s good, sweetheart,” he tells you, trying his luck as he sets a hand on your back. You don’t flinch, but you don’t lean into him either. He shares a worried glance with Sam and Natasha before he turns back to you, pushing out a smile. “You did good.”

“How did she get all the way here from the Hanger without anyone stopping her?” Sam questions, eyes trailing over the mess of blood in your wake, footprints following you from the staircase by the elevator.

“She’s covered in blood and God knows what else,” Natasha whispers back. “They were probably afraid of what might happen if they did.”

Bucky can’t tear his eyes away from you, vision tunneling on the mess of blood rooted in your hair and the stains of red on your face, your chest, your hands. Natasha and Sam’s voices become muffled beside him as he slides his hand down your back and gently lays it over your grip, still shaking as you hold onto the heel of the knife as if your fist had molded to stone around it. The tremors stop as he holds your hand.  

“It’s okay, honey,” he whispers, impossibly soft that not even Nat or Sam hear him, “I need you to give me the knife, alright? You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

It takes a moment, but your grip on the knife slacks. It falls to Bucky’s palm and he gently guides it out of your reach and hands it over to Natasha. He doesn’t know what happened, but he knows what you’ve done for him when the Soldier has taken over his mind, when he didn’t feel like himself and needed reminded who he was, where the ground was solid under his feet.  

He knows what he needs to do.

“Nat,” he starts, but she’s already a step ahead of him.  

“I’ll go find Steve,” she says, like she can read his mind. “I’ll tell him what happened, see what he knows about her assignment that would have led to this.”

Bucky swallows back the bile in his throat and he nods. “Sam--”

“I’ll sweep the jet, see what I can find,” Sam replies quickly. He sets a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, gives it a slight squeeze, and pushed out a tight-lipped smile. He was your friend long before he was Bucky's. The determination reads in his eyes.  

"Thank you,” Bucky whispers.  

Sam and Natasha disappear down the hallway and then, Bucky is left alone with you. He’s suddenly made aware of how harsh your breathing sounds, like you’re gasping in air through a straw. You stare beyond his shoulders, though he can tell you’re not looking at anything at all. You’re existing. It’s all your mind can cope with.  

“Love?” Bucky calls, willing his voice stronger than it is. “Can you come with me?”

You don’t respond. Bucky clenches his jaw and tries again.  

“I’m going to take you to our room, alright?”  

He thinks it’s better not to present you with choices. It never worked well with him when he got this like; too much stimulation. He knows you’ll resist him if you need to. He slips his hand along your back to guide you towards the bedroom and you take a step as he does.  

You’re limping, he notices, as you cross the threshold into the bedroom. He tries to push his mind away from what caused such an injury, what could have possibly happened to result in the amount of blood drenched over you.  

That’s Sam and Natasha’s job. Bucky’s only concern is you right now, in this moment, bringing you home, making you feel safe. He guides you to the bathroom.  

“I’m going to start the water, okay?” Bucky tells you. You used to do the same for him, telling him what you were doing step by step in an effort to orient him. It grounded him back to his reality, brought him down from the plane of existence above his own head.  

The room starts to fill with steam, enough to fog the mirrors, and Bucky tugs his shirt over his head. He removes his sweatpants, but he resolves to leave his boxers on.  

“Sweetheart?”

You look in his direction and Bucky can’t help the wash of relief as it floods through him. You don’t smile and it’s almost as if you’re looking straight through him, but it’s something. Progress.  

He extends a hand to you, waiting patiently. Though you do not take it, you step a take closer to him, then past him as you walk into the shower fully clothed in your tattered suit. Bucky steps in behind and closes the glass door.

There’s enough room inside that he can stand comfortably behind you as you approach the stream of water. You stare at it for a moment before you reach out and let the water fall over your hand. You watch as the water around the drain begins to turn a dark red.  

“I’m going to wash this off. Is that okay, honey?” Bucky reaches steadily for the loofa behind you, though he pauses as he feels the texture of the sponge: exfoliating mesh. It’ll be too much for you in this state. He resolves for the body wash squeezed into his empty palm.  

“You let me know if you need a break.”  

Still, there’s no response.  

Bucky pushes back the burning lump in his throat and gingerly reaches towards you. He places a soap lathered palm against your shoulder and finds your muscles so tense they could have been made of steel or the vibranium seared into his own arm. You stare at his chest as if you could see through to his heart, maybe beyond that to the shower wall behind him, as he begins to peel the dried blood and grim from your skin.  

The water at his feet becomes muddied and red, the water slipping down your legs tainted by the aftermath of violence laid upon your body. He’s careful to only use his flesh hand as he washes you, something softer and kinder than the harsh touch of metal.  

You start to relax the more he works, your rigid stance easing as the blood cleans from your body. Your suit is still plastered to your skin, ripped and torn and cut open, and Bucky knows he needs to get this off of you. There’s blood behind the fabric, seeped behind the open slashes.  

He thinks of the softest clothes he has to dress you in when you’re clean and dry, something too big for your frame that smelled of fresh laundry or maybe the sweatshirt draped over the chair – the one you liked to wear when he was out on missions because it smelled like him. He just wants you to feel safe, to feel warm and protected.  

But he needs to get you out of this suit first.  

He reaches for the zipper at your chest and the next thing he knows, he’s pressed up against the shower wall, his head pulsing at the impact as you grip tight to his wrist. You’re panting, eyes unfocused at the center of his chest.  

He lets you hold him there. He doesn’t try to resist though he knows with his strength he could easily overpower you.  

“Sweetheart, it’s me. It’s Bucky,” he tries, his voice soft against the fall of water behind you. “I’m not going to hurt you, love.”

You don’t move, but your breaths start to come in a little more even. Your grip falters on his wrist though you don’t let go. His heart feels like it’s shattering inside his chest, stray shards embedding themselves into his stomach, his ribs, his lungs.

“Honey, look at me,” he pleads. “You’re safe now. You’re home. Let me take care of you.”

It takes a moment, but your eyes begin to trail up his collarbone, hesitant sweeps along his neck, his jaw, and then – his eyes. The hard resolve upon your features begins to crumble. Your lip quivers, your hand gripped tight around his wrist slacking in the tremors, tears burn into your eyes and Bucky doesn’t waste a moment before he gathers you into his arms, presses you tight to his chest and encases you against him.  

It's like something finally clicks, a floodgate burst open, because you’re clutching onto him like a lifeline. He can feel the sob as it travels up your spine and shakes your body as you cry. He’s grateful for the mist of the shower that hide his own tears as he rubs gentle circles along your back, easing you the best he can. It’s torture seeing you like this and feeling so powerless to help.  

He doesn’t know how long he stands there with you, but eventually, you stop crying. The exhaustion begins to take hold and your legs begin to shake under you, too weak to hold yourself up.  

“I’m going to take your suit off, okay? You’ll be more comfortable without it,” Bucky says, gesturing to the zipper. You follow his gaze in understanding and then, you nod.  

The suit already clings tight to your skin without the added pressure of the sticky residue of blood drenched into the fabric and the soak of water from the shower. He slides the zipper down to your navel and slowly peels what's left of the sleeves off your shoulders.  

There’s cuts and slashes underneath, wounds where blades had cut through your suit and nicked your skin. They’re superficial, better than they could have been if not for the suit taking the brunt of the attack, but they’re still painful to look at.

Bucky helps you step out of the suit and he leaves it in the corner of the shower. He glances at your underwear and you slide it down your hips without question.  

“Can I wash your hair, honey? Please?”

You nod and Bucky works quickly. You’re starting to shiver as the water loses its heat, so you stand a little closer to him, seeking out his warmth. It removes just an ounce of the boulder sitting upon his chest.  

When he’s finished, the water at the drain is clear again. The fresh scars upon your body and the distant look in your eye the only evidence remaining of what happened.  

Bucky reaches around you to turn off the water. He pulls a towel from the rack and begins to gently pat it over your skin until you’re dry. Then, he scrunches out as much of the water as he can from your hair, before he leaves the towel resting on your shoulders to soak up the rest.

“I’ll be right back,” he tells you as he finished drying himself off. “I’m going to go grab some clothes for you.”

He doesn’t even make it a step out of the bathroom before your hand is on his wrist again. He stills, looking back at you. Your eyes fall to the floor.  

Bucky swallows back the burn in his throat as he nods. “Okay. Okay, honey. Can you come with me?”

You nod.  

By the time you’re dressed in a fresh pair of his boxers and the t-shirt he slept in the previous night, you can hardly keep your eyes open. He wonders how long it’s been since you slept, if maybe it was since the evening he spoke to you four days prior. You sway on your feet as Bucky guides you to the bed.  

He lays you down, pulls the covers up to your chest and quickly rushes around to the other side of the bed to crawl in beside you. You come into his arms, curling up against his chest, and Bucky tries to pretend for a moment that this is just another night, that you just returned from a successful mission and there’s a relief in holding you again.

But he can’t shake the crippling dread as it burns into his skin. Even as your breaths fall even and you slack into his arms, Bucky stares up at the ceiling, eyes brimming with tears. He doesn’t sleep at all.  

***

A few hours later, the soft tap of a knock draws Bucky from his trance. He blinks a few times, realizing how long he’d been staring up at the ceiling before he lifts his head and finds Steve peering in through the doorway. There’s a solemn look on his face as his eyes flicker towards you.  

Bucky gently slides out from under you, careful to place a pillow under your arm where you’d been laying upon his chest as not to wake you. The bed rises a little as he stands and he takes a moment to brush the hair from your eyes before he makes his way to the door. When he meets Steve in the hallway, he’s careful to leave the door to the bedroom open a crack, just in case.  

“What did you find?” Bucky asks.

Steve sinks down onto the couch. A hand brushes over his face.  

“That bad?” Bucky can already feel the nausea beginning to take hold.  

“We recovered footage from her last know whereabouts – the safe house in Juno,” Steve says. He leans forward to rest his elbows upon his thighs, staring out into the empty space of the kitchen. He sighs. “She was ambushed, Buck. The feed cut out a few minutes into the fight.”

“Who were they?” Bucky chokes out. His throat is made of sandpaper.  

“We don’t know,” Steve admits, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “Mercenaries, probably. Could have been hired in retaliation against SHEILD. Her mission was to identify the point of contact for an illegal arms distributor that was shipping assault rifles into Canada and carrying them over the border. She wasn’t supposed to see any action, Bucky. It was a surveillance op.”  

Bucky doesn’t realize how tight his hands are clenched until he looks down to find puncture marks in the palm of his right hand from where his nails buried into his skin. He thinks of the woman who left him behind that morning, with sun kissed skin and a smile so sweet it made his heart melt, who has barely spoken in the hours since returning home, who’s bright eyes have dimmed into something empty and lost.  

He’s missing something, he’s sure of it. Maybe if he could just see the footage for himself, identify the bad guys, track them down... maybe he’ll be able to fix this. He could bring you back, make you smile again. Killing those men who hurt you will be a small consolation prize for his efforts.  

Bucky is determined as he stands. “I want to see it.”

“Absolutely not,” Steve shoots back. Bucky doesn’t even need to clarify before Steve puts an end to it. “What purpose will that serve, Buck? You don’t need to see the tape, okay? Just trust me on this. I’ve got everyone we have analyzing that video frame by frame. If there’s anything on it to lead us to those assholes, we’ll find it.”

“I have to do something, Steve. I can’t just sit here. Not with her like that...” Bucky glances back at the door to the bedroom. He can’t muster the energy to conjure the image of you standing before him drenched in blood that was not your own, a vacant look in your eyes as if you could see straight through him.  

“She needs you here,” Steve argues, rising to his feet. “What do you think will happen when she wakes up and I’ve gotta tell her you’ve run off on some vengeance mission? That you’ve left her alone to face this by herself?”

“That’s not what I’m doing—”

“Yes, it is!” Steve clenches his jaw as his voice echoes into the hall. It’s quiet for a moment and they listen for the bed to squeak, for any sign that you’re awake, but they’re only met with silence, Steve relaxes again. He takes a step forward and places his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. It startles him for a moment, but he can feel the tension as it melts in his muscles. “Just be here for her, man. When there’s something to know, I’ll tell you.”

Bucky keeps his stare on the thin crack in the door, the moonlight peering in from the window and seeping out into the hallway. He listens for the even breaths as you sleep soundly for the first time in days and he knows Steve is right. He doesn’t know if he could leave you like this even if Steve handed him the direct files of every man who laid a hand on you.  

“I should get back to her,” Bucky resolves, offering Steve as much of a grateful smile as he can manage. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but Steve understands. 

***

It takes days before Bucky can get you to leave the bedroom. He’s only been able to get a few words out of you here and there, short answers to direct questions, and you can’t hold his eye for very long, but he takes it as improvement.  

It’s the small steps.

He remembers you saying that when he was at his worst, when he could barely get himself out of bed, when he could hardly touch you without fear of breaking you in half, when the guilt tore and ate through him unchallenged.

So, every time you lift you head when he speaks, when you glance in his direction, when you nod in answer of a question, when you curl against his side and seek out his warmth – it matters. It’s more than what you were able to do the day before and that has meaning.  

When you finally do venture out into the living room, Bucky is sure to keep a hand on you at all times. Whether it’s wrapped up tightly in your own, pressed gently to the small of your back, resting against your thigh, over your shoulders – it helps to ground you, remind you that he’s there. You start to drift off into yourself otherwise.  

Meanwhile, everyone else is walking on eggshells around you.  

Tony turns out of the room before he can even step foot into the kitchen when he sees the back of your head over the couch. Peter is constantly shoveling food into his mouth to keep from his usual rambling one-sided conversations. Steve is deceptively quiet, constantly glancing in your direction as if he’s just waiting for something to set you off. Even Natasha keeps her distance, which surprises him. She stays in the room but she keeps to the corners, observing, like Steve.  

Sam, on the other hand, was never one for subtleties.  

“Hey kiddo!” Sam throws himself onto the couch beside you, bowl of popcorn in his hand as it jumps up into the air before landing back safely in the bowl.  

You flinch at the sudden intrusion next you and Bucky all but stares daggers into Sam for startling you. Bucky was trying to keep your environment as calm as possible as not to set you off into one of those dissociative states again. It could take hours just to get you to acknowledge his voice after that and Bucky can only take that so many times before he’ll simply crumble.  

“You know what I’ve been dying to watch?” Sam says aloud, as if someone is listening to him. He shovels a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “Raiders of the Lost Ark.”

“Sam, no.” Bucky warns as he pulls you closer to his side. That movie has far too much violence, even for an eighties film. He doesn’t know how you’ll react to it.  

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Sam shoots back. He settles into the couch beside you, grinning as he turns in your direction. “Come on, Y/n. It’s been ages since we’ve watched Indie. I know the first is your favorite anyway.”  

Bucky is all but ready to clock Sam ten ways to Sunday when you mutter out a quiet, “okay” and Bucky stills completely. It's the first time you’ve even acknowledged anyone besides Bucky since you came home. He stares at Sam with wide eyes, but Sam doesn’t seem to be surprised at all.  

Instead, Sam simply sinks into the cushions, turns on the movie he must have already lined up in the queue, and leans the bowl of popcorn in your direction. 

Indiana Jones starts his first trek into the cave in search of the Golden Idol and you reach your hand into the bowl. A few bites of popcorn within the first minutes of the movie and it’s more than Bucky has been able to get you to eat without coercion in days. A whisper of a smile crosses your face as Sam almost chokes on the handful he shoved into his mouth.  

Sam Wilson might be a massive pain in Bucky’s ass, but he’s a damn good friend. He’s the only one who hasn’t treated you like you’ve lost your mind. He gives you a sense of normalcy when the floor has been pulled out from under you.  

For that, Bucky owes him everything.  

***

Bucky finds out a week later that there are no bad guys to track down, no one to enact vengeance on for the trauma they’d put you through. There is a reason you came home covered in blood and grime with barely more than a few superficial scratches on your body.  

You’d killed them all.  

“Are you sure?” Bucky asks Steve, hands planted firmly on the conference table. The night sky is littered in cloud covered stars beyond the windows, crickets chirping in the distance. Bucky stares down at the mug shots of a dozen men now presumed dead.  

“We’re sure.” Steve slowly reaches out to gather the images, sliding them back into the file and out of sight. “We’re still working on who sent them but it was probably the arms dealer she was sent to identify. Fury’s sending out a team in the morning to bring him in.”

“That’s... that’s good.” Bucky doesn’t have the strength for revenge anymore. He’s grown tired of carrying it in his chest, on his shoulders, weighing him down as if sinking him to the trenches of an ocean.  

“How’s she doing?” Steve asks, gesturing towards the doorway as they begin to walk back to the elevator.  

“Better,” Bucky replies honestly.  

He’s even seen you crack a smile a few times watching movies with Sam in the living room, maybe even heard a breath of laughter when Sam dropped an entire bowl of popcorn and threw a fit about it.  

You’re talking to Bucky more, asking questions, starting brief conversations outside of the necessary ‘yes’ and ‘no’s, humming to yourself as you shower with Bucky standing just a few feet away. It’s something. Small steps.

“She’s strong, Buck. She’ll get through this.”

Bucky takes a deep breath as the elevator doors chime open. He presses the button for his floor. “I know. I just hate seeing her like this in the meantime.” The elevator reaches his floor and he waits as the doors begin to part. “Thanks, Steve. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Steve nods. “You got it, brother.”

Bucky makes his way down the hall from where he’d left you just a few hours earlier. You’d insisted that you’d be alright on your own while he met with Steve. Sam is still sitting on the couch watching Netflix just a few feet outside the bedroom, leaving a blanket of security in Bucky’s absence. He can hear Sam singing along to the theme song as he passes by.  

There’s a ghost of a smile on his face as he approaches the living room, but a sudden, gut wrenching scream stills him in his tracks.  

Sam jumps up from the couch, popcorn spilling to the carpet and Bucky stares back at the cracked door to the bedroom with wide eyes. He exchanges a glance with Sam and as another scream echoes out into the hall in a broken cry, the two of them rush into the room.  

Bucky shoulders his way through the door, breaking the hinges on the top of the frame as he stumbles his way inside. You’re lying on your stomach, arms clutched under the pillow, sweat dampened sheets kicked off down by your feet. You’re whimpering, tear tracks into the pillowcase and your whole body is trembling.  

“Y/n?” Bucky calls as gently as he can, his voice breaking in the effort. He moves closer to the bed, his hand hovering over your shoulder, almost afraid to touch you. “Sweetheart, wake up.”

You cry out again, face contorting in pain as you press your face into the pillow. 

“I should get Cho,” Sam says behind him, starting to inch towards the door, but Bucky barely hears him as he runs into the hallway.  

“Come on, honey,” Bucky tries again. He sinks down to his knees beside the bed. His heart is stammering in his chest. It’s pounding so loudly he’s sure the whole compound can hear it. He feels the tears burn in his eyes as you start to sob. “You’re safe. You’re alright, love. I’m here with you. I’m here, baby.”

Bucky lets his hand ghost over your shoulder and he barely has a chance to react before you jolt upright and there’s a sudden, stinging sensation across his chest. Your eyes are wide, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. It takes a minute before Bucky sees the hilt of the knife gripped tight in your fist.  

“Bucky?” you gasp. “What are you—Oh my God...”  

The knife drops from your hold as your hands clasp against your mouth. It falls at Bucky’s knees. You’re trying to stifle a sob as it threatens to consume you whole and Bucky tries to reach out for you, but you scramble away from him, fearful eyes staring below his collarbone.

Slowly, Bucky follows your gaze to his chest. There he finds that his shirt is torn in a long, pristine cut. Blood begins to soak into the light grey of the fabric from the open wound underneath. The knife you’d held in your hand bares his blood upon the blade.  

“What have I done?!” you cry, shaking your head as you scurry off of the bed and into the corner of the room. You sink to the floor and Bucky shakes himself of his stupor to rush towards you.  

“I’m alright,” he tries to reassure you, though he knows it’s no use. “Baby, I’m fine. It’s nothing. It’ll heal in a few hours. I’m okay.”

“Oh God, Oh God! No... I didn’t-- I didn’t mean to--” Your words are barely distinguishable, slurring together in your slobs, and you can barely catch your breath. You shake your head, fresh tears streaming on your cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m-- I’m so s-sorry. I didn’t-- I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” Bucky coos. He can feel the itch of a tear as it passes his jawline. “Honey, I need you to breathe for me. Please, let me hold you. I’m okay. You didn’t hurt me.”

But your eyes are glued to the open sliver of his t-shirt, the blood as it soaks into the cotton, and the slash underneath. It only makes you cry more. Its uncontrollable, like you might pass out if you can’t allow yourself to take in enough air, and Bucky feels like he’s reaching out into a fucking void because there’s nothing he can do for you.  

“Sergeant Barnes,” a stern voice calls suddenly from behind him. Helen Cho stands in the doorway with Sam just beyond her shoulder. She steps into the room, uncapping a syringe. “Hold her down.”  

You’re in hysterics as Bucky pulls you into his arms. You don’t resist as you fall against his chest, but he can feel the unease with which you sit in your own body, like your skin is crawling and you’re caged inside of yourself. He knows the feeling well.  

You barely notice as the needle punctures your neck, heavy head falling to rest against Bucky’s shoulder. He eases his left hand down your spine, hoping the chill of the metal will help soothe you as your breaths become more even and the sobs fall weak and far between.  

“I’ve got you, honey,” he whispers. You start to close your eyes, giving into the sedative. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Just rest, love. I’ve got you.”

No one relaxes until it’s clear you’re out cold. Sam lets out a heavy sigh from the doorway, slumping into the arch. Helen sinks onto the floor beside Bucky, tossing the syringe into the disposal bag before she rubs a tired hand over her face.  

Bucky feels like he can hardly breathe. He waits until Helen and Sam retire to their own rooms before he allows the lump in his throat to consume him whole, before the tears on his face mirror the watermarked stains on his shirt. He doesn’t move from the floor until sunrise, unwilling to disturb your sleep.  

***

“I don’t know why you haven’t left me yet.”

The words pass your lips and they puncture straight through Bucky’s chest - like a knife embedded through his skin, nicking over bone and tearing through flesh. He feels sick, a wave of nausea crashing through him as he turns to look at you. 

Your eyes are swollen red, lips chewed raw. It only takes a flicker of your gaze to the long faded pink scar across his chest to know what’s on your mind. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bucky says firmly. 

You shake your head, unconvinced. “I could have killed you.”

“Don’t you go underestimating me, now,” Bucky teases, lighting his voice despite the burning ache he feels in his chest. He smiles at you but you can hardly meet his eye. 

Your legs are swung over the bedside, hands wringing in your lap, reddening the skin. Your breaths are shaken, lower lip trembling, and he knows you’re trying to hold back tears. He can practically feel the lump building in your throat, suffocating you. 

He sighs, sinking down to his knees in front of you. His hands reach out for your own and you flinch at his touch. It takes a moment before you can remind yourself who’s hands are holding you, who’s love you’re surrounded in, and you relax. 

He thinks of the woman who taught him how to love again, who woke him from a decades long nightmare with the sweet touch of her hand and the adoration in her smile. He conjures the image of you he preserved before you left on your last mission, with sun kissed skin and laughter in your chest, as he stares up at the dark circles under your eyes, the frown upon your lips, the aching claws of shame draining you of the light you possessed. 

“Sweetheart, look at me.” He tips a finger under your chin and guides you to meet his eye. He smiles, softening under your gaze. 

“You hold so much space in your heart for compassion and forgiveness,” Bucky eased, stroking his thumbs gently along the backs of your hands. “You never hesitated once to absolve me of my sins as the Winter Soldier. It didn’t matter how may nights I woke up empty, not knowing where or who I was. It didn’t matter how much I thought I was a burden to you and the team, or whether I deemed myself worthy enough to be loved by you. You were patient with me, kind beyond what I ever believed I could deserve. Can you not reserve some of that for yourself, too?”

He watches the sob creep up your spine before it breaks. There’s little more either of you can say and he resides to holding you in his arms, caged protectively against his chest where not even the demons lurking in the back of your mind can find you. 

He knows, eventually, you’ll be okay. You taught him that. Even when the tunnel was its darkest, when he could barely see beyond the tips of his fingers, and the sun was cast over in shadows -- you showed him that as long as he kept walking, he’d find the light again. 

***

“Come on, Y/n, what is the matter with you?”

Bucky hears you grumbling to yourself in the kitchen. He wipes the trail of sweat off his face from his morning run as he approaches the island covered in stray dollops of pancake batter, bottles of maple syrup, and mixing bowls. He smiles as he leans against the counter, waiting for you to notice him.  

“You weren’t supposed to be home yet,” you groan, catching Bucky out of the corner of your eye as you dump a plate full of burnt pancakes into the sink. Your hair a little out of sorts, a bead of sweat dripping down your temple. It’s almost endearing if it wasn’t for how fast your heart was beating. Bucky could hear it down the hall.  

“Missed you.” He shrugs casually, testing a smirk and you started to smile in return; all shy and sweet and full of the woman he adores. He glances to the mess in the kitchen and the smoke piling on the ceiling. “What happened here?”

“Pancakes aren’t my strongest suit.”

Bucky laughs at that. “I can see that.”

You sigh, scratching at the back of your neck. “I just wanted to do something nice for you, Bucky.”

Bucky can feel his heart sinking but he holds the smile to his face. “You do a thousand nice things for me all the time. Just being here is enough for me, sweetheart.”

“You know what I mean,” you say under your breath, eyes falling to the floor by his feet. “After everything I put you through since that awful mission-”

“Hey, hey -- Don’t do that.” Bucky crosses the kitchen and places his hands gingerly on your cheeks, guiding your eyes back to his. “You didn’t do anything wrong; you hear me? You survived. You’re still surviving and I’m just... I’m so proud of you, Y/n.”

You part your lips to say more, to argue against him, but it dies on your tongue as Bucky smiles at you as if you hung the moon and the stars and every damn  

“You don’t need to bring me coffee in the morning,” Bucky says before he presses a kiss to your forehead, “or bribe Stark into making new tech for my arm,” then a kiss to your nose, “or make me burnt pancakes to thank me for loving you through this.”  

He pauses as he pulls back. You’re watching him with an expression somewhere between awe and relief, but it’s the warmth of your smile that does him in completely.  

“We take care of each other, okay? That’s what we do,” Bucky says, leaning in to kiss your lips sweetly until he can feel the smile grow against his mouth. He pulls back, chuckling a bit under his breath. “Besides, I’m the last person who is going to be scared away by trauma.”  

You laugh as you wrap your arms around his waist, pulling yourself closer to his chest. Engulfed in the sweet smell of maple and butter and batter, Bucky feels a wash of calm for the first time since you left on that mission.  

He thinks you may have finally found your way home.  

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

[wildlyglittering]

The Perils of Being Mr. Nesta Archeron

It’s important you understand this is my incredibly poor attempt at comedy and I just wanted to write some nonsense.

This popped into my brain after seeing all the posts about how awesome Nesta is and how she had a ridiculous amount of marriage proposals and interest from human men, fae males and demons alike. 

I just kind of took it from there...

***

“I still like what Nesta’s done to the place.”

Feyre looked around the grand drawing room of the House of Wind, her dozing son on her lap and her bored mate at her side who murmured something which could be taken as an agreement while pulling off imaginary pieces of lint from his sleeve.

The House was now Nesta’s, in as much as anything sentient could truly belong to anyone, and as such was rarely used for official Night Court business. Its predominant function was as home to Nesta, Cassian and a reluctant Azriel, who’d been gifted the responsibility of ‘supervisor’ – a gift which Feyre suspected he’d like to return.

The Inner Circle still held Starfall at the House and, like now, the High Lord and High Lady of Night, would visit. When she visited alone, Feyre visited in the capacity of sister and friend but when with Rhys, it was all work.

Nesta and Cassian had embraced their titles as the Lord of Bloodshed and Lady Death and their combined reputations proceeded them sending them into every corner of Prythian and the many dark outer reaches was a tactic Rhys now employed.

The aim was to achieve negotiations and encourage peaceful surrenders where necessary but if there was resulting collateral damage, it was of little consequence to Rhys.

The other reason that the House was seldom used for official Night Court business was the unnerving issue of the House itself. Whilst the majority of the architecture remained unchanged there was the occasional surprise addition. Or subtraction.

Amren discovered the House’s penchant for the latter when, on one uninvited call, she opened a door which should have led to private chambers only to find herself plummeting through the air onto the ground. She swore blind the House foundations quivered like it was laughing.

Feyre wondered how independently the House acted from Nesta and how much it carried out her wishes. She suspected that this room, the grand drawing room, had been one of Nesta’s heart fulfilments or, at least, something for Cassian.

The room was sizable, entered from the hallway via a series of doorway arches wide enough for splayed Illyrian wings. Oversized plush furniture filled the room and the floors were strewn with thick sable rugs.

The most spectacular draw to the room was the window which stretched from ceiling to floor and from wall to wall on the side opposite the doorways. The view, one across Velaris’ golden rooftops and shining turquoise waters of the Sidra, filled the space like a painting.

Feyre sighed, at least this current visit was expected and so they weren’t risking the windows opening of their own accord to fling them out. The occupants of the House had been gone for longer than anticipated on this task and so Rhys sent ahead a message that he wanted a full debrief when they returned.

Feyre opened her mouth to speak again but stopped when she heard the thud of boots and flutter of wings.

“Finally,” Rhys said with a glance towards Nyx whose eyes flickered open.

“He’ll be happy see Aunt Nesta,” Feyre said in a sing-song voice to her now awake baby, turning him so he could view the entrance. “He loves Aunt Nesta.” She wasn’t above using her infant son as a tactic to avoid her eldest sister’s potential irritation at the intrusion into her home.

Rhys eyed up the shaking walls, “Yes, as does the House.”

Nesta entered first and Feyre breathed a sigh of relief that the floor remained solid underneath where she sat.

“Hello,” Nesta said, her voice soft and cooing. Her welcome wasn’t to her sister or brother-in-law but to the now beaming baby in Feyre’s lap whose legs and arms flailed in the air as he wriggled.

Nesta stepped further into the room, treading over the rugs, arms outstretched, “Come to Aunty Nesta.”

The vast windows let in the bright sunlight, sunlight which illuminated the state of the Illyrian leathers Nesta had clad herself in.

Feyre shrieked, twisting in the chair and blocked Nyx from Nesta’s grasp, pointing at her sister’s waist. “What is that?””

Nesta paused and frowned, looking down.

Aside from the interesting splotches of red across the leathers, the utility belt tightened around Nesta’s waist contained the usual items Feyre expected; knife, pouch, knife, another knife and then... another item she hadn’t.

A leather strap was wound in multiple knots around the thick band and tied to an uneven, lumpy dome the other end. The lumpy dome ended in a stump clotted with congealed blood.

“Oh,” Nesta said with a shrug, “I forgot.” She untied the leather strap and pulled the lump away. “Just another one for the collection.” With a graceful arm movement, Nesta threw what Feyre realised was a decapitated head onto the floor where it landed with a thud, a dribble of blood oozing fresh from the neck wound.

“Well, you can’t hold the baby until you’ve washed your hands. Thoroughly.”

Nesta frowned at her, an ice-cold glare fixed on her face. “Fine,” she snapped, as though Feyre’s request was unreasonable.

Cassian, unlike her sister, had taken some time to remove his blood encrusted leathers before greeting his guests, and he wandered in through the arch with a nod of his head towards Feyre and Rhys.

His hazel eyes noted the bloodied head by the door and he released a sigh.

“You need to stop doing that.”

“The House doesn’t mind.”

The shutters covering the windows in the other rooms started to clatter up and down.

“See?”

“Yes, but I mind and besides,” he gestured across to Feyre, “an infant is present.”

Nyx, now bouncing on Feyre’s lap, slapped his hands together as hard as he could in time with the House. He gazed at Nesta as though she’d sliced her way through necks especially for him.

“He doesn’t care,” Nesta said in a sing-song voice eerily similar to the tone Feyre herself used earlier. She beamed at her nephew, “He’s clapping with the House.”

Rhys’ face turned white, “The House is applauding you?”

“Oh yes,” Az said, arriving at last and pushing his way through where Cassian and Nesta stood to flop down onto the armchair next to Feyre. “Nesta always gets rapturous applause when she brings home a kill.”

Feyre glanced from Azriel, legs sloping over one armrest while his head flopped across the other, to Nesta and then onto Cassian who was pinching the bridge of his nose.

“As much as I am ecstatic to see you all,” he said, “I’ll leave Az to deal with the debrief. I need to go lie down for a while.”

Cassian exited as swift as he entered, Az not bothering to open his now closed eyes. The concerned glances of the other room occupants followed Cassian’s retreating back.

Nesta turned back to Feyre, the ice-cold glare melted away. “Excuse me while I disappear.” Then, in a heartbeat, her expression was one of joy, “Bye-bye baby, I’ll see you in a little bit for snuggles.”

Nyx let out a small sob as Nesta left and Feyre quickly turned him towards her, readying him for a feed, knowing that the small sob would turn into a loud shriek.

“Well,” she said, “she obviously prefers Nyx to me.”

“Feyre, darling – you got spoken to,” Rhys said. “I think it’s safe to say Nesta didn’t acknowledge my existence. Which I’m fine with,” he added, nervously eyeing up the House’s stone walls, “whatever makes her happy.”

Nyx, thankfully, latched onto Feyre’s bared breast and for a moment no noise sounded in the room other than his greedy milk-hungry gulps.

A thought played over and over in her mind though; Nesta’s look of concern, Cassian’s uncharacteristic broodiness. “Are they ok?” she asked Az, at the same time Rhys enquired as to how the recent mission went.

Az’s eyes fluttered open and he gestured to the head on the floor. “As you can tell – we won.” Then, his voice gentler, he turned to Feyre, “They’re fine.”

“Is Cassian upset at the violence? At Nesta doing the um...,” and using her free hand Feyre motioned across her throat with a finger.

Az laughed, such a rare sound it reminded Feyre of the bells on Solstice evening. “Not at all. He likes that she does those things it’s just-”

He paused.

Rhys, satisfied that the mission went well and not caring about anyone’s romantic woes, settled back into the loveseat while Feyre leaned forward, careful to not disrupt her feeding son.

Azriel nodded towards the head, “Before the Anguis went the way of Hybern and the Kelpie, he managed to propose.”

“Not another one!”

“Don’t worry,” Azriel said, “I’m sure Nesta is reassuring Cassian of her love as we speak.”

As though cued up with expert timing, or, as Feyre suspected, the House lifting a self-imposed sound barrier to prove a point, the thumping drifted down to the grand room from several floors up.

“That was...fast.”

Suddenly Azriel appeared just as exhausted as Cassian had. “Nesta reassures Cassian of her love at least twice a night anyway, and when she’s done reassuring him, he feels the need to thank her back.”

Feyre winced, her face contorting into one of displeasure while Rhys didn’t try to hide his smirk. “This is what – the fourth proposal? Fifth?”

Az closed his eyes and dropped his head backwards once more. “Ninth. This isn’t the worst we’ve had.”

Nyx snuffled and Feyre moved him to her other breast. “Wasn’t the first in the Winter Court?”

They’d been in Winter for the naming ritual of Kallias and Viviane’s baby and once the ceremony was done, all guests mingled in the palace hall. The High Lord and Lady of Winter stood on the dais, draped in silver and grey, Viv beaming as she held her pink cheeked daughter.

The music, food and wine flowed freely but Feyre could barely hear the former over the laughter of the high fae and the chime of glasses as toast after toast was declared. The Inner Circle members had dispersed throughout the crowds earlier, all intent on seeking their delight in various forms.

Feyre had seen Nesta on the dance floor for the opening songs but she’d long since gone and Feyre wondered if Nesta and Cassian had snuck away to take advantage of the Winter palace’s numerous private bedrooms.

She had done her duty as High Lady of Night, walking around the hall, ice blue gown sashaying around her legs as revellers congratulated her on the arrival of her own child.

Feyre had smiled and thanked them but she tired easily after Nyx’s traumatic birth and it wasn’t long before she sought out the fur-decked chaise longue tucked in one of enclaves on the far wall.

As Feyre made her way towards it, movement from the corner on her right drew her attention.

Nesta was standing by another enclave, glass in hand, virulently shaking her head. Nesta’s golden-brown hair had been braided into a complex knot adorned with diamonds which caught the fae lights and casted shapes on the ceiling. It had been this that captured Feyre’s eye.

“No,” Nesta said, “I don’t think so.” She smoothed down a non-existent crease on her dress, a pale grey-blue that shimmered like mist over ice, ever changing.

The male she was speaking to was some high-ranking courtier from Winter who Feyre had been introduced to earlier that evening but whose name escaped her. He was tall and handsome enough, gazing at her sister with sapphire blue eyes, but Nesta’s demeanour suggested nothing other than sheer boredom.

Cassian emerged from the crowds, seemingly drawn to what was happening in the corner of the room like a moth towards a flame, his body screaming nothing but fury. Still, he interjected himself between Nesta and the Winter male with a decorum Feyre felt he should be proud of. His fists were clenched and his jaw twitched as he ground his teeth but there was no violence. Yet.

Feyre moved quickly to them.

Side by side there was no contest that Cassian was the larger, broader and less refined male. He wore scuffed Illyrian leathers and the most he’d done for the event was clean his hair and tie it back.

The courtier wore ivory silk brocade strewn with pearls and viewed Cassian up and down with a sneer.

“And who, exactly, are you?”

Cassian spat out his answer, “Her mate and husband and your executioner – you are?”

“Ah yes,” Rhys said. “The naming ball. Was it just the one dance Nesta performed before she had the males panting over her?”

“Still,” Feyre said, “that one was the easiest to smooth over. No one was killed. Or maimed.”

“I think the proposal with Chrysos was when Cassian was aware this was going to be a repeat issue,” Az said.

Chrysos stood before them, undulating between the visage of a male and of something else, something other – possibly human but not quite. His skin was translucent and his gold blood ran through his veins, clear to their eyes, like streaks in white marble.

He was horrifying and beautiful and Feyre struggled to tear her eyes away.

“I must marry you,” he said, directing his words to Nesta. Chrysos’ voice echoed around the cave chamber, strangely melodic, a harmony of angels singing in chorus, one voice on top of another. “I shall make you my Queen and take you into the darkness where we shall make the sweetest music and-”

Nesta’s shoulders sagged, energy sapped from her as she gave a frustrated sigh.

“What the fuck?!”

Feyre jumped at Cassian’s yell, the noise bouncing from the tops of the cave to the bottom, deep into the darkest part and back again.

“Seriously! For fucks sake, I am standing right here!”

Rhys chuckled. “That ended quick enough if I remember?”

“We were on a recruitment mission though, we wanted him on our side,” Az said, “not dead.”

“Cassian maintains he slipped.”

“From six feet away?”

“Yes.”

“With his sword aloft?”

“I didn’t think the proposal in Summer was too bad,” interrupted Feyre, now with Nyx resting against her shoulder so she could pat his back with soothing circles.

The party on Tarquin’s barge was held at the height of the season the Court was most famous for.

The weather was idyllic; sunshine beating down on Feyre’s skin, endless blue skies stretching ahead while a cool ocean breeze drifted from the teal waters teaming with coral. Dolphins pranced in the frothy waves around them, shimmering and shining, their scales a rosy pink.

“Look, Nyx, look!” Feyre held her cooing baby high, pointing the dolphins out to his curious violet eyes.

The barge moved at a comfortable pace and again, like all parties the High Lords arranged, the music, food and wine flowed. Guests streamed from the top desk to the lower one and lower still when they felt like taking to the private cabins, the heat in the air turning into heat in the blood.

The decks were vast enough to not see the same individuals constantly but small enough to see them often and Feyre had smiled every time she walked past a relaxed Cassian and Nesta.

On their first stroll about the deck, Nyx had been awake and grinning, Nesta peppering his small face with a flood of kisses that had him squealing and his limbs flailing with joy. Cassian had joked about knowing his place in the pecking order and Nesta smiled at him in turn.

Cassian’s hair was tied back into a loose bun, strands of black hair falling past his jaw. It was too hot for leathers and, with his white linen shirt with sleeves rolled up to expose the black tattoos on his arms, he was the most casual Feyre had ever seen him.

Nesta stunned in a dress of blue which started ice blue at her shoulders before blending into a shade so dark at the hem it was almost black. The front was a demure and delicately scalloped neckline but Nesta’s back was entirely bare, held up by invisible straps.

Multiple pairs of eyes glanced their way but Nesta’s hand never left Cassian’s and his free one travelled the length of her spine dipping beyond the fabric at her lower back.

You’re borderline indecent, Feyre told them with pretend outrage and continued to walk the deck.

The second time Feyre passed them, they had been talking to Tarquin and Feyre only caught a brief snippet of their conversation, trying to settle a now restless Nyx against her shoulder.

“One apology,” Tarquin had said, “that was my mother’s favourite building.”

On Feyre’s third pass, Nyx now in Rhys’ arms, Tarquin had gone. In his place stood a fae Feyre didn’t recognise.

“I had turned away for a couple of seconds,” Cassian said, his hands in fists, “and you thought this was your opportunity to sneak in here like a panting-”

“Cassian,” Nesta warned, “we don’t want another incident in this Court.”

“Well, there will be one if this prick doesn’t move out of here. We’ll see how he fares with my foot up his as-”

“Cassian!”

“She’s married and mated. Can’t you see the matching rings? Can’t you smell the mate bond?”

The high fae nodded his head, “Yes, but...”

“But? But what?! That’s it,” Cassian said, “we’re leaving this fucking party.”

Rhys and Az stared at Feyre as she burped Nyx, their mouths open.

“What?” she asked.

“You didn’t think it was too bad?” Rhys said, his voice incredulous.

Feyre shrugged, “No one died and no wars were started.”

“They’d only just removed the ban on Cassian to have to enforce it again.”

“I don’t think the second ban was fair though.”

“Feyre, darling. He destroyed the barge.”

“We spent hours fishing everyone out of the sea,” Az said. “Then we had to work out where Nesta’s unfortunate suitor had landed after Cassian threw him towards the cliff.”

“Wasn’t he clinging onto the side of the rockface?”

“Yes.”

“And didn’t Cassian destroy another building in his haste to get away?”

“Yes.”

“Alright,” Feyre said, frowning. “So maybe it was bad.”

“I quite liked the proposal from Locuples,” Az said, “that was the best for all involved. No one died and we ended up with a pretty good trade agreement.”

“Oh, I remember that,” said Feyre, “I was here when Nesta and Cassian came back.”

Feyre and Az had been in the grand room, as they were now, sitting opposite each other in companiable silence. Steam from their tea cups swirled in the air and Feyre gazed out the windows at the white clouds over the city.

“What the-?”

Feyre’s head snapped round, surprised at the uncharacteristic shock in Az’s voice. He stared towards the door archways and Feyre followed his eyeline.

Cassian and Nesta had returned, surprisingly quietly, as she hadn’t heard them land on the roof. Or perhaps, looking at the display in front of her, they’d travelled by some other means.

Nesta sat on a throne on an open topped litter, carried by two lithe creatures who were more shadow and smoke than real and whose feet never touched the ground. Nesta herself, bedecked with jewels, a tiara and clutching a sceptre, wore an expression of confusion.

Cassian followed on foot, wings tersely tucked in, heaving a trunk filled with gold, jewellery, silks, furs and bottles which wafted exotic scents.

Cassian glanced at them from the corner of his eye, “Don’t ask.”

“I thought we expected this to be a hostile negotiation?”

“I said don’t ask.”

“We still receive gifts on a monthly basis,” Feyre said and slid to the floor to lay a barely awake Nyx on the soft furs - one of those aforementioned gifts. She traced a thumb on the arch of his foot and watched it curl, his lips smacking in contentment.

Feyre swore the floorboards underneath him adjusted to accommodate his shape.

“Don’t you receive monthly gifts from Helion as well?” Rhys asked. “Or did Cassian put a stop to that?”

“Cassian put a stop to that one,” Az said.

“Doesn’t Nesta still have the first gift though?”

Az groaned and placed his scarred hands over his eyes. “Yes, and I cannot express how much upkeep it takes.”

Feyre smiled, “Oh, I remember that one too.”

The shriek took Feyre by surprise and she leapt from her chair, readying herself for action. It was only seconds before she realised it wasn’t a shriek of pain but one of sheer, childlike joy.

Once again, her and Az were in the House and, once again, she hadn’t heard the arrival of the House’s other permanent occupants.

“In the name of the Mother,” Az breathed and, in what was a familiar pattern, Feyre turned to where he was looking. This time, instead of Az looking towards the doorway, he was staring outwards at the windows.

Nesta, clad in her leathers and with windswept hair was sat astride a glorious white winged horse, her black leather a stark contrast to the white of the creature she sat upon.

“Someone find Gwen and Emerie! They need to know about this; they need to come here!”

With another shriek of joy and a gentle nudge to the horse’s sides Nesta rose higher, the wings of the horse flapping with enthusiasm, happy to appease its new owner.

There was a sigh from behind them and Feyre and Az turned. Cassian leant against the doorframe, fingers rubbing his temples.

“Cass... isn’t that Helion’s last and most prized flying horse?”

“Please – do not ask.”

“That thing is a nightmare,” Az said, “it eats everything, likes very few fae and can somehow find its way into the House in the dead of night. Do you know how terrifying it is to wake to find a winged horse hovering over you demanding sugar cubes while stealing your blanket? I can’t live like this.”

Feyre shot him a sympathetic smile while Rhys laughed. In the brief silence which followed, Feyre could hear the rhythmic banging echoing its way through the house.

“Aren’t they done yet?”

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

“At least it will be over soon.”

“Nope.”

“Oh.”

“You think this is bad?” Az said, “You weren’t here after the proposal with the Peregryn.”

To Feyre, the Dawn Court was one of the most beautiful. Its shades of gold and red weren’t bright or ostentatious but were the softer golds found in the rising sun, the reds not vermillion or scarlet but something akin to a dusky rose.

Every town held a thousand clock-towers, every hand matching perfectly, the chimes on the hour synching in a glorious song, calling to the skies in praise of a new day, of promises to be made, of joy to come.

The peace of that particular morning had been broken by the shouts of males, all raised in the ecstatic spirit of competition. Nothing violent or aggressive but it spoke to Feyre of knuckles and bone crunching all the same.

She’d pushed her way to the front of a crowd, the fae recognising her and making room for her to pass. A fighting circle had broken out in a section of the town square, cheers raising into the air as one of the fighters scored a blow.

In the circle stood two males, both tall and broad, barefooted and bare-chested. One had wings similar to the Pegasus which Nesta now owned, white and gold-feathered, and the other had wings as black as night, the rising sun highlighting veins and patches of amber.

A female was eagerly watching them, a female Feyre shoved past fae to move next to.

“Nesta! Why is Cassian sparring with a Peregryn?”

Nesta didn’t tear her eyes from the males. “Some old nonsense about fighting for the right to take my hand.”

Cassian landed a punch to his opponent’s jaw, the crack reverberating through the air as the crowd cheered on.

Sweat trickled down Cassian’s own jaw and onto his neck. His muscles were strained, his abdomen contracting. As the fighters turned positions, his back faced Feyre, black tattoos against dark skin, his shoulder blades gleaming with oil.

Feyre glanced at Nesta who was dressed in a pale peach dress adorned with pearls, her hair up but with soft stands framing her face. She would have looked a wholesome picture of innocence if not for her darkening eyes.

“Shouldn’t you stop this?”

“Probably.”

“Are you going to?”

Nesta’s eyes flickered from the top of Cassian’s head down his back and then, as the fighter’s moved again, to his stomach where they lingered on the trail of hair leading down to the waistband of his trousers. She sighed.

“A few more minutes.”

Feyre blinked as if she could rid herself of the memory. “I can only imagine.”

“If I didn’t visit the river house for dinner I would have starved. The House had to perform a deep clean.”

The walls shook in what was akin to a shudder.

“The bard was wholesome enough,” Rhys said.

Az groaned, “And yet ridiculous.”

 In a concerted effort to apologise to the Courts on behalf of the behaviour of some Inner Circle members during previous gatherings, Feyre and Rhys had invited the High Lords and their significant others to Starfall.

The House remained still, either curious as to who all the guests were or silently sulking that there were guests at all.

The tang of a rich red wine was on Feyre’s tongue, not from anything she had drunk, but from a stolen kiss from Rhys, under the night sky, in a moment solely theirs before it became everyone else’s.

The night was filled with laughter and talking and Feyre slid into the embrace of her mate, content in the knowledge that Nyx slumbered underneath the watchful eye of the House’s nursery, a room which hadn’t existed before this very evening.

Her heart hurt, but in a good way, as though each chamber was bursting with a joy they couldn’t contain and her happiness spilled out into every corner of the rooftop.

Azriel was intently speaking with Nesta’s red-haired friend while Elain watched on from a distance, either not aware of, or ignoring, her own red-haired watcher.

Amren and Mor stood amongst another group, Mor’s golden hair cascading down her back like a waterfall and near the balcony was Cassian and Nesta, pressed side by side, hand in hand as they gazed upwards, Cassian pointing to a constellation.

Nesta glanced at him as he spoke, her face softening in a way Feyre never thought possible, a smile on her lips. When Cassian looked back at her, to check her understanding of what he was saying, he brought their intertwined hands up to his mouth, to kiss her fingertips.

Feyre smiled, all was well and all would continue to be well. That was until a voice, clear and resolute, spoke out into the crowd.

“My High Lords and Ladies and Paramor’s, I am a bard from the Spring Court – famed as the best in all the Courts!”

Chatter drifted into murmurs as heads turned expectedly to the fae now standing in the centre. Feyre noted his lute fixed upon his waistband but the bard made no attempt to reach for it.

“I have travelled across the land, coming to the Court of the High Lord and High Lady of Night with one purpose and one purpose only – to serenade with tales of fortune and love!”

A ripple of anticipation broke out amongst the crowd to hear such songs and Feyre turned to Rhys. “Did you arrange this?” but his face was twisted in confusion.

“I dedicate my melodies to one female, one who understands music as though her very bones were formed by the notes. My song to you, Lady Nesta and also my hand in marri-”

“FUCKS SAKE!”

Feyre let out a sigh. “I felt so sorry for the bard. He must have seen Nesta on one of her visits. To think, he spent all those weeks travelling on foot to arrive to the House and then Cassian threatens to dangle him from the roof.”

“Cassian did dangle him from the roof.”

“No one’s going to invite us to any more parties,” said Rhys with a sorrowful sigh.

“I think we can handle an overly amorous high fae or two,” Az said, “it’s the demons which worry me.”

“They’re no cause for concern,” Rhys said with a wave of his hand. “In fact, we have a valuable asset on our side. Drag Nesta in front of them and it tends to shut them up.”

Feyre frowned. “That is my sister you’re deciding to use as romantic bait. Besides, the issue we had with the Caligo demon was that it didn’t stop talking. There was such a mess.”

Screams filled Feyre’s ears as terrified Night Court citizens ran past her, almost a blur.

Tears streaked down terror-stricken faces as they grabbed the arms of their loved ones and scooped up children too small or young to so anything other than shiver and cry.

Cracks appeared in the ground beneath their feet, the cobbles of the street twisting and turning before jutting upwards like the jagged, sharpened edges of broken bone. The air was thick with acrid smoke which stung Feyre’s eyes causing them to stream with the tears she saw running down her people’s faces.

Rhys was to her right. Or that’s what she hoped. He had been standing but he’d gasped in pain and then she no longer saw him through the gaps in the cloud. When she managed to glimpse him, he was on his knees, thick red blood pouring down his face from a cut on his scalp.

Feyre choked back a sob and clambered over the rips in the earth to reach him.

Steel clashed with steel in the darkness, the shouts of Cassian and Azriel tearing through the blackness as they pressed forward. A shimmer of magic absorbed as much of the darkness away as it could and created a halo around the members of the Inner Circle.

Hands, strong and steady, circled Feyre’s waist and Nesta held her up, helped her over the torn earth.

“I am destroyer,” the thing hissed. “I am consumer, I am flesh ripper and soul tearer and I-”

It turned, watching them all, gloating in their misery and gorging itself fat on their pain. One of its bulbous eyes slid to where they stood, Feyre leaning into Nesta’s side. Her sister’s hair was dishevelled, her arms smeared with blood but Nesta’s eyes remained cold and hard upon the demon.

“And I – oh, oh, you are spectacular.”

A roar ripped through the darkness; a bellowing from powerful lungs as the words of the creature reached the ears of all present.

“Absolutely fucking not!”

Cassian advanced from the void, red siphons blazing as though he were shrouded in flame. “I am her mate; I am her husband and I suggest you put those sloping tongues back into your mouth or Mother help me...”

Feyre swallowed the rising bile. She tried not to think about the events of that night, though she didn’t know what was worse – that night or now, with the thumping above their heads gaining momentum.

“He got the job done,” Rhys said and then smirked, “and he’s doing the same now from the sounds of it.”

“Rhys!” Feyre admonished and placed her hand on Nyx’s stomach to calm herself. “Why do you think he puts up with it?” she asked Az.

“What choice does he have? Besides, he loves and trusts her. There’s no one for him but her and no one for her but him.”

“Disgusting,” Rhys said with slight mockery to his tone.

“No,” Feyre said, “what’s disgusting is the head in the corner.” She eyed up the lump that had once been somethings head; the glassy eyes, the bloodied stump. She wouldn’t relish touching the thing but she would happily remove herself out of earshot of Nesta and Cassian’s post proposal love affirmation. “Where do I take it?”

“The House created a trophy room three doors down,” Az said.

Anguis’ mouth hung open, razor sharp rotted teeth all lined up on display. Feyre felt a slither of pity. “I’ll take it there.”

“No, Feyre darling, I’ll do it.”

Feyre breathed a sigh of relief and nodded before turning to Az. “Shall we wait for them to be done? We need to discuss the next mission which is rather sensitive.”

Az shook his head, “No, you may as well go home. It was a proposal so they’re not stopping until – what day is it now, Thursday? – they’re not going to be fit for purpose until Monday.��

Rhys, still lounging, stretched out into the space Feyre previously occupied. “We can’t wait that long.”

“Do you want to volunteer to interrupt them?

“No.”

Feyre glanced between them both. “Cassian did look rather sad.”

Azriel laughed again, the sound echoing throughout the room, his head thrown back. “Don’t pity Cassian, he knows what he’s doing.”

“And Nesta falls for it?”

“No, she definitely doesn’t fall for it.”

“But isn’t she in their chambers um...reassuring him?”

“Yes.”

Feyre bit her lip, “So surely...”

“Oh Mother,” Az rubbed his hand across his face. “It’s their form of twisted foreplay. When Nesta received a proposal from – well, I can’t remember which one, I came home early and almost went blind. Have none of you questioned the indoor swing?”

Feyre’s voice was quiet when she spoke, scooping up her son into her arms with haste. “I thought they were creating an inside playground.”

“Ah,” Az said, his voice soft, “not quite.”

The thumping reached its crescendo and blessedly, stilled.

“Oh, thank the Mother,” Rhys said, “they’re done after all. Az, go retrieve them. We need to discuss the next mission.”

“Why me?”

“You live here.”

“You’re the High Lord.”

Feyre looked around her, Nyx clutched in her arms. “I think the floor is sloping us out towards the door.”

“I don’t think so Feyre, darling.”

“No really, the head - which you said you’d deal with by the way - is rolling away.”

Feyre wasn’t imagining what was happening, she’d passed under the entrance to the room, Rhys and Az’s chairs beginning to follow.

“This happens,” Az said with a calmness Feyre didn’t feel. “Usually when they don’t want anyone to overhear the next part of their ‘Nesta got proposed to again’ sex marathon.”

“Why? What could they now be planning that’s so much worse?”

“I don’t know,” Az replied, “the House always shuffles me out at this point. One time I was trying to prep my knives and almost stabbed myself in the eye.”

“Right,” said Rhys, “I think we can walk out of here without a sentient lump of stone forcing us to. Which,” he said with an eye to the steepness of the floor angle, “is completely within its’ right.”

Feyre nestled a snoring Nyx into one arm as Rhys helped her up. Az was already on his feet, out the door and into the hallway before he got flattened by an oversized, burgundy armchair.

He turned to them both.

“So, where’s the next mission to anyway? Where are you sending our glorious Lady Death and Lord of Bloodshed and can I sit it out?”

Feyre and Rhys exchanged glances. “I think we might need you in attendance,” Feyre said.

Az raised an eyebrow. “Well, I know King Lascivus is causing some problems with his tithe but as long as you weren’t planning on sending us to his palace, it will be fine. He’s famous for his side hobby of trying to find a muse to depict as the Mother in his artworks. Borderline obsessed.”

Feyre cleared her throat, “Sounds like he’s fervently religiously devout.”

“Hardly. The issue isn’t him trying to depict the Mother but that he’s spent centuries convincing everyone that she needs to be represented in her naked glory and I quote ‘with the petals of her flower fully opened.’”  

Rhys coughed and moved fast down the hallway towards the roof entrance his wings already forming.

“Rhys!” Feyre called out. “You know I can’t run when I’m holding the baby!”

Az’s voice was quiet. “Feyre?”

“You know we love you,” she said, not meeting his hazel eyes, “and you’re always welcome at the river house. For as long as you want, whether that’s weeks or months.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, “I swear on the Cauldron, if you need to you can stay for centuries.”

“Feyre?”

She turned and didn’t look back, picking up her own speed to follow Rhys, ignoring the quiver in Az’s tone.

“We love you Az,” she shouted over her shoulder, propping Nyx into a position ready for flight as the House opened its doors to hasten her exit. “Always remember that.”

TAGGING

@live-the-fangirl-life

@champanheandluxxury

@dontgetsalmonella

@purpleglitterypinecone

[forfamily]

Raph paused, taking a sip of the port as he removed his hand from the large envelope. It was odd, that. Giving up all that power, the authority. His word was second only to Bianca's- and now he would be returning to being a regular man. Or as regular as a man could be on a multi-million dollar yacht; Dario had invited him to join him on his sail around the world and Raph had decided to join him, which was why they were here now.

He lowered his glass, a small, fond smile curving the hard edges of his mouth. "...I've known Bibi since she was a child; I was a punk teenager back then. Dario, the Old Lion, saw something in me that even I couldn't see. He plucked me off of Naples' dirtiest streets and provided me with the opportunity to rise to the very top. He was raising Bianca; his own son abandoned her, basically, and Dario disowned him. She became the precious star of Zeppeli, polished to perfection over the years. She was eighteen when the Old Lion decided to pass on the crown."

Those steely eyes darkened. "There were a few in the Famiglia who disagreed with that choice- she was a delicate woman, too young, you know how it is. A dozen of them turned traitors, willing to sell secrets to other Families to further their gain. Bianca executed all twelve of them herself. The bodies she buried that day laid the foundation for her rule as Baroness."

Raph glanced at his phone before downing the rest of his drink and starting to stand. "We can meet her now, actually." For the first time, the older man hesitated, his gaze moving over his young, strong, handsome companion. "... The Baroness is terrifying and strange and beautiful. She's honey and gunpowder in equal measure. Your job is to guide her, yes, but you will love her and you’ll lust after her. It's inevitable, you see. But you must do so from afar or she will ruin you." A warning. Perhaps even a threat. -----------------

Palazzo Zeppeli stood outside of the city proper, an 18th-century structure that maintained most of the original structure and outer buildings. However, beneath the old stones and faded paint was the latest in tech and weaponry. Highly trained men who were the top in their chosen fields.

Raph emerged from the car as it pulled to a stop on the cobbled round about and was greeted. “And Bianca?”

“At the pool with her music, sir.” The soldier glanced over at Dio with clear curiosity. “Is that—“

“Soon, yes.” Raph gestured for Dio to follow him up the steps to the large double front doors. The palazzo was indeed grand, but there was a shabbiness that came with all old buildings; faded wallpaper, peeling in some places, antique furniture, polished in some places, others distressed. Doors and windows stood wide open, the breeze rustling flowing curtains. Raph guided Dio through the ground floor, pointing out rooms and things of interest until they passed through a sunroom and out to the back where a large pool was set in the brick ground.

Music from somewhere bounced through the air, a powerful opera. Bianca Zeppeli was neither short nor tall, with a body dominated by curves yet sculpted by muscle, wrapped in a flowing sundress. She moved over the surface of the water, bare feet hardly touching as she hit the different ballet positions, flowing from one to another to the beat of the music. As she twirled, her hair, as black as a raven's wing, flowed behind her. As the music hit its crescendo before fading away, she finally spotted the two men and made her way across the water to the brick.

"Raph, you're back." She gripped his forearm as she leaned up to press a kiss to his chin. Then her gaze turned to the stranger. Her eyes were large, long-lashed, the color of whiskey- they held shadows and secrets. "As lovely as always, Bibi. I always thought you should have gone into it professionally." The older man inclined his head. "Baroness, this is the young man I spoke to you about. Dio Brando, this is Baroness Bianca Zeppeli."

"Flatterer." She gave Raph's arm a gentle slap before her gaze turned back to the blond. They were unreadable, those eyes, as they met and held his. "So you will be the one who helps guide my destiny."

She held out her right hand, then. On her ring finger, a golden ring resembling a lion-headed door knocker. She watched the blond intently.

dio brando observes the old man before him with keen interest, his amber stare ablaze with a scintillating gleam that is near uncanny in its intensity. those fiery eyes remain fixed on their subject all the while he speaks; serving as both a quiet promise of the younger lawyer’s tenacity, but even more so than that, an unspoken show as to his fearsome reputation.

throughout his short yet fruitful career, the junior attorney has labored countless hours through sunrises and sunsets alike, all to endear himself indelibly to his work superiors and to grow his network however and wherever he can – and now, at last, his efforts are paying off in the form of better prospects. the offer to work for such a powerful family is more than enough to entice dio, although he is less intrigued by the money or the job itself, and far more so by what it has the potential to bring him. 

even so, he does not make this decision lightly. with supreme amusement and just a touch of wistfulness, he recalls the aghast expressions upon the slack-jawed faces of his support staff upon his revelation that he is moving onto bigger and better things. evidently, the thought of an office lacking the presence of dio brando is too horrific for them to bear. indeed, he will miss the soft power he has cultivated at his previous firm, and the near-constant praise and adoration it has afforded him; despite the pleasure he takes in denying both their pleas that he stay and their offers to follow him with saccharine apologetics. but these are trivial entertainments, and dio will not allow distractions to come between himself and his boundless potential. finally, those with real power have taken note of his ambition, as he very well deserves. and as with every opportunity he has managed to seize, he intends to make the most of this one.

❝ ...but of course, sir, ❞  he says, once he is certain that the elder man has finished speaking.  ❝ respect must be earned, after all. ❞  dio barely heeds the rest of the proud lawyer’s lengthy oration save for its most pertinent details, nodding attentively as is appropriate – upon this point, however, he emphatically agrees.  ❝ and should you be so gracious as to afford me the opportunity, i will accomplish exactly that – and so much more. ❞  this he says with such conviction, it almost borders on a threat.  ❝ i gladly accept. ❞ 

and with the coveted job now firmly within his grasp, dio can no longer suppress the proud smirk that upturns the corners of his lips. he raises his glass of wine for an unspoken toast, savoring one slow, lingering sip.

❝ tell me more about the baroness, if you would be so kind. ❞  he sets the glass aside, turning his attention toward raphael once more.  ❝ when shall i have the privilege to meet her? i’m quite eager to begin our working relationship. ❞ 

[robininthelabyrinth]

Spilled Pearls

- Chapter 13 - ao3 -

The wedding of a sect leader with the stature of Wen Ruohan was, as Lao Nie had predicted, an experience unlike any Lan Qiren had ever had before.

It was also, as Wen Ruohan had predicted, loud and full of crowds, things that Lan Qiren didn’t especially like. Luckily, despite being the groom’s ‘brother’, Wen Ruohan wasn’t requiring Lan Qiren to actually participate in any way, and he was just able to watch from a distance.

He tried not to think of Wen Ruohan’s casual admission that he had, in fact, devised the marriage just to deal with the issues with Lan Qiren’s reputation – and Lao Nie’s concern thereof, no doubt – and reassured himself that the bride was undoubtedly well prepared for her new life and would soon find her footing as the mistress of the Wen sect, where she would more than likely be happy in time.

That was how such things went, wasn’t it? Even with his sect’s notorious tendency towards love-madness, the people like his father, who married for love, were the exception and not the rule…

(He also tried not to think about the fact that Wen Ruohan accepted all the toasts for his wedding using a drinking bowl in Gusu style, painted with a border of vermilion birds, or the fact that, despite Lan Qiren having gifted a set, it was the only one of its kind on the table, leaving Wen Ruohan's new bride to drink from a much fancier gold-gilded bowl – but that was more because he didn’t understand what it meant, and wasn’t sure he wanted to.)

“Did you even get a chance to see him?” his brother asked when they returned, looking coldly disapproving.

“I did,” Lan Qiren said, thinking to himself less of the dinner that they’d shared with Lao Nie and more of the brief moment when the Lan sect delegation been about to leave, a servant appearing and whisking him off briefly back to the family quarters where Wen Ruohan, looking as composed as ever, pressed a too-familiar hand to his head and told him that he was sure he’d be seeing him again soon. “He didn’t say much.”

Nothing his brother would care about, anyway.

His brother nodded, looking unsurprised, and dismissed him, remarking unnecessarily, “You missed the first few days of classes,” as if Lan Qiren wasn’t aware of when each season of classes started for the disciples better than him. After all, Lan Qiren hoped to become a teacher one day, when he tired of traveling, and to do for future generations of the Lan sect what his teachers had done for him, and he took it as seriously as he did anything else.

The seasonal classes were his favorite, largely because such classes were open not only to the Lan sect disciples but to certain guest disciples – typically the children of rogue cultivators that the Lan sect wanted to encourage to join the sect, which meant that they had to pass through the same rigorous standards applicable to the usual sect disciples. Lan Qiren had always thought it was a shame that their classes were so limited in scope, although he acknowledged there wasn’t much to be done about it; after all, how many sects would be willing to send their children to be taught by outsiders?

A puzzle for another day.

For now, Lan Qiren made his way to the classroom, taking advantage of the lunch break to settle his things in his familiar seat at the side of the room. He hoped that coming in during the middle of the day would reduce the number of whispers that seemed to invariably greet him these days – luckily much more inclined to see him as a source of information rather than a victim or, worse, a perpetrator – but he didn’t have much faith in it.

“Hey, you’re in my seat.”

Lan Qiren looked up: it was a female disciple. Her face was unfamiliar to him, which suggested she was a rogue cultivator – while men and women lived separately in the Cloud Recesses, they came together for meals and other such events, and despite his introversion, Lan Qiren knew most if not all of his peer group by now.

“Sanren,” he said politely, rising and saluting. “Forgive me, but this has always been my seat.”

She frowned at him. “You didn’t claim it at the start of classes.”

“I missed the start of classes due to an unavoidable conflict.”

“I’ve been using it all week,” she said, and looked at him expectantly, as if anticipating an answer.

Lan Qiren wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say here. “I’ve been using it all my life. What’s your point?”

“So you’re not going to give it up for me?”

Lan Qiren stared at her. “Obviously not.”

She grinned toothily at him. “All the boys give up their seats for me. I understand that it’s a matter of etiquette.”

“Whoever told you that was lying,” he said flatly.

“Oh, I like you,” she said, and crossed her arms – an aggressive posture, although her tone, like Wen Ruohan’s, seemed more amused than anything else. How strange to see a sudden resemblance, when they very clearly had nothing else in common. “How would you know? Maybe it’s in the rules.”

Well, that was a mistake.

“Really,” Lan Qiren said, and smiled. “Why don’t we examine that supposition?”

She blinked at him, suddenly wary, but it was too late: if there was one thing Lan Qiren knew, it was his sect’s rules. Learning how to beat people over the head with them on purpose was a more recent development, and he was still working on fine-tuning that – most people started begging for mercy while he still felt irritated, but when they continued listening with apparent interest, as the rogue cultivator girl did, he swiftly forgot that he was trying to make a point and shifted over to actual enthusiasm for the subject.

“Cangse Sanren!”

Lan Qiren’s listener started and very nearly fell over – she’d put her chin on her hands at some point during the discussion of the origin of the rules regarding interactions between men and women, and hadn’t accounted for that when twisting to see who was calling her.

It was a mixed group of sect disciples, with some of Lan Qiren’s cousins and disciples of other surnames that he recognized, plus a few more that were likely rogue cultivators’ children as well.

“Oh,” she said. “You. What is it?”

“I see you got caught up in one of Lan-er-gongzi’s boring rule lectures,” one of the disciples said – one of Lan Ganhui’s friends, with Lan Ganhui himself nearby, grimacing at him in an attempt to make him stop. Lan Ganhui had gotten a lot more likely to leave Lan Qiren alone ever since Lan Yueheng had decided to befriend him, even intervening to make his friends leave off, but this time the other disciple ignored him, his eyes too focused on those ahead of him to pay him any mind; he was smiling intently at the rogue cultivator girl in a way that was clearly attempting to seem charming. “Don’t feel like you have to listen to him just because he’s main branch, you know! No one else does.”

“You shouldn’t say that,” one of the others muttered, glancing warily at Lan Qiren. It wasn’t apparent whether he was concerned about Lan Qiren’s rank, personality, or family connection.

For his part, Lan Qiren just felt tired. He would like to think that they were all part of the same sect, learning the same things, but he knew that wasn’t how the world worked. There were good people and bad in every sect, and the undercurrents that came with any community were inescapable.

“You’re joking, right?” the girl – who had the title of Cangse Sanren, apparently – said unexpectedly. “His explanation is three times more interesting than the stupid learning by rote we’ve been doing so far.”

“Learning by repetition has a long history of being the most effective way of learning something,” Lan Qiren objected. “Even the most unrepentant scoundrel would learn the rules by heart if he had to copy them down for a month, and then when that was done and the foundation built, you could get started on explaining the why of them.”

“But repetition’s not as interesting,” Cangse Sanren said. “I really liked that story about Lan Yi.”

Lan Qiren looked at her suspiciously. He’d never outgrown his tendency to speak in a dull monotone – one of his peers had once compared it to the thudding of grinding stones in a mill – and it was the rare person who actually appreciated the rules the way he did. His teachers, of course, and some of the other more studious disciples did, but even with them he’d be hard pressed to say they actually liked his rambling.

She held up her hands. “Really! I feel like I understand why she put the rule in place now, whereas before it felt like I was just learning the rule for the sake of learning the rule.”

“That’s because you need to learn the rules before you learn the background,” he said. “The rules are a house built without nails, each piece in its place doing its part to maintain the whole - one rule backs another, while being supported in turn. Only once you know what the rules are can you move to understanding the reasons behind them.”

And from understanding to accepting, allowing our ancestors’ wisdom to act as a guiding light that clears the fog from your path, he wanted to say, because he loved the rules, truly and sincerely.

People made fun of him sometimes, thinking him boring or stuffy or overly strict, with no flexibility and too little empathy, saying he was obsessed with the rules for no beneficial purpose, but to him the rules were a gift from the past to the future. The Wall of Discipline represented the accumulated life experience of dozens if not hundreds of Lan sect disciples before him, turned through debate and contemplation into advice they thought would be able to help guide those that came after them to living a good, clean, happy life. As their descendant, how could he fail to honor that which those people, who had loved him without knowing him, had strained themselves to give him?

In just the same way, it was his duty to love the future generations that had yet to be born, to act as the bridge to that unknown future, entrusted by his ancestors to carry to them the rules that would be both his inheritance and his legacy. Those nameless faces dressed in Lan white, unborn children with his brother’s face or even his own, of his cousins and fellow disciples alike, all those souls that had yet to enter this world but who he loved so much already – if he could spare them a single iota of pain through his own experience, how could he not do so, and gladly? How could he not do everything he could to give them everything he had received from the rules, that sense of pride of their history, the strength and wisdom that could be passed down no other way? How could that be a burden?

Lan Qiren had never really had the chance to explain any of that to anyone, his tongue too stiff and clumsy to convey what sometimes he felt could only be expressed in song or poetry, and he did not have such a chance now: as usual, the other disciples were already laughing, dismissing him as a teacher’s pet, overly rule-bound, obsessed with homework and test-taking, a boring old fart whose soul was prematurely aged.

“What’s wrong with being old?” Cangse Sanren asked, her voice flatter than it was before, and the boys in front of her suddenly scrambled to start apologizing so fast that Lan Qiren was left wondering what exactly he’d missed.

“Class is starting soon,” he said instead of asking, though he promised himself he’d ask around later. Surely someone would know. “Everyone should take your seat – no, Cangse Sanren, as I’ve said, that one is mine.”

She grinned unrepentantly at him and stepped back over where he’d kicked his foot out to block her. “You win, this time,” she said, and took the seat next to him with absolutely no remorse for whoever might have been sitting there before. “Watch yourself, stick-in-the-mud.”

Lan Qiren glared, though somehow Cangse Sanren’s teasing didn’t feel as annoying as the other disciples’ usually did. Even if she did make several more attempts on his seat over the course of the day, causing him to have to fend her off or think ahead to evade her latest attempt.

He initially thought that she might try to come to class early the next day to try to claim it before he did, but instead she dragged herself in only moments before class was due to start, face haggard as if waking up at the very tail end of mao hour was the equivalent to rising at yin, although she was back to her regular form soon enough, bright and clever enough to make any teacher fond of her.

This became something of a pattern, in fact – sluggish wakening, intellectual jousting during class and an unspoken competition over the seat that had formerly been reserved for him outside of it. In the afternoons she usually went off with the more martially minded disciples, while he spent his time in the library or musical halls, though at some point she started dropping off random foodstuffs by his door in the early evening as if she thought he was too thin.

“Maybe she has a crush on you!” Lan Yueheng said enthusiastically; bizarrely enough, he seemed to like romance as much as his explosions or his math.

“I think it’s a little closer to treating me like a stray cat that she found and took a shine to,” Lan Qiren said, shaking his head. All the boys in the sect would have paid in gold and jewels for Cangse Sanren to give them a second look, and she didn’t care one whit for the best of them; there was no need for her to go courting when she could get three serious offers of marriage just by winking. “Give them here, I’ll redistribute them to the younger children.”

“You can’t do that!” Lan Yueheng looked offended. “It’s her sincere offering! From the heart!”

“It’s food she purchased in town,” Lan Qiren said doubtfully. “It’s not as if she baked them herself. Anyway, I can’t eat this many sweets without getting a stomachache. What else am I supposed to do with it? Let it rot?”

“Qiren-xiong, you’re the most unromantic person I’ve ever met.”

“I’m going to assume that’s a bad thing,” Lan Qiren said, not taking offense. “Do you want some? Last offer before they’re gone.”

“…well, I mean, if you’re going to give them away anyway…”

He told Cangse Sanren what he was doing the next day, as a matter of politeness in the event that she wanted to stop once she knew what he was doing, and she just laughed – she always laughed at just about everything, he’d found. She didn’t stop delivering food, either, which he might have expected, though she did shift over into items that were easier to distribute.

Their entire mode of interacting was simultaneously very annoying and also not, and Lan Qiren didn’t have the slightest idea about what to do with it.

And then he got his first letter from Wen Ruohan.

[esta-elavaris]

Flufftober 2022 - Day 23 - POV Outsider

[James/Theodora] [James Norrington/Modern!OC]

The return of Commodore-turned-Admiral Norrington to Port Royal was met with joyous celebration…for all of five minutes. For the news that he'd brought a wife with him had rather dulled the enthusiasm of a number of the ladies on the island, and the identity of that wife killed it stone dead. Anybody who possessed either eyes or full sway over their senses would have been able to sense that this was a forgone conclusion before either of the two had left Port Royal in the first place, so Groves had to ask himself which it was that these fine ladies were lacking.

"I think we all might say a prayer for the good Admiral tonight," one of the men commented to Groves left as the couple walked into the Governor's ballroom, Mrs Norrington's hand tucked into the crook of her new husband's elbow.

"He looks happy enough to me," Groves pointed out.

"For now. But while a wife as spirited as that may be a novelty in the short run, the long term is quite another matter."

The comment was a swift reminder that the women here were not the only ones stung by jealousy. Indeed, the men afflicted were all the easier to spot for how loudly they professed their condolences regarding the match.

"I wasn't aware you were so well versed on matters of marriage, being a bachelor and all. Tell me, are you going to share your condolences with the Admiral directly, or just whisper about them behind his back like a woman at afternoon tea?"

The man scoffed, shaking his head "I forgot who I was speaking to."

At first Groves thought perhaps that admission was a testament to his own loyalty to his commanding officer, but then the man continued.

"You did have an uncommonly close friendship with the good Mrs Norrington once, did you not?"

He didn't dignify that with a response that ventured beyond a roll of his eyes. Had Groves been jealous, it might have stung. Had he been jealous. But he was not - and not just in the way that the men around him pretended not to be. Oh, he'd meant it some time ago on the Dauntless when he'd told her there had been matches built on worse foundations than what theirs may have been, should they have ventured down that path.

They did get along well. She was beautiful, and Groves liked to think he was not particularly bad looking himself. They shared the same brand of humour (they both possessed humour for that matter), they had similar temperaments - although he doubted he was quite so fiery as she - and they were friends. It wasn't difficult to imagine they might be able to collaborate successfully on the matters of running a household or raising children, and that perhaps even in doing so love might eventually follow, either out of necessity or just as a product of circumstance. It would have been logical, and it would have been amicable. But logical matches, and even amicable matches, were no competition for love matches. And that's what their stern commanding officer had found in their unexpected castaway.

He could see it just as plainly as the others could - only painfully staunch denial could have anybody pretending otherwise.

Even those who pretended their disapproval was more loyalty to Miss Swann didn't have much of a leg to stand on, because although there were similarities in the way they'd all spent years watching Admiral Norrington look at the governor's daughter, there was one key difference. Yes, his gaze had always softened when he looked to both women - making him almost unrecognisable from the man who had sternly ordered them about the Interceptor month after month, suffering neither fools nor half measures lightly.

But with Miss Swann he grew nervous (yet another unrecognisable streak), tensing up and growing uncertain, the human personification of a held breath, and with Theodora? With Theodora, he relaxed. His shoulders dropped, and he smiled. He exhaled.

Those who were determined to hate the Irishwoman, forced to concede that there must be feelings on Admiral Norrington's part after all - either out of jealousy or simple disapproval of her background - would insist that it was one-sided. That she'd bewitched him with cunning feminine wiles (a notion that was as ridiculous as it was insulting to Admiral Norrington's well-known intelligence), that the whole thing had been calculated and malevolent. Those were the people who did not know her - or would not know her, due to a lack of desire to do so.

Was it any wonder that they could not see the change in her when she was around her now-husband - the difference that had always been there for anybody to see should they simply look - when they only ever spoke to her in order to scorn her, making snide comments that they thought she would not understand? Groves didn't even think he particularly tried to see it, just that he had the powers of observation that any soldier should combined with no motive that might fuel denial. Theodora lit up whenever she saw her husband, even before he became her husband.

With others, she smirked. With him, she smiled. Snickers became laughs, guarded looks and uncomfortable fidgeting became ease and openness, even if only with him. Groves knew not what the Admiral had done to establish himself as such a figure of safe haven here for her (although dragging her from the sea and providing her with food and shelter probably went a long way), nor what she had done to put him at ease despite being so wildly unconventional, but he was glad for the both of them that it had happened.

Maybe the soldier who had been griping at Groves' side was right. Maybe it would fade over the years. It was possible - technically. Time was a funny thing. But as he observed them throughout the night of the dance - the way they could communicate in a shorthand of brief looks, nods, barely perceptible smiles or head-tilts - and how the faces of the unwed women and men gathered grew more grim and thin-lipped, he already knew he had his answer as to whether it would happen.

[avarkriss]

paradise; (with a nasty bite)

✭・.・✫ 

Obi-Wan Kenobi x Female Reader

Rated: E for Explicit, 18+ Only 

Word Count: 3.589k

Summary: Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, Commander Cody, and one very ticked off Jedi Reader get pollened on what should be a very quick and simple mission 

Song/Title Inspo: Control by Unknown Brain ;; a huge thank you to Elisha (@beskars​) for encouraging/proofing these shenanigans

Warnings: Threesome - F/M/M; Sex Pollen and therefore automatic DubCon; Sass; Force Projection; Force Sensitivity and Mind Reading; I Know That’s Not How The Force Works Don’t At Me; Boys Kissing; Oral Sex (M/M, F/M); Masturbation and Mutual Masturbation; Kissing; Shameless Bisexuality and Smut; Vaginal Fingering; Spit as Lube; Spit Kink; Fucking on Obi’s Cloak Kink; Beach Sex; Double Penetration (Vaginal); Very Light D/S tones, Poor Ani

Image credits: unsplash  

Author’s Note: My first pollen fic!! I do apologize if I miss any grammar/spelling/formatting issues, this was primarily written on my phone in the middle of the woods lmao. I love a good threesome, I hope you to too! Plus we’re getting delivered early because I got home early :) Enjoy, share what you can, and be well ~

The heat on Borleias was oppressive.

It was sticky. 

Heavy. 

And you swore to the Force you were inhaling as much water as you were drinking. 

The worst part though? The very worst part was that the beach was so close you could kriffing smell it. 

Cool relief called to you from just a few meters away, the melodic crashing of the waves lulling you into a state of serenity you didn't think was possible in this hellscape - something else to focus on besides the salt crusting on your skin from where your sweat had evaporated.

Until you heard his blasted voice crackling in your comlink, cursing that crisp Coruscanti accent for pulling you out of the only moment of peace you've known since landing in this Force-forsaken jungle. 

The sound was slightly muffled, humidity having crept into the smallest of cracks in the watertight seals on the device. 

"I need you to stay focused," Obi-Wan reprimanded. 

“Of course,” you grumbled, tugging at the neck of your tunic while inwardly groaning at the way the coarseweave stuck to your skin. “Have you placed your beacon yet?” you grumbled, the hilt of your lightsaber slipping in your palm. 

No one saw you fumble it, certainly. No one except for apparently Cody, who you heard choke on a laugh from three meters away. If looks could kill he would have been wounded but he just couldn’t contain himself - you had to be the second clumsiest Jedi in the Order with that thing, the first of course being General Kenobi. 

You waited five more standard minutes before lifting your wrist to your mouth, hissing into your comm. “Well?” 

“You’re so testy in the heat,” Obi-Wan grunted from behind. You startled and nearly dropped your lightsaber again, glowering at him as mirth dared to dance in his eyes. 

“Great. You’re back. I’m going to the beach so I can soak the sweat off,” you snarked, making a concentrated effort to push through the foliage in front of you, desperate for the ocean to cleanse your spirits. 

“Seems that the heat is getting to her, sir,” Cody remarked, watching Obi-Wan gently shake his head before trudging after you. 

When the two men emerged from the forest they found your boots, belt, lightsaber, and pants strewn about the beach in a haphazard line straight to the water where they could see you floating on your back, dimly lit by the moon. 

“Must you leave a mess everywhere you go?" Obi-Wan shouted, bending down to gather your things in a neat pile. 

You rolled your eyes heavily, knowing he couldn't see you in the water. "I'm going to shake Anakin if I don't die here first," you grumbled to yourself, begrudging the day you were assigned to this mission because he had " urgent business on Naboo ." 

Obi-Wan thumped to the ground next to the pile, neatly folding your pants as Cody sat down next to him, removing his helmet. 

"I've read about this planet sir, there's a meteor shower every year," Cody mentioned, hugging his knees to his chest as he looked at the stars along the horizon. 

"I believe you're correct Cody," Obi-Wan mused, taking in the way Cody’s curls seemed to have tightened with the planet’s humidity, basking in his calm while he looked out across the ocean. 

"I can't believe it," Cody gasped, suddenly sitting straight before scrambling to lay on his back. Obi-Wan curiously followed his gaze, tilting his chin skyward to find the shimmering tails of a cluster of shooting stars. 

"It's nice to enjoy this," Cody mumbled, speaking to no one but himself.  

"It is," Obi-Wan agreed, smiling at Cody before calling out to you, beckoning you to the beach before pointing at the stars. 

You slowly removed yourself from the water, coming to stand next to Obi-Wan. You bit back a scoff when you saw the way he had neatly folded and arranged your belongings, crossing your arms as you looked to the sky. 

"As much as I can't stand this planet, being here for the annual meteor shower is pretty amazing," you thought aloud, sand sticking to your toes and ankles. 

Obi-Wan hummed in agreement as he moved to lay down, the top of his head brushing against Cody's. You shrugged and decided to join them, toes towards that cursed jungle as you laid down, your wet hair joining theirs. 

The three of you laid there for a while, relaxing against the warm sand while the planet slowly dropped in temperature, becoming only slightly more bearable. You had no idea how much time had passed when a breeze finally picked up, carrying glittering silver grains in its wake. 

You ran your finger up your arm, examining the sparkles when you realized it was pollen from the jungle. 

"Curious," Obi-Wan said, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, slowly sitting up. 

"Obi-Wan," you warned, sitting up yourself as he began to walk up the beach. Cody scrambled and lightly jogged to catch up with him. 

You watched them at the forest line, Obi-Wan carefully studying a lightly colored flower - the source of the pollen, you were sure. He plucked one and returned with it and Cody, sitting down next to you.

"I've never seen such a thing before," you marveled, reaching out your hand to hold the flower. 

It was palm sized, the petals so thin that if there was just one you could have made out the shape of your finger behind it. The edges of the petals were nearly metallic in their argent color, gently rippled and curled. At the center of the flower was a milky white stamen that seemed to glow in the moonlight, studded with the last remnants of silver pollen that hadn't been taken by the wind. 

"We didn't see any of these on our way in," you mentioned, turning the flower in your hand. 

"No," Cody confirmed, extending his hand so he could study the plant. "But there are many flowers that only bloom at night." 

"I think it may be some type of aestus flower," Obi-Wan mentioned casually, rolling his lower lip between his teeth. 

"You can't be -" you started, stopping before you realized you were being ridiculous. The family of aphrodisiac flowers was so valuable they'd be well documented on this planet, known for being exceptionally poor in natural resources. 

“An aestus flower, sir?” Cody questioned, tilting his head as he lifted the flower to eye level. 

“They’re a… a flower known to produce various aphrodisiac effects,” Obi-Wan explained, quickly continuing when he caught sight of Cody’s furrowed brows. “But they’re known to work very quickly, so this may be a distant cousin of sorts.” 

“Regardless, I’m sitting over there,” you threw your thumb to the side, gesturing to a large smooth rock in the sand, “until we’re sure it’s not what you think it is. I could use a few hours of quiet.” 

Obi-Wan nodded his head as you stood, slowly moving himself closer to the tree line. “Just for precaution,” he smiled. 

Cody nodded too and moved a few meters away himself, your close circle turning into a giant awkward triangle on the beach. 

You settled on the stone, feeling the heat of the planet push against your chest once more. 

But as time started to slow and the weight increased, you began to fear that Obi-Wan was, once again, absolutely correct. 

“Just meditate through it,” you whispered to yourself, crossing your legs underneath you while you rested your wrists on your knees, palms facing the sky. "Just breathe." 

You slowly closed your eyes and took the deepest breath you could manage, reaching out to connect with your surroundings. You were searching, looking for something cool, something calming. 

You needed to ground yourself, build an unshakable foundation to ward off the storm you could feel brewing in the pit of your stomach. 

The stone beneath you was too warm and the ocean always took extra concentration, concentration you couldn't spare as you desperately tried to block out the growing heat between your thighs and the gentle groan you heard from somewhere down the beach. 

"Breathe," you spoke to yourself, reaching for the trees. You found them hot, burning from the aestus flowers and resistant to your touch. You sensed something alluring and cold nearby, creeping towards it until you realized it was Obi-Wan, pulling away before you made the mistake of making him your home. 

"Breathe," you spat from between gritted teeth, eyes scrunching with the involuntary flutter from between your legs. You reached into the sand, desperate, aching. But it fell from your grasp slowly, mocking you. Taunting. There was no stability to be found in sand.

There was another ragged moan from down the beach and you ground your teeth down, placing the tips of your fingers against the flat stone, clinging to the steady vibrations between every molecule. 

Heat grew between your thighs as something cool lapped at your back, calling to you like gentle water. 

Relax, little one. 

You couldn't help the growl growing in the back of your throat, letting it escape briefly before swallowing it back down. His voice was honey thick; sticky and warm and pulling you in. 

The groaning from down the beach intensified, joined by stumbling footsteps that climbed away from you, drawn in by Obi-Wan's cooling aura. 

Cody, you panicked, reaching out for him until you realized Obi-Wan had brought him to the safety of harbor first. 

You felt him pull away from you, keeping a connection at the small of your back. You felt like your skin was going to burn off of your bones, thighs slicking as your arousal began to pool. 

Groans turned to whimpers, threatening to break your concentration as you dove deeper and deeper, fighting the pull that threatened to drag you to the surface. 

It was when things finally turned quiet that you straightened your spine, breathing deeply until you felt a familiar flicker somewhere in the corner of your consciousness. 

The sound was different now - wet and messy and your throat felt like it was starting to close until a strangled moan erupted, pulling you out of the shelter you had forged. 

Your protective walls were down and you were exposed, every nerve ending combusting at once until the projection of pleasure slammed into your chest. 

You felt relief for the briefest of moments until it ebbed away, fleeting glimpses of bliss strangling your heart every few seconds until tears began to fall down your cheeks. It was going to make you lose your sanity, bouncing between the burning heat of desire and the sweet relief of satisfaction being sent through you. 

You pulled yourself up and started to walk towards the tree line, vision blurred and gait unsure. You were ready to scream, ripped open and raw and hurting and alone -

"I hate -" you sobbed, falling to your knees at the sight of Obi-Wan on his, Cody’s cock buried in his mouth while he choked on his own relieved cries. 

Your words died on your tongue and your mouth parted as you studied them, beautiful in the moonlight. Cody was bare and had his head thrown back, his hands tangled in Obi-Wan’s auburn hair as he thrust into his mouth. 

You reached between your thighs as you watched - Cody stuttering in his rhythm while Obi-Wan stroked himself, hand moving under his robes. 

Your fingers danced around your aching clit, craving relief that evaded you at every turn. Obi-Wan's projection was constant now, his pleasure mounting with Cody’s. When Cody came the projection pushed you onto your ass, hitting the sand with a gentle thud. You groaned and thrust your fingers into your aching pussy, watching Cody join Obi-Wan on his knees, pulling him in for a kiss. 

Their tongues danced together and your lips tingled with ache, mouth and throat dry while you panted. 

Please , you pleaded, reaching out to tangle yourself with Obi-Wan as Cody kissed him and took his cock in his hand. When Cody began to pump him up and down Obi-Wan pushed so hard against you that you fell onto your back breathless, rapidly thrusting in and out of your heat. 

You couldn't see it when he came but you heard him moan, feeling the pleasure ripple through your tummy and up your chest. You threw your head back into the sand, screaming out in frustration as hot tears simmered on your cheeks, begging for your own release. 

Someone knelt down next to you, their hand on your forehead sending a jolt down your back. You whimpered as you arched under the gentle touch, chasing the connection as the hand pulled away. 

"General," Cody murmured, slipping it under your neck to help you sit up. You pulled your fingers from within yourself and curled into Cody, crying against his shoulder. 

"I - I -," you stammered, struggling to find your words as you continued to clench around nothing, aching to be filled. 

"We know what you need darling," Obi-Wan rumbled, spreading his cloak onto the sand. "We're here now." He was attempting to send a calming rush towards you, finding you unresponsive to it as you kissed across Cody's shoulder. 

Cody’s lips fell to your neck, mouthing at your skin as you grew impossibly hotter in his arms. 

"She needs more Cody," Obi-Wan pointed out, helping to roll you onto his cloak as Cody settled between your legs. "Taste her," he suggested, shrugging off the rest of his robes. 

As soon as Cody's tongue made contact with your soaked folds you let out a wrecked moan, twisting against the cloak until Obi-Wan settled next to you, leaning down to pull your soaked tunic off of you before capturing your lips in a searing kiss. 

You succumbed to him immediately, letting his tongue push against yours as he licked into your mouth. He still tasted of Cody and you moaned below him, fisting one hand in Cody's hair as the other searched for Obi-Wan's cock, joining his own in stroking himself to relieve the fire slowly consuming you all from the inside out. 

Obi-Wan spread a hand over your breast, slowly tweaking one of your nipples while Cody lapped at your clit. He was groaning into you as his fingers searched out your entrance, index and middle slipping in with ease. 

Your hips arched off the cloak to meet his eager mouth, moans filling the air as Obi-Wan broke away from your mouth to take your nipple between his teeth, leaving a trail of stars blooming across your skin in his wake. 

Obi-Wan, please - 

Your walls were down and he was starting to crumble. 

"Cody," Obi-Wan whispered, running his hand through his hair. When he lifted his head from between your legs his eyes were shining as much as his mouth, slowing his fingers inside of you. "Sit back a moment my darling." 

Cody sat back on his knees and dragged his fingers slowly out of you. You keened at the loss until you saw Obi-Wan lean over to Cody, taking his fingers into his mouth, groaning at the way you tasted on his salty skin. 

Obi-Wan cast his eyes down to you as he palmed at your breasts, pulling off of Cody's fingers when he was sure that they were clean. He came back to your tips, tapping them open with a gentle finger before spitting into your mouth, tasting of you and Cody and something uniquely him. 

After leaving a parting bite on your lower lip he helped you roll onto your stomach, gesturing for Cody to resume his place between your legs as he stroked himself and came around to your mouth. 

Let him fuck me, please - 

Your thoughts were loud in your head as Obi-Wan moaned, giving voice to the desires you couldn't speak. 

As Cody lined himself up to your entrance Obi-Wan found your mouth, each man pushing into you, synchronous with the other. 

Your groans were muffled around Obi-Wan, eyes fluttering closed as relief settled into you, the fire shrinking with every thrust of their cocks. 

Cody had you stretched in the most delicious of ways, moaning and cursing as he thrust into you, one hand pressed against your pussy and the other resting on Obi-Wan's. 

They both started to say your name louder, your body shaking between them, threatening to break if you didn't find release soon. But as Cody timed his thrusts to oppose the press of his finger on your clit and Obi-Wan pulled your hair while hissing from the way you traced him with your tongue, your vision went white and the world finally stopped spinning. 

Your euphoria was short lived, quickly replaced by deep heat between your legs. Cody and Obi-Wan found their release shortly after, spilling inside of you as they each moaned out your name. 

They parted from you for a moment, pausing to kiss each other before coming to your sides, each man laying next to you. 

"It's not stopping soon is it," you panted, looking to Cody and then to Obi-Wan who both shook their heads. You let out a shaking exhale as the pain grew stronger. You couldn't fight it anymore, leaving yourself wide open, thoughts so obvious that even Cody could gather what was on your mind. 

Obi-Wan shared in your sensation and grabbed at your waist, urging you to straddle him. Once you were comfortably seated Obi-Wan set a punishing pace, snapping his hips up into your while he kneaded the flesh of your ass between his fingers. 

Cody watched for a few moments before taking himself in his palm, stroking in time to Obi-Wan's thrusts. His face began to contort with pain when a thought burst through your fog. 

Self-stimulation is ineffective, isn't it? 

You were interweaving yourself with Obi-Wan, clinging to the cool of his force signature as he slowed just a touch, breathing out a shudder confirmation. 

With that you turned towards Cody, gently calling his name as Obi-Wan slowly rocked into you, expression curious. 

"I'm so wet," you moaned, looking him up and down. 

"You are," he confirmed, putting his hand where your body met Obi-Wan's, the other still wrapped tightly around his cock. He teased you both for a few moments, running his fingers across both of you at once. 

"I can take you both together." 

The words rolled off your tongue before you realized you had said them, both men moaning as Cody began to work a finger and then two into your pussy without hesitation. 

"You’re sure?" he grunted, wrapping your hand around his cock as he pushed his fingers deeper, working in tandem with the subtle roll of Obi-Wan's hips. 

"Yes," you cried, voice strained as he pushed in a third. "Can't stand to see either of you in this pain." 

Cody hummed against your skin as he kissed you, helping you adjust to the stretch before pulling away, coming behind you. 

With a firm hand to your back Cody pushed you forward until your chest was nearly flush with Obi-Wan's. You heard him spit against you, rubbing at you with his thumbs before pressing his head against your entrance, easing himself inside. 

You and Obi-Wan moaned from the pressure, stilling as he worked his way in. You swallowed your cries as Obi-Wan bit into your shoulder, hands firm on your hips as he tried to hang onto the last bit of his mental wall. 

That, however, came crashing down as soon as Cody began to move, the force of his pleasure knocking the wind from your chest. When you opened your eyes you could see your tears mixed with his, leaning down to lick them away before he began to work in tandem with Cody - thrusting in as he pulled out. 

They worked against each other and you were seeing stars, becoming wetter and wetter with every orgasm that rushed through your body. At some point you realized that the wetness was their come leaking out of you, both men showing no signs of easing up anytime soon. 

You couldn't be certain how many times any of you came, riding out high after high, changing positions, coming in and on each other as you lost yourselves in the pleasure, desperate to keep the burning pain away. 

At some point though the effects of the pollen had worn off and the three of you collapsed together, sticky and sweet and warm. Time had returned though sense was still absent. 

You and Cody had each curled around Obi-Wan, legs tangled together and arms entwined. Eventually you each slipped into a heavy slumber, shared murmurs of thanks fading away as your eyelids drooped. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Slowly you began to rouse, feeling the heat of the sun beginning to sear your skin, quickly coming to your senses when a high pitched shriek jolted you all awake. 

You startled to find Captain Rex doubled over in laughter as Anakin threw his cloak over the pile of limbs you were wrapped in, head turned away and paler than you could ever recall seeing him. 

"Anakin, aren't you supposed to be on Naboo?" Obi-Wan questioned, slowly sitting up. He was blinking in the sun, memories slowly returning as you and Cody unwrapped yourselves from around him.

"I was until the Council told me they never heard your team check in. They sent me here and I find this," he gestured dramatically, pinching the bridge of his nose as he turned away. 

"Like I needed another reason to hate sand." 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Full Masterlist // Star Wars Masterlist

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Tags - Tumble has a tag limit and we’ve exceeded it (which is so cool I can’t believe that many of you are interesting in reading my work!) so we’ll be switching to comment tags, this should also mean that everyone’s tags will work for once!! 

Tag lists are open: just CLICK HERE and tell me what you want to get tagged in, or send me an ask/DM!

[westmoor]

of men and horses

It’s a common misconception that Jaskier favours the winter season. 

He likes it well enough, truth be told, and he’ll hardly complain about generosity shown by the esteemed and wealthy that request his presence (and puts him up quite handsomely) at courts and castles to add a dash of colour to otherwise dreary months.

But the life he chose for himself is one of travel and adventure, and as much as he revels in all the intricacies and intrigue of life among nobility, it holds little in competition with life alongside a Witcher.

As such, the first week is always the most enjoyable. Sinking into a cushioned chair in heated chambers after every night after a rich supper, letting the chafes and scrapes of the road fade from his skin and the weariness to seep from his bones. 

An audience of fresh faces, and the ability to take the sidelines and enjoy the layers of courtly drama that didn’t directly involve him (yet.)

New connections to make, old ones to catch up with.

The first weeks are always the nicest.

After that, the restlessness sets in.

His legs, not used to settling, have soon wandered down every hall. No corner of the courtyard left uncircled. The woods, if the estate has any, seems disappointingly void of fearsome beasts.

Most places have stories that he occupies himself with uncovering, some many layers deep, that turn into a song or a story of its own.

This year he’s hardly so lucky.

The lord is an old acquaintance, friendly but drab, and he understands fully why his presence in their midst was desired. The bard seems to be the most interesting thing to pass their land in the past five years or so. These people, Jaskier thinks, have altogether far too few worries.

The first week has barely waned by the time he tires of the confines of the upper class and extends his periphery to the stables and kennel.

He’s come to feel at home near a stable, he finds, though riding was never his sport. A stable is a stable no matter it’s location on the continent, the smells and sounds blending into each other from one to the next.

And then there are the people. Quiet or chatty, but earnest and hard-working more often than not. There is something about the gentle tones and steady hands of men who handle horses that makes to soothe the ache that settles in a Witcher’s bard’s heart in the first weeks of winter.

His hosts keep a good stable, as he had expected, knowing their hobby of not just hunting but breeding and training horses fit for the task. As a result, the yard is teeming with life even when the ground freezes under sheets of white. Seasoned mounts taken out for exercise, greener ones finding their footing, yearlings being taught foundations from the ground.

Jaskier takes to watching them work, in between trading stories and songs and conversations. He is at his core an aesthete, and can appreciate the visage of a fine specimen atop a fine mount even if it’s not within his particular field of study.

He ends up not just watching the riders, however.

There’s a mare. A young deep red bay bought from a trader all the way down in Cintra that autumn. The head groom had sung her praises at first, practically waxing poetic about balanced structure and the ease of her gait, but as time wore on his tone had soured somewhat. 

She is, as one of the stableboys put it, a hellion.

Jaskier adores her.

It has become a habit of his over the past handful of days, wandering down to the paddocks after breakfast to watch an otherwise capable horseman fail to mold her into something more agreeable.

There is little progress to be had, and the workers have already started lamenting the likelihood of her being sold on in spring, too headstrong and too temperamental to suit his Lordship’s preferences.

Jaskier can’t help it. 

Watching her huff at pressure and wheedle her way out of tension, and occasionally deer-hop her way over fences and leaving her rider in the muck, tugs on something rather close to the spot in his heart warmed by the sight of broad-handed grooms humming softly to their favourites. 

He has even succeeded in bribing his way into her good graces, armed with apples and candied sugar, a feat he’s rather proud of.

The downside to this routine is that he spends such excessive time thinking about Geralt, in addition to the time he would normally spend thinking about Geralt, that when he rushes down from the main hall one frosty morning and sees a black-clad fellow in the yard, he very nearly goes right past.

It had snowed in the night, morning cold freezing it to dust over branches and parapets, now drifting down as powder with the gentle breeze. Fogged breath drifts along a stubbled cheek, crystallizing in silvery locks.

The moment between Jaskier’s heart skipping a beat and his mind catching up to reality nearly has him going face-first down the stone steps.

“Geralt!” he exclaims, confusion warring with disbelief but both losing out to joy.

The way the Witcher’s eyes light up at the sight of the bard is enough to drive him closer, stopping just short of throwing his arms around leather-clad shoulders and drawing the larger man in for a hug. 

The relief washing across Geralt’s face at the friendly reception provides all the warmth he needs, however. As unexpected as his arrival is, it pains him to know that Geralt might think his presence unwanted and it costs him nothing to prove those ideas false.

“What a surprise! I must admit I didn’t expect you so soon, though I’m glad to see you still hale after four entire weeks without me.” 

There is a genuine question in that statement, but he has a handful of theories relating to the answer, gleaned from his friend’s disposition and the apparent lack of hurry.

“Roach twisted a fetlock just past Hagge,” he says, and something heavy settles in the pit of Jaskier’s stomach. “Couldn’t make it to the mountains before the storms set in.”

“Oh.” Rifling through his admittedly limited knowledge of animal medicine yields little, but he knows the speed at which Geralt travels, and combined with the tension in his jaw - Roach is hardly a yearling. She has been a Witcher’s companion longer than him. “I’m sorry. Is she..?”

“I left her with a farmer. The one with the werewolf problem.”

Jaskier nods, he remembers it well. A good man, he’d paid handsomely with what he had. His son had been a journeyman at the time, though by now he should be a trained blacksmith in his own right.

There are worse lots for a horse to draw, he supposes. Besides, he wonders how many of Geralt’s noble steeds had earned a retirement. 

“I suppose I’ll have to visit next time I pass that way,” he says, at the lack of better comfort. The lines at the corners of Geralt’s eyes soften a fraction, and he knows it’s right. 

A thought stirs at the back of his mind, like opening a door, just a crack.

Maybe. Just maybe.

Geralt doesn’t look too torn. Resigned, if anything.

Sometimes, Jaskier figures, one just has to try.

“Well,” he says, suddenly decisive, and this time he does step up and clasp a hand over Geralt’s broad arm. “If you’re not too tired - your baggage can wait, I’m sure - and if you don’t mind indulging me, there’s someone I’d like for you to meet.”

[teawaffles]

It Happened One Night: Chapter 2

The country house Mycroft had introduced them to was a little smaller than the nobles’ mansions they’d been to thus far, but it was an elegant villa, one which exuded a sense of history.

Its exterior was built in the Gothic style, with stone foundations. Planted in the vast gardens was a sea of flora in exquisite colour schemes, delighting the eye of any onlooker. [1]

Of course, the interior didn’t disappoint either: it was richly decorated, with intricately crafted furniture in every room; and hanging from the walls were portraits of the mansion’s owners, as well as landscapes painted by renowned artists. As Sherlock and company were here as guests, they were restricted in the number of rooms allowed for use, but the sheer number of luxury items that greeted them was still far greater than what any ordinary person could ever hope to obtain.

Their lives had literally been turned around.

Turned around…… and yet.

“——Booored……”

In the room he had picked himself, Sherlock looked out the window, gazing at the tranquil garden flooded with gentle sunlight.

It had been three days since they’d moved in, and Sherlock had already grown weary of this lavish lifestyle.

He only took care of the plants in the garden insomuch that they wouldn’t wither, but otherwise he had no interest in the flowers themselves. Moreover, he had already tired of gazing upon the decorations and furniture and paintings in the house. The underground wine cellar aroused some interest, but as an invited guest, helping himself to the liquor as he pleased was evidently a breach of etiquette.

In the end, there wasn’t much to do in this mansion.

As John had suggested, requests from clients were reaching him by mail in the meantime, but they had all been simple cases, solvable just by reading the letters. Couldn’t one difficult case come in sometime? Sherlock sighed heavily as he wrote down the solutions in his replies.

His boredom was plain as day. John, who was seated across him, spoke up in a soft voice.

“Sherlock. We just got tangled up in a big incident a while back, so isn’t it a good thing to take a break for once?”

“Y’know, John, just one day of rest is enough for me. If I don’t get the right level of stimulation, my brain will get all mouldy.”

“What an absurd……”

Just then, the door opened.

“Sherlock, John-kun, I’ve made some tea.”

Miss Hudson walked in bearing a silver tray. On top of it were some nicely baked biscuits, and black tea in teacups with simple designs. As they’d been given permission to use the kitchens, she had been devoting her spare time to baking.

“Thank you, Miss Hudson.”

“Thanks—”

The two of them each took a biscuit from the tray on the table, and munched on it.

“How is it? I’m quite proud of them myself,” she asked.

John nodded in satisfaction.

“It’s very delicious. Right, Sherlock?”

“Oh, it’s good, yeah,” he replied, deadpan.

Miss Hudson shook her head sadly.

“……Well now. If you’re this bored, why don’t you head down to one of the nearby villages? Seeing as there’s such fine weather too.”

Sherlock sent his gaze out the window yet again.

“That’s true……. And if an interesting case pops up, it would be just my luck.”

“Don’t say something so troubling — we’ve worked hard for this peace and quiet.”

John was familiar with Sherlock’s character, but this level of addiction to his work was nothing short of astounding. Miss Hudson, clearly worried by the detective’s words, placed a hand on John’s shoulder.

“John-kun, with Sherlock in this state, I’m worried he’ll get up to no good. Just in case, could you tag along with him?”

“Certainly; leave it to me. It’ll also be a perfect opportunity to get some exercise.”

“What’re you both taking me for……?” Sherlock grumbled — he’d been half-joking, and was surprised to find his words being taken seriously.

Then, with Miss Hudson taking care of the house, the two men set off.

✦ ✦ ✦ ✦

The Cotswolds was a region 200 kilometres west of London, renowned for its rustic charm, with its rolling hills carpeted in verdant grass.

From where they were, they could see flocks of white sheep and tiny villages dotting the vast green landscape. The village buildings were constructed from limestone: in the northeast of the Cotswolds, it was the colour of honey; in the central region, it was golden-yellow; in the southwest, it turned white instead.

Walking along a path which cut through some pastures, Sherlock and John arrived at the village nearest to the mansion.

A small stream meandered through the village, and built along it was a series of stone houses. It looked right out of a picture book.

Their hearts healed by the idyllic scene before them, the two men headed to the centre of the village, in a bid to find some boredom-busting information. There, they found a two-storey inn. When he noticed that a section of the first floor had been converted into a pub, Sherlock broke into a grin.

“Oi, John. Let’s have a pint to pass the time.”

John shot him a dubious look.

“Sherlock. Drinking during the day isn’t something I approve of.”

“It’ll be fine. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a vacation anyway — why not let loose for a bit?”

“And who was it who said he’d had enough of resting just now……?”

This was a fine example of what it meant to do an about-turn.

But it wasn’t the first time Sherlock had done something on a whim. John reluctantly followed him into the inn.

As expected for a country pub in the daytime, there were only a handful of customers seated quietly inside — it was nothing like the bustle of the city. At the counter was a tall man, who looked like he was running the business alone.

The two men sat at the bar. Sherlock ordered beer, while John chose some light snacks. As their orders were served up, Sherlock took a swig, then directed a question to the owner.

“Hey. Isn’t there anything interesting going on around here?”

At this vague question, the pub owner rubbed his chin.

“Anything interesting, huh. Well there is, but it’s a family matter. Are you two tourists?”

John spoke up. “No, it’s complicated…… For various reasons, we’re staying in the residence of a nearby landowner for the time being.”

“Hmm, so you’re a close friend of this noble?”

“That’s not it either…… This man here is the detective Sherlock Holmes, and I’m his assistant.”

“Ah, I’ve heard of you. So you’re that Holmes. Must’ve been tough comin’ all the way out here.”

It seemed he had little interest in celebrities: hearing Sherlock’s name didn’t stir up much of a reaction.

Sherlock stared into his beer glass.

“By the way, you said something just now about a ‘family matter’?”

It seemed he had remembered what the owner said earlier, about there being something interesting. Then, the owner’s voice turned slightly cheery.

“Actually, my daughter’s in London now, and she’s getting married. She’s bringing her fiancé here the evening after tomorrow. I’ve met him just once before, but he’s a solid chap. I was kinda worried she’d get on with some weird fellow, so I’m relieved.”

“Congratulations — you must be proud.”

At John’s words, the owner rubbed the back of his head in embarrassment.

“Thanks. I’m also planning a wedding celebration that night, with some friends from the nearby villages.”

Sherlock hummed in reply. It wasn’t clear if he was interested or not.

“But the second floor is used as an inn, right? Wouldn’t the noise invite complaints?”

“Not to worry: there’s only one person staying upstairs now, and I’ve already gotten his agreement. Anyway, it’s pretty rare for outsiders to come to a small village like this. I still run the inn for formality’s sake, but most of my income comes from this pub.”

“But there is one person here.”

“Yeah, a guy who just arrived a while ago. It seems he’s an obscure painter; he said he wanted a quiet place to concentrate on his art and stimulate his creativity, so he’s rented a room for around ten days.”

That number startled John.

“That’s quite a long stay.”

“The rooms are all empty anyway, so I don’t mind at all. Also, instead of an atelier, well…… can you see it from here?”

The owner pointed at something beyond the window. A little ways from the inn, at the end of a patch of exposed, blackened earth, stood a small shed.

When the two men caught sight of the shed and nodded, the pub owner continued.

“It was originally a stable, but got remodelled into a storage shed. This guy said it was easy to concentrate there, so he moved lots of bulky luggage into the shed via carriage, and now he spends most of his day cooped up inside.”

“Something seems off. What happened to his original belongings?”

“There weren’t many to begin with, so now they’ve been moved to an empty room on the second floor. The others in the village don’t really like him, but he pays his bills on time, so I’ve nothing to say to that. And there weren’t many things in the shed in the first place, so he’s not causing me any trouble.”

Just as the owner finished speaking, the shed door opened, and they saw a man walk out alone.

Sherlock spoke up.

“Is, that the artist?”

“Yeah, his name is Rheos. I think he’s from around France.” [2]

Rheos was a pale, lanky young man dressed in awfully shabby clothes: he truly looked like an artist detached from reality. His shoulder-length hair hid most of his features, but his quick steps revealed the strength in his legs. He was carrying a large, dirty case under his arm.

“…………”

Sherlock stared with inscrutable eyes as he tried to figure out where Rheos was going, but quickly turned back to the barkeep.

“So, is he using this place as a base, and travelling around the area to paint landscapes?”

The owner shook his head.

“I thought so too at first, but apparently he practises by referencing works from famous artists.”

“Hmm, you said earlier that he always coops himself up in that shed. I thought he’d go out during the day if he’s painting scenery.”

“He’s an odd one, that’s for sure. But anyway, I’m the one who took him in, and he hasn’t caused any problems so far. I say it’s up to him where and how he wants to paint. ——By the way, Mr Detective—”

He leaned over to Sherlock a little.

“What is it?”

“From your detective work, I’m sure you’ve seen many strange cases, now haven’t you? If you’re willing, why not tell us about one or two at the dinner party?”

The owner broke into a wide grin, but on the contrary, Sherlock’s face twitched. To be honest, it was simply awkward to attend a complete stranger’s wedding party. Hence he decided to gently turn down the offer.

“……Umm, thank you for the invitation, but——”

“——Hmm? How about it? It’s my precious daughter’s wedding, y’know. I’ll do anything to make things even a little more exciting.”

However, contrary to his expectations, the pub owner seemed adamant that Sherlock regale the guests with stories from his detective work. The strength of his insistence had flustered Sherlock for a moment, but eventually, he clapped his partner’s shoulder beside him.

“In that case, John here can go. After all, he’s witnessed many of the strange things I’ve encountered up close.”

“Huh? What’re you saying, Sherlock!?”

Realising that he was being offered up instead, John panicked. As much as he wanted to congratulate the happy couple on their marriage, he didn’t want to be sent out to speak before a whole bunch of strangers.

“You’re always complaining about this and that — only now do you appreciate me? It’s not fair!”

“No need to be humble. I can personally guarantee your ability as a storyteller.”

“No, hold on just a——”

“——Oh, so you’ll be speaking in place of him, eh?”

Unfortunately for John, the owner had now set his sights on him.

“U-Uh, I……”

John put both hands before him in an effort to convey that he wouldn’t be joining the party, but in the face of the pub owner’s blinding smile, he realised all resistance would only be futile.

“Alright. I shall attend……”

“Thank you. As a further token of my thanks, have some slightly more expensive beer on the house.”

Now in a great mood, the owner took two bottles of beer from the shelves behind him.

Having been forced into speaking in public about their cases — a fine mess indeed — John was downright depressed. Sherlock patted him on the shoulder.

“Sorry. If I were to talk instead, it would just sound like I’m bragging. Do you want to get some practice in while you can?” suggested Sherlock, with a half-smile.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

John shot him a reproachful glare.

Footnotes:

[1] To give you a sense of how the house might look like, here are some examples of Victorian Gothic houses: The Guardian

[2] Rheos (pronounced ray-oh-s) is honestly my best guess at his name… (In the book it’s written as レオス). Rheos is also a real name!

[hallothere]

I broke down and wrote the essay. No, I did not and will not proofread it. I don’t waaaannaaaa

There’s Only One Winner For Isengard

In a perfect world, in a world with no meta requirements that could bend to the will of the player, we would roll up to Isengard level-capped, no debuffs, with one quest-marker on hand: Ruin Saruman’s day. But this is a pre-written sequence of events in which we are only along for the ride. We, the player, and a Ranger are shipped off to Isengard with only one conceivable goal: survive. On a meta level we know what Saruman is capable of. At level 70 or 80-something at best, even we are aware that we are no match for a wizard with a canon fate. Not to mention our Ranger companion! The Grey Company has been through enough (though we don’t know the half of it yet) and we are reasonably distraught at the possibilities.

This is why we, the player character, will lose the game of Isengard.

Beyond the meta rules of the game, where quest objectives are whatever the devs wanted them to be (looking at you, Mordrambor) the player character can not defeat Saruman in any way that’s meaningful. And (again on a meta level) in order for us to get to experience the action at Helm’s Deep and Rohan at large, we have to get out of Isengard. We’d get bored of waiting for Theoden and Co. We’d hurl insults or slap fish at Saruman and realistically incur wrath. Honestly, with the set of circumstances presented to us, who could survive imprisonment in Nan Curunir?

Only one of the Company ever could: Lothrandir of Suri Kyla. 

To begin with, none of the Rangers we have any real information on could have done it. Anyone who’s spent time in Angmar is at a disadvantage due to the prevailing dread (game mechanic or otherwise) that can be manipulated by Saruman. Any Ranger that has a major traumatic past is at a disadvantage (sorry Mincham) because if nothing else, Saruman has proven to be a master of illusion. Even Halbarad for all his leadership ability has a pretty exploitable weakness: eventually Saruman can crack the code with a vision of Aragorn’s demise, the one end Halbarad must fear above all others. Or what bond could more easily be exploited than that of a leader and his men? Lheu Brenin’s in the gang now after all. All Saruman would have to do was send for a few more incentives. 

But Lothrandir comes built with a few key advantages that make him the only Grey Company Ranger qualified to come out of this battle of wills on top. His specific strengths, mindset, and personality traits combined with the circumstances that the game sets up going into Isengard make him the clear choice of Rangers- if a Ranger you must have- to stay behind in Nan Curunir. 

Lothrandir wins because he changes the game. From ‘go’ our co-prisoner does something that either puzzles the player character or sends them into an anxious fit. Lothrandir declares himself fearless and sprints recklessly into the ring. Any way you figure it, this seems like a poorly calculated move. He doesn’t stop to survey the enemy. He doesn’t gather intel. Heck, he doesn’t even bide his time to see if he’ll be killed before he even reaches the dungeons. Lothrandir sprints right in without so much as a thought or a plan. Saruman doesn’t know it yet, but from that moment on Lothrandir has him on the back foot. 

Consider for a moment Saruman’s MO. He’s a wizard, and he uses a great deal of magic, sure, but time and time again we are reminded of the power of his voice and his words. He calls down a storm on Caradhras (in the movies for darn sure), he via-Wormtongue whispers poison into the ears of King Theoden. He doesn’t lead with any kind of grandiose display when trying to sway Gandalf. No, he leads with a persuasive argument. Later on, he nearly talks Theoden back around, after failing to wipe out all of Rohan. After killing the man’s son for goodness sakes. He nearly talks himself out of that one!

But Lothrandir has already changed this from a game of wits to a game of wills. There will be no vying for favor, or biding time, or compliance, or even giving Saruman a chance to ‘talk it over friendly’ first. He’s already spitting on the shoes of everyone he sees. The accomplishment in this is twofold, and it makes a major impact on the rest of his time in Nan Curunir. 

Firstly, by establishing a new game, Lothrandir sets Saruman up for a whole lot of assumptions. He does not display any signs of diplomatic ability, wisdom, or even common sense. He very intentionally projects an attitude of reckless disobedience. In the player’s own eyes, it seems as if he ‘doesn’t know any better’. This gives Saruman a clear path to take regarding Lothrandir. He assumes you can’t reason the typical way with someone who has shown zero inclination for listening. The player character demonstrates that the Grey Company (or least their associates) are capable of compliance. For all intents and purposes, this Lothrandir doesn’t appear to be. He’s contrary, fool-hardy, and evidently dumb enough to dive in headfirst and get himself killed. You beat that kind of guy into submission… don’t you?

But Lothrandir has changed the rules of the game. Saruman is no longer fighting with his best weapon, but with a tool to be found in any old villain’s arsenal. When he took the approach of reasoning with the player character and disregarding Lothrandir, he set the victor’s foundation on our snow-pilgrim’s greatest strength. 

Secondly, by establishing a new game, Lothrandir makes this a battle of physical endurance. Unbeknownst to Saruman, this is the one thing that makes him stand out from the rest of the Grey Company. He has walked through the frozen north lands and the fiery south lands and come out unscathed. He has mastered the unarmed combat style of the Lossoth by joining in mid-winter wrestling matches in a place that took down many Elves, Angmarim, and notably one King of Arthedain! Lothrandir has conceivably spent his entire life training for this matchup. Any endurance he has built up, any fighting he can do without access to a weapon, all are assets to the kind of game he just made Saruman play. Lothrandir is uniquely built to survive any physical torment Isengard can throw at him, or at least, better equipped than any of the others. 

To say Lothrandir is the best choice, we also have to rule out the others. Corunir was thwarted by the Rammas Deluon and for all he learned from that, it’s a weak spot in his proverbial armor. Golodir too, resisted a fair degree of torture (palantiri based, even!) in Carn Dum, but it won’t be hard for Saruman to suss that one out and make our old man’s life a living nightmare. Even Radanir, serious and seemingly unattached to any social bonds now that his good pal Elweleth has gone sailing, would be a poor choice. He is too serious, (for lack of a better term) too genre-savvy, and even if he is spitting blood and delivering a witty one-liner, that’s Saruman’s foot in the door! ‘I’ll never betray my friends and kin, you kaleidoscope hack’? You’ve just told him your weakness, Radanir! No, he can’t keep his mouth shut to save his (or Saerdan’s) life. Radanir is the wrong choice too.

We don’t know a significant amount about the others (except Ranger death would move Calenglad to tears, we can’t put him through this) in order to pinpoint their fatal flaws in the Isengard encounter. But, the game puts us in the incredible position of having seen Lothrandir’s Achilles’ heel and letting us take that disadvantage away. 

Lothrandir of Suri Kyla is uniquely equipped to survive any physical encounter that Saruman throws his way. Now, who’s to say the wizard won’t change his tune and go back to his old tricks? In an incredible twist of fate, we are. The game sets us, the player, up to play Saruman’s game from the get-go. We keep our pixelated head down, try and fly below the radar, and express just enough concern over the fate of our fool-hardy pal to get Saruman to cement his estimation of Lothrandir as a pawn in the game in stone. By making ourselves the better target for the words of a wily wizard, Saruman decides that the best way to deal with the spare prisoner is by playing right into his hands. As we all know, the player character escapes. While that might seem bad for someone who Saruman has earmarked for corporal punishment only, it covers Lothrandir’s one weakness. 

Aside from being the only significant unarmed fighter, Lothrandir is also never painted as a loner. He spends his time in Suri Kyla, hanging out with the Lossoth and sharing their campfires. In the new questline in Forochel, he jumps at the chance to make a new Dunedain friend and takes to King Arvedui like a duck to water. They’re instant best pals. It’s minutes before Lothrandir is telling him Aragorn’s life story and pledging to go with him on a buddy adventure to seek peace for a regretful shade. And if that’s not enough canon for you, Lothrandir bears the brunt of the Falcon clan aggression on the way to Isengard. He does it for you, his friend and companion in suffering. It’s a bit meta, but we have to assume in the internal universe he knows you a little. You’ve run your merry adventures to a degree where, were this not a video game, Lothrandir would at least consider you an ally if not a friend outright. 

He exposes his weakness unwittingly to the Falcon clan, but he leaves it at the gates of Isengard in an extremely well-timed move. By sprinting through the gates without a care as to what’s going on with you or anyone else, Lothrandir establishes an emotional distance between you both in the eyes of any onlookers. Whatever affection you have for him, it doesn’t seem reciprocated. This isn’t a major weakness for Saruman to exploit, then. You’re not one of his kinsmen. If he did want to pursue that line, he could always send to Tur Morva for one, right?

This is where the game comes back in to shift the tide in Lothrandir’s favor. We escape. We play the game, we nearly lose the game, and had we not been given an out the power scaling makes it difficult to conceive of an outcome where we the player can win Isengard. Sure, we’ve been released from prisons before (Delossad to name one) but this is the climax of Dunland. We make a daring escape, and move south towards the Gap of Rohan and all sorts of bad times. 

Back in Nan Curunir, Lothrandir is getting the daylights beat out of him, and taking a victory lap. He’s cemented his position as ‘the prisoner we’ll break with violence’. The uruks have seen him insubordinate and disorderly. In the Lothrandir interlude, there’s not only the canon (stated outright!) reality of past and present torture. There’s also zero hesitation in Lothrandir taking that one on the chin. There are no other objectives on his mind than making the next few minutes as miserable as possible for everyone around. He has no other goals. And he doesn’t need them. Nobody is surprised that Lothrandir is signing his death warrant within nanoseconds of being presented an offer to comply. He spits on the offer. He tips over the slop bucket. He beats bloody any orc (and gameplay purposes aside there are very few that dare come forward) that actually tries to kill him for it outright. 

He’s built up a non-rapport with Gun Ain. She talks about killing him and he doesn’t say anything. They’re all playing his game and he’s winning. In the conversation with Saruman, we’re not given the opportunity to watch Lothrandir ‘resist’ in the same fashion the player character did. We don’t need to. Saruman has bigger and better things to worry about- killing a prince, wiping out a nation- than one Ranger who he’s just going to order well-flayed again. By setting himself up as the punching bag, Lothrandir has managed to fly beneath Saruman’s priority threshold. He’s been relegated to the responsibility of Gun Ain, and still with somewhat protected status because they haven’t wormed anything useful out of him yet.

All of these moves have culminated to an impasse. Saruman is not winning points in the game like he expected. One ‘meathead Ranger’ has managed to resist all the torments of Isengard, and he’s gained nothing from this. The other prisoner escaped, word had doubtless reached him that the Tur Morva Thirty-Odd are free and raring to be a thorn in his side again. He has no external leverage to apply on Lothrandir and it’s become increasingly obvious that our Ranger friend is not engaging like the player did. But still, Saruman has his pride. It’s his downfall in the end, and it’s his downfall in his fight against the one Ranger who’s already beating him. Lothrandir can’t be killed outright because Saruman hasn’t won yet. And with that guarantee of protection, Lothrandir can coast all the way to the conquest of Isengard. 

He can keep playing the game and stalling for time. It’s morbid, but what better way to waste someone’s time and energy than convincing them slow, drawn-out torture is the way to go? A little extreme, Lothrandir, but it’s still his game to lose. He wastes Saruman’s time. If he is eventually rescued, total victory. If he’s killed in the end, he definitely didn’t give the wizard the satisfaction, so a less resounding victory but one in the win column nonetheless. 

With a little help from our usually Ranger-cidal devs, Lothrandir reprograms Saruman’s game of chess to a boxing match. He takes out all his disadvantages, gets Isengard to attack from a point of... if not weakness then at least neutral ability, and then devotes his every waking breath to violent disobedience.

Sure, you could have taken any of the Grey Company with you to Isengard. Lheu Brenin could have swapped out for Braigar or Amlan or Mithrendan or Culang- but only one of these guys has the brute strength, commitment, and sheer audacity to pull it off. 

You take Lothrandir to Orthanc. There’s a different prisoner of Nan Curunir when he leaves.