#I bemoan the lack of hours in the day

[victorluvsalice]

AU Thursday: Valicer In The Dark -- More Score & Story Ideas!

Because, uh, I have a lot of ideas for stuff I want to do in this verse, and the original list from a year ago has expanded quite a fair bit:

-->While I haven't gotten all of my stories into a proper timeline yet, I do have the first five sorted:

A) "Start At The Beginning...Sort Of" -- the story currently in progress, where the trio all meet, solve Victor's ghost problem and Ghost!Emily's Barkis problem, get wrongly accused of murder, run from the police (showing off their special starting scoundrel abilities along the way), and eventually end up in Elder Gutknecht's old place in Six Towers. This is sort of the "prologue" to the whole mess, putting all of them in the right position to start on a life of crime. XD

B) "A Murder Shared Is A Murder Thirded" -- yes, I did have Gale of Baldur's Gate III's line about how "a parasite shared is a parasite halved" when I came up with that title. XD As you might imagine, this is the trio first "unofficial" score, with them going to murder Bumby, because the fucker needs murdering. Of course, it's only after they kill him that they meet up with Smiler's parents and learn they were exonerated of the original "murder" by the Spirit Wardens. XD Still no regrets, though.

C) "The Van Dort Vacancy" -- came up with that title while looking at old Oxventure Presents: Blades In The Dark episode titles and being inspired by "The Cab-Con Caper's" alliteration. This story focuses on Alice and Smiler returning Victor to the Van Dort mansion...only to discover the Van Dorts hosting a party. Victor quickly learns that his parents never even considered the idea that he might be in danger when he vanished, only caring about the fact that Victoria Everglot married someone else (and is now due to wed Imperial Guardsman Christopher White after her first husband's death and disgrace) -- and after overhearing his mother declare "what ghost would marry our Victor?" decides fuck them, he's taking his stuff, stealing what money he can, and going to live with Alice and Smiler in Six Towers. Features special guests Barnaby "The Butcher" Fortescue III and Kasimir Jones from Oxventure Presents: Blades In The Dark, because it tickled me to imagine them doing a score to steal some of the Van Dorts' money at the same time -- only for Victor to catch on to what they're doing when he meets Barnaby at the party and go "if you wait five minutes for me to get my things, I will open the safe for you and give you a good chunk of the money inside." XD

D) The currently-untitled story detailing the gang's first "official" job as a crew, picked up when they go to dinner at the Ball & Socket Pub and Smiler overhears two workers from Coalridge discussing needing to get something back from their boss -- the "something" is a list of potential union representatives that the boss stole in order to call assassins on the people listed. The workers need it back to keep their nascent union safe. Notably, the score involves the workers saying they can't give the trio much in Coin, but they'll do what they can -- and then one of them jokingly saying, "Unless you want to be paid in furniture."

Cue Victor, Alice, and Smiler, who currently live in Elder Gutknecht's-not-exactly-comfortable house, going "what kind of furniture?" XD (A couch and a proper dining table, specifically -- old furniture one of the workers was trying to shift after inheriting some stuff from a late relative.)

E) "Who You Gonna Call?" -- As you might guess from the Ghostbusters quote for a title, this story involves the gang busting some ghosts. XD Specifically, it involves Bonejangles -- here a Whisper who does entertainment work for the Ball & Socket on the side -- deciding to school Victor in the art of ghost-catching by taking him on a job to catch a few Echoes (non-sapient ghosts who continually do the same thing over and over again in a loop), with Alice and Smiler tagging along for moral support. However, as it turns out, one of those "Echoes" is actually a Specter (a sapient, feral ghost who attacks people and possesses them to feed on their life force) who was biding its time... I felt a little bad that none of the previous stories really had any Whisper-y stuff for Victor to do, and decided he needed a "day in the limelight" score -- as a bonus, this score is how he gets his ghost-hunting equipment for later!

-->I also have plans for two possible prequel stories -- one showcasing the three times Alice and Smiler talked before the events of "Start At The Beginning...Sort Of" (I have the first bit, Smiler giving Alice the money for lunch, actually written already), and one showcasing some of Smiler's life even before that (I have a rough draft of the scene where they wake up the "morning" after inventing Joy Serum and go "bwuh?" over their newly-glowing yellow eyes). Good for filling in gaps and writing more stuff from Smiler's POV!

-->I mentioned Victor wanting to make a community greenhouse very briefly in the very first post I made about the AU -- this has expanded into a whole little arc about him finding an abandoned conservatory while wandering Six Towers and the gang fixing it up into a place where they and the other residents can grow food. In order, the stories would cover:

1) Getting enough money to pay a glazier to fix all the broken window panes (or doing something for the glazier in trade)

2) Acquiring the initial plants (which involves a trip to Barrowcleft and probably doing a job for someone there in trade)

3) Victor researching ways to infuse butterflies and moths with electroplasm to create radiant energy insects to help the plants grow; my idea is that he eventually tries mixing it with some of Smiler's Joy Serum -- and gets REALLY BIG bright yellow glowing moths, to his and Smiler's delight and Alice's concern

4) And then, once the place is just about ready to "open to the public," Lord Rowan, the only lord who maintains a permanent residence in Six Towers, rocks up, claims the greenhouse is his, and demands an absolutely ASTRONOMICAL rent from the trio to use it. Fortunately he proves to be a man who likes games when Smiler asks to negotiate, and tells them if they can break into his house and get the deed to the land from the safe in his bedroom, it's theirs (the trio smartly get this written down and notarized by someone in Charterhall first; Rowan is PIIIIISSED when he realizes he'll have to honor the deal)

-->A related idea would be for the gang to encounter some of the people in Charterhall (the neighborhood mostly made up of one big university) who are working on an alternative power source to help replace leviathan blood (which is refined into the electroplasm that powers everything electric in the setting) and need a place to test it. The trio decides that the alternative energy group can try to get the streetlights back on in Six Towers, and there's a score all around helping them get there safely, and keeping Lord Rowan's nose out of it until they're done. Not sure what exactly it will entail yet, but I'm eager to find out!

-->As stated in previous posts, the gang eventually has to go after Dr. Kelman when he puts out a notice saying he wants the three captured so he can submit them to his special "social compliance therapy" (aka do horrific brain surgeries on them and/or Hollow them by ripping out their souls). This is how Victor and Alice learn Smiler's birth name, and the whole trip proves to be a rather dark look at Smiler's childhood pre-running away and joining the Advocates. In fact, I already have one specific scene in mind of Victor finding a photograph of a young Smiler and noting that their smile in the picture looks incredibly strained, as if they're desperately trying to see the bright side. Also, Miles Cedars is definitely going to show up, and possibly get to murder Kelman. Because I like giving him the chance to murder Kelman. :)

-->Speaking of Smiler angst, I also have in mind a story where, on a particularly chilly night in winter, Smiler, Victor, and Alice are wandering the streets together when Smiler somehow falls into one of the local canals. Victor and Alice fish them out as fast as possible, fortunately, but the rest of the story proves a race against time to get Smiler home and warmed before they succumb to hypothermia. Featuring half-naked cuddling when they learn that skin-to-skin contact can be an excellent way to warm a chilled person (fortunately this is after they get together as a polycule, so the partial nudity isn't as awkward as it could be)...and Smiler crying in front of Victor and Alice for the first time when they can't stop thinking about the fact that, if they'd been walking with their fellow Advocates, said Advocates would have believed them when they said they felt okay...and they probably would have died. :( It is a story of many feels, is what I am saying.

-->So, when does my OT3 actually become an OT3 in the actual stories? Shortly after the Kelman score, in a story entitled "And There Was Only One Bed" (a play on the fic trope, and the fact that the house only has one good bed -- at the time the story starts, the three are taking turns using it, with the other two sleeping on cots borrowed from The Advocates). The story involves Smiler (who has been trying to subtly push Victor and Alice together, having noticed they seem to like each other) finally revealing to Victor and Alice that they're a pretty accomplished hypnotist, and offering to use their skills to help Victor with a nasty bout of insomnia. Victor agrees, with Alice wanting to watch for her own peace of mind -- cue Smiler hypnotizing Victor the next time the three of them are going to bed...

And a deep-in-trance Victor asking to be held as he falls asleep. Prompting both Smiler and Alice to cuddle him...and fall asleep against him because neither wants to get up and possibly disturb him after he does drift off. Meaning when everyone wakes up the "morning" afterward, they're all really awkward -- Alice because she's like "wtf why did I find that hot;" Victor because he's like "oh no I liked that too much and I have to process the fact that I'm in love with both of them now;" Smiler because "damn it I think I just decreased total happiness in this household should have kept my stupid mouth shut." They do their best to push through and complete the latest job they have though (a random "steal something from this rich fucker's house" deal, it's not actually important), which ends up with them having to clamber up onto the roof at some point --

And then Victor nearly falls off said roof. Prompting both Alice and Smiler to nearly have a heart attack and have their feelings toward him thrown into STARK RELIEF. Meaning they all finally have a chat once they complete the job and get back home, which allows them to finally discover that a) they're all willing to get into a polycule and b) that they actually have quite compatible kinks. Story ends with Smiler delightedly returning one of the cots to their parents (Alice insisted on keeping one in case one of them does want or need to sleep alone) and the three of them regularly sharing the bed. :)

-->I also want to do at least one follow-up concerning them starting to play around with hypnosis, and Alice insisting she wants to do something that will help keep Victor Victor no matter what they do to his head -- cue her and Smiler coming up with a safety suggestion that involves Victor picturing the core of his personality as a glowing tree, and then having him encase it in unbreakable glass so his personality can shine out, but nothing can get in. :) It's just a sweet scene that's been rattling around in my head for a while, and I'd like to put it to virtual paper.

-->I mentioned a "Lord E.A. Bethesda" in my Duskwall Slang post a while back, as a guy who gets labeled with the very-dangerous-in-Duskwall title "Welcher" (someone who hires someone for a job, but then decides to try and kill them instead of pay them; people who do this generally end up dead themselves). How does he get saddled with this label? By hiring the Three Pillars to steal a golden beetle statue from a rival (Lord Bethesda is a bug collector, you see), plying them with a hefty reward if they pull it off (which he can afford as the "Gambling King" of Duskwall -- his fortune was built off of getting lots of people to pay him small amounts of money in hopes of great reward). They do indeed pull it off --

And Lord Bethesda happily orders them killed by his guards, forcing them to escape his house in Brightstone. However, Bethesda (who has done this before) employs Plan B and has his guards herd them toward his garden and through a gap in the lightning barrier around his home --

Before turning said barrier back ON and stranding them in the HEAVILY ghost-and-horror-riddled Deathlands just beyond (specifically, they're in the Lost District, a formerly rich neighborhood that was abandoned once the lightning barriers went up). This leads into the sequel story, where the trio have to find a way back into the city while navigating the horrors of the Deathlands...which results in them discovering that Alice's Wonderland Jabberwock, inspired by an illustrated poem she read as a child, is actually based on a REAL CREATURE. Which has the horrible eye beam and wants very much to kill them. (And which may have the voice of Christopher Lee because I might as well throw in the nod to Tim Burton's Wonderland -- Victor is VERY CONFUSED as to why it sounds like Pastor Galswells.) They manage to kill IT instead by strapping Alice's Vorpal Blade (now a real thing, Victor bought it for her as a present) to Victor's ghost-catching kit while Smiler whacks together a sort of motorized skateboard thing for them to ride on and then using the electroplasmically-charged Blade to slice the damn thing's unprotected belly open. Alice claims one of the eyes as a trophy, and shortly thereafter they're found by the Spirit Wardens, who look at the corpse and go "let's just get you back inside the barriers, shall we?" Cue the the trio tromping back to the Ball & Socket and telling the clientele about their experience...leading to Lampblack gang leader Bazso Baz declaring Bethesda a Welcher, and the guy soon afterward getting killed.

-->Not that Baz is actually a friend to the trio -- for another future story has the trio invited to one of his fancy parties, supposedly to recognize how rapidly they've made a name for themselves in the Duskwall underworld. The three go, figuring it's a good way to keep relations good with their fellow criminals -- but are quickly rather disgusted by the party itself, as it feels pretty much like any party Nell Van Dort would throw (overly ostentatious and making it clear he's only in it for the power). They resolve to get through the shindig and head home...

And then Baz reveals that the actual reason they were invited was because they've collected a variety of bounties on their heads (including a big one from the Van Dorts, specifying Alice and Smiler have to die but Victor be brought home alive, and a huge one from Lord Rowan, wanting them ALL dead) and the other criminals want to claim them. Cue the Three Pillars having to try and find a way to escape from the house as the other criminals hunt them. Fortunately for them, they have unexpected allies in Baz's staff, with one guy in particular having a sister and nephew in Six Towers whom they've helped a lot (probably both in general with the greenhouse, and specifically by helping the kid when he got sick once). They eventually manage to get out with the staff's help, and limp their way back to Six Towers...

Just in time to see Lord Rowan trying to make a big speech to the citizens about "how your heroes are dead" and blah blah blah. He is gobsmacked to see the trio still alive, leading to, of all people, Smiler strolling up to him and clocking him in the face. XD Gaining the Three Pillars a reputation as, frankly, unkillable...

Aaaand I should probably cut it there because this post is getting long enough. XD And I haven't even touched upon all the stories I have in mind that are based off of other properties I like! Guess that would be a good follow-up post to this one, huh? :p

[defectivevillain]

whispers in the night

pairing: Shinsou Hitoshi/Reader

reader's race and gender are ambiguous; no pronouns used.

summary: When you can't fall asleep, you stumble out to the common room to get a snack—only to find Shinsou on the couch, similarly restless. After a moment's contemplation, you sit down next to him and the two of you share a quiet night in.

word count: 1.9k | ao3 version

warnings: exhaustion, fatigue, insomnia

You can’t fall asleep. 

Despite how incredibly busy your day has been—what with classes, sparring, and Quirk training—you’re still left staring up at the ceiling in frustration as you attempt to go to bed. You’ve had your eyes closed for roughly an hour or so, but you haven’t fallen asleep. Gritting your teeth, you decide to get up and grab something to eat. You’re not even sure if that little trick will help you fall asleep, but at this point, you’re desperate. As you quietly walk through the halls and into the common room, you’re surprised to find that someone else is also awake. You’re less surprised when you see Shinsou sitting on the couch, looking down at his phone.

“You look like a raccoon,” Shinsou says in lieu of a greeting. You point to the dark circles under your eyes and he nods. You mumble some half-assed explanation about being tired, before deciding to reply honestly. 

“That’s ironic, coming from you,” you say jokingly. Shinsou evidently expects the remark, because he simply rolls his eyes. Distracted from grabbing a snack, you move to sit next to him. The couch is surprisingly comfortable, and there are decorative pillows thrown about the cushions that Momo created a bit ago. You grab one and hold it against your chest. 

“Well, dark circles are typical for me,” Shinsou remarks casually, with a sense of resigned defeat. You immediately sense what he’s implying. 

“I know,” you acknowledge. He’s absolutely right, of course. You’re just not sure why you’ve been so sleepless lately. You tell him as much. “I’ve just been restless.” 

Shinsou nods silently. Immediately, you feel guilty for bemoaning your lack of sleep, when Shinsou is hardly ever able to sleep. Yet here you are, complaining about the one time that you’re awake at night. An apology is on the tip of your tongue when Shinsou inexplicably leans close to you. He stretches and grabs the remote on the cushion next to you before returning his attention to the television in front of you. A familiar icon appears on the screen. 

“Is that Netflix?” You ask, unable to keep the surprise from your voice. The lack of Netflix on the common room television has been a sticking point for many of your fellow classmates. You can recall countless times in which Kaminari or Sero practically begged Present Mic and Aizawa to get a shared Netflix account for the class. Their pleas never went very far, though. “Holy shit, how’d you-”

“Stole Aizawa’s password.” You stare at Shinsou, whose eyes are locked on the screen ahead. He clicks on the remote a few times, evidently selecting the right letters for the username and password. Even as he does so, it takes you several moments to process just what he said. 

“You did not,” you say in disbelief. 

“I did,” Shinsou grins, clicking on the yellow profile with your teacher’s name under it. Aizawa’s home screen comes up and you can’t help but laugh incredulously. Shinsou’s lips twist ever so slightly—he’s evidently proud of himself—and he turns to you. “What do you want to watch?”

The two of you eventually decide to watch The Great British Bake Off, since you don’t quite want to commit to watching something serious. Besides, you’re half-expecting that at least one of you will fall asleep. Shinsou clicks on an episode and you lean back against the couch. The pillows are strewn about the floor now; you promise yourself you’ll pick them up later.

The baking show is rather entertaining, you have to admit. Shinsou seems to think so too, as he occasionally huffs or smiles ever so slightly. You find yourself torn between watching the television and, well, watching him. The first episode passes within no time at all. Shinsou plays the next one and, in a sudden burst of spontaneity, you lean your head against the edge of your cushion. You're dangerously close to resting on Shinsou’s shoulder, but you manage to keep the distance between you. 

You do notice, however, that Shinsou’s arm is hovering on the back of the couch. Once you realize that, the show is suddenly far less captivating. Your heart races as his hand falls further down the back of the couch. Blinking slowly, you turn your attention back to the program. Unfortunately, your fatigued body decides to entirely disobey you, and you feel yourself falling into Shinsou’s shoulder before you can contemplate the consequences. Thankfully, he doesn’t shove you off of him or anything. In fact, his arm falls from the back of the couch to rest around your shoulders. 

You feel yourself beginning to grow tired as time passes, but you desperately want to remain awake and keep Shinsou company. It must be terribly isolating to constantly be restless at nighttime. Despite these thoughts, however, it doesn’t take long for your eyes to slip closed. You’re in a bit of an awkward position and Shinsou’s shoulder digs into your neck. Suddenly, you’re tugged to the side and into a significantly more comfortable position. You blink your eyes open briefly, surprised to find that you’re now pulled against Shinsou’s chest. Before you can overanalyze that, however, you’re drifting off again. 

An immeasurable amount of time later, you're roused from slumber and lightly jostled. You feel an arm supporting your back and another under your legs. Is someone... carrying you? You try to open your eyes, but your eyelids are stinging and you soon forget to resist sleep. 

The next time you wake, you find your phone alarm blaring extremely loudly. Groaning, you grab it and try to hit the snooze button. Unfortunately, it’s a bit too late for you to go back to sleep—the sheer volume of the alarm has entirely roused you from slumber. You sigh and push yourself up into a sitting position, electing to scroll through things on your phone for a few minutes. You grab your blanket and tug it up further, feeling chilly all of a sudden.

…Wait a second. Didn’t you fall asleep in the common room last night? You bite your lip and try to remember what happened. Sure enough, you went to the common room and watched TV with Shinsou. You look down at your blanket and frown. How did you end up back in your room? You definitely didn’t walk back. You try to recall the events of the last night, only to freeze upon remembering your short time awake. Someone had been carrying you. 

You’re suddenly immensely grateful that you don’t have a fire Quirk, otherwise your room would be entirely doused in flames. As it is, your heart is pounding treacherously in your chest. You can’t help but think about Shinsou’s arms around your back and legs, the ease with which he lifted you... 

Safe to say, you’re sufficiently frazzled for the rest of the morning. You scramble through your typical routine and grab a quick snack before deciding to go to class a bit early. Surprisingly, you’re far from the only one there. Iida is present, of course. Kirishima, Jirou, and Shinsou are all in their seats too. You greet everyone and walk over to your desk.

“How’d you sleep last night?” Kirishima asks once you sit down. He’s just so sweet. You’d been talking to him yesterday about your trouble sleeping, after all. You’re touched by his concern, of course, but his question immediately provokes what you’d been trying to forget—Shinsou carrying you back to your dorm.

“Oh, um, I slept well,” you choke out, feeling extremely flustered. You suddenly want the ground to swallow you whole. Feeling eyes on you, you turn to find Shinsou staring at you. The satisfied gleam in his eyes confirms your suspicions from before. You take a deep breath and turn back to Kirishima, getting lost in casual conversation. 

Throughout the rest of class, you feel Shinsou’s gaze burning into the back of your head. When the bell finally rings, signaling the end of the period, you sidle up to him and the two of you walk out of the room together. It’s lunchtime now, but neither of you are moving towards the cafeteria with any modicum of speed. Eventually, all of your classmates pass by and Shinsou and you are left alone in the hallway. 

“You didn’t have to carry me back,” you eventually say, once the tense silence between you grows to be unbearable. You can’t help but notice the furrow to Shinsou’s brows—a clear sign that he’s avoiding an answer. 

For a long moment, he is entirely silent. You decide to wait for Shinsou to explain. When he finally does break his silence, he says something entirely unexpected. “What if I wanted to?”

“What?” You ask, convinced you misheard him. 

“I... wanted to,” Shinsou repeats, significantly quieter this time. You blink at him a few times. Somehow, it’s still taking you a while to process just what he’s saying. When you finally comprehend his statement, your eyes widen and you stare at him in thinly-veiled surprise. 

“Oh,” you remark dumbly. “Well... thanks.” Maybe I should lose sleep and come out to the common room more often, you think to yourself. 

“Maybe you should,” Shinsou responds. It takes you several moments to realize that your last remark was voiced aloud and you suddenly feel like melting into an embarrassed puddle on the ground. But the expression on Shinsou’s face is nothing short of complete sincerity—coupled with an attractive confidence that you know to be a result of his extensive sparring sessions with Aizawa. 

“Maybe I will,” you say with a small smile. 

That night, you will venture out to the common room once more. Shinsou will be resting on the couch again and you’ll take your place beside him, before grabbing the remote and scrolling through Netflix. The two of you will stumble upon the account’s history and laugh at the shows Aizawa seems to enjoy, before choosing one to watch. This time, your head will fall on Shinsou’s shoulder much sooner; this time, he wraps an arm around your shoulder without hesitation. You’ll admit in murmurs that you enjoy spending time with him, and he’ll echo the sentiment. For a quick yet seemingly endless stretch of time, the two of you will sit in silence. Then, possessed by some otherworldly courage, you will lean close and ask to kiss him—only for him to meet you halfway and make the first move. 

Then, since the both of you have horrible luck, Aizawa will walk in and interrupt you. You will try to break apart, but it’ll be too late. For a long moment, your teacher will study the both of you, before an unimpressed expression appears on his face and he mentions that he got a notification that someone was using his Netflix account. Shinsou will try to play dumb—and you’ll remain silent, out of fear for your life—before Aizawa, knowing when to give in, huffs and bids you both a good night.

But right now it’s lunchtime, and all the words you want to say feel trapped under your tongue. And before you can summon the courage to even begin telling Shinsou just what he means to you, Kaminari appears out of nowhere and slings his arms around you both. The moment between Shinsou and you is temporarily broken, but you smile with the knowledge that you’ll reunite with him in the quiet night once more.

thanks for reading! <3

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general taglist: @its-ares @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @kingkoku @the-ultimate-librarian @gayaristocrat

[gremlinmodetweeker]

Kinktober Day 6-A/B/O

Okay so I have been doing Kinktober on my KoFi HERE but I really liked how this one came out, so I'm posting it here. It's not actually a part of the A/B/O universe I'm writing, but rather an aside to it. Just a little oneshot in the same base universe.

Anyways, MDNI because this fic deals with mature subjects.

For access to all the other Kinktober content, check out my KoFi HERE

TW: A/B/O dynamics (alpha beta omega), smut, chair sex, office sex. heats and ruts

Wordcount 3.9k

Art from This Post

Kinktober Day 6-A/B/O

König was always a strange sort of alpha. He was at the top of the pack, an alpha A, so it made no sense that he trembled in the corners of the room whenever you entered. He was a colonel, for fuck’s sakes! Why on earth did he shy away whenever you, a measly little omega O, came up to him and asked him if he had his morning coffee already?

You ruminated over the question all day every day. Why was your commanding officer, the hottest and most viable bachelor on base, also afraid of any and all attention? You tried to make sense of it, but nothing came to fruition. So, without a clear answer, you turned towards more underhanded methods of finding out.

“So how long was he with the Austrian military?” you asked your friend nonchalantly.

Horangi mulled over the question briefly before shrugging, “Long enough to get to the rank of colonel, that’s all I can really say.”

“Is it classified, or…”

“I just don't know,” Horangi admitted.

Drat. You’d have to try again.

“So, you said he’s always been a bit shy?” you passed Askel his morning coffee, saving König’s for last (as always, you liked to end the round end on the sweetest note).

“Well, I’ve never known him to be different,” Askel shrugged.

“Not even on duty?” you asked.

“Oh on duty he’s an animal,” Askel shuddered, “I’ve seen him rip out a man’s throat with his teeth. Fucking insane.”

You shuddered at the thought, if a bit turned on. You’d need to unpack that later. Someday. Not today.

When you gave König his coffee, he looked as docile as a lamb. The thought of his marking fangs sinking into your neck haunted you the rest of the day.

You woke up to your heat consuming you. Of course your heat would be on a day you had a meeting, of course it would be extremely important, and of course it was with König. If you could roll your eyes harder they’d be on the floor. Or at least, if you weren’t consumed by voracious need. 

You were drenched in sweat as you scrabbled for your heat suppressants. Within half an hour of shoving them in your mouth, you had finally calmed yourself enough to be able to relax. With a sigh, you put yourself together and headed out the door.

You went through your day casually, others bemoaning the lack of coffee in the morning in your absence. You laughed them off, explained that your heat made you late, and most of them shared a short laugh with you. The only one to have a curious response was König.

“Ah, you came!” his little cheer significantly brightened your day.

“You missed your coffee?” you smirked.

König shook his head, “Nein, I just like seeing your smile every morning.”

Your ears turned red as you turned your head to hide your face, “Well, it’s always great seeing you too König.”

“You will come for the meeting today, ja?” bless his sweet Austrian accent, it made everything he said both hotter and sweeter.

“I mean, yeah,” you shrugged, “it’s in boardroom C, right?”

“Well... Ach,” König faltered momentarily, “I heard that the director is on sick leave, so you only have to present to me today. I was, ah…” he scratched the back of his head, “wondering if maybe you’d be fine if we moved it to my office?”

“No, but it’s far from my office,” König’s eyes glanced down to the ground.

You raised an eyebrow but you simply replied, “Is the boardroom busy?”

“If it makes it easier than sure,” you agreed, “where’s your office?”

“I can pick you up from your office,” he offered quickly.

“Oh if you can show the way that’ll be great,” you grinned.

He nodded firmly, and with that you were on your way.

When you got to your desk, you couldn’t help but look forward to the meeting with König. It wasn’t often you got time with the big man, so any interaction you had with him was more than welcome. You tapped away at your keyboard, dragged and dropped appropriate files and deleted extraneous ones as KorTac asked. You acted the perfect part of the pencil pusher, and you were perfectly content with your position as a cog in the machine. Once, you might have raged against your position, but these days you’d found some comfort in the monotony.

Time passed by quickly, all things considered. Sure you’d spent far too much time playing games on your phone, and you certainly didn’t need to use the washroom for that long, but other than that it was a nice, easy day to relax.

You crawled from your cubical to the cafeteria, wondering if maybe they’d finally be serving that pasta salad again. It wasn’t often that they served it, but when they did it might as well have been your birthday.

You passed by the daily menu, a skip in your step when you saw your beloved salad in pink chalk writing.

After you’d filled your plate and taken a seat, you pulled out your bag to look for the next does of heat suppressants. You dug your hand in, but when it came out your palms were empty. You frowned and looked around again, this time taking objects out of your bag as panic rose in your chest. Your notebook flopped on the table, followed by your phone and your wallet, then your keys, and then that pack of gum you thought you lost, and then you were shaking your bag upside down frantically in search of the pills. Around you, people were starting to stare, but in your frantic state of mind you figured that they were all looking at a young omega O in heat, ripe for the taking.

You scrambled to put your things back in place and hurry out of the luncheon, only to run face-first into the very last person you wanted to see.

“Ah! Just the person I was looking for!”

If only you could reach his neck to strangle him.

“Oh hey König! Just coming in for lunch?” you forced your lips into a wide smile.

“Nein,” König leaned against the doorframe, effectively blocking you in, “I just wanted to get some coffee before out meeting. You’re still okay with it being in my office?”

Had König always smelt so good?

You shivered. You needed to get out of here, and fast.

“Well, I’m actually not feeling so well,” you tried to say lightly, “so is there any way we can maybe push this back a day?”

“Well, the mission starts tomorrow,” König tilted his head as his brows knit together, “how about we do it now and get it over with quickly?”

You paled as König turned his back and motioned for you to follow. Ever the submissive omega, you were quick to follow him down the halls.

“Do I actually have to be here?” you asked nervously, “I mean, you’re the one making the decisions, right? You’re pretty big around here.”

“It’s just protocol,” König explained as he held the door open for you, “why don’t you take a seat and I’ll get right into it.”

“Um, König…” you trailed off as the scent of him slammed into you. 

“I assure you we’ll be quick,” König assured you as he swung into his chair, “you can use-” König froze. You watched as his mask fluttered with a few quick sniffs. He slowly turned to look at you, his eyes darting over your form before finally making eye contact.

“Ah.”

“I’m so sorry,” you hissed, “but sir if I could please get home I can-”

“No.”

You frowned, “Why not?”

“You’d be putting yourself at risk,” König said quickly, “think about where we work.”

“What do you mean?” you cringed into your seat when König took a deep breath.

“KorTac is a private military company,” König explained with strained patience, “we don’t hire many good people here. Maybe you’re safe in the offices, but the soldiers aren’t hired based on morality, ja?”

Your eyes widened as you realized what he was trying to say. 

“Then what the hell am I supposed to do?” you asked.

König drummed his fingers on the table. His eyes flicked around the room as he tried to think of an idea, but just when you gave up on an answer he finally gave a curt nod.

“You’ll stay in my office for the day,” he concluded.

You raised an eyebrow at the suggestion.

“Do you need anything from your desk? I can grab it for you,” König offered.

You offered up a few things that you figured you might need, and König was off in an instant.

With nothing to occupy your hands, you leaned back in your chair and looked around König’s office. It was a small room for such a big man, and particularly for such a high ranking soldier. You could see a display of various medals hung proudly on the wall, all brightly coloured and shining bright under the glass. His desk was covered in various sticky notes for different tasks all written in blue ink. In the window frame there was a dated picture of a family, presumably König’s. There were notably few traces of his personal life, now that you noticed it. He was clearly extremely proud of his career, but his actual personal life was absent save for the single picture of his family.

He could hide his life, but he couldn’t hide his scent. In the haze of your oncoming heat, his scent provided a safety blanket to swaddle yourself in. Now that you were alone, you could truly let yourself go in it. The rich scent soothed your mind, albeit only just barely. What you really needed was more.

As your heat took over, your rational mind slipped away. As such, you didn’t really fight the urge to grab König’s jacket before wrapping it around you. Now you were feeling a bit better. You had a dominant scent to surround you now, soothing your frazzled nerves. Your nose was enveloped by the musky scent of an alpha, serving as a barrier between you and the rest of the world.

The best part, other than the scent, was the sheer warmth that radiated from the jacket. One wouldn’t think an army jacket would be so warm, but for such a high ranking commander he was granted certain luxuries. The light fleece lining wasn’t much, but it was the perfect buffer between you and the cold of the office.

You nuzzled into the large jacket, dwarfing your form in every which way. It draped over your form like a great tent, holding you safe from the elements. How strange that a cheap military-issue jacked was such a treasured vestment in your hands. The outer fabric scratched at you and crinkled with your movements, the inner fleece was cheap and flimsy, and yet it was nothing short of sacred to you. You could die right here and your life would be complete.

As you nuzzled into the jacket, you heard the door behind you creak open.

You turned to face the intruder, finding only König barely managing to hold all your belongings in his large arms.

“Oh you didn’t have to-”

“It’s fine,” his voice was tight as he delicately (messily) put your belongings on the cleanest part of his desk.

You looked down at the jacket, now rags in your hands compared to the alpha before you.

“You can keep that on,” König sat down in his chair, pointedly looking at his screen, “I know omegas like those sorts of things.”

You nodded. You couldn’t even bother to attempt to think about working. All you wanted now was the alpha in front of you.

König noticed you wriggling in your chair from the corner of his eye.

“Are you okay?” he asked gingerly.

“Yep,” your answer was far too clipped to be okay.

“Is the heat coming on?” he asked, his breathing notably shallow.

You hesitated, then nodded shamefully.

König hissed as he looked at the door, then turned to face you again, “Would it help to be close to me?”

You nodded desperately.

He swiveled his chair to the side and spread his legs, “Come on,” he patted his thighs for you.

You didn’t need to be told twice. In an instant, you were curled into his lap and snuggling into his chest. You barely heard his soft groan as you snuggled into him, finally at ease with the world now that you were surrounded by him, caged between the alpha and his desk as he worked.

You settled in his lap with a sigh. He was so wonderfully warm. His jacket was nothing compared to his broad chest and soft tummy. He was glorious in how he radiated just the perfect amount of heat. From here, you could feel his breaths as they fanned out under his mask, could feel the soft fabric fluttering over you as he huffed and puffed. You smiled to yourself when you heard him grumble about some new contracts König had to sign off, bitterly muttering about a waning budget and a particularly wealthy CEO. You didn’t pay much attention, simply comfortably relaxed in König’s arms.

As you nestled into his side, you could feel him tentatively shifting and adjusting around you. He moved you ever so slightly, jostling you from a deep sleep. You were about to snap at him when you felt the lump in his lap.

“I’m so sorry,” König hissed as he hurriedly tried to adjust himself out of the way.

“Don’t be,” you were surprised by your own command.

König, not a man who was keen on being ordered around like a common foot soldier, bristled at your tone. You hurriedly ran a hand along his chest and let out a soft trill to calm him, a little trick omegas could use when needed. You hated to do it, but you weren’t really you at that moment.

“I’m the one who should be sorry,” you tried at assure him, “I’m the one that forgot my pills at home.”

König shuffled awkwardly (you fell further in his lap but made no comment), “I like this, though.”

That threw you for a loop.

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“I sometimes liked to think about this happening,” König admitted, “I wondered what it would be like to be your alpha while you’re in heat. I liked thinking about helping you through it.”

You were floored by how forward he was. No alpha ever dared to be so open with an omega, most certainly not one like you. You barely even knew König, and here he was telling you that he wanted to help you through your heat. Your mind boggled at his audacity.

You looked down at your hands and flushed, “I thought about you being my alpha before too.”

You heard a sharp inhale above.

“König?” you asked carefully.

“Ja?”

“You okay?”

König nodded slowly, “Better than okay.”

You relaxed in his arms, “I always wanted you as an alpha.”

König finally ducked his head to look down at you, his eyes lidded and soft, “Then what’s stopping you?”

You snorted, “Aren’t we at the office?”

“Do you really care?” König drawled.

You didn’t.

You tentatively reached up to his hood and tugged on it to bring you closer, guiding him closer and closer before lifting up the fabric to reveal a thin mouth with a large scar dragging from the corner of his mouth. You couldn’t care less, only pressing a kiss against his lips, soft as down but rich with wanting. König was more than happy to reply in turn, bringing you to him and adjusting you so that you straddled his lap. You let him guide you over him, letting you unbutton his military shirt and grind against the hardening bulge in his lap.

You kissed in a fervor, over and over as you both undressed each other until you were finally able to embrace properly. 

König kissed the scent glands on your neck and said, “I’m sorry, but I’m a big man, even for an alpha. I’ll do my best, but-”

“I don’t care,” you kissed him again and again, “I don’t care.”

He groaned and dropped a hand to your crotch, letting you grind against his hands as they pressed against your entrance. Even now his hands were big, almost all-consuming as he gathered your slick and split you open on his fingers. You cried out as he pushed in, but he was dauntless in his efforts. He was more than glad to keep going, pushing you as you whined and pushed down to bring him further in. You were desperate for more, and he was more than glad to give, pushing in an additional finger to help shape you for his cock.

His other hand grazed over your chest, gently thumbing your nipple as he stretched you open. You whined at the new touch. He was more than happy to shape his hand to your chest and tweak on your nipples, gently rubbing and pinching them to further excite you. You pushed your chest out for him, and he gladly dipped his head down to suck on you. Pleasure shot down to your core, guiding you through the haze of passion. His tongue came out, licking and lapping at you as though you were his last meal. He cherished you, held you, sucked on your buds as he pushed you further and further into oblivion.

“König, please,” you gasped, scrabbling at his waist with limp hands.

König groaned and pulled himself from his boxers with a few tugs. He lined you up on his tip and pressed another kiss to you.

“You’re perfect,” was all you heard before you felt the stretch of him entering you.

He was enormous inside you. Just his head took a minute for you to adjust to him, and that was only the start of him. Even as he pushed you down, you felt like you were slowly coming apart at the seams. He was a massive being in every way.

You slunk lower, lower and lower down onto his length before your hips finally met. König licked at the crook of your neck reverently as you adjusted to him within you.

It took longer than expected, but soon you were rocking your hips against him for more.

König chuckled, but was more than happy to start thrusting within you.

You grabbed onto him, unsheathing your claws and digging into his skin. You curled into him as he pushed into you steadily, thrusting at a slow, steady pace as he prepared you for himself. You cried out at him, but you were unable to do much more than beg and plead as he worked you along.

His hips picked up. Now you could feel the mounting pleasure within you. It was a coil tightening within you, winding you round and round as he pushed up into you. His cock was heavy within you as he moved, dragging along your insides before slamming back in with a grunt. He was huge, impossible to stop. You wouldn’t dare try to stop him, anyways.

You bent over him and relished in his touch. He held you close, burrowing his face into the scent glands on your neck and drawing in as much as he could. You let his scent wash over you, claim you fully and completely. You were his now, his omega. You were more than happy to let him take you as his, now and forever. You never wanted to be apart again. How could you? You were finally whole, and he was the piece you’d been searching for your entire life.

You folded over König as he fucked you relentlessly. His groans and the creaking of the chair sang through the air, accompanied only by your soft pants and moans when he fucked you harder than before. When you tried to cover your mouth, he pulled your hand away with a laugh.

“Let them all know you belong to me,” König panted, “I don’t want anyone else to touch you.”

He held you far too tightly for your poor body, and soon you were bruising under his titanic grip. He fucked you like an animal, like a monster, like a stranger like a lover. He held you as though he’d never felt another’s touch before in his life.

He grunted like a beast as he fucked you. He was like a starving thing, deprived of his one true calling all his life up until this point. He was created by death to make love like no other. He was a beautiful, wonderful thing.

You held onto him to the ebay of your abilities, but you could feel yourself unraveling at the edges. Your stitches unwove from the fabric, your insides spilled over the spear of his cock. He knew violence where you knew softness, and he taught you his savage ways with each thrust.

You threw your head back as he brought you to the edge. You were closer than ever, unable to think of anything but the sounds of your bodies meeting and your voices calling out for each other. You needed him, needed his body, needed his cock, needed him-

You came over him as he gave you one final thrust. His knot ballooned inside you, filling you to the brim as he flooded your womb with his spend. You could feel him filling you, further and further until you cried because it was too much. He was too big, he came too much, it was all too much but he knew, he knew and he loved you for it. He kissed all over you, praising you for taking him so well. You only sniveled as he tenderly pulled you back together. He pushed your stuffing in place, sewed you back up with each press of a kiss against your miraculously unbroken neck gland. You could hardly believe he hadn’t marked you by now, but König was too good a man to claim you without consent.

“Just relax,” you heard him whisper into your ear, “you need to relax for my knot.”

You nodded and settled yourself in his lap, letting yourself slump with the weight of your orgasm. He rubbed your back, soothing you as you came down from your high. König pressed little kisses against your forehead and cheeks, over and over as you relaxed onto him. You shivered, only now feeling how cold the office was.

“One sec,” König grumbled, twisting ever so carefully to grab the jacket and drape it over your shoulders, “there. Better?”

You nodded sleepily.

“Good omega,” König muttered as he leaned back into his chair, his knot tugging slightly with him, “take it all, nice and easy.”

You fell asleep with his knot still swelled inside you, the fervor of your heat sated, if only just for a few hours.

“We’ll talk more when you wake up,” König promised.

You mumbled an agreement and let yourself relax.

Konig Dump

Alternate Universes

NSFW Fanfiction

KoFi HERE

[writingsofwesteros]

Otto pulls some Viserys shit and marries a girl the same age as his son

A beautiful girl, who due to her kindness and charm, ends up being beloved by the court. All except for Otto himself. He basically married her for an alliance and her dowry, but is otherwise uninterested in her. He arranged separate rooms for them after the consummation ceremony. The staff around the Red keep joke that ‘Otto Hightower may be the only man in court not in love with his wife’.

Plenty of men in court try to start up affairs with her, including other men from the Small Counsel. Tyland Lannister never fails to be overly complimentary, bolder lords send her gifts, even proper Jasper Wylde (after one too many cups of wine), despite being upon his 4th wife himself, supposedly expressed surprise that Otto wasn’t more eager to ‘hike up such a young pretty skirt’. He later denied this of course.

She always refused them, and people commended her piety, fostering a good relationship with her religious stepdaughter Alicent.

But in truth, just like Alicent, it was not her husband she longed for, but her stepchild. Gwayne.

She and Gwayne had both been raised in Oldtown, moving in the same circles, eyeing each other for years, and despite always keeping and appropriate distance, the attraction was mutual and powerful.

As ashamed as it made him to think on it, Gwayne had once pressed the favour she had given him for a joust to his nose as he pleasured himself, imagining her in his bed. On another occasion he had happened upon a harlot who bared a resemblance to her, and promptly paid her to spend the entire night with him. He took her back to his room and fucked her on every surface and at every angle, moaning the Lady’s name.

Gwayne had foolishly hoped, when his father entered discussions with the Lady’s family, that he was arranging a marriage for him.

Instead his father claims her maidenhead and then treats her like a bothersome accessory.

He’s baffled to find out his father has been known only to enters his wife’s chambers one evening every three moons. He crosses the hall, is in her chambers for less than an hour and then goes to bed in his own chambers alone. He can’t understand it. He’d be in her bed every night.

Even now, the tension between them remains. They try so hard to be proper, to act appropriately, but they keep ending up alone together, they keep getting closer, more intimate, he still visits whores who look like her, she closes her eyes during her husbands brief visits and pretends it’s Gwayne. But for so long they’ve refused to give in.

Until one day it becomes too much.

Otto had been talking down to them both, bemoaning his sons lack of achievement, talking about his wife’s ‘disappointing lack of fertility’ both to her face and behind her back. And now instead of visiting, Gwayne is in the capitol full time.

One day they find themselves alone again, sharing their feelings, and somehow the Lady admits to how unsatisfied she is in her marriage. Somehow, Gwayne ends up on his knees in front of her. Somehow, she allows him to disappear beneath her skirt. And finally, she is satisfied, again and again. Finally, Gwayne gets to taste her.

And he swears, he will make her Lady Hightower Twice Over, if it’s the last thing he does.

- 🌝🌚 anon is back, and I’m not done

Lady Hightower Twice Over

WELCOME BACK xx

I adore this so much (Otto being such a prick that we love and blaming her for not being fertile , pft )

Poor Lady will tug on Gwayne's hair as she rocks against his face; her stomach tightening before the knight's hand reaches for her sleeves and began to tug.

[steddieasitgoes]

marshmallows roasting on an open fire

Happy @steddiemas to everyone who's celebrating/participating! I'm pulling double duty with this one, fulfilling the prompt "fireplace" and my prompt for @thefreakandthehair Spicy Six -ber Month Challenge which was: “There’s only one right way to roast a marshmallow, and it’s to light it on fire.” Tags: Established Relationship, Eddie Munson Is A Menace, Blizzards, Idiots In Love wc: 1225 | Rated: T read on ao3 | ao3 collection

“I can’t believe you invited me over here without having dessert for me,” Eddie groans, clutching his stomach. It doesn’t matter that he had to unbutton his pants twenty minutes ago to make room for his seventh slice of pizza; his stomach still growls angrily as if it's been starved for weeks. 

Steve rolls his eyes, shaking his head as he plucks a fallen pepperoni from the empty pizza box. “Don’t blame this on me. You’re the one who showed up on my doorstep unannounced with pizza and no dessert in the middle of a blizzard.” 

As if on cue, the wind howls outside, whipping around the freshly fallen snow into mini tornados that crash into the house's many windows. The power went out hours ago, plunging the too-big house into total darkness until Steve managed to find the flashlight Dustin got him for Christmas last year. When Eddie showed up, he managed to get the stubborn fireplace Steve was convinced was just for show lit, saving them both from hypothermia. 

Since then, they’ve been lounging on the floor of Steve’s living room, basking in the warmth of the fire and slowly shedding layers of dusty blankets Steve found in the linen closet. It’s not how Steve planned to spend the day, but he’s not complaining either. It’s unlikely he would have survived Hawkins's first blizzard in a decade by himself. 

He could do without Eddie’s nonstop bemoaning about dessert, though. 

“How is a man supposed to live without a sweet treat?” Eddie whines, throwing his hand over his face like an overdramatic housewife on those soaps El is obsessed with. 

“You’re worse than Henderson, dude.” 

Eddie scoffs, flipping Steve off immediately. “I take great offense to that. Henderson is a grade-A whiner with a know-it-all-tone. I am merely pointing out an injustice that has befallen us here in this humble abode you begrudgingly call home.” 

“Good to know your lack of dessert doesn’t affect your theatrics.” Steve chucks one of his mom’s ugly ass throw pillows in Eddie’s direction, but it dips at the last second, landing squarely in Eddie’s lap instead of decking him in the face as he intended. 

“Come on,” Eddie whines again. “I know you have a mean sweet tooth, too. Buckley told me all about your frequent trips to the freezer at Scoops. Tell me, did the cookie dough gallon really get delivered empty, or did you eat it all in one shift, big boy?” 

Steve’s face reddens, and it, unfortunately, has nothing to do with the fire burning a few feet in front of him. “I’m going to kill her.” 

Eddie cackles and slowly pushes himself up from the floor. His unbuttoned pants fall slightly without his belt and button to secure them around his thin frame, but he pays them no mind, already tripping his way into the kitchen with Steve’s flashlight. 

“What are you doing?” Steve asks, trying his best to untangle himself from the mess of blankets he’s still cocooned in. 

“There has to be something in this big ass kitchen that’ll satisfy my sweet tooth.”

“Am I not sweet enough for you, darling” Steve teases, sneaking his arms around Eddie’s bloated stomach. He hooks his head over Eddie’s shoulder, tilting his head away enough to bat his eyelashes in a way he knows drives Eddie wild. 

Like clockwork, Eddie makes a strangled sound before shrugging Steve off of him. “Did you forget the last time you played this game with me?” He doesn’t wait for Steve to respond and instead shoves his head into the walk-in pantry. 

“I had your teeth marks on my ass for weeks!” 

“Yeah, and you’re lucky it was just your ass, baby,” Eddie says, words sounding distant as he shoves himself further into the pantry. 

The rustling of bags has nothing on the howling wind outside, definitely not after there’s a clatter of bins that follow. Eddie swears, but Steve doesn’t dare interfere. He’s learned not to interrupt his boyfriend when he’s on some sort of mission — the bruise on his hips is the only reminder he needs. 

There’s another cacophony of falling baskets and swears before Eddie emerges with half a bag of marshmallows, a sleeve of what appears to be graham crackers, and one Hershey bar that Eddie’s already taking a bite out of. 

Eddie thrusts them over his head in victory as he kicks the door shut behind him. “Victory is ours, Sir Stevery, fore I have secured us the sweetest of provisions.” 

“And tell me, Eds, how are you going to make S’mores in the middle of a blizzard? We don’t have a bonfire!” 

Eddie tsks, shaking his head fondly as he comes to pats Steve's shoulder. “Oh silly, Stevie, you don’t need a bonfire for S’mores. That’s just something the government wants you to think. We have a fire right there!” 

Steve follows Eddie’s extended finger to the lit fireplace, still burning its way through the handful of logs Eddie had arranged hours ago. And okay, yes, technically, they do have fire, but Steve doesn’t think they should go around sticking marshmallows into the damn thing, especially when they don’t have wood skewers for the marshmallows to go on. 

There’s no time to voice his concern, though, because Eddie races toward the fireplace with a marshmallow skewered on a serving fork he must have found in the depths of the pantry. 

“Be careful!” Steve shouts as Eddie thrusts the marshmallow into the flame without a care in the world, as if he’s not holding a metal fucking fork that’s not meant to be used for roasting marshmallows. Reluctantly, he settles on his knees beside Eddie and runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe you shouldn’t stick it in all the way.” 

“Never heard that before,” Eddie jokes before waving off his boyfriend’s fretting as he peels his eyes away from the toasting snack and looks at Steve pointedly. “There’s only one right way to roast a marshmallow, and it’s to light it on fire.” Eddie shoves the marshmallow deeper into the flame, rotating it slowly, ensuring the entire thing is engulfed. 

“Yeah, maybe when you’re outside!” Steve snarks, trying his best to tug Eddie’s arm and the fork free from the growing inferno. “You’re cooking that thing in a fireplace in my house!” 

“Stop being such a drama king, it’s fine! See!” Eddie says, yanking the marshmallow free. 

It’s not fine. 

It’s the complete opposite of fine, actually. 

The marshmallow is its own inferno, now, growing bigger despite Eddie trying to blow it out. His efforts only make things worse, sending embers around the room and setting the frayed edges of one of the dusty old blankets on fire. 

“Jesus H. Christ!” Eddie shouts, shoving the flaming marshmallow into the ash bucket before running to help Steve stomp out the growing flame on the blanket.

Burnt socks, an ash-stricken carpet, and a few minutes later, they manage to get everything under control, and when they do, they collapse onto the floor in a panting, exhausted heap.

“So, that was a bad idea.” 

“You think?” Steve asks before immediately doubling over in laughter. “I can’t believe your sweet tooth almost set the house on fire!” 

Eddie pouts before his lips twitch into a mischievous grin. “Guess you’ll have to be my sweet treat after all.” 

[meglosthegreat]

"It was fun, but it got a little boring by the end" is perhaps the most common review of Veilguard's combat that I've seen. No one seems to have strong opinions about it, overall. As far as things to have beef with this game over, it doesn't even make the shortlist, really. I mean, it was fine.

But hell, I'm not above being petty, especially when it comes to this game. So amidst all the other things wrong with this game, here's my hot take: Bioware doesn't understand RPG combat, and why it's useful in, you know, RPGs, as they ostensibly claim to make.

This didn't start with Veilguard, though Veilguard is obviously the subject of this post. It was apparent since before DAI that they were gravitating towards action combat, and I had a lot of problems with Inquisition's system at the time. But Veilguard took it even further, doubling down on their pivot away from RPG mechanics. And, well, I don't think a proper RPG system could've saved this game. But it could've given the game something it desperately lacks - replayability.

RPGs are long games, are driven by the premise that most players will not follow the exact same path towards the end, and above all, are designed to be played in as many ways as possible. This is why character classes exist; why there are multiple weapons to choose from, and why there are more party members to pick from than can fit in your party at once. This works when you consider the other hallmarks of RPGs: different story paths, dialogue choices, and romance options. Variation outside of combat compliments variation within it, and this makes a good RPG something you can play several times and have a completely different experience each time.

And more than that, the mechanics of an RPG compliment a game that could take anywhere from 80-100 hours to complete. You NEED that level of choice within the game mechanics to get you through that long a game, and Veilguard's problem is that it has the length of an RPG, but the combat system of your average 30-40 hour action game.

Of course, there are excellent action games out there that are also up in the 100-hour range, but what these games do that Veilguard did not, is put the majority of focus on their combat systems. Elden Ring is probably the best example of this, but of course we wouldn't want a Dragon Age that's like Elden Ring, really - Dragon Age needs to have more going for it than just combat. And if you can't build your whole game around its combat system, then you need something that has the longevity to sustain a 100-hour runtime.

Everyone bemoaning the lack of direct companion control is absolutely correct - their lack of damage output and usefulness compared to the player renders them basically meaningless in combat. But what this also does is make any kind of customization of their abilities or their gear next to pointless. Even if you could replay this game and build them differently - which you can't, let's be clear - doing so would not make a single iota of difference in combat.

And Rook themselves - well, consensus is that the game starts to get boring about 40 hours in. That's roughly the place where you've gotten enough skill points to specialize in one thing, and though, sure, you could theoretically refund all your points and try something else, by that time you've gotten enough points to acquire all the skills in the general tree anyway. It doesn't help that the gear system is such that whichever items you happen to get early will probably be the ones you end up sticking with. It definitely doesn't help that the enemies in this game severely lack variation, and once you've fought one dragon, you've fought them all.

You know what would have helped? Giving people multiple ways to approach combat. Giving us enemies that require a different approach. Giving us companions that you can build out in interesting ways. Giving us, in short, a reason to play this game again. Because if you're going to create an 80-100 hour game that has very little else going on mechanically, then the very least you can do is make sure your combat is actually fun for the full 100 hours.

[darkmagyk]

Part 4 of Let them Call it a Sin

3 hours ago, it was midnight I was like "no writing today, but that's fine." And then I wrote this in the middle of the night. So that's fun.

Percy had been in an absolute panic for days. He’d been to war as a squire for the first time at 12. This was worse than a battlefield, worse than seeing a sword swinging at his head. Worse than being young and unprepared. And at least at war disquiet was expected.

The queen was giving birth. And the Duke of Thera would be expected to hhow basic concern, but not the deep, soul crushing anxiety that was currently his constant  companion.

Annabeth, the woman he loved, was giving birth to his child. The most dangerous time of a woman's life, and he could not be with her, could not express his deep worry for her, could not truly tell anyone of his fears for the baby. 

He wished he could see her again. Before the king court arrived three weeks ago he'd had three months with her, three months of play acting house.  It was a domestic bliss he could never have, for how would he ever love any other woman more than he loved his Queen. And he would settle for no less

He wished she could see his mother. His mother knew his dark secret. And he knew she could offer him comfort. But unlike Percy, Lady Sally was allowed to attend the queen. That was its own comfort. For their was no one better placed to help Annabeth. But the separation still hurt.

He'd gone riding yesterday, to the farthest ends of his estate. He hadn’t gotten back until dark.  But he couldn't bear to be that far away today. What if something happened? He prayed nothing would happen to the baby. And he tried not to think about anything else, because if something happened to Annabeth he truly did not know how he would go on.

He should have gone and found his father, the King was likely to be first informed if something went wrong with the queen, but he couldn't stand the man's apathy right now. Anymore than he could stand his own deception.

He was hiding in his Library. The last Duke of Thera, or perhaps the one before that, had been a great scholar. It was a well-stocked, beautifully decorated space, full of comfortable couches and intricate tables. Annabeth had loved it when they had first toured his house,  she said it reminded her of home, both her father and uncle kept excellent libraries. She'd sometimes fall asleep on one of the couches,  and it still smelled like her.

Sometimes he threw himself down to be surrounded by her scent. And sometimes he flung himself away, afraid of never smelling it again. 

He was on the couch now, trying to think of anything else he could do with himself.  He nearly screamed at the poor page who knocked on the door, interrupting his brooding. If the boy had entered without knocking, which some of the Royal pages had taken to doing, he might have. But the boy knocked, so Percy kept his head and called for the boy to enter.

The boy was wearing the king's livery,  and bowed to Percy, who rose to greet him. 

“If it pleases, Your Grace, the King has asked for you to attend him. The queen gave birth and he wishes to have a prayer to the Gods for the baby's health.”

“ The baby is born?” Percy said, feeling an entirely new form of shock. His child was here. Real and present and not just a growing phantom in a belly. “Is the queen all right?”

“The Princess was born,” The boy said. A princess. Percy had a daughter, “ and the queen's alive.” 

 Percy would take the lack of a ‘for now’  on the end of his sentence to mean at least no rumors of her imminent death were spreading below stairs.

He would content himself with that right now, and see his father. 

***

He at least made it through the prayer service without crying or attacking the king when he bemoaned, just to his bastard son,  but he’d wanted a boy. 

Though after he said that he'd pause and gave Percy a long. considered look. If Percy were younger, or perhaps had more respect for his father’s intelligence, he might have feared the king figured him out in that moment. But he just stared back, wondering what the King saw when he looked at his son and tractor. Then the king clapped his shoulder, and said “I've got two strong sons already. A daughter can be useful, can she not?”

Percy had enough control to agree, “ Yes sir.” and then, perhaps boldend by a year of Annabeth's tutelage, added “Lady Sally gave birth not so long ago, also to a girl. She will be of an age with the princess,  perhaps if Lady Sally were giving some charge over her nursery, Lady Estelle would be a fitting playmate.”

His father considered him again, and Percy wondered if he thought it was some sort of bad trick to get his mother and father back together. A silly idea. King Poseidon was married as surely as Lady Sally was. And he wished his father on his mother no more than he wished his father on Annabeth. Though Queen Annabeth and Lady Sally were both too linked with him to truly escape.

“A sharp idea, lad,” his father said, “I really need no more sons when I have one as sharp as you, do I.” 

“I'm glad to serve,” Was all Percy responded. He did not like the look his father kept giving him. Too much of the King's attention often worked out for Percy, it had gotten him titles, lands, and important military campaigns. But in these circumstances that made him all the more uneasy.

“What will you name your princess?”

“Oh yes,”  the king sighed, “ I suppose I hadn't really thought about that. I could name her after my mother.” Princess Rhea was not as pretty as Princess Annabeth or Princess Sophia, but it would do. Percy was sure he would learn to love it as much as he loved the girl. ”But I'm not sure. Maybe I’ll leave it to the queen to decide. It will save me the trouble of thinking of it. As I learned from your mother, women often have some sort of ideas about that.”

“That would be very generous, Your Majesty.”  Percy said, and could not suppress his smile at the thought of his little Princess Sophia, “ I'm sure the queen will love that. How fairs she?”

“She's not dead,” Poseidon said like he was commenting on the weather, preferring a sunny day, but knowing a raining one would not ruing his day, “and I'm told there's no worry, yet,  that will change.”

“I will pray for her continued good health,”  Percy choked out, “and that of my new little sister.”

He was not able to excuse himself until after luncheon.  Luckily his father did not dwell on either the queen or princess. It made Percy despise the man if you never had before, but it also meant he did not have to think on it over much, and come up with things to say that we're not professing his love.

His father wanted to know about the estate and the Duchy of Thera. Percy was able to speak on that. On hearing petitions from his peasants and speaking to the Lord's under him. How his steward Grover had many ideas about the crops and how to get the best yields for many years to come, and how Percy was considering collecting taxes this year. His father nodded in approval, and Percy had never once cared about his approval less.

He finally got away when the king called for his pipe. Claiming exhaustion and thinking he would need to have someone seriously air out this room when the Royal Court finally vacated it, so he did not wonder about Annabeth and the baby.

He did not want to return to the library, but with so many members of court crawling around his house, he’d ended up having his steward make the library up as his bedroom so he would not have to figure out exactly where among the Dukes and duchesses he was supposed to be  housed. 

He’d brought the third best bed for those purposes. Leaving the first for Annabeth and the second for his mother and Paul. The king traveled with his own. And Triton would just have to make do. 

He splashed some water into his face and spent a few minute heaving over the chamber pot, just to make sure he wouldn’t throw up anywhere else.

Then he said his own private prayers for Queen Annabeth and Princess Sophia.  

His mother found him kneeling on the bed after the sun had gone down, and his valet had brought him his meal.

“She's all right,” she assured him as soon as the door had closed behind her, “and the baby as well. Both have gone to sleep right now, and I imagine after one more night and a hearty breakfast in the morning our Queen will be able to get out of bed. The wet nurse said the baby took her food well. So you have nothing to worry about.”

“They could take a turn.”   Percy said.

His mother sighed, sitting down on the bed next to him, and taking his hand, she squeezed it.

“My boy, tomorrow you could take a turn. Do not invite that worry into your life early. Both mother and child are doing well, all evidence suggests they will continue to do so. Perhaps as soon as tomorrow you shall see the queen.” Her eyes narrowed, “but you will give her several months rest.”

“I had not even thought…what do I need to do too…”

“Perhaps the three of us shall discuss that later. Right now I think you need to rest.  it's been a hard few days for you.”

“Yes mother,” He agreed. He would rest. He would say his prayers and rest and dream of his love and his daughter. 

***

He did not see Annabeth the next day. It was three days when she put in an appearance, sitting next to the king briefly. She looked pale and tired. But in good spirits.

He did not get to speak to her for over a week. But he knew his father would have him into a private reception after the baby’s naming blessing, so he would be able to speak to her there. 

She looked a bit better then. In a new gown, he thought, a beautiful blue that brought out her eyes. The nursemaid behind her, carrying Sophia wrapped in blue and purple. A royal princess. 

“He will still be the king’s blood.” Annabeth had told him once, some months ago. He’s has always known he’ll have royal grandchildren. The fact that he does not already should shame Triton.” And Percy knew that it did. And caused the King quite a bit of worry and anger. “We are taking nothing which was not our due.”

It felt a little too pat, Percy thought, and he did not think the words would sway the executioner's blade. But it wasn’t entirely untrue. 

Percy was not with the royal family for this event. Triton was standing on the dais with the Priest, King, Queen, and baby Princess. Normally he didn’t care, not really. But right this second he would give anything to be so close to his daughter. 

“We are gathered here today,” the Priest started, “to ask the gods to bless this child, and to name her for their work.” 

It was a routine speech. Percy had been asked by several of his vassals to serve as witnesses to a naming blessing, A high honor. So he knew what to expect.��

Each of the 12 ruling gods would be named, and their blessings asked for in her life. She would be introduced to all of them by name. And then she would be considered ready to grow up, protected by the gods. 

He hoped Poseidon had not changed his mind about letting Annabeth name the baby. Percy had spoken to him several times, and he’d said he’d told Annabeth she could. But he could always change his mind. 

“To the king of the gods,” the Priest was saying, “We present you Princess Annabeth of House Atlantis and ask that you…”

He looked up sharply, and from the dais, Annabeth caught his eye, smiling. She’d not named the child Sophia, she’d used his name.

Annabeth had let him name his daughter.

His little Annabeth. 

He could not have loved either of them more if he tried.

[tgmsunmontue]

Number 8 for TGM Cymav? 🤗🤗🤗

💛💛💛

You my dear can have the first 800 words of the fic because it's ready to post. This particular CyMav doesn't have aviator-Bradley as it sits within the Take more chances, dance more dances (the one where Bradley refers to Jake as the toothpick twiddler).

I have a definite soft-spot for this little fic and am always bemoaning my lack of time to just write fic (imagine how much I could write if I didn't have to work???) Cyclone here is the main focus.

                He’s never met the infamous Maverick.

                Considering the circles he moves in it’s something of a surprise.

                He’s heard plenty though, and it’s more than enough to fill him with trepidation when Admiral Kazansky calls him and suggests, with the voice of someone who expects such a suggestion to be followed, that he bring Maverick in to assist with the mission.

                He drinks about a third of a bottle of scotch.

                It’s not a good coping mechanism. However, it does feel like an appropriate response all the same.

                Of course he regrets the decision the following morning, head pounding and mouth furry with regret, mood sour when Solomon grins at him widely. He’s always been a morning person and right now Beau lets himself hate him for it.

…            …            …

                “Captain Pete Maverick Mitchell.”

                “Your reputation precedes you.”

                “Thank you, sir.”

                “Wasn’t a compliment.”

                “I’m Admiral Beau Simpson. I’m the air boss. I believe you know Admiral Bates,” Beau says, and he’s not quite sure why he included his first name there. At no point should Captain Mitchell be using his first name.

                “Warlock, sir. Must admit, I wasn’t expecting an invitation back.”

                “They’re called orders, Maverick,” Solomon says, tone dry and Beau has to hide a smile, the pain killers he took finally having kicked in. “You two have something in common. Cyclone here was first in his class back in 88.”

                “Actually, sir, I finished second. Just want to manage expectations.”

                And he’s back to being an annoying fuck. Great. He sucks in a breath and runs through the parameters of the mission at hand. It’s been a mad scramble, getting some of the best tacticians into a room, reviewing schematics and running through different parameters and doing multiple what if? what if? what if? Scenarios to come up with something that resembles a potential plan of attack. It doesn’t seem like one that will work. He makes a comment about old relics and Solomon raises an eyebrow at him, but he doesn’t care if he ruffles Maverick’s feathers. From everything he’s heard the man is unflappable.

                “What’s your read, Captain?”

                He listens as Maverick runs through the mission, obviously talking aloud and dismissing options but summarising in a few sentences what has taken several people around the table a few hours to do.

                Fuck.

                Admiral Kazansky might know what he’s talking about after all.

…            …            …

                Maverick is studying the schematics and Beau looks at them and then back at Maverick, hears him murmur someone’s not coming back from this under his breath and he swallows roughly, jaw tense. He's been trying to make his peace with that fact for several days already.

                “Can it be done or not?”

                “How soon before the plant becomes operational?”

                “Three weeks. Maybe less.”

                The timeline is something that has him feeling worried; he knows the pilots are good, but getting them to the point in such a short period of time is what has him quietly the most worried.

                “Well, it’s been a while since I’ve flown an f-18, and… I’m not sure who I’d trust to fly the other three. But I’ll find a way to make it work.”

                “I think you misunderstand, captain.”

                “Sir?”

                “We don’t want you to fly it. We want you to teach it.”

                “Teach, sir?” Maverick asks, and the way he says it makes it sound like a dirty word, and his entire demeanour is confused and Beau would find it amusing in any other circumstance.

                “We’ve recalled twelve top gun graduates from their squadrons. We want you to narrow that pool down to six. They’ll fly the mission. Is there a problem, captain?”

                “With all due respect, sir, I’m not a teacher.”

                Beau notes he doesn’t answer the question and he grimaces, it’s not a good sign.

                “You were a top gun instructor before.”

                “That was almost 30 years ago. I lasted two months. It’s not where I belong.”

                Beau lets out a long breath.

                “Then let me be perfectly blunt. You were not my first choice. In fact, you weren’t even on the list. You are here at the request of Admiral Kazansky. Now, Iceman happens to be a man I deeply admire, and he seems to think that you have something left to offer the Navy. What that is, I can’t imagine,” he says, although the last bit is a definite stretch of the truth if not an outright lie. However he also has Cain breathing down his neck and he’s always managed to play the political juggling game with ease. “You don’t have to take this job. But let me be clear: This will be your last post, captain. You fly for top gun, or you don’t fly for the Navy ever again.”

                If Maverick is their best shot, then he’s going to have Maverick teach his naval aviators everything he knows.

                Then next morning, when Maverick throws the F-18 NATOPS into the trashcan his stomach sinks, because this sheer disregard for the paperwork makes his skin itch and he wonders just what kind of mistake he’s made.

[victoriansimmer]

Roughly a week of pain, sweat, and tears later, I have concocted my first ever Sims 4t2 conversion. She ain't perfect by any means, and one day I will probably redo this mesh completely, but I thought I would put her out into the ether in case anyone else wanted to share in her imperfect glory.

If you've known me for any short period of time, you've heard me bemoan about the lack of mid-19th century bodice and skirt silhouettes. Too empire this, too bustle that. I've spent hours upon hours wishing that I loved the sims 4 more than I do simply so that I could have a historically-accurate silhouette. And then I saw @theroyalthornoliachronicles releasing dresses daily for Advent, and I knew it was time to learn blender and milkshape and the 12 other applications it requires to make 4t2 possible (I wish I were exaggerating--holy cats). I've come away with so much awe and appreciation for all of you CC creators.

The mesh functions just fine in game. There are some imperfections at the collar/neck, and you can see a bit of white poking out from one of the sleeves (I had to remove the inner white sleeves because I truly thought I was going to die, and I am not being dramatic). The texture could be cleaner, too. Like I said, not perfect, but good enough for my Victorian townies even if they aren't leading ladies.

Thanks, as always, to @simbury. She, among other marvelous folk over at the Historical Sims Discord and even a bit at the PBK Discord, walked me step by step through the majority of this process despite our wild time differences. She even took my raw file and fixed my stupidity at one point. Go tell her she's a regency rockstar.

Comes in seven dark-academia, rich and plain colors loosely based off the Historian Palette. Behold, Robe de Raymonde.

Download here (SFS):

[amypihcs]

Extracorporeal Experience Thursday GO

Alright humans of all sorts, we're at chapter 3, let's see what's going on!

Well, AND FOR GOOD RE- Holmes? Why is that man vibrating in excitement?

Oh well, Holmes always was a rather queer fellow. NOW MORTIMER! Answer my quiz!

Oh yeah so... big doggo?

yep. big-big doggo.

HOLMES! Don't be so very interested, snap out of the case, remember social niceties. Geez, next time you'll tell a poor chap accused of murder that his situation is 'so very gratifying', AH!

Holmes SO WANTS to study Mortimer under a microscope!

And drama, of course comes natural to such a man as he is.

So, do we call the Mistery Inc or are we able to pull it off? even if Mortimer is thinking oh-so-loudly that it's demonic stuff?

... you are not a modest man, we know, and we know the reasons. BUT GOD'S SAKE HOLMES!

This man's hilarious, i SWEAR. BUT HE'S NOT A GHOSTBUSTER! so

How can Holmes be of help? Man likes the case!

Allow an italian a moment to bemoan out lack of punctuality in public transport... And back online! Some gossip and inheritance-legal stuff follows, family lines and so on...

HOLMES! Have a care!

You can't just go on dismissing the man's worries this way, god's sake!

But the local devil's terribly funny to think about, lol.

See? Mortimer got QUITE a bit distressed by that!

W: Don't worry, Dr Mortimer, he's just like this, but he does care.

NOW you've got your job, Mortimer, (shirtcuff note mention), Leave. Me. To. Mine. -cackles madly-

You're going out John?

Now. Holmes is already vibrating from happy case chemicals, And has asked very prettily his Watson for some tobacco. For FAR TOO MUCH tobacco.

H: You'll be out all day, dear? Have fun, we'll compare notes later. W: Sure. Have fun too, darling.

You leave your husband with a 'i love you' and you're sure to return to a livable house, of course. And then...

COUGH COUGH COUGH HOLMES!!!

Always like this! It's INTOLERABLE! DON'T YOU TRY THAT!

H: -deductions- W: DON'T. I'm trying to be annoyed at you. -kissy- Insufferable. H. Deduce me now, Watson?

Okay, i don't want to know or even imagine what sort of cocktail of drugs was in Holmes' bloodstream. Sure too much nicotine and caffeine.

He vibrated himself to Devonshire and back. Alright. So normal.

Just as much as this super normal cat behavior. Another couple of years and he'll buy a trunk to think into it. And poor Watson will have to lure him out of that.

Also, it's not concentration, Holmes. It's carbon dioxide intoxication.

I don't want to think to the desperate scream of his joints either, as a person who often keeps the same cross-legged positions for hours on end as they study.

NOW WATSON. What are your own thoughts about the case?

Well well... Interesting thoughts Holmes... Very interesting.

But now, Watson, let's take this out of our heads! -Watson is discreetly re-opening the windows- First a serenade... and then Will you help a detective to have no thought at all?

We'll know of the conversation with Sir Henry in the next episode! And remember the yaoi goggles!

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

Semper Eadem (iii, ao3)

If there’s one thing any self-respecting Elizabethan looks forward to, it’s a jousting match. Be a shame if someone got hurt, wouldn’t it? (Presenting chapter three for @nessianweek day 4!)

(chapter one // chapter two)

Another letter waited when she woke.

Pushed beneath her door as she slept, it lay in the small patch of golden sunlight that filtered through her chamber windows, and Nesta knew before she plucked it from the ground that it was from Cassian. From the crisp, straight edges of the parchment, she knew that this wasn’t a letter that he’d carried with him from his ship. No— this was a new letter, and as she thought of the way she’d smiled deliberately at the Duke of Northumberland last night, she had a feeling she knew exactly when Cassian had penned this particular piece of correspondence. Exactly why he’d penned it, too. 

Her name had been written in that grand, sweeping cursive of his, but his pen had stumbled a little at the end, like his hand had quaked. It shouldn’t have been endearing. Shouldn’t have had her fighting a smile, but—

Damn him.

She weighed the letter in her palm, turning it in hand, and found Rhysand’s seal keeping the edges together. A mountain crowned with three stars was embossed in the dark red wax— some symbol of the Welsh peaks Rhysand’s ancestors hailed from. Nesta fought the urge to roll her eyes, and did not mourn the way that seal cracked as she opened the letter— didn’t mind as the mountain cleaved in two. 

Dearest Nesta, his letter read.

The hour is late, and I know that you will be abed already, but I find myself longing more than anything to hear your voice. I confess, sweetheart, that you left me rather desolate tonight as you left the great hall, and I wish it were not so— that things were not so fraught between us. I wish, too, that I could speak these words aloud to you, but alas, I think the Queen would have my head if I came to find you at such an hour. I will merely have to settle for this— ink and paper and distance. It is a sorry substitute for your sharp tongue, but perhaps if I happen to give myself a paper cut I suppose the end result will be the same. 

I had half a mind to spout some poetry - my heart bleeds for you, et cetera, et cetera - but truly I am not very good at it. My tutors as a boy bemoaned it often, and always said that I was a pale shadow in comparison to Azriel who, irritatingly, is very good at spouting poetry. All I can offer instead is my most heartfelt truth— that I missed you during those days at sea more than anything in the world. Trust, sweetheart, that every word I wrote in my previous letters was the truth, and had I only the opportunity to send them to you, I would have. 

I regret no more now for lack of time, since it is surely not long now until dawn. Sleep well, dear heart, for I trust to see you at breakfast, where I live in hope that you will grant me your favour for the day’s joust.

Ever yours, C.

Nesta blinked, folding the edges of letter together again, brushing a thumb over that broken seal. Her heart fluttered, ever yours resounding in her head, clanging through her chest and ringing like a church bell. Something uncomfortable gathered in her stomach as she thought of the way she had taunted him, the way she had smiled at Eris as her eyes had passed over Cassian entirely. Letting out a bitter huff, she looked to the sun limning the windowpanes, knowing it was only a matter of time before the Queen called for her. She had wanted to make Cassian jealous, and clearly she had already had considerable success but—

Her resolve was cracking.

She had only wanted to give him a taste of what it had been like for her— a sample of the agony she’d felt with every day she’d waited for word from him, not knowing if he was dead or alive. She wanted him to ache the way she had ached for months, but— God’s wounds, did he have to make it so bloody difficult?

She huffed once more, tossing the letter onto the sideboard. Swiftly she dressed— in the finest gown she owned, no less. It was a pale blue and embroidered with silver thread, shining delicate in the morning light. It had been a gift from the Queen, the bolt of fabric so frightfully expensive that even Nesta had been shocked by the generosity. Her father was a duke, and so Nesta fell into the rather slim category of individuals who could wear the colour without breaking the Queen’s sumptuary laws, and it was lucky, because if Nesta knew one thing with certainty, it was that Cassian enjoyed the sight of her in blue.

The first time they had met she had been wearing a dress made of a pale grey, so pale it was almost blue in a certain light. He’d told her then that the colour brought out her eyes.

Perhaps that was what gave her pause before she left her chamber— the thought of him that very first day, glancing up at her with an easy grin and a boyish charm, an irreverence that had made her want to smile. Perhaps it was that memory that had her lingering by the sideboard, studying his letter anew, like it might give her whatever it was she’d been searching for. She couldn’t say, wasn’t certain, and she didn’t know why, but before Nesta left that chamber—

She took up that letter and tucked it inside her bodice.

***

Nesta loved a joust.

The brightly coloured pennants fluttered in the gentle breeze, and beneath the Queen’s canopy the golden tassels hanging from the royal standard gleamed a bright yellow, with three golden lions looking out over the tiltyard, mouths open in silent, embroidered roars. The standard hung above Elizabeth’s chair, taller than the rest, and like the lions on her crest the Queen seated cast her eyes over the yard too, humming in approval as the tournament inched closer.

A long wooden beam ran horizontal through the centre of the yard, and on either end men were preparing— donning armour, feeling the weight of a lance. The stands were already filled with spectators, and somewhere along the other end of the yard minstrels and musicians had taken up, the sound of a lute filtering through the morning air. Greensleeves— they were playing Greensleeves, but Nesta was only barely listening, scanning the yard instead for dark hair and a wicked smile. At the far end, she had glimpsed Rhysand ducking beneath the awning of a tent to ready himself, and a moment later she’d seen the spymaster enter too. Cassian was in there, she was certain of it, but since the Queen had spent so long that morning readying herself for the day, Nesta had missed him at breakfast and hadn’t caught sight of him, much as he’d hoped she would in his letter. 

She glanced down at the ribbons on the sleeve of her dress now. 

Cassian had asked for her favour, but had yet to come and claim it. Mildly, she blinked.

She was wondering why - wondering what had changed his mind - when she caught sight of him at last. He exited the tent Rhysand had entered, already wearing plate armour that had been polished to a high shine, gleaming in the sunlight and moulded perfectly to every swell of muscle, every powerful inch of his frame. A helmet was tucked beneath his arm, and from such a distance Nesta couldn’t hear the way his spurs clattered against his silver plate as he walked, but she could imagine it so vividly it was as though he were already right beside her. He caught her eye— from across the yard, even with so much yawning distance stretching between them, he found her and grinned, raising one hand in greeting as he handed his helm to a passing squire.

He was entirely devoid of jewellery now.

No rings shone on his fingers, no pearl dangled from his ear. His hair was tied back, not a single strand straying, unruly, into his face. He looked ready for battle, a warrior through and through, bedecked in a staggering expanse of shining steel, and Nesta felt her heart kick behind her ribs at the sight— the traitorous thing. Caught somewhere between a scowl and a sigh, she watched intently as her knight stepped forward, and she knew with certainty that he was going to approach her now, that he was going to ask for her favour.

And she’d give it.

God help her— she’d give it.

The damned letter had crumbled her resolve, and her eyes were fixed on him now, on that effortless smile that graced his face, on the way he looked so at home in steel. Her breath caught in her throat, her bottom lip finding a home between her teeth as he flexed his hands, pulling on his gauntlets.

It was its own kind of lunacy, how good he looked in armour. She dragged her eyes over the width of his shoulders, over the broad, hardened span of his chest, and down— all the way down to those shapely calves of his, brought into stark definition by lines of solid steel. She half felt as though the air had been drawn from the tiltyard with the way it refused to fill her lungs, and she couldn’t bring herself to look away from him, like he had suddenly become her world, that which her sun and moon and stars revolved. 

A great deal of the Queen’s ladies thought Azriel was the most attractive knight in the field, but as Cassian stalked slowly towards her from the other end of the yard…

Nesta couldn’t for the life of her understand why.

It was Cassian who held her attention— that imposing frame of his, lined head to toe with cold steel, had her heart fluttering inside her chest as he looked at her with purpose, like she was the only one in the world he saw. It was almost enough to make her dizzy, and—

“My lady,” a voice said, dragging her attention away from the corner of the yard, where Cassian had stilled. Nesta blinked. “I beg for your favour— a token of your affection so that I may compete in your honour.”

Looking down over the wooden railing of the stands, Nesta found the Duke of Northumberland staring up at her, a knowing smile curving his lips. 

She hesitated.

Eris was handsome, even she could not deny it. The sharp cut of his jaw was elegant and fine, and his hair was a richer red than even the Queen’s, much to Elizabeth’s chagrin. His dukedom stretched halfway along the Scottish border to the coast, a once-volatile territory more settled in recent decades than ever before, and with the size of his estates and coffers, he was hardly a disappointing match for a woman of her standing. Indeed, if her father went through with the betrothal, Nesta could hardly complain that her husband wasn’t attractive, nor could she find issue with the scale of his wealth. 

Elizabeth looked at her now, amusement glittering in her dark, unforgiving eyes— so much like her father’s, as sharp and as cutting as the eyes of ravens housed at the Tower. This was the Queen’s favourite game— this dance of chivalry and courtly love, and as Nesta looked down at her wrist, at the ribbons decorating her sleeve, her stomach sank like a stone dropped into a wishing well. She dared to glance beyond Eris— to Cassian, where he had halted at the end of the yard. Even with so much distance between them, Nesta could see how his face had darkened, the murderous tilt to his head and the way his fingers had curled into a fist. She might have laughed at the hardness that had settled over his features - after all, wasn’t this exactly what she’d wanted when she’d smiled at Eris in the chapel? In the hall? - had there not been something inside her whispering that this was one step too far, the cut a little too deep. 

Because Cassian came no nearer, only watched from afar as Eris extended a hand, dipping into a smooth bow as he lifted his gaze to his monarch and his potential bride. 

If only you had come to me sooner, Nesta thought ruefully as she turned her attention back to Eris, still waiting for her to bestow her favour. Didn’t you learn that lesson from all those months away? That no matter how much I want to, I can’t spend my life waiting for you?

Because she couldn’t refuse. The rules of the game forbade it, and all of it - all of it - was a game. It was one the entire court played day in and day out, one of gentle flirtation and chivalric romance, where a courtier wooed his lady with pretty words and grand gestures, and Nesta was powerless against it. A knight had asked for her favour, and it would have been remiss of her not to grant it, especially when the knight in question was a man who might very well wind up being her husband.

No— as Nesta rose smoothly to her feet and untied a single ribbon, she knew she had no choice.

Eris bowed his head as she handed the ribbon over, taking it in hand and pressing it to his lips with a flourish, as if he were crafted from Arthurian legend. When he lifted his eyes, he gave her a winning smile, smooth and charming and effortless.

“For your honour,” he said grandly, holding that ribbon aloft, gripped between his thumb and forefinger. The Queen tilted her head in something akin to approval as Eris backed away slowly, retreating to his end of the tiltyard. Nesta nodded once at the man her father wished her to marry, but she couldn’t help but wish it had been another knight to take that ribbon, another that had lifted it to his mouth. But he was too late— once again, Cassian was too late.

“Well little dove,” the Queen said in a whisper as Nesta sank back into her seat. “You have snared a fox.”

Nesta let out a soft little laugh, but it was hollow through its falsity. She let her eyes dart back towards the corner of the tiltyard, finding Cassian’s attention still fixed on her. She tilted her head in something like a challenge, and briefly he glanced straight ahead, to where Eris was now preparing to mount his horse. Even from the stands she could see the feral glint in Cassian’s eyes, and the murderous smile as he folded his arms across his broad, silver-plated chest— issuing a challenge of his own.

***

“I want the duke,” Cassian demanded hotly, marching over to where the marshall of the joust stood behind a wooden table, parchment and ink laid out on its surface.

A middle-aged man, well versed in the rules of the joust and the tourney, he only blinked lazily at Cassian. “Sir, you are to run first against the earl of—”

“I want Northumberland,” Cassian cut in flatly, looking across the expanse of ground between them, watching Eris tie Nesta’s ribbon to the end of a lance. Cassian gritted his teeth and beside him, Rhys laughed. He had yet to finish donning his own armour, but was testing the weight of a lance in his hand— eight feet long and crowned with a dulled metal tip. It had Cassian suddenly wondering if he would have time to sharpen the tip of his own lance into a fucking spear. 

“Oh, let him have it,” Rhys said airily, waving the hand that wasn’t holding the lance. “I was supposed to be up against Northumberland first but I’m happy to exchange to give Cassian what he wants.” He rolled his eyes. “Terrible temper when he doesn’t get his own way, you know,” he added, almost conspiratorially, to the marshall.

Cassian scowled.

But the trumpets began to sound, and the marshall sighed at length before nodding, scoring out Rhys’ name on his list and writing Cassian’s beneath. Rhys’ coat of arms were rendered in elaborate colour there too, right across from Eris’, and the marshall only looked pointedly at Cassian before crossing that out too, a dark line of ink cutting right through the shield decorated with a Welsh mountain crowned with stars, a nod to Rhys’ ancestry. Rhys rolled his eyes, and the marshall gave a tight hmph before turning from them entirely, striding briskly towards the tiltyard entrance, where he found the herald to inform him of the change of plan.

“You’re welcome,” Rhys said blandly, clapping Cassian on the shoulder before setting down the lance he’d been balancing in his palm. It was Cassian’s turn to roll his eyes now, rolling his shoulders inside his armour and hearing the satisfying clink of metal plate as he shifted. Rhys snorted, turning away and beginning to head for the tent to continue readying for his own match.

“Do me a favour Cass,” he said wryly, turning his head as he lifted the tent flap. “Don’t kill him. You’ll start a civil war in the north if we have to find a new Duke of Northumberland.”

Cassian grinned wickedly. “He has a brother to replace him, does he not?”

Rhys raised an eyebrow. “A brother who is happily occupied by his post in Spain, if I recall correctly. Don’t forget that Nesta’s sister is his wife. Lady Elain won’t be happy if they’re dragged back to England because you put your lance through her brother-in-law’s neck, and if I’ve learned anything over the past few years, its that if there’s one way to piss off Nesta Archeron, it’s to make her sister unhappy.”

Cassian grumbled, and Rhys only gave him one last looked before ducking back inside the tent. Cassian might have marched back in there to argue the point further, but his squire rounded the corner with a horse in tow— the one Cassian had picked out that very morning when they’d marched down to the stables to choose their mounts.

She was arrayed in red and gold, and he’d known from the moment he’d seen her that she was the horse he wanted today. A deep brown destrier, she was named Minerva after the Roman goddess of war, and across her back she sported a black leather saddle and a ruby-red caparison edged with embroidered black roses. She was beautiful, and as Cassian approached and stroked a broad hand down her nose, she nudged the centre of his palm. He grinned. 

“I’ll fetch your lance,” the squire said, bowing his head as he handed the reins over. Cassian nodded, wrapping the leather around his fist as the horse whickered. 

“We’re going to win today, aren’t we girl?” he said softly. Minerva whinnied. “We’re going to win back the affection of Mistress Archeron and knock the Duke of Northumberland from his horse, aren’t we?”

He patted the horse on the nose, nodding to himself.

Oh, yes.

He was going to win today. Eris had already taken Nesta’s favour— he wasn’t about to take Cassian’s victory too. Cassian hadn’t even bothered asking any other lady for a favour. He didn’t want to tuck another’s glove into his breastplate, didn’t want to ask another lady for anything. All he wanted was one of those damned ribbons from Nesta’s sleeve, and yet she’d given it to fucking Eris.

Not that she’d had much choice.

Cassian knew the rules of this game as well as she, and it would have caused a stir if she’d turned Eris down.

Still, he thought as the squire returned with his lance, it didn’t make it any better. Cassian mounted his horse, still thinking of the way Nesta’s ribbon fluttered as Eris tied it to the end of his own lance.

Bastard.

With a snap, Cassian closed his visor.

He could see nothing but right ahead, the tiltyard and the long wooden beam. Eris waited at the other end, similarly visored and gripping the lance with Nesta’s fucking ribbon dancing in the breeze. The visor restricted his vision, but the one and only time he’d gone without it, he’d earned the scar cutting through his eyebrow.

He’d been jousting against Azriel, and his lance had split in three places. He’d worn his helmet but not closed his visor, preferring the wider field of vision, but a shard of his lance had been thrown backwards, cutting through his skin. He’d almost lost an eye, and even though he had no doubt that it would have made him even more dashing, he had no wish to wear an eye patch for the rest of his life— even though, at the time, Azriel had taken pains to remind him that not only had handsome Lucien Vanserra lost an eye in such an accident, but in the Queen’s father’s time, there had been a knight who lost an eye at a joust in Greenwich too, and the eyepatches of both attracted the ladies wonderfully. 

But Cassian didn’t want to attract the ladies, he thought darkly as he studied the tiltyard ahead. He wanted Nesta, and none other.

He gritted his teeth as the herald took up a place in the centre of the yard, his voice echoing through the steel of Cassian’s armour as he announced the beginnings of the tournament. The trumpets sounded a fanfare, and the rumble of the drums clapped through the air like thunder as the energy in the yard began to build, turning frenetic, frantic, as Cassian manoeuvred his horse into position, armoured thighs gripping her flanks tight as he brought her to the starting line. At the other end of the yard, Eris mirrored Cassian’s movements. 

A moment passed, then two, three—

Cassian’s heart hammered in his chest, anticipation thick on his tongue as he waited for the herald to call for the joust to begin, to say the words that would have him surging forwards—

“Laissez aller!”

It was a phrase from Old French, used to signal the beginning of a match. Rhys had told him once that it meant let them go, but Cassian hadn’t ever really cared for the intricacies of language or translation. All he cared for was how he lifted his lance higher now, spearing it towards the sky the moment the words left the herald’s lips. He kicked his heels in hard, setting Minerva lurching forth, racing along the tilt at a breakneck speed. 

Her hooves were thunderous, an unwavering and uncompromising beat as the world went by in a blur, and with each thud of her feet against the tiltyard ground, Cassian felt his armour reverberate— felt the rattle right the way down to his bones. With one hand gripping the reins and the other holding his lance aloft, the world beyond simply fell away, the cacophony of cheers and shouts and music drowned out, eclipsed, as Cassian’s horse neared the centre of the tiltyard.

A pleasance, the herald had declared that morning, before the festivities had begun.

It was a phrase used customarily at a joust, one that let them know this was a friendly match— done not for war, but for fun. But as Cassian raced towards that pale blue ribbon… 

He didn’t echo the sentiment. 

He lowered his lance, keeping his elbow tucked to his side and his grip tight as he extended his arm, holding the lance straight and sure and steady— aiming right for Eris’ heart. He didn’t just want to break his rival’s lance or knock him from his horse. He wanted to kill the bastard. At sea, there had been skirmishes. Drunken brawls in port towns that had turned nasty. Cassian had ended lives beneath his bare hands, and Eris hadn’t seen a day of battle in his life, the sheltered little nobleman that he was. He’d never had to fight a day in his life for anything. The Queen’s reign had been easy for her nobility. Unless they were sent to Ireland or the Netherlands, they had no knowledge of war, no experience with strife. Cassian snarled softly behind his visor. This was not the days of the Queen’s father, when war had raged with France. This was not even the days of her grandfather, when civil war had made a solider of every nobleman.

No— men like Eris had become complacent, and as Cassian seethed, his fingers tightened around the base of his lance. 

In the wind kicked up by Eris’ horse, Cassian saw that fucking ribbon flutter— taunting him, mocking him.

It should have been his. 

He’d asked for it first, had wanted her first, and now Eris thought he could ask for her favour, could wear her ribbon, just because there was talk of a match between he and her? A match that Cassian would let happen over his own dead body?

Once more he snarled inside his armour, keeping his arm straight as his horse barrelled forwards.

He was going to knock Eris off his fucking horse for even presuming to approach Nesta, for daring to ask for that fucking ribbon. He was going to land a blow so fucking fierce the Duke wouldn’t ever joust again—

The distance between them continued to shrink, and it all moved quickly - so quickly - that Cassian didn’t dare blink. Eris was a hundred paces away— fifty— twenty—

There was a deafening crack as his lance split, connecting right with the centre of Eris’ shield.

A perfect score.

The audience applauded, cheers rising from the stands, but Cassian didn’t turn his head. 

He only kept his pace, galloping to the end of the yard and extending a hand as a squire handed him a fresh lance. At the scoreboard, a large III had been written in chalk beside his name. The space beside Eris’ name remained blank. He hadn’t managed to hit Cassian at all, his lance missing him by an inch.

But Cassian didn’t smile, didn’t feel satisfaction burning through his veins— not yet. Eris remained atop his horse, entirely unharmed, and as Cassian reached the end of the yard and spun his horse, already he was preparing to go again, and go again harder. They would run three times against one another, with the highest scoring knight declared victor. Three points were awarded for a hit to the shield, two for a hit to the chest, one for a hit to the arm. Cassian had had the rules memorised since he was a boy, knew them inside and out, because he’d spent years training for this— spent years running against his brothers, rarely losing unless he was up against Azriel. He’d broken Rhys’ arm in this very yard once— shattered the bone beneath his brother’s elbow and sprained his wrist. 

And that was entirely by accident.

He smiled grimly now as he set his sights on Eris anew.

But God had damned him, it seemed, for in the moment his lance crossed the tilt, the sun shone vicious on Eris’ armour, the glare so blinding it forced Cassian to blink, to shield his eyes as his aim slipped. Instead of landing a hit to the shield attached to Eris’ armour at the shoulder, the tip of his lance connected only with Eris’ arm— earning him a single point. In contrast, Eris landed a hit to Cassian’s chest, the blow damn near knocking the breath from his lungs and scoring the duke two full points he didn’t fucking deserve. 

Cassian growled in frustration, a roar building in his chest like he was nothing but some feral creature, and when Eris reached the other end of the yard and flipped up his visor, shooting a dazzling smile to the stands where Cassian knew Nesta sat watching…

Well, his fury was stoked to an almost dangerous fervour, so lethal and so potent it had him practically trembling inside his armour, the breath stuck in his throat as it caved beneath his wrath.

He remembered again how he’d broken Rhys’ arm jousting when they were boys. How, once, he’d managed to make a dent in Azriel’s breastplate with the force of his hit. Eris might have been as learned as Cassian in the sport but Cassian knew he had the edge. Because he wasn’t afraid to spill blood, not too shy to break bones in order to prove to Eris and the Queen and every single one of them watching in the stands that Nesta was his lady, the woman he had once been so certain he would take to wife. 

He was still determined to put a ring on her finger someday.

So as Eris turned his horse, set his lance straight and aimed, Cassian took a breath— deep, filling his lungs as he felt the muscles of the horse shifting beneath his thighs. The herald called the final laissez aller, and Cassian wasted not a single second. Before the crowd could even begin their cheering, he set Minerva to a fierce gallop, even faster than before. The air whistled through his armour as he gained momentum, and still he pushed her further, faster— faster, faster. He held his arm steady, his grip tight as he clenched his jaw, knowing that this was the run that would decide the match, that would have him standing as either a proud victor or a sore, sore loser. 

He didn’t look to the stands. Didn’t search for her face amongst the crowd.

But it was for her— every pounding beat of his heart, every single piece of him that urged that horse forwards… 

For her.

Eris was close now— so, so close. The tip of his lance neared, and Cassian redoubled his grip on his own, fingers straining, knuckles white beneath his gauntlets.

And still he urged his destrier faster, determined to get as much brutal, crushing force behind this hit as possible— determined to make it a final, shattering blow that would make the duke think twice before daring to even look at Nesta ever again. 

Meters became feet became inches, and suddenly Cassian could see the whites of Eris’ eyes, the way they narrowed as Cassian checked his aim, braced himself for the impact—

And with an almighty clash, the tip of his lance shattered entirely as it made bruising contact with the centre of Eris’ shield.

The force of it knocked Eris sideways off his horse, sending him crashing to the tiltyard floor. His armour clattered, the pauldron at his shoulder cracking with the impact, and the lance Eris had been aiming at Cassian’s chest scored only a glancing blow on his shoulder before it, too, fell loudly to the floor. The Duke was winded, lying still on the ground, and for a moment Cassian thought he really had killed the bastard— but then Eris was rising slowly, pushing up on his elbows and removing his helmet. A thin ribbon of blood streamed from his nose, whilst another wound bled far more profusely at his temple, staining his auburn hair scarlet. And as the chips of Cassian’s own broken lance lay scattered in the dust, he smiled— a victors smile, vicious and cold and utterly without mercy.

Because no other man got to ask Nesta Archeron for her favour— not peasant nor knight nor king.

No. Other. Man.

Cassian hoped he’d broken a few of Eris’ bones at least. Hoped he’d shattered something vital, because Nesta was his— for fucks sake, she was his, and he wasn’t about to let some ridiculous betrothal stand in his way. And as he slowed Minerva from a gallop to a gentle trot, spectators rose in the stands, cheers and applause all. With his heart still still racing and adrenaline coursing through him like a torrent, he brought his horse to the end of the yard and dismounted, sliding from the saddle and pulling off his helmet in one smooth, practised gesture. 

He had won— and even though he looked to the stands and saw the Queen clapping enthusiastically, it wasn’t her approval he sought. Not her smile he looked for. 

It was stupid— reckless and unheard of, but Cassian found himself marching towards the covered stand where the Queen watched. He bowed deep when he stood before her, arms extending wide at either side, helmet hanging from his fingers. A thin sheen of sweat slicked his forehead, his muscles burning from the exertion, but he cared not— not as he lifted his gaze and caught sight of Nesta - his Nesta - with her lips parted, a flush touching her cheeks as one hand lifted, all smooth grace and easy elegance, to rest above her heart. 

Mother of God, she was beautiful. 

Her dress was a pale shade of blue, the kind that brought out her eyes, and the low neckline was cut square in the French fashion. The bodice was tight and threaded with silver, and as Cassian dragged his eyes over her middle, he felt his breath catch in his throat. It was tight, clinging to her waist, and though he knew that she would be wearing a shift beneath, he wondered how, given how tightly the bodice hugged her frame. His fingers slackened, and he almost dropped his helmet.

Was there anything in the world more wondrous— more stunning?

He didn’t think so, and though he still didn’t say a word, he gave her a small nod, one he hoped would let her know that all of it was for her, every moment of that display. She met his eye, and he swore he saw some of her ice melt a little. The marshall of the joust began calling across the tiltyard for the next round to begin, but before Cassian could leave—

Nesta smiled.

Just a little, only a tentative curving of her lips, but suddenly Cassian felt like he was the one who had been knocked from his horse. It was the most beautiful thing in the world— and confirmation, he supposed, that all wasn’t lost between them.

That she hadn’t given herself over to marrying Eris completely. 

The marshall began shouting in earnest now, his irritation rising, and Cassian shot the Queen and Nesta both a daring grin, dipping his head in another bow that he hoped the Queen thought was charming rather than irreverent. 

He made his way back to the tent at the end of the tiltyard. Eris swore at him as he passed, spitting blood onto the ground as a squire checked his injuries, and even though the duke cursed Cassian’s name, his mood was so much more vastly improved by that small, infinitesimal smile Nesta had given him that he could do little more than grin.

Fuck Eris and his dukedom— fuck all the riches in the world. Cassian had the greatest treasure of them all.

He reached the tent and found Azriel waiting to clap him on the back as Rhys mounted his horse - a black destrier aptly named Erebus after the Greek god of darkness. He couldn’t see his brother’s face, hidden as it was beneath his intricately patterned visor, but Rhys nodded, tilting his brow forwards as he said a match well won, brother, in a voice that echoed, low and resonant, through his armour. Cassian merely patted Erebus’ flank as he passed, wishing his brother luck as Rhys made his way to the tilt, and as Cassian pulled at the ties on his greaves, letting them fall away from his calves, Azriel took a step forward and held out a hand to take the armour he began to shed.

A squire stepped forward to help, but Cassian stopped the boy with a hand on his shoulder. He could have been no older than fourteen, all gangly limbs, but he was eager, eyes alight as he reached for Cassian’s helm. Cassian shook his head, pulling away just enough to reach for the doublet he’d cast off earlier, draped across a bench beside the tent. He pulled out a leather purse from a pocket inside it, retrieving a single golden coin.

“I need you to do me a favour,” he said, holding up the coin. “Don’t worry about the armour— Azriel will help me remove it.” Az raised a brow, but didn’t contradict him. “I need you to go out there and find the end of Northumberland’s first broken lance. There was a ribbon tied around it. Bring it to me.”

If the boy seemed confused, he didn’t show it. He only nodded, taking the coin before scurrying away, heading to the yard to find the ribbon before Rhys’ match could begin.

Azriel shook his head, a wry laugh leaving him as he began to help undo the ties keeping Cassian’s armour together. The vambraces came off first, falling away from Cassian’s forearms. Then the pauldrons at his shoulders, the cuisses at his thighs. Finally Azriel loosened the ties on the breastplate and Cassian slid it over his head.

As they finished, with Cassian standing only in his tunic and breeches, the boy returned, sky-blue ribbon in his fingers. 

Cassian took it with another grin, the softness of it sliding against his skin as he tied it gently around his wrist for safekeeping. Az looked at him pointedly, both eyebrows raised so high they almost touched his hairline, but Cassian merely shrugged, tracing a finger across the ribbon now encircling his wrist as he looked at his brother, no small sense of satisfaction curving his lips into a smile.

“A memento of my victory,” he said simply. 

Taglist: @c-e-d-dreamer, @andrigyn, @sunlightsage, @burningsnowleopard, @asnowfern

[thevibraniumveterans]

STAR WARS — The Acolyte

EP 4 - Day

MAIN THOUGHTS:

Very curious title, I wonder what that means in the context of this episode… would that mean that the next episode’s title would be “Night”? I mean, I’m speculating. I wouldn’t know, but would also not be surprised if that turns out to be the case.

Seeing Mae spooked was unexpected.

I love that this episode had its moments of brevity.

This episode also had some pretty deep insights into how the Jedi (as people) thought, but also how the Jedi (as a whole) operated.

Spoilers in my notes below.

- Dawn on the mountainsides of Khofar, a planet last seen in Ep2. Clouds hang low, and Kelnacca heads home. He is wearing his robes. On the walls of his abode are symbols of pseudo-yin/yang imagery. Kelnacca takes what looks like his food off the stove, and the camera zooms in on a dotted outline of two yin/yang circles, one big and one small.

- One classic Powerpoint transition later, we open on Coruscant during the day. Jecki and several other padawans are practicing their forms using training sticks while their teacher provides pointed advice. Osha stands in the doorway, silent. Jecki greets Osha, who says she’s leaving. Jecki is surprised. Long story short, Osha thanks Jecki for aiding Osha in finding and apprehending her sister Mae, whom she long thought dead but was and is still alive. Jecki says she was just doing her duty. Osha doesn’t want to find Mae (as she’s already done that), so passes the responsibility on to the Jedi, as in Osha’s own words, “I’m not a Jedi.” She can’t deal with having to apprehend her own sister, as Mae may view it as further betrayal. Osha wants to leave and not cause further “trouble” for Master Sol.

- On Khofar. Mae and Qimir unpack, but Mae stands up to walk away, something Qimir warns against. He tells her that Osha being alive “doesn’t change anything”; Mae being Mae, she pointedly ignores the comment, bemoans the lack of sunlight left (“three hours”, she says), and says to get going before it gets too late to kill Kelnacca.

- TITLE CARD!!

- In the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, the Masters gather around a holoprojector, analyzing a recording of Mae’s attack movements. All, except Sol, do not know who she is. Sol notes that not even Mae knows who trained her, just that she has training, and must be stopped. Vernestra reminds the gathered Masters of how dangerous Mae is, pointing out how she targeted Kelnacca, Torbin, Indara, and Sol. “The four Jedi stationed on her home planet when she was a child,” says Vernestra. “How odd.” Does she notice the irony? Of going somewhere they should never have stepped foot, and removed a child from her sister and community? Vernestra thinks that a rogue Jedi has trained Mae, saying “even a hologram can tell” her that. Other Masters raise concerns, but she knows that raising this concern to the Council would lead to the Council informing the Senate, and that’s something nobody wants. Supposedly this is the first seeds of what will be, in decades to come, an entanglement of the Jedi with politics; hence why Vernestra wants to keep this off the books, so to say. She wants Kelnacca taken back to Coruscant and Mae intercepted. Hopefully before Kelnacca is accosted. Vernestra and Sol speak in the corridor; he insists to be the one to bring Mae in, but Vernestra knows that’s not gonna happen without a price.

- On Khofar. Qimir and Mae trek along a path. They speak; Mae brings up her sister Osha and Master Sol in the same breath, and Mae stares at him.

- Back at the Temple, Sol meets up with Osha as he requests her to join him on his mission to intercept Mae. Osha declines this offer, but Sol insists otherwise. He tells her how he knew Mae still had something of a soft spot for Osha. “There is still good in her,” Sol tells Osha. “The part of her that loves you.” (This was also evident last half-scene when Mae had asked Qimir about Osha.) Osha knows she still loves her sister, but states the cold truth that Mae is a murderer. (Which in some sense is true.) Sol is optimistic and says, “But she is still your family.” Osha finally agrees, oddly stating “I am not wearing that civilian robe.”

- …Which is EXACTLY the thing she ends up wearing the immediate scene later. (This trope is hilarious.) Yord briefs the room aboard the transport ship, and refers to Osha as a “civilian”; she snarks back and says it’s “very comprehensive”. Jecki wants to laugh, but doesn’t. On Khofar, Jecki asks for directions, and is told not much of Kelnacca’s solitude. The group of Jedi, including Sol, Jecki, Yord, including Osha, come to a precipice overlooking the dense forest. Sol says he knows Kelnacca is within said forest. Regardless, they begin to trek in the direction of the forest. Osha tells Yord of her concern that she might not be of much help, but Yord says, “Mae has always been your wound. Maybe Sol brought you here to face her, but maybe he brought you here to face yourself.” (Which on a meta level is hilarious because Amanda Stenberg does play Osha AND Mae.)

- Elsewhere on Khofar, Mae and Qimir run into the dense forest, reaching a seemingly dead end that isn’t a dead end. Without Mae and Qimir knowing, the Jedi group also trek deeper into the woods. Osha finds the group surrounded by flying, multi-segmented, arthropod creatures (I don’t know what they’re called — the subtitles say this is an umbramoth); Sol deals with creature and warns the group to keep moving.

- Still on Khofar, it’s sunset. Qimir and Mae keep running; he seems overexcited. Mae says killing Kelnacca is “not a test” but the “final lesson” that she has to “teach herself.” But if she has four Jedi to kill, two of which she has disposed of, that means that she has two more to kill, with one literally finding his way to her. Mae is befuddled by the impossibility and ironic juxtaposition of killing an Jedi, unarmed, and the Jedi not being able to kill her unarmed.

- The group of Jedi continue to trek forward, when they hear Mae screaming for help. Qimir, somewhere nearby, hears it too. Might this be part of Mae’s plan? To appear in need of help and vulnerable and when people least expect it, to aim and swing? Turns out that was half right; she’s lured a trap, and inadvertently trapped Qimir. However; what she tells him next, I did not expect in the slightest (although it makes half sense): “After running through that forest for an extremely long time, I realized something. I don’t need to do this anymore. I don’t need to kill a Jedi without a weapon. I don’t need to keep this deal. You were wrong. Osha being alive changes everything. My loyalty is to Osha. Not your Master.” Mae states that she will surrender to Kelnacca and turn herself in. Qimir warns her against this, saying the Jedi would imprison her, but Mae has a plan for that. (Is this part of her plan? To appear harmless? Does she really want to up and surrender, and not fight for her Master? If this is true, then the Acolyte is in fact NOT Mae but her Master, who serves somebody else. If this is the case then Mae is a red herring, a plot device to lead us astray into thinking she’s the acolyte when in fact she is not who we think she is.)

- Somewhere nearby, the group of Jedi remain on the search. Osha tells Sol she’s ready to face Mae, but similar to what Yord told her earlier, Sol tells Osha, “You’re not going to face her, you’re going to face your past. Both of us will.” (Meaning, Osha will face the sister she thought she lost but knows now is alive, and Sol will face again the young woman he couldn’t save but hopes to save now.)

- Mae keeps running, and eventually finds Kelnacca’s abode. She falls, only to look up and see a tracker, who tells the group of Jedi, who are now hot on her heels. Here’s the thing. They don’t know Mae’s plan to surrender herself. Whether she is actually going to surrender herself, we don’t know now, but will know soon. She runs into his abode, only to discover he has been murdered, a smoldering slash across his chest. Mae starts panicking, knowing that her Master is planetside and that she has failed. The Jedi come to a stop outside Kelnacca’s home, and call Mae by name, knowing she is inside. She however, is afraid, not knowing where her Master is but knowing he could be very close by. Sol turns around, and a dark figure floats menacingly behind Osha, who has a “he’s right behind me isn’t he” moment. The other Jedi turn around, and so does Osha. The helmeted, black-clad figure comes face to face with Osha, who is frozen in fear, and ignites his blood-red saber. The Jedi ignite their lightsabers too, and shout for Osha to run. The figure uses the Force to shove Osha aside, and to blast the approaching Jedi back in a cloud of dust.

[yourgoldennotebook]

"Got the radio on, my old blue jeans and I'm wearing my heart on my sleeve," Taylor Swift sings on "A Place in This World," a self-penned coming-of-age anthem from her debut album due out this fall on Big Machine Records. It's an apt description of the enthusiastic, down-to-earth young woman, whose original compositions about teenage life brim with poignant honesty and an infectious spirit.

Just 16 years old, Taylor is at an age when most teenagers are only beginning to find their identity and lay tentative plans for the future. But there's never been much doubt in Taylor's mind about her calling. Growing up on a farm in Wyomissing, Pa., music was ever-present in her home. Inspired by her maternal grandmother, a professional opera singer, Taylor took up singing early in life. At 10, she began performing around town at karaoke contests, festivals and county fairs, and even recording rough demos at a studio. At 11, she performed the national anthem at a Philadelphia 76ers NBA game in front of thousands of fans.

But it wasn't until she picked up a guitar at 12 and learned to write her own songs that Taylor discovered how readily she could channel the turbulent emotions of growing up into her music. That year, she wrote "The Outside," a heartbreaking lament about loneliness. Before long, she was spending every available moment playing and writing. "I was playing four hours a day until my fingers were bleeding and my mom called me to dinner," she says.

No strangers to the music business, Taylor's family recognized both her talent and determination. They began taking regular trips to Nashville to shop her music around, and she began writing with local songwriters. After a few years, during which the family made the decision to move to nearby Hendersonville, Tenn., a showcase at the Bluebird Cafe caught the attention of music-industry veteran Scott Borchetta, who was planning to launch a new label. After meeting with Taylor, he knew she was one of the first artists he wanted to sign.

Since then, Taylor has pulled double duty as a straight-A high school student and full-fledged recording artist, a balancing act the teenager handles with grace. "I have tunnel vision as far as this goes," she says. "I can always keep my eyes on the goal." Still, she admits sheepishly, there are moments when songwriting inspiration strikes in the middle of a lecture, making concentration difficult. "If we had random notebook checks, my teachers might find biology notes, biology notes, then suddenly a bunch of lyrics," she laughs.

The songs Taylor scrawls in those spiral notebooks are bright, engaging melodies filled with all the ebullience and drama of adolescent life. In "Our Song," the narrator bemoans the fact she and her boyfriend don't share a sentimental tune, only to have him affectionately describe all the little moments that make their relationship special. "Our song is the way you laugh," he tells her.

Like all songwriters, Taylor is inspired by the life going on around her, and like any 16-year-old, she admits to a "fascination" with love. Thus, her classmates—her biggest fans, she says—often find themselves the subject of her songs. "They're all going to buy the album and have a little bit of a heart attack," she says with a grin.

A country superstar—and one of Taylor's greatest influences—was also surprised to find himself the subject of her debut single. A tender ballad, "Tim McGraw" describes the way music can evoke the sweetest of memories: "When you think Tim McGraw/I hope you think my favorite song/The one we danced to all night long."

Elsewhere on the album, Taylor tackles more serious issues. "Tied Together With a Smile," captures the fragile self-esteem of teenagers, inspired by girls Taylor has known through the years, including a beauty-pageant queen who suffered from an eating disorder: "Seems the only one who doesn't see your beauty/Is the face in the mirror looking back at you." In the second verse, she laments lack of confidence sometimes leads girls her age to make hasty and reckless decisions about their relationships: "I guess it's true that love was all you wanted/'Cause you're givin' it away like it's extra change."

Such flashes of maturity give weight to songs that otherwise sparkle with the carefree joie de vivre of youth. Taylor admits her primary agenda with her music is to evoke a strong emotional response. "I want to make people feel things," she says simply.

As she prepares an album with that in mind, Taylor is careful not to let her "tunnel vision" keep her from enjoying every moment of her budding music career. "Everything about this business is exciting to me," she says, "whether it's putting on a pretty dress to go to an awards show, or putting on a sweatshirt to go into the studio to record."

"You only get so many firsts," she adds. "Every one is a blessing."

[ceylonmoon]

you (on my arm)

Pure Vanilla/Dark Cacao | G | 2.7k Words

Tags: Slow Dancing, Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pre-Canon, Developing Relationship

Summary: Where Pure Vanilla is horrible at feelings and Dark Cacao is horrible at dancing. It works out somehow.

ao3 Link if more convenient: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45067162

Fic Below 👇

The time was nearing eleven o’clock, Pure Vanilla notes idly, inching closer and closer to when it would be deemed socially acceptable for him to retire to his bedroom. Tick-tick-tick.

It isn’t that he’s not enjoying himself. Hollyberry’s parties were famed for being one of the few that actually were semi-entertaining and not filled with thinly veiled attempts at political alliances. The ballroom is full of joyous laughter and twirling skirts and a vibrant orchestra playing spirited songs that filled every inch of the room, and he’s enjoying it. Really, he is.

It’s funny though, in an ironic way— even amidst the commotion, Pure Vanilla is an apparition, a mere observer, glimpsing into the evening like a film. Detached and distant, close yet untouchable.

It’s not for a lack of effort on his part. He had attempted to get drawn into the sway of the party early into the night, giving the expected greetings and indulging conversations, but somewhere between the sloshing glasses of berry juice and inside jokes that he isn’t privy to, he fades away into the background, drifting into the corner where he has resided for the past three hours.

He admits it is a nice break in the rhythm of past galas, where he wakes up with a sore throat and legs, exhausted by the countless dances and chats. But at least then, Pure Vanilla thinks, a touch sardonic as he nurses his glass, he hadn’t felt like some vengeful spirit, futilely remaining in the ballroom for the slightest chance that someone would accompany him. For not the first time tonight, he wishes his friends were there.

Dark Cacao had not appeared early in the day when he, White Lily, and Golden Cheese had arrived, so Pure Vanilla does not have high hopes of him swooping in like some sort of noble knight to rescue him from his loneliness. Though the mental image makes him smile a bit, Dark Cacao was growing ever more reclusive these days, hardly straying outside of the citadel walls, save for their occasional gatherings with all five of them. It doesn’t stop him from holding onto that small glimmer of hope that he will show up regardless.

White Lily was never one for social niceties, so she had stayed for the first half-hour, greeting whoever was brave enough—or arrogant enough— to talk to her with a bland smile. She slipped away the second that her quota of interactions was met, and even their years of friendship and what may be construed as begging from Pure Vanilla did nothing to change her mind.

“You’ll have the others with you.”

He frowned. “It’s not the same without you though.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” her cheeks slightly flushed as she rolls her eyes. “I need to check on the progress of my samples, and you and I both know that I dislike these gatherings.”

He had heaved a great, pretend sigh, bemoaning his abandonment, and sent her off with his blessings. He should’ve joined her, honestly. It was always exciting to see what she was working on, though her mouth had stayed firmly sealed on her recent set of experiments.

Hollyberry, being the host, remained constantly moving throughout the sea of guests, ensuring the enjoyment of everyone and keeping spirits high. And wherever she went, Golden Cheese was sure to be close. The pair had made a few checkups on him as they made their rounds across the room.

“Pure Vanilla?!” Hollyberry shouted over the din of drunken cookies. “Why are you still here in this dusty corner?”

He smiles a bit helplessly. “I suppose I’m just not in the mood.” It was true to some degree; he hadn’t had the urge to go out and mingle, though it was admittedly lonesome and boring in his little corner.

Golden Cheese snorts. “You’re getting old, grandpa.”

He gasps, feigning offense, “You should have more respect for your elders, Golde-” She whisks away Hollyberry with a cackle and they get swallowed up once more into the crowd. And there he stayed until the current moment, counting down the seconds until he could leave and forget this party ever happened. Tick-tick-tick.

A gloved hand lands on his shoulder and Pure Vanilla stiffens out of instinct, his cape flaring out as he jerks around.

“Dark Cacao?” His face splits into its first genuine smile that evening, something breathlessly warm and soft settling in his chest. “It’s good to see you.”

Dark Cacao bows his head a bit, “Apologies, Pure Vanilla. I did not intend to frighten you.”

“No need, my friend!” He takes in Dark Cacao’s appearance as his heartbeat settles down from the scare, but it defiantly picks back up immediately after. Dark Cacao is out of his usual outfit, with twinkling, twilight robes swirling around his ankles, and a matching cape, dark like the moonless night save for the constellations embroidered on. He’s still wearing his typical armor on top however, with the Chocoblade strapped to his waist. Pure Vanilla should not find his stubbornness nearly this endearing. He wrenches his eyes from Dark Cacao’s clothing up to his face, which does nothing to calm his disobedient heart. There’s a new scar across his eyebrow, he notes, a bit frantic and desperate. His fists tighten on his staff.

“From Hollyberry I take it?” Pure Vanilla manages to say, “You look—” Terribly handsome like always. Like you did in my dreams. Perfect. Nothing can really encapsulate how much Dark Cacao makes him ache with yearning, something he had thought he had tamped down years ago. Perhaps absence really does make the heart grow fonder, he thinks wryly. “Good,” he finishes.

“You as well.” It’s a conventional, completely common response, but somehow Pure Vanilla’s cheeks grow warm anyways. What an embarrassing, miserable, selfish thing infatuation is, attempting to ruin one of his most beloved friendships for the fruitless pursuit of something completely out of reach.

“I wasn’t expecting you here tonight,” he says in an attempt to distract himself.

Dark Cacao rolls his shoulders, powerful and elegant. Pure Vanilla’s breath stutters a bit. “There was a snowstorm on the way. I thought it best to wait until the worst passed over. I am sorry if I troubled you or Hollyberry.”

“Honestly, no trouble at all for me! I can’t say for Hollyberry though,” he grins, light and teasing. Dark Cacao huffs a bit in response and stares out at the colorful sea of chiffon and silk before him. A familiar silence rests between them, to be expected between Dark Cacao, who preferred fewer words when possible, and Pure Vanilla, who always found it vastly more comforting when his conversation partner did not expect him to talk the entire time.

“I could say the same for you.”

“Hm?”

Pure Vanilla glances back at Dark Cacao, his gaze still fixed on the crowd.

“I am surprised you are not out there.”

“I wanted to try something different tonight?” he attempts. Dark Cacao blinks at him, slow and with a tinge of disbelief.

It’s Pure Vanilla’s turn now to look over at the crowd, Dark Cacao’s heavy stare boring into the side of his head.

“I’m surprised too,” he finally admits. “I’m not sure myself why I wasn’t there. Especially when,” he swallows, the confession seeming a bit too open now, but he can’t take it back. “Especially if I was so…I don’t know. Alone.” He can hear Dark Cacao step a bit closer, but he doesn’t dare to look at him.

“You cannot go join them now?”

Pure Vanilla hums, thoughtful and soft. “Oh, I suppose I could. But it’s alright, I’m not lonely anymore,” he smiles, “the company here is quite nice.”

A sharp, barely noticeable inhale of air and Dark Cacao steps even closer, the atmosphere charged with something electrifying.

“You would prefer to spend your time here instead of with the actual party?” he asks, quiet. The with me? goes unspoken, but Pure Vanilla picks it up anyhow.

“I’d prefer your company over most things on Earthbread,” he confesses, a little breathless, horribly obvious affection weaving through despite himself.

“Pure Vanilla.” There’s a soft edge to it, as close to begging as Dark Cacao would ever get.

When Pure Vanilla turns around, a gloved hand is held out to him. His gaze flickers up to Dark Cacao’s face and oh , for once, it’s open with the barest glimpse of starry, glimmering vulnerability seeping out of his cracked facade.

“Dance with me?” Dark Cacao murmurs.

Pure Vanilla’s traitorous heart jumps to his throat and he can’t reign it in before he’s responding, “I would never refuse you.”

Dark Cacao’s eyes crinkle just-so at the corners, the last dredges of a shooting star marking their final resting place there. It’s sickening and awful how it makes Pure Vanilla’s stomach twist as the chandelier lights sway above them.

He places his hand in Dark Cacao’s with a shaky breath and allows his other to rest on his shoulder. Dark Cacao’s left hand settles on his back, frigid, yet searing through the layers of fabric. The orchestra queues up another song, still bright, but with a slightly melancholy undertone. Unconventional for a waltz, but Pure Vanilla finds that he doesn’t particularly care. And slowly, Dark Cacao begins to move, Pure Vanilla following his steps.

This close, he can make out the few streaks of grey beginning to show in his midnight-dark hair, a few strands peppered near his temples, scarcely different from the milky-cream, but this close , the difference is all too obvious. Pure Vanilla had never really imagined they would be able to age, what with the Souljam, but it makes Dark Cacao look so, so handsome. It’s enough, just being in his life, however long it may be. So many wish for forever, but Pure Vanilla thinks he could be equally happy with a temporary, fleeting sort of existence, so long as he had the chance to exist with Dark Cacao.

Pure Vanilla is sorry all the same for burdening him with the unspoken, unsightly weight of his love.

They stay in the corner, hidden behind the ivy-covered pillar, and continue their little back and forth, pushing and pulling.

He gasps a bit when Dark Cacao tugs him forward without warning, almost stumbling over his own feet and knocking his head into Dark Cacao’s chestplate, which would have very likely resulted in a concussion and his subsequent crumbling out of humiliation. Pure Vanilla may be a tad idiotic and lovesick right now, but he can’t deny he has absolutely no clue what Dark Cacao is doing. His footwork is frankly, atrocious and he has no sense of rhythm. Pure Vanilla narrowly misses his foot being stepped on for the fourth time in five minutes. Honestly, he’s starting to suspect—

“Cacao, do you…do you know how to dance?”

He can feel Dark Cacao stiffen under his fingers and his right hand tightening its grip on Pure Vanilla’s hand. Whatever comes next out of Dark Cacao’s mouth will definitely be unpleasant and mortifying for the both of them.

Pure Vanilla decides to save him the trouble and embarrassment. He leans down a bit, lips almost brushing against Dark Cacao’s ear. Pure Vanilla hopes he can’t feel his thrumming pulse where their hands connect, threatening to pound out with the proximity.

“Let me lead?” he whispers.

He pulls back to a safer distance and watches a flash of something shutter over Dark Cacao’s face before he eventually responds with a stiff nod. Pure Vanilla can feel a small smile creeping across his face as they adjust their positions, his hand shifting to Dark Cacao’s back after a moment of hesitation.

“Trust me, alright? Follow my steps.”

He takes a step back and Dark Cacao follows, the two of them eventually settling into a rhythm. Dark Cacao had always been a quick learner; it came with the territory of needing to keep a vigilant eye at all times. It’s something that Pure Vanilla likes about him— so silently observant that he would forget until Dark Cacao would ask him about something he mentioned weeks ago.

The music swells into a trembling crescendo. A step back, right, a step forwards, left, and back again in a box, ebbing and flowing like the tides of the ocean and the moon’s gravitational pull. Dark Cacao would certainly make a fitting moon: celestially pretty, comfortingly constant even when out of sight, and distantly out of reach.

“...I do, by the way,” Dark Cacao says suddenly.

“Pardon?”

Dark Cacao hesitates then, the antithesis of the usual, unrelenting him in the fervor of battle. It makes him seem more real, easier to touch without the fear of cutting himself on his jagged edges. Affection swells inside Pure Vanilla, and he can’t help but feel a little sickened by the tenderness, the longing that fills him. I’m sorry for being so selfish.

“Trust you.” Dark Cacao’s mouth flattens and he glances away.

“Oh,” Pure Vanilla laughs, slipping out and incandescently, brilliantly happy. There’s a sort of weight behind his words, some sort of meaning that Pure Vanilla is sure that he’s missing, but he can’t quite piece it together, some part still eluding him. He finds that he can’t particularly find it in himself to figure it out anyhow, with how exhilarated he feels at Dark Cacao’s confession.

“‘Oh’?” Dark Cacao’s eyebrows furrow and his voice is tinged with derisiveness, but Pure Vanilla can see the amused uptick in the corners of his lips anyways. He’s so awfully, overwhelmingly pretty.

“I– Well– Thank you,” he says, stumbling over his words in a babbling, still idiotically happy rush. “I…trust you, too.”

“Are you nervous, Pure Vanilla?”

“No.” It’s true somehow. His heartbeat had long slowed, even this close to Dark Cacao. He always made it easy being around him. Perhaps that’s what drew Pure Vanilla to him in the first place— the lack of judgment or scrutiny, in spite of how terribly awkward he was— is, even when he wasn’t pathetically in love.

“Good. That— I am glad,” Dark Cacao murmurs.

The song draws to a close. Pure Vanilla sighs, mournfully etching the memory of how Dark Cacao’s hand fit into his, and begins drawing away.

“Wait.” He pauses and blinks at Dark Cacao.

“…Will you do me the honor of accompanying me for another dance?” At this, Dark Cacao actually does smile, albeit small and fleeting. Faintly, Pure Vanilla wonders if the world is ending, as it certainly feels like it is with the crystalline chandeliers casting a divine light behind them, illuminating Dark Cacao in a delicate, gentle halo. It emphasizes his devastatingly unguarded expression, blooming like a jonquil during the winter solstice. Directed towards Pure Vanilla.

Oh.

Oh.

Pure Vanilla thinks he may understand now.

“Always, Dark Cacao.”

The next song queues up. Dark Cacao takes his hand again and he brushes an ephemeral, reverent kiss to his knuckles before setting it on his shoulder.

“Allow me to lead the next song?”

Pure Vanilla smiles, soft and open— he allows his fondness, his love to wind through his words for once, dripping honey-sweet affection. “Promise not to step on me this time?”

Dark Cacao huffs, a hint of laughter and self-consciousness bleeding through.

“I would not dare. I…care for you too much for that.” Dark Cacao’s words come out in a staggering, tentative cascade. And Pure Vanilla can’t help his endearment, the seemingly indifferent statement from anyone else in that tone of voice is nothing but unadulterated trust and warmth from Dark Cacao.

Perhaps in the coming morning, Pure Vanilla will regret it all, and perhaps Dark Cacao will take his words back, and perhaps everything will be ruined— but tonight in their hidden corner from the rest of the world, with something nascent and fragile and sweet blooming between them, Pure Vanilla allows himself to indulge in Dark Cacao’s firm, steady grasp and the easy, celestial orbit of their intertwined bodies, slow and unwavering in their own isolated galaxy.

The clock chimes midnight.

[selinas-ships]

Selfshiptober Day 2: Blanket/Flame

Ever since she could remember (and she could remember quite a bit), Ingrid had felt drawn to fire.

She remembers the first time she burned her hand. She had been five years old, six at the oldest. Velstående was entering the cooler months, weaning away from tepid summers and into briskly cold autumn. The palace had fireplaces going in every room to make up for the chill threatening to seep into their bones, and Ingrid had been watching the fire. Watching it dance, listening to the flames crackle at the wood keeping it burning.

It had been so bright… so warm. She reached out to touch it, and pulled back only when the warmth bit at her skin. But it didn’t hurt. She had seen servants pull back in pain from a lesser flame, and yet this one did not hurt her. So she did it again. And again, until the skin on her fingers became the brown she would later mix up with blood halfway dried and the pain finally brought tears to her eyes and a sob to her throat.

Faðir had scolded her heavily for her self-experimentation as he wiped her wet eyes and kissed the bandage that stayed around her fingers for the next week. Just to be safe.

In spite of the pain, Ingrid never shied away from fire the way everyone else did. Yes they basked in its warmth. But they hid from its heat. Others never allowed themselves to get too close, lest they get burned.

For whatever reason Ingrid had yet to understand, fire does not burn her the way it does everyone else.

(Later in life, she wonders if it is the same cause behind a similar resistance to cold. Why she can walk in the snow for hours and only feel the chill long after anyone else would have turned back for warmer pastures.)

Even so. Faðir prefers not to let his daughter and heir get too close and risk prolonged harm.

At least, he did. Until Ingrid figured out how to make her own only-mildly destructive fires at the age of twelve. At the height of the summer months, as well.

Now the age of seventeen, Ingrid stares at the fire crackling within the fireplace. Her book is long forgotten in her lap, locs cast over her shoulder in umber hues.

The fire crackles, the leaves rustle out the stone windows, a page crinkles as it is turned, and a cool back presses against her own.

Even through the finest of Asgardian leathers (leathers even Ingrid doubted she could afford), Loki’s unnatural lack-of-heat seeps through the material.

“Are you staring at the fire again?”

Loki’s voice breaks through her mindless stare, her dark eyes blinking rapidly trying to rid itself of the colorful spots clouding her vision. She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes and rubs. It does not help.

Loki laughs, like a burbling stream in the winter wood.

“How did you know?” She asks, twisting her neck to look at him only to find his cheeky grin and green eyes sparkling with mirth, book open in his lap and nearly completed.

“You were both quiet and perfectly still. That only ever happens when you are distracted by flame,” He responds with an air of playfulness and exasperation.

Ingrid rolls her eyes, grinning at the gape he gives her, as if he cannot believe her audacity. He shouldn’t be surprised, they’d been friends for a year already. “Yes, because you never get distracted,” She bemoans, twisting back and picking up her book. She’d forgotten what had happened.

Did that stop her from reading on? No it did not.

“That is not at all what I was implying. You never stop moving, Ingrid, have you noticed that?” She feels Loki twist back to his own book, the weight of his back pressing further into hers.

She reciprocates, their weights leaning on each other. She pointedly ignores the bouncing of her leg as she buries her nose in her book. “I’ve noticed how you make a habit of picking up my own quirks as if I haven’t picked up a few of yours as well.”

“I do not have quirks, they are beneath me.”

Ingrid allows a grin so cheeky it would have looked right at home on Loki’s face. “Tell that to the skin on your palm. I have to wonder if you’ve picked it off ten times over.”

“Hey.”

[checkoutmybookshelf]

Lady Whistledown Returns: Chapter 4

Six writers, inclement weather, and one villa. How will the situation handle an unexpected visitor?

Need to catch up? Find previous chapters and works on AO3.

This chapter does not have any content warnings.

The first few weeks at Villa Diodati were characterized by incessant thunderstorms, pouring rain, and temperatures close to freezing. The papers increasingly attributed the weather to a volcanic eruption in the Dutch East Indies, but their stories differed, and Byron opined that the persistent fog that the American newspapers insisted was reddening the skies and dulling the sun couldn’t possibly be anything but American hysteria. Anthony’s letters had been full of concern about bringing the crops to maturity, and Kate’s and Violet’s letters had been full of little else than Anthony’s temper and the utter inadequacy of that year’s fashions for the temperature. Eloise’s letters bemoaned the lack of meetings about women’s rights and insisted that Penelope introduce her to the daughter of the great Mary Wollstonecraft. When Penelope had mentioned this to Mary, she had half sighed and half giggled, and agreed to include a short missive to Eloise in Penelope’s next letter to her.

After nearly a week of evenings of the Bridgertons, Shelleys, Byron, and Polidori huddling around a fire in the drafty sitting room attempting to find topics of conversation that were not bemoaning the lack of summer, Byron produced Fantasmagoriana—a French anthology of German ghost stories—with so much flourish and fanfare that Penelope half expected him to claim the works of Shakespeare. He proceeded to insist on dramatic readings to “suit the mood of the evenings.” Penelope enjoyed the first evening; Byron was an engaging reader, nearly theatrical in his voice and in how he used the space in the room as he read.

Subsequently, however, Byron became less and less enamored with the exercise. He was politely complimentary of Mary and Penelope’s readings, but barely civil with Colin and actively derogatory with Polidori’s and Shelley’s readings. He took to pacing about the room as others read, distractedly and distractingly cracking his knuckles.

Penelope began writing short editions of Whistledown to bleed off the stress and tension of Byron behaving like a particularly tetchy bomb that seemed to refuse to just go off already and resolve the tension. She shared these privately with both Colin and Mary; collectively they agreed that while the short works were perhaps a bit cutting, they were not inaccurate.

By the evening that would have heralded Byron’s second turn to read aloud, he had become truly insufferable, spending his days alternating between brooding in the day room while spread across a truly astounding amount of furniture and disappearing altogether. As the group gathered, expecting to finish the book that night, Byron bounded in with all of their travel writing cases in his arms.

“Inspiration must strike,” he declared, enthusiastically shoving writing cases into arms. Penelope and Polidori politely exchanged cases, as did Mary and Colin while Byron gesticulated wildly, nearly decking Shelley in the head with his own sturdy case. “Forget simply reading others’ uninspired ghost stories; we can and we shall do better! I insist that tonight we shall be a salon of writers—we shall write! Imagine your fears, your ghosts, those things that give you horripilation or would compel you to absquatulate. Put them in truth and hideous beauty on the page!”

“Do you think he knows he is giving us all a very particular horror to write about?” Colin whispered for Penelope’s and Mary’s ears. Penelope smiled, burying a giggle. Mary’s slight smile was distant, her eyes lighting up and becoming pensive. The evening was ultimately far more enjoyable than the previous ones had been, with Colin and Penelope experimenting—albeit somewhat unsuccessfully—with a genre that neither had written in before. By the wee hours of the morning, the group had pages written and were beginning to droop. Each giving a brief outline of their idea to the others, affectionate jibes and praise were exchanged as each made their way to their respective beds.

As though in reward for their efforts the previous night, the morning dawned relatively clear-skied and sunny. Penelope and Mary insisted on taking Mary and Percy’s son out to explore the grounds and perhaps wade at the edge of the lake. Byron was once again sprawled across an entirely improbable amount of furniture, writing on his so-called fragment, and declined to accompany the ladies. Percy opined that he was “feeling somewhat delicate,” and Polidori insisted that Percy rest under his care as a physician. Colin had initially agreed to accompany the ladies and young child—he and Colin got on quite well, given Colin’s experience with his own nephews, and Penelope never tired of enjoying Colin behaving utterly ridiculously to win a chuckle from the boy—but Byron declared that he would simply be at sea without a writing partner, and Colin was forced to remain behind or be rude to his host. 

Once Pen, Mary, and Mary’s son had departed and Polidori had declared Percy “fragile in feeling only” and all four men dove into their writing cases and continued writing. Eventually, the four began trading pages and opining on their progress. Byron quickly lost patience with the group dynamic, and began to sigh and moan as though he were dying.

Thoroughly out of patience, Colin begged off with a splitting headache and retired to his and Pen’s room. He was rummaging through one of their cases for a book or newspaper to read when the door opened. 

“I thought you and Mrs. Shelley would be longer—” he began, turning toward the door in expectation of seeing the sun flame off red curls. His voice died away upon seeing the dark coat and hat of Mr. Worth. The queen’s agent wore a deeply uncomfortable expression.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” he said, nodding politely. 

“Worth. Why are you in my bedroom?” 

Worth’s expression grew even more uncomfortable and something deeply guilty crossed his face for a moment. He refused to meet Colin’s eyes. “Mr. Bridgerton…” Worth’s voice petered out. 

Colin watched Worth visibly struggle with himself, shifting from foot to foot and wringing his hands. The other man’s obvious discomfiture would ordinarily have Colin pouring a drink and making a lighthearted quip to ease the tension, but in this case he was increasingly white-knuckling the bedpost. This had to be about Penelope and the Whistledown book. If Worth was here to arrest Penelope, Colin would tie the man up in their closet, take Pen, and run for it, consequences be damned. He had friends across Europe, they would be able to get beyond the reach of the crown. Thank God that Pen wasn’t in the villa just then; he could be confident that Worth did not have her. 

The agent would not simply speak, and Colin’s patience was wearing thin. He cleared his throat expectantly, but when that failed to spur the other man into speech, Colin unclamped his hand from the bedpost, took a step forward, and said, “Spit it out, man! Why are you here?”

“Her Majesty Queen Charlotte has extended an invitation to you, Mr. Bridgerton. You are to come with me instantly.” Worth still wouldn’t meet Colin’s eyes. 

Something tense in Colin’s chest eased. Worth wasn’t here for his wife, and his answer to this invitation was clear. “I am afraid I will have to disappoint her Majesty,” he said. “Penelope and I are guests of Lord Byron, and it would be unthinkably rude to leave suddenly. Let me show you out.” 

As Colin took another step toward the man to make good on his words, Worth held up a hand. 

“Excuse me for my lack of clarity, Mr. Bridgerton. Invitation was clearly insufficient to describe the nature of the request. The queen demands that you return to London in my custody immediately.”

Colin’s barked laugh was a combination of surprise and derision, and he used it to cover a step toward his armoire. His sword hung on the inside of the door; if Worth wanted to make an issue of this, he would be sorely mistaken thinking that Colin would be an easy target. “You cannot imagine that Penelope and I are simply going to let you arrest us and drag us back to London, sir.”

“Not Dame Penelope,” said Worth, quickly. “Just you, Mr. Bridgerton. And I would hardly call it an arrest. We refer to it as being recalled.”

“I am not an agent, Worth. I would call it an arrest. And one in which I must disappoint you and her Majesty!” Colin had made it to the armoire, and smoothly retrieved his sword, drawing himself up to his full height as he pointed it directly at Worth. 

“Apologies, Worth, but I will not be returning to England with you.”

“Mr. Bridgerton, please. I beg you not to make an issue of this.”

“Step toward the armoire, if you please,” ordered Colin.

Worth took the step as he responded. “I have no quarrel with you personally, but I ask you again, sir, to please come quietly.”

“It will not happen. Another step.” Colin’s reach was long, and he had the point of the sword level with Worth’s throat, if a polite few inches away from the flesh. 

“What do you plan to do?”

“Surely you cannot expect me to share our plans with an agent who is trying to arrest us,” retorted Colin, advancing the blade a few inches as Worth took another step, clearing the bedroom door. 

“No, I cannot. But I can keep you talking long enough for this!” Worth’s voice raised slightly on the last word, and the bedroom door opened with force, but not so much that it banged into the wall or made a sound that would draw attention. Ten men in identical coats and hats, all armed with swords and knives, crowded into the room. Many blades were leveled at Colin. “Please, Mr. Bridgerton. This need not descend into barbarity. Lower your blade.” 

Despite his practice both at school and with his brothers, Colin lacked the expertise to overcome so many opponents alone. Being cut to ribbons would do neither him nor Pen any good, so Colin lowered his sword, slowly and grudgingly. 

“Drop it on the floor and kick it to me,” instructed Worth. 

“What precisely do you intend to tell people?” asked Colin, complying. 

“Nothing. Her Majesty intends for no one to know.”

“You cannot imagine that you can forcibly abduct me and Penelope won’t bloody well notice and write to Anthony,” cried Colin, one knee flexing as he instinctively tried to go for his sword and just as quickly checked the motion. Unfortunately, his motion spurred the other men, who more or less jumped him en masse, forcing Colin to his knees as they pinned his arms behind him. 

“This plan will fall apart before we are across the channel. Letters travel faster than twelve men do,” said Colin, in a moment of stillness.

“You underestimate her Majesty’s experience in these matters.” 

“Sound more mournful about this Worth, it’s such a tragedy that you’re kidnapping me,” snapped Colin. 

“It’s true, Dame Penelope will realize you’re missing,” said Worth, fishing in an inside jacket pocket for a moment as he walked to the bed. “However, she will not write to the Viscount. She will not write to anyone. Not once she has read this.” He placed the letter on the pillow, the words “Dame Penelope” writ large and clear on the front, above a decorative wax seal. Back still to Colin, Worth sighed. “Gag him.” 

Colin tried to yell and fight the hands holding him. Realizing too late and with a sudden, stomach-turning jolt that if he was not discovered now, he would not be, and Pen would be left alone in Europe. Unfortunately, the queen’s agents were far too practiced. Before the words had finished leaving Worth’s mouth, Colin’s head had been pinned against someone’s chest or shoulder, and his jaw was first forced open as someone’s balled up handkerchief was thrust between his teeth and a length of rope followed it. The free ends were bound behind his head, keeping everything in place and muffling every yell. 

“My apologies,” said Worth to Colin. “I had hoped you would see sense and come quietly, but I must carry out my duties, regardless of your cooperation.” Turning to the other men, Worth said, “Get him out of here. Down the back stairs, and do it quietly.” The agents bundled Colin out of the villa and into one of a pair of utterly nondescript carriages.

The hours-long carriage ride began a somewhat tumultuous journey back to England. Worth initially allowed Colin relative freedom of movement, with at least three men accompanying him at all times. However, after Colin leaped overboard on a riverboat to escape and forced them to hunt up and down three miles of riverbank to find and recapture him, Worth ordered his hands tied and ankles hobbled when they were on the move.

Colin blessed his school friends for teaching him how to pick pockets because he was able to swipe a small knife in a town they crossed through, and he cut through his bonds. He nearly gave the agents the slip down a side street, only to be cut off by a wagon that stopped suddenly when the horses pulling it shied away from a startled cat streaking across the cobblestones. Before the agents pulled him away and dragged him back to the floor of the inn they had taken over for the evening, Colin bruised all of his ribs.

After that stunt, Worth disappeared for a few hours and returned with a packing crate meant for furniture. Colin was transported the rest of the way to the channel in the packing crate—with a few extra holes for air drilled into it. Out of sheer frustration and lacking any other options, Colin passed the time riding in the crate by singing the filthiest sea shanties and drinking songs in every language he knew at the top of his lungs. The jostling grew rougher the louder he sang, and Colin added a full body’s worth of bumps, bruises, and splinters to his very bruised ribs. Just as he was beginning to feel nauseous from the motion of the ship, Worth levered open the top of the crate, shackled Colin’s wrist to his, and after warning Colin that he couldn’t swim, walked the pair of them up to an isolated section of the stern. They saw no other passengers, and even the sailors seemed not to see them. Colin’s motion sickness immediately faded away, but the nausea remained.

He had been gone from Pen for days. He had no notion of what was in the letter Worth had left her, and had no idea whether she had taken any action. Or what that action might be. Musing on what Pen might choose to do was merely a distraction, and Colin knew it. What was Lady Whistledown in Penelope was more than capable of getting her safely back to England and Bridgerton House to work with Anthony to fix the situation. The simple truth was, he missed her. Missed her presence at his elbow, missed carding his fingers through her loose curls at the end of the day, missed the feeling of her warmth in his arms. More than anything he missed her quick wit and the way she goaded and challenged him to meet her and play on her level. They had not been apart since their marriage, and this separation stung all the more for being unwilling. 

That he hadn’t been unable to escape the custody of eleven agents was not precisely unexpected, but it rankled his pride and made Colin feel as though he had failed Pen somehow, because he had not been able to get back to her. Worth searching him for anything that could have conceivably been used as a lockpick even after he had been locked in a box for days on end had been gratifying but entirely unnecessary. 

Colin stared moodily down into the waves of the channel, debating the odds that Worth had lied to him about being unable to swim. The tightening of his hands drew the other man’s attention, and Worth stepped back a few paces from the rail, gently but firmly dragging Colin with him. 

“I’d as soon not drown with you in a futile attempt to escape,” said Worth, tone an odd mix of dry and apologetic. “I genuinely cannot swim. My parents were poor; I never learned.”

“How did you manage to get yourself appointed as an agent of the queen then?” Colin asked, curiosity genuinely piqued. Between escape and irritation attempts, he had noticed shades of Oxbridge in the bearing, speech, and attitudes of the ten men who had been keeping an eye on him, but Worth had not struck him as a younger son of a ton family who had eschewed the military or the church. 

“She caught me trying to steal the family silver.”

Colin’s startled laugh sent seagulls bursting into flight from their resting places along the lines. “Surely not! Don’t they execute boys who try that?”

“Careless ones, certainly,” replied Worth. “But apparently the fact that I made it unseen into the palace, stole a livery, and made my way utterly unnoticed to the royal apartments was amusing enough that Her Majesty took me into her household and trained me up with an eye toward making me an agent.” He stumbled as the ship listed sharply to one side on another’s wake. Colin caught Worth before the man could drag them both down, his sea legs compensating instinctively. 

“Not a sailor, I see,” said Colin, awkwardly moving to clap Worth on the shoulder but not quite having the right angle to do so because they were cuffed together. 

“Not in the least. Barring the imperative of duty to queen and country, I should count myself lucky never to have to set foot on another ship for the rest of my life.”

“Quite the strong sense of duty too, to kidnap a fellow away from his wife.” The lack of vitriol in his voice surprised Colin. He rather liked Worth, in spite of himself, and the fact that the man was not threatening Pen apparently bought him more good will than Colin had intended to sell. 

Worth shuffled his feet awkwardly, just avoiding meeting Colin’s eyes as he stepped to the rail and held on. “This truly is simple duty. I hold no animosity towards yourself or Dame Penelope. Her Majesty is a complex woman. Capable of great magnanimity and equally great cruelty.”

“I should never expect a man to speak ill of his benefactors,” said Colin. “But neither would I expect him to speak well of anyone threatening his family.” 

Rather than answer as the docks of London drew ever closer, Worth reached into an inside pocket of his coat and withdrew a flask. Between them, the two men drained the flask in companionable silence before Worth was obliged to chivvy Colin back into his packing crate for the journey to the palace.