#I shall keep protesting until this show comes back in some way shape or form

[reaganridleyenjoyer]

Reagan Ridley X Neglected! Child! Reader Oneshot

Ok so y'all know that Reagan x neglected child reader headcanons I made, right ? I couldn't help but feel an urge to also make a oneshot about it.

This will follow a similar scenario as the headcanons one so I advise you read that first (not required to understand where I'm going with this plot though.)

Enough blabbering, it's showtime !

Trigger warning : This one-shot will contain mentions of neglect, mental abuse and nearly fainting. If any of these things make you uncomfortable, please scroll past this post. You have been warned.

3rd person POV

In the middle of an alleyway you desperately searched for some kind of food, but alas anything you found was either disgusting or simply not enough to fulfill your hunger. With a sigh you leaned against the nearby wall as you swore you could feel your vision get blurry. All you could do now was close your eyes and pray someone will come by to help you. Not like that will happen though... Right ?

Reagan's POV

As I drove back home, I spotted out of the corner of my eye a kid. At first I didn't pay much attention but I soon noticed something very wrong with them. The kid looked skinny, TOO skinny to be exact. They also looked to be nearly fading into unconciousness.

I thought about what I should do, I couldn't just leave them ! That'd be heartless of me ! But I have quite a busy job so... I'm not sure about taking them in.

..Ah what the hell.

"Hey ! Need a place ?" I shouted at the kid, they turned around and their tired expression turned into one of happiness.

"Y-yes please !" The kid shouted back at me as they instantly got into my car in the back seat, I instantly drove back to my home.

Small timeskip

After putting on my regular clothes and giving the kid some food, I figured it was time to ask them about what was going on and why they were all alone in an alleyway.

"So kid, I got some questions for you. If you're comfortable answering them of course." I gently said.

"O-of course ! Ask me anything, it's the least I could do to repay you." The kid replied.

"Ok good, so, why were you alone in an alley ?" I asked, the kid's mood seemed to dip a little.

"I- I ran away from home." The kid revealed to me, I grit my teeth a bit before speaking up again.

"Why did you run away ? Did something happen between you and your family ?"

"My p-parents never cared for me, they always either i-ignored me completely or they would constantly insult me. Telling me I'm w-worthless and stuff like that." The kid answered.

I wasted no time and instantly hugged them, I knew the pain of having unloving parents, a shitty childhood...

There was something in me, telling me to take care of this kid. I- I needed to ! I wasn't gonna let them potentially be taken by another scumbag family !

"You're staying with me !" I declared to the kid as I ended the hug, they seemed surprised.

"H-huh ?" Was all they muttered.

"You're gonna be staying with me, I'll be adopting you. You won't have to go back to that shit- terrible family of yours."

Tears of I presume joy, ran down the kid's eyes as they once again wrapped their arms around me for a hug. Was what I doing here the best decision ? Probably not... but I made this choice, and I was gonna be sure to be the best mother I could to this kid.

I had so much fun writing this ngl.

Reagan I feel would be that type of mom who tries her best, she's not the greatest but she does try to make her kid(s) happy.

Alright, that's all for now.

Sayonora~.

[galvanizedfriend]

The Wolf Outtake

This is a little outtake, if you will, of The Wolf universe. It actually fits within the post-TW2 headcanons I've been writing to keep myself happy, so somewhere in S3. It's something that would never fit within the actual story because it's pure domestic fluff. lol I wrote this for @recyclingss, baby Eve's number one fan who yells at me when the child doesn't make an appearance and who’s also the biggest cheerleader this story’s ever had. 💖

This is set much later in the future, and you will notice baby Eve is actually more of toddler Eve here, but I've removed any specific context to make it so this would fit into any point of The Wolf post S2E14, I guess.

Summary: Just random KC+baby moment in The Wolf. It's fluffy, domestic, features the child and Klaus' bitter feelings for Bayou wolves. Nobody asked for it, but I figured, after the WEEK we've all had, maybe people could use some fluff? Hope you guys enjoy it! :)

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Klaus doesn't even realize it's morning already until Caroline stirs next to him, making a lazy hum deep in her throat that pulls him out of his idle reverie. He blinks his surroundings back into focus; the fluorescence that had been filtering in through the windows last time he checked has now been replaced by warm sunlight. He didn’t even notice so much time had gone by.

Caroline rolled onto her side and was quickly lulled into blissful sleep after their late-night exertions. Klaus was distracted by the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest for a long time until his mind was ensnared by its usual culprits, thoughts trapped in the latest batch of torments and woes to take over the Mikaelsons’ lives. 

 When Caroline opens her eyes and offers him a slow smile, Klaus feels himself touch ground again.

 "'Morning," she slurs in that husky voice, still thick with sleep.

 "Good morning, sweetheart," he replies with a short grin.

 Caroline yawns as she stretches out her body under the thin sheet covering her modesty.

 "Did you sleep at all?" she asks, blinking sluggishly at him.

 "I'm well-rested, if that's what you're asking."

 "It's not." Caroline props herself up on one elbow to stare levelly at him. Some of that drowsiness in her eyes dissipates, disappointment panging through him for bringing her back to the harshness of reality so fast. This is why, sometimes, especially on those not-so-rare nights when he ends up not getting any sleep, he'd rather not stay in bed. It allows the reprieve that slumber offers Caroline to last a little while longer. "Is it about Elijah?" she inquires, a knowing look on her face.

 Klaus' eyes wander away from hers. "It's about everything," he states vaguely, but not untruthfully. 

 Caroline hums unconvinced. "While I know you don't need to sleep, I also know it spells nothing but trouble when you can’t. It’s never good when you spend the whole night thinking."

 "Well, not the whole night," he says with a suggestive leer. "I did spend a good portion of the time engaged in far more pleasant activities."

 She rolls her eyes at him, but her smile is more than a little satisfied when she leans into him. "You're not as smooth as you think, Mikaelson."

 "I beg to differ." Caroline chuckles, shifting under the sheets to press herself against his side, placing a kiss on his shoulder, then his neck, his jaw. Klaus snakes a hand around her back, pulling her closer still, feeling the familiar stirrings of heat in his underbelly. "Shall I prove my point?" he all but purrs.

 Caroline smirks against the corner of his mouth, her palm coming to rest on his chest. Klaus covers her hand with his, angling his face to take her mouth into a kiss. Her breasts pressing against his skin sends a tingle shooting through his body, and his other hand is already sliding down her spine, ready to guide her to straddle him, when lively conversation in the next room makes them pause.

 "Oh-oh," Caroline mutters. "I guess that means Mr. Wolfy is up early today."

 Klaus lets out a disappointed sigh.

 Eve doesn't cry so much when she wakes up anymore. Now, she either stays quietly in her crib until someone sees to her, or she starts playing with her toys. A social butterfly like her mother, she loves to engage in complex conversations with that hideous stuffed wolf Jackson gave her and her absolute favorite toy, the wooden knight Klaus carved for Rebekah when they were children.

 When he started to wake up to the sound of her talking to herself, he became worried, thinking maybe she was seeing things they weren't - which, in New Orleans, could mean a number of horrifying deals. But Caroline assured him that it is perfectly normal for young children to talk to inanimate objects, especially one who lives exclusively amongst adults.

 Apparently, it's good exercise for her imagination, or something.

 When Klaus is watching her, he will make a point to take part in her debates, always highlighting Mr. Knight's grandeur compared to Mr. Bog Scum. 

 "Sweetheart, this filthy dog here is the enemy. He wants to shroud you in flannel, carry you away to the swamp and bore you to sleep. Mr. Knight is here to save you from this stinky animal's claws."

 He's convinced one day she'll understand what he means.

 What’s most troublesome, however, is that Eve has started to attempt to climb out of her crib on her own. They always lock the other door to her bedroom when she's asleep, but the door connecting her room to Caroline's is always left unlocked for safety reasons. One of these days, Klaus thinks, their little wolf is going to catch mommy and daddy in very compromising positions. The idea mortifies him, especially because he and Caroline can get a tad carried away. They are a hybrid and a near-hybrid, after all. Too much energy and whatnot.

 "No rest for the wicked," Caroline speaks around a sigh before peeling away from him. Klaus watches her naked form with wistfulness as she climbs out of bed, his prospect of a lovely morning enterprise disappearing alongside the shape of her beautiful breasts as she shrugs on a fleece robe.

 Caroline vamps off to the en suite bathroom to freshen up a bit and then follows to Eve's room.

 "Good morning, sweet cheeks!" she greets their daughter sunnily. "Good morning to you, too, Mr. Wolfy!" Oh, for goodness' sake, Klaus curses inwardly. "And Mr. Knight!" Much better.

 Minutes later, Caroline returns with Eve, comfortable in fresh diapers, right on her heels, carrying Mr. Inconvenient and Mr. Knight.

 When she sees Klaus, she takes off towards the bed, her little legs getting more and more agile by the day. He pulls the sheets and covers up to his chest while she tries to hoist herself up. With ease, using just one hand, Klaus lifts her up and puts her sitting on his stomach.

 "Good morning, my littlest wolf," he says. "Where's my kiss?"

 His daughter leans down and smacks a loud kiss on his cheek, and then holds Mr. Fleabag close to him for a kiss as well. Klaus makes a face. "Not the dog, Eve."

 "Seriously?" Caroline says with a bored air about her. "You're antagonizing a stuffed animal now?"

 "This thing is a health hazard."

 "That thing has a cute little name, Mr. Wolfy, and your daughter loves him."

 "I refuse to treat a swamp dog as though it were a gentleman. Besides, I'm sure she loves Mr. Knight way more, don't you, love? Where's Mr. Hero?" She shouts something that sounds like Miter Nigh before pushing it onto Klaus' face. He cracks a proud smile at her. "There you go." He attacks her with tickles, and Eve bursts with sweet laughter.

 Caroline shakes her head at him, but he notices she's quite clearly biting back on a smile. "You're impossible."

 "I’m quite possible, I assure you," he replies smoothly. "Where are you going?" he asks when she starts tying her hair into a ponytail and taking clothes from her drawers.

 "Running with Marcel."

 "Oh, for goodness' sake," he protests. "Can you believe this, Eve? It's not even seven in the morning and your mother is willingly stepping out of the house to run. I sometimes fear she might be a psychopath."

 She scoffs loudly. "You would know, wouldn't you?" While she walks by him to go into the en suite, she slaps him lightly across the legs. "Stop telling my child that I'm a psycho, psycho."

 "How else am I supposed to explain this insanity? What kind of person runs for pleasure when there is an infinite array of far more gratifying activities to invest your energy into? Just now we were about to -"

 "Not in front of the small child, Klaus!" she chides from the bathroom.

 "She doesn't know what daddy is talking about, do you, love?" Eve giggles while he lifts her up above him, holding her like a flying superhero. "Blissfully clueless."

 Caroline steps back into the room, already in her exercise gear. Klaus lets out an infinitely despondent sigh. He would love nothing more than to get her out of those.

 "It's inappropriate conversation to have in front of the toddler," she remarks, putting on the smartwatch she bought recently to exercise with and measure her sleep patterns or whatever the bloody hell that is. She showed him all of this gizmo’s functionalities, swearing it’s the best thing ever invented by human minds. Klaus thinks it’s adorable, however incomprehensible, that someone with such close ties with the supernatural world would still be so impressed by technology. There’s literally nothing that cannot be sorted through magic. How is a watch that counts steps supposed to awe you once you’ve seen someone brought back from the dead? Caroline’s attachment to her humanity goes way beyond her empathy. "Besides, it was gonna be a quick activity because I'd go meet Marcel anyway,” she adds after a beat.

 "I can make you see stars in five minutes," he leers, a smirk growing on his face.

 Caroline whips her face at him with what is clearly an attempt at outrage but turns into something else when she can't hold her own smile. She can't deny him when his point was proved just the night before. Several times, in fact.

 "Shut up," she retorts simply. "Can you give her breakfast? I left chopped fruits in the fridge. You can wait about an hour after the bottle and give it to her as a little treat - not Fruit Loops."

 "She loves that thing."

 "Of course she does, it's pure sugar. That's exactly why we don't let her have it all the time. She needs to eat real fruits."

 Klaus rolls his eyes, sitting up in bed and putting the baby beside him. "Honestly, sweetheart, your mother sometimes..." 

 Caroline narrows her eyes at him. "You really love to make yourself out to be the cool parent, don't you?"

 "I don't have to make myself out to be anything, love. I am the parent who doesn't deny her the little joys of sugary treats. If that makes me cool, then you’ve only got yourself to blame." 

 "You're the parent who'll spoil her rotten, that’s what. Let's see how you'll feel when she's 16 and her boyfriend is climbing the balcony in her room in the middle of the night because she never learned how to take a no."

 "Oh, I would love for her suitors to climb her window in the middle of the night. It’ll be the last thing they do,” he says, smiling innocently at Eve.

 “You’ll be such a ray of sunshine when she starts dating.”

 “As per usual," he says with a bite of arrogance. "Hold the child so I can get decent, will you?"

 Caroline picks Eve up and keeps her looking firmly the other way while Klaus flashes out of bed and into the bathroom. He hears Caroline teasing her with “Where did daddy go?” and laughing at what he knows is Eve's extremely confused but astonished face. She thinks they're magicians. It's one of her favorite things, to watch as Klaus makes full use of his vampire speed to all but vanish right before her eyes. Modern technology has got nothing on him.

 There's something extremely heartwarming about his daughter's innocence. One day, she'll be old enough to understand why he can do the things he does. When that day comes, Klaus will cease to be a creature of magic and wonder, to become what he truly is: darkness made flesh. 

 He has never been ashamed of what he is, hardly ever had any qualms with filling the villain shoes, quite glad to do it, in fact, but he suddenly finds himself dreading the day when his child will figure out what it means to carry the Mikaelson name. When their family’s history will weigh down on her shoulders as it does on theirs.

 While making people cower in fear at the mere sound of his name has brought him an obscene amount of satisfaction and pride over the centuries, Klaus has to admit he's fascinated by the pure sparkle in his child's eyes. She's the first human being in a millennium who does not see even a fraction of monstrosity in him, no shadow, no taints, no mortal flaws. Not yet, anyway. All she sees is a funny man who makes her laugh and can hold her up with his finger, tells her stories about evil werewolves and keeps her safe and that's enough for her to adore him. Sometimes, he feels unworthy of such love. As though he's a fraud, deceiving his own daughter and taking advantage of her innocence.

 It still astonishes him that he should ever be capable of making something as pure and bright as that little girl. In a thousand years, Klaus Mikaelson has only ever brought misery and pain into this world. Eve is the first genuinely good thing he's ever done. Then, of course, she inherited all of that from her mother, who holds herself open for compassion and kindness even though she is herself in a symbiotic existence with her own beast. Caroline has taken control of her darkness in ways Klaus doesn't think he's ever seen a vampire as young as her do before. She truly is extraordinary, and every day he hopes, from the bottom of his withered heart, that Eve will turn out to be every inch Caroline's daughter more so than his.

 Klaus can still smell last night’s sex all over himself, so he takes a quick shower and puts on a pair of denims and a shirt and vamps back to the room again, just to surprise Eve. She gasps when he materializes next to her, flinching, and then starts laughing like a little maniac, reaching out to him. 

 "Remember," Caroline says as she lets Eve slide over to Klaus' arms. "Bottle, fruits. No Fruit Loops. I'll tell your other child you said hi."

 "A child who enjoys running has clearly learned nothing from me," he grumbles. “Hopefully I’ll do a better job with this one.” 

 “Start by not feeding her Fruit Loops,” Caroline remarks with a grin before she smacks a loud kiss on Eve's cheek and then one on his.

 When she’s gone, Klaus turns to look at his little wolf, watching him with those dark blues of hers as though she's studying her father. Sometimes he wonders if toddlers know more than they let on.

 "Do you want to do magic?"

 "Yes!" she practically screams, her face splitting with a wide, toothy grin.

 "Get ready, then. Are you ready?" She gives him an exaggerated nod. "Keep your eyes open. One, two..." And then he flashes out of the room with her.

______________

✨ Thanks for reading! :) If you’ve enjoyed this silly thing, please drop me a comment! Your reblogs are also much appreciated to help this reach more people. ✨

[foursideharmony]

The Cat, The Prince, and the Doorway to Imagination (Chapter 2)

Summary: The adventure gets underway.

Pairings: Platonic/familial LAMP/CALM, Platonic/familial DLAMPR

Content Warnings: None so far

Word Count: 2235

Read on AO3: here

Patton's eyes were huge. “The Narnia? With the talking animals and wholesome religious subtext?”

“That's the place,” said Roman. “I mean...I dialed back a little on the religious subtext, since that can be kind of a touchy subject. But Patton, there will be as many talking animals as you want.”

“So how is this going to work?” asked Virgil. “We're the main characters? Will you tell us what to do next?”

“I won't have to!” said Roman. “It's literally just the plot of the first book. All we have to do is go through the major story beats! We'll pick things up at the point where all four Pevensies go through the wardrobe together and meet up with the Beavers, and—”

“Whoa, slow down, Pagemaster. I hate to bust your bubble, but I don't actually remember much about the story.”

“Nor I,” said Logan. “It has been quite some time since Thomas either read the book or watched any of the film adaptations, and in the interim I have grown...” He trailed off, blinking, and then pulled a thin stack of index cards out of his jeans pocket and thumbed through them until he found the one he wanted. “...'fuzzy' on the details.”

“You needed a vocab card for 'fuzzy?'” asked Roman. “Never mind. Don't worry about not being fully up to speed—it's a pretty simple adventure story, and Patton and I can give—”

“Actually...” Patton said, sheepishly raising his hand like a schoolchild, “...I don't really remember much about the story either. I always get distracted by the talking animals and wholesome religious subtext.”

Roman stuck his tongue into his cheek for a moment, considering. Then he brightened. “Even better! This way I'll be able to surprise all three of you! And who knows—maybe it will all come back to you as we go along. So is everyone ready?”

They affirmed that they were.

“Oh. One more thing, before we go in. Stories in the Imagination can take on a life of their own. You might find yourself having...odd impulses, ideas that you're not used to. That's the story, trying to nudge you in a particular direction. It's best to just go along with it. Remember that it's a story for kids, there will be a happy ending, and we're all friends.”

Virgil's eyes widened and he took a breath to speak, but Patton cut in: “I trust you, Roman.” Virgil let out the breath and bit back his protest.

Roman smiled. “Follow me, everyone. And try not to be too alarmed by anything we might encounter...”

They stepped into the wardrobe. Almost at once, a chilly breeze, tasting of snow and pine, fluttered past them and swirled around to tug the doors closed. “Don't worry, that was supposed to happen,” Roman said in a breathless half-whisper. “Head toward the light.” And indeed, as their eyes adjusted to the darkened, fur-lined interior of the wardrobe, they became able to perceive a cool light in the distance, opposite where they had entered. They went for it, pushing and stumbling through the rows of coats, gasping with startled...delight?...when the soft fur gave way to prickly conifer branches, and snow crunched underfoot, and finally blinking in the soft glow of a forest in deep winter.

Roman had gone all out. It was a world of white and blue-gray, the snow caked so thickly that only here and there was a hint of brown bark or green needle visible, and even these colors were muted. The only sounds, apart from the ones the Sides had brought with them, were the soughing of the breeze and the occasional patter of ice crystals from a distant tree branch. And it was cold—so much so that the first thing any of them did, apart from stare agape at the frozen landscape, was Virgil retreating a few yards into the grove they had emerged from and returning with four of the fur coats. He kept one and handed the rest to Patton for distribution.

“See, Virgil?” Roman said, his voice sounding oddly hollow as the snow and wind swallowed it. “You're getting the hang of this story already.”

“Less talk, more...whatever you have planned,” Virgil said, wrapping himself in black rabbit. “Let's get going before we all freeze our...toes off.”

“Hold up...where's Logan?” asked Patton.

“Over here,” came Logan's calm voice from a couple dozen yards away. He was starkly visible as a dark spot against the snow, standing perfectly motionless, huddled into himself and shivering slightly as he stared at the thing that had prompted him to drift away from the group.

“I remember this now,” he said as the others approached. “Come to think of it, it may be part of why I retained so little about the book in the first place. I mean...it's patently ridiculous. What fuels it? There are no gas lines in a wild forest.”

“If you must know...friendly spite,” said Roman.

“That warrants a fuller explanation,” said Logan, accepting a coat from Patton.

“Well,” Roman said, waving the group along, “C.S. Lewis, the author, was great friends with the almighty J.R.R. Tolkien, who told him in rather absolutist terms that you couldn't write about a fantasy world and put a lamppost in it. To which Lewis replied—I'm paraphrasing here—'Oh yeah, homes? Watch me'—and created this delightful world of Narnia, with that lamppost as a signature feature. True story. If nothing else, you have to admire his saucy rebel spirit.”

“I fail to see how that translates into a viable, inexhaustible fuel supply.”

“Aw, Logan!” Patton chirped. “It's a magic lamp in a magic forest! That's all it needs to glow forever!”

“See? Patton gets it!”

“Ease up a little on the noise, guys,” said Virgil. “Anything could be stalking us in this place. Roman, where are we even going?”

“It's not so much where we're going as what we're going to encounter. I condensed this part of the story somewhat and—”

“SHH!” Virgil hissed emphatically, pulling up short and throwing his arms out to the sides to stop the others as well. “I heard something in the bushes,” he muttered. “I told you we were being followed. Nobody move until we know what we're dealing with.”

There came a short whistling sound from a patch of shubbery, and a low, dark shape darted out, heading away from them through the brush, muttering in an almost human fashion as it went. Patton's eyes grew enormous. “Talking animal!” he cooed, and immediately gave chase. “Wait up, critter! We won't hurt you!”

“Patton, no!” Virgil called. He spun about and thrust a finger in Roman's face, eyes glittering with barely suppressed fury. “If anything happens to him, I will end you.” Then he followed, vaulting over low-growing bushes, somehow not slipping in the snow.

“I didn't make Patton run off,” Roman grumbled as he and Logan brought up the rear.

“Was this part of your plan?” asked Logan.

“The animal, yes, Patton's impulsiveness, no. Virgil's hostility...definitely no. This is supposed to be a fun excursion!”

“I am afraid I have no advice for you.”

They caught up to find Patton inching around and poking at a dense thicket, Virgil staying close but not interfering. “It's in here somewhere,” Patton said as a repeat of the whistle from earlier confirmed his claim, “but I can't find a spot for us to get through.”

“I keep telling him this is a bad idea,” Virgil said.

“Virgil, it's fine,” said Roman. “This is how the story is supposed to go. That's our guide in there.”

“You said these stories could, and I quote, 'take on a life of their own.' How do you know—”

“Aha!” Patton exclaimed with a touch of giggle. “Here we go!” He pulled aside a swath of branches, making an opening easily big enough for them to pass through if they stooped.

It was spacious inside the thicket, with a “roof” of branches low enough that a few twigs brushed the Sides' heads, and a “floor” of earth and dead leaves—the tangle overhead was thick enough to keep out the snow, which meant it also kept out most of the daylight. They could barely make out the form of the creature that had led them there, seeing only that it was stout and dark-furred, with a hunched posture and beady eyes that twinkled in the meager light.

“Aw, it's a beaver!” Patton said. “Heeeere, beaver, beaver, beaver!”

“Hush!” the beaver said, bounding across the space. “I brought you here for secrecy's sake, but if you start shouting you'll attract the wrong sort of attention anyway.”

“See, guys?” said Virgil. “We need to be more careful.”

“How are you able to speak?” asked Logan, bemused. “You appear to have completely normal morphology for a member of genus Castor. Your vocal tract should not be capable of forming such complex sounds, to say nothing of your brain structure.”

“Logan, you're doing it again,” Patton said out of the corner of his mouth.

Mr. Beaver, for his part, ignored the nosy questions in favor of counting the Sides. “Four,” he said with deep satisfaction. “Four Sons of Adam. At last. Narnia has been waiting for you for a long time. I have so much to tell you...but not here. There's only so much privacy we can manage out-of-doors. Her spies are everywhere.”

“Her who?” Virgil said with a hint of a growl.

“Who else?” replied Mr. Beaver. He beckoned them all to lean in close, which in the Sides' case meant leaning over quite a bit. “The White Witch.”

“Oohhh yeeaahhh, I remember now,” said Patton. “She is one scary lady.”

“Understatement of the year,” Roman muttered.

“The White Witch has kept Narnia in thrall for a hundred years,” the beaver continued, “but now that you four have come, we shall finally see the end of her wicked reign. It has been prophesied.”

“Hang on, hang on,” said Virgil. “Is that the thing where four humans show up, kick the White Witch to the curb, and all settle down as kings of Narnia? Guys…are we actually down for that? I mean, I know Roman is, but…”

“If it’s part of the story, then I say we go for it,” Patton stated firmly.

“We did agree to follow through with the adventure,” said Logan.

“There is much to tell you,” said Mr. Beaver, as if the interruption hadn’t occurred, “but not here. I’ll take you to my place and fill you in on all the details. Now let’s hurry…it’ll be dark soon and you do not want to be caught in these woods after dark.”

They left the shelter of the thicket, and although the sky was overcast, it was indeed evident that the daylight was waning. The trip to the Beavers’ house was undertaken in near-silence, which gave Roman plenty of time to take stock of how the adventure was progressing.

His first thought was that it was going really well, actually. His fellow Sides were settling into their roles as fantasy protagonists, plus or minus a little snark (which was only to be expected). The scenery looked great, Mr. Beaver was following the loose “script” Roman had assigned him without any need for corrective nudging, and the adventure was shaping up just how he had imagined it.

As he thought more about the other Sides' reactions, he realized that they were even taking on rough approximations of the roles of the Pevensie children. Patton accepted everything with wide-eyed wonder, just like Lucy. Logan was being typically skeptical and sensible, much like Susan. And Virgil, in his drive to protect them all from danger, was acting almost like an eldest brother, a la Peter. That just left...

Roman stopped dead in his tracks as a chill that had nothing to do with the snow shot up and down his spine and forked down all his limbs.

I thought I was your hero...

Stories in the Imagination can take on a life of their own...

He forced his legs to start working again before the rest of the party could notice anything was wrong, and pulled up the hood on his silver mink coat in order to hide the expression of dread that he could feel forming (and to potentially play it off as a sudden bout of chill if anyone did notice).

Anyway, he was destined to be far colder before the night was over.

He should have known. How could he have overlooked something so simple?

On their final approach to the Beavers' house, Roman turned his eyes northward, toward the twin hills where the story obviously wanted him to go. Could he already spot a hint of an icy spire?

He barely tasted the trout dinner the Beavers served the four of them, barely heard the conversation that ensued. He already knew how it went, after all. His only role in all of it was to duck out early (quack?) and take the relevant news to their enemy.

He had only wanted to be the hero, but someone had to be the villain, and the story had picked Roman. How could he refuse?

[ofdragonsdeep]

13: Oneirophrenia

Internal wounds leave the deepest scars.

(MAJOR CW for implied rape, m!WoLxThancred, m!WoLxHaurchefant)

The still quiet of the night hung in the air like a held breath. In the Rising Stones, the air was free of the sickly purple gloom that suffused the air of Mor Dhona, the only disturbances the noises coming from the common room and its tiny yet perpetual bar.

In his room, simple as it was, Ar’telan struggled to sleep. He lay on his side, covers pulled up around him to ward off the cold, tail coiled in a miserable pile at his legs. Each time he closed his eyes, the thoughts came back, wending their way through his sleeping mind as though aware that his defences would be down.

Most of the nightmares he could cope with. He would wake and then sleep again, a huff on his lips at the foolishness of dwelling on them. People he had seen die, the massacre at the Waking Sands, the trail of blood that their campaign had led through Castrum Meridianum, all of this was par for the course. One of the Scions he spoke to on occasion, a young elezen called Alianne who had been an adventurer once, had been learning from the Eorzean Alliance’s trained therapists, what few of them were left in the wake of the calamity. The trauma was expected - normal, even, in people who had witnessed horrific events like the ones he had seen. But there was one nightmare that he did not speak of, the reason he was sleeping alone, if he was sleeping at all. The feeling of ‘Thancred’ catching his hands to silence his words, Lahabrea hearing his every protest with the Echo, the cruel things he had said, the things he had done, to try and crack Ar’telan’s faith in the Scions. Always, inevitably, it went back to that, as if living it once had not been punishment enough.

With a groan of frustration, he rolled over in the bed, pulling the covers over his head as if to block out the night. How easy it would be if he did not need sleep, or if he simply drank himself into a stupor every night like Thancred did, to cope with the aftermath.

Maybe Thancred had the right of it.

---

“You look like the dodo the cook forgot about in the back of the pantry,” Yda said, Ar’telan wincing at the specifics of her description.

“I am fine,” he said, stifling a yawn as he said it. “Just a little tired.” Yda squinted at him - at least, he thought she did, the way she tilted her head towards him, but it was hard to tell through the mask.

“When was the last time you had a good night’s sleep?” she demanded. Ar’telan groaned.

“I don’t know. But I will be fine. Thank you for your concern,” he said. This did not seem to convince Yda, if the way she looked back towards Papalymo was any judge, but she at least left him alone for the time being.

It was Y’shtola who disturbed him, more gently than he was used to from the acerbic conjurer. A poke of her wooden wand into his arm, and he raised his head from where it lay on the table to look at her.

“Am I needed?” he asked, and Y’shtola let out a sharp sigh.

“Yes. Come with me,” she instructed, and Ar’telan pushed himself out of the chair and followed her.

She did not take him to the Solar, like he was inspecting. Instead, she led him into one of the many little side rooms in the Rising Stones, which were normally reserved for all sorts of things that Ar’telan was not involved in.

“Sit,” she demanded, pointing at a chair. Confused, Ar’telan did as he was told. Y’shtola mirrored the motion in the chair opposite him, folding her arms across her chest. “Yda tells me you have not been sleeping enough,” she said, and Ar’telan wilted.

“I am fine,” he said, and Y’shtola let out a harrumph of disagreement.

“I am sure you are. That may have swayed me during our eventful stay at Costa del Sol, but it will not work here,” she snapped. Ar’telan would very much have liked to go back to the busywork of doing inane tasks for the Company of Heroes, in truth. At least when he was busy he did not think, and when he wore himself out his sleep was long and blissfully dreamless. “What troubles you? I would hope that after all this time we are friends enough for you to share it.” Ar’telan grimaced.

“It… it’s nothing much. Nightmares. Alianne has been helping,” he said, trying to evade the brunt of the question. “I will improve when I am busy again. I’m sorry for the fuss.” Y’shtola shook her head again, taking out her wand to bonk him lightly on the head with it.

“Do not apologise for struggling. We none of us are perfect,” she chastised, and Ar’telan shrunk back away from her in shame.

“No. But… No,” he said, changing his mind. Too late, though, for Y’shtola was after the half-formed thought like a starveling wolf on a hunk of fresh meat.

“This is about Thancred, isn’t it?” she surmised, and Ar’telan cringed at the accuracy of her statement. Not that it was exactly difficult to piece together that the two of them were coping poorly in the aftermath of the Praetorium, Thancred through drink and Ar’telan through anything he could get that would not cloud his mind. After Castrum Centri, some part of him had hoped that it would all make sense - that he would be able to parcel it away, file the memories into neat little boxes, half labelled ‘Thancred’ and the rest ‘Lahabrea’, but reality was cold and unfeeling in its truth.

“It is fine. We have reached an understanding,” Ar’telan said, which made Y’shtola scoff.

“They could hear your arguments all the way in Gridania. Well, Thancred’s half of them, at any rate,” she said. “It does not have to be easy, Ar’telan. You have not failed for struggling with it. The Twelve know you are at least coping better than Thancred is.” Ar’telan was not so sure of that, but he held his tongue on it regardless.

“It is fine. He is right-”

“He most certainly is not,” Y’shtola cut in. “Not if it is hurting you this much. Talk to me, Ar’telan. Your words will not reach his ears, if that is what concerns you.” Ar’telan hesitated. He had kept his counsel before the Garleans had raided the Waking Sands, and what had that got him? He had been convinced that his words were meaningless, his opinion irrelevant, his worth nothing more than his usefulness to the cause. To keep his silence was what Lahabrea had wanted from him, wasn’t it?

“It is… it is difficult,” he admitted, and the words were hard to shape, as though he had been avoiding the revelation even to himself. “I can’t… I couldn’t… It comes back. What Laha- what Lahabrea did.” He hesitated over the words, his fingers shaking as he made the sign for the ascian’s name. “I can’t be near him without remembering it. Can’t be close to him. I tried to- tried to ease the fear.” He had touched his fingers to Thancred’s throat, content that if the tiny crystal on its choker was not there, that it was really Thancred this time, that the spectre of Lahabrea would be banished, but Thancred could only see that without it, Ar’telan thought him capable of all the things that Lahabrea had done. Of course it hurt him. Why wouldn’t it hurt him? It was a terrible thing to accuse a person of, even in implicit gestures and terrified catastrophizing. But what was he supposed to do? “Thancred - we - it doesn’t work. And he is angry, and I am s-scared, and when I try to sleep it all comes back.” Y’shtola’s face softened at the revelation. She was the only one who knew, aside from Thancred himself, at least as far as Ar’telan knew. He hadn’t dared tell anyone else, not even Minfilia, given how stressed she was with everything that had happened to her during her time in captivity, and her closeness to Thancred. Part of him had feared that she would think him a monster to believe Thancred capable of what Lahabrea had done, even if that had been the point. It was not supposed to be easy. The ascian would not have bothered otherwise.

“It’s ok,” Y’shtola told him, gently taking one of his hands in hers, leaving him the room to pull it back if he needed to speak. “Such terrors do not fade quickly. Maybe they never will. But we cannot help if you do not tell us.” Ar’telan nodded, knowing that she was right. She usually was. At least she was not as insufferable about it as Alphinaud. “I am not a master of the culinary arts, but I shall speak with some friends, and find you some herbs to help you sleep. I will not tell them why.” He nodded, swallowing down the rising panic at her suggestion, the thought that anyone else would know, would judge him for what had happened, for his weakness in being unable to confront it. It seemed little different to Thancred’s self-medication, still rendering him useless until the herbs wore off, but he would bear it if it meant that he could sleep.

“Thank you,” he said, using only his free hand to do it. It was hard to whisper when you had no voice, but perhaps that counted. “I… I am sorry. For not… not trusting you.” Y’shtola shook her head, naught on her face but concern.

“‘Twas the point of it, was it not? To make you doubt,” she said. “It will take time, and if need be, I shall drag you off to speak with you a dozen more times ere you feel comfortable coming to me yourself. The villain is ousted, and even if he will reconstitute, you have time left to breathe and gather yourself. If there is aught you need, simply say.”

“I will try,” Ar’telan said, the best he could offer in the circumstances. Y’shtola nodded.

“Good. I shall hold you to that,” she decided.

---

Dawn filtered through the cracks in the window like the caress of a lover, rousing Ar’telan from his sleep. The bed was no less simple, and no less empty, but it did not yawn before him like a chasm that seemed impossible to cross, and perhaps that would mean something.

It was not easy. Each night he drank the bitter herbs that he had been so discreetly given felt like a stay of execution more than a panacea, and the tensions between him and Thancred showed no signs of abating. The troubles in Ishgard offered a tantalising opportunity to bury himself in the work of others, to keep his own counsel and pray that an untended wound would somehow heal, but it was not that easy. It was never that easy, not when the knife had cut so deep with edges so sharp and cruel.

He would hold his own. He had no choice but to persevere.

(And when Haurchefant’s hands touched his, though he woke still alone for all their wishes, the elezen let him run his fingers over his throat - unmarked by ascian aether, reassuring in its warmth - it felt like, one day, he might heal.)

[woodelf68]

Thy Body A Feast

Inspired by the @sifkiweek2020 prompt “indulge.  (Yes, from last summer, shh.) Rated E. 4311 words.

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

“Come on, just a little bit more?” Sif coaxed, trying to get Ullr to latch on again. Ullr turned his face away from her breast, squirming and kicking his legs.

Sif sighed. “I know; you don’t like the heat. You’re going to be your daddy’s little boy, aren’t you?” She rose and laid Ullr back down in his cradle, her right breast still uncomfortably full of milk. She’d have to express some, or she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Absently she pulled the shoulder of her sleeveless tunic back up, the idea of fetching a bowl and milking herself like a cow not having any particular appeal. Not when she could think of a more pleasant way to go about it.  

“Loki,” she called, going into the study. Loki immediately pushed back his desk chair, setting down his pen and looking up at her inquiringly. Sif seated herself on his lap, and his arms came up to wrap around her waist, holding her secure. “Your son won’t finish his dinner; what are you going to do about it?” She slid her hand under his hair and cupped the nape of his neck, using her thumb to massage the tight muscle she habitually found there. 

"Why is he always 'my' son in situations like these?" he demanded, but there was no real ire in his words. Being a father was still new enough that just hearing the words "your son" was enough to send a thrill of pride and wonder through him. "And what do you want me to do about it? Tell him he can’t go out to play until he finishes his meal to your satisfaction?" He canted his head slightly to the side, offering more of his neck to her touch. Receiving impromptu neck rubs without even having to ask for them was just one of the things that he liked about being married. "Is he all right?”

“He’s fine; it’s just the heat making him fussy so he’s not that hungry. Which is why he’s your son right now. But he had some, and he’ll probably make up for it at his next feed. But for now, I’m lopsided and uncomfortable and I need to get rid of some milk.” She pulled her tunic back down again, baring and cupping her heavy, still milk-swollen breast as if in offering. “I thought you might like a taste, no point in wasting it.” She squeezed her nipple lightly and nearly shuddered from the stimulation, hypersensitive from having to nurse Ullr every couple of hours. 

Loki’s gaze went from her breast to her face and back to her breast again, the nipple and surrounding areola darker than they used to be, contrasting beautifully against her pale skin, focusing his attention. He parted his lips and his tongue came out to wet them. What with the frequent feedings, Sif had understandably been disinterested in any further breast play since Ullr's birth, but he was more than happy to seize this opportunity to indulge himself in the name of providing her some relief. Plus, he had to admit he'd been curious about what her milk would taste like, but it had seemed wrong to ask and take any nourishment away from his son. His voice was low and husky when he spoke. “Well, as a responsible father, I must of course make up for my son’s poor manners in not finishing his meal. And as a dutiful husband, I must do my best to ease my lady’s discomfort.” 

He lifted up one of his hands from her waist, and Sif let her hand drop away as his replaced it, his long fingers deftly kneading her breast, coaxing her milk down towards her nipple. Sif felt the warning tingle as the pressure shifted. “Lo--.” 

He leaned forward as the first beads of milk appeared, and then his mouth was on her, warm and wet and sucking, and what had started out as his name turned into a soft gasp. His eyes flicked up to her, questioning, and she tangled her fingers in his hair, keeping him from moving his head. "Good," she assured him, already feeling the relief as the tightness in her breast eased. He swallowed, his tongue pressing against her as he suckled, and the gentle rhythmic tug of it was like a line of pleasure connecting straight to her core. She shifted upon his lap, letting his thigh press up between her legs. "You're gentler than your son,” she murmured. “He doesn't know or care how hard his gums are."

Loki huffed a laugh through his nose, the taste of Sif's milk surprisingly sweet upon his tongue; that she would share the gift of it touching something deep within him. He felt her bend over him, her lips pressing to the top of his head, her hand cradling his skull, her fingers sliding through his hair, and he thought that this must be how Ullr felt when he nursed, held safe and surrounded by love. She shifted again, and Loki's eyes flicked down, and then up again, watching her expression as he experimentally brought one hand down to press a knuckle firmly up against the top of her cleft.  

"Mm, yes, there." She rocked against the pressure slowly.

Gradually the flow of milk slowed, Sif’s breast softening, and Loki somewhat reluctantly let her slip out of his mouth and glanced up questioningly. "Is that enough?"

"Yes, that's much better, thank you." Sif’s voice sounded dreamy, lost in a pleasurable haze.

Loki dragged his thumb over the wet flesh of her nipple -- longer and thicker than it had once been -- and Sif’s hips jerked against his hand. "And is there something else my wife might desire?" he inquired with a knowing look.

"Mm, I would not object to the services of your mouth elsewhere on my body." She tucked a lock of his hair back behind his ear. 

"Elsewhere, hm? Here?" He leaned forward and kissed her lips.

Willingly Sif opened her mouth to him, and tasted herself on his tongue. She chased after the flavour, burying her hand in his hair, feeling his hand splay out on her back, keeping her close. "I will gladly accept all such kisses," she said when they parted, sucking gently at his lip. "But that was not where I was thinking of."

Loki lowered his head, and brushed his lips against her throat. "Here?" His eyes glinted with mischief as he moved down to her collarbones. "Or here?"

Sif groaned. "The time to go slow and tease is not when we have an infant in the next room, Loki. If he interrupts us before you get to where I need you, I shall not be best pleased."

"Ah, someplace lower, then." 

"Lower," she agreed.

"Would I perhaps need to remove your leggings?" He tugged at the knot of her laces. 

She beamed at him. "Clever boy. I knew you would figure it out." 

The corner of his mouth quirked up. "Perhaps we should adjourn to the bed, then?" He gave her a nudge and she slid off of his lap. 

"An excellent idea." Sif took his hand and led him into the bedroom, sitting down on the edge of the bed and holding out one foot to him. "Boots," she said simply.

"What am I, your servant?" he asked without rancour, already tugging her boot off. 

"I thought it would be faster." 

"Impatient, are we?"

"We are," she confirmed.  "I have an extraordinarily handsome husband who is renowned for his skill with his tongue; can you blame me?"

Pleased, Loki grinned. "I thought it was my skill with words that earned me that moniker." He tossed her second boot onto the floor. 

"Oh. Well." She smiled at him brilliantly as she loosened the laces of her leggings. "Lucky me that I know you are multi-talented in your use of it." She lifted her hips for him as he took hold of her waistbands and pulled both leggings and braies down her legs and off at the same time, baring her to his gaze.

The musky scent of her arousal immediately wafted up to Loki and he wasted no time in settling himself between her legs, letting the scent draw him in to lick and to suck until she was squirming beneath his touch. He felt her fingers delve into his hair again, flexing restlessly against his skull, and the small nubbin of her flesh swelled and hardened further under his tongue as she grew tense and then still, and he was ready for the sudden high arching of her hips off of the bed, her body clamping down around him as he thrust his fingers into her. He waited until her hips had sagged back down onto the mattress and the last spasm rippled around his fingers before drawing them out and sucking them clean. 

“Mm, delicious.” 

Sif turned her head to look at him, eyes half-lidded with pleasure. 

Loki reclined on his side, and unlaced his breeches while he waited for her to recover. It was a relief to take his cock out, and stroke himself. 

Sif’s gaze sharpened with interest, and she rolled onto her own side to watch him. Seeing her paying attention, he shifted his grip, his lazy motions less about pleasuring himself and more about showing himself off to his best advantage, she thought. Not that that was much of a challenge, he was beautifully shaped, long and thick and alabaster-skinned, already curving slightly upwards. She knew the solid weight of him in her hand, and the taste of him upon her tongue. Her lassitude fled. “Want me to take over?”

Loki feigned indifference. “If you like.” 

Sif’s eyes glinted with mischief. “What if I don’t?”

Loki gave her his saddest puppy dog eyes. “Then I would be forced to tell Ullr how inconsiderate his mother is.” 

“Well, I can’t have that, not after you have taken such good care of me.” Sif moved towards him, and pushed him flat onto his back. Loki went without protest, looking up at her with eyes that were wide and expectant. She regarded his still-clothed form for a second, weighing the pleasure of slowly stripping him with the awareness that Ullr might demand attention at any time. 

"Shirt off," she decided, compromising in the name of expediency. Loki had already removed all but his linen tunic in deference to the warm weather, his public duties done for the day, and he promptly vanished it with a flicker of magic. 

"Mm, much better." She took him in hand, pumping slowly, leisurely, the glide of her flesh on his smoothed by the moisture she gathered from between her legs.  There was strength written in every hard line of his whipcord lean body, and yet an elegant beauty, too, and she drank in the sight of him appreciatively, feeling the mix of emotions that she often did in such moments. Lying there letting her tend to him, he still exuded...power was the first word that came to her mind, but that wasn't quite right. Confidence, she decided. Not the confidence in his skills that he had always had, in the deadliness of his bright sharp knives and his magic and his ability to talk his way out of most situations, but a new self confidence of his place in Asgard and within his family. And surprisingly he had gained it with Thor's ascension to the throne. 

It had been a near thing, she remembered as she took a moment to play with Loki’s balls, shifting his laces up and over them, watching his eyes half shutter with pleasure. Odin -- weary with age and the burdens of state, and fed up with Thor's reluctance to take up his responsibilities -- had finally informed his sons that it was time that one of them stepped up and took on the duties of rule; he had raised them both to be kings and was perfectly willing to crown either one of them. Then he had given them one week to sort it out between themselves as to which one of them would take the throne. She smiled as she recalled Loki's disbelief as he'd related it to her, questioning whether Odin would really entrust the realm of Asgard to a frost giant, the truth of which he'd learned only a couple of years previously. Not to a frost giant, she had countered immediately, but to his son, and thought it was only then that Loki had truly believed with his whole heart that his father had meant it every time he stated that Loki was his son just as much as Thor was.

And as shocked as she had been when that secret had come out, she had found she couldn't see him as anything else either. Despite the prickly state of their relationship at the time, all it had taken was for her to see Loki terrified and vulnerable with his sense of identity shattered around him for all of her protective instincts to come rushing to the fore. What was one or two days of a babe's life on Jotunheim compared to a millennia of growing up in Asgard, after all?  If the king and queen claimed him as their son -- and never mind Odin, she couldn't imagine looking Frigga in the eye and suggesting that she wasn't really Loki's mother -- then who was she to argue? And that meant that he was her prince, every bit as much as Thor, and she had stood by him loyally during his week on the throne while Odin had slept, and as he and his family had worked to rebuild the broken bonds of trust between them.  In so doing, Sif had rediscovered the boy she had once liked so well behind the defensive walls that Loki had erected over the years, and the renewal of their friendship had soon become something more.

Shifting to lay between Loki's legs, and enjoying simply being able to lie on her stomach again, she recalled how he had been further shocked when Thor -- who had doubted his worthiness to be king ever since his reckless invasion of Jotunheim had caused his brother so much pain -- had promptly offered the throne to Loki, declaring himself content with leading Asgard's armies. And, oh, Loki had been tempted, Sif knew, but he had already proven himself capable of ruling in difficult circumstances, and had been more glad than not to hand Gungnir back over when Odin had awaken.  He no longer felt so overshadowed by the quieter, more thoughtful version of Thor that had returned from his monthlong exile on Midgard, and the thought of a lifetime spent in the spotlight that was always focused on the king had not appealed. And he had understood that the increase in power would come with a decrease in freedom, something that Thor had only glumly come to fully realise after he'd finally agreed to take the throne on the condition that Loki would be his Chancellor and the head of his ruling council, and the coronation had gone ahead without a hitch. Afterwards, Loki had immediately set to work sharpening Thor's political skills and, along with Odin, helping him learn to control what was now called the Thorforce, hampered as Thor was by his lack of magical training. In return Thor had made sure that Loki's accomplishments were seen and acknowledged, and it hadn't been long before all in the inner court knew the king and the crown prince wielded near equal power, and often passed duties back and forth to each other, the former king and queen near bursting with pride as they watched their sons work together guiding Asgard into a new era.

Knowing himself valued, and needed, Loki had flourished in his new position, the increased responsibilities settling most attractively upon his broad shoulders. Sif watched him through her lashes as she wrapped her hand firmly about the base of his cock and mouthed at the silken head, thinking about the fact that the crown prince of Asgard and the reckoned most powerful sorcerer in the Nine Realms was hers to do with as she pleased, but hard on the heels of that intoxicating thought came a rush of tenderness, because he was also her husband, and the father of her child, and all she wanted to do was to give him so much pleasure that he forgot his own name. She pulled back briefly, debating whether she wanted his trousers off as well, but decided that she liked the contrast of his pale skin against the black leather.

“Are you ready for me to drink you down?” she asked, a promise in her low voice.

Loki’s hips hitched upwards at her words, his cock throbbing with arousal. “Please. I only regret I cannot offer you such sweet sustenance as you gave me.” 

“Your honeyed words will more than make up for it,” she assured him, urging his thighs apart. He drew his one knee up, giving her more room, and she turned her head to press a kiss against the inside of his thigh, breathing in the scent of the taut, supple leather stretched over it.

“Shall I continue to laud your praises as you pleasure me? Shall I tell you how beautiful you are, how fierce your spirit, how -- “ Heat engulfed him as Sif took him into her mouth, her eyes remaining fixed steadily on him as her cheeks hollowed around him. 

She smirked up at him, and pulled back, her tongue dragging along the underside of his shaft. “Go on,” she encouraged, and went back to her work, giving him the suction that he’d been craving. 

“How...how strong you are, not just in arms but in conviction. How -- mm, how much it means to me to -- mm, yes, there -- know that you will always have my back whether in battle or at court.” She let his cock slip from her mouth again, and his thoughts scattered at the sight of himself, flushed with need and shiny from her saliva. She kissed and licked her way down his shaft, not neglecting his balls, and mouthed at their roundness when they twitched in their sac. Her eyebrows rose expectantly as she glanced up at him again, finding him a little wild-eyed, his gaze rapt upon her. 

“Anything else?”

“Your mouth is exquisite,” he managed. “And -- ahhh -- “ He couldn’t help thrusting up, his cock so hard it ached. “Your tongue should have...paeans sung in its praise.” His breathing was becoming increasingly unsteady. 

Sif snorted, and Loki reached down in an attempt to slide his fingers into her hair, frustrated by her leather hair tie, nearly whining when she lifted away again to speak. 

“You must be rubbing off on me,” she said, and then grinned. “Figuratively as well as literally.” 

“Sif.” He couldn’t take any more teasing. “Please.” 

She bent her head and tongued at his slit, lapping up the first drops of pre-come, and then gave him what he needed and took him in deeper, sucking hard and steadily while one of her hands wrapped snugly around the base of his shaft and began to stroke in rhythm with her mouth. His hips arched off the bed without his bidding, but Sif was ready to ruthlessly push them back down and he didn’t fight her, successfully tugging her ponytail loose and burying his hands in her hair, the strands that fell forward to brush against his skin just one more stimulation. He had no more words for her then, just the soft sounds of his pleasure, as his muscles clenched and sensation built and his gaze grew unfocused as he tried to hold onto that exquisite moment right before climax for as long as he could. He called her name in warning when he felt his pleasure cresting, and she looked back up, and he crashed over the edge into ecstasy with her eyes locked upon his. 

Sif swallowed, nursed him through his aftershocks, and then licked him clean when she felt all the tension go out of him, his eyes closing as he relaxed back into the mattress. She crawled up to lay beside him when she was done, resting her head on his chest and laying one hand on his flat belly, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breathing slowly calm. Loki lifted his hand and gestured, and his leather trousers changed into a pair of soft sleep pants. Sif hummed approvingly and turned her head to press a kiss against the bare skin of his chest and lazily traced her fingers along the contours of muscle and bone. 

Loki yawned, suddenly feeling like he could drift right off to sleep, and chuckled when Sif immediately did the same, her eyes closing contentedly. Ullr was quiet and the bed was comfortable, and he had nothing pressing that he needed to get back to and finish tonight. “Would you care to join me in a nap?” he suggested. 

“That sounds wonderful.” Sif yawned again. “Babies are tiring; I’ll be glad when Ullr can sleep through the night; a few more months according to your mother.” 

“Would you ever want another one?” Loki curled a lock of her hair around his finger. 

“Mm, I think I could manage another one; it would be nice for Ullr to have a sibling.”

“Just one? We could have a whole troop of our own little warriors,’ Loki suggested, a teasing note in his voice.

“Two,” said Sif firmly. “Maaaybe three, but I reserve the right to change my mind. Ask me again when Ullr’s out of diapers.” She opened her eyes briefly to glance up at Loki in curiosity. “What about you? Do you want a whole troop of little sorcerers?” 

“I’d like a little girl,” Loki admitted. “But other than that, I would gladly welcome as many children as you wish to honour me with.” 

Sif smiled, imagining Loki cradling a little daughter. “Well, I will do my best. You’re quite right; it’s time and past some girls were born into this family.”

“I used to sometimes think it would be nice to have a little sister, when I was a child,” he admitted. “Someone who would look up to me the way I looked up to Thor. Someone with whom I could share my magic. But then -- ” He gave a wry smile in remembrance. “Then there were the times when my mother would call me her little one -- even after I had grown taller than her -- and I was glad that I never had to give up that title.” 

“And now you have your own little one,” Sif’s lips curved up, and she traced the sharp jut of his hipbone. 

“I do. I never thought I would have -- not after I learned what I was.” 

She looked up, hearing the vulnerability in his voice, knowing how worried he had been waiting for Ullr's arrival.

“I would never have asked a woman to marry me unknowing my heritage, and I could not imagine anyone learning of it and still being willing to tie herself to me. And moreover,” he continued, when Sif lifted her head off his chest and opened her mouth to speak, “I most certainly would not have risked siring a potential monster on her. But then there was you.” He gestured somewhat helplessly, still, sometimes, unable to believe that she had accepted him and all that he was. 

“First of all,” Sif said, low and fierce, “No children of ours will ever be a monster, no matter the colour of their skin. Secondly -- “ Her expression turned sharp and wolflike. “When has a risky enterprise ever deterred me ? Thirdly -- your mother seemed quite certain that everything would turn out fine.” 

“She did,” Loki agreed, remembering his own conversation with his mother. He would have agreed that it seemed likely that a child would bear the traits of his shapeshifted form, but he had seen sure knowledge in her eyes. The future will work out, they had assured him. Take a chance. “And when I asked her if she had seen something in her weaving, of course she had to remind me that she couldn’t speak of what she saw.” He urged Sif’s head back down to his chest and stroked her hair, letting the silken strands slip through his fingers. “But oh, the look on her face. I wanted whatever it was that she had seen.” 

“Is it as good as you hoped?”

Loki couldn’t help the contented smile that spread across his face. “No.” He turned his head and pressed a kiss to her brow, knowing just how very lucky he was. “It’s even better.” 

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Claimed

This fic is a response to this gorgeous yet painful image by @whiteleyfoster. It’s also available on AO3 (I’ll reblog with the link once AO3 stops being down).

CW: Whump. Violence like you might expect in a PG-13 movie, possibly clean enough to sneak a PG, but the IMPLIED violence is worse. Torture, non-graphic. Hitting. Branding. Despite the opening paragraphs, this is not going to go well.

--

“So. Can’t get decent crepes outside of Paris, eh?”

Crowley lifted the nearly-empty bollée to his lips, hiding a smile as Aziraphale polished off his second order of crepes (third, technically, since he’d also claimed Crowley’s).

“Obviously not.” Aziraphale waved a hand, and a server rushed over with another plate – these crepes stuffed with eggs and ham – as well as a fresh pitcher of the crisp cider that was already making Crowley’s head buzz most pleasantly.

“Only, I seem to recall,” Crowley swirled the last of the cider and finished it off, placing the large cup on the table beside him, “the last time we were in France, you said the best crepes came from Bretagne.”

“Yes. Well.” Aziraphale was currently very occupied with his mouthful of stuffed buckwheat cake.

“And I seem to recall that, just at the moment, Brittany is one of the safest places for an Englishman to be. Especially one with such,” he glanced under the table, “fascinating taste in footwear.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said sternly, taking a drink from his own large, bowl-shaped cup and trying to frown seriously. “You know perfectly well that tastes and styles change. Brittany may have been the place to go for crepes in the twelfth century, but these are modern times. You absolutely must get them from a Parisian creperie or what’s even the point?”

“Is that so?” The demon folded his hands and leaned forward, smiling in a way that showed all his teeth. He peered over the tops of his glasses. “So tell me, why did we spend twenty minutes walking past at least a dozen restaurants until we found one run by a Breton?”

Aziraphale swallowed, very visibly. “Well. I suppose…” He pushed the crepes around his plate with his fork, studying them as if he’d never seen them before. “I suppose…”

“Yess?”

“Oh, I missed you, if you must know.” His eyes darted over and then back again, but there was something in them Crowley had only seen a few times in six thousand years: complete honesty. “You’ve been over here for nearly four years now, and I…I haven’t had a decent conversation in all that time. There are plenty of lovely humans in London, but they’re all…you know…human.”

“So you decided to come down to Paris and get yourself nearly decapitated in hope of a bit of a chat? That’s barely better than doing it for the crepes.”

“That wasn’t the plan! I just…” he glanced around and moved his chair closer, much closer, close enough for the fabric of his trousers to brush Crowley’s knee. “I really did want to talk to you. Get your, I don’t know. Perspective. Things have been a bit…strained…between my superiors and I lately.”

“Gabriel’s strongly worded note?”

From the frown that crossed Aziraphale’s face, Crowley suspected the Archangel had been more than a little rude. “He doesn’t like my plan to set up a permanent base in London, though I did get Michael and Uriel to approve, which is enough. So he had me…audited.” He shuddered. “They didn’t find anything worth recalling me over, but my powers are rationed until further notice.”

“He doesn’t like that you went around him, so he tries to cut off your access to miracles? Petty wanker.”

“Crowley! You shouldn’t say such things.” Aziraphale’s protest had noticeably less conviction than usual.

Crowley shifted his hand across the table, across the distance between them, until it met Aziraphale’s right hand. It came to rest by the pitcher of cider, the longest fingers of their hands just barely touching. The angel didn’t pull away. “You wouldn’t have come all the way to Paris if you didn’t want someone to say it.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. His left hand reached up, tipped Crowley’s glasses just a bit further down. “No. I wouldn’t have.”

“Nhk. So.” Crowley tried to keep his voice steady. “A dashing rescue. Spot of lunch. Insulting your boss. Anything else you need from me this time?”

The angel’s right hand, still resting on the table, crept forward, fingers lacing between Crowley’s without quite touching them. “Do you…Crowley, do you have a place to stay in Paris?”

“Yes,” he whispered, almost regretfully.

“Because I don’t.”

The silence that can exist between two immortals is absolute. Not a breath. Not a heartbeat.

Crowley’s shaking hand rose to push his glasses back in place. “What…exactly…are you saying?”

A very disapproving look. “Not that, Crowley. Get your mind out of the gutter, please. But…well, I very much don’t want to be alone right now. Can we…talk?” His left hand fell to Crowley’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “There’s something…I don’t quite know how to say it, but…”

“There’s…” Crowley gently lifted Aziraphale’s hand from his shoulder, taking it in both of his, circling his thumb across the back of it. “Yeah, there’s something I’ve been wanting to say, too.”

Aziraphale sucked in a sharp breath. Nodded. “Shall we…shall we go?”

At that moment, that glorious moment he had awaited so long, Crowley sensed…something. Another being. Not human. Not of Earth at all.

“Aziraphale.” The angel tilted his head, puzzled by the change in tone. “Were you followed?”

“No, why would I…” His eyes went wide as he sat up very, very straight, jerking his hand back, pushing his chair away as if to pretend he didn’t even know his tablemate. “I don’t sense anyone.”

“One…no, two, I think.” Crowley concentrated, closing his eyes to help focus. “I can’t tell where, but very close. Can you teleport?”

“No. Gabriel’s still tracking me.” His eyes darted from the front door to the back. “But he wouldn’t…no. Michael. She seemed suspicious last time we spoke, but I swear I thought I’d convinced her…”

“Doesn’t matter, Angel.” Crowley stood up, circling behind Aziraphale’s chair. He couldn’t cover both exits. They might already be trapped.

“Get out,” Aziraphale said, almost like a command. “I’m already in trouble just for being here, but they’ll certainly buy my crepe craving story. Just teleport away.”

“Don’t be stupid. I froze time already today, you think I can –” He rested a hand on the back of Aziraphale’s chair, trying to calm down. “Besides. I wouldn’t leave you even if I could.”

“You idiot.” Aziraphale stood next to him, hands folded behind his back. “Fine. That leaves two choices. We either have a big dramatic fight and try to fool them, or we split up and try to sneak out.”

“Sneak,” Crowley decided. “But we should stick together.”

“Too risky. There’s a tailor’s shop five blocks from here. That’s where we meet, but only if it’s safe.”

“Nh.” One more glance at the doors. “Fine. I’ll take the front.”

Aziraphale nodded, and leaned close to whisper an address into his ear. Then, before he pulled away, he pressed his lips to Crowley’s cheek.

Crowley had been kissed before. Among humans, as a casual form of greeting, it had gone in and out of style for about three thousand years. He thought he knew what to expect: pressure, warmth, maybe some wetness.

What he felt was like the brilliant, shining burst of a newborn star, painfully bright, almost unendurably sweet. His ears rang with the music of the spheres, a single perfect chord too high for human perception. For just a moment, he forgot everything but the sensation of being wrapped in a warm blanket, held close by someone who cared for him, which wasn’t something he’d ever experienced but now he knew, he knew precisely what it would feel like, and every cell in his body gloried in it.

It was like Heaven before the Fall.

“Stay safe, my dear.”

Before Crowley could even think of responding – could even find the pieces of his heart, shattered from shock and joy, and pull them back into himself – Aziraphale had slipped away.

Front door. Right.

He pushed it open and leaned out, sniffing the wind. No angelic scent, just the usual filth and mud that permeated the air of Paris these days. Sanitation should really be a higher priority of the revolutionary government.

He crept out, keeping to the shadows. The street was abandoned, empty apart from a dog wandering from alley to alley. That wasn’t good.

Crowley knew two ways of hiding from non-human eyes. He could turn into a snake and try to slide into the cracks of a wall, but it was hard to make the transition without sending off enough psychic energy to alert every angel, demon, witch and medium in the entire continent. Harder still when exhausted, and he hadn’t yet recovered from stopping time.

The other choice was to blend into a crowd, try to dissipate his demonic essence. He closed his eyes, trying to sense the noise of humanity, the rumble of feet and voices. There – two blocks east, a major street. It should be enough.

He pushed away from the building, dashing across the first alleyway.

A hand grabbed his ponytail, jerking him back. Dirt-smeared fingers fell on Crowley’s shoulder, pinching him, keeping him from escaping.

“Hullo, Crawly,” growled Ligur in his ear. “Where’s the angel?”

How much did he know? Enough to be lurking outside the right creperie.

Shit shit shit fuck

“What do I look like, his travel agent?” Crowley pulled himself free, brushing at his collar. Trying to look unphased. “I’m trying to find the bastard, same as you.”

Ligur leaned close, narrowing his eyes, and took a big, disgusting sniff. The hat on his head shifted, chameleon head poking out from under it. One of the strange eyes stayed fixed on Crowley while the other scanned the area around them.

“Well, don’t look at me,” Crowley said, stepping back. “I haven’t got him in my pocket. You try that way,” he gestured vaguely westward, “and I’ll keep heading –”

In a flash, Ligur had him by the collar, pulling him close for another sniff. “Oh, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

A pale figure appeared at the other end of the alleyway, by the back of the creperie. Crowley very nearly called out, until he recognized the grubby form of Hastur.

“Find him?” Ligur asked, chameleon eye still fixed on Crowley.

Hastur spat, rubbing at his jaw. “Wasn’t expecting the little twit to fight. Covered his trail, too. Might be able to find him with a Hellhound but…what have you got there?”

Crowley’s heart swelled at the news. Good job, Angel. Now he just had to talk his way past the idiots.

“That’s just perfect. I spent months setting up a trap for him, and you two…” Something wasn’t right. The way Hastur circled, staring at Crowley like he’d never seen anything like him.

“How’d he know we were coming?” Ligur asked.

“He could probably sense you,” Crowley snapped. “That particular angel is a lot more clever than you are. He could probably sense your auras even with them suppressed. I know I can.”

“Hm. And no power in Hell can hide a demon’s aura.” Ligur was smiling. It was never good when he smiled.

“Well. Yeah.” Crowley glanced from one Duke to the other. “Everyone knows that.”

“So why can’t I sense yours?” demanded Hastur.

He didn’t have any answer for that.

Ligur grabbed Crowley’s jaw, one finger tracing across his face where the glow of Aziraphale’s lips still lingered.

“There. A blessing.”

And he slammed Crowley head-first into the stone wall of the creperie. The world shattered and went dark.

--

Hot lines of pain sliced through his skull, turning his thoughts into a strange, sliding jumble. He was being carried. A rotten stench. He fell unconscious again.

A slap of something wet, putrid, slightly burning splashed across Crowley’s face.

He jerked up, trying to stand, but his legs just scraped helplessly. He was tied to a chair, arms behind his back, and something kept the wood from even budging as he struggled. The air was hot, stuffy, rancid. Nearby, a fire flared from red coals to brilliant yellow-orange flames, pain searing across his retinas. He shut his eyes, hissing.

“Uh-uh.” Ligur slapped his face. “No sleeping now. You like to talk? It’s time to talk.”

Crowley shook his head. It only made the pain in his skull worse, but at least he managed to open his eyes again. The fire was back down to something only vaguely uncomfortable.

He wondered where Hastur had gone off to, but really, one Duke of Hell was enough to deal with.

“You wan’ a story? Right. There was this girl. An’ she wore a cape. Red cape. With a hood. S’why they call her Goldilocks.”

“Where’s the angel?”

“Told you,” Crowley snapped, or tried to. His voice was still sluggish, mind still seemed to be missing pieces after being so thoroughly shattered. “Dunno.”

“You’re lying.” Grubby fingers pinched Crowley’s ear, twisted it, pulled it. Ligur could rip it clear off. He’d done so before. Crowley clenched his teeth and focused on not making any sound as the Duke leaned closer. “You smell like angel.”

He punched Crowley in the mouth.

Fire lanced across Crowley’s jaw, tongue suddenly swimming in a lake of copper-tasting blood. There was a tooth. Wasn’t sure where that had come from. Molar?

Crowley spit, trying to clear his mouth. “I mean,” he grinned as best he could, “if we’re talking ‘bout stench, I think you got me beat.”

He didn’t see Ligur pick up the club. Just felt it crash into his already-shattered skull, the explosion of pain almost more than he could endure.

Then another, another – shoulder, ribs, stomach. Something in his leg cracked. Something in his gut tore.

He must have screamed at some point. His throat felt ragged. He couldn’t remember.

Then, just as suddenly, it was over. Ligur still stood over him, Hastur’s voice coming from somewhere beyond: “We need him to answer the questions first.”

Crowley blinked at the fire, finally saw Hastur standing behind it, holding something in the flames. “Lord Beelzebub sent us to check on you. Instead, we find a fancy little angel wandering the city. Lost him outside the prison. Tracked him to the restaurant. And then out comes you. Shiny new blessing. No aura.”

Shit shit shit. They knew everything. He didn’t have a story to explain it. Didn’t have a clear enough head to think of one. Could barely keep his face blank, keep the despair from showing.

“Well?” Ligur demanded.

“You…didn’t ask a question.”

Kick to the chest knocked him over, onto his back, onto his arms, crushed under the weight of his body.

Ligur’s foot landed on his chest, stepping down, forcing the breath out of him. “You think you can get away from us that easy? You gave our Dark Lord your soul when you Fell. It’s no longer yours to try and barter your way back into Heaven with.”

“Wha’?” Crowley couldn’t keep up. “I don’t…what you talking about?”

“The blessing,” Hastur said from beyond the fire. “It’s how angels mark what’s theirs. You let some fluffy winged bastard try to claim you as his own.”

His own. The two words pierced through the fear and pain, struck him in the heart. He closed his eyes, tried not to think about the look in Aziraphale’s eyes as they’d sat in the creperie together. “Don’ be sstupid,” he hissed. “Don’ wanna go to Heaven.”

But he remembered how that kiss had felt. A tiny piece of Paradise. He would give anything to live in that moment, forever, with Aziraphale.

“Good,” Ligur said. “Wouldn’t work anyway. Heaven doesn’t want you anymore.” He ground his heel in, pressing down on an already-cracked rib. Crowley bit his lip, couldn’t hold in the whimper. “Soon as that angel has what he wants, he’ll toss you aside. Right back in the pit. Where you belong.”

“You’re wrong.” Crowley realized his mistake after the words were already out. “I mean. ‘M not…Don’t know why he blessed me. Didn’t ask for it.”

“Oh, we’ll help you figure it out,” Hastur said, pulling something long and dark out of the fire. “You’re going to tell us about every moment you’ve ever spent in that angel’s company.”

“And if we don’t like your answers,” Ligur grinned, “I get to have more fun.” He grabbed the front of Crowley’s shirt. Crowley cowered, but all Ligur did was pull him upright, chair and all, tearing the black fabric in the process.

“I tol’ you. I don’ know! I…” but his mind was a cold blank. Oh, Someone, Anyone, he had to think of a story. “I don’ even want this blessing,” he lied.

Then Hastur lifted up the ling piece of metal he’d pulled from the flames.

A brand.

The end of the iron glowed white-hot, twisted into a Leviathan Cross. The symbol of Sulfur. Of Brimstone. Of Hell.

“Good. Then you’ll like what comes next.”

Ligur pulled at the torn fabric of Crowley’s shirt, exposing his throat, his shoulder, his collarbone.

“Nooo…” Crowley moaned. “No, you don’ hafta…I’ll talk. Whatever you wanna know, I’ll tell you.”

“Yeah,” Hastur nodded. “You will.”

And the brand pressed into his flesh, into his muscle, into his soul, hot as the birth of a universe.

Crowley howled until he blacked out.

--

Crowley lay face-up in a London alley, among the garbage and the rats. Where he belonged.

Somewhere above, stars shone down, blessing on all God’s creatures. All except Crowley. He might have helped to hang them, set them in their courses, but Heaven had seen his defects, his weaknesses, and thrown him down here to die, inch by inch, for six thousand years.

He tried to see the stars, but it was all a watery blur. Even when he blinked the tears away, there was always more, more, more…

He hadn’t told Hastur everything. He’d told enough. What would the Duke do with that information? Would it get back to Heaven? Would they use it against Aziraphale?

Would they break him, like they’d broken Crowley?

A voice, muffled, distant. Go away. Leave me to rot.

“Oh, my Lord – Crowley!”

A heavy thump as a figure fell to its knees beside him. His eyes tracked over. The face was closer than the stars, but no clearer. “…Angel?”

“Oh, my – I’ve been looking for you for – where have you – what did they do to you?”

“Sorry, Angel. Didn’ wanna talk.” He closed his eyes. “Didn’ wanna.  But…”

“No, of course, don’t even try. Let me.” Soft hand brushed his forehead. A trickle of that lovely, welcoming warmth…

And then fire, burning sulfur, blazing through his shoulder, his chest, his limbs, his soul. Crowley arched his back and screamed.

The hand jerked away. “What – how –” The paid faded, and now Crowley could see Aziraphale’s flustered face, pinched with pain. “Oh, my dear, I swear, I only meant to heal you, I don’t –”

“’M not yours.” He tried to raise a hand to clutch at his fresh brand, still sizzling and aching, but his arms refused to move. “Never be yours.”

“I understand,” said Aziraphale, but he couldn’t. How could he? Crowley didn’t even understand. How such a tiny wound could forever cut his soul off from the one place it longed to be. “Let’s get you inside.”

Warm arms, behind his shoulder, below his knees. Lifting him. Carrying him. Like a child. He curled into it, burying his face in the softness of Aziraphale’s chest. Trying to recapture that safety, that belonging he’d felt, just for a second, in a restaurant in Paris.

He couldn’t remember how Aziraphale got him inside. But soon he was settled on the bed, black down pillows under his head, thick red quilt tucked around him. Hiding his wounds, his mangled body.

“There.  Is…what do you need, Crowley?”

“Rest,” he sighed. “Just rest. ‘M a demon. I can heal. Just…”

“Of course.” He turned to leave. “I…I’m sure you’ll know where to find me when you’ve recovered.”

“Angel.” Blue eyes turned back to him. He had to know. Had to be sure. “You…blessed me.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale sank down to sit on the side of the bed, hand resting close to Crowley’s face. The angel kept his eyes turned away, as if something urgent lurked nearby. “You noticed. I…I really shouldn’t have presumed. It’s not…there really isn’t an etiquette for it, I suppose, but I suppose asking first was the least I could do. I truly am sorry if I caused offense. I had hoped, if it was Michael, you might be able to slip past her.”

“Demons…”

“I know. As I said I truly am –”

“Ligur saw it.” Aziraphale faced him, eyes wide, mouth open. “Sstupid lizard eyes.” Crowley swallowed, tried to rally his brain and his tongue enough for full sentences. “They…they took me to Hell. Wanted to know why an angel claimed me. And…when I couldn’t answer…”

“Crowley!” One hand hovered over the demon’s forehead, not quite touching. “No, oh, Lord, no…It’s…That means it’s my fault…”

Pain on his angel’s face again, tears in his eyes. Who hurt Aziraphale? Crowley would kill them –

Ah. Right.

“Shuddap,” he managed. “Just. Do it again.”

“What?”

One hand fought free of the quilt. It seemed to have the right number of fingers, but Crowley was having trouble counting past three. He held it out, trying to find Aziraphale’s. “Angel. Bless me. Again.”

Aziraphale’s fingers gently surrounded his, lifting the hand to his face. Lips lowered to brush against it –

Again, pain lanced out from his brand, boiling across his skin, through his muscle, his everything. The scream was as much rage as pain this time.

When his mind cleared, Aziraphale was gone. No, not gone. Across the room, pressed against the wall. “’S it that bad?”

“What did they do to you?”

“You claimed me. They claimed me back.”

He couldn’t stand the look of horror on Aziraphale’s face. Crowley huddled down under the quilt, trying not to sob again.

“Crowley,” the voice came softly, from a distance. “I…there aren’t any words…what could I ever do to make up for this?”

“Stay,” he whispered.

A long pause, filled with silence as could only exist between two immortals.

“What?”

“Stay. Here. Until I’m asleep.” A shudder crept through him. It would be a long sleep, full of dreams he didn’t want to face. “Please. Don’t want to be alone.”

This time, the pause was long enough that Crowley feared the angel had simply teleported away.

Then the quilt shifted, and another body, warm and soft and so very solid, settled next to him. “Is…is this what you mean?”

He didn’t have any words left. He just sank into those arms, let them wrap around him. Everything hurt, more than he’d ever thought possible, but he was here, wrapped in a warm blanket, held close by someone who cared for him, and it was better than he could have imagined.

Perhaps this was enough. Even with his soul claimed by Hell for eternity, perhaps he could have this one tiny piece of Heaven.

It was the only piece he wanted, anyway.

He knew that Hell would try to take even this from him. But maybe, together, with the right weapon, they could fight for it.

His mind drifted away, born aloft by the pure angelic smell, mixed with some sweet, floral perfume. This time, when sleep took him, he didn’t find darkness, just warm golden light, a stone cottage surrounded by flowers, and a smiling face framed by silver curls…

--

Slow, easy breathing told Aziraphale that Crowley had finally fallen asleep. He’d given the demon’s mind the tiniest nudge, to ensure good dreams while he healed. Aziraphale had worried it would be too much like a blessing, trigger whatever had happened the last two times, but this seemed small enough to pass.

Crowley was asleep now. There was no reason to stay.

He waited a moment longer, anyway, arms around the broken body of his friend.

Friend. As if he could call it that, after what he’d put Crowley through. He couldn’t tell – not for certain – if Crowley hated him for it, but why wouldn’t he? It was probably only the pain, the fear of being alone, that had kept him from throwing Aziraphale out already.

For now, though, Crowley lay in his arms, and if he ignored the wounds, it was very nearly everything he’d ever imagined. He traced a finger down Crowley’s cheek, drinking it all in, not sure he’d ever be allowed another chance.

He pressed his lips to Crowley’s forehead. Not a blessing this time, just a kiss. “I swear to you. Even if you hate me, even if you never speak to me again.” Another kiss, gently, on his eye. Then his cheek. “I swear, I will never, ever let any harm come to you. Never again.” One last kiss, lingering on his brow. The last Aziraphale would ever give. And a whisper, soft as a sigh: “I love you.”

--

Thank you for reading! AO3 link will be up soon.

[thepetulantpen]

A Coming Of Godhood Story

(in which the Traveler does favors for the Mighty Nein and makes some friends along the way)

Chapter 1

The Raven Queen is accustomed to solitude. She is alone when she wants to be and when she doesn’t want to be, lonely when she is with people and when she is not, by herself before and after Vax.

Before and after any champion at all, even Purvan.

It’s in her nature to be alone. Death is a lonely thing- nobody wants anything to do with it, until it has something to do with them. Which makes it incredibly rare to have an unfamiliar man in her chambers. Nobody comes here without invitation, and nobody gets invited.

Then again, he’s not physically here. The man, if she continues to call it that, is little more than a flicker of green light in the shape of a person. He’s trying to be solid, but the veil’s resistance is fighting him. Attempting to come here directly from the mortal world is a ballsy move- and unhealthy, if he wishes to remain mortal.

“-elp! Rave-“

She’ll never get anything done if all this shouting continues, but she doubts getting up will be much better. Another distorted shout, cut apart and warped so the words are rendered entirely unrecognizable, makes the decision for her. This isn’t what she signed up for, after going through great pains to get her divine position, but the sooner she deals with it, the sooner the noise will stop.

At the very least, there’s potential for this to be amusing. Mortals have only gotten more complicated over the years, and they never seem to stop.

The man must see her stand because he shuffles forward, limbs shattering into particles as he moves. His hand reaches out, vying for anything that could pull him over, make him solid.

She takes his hand and pulls; it takes less effort than she imagined for him to cross over. Once he’s standing at the foot of her throne, as solid as her and standing close enough to touch, she realizes this is no man.

Where the translucent green shape was, now stands a humanoid in a green cloak, hood obscuring all of his face except for a wicked smirk inset on pale skin. The green energy does not disappear, just disperses to outline his shape, sparking and reacting with the dark shadows spread throughout her chambers.

She is used to looking down on humans, and even the longer-lived races, as passing blurs, mere flickers in her eternity. This one is different, his very presence drawing her attention, taking up just a bit more space, a bit more air, a bit more than she’s accustomed to.

It’s familiar, like a mirror of herself long ago. It’s not possible.

And yet here he is. Glowing with something divine and not quite his.

He grins up at the Raven Queen then bows, dramatically. “Matron of Ravens! I seek your council and assistance.”

She rolls her eyes, gone unseen in the shadow of her mask. She’s no fool, she’s seen this type- despite the oddness of his arrival, everyone wants the same thing when they come to her door with a bargain. Settling back on her throne, she takes her usual form, towering over her new guest. The porcelain mask goes still, frozen in the face of strangers, but ready to bend to her will.

“I know what you want.”

The green cloak chuckles and a pair of green eyes peers out of the darkness, piercing through the shadows that conceal the rest of his features. He winks at the Raven Queen then shifts so the hood covers his eyes again, showing only his smirk.

“That makes this considerably easier—“

“I did not say I would give it to you.”

His grin widens at that and he relaxes even further, leaning nonchalantly against the air, as if there was a wall to prop himself up on.

“I thought you’d say that, which is why I’ve brought something to trade you.” A light shines across his teeth, despite the only source being dim torchlight behind the Queen. “A deal you cannot refuse.”

The Raven Queen smiles behind her mask, charmed by the audacity of this young man- young god, rather. It shouldn’t be possible for someone new to come to power now; though, that’s what they said about her, when she ascended. But that was before the books were burned, so the proper rites couldn’t be performed. This doesn’t feel like the atrocity Vecna was. What could be giving one mortal the power of a god, right under their noses?

Enough power to confidently charge into the Raven Queen’s chambers and start demanding a trade- she’d certainly like to see the source of that.

“Is that right? What treasure do you believe matches the worth of a soul, hm?”

Standing straighter, the stranger snaps his fingers and a small object drops into his waiting palm, appearing to the Raven Queen as a brief flash of white. He takes it between his fingers and holds it up for her to see... a bone.

A very important, very lost bone.

“The pinkie bone of Purvan! A little worn down by the sands, but mostly intact—“

The Raven Queen rises from her throne and all the ambient noise in the chamber quiets. The faint sounds of blood dripping and ravens cawing disappear, leaving her ears ringing with silence.

“Where did you find that?

An ordinary man would’ve turned to dust at her tone, but he stands firm, albeit a little intimidated- he knows that she has old power, much older than his. Not a complete idiot, just acting like one.

“Right where it was left, of course.” His eyes are bright with unnatural light, manic alongside his too wide smile. He meets her gaze without flinching, hand absently twirling the ancient bone. “In the rolling, lovely chaos of Pandemonium.”

The Raven Queen sits back down, putting her hand to her temple- an ineffective gesture, given that there’s a barrier of porcelain. Trickster gods, so much more trouble than they’re worth.

“It’s not that simple. They have to want to come back, there are rituals for a reason—"

He cuts her off with a dismissive hand wave that tempts her to violence, something she hasn’t bothered with in decades. She imagines if she could see his face, he’d be raising his eyebrows.

“Do you honestly believe Mollymauk has any qualms about coming back from the dead?”

There’s a sound like rustling feathers, but much louder, and then the Raven Queen is standing behind her intruder, taking a form just a few feet taller than him. He doesn’t startle, but the smugness of his posture fades, replaced by a tense calm- confident but prepared for anything.

She bends forward, close to his ear, and the mask smiles, porcelain animating to her will. “And what do you, young god, want with Mollymauk’s soul?”

His head turns partially towards her and she sees the outline of a face, angular and strange, for a second, before the cloak moves back into place.

“It’s a favor for a friend, of sorts. She wants him back and breathing.”

The Raven Queen hums, the usual protests coming to mind. It’s not right to release a soul without the proper methods, especially not in exchange for her own interests, but Mollymauk is a little too... energetic for his final rest.

Besides, she’s suspected for a while that it wasn’t his time- they’ve gotten it wrong before, after all. This could be fated- in fact, she’s going to assume it’s fated, for the sake of her own sanity. What is fate, really, if not a god showing up and insisting you be brought back to life?

“I suppose this trade would be beneficial for both of us. But,” she sweeps in front of him and stares down, her feathered mantle casting a grim shadow, “nobody else can hear about this. I don’t make exceptions often and don’t intend to give out souls to anyone with a decent artifact.”

It’s not just a decent artifact, they both know that, but it’s best to keep up appearances, even if they’re transparent. He holds out a hand, covered in an emerald green glove, and the Raven Queen takes it, with a quick, formal shake.

“It’s a deal- I won’t tell a soul.”

Smothering a groan, the Raven Queen focuses on summoning the soul in question, bringing it to her hand in the form of a bright purple light. As she concentrates on it, it slowly solidifies into a glowing stone. She holds out her hand for the bone and, as soon as it’s dropped into her palm, hands over Mollymauk’s soul, ready for transport into the mortal realm.

“Thank you for the audience, my lady. I’ll be on my way now.”

With a wave, he begins to disappear, glowing green and turning transparent. The Raven Queen stops him with a firm hand around his wrist, her power easily rivaling his, especially in her own domain.

“You can’t leave without even introducing yourself. What shall I call you?”

His smile floats in the shadow under his cloak, riding the line between creepy, with no face accompanying it, and comforting, serving as a light in the dark.

“The Traveler. You’ll know it soon enough.”

With that, his magic pulls away and the Raven Queen lets him go, shaking her head.

They’ll need to keep an eye on this new god, see that he turns out alright. They say it takes a village- or a pantheon, in this case- and the Raven Queen has a personal curiosity for new divinity. As the newest of the established gods, the last mortal to ascend, she has a vested interest in learning how the Traveler managed to do it and in ensuring the power doesn’t corrupt him. He may be divine, but there’s a lot more to godhood than magic and a handful of followers.

Still, she’ll have to be careful- based on his performance today, she may have been underestimating him. If someone so powerful has stayed out of their sight for this long, he’s likely more clever than he’s been given credit for.

The Traveler could be a wonderful blessing or a terrible curse. They’ll just have to wait and see.

(A snippet of this was previously posted on this account- but the full draft is now complete! This chapter is already on ao3 (same title, same username) and the rest of the chapters will be updated either daily or every few days, depending on my how much schoolwork I have. If there’s any interest, I might post them on here, too.)

[mainly-kpop]

A Pirate’s Life For Me

Chapter Three.  Pirate!BTS Maid!Reader 

Warnings: tiny bit of blood, talk of scamming, little flirting  Summary:  You had always wondered about pirates, about a life outside of these walls. On your 23rd birthday, you would finally find out what both were really like.  Word Count: 2.5k

You had been on the ship for just over a month, and you were settling in fairly well. So far, they had taken you to an island, letting you shop until you dropped.

‘So, I can buy whatever I want?’ You made sure, holding the bag of gold in your hand. Feeling the weight literally and metaphorically. This was a lot of cash you held, more than what the Palace allowed you. Yoongi just nodded, following you into the small, family run stores. You didn’t buy much, realising this gold wasn’t all for you, you all needed this to survive. Picking out a couple items matching the style of what Yoongi already gave you, you were happy enough. Although, the boys made you pick out some dresses, insisting they would work for raids they had planned. You didn’t argue, happily taking the dresses, the soft silk and pretty cottons making you forget the prices momentarily. Although, feeling the difference in the money bag weight after kind of brought you back to reality.

You insisted they shop some for themselves too, forcing them to buy new sheets and shirts. Not knowing the last time, they shopped for themselves, they agreed, grabbing necessary items before deciding that was good enough. Yoongi eyed up a blanket for a while, in two minds about buying it.

‘I like it, it’s pretty.’ You hinted, hopefully helping him to reach a decision. He just smiled at you, grabbing your chin between his long fingers.

‘If you like it, then we shall have it. No questions asked.’ Really, Yoongi hadn’t bought a new blanket since she betrayed him. Rather fester in the pain than move on, but something about you made him ready to move on.

They ate good that night, Jin making a feast fit for royalty, the rum splashed about between them all.

‘Remember that time, Jungkook got kicked in the nuts by that whore?’ Jimin reminisced, causing Jungkook to physically wince. You looked between them for an explanation, getting nothing bar laughter and dirty looks thrown this way and that way.

‘Please explain, I need to hear these stories!’ you whined, pout on your lips as no one told you anything. Jungkook thought you looked adorable, momentarily having a brain fart.

‘Basically, we took some one-night stands onto the ship when we docked, taking them to different areas of the ship for privacy. Anyways, when Jungkook was finished, he basically went up onto deck, leaving the girl alone. He came back to Namjoon balls deep in her, he wasn’t phased not until-‘

‘Not until, my girl came over sour faced because she was neglected. Jungkook tried to put on the moves then he-‘ He stopped in a fit of laughter, unable to contain himself anymore. Jungkook just groaned, realising he had to finish the story.

‘I wasn’t all that used to the sea yet, I went up onto deck to throw up. I thought I was done but turns out I wasn’t. I was hitting on her and spewed, then she kicked me in the balls... Haven’t been with anyone since.’ You felt sorry for him, wondering how long he had been here without getting his dick wet. You also, couldn’t help the snort of a laugh that slipped from you, setting all the other boys off. Slightly tipsy by this point, you put an offer on the table for him knowing it would make him blush further.

‘You know, if you ever need anything, like that. You know where I am.’ He knew you expected him to blush, to fold in on himself, but he was far too tipsy and far too ready to take you up on that. Leaning into your body, face inches from yours, he whispered against your lips, causing a blush to creep up your face and arousal to pool in your stomach.

‘I might take you up on that sometime, I can’t tell you how painfully hard you make me already.’ If Taehyung hadn’t cleared his throat, you would have jumped the younger boy’s bones. Right there and then. Jungkook dragged his eyes slowly off you, slipping casually back into conversation.

‘So, wait two questions, you are happy sharing women? And Jungkook how long has it been since you got laid?’

‘We don’t mind sharing unless she’s strictly off limits. Yoongi had a girl, she was off limits. Otherwise we don’t mind, as long as she doesn’t.’ Hoseok spoke, answering one of your questions. You nodded, averting your gaze to Jungkook, he just blushed avoiding your eye.

‘Poor Kookie here hasn’t had any in three years, isn’t that right? Poor lad is scared for life!’ Jimin chortled, Jungkook whining in protest.

‘As if you haven’t had your fair share of bad fucks. What about that time...’ And so, the conversation continued, naming and shaming the escapades of these experienced men.

About a week later, the captain proposed the first raid since you joined, all of the men agreeing instantly. Apparently, you were short on food, Jungkook running out of supplies too. You nodded along, Yoongi pulling you into his office again. The boys seemed to already know the plan, Taehyung briefing them as you walked away.

‘You’re a main part of our plan, I need to make sure you are okay with this before we continue.’ He began, letting you sit before he continued. You perched yourself on the edge of the shared bed, crossing your legs waiting for him to continue. He smiled, shaking his head, walking to sit beside you.

‘The pretty dress we bought you? I need you to wear it, go in crying. Make a scene, he’s a sucker for a damsel in distress. He will put his guard down while we grab our things, I don’t want things to get messy, but they might. I’ve assigned Jungkook to you though, he’s a fighter. If anything goes wrong near you, he will be by your side instantly. I promise.’ You fell into his every word, listening intently at every instruction he gave you. Nerves bubbled in your stomach, regardless of having a protector for the raid.

He pulled out the dress, handing it towards you. Smiling, he turned around, giving you minimal privacy again, not like you minded really. Slipping the old clothes off, you folded them on the bed. Old habits die hard. Slipping the dress over your head, you struggled doing the lace on the back up. Now you knew why the princess insisted on being dressed, this shit was hard. Although where she had around six maids to dress her and make her beautiful, you had seven male pirates.

‘Yoongi, could you-‘ Before you could finish the sentence, his fingers were already on your back, gently pulling the fabric for you. You could feel his breath on your skin, his fingertips lightly scraping your back. You hoped he couldn’t see the chills forming on your back, and he hoped you couldn’t feel the clamminess of his hands.

‘There, that should be it, is it okay? It’s been a while since I laced up a dress...’ He mumbled, letting you move about, to test he had done it right. You smiled at his handy work seeing the little bow in the foggy mirror.

‘You did good captain, mighty good.’

‘The boys have docked the ship; we are just waiting on you.’ He had such a soft voice, something you were slowly growing fond of. He wasn’t a pirate in your eyes, the crew never striking you as violent in the slightest. You nod, walking out of the office, to gather with the other boys. Their eyes trailed your form, almost forgetting the shape of your body under the baggy male clothes you usually adorned.

‘Okay, you know the drill. Grab what you can, don’t take anyone back with you, don’t hurt anyone unless absolutely necessary. Jungkook, keep an eye on our damsel here. Get going.’ You chanted in unison with the others a clear ‘YES CAPTAIN!’ before heading to the rowing boat. The boys kept quite most of the time, until Jungkook spied your feet.

‘You don’t have shoes on...’ You smiled at his observation, wiggling your toes for him.

‘Sells the whole distress thing more, no?’ He just sighed, rolling his eyes at you. Namjoon being the one to speak up.

‘Please be careful where you step, we need you, okay?’ You just nodded; a warm smile sent his way. They rowed the boat away from the docks, onto a remote little beach so you weren’t all caught together.

‘I’ll stay with the boat so we can make a quick get away, everyone please be careful.’ Namjoon spoke, everyone splitting direction. You wandered into town, gathering up the courage for your big display. Stepping into the store, you trip on your foot, setting the crocodile tears off.

‘Miss, are you okay?!’ The man yelled, rushing to your side. He grabbed you under your arms, lifting you off the ground. He got you half way before you forced your knees to crumble under you. Letting out another choked sob, you crumpled into the floor, sobbing into your hands. The man just holds you for a moment, letting you sob into his chest. You would feel bad, you could feel bad, but you didn’t let yourself. Instead, pulling the sobs back until they were quiet whimpers.

‘There was someone chasing me, I’m so sorry to have caused you such bother sir.’ You whined, peaking behind the man to see Jungkook, his eagle eyes glaring at the man’s hands on you. The man just rubbed your arm comfortingly, pulling you up from the ground. You watched Hoseok tap Jungkook on the shoulder, the latter giving you the signal to wrap the show up and get to the boat.

‘Why don’t you come inside? I can call the officer over?’ He questioned, genuinely wishing to help. You shook your head, dusting the dress off and wiping your face with the back of your hand.

‘I think he might have gone sir, thank you so much for your comfort, here take this!’ you pulled the gold coin Yoongi gave you for this out of your breasts, handing it to the man. He gulped, hooded eyes looking you over. Planting a chaste kiss against his cheek you ran off, quickly towards the boat.

‘That was some performance angel, impressive.’ Jimin praised, helping you into the boat. You giggled as he patted your ass, climbing in behind you.

‘Why thank you kind sir!’ Your knee hurt a little though, from the dramatic fall through the door. Jungkook noticed you rubbing it, lifting your dress up to look. It was scraped slightly, a bead of blood trickling down your leg. He shook his head at you.

‘But hey, my feet are okay, also this could have been so much worse!’ You chide, much to his disappointment. You were like a child he had to protect, despite you being a year older than him.

‘Not the point babe, I’ll deal with it when we get back on the ship.’ He let you pull your dress back down, covering your legs once again. Realistically he knew you were right. This could have gone bad quickly. You thought about that the whole ride back, how anything could have happened. If something were to happen, would Jungkook be fast enough? Would you be okay if something happened? You decided to voice your concerns later, maybe get one of them to teach you some basic self-defence.

Clambering back on the ship, everyone went straight to Yoongi, handing over the gold and telling them the happenings. Jimin instantly pulled the anchor, sailing away as fast as possible.

‘Where is Jungkook and Y/N? She’s not hurt, is she?’ He worried as soon as he didn’t see you, Taehyung just smiled.

‘She’s not super hurt, she skinned her knee.’ He replied, making the captain roll his eyes. Jungkook would really tend to anything when it came to you, he was slowly starting to realise. He could almost bet gold on the fact you would come back up with a bandage, wrapped tenderly around your knee.

‘How does that feel?’ He questioned, tightening the bandage around your kneecap.

‘Kookie, I’m fine really, don’t you think this is slight overkill?’ you mumbled, leaning closer to his face. He just looked up at you, brushing fallen hair out of your face. Why did he like it so much when you used that nickname? The one he hated so much from everyone else. They made it sound like a childish nickname, with you, it sounded warm, like you were fond of him.

‘I don’t want to see you hurt or uncomfortable. Even if it is a little scrape, even if it’s me making you uncomfortable. I want to make sure I do everything I can, to make sure you are okay.’ You blushed at his words, the weight that they held. Honestly you wondered a lot of things about these boys. They were far too nice to be considered pirates. Just what happened? You leaned in closer to his face, him moving closer himself.

‘I’ll remember that, when my leg is falling off and you can’t do anything about it.’ You whisper, taunting him.

‘I may not be able to do anything right now, but I’ll learn. For you, I’ll learn anything.’ Inches away from attaching your lips to his, you leaned down, lips brushing lips.

‘Guys how’s it going down here?’ Your lips had just puckered, the shortest and softest kiss in history due to your interruption. You both pulled back, him tucking his things away as you pulled down the skirt of your dress.

‘If you’re done, meet us for dinner up top, Jimin says its smooth sailing from here, pardon the pun.’ Jin spoke, giving you a cue to get changed.

‘I have a question for you.’ Taehyung spoke, everyone tipsy from the rum going around. You motioned for him to continue, curious as to what he could ask.

‘Why did you choose to stay? You could have been dropped off, gone back to your normal life. You could be normal. Why not run?’ You pondered it for a moment, not really needing to think. More wondering how much to divulge to them.

‘I had no reason to go home. No love interest, no family, no friends. Why go back to nothing but a job and a room in a Palace?’ They let your answer sink for a moment before you spoke up again. You did have a nice room, with a private bathroom and a big bed. It mirrored the princess’s room, but why wouldn’t it when you were in the room beside hers?

‘What about you? How did you all end up here? Let’s start with Captain, shall we?’

[dvp95]

quiet on widow’s peak (7)

pairing: dan howell/phil lester, pj liguori/sophie newton/chris kendall rating: teen & up tags: paranormal investigator, mystery, online friendship, slow burn, strangers to lovers, nonbinary character, trans character, background poly, phil does some buzzfeed unsolved shit and dan is a fan word count: 3.5k (this chapter), 23.2k (total) summary: Phil’s got a list of paranormal experiences a mile long that he likes to share with the world. Abandoned buildings, cemeteries, and ghost stories have always called his name, and a particular fan of his has a really, really good ghost story.

read this chapter on ao3 or here!

“Why don't we just use the door?” Dan hisses, arms wrapped around themself to make up for their thin denim jacket. “It's unlocked.”

“This is the way Mar and I always did it,” Phil hums, watching Sophie move the loose boards away from the window. She's perched on PJ's shoulders like a little bird.

“It's more fun,” Chris offers.

“Plus, entering houses by the door is the quickest way to alert ghouls and neighbours to your arrival,” says PJ.

“I think Martyn just liked showing off. Don't think it was that deep.”

“Done,” says Sophie, patting the top of PJ's head. “You can put me down now.”

With much more care and grace than Phil knows he would have been able to manage, PJ helps Sophie off his shoulders. Phil has dropped all of his friends at least once, so he isn't allowed to be the boost anymore.

Phil hands his bags over to Chris while they're figuring that out. They'd left their laptop bags in the car so they had less to carry - except Dan, whose messenger bag is across their chest like they're prepared to make a quick getaway. Phil can't really blame them, since it's not like they signed up for this the way the rest of them have.

“Wait,” says PJ. He digs around in his jacket pockets until he comes out with a Sharpie marker that he probably stole from Martyn's bedroom. “Give me your arm.”

“You know I was joking about the protection sigils,” Phil says, but he rolls up his sleeve for PJ anyway.

“Well, I sure as fuck wasn’t,” says PJ. He looks at something on his phone before he takes Phil by the elbow and starts drawing something bubbly and almost cute. Phil figures that he’s planned these out, or at the very least had some letters picked out, so he watches the design bloom in fascination.

“What does this one mean?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t work,” says PJ, pressing one last dot right above the circular shape before he moves on and grabs at Chris’ arm without warning. Chris doesn’t seem to mind, he just lets PJ shove his sleeve up while he looks up at the boarded windows of the townhouse.

“That tickles,” Chris says, but he doesn’t try to take his arm back.

“Shut up, you big baby,” PJ murmurs.

It’s a different symbol that’s coming together on Chris’ skin, and Phil wonders why. Did PJ really make them unique protection sigils? That’s kind of cute and kind of hilarious. He watches Dan out of the corner of his eye as PJ finishes Chris’ sigil and moves on to Sophie’s. Dan’s brows are furrowed and they’re gripping at their own elbows from some combination of cool air and nervousness.

“Dan,” Phil says, shifting closer so they don’t get the whole peanut gallery involved. “You don’t have to be here. It’s okay to be scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Dan says with much less conviction than they’d had in the coffee shop.

Phil pretends to believe them. “But it’s okay if you are.”

The way Dan’s eyes fix on Phil’s makes him feel frozen in place, like Dan can somehow see into his soul. Their eyes are so warm and their lashes are so, so long that Phil feels certain that he won’t be the one to look away first.

“Are you scared?” Dan asks quietly.

Phil is terrified, but that has absolutely nothing to do with the house they’re breaking into. He shrugs, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets and twisting them anxiously.

“This is a pretty normal day for me,” he says. “But I don’t always have a Scooby gang with me.”

The lines around Dan’s mouth deepen before their lips actually curve up, like a tell. Phil is fully prepared to wrestle with the instinct he’s got to stare at Dan’s lips some more, but he doesn’t have to.

“Are you fucking talking about Buffy again?” PJ hisses, bumping his elbow against Phil’s as he joins them. He reaches like he’s going to grab at Dan the same way he’s grabbed at the rest of them, but he hesitates with his hand outstretched. “Er, Dan, can I draw on you, too? I know you don’t believe in this stuff, but it’ll make me feel a lot better.”

“Go nuts,” Dan says, holding out their hand like PJ is a lord who ought to kiss it. PJ, of course, just starts drawing a new shape on the back of it, because that’s the logical conclusion. They watch the lines form shapes with a sort of vague interest.

“I wasn’t talking about Buffy,” Phil feels the need to clarify. “I’m not always talking about Buffy.”

“That’s news to me,” says PJ.

Dan grins, looking a lot more at ease now that the atmosphere is all banter and no ghost stories. “He wasn’t, I can vouch for him. Think he was making a classic Scoob refer-ino.”

“Ah, the ancient texts,” PJ says, his own shoulders going loose as he grins back at Dan. “Wait ‘til he has to take his contacts out later. It’s not as funny hearing someone shout that they can’t see without their glasses when that person is the one in charge.”

“I’m right here,” Phil reminds them. “And Velma was in charge.”

“All set,” PJ says like Phil hasn’t spoken, adding a flourishing tail to the edge of Dan’s sigil.

“Great,” Dan says, dry. “Glad I have my protection from things that are definitely not real. Now what’s keeping me safe from the very real possibility of a human being attacking us?”

“Phil’s crowbar.”

“Oh, sure, that makes me feel loads better.”

“Are you lot coming or what?” Chris hisses, hefting one of the sleeping bags over his shoulder.

Phil breaks away from the conversation with a strange fluttering in his gut that’s completely unrelated to the rush of adrenaline he still gets when he lets Chris and PJ boost him to an unlocked window. He’s not very graceful at the best of times, so he’s glad that he doesn’t do anything stupid like fall flat on his face in front of Dan. He sits on the windowsill and lets the weird vibes from the Wilkins house wash over him again, raising goosebumps down his arms even under his thick jacket. He frowns into the dim kitchen, looking for any sign of life.

“Pass me the bar,” he murmurs, letting a hand dangle without looking back at his friends. It feels like something was waiting for them; there’s an air of anticipation in the very real sensation of being watched.

The cold metal placed in his palm makes Phil feel better, even if he can’t actually do anything with it. He murmurs a thanks and slips into the kitchen, eyes roving over all the shadows and nooks in the old house. He hears Sophie clamber in behind him but he doesn’t turn to look. It feels like turning his back on the darkness will end badly for him.

“Oh, don’t like that,” Sophie whispers. Phil feels her brush against his arm and hears the camera click on as Chris and PJ start the familiar train of passing bags through the window.

“Feels weird, right?” Phil agrees, matching her volume.

He moves further into the house, knowing that his friends will catch up. Sophie stays at his side, pointing the camera into every corner like she, too, is trying to find the source of the invisible eyes that feel glued to them. They’ve done this together fairly often, and Phil has done this by himself even more often, but something about this place, tonight, makes him feel like they’re green again.

Phil tenses when he feels something grip at the back of his jacket, but then the something speaks with Dan’s voice.

“Okay, why don’t we turn on the lights?” Dan whispers, right in Phil’s ear. Phil shivers. Some new goosebumps might rise, as well, but there’s no real way to know for sure. He isn’t about to roll up his sleeves and check.

“Why would we do that?” Phil asks. He doesn’t tell Dan to let go of him, and they don’t. Dan keeps hold of the back of his jacket even as he leads the way to the lounge, and Phil spares a moment to consider how weird this is going to look if Sophie is getting it on camera. Like he’s Dan’s guide dog or something.

“Oh, I don’t know,” says Dan, “so we can see?”

“It’s not really that dark in here,” Phil says with a little huff of a laugh. “And we’ve got torches.”

The noise Dan makes is unhappy, but they don’t protest. Phil shakes his head, directing his smile at the unlit fireplace so Sophie can’t pick it up.

“Fuck this,” Chris’ voice comes from the hallway, much too loudly.

Phil and Sophie sigh in harmony.

“What’s he doing?” Dan hisses, and Phil turns to give them a longsuffering sort of look.

“Chris doesn’t like this part,” says Phil. He doesn’t bother whispering, because Chris is already knocking things against walls and shouting nonsense. “Being sneaky doesn’t come naturally to him, so he prefers to just announce that we’re here and ruin my shots. I usually edit this out.”

As ridiculous as Chris’ methods are, Phil feels the weight of invisible eyes on them lift. He should probably be annoyed at Chris for scaring the presence away or antagonizing it, but it feels like he can breathe again, like they truly are alone in this room, and he’s got to give Chris the credit for that.

When Chris joins them, an irritated PJ at his shoulder, he looks altogether too proud of himself. Both of them glance at Dan’s hand, still gripping onto Phil.

“Thanks for that,” Phil says dryly, stopping any commentary before it starts.

“Welcome,” says Chris, bright. “Shall we upstairs?”

The Wilkins place isn’t all that scary now that the weird vibes are gone, it’s just creaky and dark and dusty. Phil is fine with that - the place he lives is all of those things, too - but every small noise under their feet makes Dan twitch. They’ve shifted to tugging on Phil’s sleeve instead, sticking so close to Phil’s side that he can feel their body heat.

PJ leads the way to the attic, talking a mile a minute to the camera about the way he’d felt the first time he was here, and Phil pulls Dan to a stop a few feet from the rest of the group.

“You seem a little stressed,” Phil says, trying to hide a grin. He doesn’t want Dan to think he’s mocking them, but it’s just a little cute.

Dan’s eyes are wide and their bottom lip is extra chapped from how many times they’ve dug their teeth into it, but they still manage to scoff. “I’m not stressed,” they insist. “And I’m not scared. I’ve been here before, y’know.”

“You’ve been here for parties,” says Phil. “It’s a bit of a different vibe.”

“Little bit,” Dan admits.

“I’m not making fun of you,” says Phil. He pats Dan’s arm with his crowbar-less hand. “It’s okay to be scared.”

“You’re not scared.”

“I’ve been doing this a really long time,” Phil reminds them. It’s the sort of thing that Dan must objectively know, but they look a little sheepish like maybe they’d forgotten.

“It’s not that I’m scared of, like, ghosts or something stupid like that,” Dan says, letting go of Phil’s sleeve and scratching the back of their neck. He feels a bit bereft for it. “I just don’t really like the dark, y’know, and maybe I get freaked out sometimes just watching your videos, and I kind of expected it to be less scary IRL but it’s actually way worse so I don’t really know what to do with that.”

The number of words they can fit into one breath is truly incredible to Phil. He smiles at them and watches redness blossom in patches across their cheeks as they realise how much they’re talking without saying anything at all.

“That’s cute,” Phil blurts out.

Dan bites their lip again, smiling a bit. Before they can say anything, though, there’s a sort of crashing noise from the general direction of PJ and Chris. Phil is very used to this.

“Fuck,” Dan breathes, gripping onto the strap of their messenger bag and flinching when a follow-up bang echoes through the hall. “Why are they like this?”

“I ask myself that question every day,” Phil sighs.

“Boys,” Sophie calls over in her soft, amused voice. “The idiots have got the ladder down. You coming?”

Dan laughs and nods, but Phil takes hold of their arm before they can go too far.

“Hey,” he says. “I can tell her not to call you that.”

The soft look he gets for it, laughter still scrunching Dan’s eyes and showing off their dimples, makes Phil’s chest kind of cave in on itself. They shrug, pulling Phil along the way Phil guided them earlier. “I don’t mind. It’s not inaccurate.”

Phil swallows hard. “It’s not?”

“It’s also not accurate,” Dan says, that softness still all over their face. “We’ll talk about it later if you want to. Just trust me that I’ll say something if one of you makes me uncomfortable, okay?”

“Okay,” Phil agrees, letting himself be dragged instead of letting go.

--

The floorboards in the attic are dirty and covered in marker, but Sophie finds a nice warm corner to set their sleeping bags up in. Chris is dealing with the camera and voice recorder, checking batteries on all their gadgets while PJ interrogates Dan on where they got their boots.

Phil tunes them all out and starts looking at the different sigils, taking photos and trying to figure out what somebody would possibly need from doing magic in a house that’s been empty for decades. Surely there are better places to open a veil like that. Phil doesn’t know a lot about magic, if it’s even a real thing, but he has a whole heap of assumptions and absolutely none of those point to a townhouse in Rusholme with working electricity.

When his eyes start to feel dry, Phil grabs his rucksack. “Be back in a sec,” he says, dropping the ladder down.

“What?” Dan asks, their voice pitching a little higher. “Where are you going?”

“Bathroom,” says Phil. He hands his crowbar to Dan, because he feels somewhat certain that he won’t need it. “Can’t take my contacts out without washing my hands. I won’t be long, okay? Just hang onto this and don’t listen to anything Chris tells you.”

“I resent that,” Chris chimes in, stretching out on one of the sleeping bags. “See if I let you crawl into bed with me later.”

“When have I ever wanted that?” Phil sighs. He never knows how to react to Chris flirting with him, but it’s so much more awkward when Dan is blinking between them like they’re wondering if they’ve missed something. Whatever Dan is missing, Phil is pretty sure he’s missing it, too. “Like I said, don’t listen to Chris.”

Dan still looks nervous and a little confused, but all Phil can do is give them a reassuring smile before heading back downstairs.

The house is quiet and dim, streetlights streaming through the boarded windows and giving Phil enough vision to find a bathroom. It’s pretty gross, but the tap works and that’s all Phil really needs. He’s got anti-bacterial wipes and a travel-sized hand sanitizer, so that’ll have to substitute for the lack of soap.

Phil never feels more vulnerable than he does when his sight is impaired and no matter how much he blinks, his reflection doesn’t come into focus. In this moment, trying to get his contacts in their pot without incident because he does not trust this countertop, the lights above the mirror turn on. Phil freezes. Blinks. The lights go back off.

Slowly, he reaches for his glasses case. He can’t hear the click of a lightswitch when the lights keep flickering, which rules out his first suspicion of his friends messing with him.

As soon as Phil has his glasses on his nose, it stops. He blinks at himself in the mirror and waits for the lights to turn back off on their own, but they don’t. His hands are shaking a bit as he digs for his pills. With a deep breath, Phil runs the tap again to drink out of his cupped hands.

“If you’re toying with me,” Phil says to the empty bathroom, “then stop, but if you’re trying to communicate with me... do it again.”

Nothing happens. Phil isn’t sure if he should be relieved or not.

Everything gets shoved back into his rucksack with no ceremony, because Phil needs to be out of this small room as soon as possible. He slings it over his shoulder and heads back to the attic with careful steps, his heart pounding in his ears.

--

Phil doesn’t tell his friends what happened with the lights. It’s such a small thing, could have even been a coincidence, so it doesn’t make much sense to tell them now instead of when they’re all comfortable at the coffee shop again. There’s no point in freaking PJ and Dan out further when they both look like they’re about to crash. They and Sophie are all yawning where they’re curled up on the sleeping bags, in any case, and Phil meets Chris’ eye.

Neither of them are good at sleeping in the best of situations. They always take first watch, and sometimes they don’t end up sleeping at all.

Chris winks and passes Phil a flask. When Phil takes a cautious sip, warm coffee hits his tongue and he hums, wondering when Chris filled this up. It’s good coffee and isn’t making Phil’s heart race, so it’s most likely decaf.

They don’t talk, because PJ is already snoring lightly and Sophie’s head is pillowed on Chris’ thigh. Phil’s friends can fall asleep anywhere. It’s something he’s always been a bit jealous of. He looks down at Dan and feels his heart jump when Dan’s eyes are open and already looking back at him. The red patch on Dan’s cheek appears again, and Phil watches it in fascination.

Dan is pretty. There’s no real denying that one. They give Phil a sheepish little smile at being caught staring and close their eyes, curling close enough that Phil could reach down and smooth the curls off their forehead if he was stupid enough to do so.

He’s not that stupid. He hands Chris’ flask back to him and pulls out his phone instead. It’s looking like it’s going to be a quiet night after all, he can probably get a few more levels of Candy Crush out of the way. As much as Sophie makes fun of him for still playing it in 2019, it’s Phil’s favourite time-waster.

When he looks at Dan again, six levels later, Dan’s eyes are open. They aren’t looking up at Phil anymore, though, they’re just staring blankly at the attic wall and breathing shakily.

“Dan?” Phil murmurs, putting his hand on Dan’s shoulder. Dan doesn’t react. “Er, Dan?”

Dan’s body is so tense and their eyes are so wide, but they don’t say anything. They don’t even twitch. Phil looks over at Chris, who frowns and checks on Sophie in his lap. She’s stiff as a board, Phil suddenly notices - and so is PJ, whose unblinking stare is fixed on the ceiling.

“What the fuck?” Chris asks, tapping Sophie’s face lightly.

“I think this is the sleep paralysis,” says Phil. He gives into the urge to brush Dan’s curls out of their eyes, giving them a small comfort from whatever they’re seeing right now.

“How do we fix it?”

Chris doesn’t panic, because he doesn’t do that, but he looks unsettled in a way that Phil hasn’t seen him before. Phil finds himself wondering, not for the first or the last time, what these people mean to each other for this to rattle Chris so visibly.

“I don’t think we can,” Phil says, pulling his knees to his chest and continuing to run his fingers through Dan’s hair. He’ll apologise if he has to, but he likes to think that he’s helping in some small way. “When Dan told me about this happening, they said that nobody was able to wake the others up. I think we just have to wait it out.”

“I hate that,” says Chris. He laughs humourlessly and cups Sophie’s chin, tilting her face from side to side. “Fuck. It’s like she isn’t even home.”

Phil looks at Dan’s eyes again. They’re the same colour and shape as they’ve been all night, but the warmth and sparkle are completely gone. A shiver runs through Phil at the sight, and he bites his own lip. “Yeah. Yeah, I hate it, too.”

[geekprincess26]

Jon didn’t stay at the Wall.

After many months, he tired of his labors and fell back into a deep depression.  Seeing his distress, Tormund Giantsbane, leader of the Free Folk, sent a raven to Queen Sansa, his closest surviving relative.  After consulting her maester, she sent a secret missive back, along with a small vial of clear liquid.  Tormund duly fed it to Jon, whose heart slowly stopped beating.  The maester of the Night’s Watch declared him dead and asked Tormund and a few of the other Free Folk to handle his burial.  They promptly loaded him onto a wagon and escorted him back to Winterfell with Ghost.  Along the way, his body slipped out of the stupor into which the medicine had cast him, but he still spoke no words and would barely eat.

They arrived at Winterfell late one night and at once brought Jon to the maester’s quarters.  He opened his eyes just in time to see a flash of tears and red hair and feel the impact of Sansa’s overjoyed embrace.

“Your death has been marked in the annals of the Night’s Watch,” she told him.  “You are free to come and go as you please.”

The first words Jon spoke in nigh a month took the form of a croaked protest about Bran’s bargain with Grey Worm, but Sansa shook her head firmly.

“Grey Worm sailed to Naath long ago,” she informed him, “and those Unsullied who remain in Westeros have begun warming to their new home and king.  Some have even married and begun families.  A few have remarked on the harshness of your sentence, now that they have had time to reflect on it.   If you do not do aught to garner much attention to yourself, they will pay you none.”

Jon only shook his head, but he did eat the stew Sansa offered him.  Over the following weeks, his gaunt face and near-skeletal body filled out nicely, and his sallow cheeks turned pink with life.  He insisted on helping the people of Winterfell repair their home; it was his duty, after all, and he must earn his keep.  Sansa shook her head at that, but did not protest aloud.  Instead, she poured her energies into ensuring that he, like her other people, was well-fed.  She personally delivered stew and bread to him every noon as he labored under the spring sunlight.  She sewed him new garments and kept a seat open at Winterfell’s high table for him every night.  And every so often, she would ask for his counsel about refreshing the castle’s weapons stores, or handling a quarrel between two hot-headed young lords, or where he thought the new granaries ought to go.  Every so often turned into every day, and often into every night by the fireplace in her solar, where Jon would review her letters and charters and deeds over a cup of wine or ale.  Sometimes they said little.  Other times they laughed over their childhood memories.  Eventually, more recent events crept into their conversation.  One night, after a day of settling particularly fractious quarrels among her lords and ladies, Sansa’s wine cup shook in her hand as she admitted that she had never been more terrified than the day she’d gotten the raven carrying the news of the sack of King’s Landing, not even when she’d had to live with Ramsay.

“I couldn’t - I couldn’t lose you - or Arya,” she said, trembling.  The first tears she’d cried in months left her eyes then, and Jon gently took her by the shoulders.  She stared up at him, and he hesitated until she huddled against him and wept.

Not long after that, as they were walking through the glass gardens, Sansa showed Jon the budding fireflowers, and he turned white as a ghost and sat in the dirt with his arms wrapped over his head.  Sansa said nothing, but she sank down beside him at once, heedless of her fine dress, and wrapped her arms around him, stroking his curls gently with one hand.  It took him over an hour to rise and suffer her to lead him back into his chambers, and no sooner had he reached them than he collapsed on the bed, sobbing.

Sansa said nothing the following day, but every so often, Jon began alluding to the birds he’d seen flying past his prison cell window, to the shapes the sunlight would make on the floors, to any number of other fragmented recollections to which Sansa would listen with rapt attention.  Sometimes he would stop in the middle of a sentence and go silent, or even begin weeping, but slowly, as the last snow heaps melted and the violets covered the fields, he began finishing each story, even the worst stories - the ones about his imprisonment on Dragonstone and hatching his desperate plan to persuade her to come North, even at the cost of his honor, and then of his imprisonment in Winterfell, when he had briefly thought himself free of Daenerys before she threatened Sansa, then refused to let him speak of his heritage or to listen to his family, since they must all be plotting against her.  It took months more for him to speak aught of the day she burned King’s Landing and of the day his desperation and his conscience plunged his knife into Daenerys’s heart.  But Sansa always listened to him patiently and never shamed him for his reluctance or for the tears that occasionally escaped him, and eventually Jon took his own turn listening as Sansa recalled the month her heart beat like a bird’s so constantly she thought it would explode, starting with the day Varys’s raven had reached her, continuing through long nights of her writing missives and sending messengers and hastening with Bran to King’s Landing at such speed that they traveled overnight almost every night, only stopping for two nights on the entire journey.  Their nights in front of the fire got longer, and sometimes they fell asleep on each other’s shoulders.  More often than not, Jon would wake first and gently lift Sansa in his arms.  Sometimes she would start and gasp, but the sound of Jon’s voice rumbling against her ear would calm her at once.

When he had first returned to Winterfell, Jon had never even approached the seat Sansa always set aside for him at her table; but soon enough he forgot when he had last taken dinner in his quarters, as had been his wont. He never said much, but he often grinned into his stew as he watched Sansa charm surly lords or hand out lemon cakes to their children.  Once or twice, he cleared his throat and interrupted a conversation Sansa clearly did not want to have with a flirtatious lad too far into his cups.  Sansa always thanked him afterwards.  She teased him that his glare alone could stop men in their tracks, and he offered to do more than glare if any lord should need a sterner reminder about how to treat his Queen.

Once, on Sansa’s name day, he did do more than glare.  One of the visiting Riverlands lords leered at Sansa over dinner, then let his hand wander while they were dancing.  Jon cut in at once and shoved the man away from a wide-eyed Sansa.

“I’ll put you in the dungeons myself,” he growled.  The dancing had stopped, and several of the other lords, both Riverlander and Northern, had stepped forward.

“That is not necessary, Jon.”  Sansa’s voice was as firm as her face was ashen.  “Lord Dorrel is in his cups and shall leave the feast.”

Lord Dorrel’s men dragged him away amid many apologies.  Soon after that, Sansa left the hall.  She did not get far before Jon caught up with her.  She whirled and squealed with fright when she felt his hand on her shoulder; he supposed she must not have heard him call her name.  Wordlessly, he took her into his arms, and for a long time they stood there, Sansa trembling in Jon’s embrace as he stroked her hair and pressed his lips to her head.  At last, when her shaking had subsided, he guided her to her chambers, but no sooner had they reached the solar than she clung to him like a woman drowning and begged him to stay there with her, just for a few more minutes.

They woke as the first light of dawn crept through the windows.  Jon carefully lifted Sansa and carried her to her bed, but she woke as he set her down and whispered a sleepy “I’m sorry.”  

Jon tucked back a strand of hair that had fallen into her eyes.  “There’s nothing to forgive, sweet girl,” he whispered, and Sansa’s eyes shone.

“The last time you told me that,” she whispered, “you said, ‘Where will we go?’”

Jon smiled at the memory.  “I thought you meant to go off without me,” he replied.  Sansa shook her head.

“I thought the same thing myself,” she said, and sat up to face him.  “I - I was so afraid you’d leave me.”

Her voice stumbled over the last few words, and Jon sank to his knees beside her.

“Never,” he whispered.  “I’d never have left you then, and I’ll never leave you now.  Not unless you want me to.”

His heart sank to his stomach and lower as he said it, but Sansa shook her head and clung to him once more. 

“Never,” she assured him, and raised her eyes, ice blue in the pale light of dawn, to plead with his.  “I never - please - no, never leave me, Jon; I lo - I don’t want you to go, not ever.”

Jon smiled and touched his forehead to hers.

“I’ll always be here for you, sweet girl,” he murmured, and lowered his lips to touch her forehead just as Sansa sat up straighter, causing his lips to alight on hers instead.  For a brief moment, Jon sighed against their softness, and for an even briefer one he almost tried to deepen the kiss, before he startled and moved back.  He thought Sansa would be angry, or at least as startled as he; but she was flushed and smiling, and she reached for him and took his lips again, and he cradled her head and kissed her and whispered again and again how much he loved her, how much he needed her, how she need never fear that he would depart from her again, Grey Worm or no Grey Worm, bargain or no bargain.

He repeated his vow to her the next month in the godswood, with the entire household of Winterfell as their witnesses.  Bran, of course, could not attend, nor could he acknowledge Jon as King; but Jon did not wish to be King any more than he wished to travel to King’s Landing himself, and Sansa smiled when he said it.

“You shall always be my King,” she told him, “and you are my home.  I promised I should never leave my home, you remember, and that is a vow I mean to keep.”

And she did.

[talesofmaehem]

How about #24 for Heronstairs?

“Promise me Jem, swear by the angel.”

Jem gazed at him steadily, his dark eyes wide in his small face. A thin silver ring was just beginning to show around his pupils, the eclipsed echo of an ominous moon.

“I swear by the angel,” Jem said solemnly. “But promise me Will, if you lose, promise you won’t ask again.”

Will screwed up his mouth and Jem flattened his into a straight line.

“Swear it, William.”

Will scowled. “I swear by the angel.”

***

Will swung his longsword and Jem stumbled back. They were evenly matched, or they should have been. Jem retreated, barely lifting his own longsword in time to fend off Will’s next blows.

“You’ve been practicing,” Jem accused as he batted Will’s blade aside.

Will flashed his teeth in a sharp smile, “didn’t say I couldn’t.”

Jem huffed an indignant laugh and Will doubled his attack. They parried around the training room, both boys panting hard. Will swiped at Jem, whose foot caught on a mat as he retreated, making him stumble backwards. Will seized his opportunity, striking out at Jem’s teetering form. Jem crashed to the floor, barely managing to keep hold of his blade.

His eyes widened, “Wait, Will—”

Will met his eyes with a determined glare and lifted his sword.

“Will, we can’t undo this—”

Will brought his sword down and Jem raised his to meet it. He wouldn’t know how many hours Will had practiced the move until much later, but Will neatly slipped his sword beneath Jem’s and twisted it out of Jem’s grip.

“Will—” Jem tried again as he leaned back.

“You promised,” Will said, voice hard as he leveled his sword at Jem’s neck.

Jem sighed and allowed himself to collapse on the training room floor. For a moment, the only sound in the room was their ragged breathing and then Jem started to laugh. He leaned back on his elbows to find Will smiling brilliantly down at him. Will swung his sword and casually rested it over his shoulder, offering his free hand down to Jem.

Jem smiled and clasped Will’s hand. “Well fought. Parabatai.”

Will’s hand tightened on his own.

***

Entreat me not to leave thee, or return from following after thee—for wither thou goest, I will go.

Jem stands amid twin rings of fire burning in the darkness. Opposite him is Will. His heart beats rapid fire in his chest. He can feel Will’s pulse thrumming in his veins. Could that be right? Will steps closer, hand outstretched. Jem takes it. He can’t recall if this is part of the ritual, though he’d been over the words, the movements thousands of times in his head. Will’s hand feels right in his own.

And where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.

Will feels Jem’s pulse in his veins. Could that be right? Jem’s pupils are blown so wide the thin silver ring has been swallowed entirely. He removes his stele and Jem bares his shoulder to him. Will’s hand is steady and sure. The mark unfurls in stark promise on Jem’s skin. He feels a tentative coil wind around his heart and stretch out towards Jem, like a sense he’d always had and never realized, like stumbling around in the dark and realizing all he’d ever needed was to open his eyes.

Where thou diest, will I die and there will I be buried.

Jem feels the sharp burn of Will’s stele against his skin and his soul sings with the rightness of it. For once he can’t feel the poison in his veins, all he knows is Will, Will, Will. He’d protested when Will asked of course. The barest twinge of guilt that he’d been harboring disappears as his own mark unfurls boldly above Will’s heart. He’d protested this too. Wedding marks were placed above the heart, and although he’d argued with Will about what he may or may not want in the future, Will—his parabatai—had insisted. There is no bond more important to me than this. He hears the words in Will’s solemn voice, sees them echoed in his blue eyes reflecting the flames in the darkness. Will was always so sure. He feels some of that surety settle into his bones, steadying him. He savors the last line, feels it fall weighty and definitive from his tongue. He tightens his grip on Will’s hand and prays, when his time comes, that his parabatai will be able to bear it.

The Angel do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.

***

“That was, by far, the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”

The voice rings out along the stone hallways of the institute, carrying over the distant sound of voices cheerfully emanating from the ballroom. Will tenses and slowly turns to face the newcomer.

“What’s that?” Will asks, voice deadly calm.

“Chained yourself to a bloody invalid.”

In less than a heartbeat Will has Gabriel Lightwood pinned against the wall.

“Insult James again,” Will growls, “and I’ll cut your imbecilic tongue from your mouth and shove it down your sorry throat.”

Gabriel clenches his jaw, staring defiantly into Will’s eyes.

“Problem?” Jem asks genially as he makes his way down the hallway. He notices the way Will fists his hands tighter in Gabriel’s collar, as if daring the other boy to speak.

“Not at all,” Will drawls, “Lightworm was just proving a little hard of hearing. Wanted to make sure the message got through.”

Jem makes a thoughtful sound and waits.

“Will,” he prods when neither boy moves.

Will roughly shoves Gabriel into the wall before letting him go. Gabriel briskly brushes off his sleeves and shoots the boys a nasty look before sauntering down the hallway.

Jem and Will watch him go.

“He won’t be the only one,” Jem warns.

“Hmm?” Will asks, turning to face his parabatai.

“People won’t think highly of you for binding yourself to a dying boy.”

“You heard,” Will concludes, displeased.

“I did warn you.”

Will scoffs.

“You can’t fight every shadowhunter who thinks I’m a liability.”

“I can and I will,” Will argues petulantly. Jem begins to protest but Will cuts him off. “You are not a liability James. You are one of the best fighters I know—better than bloody Gabriel Lightworm—and even if you weren’t, being parabatai is about more than that.” He places his hand over his heart, right above the rune that still tingles with a phantom warmth. “You are the only person with whom I’ve ever felt I could say whatever was on my mind, or in my heart, no matter how ridiculous. The only person I know will listen. This isn’t the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, it’s the best. Becoming your parabatai is the one thing I am entirely sure of; I have no doubts or reservations, Jem.”

Jem stares at him, eyes wide.

“Will—”

Will looks steadily back at him.

Jem swallows. “There is no bond more important to me than this.”

Will grins at the sound of his own words shaped by Jem’s voice. “Promise?” He teases.

“Swear by the angel.”

[camillemontespan]

a kingdom divided [part six] [drake walker x mc]

Part Five here! I should really make a Master List for this. 

This is a really long chapter, I got too into it, oops.

@jovialyouthmusic @drakesensworld @pug-bitch @moonlightgem7 @sirbeepsalot @notoriouscs @ifyouseekheart @fromthedeskofpaisleybleakmore @iplaydrake @drakewalkerisreal @whenyourheartskipsabeat @tacohead13

                  **************************************************

Liam stood up and turned to his friends, his face a mixture of sadness and anger. 'I'm so sorry..' he whispered, his voice cracking. Drake's heart wrenched. Outside, the mob were still shouting and the sound of glass smashing was constant. 'I don't know what to do,' he admitted, looking at the floor. Olivia exhaled and then spoke, her voice sharp. 'Yes you do. You know exactly what to do, Liam. Submit to their request to form a committee. Let them represent themselves to you. It's what they want.'

Liam clenched his fists. 'Olivia, you don't understand -'

'I understand perfectly fine!' she burst out, striding across the room to him. Camille tensed and Drake, feeling her nerves, placed his hand on hers. 'It's you who doesn't understand, Liam! What they're asking for isn't even radical. They just want their voices heard. They want Cordonia to prosper. They want their ideas to be considered! But the more you ignore them, the more riled up they become. Just look! They're outside destroying your Palace while we are in a prison of our own making up here. Think of Camille!'

Liam looked at Camille, who reddened. 'Olivia it's fine..' she whispered. But Olivia couldn't stop. Everything she felt was bursting out of her and she couldn't stop herself from screaming at her king. 'Camille is fucking pregnant, in case you haven't noticed! Her nursery window was smashed by these people! She came here tonight to support you and look what's happened! You have got to stop putting yourself first and think of your subjects! The only way to stop them is to just give them what they want!'

Liam wrenched himself away from the wall. 'How can I even think of giving them power when this is what they do?!'

'They are violent because of you!' she shouted back.

Drake stood up, hearing enough. Camille had been shaking beside him. 'Stop it!' he roared. Everyone turned to look at him. 'This isn't helping,' he said his voice more even now. 'Liam, listen to what Olivia is telling you. They just want something small. It doesn't mean they are going to take the crown or assassinate you. They just want a voice. It's a good thing.'

Liam sighed. 'I just worry they will stab me in the back... I've seen too many people betray the throne. I can't have it done to me.'

'Then you have no faith in Cordonia,' Camille suddenly said. She rose, a determined look on her face. Her body still shook but her eyes were steely.  'Liam, I beg you. Just hear them out. It might be what the country needs. Peace could come back. But if you continue to ignore them, they will only come back with more numbers and deadlier weapons than rocks.' Her eyes penetrated his. 'Right now, I don't want to bring my daughter into this world of danger and fear. I'm terrified for her. But if you just listen to them, I promise, it will become so much better. Peaceful and happy. That is a Cordonia I want my daughter to experience. Abandon your fear and be strong. Face it.'

There was a silence. Everyone seemed to be holding their breaths as they waited for Liam to speak. Tears filled his eyes and he let out a deep breath. 'What if the court don't like it?'

Camille sighed. 'We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.'

Liam looked at her, his gaze steady until his eyes flicked down to her bump. His expression softened. 'I'll do it for her.'

Everyone breathed out. Camille ran forward to pull him into a hug and Maxwell whistled. 'Thank god!' he said, throwing his arm around Bertrand. Hana cleared her throat. 'Um, as glad as I am that Liam has seen the light, how are we getting out of the Palace? The mob's still outside.'

Drake looked out of the window and could see the mob had gotten smaller but were still present. Security were doing a good job of pushing them back. They were now nearly at the gates, which was better than being right up at the palace doors. He sighed. Liam turned on the TV to the local news channel. It seemed as though most of the mob from the palace had directed their crusade to the streets. It had escalated and now they were rioting. Liam watched with his head in his hands. ‘This is my fault,’ he muttered. ‘I’m such a fucking idiot.’

They all winced at him swearing. Liam never swore. 

‘Right,’ he said, turning to his friends. ‘You’re staying here tonight. Nobody is going to travel in the streets, it’s too dangerous. Choose any room on this floor you want. Share a room if you have to.  I understand if you don’t want to be alone.’ 

He helped himself to a glass of scotch, pouring a generous measure. Drake looked at Camille, who had gone very quiet. Clearly, she had spent her energy for her speech to Liam. 

‘Do you want to stay here or shall we sleep in my old room?’ Drake asked her. ‘Pretty sure a pair of your pyjamas is still in there.’

She gave him a small smile. ‘I’d love out of this dress.’

He chuckled. ‘We’re going to my old room,’ he told the others. ‘Guys, stay safe. Keep your phones on if you need to call us or if we need to call you.  Use the secret tunnels to get around if you need to but only for emergencies.’ He started to guide Camille away but was stopped by Maxwell. He had rushed over to Camille and pulled her into a hug. ‘I’ve wanted to hug you all night. It’ll be okay,’ he whispered in her ear. Camille gave him a squeeze. ‘Love you Maxwell. I’ll see you in the morning,’ she said. 

                     ************************************************************

Everyone left the room apart from Olivia, who was leaning against the wall, watching Liam. He glanced at her. ‘Are you staying to shout at me some more?’

She opened her mouth to protest but he laughed. It was genuine. ‘I’m kidding, Olivia. I needed that. You and Camille really showed me what an asshole I’ve been. Thank you.’

She shrugged. ‘About time.’

He poured her a glass of scotch and handed it to her. ‘You look like you need a stiff drink.’ She took it gratefully and drank a long sip. It burned her throat but she didn’t mind; it complimented the rage she had felt earlier. 

‘You are a good King, Liam,’ she said, breaking their silence. ‘You just need to believe in yourself more.’

He shook his head. ‘I’m nothing compared to my father.’

‘Your father was loved by the nobles but hated by the public. You should strike a neat balance. You will.’

He stared at her, his eyes searching. ‘Why do you believe in me so much?’

She smiled and took another sip of her drink. ‘Because you are the best man I know. Everyone else pales in comparison.’

He blushed and downed his scotch. ‘You want to stay here tonight?’

She raised an eyebrow. He reddened, realising what his offer could be misconstrued as. ‘I meant like, if you wanted company.’ 

Olivia smirked but nodded. ‘Sure. I’ll protect you from the monsters under the bed.’ 

He went quiet and placed his glass down on the sideboard. They had had sleepovers as children; they had grown up incredibly close. Sleepovers had actually been a thing until they turned 13 and only stopped when Olivia felt self conscious about her changing body. She hadn’t wanted Liam to see her new breasts showing through her pyjama top. 

Now, she was proud of her body. She went to the bed and unzipped her dress. It pooled to the floor around her ankles and she stepped out of it delicately. Liam’s eyes widened as he took her in. Her red lace bra pushed up her breasts, the breasts she had been so keen to keep hidden from him growing up.

She slid under the duvet. He cleared his throat. ‘I’ll take the sofa.’

Her heart sank. She sat up. ‘Liam, we’ve just been part of an attempted siege. I’d actually rather not sleep in bed alone, despite how I try to act like I’m brave and don’t give a shit.’

He raised his hands in defence and he pulled his shirt off, followed by his trousers. He got under the covers with her. ‘There. Happy now?’

She nodded. She had been honest; she wanted to feel somebody close to her. Despite her bravado, she had been terrified when the palace had been attacked and although her terror had quickly turned into anger and rage, she was still human. She still needed comfort and love. 

They lay side by side, a wide gap between them, as if they were afraid to touch. Olivia longed to reach out to take his hand but something told her not to. That he wouldn’t be comfortable. It upset Olivia that she knew his feelings about everything in life except his feelings for her. It was the one question mark she had about him. 

                            ******************************************************

Drake had led Camille through the secret passages until they reached his old room. ‘God, this feels weird,’ Drake breathed. Camille followed him inside. It was bare except for the bed and wardrobe.  As soon as he had moved in with Camille, he had wasted no time in clearing out his old room. This room had never felt like home. For him, Camille was home.

‘Can you help me unzip my dress?’ she asked. Drake nodded and went behind her to help. The dress fell down onto the floor. ‘Where’s my pyjamas?’ she asked. Drake found them hanging up in the wardrobe. He handed them to her, but not before his eyes roamed her body. He loved seeing how her body was changing. She had felt self conscious about it but honestly, Drake adored it. He had loved her body to begin with but now, it was even more special just knowing that their baby was growing inside her. The moonlight shone through the window and highlighted her features; her cheekbones, her heart shaped mouth; the curve of her baby bump. To Drake, she was like a work of art come to life. ‘You are beautiful,’ he whispered. 

She cast her eyes down. ‘I don’t feel it right now.’

Drake took the pyjamas and threw them to the side of the room.  ‘You are, Camille. So fucking beautiful.’

She gently took his hand and led him to the bed. They settled under the sheets. Camille unbuttoned his shirt and laid her head on his chest, feeling his heartbeat.  He made her feel safe. He always did. Tears sprang up in her eyes as she cast her memory to the events of this night. Hana refusing to let go of her hand. Drake trying to shield her from the crowd of courtiers who were pushing and shoving. The sound of glass breaking.

Drake could feel her body tensing and knew what she was thinking about. ‘Shhh, Camille,’ he murmured, stroking her arm. ‘Settle your mind. We’re safe. Baby girl’s safe.’ 

She looked into his eyes. ‘Distract me. Tell me about the future. Our baby girl. Tell me about her.’

He smiled and thought. ‘Our baby girl is going to be so happy. She will have this vitality for life that can’t be diminished. She will look just like you, because you’re beautiful, and she will be brave and kind.’

Camille snuggled into him more and listened as he kept talking. She already felt calmer just listening to his voice, his deep, warm voice that was like a blanket wrapping around her after a cold day. 

‘Of course, she will have the famous Walker smirk,’ he said. Camille giggled and Drake grinned now, happy she was letting go and focusing on this moment. 

‘She will be clever and run rings around us but we won’t mind because she’s ours.’

Camille let out a gasp. Drake shot up, alarmed. ‘What’s wrong?’ 

She let out a shaky laugh. ‘Drake, she just moved.’

Drake’s heart quickened and placed his hand on her bump. He could feel slight movement in the bump, as if the baby was fluttering like a butterfly. Not strong enough yet to kick but enough to signal that she was there. 

‘Drake, I think she heard you,’ Camille murmured. Tears fell down her cheeks and Drake stroked them away. ‘Don’t cry honey.’

‘These are happy tears,’ she replied, giving him a smile. ‘I’m happy. She could hear you talking about her so she had to show she was here.’ She cupped her bump. ‘We know you’re there, baby.’

Drake chuckled and pulled Camille into him for a hug. ‘Let’s add attention seeker to the list of things Baby Girl is going to be.’ 

                     *************************************************************

Hana and Maxwell had been too high on adrenaline to get to sleep. Bertrand had taken the sofa and went out like a light, but for the other two, it was different. They sat cross legged on the bed, facing each other, sharing a tub of ice cream that they had sneaked through the secret passages to the kitchen to find. Had that been reckless to do? Yes. Did they care? Well, they were both bad influences on the other when they wanted to be so no.

‘I was so scared tonight,’ Hana told him quietly. 

Maxwell nodded. ‘Same here. But you were fucking brave, Hana. You protected Camille.’

Hana blushed. ‘No. Drake did.’

‘Sure, he guided you both through the room and kept the crowd away but you held her hand and shouted at them. I’ve never seen you shout!’

Hana laughed. ‘Hey, I shout!’

Maxwell raised an eyebrow at her. ‘Hana, you’re like the sweetest thing ever. That was the only time I’ve ever seen you shout.’

She giggled and had another spoonful of ice cream.  ‘What about you? What were you thinking?’

‘Honestly? I thought that was it. We were finished. I also hoped against hope that if we got Camille and Drake out, then that would be enough. I’d never live with myself if she got hurt.’

Hana frowned. ‘Maxwell... are you in love with Camille?’

He suddenly burst out laughing, causing Bertrand to groan in his sleep. Maxwell wiped away a tear and sniggered. ‘No, Hana. I love her as a friend and yeah, she is beautiful and an amazing person, but no. She’s my best friend.’

‘Hey! She’s my best friend!’ Hana cried. Maxwell winked. ‘I’ll fight you for her.’

Hana took the ice cream tub and placed it on the bedside table. She stared at him, her face set. Maxwell felt slightly scared for a moment but then laughed when she threw a pillow at him. He grabbed his pillow and threw it back, until they were engaged in a pillow war. ‘Shhhh, we’ll wake Bertrand!’ he whispered, trying to hold in his laughter. Hana rolled her eyes. She hit him again with her pillow and Maxwell decided, this was it. He needed to raise his game. ‘For Camille!’ he whispered as loudly as he could. 

He struck her with his pillow, launching himself at her.  She landed on her back and he was now on top of her. ‘Nooooooooo!’ she whispered. ‘I refuse to give up Camille! She’s my best friend!’ 

With surprising strength, she shoved him over so he landed on his back and she straddled him, holding his arms above his head. ‘Ha! Admit defeat!’ she whispered. 

He was about to retaliate until he looked up into her brown eyes. He had never seen Hana from this angle before. Her dark hair fell down her shoulders, towards him, framing her face. She was really pretty. How had he never noticed this?  Hana drew back but he followed,  sitting up with Hana still straddling his lap. It was such an intimate position. There was a charged silence. It felt like time had stopped. Hana blushed and Maxwell took it as a signal. Before he could stop himself, he leaned forward, pulling her in by her shoulders and their lips met. 

It was gentle at first. Slow, tentative. Maxwell was certain he had pushed the boundary. He was certain she would shove him away and their friendship would be ruined. He was absolutely certain of all of this until he felt her tongue against his. She wasn’t shoving him away. Maxwell couldn’t work out why this was happening. They were sober, for one thing. They had no excuse to be kissing. But god, it felt good. Their tongues swirled, the taste of chocolate ice cream mingling. His hands roamed down her back, pulling her in closer. Hana let out a groan and Maxwell felt his trousers tighten as a result.

They both pulled away at the same time, breathing heavily. They could both feel the situation in Maxwell’s trousers and they had no idea what to do about it.

‘We shouldn’t go further,’ Hana said quietly. 

Maxwell looked down, embarrassed. 

‘At least, we should wait until Bertrand’s not in the room with us,’ he heard her say suggestively. 

Maxwell’s heart skipped and he looked up again to see her smiling at him.  She didn’t regret it. ‘Sleep?’ she suggested. Maxwell nodded and they got under the covers. Their bodies slotted into place with Maxwell spooning her. She was so delicate. He felt like if he held her tightly she would break; but as Hana had proven a million times, she was stronger than she looked in every single way. 

                        ****************************************************

The next morning, the court gathered outside on the Palace steps where King Liam was due to make a speech. When Camille took in the broken windows of the palace, she clenched Drake's hand tightly. He kissed the top of her head reassuringly.

TV crews were also present, ready to produce a live feed to the world. Security was enhanced after the events of last night. Members of the public were also there. Compared to last night, they were calm.

Liam stood at the podium and cleared his throat. The couriers fell silent. Liam looked out at the crowd, his face determined. 'I am here to address the events of last night,' he started, his voice clear and strong. 'Last night, a group of discontented members of the public descended on the palace. As you can see behind me, the palace windows were smashed and my court spent the night hiding in their rooms.' He paused. Drake and Camille were holding each others hands tightly, nervous. 

Liam continued. 'As terrifying as last night was, I understand their frustration. I know I have been unwilling to bend to their request for a special committee. I have been stubborn, self-righteous and too set in my ways. Cordonia needs fair representation for the country to work and move forward as one. So, I have decided to create the special committee. I will need a committee of 15 members, as is the law. Those who wish to be part of it, those who want to see Cordonia prosper, please take a form.' He indicated to his staff, who were holding membership forms. 'The forms will ask for your qualifications, your reasons for wanting to join the committee as well as your job, family etcetera. I am sorry for being selfish and not seeing the bigger picture. I hope to never disappoint you again. For Cordonia!'

The crowd cheered 'For Cordonia!' back to him. Liam gave them a dignified nod and stepped away from the podium. Camille let out a breath. 'Do you think that worked?'

Drake looked at some member of the public who were now lining up to take a form. Many were chattering away, excited expressions on their faces. ‘I think so,' he smiled.

They heard a snigger behind them. Turning, they saw it was Neville. 'Neville. We meet again,' Drake said dryly.

Neville sneered. 'He may have bended to the will of the people but don't think he's out of the woods just yet. There are many who will still call him weak and unfit to rule.'

Camille glared at him. 'When did you suddenly become an expert on politics and power, Neville?'

He laughed harshly. 'I’m a key player at court. There are some who will see this as a bad thing. Just because he is satisfying one group doesn't mean he is satisfying everyone.'

'You told us you didn't blame them for wanting a Republic,' Drake spat.

'Doesn't mean I want one. Oh no, I prefer a monarchy. It’s traditional and grand with a lineage that goes back centuries. That said, I’d love a king who has the intelligence to realise that commoners do not make good politicians, diplomats or nobles,’ his tone was pointed at Drake and Camille, ‘Who doesn’t bend to the will of a few angry commoners because they’re throwing stones.’

‘It was a fucking rock through my baby’s window,’ Camille spat, surprising Drake. Camille never lost her composure.  Neville shrugged. Drake placed his hand on Camille’s, trying to calm her down. Is this what she felt like whenever she tried to calm down Drake?

‘Whatever, Duchess. Just don’t be surprised if more windows of yours are broken. The king may have appeased the public for now but there will be others who are more radical, for whom a simple committee isn’t enough.  Same at court. We don’t want a committee to be made for the public. They know nothing. What makes them think they have earned the right to sit at the table? I speak sense; you’d do well to listen.’

He strutted off, leaving Drake and Camille speechless.

                           ***********************************************

Liam sighed. He hoped his announcement had gone down well. He hoped it had been enough.  ‘Liam.’ He turned around. ‘Leo?!’ His brother, his only brother who had abdicated and had been away god knows where for a year, stood under an archway, hidden from view. The abdicated former king would not want to steal his brother’s spotlight.  ‘What the hell? I thought you were away travelling!’ Liam cried, throwing his arms around his brother in surprise. 

Leo chuckled. ‘I’ve come to support you. Care to fill me in?’ 

[loviswriting]

Writing prompt - Disillusioned

Found an august writing prompt set, by @downwithwritersblock , so I wrote a scene from my sci-fi project “Between the space and the stars”.

It was not often the great council of Atarah assembled. Only in times of peril or great celebration were the council to be assembled, but today was neither. Today’s assemble was in the name of flourishment, prosperity and responsibility. The people and planet of Atarah had reached a point in civilization where they had come as close to a utopia as they could; they knew better than to believe in real utopias, but they were wise enough to know that they also had hit the ceiling of prosperity. But with prosperity comes power and with power comes responsibility. And also the approach to not take things for granted…

“The council is summoned, computer start recording. Welcome dear council members”, the head of the council and council member number one, Aoife, said to her fellow council members slowly waving her grey arm across the triangular table which the nine of them sat around. The other members replied with the same gesture, a gesture of respect and welcoming. She continued, “As we all know, our people and planet has now reached total prosperity. Our people never starve, we do not consume more than our planet is capable of, and we have peace and outstanding technology reaching all our needs and magic honed to help us in our daily life. Thanks to the stone of Quintavius, we have reached a balance between emotions and soul, no longer in the grasp of one or another. This calls for celebration”, the members around the table made a bow shaped gesture in the air with their hands, calling forth small pinks sparkles, as they nodded and cheered. “Alas”, Aoife continued, “we as a civilization reached this point because of generations of hard work. A hard work we need to keep up. So before discussion celebration, we need to discuss our path forward. Where shall we lead our people now, in this age of well-being? Feel free to talk a bit about the subject, although I’m sure some of you already have ideas.” The other members started to murmur between each other, sharing ideas. The ninth council member, a woman named Cerelia, rose her hand and the council quieted. “There is no more to achieve, but the ability to maintain our current state. If we take this prosperity for granted, it would only mean that we have not truly reached this point. We should lead our people into maintaining what we have, a status quo”, several of the council members nodded in agree. “A reasonable voice as always, Cerelia”, Aoife commented, “more thoughts and ideas?”. Council member number four, Kenaz, rose his hand and the council turned their attention to him. “A status quo would never be a realistic thing to strive for. The only constant is change and we know that. Of course we need to maintain what we have, but there are so many more possibilities. We could share our technology and resources with other planets and civilizations, make them prosper as us”, this time some of the council members nodded again, some looked to be in thought. “A noble thought Kenaz, but you know that is not possible. The Quintavius is key to our state of prosperity and there is only one Quintavius and it cannot be shared. It has given us a state of mind that makes us accomplish this prosperity and that state of mind, also, cannot be shared”, Aoife said with a slightly sad tone, wishing it was possible. “There could be one way though…”, Kenaz replied, “do we really need the Quintavius in these days?” Some of the council members gasped and let out confused comments between themselves. “Of course it is needed!”, council member number seven, Winola, said as they put a hand on the table in protest, “Without our balanced state of mind, how could we possibly keep this path?” “I agree with them”, Cerelia said, “But let us hear you out”, she said and got nods form the rest of the council, and Kenaz continued. “Perhaps we can maintain our state of mind without the Quintavius, have our species not reached that level of intellect after thousands of years?”, he took a pause and the council quietly waited for him to continue, “What if we split the Quintavius back into the stones of Melantha and Lulidja”. The council members was shocked, “You cannot be serious…?”, Winola said, “What good could possible come from that and how would that even be possible?”, they said shrugging in disbelief. Aoife took tone, “The suggestion is still valid until proven otherwise, although I am doubtful I have not seen clearly before, please elaborate Kenaz”, the others nodded in agreement. Kenaz bowed his head slightly, “Thank you dear council members. The stones of Melantha and Lulidja once made our emotions and souls rule us in a chaotic manner, but have we not learned enough about ourselves to be able to still maintain balance in our emotions and souls without the Quintavius? And with the stones of Melantha and Lulidja, we could spread our wisdom. Unlike the Quintavius, the Melantha and Lulidja are possible to break apart into smaller pieces” The atmosphere in the room got could and silent for a while. “That has been done before and it was a mistake and led to horrible bloodshed”, Aoife said with a grave tone. “Yes, may those poor souls of our ancestors rest in peace”, Kenaz continued, “but I believe I have found ways to split the Quintavius with a magic that will prevent the stones powers from going out of control.” “No magic could be powerful enough to affect the stones like that!”, Winola said, shaking their head. “Perhaps we are wrong in that? Kenaz is our most potent and capable sorcerer”, Aoife said, trying to keep her calm and maintain the right to speak and keeping her openness. “That he is…”, Winola replied with uncertainty. “I am sure it will work” Kenaz said, “And with the stones of Melantha and Lulidja, we could turn them into smaller pieces to give to other civilizations in exchange for knowledge and goods!” Aoife rose and calmly slammed the palm of her hand in the table, “No. There is nothing to gain by that kind of exchange. That is not the way of our people; that is the path to greed and capitalism. If we are to share the stones power – if it even is possible – we will do it for free craving nothing in return”, she looked sternly into Kenaz purple eyes, not moving an inch, the rest of the room frozen. “Aoife, please see me through this, other civilizations may not accept the stones freely. If we just give the stones to them they might see it as a sign of weakness from us or try to exploit us once they get the power from the stones”, Kenaz rose to meet Aoifes yellow eyes, with a kindness in his voice, pleading to her reason. “That is a good argument to not split the Quintavius and not share the Melantha and Lulidja”, she said turning his words against him. “That may be so, but as I said before; the only constant is change!”, Kenaz spoke with a louder tone, “It is our responsibility to share our prosperity with other planets and to make our people grow through what we can get from others!” “Our only responsibility is the one to take care of our people”, Cerelia said, reaching into the heated debate with a clam voice. “That is what I am trying to do!”, Kenaz quickly replied, with his purple face marks on the cheek turning glowing pink. “Kenaz, you are letting your emotions take control!”, Aoife said to him. “First council member, so might you be”, Cerelia pointed out. Aoife felt her own face marks turning pink and sat down sighing, “You may be right”, Kenaz sat down as well. “This calls for a voting”, Aoife said and placed her hand on a plate in front of her on the table. The other members did as well, and the plates lit up. Shortly after, one green flame showed up in the middle of the table, two grey flames and six red flames. “The council has down voted the suggestion from Kenaz, although good in mind”, Aoife concluded. Kenaz shook his head, “How can you not see, this is the path forward, you are all mistaken and I am disillusioned with you…”

The meeting continued and after some prolonged debate the council decided to keep a status quo to maintain their prosperity. Afterwards, Kenaz went to the temple of Quintavius. The huge dome shaped grey building let its doors open with identification from his palm and he stepped into the great temple, an open room with vegetation on the walls, and on a small podium in the middle, the Quintavius floated a few centimeters up in the air. Kenaz walked up the pointy stone, about a meter long. He sighed and looked at it with determination. “If they cannot see the right way, they give me no other choice”, he gravely said, with his face marks turning into a strongly bright pink color and his purple eyes turning black.

___

To anyone reading this, hope it was enjoyable!

[scarletraven1001]

Linked: Chapter 5

Summary: Bulma and Vegeta begin to truly understand their feelings, with a little help from their friends.

Previous Chapters:  1 / 2 / 3 / 4

Also on Ao3.

8-8-8-8-8

Note: I am sooo sorry for this incredibly late update! Some of you may remember that I had gotten really sick soon after posting the last chapter of this, but now that I am better, I am back!

I hope you enjoy this, and as always, feedback gives me liiiiife.

8-8-8-8-8

Chapter 5: Synced

8-8-8-8-8

“Hello?”

Bulma held the phone to her cheek with her shoulder as she tried to answer the call and sort through the growing pile of papers on her desk.

“Good morning. Am I speaking to Ms. Bulma Briefs?” asked the voice on the other line.

“Yes, this is Ms. Briefs. May I ask who is on the line, please?”

“Ms. Briefs, I am Dr. Gero from NRRU, the New Red Ribbon University,” he said, making Bulma straighten in her seat, papers forgotten as she quickly grabbed the phone with both hands.

NRRU was a premier academic and research institute, and she knew of Dr. Gero through the several books he had written on nuclear physics.

“What can I do for you, Dr. Gero?” she asked, her heart leaping within her chest.

“We had received a recommendation for you from one of our colleagues, and I wish to ask if you would be interested in coming in for an interview to fill a job vacancy as a Research Fellow for our Physics Department?”

Her jaw fell slack, mouth open in shock, as she digested what she had just heard.

She had just been asked to try for a post at freaking NRRU.

She nearly wheezed, one hand flying to her chest to keep her heart from ripping straight through her rib cage.

This… was unbelievable…

And she knew exactly who had made it possible.

“Ms. Briefs? Are you still there?”

“Yes!” she yipped, before she cleared her throat and tried to answer with a smidge more dignity. “Yes, Dr. Gero. I am still on the line. And I am, of course, very interested regarding your offer for an interview.”

“Alright then, have you a pen and paper? Please take down these details,” Gero said, and Bulma made a mad scramble for a pen to take down the interview details, now set for three days away.

She thanked him profusely before she practically flew to HR to file for a day of vacation leave, and as she sat back down on her desk, she had the widest smile on her face, immediately alerting Chichi.

“What’s up, Bulma?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing.”

“Bull crap,” replied her friend. “You have been morose for days. Ever since- well, ya know…”

And she did.

When she and Vegeta had agreed to part ways, she had know it would be difficult, but never imagined that it would be so all-consumingly painful.

She wholeheartedly blamed the marks, as she knew that it was the stupid things that caused her so much grief, but she couldn’t help but wonder if maybe…

Maybe…

Maybe she had really been falling for him, Soulmate or not.

He was intelligent, handsome, determined to succeed and unconventionally caring… things that she had always known that she wanted in a man, but had never found until he came along.

And in her – their – stubbornness, they had pulled away from each other before they could discover what they truly had brewing, because both were overly cautious about being manipulated by a fate that they cannot control.

She snapped out of her thoughts when Chichi reached forward to hold her hand, and Bulma’s lips quivered when she spied the pitying sadness in her friend’s gaze.

“Bulma,” Chichi hesitated. “Don’t you think that maybe you should-”

“No, Chi,” she said, cutting off a sentiment that had been repeated to her several times already.

“But…”

“I am not gonna ask him to come back,” Bulma said. “This… this is nothing! I’ve just hit a bit of a snag, but I’m gonna be fine.”

Chichi looked unconvinced, but nodded, pulling her hand back.

Chichi smiled with forced brightness as Bulma did the same, asking again, “So, why were you so happy just now?”

Bulma excitedly told her about the phone call, expecting Chichi to be as ridiculously happy as she was, but Chichi just frowned again.

“What? Why do you look so sad?” she asked.

“Because… well, can’t you see, Bulma,” she responded haltingly. “This was Vegeta’s doing. He is still looking out for you. And if that isn’t a sign of true affection, I don’t know what is.”

“Chichi, I can’t just accept that he’s the one, all because of a dumb tattoo-”

“It isn’t, though!” Chichi exclaimed, suddenly standing up, hands balled into tiny fists at her side. “You are self-sabotaging, as usual!”

Bulma’s eyes widened, and she was about to say something when Chichi held a hand up to her to silence her.

“You always give up before you can start. You find a negative sign before you see the go-signal,” Chichi ranted. “You have sacrificed everything for everyone else, and have gotten so used to compromising that you have never tried to take a risk for yourself!”

“Chichi-”

“Do ya think Goku and I had it all so easy?” she asked, raising a hand up to pinch her eyes in frustration. “You know what he’s like. He wasn’t ready to settle down. He didn’t even seem to understand what it meant! But I knew that I wanted him, and I fought, Bulma. I wanted that man, I fought for him, and now I have never been happier.”

“It’s not the same thing!” Bulma protested. “You and Goku fell in love with each other-”

“Didn’t you?”

Bulma paused, stunned.

Did she?

Did she actually, really fall for Vegeta?

“Maybe you need to see him again, Bulma. Or talk to him. Just one more time… Your soulmate mark has been wilting so badly lately and… maybe if you talk to Vegeta again, you can use that as your guide.”

Bulma looked down at her arm, where her soulmate mark looked like a branch of wilted leaves, the previously bright scarlet lines now a fading, brownish red.

Her mark looked as miserable as she felt…

“Maybe… maybe after this interview. I just need some more time,” Bulma said.

Chichi smiled sadly at her, leaning down to once again hold her hands in hers.

“I wish you luck, Bulma.”

And Bulma knew, that Chichi was not just talking about the interview.

8-8-8-8-8

NRRU was massive, and Bulma was in heaven as she looked around at the high-tech cars and freshly-painted buildings comprising the Scientific Research Department.

Dr. Gero, a kindly old man with long gray hair, was an amazing person, and Bulma somehow managed to answer all his questions in spite of her rioting nerves.

The fact that Gero was so supportive helped a lot, and nearly an hour after they had shook hands as they met, Gero leaned back in his chair with a very fond grin.

“You really are as brilliant as I had been told you were,” Gero said. “Then again, coming from this colleague of mine, I knew that his recommendations are valuable, as he is rather hard to impress. And you really impressed him, Ms. Briefs.”

Bulma hesitated, before she asked, “I just wanted to confirm… I was referred to you by Mr. Vegeta Ouji, am I correct?”

“Yes, and I should give him a call to thank him. This interview we just had was one of the most entertaining ones I have had in years!”

She beamed, “Does this mean that I pass your screening then, Dr. Gero?”

He nodded. “I shall be forwarding the results of this interview to our Recruitment team, and I will be asking them to expedite your paperwork. I think you will be an asset, Ms. Briefs, and I am looking forward to working with you.”

Bulma wanted to cry from how happy she was, disbelief running along with her unparalleled excitement.

“Thank you so much, Dr. Gero,” she said. “I am so excited, and I am really going to do my best here, I promise.”

Gero stood up, and both of them reached forward to shake hands.

However, as they did, Bulma noticed something strange…

Gero’s sleeve had ridden up, and she saw that his arm was riddled with a pale, ash gray tattoo that was in the vague shape of a butterfly.

Gero noticed her gaze, and with a fatherly smile, he moved to pull his sleeve up, exposing him arm to her.

“Is that…” Bulma began.

“My Soulmate Mark,” Gero confirmed. “Back in the day, this was in the form of a lovely golden butterfly.”

Bulma swallowed, unsure, but curiosity won over and she asked, “Did it also start to fade when you rejected your Soulmate?”

Gero’s eyes widened at her question. “Rejected?”

She nodded, confused.

The old Doctor smiled, shaking his head. “I did not reject my Soulmate. She was my wife, for many years, and this mark turned into this… after she passed away.”

“I am so sorry…”

“It was quite a few years ago, and she left me with my wonderful son, who is working in the NRRU Robotics Department,” he smiled, before he asked, “What made you believe that I had rejected my Soulmate, Ms. Briefs?”  

With an embarrassed blush, she pulled her sleeve up to show him her own wilting tattoo. “My… my mark turned into this after my Soulmate and I parted ways. We weren’t quite sure of each other…”

Gero frowned. “Ms. Briefs… the way your mark has reacted… that is not how the Marks react to rejected or unfit Soulmates.”

She furrowed her brow at him, curious.

“If you and your Soulmate find yourselves incompatible, the Marks would change from their original state, but would not transform into more complex patterns,” he explained.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, that the way your Mark looks, is how it would if both your heart and soul have found your match, but you have been made to part ways,” he said kindly, a fond smile on his lips. “The mark would have grown beautiful, but after you left your Soulmate, it faded, as if your soul was in mourning… just as mine mourns every single day after I had lost my dear wife.”

Bulma gaped, stunned. “This means… that my Soulmate… is also the man for my heart?”

Gero’s smiled widened. “I suggest that you try to be with him again. No spat is worth not being with your Soulmate. Believe me, Ms. Briefs… if you return to him, it would be the best decision you will ever make.”

She felt the tears gather in her eyes, and she nodded, mind made.

“Thank you Dr. Gero,” she said sincerely. “Both for this opportunity, and for the advice.”

Within minutes, she was racing out of the university, determined to make things right…

She was going to get her Soulmate back.

8-8-8-8-8

Back in NRRU, an old gray-haired Physics expert was grinning as he dialed the number of a certain colleague in the EASA.

“Yes,” came the curt reply.

“Boy, I suggest you get your butt moving back to that city,” the doctor said. “That young lady looks just as miserable as you do.”

“Dr. Gero-”

“Vegeta,” he said, a note of warning in his tone. “Remember our discussion about Entropy?”

8-8-8-8-8

Bulma sighed, feeling stupid.

She had just realized that she didn’t have Vegeta’s number.

“For a smart person, I sure can be dumb,” she muttered as she sat on her bed in the wee hours of the morning, sleepy but unable to sleep, scrolling helplessly through her phone contacts.

How the hell did she never think of getting his number?

She would have to ask Piccolo if he had it.

She needed to talk to Vegeta. She needed to have him with her again.

As the thought filled her mind, she felt a small tingle begin to run up her arm, like a slither of a current moving beneath her skin.

She placed her phone down on the center table, glancing at her arm…

Her eyes widened, and she brought her arm up close to her eyes, squinting.

The mark had changed, the first visible movement that Bulma had seen since she last saw Vegeta.

The pale red that she had been used to seeing lately had shifted, as if a light had been injected into it from the inside. It bled into a deeper, brighter shade, from the very bottom line that slashed across her wrist to the edges of the wilted leaves along her arm.

A pulse ran through her as she watched the changing colors, and a strange sensation crept up from her chest, as if waiting anxiously for something that was sure to happen…

A sudden knocking sound startled her, and she shook her head to clear it as her addled brain slowly realized that the sound was coming from the front door.

Lost in thought, she walked robotically towards it, but as she turned the knob, she didn’t peer through the peephole to see who had come knocking.

She pulled the door open, and her heart nearly stopped at the sight that greeted her…

Painfully familiar dark hair in riotous flame-like waves, a sharp widow’s peak that accentuated severe dark eyes… whose penetrating gaze went through her like shards of lightning, making her heart beat a thunderous rhythm within her chest…

She trembled, overwhelmed; her hands slowly raised to hold in a sob that threatened to break through her lips…

She choked on his name as her eyes greedily roved his form, grateful for the chance to see his frowning face and his muscular body clothed in a simple white button-down shirt and blue denim jeans.

She clutched her throat as she finally found her voice, but now it was her mind that began to claw for something to say.

Yet, she came up blank, and the only thing she managed to do was choke out a single word.

“Vegeta…” she called softly, eyes searching his as he stared intently at her.

He too opened his mouth as if to speak, but quickly snapped it shut, his brows furrowing so low as his brilliant brain cast around for his thoughts, and just as she had begun to think that he was also coming up empty, he growled.

“Entropy,” he said, making her grimace in confusion.

Of all the things to say, she never expected that.

“What?” she asked, lost.

“We were too hasty. We rushed through our inferences and came to incorrect conclusions,” he said, his words stumbling quickly, one after another.

“Vegeta, are you alright? You’re not making sense-”

“We’re not in chaos, Bulma. We just need to analyze our degree of entropy,” he said, eyes now wide and unreasonably bright. “We have a bit of disorder and randomness on our hands. But it is not the disarray that we had first seen it as.”

Bulma was still lost, her confusion giving way to irritation as his cryptic words stirred up her already jumbled mind. “Why are we talking about physics at two in the morning?”

“Physics is our point of commonality, is it not?” he asked. “It seemed as if we were thrust into this strange situation in complete bedlam, but it is all simply random, and not really chaotic, isn’t it? May I come in?”

Dumbfounded, she nodded, wordlessly stepping aside as he moved past her and promptly took a seat on her couch, dropping a backpack on the floor beside him.

She moved to close the door behind him before she turned to face him once more.

Vegeta looked up at her then, brows furrowed together, and much to Bulma’s amusement, he gestured towards the chair, patting a spot beside himself as in inviting her to sit on her couch.

She chuckled in disbelief before she obliged him, promptly taking the seat beside him, her knees knocking softly against his when they both turned to face each other.

“Ok, Vegeta… I need you to slow down. What are you trying to tell me?” she asked gently, trying to placate the clearly manic man sitting before her.

He shook his head. “Bulma- This… Us. It is not as chaotic as we had thought. It was just that it had felt so random. It was just a seemingly random match-up, but if we sit still long enough to analyze it…”

He trailed off, staring intently into her blue eyes, a look akin to helplessness leaking from his dark gaze. “Randomization removes the risk of bias. If we had been left to our own devices to find our matches, we would have been stuck searching uselessly within a biased set, an easily-accessible control group that did not contain the variable that would yield the best possible outcome.”

Bulma sucked in a deep breath, her sleepy mind jolting awake as she finally began to understand what Vegeta was getting at.

“I suppose…” she started, gulping between unsteady breaths. “If we had searched by ourselves, we would only be able to look within our current environments, our separate crowds. We would never think to look beyond our own cliques and the people surrounding us.”

“Exactly,” he nodded. “And these Soulmate Marks… They were not random, after all. They were the most calculated things to have ever come to be. They were installed upon us by a higher power who knew that something-”

“Someone,” she corrected softly.

He stared harder at her, his eyes melting her from the inside and out, before rebuilding her, sculpting her into something that would only grow more beautiful beneath his hands.

“Someone,” he amended in a whisper. “Someone better for us… is out there, previously completely inaccessible to us both.”

“For who would think that my Soulmate would be a hotshot astronaut?” she agreed.

“And who would suspect that the woman I would someday fall in love with was a blue-haired academic writer stuck in a backward, sleepy city?”

She gasped, eyes going wide as his muttered question spread from her ears to every fiber of her form.

“In… in love?” she asked hoarsely, her breaths shallow in elated disbelief.

“I do not know how… neither do I know when,” he said earnestly, “But somehow, between the time I pushed you away from the path of a speeding car, and the time you spoke of your past to me in that small restaurant…”

She began to shake, and as if sensing her turmoil, Vegeta hesitantly, slowly, reached up to grasp her trembling hands within his larger, steadier palms.

“My... My heart,” he stuttered in a voice nearly too soft for her to hear, but Bulma knew that her own heart could have heard his words, even if her ears had not.

“Your heart…?” she egged on.

He swallowed, face simultaneously pale and flushed. “My heart… began to yearn for what my soul knew I needed. And… and…”

She hiccupped, and it was only as she tasted salt on her lips that she even realized that she had been crying in response to his words actions.

“Vegeta,” she spoke, trying to see him through her watery eyes.

She needed to watch him, see him clearly as she finally accepted what her spirit had known all along.

“I need you with me,” she said, her heart threatening to pound through her chest as she finally, finally understood. “You’re what I want. I was so stupid to try to reject it…”

“We both were,” he admitted. “Bulma, our minds were the only ones in chaos. We had been overthinking things-”

“And it conflicted with what we both could already feel,” she cut in. “And what I feel for you… Vegeta…”

She felt her arms begin to burn from her Soulmate Mark, but the sensation was not painful…

On the contrary, the flowing fissures of energy felt invigorating, divine…

And as Vegeta moved closer, taking her face in his palms as his thumbs wiped away the tracks of her tears, Bulma surrendered to the all-encompassing knowledge that, gods and tattoos aside, this man was the man for her.

Her hands clutched at his arms as she trembled, as she felt his own body shake in response to her nearness, and compelled by the beauty of his lips, the depth of his eyes, she moved closer to him as he too reached down to clutch her against him.

Their lips met, his caress but a soft touch that felt like clouds upon her mouth, and Bulma closed her eyes with an eager moan as she felt him hold her tighter. His powerful hands felt sure, secure against her back as he pulled her to him, his mouth devouring her while she luxuriated in his warmth.

It was as if his kiss had filled her with light, as Bulma felt glorious in his arms, the shivers running through her pulling goosebumps beneath her skin.

Vegeta groaned, and she gasped as he deepened their connection, as he held her even tighter, and Bulma didn’t even consider resisting when he pushed her down to lay upon her couch.

His backpack on the floor was later joined by his shirt, her thin sleeping gown…

As they gave in to their hearts, to the songs of love ringing in their souls, the rhythm of their pulsing hearts serenaded them as they slowly, gently made love until the early morning light began to filter through her windows.

And when they woke up after their night of passion, both looked down upon their Soulmate Marks, smiling at each other as they realized that the leaves on the tattoos had come back to life, with flowers that were now in resplendently full bloom.

8-8-8-8-8

To be continued…

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[dammitadolfnomorecake]

🏰⚔️ DMODT- 9 start... do I keep writing this? Is it ok? I don't know anymore

Levi was preparing for bed when he noticed something wrong. It started with a fear that filled his stomach, then progressed to pain in his hands. Dropping his blankets, he cried out in surprise as long thick wounds appeared in his palms "Erwin?" Turning from his bed, he raised his hands to show Erwin. Rushing to him, Erwin took his hands, as Levi sank down on the edge of the bed "What happened?" "I don't know... It's freezing" It felt as if his whole body had plunged into a frozen lake. Shivering, he only seemed to grow colder "We need a healer!" Opening his mouth to contradict Erwin, Levi choked. Coughing and hacking hard, something seemed to be lodged in his throat. Pulling his hand from Erwin's, he shoved his fingers down his throat, trying to catch the edge of whatever was there "We needed a healer in here!" His whole frame heaved as he finally caught the forgein object, coughing as he pulled it from his throat, lubricated as he vomited. Across from them, there was a flurry of movement. Erwin grabbing whatever was in his hand as the royal healers rushed to his side. Fussed over, the healers couldn't tell him what was wrong with him. His hands were healed by magic, but the chill wouldn't leave. Bundled up in thick furs, he was finally left to rest in peace when he started snapping over how shitty he felt. If someone had wanted to kill him, wasn't there a nicer way to do so? Like a simple sword to heart? Or a good old fashioned decapitation? Not freezing him and choking him to death, like a goddamn coward. Sitting up on his bed, he glared at Erwin. The man was supposed to be his bodyguard... and he hadn't stopped whatever attack this was from happening, instead the man had backed off and had been staring at his hand rather intently for the past hour. Coughing, his chest hurt from effort. His voice a rasp "What the hell are you looking at?" Holding up the diamond shaped object, it was about an inch long, and as thin as hair. Sparkling in the light, he could make out the colour green "What is it?" "A dragon scale" Why the fuck would he be coughing up dragon scales?! How the hell did that even happen?! Eren... They'd only encountered one dragon, and the damn thing had been dead "That little shit. I'm going to fucking kill him" "L-Erwin. What do you mean?" Dragging himself out of bed, he shuffled over to snatch the scale out of Erwin's hold. The sharp edges of the scale cut into his palm. His scent filling with anger as growled "First Eren's playing with a dead dragon, now I'm coughing up a dragon scale! I'm going to kill him" "We don't know..." "Oh come off it. There's something wrong with him! This stinks of him and his fucked up fucking magic!" Dissolving into coughs, Erwin rose from his bed, lifting him like he was a child and carrying him back over to his bed "We don't know this was Eren. Zeke has his own mages" "You think Zeke tried to kill me?" "Or a spell went wrong?" "It's a dragon scale!" "Keep your voice down. It's suspicious enough that Zeke didn't come to see what the noise was about" "This is clearly Eren getting his revenge for being sent away" His throat hurt like a bitch "Do you really think he's so vindictive?" "He's gone and I'm coughing up a fucking scale" "Stop saying "fucking". It makes it hard to have a civilised conversation" "Some body guard you are. The brat tried to kill me" "You may be a tremendous arsehole, but I doubt Eren would try to kill you. He took his vows to the kingdom, and for him to against your word is to go against the kingdom. Which would cost him his life. No. I think there's something more than that. We should cut the hunt short and head back to the castle as soon as possible" "And how do you intend to pull Prince Zeke from his hunt? No. Our healers won't mention this, and the hunt shall continue as if nothing happened. We'll watch and wait... if Eren thinks I'm dying from one shit scale, the kid has another thing coming" Erwin sighed heavily "You're not going to budge, are you?" "Would you? If this is Zeke, he may well have formed a plan to kill me. If this is Eren, I won't give him the satisfaction of me ending the hunt" "You're a thoroughly unpleasant man" "I am your prince. You will do this" "Fine. But I still don't think Eren is responsible" "For his sake, he better not be" The hunt continued another three days before Zeke declared he was bored with the lack of game. The alpha had enquired after his health the morning after his choking incident, which he had played down as his bodyguard completely over reacting after he'd accidentally caught his hand on his sword. The alpha had laughed at him, and mocked him over his "boo boo", but didn't seem to have been involved. In a lot of ways Zeke was a brilliant actor, yet his surprise seemed genuine enough, reinforcing his belief that Eren was involved. The kid was in for a major arse kicking once he got back to the castle. * The castle was still standing when they returned. Hanji and Moblit were waiting to greet them, along with one of the mages of the castle. He wasn't in the mood to deal with anything that wasn't a hot cup of tea, or a warm soapy bath, but Hanji wouldn't even allow him that. Climbing off his horse, she was lead away before he could even protest. Hanji waiting until he moved towards the castle doors, before falling into step with him "We have a situation" "I gathered by your greeting. What happened?" "Moblit and Eren were attacked" "Of course they were. No offence Moblit, but Eren is trouble" "It wasn't Eren's fault. There were bandits near Shinganshima" Levi came to a stop. Hanji may be in control when both he and Erwin were absent from the castle, and she knew she was supposed to report shit like that immediately. Beside her, Moblit looked pained. An arm wrapped around his waist as he looked to his feet "If bandits were an issue, why have I heard nothing?" "Because they were taken care of. Moblit was there" "Moblit, speak" The man cleared his throat "We were attacked in the inner walls, passing near Shinganshima on our way back to the castle. Archers felled the first soldier, the other two fighting while filled with arrows. Eren was hiding under the cart when he was pulled free..." Moblit looked to Hanji, then over to Zeke and his party "Is this something we should be discussing inside?" "Most definitely" "Talk while we walk. I need a hot shower" Hanji and Moblit kept their silence until they entered Levi's chambers. The sheets and blankets had been freshly changed, while a warm fire burned in the hearth "Now. Explain this attack. And Eren's part" "Eren killed them all" Hanji covered her mouth as if it took back her outburst. Groaning, Levi could feel an Eren induced headache forming "How? Why? What happened to the soldiers?" "All three died. One giving his life to push Eren out the way. I'd left to relieve myself, they'd attacked in my absences. Eren and the group were exchanging words... but they refused to heed his warning to leave him alone" "Moblit, you're starting to sound like Hanji. What did Eren do?" "He turned them to stone. The man who seemed to be the leader pointed his blade at him. Eren wrapped his hands around it, then the world shaked. The sky turned red as wind built around him..." "So he used his magic to turn them stone?" "He doesn't remember doing so, but there was something more to it. I'm not a magic user, but even I felt the sinister presence in his magic" "Sinister?" "His eyes glowed black. It was the dead of night, yet it was as clear as day. His eyes grew black as his body seemed to flicker for a moment. When the spell faded, the bandits were stone" Levi sighed, moving his hands to massage at his temples with his fingers "And you?" "Copped a blast of what seemed to be wind magic as I tried to move closer to Eren. It is nothing more than an uncomfortable bruise" "That's good. It was smart of you not to make yourself known" Hanji nodded, starting excitedly "We have the statues moved here, and Levi, it's the most incredible thing. Their whole bodies are stone. Their clothes. Their weapons. Their boots and belts. They all look as if they were carved from stone" "And the no longer live?" "Definitely not" "How can you be so sure?" "One lost its head during transport. That's how we know the inside is also stone" Eren certainly didn't do things in moderation "And where is Eren?" "He's locked himself in his quarters and won't come out" Levi closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Holding it, he counted to three before releasing it "Why?" "Because he's scared of his magic. He knows I'm not his actual master, and begged to be locked away where he couldn't hurt any one" "And you did?" "He was quite agitated. His magic kept flaring and he was hurting himself" "How? Was it sparks of fire again?" "It started as spinning winds slicing at his arms... but..." Hanji sucked her lips in, trying to school her features "Spit it out" Letting out a snorting laugh, Hanji was all smiles "He accidentally created a thunderstorm that hovered over his head and small bolts kept zapping him. It was hilarious" "It was only hilarious until Eren accident zapped her with it" "Well, duh. It's not like I want him to be hurt, but it was his own personal storm" Levi had a fair idea of what that was like. He'd seen it when mounting the teen, the way the storm had appeared from nothing, and the way the lightening strikes had flared out across the room "Moblit, when did this happen?" "The night we left camp. He passed out on the way back to the castle. I'll never forget how cold he was" Cursing under his breath, he straightened himself up "I'll need the report delivered to me. And not a word of this to Marley. Did you send a dragon to Draecia?" "Yes, sir. They sent a falcon thanking us, and have collected the skull and diamonds" They did? They'd been right there in the forest, yet he hadn't seen any dragons or heard anything out of the ordinary... "Did they say anything?" "No. I still can't believe there was a dragon corpse that far south" "You and me both, Moblit" Moblit was the only one he trusted to send a message through to Draecia. If they hadn't said anything, then nothing had been missing from the remains. Erwin had been right. He'd been too hard on Eren without knowing what happened "You're both dismissed. Leave Eren where he is for now. If his magic is out of control, it's better he can't unleash it on the castle, or its inhabitants" "Levi, what are you going to do? He needs a real master to draw out his powers. This isn't working" "I'll think of something... right now, I wish to bathe. Our tents might be expanded with magic, and have basic facilities, but nothing compared to clean bath and bathroom" Bathing until his skin had turned pruney, Levi loved the feeling of being clean. What he didn't love was knowing he'd have to face Eren. He didn't see why the teen would be so upset over the death of trash. Erwin wasn't waiting for him when he left his room, so Levi was left to walk through the castle alone, ignoring the maids and servants that bowed as he passed. He might have been playing the prince for over a decade, but he still didn't enjoy people bowing at him, or addressing him as "sir". It wasn't until he was on the servants side of the castle, that he realised he couldn't actually remember where Eren's room was, with one hundred percent certainty, and as the prince he wasn't about to suffer through a bout of embarrassment for choosing the wrong room. Every shitty hallway looked the same with its smooth stone walls and red carpets. If he wasn't so pissed off at the omega, he might have been able to stop and take breath, then realise he wasn't even on the same floor as the teen. Where was Shitty Sir Fluffybrows when he needed him? Closing his eyes, it slowly dawned on him, he was supposed to have a bond with Eren... which meant he should be able to find the kid... what else was this stupid bond useful for? Right. Now... Eren. It was weird and uncomfortable, Levi standing in the hallway long enough to fell well and truly stupid as he tried to concentrate on the kid. There was a slight tingling in his nape, a cold feeling in his chest and whole lot of no idea where he was going as he took his first step back down the hall. Letting the tight self control he had slip was hard, as was ignoring his instincts to follow something that seemed so stupid to him. After another dozen set of halls, and a set of stairs down, he finally found himself out the omegas door. The tingling had spread to a warmth, though his lungs still seemed as if someone had shovelled ice cubes down his throat. Knocking on Eren's door, he raised himself to stand taller, to play the role of the prince he was supposed to be. When the omega didn't answer, Levi sighed to himself as he tried the door handle, finding it locked as Hanji had said "Open up!" He could feel Eren on the other side of the door. He knew the brat could hear him "Eren, open this door at once! Or I'll kick it down" Trying the handle again, this time it gave. The shit could have at least opened it. Opening Eren's door, he let himself into the dark room, before closing the door behind him. Sitting in the frame of his window, Eren was wrapped in a thin blanket. The kid staring out across the castle grounds, as he pointedly ignored looking Levi's way. Filled with discomfort, his alpha was demanding the attention of the omega "I heard about the attack. You have my thanks for saving the life of Moblit" That sounded princely enough, didn't it? "Eren, I hear you've locked yourself away. Why?" Looking to him, Eren's eyes were blank. The kid looked deathly ill, with such a pale complexion and deep bags under his eyes "If you are ill, why..." "I don't care anymore" Sliding from the window frame, Eren sagged. Rushing to him, Eren swung out before he could him "Eren..." "No. I'm a magic user without a master. I killed those men... That wasn't what I came here to do" "So you're throwing a tantrum?" "I figured it out... it must have been fun..." Coughing, Levi could smell the blood in the air as Eren covered his mouth with a wrapped hand, the bandages a dirty creamed, striped with way too much brown-red. The omega was seriously ill... why hadn't anyone noticed? Why hadn't Eren tried to help himself? "Why! Why do you hate me?! I never hurt you... you took it all away... why couldn't you let me die?" As Eren's eyes rolled back, Levi hefted him into his hold.

[a--world--apart--fic]

A World Apart - Chapter Two

Notes: We’ll now be posting a new chapter every Friday! This one a bit on the shorter side, but rest assured we’ve got lots of exciting long chapters on the way. There is a cut, also tagged long post for mobile users.

Rating: Later chapters will be NSFW and will be tagged as such.

Word Count: 2179

Musical Accompaniment: Dreams - Fleetwood Mac

Tag List: @writtenbycandy, @hopefulmoonobject, @heatherfilliez, @theroyalweisme, @indiacater, @tmarie82, @enmchoices, @the-everlasting-dream, @diamond-dreamland, @lizeboredom, @drakewalkerwhipped, @youwontlikewherewewillgo, @mfackenthal, @kingliamthirst, @snyggflicka, @debramcg1106, @choicessa, @drakelover78, @starstruckzonkoperatorbat@blackcatkita, @drakewalkerfantasy, @jadedpixiescribbles​, @walkerismychoice, @walkerduchess​, @hamulau​, @simplyaiden-blog​, @hhiggs

Chapter Two ~ Castle of Glass March 1914

"Some distressing news has come to my attention, my lords. I would not trouble you, but until the girls are found, we must ask everyone for their whereabouts." Liam swirls the glass of wine in his hands, looking solemn. "Tell no one, but this morning the queen's personal maid, Miss Walker, was found missing from her bed, as was one of the housemaids, Miss James. We think they have..." but he seems unable to say more.


Bertrand rolls his eyes. "And why should we care for a pair of maids, your majesty? Pardon my crassness, but no doubt you'll find the wenches abed with their lovers, having forgot the hour." 


Liam visibly clenches his jaw at Bertrand's disdainful tone. "Be that as it may, Duke Ramsford, we must still keep up the appearance of concern. After all, we are not monsters."



"Check the river, then. Perhaps little Miss Walker made eyes at Lord Rashad -- err, at another lady's lover -- one too many times and found herself... disposed of." To the others, he may appear cruelly dismissive, but Maxwell's brother has a distinct tell when he is hiding something. And no one else would know it, but a brother. If Maxwell had been paying attention, he would have seen it, that slight twitch as Bertrand appears to adjust his cufflinks, looking aside. But instead, he is stricken, rooted to the spot by Liam's words. 


Maxwell feels as though he is falling, as though the world he has always known has tipped off its axis, and it goes spinning away without him. Liam passes him a drink, concern in his dark blue eyes, and Maxwell looks up. Liam's mouth forms words, but Maxwell does not hear them. He is remembering the day before, and all the things he had wanted to tell a pretty girl with such sadness in her dove gray eyes.



•••



Maxwell's palms are sweating, and he wipes them down the sides of his trousers. The door to the office opens and a harried clerk in a red uniform with ornamental gold braid steps out, laden with a stack of files. He sees Maxwell waiting on the bench and sniffs, nose in the air.



"He'll see you now...my lord?" The clerk's tone is anything but deferential. He's looking Maxwell up and down with an expression of mingled disapproval and faint surprise. Maxwell deflates a little. 


He knows he doesn't look anything like the typical young man about to buy his first commission. He's chubby, he's nervous, and he has all the expectations of the paterfamilias to make something of himself, to do House Beaumont proud. If he should fail, he will remain nothing but a joke, a figure of fun, the court jester. He could travel, but where would he go? They are already strapped for coin, and once Bertrand weds the Lady Penelope, Maxwell has no doubt his brother's hands will tighten on the purse strings even more, for though the lady's dowry is for an ungodly amount of money, Bertrand seeks to raise his own prestige, and what better way to do it than to cut his own profligate brother off at the knees? 


"Ah! Lord Maxwell! To what do I owe this pleasure?" Lord Rashad looks tired, with bags under his eyes, but he does not show it. He reaches into his desk, pulls out a bottle of apple brandy, and pours them both a snifter. "I hope it is an invitation to this year's Beaumont Ball!" Rashad takes a sip of his brandy with relish, rising from the desk and signalling Maxwell to join him in the ornate chairs facing the window. Rashad sinks down in a gilt, plush chair, propping his polished black boots up on the windowsill with a sigh of pleasure. "Last year was a party for the ages, wouldn't you agree? I found the addition of those traveling circus performers an ingenious idea. It must have been yours." Rashad's eyes gleam at the memory.

"If I remember correctly, your brother the duke couldn't keep his eyes off that delectable little tightrope walker! She had legs that could go on for days! Please tell me you buried your face in that amazing bosom of hers -- would have done it myself, but my lady is a jealous one." He winks, raising his brandy glass to Maxwell's. It is an open secret in the highest circles that Lord Rashad is lover to the queen. "It was a night that shall go down in the annals of history. Even with the infamous elephant escapade. Now," Rashad sits up, crossing an ankle over one knee. "Tell me why you have come."



Maxwell opens his mouth and closes it. "I, um, I... That is..." he knocks back a sip of liquid courage and looks Rashad square in the eye. "I wish to purchase a commission in the Cavalry." 


"A commission!" Rashad straightens up, studying Maxwell appraisingly. "In the Royal Horse Guard, or the regular Cavalry? For I warn you, it's not all sitting on horses and waving at pretty maidens." He winks again. "Though that is a perk." If the queen should ever catch any pretty maiden making eyes at Lord Rashad, Maxwell thinks, she will tear those eyes from her sockets. The captain cuts quite a dashing figure on that black steed of his, Lucifer, and even Maxwell himself can admit that Lord Rashad is strikingly handsome, with his black hair and expressive dark eyes, like some desert prince out of an old tale. 


Maxwell straightens up. "Yes, a lieutenant's commission, in the Royal Horse Guard." He can think of one pretty maid he would not mind waving at. 


"Lieutenant? I think you should perhaps start at Ensign, Lord Maxwell, and see how you fare." Rashad rubs his goatee thoughtfully. "It's not all parades and holidays. The cavalry does train quite strenuously." He eyes Maxwell's protruding stomach, and Maxwell squirms uncomfortably under his gaze. "What brought this fancy on?"



Maxwell thinks of a pair of smoky eyes, almond shaped and thickly lashed. Almost unconsciously, his hand goes to the peacock button in his pocket, and he rubs it for luck with his thumb. "I wish to make something of myself." 


Rashad nods. "A second son's place is always a precarious position, is it not? Very well." He rises, shaking Maxwell's hand. "Lord Maxwell, welcome to the Royal Horse Guard, and the Imperial Cordonian Cavalry."



•••



"Maxwell!" Bertrand is shaking him "Quit your daydreaming! Do not embarrass me, little brother," he hisses. "You of all people know how our fortune hinges on this alliance. First, you seek to bankrupt me by purchasing that foolish commission -- thirty thousand francs! As if we had ready coin lying around, to throw at any mad whim that takes our fancy! The Royal Horse Guard," he grumbles. "Next you'll want to buy an elephant!"



A guard enters the room, striding up to Liam and whispering in his ear. Liam turns a grave face to his gathered confidantes, his most trusted inner circle. "It's as we feared. Miss Walker and Miss James have fled the palace with my queen's best ermine cloak and a jeweled music box."

Liam’s face is pale, and Maxwell sees a wavering in his friend, as though he's struggling to hold himself up. He would normally think it odd, but he's wavering himself, struggling to hold onto this new thread of harsh reality, trapping him in the warp and weft.


Maxwell feels sick to his stomach. Something about this is very wrong. "She wouldn't -" he starts to protest, but a glare from Bertrand silences him. She wouldn't do that. Not Savannah...



"If they return to the palace, they will be dealt with severely." Liam looks as though he hates himself for those words. He has never been the same since he was forced to marry the woman he despised, so soon after the death of the old king and the abrupt abdication of his older brother.



It is known in certain upper echelons of the court that the Blood King died in the bed of his mistress during the act. That had threatened to be the scandal of the century, for the American woman, Katie, had fled from the palace with the Crown Prince himself. Liam and Madeleine had been forced wed quickly, and Liam has borne the heavy burden of the crown ever since. 


"Very good, my liege," Bertrand chuckles heartily. "Maxwell?"



She's gone. Vanna is gone. The words strike Maxwell Beaumont straight to the heart, and he stares at his reflection in Bertrand's eyes, not liking what he sees. If only he had said something. If only. And now she is gone, and he will never know what became of her.

Never. She will only be a footnote in what could be the most foolish mistake of his life, or the making of him. His lucky charm. 


And she will never know, from now until the end of time, all that lies between them, forever unspoken. 


•••


The money lasts her barely two weeks before it runs out. Sixty francs, half than the lowest servant at the palace makes in a year (her own brother makes nearly twelve hundred per annum as head of the royal stables). But then, Savannah has never had a head for numbers like Drake. Simply put, she has never needed to. Everything is provided to her: room and board, and Madeleine's cast off gowns, tailored in Savannah's own, more humble style. Everything she needs, yes -- but what she desires?



Ah, Savannah has always had lofty desires. Had. Past tense, now, stolen from her in that one unguarded moment in the palace library, when she'd been dazzled by a cultured accent and false flattery. When she'd still thought that at the end she would be called my lady, and wed above her station. 


When she still believed in fairytales.



•••



At the border, they take a third of her coin as a bribe for traveling on without papers, though the head guard looks her up and down lasciviously and slyly hints she can cross for free if she is willing to lie on her back for five minutes and let him take her. Savannah refuses. She has her pride, after all, if nothing else. 


After the pickpocket in Nice, she sews the remainder of Beaumont's coin into the lining of her skirts, flinching as she remembers his cultured voice, raised in anger. Take it from me, then, and get you gone from my sight. I'll not have rumors of this indiscretion make it back to my intended bride, do you hear me? Sixty francs you'll cost me, and I call it your dower... As though any man would take you now, as you are. 


But I thought... She had choked out, trying to grasp his sleeve, and there was such a look in his eye that Savannah shrank back. 


You thought wrong.



To her shame, she goes to see a midwife in the slums of Avignon upon her arrival in that city, and begs for herbs to help abort the pregnancy. But in the end, she cannot go through with it. 


It isn't terror, or a fear of hell that stays her hand, in the end. 


(Even if she is terrified.)



Instead, as she walks down the road that leads out of that city, she reaches into the pocket of the traveling cloak and discovers that there is something snagged in the lining. When Savannah pulls it out, she finds a tiny silver charm, as though from a bracelet. A little Eiffel Tower. Paris. And she thinks back, to when she was yet a young girl, playing in the meadow where the wind sang of freedom, freedom, freedom beyond the palace gates; how she would lie on her back, watching the clouds, and dream of the day that she would one day become a princess of some far off land, yet unknown. 


She dreamed for her brother there too, dreamed that he would one day have his own dreams, and give her the sister she so deeply yearned for, someone to share his joys and sorrows with, a hand for Savannah to hold in friendship when times got too rough to be borne.



But when those times came, Savannah had never felt more alone. 


The meadow gave her a sister, and it gave her brother a dream. And yet it is Savannah who is alone on the road to Paris, while instead Sophia became a princess of a sort, in that far off country, lost to her now. And Drake, oh -- Drake would endure the yoke of servitude forever, if it meant he could spend just one more yearning moment in Sophia's company. 


Paris. The word settles into her thoughts like a lodestar, and Savannah stares at the little charm in wonder. Then she takes the packet of herbs, and flings it from her, as far as it will go. And she walks on, due north, the memory of the palace fading in the twilight like a dream of yesterday.