#I think this missive he sends me is supposed to come before all of that but it only appears if you start the dornogol stuff??

[sigurdjarlson]

I think Khadgar is pranking me

Bro keeps telling me to go to Dalaran and talk to him but he’s not there whenever I go :c

It’s funny tho I get the same missive every time I log in and I’ll go look because maybe they fixed it but nah

[wri0thesley]

gift wrap - wriothesley x reader (2.7k)

you're just so excited to show wriothesley your newest purchase - but the duke can't help but think it would look better on the floor.

cw: not sfw, minors dni. reader is afab and wears a dress, corset, stockings, etc, but no gendered terms are used. reader is implied to be chubby. soft dom wriothesley, pet names 'sweetheart, pretty baby'. reader keeps calling wriothesley 'your grace'.

“Do you like it?” You twirl in front of Wriothesley, making sure that the full dramatic effect of your new gown is not lost; that Wriothesley is able to see every ruffle, every carefully embroidered rainbow rose, every neatly tied bow. It’s a complicated confection of a dress, and you had delighted in sending missives to the dressmaker with every new idea you’d had, your measurements carefully taken by the Duke himself--

(“Tighter!” You’d urged, the tape measure around your waist. Wriothesley had huffed out a noise that might be fondness and might be exhaustion. 

“You’re not going to be able to breathe in it,” he’d said, but he’d pulled the tape more snugly even so. 

“I’ve got a new corset coming,” you’d told him. “And you’re not going to complain about it showing off all of my assets, are you?”

Wriothesley had paused. 

“ . . . No,” he’d said, and he’d shown you the number on the tape for you to rush off and scribble down before it went out of your head). 

“So,” you urge him, coming to a stop in front of him and striking a pose you hope is effective. You certainly feel good in it; the new corset underneath, and the new chemise (silk and trimmed with exquisite lace) and the new stockings and new shoes all working together to make you feel like the most exquisite flower in the garden - not that such a thing is hard, in the Fortress of Meropide. “Do you like it?”

Wriothesley rests his chin on his hand behind his desk and motions you over with the other, beckoning you to come closer. You eagerly follow instruction, and he reaches out and tweaks one of your ribbons, his expression not changing. 

“So this is what you’re spending my Mora on?” He asks you. You pout at him, and the tension breaks - he lets out a gruff bark of laughter. “Yes, yes, sweetheart. I like it plenty.” 

You beam at him, and he shakes his head, an expression as familiar to you as your own hands playing across his face - an attempt to be tough and maintain his reputation, tempered with his inability to say no to you and his tendency to break whenever you exert the slightest bit of pressure on him. Nobody else could say that they have the Duke of the Fortress wrapped around their finger the way you do. 

“It’s not the only new thing that arrived in the mail room for me today!” You chirp at him, and his eyes go dark as he remembers you chattering idly in bed next to him about all of the other fripperies and fancies you were having made. 

Nobody would accuse Wriothesley, normally, of excess in anything but the amount and variety of teas that he orders for himself. Unfortunately, when it’s you beside him, fluttering lashes and sighing and pouting and saying “Your Grace, please” . . . he has a lot of willpower, but he’s not made of stone. 

“I take it back,” Wriothesley says, taking a sip of the fragrant tea resting on his desk. It’s supposed to calm him before bed, but he’s no longer feeling sleepy at all - not with the promise of what might be beneath your gown calling to him. “I’d like it much, much more if it were on the floor.”

“I only just put it on--” You say to him, teasing, batting your lashes - and Wriothesley places the teacup down and puts his fists upon his desk. That dark cast in his eye does not abate, and he uses a voice that means business when he opens his mouth again; 

“Now.” 

You know what that tone means. You take a shuddering breath, and then say to him, your own voice wavering;

“I’ll need your help. Sigewinne helped me put it on . . .” As you speak, you turn slowly, showing the row of buttons down your back - they’re helped along by both ribbon lacing and hooks and eyes, and you can practically feel Wriothesley’s displeasure emanating off of him as he surveys them. 

“Blasted thing,” he grumbles to himself, and you hear the heavy footfall of his boots as he stands up and comes around the desk to be closer to you. You gasp as strong, work-roughened hands grab you by the indent of your waist and haul you bodily closer to him. “Why make this so complicated?” 

Despite his grumblings, his fingertips are tender as he undoes the first hook and begins to work on the small satin-covered buttons.

“I ought to just rip it off you,” he breathes into your ear, breath hot against your neck. “Save me all of the trouble.”

“I just bought it,” you repeat, helplessly, as the Duke deftly reaches the lacing at your hips, and you feel the gown fall from your shoulders. His lips press against the nape of your neck. “Th-that would definitely be a waste of Mora--”

“Anything that ends with you naked,” Wriothesley murmurs, “is not a waste of anything.”

“Your Grace--”

He chuckles roughly at the title, hand reaching around to pull your face towards him. Standing there in chemise and corset and stockings and heels, aware that you would be most embarrassed were anyone to walk into Wriothesley’s office looking for an audience with him, you are nevertheless helpless to do anything but let your lover draw you into a kiss as deep and hungry as there’s ever been. 

Teeth dig into your bottom lip and you whine into his mouth, as Wriothesley’s calloused hands trace the shape of you. Where the corset makes your waist smaller, your hips all the rounder, the swell of your chest as ripe and heaving as it can be. 

“You know,” he breaks the kiss to say to you, his voice dropping semitones with every syllable, his throat clogged with want. “I’m a simple man. I don’t need my gifts to be in fancy wrapping or anything; you could walk in here in brown paper and string and I would devour you just as eagerly . . . But,” and he cracks a grin, his teeth bright and sharp and wolfish. “Well. This makes a man re-evaluate.”

He squeezes the globe of your ass through your chemise and you whine, your hands coming up to rest on his chest, fingertips curling about the lapels of his waistcoat. 

“Still,” he slides his hands up, and deftly, without even looking - like a master criminal, a master thief - you feel your corset lacings loosen, and then the beautifully embroidered garment is falling from you too and you feel your chest, freed from the stricture of the corset, spill forward to fill out your chemise. “It’s hard not to prefer you . . . au naturel. You don’t need the ornamentation, sweetheart. You’re the nicest thing to look at down here for miles. In fact, every time I catch one of the inmates looking at you I wanna punch them out myself.”

“I like it,” you whisper, helplessly, because your stomach is rolling pleasantly and your head has gone light and fluffy like cotton wool, egged on by the palpable lust in the Duke’s voice as he slowly strips you of your accoutrements. “I know I don’t . . . need to . . . for you . . .”

Wriothesley’s fingers on your chin, smile on his face as he kisses you again, gentler this time. 

“As long as you know,” he murmurs, sweet as honey. “The day I don’t want to throw you over my desk and fuck your pretty little brains out the minute I see you, call the Chief Justice and have the idiot tried and incarcerated for impersonation.” 

He does this, sometimes; says the most vulgar things whilst sitting in his luxurious office, his title obvious in his regal bearing - and every time, it does not fail to make you wet. 

“This, though . . .” He tugs at the lace hem of the chemise; the fabric clings to you, the true shape of your body without any need for whalebone and ribbons. “Ooh, I daresay you can keep this on.” 

“What are you going to do to me, Your Grace?” You ask him, your heart pounding in your ears - or perhaps between your thighs. You feel a little too out of sorts to locate it properly. 

He answers by lifting you up, uncaring of how much you weigh - all of that time in the Pankration ring has made it so you barely ever see him break a sweat, regardless of what he’s doing. The only time you’ve ever really seen him sweating, he’s been above you, eyes fever bright, hips pistoning in and out of you, veins prominent on his scarred forearms as he caged you beneath him. You find yourself deposited onto the edge of his desk, and then Wriothesley is fumbling with his trousers and slotting himself between your thighs. 

“Another time,” he says to you, in between rough kisses and bites to your lower lip, your earlobe, your throat. “I’d take my time with you, sweetheart. Get on my knees, use my tongue on you until you’re nice and wet and trembling . . . Really taste you. But . . . Ah.” He heaves a wistful sigh. One of his fingers slides into the top of your stocking, twanging it against the fullness of your thigh where it pinches just enough to drive him wild. “S’taken me too long to get you out of all of that nonsense, and now . . . well, I’m only flesh and blood.”

You gasp out his name as you feel something slap against your thigh, slick and hard and hot. You can feel his shaft pulsing even now, and you let your eyes drift down to see Wriothesley’s impressive length in his fist, tip flushed purple-red with want, a bead of silvery precome dripping onto your new stockings. 

His other hand carefully drags the strap of your chemise down, urging you to shrug it off your top half - and then your chest is free, your nipples hardening in the cool air, the soft bounce of them being unrestrained making Wriothesley unconsciously lick his lips.

He’s still fully clothed, but for his cock, and the knowledge of just how exposed you are - thighs spread wide to allow him space between them, chemise pushed down to below your breasts and up to above your hips. Anyone who walked in on you right now would see how shameless you’re being for the Duke of the Fortress, and you could not care less. 

“At least you’re well-behaved,” Wriothesley grunts, pinching your nipple with one hand - the shock goes through you, straight to your cunt. “You’re wet, sweetheart. Ah. You want me to fuck you?” 

“Yes,” your voice comes out a soft little whine. You can’t think straight; his cock slaps against the outside of your cunt, your slick mingling with his precome, the head barely brushing your clit. 

“Can’t hear you,” he says, smiling down at you. “These old pipes get loud this time of night, y’know. Downside to the whole underwater fortress thing.” The calloused palm travels over your breast, over your collarbone, brushing your throat with the lightest of touches until he’s gripping your jaw firmly in his hand. His thumb brushes over your lips, gently pressing down on the lower one until your mouth opens for him. 

Your tongue shyly probes at his thumb, and you see a spot of colour high on his cheeks. 

“Say it again,” he says, though from the crack in his voice you can tell it’s taking all of his self-control to wait. Through the thumb in your mouth, you say to him, all want and need and soft panting;

“Please fuck me, Your Grace.”

“Good,” Wriothesley praises you - and then, he presses his hips forward and his cock catches on your opening and you lose the ability to do anything but let him push forward, opening you up. 

The hand formerly on his cock comes to grip onto your hip in order to act as leverage. Your eyes roll back into your head, your lips closing about his thumb so you can suckle on it as a distraction to the sting of being opened wider than your body thinks it can handle. It’s an almost-sting, not-quite-burn - Wriothesley’s thick length almost too much for you to bear, bullying itself inside of you and almost making the channel of your cunt mould to the shape of his. His tip bullies further and further into you, and he grits his teeth and lets a low guttural groan fall from his mouth. 

“Shit,” he grunts. “Always forget how tight you are. Ought to fuck you more.”

He spends every night inside of you that he can, and plenty of lunchtimes and ‘afternoon tea breaks’ too - but you’re not sure Wriothesley could be satisfied even if he had nothing to do all day but fuck you. His stamina is something to be marvelled at. You’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve been beneath him, whimpering out as he filled you with another round of his come, that you don’t think you can take any more - and every time, Wriothesley has soothed and kissed and cajoled - and every time, you’ve been left so full of his release that you feel it leaking out of your cunt and onto the bed sheets as Wriothesley turns ‘just one more’ into ‘just three more’. 

You wrap your own arms around his neck, fingers tangling into the mass of his hair, and let him set the pace as he always does. 

Thrust comes after fast, hungry thrust - Wriothesley is as merciless in this as he is in all things, though you know from experience he has it in him to be tender, when things get too much. Right now, though, he has no time for tenderness - you helplessly suckle on his thumb, grateful for the distraction, as Wriothesley snarls and grunts and teaches your body to take him with every squelching cant of his hips. You feel your own slick drip down your inner thighs to make a mess of whatever it is you’re perched on, and you hope Wriothesley wasn’t working on any important paperwork when you’d flounced in here to show off your newest wardrobe addition. 

The beautiful dress you’d waited to be delivered lies in a crumpled heap on the floor, though, and it seems far less important right now than the growing ache between your legs - the tension that builds with Wriothesley’s groans. You can’t breathe. You can’t do anything, as Wriothesley notices how you react and shifts his body just so, so that his cock batters against a sensitive spot with every fast-paced thrust he fucks into you. Your fingers twist deep into the hair at the nape of his neck, drool escaping your mouth and trickling down from around Wriothesley’s thumb. 

“You close, sweetheart?” Wriothesley murmurs. “Come on, pretty baby. Are you gonna come for me?”

You nod, dazed, and as Wriothesley presses a kiss to your forehead that’s as tender as his fucking is brutal, you feel your body contract and then explode into a hundred pinpricks of light. It’s a sharp kind of pleasure; an explosion of sensation that starts between your thighs and travels into all of your fingers, all of your toes. Sweat beads on your forehead and you whine out unintelligible drooling noises as your vision goes white in sparks of electricity, your cunt pulsating around Wriothesley’s length as he slows his thrusts just enough to let you crest over the hill of your orgasm. 

When you come back down, aftershocks of pleasure still making you tremble and shudder, Wriothesley’s cock is still inside of you. There’s a twist to his lip, an amused little smile. 

“Good?” He asks you, voice rough. You nod dazedly. “Good. There’s a reward for looking so fucking pretty in everything I buy for you.”

He pauses.

“Now. Are you gonna give me a reward for spending all my hard-earned Mora on you, huh?”

You blink at him, your eyelids syrupy thick. As the final waves of your orgasm ebb away, and your heart slows to a rhythm that no longer worries you, you’re once more made aware of just how hard Wriothesley is inside of you. How his thighs are flexing with want; the mess of his hair, his clothes in disarray. 

You lock your thighs about his waist, pulling him closer in. 

“Of course, Your Grace,” you murmur, your tongue heavy. Wriothesley lets out a chuckle, another kiss bestowed upon your forehead as he murmurs into your hair;

“That’s what I like to hear, sweetheart. How about we order you three new dresses tomorrow?”

[chambersandfogg]

October 2nd, 1923

I’m not entirely certain I like this decade. Granted, we are only three years into it, but if it continues on in the manner it’s been progressing so far, I think it will become one of my least favorite decades. Nothing can truly win out over the terror that was the teens, but I think I far preferred the nineties to now.

I suppose that’s a privilege that comes with my…nature? Predicament? Blessing? Curse? I’m still unsure how to feel about my everlasting life. But having a defined ranking of favorite decades seems a good a use of my unique perspective as any.

All to say, the twenties so far are much too boisterous and loud for my taste. It feels I’m invited to some party or new club every weekend. It’s jarring how much frivolity has overtaken the city and every social circle I’ve become acquainted with in the past few years. This is never quite as obvious as John Fogg’s summer solstice party, which I’ve attended the last two years. It is always nice to see him, I suppose, but I don’t much care for the crowd he runs with.

To be honest, I don’t know how he stands it either. Just last year, the man had some kind of fit when his guests broke an entire tray of champagne coupes. I’ve seen it before in men who have experienced combat: shell shock. John seemed disinclined to discuss it in the following days and then this summer, the party was similarly loud and destructive and he seemed perfectly fine. But it makes my stomach turn—the excess, the thoughtless joy. It isn’t that I resent seeing people amuse themselves, but it seems to be at the expense of remembering what brought us all here. Then again, perhaps it is only me who refuses to forget. Perhaps they’re right to grab happiness however and whenever they can, knowing how fragile it is. But every time I have just a tad too much to drink, I see the faces of the men who died by my poisonous innovations, I see John’s pale, wide-eyed face in his quiet library, a raucous gathering happening just outside the room. I far prefer the quieter days spent at his estate in the days following the solstice, when the two of us can converse openly about our strange lives and enjoy the comfortable companionship that is inherent in sharing a space with someone you know so well.

John has invited me to another fête—a Halloween party of all things. I don’t have plans to go, but I still need to send him my regrets. In fact, I’ll likely be sending him more than that—I know I should share the news that I’m leaving New York. Perhaps I can give him my address in London, but I don’t think I’m going to stay there very long either. For the first time in my life, I’m feeling a real traveler’s bug. I feel cooped up here in the States and if we’re all throwing responsibility and common sense out the window, I may as well do some of that myself and travel the world. It won’t be the quiet company of a friend, but it won’t be the loud and tinny noise of America either. I think it’s time for me to experience something entirely new.

[from the personal diary of C. X. Chambers]

[to read the pre-1917 entries, join Atypical Artists and get access to the archive of 24 entries (5,000+ words), as well as ad-free episodes of Atypical's whole catalogue. to receive future monthly missives straight to your inbox, sign up for free here]

[shivunin]

aaaaand one for Elowen :3 something written by one of the advisors about your OC?

happy writing friend <3

Thank you again for sending all of these in! I've been rather more the tortoise than the hare with them, but we got here in the end c: Thanks, friend!

(Codex Prompts)

A Missive to the Deep Roads

(991 Words | No Warnings)

A letter tucked into a leather belt pouch. The paper was once fine and creamy, but now dirt smudges the surface and there are large splotches of blood on one corner. It is addressed to the Warden-Commander and reads:

My dear Arianwen, 

I do hope that this letter finds you well. This thing you have undertaken is a dangerous task indeed, though I do have my doubts that even an army of ogres could keep you from doing what you’ve set your mind to. 

No doubt you have heard about our troubles here on the surface. Surely you must have heard tales about the sky splitting open, no matter how deep you have delved in the Deep Roads. If matters were any less dire, I might say that it amuses me to think of you being safer below than we are above for once. As matters are very dire indeed, I will instead say only that we need your help. 

I know what you will say, and I know better than most what I am asking of you. The Inquisition is not the sort of organization you might be inclined to trust. For good reason, I suppose. The Chantry has not been the friend to you that it should have been. We both know this to be true.

Our networks, our might, and the faith of those who have pledged themselves to us will not sway you. Let me instead tell you of our Inquisitor and what she has already done. 

Several weeks ago, there was an assassination attempt on your favorite king. Many such attempts have been made before, plenty of them averted by your personal intervention, but this one involved an especially troublesome faction of mages from Tevinter. The Inquisitor sent our people to intervene—and just in time, too, it would seem. To hear him tell it, he was all but frozen solid before our people intervened. I have requested a contingent remain nearby in case there is any more trouble. 

There are many victims of this war between mage and templar, no shortage of bloodshed. Even so,  Lavellan has reached out her hand to the refugees and the downtrodden at every turn. I have watched her haul children from the muck of a ruined street with her own two hands. I have seen her hunt for supplies for the same families even when she was ill or out of sorts.  I have seen her clear the roads for people to move freely again. It is not so light a thing, as you very well know, for people to be able to escape when they are besieged. 

I have known Elowen to sit alone on the hills, the better to watch the pale hares move through the brush. I have watched the wild wolves heed to her call as if listening to a dear friend. I know that she would leave us for the wilderness and the roads if she could. I know that she stays because she feels there is no other choice—rather like somebody else I once knew well, if you will forgive the comparison. 

A teller of tales I may yet be, but I have related only the truth here. You already knew how dire our battles have been. Know, too, that the Inquisition follows one who leads with neither iron fist nor hope of recompense. Know that the woman we follow is worthy of the title in many ways beyond naming. 

Know that Thedas—that Ferelden—still needs you, just as it did all those years ago. If ever there was a time to take up the banner of the Wardens and lead those who remain to a worthy cause, it is now. 

If you will not come, Warden-Commander—and I hold no real expectations that you will—perhaps you will consider committing what resources you can to the fight in the world above. I cannot overstate how much that help is needed. 

Do give my regards to your Antivan beau. I would say that I hope to see the both of you very soon, but I hold no such expectations. Instead, I will say only that I will look for word from you, in whatever form it might come.

Your friend, then and now,

Leliana

A letter, wrapped in several layers of oiled leather and otherwise untouched by the elements: 

Leliana,

You’ve always been good with stories. I’ll give you that. 

I’m too busy to come myself. You know that. However great a mess the surface is right now, I cannot spare a single blade for your fight. I have more pressing things to turn them against at the moment. 

I wish you all the luck I can spare. I’ll throw in a few tokens for good measure, though I am sure you can find better on your own. You always were clever like that. 

You are my friend. It has been many years since I have said so, but it is no less true now than it was then. Be well, Leliana. You are greater than your words, however many of them you insist on tossing in my direction. 

The enclosed is for your Inquisitor. If even half of what you’ve said about her is actually true, I don’t mind her having it. 

Zevran says hello. 

—Wen

P.S. I did not say hello. I said that you will either have a grand tale to tell, Bard, or you will find yourself on the other end of a rather sharp knife. For your sake, I hope that it is the former and not the latter. How dreadfully dull it would be to leave all of this grandeur behind to attend a funeral and seek vengeance. You have no idea how often our adventures are interrupted to do silly things like that. 

Do take care of yourself. There is something here from me as well—have a glass by the fire and think of your good friends, yes? 

—Z

[fandomsnstuff]

One of these days ill post at a reasonable time

@taznovembercelebration

Day 22: silly

Lup's birthday is coming up, and the present from her long distance boyfriend is haunting her in all it's wrapped glory. Doesn't help that her brother thinks her boyfriend is fake.

Read it on AO3

Dearest Apologies

From: barry.j.bluejeans@gmail.com

To: luptaaco@gmail.com

Good morning Lup,

I would like to deeply apologise for being unable to provide you with the goodnight text you were expecting last night.

Turns out, it is unwise to use one's phone above a pot of boiling water when one is easily startled. According to the respectable phone repairman in my local mall, the damage is fixable and the repair will be cheaper than a new phone, but I am without said device until wednesday. In the meantime, I shall send my missives to you by electronic mail of the g variety.

I hope you slept well. I stayed up far too late, as usual. I write to you as I await the energising effects of my coffee.

Have a wonderful day, my darling.

Yours,

Barry

Re: Dearest Apologies

From: luptaaco@gmail.com

To: barry.j.bluejeans@gmail.com

Barry,

I suppose I can forgive you, given the harrowing phone experience you've gone through. I pray for your phone's survival.

I did sleep well, I had many dreams of you. I miss you more every day.

I would scold you for staying up late, but alas, I have done the same. But I suppose I have stronger coffee than you, as I'm already set to face the day.

I received the parcel you sent me. You're far too clever, putting a note on top telling me not to open it until my birthday. You're also a cruel lover for it. You know I adore packages, I long to tear it open and see what's inside. But I adore you, so I shall follow your instructions.

Forever yours,

L

“What're you writing?”

Lup jumps out of her skin as Taako's suddenly standing behind her. “Jesus fucking christ, maybe warn a girl next time?!”

“I made so much noise walking over here.” He grabs her phone from where she dropped it. “What's got you smiling like a fool?”

She snatches the phone back. “Nothing!” She finishes typing her name and sends the email. “It's just a silly thing with Barry.”

Taako groans. “Not this again. Lulu, I'm not stupid.”

Kravitz pokes his head out of the bathroom with a toothbrush in his mouth, “who's Barry?”

Taako gives her a look that says, go on. Lup sighs irritably, “Barry's my boyfriend.”

Kravitz's eyebrows go up. He ducks back into the bathroom, presumably to spit his toothpaste out, then says, “since when do you have a boyfriend?”

“She doesn't,” Taako interjects, “there's no way he's real.”

“He's real! I've shown you pictures! He sent me a birthday present!”

“You one hundred percent just googled pictures of white men and showed me one.” He looks to Kravitz, “she said his name is Barry Bluejeans. Tell me that's not fake.”

“Your name is taco twice.”

“Thank you!” She says. “See, Kravitz thinks my boyfriend is real.”

“Now I didn't say that.” She glares at him and holds up his hands defensively. “I have some followup questions.”

She crosses her arms. “Fine. Shoot.”

“Where does this guy live?”

“Connecticut.”

“On the other side of the country? How the hell did you meet him?”

“Conferences. We've been flirting for years.”

“Years, Krav!” Taako exclaims. “And I never heard a word about him, until a month ago! She went away for a week and came back with a boyfriend.”

Kravitz looks between the two of them, then says, decisively, “he's fake.”

Lup throws her hands up. “I get texts, I get calls, I get emails, I got a package, but he's fake! Sure!”

“I'm just saying it sounds a whole lot like the fake Canadian girlfriend I had in middle school before I knew being gay was an option.”

She pouts up at Taako, “I thought you wanted me to be happy.”

“I do, but this is closer to delusional.”

She sticks her tongue out at him then stands up. “Fine,” she says, marching to her room, “believe what you want, but one of these days you're going to feel real stupid!”

A few days later, her phone lights up with a text.

🐻E👖

> Hello

> I've returned to the modern world

> How are you?

Lup ❤️

> welcome back

> im trying to bully taako into letting me help plan the menu for my birthday party tomorrow, but he won't let me

🐻E👖

> how rude of him

> Are you going out for it?

Lup ❤️

> nah, it's cheaper and honestly more fun to stay in with the crew and be stupid than going out and being stupid

> other people's stupidity can interfere with our

🐻E👖

> I can understand that

> good luck bullying him, I gotta run

> I love you

Lup ❤️

> love you too, bear

> also when can I open my birthday present

🐻E👖

> I'll let you know

Lup ❤️

> mean

🐻E👖

> you'll love it, promise

Lup's birthday party is in full swing. There's lots of finger foods and cake, the games are as unnecessarily competitive as always, and Lup's having a blast. But she can't help but check her phone a little too often. Barry called her last night, and sent her a happy birthday text in the morning, but he said he'd be busy all day and wouldn't be able to talk until later. It's later, and she still hasn't heard. He hasn't even told her that she's allowed to open her gift yet, which has been sitting in her room taunting her for days now. She even shook the small wrapped box, but the faint rattling gave her nothing.

She's halfway through a very intense round of poker when she vaguely registers a knock on the door. She dismisses it, far too focused on watching every microexpression on Kravitz's face. Then she hears Taako say, “well I'll be damned.” He calls to her, “Lup! You've got a visitor!”

Confused, she turns her attention away from the game to the door. All her guests are here. Who else–

She practically knocks over her chair as she scrambles up and tackles Barry in a hug. She kisses him hard and says, “what are you doing here?!”

He laughs. “I wanted to surprise you!” His cheeks are tinged a little pink. “I hope that's okay? I don't want to intrude. I have a hotel room, so I can go if you–”

“No!” She fists her hands in his shirt and pulls him into another kiss. “You're not going anywhere. If anything,” she leans in close and lowers her voice, “you'll take me back to that hotel room later.”

“Yeah– yes. Absolutely.”

“Lulu, you gonna introduce me?” Taako says from behind her.

“Taako,” she extracts herself from Barry's arms and stands next to him, linking their arms together, “this is Barry, my boyfriend whom you and your boyfriend so rudely assumed was fake. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“Glad you're not a figment of my sister's imagination, my man. Come on in, we have hors d'oeuvres.”

Barry slots in seamlessly with the group. It's around a game of Monopoly that he says, “oh, Lup, your gift.”

She perks up, “can I open it now?”

“Yeah, I almost forgot after all the travel.”

She goes and gets it from her room, already tearing into it as she sits back down beside him. She lifts the lid of the box to reveal a folded piece of paper. She takes it out and unfolds it. It's booking confirmations. She turns to him slowly. “Did you book us a trip?”

He's gotten sheepish now. “I did. I thought… you know, you said you'd never really been on a proper tropical vacation, and you wanted to go to an all inclusive one day, and I had the money, and we're together now, so… yeah.”

“Barry, this is… holy shit. The only travel I've ever done is for work conferences.”

“I know. I've wanted to do this for you for a while, but it felt inappropriate as just a work conference friend that you flirt with. It's not until next year, so there's plenty of time to book off work and whatever. Otherwise, it's all taken care of, all you have to do is show up.”

“Thank you,” she breathes, still scanning over the page in her hands. She looks up and across the table, “a fake boyfriend couldn't do this, could he, Taako?”

[acrossthewavesoftime]

Hornblower AND WHO, though? (Or is it Hornblower and what?)

The title is a bit of a place holder as I don't have a proper name for the story yet. The idea was developed together with the wonderful @nordleuchten, who was just as distraught over Bush's death in the novels as I.

But, see, they never recovered any body(-parts) that were identfiably Bush... The story is set in 1824. Hornblower, a national hero, is trying to convince himself that the domestic idyll of having a wife, a son and a vast estate is all a man needs, but secretly suffers from severe nostalgia for his old days at sea.

Then one day, a curious letter arrives...:

Admiral Hornblower Smallbridge, Kent Grande-Bretagne.

My Dear Sir,

It is with some reservation I send to you this missive, for we have not been introduced to another, nor were we ever acquainted in another way, yet I am compelled to write to you following an incident in Le Havre—: at the harbour, I was approached by a sailor, a one-legged fellow who spoke French with an accent. At first, I was certain he would ask me for money, but he did not, though he appeared to be in some state of destitution and quite drunk: “Sir”, he pled with me, “Sir: from your dress, I can tell you are a man of import in this country, and thus beg your aid: I am but a poor sailor, and cannot write, and neither can I go home for the lack of funds that will not even allow me to send a letter: I have four poor sisters at home, and an ailing mother: will you please write to the good Admiral Hornblower of his Britannic Majesty’s Navy for me, with whom I served? He shall remember his old shipmate, and surely aid me, once he knows of my situation. He resides at Smallbridge in Kent, and shall no doubt accept the word of a gentleman such as you are.” I, moved by his speech and the destitution of the man, and no doubt his poor siblings and mother, asked him which name I was to give, but he was gone within an instant, only thanking me greatly, before disappearing from view amongst the alleyways.  

I have long thought on it, not wishing to accost a stranger with what might be but a mere trifle; yet those blue eyes seemed to haunt me until I put my pen to paper, and wrote this letter to you.

I am, etc. Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de La Fayette.

Thinking instantly that the man described can only be Bush (but how did he end up in this situation? He's supposed to be dead after all), Hornblower travels to Le Havre, who indeed finds Bush alive, and rather well; it appears that Bush had been rescued and returned to England by fishermen. Since at the time his demise had already been widely reported, Bush became an asset for the government as a spy, a position Bush only took on because the increased pay offered to him as compared to the Navy meant he could more efficiently care for his mother and sisters.

Bush admits to having tried to lure Hornblower over to France via La Fayette because he needs his help: the British government has received news that several British individuals are planning on kidnapping the Marquis on his way to his tour of the US as part of the 50th anniversary celebrations of American independence.

The people behind the kidnapping are Irish nationalists who intend to stir up trouble between America and Britain by kidnapping La Fayette using a ship sailing under the British flag, their idea being that perhaps Irish nationalism will be received with greater political interest, credence and perhaps even support (especially from France; they have not forgotten 1798 yet) abroad if there is a rift between the US and UK. They also plan on maybe using La Fayette as a hostage to negotiate arms deliveries.

The head of the group of people Bush and Hornblower are up against is Lucy Anne FitzGerald, historically staunchly true to her brother's, the famed Lord Edward FitzGerald's, (political) legacy, who, rather inconveniently for Bush and Hornblower, was married to the Royal Navy captain Thomas Foley, so the threat is sort-of coming from within.

They are joined on their mission by Hornblower's son Richard, who has followed his famous, but largely absent, father as a stowaway.

The people Hornblower perceives as antagonists are not meant to be portrayed in a negative way, on the contrary; Hornblower and Bush are set up against people with good intentions and reasons Hornblower might, in other circumstances even understand or even sympathise with to a certain extent.

I always found that Hornblower's antagonists are a tad shallow, from Barry McCool to the infamous "Wolfe" of the TV series, I thought the topic of 1798, or the fight for Irish independence could be dealt with with much greater nuance.

And, I think it would be interesting to set the oh-so-moral and correct Hornblower up against (gasp!) a lady.

While I have the faint outlinings of an ending in mind, I haven't fully planned it yet; the idea is however that there isn't a clear triumph or victory for one or the other side; the journey is what matters, a journey on which the newly resurrected friendship of Bush and Hornblower is put to the test, and Hornblower and his son grow closer over the mutual adventure.

Thank you for the ask! :)

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

I’m writing some stuff from Amos’ point of view just to get a handle on him, since he’s much more present as a character in the Redux and every few seconds I’m just like. AMOS. Please. Christ on a bike man. 

Here, have some Amos describing random things including, but not limited to, his children, the bad habits their grandparents have given them, that one time he killed a man, and the pleasures he has in life: 

--

My son would say that I am a present man. I believe I’ve heard him say as much to friends. He’s a flighty boy, prone to speaking before he thinks and acting before he thinks to think. But he’s sweet, in his way. Ruthless, too, which I am pleased to see develop for ours is a world cutthroat and merciless. I’d not relish a weak child. There’s something abysmally bleak in the thought of raising this being from babe to adulthood only for them to be eaten alive by the hounds of life.

-

Height—I suppose that is my most prominent feature. Strong nose and chin and jaw. Eyes are something or other—hazel, I think is what my wife has termed them upon occasion. Hair is mud. Netty has the better looks and I’m pleased our children took what they did from her. I’m also pleased they did not receive her nerves. Stalwart and stubborn rather than mousey and, at times, fearful. Of what? I asked her once. She just said, Well there’s that man out there killing women in their own homes. And I told her that she’s perfectly safe and to be reasonable about the entire situation. What is the likelihood of him choosing our family? While it’s not a zero per-cent chance, it’s still low. I had meant to add that this nerviness of hers predates Quayside Killer so I’d appreciate it if she wouldn’t lie to me. But it hadn’t been worth her clamming up for a week straight. Sometimes, she shakes like a leaf when she thinks no one is looking.

Still, despite this, she mothers and wifes well so I’ve no complaints.

 -

There was one night when William would have been seven or eight and he woke but I didn’t hear him come half-down the stairs to sit and grip the railing posts and stare through into the kitchen which is where I was finishing up work. There had been flooding—a bad summer, much rain, no irrigation, river banks do what river banks do which is to say: give way. My office was out of commission as a result so I had taken to doing work on the slab of a wooden table in the kitchen. Single lamp. Books open. Abacus out. &c.

There had been trouble at the docks. Rival merchants out for each other’s skin—we’d make suits of each other if we could. I was having none of it. It’s bad for business and I loathe all things bad for business. Anyway, one such individual had it out for me—Joss informed me only the night before. We had been at the Swan & Sword for a swift pre-supper drink and he said, Harry McGuire’s going to send someone after you.

Assassin? I asked.

Nothing formal, Jocelyn replied.

Timeframe?

Imminent. He finished his ale. Offered to get us another round which I accepted and let him take himself up to the bar. He has a horrid habit, and he keeps it wrapped up most of the time, but I track where a man’s eyes wander when he thinks he’s not being observed, and I see where Joss’ go from time to time and it’s unfortunate. Still, I suppose he knows his business and what risks he’s willing to take and the perversions he’s willing to allow in his own life. At the very least, he is discreet and limited.

Anyway, he returned and gave over my pint saying, Just keep some good men about you, in case. McGuire’s tenacious. You might have to send his messengers back to him in pieces.

So I was not surprised when a man appeared at the back door then he was inside the kitchen and at the table and held a knife and then I made sure he ended up on the floor and roundly beat his head in. It was short, sweet, to the point. Like a well-crafted missive.

I had thought I was alone until I heard a stair creak and lo’ there was William watching from between bannisters with big child eyes and I felt concerned that I might have disturbed him. For I should hope he knows he has nothing to fear of me. I told him to go to bed and he duly retreated upstairs after which I took care of the McGuire Messenger who proceeded to have an accident and fell into the river.

-

William has never asked me about it. The next morning I expected a question or two on the matter but he didn’t inquire. He ate his breakfast with his usual gusto and went about his day as a cheerful seven-year-old.

 -

The gods blessed Netty and I with four children who survived childhood—three girls, one boy. Magda is our eldest and takes after my side of the family in terms of her general appearance, save that she thankfully has her mother’s delicate facial features. Which are more appropriate for a girl. Then there is William who looks much like me save he has his mother’s colouring in his eyes and hair, so black and dark reddish-brown. I believe he also has her ears and his maternal grandfather’s easy temperament. Laure is our third. She’s a queer thing—lighter in her colouring, quiet, watchful, the opposite of her siblings. I have jested to Netty that Laure is a fey-child and Netty tells me to not be cruel about our girl. Sicily is the youngest of the surviving four and is much like William in appearance, save she is small how Netty is small. She’ll grow to have the head of a man, though, of that I’ve no doubt. Her husband had best watch himself. If her flaming rows with William are anything to go by. Savvy, cunning, if she had been born a son I would have her lined up to succeed me and let William do whatever it is he wants to do.

Which is, frankly, a mystery. I doubt that boy has any concept of the future beyond a month out at best. I have oft’ complained of this to Netty and Joss. Both have informed me that this is a perfectly normal situation to be in for a sixteen-year-old. I do not recall being so listless and wayward in my intentions at sixteen but I was less coddled than he.

 -

My father’s spirit occasionally comes to me at night and tells me I spoil the boy. But I cannot help it—I attempt firmness but then he pleads and argues and makes a fit before going into sweetness and charm and it’s all very, well, sweet. He’s an affectionate child, or wishes to be, though I’ve no real knowledge of how best to respond. Thankfully, he stopped attempting to hug me goodnight when he was seven.

 -

I shall quickly document my pleasure’s in life, which do include some vices I have attempted to drop but cannot seem to: cards & dice; strong cheese from Quirm—blue and stratified like a cliff face; the nature poetry of Randolph Turza; music—particularly that which is played on cello, fortepiano, and the lyre (William has taken up the guitarra and lute for reasons I have not come to completely understand but there was some talk of: boys who play such instruments are “hot stuff, father.” Laure plays the fortepiano beautifully, as does Magda. Sicily—well, least said about her aborted music lessons soonest mended); theatre—historical dramas and tragedies (I suffer comedies once a year on Netty’s birthday for that is her preference); fishing & hunting; attending the races; good, rich Brindisian wine; the touch of fox fur lined cloaks; a well-made cup of tea.

There are strange & private pleasures best not documented but if I were forced to, they would include Netty rolling down her stockings; the shape of the lips of the first girl I kissed; that strangely pleasurable pain that comes after a fist fight at the docks when every part hurts; scrape of sea salt on skin; Netty’s breasts; some bed-side things that happen between husband and wife that need not be spoken of save between the two parties involved; the feeling of someone whispering a secret which is the same as when someone with a Genoan accent speaks softly whilst explaining something with great intent and focus.

-

My father died when I was four-and-thirty. My mother when I was four-and-forty. Ten years and four days apart. My mother would have appreciated the symmetry of it. My children know better their maternal grandparents who are in and about giving them bad-habits such as hiding boiled sweets in a small pouch up sleeves and smoking strong-smelling tobacco and singing in the midst of supper.

[solarisrasa]

All I could Bring Myself to Want is You pt 4

A Malec fic canon divergent from the moment Alec hands the Family Ring back to Maryse Lightwood.

Read it here on Ao3

Part three

Isabelle Lightwood knew that there were few people who could match  her iron will and of them almost all of them were currently out of the  Institute. She was weighing the merits of exercising said will in the  face of the infuriating fire messages the clave was sending. Magnus  Bane’s return had not come quietly.

She guessed it would have been  too much to hope that word wouldn’t spread after Magnus had been very  public at Pandemonium. When he had settled in his return, and possibly  after an all clear from Alec that she was very much hoping for, she was  going to have some words with him about that night.

Still, the  missive smoldering on her desk and charring the finish made her red lips  curl. It was an order to bring Magnus in for questioning. Formally it  was written as a heavy-handed suggestion that she invite him to the  Institute to discuss his possible involvement in Downworld affairs  moving forward and some creative wording that implied she was to coerce  him into  fixing Alec. She snorted as she stared at it, wishing she had a drink.

The  clave never had quite understood Alec and Magnus. Now that they had  been apart longer than they’d been together it seemed, at least some of,  the clave was hoping that they could have a quick chat and be back to  two professionals. No doubt they thought that Izzy would step down and  Alec, after his year of despair, would return to his standard of clave  law over all.

 Idiots.  

A light tap on her door brought her back to the moment and she called out permission to enter.

Simon peaked around her door and she smiled widely at him, joy sparking even over her irritations.

“Hey.”  He stepped into her office properly holding a Styrofoam container and a  thermos, “I thought I would bring our beautiful leader dinner. It’s not  a bad run from the East Village and-”

He sat the container down  and squinted at her, “You are not happy. Why aren’t you happy? It’s not  because I said blue worked better on Jace last week right?”

Simon  always knew how to draw a laugh out of her and it worked now but she  still sighed when she had to answer his question for real.

“Of  course not, I know you were just trying to make Jace feel better. No,  it’s the stupid clave. They keep sending me letters about the uptick in  demons and what they expect me to do now that Magnus is back.”

“What, do they think he owes them or something? Didn’t he close the rift?”

Izzy  sighed hard, “So that’s spreading too. He did but I don’t know if  that’s something we want the clave to know. They are already all but  demanding he come, apparently just for a check in, but I know they’ll  send someone to question him if they can. They also seem to think that  he can put Alec to rights and…”

She stood up, palms pressing into  her desk. The desk that still felt like it was supposed to be her  brother’s, not because she didn’t deserve it but because, well,  Alec.  

“So they’re, like, incredibly stupid about,” Simon waved his hand, “all the things?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool,  cool.” he fiddled with the edge of the paper he’d sat his thermos on  top of before looking at her through his lashes with a little smile,  “So, are you going to send them a message.”

As much as she wanted  to send them the exact type of message that Simon was implying, she  couldn’t. She didn’t have a chance to answer as her phone buzzed, Jace’s  name popping up.

“Aren’t they on patrol?”

She nodded, her  stomach clenching in worry as she picked the device up. She’d be lying  if she said she hadn’t spent the better part of the last six months, at  least, waiting for a call that Alec wasn’t making it back. It didn’t  mean she was ready for it.

“Izzy?” Simon asked, tone gone strained in worry.

She shook herself, Jace could be calling because they needed help. She fell into her seat and accepted the call.

“Jace, what’s-”

“We’re fine Iz.”

She breathed a harsh sigh but was forever grateful that her brother knew what she needed to hear.

“Okay. So what’s up?”

Jace laughed, it wasn’t a happy sound but it wasn’t as rough as it had been lately.

“We’re  at Magnus’. He and Alec are- I got them to talk. I don’t know what’s  going to happen now, but I needed you to know that we’re not going to be  available for at least a couple days.”

Izzy could feel her smile, hopeful and breathless, “You think we’ll get him back?”

“Alec? Or Magnus?”

“Both.”

Jace  sounded as shattered as she felt, because the hope that stormed through  her was a kind of breaking, “Yeah, Izzy. Yeah, I do.”

“I’ll give you as much time as I can. Love you.” She could feel tears welling.

“You too.”

The  call ended and Izzy stared up at Simon with tears glittering and a  fragile smile on her face. He returned it with his own toothy grin and  they both broke out in relieved laughter.

Finally. Things were starting to come to rights.

-

Waking  up in a cloud of gold with bright sunlight streaming over him was new.  The room that Jace had taken when he’d stayed in the loft (and didn’t  that feel like a lifetime ago) had not had a window. He stretched,  feeling content for the first time in-

Panic immediately swelled,  feeling anything but the weight of Alec’s feelings tangled with his own  was terrifying. He jerked upright and let out a harsh relieved gasp at  the sight of Alec’s dark hair, his face pressed into the golden  pillows.

 Angel.  

He regained his breath and tentatively prodded the bond. Sleep  heavy feelings swirled through him and he closed his eyes, willing  himself not to cry. Alec felt…

Jace sunk into the warmth of the feeling that settled between them, it was exhausted but  good. Like  the smell of sunscreen and the way his limbs always felt after laying  in the sun. Not happy, exactly, but content. His brother hadn’t felt  anything truly positive in so long, Jace had nearly forgotten just how  deep Alec could feel good. He was sure that once he started to wake it  wouldn’t be such a full-throated feeling, but asleep in Magnus’ bed with  Jace beside him Alec’s subconscious had let go of pain.

He smiled  softly at his parabatai. It was time he got up, but Alec should sleep  more. His attention was pulled to the soft sound of metal clinking on  glass and he rolled his eyes, trust Magnus to already be having  cocktails.

He pulled himself out of bed, resigning himself to  staying in his borrowed clothing, and went in search of their host. He  needed to tell Magnus they were going to be staying with him for a few  days and to thank him for letting Jace sleep with them. He had expected  to spend a rough night alone. It wasn’t, after all, only Alec that  needed the comfort of nearness.

Magnus was sorting through shelves  of ingredients and Jace smiled. The metal-on-glass sound was from his  rings, but there was no cocktail in sight and Jace refused to feel bad  about his assumption.

“Hey.”

Magnus turned, one hand holding  a vial and the other a list and it was rewarding to see the pleasant  surprise on his face and the fluidity of his movement. It eased  something in Jace’s chest to see that he was still welcome here.

“Good morning, Aurora.”

Jace’s nose wrinkled, “Sleeping Beauty?”

Magnus  shrugged, “You do have the golden hair. Alexander is more-” He inhaled,  waving the empty vial regally, “Snow White. Dark hair, rosy lips, still  involves true loves kiss.”

“So you’d kiss me too?”

“No, but I would call-”

Magnus cut himself off and Jace swallowed hard.  Clary. He  knew Magnus hadn’t known long enough not to slip. It had taken most of  them an age to stop looking for her, mentioning her like it didn’t gut  Jace everytime. He cut off the distress in him, Alec was finally resting  peacefully and he wasn’t about to disturb that.

“I’m going to her exhibit tonight.” He was quiet and tense, expecting Magnus to try and warn him away, everyone but Alec had.

“I’m sure her art has only grown more extraordinary. I hope you find some peace in seeing her Jace, you deserve that.”

He blinked, surprised.

“You don’t think I should, you know, stay away?”

Magnus  set his paper down, flicking his fingers and vanishing the vial. His  mouth tightened and when he looked at Jace properly one of his hands  raised to touch his ear cuff in a familiar tick.

“I think that you  aren’t ready for that yet. I think that if I had been able to look in  on Alexander from Edom I would’ve watched his every breath. Until you  find a way to let go, forcing you to stay away will do more harm than  good. I also think, if the things I have seen and heard are accurate,  that you haven’t had enough distance from Alexander’s own grief to  properly sort your own. In many ways, this is still early days for you.”

Jace grimaced at the soft words, trust Magnus to see through them, he always had.

“I don’t feel  less than Alec, I just…”

“Alexander  has always had a tender heart, under his less-than-cuddly exterior, and  he feels things with a consuming nature that is often not found,  especially not in mortals. I know. I also know that it is easy to sink  into his feelings to avoid facing what tangles might be your own.”

Magnus’ gaze went sharp and Jace felt like he’d been turned inside out with the words.

“I  don’t think anyone else has caught that. Everyone just assumes that  it’s both of us sinking under Alec. Well, Izzy might not, but she knows  us best. I was so  angry  at him, just before we lost Clary. I  was finally happy, finally had what I wanted, Clary was free and things  were going to be okay and then-” Jace leaned back against the wall,  remembering, “I could feel something was so wrong. I had asked once  already, he told me you broke up, but I thought I could fix it, just  tackle the mission in front of me, and then when we had breathing room, I  could really make him tell me, you know? But...he was right in the end.  Sometimes, life just doesn’t go the way you want.”

Magnus stared hard, “Is that what he said?”

Jace  nodded, remembering the wrongness that Alec had been trying so hard to  keep hidden, the worry he’d felt, “When I asked him what happened  between you. That’s all he would say then and I was so worried. Then we  lost Clary...Maryse was missing and he still wouldn’t talk to me, would  barely acknowledge that I was struggling and I was so angry I-”

He  remembered the way the words had felt, “I told him he never cared about  Clary anyways. We had a shouting match in the training room, he’d come  to tell me about Maryse but the second I saw him I just-” Jace closed  his eyes, “I screamed at him, told him he was probably glad that she was  gone and that it was no wonder things hadn’t worked out with you  because no one was ever going to be able to love him when he refused to  let them.”

Magnus’ hands were shaking and blue curls of magic  flared around his fingers, the wall was the only thing keeping Jace on  his feet.

“I attacked him. I wanted to fight him, to feel  something at all I guess. He didn’t even-” Jace shuddered, tightening  the connection on his end of the bond, “He didn’t try to stop me, just  threw a few punches and let me take him down. I think, if he’d been  anyone else I might’ve done so much worse. By the time I realized he was  punishing himself I’d beaten him bloody. When I stopped he asked me to  hit him again. It was only after, when I’d dragged him to the infirmary  and forced him to open the bond, that he told me he’d had to identify  Maryse’s body. It was...everything was so…

“Broken.” Magnus’ voice was flat and his eyes hollow as he looked through Jace.

“Yeah.  Magnus, yeah, I don’t-” He shook his head, “We had to tell Robert and  Max. Thank the Angel for Luke though, he took care of the rest. A few  days after the funeral Izzy and I sat with Alec and the three of us  spilled our guts. We talked about everything we could manage and I  learned about the deal and Catarina’s mark. After the first time Alec  went on patrol by himself, a week after all of that, we started sharing a  room. It was a little better lately but for most of this year I’ve been  holding onto him by the skin under my fingernails.”

This was  terrifying. Jace  was only this upfront, this flayed open, for Alec and Clary, but Magnus  deserved to know just what he was walking back into.

“I see. I  imagine there’s more detail and things to know, but those are  Alexander’s to tell. Thank you Jace. For everything you’ve done.”

They  stood in silence, gathering themselves, until Magnus inhaled loudly and  clapped his hands together with a forced smile, “I bet you’re hungry.  It may be late but nothing beat a good brunch! Let’s get you fed.”

He  breezed past Jace, already waving his hands and talking quickly about  what made a perfect brunch spread. Jace had never been more grateful for  Magnus’ over the top distraction techniques.

part five

[pellaaearien]

FFXIV Write #4 (Free Day)

Prompt: sanctuary || Master Post || AO3

650 words, no cw

Aymeric was perplexed.

It was coming up on the day of his and Eyn’ara’s second wedding anniversary, the first they would be celebrating while not under threat of the literal end of the world, and while he’d been struggling to figure out a way to mark the occasion, such considerations had quickly taken a backseat to a much more pressing conundrum.

Eyn’ara wasn’t to be found.

In all fairness, this in and of itself was hardly new. Eyn’ara’s life was spent gallivanting the length and breadth of the star, frequently so far afield it took ages for even moogles to reach her, if they could do so at all.

What was odd was the abruptness of her absence. The world was, ostensibly, at peace; there should be no cause for her to disappear with such urgency. More to the point, when he had tentatively reached out to the Scions, they had disavowed any knowledge.

And so, with no other recourse, he fretted. Thus far Eyn’ara had abided by her promise to bring him along on her more dangerous adventures. He trusted her. But he could think of no explanation for why she would be so cagey in her responses to his missives.

The history of their correspondence was characterized by Eyn’ara’s concise, oddly poetic descriptions of her travels, so the fact that she resolutely refused to share details of her location was alarming.

Did she know about their anniversary? Maybe she simply didn't care to mark occasions of that nature. Should he remind her? After all, he was the one in the office with chronometers and calendars and deadlines. Perhaps it had slipped her mind.

The day before their anniversary, Aymeric was fit to be tied. Eyn'ara still had not appeared, nor disclosed where she was, and he had failed to even turn up news of her. All the serious rational explanations he'd firmly held onto were crumbling. Whatever the reason, he simply had to know.

He and Eyn’ara had an unspoken agreement that they would use their bonding rings only in extremis; he used it now, wishing he had any way to know what he would be dropped in the middle of. Given the current era of relative peace, he at least had cause to hope it wouldn’t be an active warzone.

Aymeric blinked his eyes open to bright sun in a blue sky, the peaceful lapping of waves, and the cry of sea birds. He looked around at the stretch of white sand and lush jungle rising above and swallowed against the sudden blast of heat.

“Aymeric! There you are.” Eyn’ara stood before him, wearing a smile, swimsuit, sensible shorts, and durable boots. “I was wondering if I’d have to send someone to fetch you.”

Aymeric stared. “I — what?” Out of all the things he’d expected, Eyn’ara in beachwear acting as though nothing were amiss was not one of them.

Eyn’ara’s cheerful expression morphed into a frown. “Why are you in your armour?”

“I—” Aymeric was quickly beginning to wonder if this was some bizarre stress dream brought on by lack of sleep.

Eyn’ara’s frown deepened. “Did no one tell you?”

“Tell me what?” he demanded, finally managing a complete sentence.

She covered her face with a hand. “Oh gods. No one did.” Dropping her hand with a sigh, she looked at him frankly. “I’m going to kill Tataru.”

Aymeric arched an eyebrow, willing her to explain.

“It was supposed to be a surprise!” Eyn’ara exclaimed. “But not, you know, telling you nothing. To at least tell you that I had a surprise.” She huffed. “I should’ve known giving me an island would have strings attached.”

Aymeric resisted the urge to shake his head to clear it. “I’m sorry. I thought you said giving you an island?”

Eyn’ara’s smile returned, and she held out her hand. “Come with me, my love. I’ve got something to show you.”

previous | next

[onecanonlife]

Wilbur wakes up one morning to find white in his hair. This is—irritating, for several reasons, but that’s all it is. An annoyance. A distraction.

There’s nothing deeper at work here. There’s nothing wrong at all.

(Or, the stresses of the presidency give Wilbur a white streak of hair earlier in canon, and somehow, this serves as the cry for help he can never bring himself to make.)

(word count: 6,249)

(first part) (third part) (fourth part)

——————–

Part Two

He tries to pen a letter to Phil. It’s more difficult than he remembers.

Dear Phil, he starts, and that’s good, that’s fine. All is well here in L’Manberg, he continues, and that’s good too. But from there, he’s stumped. What next? What does he tell him about? This is the part where he’d launch into a cute story, something Fundy got up to, or some trouble Tommy caused. But nothing comes to mind. Nothing recent, anyway. But the last letter he sent to Phil was—a month ago? Two, now? So he needs to write, because Phil’s far from a helicopter parent, but he still likes to know what he’s up to. Will still worry, if he gives him a reason to.

So, he needs to finish a letter. Needs to stop procrastinating.

He could write about Niki’s bakery. He can’t remember if he told Phil about it or not. He probably hasn’t, not if it’s truly been that long since his last missive. So he sets his pen to work, scratching out a few more sentences, and he reminds himself that he doesn’t need to be overly verbose. Phil doesn’t need an essay. Just a paragraph or two to assure him that he and everyone else are well, that he’s having fun, that he’s thriving.

Telling him about the bakery will work for that. Except, then, after a bit, he ends up writing, It eases my mind to visit. Truly, it’s one of the only places I let myself relax, and—no. No, that won’t do. That will make him sound as though he’s stressed, and he doesn’t want Phil to worry about that. There’s nothing Phil can do about it, and he couldn’t stand it if the admission led his father to think any less of him. He’s not going to—to start complaining to him. That would be ridiculous.

So he scratches the line out and continues on, except then, he writes, I worry that I’m shirking my responsibilities, but then, I’m probably doing that anyway, simply by virtue of not being, and he stops before he can finish that sentence, because, no. Simply, no. He is absolutely not telling Phil that.

He bites his lip. He’s already scratched out enough that he’ll probably need to start an entirely new draft anyway.

He sets the tip of the pen to paper.

I’m exhausted, he writes, but my mind won’t allow me to rest. Too many shadows in too many dark corners, I suppose. Too many thoughts circling. It’s like a hurricane in my head, and I should be in the eye, but I think the storm wall has caught me. I’m tossing in the air, at the wind’s mercy, and I’m afraid of what will happen when I fall.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know why I ever assumed that I did. And I feel afraid, because my inadequacies are failing everyone around me. I have to protect them, have to keep them safe, but sometimes I close my eyes and see everything aflame, or I see Dream and his friends flooding into the Final Control Room. We were betrayed, there. I’ve never told you this, but we all lost a life. Me, Tommy, Tubbo, and Fundy. I couldn’t do a thing to stop it. Somehow, I never thought that dying would be terrifying for me, considering who my mother is, but it is. I was so scared, and I still am.

I think I’m a disappointment. I think that if this country fails, it will be my fault, and it will only be right if I go down with it. My people have little faith in me, and they’re right not to, but I can’t bring myself to step down, because at the end of the day, I’m addicted to the power and responsibility. I’m nothing without it. If I can’t manage this, then how can I deserve the trust and faith that others have placed in me?

Most days, I think that everyone hates me. Most days, I think they’re right to do so. I can’t trust anyone. Not completely, not fully, no matter how much I love them. I feel very alone.

He stops writing. Reads it over. Feels his lips quirk up into a wry smile. He’s certainly not sending that.

But the smile fades away after a moment. He supposes that he hoped writing it all out would make him feel better, but if anything, he feels more tired. Drained. Wrung out. Blank.

He fishes around for a new, unmarred sheet of paper.

Dear Phil, he writes, All is well here in L’Manberg. The city is thriving, and my people are well. I really do want you to visit sometime—but not yet, of course! We’ve been having a spot of trouble with creeper holes lately, and I don’t want that to be your first impression. Between you and me, it’s just a little bit embarrassing.

It’s been a while since I last wrote. I do apologize for that; I don’t know where the time goes. There’s always so much to be doing, and I’m more and more thankful for this chance every day. It’s a lot of fun, having a country of our own, and we’re all working to make it as good as it can be. You should see Niki’s bakery—you haven’t tasted heaven until you’ve tasted something Niki’s baked, I swear. She’s a goddess, really, an essential pillar of our society. Baked goods make the world go round.

Tommy and Tubbo are well, and getting into just as much trouble as usual. Fundy grows up more and more every day. I’m so proud of them all.

Be careful of undead infants, and tell Technoblade I said hello, if you get the chance.

All love,

Wilbur

He sets down his pen and rereads. He’s satisfied with that, and more importantly, Phil will be as well. Now all that’s left is to let the ink dry and—

“Hey, boss man,” Tubbo says, opening the door to his office without knocking. He startles, violently. “How’re things coming?”

His heart shouldn’t be racing. It’s just Tubbo. But he came in without warning, which is—irritating. It’s irritating. That’s what it is. He feels himself flushing, just slightly, but surely it’s annoyance.

“There’s a lot of ‘things’ you could be referring to,” he says. “Are you going to be a little more specific?”

“Nah,” Tubbo says, meandering further into the room. But it’s not a regular meander, it’s a Tubbo sort of meander, which means that he’s here for a purpose. He just doesn’t want to reveal it just yet, or perhaps he’s figuring out how he wants to approach it. “Just wanted to know about general things. Big, vast things. Deep things.”

“Deep things,” he repeats, nodding. “Not much of that going on at the moment. Not a lot of deep things in paperwork.” He pulls the nearest sheet of paper closer to him; technically, that’s what he ought to be doing, not writing letters to a father that’s worlds away. He scans the words; it looks like something complicated about trade, something that sets his head to pounding already. The words swim, like they’re dancing, like they’re taking glee in the way he can’t comprehend them.

“I thought there were lots of deep things in paperwork,” Tubbo says, and he looks back up. “I thought that’s why the print is always so small.”

“Maybe,” he says.

“It makes sense to me,” Tubbo says. “Wilbur, is your hair really white?”

He freezes. “What?”

“Niki said that your hair is turning white,” Tubbo says. “Like an old man’s.”

Anger flares. He thought—he didn’t like that she found out about it, but he at least thought he could trust her with it. Thought that she would keep it to herself, that she wouldn’t let it spread to others, to others that might take it and try to use it as a knife to his jugular. But here is Tubbo, and Tubbo is so obviously staring at his hair, eyes flicking across his forehead and around his ears, and he won’t see anything. He double-checked when he arrived at the office; all of the white is under his hat. But he doesn’t like that Tubbo is looking, that Tubbo is actively trying to see, that Tubbo is treating him like some kind of curiosity, and that Tubbo surely must have some sort of opinion and that opinion cannot be anything but—

“Niki said that hair can turn grey or white if a person is very stressed,” Tubbo says, casually. “Are you very stressed, Wilbur?”

Oh—oh, fuck. Is that actually a thing that happens?

“I told her, it was a bad dye job,” he mutters, glancing back down at his paper. The words remain incomprehensible, but he’s not focusing on it. He nudges his pen with his finger, latching onto the light clicking sound it makes as it rolls and then comes to rest.

“Yeah?” Tubbo asks doubtfully. “What, were you trying to dye your hair white?”

He grits his teeth. “Was there something you needed, Tubbo?”

“Nothing I needed, really,” Tubbo answers. “I just wanted to see how you’ve been doing. Seems like forever since you came out of this office. Do you live in here now or something?” He keeps talking before Wilbur can reply, which is just as well, since he might as well live here, considering the state of his room. “And I think I’ve got a new design for a TNT cannon. Kind of streamlined, you might say, if you wanted to check it out. But I think you should just come and hang out with me and Tommy sometime. You never really do that anymore.”

He has a few feelings about TNT cannons. He doesn’t think about TNT too often, because when he does, his mind fills with fire and smoke, and his heart starts beating faster, climbing into his throat, and he wants to run, wants to run far and fast and away, wants to sit and shake until his body can’t move anymore, even when he knows very well that nothing around him is exploding, that his country is secure and his friends are safe. But some days, he can’t so much as smell smoke without a memory rising up to overwhelm him.

Once, he found himself zoning out in the middle of a conversation, a nearby campfire taking him far away from himself, and be barely returned in time to cover for his lapse.

He’s not a fan of TNT cannons, and he can’t bring himself to pretend to be, not even for the sake of Tubbo’s enthusiasm. And—

Hanging out with him and Tommy sounds nice. He misses them, he admits, and some part of him misses the old days, the first days and weeks and months on the server, when it was them and a dream and his fingers dancing on the frets of his guitar, his voice strong and steady and hopes high on the wind, words ready at his lips and Tommy a force of chaos at his back and Tubbo clever and quick by his side, and he just—misses it. Misses them. Misses it all, misses the days before so much was riding on his shoulders.

But he hasn’t the time.

“I’m sorry, Tubbo,” he says, and tries on a smile. “I’m a bit busy right now. Take a rain check?”

“Sure,” Tubbo says, and shrugs. “Later, then. You say that a lot, though, do you know that?”

He winces. Tubbo smiles. He means no harm. Probably. He thinks he would know if Tubbo meant him harm.

And then, Tubbo leaves, and the tension leaves him all in a rush, leaving him—exhausted. Exhausted, and near tears, for some reason, but he blinks those back. That can wait. He doesn’t cry in his office. That’s unprofessional; anyone could walk in on him, and then where would he be?

What was he doing before Tubbo came in?

Right. The letter. He glances it over, scoops it up, and tucks it away in an envelope. He’ll chuck it at the next crow he sees.

---

It’s Tommy who barges in next, a day later, though at least this time, he’s somewhat expecting it. Because if Tubbo knows, then Tommy knows. That is simply the way of the world. He has a difficult time imagining anything ever coming between those two, even information that would be better kept to oneself.

“Why the fuck is Tubbo going on about your hair, then?” Tommy says, with no preamble, and despite himself, Wilbur smiles. That’s Tommy, all the subtlety of a charging bull. And the question is just as irritating as it was yesterday when it came from Tubbo, but he’s more prepared for it this time. He looks up from his work—work that he’s actually doing, at the moment, and he feels rather proud of himself for it—and meets Tommy’s gaze squarely.

“I’ve had an unfortunate encounter with some hair dye,” he says. “The hair dye won.”

“What the fuck?” Tommy says, but there’s already a laugh in his eyes. Good. Tommy is fairly easily deflected, he’s learned. Because Tommy looks up to him, he knows, and that means he’ll willfully look away from any evidence suggesting that perhaps he is not worthy of admiration after all.

It makes him sick, the way he’s thinking about it. Makes him feel like he’s using Tommy, somehow, taking advantage of his affection, when really, that’s the last thing he wants to do. Tommy is his little brother, his little brother by choice, by years spent on the road together, by hushed conversations in the dead of night as the stars bear witness, by all the little intricacies they’ve learned about each other as time continues to pass. Tommy is his little brother, which means it’s his job to protect him, as best he can. He’s done a piss-poor job of that lately. Tommy only has one life left now.

So he can’t fail him again. And perhaps it’s selfish of him, but he doesn’t want Tommy to think he’s failed, either. If it ever turns out that Tommy hates him, he thinks it might kill him.

“Can I see?” Tommy asks, and he prepared for this, too, braced for it. With a long-suffering sigh, he sweeps his hat off his head and angles his face forward, letting Tommy take a good look.

“Satisfied?” he asks.

“Holy shit,” Tommy says. “How the fuck did you manage that?”

“Very impressively,” he says, and puts his hat back on. He’s sure to tuck all the white back under it. It’s a practiced motion, by now. “Or perhaps not very impressively, as it were.”

“Well, it looks sick,” Tommy says, and Wilbur glances at him immediately. He doesn’t seem like he’s lying. He seems almost—impressed? But he sees him looking right away, and immediately backtracks. “Sick as in disgusting, obviously. It makes you look old. Like an old, old man.”

Tommy’s joking, of course, is all bluster and smoke, no fire. But something in his chest stings, and he realizes that the words hurt, and more than that, they hurt because it’s an echo of what he tells himself. He doesn’t like to look in the mirror anymore—though he never did to begin with, actually—but he is well aware of what he looks like. The white hair is just one more symbol of his failing faith, his lack of ability to handle the job that he set himself out to take in the first place. He should be able to do this, and yet, he can’t, and the white hair—well.

After what Tubbo said, it can only mean that he’s weak. Physical proof of his incompetence. That’s really the only way to look at it.

“Shut the fuck up, child,” he says. “Why don’t you go and find a juice box to drink?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Tommy says, and the song and dance is familiar. Tommy rolls his eyes at him—the disrespect in this house is unbelievable—but he turns to go, and that means that Wilbur’s won.

What he’s won, he doesn’t know. Some more self-disgust, maybe. That’s what it feels like.

Lying to Niki. Lying to Tubbo. And now, lying to Tommy. What a stunning specimen of humanity he is. Working through them all like he has a checklist.

And then, Tommy stops in the doorway and looks back.

“Wilbur?” he asks. “You really are alright, aren’t you?”

And that gives him pause. Tommy’s not supposed to ask him that question. If anything, he’s the one who’s supposed to be asking Tommy that.

“It’s just that,” Tommy continues, “I don’t see you around so much, these days. Except for when there’s a problem, and you come out to try and solve it with, with your words and shit. Diplomatic shit, innit? You do that, but you don’t just—you never come to just spend time with us anymore, like how it used to be. And I just sort of miss that, you know? So I was thinking that maybe we could try and do that again, sometime soon? Just, hanging out, like the good old days?”

The good old days.

He doesn’t quite have the heart to tell Tommy that the good old days are long over, that they have been long over since the day Sapnap came to arrest them all for starting a drug empire and the forest around them was set ablaze, since the day they declared independence from the Dream SMP, since the day he in all his naivety declared that all they had to do was ignore the conflict and it would pass them by, since the day he was proven so very, very wrong. Since the day he learned that as much as he values his words, his diplomacy, his efforts toward nonviolence, some people only recognize power in iron and steel.

Since the day he watched his men, his comrades, his family die around him, and knew that he led them to that fate. Since the day Tommy traded his life and then his discs for their independence, and he knew that he couldn’t do a thing to help.

The good old days are long gone. The good old days belong to a different version of him, one that was young and hopeful and stupid, one that had no idea what he was getting into. And he likes to think that he’s still hopeful, that he still strives for a better future, but—

He’s learned. Nothing comes easy, here. There will be no more halcyon summers. The days are getting colder, and there will be no more rest.

“Sure,” he says, and this lie tastes far more bitter than all the rest. “I’d like that.” He gestures at his desk. “I’ve been really busy, but I would like to spend time with you. I’ll let you know when I can, alright?”

And Tommy believes him. He sees it in his answering smile, and he hates himself.

“Sounds good, big man,” Tommy says. “See you later then, yeah?”

“See you later,” Wilbur agrees, and then Tommy, too, is gone. He’s alone in his office, with his duties and his thoughts, and neither of them are kind.

Not that he thinks himself deserving of much kindness.

---

He waits two weeks before visiting the bakery again. It’s not completely intentional; he doesn’t have much time to get away anyhow. But part of it certainly is. He doesn’t want to come again so soon, doesn’t want to know how Niki’s going to look at him, doesn’t want her to poke and prod at something that isn’t important, that is a minor, irritating detail. He doesn’t want to discuss it, and he thinks that Niki might try, so he stays away.

But not forever. He can’t bring himself to take so drastic a step, even if his visits are a bit of a distraction. One that, perhaps, he can’t really afford.

So he steps inside and immediately wants to backtrack, because Niki’s not the only one here. Fundy and Jack Manifold are both sat at the counter, and both of them are looking at him now, having swiveled in their seats to watch his entrance. And that means he can’t leave, because if he leaves without saying anything, they’ll ask him why he did that, and he’ll have to make up something to avoid admitting that he’s been a little bit terrified of interacting with people lately. Because absolutely no one can know that.

Because it’s stupid. Pathetic. He’s pathetic, and he’s become quite accustomed to that word. It seems to live in his head now, like it’s made a nest in his brain, a little roost. Pathetic. Everything he does feels pathetic to him, and probably to everyone else around him.

“Oh,” Jack Manifold says. “Hi, Wilbur. Didn’t expect you in.”

Fundy doesn’t say anything. Just blinks at him, tail swishing. He finds that he doesn’t know what to say. But he needs to think of something, some reason for being here, and if he can manage it, some excuse for extricating himself quickly. The silence has gone on just a little too long, and he’s been standing in the doorway for a full five seconds now, and he needs to come in completely because it’s weird, what he’s doing, and they’re going to call him on it.

And then, Niki pops her head between the two of them, leaning far over the counter, resting practically all of her weight on it.

“Wil!” she says, and smiles. “I’m glad you came! I’m making honey bread, and I know you like that.”

And just like that, he relaxes. Not completely, but to ask that of him would be to expect the impossible. It’s enough.

“I do,” he agrees, and steps further in, letting the door close behind him. “Seems I have good timing.”

The tension in the air—imagined or real? He’s not sure—dissipates. Jack grins at him, raising a glass of—probably not alcohol? He doesn’t think Niki keeps alcohol stocked in here, or at least, none other than the cooking variety. Might be milk. And Fundy still doesn’t say anything, but his tail keeps twitching, and his eyes keep darting between him and the empty stool next to him, and he really hopes that’s an invitation, because that’s how he’s going to take it.

He slides onto the seat, letting his coat fall behind him. His hat, he keeps on. He’s not laying his face on the counter today. Not with other people here. He probably wouldn’t have anyway, tempting though it is. He always feels sleepier in here. It’s probably the warmth.

But he won’t fall asleep.

Niki’s gone back over to the ovens, inspecting her bread. He can smell it on the air, fresh and sweet, and his stomach twists. Has he eaten today? He’s not sure that he has. Though he definitely did yesterday—evening. He thinks. Definitely. A couple apple slices shoved in his mouth, swallowed without really tasting them. But it counts.

“What have you two been up to lately?” he asks. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Not too much,” Jack Manifold answers easily. “Mostly been hanging around Tommy and Tubbo. Getting into mischief, you might say. Nothing too serious or anything!” he is quick to add, seemingly remembering exactly who he’s talking to. “Nothing—I mean, nothing illegal, no, sir. Not us. But, you know, it’d probably be best not to share the details.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Fair enough,” he says. “As long as it’s not something that I’m going to have to clean up later.”

“We’ve already cleaned up,” Jack says.

“Good.” He looks at Fundy, and affection blooms in his chest, sudden, almost overpowering. His boy’s grown up of late. He can barely remember it happening. It seems that only yesterday he came up knee-high, and now, he’s a man in his own right. But still his little champion, always. “How about you? I know we haven’t been fishing yet. I’m sorry—you know that’s the first thing on my list when I finally get a bit of time.”

Fundy glances away. “I know,” he says. “I’ve been fine.”

“I’m glad,” he says, and Niki saves him from having to say anything else—though why he thinks of it as a rescue, he isn’t sure—by walking back over and placing some bread on the counter before them.

“Fresh from the oven,” she says, “so it’s hot. Be careful.”

It smells nothing short of divine. Niki smiles, pleased, as Fundy and Jack reach for a piece right away, and he isn’t far behind them. Though he tries to be a little more neat about it than the other two are being. The way they’re digging in, he’d think that they’re starving. Frankly, he can’t blame them for it, not when it’s Niki’s food on the line, but he still tries to have a bit more decorum.

“Niki,” Jack says, mouth full, “you are an angel among mere mortals.” Fundy doesn’t say anything, but his tail is swishing happily.

Niki rolls her eyes, and takes a bit of bread for herself. “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she admonishes. “But thank you, Jack.” And then, her gaze drifts to him, and he finds himself stiffening. For no reason. It’s Niki. It’s just Niki. He trusts Niki. She’s basically his best friend, and he’s comfortable here. He is. This is a place of safety, as much as there are such places to be found. Safety, true safety, is not a thing that exists, not really. But here is as close as he can get to it.

Why can’t he let himself unwind?

Is it because Jack and Fundy are here? He hopes not; that wouldn’t be fair to them. They are his countrymen, his citizens, and more than that, Fundy is his son. What would that say about him as a parent, if being around his child makes him nervous? Not just nervous in a I-hope-I-don’t-fuck-up-my-kid way, but in a I-don’t-feel-safe-here way?

But his shoulders are stiff, slightly hunched. He can’t force them down. So he has to hope it’s not too obvious, that the lines of his coat disguise the hard set of his posture, a stance that indicates he thinks there’s a threat, if they know how to read him right. Which they shouldn’t. They shouldn’t.

“How about you, Wil?” Niki asks, and he takes another bite of bread. Small, so as not to get crumbs everywhere, and he swallows before answering.

“It’s as good as always,” he says. “Do I have to say it?” Though it sits heavier in his stomach than usual, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“I’m glad,” she says. “It’s been a little while since the last time I saw you. You are eating properly, right?”

It’s concern, not an accusation, no matter how misplaced. The question shouldn’t raise his hackles. But it does, and all that’s left is to keep it from showing, to keep it from his voice.

“Of course I am,” he says, and before he can get anything else out, Jack laughs.

“Wouldn’t do to have our president starving on us,” he says, and his voice is light, full of laughter, joking. It’s a good thing that Jack feels comfortable enough to joke with him. He’s glad, because—he doesn’t know him all that well, definitely doesn’t trust him, not yet, but Tommy and Tubbo seem to like him, so it’s good that he’s fitting in, that he’s found a place, that he likes it here. Though liking isn’t always enough to stop the betrayal before it comes. He ought to keep a closer eye on him, just in case, but—that wasn’t the point of this.

The point is that, joking or not, Jack is completely right. It wouldn’t do to let his eating habits interfere with his duties. He’s already weak; is he going to add malnutrition on top of that? Never mind that he often doesn’t feel like eating, these days, that he really only has an appetite when he’s here, in the bakery. He needs to keep his strength up so that he can get things done. And he can’t force himself to sleep, so that problem is out of his hands, but he can force himself to eat.

Jack couldn’t have known what he was prodding at, of course, when he made the comment. But he takes another bite of bread anyway. It’s tough to swallow, even though it tastes delicious. He doesn’t know why. He’s never had an issue eating Niki’s food before. He hopes this doesn’t become a pattern.

And he hopes it’s not because there’s other people here. It would be an explanation, at least, but not one he likes. The implications there wouldn’t be—good, to say the least.

“Jack,” Niki says quietly, admonishingly, and he wishes she wouldn’t, because he doesn’t want Jack to examine what he’s just said, to analyze it as anything other than a joke. So he musters a smile, a quirk of an eyebrow, and Jack grins back at him.

Safe territory. Level ground, even footing. Relatively speaking.

And then Fundy pipes up.

“Hey, Wil,” he says, and Wilbur wonders, suddenly, where he picked up the habit of calling him ‘Wil’ or ‘Wilbur’ more often than he calls him ‘dad’. Not that he minds it, but it’s curious. Could it be from him? He himself calls Phil by his name more often than not. Perhaps it’s genetic. But then Fundy continues, “Is your hair actually, like, turning white?” and Wilbur is no longer interested in thinking about little details like that.

He’s tense again. Tense enough now that they can probably see it, even without looking too hard.

“Why is everyone so interested in my hair, lately?” he asks. “It’s just hair. Grows out of everyone’s head. Except for yours, Jack Manifold.”

“Point,” Jack Manifold agrees, but there is a gleam in his eyes, behind his glasses, that says he too is interested in the direction this conversation has taken. Not ideal.

“It’s just that,” Fundy persists, “it’s a little bit weird, right? If it’s turning white like that? Is that normal?”

“It’s not ‘turning white,’” he says, which might be a mistake, because he’s lying through his teeth, now. “It was a bad hair dye incident. Nothing you need to be concerned about.”

Jack laughs. “How’d you manage to fuck up hair dye that badly?” he asks, and the way the question is phrased is irritating; he doesn’t want Jack to start thinking he’s an incompetent fool who can’t dye his own hair properly. But he’ll also take this line of questioning over the other, so perhaps it balances out.

Except then, Niki splays both her hands on the counter. Any earlier levity that she had is now gone.

“Is that so?” she says. “That’s not what you told me.”

His heart is pounding again. He really, really hopes that he’s not developing a condition of some kind. He’d know if he were having a heart attack, wouldn’t he?

“I’m pretty sure that is what I told you,” he says, and Niki shakes her head.

“No, you told me that it wasn’t dye, when I asked,” she says. “And then you said that it was, but you were lying.”

She doesn’t sound angry, which is perhaps the worst thing about all of this. She doesn’t sound angry that he’s lied to her, taken advantage of her trust and fed her a blatant falsehood. Her voice is calm, matter-of-fact, and there’s a glimmer in her eyes that isn’t annoyance or betrayal or any of the other emotions she should be feeling. Instead, it’s concern. That blasted concern again.

He doesn’t deserve it.

“Really?” Jack says. “Huh. Well, what’d you do that for, then?”

He’s changed his mind. The worst thing about all of this is that there are other people present. That he’s not alone with Niki, which would still be an undesirable situation, but manageable. Jack Manifold and Fundy are both here, staring at him, expecting answers that he doesn’t want to give, and Fundy—

Why is his son looking at him like that?

“Why are you all so pressed about my hair?” he demands. “It’s hair. You don’t even see it.”

“I mean,” Fundy says, “like I said, it’s just kind of weird, right? I don’t think hair just turns white for no reason. Not unless you’re really old, which you’re not, I don’t think. So I guess we’re just curious about what the reason is.”

He doesn’t want to talk about this. This isn’t why he came here. This place, this bakery, these people, it’s supposed to be an escape from his responsibilities. The only one he allows himself, even though he knows he shouldn’t. It’s the one place where he doesn’t have to think about his own failings, where he can relax a bit and let himself be, if only for a little while, but here they are, pushing him on this, and he doesn’t want it. Doesn’t want to be reminded of his incompetency. And they don’t know, can’t know exactly what they’re doing to him, but—

He slams his hand against the counter, sudden emotion boiling over. They all jump, the three of them. Niki’s eyes widen, and Fundy’s ears press back against his skull.

“Then don’t be,” he snaps. “Leave it the fuck alone. It’s really none of your business, is it?”

There is a moment of silence. The only sound is the crackling of furnaces.

“I guess not,” Fundy mutters, and he realizes what he’s done.

He’s just snapped, lashed out at his friends, his countrymen, his son, and for what? Because their questions are stressing him out? He should have turned around and left the moment he saw them in here, no matter what they would have thought, because this is worse. This is so much worse than that, and now he feels like an absolute shitstain of a human being. What kind of person gets so fucking upset over questions about his hair?

“I’m sorry,” he says. Too little, too late. “I didn’t mean—” Fundy is looking at him. They all are, and suddenly, he can’t bear it. Not any longer. “I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot of work to do. I really should be going. Thank you for the bread, Niki.”

It’s painfully transparent, and he is very aware of the fact that it’s the exact same way that he rushed out of the bakery when he was last here. Except this time, there are more people here to witness his shame.

History repeats itself, he thinks, bitterly. History repeats itself, and it only gets worse.

But he’s not staying here. He can’t. He just—can’t. Because he feels very upset over such a stupid little thing, and he’s upset that he’s upset, and now he’s upset other people, and he can’t stay here any longer, because if he does, the gods only know what’s going to fly out of his mouth next.

“Wil, please stay,” Niki says, but he’s already standing.

“Be seeing you all,” he says, and the door isn’t far, but it feels like miles, because he can feel their stares burning into his back as he makes his exit.

“Aw, wait, Wilbur, you don’t have to—” Jack starts, but he’s out the door. He’s out the door, and he lets it swing shut behind him, and the words cut off. He doesn’t have to listen to them. So if Fundy says anything, he doesn’t hear it, and he wonders why that makes him feel so much worse. Worse than he does already, which is no mean feat.

His stomach growls. He’s hungry. How many bites of bread did he take? Two? Three? Not enough to be filling. But somehow, he already knows that if he seeks food elsewhere, it will turn to ash in his mouth. And he can’t go back, not after the scene he’s just made, so he’s going to have to be hungry. Which is fine. He’s fine. He’s fine, even though he’s just fucked everything up, and he rather thinks he might not be able to show Niki his face ever again. So, no more bakery. No more safe place, and wow, he is being a dramatic fuck, isn’t he? But he can’t help himself. He never can.

He should have known better from the start. There is no such thing as safety. No exceptions. He should have tried harder to remember that. And he’s not angry, not anymore, not really, because they weren’t aware of the hornets’ nest they were stirring up; rather, he’s angry at himself, for losing control, for letting himself react, for not being able to handle a simple question with the poise and calm that is expected of him as president.

For being weak. That’s what it comes down to. His weakness. Persistent, and now, persistently on display.

He does a lot of screaming into his pillow that night. It doesn’t help. And sleep, it seems, is determined to continue its avoidance, so the night stretches long, and even his tears eventually run dry.

---

The next day, Niki comes to his office.

[ikeromantic]

Loyalties

A Mitsuhide Akechi fanfic. Approx. 1700 words. Takes place in the romantic epilogue - spoilers!

First: Mitsuhide and the Maiden

Previous: Hero's Welcome

The next few weeks passed in a blur. Kyubei kept busy running messages between Mitsuhide and his city contacts, and fetching items for the chatelaine. Though he supposed she didn’t really hold that title now. Now she was . . . well, a princess of the Oda. Soon to be Lady Akechi, if the two lovers had their way.

In all the years he’d served Mitsuhide, Kyubei never saw his lord so at peace. Though he was confined to the manor and still under suspicion - officially - and they had years of work to make the ‘new’ shogun fit, he seemed . . . happy. He spent hours in the garden or in his room with his fiance. And in the halls, the servants could hear their laughter. It was such a change. One Kyubei firmly hoped would continue. But life had taught him that these moments were treasures because they were ephemeral. Sweet because they were rare.

He waited for the axe to fall because it was inevitable.

When trouble finally arrived, it came bearing a box of sweets and an angelic smile.

Kyubei welcomed Ranmaru with a slight bow, and showed him to the chatelaine’s room in Mitsuhide’s manor. Though she spent her nights with his lord, her days she spent here - sewing. This was her passion, and it showed in the quality of her work.

Ranmaru thanked Kyubei, and as the door slid shut, he was already chattering away about his day and the sweets he’d made.

***

Mitsuhide folded and sealed the last of the days missives. He stared at the pile of letters and sighed. As the left hand of Nobunaga Oda, his work was never really done. There would be more reports, more letters, more planning and orders to send . . . and his lands needed him as well. He had projects to authorize and titles to bestow. And all he wanted to do was to curl up beside his little one and remind her how much he loved her with a thousand kisses.

He stood and stretched. This time of day, she was probably in her room working. His little one didn’t know that he already knew about the haori she was making for him. It was her surprise and he wasn’t going to ruin it by admitting he’d seen it, albeit in pieces, already.

As Mitsuhide approached her room, he heard the sound of another voice, high and young and full of forced joy. Ranmaru. He knocked lightly before sliding open the door.

His beloved sat across from the page, a little tray between them. There were sweets and tea. A little wooden box sat open beside her.

“My little mouse, I didn’t know you had a guest.” Mitsuhide smiled at Ranmaru.

The page stood. “I was actually just about to leave. I only came to drop off this gift for the princess.” He gestured to the box of sweets.

“They’re really good,” she picked up a small, colored sweet. “Do you want to try one Mitsuhide?”

Ranmaru pretended a gasp. “My lady! Those are only for you.” He glanced at Mitsuhide out of the corner of his eye. “I made them myself - so you could enjoy them.”

She laughed. “Well then you can’t complain if I share.”

“It’s alright. Such things are wasted on me.” Mitsuhide kept smiling but something in his chest tightened at the glib expression on Ranmaru’s face.

“Well good. I want you to eat them all up! Then I’ll bring you something else next time I try out a new recipe.” Ranmaru tittered.

His glee was grating on Mitsuhide’s nerves. He knew the boy was a spy for the Kennyo and this forceful mask he wore in his role here was bothersome. Still, Mitsuhide had all but promised he wouldn’t out the abbot’s protege. “I’m sure she would like that,” he said, “now, let me walk you out. I want to send a message along to Nobunaga.”

“Bye Ranmaru! I hope you can visit again soon,” the princess called as they left.

Mitushide walked alongside Ranmaru, his mind turning over the facets of this relationship. He wanted the page to stay away but did not want to make an unsubtle threat. This needed a cautious touch.

“She’s a very trusting girl,” Ranmaru said into the silence between them. “She thinks the best of everyone. Even you.”

“And you.” Mitsuhide stopped, looking down at the bright-eyed page. “Why were you really here today?”

Ranmaru smiled wider. “To bring her a gift, as I said. She’s used to accepting things from my hand. She doesn’t even question where it came from. Or what might be in it.”

Mitsuhide felt something in him turn hollow. His mouth curved in a sharp smile. “I see.” He gestured toward the front entry. “Thank you for stopping in. I do hope you have a safe walk back to the castle. Azuchi can be a dangerous place.”

“I’m not worried.” Ranmaru’s fixed grin betrayed nothing. “Didn’t you have a message for Lord Nobunaga?”

“I’ve decided it would be best to speak with him in person.”

Ranmaru shrugged, his smile going a little crooked. Then he turned and left.

Kyubei appeared from a nearby doorway. “Should I . . .”

“No. But I will bring you what remains of these sweets. Check them carefully.”

“Yes my lord.”

Mitsuhide returned to his beloved. She appeared fine. In high spirits after her visitor, even. She didn’t mind it when he sent the remaining goodies to the kitchen, suspecting nothing.

“Do you like Ranmaru very much?”

His little mouse laughed softly. “He’s really sweet. And I think a bit sad. Why? Are you jealous?”

Mitsuhide pulled her into his lap and nipped at her neck. “Mmm, no. I know you are mine. But, do you trust him little mouse?”

She straightened, her expression suddenly serious. “Why? Is there a reason I shouldn’t? Do you know something?”

It was tempting to tell her. Afterall, he’d promised no lies between them. But he’d promised Kennyo that Ranmaru’s secret was safe with him. It seemed he would never be free of conflicting promises and unintentional betrayals. Mitsuhide sighed. “Has he told you anything? Mentioned his past or his friends? His family?”

“No. He doesn’t talk much about himself at all, actually.” She was thoughtful, still in his arms. “I don’t think he would hurt me but . . . I don’t think he likes you very much either.”

Mitsuhide nodded. “I have that impression.”

“So . . . maybe I should find out more about him.” She sighed. “I guess as your wife, I can’t really trust anyone. Well, except maybe Hideyoshi. I don’t think he’d ever do anything underhanded.”

“Not well,” Mitsuhide laughed.

“It’s hard to think about people that way. I want to believe everyone is good.”

Mitsuhide gently combed his fingers through her hair. “I want you to still see the world that way. But please, little one, be careful.”

“I will be.” She smiled and kissed him. Her mouth was sweet and hot and what started as a light kiss deepened quickly between them.

No matter how many times Mitsuhide tasted her, it felt like the first time. New and exciting, forbidden. His desire for her only grew with their time together.

“My lord?” Kyubei called from just outside the closed door.

Mitsuhide reluctantly broke the kiss between them. “Come in.” His little one tried to slide off his lap to sit beside him, but he held her in place. Damned if he was going to let go just because they were interrupted.

“I am sorry to interrupt, my lord. I came to let you know dinner will be late today.” He glanced toward the princess. “I should have left you those candies awhile longer! If you want to eat the rest, the box is in the kitchen.”

His little mouse shrugged. “That’s ok, Kyubei. I’m not that hungry yet. Thank you for dropping in to tell us.”

“Of course, my lady.” Kyubei bowed again. Then he left.

Mitsuhide felt a coil of tension release inside him. Ranmaru might be an enemy by loyalty, but he hadn’t hurt his little one. The conversation between them was a warning. He leaned his head against his little one, inhaling her scent. “I think perhaps we need to get away from the city for a time. Would you like that, little one?”

“Hmm, where would we go? There aren’t any Sengoku resorts or amusement parks.” She laughed. “Where do warlords go on vacation?”

“Vacation? Another word from your time? It means to get away?”

“From work, yes. Like, to take a break away from the place you live.” She relaxed against him.

Mitsuhide considered. “We could visit my lands. You’ve yet to see them. Or, is there some place you want to visit?”

She closed her eyes. “I wish . . . I wish I could show you my home. All my favorite places. There’s a coffee shop by my flat where they make a cat face in the froth and the barista always gives me a free cookie. And a movie theater with the best soda. And I could take you on a roller coaster!” She laughed. “I’d love to see your face on the first hill.”

“I would like that.”

“Yeah. But we can’t.” His little one took a shaky breath. “I can’t regret deciding to stay here with you. I love you more than anything. But I sometimes wish that you could meet my mom and dad. My friends. I wish they could know how happy I am. How lucky. I mean . . .”

Mitsuhide waited for her to continue, but she said nothing for several long breaths. “What is it? What do you mean?” He tilted her chin up so that he could see her face. She was fighting tears.

“It’s just, I don’t want to cry. There’s nothing to cry about.”

“Little one, if you need to cry, then do. You don’t have to pretend in front of me.” He pulled her closer. This sudden sadness surprised him. He’d thought she was as pleased as he.

“They probably think I’m dead. My parents. My friends. Or worse. I wish I could at least tell them I’m ok.” The words came in little gasps as she let her tears out.

Mitsuhide stroked her back. He wished he could do something to cheer her, but this was beyond his abilities. Or was it? The ninja from Echigo - the one from her time - he might know of a way to get a message across at least. It was a long shot, but the kitsune warlord would not let his beloved taste more sorrow than her share. Not if he could help it.

Next: Lunches with Friends

[vina-writes]

The Pink Paradox

Written for the @drarrymicrofic​ prompt: Metamorphosis!

Rating: T

Length: 1.6k

Summary: Draco Malfoy has pink hair.

Notes: Thank you so much @fw00shy​​ for betaing!! Also just hire me for all your graphic design needs because hot damn I am proud of myself

(i)

Draco Malfoy has pink hair.

That’s not entirely correct when one gets down to the facts. Draco Malfoy has blond hair— a light, airy blond, the color of sunlight on snow. Harry Potter knows this because he’s spent many an adolescent winter watching Malfoy walk the grounds of a frozen Hogwarts and noticing it. The fact that he’s observed Malfoy that carefully is neither here nor there, although Ron would say it’s there (there being the Janus Thickey Ward). Harry’s Malfoy-stalking tendencies occupy their own corner of his mind however, and certainly don’t apply to the here and now.

Because here and now Malfoy has pink hair, and that’s not something unique to Harry’s observations. There’s not a witch or wizard alive who wouldn’t notice that head of bubblegum bobbing between the Auror cubicles.

It’s far too early for a Monday morning (nearing noon), and while their coworkers have been diligently ridding the Wizarding World of crime, Harry and Ron are tossing Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans into each other's mouths and gossiping over Lavender Brown’s pregnancy cravings. They were, that is, until Harry caught sight of Malfoy's pink hair.

“Kneazle got your tongue?” Ron asks after Harry fails to finish his sentence for the fifth time. Ron can make fun of him if he wants— his chair is facing away from Malfoy and that rosy fringe. The fact that Harry has never passed up a chance to watch Draco in all their years of training and employment (with or without pink hair) is irrelevant. The pink is distracting, and it’s more so on Malfoy.

“Malfoy,” Harry repeats to himself quietly, just to feel the familiar shape in his mouth. It’s lacking the venom and suspicion it should have on principle.

Ron turns unpleasantly green at that. “Malfoy’s got your tongue?” he asks.

“What?” Harry finally looks away from Malfoy. “No. Ew. Of course not.” He says it far too blandly, like a child denying their love of sweets, and Ron gives him a Look. Harry tries (unsuccessfully) to change the subject. “What’s he doing with the— why did he— what’s… erm.”

Ron regards him like he’s lost his mind. He seems to think Harry is confused about Malfoy’s business in the DMLE, when he’s usually with Hermione down in Mysteries. While that is out of the ordinary, it’s not nearly as pressing of an issue as Malfoy's pink hair.

“He’s consulting,” Ron explains slowly, “for the Finley case?” Then, when Harry only stares back blankly— “Harry. Can you even read?”

“Occasionally.”

“Tacky romance novels don't count.”

“Oh. Then, no, not really.”

“It was in our missive just last week. They’ve pulled in the Unspeakables. I was hoping they’d send ‘Mione, since she and the Ferret work together, but no such luck.”

“Oh.” Harry turns back to watch Malfoy shake Robards’ hand. Robards' grip is strong, and his thick fingers nearly engulf Malfoy’s delicate wrist. Harry doesn’t like that.

“Are you worried he’s going to cause trouble?” Ron asks. His voice sounds different, and when Harry glances at him again he’s got both feet slung over the armrest of his chair. Robards will skin him alive if he sees.

“No!” Harry says too quickly. He coughs. “Just wondering about the— er, how long has he had…?”

Ron doesn’t seem inclined to help him out.

“For fuck’s sake, Ron, when did he go and do—” Harry waves his hands frantically “—that?”

“Do you mean the hair, mate?”

“Yes, the bloody hair!” Harry’s had his fair share of existential crises in his life. He’s well acquainted with the feeling, and this one is going near the top of the list.

Ron, the bastard, shrugs. Shrugs! Like a pink-haired Malfoy is not only a normal occurrence, but is even expected.

“I didn’t notice it at first, to be honest,” he says, and Harry throws him a look of such vicious resentment that the potted Dragon Snap in the corner stops smoking and curls its leaves over its head. Ron just gives him a shit-eating grin in return.

Discouraged by his apparently un-threatening aura, Harry glances away in time to see Malfoy get a hearty pat on the shoulder (he doesn’t like that, either) and turn towards— towards them.

“Er, Ron?” Harry asks. “Who was assigned to the Finley case?” He knows the answer before he gets it, but still can’t look away from the cutting figure Malfoy makes as he saunters towards them in swirling black robes.

“That would be us,” Ron says cheerfully. “Buckle up and tuck in, mate. Your hard-on is showing.”

Harry is not hard, not even a little, but his panicked struggle to tug the mercilessly short Auror robes over his lap leaves him wrinkled and guilty-looking when Malfoy reaches them.

“Gentlemen,” Malfoy says cooly, and Harry thinks his cheeks must be the color of Malfoy’s hair.

“Harry’s hot for your hair,” Ron says. Harry chokes. “He’s also not read the case file, so I’ll leave you two to it. Don’t come looking for me, I’ll be taking an extended lunch. Looking forward to working with you.”

He throws them both a saucy wink and leaves with all the smugness of a man who’s done his yearly good deed. Harry’s going to murder him before the day is done.

Silence descends over their cubicle. Malfoy eyes Ron’s chair, but wisely chooses to remain standing. Harry notices belatedly that his robes are trimmed in silver, the same shade at his eyes.

“Potter.”

“Malfoy,” Harry acknowledges with a polite nod. The stillness around them is most certainly plummeting towards awkward.

“I heard you like my—”

“Have you read the—”

They both speak at the same time. Malfoy blinks, startled. When he doesn’t finish his sentence, Harry tries again.

“Have you not been debriefed on—”

“I noticed you changed your—”

They wisely decide to shut up. There’s a used staple on the corner of Harry’s desk, and he reaches over to fiddle with it just for something to do.

“Staples,” Malfoy says out of the blue. He looks like he regrets his volume, and it occurs to Harry that he probably feels just as uncomfortable. This is the first time they’ve spoken beyond polite greetings in four years, and neither is sure what to expect. It makes Harry feel better, somehow, to know that he’s not the only one feeling utterly wrongfooted.

“Yes,” Harry says. “Staples?”

Malfoy swallows. His neck is a long expanse of smooth skin, and Harry vaguely wonders what it tastes like. “We might make use of them on the case. Staples, I mean. Have you any more?”

Harry frowns, his discomfort dissipating. “Yeah, in the supply closet. But we just use Sticking Charms— don’t you?”

“Yes,” Malfoy says quickly. “We do. But we could try staples from the supply closet.”

It’s Harry’s turn to deploy the Look. Malfoy frowns at him like he doesn't get it, but Harry’s not really in the mood for deduction.

“So,” Harry says instead, “Auror work. Are you looking forward to it?”

There’s a shift in Malfoy’s stance, and his grey eyes skim over the lines of Harry’s body. “Parts of it,” he says. His tone is a little off. Husky.

“Sore throat?” Harry asks in what he hopes is a sympathetic manner.

“Sometimes,” Malfoy says cryptically. Harry’s not having the greatest time puzzling out his strange behavior and responses— they leave him floundering for something else to say.

“Are you going to tell me what’s in that fancy file or do I have to read it?” Harry finally asks, jerking his chin towards the papers tucked under Malfoy’s arm. He sincerely hopes Malfoy will volunteer to summarize for him. It’s because Harry’s glasses are giving him a headache and not at all because he likes the sound of Malfoy’s voice.

Malfoy’s cheeks flush a little. Harry wonders if he’s coming down with something, even as he struggles not to think of the color as attractive. “Protocol dictates that you read case information yourself,” Malfoy says, “but I suppose I wouldn’t mind speeding things along so we can get started. Maybe… over coffee? Or lunch?”

Harry tries not to let his dismay show on his face. “We have to work through lunch?” he asks. It sounds pathetic even to his own ears.

“Oh my fucking Merlin, he’s asking you out!” Cho shouts over the cubicle wall. Harry and Malfoy both jump.

“No, he’s not!” Harry shouts back, cheeks flaming.

“Yes, I am,” Malfoy says. Harry drops the used staple.

“You are?”

“Am I?”

“I don’t bloody know!”

“Well,” Malfoy starts, but seems to realize he doesn’t have a leg to stand on. “Well— you like my hair.”

“And that’s enough reason to ask me out for coffee?”

Harry really has no idea why he’s arguing. This is Malfoy— pink-haired, blushing Malfoy— handing himself over on a silver-trimmed platter, and he mentally slaps himself for putting up any sort of resistance.

“I like your hair,” Malfoy admits. He seems to regret saying it, and tries to make up for his embarrassment by adopting a suave position leaning against Harry’s desk. He misses and stumbles slightly before righting himself.  

“Don’t worry, Malfoy,” Cho calls again. “He’s been wetting himself over you for years, he’s bound to say yes.”

“Well, he’s not saying it,” Malfoy mutters.

“Yes I am.”

“You— you are?”

“Am I?”

Malfoy stops and stares at him. Opens his mouth, frowns a little. There’s a wonderful feeling in Harry’s chest.

“I’m just fucking with you,” Harry says over a smile. “Let’s go.”

Malfoy orders a strawberry milkshake at lunch. Harry doesn’t get dessert, but he still feels very… pink.

Read on Ao3

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Don’t Take the Money

(cross-posted from my AO3 and based on the Bleachers song of the same name; you should give it a listen ‘cause it definitely shaped this story)

-vomit tw, depression tw, lots of angst and emotional whump with a happy ending, of course-

Jaskier had received six urgent messages in three weeks, each delivered by a different exhausted messenger in the same oddly familiar livery. They showed up outside of inns, in the corner of taverns, and one of them even had to trek through the deep woods to find their hidden campsite; Geralt almost felt bad for them. Almost.

After the seventh strange man appeared with a scroll for Jaskier, the bard didn’t even bother reading it. He merely tossed the rolled and sealed piece of parchment into a refuse pile on their way out of town and didn’t look back. Geralt picked it up when the bard wasn’t paying attention, letting his eyes scan the fancy, swirling script of the Viscountess Pankratz.

Julian Alfred Pankratz,

Return home immediately! Your wedding cannot be put off any longer! Lady Ainsley will not wait another month for your foolish adventures with that Witcher to come to an end. If you do not return for your wedding in three weeks time then you shall be officially disowned and your name will be stricken from the family records.

With Urgency,

Lady Pankratz

Geralt swallowed hard. Jaskier was betrothed? He was to be married in three weeks? But they weren’t anywhere near Redania. Or Lettenhove. Jaskier had never mentioned anyone by the name of Lady Ainsley before, or anything about his past if he could avoid it. Did that mean...?

“Why aren’t you going?” the Witcher asked. Jaskier whirled around, his eyebrow already raised in confusion; he went three shades paler than normal when he saw the limp paper hanging from Geralt’s fingers. “We’re not even remotely close to your hometown and we’re traveling in quite the opposite direction.”

Jaskier made a face and waved his hand dismissively.

“I know. I don’t want to marry her.”

“Why don’t you want to marry her? They’re going to disown you, Jaskier. Isn’t this” - he shook the letter for emphasis - “the life you’re used to living, anyway? You should go home and be with...with someone like you .”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Geralt? You think I belong with someone foppish? Loud? Annoying?” The bard was spitting mad already. The Witcher had touched on a sore spot, apparently. “Should I be with someone more breakable and human and petty?”

“Don’t you want- aren’t you-”

“C’mon big boy, use that fantastic Witcher brain of yours. Figure it out.”

Geralt didn’t understand.

“Wouldn’t you be happier with her than on the Path with me?”

Jaskier looked...hurt. His expression changed from indignant to heartbroken in the measure of time that occurred between split seconds. It did something awful in the Witcher’s gut. Something unfamiliar and painful. The bard’s next words were barely above a whisper. Even with his enhanced hearing Geralt had to focus hard: “Would you prefer me to be married off and out of your way?”

“No, that’s not what I-”

“I don’t even know what we’re even getting at here, Geralt. I’m sorry. I can return home if you’d like. If I send a messenger first thing tomorrow then the family’s hired mage can portal me back in time for the wedding.”

“Jaskier,” the Witcher was pleading. He didn’t know why or for what, but the pitch of his voice left room for no other possible interpretation. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

“Then don’t ask me to marry her, Geralt.”

The Witcher dropped the letter back onto the refuse pile and shoved it deeper with the tip of his boot. Jaskier’s bright smile returned and the soft notes of his lute filled the air once again. For some inexplicable reason Geralt felt triumphant. As if he’d won a battle he didn’t know he’d been fighting against an enemy he’d never met before.

---

“Are you Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf?” a well-dressed stranger asked, approaching the table where the Witcher was seated. It had been a week since his and Jaskier’s argument over the summons. Neither one had brought it up again and the bard had seemed almost unusually affectionate since. The amount of casual touching they did had significantly increased, even when the sun set and it was growing close to bedtime. Jaskier seemed to be happy touching Geralt and the Witcher had no reason to complain; he liked knowing that his best friend wasn’t scared of him.

He regarded the messenger with a suspicious gaze, “Aye. I am Geralt of Rivia.”

“I have a contract for you.” The man slid a piece of paper across the table and folded himself into the chair across from Geralt’s. The pattern stamped into the red wax seal was familiar but the Witcher couldn’t quite remember where he’d seen it before. His strange visitor smiled benignly, “It doesn’t even involve killing.”

“Then why hire a Witcher? That’s kind of our schtick.”

“This agreement is of a more personal nature,” the man shrugged, leaning back in his chair and waiting for Geralt to read his missive. The Witcher took the delicate stationary in his large hands and unfolded it until he could see the printed words:

To Sir Geralt of Rivia,

Witcher and Friend of Julian Alfred Pankratz

We, the Pankratz Family, come to you and offer this agreement:

Return Julian safely to our ancestral home within two weeks and you shall be paid the sum of 1500 crowns. Consider it a bodyguarding mission, if you so desire.

You are also formally invited to attend the wedding of Julian Alfred Pankratz of Lettenhove to the Countess Ainsley DeStael of Rinde, which will occur three days after your mission ends.

In order to complete the job and claim your payment, however, you must leave the wedding party without Julian at your side and return to your Witcher duties alone. He isn’t cut out for such a hard life on the road. He is of noble blood and has responsibilities here at home. Please return him to his kind of people and claim your coin in recompense.

Sincerely,

Francois Reginald Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove

&

Constantina Charlotte Pankratz, Lady de Lettenhove

Geralt glanced up from the contract and out into the main dining room where Jaskier was currently jigging atop one of the surprisingly sturdy tables. The bard’s smile was bright, his voice was strong and clear as he sang of lovers meeting in secret, and his blue eyes twinkled with joy. He loved the attention of performing. How could Geralt take that away from him, even if he would be safer at home? Even if he would be married to another, spending his time with another, caring for another…

But didn’t Geralt care about Jaskier? Isn’t that why he’d risked life and limb over and over to keep the bard safe? Because Geralt loved him? He pushed the thought away with haste and tried to keep his expression neutral. His amber eyes strayed to the upturned hat at Jaskier’s feet. People had been depositing coins there all night and a rather decent pile had sprung up but -

But he could be doing better, Geralt thought. He could be taking a warm bath every night and buying expensive oils from real apothecaries and not sketchy traveling salesmen. He could be dressing in silk every day and never complain about having to wear a woolen doublet for warmth again. He could sleep next to a fire in a real feather-bed. With blankets. He could stay healthy and safe and never go near another angry monster for all his days.

Something in the Witcher’s heart withered and died when he realized just how much he’d been holding Jaskier back; something important. Something the bard had helped him cultivate over six long years of traveling together. In an instant the Witcher had hidden it away in a dark corner to die.

“Alright.”

“Huh,” the messenger smirked. “They thought it would take more bribery to get you to agree, Witcher.”

“It’s not about the crowns,” Geralt shrugged, gaze flitting back up to Jaskier. The bard’s twinkling cornflower-blue eyes met with his and Geralt quickly glanced away, already ridden with guilt and shame over his decision. “It’s about making him happy and keeping him safe.”

“If I didn’t know any better about your kind and their lack of feelings,” the messenger snorted, “I’d say you might even love the Little Lord Pankratz.”

“If I didn’t know any better about myself,” Geralt replied, “I might agree.”

“See you in two weeks, then. Hope you can make it to Redania in time.”

“Why not just portal us there? Jaskier said his family had a hired mage.”

“Busy with wedding preparations,” the man shrugged. “Anyway, I must be going. The Viscount and her Ladyship are eager to hear your reply. See you soon, I’m sure.”

The stranger stood, bowed, and disappeared back to Lettenhove with the signed contract. Geralt swallowed back a mouthful of bile. He hated himself. He really did. But this is what’s best for Jaskier.

---

“Who was that, earlier at the table?” the bard asked. He was lounging on the bed with a tin of lute polish in one hand and a rag in the other. “Did he have a contract?”

“Yes. In Redania, actually.”

“Oh, lovely! It’s almost time for the summer festivals to begin; I can show you the best alehouse in all of Novigrad while we’re there.”

“My job is near Lettenhove. Do you want to go with me?”

“Sure. Might be fun to swing by my old stomping grounds. This doesn’t have anything to do with my canceled wedding, does it?” the bard shot him a pointed look. Geralt schooled his features into some sort of passivity and shook his head.

“Vampires rarely attend the weddings of minor nobility,” the Witcher lied through his teeth.

“Vampires, huh? Nifty. Haven’t had one of those to write about in awhile.”

“Hmm.”

---

“Geralt, help! Geralt, please! GERALT!”

The Witcher tossed and turned, unable to sleep. He kept hearing Jaskier’s raw, heartbroken voice ringing in his ears. He could still smell the desperation and panic that clung to the bard’s soft skin as he struggled to get away from his captors. To get back to where the Witcher stood with Roach and the gatekeeper. Geralt kept imagining those eyes, those fucking beautiful eyes, brimming with tears of betrayal as a liveried servant handed him a velvet pouch stuffed fat with crowns. Oh gods, the way his bard had looked at him…Geralt shoved his head out the window and vomited. There was nothing but the sour sting of bile against his tongue and the back of his throat. He heaved in a breath but choked back the sob threatening to come with it.

“Please don’t leave me here, Geralt! Don’t take the money! I’ll be better, I promise! I won’t talk as much, I won’t touch Roach again, I won’t write any ballads about you, Geralt please, I lo-”

The guards had dragged Jaskier inside and slammed the heavy oak door shut before he could finish his sentence, but the Witcher had gotten the general idea. The bard thought he was doing this out of hatred and not out of the sincerest, purest love Geralt had ever felt. He thought this was a punishment and not a slightly backwards form of rescue. If only the bard could understand.

Jaskier’s love wasn’t unrequited.

The bard stole the very breath from Geralt’s lungs every time their eyes met. Every time Jaskier crowed with pride after finishing a new song about their adventures together the Witcher felt his icy heart melt a little more. Each casual brush of their hands as they walked side-by-side sent his emotions reeling. The way his exuberant bard looked as he strolled beside Roach, the sunshine bringing out streaks of dark red in his chestnut hair and lightening the embroidery on his travel jerkin, it was ethereal. Magical. Overwhelming in all the best ways.

And he’d given it all away for a measly pouch of a coin and a slightly clearer conscious. Or was it?

Geralt retched again as he came to another realization.

He had forced Jaskier into something he didn’t want. Geralt had always given his friend free reign. The younger man came on and off the Path like a bee between flowers, visiting and traveling with the Witcher when he pleased and leaving again for odd jobs or festivals when Geralt wasn’t in the mood for company. But he’d given him no choice about the marriage. No, he’d wrestled Jaskier to the ground and bound his hands. He’d gagged him. He’d flung the bard into Roach’s saddle and tied his crossed wrists to the pommel so he couldn’t pick the knots free and escape. He’d passed Jaskier off to the guards and watched them drag him away as he spit out the gag and started yelling.

As he confessed his love to Geralt after six long years on the Path together.

Fucking hells, what have I done to him?

The suddenly panicked Witcher tumbled from his rented bed and reached for his boots. There was no time to spare. There was no time to waste.

There was only Jaskier.

---

Jaskier couldn’t believe it.

After all this time. After all their adventures. After all the songs he’d written and rooms he’d gotten them at comfortable inns, this is how the Witcher repaid him. Trading him back to his parents for a bag of coin like he was some sort of slave or whore.

He was a bard.

He was Geralt’s bard.

Well, he used to be Geralt’s bard. Now he was going to be Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove and Lord of Rinde by marriage.

He wished he could just stop breathing and disappear. His heart thudded dully in his chest and it felt as if he was floating several feet below the surface of deep water. He was unable or unwilling to surface; maybe both. There was no point anymore, really. Geralt, the only person he’d ever really loved, had trussed him up like a market goose and traded him for silver.

The food his family’s servants brought him laid mostly untouched. He knew how to eat just enough to keep from dying. He’d been in plenty of dungeons and bandit camps before. Jaskier had spent six years following the Witcher’s Path and surviving off of whatever Geralt caught or he traded for. There was no reason to eat any more than what he needed to keep his body alive. There was no reason to get out of bed. Or bathe. Or change clothes. These clothes still smelled like the road. Like lute polish and chamomile oil and Roach and mud and Geralt.

“Please,” his mother begged, clasping his limp hand in both of hers. She’d been sitting at his bedside for maybe an hour, watching him stare listlessly up into the green velvet canopy above him. “Just eat something substantial. Say something. Do something, Julian. We know you aren’t happy with us or our decision but you can’t just lay here all day and wallow in self-pity. You have responsibilities to take care of; Ainsley has grown worried and her father is impatient.”

“The wedding is tomorrow,” he’d replied. There was no emotion in his voice and the monotony was soothing to his own ears. Geralt didn’t like it when he got too excited. Best to be calm and quiet like a good little noble. “I will be presentable. I will be at the altar. I will do my duty for the family.”

“Thank you, Julian.”

“But I will not love her.”

“You never have to love her,” his mother smiled. She gave his hand another small pat before standing and moving towards the door. Her job here was done, after all. “We only need you to marry her.”

---

Geralt pounded up the steps of the keep two-at-a-time. His usually slow heartbeat was now pounding in his ears like a warlord’s drum. He had to save Jaskier, he had to - the door slammed open and something hard went flying into his chest, knocking him back a step. The Witcher reached out a hand to steady the person he’d collided with but his amber eyes were still focused on the castle’s front door. He moved to step around the stranger and into the building when they suddenly spoke. The bard’s voice was pitchy and low from crying all morning: “Geralt?”

“Jaskier?” the Witcher gasped. His grip tightened around the younger man’s upper arm. “Are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” Jaskier looked truly flabbergasted. His expression shifted from shock to anger quickly, however, and the hurt in those blue eyes nailed Geralt to the ground where he stood. “Am I OKAY? You absolute fucking moron; of course I’m not okay. The love of my life tied me up, handed me over to my horrible fucking family like a Beltane offering, and disappeared into the night with a fat bag of crowns. The one person I love most in this world, the only person I’d ever trust with my life or my lute, treated me like a transaction of some sort. I am very much not okay, Geralt of Rivia! Now pick me up, take me to Roach, and get me the fuck out Lettenhove before I have to marry that horrible, terrible, hideous woman!”

The Witcher cracked a smile. Jaskier jabbed a finger into his chest and frowned even more deeply. “Why the fuck are you smiling, Witcher?”

“Because I missed the sound of your voice.”

The bard blushed, his righteous anger faltering.

“I love you too,” Geralt added. Jaskier’s eyes somehow grew even rounder and more watery. “I’m so fucking sorry but I didn’t know how else to protect you. I thought that maybe after coming home and seeing how much nicer it was than being on the Path you might want to stay here and be safe. Live your life normally. I thought you’d be happier here than you were with me. You’d certainly wouldn’t be hurt as often.”

“Did you just say that you love me?”

“Yes.”

“Did you hear me say that I love you, mere moments ago?”

“Yes.”

“Then why the fuck would you try to get rid of me?” The Witcher tried not to flinch when Jaskier placed a gentle hand against his cheek. He’d expected a slap. A kick to the shin. A knee to the groin. Screaming. He hadn’t expected that look of soft understanding to dawn on Jaskier’s boyish face. Despite the knowing sparkle in his eyes, the bard’s voice was sad. “Caged birds never sing, Geralt. What an awful cage it would have been; I'd never see my handsome Witcher again. I'd never attend another royal wedding as entertainment. I'd never write another line of song, much less be able to sing it. I would have been miserable Geralt. I probably would have died much sooner here than I would on the Path.”

“Can you ever forgive me?”

“As soon as you do as I say and get me the hell out of here, then yes, I’ll consider forgiving you, Witcher.”

“Well I suppose we shouldn’t waste any time.”

Geralt flung the bard up and over his shoulder and took off back down the steps at a sprint. He wasn’t going to let those people have his darling Jaskier back. Not if they tried to cage him and take his voice. He knew better now. He understood. 

They loved each other.

The bard was laughing brightly, bouncing along as Geralt made for the stables. He could see his family exiting the Great Hall and making their way in his direction. It didn’t matter. They’d never catch up with his Witcher. He shot them several naughty hand gestures and grinned widely when Geralt swung them both up into Roach’s saddle. “Sorry girl,” he apologized. “Time for our daring escape into the woods.”

---

"Fifteen hundred crowns, huh?" Jaskier asked, eyeing the hefty purple velvet bag.

"Actually there are only fourteen hundred left," Geralt shrugged. He reached into his saddlebag and brought out a small leather pouch, which he handed to Jaskier. The bard opened it, peered inside, and gasped in very genuine surprise.

"Geralt..."

"Do you like it?" the Witcher was worrying his bottom lip between his teeth in the cutest way. Jaskier wanted to answer but his heart was caught somewhere between his throat and his stomach so he couldn't quite form words. He nodded.

"Can you help me put it on?"

"There's no clasp. They aren't meant to have clasps."

"I know."

Geralt's heart soared as he lifted his gift for Jaskier out of the bag and lowered it over his head. The medallion rested just between his collarbones, framed by a tuft of the bard's chest hair. It was a copy of Geralt's wolf medallion, only this wolf held a flower in its mouth. Gently, as if unwilling to break the stem or let it go.

"It's perfect," the bard beamed. His eyes were watery and he blinked the tears free to keep staring at his new jewelry. "Thank you."

"Hmm."

"What do you want to do with the rest of the money?"

"I don't know," the Witcher shrugged. "Maybe go to the coast?"

"I've always wanted to go there!"

Geralt pressed a tender kiss against Jaskier's lips, reveling in the sensation of his bard melting against his chest. They'd spent the last few nights wrapped around each other, whispering secrets and stories into each others mouths until sleep overtook them. Tonight would be no different, except that now Jaskier felt truly safe. He felt loved. He felt utterly surrounded by the happiness that came with being on the Path next to his Witcher. "What are you thinking about, little lark?"

"I'm glad you came back for me. I'm glad we're together now."

"Hmm. Me too."

[holycatsandrabbits]

Tollense, an original serial romance by Dannye Chase, Chapter 3

A history professor falls in love with his best friend, a 3000-year-old vampire.

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Chapter 3

1996 (Three years later)

Liam got a letter in the mail that morning, another one, from New York this time. Liam didn’t know anyone in New York who would send this kind of letter. In any case, they were all from the same person, no matter the constantly changing postmark, and they all said the same hateful, frightening things.

Liam had just tossed this one into the drawer with the others when Kurt appeared out of nowhere, as only he could. Liam had done a bit of research on vampires in the three years he’d known Kurt (as much study as he could on something that was supposed to be fictional), and teleportation was not a common vampire ability. But then Kurt was not a common vampire.

“Morning,” Kurt said, dropping into a kitchen chair. He looked a bit bed-rumpled, but Liam honestly wasn’t sure whether it was because Kurt had been sleeping or because Kurt thought that humans should look bed-rumpled in the morning. “Been for your run yet?” Kurt asked.

“I was just getting ready to go.”

“Want company?”

“You’re not dressed for it,” Liam pointed out, waving a hand at Kurt’s blue jeans, and that caused Kurt to vanish again. Liam was lacing his shoes when Kurt reappeared, this time wearing athletic shorts and, crucially, no shirt. Liam’s fingers tripped over themselves and got tangled in his shoelaces like clumsy people with jump ropes.

Liam had seen Kurt without his shirt on occasionally over the last three years, most memorably when Kurt had shown Liam the scars he still carried from the earliest thing he remembered— a Bronze Age battle. There was a scar above his heart and two on his left shoulder, the marks of flint arrowheads, presumably the wounds that caused his death.

But that was not what caught Liam’s attention when Kurt was shirtless. Kurt had the build of a fighter: a slender waist, sturdy legs, broad shoulders and strong arms. His chest was smoothly muscled around the scars. Meanwhile Liam had the body of a thirty-year-old history professor who went for a run most mornings, but also had a fondness for rocky road ice cream.

Liam wasn’t sure if Kurt knew about the threatening letters. He was also not sure if Kurt knew how fervently Liam desired him. If he was aware of either, or, most importantly, felt any desire in return, he had never said. And while Liam was sorting out the shoelace mess, Kurt pulled on a shirt, so the distraction passed.

The morning was cool, with fog still gathering around the trees. While they ran, Kurt told Liam about a morning in 1914 outside of Ypres, when snow had fallen silently, covering fallen leaves and fallen soldiers alike.

Liam had learned by now that Kurt did not feel the cold. It must have been obvious during a winter campaign, when Kurt’s fingers did not stiffen with frostbite, or his toes blister with trench foot. Sometimes, Kurt had told him, his fellow soldiers thought of him as an indestructible good luck charm. Sometimes they looked on the only member of their group to emerge from a battle unscathed and called him a demon.

A countless number of Kurt’s stories ended with him holding a fellow soldier as he succumbed to injury and passed out of this world.

When they turned back onto Liam’s street, there was a blue car in Liam’s driveway that belonged to one of Liam’s students, Martina. She was standing beside the car, waving at them. Of course, she wasn’t there to see Liam.

When Liam got out of the shower fifteen minutes later, he was surprised to see Kurt in the kitchen alone, drinking the coffee that Liam kept on hand for him. Coffee and water were the only things Liam had ever seen Kurt eat or drink. “Martina didn’t stay?” Liam asked.

“No. She was just returning my jacket.” Kurt looked melancholy for a moment, a brief flash across his features before it faded back into his usual somewhat detached expression. “She met someone else. He’s moving in.”

Liam looked at him in shock. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

Kurt shook his head. “I’m happy for her. She’s about to graduate anyway, so we were going to break it off.”

Martina was not the first of Liam’s students that Kurt had dated. Kurt was very good about it, really. The students he chose were from the graduate program, so all in their mid-twenties or older, and they’d all known what Kurt was. They’d chosen to be a part of his life for a while, providing him with companionship, and, though they didn’t usually state it so plainly, with blood.

“I don’t get attached,” Kurt said. “And I pick those who won’t get attached to me. I don’t have the patience for a line of angry exes. Better to be with those who will part as friends.”

“Have you ever been wrong?” Liam asked. He didn’t look at Kurt, carefully focusing on the toaster and butter dish.

“Accidentally broken someone’s heart, you mean?” Kurt asked. “Or lost my own?”

“Either.”

“Not in a long time.”

“Ah.” Liam buttered his toast with perhaps more force than was called for.

“I investigated him, though. Martina’s new boyfriend. His name is Devon.”

“Investigated,” Liam repeated. He sat down at the table opposite Kurt, accepting the cup of coffee Kurt passed to him.

“He seems like a very nice man. And he loves her.”

“So you read his mind.”

“I can’t read minds.”

“I’m not sure I believe you.”

Kurt looked amused. “I know. But not because I read your mind. In any case, Martina is my friend. She’s under my protection. And so are you.”

This last part was said gently, but Liam caught its meaning as overtly as he was meant to. He let out a groan and pushed away what was left of his toast. “How long have you known?”

“Long enough. The letters are mailed from around the country, but I am almost certain the sender is local. He probably travels a lot, and also has other people mail the letters without knowing what’s in them.”

“That’s what the police think. They also think they’re not serious.”

Kurt seemed immensely unimpressed by this opinion. “So did you do something that some bastard holds a grudge for? Murder his wife? Steal his parking space? Or do you think it’s because you’re gay?”

Liam’s sexuality was not something that had come up in conversation before, so Liam was a bit startled to hear it accurately described. “I have no idea,” he said. “I certainly don’t recall murdering anyone.”

“I’ve looked over the letters. No fingerprints, and I can’t find anything distinctive about the printer he uses.” When Kurt got emotional, he wore it strangely, as if he could be both agitated and unaffected at the same time. Right now his green eyes were bright and his mouth tight. His fingers curled sharply around his coffee cup, blanching white where they gripped too hard. But the rest of his body was still relaxed in the chair, stretched into the sort of lazy pretzel shape that sore legs often took after a run. Liam sometimes wondered what Kurt would be like if he stopped trying so hard to seem human.

“They’re not serious,” Liam told him.

“I’m not convinced of that. You really don’t have suspects?”

Liam shrugged. “Nobody in particular.”

“Ex-lovers?”

Liam focused on his coffee. “I haven’t had one of those for some time.”

“Family?”

“It’s just my sister and me, and we get along fine as long as she can pretend I’m not gay.”

Kurt’s fingers clenched around the coffee cup again. “This is a very intolerant period of history.”

Liam laughed, not unkindly. “It is all history to you, isn’t it? This is just another era to walk through. How odd to—”

“Stop trying to change the subject. Colleagues?”

“I’ve never had any problems. Anyway, the letters are all anti-university. Anti-technology. Unabomber-type stuff.”

“I’m not sure I trust the subject matter. Why send anti-technology missives to a history professor? It still feels personal to me. The one you got today talks about kidnapping you, Liam. That’s a very intimate threat.”

Liam groaned. “How the hell—”

“I read it while you were in the shower.” Kurt did look a little regretful, at least. “Look, I know you don’t like me being all— the way I am—”

“If I minded the vampire stuff, I’d never have agreed to work with you. What I object to is your being sneaky and intrusive on an entirely human level.”

Kurt seemed surprised, which was not a common look on him. He stared at Liam for a moment before saying, “Well, I object to being kept in the dark about your safety.”

“Kurt—”

They were interrupted by the ding noise that Liam’s computer made when he received an email. Normally Liam might ignore it, but at the moment, he welcomed the distraction.

The email was from a colleague in Germany, and as Liam read it, he forgot all about their argument. “Kurt,” he said, in an entirely different tone than the one he’d just used. Kurt was behind him in an instant, moving with that silent speed he had.

Liam traced his finger across the screen, aware that he wasn’t supposed to do that, but he hadn’t quite yet learned not to treat emails like they were pieces of paper. “Look at this. Someone found an arm bone with a flint arrowhead in the bank of the Tollense River in Germany. It’s not— it’s not a giant battle, not yet, just with one body, but it’s the right place, the right time. My colleague thinks this could be what we were looking for, and I think he’s right. Your earliest memory. Your origin. It could be Tollense.”

Kurt had knelt down so that he could read the screen more easily. When he turned his head it brought his mouth so very close to Liam’s. “You did it,” he said softly. “You found it.”

“Well, I didn’t find anything. Someone else—”

“But you put your neck on the line, theorizing about a battle in a time and place no one expected.”

“It’s not like I don’t have eye-witness evidence.”

“But no one knows that. You’ve endured a lot of controversy, trying to help me.”

“Oh, I don’t care about that. I care about—” Liam cut himself off before he could say it.

Kurt seemed to hear it anyway, because he leaned forward and pressed his mouth against Liam’s.

It was a light kiss only for a few seconds, until Liam made an intensely hungry noise and Kurt responded to it, bringing his hands up around Liam’s face to hold him steady. Kurt deepened the kiss, sweeping into Liam’s open mouth with his tongue.

Liam had thought about a kiss like this, thorough and overwhelming, fantasized about it, wondered if it might happen someday because Kurt would read his mind and know how much Liam wanted it. But Liam was suddenly sure in that moment that Kurt could not read minds, or at least, that he’d left Liam’s to its secrets. If he had read it, he would have known not to kiss Liam. Because unlike the students Kurt sought out, Liam was already attached, far too much, to this utterly alien man who kissed with a technique undoubtedly honed over millennia, ranging from soft to strong all in a single lick of his tongue, instinctively knowing which parts of Liam’s mouth were most sensitive, and all with a kindness Liam had never before felt.

It was the kindness that made Liam put his hands up and push Kurt gently away. Liam didn’t want kindness at that moment, didn’t want Kurt offering this kiss out of gratitude or friendship, or because Kurt knew Liam was attracted to men and would probably enjoy it. Even because he was worried about Liam’s safety. Kurt was three thousand years old, and he’d no doubt live for many thousands of years after this. Liam’s lifespan was a drop of water in the river of Kurt’s life. Kurt had said it just this morning— he would never allow himself to get attached.

After the kiss broke, Kurt looked at Liam searchingly for a moment, and then moved away.

“We should— we should visit Germany,” Liam managed to say. Kurt just nodded.

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

The battle of Tollense is a real thing! Here is the wikipedia and another article.

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

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Want to create fic, art, or other works based on this series? Please do! Just dm or tag me.

My previous serials are for Good Omens: Mr. Fell's Bookshop and Love's Endless Light

My Carrd

[flautistsandpeonies]

Prominence Part 1

Read My Prompt [Here]

Word Length: 2,710

Tags: Not for JC Fans, JC’s Canon Characteristics, Not for Madam Yu Fans, Madam Yu Canon Characteristics, Not Jiang Friendly, No Sunshot Campaign, Original Character, Vampires

Almost everyone had heard of Wei WuXian. Picked up from the streets of Yiling at the age of nine and brought to YunmengJiang to be trained amongst its disciples, the orphan was a reoccurring topic through the many sects, taverns, brothels, and businesses of china. For thirteen years, the young cultivator sparked many a sordid story and salacious talks of infidelity, bastard children, bloodlines, and even sword naming of all things.

Some thought positively of the young cultivator, wondering of his promise and imaging what he might accomplish with his cultivation. Others saw the prodigy as a blight on the normal way of life, an arrogant servant who didn’t understand his station. Both acknowledged his strength with a sword, his intelligence, and wit.

All in all, it was common to talk about the young master, whether it was scorn or adoration, it was almost impossible to not pass by one person and not hear the name “Wei WuXian” on their lips.

Especially now...

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

The YunmengJiang Sect was hosting a discussion conference next month.

‘Not surprising, ‘Lan Qiren thought as he set the missive down, ‘Considering the situation’

The letter was short and concise, the way he preferred them. Jiang Fengmian meant to clear up some “misconceptions and rumors” about sudden events and offer a chance to the young disciples of the sects.

A two week discussion conference was to be held, the first dedicated to multiple lectures and the second a week long night-hunting competition.

Sitting to his right, Lan XiChen picked up the letter with inquisitive eyes and stared to peruse. After few minutes, he smiled and set the paper back down on the table with a hum.

“Young Master Wei has certainly come a long way, “XiChen smiled, “Will we attend?”

“There is no reason not to, “Lan Qiren stroked his beard, “It is an opportunity to learn something new, so we shouldn’t squander this opportunity...no matter how unseemly the events surrounding it are.”

While gossip was forbidden in the Cloud Recesses, it certainly was not in Caiyi Town. The many shop and tavern goers always had something new to talk about almost everyday, spreading rumors from the farthest brothels in Runan to the classiest restaurant in Laoling. Due to the town’s proximity to the Lan Sect, it’s disciples often picked up on the gossip whether they wanted to or not.

Lan XiChen gave a slight wince, knowing what his uncle was referring to due to his recent trip to the Unclean Realm, “I...have heard about Young Master Jiang’s injury.”

For the past couple of weeks, the YunmengJiang Sect was the talk of the Cultivation and Civilian worlds. It started with a simple event that exploded into a frenzy of rumors and tales.

Wei WuXian, Head Disciple to YunmengJiang, had recently published several cultivation manuals and even a few night-hunting tools. Now, this, while completely normal, did raise a few brows as no one expected someone so young to suddenly put multiple books out on cultivation. However, no one who truly cared about learning batted an eye and went at the books with a critical eye.

To name a few, there was:

Talismans for the Everyday Life The Hunter: Archery and Tracking Talismans Musical Cultivation: The Difference between the Xiao and Dizi The Stygian Lure Flag and Demon Wind Compass: Uses and Dangers

Due to the books being sold by a well-known and influential merchant, the books were being sold in small shops throughout the cultivation world in the matter of days. The books contained many research notes from various night-hunts, creation processes, and even notes on the failures and set backs found during the research phase; it would be an understatement to say they were a huge success and cultivators sought out these items as soon as they got wind of them.

The problems started soon after.

Everyone who wasn’t living under a rock knew how troublesome the marriage between the Jiang Sect Leader and his madam was. An arranged marriage that left neither participant with any benefits, the two were not a good fit. Even worse, the amount of gossip surrounding the home life of the Jiangs left many secretly wondering how they were still married, no matter how unpractical a divorce would be.

The Violet Spider’s reaction to the books and tools was not pleasant. Having been out on a night-hunt with her son at the time of their publication, she apparently found out by word of mouth. Customers at a restaurant in Ouyang having described the woman shouting in rage, destroying the table of a couple of rogue cultivators, and then rushing out with her heir and retinue.

As the Madam stormed her home, the doors to the sect were left wide open and the close distance to the civilians gave everyone a view of Yu ZiYuan shouting down her husband. Jiang Fengmian’s supposed infidelity and favoring of a bastard child were aired out once again for all in Lotus Pier to hear.

Even worse was the reaction of the heir, Jiang WanYin. Having been given Zidian by the Violent Spider for their night-hunt, the young heir took the whip to his da-shixiong, and the young author ended up brandishing his sword to defend himself. The end result of the fight left Jiang WanYin with a broken arm, and rumors spread that the Madam was now seeking to throw Wei WuXian from the sect.

Truly unpleasant.

Lan Qiren sighed, “Regardless, the Jiang Sect is offering for us to learn directly from Wei WuXian, and the competition their holding would be great experience for the junior disciples.”

Lan XiChen nodded in agreement, “Then I’ll look at our list of disciples and choose whom to take with us.”

Standing, Lan XiChen fixed his robes and then bowed to his uncle, “I have other duties to attend to, but I’ll get to the list as soon as possible. I’ll ask WangJi if he will attend as well. Do you need anything before I go, uncle?”

Shaking his head, Lan Qiren replied, “All is well. I will see you and WangJi later tonight.”

Watching his nephew leave, the elder Lan flicked his beard before standing and fixing his robes. Walking over to his bookshelf, he retrieved one of the newest additions to his personal library.

“Dao: Golden Cores and the many Paths of Cultivation by Wei WuXian”

Having acquired the book from his youngest nephew, Lan Qiren would never admit to having lost sleep trying to finish the book. Giving a thoughtful look at the materials, Lan Qiren couldn’t help but give a huff of amusement.

‘It seems that boy has learned some discipline after all.’

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

The air around Lotus Pier was tense.

Purple clad disciples shuffled into each other, eyes downcast as they bowed at the retinue to Nie disciples, their sect leader, and second heir.

“Chifeng-zun, Second Young Master Nie, ���a lower disciple said almost in a whisper, “Welcome to Lotus Pier.”

Nie Mingjue couldn’t help but frown as the Yunmeng disciples tittered about the gates, whispering amongst themselves. Servants quickly tended to their luggage, hastily informing them of where they would be staying for the discussion conference before scurrying off. Some of their faces were ashen and jittery, as if staying in one place for too long would bring some omen upon them.

‘Perhaps coming was a mistake, ‘he thought

“Da-ge, “the Nie Sect Leader looked to his little brother, “I don’t like this. I really don’t like this.”

“What? You want to go back to the Unclean Realm, “MingJue rasied an eyebrow

“No!, “Huaisang almost screamed in reply, “I...I’m worried about Wei-Xiong.”

Standing in the training ground with their disciples, the Nie brothers watched as disciples and servants alike scurried through the halls of Lotus Pier. All had their heads held downward as if they didn’t want to be noticed.

Nie Huaisang gave his brother a worried frown, “I’ve tried sending letters to Wei-Xiong before we came. The courier told me that Wei-Xiong was to be in seclusion until the discussion conference tomorrow.”

Returning his brother’s look, “Nie MingJue turned to observe the people of Lotus Pier once more

There were a couple disciples on the training grounds practicing their swordsmanship while others were a ways away practicing their archery. The sword training was going poorly, he observed, watching each disciple flinch as the loud *THUMP* of arrows hitting posts reached their ears.

The sight gave him a foreboding feeling.

“Nie Zongzhu, “Nie MingJue turned at the sound

“Jiang Zongzhu, “he nodded at the smiling man, “Thank you for this opportunity.”

“No need, “Jiang Fengmian shook his head, “This type of knowledge should be shared”

Jiang Fengmian turned to look at his training disciples. At the sight of their flinching, the man frowned at sighed.

Nie Huaisang walked to stand beside his brother, eyeing the Jiang Sect Leader.

“Is...is Wei-Xiong alright?, “Nie Huaisang asked while tightly gripping his fan

Jiang Fengmian paused, thinking for a bit, “Ah.....a-Xian is preparing for tomorrow.”

“Is that why he went into seclusion?, “he questioned

“It’s..., “the Jiang Sect Leader sighed, “I’m afraid that’s a personal matter, Second Young Master Nie.”

“But he’s okay, right?, “Nie Huaisang pressed

“He’s fine, “Jiang Fengmian’s smile returned, “You’ve known a-Xian for years. He’s always smiling no matter the adversity.”

Huaisang frowned at the reply, “Yeah...he’s...he’s really great.”

Placing a hand on his littler brother’s back, Nie MingJue nodded at Jiang Fengmian and started to lead his brother away, “Till tomorrow, Sect Leader Jiang.”

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

The first week of the discussion conference seemed to go by in a flash. Each day was dedicated to a specific topic, invention, and/or book, Wei WuXian going into detail and answering any and all questions.

“Young Master Wei, do you intend to publish more?, “a sect leader asked one day

Smiling, Wei WuXian replied, “With more time and research, I plan to improve upon what I’ve already written, but more ideas will follow, I’m sure.”

After each lecture, minor sect leaders clamored to talk with the young man. Others sequestered Jiang Fengmian to a corner, talking up the young man and inquiring about tutoring for their heirs.

“My son is young and brash, perhaps a couple of week under Young Master Wei’s tutelage would straighten him out.”

“Jiang Zongzhu, my daughter has recently come of age and I was looking into decent matches for her. If you’d be inclined, I could get in touch with a matchmaker?”

The first seven days were almost repetitive in this way. Soon, however, the lectures came to an end and the final banquet before the competition was underway.

Like with the lectures, minor sect leaders cornered the Jiang Sect Leader and hounded him with questions and offers. The Jiang Sect Leader could only sigh and smile while he tried to talk down and placate the people around him.

Unlike with the lectures, disciples now felt more comfortable talking to the young Jiang cultivator now that wine was being circulated. Laughing and chatting up the young man, Wei WuXian found himself talking with disciples from multiple sects at once.

The banquet continued like this for a couple more hours. Both sect leader and head disciple moving about the room to talk to as many people as possible before the night’s end.

Said head disciple was currently talking with the leaders of the Lan contingent.

Wei WuXian, “Lan Zhan! It’s been far too long; how are you?”

Lan WangJi, “Wei Ying, “he nodded, “I am well”

Wei WuXian laughed, “That’s great!”

Facing the other two, he asked, “Lan-Laoshi, Zewu-jun, how are you?”

“We’re well, Young Master Wei, “Lan XiChen replied, “It’s been a long time since we’ve last spoken.”

‘It has, “Wei WuXian, “the last was back during the Qishan Archery Competition, wasn’t it?”

“Five years, “Lan Qiren replied, “You seem to have grown.”

“Ah, Lan-laoshi, “Wei WuXian gave a smirk, “Is that a compliment?”

Giving the younger man a blank look, Lan Wiren sighed before walking a little ways away.

“He still hates me, “Wei WuXian laughed at the Twin Jades

Lan WangJi shook his head at the man, “Xiaozhang and I enjoyed your books, “he stated

“Oh?, “Wei WuXian pondered

“Indeed, “Lan XiChen smiled, “I read your book on the Xiao and Dizi and was fascinated. I was wondering if you’d be willing to play a duet with me. Or maybe, try something on a night-hunt?

“A duet?, “Wei WuXian’s eyes widened before he grinned, “Of course, First Master Lan! No one else here plays the flute you see., “he chuckled

“Great, I’ll imagine we’ll have a lot of fun, “Lan XiChen grinned, “I’ll send an invitation for you to come to Cloud Recesses after we’ve settled back at home”

The air around the three men was light and cheerful. Lan XiChen and Wei WuXian chatted away, reminiscing about the past few years, and Lan WangJi added in his commentary when prompted.

Across the room, Yu ZiYuan was like a pot ready to boil over. A dark cloud surrounded the woman, making those not used to her temper and personality stay as far away from her side of the room as possible. Standing next to her was her best friend, Madam Jin.

“I guess it’s true then, “Madam Jin eyed Wei WuXian while he talked with the Twin Jades of Lan, “Has Jiang Fengmian finally admitted that he’s his bastard?, ”she turned to look at her friend

“Hah, no, “Yu ZiYuan laughed harshly, “he still denies it. Says this whole affair was to boost YunmengJiang’s relations. To attract promising disciples to the sects and bolster the coffers”

“That‘s not what most are going to believe though, is it, “Madam Jin scoffed, “He might as well admit it; he’s trying to depose his legitimate child for some half-breed”

At those words, the Violet Spider grew eerily quiet. The voices around them echoed through their ears, laughter and all matter of chatter going on around them. Madam Jin eyes her friend with a curious glace, wondering about the thoughts going through her friend’s head.

As if on auto-pilot, Madam Yu strode forward.

“ZiYuan?, “Madam Jin questioned

Yu ZiYuan stode the the bodies of cultivators, eyes focused on a singular target. Some eyed her warily as she pushed passed them; the rumors from before popping up in some of their heads as they looked to see where she was headed.

“Zewu-jun knows how to jest! Unexpected, “Wei WuXian chuckled, “Ah, Lan Zhan, you never told me your brother was this funny.”

“I wasn’t jesting, Young Master Wei, “the Lan sect’s heir smiled, “I’ve heard about your ChenQing and the melodies she plays.”

“Indeed, “Wei WuXian grinned back, “Oh, Lan Zhan, we could play a duet as well! What do you say? I’ll even let you pick the song. Or, the three of us could play something together.”

“You”

Wei WuXian paused and turned around, “Oh, Yu Furen-

*SLAP*

The sound of the slap silenced the entire room. Eyes turned to see Wei WuXian holding his cheek and Yu Ziyuan’s manicured hand raised high.

“You son of a servant!”

Reaching out, Yu ZiYuan yanked at Wei WuXian long tresses and threw him to the ground. Fisting his hair in her hand, she growled.

“You think you can do as you please in my home? Need I remind you who is the master here? Huh!”

Raising her other hand high, Yu ZiYuan brought it down with force.

*SLAP* *SLAP* *SLAP* *SLAP* *SLAP*

“You think you’re above my A-Cheng. You think you’re the master of YunmengJiang?!”

*SLAP* *SLAP* *SLAP*

“Well, let me tell you something. I am the Madam of YunmengJiang, and you will always be the son of whore!”

With a snarl, Yu ZiYuan threw Wei WuXian’s head back and at the same time kicked him harshly in the face.

“Mother!, “Jiang Yanli‘s voice broke through the crowd, “A-Xian!”

Everyone was frozen where they stood. The vehemence that radiated from Madam Yu shocked them so much she might as well have turned them to stone.

Wei WuXian coughed and sat up, One hand was covering his nose as blood rushed and stained his robes.

The dark cloud around the Violet Spider seemed to grow ever larger as towered over the young man. Her eyes were full of malice and an ugly snarl was stretched across her face.

Zidian unfurled.

“Conniving Dog!, “the Violet Spider seethed with hatred

With a scream, the whip lashed toward Wei WuXian. In front of everyone, the sight of Zidian tearing across his back was burned into their minds.

Flesh and blood flew as the whip dug deep and tore the skin. Rearing back, Yu ZiYuan let out a roar and striked again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

“Sanniang enough!”

For what seemed like forever, the Violet Spider vented her rage at the young man, her grunts, shouts, and insults filled everyone’s ears and bounced around in their heads. After what seemed like an eternity, Yu ZiYuan finally lowered the whip.

Voices cried out.

“Wei-Xiong!”

“Young Master Wei!”

“Wei Ying!”

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

Author’s Notes:

-If there’s any confusion, this is a No SSC fic. So far, the only thing Wen Ruohan did was the Waterborne Abyss, but has not made a move in seven years.

-If you didn’t read the tags, I’ll remind you that this isn’t a fic for JC or Madam Yu fans. I will write them with their canon characteristics, I will not woobify them to fit your fanon nor will I excuse their abusive actions.

Read my other Prompts and WIPs [Here]

[viking-raider]

The Crimson Sun - Mature

Summary: Everything had been perfect with you and August after the Crimson Moon, until they weren’t.

Pairing: August Walker/You

Word Count: 8,257

Rating: Mature - Language, Angst, Soft!August, Trauma, PTSD, Mentions of Terrorism, Grief, Regret, Depression, Night Terrors, Smut - Fingering (F - Receiving), Oral (M - Receiving), Reconciliation

Prequel: The Crimson Moon

Inspiration: The Crimson Moon, that was an Anon ask that @littlefreya​​​ received (x)

Author’s Note: Tell me what you think!

Tag List: @jennylovelyheart, @peakygroupie, @jessevans, @rosie-loves-things, @ohjules, @mary-ann84, @omgkatinka, @the-freak-cassie-131, @wardl0w, @agniavateira, @cap-barnes, @romyr4, @michelehansel, @kaatelyyynn, @badassbaker, @mrsaugustwalker, @authentic-bish-face, @rizeandvibe, @severuined, @supernaturalvikingwhore, @bellastellaluna, @wondersofdreaming, @thisisntmyrightera, @michelle-1185, @winchwm, @royallylazy, @sofiebstar, @worldicreate, @bellastellaluna, @fantasygirlsuniverse, @witches-of-discovery-a, @xuxszx, @ayamenimthiriel, @keiva1000, @itsreigns​, @constip8merm8​, @scorpionchild81​, @mylifefallingupthestairs​, @onlyhenrys​, @luclittlepond​, @ellixthea​, @lebguardians​, @geralt-yennefer-jeskier, @cherrybloomn​, @p3nny4urth0ught5​, @iloveyouyen​, @hollydaisy23​, @mcuimagination​, @psychosupernatural​, @sweetlybigdragonn​, @whitewolfandthefox​, @moviemonzy​, @the-soot-sprite​, @hell1129-blog​, @trippedmetaldetector​, @captaingothgirl1996​, @dont8mind8me8eue​, @peaky-marvel​, @desperate-and-broken21​, @monstersnmoney​, @dancingwendigo​, @redhot-mystacism​, @thereisa8ella​, @black-ninja-blade​, @oddduckthatgirl​, @rosewinx​, @henrythickcavill​, @tinabean37​, @hnryycvll​, @msblkfire84​, @romangenesius​, @emelinelovesjc​, @strangerliaa​, @lovieebby​, @pinksdaydream​, @fanfictionaddiction99​, @seb-owns-these-tatas​, @oh-for-fic-sake​, @sauvage-et-libre​, @mis-lil-red​, @angreav​, @crazyandanonymous4u​, @the-mighty-jellybean​ @henrycavell​, @jimmypagesandbrianmayshair​, @iam-laiya​, @worshipping-skarsgard​, @thetruthandotherstories​, @ruthoakenshield​, @lostinaseaoffictionalbliss​, @theonetheycallhannah​, @nina-skyee​, @thatgirly81​, @inanna999​, @suueeeeeee​, @spideysimpossiblegirl​, @x-wingwarriorbbpoe8​, @beckster07890​, @daddys-littlewhitegirl​, @magic-and-the-macabre​, @stxphmxlls​, @radaofrivia​, @lostinaseaoffictionalbliss​, @starstruckkittyangel​, @heartfelt-pen​, @stuckupstucky​, @dummiesshort​, @la-cey​, @singeramg​, @queenoftheworldisdead​, @brooklymw​, @raspberrydreamclouds​,

“August.”

You whimpered in your sleep, head thrashing on your pillow. “August.”

“Baby.”

“August!” You screamed, snapping upright.

“It's all right, baby.”

A deep and sleepy voice whispered, a heavy and sluggish arm wrapped around your waist and slid you over to a heavy body, warm from sleep and the down winter blankets, to fend off the icy cold of the bedroom and the three feet of snow outside.

“Ssshh, lay down with me.”

A second arm coaxed you over the strong and muscular body, palm cupping the back of your head as you buried your face into a warm chest, a silent and choked sob muted in your throat, snot from your nose making a mess of the hair there, the solid and real thump of a heart against your cheek. A blanket was pulled over you, creating a cocoon, against the cold and the world outside of it, as strong and broad palms rubbed and pressed firm circles, up and down your back, fingers brushing through your hair, soothing your frightened and shell shocked body into relaxing.

“I'm right here.” August whispered, coddling you tenderly. “I haven't left you, Angel.”

August had grown accustomed to your night terrors by now, they'd been happening every night for the last three months, ever since the accident in Kashmir. He would stay awake for hours after you fell asleep, caressing your cheek and hair, keeping you tucked against his body, so you could feel the touch of his skin, the warmth of his body and the beat of his heart, making sure you knew he was still there with you, by your side, alive and healthy.

He was your Guardian Angel, he always had been and he always would be.

You rubbed your cheek against his snotty chest and let out a shaky breath, shivering against his body as you laid on top of August, the only place you really felt safe, in his arms. “I'm-I'm sorr--”

“Ssshh, Angel. It's all right, I keep telling you that.” August replied, kissing the top of your head and giving you a reassuring squeeze. “I can't have you being afraid. What kind of husband would I be, hm?” He cooed at you, the soft hairs of his mustache brushing your forehead.

“If I let you be afraid?”

August entered the spacious apartment you both shared, you had moved in with August a month after dating. It was a simple and minimalist apartment, the walls were a warm gray color, the floors, glazed concrete, a curved, seventy inch and mounted tv on the wall, in front of a lazy boy, big enough for two, you and August loved cuddling on the massive recliner, while watching your shows. The rest of the apartment was similar, other than August's decked out office for his business as a CIA Agent, and his even more secret work as the Chief Apostle, John Lark.

The room with the most attention to detail, was the bedroom, with a massive and elevated bed. You had slept in August's bed one night, before he tossed the mattress he had and bought the best and top of the line mattress to replace it. You had been severely injured on one of your first operative missions, which caused two pinched nerves in your left hip and bad lower back, so after that first night you woke up stiff and in agony. August wasn't going to stand for that, he didn't care how much money he had to spend on a mattress, as long as you were comfortable, pain-free and slept well.

“Angel?” He called out.

August had never called you by your name, first, last or middle for that matter. When you first met, he addressed you as You or Girl. After you started dating, August started calling you; baby, darling and sometimes, Bug. He'd call you, Sweet Buns, if he was in a mood, but, his go to was simply, Angel. You were his Angel, his beam of light, in a world that had been nothing but darkness and pain to him since he was four years old.

“Angel.” He called out again, brows creasing.

He knew you were home, your car was in its spot, your shoes by the front door and your favorite coat was hung up. He mounted the stairs to the second floor and carefully moved down the hallway, like a panther stalking its prey. August found the bedroom door for half open, the light on, but didn't hear anything on the other side, so he slowly pushed it open with one hand, while the other reached to the gun on his hip, expecting something bad. But, the bedroom was empty as well, his paranoid and suspicious nature starting to elevate, but he kept his usual calm and cool nature pristine.

“Angel?” He said in his normal tone of voice, carefully sliding the gun from its holster and thumbing open the safety.

“Gus?” You replied, coming out of the walk-in closet, holding something in your hand.

“What do you have there, Bug?” He asked, clicking the safety back on his gun and holstering it again, relaxing, seeing you were all right.

You held out your hand and August's face went slack. “Is this?” You looked up at him, jittery.

“You weren't supposed to find that.” August sighed, taking a box from you. “Were you snooping?” He asked, giving you a sly and mischievous smirk.

“No, I was packing.” You told him, blinking at him. “Moore contacted me an hour ago, with a contract for MI6, they're sending me to do some work in Belgium.” You explained to him, seeing that alerted look in his blue eyes.

August had well hidden and cultivated abandonment issues, from his father running out on him and his abusive mother, as a child. So, every time you told him you were packing to go somewhere for work, that little plant in his belly would bloom. You smiled at him, gripping his wrist and giving it three squeezes. That little blooming plant was never spoken about. You tried talking to August about it once, and it ended up with him flying into a rage and disappearing for a week, and when he came back he was a complete mess.

So, you'd developed a reassuring tick with him, touching him three times in any way, a squeeze or a tap, even kisses, if the situation allowed it.

“How long are you going to be gone?” August asked, gripping the box in his hand.

“At least a month.” You informed him.

“Well, this isn't at all how I planned it.” He sighed, releasing it and flipping open the black suede lid. “Angel,” He smiled brightly at you, dropping to a knee. “Will you marry me?”

Butterflies fluttered in your stomach and you cupped his scruffy face in your hands. “August Walker, wants to get married? Who is this impostor?” You teased him.

He had told you flat out, on the first date, to never expect anything more than a boyfriend and girlfriend relationship, marriages were too messy and clingy, traceable and always fell apart.

“I know, I'm breaking my own code and rules on the matter.” He chuckled at you, turning his head to kiss one of your palms. “But, you've made me a changed man, Angel. I want to marry you, I want to keep you forever and ever.”

You felt giddy. “Yes, August. I'll marry you.” You giggled, excited at the prospect of being his wife.

The two of you married that afternoon, just the two of you, no one else in the world mattered. It was seven months after the Crimson Moon, and everything felt so good and peaceful.

It lasted like that for almost three years, three blissful years of marriage, kicking ass and taking names, for the CIA and MI6. But, both of you should have known better, having lived the lives you had, before and during undercover work.

It all started to crumble, when you got the missive at your accustomed drop off for them. Your hands shook and grew damp as you held the manila folder with the name, John Lark, type on the lip with a typewriter.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god.” You mumbled, stuck in a loop and shaking. “Oh fucking god.”

You couldn't bring yourself to open it.

Shoving the folder into your bag, you scrambled back home, August was away on his own mission with Ethan Hunt, somewhere in Paris. You paced the apartment, spiraling between the deepest despair, furious rage and blinding tears, screaming at the top of your lungs; luckily your neighbors were used to August making you scream, and a variety of other noises that came out of the apartment, when you were both home together.

Finally, you just melted into a sobbing mess on the kitchen floor, knowing you had no choice, but to track down your own husband.

Once you pulled yourself together, you opened the folder, still sitting on the kitchen floor. There were archive photos on the Apostles, all blurred and barred, but you quickly identified August in nearly all of them, it was a wonder how no one put two and two together already. His signature mustache was as immaculate as ever, even back then, his height and build, that made your body react despite being in severe shock and it being a photograph.

“Damn it, August.” You sighed, finally getting to the mission report.

'John Lark, radical leader of the Apostles, splinter group from Solomon Lane's now dismantled, Syndicate.' Read the start of the report. 'Lark is credited with what is called, the Manifesto.'

You flipped over the report and saw the declassified copy of the Manifesto and the first line alone made you shiver. 'There has never been peace without first a great suffering, the greater the suffering, the greater the peace.'

“What the fuck have you been up too, Gus.” You asked aloud, rubbing the side of your face and going back to the rest of the report.

'Lark and his Apostles have already released the deadly agent, Smallpox, to kick start their Manifesto for world peace. Intel has reported that John Lark would be seeking a person only known as, the white widow, in Paris, in an attempt to retrieve three Plutonium cores and fashion them into some of the strongest bombs, since the Atomic bomb, during World War II.'

Your eyes were fixed on the last line, August, your beloved husband, was trying to make bombs to destroy half of the world, all in the frightening name of peace. It felt like someone was pouring ice cold water down your back, remembering all those nights in bed, after rounds and rounds of mind blowing sex, how August always promised that he would make the world a better place for you, tenderly playing with you hair and kissing your forehead and temple, til you drifted off to sleep.

To think this was what he had been doing in those long nights holed up in his office. Making the world a better place..

“For me.” You dropped back against the door of the dishwasher and stared down at the stupidly expensive wedding ring on your finger, wondering how many people August had killed to buy it for you.

Sighing, you unclasped a gold necklace August had bought you for your last birthday and slipped your wedding onto it, before slipping it back around your neck. You always put it there, when you were about to go on a mission, for both security, if your enemy couldn't see a ring, then they wouldn't have something to leverage against you, and it still kept August close to your heart.

Going upstairs, you pulled out your carry size duffle bag and the locked case for your firearm, putting on your holster and securing your gun to your hip, checked the rest of the kit you took with you and packed it with a couple pairs of clothing. Before you headed out to hunt August down, you stopped, picked up the report on Walker and Lark, shredded it and burned it in the fire grate, covering up any traces of having the file.

“Marco, it's me.” You said, getting into your car. “I'm going on vacation, can you make sure the plane's ready for me. Thanks.” You pulled out of your parking spot, looking up at the apartment that had been home for the last five years and wondered if you would ever see it again.

“How about a nice and warm cup of tea?” August asked, nuzzling your hair and knowing it was going to be a little while before you managed to fall back to sleep.

“Okay.” You whimpered, your voice distant and detached, the nightmare playing over and over in your mind.

Nodding and kissing your hair once more, August let you slip out of his embrace and got up, making sure your little blanket cocoon stayed intact as he did, knowing that being hidden in the blankets made the world feel smaller and less heavy for you. Biting his bottom lip against the hiss of icy needles shooting up his bare feet, the fire in the grate had long since died, so the raging blizzard outside had been able to reach its claws into the rest of the house as August padded his way downstairs to the modest kitchen. He pulled your favorite cup and tea down from the cabinet, filled the kettle and set it on the gas stove burner. He stood in the kitchen, staring out the huge breakfast nook window, seeing nothing but a blanket of snow on the ground and everything else blurred by the flurry of snow, whipping around the secluded house, it made August feel like he was trapped in a snow-globe.

He hated snow-globes.

Even though he was naked and his skin rippled with chills, August didn't move from his spot to find warmth. He felt that he didn't deserve it.

“I don't deserve it.” He answered his conscious back. “Not for what I've done to her.” He whispered into the white void in front of him.

Your words from Kashmir still echoed in his skull.

“August!”

He was making his way to the helicopter, he only had fifteen minutes to get away from the village, before it was too late, when he heard your voice. At first, he thought that it was just his imagination, it had a habit of conjuring your voice when he was about to do something dangerous, his little canary.

“August, stop!”

He froze, that wasn't his imagination.

His blue eyes steadily started to grow and a tight chill gripped his heart as he slowly started to turn around, praying under his breath that he was just hearing things, projecting your voice over Hunt's. But, no. There you were, standing a yard away, your gun trained on him and an utterly crushed expression on your exhausted face, you hadn't slept well, to not at all, for the week you had been tracking him down.

You could have just called him, like you always had, when you decided to join him on a mission, but you knew August all too well and he knew you even better. The moment he heard your voice, he would know something was up.

“What are you doing here?” He snapped at you, looking up the hill behind you, seeing Hunt appear on the crest. “Fuck.” He mumbled under his breath, then held his hand out to you. “Come on, you have to come with me.”

“No, August.” You shook your head at him, blinking the blinding tears out of your eyes. “Give me the fail safe, August.” You held out your own hand.

“I can't, Angel.” He replied, shaking his head back at you and gripping the device tighter.

“Please, August. Don't do this.” You begged him, your hands starting to shake. “You don't have to do this.”

“But I do, Angel.” August let out a shaky breath. “I'm doing this for you, for us.”

“I don't want this!” You barked at him, exasperated and wounded.

“I'm going to do it anyway, come with me. It's not safe here, Angel.” He tried convincing you.

“No, August.” You shook your head at him. “I won't be able to live with this. Is it more important for you to 'bring great suffering for the greater good' than my own conscious is?”

“No, Angel. It's not.” He gulped, thickly.

“Then, give me the fail safe, August.” You motioned for it. “Stop this, if not for the greater good, but for me. There's still time to fix this!”

August looked between you and the fail safe clutched tightly in his hand, you could see him starting to relax, slowly making up his mind about giving you the fail safe to the two bombs that were armed and ready to be set to their fifteen minute detonation countdown. He took a careful step towards you, and you let out a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding since getting the mission to take August down.

“Walker!” A voice behind you screamed, sounding very pissed.

“No.” You whimpered, watching the stubborn and cold expression wash over August's face and eyes. “August, no!” You yelled at him, as he turned on his heel and started marching towards the helicopter he was going for, when you stopped him.

He got into the helicopter and it was like he didn't see you anymore, his eyes glued to someone charging up behind you. You dropped your arms to your sides, defeated, and heartbroken as you watched the helicopter fly away. The person that snapped August into his John Lark alter-ego slid to a stop beside you, looking after his helicopter as well, huffing and puffing, then looked at you.

“Who are you?”

“Ethan Hunt, I'm assuming.” You asked, a steely coldness washing over you, purely a defense mechanism against the turmoil brewing and raging inside of you.

“The same.” He answered, frowning at you.

“I'm an agent for MI6, tasked with stopping one John Lark, also known as August Walker.” You told him, your voice toneless. “And you just fucked that up, along with my life.” You hissed, turning on a dime and marching back to the helicopter you had arrived in, resolved to go after August before he could start the countdown.

'Is it more important for you to 'bring great suffering, for the greater good' than my own conscious.'

The whistle of the kettle pulled August out of his thoughts with a full body quiver of cold and guilt. He pulled the kettle off the fire and poured the steaming hot water into your prepared cup, then turned off the stove, setting the kettle on the cold back burner. He held your cup between his hands, driving out some of the cold from his chilled body; so cold now, that his cock felt like concrete. Sighing, August took the hot cup back upstairs to you, sitting your tea on the bed stand, then turned to the cold fireplace. Squatting down, August pulled out several logs from the firewood box, by the fireplace, and set about stacking them on the ashes of the previous fire, with an almost OCD-like precision. He stayed there for a minute or two, ensuring that the fire caught the oak logs, adding another log for good measure, before standing back up and sitting on the edge of the bed, where the lump of your body was in the mound of blankets.

“You can come out now, Angel.” He whispered, rubbing your leg through the blankets. “I got the fire going again, it'll be warm soon.”

Sighing, you fold back the blankets from over your head and look up at him, your eyes are dim, bloodshot, red rimmed and lashes wet with tears. It crushed August every time he saw your face, knowing he was the reason and cause of all your trauma, heartache and tears. He cupped your cheek in his hand, gently wiping away the stray tears before they could dampen your cheeks anymore than they had already.

“I'm sorry.” He muttered, for what could have easily been the trillionth time.

You frowned up at him, then cast your eyes away from him, at least you could look at him for a moment or two now and stand him touching you. For the first month after Kashmir, it was hard for you to look at him, or anything that even belonged to August, much less stand his touch or hear the sound of his voice. August took all of it, bearing his punishment, you shying away from him, the silent treatment and the long, cold nights of an empty bed, because being in the same bed, the same room, as him was just too much for you to take. You still barely uttered a word to him, going from head shakes, sighs and shoulder shrugs to single, monosyllabic words.

You hadn't even wanted to do that, you thought, sitting up in bed and reaching out for your tea.

It was the third night in a row.

That you woke up from the new reoccurring nightmare. August missed the first one you had, being downstairs, staring at the bright screen of his laptop. The second one, he just stood in the hallway outside the door of the guest room you hold yourself inside of, listening. You had woken up him, crying out his name. At first, he feared they had found you and were trying to take you, ripping blankets off his body, nearly tearing his pillow in half to grab his gun that lived under it now and raced down the hall to you. But, when his fingertips touched the door to your room, he stopped dead and cold, you were gasping for breath, like you'd been choked by a powerful hand, choking on your tears and snot, hugging yourself, nails digging into the skin of your shoulders and drawing blood, your mind's feeble attempt to prove you were awake, as you rocked yourself back and forth, back and forth.

The third one, some part of you no longer cared, you needed to be next to August, you needed the warmth of his skin against your cold skin, you needed to feel the soft waves of his breathing against your shoulder and neck as he spooned you into his real and intact body, you needed to feel the pounding of his heart against your back or cheek.

It was the only thing that chased the dream away.

The cold wind that blew against your face as you looked out the open door of your helicopter, August's own helicopter nothing, but a black dot, against the snowy peaks in front of you. You leaned forward and bumped your fist against the aircraft pilot's shoulder, a signal, to go faster. Nodding his head, the pilot picked up speed, pushing the craft as fast as it could go; which wasn't fast enough for you. You frowned, hearing the whoosh of another helicopter's blades getting close to yours. Leaning out and looking back, you saw the third helicopter in time to see someone get thrown out of it.

“What the fuck?” You snapped as it caught up with yours.

You met the determined eyes of Ethan Hunt, who stared blankly back at you. Growling, you flipped Ethan the finger and sat back.

“Ignore him.” You told the pilot over the headset. “We don't change course or directive.”

'I just hope we make it to August, first.' You thought, keeping your eyes out the front windshield of the helicopter, on the steadily growing dot of August's.

“Here.” He whispered, taking a soft throw blanket off the back of a chair in the corner and laid it over your bare shoulders, as you sat in bed, sipping your tea. “Better?” He asked, tilting his head to see your down turned face.

“Yeah.” You nodded around the rim of your cup.

“Good.” He half smiled, moving around to the other side of the bed and slipping under the covers with you, seeking the fragile warmth he knew was there.

The room was quiet, except for your careful sips of the hot and flavorful liquid; August had perfected how you liked your tea, what felt like a lifetime ago, and the crackle and pops of the fireplace, the heat of which was finally beating the snowy cold back outside the walls of the master bedroom. Your mind wandered off to the only other subject it wanted to think about, how long would you and August be in hiding, here in the cabin he had hidden in the deep, snowy woods of Siberia. It had already been three months, and August had told you it would only take four, before everything died down, thinking August was dead.

But, that wouldn't stop what the agencies must be thinking about what happened to you, in the aftermath of Kashmir.

Hunt's helicopter managed to over take yours, much to your frustration and terror.

You were forced to hopelessly watch as Hunt tried dropping some type of payload on top of August's helicopter. Luckily, August's pilot was able to make an evasive maneuver and dodged it, sending the load crashing into a lake below. You had spots in your eyes from the levels of stress and migraines you had been suffering the last week of hunting your bull-headed husband down, always just one step behind him.

It wasn't until you ran into Ilsa, that you found out that August was heading to Kashmir, India, where he and Solomon Lane, who August helped break out and let loose, were planning on pulling off their coup de grâce, that the Syndicate had failed to finish, because of Hunt, and the Apostles were trying to finish, with the help of August and his damned Manifesto.

You slammed your tight fist down on your thigh, trying to control your temper as it bubbled up inside of you. You'd never forgive August Walker for putting you through this. You had begged him to keep you out of the Apostles' way. But, you had fallen on your own sword, when you fell in love with him and you had shot yourself in the foot, when you married him. You had broken the agency code and rules, 'don't fall for your enemy', and while August as himself wasn't your enemy, August as John Lark, was your enemy.

Why hadn't you just left him, when he told you the truth behind who John Lark really was? Why hadn't you had him cuffed, then and there, and taking in, to be interrogated and stopped, just like Lane had been?

The answer always came back the same, 'I love him.'

“Idiot.” You hissed out loud, catching the attention of the pilot. “Not you.” You barked at him, rolling your eyes.

You looked up and saw how close the three helicopters had gotten together, close enough for you to see tracer rounds and bullets flying out of the open door of August's helicopter and into Hunt's. It wasn't until almost too late, that the pilots realized how close to a mountain peak the three aircrafts were.

The pilot for August tried pulling back, which only caused Ethan to ram into the back of them, then domino into yours, all three colliding. Your helicopter nose dived, crashing into the other side of the peak and crushed the whole front of it, killing your pilot on impact. Hunt's flipped end over end, then rolled, while August's rolled and skidded to a stop, perilously close to the edge of the peak. He panted as his plane settled, and worked on trying to undo his seat belt, only to hear the rolling metal of Hunt's plane, still coming down the mountain side, slamming into his and sending them over the edge, to a shelf below.

Struggling for a moment and growling, you yanked the tactical switchblade out of your boot and cut yourself free of your seat belt, landing sideways on the roof of the upside down helicopter. Digging out some of the snow blocking the only way out of the wreck, you shimmied out of it and turned, blood running down the side of your face, your whole body throbbing and screaming, blood seeping through the shirt you were wearing, but you didn't bother looking at whatever the cause was. You had to get to August, just catching his and Hunt's helicopters colliding and slipping over the edge.

The cold was a blessing after all, as you trudged as quickly as you could to the edge, numbing away all your pain, psychically and emotionally, your mind too distracted on your target and mission to consider freezing or bleeding to death. Stumbling to the edge of the peak, you looked down and let out a breath of relief seeing August crawl out of his wreckage, mostly unharmed, but you also saw Ethan doing the same. You desperately tried to think of something to do, you couldn't yell, you were too far from them to hear you and the peak was too shear for you to try and rock climb down by hand.

So, you were forced to watch August and Ethan duke it out, fighting and fumbling in a dangerous game of cat and mouse, for the fail safe attached to August. You stopped breathing several times as you watched them get to the edge of the shelf, teetering, before righting themselves and moving away again. Ethan was finally able to grab the fail safe from August, both of them out of breath from their exertion and the high altitude. You watched them talk, too far to hear whatever it was they were discussing, no doubt trying to make a case for why each of them was right for what they were trying to do for the world. Ethan shook his head and August's body tensed with a rekindled rage, charging Hunt like a bull.

“August!”

You screamed, eyes huge as Ethan dodged out of the way and August went stumbling towards the edge, trying to stop himself, before he fell.

“August!” You screamed even louder.

He teetered for a moment, before the rock beneath him crumbled and he fell, your heart and stomach plummeting with him.

You had no idea how long you were out, or how long after watching August die, that you blacked out. But, when you woke up to an incessant and annoying beating sound in your ears, your exhausted mind became aware of how much pain you were in, a moment later, and whimpered, shifting and struggling.

“Hey now.” A soft voice called to you, a strong hand gripping yours. “You're all right now. You're safe, just calm down and rest.”

“August.” You mewled, the images of him falling flashing in your mind, like an old film reel. “Oh god, August.”

The hand holding yours let go, the sound of hard soled shoes clacking against linoleum, moving away, and a door opened, before the voice whispered to someone outside the room. “She's awake and calling for him.”

You lost consciousness again, only to wake a few minutes later, a warm palm cupping your bruised cheek, making you reach out and wrap a weak hand around a thick wrist. The room was quiet for a while, the only thing you were aware of was that warm hand cupping your face and the strong pulse against your own palm.

“August.” You whined, having drifted back off to sleep and dreaming about him again.

“Ssshh.” The owner of the hand replied. “I'm right here. Don't fret, Angel.”

Your eyes snapped open and you looked up to see August standing by your bedside, a soft and tired smile on his face. He had a black eye and a split lip, but other than that, he looked perfectly fine. You frowned, wincing at you did, and shook your head, not understanding.

How was he there with you, you had watched him fall, there was no way he could have survived.

Could he?

“August?” You choked around a lump of tearful confusion.

“Yeah, Angel.” He smiled at you, gingerly sitting down beside you.

“Ho-how?” You licked your split and chapped lips. “I watched you di--”

“No, Angel. I didn't die.” He chuckled at you, then winced, pressing a hand to his ribs. “I managed to catch myself on a small ledge, not too far down from the shelf.” He explained, reaching out to pick up a paper cup with a bendy straw in it, tenderly holding it to your lips, so you could wet your throat.

“Hunt thought I was dead, and got picked up by his crew.” He went on to explain to you. “You know how much of a cautious man I am, bug. All I had to do was hold on long enough for them to leave, then I took this handy little thing out of my pocket.”

He removed a small, square device out of his pocket, it had a button on it and a blinking red light above that, it looked like a car fob.

“It's a GPS locator.” August answered your silent question. “I press it and my Apostles will show up, wherever I am.” He told you, putting it back into his pocket. “It's a lucky thing for you too. They saw you laying out in the snow as they flew over to land on the shelf. Two of them climbed up and got you, while the others pulled me up. I didn't have anything more than a busted lip, black eye and a couple of broken ribs.”

You laid there listening to him, trying to connect all the information he was giving you.

“You, on the other hand, have a pretty nasty cut on your head.” He, very gingerly, touched his fingertips to the twelve stitches along your hairline. “You have a concussion and been out for a couple of days. But, this was the injury that made me fear for you.” He said, pulling down the hospital blankets and moving your hospital gown aside, revealing a ugly gash on your side and stomach, just above your hip, closed with a line of staples.

“Part of the door handle to your helicopter got dislodged in the wreck and went through your side.” He frowned at the wound, feeling overwhelming guilt. “You lost consciousness from the blood loss, and would have bled to death, if it wasn't for all the snow you were laying in, and the boys getting to you, when they did.”

That cast your net of alarm farther than just August being alive. “Where are we?” You asked, eyes darting around the dark room.

“Somewhere safe, don't you worry about that, Angel.” August assured you, fixing your gown and blankets. “It's the home base of the Apostles, we have one of the top doctors in the world in our fold. He's the one that stitched you up.” He said, sounding incredibly grateful for it.

“What about Hunt?” You asked, not reassured at all. “The CIA, MI6, everyone else? They know you're Lark, August. When they find out...”

“Ssshh.” He hushed you, shaking his head and patting your leg. “Don't worry about any of that, Angel. Let me worry about it. You just worry about resting and healing up. I have somewhere we can go, for a few months. Then, everything will calm down, in four or five months, and we'll go from there.”

“All right?” He smiled at you, leaning in to kiss you on the lips, but you turned your head, his lips meeting your cheek; it cut August to the quick.

“I know you're upset with me, for doing what I did.”

You stared out the half shaded window in your room, taking a deep breath of the overly clean air, and nodded your head. You needed time to think and process everything, the man you loved, that you bound yourself to with an 'I do', three years before, and had broken your trust. You knew, you weren't innocent in the matter, you had known who August really was and ignored it, bottling it up and pretending it wasn't real. A part of you, deep down inside, also knew that August would one day step over that line that would force you to choose.

Would you step away from August, still loving him, but unable to live with his actions and move on? Maybe, even turn him in.

Or

Would you decide to step over that line with him? You had promised and vowed, 'for better or for worse', and you had been through both with August.

You didn't know.

You wondered, if MI6 thought you also died in the crash on the mountain. But, they would investigate the area, they had to make sure August was dead, and would be suspicious, if they didn't find his body, and would probably start drawing speculations, when they didn't find yours, or when you didn't report in afterwards; telling them that you had miraculously survived and gotten off the mountain, somehow, on your own.

It all made your head hurt and made you feel like you were being slowly dragged down to hell.

Could you feign amnesia? Stockholm Syndrome? Blackmailed or kidnapped? If you did decide to leave August, and let him pay for all the wrongs he made, in the name of 'greater peace'. You probably could, everyone knew how dominant, imposing and persuasive August could be. He had almost fooled Sloane into thinking Hunt was really Lark, not naming the countless others he had manipulated and turned for his own uses and purposes.

'Holy shit,' You suddenly thought. 'Had August been manipulating me, for his own reasons?'

You looked at Walker from the corner of your eyes, he was resting back against the headboard, his eyes closed as he lounged, probably taking a quick cat nap, you kept him up most nights with your nightmares, so he was just as tired as you were. August had also been holding secret and down low meetings with nearly every member of the Apostles and other contacts he had out in the world. You were never privy to those discussions, he didn't want to drag you any deeper into his dark world than he hadn't already.

'But, what did that matter?' You considered yourself.

True enough, you had tried to carry out your mission, to stop August from blowing up half the world for his crazy notion of peace and harmony, but you had also failed at it. You had unwittingly helped August as well, you covered his tracks, keeping his secret life and dealings to yourself, ignoring every hint and spot of evidence that could send Walker to jail for the rest of his natural life, and his afterlife for that matter. Your bosses and colleagues had several briefings and meetings about the Syndicate, Solomon Lane, the Apostles and John Lark, and even though your palms sweat through all of them, you kept your lips zipped.

You would more than likely share the same dark cell August would, in the end.

“August?” You whispered, your voice rough from such little use and screaming out in your dreams.

August startled awake, blue eyes wide and searching the room, before they rested on you, the alarm turning into shock, it was the first time you had said his name, in the last three months, that wasn't from you dreaming. He gulped and sat up beside you, arm loosely wrapped around your waist.

“What is it, Angel?” He whispered back, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“Why?” You rasped, blinking at him, softly. “Why did you tell me about being Lark?” You asked him, clutching onto the little remaining heat of your tea, like a life preserver in the seamless ocean you were stranded in. “Why did you...” You paused and cleared your throat.

“Why do you love me, yet tear me apart with all of this?”

He sighed and pressed his lips to your forehead, squeezing his eyes shut. “I never meant to fall in love with you, Angel. I tried my hardest not to, please believe that.” He rested his fingertips under your chin and tipped your head to look up at him. “I never meant or wanted to drag you into this fucked up world I inhabit. I wanted to protect my sweet Angel, with everything I have.”

“But, I'm a selfish and greedy man. When I want something, I want it and nothing, no one, not even myself, can stop me from getting it. I desire you above all else.”

“Yet, you still tried blowing up the world, when I begged you not too.” You replied, bottom lip quivering, it hurt so much. “Why? Because it was Hunt?”

“Yes.” August sighed, nodded his head. “He stopped Lane from acting out his plans and I didn't want him doing the same to me. Though, he did, in the end. I can't take back leaving you there, I wanted you to come with me. But, I knew you wouldn't, not my Angel.”

“That I've started to corrupt, like the demon that I am.” He hissed into your ear, angry only at himself.

You closed your eyes and rested your temple against his forehead, tucking your almost empty cup between your legs. “Part of me hates you, for what you've done to our lives, what you tried to do to the lives of so many others.”

“I deserve that.” He whimpered, biting his lip. “And more.”

“But,” You mumbled, finger circling the rim of your cup.

“But—what, Angel?”

“All I really want.” You sniffled, tears dripping down your cheeks and August kissing them away. “Is to be with you.” You said it, so softly, it took a moment for August to be sure it's what you said.

August smiled, nuzzling your hair and face, his nose rubbing against your cheek and nose, pressing sweet and small kisses to your neck. He was shy about kissing and touching you intimately again, it had been nearly six months since the last time you both made love, the night before he left for Paris, with Hunt. He took it slow, in case you changed your mind and repulsed him, but so far, you had gently reacted to him, nudging your face against his.

Smirking, August took your cup and set it aside on your night stand and tugged the blanket off your shoulders, the heat from the roaring fire had made the room toasty, leaving you and August sweaty. You wrapped an arm around his shoulders, turning into his body as his small kisses grew to open kisses, leaving love bites on your neck and throat, as he trailed down your chest, tasting your skin and the salt of your sweat. He moaned, closing his mouth around your nipple, flicking his tongue at it until it pebbled, then started biting and sucking at it, squeezing and palming the other one, so it didn't feel left out.

“August.” You panted, carding your fingers through his damp curls. “Ah, fuck.” You hissed as his fingers slipped into the waistband of your panties and started petting your neglected clit.

“You're so sensitive, Angel.” He cooed around your breast, his eyes a stormy-blue with lust. “You haven't been touching yourself, while I was away.” He teased you, giving your clit a couple of flicks of his finger, making you cry out.

“It's not the same.” You panted, your head falling back and fingers gripping his hair.

“Oh, then I definitely want that delectable pussy around my cock.” He laughed, finger teasing your entrance. “You are going to gush so hard around me, Angel. You're already a dripping mess.” He said, removing his hand from your panties and spreading his thick fingers, seeing the thick string and film of your arousal between them, sparkling in the firelight.

“Fuck, I've missed this.” He rumbled, sucking his soaked fingers into his mouth and moaning around them, your taste overpowering his tastebuds.

Your pupils blew out watching him suckle his fingers, eyes closed, in ecstasy. Growling, you laid back and lifted your hips, yanking your ruined panties off impatiently and tossed them to the floor. Sliding a hand up and down August's back, you coaxed him to lay down with you, moving your hand over his chest, caressing his cowboy beard, then trailed down his stomach, circled his naval, then dripped between his legs, finding his hard member, that never really softened. August slowly licked his lips and moaned, rocking his hips into your hand as you stroked his shaft, swiveling and rubbing your thumb over his purple tip, smearing pre-come all over your hand and his cock.

Letting his penis go, your hand ventured a little bit lower, cupping those egg-sized balls, squeezing and rolling them in your hand, like a pair of dice. August's body shivered in response, smirking at him, you kicked all the blankets to the floor and moved between August's legs, pushing his legs up, so his knees bent and snuggled down on your belly.

“It seems you haven't been neglecting yourself, Walker.” You told him, nipping the inside of his thick thigh.

It seemed, even though you both were in hiding, his scrotum stood out from the rest of his body at this angle, neatly man-scaped, while the rest of his body tended to be hairy.

“Rules are rules.” August panted, lifting his head to look down his torso at you.

You chuckled at him, taking a long lick over his sack and giving one of them a delicate suck. He had asked you to suck his balls not long after you both started having sex, they were exceptionally sensitive, and you had caused August to come by playing with them, more than once. But, before you agreed to do the deed, you told him you weren't putting them in your mouth, while they looked like two hairy gerbils. So, from then on, August meticulously groomed them, even when he was away from months on end, it had become a habit.

“I shave my balls more, for you, than I shave my face.” August moaned, as you swallowed one of them and teased his cock, feathering your fingertips up and down its shaft.

You laughed around his ball, the vibration made him gasp and tossed him very close to the edge, so you pulled back, edging the hell out of him. August looked down at you, a serene calm washed over both of you, a calm and peacefulness that hadn't been around for several weeks, the fear of being found loomed over the house.

“This isn't right.” August sighed, grabbing you by the shoulders and pulling you up to him.

“What?” You blinked back.

“You shouldn't be pleasuring me.” He told you, wrapping his arms around your waist and turning you both on your sides. “I've wronged and hurt you, I've nearly cost you your life. I cost your job, and so much more.” He spoke softly.

Taking your leg and slinging it over his own hip, so the pair of you facing each other, chests pressed together and staring into each other's eyes, August's hips slowly rubbed against you, his hand pressed flat against your lower back.

“I should be pleasing you, making up for what I've done.” He said, moving just enough to slip the head of his cock between your folds. “Let me do this for you, Angel.” He hummed, fingers brushing your hair.

“Please.” He begged, looking so vulnerable.

All you could do was nod, your throat tight around a lump, and pressed your forehead against his, clinging onto him as he rocked into you. All fear, anger and even lusty desire, were gone from you and August now, all that was left was raw emotions and the need to find each other again. You hugged your leg around August's hip and waist, pulling him closer and deeper into you, flexing your walls around his shaft. Both of you grew warm and sweaty from the heat in the room and your bodies were so close together, the slickness of your skin made it easier to thrust into you; sharing the same hot breath.

“I love you, Angel.” He whispered, cupping your neck and thrusting more steadily into you.

“I love you too, August.” You moaned back, biting your lip.

Coming in tandem felt sublime and refreshing, melting all the stress and worries out of your bodies. Even as you both fell asleep, you were still connected and wrapped around each other. You let go of your questions and worries, it would be fine, you and August would figure out how to put your lives back together some other time

And, for the first time in months, you dreamt of something other than August dying. You dreamt of you holding his hand, him smiling lovingly at you, and walking into the sun.