#Impractical Prince Charging

[cosmicobubisi]

Cosmic's Malleyuu Whump vs Flufftober: Day 22

BLEEDING THROUGH BANDAGES tourniquet | reopening wounds | "oh, that's not good" / Heirloom

Yuu watched Malleus's hand shake, as an ashy pallor overtook his face.

It was remarkable to see such a thing happen- not just the unraveling of a high-and-mighty prince, but the drastic desaturation of an already very pale man.

His pupils had shrank to minuscule pips drowning in an ocean of bright green, the outline of his knuckles visible in his leather gloves as he tightened his hands.

Yuu stared at him for a bit, a slow, steady smile spreading across their face as Ace and Deuce slumbered deeply in the chairs next to their bed.

They stared at each other for a bit, Malleus frozen to the floor.

Yuu kind of expected him to come to them. They were the ones practically chained to the medical bed.

"H-hello," said Malleus finally. "How... how you feeling?"

"Better than before, I suppose," they said, unable to stop one of the corners of their mouth from lifting in a slight tease.

They tried to stamp down the little voice that wanted them to poke fun at him. There was something sickeningly thrilling, to not only know that they had so much power over a powerful man, but that it was currently on such display.

"That is not saying much," said Malleus, glancing off to the side.

"Yeah," they replied, a bit hoarse with the memories. "I know."

He stepped forward then, plucking the pitcher and a glass off their nightstand, which he quickly filled with water. He summoned a straw out of thin air and placed it in the glass, which he quickly offered to Yuu's lips.

They drank gratefully, appreciating the gesture more than the water but relishing the refreshening of their mouth.

As nice as it was to have Malleus here, seemingly at their mercy, Yuu wondered what he was actually here for. Ace and Deuce had already made their impassioned apologies for getting them into the precarious situation that had caused Yuu to become so injured.

It was Malleus, in the end, who had taken the charge on Yuu's necessary medical attention. Under the direction of Ace, he elevated their arm, applied pressure to the wound, and even tied a tourniquet to their arm when the situation became worse until help arrived.

"Do you need anything else?" he asked, setting the mostly-empty glass down on the nightstand.

"Not really," they replied, "except for maybe some company. Unless you have something else to do."

With a flash of magic, Malleus was sitting next to Yuu in his own chair, spine straightened and shoulders stiff as he folded his hands in his lap.

"What would you lie to discuss?" he asked, primed for a conversation.

Yuu giggled. So eager.

"I dunno. You start. Anything you want."

Malleus's head ducked. "I hadn't realized how helpless I was without my magic."

This sounded like it was gonna be a very roundabout apology.

"Don't be like that," they cut in. "First aid is tricky, and it was a tough situation."

"Still," he said regretfully. "This experience has identified large gaps in my knowledge. I must endeavor to fill them expediently, so that I can be a good ruler."

Yuu shook his head. "We could all use a first aid refresher anyway."

"It would have been impractical to expect for you to perform first aid on yourself."

"Can we talk about something else, please?" insisted Yuu.

Malleus shook his head. "Of course. I would not expect you to relive traumatic memories for my sake. Can I... perhaps interest you in a story from my homeland?"

Yuu smiled and nodded. This sounded like it was going to be a lot more entertaining.

"Well... ah, yes," said Malleus, before clearing his throat. "When my mother was young, and still courting my father, he desired to propose to her in private, to seek her consent before he asked the Senate and my grandmother for permission. But he had few means, and so instead of purchasing something, he decided to make her something."

"Aww," cooed Yuu.

"He ventured out into the forest to find fibers in which to weave together, and eventually settled on making a ring made of wood, with the centerpiece being a flower."

"Oh!" said Yuu, trying to picture the ring in their mind.

"However, once he plucked the flower he wanted, a flaower fairy appeared, and scolded him for taking her spare dress. He apologized, and gave her his hankerchief so she could make another, as by plucking it, my father had spoiled the flower."

"Oh," sighed Yuu.

"Of course, this meant the flower would not last for the ring. He asked for help, and so she instead told him to take the flower-dress and press it, and return to her when it was done. He did so, returning two days later to ensure the flower was properly pressed, and she rearranged the flower into a beautiful arrangement for the ring, and he thanked her. However, before he left, she had a request."

"Oh?" inquired Yuu.

"She asked for an invitation to the wedding, and, seeing that as a good sign, he agreed. A few weeks later, he would invite her on a date in the solarium to propose, but as fate would have it, she proposed before he could."

"Oh." Yuu gasped at the turn the story had taken.

"She, of course, gave him her permission to formally ask for her hand, and they exchanged rings. They got more official, ornate rings for their wedding day, and wore both on their fingers together. My mother, of course, was buried with her wedding ring, but the one she gave to my father for their pre-engagement was lost to time."

"Oh..." trailed off Yuu, blindsided by the tragic end, though they knew about Malleus's parents ultimate fate.

"The ring he made her was removed by my grandmother, and she is saving it for me to propose one day. It's quite beautiful, and the tiny stitches are still intact. I would hope that it would serve as my mother's approval of my future spouse, even beyond the grave."

"Oh!" exclaimed Yuu, unable to restrain themselves at the swell of emotion that rose within them.

"Anyways, I hope that has lifted your spirits somewhat."

Yuu nodded enthusiastically. "It did, it really did! That's so romantic!"

Malleus smiled. "I am glad, to have provided you even a temporary relief."

Yuu huffed and pushed themselves up. "Come here, and give me a hug. When I say I'm fine, I'm fine."

"But-" Malleus was cut off as Yuu yanked them into a hug, and he eventually melted into it."

"Ow!"

Malleus immediately pulled himself away to see red spread through their white bandages.

"Oh," he uttered airily, "oh no, no, no, that is not good."

"U-uh," stuttered Yuu, because they had realized that was kind of a bad idea, "maybe-"

But Malleus had already vanished and returned with a dazed-looking doctor, shoving them towards Yuu's bed.

[agentravensong]

random thought that is probably entirely impractical:

a production of hamlet where the actors playing horatio and (prince) hamlet swap every night.

hamlet's whole thing is not knowing how to live with his grief, whether he should live at all, only to cast horatio into that role at the end, to charge with living with his own loss of someone he loved despite all his faults, for the sake of telling his story.

so, in this hypothetical production, the actor who is charged with that as horatio one night, goes on to have to play that part, to live with the grief, the next day, as hamlet. the curtains closing does not save him from bearing that weight. him "telling hamlet's story" in this version is him stepping into his friend's shoes — and being consumed by it.

and the actor for hamlet the previous night is now cast as the spectator to his closest friend's downfall; seeing his own madness from the outside, the one to instigate it (by passing on news of the ghost) but after that helpless to change it. and, after spending the previous go-around wrestling with the question of "to be or not to be", this one ends with that friend commanding him to live.

and he will. he'll bear that weight, until it breaks him, and he passes it on. and so on and so on.

[impractical-au]

Impractical- Remy’s Origins

Roman’s Origins Virgil’s Origins Logan’s Origins Patton’s Origins Master List Character List

While stifling a yawn, Copy Cat took a seat on the edge of the roof and leaned back, looking out across the city. “It’s late, how much longer are we going to be out?” “The night is still young! True crime is only just beginning in the veil of night!” The Prince stood proudly, walking back and forth across the rooftop. “We must stay alert!” “Speak for yourself, I have work early in the morning,” Copy Cat wiped at his eye as a tear ran down and sighed. “I’m not used to staying up so late and these contacts are killing me.” “Aww, just a little bit longer?” The Prince walked over to his companion who stared up, eyes drooping as he stretched his arms over his head. “Then we can get you home for the night.” “This cat is not nocturnal. I’m ready for a cat nap.” The Prince smiled and spun around, his cloak billowing behind him. “Worry not, my faithful companion! We just need to let the city know we are here!” He peered over the edge of the roof and stared down at the quiet streets as cars drove by. “Those other two are still out there! We must let them know that we will not be intimidated by them!” Prince waited a moment for a reply before he spun around. “Come on, Pat Cat, at least humor me.” Prince froze, staring at his friend sound asleep on the edge of the roof, except… “‘Fraid he can’t hear you, babe.” Someone held onto Copy Cat’s shoulder, bending down as they watched the masked man doze off. The hero couldn’t make them out other than the darkened glasses that covered their eyes and the jacket they wore. “He looked a little sleepy so I gave him a hand.” The figure wiggled their fingers at the Prince with a smirk before keeling down completely. “Not a smart idea to have them out so tired like that, you can make some mistakes.” “Who are you?!” The Prince took a stance as his hands lit up, blue sparks shooting out and ready to attack. The mysterious figure simply clicked their tongue and sighed. “You really gonna try that with me? Your friend here seems to be having some nice dreams.” At their words, their eyes glowed a hazy white that lit up the glasses and caused Copy Cat to smile. He giggled and sighed, leaning back and snuggling into them as he continued to dream. “I would hate to have to change it into a terrible nightmare.” Princey immediately unclenched his hands, letting the sparks die off. “Good, glad you see things my way.” “Stand and face me, villain! I will not allow you to harm my partner!” Finally, the figure helped Copy Cat off of the ledge and carefully lay him down onto the rooftop where they stayed asleep. “Fine, ruin my aesthetic, why don’t you?” They stood up and stepped closer, letting the Prince finally see them more clearly in the pale moonlight that was washed out by the glow of the city. For some reason, they decided a crop top with a fluffy cloud printed on the front and a leather jacket made for a good fashion choice, and the glasses weren’t glasses at all. They were darkened like sunglasses but appeared more like safety goggles than anything. They smiled and slowly made their way across the rooftop toward the Prince. “So, what do you want from us you fashion reject?” They gasped and placed a hand over their heart. “Ouch, that like, really hurt. Come now, surely you can’t be serious?” They pointed to the Prince and scrunched their nose in disgust. “Dressed like that? Seriously, babe, I look great in comparison.” The Prince glared, his fingers itching to lash out. “You can call me Insomniac. I’m society’s worst nightmare.” “Wow. Real original. Good job, how long did it take for you to come up with that?” “Hmm,” Insomniac took another step closer, keeping a few feet distance between them. “About as long as it took for me to look good in this jacket.” They winked flirtatiously, enjoying the Prince’s reaction as he flushed. “So, they’re your partner, hmm?” “Wha-yes. I mean, no! I mean…” Prince held out his arms, waving them back and forth frantically. “Partner in justice! Nothing more!” “Oooh, really?” Insomniac looked over their shoulder and watched Copy Cat still snoozing on the rooftop happily. “Hey!” Prince stepped forward, holding out his hands as they sparked back to life. “Eye’s off! What do you want from us?” “Nothing, just checking out the others. I mean, you made quite a ruckus across the world, I traveled all this way to this city just to meet you.” The Prince blinked in surprise as his hands calmed down, the blue sparks vanishing once more. “You and that dark one. And then I get here and there’s two more!” Insomniac walked passed Prince and to the edge of the roof. “I think I’m gonna have some fun.” “Wait! What about Copy Cat?” Insomniac looked over his shoulder slowly to the Prince. “I mean, he’ll wake up, right?” “Oh come now. I’m here to have fun, I’m not that evil.” The Prince ran over to his friend snoozing on the side and Insomniac took the chance to leave before the Prince decided to finally take action. After they managed to sneak away down the fire escape as they planned, Insomniac lifted thier goggles and let out a sigh, looking up at the building. “Well, gurl, that was interesting.” Replacing their goggles, they smiled and turned to walk off casually through the city. “Now, Remy, what to do to get the attention of the other two? Hope they’re more fun than that.” 

Taglist: @arandompasserby @waywordwriter (I’m adding my general taglist as well since it’s still technically my writing and I was posting all of this on my main blog originally anyway) General: @helloisthisusernametaken @entitydark @lightningbug04 @moonstone-fox @another-sandersidesblog @thesynysterunknown @roo-kangas @singingjo @unikornavenger @rememberfateau-nowoffical @sanders-sides-trasshcan @sleepyssnail @jemthebookworm @spectralheartt @fandomsofrandom @johnlaurensadmirer-johnsenpaiowo @rosie601 @ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2 @izzyfandoms @zaidiashipper @enbyamy @romanmustberomantic @daylnvale

[princeresnikov]

it's in my nature {Tangerine} // 1

one. the scorpion: better a fruit fly than a clementine.

Chapter Summary: The Scorpion (Clementine) and The Prince board a train that will change their lives forever, and The Scorpion, at least, is non the wiser. The Prince makes sure her well trained but disheartened bodyguard knows her place, and Clementine really hates this goddamn family.

{ Masterlist }

A/N: 2744 words. Lets GO baybee. I've been reading the novel and tried to stylise my writing more to match that because I find the Isaka's writing style really engaging to read. :) also this is kind of a slow burner, as much as a fic that follows the film can be i suppose. also i think The Prince's characterisation might lean a bit more towards her book counterpart, but there's also a reason she doesn't mask her intentions around clementine as often as others. this is mildly edited at best.

Warnings: Don't be surprised when the OC is a terrible person and is implied to have done terrible things along with the rest of them. Chapter specific warnings will be added when necessary so please heed them. There will be smut in the future chapters.

Taglist: @venusthepirate [ always open, just message or comment! ]

-----

When Clementine boards the Shinkansen behind The Prince, she does so with a reverential, bowed head, always shadowing her charge only two steps behind.

"You're thinking awfully hard there, fruit fly," the Prince's tone is almost sing-song, marching through the aisle of the seventh cart to their seat. Of course she was able to pick up on Clementine's masked distraction. Clementine herself grimaces, at the tone, at the name, at her focus breaking.

"Going through dossiers in my head," she says frankly, sitting when directed to, smoothing the pleats of her skirt out against her thighs, eyes still trained down, impractical attire for her line of work, but appearances had always mattered more to The Prince, and hopefully there wouldn't be any acrobatics required today.

The Prince's own outfit is similar to Clementine's, skirt, blouse, though she had a sweater vest where Clementine wore a full sweater. The Prince was in pink, looking all kinds of girlish and innocent, while Clementine was in rich browns and oranges, as if she were able to blend into the wooden detailing and gold lighting of the first class cabin, or into the background of any scene she was party too, far more deliberate than one might assume. Both outfits were far more unassuming that either individual wearing them, for that exact reason. The only truly unique and practical item in Clementine's outfit was her expensive leather gloves, which served to house the two highly advanced prosthetics she required on each hand as she was missing both ring and pinkie fingers.

"Your job is simple, fruit fly, father hired you to keep an eye on me, and that's all you need to do," the Prince crossed one leg over the other, leaning back in her chair before she chanced a glance over her shoulder. Clementine's brow furrowed once more at the nickname, but kept her mouth shut. It had been a long while since she's been properly active in the field, and she'd forgotten how grating it was to be under The Prince's thumb.

The Shinkansen doesn't rumble to life like most other trains, it's take off is glass smooth, and Clementine barely feels a jolt as they finally head out from Tokyo.

"Why are you going through dossiers anyways?"

"Didn't bring a book, ma'am," Clementine tells her, peering out from her seat to scan the aisle, cautious where the Prince's similar movement had been strangely anticipatory.

"I could lend you one," the Prince somehow even managed to sound condescending with a simple offer. Clementine politely declined, and for a few moments they share a calm silence. The kid reads too much True Crime, and Clementine had enough stories of her own to not bother with the sensationalized, publicised stuff. Her mind instead drifts once more, to Cape Town, to Barcelona, to Santiago, to the past year and a half that she'd spent intelligence gathering all over the world. Others like her, hitmen, assassins, trained killers from all walks of life, she had hunted them, practically stalked them at her client's request, spending months gathering every scrap of information she could about them while living in the periphery of their lives. She never had to pull the trigger, no her employer had grander things in mind, things that Clementine need not be privy to to do her job. So she did, never afraid of what lengths she would have to go to in getting everything she needed. In New York -

"I should call you Clementine too," The Prince mused blithely. Clementine's nose scrunched almost involuntarily, "not a fan?" The Prince has always liked watching her reactions; Clementine is a fun toy for the bored teen, if only you knew how to push her buttons, "its even on your necklace; it'd be rude not to." There's the beginnings of a cruel smile at the edge of The Prince's lips, but Clementine composed herself. The dainty necklace around her neck, complete with a tiny, glass clementine, however, feels distinctly heavy.

"Whatever would suit you, ma'am."

"You're so passive," The Prince practically sulks, arms crossed, expression sour as she looks pointedly at the head rest in front of her. The seats around them are far emptier than Clementine had expected, but she's grateful to have relative privacy for this conversation.

"I'd prefer fruit fly," Clementine says carefully, "or cockroach -"

"But Clementine's so pretty," The Prince is clearly teasing. Clementine sits a little straighter but doesn't look up from her hands in her lap, "and you're not even a cockroach anymore."

"I was never a fruit fly, and yet," Clementine finally casts a less than amused look at the Prince, mouth set in a thin line. The Prince seems to be taking this all as one big joke, if the mirth alight in her eyes is any indication.

"Clementine," the Prince tried to school her expression into something more serious, tried to hide her smile when their eyes met, but it's not particularly effective.

"Yes, ma'am?" Clementine tried to remain as neutral as she was able, though The Prince still seemed to see the resignation in her, and was thrilled by it. For all the time Clementine had known her, she'd always known The Prince took great pleasure in inflicting cruelty on others as some sort of bizarre experiment about the nature of humanity.

"You really are tragically formal."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And tragically dull."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Can you not call me that? You make me sound like my mother," and despite The Prince's casual tone, Clementine still frowns reflexively. They both know she said it to cause a reaction; the Prince prides herself on any power she can claim over others, even something as small as that.

Clementine hesitates for a long moment before she dips her head, if only to hide her eye roll.

"Your highness," she doesnt even fight her own rueful tone, but The Prince at least doesn't seem to mind.

"I know you're teasing, but I actually would prefer that," she offers. Clementine gives a non-committal hum, but does not see fit to respond further. At that, The Prince makes a face, propping her chin up on her hand and tapping her cheek with her index finger, as if analysing Clementine thoroughly. Clementine finally looks away from her charge and the malevolent gleam in her eyes, comfortable simply being observed in this moment.

"I can't believe he obsessed over you like he did," there's something cold in the Prince's voice. A muscle in Clementine's jaw twitched. "Was it something sexual?" The question startles the demure mercenary, though years of training mean the only outward display of this is the derisive way her lip curls.

"I don't think this is appropriate, ma'am," Clementine struggles to keep her tone passive. The Prince gives her no reprieve.

"Oh hardly," she laughs, "but I'm still asking. Don't be a prude, Clem," it almost sounds like they're friends, a stranger may mistake them as such. Glancing at The Prince shows the girl's body language to be open and easy, hands and shoulders relaxed, a trap to Clementine's expertly trained eye, who knew the teen far better than to trust her, "come on, I know how easy it is to manipulate someone when you know what they want, and sex is such a base desire," then, carefully, the Prince leans back in her seat, looking again to the empty headrest in front of her, "I've read your reports, I know how you operate." The Prince glances back over her shoulder, down the aisle, before settling further into her seat.

"I don't know why he was obsessed with me," Clementine answers slowly, "though, if I did have an idea about why, I still wouldn't share it with you, ma'am."

The Prince actually groans with frustration, head pushed back against her headrest as she squeezes her eyes shut tightly. Arms crossed over her chest, she looks markedly less relaxed than she had done moments ago. It's the little things in life that Clementine had had to find joy in, and now, the arrogant Prince's frustration is one she'd gladly enjoy. Clementine relaxes her own shoulders, lets the tension drop from her jaw as she smiles; it's a give and take of tension between them, and has been for as long as Clementine's known The Prince and her family, neither made happy from the others joy as much as their anguish.

"Dull," The Prince huffs petulantly, "can you go be dull elsewhere?"

"Is that an order?" Clementine was genuinely confused, which only seemed to irritate The Prince further. The young woman's face scrunches with some kind of put-upon frustration at the question. The Prince often lamented the predictability of the world around her, the way everyone always behaved as expected, but admitted that Clementine often caught her off guard in the most 'deeply uninspiring' way. Again, it was one of the small joys of the mercenary's life. Instead of beratting her bodyguard, however, The Prince sits up a little, but remains looking forward as she speaks.

"In a sense, yes; there's money on this train and I need you to find it for me," the teen says, voice dropping low so there was no chance of any of the few more remote passengers would hear her. Clementine outright scowled at this.

"Absolutely not," without hesitation, Clementine declined. This mission was humiliating and demeaning enough, posing as the tutor for 'The Prince', acting more like the girl's handmaiden, she was not going to encourage the girl's sense of entitlement any more than she could help.

"So quick to judge," The Prince admonished, shaking her head, "it's not like I'm going to keep it, I just want to make sure it's all there."

"Why don't I believe you?" Clementine narrowed her eyes at her charge.

"Because you're deeply paranoid, fruit fly, which is healthy in your line of work, I'll grant you that, but I promise for once I'm being genuine; that money will see its rightful owner," the Prince, for once, sounded mostly genuine, and Clementine sighed, "I think you should start looking in the third car." Considering how little Clementine wanted to remain in The Prince's presence, and The Prince's unfortunately well established, almost supernatural good luck, Clementine gracefully rises from her seat. The Prince smiled toothily at her, "at least you're predictably obedient, good for something I suppose."

"If I come back to any shenanigans -" Clementine hissed.

"Shenanigans? How old are you?" The Prince cut her off with disbelieving glee, which Clementine ignored.

"I'll knock your ass out myself so I can make sure you behave for the rest of the trip," the tick in Clementine's jaw is back at the sight of The Prince's smug little smile in the face of the threat.

"When you come back with the money you can make that judgement call," is all she said. Then holding up her own, little phone, The Prince's smile became wider, almost as if she were trying to convince Clementine of her innocence; it may have worked on someone less familiar with her, "I'll text if I need anything, I promise."

Clementine carefully smoothed her expression to something more neutral, and nodded, about to reply when her own phone starts ringing. The Prince cocks her head to the side, intrigued by the coincidence, and Clementine fishes the phone from her bag. It's The Prince's father, and she tells the teen as much.

"Tell him I'm having a wonderful time," she settles into her seat with a languid ease as Clementine rolls her eyes and takes off up the aisle while answering.

"Your daughter wanted me to pass on that she's having a wonderful time," Clementine tells him almost robotically, in lieu of a proper greeting.

"So you've both settled comfortably on the train?"

Away from The Prince, Clementine allowed herself to relax, tension in her shoulders easing, walking with a well earned confidence.

"It's well lit but not overbearing, everyone's suffocatingly helpful, the leather chairs are immaculate," Clementine rattles off with a detached kind of boredom now, "running an errand for The Prince now but we're in constant contact, not that there should be any problem."

"An errand?"

"A fetch quest for her royal highness; don't worry, she won't leave first class, that's why you've got me here," Clementine assures with a practiced warmth, gliding with ease down the aisles of the train, making sure to look over and catalogue as much detail as she could.

"Scorpion," he uses her code name with such malice, even as he'd bestowed it on her several years before. It's never gotten easier to hear from him, "if a single hair on her head so much as splits, you will no longer have your own, do I make myself clear."

Clementine bites her tongue as the irritation bubbles up venomously inside her.

"As crystal, sir," she mutters through her teeth, stopping at the baggage hold between the third and fourth cars. Peering through the window on the door, the economy seating is just as blue as the she'd just passed, and just as sparsely filled. It's a straight shot to the end of the car, to the baggage hold between cars two and three, and she'd rather start back there and work her way up. She thinks she sees someone catch a glimpse of her peering through the window, analysing the composition of the car, but she's trying desperately to not draw attention to herself, and so ducks back the little vanity area to finish her conversation.

"Nothing will happen," Clementine assures, drawing the curtain across and leaning against the wall, making sure not to catch sight of herself in the mirror. The blonde is new, it's been drawing attention all around Tokyo and it feels too ostentatious, but her boss insisted, and she really doesn't like to refuse him.

"Still, one must always plan for contingencies; unlucky that she insisted on such a public form of transport, lucky that you were available."

"Your wish is my command, sir," Clementine fiddled with her gloves, making sure they were secure, and the prosthetics they concealed were all at full capabilities.

"You have demonstrated your respect and loyalty these past few years, especially after rejecting my family's kind offer, and the incident that followed," as he speaks, Clementine stops fiddling; he often brings up the past in order to hold it over her head, this time felt distinctly different, "once you have safely escorted my daughter to her destination, your debt to me will be cleared," Clementine feels like her heart has stopped in her chest, "you will be free to take on freelance contracts wherever you wish, though you are more than welcome to work with myself and my family at your previous rate."

"You'll rescind the burn notice?" Oh, Clementine hopes he doesn't judge her for the hope in her voice. A pause follows, and a strangely amused chuckle.

"I'll rescind the burn notice," he agrees, "I will re-endorse you to my colleagues and contacts, and -" he pauses for effect, "while your direct payment will still be at your reduced rate, you will be able to secure the remaining amount that will meet your previous rate upon that very train."

In that instance, Clementine feels an almost sickening sense of joy and even fondness for The Prince several cars down. Foolish to think she wouldn't be in on this in some way; she's far too perceptive, even if her father hadn't clued her in she'd still have found out one way or another.

"There's money on this train?" Clementine murmurs, carefully peering out behind the curtain to make absolutely sure she was alone.

"Yes, in a briefcase, I believe my contact who has stored it on the train put a sticker on the handle of a train itself."

"Thank you, sir! I'll find it."

"Scorpion, do not forget the terms of this; this is your only chance." And he hangs up without even saying goodbye.

Clementine's barely containing her glee, she's overwhelming giddy in this moment of solitude, bouncing on her toes. It's the best conversation she's ever had with him, a far cry from the man who took four fingers from her as punishment years ago.

Perhaps she could have been kinder to The Prince, after all, without her help Clementine wouldn't have the first clue where to look for the cash. Finally, with the promise of freedom, she can go back to loving her work, to choosing it for herself, to reminding those in the circles she used to run in that she was still top of her game. There was a confidence now, one she hadn't felt in years.

Until she opens the third car's door.

[sunshine-in-a-bottle]

Have the Prince Wilbur/Tactician Dream au. I spent all day writing this and have edited exactly zero, but fuck it.

-

It had been unwise, he knew that even as he collapsed into the grass. Anyone could have stumbled across him while he was sleeping. If he had been particularly unlucky he'd have woken up strapped to a table five minutes before he stopped being able to wake up at all, and then what would have this all been for? Wasted effort, wasted gain.

But he had been running nonstop for days, only stopping to shelter from the rain and eat. Sleep had been put on the backburner, and he was paying for it now; his steps were blistering with pain as his body shrieked its disapproval. He hadn't visited any village for fear they would recognize his face (foolish way to get caught, he'd have to craft a mask) so his supplies had been running dangerously thin by the time he had made it out of the desert and into the plains.

Dream did not know this country. He didn't know any country, really; letting your future world destroying sacrifice wander the world was considered highly impractical, after all. This country's border was simply the closest to him. It helped that they were supposedly enemies, and therefore the cultists were unlikely to follow him successfully.

 (This he knew, of course, because when you have a world destroying sacrifice, you should always inform it of which direction it should start its slaughter.)

Regardless, as soon as the grass began to reach his shoulders, he felt the fatigue he had pushed away over and over slamming into him like a wave. No more, his body begged, we can't go on anymore.

He was on his back now. The height of the grass would protect him, he justified in his exhaustion. He was deep enough into the plains that he wouldn't be found. It was night, a new moon in fact; too dark for anyone to see him. It would only be for a few hours. It would be fine.

The stars gathered above him in a glorious haze of light. Even if he was caught, it would be worth getting to see a sky unpolluted by light. Freedom was sweet.

He slept well into the dawn.

—-------

"Wilbur! Oi! I found some guy, I think he might be dead or something."

Tommy had such a way with words, Wilbur thought with dry amusement. He raised his hand at Techno, who was grumbling in the distance about something or another, and went to push through the wheat to where Tommy was kicking up a fuss.

 It was hardly befitting a prince to get their hands dirty with the more physical work. It was something more properly suited to the pawns on the board, a set of lesser knights. His brothers had always been very hands on rough and tumble types however, so Wilbur took it upon himself to join their border patrol escapades. They really needed someone looking out for them. What kind of brother would let his family go off so close to a threat without someone to guide them safely? A foolish one. Irresponsible. Maybe Tommy could get away with that, but Wilbur would never forgive himself.

"For someone so tall, you're sure bad at keeping up, Wilbur." A voice said behind him. Techno lightly bumped his shoulders as he passed, the force controlled so as not to bruise Wilbur against his armor. He began cutting down some of the grass with his sword.

"Not all of us are built like a charging bull, dear brother." Wilbur quipped. Techno rolled his eyes and cleared an easier path to travel. Wilbur happily followed in his wake, raising his hand to block out the light of the sunset.

"Took you both long enough," Tommy scowled as they approached. He crossed his arms. "I was about to start rooting through his pockets."

"You mean you haven't already? Shocker." Techno said. He held his sword loosely, but did not put it away. Tommy rolled his eyes. 

"He's breathing, which means he might be a witch, which means you're supposed to check him for traps first. You made a promise, so you have to!"

"You could just stop trying to loot things that are clearly not dead." 

"Don't be a pussy," Tommy replied, and swung his healing staff at Techno's face. Techno caught it easily.

"That's enough, Tommy," Wilbur said quickly before they could roughhouse. "You said you were going to show us this man."

A few feet behind Tommy there was a lump in a patch of disturbed wheat. Obviously the person Tommy had stumbled upon. Wilbur pushed away the grass and leaned forward to see what they were working with.

His breath caught in his chest.

The man before him felt like something out of a fairy story his mother used to tell. The wheat around them seemed a dull yellow compared to the threaded gold of his hair. His skin was sun-kissed, a little burned around his freckled cheeks, but thankfully he was mostly protected by a large green coat. Dirt flecked his cheekbones, expression soft in sleep. He could have been the son of Apollo.

A sleeping beauty, meant to be awoken by a prince. This was something close to fate.

"The fuck is doing passed out in this field, you think?"

Wilbur winced, and turned away from the gorgeous sprawl to hiss. "Keep your voice down."

"He should probably be woken up, his skin is going to peel at this rate." Techno noted. He made no movement to lean down, however, waiting for Wilburs decision. Rightfully.

"It's his own fault. There's a village right over there. He could've just made them take him in." Tommy said.

Techno frowned. "Not if he's trying to hide something." 

"And that's why you should let me look through his pockets."

"No, Tommy."

"Gentlemen," Wilbur spoke, drawing his brother's attention. "I think our sleeping beauty here must be awoken before we decide anything about him."

Techno snorted, and Tommy squawked at the word 'beauty,' but it was wholly irrelevant as a soft groan rose from the ground. He was awake.

His fairytale man blinked wearily, obviously still exhausted (the poor thing. Wilbur would make sure his next rest would be on silk sheets.) His eyes found Wilbur's first. A soft noise came from his throat, questioning.

"Hello there," Wilbur smiled gently. "I see you've woken up."

His eyes traced Wilburs face, and Wilbur felt the incredible urge to write poetry about the shades of green hidden within.

"Where…?" His fairytale spoke rough with sleep. 

"The hell are doing out on the border, man? Terrible place to sleep." Tommy leaned forward. Wilbur gave him a stern look, but his fairytale merely squinted. He attempted to push himself up.

"Please, allow me." Wilbur said. He offered his hand, and the man took it after a moment's hesitation. This hand was ungloved, he noted. An odd tattoo twisted patterns into its skin. It was as beautiful as the rest of him, and when Wilbur pulled him up he made sure to press a kiss to the large X on the back of it.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, my good man." He hummed, ignoring Tommy's gagging and Techno's burning stare. "Might I have your name?"

His fairytale did not stutter or blush in embarrassment as he expected. Instead he tilted his head. "... Dream."

"A fitting name for someone as lovely as you." Truly, the gods had good humor. 

Dream raised his head to look at the darkening sky, his figure eclipsing the sun. He barely seemed to acknowledge them at all. "Thank you. I hadn't meant to sleep that long. I'll be out of your way, then."

"Wait!" Wilbur grasped his arm, alarmed. "My compatriot is right, it was strange to find someone asleep so close to the border. Are you perhaps in need of shelter? There's a village nearby, we can take you there."

"I think I'll be alright." Dream eyed his grip warily. "I hadn't meant for that to happen. It was a one time thing."

"What, are you homeless?" Techno spoke up. Dream froze. "Cause if you're walking around here and refuse to take shelter, it sounds a lot like you're homeless."

"I'm not homeless." Dream hissed, and tugged out of Wilburs' grasp. Wilbur turned and glared at Techno, but he looked unrepentant. 

"There's no shame if you are, man. I'm sure we can set you up with a house, something a lot better than an empty field with no roof."

"I have a house!" Dream said indignantly, looking more upset by the minute. Wilbur felt the strings escape his fingers, his sweet fairytale falling out of his reach.

"Then let us escort you to it." Techno said mildly. His face was impassive, but there was a familiar danger in his tone. He was suspicious of Dream, Wilbur realized. "It's not safe out here with the increasing border skirmishes, Dream. It'd be better for all of us if we took you home."

Dream raised himself to his full height. He was still shorter than both Wilbur and Techno. "I'm not going to let some strangers follow me home. I'm not an idiot."

"Oh really?" Techno raised an eyebrow. "Then I'd really like to hear how you managed to miss that you were talking to the prince of this kingdom."

Dream blanched. "What?!"

"You heard me. If you really had a house around here, you should be a kingdom citizen, or at the very least recognize the symbols on my armor. So you're not from our country." Techno nodded at him. "You wanna explain why a Plegian is sneaking into Ylisse when we're on the brink of war?"

"I never said my house was around here." Dream muttered. "And it's none of your business."

"Everything involving my family's lands is my business."

"Well I'm not gonna be here long. This was just the quickest way out of the country. I'll head north and be out of your lands soon."

Tommy spoke up, settling his staff on his shoulder. "What're you running from? Can't be that bad if you're one of them."

"Tommy," Wilbur scolded, feeling a prickle of distress as Dream's face shuttered. "That's not how it works. People run for a lot of reasons, and I suspect in a place with so much turmoil, Dream would have plenty of reasons to want to escape."

Tommy shrunk. Dream was silent for a moment. When he did speak, it was with obvious reluctance. "I was… a tactician, of sorts. Trained in strategy. Meant to serve at the capital."

Techno's grip tightened on his sword, but Dream didn't backpeddle. "They were going to use me. They wanted to use me to- to win the war. The future war. And I refused, because I don't agree with it. I don't want to be a warmonger. But that's not something you can ordinarily turn down, so I left."

They were going to kill me, he didn't say, underneath the tense air. I ran, I'm still running. From everything.

Wilburs heart ached. He indulged himself by reaching out to take Dream's hand.

 "I'm sorry," He said sincerely. He squeezed Dream's wrist. "I won't let them chase you here. I'm putting you under our protection."

"Wilbur-"

"It's best-" Wilbur glared at Techno, "for all of us if they don't find you. To keep you out of the enemy's hands will prevent them from gaining a valuable asset, or us from losing one."

That got Dreams' attention. "What? What are you talking about?"

Wilbur preened. "If you're so valuable that the other side is willing to hunt you down, then you must be quite the strategist. And since it's in both our interests that there be no war, why not use your skills for the good of Ylisse?"

"Wilbur, this could be a trap." Techno growled. "You could be leading the enemy further into our borders."

"I mean if he wanted to kill us he probably wouldn't be sleeping in a field." Tommy said. He poked Dream with the ball of his staff. Dream smacked it away.

"I'm not here to kill you. Well, I could kill you, but I'm not going to." Dream paused. "Unless you try to kill me first or make me set fire to an entire village. Then I would have to kill you."

"Did they make you set fire to a fucking village?!" 

"Well. They tried. It didn't work out for them."

Oh, that was beautiful. This man was something special, and there was no way Wilbur was letting him get away now.

"Then it's settled." Wilbur clapped his hands. "You come with us, and in exchange for our protection you lend us your aid. That seems perfectly fair to me."

"I don't agree to this." Techno said. "I want that on the record so I can say 'I told you so' later."

Tommy tugged at Dream's coat. "Well if he's coming along he's gotta empty out his pockets. For transparency and all that."

"Tommy."

"What?"

Dream looked back and forth at them somewhat helplessly.

"I guess that's fair." He said slowly. "For now at least."

Joy rose through Wilbur's figure, leaving him giddy. With necessary flourish he bowed before his new Tactician. "Then allow me to formally introduce myself. I am Wilbur Soot, second prince to the Ylissian throne."

Dream gave him a puzzled look. It was not the awe he hoped for, but Dream still nodded back. "It's good to meet you. Once again, I'm Dream."

"Just Dream?"

"Just Dream." He confirmed. Tommy stepped forward with an embarrassing swagger.

"And I'm the biggest man of them all-"

"He's Tommy," Wilbur interjected immediately, ignoring Tommy's outrage. Techno snickered. "Third prince of the Ylissian throne. The brute next to me is Technoblade, first prince to the throne."

"I'll remember that comment when your ass needs saving, Soot."

Dream chuckled. A small thing, but it was startling how soft it made him feel. Dandelion fluff fluttered in his stomach. 

"Alright, so if I'm following you, where are we going?" 

"There's a village nearby we were meant to check up on before heading back." Techno replied, pulling Wilbur out of his thoughts. "We'll want to restock there, as well."

"Lead the way then." Dream inclined his head. 

[larentsaloud]

Poor Kaning though 😂 that girl is the like the little sister that the F3 need to appease to adopt Gorya (Thyme's marrying her so he doesn't count) so she's just being showered in gifts before she's even dating Kavin. Like I wanted to see her reaction to being given a new scooter, will she keep the bling bear that looks like it barely holds anything 🐻

Kaning 🤝MJ = being the only voice of reason in this show.

Please the way F3 flocked to Kaning, particularly MJ recognises her value? Priceless. While Mr Little Playboy Disney Prince AKA Kavin is 'too tired' of the drama and thus MJ orders / pleads with Kaning to take him out for a low maintenance outing, like you take a dog to the park? I loved it.

The owner (MJ) specifies the needs of the puppy: oh just give him food and water he will be alright. No, but we would all be fine if Kaning was in charge of us for the afternoon. Like, the reason The Low Maintenance Boi is OK is because a beautiful girl is beside him. AND (!) he even gets an opportunity to face his own behaviour the way her storyline mirrors some of his most despicable traits.

So I am all here for the Kaning Kavin budding romance, he even pretended to be her boyfriend and bought her a very expensive; albeit impractical teddy bear made out of Swarovski crystals, that is heavier than my emotional baggage and more expensive than my annual salary probably- I am all here for that...

But. But-why am I so obsessed with the fact that MJ is perfect and he deserves his own love interest, i.e. me, I am shipping myself with him, so what you gonna do. Tia is wife, Mira my gf and MJ my husband. My bestie is about to m++++ me.

MJ and Kaning fulfil similar roles in the plot line, I think. I like them. They good.

Please Kaning's reaction to the scooter gift? She needs her own spin off. Preferably with MJ. SORRY. Sorry. I will stop.

Sigh.

It's only Monday.

Pray for me.

D.x

[jazzistolkienfanfics]

Beads and Braids - Kili x reader

Type: Imagine  Pairing: Kili x reader Summary: post BOTFA, everyone lives!AU, in which Y/N, a girl from Rohan seeking shelter in Erebor, befriends the Princes, and the mischievous Kili needs better ways of confessing his feelings. Warnings: ‘fuck’, ‘shit’ Word Count: 2735

All italicised, non-English words are in Khuzdul, one of the main Dwarvish languages.

Y/N was no stranger to being alone, nor was she unused to being unusual. Being on the run from a dangerous league of hunter assassins that were sweeping through her hometown of Rohan, spending months trying to reach Erebor, the Mountain of Gold, then arriving only to be turned away, had taught her not to care too much about loneliness.

Sure, she’d been allowed in eventually, after she’d insisted to the stingy King Thorin Oakenshield that she had ‘absolutely no fucking interest in your goddamn gold’, but the reminder that she wasn’t wanted in Erebor still stung dully day after day, even as she attempted to bury the emotion beneath layers of stone. 

Although, she was no longer completely shunned while in Erebor. The first few weeks had been difficult, especially as she was at least eight inches taller than everyone else, even as a relatively short human - Y/N was surrounded by Dwarves, and it was a transformative experience (she enjoyed being tall for a change). 

But as time went on, the Dwarves became far more accepting - mostly because when Bard visited with his children, Sigrid and Tilda (who was the reason they were there, to say hello to the ‘lucky Dwarves from the toilet’, namely Dwalin, her favourite) and saw her, he spouted a whole speech on the helpfulness of humans in the Battle of the Five Armies, especially how a number of them had charged Azog’s numbers, saving the line of Durin. That made Thorin begrudgingly become kinder to her.  

Y/N spent most of her days outside the cold fortress, reading old books on Dwarven culture and their previous interrelations with other relations on the ramparts or the grasses below the Mountain. It was on one of such days that she ran into someone who would change her life.

Well, Y/N didn’t run into him.

He really ran into her.

Y/N had been sitting on the ramparts, her legs swinging over the side and continually tucking her h/c hair behind her ears as the wind blew it into her face. A large book with a f/c leather cover that had stood out to her in the towering shelves of the Library was sitting in her lap, gold-leaf lettering across the front of it boldly proclaiming ‘A History of the Honourable Line of Durin’. She’d been told by Balin (a frequenter of the Library) that it was updated often with the latest triumphs of the youngest of the Line of Durin: Thorin, Fili and Kili, the Royals Under the Mountain.

Y/N wouldn’t lie, she was mostly reading it to make fun Thorin, but then again, history was interesting. 

She looked up from a particularly hilarious passage about Thorin’s ‘incredible bravery and innumerable acts of service to the Throne of Erebor’ at the harsh cry of a raven. It circled around her, cawing enthusiastically with something less akin to malevolence and more to happiness in its black eyes, before flying off. 

Y/N had been smiling but she frowned when she realised that the raven was not flying towards Erebor, as most did, but away from it.

Then it had to be flying away from something … Y/N connected the dots just as the door to the battlements whipped open and something slammed into her back just as she was turning around, knocking her off the ramparts.

She screamed loudly, looking at the ground beneath her and envisioning the fifty different ways she would splatter all over it.

A hand encased in a brown glove but for the fingers suddenly swung into her view, catching ahold of hers in a startlingly tight grip.

Y/N looked up, seeing a Dwarvish face that was at once familiar and entirely seperate from her small existence in Erebor, and she couldn’t put a name to him.

His brown hair reached just past his shoulders, and was not braided. Paired with his beardless, kinda attractive face (stubble did not count in Y/N’s eyes), Y/N reached the conclusion that he was still young, definitely under 100.

He was holding onto her with one of his hands and his other was held by a blonde Dwarf with much more facial hair than the former and a messy blonde mane like a lion who stood behind the battlements where she had been sitting prior to being knocked off by (presumably) one of the two. 

Y/N was very impressed that the Dwarf was holding her up with one hand, as she was at least more than half a foot taller than him, but she had no energy to be focused on that emotion beyond the hot fear coursing through her veins.

“Oi! Pull!” the brown-haired Dwarf yelled, and the blonde did so, clenching his teeth and heaving, until all three of them were safe on the ramparts.

“I am so sorry for my brother’s clumsiness, Miss Y/N!” the bearded, seemingly older Dwarf apologised. 

“Itkit! (Shut up!)” the younger brother hissed, giving the blonde a scathing glare. “But I do apologise, Lady Y/N.” He emphasised the title he gave her, though it was definitely not one she actually possessed.

“I’m sorry,” Y/N replied to the two enthusiastic Dwarves with confusion etched all over her face. Here they were, having knocked her off the side of a fucking Castle, calling her ‘Lady’ and apparently knowing her name when she could not match a name to either of their faces. “How do you know my name? Do I know you?”

“Oh, that’s right,” the brunette said thoughtfully, turning to his brother. “Uncle Thorin said she was new.”

“He also said she was a-”

“Oh Mahal, shut up! How many languages do I have to say that in?”

Uncle Thorin? Oh shit ....

“Anyway. Prince Fili-”

“-and Prince Kili-”

“At your service!” they both chimed, bowing low in unison and springing back up with wide grins that made them seem a lot younger than they probably were.

“Fuck...” Y/N muttered under her breath, curtseying as low as she could. “My Princes, I apologise-”

Her embarrassed apology was cut short with a squeak flying from her mouth as she was yet again jerked up by Kili, who brushed off her f/c dress that was dirty from falling off the ramparts. 

“Lady Y/N, you needn’t apologise; it is technically my fault for knocking you off the walls of Erebor!”

“Then you needn’t call me Lady Y/N,” the girl retorted, almost instantly regretting the familiarity with a royal figure, but also proud when Kili gave a loud laugh and wide smile. “I’m just Y/N.”

“Alright then, Just Y/N,” Kili teased, wiggling his eyebrows and taking her hand, kissing it gently. “On behalf of the Prince of Erebor-”

“-Princes, you little shit,” Fili interrupted, casually spinning a knife on his fingers.

“... Princes of Erebor,” Kili rolled his eyes. “Welcome, new friend.”

---

“You two are unbelievable,” Y/N complained, though a wide smile was affixed on her face.

“We know,” Fili and Kili replied, both still covered in flour from when they’d begun to throw it like snowballs in the middle of baking with her. 

“Well, at least we salvaged-” Y/N cut herself off as she took the cake out of the oven. “Mahal. What is that?”

The cake was less a cake, and more a complete mess. Half of it looked gooey and porous, and the other half burnt. Y/N just turned to the brothers, raising an eyebrow.

They eyed each other too, shuffling their feet. 

Y/N sighed. “This is why we don’t have food fights in the kitchen, guys.”

Fili and Kili had the decency to look a little sheepish as Y/N turned to dump the mess in the bin. As she did so, she glanced out the window and flinched.

“Shit! I’m meant to meet Bard soon - it’s a meeting of great importance. And I’m not ready, there is flour everywhere, my hair is a mess-”

“Well, we can handle at least one of those things,” Kili told Y/N, lightly pushing her into a chair, his hands clean of flour now. “I know a really good hairstyle for special occasions - our mother used to wear it.”

He began to run his fingers through her hair, gently untangling the knots with a brush Fili gave him (honestly, how much did that Dwarf have in his coat?) and braiding it. Y/N closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling of his hands in her hair and its soothingness. Suddenly, she opened her eyes, flushing red. 

Was she falling for the Prince of Erebor?

No, surely not. After all, he was a dwarf, and she a human: a human the King of Erebor didn’t exactly have a partiality towards. It would never work out.

That doesn’t mean feelings just stop, dumbass. Y/N’s brain reasoned. She rolled her eyes at herself. 

 “Alright, it’s done! And Fili and I will clean up the kitchen,” Kili announced, pulling her up and lightly dusting off her f/c dress, careful to avoid any areas it was improper to touch, a small hint of pink on his cheeks as he did so. Y/N pulled some of her hair around her shoulders - Kili had done several braids amongst her loose hair, most of them tied with black bands but one with a beautiful bead in it that she didn’t get a proper look at.

(A/N - imagine this hairstyle, but only one bead, and that bead has lots of jewels all in different colours)

“We’ll clean up what?” Fili protested. Kili smirked, pushing her out the door.

“We’ll see you later, Y/N!”

---

Y/N ran as fast as she could, considering her annoyingly impractical skirt, and she finally skidded to a stop in the snow outside the great doors, taking in who was there.

Bard bowed his head in greeting, his eldest daughter, Sigrid by his side. (Y/N had thought she had heard faint giggles from inside, meaning Tilda was hanging out with Dwalin again), Thorin stood impatiently, leaning on his sword, and next to him, keeping a petty distance was …

“My lord Thranduil,” Y/N bowed, having also read all about the infamously glamorous Elvenking of Mirkwood. “I apologise for my tardiness.”

“You are on time, Y/N,” Bard said, giving Thorin a side-eye. The damages of the Battle of the Five Armies went far beyond death. 

Thorin chose to sit on a ledge that a) placed him higher than all of those present and b) allowed him to rest. Recovering from being impaled by the Pale Orc was a lengthy process, and one still far from finishing. 

“What is the importance of this meeting?” Y/N asked, eager to go back to her chambers and think on the startling discoveries she’d made on what her heart told her about Kili Durin.

“The purpose, Y/N, is for this …”

---

After the meeting, Y/N went to leave, but Thorin called her name, stopping her.

“Yes, my King?”

He reached for one of the braids Kili had put in her hair, smiling kinder than she had ever seen him do so.

“Kili’s bead. So you have not tamed the Lion, but you have chosen the Fox. Loyal, yet cheeky and sweet.”

Y/N opened her mouth, confused, but Thorin kept speaking.

“I congratulate you on your courtship, Y/N. I wish you much love and happiness.”

“My King, I’m sorry, but I am not courting-”

He swept off in a majestic swirl of furs, leaving Y/N with a finger raised and her eyebrows wrinkled in confusion.

“Courting?” she wondered aloud. “What in Middle-Earth ...” 

Suddenly, she recalled Thorin’s observation of ‘Kili’s bead’, and she pulled her hair in front of her face, scanning it for the singular, beautiful silver bead, with its nine differently-coloured gemstones, and some vague thought buried in the back of her brain called to her.

“That Dwarf ...” Y/N cursed colourfully, tossing her hair over her shoulder, picking up her skirts and running as fast as she could to the most familiar area of Erebor.

The Library. Shelves upon shelves, thousands stretching out further than Y/N could see from the entrance. She raced for the section on Dwarvish customs, pulling a dusty red tome titled ‘Dwarves and Their Secrets - The Rites and Customs of Their Culture’ and flipping through it, coughing as swirls of dust swam into the air.

Finding the page she was after, she slammed the open book onto a nearby table, running her finger down the page as her h/c hair fell in her face.

“That little fuck,” Y/N hissed, closing the book with a slam and sliding down one of the shelves until she sat on the floor, her arms curled around her knees, her face hidden from the world and vice verse by her h/l hair.

“So you found out,” a meek voice said, prompting Y/N to lift her head as Kili sat next to her.

“You bet your non-existent beard I did,” Y/N grumbled. 

“I’m sorry,” Kili mumbled, burying his face in his hands, which were large, the same size as yours. “I didn’t know how to tell you that I liked you. I chose the coward’s way out.”

“I can understand that,” Y/N admitted. “Although telling everyone that why were courting via my hairstyle was not the smartest way of going about it.”

“Well, technically, your hairstyle doesn’t say you are dating. (A/N: this part here is completely made up) These braids in this style, paired with the loose hair actually means unrequited love. And seeing as I did your hair, and I have a matching braid-” he briefly pushed his hair behind his ear, pulling on a small braid, that was, indeed matching, even with a simpler version of the bead, with only two gems. “-it basically tells everyone that I have a crush on you. Uncle Thorin just misunderstood because he only looked at the bead, which he knows I own.”

“What do the gems mean?” Y/N asked, knowing she was avoiding the topic of Kili’s love for her and her possible love for him, but too afraid to cross that bridge.

Kili smiled nervously, already flushing from what he anticipated Y/N’s reaction to be, and he pulled the bead from her hair, pointing to each gem as he explained their meaning.

“The white one with the blue sheen - moonstone. It means patience, like how I am willing to wait for you. This pink one is morganite. It symbolises divine love and prosperity. These two are the ones that I have in my matching bead.” And Y/N saw that this was indeed true.

“The red ruby, which symbolises passion.” Kili’s cheeks looked as red as the jewel as he hurriedly moved on. “An emerald, green, which is fertility. Not only in children, but fertility in the soil that grows the flowers of success. Old wive’s tale. The purple one’s an opal - which is for emotional purity. It’s meant to guard against jealousy and anger. The garnet and the citrine - orange and the yellow - both stand for protection, though the citrine also provides prosperity and success.”

Y/N was completely entranced by his knowledge of the gems, even as he came to the last few.

“This pastel blue one is for fidelity, although I don’t think you need that, you have loads of it.” Y/N and Kili laughed together, and Kili fixed the bead back in her hair.

“Wait! You didn’t explain the last one!” Y/N protested, eager to hear more.

Kili stopped, smiling. “Oh. That’s a sapphire, which means trust, like how I’m trusting you with my heart. But I put it in there because it’s the exact colour of your eyes.”

Y/N was so touched by this last one, that he trusted her with his heart, even after she heard that it had been broken by the death of the Mirkwood elleth, Tauriel, that she threw her arms around him, squeezing him tight. On the floor, they were a similar height, and he hugged her back lightly.

“You know, Kili of the Line of Durin,” Y/N said teasingly as her arms lingered around his neck, though she pulled back so she could look him in the eye. “I think I need to thank you for the bead and the braids, because you made me realise something.”

“What?” Kili breathed.

“I realised I’m kinda in love with you.”

And hidden in the endless shelves of the library, Y/N kissed him, right there and then.

Hi there guys! I’ll be putting up a dialogue prompts request list soon for you to request UP TO THREE numbers.

Thanks for reading! Please feel free to heart this imagine, give me a follow and/or request (it makes my day so much!).

[alistonjdrake]

Part Two: The Silent Partner

Sebastian an’Johannes Harver Born: Year 1729 after the fall of the Saints Parents: Royal Governor and Governess of Tadrus. Johannes an’Arturo Harver and Helena ana’Dídac Cabrel   Wife: Princess Sandra ana’Juliano Rios

There is a midwife in Tadrus who made a killing in the immediate years after the creation of the Escana Empire when she claimed she was the first to ever touch the emperor. She was also there when Lady Helena gave birth to Prince Sebastian. She said, “If I did not pull that babe from her with my own two hands I would never believe that they are mother and son.” 

Some have theorized that Prince Sebastian was likely a mistake or a very surprising child. There are numerous reasons. Lady Helena and Royal Governor Johannes did not have a close or affectionate marriage by any means. While they married by their own choice (and also much to the shock of their families) they never appeared or claimed to be in love. In fact, after Frederick, it was said the couple did not see each other for two years with Johannes living in a smaller house on the Pala Haviso property where he spent time working on a poetry collection he would never finish. 

So it was a wonder to many that Sebastian was born at all. No one was likely as surprised as Lady Helena who is often praised for her astute planning and foresight and her management of Frederick’s care and education, but she had no such plans for her younger son. 

Sebastian had a quiet childhood. He stayed in Tadrus. He had tutors, none more extravagant than the cousin of a Navanese duke, and he was by no means uneducated. Sebastian was a well learned child. He was something of a musical prodigy. Even Lady Helena delighted in his singing. He spoke well, he had friendly manners, and was a pleasant child if not a boring one. 

He spent a lot of time with his father and when Johannes’ health started to decline, he fashioned himself as one of his caretakers. Some would go on to say that even after some twenty years of marriage, Johannes still spent more time with Sebastian than he ever had with Lady Helena. 

They were both relatively quiet and meek in appearance and manners. They got on well. In 1742, Sebastian was only thirteen when his father died and he was absolutely crushed. 

As an adult and in the early years of the Harver reign, it’s easy to remember Prince Sebastian as King Frederick’s shadow, but when his older brother arrived from Oskya he was stunned by his strangeness. Sebastian would go on to write about his brother’s mustache, his odd companion, his funny accent, as well as his obsession with what he deemed “impractical” clothing. People always point out Frederick as the “Tadrune” one but that label is clearly more fitting for Sebastian. 

Sebastian was Tadrune through and through. Even during his life in Graza he would be a firm believer in the Tadrune dialect and preferred it over Graza’s formal Escan. He preferred traditional Escana and Tadrune attire over new court fashions his brother adopted, something he would wear occasionally throughout his adult life. Sebastian also preferred quieter hobbies as a contrast to his brother. He was briefly famous for his collection of books and would go on to be the blame for his nephew Prince Leonides’ obsession with reading illegal books.

But, in the beginning, it can be said King Frederick did not make many attempts to bond with him. They had been apart for too long, they hardly wrote to one another previously, and the Pala Haviso was large enough where they truly did not need to meet if they didn’t want to. As brothers they did not cultivate any such closeness until after King Juliano’s death in 1745 and Sebastian, now sixteen, was encouraged both by his mother and grandfather to join King Frederick’s campaign.

Lacking all of his older brother’s knowledge of the military and knowing even less of Oskyan customs, Sebastian mainly kept to himself. Although, he did find some time to bond with Vadik, of all people. They would come to form their own small alliance that would hold together for future dealings when they would later corner King Frederick to make decisions. 

King Frederick married Queen Isolde in 1748 and became King of Escan. That same day, there was another, often forgotten, wedding.  Briefly in his childhood, there are rumors that Sebastian had been engaged before. Or that at least there was some conversations about him and potential matches (one of which its rumored was between him and the eventual Queen Trella). 

But Sebastian was truly married at the age of nineteen to Princess Sandra ana’Juliano Rios, the often forgotten second daughter of King Juliano. As unhappy as the marriage between the older siblings were, this one was worse. Neither was thrilled. Princess Sandra had been hiding in an ally’s country house during the Siege of Graza and went missing on the road three times before she finally arrived in Graza for her wedding. Lady Helena had to sit Sebastian down and outline the importance of combining both families to him.

Perhaps one of the reasons Sebastian so easily jumped into life at court and took up a spot in helping King Frederick was as a way to avoid Princess Sandra, who spent their honeymoon alone in a Grazan townhouse while Sebastian helped with renovations of the palace and began research for what would become the groundwork of the propaganda that would strengthen King Frederick’s claim. 

Another difference between the two brothers, is that Sebastian was very comforted by his work. Ever the avid reader, it actually delighted him to pour over bills and old Escana law. Besides that, and the one most people find interesting, is that Sebastian all but cut Princess Sandra loose. By the time Queen Isolde’s first pregnancy was announced, he urged his mother to loosen the watch on his wife. Princess Sandra would be gone from Graza by the next day.

As a couple, they barely saw each other and Sebastian was never known to take on a lover. King Frederick would become famous for having countless ones, and while there would be times where Sebastian would be criticized for coming too close to his one of his sisters-in-law, no one has ever produced solid proof that he was an unfaithful husband (or an awful brother). 

In all things, Sebastian more or less tried to keep the peace. He would do his best to calm Lady Helena’s tempers, courtiers would tell jokes about how much time he spent cleaning up scandals and plucking nasty rumors by their roots, he was also dubbed the “handler”. Through him, his brother would often select his paramours. It would be Sebastian who would go to the lucky person’s residence and tell them they caught the king’s eye, or be the one to send a letter or gift, or be the one who had to have the paramour removed from the palace. Sebastian also took on the job of handling a lot of King Frederick’s personal accounts and affairs, a job he would eventually give to Prince Leonides (along with other tasks). 

The family truly played up the differences between them. As capable of an adviser as Sebastian proved to be, it was important that he was also pointed out as the weaker brother just as much as they spread sentiment that Princess Sandra was frivolous and uncaring, a stranger in Graza. She was still the surviving Rios and to quell any whispers that that she took King Frederick’s place as King Juliano’s heir, they were set up as an entirely unfit royal couple. 

Sebastian was the one who arranged the funeral for Lady Helena when she died in 1756 despite the fact that they were never close. But he was often charged with arranging all the funerals in the family up until that point (he’d even helped plan Johannes’ funeral back in 1742 as Arturo could not immediately leave Graza at the time and Lady Helena simply did not want to.) His responsibility of funeral handling does extend to his brother’s queens as well. 

In place of having children of his own, Sebastian did try to be a good uncle. He was close to Prince Leonides because of how closely they worked together, but he did attempt to have relationships with all of his nephews (and his single niece). As Prince Leonides got older and his talent for politics became apparent, Sebastian began to take more and more steps back. Eventually, he would take an early retirement and do the thing King Frederick got to do that he never did. 

Sebastian traveled. As a boy raised in Tadrus and then as someone who spent much of his adulthood in Graza, he was fascinated by the sea. He purchased his own ship and would spent many months out of the year sailing warm waters and relaxing on neighboring islands, returning to Graza with gifts for the family.

Much like himself, in 1759, he and Princess Sandra had a shocking child. After eleven years of marriage, much of it spent apart, Princess Sandra gave birth to their only child. 

The timing is not extremely strange as in 1759, Sebastian and Princess Sandra had both a funeral and a wedding to attend (the death of Queen Filipa and the subsequent marriage to Queen Brandye. It was customary for them to appear before the court as a couple for special occasions. Sebastian was quoted to having saying he didn’t ask for much but Princess Sandra must not embarrass him by not attending.) and they did share apartments in Graza Palace. And perhaps eleven years had truly passed, people very rarely mentioned Queen Isolde or the bad blood that had existed between Harver and Rios in those days.

Although, once Princess Damaris was born, the couple was again separated. Princess Sandra went back to her country homes and lesser noble friends, and Sebastian traveled less frequently but that’s not to say he didn’t continue to leave. 

While it can be said that neither were very attentive parents, Sebastian did try to make up for what he lacked. He found it much easier to be an uncle, as he had no reason to see his nephews before they were old enough to leave the royal nursery, but Princess Damaris’ care and education was all up to him once Princess Sandra was gone. On his own side, Sebastian did feel close to his daughter although he was very open about how little they understood one another or had anything in common. He was his daughter’s loudest supporter on her path to knighthood and when he was in Graza, they did spend plenty of time alone together almost as if they were outcasts in the Escana court. 

Despite his retirement, Sebastian still handled much of King Frederick’s personal business. He was blamed for covering up Queen Luca’s assaults on paramours who were related to important figures, as well as accused for hiding Queen Luca when she was still a mistress during her pregnancy. When some people were brought to trial for Queen Luca’s assassination, Sebastian was also questioned (not under suspicion of involvement but for what he knew about potential suspects). Sebastian has also come under fire for not being wholly truthful about the personal Harver accounts and their assets, some believe he’s hidden several properties King Frederick purchased either to hide paramours or to have his family escape to in the case of a rebellion. He’s been accused of keeping a list of illegitimate children who are scattered across the continent for his brother, brushing illegal dealings under the rug, and even letting enemies of the state cross their borders. 

For as faithful of a partner as he was to King Frederick, he very rarely confided in anyone himself. In Sebastian’s adult life, he found no friend as close to him as he’d been to his father as a child and was very secretive. 

While traveling, he contracted a disease and died in 1779. After his funeral, Princess Sandra announced she would not be coming back to Graza and has not been seen in court since. 

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Nirvana in Fire Episode 34

Spoiler cut. This is really just a character discussion based on the earliest part of the episode.

I’m just a schemer who incites troubles. If I try to use friendship and justice to convince [Xia Dong], she will naturally not believe me.

You! Stop being passive-aggressive and sad right now!

This really brings to the fore the question of why Mei Changsu is presenting himself the way he is, because it makes it very apparent that he is hurt by Prince Jing’s opinion of him, even though that opinion accords with the way he has deliberately presented himself. So why is presenting himself that way?

Without risking his identity in any way, without departing from his identity as Mei Changsu, he could still defend his character. He could tell Prince Jing that telling Nihuang to guard against the wrong person was an honest mistake, not deliberate exploitation. He could emphasize that this is not about faction fights to him, that he wants Prince Jing in power because he wants a ruler who cares about the well-being of the people, using the recent famine relief as an example - thousands of lives, at minimum, were saved by having Prince Jing rather than Prince Yu coordinate it. He could ask what’s happened other than the issue of the Chiyan officer to make Prince Jing so angry at him, and so defend himself against the charge of having deliberately exploited Consort Jing’s suffering. But he’s not even trying.

And I think part of the reason for it is that, deep down, Lin Shu still has all the same values and principles as Prince Jing - the values of a warrior, not a political operative. He’s letting Prince Jing hate him, even when it seriously jeapordizes his plans, because he feels that he deserves it - especially now, especially when he’s argued as hard as he can for the abandonment of one of his own soldiers. It’s a deeply emotional and impractical choice cloathed in the appearance of detached practicality.

And I think this is also one of the reasons he’s not revealing his identity - he’s frightened that even in Prince Jing knew he was his old friend, he’d still feel the same hostility and moral rejection to him as he does to Mei Changsu. And he can deal with being hated as Mei Changsu, in a way he couldn’t deal with being hated as Lin Shu.

[justfandomwritings]

United in Fear (Part Four - Soulmate!Robb)

Pairing: Robb Stark x Reader; Soulmates AU

Word count: 9.1k

Warnings: This chapter depicts a ‘bedding ceremony’. Which is a ceremony in the GoT universe that involves a group of men stripping a woman naked on her wedding night and shouting obscene things at her. The reader’s character is disturbed by said ceremony in the story, though it is not described in what I would deem a disturbingly graphic manner for readers, nor is the practice glorified in any way. 

There is also a separate scene involving nudity and a sexual situation (sexual situation, not sex) which is fully and unambiguously consensual.

Summary: The names were the greatest mystery in Westeros. Each kingdom had their own telling of the story. None of the kingdoms could agree on where they were from or how they came to be. Each thought a different god, their own interpretation of religion, was responsible, but all seemed to agree on one thing: they were a gift.

Notes: So, this chapter does have warnings. If you choose to read it, please read it informed of what is coming. If you’re looking for a ‘rating’ of how extreme or graphic I would class this, then my answer would be “if you watched these scenes in Game of Thrones, none of them come close to how disturbing the show could get at times” 

Oh also... Um note before you read.... I’m not a huge fan of Bran’s character at any point in the series soooo.... yeah. 

Start From the Beginning… Part One

Previously On... Part Three

“Son.”

Robb looked up to see his father standing in the door. His appearance was a sign of what was to come.

In Winterfell, the Starks had very little use for fine, Southern clothes. Such garments were impractical for daily use, and what was impractical for daily use was never bothered with when meeting Northern Lords. Even the King, for all the pomp of his arrival, had only seen the Starks clean up their usual appearance. Sansa had worn one of her nicer dresses in hopes of meeting the princes, but none of the others had actually dressed up for the occasion.

The fine leather tunic, embossed with a running direwolf across the chest, which graced Ned Stark now was a piece Robb had never seen his father wear. Perhaps, he had never worn it before at all. Robb had certainly never worn the fine fur cloak around his shoulders nor the polished boots covering his feet.

“Are you ready?” Ned looked Robb over once.

“I wish Sansa could go in my stead,” Robb confessed. His head hung as he left his rooms.

Ned hummed in agreement, “I know. I wish you did not have to witness this.”

“You did not marry your mate either.” Robb pointed out.

Ned nodded confirmation, “Yes, that is true.”

“But you moved on?” Robb’s tone was questioning, hopeful.

From a young age, Robb knew his parents were not soulmates. His father had been the one to explain the name on his arm to him, and Ned had to tell Robb, rather frankly, that there was a chance he would never meet her and would almost certainly never have her. Ned Stark had been right on one of those counts, and Robb would have to accept it just as his parents had.

“I will not pretend moving on was something I did willingly.” Ned gave a heavy sigh, “It is hard to give up on the idea of a perfect life, a perfect love; but for most of us life is not meant to be that easy. You have been given a particularly hard life to lead, but the gods have given you this life for a reason. They have shown you her for a reason, and they have taken her for a reason. Finding happiness, after meeting her, will be difficult, but it is not impossible.”

Robb paused in his step, and Ned carried on another pace before he stopped and turned back to his son. “You,” Robb hesitated, “You speak from experience.” Robb never knew his father had met his mate. The name, not that Robb had ever read it, was still on his father’s arm.

Ned seemed to think for a long moment before he spoke, “I was once where you are now. I stood in a sept and watched my soulmate marry another man.”

“Where is she now?” Robb asked.

Ned didn’t answer. He turned away and waited for Robb to come back to his side before the pair walked on without another word.

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The Sept of Winterfell was a small one. It had been built by Ned Stark for his new wife, Catelyn, as a gift, and had rarely been used by anyone but the Lady of Winterfell. Shoulder to shoulder, it comfortably held only sixteen, fifteen if one of those was Robert Baratheon.

The King’s only joy in being slighted by the Lannister’s had been in Tywin’s rush to marry off his daughter. Lady (Y/n), a Lannister bride as worthy of the Sept of Baelor as Princess Myrcella herself, would be forced to marry in the miniscule stone hut of a sept that heard the praises of only one woman and saw none of the splendor accustomed to (Y/n)’s station. Robert had revelled in the thought.

While even the Great Lion could not build a newer, more worthy sept in time, Tywin Lannister never truly lost. Even this small ceremony, this disadvantage, this insult to their wealth and grandeur, had proven to be to the Lannister’s benefit.

In all of Westeros, only fifteen people would be permitted to witness what Robb knew would be the wedding of the century. If the Lannisters could not display their wealth, then they would at least flaunt their superiority. The countless lords and ladies of the King’s party practically tripped over themselves to reach Tywin’s chambers first; they desperately argued and debated who was deserving to see the ceremony. Even Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen had not made the guest list with their parents and the crown prince.

Robb had hoped he would be similarly forgotten.

Tywin Lannister himself had dashed that dream with a personal invitation extended immediately after the public announcement.

Tywin’s invitation positioned Robb between his father and Tyrion Lannister at the front of the floor, right where (Y/n) would come to stand. He was in full view of every lord and lady in the Sept and had an unobstructed eye on the woman that should have been his.

That was what Tywin wanted, and Robb knew it. He wanted Robb to know (Y/n) was not and would never be his. He wanted Robb to watch her hands join with another man, wanted Robb to hear to her swear vows to an insignificant knight. He wanted to remind Robb, and thereby his father and the King, who was really in charge.

As such, Robb was forced to watch the lumbering Harwyn Plumm march to the front of the Sept, standing in front of King Robert and Queen Cersei.

Harwyn was accompanied by Jaime Lannister, taking the place of Harwyn’s elder brothers and father as the bearer of (Y/n)’s marriage cloak.

Robb glared at the offending fabric, brought North from Casterly Rock by a soldier who had joined Mace Tyrell’s march to Winterfell. It was folded neatly under the Kingslayer’s arm, and Robb could not make out it’s texture or color. He didn’t need to see it to know what it represented, though.

It was the end, the end of any hope, not that there had ever been much.

“Rise.” The Septon was from the Riverlands, the Twins if Robb remembered correctly. There was no formal Septon at Winterfell to lead the ceremony, so Tywin had sent orders for Mace Tyrell to procure and bring a suitable man when he passed through House Frey.

Strictly speaking, the King, being above all but the gods, was not required to stand, but Robert Baratheon rose like all the rest as heads turned for (Y/n)’s entrance.

Robb’s eyes turned, and the moment he caught sight of her he desperately wished he hadn’t.

She was gorgeous, even more so than usual.

Robb had wondered, on occasion, if his attraction to her was real or if it was simply the gods’ way of drawing him to her, but even the gods, old and new, couldn’t fake such a beauty.

Her dress was a simple sheer white silk, draped more than fitted over her body. The straps were without sleeves and slipped over her shoulders as if they supported none of the weight of the fabric. Only a trail of ruching up the center between her breasts provided any support or structure for the slippery material.

The dress was topped with the only break from the immaculate white. A large piece of twisting golden metal hung from (Y/n)’s neck. Extending out over her shoulders, the vine-like twists framed her width and wove down her frame to finish in the top of the folds between her breasts. The neck piece gave a severe, serious armor, to an otherwise innocent appearance; and the polished gold of which it was made reminded the room her name.

Beautiful but Lannister.

Robb looked away.

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Prayer.

Seven blessings.

Song.

Seven promises.

Song.

Seven vows.

Prayer.

Lighting the candle.

Prayer.

Robb had only been to one wedding in a sept, and he recalled it had been a similarly tedious, albeit less emotionally painful, affair.

As a child, he had gone to a wedding in White Harbor the year before Arya was born. House Manderly were the only house in the North to worship the new gods, Lord Manderly’s sister had invited the entirety of the North to their Sept to bare witness to her wedding some minor southern lord.

The lords and ladies of the North descended on White Harbour, but most respectfully declined to enter the Sept to honor gods they did not believe, instead partaking only in the feast and celebrations of the couples’ marriage.

Robb’s mother had made a point that, while her children would worship the gods of their father, they would at least understand the gods of herself and the other kingdoms. As such, Robb had sat at the front of the Sept with his mother for the entirety of the dull affair. She explained it all to him, every moment of the ceremony whispered in his young ears.

In his heart, Robb knew he would never need to know. He would not be married in a Sept. He would be married in front of the weirwood tree, alone with his wife and the gods. He would not be made to attend any Southern court or play at diplomacy in a feasting hall. All he needed to know of the Seven was their names and their purpose.

Right now, that was all Robb wished he knew. He tried desperately to forget everything his mother had taught him, to forget what came next.

Tywin Lannister stepped forward behind his daughter and reached around the front of her neck, undoing the tie holding her Lannister cloak to the metal collar of her dress.

Gently, with all the reverence the old man was capable of, he touched he folded the cloak over his arm and retreated to his place.

Harwyn Plumm raised an hand and Jaime Lannister stepped forward, draping the marriage cloak over his outstretched arm.

The cloak, in itself, was surely enough to convince most that Tywin had indeed been planning this wedding long before he sprung the news on the King.

The face was hidden, covered in the folds of the material, but the lining alone was a work of art.

Marriage cloaks were the most treasured possession of any bride. Usually far finer than her dress and equally as expensive as the entire feast.

In the South, they were works of art to be marveled. Made from the finest silks and softest satins, they only touched the earth or saw the sun for the grandest occasions. Houses used the open display of their banners to showcase their importance in any way they saw fit. A cloak’s craftsmanship testified the wealth and love her husband held for her in what he willingly invested in showing her importance.

In the North, they were pretty enough, certainly more magnificent than everyday cloaks, but they always served a function. Silks and satins were uselessly discarded for furs and wools. Worn constantly in the cold, the sigils born by the cloak spoke for themselves, the names that accompanied them carrying far greater weight than any display of prowess. Wealth and love were proven through the deed of a man keeping his wife warm, not by showing off his gold to others.

(Y/n)’s marriage cloak was a feat that North and South alike could not deny.

The lining, displayed as it fell across Harwyn’s arm, was the golden hide of a lion, many lions by its length; yet there was no seam. Tireless work had gone into creating an unbroken chain of fur. An unending field made from the skin of their sigil. Lions and gold, a golden lion, the only thing worthy of touching Lannister skin.

Harwyn took the cloak in his hands and presented its interior for the world to see.

Robb had held some amount of pride that, at the least, Harwyn would present his soulmate with an unworthy rag. Some frilly Southern thing that was not to (Y/n)’s taste or at least not to Robb’s own. The presentation of its lining removed Robb of that notion. The hide lining was a majestic thing more than fitting of the South, but more than enough to cut the chill.

With an artful flourish, surely practiced for no man of Harwyn’s size could be so graceful without help, he swung it around (Y/n)’s shoulders. (Y/n), in a small moment of defiance that Robb would cherish to his dying day, batted Harwyn’s hands away to secure the cloak in place herself.

“With this kiss,” Harwyn took (Y/n)’s hands in his and leaned into her, “I pledge my love.”

“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” (Y/n) parroted back, and their lips met. A brush so soft and swift that even Robb did not have time to feel any anger over it.

It wasn’t until the wedded pair turned to lead their guests from the Sept that everyone else present realized what Robb already knew.

The cloak around (Y/n)’s shoulders was not Harwyn Plumm’s.

Topping the fur lining of (Y/n)’s marriage cloak was a field of brilliantly crimson satin, hemmed in by a black, fur border. Stitched into the center were not the unintimidating, three purple fruits of House Plumm as it should have been, nor even the roaring lion of House Lannister.

Woven into the center of the fabric, so seemlessly it looked as though it was painted, was a proud lionness in golden thread. She leapt off her hind legs, facing out of the sigil towards the wedding guests with a vicious snarl at her teeth. A lioness on the hunt, the personal arms of Lady (Y/n) Lannister.

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“How much gold do you think the Lannisters paid Plumm’s father to allow that travesty?”

To say Robert was enraged might have been an understatement of the King’s actions at the feast.

The Lannister girl’s cloak didn’t really mean much. In truth, it was far more a slight to her husband than the king, but the fact that Harwyn Plumm was entirely unphased seemed to cause Robert further distress. Like he knew, by the knights inaction, that there was something more to the crest, something meant not for the knight but for the king.

Ned, sitting at the King’s side, simply could not conceive of such a thing. “You think the Plumm’s knew this was being planned? Surely not. The cloak is a symbol of his protection. What man would willingly have his honor questioned for a few pieces of gold?”

It was true that many had begun to whisper about the cloak, but the harsh words against Harwyn came mostly from Northmen, those with a far different sense of duty to their family. Harwyn’s peers, those knights and lords of the South, whispered as well, but with a far deeper understanding of what such a sign might mean.

“You Starks,” Robert grumbled, “you’ll never understand the South.”

“I don’t understand,” Ned agreed. “And yet you’d have me as your Hand.”

Robert turned to his old friend with a smile meant more for reminiscing than anything. “Yes, I know that well enough, Ned. It’s for that reason I want you as my Hand. I need a man removed of all of this, someone I can trust to remain above the fray.”

“By staying above the fray,” Ned deduced, “you mean someone who can’t be bought by Lannisters.”

“That does help your cause.” Robert and Ned laughed quietly together as though it were old times, and they were alone in the halls of the Eyrie avoiding Jon Arryn’s watchful eyes.

For a moment, Ned could almost forget his friend had changed.

Not in appearance, he didn’t need to forget that. Despite his heavier, darker physique, Robert Baratheon was still strong and harsh as ever. His body had aged more poorly than Ned’s own, but it didn’t detract from his friend at all.

Ned had almost forgotten his friend’s rage. Forgotten the cruel look in Robert’s eyes as he relished in the death of the Targaryen dynasty. Forgotten the stench of drink and sex that seemed to permeate Winterfell from the moment Robert arrived. Forgotten the thunk of his son’s soulmate hitting the floor. Forgotten the plotting and scheming against his enemies like a man bereft of sanity.

Almost.

It was impossible to forget when the living reminder sat two places away from Robert’s other side.

(Y/n) had taken a break from dancing with her husband and perched on the edge of her seat, chin high, shoulders back, high and mighty as only a Lannister could be.

Looking at her family, Ned could see Robert’s longing to cut them down to size, of reminding them that their place was the Rock, not the Throne. He could see Tywin marching into the throne room and demanding more respect than the King; Jaime Lannister prancing about the Red Keep like the arrogant fool who’d killed its previous owner; the Queen spitting on the name of her husband every time his back was turned; Tyrion blathering drunk and still thinking he knew more than all.

Ned knew, not only from (Y/n)’s last name but from his every encounter with the girl, that she was as dangerous as their lord father, proud as the knight, defiant as the queen, and smart as the imp. And yet, Ned could not, would not, envisage anyone cutting down (Y/n). Perhaps it was Ashara in her, or perhaps it was his son, but Ned could not stand to forget or forgive for what Robert had done.

In brief moments such as this, joking over Ned’s ignorance or reminiscing about times before the rebellion, Ned could almost see the valiant young lord who fought by Ned’s side to avenge his family and save his sister.

Now, Robert struck women he once would have protected and groped serving maids for the sheer joy of being unfaithful to his wife.

Ned fumed beneath his skin imagining Lyanna where Cersei now stood, being shamed and defied by a man who swore to love her alone, and Ned broke picturing Ashara, bedecked in her final Lannister red and gold, sitting next to a man who threw her to the floor. Ned’s imagination but Robb’s reality.

Robb looked ready to become the second man in the room to slay a king.

Ned turned his head away from Robert and leaned in so only Robb could hear. “He, and the rest of the party, will soon be gone. Do nothing to incur their wrath in these final hours.”

“I will not,” Robb huffed, “assuming you are done ingratiating the man who attacked one of our own.” Robb turned his harsh gaze on his father. “Or did you forget she wears our name now.”

“Our name, but not our colors.” Ned flitted his gaze over the raucous hall. “None know what she is to us.”

“You know.”

Robb pushed to his feet and moved several seats down to ask Sansa to dance, if for nothing more than an excuse to be away from his father and the King.

This day had been a trial of his will, and thus far it had held. He refused to allow it to be broken by the laughter of old men.

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Unsurprisingly, no one had seen when Tyrion Lannister rose to his feet.

Despite being heir to the Rock, the Imp had not received the same place of honor at the table as had the heir of Winterfell. Tyrion was, instead, sat on his sister’s side of the high table, far at the end, next to a snivelling Mace Tyrell and the irritating Lord Banefort. Both men spoke over the head of the shorter man, and neither seemed to notice or care that their companion had abandoned them.

Tyrion was perfectly fine with that arrangement. Neither provided the prospect of particularly scintillating conversation. He would have preferred, ideally, to be sat on the husband’s far end of the table beside his brother or in his rightful seat beside his favored sister, but being ignored by two unworthy men was far preferable to being bored talking to them.

Tyrion pushed to his feet only moments after the eldest Stark boy had abandoned his chair. He’d been told by his father to wait till the heir of Winterfell had full view, and while his timing was certainly more obvious than if he had waited a few moments, Tyrion simply didn’t think he could stand the room for another minute. This was his excuse to leave, and he hoped to seize the opportunity immediately.

With short, swift paces, Tyrion rounded the high table and dropped down two stone steps in height before he continued along its length towards the center of the room.

Seeing his youngest son approach, Tywin rose to his feet.

No one had seen, heard, or bothered with Tyrion standing, but the entire room stilled and fell quiet for his father.

“Father,” Tyrion fell to one knee, though he rested it on the step above where he stood to avoid losing any more height on the rest of the room. He spoke as loudly as he dared, “I have come before this hall to beg forgiveness.”

“For what, my son?” Tywin spoke what was meant to be a question but came without the tone.

“Forgiveness from the burden of bearing your name and my inability to do so. My Lord Father,” With a deep breath Tyrion recited the words. “May the Crone deem me wise. May the Father deem me just. May the Smith deem me strong. May the Mother deem me merciful. May the Warriror deem me brave. I ask the Maiden to pass my burden onto one of her own, and the Stranger to claim me swiftly if I prove wrong.”

“Tyrion Lannister, you would pass on your inheritance as Lord of Casterly Rock.” Tywin confirmed for his youngest son.

“I would.”

In a booming voice, for all to hear, Tywin announced, “Tyrion of House Lannister, born successor to the Lord of Casterly Rock, I pass you on as heir and hand the title my daughter, Lady (Y/N) Lannister. May she prove fit to bear the name.”

She would. Robb knew that much.

And as the celebrations resumed their levity, Robert Baratheon began to laugh.

Robb knew why. Tywin had seemingly given his House away to the Plumm’s.

Robert jeered his rival with a confidence the larger man would never have had on a sober morning, and Tywin met the rebukes with a cool smirk. Leaning over several seats, Tywin whispered to the King a single sentence that made the Baratheon’s face fall in an instance.

A sentence Robb, again, already knew. “My daughter is cloaked under her own protection and bares her own name; her children will be Lannister to their core.”

Lannister heirs. Something Robb, much as he wanted (Y/n), could never give.

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“The bedding!”

Robert’s voice roared and echoed across the stones.

Only Ned or the King could call for the end of the feast, and Robert seemed rather eager to do so quickly after Tyrion’s show and Tywin’s explanation.

The King should have married Tywin’s daughter to a Stark but was thwarted by the girl’s rejection. The King should have forced the betrothal but was thwarted by Tywin’s arrival. The King should have undone Harwyn Plumm but was thwarted by the sudden wedding.

Tywin should have cloaked his daughter in purple and yellow but instead managed to slight the Plumms and his guests by draping her in red. Tywin should have been robbed of his heir after Tyrion’s deferment but instead passed it to his daughter. Tywin should have lost his name to the Plumms but instead preserved his reign for years to come.

Robert was no longer in the mood for anything, even drinking. The greatest whore in King’s Landing could not satisfy the King’s mind, and the whore of Winterfell were far from the greatest in King’s Landing.

Robert wanted to watch the unruly Northmen shove the girl out of his sight so they might degrade her as she walked naked through the frigid halls of Winterfell. It was ceremony, a ceremony the King greatly enjoyed, and with his daughter left naked, it was one Tywin Lannister could not dare to stop.

The men, on any other occasion, would have rushed the bride. Drunkeningly tearing away her dignity for the whole kingdom to see without any care for whether they were still in the company of the feasting hall. Then, most women resisted or cowered at their fate.

“The bedding!”

Harwyn, still dancing with an older southern lady, was the first to be ushered away by the giggling maidens in his midst. He smiled, amused by the prospect, and put up little resistance as the women dragged him along towards the entrance hall. Shrill laughing and squeals of amusement following in their wake.

(Y/n) rose without emotion or hesitation as Robert called for it to begin.

The two dozen or so men, unknighted Northern soldiers mostly, assembled in the entryway. They laughed and shoved each other at the edge of the hall, waiting for the seemingly compliant woman to join their midst.

(Y/n) had to join them.

Usually the men would carry the bride. Usually, they would strip her naked in their arms, touch and feel her body as they pleased, and say whatever horrific obscenity came to their mind to humiliate the bride before they dropped her, crying usually, in bed with her husband as they laughed at the man for what they had seen of her or done to her before her husband could.

Tradition stated she must accompany them to her room, and that she should not resist their ‘preparations’ for her night, an elegant description for an inelegant deed.

(Y/n) walked straight through the group for the entrance hall, and the men rushed after her quick unfaltering pace.

“Leaving so soon?” One man called as the stumbling group tried to catch up with her.

“I knew she was just another Southern whore.”

Another voice joined in over the chorus of laughter. “Come back here; we want to see if your cunt is really made of gold!”

(Y/n) said nothing. She didn’t want this. She wanted to break into a run for her rooms. She wanted to call her guards and have Jaime or the Mountain cut them down. She wanted turn and slap the ones who spoke and show them to their proper place, far beneath her feet.

She couldn’t though. She wouldn’t. They were under her skin, but she wouldn’t allow them the pleasure of knowing it.

(Y/n) weaved her way through the halls at an unrelenting pace, always one step short of bolting for her door. If they caught her, it would not be in the entry halls, traversed by many where all could see her shame. If they caught her, it wouldn’t be for her lack of trying.

As she turned the corner towards the stairwell, one soldier, less drunk than his comrades presumably, kept better on his feet and matched (Y/n)’s pace as the raucous group came down the empty hall.

“Not so fast, my lady,” his voice growled. With thick, pudgy fingers, he caught the hem of her cloak and jerked.

(Y/n) was wrenched back by her neck into the crowd of pawing hands who all cheered their friend’s achievement.

With a crack of the clasp, her beautiful cloak fluttered to the floor beneath their feet as muddy boots trod over it in the men’s haste to get a better grip on the Lady of the Rock.

The men were intended to lift her on their shoulders and strip her as they traveled, but their walk after her had made them impatient and indulgent in their reward.

(Y/n) snapped her eyes tightly shut and balled her hands at her hands. Her teeth bit back the tip of her tongue as one voice shouted.

“Come on then! Show the rest of us! Is it gold?”

Hands trailed over (Y/n)’s curves, slipping over and under the thin material of her dress. They fought for what they deemed the best spaces and elbowed each other to make room for a better grip on her flesh.

A hand fisted in the folds at the front of her dress, and (Y/n) felt herself being dragged forward, pressed tight against the offending man’s chest. He and the nearest man behind her rubbed themselves against her, pressing and squeezing into her body with groans of pleasure.

“Savor it. We all need to have a turn!” One man snarked, ripping away the man at her front to try to replace him.

Bodies closed in around her; hands touched her chest and thighs in more places and ways than she could count.

(Y/n) was sure every man had their piece, but the voices made it seem some did not or were at least unsatisfied with the contact. They shouted at each other to make room. They shouted grotesque comments to her. They shouted what they would do when they had her.

She tried. She really, truly tried to keep herself hidden. She didn’t open her eyes or unclench her hands. She said nothing to the men and tried, in turn, to ignore what was said to her.

But when a pair of them lifted her arms above her head to get better access to her breasts, a lone tear finally broke and slid down her cheek.

“Leave us.” A voice, as cold and dark as the night outside the walls, broke the daze which had consumed the men.

A few maintained their rhythms, touching, groping and rubbing against the disturbed woman in their midst, but most hands, most bodies jerked away from her skin as if the voice cast some magic which burned their touch.

“My lord, we simply…” It was the same voice that told the others to savor it.

“I said leave us.” Darker, colder than the night this time.

(Y/n) dared not look as she heard the men retreating behind her; some willingly, others too drunk to know better had to be dragged away by their friends.

It took what (Y/n) thought must have been at least five minutes before the hall was completely quiet of the mobs crude noises and harsh words.

“They should be ashamed.” The words were spat with as much disgust as (Y/n) had ever heard.

“In the morning, they will say the same of you.” (Y/n) replied quietly, staying rooted to her spot in the middle of the hall.

Footsteps paced cautiously up behind her. They approached with all the hesitation and care the previous men had lacked. They came at her slowly, each step testing if it was one step too far before the next was made.

(Y/n) did not bother to open her eyes. She could hear quite clearly the path the feet took around in front of her, and when they finally settled, she felt the body heat pulsing out at her chest, drawing her in with its comforting warmth.

“I should have come sooner.” A gentle hand touched her cheek, wiping alone the lone tear clinging to her skin.

“I wish you had,” (Y/n) confessed in a voice meant for only their ears to hear.

A sigh blew across her face, “I’m not expected to join the bedding, or I would have sent them away at once. Robert tried to keep me in the hall; he insisted you were no longer my concern.”

(Y/n) let her eyelids flutter open to meet the dazzling blue eyes meer inches from her own. “In a way, I suppose he’s right.”

A small, sad smile tugged the corner of Robb’s lips. “I don’t suppose you would have a Septon set aside your marriage, turn your back on your father and your husband, give up becoming the most powerful woman in Westeros, force Tyrion to become heir to the Rock, leave your gold and all your other lavish Southern possessions and join me in the cold, barren North for the boring life of an incredibly traditional lady.”

(Y/n) laughed and let her face fall into Robb’s chest, dragging him into her with her arms around his waist.

Robb returned the gesture with a tight grip around her shoulders, holding her into him for what he worried might be the last time.

“I don’t suppose,” she teased in return, “if I set aside my marriage, you would be willing to forsake your inheritance, remove your sigil, leave your family, and follow me to Casterly Rock where you and your children will be known as Lannisters and never be allowed to bear the name Stark?”

They let the sad joke that was their lives hang in the air between them, and for a moment, though admittedly just a moment, Robb considered saying yes, he would.

“What do the old gods say happen to soulmates who cannot have each other this life?” (Y/n) suddenly asked, burrowing herself deeper into Robb’s embrace.

“Not much,” Robb confessed. “We have no afterlife. I like to believe we simply do not know of it, or that there is some kind of peace with those we love.”

(Y/n) turned her head to the side, pressing her cheek to Robb, so she could speak more clearly. “The new gods have seven heavens and seven hells. I like to think the pain of living in this world without your soulmate is enough suffering to warrant a place in at least the lowest heaven, or the highest hell, at the side of the soulmate we missed.”

Robb touched his lips to the top of her hair. He couldn’t bare to kiss (Y/n)’s skin. He worried the action might addict him to it. “Whatever fate befalls us,” Robb whispered into her quietly, “I promise you we will have our day.”

“We will have our day.” (Y/n) echoed Robb’s words with a far deeper emotion than she echoed Harwyn’s pledge of love earlier that day.

Robb unhappily pulled himself away and walked back several feet down the hall, stooping to salvage (Y/n)’s marriage cloak from the stones. “It’s a cold night. You should not be traveling through the halls without this.” Brushing the dirt and mud of the men from the cloth, Robb presented it to her.

(Y/n) turned her back to him, and Robb laid the cloak softly over her shoulders, wrapping her in warmth. She hadn’t realized it was so cold surrounded by the men, and when they’d left Robb had more than filled the void of heat. In fact, Robb was right, without the fires or bodies filling the feast, the air in the empty halls was heavy with the chill.

“Thank you,” She held the cloak tightly around herself.

“You’re welcome, my Lady.” Robb chuckled, “Now,” He didn’t want to break apart their moment, but he would rather end it himself, his way, than have it rudely interrupted by a passerby or search party. “I believe my fellow soldiers diverted tradition.”

“In what way?” (Y/n) looked back over her shoulder just in time.

Robb bent down, and with one arm on the small of her back and one behind her knees, swept his mate off her feet. “They were meant, my lady, to carry you.”

(Y/n) laughed, a loud, open sound not at all curved by her strong sense of propriety. It bounced off the stone and echoed down the halls with a joyous noise not at all befitting the moment, but certainly the first glint of amusement or happiness she or Robb had seen since their last fireside talk seemingly a lifetime ago.

Robb’s smile matched her own as he held her close for the journey up the stairs, and she rested her head on his shoulder with a natural comfort.

Despite their situation, they talked with ease.

(Y/n) groaned over how tediously long her maid had spent doing her hair in three different styles before her sister finally settled on the one that best framed her face. Robb lamented the snowy evening keeping the party crowded indoors. (Y/n) countered that he should join her at the Rock where space was never an issue, and Robb reminded her that the North was a far larger kingdom than the Westerlands.

(Y/n), having never been to the North before, asked its future lord just how large his domain would be. Robb recounted a tale where he, Theon, and Jon rode to House Manderly and ended up accompanying a convoy of supplies from Ramsgate  to the Stony Shore, not even the full width of the North and still a ride achievable in no less than three weeks, though usually a month. (Y/n) asked if it was made longer by winter weather, to which Robb conceded that sometimes was the case, though not in the story he told. He added that even at the height of summer, a ride from Last Hearth to Greywater took a month and a week.

(Y/n) gushed over having so much room to breath and groaned how a ride from Casterly Rock to Lannisport could sometimes take two days, not for distance but for the sheer number of carts on the roads. Robb wondered allowed how long the distance was and how large the Westerlands were, as even studying countless maps never gave anyone a true idea of space. (Y/n) told him a ride from Banefort to Crakehall usually took two weeks, but time could be cut if a traveler was willing to avoid roads through the Rock, not that many were for fear of thieves.

Robb asked the width of her lands, and she agreed that, without burgeoning trade, Silver Hall to Lannisport would be easily traversed in a week, no more. Though she liked to mention the mountains made it a far rougher ride than the flat ice plains of the North.

And then they were at her door. And Robb was setting her back on her feet.

“My lady,” Robb bowed before (Y/n), “I believe this is where I leave you.”

They stood together silently for a moment. Robb, waiting for her facade of passive indifference to return as she sent him away; (Y/n), waiting for she knew not what.

She didn’t want it to end this way. Chatting mildly about kingdoms and weather. It had been so lovely as it happened, but now knowing that was all there would be, it felt like time thoroughly wasted.

“Robb Stark,” (Y/n) curtsied in return to him, “I dare say you will never truly leave me.”

She was right, and they both knew it was so.

Robb turned away, not to leave her, for she was right that he never would, but to walk away. (Y/n) caught his hand. “Wait.”

“Yes, my lady,” Robb paused but couldn’t bring himself to look back at her.

“I,” (Y/n), for once in her life, had nothing to say. “I don’t believe this is how I’m intended to be delivered to my husband,” She said the first thing that came to her mind.

Robb shifted his palm so her hand slipped into his, and he laced her fingers between his own. “I won’t be like those men who defiled you.”

(Y/n) pressed her chest into Robb’s back, squeezing his fingers between her own for encouragement. “I believe, to defile me, would require I not be a willing participant in the act.”

What restraint Robb held, seemed to gradually melt away as (Y/n)’s free hand caressed over his shoulder and ran down his spine. (Y/n)’s breath fanned faintly over the back of Robb’s neck as she whispered, “Robb, he is nothing to me; I don’t want a stranger to be the first to see me.”

Robb whipped around, pulling himself free from (Y/n) as he faced her. “This is what you want?” His voice was stern, controlled. He had to be. To give her this, he had to be on guard to going too far. Not on guard to going beyond what she allowed, he needn’t worry about that. If she felt even half of what he did, Robb could claim her for his own right now against the door of her husband’s bedchambers. He worried more about going beyond his place, their places.

Her husband was on the other side of the door. Their fathers were downstairs on either side of the King. They had duties and responsibilities that even being soulmates would not allow them, namely her, to forsake, and he feared how much beyond those duties she would willingly give and he would gladly take.

“I want it to be you in there,” She motioned to the thick wooden door in the wall right beside them. “Barring that, I want you here, or at least I want what you’re allowed to have.”

Robb closed the step he had put between them, looking on her for the first time with completely unbridled emotion. He didn’t love her yet, nor did she love him. But by the old gods and the new, Robb knew he would love her one day. It was simply a matter of where and when, and looking on her in her wedding dress, it felt like the answer to both of those questions was the same. Close. Soon.

They moved together, lazily, drawing out the moment for all it was worth.

(Y/n) lifted her arms and rested them across the top of her head, giving Robb an obstructed view.

The pure white dress was stained with dirt and grime from the men she was longing for Robb to make her forget, but her survival, her defiance, only made her all the more beautiful. Even surrounded by a mob, she would not break or cave.  

Robb’s hands rested at her waist. They were calloused over years of sword fighting and hunting, but for her, and her alone, they moved as delicately as an artist. Tracing up her shape with languid movements that sent a welcome shiver down her back.

He reached the underside of her shoulders and followed up her forearms. A subtle pressure of his fingers bent back her elbows and brought her arms straight above her head. Crossed at the wrist, he made no move to hold them in place, leaving it to her to stay willingly at his mercy.

His attention dropped to the metal encircling her neck. She had tucked the edges of her cloak, where the clasp had been broken, under the metal to keep it from slipping from her shoulders. The memory of her husband tossing it over her back long replaced by Robb folding her caringly in its depths.

Robb took the warmth from her, a flick of his wrist pulling the cloak free and pooling the lioness at their feet.

She shook again, though not from the cold.

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.” Robb sighed a desperate noise, pained by the realization that this moment would be the best he ever lived.

(Y/n) smiled up at him equally pained. “I would say the same of you, but let this moment be only us, something to cherish in our dying breaths.”

Standing close, Robb could see small hooks in the metal attached it to loops in the top of (Y/n)’s dress, and he began to free them as he spoke, “I do believe that every moment with you will be one I cherish in my dying breaths.”

(Y/n)’s hands dropped to hold her hair out of the way as Robb lifted the glorified necklace over her head. “Robb, please,” she begged, “try not to love me. I believe it will prove near impossible for me not to love you, but it is better for us both that, save these often visited memories, we fade away.”

Robb moved closer as his hands slid behind her back. His chest pushed into (Y/n)’s, forcing the hands above her head to fall around his neck.

“I don’t want to fade away.” Robb confessed.

Silk ties corseting her dress were hidden by a panel of silk that Robb deftly slipped beneath. Clutching the ends of the string, Robb pulled the knot loose and with it the last barrier from his mate. The fabric of her dress went slack around her body, held up only by the pressure of Robb tight against her. Along the seam of her back, the dress fell open entirely, exposing a huge expanse of her longing form to Robb’s yearning gaze.

His fingers glided down beneath the soft silk and rested flat against her backside, holding her to him, not that she ever wanted to leave.

“I want every other man to fade away. I want to wipe them from your memory, remove them from this place. I want to ruin you for your husband before he ever gets to claim you.”

With a squeeze, Robb elicited a groan from his mate, and while Harwyn Plumm was the last person he should be thinking of, Robb prayed that inside his room the knight had heard the noise.

“We have a duty,” Robb conceded, delicately drawing the tips of his fingers over every inch of (Y/n) exposed to his touch. He trailed up and down the length of her spine, feeling every bone of her back and tracing the shape of each with care as (Y/n) quaked from the sensation.

“And I promise you.” His palms, rough from work felt the breadth of her shoulders with a relieving pressure that brought (Y/n)’s head rolling back in his grasp.

Robb worked his fingers up into her hair as her head lulled to the side, gently massaging over her scalp, peppered with a tug here and there to draw a pleased sigh from her lips. “I won’t forsake that.”

(Y/n) could barely register Robb’s words. She knew what he was saying, but she was sure that,  until his fingers ceased toying with pulling down the neckline of her dress, she wouldn’t actually know what they meant.

“But make no mistake. I will not forget you, and you will not forget me.”

Perhaps, it was only that Robb was so clearly more handsome than her husband. Perhaps, she was only consumed by a moment’s gratitude to Robb for freeing her from the men who grabbed her. Perhaps, Robb knew his way around a woman with more skill than she initially believed. Perhaps, for once in her life, (Y/n) was enjoying indulging in something rebellious. Perhaps, this was all only a trick of the gods.

Or perhaps, it was the affectionate bond they formed in their early days by the light of the fire. Perhaps, it was how easily they enjoyed talking to one another. Perhaps, it was the tender care with which he always treated her. Perhaps, she was drawn to a man so visibly consumed with her. Perhaps, she was, truly, made for him.

Whatever the cause, (Y/n) had no words for what she felt as Robb took a step away from her and let her dress crumble to the floor. No words she could speak, anyway.

He looked at her as if she was the only woman in the world, and she looked on him wishing he was the only man.

With her naked before him, Robb no longer raised a hand. His arms stayed firmly at his sides. His eyes moved enough for the rest of him.

She felt his gaze caressing every inch of her skin, touching her, holding her everywhere he wanted to but didn’t dare.

(Y/n) turned in her spot, moving as slowly as she was willing to risk. If she never got to see him, and he could only see her once, then he would see all she had to offer him.  

They had traveled, till now, under the guise of the bedding, and much as she wished, their mask provided no excuse for her to see him in the state he saw her now. She lived, vicariously, through her mate, consuming his expressions and his eyes as those she would return if their positions were reversed.

(Y/n) reached out a hand to take Robb’s own, and the two stayed joined for a long moment, enjoying what they could of each other for the last time.

“I believe,” Robb’s voice was gruff, deeper with desire than it had ever been before. “It is custom to take you to your bed.”

(Y/n) bit back a smile. “I believe you are right.”

Robb was careful with what he touched as he lifted (Y/n), naked as her birth, against his chest.

(Y/n) waited patiently in his arms as Robb closed his eyes to memorize this moment. He felt every curve and plane of her body pressing against him from her breasts to her thighs. He inhaled her scent, unadulterated by oil or perfume. He listened to the sound of her heartbeat, hammering so hard in her chest that he could count the thuds in time with his own.

Robb opened his eyes and stepped to the door.

(Y/n), taking cue, reached down and opened it for her mate.

“You’re finally here. I was worried something had…”

Harwyn was tucked into their marriage bed, bare as his wife and shocked speechless by her presence.

Robb marched with sure steps around to the empty side of the bed, laying (Y/n) down atop the soft furs. Lowering his head, Robb took one last liberty for himself, kissing the flat bone between (Y/n)’s naked breasts before he rose.

“I hope your night brings all the pleasure you deserve,” Robb brushed a hair from (Y/n)’s eyes as he smiled painfully down at her.

It was, Robb thought as he made for the door, the last time he would ever touch her, the last words he would ever say to her.

His knuckles went white to restrain himself as he turned back to see Harwyn sat up, leaning protectively over his wife as he glared after Robb. Jealous of Robb, as if there was anything for Harwyn to be jealous of. The most beautiful woman in the world was lying at his side, and all Robb had of her were fleeting memories and a family name on his arm.

Robb was the one, rightly, jealous of Harwyn Plumm, a man so unworthy of the prize he’d claimed.

Perhaps, Robb hoped fleetingly, he could give the man’s jealousy cause.

Robb looked over Harwyn’s heavy set shoulders to see (Y/n) had moved up onto her knees to watch him leave. “If he doesn’t satisfy your pleasures, my lady,” Robb turned his eyes on Harwyn with a cruel smirk, “you know where to find me.”

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That night, upset by the actions of her husband, the queen left the festivities early, long before the bedding.

Her twin accompanied her, attempting to conceal the very real emotion projecting on the queen’s usually passive face.

That night, upset that himself, his youngest sister, and younger brother were not allowed into the feast, a young Stark took to climbing the towers around the keep to get a peak in the high windows.

He was alone, climbing slick, icy stones facing strong winds. It was no wonder to any but his family why the boy fell. It was no wonder to any, including his family, that the howls of his wolf went unnoticed in the clatter of celebration.

The next morning as he prepared for his ride to the Wall, a bastard found the boy’s body, blue with cold.

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“Tyrek!” 

The squire rushed into Tywin’s quarters.

Kevan, Tywin, and (Y/n) sat huddled around his desk, preparing their route to leave Winterfell. 

The regrettable fall of Bran had already delayed the party’s departure by a week and was set to delay the King by at least one more. 

Ned Stark, despairing of what happened to his son, couldn’t bare the sight of his own home and couldn’t bare the thought of letting his daughters out of his sight, let alone allowing them to travel to King’s Landing. 

The King, ingratiating himself to the Stark who now agreed to be his hand, ordered a week of mourning, no travel, no planning, no celebrating. 

Robert only lifted the ban for fear that, should the entirety of the court remain any longer, Winterfell would again be facing a shortfall of food. This time, without a flush of Tyrell travelers to provide relief.

A group of lesser courtiers, those deemed nonessential to the King, were to leave in two days time, and Tywin hoped he and his daughter would be among them, along with all but one of his men.

“Tyrek, bar the door.” 

The young squire did as instructed and closed the door, latching it in place. Clanging of armor just beyond the wood, assured the Mountain was stationed outside. They would not be overheard or interrupted.

“I have a task for you which will require you do not return with us to Casterly Rock.” Tywin addressed his nephew.

(Y/n) rose to her feet and motioned for Tyrek to take her place. For once, (Y/n) found she didn’t know what her father had called Tyrek in to discuss. It was not often that she was left out of his plans, and it usually only occurred for the lack of convenience brought by her distance.

On this occasion, the reasoning was entirely different, and one she wished to be on her feet and braced to hear.

Tyrek took the empty chair between Kevan and Tywin, nervously looking between his uncles. “Anything you ask, my lord.”

Tywin withdrew from his desk a piece of paper. “By order of the King, you are to join Lancel as his squire.”

Tyrek took the paper and unfolded it, reading the words with his own eyes. “By what reason, may I ask?”

“By reason that I have asked it.” Tywin dismissed the question promptly. 

“What would you have me do?” 

Tywin lifted a bag from beneath his desk and and dumped its contents. 

A small vial fell out of the leather and rolled across the table, stopping only where it hit Tyrek’s outstretched hand. “What is this?” Tyrek lifted the vial and examined the thick brown liquid as it oozed slowly across the surface of its container. 

“Thickened manticore venom.”

“Father!” (Y/n)’s tone wasn’t rebuking, but it was certainly shocked. Poison was not her father’s weapon, nor a common item in the Westerlands. 

Tywin rose from his chair, assuming his full height as he rounded the table to face his daughter with hard, cold eyes. “You disapprove?”

She didn’t, of course. She was surprised, of course; caught off guard, but not at all against the thought. “I’m told,” she hedged, “it’s a slow and painful death.”

“Precisely as he deserves.” Tywin turned to his nephew who stared up on the pair with wide eyed fascination. “Tyrek, I have a job for you. Should you succeed, you will be rewarded far beyond your dreams.”

“What would you have me do?” Tyrek clutched the poison in his fist.

“I would have you murder the King.”

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Next Time on… Part Five (Coming soon)

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@wonderboygenius / @bluestaratsunrise / @lost-my-sanity / @megzdoodle / @redroomassassin / @trickstersteve / @loveofshows / @htariq / @savingprivatecass / @sharktooothfairy / @emotionallysalty / @hi-there-x / @iamaferitale / @stylesamour / @kaylathekittykat225 / @kai-by / @brittanymcsharry / @supernaturalonice / @balbigalum / @purrfectowl / @santa-feigh / @cassiopeia-barrow / @fallfrxmgrace / @quickies-with-quicksilver / @v0idbella / @the-soulless-spider / @batmansbanana / @frozenhuntress67 / @brynthebulldozer / @scarhades / @cluelessathena / @crysxtal / @peachyblinderss / @capsheadquaters / @crazyfreaker / @crushedcomets / @tuliptx / @thorins-queen-of-erebor / @adelaidehale3 / @hufflepuff-always-and-forever / @deathcutie20101 / @mortifiedmoon / @swiftiegabi / @aaliyahhastings / @pinkleopardss / @jessyballet / @yoheyyosup / @hvnkymadden / @aspiring-fangirls-world / @starkbelova / @fluidfandoms / @kingniazx / @mixedupsammy / @harrygotstuckinthetardisagain / @rosie-s-song-covers / @littlelunaticfringe / @staplerrrr / 

I think I tagged everyone. If I didn’t, please reply to this post to correct me. If you’d like to be on a different taglist, please reply to this post to lemme know. If I mistagged you instead of someone else, inform me and I will happily fix my mistake.

Thank you all for your patience. I apologize for how long this has taken and for going completely MIA for a period there. I hope this makes up for it.

[impractical-au]

Impractical Ch. 2

<<Chapter 1 An ALiPverse Story Note: Parts of the beginning have been revealed in the Origins stories but this is the official story! You can read those to get an idea of what’s going on but be wary of spoilers! Chapter 2

Roman sat on the couch of his shared apartment, hunched over with his mask in his hands. It was crudely made with his limited knowledge and a few hours online searching, but he was proud of it. He ran his thumb over a part of the border that held on a piece of gold ribbon that was hanging on by hot glue. It was uncomfortable to wear but it was his. It’s what made him Prince Charging. It’s what allowed him to run around and help people as he had always dreamed.

It did nothing against his best friend who had discovered his secret anyway. He knew he had to be careful around Patton, but his friend had listened to him as he shamefully hung his head and admitted to running into danger on a daily basis. To his surprise, Patton had admitted to knowing about it before they had moved in together before walking off to make them some tea so they could talk.

 “Okay!” Patton walked in with two mugs in his hands, eyes focused on them so he didn’t spill either as he walked. “Got the tea ready! Just how you like it, here you go.” “Thanks, Pat,” Roman took the mug and let the warmth soak into his hands. He had removed his gloves just before his mask and now was grateful he had done so. He looked into the dark liquid at his poor reflection. He never really looked at himself as Prince, usually throwing on the costume as quickly as he could for fear of being caught. 

 He felt Patton take a seat next to him with his mug in his hands. “Roman?” He glanced up and noticed Patton’s expression, wondering what thoughts were running through his friend’s head. “You okay?”

 “I’m fine. You’re, uh, taking this a bit better than I had expected, I suppose…”

 He felt a weight lifted as Patton smiled before looking down at his mug. “Yeah, well, I did want to talk to you about it first. You know, calmly…” Patton turned toward the doorway to the kitchen. “I apologize, I didn’t mean to just drop that on you.”

 Roman placed his mug on the table atop one of Patton’s punny coasters and shook his head. “No, no! It’s fine! You were worried for me, I can understand that.” He reached over and placed his hand on Patton’s knee. “I appreciate how accepting and caring you’ve been.”

 Patton’s eyes flickered to the doorway again before turning back to his tea. “There’s something I have to share with you, Ro.”

 “What is it?”

 Patton looked at the doorway as footsteps approached. Hugging himself close was someone who looked exactly like Patton wearing the same outfit. He smiled and waved a bit before turning his gaze to the floor. “Hi,” he spoke softly as if worried his voice would give out on him.

 “You have a twin?” Roman looked between the two before Patton shook his head. “Am I missing something?”

 “Roman,” Patton placed his mug down next to Roman’s and turned toward him. “This is Two. He’s my… duplicate? I’ve called them my Pals. I can make them… from myself.” Patton looked over at Roman and shrugged. “I have powers too?”

 Roman stared at Two before he started to smile. “Patton, this is amazing!” Roman shot up from his spot on the couch and tugged on Patton’s arm, pulling him up as well. “You have powers! We have powers!” Patton chuckled as Roman started bouncing around. “Yes, I do! I was trying to plan on how I wanted to tell you but I didn’t want to before you told me first. I didn’t want to pressure you into revealing your secret.” Roman started giggling and Patton began bouncing with him. “You seem excited!”

 Roman gasped and stopped grabbing Patton by his shoulders and smiling. “Become a hero with me!”

 “What?!”

 ---

 “-new about the newest hero in town, the Vigilante, has spread since the recent shooting downtown.”

 “That’s not what I said!” The hooded figure threw his hands in the air, gripping the remote as the local news prattled on about the same things they’ve been repeating every hour. However, they played the clip of him calling himself The Vigilant and then said his name wrong.

 He wasn’t a vigilante! He was vigilant! Determined and stubborn to keep the city safe. He swooped in and saved the beloved hero Prince who was in danger! He deserved to at least have his name said correctly!

 “Virgil!” The figure on the couch jumped and fumbled the remote before quickly changing the channel. “You want anything special for dinner?”

 Virgil looked over the back of the couch to his father who was watching the tv carefully with a frown. “I’m fine, dad. Whatever you want.”

 His father looked at him with a pout. “My little hero goes and saves the day and he doesn’t want anything special for dinner?”

Virgil couldn’t hold back the wince that spread across his face. Found out so easily. “You know about that?”

 “Hmm,” His father stroked the whiskers on his chin. “A mysterious hero with the power to ‘teleport’,” his father even dared to use air quotes. “Suddenly appears dressed with a dark purple aesthetic? Must have nothing to do with my anxious son with a similar style and the ability to stop time and move around who reads far too many comic books. Nope, no connection.” Virgil pulled his hood down over his face and turned away. “Come on, now. Be glad I’m not freaking out over the fact that the thief had a gun.”

 “I’m surprised you’re not, honestly.” Virgil peeked up from his hood. “You worry as much as I do.”

 “I’m honestly trying not to think about it. Hasn’t quite sunken in yet.”

 “I’ll take advantage of your good mood, then.” Virgil turned and leaned his arms on the back of the couch. “Can we have Chinese for dinner?”

 “I know how to cook!” Virgil raised a brow at his father’s statement. “Come on, Virgil!”

 “Come on, James!” Virgil grinned as he spoke his father’s name. “Chinese! Besides, you’ll make me wash the dishes when you’re done ruining dinner anyway.”

 With a sigh, he watched his father turn around and pat his pockets down for his phone. “The usual?”

 “You know it.” Virgil spun back around and turned back to the news, watching clips of him and the Prince once more with a smile on his face. It was terrifying at the moment but right now? He had no regrets for what he did.

 ---

 “Come on, Pat!” Roman followed Patton down the sidewalk like a lost puppy. “Please?! We could do so much together!”

 “No, Roman. I’m glad you’re helping people but it’s just not for me! What good could I do?” Patton kept marching toward the bus stop, gripping the strap to his messenger bag over his shoulder. “Besides, I have to go to work!”

 “You mean you have to go flirt with that guy on your route?” Patton flushed and ducked his head, ignoring his best friend as he trailed along. “At least tell me about him! When are you going to ask him out?”

 “He’s not interested. I’m not even sure if he’s gay or anything.”

 “Excuses!”

 Patton sighed and finally stopped walking, turning to find Roman right on his trail. “Look, I like him, but this isn’t some romance movie. We’re just friends!” He shuffled his feet a bit and looked away. “Actually, I’m not sure if he even sees me as a friend. We just talk on the bus.”

 “You said he was cute and had the same glasses and liked mystery novels!” Roman pouted. “Sounds like a rom-com to me! Why not at least try to bring it up? Try to see if he’s even interested?”

 “I’m sure he’s not interested in me. He might not be single!”

Roman put an arm around Patton and started walking toward the bus stop once more. “Well good thing you have me!  Your personal wingman!”

 “Roman, no.” Patton shrugged the arm off but kept walking. “I appreciate it, I do! But I just want to keep this a friendship right now. Maybe, if I think I have a chance, you can help.”

 Roman sighed heavily through his nose as they approached the stop. “Fine, but you read a book for this nerd. I think you’re close enough.”

 “Hey! Agatha Christie is worth it! It’s such a good book, Ro! I can’t wait to see how it ends!” Roman watched as Patton’s face lit up. “Now Logan and I are reading through the books to talk about them together! It’s great.”

 “As long as you’re happy, I won’t interfere.” Roman watched his best friend prattle on about his crush and the topics they talk about until he saw the bus pull up to the stop. “Have a good day at work, Pat. I’ll see you tonight.”

 “See ya, Ro!”

 Patton got on and swiped his card before heading to the area he normally sat in, waiting excitedly for the stop Logan would hop on. 

 Logan. He was younger than Patton and worked at a bookstore, which was a surprise. He didn’t seem much like a people person, but he loved books! Patton could relate to that. Although a job at the library was originally his mother’s idea, it wasn’t one Patton was upset by.

 When Logan’s stop came, Patton perked up and waited. After the exchange of people, he slouched in his seat defeated. Logan didn’t work today. How had he forgotten that? It was Friday and Patton didn’t work over the weekend so he wouldn’t see him then either. When did he say he worked next. Tuesday?

 Tuesday. Patton could wait a few more days until then. He pulled out a book from his bag, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Logan had said it was his favorite and Patton had signed it out immediately. He was still at the beginning and already hooked. He could finish it by Tuesday and then he could talk to Logan all about it!

 Patton’s heart fluttered as he flipped open to his bookmark and kept himself busy for the rest of his ride.

 ---

 “This just in! The Vigilante has made another appearance downtown to help the Prince! Wait, it looks like the Prince is… attacking him? Perhaps the Vigilante isn’t as much of a hero as he had thought!”

 “Listen here, miscreant! I’m grateful you helped me the other day but we are rivals from here on out!”

 “Are you kidding me, Princey?! I just want to help!”

 Logan watched the broadcast with great interest, eying the new ‘hero’ as he bickered with the Prince. “Interesting.” He smirked and stood from his couch. “I’m going to need a closer look at these two and I have just the idea on how to do it.” -- Taglist: @arandompasserby @waywordwriter

[residentanchor]

So we all know that from Sander sides that Roman has a twin, Remus, what would happen if he were to come over for a visit? And does he possesse a power as well, something maybe the opposite of Roman's, like conducting instead of producing electric power persay.

You’re talking about the ALiPverse, correct?

Remus DOES exist but he actually holds no relation to Roman. I considered making him a cousin or something similar for a long while before getting a much better idea I enjoyed far more.

Remus plays a role in the ALiP AU Impractical [Link to Remus’ Bio]

More under the cut: 

What happens in ALiP/PT however... he won’t be making an appearance. BUT! Impractical is CANON to the ALiPverse so he is there. In ALiP, he will eventually travel to New Gainesburg (where ALiP takes place, a fictional city I made up) to try and meet up with Prince Charging. As the hero gains more media attention, a few other superpowered people will be traveling to the city to meet someone like themselves! But REMUS is a big fan of the Prince! He loves the idea of electric powers and wants to see what the prince can do! He thinks being a hero and not really using them on people is lame and thinks he’s stifling his potential. But this would be all post-story things that wouldn’t really be part of the main story. 

Remus has the powers of Thought Manipulation. He can place intrusive thoughts into someone’s head at varying degrees. He can make them so loud that the victim can’t help but listen to the idea. But that’s boring. Just making someone do what you want? Laaaame. He doesn’t use it too often.

His other power is Thought Based Activity. Basically, Remus can mime it and it will happen. He pretends to hop in a car and drive away? He doesn’t seem to be sitting in anything but it works! He pretends to wind up a bat and swing? He’ll be holding an invisible bat. I thought it worked well with his quirkiness.

[alessoninpracticality]

Roman is going to visit the Prince fan club and the person in charge will hand him this buisness card and say, "some guy in a spongebob costume showed up, said to give this to you, and to say that everyone deserves the option." And it is the address to some therapist a few towns away with the message, "for you and your super friends. My Lipschitz are sealed." Then everyone gets therapy without the fear of their secret getting spilled.

Ok you know what? Emile Picani in the Impractical au using the name from Rugrats is ingenious and I'm so glad you shared that

[sanderssidesfanfiction]

Royal Growing Pains - Chapter Two

Warnings: Homophobia, transphobia, misgendering, sympathetic Deceit

Royal Growing Pains Tag

When Roman woke up next, he turned to check the time on the clock on his nightstand, only to realize he wasn’t in his own bed. He sat upright with a gasp before he remembered that he was at the Byron’s to be married off to Damien. He forced away a sob as he got himself dressed again, back into that infernal pink thing his mother forced him to wear. He considered the odds of him being caught walking around barefoot, and decided that the yelling didn’t outweigh the feeling of being able to walk for fifteen minutes.

He slipped on the heels and opened the door to his room to find his suitcases waiting. He pulled them into his room and resolved to change into pants later. As it was, he had to get something to eat before his mother came looking for him.

Wandering around the castle in search of the kitchen, Roman realized that same yellow that was in the entrance was painted on virtually every hallway in the place. He was starting to see why someone might hate it.

He made a triumphant noise when he stumbled upon the kitchen, and his heels clicked against the tile as he looked around. There had to be something simple that didn’t need much preparation that he could eat... “Excuse me?” a voice asked from behind him.

Roman turned and the man gasped, hastily bowing. “Princess Veronica, my apologies, I did not realize that was you!” the man said.

“Oh it’s quite all right, Mister...?”

“Uh, Hart. Patton Hart. I’m the top chef in charge around here,” he said. “Is there anything I can do for you? I know you slept through when the Queens were having breakfast together.”

“Yeah, if there’s any...any fruit, or something small I can have for breakfast, that would be lovely,” Roman said.

“Is that all? I could make you something bigger if you wanted...”

“No, something small is all I want,” Roman said, flashing a smile. “If you have any green apples I would be more than happy with one of those.”

“Oh! Sure thing!” Patton said, rushing to the pantry and coming back with two green apples. “Take two, just in case you’re hungrier than you think you are,” he suggested.

“You’re very kind,” Roman said with a small smile.

“Anything for a princess as beautiful as you!” Patton chirped.

Roman kept his smile in place by some miracle of strength he didn’t realize he had. “Do you happen to know where Prince Damien is?” he asked. “I was hoping we could continue our conversation from this morning sooner, rather than later.”

“Oh, of course!” Patton exclaimed. “He should be studying in the library with his professor. He’s incredibly intelligent, did you know? He’s working on getting a Bachelor’s degree in Ancient Roman history.”

Roman sniffed a laugh. Patton’s brows furrowed but Roman just waved a hand. “Nothing particularly funny, just an inside joke between me and my brother,” he dismissed. “How do I get to the library from here?”

“Uh, up one floor and head towards the back of the castle, Damien likes the view by the windows so that’s where you’re most likely to find him,” Patton said.

“All right. Thank you, Patton,” Roman said with a smile, before walking out of the kitchen. His teeth dug into the skin of one of the apples and he took a bite, savoring the tart taste of a good old-fashioned green apple. There wasn’t anything quite like it.

As he made his way upstairs, he kept one ear open to see if he could hear his mother, in an attempt to avoid her. He’d rather spend time alone with Damien than spend any time with his mother.

He got to the library door, somewhat ajar and he pushed it open softly, looking around. There were shelves upon shelves of books, and at the very back of the room, a giant set of bay windows, where Damien was sitting, typing on a laptop. After throwing away the apple cores in a nearby trash can, Roman walked over, relieved that at least one place in the castle had carpet, so he didn’t have to worry about hearing his heels click everywhere.

It was only when he was three feet away that Damien acknowledged him, and then he had him mistaken for someone else as he said, “I’m almost done with my paper, Logan, I’ll have it on the printer for you in five minutes. I just need to finish proofreading.”

“Well, I’m glad I’m not interrupting you in the middle of the paper, then,” Roman said, sitting down across from Damien and looking out the window. “But I’m afraid I’m not Logan.”

Damien looked up. “Oh! Veronica,” he said. “My apologies.”

Roman ignored the sting at his deadname, knowing that Damien didn’t know any better. It was taking a lot of patience out of him, but he could grin and bear it just a little while longer, just until he could figure out a way out of here. “It’s fine,” he said. “I was just wondering if you were still studying. I was looking forward to our conversation about childhood adventures.”

“Ah. Well, as I said, I just need to finish proofreading. As soon as the paper is printed we can talk,” Damien said.

Roman nodded and let Damien read through what he had written, and Roman noticed with a small amount of amusement that Damien was mouthing along to what he was reading.

When he turned back to the window, he could see the blue sea stretching for miles, a few boats dotting the blue here and there, but the ocean was mostly untouched. He would love to go out there on a boat, just him and Remus, swimming and play-arguing, and maybe even fishing a little if they were patient enough.

Subtly he shook himself free of those thoughts. That wasn’t a possibility anymore. He wouldn’t get the chance to speak to Remus often, save through emails which would no doubt be heavily monitored by his mother. His eyes stung, and he blinked back his tears. He couldn’t cry, not at all but especially not here, in front of a man who he was doomed to pretend to love until death.

Damien nodded, hit a couple buttons on his laptop, and in the distance, Roman could hear a printer start up. “I can get the paper in a little while,” Damien said with a smile. “I must admit that I wasn’t expecting you to seek me out.”

Roman shrugged. “Well, I may not be pleased at being married, but I would at least like to know my husband. And any time away from my mother is a welcome distraction.”

Damien threw Roman a quizzical look and Roman shrugged with a bitter smile. “It sounds strange, I know, but it’s true. My mother is not the most caring individual in the world. She adores my brother, and she loves who she wants me to be, but I can’t be what she wants me to be, and that leaves me lacking in her support, and often leaves us at odds.”

“You have my sincerest apologies, my dear. That does not sound easy,” Damien said.

Roman shrugged again and sighed. “Do you ever wish that...that you didn’t have to be who everyone wanted you to be? That you felt in charge of your own destiny?”

“All too often,” Damien said softly. “It’s a painful and lonely feeling.”

Roman gave Damien a true smile, albeit tinged with sadness. “At least we aren’t alone in our misery anymore?”

Damien barked a laugh, clapping a hand over his mouth and looking around before he grinned at Roman. “How very true,” he said, and Roman felt like he could stare at Damien’s smile forever. Why did Damien have to be cute? Why did Roman have to be into guys? He was sure this would have been easier if he felt nothing for the prince sitting in front of him, but Roman undeniably felt there was something interesting about the man. “So, do you want to continue our discussion about childhood adventures? Or shall we just wallow in misery for a few more minutes?”

Roman offered Damien a smirk. “I don’t know. Commiserating can be very cathartic.”

Damien laughed softly. “Well, why don’t I tell you some of my mishaps, so you might feel less embarrassed about yours?”

“Oh, I’m not embarrassed by my mishaps, they happen to make for hilarious stories,” Roman said with a grin. “There was the time that my brother and I swapped clothes as young kids, convinced that no one would be able to tell us apart.”

Damien chuckled. “Did you have long hair then, too?”

“No. Believe it or not, I had hair much like a pixie cut, and so did my brother. We actually got away with it for most of the day, until it came time for dinner, our parents found us covered in mud from playing in the garden, and we had to each take a bath,” Roman laughed.

Damien laughed with him, and Roman actually felt briefly happy, despite his circumstances. “I never had a sibling to wreak havoc with, which I suppose is for the best, considering the sort of trouble I would get up to just persuading the castle staff to humor me for five minutes. One such incident involved a tailor trying to fit me for a suit when I had to be about...six years old, and I managed to get into my art supplies, grabbing the glitter but not looking where I was going...”

“Oh, no,” Roman laughed. “Where did it land?”

“Somewhat on the fabric that was going to be used for my suit...but mostly on the tailor,” Damien explained.

“Oh, no!” Roman laughed hard enough that he was wheezing. “I can only imagine how you would have been with a brother or sister as a child.”

Damien laughed. “Yes, I fear it would not have ended well for anyone involved.”

Roman shook his head. “Were your parents mad?”

“Furious,” Damien said. “I wasn’t allowed glitter for six months after that.”

Roman laughed with a wince in sympathy.

“When did you start to grow out your hair?” Damien asked, pointing to Roman’s long locks. “If you had a pixie cut as a young child?”

Roman sighed. “My mother forced me to grow it out when I was ten. I wasn’t a fan of it then and I’m still not now. Long hair is just impractical, and I much prefer not having to blow dry anything.”

Damien closed his laptop. “May I ask you a question, Veronica?”

Oh, boy, here it goes, Roman thought. “Sure,” he said.

“You seem to be very...androgynous-to-masculine in behavior. But you wear very feminine clothing, and present as very feminine in appearance in general. Is there any particular reason for that?”

He could say it. He could say he was trans, right now, where no one except him and Damien were. His mother couldn’t stop him, no one would wander in and listen, he could say it. But if Damien reacted poorly...his mother would be furious at him still insisting he was trans, and absolutely nothing would go right. He might even be shipped off to a different kingdom to a different prince to be married there, and he wouldn’t be allowed a bit of privacy from his mother until he had that cursed ring on his finger. So...in reality...he couldn’t say it. “I’m unsure,” he said. “I suppose growing up with Remus, and following around the knights and guards, and very rarely being around women made me have a more masculine taste.”

“I suppose that could be a reason,” Damien agreed, but judging by the look he was giving Roman he didn’t quite believe the lie. “Do you intend to have lunch with the Queens today? My father and I were considering joining the three of you, but I would only want to go if you were in attendance.”

Roman sighed. “I don’t have much of a choice in the matter, Damien,” he admitted. “My mother is a controlling woman. What she says goes, and the only people who dare defy her are removed from her world quickly and without mercy.”

Damien frowned. “That does not sound remotely pleasant. Is there nothing you can do to stop her?”

Roman scoffed. “The last time I tried that is the reason why I’m here now.”

“What?” Damien looked shocked.

“My mother is removing me from the equation until in her eyes I can ‘behave,’” Roman explained, using air quotes around the word behave. “She doesn’t believe me when I say what I want. She thinks that marrying me to a man will make me change my opinion on certain things, like my hair, or preferring to wear pants to skirts.”

“That’s...awful,” Damien managed. “I suppose a part of you must be happy to escape her grasp, though?”

“She’ll constantly pester me here until she’s decided I’ve changed my tune,” Roman spat. “I know this isn’t very ‘ladylike’ but I hate her with a fiery passion usually reserved for the deepest pits of hell.”

Damien’s eyebrows rose and Roman inwardly scolded himself for letting himself get carried away in a rant again. “I’m truly sorry, Veronica. That...that cannot be easy.”

Roman flinched visibly at the use of his deadname, and he stood abruptly, needing to get away, to breathe, to think without constantly having his old life thrown in his face. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, before practically running out of the room.

His heels clicked in the hallways, and with every step Roman could feel himself losing a little more of his sanity. The apples he had eaten earlier felt like a rock in his stomach, and he thought he might be sick.

He retreated to his room, fishing in his luggage for the books he had packed. While his mother had confiscated his laptop, she couldn’t take away the books he had read. He pulled out a classic thriller, deciding that he would read before lunch.

In an instant, he was teleported into a world where he didn’t have to be a ladylike princess named Veronica, he could be Ty Stryder, the private eye trying to figure out who killed the mayor before the corrupt cops got to him and got him to stop investigating...one way or another.

He was halfway through the novel before there was a knock at his door and he checked the time. Ten until noon. Time for lunch. He sighed, smoothed the skirt of his dress, and moved to the door, where an overeager young servant was waiting for him. “Right this way, Your Highness, the royal family will be eating with you and your mother.”

Joy, Roman thought to himself, but again, didn’t dare say.

He allowed himself to be guided to the main dining room, which had high ceilings, and bright white walls, with gold accents in the curtains. Damien was already there, as was Damien’s mother, but it appeared that Damien’s father and Roman’s mother were not yet in attendance. “Your Highness, Your Majesty,” he greeted.

“Ah, Veronica, come on in,” the Queen said. “Your mother and I missed you at breakfast this morning.”

Roman shrugged apologetically. “I’m afraid I was more tired than anticipated,” he said with a plastered-on fake smile.

Damien gave him a searching look and Roman bit back the urge to snarl and run. It wasn’t anything Damien had done, it wasn’t fair to antagonize him for something he couldn’t help. Roman sat down across from Damien, which he really wished he could avoid, but he knew it was Damien or the Queen, and he wasn’t quite ready to tackle the problem which was the Queen yet. “Are you feeling better, Veronica?” Damien asked.

“Better? Was she ill earlier?” the Queen asked.

“She was in a hurry this morning when we were having a discussion in the library. I could only assume she felt unwell, by how distraught she was at the end of the conversation,” Damien explained.

And all of a sudden, Roman thought that he might get sick again. He hated his old name and his old pronouns more than he had first thought. Or maybe he was just hearing them so often that it felt like he had never been called anything else, ever, not even by Remus. “I’m feeling a little better, thank you,” he said quietly, hating the sound of his too-high voice, hating the feel of the too-tight dress, hating the situation of being trapped inside his own mind with no way to free himself.

Then, the King came in, along with Roman’s mother, and Roman had to plaster on that all-too-fake smile again as the King greeted him, and his mother sat down next to him, across from the Queen.

Patton came in, along with five servants, who placed plates in front of each of the members of the table. “Today’s lunch is rather simple, I’m afraid. Chicken parmesan,” Patton said.

“I’m sure it’s great, Patton,” the King said. “All of your food is.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Patton said with a bow. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to shout!”

And with that, the five were left alone with their food. Roman forced himself to eat, even though food was the last thing on his mind. His mother would want him to be polite, and that included eating what was put in front of him.

“I had seen pictures of you before, Veronica, but they don’t do you justice. You look absolutely beautiful,” the King said.

Roman looked down at his plate in embarrassment and just a touch of anger before he looked back up and said, “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

The King smiled at him and as the Queen and his mother started talking about wedding plans in excitement, Damien and Roman shared embarrassed glances. Roman was relieved that at least he wasn’t the only one who felt embarrassed by this turn of events. Damien didn’t feel completely comfortable with the wedding either, or at least, he didn’t feel comfortable with their mothers’ plans.

The conversation continued for a while, as Roman picked at his food. Then, “What do you think, Veronica?”

Roman hummed a question as he washed down some of the chicken with his water. “I’m sorry, what was the question?” he asked.

“Do you have a preference on a dress?” his mother asked with a touch of impatience. “I was hoping for something rather intricate, I love it when you wear lace.”

Roman bit his tongue and shrugged. “I haven’t given it much thought, truth be told. Although I must admit I’m not looking for anything like lace in particular. It’s rather difficult for me to enjoy myself when I’m wearing something that...well...feels wrong.”

His mother sent him a warning glare. Roman shrugged. “I just don’t like lace very much, Mother, I’m sorry.”

The conversation continued, with Roman reluctantly roped into it. It was all “Veronica” this and “Veronica” that, never once asking his opinion on the questions that mattered, and he absolutely hated it.

“Do you prefer gold or silver, Veronica?”

“Chocolate cake for the reception, Veronica?”

“What do you want your first dance to be, Veronica?”

Roman stood up from the table the moment he finished his chicken, the chair he was sitting in screeching across the floor. “Apologies, I’m still not feeling well,” he said, before leaving the room without another word.

Tag List: @loganpatton​ @lilbeanblr​ @kittyboof8 @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch @sanders-trash-4ever @hamilspntrash @swords-and-kittens @phantomfander​ @narniasfinestavengingsociopath  @rjmeta​ @ambersky0319​ @anni-cat-flower @idosanderssidespromptssometimes @nafsbluebery @lunareclipse-13 @sanders-sides-crofters @blushy-gigglee-mess @wannacrymetoo @kaytikitty @magicalspacepanunicorn @bootsinthesun @pricklyfish777 @flowersanddinosaurs @leiasolo77 @voidvirgil @birdybabybird @enby-phoenix @luna–28 @justagaygoose @the-prince-and-the-emo @fandomsandanythingelse @randommuffinyt @snekky-boi @thesoftestlittlepuffballwegot @twilight-trix @abby5577 @escalatingtoofast @friendlyfacestabbing @remus-is-stinky @foggybanditdreampeanut @ghostskull300 @sprinklestheditty

[annebl4cksworld]

Little mermaid twist

Words: 2,076

Warning: Language, twist

Pairing: Ariel x Ezra

A/N: This character was recreated, original name was Joe, I didn’t like the name so I changed it to Ezra instead! I do not own this character or the rights to them! Just for fun! Going more off the original story rather than the Disney version.

“BOYS!” Ursula called as she lay in her half shell tossing shrimp into her mouth, “BOYS!” she impatiently shouted again just as they rounded the corner; tentacles crawling down the side of the wall first and as they grew in size the sight of her young nephew came into view. He was slender with the similar hair to ursula’s, he yawned with a tentacle in front of his mouth as he stretched his arms out. 

“Yes master?” he asked through his yawn and the two eels slithered through the water rubbing themselves around his torso.

“What is the status of our dear little princess?” Ursula asked, her eyes glowing yellow through the darkness of the castle,

“I uh-” the young Cecaelia stammered 

“EZRA YOU’VE BEEN SLEEPING ON THE JOB!” Ursula’s voice boomed through the potions room and sent shivers down his spins. The eels snickered as they slid around him and over to Ursula 

“No good” Flotsom hissed, Jetsom twirled around his brother “Not if he can’t do one simple task, why keep him around?” they snickered again, Ezra shot them an angry leer “Shut it, you water snakes” 

“They are not wrong, boy; and since you seem to have such a hard time watching over our little princess, I’m sending you to the world above.” Ursula spoke with disappointment folding 

her hands in front of her mouth. 

Ezra’s tentacles began to fold and split into the form of legs, he stood up and clothes appeared as if from nowhere, deep blue pants with a sea shell buckle, tentacles up his black suit jacket with a dark purple silk shirt and a black bow tie. He licked his lips, “Boys, now… you’re in charge.” Ursula announced, Ezra walked toward her fixing his collar, “Alright, leave it to me. I’ll make sure nothing goes right, my master” with a sneer he swam through the opening in the roof to the surface world.

Ezra stepped out of the water right next to the castle. He spotted the princess in her window brushing her hair with a fork, he licked his lips “Hello, little mermaid” hissing came from behind him and he turned his head slightly, looking back to the water where the eels lurked in the shadows of the night “You’re on the clock” they bubbled below the water, he needed no reminder, he was fully aware of his task; eyes intent as they disappeared below the surface. Ezra sighed and cracked his neck from left to right, stretching as he did so, he hated being under surveillance but it was what auntie wanted and he would sooner chop off his own tentacle rather than upset her. 

Ripping a branch off a nearby bush he snapped the twig in half and started towards the village. 

“Humans are such vile creatures, I’ll never understand them” Ezra walked down the paved road candle light to guide his way, the ground was dirty and there was a putrid smell in the air. He hated the way the air hurt his lungs, the salt from the ocean never gave him a sore throat. He honestly could not understand the adoration that the little princess had with this world. He especially hated the way the birds would circle him, burying his hands in his pockets he walked a little faster, ducking into an alley. He looked behind him to see where the birds had gone and bumped into a metal trash can that made a very loud noise as it toppled over, spilling into the alley which attracted his second least favorite thing about this world, cats. They meowed innocently backing Ezra into a corner where a strange bead of water ran down his temple, he tried hissing at them but it fell on deaf ears they were too preoccupied with the garbage that had spilled. 

Unsure of how to handle the situation Ezra stayed frozen in the corner of the alley waiting for them to finish. Enraged hissing came from down the alley and all the cats began to disperse as a furry dog came tumbling down the alley, tail wagging and tongue hanging out the side of his face, barking and seeming to be high on life as he chased all the cats away releasing Ezra from his corner of terror. The dog jumped on the fences to where the cats fled to, then he gave up after only a few seconds, Ezra watched him hesitantly as the dog inspected the garbage then finally noticing Ezra off in the corner. Unable to control his excitement the dog barked and ran to him jumping up and down “Ahh STOP!” Ezra yelled more disgusted that scared, there was slobber everywhere and it was getting all over his suit. 

“Max! Where are you boy?!” a young man ran by the alley where they both stood and Max perked up and ran off in that same direction. Ezra wasted no time leaving the alley, he did not want to get trapped by the cats again. 

Ezra sped around the same corner and walked back towards the ocean where he felt more safe than in the city, as he walked toward the familiar water he heard a high pitched squeak  “Mommy, I wish I could go to the princes ball” a small child cried and she and her mother walked by a poster announcing a formal ball, Ezra stopped in his tracks and went to inspect the poster. 

“A formal masquerade ball” a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth “Now that does sound delicious” he looked over to the castle “Absolutely delicious” biting his lower lip. 

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

NEXT DAY

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Ezra was busy checking his reflection in a store window, cleaning his teeth with his tongue and straightening his new suit he put together for the ball. 

“Ezra…” he heard a familiar voice, unsure of where it was coming from, “Ezra!” the voice called again, “Hello?” He called back to the voice, “OVER HERE BOY!” that was definitely auntie. Following the angry voice Ezra noticed a reflection in a fountain in the square and there she was, “Master?” Ezra asked quizzically 

“How are things progressing?” She asked rippling in the water, 

“Just fine, I’m all over it, doubting my abilities already, master?” he grinned sheepishly, 

“You forget why you were sent to the surface in the first place, boy. Disappoint me again and I’ll leave you there.” a fate worse than death Ezra swallowed hard and placed his hand over one of his three hearts. 

“I assure you master everything is under control.” bowing slightly to the water he watched her disappear. Biting his thumb Ezra felt hot with worry, straightening himself out he knew he would need to get this over with as soon as possible.

Walking up the entrance of the castle Ezra noticed guests handing invitations to the guards as they walked up, eyeing the guards, Ezra slipped into the shadows absorbing the color and shrouding himself in it. One of his more useful skills he picked up from his mother (much like an invisibility cloak), he was able to walk through unnoticed. Making his way to another shadow he was able to reappear in the hall, straightening his bow-tie Ezra began following the crowd into the ballroom.

The ballroom was grand, large white marble with gold accents all around, shaded in sheer that hung over the lights adding a small amount of mystery to the crowd; he began scanning the room. Surely that bright red hair would be easy to find and sure enough there she was, huddled in a corner looking like a fish out of water (literally). She was frantically searching for something or more likely someone; Ezra licked his lips and made his way through the crowd. People were standing all around laughing with drinks in their hands, some were dancing, others were sneaking off out onto the balcony where the sun was setting. 

Ariel was playing with her gloves, twisting her fingers together and rubbing her arm as if to comfort herself. Ezra was nearly to her when he noticed a young man with black hair walking toward her as well, the prince no doubt Ezra sped up to reach her before the prince did. 

“Your highness” he announced sheepishly bowing to the little mermaid, she turned with eyes wide, she tried to ask him a questions unable to as her voice was still trapped in the sea shell that he wore on his belt. She looked at him quizzically, 

“Hello, are you a friend of hers?” Eric asked from behind the little mermaid assuming Ezra was bowing to him. “I am” he replied not looking at the prince, instead he raised his head and tried to capture her eyes with his, however her eyes were darting back and forth between him and the prince,

“How nice, I was afraid she was the only one left from the shipwreck” he stepped closer to her as did Ezra. 

“Shipwreck?” Ezra repeated unfamiliar with the cover story, “Ah, Yes that’s why I’m here” draping an arm over her shoulders “We have all been so worried about our dear girl, would you mind terribly if I steal her away for a moment?” Ariel flushed red as Ezra slid his hand down her arm and placed it comfortably on her hip. “Oh, of course.” Eric gave a disheartened sigh and Ariel stepped toward him arms out with sympathy, Ezra gave a frown and yanked her into him as he walked off in the opposite direction. Her heels clicked on the ground as he strutted off still holding her by the arm, she stumbled once or twice trying to keep up. 

“Must you wear those excessive shoes?! They are loud and impractical!” Ezra came to a sudden halt, Ariel pouted and shrugged, “How far have you gotten with the prince?” She looked like a kettle about to blow, her face was beat red and her mouth dried up. 

Look for part two!

[whatwashernameagain]

Mine to protect

After reading this lovely one-shot I was forced to write my own. You know how those are impossible to resist? This fic is based on chapter 23 of Keep him safe, but can easily be read separately.

Ao3 Link

Summary: Former delinquent Virgil Raine’s life has finally gotten back on track under the care of detective Logan Sanders, but after his dark past caught up with him and caused a friend to get injured he is devastated. The urge to simply disappear and protect those morons from the dangers he keeps attracting is hard to resist. Logan knows his little delinquent well though and ensures he feels safe and cared for and helps him realize that they can rely on each other. Holding him is no hardship at all for the man who’s made it his mission to provide protection for his family after all.

Warnings: Hints of past violence and past eating disorder, anxiety, crying (now it sounds bleak, but it’s really frigging cute, I swear!)

Pairing: Platonic analogical (Logan/Virgil)

Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Snuggles

Words: 1.871

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Mine to protect

Logan sighed as he once again heard a thumping sound from the room that had become Virgil’s own. After they’d finally come home from the hospital, the young man had looked ready to collapse, guilt and fear about their near miss, about the injury of his friend pressing heavily against his mind. Instead of trying to flee their care again, the former delinquent had avoided getting captured by Roman’s well meaning hands trying to gently forestall his escape again and had locked himself into his room.

Fear twisted in Logan’s stomach as he gently taped a band aid over his partner’s large, well manicured hand. The younger detective looked quite crushed, and not only because Virgil had made sure to scratch and kick him properly for trying to hold onto him. Roman had done the right thing though. From the start of their relationship, Virgil had feared for the safety of his voluntary protectors, had feared his dark past catching up to him and hurting them. He was far too selfless to not try to remove himself from their lives. Well. That would not do. He’d have to calm his little delinquent down before he hurt himself or talked himself into leaving again. The keys to Logan’s front door were still hanging from their hooks next to the door after all, tempting him to unlock the door and slip away in the cover of nightfall. Logan’s unadorned ones, Roman’s impractical, colorful Disney ornaments as well as Virgil’s simple and practical purple carabiner hook. Logan had gifted in to him so he could attach his keys to his belt loop when he kept them inside his pocket. The idea of the young man loosing access to the place of safety he had created for him had made his stomach churn uncomfortably. He wanted him to feel secure in his right to come and go as he pleased. To know that this flat wasn’t just Logan’s anymore, but theirs.

After sending Roman to his spot on the couch with the stuffed unicorn Prince Sparkles and the glittering monstrosity of a balloon he’d gotten from the hospital (it rained glitter everywhere), where he put a Pixar movie on for him, he quietly knocked on Virgil’s door.

“What?” The young man growled after a too long pause. The older detective imagined the young man freezing like a deer in the headlight.

“It’s me. May I come in?” He asked softly, making his voice calm and even.

With a grumbling sound following another long pause, the sound of a key turning in the lock indicated his invitation. Entering the room, Logan took in its state, as well as that of his charge. Virgil had apparently gotten busy pulling all of their shared books from the shelve to reorganize them, probably simply to give his nervous hands something to fidget with. His own organization was certainly not the issue! Logan prided himself in his system for very good reasons!

The young man was already looking uncomfortable at dislodging something in his apartment like he had done when the older man had first brought him here to recover. It was a setback the attentive detective observed with growing worry. The fact that his adopted friend one now moved around the kitchen like it had become his to rule over had given them all great comfort. Cooking had become a form of relaxation for him and he’d finally grown unafraid of hitting Roman’s fingers when he tried to steal a bite or of telling them to get out until he was done when he wanted his peace and quiet. The rudeness had warmed Logan for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. There was nothing to do now but once again try to reassure him of his right to be here with them, no matter how awkward he often felt about taking initiative in initiating their affectionate gestures. He had gotten much better with practice though.

“Sit with me, please.” He requested, settling on the bed he had held the then bruised and frightened creature on for the first time. It felt very long ago that Virgil had been brought to his guest room, beaten and defensive and very brave still. He’d been bird-thin under his hands then. The fact that he was slowly starting to gain weight had reassured Logan greatly. As he settled his palm over the bowed back tentatively now, he could still feel too prominent bones, but could not spot the individual ribs through the fabric of the t-shirt. His protecting hoodie had been flung into the corner in an uncharacteristic fit of untidiness. It smelled of disinfectant, Logan guessed.

His little delinquent looked cold in the worn fabric, and far too small with the way he hunched his shoulders. His pale hands were twisting the t-shirt compulsively, no doubt missing the long sleeves.

Wordlessly, Logan allowed his arm to slip around his shoulders, drawing him closer gently. Virgil was small enough to fit under the taller man’s arm perfectly, especially as the tension finally leaked from him after a few long moments. He sagged against his friend’s chest, leaning his cheek against the cool fabric of the dark blue vest.

Fondness welled up in the tired young man. He felt so drained, so beaten by the unfairness that was life. All of those idiots were trying so hard to protect him from his past, not caring if they got hurt. The weight of his failures pressed hard against his mind. Everything felt so heavy.

And yet, here he was, being pulled against the side of a man who was probably still trying to swallow down a complaint about the disruption of his book-sorting-system and who was walking around his own flat with his tie still firmly knotted and not even the buttons on the sleeves of his pressed dress shirt opened. His socks matched the color of his vest. He was such a square. Virgil was hit by how much he loved this painfully tidy nerd. More tension drained from him as Logan’s hand rubbed up and down his arm before pulling the soft blanket over his narrow shoulders and resuming his hold. His go-to move when someone was sad. The fucking nerd.

His little smile of endearment brought mortified, terrified tears to his eyes. He could have lost this fucking moron today, could have lost all of them, because they stupidly demanded to stand between him and the world when it was clearly he who should be hurt! He clasped a hand over his mouth, tasting bile, tasting loss.

His world churned briefly, uncomfortably, as he was manhandled by the secure hands on him. After a brief moment of disorientation, Virgil found himself lying on his bed with Logan holding onto him tightly, squishing him against his broad chest and soothingly running his hands through his perpetually tangled hair. He held on.

Breathing was difficult for a long moment, as if the emotions he’d tried to hold at bay were pressing down on his chest. He trembled.

“It is alright, Virgil. You are safe and so are we. The worst is behind us now. I need you to stay with me now, alright? Listen to my voice and concentrate on nothing else.”

His name was spoken like an endearment.

Wrapping his larger body around the little delinquent, Logan did his best to shield him from the world, from his own mind, and kept whispering to him, letting him feel the vibrations of his deep voice where their chests were pressed together. A sob escaped the young man that shook his whole body.

Logan tucked his tear-stained face into the crook of his neck, his heart breaking. His little one. He’d never thought adopting this infuriating creature that had caused him nothing but trouble in the past would make him feel so much. So much helplessness and fear and protectiveness and love.

He whispered to him for a long time, rubbing his back and allowing him to cry himself out.

Their moment was finally interrupted as the blanket they were lying on was pulled insistently, an angry, chirring/screeching sound accompanying the motion. Unlike Virgil, Cat the raccoon had had no problems gaining weight and was now attempting to haul all of it up the side of the bed.

The creature, another of Logan’s unwillingly adopted strays, was not fond of stress and had hidden under the bed upon feeling Virgil’s restlessness. The useless critter. Now that the young man had almost cried himself out, it climbed over them with pointy feet and claws and tried to squeeze itself into the nonexistent space between the two men with an annoyed gurgling sound. How had Logan managed to find a beast this ill mannered?!

“Verdammtes Mistvieh!” The older detective cursed quietly as he got hissed at for not making room quickly enough. The hairy monster unfortunately liked no one and only barely tolerated anyone close to it. Except for Virgil.

A watery laugh escaped him as the still quite patchy and scruffy creature insistently curled itself into a ball under his chin, making their embrace a little awkward but far more amusing. His neck got licked. Hiccuping slight, Virgil curved his body to accommodate his friend. It was always so defensive, having it seek his contact was all the more precious for how rare the occasion was. Logan was less amused though.

With an annoyed huff, he freed himself from the unsanitary creature. Tears on his clothes he could easily handle, but the striped fur of this monster got everywhere. It gurgled at him, snapping its jaws.

Feeling his little delinquent tense upon feeling abandoned, Logan made sure to quickly situate himself behind the young man, curling around him like a large and warm blanket. A sigh escaped Virgil that seemed to make him even smaller in his arms.

“I know your day has been very difficult, but trust me, with time and distance after traumatic events your constitution should improve rapidly. You have so far proven to be remarkably resilient and I believe that we can overcome this obstacle together.” He promised, soothingly brushing back too long bangs out of Virgil’s pale face. The purple was growing out, showing raven strands at the roots.

“Not worried ��bout myself.” The other mumbled into gray fur.

“I am aware. But it is alright. We are all safe and the danger has passed. You are feeling responsible, but it would benefit you to remember that we are relying on you as much as you are on us. We trust you because we know you would do the same for us.”

Virgil stayed silent. It would take a long time to truly help him get over his guilt, but Logan had time. He stilled as his calloused hand was captured. Nimble, cool fingers undid the small buttons on his sleeve, helping to make him more comfortable. Virgil watched over them as much as Logan watched over his little delinquent, he just didn’t notice it yet. But he would with enough patience. Pressing an inconspicuous kiss to the now smoothed out locks, Logan held onto the young man under his protection until his fingers got bitten by the gottverdammter, dreckinger Waschbär...

Why was he keeping this unpleasant, ill-mannered raccoon again?

Right. Virgil was laughing.

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Friendly reminder: Comments are love and make needy writers happy! Though any kind of love is awesome! *hugs you all*

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