#That's the whole au him owning a signet ring

[an-excellent-choice]

Since Gale is an only child, I have a headcanon/ AU where he owns a signet ring as the heir of the Dekarios clan.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

A special sort of craving 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen

Summary: A stranger appears at your cafe and leaves you unsettled.

Part of the Backwood AU

Note: I found this in my docs and then I was like this could be an AU and people will hate me but here we are. I am heavily considering adding at least one other character to the AU bc I have an idea I don't think i'll ever get to full length with.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

He doesn’t belong. Not in this sleepy village. You can tell by the ring on his pinky, a golden signet that boasts of wealth not known to the farmers and lumberers of the desolate locale. His cheeks are red as if he didn’t expect the crisp autumn bite, though his jacket is unzipped to his chest, revealing a golf shirt with some designer logo sewn into the collar.

He tilts his head as he considers the glass display with shelves of bite-sized tarts and fragrant pies. You approach the other side, standing on tiptoes to see over it. His eyes slowly rise with your movement, a dimple in his cheek of amusement. You skirt around to the side of the display and lean over the lower counter so he can see you.

“Hello, you looking for something in particular?” you ask.

“Something sweet,” he answers, his crooked grin lingers as he lets his gaze wander back to the pies, “cherry… it’s been a while since I had a nice, juicy cherry pie.”

He licks his lips with the last word, reaching up to brush his fingertips over his bristly mustache. Your smile threatens to falter but you keep it on. He definitely isn’t from around here. Not with his accent or the hair slicked back so neatly.

“You want a slice?” you ask brightly. “Two bucks for a slice, twelve for the whole thing.”

“Hmm?” he raises a brow and sidles over to stand across from you.

“The pie,” you say as he puts a hand on the counter, leaning in as his other rests on his hip, “did you want some?”

His eyes fall down to the top of your apron, the red and white checker distracting him as you mindlessly flick the frill around the skirt. His smirk blooms fully and he stands straight.

“Wouldn’t mind a slice… of the pie,” he says as if it’s some joke. You don’t get it.

“Sure,” you say as you go behind the display and take out the cherry pie. You take it to the metal table behind you as you hear him, sense him looming along the counter. “You want anything to drink, sir? Some milk? Tea? Coffee? We do a combo for three-fifty.”

“Mm-mm-mm, a nice glass of milk would go nice with the pie,” he purrs, “they usually got you working all alone, sweetness?”

You look over your shoulder as you shovel a slice onto a plate, little flowers painted around the waffled trim.

“It’s my shop,” you say as you take the dish and grab a fork from the tray. You place it beside the till and type in the total, “cash or card, sir?”

“You own all this?” he leans his elbows on the counter, bent at the waist as he looks up at you.

“Sir,” you nod. 

“Card,” he stands and stretches his arms over him before he drops his hands, poking his fingers in his back pocket.

“I’ll get that milk,” you say as he swipes his card, “and I’ll bring this over to you if you wanna sit.”

“Ah, table service, I like it,” he says as the machine chirps and accepts his payment, “you country folk are all so… nice, aren’t you?”

“Suppose,” you say as you open the fridge and take out a small carton.

You glance over as he tucks away his wallet. He winks and walks away. He drapes his jacket over the chair by the window as you grab a glass and hurry over to the counter. You place the glass and carton on his table as he sits. You go back to the counter and bring him the pie.

“You visiting someone?” you ask curiously.

He looks at you pointedly. You hesitate. You forget that the city slickers don’t like questions, but everyone in the village knows each other, so your habit has you careless.

“Bought some house called ‘The Grove’,” he answers as he pushes the fork through the braided crust, “apparently it’s a big deal.”

“The Grove?” you can’t help your surprise, “wow.”

He scoffs, hardly amused, and slides the fork into his mouth, sucking off the pie as he watches you. He chews and swallows slowly as he hovers the silver over the oozing pie.

“You know it?”

“It’s pretty far out,” you say, “but yeah, everyone knows The Grove.”

“Sure,” he pokes a cherry so the juice leaks out, “this is good pie. You make all these?”

“It’s my recipe, but I think Melinda did that one.”

“Don’t get good home cooking like this in the city,” he plops the cherry in his mouth and his jaw tenses with the tartness, he hums in satisfaction. He looks you up and down once more, “don’t get that personal touch.”

“I’m glad you like it, I’ll let Melinda know,” you push your hands into the large pockets of your apron, a movement that further catches his attention.

“Sounds good, cupcake,” he opens the carton and pours the milk into the glass, “you do delivery?”

“Sundays,” you answer, “not that we get many requests but…”

“Personal deliveries,” he insists, “like you said, house is far away, and I’m new in town. Wouldn’t mind a familiar face and a nice pie.”

You rub your neck, “well I don’t usually do the deliveries.”

“Melinda?” he prompts.

“No, Terry takes them with the lumber.”

“Mm,” he frowns, “right… guess I’ll just make the trip in.”

“Okay,” you nod, “let me know if ya need anything else.”

“Oh, I definitely will,” he slithers as you slowly turn away.

You feel him watching you as you try to hide behind the counter. You take a cloth and the cleaner and start wiping down the back of the display. You hear the clink of his fork against the plate.

City people are always a bit odd, but he gives you a bad feeling.

[thiswasinevitable-rwrb]

Sleepy Hollow au where Alex is a brujo but doesn't quite know it (or admit to himself) and his family moves to New England for his parents' work. He's not thrilled since he's going from a very mixed race society (Mexico still owns Texas) to a very conservative one.

At least, he thinks it's conservative, but then he thinks they're bat shit crazy due to their superstitions.

Autumn descends, and t night, wolves sing loudly in the woods. Then it's not just the wolves, but the dogs in the village. Alex hears a horseman riding down the streets and over the nearby bridge. He's used to a noisy neighborhood, but this is something else. The whole town swears they don't hear anything, but they outright threaten him to stay inside at night. Shudder the windows and blow out any flames.

It's Alex, so he doesn't. The horseman comes around like clockwork, probably a delivery person of some kind, bringing the papers from New York or Philadelphia, or doing the late night work of some other business. Goodness knows the silversmith stays up at all hours, so he's probably the one paying the obnoxious rider...

Alex sees the dog first. A smallish hound that sees him right back. It bays up at the moon, and through the shadows, a large horse's silhouette joins the dog's. Alex knows a male rider when he sees one, but the headless horseman legend might not be a legend after all.

The rider and dog run off, but Alex finds them night after night. He even manages to get way too close and learns that the dog is dead - cloudy blue eyes, half its jaw missing, and somehow still walking and running with a compound fracture sticking out of its legs.

It's when the horseman lifts the dog to carry it that Alex sees the glint of a ring on his pinkie.

Another night, push comes to shove, and Alex wrestles that ring off the zombie's hand and flees. All he has to go on is a gold signet ring, the curvaceous H stamped on it, and the almost worn away engraving inside:

act ii, sc iii XXXVI - XLIX

He has no idea what it means. He's assume it's a Bible verse except his sister has been making trips to the nearby cities to see the plays. She collects the scripts and tells him it's a citation from a play. But which one?

Alex runs out of time trying to figure it out, because the next night, an incessant knocking rattles the house door in its frame before being knocked down entirely.

To both Alex's and June's surprise, the horseman holds out his hand. Alex sets the ring on his dead palm, and he...leaves. For having no brain, the body is oddly sentient.

"Did you see his clothes?" June asks.

"What? No, I'm busy looking for his eyes."

"It's a stage costume. He's wearing a stage costume. It's too colorful."

Long story short, June and Alex search through records to find an actor who died with an H last name. Instead they find Arthur, an actor with a son named Henry. They died in the same week.

"Which one is it?"

"Henry. It must be Henry," June insisted.

"A father would wear his son's ring," Alex reasoned. "He's looking for something every night."

Either way, Alex must find out how they died, and why one of them is riding. The real question, is who is the horseman searching for every night? The search is getting more and more invasive. The townspeople aren't able to turn a blind eye anymore, and things are getting violent.

And yet, the horseman never harms Alex.

[supercantaloupe]

preliminary thoughts + sketches for a cabin pressure paranatural au....placed conveniently under the cut for anyone who doesn't care lol

mjn/ojs is basically if the activity club wasn't a bunch of 12 year olds supervised by a cringefail middle school teacher in his late twenties. some kind of small scale spectral agency that keeps track of and deals with ghost and spirit shenanigans around...england? europe? i haven't decided how broad the scope is. or what the initialism stands for. carolyn is in charge. she's been a spectral for about 20 years (technically arthur has been a spectral for longer but, given that he was A Young Boy when he started out and he's...arthur, carolyn is considered most experienced and the de facto leader). her spectral energy is a dark magenta/maroon color, arthur's is red. carolyn does not have a tool or a spirit partner; arthur does, but i haven't decided what yet.

douglas' energy is "ultramarine". herc's is "indigo". really they're both slightly different shades of dark purpleish blue. they bicker about it, especially when compatibility with a particular spirit is concerned. i think herc has been a spectral for less time than douglas but took to it a lot quicker. they used to be some kind of acquaintance/coworker or whatever when they were younger then went their own ways until re-meeting and having to deal with each other again later when carolyn starts seeing herc and they realize they're all spectrals (and somewhat begrudgingly work together again. not without a fair share of proverbial dick measuring contests, naturally). i don't think either of them have a tool or spirit partner.

martin is the newest member of the team and the newest as a spectral, having only started to see shades a couple years prior. carolyn & co took him in as something of an apprentice to make sure he didn't freak out too hard and get himself injured, being so new to this whole spirits and ghosts stuff. his energy is sky blue. while he's thought to be a medium, directly possessed by his spirit partner, they are unaware that his spirit is actually possessing his signet ring as a tool. his spirit is called propagander; i have not attempted to draw it yet bc good spirit designs are Hard lol but aiming to include elements of geese, penguins (maybe?), and windmills/propellers, with wind manipulation powers.

i haven't decided much about theresa yet but she's here too. she's a spectral. her color is either pink or green idk

[rockyroadkylers]

WIP Wednesday Thursday!

@littlemisskittentoes and @happiness-of-the-pursuit both tagged me for this yesterday, and I wasn't planning to do it because I haven't written anything all week (I started cosmetology school this week and it's kicking my butt, but not in ways that you'd expect school to) BUT! I started. A new WIP. Today. And it's angsty and whumpy (again... first Hanahaki, now this...) and I'm a little bit obsessed with it.

So, happy Thanksgiving (or, as the Brownstone Server has been calling it due to the nature of the snippets people have been sharing all day, "angstgiving"), here's a snippet of my new WIP, which is currently going by the working title of "Storming Kensington 2: Hospital Boogaloo". No further context will be provided at this time. If you're in the Brownstone... you already know 🤭

---

He’s in Henry’s face now. If he’s getting his heart broken tonight, he’s sure as hell going to make Henry have the guts to do it right. “Tell me you’re done with me. I’ll get back on the plane. That’s it. And you can live here in your tower and be miserable forever, write a whole book of sad fucking poems about it. Whatever. Just say it.”

Henry swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. He holds Alex’s gaze for a moment, and Alex’s heart beats wildly in his chest, thinking maybe he’s finally gotten through to him. Then, Henry looks away, the fight draining from his shoulders, and he whispers, “Go.”

Alex blinks, taking a step back on autopilot. “What?” he hears himself whisper.

Henry looks anguished as he slowly turns back to face him. “Go, Alex,” he repeats, his voice breaking around the words. “Don’t make me say it again.”

“Henry,” Alex breathes, stepping forward and reaching for Henry, but Henry steps back, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

“Please, Alex,” Henry whispers, and just like that, Alex’s heart shatters into a thousand tiny pieces.

“Fine,” he repeats, and he barely recognizes his own voice when he says it. “I- fine.”

He moves toward the door, walking backwards at first, gauging Henry’s reaction, waiting, hoping that he’ll change his mind, but Henry isn’t even looking at him – he’s looking at his god damn signet ring, still sitting on the mantel where he put it. There’s something unreadable in his eyes, and Alex wants to scream, wants to grab Henry’s shoulders and shake him, break him out of whatever bullshit prison his mind has trapped him in, wants to hear Henry say he loves him, that they can figure this out.

But Henry doesn’t even look at him, and Alex slips through the door and closes it behind him, feeling like he’s closing the door on the best thing that’s ever happened to him, and nothing will ever come close to it for the rest of his life.

---

...yep, it's a "Henry tells Alex to leave" AU. Stay tuned to find out what "Hospital Boogaloo" means.

I'm not going to tag anyone tonight, because it's Thursday 😂 so just enjoy this, hehe.

[lorelodge]

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ — nadja & laszlo

For each “⭐️” I get, I’ll write a headcanon about our muses // accepting // @musecraft ​

1.)     Laszlo originally didn’t have an engagement ring to propose with so he used his signet ring (which Nadja has kept to this day). Soon after, Nadja gifted him his own engagement trinket. One of the few pieces of jewelry she had from her life as a mortal, a locket. It was old and scratched and likely not worth anything monetarily speaking but it’s one of his most treasured possessions and he wears it every day. Originally Laszlo placed a miniature portrait of her in it but eventually, he replaced that with an actual photo (once those were available.

2.)     They’re the two worst people to see go to the movies with much less sit next to while in the theater. To start, they obviously can’t keep their hands off each other. You’ll have some poor protagonist getting knifed to death in a slasher film and these two will find that sexy. The next thing you know you’re caught in the splash zone of their love making. And, yes, Laszlo’s solution has been to invite the other person to join. And, yes, on a few occasions this worked, but not nearly enough for him to keep suggesting it. Even when they don’t ruin your movie-going experience with their sexual deviance they’re a horror to be near. Nadja talks throughout the film and Laszlo will tell YOU to fuck off if you interrupt her interrupting the film. If they happen to be watching a ‘based on a true story’ historical film it’s game over. Prepare for both of them to “correct the record”. The dancing sickness of 1518 was Nadja’s doing and they’re prepared to let the whole room know it. 

3.)     We’ve spoken about this a bit but Laszlo had a difficult time adapting to certain aspects of being a vampire. Funnily enough, it wasn’t the ‘you’ll only ever drink blood from now on’ that threw him but rather the heightened senses. Everything was just more. As a newborn, he had a tendency to suffer from overstimulation and it was by focusing on aspects of Nadja’s presence (her scent, her chatter, etc) that he was able to ground himself. Slumbering proved to be another challenge as their coffins aren’t soundproof. Nadja took to singing acapella to him in order to drown out some of the background noise, something which she still does on occasion. 

4.)      Nadja carved out the vampire you see before you today and Laszlo trusts her superb sense of style and fashion completely. It was Nadja who started the whole coordinated outfit trend. She claimed that his wardrobe wasn’t vampire-y enough and Laszlo was too enamored with her to argue. The same can be said about his name change. He introduced himself as Leslie but that’s not exactly a fearsome vampire name. She insisted on calling him Laszlo and to be honest, he liked the sound of that more anyway, it was a bit like shedding his old life. However, in their mortal au they go a step further than that and just share a closet. They mostly exchange shirts but Nadja has really glammed Laszlo up on more than one occasion. She taught him how to do eyeliner, massacre, and eyeshadow about a week into the relationship. 

MORTAL AU.

5.)     A few years after the heat died down (as had Christophe) Laszlo buys a sailboat. Laszlo is very passionate about sailing and Nadja is an excellent navigator.  They begin to travel around the world, stopping at travel constantly. Sometimes with Jack, occasionally with other thirds, they’ve picked up along the way, but always together. There’s never really a discussion about not having kids, but that’s what happens. Neither of them particularly minds. Sometimes Nadja procurs an Oliver Twist-esque person from nowhere who becomes an adopted companion of sorts. And Laszlo, of course, manages to pick up a few illegitimate children scattered across the globe none of which he stays around long enough to know (and yes this means he still can’t watch Mamma Mia).

Bonus:     He loves her. Have I mentioned that? Because he does. Laszlo fucked his way through life way before he met Nadja but she was still the first person he ever made love to. Everything else before (and after) was fucking. But Nadja was, and still is, the only person he makes love to. 

[buckyskorpion]

11 hours - part seven

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x Reader

Summary: bucky is the mystery you can’t wait to solve. if you can get out of his bed long enough, that is. a biker au.

Warnings: gang-typical violence, sex scenes, alcohol mentions, probably more to come so stay tuned

A/N: hello i apologise in advance. pls dont hurt me!!! i would appreciate your feedback and your theories about where this fic is going! i hope this part isn’t too..... upsetting lmao. i wont be taking tags for this so please dont ask.

title taken from 11 hours by wet | playlist | please donate to my ko-fi!

masterlist

You believed, until now, that you walked the world seeking out dark corners and underbellies other people didn’t want to touch. That’s your job. The current case you're supposed to be working on involves a man suspected of drugging his girlfriend to take nonconsensual nudes of her and sell them to his friends while she slept. You’re well aware the world is a dangerous place.

But things look different now, in a way you never could have imagined before the Lerna. Those men were dead before you could blink, and you know life is expendable and fragile and so easy to take but it’s another thing to see it taken before your eyes. It’s another thing to take it yourself. And you know, now, why Bucky would only show you parts of his life and himself because this whole truth feels like staring directly into the sun - painfully bright, to the point where it’s all you can see and all the good things are reduced to a spotty, hazy blur.

You’re sitting in your office, at your desk where you’re trying to work but you can’t get the sound of bullet casings hitting the floor and the thunk of a knife in skin out of your head. There, in the centre of your tiny office, was where you sat on Bucky’s lap and kissed him and demanded ‘no secrets.’ Too stubborn to know he was keeping them for a reason, that maybe there are things you don't want to know after all. But you can feel his skin under your fingertips and the brush of his stubble as he kissed you, a memory you can touch, and you can’t help but think it still feels worth it. At the end of it all, if it was a choice of the Lerna happening or never having Bucky at all, you know what you’d chose.

As if he can hear you, your phone buzzes with a text from him. Joey’s at 7?

It’s already 6:30. You’re grabbing your keys and leaving the fear on your desk chair as you text him back. Sounds perfect.

It really is. Joey’s is your favourite bar, and just seeing the grimy neon sign outside makes your heart feel less heavy. This, after everything, remains the same. You still feel giddy jogging down the stairs, ready for the heady bass music to push through your chest and a whiskey apple to numb the wounds. It feels like the beginning, half-nervous half-excited to go find Bucky tucked in a booth at the back, dim purple light chiseling out his cheekbones and catching bright on his sharp smile. Back then it was innocent, if a fuck buddy hook-up could be. Now that you know you would do things for Bucky you’d never do for anyone else, that you don’t think you’ll ever be able to remove his brand from your heart- well. You skip a couple more steps as you head down into Joey’s, only a few minutes late.

You don’t slow down as you enter the bar, weaving through patrons searching for a familiar face. Now that you’re here to the urge to see him, to have him in your arms, is almost unbearable. When you do find Bucky, spinning a glass between his fingers in a nervous habit you’ve noticed he has, he feels your eyes on him immediately. He stands and you crash into him, burying your hands under his leather jacket to feel the warmth of his body against your palms. Bucky hugs you back just as harshly, the force of his embrace lifting your toes off the ground. When he pulls away his runs a hand over your head, down your hair, coming to rest by the side of your neck as if to check your pulse and make sure you’re really there.

“You ok?” he asks, bright blue eyes now dark and hooded as he stares down at you.

You nod, unwilling to let go of your grip on the back of his t-shirt even as he pulls away, and say, “Am now.”

“Need to talk to you, it’s important,” Bucky says. He escapes your grip with ease, because he’s huge and strong and it’s easy to forget that when he softens for you. He sits at the booth and you slide in across him, watching as he downs the rest of the straight whiskey in his glass like its water. That bad feeling is back, like back at Steve’s tattoo shop, but you don’t want it here. You fumble for Bucky’s hand across the table, and he lets you hold it but it doesn’t stop the dread settling heavy in your gut. You squeeze his fingers tighter, just in case.

“Is everything alright?” you ask. “Are we- did the cops find out-“

“No, no,” Bucky says, shaking his head down at the table. His gaze catches on your intwined fingers, the glint of his signet rings in the dim bar light, and says, “The cops aren’t the problem.”

“But there is a problem,” you say, and now Bucky raises his eyes to look at you.

“I need to tell you something, it’s important” Bucky says, again, and the dread rises from your stomach like bile to your throat. “You have to understand this, so you can see that I’m not- that this isn’t just-“

“Bucky.” He lets out a ragged breath as you cut him off mid ramble, scrubs a hand through his hair. You hate the way your voice wobbles when you say, “You’re scaring me.”

You almost make yourself laugh as those words leave your mouth. This scares you? Bucky, frustrated and nervous and clinging to your hand like a lifeline, but when he walked over lifeless bodies he sunk bullets into with a giant rifle on his back - that was just fine.

“You know when we were at Steve’s, and we were talking about Hydra? About Rumlow? Do you remember that?” Bucky asks. He stares at you like he’s imploring you to say it for him, whatever it is he’s struggling to say, but you don’t understand.

You nod slowly and say, “Natasha said Rumlow had it out for you. You said Hydra is your biggest rival.”

“Yes, right,” Bucky says, nodding a bit manically. He’s still gripping your hand tight. “Rumlow hated me, and as far as we can tell - or Nat, I guess, she’s been looking into it - he was acting on his own, to get to me.”

“That’s good, right?” You don’t feel sure, with the way Bucky is acting and looking at you all glassy-eyed. “No big gang war, or whatever.”

“I need you to understand why Rumlow hated me, because it’s not just- it wasn’t just about him, ok?” Bucky says, and now he’s looking around the room like that night in your office. Casing the bar, looking for exits. “He’s dead, but none of this died with him.”

“What is ‘this’?” you ask, and wonder for the first time, do I want to find out?

“The first time I met Rumlow was in the hospital, a couple of days after I got back from Afghanistan,” Bucky says. “I’d been honourably discharged, my arm was all fucked up and fried from a chem bomb and I lost all sensation in it so they sent me home. I remember I was lying in the bed looking out the window, and it was snowing. I hadn’t been anywhere but a desert in so long and I was like, what do I do know? I don’t own a coat anymore. I’m a black ops sniper, that’s not exactly a transferrable skill - can’t even put it on a resume because it’s classified. My arm’s fried and ugly lookin’. I’m fucked.”

“You must’ve been so scared,” you say. Bucky meets your eyes, and you can see it haunting him in the back of them - so much heat and fire and pain left behind, so much cold and unknown and pain lying in front. Your dad has told you a similar story, when he came back from Iraq, and he had the same look in his eyes Bucky does right now.

“I was,” he says, and you squeeze his fingers. He looks towards your hands again and says, “I was, and they knew it.”

“Hydra,” you say, and you know you’re right. Bucky nods anyway.

“Rumlow came into my hospital room and told me, Hydra helps guys like me. They helped him and look - he’s got a job and money and friends and a team again. A purpose. But I said no. I’m black ops, I know shady guys when I seem ‘em and Rumlow reeked of it. Just, Hydra doesn’t like being told no.”

“They target vulnerable, traumatised vets in hospitals?” you ask, disgusted. You can taste the hate that boils up, and that ugly, angry part picturing Bucky lying in a bed so alone and afraid and imagining someone like Rumlow trying to take advantage of him like that - that ugly part says I’m glad he’s dead.

“They’re highly trained and easily moulded,” Bucky says in way of answer, and you shudder at the thought. “But seem Rumlow failed and it was my fault. He failed over and over again every time they sent him to recruit me. So he hated me, and then I started the Commandos with Steve and Sam and Nat to target them. The only way to save the next poor bastard like me from ending up with Hydra is to end them, except there ain't a cop in the city who can touch them.”

“But you can,” you say, and you know it’s stupid but your heart has never been known as terribly smart, so you add, “Bucky, that’s dangerous.”

He smiles, small but it’s there, and he rubs his thumb over your knuckles as he says, “I know, doll. I don’t know if you know this about me, but stupid’s kinda my thing.”

“Very funny,” you say, rolling your eyes at Bucky’s cheeky grin now splitting his face. As quick as it came, though, his smile dies and so does the small spark of hope that maybe this story has a happy ending.

“I’ve made Hydra my enemy and I can’t change that. I don’t want to,” Bucky says, nodding solemnly at his own words and you watch him physically turn cold, stony and distant in the space of a second. “But that means that as long as Hydra is around, they’re going to be coming after me. First Rumlow, but it won’t stop there. They’ll come and keep coming and what if, one time, I don’t get there in time? Or you don’t get to leave your phone on, or even make it to a location before they shoot you in the back of the car?”

“No,” you say. You’re not stupid, you know where this is going and just- no. Bucky is being deliberately harsh, speaking loud and unfiltered to try and make it easier to do what he’s about to do but you won’t let him. That dread turned bile has now turned into straight, acidic fire pumping through veins and it hurts.

Bucky smiles faint and sad, says, “You said it yourself - it’s dangerous no matter what.”

“That's not what I meant,” you say, shaking your head vehemently, wildly, as if you can physically shake Bucky of this stupid idea and the actual pain you’re in just entertaining this conversation. “You know that’s not what I meant, what are- you asked me to stay, Bucky. You asked me, and now you want-“

“I know, I know,” Bucky says,  tugging your hand close to him now but it’s your turn to try and pull away, albeit unsuccessfully. “I know and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but you almost died. Do you understand that? They would have killed you, and the only reason is me.”  

“That’s such bullshit,” you say, trying and failing to pull your hand free of his grip but he isn’t letting go now and the death-grip he has on you, tethering you to him even as he pushes you away, makes your eyes sting with ugly tears.

“It’s not,” Bucky says, so sad, and you just want to kiss that guilt away for him even still, even as your heart is breaking under his fist. “You will always be in danger until the day comes where I can’t protect you, and I won’t do that to you. I can’t, I can’t be the reason you get hurt.”

“You can���t protect me if you’re not around,” you say, so soft you can barely be heard over Joey’s house music but honestly, you might as well be completely alone for how little you care about the bar around you.

“The safest place for you is away from me,” Bucky says, and that makes you laugh. Humourless, fucking painfully, but you laugh and Bucky glares so dark you’re reminded of the look in his eyes when he stared down at Rumlow’s body bleeding out on the ground. Through gritted teeth he says, “You think I would do this if there was any other way?”

“There is another way,” you say, glaring right back. “There’s not being a coward about it, Bucky. You lead a dangerous life, I get it. Believe me, I fucking get it, and I chose to stay. Ok? I wanna be here anyway, so why does my choice not matter to you? Is this some stupid excuse to get rid of me?”

“Don’t say that,” Bucky all but growls, and you should be scared. He’s scary, Bucky is dangerous by his own admission but you refuse to be afraid of him. Even when he’s trying to force you to be, holding your hand too tight and dragging you around the booth so he can pin you to the seat and you both know the only way you can move is if he lets you. As if he thinks he can scare you away from him, if he can’t reason you to go.

“I don’t care how dangerous it is,” you say into his seething face, inches from yours, teeth bared in a truly terrifying snarl as he pins you to the leather in a show of strength that will leave bruises tomorrow. “I don’t wanna be away from you.”

For half a moment, you really think Bucky is going to hit you. He moves so fast, and you’ve never seen his face look like that - hurt and angry and upset and half-insane all at once. But he just presses his forehead to yours, closes his eyes and breathes you in, and for another half a moment you get to think, maybe he’ll change his mind.

“You’re all I want,” Bucky breathes, so soft and quiet you almost don’t hear him if it wasn’t said almost directly into your skin. “But that’s selfish.”

“I don’t care,” you say, like a mantra now, or a prayer. Just hoping he’ll hear you, “I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.”

“You should,” Bucky says, and pulls away from you just as fast as he came in. “I won’t be the reason you end up dead.”

Bucky sits before you like a solid brick wall - unbreakable, immovable, cold and blank. His eyes are shuttered from you and you know there’s no way to get to him now. There’s nothing else you can say. If you aren’t enough for him to push past his fear and love you anyway, nothing you say is going to change his mind. Just because you know it’s true doesn’t mean it hurts any less, though, as you sit there boxed in by this menacing stranger looking at you in a way you never want to be looked at again. Like he already doesn’t know you. Like you’ve already been forgotten.

“This was always gonna happen, wasn’t it?” you ask, more to yourself than to Bucky. You laugh at his silence, the flat set of his mouth and clenched fists on his thighs. Maybe if you never went to that first party at Natasha’s house and remained at arms length, sneaking out his window and never staying the night, then maybe you could’ve had him just a little bit longer. But you didn’t, and now you’re hurt in a way you’ve never been before. Your dad never prepared you to survive a pain like this.

You slide out the other side of the booth, tripping slightly as you climb to unsteady feet. It’s hard to see through unshed tears but you don’t bother looking back at Bucky still sat in the booth. You weave through people just as fast as when you came in, but for the opposite reason now - you can’t leave behind this dim-lit bar painted with the gorey tatters of your heart fast enough.

When you emerge onto the street you know Bucky has followed you, his hulking presence palpable behind you as you stand on the sidewalk and try and calm your rapid heartbeat. You’re surprised its still beating with how much it hurts, especially when Bucky places a hand on your shoulder and cracks your heart neatly in two. He says, softly under New York traffic, “Let me drive you home. Please.”

Instead of asking why, why does he care, why does he want to, if the safest place is away from you then leave me alone, what you say is a mildly whiny, “You don’t know where I live.”

“I’ll put the address in my phone,” Bucky says, calm and low as if to placate you but you’re well past that point now. You’re crying openly on the street like a lunatic as Bucky gently takes your hand and leads you towards his bike, manhandles you onto it, clicks a helmet on over your head. It feels cruel for him to be this soft after so ruthlessly tearing you apart, but you suppose it’s better than being left alone in the street like he never cared at all.

When you pull up to your apartment building Bucky kills the engine and leans in close to you before you have a chance to jump off and run away. You think, surely he’s not about to kiss me right now and you really hate the part of you that hopes he does, but he doesn’t. He just leans in close and whispers into your helmet, “They could be watching your place, after what happened. I’m so sorry.”

You close your eyes. Bucky’s right, this will never stop, but that doesn’t mean you want to face it alone. Your whole life has been carved out for you only, but just once you thought maybe you could live it with someone else. That’s not a life for you to have, it seems, so you take a deep breath through snotty tears and nod, say, “I can handle it,” because you know you can. You’ll have to.

“I think-“ Bucky starts but falters, bites his lip blanched white before continuing, “They might leave you alone if you make it clear I’m not in your life anymore.”

“You can’t ask me to do that,” you say, and all the resolve you just gathered is shattered as instantly as you found it. You’re crying again because fuck, nothing has ever hurt like this has, from the inside where you can’t find it or heal it or stop it so it just sucks the life out of you one painful second at a time.

“You have to, honey,” Bucky says, and you want to punch him for it. The way he talks to you like he loves you, like he cares, but he can’t if he’s making you do this. Break your own heart to save his. “Scream at me, send me away. They won’t need to target you then.”

“You’re cruel,” you say, pulling away from him. You don’t want to touch him anymore, can’t stand to be this close so you trip off the bike and stumble down the street. Bucky stares after you, his own eyes teary and face screwed up in genuine pain. It could never compare to the sick feelings in your stomach as you take a deep breath and scream, “Go away, Bucky. Fucking leave me alone and never come back or I’ll fucking kill you, you hear me? Fuck off, and don’t come back.”

You can’t help the sob that rips from you, threatening to buckle your knees and break you right on the sidewalk. Bucky is looking at you like you’ve just stuck a knife in his chest but he asked you to, he keeps asking and taking and it’s always you that ends up hurt. You leave him on the street, stumble up the stairs to your apartment and sink to the floor as soon as the door clicks shut behind you. It’s dark in your apartment, nothing but streetlights outside casting shadows on furniture he never touched, but it still feels like he’s haunting you just the same.

Bucky’s bike revs to life and he tears away, the sound ripping straight through and down the street. It leaves you hollowed out, a burnt-through husk curled up on your hardwood floor. You know you’ll never hear that sound again.

****

For your entire life it’s always been you against the world. The only person you could ever trust is yourself, the only one who’s going to look out for you is you and you can’t remember a time where you didn’t think this way. Maybe it’s nature, maybe it’s nurture, but it’s how you’ve always seen the world.

However, you’re only now starting to feel what being truly alone is actually like.

Bucky’s contact lies open on your phone, but you don’t press call. You won’t. He pushed you away for your own ‘safety,’ for his own fear, and you’ll have to learn to live with his choice. Even though you still love him and always will, you can’t have him and you’ll just have to be ok with that. So you leave this contact photo up on your phone, resting on your coffee table beside your open laptop. You’ve got the input feed of the bug you planted in your dad’s kitchen open, chunky headphones on, scrolling through the audio from the past few days since you’d last seen him.

Your heart is broken by the first man you’ve ever let into your life and the only other person who knows you and who you trust, you’re currently spying on. Now, for the first time, you truly have no one left.

Focusing on work has always been an escape for you, and even when your life is in pieces around you and your heart looks no different, work still pulls through. Even if that work is your own father and the inane conversations he has with himself about the baseball teams on TV, or the calls he makes to his vet friends, or the late-night renditions of ABBA songs you remember well from your childhood. A file lies open on your coffee table with your father’s name on it and pages of notes you’ve made from nearly one hundred hours of audio recordings. You hope beyond hope that you’re just paranoid, and that this time when you go digging you don’t find anything at all.

The only thing you’ve noticed so far is your dad makes a lot of phone calls. They’re long, with a lot of names thrown around you don’t recognise as being his friends or anyone from work he’s mentioned to you before. You write them all down to look up later, but you’ve got to go meet a client so you shut everything down and collect your notes in the file. You hide them, just in case, and grab your leather jacket before you leave. You still have rent to pay. The world goes on around you despite everything being turned upside down, almost as if Bucky never happened at all.

You leave via the back of the building, to come out onto the street closest to the subway station. Usually smokers hang out around there so you aren’t surprised to see two men leaning against the wall, but you are surprised when they star following you down the alley. At this point you’re an old hand at being followed, and the petty part of you brain thinks in Bucky’s direction, see? Doesn’t matter if you’re here or not, dumbass. You sigh to yourself and plan to give them the run around once you clear the alley, but you don’t get a chance to.

From behind you hear a couple of solid thunks, a groan, a muttered curse from one of the men and then one final thunk before silence. You turn around, half afraid of who you’re going to meet once you do and half annoyed because you think you might know who it is. Sure enough, standing there in her leather jacket and a rusted metal pipe from the dumpster in her grip, is Natasha.

She blows a stray strand of hair out of her face and says, “Fancy seeing you here.”

“So he’ll break up with me but will still have me followed,” you say, folding your arms over your chest. Natasha shrugs and you mutter, “Figures.”

“I am always the first to say James is an idiot,” Natasha says, twirling the pipe like a baton in her delicate hands. She grins at you and says, “James is an idiot.”

“I’m aware,” you grit out, glaring at the red-head. “What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you don’t end up as Hydra mince-meat,” Natasha says, “What does it look like?”

“Doing whatever Bucky says even when it’s stupid,” you say. Natasha doesn’t like that, her bright grin dropping into a scowl as she steps up to you. Small, but with a clearly lethal weapon in her hands if the unconscious bodies behind her are anything to go by, she jabs the tip of the pipe into your chest and forces you a step backwards.

“James always has good intentions, even if his logic is sometimes flawed.” She drops the pipe, letting it clang to the floor between you as if to punctuate her saying, “Besides, James didn't tell me to do anything. I volunteered.”

“Why?” you ask, sneering slightly. “I think we both know you don’t trust me, or like me, and you make it very hard to like you.”

Natasha smiles at that, and you hate the face she makes every time you say something she ‘approves’ of - condescending, like she doesn’t expect you to have brain cells and is surprised every time you do. She says, very solemn despite the smile in her eyes, “I owe you.”

That makes you pause. Instantly, like you’re right back in that bar. You can see her groaning body struggling to stand after being thrown into a wall. Rumlow pointing a gun at her back, the blood-thirst emanating off him in waves. Your own hand, as if detached from your body, flinging the knife across the room into his neck before he can put a bullet in Natasha’s.

You swallow thickly, shake your head and say, “No you don’t.”

“I do,” she insists. She steps forward with her hand out, beckoning her fingers like she wants you to hand her something. You just stare at her empty palm for a few seconds before she clicks her tongue and says, “Phone.”

You hand it over without thinking, which was definitely stupid. But Natasha just types away quickly before giving it back and you see you have a new contact with her name attached entered into your phone.

“If you ever need anything,” she says, and taps your phone screen with her nail, “call me.”

It was only minutes ago you were sitting on your couch scrolling through audio from your tapped father’s kitchen thinking you’ve never been more alone in your life. Yet here you are, looking at a helping hand outstretched from the last person you expected it to come from. Your fingers shake slightly as you tuck your phone into your back pocket, and Natasha smiles at you like she understands.

“Thank you,” you say, and you hope she knows you genuinely do mean it.

Natasha nods, then says, “Get out of here, alright? I have to clean this up.”

You suppose that’s Natasha speak for ‘your welcome,’ so you leave her to it. The whole client meeting you can’t focus properly, too busy trying to decide if you feel safer or more afraid at having one of the scariest women you know watching your apartment. By the end of the day, your conclusion is that if Natasha is going to be in your life, its probably best she’s on your side rather than against it.

When you get home that afternoon there is no sign of the two guys Natasha knocked out, nor is she anywhere to be seen. You can’t help but feel watched, though, as you enter your building and climb the stairs. She’s a busy woman and you know she can’t be watching you all the time but you still feel her green eyes on the back of your neck - its not an altogether uncomfortable sensation. That’s something to unpack later, you think, as you collapse on the couch.

You try to resist, but as soon as you sit down and close your eyes the urge to forget about the case you’ve just taken on and look into your own hunches grows too strong. You get up again and fish out your dad’s file again from your hiding place, bringing it back to the couch to flip open. The list of names you’ve been compiling is at the top, scribbled in messy handwriting as you listened to your dad’s one-sided conversations. You tallied up how many times the same name had been mentioned and in what context, however it had been hard to decipher what your dad was talking about with only half the story.

You decide to go looking into the most mentioned name - more of a title, really. Somebody your dad calls Chief shows up in almost every single conversation he has over the phone, and when you were going through the audio it dredged up some strange, suppressed childhood memory. You used to hear him talking to guys downstairs when you were doing your homework, and you always thought he called them ‘chief’ as a nickname or weird, macho term of endearment like how kids in your class would call each other ‘bro’.

Maybe, he was only talking to one guy. You were going to find out.

Starting at your dad’s job, you scroll through their website and LinkedIn profiles to find any link to the name ‘Chief.’ He works as a security guard for a chain of clubs in the city so you are doubtful, and sure enough nothing really comes up to peak your interest. Your dad really only has one other major outlet to look into and that’s the VA, so you have to swallow past the dirty feeling of investigating suffering vets and start scrolling through the website for the Brooklyn VA group attached to the medical centre.

It’s all wholesome stuff and nothing of interest to your snooping at all until you get to a photo gallery from four years ago. It’s dedicated to commemorating the Brooklyn VA and New York Police Department workshop day promoting mental health for vets and servicemen. There are a bunch of photos of group activities and the lunch put on by the VA, and you spot your dad in a couple of them. You’re about to click off when you find one where your dad is posed with another vet and a very official, very dressed up cop. Nothing you haven’t seen at least forty of before in this gallery, but it’s the caption which makes you pause.

It reads, Some of the Brooklyn VA’s finest with NY Chief of Police. It has to be a coincidence, the man’s job title and nothing more. He’s tall, broad, with sandy blonde hair turning grey under his police hat. There are more medals than you can count pinned to his uniform and even in this grainy photo you can tell he would squash your dad like an ant if he gave the Chief of Police a reason to. You’ve never paid attention to this before, steering clear of cops whenever you can, but you find yourself googling him as soon as you can pull yourself away from his mile-long stare.

As soon as the NYPD profile on the Chief of Police loads, your blood turns to ice. You want to say you’re crazy, you’re crazy, you’re paranoid, but name one time your paranoia had led you wrong? Two strange coincidences don’t happen back to back, no matter how disconnected they may appear. Two worlds you never thought you would know, let alone be watching them collide, stare up at you from your computer screen. You can hear Steve’s voice like he’s sitting right next to you, saying “It is strange we haven’t heard anything from Pierce,” and right under a professional portrait of the Chief of Police is his name burning into the back of your eyelids - Alexander Pierce.

You shove your laptop onto the coffee table and stand, pacing back and forth in front of your couch. Scraping a hand through your hair and pulling half of it out of your head in the process, you try to reason your way out of connecting these dots. They’re barely dots, their echoes of dots - so your dad took a photo with the Chief of Police four years ago and he refers to someone he knows as ‘Chief’ as a nickname and Steve mentioned Pierce was someone in Hydra and the Chief of Police happened to be named Alexander Pierce. So what, right?

“Ok, ok, ok, ok,” you say to yourself, rushed and manic. You’ll just ask your dad. He’s your dad, he was never supposed to hide anything from you so why would he start now? If you just ask he might-

You don’t get to finish your thought. Three loud knocks ring through your empty apartment, your doorbell chiming impatiently straight afterwards. You stare at the door with your heart in your throat, long enough for them to ring the doorbell again and a loud, male voice to call out your full name. Someone you don’t recognise, yet they know where you live. You approach the door on silent feet and look through the peephole, reaching for the baseball bat you keep behind a pot plant as you do.

Standing outside are two men in suits, one of whom is looming at the peephole and making stupid faces while his college rolls his eyes and attempts to hold him back. Through the door, you ask, “Who is it? What department are you with?”

“I’m Special Detective James Rhodes and this is my partner, Special Detective Tony Stark,” the unimpressed cop says, elbowing his colleague out of the way who is still trying to look through the wrong side of the peephole. Holding up a badge and gesturing for his partner to do the same, Detective Rhodes says, “We’re with the FBI, ma’am.”

“Shit,” you say, before realising you said that out loud. Your hand feels numb where you grip your baseball bat tightly, and you decide in that moment you have to be dreaming. No way has the events of the past fifteen minutes taken place.

The guy who must be Detective Stark laughs and says, “Shit is right. Let us in, ma’am, we need to ask you some questions.”

You look back at the coffee table laden with copious notes on your father and your open laptop, Chief of Police Alexander Pierce’s face staring back at you. An omen, you think, but it would be even more suspicious if you asked them to wait to clean everything up. Your heart-stopping, life-changing, maybe-discovery will have to wait.

You slide off the chain and unlock your deadbolt, opening the door for the two FBI agents. They walk in without another word, and it really hits you then. It doesn’t matter what Bucky does now, if he leaves you and never comes back or if he never left at all - you’re in this, now. And now you’ll pay the price.

[galesh]

Wish fulfillment au of Severus who was born in Albus' Dumbledore's time. I just wanted to post it as a reply on a discord server but then it got out of hand. So

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

- Two clever swots duking it out... in academics!

- Debating each other of old spells and whether or not they're dark and the librarian jinxing them out of the library with hexes for being too loud

- Albus and Sev rubbing their stung bums and arguing about the hexes the librarian used

- Albus and Sev both discovering they're poor halfbloods and railing against the arswholes in charge who think they can sting their bums and get away with it

- Them stinging each other's bums because it's a fascinating body part and maybe rubbing them with a different set of hands because maybe it'll help, and they're experimental

-Albus viewing the fascinating kid with so much dark potential with new eyes.

-Sev keeping an eye out for the twinkly eyed twit because it's unnerving, really, and because he always found the goodness in others fascinating. He doesn't believe he can emulate it, but maybe some would seep through him in osmosis. That's what that muggle book said anyway

- His ma always said he had a thing for redheads. He's starting to suspect her of practicing black magic

- Albus and Sev working on potions and transfig together because none of them can tell the other they're bloody brilliant and that they're fascinated, and could we just get to stinging bums and rubbing out the soreness please

- Sev visiting the Dumbledore's on summer break because his father is dead and his mother as good as, meeting the creepy girl creature because he's nosy and of course he'd look at the one room Kendra told him not to

- Abe running to Ariana's room because she screams bloody murder. It's only when he gets there that he realises that that bloody snake they let into their house is being accosted by a happily shrieking Arianna who wants to meet this strange new black haired scarecrow her brother likes

- The older one

- Sometimes, Arianna suspects

- Sev being horrified by Ariana's sad tale, and not wanting her to waste away, working with Albus to make sure she can get out

- Abe (begging to) help them because he really wants to, and because he doesn't trust the snake

- Sev learns Abe can't bloody spell after the third time.he has to squint if the bottle has fluxweed or filchweed (Dyslexia is not recognised yet, but it will be, in the muggle world) amd tries to help. It's more insulting than helpful, but he tries!

- Albus feverishly searching for a way to fix what those muggle boys and their mother's imprisonment and his neglect have wrought. Searching in the darkest grimoires, because really, what is honor and goodness if it can't even help his sister?

- Ariana getting her father's silver signet, carved with the runes of protection, family, forgiveness and renewal. They can't fix her magic, but the magic she once loved has caused her loved ones only harm, and really, it's time to stop listening to the voice inside her, who wants to rip her mother to shreds and burn the whole world down

- In the end it's abe, who comforted her when her mum looked at her with hate and Albus ashamed who puts her ring on as she says the words the runes describe. It's hard to forgive her mother and those muggle boys, but Arianna thinks they've suffered enough (it'll be years later that she realises that she left one person, but as she watches her daughter's delightful coo as she Dan's her nose with a glowing goden finger, she is only thankful that her lack of forgiveness didn't take all her magic away).

- She kisses her brother-in-law to be on the cheek, as is only proper for a member of family.

(Ariana has a very feeble grasp on social niceties. She tries, okay! You try learning everything from books while trapped in a cottage like a demented princess, with a brother who even she knows has an unhealthy fascination with goats who'd talk to her normally)

(Arianna's husband and her daughter, who she names Severus --because every universe must have a second child with a severusly controversial name -- would really come to fear her social skills, or lack thereof. Severus blames her godfather and her uncle with a the raging hate of a 10 year old who's been denied Uncle Sev's sweets)

- Sev and Albus competing for the top spot in the classes with professors and the bottom in the classes without

- Albus meeting Gellert in the evening he's supposed to leave for France and noticing the same dark charm. Severus noticing, but wanting to taint it than emulate it

- A black owl pooping on Gellert's golden hair because he Does Not Share!

- Albus sharing his plans to Change The World which would kill a girl with beautiful, uncontrolled magic and put a vengeful father in a prison of his own despair

- Sev agreeing to them and adding some rather inventive and cruel revenges he'd have on the Wankers who disowned his mother for following her heart

- Albus crossing out those points with eyes that twinkle in gentle admonishment, because really Severus, where would you even get a fully grown basilisk, and ignoring the calculating glitter he gets in return

- Abe following the idiots because Ari orders him to help the idiots and he can deny her nothing

- Gellert becoming a Light wizard after being at the wand end of a particularly dark spell (they teach *that* at Hogwarts, the light school!?!?!?!?) By a vengeful gargoyle after he drunkenly kisses*Bruder* Dumbledore

(years later, Headmaster Dippet can't figure out why his newest Dada teacher is so militant about students knowing everything about Dark magic and why some magics should never be studied, or why flinches everytime he sees a mistletoe. He has enough experience at 300 Not To Ask)

- Albus learning the most beautiful healing spell at the hands of a scowling-dark-phoenix with moist, angry black eyes after the 12th use of a dragon's claw soon after he discovered the 12th use of their blood

(Fawkes could never forgive Severus Snape for stealing it's thunder. Also he smells owl. They're the worst!)

-Severus stealing the Flamels' thunder by creating a philosophers stone after being at their home for a month.

(Perenelle suspects it's because Nicholas, who can be really old fashioned about these things, forbade their apprentice and that brilliant boy with no thoughts from rooming together)

- Severus lacing Albus' lemon drops with the elixir of life because clearly, that imbecilic martyr thinks dragon claw wounds are amusing

- Albus lacing Severus' tea with it because it would be such a horrible thing to live alone

(or without the one person who matters, no offence to his family. Oh, alright Abe, you're definitely not it!)

(the elixir of life prepared yearly mysteriously dissappears into tea and lemon drops. Albus stops worrying over Severus getting killed by vampires while he gets their teeth in exchange of galleons like a demented tooth fairy, and Severus stops worrying about Albus getting nicked by antsy Dragons or Phoenixes or Nifflers, or whoever Albus scraps with in his spare time)

- Albus putting his demented convoluted plans in motion by destroying wizarding currency through inflation. It somehow leads to a goblin revolution, equal rights for magical creatures, and the adoption of muggle currency. Don't ask

(Rumour has it that Gellert, Wizarding Britain's champion one look at the the scowling face of a Severus Snape and proposes negotiations.

Muggle currency was great, really. Made mathematical sense, easier to handle, and twinkly eyed not quite evil overlords can't dependably reproduce all the identifiers. They hope

Quite coincidentally, as Severus will assure you, all the pureblood families --including the Princes, coincidentally-- lose all their accumulated money in the resulting changeover.)

- Albus rules everything from behind the iron curtain with gentle fists and an open smile. Everyone learns to agree with him because behind him stands the spectre of DEATHOMgWatdidyoudo that you want to always keep happy)

- An excited Tom Riddle learns about magic from a charming Professor who's really interested in how he speaks, and who agrees that muggles are awful but keep it down will you?

- Tom Riddle learns to confide in and trust the person who introduced him to the magical world; and tells him when he accidentally discovers the chamber of secrets while hissing open at one of the taps in the girls loo that just wouldn't dispense water (he was under a lot of pressure okay! No, he's not a creep!)

- Tom Riddle grows up to be a politician with a particularly hard view on those muggles. Being backed by the Headmaster of Hogwarts helps. The society has made great strides in the concept of equality and democracy however, and most creatures really don't like him for some insane reason. Albus Dumbledore wins the elections by a landslide again. Tom is tenacious, and plots for when he'd get the position after the old man dies

(On his deathbed, Professor Emeritus of Hogwarts, Professor Tom, curses todgy old men with unnaturally long lifespans)

-Harry Potter, who grew up loved and a headmaster who didn't want to train him in any way, shape, or form (Harry was glad. Headmaster Grindenwald was nice and all, but he really didn't want to know all about the Dark arts and why not to use them kplzthnx). He went on to work at the ministry because his mother instilled in him values of fairness, kindness, and Get Out The House And Go To Work You Bum!

(He named

- Ariana's first kid is named after Abe. Her second is called Severus. Severus being a girl, never forgives her, and years later, when her son is born, names him Ariana with a vindictive gleam in her eyes.

(Ariana never really learned a the social niceties. They're horribly ineffective, and Abe tells her she's always charming in any case)

(Severus Smith is comforted by the fact that her godfather is a immortal wizard who gives her the best sweets)

- Severus and Albus never really fall out of love, even though they fall out of bed many times. They are a different breed of men, really. Eternal devotion means eternal devotion, as they find out. The Flamels' are happy they finally get to go on what the muggles call double dates.

- They also never stop stinging each other on the bum, but that is a rather more mature tale.

[xcziel]

Between Dusk and Dawn

@alxina & @xantissa

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Relationships: Wu Xie/Wang Can

Characters: Wu Xie (DMBJ Series), Wang Can (DMBJ Series), Wang Meng (DMBJ Series), Liu Sang (DMBJ Series), Wang Pangzi, Zhang Qiling

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, AU, Undercover, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Hand Jobs, First Time, Angst, Humor, Romance, The 10 years when Wu Xie was a mob widow

Summary:

When Wang Can stumbled onto Wu fucking Xie while hiding abroad, he expected everything but being told to play a goddamn honeytrap on the man! Sex he could deal with, but emotions were not supposed to be a part of this.

-

He drove his motorcycle right up to the gate and leaned in on the signal until the guys at the gate cracked it open, already familiar with him even though he was only there if there was no other choice. He slammed the helmet on the handlebars and stomped his way into the house.

He couldn’t help but notice the beaten dog look on a few of the bodyguards who usually filled the house like cockroaches. He noticed at least one limp, and one face that looked like it had been slapped to hell and back. Then he saw one of the older teenagers he used as his current driver skulking along the back corridor, his face black and blue.

People scattered from him, the one guy leading him in only going as far as showing him the door to the office, from which Wang Can could hear shouting, before turning his back and disappearing.

As he stomped his way towards the office, the heavy wooden door opened and another bodyguard came out, half dragging a guy that Wang Can was passably familiar with, his eye swollen and nose bleeding, clothes in disarray.

A volley of expletives reached his ears as Wang Can walked into the room, and saw Chhota Akhil push a guy down on his knees while he rained blows on his head, screaming something which he didn’t understand but he got the gist anyway. Chhota Akhil was pissed.

Sensing his presence, Chhota Akhil stopped what he was doing and kicked the man away, and he scrambled into a corner near the chairs, still unable to leave the room without the boss’ direct order.

“So,” Chhota Akhil said, his nostrils flaring in barely reined in fury, “the man of the moment finally arrived!”

Wang Can stiffened at his tone, knowing that he was about to get cursed out by Chhota Akhil, since the man wasn’t really known for mincing his words when things went south, or actually never minced his words at all, judging by the way his subordinates reacted in the man’s presence.

“Tell me,” Chhota Akhil said, taking a step forward in his direction, and clicking his fingers at Wang Can, “is this how you planned to ruin me? By selling out to the competition? Don’t think I don’t know who ratted to those bastards in the revenue department.” He moved in even closer, almost breathing on Wang Can now. “You ungrateful piece of shit, I knew you were trouble right from the beginning, after all, chinkies are all good for nothing shits anyway! You robbing, lying scum!”

Wang Can fought the urge to curl his lip at the words. He wasn’t used to letting people talk like that to him, at least, not without a good dose of violence. Even when he was falling short on his lessons back in his training days, the trainers usually only yelled a real critique at him, not baseless abuse.

“You exceeded the limit of safe transport and I warned you what could happen if you did that,” Wang Can said, as calmly as he could make himself.

There were three bodyguards in the room, as well as the man on the floor, now bleeding a lot from a cut in his cheek that must have come from the signet ring on Chhota Akhil’s hand. The wife was here, too, but Wang Can didn’t pay her much attention. She was quiet, sitting far away in a plush chair beside the heavy desk where Chhota Akhil usually saw his guests. She wasn’t armed and wasn’t panicking, so he pushed her out of his mind. One of the bodyguards stood almost exactly halfway between Chhota Akhil and the woman, his back to her, his body just slightly tilted towards the boss, and Wang Can had the impression that he was more focused on protecting the wife than doing what the boss ordered.

The other two were focused on keeping the bleeding guy on the floor until their boss was ready to continue the beating.

“You dare to even speak?!” Chhota Akhil roared, so angry that spittle was flying from his lips, and he was so red in the face that he really did look about a minute away from a heart attack.

“I’m not the one who fucked up a perfectly good smuggling route,” Wang Can said, and he knew he shouldn’t, he knew he should stay quiet and weather the storm, but as much as he liked to pretend this was the same as any other mission, it wasn’t. There were no handlers here to tell him what he should do, to lay mission objectives, nobody to report to, and Wang Can really didn’t like the sheer fucking lack of diligence and professionalism in this whole damn business

[commanderserwin]

omg are you still writing rn? we live in different timelines so idk if it's still drabble day skskskks but i've been seeing a lot of mafia boss erwin art on pinterest so i'm wondering if u can do that like a headcanon or a drabble if u want huhu luv u xfilanon

❯ notes: I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK A WHILE!!!! okay, i have like 5 drafts of this mafia au, and i couldn’t really pick one. and i don’t even know if this is mafia-ish enough. but here it is! i hope you enjoy!! 

❯ characters. erwin smith x reader

❯ summary. the mafia boss who’s gone soft.

same space.

The meeting started as he entered, taking the red leather chair at the head of the long wooden table. His black suit was crisp, the clothes over his shoulder enunciating his built underneath. Immediately, somebody lit his cigarette while he listened to his men discuss over business. He crossed his legs over, blowing smoke into the air as he listened carefully- eyes closed and the wheels in his head turning as he pondered over their words. 

Another group has been making a mess out of the city, a couple of new-bloods who doesn’t know how well guarded the city is under Erwin’s hold.

When he finally opened his eyes, his first instinct is to look at you. As quick as he got his cigarette lit, it was also how fast he pinched the end of the stick with his fingers, throwing them in his glass with a soft sheesh. He never wanted to disappoint you, so he tried his hardest to not do those anymore.

The ghost of the smile on your lips made him breathe a little better, as he trained his eyes back to the meeting. The men talked over and over, dragging their own smokes, tapping their own fingers as their signet rings shone through the white light that graced their faces. Their men stood beside you, arms crossed, or for you— a hand resting on your thigh holster, ready to make a move if needed.

Erwin clasped his hands on the table, turning his head on whoever speaks, lending his ears to hear the same words over and over again. From the corner of his eyes, you tried to hide the yawn with your pressed lips, and it made him smile softly knowing that it bores you the same way it does to him.

"Is that all?" Erwin asked quietly, tapping his fingers on the table as everybody quieted down.

"Actually—," one leader started, but he only shut his mouth when Erwin looked at him. The man sighed, closing his folder as he clasped his hands on the table just like his superior. "We could talk about this tomorrow."

"Then we shall continue tomorrow. That's all."

With one flick of his hand, everybody stood up from the table, carrying their folders as they headed towards the door together with their men. When it was your turn— his voice echoed in the room, making you freeze as the others sliver past by you with sympathetic looks. Everybody feels sorry for whoever the boss calls on, and it had to be you.

His antics, and you're sick of them.

"Stay."

Erwin relaxed on his chair, hand fiddling with the leather as he watched you take the chair on the opposite side of the table. His hand immediately reached for his pocket, a stick and a lighter, and he lit them up, the smoke going like a halo around his head. Just one look and he knew it was a mistake.

"Smoke all you want," you assured, crossing your arms as you look at him flick his eyes towards the stick and to yours.

"You don't like it when I smoke."

"I don't."

"Very well," Erwin smiled, dipping the cigarette into the water where it died. He leaned on the table, hands clasped again as he surveyed you. Erwin squinted his eyes, while you looked impassively right at him.

"What is it?"

He thought long and hard as to what he was going to say. After all these years, he still says it and you’ll bite his head off and reject him. He’s used to it, but still he wants to try— a game in his mind of how long it would take you to shut him down. Erwin smiled, take a deep breathe before he opened his mouth starting time timer as he opened his mouth.

“Will you come—,”

“No.”

“I didn’t even?”

“I know what you’re going to say.”

Erwin exhaled loudly, loosening his tie as he leaned on his chair, feeling the chill of the leather on his hands as he picked at it. You mimicked his movements while he only shook his head, recounting. It only took you a second to reject him even when he hasn’t said anything.

“Fine,” Erwin nodded, flicking his hand away as he twirled his glass in his hands watching the cigarettes swim in the water. He heard your chair screech against the floor, as you stood up making way towards the door. He noted how slow you walked as if waiting for him to call you back. He guessed he just had to surprise you. “Get home safe, then.”

The door to your apartment finally opened after so many tries, showing the mess of the place it is. Not a whole pigsty— just messy. The pillows needed rearranging, the carpet needs vacuuming, frames needed dusting and the shoe rack needs to be filled but only one pair of your shoes sits there.

“I am so tired,” you sighed, closing the door behind you as you dropped your bag on the floor, feet immediately going to the kitchen in search for something. You crouched down in front of your refrigerator, groaning at the water bottles that it displayed and no actual food. “Really?”

This isn’t what you needed after this day. Today has been exhausting, it has always been exhausting and too physical and you needed a break— but in this line of work, breaks were nonexistent. The amount of people you have met only to have them meet their ends and their days over some squabble over land and money made you too exhausted. The only thing giving your mind peace is the cold air coming from the refrigerator as it mockingly showed you the absence of food— and that you should go grocery shopping soon.

But your night just got even more exhausting. You knew nobody was following you, and you made sure of that. You weren’t a nobody in the organization so having someone stalk you was a normal recurrence but you didn’t want it now. The only good thing is that you haven’t taken off of your thigh holster where a pistol now becomes an extension of your arm as you surely cocked it in your hand.

Whoever followed you was good. Their footsteps were muffled against your wooden, creaky floors yet one sigh out of their body and you immediately let your guard down. You cocked the gun back into your holster— your heart calming down as you slammed the refrigerator behind you.

Their blue eyes made your heart melt as you took a deep breath.

“Can you please learn how to knock?”

“You ought to place another lock on your doors.” Erwin kissed your forehead in passing as he moved inside your kitchen, pulling back the bar stools hidden under your kitchen island.

“I have placed three locks already! So, knock!”

“I will knock if I can’t pick through your door.”

“Fine.”

Erwin moved past you as you just noticed that he brought a bag with him- presumably takeouts and your heart did a dance for his thoughtfulness. “Dinner?”

“I’ll grab the plates,” you sighed, peeking through his shoulder as you inspected what he brought. Erwin felt you behind him, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you closer to him. You tried to press your lips into a straight line but it all failed when he reached down to press a soft kiss on your lips alongside pushing you gently away to go on your merry way. “Burglar.”

“Boss,” Erwin mused, sitting down on the bar stool as he opened the food containers, waiting for you to come back with the plates and forks. He stood up, reaching for some glasses, wine, and water. Once you handed him his plate and fork, he pulled on your chair a little closer to him, serving a big one on the plate. “Eat.”

“Thank you,” you breathed, squeezing his thigh as you ate silently. It made you giddy inside that he brought you your favorite, never missing one bit on your likes and dislikes.

Erwin nodded, smiling gently as he took off of his coat to fold it near him. His hands moved swiftly, on his tie as he finally took them off as well as unbuttoning his shirt at the top. His hand went to his sleeve, but he stopped to ask you something.

“Will you pass me a napkin?” Erwin pointed to the folded ones inside the bag while you pushed them towards him, resuming your dinner. “Thank you.”

From the corner of your eyes, you watched him fiddle with his cufflinks and you wanted nothing more than to chuck those things away far from him as the rusty metal things stained his sleeves. He placed his rusty cufflinks on the napkin, delicately pushing them near his folded things. Erwin only raised a brow in question as you gawked on him, chewing slowly— waiting for you to say it out loud.

“You should throw those out,” you commented, pulling the napkin where his cufflinks were as you inspected them around your fingers. He only pulled them back, swatting your hand as he did so.

“Why should I?” Erwin asked, placing them aside as he turned to you. He watched the immediate rise of the pink tinge on your cheeks as he tilted his head to the side, “You gave them to me years ago.”

Erwin wouldn’t never admit it, but he always deemed those cufflinks were his lucky charms. His day would be incomplete if he wasn’t wearing those, and despite all the expensive and new ones that’s he got from you and others, he would always come back and place the rusty ones on his sleeves no matter how much it stained. Those cufflinks meant the beginning for him, a reminder, and the light at the end of the tunnel— because he knows if he wears those he’ll be fine at the end of the day no more how hard his work was. Those cufflinks meant you.

“They’re rusty,” you sighed, turning at him. “Look at your sleeves now, they’re stained.”

“I own a laundromat for that problem,” Erwin began, his hands feeling his chest for the golden chain that he wears. He always hides them from everybody, but not from you. He fixes them outside his shirt, where a dangling emerald rests on it, making it the sole color on his dark suit.

“I could always buy you a new one,” you said, pushing his plate towards him while he finishes his routine.

“I don’t need a new one.”

“Erwin.”

“I don’t want a new one.”

He pecked your lips once, twice— thrice until you have shut your mouth, defeated as he settled for those rusty cufflinks. It has been years since he has received them and you did notice that he wears them everyday, and at that point you made a promise to yourself to buy him a better one. But even after those days, he would always come to work, sit on his chair, listen to his men, barge into your apartment— still wearing those cufflinks.

“But?”

Four times.

“Eat,” Erwin pushed, turning his body away as you scowled beside him. He knows very well what you were doing and he wouldn’t want to let you go through it. He wouldn’t and would never want these— his favorite cufflinks to meet the trash.

At night, he laid down beside you, eyes droopily closing as you squirmed beside him to fit the both of you in the small bed. Erwin tightened his hold on your waist, making you stop as you chuckled in the dark, resting your head on his shoulder as he gently shook in laughter as well.

You thought about all the times he has invited you to come home to him. Never missing to ask you that question always at the end of the day, and always saying the same answer.

“What are you thinking about?”

Erwin turned to his side, clasping his hands below his cheek as he listened to you in the dark.

“What if I come home with you?”

“If you only want to.”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Erwin kissed the tip of your nose, nudging them gently as he pulled away.

“So that I know you’ll be safe.”

“I can take care of myself,” you scoffed, snuggling on the crook of his neck as he immediately wrapped an arm around you tight. “Besides I know you have armed men here.”

“Well,” Erwin whispered, smiling atop of your head, “I do own the street.”

That got a laughter out of you, because it was true. His grand gestures always makes sure that you were safe and protected— even when he knows how well you could handle yourself if problem does arise. Erwin has been the first ones to witness it, and he would never forget about it. Still, he would want to make sure you were safe.

“But why?”

Erwin placed a kiss on your forehead, whispering, “I want to come home with you.”

“You can come home with me.”

“Baby,” Erwin chuckled lightly, pulling away from your embrace, “We could barely fit in this bed.”

“I’ll buy a new bed,” you smiled, turning away as Erwin immediately wrapped his arm around you, lazily kissing the back of your neck. 

In the morning, you’d wake up to the sound of footsteps creaking over in the living room. Familiar footsteps— and you would get out of your bed to tiptoe for the burglar. His back was against your torso for a minute, feeling his chest ramble with every word that he speaks over the phone and it would make you smile— no matter how brutal they might be talking about.

In the afternoon, the meeting would resume once more, and Erwin would find your eyes in a second as he takes a sit on his chair, making sure to flick his wrist as the rusty cufflinks makes an appearance once again on his clothes.

In the evening when everybody is on their way home, Erwin would call you back to his executive room, ushering you take a sit before him. He counted again in his mind on how long it will take you to reject him. He’ll continue to ask even if his voice becomes hoarse, he would still ask. He tapped his fingers on the table, as you only crossed your arms avoiding his eyes.

Nervousness pools at the bottom of your stomach, feeling skittish underneath his blue eyes. Erwin knew something was bothering you, so he immediately jumped on his feet, rounding the table until he could place his hands on your shoulder. 

“Look at me,” Erwin whispered, rubbing circles on to you jaw while he gently lifted your chin. “What is it?”

“Come home with me,” you whispered with your eyes closed. When he didn’t say anything, you pulled away— panting hard because he stayed silent. “Forget that I said anything.”

“Stop,” Erwin caught on your hand, pulling you closer to him, his eyes filled with a shine, as he smiled. Just one look at his face, your suppressed lips and nervous eyes fluttered away, while he nods at your invitation. He grabbed some pins from his coat, dropping it over your hand.

“What is this?”

“I don’t have to pick through your door anymore,” Erwin mused, pushing you towards the door with a hand on your back, while he whispered quietly over your temple, “I’d love to come home to you.” 

[mordoriscalling]

The Life (of) Surprise (2/4)

Jaskier lies to his family about being engaged to Geralt for the second time… and there are way too many surprises involved.

Part 4 of the Singer and the Sailor AU that no one asked for but I wrote anyway (again). This fic happens a little bit more than a year after Geralt returns home from his last deployment. Warnings: referenced alcoholism and trauma.

(Part 1)

II - A Surprise Is Uttered

The day begins with a sleepless night. For Geralt, not Jaskier. Jaskier is a heavy sleeper, so he has no idea about it until nature’s call wakes him up at half-past three in the morning. The bed is empty so, after relieving herself, Jaskier looks around the house and finds Geralt sitting by the kitchen table. His face is hidden in his hands and there’s an empty mug next to him. It’s the third night in a row that he hasn’t slept at all and Jaskier’s heart breaks for him a little.

They’re supposed to take a little trip to Brighton and return in the afternoon, before Yennefer drops Ciri off at Geralt’s after school. Now, Jaskier decides that the plan changes. In half an hour, they’re both ready to set out. Geralt drives because he already had coffee.

The drive passes in silence. Jaskier dozes off in his seat for some time but after the sun rises, it’s too bright outside for sleeping, and he wakes up slowly. They arrive in Brighton a few minutes after six. Save for occasional joggers and people walking their dogs, the streets are blissfully empty, and so is the beach.

It’s just a quiet, sunny morning like any other. In short: perfect. Jaskier doesn’t have to worry about someone photographing him, or anyone (quite) possibly seeing his proposal being rejected.

The air is slightly chilly as they stand at the shore, the waves almost touching their shoes. Geralt doesn’t say anything, only looks at the water. Jaskier watches him bask in the closeness of the sea. The delicate morning sunlight accentuates all his wrinkles in a stunning way and his white hair is lit up like a halo, gentle breeze ruffling it slightly. Jaskier takes in Geralt’s strong profile, his pretty stubble and his tired, tired eyes, and he thinks to himself that he loves this man so.

Jaskier can’t help but recall everything that happened since Geralt’s return, the good and the bad. All the times Jaskier pushed too far or Geralt was too gruff. The piano lessons with Ciri, and the adorable look on Geralt’s face when he concentrates on playing. The quiet weekends they sometimes manage to squeeze into their lives. Geralt chuckling at Yennefer’s disgusted expression after Jaskier asks her if she’s off to do “hot girl shit” again. (Jaskier knows she actually loves that phrase). How Geralt’s insecurities get better of him some days and he turns into a brooding idiot. The way the two of them are able to have a conversation without words, the way their bodies move against each other when they have sex. The smell of Geralt's sweat after he works out.

How, when they stay over at Geralt’s house, Geralt is always annoyed that Jaskier doesn’t wash the dishes right after using them. How, when they stay over at Jaskier’s house, Geralt always forgets to take his shoes off, much to Jaskier’s dismay. How Geralt is an annoyingly good cook but he’s also really shit at paying the bills on time. How he doesn’t allow Jaskier anywhere near kitchen appliances, which wounds Jaskier’s pride.

All of Geralt’s mannerisms. How he’s grumpy by default but then sees a dog. How Jaskier sometimes wants to talk very much but Geralt doesn’t. How Geralt delivers freaking sermons sometimes. That one time they managed to go out for a drink with Aiden, Eskel and Lambert, and Eskel started talking about his retirement plan involving goat yoga. Lambert nearly went batshit crazy, insisting that there was no way that something like goat yoga existed. Eskel and Jaskier tried to demonstrate how that would work, with Jaskier pretending to be a goat. Lambert, Geralt and Aiden almost pissed themselves laughing. The following day, Ciri woke Geralt and Jaskier by blasting a techno remix of Her Sweet Kiss so loud that the windows rattled. Then Yennefer made them go grocery shopping despite their killer hungover.

How Geralt holds him when unpleasant memories haunt him. How Geralt’s brutally honest when some of his songs suck. How he looks at Jaskier when he sings. His smothering gaze when he calls Jaskier his siren. How he makes sure that Jaskier eats and drinks when he forgets about it himself. How Geralt stands by him and supports him in his career, withstanding all the paparazzi nonsense even though he hates it with passion. How Geralt doesn’t want to know him for who he knows, how he’s always there for Jaskier and never asks for a thing in return.

All of this, and Jaskier suddenly doesn’t know where to start. He only knows that he wants to keep this man in his life so much that there’s hardly any air left in his lungs. His heart is hammering in his chest, his hands are sweating, and he decides to begin with what’s safe.

“Hey, Geralt,” he says, “I love you very, very much, you know that?”

Geralt hmms an affirmative and looks at him. There’s a smile on his face and warmth in his gaze as he answers, “I love you too.”

His golden eyes stand out against the blue of the cloudless sky. Jaskier slowly drowns in them, only the sound of the waves reaching his ears. It seems like only the two of them matter in the world and the reality is a safe distance away. In this state, almost hypnotized, Jaskier simply does what he has to do and gets down on one knee.

“What are you doing?” Geralt demands with a sowl.

His tone isn’t exactly a good sign. Jaskier flashes him a shaky smile and reaches for his hand. Then, he slides the buttercup ring halfway down Geralt’s finger. He didn’t buy a new ring; there’s no need for it really. He only needs to give their old rings new meaning on this seemingly meaningless April morning.

“Geralt, I-I,” he stutters out. His heart is beating so fast that he can’t breathe. He makes himself look up at Geralt, who stares down at him with a frown. Jaskier smiles nervously and forces the words out, “Will you... will you marry me?”

Geralt’s eyes widen and his mouth opens in shock. The silence drags on like eternity and Geralt doesn’t move a single muscle. When he finally does, his lips slowly quirk upwards and his whole face lights up with the tiniest, shiest joy. Jaskier is about to sigh in relief but then Geralt’s answer comes.

“Jaskier,” he grumbles, “get up, you’ll ruin your trousers.”

His trousers are white and it’s indeed a bad idea to kneel on the wet pebbles. As Jaskier gets up, his heart sinks and his head hangs low. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, “This doesn’t have to mean anything, I just–”

He’s still holding on to Geralt’s hand and the ring, so he starts taking it off Geralt’s finger completely. Geralt stops him, though. Jaskier watches in amazement as Geralt’s muscular hands guide his own so that he slips the silver band back on Geralt’s finger.

When the realisation hits him, Jaskier gasps. He looks up at his fiancé, for real this time, and sees Geralt’s whole expression is alight with happiness. The sight takes his breath away. “Geralt...” he begins, but what Geralt does next takes away his ability to speak.

Geralt fucking kneels. Then, he takes Jaskier’s hand and slides the golden wolf signet off Jaskier’s finger. As Geralt looks up at him, he raises an eyebrow in silent question. Jaskier, still rendered speechless, only gives a jerky nod. Geralt grins like he almost never does, sharp teeth on display, and slides Jaskier’s ring back on.

The next moment is a blur. Jaskier, blinded by joy, wants to throw himself at Geralt. Geralt seems to want the same thing because he meets Jaskier halfway. Their bodies collide and they almost fall into the water but Geralt steadies them. Then, they’re standing up, and Geralt holds him tight, so tight that Jaskier may get bruises. Jaskier doesn’t care about that. He’s laughing and Geralt is smiling, truly smiling, and they pepper kisses all over each other’s faces.

“Please say it,” Jaskier whispers hoarsely, “just that one little word,”

Geralt huffs a laugh. He pecks Jaskier on the cheek, then murmurs into his ear, “Yes.”

It’s just one word but it’s said it the gravelly baritone Jaskier will never be tired of hearing, and his heart almost bursts with all he feels at that moment. The need to kiss Geralt stupid is stronger than ever, so he does exactly that. Burying his hands in Geralt’s hair, he brings their mouths together. Geralt lets out a pleased hum and sneaks his strong arms around Jaskier’s waist. The kiss resembles their very first one during the birthday party – it’s deep and slow, the best kind of passionate.

It takes them some time to break apart. When they do, they take off their shoes and take a walk along the shore, ankle-deep in the cold water, holding hands and talking. When Jaskier sees a little fish, he starts naming all the fish that he knows while Geralt laughs at him. Then Geralt wets his hand in the sea and puts it against Jaskier’s nape because he’s a bastard. They’re a moment away from splashing war when Jaskier’s stomach rumbles loudly. The two of them realise that they’re both hungry, so they embark on a search of some nice restaurant. Eventually, they find one and treat themselves to a big breakfast. Jaskier drinks coffee but forbids Geralt from having one, to Geralt’s immense displeasure. He steals a sausage from Jaskier’s plate as revenge but Jaskier physically can’t be mad at him today. His grumpy expression makes Jaskier melt.

The drive back passes in silence. Jaskier sits behind the wheel; the coffee Geralt had at night is wearing off and he’s too tired. Geralt sits in the front passenger seat with his eyes closed the whole way back but he’s not sleeping. His thoughts often don’t let him sleep, Jaskier knows.

They return before noon. Walking into Geralt’s house feels different somehow, now that they’re truly engaged. As soon as the front door closes behind them, Jaskier drags Geralt in for a kiss. Way too soon, Geralt breaks it... because he needs to yawn.

Jaskier laughs and says, “C’mon, my jolly sailor bold, you need a nap.”

Geralt grunts but doesn’t argue. They go to Geralt’s bedroom upstairs and change into comfortable sweats and "for home" t-shirts, stealing some kisses in the meantime. Geralt closes the thick curtains and they lay down in the bed, facing each other. Jaskier shifts closer until he can tuck Geralt's head under his chin and run his hands through Geralt’s hair while Geralt rubs his palms up and down Jaskier’s back.

It’s one of their favourite ways to cuddle. They say nothing for some time, simply enjoying the closeness. Jaskier’s lost in his head, picturing how Geralt’s family is going to react to the development in their relationship, but then he suddenly remembers what he said to his own family yesterday.

“Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“What would you say about marrying next spring?”

Geralt opens his eyes and squints at him. “So soon?”

“I’ve always wanted to have a May wedding,” Jaskier answers. It’s not even a lie. After he and Geralt got together, he’s started fantasising about his own wedding for the first in his life and, in his mind, it always happens in May.

Geralt watches him closely, clearly sensing that there’s something he isn’t being told, and damn him for reading Jaskier so well. Jaskier tries not to squirm under the golden stare, as unforgiving as the sun, doing his best not to let his fear show. Jaskier will have to tell Geralt about the circumstances of their engagement one day, and when he does, Geralt may take it extremely the wrong way.

“I’ll think about it,” Geralt says finally.  

It’s not a no but it’s not a yes either. Jaskier can’t have that, so he brings out the big guns and innocently suggests, “We could marry at sea, you know.”

A pause.

“Hmm.”

It’s definitely an intrigued hmm. Jaskier presses on, “I could rent us a yacht. Or a boat. Or a big ship, even. Whatever you want.”

There’s a moment when Geralt doesn’t even breathe. Then, he heaves a long, resigned sigh, and Jaskier smiles in victory.

“Damn you, Jaskier,” Geralt mutters tiredly, “Damn you.”

Jaskier chuckles and kisses Geralt on the forehead, earning himself a happy hum. He keeps running his fingers through Geralt's hair and begins to sing softly. It's the first song Jaskier wrote for Geralt; Jaskier knows that his fiancé has a particular fondness for it. As he croons lyrics about woods and the Fae, Geralt's breathing starts slowing. After he finally falls asleep, Jaskier lets himself doze off too.

***

“Dad!”

Jaskier jerks awake, opening his eyes just in time to see Geralt do the same. There’s a moment when they stare at each other in confusion. Then, Cirilla’s wails reach their ears, and Jaskier’s blood runs cold. In an instant, there’s pure, unadulterated terror written all over Geralt’s face. He gets up lighting fast and rushes out of the bedroom. Jaskier follows right after him.

“Dad!” she shrieks again.

“Ciri!” Geralt shouts, completely frantic, as they run down the stairs.

Cirilla meets them at the bottom of the stairs. Her face is red from crying, her cheeks wet. She falls into his arms and buries her face in her father’s chest, sobs tearing through her frame.

“Ciri,” Geralt breathes out, running his shaking hands all over the girl’s body in search of any injuries.

Ciri appears physically unharmed but still, something is definitely very, very wrong. The girl keeps bawling her eyes in Geralt’s embrace while her father strokes her head soothingly. Jaskier finds it to be a truly gut-wrenching thing to witness, and he isn’t even Ciri’s relative. He can scarcely imagine what Geralt is feeling, though a good portion of his fear and worry shows on his face. Jaskier, in an attempt to comfort Ciri and Geralt, puts his arms around them both.

“What happened?” Geralt asks, his voice hushed and gentle.

Cirilla cries harder and Geralt’s face scrunches up in pain he feels for her. Jaskier’s heart breaks for them both.

“Dara,” Ciri finally chokes out, “He wasn’t at school today and didn’t text me back and... He called me just before I walked in and told me... “ Her body starts shivering. “There was a fire at his house, dad, only he...” She trails off and wails. “His parents and brother didn’t...”

Jaskier gasps and Geralt curses.

“He has nowhere to go, dad,” Ciri adds, “no relatives in the country, he has nothing....”

Ciri weeps on while Jaskier looks at Geralt helplessly. He silently asks Geralt what to do and Geralt answers with a slight shake of his head. Jaskier purses his lips and racks his brain while Ciri slowly begins to calm down. Finally, he gets an idea.  

“Sweetheart, did he tell you where he is now?”

“Yeah,” Ciri replies, her face still hidden in Geralt’s chest, “Why?”

“Well... My house has more than enough room for two.”

***

The day ends in a sleepless night. For Jaskier, not Geralt. Geralt, just like Ciri, collapsed from exhaustion around an hour ago in one of the bedrooms in Jaskier’s house. Jaskier, unfortunately, can’t say that about himself. Too much has happened for one day and he still hasn’t processed even half of it.

It’s almost midnight. Jaskier sits on the couch in his living room, strumming his acoustic guitar idly and trying not to think about the dead look Dara had in his eyes the whole day. When Jaskier pictures what kind of trauma the boy has just gone through, he wants to scream.

The sight of Dara himself snaps him back to reality. He acknowledges Jaskier with a nod and goes to the kitchen, which is open to the living room. Jaskier watches in the corner of his eye as Dara pours himself a glass of water and drinks. The air around is still, awfully so, and Jaskier itches to break the oppressive silence.

“You can’t sleep too?” he says.

“Yeah,” Dara answers quietly.

“You can sit here with me if you want.”

Dara hesitates for a moment but then comes over and sits down next to Jaskier awkwardly. He and Jaskier did meet before but they never talked much. Usually, Ciri would just say that the two of them are going somewhere before dragging Dara away. Jaskier’s aware that he’s a stranger to him and he certainly has no idea how to act around a person who’s currently experiencing the worst kind of nightmare that they can’t wake up from. Still, if there’s one thing he knows, it’s the fact that music can be a cure for many ailments.

“Any requests you’d like to make of this humble bard?” he asks, gesturing at himself theatrically.

“I like Metallica,” Dara replies with a shrug.

Jaskier smiles. “Ah, good taste!”

After a moment of thought, his fingers strum the strings and the first notes of The Unforgiven ring out in the air. Dara tenses but Jaskier decides to go on. When he sings, he pours all his emotions into it: how much his heart aches for the boy, how he wishes to ease his pain. His voice is mournful but strong and Dara listens to him carefully. During the second chorus, the boy’s eyes glaze over. Jaskier’s voice cracks. A tear rolls down Dara’s cheek, then another, and another. Jaskier plays on and Dara starts crying in earnest.  

The same couch that Ciri and Geralt sat on when Jaskier met them for the first time, the same couch that Jaskier and Geralt sat on when they exchanged their rings before the birthday party, now Dara sits and weeps, his face hidden in his hands.

Jaskier almost breaks down in tears himself but he fights it – he has to finish. His voice is loud and clear as he sings the last verses, openly but unapologetically raw because that’s how the song should be sung. That’s how this moment should feel.

After the last notes of the song die down, only the sound of Dara’s sobs can be heard. Jaskier’s looks at the mourning boy, only sixteen and left with nothing, and wants to help.

“Do you need a hug?” he asks hoarsely.

Dara nods and Jaskier moves closer, putting his arms around the boy’s shoulders. Dara leans against him and cries, and cries.

As they sit there, Jaskier thinks to himself that he has lived a life of immense privilege. There were times when it was bad, like his serious health problems in childhood. There were moments when it was even worse, like when his dad’s drinking spiralled out of control when he was a teenager. The memories of that time still make him shudder. Yet, all ended well in the end. Jaskier’s a healthy man, his dad is sober. Jaskier's career pays very well. He doesn’t have greater problems than pursuing his dreams, and he realises there are scarcely any people with similar lives in the world.

People like him, Jaskier muses, should learn to put their own wants and needs aside more than anyone.

“Hey, Dara,” he says, feeling shy possibly for the first time in his life. He swallows down the nervousness constricting his throat and says, “I know this can be a weird question, you don’t even know me, but... Would you like to stay? You could live here, at least until everything, well, settles down. ”

Dara doesn’t reply for a long time. When he does, his answer is just, “Okay.”

The single word is said so quietly that Jaskier almost misses it. When he does catch it, and it feels so monumental that his breath is taken away.

[buns-with-a-book]

The Most Expected Thing

Part of a shortfic challenge list posted by ao3commentoftheday, the third of five fics.

Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV/Final Fantasy Online Characters: F!Viera!Warrior of Light, Lyse Hext, Thancred Waters, Alphinaud Leveilleur, Y’shtola Rhul, Warriors of Light (F!Hyur!Warrior of Light, M!Elezen!Warrior of Light, F!Elezen!Warrior of Light, M!Miqo’te!Warrior of Light), Aymeric de Borel (mentioned) Tags: @nimnox

Summary: On the eve of Ala Mhigo’s long-awaited freedom, the Scions of the Seventh Dawn and the Crystal Keepers enjoy a well-deserved respite from the battles they endured.

Rhalgr’s Reach was, surprisingly, mostly quiet for the first night of the freed Ala Mhigo. Most of the Resistance was in the Lochs, either celebrating the night away in the newly christened capital of Ala Mhigo or searching for any Garlean stragglers.

But, in the leader’s tent, all was not so quiet.

Lily looked around the brightly colored tent, smiling softly as the Scions of the Seventh Dawn and the Crystal Keepers were happily in conversation about the trials and tribulations they had gone through, what good memories they could share about the war for Ala Mhigan and Doman independence. Those that weren’t so inclined to speak kept themselves busy by other means, such as the elezen bard Virberos Autumnstar, who was playing softly on a harp. As of the moment, Ophelia held the metaphorical stage, telling the Scions and the Keepers about her adventures in the Azim Steppe, mostly with finding out about her Au Ra heritage and how she promptly got into a martial match with an Au Ra named Magnai about the whole thing.

“He said that, if I wasn’t a half-breed, he could’ve entertained the possibility of me being his soulmate. I said ‘Maybe you should stop proposing to every woman who kicks your ass!’ You should’ve seen the look on his face!” Ophelia punched her hand. “And for that, he charged himself right into a jug of water!”

“I’m surprised you weren’t kicked out for that.” Alphinaud said, eyes wide.

“Eh, this was after I proved myself strong enough to be ‘a warrior of the Steppe’, nevermind the fact that I only went through that trial just to get more information about my dad and uncle’s heritage.” Ophelia shrugged. “But I figured out some stuff about myself along the way.” She lifted up her sleeve, revealing pitch-black scales, similar to the Au Ra. “Apparently, my dad and uncle’s ancestors came from the same tribe Magnai leads today; the Oronir. Not that I’m yearning for a run for his position...but I’m not going to say no to kicking his ass again. That was fun!”

“Reckless as usual…” Y’shtola sighed.

“But I looked cool!” Ophelia pointed out. “You’re starting to sound like Master Matoya.” That comment came with an even heavier sigh.

“Now now, let’s not tease the only one who can heal you in the field of combat.” Came the gentle chiding of the Miqo’te samurai, Khona’to Akhabila. One of the oldest in terms of age, his aged amber eyes peered at the young red mage with amusement. “I am verrry certain that Lady Y'shtola would leave you without healing for that.”

“Aw, come oon.” Ophelia pouted. “You’re starting to sound like my dad.”

“That’s because he is.” Thancred cheekily pointed out. “A father, I mean.” He turned to Khona’to. “You went out adventuring well after your own kids were grown.”

“Yes. I believe the Hyurs called it wanderrrlust.” Khona’to smiled. “Whatever you wish to call it, it led me here. And I could not be happier to share this victorrry with all of you.”

“You’re going to make me blush!” Lyse giggled. Lily glanced over to her, noticing the pugilist's face was already flushed from the alcohol. It seemed that making her blush was already done. Lyse glanced over to the mage before her blue eyes glanced down to her hands. “I was wondering something, actually. You got a new ring on and I’ve never seen it before. Some sort of good luck charm?” She asked. Lily glanced at the ring, the signet ring of House de Borel, before smiling.

“Something to that effect.” She turned to the Scions and the Keepers, fully aware that their attention was on her. “I’m pleased to announce that I’m engaged to Ser Aymeric.” A quiet fell in the room for a moment before Lily noticed their faces weren’t exactly as surprised as she expected.

“Finally.” Thancred broke the silence with an exasperated (but still playful) sigh. Lily whipped her gaze to him.

“What do you mean finally!?” Lily demanded, earning laughter from the others. “I thought it’d be more...surprising, you know! Not every woman gets to claim they’re engaged to a leader of a city state-”

“That’s true, unless you’re Ser Aymeric. Do you remember what I told you, before the grand melee?” Thancred asked.

“That one would think a politician more practiced at concealing his emotion?” She paused. “No, a bit before that-”

“That it was love.” Thancred finished her sentence. Lily frowned at him.

“Ok, now you’re just cheating.” The rogue held up his hands.

“Well.” A new voice spoke up. Lily glanced over, watching as the elezen dancer Syldove Wavesinger stepped forth. “Regardless of how obvious the blooming romance was, a new engagement is something to be celebrated.” She settled down on the floor, pushing back her striking red hair. “A word of advice, Lily: Cherish every moment you have with him. It’ll be those memories that’ll keep you moving even in the darkest hour.”

“...mildly cryptic, as usual.” Alphinaud commented. Syldove shrugged.

“I’m saying this from experience, Alphie. All of us are deeply entwined with the fate of Eorzea and the star we all live on.” Syldove pointed out. “There’s work to do beyond freeing Ala Mhigo and Doma. Who knows where it’ll take us?”

“Hopefully to a place where you can stop being cryptic.” Virberos spoke up. “We should enjoy the night while we can, not worry over future trials and toils.” Syldove scowled at him before sighing.

“Undone by a bard, woe is me.” With that, merriment began to fill the air once more. Lily chuckled and leaned back against a plush pillow, her gaze settling on the signet ring as Syldove recounted her experiences in Doma.

[silverwhiteraven]

Borne of the Stars - Chapter 12 - An MLB Kryptonian AU

Tag List:  @eve-valution @weird-pale-blonde-person @kris-pines04 @soulmate-game @abrx2002 @amayakans @vixen-uchiha @heldtogetherbysafetypins @raisuke06 @dorkus-minimus @mopester-is-here @moonlightstar64 @annabellabrookes @toodaloo-kangaroo @the-navistar-carol @elspethshadow @chocolatecatstheron​ @ivymala07 @maribat-is-lifeblood​

[ Summary: Author celebrates her Birthday by posting a chapter before the day is up. Kara meets her Kwami and circumvents her grounding. ]

[ Posted on Ao3 ] [ Chapter 1 ] [ Chapter 11 ] [ Chapter 13 ]

Kara was shocked, sure, but not taken completely by surprise. She spent enough time around Zee Zatara, Zatanna, to know what something being magically conjured into existence looks like. That didn’t stop her from taking a step back though; she knew she wasn't invulnerable to magic, and not knowing what was appearing called for a level of caution.

Her eyes went wide and the hand that had tightened into an instinctive fist went slack as the light faded and the form finished taking shape in the open air. The other hand around the open box tightened as she stared at the creature, grounding and preventing her next instinctual reaction at the sight: a soft squeal of aww.

She clamped her jaw shut tight to further prevent the sound as the little purple-tinged black feline opened apple green eyes and a fanged cheshire grin spreading and opening to form words.

“Well well well, what do we have here? Sure, I expected someone different than usual, but this takes the fondue!” He exclaimed then circled Kara, and she kept still as her eyes followed the floating creatures movements. 

“What the-!” She couldn't help gasping after he disappeared behind her in another of his circles and felt the faintest of feelings in her chest for only a moment, like a string being pulled through from the back to the front, before he emerged in front of her. Out of the spot she had apparently felt him going through her. “Not cool! Don’t do that!” 

“Fine, fine,” he shrugged nonchalantly, “but now I know all I need to. This is going to be fun,” and the grin returned, almost feral now alongside the previous mischievousness.

Kara glared in suspicion at the little creature, finally setting aside her inner feeling of ‘aww, so cute’ to focus on the problem at hand. In hand? She lifted the box back up and looked at the black ring inside, then back to the magical feline. “What do you mean, fun? What do you know?” 

The creature chuckled, “You aren't human; you may look like it on the outside, but the inside tells a different story.”

She shuddered at realizing what he had been doing when going through her chest cavity. “Ew, yuck, gross, no, do not go checking things like that- Wait- So you know? You can tell?”

“Obviously,” he drawled before looking away without explaining and started to zip around the semi-messy room like a hyper and curious cat. “Kid, you don’t happen to have any cheese, do you? Just a bite is fine; I hate to say it, but as much as I’d love to sit down and eat a whole wheel, I actually seem to be looking forward to transforming for once. Seeing what you can do with my help should be interesting!”

“And what exactly can you do, uh-?” Her skepticism fell flat when she realized she didn't know his name. She followed after the tiny creature as it left the bedroom and watched him sniff out the mini-fridge set up next to the television of the suite’s living room. He popped the door open with a cry of victory and dove in, coming back out with her string cheese and taking a bite out of it.

“Call me Plagg, Kwami of Destruction, source of power for the Black Cat Miraculous you’re holding.” He seemed to raise an eyebrow at Kara as she looked down at the ring in the box, brushing a finger over the apple green paw print on the center. “Well? Put it on already!”

She hesitantly took the ring from the box, tossing the empty container to the side. Another glance at the waiting Kwami and she slid it on. Her eyes went wide as the ring turned a weathered gold, the shape turning to that of a signet ring. The shape of the seal was close to that of the one her and her cousin both wore as heroes: the Crest for the House of El. It was still different, though: not the usual stylized S, but rather, now the two ends of the S were reconnected into the original sideways infinity symbol. The S itself was still the prominent, though. 

Kara looks back at Plagg and the smug look he wore. “Neat, huh?”

“Yeah…” She hesitates before continuing to ask her new question. “What, exactly, is a Kwami?”

“Oh you know, just like any old gods, deities, incarnations and embodiments; whatever you want to compare us to. Basically forces of nature, concepts, and magic that, when tired to Miraculous, can have our powers channeled through other beings to do good. Well, good is supposed to be what we’re used for,” he adds with a glare out the window to the glowing streets.

“And that?” she wonders, noticing his stare.

“Yep, caused by the powers of one. You and the Ladybug Wielder are being called in to help recover one that's been used for evil. The Miraculous and the Kwami with it basically sent out a distress call when they were commanded to go against what we’re meant for.” 

Plagg looked sad as he said it, and Kara couldn't help but reach out in sympathy and give him a gentle pat on the head between the ears. It shook him out of it and he focused back on her. 

“Say ‘Plagg, Transform Me’ to pull me into the ring and suit up. The faster we get this over with, the sooner I can find myself a better cheese selection!”

“Wait, you said Ladybug Wielder, I get a partner?” She wasn't confused by it, having partners was normal for her, but the superhero in her wanted to make sure she didn't make a big mistake in misidentifying an ally.

“Yeah,” the Kwami confirmed, “the Creation to my Destruction, the symbol of Good Luck to my symbol of Bad Luck. The Ladybug to your Black Cat is out there and you two should be meeting each other soon, preferably before anything else so you can start working together.”

“How will I know who they are? Will they be easy to spot?”

Plagg cackled like a friend had just whispered an inside joke into his ear. “Oh yeah, very spottable.”

She raised a skeptical brow before shrugging it off. Instead of dwelling, she grinned and looked back out towards the chaos outside. Feeling ready, she called as instructed, “Plagg, Transform Me!”

The black, green, and white magic washed over her effortlessly, and just like other times friendly magic had been used on her, she felt almost nothing at all except the new weight of her costume settling itself. She did note her center of gravity had shifted, and wondered about the physical changes she may have gotten as well. One presented itself as she glanced through the doors to her bedroom, at her reflection in the full length mirror, and instead of a pleased and satisfied hum, there was a purr in its place.

Her new outfit really was satisfying to her tastes. It had an overall military uniform look to it with a formal flare. The top was mainly black and asymmetrical, a line of silver buttons going down one side, the collar straight with a line of green all around the edges. The sleeves ended in long, folded back cuffs at the wrists, also adorned with green trim and silver clasps. Clawed black gloves covered her hands, another tripping of green wrapping around her wrists. The black pants were complying to the formal look, complete with neat creases down the centers, but still had functionality with cargo-style pockets on the thighs. The shoes were heavy black combat boots, laced with overlapping green and silver ties. A sash wrapped around her waist, looking black but shimmered green underneath; one end fell loose behind her, swaying like a tail of its own accord; a silver baton stuck out where it was all tied together. The mask over her eyes, comfortable despite not being used to one, matched the tail in color: black with an underlying green sheen, except for the solid black that fell from her eyes like the tear marks of a cheetah. The feline ears atop her head, nestled into a new side swept undercut style, were solid black but for the green edging. The acidic green slit eyes were unsettling at first glance, but they pupils went wide and outright dorky as she looked herself over.

Her favorite part, however, had to be the cape. It was a one shoulder cape, draped over one arm in neat folds, the opposite side longer than the other as it fell behind her. The exposed shoulder had part of the cape attached to it, held by a black clasp with a silver crescent, but revealed a triple layer of silver shoulder plating. The opposite shoulder with the cape draped over it had a larger silver clasp holding it in place, but it was more like an emblem with its large black crescent moon encasing a green paw print. A few green straps held the shoulder pieces in place, from across her shoulders and down and around her torso.

“I’ll need a new name with the new look,” she muses. Her thoughts run quickly over far too many cliche names and ones already taken, before settling on one.

“Oncilla.”

She turns away from the mirror and laughs to herself, “I have never been this happy to get around a grounding so easily,” before going straight to the balcony doors, throwing them open, and launching herself into the open air with a whooping holler, more than happy to be back in the game.

[atricksterproblem]

I have news....

My imaginary boyfriend is now my imaginary fiance. 

Some notes for the story: The Abbey in my AU is in England, so their weekend in the city is happening in London. They’re in Queen Mary’s Garden, famous for its gazillion varieties of roses.

I really wanted a visual reference for the ring but I couldn’t find one that was quite right so you’re stuck with my description of it instead. Special shout-out to @raspberrylimerickey for their idea for the stone.

On this early evening in June, a warm breeze stirred the roses in Queen Mary’s Garden, carrying their mingled scent. The park was open late, and Papa had suggested that they come here for a walk. Ever the gentleman in his own old-fashioned way, he’d offered her his arm, and she leaned on him a little now for the simple pleasure of feeling him close.

“I’m so glad you were able to get away from the Abbey for a change, love. A whole weekend to ourselves! It’s been ages.”

He chuckled. “They tried to fill my schedule again, you know. I had to insist. It’s been too long since we had this kind of time together.”

“It really has.” It was a blessing to see him so relaxed for once, away from all the daily cares of the Church.

He was silent for a time, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, and she left him to it. They were as comfortable in shared silences as they were in speech. At last he spoke, unusually hesitant.

“We’ve been together for a while now, you and I. Living together, sharing our lives…I’ve never been this close to anyone before. Not like this. Not like it’s been with you.”

She gave his arm a little squeeze and smiled at him, but stayed silent. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts, and she knew to let him take his time.

“I’ve never had to wonder if this was real,” he said. “Before, it was always a question. Whether they were just ambitious, or only wanted who they thought I was. Whether they’d be gone as soon as they learned the truth, or whether they’d betray me in the end.

“I’ve always been able to talk to you. We were friends before we were ever lovers, and I’m glad. Because I can share everything with you, good times and bad, silly and serious. Because I can trust you with anything. With everything I am.”

Their steps had brought them to an arbor covered in climbing roses, and he led her beneath its arch. Stopping there, he turned to face her, taking a steadying breath.

“You remember I once made you a promise, dolce. I want to make good on it now.”

He sank gracefully to one knee, holding a small box out to her.

“Jehanna, my beloved rose, will you marry me?”

She would have liked to have been able to report that she responded with calm, decorous happiness to his proposal. What actually happened was some sort of undignified squeak followed by “ohmygodYES” all in a rush.

He laughed and embraced her, and they held each other tight for a while.

“I love you so much, Terzo. It’s only ever been you. I can’t imagine spending my life with anyone else.”

She buried her face in his shoulder, and he ran a gentle hand over her hair.

“I love you too.”

“I’d better move or I’m going to cry all over your jacket here….”

“I don’t mind,” he murmured, “but I want to see how this ring looks on you anyway.”

She fumbled with the promise ring he’d given her, switching it to her other hand, and he slid the engagement ring on in its place. It was white gold cast in the shape of a delicate ivy vine, with a deep purple gem cradled in its leaves.

“This is stunning. What’s the stone? I’ve never seen a purple quite like it before.”

“It’s a violet sapphire. It seemed like a good choice--your birthstone, my color, eh? Do you like it?”

“I love it. Where on earth did you find it? I’ve been looking for the perfect ivy ring forever.”

He grinned. “I know. I had it made by the same guy who makes all the formal jewelry for the upper clergy. He made my signet ring when I took office. We could design our wedding bands with him too if you like his work.”

“That would be perfect. Thank you, sweetheart.”

“My pleasure.”

She put her arms around his waist. His mismatched eyes were as soft as she’d ever seen them. He ran a hand down the side of her face and kissed her, warm and lingering.

She was never sure afterwards how much time had passed when they finally pulled apart.

“Let’s go back to the hotel, eh?”

“Let’s. I think we’re scandalizing some of the tourists.”

“Good.”

“Wicked man.”

“Only for you.”

[bobasheebaby]

Hoping For Snow

Pairing: Drake x Liam

Word count: 982

Warnings: pure heartbreaking angst

Summary: One shot AU where MC doesn’t exist and Drake leaves far before the social season.

Song inspiration: Hoping For Snow by The Vamps

A/N: I was listening to this song and the idea for some Christmasy Driam angst absolutely no one asked for came to me. Thank you to both @itsstillnotwhatyouthink and @sirbeepsalot for telling me to do it and assuring me this painful piece was in fact wanted. Merry Christmas, sorry for the broken heart.

Disclaimer: I own no one I’m simply borrowing them from PB for a bit.

Liam stared out the window, he drew in a shuddering breath, the cold Lythikos air chilling his lungs even in the warmth of the home. His heart ached with his only Christmas wish: please come home, come back to me.

He’d hoped leaving the capital and his responsibilities behind would drive out all thoughts of him. The thought of him haunted him year round, he longed for even a day of reprieve. Surely one day where he didn’t fall asleep with broken dreams and promises on his mind wasn’t too much to ask. His heart always aches with thoughts of him, but it always hurt more when the world was lit with twinkling lights. Being even further from the person who stole his breath with a look only increased the aching in his chest.

Does he miss me the way I miss him? Does the thought of me make his heart ache?

He pushed the questions from his mind, they wouldn’t calm the pain he felt in his soul. Only one person could make him feel whole once more.

Will he ever come back?

His eyes remained locked on a snow-covered tree in the distance while his mind traveled back in time.

Liam broke into a broad grin as he caught sight of Drake fussing with the knot of his tie over Hakim’s shoulder. “Sorry.” He replied blushing as Hakim looked at him with a questioning eye.

Everyone had noticed that someone had managed to win the heart of the young prince. Names of young noblewoman from across the country were whispered in quiet halls as everyone tried to figure out who had claimed his heart. No one even suspected the truth that the person he fell for wasn’t noble born and always by his side.

He politely excused himself from his father’s friend. Constantine would reprimand him later for leaving the festive event without making the full rounds, for now he couldn’t be bothered. There was only one place he wanted to be.

He smiled as he caught his eye, nodding before he slipped past the lavish decorations and out the door undetected. They’d perfected sneaking from events unnoticed over the last year together. He quickly and quietly walked down the corridors until he made it to the library, the only entrance to to what had become their spot. Whenever they needed a moment away, to forget the expectations that hung heavy over them they would sneak away to the small hidden dead end secret passage.

In the small dark corridor there were no titles looming over their heads. It was the one place they actually believed all the plans and promises made between stolen kisses and twisted sheets. They were just Liam and Drake, nothing else mattered, no other person existed.

He smiled as strong arms embraced him from behind. He turned in his arms, placing kisses along his jaw, the fresh stubble rubbing against his soft lips. He didn’t care, he loved all of him: the calloused hands, and chapped lips reminded him that there was more to life than legislation and meetings with foreign ministers. There was an entire world out there he wanted to experience with him.

“Li,” he’s words thick and heavy as he slowly pulled back from his lovers arms.

Liam’s smile fell as he met Drake’s gaze, it was clear this time wouldn’t go as all the others. No kisses and promises. No clumsy dancing as laughter spilled from their lips. Something was going to happen, their perfect bubble was about to break. Not today, not so close to Christmas.

“You know how I’m going to Texas for Christmas?” Drake paused as Liam slowly nodded. “I—I’m not coming back.” He spoke slowly as the words became lodged in his throat. “My mom and Aunt Lee have been having trouble and they need me.”

“What about us?” He choked on the words knowing the truth, they could never be.

Drake sucked in a breath as he ran his hand through his shaggy chestnut locks. “We both know we couldn’t ever be anything more than stolen kisses and dances in the dark … it’s better I leave now before you have to marry ... for the country.”

Marry for the country. The words never said in this sacred space forced all the weight of the world back on Liam’s shoulders in an instant. “One more night?” His voice hopeful and eyes pleading.

Drake looked at him, sadness and heartbreak written in his eyes. “I can’t … I still have to finish packing for my flight in the morning.”

Liam nodded in response. Maybe it was for the best, one more night of promises and kisses that could never be would only make saying goodbye harder.

Drake looked over his shoulder before disappearing back through the secret entrance. “I’ll always love you Li, even if we weren’t meant to be.”

Liam was pulled back to earth with the sound of the door to his suite clicking. Part of him hoped when he turned he’d come face to face with the object of his heart's desire. He fingered the heavy signet ring on his finger, he’d gone through this same feeling of longing for years and every year it ended the same— he never showed.

The sharp clicking of heels across the floor punctuated the reality. Each step hammering home the truth that he’d lost him for good years ago.

He turned forcing a tight smile on his lips at the sight of his wife, his queen. I never wanted any of this. His eyes fell to her large belly bump, a lump forming in his throat, one thought persistent in his mind.

Don’t end up pining away like me, don’t let anyone decide your future for you. Fight for your love so you never have to wish they come home for Christmas when everyone else is hoping for snow.

Feedback fuels me, please like, comment or reblog to let me know how much you like it. I can handle the screams, so scream away.

Masterlist can be found in my bio.

Permanent taglist will be reblogged.

[iristial]

Fantasy au: Ahim is a runaway princess when she runs into Marvelous, a noble pirate who steals from the corrupt Zangyack is empire

In a kingdom known as Eritque Arcus, it’s home to people with magic over various domains. Some can wield these abilities on their own; others need to work in a team to heighten their power. But when the Zangyack Empire conquered the realm - which hasn’t been done since the days of the Shocker - the great heroes are kept as trophies in the palace or used as gladiators for Zangyack amusement. Ahim, a princess of the six families eligible to rule, survived the slaughter of her family and ran away

Ahim and Marvelous met at sea when the latter was trying to take the peace offerings meant for the warriors of the east. Marvelous was still a novice pirate who was known to do one-man missions. Ahim’s refusal to stand down despite inexperience in combat impressed Marvelous, and he offered a spot on his crew if she changed her mind. The next time they met, Ahim had nothing but a filthy gown and the intention to join him for the liberation of the kingdom; Marvelous has a former Zangyack soldier (Joe), a thief who almost got burned at stake for her magic by the empire (Luka), and a magic artifact repairman (Don) as his crew. Being how he usually is, Marvelous told her to do what she wants

Marvelous was rather distant from the traditions of Eritque Arcus, preferring the life of a pillager who can “steal” and “copy” someone else’s magic (a technique first developed by Tsukasa Kadoya, who once went on a crusade to rule the whole world but had a change of heart). He does this by fueling his sword with pure mana, stabbing it into a target, then turning the weapon as if using a key in a lock - which draws out a “copy” of the person’s magical ability, and he winds up with a new tattoo on his skin (shaped like a key) to indicate his possession of the new magic. Thus, even before the Zangyack conquered the kingdom, everyone was unsure if he could be trusted. But after hearing the plight of the kingdom, Marvelous went back, citing that he intends to steal the main magical source of Eritque Arcus - while getting all the heroes released from the palace. This causes a revolution to be born

Ahim’s ability in magic wasn’t honed, for the de Familles focused on diplomacy and had the lowest claim to the throne. With practice, she’s able to use revolvers that channel one’s mana into bullets. She becomes famous for being able to use four guns at once and not get drained within ten minutes. She also learns from Marvelous the technique of “stealing” and “copying” magic, as do the rest of his crew

There are expectations that Ahim may return to Eritque Arcus to rule as queen, but she gives up her birthright to continue being a pirate because she finds her new life makes it easier to help others. She gives a formal farewell to her people, and as she climbs on board of the Gokai Galleon, one can’t help but notice the look exchanged between her and Marvelous. From then on, rumours circulated that the former princess took a pirate for a lover. Neither party confirms or denies this, yet a fool could notice Marvelous’ signet ring on Ahim’s finger

send me an au and i’ll give you five headcanons about it