#The baron’s only there in HAND FORM but it’s enough to tag I think. whatevs

[daxwormzz]

Catabolic Seed

(more Piter, this time depicting my friend’s design for him. I like a little variety sometimes)

[charlottesbookclub]

king of all birds – chapter one

king of all birds masterlist

Summary: alistair learns of his brother's execution and considers what this turn of events means for his own future

Warnings/Tags: discussions of death/execution, brief contemplation of suicidal thoughts, complicated feelings about siblings

Words: 879

Author’s Note: yay!! chapter one!! 🥰 I decided to start the story with alistair learning about his brother's execution, and go from there, although I'm also thinking I'll probably incorporate flashbacks to earlier moments as the story goes along. based on my personal experiences and on my own interpretation of his character, I've written alistair as both asexual and autistic. obviously these were not classifications that were understood in the 1300s in the same way we understand them today, so I never say anything explicitly, so if you would prefer to read him as one or neither of those things, absolutely go for it! I just wanted to say that up front since it may make my interpretation of him make a little more sense ☺️ I really hope you enjoy!! 🥰

england, circa 1320

When his mother came to tell him the news, Alistair was where he often was: with his birds. He was familiar with the unique sounds of each of his family’s footsteps as they climbed the stairs to the tower, and he mumbled out a soft greeting before she had even breached the doorway. His eyes were on the bird in front of him as he gently stroked the silky feathers of its chest.

            “Alistair,” there was an edge to his mother’s voice that caused his head to instantly snap toward her. The first things he noticed were her hands twisting the ample fabric of her gown and the barely-dried tear tracks streaking down from her red-rimmed eyes. Instantly, Alistair raised himself to his full height and crossed the stone floor of the chamber in a few quick strides. Taking his mother’s hands in his own, he freed the rumpled fabric from her tight grasp. As he looked down at her, there was no need for him to voice the question that she read clearly in his eyes. What has happened?

            “Oliver…” her voice caught in her throat, and Alistair waited in growing panic as she swallowed. What ludicrous schemes had his brother and father gotten up to now? He would usually have felt the sting of annoyance at hearing news of his idiot brother, but his mother’s countenance tempered that impulse. “Noll…” Alistair didn’t miss the way she switched to the family’s affectionate nickname for their firstborn son, “he is to be executed.”

            As though saying the words pressed the last of the breath from her body, she collapsed forward. Alistair caught her by reflex only – his thoughts were riding far afield. He knew of the twisted web of conspiracies in which his father and Noll were constantly embroiled, but he had no idea that they were serious enough to land Noll on the executioner’s block. 

            Perhaps it was years of suffering through long dinners where Noll’s intoxicated voice rang out across the table, not permitting any conversation except that which pertained to his “brilliant” plans. Or maybe it was the countless trips that Noll dragged him on where Alistair was forced to exchange banal pleasantries with other noblemen in order to win their loyalty. Perhaps it was the near-constant bruise that had formed on Alistair’s big toe from all the times that Noll had stepped on his foot under the table when Alistair had simply been stating a reality, but Noll considered it an “insult” that would “offend the other barons.” And maybe it was all the jokes Noll had made to his friends, other nobles, and anyone else who would listen about Alistair and his birds. But whatever comprised the bitter concoction of memories that settled in Alistair’s stomach, he didn’t feel as sorry or as sorrowful as he knew he was meant to. Noll had been sticking his hand inside a wasp’s nest for years, foolishly thinking he would find honey, and now he had finally been stung.

            Alistair let his mother cry into his chest as he held her upright, these thoughts and a thousand more coursing through his mind. In the whirlwind of the moment, he realized he wasn’t even sure what his brother was being executed for. Idiocy, I suppose, he thought, though he knew it was callous. Although, if that was his crime, he should have been killed for it years ago, the bitterest part of his mind reminded him. If his mother had not been there, he might have allowed himself a dark chuckle, but he restrained himself on her behalf.

            As the news of Noll’s impending execution steeped in his mind, dark fears began festering in his stomach. His brother’s untimely demise would make Alistair the eldest son, dooming him to inherit – a fate he had narrowly avoided by the chance of his birth. Inheriting would necessitate the production of heirs to ensure the line of succession, and the production of legitimate heirs could only be assured through marriage, an institution that Alistair had long deemed to be odious in nearly all regards. 

While others scorned it, Alistair had relished in the lot of a second son – an existence of relative obscurity that ultimately required little of him. To be so suddenly thrown into what was certain to be a lifetime of acting as both host and guest, making polite conversation, constantly negotiating and re-negotiating access to lands and properties and power, and being shut up in various keeps and estates, retained indoors by the demands of both papers and people – the notion of it nearly made him physically ill. By the time his mother had regained her composure and departed from the tower, Alistair found he reviled his brother more for dying than he ever had whilst he was still living. Of course it would be just like Noll to go out with one last humorless joke, one final sharp heel to Alistair’s already-bruised foot. He half wished he could take his brother’s place on the executioner’s block, merely to preclude the torture that was to come, but there was one thought that stayed these dreary contemplations and forced him back to himself. He must not think only of himself, but also of the unfortunate fates of his sisters.

[marvel-trash-bin]

Taking Risks.

(Not my Gif.)

Summary: Zemo gives you what he thinks you deserve. *Some TFATWS Ep. 3 Spoilers.*

Pairing: Zemo x Reader (Female)

Warnings: Smut for days baby. Dirty Talking, Possession, marking, Soft!Dom Zemo. 18+ Only.

Word Count: 4.2K

Tags: @greeneyedblondie44

A/N: Look we all know we're walking dangerous territory, simping for a war criminal. But Sugar Daddy Zemo got me feeling some type of way and also, Daniel Brüle is hot asf. Also, I don't actually know german so pls if it's off just blame google translate, I just have an insatiable language kink and I needed the pet names more than air itself. I thought about making this a chaptered fic, but I barely had the time to write this, never mind chapters of it before he likely fucks over Sam and Bucky next episode. Anyways, enjoy!

Here’s the thing.

You knew he was dangerous. You knew his past, the EKO Scorpion kill squad and everything with the Avengers, manipulating them and breaking them up from the inside. He was smart, unpredictable. You knew there was a very real potential that you could be hurt - or worse - if you went down the road.

And maybe, in a past life that would’ve been enough to stop you. But you weren’t who you used to be. You liked playing with fire now, inviting danger and chaos rather than straying from it. You had lived in - hid in, was more accurate - Madripoor for a handful of years now. You laid low, kept yourself under the radar of the Power Broker and those who worked for him. This way, no one bothered you and you could live fragments of a normal life, Trading and bartering to make a living. But living this way, like forgotten trash on a sidewalk, got old.

Maybe that’s why when you caught his attention, you didn’t shy away from it.

It had happened so fast. You were dancing, just intoxicated enough that the rubbing of strangers' bodies against yours was not just welcomed, but encouraged. So encouraged that when a new body, tall and firm behind you, took the place of another, you didn’t hesitate to back up into the warmth. His hands gripped your hips tightly, not stopping or guiding you, just resting. Turning your head slightly to see what your new dance partner looked like, you startled a little seeing the Baron.

Helmut chuckled, a low sound you felt rather than heard, and ducked his head down to speak into your ear, “You know who I am.”

You let your body relax back into his, feeling reckless enough to bless the menacing man with your flirtations, your head falling back onto his, “I’ve heard a thing or two.”

“And yet you trust me to hold you like this,” his hands flex on your hips, just hard enough to show the strength they hold, “Like a lover.”

You grab one of his hands, leading it down to your upper thigh where your knife holster sits, never once letting his hand leave your body.

“If I didn’t want you touching me, you’d know it, Baron.”

The gust of breath you felt against the side of your neck and the large hand gripping your thigh had shivers rolling pleasantly down your spine.

“You are far too beautiful to reside in these undergrounds,” he spun you around in his grasp, allowing you to get a good look at his face, “A woman like yourself should be treated with the most expensive riches, the finest wines. She should drain a man of his earnings.”

You laughed, not expecting the words that came from his mouth nor how handsome he was, even this close, “Point me to the man who’s willing.”

He smirked at you, but there was a smugness to it. A glimmer in his eye that suggested he had the riches and the desire to give you anything you wanted. You felt like you were drowning in his gaze, lost as you were under the heat of it. He looked somewhere behind you, pulling his eyes from you to nod once at whatever, or whoever, had stolen his attention from you. When they returned to you, the heat and desire were replaced with determination.

“It is with great regret that I must leave you, for now,” He captured your hand, bringing it up to his lips, the softness of them brushing lightly against your knuckles, “I can get you out of Madripoor, give you a life you deserve. If you meet me tomorrow morning, the airstrip.”

The world felt like it froze around you. The rational part of your brain was screaming at you. You couldn’t trust him. You Shouldn’t trust him. But as you stared into his eyes you saw nothing but honesty.

“And if I don’t?” You ask, just to buy yourself some time.

His hand travels up your arm, taking your chin between his thumb and pointer finger securely, “I will not pressure you. I’d leave you be, but the ghost of you would haunt me, schatzi.”

And with that, he was gone. Leaving you with nothing more than your thoughts, mentally preparing how quickly you could pack your things and leaving Madripoor behind. After all, you’ve always loved taking risks.

~

The next few weeks were a blur. Zemo was laying low, but his form of laying low was still luxury to you. It was private jets and upscale accommodations, not to mention that he was a man of his word. He spoiled you. Within three days of being in his presence, you had acquired a whole new wardrobe. Your suitcases - also new - were filled to the brim with the fanciest and latest fashion. You had rare jewels on nearly every piece of jewelry you owned. Maybe spoiled was an understatement. You’ve only dreamed of owning riches like these.

He had picked something particular for you to wear tonight, both of you making an appearance at some sort of party with some higher-ups. It was all laid out on the king-sized bed, a little black dress of sorts. It was short and sheer in its long sleeves, the sparkles in the fabric ensured that you would shimmer under any lighting. With a simple clutch, matching jewelry and a cropped, white fur jacket to keep you warm until you got to your destination. You looked good. You felt good.

He looked just as good. Sporting an outfit similar to the one you had met him in, instead choosing a dark red turtleneck to create a stunning relation between both your outfits. Nothing had happened between the two of you yet. Aside from lingering glances and innocent touches, he had been a gentleman. The chemistry was there, for sure. You were able to joke and talk with the man, matching his wit and charm every step of the way. And he loved it.

“Best behaviour tonight, schatzi.” He had said, low in your ear as you walked towards the venue.

You had smiled back at him, the perfect picture of innocence, “Always, Baron.”

And at the time, you had fully meant it. But you found yourself craving him. He looked too good, it honestly wasn’t fair. The way that ridiculous fur jacket draped over his shoulders, fostering a powerful ambience. And you knew he was faring no better himself if by the way his eyes were glued to your curves was anything to go by.

So, you decided, maybe you shouldn’t be on your best behaviour tonight. It’s not like you were making a scene or anything that would call too much attention. You were simply letting the alcohol take over your body. Whether that meant a hand on his thigh as you listened to the conversations around you, your fingers playing with the short hairs at the back of his neck or dancing a little too scandalously when you knew he was watching. You felt confident. And when you felt confident, you felt dangerous.

By the end of the night, you were teasing yourself just as much as you were him. You were pushing your luck, hands trailing a little too close to the bulge in his slacks, enjoying the way his facial features changed briefly in shock before settling back into that infuriating unmovable stoic impression. The last straw was you bending in front of him, having ‘dropped’ something from your purse. You only had to bend so much before the dress, as short as it was, had ridden up just enough for him to catch a glimpse of your panties.

In an instant, he had you standing upright, thanking whoever he had been talking to for a wonderful night, tugging your dress back down to a respectable length and steering you towards the door by the back of your neck.

“That was not best behaviour,” he growled into your ear.

You giggled, despite the tight grip on your neck, “I was just having fun.”

He had done nothing but stare at you, eyes hard with a warning that had you rethinking your actions. You had forgotten, for a moment, that this man was not just someone to give you all the pretty trinkets you wore. He was a mastermind, a criminal mastermind at that. A man most deemed dangerous enough to be locked away.

“You have been bad tonight, kleine Schlampe.” He said once he had gotten you back to his car, away from the prying eyes and ears of the party guests, “You will spend the trip back thinking of ways to make it up to me.”

The words sent heat through your core, and you did exactly as he said.

~

By the time he had gotten you up to your accommodations, you had thought of thousands of different scenarios that could earn you forgiveness for your recklessness. You were uncertain if his words earlier had implied sexual favours, or if a simple, genuine apology was all he was looking for. However, once he had turned to you, the room door closing behind him and his eyebrows raised expectantly, you fell to your knees in front of him like it was second nature.

He chuckles darkly at you as he peels his gloves off, tossing them gently onto a side table nearby before letting one hand brush away the hair that had fallen in your face.

“Seems you are meine kleine schlampe indeed,” You had no idea what it meant, but fuck it sounded good coming from him. His eyes were hard and dark as he stared down at you, “If this is the path you’ve chosen to apologize, so be it. But not here, you are meine schlampe not a common whore. Get up. Go to the bedroom.”

You did as he said, quickly pulling yourself up to a standing position and walking to the designated room. The bed, so far, had only been used by you. He hadn’t wanted to push or pressure you into sharing a space with him. He understood that just because you decided to join him, didn’t mean you wanted to be with him. But tonight, you had decided, you wanted to give him your everything. You wanted to show him how grateful you were for all the gifts he’d given you so far. And if you couldn’t give him luxuries, you would give him your desire.

“So,” he began, nodding in approval at the way you resume your position on the floor in front of him, “Let’s begin with the basics.” As he talked, he rolled up his sleeves, doing so with precision, “Tell me, what exactly are you apologizing for?”

He commands every drop of your attention. There’s an aura to him that you had only previously caught a glimpse of. His eyes dark and locked onto yours, never once wavering. Waiting. Calculating.

“For teasing you.”

“And?”

You take a breath, shame flooding your core at the answer that sits on your tongue.

“For embarrassing you.”

There’s a pause. He cocks his head, gaze softening just a tad. He's quiet for several moments, analyzing your words. Your heart starts to beat a little faster at the extended silence, thinking you’ve done something wrong and you can’t keep up the eye contact. You duck your head, averting your gaze to his feet.

“Look at me, schatzi.” His voice is soft, but still with enough edge to make you listen.

Only once your eyes meet his again does he continue.

“That’s very sweet of you, to be concerned about my image. But make no mistake,” He steps closer to you, letting one hand cup your jaw, tilting it upwards. His thumb brushes against your bottom lip, “You could never embarrass me,”

You dip your head, nipping softly at his thumb. He smiles softly at you, something glimmering in his eye, “I simply just don’t like to share what’s mine.”

Your breath leaves your body at his words and suddenly the need for him to claim you had you nearly vibrating in your skin. You watch, every muscle in your body clenched tightly, as he walks slowly over to the armchair in the corner, never once taking his eyes off you. He sits, legs parted, one arm draped off the side, the other rested so he could prop his head up.

“Proceed.”

Instantly, you make your way over to him. Once in front of him, you stand up on your knees, placing your hands on his knees and slowly sliding them up his thighs. They continue its upward motion, skimming lighting over the hardness in his pants and reaching to start on his belt. You make quick work of his belt and buttons, eagerly working his pants and briefs down. He chuckles above you.

“Mein Schatz, so eager to apologize.” He purrs, almost mockingly, hand coming down to brush the fallen hair away from your face.

Once you had him free, you took a second to admire him. Your legs clenched at the size of him. Not terribly big, but big enough to anticipate the stretch, the fullness. Your eyes flicked back up, looking up at his through your lashes, leaning in but stopping just before you could actually get your mouth on him. The hand that was previously fixing your hair was now clenched in it, messing it up again and forcing your head back suddenly to look at him properly.

“It would not be wise to tease me more than you have,” he warned.

A smirk spread across your features and you quickly realized how much you liked him like this.

Powerful.

Strict.

However, you knew you were on thin ice already. With that in mind, as soon as his grip loosened you licked a wide stripe up his length, swirling your tongue around the tip before taking him fully into your mouth. The tension his body held melted the second your tongue touched him. His mouth dropping on a soft groan. His hand stroked your hair as you sucked, encouraging the bobs of your head, not forcing but guiding. You keep your eyes trained on his face, not wanting to miss a second of experiencing him like this.

He glows in the low lamplight of the room, the shadows playing across his features delicately. You like him like this too. Reduced to a heap of gasps and moans beneath the heat of your mouth. As you suck, your hands wander, up under the fabric of his shirt, nails dragging down his sides. He hisses at the pain, but doesn’t tell you to stop.

After a few minutes of your slow torture, he decides he’s had enough. His hand tightens in your hair, his movements becoming less gentle and more demanding.

“That’s a good girl, take it all for me.”

You do as he asks, taking a breath before taking him as deep as you can. He groans at the feeling, hips shifting a few times to test you before beginning to thrust in and out of your mouth. Your jaw aches, but his eyes are on you and his thumb is tracing your bottom lip that’s stretched wide around his cock and you think for a second that you could spend eternity like this.

It’s not much longer before he pulls you off his cock, hand wrapping around his base tightly, “Apologies, schatzi. I am out of practice, and I fear I'm not quite finished with you yet.”

You laugh softly, voice rough due to your previous activity, “That’s okay, I don’t mind.” You insist, more than happy to let him finish like this. Whatever he wants.

He stops you before you can dip down again, standing up and taking you with him. For the first time, his lips are on yours. He overwhelms all your senses. His breath loud in your ears, his hands on your waist, his scent. His tongue slides against yours as he walks you forward, shedding his lower clothing as he goes. He only parts to give you an order.

“Turn around.”

As you do, he finishes undressing and it kills you that can’t see him. Just as quickly as the thought crosses your mind, it’s gone as you feel his hands at the top of your dress. He slides the zipper down, letting the fabric fall off your shoulders. You take the liberty of helping the sleeves the rest of the way down, the fabric falling down around your heels once you’ve done so. He hums behind you.

“Such beauty,” he whispers against your shoulder. His hands begin to wander, around your waist, up underneath the fabric of your bra, down to your thighs and ass. He chuckles, dragging your panties down enough that they too fall, forgotten at your feet, “I can hardly stay mad at you, liebling.”

Your head falls back onto his shoulders as he works your bra off next. You shiver, feeling bare and exposed before him. You want him more than you can express and you let your whole body fall back into his embrace, whimpering at the feeling of him, hard against the swell of your ass.

“Helmut,” you moan, one of your hands finding purchase in his hair as the other rests on one of his forearms.

“Tell me you’re mine, Schatzi. And I’ll give you anything you want.”

“I’m yours,” you say without hesitation, breathless as his hand dips between your legs, finding your clit. He hums, pleased at the arousal he finds there, “I’m yours. Only yours.”

He growls pulling his hand away from, “Lay back on the bed. I’ll be right back.”

You do as he says, positioning yourself in the middle of the bed. While you wait, you let your mind wander, listening to his rummaging somewhere in another room while your mind runs through everything you want him to do to you. At some point, your eyes must close because when you feel the bed dip, they open to see him crawling between your legs.

He’s done messing around, wasting no time before his face is buried between your thighs, hands maneuvering your legs so that they’re thrown over his shoulders, your heels crossing sweetly behind his head, no doubt scratching at his shoulders. Your breath leaves your body at the feeling of his tongue, warm and wet and fan-fucking-tastic. He alternates between dipping it in and out of your heat and flicking it against your clit. Your hand finds his hair, gripping it between your fingers and guiding his movements ever so slightly. His eyes don’t leave yours, spare for the few times he closes them to moan against you.

One of his hands move, leaving its place at your hip to sink two fingers into you. Your head falls back on a moan, back arching up when he crooks his fingers and finds your g-spot.

“Fuck,” you gasp, one hand gripping the pillow behind your head as you feel your orgasm rush towards you, “Fuck- Wait, I-”

You can’t even feel embarrassed about how easily your body has reacted to him. Before you can warn him much more, you're falling over the edge. Your thighs tensing around his head, back arching in pleasure as you ride out your high. In this moment you belong completely to him, unable to think of anything else.

“So sweet for me, liebling.” He comments, hands rubbing up and down your calves as you come down, taking a moment to unfasten your heels, letting the shoes drop to the floor before leaning back in. His lips brush against your inner thigh.

Then a bite.

“Such pretty sounds you make for me.”

And then he’s sucking harshly at the skin there, watching the shudder that rips through your sensitive body at the sensation. He doesn’t pull away until the mark is dark and flush against your skin. He continues this on the other thigh, on your ribs, your breasts and finally your neck, marking you thoroughly.

“Mine.” He growls, hot against your ear, “Mein schatz, will you let me have you?” he asks, and it’s literally all you can think about so you don’t even bother hiding the truth, the confession tumbling from your lips breathlessly.

“I’d let you do anything to me.”

He groans, capturing your lips in a deep kiss as he does so. He pulls away to grab the condom that he had put next to him on the bed and leaning back on his haunches to roll it on. You’re so impatient, nails digging into his thighs and arms, whining as you watch his hands work.

“So needy,” He comments, swallowing your moan as he finally, finally, sinks into you.

The stretch as he enters you has your head rolling back on a moan, your legs wrapping around his waist the bring him the rest of the way in. He buries his head in the crook of your neck, growling against the skin there.

“Fuck,” he groans through gritted teeth, his resolve quickly slipping at the feeling of you around his cock. And to his credit, he really tries to wait, to be good. But not seconds later he’s adjusting his grip on your hips and he’s thrusting into you with a force that makes the whole bed shake.

It’s barely been 30 seconds, but the build-up that had occurred throughout the entirety of the night had you right back on the edge, your nails clawing at his shoulders, his back, his thighs. Any purchase you could get on him, you were begging for more. You’d take anything he gave you without so much as batting an eyelash. His grip on your hips is tight and bruising, but the pain twists into a delicious pleasure that only spurs you on.

You must be speaking, babbling something back to him about how good it feels, how much you love being fucked by him because he’s laughing through a moan against your neck. He pauses for just a second, straightening up and throwing one of your legs over his shoulder before continuing to fuck you.

“That’s it Kätzchen.” He purrs, eyes moving down your body to where he enters your body, “Taking my cock so well.”

You mewl at the praise, your body arching in response to his words. Your second orgasm takes you both by surprise, having hit you like a fucking freight train when he thrusts particularly deep, hitting one of your sweet spots. You scramble for purchase on him, mouth dropped open in a near-pornographic moan that you’ll surely be embarrassed about later. But for now, all you know is pleasure.

His hips falter, stuttering as your walls tighten around him. His head falls back on a low moan, fucking you hard and slow through your release.

“Such a sweet cunt,” he gasps, “Mein Gott..”

And then he’s tangling your hands together, holding it high above your head as he pushes your thighs back, flush against your chest. He’s the one babbling now, words from God only knows what language, whispered against your skin as he chases his own release. He gives one last hard thrust and he’s done, his teeth dragging against the skin on your shoulder, moaning against you as he rides out his orgasm.

As you both come down, you stroke the back of his neck, playing with the hairs there, trying to catch your breath. After a few moments, he pulls away just enough to kiss you. There’s a lingering heat and it’s a little messy due to your shared exhaustion but it’s good.

Once you’ve both caught your breath, he removes himself from your body, taking the necessary time to deal with the condom. You watch him lazily, unable to do much other than that. You’re so tired. But there’s that ache between your legs that you love so much and you think briefly that you could go another round, if he wanted to.

He must see something in your eyes when he returns because he laughs softly, “I feel I may have my hands full with you, schatzi.” he says as he crawls back into the bed with you, covering the both of you with a blanket, the cold now biting at your skin. You know you have to get up soon enough to sort yourself out before bed, but for a moment you stay with him.

His fingers brush over your face softly, following the slope of your nose and the angle of your cheeks. There’s no real purpose to his movements, just... touching. As if convincing himself that you’re real.

“You are special, schatzi.” he says softly, “I don’t know what your plans are, but I can only hope that you choose to continue to bless me with your presence.”

This man is such an enigma to you. He carries such confidence in every aspect of his life and yet he still doubts your loyalties. There’s anxiety and pain hidden within him, you can see it in his eyes as he continues to look at you. You wonder, how much of his past weighs on his shoulders. How long before he deems himself worthy of your affection? You lean in to kiss him softly, your lips dragging slowly against him. When you pull away you keep him close, brushing your noses together.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

[therenlover]

In Fleeting Touches & Airy Sighs Chapter One (A Three Chapter Helmut Zemo/Reader Fanfic)

(Thank you to the wonderful anon who requested angst and smut between Zemo and the reader because Zemo had to be away from her on the run!)

Synopsis: A year after working together with Zemo in the events of Falcon and the Winter Soldier, Sam and Bucky seek him out once again in need of shelter from John Walker. Meanwhile, Zemo’s wife resents his absence and prepares for guests.

Tags: Flashbacks, Depression, Alcoholism, Separation Anxiety, Arguing, Struggling Marriage, Reunions

Rating: T (E in future chapters)

Warnings: Guns, Swearings, Reader shows signs of alcoholism/alcohol abuse, Reader uses a hot shower as a mild form of self harm

Word Count: 5000~

This fic has been crossposted under the same title to my AO3!

----------

Helmut Zemo was not often a man backed into a corner.

He was smart, resourceful, and had nothing left to lose. If it came down to the line, he would do whatever had to be done within his morals to achieve his goals, even if that goal was simply staying alive. The Baron bowed to no man, and made his enemies, no matter their size, fall to their knees with sheer wit instead of brute strength. That’s why, when he stood backed into an alley with the barrel of James Barnes’ gun to his forehead as the Falcon watched on, it was strange that he didn’t try to weasel his way out.

“We need answers,” Sam said, hands in the pockets of his dark hoodie. Bucky wore a similar one, only he wore a baseball cap instead of keeping his hood up. “How the hell did you break out of prison for a second time?”

Usually, Zemo would have replied with a clever quip. He had never been one to back down from a fight. This time, though, he looked almost frightened as he raised his arms in defeat. “I got in contact with friends on the outside during our short adventure together. They decided to help me out once I was re-incarcerated, willingly I might add. I had no part in the plan, but who would look a gift horse in the mouth?”

“And I guess I’m just supposed to assume you had no part in getting my pardon revoked?” Bucky spat.

“If you hadn’t noticed, James, I’ve left you alone,” A hint of his usual mockery slipped into Helmut’s tone, but he quickly pulled it back, “Believe what you want about me, but I’ve had some time since last year to… re-evaluate my feelings on the world. You had no choice but to do the things you did as the Winter Soldier, and as long as you pose no threat to society now I have no qualms with you,”

Despite the strangeness of Zemo’s response Bucky remained unphased. Sam, on the other hand, was less stoic.

“Man, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but the government is looking for Bucky and I harder than they’re looking for you, and it’s kind of all your fault, so excuse me for not giving a shit about your supposed sudden change of heart!”

“Can we get to the point? I’m afraid my flight leaves in an hour and I would hate to be late,”

“Cut the bullshit!” There Bucky went, pushing the cold metal closer to Zemo’s furrowed forehead.

“Bucky...” Sam warned.

“No, Sam, I can do this. Did you or did you not actively attempt to get my pardon revoked when you took us to Madripoor? Because thanks to you, a worse symbol than Sam is now standing unchecked with the title of Captain America AND he has access to the last of the new super soldier serum AND he’s trying to get us killed so we can’t tell the world about the awful shit he does,”

“I-” Zemo went to speak and, for the first time since he had met him, Sam believed he was being genuine. There was a tremble that made its way through him, all the way to his raised hands and even his voice. It was enough that Bucky even lowered the gun minutely. “I understood that by following my lead, the both of you were risking a lot. I didn’t intend any specific malice with my actions though, no. If I may… the two of you have attracted a lot of attention here in the past few days. I assume Walker is very close to finding you?”

Sam and Bucky shared a look before Sam responded. “Maybe, why?”

“I have a safe house,” he continued, “I don’t stay there often so the location isn’t compromised, but it’s my next stop. Might I suggest we take this conversation on the road? I would hate to host your reunion with Mr. Walker in an alley over my corpse,”

There was a moment of complete stillness. Zemo remained, face dark with that strange deer-in-headlights look, a perfect statue, as the barrel of Bucky’s gun remained pointed firmly in his direction and Sam shared what seemed to be a completely silent conversation with Bucky. It was true that they had been burned before. Zemo was a man with his own agenda who did what it took to fulfill it. That being said, he had returned willingly with them back to prison before he was broken out, and without his help, the band of freshly minted super soldiers would still be running around Europe causing chaos. In the end, Bucky lowered his gun slowly before tucking it away into his boot holster.

Zemo grinned.

“Don’t think this means we trust you,” Sam groaned, pointing a finger at the man.

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Now, gentlemen, I believe we have a plane to catch,”

As the trio began to make their way out of the alley Bucky and Sam fell to the flank of the group. “Do you really think this is a good idea?” Bucky asked, eyes darting between his two companions. Sam shrugged.

“At this point, I’m doing whatever it takes to get home to my family in one piece. If that means I have to ride in Zemo’s stupid private jet again and lay low for a while, then that’s what I’m gonna do, because Sarah and those kids don’t deserve to lose me all over again,”

“But don’t you think he’s acting a little… weird?”

“Don’t worry, I have my eye on him. If he tries anything we can just throw him out front when Walker tries to shoot us,”

“You’re doing a very poor job of concealing your conversation,” Zemo shouted.

Bucky stormed ahead as Sam laughed.

“Oh, shut up!”

Surprisingly, the drive to the airstrip was mostly uneventful, as was the relatively short flight from Zurich to Avignon. There was, of course, the usual cutthroat banter and tension so thick you could feel it like a fog hanging over the group, but in an unusual twist of fate, the baron did very little to initiate. Of course, he wasn’t fully innocent though. He never was. That being said, even as his chauffeur carefully navigated the stone roads to the dropoff point he was strangely quiet. He had texted someone earlier to have the house prepared for their arrival but he kept looking down at the phone as if a response would come. It didn’t.

Sam appreciated the break from the noise. To him, it was a moment of peace after a few months of constant opposition. For the duration of the trip, he had chosen to shoot a few choice quips Bucky’s way before taking a long nap. Bucky, on the other hand, was only growing more suspicious of Zemo by the minute.

After his time with Hydra, Bucky had become intimately acquainted with the type of man that Zemo was. He was ruthless, driven by ideals that couldn’t be changed by any amount of debate or theory read inside a prison cell, and willing to do whatever it took to fulfill those ideals no matter the cost. There was remorse but no regret. A man like that doesn’t just stop believing in the thing that led him to kill dozens if not hundreds of people, because once the impetus is gone so is the only thing upholding their sense of self.

In basic terms, he was hiding something. Bucky was intent on finding out what that thing was, a thing important enough to make Zemo of all people shut the hell up and tell his enemies exactly where his safe house was, and he wasn’t going to rest until he did. The answer came easily enough in the end, but not before Sam and Bucky were forced face to face with the strangest thing they had ever seen, even when including aliens and wizards. That thing was Zemo buying flowers.

The trio had gotten out of the car somewhere around the center of the city and continued towards the safe house on foot. A few minutes after they started, though, Zemo had spoken.

“I apologize, but I’ll have to stop for a moment,” He said, holding up a hand to alert the two men trailing him to the fact that he was about to stop. Sam quirked up an eyebrow.

“At a flower shop?”

There, to the right of them, was a small fleuriste. The window was a burst of bright color. Pinks, reds, whites, purples; a certain bunch of spring blooms had caught Zemo’s eye. He shrugged. “It’s rude to arrive at someone’s house asking for a favor without a gift, Mr. Wilson. Excuse me,”

With a comfort that said he had been into the shop many times, Zemo walked through the door and began conversing with the shop owner in perfect French, even referring to her as tu instead of vous as he made his purchase.

“Did he just say someone’s house ?” Sam asked Bucky, eyes widening.

Bucky gritted his teeth. “Yeah, I think he did,”

“So, we’re just showing up at someone’s door,”

“Yup. Not to mention they’re someone who aligns themself with him,”

A groan escaped from Sam as he ran his hand down his face in disbelief. “I didn’t expect much from Zemo, but damn,”

“It’s your fault for expecting anything from Zemo in the first place,”

“For once, you’re right,”

They dawdled for a moment. As their conversation stilled, Zemo returned, now burdened by a sizable bouquet from the window. Around them, the city was starting to get off of work. Families walked together as businesses had their 5 o’clock shift change. Somehow as the world around them came to life it didn’t look at Sam and Bucky with anything more than a passing glance. They were tourists, nothing more. For a moment Sam understood why Zemo would go to a place like this for safety and anonymity.

Without ceremony, the trio began walking towards their destination once again.

“I apologize for the delay,” Zemo said, keeping his pace brisk and remaining about a foot ahead of his companions, “I suppose it’s become a bit of a habit that I buy Y/N flowers whenever I come back. We shouldn’t be long now, though, the house is just a few more blocks away, maybe 3 minutes by foot,”

“Y/N?” Bucky asked. The name felt heavy on his tongue, familiar. That had to be a coincidence though. Zemo would never align himself with anyone who had worked for Hydra, and there was no other place he could have heard that name and had it hold any significance. Right?

Zemo chuckled. “Y/N is our host. I’d appreciate it if you tried to maintain some semblance of respect when we arrive, she tends to have quite the temper and it would reflect badly on me if she believed I was asking her to indefinitely house two people who would happily send her to prison,”

“About that,” Sam chimed in, “Who the hell are we about to be staying with? It’s not that I don’t trust you, but I don’t, and by extension, I also don’t tend to trust people who trust you,”

“I assure you, Sam, Y/N is more trustworthy to you than I will ever be,”

“That doesn’t answer my question, nor does it make me feel any better,”

“She’s American, and like you, she is seeking shelter from the government. Isn’t that enough for you?”

“Man, at this point I feel like you’re not telling us because she’s actually some sort of crazy Sokovian sleeper agent who’s gonna stab us in the back while we sleep. Am I crazy, Buck, or am I right?”

Bucky, who had been trying his best to stay out of the conversation, replied. “You are being unnecessarily evasive, Zemo, though that’s nothing new…”

“Right? Like, I’m really grateful that you’re lending us a hand, but I’ve gotta be honest, if I think for a second things are going south-”

Sam never got to finish his sentence.

Suddenly, Zemo stopped short, turning around and looking Bucky in the eye with a madness neither he nor Sam had ever seen before. His whole body was stiff, rigid. The hand that wasn’t cradling the flowers delicately was gripped in a fist at his side. He looked angry, but underneath the anger, he really just looked scared. “You will not touch her. Do you hear me? Do what you’d like with me, I have made choices worthy of punishment, but you will not touch Y/N. If you so much as think of it, all bets are off. Do you understand me?”

Bucky nodded, sharp. This was certainly interesting. Sam just smirked.

“Is there something else you want to tell us?”

Zemo walked up a small set of stairs towards a home to their right. “No, Mr. Wilson, I don’t believe so,”

The building was a nice one, all tan stone with dark wrought-iron fixtures on its many windows. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like a normal midtown manor-house for some upper-class member of the community. The normalcy of it all hid its true purpose in plain sight. It was genius, really. Over a dividing wall made of the same yellowing stone, Sam could see a small sliver of vibrant green garden space and a pool at the side of the building.

With a steadying breath, Zemo knocked on the door.

“You have to knock on the door of your own safe house?” There was a hint of incredulity in Bucky’s voice as he crossed his arms. This was going to be a disaster. Why had they agreed to this again?

“A little etiquette goes a long way, James, especially when you’re already in the doghouse,” Then, the door opened.

Bucky froze. There, standing in the doorway with a pistol in her hand and a fire in her eyes, was a woman he thought long dead: you. This couldn’t be right! He had killed you back in ‘02 with the rest of the AAHR...

You quirked up an eyebrow at Zemo.

“Give me one reason I should let you in and not shoot you on the spot,”

They were so fucked.

________________

The day, on your end of the world, had gone by much slower.

It started off like any other, with the alarm on your bedside table blaring as you opened your eyes and your arms reached out into the emptiness in the sheets beside you. Sometimes, when Helmut’s flight got in late enough, you would wake up and reach to the side only to find that he had appeared beside you in the night. Those were the best kind of reunions. They were free of pretense, no bitterness or resentment clouded your sleep-heavy brain when you opened your eyes to his peaceful resting face, and you could simply fall into the comforting rhythm of husband and wife. If you reunited with a clear head things tended not to go as well.

You groaned. It wasn’t as if there was even a guarantee he would come back, especially not after the way you’d left things last time. The philosophy of attendre et espérer, waiting and hoping like an Edmond Dantés type, wouldn’t do you any good, at least not anymore.

Maybe it was time to start moving on…

Tomorrow. You could start thinking about the next steps tomorrow. For today you’d enjoy what you had.

Getting out of bed was difficult but you managed. The sun streamed through the curtains that billowed gently in the breeze near your balconette, brilliant gold beams illuminating the dust that danced in the air. The first thing you did was shuffle along to the corner and pour yourself two fingers of brandy from Helmut’s private collection. It was like a morning ritual these days, a numbing agent against the loneliness. Once the drink was downed you moved on to the closet to get dressed.

Dressing yourself wasn’t of much importance these days. You couldn’t exactly leave the house, and nobody was visiting, so more often than not, it was easier to just wear the same pajamas for a few days until you knew Oeznik would be around to drop off groceries. Today, though, you felt… filthy. Not dirty in a physical way, just sticky and filthy and unclean under your skin and in your very heart. Maybe a shower would help.

You looked around the closet with a clinical eye. It was difficult to be in there, surrounded by lavish dresses and expensive suits that you and your husband had worn arm in arm while plotting the downfall of the Avengers before your unsteady alliance had turned into so much more. Everything still smelled like his cologne. In the small, often-closed, walk-in closet, the scent had only intensified, covering every article of clothing with a fog of cedarwood and sage. It made you sick, choked the air from your lungs and left you gasping for even a single breath that didn’t sit heavy on your tongue with the bitter taste of that familiar musk.

The alcohol had helped. It always did. The remnants of its burn in your mouth formed a sort of guard against the scent of the closet as you searched through a pile of shirts for something soft and easy to wear. Your hands suddenly stilled.

“Zemo, I’m gonna be honest, this is the ugliest sweater I’ve ever seen in my entire life,”

“I’m hurt! That’s one of my favorites,”

“Where did you even get it, a 90-year-old grandpa’s closet? Jesus Christ, it looks like something out of a shitty 70’s flick about family values,”

“I’ll have you know that I thrifted that sweater. It’s very eco-conscious you know,”

Your heart hurt. Well, no, your whole body hurt, but your heart ached a little more prominently as you carefully picked up the sweater and held it to your chest. It was terribly ugly, 4 sizes too big even on Helmut and covered in an olive and forest green argyle. Somehow he was always able to pull off the oversized thing no matter how ridiculous you had always insisted you found it. When was the last time he’d worn it again?

The memory evaded you.

Still, it was a happy relic, happier than most of the monuments to a failing marriage that lined the shelves of your beautiful personal prison. It wouldn’t hurt to hope that by wearing it, you might rub just a little bit of that lost happiness off onto your present-day, right? With one last forlorn glance around the closet, you gathered up the sweater and a pair of jeans before getting out as fast as you could. With the scent of cologne clinging to you, the shower wasn’t just a good idea now, it was necessary.

So, you showered. You took the stupid foot-long exfoliating brush Helmut loved so much and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed yourself under the near-boiling stream of water until your skin was pink and raw. Disappointingly, even the new skin felt filthy. It was better, though, less intense. With some lotion and a little bit of Neosporin on the fresh patches of blotchy red, you were able to feel okay. Not good. Not clean. Just… okay. At least you didn’t smell like him anymore. The clock read 12:14 when you finally made it out of the bathroom in search of some real food.

Lunch, if you could call it that, was a silent affair. The fridge was almost empty and the pantry was only a little less bare, so you threw together a cheese sandwich, not even bothering to waste butter and grill it. You ate it plain with another glass of brandy out on the pool deck. It was gone sooner than you hoped it would be.

Oh well.

You finished your brandy with a sigh. Only seven or eight more hours until you could finish your day with a few more drinks and pass out in bed until nine or ten once again. Ah, dreamless sleep. That sounded divine. Now if only you could fathom any non-depressing way to spend the time between sleeping and waking. Swimming was out, the chemicals would burn your freshly eviscerated skin. Playing solitaire for the fourth day in a row sounded like absolute hell on earth. Even watercolors, a usual calming respite from the torturous and neverending monotony of life trapped alone in a house you had no help in stocking, were off the table ever since you’d run out of paper.

Somewhere inside the house, your phone dinged.

The second the sound hit your ears you jumped, dropping your glass and letting it shatter into a thousand tiny shards on the stone of the patio.

Phones were a difficult thing to own for someone who was trying to stay out of the eyes of the government. They were too easy to track and could tip off enemies to your location with very little error needed on your part. Even searching the internet for innocent things was too risky. If your search history was too similar to that of the alias you had used before Helmut went to prison, it would have been easy for them to find a connection and send someone to track you down. Still, you kept a cell phone charged and ready on the kitchen counter despite the risk for one reason and one reason only: Emergency contact with your husband.

He never texted from the same number on more than one occasion, always switching from burner phone to burner phone as he flew across the country doing god knows what, but if he was ever in a situation where emergency contact with you was needed, he was able to reach you at your number immediately. It had only happened a couple of times, and each time he had been in a considerable amount of danger. So, when you suddenly heard the sound you dreaded more than anything else in the world, you were quick to rush inside, even ignoring the shattered glass at your feet as you shoved through the doors and found the phone.

The small, LED display was lit up with the notification. It made your heart both soar and sink.

Flying home with two guests. Prepare the two rooms for their stay. We will be there by 5 at the latest - B

You read over the message several times before letting the phone fall from your hand and back onto the counter with a dull thud.

That absolute asshole.

Three months. Three months you had spent sitting alone. Three months without a call, or a text, or a letter, or even a word of when he was coming back by way of Oeznik. Three months! And after three months of loneliness and sleepless nights and empty bottles on the drink cart he reaches out through an emergency line of contact that almost certainly means he might be dying only to tell you he’s bringing two strangers into your safe house, the place even he refuses to stay in too long in order to not give its location away. The scar on your spine was starting to burn as you leaned up against the counter and cried.

It was ridiculous to think you had ever believed him capable of more tact than that.

Really, it was your fault. From the beginning, you’d had too much faith in a man incapable of being trustworthy, even to those closest to him. You knew that, and yet you had married him. Maybe the soft touches and sweet lies he had spoon-fed you had made you weak. Maybe you always had been.

“I’m not a child, Helmut, I know what I’m doing!”

“I don’t think you do,” he shouted. He was a few drinks in now, you both were. The nights before his departures never tended to end well when you both drank. “Because no matter what I do to protect you, you have the need to disobey me! Have you considered that I do the things I do for your own good!”

“Oh! Oh yes, the things YOU do!” You slammed your glass down on the table as you stormed over to Helmut, “I sit here all day like a fucking dog in a cage while you fly to fucking Ibiza and flirt with supermodels, but YOUR story is just so fucking tragic! I’m your wife, Helmut! I’m not an animal or your property, I’m your goddamn wife! You can’t just order me to sit and stay like a dog,”

He glared down at you, eyes hawkish and glinting in the low lamplight. For the first time in years, he looked threatening, “You may not be a dog, or a child, or my property, but you are a weapon! It’s my job to keep you here, away from the-”

“Excuse me?” You interrupted. The two of you stood, inches away and yet miles apart. Slowly, the drive in Helmut’s eyes faltered. “Say that again. I dare you,”

“Schatz, I-”

“No, Helmut, you meant it so say it again. Call me that again. I fucking dare you,” Tears were streaming down your face now. He took a step towards you, hand extended to wipe them away, but you were quick to take a step back out of his reach.

“You misunderstood me,”

“I don’t think there was anything to misunderstand,”

You swept the shards of your glass tumbler into a dustpan, hands still shaking even ten minutes after you’d read Helmut’s message to you. As you worked, your last conversation before he’d left echoed in your mind.

How had it all devolved into that? It wasn’t hard to remember Helmut before prison, jaded and broken and lonely. He had been so much like you and yet so different. Each of you seemed to be the perfect balm for the others' wounds. In the end, despite all of his flaws, you had found yourself in love. Now that he was a different man, was that love gone? You couldn’t say. All you knew for sure was that you weren’t nearly drunk enough to be facing the confusing feelings in your brain. With the last of your energy, you emptied the dustpan of glass into the trash can and returned to the house, sweater itchy against your irritated skin, to ready the guest rooms.

The job wasn’t a long one. You had never used the guest rooms in all the time you’d spent at the Avignon property, so the sheets were already clean. There was just a thin layer of dust on the furniture that needed to be swept away as you checked to make sure the dressers were bare and the bathrooms were stocked with amenities. Then, when that was done, you were left to your thoughts as the hours ticked by.

Most of the time you spent sitting on the couch doing absolutely nothing. It sounded terrible, and in all honesty it was, but what else could you do? The house was already spotless so cleaning wasn’t an option, and you didn’t quite feel like doing much of anything as you stared at the clock and tried to remember a time when your life was less of a disaster. As it got closer to five, though, you started to get antsy.

You had tried your best to not think about the obvious issue of the guests. Zemo was not the type to threaten his home, even if he wasn’t happy with you, so usually having anyone who wasn’t Oeznik or another paid lackey aware of the location of your safe house would be a big no in his book, but then you started thinking of the implications of him bringing people into your home. Your home, not his. Was he on his way to kill you? It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Or maybe he was bringing your replacement.

Now that thought made anger bubble up in your throat. You were no stranger to the idea that when your husband was away, he could be doing anything. There was no guarantee when he slept in lavish hotels or drank the night away in elite lounges that he kept his wedding ring on. The fact that there were two guests meant it was unlikely he was bringing two mistresses, but never impossible. Nothing was impossible when it came to Helmut.

No, it was more likely he had finally decided it was time to end your suffering. The shouts and boisterous laughter that started to sound directly outside of the front room window only confirmed the for you. Slowly, you crept towards the door and grabbed a small pistol from its place in the umbrella stand. If he wanted you dead you weren’t going to go without a fight.

Through the curtains on the front door, you could just barely make out the trio. When you saw them your blood ran cold. It was one thing if he needed help to take you down, but getting the Winter Soldier on board? Your rage only grew by the minute.

Helmut said something, probably planning the best course of action to catch you off guard, and you sneered. Two could play at that game. When he knocked on the door you opened it calmly and held the gun with your finger just barely ghosting over the trigger.

Everyone froze.

“Give me one reason I should let you in and not shoot you on the spot,” you said, rage coursing through every nerve in your body. You may have been in retirement for quite a few years, but you still knew how to handle a gun. Everyone there, except maybe the Falcon, knew that. As Zemo went to open his mouth, you prepared for a firefight.

“Because I brought you flowers,”

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

a/n: Sorry that only one chapter is out! The fic is just getting very long and complicated and I wanted to make sure you got as much as possible before the next episode drops lol. I’ll be working pretty much nonstop from now until then, though, so the next parts should be out soon!

TAGLIST: @tatestripedsweater​ , @elaineygrace​, @multiyfandomgirl40​ ,  @lovelymischief​ , @rami-malek-trash​ , @dazzlingseb​, @avgravy​ , @sarahsilver , @wh0re-4-techno​ , @forcebros​ , @sugarsweetkiss​ , @grandmuffinsharkbailiff​ , @killsandthrills​ , @novasstudy​ , @thnksfr-ptrkstmp​ , @inmate-marmalade​, @alanathedeer​ , @mossybank​ , @simsiddy​ , @xxspqcebunsxx​ 

Please do not post my work on other sites, thank you!

[loveofafangirl]

The Right Thing

[Baron Zemo Masterlist] [Marvel Masterlist] 

Pairing: Baron Zemo x Reader (no gender, race, body type given)

Synopsis: As Zemo is sneaking away from his abode in Latvia in search of freedom, he is pulled back when he notices the fight in his home above has become dangerous for those in the streets. *Fluff:Comfort/Care*

Word Count: <1,500

Author’s Note: This is my first time writing Zemo. I don’t know what happened but he is living (and dancing) in my head rent-free so I hope you enjoy this little fic. I typically write third person; second person/reader is not really my area of comfort, so please excuse any mistakes. Not betad. A/N2: This reader becomes “Reader A” on my masterlist. Most fics can be read as this reader with their relationship with Zemo developing (even though they are all mostly one shots)

TW: non-graphic mentions of blood and injuries

He averted his gaze, pulling the collar of his coat up, attempting to blend in with the crowd forming in the street as he slipped out of his Latvian home. He could hear the clash of Vibranium echoing on the floor above. Children gathered in the street below, looking up curiously at the unusual sounds. He wanted to warn them. He knew the threats of fallout that followed from being too near those so-called heroes better than anyone. However, he feared the delay would cost him his freedom and what he must do. He quickened his pace away from them.

The shattering of a large window sounded behind him as the building took a beating from those fighting. He turned at the noise, too late to do anything more than observe the shards of colorful glass rain down on those below. 

He watched in horror as the debris struck a few people. You caught his attention when you protected a young boy, which caused you to suffer the most. He admired your resolve. You did what he wasn’t strong enough to do. He turned back the way he was heading, trying to forget the damage he saw.

You were curious about the cacophony of sounds coming from the building. You had heard that some of the Avengers were in town. You had secretly hoped to catch a glimpse of them. Not because you were a fan, more because you wanted to see them—to size them up. You had always been a good judge of character, and you wanted to determine for yourself whether they were essentially good or not; although, you already knew the world was far grayer than most people gave it credit. 

The noise above grew louder, and you could tell a battle was ensuing. You watched the number of people growing beside you, more specifically, the number of children enchanted by the unusual sounds. For a moment, fear flashes on your face, remembering Sokovia and the damage left in the wake of the last Avengers fight in the area. 

Before you have time to warn them, screams fill the air as glass and bricks begin to fall. You turn quickly, covering a small boy standing beside you, shielding him from the brunt of the crumbling debris. You cry as the glass pierces your skin; you feel blood begin to drip from some of the larger wounds. 

“Are you okay?” You ask the boy whose body trembles in your arms.

He nods, his lips quivering. He runs off down the street, following the crowd away from the scene without a word to you. 

You drag yourself away, too, hoping to find a quiet spot to nurse your injuries. You’re grateful they’re not worse since you can’t afford to go to the doctor. You turn a corner and sit on an old crate in the quiet alleyway. 

You peel off your shirt and turn to pull the first piece of glass from your back. You cry at the pain but continue on, gritting your teeth.

“Let me?” His voice was soft as he held his hands out in front of him, gesturing toward your wounds. 

Weary of the new stranger, you pull back defensively.

“Please.” He remained where he stood, not moving on you, giving you space. “I can help. You saved that child. Let me help you now. You won’t be able to reach them all on your own.”

Reluctantly, you nod, allowing him closer.

He slowly moves beside you, keeping his hands up, showing you he meant you no harm. 

His touch is softer than you imagined. You don’t even feel his careful fingers removing the glass. Eventually, you work up the nerve to ask, “Are you a doctor?”

“No,” he replies simply and continues his work. “Unfortunately, I have seen more destruction and loss than I would like.”

You sit in silence until he is done. He takes a minute to carefully inspect you, making sure to have removed all of the pieces to prevent infection. 

He wipes the soft fabric of his trench coat over your skin, collecting the blood that had spilled. 

His movements were so tender and warm that you can’t help but relax at his touch. The pain in your back seems to disappear under his care.

“There. All better.”

“Thank you, truly.”

His lip curls up in the corner. “You were a hero today. Many only delude themselves to be that. Few actually prove themselves to be so on occasion.”

You search his face for more. There is pain there that cut deeper than any shard of glass could. The two of you shift closer. There’s something in his eyes that lets you know his thoughts had drifted away from you. You know that look‚ the look of loss—of longing. It was all too common in the recent months and years. 

Before you can step back and thank him once more, his lips brush over yours, slowly. It feels like a dream, and for a moment, you’re afraid to breathe, as it feels like the wind whispering quietly on your lips. His eyes seem brighter at that moment like something had changed. As you decide to give yourself over to it, he pulls away, startled.

“My apologies.” His tone is honest as he steps back. He almost sounds surprised that it had happened.

“It’s okay.” You aren’t in the habit of letting random men kiss you and get away with it, but there was something genuine about him. Your eyes widen, truly focusing on the man in front of you for the first time. His brown eyes are warm and kind. You could tell he had been through a lot, but he had still taken the time to assist you. “It wasn’t you. Well, at least not completely you. It’s been a long time since someone was that…tender to me.” You swallow hard at your confession, unsure of why you had told this stranger that. “Most men want more. Demand it when it is refused.”

His eyes fill with what you think is concern, but he’s hard to read. You wonder if you’re fooling yourself, and it’s a look of pity that you’re trying to rewrite. 

He looks around nervously as people rush past the entrance of the alleyway. “I should be going.”

Filled with courage you didn’t know you had, you take a step forward and brush a kiss on his cheek. Your fingers linger on him. “Thank you again.” 

“My pleasure.” 

His smile, as he begins to move away, left you wanting more—needing to better understand him. You watch him walk toward the busy street. “Wait.”

He turns toward you, his head tilted to the side, waiting for you to continue.

“Why did you help me?” 

“It was the right thing to do.” He stated plainly. 

You nod thoughtfully. Not many people would have helped you like that without wanting more. Not many people know what the right thing is anymore. You’re not even sure you know all the time. “Can I ask you something else?”

He looks around again as if waiting for someone to find him. He offers a curt nod. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but do you need a place to lay low for a day?”

His head tilts further to the side, “why would you ask that?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. I guess, you just look like a man who’s running.”

“How very astute of you.” He marches closer again, studying your face more carefully now. 

“You can stay with me...just for the night,” you clarify quickly.

“You don’t know me. Why would you make such an offer?”

“It’s the right thing to do." You look down, bashful for a moment, before continuing. "Plus, you helped me; I owe you a debt.” Both were partly the truth, but the third reason you couldn’t bring yourself to admit to him was that you weren’t ready to let him go. 

He considers your offer, as he proceeds to attempt to understand you. "One night." 

"One night," you agree. You reach for your shirt, attempting to shake out the remaining bits of glass and put it back over you. 

"Here." He stops you, pulling his lavish coat off his shoulders, and wraps it around you in one fluid motion. 

The gesture catches you off guard, and you let a little noise of surprise slip from your lips. 

He doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he isn’t smug about it. He buttons the coat closed, shielding your body from the outside world. Stepping to the side, he extends his arm, a gentle smile on his lips. "After you."

You're not really sure what you're doing or why you made the offer you did, but you do know that for the first time in a long time, there's a smile on your face that you can't seem to wipe away. You touch your fingers to your lips, still mesmerized by the delicate kiss. You step forward, ready for whatever the future has for you. "Follow me." 

[Next Part: A Promise]

Permatags: @the-soot-sprite

Zemo tags: @montypythonsholysnail​

Please let me know if you would like to be added or removed from my tag list.

[tcrmommabear]

Merry Christmas Catsafari!

I mean, I’m pretty sure you’ve already read this since you have the link to the word document, but I wanted to officially give this to you!

Inspired by your desire for a Bureau Files AU, The Case of the Three Barons, and Waltz Katzen Blut, we now have the beginnings of Toto x Haru

Also, Haru wonders if feathers technically count as “fur” in some communities. If I could do the eyes emoji, I would, but alas

Merry Christmas, my best friend, and I can’t wait to see you! (oh fudge, tag you, @catsafarithewriter)

The mausoleum door didn’t creak open ominously. Didn’t open to a foreboding dark cavern to who-knows-what down below.

No, it opened to a well lit room. The door simply swung open, newly oiled and built into the walls of this tomb. Names were carved into the granite, but no bodies or ashes laid by them. Or anywhere in this portion of the mausoleum. It was just built ahead of time.

A head poked in, taking a glance around the room. She clicked off the flashlight and opened the door further, stepping out from the dark graveyard into the granite building.

“Looks empty,” she called out, “wait, scratch that, it’s completely empty.”

“Probably for the best, considering what we’re investigating,” a voice told her as they swooped by, the crow flapping into place by the bust of the youngest child.

“Are we sure we aren’t just looking for normal cats, Toto?” Haru whined again, swinging her arms to gesture around the mausoleum.

Toto gave a short laugh, tilting his head in her direction.

“Cats may be fast, but one disappearing before the groundskeeper’s eyes is a little much,” he replied, laughing again as Haru huffed.

“Honestly, I'm just willing to bet this whole thing is a wild cat chase.”

“Not goose?”

“Don’t be silly, geese are terrible enough without paranormal involvement.”

The pair shared a look, before breaking down into laughter, the sound echoing from the marble. Haru wiped a tear away from her face, walking a slow circle around the building.

“I mean, honestly, Toto, the things he tells us to go investigate,” Haru griped, lightly kicking a column that served absolutely no purpose.

“Haru…”

“I mean it! I mean, seriously, ghost cats? What’s next? Ghost turtles?”

“I hear they’re especially crafty.”

“Funny, but you’re not getting a laugh out of me, Mr. Funny Crow.”

Toto gave her a sheepish grin, one that sent a little ping through her heart. She turned away, running her fingers over the walls, looking for some sort of seam or hidden passage. She told herself that at least, to keep from arguing with herself over if feathers counted for…

The silence they fell into was comfortable, but primed. Toto knew her feelings, knew the anger and conflict she felt over their situation. Not their general one, but the one forcing them to investigate a clear deadend. A certain Cat Doll.

“Honestly, what did I even do to him? I just needed help,” she eventually told Toto, voice caught somewhere between angry and defeated. He didn’t like the sound of it.

“He… Changed, when he went missing, Haru. He told me a little bit, but I don’t know any more than you,” he said, apologetic.

She looked at him, their eyes meeting halfway and a million miles apart. She knew he knew more. He knew that. She wanted answers so badly, but knew the exact one. Knew the very obvious answer that frustrated her.

He had met her in that other world. And he walked away burned.

“What did I do?” she asked again, but to no one in particular.

Maybe to that cat sitting on the coffin that wasn’t there before.

“Holy sh-!”

“Watch out!”

The world slowed for seconds. Toto took off towards her. She threw her flashlight. The lights flickered, the cat’s head slowly cocking. Its flesh bubbled.

Toto transformed mid air, and pinned both of them to the floor as black ichor surged from the cat. Even as the air slowly stilled, and what he knew to be infected magic slunk away to hide, Toto didn’t stop covering Haru with his body. The uncut quartz nicked her cheek, the necklace it hung from now more visible against Toto’s human form.

“Well that,” she said as Toto leaned back to let her sit up, “was spooky as hell.”

“I think you’d prefer the ghost turtles now.”

“No thanks, I hear they’re especially crafty.”

They both go to laugh, but the tangled mess of emotions and life-or-death adrenaline catches in their throats and puts it at the bottom of their stomachs. They both stay on the floor, low and quiet, hoping maybe it’d keep whatever caught them from coming back.

“The one mission…” she mumbled angrily.

“The one damn mission he sends me on that’s supposed to be a cat-chase and it turns out it’s actually full of danger.”

“He’s always had that sort of luck and timing,” Toto offers, but this time neither offer even a twitch of the lips for that light jab. He drops the attempts at humor.

“What’s our plan?”

“Don’t get gooed by explosive ghost cats?” Haru offers hesitantly, shrugging at Toto’s side eye. “Leave me alone, this is the first time in a while doing a mission without some Cat Doll telling me I’m messing up.”

“No reason to be out of practice, Haru.”

“Okay, are we going to keep up this banter and flirting all night, or are you going to focus?”

They both laugh a brief second, Haru’s hand moving to cover her mouth before adjusting to scratching at her neck. Okay, she just said that. Toto laughed. She laughed. Jokes, funny, ha ha, right?

There was another cat.

“Fuck!”

She yanked Toto back, pulling him out of the line of fire. Her shoes scrambled against the marble floor, and they fell back against the mausoleum door. The explosion splattered across the sides of the coffins, shooting upwards rather than around.

Before the black magic could disappear, more cats appeared, heads cocking to the side.

One by the tallest window, one on each of coffins, and a final one sitting in front of them. The one before them lashed its tail, eyes two different colors. One a bit too human to be a cat’s eye.

The door behind them slammed into their backs, forcing them forward. They went to land on the cat, their bodies landing on marble flooring. All the cats disappeared, the black magic slinking into the shadows.

A tall, ginger man stepped into the building, looking between the two lying on the floor. His expression was impassive, offering a hand to Toto to help him up, his words only directed towards him.

“Are you alright, old friend? Looks like I found you in the knick of time,” he said, swiping at supposed dirt on Toto’s shoulder.

“I’m fine, too, Humbug,” Haru groaned, sitting up and rubbing the back of her head.

“Humbug” froze, giving Toto a moment to escape from his tight grasp and head towards Haru. He knelt down, pressing gently fingers around where Haru had touched. She winced, hissing in protest when he continued to search.

“You’re tough as nails, Haru, Baron and I knew you were fine,” Toto told her, shooting a warning glance at their third. He briefly held his hands up in surrender, glancing between the two.

Toto kept his eyes on Haru, searching for injury or any touch of black magic. Haru glanced between Toto and Baron, narrowing her eyes at the later. She seemed a little too preoccupied with the former, though.

Baron kept his eyes on the two of them.

Muta, entering after (as a cat, not a human), surveyed the situation, and caught what most wouldn’t see. Baron’s grip tightened on the cane. Throat bobbed nervously. Eyes followed the same path Toto’s hands took, double checking what he found.

Expression just barely hiding the concern and worry he had for the young woman on the floor.

“What did you guys find, anyways?” Haru suddenly asked, pushing Toto away. She grabbed the top of the coffin, hauling herself up to be at chin-level with the men around her. (A fact she was always a bit salty about).

“Bupkis,” Muta responded, watching Baron’s expression fall into unflappable cool. “The groundskeeper’s house had nothing, and the crypt we wandered into had actual dead people.”

“I’d take corpses over exploding cats at this point,” Haru responded, chills running up her spine at the thought.

“You would until their ghosts start yelling at you for trespassing,” Muta countered, nodding towards Baron. “In German, too.”

The others looked at the Cat Creation turned man. He at least allowed himself to turn pink in the ears.

“They were… Quite angry.”

“Great, so real ghosts, cat-ghosts, what else are we to expect from here?”

“Ghost turtles?” Toto prompted, nudging Haru. She gave a small grin. The joy melted off her face, replaced with horrified bewilderment.

“Oh my fucking-!”

A little turtle sat on the window sill across from her, eyeing the others. Its head cocked to the left.

“God dammit Toto!”

[rose-of-pollux]

MFU blurb

Summary: It’s 1960, and Napoleon finds out that it’s his new partner’s birthday--and, naturally, he has to do something about it.  Takes place in the first year of the partnership.

Notes: this is a short piece I wrote on the occasion of David McCallum’s 86th birthday today.  Crossposted to AO3.

Napoleon had endeavored to make his partner feel at home; though they had only known each other about seven months, the number of cases they had accomplished together, including making great progress on the Baron of THRUSH case.

But Napoleon had noticed that, according to Illya’s official file, his birthday was coming up. The Russian hadn’t mentioned this at all—Napoleon presumed that he didn’t want to make a big fuss out of it, but as his partner, Napoleon wanted to give him a present so he would know how much he was appreciated.

He procured a set of silver cufflinks, monogrammed, and then debated over how to present them. After much deliberation, he used the spare key to Illya’s apartment and attached them to the ring of the identity disc on the collar of Baba Yaga, the Egyptian Mau kitten that Illya had adopted a few weeks back.

“Not too heavy, is it, my dear?” he asked the kitten.

She meowed loudly, and then proceeded to claw her way up the cat tree unencumbered by the cufflinks.

“I’ll take that as a good sign,” Napoleon said

Napoleon then left a note inviting Illya to a home-cooked gourmet meal in Napoleon’s apartment to celebrate his birthday; he left to go work on said meal as Baba Yaga continued to explore the confines of her cat tree.

With food involved, Illya was guaranteed to show up, and, sure enough, once he had finished with the paperwork he had been staying behind to complete, he had returned to his apartment, picked up Baba Yaga, and went next door to Napoleon’s place.

Napoleon grinned as Illya entered, cradling the kitten.

“So, what did you think?”

“Well, I have not eaten yet—I shall have to reserve judgment until I do.  But it smells wonderful—doesn’t it, Baba Yaga?”

The kitten meowed loudly, her nose twitching at the wonderous smells that filled the apartment. She knew by now that if she looked cute and mewed, both of these two seasoned spies would not be able to resist slipping her food.  Not even Napoleon, who had been able to resist all known forms of THRUSH hypnosis, could refuse her.  And as for Illya, who was normally stoic and unmoved by the shallow pleas of THRUSHies, would melt by the end of one drawn-out mew.

Napoleon seemed slightly surprised; the cufflinks were still on Baba Yaga’s tag—had Illya been too preoccupied to notice them?

Napoleon soon pushed this aside served the dinner, and they all sat down to eat—the humans at the table and the kitten on her own little stool beside them, gleefully accepting whatever she could beg.

Throughout the meal, Napoleon brought Baba Yaga into the conversation, particularly trying to draw attention to her collar and tag; Illya would inevitably get distracted and coo over the kitten, praising her for how she attacked a piece of fish or batted at a piece of silverware on the edge of the table.

By the end of the evening, Napoleon was fighting the urge to facepalm and just forget the whole thing and tell Illya; it was just about as he was going to say something that Illya finally started laughing.

“What…?” Napoleon asked.

“Did you think I did not notice the cufflinks?”

“Well…  Yes.”

“I knew you were trying to give me a gift; I was merely trying to get the absolute maximum enjoyment I could out of it.  And why should I not—it is my birthday.”  He paused. “…It is the first birthday I have celebrated in a long time, actually.  First by circumstance, and then eventually by choice.”  He smiled at Napoleon.  “Thank you for making this the first enjoyable birthday I have had in nearly two decades.”

“I’m glad I could make it enjoyable for you,” Napoleon said, removing the cufflinks from Baba Yaga’s collar tag and handing them to his partner.

“…You know you did not have to—”

“I know.”

“…These are silver!”

“There’s nothing wrong with having nice things.  But just forget that they’re silver.  See them as a gift from your partner,” Napoleon said, and he smiled.  “Happy Birthday, Illya.”

And Illya managed a smile back.

“Thank you, Napoleon.”

It had been a few small gestures—but for Illya, they had meant something quite immeasurable.

[emma-nation]

Without You - Bloodbound AU (Chapter 8) *For You Sequel*

Summary: Gaius is back. While coming up with a plan to take him down, the gang must deal with some new life-changing events.

Genre: Angst/Adventure/Romance

Rating: T - Warning for violence and language

Tag List: @begging-for-kamilah, @lulu-the-cat, @ilovekamilahsayeed, @zoe6111, @kennaxval

Notes:

- English is my second language, please forgive me for any mistakes.

- Hope you enjoy it, your reviews and likes are always appreciated.

- Things have went as planned this week, so here’s a regular update for ya :)

- MxF Smut Scene Warning! As in Chapter 5, I added a warning, so if you’re not interested, you can just skip this part without affecting the understanding of the chapter.

Kamilah

“Kamilah,” the voice from the other side of the audio device said, “it’s not even midnight yet. This is your third drink.”

Kamilah rolled her eyes. Her brother didn’t know what she was going through. No one did. She was the one who was about to meet Gaius in only a few minutes, without any idea of how he was going to act.

She was also by herself. After going home, back from the Hamptons, she was willing to hear Lysimachus’ plan. For her surprise, there was no plan at all.

“After you meet him, Priya is doing her part and… we’ll trap him inside the sarcophagus again.”

“What do you mean?! That I’ve been risking myself for nothing?!” Kamilah angered inside her brother’s home office. “What about the book?” She wanted to know.

“It was all fake,” her brother told. “A bunch of crap some amateur witch wrote in the past. There’s no ritual.”

Kamilah closed her eyes and sighed deeply.

“So that’s the big plan? We put him back in the sarcophagus until someone, like that one in your living room, decides to betray us and set him free?”

“If that makes you feel any better, we can hide him somewhere safe, where only the two of us will know.”

Lysimachus secretly followed her to Gaius’ hideaway, listening and communicating with her through a high-technology equipment. He also gave her a powerful weapon to defend herself, in case things went wrong.

“I’m gonna need a lot of alcohol before meeting that son of a bitch,” she was sitting at a table in the Midnight Lounge, with her third drink in hands.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

“I have to be,” she took one long sip, “not only for me. But for Amy, if he finds out about her… well, I need to keep her safe.”

While she reminisced about her times in Italy and a past lover, that now she was sure Gaius was involved in the assassination, she ignored what her brother was saying. All she could think about was how determined she was to get what she wanted: to know Gaius’ plans and use it to defeat him.

“Sister?” His voice called her back to reality. “Are you listening?”

“Yes, my apologies. I got distracted.”

“Do you think you can make it quick? Uhhh… there’s somewhere else I was supposed to be.”

“You’re not seeing it, but I’m rolling my eyes!” Kamilah growled, knowing what he meant. “Serious, brother? Priya’s fashion show?”

“I promised her.”

Kamilah didn’t answer. Although she didn’t want to admit, or even accept it, she knew her brother was falling for Priya. And she knew Priya was unable to develop any kind of affection for another being, except for her dogs, perhaps.

“Whatever,” she finally replied. “I didn’t ask you to come with me in first place. I can do it by myself.”

After a moment of silence between the twins, the clock struck midnight and it was time for Kamilah to go. Gaius would be waiting for her.

“I must go now.”

“Sister? I love you.”

“I love you too, brother.”

She entered the door in the back of the bar like the last time, where the gruesome competition Mortals vs. Vampires took place for another night. She followed her way, avoiding to pay much attention. As she followed to the basement, Harvey was already waiting for her.

“Well well, I was starting to think you wouldn’t show up,” her former clan member teased.

“I thought you knew me enough to know I always keep my word.”

“You never truly know someone, Kamilah. That’s something you taught me.”

“Ignore him,” Lysimachus suggested. “He’s testing you.”

Her twin brother was working on a counter-spell to break the hypnosis. Kamilah only hoped it’d be before she lost her patience completely and killed Harvey with her own hands. In her vampire form, she only looked at the male vampire in a threatening manner. Letting him know she was still in charge.

“I suppose you have a good explanation to your brother’s stupid move, Kamilah,” Harvey insisted.

“Oh please, I owe you no explanations. I’m here to see Gaius.”

She barely finished her sentence when an ancient figure emerged from darkness.

“Harvey, how dare you to bother My Queen?”

Kamilah felt a lump on her throat as Gaius started coming in her direction. A shiver went through her entire body. A feeling of weakness and insecurity took control of her mind.

“G-Gaius.”

“Hello, My Queen.”

She had no time to say anything else, Gaius hand gripped around her neck as he lifted her off the ground.

“Tell me, Kamilah. Tell me Harvey is wrong about you. You didn’t have anything to do with your brother’s move, did you?”

She gasped, attempting to breath and answer his question, but she couldn’t. She shook her head in denial.

“No?” Gaius asked, loosening a little bit the grip around her throat.

“N-No,” Kamilah spoke, with some difficult. “I… I haven’t spoke to… Lysimachus in… days…”

When Gaius finally let her go, she felt on her knees. He kneeled right in front of her, lifting up her face to look straight in her eyes.

“Hmmmm,” he smiled. “She’s telling the truth. I told you, Harvey. My Queen will always be loyal to me.”

Kamilah took a moment to breath and regain her strength. Looking at her surroundings, she noticed Jameson was nowhere to be seen. As well as the other thralls.

“Sister, are you alright?” Lysimachus asked, through the audio device. “Please, say something.”

“I thought we were having a meeting,” she spoke. “Where are the others?”

“Anya is upstairs, observing our potential candidates who have joined Mortals vs. Vampires. Jameson… is taking care of something else.”

“What about Nate? You must have figured out at this point that he’s good at disobeying rules.”

“Not here, my Queen. Nate has been a loyal soldier, this is why I gave him the night to do what he likes the most, having fun.”

There was something wrong behind Gaius’ grin and Kamilah needed to figure out what it was.

“Suspicious much?” Lysimachus asked. “Call it a night, sister. Let’s go home and figure out what they’re up to.”

Ignoring her brother’s advice, she decided to proceed with her own plan.

“I’m thirsty,” she announced.

“Why didn’t you say it earlier, My Queen. I have some mortals…”

“Alcohol, I mean.”

Sitting down, she waited until a hypnotized waiter came downstairs bringing a bottle of whiskey. She examined the bottle and smiled.

“Playing to my tastes, My Love? It seems like you haven’t forgotten what I appreciate.”

“How could I, My Queen?” The ancient vampire approached, caressing her cheek as if he was going to pull her for a kiss.

“There’s something missing,” Kamilah took a step back, grabbing the mortal waiter by the arm and sinking her fangs deeply into his neck.

Gaius watched everything amused.

“Kamilah, stop,” Lysimachus ordered. “You don’t have to take it so far.”

Indeed. But to defeat Gaius she was willing to go until the last consequences. As she felt the mortal was getting weak, she healed his neck and let him go.

“Kamilah doesn’t kill anymore,” Harvey provoked again. “She only feeds from domesticated mortals.”

“And so do you. It’s the price we pay to live in peace among mortals.”

“This is wrong, My Queen,” Gaius shook his head, looking somehow upset. “You should be ruling this city like the Goddess you are, not being submissive to mortals.”

“I prefer this way. Rather than spending my life running away or hiding after leaving a trail of bodies behind.”

“My beloved Kamilah… I fear that this years away from your King made you forget who you truly are. Your true nature. We’ll have to fix it, but first… I’m looking forward to hear the news you brought me.”

Kamilah handed him a folder Lysimachus gave her, containing false information about The Council members.

“This file contains the latest information about the other members of The Council. Their usual routine, their current businesses, their schedule for the next days… I assume it’s useful to your plans.”

Gaius examined the papers, reading carefully every line.

“This is amazing, My Queen. I suppose it’s not being easy for you to spend time with those traitors! There’s one thing you’ve got wrong though.”

“W-What is it?” For a second, Kamilah feared he had found out about their plans.

“Priya Lacroix’s fashion show is tonight. Not tomorrow.”

“A-Are you planning to kill her, my King?” She asked, with a false grin on her face.

“Not yet,” Gaius sat down to explain his plans, “first we must destroy what she loves the most, her career, her popularity. How about a big explosion on her little show, where thousands of mortals would be injured? What would the journalists say? Especially when the blame falls on Priya herself? She will be lonely, vulnerable and then… I’ll crush like the insect she is! And this is nothing, compared to what I’ll be doing to the rest. The Baron, Lester and especially,“ he clenched his fists in pure anger, “Adrian.“

———-

Amy

Amy let out a frustrated grunt as she checked her phone again, something she had been doing a lot for the last few hours.

“Amy,” Lily paused her game to look at her, “checking your phone every five seconds won’t bring Kamilah home sooner.”

“I know. I just wanted to know if she’s alright. She promised to call me as soon as the meeting was over.”

She was trying to act strong, for her own sanity. She tried to avoid thinking about everything that could go wrong in that meeting, how Gaius could torture Kamilah or even kill her, if he found out she wasn’t hypnotized. Kamilah also asked her to stay with Lily and Jax at the Shadow Den, where none of Gaius’ thralls would be able to locate her.

“I’m bored,” the girl complained. “I’d feel better if we could actually dosomething.”

“Amy! We are doing something, we’re shooting zombies!”

“Other than that. Like going out for a drink, that’s what I needed right now.”

“Kamilah ordered me to keep an eye on you and I’m not breaking my promise. You know how she’s like when she’s angry.”

“To be honest it isn’t that bad,” Amy let out a small laugh. “Not with me at least. She’s unable to be mad at me for too long. Come on, Lily…” she insisted. “If she finds out I’ll tell her it was my idea.”

“Fine,” Lily agreed. “But we’ll bring Jax with us. I think I may have something in mind.”

A few minutes later, she was inside a car with a blindfold in her eyes. She had no idea where Lily and Jax were taking her, but it should be fun.

“We’re almost there,” her best friend announced when they parked the car and she took her hand, guiding her to their destination.

When Lily finally removed the blindfold, Amy saw herself at a bar. A geek-themed bar. There were arcades, a band playing some rock music and a peculiar crowd.

“Whoa,” she exclaimed. “Where am I?”

“At the hottest spot for supernatural creatures in New York City,” Lily told.

“It was founded recently, by a Shadow Den member,” Jax completed. “And Lilly thought…”

“It’s the perfect place for your Bachelorette Party!”

While they accommodate themselves in a stand, Amy checked her phone again. Still no news of Kamilah.

“Bachelorette Party,” she thought. “I don’t even know if there will be a wedding yet.”

A vampire waitress came, bringing them some drinks and snacks. Being aware of Amy’s presence, every detail had been prepared especially for her, with everything she liked the most.

“I can’t thank you enough, Lil. I really hadn’t planned anything yet.”

“But I had! And… Lysimachus asked Priya to organize a surprise Bachelorette Party for Kamilah too.”

“Oh my god! She’s going to be so thrilled.”

Both she and Lily laughed, knowing Kamilah would never agree with the idea.

After a few shots she was finally more relaxed, observing Jax gathering with other members with the Shadow Den and Lily helplessly trying to beat a score at an arcade machine.

“Lil, you won’t be capable of doing that… not when you’re so drunk!”

“Amy, never underestimate my drunk skills!” She pressed a combination of buttons, that lead her to the next stage of the game. “Only one more.”

“Hey, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Go ahead.”

“I… I feel you’re all hiding something from me. What’s with the plan to defeat Gaius? Kamilah seemed really pissed off about this morning and you change the subject everytime I mention it.”

“Amy, the truth is… there’s no ritual. It was a misunderstanding, that’s all. We’re back to the start, there’s no plan to defeat Gaius. I’m sorry.”

Quietly, she walked away back to her seat. With Gaius breathing on Kamilah’s neck it was a matter of time before he killed her, or hypnotized her for real. What about her? The ancient vampire would never admit somebody else to steal hisQueen, especially a mortal. None of Kamilah’s past lovers ever survived for long. Most of them died in unusual circumstances.

When she checked her phone again, a notification of a new message on her voice mail gave her some hope. She went outside to hear.

“Amy, it’s me. Your mom. Listen, darling. I just saw the picture you posted on your Instagram. Bachelorette Party? Amy, there’s still time to give up on this madness. Do you realize what you’re doing to your life? What about your grandma? Her dream was to see you getting married in our church, she has been suffering so much. Why don’t you…”

She pressed the delete button, refusing to listen to the rest of the message. When she headed back inside, a mysterious voice called for her:

“There are so many questions in your head right now, aren’t there, child?”

“Huh?!” She looked around, not seeing where it was coming from.

“Near the bathroom, in the last stand.”

She looked at the direction indicated, seeing a hooded figure sitting at the table.

“I can answer all your questions.”

“What are you? A psychic?” Amy asked aloud.

“Not like this, Amy. Inside your mind. Telepathy.”

Amy froze. How did that mysterious person knew so much about her? Could it be someone from Wright’s cult? Anyways, she still felt some insecurity towards her special abilities.

”Who are you and how do you know so much about me?“ She decided to try, putting a lot of strength in this thought.

”Calm down, my child. I’m a fellow supernatural friend, and we recognize each other. We can read each other.“

“Then why can’t I read you?”

“You haven’t trained your abilities enough yet.”

“Good point.”

Kamilah always warned her to be careful regarding her abilities and people who would eventually cross her path in New York. She should never completely trust anyone. There was a lot about the supernatural world she wasn’t ready to know yet.

“This is completely fine, Amy. You don’t have to trust me.”

The fact the mysterious figure was still reading her mind started to frighten her.

“But I see you’re worried… Kamilah is her name, isn’t it? I can tell you exactly where she is, and what she’s doing right now. Better yet, I can show you.”

Amy checked her phone again. There was still no signs of Kamilah. She sighed and started walking, headed to the stand where the hooded figure was sitting. She sat in front of them, yet she was unable to see their face.

“All right,” she spoke. “No more mind games. Just tell me how Kamilah is doing. I need to know.”

“Not like this, child,” she heard again inside her head.

“Fine,” Amy grunted, before starting to speak telepathically. “Tell me where’s Kamilah.”

“Hmmmm…” the figure was silent, pensive for a few seconds. “Her life may be in danger… she’s in the company of a dangerous someone… very dangerous…”

“Oh my god! How is she? Is he doing something bad to her? Please, I have to know!”

“I could show you but… I’ll need a little something.”

“What is it? I’ll do anything for Kamilah.”

“A few drops of your blood,” the figure told. “Just prick your finger and drop it inside this recipient. Through the water, mixed with your blood, I’ll be able to show you where Kamilah is.”

Without thinking twice, Amy took the needle the mysterious person offered her and followed their instructions. After a few seconds, the water inside the small recipient start to form an image and like a movie screen, she started seeing a scene. Kamilah was leaving Gaius’ hideaway in a hurry, desperate to speak to her brother. She entered her car and started driving back to New York.

“She’s alright,” Amy sighed relieved and smiled. “Thank you so much.”

“Anytime, my child. Until we meet again.”

As the figure disappeared through the door, Amy went meet Lily and Jax again. After all, she had a Bachelorette Party to enjoy. Soon, Kamilah would be back, safe and sound in their penthouse.

———-

Lysimachus

At full speed, Lysimachus drove back to New York City. Priya’s life was in danger, as well as her career and reputation. Gaius knew exactly where to hit her, how to make her weak and vulnerable for his final attack. A revenge for being part of the riot against him almost one century earlier.

All he could think about was his conversation with her in the morning…

Three days had passed since Lysimachus had found out what he was supposed to do to kill Gaius. In order to destroy his greatest enemy, he’d have to destroy his sister’s heart, and that wasn’t even a possibility. He loved Amy as much as Kamilah. She was like a younger sister to him.

"Hunter,” Priya’s voice interrupted his thoughts, “pass me the milk, dammit!”

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I got distracted.”

“Distracted? You’ve been acting like a zombie.”

Priya laughed at her own comment as she poured the milk in her cereal bowl. Three days had also passed since she told him about her past. Nothing changed between them, except that she was pretending that night at her swimming pool never happened.

“You look happy this morning,” he pointed. “You’re never happy so early.”

“Did you forget?!” Her face turned into a frown. “Hunter! How could you?”

“Oh, tonight is the debut of your Spring collection.”

“Of course! Will you be there or will you be on the hunt for some fresh brains to eat?”

“I’ll try my best but… I’m going with Kamilah to meet Gaius.”

She stopped eating and stared at him, looking concerned for a moment.

“Well,” she shrugged, “if you make it alive, there will be an after-party in my house.”

“It’s not my thing,” he was very aware of what Priya’s after-parties were about. “It could be different, you know.”

His last words made her stop eating again.

“We’ll need to talk about it eventually, Priya.”

“About what?” She asked in response, in an almost inaudible tone.

“About the other night.”

“Sorry, I don’t talk about things I’ve said when I was drunk.”

Those were the last words he heard from her mouth.

Only a few minutes. That had to be enough to prevent a tragedy.

Arriving at her club, he looked around, trying to spot any suspicious faces. Using a detector he developed, he could identify three bombs planted at different spots of The Crimson Veil and one of Gaius’ thralls should be responsible for detonating them.

The show had already started and the club was crowded. Near the catwalk he spotted a familiar face… Nate. Luckily the young vampire hadn’t seen him yet. He needed to be cautious, one wrong move and the bombs would be activated.

First, he sat at the bar, observing the teenage vampire from far. He impatiently checked his phone at every second, waiting for instructions. Lysimachus took a deep breath. Next time he got distracted, he’d act.

He approached a little, merging among the crowd. When Nate pulled his phone out of his pocket again, he chocked him with his arm and began to drag him away.

“My apologies,” Lysimachus explained to the curious looks people were giving him. “One of Priya’s most dangerous stalkers. But no panic, everything is alright.”

Outside the club, he dragged Nate to a near alley where he slammed him against the wall.

“Tell me, what were you planning?! What Gaius ordered you?!”

The younger vampire started to laugh sadistically.

“I only answer to one King.”

With one punch, Lysimachus knocked him down. In his pockets he found a cell phone, where he was chatting with Harvey, waiting for his signal to detonate the bombs. In his other pocket he found the detonator, that he immediately crushed it with his hand.

After carefully trapping unconscious Nate inside a car’s trunk, he returned to The Crimson Veil, making sure there was nobody else suspicious. When he looked at the catwalk again, he spotted Priya on the backstage. She saw him too. For his surprise, she opened a smile. Lysimachus smiled back.

Seconds later, his phone vibrated.

After-party is canceled. Meet you in my VIP room after the show.

He gave her a thumbs up and she winked in response.

———-

Kamilah

“Sister, I gotta go,” Lysimachus announced. “H-He’s planning something against Priya… I must check. I’m so sorry.”

Betrayed. That’s how Kamilah felt when she heard the audio device being turned off as her brother left, back to New York. She was no longer a priority, even though her life could also be in danger. Even if Gaius could submit her to the most horrible things to prove her loyalty. Lysimachus swore he’d be there. He swore he’d protect her at any cost.

"Tell me, My Queen. Do you have any objections?”

“I couldn’t care less about Priya. We’ve only accepted her in The Council to keep her under control. Her behavior was a threat to our kind.”

She sat down at an old couch, Anya arrived, frustrated by the results of Mortals vs. Vampires. What angered Gaius even more.

“That foolish boy! He ruined my plans of a perfect new kingdom.”

“My King,” Harvey suggested, “you can take Priya’s clan members after you destroy her.”

“Good point, but…” Gaius looked at her direction again, as if for a moment he had forgotten she was there. “Kamilah, in the files you brought me. There’s no information about him! Lysimachus.”

“My brother isn’t a threat to your plans at the moment, My Love. He splits his time between Adrian’s company and Priya. He has fallen in love with her and it’s a matter of time before she gets him killed.”

Gaius stared at her blankly for a moment, thoughtful.

“He even may be useful in the future, as I can easily convince him into joining us.”

“We’ll talk about it some other time,” he approached her, cupping her face into his hands again. “You can go now, My Queen. You’ve proven your loyalty once again. Harvey will call you in the next few days with new instructions.”

Gaius disappeared into darkness again, followed by Harvey and Anya.

While Kamilah was relieved to be safe and that she could return home to Amy, her intuition was speaking louder. Gaius had something in mind and she needed to find out. Hiding in a corner of the dark basement, he could hear his conversation with the thralls. Nothing too important, until something alarmed her.

“What?!” He yelled. “But how did he…”

As nobody else responded, Kamilah assumed he was talking over a phone.

“I don’t care, Jameson. Kill her, now! Let’s see how the boy will deal with the loss of his lover! I’m gonna crush them both with a single blow.”

Before her presence could be noticed, Kamilah left the bar immediately. In her car, as she drove away, she attempted to contact her brother.

“Out of signal,” she complained.

He should be inside Priya’s club.

Guilty, she hoped nothing happened to Lysimachus, or even Priya. Would he ever forgive her for telling Gaius about their relationship? Unconsciously, she had exposed his brother’s biggest weakness to the enemy.

———-

Lysimachus

Outside Priya’s VIP room, Lysimachus waited nervously. Canceling her after-party only to meet him could be a sign she was ready to leave some of old habits behind? That she was willing to forget her tragic past for something new?

“There you are,” she opened the door with a grin on her face. “Guess the meeting with Gaius wasn’t exciting enough, huh?”

“Uhhh,” not wanting to ruin her mood, he decided to wait before telling her the truth, “I’ll tell you later, it’s a long story. So, congratulations. Your new collection… snatched wigs?”

“Shut up, Hunter! You’re too old for this.” Priya smiled and punched him slightly on the shoulder.

When Lysimachus’ eyes met hers, he noticed a difference. She looked happy, genuinely happy. Her happiness wasn’t hidden behind parties with houseboys or human blood this time.

“I have something for you,” he announced before taking a black velvet box from his jacket and handing it to Priya.

She immediately opened it and her eyes glowed in surprise.

“Only three pieces of this bracelet were produced in the world, and as I know you like to collect rare stuff.”

Priya went silent. She looked at him, then at the bracelet again, appearing anxious somehow.

“It’s uhh… stunning. But… why?”

Lysimachus took her wrist, closing the bracelet around it.

“This is what every girl deserves, after such an important night.”

She opened her mouth to say something but no words came out. He could tell her cheeks blushed a little bit.

Giving her some time to breath, Lysimachus threw himself on a very comfortable armchair, finally remembering his sister was alone with Gaius. He should return, or at least go home and wait for news.

“So, why did you want to see me?” He asked, going straight to the point.

“I wanna have that conversation,” Priya quickly answered.

“Okay, I’m listening.”

“Well, Hunter. I have everything I always wished for and maybe more, but lately, it’s not being enough. It’s started to feel empty, lonely, pointless maybe… like if there was something missing.”

“And what’s missing?”

He got up, standing face to face with the fashion designer.

“I…” Before she could finish her sentence, a lot of voices started coming from the other side of the door. “Journalists,” she rolled her eyes. “Listen, wait for me outside. I’ll be there in a few minutes and we can finish this in your apartment.”

“Of course,” Lysimachus agreed. “It’ll give us more privacy.”

Outside, the first thing he did was to call Kamilah. As expected, she didn’t answer. He ran a hand through his hair nervously, wondering if she was safe.

Twenty minutes passed when her name finally appeared on his screen.

“Kamilah, thank god! I was starting to become worried…”

“Brother, where are you?” She had a strange tone in her voice, a tone of desperation.

“At The Crimson Veil, outside. Why?”

“Gaius dismissed me, but I hid myself to listen to his plans. Brother, as soon as I left, Jameson called him to inform you prevented the explosion and…”

“And what?!”

“He told him to kill Priya immediately.”

Lysimachus dropped his phone, rushing back inside the club and straight to Priya’s VIP room. Everything had been destroyed, the floor was covered with black blood and ashes, but she was standing there, holding the daggers he gave her during their training.

“Priya! Are you okay?”

“Yeah…” she answered between weary pants. “After the journalists left, somebody delivered a giant present box. I thought it could be a new houseboy but… a horde of disgusting Ferals. Don’t worry, our training was worthy, I’ve managed to kill them all.”

“Good,” Lysimachus let out a relieved sigh. “It was Gaius. God, when Kamilah called me and told me he ordered Jameson to kill you, I…”

“Shhhh,” the female vampire approached, silencing him with her index finger. “It’s over, Hunter.”

“I got worried. I-I… I care about you, Priya. I really do.”

She pressed a kiss on his lips, while her hands traveled through his toned abdomen and down to his waist, attempting to open his belt.

“We should go home first…”

“No,” Priya whispered in his ear before nibbling his earlobe. “I want you right here, right now.”

———- MxF Smut Scene - If you don’t wanna read it, skip this part ———-

Lysimachus agreed, kissing her again, more intensely this time. She drove him to a couch, where she pushed him violently and started to unzip his pants.

Smirking, he switched positions in an impressive speed. Priya wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer and placing her mouth on his again. As their tongues moved together on a fierce, frenzied mode, his hands went under her dress, finding her underwear and tossing it aside.

“Not today, Hunter,” suddenly Priya was on top, straddling him and removing what was left of their clothes.

Lysimachus gasped as he felt her warmth involving him. As she started moving on top of him, she dragged her long nails across his chest leaving deep red marks. Lost in pleasure, the male vampire gripped tightly on her hips, increasing the pressure and rhythm between them.

“Too rough?” He wanted to know.

“Hell no, it’s perfect,” she followed his pace.

Though they had done that a lot of times before, it felt different. More intimate. The way Priya occasionally stroked his hair or how she gently kissed and sucked his neck, drove him wild. Tired from the fight against Ferals, she reached climax first, but Lysimachus also didn’t take long.

———- Ending of scene ———-

As she laid on his chest, he wrapped an arm around her body, enjoying the feeling of finally being closer to the fashion designer. Lysimachus closed his eyes when something caught his attention, a familiar smell… blood.

“Priya, did you get hurt in the fight?” He asked, concerned.

“It’s was just a scratch. It’ll be gone soon.”

He looked down at her back, spotting a deep wound on her shoulder. Not any wound but... a bite. The skin around it was starting to become grey.

“Priya, y-you… you got bitten by a Feral.”

———-

Somewhere in New Jersey…

“Master, our suspicions were right. The girl is back,” Jameson announced, removing the hood he was wearing.

“Those are splendid news, Jameson.” Gaius grinned. “Were you able to confirm if she’s indeed The One?”

“Yes, My King. A little persuasion trick and I was able to collect a sample of her blood. As we imagined, she’s Keaseth’s descendant.”

“Incredible. Soon, all the power her blood contains will be mine!”

“What about Kamilah, My King? Do you think she’ll consent with the plan?”

“Kamilah is wrapped around my finger again. Loyal as a puppy. Little does she know it’s only part of my revenge against her. Her heart will be crushed in a million pieces when I command her to sacrifice her lover.”

“And then we’ll break the hypnosis.”

“Exactly, Jameson. My Queen will be paying the highest of the prices for her betrayal.”

Next: What are Gaius’ plans for Amy? Meanwhile, Lysimachus has to face a difficult decision about Priya’s future. Stay tuned! 

Only 10 days until May! :D

[officialleehadan]

Blackbird

This is one of my New Subscriber stories! For Sarah, who requested Hope Punk with Luka. This one is a little farther ahead, in HGE - Rise Above!

+++

“We’re getting a distress beacon.”

Ella looked up to see one of Luka’s bodyguards, she thought it was Right, in the doorway to the communal room. She was flipping through one of Luka’s books while he carefully took apart one of the kitchen conoles. It had been acting up recently and, never one to leave something broken, he was fixing it.

“Did we transmit it forward with my code?” Luka asked from under the console, only the bottom half of him visible as he rewired the processors. “Mother and LaShan shouted at me the last time I answered a distress beacon.”

“That’s because it was a pirate trap, and we would have gotten blown up or captured if you didn’t fly like the devil,” Right said pointedly, and winced. “I think they’ll make an exception. It’s the Blackbird.”

In a flash, Luka was out from under the console and running for the cockpit.

“Why didn’t you lead with that?” he snarled, angrier than Ella had ever seen him as he threw himself into the pilot’s chair. She scrambled to join him and flipped on the comm before he could reach for it himself. He spared her the slightest nod of thanks. “All hands, we’re making a Jump. Dammit Right, you know who’s on that ship!”

“I turned us around and kicked on the engines before I told you,” Right said, apparently unphazed by his boss’s anger. “And sent a reply on your code. It was urgeant, but not seconds-to-live urgeant. Breathe and get us there.”

Luka glared, but his hands relaxed on the controls when he saw that they were already at max speed without Jumping. It was just as well that it was Right who brought it to his attention. The towering bodyguard seemed to think of Luka more as a bratty younger brother than an employer.

Before Ella could ask who they were flying to save, the ship bucked smoothly, and the stars warped around them.

Jump tech was expensive. A combination of magic and science that slipped through one of the great loopholes in space travel.

It wasn’t possible to go faster than light, but it was possible to bend space around them the slightest bit, until they shot forward. A short Jump took minutes, and could take a ship from one solar system to another with relative ease.

A long jump, from one galaxy to another, took days, and took so much power than only the huge intergalactic cruisers could make the jump safely without the risk of running out of juice halfway there.

Of course, no that the Empire and the Alliance were working together, they were building a higway of sorts. A string of bases connecting their galaxy to their next nearest neighbor. Soon, anyone with a half-decent ship and a working Jump Drive would be able to visit the Alliance and explore the newest frontier.

But they weren’t making a long Jump today. When Ella glanced down at the coordinates of the beacon, she was relieved to see that the distressed ship was only one good Jump away.

And the Roja had top-of-the-line engines, as maintained by an overinvested technopath.

Space cracked around them, and Ella closed her eyes against the momentary nausea that always accompanied a jump-landing. No one was immune. Even Luka pressed his lips together and pushed through it. Electricity crackled along his hands, and the Roja rumbled

“What?” she asked and stared at the ship readouts. Whole blocks of the ships, engines, wings, and all, were shifting about, smooth on precision-rails. “How?”

“The Roja is fully modular,” Luka said tightly, and pointed to a set of controls. “I designed it to be whatever I need it to be. Hit that switch, and that switch.”

Ella did, and the readout changed again.

The Roja was one of the finest ships in the Black, but Ella thought they were a modified racing ship. Maybe even a hotrodded transport.

“How-“ she whispered as cannons folded out of the hull, and a pair of missile tubes slipped out along their wings. A mine deployer glided open off the back of their cargo hold, and a definitely-illegal communication jammer began broadcasting on all frequencies. “None of this is even sort-of legal!”

“We’re a Continental-class Destroyer. Imperial authorization and all,” Right said from behind her. Ella always wondered at the strange little alcoves behind the cockpit, but as Left joined his twin, back-to-back at newly revealed consoles, she understood.

Gunner stations. The Roja wasn’t just a transport. It was a weapon, small enough to go anywhere, to any base, but with the kind of firepower only the biggest and most powerful Destroyers carried.

The scene that met their eyes when they cut a path closer, weapons armed and ready, was all too common in the farthest reaches of the Empire. Pirates had cornered a mid-size runner ship, usually either smugglers or cargo transport, and were in the process of boarding.

Luka didn’t waste time.

“This is Luka Gol, aboard the Roja,” he said into an open broadcast. “Disengage and leave or we will open fire.”

Ella honestly didn’t expect it to work, but two of the three ships immediately threw up a white-flag signal and pulled back.

The third, locked into the Blackbird’s airlock, was hampered by their own ship. Even Luka couldn’t disengage from an airlock quickly without risking both ships in the process.

“Are they going to pull back?” Ella wondered as their guns trained on that third ship, enough firepower to level a good-sized starbase on a ship with barely eleven crewmembers. She didn’t particularly care if they fired on the pirates. Her parents where killed by raiders just like these ones. “What do we do if they don’t? We can’t fire on them while they’re attached. It could vent the Blackbird.”

“I’ll kill their ship,” Luka said darkly, and flicked his fingers. A new weapon armed. “That’s an electromagical charge bomb. “Pirate freighter Jenny, you have two Galactic minutes to evacuate your personel from the Blackbird and leave or I will personally blow your ship apart.”

“We’re on our way, Red Baron.” The crackly reply sounded scared. Ella was glad, and now she understood why exactly Luka could stand down three ships with his name alone. The Red Baron. She didn’t know he was the Red Baron. Hell, she didn’t know the Red Baron was real. “Two Galactic minutes. Understood.”

“Good,” Luka muttered darkly, and stared through the viewscreen until the ship pulled away and vanished in a blink of space. “Left, you tagged their ships?”

“Of course,” Left said cheerfully form his console. “The Portugal will meet them as soon as they land.”

“Make sure they’re charged with the crime they actually committed.”

“Yes Sir, Impie Sir.”

“I can hear what you really mean when you call me ‘Sir’.”

“Yes Sir.”

Pirates gone, and apparently being apprehended by a destroyer of all things, Luka eased them into the Blackbird’s space and connected their airlocks. As soon as they were locked, he took off at a run again, this time for the just-opening doors.

He didn’t make it. As the door opened, a young woman threw herself through the door. Luka barely had time to catch her before she hit the ground, and pulled her into a crushing hug.

“You have really good timing,” Ella heard her sai into his shirt as he murmured reassuraces into her ear and rocked her gently. Her accent was as pure Core as his, and she was shaken, but not weeping.“I thought you were heading to the Arctic?”

“Something came up,” Luka told her and pulled back to check her for injuries. “Are you hurt? If someone touched you, I’ll give them to Uncle Vlad with a happy heart.”

“I’m alright. My captain has panic rooms built into our escape pods. We locked ourselves in as soon as we got the capture-alert,” she assured him, and straightened her back proudly. Any jealousy Ella might have felt at the sight of her maybe-boyfriend holding another woman vanished the instant she got a good look at the woman in question. “The crew will be coming out soon. I got your reply-code and knew you were on your way.”

“Couldn’t let my favorite little sister get captured by pirates,” Luka said, confirming Ella’s half-formed suspicions, and kissed his sister’s head. “The Portugal will be collecting them shortly.”

“I’m your only sister,” she replied cheekily, and offered a hand to Ella. “Hello. I’m Maggie Gol.”

“Ella Rawlet,” Ella shook her hand. Maggie looked about seventeen, for all that her Core Pride made her seem older. “Your brother took apart our stove, but I think I can scrape up some tea for you. Sounds like you’ve had a hell of a day.”

“Pirates, forged documents, and Red Barons, Oh My,” Maggie said with a smile, and looped her arm through Ella’s, her other hand still firmly wrapped around her brother’s. Behind her, Left and Right were leading Luka’s other security onto the Blackbird. “I could definitely use a cup of tea.”

+++

HGE - Rise Above

Elizabetta Ralet saw something she shouldn’t, and met someone who might be able to fix her problems, if he doesn’t get them both killed first.

Hands on the Wheel

Dirt and Glitter (Subscriber only!)

Blackbird

In the Late Hours

Night District (Free on Patreon!)

+++

More Stories!

+++

Support me on Patreon

[let-me-love-you-loki]

Waking Up in Vegas--Ch. 16

Chapter 16: Shut Up

Dean, Evening, 10:15 PM

           I made sure that Mera was calm before I slipped out of the trainer’s room for my match. She let me dab some cool water on her face, soothe away the puffy redness beneath her eyes. I would gladly have stayed with her through the rest of the night, but she insisted that I head to gorilla and get warmed up. She promised she’d be watching on the monitors.

           If I’d had my way, I wouldn’t have been fighting some mid-card tag-team player to fill time on Monday Night Raw. If I’d had my way, I wouldn’t have been defending the Raw tag-team championships beside my brother, Seth Rollins.

           If I’d had my way, I would’ve been beating the holy hell out of the man behind Seth Rollins for everything that he’d done to Mera Reynolds—my wife.

           But I didn’t have my way, there was no negotiating it with creative. I’d have to playact on camera as if Seth was still the brother I’d always known and loved. I’d learn to be calm for her sake. And I’d take out my rage on anyone they put in front of me.

Mera, Evening, 10:18 PM

           I checked my schedule to be sure that there wasn’t anyone I was scheduled to see. When I was sure that my next half hour or so was clear, I slipped out of the trainer’s room and made a quick stop at the bathroom. Dean might have tried to clean me up after my sobbing fit, but I didn’t want anyone to know that I’d been crying. Weakness wasn’t something that Vince McMahon took to very easily.

           Monitors were set up in a bank near some of the interview areas. I turned a bucket over and sat down in front of them just as Dean’s music screamed through the arena. Warmth spilled through my entire body when Dean appeared around the LED board, a wicked sort of grin on his face. I hoped that everything that happened hadn’t gotten so far into his head that it messed with his concentration.

           I couldn’t stand it if I was the reason Dean lost a match—no matter how small it was. His opponent swept down to the ring, Baron Corbin with his mid-level manager look. In character, he was as smarmy as they come. As a real person, he wasn’t too bad. A little cocky, but manageable. I might have liked him if he wasn’t so full of himself.

           The bell rang for the match to begin, and Dean leapt on his opponent with a fury that I’d never seen before. He wasn’t so much wrestling Baron as attempting to destroy him. Dean’s face had gone slightly red, his eyes wild even on camera. My stomach twisted.

           Something thumped on the floor next to me. I glanced out of the corner of my eye, surprised and startled to find Seth sitting on another upturned bucket. He seemed to be watching the monitors, but I couldn’t help but feel that he kept watching me as well.

           “Wonder why he’s so pissed off tonight,” Seth murmured, running his hand over his hair.

           I tried desperately to keep my words calm, even though I knew it was better to not speak to him at all. “None of your business.”

           “Shit, you don’t have to be so grumpy,” he grunted.

           My leg twitched in frustration. I wanted desperately to keep my attention on Dean and his match. He was my focus—he should be my focus—and whatever Seth Rollins had up his sleeve was nothing to me.

           I closed my eyes briefly, snatching at a fragment of a memory. Dean and I in Las Vegas on the night we got married. Dancing in the parking lot of the Little White Wedding Chapel to no music. I remembered his cornflower blue eyes and the way his autumn and mahogany hair looked tousled and wavy.

           I latched onto that thought—that moment when we set off on this journey together. No matter what happened, I would always have Dean Ambrose and that was enough.

           “Mera,” Seth said after a while. His voice sounded wounded and small. “I think it’s time we had a talk.”

           My lungs expanded with a deep breath. Dean whipped across the ring on the monitor, slamming hard into the ring post. I sucked in a gasp, knowing there’d be bruises tomorrow morning and making a mental note to set aside some ice packs to take to the hotel for him. Some Advil or Aleve wouldn’t be a bad idea either.

           “What on Earth is there for us to talk about, Seth?” I ground out.

 Seth, Evening, 10:29 PM

           At first, I thought she called me Seth because we were at work. It took me a while to realize that that was how she saw me. I wasn’t Colby to her anymore.

           And somehow, that was painful, but I couldn’t pinpoint why.

           “We used to be friends. Remember?” I asked, giving her a gentle knock with my knee.

           Hurt struck me in the chest when she moved away. She didn’t even try to hide her desire to get away from me. I swallowed hard, glanced down at my hands.

           “Remember when we were kids—like nine or something—and Brandon locked us in the shed on Mr. Quincy’s property? It was cold as fuck outside and the snow had blocked off the windows.”

           Something flashed along her face. I was surprised to find myself wishing that it was something good. This new wave of nostalgia and longing for the old days was enough to twist me into confusing knots. I tried not to look at the gentle curls in her honey-colored hair or the way that she looked so sadly, breathtakingly pretty.

           Her lips twitched, almost as if she wanted to smile. I took that as a good sign. “Your dad was so pissed when he found us. I’ve never seen Brandon run so fast than when we showed up on the front porch with your dad right behind us.”

           “Your brother never had any sense. Seems to be a family trait.”

           The phantom smile disappeared, replaced with a hard frown and a radiating cold.

           “Are you at least going to invite me to your second wedding?”

 Dean, Evening, 10:34 PM

           My back was throbbing. Baron was a son of a bitch to fight, but he put on a good show. When he realized I was throwing everything at him, he went in with gusto. I knew I’d have a bruise or two in the morning, and I was pretty damn certain that he would, too.

           All I could think of was Mera—not for how she could soothe the pain radiating down the center of my back. I craved just being close to her, watching the way that she moved with lithe grace. I longed to be enveloped in the scent that was uniquely her. I wanted to sit in the corner and watch the light play over her honey and fire hair.

           Mera Reynolds was the altar at the center of my being. She was the rock upon which I would build the rest of my existence. She was the goddess upon the pedestal at whose feet I knelt to worship. I loved her with every ounce of my soul, every cell in my body, every breath in my lungs.

           I rounded the corner and saw the light of my existence sitting in front of the monitors. Everything about her was breathtaking and beautiful.

           Except the fact that Seth was a few feet away.

           A growl rumbled through my chest. That primal thing in my chest roared with fury at him being so close to her. I couldn’t see her face, but my mind conjured up a thousand scenarios that could have brought her pain or discomfort. The growl rose up my throat, shredded my vocal cords, echoed down the corridor.

           Mera looked up at the sound. Her eyes widened as I raced toward them with rage in my veins. Something rattled along the floor as she stood up, nearly jumping out of the way. Seth was on his feet half a second later, but too slow to avoid the straight punch I threw at his jaw. His neck snapped back, rolling toward his left shoulder. He stumbled back a few paces, tripping over whatever Mera had knocked aside.

           “You’re a fucking son of a bitch, you know that, Rollins?” I snarled, stomping over to his prone form. He looked up at me from the floor, his hand cupping his jaw.

           “What the hell, Dean?” he accused.

           From the corner of my eye, I saw Mera with her back pressed up against the wall, watching the whole thing. I dug through my will, doing everything I could to stop myself from going after Seth. I reminded myself that the only thing that mattered was my wife’s happiness—her safety, her comfort, her peace.

           One deep breath after another. I turned my back on Seth and crossed the corridor to Mera with a few steps. I moved slowly, gave her space to think before I got too close.

           “Are you okay?” I asked in a quiet tone. My fingers itched to touch her, to brush against the soft skin of her cheek, but I held back.

           She took a tentative step before she seemed to find herself. Her eyes flashed as she moved. Color boomed on her face. Before I knew it, Mera had swept up in front of me and all but punched me in the chest.

           I knew my face bore surprise when I looked down at her. There was an anger that turned her amber eyes to flames. Good God, she was nearly electric with it. It crackled through her hair. It was static that blurred a halo around her body.

           “Don’t you ever do that again, Dean Ambrose,” she nearly snarled. “When—if—I need your help, I’ll tell you. Otherwise, just… let me fight on my own.”

           I almost didn’t believe what I was hearing. When the words permeated my brain, I couldn’t help it. I started laughing. It wasn’t because I thought it was funny, but because I loved the fire and certainty in her voice. As much as I adored the softness, the fragility of her in the quiet moments when she’s lost in thought, I cherished the strength in her that came out in sparse flashes and glimpses.

           Ignoring the fact that Seth was nearby, I reached for her. My fingers slid along the side of her neck, drawing her close enough to press my lips to hers. When I drew away, I was grinning.

           “Yes, ma’am,” I replied with pride. “I’m sorry… if I interrupted something.”

           Mera’s eyes moved over my shoulder, looking to where Seth had been. I followed her gaze, surprised to find him still there, his hand still rubbing at his jaw.

           “You’re right, Seth,” she said, “we used to be friends. But that was before. I was friends with the guy I grew up with. Whoever you are now, I don’t know who that is. And I’m certainly not friends with him because he’s a selfish asshole.”

           I tried not to smirk. I really did. But I couldn’t help it. In less than thirty seconds, she’d given him the perfect verbal smackdown. Pride swelled inside me, smoothed over the anger that had settled in my chest.

           Mera reached out and took my hand, threading our fingers together. It was a silent acknowledgement that she was mine and I was hers.

           “Let’s go, sweet wife,” I murmured against the top of her head. “Show’s almost over and I need some TLC from a qualified medical professional.”

           She blushed and grinned. Whether it was from the endearment or just because, but I’d take it. Seeing her happy was the only thing that mattered.

           That and watching her put Seth Rollins in his place.

Tag List:

@bethany99stuff-blog @houndsofjxstice @lunatictoosweet @xbutterflius-effectusx @mother-forker

[adamsvanrhijn]

fanfiction: to be between two religions

title: to be between two religions fandom: Les Misérables rating: general/teen relationships/characters: Enjolras/Marius; Marius, Enjolras word count: 4,660 keywords/tags: Swimming, Canon Era, Enjolras Has Feelings, Awkward Marius, Physical Fitness as Bonapartist Democrat Praxis summary:

Early one morning, Marius Pontmercy attends the swimming school where Enjolras is a regular.

notes: written for AO3 user CharlesLindberg for the 2019 Chocolate Box exchange.

{read two religions on AO3} {read two religions on Dreamwidth}

Marius is in a daze in the dressing room, in the showers, as he walks from that cloister of dry rooms to the lukewarm and humid area of pool facility.

His visit to the swimming school this morning marks the return of a habit he had many months before discarded: owing to his obligations — concerns at the publishing house which had drawn him from his reveries, forced him to work more than he was inclined — he has not slept properly in some days, and if the years of his adolescence are to be any evidence, the physical exertion of swimming never fails to rejuvenate and reset his body to its natural state. Besides that, newfound independence, penniless independence at that, distracted him from his old routines; he has neglected his body in favor of his mind. But he is here again, and has resolved to continue to be here even on days when it is not strictly necessary to wake him up. Courfeyrac was generous in giving him the sous to spend his morning bathing, indeed, he gave enough for a month's worth of patronage; he does not wish for the loan to be in vain.

(A year ago he would not have accepted a loan at all.)

Once he is in the water he feels momentarily as though he does not remember how he became so, but ducking under solves this problem, and then he is able to attempt once more that rhythm of the arms and legs which is only possible for a man submerged.

The first thirty meters are slow; on the second length he goes a little faster. The third and fourth are taxing, and when he nears the side of the pool where he started, he realizes that in his absence he has forgotten how to properly breathe.

A queue has formed at the end of the lane, in the shallow end. He surfaces to join it, treading water, bobbing: the floor is just enough inches beneath him that he is underwater entirely if he tries to stand upon it.

"Marius Pontmercy?"

In a careful balance, Marius tilts his head sideways to press the water out of his ear, presses his curly wet hair back from his forehead with the heel of his palm. The length is growing bothersome, but with all his distractions he has not yet seen to a barber. Now that he is attempting swimming practise, he is more cognizant of that necessity.

If he remembers, he'll ask Courfeyrac about it later.

"Marius Pontmercy."

He remains in place, another point in the line of swimmers. No one knows him, here, so whatever voice is saying his name must be an imagined one. It does sound a little familiar, but all imaginary voices must; it is not so uncommon to hear one's name amongst a din of human speech. Sound in the natatory room echoes.

Something brushes against his knee under the water, and he flinches.

Then he blinks. The something was someone, and the someone was saying his name indeed. It is Enjolras, Courfeyrac's friend, who is before him now. Marius feels blood rush to his cheeks: in recent months he has spent plenty of time with Courfeyrac, some even with L'Aigle and Jean Prouvaire, and although they have been not too long ago in the same room, his most prominent memory of being alone with Enjolras — even if it is from years ago!— is not one he is fond of. And it is alone, here, a quick glance tells him that everyone else in the swimming school at this hour indeed is a stranger.

"What a pleasure it is to see you, Citizen," says Enjolras, gracious. Although he does not smile, not really, he gazes into Marius with light in his eyes, an earnest turn in his lips; the discomfort dissipates. Looking at him, Marius forgets to paddle his hands and kick his legs, and he nearly sinks.

Then Enjolras takes his elbow and holds him upright, completely level, until he starts again. Marius looks down and sees that only his legs move beneath the water.

"Huh," says Marius, for he sees also that Enjolras looks very different while undressed. And too: were it not for the fact that he has on previous occasions accompanied him elsewhere, alongside Courfeyrac, Marius might assume that the man existed solely in lamplit backrooms, speaking of Thermidor and guillotines and Rousseau and crime and whatever other conversational matters to which republicans so devout as he were prone.

(In fact, Marius has never before in his life heard Enjolras utter the word "guillotine".)

It is difficult to shake the impression that Enjolras should not be here, for in a swimming pool is a far cry from in the street, bathing clothes have little in common with an overcoat, Courfeyrac is not here to mind him, and thus there is nothing about this encounter which Marius can relate to any others.

Enjolras looks at him with an unreadable expression – high forehead smooth, head tilted. Droplets of water are still upon his cheeks, flushed only slightly with exertion; a damp lock of hair falls at his brow. In daylight, when dry, Enjolras's hair is pale but with a golden sheen; here it is nearly translucent. It curls about his face like a girl's.

...he is, however, very much a man, even if Marius had thought them each the same age at one point — that horrible cusp when one is between adult and child — until Courfeyrac had mentioned otherwise. Marius thinks to himself that if young women were to smile at Enjolras, it would be because they think him handsome, whether he wore a threadbare coat or not. Himself, he has no such good fortune.

Another man begins his next length; they move up in the line. Marius grabs the curved edge of the wall so that he need not exert effort simply to stay in place.

Enjolras does no such thing. It seems to Marius that he ought to have better things to do than attend open hours at the swimming pool so early in the day. He nearly asks the question — 'why are you here, at a quarter to seven in the morning?' — then thinks better of it, but he senses that his mouth is opening and closing like that of a fish.

A fitting comparison for the setting, even if any respectable fish ought be far more comfortable in the water than Marius himself.

"You think it odd that I attend the swimming school."

...even after time apart, it is as though Enjolras knows everything he has ever thought, and thinks him wrong for it.

Marius presses his lips together and nods.

"Man ought to be in water as he is on land."

Dimly Marius recalls that this was an opinion published by Rousseau, and determines that his impression of Enjolras was at least not entirely inaccurate.

He makes no reply, however. What is there to say?

They are splashed by a turning swimmer. The wall is not really meant for conversation.

Enjolras touches his shoulder, and a thrill travels down Marius's back. "And indeed," he says, "my mother will need her navymen," and then he moves nearer to the wall, bends his knees, and pushes into a swift, effortless crawl stroke.

Marius watches the contraction of his back and curve of his elbow, dazed.

So he continues swimming laps. So early in the morning is an unusual time to be at the pool; the room is hardly crowded. There are but four other men in his lane besides Enjolras, each of whom seem to match his own capability and speed. Enjolras passes them all at various points and is utterly considerate about it.

Swimming, Marius believes, develops his mind and body at once. He once regularly attended the school at the quai d'Orsay to hone the skill, for lessons and for free-time alike, but with all his practice he has not become exceptional, and his year upon dryland only has certainly not done him any favors. It is very well, he supposes, for while Enjolras has mentioned the Navy, the Emperor's conquests were made upon land, not water; a honeybee can fly but not swim. There were no seas to be crossed at Marengo or Borodino.

In any case, he does not aspire to join the military, or at least, not for a France under the House of Bourbon. Still, he would like to be skilled at it, and devotes himself to lessons wholeheartedly, practices on his own time. Physical fitness is important. He imagines, too, that his father would have valued a son who strives to be competent in all man's capacities, being ranked so in the military, and dreams that he is growing up in the fashion of Baron Colonel Georges Pontmercy. Yes, Marius would like to be an upstanding young man in his father's image: versatile, well-rounded, a superlative version of himself, suited for a nation united under the Empire.

Since leaving his grandfather's house he has lapsed in discipline; it used to be that he might go swimming whenever the thought passed his mind — on his returns from Vernon, after a lecture, upon waking, before retiring. He did not exert himself only when he thought he needed to, but regularly, with the cognizance that to do so improved him as a man; once he learned the truth of his lineage, his desire for that improvement only increased.

Well: he has lapsed in this discipline; without discipline he could not have learned to read in German or English, nor maintained steady work, earned his keep. Without discipline, he would not have made up his mind upon his employment and devoted his free-time to pondering and reading and listening, to taking walks in the city and dining at old-fashioned restaurants. But while his thoughts have flourished, his form has suffered.

Luckily, even after time away, the water still refreshes him. He will much prefer it to accompanying Courfeyrac to see his friends on his days off, and at times when he is not inclined to be social, to passing the hours with old Mabeuf, as well. He will allow himself plenty of time to improve again.

Meanwhile, Enjolras is as comfortable in the water as a dolphin – although perhaps he would not prefer precisely that comparison. His technique and his vigor are mesmerizing; he cannot help but watch whenever he has the chance. He glides more than double the length of his body at once and turns his head to breathe without altering the positioning of his torso and legs; the muscles in his narrow shoulders and back tense and relax in rhythm. His strokes and kicks have strength behind them. The wool of his bathing costume conforms to his thighs and his shoulders and — to his body, generally, in a manner that would be inappropriate, were ladies present. When he swims upon his back, Marius finds that he must avert his eyes.

The hour continues on, and Enjolras does not leave.

Each time Marius feels they are distant from one another, he then notices Enjolras approaching from behind him. Enjolras simply has more stamina. It is unfortunate, thinks Marius, that the months of absence from the swimming school have rendered his own body foreign to him. He must breathe more frequently, pause at the end of the course for longer – once, he was more capable. He feels as though he has entered into a competition against his will, that he need prove something, he begins to kick harder, pull with more effort.

But it is too much, too soon, and so as he finishes the fourth length of a repetition of 120 metres, pause he does.

Some seconds later, Enjolras performs a gymnastic somersault beneath the water beside him, and continues on without taking a breath.

Marius lays his forearms upon the edge of the floor above the pool and rests his head upon his elbow, breathing heavily. His pulse is still racing from the exertion.

He stays like that for a little longer, allowing the other men to pass him by, until an old man in an impermeable waistcoat and garish taffeta water-cap leans over to him to say, "have you finished, then?"

Marius, his arms keeping him buoyant at the wall, feeling as dazed as he had upon his arrival, can do nothing but blink up at him dumbly. The old man tuts and begins to dip his toes into the water beside his shoulder.

He understands this message, and so hoists himself out of the pool, the session concluded.

When Enjolras enters the dressing area from the shower room, holding his wrung-out swimming costume in one hand and a linen towel around his waist with the other, Marius himself is nude and examining a hole in his chemise. He tries not to let this new presence phase him, but finds he can think only of the thoughts which must run through Enjolras's head: he is poor, he cannot afford even a patch for his shirt, he thinks little of his own appearance, he is foolish, he does not finish what he starts, he lacks in self-government... He cannot imagine the words in Enjolras's voice, for Enjolras has only ever been kind to him; nonetheless he cannot shake the sensation that he is being sneered at.

"In the interest of verity," begins Enjolras abruptly, "I shall say that I may speak only on my own behalf." He retrieves a stack of folded garments from the shelves, sets them upon one of the benches — diagonally from Marius — and then lays the towel down and sits, begins patting himself down with a smaller one. Marius turns from him before he sees more than he ought to. "But, I have missed your presence at society gatherings."

This is not sneering.

Marius does not look at him.

"Thank you?" he manages to reply, but the words leave his lips with garbled intonation; he sounds to his own ear a schoolboy unsure of his recitation. He has not actually attended a meeting of the society of the Friends of the ABC in nearly two years.

"No need." This is accompanied by a sound resembling a laugh, but softer, somehow kinder. He has the impression that behind him Enjolras is watching him – waiting for him, perhaps, to say that he misses attending them, or that he would like to come again soon. But there is nothing to wait for: Marius has long-since made his decision upon the state of things, and though he maintains friendly relations with some of the society's members, he does not wish to be a friend himself.

"I am glad that I am graced with it here, nevertheless," Enjolras continues. "Do you swim often?"

He sets down his shirt. In any other circumstance, confronted with a man he knows in such a strange environment, he is sure he would feel compelled to dress and depart as quickly as possible. To do this to Enjolras, however, seems as though it might be disrespectful —

The fact that he is even considering this facet of etiquette makes him feel as though he ought to follow his instinct, and stay.

"I used to."

"Perhaps you might begin again."

Marius does not look at him.

"Perhaps. Yourself?"

"Yes, thrice a week, in winter."

Marius says, "it is very cold this year."

In an ordinary conversation they would be seated or standing across from one another, able to observe the other's countenance, and fully clothed. Owing to the latter aspect, Marius is unwilling to turn around. He gazes at the wall, instead, and simply hears: an occasional splash from the corridor to the pool, the squeak of a hand-crank in the shower room next door, the whir of water through pipes. He feels his arms hang limp at his sides and becomes suddenly aware of his own body and his state of undress, as though he ought be doing something with himself; he crosses his arms at his belly and clenches his hands, a little.

"And to be moving is to be warm," says Enjolras, breaking the quiet. His tone gives Marius the impression he might be quoting something, but he cannot imagine what. It is not so complex a thought. "In summer, there is more to do out of doors; I maintain the habit in winter for the body's sake. One does not feel cold so much if he exerts himself regularly."

"That is true," says Marius, and he fidgets, rubbing his knees together awkwardly, before adding softly — "you do swim very well."

"Ah — thank you, as do you."

There it is: perhaps Enjolras intends to mock him, perhaps his flattery is insincere. Marius scoffs a little too loudly, and begins to arrange his clothing that he can depart sooner.

"You do not think so? You've excellent technique, Marius; I imagine only that you are out of practice. Yours is a problem of stamina."

Excellent technique, with a problem of stamina.

Perhaps Enjolras is simply the most earnest man he has ever met, and wishes only for the improvement of others. Perhaps Marius is being stupid and ought to stop thinking that Courfeyrac's friends see him a half-wit.

"I do not intend to give unwelcome criticism. Indeed, I hope to see you continue. Yes, I come here to be warm, but so too does swimming develop not only the musculature of a man but also his discipline and character — a regular practice from which we may all benefit," comes his voice again, falling into the same, lofty tone from before, and uncharacteristically wistful.

"Are those your words?" blurts Marius, for he cannot help himself.

"No, in fact, they are my father's, though the idea cannot be attributed to any one man."

"Your father!"

Yes, this conversation is sincere, after all.

Marius attempts to picture Enjolras-the-senior, and only succeeds in imagining a broad and graying Enjolras-Courfeyrac's-friend. He thinks to himself, with some bitterness, that Enjolras has words from his father, in his father's voice; perhaps Enjolras visits his father at Christmastime in the provinces, wherever he is from, and swimming in winter is a strange sort of family tradition that began there.

"How — yes, my father."

"How splendid!"

"Among numerous other things, he taught me to swim himself; I learned in the Loire. I am fond of those memories."

Questions come to him at a rapid pace; he says everything that comes into his mind at once, unable to stop himself.

"The river, you mean? Wouldn't it be cold, in wintertime? Well, you are from the South, I can tell by the way you — never mind, perhaps it is warmer there, do you swim together still?"

"Indeed the river, and yes, very cold in all seasons. We swam out of doors only, and only in summer: the water comes from the mountains. There were no heated baths and steam pumps as in Paris."

This only partially satisfies Marius, yet he stops himself from continuing the interrogation, cognizant of his running mouth. After a moment, Enjolras adds quietly, "My father died, however, when I was twelve. By that time I was living with my uncle and did not see him regularly."

Marius's heart stutters, and he at last turns around to look at him.

Enjolras sits with his back straight as a soldier's, his legs parted at the thighs and crossed at the ankles. His hair is soaked, still; Marius watches a drop of water fall from a curl to his shoulder, along his toned chest and abdomen. No matter how frail or feeble he may seem while clothed, owing to lean limbs and reedy hands and skin that at times was more wan than rosy, in the water, clad in clinging wool and always in motion, it had been clear that Enjolras had the build more of a warrior than a wilting flower. Perhaps he was raised as Marius imagines he himself might have been, in different circumstances: he mentioned lessons, so it is that his uprightness and his constitution and his fitness are products of his parentage.

Here, stripped, the look of him makes Marius wonder for a moment what else about Enjolras ought be obvious to him that isn't.

He feels heat rise to his cheeks when he realizes that Enjolras sees him looking, and turns his gaze to the floor, instead, just for a moment, to rid himself of the sense of impropriety.

"I didn't know," he says, mouth suddenly dry, and then he looks at Enjolras once more — now in the eyes. Here they can hold one another's gaze, where before Marius was utterly incapable of it.

"Thus I have told you. I do not think of him often; you needn't offer commiseration."

"But you see — you see — I was seventeen."

"Pardon?"

Breathe.

"When my own father died, I was seventeen. I never knew him. As a boy he did not teach me to swim, nor anything else, but I come here now in his honor. My mother died when I was five. I have a grandfather, but he is nothing to me now, and an aunt, but she lives in his house."

Enjolras tilts his head to one side, quizzical, and says nothing. Marius cannot think of what to do, but once more his mouth continues for him, and once he has started he finds he cannot stop — whether or not Enjolras understands, or wishes to hear it, is of no consequence, for the need to justify himself has risen in him, and can only be satisfied in this way. "I was kept from my father. I've neither fond nor unfavorable memories of him in life, for I learned the truth about him only upon his death, from reading a letter he left me and then the newspapers, the army bulletins. I never knew him at all. At my age he was fighting in the Army of the Rhine — you will know about the battles of Jemappes, and Pirmasens, and Mainz, surely — "

"Of course — under the Republic."

A font seems to come up from within Marius at Enjolras's hallowed tone as he pronounces the word, Republic.

"He fought under the Republic in his youth, and he fought under the Empire as a man. Under the Republic he rose in the ranks, but achieved no glory; the Republic was a stepping stone for my father as it was for France. I respect it, do not have that air; I respect the Republic. I must respect what laid the foundation, but it is the construction which I venerate. The Emperor was the builder; his method was as conqueror. To France he brought triumph, the gleam of the future, a territory united in greatness; that is what my father fought for. Under the Emperor my father became a captain and then a Major. At Waterloo it was he who seized the regimental colours of the Limburg Rifles; doing so earned for him a Legion of Honor and a barony, and now that is mine. I cannot be all what he wished for me, not after my childhood, not after the theft of the throne, but I — "

From experience, he is careful not to end his speech with a question.

"I endeavor to honor him in all that I do."

Enjolras is neither solemn nor amused; he does not scoff, but he has lost a little of the approval in his gaze. He seems almost sad. He says, "thus you admire Buonaparte," and clasps his hands before him, looks at Marius with searching eyes.

Marius is incapable of processing this. "Why — "

"You do not care for my pronunciation; I do not care for yours. '95 was a service, '97 a warning, '99 a betrayal. I shall call a tyrant as I please."

"It is a matter of principle," says Marius, and there is more he wishes to say, but Enjolras's tone is sobering, final. Enjolras looks him up and down; he becomes once more aware of his undress, and turns away a little.

"It is good for a man to have principles," begins Enjolras. "You have them, as you say, and you've a vehemence about them; for that I respect you. Apathy is the adversary of progress and good-will, Marius, and that is a matter upon which I daresay we agree. You speak of foundations: that laid by the people in '89 and '93 has not crumbled despite the efforts of those who sought to rule France by force, but I cannot agree with you that Buonaparte built upon its legacy, and I should not agree were someone to say the same of Louis XVIII or Charles X." – then he pauses, and goes on only with, "forgive me for my untowardness, Citizen, for I do not wish to discomfit you. You are an intelligent, impassioned man; you have bared your soul to me; you have confided in me, and I have met you not with consideration but with contrarianism."

The contrarianism itself is of no consequence, for Marius cannot imagine that Enjolras will ever understand him, nor he Enjolras. This matter is one upon which he has made his mind, but now he is confronted with it again. Marius does not want to be a pupil, as Courfeyrac said once; he wants to keep to himself, stay true to what he knows is right, remain steadfast. In a way, this is worse than the scorn he has imagined receiving, than the words he perceived as mockery, from Enjolras, for now that he is receiving such clear praise, he cannot even think ill of his intentions.

He and Enjolras are different in their views, in their routines, in their beliefs.

But they are alike, in some ways, too.

"You are not untoward."

"No?"

"You are always discussing politics. It would be foolish of me to expect otherwise, but I am not uncomfortable to do so as well; it is only that I disagree with you on the fundamentals. I have laid out my reasons for you."

"Which of them?"

This gives Marius pause.

Enjolras looks almost pleased with himself.

"I refer, of course, to your fundamentals, Marius."

"I — have we not established this? You want to discuss now?" For it is rather a miracle they've not been intruded upon, in the state they're in, the conversation they've had. Neither of their philosophies are particularly palatable for most, Marius imagines, but to please the palate is not why they keep them.

"Of course there are better venues for this discourse," he continues, and at long last he pats himself down with the ends of the towel before retrieving and donning his shirt, which is bright white and seems freshly laundered. "Have you yet plans for your day, Marius?"

Now Marius turns from him entirely, back to where he started, and he picks up his own to do the same. The new tear in his chemise - he has a little money now, Madame Bourgon can darn it, if he remembers to ask - is right at the collar; his coat will not conceal it. The old one is inconveniently revealing. It is laundered, but worn and yellowed.

Another difference between them.

"No," he says, shirt over his head. He pushes his arms through, adjusts it, and fastens each button of the placket — Enjolras does the same, and at the same time.

Each across from the other they wrap their shirts, don their trousers; Enjolras has more pieces in his outfit than Marius but takes somehow less time to dress. Enjolras fastens his overcoat at his throat.

Another similarity.

He gathers his own things; Enjolras offers assistance. Once they are orderly he clasps Marius's shoulder, just like in times before, and then his hand slides along his back that they may link arms.

"Allow me to take you to breakfast."

"Oh," replies Marius, a little caught off-guard. "All right."

And so he allows himself be lead, just this once, and they depart together.

[random-red-ramblings]

Chapters: 7/? Fandom: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean Characters: Javert (Les Misérables), Jean Valjean, Cosette Fauchelevent, Toussaint (Les Misérables), Rivette (Les Misérables) Additional Tags: Post-Seine, Javert Lives, Slow Burn, old man virgins, Eventual Porn, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, guys getting through their issues, tentative friendship, Friends to Lovers, Javert using slurs to describe himself, wet dreams, Masturbation Summary:

Javert's moment with the Seine is interrupted but his confusion and uncertainty remain. Life continues to be difficult for him with these new trials of conscience, but perhaps it gets somewhat easier in the presence of a friend.

Friendship is the last thing either of them expected and maybe, in the end, it's a bond that runs far deeper.

Chapter 7

Javert had not made contact with Valjean, or heard from him, in over two months. Javert ran out of reasons why he had not visited - his last letters at the end of November had skirted too close to lying for him to be comfortable maintaining such correspondence. Javert ceased to respond and Valjean eventually stopped writing. Javert had allowed their relationship, whatever it was, to dwindle into nothing.

Autumn ended, Christmas passed and a New Year began. Javert had no care for these dates and no reason to celebrate - he never had done. There was still no sign of Thenardier, which only soured Javert's mood further. He had hoped the blackguard would have attended the execution of his fellows in a sick fascination but Javert and his men had hidden in the crowd and did not catch sight of him.

It was a cold February to reflect his mood and he heard news of the Pontmercy wedding in the form of gossip overheard on his patrols. The lower classes always liked to marvel about the rich, although they often found their misfortune most gripping, sometimes a positive story conjured fantasies they could escape into for a moment. Folly, Javert thought, a beggar woman imagining a Baron might whisk her away and present her a fine white dress. It would only pain them more to open their eyes and see the reality of the hard, wet cobblestones where they resided.

Little did they know it but that was almost precisely what had happened. Not that Cosette was a beggar (Valjean might not ever let him set foot in his home again if Javert said such a thing) but she was an orphan, born with the lowest in society. Perhaps she did not even know she was an orphan, Javert mused; Valjean would want to protect her from all the bad things in the world. She called him ‘Papa’ readily enough, with all the affection it was meant to have.

He considered writing a letter of congratulation to Valjean, but that seemed foolish. What would he be congratulating Valjean for? If he were to send congratulations it would be to the happy couple and he could not bring himself to do that. Time rolled on and the opportunity for such a message passed.

He still saw Valjean in his dreams. They occurred less often now but he still could not manage to get through a week without one. Valjean would whisper how much he had missed him and Javert would apologise with all the care and dedication he could.

Sometimes he thought he saw Valjean when he was out on patrol, but whenever he looked back it always turned out to be someone else. Part of him wished that their paths would cross, that fate would bring them together once more and Javert did not have to choose not to see him. He patrolled Valjean's regular haunts in the hope of catching a glimpse of him but to no avail. He was likely in his daughter’s home, doting over her as always, gaining joy from her happiness. As it should be. Javert had no place in such a life.

The Spring sunshine chased away the winter frost and blossoms bloomed in the Luxembourg. Javert tried to prevent his gaze from lingering on the flowers and the bench on which he had sat with Valjean in the last of the Summer heat. It was as if the last days of April were making an extra effort to inject good cheer into the city but to Javert it only felt as if it were mocking his heavy heart.

“Sir…” Rivette said cautiously as he lingered at the edge of Javert's desk.

“What is it?” Javert snapped.

“Well, I know it's not my business but I was wondering… that gentleman friend of yours… When did you last see him?”

“He is not-” Not a gentleman? Not his friend? “He is not your concern.”

“I used to see him talking to you sometimes that's all.” Rivette continued regardless. “He's that charitable old fellow isn't he? A good man. And… well, I think he's the one who took you in after the barricade- so anyway,” Rivette hurried on before Javert argued, “I saw him yesterday and… He didn't seem quite right, Sir.”

“How do you mean?” Javert leaned towards him, all of the denials on his tongue forgotten.

“He seemed… lost, Sir. Just lingering around Rue Saint Louis. I asked him if he needed any help and he looked so afraid, he said he was sorry, even though I told him he wasn't in any trouble, and he just… ran away.” Rivette frowned at Javert's desk. “I'm just worried for him is all, he seems a good friend to you. It's not my place to make assumptions but he is old and I wondered if he was… quite in his right mind. He seemed awfully vulnerable.”

“That is concerning… Thank you for bringing it to my attention. The amount of money he carries around…” Javert said to justify his concern as a man of the law being concerned for a good citizen and nothing more. “He’ll be an easy target.”

“When was the last time you saw him, Sir? If you don't mind my asking.”

Javert sighed. “It's been months. Four or five months! I will check on him, Rivette. I fear I have been neglectful.”

“I hope he is alright, Sir.”

“Thank you Rivette.”

Javert collected himself and left for Rue des Filles du Calvaire. He hailed a fiacre in his urgency and sat consumed with ideas, each worse than the last, about what could have happened to Valjean. He jumped out of the fiacre as soon as it pulled up, thrust the necessary coins into the driver’s palm, and rapped on the door of Number 6.

He was about to pound his fist on the door again when it opened to reveal a startled looking maid.

“Where is Va-Fauchelevent?” He demanded.

The maid frowned at his rude manner of speaking. “That's Madame or Baroness Pontmercy to you Sir. What is your business here?”

“I am Inspector Javert and I have pressing matters in regards to Monsieur Fauchelevent. He is not here?”

“No, Inspector. Haven't seen him in a long while.”

“Then I must speak with the Baroness.”

“I will fetch her,” the maid inclined her head, motioning for him to step into the hall and closed the door behind him. “Wait here.”

Javert stepped inside and tapped his foot with impatience until Cosette arrived, looking just as anxious and harried as he felt.

“Inspector! Come in, come in!” She ushered him into a lounge, gesturing for him to sit but Javert shook his head.

“Madame-”

Cosette shook her head, aghast. “Oh no, Inspector, please, we are friends. Call me Cosette. I will not have you say all of these silly things like my Papa does. Can you believe he insisted that I call him Monsieur Jean? Monsieur Jean! What is that? It is not even his name! Oh tell me Inspector, how is he? I did not like how he was behaving in his last visits.”

Javert's heart plummeted. Monsieur Jean: the name he should have always possessed and yet Valjean wished it to be spoken by the one person who should have used that most beloved name - Papa - instead.

“And when did you last see him?”

“Oh… It has been weeks! He told Marius that he was going away on a journey.”

“When will he be going?”

“Why, he has already gone! Quite some time ago. Did he not tell you? When did you last see him?”

“My associate saw him on Rue Saint Louis only yesterday.”

“But that is so close! Why is he not here? What is going on Inspector? Where is my father? Please, you must tell me what is happening.”

To see her so distraught reminded Javert of Fantine and of how he had remained cold back then, denying her desire to be reunited with her family. It unnerved him and he risked lightly resting his hand on Cosette’s shoulder. He was different now, there was no doubt. His heart ached for Valjean and for this loving child who had accepted that quiet, kind man so willingly in a way that no one else had. Javert had the power to make things right, to give this woman her father and save Valjean from his martyrdom.

“I will. But your husband must join us so we can see everything clearly.”

“I will fetch him right away,” she said as she hurried from the room.

Javert was more certain than he had been about anything since the barricade. He knew what he must do when he found Valjean and he was sure he knew where to locate him.

Cosette rushed back into the room. “Inspector! What on Earth is going on? Marius tells me I must be mistaken and you cannot be here because you are dead! What is the meaning of this?”

“You,” Javert growled as Marius Appeared behind her. When he had assisted Valjean in returning the boy home after the barricade, he had not recognised him beneath the muck. “You owe me two pistols.”

Marius did not respond, only stared at him, pale and wide-eyed. Javert tutted in frustration.

“Explanations are in order. Sit.”

They obeyed, sitting side by side on the couch.

“But Inspector-” Marius began.

“Enough. You will speak when spoken to. We do not need any more confusion. Now, you will tell me what V- your father has been doing from December until now.”

“We were living how you knew us to - at Rue de l’Homme-Armé.” Cosette said. “He helped organise the wedding, which happened in February.”

“And presented us with Cosette's dowry. A large sum,” Marius added, staring intently at Javert as if he were trying to tell him something else.

“Did he attend the ceremony?”

“Of course! He took me down the aisle but he had injured his arm so could not sign the papers.”

“Did he indeed?” Javert muttered.

“I insisted he visit every day when I came to live here. I wanted him to live with us but he would not have it and…”

“And?”

Cosette frowned at her lap. “He behaved very strangely. He would only receive me in the dusty little basement room. I made sure it was cleaned for him, and as nice as it could be with a fire in the grate and comfortable chairs… But then he started to refuse those things and…” Her eyes sparkled with tears and she paused to collect herself. “And the last time it was just a cold, bare room!”

“And ‘Monsieur Jean’.”

“Oh do not remind me! It is awful!”

“And then he stopped coming altogether. Monsieur Pontmercy,” Javert refused to call him by his ridiculous title, “what did he tell you? That he was going away?”

Marius shifted uncomfortably. “You must understand Inspector, I thought you were dead-”

“And what does that have to do with anything? Speak plainly man!”

“But,” Marius cast a sidelong glance at his wife, “he told me to keep his secret and that Cosette mustn't know.”

“He would keep secrets from me even now,” Cosette whispered to herself. She wiped her eyes. “I won't have it Marius. There are no secrets between us. We need to help him and you will tell me.”

“Very well.” Marius sighed and turned to Javert. “At the barricade Monsieur Fauchelevent took you, the captured spy, away to execute you.”

“Execute!” Cosette cried. “Marius! As if my father could ever do such a thing!”

“Evidently he did not.” Javert interrupted before an argument ensued.

“But how was I to know! Cosette has never mentioned your name, I had not seen you since, and when he told me his story it explained why he would wish an inspector dead. When I questioned him about it he did not deny it! Why would he allow me to believe him to be a murderer?!”

“And believing him to be you stopped him visiting your home.”

“Marius! Tell me you didn't!”

Marius hung his head. “We agreed it was for the best,” he held up his hand before Cosette could interrupt. “You do not know the things he told me, my darling.”

“Then tell me! I told you that he saved your life! What could possibly outweigh the gratitude you should feel for him for that act?”

“I think,” Javert interrupted once more, “that it is your father's story to tell. We shall go to him and hear what he has to say.”

“Oh yes! You know where he is? Can we go at once?” Cosette was already out of her seat but Marius remained frozen, looking terribly anxious.

“Do not worry yourself,” Javert told him. “I already know his story.”

“You do?” Marius frowned in disbelief, likely thinking Javert could not know the whole tale otherwise Valjean would be in the bagne.

“I do. Now come. We will clear this matter up.”

They left immediately and Javert hailed a fiacre. The Pontmercy’s no doubt had their own means of transportation but he did not want to wait for the driver to be summoned and the horses haltered. Javert barked the address and held the door open to hurry Cosette and Marius inside.

Cosette recognised the street they headed towards. “But this is… Inspector, are you telling me my father has been at home this whole time?”

“We will find out.”

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[ironbound-praetorium]

War Has the Worst Timing...

“Rae, seriously? I’m literally testing blood samples.”

Okay, so maybe my timing was a little off as I sneak up behind the Confessor and slide my hands under her robes, but damned if she doesn’t tip her head back and purr into my ear as it happens. I know Brilaria appreciates the three days worth of scruff on my face that she’s currently nuzzling into, regardless if she’s up to her elbows in blood. I know because that fine ass of hers is pressed right against my cock and the hellcat is wiggling like its her fucking job.

“You’ll never guess what I found down the hall...” I whisper against her ear, nudging a strand of her dark brown hair out of the way so I can nibble up the length of one long ear.

“Another nurse you want me to check out?” Damn, she knows me too well... but for once, she’s wrong.

“A telesurgery station with robotic augmentation.” I can feel the shiver run down her back as I tell her about the latest Titan discovery in her ear. The moan she lets slip out is one I know well, but damned if it doesn’t make me want her all the more.

“Gods, I love when you talk medical marvels to me...” Only Bri would be ready to ride my cock into next week over the prospect of laser surgery, and gods do I love her for it.

Brilaria Suncrest and I go back even before I lost my Rose. In fact, the Praetoriums Confessor was our favorite castmate when it came to the bedroom, as Vinnie and I were never ones for anything vanilla. It’s an arrangement that carried over even after Vinnie’s mortal form burned on the pyre and she took her rightful place as one of Eonar’s Chosen. Granted, took me about a year to want to get my dick wet after I lost her, but sure enough, when I was ready, Bri was right there.

See, she’s lost two husbands to the bullshit wars this world has conjured up, and has quite made up her mind to have nothing but casual sex for the rest of her days. Which, works well for me given my heart is waiting for me on a battlefield in Icecrown.

Bri knows that, but it’s never given her a moments pause when it came to crawling across my lap and fucking me until I can’t even remember my name. Ya gotta love a woman who knows what she wants and doesn’t demand feelings attached to mind blowing sex. Bri’s a fucking gift from the Light, sent to keep my insatiable ass from chipping away at a hundred bed posts over my lifetime. And, if I do say so myself, the girl never leaves walking straight, or without a shit eating grin... so I must be doing something right.

“You have the little girl from last week coming in for her cast in about twenty. Should be the last one of the day....” she says as I let her get back to the samples, knowing damned good and well she’ll be naked in my bed before the night’s out.

“Alda! Yeah, I promised her we’d go check out one of the scooters I found in the supply room. That shit’s genius for kids! Took a trip to Stormwind to get her a shiny horn for it and everything. Should come down and see it...found little pink and green stars to put on it... well Neris put them on, but its still pretty great!” I can see her rolling her eyes at my excitement over this particular topic, but we’ve both been giddy since Mal brought us here.

It’s not just the city itself or what it stands for, though that is bloody fucking brilliant. No, this place has potential that comes from far more than its neutral idea of thinking, and more in the genius that exists in every corner. Sanctuary City has the potential to save thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of lives... and Bri and I both know it. We’ve dedicated our whole lives to healing people, as that’s what the Light calls us to do, but even we have our limits when it comes to what our magic can do. This place...seems to get rid of those limitations with every new piece of technology we come across. Shit, half of it I don’t even know what it does...but I’ve made it my mission to find out. We both have.

Neither of us hesitated to lend a hand when Mal said this place was in need of healers, but we totally didn’t expect this crazy ass city full of shit we can’t even pronounce, let alone use. I mean, Bri and I are both capable in most areas of healing and medical knowledge, but here? Shit... we’re in over our heads in the best fucking way imaginable.

“Still thinking about focusing on the kids here? Might help organize things a bit better...” She’s not wrong, and I can totally admit that working with kids is way better than listening to adults bitch and complain. Kids appreciate my dumb magic tricks and I gotta admit there’s nothing better than watching a little patient skip out of my company knowing they are back to full health. What can I say? I’m a sucker for make-believe and giggles that come from finding just the right spot to tickle to make them smile.

“Figuring so. Doesn’t mean I won’t see anyone who needs it... but might give any of their parents a bit of calm knowing they talk to the same healer every time, instead of bopping around and all of us scrambling to learn charts. Ya know, especially with chronic conditions...” I’ve dealt with more than a few cases of that kind of shit over the years, hell.... unexplained illness was the reason I learned to heal as my youngest sister (Light rest her soul) spent her life struggling with it.

“Going to have to control that tongue of yours if you except to not offend half this city with your sailors mouth...” Oh, I’m going to control it all right... right between those thighs of hers later. Damned if that thought doesn’t bring a shit eating grin that splits my face wide. She knows exactly what she said... and exactly the kinda thoughts that commentary brings.

“Guess I’ll just have to wear it out so as to not slip up and yell ‘fuck’ hunh?” I really can’t help the fact that my hands wander to her ass, I mean... it’s there... and Light have mercy, makes a man just want to build an altar to it and praise it’s creation. 

I’m halfway to my knees and that very devotion when Tanner comes skidding to halt outside the room we’re in, yelping in surprise as he spins his back to us. I can see the kids ears turning as red as my hair, and all I can do is fucking laugh my ass off and let go of Bri’s hips that were all too willing to part in some hideaway closet for an afternoon delight.

“Fucking hell, Tanner... you got the shit worst timing of any person I’ve ever-” I’m ready to send his ass back to the Commander for interrupting my pursuit of Brilaria, but then he starts talking and makes my blood boil.

“Pixie called in a 1078 for Darkshore. Horde’s launched an attack on Ashenvale, Captain. Addie’s in Darkshore with them breathing down her neck!” He’s still got his back turned, but Bri and I have lost all heat between us as we both make a grab for our medkits stacked in the corner. Fuck!

“What do you mean Horde attacked Ashenvale?” Bri asks as she trades her doctors coat for the battle robes of blue and silver she favors.  We’re already halfway out of the clinic when Tanner starts relaying the information he has. It’s not much, but it’s enough for both of us to exchange glances knowing the shit was about to hit the fan.

“Commander wants you both at the airstrip. The Baron’s already got backup on his way to Pixie, including the Runesinger....” I might dislike the Baron as a person, but that fucker doesn’t mess around when it comes to keeping our people safe. He sent our portal master after the Pixie knowing she’d need an escape route, and there’s none better. Seen that fucker rip open space right in the middle of Ulduar, so I know she’s in good hands. “Astranaar has already fallen, according to the Baron...and their destroying everything in their path on the way to Lor’Danil.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This is not good at all. “Mal’s going after the civilians.” Bri and I both realize this as the same time, as the Commander wouldn’t just sit idly by and let innocent lives fall under the weight of faction wars and banners. Tanner confirms this as we’re jogging through the city on a direct path for the airstrip, but I know this plan isn’t going to save them all. Fucking hell, there are times I really hate the fucking Horde...though a few weeks ago I was ready to make myself a nice fur rug outta Greymanes ass, so....both sides suck.

“Commander’s got the troops rallying at Light’s Hope, waiting his orders.... or whatever the  fuc-...” Tanner knows better than to adopt my language, but I can’t fault him for it right now, this whole situation is a shit storm, and I know the kids scared. “Commander has a plan that involves an airship.”

I swear to the fucking Light I can hear Bri’s mental gears turning as she starts plotting and planning the rescue effort from the healing side of things. She’ll have tents and tags ready to deploy at a moment’s notice; this isn’t either of our first rescue missions, and judging by the sound of things.. it’s not going to be our last.

“Well then, let’s go save the fucking world one more gods damned time...” I’m getting really tired of this shit. Thought I’d be done getting involved in world ending problems after the debacle in Ulduar with the Observer. You’d think after nearly being reoriginated the assholes in this world would have sat the fuck down and chilled the fuck out... but no. Here I go again, cleaning up their fucking mess.

((

@khan-of-the-ruruan

@kelladen

@aresh-isdiearore

@sanctuary-city-wra

@adilynia

@teren-k

@kelly-hartford

@silverfall-patriarch

@ly-canthos

@lochlyn-kiden

for mentions and all that ))

THE PIXIE’S VIEW

THE COMMANDER’ VIEW

THE PRIESTS VIEW

THE GUARDIANS VIEW

[lokirupaul]

Lokiru Paul : Jason Sudeikis Is Having One Hell of a Year

Jason Sudeikis Is Having One Hell of a Year

He got famous playing a certain kind of funny guy on SNL, but when Jason Sudeikis invented Ted Lasso, the sensitive soccer coach with the earnest mustache, the actor found a different gear—and a surprise hit. Now, ahead of the show’s second season, Sudeikis discusses his wild ride of a year and how he’s learning to pay closer attention to what the universe is telling him.

BY ZACH BARON, GQ

PHOTOGRAPHY BY HILL & AUBREY

July 13, 2021

Shirt, $188, and tie (worn at waist), $125, by Polo Ralph Lauren. Pants, $255, by Aimé Leon Dore. Watch, $10,200, by Cartier.

On the day that he wrapped shooting on the second season of Ted Lasso, Jason Sudeikis sat in his trailer in West London and drank a beer and exhaled a little, and then he went to the pitch they film on for the show—Nelson Road Stadium, the characters call it—for one last game of football with his cast and crew. There's this thing called the crossbar challenge, which figures briefly in a midseason Ted Lasso episode: You kick a ball and try to hit not the goal but the crossbar above the goal, which is only four or five inches from top to bottom. And so Sudeikis arrived and, because he can't help himself, started trying to hit the crossbar.



Jason Sudeikis covers the August 2021 issue of GQ. To get a copy, subscribe to GQ.

 Shirt, $228, by Todd Snyder. Shorts, $480, by Bode. Sneakers, his own. Socks, stylist’s own. Watch, $6,300, by Cartier.

Confidence is a funny thing. Sudeikis has been riffing on it, in one way or another, for his whole professional life—particularly the comedy of unearned confidence, which he is well suited, physically, to convey. Sudeikis is acutely aware of “the vessel that my soul is currently, you know, occupying”—six feet one, good hair, strong jaw. He's a former college point guard. On Saturday Night Live, where most of us saw him for the first time, he had a specialty in playing jocular blowhards and loud, self-impressed white men, a specialty he took to Hollywood, in films like Horrible Bosses and Sleeping With Other People. He became so adept at playing those types of characters, Sudeikis said, that at some point he realized he'd have to make an effort to do something different. “It's up to me to not just play an a-hole in every movie,” he said. In conversation he is digressive, occasionally melancholy, prone to long anecdotes and sometimes even actual parables—closer, in other words, to Ted Lasso, the gentle, philosophical football coach he co-created, than any of the preening jerks he used to be known for. But he can definitely kick a soccer ball pretty good.

So he's up there trying to hit the crossbar, and he's got a crowd of actors and crew members gathering around him now, betting on whether he can hit it. And he's getting the ball in the air, mostly, but not quite on the four-to-five-inch strip of metal he needs to hit, and the stakes are escalating (“I bet he can get it in three.” “I bet he can get it in five”), and after he misses the first five tries, Toheeb Jimoh, the actor who plays Sam Obisanya on the show, says, “I think he can get it in 10.” Then Sudeikis proceeds to miss the next four attempts. But, he told me later, “there was no part of me that was like, ‘I'm not gonna hit one of these. I'm not not gonna hit one of these.’ ”

Like I said, confidence is a funny thing. You have to somehow believe that the worst outcome simply won't happen. Sometimes you have to do that while knowing for a fact that the worst outcome is happening, all the time. “It's a very interesting space to live in, where you're living in the questions and the universe is slipping you answers,” Sudeikis said. “And are you—are any of us—open enough, able enough, curious enough to hear them when they arrive?” This sounds oblique, I guess, but I can attest, after spending some time talking to Sudeikis, that everything is a little oblique for him right now. He had the same pandemic year we all had, and in the middle of that, he had Ted Lasso turn into a massive, unexpected hit, and in the middle of that, his split from his partner and the mother of his two children, Olivia Wilde, became public in a way that from a great distance seemed not entirely dissimilar to something that happens to the character he plays on the show that everyone was suddenly watching. “Personal stuff, professional stuff, I mean, it's all…that Venn diagram for me is very”—here he held up two hands to form one circle—“you know?”

Shirt, $195, by Sid Mashburn. T-shirt, $195, by Ralph Lauren. Vintage pants from The Vintage Showroom. Belt, $2,500, by The Row. His own sneakers by Nike x Tom Sachs. Socks, $18 for three pairs, by Nike. Pendant necklaces, $2,100 (tag), and $3,000 (bar), by Tiffany & Co. Jacket (on bench), $498, by Todd Snyder.

Anyway, Sudeikis hit the crossbar on the 10th try. “It's a tremendous sound,” he said of that moment when the ball connects with the frame of the goal. He'd done what he knew he would do. Everyone on the pitch was cheering like they'd won something. It was, for lack of a better way of describing it, a very Ted Lasso moment—a small victory, a crooked poster in a locker room that says Believe. “There's a great Michael J. Fox quote,” Sudeikis told me later, trying to explain the particular brand of wary optimism that he carries around with him, and that he ended up making a show about: “ ‘Don't assume the worst thing's going to happen, because on the off chance it does, you'll have lived through it twice.’ So…why not do the inverse?”

Watch Now:

10 Things Jason Sudeikis Can’t Live Without

Ted Lasso. Man—what an unlikely story. The character was initially dreamed up to serve a very different purpose. Sudeikis first played him in 2013, in a promo for NBC, which had recently acquired the television rights to the Premier League and was trying to inspire American interest in English football. The promo was the length and shape of an SNL sketch and featured a straightforward conceit: A hayseed football (our football) coach is hired as the football (their football) coach of a beloved English club, to teach a game he neither knows nor understands in a place he neither knows nor understands. The joke was simple and boiled down to the central fact that Ted Lasso was an amiable buffoon in short shorts.

But Sudeikis tries to listen to the universe, even in unlikely circumstances, and for whatever reason the character stuck around in his head. So, in time, Sudeikis developed and pitched a series with the same setup—Ted, in England, far from his family, a stranger in a strange land learning a strange game—that Apple eventually bought. But when we next saw Ted Lasso, he had changed. He wasn't loud or obnoxious anymore; he was simply…human. He was a man in the midst of a divorce who missed his son in America. The new version of Ted Lasso was still funny, but now in an earned kind of way, where the jokes he told and the jokes made at his expense spoke to the quality of the man. He had become an encourager, someone who thrills to the talents and dreams of others. He was still ignorant at times, but now he was curious too.

In fact, this is close to something Ted says, by way of Walt Whitman, in one of the first season's most memorable episodes: Be curious, not judgmental. I will confess I get a little emotional every time I watch the scene in which he says this, which uses a game of darts in a pub as an excuse to both stage a philosophical discussion about how to treat other people and to re-create the climactic moment of every sports movie you've ever seen. It's a somewhat strange experience, being moved to tears by a guy with a bushy cartoon mustache and an arsenal of capital-J jokes (“You beating yourself up is like Woody Allen playing the clarinet: I don't want to hear it”), talking about humanity and how we all might get better at it. But that's kind of what the experience of watching the show is. It's about something that almost nothing is about, which is: decency.

In the pilot episode, someone asks Ted if he believes in ghosts, and he says he does, “But more importantly, I think they need to believe in themselves.” That folksy, relentless positivity defines the character and is perhaps one of the reasons Ted Lasso resonated with so many people over the past year. It was late summer, it was fall, it was in the teeth of widespread quarantine and stay-at-home orders. People were inside watching stuff. Here was a guy who confronted hardship, who suffered heartbreak, who couldn't go home. And who, somehow, found his way through all that. Someone not unlike Sudeikis himself.

“If you have the opportunity to hit a rock bottom, however you define that, you can become 412 bones or you can land like an Avenger. I personally have chosen to land like an Avenger.”

Sudeikis likes to say, in homage to his background in competitive sports, that there's no defense in the arts. “The only things you're competing against, I believe, are apathy, cynicism, and ego,” he said. This is a philosophy of Sudeikis's that predates Ted Lasso by many years, though you wouldn't necessarily have known it until recently. He grew up outside Kansas City, in Overland Park, Kansas, a “full jock with thespian tendencies,” as he once described himself. His uncle is George Wendt, who played Norm on Cheers. “He made finding a career in the arts, in acting or whatever, seem plausible,” Sudeikis said. But mostly he was drawn to the camaraderie of athletics. When Sudeikis first tried his hand at professional improv, in the mid-'90s, it was through something called ComedySportz, a national chain with a fake competition angle, teams in sports uniforms, and a referee. Brendan Hunt, who co-created and costars on Ted Lasso, initially met Sudeikis in Chicago, he told me. Sudeikis had traveled the eight hours up from Kansas City to do a show: “Suddenly there's a beat-up Volvo station wagon, like an '83, and this is '97, I think, and these two guys get out, all bleary-eyed, and wearily change into their baseball pants. And one of them was Jason.”

Sudeikis had gone to community college on a basketball scholarship but failed to keep up his grades, and he eventually left school to pursue comedy. For a while, he said, his sincere aspiration was to become a member of the Blue Man Group. He got close. “They flew me out to New York,” he said. “That was August of 2001, right before 9/11. And I got to see myself bald and blue.” (In the end, he wasn't a good enough drummer.) By that time, he was living in Las Vegas with his then partner, Kay Cannon, doing sketch comedy at the newly formed Second City chapter there. “Ego,” Sudeikis told me about this time, “that gets beaten out of you, doing eight shows a week.”

Eventually he was invited to audition for Saturday Night Live. “I didn't want to work on SNL,” Sudeikis said—he'd convinced himself that there were purer and less corporate paths to take. “At a certain point in your comedy journey, you have to look at it as like McDonald's,” he said. “You have to be like: ‘No. Never.’ ” Then he got the call. “It was like having a crush on the prettiest girl at school and being like, ‘She seems like a jerk.’ And it's like, ‘Oh, really? 'Cause she said she liked you.’ ‘She what?!’ ”

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Sudeikis auditioned, of course, and was hired, in 2003—but as a writer: “It was like winning a gold medal in the thing you've never even trained for. You just happen to be good at the triple jump, and you really love the long jump.” He wrote for a couple of seasons, but he was unhappy—Cannon was still in Las Vegas, and Sudeikis missed performing. Finally he went to Lorne Michaels, to ask for a job as a member of the cast. “He had the best line. I go, ‘I had to give up two things I love the most to take this writing job: performing and living with my wife.’ And on a dime, he just goes, ‘Well, if you had to choose one…’ ”

At Saturday Night Live, Sudeikis often channeled the same level of cheerful optimism and forthright morality that he'd later bring to Ted Lasso, but audiences didn't necessarily notice it at the time. One of Sudeikis's most famous and beloved early sketches on SNL as a performer is 2005's “Two A-holes Buying a Christmas Tree”—Kristen Wiig and Sudeikis, chewing gum, oblivious to their surroundings, terrorizing Jack Black at a Christmas tree stand. It's a joke about a very familiar form of contemporary rudeness; it's also a riff on a certain kind of man who speaks for the woman next to him, whether she wants him to or not. And people laughed and moved on to the next bit, but to this day Sudeikis can tell you about all the ideas that were running through his head when he created the sketch with Wiig. “That scene was all about my belief that we were losing touch with manners,” he told me. “And yet it's also about love, because he loves her, and that's why he interprets everything for her—she never talks directly to the person.” But, he said, sighing, “once you start explaining a joke or something like that, it ceases to be funny.”

Sudeikis brought this type of attention and care to the movies he began acting in too, like the workplace comedy Horrible Bosses, even if it was lost on most of those who watched them. “That movie, Horrible Bosses, is riddled with optimism,” he said. “The rhythms of that movie, of what Jason Bateman and Charlie Day and I are doing, are deeply rooted in Ted Lasso too. But people don't want those answers. They want to hear the three of us cut up and joke around.”

So that's what Sudeikis did. He got used to a certain gap between his intention and how it was understood. During his time at SNL, his marriage fell apart. “You're going through something emotionally and personally, or even professionally if that's affecting you personally, and then you're dressed up like George Bush and you're live on television for eight minutes. You feel like a crazy person. You feel absolutely crazy. You're looking at yourself in the mirror and you're just like, ‘Who am I? What is this? Holy hell.’ ”

For a time he became a tabloid fixture. He remembers “navigating my first sort of public relationship, with January Jones, which was like learning by fire. What is the term? Trial by fire.” In a 2010 GQ article, when confronted with a question about rumors that he was dating Jennifer Aniston, he sarcastically responded that she should be so lucky. “And obviously I'm fucking joking, you know?” Sudeikis said. But back then, he treated interviews like improv—Yes, and—and that could create misunderstandings. Asked once on a podcast about what people tended to get wrong about him, Sudeikis responded, “That I was in a fraternity—or maybe that I would be.”

To that point, Hunt told me, “He's much less the assumed fraternity guy than you'd think.” But Hunt said he also understood where the impression came from: “I don't know where he learned it necessarily, whether it was from his parents, or his basketball coaches, but he exudes an easygoing confidence. And it's easy to hang with a guy like that. But some people are also like, ‘Fuck that guy,’ intrinsically.”

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When he won the Golden Globe, Sudeikis gave a dazed speech while wearing a hoodie, sparking glee and speculation about his mental and physical states. “I was neither high nor heartbroken,” he said.

Shortly after Sudeikis and Wilde got together, near the end of his SNL run (he left the show in 2013), Wilde made a joke during a monologue that she read at a cabaret club about the two of them having sex “like Kenyan marathon runners,” and Sudeikis spent years answering questions about the joke. “The frustrating thing about that is that Olivia said that in a performance setting,” Sudeikis said. “It wasn't like she just was saying it glibly in an interview.” He described the experience of growing into celebrity, and confronting other people's misperceptions of him, as a disorienting one. “You're just being tossed into the situation and then trying to figure it out,” he said. The picture of him that was circulating wasn't exactly the one that he had of himself. But he didn't fight it, either. “You come to be thoughtful about it,” he said. “But also try to stay open to it. I don't ever want to be cynical.”

So he tried to stay open. But it wasn't until Ted Lasso that people really saw the side of him that comported with the way he saw himself. Last year, as it became clear that the show was a hit, he found himself answering, over and over, some version of the same question. The question would vary in its specifics, but the gist of it was always: How much do you and this character actually have in common? Sudeikis told me that over time, in response to people wondering about his exact relationship to Ted, he developed a few different evasive explanations. Ted, Sudeikis would say, was a little like Jason Sudeikis, but after two pints on an empty stomach. He was Sudeikis hanging on the side of a buddy's boat. He was Sudeikis, but on mushrooms. Sometimes, in more honest moments, he would say that Ted is the best version of himself. This, after all, is how art works: If it was just you, then it wouldn't really need to be art in the first place. And so Sudeikis learned to separate himself from Ted, to fudge the distance between art and artist.

Except, he said, after a while, every time he tried to wave off Ted, fellow castmates or old friends of his would correct him to say: “No.” They'd say: “No, that is you. That is you. That's not the best version of you.” It's not you on mushrooms, it's not you hanging off a boat, it's just…you. One of Sudeikis's friends, Marcus Mumford, who composed the music for the show, told me, “He is quite like Ted in lots of ways. He has a sort of burning optimism, but also a vulnerability, about him that I really admire.”

Hearing people say this, over and over again, Sudeikis said, “brought me to a very emotional space where, you know, a healthy dose of self-love was allowed to expand through my being and made me…” He trailed off for a moment. “When they're like, ‘No, that is you. That is you. That's not the best version of you.’ That's a very lovely thing to hear. I wish it on everybody who gets the opportunity to be or do anything in life and have someone have the chance to say, ‘Hey, that's you. That's you.’ ”

And if he's being honest, that's the way he feels about it too. “It's the closest thing I have to a tattoo,” Sudeikis said about Ted Lasso. “It's the most personal thing I've ever made.”

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On the first Saturday in June, Sudeikis flew with his children, Otis and Daisy, from London to New York, where he owns a house in Brooklyn. “Brooklyn is home,” he told me simply. While filming the first season of Ted Lasso, he'd had the house renovated—there was black mold to get rid of and other changes to make. “So Olivia and the kids had to rent a lovely apartment in Brooklyn Heights. But it's not home. It's someone else's home.” Saturday was the first time Sudeikis and his children had set foot in their own place in two years. “The kids darted in,” he said. “Last time Daisy was in that house, she slept in a crib. So now she has a new big bed. It was hilarious. I walked up there after like 15 minutes and both rooms were a mess.”

He and Wilde, he said, no longer share the house. They split up, according to Sudeikis, “in November 2020.” The end of their relationship was chronicled in a painful, public way in the tabloids after photos of Wilde holding hands with Harry Styles surfaced in January, setting off a flurry of conflicting timelines and explanations. Sudeikis said that even he didn't have total clarity about the end of the relationship just yet. “I'll have a better understanding of why in a year,” he said, “and an even better one in two, and an even greater one in five, and it'll go from being, you know, a book of my life to becoming a chapter to a paragraph to a line to a word to a doodle.” Right now he was just trying to figure out what he was supposed to take away, about himself, from what had happened. “That's an experience that you either learn from or make excuses about,” he said. “You take some responsibility for it, hold yourself accountable for what you do, but then also endeavor to learn something beyond the obvious from it.”

In the first season of Ted Lasso, the comic premise of the show is revealed to be a tragic one: Ted is in England, far from home, doing something he doesn't know how to do and probably shouldn't be doing at all, in order to give his failing marriage space to survive. When the character's wife and son visit, in the show's fifth episode, his wife tells him, “Every day I wake up hoping that I'll feel the way I felt in the beginning. But maybe that's just what marriage is, right?” It's a wrenching moment that also gives new meaning to the show: Ted Lasso's heart is big, but it can also be broken as violently and as easily as anyone else's. By the end of the season, Lasso is divorced and renegotiating his relationships with his now ex-wife and son.

The first season of Ted Lasso had already been written—had already aired—by the time Sudeikis found himself living some aspects of it in real life. “And yet one has nothing to do with the other,” Sudeikis told me. “That's the crazy thing. Everything that happened in season one was based on everything that happened prior to season one. Like, a lot of it three years prior. You know what I mean? The story's bigger than that, I hope. And anything I've gone through, other people have gone through. That's one of the nice things, right? So it's humbling in that way.”

And in fact, the seeds of Ted's heartbreak, Sudeikis said, went all the way back to a dinner he had with Wilde around 2015, during which she first encouraged him to explore whether Ted Lasso could be more than just a bit on NBC. “It was there, the night at dinner, when Olivia was like, ‘You should do it as a show,’ ” he said. They got to talking about it. Sudeikis asked why Ted Lasso would move in the first place, to coach a team he had no real reason to coach: “ ‘Okay, but why would he take this job? Why would a guy at this age take this job to leave? Maybe he's having marital strife. Maybe things aren't good back home, so he needs space.’ And I just riffed it at dinner in 2015 or whenever, late 2014. But it had to be that way. That's what the show is about.”

I said to Sudeikis that I thought that while it was common for artists to put a lot of their lives into their art, it was less common that they end up living aspects of the art in their lives, after the fact.

“I wonder if that's true,” he replied. “I mean, isn't that just a little bit of what Oprah was telling us for years and years? You know, manifestation? Power of thought? That's The Secret in reverse, you know?”

But…if we're being honest, is that a thing you wanted to manifest?

“No. No. But, again, it isn't that. It wasn't that. And again, that's just me knowing the details of it. Like, that's just me knowing where it comes from, where any of it comes from.”

But he acknowledged it had been a hard year. Not necessarily a bad one, but a hard one. “I think it was really neat,” he said. “I think if you have the opportunity to hit a rock bottom, however you define that, you can become 412 bones or you can land like an Avenger. I personally have chosen to land like an Avenger.”

Is that easier said than done? To land like an Avenger?

“I don't know. It's just how I landed. It doesn't mean when you blast back up you're not going to run into a bunch of shit and have to, you know, fight things to get back to the heights that you were at, but I'd take that over 412 bones anytime.”

He paused, then continued: “But there is power in creating 412 bones! Because we all know that a bone, up to a certain age, when it heals, it heals stronger. So, I mean, it's not to knock anybody that doesn't land like an Avenger. Because there's strength in that too.”

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In February, Sudeikis attended the Golden Globes, which were being held remotely on Zoom. He had his misgivings about the event—the Hollywood Foreign Press Association, which votes on the awards, had been in the news for a series of unflattering revelations about its organization, and also the show was taking place in the middle of the night in London. Tom Ford had sent over a suit for Sudeikis to wear, and he tried it on, in his flat in Notting Hill, but he felt ridiculous, there in the middle of the night, and so changed out of it and into a tie-dyed hoodie made by his sister's clothing company. “I wore that hoodie because I didn't wanna fucking wear the fucking top half of a Tom Ford suit,” he said. “I love Tom Ford suits. But it felt weird as shit.”

“With kids, knowing is half the battle. But adulthood is doing something about it. ‘I'm bad with names.’ ‘I'm always late.’… All right, so win the fucking battle by doing something about it!”

The rest of this story you know: Sudeikis ended up winning best actor for Ted Lasso and gave a dazed acceptance speech while wearing the hoodie, and this in turn sparked glee and speculation about his mental and physical states. For the record, “I was neither high nor heartbroken,” Sudeikis said. It was just late at night and he didn't want to wear a suit. “So yeah, off it came and it was like, ‘This is how I feel. I believe in moving forward.’ ”

Lately, Sudeikis told me, he had been trying to pay more attention to how he actually felt about any given thing, to all the various signs and omens that present themselves to a person during the course of living their life. Even in his past, he said, there were moments that were obvious in retrospect, in terms of what the universe was trying to tell him, messages he missed entirely at the time. In Vegas, where he was living with Cannon before Saturday Night Live, he developed alopecia and his hair stopped growing, and he didn't know why. And then, at the end of his 30s, “during the nine months before Otis was born and the nine months after he was born,” Sudeikis developed extremely painful sciatica. “I went and got an MRI and was like, ‘Oh, yeah, the jelly doughnut in my L4, L5, is squirting out and touching a nerve.’ ” But why? When he had his second child, this didn't happen at all. So: why?

“I mean, since last November,” Sudeikis said, “the joke that feels more like a parable to me is a guy is sitting at home watching TV and the news breaks in to say flash flood warning. About an hour later he goes outside on his porch and he sees that the whole street is flooded.” You've probably heard the rest of this joke before: While the guy is praying to God for some kind of help, a truck, a boat, and a chopper come by, offering aid, which the guy turns down. God'll provide, he says. Sudeikis finished the joke: “Two hours after that, he's in heaven. He's dead. He says, ‘God, what's up, man? You didn't help me.’ God goes, ‘What do you mean, man? I sent you a pickup truck, I sent you a speedboat, I sent you a helicopter.’ ” So, Sudeikis said, “you can't tell me that hair falling out of my head wasn't—I don't know if it was the speedboat or the pickup truck or the helicopter, but yeah, man, it all comes home to roost. What you resist persists.”

He went on. “That's why I had sciatica,” he said. “That's the speedboat. That was like: ‘Hey, you gotta take a look at your stuff.’ ”

And this is another way that Sudeikis and Ted Lasso are alike, because both are always learning and relearning this lesson, which is: Be curious. Both are philosophical men whose philosophies basically boil down to trying to live as decent a life as is possible. Not just for the sake of it but because to be curious—to find out something new about yourself or someone else—is to be empowered. “I don't know if you remember G.I. Joe growing up,” Sudeikis said, “but they would always end it with a little saying: ‘Oh, now I know.’ ‘Don't put a fork in the outlet.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Because you could get hurt.’ ‘Oh, now I know.’ And then somebody would say, ‘And knowing is half the battle.’ And I agree with that—with kids, knowing is half the battle. But adulthood is doing something about it. That's the other half. ‘I'm bad with names.’ ‘I'm always late.’ Oh! Well, knowing is half the battle. All right, so win the fucking battle by doing something about it! Get better at names. Show up five minutes early, make it a point to do it. So, I'm still learning these things. But hopefully I've got plenty of time to do something about it.”

Sudeikis smiled a little wearily: “I mean, at the end of that joke, the guy still got to go to heaven, you know?”

Zach Baron is GQ's senior staff writer.

A version of this story originally appeared in the August 2021 issue with the title "Jason Sudeikis Paints His Masterpiece."

PRODUCTION CREDITS:

Photographs by Hill & Aubrey

Styled by Michael Darlington

Grooming by Nicky Austin

Tailoring by Nafisa Tosh

Set design by Hella Keck

Produced by Ragi Dholakia Productions

[writingroold]

I’m Coming Home

Rating: G for General Audiences  Fandom: The Cat Returns Characters: Haru Yoshioka, Baron Humbert von Gikkingen Ships: Baron Hubert von Gikkingen/Haru Yoshioka Tags: Romance, Haru is a pop star, Drunken Kissing, Love Confessions Also Available: AO3, Fanfiction.net

Haru has everything a girl could want, fame, fortune and a great relationship with her band's lead singer. But it's all fake, and she is tired of putting on a face for the world. She just wants to go home to her true love.

“Alright everyone, I’ll see you all tomorrow,” Haru said as she walked into her bedroom in the hotel suite. Once the door was closed, her smile dropped and she breathed a sigh as she pulled the blonde wig off of her thin brown hair, her chocolate eyes turning weary and tired. But it wasn't physical exhaustion that haunted her.

She dropped her purse on the bed and walked over to the window. It was large with a seat, which she took advantage of as she opened the window. The hotel was ornate and old, much like the room she was in, so the windows weren't sealed shut like most of the others she’d stayed in before, even in the penthouse.

She sighed again, looking over the fantastic skyscape. Paris was beautiful at night, having rightfully earned it’s name of City of Lights. And as she recalled it’s other name of City of Love, she saddened. To the world, she was in a happy relationship, but it was a sham. She liked Machida, they’d become good friends after he dumped his jealous girlfriend, but her heart belonged to another.

She thought about the one she loved, Baron Humbert Von Gikkingen, Baron to his friends. Not that he was a real nobleman, or even a human, but a magical living statue whose form was a foot-tall half-man half-cat. But under that he was a kinder man than almost everyone. He has saved her life on an adventure that gave her courage to follow her heart, and she had given it to him.

She had often visited the Refuge after their trip to the Cat Kingdom, and with each visit she grew fonder and fonder of the magic square in the hidden corner of the city and it’s occupants. With it’s magic, she was able to shrink down upon entering, a measure Baron said was to make repeat visitors more comfortable. Through tea chats and lazy days, Toto and Muta grew to become brothers, and the place in her heart that Baron held grew bigger and bigger.

It was him she first told about her secret passion, that she loved to sing. It was him who encouraged her to join Machida’s band after their singer had surgery that ruined her voice. It was him who helped teach her how to dance so she wouldn't fall off the stage as she sang. It was him she was smiling at when she performed for the first time and he, Toto and Muta hid in the rafters of the barn. It was him who supported her when she decided she wanted to wear a wig on stage to help her walk around anonymously after they became an overnight sensation. It was him she sang to when they performed their romantic songs. It was him she wished would sing the duets with on stage, after he helped her practice one. It was him who always wrote to her when she’d gone on the national tour after winning the Battle of the Bands contest. And it was her who left to go on the world tour after that.

She remembered the last time she saw Baron, face to face. It was just a few days before she was to leave for the tour. She had come to the Refuge after dinner with the band and their managers. They’d served sake with the dinner, and she had a little more than she should have. As she tripped her way into the Bureau, after giving the door three sharp knocks, her own personal signal, Baron helped her to a chair and just gave her tea to help sober her and to settle her stomach so she wouldn't get sick. He explained Muta and Toto were elsewhere and waited patiently while she called her mom to tell her she’d be staying at a friend’s house overnight, and that she’d be back in the morning.

She remembered he’d kept the light low so she wouldn't get a headache once she sobered up, using candles as opposed to the gas lights. She had sat slumped against the arm of the sofa and watched him. She always had thought he was handsome, but in that light he was even more so. The alcohol had also lowered her inhibitions, so when he’d bent over her to take the cup of tea from her hands for a refill, she leaned up and kissed him.

She could tell he was surprised by the action, the way he tensed when she made contact showed it. However, when she noticed he hadn't even moved, she pulled back. “What’s wrong Baron?” she’d asked him, tilting her head slightly.

He was blushing hard enough it could just be seen through his fur. He quickly stood up straight and turned to the tea pot, busying himself with pouring new cups for them. “I believe you might need another cup of tea, Miss Haru,” he said.

“You know your tea is more of an aphrodisiac than any alcohol, right?” she’d jokingly said, sitting up and watching him. “And what’s with the ‘Miss’ stuff. I thought I told you to call me Haru years ago.”

“I think things might be a bit different now,” was his answer, still not turning from his position. “You are, after all, inebriated, it’s never certain how it affects people.”

“I've wanted to kiss you since I first met you Baron. The alcohol just took away any reservations I had about doing so.” She stood, swaying only slightly. Already the tea was sobering her up, she knew she’d have to say what she wanted fast.

“And why ever would you want to kiss me, Miss Haru?” Baron turned as he asked this, seeing her walking up to him.

“Because I love you Baron, and that’s not the sake talking.” And with that, she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him. This time, he responded, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her closer. The kiss was chaste and passionate at the same time, Haru’s drunken ferocity countered by his calm control, never letting her push to far. When they finally pulled apart, they were reeling from the feelings they felt.

“Will you regret it tomorrow, Haru, if I said I loved you too, and kissed you again” Baron asked her, the nervousness in his voice evident.

Haru shot him a look. “Never, Baron. I don’t want to push too far so soon. What I do want is for you to keep kissing me.” And with that, she pulled his lips back to hers as she walked backwards and when she hit the couch, she let him fall on top of her.

The rest of the night they spent curled up together, talking and kissing, until Haru finally drifted to sleep in his arms and he held her until morning came. When Muta and Toto returned, he motioned for them to be quiet so to not disturb her. When she woke up, they told the cat and crow what had happened and, while they felt a little embarrassed about it, neither of them wished that it hadn't happened. When she had to leave, he walked her to the arched entrance to the refuge and kissed her goodbye just at the point where she returned to her normal size. And for that moment, as she grew so did he and the hint of a future might have been there. Then the kiss ended and when she opened her eyes, Haru was looking down at Baron. With tears in both their eyes, they turned around at the same moment, she walking to a future they couldn't share, and he to a world they couldn't stay in.

That had been almost a year ago, and the tour had taken them everywhere, from Seoul to Mumbai in Asia, Los Angles to New York in North America, Rio de Janeiro to Johannesburg in South America and Africa, and finally the European leg of the tour. Their first stop was Rome, and Paris was their second. It would be another month before they would finish in England, after which they’d return to America to do a TV show. It all seemed to be a good idea at the time, but now Haru was wondering about her choice.

She closed the window again and rested her head against the cool glass. From an outsider’s perspective, the day she’d just had was perfect. They arrived in Paris early in the morning, attended a CD signing and took photos with the fans before the band was able to spend the day however they wanted. She ended up spending most of it with Machida, wandering around Paris as paparazzi took pictures and prepared them for the buzzed about question: When will there be a proposal?

It was Candy, their publicity manager who came up with the idea. The media had already gotten the story of Haru’s crush on him when they were in high school, and what better way to ride that hype but with an actual relationship. Within a few weeks, media around the world knew about Haru and Machida’s whirlwind romance and their sales and income increased significantly. The only people who knew the relationship was fake were the other band members, Haru and Machida’s families and the Cat Bureau. She’d made sure to write them about that, even if she didn't do so very often anymore.

When the tour kicked off, Haru and Baron exchanged letters as often as they could. She’d send them to the Cat Kingdom, where Lune and Yuki would make sure the letters got to the Bureau. However, after a while, she just kept writing the same message, “I’m fine, how are you?” with some token description of whatever city they were in, or what happened on the tour bus, plane or train that day. Eventually, she started writing them, but wouldn't send them; she didn't want that sent to him. Still, his letters came, and they were the happiest times for her.

She sighed again and pushed herself off of the window seat. It just wasn't worth it to her. She might have had fame, fortune, and the opportunity to do something she loved. But without the man she loved, she hated it, and she’d had enough.

She pulled a carry-on suitcase out of the closet and started throwing clothes in it. If what she took was a mix of casual and fancy styles, or large amount of shirts compared to pants and shoes, she didn't care. Into a small duffle, also from the closet, she packed the few books she had, a couple changes of clothes, her necessities and her wallet. Her phone she left, she wouldn't need it where she went, and she could easily get another one later on, and the same for her music, except for one CD, which held a song she’d spent months trying to find and had finally gotten a copy of a few months before; her and Baron's song, Katzen Blaut.

Quiet as a mouse, she slipped out of her room, grateful that the other band members had turned in to their own rooms and she was the only one still awake or not busy. She left four envelopes behind her, one each in front of Machida, Candy and Hideiko, their stage manager’s, rooms. The last was on her bed and contained the same information the first three did, just put there in case someone went into her room before they found their own. She'd written them almost a week before, and she was now putting them to their purpose.

The letters all said the same thing.

I’m sorry everyone, but I can’t do this anymore.I used to enjoy this work, and I love all of you like family, but I can’t do this anymore. If I tried to keep going, I’d probably go catatonic over time, and the only way to fix it only on person can do, and you would never be able to contact him.

“In regards to the band and the tour, have Jessica replace me as the lead singer, that’s what she wants and she’s been practicing. I should know, I've been helping her. Ami, Neji, keep going strong; I’ll be expecting an invite to the wedding. Jon, try and settle down, or at least don’t break so many hearts, we want you to give us nieces and nephews the proper way. And Machida, follow your heart. Consider this my Dear John and ask out Go, I know you two like each other.

“Candy, Hideiko, I know you’re probably disappointed and angry at me, but I have to do this or I will slowly go mad. I’ll start ranting about cats and crows and talking statues and you’ll have to institutionalize me. This way is better for everyone involved.

“I’ll miss you guys, and I hope you write. If you want to contact me, write to the included PO box number and write the following word on the envelope: Refuge. Again, I love you and I wish you all the best, but for me, I’m going home.

With the letters delivered, Haru put her shoes on and walked out of the hotel, down the street to a bus terminal. Paying her fare, she settled in, dozing in her seat until she reached the airport. Before too long, she’d left the country and was on her way to Tokyo.

~~~

Making her way out of the airport, Haru waited a moment to look at the metropolis around her. It was beautiful, as it always was, but Haru didn't linger too long. By now, people would know about her disappearance and she would have paparazzi and possibly police looking for her. Changing in the airport bathroom, like she had before she got on the plane in France, she hopped on a bus out to the suburbs, to the small town where she had grown up.

After getting off the bus, she walked around the town for a little bit. First she visited her old house. Her mom still lived there, but Haru didn't, having moved into an apartment with Hiromi and Ami after the formation of the band. Now, Naoko rented rooms to college students, and was never lacking for company with her quilting friends around. Haru didn't go up and knock on the door; she’d written her mother just before they arrived in Paris, she knew Haru's feelings and what she'd been planning to do.

Haru then walked down the street, passing the traffic light where she’d been talking with Hiromi and ended up saving a gray, odd eyed cat and triggering the adventure that would make her who she was today.

She kept walking down to her school. The day had just ended and she watched as students poured out of the building, either mingling on the grounds or walking through the gates to the shops or home. Here, she had been Haru, the-girl-who-was-late-everyday-and-a-total-klutz, then later Haru, the-confident-girl-who-wasn't-afraid-to-be-herself. There, her best friend was Hiromi, her other friends were Chicka and Machida and she was happy. This was also the place where she ended her adventure and started to change her life.

Finally, slowly, she walked to the Crossroads, taking in all the sights. The florist where she and Hiromi worked at, and the cafe who first sponsored the band were still open and going strong, There were a few new families walking around, but otherwise, much was the same.

She made it to the chair where Muta usually sat. He was not there, but Haru didn't worry. She just walked to the old familiar alley, noting the man who stood and started following her. Luckily, she managed to be quick enough to lose him before long. Around that bend, through that alley, over the tin rooftops, down the stairs, around the corner and finally she saw the white marble archway of the Refuge, and through it, the lighted windows of the Cat Bureau. She paused for a moment before walking on, only one thought running through her head.

As she passed under the arch, she felt the magic wash over her. Willing it to make her change slow so she'd get across the square quicker, she noticed Toto was not on his pillar. ‘They must be inside,’ quickly interrupted her one thought, then she shook it off as she made it to the Bureau doors. Through them, and the open window above her head, she heard Muta and Toto insulting each other and Baron’s soft admonitions. Setting her bags down, she raised her hand and knocked on the door sharply three times.

The voices stopped. Haru waited with baited breath, nibbling her lower lip. After seemingly an eternity, the door opened, revealing Baron. His suit coat and hat were off and his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He had a stunned look, like he couldn't believe what he saw. “Haru?” he asked softly, as he slowly stretched out his hand, reaching for hers.

Haru smiled and took his hand in hers. “Hello Baron,” she said, tears of joy welling in her eyes.

Before another word could be said, Baron had her in an embrace and his lips were on her’s. After a year’s separation, the two lovers were together, and in that moment, nothing else mattered.

When they finally separated for air, Baron rested his forehead on Haru’s. “You came back,” was all he could say.

Haru smiled, pulling him closer to her and saying, her lips hovering over his, the thought that’d been running through her head since she saw the Refuge. “I came home.”

[cwnannwn]

Blood, Sand, and Thunder

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Carmilla (Web Series) Rating: Teen and Up Audiences  Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Laura Hollis/Carmilla Karnstein Characters: Carmilla Karnstein, Laura Hollis, others are mentioned Additional Tags: Non-Graphic-Violence, Mad Max AU Summary: Sand whipped around her. The roar of the motorcycle filled her ears, making it impossible to focus on anything else. The old, almost derelict pistol was in her hand in barely a second. It was empty almost as fast. The screams were soon left behind, and all Carmilla had to worry about was the sand constantly scraping her skin and trying to get into her eyes. At least she didn’t need to breathe. 

Carmilla and Laura lead raiding parties against two of Lilita's bases. Something goes wrong with Laura's attack. Oneshot set in a possible Mad Max au.

Thanks to melimegreenleaf and laurahhollis for reading over this for me!

On AO3

Sand whipped around her. The roar of the motorcycle filled her ears, making it impossible to focus on anything else. The old, almost derelict pistol was in her hand in barely a second. It was empty almost as fast. The screams were soon left behind, and all Carmilla had to worry about was the sand constantly scraping her skin and trying to get into her eyes. At least she didn’t need to breathe.

Easier to keep control, if she couldn’t smell the blood flowing freely from those wretched bastards.

Maybe Mother was getting tired of playing games. This base was barely garrisoned, only a few blood-addicted humans, a couple of fledglings, and few weapons to protect it all. Not many supplies in it either, but more than in the last couple of raids around the western borders. It was tempting to think Maman might be considering moving somewhere else, but Carmilla knew better. She must discuss this with Mattie as soon as possible, her older sister could have more insight on what kind of trap Mother was planning.

First, however, Carmilla’s little band turned south. Another one of their raiding parties was attacking a Summer outpost. Mel and the other ‘true’ summers, those who had defected after Vordenburg had taken control, informed them on what to expect here. Where the defenses were weakest, how much opposition there was. Enough food to last a year. Livestock, if they had the time to carry them off and if they could be quiet enough. And, most importantly, gasoline for half a year. Or as much as they could carry.

Almost too good to be true. Carmilla wasn’t so sure about the accuracy of those claims. Maybe they were true when Mel was there, but Carmilla wondered if she and the others were allowed to escape purposefully, to set up a trap.

Whatever was the case, the plan was for one raiding party to head in the direction of the other, and if they weren’t done with the raid already, to help them out.

Carmilla was on edge. There was no reason to be, the attack had gone about as good as it could have. Even if the baron’s forces had made a trap, the other group was prepared for the possibility, they knew what to do. She knew what to do.

Gunshots in the distance, the sound of unfamiliar motors accompanying it. Every other vampire in the convoy perked up. So, a trap after all. Carmilla growled. The red raze she had escaped from before came back in full force. With no command necessary, the entire raiding party went at full speed towards the Summer compound. Passing a low hill, the flashing gunfire became visible, illuminating the night at quick intervals.

And ahead of it, their own forces. Some of their vehicles had been too damaged, arranged to form a square around the survivors. They shot ferociously at the summers, but it was clear they could not hold on forever.

Carmilla signaled at her forces. They divided into groups of four and five, veering towards the low hills that the second raiding party was nestled between. Exactly when the enemy was almost on them, Carmilla’s group flew over, raining makeshift grenades and bulletfire over Lilita’s minions.

The landing impact was strong, but Carmilla’s motorcycle held. It would need repairs later, she noted distantly. The biggest part of her mind was concentrated on the deep breath she took. Smoke. Gunpowder. Gasoline. Sweat. Blood. So much blood. Her blood.

But not enough to be fatal. No, it wasn’t, couldn’t be.

Screaming over the gunfire, Carmilla ordered half of her forces to keep the summers at bay, and the other to take up whatever survivors they could find.

As she turned around to do the same, a hulking figure slipped through their fire, aiming at her. Before Carmilla could even move, a shot was fired, whizzing by her ear and striking the enemy down. A shouted ‘Hey!’ reached her ears, and Carmilla finally could breathe again.

There was maybe half of their original force left. More than Carmilla could have hoped for. At the middle of their firing line, shouting orders like she was born for it, was one Laura Hollis. There was no time for talking, Carmilla could fall to her knees in relief when they were not being shot at. She screamed over the gunfire.

“Laura, up!” Slowing down just enough, Carmilla extended her hand. Laura smiled tiredly at her, catching her hand and jumping on the back of her bike as well as she could. That was when Carmilla noticed the blood was coming from a wound in her leg. Laura’s arms squeezed Carmilla’s middle, her head rested against her back for a second before she spoke.

“Ambush, it was an ambush. There’s Zetas here too, Vordenburg must have mixed the forces. They came from nowhere. Jake gave the alarm,” Laura’s voice was almost lost to the wind, but Carmilla heard the break in it loud and clear. “We lost so many,” it was barely a whisper. Carmilla felt Laura’s head pressing against her back again.

“We can lose them in the mountain passes, they’re using the Zeta spikes,” Carmilla nodded and, with one last look around to check all the survivors were being similarly carried, gave the order to retreat.

The spiked monstrosities the zetas drove could easily impale any of them, but could never hope to catch up to the nitro bikes JP had designed, especially not once they reached the mountains. It didn’t take long for the thunder of their motors to fade away, replaced by the rushing wind and terrible silence of this new world.

It would be another three hours before reaching their main base. Laura hadn’t talked anymore, and others of her group were wounded too. Heading for a small valley hidden slightly off-course of their objective, Carmila slowed down. The others followed. “We’ll make camp here for an hour, do the best repairs you can in that time. Fledgelings stay by your elder’s side.” older vampires could control themselves around fresh wounds well enough. The younger ones she wasn’t so sure about.

Finally stopping, Carmilla turned off her motorcycle, planting her feet back on the ground for the first time since going out for this mission. Laura’s arms let go of her. With difficulty, she got off the bike first.

Carmilla quickly dismounted, getting the small, barely adequate emergency kit they all carried from her duffle bag. Laura had found a rock to sit on, but she wasn’t paying attention to the blood slowly dripping from the bullet wound in her leg. Her eyes were jumping from one person to another. Headcount. Carmilla approached slowly and sat by her side.

“Can I take a look at that, Cupcake?” she tried to keep her voice as even as possible. Laura didn’t seem to hear her. Carmilla sighed, frowning with worry. Carefully, she took Laura’s hand. Laura didn’t pull away. Instead, she squeezed back. With what looked like great effort, she tore her eyes away from one of the younger raiders gritting their teeth while another clumsily set their apparently broken arm to look back at Carmilla.

The exhaustion in Laura’s face was clear, but what worried Carmilla more was the pain in those eyes. Leaning forward, Carmilla bumped her forehead against Laura’s gently. “You couldn’t have know, Laura. Mattie and I, and JP and LaF and all the others, we tried to think up as many ways Maman could have set up a trap as possible. Vordenburg hasn’t acted by himself in decades, you couldn’t have know.”

Laura exhaled a trembling sigh, her eyes closing. “I know Carm, I know,” she sounded so tired. Knowing didn’t make living in this forsaken world any easier. It didn’t before the apocalypse, it sure didn’t after it either. Carmilla was very aware of that.

“Can I clean this?” Carmilla gently touched Laura’s wounded leg. Laura nodded against her, before pulling away and letting Carmilla take care of the wound.

The shot had gone clean through, no bullet fragments in it. Good. But it had also been left exposed to all this damned sand until now. Carmilla only had water to clean it with, and after letting Laura drink up as much she needed, did so. A crude antiseptic Mattie had taught LaF how to make out of the very few plants that grew in this desert came next. Finally the bandages, as clean as there was hope for them to be.

When Carmilla was done, their hour was almost up. Ten minutes until they had to keep going. Their combined forces were finishing up, chatting in low voices among themselves. Carmilla took her seat again next to Laura.

Her golden eyes were fixed on the sky. That was one of the first things they had bounded over. Laura had made up a thousand stories for the stars, the moon and the few satellites still in orbit. Carmilla had a thousand more but those had been dreamt up by many people before their time. She preferred Laura’s versions, but Laura had been fascinated by those old tales.

Carmilla raised her head, searching for Orion’s belt in the clear night sky. After a moment, she felt Laura get closer to her, resting her head against Carmilla’s shoulder and wrapping an arm around her middle. Carmilla smiled, letting her arm snake around Laura’s shoulders. It was a small comfort, but these short minutes stargazing with Laura settled Carmilla’s soul for a time. She hoped it did the same for Laura.

The world ended and Maman was still a tyrant. The world ended and humanity forgot almost everything it had learned. The world ended, and Carmilla found the love she had always searched for. The world ended, and Carmilla would make it burn all over again before letting it take Laura away from her.